#keeps the solicitors away

[fly-the-pattern]

#memes #meme #throwback #lol #funny #lol memes #funny memes #funny meme haha #funny stuff #millenials #gen y #gen z #owning property #im never gonna own nice things #housing market #housing #door knocker #lmao #you gotta knock #a house? #in this economy? #keeps the solicitors away

[lxkeee]

MY LOVE, IS MINE ALL MINE

—PART FIVE

pairing: lucifer morningstar x fallen angel! fem! reader

fandom: hazbin hotel

genre: fluff

notes: gotta keep writing to feed the simps.

PART ONE | PART FOUR | PART SIX

Lucifer sat in his office chair, pen on one hand as he finally did the paperwork that he was procrastinating on for... A few months now, but anyways.

He was deep in thought, the fountain pen fluidly moving along with his hand as he signed the documents. Mind wandering, dissociating even.

He has a lot to think about considering that the next extermination is coming in a few days.

His eyes landed on his right hand, ring finger bare of any rings. He smiled proudly to himself, it took some work to actually remove his wedding ring and he finally did, his divorce doesn't hurt as much as it used to be. He has a lot to work on, his heart, his mind, and his actions.

He's happy that he stopped staying stuck in the past and now, he's ready to move forward. He has let go of Lilith, as the woman wanted. But he'll never forget [y/n], despite the distance and lack of communication, he still thinks of her as his best friend and he's glad she never stopped thinking of him too.

Lucifer sighs, a small smile on his face. Smiling at the thought of her. His hand once again moved gracefully along the paper, ink rolling off the tip of the pen as he signed his signature.

He misses [y/n], he longs to hug her so much.

Knock, knock.

He flinches at the sound of the front door being knocked, the sounds echoing off the castle walls. He lives alone after all, so the palace is deathly silent.

Lucifer groans, rolling his eyes.

It's probably another solicitor or another sinner wanting to have an audience with him.

Choosing to ignore it and continue with his work.

Knock, knock, knock.

There it is again, the annoying sound of someone knocking on his front door.

He exhaled, continuing his work.

They'll go away if I ignore them, just like always.

He mutters to himself, huffing in annoyance as he works.

[y/n] huffs to herself, crossing her arms around her chest. She's been knocking for a few minutes now and nobody answered.

I wonder if he's home?

She thought, standing outside the door. Hand running over the skirt of her light blue dress.

She waits for a few minutes, taking a deep breath. Trying to calm down her beating heart. Mentally practicing what she wants to say to him when she sees him.

Bringing her hand back up, forming into a tight knuckle. She knocked once more.

Knock, knock, knock.

It took so much patience for him not to break the fountain pen on his hand. Lucifer gently brought down the pen on to his table. Bringing both his hands towards his mouth and nose as he exhaled exasperatedly. Closing his eyes, eye twitching a little.

I stand corrected, this sinner is persistent.

Taking a deep breath, he finally stood up from his chair, grumbling as he left his office. Going down the stairs.

Finally arriving at the front door of his, fixing his clothes to look presentable to whoever is at the other side. Raising his guard up as he doesn't trust other sinners.

Finally opening the door, eyes closed in annoyance. “Yeah, yeah. Who's there...” his voice died down when he opened his eyes again to see a familiar angel standing on his doorway, [y/n] looking at him awkwardly, waving her hand at him shyly.

Did he go insane without realizing?

[y/n] is standing on his doorway wearing a cute light blue short dress that reaches beneath her knees, halo no longer on her head but he can tell she used it as an accessory based on the golden bracelet on her wrist. She looked as beautiful as the day he last saw her. Though, he had a tint of worry as he noticed the bandages on her arms and knees. What happened to her?

Is this a hallucination?

“[y/n]...?” he asked hesitantly, afraid that she'll disappear and afraid she's just a fragment of his imagination.

[y/n] smiled, heart beating loudly against her chest. Lucifer stood in front of her. The white suit with red accents really fits him, he's just as beautiful as she last saw him, more even.

He is really here.../She is really here...

Finally deciding to break the silence between them, [y/n] smiled at him, “It has been awhile, Lucifer.”

Her voice was enough to snap him from his thoughts and without thinking, he leaped into her arms and hugged her. Tears finally streaming down his pale cheeks. The action causing both of them to fall into the floor.

The warmth of his embrace around her was also enough for [y/n] to silently cry. She misses him so much, so many years spent without him made her incredibly so lonely.

Lucifer grips into her waist, burying his face at the crook of her neck as he sobbed.

Lucifer wonders if this was a dream at first but he was able to inhale the familiar perfume she always wore and it was enough to make him cry even more.

It felt like the universe finally listened to his pleas. He was just thinking that he misses her so much a few minutes ago and then suddenly she's in his door step.

“[y/n].... You're really here... Wait...” his eyes widened as he finally removed himself from her warm embrace, holding her arms gently.

“Why are you here...?” he asked softly, voice hoarse from crying. [Y/n] wiped her eyes with her hand but he stopped her as Lucifer summoned a clean handkerchief and gently wiped the tears off her cheeks.

[y/n] smiled weakly, “I fell.” she says with a small giggle. Lucifer deadpans, eyes blinking not simultaneously. He stood up and offered a hand to her to help her stand in which she gladly accepted.

“What do you mean you fell? When?” he asked worriedly, [y/n] smiled softly as she placed a hand over his cheek. Thumb running over the red circle on his cheek adoringly.

“I have a lot to tell you but I fell... A few days ago... Charlie found me and she treated me during it all.” [y/n] explained softly, his eyes widening. Why didn't Charlie tell him?

[y/n] can practically hear the question based on his facial expression, she smiles. “Don't get mad at Charlie, I asked her not to tell you...” she says, avoiding eye contact.

He frowns, leaning towards her so he cups her cheeks, his other hand on her chin. He tilts her head so she's finally looking at him.

“Why...? I... I could've helped you...” he asked, voice trembling. Guilty for not being there for her in her most time of need. [Y/n] gently removed his hands from her face, squeezing it assuringly.

“Because I don't want our reunion to be a sad one, I can't bear to see you so sad and I don't want you to see how bad my situation was...” she explained softly, her thumb rubbing circles in his hand. He can only imagine what happened to her based on her injuries. She's right, he might not function properly if he saw her so injured.

Lucifer sighs, shoulders dropping as he understands her explanation. But still, he wished he could've helped her more.

“But hey, I'm here now and there's a lot that we needed to catch up on. Don't you think?” [y/n] says with a giggle, a small smile on her face. Lucifer could feel his cheeks burning up as he looked at her beautiful smiling face.

Lucifer closes his eyes as a grin finally finds its way to his handsome face, “You're right, you got a lot of explanation to do.” he says, offering his hand to her in which she accepted. He pulls her inside the palace, finally closing the door behind them.

Currently, the two are in his room just catching up with one another. Lucifer's hands shined a golden glow over her arms, his angelic powers helping her heal. He listened intently as [y/n] explained what happened to her.

His heart thumped loudly against his chest as he listened how she defended hell and how she finally got under Sera's skin that led to her fall from grace.

“You really did that...?” he asked softly, his hand working gently with her arm as he unwrapped the bandages around her arm. Her arm finally healed after helping her. [Y/n] smiled softly and nodded, “I made a promise to help Charlie and Sera hid the yearly cleansing from the other angels. It was revealed during Charlie's meeting and I was mad.” [y/n] explained to him, his gentle eyes looking up at her as he healed her arm. “I said some things to her and got her mad and I was placed in a trial in which I ended up guilty.”

Lucifer frowns, softly placing down her hand onto her lap. “I wished I was there to help you.” he says softly to her and [y/n] smiled and patted his head.

“It's alright, what's done is done. What matters the most is that I'm here now...” she says, bringing her hand up to cup his cheeks.

“Yeah... But, I hope you know that I appreciate what you did for hell...” he says, nuzzling his face against the palm of her hand. Eyes half-lidded as he looked at her.

“I know and I'll do it again. I believe that the sinners deserve a second chance.” she says, her eyes landing on the many piles of rubber ducks in his room.

“On the sidenote, I see you haven't gotten over your love for ducks.” [y/n] giggles, his cheeks exploding into a bright shade of red as he felt a little embarrassed.

“I can't help it. They're just so cute.” he says with a small pout making [y/n] laugh softly.

“Don't be embarrassed about it, I'm just glad you haven't changed much.” she says smiling at him.

His eyes widened slightly and then he smiled, “I am glad that you haven't changed too.”

[y/n] smiles, turning her head to look around his room. Seeing the portraits of his family on the wall, they looked so happy. She's a little jealous.

“You and Lilith huh?” she teases him slightly, Lucifer flinches slightly and avoids her gaze. “Well... Used to, we've divorced each other seven years ago.” he says, finally looking at her.

[y/n]'s eyes widened, a frown on her face. She felt guilty bringing the topic up. “Oh... I didn't know, I'm sorry.” she says softly, her voice held a tone of regret. Lucifer smiled and shook his head, “Don't be, it was for the best.” he explained, “We just stopped loving each other, that's all.”

“How about we change the topic?” he suggested with a smile and [y/n] nodded, “Since you're here now... Do you plan to stay at the hotel or here with me?” he asked softly to her.

[y/n] blushes softly, the idea of being alone with Lucifer in a large palace seems so.... Intimate. Lucifer's cheeks also burned slightly as he realized what he just asked.

“Staying here with you? Won't I disturb you from your work?” she asked hesitantly, Lucifer shakes his head no.

“No, no, no... You would never be a disturbance to me [n/n]... I would be glad if you stayed here...” he spoke so softly, eyes pleading for her to accept.

[y/n] smiles, she can practically read him like a book. Despite being years apart, their connection never faded.

“Alright, since you looked like you're begging me to stay.” she giggled softly, looking at him with so much fondness.

Lucifer can only stare at her face, she's looking at him like he's the most beautiful being in the universe.

Don't look at me like that, I don't want to fall too fast.

Lucifer blushes slightly, clearing his throat. “I just miss you, that's all.” he says, avoiding her gaze making her chuckle, “I've missed you too.” she says softly.

“I am really happy to see you again, it's been so long.” he whispers, wrapping his arms around her. “I am so happy to be back in your arms...” she murmurs back to him. Lacing her hand with his with him squeezing her hand gently in return.

They have a lot of catching up to do, a lot of feelings to uncover.

END NOTES: the handholding before marriage finally happened lmfaoo 😭 also imma try not to make their relationship fast paced okay, awkward friends to lovers idk. This chapter feels shorter than usual, meh.

TAGLIST I:

@selvyyr @leo4242564 @blushhpeachh @lunanight1021 @dvc4 @nehy019 @lu-ferri12 @lilteamushroom @froggybich @eddiemunson4ever @who-let-me-write-this @gurutan27 @sleepdeprived-barelyalive @hcneyiced @valerie-36 @jovialcat123 @b0nn1e @raeinn @wally-darling-hyperfixation @faefanatic @trashbin-nie @n1chxyaaenthusiast @cherry-4200 @luleck @adaizel @xx-all-purpose-nerd-xx @thedarkkitten @brithedemonspawn @kottenox @totallymitya @many-fandoms-lover @hxzbinwrites @snoozewritezz @juskonutoh @mayhimouto513 @hcneyiced @koirb @viylikescats @ren-ren23 @kouyoumarryme @dou-dou @thatsquitepoggers

#lucifer morningstar x reader #lxkeee hazbin hotel masterlist #hazbin hotel #lucifer hazbin hotel #lucifer #lucifer magne #hazbin hotel x reader #lxkeee answers #lucifer morningstar #lxkeee updates #“MLIMAM” — LUCIFER X READER

[see-arcane]

Thinking about how Jonathan Harker’s role as the haunted vampire hunter-archenemy has been so thoroughly pushed onto Van Helsing's shoulders. Annoying as it is to see in so many adaptations and spinoffs, I can’t help King Laughing about both the comedic and dramatic potential of this misconception as it would apply to future supernatural shenanigans post-Dracula canon

Specifically, how hilarious and/or advantageous it would be to

Have would-be enemies getting bamboozled by one of Dr. Abe’s monologues, as per rambling banter rule, only to have some soft-spoken solicitor drop off the wall behind them and kukri them in half without a word. Or,

Have our good friend Jonathan Harker constantly getting approached by people with a bad case of the Horrors, said people assuming the white-haired, haunted-eyed, knife-wielding, vampiric vendetta fellow must surely be the famous Abraham van Helsing who—by way of a game of Victorian telephone is assumed to have—‘spent a season in close quarters with a horde of vampires, injured the latter without even a holy item on his person, scaled a mountainside and traversed the Carpathians barefoot, and sent Count Dracula himself running after nearly splitting him in two..!’

All while Jonathan ‘Only Assertive Under Duress’ Harker is just sitting there, politely waiting for the chance to speak up and say, no, actually, that professor over there is Abraham van Helsing. His name is Jonathan H—

“Oh, Jonathan van Helsing? My apologies. Was it your father who did all that?”

Jonathan, sweating: “um—"

Van Helsing, not immune to a Good Bit: “No, no, it was him! My child, do not be shy on the matter of your so many harrowing feats! He brings such pride to the Van Helsing name.” :)

Jonathan, internally: (Why this???)

Mina, internally: (It keeps our name out of the wind and away from snooping supernatural ears, darling. I’d rather Mary not open the door on an angry undead horde because they knew where to find Mr. and Mrs. Harker.)

Mina, out loud, the Power of Prank Compels Her: “He really is too modest.” <3

I just think it’s a gimmick that could get some good mileage as a misdirection ploy and a feasible in-universe excuse for why Van Helsing keeps getting all the Dracula Nemesis credit

#it could be such a fun thing to play with if only it wasn't so warped into a literal interpretation Every Single Time by Dracula-media #augh #jonathan harker #abraham van helsing #mina harker #dracula #re: dracula #dracula daily

[dragon-kazansky]

Bridgerton shade of blue

Benedict Bridgerton x Female Reader

The Viscount is set on finding a wife this season, and you are trying again for your second season. While Anthony is dealing with trials between Edwina and Kate Sharma, you are dealing with trials of your own. Benedict Bridgerton is ever present in your life, but your pursuit to find a husband must come first. Society is ever so exhausting.

{Masterlist}

{Previous Chapter} - {Next Chapter}

Season Two

Chapter Twenty One - The one who sparkles

The next day, you find yourself at the Bridgerton house. Madame Delacroix is there with fabrics, so Violet may choose one for Eloise. Eloise could not care less about fabrics as she reads away on the sofa.

Francesca plays the piano beautifully in the background. You're standing by the piano watching her. She smiles as she plays, lost in her music. You loved that about Francesca. She was so different from her siblings.

Anthony was reading by the window quietly. He hadn't spoken a word since you got here. Not to you or his family.

Elosie and Anthony share a shirt discussion about ladies and gentlemen. Eloise finds all gentlemen a bore, and Anthony doesn't believe ladies can dance properly. His poor toes. He had spent all night dancing with no such luck as to finding his ideal wife.

Hyacinth makes a comment about how she thinks Eloise would be a wonderful diamond. Eloise looks at her youngest sister in her face and says, "I despise you."

They all chuckle.

Violet chooses the fabric she likes best, and Madame Delacroix packs her things. You don't even notice as she leaves that Benedict enters, greeting her fondly. The conversation is short, however, as Benedict's eyes land on you.

Madame Delacroix leaves.

Francesca finishes her piece on the piano and smiles at you when you clap softly. "Wonderful, Francesca. Simply, wonderful."

"Thank you."

Francesca leaves the room quietly, and you find a seat to occupy. Benedict, having been turned by Delacroix, decides to make his way over to you, but Anthony calls for him. Benedict sighs and makes his way to his brother with his sketchbook in hand.

"Are you and the modiste still, uh, making a stitch?" Anthony asks.

"Apparently not. Have you found a wife yet? Or are you planning to offend every girl until there are none left? Is mother aware?"

"Aware of what?" Violet asks, hearing them.

"I'm off to deal with our solicitor," Anthony states. "Have fun with your pretty pictures, brother."

You watch Anthony leave. Violet follows him.

You get up and take the seat Anthony was just in. You lean across the table slightly and look at Benedict.

"You're not playing with her anymore?" You ask, teasing him.

"What are you talking about?"

"Madame Delacroix."

"You know?" He asks, completely horrified by the thought.

"Yes."

"How?"

"Anthony told me. I'm not sure why. Who you fool around with is your business, not mine. You Bridgerton boys certainly keep yourself entertained." You chuckle.

"You seem rather calm about this."

"Why shouldn't I be? I'm not naive, Benedict." You glance at the others. "I'm aware of what some people do."

Benedict is stunned into silence as he stares at you. Seems there is more to you than he first assumed.

"It was just some fun," he says softly.

"I don't care." You tell him. "Do what you want, Benedict."

The smile you give him doesn't offer him much comfort.

At the next ball, the queen was expected to choose her diamond of the season. All ladies in white and gold were presented before her before moving alone. You and your mother curtsied. The queen barely glanced at you.

You both walk on.

"She did not look impressed," you commented quietly.

"She never does," your mother responds.

You sigh softly and stand off to the side. You watch people dance. Spotting the Sharma ladies, you watch them approach the queen and curtsy to her.

They walk away quite quickly. You're not sure what the queen had said, but Lady Mary Sharma didn't seem too happy.

"May I have this dance?"

You turn and find yourself face to face with a rather handsome gentleman. You smile politely and take his hand, letting him guide you to the floor.

Lord Baxtor was a friendly gentleman. He had a dashing smile and seemed very pleased to be dancing with you.

"I saw you at Lady Danbury's soiree," he says.

"Oh? I do not recall meeting you."

"No, I think not. You spent most of the evening rather close to Mr Bridgerton's side."

"Oh... Yes. I must apologise. The first ball of the season, I always find rather daunting. I find comfort in being close to friends," you tell him.

"Yes, I must agree with you. You looked beautiful that night, as you do tonight."

You smile. "Thank you. You look very dashing tonight."

He smiles.

As you both dance, you don't notice Bridgerton's arriving. Violet guides Eloise over to the queen, followed by the two eldest sons.

"Tell me, brother, is there anyone here you haven't rejected?" Benedict teases Anthony.

Anthony does not look amused.

"You're the artist. Do you see anyone remotely inspiring?"

Benedict automatically finds himself looking in your direction despite not knowing you were there moments ago.

"We shall have our diamond tonight, and I shall have a wife," Anthony declares.

The greet the queen.

Eloise manages to make the queen laugh quite loudly with a comment about emeralds.

They bow and leave.

"If the queen, in fact, names Eloise the diamond, who will you marry then, brother?" Benedict asks.

"Hush, you."

The dance comes to an end, and Lord Baxtor escorts you off the floor. You smile at him. He lets go of your hand slowly, almost reluctantly, but he is a gentleman. You watch him walk away.

This seems like a promising start, at least.

You spot Benedict across the room, and he smiles at you. You return his smile. You would go over to him, but the fanfare plays and realise the queen is about to choose her diamond of the season.

You wait with the other to see who she will choose.

"Your presence is noted, and your queen most appreciative. Allow it to now be my honour to present you the season's diamond."

The room is quiet apart from a few whispers.

"Miss Edwina Sharma."

The room fills with applause. You watch the sisters who both smile. You are happy for them. Edwina is elegant, beautiful, has a charming smile, and seems to be a very wonderful person all around.

She will certainly have her hands full within the ton.

You don't notice Benedict, who comes up beside you.

"Disappointed?"

You look up. "Hardly."

"Though, you do have an admirer, it seems."

You follow Benedict's gaze to find Lord Baxtor watching you from across the room. You smile and turn away shyly.

"Then you must make sure to keep your distance, Benedict. I don't want to scare away any potential suitors."

Benedict gazes at you with a slightly confused look. He's not sure what you mean by your comment, but he doesn't respond to it. All he sees is you looking at the other gentleman with a soft smile.

Anthony takes Edwina for a dance around the room, where he is no doubt questioning her preferences.

Kate Sharma seems very unhappy to see them together.

You, however, have a splendid evening. When Benedict realises he is not holding your attention for the night, he leaves. Lord Baxtor wastes no time in coming over to talk to you.

You do not leave his side the rest of the night.

The next morning, you sit in your drawing room with your embroidery. Tea is sitting on the table beside you, and your mother is watching the window. She will hate it if you point out how obvious she is being. With wvery gentleman she sees pass the house she gets excited, only to discover them going down the street to another.

You find it amusing. Your mother looked forward to the next season. She took great joy in all the chaos society provided. You do so adore her when she is like this.

"Is there still time?" You mother asks, coming over to the couches.

"Yes, ma'am." The butler replies.

Your mother sighs and looks around the room. She hoped she had made the house comfortable enough for visitors. She was keen to help impress a suitor for you.

There is a knock at the door, and your mother clutches the armrest beside her with a sharp gasp. The butler leaves to answer the door, and you chuckle at the way your mother begins to fuss.

The butler returns. "A visitor, ma'am."

"Let them in." Your mother stands.

You put your embroidery down and stand up alongside her. You wait a few moments and then the vistor enters. You smile.

"Lord Baxtor."

He bows his head. "My lady."

Your mother smiles from ear to ear and excuses herself to the other side of the room to watch from there.

You invite Lord Baxtor to sit with you. You both take your seats and smile at one another.

"Hello."

"Hello," he chuckles.

"I was no expecting any callers."

"No?"

"I expected them all to be with Miss Sharma this morning," you confess.

"Though she is beautiful to be certain, and I'm sure a wonderful lady, I find myself wishing to spend more time in your presence."

You blush softly as you look at him.

"I haven't stopped thinking about our dance last night," he tells you.

"Oh?"

"Have you... perhaps thought of me?"

"Yes. I must admit I have."

He adjusts his position on the sofa and looks at you rather serious. "I must ask, Bridgerton will not likely be an issue, will he?"

"Why should he be an issue?"

"As much as I love a challenge, I do not wish to be up agaiant a Bridgerton, of all men."

"He is a friend of mine, but should you wish to see where this goes, a can assure you, Benedict Bridgerton will not be a problem."

Lord Baxtor smiles. "Good. Then can I hope to escort you to the races this afternoon?"

You smile. "I would be delighted."

Your mother watches with keen interest as you used this gentlemen seem to get along quite nicely. It was a promising match if she had ever seen one.

@callmemana - @lilscast - @imgondeletedis - @benedictbridgertonss - @clownsdiehard - @wxnterwidow333

@sillynilly27 - @autumn-slaves - @ben-has-arrived - @ajdelilah - @aadu2173

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@hopshusushi - @katherinejess - @nannabug - @afunkyfreshblog - @f0x33 - @dd122004dd -

@jupitervenusearthmars - @orchiidflwer - @bespinnn - @captainlunaxmen - @winchestersimpalababy - @acupnoodle

@ms-fandomgirl - @fablesrose - @anyaisinyourcloset - @meowzerzstuff - @orchiidflwer - @crazymar15

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#Bridgerton shade of blue #benedict bridgerton x reader #benedict bridgerton #bridgerton #female reader #dragon writes

[jackandspaghetti]

not a vacation. (jack hughes x female reader, smut)

summary: they just wanted to get freaky w no distractions, life is hard. and jack has been too, so these two goofies needed some satisfaction! they figured a hotel was the way to do it. dont ask me, im just the messenger. this was written via divine inspiration.

warnings: sex (p in v) unprotected (assume bc), praise, idk man this is my first time im a virgin to writing smut

other notes: random context, i think Y/N is in college for this and also she is living w jack. its a fic bae don't read into all that too much

wc: 3k

Y/N and Jack are finally on vacation. Well, it’s only for a couple nights, and they do not have plans to do anything. They really just wanted to get away. With all of Jack’s hockey stuff finally done for the season, and with Y/N’s academic year having come to a close, they just needed a break.

Originally, they were just going to spend time together at their own house. They do it all the time, and they certainly enjoy it, but that did not feel like enough of a reset. Their families could still show up at their door at any moment, or even solicitors were enough to ruin their peace in each other’s company. So, they decided they would go to a random town not too far away and stay a few nights in a hotel. Somewhere that their families would not find them. Somewhere quiet. With few tourists. A place where there would be little noise to distract them, and few people to be distracted by the noise they would inevitably make together.

Anyway, this was not really a vacation. It was a desperate retreat to a place where Y/N and Jack could just immerse themselves in each other with no consequences or disruptions. Neither one even plans to leave the hotel for any reason except to quickly grab food or to stop at a convenience store.

The two check into their single-bed hotel room, a pretty nice one thanks to Jack’s being famous and everything. Neither one has brought many clothes. They don’t anticipate wearing them very often. The couple wastes no time in racing to their room for some privacy.

The minute they walk into their home for the next few days, Y/N throws her bags down and puts the “Do Not Disturb” sign on the door handle. Then she locks the door and spins on her heels to face Jack. They both seem to let out a breath of relief. They have both been terribly horny for days. Not that they haven’t had sex in those days, but their desire just keeps returning. They can’t seem to get a break from it for any longer than Jack’s refractory period. So here they stand, in utter silence, staring at each other with hungry eyes in their new little hideaway. Each one waiting to see if the other will make a move.

Suddenly, Jack lunges at Y/N and wraps her up in a passionate, sensual kiss. He is breathing heavily into her mouth and already sounding like a hungry man who will do anything for a bite.

“Ohhhh Y/N,” he’s kissing her deeply. At some point, he picks her up, because now he’s carrying her and pushing her onto the neatly made hotel bed.

She immediately responds, moaning into his mouth and wrapping her legs around him when he lifts her. She feels the way her panties are soaked through and at that moment, she is desperate to be wearing nothing. To feel all of his skin against all of hers. She whimpers, “Oh god babe I’m so wet.”

Jack is on top of her now. He grunts when he hears that, and he pushes his own hips down onto hers. They are both still fully clothed, but his erection is no secret when it’s pressing against Y/N. And he can easily feel the intense heat radiating off of her through her sweatpants. These respective sensations are enough to make the two of them moan together, on fire with want as they notice each other’s arousal.

Jack whispers, “Mmmm feel that baby?”

Her voice is whiny and a little pathetic with frantic desire. “Not sure if you’re talking about you or me, but I feel us both. Jesus Christ you’re hard. Ohhhh fuck.”

He chuckles a bit at her little display of desperation, and he slides his warm hands into her sweater, onto the even warmer skin of her stomach. His voice is gentle, soothing, but intimidatingly so. It’s clear that behind it, he is trying to control an unusual amount of arousal, a primal need to have Y/N naked and flushed and sweating beneath him. These images are flashing through his mind when he says, “All for you. God, look at you.”

His hands slide further, hiking up her sweater and revealing a bit of her abdomen. Y/N sighs as those familiar fingers graze her skin. She hears the quietest groan in Jack’s chest, and the sound of his pleasure in this moment, from just touching her, multiplies her own pleasure tenfold. His hands are on her bra. Her nipples are so hard that they are obvious through the padding, and both Jack and Y/N make a strained noise when he feels them.

Y/N starts to grasp his sweatshirt, arching her back a bit with desperation, and Jack knows neither of them can live like this a second longer. His own dick is currently being suffocated as it strains for this girl.

“Clothes are so uncomfortable, aren’t they baby?” he pulls her sweater off in a sudden hurry, followed by his own sweatshirt. The clothes end up somewhere, who knows, the only important thing is that they aren’t here.

She whimpers, “Yeah…oh my god…” as she feels utterly overwhelmed by his determination.

Jack’s eyes hungrily scan Y/N’s partially exposed body as he makes quick work of his jeans, unbuttoning and unzipping like he has been in this situation, urgently taking his pants off, many times before. He has. Then they are off and gone and no longer in the universe and he is only in his boxers, yanking Y/N’s pants off with a frustrated grunt.

She has not really been doing anything to help; she has just been watching him in awe, blushing at his urgency. She decides this is her chance. Y/N places her palm firmly against Jack’s hard, fabric-covered cock, rubbing a bit and relishing in the way it reacts to her. The way it seems to have a mind of its own, twitching and straining under her touch. Jack groans, very audibly this time, as he feels this and stares down at Y/N in her bra and panties, so beautiful and laying right beneath him. His voice is low, “I need you baby. I…” his voice drifts off, unable to think straight as he sees her looking so helpless for him.

Y/N finally speaks up, though the tension is so palpable that she can only manage a whisper for fear of shattering the moment. “Jack…” his eyes meet hers and she whimpers, “please, Jack.”

Normally, he would do a whole “please what?” thing and make her spell it out for him that she desperately wants him to fuck her. But this time, he is so hard that he just makes a noise in his throat and pulls his boxers off, setting his throbbing dick free. He runs his hands over Y/N’s bra before slipping them under her back and unhooking it, letting the cursed thing fall off her shoulders and throwing it into the abyss that is the world outside of this one embrace.

Y/N is immediately relieved and also sent into a fit of deeper arousal when she sees his cock, throbbing with need and dripping pre-cum, hard and ready to go, all for her. She doesn’t wait for him to take her panties off, she just lifts her hips and does it herself so that they are now both naked, stripped bare before each other and each one loving the other.

But forget that—this is about the sex.

Jack grabs her thighs and roughly pushes them wide apart, staring between them. He smirks, “Mmmmm poor thing. A pussy this wet can only mean you’re aching for me.”

A soft gasp escapes Y/N’s lips. “Yeah…” her breath is shaky, “it’s your fault.”

“All this? Plus all that was in your panties?” his voice drops to a whisper as he leans close to her ear, “I’m the only guy who can make you this wet, hm?”

“Yes.”

He seems proud of himself. Of course, he already knew all that, but that doesn’t mean hearing it is any less hot. His lips are just barely brushing against her ear, and she can feel his breath when he adds, “I’m the only one who can see this pretty thing? Touch you like this?”

This time, it just comes out of her. “Yes daddy.” She wasn’t even trying to do that. Something just comes over her sometimes when he acts like this, and her eyes widen when she realizes. Her face turns red.

But Jack isn’t bothered. He smirks. Almost chuckles a bit. He kisses right below her ear, sliding his hand down her waist and softly rubbing it against her stomach. Then, in that low, intimate voice, “Mmmm what was that?”

Y/N is losing her mind. She doesn’t know how he does all this when she knows he is equally desperate, but apparently her calling him daddy makes him want to mess with her. She’s not having it. She’s not too proud to say it again and make it a little more flowery this time. She sounds really helpless and a little louder when she responds, “I’m all yours, daddy. Take everything, I don’t care, just fuck me please.”

She doesn’t have to tell him twice. He lines himself up with her, purposefully letting his tip rub against her clit for a moment first. That makes her gasp. Then, “Sure, baby,” and he is pushing his dick into her, groaning a bit as the pressure and warmth of her pussy soothes his aching erection. “Shit, this is good.”

Y/N moans, her walls adjusting around him as she adapts to the sensation, and the feeling of being filled like that gives her face a glowy, though dazed, look. Her voice matches the look in a way, “Fuck…you feel so good daddy.”

“Mmm yeah?” he starts to slide in and out of her in a rhythm, slowly at first, “You like me on top of you, princess?”

He keeps going slowly, but starts to run his hand up her body, leaning in close as she whines, “Yes, daddy…ohhhh…” she doesn’t really know what to say. Her brain isn’t formulating responses when hes so close to her, touching her like that, fucking her like that, breathing on her skin.

“Good girl,” he slowly starts to kiss along her jaw, speeding up his thrusts just a bit. He seems to want this to last, but when he has been wanting her this bad, he has a limit to how much he can hold back. His lips eventually reach her ear, and he whispers, “This is where you belong. Right here under me baby. Your legs spread; your pussy wrapped around my cock like this.”

She gasps, then her exhale is just a moan. She starts to run her hands along his sides and his back, desperate to feel more of him as her breath becomes labored.

“Soooo wet…” his voice feels like poison, like it’s incapacitating her, but in such an addictive way; it’s like a drug. He grunts softly before speaking again, “and so, so tight…you feel like heaven, princess.” His hand reaches her breast and gently kneads the flesh as he starts thrusting his dick into her harder, though not any faster, feeling and relishing in the way her walls tighten and react to every adjustment.

Her eyes are fluttering as he praises the way she feels for him. Her nipples are hard, begging for stimulation when she feels his hand on her breast. It’s like he reads her mind, because in an instant he is teasing her nipple with his thumb, starting to plant hot, wet kisses on her neck. “Ohhhh…oh Jack,” she moans as he overloads her with pleasure all over, the sensations piling up and boiling over and causing her pussy to react, squeezing his dick for a moment as she arches her back just the slightest bit.

“Mmhmmm what about me baby? How does daddy’s cock feel?” His voice sounds rough, and he has to start fucking her faster. He needs more as he kisses and bites every sensitive spot on her neck that he knows so well, rubbing her precious breast with that one hand while his other arm is wrapped around her waist, supporting a bit of his weight against the bed. Her skin is hot and it’s all for him, “Tell me sweetheart.”

“Daddy…oh god it feels perfect…ohhh fuck it’s…mmm right there, daddy,” she whimpers as his dick rubs repeatedly against her g-spot, “so hard…fuck, you’re so hard and you stretch me out so good…” Her legs wrap around him, and she sighs under the weight of his warm body.

His mouth finds its way back to her lips, and now he’s moaning as well, making pleasured noises into her mouth as he fucks her hard and fast, feeling her tightness threatening to make him bust any minute now. He is panting as he speaks into the kiss, “Fuck, baby. Keep up that whimpering and shit.” He softly bites her bottom lip for a moment before he can’t do it anymore. He can’t focus on kissing her when her body feels like that. He adjusts his weight onto the other side and now the hand that was supporting him is all over her; it’s on her waist, on her breast, on her neck for a moment. Then it rests on her hip as he thrusts into her over and over and over again, watching the way her tits bounce from the force of his movements.

She does indeed keep up the whimpering. She is a moaning mess by now, her eyes closed more often than not, like her body doesn’t want to sense anything but this feeling. The warmth in her lower abdomen blooms like a flower, then spreads through her body like a flame. She is gasping with every breath, moaning with almost every exhalation. Y/N feels Jack’s cock staring to twitch inside her. She feels her own telltale spasms that come before orgasm too, crying out with pleasure, “Daddy!!! Ohhhhhh!!”

A small grunt escapes Jack’s chest with every thrust and his hand is gripping her hip so hard, squeezing the flesh like his life might depend on it. Their heavy breaths mix as he puts his face against hers. Sounds of panting and moaning fill the room, along with the sounds of the sheets rustling just slightly under their movements, and of course the sound of wet slapping as his pelvis repeatedly pounds into hers.

Jack speaks in a rough, strained voice, “I’m so fucking close baby. Oh, fuck you make daddy feel so damn good.”

Y/N replies frantically, almost pathetically, “Me too oh god me too. I’m gonna cum daddy oh you feel so good.”

He groans and speaks again, urgency in his voice now, though not replacing the sound of authority that has been there this whole time, “Fuck! Okay princess I need you to let go. Cum for daddy c’mon baby.”

If she wasn’t already going to cum just from the sensations of all this, those words definitely do the trick. She is suddenly arching her back and curling her toes, sweating and crying out in pleasure. Her orgasm hits her like a truck, causing her to convulse around Jack and writhe with the overwhelming feeling of it all. As for her face, her eyes roll back before they flutter shut, her mouth is open, her head tilted back slightly on the pillow, her cheeks flushed a bright shade of red. Y/N looks like the picture of female pleasure.

This doesn’t go unnoticed by Jack, who sees the way she cums for him, sees the way her face looks all because of him, and feels the way her pussy squeezes the life out of his dick. He pumps into her for only a second more before he grunts loudly, driving his cock deep inside her and groaning as he feels himself release.

Y/N sighs as she feels that familiar warmth filling her up deep inside, feeling his cock spasm as he empties his load.

Jack is nearly paralyzed for a moment until he is all done, when he collapses on top of her, his face buried right where Y/N’s neck meets her shoulder. He lets his dick slip out of her as he starts to soften. He places a gentle kiss right where his lips are resting against her skin, and then a slow, quiet groan is heard from deep within his chest.

Y/N smiles and tries to control her breathing. She weakly lifts a hand to stroke his hair and the back of his neck, feeling a small amount of Jack’s nut mixed with her own wetness slowly dripping out of her. She sighs and can’t hold back a little giggle, “So that was good then?”

He just wraps his arms around her tighter and nuzzles his face deeper into her neck as he groans again. Y/N laughs. She uses her free hand to soothingly caress his back, feeling his toned muscles under that lovely skin, “Mmmm I see. You’re speechless.”

Jack chuckles into her neck and gives her another soft kiss there before lifting his head to look down at her. He strokes the hair around her face a bit, “Pretty…”

She smiles, “Good sex too?”

He laughs and hugs her tightly again, returning to his newly declared home nuzzled in her neck. There is a slight pause before Y/N hears and feels a soft voice against her skin, “The best sex.”

She nods with approval and pride in herself, then responds with a whisper, “I love you.”

“I love you. I’m gonna fall asleep here.”

Y/N chuckles and continues to caress him. She was calling him daddy earlier, but normally that melts away and they are just their barest selves after the excitement. She whispers, “Okay then.”

She hears one last little grunt from him and her heart melts as he falls asleep.

#jack hughes #nj devils #new jersey devils #jack hughes smut #nhl smut #hockey fic #jack hughes fic #jack hughes one shot #hockey smut #smut

[gloomwitchwrites]

Tattoo Artist Simon "Ghost" Riley x Female Reader

Chapter Specific Warnings (per the warnings MDNI): canon-typical swearing, emotional hurt/comfort, angst, heavy suggestive themes, lots of kissing, intimate touching, domestic!Simon

Word Count: 8k

A/N: Part Nine of Ink & Needle

Evie fractures. You spend the evening with Simon in his apartment. An unwanted caller makes contact.

Chapter Eight // Chapter Ten

ao3 // taglist // main masterlist // ink & needle masterlist

The excitement of the day is starting to set in. Everything was a whirlwind this morning, and only now, in the quiet of the kitchen in Evie’s Cambridge home, is it all beginning to catch up with you.

The continuously growing list of things to do is as messy and vast as the scattered assembly of carryout boxes on the kitchen island. Most of it is Chinese takeout boxes—which, to your disappointment—is not like American Chinese takeout at all. Evie thought it hilarious when you began opening boxes only to discover multiple containers of curry sauce and mushy peas. Greasy burgers were ordered and consumed instead. Now, as you begin sifting through the mess, tossing containers into a trash bag, exhaustion is showing its teeth, reminding you just how hectic it’s been.

Outside the patio doors, the sun is low, it’s beams hardly breaking over the natural hedge fence along the property line. The lights above the kitchen island and stove are on, adding to the low, warm glow of the evening sun. Scattered across the countertop behind you are various stacks of paperwork. You and Evie need to go through all of it, but you’re unwilling to burden her with too much.

Evie is still grieving, and she’s eight months pregnant, quickly approaching nine. The only thing Evie needs to worry about is getting plenty of rest and the upcoming labor. She doesn’t need to fret over conversations with the estate agent or Archie’s solicitor. Not to mention the fact that the solicitor brought up potential troubles with Archie’s family, indicating a barrister might be needed if they decide to fight over Archie’s money. That did not reach Evie’s ears. Those people have already done enough, and if you can, you’ll keep their poison away for as long as possible.

No. The main concern is Evie’s pregnancy. With the move to London, all of Evie’s medical history has to be transferred to her new hospital and doctor. It’s incredibly close to the due date for everyone’s liking, but it can’t be helped. Evie won’t be giving birth in Cambridge.

Sighing, you toss yet another empty container into the bag, purposefully keeping your back to the stack of papers. You offered up the idea to the estate agent of selling the place fully furnished to which you were quickly dismissed. Frustrating, because it means your job becomes much more difficult, but understandable. People want to make new memories. They don’t want to cling to someone else’s old ones.

Over dinner, you and Evie discussed how she wanted to clear out the house of her belongings. Sell it? Donate it? Put it in storage? Take it with her? There wasn’t a true decision but there was an agreement on beginning the process.

It’s a start. It’s something.

Tomorrow, Friday afternoon to be exact, you and Evie are heading back to London. It’s a quick turnaround, but you’re eager to return and see your wraith. Just thinking of him, speaking his name in your mind, is enough to swirl the quietly simmering heat in your belly to a healthy boil. The warmth that arrives with Simon’s name spreads to your toes and throughout your limbs.

Smiling, nearly giggling, cheeks fevering with the memory of his kisses from Monday, you lightly press the tips of your fingers to your lips, floating in the memory of how they tasted his skin.

Then, you remember where you are. And what you’re supposed to be doing.

“Get a fucking grip,” you mutter under your breath, stuffing the last of the takeout boxes into the trash bag.

When you return from tossing the bag into the outside bin, you wash your hands before reaching for your phone. In the group chat with Jade and Sam, you give them a quick update, silencing your phone afterward, plugging it in to charge for the night.

Evie is upstairs somewhere, likely rummaging around in things she shouldn’t be. She has a knack for that, doing things without asking for help, believing that doing so is a sign of weakness. It’s that American Midwest can-do attitude. Independent and self-sufficient. A good ole’ Missouri girl. That’s Evelyn Green.

Rubbing at your right temple, you head upstairs, aiming for the master bedroom. The door stands open, and as you approach, you stop short the frame when you hear a choked, strangled sob.

“Evie?” you call out.

You listen intently, not sure if you’ve misheard. But you hear it again, a pained sound that sounds more injured animal than human.

Cold fear twists your stomach, drags it down to the floor, stomps all over it and grins.

“Evie!”

Shoving through the door, you don’t find her anywhere. Scanning the master bedroom, you notice the scattered clothes across the bed and the rumpled sheets. But the room is dark. The only light comes from the walk-in closet. Its angles are sharp like a blade and you fear the worst. What if she’s fallen? Surely, you would have heard the crash, or a solid thump?

Heading toward it, the rising fear intensifies until it lodges in your throat, waiting to emerge like a striking snake.

You step into the beam of light.

Sitting in the middle of a large pile of clothes is Evie.

She’s bent over, at least, as bent as her belly will allow her to be. Her pale cheeks are slashed with red and tear-stained. Her shoulders shake with every sob, each one appearing painful. And, in her hands, she cradles a little beige box.

The lid is off. The white ribbon on the top is yellowed and brittle. It rests to the left of Evie’s right foot on one of Archie’s button ups. Within that little beige box is a boutonnière. It’s Archie’s boutonnière. The one he wore on their wedding. It’s dried out now, more potpourri than flower, a silent witness to Evie’s suffering.

“Oh. Evie,” you sigh, going down on your knees in front of her, your hands outstretched but not touching, unsure of how she’s needing comfort.

She glances up. Chokes. Hiccups. “He’s gone,” she whimpers, and all you want to do is absorb her pain.

“I know,” you murmur. “I know, Evie. I’m so sorry.”

“He—he’s gone.” Fresh tears form in the corners of her eyes. They quickly compound on each other, rapidly filling the bottom of her eyelids. “He’s gone and I—”

A gut-wrenching sob rips from her. Like someone is reaching down her throat to tear out her vocal cords.

With extreme gentleness, you place one hand on her shoulder. The other cradles her hand holding the small beige box. “Evie—”

“He’s gone!” she wails. “And this is all I have left!” Evie gestures around at the clothes.

“You have so much more than that,” you soothe, lightly rubbing her shoulder in slow circles.

But Evie is shaking her head, sniffling hard, sucking up all the phlegm that threatens to slip from her nostrils. She’s a mess. A cacophony of a storm.

She glances up. Stares at the ceiling of the closet. “What happens when I start to forget his face?” Evie turns her gaze to you, the defeat and sorrow there sharp enough to shred the soul. “What happens then?”

“You won’t,” you insist, grasping the sides of her face. Strands of her dark hair stick to her tear-stained skin. Your brush them out of the way. “You love him, and the memory of that love is enough.”

Evie keeps shaking her head. “I can’t do this,” she murmurs, cradling her belly with one hand. “How do I do this without him?”

“You can, Evelyn Green. And you’re not alone. You have me. And Amelia. Jade. Sam.” With the pad of your thumb, you remove a few falling tears from her cheek. “This baby will be surrounded by love. She’ll never be without. She will always be safe. And when you tell her stories of her father, all she’ll know is how much you love him, and how much he wanted to meet her.”

Tears spillover to paint Evie’s cheeks as she leans into you. You wrap your arms around her, pulling her close, offering your shoulder to rest her head on. Neither of you talks, and this isn’t your place to say anything at all. This is for Evie, and whatever she needs.

Keeping one hand clutching the beige box, Evie reaches up with the other, fingers wrapping around your forearm. Digging, digging in where they land and are sure to leave little half-moons behind. Fuck it. You hardly care. You’re too focused on keeping her aloft, on being Evie’s anchor where she has none.

You won’t allow your friend to sink.

You stay like this until your knees hurt and your lower back aches. You stay like this until Evie signals she’s ready to let go with a gentle squeeze of your arm. As she pulls away, Evie wipes at her eyes. She still clings to that little box, but she needs rest, and you know she’ll never forgive herself if she takes it to bed with her and crushes it.

Placing both hands around the box, you silently implore her to let go. Evie does, hesitantly, and you lay the precious cargo on the ground. Presenting your hands, you put Evie to bed, keeping watch until you’re certain she’s truly asleep and not faking it for your benefit.

Only then do you return to the closet. Only then do you lift the little box from off the floor to carry it downstairs and set it next to your charging phone. Going to the mantel over the fireplace, you select your favorite photo from Archie and Evie’s wedding day. It’s a simple one, but the love oozes from it, sticks in between your teeth to blissfully rot away the enamel.

In the photo, Archie and Evie look at each other and not into the camera. It’s not staged. Just a moment caught when they thought no one was looking. A moment special only to them. Taking it to the kitchen, you rest it next to the box holding Archie’s boutonnière.

By the time you crawl into bed in the guestroom, it’s close to morning.

The few hours you manage to snag are not nearly enough. And when you awaken, you realize quickly that there is no amount of coffee in the world that can save you. Dragging yourself from bed, you clean up the clothes Evie left on the floor of the closet without disturbing her. Down in the kitchen, you make breakfast and place several phone calls. Nearly all of them are to Archie’s solicitor and the estate agent.

You’re exhausted. Fucking gone, but you have to do this for her.

Evie doesn’t drag herself out of bed until almost noon. By that time, the two of you need to start heading back to London. You take the driver seat, and Evie sits passenger with the little box holding Archie’s boutonnière and the framed photo resting in her lap.

“Simon came to see you,” are the first words out of Amelia’s mouth when she greets you.

“He did?” you squeak, nearly dropping the bag you just removed from the trunk of the car. Excitement and giddiness blooms in your chest.

Simon came to see you. He came…to see you.

But why would he not? He chased you down. Pursued you. Looked for you relentlessly. Of course he’d come by. You know this.

After visiting him at 141 Ink on Monday morning, you stopped to grab some groceries before heading home. Amelia and Evie nearly tackled you when you came through the door, both of them eager, pecking like annoying hens, seeking information. Too embarrassed to admit that you’d straddled him in front of the big window and sucked on his neck, you glossed over the more intimate moments much to their frustration.

Amelia had popped open a bottle of wine afterward and asked you if you knew anything about his history in the military. In all honesty, you know very little, just what he mentioned that morning. Thinking about it now, you truly don’t know anything concrete about your wraith. Physical chemistry is a good thing to possess, but that won’t last if there is nothing else to connect to.

Amelia already appeared to know this, and mentioned that you might want to take a delicate step with him in that area. “A bad injury” is what she said, but Amelia didn’t know any of the details. Then again, Amelia might know, and was only considering Simon’s privacy.

“Oh, yes. He was here. Burst through the backdoor and yelled at me for forgetting to lock the front one.”

Evie’s head pops up above the top of the car. “He yelled at you?”

You glance at Amelia, unbelieving that someone like Simon would raise his voice at her.

“Oh, posh,” she says, waving her hand dismissively. “Perhaps yell is a strong word. Growled. Said with irritation. Better?” Amelia shrugs one of the bags over her shoulder.

You and Evie exchange a knowing glance.

Could you go see him tonight? You consider the options. You could stay here and have dinner with Amelia and Evie. Or, you could go see Simon. Enter his shop while he’s working, observe him in his elements. And afterward—

“Are you all right? You look like you’re about ready to faint.” Amelia’s voice snaps you back to reality.

Shit.

Evie stands slightly left and back to Amelia. She’s grinning, knowing exactly where your mind drifted off to.

You smile awkwardly. “I’m fine. Just surprised.”

Amelia makes a face like she doesn’t believe that for a second. But she shrugs, not commenting about it. “You should visit him. It’s Friday. Make a night of it.”

“Are you sure?” you ask hurriedly, not wanting to sound too eager.

Amelia scoffs. “Evie and I will be perfectly fine.” She turns to Evie pointedly. “Won’t we?”

“Perfectly peachy,” winks Evie, shimmying her shoulders suggestively at you before following a cackling Amelia inside.

Your grab several more bags as if one less trip will truly cut into seeing Simon time. Then it’s done, and you’re nearly sprinting up the stairs for a shower and a change of clothes.

“How do I look?” you ask around your toothbrush, turning slightly so Evie can see every angle.

Evie glances up from her phone and grins. “If Simon isn’t all over you the moment you walk through the door, he’s a fucking idiot.” She points at you with her phone. “And you can tell him I said that.”

You snort, and then cover your mouth quickly. Evie laughs too but it’s more of a wheeze and that only makes the strangled, airless sounds you both make that much worse.

“Oh shit,” hisses Evie. “I peed. Thanks, bitch.” She half-rolls, half-flops out of the bed and starts waddling toward the bathroom.

“You’re welcome,” you call out to her retreating back.

Evie holds out her middle finger before shutting the bathroom door. Pulling on your coat and grabbing your purse off the top of the dresser, you head downstairs to slip on your boots.

Every step you take toward 141 Ink is light. Unhurried. It’s easy. Yes, you’re anxious, but that’s only because you’re eager to see Simon, to feel his hands on you, and forget yourself for a bit in his embrace.

As you near, that nervousness starts to slither up, blooming like a poisonous flower. Beautiful, but deadly, waiting for you to consume it. The black and eggplant-purple exterior come into view and that only amplifies what is already screeching under your skin.

“You’ve got this,” you tell yourself. “It’s fine. Calm. Down.”

Your heart and brain and limbs won’t listen. It amplifies further as you reach for the door.

Pushing it open, you’re met with warm air and the scent of pine underlined with the faintest hint of sterile cleaning solution. There is no soft chime when the door opens, but it might have been swallowed up by the music. Heavy metal rushes out from the speakers. It’s not overly loud, nothing that would damage the ears, but it’s certainly loud enough to muffle a conversation. You’re curious if this is Simon’s choice, or if it’s the customer currently in the tattoo chair.

Your glimpse of Simon and his client is brief. Immediately upon entrance, an all-black German Shepard leaps off the couch and greets you, tail wagging so fast it stirs up the air creating a breeze.

“Hello, Bravo,” you croon, scratching under his chin and then between his ears. Bravo leans into it, his tongue lolling out the side of his mouth in perfect contentment. “Good boy.”

When you straighten your back and glance up, you notice Simon in the back of the room next to the tattoo chair. He sits on a small stool with a black cushion on wheels. The person receiving their tattoo is on their stomach, back presented to Simon as he works. He hasn’t noticed you yet. He’s completely lost in his craft.

You take this time to observe him, standing there in the entrance of his parlor while Bravo aggressively licks the inside of your hand. Simon isn’t wearing a jacket, only a black t-shirt with short sleeves. It fits him snuggly, clearly hugging every muscle. Both tattoo sleeves are on full display. One is solid black. The other consist of various images and symbols that all interweave around each other. Other than the black t-shirt, Simon wears black joggers and sneakers.

Simon sits up a bit, rolls both shoulders. The muscles in his arms flex with the movement. Your wraith is all power. There is so much strength there, and your brain conjures up the memory of Riot Room when Simon lifted you effortlessly, held you aloft as he brought your bodies together over and over again.

He dips the tip of the needle into the ink, bends forward, returning it to the skin. Returning to his work. You desire closeness, to admire the art as he’s creating it on the man’s back, but also don’t wish to disturb his concentration. Watching him in his natural elements is peaceful. All that earlier anxiety is suddenly gone.

When Simon reaches for the ink again, Simon finally glances up. The moment your gazes lock, he freezes, hovering in a moment of stasis. It breaks, and Simon starts to stand, his arm extending outward to turn off the tattoo gun.

Nope. No. This is not what you want. You’ve disturbed him, throttled his concentration.

You shake your head vehemently, holding up both hands, pointing at the couch in the waiting area. Bravo lightly headbutts your thigh, clearly upset that you’ve taken away your hand for him to lick.

Simon holds his position. Knees slightly bent, legs just starting to extend like he’s ready to leap up at your request. Moving quickly, you settle yourself on the couch, Bravo jumping up next to you, snuggling down onto his belly, his large head plopping into your lap.

Only then does Simon sink back onto his stool.

The distance between the two of you is too much for your liking, but you know the feeling is mutual. Simon’s gaze is heated, and his body, which at first faced the client in the chair, is turned in your direction. Those dark, gorgeous eyes of his linger. They drag up your body, and back down again. Simon is taking his time, and under that wanton stare, you feel bare. Exposed. Chest cavity broken up and strewn out. Vulnerable.

It's unnerving. And yet thrilling. It’s how you felt when you first accepted his offer at Riot Room, when you off-handedly brought up the proposition and Simon made sure to end it.

His gaze remains a few seconds longer before Simon finally returns to the man lying face down on the chair. With one hand on top of Bravo’s head, you press the other hand to your cheek. It’s hot. Feverish. And you suddenly notice the growing slickness between your thighs.

Attempting to shift focus, you give most of your attention to Bravo, talking softly to the dog about your day, lulling the massive hound to sleep.

Even like this, you can’t help but notice all the times that Simon consistently glances up from his work, gaze focused in on you like you’ll somehow disappear. Sometimes it’s a quick one-two and he’s right back in it, set in on his work. Other times, he draws it out, as if silently telling you that he sees you. Those glances seize your heart, wrenching it right down into your stomach.

Once Bravo falls into a gentle snooze, and you have nothing else to direct your attention toward—except Simon’s lingering stares—you opt for productivity. With no idea how much longer Simon has with his client, you slip your phone out of your coat pocket and start catching up on work emails. Several deadlines are approaching quickly, and you’re terribly behind. You need an afternoon to yourself to simple work without interruptions. But that’s been difficult, especially when most of your time has been devoted to Evie.

“Done.”

Your head snaps up at the sound of Simon’s deep timbre. The client stretches, half-rolling half-stumbling to his feet.

Simon gestures for them to turn around. “Back to the mirror,” he instructs.

From off a rolling cart, Simon snags a hand mirror, presenting it to the client. It allows the man to admire Simon’s work. You have a clear view of the mirror. It’s just an outline, but it’s massive, covering the man’s entire back.

“Color and shading will take a couple sessions,” says Simon. “What do you think?”

You don’t catch what the man says, but you do hear Simon’s amused chuckle. He takes the hand mirror and places it on the tattoo chair. The two of them talk for a bit as money is exchanged and Simon hands him a care packet. The client shrugs on his shirt and coat, heading for the door.

As he approaches, he slows, noticing you on the couch. The corner of his mouth turns upward. He pointedly takes his time opening the door, a flirty smile on his face aimed at you as he steps out onto the street.

When the door clicks shut, you glance at Simon. His fists are clenched, hanging at his sides. Those dark eyes of his are bullets, ready to kill, completely fixated on the shut door.

“Simon,” you call out softly, a little of your worry slipping in. His gaze immediately adjusts, moving to you, softening entirely when he takes you in.

He tears off his black latex gloves and tosses them into the trash, already striding toward you as he does so. Bravo grumbles a protest as you bolt upward and off the sofa. You don’t even make it halfway to Simon before he’s on you, grabbing at the back of your neck and your waist, pulling you in for a kiss.

There isn’t a chance for you to push up the balaclava. And Simon doesn’t appear to care. He kisses you through the rough material, and you giggle against his cloth-covered lips.

“Simon,” you laugh, pushing lightly on his chest with your palms, voice slightly muffled from the balaclava.

He pulls back just enough to give you the faintest bit of breathing room. Then, he’s shoving his balaclava up to his nose, revealing those gorgeous lips of his. They are there and gone quickly, Simon already reclaiming what is so rightfully his.

You open and Simon slips his tongue inside, fingers digging roughly into the back of your neck, drawing you closer. This kiss is desperate. Needy. And so full of emotion that when he draws back, you’re momentarily breathless.

Simon’s smile is soft and you easily match it with one of you own. “Amelia told me you stopped by,” you murmur.

“You went to Cambridge,” he states. It’s not a question, and that gives you pause.

You nod. “I did.” You do not elaborate or give him an explanation. The situation with Evie is…complicated. While you wish to tell Simon everything, you also don’t want to unload, to dump all your worries onto him without warning.

“Do I have you for the evening?” he asks, hopefulness laced within the words.

A creeping sadness wiggles in. Simon cannot have you for the whole evening even though you’d love nothing more than to stay the entire night. But you won’t allow the disappointment to make a home. You are still here, with him, and that is enough.

“You have me for a few hours,” you answer, waiting for the discontent on his end.

It does not come.

Simon’s thumb traces the length of your throat. His smile is still there. Unchanged. “Do you want to join me upstairs?”

“Upstairs?”

“To my flat. For a drink.”

“Oh.”

“If not it’s fine,” says Simon quickly. “I understand. Quieter than one of the pubs.”

You nod eagerly, popping up on your toes. “Yes,” you breathe. “I’d like that.”

Going upstairs to his flat means that you and Simon will truly be alone. And that singular thought, one that speaks to uninterrupted pleasure, starts a thrumming in the lower recessives of your belly that only moves farther south with each passing second.

“Good,” he sighs with relief.

Did he think you’d say no? Is Simon just as nervous, just as eager to want to be with you?

Have you not thought about me? Not once? Because I’ve thought of you. Every day.

And what if I wanted it to be more? What if I still want it to be more?

Of course he does. Of course.

“Just need to,” he gestures to the room. “Close up.”

“How can I help?” you ask.

Simon thinks for a moment. “Floors?”

“Done.”

The two of you work in tandem, moving through the motions in a natural, domestic dance that seems so normal and so routine that it doesn’t feel odd. It’s comfortable. Cozy. Like you could live this life easily and not regret a single moment.

When the floors are cleaned, and surfaces are sanitized, Simon shuts off the main lights, locks the front door, and arms the alarm system.

Simon doesn’t say anything. Just overs his hand to you, palm upward.

There is no hesitation on your end.

Gently, you take his offered palm, admiring the little tattoos on his fingers as they fold over your hand. Simon guides you to a door you’ve never noticed before. It’s blocked off by a curtain, and when Simon opens it, the two of you step into a narrow hall. To your right is a door that leads out to the sidewalk. To your left is a staircase heading up to a landing.

Simon’s grip on your hand tightens as if you’ll make a run for the street. He does this sometimes. You’ve noticed these tiny gestures where he seems to cling a little too tight, and you question whether it’s a need to feel close to you, or anxiety.

Remembering what Amelia told you the other day, that you may need to be gentle with him, that Simon had a bad injury, you consider how that might influence someone. How it might change their perspective on things.

You return his tightened grip with a gentle squeeze of reassurance, silently prompting him to take the lead. Simon does, bringing you to the top of the landing. The front door doesn’t have a traditional lock but a passcode. Strange. Completely odd. But, then again, Simon is ex-military. Old habits?

Simon punches a series of buttons and the little red light on the top righthand side turns green. The audible sound of gears turning and locks—definitely plural—unlatching reaches your ears. Simon pushes down on the handle, and then you’re inside, Bravo right on your heels.

You’ve never thought about what Simon’s space might look like. Perhaps you figured it would be like any other bachelor pad. But Simon’s home is warm, and has a similar feel to the tattoo shop downstairs.

The interior is industrial with brick walls and exposed grey-black pipes running along the ceiling. The floor is hardwood, a deep, rich brown. To your left is a kitchen and dining area. All the cabinetry is black, the countertops butcher block, and the appliances stainless steel. To your right is the living room. The television is massive, and the sofa is large. You easily picture yourself and Simon snuggled on it, watching a movie.

Directly ahead of you is a short hallway. It branches left, disappearing to a place you cannot see. But you do notice an open bedroom doorway to the right of the end of the short hall.

“I have whiskey.”

You glance away from the doorway and find Simon. He nods toward a small bar next to the dining table. He’s right. There is only whiskey there. “Then whiskey it is.”

Simon laughs softly and grabs two rocks glasses. His gaze scans over the various bottles. Finally selecting one, Simon lifts it from its perch. Removing the cork, Simon pours a double on both. He brings your glass to you, and you take it with both hands, glancing down at the amber liquid.

This will hit you hard. You haven’t eaten since lunch.

“Are you hungry?” asks Simon, as if reading your mind.

“What?” you blink, looking up.

“I can order us something. Or I could cook.”

“You cook?”

“I’ve perfected a few meals.” Simon shrugs. “And instant ramen.”

“Instant ramen?” you ask, deadpan.

Simon crosses his arms over his chest, the whiskey in his glass sloshing slightly as he does. “And other things.”

“Are you sure? You don’t have to.”

“I want to,” he says automatically.

He wants to do this. He wants to do this.

“Okay. Yeah.” You nod. “You pick. Cook’s choice.”

Simons starts to turn away, but promptly returns, holding up his hand like he’s about to say something. He pauses, and sets his whiskey down. “Hold on.”

“Holding,” you say to his retreating back.

Simon disappears for a minute and reappears clutching a stack of papers. At first, you’re confused, but as he draws closer, you recognize them for what they are.

They’re pages out of a sketchbook, and there isn’t just a handful. Simon has to be holding as least a few dozen individual pieces of paper. And that’s not even the most startling thing. It’s the way he’s holding them, almost nervously, his thumbs rubbing the pages in an anxious tick.

Simon presents the stack to you. “Couldn’t decide on what I liked best.”

Your whiskey glass is on the dining table in an instant. Fingers itching, you gently take the papers from him. Already, from the very top sketch, you’re awed by the artistry. You don’t even look as you sink down into a chair. Placing them on the table, you begin to fan them out in a wide arc.

“These are lovely, Simon,” you murmur, captivated by how creative his mind is.

“You don’t need to select one today. Take a look and pick what you’re leaning toward.”

Quickly, you sift through them, spreading them out across the table, dividing them up to make the process easier. It’s almost overwhelming. Some of the pieces are similar, but most of them are entirely different. Completely unique.

As you start through your first organized stack, Simon is already in the kitchen, a large pot of water on the range. Before him on the countertop is a small pile of flour. He makes a well, cracks three eggs into the center, and the smallest splash of water. Taking a fork, he starts to whisk.

Is he—no.

You hold a paper in each hand but you’re not even looking at the artwork. You’re watching Simon make pasta. Fucking pasta. From scratch. And he’s not breaking a sweat. He looks so goddamn casual it’s almost maddening.

Bravo sits at your side, but all of his attention is on Simon. He licks his chops periodically but is otherwise statuesque. Your wraith wraps up the dough and sets it aside, quickly cleaning up his mess before retrieving a large frying pan, cutting board, and sauce pot.

Glancing between the artwork you pick up and Simon’s movement in the kitchen, you start to see a different side of him. Garlic, onion, fresh basil, and grape tomatoes are tossed into the sauce pot. Oil is drizzled into the large pan. Chicken breasts are pounded out, made thin, and then coated in breadcrumbs.

You at the table. Him in the kitchen, cooking you dinner. Nothing planned. Just present and existing, content with each other’s company.

By the time you’ve sorted through all the sketches and selected ten you’re leaning toward, Simon is rolling out the dough, cutting it into long strands, depositing the homemade spaghetti into the salted boiling water. The chicken cutlets are finishing under the broiler, topped with chunky tomato sauce and cheese.

Bravo’s no longer sitting but laying down. He’s still alert to everything happening in the kitchen, but Simon is meticulous, dropping nothing for Bravo to vacuum up.

“Simon?”

“Hm?” He briefly glances at you over his shoulder before returning his attention to the pot of cooking pasta.

You lick your lips, pausing before asking the question. “How did you get the tattoo shop?”

The tongs Simon holds hesitate before dipping into the water. “Part of my retirement,” he answers. Cooked pasta and leftover sauce are tossed together.

“Military retirement?” He nods but says nothing. You’re not sure if this will be too sensitive to ask, but you’re curious, and Amelia’s words from earlier in the week keep grating on your mind. “What did you do to earn you an entire tattoo shop at retirement?”

Simon divides the pasta up between two plates. “Early retirement from an injury. Got me this flat, too.”

Early retirement? An injury? What the fuck happened to him that the government would give him enough money to afford all this? That is unheard of, at least by American standards. You couldn’t say for certain what it’s like here, but it couldn’t be much different.

You sip on your whiskey, the amber liquid burning smoothly on the way down. “So you didn’t plan on becoming a tattoo artist originally?”

Simon shuts off the broiler and removes the breaded chicken cutlets. Placing them on a fresh cutting board, Simon slices them quickly, transferring one cutlet to each plate. “I was military.”

“I know,” you say quickly. “But—did you ever think about after?”

Opening a nearby drawer, Simon grabs two knives and two forks. “Sometimes.”

Why is he being so evasive? Was the injury that bad? Thinking on it, you do recall several scars. There is the one running along the edge of his jaw. That one is clear to the eye. The other scars you noticed were hidden under the ink.

Simon picks up the plates and you hastily clear away the sketches, piling up the ones you didn’t select.

“Find anything?”

“These.” You gently push a small stack toward him.

Simon doesn’t even look at them until your plate is in front of you and you’re holding the silverware. Social norms and general social expectations might say to be dainty when with a new romantic partner, but the food in front of you is begging to be devoured. Simon made this for you to enjoy, and you’re going to do just that.

And Simon doesn’t appear to give a shit anyway. With one hand, he’s cutting through his chicken. The other is spreading out the sketches you selected, his gaze entirely fixed on the paper. He takes a bite of his food. Chews. Lifts a sketch up to study it.

You tuck in, eating but silent, observing every twitch and change in Simon’s expression. There are few of note. You have no idea what he’s thinking. Is he conjuring up new sketches already? Is he itching to pick up his pencil or charcoal or whatever he enjoys working with and starting immediately? Is Simon surprised by your choices?

The strongest reaction you pick up on is the arch of a singular eyebrow.

Eventually, he nods, seeming satisfied. With one hand, Simon neatly situates your selections into a stack, setting it aside. Your plate is nearly empty at this point, inhaling the meal like an addict.

Simon settles into his chair, his gaze fixating on you. “Why’d you go to Cambridge?”

Does Simon mean to make it feel like an accusation?

“I went for Evie,” you answer.

“Your friend.”

“Yes.”

“That’s why you’re here?”

“In London? Yes. I am.”

You don’t know how far you can take this conversation before crossing into territory you don’t want to discuss. It’s not that you don’t want to discuss it with him, you simply fear the idea that you might unload on him. You are fully aware how stressing the entire situation with Evie is, but Simon doesn’t need to hear all of it at once. There are some things that are private. There are some things that if spoken to another, might break Evie’s trust in you.

Simon twirls his fork in his hand. “She’s pregnant.”

“Very pregnant,” you add.

“Married?”

How the fuck do you answer that?

“Widow,” you decide, because it’s the truth, and there isn’t any reason to hide it.

“How recent?”

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.

“She buried him a week ago.”

Simon stops twirling his fork. “A week?” You hear the surprise in his tone.

“Dead two. Buried one.” Saying it like that makes it sound so final. Archie is gone, and Evie is alone in that regard. She’s lost a piece of herself. A pillar of support.

This whole time, Simon’s gaze has been locked on you. But it drops down toward the floor for a brief few seconds before returning. Sometimes you really wish he’d take that balaclava off so you can get a full picture of what might be happening behind it.

“I’m sorry,” he says. Simon doesn’t press for more, and you nearly sigh with relief.

“I’m helping her for a bit. Easy for me since I work remote.”

“What do you do?”

Oh shit. Simon doesn’t know. All this time, and it’s never come up in conversation.

“Freelance mostly. Technical writing and editing.”

Simon swallows and takes a sip of his whiskey. “And what is that?”

“User manuals, medical documents, press releases.” You list a few more things and as you do, Simon’s lips stretch into a smile. “What?” you ask.

“That sounds incredibly boring.”

You burst out laughing, covering your mouth as you try not to choke. “Pays the bills. Wouldn’t call it exciting.”

This is easier conversation. This is what a normal back-and-forth is supposed to be between two people. Isn’t it?

But what is normal about this dynamic? The two of you met and hooked up in the basement of a club. You ran and he chased, kept chasing for three years, and when you finally appeared before him, you ran again and he followed after you without hesitating.

“Can you stay?” asks Simon, and you hear the silent plea in his voice. It draws up every needy thought simmering beneath your skin.

“For a bit,” you reply, purposefully being non-specific.

He inclines his head toward your plate. “Finished?”

“Yes.” You start to pick it up, standing with the intention to take it to the sink. Simon is having none of it. He whisks it out of your hands before your legs have a chance to fully extend. You plop your ass back in the chair.

Simon rinses out pans and cleans knives. Sitting in a chair and doing nothing is not something you’re accustomed to.

“Would you like me to help?”

“I’d like you to relax.”

“Yes, sir,” you murmur, finishing off the last of your whiskey.

He washes his hands and dries them on a towel. As he strides toward the dining table, he snaps at Bravo. “Kennel.”

Bravo’s ears droop, but he complies to Simon’s command.

Simon watches the German Shepard disappear down the hallway. He turns toward you, offering his hand. When you place your hand in his, Simon’s fingers take hold, drawing you out of your chair, pulling you against his body. His other hand cradles the side of your neck and lower half of your jaw. His thumb traces over your bottom lip.

“Can I take you to bed?” he asks, voice slightly husky with need. His thumb returns to your bottom lip, lightly pressing on it. “I want to kiss you. To touch you.” Simon is still holding on to your hand.

Not sex then? Just kisses. Touches. Even the thought of that is sending you into overdrive, every nerve in your body firing at once until your heart thuds loudly in your ears.

“Take me to bed,” you whisper, hardly believing you managed to get the words out.

Slowly, Simon’s hand falls away from your face. It is a gentle release, one that speaks of desire but doesn’t feel so primal and raw as when the two of you first came together. Walking backwards, Simon leads, entering into the dark of his apartment, heading down the hall, and entering the bedroom you noticed earlier.

You don’t even glance at your surroundings. You’re too focused on Simon, and the way he guides you around, easing you onto your back upon the bed. He drapes himself over you like a protective cocoon. One knee slides between your legs, forcing them to apart. The other digs into the bed just shy of your thigh.

Simon rests his forearm just above and to the side of your head. His other hand immediately goes to your waist. You are pinned in. You are under him, and it’s deliciously perfect. Better than what you’ve conjured up in your head. Beneath him, you feel protected. Safe.

Your fingers are already on the balaclava, pushing it up further, seeking him. You know not to go past the eyes, and while it pains you to not see Simon fully, you respect the boundary. That will fall away eventually. As will your uneasiness about being completely open and honest with him about Evie’s situation.

These things will happen. They have to. You want them to.

The moment you have full access to his lips, Simon is on you. Your hands fist the front of his shirt, dragging him closer. Simon lowers himself, his pelvis slotting perfectly with yours. Each kiss is slow. Measured. Every stroke of his hand along your waist, hips, and thighs sends a wave of rippling heat straight to your core.

It grows and grows, melting your resolve into mush. Your legs fall open wider, and Simon instinctually moves in. You clearly sense his needs. It’s fucking poking you. And fuck—what’s a few more hours? You can stay. You can.

Your hand slides between your bodies, slipping beneath the waistband of his joggers, your fingers finding him, wrapping around his hardness.

Simon swallows down a groan as his hips reflexively press against your palm. He breaks the kiss, breathing heavy, his teeth finding your throat.

Simon gently bites your neck, his large hand squeezing your thigh in warning. “Keep touching me like that and you won’t leave this bed until morning.”

The intensity of his delivery zaps you right out of your haze. “Sorry,” you gasp, withdrawing your hand quickly.

Simon’s answering growl pins you to the spot. He snatches your retreating arm, encircling the wrist, only to draw your hand back to him.

“Never apologize for touching me. Never.” His lips and teeth trace over your skin. When he finds your lips again, there is nothing chaste about the way he tastes you.

“Simon—”

“Not tonight. I—Not like this.”

Your hand that still rests on his chest slides upward. One finger delicately traces that scar you know so well.

“Will you walk me home?”

“You never have to ask.”

Simon guides your hand away from his groin. In the next moment, he wraps his arms around your waist, lifting up and off the bed, and onto your feet.

He’s smiling down at you, and it’s full of joy. You don’t know how to receive it. It’s almost too much, and you slightly feel undeserving of it.

“I’ll grab my coat.” You start to move but Simon’s arms around your waist tighten.

“Wait.” You glance up, find an intensity in his stare. “Can I take you out?”

“On a date?” you blurt.

“Movies. Dinner.” He shrugs. “Normal things.”

Your lips part slightly in confusion. There is nothing normal about Simon. “You don’t want to take me out for normal dates,” you say slowly.

Simon’s jaw clenches. “No.”

You grin, knowing you’ve trapped him. “What kind of date would you actually like to take me on?” Leaning forward, you rest your chin on his chest.

“Take you for a ride for starters.”

“On a bicycle?” you ask with mock innocence.

Simon sharply lands a slap to your ass. “I’ll put you back on that bed.”

“Promise?”

His answer is a growl, and a firm squeeze. “I’d take you to the coast. Or the country. Maybe up to Manchester. Show you where I grew up. All my favorite spots.”

“Go on,” you entreat.

“I’d show you the Highlands. Stay in a little cottage on a friend’s family farm.”

“What else?”

Simon’s brow softens, and then he’s bending down, capturing your lips in a deep kiss. “I’d make new memories with you,” he murmurs against your mouth.

“Promise?”

“That’s a fucking guarantee, love.”

For several minutes, the two of you embrace just inside his bedroom door. For several minutes, the two of you almost return to the bed, to fall right back into each other’s arms. But Simon has far more control than you.

Coats are collected. Bravo’s leash is found and attached to the dog’s collar.

The two of you don’t hold hands on your walk to Amelia’s. Instead, the two of you loosely intertwine a few fingers. There is no rush. No need to arrive quickly. And while there is silence, it’s a contented, peaceful thing.

Reviving. You are reawakening with Simon.

At Amelia’s front door, your parting kiss is not a kiss at all. With both hands, Simon cradles your face, closes his eyes, and rests his forehead against yours. You match him, closing your own eyes, placing your hands over his, simply breathing in his presence.

You’re practically skipping up the stairs to your shared bedroom with Evie. You expect to find her asleep. But when you open the door, you don’t find her tucked under the covers. She’s sitting up, resting against the headboard, wide awake, and crying quietly.

“What is it?” you ask, panicked, dropping your purse and coat onto the floor, crawling onto the bed to reach for her.

Evie wipes at her eyes, smirking through her tears. “Shouldn’t you be in your man’s bed right now?”

“Oh hush,” you mutter, waving her comment off. “What is it?”

Her smile falters. “Archie’s older brother called.”

The panic disappears. The contentment and peace that clings to you from your time with Simon evaporates instantly. All of it is gone. Poof. Like a popped balloon.

In its place is a seething anger.

“What the fuck does he want?”

“He wants to meet.”

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[serial-serializednovelreader]

Another adorable Jonmina thing I noticed (and I’m going to keep noticing them) is that Jonathan was definitely being put into some kind of trance by Count Dracula when they’re on the way to the castle. The endless stops, the circling back, the wolves, etc. I don’t know exactly how, but I think it was to lull Jonathan into a state of exhaustion or panic he couldn’t get out of so he’s more susceptible to suggestion and doesn’t notice anything off about his surroundings at all. Or he does, but he’s too scared to fight back against it, it’s unclear to me which (I’m sure y’all have a better idea!).

For the most part it works except…that’s right, folks!!! He remembers Mina again.

“Was this a customary incident in the life of a solicitor's clerk sent out to explain the purchase of a London estate to a foreigner? Solicitor's clerk! Mina would not like that. Solicitor—for just before leaving London I got word that my examination was successful; and I am now a full-blown solicitor! I began to rub my eyes and pinch myself to see if I were awake.”

Remembering Mina, while it doesn’t take away his fears entirely, does make him pinch himself to wake up and remind him why he needs to get out of there. Plus, it keeps him observant enough to notice that the Count and the driver almost seem like the same person…hmm. He might’ve noticed it regardless, but who’s to say?

Also, I find it cute that he remembers her in a sense of her hyping him up like “no Jonathan!!! You’re a solicitor now! Give yourself the right title.”

Just…THEM!!!!!

#dracula daily #dracula #may 5th #ugh Jonmina is sooo cute #eeeeee my blorbos in love #I’m sorry good friend Jonathan you’ve officially met the Count #and most of us know what that means #but for those who don’t nah it’s a normal business trip hehe :) #jonmina #jonathan harker my beloved

[the-grey-hunt]

last year i talked somewhat about jonathan harker in the role of the gothic heroine, which seemed to go over well! this year i've decided to challenge myself to delve a little deeper and keep my literary analysis skills sharp (trying to keep away from anything revealed later than today's entry, for the new readers)

for context in the literary background i'm examining here, the female gothic (a term coined I believe in the 70s) is a lens of analysis for gothic literature which examines the role of women as expression of contemporary anxieties around women and their roles in society, particularly as mothers and wives. like many kinds of horror, political and social anxieties are deployed as supernatural forces with which to terrify the "ordinary" citizens.

jonathan, our ordinary man, is certainly faced with horrors—but in what way? sent by an older man, Peter Hawkins, jonathan enters a foreign landscape where he enters into the power of another older man, at a particularly vulnerable time where a loved one (Mina) is waiting at home but jonathan does not appear to be married. the horrors that jonathan faces are the same trials set up against gothic heroines: threatening older men with power over you, poised at a huge point of transition in your life, etc, etc.

the main argument against jonathan as a heroine is, I think, his job. His transition point right now isn't an impending marriage or that he needs one, but that he's just established himself as a solicitor and is meeting with Dracula for business purposes. however, I think how these are deployed as tools in the story, such as Hawkins almost transferring guardianship of his young employee/ward to Dracula (temporarily), still very much mirror the ways in which high-class social norms are deployed against gothic women. even the work jonathan does in the castle (talking to dracula about real estate) isn't in service of bolstering his manly prowess, but serves as a tool for dracula to distract him, and keep him from realizing that he is trapped and serving dracula's own will.

rather than being tried in a manly fashion by his strength or his wits being challenged, jonathan's gothic experience is of his environment and even his body being manipulated by the man meant to be a helping hand in a foreign land. when I say body people might think it's a little early for that, but it's happening—dracula keeps jonathan up late so he sleeps in, forcing him to acclimate to dracula's own nocturnal existence. when he gets a glimpse of blood, he attempts to take it from jonathan. even today, a few hundred years after dracula's social anxieties about women's bodies being trespassed upon by men other than the ones entitled to them, women may see echoes of their own anxieties about bodily autonomy.

Dracula also isolates jonathan socially. He makes jonathan mistrust his own ability to percieve reality (gaslighting, anyone, a story about a woman being manipulated by her husband?) by pretending that servants are in charge of the cooking and so on, when really it's just dracula keeping up a masquerade.

this comes to a head in the mirror scene, where jonathan's shaving mirror—an item he uses to attend to his appearance—ends up being a helpful tool which exposes the supernatural reality of what jonathan's up against. however, because dracula is still the one in power, he immediately gets rid of it, calling it "vanity". I recall the quote by John Berger:

You painted a naked woman because you enjoyed looking at her, put a mirror in her hand and you called the painting Vanity, thus morally condemning the woman whose nakedness you had depicted for you own pleasure.

the ways in which jonathan is treated by dracula, and the ways in which he attempts to bolster himself against the threat (spying to see what dracula's really doing, seeing the lack of reflection by chance) mirror the highly gendered dynamics of the Victorian era which this book was written in the tail end of. perhaps purposefully subverting jonathan's gender as a further expression of the horror of dracula, stoker's work takes jonathan as a man secure in his position at home in england to being a manipulated, isolated, and precariously positioned figure subject to the whims of an abusive man while friendless in a foreign country

(and the essay on how race, ethnicity, and foreign versus home plays into this is a whole other post! racism effects gender too! it's not a mistake that jonathan is securely male at home but his gender is subverted abroad!)

#dracula daily #dracula #female gothic #jonathan harker #ok i have to stop myself here and do my actual homework

[oftenwantedafton]

Personal Space - Steve Raglan/William Afton x Female Reader

Chapter 4

Rating - Explicit

CW - none for this chapter

Also available on AO3

taglist @123124133

Steve Raglan’s work mailbox is overflowing.

He shouldn’t be surprised given how distracted he’s been lately. Case in point, he’s been standing in front of the coffee maker with absolutely zero progress made towards getting the machine up and running. Thinking about the wedding. Well, not the ceremony itself, of course; what happened after. Dancing with you. His scars touched. In the car outside your apartment. Leaning so close.

What hadn’t happened. That’s something he’s struggling not to imagine. There was no point in indulging in the fantasy of kissing you. He can’t. He won’t. It’s that simple.

“Good morning.” Your cheerful voice behind him, breaking his reverie. “I’ll go fill that if you want.” You remove the glass pot he’s still holding from his hands.

“You don’t have to do that.”

“I know. I don’t mind.” That smile that is his ruin.

Raglan begins sifting through the stack of mail he’d dumped on his desk earlier. Glancing over to find you setting up the machine. You’d been watching him closer than he’d thought. The routine perfectly replicated. Even the correct measurements of coffee grounds. He likes it strong.

“What’s all that?” You nod towards the pile on his desk.

“The first thing on the agenda today. A bit of mail backlog to get through.”

You hum thoughtfully, still waiting by the appliance. The scent finally permeates the air. The first drops settling into the pot set on the now heated burner. You fill his mug and hand it to him wordlessly before settling behind the desk.

“Thank you.” He takes a sip. It’s brewed perfectly.

The cup now secure on the coaster, away from the mail and any potential impending disaster. Some envelopes the career counselor immediately discards without even opening. There’s no escaping junk from solicitors.

“This one looks important.” You’re holding up a large envelope, the innards braced by some sort of cardboard to keep the contents intact. He glances at the sender’s address. “You can open that if you want. It’s nothing exciting.”

“What’s NASW?”

“National Association of Social Workers. An organization you should consider joining. There are a lot of benefits. Continuing education credits which you’ll need to keep track of for your licensure. Legal and ethical support too. A good resource.” He pauses midway through tearing the flap of the envelope he’s holding to watch you carefully prise the edge open. There’s a certificate tucked in between the protective layers.

“Steve, it’s an award.”

“Yeah, I told them to mail it.” He leans over to tug on the bottom drawer of the desk. “You can add it to the collection.”

You stare open mouthed at the stack of similar accolades. “Seriously? You just dump them in a drawer?”

“I don’t have room to hang all of them. I don’t like clutter. They’re redundant anyway,” he says dismissively, resuming the revelation of the contents in his own hands. More junk, essentially. Just better disguised. He tosses it in the barrel for the shredder, feeling you staring at him. “What?”

“I would be like, so excited to get something like this.”

“Well, of course. You’re just starting out. The novelty wears off eventually.” When he realizes you’re still holding the certificate he pulls it from your fingers and drops it into the drawer unceremoniously, sliding it shut again.

“So you were excited about them in the beginning?”

“Excited probably isn’t the correct word to use, no.” He lifts another envelope. This one an inter office mailer. He has his suspicions about what this contains.

“Do you like this job?”

Steve looks at you. “It’s a decent career. A comfortable way to earn a living.”

“That not what I asked.”

He leans back in the leather chair, unwinding the last of the thread and withdrawing a stapled packet of papers. Yes, he’d been correct. “Does it really matter?”

“Yes, it does. Why are you doing it if you don’t enjoy it?”

“I just told you.”

“Did you like what you did before this better?”

His eyes snap from the pages to your face. “And what would you know about that?”

You squirm a little but maintain his gaze. “Not much. Some people mentioned you were in the restaurant business or something.”

“Gossiping,” he says disdainfully. “Who told you that?”

“I don’t remember. It just came up. That night at the bar, maybe.”

“This is precisely why I prefer to keep work and private life very well separated.”

“But what’s the big deal? I don’t get it.”

“Of course you don’t. I can only imagine what the rumor mill is circulating about us going to the wedding together,” he mutters.

“You’re ashamed of me.”

“No.”

“Then what? You said you like me. Why don’t you…”

“Why don’t I what?”

“Let yourself be happy.”

He snickers and you blush. “That’s not what you were going to say originally. If you can’t even say it…”

Your chin lifts. “Fine. Why don’t you want me?”

The older man shakes his head. “It’s not a question of wanting.”

“Then what is it?”

“I’ve already answered that as best as I’m able. You continuously pushing me is not going to obtain a different outcome.”

You finally look away, worrying your bottom lip. He signs, glancing at the papers in his hand before setting them to one side.

“What’s that?”

“Your preliminary peformance review. To determine how much longer you’re going to need training.”

“What are you going to say?”

“I don’t know yet. I’m going to need to spend some time working on it. Later.” He massages the bridge of his nose, displacing his glasses. You’ve done it again. Made him feel guilty. All because he was trying to protect you. Doing the right thing and it felt completely wrong. “I don’t get any pleasure out of arguing with you. I know you think I’m being needlessly cruel.”

“I don’t. Not most of the time, anyway.”

“Would it make you feel any better if I told you I was doing it for your benefit?”

“Absolutely not.” Your fingers stop restlessly creasing the edge of the now empty envelope. “You really suck at apologies, you know.”

“Language.”

You glance over at him. A small twitch of his lips. “You’re a jerk.” He can see you fighting not to smile back.

“Never said I wasn’t. I don’t know why you put so much effort into befriending a bitter old man.”

“You are pretty old.” Openly grinning now. “I’ll let you make it up to me.”

“How?”

“Take me out to lunch? And then we eat outside.”

“That’s it? And then I’m off the hook?”

“Maybe.”

He nods. You’re learning. “Alright. Deal.”

***

“I’ve got it. The perfect apology. We’re going to this.”

You slap a piece of paper down on the picnic table beside Steve later that afternoon.

He quickly scans over the text, squinting against the glare of the sun on the glossy paper. An advertisement for a three day conference at a hotel in Vegas. “Oh, no. No, we’re not.”

“Why not? My parents will handle my share for the hotel until I can pay them back. It’s only a couple hours away. We’ll leave on that Monday night after work. Come back Thursday evening after it’s over. If, you know, you didn’t want to enjoy the sights a little longer.”

“You already missed a day for the other seminar,” he muses after taking a sip of his drink.

“But I’m sure I’d get approved. And you must have like a zillion hours of vacation time. Do you even go on vacation?”

“Even if that’s the case, I’m not into gambling.” He pushes the paper back towards you. “Vegas really isn’t my scene.”

“Okay, fine, I’m not into gambling either. The hotel looks really nice.” You take a bite of your sub.

He frowns. “Is this what you did during your morning break today? Where did you even get this?”

“It was posted in the break room.”

He bats your hand away from his bag of chips. You’d already eaten yours on the way back from the shop. “So you stole it.”

“Borrowed it. I’ll put it back.” Reaching again.

“The answer is still no.” At odds with his surrender. You drag the bag towards you, grinning.

“What if there was an extra incentive?”

“Listening. Very doubtfully listening.”

“You could call it a birthday present. Kill two birds with one stone, get off the hook for that ahead of time.”

“When is your birthday?”

“It’s…okay it’s not for a while yet, but still. It would count.”

“I will pass on a two hour drive in the torture mobile.” Nothing but ice left in the styrofoam cup now. He sets it down with a regretful sigh.

“Well, we’d take your car.”

“Now you’re volunteering me to drive, too.”

“I’ll pay for gas.”

“That not…” He sighs again. “It’s not about travel expenses or logistics or whatever.”

“So? Why don’t you want to go?”

“Because your motivation for going has almost nothing to do with the conference. Maybe nothing at all.”

You’re blushing again. “That’s not true. I mean, maybe there’ll be something interesting.”

“Nothing would happen. Between us. You realize this, yes? I can one hundred percent guarantee it.”

“I know,” you mumble.

“Two beds. Two rooms would be better, honestly,” he mutters, crumpling the paper wrapper and shoving it back into the bag.

“Of course.”

“Assuming you’d be able to get the time off.”

“Yes.”

“And you wouldn’t be advertising this around the office.”

“Nope. I won’t tell a soul.”

“I haven’t agreed to this yet, just so we’re clear.”

“I got it.”

You smile and he already feels himself giving in.

***

Steve Raglan is driving on Interstate 15 heading south towards Nevada two weeks later with you in the passenger seat looking incredibly proud of yourself while he inwardly curses. You’re entirely too good at wearing him down. Weakening his resolve. Eroding the barrier between you that he’s constantly forced to shore up over and over.

As expected it doesn’t take long for your attention span to wander. Fiddling with the radio. Rifling through the cassette tapes he has piled in the console. He makes the mistake of sliding his sleeves up and you’re instantly focused on the scars again. Touching in ways that go beyond curiosity. He shoves the fabric back down to conceal them once more and cranks the window down further. There’s no air conditioning. The weather is already getting to that unpleasant stage of summer he despises. Just endless heat and dryness that lasts even after the sun goes down.

The career counselor stops about halfway to the destination to refuel the car and grab you both drinks. A crack in the asphalt makes you spill soda on your lap. You reach for the glove compartment in search of napkins. None. But there’s an arcade token and an old photograph inside.

Steve’s only half paying attention, concentrating on returning to the highway when he realizes what you’re holding.

The image is of a man in a yellow rabbit costume, exactly like the one pictured on the coaster in his office. The same one you’d doodled for him. It’s him. Years ago. When he’d had a different name. Standing inside the restaurant he’d owned. Next to a young girl with blonde hair. The complete polar opposite from his own appearance, taking after her mother.

“Who’s this?” The spill already forgotten, you seem focused on the aged picture.

“That’s my daughter.”

“Oh! This is that place on the coaster. The Chuck E. Cheese knockoff.” You’re examining the token now, the image of a bear carved into the surface of the coin.

“The other way around. They stole the idea,” he says, scowling.

“Is this the place you used to work at?”

“Yes,” he admits. “Put it back, please. And I’ll thank you not to reveal that to anyone at work.”

“Okay. I mean, I don’t see why it matters.” You return the items to the compartment and swing the door back up until it clicks shut.

“No, you wouldn’t. Just…leave it, please.”

“Alright.”

“I mean it. Promise me.” His eyes shift to meet yours. “Your word.”

“Yeah, okay, I won’t say anything. I promise.”

Some of the tension seems to evaporate in his shoulders. He refocuses on driving. There isn’t much scenery. A long stretch of desert. A longer stretch of silence.

That all changes when Raglan reaches the outskirts of the city. Then it’s a mass of lights and colors and sounds. People everywhere. Thankfully the hotel is nearby. He stretches when he gets out of the car. He’s hungry, tired, a little stiff from sitting for so long. That tension between you over your discovery still there. He knows he’s only making you more suspicious, but he doesn’t really have much choice. The alternative…No. He can’t tell you the truth.

He checks in. One room, two queen beds. There hadn’t been a lot of options since the room had been booked so last minute. He hands you the key card. You’re staring around the lobby, a little wide eyed. Some of your enthusiasm returning.

“You can have the shower first.” He sets his luggage on the bed closest to the window, removing clothes and a bag of toiletries. “You want to go out to eat, or just get room service for tonight?”

“Room service,” you decide immediately and he sighs inwardly. He’d been hoping you’d choose that. He’s really not up for going out.

“Pick something out and I’ll order it.”

You flip through the laminated menu on the nightstand while he hangs up his dress shirts and slacks. The clothing you’ve chosen to wear after the upcoming shower—a distressingly small pile—is something he’s sternly avoiding looking at while he orders.

Steve switches the television on for background noise. He hears you start the shower. Emerge just as the food arrives. Shorts. Tank top. Well, it was summer. Of course that’s what you’d be wearing. Some pretty lavender shade. You smell good. That fruity scent again. He’s focusing very hard on his plate. The same order for both of you. Cheeseburgers, fries. Just something simple. You’re sitting cross legged on top of the comforter. Flipping through the channels. Home renovation. A survival reality show. A recipe for some seafood and pasta dish that you clearly aren’t interested in as you quickly advance the channel again. A car commercial before an old detective show from the eighties. You shrug and drop the remote, taking a bite of your sandwich. That awkward tension from earlier still there, and now this new one, too.

The bearded man escapes to the bathroom. Takes his time in the shower, trying to relax his nerves. Looking at himself in the mirror. Pajamas that cover him from neck to ankle, concealing the scars.

You notice, commenting as soon as he returns to the bedroom. “You don’t have to cover up. It’s just us. It’s summer. Even with the AC. Come on, Steve. I doubt you’re like that at home.”

“Of course not. I live alone. There’s no one there to see.”

“I don’t care. I mean, they don’t bother me. I already know what they look like.”

He hesitates. Decides maybe just the long sleeve shirt can go. It still feels weird. Being exposed like this. He can feel your eyes on him. “Don’t stare.” He tosses one of the pillows at you lightly and it falls short, landing near your thigh.

“I’m not staring,” you protest. The credits are rolling for the show. You return fire and miss completely, landing shy of the mattress.

Steve leans over to retrieve the pillow from the carpet. “Your aim is terrible.” The pillow lands on your lap.

“Yeah, well, I’m not really trying.” You exert more force this time. Too much. It hits the side of his face and his glasses tumble off. You’re on your feet instantly, standing between the beds. “Steve, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to…I didn’t break them, did I?”

“They’re fine.” He sets them on the nightstand, looking at you. “I’m fine,” he says reassuringly, then smirks. “You hit like a girl.”

“Well, fuck, I am a girl.”

His pale eyes flash. “Language,” he cautions. Long legs swing over the edge and he’s suddenly standing in front of you.

“We’re not in the office.”

“That doesn’t matter. Nice young ladies shouldn’t use vulgar language in everyday conversation,” he reprimands.

“Maybe I’m not a nice young lady. What if it’s not everyday conversation?” You challenge.

He shakes his head, sensing the shift in the mood. Dangerous. Such a dangerous game you were playing when you didn’t fully understand the rules. “Don’t.”

“Or what? What are you gonna do about it?” You reach for his bare forearms. He slips free easily, grasping yours instead. Pushing you until the backs of your knees touch the edge of the other bed. Pressing you down onto it, beneath him. Your wrists now pinned on either side of your face. His grip loosening, fingers sliding up to lace through yours.

“I told you nothing was going to happen, didn’t I?” This whispered somewhere above your cheek. It would be so easy. So, so simple to just let his mouth go where it wanted to. Where you wanted it. Your eyes so dilated, so hungry. Lips parted. Waiting for capture.

“Maybe I was hoping you were lying.”

“Not about this.” Steve forces himself to release you, climbing back off your bed and returning to his, flipping the comforter and sheet back, then turning off the lamp on his side. “Don’t stay up too late. We have to get up in the morning.” Sliding into bed, turning to face the curtain shrouded window. The television is soon switched off. The other light following. A rustling sound of you getting underneath the covers.

He absolutely despises himself.

***

There’s a hand caressing Steve’s back.

You’re in bed. In his bed, with him.

“What are you doing?”

“I couldn’t sleep.”

“So you woke me up?”

“Don’t be mad at me.”

He turns over onto his back. “I’m not mad. Stop saying that all the time.”

“You are upset. I can feel it. I hate it.” Your voice sounds so small in the darkness.

He sighs. “Why can’t you just…behave? Just go to sleep. In your own bed. Please. I’m asking nicely.”

“You know why.”

His eyes dart to the alarm clock on the nightstand. “It’s one thirty. We really are not having this conversation at this hour.”

“I just want you to hold me.”

“That is most definitely not all you want.”

“You say it like it’s a bad thing.”

“So stubborn. Absolutely insufferable…”

“You don’t want to?”

“Of course I do. We’ve been over this before.” He forces his voice to be gentle. “I don’t know what you see in me. Why you’re so persistent. I’m hardly worth this fuss. I’m unkind to you.”

“Only because you’re pretending. That’s not who you really are. You’re afraid. Whatever happened to you. In your past. It’s over and done with.”

“You don’t know. You think you do, but you don’t.”

“So tell me. Or don’t. Just…be with me.”

“You make it sound so simple. So black and white. It isn’t.”

He feels you shifting beside him. Your head now resting on his chest. His arm curls around you. You fit so well. It feels…natural. Surely this was alright. Not too improper.

Maybe he can let himself have this.

***

Morning.

Steve’s forgotten to set the alarm and his internal clock is failing him. Pulling his arm through the sleeve of his shirt with the travel toothbrush still clutched between his teeth, the job half finished. Nearly colliding with you when he returns to the bathroom. You’re combing your hair. Attempting to get it styled but it’s refused to cooperate, frizzy tendrils dislodging from the gathering. You hastily tuck your sleeveless blouse into your skirt. “Toothpaste,” you say shortly, pointing to his shirt. Wetting a face cloth and scrubbing at the white stain. Making a large wet spot. Your zipper is stuck. He has to assist you. Standing side by side looking at your reflections.

“Yeah, we um…we look…” You turn to face Steve.

“Terrible. We’re so late.” He glances at his wristwatch.

“It’s my fault. I’m sorry.”

He waves away your apology. “It’s okay. I don’t think the first topic was that interesting anyway. We’ll catch the next speaker.” He watches you slide into your shoes. Another piece of hair loosening. His fingers reaching for it. Tucking it behind your ear as you straighten. Dragging along your jaw. “Unless you wanted to skip it entirely.”

“And do what instead? Oh…” He pushes you back against the door.

Please don’t let this be another dream.

Your lips soft and warm against his. His hands wandering over your curves. Yours at his belt. He’s not going to stop you this time. He’s not…

Steve’s eyes open.

Damn it.

Automatically checking the time. Alarm due to go off in one minute. He hadn’t forgotten to set it. You’re still tucked against him. That part, at least, is real. He hits the snooze button the second the noise starts.

He’s going to enjoy this for as long as he can.

#william afton x reader #william afton x you #steve raglan x you #steve raglan x reader

[evans23]

Loving you is a losing game

Pairing : Judge Turpin x Reader OC

Summary : The Judge Turpin has married you by buying your hand to your father. Determined to not let him get close to you and even less reach your heart well kept under ice and resentment, you keep on to push him away. But after having been told that loving you is a losing game, something new seems to awake inside of you.

Tag(s)/Warning(s) : Forced marriage. Assault.

A/N: Hello dear 😁 here lay my first Turpin fiction. I didn't really know where I was going with it but here is it. I didn't proofread it so there are probably some mistakes, sorry for that. I forgot to mention I am not the one who came up with the name Richard. I read this name in the terrific trilogy “Judged and Sentenced” from @deepperplexity. Since then I saw the name pop up here and there and so, I suppose the name is sort of canon now 😅

Part II

You couldn't put up with the fact that he had bought you. But it wasn't really him, your husband, that you despised for that. It was your father. The man you thought you could always count on.

You had had a quite easy childhood with not too much constraint which were rather rare at that time. You has been taught to read and to write. And you were a good writer. Such a good one that one day, a publisher from a local and independent Newspaper from London made you sign up a contract to edit some of your short stories in is Sunday paper. And as he was well known in the literary sector, he put you in touch with a book publisher. This is how you became "Alexander Bryant" in the eyes of the public. Of course, you weren't able to be published under your real name. A female writer ? What an offense !

But you didn't really care as you were able to make some money from the sell of it. Some really good money, a rarity for a woman. It was fortunate as, for the biggest desperation of your father, you weren't, in any way possible, a good maid. You couldn't sew two points in a raw correctly, your cooking weren't palatable at all and if you appreciated living in a tidy house, you couldn't spend more than one hour or less doing that.

But you didn't have to worry about it know as you has been married for two months to no one else than "The Death's Judge".

"How did it happen to me." you muttered for yourself, looking at you in the mirror without really seeing your reflection.

In fact, you perfectly knew how it had happened. You didn't know how and you didn't know where, but Richard, your now husband, had noticed you one day and since then, your faith was decided.

He came one day at your house with a bouquet of flowers for you. You had looked at him suspiciously. You knew who he was. His reputation preceded him of course but you also had a glimpse at him one day when you were at the court with your publisher and one of his associate to negotiate the terms of your new contract with a solicitor.

At that time, you didn't think anything peculiar about the man. You vaguely remembered having thought that he was quite handsome with his hooked nose, his tall frame and his charismatic presence. If you hadn't been forced to marry him, you would have admitted that you had found him alluring.

But here was the point : your father had sold you to the man.

That day when he came to your house with his bloody flowers and his absolutely not appealing smile. He had asked to talk with your father and you had fetched him as quickly as you could, afraid that he was in trouble.

He wasn't in trouble, nevertheless, the call of the money echoed deeply in him when Judge Turpin offered a generous dowry for your hand.

"I apologies to have to tell you are in the wrong Judge Turpin."

The man had looked up at you with a frown.

"This is the woman's family who have to providing you with a dowery and unfortunately, no one here are in measure to give you a penny."

It was half a lie as you kept your money in security into a chest under your bed. You weren't quite honest about your earning with your father as he was quite a spendthrift. So, you helped him by giving him a small amount of money, keeping preciously the rest away to constitue a nest egg for later.

Absolutely not bewildered by your interruption and your statement, Turpin had grinned before announcing that you were the one making in mistake in this particular case.

"I had the sincere desire to marry you and as I just said, I will give a compensation to your father for the loss of his precious daughter."

You had retained a laugh, persuaded that never ever my father would agree to such an obnoxious offer.

You were so wrong. The Judge had let you some days to think over the offer he had laid on.

Tempted by this important amount of money Turpin was willing to pay to ensure that your father handed over your hand to him, your thoughtful father didn't need to think too long to accept his offer and in the blink of an eye, you were betrothed.

You had protested, swearing that you would prefer to kill you rather than marry the man, the deal was sealed without you having a say. In any way, no one was willing to listen to you.

During the ceremony, you were full of apprehension, afraid about your wedding night. But for your biggest surprise, nothing happened. After the party, the both of you retired in the privacy of is opulent mansion, he shown you your room and left you alone.

Your new house were daunting, not up of your expectations. The exteriors were quite imposing, displaying the wealth of the Judge, but the inside was... not really gloomy but also not really lively. It was as if the house was uninhabited. And you discovered later it was the case. Turpin, Richard as he asked you to call him, was seldomly at home. He departed for the court early in the morning and came back lately in the night. Since your wedding, you didn't share a meal together and your only company was your maid.

For such a big house, he didn't have nearly so much staffs as one could expect of man of his stature would have. A cook, three maids, whose one had been hired exclusively for you, and the Beadle. You didn't really know who the man was and what clearly was his function beside your husband but you couldn't stand him. His ratty face didn't inspire you any confidence. He seemed deceitful and ready to betray his own mother if it could bring him any advantages.

"Like Richard." you said to no one as you were looking out the window at the crowd running around the city.

Hadn't you been so resentful for the latest events, you would have admit that your life wasn't as bad as you imagined it would become after your wedding.

He didn't touch you that night neither any other after that. He didn't try anything which could have distressed you, didn't restrict you from any freedom you thought you would longe for. You were allowed to write, he was more than happy to furnish you the papers and the ink you needed and he had made arranged a room for you to make your office. You were allowed to go out, only on the condition to stay in the richest part of the town and you could visit your publisher when needed without his approval. His only wish was that you let your maid know when you were living the home. You weren't dupe, you knew that as soon as you set a foot outside, he was informed. But even if he was aware of each of your movements inside and outside the mansion, you were still able to enjoy your freedom, a privilege a lot of women lost after being married.

He also was lavishing you with presents. Valuable jewelries, the most beautiful dresses you had ever seen, books, flowers. Not a week had passed without an attention for you. In the beginning, you hesitated between brought the presents into his office to let him know you didn't want to have anything to do with him but well aware of his reputation, you had been afraid of infuriating him. After all, you didn't really know the man and he could retake what he had given you at any time.

So was what you told to yourself rather than admit the truth : you were flattered and pleased to receive such beautiful gifts. Should someone had utter that maybe you could come to appreciate your husband you will fervently have denied it. After all, how could you become accustomed to him without having the opportunity to speak with him.

The only moments shared together were on Sunday. Richard wasn't a fervent believer of God and neither did you, so you had lazy Sunday at the mansion. It was the only time during which you eat lunch and diner together and during the afternoon, he systematicaly invited you to join him in the parlor but you rarely speak to one another. In general, both of you were reading. Sometimes, you brought with you your ongoing book and he would ask you random question about it. He had once admitted having your previous literary work.

"And what did you think of it ?" you had asked with a feigned indifference.

Your stoicism hid your nervousness. You couldn't fathom why you felt nervous about his opinion about your work, but you were.

"Well my dear, It is unusual for a woman to write about such things as a vampire. Even less a love story like this one. Is the sexual tension between the human lady and the vampire make in purpose ?" he had asked bluntly.

You had nodded once, your cheeks flushing at the mention of some somewhat suggestive scenes of your roman.

"Well, I am impatient to read the next part of it."

And that was all.

Mustering up the motivation you were lacking to officially begin the day, you pull yourself away from the window and asked the help of your maid to get ready for going out. You had to go see your publisher and then, you expected have a walk in the park to make the better of the sunny day with began to spread ahead as the hours passed by.

But nothing happened has you had planned. While you were walking in the street, you took a side road to reach faster your destination. It was a dark, filthy little street dwelt with drunker and dweller. You weren't really scare as you had taken this path numerous times in the past and as long as you minded your own business, you weren't really in danger. At least, it was what you thought. How wrong you were, you realized when a callous hand has fallen on your mouth.

"Your lost little beauty ?" asked a raspy voice.

You shivered, trying with all your strength to get away from the man but his grip was strong.

"Don't make it difficult little beauty, you will like it."

You bit his hand him to blood, which earned you a ferocious slap on the face. You fell on the ground, a bit dizzy, trying as hard as you can to pull yourself together but you didn't have the time than his hand clenched at your hair, pulling you violently towards him. Standing you up roughly, making you let a squirm escaped your lips, he pushed you against the wall, a hand on your breasts, another trying to find his way under your skirt.

Totally paralyzed, you were unable to move or event scream. Your breath became heavy as you stayed motionless even though you knew what would happened next.

He has approached his face from yours, his foul breath caressing your lips, making you want to throw up, when a snicker was heard.

Not really moved by the onlooker, the man had run his tongue across your cheeks, which had the effect to wake you up from your trance.

You tried to slap him but he was faster and knocked your head with his fist.

"Constable !' shouted a voice.

In one instant, the man was pushed down to the ground by two constables. Behind them were the Beadle. The snicker-man.

"Having dare to touch the wife of the Judge Turpin..." he muttered, enjoying the moment.

"It is something that will send you right through your death." he added with a horrendous laugh.

You have been brought back to the mansion by another policeman while Beadle escorted your assaulter to the prison, clearly enjoying what he had witnessed and the fate of the mongrel.

When you arrived, Richard was already tear, the worry imbued all over his face.

"[Y/N], dear, are you well ?" he asked his voice full of concern.

He tried to take your hand but you pushed him away before holding yourself tightly to retain your shivers.

He didn't follow you as your maid came towards you to lead you to the bathroom where she ran a bath for you. You soaked in the water until it was cold. Then, you called for your maid. In any other time, you would have dismissed her as soon as your bath was ready. You didn't like having someone around you to help you with something as trivial as drying you off but you were exhausted and could barely keep your eyes open. But it's not your maid who entered into the room. It was your husband.

"Richard..." you whispered, not daring looking at him.

You felt suddenly wide awake, the tiredness dissipated and replace with something else. You felt ashamed about what had happened. You knew it wasn't your fault, for that man had acted with malignancy and it couldn't have been the first time. At this thought, you bristled.

"[Y/N], let me help you." he said, stepping in carefully.

He dropped a thick towel around you but when he tried to rub you in the aim to bring some heat to your cold skin, you backed away.

"Don't be afraid [Y/N]. I just want to help you. I will protect you."

He tried again to approach you but then again you backed away, trying to shut him out from trying to break through your shell.

"[Y/N]." he said almost desperately.

You shook your head, muttering for him to go away.

"Leave me alone." you said with anger.

"No ! I want to help you." he replied, looking with disapproval at the bruises which began to form on your face.

"I don't want your help ! I want you to go out. Let me be !" you shouted.

"No ! You are my wife, my place is by your side."

"I'm not." you retorted.

"What ?" Asked Richard, his own anger boiling up quietly but surely.

"I am not your wife." you said with defiance.

He made one step towards you and this time you didn't move, holding his gaze with fury.

"You are my wife. We had wed in front of our families and of God !"

"God has nothing to do with our marriage. You have bought a wife as we bought a dog."

"I asked for your hand because I am in love with you."

"How ? How could you be in love with me ? We have never spoken together !" you shouted totally oblivious than the staff could hear you. "If you were really in love with me, you would have court me properly."

"Would you have agreed ?"

You didn't respond as the answer was obvious. Never you would have paid the slightest attention to his advance, but there wasn't the point.

"So, no matter what, you get what you want by fair means or foul." you spit out.

"My patience grow thin woman." he warned you.

"And what are you going to do ? Giving me a beating ?" you asked brazenly.

He clenched and unclenched his fists several times. Never would he have lay a finger on you on the purpose of hurting you but you were clearly unnerving him far more than anyone before you had dare to.

"I try [Y/N]. I try very hard. You are the one unwilling to make any effort to come to me and get to know me."

"Buying a hand doesn't mean you buy a heart !" you retorted coldly.

You were about to add something else, something you wish were hurtful but you didn't have time as he cut you off.

"I tried to talk about your writing, about your childhood, your hobbies. You always answered me with monosyllable, always with a bored look on your face. I gave you space, I didn't coerce you to oblige to your marital duty, I let you go out alone as a proper lady shouldn't do. And this is how you thank me each time. By pushing me away. Again and again and again. Each time I try to show you kindness, you answer with meanness."

He had said that in a calm, poised voice but his anger could clearly be heard. He had talked with the calm severity of a teacher who doesn't need to raise his voice to make his disobedient pupils obey.

"Richard." you whispered.

"Loving you is a losing game but things are going to change woman ! I am not to let you mess with me anymore. Yes, mark my words, things are going to change for you woman !" he growled dominating you with his imposing presence.

His baritone voice sent you shiver along your backbone.

With one last look at your bruised face, he quit the room, slamming the door behind me.

You stayed there for a while, stunned by what had just happened. He was right. Now that you thought about all the moment he had passed with you, never you had let him reach you farther than the cold surface layer that prevented the world to know the real you.

You were so angry about having been bought like an animal that you had never tried to be more acquainted with him. He was right, never ever he could have had your attention, even less your friendship and certainly not your heart if he hadn't barged in your home. And if you were totally honest, you would admit that you begrudged far more your father than Richard for the deal that was made this day.

"But He still didn't have my heart." you reasoned with yourself.

But inwardly, you felt as if it weren't true anymore. Not totally. You couldn't tell you were in love with him but for the first time, you were ready to recognize that you feel something for the man.

Loving you is a losing game had he said but at this precise moment, you felt as if you were the one losing the game you had settled the both of you in. You were losing the game of the hatred in favor of the love. And this night, whilst you were staring at the ceiling, you found yourself hoping that he take back his words, that he came to the conclusion that loving you was worth it.

#alan rickman x reader #judge turpin #judge turpin x reader #judge turpin x you #alan rickman #sweeny todd

[vickyvicarious]

I went on to make a thorough examination of the various stairs and passages, and to try the doors that opened from them. One or two small rooms near the hall were open, but there was nothing to see in them except old furniture, dusty with age and moth-eaten. At last, however, I found one door at the top of the stairway which, though it seemed to be locked, gave a little under pressure. I tried it harder, and found that it was not really locked, but that the resistance came from the fact that the hinges had fallen somewhat, and the heavy door rested on the floor. Here was an opportunity which I might not have again, so I exerted myself, and with many efforts forced it back so that I could enter. I was now in a wing of the castle further to the right than the rooms I knew and a storey lower down.

Speculation time: why is this door not locked?

I think there are two main options. In the past I just assumed it was the first one, but now I'm a bit more open to considering the second, which changes the tone of what comes next a bit.

Dracula didn't think he needed to lock it.

First consideration: this is a ways away from Jonathan's rooms and the ones he usually has access to. It's possible that Dracula was less careful about locking away different doors in further reaches of the castle. After all, there are a few other rooms in the hall that are open but don't really have anything to hide. Going along with that consideration, the fact that the door itself was heavy and had fallen on the floor so seemed locked at first, may have been all the justification he needed. It's possible that he didn't think Jonathan would have been able to open the door anyway, so there was no need to bother installing a new lock on a broken door.

If this is the case, then his warning to Jonathan about not sleeping outside of his own bedroom may well have been entirely genuine. Dracula has decided that he wants to keep his solicitor around a while longer, and so he gave him a warning which should ensure he actually stays alive to toy with. He's genuinely surprised and angry to find Jonathan about to be fed upon when he returns.

Dracula knew it could be opened.

While the door is heavy and is stuck, it's not impossible to move. Perhaps Dracula knew that. This year, I have noticed that a couple of the moments where Dracula tells Jonathan not to do something can almost be taken as a challenge. It could match the way he is constantly pushing boundaries in other ways as well - verbally, physically, what-have-you - he is trying to press and find Jonathan's breaking point. So far, Jonathan has just kept bending, and in doing so has avoided snapping (and getting immediately killed). The fact that he obviously knows what is going on but goes along with it anyway is super fun for Dracula, and possibly a big part of the reason he is still alive/his stay has been extended.

But something else Jonathan has done - and will continue to do - is to resist where he can. He doesn't confront Dracula directly but he does sneak around and spy on him. He doesn't mention the many doors being locked including the front door, but he did run around and check a bunch of them. I talked about both the locked doors and the warning about sleep as bait the other day, so I won't rehash all of it... but if it was meant as bait that points to a couple key differences.

Firstly, that Dracula could still be testing Jonathan's limits where he isn't involved. Perhaps it isn't just the way Jonathan reacts to him in person that is so fun for him, but also the way he's always pushing limits in his own way. He takes cues and tries stuff! He keeps Dracula on his toes! It might be just interesting/engaging enough to be fun without being annoying (like any sign that he could actually succeed in escaping/any direct confrontation would be). In that view, Dracula might enjoy dropping hints that give Jonathan what looks like chances to learn things or escape, but which in his opinion won't get him anywhere. The fact that he is able to manipulate Jonathan's behavior with these type of comments could also be a part of the fun, extending his feeling of control over him even through Jonathan trying to resist it.

Of course, this means that Dracula was willing to take a chance that Jonathan would get drunk from first by his roommates, which is the second big difference. There's a couple options there as well: he may have been okay with it since they don't tend to kill immediately (at least until he saw it about to happen and then got more possessive than he'd expected to, and became genuinely angry). He may have wanted to test if Jonathan would ignore his advice but didn't expect him to make progress so quickly (perhaps expecting him to sleep in a different room like the library or hall if he slept anywhere outside his bedroom). This second option could overlap with the first bullet point too actually, where the warning was still meant as bait but Jonathan took way more of the bait than Dracula expected, and he wasn't actually supposed to get access to this room yet/ever. The only downside there is that every other time Jonathan disobeys Dracula he is faced with near-immediate negative consequences to 'punish' him. The ladies serve that purpose very well here, and if Jonathan was supposed to disobey but not meant to meet them, it makes me wonder what the consequence would have been supposed to be.

Still, I do kind of like that last option, because it fits with a recurring theme where Dracula enjoys toying with Jonathan... not realizing that the act of doing so is directly giving Jonathan the tools and information he uses to later defeat him (also contributing to big reversals/exchanged traits between them as Jonathan learns way more than expected). This repeats with Mina as well in a big way, when him establishing a mental connection allows her to spy right back on him. Perhaps Dracula is having fun right now watching Jonathan follow various bread crumbs of hints and try to figure things out and try new ways of escaping, all of which are doomed to failure. But, and this is later exemplified by his diary full of information which he manages to keep despite Dracula stealing all his other things, Jonathan is both accomplishing and learning more than Dracula expects or realizes at every turn. And all of it will eventually be turned against him.

#dracula daily #count dracula #dracula daily spoilers #spoilers in this post and massive spoilers in the various links as well #i'm not sold on any of these. i think they all work and have interesting ramifications #dracula meta #my meta

[dreamescapeswriting]

Making It Work ~ MYG

⤜WORD COUNT:  3.9K

⤜PAIRING: Yoongi x Fem!Reader

GENRE: angst, angst with a soft and happy ending, divorce proceedings, breakups, love, cute, sweet

⤜Copyright: © DreamEscapesWriting - February 2023

⤜MASTERLIST

A/N: I wanted to go with a way that wouldn’t be impossible for reader and Yoongi to get back together, so I hope this is okay for you my love.

Today was the day that you hadn’t exactly been looking forward to for the last two months and now that it was finally here you were dreading every second of it. Divorces were a messy situation for everyone in the world but you'd been in luck when Yoongi had asked for it not to go to a large court. The two of you were going to settle everything inside of a solicitor's office, in front of a judge and all of the right witnesses. That also meant you didn't have to deal with screaming fans nor did you have to deal with flashing cameras, everything that was happening within your divorce seemed to be kept on the down low which you respected Yoongi for doing which made this a little easier. Not that this was ever going to be easy to deal with but not having to deal with a huge court of people did make it easier to manage. 

“Miss Yln, do you have your witness?” The judge asked as she looked up from her file and in your direction, your eyes looked away from the door as you turned to stare at her. Janet - the judge - had been accommodating of your situation with Yoongi and was doing everything within her power to make sure you both could do this amicably. That was the thing, even though you and Yoongi were getting a divorce from one another, there was no bad blood, no fighting over who got to keep the house or who got some of the money or shared custody over your dog...everything had just been simple and nice which worried you a little. Did Yoongi care that little that he would rather have this over and done with? Or was it simply that he just wanted you to move on and give you whatever you wanted? It was so hard to read him when you didn't see him anymore. God, you hadn't even seen him since the day you'd walked out on him.

“Yes, my friend Chan.” You answered her, glancing over at your shoulder to see Chan sitting in his seat with a warm smile on his face. Ever since the breakup with Yoongi Chan had been the one person in your life you could turn to whenever you needed something. The man had been there from the moment you’d walked out of your shared home with Yoongi and decided to go through the divorce. You'd been staying with Chan and his roommates for a while until you felt comfortable going back home and it was nice to have a friend there that wasn't directly in contact with Yoongi.

“It’s lovely to meet you, Chan." She smiled a little turning her attention back to you as she directed the last question,

"Do you know where Mr Min is?” You glanced down at your phone to check the time, it was way past the time he was supposed to be here and you knew he was either caught up in work or traffic. It was always the thing he would blame whenever he was late for something important. Like your anniversary dinner, the whole reason this divorce was happening was because of Yoongi’s addiction to his work.

“You knew what this day meant to me Yoongi and yet you still didn’t bother to show up, not even a text to let me know where you were,” You stared at your boyfriend who was in his usual spot in his studio, hunched over the desk with his earphones on one ear and not the other. The same spot he'd been in two nights ago when you came to remind him about your family coming to visit you.

“I got busy,” Yoongi merely grumbled without saying anything else to you about it, his eyes never leaving the screen not even for a second to look in your direction. It was as if he had no idea what the day even was which broke you even more. There was a time in your relationship when Yoongi would drop everything to spend time with you and now it felt as though you were constantly putting in all of the effort only to meet resistance.

“Do you know what today was?” You quizzed, placing one hand on your hip and waiting for him to turn and look at you. One look would inform him that you were dressed in formal attire and that tonight was your anniversary, not only an anniversary but the day your family were all coming to your house to have a nice formal meal with the two of you. Yet, your husband hadn’t even bothered to show up to meet his family-in-law nor had he wished you a happy anniversary.

“Yeah. that meal with your family. But I’ve had other stuff on my mind-” Yoongi had spun on his chair a little to see you and he stopped speaking when he saw what you were wearing. You looked completely breathtaking and he smiled a little, running his tongue over his bottom lip as he took in the sight of you. There was no denying that you looked completely hot in what you were wearing and he let out a low growl at the sight of you.

“Our anniversary,” You told him plainly, ignoring the way your heart was racing at the way he was checking you out. You didn’t care that he found you hot right now, all you cared about was the fact that he had missed your anniversary and made you look like a fool in front of your family and the restaurant the meal had been at. 

“No, our anniversary is the 30th and-” Yoongi shook his head at you, he would know when his own anniversary was, he'd had it written down on the desk calendar.

“Yoongi, it is the 30th,” You mumbled, scoffing a little as you shook your head and looked up at the ceiling trying not to let the tears completely take over. If you cried in front of him you'd feel completely weak and that was the last thing you wanted. Right now, you wanted him to come home and let all of this go so you could at least spend the night of your anniversary together. But he didn't even move from his desk, he just shook his head and rubbed the back of his neck. For a while now it felt as though Yoongi didn’t give a shit about you or anything that was going on in your life, every day felt like a losing battle and you were finally having enough. This had been the straw that broke the camel's back so to say.

“I’m so sorry baby, I’ve been so busy lately I didn’t even realise what date we were on,” He sighed, running his hands through his long unkempt hair. Normally you would have dragged him out for a haircut by now and made sure he was looking after himself but it was hard to even get to see him with how busy he was and how stubborn he was when it came to working. You knew things would be like this with Yoongi and you’d signed up for that when you’d agreed to marry him, you knew there were going to be good and bad days but right now it seemed there were bad then there ever was good. 

“But you’re not, if you were sorry you wouldn’t keep doing this.” You gestured around his studio as you drank in everything that was going on inside. There were blankets all over the sofa letting you know that he was sleeping there - which you knew already since you were waking up to an empty bed every morning. Then there were the takeout containers left over the spare sides, the stubble on your husband's face and the sloppy state of him. 

“I have to get this work done, you knew this when you agreed to marry me,” He grumbled, throwing his vows back at you. Part of his handwritten vows was about you accepting that his work was important to him. Something you'd agreed to and accepted for years now but it didn't make it any easier to see Yoongi harming his mental and physical health for a bit of music.

“Yes, I knew that. I also knew that you knew when to take a break and weren’t going to go into burnout all of the time,” You snapped angrily, you didn’t want to get so angry with him but it was difficult when your own husband couldn’t see what he was doing to himself and his marriage.

“You’re prioritising your work before yourself. When was the last time you showered?” You stared at his greasy hair and then down at his beard, it was as if he didn't care what he looked like as long as he got his work done. Something, that you'd come to notice over the years, was something he did right before having a burnout. The last thing Yoongi needed right now was to be burnt out at work, you needed him to come home where he could relax just a little.

“I can smell you from here. You need to shower, put yourself before your work for once-”

“I can do whatever I want, I need to get this finished.” He snarled, turning back to his computer and sliding the second headphone back onto his head without hitting play on anything. You stared at the screen as you realised he wasn't composing or even listening to anything and you shook your head.

“You need to look after yourself,” You breathed out, moving to stand closer to him as he shook his head at you. Yoongi didn't want to to fight right now, he was about an hour's work away from finishing the songs he needed to do and then he would go home.

“What I need is for my wife to leave me alone while I finish working on something that earns us both money,” He hissed out at you, your heart clenched inside of your chest. Yoongi had snapped at you about leaving him alone before but never like this,

“You used to love me taking care of you,” You laughed dryly, moving around the office as you began to put take-out containers into a bin, trying your best to clean up the place even a little so he could start the process looking after himself.

“You used to let me come and see you every day, bring you food and make sure you showered,” You stared at him as he continued to work on something, either playing ignorant to what you were saying or he really couldn’t hear you over the music. You rolled your eyes at him, shaking your head as you moved closer to his desk and stretching your hand out to take the mug that was beside his keyboard, only he moved suddenly making you jump and knock the mug - and its contents - all over the pages that were on the desk.

“Shit,” you hissed out, watching as the coffee started to stain the pages, smudging the ink that was all over them.

“What the fuck! What the fuck are you doing?!” He yelled, jumping up from his desk and grabbing the sheets, shaking them and letting the coffee splatter everywhere inside of the room while you shook your head,

“It was an accident, I was just trying to clean up and help-”

“I don’t need your help,” He grumbled staring at the music sheets in his hands that were now completely unreadable and ruined thanks to you.

“You say that every time but you know you need me Yoongi. You just don’t-”

“I don’t need you anymore! I’m fine on my own!” He yelled out at you, staring you in the eyes as you felt the burn of every word scoring into your veins and making its way directly to your heart.

“Yeah? Then I guess you don’t need a wife anymore!” You quipped at him, hoping that maybe he would see the error in what he'd said to you.

“Maybe I don’t!” He screamed at you, and you were quick to leave the room, slamming the door behind you praying he would follow after you but he never did.

You thought - back then - that maybe things would blow over and that the two of you would kiss and makeup but it never happened. Yoongi stopped replying to you and the two of you gave up on everything you’d been building together for almost nine years and said to get a divorce.

“I’m sure he’ll be here soon, your honour. I can call-” You didn’t have a chance to finish what you were saying when the door burst open and a very sweaty-looking Yoongi appeared to be standing there. While he was dressed smartly it didn’t match the rest of him, his hair was a mess and far too long for him, he had a beard growing and not to mention there were bags under his eyes letting you know he hadn’t been sleeping yet again. A pang of guilt took over you as you saw him, you knew you shouldn’t care that he was like this but you couldn’t help it. You still loved Yoongi with every part of your body and nothing was ever going to change that for you, even if you were getting a divorce.

“I’m sorry your honour, I was running late because of my alarm and then traffic was bad so I got out and ran here,” You stared at Yoongi as he spoke to the judge but only looked in your direction, his eyes never leaving you while your heart raced against your chest. It felt as though you’d just finished running here and not the other way around, Yoongi's mouth ran dry as soon as he saw you standing there. He'd been getting texts from Chan for the last two months with updates about you, he wanted to know how you were doing and if you were truly okay with this divorce and while Chan told him you seemed fine you never were. 

It was always going to be hard letting go of someone you'd loved for so long and if truth be told, you didn't even want to go through with all of this.

“Sit down and we will proceed.” The judge motioned for him to take a seat opposite you but Yoongi didn’t move an inch, he just stared at you and shook his head. If this was really going to be the last time he would get to see you he needed to get his feelings out onto the table and stop avoiding them.

“Can I have a moment with her?” He questioned, glancing in the direction of the judge and back to Yoongi. It was as though he was scared you would disappear if he looked away for too long.

“A moment?” The judge asked, arching an eyebrow at the two of you while you slowly looked away from Yoongi, trying not to let yourself get too caught up in him, Chan leant forward on his chair to check on you.

“You okay?” He whispered as Yoongi continued to ask for some time with you, his voice shaking a lot as you nodded your head at Chan. He knew you'd been wanting to avoid being alone with Yoongi for a while but now Yoongi was here and he wanted to be alone you wanted the exact same thing.

“Fine, you should go and let the boys know you’ll be late,” You whispered to him, letting him leave the room along with the judge and lawyers that had been waiting for Yoongi to arrive. Everyone had been on time for this except for him but Yoongi didn’t even care. It was all true about him being late and the reason. The alarm hadn’t woken him up because, for the first time in months, he’d finally gotten the sleep he had been desperately needing. 

“Yn,” He breathed out, sitting beside you and placing his hands on top of yours, enjoying the way a spark went through both of you. It might have been two months since he’d gotten to speak to you or even be in the same room as you but every feeling he had for you was still there.

“Yoongi, you show up late and you kick them out? What’s going on with you?” Your eyebrows knitted together as you drank him in, shaking your head as you got a closer look at him. The need to be closer to him was eating you up inside, the need to be near him and be held by him eating you away one bit at a time.

“I need you to come back, don’t sign the papers,” Your heart practically stopped beating inside of your chest. This whole thing had been his idea, the divorce was his idea to get and now he was asking you this.

“What?” Your voice cracked, barely able to hold up the question as you stared at him, your eyes scanning over his face for any sign that this was some kind of sick joke from him. Or maybe this was all a nightmare and you hadn't even woken up yet to get to the solicitor's office.

“Don’t sign the papers, don’t…please..please just don’t,” You couldn’t believe what you were hearing, there was a pleading tone in his voice as he begged for you not to do this. For weeks now he'd been wondering how he was going to get you out of doing this, to come back to him after he'd been the one to push you away but all of this time apart confirmed one thing in his mind.

There was no way on this planet, or another...or even in another universe that he was ever going to be able to live without you.

“You don’t know what you’re saying Yoongi,” You murmured, sliding your hands out from him but he was quick to grab them and hold them against his chest, looking deep into your eyes as he searched for any sign that you still loved him.

“I do, I need you…Okay? I was an idiot to go through all of this and I realise that now,” He pleaded with you, his voice breaking with each word that he spoke.

“You don’t need me to remember, you said it yourself.” You tried to take your hands back but he wasn’t allowing them to budge no matter how hard you tried. 

“I was an idiot Yn, please.” You shook your head at him, tears beginning to stream down your cheeks as you stated at him, this was all too little to late. Maybe if he'd come to you a few weeks ago this could have been different but you were about to sign the final papers, the final goodbye to one another.

“We’re about to sign the final papers,” You stared down at the papers on the table in front of you, everything had been agreed to between you and the lawyers. Janet had even said it was the easiest divorce she'd ever had to bare witness to.

“And I am begging you not to, I’ll do anything,” he whispered to you, your eyes staring back at him as you tried to sense if any of this was real if he even meant what he was saying. You couldn't go back to the way it was before, watching him ruin his body for the sake of work.

“Yoongi…” You trailed off, your hand slowly being released from his grasp as you ran it over his cheek, sighing when you watched him leaning into your touch and enjoying the way it felt to have you close. This was all yoongi had been thinking about for months, he’d done nothing but miss you from the moment he willingly let you walk out of his office.

“I should have chased after you that day,” He told you as you stared at him, your breathing getting caught in your throat as you watched him.

“You should have,” you laughed weakly, you’d wanted him to come after you and tell you he took everything he said back that day but he never did. He never showed up, not even back at the house when you were there.

“You never came back to tell me you didn’t mean it,” You whispered, your eyes screwed tightly shut as you shook your head.

“You didn’t come back either,” Yoongi shuffled closer to you, running his thumb under your eyes to stop the tears from falling but it only caused them to fall faster.

“Because I was exhausted and upset Yoongi. It was our anniversary,” your voice cracked and he nodded his head, he knew he'd done wrong and that it was going to take a lot more than a simple "I'm sorry" to fix everything that happened between you but he was going to give it his all.

“I fucked up badly, and I know there’s no coming back from it but I want to try and move on from it. I don’t want to lose you,” you stared at him as he pleaded with you, a small knock coming from the door.

“Not everything can be fixed with a simple apology” You moved away from him and shook your head, using the sleeve of your blazer to wipe under your eyes and shake your head at him.

“So then we work on things, every day. We go to counselling, we get help and we work through this together,” You stared at him again and swallowed the lump in your throat, the knocking on the door getting louder, you had no double that it was probably Chan wanting to know what was going on.

“Let's try it again…if you want to?” Yoongi suggested as he stared at you, you wanted to, you wanted to do everything to make it work with Yoongi again so you nodded your head.

“Let's do it,” You whispered as he smiled brightly, staring at you before wrapping you in a tight embrace, your shoulders relaxed completely as you started to cry into his shoulder. After all this time it still felt incredible to be with him.

“Shall I let the judge know?” chan chuckled from the doorway as you nodded and sniffled, rubbing your eyes as you let yourself relax in Yoongi's arms.

“You’re late, you’re late for a very important date,” Yoongi teased as you rushed into the room and panted heavily, traffic had been a nightmare getting here and your boss had managed to make you stay later than anticipated. 

“Makes a change, it’s normally you,” You smirked at him, dropping down onto the sofa beside him and laying your head down on his shoulder and trying to catch your breath.

“Shh,” He whines, tickling your sides and pulling you closer to him. The two of you were here for your monthly session with your couples therapist, who was discharging you from their service as of today. It had been a rough nine months that the two of you were going through but every single second had been worth it now that you were making your marriage work with one another,

“Love you,” You giggled, leaning up to kiss his cheek quickly before the door opened and you were both ready for your last session together.

Tagline: @millenniumspec @chiisaiblog @rjsmochii @tinyoonsblog @sw33tnight @taestannie @cherrybubblesandvodka @army24--7 @acciocriativity @mitzwinchester @heyjiminnie @halesandy @jin-from-the-block @aerastus @namjooningelsewhere @ratherbfangirling @psychosupernatural​ @lyoongx​ @periandernyx​ @laylasbunbunny​ @royallyjjk​ @critssq​ @pearlygraysky​ @lenfilms​ @btsiguess-kpop​ @meowmeowisdaname​ @imafivestarkpopstan​

#bts #bts x reader #bts imagine #bts imagines #min yoongi #yoongi #yoongi x reader #yoongi imagine #yoongi imagines #min yoongi x reader #min yoongi imagine #min yoongi imagines #suga #suga x reader #suga imagine #suga imagines

[koinotfish]

Excerpt 2 from The Secrets the Sun Keeps:

Hey, you- angsty fantasy reader who enjoys supporting indie authors- come check this out! I post... regularly on AO3 here. Please read, comment, reblog, and do whatever it is you lovely people on Tumblr do. Much love <3

~~~

“Hm. With the amount of customers visiting your booth,” He looked around demonstratively, making a show of landing on a competing leather and hides merchant. “I’m sure times are tough for you. I apologize, but I’m on a long journey from out west and the trip is far from over. I cannot afford to give away my valuables to charity. Farewell.” He turned with a flourish of a wave and the woman lashed the backs of his knees with her jagged spined tail. <em>Gotcha,</em> he smirked before morphing his expression to one of bewilderment. 

In lieu of the broken common tongue she grated out earlier, she thrust a poly and… Yep, 50 agars into his palm. He stroked along the sharp grain of the snake’s hide, and its dark gold colored scales in phony contemplation. After thinking her offer over for a tense minute, the heavyset reptilian lady glaring a hole in between his eyes, he returned her coins to her and walked off again.

“You not find better deal than what I give you, stupid stranger!” Fumed Risha. 

“Your prices offend me, miss. This exotic beast is from the west, further beyond Faulk than any in Minden have likely ever been. I owe it to the serpent to find somebody capable of rendering it into workable armor, rather than simply sell it to a higher bidder. Again, have a good evening.” He said all of this from a distance so that he had cause to yell it over the din of the market, and heads turned towards the ensuing argument. The higher quality vendors with finer wares wouldn’t have given an outsider a second glance, but the words ‘out west’ captured their attention. Still, he paid the solicitors no mind as he pretended to peruse other stalls and booths, the poly from his boot in hand to show that he was wealthy enough to deal with. Poor people were paid poor prices even for expensive items, and the rich got richer. Thieves, liars, and con artists were above both.

With time to kill, Erik milled around town and briefly debated on buying a drink at the tavern, but if he reeked of alcohol the group would assume he’d spent <em>their</em> hard earned money. There was a stable in town that looked like a strong wind would send its abused supports to their knees. He decided to scope that out. Although the building was dilapidated, there were three people standing guard- a middle aged man, a younger boy, and a woman around his age. So it was a family business, then. Walking by looking around the streets as if lost, he realized their house was connected by an alleyway to the stables and had windows facing over their business. The second time he walked by, he noted the woman looked up from scooping hay to watch him. Her husband barked something at her and she jolted, averting her gaze and getting back to work. 

She was pretty in figure but had a plain face. It wasn’t clear what type of fae she was, so that meant there was a good chance she was a mutt or halfbreed of some sort. Certainly too low bred to be capable of magic. That husband of hers was a fearsome orc. Maybe even purebred with the length of those tusks. They were a hideous people with a temper to match their brawn, especially the males. A female orc who had a problem with you was no party either, though. How strange to see such a pure blooded male in this puny, filthy town. Had to be an outlaw or something. Or an opportunist seeking to profit off being the only source of a mount in the area. Erik had the feeling it was the former. His opinion of orcs was not favorable, thanks to the slavers that distracted him from the task of recapturing Meredith. 

Erik walked through the barn style door of the stable with his hands in his pockets, stealing glances at the woman when her son and husband weren’t looking. The dark skinned boy, who took after his father more than the mother, announced they’d be with him in a minute. Clearly it wasn’t the woman’s job to handle customers. She looked like she had something to say, so he started the conversation with her anyways. Erik remarked casually on the beauty of the tall, fit black stallion they had. Nervously, she agreed and reached up to place her palm on his nose. The horse had to bend down for her to reach him, but seemed calm with her. Only two horses were kept here in the same double wide stall. Every other spot had weird, lanky otter looking creatures with webbed feet. 

“You’re looking at the dire otters. Small, powerful, and capable of pulling cargo in groups,” The orc said, wiping sweat off his pronounced brow with one hand and pushing his tiny wife behind him with the other. She was all but flung towards the back of the shed and did her best not to squeal in surprise when she nearly tripped forward. “Whatcha in the market for, foreigner? Or did you just stop by to chat?” The last comment was spat at him, but he feigned ignorance and stated that he was only curious what types of animals were for sale here. His excuse only earned a grunt and a snort in response. Their boy was watching him like a hawk as well, but the woman’s eyes were turned down as she continued to sweep the same place on the floor, pushing the dirty hay around in a pile. He’d embarrassed her, and that worked to Erik’s advantage perfectly.

#writers on tumblr #writer stuff #indie writer #writing blurb #writeblr #fantasy romance #angst #hurt/comfort #current wip #the secrets the sun keeps #tssk

[manicpixiedreamcrowley]

GOOD OMENS fic recs (#1)

-> fic info includes: title, link, author, rating, chapter count, word count, summary, and my notes

-> total of 28 fic recs (+2 accompanying podfics)

if any of the links are broken, please send me a message so i can fix them!

"sweet surprises" by euterpein | G, oneshot, 15.1k

Aziraphale, for reasons even she can't fathom, has volunteered to help out at the Halloween extravaganza being hosted at Adam's school. Things are going well until a certain red-haired solicitor and her son also get involved... Featuring unfortunate assumptions, secret plots, and an inordinate amount of pining.

notes: starting strong with ineffable wives human au ft. misunderstandings but with fluff instead of angst

"sweetest downfall" by restlesswanderings | G, oneshot, 9.9k

It hits Aziraphale out of the blue one day that if loving Crowley is a sin then it’s the only sin worth committing. or: some falls are gentle

notes: also ineffable wives romance with a bit of hurt crowley and protective aziraphale

"with her i would fly" by mickyrc | G, oneshot, 1.4k

Crowley curled up a little tighter, nuzzling her cheek into Aziraphale’s tummy and purring when her fingers dipped into the nook behind her ear. They’d been there for hours already, slowly working through a bottle of wine while Crowley slowly melted into her wife’s side. It's just a quiet night, cuddled together on the couch, and Aziraphale's found a poem that reminds her of Crowley.

notes: ineffable wives again but domestic fluff and cuddling

"fire in your heart (and your kitchen)" by waitingtobebroken | T+, 2/2, 7k

The most beautiful man that Crowley has ever seen is also the firefighter that keeps having to put out the fires in his kitchen. It just so happens that Crowley is awful at cooking.

notes: crowley starting kitchen fires for an excuse to talk to firefighter aziraphale

"the bicycle" by thelordoflamancha | G, oneshot, 1.8k

"Lily had heard the rumors about the penthouse flat in this particular building near Berkley Square in Mayfair. She had heard them talk about the mythical snake and the angry man that shouted at all hours of the day. She had seen the library staff consoling shaken door-to-door salespeople, petitioners, and volunteers sheltering in the library lobby after a run in with the owner. She knew the tales of the fearsome man with sharp teeth who would make mincemeat of even the bravest adult to cast their shadow upon his doorstep. Certainly, it was no place for a child. Even the kindly librarian had advised her away from this particular building in her fundraising quest." Or, Crowley helps Lily win the bicycle.

notes: another outsider pov fic but this time it's crowley encouraging corrupt marketing tactics in a kid

"a familiar bond" by chubbsthefish | T+, 20/20, 38.6k

There is a reason witches are warned not to summon demons. The sleepy town of Tadfield was supposed to be peaceful, a town full of witches practicing their craft without worry of outside persecution. At least it was until someone let a demon loose. But local bookshop owner and garden enthusiast Aziraphale doesn't really care about all that nonsense, not when he has just acquired a new friend and companion in the shape of a Familiar. Crowley just wanted to head back home. But that's getting harder to do now that he's gone and gotten attached to a certain witch, which is bad since he does not want the pure-hearted man to be corrupted by his mere presence.

notes: i can't really fawn over this without spoiling it so just go read it and report back to me

"something familiar" by joldiego | T+, oneshot, 2.5k

Aziraphale is laid out on the couch, seemingly asleep. This is not shocking. What is shocking, however, is the giant black snake coiled around him from head to toe. Anathema and Newt drop by the bookshop and make a startling discovery. Aziraphale and Crowley are just trying to have a lazy Saturday morning.

notes: outsider pov fic but through the perspective of anathema who can't exactly remember armageddon and thus doesn't know the bible lore around them

"mine" by joifuldreaming | T+, oneshot, 1.5k

Crowley is oblivious, Aziraphale is jealous.

notes: possessive aziraphale is something i didn't know i needed, but now that it has been brought to my attention, i can't get over it

"show me the sugar" by waitingtobebroken | T+, oneshot, 4.1k

When the new "couple" moves in the cottage down the road, it's apparent to everyone what their Arrangement is. Rachel, the owner of the pet shop they had just visited, is not so sure anymore. Who was supposed to be the sugar father again?

notes: i've read this one several times, i love it so much, i'm obsessed with outsider pov fics trying to understand what their deal is

PODFIC AVAILABLE

"find it in the dictionary under 'L'" by his_infinitevariety | G, oneshot, 1.7k

Demons can’t feel love, but Aziraphale can’t help noticing how much Crowley’s suddenly flinging the word around.

notes: one of those fics where aziraphale can sense love but either a) can't feel it from crowley for some reason or b) doesn't know it's him

"you are home (half of me)" by angelsnuffbox | T+, 5/5, 28.5k

Aziraphale had gotten dumped, plain and simple. But that small detail wasn’t nearly as important as all the things that happened after he’d gotten dumped - such as coming to a few realisations about his best friend of sixteen years.

notes: the epitome of gay people not being able to identify relationships

"the blinding look from me to you" by restlesswanderings | G, oneshot, 13k

There are nights Crowley aches so deeply she can hardly stand it. Nights where she’ll do anything to rid herself of it. She knows how Aziraphale’s arms feel around her and it’s the worst kind of torture, the worst kind of agony, because she knows she��ll never have it again. or: crowley aches for aziraphale in the best and worst ways

notes: holy shit dude

more elaborate notes: ineffable wives pining throughout the ages, this one is through crowley's pov

"are you my future or just an escape?" by restlesswanderings | G, oneshot, 20.1k

She wants to kiss Crowley and the urge doesn’t scare her like she thought it would – maybe it’s something she’s wanted all along but hasn’t allowed herself to think about. A dangerous thing, an angel wanting. Even more dangerous for an angel to give in. or: aziraphale can't stop looking at crowley and overthinking everything (companion piece to 'the blinding look from me to you' but can 100% be read alone)

notes: i actually read this one first, this is aziraphale's pov of the previous fic but could be read as a standalone

my ao3 history says "visited 15 times" as if i don't know that

"spare the righteous" by appleseeds | M, 4/4, 12.7k

When Father Gabriel brings a snake to their chapel and insists the nuns handle the animal as a demonstration of their faith, Sister Aziraphale can't help but be frightened. After a series of visits from Father Gabriel, when everyone in her Order has been bitten by the snake except for Aziraphale, suspicions rise and rumours spread, putting her future amongst them in jeopardy. At least Aziraphale has somebody to confide in about her worries - a lovely woman by the name of Crowley, who has recently started visiting the nunnery's bookshop on a regular basis and has proven herself to be very kind and understanding. Unfortunately for Aziraphale, she's also extraordinarily attractive and a constant source of temptation that Aziraphale isn't entirely sure she wants to resist.

notes: they're lesbians again! i have also read this fic 15+ times

"unexplained phenomena: or 5 times crowley & aziraphale didn’t kiss for the kiss cam and one time they did" by fractalgeometry | G, oneshot, 2.2k

Emma Rathmore knows everyone who comes to her son’s baseball games. Until she doesn’t. Still, even if she only ever sees these newcomers through the ridiculous new kiss cam, at some point they stop feeling so much like strangers. They’re certainly...interesting. And slightly baffling. But definitely interesting.

notes: outsider pov fic

“doggone batty” by kedreeva | T+, 4/4, 14.3k

Aziraphale, a werewolf who never fit in well with the rest of his pack, moves into a house he's just inherited a long ways away. The only problem is that he finds there's something more than a little amiss with his new neighbor.

notes: it’s impressive how in-character they are

“catalyst” by ikarakie | T+, oneshot, 7k

aziraphale spots a new sign on the door of the local brothel. that, a lunch date, and an obnoxious man bully him into finally making his demon actually his. OR aziraphale realises he has competition and immediately does something about it.

notes: starring jealous aziraphale, aka my FAVORITE aziraphale. i love it when he’s a bitch he deserves it

“all the dreams we had” by impishtubist | T+, 2/2, 6.4k

This time will be different, Aziraphale thinks. This time, Crowley will remember.

notes: this is one of the most devastating fics ever btw it has like…time loop aspects and amnesia at the same time..honestly even if nobody else goes through this whole list i’m glad that i was able to reread it LMAO

"and it hurt" by ineffabledoll | T+, oneshot, 3.6k

Aziraphale can sense love, but it was never supposed to be like this. The love was never supposed to be for him, for an angel, for beings loved only by God. It was not supposed to grow and grow, the ashen forest of a single spark.

notes: THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN ABSENCE OF COLD AND PRESENCE OF WARMTH...I AM UNWELL

"never judge books by their...?" by worseomens | *NR, oneshot, 4.4k

There's a burglary in Soho, right across the road from AZ Fell & Co's Antique Bookseller's. An angel and a demon are called in for questioning, and the detectives involved start to form opinions... (OR: Crowley's a flirt, and Aziraphale doesn't do PDA; people start to get the wrong idea)

*author did not rate fic, but i'd put it between G/T+ with no significant warnings

notes: another outsider pov fic

PODFIC AVAILABLE

"digging for gold" by worseomens | *NR, oneshot, 5.6k

Crowley finally stops hiding his visits to the bookshop, now the celestial powers-that-be have decided to butt out, only to be faced with a whole new challenge. (OR: The people of Soho make sure this newcomer isn’t about to hurt their beloved local madman)

*same as previous fic

notes: ANOTHER outsider pov fic from the outsider pov series by worseomens (total of 22 fics), this is one of my favorite outsider pov fics ever

"heavenly wicked cafe" by waitingtobebroken | T+, 7/7, 33.9k

There is a terribly rude barista that makes amazing coffee and a saint of a barista, whose coffee tastes vile. And they are in love.

notes: i wish they knew how to communicate like this in canon

"from eden ('till armageddon)" by ikarakie | G, oneshot, 3.3k

the british museum needs to take their nose out of crowley's damn business. OR a 200 year old journal full of crowley's pining and confessions ends up on display.

notes: historians finding crowley's diary like damn this guy is so queer we gotta put this on display

"a model guardian" by fuuma_san | E, 23/23, 147.4k

Crowley is a self-sufficient model on the verge of stardom. They clawed their way up all by themselves and the very last thing they want is some cream puff bodyguard their agency hired following them around constantly. Pretending to be their boyfriend at work so they don't get a reputation as a Diva. Watching over them. Caring for them. But then it turns out "Fell" was not even his real name. Was it all fake? Would someone like him ever want someone like them?

notes: this is a giant leap from mostly oneshots but this is like doing drugs for everyone who loves with a good bodyguard au <3 be sure to check tags for possible trigger warnings

"revelation" by syrupfactory | M, 4/4, 13.9k

The year is 3021, and Aziraphale and Crowley have been married for a thousand years. Together, they manage the London Archive, a futuristic information hub that stands on the same block that one held a bookstore. An Anglican priest who visits regularly has a huge crush on Aziraphale, and Crowley is amused … until the priest grows bitter enough to make a very poor choice. As it turns out, envy is a bad look for a man of the cloth, and pissing off an angel is far worse.

notes: can you tell i love outsider pov fics? i just need to see what other people think of these freaks

"candied apples" by pentagrammar | T+, 20/20, 46k

Crowley, his diet being as limited as it is, has never had a craving before. But that is before he saw Aziraphale. At least, he thinks it’s a craving. Now, he is embarrassingly fixated on a single human, and to make matters worse, none of his plans seem to be working. Being a vampire is hard. Meanwhile, Aziraphale is growing increasingly concerned about the odd man who keeps showing up and saying deranged things, and the fact that his dear friend Anathema is convinced that an evil presence has latched itself onto his bookshop.

notes: crowley is sooo dumb my babygirl the love of my life (widely applicable statement to him in general)

"couldn't resist" by edosianorchids901 & luinlothana | G, oneshot, 3k

When Crowley falls asleep waiting for Aziraphale to finish reading a chapter, the angel has an idea based on photos the demon showed him a few days prior.

notes: snake crowley being dressed up in little outfits GOD i love this

"snake eyes" by lucy_ferrier | G, oneshot, 3k

Crowley has snake eyes. They look like snake eyes. They function like snake eyes. The thing is snake eyes aren't all that good for seeing with. He doesn't really seem to let it stop him from doing what he wants.

notes: blind crowley with canon typical communication skills (read: none)

#chanposting #good omens fanfic #good omens fanfic recs #fanfiction recs #fic recs #good omens #good omens fic #good omens recs #aziracrow #ineffable husbands #crowley #aziraphale #ALSO: you can send in fic recs of your own for me to add to a list - including self recs #i drafted this 4 weeks ago and i just really want to get it posted so i dont have to keep checking it over and over again #so if you see any mistakes lmk #and if there are any typos at all then theres a good chance it was from my lizard walking on my keyboard

[epiclamer]

Whumpees taking care of each other anyone?

Spiteful

Justice. Something Hero fought to bring to their city streets every day, but couldn’t care to fight to earn it for themselves.

They had been used and abused and worked until their legs gave out. They fought tooth and nail for their pay check twice a month just to receive the measliest dollars the agency had to give. They sat in the shower until the water ran cold, trying to wash the blood from their uniform, unsure of whom it belonged to.

Always giving; people drained them dry. Left for dead in abandoned alleyways or stripped of everything they had for performance reasons. It didn’t matter. They were reduced to a shell of a human being after it all. A shell that worked all day and sat empty all night. Every time they closed their eyes they saw flashes of everything again and again and again.

Reliving everything at night was worse than mulling it over every morning. At least they could tear themselves from the flashbacks if they were awake, nightmares weren’t kind enough to allow one that option.

A knock on the door sounded to their left, it barely registered through the fog that clouded the hero’s mind. They couldn’t bother to get up. It was probably a solicitor. Odd at this hour, but not impossible.

When it sounded again, slightly more urgent, Hero’s numbness was overcome by pure rage. They were angry. They were furious. They couldn’t explain why. But they were.

They shot up from their seat on the couch, storming over to their front door and ripping it open, sending the figure on the other side tumbling back. One millisecond away from shouting in their face when they recognized the terrified face at their feet.

Villain.

Hero didn’t have to think twice before they put their full force into aiming to slam the door on the other. Villains foot catching it with just a sliver of room left as they winced, feeling the wood bash into their ankle. For a moment they looked hopeful, like they had caught the break of a century, but the hero was not so easily deterred, and in their fit they slammed the door over and over and over again until the villain retreated their foot in pain.

Finally, the door clicked into its frame with a bang and Hero slipped the lock shut. Turning their back to their enemy and heading back to their seat on the couch.

Yet their rest didn’t last much longer than a minute. Their dissociative state interrupted by the villain crashing in through the window.

Their first instinct was to kill the villain. However, the moment the thought reached their rational brain they almost threw up.

It was only a confirmation that they were falling apart. That sooner than later they’d lose everything to a plea of insanity and they’d die. The agency couldn’t keep someone as valuable as a hero out on the streets with precious information, they were a loose end.

Heroes weren’t allowed to retire. They bowed their head to a bullet before they ever got the chance to be free.

Maybe that’s what was wrong with them. Maybe Hero was too aware of the agency watching their every move. Keeping track of their vitals, forcing them to take lie detector tests, controlling their income, monitoring their diet. Maybe the stress was killing them from the inside out.

“I didn’t… didn’t know where-else to go—” Villain cutoff with a pained breath. Clutching their stomach with a vice-like grip in one hand and their ankle in the other.

The hero’s demeanour stayed numb, not angry any longer just a husk of their former self once more. Standing to their full height, Hero approached the villain on the floor. Taking note of the blood on their costume and coating their hands, they watched a glimpse of their past cloud their vision and suddenly felt sick.

They didn’t kneel down, they didn’t inspect or rush to care for the villain, they didn’t and they wouldn’t. “The day you betrayed me you gave up all rights to ever being allowed near me again. Let alone in a friendly manner like whatever the fuck you think this is.”

Villain gasped, their pain seeming less and less manageable by the minute. Hero stayed unbothered, not even the tone in their voice strayed an octave. “Y-You shut me out…”

“I shut you out because you broke my trust. Tell me, Villain, why would I ever let you in?”

“I-I don’t need a fucking l-lecture.” The criminal hissed, clenching their jaw to bite their tongue. “I’m a villain, i-it’s what I do.”

Hero’s attention strayed from the conversation, head filing through first-aid reciprocals as they walked casually towards their kitchen. Opening the top right cupboard and pulling out the medical kit before turning back—almost robotically—and dropping it by the villain’s side.

They snatched it up faster than the speed of light, taking their advantage while the hero was friendly enough to offer it. They weren’t going to test their luck at seeing how long until the other would pry it back from their hands, dangling it above their head while they struggled to stay alive. Villain shivered, they wouldn’t push it, they needed the help.

Swallowing the lump in their throat as their shaky hands peeled back the layers of their suit to reach the wound, Villains eyes watched their enemy intently. The way their eyes were blank, their movements heavy and accounted for, head lulled slightly forwards as well as a hunch in their spine as they sat back down on the couch.

“You look l-like shit.”

The crime-stopper didn’t react. Villain wasn’t even sure if they had been heard.

Speeding through the rest of their stitches and patchwork, once Villain was semi-sure they wouldn’t rip and their bandages would hold, they stood up. Making sure to avoid any pressure on their bad ankle as they hobbled to the hero’s kitchen with the open first-aid kit.

They zipped the bag closed after they had shoved everything inside and dumped it under the sink. Hero would find it if they needed it, just might take them a second or two.

It only took a brief once over of the hero’s food supply for the villain to pull out their phone, dialling the nearest take-out place they could find. “I’m ordering pizza.”

“That’s not agency approved for my diet—” Villain was practically relieved at the provoked reaction from their nemesis.

Still alive. Barely.

“I don’t give a fuck. I’m buying pizza and you’re going to eat it.” Stepping over to the couch they placed their phone on the back of it, balancing the screen on the plush pillows. Their—now free—hands made their way to the Hero’s shoulders, gently and carefully kneading at the muscles. “And you’re going to be grateful and pretend to like it no matter what, understood?”

Hero couldn’t repress the way their mouth watered or their stomach grumbled at the thought. “I hate you.”

And the line finally picked up.

#Oooo #hehehee #im dyinggg #hero #villain #hero x villain #villain x hero #heroes #villains #hero and villain #villain and hero #heroes and villains #villains and heroes #heroes x villains #villains x heroes #two caretakers #two whumpees #multiple caretakers #multiple whumpees #whumpee #caretaker #hero whump #villain whump #villain whumpee #hero whumpee #hero caretaker #villain caretaker

[happy-beeeps]

Stay.

Summary: When the weight of loss is too heavy for Wolffe to hold, you do your best to shoulder it for him.

WC: 1.1k

Pairing: Wolffe x gn!reader

CW: mentions of death, angst, loss, grieving, alcohol, brief descriptions of canon typical violence

It’s raining when he first shows up. The kind of rain that batters against your transparisteel windows and flashes lightning bright across your room in shattered, drawn out chunks. The concept of having such violent storms with an artificial weather system never really made sense to you, but you supposed whoever’s job it was to run it needed something to spice it up.

The 104th isn’t due to come to Coruscant until the morning, if they were lucky they’d be in late in the evening, and by the time Wolffe had finished briefings and set his gear down, it would be beyond reasonable hours to sneak his way to you. Instead, you did your very best to keep yourself busy, pouring yourself a glass of wine and tidying up your apartment. You’d taken his whole shore leave off of work, and you planned to spend it however he wanted. Wolffe wasn’t overly fond of crowds, but you’d spent dates at 79’s, Dex’s, or just in bed, wrapped up in each other and an overly fluffy comforter.

You allowed the fond memories to swim past your eyes–anything to not think about the fact that you hadn’t heard from him in nearly three rotations.

It wasn’t unusual, his squad was elite, stealthy. It didn’t make it any easier.

There’s another thundercrack, another spray of rain–then raps on your door. The unmistakable sound of hands on the smooth durasteel of your apartment door.

He’s not supposed to be here yet, you check your chrono to confirm. You haven’t even gotten a sip of your wine, and it’s only a few hours away from the dead of night, and there’s still no message from him. Still, it’s a knock at the door, and you’ve been to know to forget you’ve been shopping on the holo until a parcel arrives days later.

When you do finally make your way to the door–the knocks are incessant and quickening, and you hit your solicitor with a bitter “hold on a second!”--you throw it open, hair out of place and mouth pouting at the intrusion.

Wolffe… Wolffe is here. In front of you. In one piece, though accompanied by scratches and cuts, only a few with bacta patches or stitches. His shoulders are slunk low down his back, and he looks like he’s gripping your door jam for dear life.

He doesn’t say anything, not even when you murmur his name in surprise, eyes shooting up and almost welling with tears at the sight of him. He says nothing, but collapses into your arms in one fell motion, gripping your frame tight in his arms, tight enough that it nearly hurts, and sobs.

You’dve sooner bet on a rookie podracer from Mon Cala to win the Boonta Eve Classic than you’d expect to hear Wolffe sob. Now, you’d do anything to make it end. The sound makes you let out tears that threatened to spill from your eyes, and you understand the gravity of this past mission, and you hold him closer. Someone didn’t make it back.

You guide him backwards into your apartment and the door slides shut behind you, and in the stillness of the room he breaks even more, moving to sink down to his knees. You meet him, gripping him even closer, whispering quiet coos and “I’m here’s.” After what feels like eons of suffering, you’re in pain even thinking about how much pain he must be experiencing, he pulls back to look at you. His hands grip each of your cheeks, and you mirror his actions.

You attempt to lighten the mood. “I see two hands, two legs, two feet, one eye. I’ve got you back in one piece.”

He smiles but then shuts his eyes and shudders. “It should’ve been me. I’m the Commander. I’ve let them down.”

“Wolffe, stop, what do you mean? You came home, there’s no way you let anyone down.”

“No, you don’t get it,” he’s shaking his head now, gripping your face gently but with more pressure, as if he’s assuring himself he’s actually here. “They didn’t make it back.”

“Who, Wolffe who?”

His eyes are wide, tears escaping from even his mechanical eye–something you didn’t even know was possible–when he starts. “Mesh’la… Everyone.”

You don’t know how to respond. It feels like the wind has been sucked out of your chest with a vacuum. The tears are slowing now, you know no one hates to cry like Wolffe does, but he just looks numb. Lost. For nearly the first time in your relationship, you really don’t know what to do.

So you do your best.

It’s late, still raining, but you don’t care. You grab two ponchos from the closet by your door and drag Wolffe to the garage connected to your apartment. Your speeder, a sleek white with no roof, has often been your confidant when Wolffe was away. Maybe it will work with him.

The rain is pelting both of you when you peel out of the garage, blurring into the ever constant traffic of Coruscant. You like to fly, not recklessly, not fast, but just the monotony of flying keeps you focused. It’s easy to focus on nothing else but the lanes of traffic and the people around you. You’d contemplated letting Wolffe fly but decided against it—a decision you’re grateful for when you glance out the corner of your eye and see the way his knuckles whiten around their grip on your thigh, or how he stares so intensely out at the busy city.

You say nothing to him, and he says nothing to you. What is there to say to someone who just lost not only his brothers, but his squad. You know it isn’t his fault, there’s genuinely no way he could’ve avoided this, but you know he doesn’t feel that way. He’s going to bare those deaths of his brothers on his shoulders for the rest of his life, and you’ve taken your job to help carry the burden.

You finally ease into a slow, rounding descent towards your garage, and just before the neon bleeds out into the darkness of the space he murmurs out, quietly, “Thank you.”

The walk back to your apartment is still, but there’s less of the uneasiness of before. The weight is there, and it will be forever, but you think he’ll learn to carry it.

He’s quiet, shifting on his feet in front of your door. “I should go.”

“Or you could stay a little longer?”

And he does. Following your invitation he follows your hand back into your apartment, to your bed, and into your arms. You spend the rest of the evening tracing small circles onto his back and finally, when you’re certain he’s drifted asleep, you let yourself weep, thanking the maker that Wolffe came home.

#star wars #commander wolffe x f!reader #commander wolffe x you #wolffe x reader #commander wolffe x reader #wolffe #commander Wolffe x gnreader #tcw fic