#Canopies In London | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

gloomwitchwrites · 7 months ago

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Tattoo Artist Simon "Ghost" Riley x Female Reader

Chapter Specific Warnings: canon-typical swearing, suggestive themes, hand job, oral sex (male receiving), cum swallowing, vaginal fingering, dirty talk

Word Count: 5.3k

A/N: Part Fifteen of Ink & Needle

You and Simon start the trip he's been wanting to take you on. Simon thinks he sees a familiar face.

Chapter Fourteen // Chapter Sixteen

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

It takes Simon a week to move his schedule around.

He wanted things to be smoothed out sooner, but sometimes rescheduling takes patience and careful planning. This is why he needs a second person just to keep the scheduling fucking handled. Simon is an organized person, especially when it comes to his work, but even he is beginning to slip.

Simon makes a mental note.

Create a fucking job listing for a goddamn personal assistant.

He runs his tongue over his teeth and then sighs. Simon is only lying to himself. He likes to handle things on his own which is why he was so effective during his military career. Not that he can’t work with a team, just that his skill set lends itself to independence.

Turning off the main lights and securing the deadbolts, Simon activates the alarm system and does a once over to make sure everything is in its place. For the next five days, 141 Ink will be closed to the public.

He’ll be with you. In Scotland.

Simon takes the stairs to his flat two at a time with Bravo on his heels. From his pocket, Simon withdraws his lighter and a cigarette, stepping out onto the sorry excuse of a balcony. The wood is starting to rot in places. Really, he should just tear it down and start fresh, but London has fucking rules about construction.

And Simon is too damn stubborn to deal with bureaucratic nonsense just to replace some wood.

In the dark, he ignites the end of the cigarette, the orange-red glow flaring before receding. He inhales deeply and savors the comforting burn in his lungs.

While Simon dislikes changing around his work schedules, this isn’t really about him. This is about you and what you need. Simon only managed to keep you with him for a few days. You’re too headstrong sometimes, especially when you care about something. While Simon admires that about you, it’s only going to drive you toward burnout.

Those few days were not enough. You were soft and present with him, but you need a proper break away from London and the life you’re building here. Simon escorted you home afterward and all he wanted was to draw you back to him, to keep you even for a few more seconds.

That is, you need a break from the temporary life you’re building here in London.

Simon has to keep telling himself that. You’re not a citizen. Eventually you’ll have to leave or attempt to extend your visa but that isn’t guaranteed. What then? Is Simon willing to let you go?

The answer comes immediately.

No.

He’d rather relive every second of physical therapy, all the fucking medical appointments, and his forced retirement then let you slip away again.

You’re his now. You’re his woman. There is nothing that will keep him from you from this point on.

Simon takes a long drag of his cigarette as the November air slips in to cool his skin beneath his leather jacket.

Johnny keeps badgering Simon about Christmas and if he plans on joining. He always does, but he wants to know if he can bring you along. This time when Simon called Johnny about his family’s cottage up in the Highlands, Johnny lent it to him without question.

But when Johnny asked about him coming to see the family for holiday, Simon shrugged it off. Johnny didn’t seem too worried but Simon also didn’t bring you up at all. Yet it doesn’t mean shit, and Simon just needs to get through these next few days before he even brings it up with Johnny.

Bringing you to the MacTavish farm to meet everyone makes this real.

Solid.

Like Redwood trees.

You will make a home in Simon’s branches. Relax beneath his canopy. Be protected under his shade.

Bravo whines, and Simon glances down at the dog, the domestic longing evaporating like the smoke from the end of his cigarette.

“Ready for a sleepover?” asks Simon, putting out his cigarette and heading back inside.

Bravo’s ears perk up and his tail starts to rotate like a helo’s blades. Simon snorts and reaches down to scratch between Bravo’s ears.

Simon loves Bravo but he is not taking the dog with him. He’s going to pick you up tonight and Simon is dropping Bravo off when he does. Originally, Simon planned on having Gaz watch him, but Amelia suggested that he leave Bravo with her.

Saves Simon a fucking trip.

Everything is coming together, and maybe—just maybe—the two of you can move this relationship into something stable. Because regardless of his obsession, Simon wants peace. He loves the tattoo parlor and his flat and Bravo. But it’s not enough.

Simon is not fulfilled. Not really.

He needs you.

As it stands, you’re not entirely his. Simon needs to claim everything. He might have your heart and your smile and your lips, but he is a possessive creature. Simon wants to ruin everyone else for you. That you will only ever beg for him, to desire him as much as he constantly craves you.

As Simon checks over the large duffle bag he packed for the tip, his mind drifts into the memories of the last few days.

That morning in the shower, Simon nearly lost his head. He knew what you wanted by the way you had arched your back and how your hand palmed him. He was ready to push you up against the shower wall and fuck the life out of you. But Simon fought off the urge even though it clawed at his ribcage.

He can still recall your lips against his skin, and the playful way you covered your eyes to not see his face. You’re always thinking of him. Not pushing. Allowing Simon to give pieces of himself to you when he’s ready.

Hiding all this from me? You’ve been holding out on me, Simon.

Simon stands in the middle of his bedroom grinning like a bloody idiot.

When it comes to you, he’s absolutely fucked.

Simon zips up the duffle bag before changing out of his work clothes. With it being November, it’ll be too fucking cold to take the bike. He’ll need to wait for a nicer day, but he also has no gear for you to wear. Just a helmet, and that isn’t enough to protect you.

He switches into joggers, trainers, a long-sleeved shirt, and a black sip-up hoodie with a fleece interior. If Simon is driving, he wants to be bloody comfortable.

Simon grabs the duffle and lifts it, hauling it over his shoulder.

“Let’s go, Bravo.”

The German Shepard rolls up and onto his feet, trotting happily beside Simon. Descending the rear staircase, Simon exits into the alleyway behind the building. Attached to the back of the building is a small garage but it’s not automatic. It’s manual.

Simon unlocks it and twists the handle lifting the door up enough that it ascends on its own. Popping the trunk, Simon tosses the duffle in and Bravo jumps inside.

Simon is in the driver’s seat of his SUV and to Amelia’s in less than a minute.

It’s after dinner but that was the plan. He wants to avoid traffic, and driving late at night has always calmed him.

You answer the door, and when your gaze falls on Simon his heart drops into his stomach. From there it explodes outward, every limb in his body tingling with pleasure. You’re grinning, nearly glowing.

Your gaze runs up and down his body before settling on his face. “You’re not wearing the balaclava.”

Simon blinks, his hand starting to rise to feel the balaclava’s absence.

“You’re right. I’m not,” he agrees, forcing his hand back to his side. He forgot to put it on, which is odd since he’s always remembered in the past. “You packed?”

“I am,” you reply, lifting the bag in your hand. Before you can drop it, Simon reaches out and snags it.

Your features change, morphing into indignation as if you’re going to protest. Simon smirks and shakes his head.

“Go on, Bravo,” instructs Simon, nodding his head in the direction of the house.

Bravo greets you with a tail wag before disappearing inside. Moments later, Simon hears Amelia’s delighted yell.

“I’ll take good care of him, Simon!” she calls from somewhere in the house.

You start to turn to call back but Simon shoves his way in. “We’ll be back on Wednesday!” he replies, before filling the entire space with his bulky frame.

You’re not able to move around him, and instead step out onto the front stoop. Simon did that on purpose. You’re acting tough like his actions annoyed you, but he notices the soft way you submit to him. If you were truly upset, you’d say something, but you’re walking toward the SUV with a little skip in your step.

At the car, Simon adds your bag to the trunk but he’s not fast enough to open the passenger door for you. You’re already sitting inside by the time he comes around to the driver’s side.

When Simon opens the door and hops in, starting the car, the reality of the situation sets in.

This is it. This is fucking happening.

Simon glances at you and you greet him with a lovely smile. He could bottle the way you look at him up and drink it down like his favorite whiskey.

“We’re driving?” you ask, briefly glancing around the interior.

“We are,” answers Simon as he checks for oncoming cars, before pulling out from his parking spot.

“Why aren’t we flying?” You’re not asking because you’re confused, you’re asking because you’re probing. Simon never said where he planned on taking you for this trip.

Simon makes a turn. “I hate planes.”

“You hate planes?” you reply, amusement in your tone.

Briefly, Simon’s brain draws forth a memory of when he was handed the controls of a helo and they nearly lost Kyle from Simon’s erratic steering. Gaz has never allowed Simon to forget it.

“Why are you smiling?” you laugh, your eyebrows slightly raised in question.

“Better to stay on the ground,” says Simon, remembering how Price also lost is cigar during that and how bloody pissed off he was about it.

“And what about a train?”

Again, you’re inquiring instead of outright asking.

Simon shrugs. “Not in control.”

Your lips purse but you settle back into your seat, gaze turning toward the passenger door window.

Getting out of London is the hardest part. Everything is packed together, and sometimes traffic doesn’t cease even in the evening which is why Simon wanted to leave after dinner. Once the two of you are out of London, it’ll be much easier to drive up to Edinburgh without having to constantly stop.

Simon spends most of his time muttering obscenities under his breath as he navigates traffic. You don’t interrupt his concentration. Instead, you watch on, clearly amused by Simon’s attitude to everyone around him.

It isn’t until the car exits the bounds of the London metropolitan area that Simon finally takes a fucking breath. Reaching into the center console, Simon snags his lighter and a cigarette.

“Care if I smoke?”

You shake your head. “Not at all.”

With the filter end between his teeth, Simon clicks open the lighter. The little flame pops up but Simon doesn’t light the cigarette. “No fight?”

You glance at him, the corner of your mouth twitching upward. “Would you like an argument?”

Simon brings the flame to the end of the cigarette. Inhales. Clicks off the lighter and tosses it back into the console. The smoke disappears out the cracked car window.

“Maybe,” he replies, voice slightly husky.

You shift in the passenger seat, twisting to face him. “Simon.”

“Yes, love,” he purrs, enjoying the chastising sweetness in your tone.

“Smoking is harmful.”

“Is it?” He takes another drag of his cigarette.

You nod, leaning one forearm against the middle armrest. “Yes. What if you get lung cancer?”

“Who says that will happen?”

“Literally every doctor.”

Simon laughs and shakes his head. “Don’t worry your pretty little head about that.”

Your mouth opens in feigned shocked. “Are you telling me how I should feel, Simon?”

He shifts slightly in his seat. This is fun. He likes this. “Not at all, love. But I think I know how to put that mouth to other uses.”

This time your mouth remains open, the shock genuine.

Simon keeps going. “Seems like you already know what to do.”

You promptly shut your mouth. Simon watches as the heat rushes to your face.

Sweet fucking victory.

He takes a final drag on the cigarette and rids himself of the extinguished stub. Returning that hand to the steering wheel, Simon removes the other one, resting it against his thigh. He slides that hand up and down before lightly tapping.

“Come here, sweetheart,” purrs Simon. “Show me what you do with that mouth.”

You immediately smack his arm and Simon bursts out laughing. You’re laughing too but he knows his words stirred something within you. You keep touching your cheek as if you’re feverish.

“You’re terrible, Simon Riley,” you say right before you reach for the water bottle in the cup holder.

He waits until you’re taking a drink. “You won’t think that when I have you on my cock.”

You splutter around the bottle and smack his arm again. Closing the lid, you return the bottle and clear your throat. “When are we supposed to arrive to this mystery place?”

You’re changing the subject again, likely probing for more information. It’s not like it’s some big secret. Simon just wanted it to be a surprise, but there really isn’t any reason to be allusive about it anymore.

Simon shrugs. “It’s about a seven-hour drive to where we’re headed.”

“Seven hours? Where the fuck are you taking me?” You appear genuinely concerned.

He knows why, and Simon quickly attempts to extinguish the rising anxiety. “Evie and Amelia will be fine without you for a few days.”

You sigh. “I know. I’m just—”

The worry lines are back and Simon hates that. You’re always so concerned for others. Always thinking of everyone but yourself.

Reaching out, Simon clasps your hand and squeezes. “We’re going to Scotland.”

“Really?” This time, he hears the pleasure in your voice, and Simon’s chest swells with pride.

“Edinburgh first for a day. Then we’re heading out into the Highlands. Johnny’s family has a small farm up there with a little cottage.”

“Johnny?”

Fuck. You don’t really know the guys. You briefly met them once when Simon nearly punched Adam in the face.

Simon swallows before he speaks. “He was at the pub with me when you were with…Adam.”

“I see,” you reply softly.

“They’ll be gone. Johnny’s family. And the cottage is on the edge of the property.”

Your thumb brushes over the back of Simon’s hand. “So, we’ll be alone?”

“We will,” answers Simon, every muscle in his body tensing.

You nod, still clutching his hand, as you lean further against your seat. “What kind of farm is it?”

Simon glances at you briefly before returning his attention to the road. “It’s not like what you’re used to in America. Johnny’s mother has a little greenhouse but they mostly raise animals.”

“Like what?”

“They have some pigs. Sheep.” Simon shrugs. “Fluffy coos.” He says “cow” the same way Johnny does.

A few Christmases ago when Gaz came, Simon and Kyle watched the fluffy beasts from a distance as Johnny tried to wrangle a few back toward one of the enclosures. They offered their assistance but Johnny was adamant he didn’t need their help. He was face down in the mud with bare ass up in the air after only a few minutes.

Your eyes go wide and you sit up a bit straighter. “Can I pet them?”

“With supervision,” says Simon knowing that while the animals are docile and gentle creatures, their horns can easily harm.

This appears acceptable because you snuggle into your seat.

Two hours in, and you’re asleep.

Simon smokes. Drives. Smokes again.

Occasionally, Simon glances in your direction just to make sure you’re still there. For some reason his brain keeps insisting that you’ll disappear if he looks away for too long. You’ll transform into smoke and drift out of the car just like the smoke he exhales from his lungs.

There are roughly three more hours left before arriving in Edinburgh. While most places don’t allow late check-ins, the little hotel Simon plans on taking you to for the night made an exception for him.

By the third hour, Simon is entirely focused on the road. You have not drifted into the air. You are solid and real and asleep in the passenger seat. A calmness settles over him. Everything is as it should be.

So, when Simon feels the weight of your hand against his thigh, he doesn’t think much of it. He drops one hand from the steering wheel intending to reach out to grasp your hand with his own. Yet you do no linger there. Your hand slides upward and Simon’s temporary calmness morphs into understanding.

Fuck.

Fucking hell.

“What are you up to, love?” says Simon softly, returning his hand to the steering wheel.

There is a schedule, and while your hand resting on the outside of his joggers over his dick is a temptation he doesn’t want to resist, the two of you can’t stray far.

“Do you want me to stop?” There is a raspy quality to your voice like you’ve just woken from sleep. Perhaps you have, and in that state of wakefulness, your brain decided that this is a good idea.

But there is also lust in your tone. It drips like thick honey.

Now, that? Simon cannot resist that.

“No,” he says, matching your tone as your hand slips beneath the elastic band of his joggers.

Flexing his hips, Simon adjusts in his seat to give you a better angle. When your fingers find him, it’s difficult for Simon to keep his eyes on the road. The tips of your nails gently scratch against his skin before your fingers wrap around him completely.

Your hand is warm, and that first stroke is maddening.

His control is right on a knife’s edge. If Simon glances away from the road, he’ll fucking crash this car. In his peripheral, Simon sees you moving, and even that is hard to withstand. Simon knows that you’re leaning on the center armrest and that you’re looking at him.

Simon knows you are.

Your stare is a brand on his skin.

“This,” you murmur, gently squeezing him. “Is perfect.”

Fuck. He is fucking done for.

The middle of his chest burns as if he is a tree and his core is on fire. The need to be close to you is a lightning strike.

But Simon is fucking driving, and it’s not like he can just pull you into his lap.

“Careful, love,” growls Simon as you start a steady pace. “Might pull over and make you regret this.”

Because that is what Simon wants to do. Find an exit and a quiet parking lot or silent clump of trees.

“Is that a promise?” you breathe as the pad of your thumb brushes over the slit.

Oh, fuck you’re sweet.

So, this is where you’ve been hiding all along. You’ve always had a bit of fire, but this is what he remembers. In Riot Room, you weren’t shy at all. Your words and actions were bold. You opened like a flower in his hands. Bloomed and melted and reformed.

This is the woman who captured all his attention three years ago.

You haven’t changed at all.

“A fucking guarantee,” growls Simon in answer.

You make a little sound in your throat that goes straight to his dick. He is throbbing in your palm, and that only makes Simon’s control thin further. His grip on the steering wheel tightens. The knuckles of his turn white. Even the tattoos on his fingers pale.

You don’t let up. You just bring Simon closer to the edge. He’s not going to last. Not like this, but he sure as hell isn’t going to finish inside his joggers or on the fucking seat like some teenage boy getting his first handy.

No.

Fucking no.

If you’re going to be bold then you’ll take everything that comes with it.

With one hand on the steering wheel, Simon reaches out and grabs the back of your neck. The whimper you make, and the slight squeeze of your hand around his cock nearly causes him to bust right then and there.

“Use that gorgeous mouth and suck me off,” he growls, you tugging your head closer.

Simon isn’t fucking asking. It’s a demand.

Your answer is a playful smile and teasing tone. “You don’t tell me what to do, Simon.”

Simon shakes his head. “Oh, sweetheart, you love it when I tell you what do it.” He briefly glances in your direction before returning his gaze to the road. “Especially when my head is between your legs.”

By your sharp inhale, Simon knows you’re recalling the night when he made you count every orgasm.

“Now,” he says, his exhale stuttering slightly as it releases from him. “Be good. And swallow.”

You reach for him, and Simon lifts his hips a bit. It’s just enough for you to shove the band of his joggers down.

Even then, with his cock out, Simon does not glance away from the road.

Not when you lean forward completely.

Not when his hand fists your hair to keep you in place.

Not even when your mouth suctions around him and you throat him to the fucking root.

But his nostrils flare, and the muscles in his neck and jaw are fucking tight with tension. Every instinct is telling him to pull over, to fuck your luscious mouth, and then drag you into his lap so he can watch you ride his fingers.

That would be bloody perfect. That would be ideal.

Instead, he breathes in and out of his nose, attempting to stifle every groan as your head bobs. One of your hands cups him gently and Simon’s grip in your hair tightens.

“I’m—fuck,” groans Simon.

He feels the resistance of your throat from his instruction and hears the wet sound it makes when his length is entirely too much. You pull back a bit before trying again, and that is fucking it.

Your tongue lightly grazes against the underside of the head, and Simon’s lower half tenses, hips thrusting up slightly to meet you.

And you, like the good girl you are, take every drop.

Thank fuck he turned on the cruise control.

Simon’s fingers slowly unlace from your strands of hair. He’s careful not to tug, and then it’s just a gentle caress as you lift your head.

For a moment—a brief few seconds—Simon is fixated on your puffy, swollen lips. He wants to kiss those lips. To taste himself along with you.

“Eyes on the road, Simon.”

He quickly averts his gaze but still reaches out with his thumb to wipe away the bit of his cum that still slings to the corner of your mouth. Your grab his wrist and bring that thumb to your mouth.

Lips suctioning around it, you suck off that last little drop. When you release his thumb, Simon briefly presses it against your bottom lip.

Simon makes it only a kilometer before he pulls over, pushes his seat back, drags you into his lap, shoves your pants down to your ankles, and has you fucking yourself on his fingers. The hand not between your legs presses against your upper right thigh. His tattooed fingers are slightly curled inward to cling there.

He doesn’t want you moving.

“Come on, love. Grind down on me.”

There is sweat on your brow and it’s beautiful. Your mouth is open, head tilted backward in bliss to expose your throat. Your eyes are heavy-lidded, clearly lost in a lust-laced haze.

With one hand on Simon’s chest and the other on his thigh, you’re a goddess above him. Simon watches his index and middle finger appear and disappear as you use them for your pleasure, rolling your hips in fluid rhythm.

Sure, this is about you, but this is doing plenty for him. He’s fucking hard again just watching your pussy squeeze and stretch in time with your movements. Simon sits up a bit and gently bites your left breast through your shirt.

You whimper and grind down on him like he asks. It’s so sweet the way you come undone. The way your pussy tightens around his fingers. The way you say his name. It’s like you’re asking for more and yet chastising him.

And this is just his fingers inside you.

Soon, you’ll take his cock, and Simon cannot fucking wait to hear the sounds you’ll make then.

Tenderly, Simon eases his fingers from your pussy. They’re glossy. Shiny. And Simon brings them to his mouth to clean just as your head dips forward. Your gaze lands on his face the moment his fingers enter his mouth. Your eyes widen slightly, and Simon takes his time.

He wants you to see.

He wants you to know.

The little detour nearly adds an hour but Simon could give a fuck.

Simon sits smugly while you doze off in the passenger seat. He would have had you continue if he weren’t pressed for time. If Simon had another hour, he would have told you to continue until your legs shook. Even then, he’d simply do the work himself until your voice went hoarse.

By the time Edinburgh is in Simon’s sights, it’s late.

You still haven’t stirred. You’re curled up in the passenger seat and Simon has no idea how you’re comfortable.

When he pulls up to the hotel he booked, Simon decides not to wake you. Finding a parking spot in the little lot to the side of the building, Simon leaves you alone in the car. He’ll check in at the front desk, grab the room key, and then come back for you.

You deserve some sleep.

“Evening, mate,” says Simon to the clerk behind the desk.

It’s an older gentleman whose entire appearance reminds Simon of Ben.

“Evening. You’re,” he checks his little computer, “Mr. Riley?”

“That’s me,” nods Simon.

“Need to see some identification and I’ll square you away.”

Simon hands it over, and then it’s back in his wallet along with a set of keycards. The entire interaction takes less than three minutes.

As Simon exits the building and turns right to head into the little lot, he stops at the first row of cars.

At first, he’s not sure what the fuck he’s looking at.

The small lot is full and there was only one parking spot when Simon pulled up. He took it, not thinking much since the lot itself is well-lit.

But that isn’t the case now.

Several of the lights are out and is that—

No. It fucking can’t be.

Anyone else might mistake the odd lump as a trick of the shadows or even the back of another vehicle. But Simon isn’t mistaken. That is not just shadows playing games or a bad parking job.

That is a person. A man. Leaning against Simon’s SUV.

And he knows that stance, that casual lean that seems aloof but isn’t.

He knows who it belongs to.

Simon bolts, striding toward the SUV with purpose in every step. He loses sight of the back end of the SUV for the briefest second as he crosses over, another large vehicle in the way before it comes back into view.

But there is no one there.

All that training clicks back in like it never left.

Simon approaches slowly, walking around his car once to make sure. He’s completely on alert, his head on a swivel as he scans the area.

There is only you sleeping in the passenger seat.

There is no one else in the lot but Simon fucking checks anyway. He walks both lengths of the lot. Checks every car and corner. He even goes out to the street and back, canvasing further than he likely needs to but doing it anyway.

But he was so sure there was someone there.

He’s back, Simon.

No. What Simon saw was a fucking illusion. An old memory surfacing. That fucker—that waste of human—is in America. He isn’t here.

Unlocking the trunk, Simon removes both bags, tossing one over either shoulder. Then he’s at your door opening it, reaching out to gently shake you awake.

“We’re here.”

You groan softly and grab his hand. Simon keeps you closely tucked against him all the way to the room because it’s the only thing that keeps his hands from shaking.

Once you’re both inside the hotel room, Simon helps you out of your clothes.

“Want to shower?” he asks and you shake your head, rubbing at your eyes.

Simon offers you one of his shirts and you put it on. It’s all he can do for you before you plop onto the bed. You wiggle a bit and then finally dive under the covers, completely disappearing.

Once you’re settled, Simon checks the door and the two windows. Everything is locked and secure. There is no reason for him to panic like this.

Simon rubs at his face before sighing softly and stripping down to his boxer briefs. Sleep is what he needs. It’s what you both need.

And it is Simon who wakes first, the faintest bit of stress still lingering at his temples. But Simon isn’t one for sleeping in or even staying in bed once he’s awoken. You’re still snoozing, just a tangle of hair above the covers and nothing else.

Simon orders breakfast, and when you do wake up, it arrives.

“This all for us?” you yawn, stretching your arms over your head.

“We’re exploring today,” replies Simon, bring the espresso cup to his lips. While tea is his usual beverage of choice, he needs some fucking caffeine.

You plop down onto your side and then slowly roll over until you bump into him. Simon arches an eyebrow as you sit up. Instead of reaching for the food, you reach for him, fingers tangling in his hair as you tug him down to meet you.

Your lips find his and the heat of that kiss goes straight to his toes.

“You need to fucking brush your teeth.”

“Simon, I fucking swear—”

“Kiss your mother with that mouth?”

You roll your eyes, pulling away, but Simon is moving with you, pressing you into the bed, slotting himself between your legs.

“Let’s stay here,” you murmur after a few more kisses.

“While I’d love to stay right here,” says Simon, emphasizing his words by pressing himself against your sex. “We have things to do today.”

“Do we?”

“Don’t want to explore the city with me?” counters Simon, wrapping you up in his arms only to haul you back up to a seated position.

“You know I do, Simon,” you reply softly, fingers brushing lightly against the line of his jaw. “That’s not even a question.”

Simon rubs your back before disentangling himself. “Then eat,” he says, pointing to the feast he ordered because he panicked and decided on one of everything.

He pushes off the bed, his bad knee aching slightly. Simon stretches into it, covering up the limp before he straightens up. You don’t notice, too busy buttering up some toast with lots of jam.

Five days.

He has five days with you.

Simon is about to savor every second.

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brightlight-dazzlingeyes · 3 days ago

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caught in the middle | charles leclerc

🎸 synopsis: After a rainy concert in London, you end up sharing burgers backstage with Charles Leclerc, of all people. tags: rockstar life, talks about fame & pressure (written in 2nd person but no mention of yn) | (around 2.4k words)

It’s one of those nights. You can feel the rain before you even hear it, the weight of it pressing down from the clouds, and you just know it’s going to pour. And it does. Hard. The London sky opens up as if it’s got something personal against you, and you’re huddled under a canopy behind the venue, watching as water cascades down. Everything’s soaked – the equipment, the crew, you – and the mood is tense, all nerves and curses muttered under breath because, of course, this is how the night’s going to go.

It’s not your first time here. You’ve played this venue before, two or three times over the years, and every time it feels a little different. A little bigger, like the walls have expanded to swallow more people, like the stage gets higher and the lights hotter. And tonight, it’s not just the rain; it’s a mess of last-minute technical problems. Something about the lighting rig not syncing up, and the sound checks running late because of a blown amp, and the stage crew rushing around to patch things together while you pace the green room, wondering if it’s all going to fall apart before it even begins.

Your tour manager’s in your ear, reassuring you that everything’s fine, but you’ve heard that line before, and it does nothing to stop the nervous twist in your gut. You’re too old for this kind of anxiety, you think. 25 isn’t even that old, but then why does it feel like you’re walking a tightrope every time you hit the stage? Like you’re one wrong move away from everything crashing down. You watch the rain from the window, and it reminds you of all the other times you’ve felt this way, every tour and every city bleeding together in your memory.

Something shifts. It’s hard to say when exactly it happens – maybe it’s when the crew finally gives you the thumbs-up, or when the rain lets up just enough for you to see the crowd gathering through the fogged-up glass. Maybe it’s the hum of the bass vibrating through the walls or the way the adrenaline suddenly kicks in, hot and electric. Either way, you hear them out there, the crowd – muffled cheers and a murmur that swells and dips, building anticipation, wrapping itself around your chest and squeezing until you can barely breathe.

You don’t let yourself think about it too much. You go through the motions, pulling on your jacket, checking the setlist one more time even though you’ve memorized it, cracking jokes with the band like it’s any other night, and then it’s time. The stage manager is waving you over, and you take one last deep breath – just one – before you step out into the hallway that leads to the stage. Your footsteps echo, and the noise from the crowd grows louder. You can feel the heat of the lights before you even see them, hear the opening notes of the intro track rumbling through the speakers. You don’t look back. You can’t.

Then the crowd sees you, and the roar that goes up is like nothing else. It’s everything, like you’re not standing on a stage but flying, unstoppable, and the rain outside doesn’t matter, the equipment issues don’t matter. Nothing matters except the music, the energy.

You start singing. You don’t even remember starting, but your fingers are on the strings of your guitar and the music’s pouring out of you, and the band’s right there with you. You can feel the floor vibrating beneath your feet, the beat pounding in your chest. It’s perfect, even in its imperfections – the missed cues, the notes you almost fumble but catch at the last second, the feedback that whines for half a beat before it’s smothered. The adrenaline burns through you until you can’t tell where you end and the music begins.

When you look out at the crowd, you wonder if they know what it costs, if they can see how hard you’re fighting to hold onto this, to keep the dream alive even when it feels like it’s slipping away.

You hit the chorus and they’re all singing with you, the sound so loud it’s almost deafening, and it’s like the world stops. You’re not thinking about the rain or the mistakes or the way your fingers ache from playing the same chords over and over. You’re just feeling it, the connection, the rush, the way it all comes together for just a few minutes.

You stumble off stage, still feeling the echo of the last note ringing in your ears, your chest heaving with each breath. The heat’s oppressive, and your shirt is damp with sweat, sticking to your back in a way that makes you want to peel it off. You’re half-drunk on adrenaline, on the sound of the crowd still buzzing through the walls, and you don’t even realize you’re smiling until someone hands you a water bottle and you chug it down in three desperate gulps, nearly doubling over from the effort.

The band’s all around you, slapping your back, bumping shoulders, shouting half-coherent things like “Killed it tonight!” and “Best show yet!” But you’re only half-listening, already thinking about the part that comes next. The part that’s always a little awkward, a little forced, where you shake the hands of strangers who got lucky or know the right people or just happened to win some contest. You try to give them a moment to remember, even when you’re exhausted, even when all you really want is a quiet corner to catch your breath. You take a second to steady yourself, push your damp hair out of your eyes, and head toward the meet-and-greet area, already pasting on that familiar, practiced smile.

They’re waiting for you when you get there, clustered in small groups, some with wide-eyed grins, some pretending they’re not as excited as they are. You go through the motions – handshakes, hugs, quick photos with flashing phones that make your vision blur. You ask them how they liked the show, where they came from, if they’ve seen you play before. You keep the rhythm going until your attention snags on someone standing a little apart from the crowd, someone you haven’t seen around before.

He’s got the kind of beauty that makes him stand out, even though he’s just standing there, hands in the pockets of a jacket. And you know him. Of course, you do – how could you not? It’s Charles Leclerc, the one and only. But you’re the rock star here, and you know how to play it cool.

You step forward, hand outstretched, because if you think too much about it, you’ll probably lose your nerve. “Hey,” you say, your voice a little rough from the show, from the yelling and the singing and the way the night’s adrenaline still hasn’t quite worn off. “Nice to meet you.”

His handshake is firm, warm, and he’s got this smile that’s just a little shy, like he’s not used to being on this side of the spotlight, which makes you feel weirdly better. Less alone. “Nice to meet you,” he echoes, his accent softer than you expected, “I’m a big fan.”

You almost choke. Me too, you want to say, because you’ve followed his career, but you don’t. You just nod, feeling your own grin stretching wider than it should, because it’s not every day you meet someone who’s famous in their world, too, and suddenly you’re a little self-conscious, wondering if you’re as cool as you think you are.

“Glad you liked the show,” you say, keeping it light, like he’s just another fan, even though he’s not. Not really.

He laughs, easy and low, and you notice the way he shifts his weight, like he’s trying to find the right thing to say but doesn’t want to come off too eager. “It was incredible,” he says, and he sounds like he means it. “I’ve been listening to your music for years. This… this was something else.”

“Thanks,” you say, feeling your cheeks warm, and you hope he can’t see it in the low backstage lighting. “Means a lot, coming from you.” It slips out before you can stop it, and you watch his eyebrows lift, surprise passing over his face like he wasn’t expecting you to know who he was.

The rest of the band finally notices him and they’re quick to be all over him. They’re his fans and unlike you, they’re not afraid to show it. They start asking about the car and which race is the hardest, and you just hang back, watching the way Charles lights up, giving them all the attention they’re craving.

The chaos dies down. The gear’s mostly packed up, the roadies are winding down, and you can finally breathe. The routine kicks in – the same one you always follow after a show because you need the familiarity to settle the adrenaline that’s still coursing through you.

There’s a table in the corner of the greenroom piled high with burgers, fries, and the kind of greasy comfort food that’s become your go-to post-show ritual. Always enough for everyone – staff, guests, even the hangers-on who just happened to have a backstage pass.

It’s your thing, the one you look forward to when the crowd’s roar has faded and the lights have gone down. You grab a burger – double patty, extra cheese, because you’ve earned it – and motion to Charles, who’s still lingering near the door. “Hey,” you say, nodding toward the food. “You hungry? There’s more than enough.”

He hesitates, just for a second, then nods. “Yeah, sure. Thanks.”

By the time you’ve both got food in your hands and the staff’s scattered around the room in little groups, you find yourselves at the same worn-out couch in the far corner, away from the noise and the half-empty beer bottles littering the floor. He sits beside you, and you try not to think too hard about the way the couch dips slightly under his weight, the way the space between you feels strangely intimate now that you’re not surrounded by people.

You don’t talk for a while, just eat. He’s halfway through his burger when he speaks first, voice low and casual like he’s picking up a conversation you weren’t sure you’d started. “Do you ever get tired of it?”

You pause mid-bite, looking at him, surprised by the question. He’s looking at you like he’s not sure if he’s crossed a line. And maybe he has, but in a good way.

“Sometimes,” you admit, chewing thoughtfully. “Depends on the night. Some shows, it’s like I’m not even really there, just... going through the motions. Others, it’s everything I wanted since I was a kid, you know?”

He nods, his eyes dropping to the burger in his hands. “Yeah, I get that. Racing’s the same. Some days, it’s all instinct and adrenaline. Other times, it’s like you’re fighting just to stay in the car, like you’re not even sure why you’re doing it.”

You nod back. “Guess it’s hard to keep loving something when it feels more like a job than... whatever it was in the beginning.”

Charles looks up, and there’s something almost wistful in his eyes. “Yeah. But it’s harder to imagine doing anything else. Even when it’s rough.”

You get that. You’ve lived that – the way the music’s a part of you, the way you keep coming back even when you think you’re done. You take another bite, chewing slowly, letting the words sink in before you say, “Sometimes I wonder if I missed my chance to be something else. Like, what if I’d taken a different path, you know?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he leans back against the couch. “Yeah,” he says eventually, voice quiet. “But then I think about the people I’ve met, the places I’ve been... and I don��t know if I’d trade any of it, even the bad parts.”

It hits you harder than you expect, because that’s exactly it – the good, the bad, the stuff in between that keeps you tethered even when you’re not sure why. You swallow, feeling a lump in your throat. “Yeah,” you say softly, staring at the half-eaten burger in your hand. “I think I get that.”

He shifts beside you, turning a little, and you can feel his gaze on the side of your face. “I used to think I’d have it all figured out by now,” he admits, and there’s a vulnerability there that makes your chest ache. “Like, when I was younger, I thought there’d be this moment where everything would make sense. But it never really does.”

You let out a breath, nodding slowly. “Me too,” you say. “I mean, when I was a kid, I thought I’d be this – ” you wave your hand vaguely, gesturing to the greenroom, the music, the life you’re living “ – and it’s great. Don’t get me wrong, but... I still don’t know if I’m doing it right.”

He laughs, a quiet, almost sad sound, and shakes his head. “I don’t think anyone knows if they’re doing it right. Maybe that’s the point. Just... keep going, even when you don’t know what’s next.”

There’s a silence that stretches between you, but it’s not uncomfortable. You take another bite, and he does too, and for a moment, it’s enough just to sit there, side by side, caught between what you were and what you might be, both of you knowing you’re not alone in the uncertainty.

“Hey,” you say suddenly, breaking the quiet, “at least we get good burgers out of it, right?”

He laughs, and this time it’s real, bright, and warm, and you can’t help but join in. “Yeah,” he agrees, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Guess that’s something.”

And it is.

#f1 fanfic #formula 1 fanfic #formula 1 x reader #charles leclerc x reader #charles leclerc fanfic #f1 x you #brightlightwrites

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classic80sand90smovieloves2 · 25 days ago

Text

Meeting and Courting Dracula

(Not my gif)(Requested by inference and the will of the winds)

(This one really got me feeling like a pathetic hopeless romantic. Hope you enjoy)

- He frightens you when you first meet him: like a phantom in broad daylight, a living shadow that contorts and disappears with the changing of the clouds above you. You blame yourself for nearly running into him, disregarding the fact that there’d been nothing in front of you mere moments earlier; that you were alone under the canopy of trees until you very suddenly weren’t.

- You’re struck dumb by his sudden appearance, your heart dropping down into your stomach as his eyes meet yours, the blue of them so deep and intense that you struggle to pull yourself away. You apologize quickly once you’re able to get your bearings, swallowing swiftly and moving to step out of his way until he very gently moves in front of you once again.

- His face twists into a smile, gentle and kind and very unlike what you’d initially expected from him. He explains that he’s new to the city as your eyes instinctively flicker back to his own, like there's a magnetic pull between the two of you. For a moment, you wonder if this is normal, if this is what all wealthy gentleman are like, yet your lack of knowledge on the matter only serves to make you feel even more insecure.

- He speaks to you as if you’re on his level, chuckling softly as he admits that he’s a bit lost and asks for directions to a certain attraction that’s been drawing in residents and tourists alike. Your hands twist in the frayed cotton of your working dress as you answer him, pointing out the street that he needs to follow before excusing yourself and walking past him.

- You don’t get very far before he calls out to you again, asking if you’ll join him. You’re compelled to laugh at the idea, part of you wondering if he’s teasing you, though the earnest look on his face and the way that he stands patiently awaiting your answer tells you otherwise.

- His gentle expression never once changes, even as you point out the fact that you’re still dressed in your work uniform and that you look a mess. He merely smiles softly and tells you that he hadn’t noticed, that it’s hard to look anywhere else but at a face as beautiful as yours: and when he assures you that he’d be willing to wait for you if you’d like to go and get changed, you find yourself unable to refuse.

- And so he does, escorting you home with a pleased smile and waiting patiently for you at your gate as your family rushes to scrounge up something suitable for you to wear, rifling through their wardrobes and jewelry boxes in search of something even half as nice as the tailored suit your perceived admirer is wearing. Your hair is combed though ruthlessly and you face is scrubbed violently and the little makeup your family owns is applied as perfectly as humanly possible until you’re deemed beautiful enough to entertain company. And only then are you ushered out of the door to reunite with the man, smiling nervously as he stares at you in awe, complimenting you quietly as you very purposefully walk towards him, willing yourself to relax and not trip over your own feet.

- You feel a bit silly walking alongside him, too distracted by the bustling streets of London and your own self doubt to notice the tender gazes he sends your way or to fully keep up with the occasional questions he tries to ask you. He’s patient however, and smiles at you in reassurance as you apologize nervously for missing whatever he’s trying to say to you, comfortingly insisting that he’d probably be distracted as well if he had to navigate such confusing roads as “these”.

- When you finally do arrive at the attraction, he pays for both your tickets and offers to buy you whatever else you may want: sometimes insisting while other times just gently questioning. A part of you can’t help but wonder why. Wonder what would make him so eager to gift you things and to listen to you speak; especially when you arguably provide such comparably undignified company. You wonder if he’s expecting something from you, something lewd that he thinks he’s owed now that he’s put money into you.

- But by the end of your day together, he simply walks you home, thanking you for your company and asking if he can see you again in the future, taking off his hat and bidding you adieu with a tender, fleeting smile after you assure him that you’d be happy to. When he’s gone, you can’t help but decide that he’s simply lonely and that he’s merely a foreigner who doesn’t care for English customs or status: a thought that sends you to sleep with great relief.

- It isn’t long before you see each other again, whether by coincidence or purposefully made plans. Whenever you do, he continues to be the perfect gentleman: always buying you things and asking you about yourself, seemingly genuinely wanting to get to know you. There’s times where he just keeps asking you about yourself and without even thinking, you manage to spend hours just recounting stories from your past, making you somewhat embarrassed once you realize that you’ve been the only one talking for most of the night. He always just shakes his head and insists that you “weren’t being anything of the sort” and that he wants to hear it whenever you apologize for being so rude, making your heart flutter in your chest.

- You’re not entirely sure when the feeling of your meetings shift from that of friendliness to that of potential lovers. You deny it for some time, not wanting to be presumptuous, but after a while, you’re incapable of calling it anything else. What else do you call a person like him? Someone who admits to finding you beautiful, or adoring your company, or wanting nothing more than to spend time with you and only you whenever you make a stray comment about how he should be making more distinguished acquaintances. If not a suitor, then what?

- A monster, perhaps. That's what your dreams will have you believe. For all the good that he brings to your life, there is still some bad. The world around you feels so strange after he enters it, so foggy and confusing and, at times, so frightening. He acts so oddly at times, misspeaks in ways that leave you confused, makes the air around you turn tense and suffocating at the drop of the hat for no good reason at all.

- And yet, any time there is something off, he’s there to soothe you the very next moment: like a dog laving at the wounds that he alone has inflicted. If you dream of him, his gentle face twisting into something evil and beyond recognition, he looks twice as handsome the next morning and you shake the unpleasant thoughts from your head: and yet, though they’re momentarily lost, they’re never truly forgotten.

- There are times you wonder whether you should refuse to see him again, reasoning that these things never happened to you before he came along. And sometimes you do refuse to see him, ushering him away as politely as possible and making excuses as to why you’re not able to entertain him. Yet you only ever feel worse, your body warm and weak and your mind a fuzzy mess until he visits you again, your parents letting him in as he explains that he was worried over what state you might be in, that he wanted to make sure you were alright. And you are alright, but only once you lay eyes on him, the sight of him clearing away your ailments like the dry cracks of the ground in the rain.

- It’s only a little over a month after you’ve met when he comes to you, sitting you down on the red velvet cushions of a private room warmed by a crackling fireplace, taking your hands as he explains to you that he’s returning to Transylvania and that he wants you to come along with him. That he wishes for your hand in marriage.

- And it all feels so soon and sudden and rushed but as you look into his eyes, you cant help but agree, all of your senses screaming at you to say yes and on a whim, you find yourself nodding your head, nerves bubbling in your chest as you watch a smile stretch across his face. He raises your knuckles to his lips, kissing them excitedly before he leans in and gently kisses you on the lips, promising to make you the happiest woman on earth; distracting you from the fact that it feels like you’ve done all of this before....

- Nevertheless, he surely keeps his promise....

- Public displays of affection have never bothered him. He doesn’t care to create a façade of modesty for the sake of society and it’s newly created customs: and considering the fact that you’re probably living in his castle, it isn’t often that you’re in public anyway. Visitors are scarce in your lives yet even if they do turn up, he doesn’t care either way, showering you with love and affection regardless of whoever may be watching; and coyly blaming it on a difference of culture should they have an issue.

- Although, funnily enough, he tends not to keep hold of you whenever you’re out in public together; not closely at least. He lingers more than he touches: a hand hovering close to you, a delicate grasp of your own, his fingers just barely gracing your spine as he leads you somewhere private, etc.

- Yet, if someone were to peer into the private rooms where the two of you are alone together, they’d find him completely wrapped around you: his arms embracing you from behind, his face close to your own, tender and loving touches, soft caresses, etc.

- Chaste pecks on the lips, kisses sponged across your hairline, soft pecks to your nose and eyelids, etc. He kisses you anywhere he pleases in the moment and oftentimes that means he’s going to kiss you everywhere.

- Passionate and adoring kisses: behind them all are years of yearning; and you can feel as much with the way that he clings to you and steals your breath away. They remain passionate but they soften a bit once he’s certain that you’re his, the overwhelming emotion fading into something a bit more tame and less dizzying; though that doesn’t mean he isn’t capable of giving you equally all-consuming kisses literal centuries after the two of you have been reunited.

- He loves to kiss your neck and journey down your chest, brushing gently against the indentations that are forever embedded in your throat, occasionally leaving a mark in his wake; somewhere only he’s allowed to see.

- Soft caresses and tender holds of your jaw and neck. It’s his favorite place to touch you.

- Hand kisses; particularly when your hands are out of their gloves. *Gasp*.

- You curl yourselves around each other when you go to sleep: your arms and legs intertwined, head pressed close to his chest. Although, before you were turned, he liked to wrap himself around your middle and listen to your heart beating in your chest. He doesn’t turn you until he’s certain that he’s memorized the melody, wanting to remember it for the rest of his immortal life. Sometimes he’d even kneel on the ground between your thighs and embrace you like that, holding you close and calming himself with the steady sound.

- He loves hearing your real name leave his lips more than anything else, but he will call you my beloved, my darling, and dearest one; amongst other old fashioned pet names. He’ll also occasionally call you something in Romanian.

- Dancing together. You’re only lit by candles and surrounded by riches and magic beyond your wildest dreams: and every time you are, you cant help but fear; if only just for a moment, that all of this is just a dream and that you’ll wake up in your old bed alone. But then he smiles down at you, kissing between the slight furrow of your brows and asking what you’re thinking about, and you’re brought back into the unbelievable reality that's become of your life, your fears disappearing in an instant.

- That’s everyday that you spend with the Count: a dream within your waking moments. He creates a heaven on earth for the two of you and there’s nothing that he isn’t willing to do in order to create it for you.

- Gifts. So many gifts. Jewels, gems, jewelry, antique heirlooms, and dresses made of threads and beads beyond what you’ve ever seen before or thought possible. Libraries full of books and aviaries full of birds, rooms full of paintings and exotic flowers from faraway lands; anything you could ever ask for is there in his castle just waiting for you to come home to. He’d lasso you the moon if you asked him to and bring you some extra stars just because.

- Cuddling and walking the beautiful beast he calls a pet. He loves to watch you smile and shower the wolf in affection, burying yourself in it’s soft fur. He can’t bring himself to grow jealous of your love for it, seeing you happy and knowing that you have someone to keep you company during the times in which he cant is like a gift to him.

- Showing him around all of the new world attractions of your town: all the museums and shows and restaurants that you’ve always loved to go to or wanted to go to since you were young.

- He loves to indulge you in experience: bringing you to theaters you could never afford to enter on your own, ballets you always wished to see, trips to places you’d only ever read of, etc. He likes seeing your inner child come out, it makes himself feel youthful.

- The two of you would travel the world together if you wanted to. He’d journey to the end of the earth if you simply asked him to.

- Long goodbyes filled with...well...longing. Even if the two of you know that you’re going to see each other the next day, you can’t help but hate having to part from each other. You’d spend minutes lingering at your gate and gazing into his eyes until your parents inevitably called you inside for the night, your head turning to send him one last glance before the door is finally shut behind you.

- Hiding away in secluded rooms and corners.

- Candlelit dinners. Though he never eats with you, you never feel insecure when you’re around him.

- Carriage rides. You stop wherever you please to do whatever you want and everyone around you watches on in intrigue and fear. The locals near his castle gawk at the two of you whenever you stop by the village, watching as you smile at and point out all of the simplest of life's pleasures to him while he stands near the horses like death himself.

- Him always offering you his arm and helping you down from carriages or stairs or what have you.

- Long conversations. He wants to know every thought that's ever entered your brain and every story you could ever possibly tell.

- Listening to the tales of his past. A part of you feels sorry for not being able to remember the part of you that he does, and somewhat jealous of how much he loved someone who wasn’t quite you but you enough. Sometimes you worry that he loves her more than he’ll ever love you, but to him, you’re one in the same. You’re a part of her that he gets to love more than he ever got to love her, a butterfly reared from her cocoon: what makes you different is loved just as much; if not more, than what makes you similar.

- Poetic words spoken and written to you: confessions of love unlike anything you’ve ever heard. There’s never been more romantic words passed between two people. You’re truly spoiled.

- Please pacify him with kisses and admissions of love on the daily. He can’t stand not hearing and seeing you submit yourself to him and his love. He wants all of what you’re able to give him so much he could cry.

- Insecurities aren’t a thing between the two of you; unless they’re his own. Every inch and quirk and anything of yours is engraved in his memory and loved deeper than you can comprehend. To him, your flaws are perfection and there isn’t a thing about you that he would ever choose to change.

- Confessions, confessions. Oh the things he’ll have to admit to you before he truly makes you his.

- Learning to love all of his different forms; though he oftentimes only stays in the one he knows is most pleasing to you.

- It takes him a bit of time to turn you; even if you ask him to. He’ll feel somewhat remorseful and shy away from the action, struggling to damn you to the life he’s lived in “your” absence. Though I can also see him attempting to change you early on in your relationship while you’re none the wiser as well, leading to you trying your best to avoid him, confused and frightened by the whole ordeal; not quite sure if what you remember was a dream or reality but still feeling somewhat uneasy in his presence.

- Him sneaking into your home before the two of you live together/wed. You probably think its a dream when you see him levitating right outside your window. It simply can’t be real....

- That being said: this somewhat strange behavior and coincidences can end up drawing you away from him: feeling as though you’re going crazy and knowing that all of it started and surrounds the very man who’s trying to court you.

- The people in your life find him odd and most try to hint at the idea of you needing to find someone new, but you simply won’t have it and none of them have the heart to say it in his presence. Their disapproval is a lost cause anyway. They think his love is too consuming …and they’re right, they’ve already lost you to it.

- He likes to check on you whenever he pleases. You’ll be going about your business, relaxing in the garden or a room in his home and he’ll take a break from whatever it was he was doing, pressing a kiss to your forehead while you bask in the sun or asking what you’re up to wile he hugs you from behind; a pleased smile creeping across your lips at his sudden presence.

- Him occasionally scaring you with his habit of suddenly appearing out of no where, oftentimes catching whatever inevitably goes to fall from your grasp once you notice he’s there.

- Him always making sure you’re looking after yourself and being well taken care of. He worries and fusses over you: over what you eat, how much you sleep, etc. He’s always cooing at you and telling you to rest; as if you’re made of glass and about to break.

- He loves taking all of your worries away and handling whatever he can: which is nearly everything. You live a lavish life free from stress and it suits you well. He lives to keep you comforted and comfortable.

- You’re very good at calming him down, able to sway him towards the direction of mercy whenever he grows irritable. It’s very fortunate that he found you; at least for his enemies or those that otherwise get on his nerves.

- Though he’d seldom allow for you to meet them, you’re probably at least a little jealous of all of his brides. He no longer needs them after he finds you; and they might even be killed before your arrival, but you still can’t help but feel a little tense when the subject manages to come up. Unless you want some brides yourself I guess.

- On the outside, he’ll appear nonchalant but on the inside, he’s analyzing every single mannerism and expression passed between you and the man he’s jealous of. He’ll smile cordially and allow you to introduce him, biting back the venom he wants to spit or swallowing down the rush of sickness in his throat, but the minute he feels they’ve overstayed their welcome, they’ll be dealt with in private. He refuses to lose you in any way ever again and that includes meddling mortals capable of making you rethink your devotion to him. He never lets you know about his jealousy though; unless you can guess it from his occasional silent moodiness.

- Hell hath no fury than Dracula defending his love. He exudes an energy you occasionally match when putting people in their place for questioning your relationship; a trait of yours he cant help but love.

- He doesn’t entertain arguments with you, he remains calm and reasons with you gently, letting you snap at him if you need to but refusing to return the same anger. You don’t tend to get into very many fights but it’s hard to continue them either way since he simply doesn’t participate. Most of the time you just end up having a calm discussion and sorting things out.

- He sincerely apologizes whenever he upsets you and insists he makes it up to you; even when you can admit that you were probably being a little silly. He also accepts your apologies very easy; mainly because he can’t stand to be mad at or away from you for long.

- He tells you he loves you constantly, in more ways than one, and you try your best to do the same.

- You’re destined to spend the rest of your everlasting life as his countess whether you like it or not, so here’s to hoping that you love it as much as he loves you...

#count dracula imagine #count dracula imagines #count dracula headcanons #count dracula headcanon #bram stokers dracula imagine #bram stokers dracula headcanons #bram stokers dracula imagines #bram stokers dracula headcanon #90s movie imagine #90s movie imagines #90s movie headcanons #90s movie headcanon #oldman!dracula imagine

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aziraphales-library · 4 months ago

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Hello! I'm in the mood for some dancing fics 🕺 whether Crowley and Aziraphale are dancers themselves or they have to dance together like in season two. Either one would be great! Thank you so much and happy holidays :)

Hi! We have a #dancing tag with loads of fics, so check that out! Here are more to add...

Paved with Stars by Crowleys_Aziraphale2003 (G)

What if Aziraphale and Crowley had kissed and danced together, back in 1941?

We'll Meet Again by Nik_Knight (G)

Late that night in 1941, Crowley fully expects to be taken by hell in the morning after Furfur shows the council the photo taken of them after the magic show. Believing he has only hours left to spend with his angel, he asks for something he's always wanted from Aziraphale: just one lovely dance.

To be fond of dancing by everydayistuesday (T)

Angels don’t dance, but then again, Aziraphale has never been a very good angel. Or, Aziraphale learns to dance not once, but twice, and the ball goes a little more according to plan.

Wallflower by adele_sparks (T)

"Strike up, you lot!" Crowley called. There were whoops as someone hit a rhythm that sounded like a heartbeat. Clasping hands, a chain of dancers formed, Crowley among them, and it snaked around the green a while before resolving itself into a circle around the bonfire. The music was lively. The spring evening was warm and comfortable. Tapping one's foot didn't count as dancing. Five times Aziraphale didn't join in the dancing, and one time he did.

The Resurrection Waltz by Another_Realm (T)

Aziraphale hasn't seen Crowley since that fateful night in Edinburgh, 1827. Three decades later, they happen to reunite in London at ballroom party; a sudden meeting which may or may not be entirely coincidental. Crowley wants Aziraphale to dance with him in exchange for information. Aziraphale wants to say yes. Problem being, of course, that angels don't dance. Or, Victorian reunion banter; the fic (with feelings!!)

Quiet, Gentle, and Romantic by braveatironheart (E)

Although Aziraphale has loved Crowley since before the Beginning, the fundamental opposition of their natures has prevented him from acting. It hasn't stopped him from wanting, or dreaming, or simply wishing things could be different. That he could love Crowley without endangering him. After 6000 years of glancing touches and lingering gazes, he finds himself estranged from Heaven. And then a series of unfortunate coincidences leaves them the task of making two humans fall in love. Mix mutual longing with a business-meeting-turned-party complete with a romantic atmosphere and dancing, and they don't stand a chance. “You mean like…a sudden rainstorm forces them together beneath a canopy. They look into each other’s eyes and realize they were made for each other.” “Cotillion balls! People would gather and do some formal dancing and then realize they had misunderstood each other and were actually deeply in love.” “One fabulous kiss, and we’re good.” Love doesn't always work like that, but then again, sometimes it does. aka A fix-it based on quiet, gentle, and romantic stories...plus very tender yet awkward sex because, come on, it's them.

- Mod D

#good omens #good omens s2 #ineffable husbands #dancing #mod d

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hometoursandotherstuff · 8 months ago

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Have you ever wished you could live in the It's a Small, Small World exhibit at Disney? Wanted to visit a Paris cafe, go on an Elephant safari, visit a Zen retreat, or stroll a Vegas Mall? Well, you can do all of that without even leaving home in this 2007 house in Liberty Lake, WA. 3bds, 3ba, $1.275. I truly admire the dedication & commitment to decor, art & theme. I would buy this house.

From the front door, enter the streets of Paris and enjoy brunch at a little bistro. Those must be the mountains of Montmartre in the distance. Note the lovely flowers sprouting from that rock.

In the living room, there's a life size weeping willow tree and mountains, but when I saw how they attached the branches to the ceiling, I was kind of disappointed in the execution.

Next, visit the kitchen pavilion. It looked a little Bavarian to me.

I imagine that the kitchen wasn't built this way, or that they at least put those fin things up there (why does it bother me that they're crooked?). Anyway, we must be in London, b/c there's a British phone booth on the fridge door.

Have dinner at the Vegas mall.

I'm sure they'll take the bed with them, but I love the sky canopy. I don't know what theme you'd call the primary bedroom. There's a lot going on.

The bedroom is so large, it has room for a double office in the corner.

It also has an outdoor terrace.

Even the en-suite has a little bit of everything.

I'm surprised that the closet isn't set up like a Paris boutique. Too narrow, I guess.

I didn't expect that you could actually see down into the kitchen from the upstairs mezzanine.

The 2nd level hall.

This bedroom is used for a home gym.

The secondary bedroom has a Zen retreat theme.

Another full bath. I don't like all the draping fabrics in the house.

Now, we're heading on down to the ground level.

The owner has a very extensive sewing room in what would be the rec room. Oh, look, the Washington's area taking tea in their parlor back there.

So, this large space would normally be a rec/game/family room area.

Very long, large deck runs the length of the house.

There's also a patio and a pavilion.

A brook on the property.

The large home is on a very big 14.09 acre lot.

https://www.zillow.com/homedetails/2581-S-Stateline-Rd-Liberty-Lake-WA-99019/82577478_zpid/

#unusual homes #unique homes #interior design #houses #house tours #home tour

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ickyarson777 · 5 months ago

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Many Eyed Vessel Fic Thing???

This title will change later I promise.

Anyway! I did some thinking about This Post and I’ve decided I’m gonna go all out and write a fic about it. This prompt is something I think about all the time, so I was very excited to receive it to say the least :)

That being said, I have no idea how any of this is gonna play out. Right now I’m thinking kinda slow burn entities-to-lovers type of thing??

Here it is though!! I promise if you like it, I’ll do my best to keep up with writing, and please, let me know what ya’ll want!! I’m here to please ;)

Chapter 1, 2

Tried to stay as gn as possible, no mentions of y/n or names, readers is just called ‘human.’

Word count: 2,132

Content warning: Maybe a bit of dread, spooky horror type stuff. Bit of violence, not anything horrible at all.

I glance around me as I walk through the quiet woods. Rays of light filtered through the leaves of the trees behind gradually being drowned out by the darkness of the shadows ahead of me.

I had traveled to a new city, and decided to take some time to explore the smaller nearby towns. London was great, but it was nothing compared to the smaller communities that were just outside of the larger city. The town I was in was smaller in comparison, greatly so. A couple of small neighborhoods, a few streets of shops, convenience stores and restaurants. On one side however, there was a forest that wrapped around half of the town.

Anytime I was in a small town like this, I always took the time to learn the local rumors. Any scandal, or story going around. As I was making my rounds through this small town, I’d heard tell of the forest containing monsters, creatures. Things that were definitely not meant for the human eye. Angels, demons.. it had me absolutely captivated. I needed to know more. So of course, after a good night's rest, I packed a backpack of supplies, put on some thermal wear, considering it was a chilly, bleary fall day, and made sure I had food and water to last the day.

And then I drove out to the edge of the forest, and began walking.

Immediately the air turned colder. I had this sense that I definitely shouldn’t be here, that something definitely didn’t want me here. Multiple something’s at that. It was exhilarating.

I stepped farther in, glancing around slowly. The day was already dark, but the canopy of branches were so tightly woven above, the forest seemed to be bathed in midnight, though I knew it was barely a quarter past ten in the morning. Luckly, it wasn’t dark enough that I couldn’t see, so I continued on.

It wasn’t a quiet walk, branches and leaves snapped and crunched beneath my feet, and I could hear birds singing their sweet songs. For how terrifying the image of the dark forest was, it was still peaceful here, even if I did have a small feeling of dread brewing beneath my subconscious.

I walked further in, approaching a small stream, and stepped through. The water wasn’t deep, barely reaching the middle of my shins at the deepest. I could feel the temperature of the water through my boots, which I was very glad to be waterproof. Freezing cold, of course it would be in weather like this. I crossed to the other side of the stream, and whatever sense of peace I’d had before was ripped away from me.

For a moment, I hesitated, unsure if I should continue. I glanced around, trying to steel my nerves. ‘Calm down,’ I thought to myself. ‘You hear a couple rumors about monsters in the woods and you’re scared straight. What kind of explorer are you if you can’t walk through the woods by yourself..’

I shook off the fear and continued walking. I came to a clearing, where the trees opened to reveal the sky above, still overcast with dark clouds. I’d checked the weather before coming out here, there wasn’t supposed to be any rain, but looking at the sky now, I wasn’t so sure. I take a deep breath and keep walking.

At this point, I’m maybe half a mile in, knowing forest monsters, they’re sure to be a bit further in than that. I think aloud while walking, about anything and everything, home, my family, my friends. I’ve been studying abroad for a couple months now. As an anthropology student, traveling has been an incredible experience for me, but that didn’t mean I didn’t miss home.

Eventually, a couple miles into the woods, I begin singing to myself. Nothing particular, and everything at the same time, I sing nursery rhymes and lullabies, and find ways to rework the words, making myself laugh. I counted on like this for another half a mile before I realized suddenly that there’s no longer any sounds around me. The birds have gone quiet, and the wind has hushed entirely, the rustle of the leaves above me silent. I pause for a moment, glancing around me carefully.

Suddenly a horrible, piercing screech sounds and I’m filled with an absolutely overwhelming sense of terror. I make a split second decision and decide to walk in the direction of the horrible sound.

As I come closer to the location of the sound, I begin to notice there’s a slight path that’s been worn into the ground here, and I come up on a large rock formation. Not quite a cliff but not just a boulder either. It looks easy enough to scale, and I silently assume someone might’ve already been doing just that, seeing as the slight path seems to end here.

I take a breath, tighten the strap of my backpack, and begin to climb. Quickly enough, I reach the top of the formation and glance down below me. I stare in horror at the thing I see before me. The thing was at least eight feet tall, and covered in a thick black substance. It’s face could’ve been white, but it was now stained, smeared with whatever covered the rest of it. Its eyes, mouth and nose, or at least what I assumed it was, were nothing but dark empty sockets. It’s body was large and bulbous, segmented, almost like the thorax of an insect, and decorated in skulls, mechanical limbs jutting out at odd angles, and there were many of them, spindly, covered in grime and gore down to the jagged needle-like tips. It clutched a battle ax, dark and covered in rust and dirt.

“What the fuck,” I whisper into the air.

In a split second the thing whipped its head towards me, its empty eyes taking me in. I take a step backwards and almost fall from my perch on the rock, forgetting where I stood.

It begins stepping towards me on its multiple long spindly legs, slowly at first, but then it begins picking up speed. I watch it, safe from its grasp high above it on the rock, but then tense as it shoots one of its legs out into the rock, embedding itself there. I stare in horror as it begins to climb.

“Oh fuck, fuck,” I say out loud, panicking slightly.

I turn and begin descending back down the rock the way I’d come. At the last couple of feet, I let go, dropping to the ground just as the thing makes its way over the top. It doesn’t even bother climbing back down, just throwing itself off and continuing its pursuit, I watch, terrified for a moment before turning and running. I don’t even bother trying to remember which way I’d come from, running in zigzagging patterns, trying to throw off the monster. I can hear it, the metallic grinding and groaning of the half organic half machine thing that was hot on my trail.

I wasn’t even looking where I was going, vision slightly blurry, eyes stinging with sweat that fell into them occasionally. I hear the thing even closer to me now. I gasp out in shock as I hear a sharp whirring sound pass my ear, knowing it was right on top of me, trying to grab me. With every fiber of my being, I pushed myself to run faster, lungs burning and adrenaline coursing through my veins. And then BAM! I slam into something.

I glanced up quickly, thinking I had run into a tree, but realizing a tree would’ve hurt a bit more, and probably wouldn’t have grabbed my arm, and pulled me behind it.

The hands that grabbed my wrists left dark black stains on my skin. I pause for a moment, letting my vision clear. The figure now stood in front of me, facing away, towards the monster. He’s tall, much taller than me, wearing a black cloak and black pants. One shoulder of his cloak is covered by a stark white pauldron, lined with deep red and encrusted with rough gold ore at the curve of his shoulder. He raised a hand towards the monster.

Quietly, in a dark, melodic voice, the man breathed a few words in a language I didn’t recognize. before him, the monster stared, twitching and writhing in its place, swaying on its many legs. It took a gentle step forward, lowering itself and pressing its face into the palm of the man's hand, before turning, lurching forward and walking away from us.

I stand there, taking heavy, shaking breaths. The man doesn’t turn to face me until the monster is out of sight, and when he does, I gasp.

His body is completely covered in black paint, there are streaks running through it, lines of sweat showing pale skin underneath, his chest is broad, toned, but not overly muscled. His hands are large, the paint of his palms, light and mostly missing, though the lines of his hands are deeply stained with dark paint. There are silver rings on many of his fingers, the edge of them tarnished from the paint, like the chains on his chest, stretching across his chest, underneath the cloak is a leather strap, perhaps holding the pauldron in place. He was beautiful, by all accounts, but his face left my jaw slack. The paint covered him up to his upper jaw, if there was more paint, I couldn’t tell as the top half of his face was obscured by a mask. Stark white, a huge contrast to the black on his skin, beautiful and intricate deep crimson lines swirling and curling along the bottom edge of the mask, forming a crescent around his mouth. Six holes in the shape of eyes line the front, dark black and almost sleepy in shape, dark red lines, perfectly symmetrical in shape crossed over under and above the eyes or the mask, forming a sigil or sorts.

I notice my mouth is open, and snap it shut quickly before opening it again, trying to think of something to say. Luckily, the stranger beats me to being the first to speak as words fail me.

“Are you hurt?” He asks simply, voice soft, reverberating through me and sending a shiver down my spine.

Slowly, I shake my head, still staring in awe. “Uh.. what.. what was that?” I ask softly.

Rather than answering my question, the stranger turns, beaconing me to follow him. “The people of the town don’t venture into these woods, you’re not from here.” What he says should’ve been a question, but I can tell he’s stating it as a fact. “You seem well prepared, well traveled in your own right, but that’s no reason to wander into an unknown wood.”

I follow after him, unsure of where we’re going. “I’m studying abroad,” I tell him, struggling slightly to keep up the pace with his long legs. “Heard some of the locals mention monsters in the woods, and I wanted to see for myself. Clearly… they weren’t lying.”

He glanced back at me over his shoulder. “What is it with humans always putting their noses where they can’t protect themselves?” He says it softly, almost in an endearing way.

‘Humans?’ I think to myself.

Before I realized it, we'd approached the stream I’d crossed when I first arrived.

“This is not a safe place for you,” the man says softly. “You are incredibly lucky to have escaped that creature with your life. Leave this place please, and do not return. There are… worse, more terrible things than that one in these woods.”

I turn to face him, ask him what else there is, but he’s gone. Not a single trace of his existence, no rustle or crunching of leaves underfoot, no thud of footsteps on the forest floor. For all I knew, I could’ve played the whole situation off as a psychotic episode. But I knew better. The dark handprints around my wrists and the blood that dripped from the small cut on my ear told me all the truth I needed.

I turn to walk to my car, opening my phone and pressing the call button. The phone rings for a moment before my mother picks up.

“Hello?” She says.

“Hey, Mom,” I say, opening the door and tossing my backpack into the back seat. “So you know how I said I was passing through this small town? I think I’ve changed my mind. I might spend a little while longer here. Something about it…” I mutter glancing into the trees, almost convincing myself that I can see him, blending into the dark shadows of the woods. “Something about it just captivates me.”

OK!! Short little thing to get the story started, let me know if you want more!! I whipped this out in like 20 minutes, and thoroughly enjoyed every minute of it.

#sleep token #sleep token iii #sleep token vessel #vessel #iii #ii #iv #sleep token ii #sleep token iv #inhuman!vessel #vessel x reader #sleep token vessel x reader #ooh scary monster #it was the chokehold monster in case y’all couldn’t tell 😼#ANyway

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rom-e-o · 6 months ago

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Just for us. (Modern AU) (Constance and Ebenezer)

I'm feeling rested and wanted to bring another fluffy, slightly spicy, saccharine sweet story for these two cute-patooties. 💗

This fic is 18+ and includes sexual, post-coital scenarios and descriptions (nothing is explicit, but better safe than sorry, haha).

Full fic is below the cut.

The distant honking of a car horn was not the best way to awaken from an otherwise peaceful slumber, but it was Constance’s fault for falling asleep with the bedroom window ajar.

Hours before, she’d opened the window to enjoy the evening’s spring breeze. After all, she and her husband had just emerged from a fête held by the Lord Mayor himself. While it had been a beautiful event, it had felt like a crime to spend the golden midday inside. She had basked in the sun during the brief walk to the private car, and again when they returned to the flat and she entered the bedroom.

It was spring – a magical time of year where the skies stayed light blue even late into the evenings, and clouds rolled over from angelic white to a deep mauve. When the sun set at the perfect angle, the light dappled across the airy shapes in kisses and crescents as pink in color as strawberry cream.

The air wasn’t as sweet-smelling in London as it was in the upstate New York countryside – where honeysuckle grew unhindered, and the humidity thickened the nectar-tinted air into honey – but it was enough. She’d opened the shades and leaned into the light, still in her glittering gown and diamond choker.

Moments later, her husband had followed her. He slowly walked up behind her, giving her time to notice his presence before he reached out to hold her. Once his arms were about her svelte waist, he proceeded to place kisses upon her bare shoulder as they looked over the sunset.

He then hummed against her skin, the burr sending a ripple of gooseflesh across her tanned, freckled body.

“Gorgeous,” he had whispered, both in regarding to the view and the woman resting betwixt his arms. “Bloody gorgeous, you are.”

He nosed her neck, encouraging her to tilt her head back. She did so, and he inhaled a heavy lungful of her tangerine and vanilla perfume like it was pure oxygen. After doing so, he kissed the velvety skin, and Constance practically melted.

Moments later, his kisses upon her neck traversed a path from her sun-warmed shoulders. He noticed she had a bit of a sunburn on the protruding edges of her clavicle, right where the sun could caress the skin directly. He didn’t touch the skin as to not irritate it further, but made a mental note to apply some aloe there later.

After giving the flesh there bouts of proper worship, he moved to her lips. When their mouths met, it was his turn to whisper praise. His soulful voice created the most stunning moans when their mouths and bodies met, which she eagerly swallowed and returned with her own expressions of heady praise.

His hands remained wrapped around her waist, nestled around the narrowest part of her, even as she turned in his arms to help deepen their kiss.

After returning his enthusiasm and adoration tenfold with her hips and hands, he lifted her and carried her to the canopied, four-post bed behind them. It was a short journey, but that didn’t mean it didn’t require ceremony. For him, every moment with her called for cheers and celebration, as well as a flair of romanticism. If his former self could only see him now, he’d be disgusted … then secretly jealous.

With a twirl and a laugh, she landed on her back … and stayed in exactly that position through the rest of the evening.

Then, later that night, the spell was broken by a car alarm.

Groggy from the interruption, Constance glanced up and over to the antique clock her fiancé kept on his bedside table. The hands reflected a somber reality in their crooked placement; it was five past three o’clock in the morning.

The alarm was distant, but persistent enough to be annoying.

Did she really need to shut the window? Perhaps she could ignore it.

… It was quite persistent, unfortunately. It wasn’t one of those steady alarm tones that eventually blended out with the other ambient noise, like the hum of cicadas. No. This alarm had a rhythmic, pulsing tone that made it impossible to get used to.

She’d get it in a moment, she decided. Just ten more seconds, she concluded. She was so warm and comfortable.

After hitting the metaphorical ‘snooze’ button for the decision at hand, she allowed her head to drift back down toward the bed. Her copper curls cascaded down her back and curled into her peripheral vision in the form of lightly tousled spirals.

When she felt her cheek collide with cologne-scented flesh instead of bedsheets, she paused. With a hum, she lifted her head again and directed her gaze to the top of the bed.

She found herself laying atop her husband, her cheek pressed to his chest and her bosom weighty against his abdomen. Her arms had found purchase wrapped around his torso. His legs caged her on either side. His spent cock nudged the softness of her bare stomach. His hand, large and lightly calloused, rested upon her upper back, his long fingers splayed across the planed of her shoulder blades. The placement was equal parts tender and protective, as he held her tightly enough to keep her close, but not secure enough to keep her captive.

He stirred sleepily as he felt her move. Blinking awake, he slowly lifted his head and glanced around. Reality slowly coalesced around him in blurring flashes of lightly and shifting shapes of shadows.

Upon laying eyes on her, a grin caressed his cheekbones. Somehow, his jaw remained sharp, even when his brow and the wrinkles around his eyes softened during slumber.

“Well, well. Good morning.”

His grip tightened around her, and he let out a pleasant hum. “And what a lovely sight to awaken to, I’d say. I could get quite used to this.”

His voice was still groggy from sleep, and his adorable smile caused a matching one to bloom upon her own face. By reflex alone, she reached a hand up to caress his cheek. He tilted his head to burrow against her hand, his sideburn scrubbing her palm as he did so. She giggled, slightly ticklish and enjoying the sensation all the same, stroked his cheekbone with the tip of her thumb.

“Good morning,” she whispered back, “Albeit barely.”

His confusion was belated as he registered the darkness of the room. His icy gaze darted to the window, noting the blue-pink swirl of the pre-dawn sky. Then, and only then, did the sound of the alarm seem to register.

With the next strident blare, understanding touched his gaze. “Ah.”

“Ah.” Constance chuckled as she parroted him. Crawling up hand over hand, she aligned their bodies so they could be eye-to-eye.

He scooted over to make room for her on the large pillow he relined against.

“One of the cons of living in a city, I suppose,” he said, rolling over onto his side to better face her. “Noise. People. Cars. The tube.”

As soon as she laid her head down, she turned her nose toward the fabric and inhaled the scent of cologne, musk, and him. “Mmhmm.”

“Though, I suppose you’re used to it, living in New York before London.”

“A little bit,” she said, shrugging guiltily. “I’ll confess, the sound woke me up a few moments ago, but I’m finding it a tad hard to get out of bed.”

He laughed and placed a kiss atop her crown, between the part on her slightly waved bangs. “Understandable. I’m certainly in no hurry for you to go anywhere either.”

“Here, let me…”

As Constance rose from the bed, beautifully nude before the window, Ebenezer was quick to wrap and arm about her waist and pull her back. She giggled as she felt him tuck her back in so he could sit up and reach for his dressing gown, which had been discarded nearby.

“We’re quite high up,” she said, “Nobody would see, sweetheart.”

“I’m sure you’re right, but just in case.”

The woman wasn’t going to opt out of any reason to stay in bed. The comfortable position was made all the better by the pleasant view she had of his wide back, long legs and adorable bum as he pulled on his robe. Such a simple task still caused his back muscles to ripple pleasantly, even concealed beneath the shimmering brocade of silk. Her fingers tightened their grip on the sheets slightly as she recounted every moment his fingers had skimmed the planes of his back, sometimes to hug him close, and other times to hold on when he felt like the sturdiest rock in the universe.

Once the robe was fastened about his svelte waist, he stood and went to the window. Pulling it shut and latching it back into place, he then backtracked to the bed. While doing so, he undid the ties on the bedpost in the upper right corner of the bed, which was nestled right near the headboard.

The velvet bed curtain fell back with a swoosh, casting a long shadow across the bed. She felt the weight of her fiancée tip the mattress as he climbed back onto the mattress. While he had opted to leave his robe on, Constance still ushered him back under the covers to cuddle. He, of course, obliged happily.

Once they settled, her head resting over his chest and their legs in a tangle, he let out a content sigh.

Darkness shrouded them in intimate secrecy, and a soft silence hummed through the room.

Constance purred her appreciation. “Thank you. That’s so much better.”

He couldn’t help but agree. It was better, but not just because the sound of the alarm had ceased.

“You know, it’s a pity it’s so early,” he croaked, a yawn nearly cutting his sentence off early.

“Why?”

“I’d like to stay awake a little longer. Enjoy this.”

She tilted her head back so she could lay her chin on his chest and stare up at him. Her cornflower blue eyes coaxing further explanation from him.

“Not that I mind showing the world that I’m engaged to a human Aphrodite,” he started, his voice shifting to a pleasant burr, “But this ... moments like this are what I treasure most.”

Ebenezer was a man who had spent many decades of his life alone and in complete solace. He’d grown used to not having another soul to whisper platitudes to or confide secrets in. When amazing news crossed his desk, there was nobody to call to share it with. His brother, of course, but he had his own life.

Now, Constance was part of his life, just as she was part of his.

“It’s just us here,” he whispered. “It … calms me. I never thought I’d feel so comfortable being so close to another person, but now that you’re here, I-I … love being with you. I like sharing moments with only you and keeping little moments like this to ourselves. Like little secrets.”

The words softened her already tender heart further.

“Perhaps that sounds childish.” The admission came after a beat of silence.

“No,” she said, and the comment was genuine. “I understand what you mean. At least, I think I do.”

“Really?”

With a nod, she continued, “It’s like we’re sharing little love notes. When we’re declaring our love publicly by getting married and wearing rings, and doing the grand photoshoot for the local newsmagazines –”

“Oh, blast, I forgot about that.”

“—but those little gestures are nice to keep private. Just for us.”

He paused to taste the words on his tongue. “Just for us. Yes. Like feeling you under these blankets.” Scars, stubble and all.

“Or knowing all your favorite foods and sweets by heart.” Cognac, oysters, and sturgeon caviar.

“Or knowing the places where you’re secretly sunburnt.” Shoulders, and right above your bum.

“You saw?”

“Of course.”

After momentary shock, she laughed musically. “You always do.”

“Always.” The words settled comfortably over his heart as she laid her head down again on his chest. “Hey.”

She glanced up again, only for him to bring their lips together in a surprising kiss. It was dark, so his lips grazed the corner of her mouth at first, which resulted in a soft giggle. They swiftly corrected, aligning their lips and sharing a lingering but chaste kiss.

When they parted, Ebenezer raised a hand to her chest.

There, squarely over her heart, he wrote, “I love you.”

Another secret love note.

Realizing they’d be working themselves into an early morning sweat if they kept kissing, they mutually relented and sank back onto the mattress. After the exhaustion of the evening prior, sleep returned to the pair quite easily.

When the morning did come, Ebenezer stole out of bed at the first opportunity to head into the flat’s large kitchen. Once there, he filled a MacKenzie-Childs kettle (green with a purple and red floral pattern) and put it on heat. Then, he set their coffee pot to start brewing a fresh pot. He’d have his tea, and she’d have her drip coffee. Just like always. To him, it was routine poetry at this point.

After setting out their mugs, he reached for kitchen shears from the knife rack near the sink.

The walk to the flat’s balcony was short. The space was large, modern, and adorned with a modest smattering of plants that decorated it. Neither of them had the greenest thumb, but the smattering of practical offerings that grew in the heavily shaded space suited them just fine.

He walked to one plant in particular, and after a moment of examination, he clipped something off the end.

By the time Constance had awakened from the aroma of percolating coffee, Ebenezer returned to their bedchamber with another love note in hand.

On this occasion, it came in the form of an aloe leaf.

Thank you for reading! I had a ton of fun here but I always do with these guys and their world, haha.

What are your favorite foods? Mine are poi, M&Ms, mangoes, and musubi (preferably fresh from the convenience store).

TAGS: @quill-pen, @crimson-phantom-designs, @thedivinelights

#scrooge a christmas carol #scrooge 2022 #scrooge x oc #oc constance dogoode #scrooge netflix #scroogeverse

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bird-slayer-brainrot · 9 months ago

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Soldier On, Come Down - Chpt. 1. - - Ineffable Husbands WW2 au human!Crowley angel!Aziraphale angst multi-chapter

(TW this chapter contains light gore (st*bbing so that bit will be marked with the first and final world in red text)

London, 1939

Aziraphale, Principality and Angel of the Eastern Gate of the Garden of Eden, loved humans.

He had lived amongst humans since his assignment on Eden had ended, and he quite enjoyed his role as Heaven’s official ambassador to humanity. It had been a shock to receive such a coveted position (as much as Angels could covet, anyway).

The job had its downsides, like any, but for the most part, Aziraphale could overlook these. The books, food, wine and art made it worth it.

Humans were amazingly clever creatures, with a knack for imagining purposeful, advanced creations to Angel in Heaven could have ever dreamed of, if they did dream. They were masterful artists, poets, writers, inventors. Aziraphale, nearly six thousand years into this extended assignment, stood in awe at the inventions of the human race.

The motorcar, however, was an exception.

On a Saturday evening in Soho, Aziraphale was particularly bothered. He had plans to attend an Opera at the West End. These plans were interrupted when the driver had stopped him miles from the theatre. It was drizzling, as it often did in London lately, and Aziraphale crowded himself underneath a canopy to avoid getting soaked.

Aziraphale could have miracled the driver to take him to the right language, but with the state of England and the war going on, he felt it was best to cut down on miracle usage just in case he needed them for something important, which he probably would. And he didn’t want to risk Heaven the memo from heaven about too many frivolous miracles.

“Are you going in?” a voice spoke beside him. Aziraphale turned, ready to offer his apologises

He hadn’t realised he had been standing in the entrance way to a storefront.

But he was stuck on the words as he came face to face with the man.

He was perhaps the most beautiful person Aziraphale had ever laid eyes on.

Aziraphale was still staring when the stranger cleared his throat.

“Oh, my apologies.” Aziraphale said too loudly. The gentlemen was dressed in black and grey, which would have struck Aziraphale as unusual if, immediately after, Aziraphale noticed his striking copper hair. He wore it longer than was the fashion. He was also very tall, and slender. He held a black umbrella that he seemed to be in the process of wringing out his umbrella before he’d noticed Aziraphale.

“Are you alright?” the gentlemen said with concern. Aziraphale was still staring, so he tore his gaze from the gentlemen’s face.

“No. Yes. I mean.” Aziraphale stuttered. “I just got caught in the rain.”

The man nodded, the small smile still on his face, then he held out his umbrella.

“Would you like to borrow mine?” he said without hesitation. Aziraphale looked up him again ready to insist he was fine, but stopped when he noticed his eyes.

They were the colour of liquid gold, except for the ring of green surrounding his pupils. It was deep, Earthy green Aziraphale last recalled seeing in the Garden back when he’d first received this assignment.

“No. No thank you.” Aziraphale said softly. “I think I should like to stay here.”

My Dear Anthony,

I hope by the time this letter reaches you in England that you and Anathema will be quite settled in, with Annie at university and you doing your things (I must confess, I don’t quite recall the word you used to describe your profession. It may come to me one day.)

I must admit, dear brother, that although you grumble when I express sentiments to you, that I will miss you terrible when you return to England. There shall be a Crowley-shaped hole in my heart, I should think, for a long time till come. Please do come back and visit us in California.

Thank you for taking care of Anathema. It has always been her dream to attend Oxford. Do you remember when she was a little girl, with her book on magic and fairytales? She’d take it with her everywhere.

She can be quite stubborn at times, but she is a remarkable young woman, and I know that, under your guidance, my dear Annie will be something great. Please give her my love.

Take care of yourself.

Your Loving Sister,

Lucy

Crowley smiled down at the letter from his sister. He would never admit it, of course, but he missed his sister terribly. California, too, with its bright, sunny weather. The rain and fog of London coloured the world bleak in comparison.

Crowley had been back in London for a month. Anathema, his niece, was due to start at Oxford, once she got her acceptance, in three months.

She was a standout in stuffy old England, with her American wardrobe, accent, and mannerisms. She stood out in LA, too. She’d spent the days

Crowley had an apartment in Soho that he’d rented out in the year he’d been in America. The death of Lucy’s husband and Anathema’s father had hit their family hard. With their pieces stitched haphazardously back together, Anathema had decided that Oxford was her calling. England was a fresh start, and Crowley had to return at some point. Her mother had, after some convincing, agreed.

He was meant to meet Anathema for dinner that evening at the pub they frequented later on. With nothing else to do, Crowley decided a walk and some fresh air would do him some good, and stepped out into the English rain.

The Drooping Donkey had all the grace of a typical Soho bar on a Saturday evening. There was a group of soldiers crowded around a pretty young woman playing the piano, a lively war-tune Aziraphale recalled hearing over the radio on the BBC earlier that morning when he was rearranging his Atlas collection. They nursed warming bears. Chatty patrons took up the tables. There was luckily one spare (Aziraphale may have the ability to have any table he wished to, however he believed in ethical use of miracles) and, after ordering a glass of the house red, Aziraphale made his way over to it and took a seat, content to wait out the storm before going home.

When Aziraphale looked up, he made eye contact with the red-haired gentlemen from earlier. He was alone at the bar, and when Aziraphale looked at him, he did something completely surprising. He smiled.

An hour later, Aziraphale was still recounting the event in self-pity. He could leave now, as the handsome stranger had left. In truth, he’d been too shocked by the gentlemen (who had, upon meeting him, offered him his own umbrella?) and had been unable to use his brain. He had no choice but to enter the bar after the gentlemen, who had held the door out for Aziraphale. Even now, Aziraphale replayed the memory of that brief, awkward interaction over and over in his head. It was pointless. It wasn’t like Aziraphale would ever see him again. He was a human. A handsome, kind human. Still, he had appreciated that small show of kindness. It left a warm feeling in Aziraphale’s chest. The war was getting to him.

It was dark outside by the time Aziraphale exited The Drooping Donkey. The rain had cleared and, while the street maintained most of the business of a typical Soho Saturday, the sidewalk was mostly deserted. That’s why, when Aziraphale heard a noise like a group of hushed voices and a loud banging sound, he immediately rushed to the source.

The redhead man from the bar laid crumbled against the wall of a deserted alley. He was bundled behind bags of rubbish. Aziraphale hurried over to him, kneeling down to see better and miracleing a source of light. Aziraphale’s checked that the man was still breathing first, which he was, but was barely conscious. In the light, Aziraphale could see immediately that he had multiple injuries. His face was bruised, and his knuckles and hands were red. Then, Aziraphale spotted the spreading red across his stomach. Just below it, there was a knife.

It lay discarded in the wet, tossed carelessly, as though it had not just killed a man.

The stranger groaned as Aziraphale lifted the fabric away from the knife wound to locate the stab wound. It didn’t take long to find it. Blood gushed down the man’s abdomen from the puncture, and bile threatened to rise in Aziraphale’s throat as he realised that the kind stranger likely wouldn’t survive it. He had lost too much blood. Aziraphale had no idea how long he had been here, left like this. There was no time to take him to a hospital. He hadn’t been with a wife or friends at the bar. He would likely die here, cold, and alone.

Aziraphale reached down, pressing a hand against the wound, and healing it. It was overkill, to heal it completely, but the man looked in enough pain that Aziraphale couldn’t help but want to help him as best as he could. He spluttered at the motion, coughing harshly. Aziraphale stood up quickly, miracleing his trousers clean from where they had been stained by water and blood. He also miracled the stranger unconscious.

Aziraphale would have liked to have stayed with the stranger to make sure he got better, but he couldn’t answer the questions the man would obviously have. With any luck, the gentleman would wake up with a nasty hangover, with little recollection of what had occurred the night before. He’d likely interpret the black eye as being the result of a minor drunken scuffle. He would not remember Aziraphale, and Aziraphale would never see him again.

A kindness for a kindness was all it was. Miracling him out of sight, Aziraphale turned, and walked away.

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