#I thought it could be the White Rabbits pub?

[timelordhonour]

Unraveling Fates

Link to the full story here. I elaborated on the whole Will Scarlet and the book of Alice's Adventures in Wonderland bit, where Will still remembers Anastasia (the Red Queen) and still wants to be with her.

Emma walked out of her sheriff’s office and towards the cell that Will Scarlet was in after being arrested the previous night for drunken behaviour. Which also ruined her date night with Hook.

Will laid on the uncomfortable bed of the cell, groaning, before turning his head, which was where he saw Emma approaching the bars of the cell. “Oh, bloody hell,” he cursed.

“Good morning, sunshine,” Emma greeted, leaning into the cell. “Wanna tell me why you broke into the library last night?”

“The what?” Will asked, then remembered where he had been the previous night. “Oh, that’s what that place was? I just thought it was a poorly stocked pub.”

“Okay, I get it. Every town needs a village idiot. But your little stunt pulled me away from an important investigation. And it also interrupted my night off. Start talking.”

“The last thing I remember is running away from you,” Will said. “And then, I celebrated my escape with a nice bottle of whisky.”

Emma held up the book what she was holding. “Did you celebrate with all your friends?” she asked. “Alice and the White Rabbit?”

Will’s eyes widened at the sound of those names. His friends. He hadn’t heard of them – or seen them – in months. Not since the wedding. He turned his head towards Emma and saw the book she was holding. Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland. Though the illustration was off. Alice never looked anything like the girl on the cover. And never did the Caterpillar. Will got up off the bed quickly. And he approached the bars.

“This was on you in the library,” Emma stated, then pulled out a ripped page from her pocket. The page was clearly from the book. “This was in your pocket.”

Will looked down at the page. But, more importantly, it was the person drawn on the page. “Anastasia,” he whispered to himself. He had missed her every day. He thought he would be with her, like the old times. But he had found himself in Storybrooke again. He didn’t know how but he didn’t want to be there. He wanted to be with her. With Anastasia. But how could he go back there? To Wonderland?

“Anastasia?” Emma had heard him whisper. “Does she mean anything to you?”

Will was silent. She was his past. She was supposed to be his future, too. He didn’t want to share his past – or future – with any old person. And certainly not the sheriff of this town. “Nope,” he lied. “Doesn’t mean a thing.”

“You said a name. Who’s Anastasia?”

“No one that you would know. Or understand.”

Emma frowned. She was getting nowhere with him. “Okay. What about your eye? Did you get a look at whoever gave you that shiner?”

Will looked behind Emma and saw Hook enter the room. “Now, that is an interesting question, isn’t it?” he asked, recognizing the pirate as the one who gave him his black eye.

Emma turned around when she heard footsteps approaching. “Where were you?” she asked.

“Sorry, love. I just got your message. I …” Hook said, though he didn’t know what to say. Or how to explain what he had been doing the previous night.

“It’s okay,” Emma smiled. “I just need another minute here.” She turned back to face Will. “You were about to tell me who did that to your face.”

“It’s a bloody mystery to me,” Will lied. “Your guess is s good as mine. Must’ve been some party, eh?”

“Well, if you remember anything, I’ll know where to find you,” Emma said, then turned to walk away.

“You’re just gonna keep me in here because I broke into a bloody library?” Will yelled after her.

Emma turned around. “Because you crashed my date.” She turned to face Hook again. “Which turned out pretty good despite the rude interruption.” She looked down and saw that he had the hook back on his left wrist. “What the hell happened to your hand?”

“It appears the Dark One’s magic wasn’t all I’d hoped it would be,” Hook said before the Professor came into the sheriff’s station, holding one of the record books.

“We’ve combed through every last book,” the Professor said, walking over to the closest desk and placing the book on the surface. “The name that this Snow Queen has been using here doesn’t show up in any record. Which means Sarah Fisher is a ghost.”

“What does that mean?” Emma asked.

“That she never came here by any curse. The Dark Curse created fake records for everyone that it brought over. So if she did come by the Curse, her name would be here.” He pointed to the book. “But it’s not.”

“Then how did she get here?” Emma asked. “And what the hell does she want with me?”

[lihikainanea]

Did tiger and bill ever go through like a phase where tiger kind of had to get used to bill thinking of her? Like she wasn't really used to being someone's first choice, like someone thinking about what she might like or want. To have someone frankly just think of you. I'm sorry to be a bother. Just feeling kind of bad lately, and could use some sweet bill. Sorry again.

First of all boo, please don't ever be sorry for sliding into my DMs. I love hearing from you guys, especially if you're not doing that well. I'm all ears, and this blog is a safe space for everyone--so pull up a chair and stay awhile. I, and our two favourite idiots, would be nothing if it weren't for all the amazing asks that you guys send to me <3

Secondly, I love this train of thought because I think it is very, very true. And it probably started back at the beginning of their friendship, right? Yes, it did. Follow me down this rabbit hole.

Bill doesn't make a lot of new friends because since the whole fame thing, he has trouble trusting people--and Bill, by nature, is a caretaker. He's extremely nurturing. He provides. He takes care of those close to him, in one way or another. But he knows his own empathic side, he knows its limits and boundaries, and one of the worst things he can do for his own well being is care about too many people. Get involved with too many people. Bill is happiest amongst his close group of friends, people he knows he can trust, people he can cook dinner for and host movie nights for and fly halfway around the world when he has a premiere.

And tiger, for her part--my girl tiger, she has zero self-preservation skills. Like, none. And Bill is fascinated by that. He's fascinated by this little fireball who not only has no idea who he is, but who subsequently really couldn't give a shit once she found out. He's enamoured with this little scrappy ball of ire who is convinced not only that she can start a bar fight with everyone in the pub, but that she can legitimately win. Bill's never seen anything like it. And once you meet tiger, she's impossible not to love. Or at least, it's impossible not to be intrigued by her, and to want to know more.

But the thing is, that firecracker personality and the massive chip on her shoulder doesn't come from nowhere--tiger's been hurt a lot. And it's because she never goes for the good guys. For as much as Bill has an empath side, tiger has the self-destructive kind where she wants to fix people. And she always goes for the dudes who will take and take and take, the dudes who play rope a dope with her heart, and who leave her shattered. Tiger gives her soul away too easily, and she takes it as a challenge when she's tossed to the side by some guy who was never worth her time anyway. She tries to prove she's worthy.

But then in comes Bill--this big, wall-eyed, kind of freaky looking dude who seems nice and kind and is moderately soft spoken. And when they hang out, Bill starts showing a genuine interest--platonically, of course--but it's genuine. He asks what she does for a living. He asks if she likes it. He wants to know where she went to school, what she studied. Does she have any siblings? Because he has a lot, and he knows how tough big families can make you. When tiger can't decide if she wants the chilli fries or the chicken wings one night at a pub, Bill tells her to get both--and that's when she knew they'd be friends.

And it slowly but surely escalated from there--still all platonic at the beginning--but suddenly, Bill was asking her how she was getting home, if she needed a ride. He was asking her how her week was, when everyone got together on Friday--and if she had mentioned something big previously, a meeting or a presentation or something--he'd remember, and ask her how it went. If he left the bar early, he'd politely ask her if she could text him when she got home.

"Why?" she scoffed.

"Because somebody needs to look out for you," he answered honestly. Tiger, in true fashion, balked awkwardly.

And this is where her defence mechanism started to fly up. Because when you're not used to being cared for, when you're not used to genuinely mattering to someone or hell even just getting the attention of a truly good person--it's weird. It's awkward. It's scary as hell and requires a level of vulnerability that tiger isn't ready to let exist--because it would mean that she would have to admit to herself that she is worthy. That this is the norm, and that she deserves this. That she knowingly let herself settle for being treated like shit for so many years.

And tiger's first defence is always anger. So maybe she started getting real snippy with him, probably well into their friendship by this point--so Bill was cooking for her, and if he wasn’t then he was checking in to make sure she ate at least one vegetable that day. If she had a date, he would wait until she texted him that she was in for the night--whether that was at the guy’s place or hers. If she needed a ride home in the morning then he would pick her up, in all of her walk of shame glory--but he’d pick her up with a few Advil, some big sunglasses, a huge coffee. And he would absolutely make fun of her nefarious, ill-fated decisions but he’d always wait at least 12 hours before he dared.

But to go even further--you are absolutely right. Bill does put her first. Once she is solidified as his best friend, then there’s no going back--she comes first. And part of it is Bill really is legitimately concerned because tiger has no self preservation skills and he worries that if HE doesn’t concern himself over her, then tiger will just like...her reckless decisions will be her undoing. He must look after Little Human, because Little Human’s self-destructive streak is far too prevalent. He has left dates in the dust when she needed his help. He looks out for her in group settings, and intervenes if some idiot is getting too handsy with her. If he has a boys night that night but tiger calls crying because some idiot broke her heart, or crying because it’s shark week and she’s out of gummy bears--then Bill is there. In a heartbeat, he’s there. She comes first.

And I’ll bet it’s all very nice, but it also kind of has tiger seething. Because she’s not used to this kind of...care. The genuineness of it. And tiger can’t be vulnerable enough to admit that part of her likes it, part of her feels safe knowing that even in the wee hours of the morning, Bill is awake and waiting for her to let him know she got in safely. Part of her kind of likes this idea that someone is thinking of her, that someone prioritizes her. But it’s still tiger, so she also gets hella mad. And she seethes--for a long time, she seethes. Quietly. And then maybe it all just comes to a head one night when she goes over to Bill’s place after work and he has a crisp glass of white wine waiting for her, a change of clothes, even her favourite make up remover--the kind that doesn’t sting, because she has sensitive skin. And all of that pisses her off, but then she walks into the kitchen as he’s deftly cleaning and slicing mushrooms.

“How did it go?” he asks casually. Tiger plays dumb.

“How did what go?” she swigs her wine.

“The meeting with your boss today.”

“...Fine,” she mumbles, petulantly. Of course he’d remember that, even though she told him two weeks ago. 

“We don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to,” he offers kindly. Tiger sees an errant pile of green onions on his chopping board, and she eyes them wearily but somewhat triumphantly. Bill heads to the fridge, pulls out a bowl of salad, then he tosses the green onions in. Perfect, she thinks, and it gives her a weird sense of satisfaction. Mr. Nice Guy, Mr. Considerate, doesn’t even remember what she considers to be the most significant thing about her. That she hates green onions. She feels triumphant, renewed. Somewhat weirdly comforted to confirm that perhaps she doesn’t mean that much to him.

Until he heads back to the fridge, and pulls out another bowl of salad--one that he promptly dresses, salts and peppers, and tosses. One without green onions. One for her.

“Why do you do that?!” she explodes. Bill jumps in surprise.

“Do what?” he asks innocently, “This one has no green onions!”

“Exactly,” she continues, “Ugh, Bill. Just...why do you always...ugh, Bill!”

Bill is stunned, still holding his bowl of salad, trying to figure out what exactly is happening here.

“It’s too much,” tiger says, slamming her wine down, “All of it is too much.”

“What’s too much?”

“You! This. Why do you always just....think of everything?” she says, and she’s steadfastly working herself into a tizzy.

“Tiger...”

“How? How do you remember these things? How do you fucking remember that I had a meeting with my boss today, a meeting that I told you about two weeks ago? Why do you make a whole other bowl of salad for me, why do you remember that I hate green onions?”

“Because I care about you kid,” he shrugs.

Tiger is angry, but she’s also at a loss for words. Bill’s genuineness, his honesty, will do that. For as much as she struggles to be vulnerable. Bill shows that side of himself openly. She doesn’t even know why she’s so angry. Bill watches her for a minute, but she’s kind of just bug-eyed so he goes back to his cutting board and starts calmly chopping his little mushrooms again.

“I don’t like it,” she mutters after a long pause.

“Too bad,” he shrugs non-chalantly. Tiger glares at him.

“Too bad?” she seethes.

“Too bad,” he repeats.

“Stop it,” she says.

“No.”

“Bill, I mean it. Stop always trying to--”

“No.”

“I’m not finished,” she stamps her foot, “Stop being such--”

“No.” he says again, “Tiger, this is what I do.This is how I am. I care about the people that matter to me.”

“Well I don’t ma--”

“Yes you do. You matter to me. So I suggest you put on your big girl panties, and fucking deal with it,” he says. And that’s final. Tiger is taken aback at his tone, at the way his face suddenly got serious--but then in a heartbeat, it’s relaxed again.

“Now, do you want mustard on your burger, or ketchup?” he asks. Tiger is petulantly silent, glaring at him.

“Tiger.” he warns, holding up the hamburger bun.

“Shouldn’t you already know?” she huffs in annoyance, going to the fridge and grabbing the wine. She swigs it right from the bottle as she boosts herself up on the kitchen counter. Bill goes to the fridge and grabs the mayo--her favourite--putting a thick schmear on the bun.

“God, get fucked asshole,” she mutters. Bill just grabs her face, plants a noisy kiss on her cheek as she shrieks and swats him.

[wanderingdazes]

yellow daisies | f.w

summary: y/n recalls the feelings that yellow daisies give her.

warnings: angst, cheating, swearing... if there is anything else feel free to let me know!

a/n: AHH MY FIRST BLURB !! thank you guys for reading and i hope you enjoy <3 {wc: 1,197}

pairings: fred weasley x fem!reader

masterlist

yellow daisies. y/n’s favorite flower—it always has been ever since she was a little girl. she would go outside to play with her younger brother and see the flowers all around her. the vibrant color of the flower would always make her gush with joy and excitement. she cherished the plant with all her heart. her younger brother, oscar, would carelessly pick the flowers in the wide field despite y/n’s passionate wishes for him not to. she felt the daisies were too beautiful to have their life cut short by someone picking them. yellow daisies have had a special place in her heart, everyone that she loved and that loved her knew this, fred knew this.

fred was her first boyfriend since fifth year and her best friend ever since first. fred and george were the first people to befriend y/n and the first to make her feel welcome. fred was the best boyfriend she could ever ask for. every time they would go on a date he would bring her flowers, daisies to be precise. he knew how much she loved them and the fact that she knew he cared that much only made her love him more.

the two were supposed to go on a date to hogsmeade and y/n was beyond thrilled to go. from her bed, she looked to her collection of yellow and white daisies gifted to her by fred and grinned. y/n and fred hadn’t gotten much time to themselves these past few weeks due to the same lame excuses studying, or hanging with the boys. y/n understood the studying, and definitely understood wanting to hang out with his friends so she settled for a peck between classes and spent time with her best friend katie. all that being said y/n sat in her bed exhilarated with the knowledge that she was going to spend time with her amazing boyfriend today.

she got dressed to the nines. she wore a light pink knee length dress with a jean jacket over that and some black strapped velvet heels to match. once she was dressed she did her hair and makeup and waltzed over to her body length mirror with a satisfied smile. he is going to love it, she thought.

y/n made her way to hogsmeade right on schedule. the clack of her heels sounded as she walked to the bench that she always met fred at. she took out the letter fred gave her yesterday that contained all of the details of the date. she gazed at the analog clock that was hanging across from her at a pub and looked back down at her paper. fred told her to meet him in this spot at 1:30, it was now 1:32. but she was certain, he is probably just late.

she was wrong. it was now 3:58, and she has been sitting on the same lousy bench for two hours. and each time fifteen minutes would pass her eyes would linger to the letter to make sure she had everything right, now she knows that stupid letter word for word.

“ dearest y/n,

i hope all is well? i miss talking to you, i’ve just been so busy studying! anyways i was wondering if you would like to go on a date this weekend? to make up for lost time? if so, meet me at our spot at 1:30. i can’t wait to see you, daisy.

love,

your freddie”

daisy was the nickname he’d given her in third year once he found out about her infatuation with the flower.

disappointment filled her body as she sat under the tree by the lake surrounded by daisies. the scenery was beautiful yet tragically romantic. the golden sun shone through the branches of the tall oak tree and onto the lake creating an indescribably wonderful reflection. lily pads and blossoms were floating in the lake and a wooden boat was sitting still in the water. the way the water moved and the wind flew through the daisies was enchanting. she came here all the time— this was her comfort spot. her comfort spot used to be in the arms of her loving boyfriend but she is not so sure anymore. she shuddered at the thought and shed a single tear but quickly wiped it. though she was upset with fred she still loved him, and still wanted to be with him. the real budding question was: does he want to be with her? with all the avoidance of being with her she is starting to doubt that he does.

her thoughts were interrupted by the rustle of leaves coming from deeper into the woods to her. y/n looked up with a hint of fear in her eyes but shook it off, it was probably just a rabbit or maybe a deer. the thought of it being an animal was immediately cleared from her mind as soon as she heard a feminine laugh, probably some other people hanging out in the woods. she stood to leave but stopped in her steps when she heard a chuckle, a very familiar chuckle. now she was curious.

the girl tip toed quietly and slowly into the woods and the noises became louder, sloppy moans, chuckles, and giggles. eventually y/n gets a few trees away from the noise. instantly when she saw fiery long red hair, she regretted giving in to her curiosity. it was fred. her fred.

he was buried deep in some girls neck, devouring it hungrily. the same lips that have said ‘i love you’ were on this girl’s neck. who even is she? once the girl saw me she wore a sinister smirk and then closed her eyes and let out an exaggerated moan causing fred to break apart from her and say, “merlin, your so hot.” and then go back to attacking her neck. at this point tears were flowing down y/n’s cheeks and she was frozen in place from shock.

“fred?” the poor girl whimpered. fred’s head couldn’t have whipped around faster, a look of complete surprise written on his face. seeing his face only made it worse, “oh merlin.” she sobbed.

fred rushed over to her and put his hands on each shoulder “s’not what it looks like, baby, i swear it.” he slurred. was he drunk?

“then what is it fred?” she questioned, eyebrows furrowed. he stood there mouth open but nothing coming out of it. “yeah, okay.” she shrugged off his shoulders and walked away with tears still actively streaming down her face.

“please, daisy!” he called.

she snapped around to face him, “you don’t get to call me that anymore!” she raised her voice, now full with rage and disgust, and turned back around and continued to walk.

now when she saw daisies she only thought of that day. the day in which her heart was torn to pieces by the man she once loved. after that day she learned that a daisy is a weed not a flower. that a daisy should picked and thrown away, not cherished. after that day she no longer loved daisies, she resented them.





[rabunnzelwrites]

COME HOME WITH ME ( Underswap! Sans x Reader )

Without Queen Toriel on the overworld, seas grew higher whilst the number of crops tumbled low. People were fighting, turning on each other like the wind just for a something to eat. Many wished for the return of the Queen but there was no sign of the train, she was bound to the underground with her king. With this, people lost hope of the return of their queen, of the warm springs and orange falls.

Y/N’s legs swung their legs in boredom, watching amongst the crowd of pub dwellers warm up from the harsh winter. Heavy boots clunked against the hardwood floor, wandering around with a tall white candle in hand. Y/N was small, quite young amongst the group they seemed to be mingled with.

“Anyone got a match?” they asked amongst the group, only a grumble in response. Many were hasty with sharing what little they had, but it seemed like a small creamed colored rabbit happily handed a small box with only a few sticks left inside. They thanked the small creature and lit their candle, only for the flame to flicker out as quickly as its flame sparked high. Annoyed, they tried once more, only to be left with a similar result. The third time ended up being successful, maybe the saying ‘third time’s the charm’ held some truth after all. Y/N cupped their hands over the small flame, the frostbite in their fingertips melting away. A moment to relax is all.

In the corner of the room, a small blue skeleton seemed to be gazing over at the disheveled traveler with their hands warming over the pillar candle. He has taken an interest to them, seemingly keeping an eye socket on them the moment they stepped foot into the pub. He was never one to make a move on a person ( especially one who was so pretty ), shyly keeping to himself most of the time.

A hand grasped on to his shoulder, turning to see a dapperly dressed skeleton behind him. Papyrus, messenger of the Underground and his brother. Although the skeletal monster naturally had his face fixated into a smile, there was a glint in his eyes whilst he looked down on the smaller skeleton.

“You Wanna Talk To Them?” His voice was more hushed than usual, strange for the monster but despite that, the smaller skeleton nodded nervously.

“Sans,” Papyrus called to him one more.

“Don’t...Come On...Too Strong.” There was a slight pause between each of his words, hoping his advice would stick to his younger brother but alas, Sans decided shrugged it off.

He was stumbling towards the stranger, trying to piece together the words he would start with. There wasn’t anything he could think of that could sway their attention towards him, what do say when someone was that gorgeous looking- even if Y/N’s attention was nowhere near the skeleton. With hesitation, Sans pulled a crumbled piece of paper from his pocket, his fingers tremble as he tore apart each piece and twisted them into a crude looking flower.

Flower in hand, Sans looked at Y/N nervously before extending his arm out awkwardly. Many bar-goers seemed to stare at the monster with confusion and yet, Y/N was clueless to the skeleton beside them.

“Come home with me.” Immediately their head cocked around to Sans, low grumbles of laughter from patrons surrounding the two.

“Who are you?”

“The man who’s gonna marry you,” Y/N felt their face scrunch, turning red from embarrassment. What nerve did this skeleton to commit to such a grand gesture, to a stranger of all things? “I’m Sans Serif.”

“Is he always like this?” Y/N called out into the crowd, only to have a distant ‘Yes’ answer their question. They let out a quiet snort, shaking their head in amusement.

“I’m Y/N.”

“Your name’s like a melody...” A grin cracked upon his face, a light blue flushing over his bones.

“A singer is that what you are?”

“Oh, I also play the lyre.” He chirped up excitedly, though Y/N seemed to be less than happy with this answer- only the same shit eating grin on their face.

“Oh a liar AND a player too,” The simple pun earned a few laughs from the fellow patrons, with Papyrus in the background internally crumpling himself up. How was Sans this terrible at flirting.

“No no no, I’m not like that-.” Papyrus was quick to interject into the conversation, taking over for his older brother, hoping to steer the conversation back north. “He’s not like any man, you’ve ever met- tell her what you’re working on.”

Sans felt his eyes light up with stars, nervously he rambled on about the epic, the song that will fix all the troubles up above. To bring Toriel back from the Underground, take what’s broken and make it full again. The ones who earlier laughed at the young skeleton seemed to light up when hearing him talk, as if the hope that was once drained from them, was filling up once more. A song so beautiful, it brings nature into tune, back into time- and how the flowers will bloom, when they takes his hand.

He held out the same ripped up paper rose to them once again, hoping a different response.

“Oh, he’s crazy...why would I take his hand?” Y/N turned to Papyrus, who shrugged nonchalantly before opening his mouth. “Maybe because he’ll make you feel alive.”

They weren’t sure but the deal seemed like so much more than any candle or match, after all the cold winters where it felt like their bones would break.

“Alive? That’s Worth a lot...” They were deep in thought before looking over at the skeleton. “What else you got?”

[wouldpollyapprove]

A Girl That Wasn’t Meant To Love

Request: can you do a tommy x reader based on the song hell on high heels by motley crue

Requested by @magnificentzombiebasement

Thomas Shelby x Reader

Word Count: 3.7k

Warnings: Language, alcohol, prostitution

A/n: I had a completely different idea for how I wanted to write this and what I ended up actually writing is more of like a prologue. If you guys like this, I may write a second part, but it’s not a priority at the moment. I also want you guys to know that I gave up editing this halfway through b/c it’s hella long and I’m lazy. So, that’s the reason things may be spelled wrong or not make sense at all.

Masterlist

“There’s no shame in this life,” she’d been told before. It was by an old woman, one stuck in her place at one time in her life. “There is no shame in doing what must be done to survive.” Head held high, that’s what Y/n lived by. Ugly truths and monstrous men, she saw nothing but the end of the line. Every night was touch or go, wondering if she would have enough money to make it to the next. But with each rising sun, she grew stronger and the money in her pockets started to bulge.

There was no shame in what she did if it led to her survival.

Y/n never liked the only word ever used to describe women like her: “prostitute”. The word, unclean, allowed men to shove her face in the mud. Women, who never had to do a days work on their back to pay the bills, would spit at her, curses, even words sailors wouldn’t utter, leaving their porcelain lips. They didn’t see the pot of gold they had stumbled upon, all that they had that was out of reach from other’s. They were selfish in believing that some people had a choice in what had to be done to put food on the table.

It had always been a struggle to come by much of anything. Y/n grew up in a village in France that knew everything but wealth. People made enough to live, but never leave. War was the only thing that ever allowed boys and girls alike to wave at the village behind them. Most never returned, but there were always more to replace those in the ground. Producing like rabbits, there was no such thing as plentiful. Skin and bones, they all worked day and night to live for another hour, but it was never enough for Y/n. 

Tough as nails, she was tired of living from meal to meal. Wishing for the world, she wasn’t like her mother or sisters, who dreamed of getting by, she wanted to take what was her’s. And so, with what little she had, she fled to Paris. It took days, different strangers pitying her state, the dirt stained clothes and tangled hair, but eventually she reached the golden city.

There, she could find little work with the skill set she’d acquired as a child. Laborers weren’t meant to walk the streets of the capital, they were meant for the tiny villages that she came from. And so, another line of work had to be found and that is when the woman who ran Le Sphinx pulled her inside. Knowing nothing of prostitution, Y/n was forced to quickly learn, being educated in both the desires of men and etiquette. 

Once ready and thrown to the lions, she did whatever she could to stay above the sharp, white teeth. At first, there were many nights with tears streaming down her cheeks and the thought of home forever circling around her mind. It was hard to adapt to something she’d known nothing about. Even harder when she was merely competition to the other girls. No one would extend a hand, wipe the tears off her stained cheeks and tell her that it would get better. The girls at the brothel were worse than the ones Y/n encountered on the street. They did anything to start a fight and were worse than thieves. If you valued anything, it wasn’t to be kept in plain sight. It was a war zone one no man would ever have to face.

But before Y/n knew it, she was on top, the woman all the business men and visiting royals wanted to spend the evening with. It wasn’t bad to be sitting in the lap of a Norwegian royal, not once you were aware of how much their hat alone cost. Drowning in riches, this was close enough to the life she wanted. With all the money given to her by the men that believed they were her only loves, she packed her bags and moved to London. 

That was where the rich became even richer and where our story starts.

Settling into her London home, Y/n decided she would rather spend her days doing anything but lying on her back. There were some clients, wealthy ones, that she’d see occasionally, but she wanted to make money in other ways. And with all that she had saved up, she did just that by purchasing a dress shop. It was the perfect quaint life that she had been looking for all along and it was finally her’s. Most of her days were spent hiring seamstresses or going over new fabrics, Y/n wanted women to flock from all over the country to buy her dresses and she would do anything to achieve that.

But like everyone, she got bored. 

Wanting more than to roam the streets of London, she decided to put one of her best workers in charge and run around the English countryside. While on her little holiday, Y/n stopped in Birmingham. Meant to be the manufacturing capital of the country, it didn’t try to hide that fact. But she loved it. The dirt and grime, the sweat that covered the brow. She was raised just as they were, work until the day was done. The broken backs and accidental deaths were something she was all too familiar with. 

These people were her people.

Taking in the city around her, Y/n wandered into a pub near a few factories. Whether it was accepted for women to venture out on their own in this city or not, she didn’t care. A mediocre whiskey sour was all she was asking for. Pushing the doors open, gold details ran along the wall as the sun peeked through stained glass windows. For a pub on the wrong side of town, London was all that crossed her mind. There were many pubs in the capital that held themselves like the one she stood in. Shaking off her shock, Y/n took a seat at one of the bar stools, sinking into its cushion. 

“What can I get you?” the barmaid with eyes that dripped of honey and charcoal curls asked her.

“How about a whiskey sour?” she smiled at the girl. She looked to be no more than eighteen, what an age to be. By the time Y/n was that age, she was already in Paris, doing the job few women willing accepted. The girl nodded, curls bouncing around her chiseled face, before fetching the ingredients needed.

Y/n leaned back in her chair and began to search her purse for a cigarette. It was a bad habit she’d picked up from the brothel, but it did wonders at calming the nerves. She searched and searched, but it appeared that she smoked the last one that morning. “Fuck,” she muttered, doubling checking.

“Missing something?” a voice asked from across the bar.

She straightened to lock eyes with a tall man, his brunette hair shaved at the side. Unsure what to make of him, she simply nodded. He held himself like a businessman, suit and all, but all she could see were the rough edges of a working man.

“What have you lost?” he asked, waiting for a proper answer. 

Sighing in defeat, Y/n placed her bag on the bar. “My cigarettes. I fear I’ve cleaned myself out.”

A soft smile tugged at his lips, slowly he dug a hand into his jacket pocket and pulled a pack out. “I happen to have a few.”

Y/n couldn’t help but smile seeing the canister. God only knows where she’d have to go to buy a new pack. “Mind sharing one with me?”

Waltzing over to her side, movements swift and precise, he held one out between his fingers for her to take. Gently, she slipped it between her own before placing it between her lips. Being a gentleman, the man already had his lighter out by the time it was snug between her painted lips and lit it for her. “Thank you…” she waited for a name, taking a drag.

“Tommy.”

“Thank you, Tommy,” she smiled and watched as he slid into the seat next to her. “I assume your first name’s Thomas then.”

Tommy smiled. “No, it’s Ethel.” The statement pulled a laugh from the woman sitting next to him. “And what’s your name? Or do you not have one of those?”

“Oh I have one,” she said right before the barmaid returned with her drink. “Thank you,” she smiled at the girl. Attention back on the man beside her, she took a quick drink of her better-than-mediocre whiskey sour before answering his question. “Y/n L/n.”

The man nodded, eyes going up the length of her body. The silk smooth fabric of her dress, the purse discarded on the bar top, and the jewels that hung around her wrist told Tommy all he needed to know about her. Plain as day, Y/n came from money. “What brings ya to Small Heath?” Tommy questioned, lighting his own cigarette, and leaned back in his stool, turning towards her. 

“Small stop before traveling to London,” she admitted.

“London’s home, I take it.”

Y/n shrugged and flicked ash into the ashtray between them. “For now.”

Silence fell between the two. For once in her life, butterflies fluttered around her stomach, creating a knot that was both nerve racking and pleasant. There was never a chance for Y/n to even think of any sort of love except that of money before moving to England. But still beside Tommy, she felt something that she had never experienced before. Her heart told her it was more than just the love that overcame a silly school girl. No matter what it said, though, her brain overruled and told her off on the silly notion. 

The two spent the rest of the day talking at the bar, swapping stories of all they had done. Y/n swept her early career into a dark closet, locking it away from the young man. She knew how his sky blue eyes would turn the color of the sea with the knowledge out in the open. She couldn’t have that. For most of her life, Y/n had watched people’s views on her change in an instant based on a profession many dipped their toes into in the name of survival. She wouldn’t have that with him. Not when she could feel it in her bones that he was meant to be something more.

Eventually, Y/n had to go back to London, but she didn’t board the train without handing Tommy her address. “Write. Please. Anytime you wish, write to me. I will always answer,” a glossy smile danced on her lips, she placed a small paper in his palm. 

“I will. I promise,” he answered. Though they hadn’t known each other long, both knew that they would never lose touch.

“I best be going now.” Y/n scanned the station, noticing as people began to board the train. “Goodbye, Tommy.” Before she could turn on her heels, a hand caught her wrist and pulled her back. A grasp escaped her before soft lips captured her’s. Deepening the kiss, Y/n wanted to do anything but board the locomotive. 

Tommy pulled away, resting his forehead against hers. “Goodbye, Y/n,” he said with a sad smile as he tucked a piece of hair behind her ear.

They parted that day and as Y/n watched him become nothing with the growing distance, she could still feel his lips on her. Call it love, call it lust, but it was one of the great wonders of the world, that she knew. 

Once in London, Y/n made haste to write to Tommy. Her friends couldn’t help but notice the smile that adorned her face when the mail was dropped by every day and the one letter she picked out of the rest, holding it to her chest. They wondered if she’d found a lover or a boyfriend, but there was no answer she could give them.

What was Thomas Shelby to her? To a girl that wasn’t meant to love?

An answer couldn’t be given in fear of ruining what had been created. 

Piles of letters flowed between the pair and soon, Tommy was asking her to come to Birmingham once more. The same excuses were used each time. She couldn’t find anyone to watch the shop or money was tight and she couldn’t spare a penny. White lies left her lips dressed as the truth. She couldn’t leave the safety of her home to visit the darkness of the unknown. Everything surrounding the man was new to her and Y/n couldn’t figure out how to handle it. Run straight at it or hide in the corner, those were her options. She liked the corner.

But Mr. Shelby wouldn’t have it with the excuses, deciding that if she couldn’t come to Birmingham then he would go to London.

A knock at the front door pulled mighty barks from Pearl, the French Bulldog Y/n found starving on the streets one night. With eyes on the stove, Y/n was weary to leave them unattended to answer the door. “Be there in a minute,” she called, giving the eyes a few extra seconds before sliding them onto a plate. Pearl ran between her feet, almost tripping her, as Y/n walked to the front door. Doing her best to keep the creature in the house, using one foot to hold her back, she opened the door, body freezing when she locked eyes with the man in front of her. 

“Y/n.” A smile like honey spread across his face, almost making Y/n forget why her heart seized up in fear. 

“Tommy,” she breathed out in return. The dog behind her used the shock to her advantage and quickly found a gap between her owner and the door, slipping through to bark at the stranger in front of her. Y/n scoffed and quickly scooped the dog up before she could take a bite out of Tommy’s polished shoes. “Pearl, you pest,” she scolded. “Um, please, come in.”

When the door was opened wider, Tommy stepped through the threshold and began to strip himself of his coat. “I was in town for business, thought I’d come see you.”

A smile lit up her face at his words. No one had ever been kind enough to do that, not for the innocent reasons he was. “There’s breakfast in the kitchen if you’d like some.” He nodded, following close behind as she led the way, eyes scanning the walls that past him.

“Lovely home,” he remarked as Y/n gestured for him to have a seat at the kitchen table. Doing as she pleased, he sank into the wooden chair and took in his surroundings.

The second his eyes had landed on her months before in the Garrison, Tommy knew the woman came from money. Back straight as a board, jewels dangling from her body, there was no mistaking it. He sat beside her, hoping she couldn’t sniff out dirt poor, violent prone individuals. By the end of her stay in Birmingham, it seemed she knew no difference between expensive suits obtained by gun point and those with a handful of coins. 

It was foolish for Tommy to believe she would want anything to do with him. He was a poor boy turned thief turned war hero turned criminal. Little he touched after the war was legal and he knew better than to believe that a woman of her status would ever want a man like himself. 

“Yeah,” she shrugged while dishing eggs onto two plates. Before placing them on the table, she set a piece of toast next to the eggs and grabbed the butter off the counter. A plate was placed in front of her guest, who wasn’t sure if he should be surprised that she knew how to cook. Anyone who owned a house such as the one Tommy found himself in usually had a few maids and a cook, but not Y/n it seemed. “What business brings you to London?”

“None worth anything,” he answered.

A groomed brow raised, she wondered why he wasted the trip. “Then why come?”

The answer that escaped his lips hit her in the heart, the one she saw coming. “For you.” For her, he had left the comforts of his home. For her, he had wasted precious time. And for her, he would surely be disappointed. 

“Tommy,” she drawled, eyes gloomy to match her said smile. “You didn’t have to.”

Leaning back in his chair, his blue eyes pierced her own. His demeanor had changed. Once loving and sweet, now sharp and calculated. “You refused to come see me, decided to come see why.”

Y/n sighed, unsure whether to let her eyes wonder or stay focused on the man in front of her. “I’ve been busy,” she lied.

Her words must have been see through, not an ounce of weight to them, when Tommy rolled his eyes. “Apparently, you’ve been so busy that you’ve allowed yourself to visit the coast.” His words were bitter, laced with venom, each syllable as dangerous as the next. “Thought I wouldn’t find out?”

A foolish move to believe she could live a wonderful life. Once back in London, Y/n had done her fair share of research on Thomas Shelby. When it came to survival, it was always best to know all those around you. Y/n couldn’t allow anyone to burn her empire, no matter how much she was willing to let them. She knew Tommy was making his way up in the world, climbing the latter, each rung as illegal as the next. He was a quick witted and calculated man. Ambition seemed to always cross his mind. Tommy seemed to know as much about her as she did about him. But if he only mentioned her trip to the coast, perhaps he didn’t know all she thought he did.

Opening her mouth to say something, she was cut off before a word could get out. 

“What am I to you?” The words were heavy on his tongue, even heavier ringing in her ears. 

Y/n sat there, opening and closing her mouth, the breakfast in front of her completely forgotten. There was no perfect answer. No sentence that could be formulated that could wash away the pain evident in his eyes. There was no word that could be uttered to mend what she had broken but the simple truth.

Letting her eyes scour the room, she did her best to avoid eye contact as Tommy’s gaze drilled into her. “If you believe you don’t mean anything to me, you’re wrong. You mean the world to me.”

“You have an interesting way of showing it.”

Y/n couldn’t help but flinch at the bitter words. “I…” she shook her head and got to her feet. She couldn’t sit still, not with her heart attempting to beat out of her chest. “I don’t know how to love.”

The words were barely above a whisper but Tommy heard them from his place at the table. Eyes softening, he wasn’t sure he’d understood her properly. “What do you mean?”

Pacing around the kitchen, tears welled up in her eyes at all she didn’t want to say. Y/n wasn’t ashamed of her past, in fact, many would find it triumphant, but it wasn’t one that bathed in love. She had never been loved or in love until she had met Thomas Shelby at a pub in Birmingham. Many only had one love and that was good enough. But with her background, love was never enough. She could love with her whole heart, but her loyalty would always come into question.

“I have never been allowed to love,” Y/n explained at the mini bar in the corner of the room. It may have been early, but it was never earlier too early for a drink. A strong on at that. Shaking hand poured whiskey into a glass, filling much more than needed. “I-I have never been in a… relationship that wasn’t physical.”

Tommy wasn’t sure what to make of her announcement or  the woman that stood before him. Whiskey pouring over the rim of her glass, it wasn’t hard for the man to see that her gentle words covered up a dirtier trust. Pushing himself out of his chair, in a few quick strides, he was by her side. Long fingers snatched the drink from her hand, placing it on the counter. “Were you a-”

“Please, please don’t say it!” she begged, tears rolling down her cheeks. “Please.” Wrapping his arms around her waist, he pulled her against him, her head resting against his chest. “I won’t, I won’t,” Tommy said, rubbing a hand up and down her back. It did little soothe her but it was better than doing nothing. “It’s alright, love.”

Y/n shook her head, pulling away enough to meet his eyes. “No, it’s not,” she cried. “I’m fucking filthy! Not someone anyone would love.”

It broke his heart to see the pain in her eyes, the truth she placed on each word. Placing a hand against her cheek, he stroked the smooth skin, letting her melt against his touch. “I love you, Y/n,” he said softly to combat her sobs. “And I don’t care how filthy you are, I love you. And if I have to teach you how to lover properly, then so be it. But if you can love Pearl then I know you can love anyone.”

She was quiet, savoring each word that was said. No one had ever said such a thing to her and meant every word. Some customers had believed they were in love with her, taken her kindness for passionate love, but it was never that. “Do you mean it?” Y/n asked as Tommy wiped her tears away.

“Every word.” He leaned down, capturing her in a kiss. Y/n grabbed him by the collar and pulled him closer, deepening the kiss. Tommy could have stayed there, with his arms wrapped around her, forever, but Pearl had other ideas. The dog barked from the other side of the room, earning laughs from two. Turning his attention back to Y/n, Tommy brushed a stray hair behind her ear and asked, “Now, will you come to Birmingham with me?”

*~~*~~*

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Peaky Blinders: @simonsbluee

[keepmeinthedark]

To The Top || A Marauders Band AU

Chapter Three: This Side of Paradise 

Read here on AO3

How did James and Lily go from disliking each other to falling in love?

They spent time together didn't they? That's how most people do it.

In past interviews, James had described his relationship with Lily Evans as "love at first sight."

That's because it was. Just because it started with love doesn't mean that they didn't have their problems in the middle.

Were any of the other boys in relationships at the time?

No, unless you count Frank who at the point was dating Alice, but they hadn't made it official at this point.

And according to Emmeline Vance herself, she was involved in the band during the early days. How did she meet them?

She lived with them. At Maxwells house. She shared a room with James.

//

Emmeline hated sharing a room with James.

He was messy, he was loud, and above all, he was a complete inconvenience whenever she wanted to bring someone home with her.

She always texted him, a quick and simple rabbit emoji, a quick way of saying "I'm about to bring someone into our room who I intend to have sex with. Please clear all of your shit to the side and go sleep on Sirius and Franks floor please."

But did he ever do it? Nope. Never. Not once.

One time he left a framed photo of himself with rose petals and candles on her bed.

Another time he had Sirius and Frank play the loudest least sexy music ever from their room once they had heard Emmeline and their date come in.

Another time James had replaced all of the photos of her friends and family with photos of the Backyardigans with James photoshopped into them. (They don't even know where he found the time for that one.)

And this time James hadn't even bothered to check his phone.

"Jesus Christ James what are you doing?" she asked the lump of blankets on his bed. She turned to her companion, a tall blonde girl with blue eyes, "Im so sorry, I told him to leave."

Her date just shrugged and started to gently kiss Emmeline's neck, "I don't mind so long as he's quiet," she said.

"Please don't," James squeaked from his bed.

Emmeline rolled her eyes. "Could you give us a second please?" She asked the blonde.

After the girl (she couldn't remember her name) left the room, Emmeline stormed over to where James lay. She pulled the sheets from on top of him and folded their arms. "What are you playing at?" she hissed.

James didn't answer, just mumbled a bit and waved his arms about.

"Are you drunk?"

"Nurr."

"Are you sure?"

"Nurr."

Emmeline uncrossed her arms, "What's this about, James?" she asked, their voice much softer than it was before.

James sat up, "It's nothing it's just... nothing. I'm sorry I didn't see your text I'll leave." He began to get out of bed.

"Hang on a sec. Wait up," Emmeline held their hand out and James sat back. "What's going on?"

James sighed and opened his mouth to answer when Sirius and Frank entered the room. "Why is there a lesbian in the hallway?" Sirius asked.

Emmeline gave him a look, "Nevermind about her, why is Potter depressed."

"I'm not depressed."

Emmeline's look was pleading.

Sirius sighed, "You remember that girl that he met at Christmas?"

"Dark red hair that reached her chest, emerald green eyes, plus size, has a smile that glows, exactly a head smaller, three piercings, a tattoo of a wolf behind her ear and wearing white Doc Martens?" She nodded. "Yeah, I remember."

"She was at the gig we played today and she rejected him."

"Well bloody hell is that all?" Emmeline sounded offended. "I thought someone had died or something but you're cockblocking me just because you couldn't get laid yourself. That is low Potter."

Emmeline could hear Frank trying to hold in his laughter and James looked up at her with a shocked expression.

"I didn't see your text!"

"I sent you fifteen rabbits! Fifteen! If that wasn't enough indication that the girl I was bringing back was important-"

"I DIDN'T SEE IT!"

"YOU KNOW BETTER THAN TO NOT CHECK!"

"Alright! Alright, inside voices both of you," Sirius got between them. He turned to Emmeline. "Emme. What's so important about the lesbian in the hallway?"

They shrugged, "First fuck of the year ain't it?"

Behind her, Frank started laughing. In front of her, James looked like he was about to kill them.

"All of this for some random lesbian you found off the street?" Frank wheezed.

Emmeline's face scrunched up in disgust. "Alright let's get some things straight," she said, wagging her figure at each of them. "Firstly, it's the first day of the year I need a good start. Secondly, she's bisexual, and thirdly I didn't find her on the street she was at a house party that I just came from."

"So all of this for some random bisexual that you found at a house party?"

"To start this new fucking year off right! Can't forget about that!" Sirius chimed in.

Emmeline had never wanted to hit them more.

"Are we done?" James asked. "I'm a bit over talking about this."

"Oh, I'm sorry your highness are we bothering your coming of age moment?" Frank asked sarcastically.

"Yes, you are ruining my coming of age moment." James hissed. "Now if you don't mind, I prefer to be depressed alone, not with you lot and a bisexual from a house party!" He pulled his covers back over himself.

"Aww come on mate don't be like that. So you don't reject for once in your life it happens to everyone. Doesn't it guys?" Frank said turning to Sirius and Emmeline for support.

"Yeah, the amount of times I've flirted with straight dudes is embarrassing," Sirius said the same time Emmeline said, "Ah not really I'm a catch."

This got a smile from James.

"Ay, there's a smile!" Frank beamed. "C'mon, well go to the pub. Turn that frown upside down."

James' smiled grew and he nodded, finally getting out of bed. Emmeline, Sirius, and Frank cheered.

"Wait!" Emmeline said, "What are we going to do about the bisexual?" she whispered as if she could hear them from the other side of the door.

Frank shrugged, "Bring her along!"

They cheered again and made their way out of the bedroom door. Only to find that the girl Emmeline had brought back was no longer there.

"Ahh fuck her," James said when he noticed Emmelines disappointed face. "She would've brought the mood down anyway."

The Leaky Caldron was the quietest any of them had seen it. It was past 1 am by the time they had gotten there and most of their company were about to do their last rounds.

Sirius preferred it like this. It was easier to get a drink, it was easier to hear your friends and it was easier to actually move around. He was never fond of really crowded places like that.

Emmeline had gotten them all the first round and James got the second, by the time they were on the third Sirius noticed three guys walk into the pub. He immediately recognized one of them as Lily Evans' friend.

He opened his mouth to tell the others but Frank jumped in before he could. "Hey, those guys were at the gig today," he said subtly pointing at them.

James went pale, "Yeah, and one of them was talking to Lily when I went up to talk to her," he muttered.

Emmeline hit Frank's arm, "See what you've done," she hissed. "Don't worry Potter, Ill go throw my drink over him. Now, which one was it?"

"Emme, we've talked about this you cant just throw drinks over anyone you like," Sirius told her and slapped her hand away from her drink.

Sirius expected them to make some snarky come back, but instead they just stared at him and raised an eyebrow. Sirius was about to ask her what the hell she was doing when she threw her arms up and gave him a disapproving look.

"Really Sirius?" she asked. "Out of all the people for you to fancy it has to be one of them?"

Sirius went bright red, "I haven't got a clue what you're talking about," he lied.

"Don't lie to me."

"Well, I can't help it can I?"

"Oh my god, Sirius. Right, which one is it? I'll throw my drink over him instead."

Sirius nearly jumped out of his seat, "Why do you have to throw your drink on anyone?"

Emmeline gave him a judging look. "You can't date the friend of the girl who broke your poor mate's heart, Sirius."

"Yeah Sirius," Frank said in a mocking tone. "You can't break girl code."

Emmeline side-eyed him but ignored his comment. "Let's say you two date, and you falling love and get married and James is your best man while whats her name-"

"Lily Evans"

"- Lily Evans, is his best woman. And those two have to help plan your wedding, but they can't agree on anything because James holds grudges and your wedding is ruined. Do you really want your wedding to be ruined?"

James raised his eyebrows. "That's why this is bad? Not because of my feelings or anything?"

"I was getting to that."

"No, you weren't!"

"It was implied!"

Sirius downed what remained of his drink. "Alright, alright," he intervened before they could get any more annoying. "I just won't date him, you don't have to throw your drink over someone every time we go drinking Emme. We'll just continue our lives and never see each other ever again." Although if Sirius was being honest, he didn't really like the idea of never seeing his mystery boy again. "It's not like we talked or he took any notice of me anyway."

"Emme, get your drink ready," Frank said suddenly. "One of thems coming over here."

Sirius" head shot into the direction where Frank was looking. Unfortunately, it was not the scarred boy but rather the oldest of the group. Sirius wouldn't be surprised if he was the other three boys' father, as it was obvious that they were all related somehow.

Meanwhile, James had to steal Emmeline's drink before she could get her hands on it.

The man noticed that he was being watched and gave the group a small smile. "So sorry to bother you," he said as he got closer, "But were you by any chance the band that played at the fate earlier today?"

Nobody answered for a moment, each one of them was waiting for someone else to take one for the team and talk, in the end, it was Frank.

"Yeah, we were," he told him. "Were you there?"

The man shook his head but smiled. "No, but my sons were," he said pointing to the table where the three boys sat. Upon realizing that the group was now looking at them, each boy quickly turned their head to make it look like they weren't watching. All of them seemed embarrassed. The man laughed.

"They seem to have this problem when they see someone they know and their first reaction is to hide rather than say hello."

The four of them laughed awkwardly as if they weren't the exact same.

"Anyways, I just wanted to come here to prove a point," he said with a friendly smile. He turned to leave but backtracked on himself and pulled a card from his pocket. "Actually, if you guys ever need somewhere to play there is this club that likes to play small bands. Give them a call if you like."

Emmeline immediately reached for the card and took it from him, before any of the boys could tell him that "they're not a small band."

"Thank you, much appreciated," she said with a smile and the four of them watched as the man walked away.

Frank took the card from Emmeline and read it over a few times, then he and Emmeline began talking about if it would be worth giving them a call. James stayed silent and finished his drink, only giving his thoughts every now and then. Sirius on the other hand hadn't taken his eyes off the scarred boy, who was now interrogating his dad, along with his brothers. For a split second his eyes shifted and locked with Sirius'. He gave him a smile - that one that you give to random people on the street - and looked down at his drink.

Shit, Sirius thought. There is no way that I'm never seeing him again.

[sinner-as-saint]

Back For You (Mob! Seb AU)

The Completed Series.

Mob Boss! Sebastian Stan x Reader.

Run-through: You fell for the charms of a beautiful stranger, but then you fell down the rabbit hole.

Themes: mob boss! Seb, language, SMUT, slight fluff, Daddy kink

  A/N: I will forever be a hoe for this shoot!!

 “See you tomorrow, y/n. And don’t forget the back door,” your co-worker yelled as she walked out of the door. Her shift ended early today, while you still had an hour left and it was your turn to close down today.

You worked at the local pub. It was a quiet, cozy space and given it was quite a small town – not that many people visited. And those who did, were all just overworked, tired people who just needed a pint of beer or Guinness before going home to their boring lives.

You quickly glanced at the clock and it read 10:05 p.m.

Just one more hour until you could go home.

You weren’t desperate to go home, you lived alone and you liked it. Your parents were separated and lived in different cities, and you had no siblings. And neither did you have a boyfriend.

After you graduated from college recently, all your days were spent dropping CVs basically anywhere; without getting any calls back and in the evening you worked at the pub so you could pay your bills. Your dad was loaded, so he did send you money every month but you didn’t want to be living off his money so you only touched it when you desperately needed to.

 You were re-arranging the glasses on the counter top when the bell dinged, signaling that someone had walked in. The clock read 10:45 p.m.

Weird, you thought, usually no one comes by at this time. The only customer who stayed till late was Johnny, the divorced dad of three and he left at 9.30 every night, and usually after him there was no other customer. But today was different.

 “Hello? Are you closing?” a voice husky voice asked, as gradual footsteps echoed off the walls of the empty pub.

You turned your head towards the door and noticed the man at the entrance.

An unfamiliar man, you had never seen him before so you assumed he was passing by.

He was tall, well dressed and looked to be very… expensive.

You studied his appearance further and noticed how blue his eyes were, and how his appearance screamed power and dominance.

As soon as he walked in, his cologne lingered in the air. He looked intimidating, and he looked good. Like really, really good.

The kind of good that would make someone wanna get close but run away at the same time.

 “No, sir. It’s open. What can I get you?” you asked in your professional voice and he smiled, taking a seat right in front of you at the counter, smiling.

You noticed the crinkles by his tired, yet breathtaking blue eyes and somehow got lost in them temporarily.

He looked like he was in his late thirties, and he looked way more handsome than half the boys in the magazines.

 “Oh thank God! I’ve been wandering for a good 30 minutes looking for a beer. It’s been a rough day,” he said, licking his pink lips. You smiled faintly and you grabbed the closest pint glass and immediately started filling it up by lifting the valve of the beer tap.

While you were at it, you noticed that the beautiful stranger hadn’t lifted his eyes off you. You shook it off because you were pretty sure he was probably lost in his thoughts, because he was way out of your league to stare at you.

Once you finished pumping the beer, you placed it in front of him. He picked it up almost immediately and took a long sip, all while maintaining eye contact with you.

You cleared your throat and looked away once he swallowed the sip and went back to pretending to be busy arranging the other glasses on the counter.

 “What’s your name?” he asked, placing his elbows on the counter and leaning on it.

You don’t know what it was, but something about him made you nervous. And you barely knew him.

 “Y/n.” you simply replied, scared that you would make a fool of yourself by stuttering if you said anything else.

 He smiled, genuinely.

 “That’s a pretty name. I’m Sebastian by the way,” he smirked and you decided to have a little talk with the gorgeous stranger. After all, you wouldn’t see him ever again.

 “Well what brings you to our little town, Sebastian?” you asked and he took another sip of beer. He sighed once he finished swallowing the beverage.

 “Ah, work stuff. Just, really boring work stuff, doll. You from around here?” he further asked.

You nodded, placing one last pint glasses where it belonged and moved to stand right in front of him, placing the palms of your hand on either side of your frame.

He was barely two feet away from you and you weren’t complaining. His voice, his smile, his ocean eyes��they all drew you in like a trance.

 “Born and raised. My parents lived here all their lives too before they- I, I’m sorry I shouldn’t be piling on you like that, I apologize sir,” you rambled but he placed one of his warm hand on top of yours, causing you to look him in the eyes.

“Hey, it’s okay. We all need someone to confide in, be it strangers. Talk to me, c’mon. I don’t really have people who tell me stuff, most of them just listen,” he spoke, avoiding your eyes often during his speech.

 “I know, it’s just weird that- I mean, I don’t usually tell people stuff. My friends, they all left town to settle in big cities and I’m left here, alone,” you spoke and a hand lifted your chin up.

 “Hey, it’s okay. You know, you won’t be alone forever,” he said, smiling and his words made you chuckle.

He placed his hands back on the counter too quickly, almost as if he was scared you might misunderstand his touch.

“Yeah, like anytime now my prince charming will come by in his shining golden armor and on white horse and he’ll sweep me off my feet and we’ll ride to his kingdom,” you joked and he smiled, shaking his head.

“Or, maybe he’ll come by in a black car, wearing a dark suit and instead of taking you away to his kingdom on a horseback, he’ll simply ask you if he can drop you home,” Sebastian spoke smoothly, a grin on his face while his eyes had a hint of mischief in them.

You found yourself at a loss of words. Needless to say, you sucked at flirting. And with a man this good looking offering to drive you home, you didn’t know how to respond.

“Well, I’ll tell him I can walk back, there’s no need for him to bother,” you did your best and it made him smile. And something told you he wasn’t giving up just yet.

He kept his eyes on you as you shifted under his gaze. It was a chilly night but he was making you feel warm and tingly, in certain places more than others.

 “It’s getting late and dark outside, doll. You shouldn’t walk alone, let me drop you.” His tone gave you the indication that he wasn’t one to negotiate with. He had an authoritative way of talking. His words were laced with superiority.

 Everyone warns their kids, at some point, that they shouldn’t talk to strangers. Or take rides from them. Your parents did too, but here you were, breaking all the rules.

He sensed your hesitation and was quick to speak again.

 “Don’t be scared doll, I won’t hurt you,” he said, and somehow, your heart convinced your brain and you agreed to let him drive you back home.

 Was that a wrong move? You didn’t care, surprisingly.

 He finished his drink, and you locked the back door, turned off all the lights, set the alarm and finally locked the front door – Sebastian watching all of your moves the whole time.

Normally, having a guy you barely knew staring at you would make you extremely uncomfortable but this was different, he was not making any weird comments or making you feel unsafe in anyway.

 “Okay, I’m done. Again, you don’t have to drop me, I live nearby I-,”

“Oh I know I don’t have to, I want to though. Get in, y/n,” he opened the door to his sleek, shiny black car.

“I hope you won’t kidnap me, Sebastian. I’ll bore you to death so much that you’ll end up dropping me back here,” you joked, your words laced with sass and he threw his head back laughing.

“I would never, doll. Trust me,” he said, again and you stepped inside the expensive car, one which you could never afford anytime soon.

The pure leather interior felt cold under your touch. And the car smelt like Sebastian’s cologne, and something else. A faint, salty, smoky smell. Charcoal? You couldn’t place a finger on it.

 Sebastian got in the driver’s seat and smiled at you again.

“I never thanked you, for the beer. I’ll be sure to drop by your pub again,” he said, his voice low and something about it make you shiver.

You didn’t even know this man that well, but he was doing things to you that no one ever did before. He was making you nervous just by talking.

 “Sure, just know that late customers are annoying,” you sassed, and he laughed again.

His laugh was… hot.

 He started the car with the push of a button and the engine purred.

“Where to, ma’am?” he asked, smirking.

You giggled.

 “Drive down the main road, and then take a right once we pass the library, and my apartment building’s right there,” you gave him the directions and he listened with an occasional nod.

 “Seat belt, doll,” he said, looking at your with his gorgeous eyes which lowkey made you breathless and once the belt clicked, the car took off.

 The pub was at 15 minutes walking distance from your apartment, so the journey back to your apartment was much shorter. But with the sudden appearance of the thick tension in the air, each moment felt like a millennium.

 The car ride was comfortably silent, with you stealing quick glances of Sebastian’s face.

 “Hey, I never asked. What do you do? I mean, you said you were here for work, right? Where do you work?” you asked, casually.

And you couldn’t help but notice the slight reluctance in his voice as he answered your question.

 “I, uh, deal with money. I make deals, with big shots you know CEOs and businessmen and people like that. It, uh, pays well. Which is why I’m always moving, a new city almost every day,” he explained, vaguely and you decided to leave it be because you didn’t want to come off as nosy.

A different city almost every day…

Your heart sank as those words rolled out of his kissable mouth. So he was a wanderer, meaning you definitely wouldn’t see him again.

Right?

  In a couple of agonizing minutes, the car came to a halt.

It was time for you to part ways with the stranger. But something inside you stirred and suddenly all you wanted to do was to figure out the mysterious stranger. What was his deal? Why was someone so successful like him in your little town?

 “Can I walk you to your apartment, doll?” he asked, politely. His eyes searched yours.

Doll… you mentally repeated the word a couple of times.

No one had ever called you ‘doll’ before. Did he think you were pretty? Did he find you cute in your dark green polo shirt, your black skinny jeans and your ankle boots? Did your way too messy, messy bun draw him in just like his perfect face did to you? Did your ordinary e/c eyes capture his attention like his dreamy blue ones did to you, so much so that he now wanted to walk you to your 2 bedroom apartment?

Men like him, you thought, aren’t usually seen with girls like you.

 “Hello? Hey, doll, you okay?” he asked again, smiling.

He was just being nice but then your head went to the gutter.

 Would he call you ‘doll’ in bed? Would he be the broody type who were silent in bed, or would he be more vocal? Would he groan or moan out your name, or would he just bite your shoulder to muffle the filthy sounds which would escape his mouth?

Would he be into foreplay? Would he be surprisingly gentle in bed and hold your hand while you’d ride him or would he pull your hair and spit in your mouth as he pounded into you from behind?

Would he…

 “Yeah, I’m okay. Uh, I- I should go. There’s no need to walk me back, Sebastian, I’ll be fine. Thank you for the ride, have a good night. Oh and, safe travels to, um, wherever you’re going next. Goodbye,” you bade him goodbye with a smile. A smile which you faked to hide all the unholy thoughts you were having about this man you barely knew.

Normally, you weren’t the type to have one night stands, well you did have your fun while you were in college but now, you were much more careful.

 He simply nodded as you stepped out of his expensive looking car, and rushed inside the boring, brown building.

You sighed when you saw the red on white sign still stuck to the elevator. The elevator had not been working for 2 weeks now, and each day, you had to take the many flights of stairs up and down. Ugh, you mentally groaned, there were so many stairs till you got to the fifth floor; your floor.

Reluctantly, you walked up the stairs, dragging your feet as you desperately wanted to feel the comfort of your bed. Perhaps the bed would feel nicer with a certain blue eyed someone in it – ugh! Brain, stop it!

You wanted to get into your home as soon as possible because your body needed food as well. Well, Sebastian is a full course meal, just say- fuck! Enough already, y/n!

 He’s not thinking about you, he’s not thinking about you, he’s not thinking about you. He’s long gone okay, he’s probably about to catch a flight to another, lavish, grand city which you’ll never be lucky enough to visit.

 Minutes later, you finally made it to your apartment. You threw the keys to the pub on the counter of your small kitchen and made your way to your bedroom, passing through your living room. Your apartment wasn’t that spacious but it was good enough. Of course, if someone like Sebastian were to- shit! There you go, thinking about him again.

 “I think I’m going crazy,” you thought out loud as you stood in the middle of your living room, throwing your head back; facing the off white ceiling.

 “Clearly, I mean first you forget your phone in my car, then you leave your front door unlocked and now you’re talking to yourself,” came a voice from behind you and you almost dropped on the floor in embarrassment.

Shit! Fuck! Fucking shit!

 You turned around sheepishly and there he was, the man himself. Sebastian stood in the door way of your kitchen, facing you with your phone in his large hand.

His other hand was stuffed in his pocket and he had a mischievous smirk on. Oh well…

 “Oh, I’m sorry- I, uh, I’m usually very careful but today, I don’t- God! Thank you, for bringing back my phone, Sebastian. And I’m sorry, I know how tiring the stairs can be and t-,”

 Your words came to a complete stop as he walked towards you and stopped merely inches away from you.

At this point, within this close proximity, you could detect the faint smell of nicotine, beer and mint in his breath, mixed with the cologne he wore. His scent was enough to get any girl weak in her knees, and you were still standing so, you were kind of proud of that.

 His azure eyes bore into yours and he seemed like he was looking for something in the depth of your eyes.

Slowly, cautiously, he extended his hand towards you until his knuckled ever so lightly caressed your cheek. You closed your eyes for a brief moment, thinking that when you’ll open them he’ll be gone. You thought it was all your imagination until you opened your eyes again and saw that he was still there. In your living room, in your apartment, inches away from you. And you had trouble understanding what was going on.

Despite the confusion, you found yourself relishing his touch.

His hand stroked your cheek, then your jaw and finally settled back on your cheek.

 “I would say you’re just tired, doll. Or maybe someone is troubling your thoughts. Care to share?” he whispered, holding your face gently, his thumb brushing over your bottom lip gently.

Your thoughts were racing at a thousand miles an hour and your heart was beating insanely fast. You could hear your heartbeats ringing in your ears, yet all you could focus on was the sound of his voice. Weirdly, it calmed you down and made you feel all warm and tingly again.

 “Wh-,”

 The sound of a ringtone cut you off. And it wasn’t your own.

Sebastian sighed loudly and fished his pocket until he found his phone, he tapped on the screen and placed the device over his ear and had a serious look on his face.

 “Qu’est qu’il y a maintenant?” he barked on the phone, anger lacing his words. You noticed how quickly his mood changed.

(What is it now?)

One moment he was being all caring, cocky and gentle with you and now, all of a sudden he’s mad at some poor someone on the phone.

Although, hearing him speak French fluently did do, um, things to you.

You stood in front of him as he kept arguing over the phone. The vein on his neck was now prominent and his eyebrows knitted and he pinched the bridge of his nose. You noticed that he was trying his best to not lose his calm in front of you.

As he spoke the foreign language, you found yourself getting more and more lost in the sound of his voice.

 “Mais non, bandes de conards! Je vais tous vous tuer si ça ne se déroule pas comme je le veux!” he spat at the unknown caller again.

(No, sons of bitches! I will kill all of you if this doesn’t go my way!)

You understood nothing, not even a word, but it seemed like he swore once or twice. Either way, hearing his talk was… intriguing.

 “Bein ouais, naturellement je le veux! Non, ne m’appelle pas sur ce numéro j- eh bein, je m’enfiche, je suis avec ma meuf. Oui, crétin j’ai une meuf. Maintenant fiche le camp, ne m’appelle plus,” with that, he ended the call and turned to your with his bottom lip caught between his teeth.

(Well yeah, obviously I want it! No, don’t call on the number again I- well I don’t care, I’m with my girl. Yes, dickhead I have a girl. Now get lost, don’t call me again)

He gave you one of those looks which made you feel naked under his gaze.

 “That was...,” you started but then your voice trailed off because you didn’t know what to say.

 Tonight just keeps on getting weirder and weirder.

 “That was someone who I work with. He’s being, uh, annoying to say the least,” Sebastian answered and smiled towards you again.

How can someone switch moods so fast?

 “Where were we, doll?” he asked, taking a step forward once again. He stood right in front of you and you didn’t know if it was your imagination or was it really his body heat which wrapped itself around you.

Either way, you were glad about it.

 “We were, uh, I mean you came to give me my phone and…,” your voice trailed off again as he dragged his finger down your arm, leaving behind a trail of goose bumps on your skin.

His touch was electric, cold fingers sliding across your warm skin; in that moment, you were completely under his spell. And the fact that you barely knew him, added its own magnetism to whatever it is that you were feeling.

 Suddenly, you no longer wanted the charming prince anymore. You wanted him. You wanted Sebastian.

 Sebastian leaned forward just the slightest bit and placed a light kiss on your cheek. He was being very gentle, so much so that he surprised himself.

Usually, women throw themselves at him, and he’d play hard to get for a while then eventually give in. But with you, it was different.

You didn’t try to touch him within the first few minutes of meeting him. You didn’t suggest that he should bring you home so you could ‘give him a good time’. You were barely even ready to accept his offer when he asked to drive you home.

He liked you.

 “Can I kiss you, doll?” he asked, out of the blue, and his eyes never left yours.

His need for your consent surprised you. And you couldn’t talk, scared that your words would make no sense even if you tried.

You nodded in response to his question, and not even a second later, a pair of lips met yours in a needy kiss.

His arm wrapped around your waist while the other one held your head, his fingers tangled in your hair and his lips moved along with yours.

His kiss was steamy. His tongue occasionally stroked yours and his teeth often tugged on your bottom lip, dragging a breathy moan out of you.

Soon, both his hands traveled to your ass and he pressed you further into his built body. At that point, you lost all sense of proper judgment, you didn’t care about anything in that moment; all you knew was that you wanted him. Bad.

“Sebastian…,” you moaned mindlessly as his lips roamed around the skin of your neck, kissing and biting the sensitive skin at the base of your throat.

You could almost physically feel the sparks flying between you and him, firing up the lust in both your heads. And you weren’t complaining.

 You let out a loud moan when he finally found your sweet spot, right above your collar bones right at the base of your neck. You felt him smirk against your skin as his pride amplified.

 His lips found yours again, and he mercilessly bruised your lips with his own and you could feel your desire pooling in your underwear as your downstairs area throbbed in need for his attention.

 “Where’s your bed, baby?” he simply asked and resumed assaulting your lips, while his hands settled under your shirt, right beneath your breasts. His thumb slowly caressed your clothed swells and his touch drove you insane.

 Unable to talk, you simply pointed to the other side of the room – a door way which led to your bedroom.

Sebastian began walking the two of you in that direction when you suddenly stopped, halting him along with you.

You weren’t quite sure why you did that and clearly he was confused as well.

 You broke the kiss briefly, placed your hands on the back of his neck while one gently held his face and you looked him in the eyes.

You noticed that his eyes were darker. Filled with passion, a fiery desire and a strong craving. His lips were much plumper than they were before, they were even a darker shade of pink – caused by you biting and tugging on them earlier.

His breathing was quicker, and as you were pressed up against his torso, you could feel his racing heartbeat; matching your own.

 “Fuck…,” you thought out loud and he smirked again, placing his forehead against yours.

 “You know, I’ll leave whenever you ask me to. Do you want me to go, and leave you all frustrated here? You want me to go and leave you to get yourself off using your pretty fingers, all while thinking about me? That, or do you want me to touch you everywhere you want me to and leave you begging for more?” he asked.

His words caused your core to throb even more. Your felt the dampness accumulate down there and the thought of him in your bed didn’t help at all.

His teeth nibbled along your jaw right when you were about to answer him, and your words turned into an involuntary moan.

 “Answer me when I talk to you, doll,” he spoke again, tracing your bottom lip with his tongue; forcing all sorts of unholy thoughts in your head about all the ways in which he could use that skilled tongue better.

 “I want you,” you simply said and he smirked again.

“Come on then, let me take care of you,” he spoke and resumed kissing you as his hands lightly tickled your skin under your shirt, causing you to giggle into the kiss.

 The next thing you knew is being lightly pushed down into the satin sheets of your bed, his body blocking your view of anything else but him.

 It was a huge contrast, him in your room. Your walls were highly decorated with a bunch of stuff you bought off Etsy and eBay. It was a very ‘Tumblr’ type of bedroom, with tones of burgundy, grey, white and certain shades of red. And then there he was, Sebastian in his pricey, black suit. The first few buttons of his now crinkly shirt messily open, courtesy of you.

 He smiled warmly down at you and tugged on your shirt, searching your eyes again for any negative signs. You thought it was adorable how he would wait for your consent each time.

You took matters into your own hands and peeled your polo shirt off, mentally thanking yourself for randomly deciding to wear a matching set of underwear on that day.

It would be borderline embarrassing if you found yourself in bed with a gorgeous man while you wore your Captain America panties.

 While you took your shirt off, he slowly got rid of your pants. And in no time, you were laid down in front of him in your set of mint colored underwear. And the mischief in his eyes let you know that he was liking what he saw.

 “So beautiful…,” his voice trailed off as he placed his lips back on yours again.

His hands moved to your boobs and he toyed with your swells while occasionally twisting your clothed, erected nipples.

You moaned into his mouth and he lifted off of you for just a moment. He quickly got rid of his clothes, including his shirt and pants and kissed his way up to your lips again.

Each feathery touch of his mouth drove you further and further into oblivion, and the only thing you could focus on was his hands on your body.

 He kissed his way down your body yet again and you were losing count of how many times he made you moan since he first touched you.

You felt him dragging his lips across your skin and down till he reached your belly button. He kissed his way around it until he reached the seam of your pale green underwear.

You supported yourself up using your elbows in order to get a better view of his actions and you noticed the very prominent hard on in his black briefs. You smirked, knowing perfectly well that he wouldn’t be able to tease you for long.

Out of nowhere, he placed a kiss on top of your clothed, dripping core and earned a loud out of you. You figured that he noticed how wet you were.

 “Barely touched you and you’re dripping already, huh doll? God, such a good girl,” he whispered along your inner thighs as he slowly took off your underwear. Once he got rid of it, his mouth hovered over your glistening heat.

 He placed a kiss on each of your hip bones and stalled, knowing how desperately you wanted him.

 “Fuck! Sebastian… please,” you begged for his touch and he had a smug look on his face.

“Please what? Ask nicely, doll,” his husky voice spoke up again, driving to you the edge.

 You shivered as he placed innocent kisses along your inner thighs in the meantime.

 “Your mouth, I want your mouth, please,” you whined, looking at him with your pleading eyes until he finally gave in.

 He wasted no time as he slipped his tongue past your wet folds, teasing your entrance relentlessly. Occasionally, he’d bite and tease the skin around your heat but he’d eventually get back to where you wanted him the most.

 His lips worked wonders on your dripping heat as his hands wrapped themselves around your thighs, locking you in his tight grip, leaving you no other choice but to endure his sweet assault.

 The wet sounds his mouth made against your soaking core was downright filthy, and so was the moans coming out of you.

 Your hands held his head as he ate you out like his life depended on it.

His tongue lapped up any drop of desire which flowed out of you and his fingers slowly pumped in and out of you as his tongue flicked your sensitive bundle of nerves.

 You soon felt the familiar pressure forming and you knew you wouldn’t last much longer, so you bucked your hips against his face and he got the memo. He flicked his tongue over your entrance rapidly and soon, you came undone with a loud moan.

 His name, along with a series of cuss words left your lips like a chant as your back arched off the bed for a couple of seconds.

You squirmed under his touch and he watched in awe how your pretty face frowned in pleasure.

 You cradled his face in your hands as he kissed his way upwards across your skin again. You noticed the dampness form your heat on his face and how it coated his chin and his lips. The sight of it was filthy enough to make you come again.

 As he moved his body on top of yours, his clothed hard on rubbed against your sensitive core and another involuntary moan escaped your mouth.

He moved his mouth over the shell of your ear and left a bunch of kisses there before whispering into your ear.

 “Very needy, aren’t you, doll? Want me to make you come again? You wanna come again around my cock, huh? Will you be a good and take my cock like a good girl?” he asked, his hand discretely slipping the straps of your bra down your shoulders as his words put you back under his spell.

“Yes, Sebastian please,” you whined, dragging your nails lazily down his back until you reached his briefs.

You pulled his underwear down and his length sprang free, hitting you in your inner thigh in the process. You smiled and Sebastian caught it.

 “I’m gonna make you feel so good, babygirl,” he whispered, aligning his length to your already dripping core.

His leaking tip brushed against your wet folds and you both, simultaneously, let out a soft moan.

Your legs wrapped around his waist and kept him there, he supported himself above you using his elbow as his other hand held his erected length pressed up against your wet folds; teasing you and testing your patience.

You whined in annoyance and he smirked down at you.

 “Tell me how much you want me,” he whispered against your lips as he slowly rubbed his tip up and down your soaked core; driving you crazy in the need for his touch and attention, in some very specific areas.

 “Fuck, I want you so bad Sebastian. Please, it hurts, daddy make it better I promise I’ll be a good girl,” a series of mindless words left your lips and his eyes searched yours as soon as you called him ‘daddy’.

It intrigued him.

 You looked up at him and bit your lip shyly. You had never told anyone, or any of your past lovers about your secret kink, but somehow, you managed to let it all out in front of a stranger you met like an hour ago. That’s the kind of hypnotic effect he had on you.

 “Fuck! Don’t worry babygirl, daddy will make the pain go away,” he whispered against your lips before capturing them in a deep kiss and slipping his length inside of you at the same time.

You hissed when he fully penetrated you, the thickness of his length stretched you to your maximum and you were panting as he filled you to the brim.

He gave you a quick moment to get used to his size and when you kissed him back, slipping your tongue in his mouth, he took it as a sign which meant it was okay for him to move.

Your tongue stroked the top of his mouth as his length slipped in and out of your entrance gently, taking his time with you and allowing you to feel all of him. And you did.

You felt the prominent vein along his cock, and his throbbing red tip and it brushed against your walls each time he rocked into your wet heat.

He was being careful, cautious; watching your face intently as your eyes rolled back in pleasure. He didn’t want to hurt you, which is why he was taking it slow. Normally, he didn’t spend this much time and effort around a woman’s body. Usually, he’d fuck and leave in like 20 minutes, but here with you, this felt right. And he wanted to stay for as long as he could.

You liked that he respected you enough to be careful with you. But you wanted more, and he was taking his sweet time so you decided to act upon what you wanted.

 While he was distracted with the amount of pleasure that your body brought him, you managed to flip the two of you so you straddled him, with his length still rims deep into your core.

 He groaned as you bucked your hips against him, placing your hands on his chest and leaning down to kiss his perfect face.

“Baby, that’s not fair,” he moaned as you moved up and down his cock, your walls pumping him like he desperately wanted them to.

 You could only moan in response as you moved up and down his length faster, your clit occasionally rubbing against the hairy base of his abdomen and adding to the pleasurable sensation.

 “Fuck! Sebastian I-,” before you could finish your sentence, he flipped you both back over again; him being on top like he initially was.

 “What did you just call me? It’s daddy to you, babygirl,” he said, stopping any movement which was bringing you closer to your release and you whined.

 “Daddy, please! I’m sorry, just fuck me, please!” you moaned, trying to buck your hips against him, but he stopped your actions by pulling out of you.

You noticed a thin layer of sweat covering his body and the scent of his raw skin turned you on even more.

You whined again, at the loss of contact from his God-crafted body and he clicked his tongue.

 “No, bad girls don’t get to come just like that. Apologize and ask politely, babygirl,” he looked you dead in the eyes with his stormy blue ones and you shuddered under his gaze.

Your core throbbed and kept dripping as his didn’t move a muscle above you.

 “I’m sorry daddy, please I need you, please it hurts,” you pleaded and he smiled down at you.

 “Now that’s a good girl,” he spoke, kissing the sin under your ear, causing your back to lift off the bed and your chest pressed against his.

 He slipped his length into you completely without any warning, and you moaned against his cheek. He tapped your thighs, letting you know that he wanted them around his waist because that gave him a better angle.

Once you locked your legs behind him, he pounded into you without any mercy.

 “Oh my- fuck! Daddy…” you moaned as he rocked into your core at an insane speed.

 “Fuck! You are so tight baby,” he whispered in your ear as he moved his hips rapidly against yours, causing the all too familiar pressure to form in between your hips once again.

 “Daddy! I-,” your words were muffled by his mouth being placed in yours. He drank in every moan, every groan and every cuss word which left your mouth.

The kiss was messy, tongues battling one another while your lips made it their mission to bruise each other. Your hands held both his biceps as he filled you up more and more each time.

Your mind stopped functioning at one point and all you could make out was that his body was moving against yours wonderfully. And his cock touched every single nerve which it needed to inside of you.

 His toned abs rubbed against your skin and he placed his forehead on top of yours. The simple gesture was so sweet and so intimate that suddenly, you didn’t want to let him go. You wanted him, here, with you every single day. But even your mind which was clouded with lust and desire knew that that was impossible.

 He groan as his thrust got more and more relentless, both your bodies rocked together as he set the pace.

You moaned out his name shamelessly, and soon, the pressure was too much to handle.

 “Daddy, can I come please?” you asked, your eyes rolling back again because the pleasure was way to intense.

 He moaned at what you called him.

 “Yeah babygirl, come for me. Come for daddy like the good girl you are. Taking my cock so well, come for me baby,” he whispered against the side of your mouth.

 You let yourself go, and noticed that his thrust started losing their rhythm as well.

You rode through the waves of euphoria as it washed over you violently, and you knew he felt the same because despite being fucked into oblivion, you could still hear him whisper your name under his breath as he came, equally as hard as you.

You felt his warm load shooting inside of you and you smiled in satisfaction. His body soon went limp and he fell on top of you, still being slightly careful as to not crush you with his body weight.

You wrapped your arms around his shoulder and you heard him chuckle into your ear.

 “Babygirl, you were so good,” he whispered, his voice hoarse.

 “You too, daddy,” you whispered in his ear and soon, you drifted off to sleep.

 You were too tired to open your eyes but you felt as though somebody cleaned you, put you under the covers and wrapped their strong arms around you, nuzzling their face into your neck as you fell into a dreamless sleep.

  -NEXT MORNING-

You woke up feeling sore, which was not surprising given last night’s activities. You woke up in a black shirt, with the buttons undone and carefully wrapped in your baby blue blanket.

You sat up in your bed and immediately check the other side of the bed. It was empty, just like you thought it’d be. But you couldn’t ignore the little hope you had that he’d still be right there when you would wake up.

But oh well.

You noticed that his scent still lingered in the air. Could be the bed, the ruffled sheets which were slowly getting colder and colder, or it could be his shirt which covered your bare body. You looked down and noticed the loving marks he left on your skin. Along tour inner thighs, your stomach, around your breasts and although you couldn’t see it, you knew your neck would be covered with love bites as well. You still felt his presence on your skin, and you liked it.

 As you rubbed your eyes and started standing up, despite hissing at the soreness in between your legs; you noticed a carefully folded piece of paper placed upon your bedside table.

You picked it up and unfolded it and smiled at the messy handwriting.

 -Hey babygirl, I had fun last night and I know you did too. I had to get away for work but believe me, I’ll be back soon.

Stay safe for daddy, and stay away from men who come to the pub late at night – you’re mine and mine only.

Love, S. Stan.

 You smiled at his note, your stomach filling up with butterflies as you read that one line over and over again.

‘You’re mine and mine only’

 However, your smile instantly faded as you read the signature.

‘S. Stan’

You almost choked on your own spit as realization hit you like a brutal hurricane.

S. Stan… Sebastian Stan…

 You had just slept with the most notorious and dangerous mob boss the entire country had ever witnessed. Shit!

And then it all made sense; that smoky smell in his car was probably gunpowder, he was yelling in French because the mob boss was said to be mainly affiliated with French gangs.

Holy fuck, did you just call such a man daddy while he pounded into you in your own bed? And is it wrong that you liked it? 

 Your hands trembled slightly as you held the note a bit too tight in your hands as you started pacing around in your room due to the stress.

‘I’ll be back soon’

‘You’re mine…’

He was known to be a man of his words. Running away from him would be both futile and dangerous. If he said he would, then he would definitely come back for you.

[peantbutter-honeycombs]

The Hollowing Series: Part I

Title: Prelude

Word count: 2,980

Characters: The 11th Doctor, Amy Pond, ocs

Warnings: Platonic fic not romantic. Crappy writing?

Notes: So three? I want to say three years ago this idea came to mind. Well not this one. But I worked off that idea and came to this. I like the idea of the Doctor being around children. They’re just so innocent. But then I though what the hell let’s torture 11 and the kids and this was born. I’ll explain more later but for now Spoilers. I reall have worked hard on this it’s my first Doctor Who fic. It’s been in my head and notes for years so please be kind and enjoy. I’m going to try, try to break this in to only 4 parts. But hey I’m a detailed writer.

Special Thanks to my college buddy B, @mirkwoodshewolf, and @underskaro​ for tolerating my ramblish rants and beta reading the chapter.

———

Down the road aways, pushed against the hills, stood a cobblestone farm style home. The front lawn was messy, jagged and uncut. From the muddy earth sprang up wildflowers and weeds, northern marches, poppies, and heathers. It was all very wild. The pedestal of a concrete birdbath was cracked and lopsided, with vines wrapping around the very base.

A trike was tangled, hidden in the tall overgrown grass. It felt out of place among the weedy garden. The bike in contrast to the exterior of the old homestead must have been brand new. Green and black, the trike was just brilliant enough to be noticeable through the thrush.

Visible from the left lower window appeared a boy, no older than 14 but no younger than 12. He reached out toward the edges of the frame, grasping at the sangria red fabric. In one swift motion, he drew the curtains closed.

“There,” the boy said, standing back to admire his work.

The four windows of the well-sized sitting room. The warm golden light that once flooded through the glass panes, faded, leaving room to feel somewhat dark and empty.

Stepping backward, the young teen collapsed over an armrest onto a sofa. The sofa’s cushions sank under the weight of him, creating a spot perfectly tailored to the shape of his body. The sofa had seen better days. The brown leather fabric was worn, torn in some places and had a great dark stain on the Center cushion that the boy couldn’t remember ever not existing.

Dragging his legs over the armrest, he moved himself so he was in a sitting position. He stretched his right hand out, leaning his body so he could reach a drawing book on the right end table. The silence of the sitting room hugged him like a security blanket, his muscles became jello, all the stress of the day just melted off him. Being the man of the house was hard.

He became lost in his own world. He didn’t utter a word for the next fifteen minutes and barely moved from his spot for a full thirty minutes. His left hand carefully looped and curved over the blank sheet of paper, no longer blank. Every now and again he’d spin his pencil around in his fingers in deep thought, or wildly erase a thoughtless mistake. He hummed along to the song blasting through his one right earbud (the one thing he’d moved to retrieve.) nodding his head in time with the 60’s melody.

The sound of creaking floorboards overhead pressed through his exposed ear, carrying him back to reality. He could hear gentle feet beating against the wood. They were almost unnoticeable over the music. Almost.

There was a lull in the footsteps, creating silence.

They must be at the stairs, he thought, beginning to set his drawing tools away.

They always stopped at the top of the stairs and the base. The stairs of the old farmhouse were criminally steep, with each weirdly a different height than the last. They were enough to give anyone unfamiliar with them a headache. If his mother had gotten them carpeted, maybe the stairs wouldn’t have been so nauseating, but she’d wanted to preserve the house’s history as best she could.

Thump, thump, thump.

He could just imagine the little human, the footsteps belonged to crawling down the stairs. Moving down them one by one, on their knees. Sort of in a reverse way of the puppy conquering the stairs in Lady and the Tramp.

“No, go away,” he called, pressing a pencil down into its colouring box. When there was quiet he looked over his shoulder, everything from the waist down just sitting there on the steps. The figure's upper body was obstructed from his view.

“I was kidding, you can come down.” He turned back to his tidying. He heard the little feet happily stomp about, then thump, thump, thump.

Focused on organising his things, he looked up only when noticing the pair of dust stained white socks out of the corner of his eye. He blinked, somewhat irritatedly, staring at the little girl who now stood across from him.

With a great sigh, he said.

“You’re really annoying sometimes, you know that?”

A child no older than four stood before him. Her brown eyes, earthy hues of the soil after rain or bark on a walnut tree. They gave him a look that was of youthful innocence. Bright auburn hair reached down to the middle of her back, slightly covering the sides of her cheeks. Her pale skin was dotted and marked with a surplus of freckles — Sophia.

Sophia frowned, taking a step back. This made the older boy quietly snicker.

He smiles in a reassuring manner, “Hello, Soph-a-loaf.” He teased goofily pronouncing her name. The slightest smile tugged at the corners of the ginger's lips. He brought Sophia onto his lap, letting her sit on his thighs. “What’s up ducky?” He asked, brushing some of her hair back behind her ear. Sophia scrunches her mouth to one side, making a few murmuring noises. “Oh really? Sounds like you’ve had a day.”

Sophia nods. She rests her head on Oliver’s stomach, looking up at him with her sweet doe eyes.

“What?”

Her eyes darted off toward the window.

“No. No.” Oliver shook his head, crossing his arms over his chest. Sophia tilted her head to one side, training her attention on Oliver’s. “Seriously the park now?” Oliver whined, backing into the cushion.

He reaches for a throw pillow and covers his face with it.

“I’m sleeping,” he murmurs from behind the fabric. Sophia fusses lightly, pressing at his stomach. Oliver grunted, but kept the pillow pressed against his face. “I’m dead,” he tried.

This time Sophia head butted him in the gut. Oliver pulled a face, bringing the pillow down.

“Bleh!” He mocked, tongue lolled out of his mouth. Sophia squeaks, swatting her palm against Oliver’s arm. “Hey, we don’t hit. Sophia, I don’t want to go to the park.” Oliver said leaning down so his forehead was against hers. Sophia kindly taps her temple against his. Oliver chuckles softly, giving her forehead a sweet peck. “Sophey Tophie.”

He lifts Sophia off his lap, setting her on the floor in front of him.

“I suppose… it would be nice to get out of the house.” His eye drifted to a calendar on the interior sidewall of the sitting room. He couldn’t remember when he circled that day. Sophia excitedly bounces up and down. “What are you a rabbit?” The little ginger doesn’t respond, bouncing her way to the front door.

Oliver rolls his eyes. Upon realisation, he sprang up from the sofa.

“Sophia, you need a coat!”

-

The two children squinted against the hazy Yorkshire rain. The rain was cool against their exposed skin. It felt nice, refreshing even. It ran through their hair, smoothing out Sophia’s auburn waves, mopping Oliver’s ash brown locks. It plastered small individual strands to each of their faces.

Oliver chatted away as they went down the muddy, winding path. Chatting isn't quite the right word as Sophia never spoke. It had only taken him two minutes to go off on a tangent about something or other.

Sophia, only kind of sort of listening, pedaling her hand-me-down trike. His voice disappeared into the white noise, allowing her to quietly enjoy the English landscape.

The countryside stretched and weaved as far as the eye could see. Rustic English cottages and cobblestone farm houses dotted the grassy hills. The land gently rolled up and down the valley, merging with the uneven, mist filled moors half way up the emerald green mounds of earth.

Dew, white and clear, decorated the damp droopy grass the land glittered, sparkling under the orange purpling sunlight.

The houses of the humdrum sleepy town were few and well spaced out. One could walk a good half a mile before reaching their neighbours' property. Those closer to the center of town were flats, pushed together in neat lines, occupying the space over the small, often family owned shops.

Oliver and Sophia arrived at the park in twenty minutes. Sophia having to struggle, pedaling through the mud had set them back. However, neither of the children seemed to care. Sophia hopped off the trike and clicked off her helmet, abandoning both on the pavement. She couldn’t wait to explore the soggy park.

For the next 20 minutes they hung out at the park, Sophia wandered the grassy playing field picking at wild flowers while Oliver practiced his kicks. In the following ten, Sophia ran up the stairs then went down the slide. She’d dust herself off, then go round again. The next five minutes she sat still, a bit tired, content to watch the villagers while Oliver puttered around.

“Oi! Sophia, I’m goin’ to the loo. I’ll be back right back!” Oliver shouted from the far side of the futbol field. The park had no bathroom, so he’d have to walk clear cross the road to Brews Brothers’ Pub. The popular bar had an outdoor side restroom reserved for the public.

Sophia watched Oliver leave until he became nothing more than a speck in the distance.

The quiet times brought a certain comfort to Sophia. It was the perfect time to watch people revel in the coolness of other humans’ lives. Usually the park was a buzz with townsfolk, mostly children. They melded together and dotted the public lawn like A Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grande Jatte. But now there was little life to distinguish the little village from Oradour-sur-Glane, France.

The night air, though cool, had a biting sharpness to it. No thanks to the rain. Sophia sniffs through her nostrils, inhaling the almost intoxicating spring air. Sitting on the bench, her little legs swung over mud coated grass. Misty rain was still falling steadily, and the temperature had dropped considerably.

Sophia wasn’t bothered though.

Reaching for a short stick she traces some shapes in the ground. She nods her head, humming a tune she couldn’t quite place.

“You know, sometimes I wonder if you actually know how to fly the TARDIS.” A voice, female with a thick Scottish accent, said.

Two foreign voices cut through the cold silence. Her eyes dart down the path. From where she sat she could hear them, the voices, bickering. About what, she had no clue.

Out of mist in the distance strode what appeared to be a young couple. The man seemed tall. His dark brown hair was long, stuck to his forehead in a droopy fashion, much like Ollie’s. Despite looking like a young man, he wore clothes that reminded Sophia of one of the town retirees; a Donegal tweed sport jacket with elbow patches, an off white dress shirt, rolled up deep blue trousers and… and bow tie?

Bow ties are for Sunday, Sophia thought, eyes narrowing at the approaching pair.

His partner appeared to be much more put together. Auburn hair, just a smidge less vibrant than Sophia’s framed a pale Scottish face. An irradiated cross expression dominated her features. Her voice wasn’t high nor low, it perfectly suited her in an indescribable way. And unlike the man to her right, she wore clothes appropriate for her age.

The pair stopped in the middle of the path, continuing to argue.

“Of course, I know how to fly the TARDIS sometimes she- she just has a mind of her own.” The lanky man argued, earning an eye roll from the ginger.

“We’re supposed to be England,” She grouched. “What about Churchill? This looks like— are we in Scotland?”

Sophia scoffed, shaking her head, tourists. She watched as the man licked a finger, held it against the wind, then popped it back in his mouth.

“No, no. I’m sure we’re in England.”

The finger crossed her arms over her chest in a cool way.

“Shouldn’t there be I dunno fighters, soldiers, something? I’m getting sheep.” She said looking round the area. She wasn’t wrong there were sheep, white puffs mindlessly grazing on the hills. When she looked back at the man, he was squatting. In his right hand he held a good chunk of mud.

“Wha—What are you doing?”

“Definitely in England. Westerdale Yorkshire, to be more precise. Right country wrong period. Does something seem off to you?” He asked, running a thumb over the mucky mud, cautiously examining it.

His partner snorted indignantly.

“Something or… someone? No don’t eat the—”

Sophia quickly pushed her head down, crinkling her nose. Adults are weird. She turned her attention to her dirt scribbles. She didn’t understand what they were on about, anyway. Hopefully they’d be on their way soon. They didn’t belong.

There’s a weight increase, bending the planks of the bench. An electric chill ran up Sophia’s spine, making the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end. The reaction wasn’t from the cold. There was a weight increase bending the planks of the bench.

“Well hello there, I’m the Doctor. What’s your name.”

Surprise was never an emotion Sophia handled well. Her shoulders went rigid, her entire body defensively readying itself. Her sweet eyes become stoney. Her breathing felt as if it was becoming more shallow with each breath. The guarding alarms inside her mind we’re going crazy halting the thinking gears of her brain.

The man held his hands up resignedly. “No, no, don’t worry. I’m not going to hurt you.” There was a gentleness to his tone, a kind of concern. Sophia couldn’t be sure. No matter something about him. She let her shoulders go loose, but the rest of her still felt tense. “Would you mind? I have a few questions.”

Sophia allowed herself to relax a little more, not completely but more.

“Doctor!” The scot’s voice rang up briefly, sending Sophia back into defensive mode. “You can’t keep talking to children you don’t know.” She sounded like a mother chiding her young child.

Her comment sparked a minor argument between the pair.

Sophia took the time to lean back and take the pair in full, particularly the man. He was a little more normal-ish looking up close. Normal enough. There was something about his eyes she couldn’t quite describe.

Sophia observed the two curiously, unaware that the fear, once crushing her chest, was steadily subsiding.

“I introduced myself this time. Oh yes,” the Doctor swiftly turns to Sophia, “this is Amy.”

“That’s not how it works,” Amy grumbled.

Her partner ignores her, keeping his attention on Sophia. “There’s something… something about this place. Don't know. I think-" He spoke fast, flaggishly moving his hands about. “Well I know it’s something. Too many ideas. Head’s bit cloudy.” He knocked on his temple.

Sophia, though a little behind, shifted uncomfortably.

“Need to narrow it down…” he trailed off. Sophia, her left palm on her thigh, absently traces along each finger with her right index. He observes Sophia with a kind, sort of calculating, gaze.

“Something’s wrong, isn’t it?

Concurrently, Ollie was on his way back from the toilet. He dribbles across the park, knocking a futbol between one foot and the other. “He’s going for the full court folks.” He deepened his voice, trying to mimic the vocals of a proper sports announcer. “He’s at the 75 marker, will he go for the assist?” He sped up, using a lace touch to control the ball. “He passes to,” Oliver knocks the ball clear cross the field.

“No one.”

He’d get his ball back tomorrow. The silence made his blood as cold as the icy waters of a polar plunge, as he strode across the park to where he had left Sophia.

Everything was still hazy and cloudy from the English rain. Billions of trillions of icy drops dripped down his neck and fell off the flaps of his slicker. In this de-focused world, he could just make the outlined silhouette of Sophia.

“Sophia. Sophia?”

He goes taut, stopping in his tracks. For a moment his brain glitches. His eyes went wide, mouth falling slightly ajar. Although he was staring at Sophia, he was seeing more than he expected.

“Sophia, what do you think you’re doing?” His voice was steady, but had a sharpness to it. “Talking to strangers?” He holds a hand out, which Sophia compliantly takes within seconds.

“And you lot.” The ginger seemed taken back by Oliver’s frigidity. A tween scolding two strange grownups, one of them a Scot, bit startling. The gentleman, however, seemed off in his head, silently mouthing the same word over and over. “You can’t just be talking to people you don’t know, numpties.”

“Oi, watch it.”

Oliver’s eyes sourly narrow. “You’re not from around here, are you?” He deadpanned.

“Just passing through. Hello, I’m the—”

“You should keep passing,” Oliver interrupted. Stepping between Sophia and the pair. Sophia could only watch as Oliver spoke to the two adults. “Leave town before it gets dark.” He warned, picking Sophia up, holding her on his hip.

“Is everything okay?” The gentleman asked, stepping up from the bench.

Though his expression held a casual indifference, his skin goes colourless. He let out an understated sigh, bowing his head and turning to leave. “I have to get Sophia home. It's almost supper time.”

Sophia beats her head against Oliver's shoulder, hitting it just hard enough to make the older child wince. He rolls his eyes, but turns back to the pair. “If you are going to stay… it’s only fair.” He sounded like a toddler forced to apologise.

“I must warn you.” He let his face fall in seriousness.

“Beware what lies in the mist of the Moors.”

[worryinglyinnocent]

Fic: Haven (3/50)

Summary: They say Resembool is a haven, and they’re right. Lush pastures, quaint country town, farmers’ markets on Saturdays: a bucolic paradise.

But it’s more than that. Resembool is a haven for the runaways, the deserters, the people who don’t want to be found…

The Resembool community knows there’s something odd about Hohenheim, but they’re not going to let that stop them helping him out. This is Resembool after all, a place where no one has to hide and neighbours help neighbours, be they building a fence, chasing a sheep, or trying to save the country from an evil they inadvertently helped release centuries ago…

Or: A series of slices of life in an AU in which Hohenheim never leaves, and several broken state alchemists find hope and home in Resembool.

Rated: T

==

Haven

[1] [2] [AO3]

Three

Summary: Trisha makes her interest in Hohenheim known. Unfortunately, Hohenheim is one of the most oblivious men in the country.

Characters: Trisha, Hohenheim, Sarah, Pinako

Pairings: Trisha/Hohenheim (Yuriy/Sarah in the background)

==

Trisha has always been aware of the immortal alchemist who lives alone in the white house on the hill. He’s been around in the village for as long as she can remember. 

It’s only at the annual Resembool bonfire of the year she turns nineteen that Trisha really notices him and truly takes him in as a woman looking at a man rather than a child looking at an adult. 

Sarah has always joked with her that she prefers older men, and that since Hohenheim is a few hundred years old, he’d be the perfect match for her. Trisha has always rolled her eyes and ignored the comments but today, as she dances around the fire with Sarah, she can’t help but watch Hohenheim out of the corner of her eye. He isn’t seen around the town very often, preferring to keep himself to himself even though he knows he’s perfectly welcome, and she knows he’s only here tonight because Pinako Rockbell dragged him out of hiding to force some society on him - Yuriy says she’s worried he’s going to become a hermit, but Pinako herself will never actually admit that fear to anyone. 

“Stop staring at him,” Sarah hisses. “You’ll scare him off and you’ll never get a chance if he’s left the village in the middle of the night. You need to be subtle!”

Trisha sighs and lets Sarah pull her away to the other side of the bonfire, away from temptation. She’s not sure what her parents would have said about her having a crush on a very much older man, but Hohenheim is well-liked and respectable enough, and it’s common knowledge in the town that he’s never shown any kind of romantic interest in anyone for all the time that he’s been there, with some people getting to the stage of wondering if it’s a side effect of the immortality. 

When Sarah’s not looking, she peers around the edge of the circle to take another glance at him. Trisha’s sure that even Sarah, if pushed, couldn’t deny that he’s handsome. Tall and well-built, golden hair and eyes shining in the firelight. He doesn’t smile often, but when he does, it lights up his whole face and he no longer looks like he’s carrying every one of those four hundred years around with him.

Trisha decides to seize her opportunity when the dancing begins again. Sarah is up and twirling around the fire with Yuriy so she’s no longer chaperoning, and Trisha gets up, making her way back around the bonfire towards Hohenheim. He’s talking to Pinako and another of the pub regulars, and for a moment, it gives her pause. Those are people he’s known closely for a long time and although none of them can match him in age, they’re certainly a lot closer than she is. Maybe he’ll just see her as a precocious kid.

She pushes on. Nothing chanced, nothing gained, and there’s nothing to be hurt except her pride if he rejects her. She strolls over to the group and stops in front of Hohenheim, holding out her hand and giving a little curtsey. 

“May I have this dance?”

For a long time, Hohenheim just stares at her, looking a little bit like a startled rabbit, his eyes wide behind his glasses. 

“Sorry?”

“Will you dance with me?”

“Erm.”

Pinako rolls her eyes and shoves her elbow into Hohenheim’s ribs before grabbing his tankard out of his hands. “Hohenheim, a very pretty lady has just asked you to dance with her. If you don’t take this chance you might never get another.”

She nudges him again, and this time Hohenheim gets up, taking Trisha’s hand. The music is fast, almost a polka, and he hangs back a little as Trisha leads him over to join the whirling couples weaving their way around the bonfire. 

“I think you ought to know that I can’t dance,” he says.

“That’s ok. I’ll lead.” She positions his hand, large and warm, on her waist and grabs his shoulder, careening into the fray with him and pulling him along. Trisha’s used to leading; she taught Sarah how to dance that way so that she could show off her steps for Yuriy. Hohenheim manages to keep up with her, and she manages to stop them colliding with anyone else. Not that anyone would mind if there was a collision; it’s that sort of an informal event and half the people are three sheets to the wind anyway. 

(Trisha privately wonders if immortals can get drunk, but thinks it wouldn’t be polite to ask the question. Instead she voices a different thought which is probably no less impolite, in hindsight.)

“How can you have been around for centuries and never learned to dance?”

“I don’t know.” He sounds so sweetly helpless and ever so slightly terrified as she continues to gallop him around the fire. 

“Maybe you just never had the right partner.” It’s not subtle. Sarah told her to be subtle. But this is Hohenheim, and Trisha really doesn’t think that subtle is going to be the right technique with him. Besides, Trisha has never been the subtle type. She’s got about as much subtlety as a brick. 

The fast music gradually comes to a close, with most of the couples making their way back to the edges of the fire clearing to rest their feet. It’s only a few diehards that stay waiting for the next tune, and Trisha makes no move to release Hohenheim.

Not that he’s showing any signs of wanting to be released, though.

After a brief pause for the band to get their breath back, the music begins again, a slow and lilting waltz. 

Hohenheim just looks down at Trisha.

“I will stand on your feet,” he says. “Please save yourself.”

Trisha shakes her head, starting to guide him through the steps. He does indeed get her feet a couple of times, but Trisha doesn’t mind. She might only get one shot at this, so she’s going to make the most of it whilst she’s got it and enjoy the closeness whilst she can. He’s warm, and solid, and he smells nice and looks lovely, and she’s got five minutes in his arms right now. 

When the tune comes to an end, just a little too soon for Trisha’s liking, she decides not to push her luck, and she takes him back to the safety of Pinako, finding that she’s too late for the older woman not to have knocked back the remainder of Hohenheim’s beer. He laments this as he sits down again, and Trisha just laughs, taking a chance and leaning in to press a soft kiss against his whiskered cheek. 

“Thank you.”

He looks at her, startled by the affection. 

“Yes,” he says eventually. “Thank you.”

Next to him, unseen, Pinako rolls her eyes, muttering something about the most oblivious man in Amestris. 

Then Trisha feels Sarah dragging her away, and she smiles. Oblivious or not, she thinks that perhaps there’s something to be pursued there.

[marueonmain]

WINDFLOWER

part ten ~ does that ruin this? ~

(part one) (part two) (part three) (part four) (part five) (part six) (part seven) (part eight) (part nine) (part ten)

A/N: I do not write revisions as to be confusing; I write revisions to prove to myself I can do better. I am open to listen to your comments and suggestions always. Messages/Asks made this update possible.

IMPORTANT: this part includes a revision of a deleted part so if you start reading and it sounds familiar, do not click off.

Summary: Alex and George are untruthful with each other. Alex clarifies a situation and hopes it does not make Y/N feel differently about him.

Pairing: imallexx x reader

Warning: Minor Language. Small Reference to Disordered Eating Habits. Minor Non-Graphic Injury. Fluff. 

Word Count: 3.5k

“Ok. I’ll walk with you.”

Y/N removed her hand from atop his – resting on her knee – and pulled herself up to stand. She offered him her hand again once firm on her bare feet. Alex took it and felt Y/N actually pulling at him as he stood; it was not just a polite gesture, she genuinely wanted to help him in that small way.

Despite there being an entire square meter of landing to stand, Alex and Y/N were almost on top of one another. Alex felt her dipping her toes in the water, swimming in his pacific blue eyes. All the while, he searched for the sparks of stars in her pupils – lights in the otherwise dark nights.

“What is it?” asked Alex.

“Do you ever wonder—?” Y/N stopped.

Her eyes closed in resignation, unintentionally showing her hand: she had the words in her head, but she decided she could not share that particular thought. At least not with him. Y/N gently took her hand back and started down the stairs.

Their footfalls echoed around the stairwell.

At the next landing, Y/N started over, “I know Sam probably sent you after me, but thank you. You’re more patient than you should be. I know I can be a lot sometimes. Too much.”

“You’re not too much, Red. Not for me.” Never for me. Even if she was trouble to him, Alex was trouble to everyone, it all balanced out.

“Thank you.”

“You don’t have to keep thanking me. I’m here because I want to be.”

Y/N opened her mouth, tongue already pressed against her top teeth to make the “th” sound, when she resigned from those words as well. And her smile returned as a soft simper.

Lovely. She was lovely despite the red painted across her cheekbones and nose. Despite the guilt, she so clearly expressed for taking his time. Alex thought Y/N was lovely.

When Y/N smiled for him, did Sammy think that too? When she spoke his name, did Sammy feel he was that much closer to going mad? Did his face heat up whenever she touched his skin?

Maybe Alex was overstepping some boundaries. Maybe he should take that moment in the stairwell of comfort and companionship as all he would get.

Fair enough. Alex could live the rest of his life with just having ever had THAT moment with her. Like how he could forever understand the concept of vanilla even if he never tasted it again.

Alex did not want that.

He liked vanilla whip cream. Its extract in his pancake batter. Vanilla lattes and cappuccinos and to get wasted on shots of vanilla bourbon. To feel cradled in the aroma of vanilla-marshmallow scented candles. And reveal fresh skin after vanilla cream facemasks. He wanted vanilla.

He did not need it to live. Nor thrive. Nonetheless, he wondered how much better his happy days would feel – how less complicated his stressful days would be – if vanilla were a part of them.

“You could be with me.” Alex cleared his throat. “No-uh…what I mean is that you could come to mine and hang out for a bit if you wanted to—to wait out more of the storm with Sammy.”

“Yeah?” Y/N risked a quick side-eye glance.

“I’m not doing anything. Are you…doing anything?”

“No, but I’m not sure if— Sam won’t—” Y/N stuttered and stopped. Features that were relaxed from the contortions of crying began to twist up again. Eyebrows sunk closer. Mouth pulled to one side.

“If you go back in now, won’t the fighting pick right back up?” Walking past the door and two more steps toward the lift, Alex offered an encouraging toss of the head. “Let’s just go, come on.”

A rabbit in the talons of a falcon – paralyzed – Y/N did not move. She stared unsure at Alex for a second then to the door to her apartment. It was still. quiet. Sammy was neither of those things. Y/N dug her teeth into her bottom lip as her gaze hit the floor. Not able to bring herself back to Alex.

“Red?”

“No, I shouldn’t. If we don’t apologize to each other now, things will just be worse later.” Voice hitching on the latter end of the sentence, Y/N paused. She took a deep breath and mustered up some composure. “Thank you for the invite, but I can’t.”

“Alright. Well, it’s an open invitation.”

“Than—Got it.”

It would be ridiculous for him to have been irritated. Completely and utterly ridiculous.

Alex was irritated; he was forced to pretend to be as content with watching her go as he would be having her following him. Though used to babbling in nervous situations, Alex did not feel he could speak more at that moment. 

What would be appropriate for him to say?

He left. While Y/N knocked on the door to her apartment without even bothering to try the handle, he mashed the call button incessantly enough to rub part of his fingerprint off his thumb. Within three meters of each other yet completely different headspaces – worlds and hearts apart.

DING of the sliding lift doors. Alex walked in and stood in the corner, leaning against the back wall and looking away until the doors closed again. He did not want to see Sammy and Y/N reunite. He went silent for his ride down. Unfortunately, there was no gentle music to fill the void.

Outside he was normal. Inside he was in a weird place: anxious thoughts built themselves up higher and higher until it was too much. Alex closed his eyes for a moment to block out all other stimuli.

Was it possible that George was right all along? When he said Alex would be a total knob to go after Y/N? When he told him it was better to get trashed and shag someone random than it was to keep dwelling? When he begged him to not. get. involved.?

Caught in his overthinking haze, Alex flew on autopilot as he walked along the hall to his flat and stopped. It was not until he was face-to-face with the number on the door that he recognized he had even left the lift. Alex blinked himself out of his head and into the present just to find a riptide of exhaustion dragging his limp body out to sea. It was too late to start paddling now.

Slinking inside, Alex was not greeted with – as he expected – his flatmate waiting to interrogate him. He anxiously tapped his fingers against his leg while peering around. Besides the usual mess of overturned sofa cushions and PS4 controllers strewn about in the living room, food wrappers on the counters, and the same pan and spatula used for breakfast still in the sink, there was not a sign of George. There was not even the sound of shouting (pre-recorded or otherwise) coming from the short hall to his room.  

Smiling and with a tad too much enthusiasm, Alex shut the door and sighed contented.

“You’re alive. Good.” George’s voice sounded from outside his bedroom, ringing in Alex’s ears far before the older stepped into view. George was wearing black jeans and had pulled on proper shoes to cover the thin, dirty white socks he normally trudged around the flat. His hands were buried together in the pouch of his hoodie. It was from the ‘I OWE £37,000 TO THE GOVERNMENT IN TAX FINES’ drop. Untamed hairs curled around his ears, and he wore an indistinct black hat.

“Woulda thought you’d be happy to get rid of me.”

“I’d take a decent trade. Five quid and a Tesco meal deal, maybe.” George’s otherwise stone-hard exterior failed to mask the anxious glint in his salty atlantic eyes. There was more he was not saying.

Moving into the kitchen, Alex leaned back against the countertop. Putting one foot in front of the other, touching heel to toe. He fished his keys from the pocket of his pajama bottoms and dumped them on the counter beside him. “Out with it.”

“Tell me you didn’t do anything daft.”

“‘Course not.” Alex shrugged. “Not sure where you’d get that from.”

“Could you, for once in your life, be straight with me.”

There was a joke to be made there as Alex was never for even one minute of his life straight. However, that felt an inappropriate comment to make amid his flatmate’s concern.

Alex hunched his shoulders closer to his chest subconsciously and murmured an unintelligible response.

“What?” asked George.

“I didn’t do anything, alright. Does that make you happy? I just told Sammy that he and Red will be evicted pretty fucking soon if they keep up the shouting.”

“Told Sammy. So, you didn’t speak to Red?”

“No. Didn’t get the chance; she’d already stormed off by the time I got there.” Alex was a liar and a shit one at that as he shifted his feet and dropped his focus from his flatmate.

George – with his hesitant if not outright suspicious gaze boring through the top of the younger’s skull – waited for Alex to return focus to him before speaking again. He cleared his throat.

“James wants to meet up earlier; get some shots in before hitting the pub.” George turned and took three steps toward his bedroom before stopping and coming back. “Well…go on and get dressed.”

“I’m not sure I feel well enough to go out tonight.” Alex hovered a hand over his stomach to emphasize the point. Not that his flatmate appeared to believe him on that front either.

“Have you been sick?”

“No.”

“You’re fine.” George took Alex’s wrist and pulled his hand from over his stomach. He snatched the keys off the counter and, uncurling Alex’s fingers, forced them into the younger’s hand.  

“I can’t.” said Alex. Both men ignored the voice crack on the last word as – while it was telling – it was also nothing terribly unusual in their flat.

“James will be gutted, you know. Are you sure?” George waited for a nod or shake of the head, he got neither. He groaned in frustration and moved to the front door, pulling it open with a bit of a huff, he said, “Don’t do something you’ll regret.”

“Likewise,” Alex called after him, and with that, he was alone.

It was his natural state, him being alone; at least Alex thought it must have been – surely. Or else he would not have been so often. So maddeningly alone. Alex also thought he deserved it. Whenever his friends rinsed him for being annoying, he knew it was not all a joke. He was aggravating, bothersome.

At least the others could escape it whereas he was always himself.

Humans are social creatures – not meant to be alone – which made the impending lockdown so frightening. Alex would not acknowledge his fear. Moving toward full quarantine was breaking him, but he had been in worse states, much worse, so he would not admit it.

It was another method (like restricting his eating and sleeping) for him to punish himself for just being.

BUZZ. BUZZ. His phone went off. It was a text from George calling him a massive loser for making him take the train by himself. Alex produced a humorous scoff but not a reply.

He spent the next forty-five minutes scrolling through twitter and instagram while preparing and eating a cup of sweet & sour pot noodle. Amidst liking and retweeting, he wondered – for the millionth time – if the posts he saw were perhaps not all putting up fake fronts. What if it was all real?

Maybe everyone was truly happy and beautiful all the time; he did not know.

knock. knock. There was a gentle tapping coming from the front door, muted enough that Alex was not sure if it were real or imagined. Either way, he did not move to stand from where he sat at the table, slurping up the last of the noodles. KNOCK. KNOCK.

Jumping at the second sound, Alex went to the front door. “Red?”

In the hall with her feet planted flat and firm (and now with socks and shoes), Y/N stood with a stern expression. Her features were all a bit pinched. There was a vertical line between her eyebrows. Previous blotchiness was gone, but her nose had newfound redness, and her eyes gleamed wet.

“Are you ok?” Alex was not sure what he saw being projected at him from those bright eyes of hers, but he felt his knees about to buckle. A familiar weakness overtook his limbs. Making him think if he were to roll up the leg of his pajama bottoms, it was sure to reveal hundreds of leeches draining him.

“Why did you come back?” Y/N asked, voice wavering slightly.

“I thought maybe—”

“Don’t bullshit me.” Her words bit the air hard enough to draw blood. “Why did you come back, really?”

“I couldn’t bear to see you upset.”

Their bodies connected as Y/N threw her arms around his neck, and Alex circled his arms around her middle, holding her flush to him. Knit of her jumper pressing into the wrinkles of his shirt from where she had previously balled up the fabric and held on.

She was her, and it was everything he needed. It was her warmth and her solidity and the pull of her bringing him evermore closer. It was all those separately and all those at once, at the same time.

It was an explosion of relief in his chest and of incoherent thoughts in his head. Knowing that what was happening was an undeserved blessing filling him with greater happiness than he could ever return.

Alex was in it: living it. He was not alone. Y/N awakened his heart and his desires and equally his suffering.

It was the mortifying ordeal. It was the tip of a foil bending into his chest. All to be known. All to be near her. And for all the times he joked for death, he wished tenfold for health – for life so that he could bear witness to her even if from the distance of friendship.

Y/N let slack her arms and pulled back a half-step from the embrace, allowing Alex to keep holding on.

Rearing with an amazed chuckle, he asked, “I don’t understand?”

“You said it was an open invitation, wasn’t it?”

Alex nodded.

“Good.” Y/N stepped out of his arms and walked fully into the flat, looking around with a pleasant contemplative smile stretched across her lovely lips. At the table where the empty pot noodle container sat tipped over with the metal fork in it, she grazed her fingers across the dark wood.

“I’ll be right back.” He waited for a nod of recognition and then headed to his bedroom. Alex squatted down – an action that created a horrific popping sound from his knees – and pulled open the bottom drawer of his side table. It was brimming over with miscellaneous wires and cables, scissors, tape, loose lego pieces as well as football pins. He stirred around the contents of the drawer.

Upon his return, he saw Y/N sitting in the middle of the sofa, resting her head back and looking at the ceiling. For how still she was and how soft her breathing, he might have thought she was asleep, that is if not for the open eyes with the distant gaze. Walking around to the coffee table, Alex picked up the remote and switched the television on, setting it to stream youtube.

“I thought we could watch a playlist I collected. If you wanted.” Alex tried to hide the assurance-seeking tone to his voice as he spoke. “I promise it’s actually funny and not like roblox playthroughs.”

Y/N brought her focus to him and pulled one leg up, hugging it close to herself. “Seems like an awfully lofty thing to promise. It’s not a compilation of your own videos, is it?”

“No. Not this one anyway.”

Alex sat down, and Y/N resituated herself to be half a cushion from him. It was a fair enough reaction though it did make him feel a bit shit, especially after their affectionate embrace, not ten minutes earlier.

He hit the start button on the playlist. Sitting next to Y/N, even half a cushion away, felt like lying on his balcony with the sun on his face. Not a blaring spotlight of sun. A comfortable softbox sun that warmed his neck and arms and soul. As the playlist went on, Alex found himself sneaking longer and longer glances at the woman beside him.

Y/N giggled throughout the first and second videos, mostly biting her lip to keep herself from being loud until a joke made at the start of the third video sent her over the edge. She could no longer hold out laughing as she tossed her head back and outright cackled. It might have been embarrassing for her, but to Alex, it was cute. It was passion, and he liked seeing her face light up like that: pure and uninhibited.

Moving next to Alex, Y/N rolled her head to the side and rested it on his shoulder. Their faces were incredibly close – she was breathtaking, and he was on the verge of losing consciousness.

“Is this ok?” Y/N gazed up at him.

Alex wanted her to look at him like that forever, even if he was scared to see it. That thing like hope in her eyes. It was distinct, softer than how anyone had ever looked at him. Asking more than her words did, asking for more than just his words return. “Yes.”

It was natural: her and him. Y/N weaved her arm around his and held it with both her hands as she lazily returned her focus to the television. Alex did not; he was focused on something else.

On her left forearm were five circular bruises: four in a line up the arm and the fifth alone on the other side. While the red discolouration was not painful looking, the purple undertones marked prominent against her skin. It reminded him.

“Red?”

“Hmm?” she hummed.

Alex stuck his hand in the pocket of his pajama bottoms and fished out the trinket he found in the drawer of his side table – simple beads on a stretchy string. A beautiful gradient of colour from white to pastel blue to royal blue to black. Tied off with a bow. He peeled one of Y/N’s hands from his arm and pulled the bracelet over, lying it carefully on her wrist.

“Wow,” Y/N pulled away from his side and held her hand out, beaming at the bracelet and then at him. “Did you make this?”

“No. A fan gifted it to me at VidCon a while back, but I wanted to give you something, and looking at it now, it made me think of you.” He smiled a hesitant half-smile. “It’s the thought that counts, right?”

“I really like it. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, Red.” Alex saw how Y/N twisted up her face at his words, and he frowned. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, I like it. I do. It’s just, you don’t have to call me that. Red. No one really calls me that but Sam because he’s proud to have come up with it, I think. Could you—would you mind terribly, just using Y/N?”

Alex gave a slight nod. “That’s something I can do.”

Without another word, Y/N settled into him as, on-screen, the playlist continued. Emboldened with some unknown confidence, she lay her head on his chest. Alex was slow to react, but he eventually wrapped his arm around her and laced the fingers of his outermost hand with hers.

It was a release of all the tenderness and affection that he had been storing in his heart with no real outlet. And it felt like his ribcage was close to concaving into him. Alex had so much to give, yet all Y/N seemed to want was him, his company, his warm hand enclosing her own.

“I think I should tell you something.” He used his free hand to pick at a loose fuzz on his pajama bottoms. “I’m not gay. I know that’s how Sammy understands it, but I’m actually bisexual.”

Y/N blew out a long sigh through pursed lips and finished it with, “I know; I figured as much.”

“Does that ruin this?” Alex fought the urge to swipe the welling tears in his eyes.

“I don’t want it to.”

“Me neither.”

The playlist finished, and the screen idled, waiting for further action. Neither moved. Resting in the quiet of their gentle almost whispered conversation, Y/N nuzzled her cheek into the fabric of Alex’s shirt.

Voice laden with exhaustion, she said, “I know we haven’t known each other long, but I feel like you’re someone I’ve always been missing. I just didn’t know it. Thank you for coming back.”

Giving in, Y/N closed her eyes, and her breathing evened into an easy rhythm. Alex leaned in and placed a kiss to her hair, quick and chaste, and let her sleep. Wishing he would have come up with something, words like hers, to express it – what he knew all along.

Taglist: (message to join!) @angelbabyivy @eboysimp​ @trhtshonf @jaythegay92​

[inside-of-a-fangirls-mind]

A Lonely Hut in the Woods. (Muriel)

Words; 2753

Warnings; none of believe just some cute fluff

Pairing; Muriel X Fem! Appreciate Reader

Notes; I'm obsessed with this game so please shoot me some requests in my asks so I can obsess more.

______________________________________

You weren't sure how long you had been gone but it had to be at least an hour or two. Basket full and heading back to the small hut that you had started to call home. After trying to stop Lucio and losing Morga in the forest, Muriel and you had headed home to get together with Asra to come up with a new plan.

How ever you didn't expect to be standing outside the door of the hut after hearing Asra's voice "why don't you just ask her to be your girlfriend?" The soft male questioned froze on the spot.

Of course, he was talking to Muriel who else would be in his hut. But you didn't expect the hushed response you had to strain to hear through the door.

"Why would she-" He paused a moment before sighing, "want me?" His voice softens in the second part.

It broke your heart, after everything. The kiss and time spent together, trying your very best to make him comfortable but still he didn't think you like him? You freaking like him! You sigh softly before eyes perking up as you hear Asra say what you were thinking.

"Muriel, she kissed you. Not only once but twice! Do you even know what that means? She likes you!" He begged his friend to listen.

"I don't stand a chance. You see the way Julian looks at her. Why me when she could be with… him?" His soft voices faulted slightly towards the end. A chair scrapped softly against the floor before you head someone plop down onto it.

"Trust me. She's not interested in Julian. Though he wishes. She likes you, that's why she's put so much effort into make sure you are okay. She doesn't just do that for everyone. Just give it a chance."

Asra voice sounded a bit smug as I felt his magic wash over me slightly. He knew I was listening. My heart pounding in my chest I slowly back away from the door. I didn't mean to introde. I was just curious. Muriel was so hard to read sometimes I wanted to be sure. Though he still hasn't outright said he likes me it was enough.

I slowly walk back down the path smiling to myself as a run a hand through my (h/c) hair and laugh softly. "Muriel likes me.."

As soon as you're almost at the end of the small path to the hut staring into the vast forest you hear the door to the hut swing open. You turn on the spot holding your smile as you pretend to just be walking up.

Asra hasn't even looked out the door but you know he knows you're there. He always does.

"If you dont. I'll lock you both in this hut for a few days. Then things would get.. fun" with a laugh the white haired man then shuts the door behind him on a most likely blushing Muriel.

He turns to see you and smiles before linking your arm in his. "Hey. I know you heard a lot of that and just so you know. I'm just trying to help." He gives you his brilliant smile and you know you can trust him. You always have.

"I know." You blush slightly before glancing towards the door doubting Muriel would even say anything about the conversation they just had.

"Don't do anything out of the ordinary, I want him to do this. He needs a push otherwise it won't be a learning experience. He needs to know that you're someone he can tell anything to." He looks behind us and then his voice softens. "Cause I won't always be around. But you can. You can be there for him when I cant."

He takes your hands in his and smiles brightly at you. "I'm so happy you two connected like you did. And I want you both to be happy. So bad. You deserve the best." And with a quick hug he's waving you off as he heads towards the forest.

"See ya around." He chuckled before disappearing into the trees. You watch him off before turning to look at the door to the hut. You take a deep breath then walk up the path slowly.

As you get closer you see Inanna carrying a small rabbit in her mouth, she always looks happy to see you as she walks up tail going a mile a minute.

You lean down and stroke her head softly, "Hey Inanna you're just in time for dinner. And I see you brought your part." You chuckle softly before opening the door letting her on first.

She heads straight to lay in front of the fire place chewing away at her meal. You enter not seeing Muriel at first, but then you see his green eyes watching you from the corner where the table is.

"I'm back. Got lots of atuff, wanna see?" You him softly as you set your basket on the table and start unloading slowly. He doesn't say a word but walks over to the table and stands across from you, eyes on everything you're pulling out.

You smile to yourself before laying out 3 loads of bread, pumpkin, banana, and mixed berries, then a jar of fruit jam, and finally some smoked eel. His stomach growls at the sight of the eel, but he doesn't reach for anything. You then pull out some bottled salty bitters, it was a pretty coin to get but Muriel had mentioned once how he hasn't had it in years and getting him to a pub wasn't an option right now. You glance towards Inanna when you pull out two smaller cuts of chicken as her eyes stare directly at it.

Instinctively you hand them to Muriel, "For Inanna. I wanted to get you both something." You smile sweetly holding your hands over his. A soft blush creeps up his cheeks, but he turned his back to you offering the meats to Inanna. She gently took them from him before barking twice happily. Then forgetting about the Rabbit and eating the cut meats.

It made you happy knowing she excepted your gift, so often she didn't. You see the last few items in the basket. A few bottles of liquids for spells and a small green blanket with a tiny wooden wolf wrapped inside. You didn't know if he would like it at all. But you pull out the blanket and the wolf and wrap the blanket around his shoulders.

He jumps slightly before closing his eyes and enjoying the very soft feeling of the blanket. "W- what's this for?" His voice is soft so you lean against him to whisper in his ear.

"I thought you would like it so I got it. Plus the first isn't very soft all the time. So you can use this under them." You then step to the side of him and held out the small wolf. "this too." As you hold it over his hand.

He slowly grabs it staring at it in his hand. Then looking to you confused. "a wolf?"

You chuckle softly before nodding. "So when Inanna goes to visit her family you won't miss her too much." A soft blush is now on your cheeks as you look towards Inanna whose ears peaked up when you said her name.

Muriel looked from you to Inanna to the little wolf in his hand. The blush on your cheeks didn't make sense to him and why did you buy him things all the time. Did you pity him? He can't help the corners of his mouth twitch into an almost smile before putting the small wolf in his pocket. "T- Thank you." He whispers.

You light up hearing that, he didn't say he didn't deserve it or complain. He just took it. You almost bounce back over to the table. "Come sit down and eat." You hum, before slowly cutting up a slice of bread and making him a small meal of the bread, eel, and jam.

He walks over and sits down staring at the food in front of him. Then looking to you as you sit down and smile at him. You take a bite of the eel and gesture to his food.

"You feed me all the time so I thought it was my turn." You can't help but gaze at him as he slowly picks up the eel and takes a small bite. You can't stop yourself, you nearly swoon. But you get yourself together before silent drifted over you two. It was always peaceful eating with him, the sound of the crackling fireplace, Inanna growling happily as she chews and the distant sound of chickens clucking.

You two sat like that for a while. When you both finished you stood up taking everything to the bucket in the corner. He starts to protest but stops before he gets a full word out. You finish cleaning up before looking at him softly. "I enjoyed eating with you." You then go to sit by the fireplace letting your cloak fall off from around your shoulders.

He stares at you before sitting on the bed picking up a stick to widdle on. You just enjoy the warmth of the fire washing over your skin.

After a while, you ended up head laying on Inanna as you yawned. A quick nap wouldn't hurt anyone. Closing your eyes as you watch Muriel work away at the stick slowly making it into something, you can't make out what it is as slumber falls over you.

The only thing that wakes you is Muriel banging his shoulder into the door of the hut. At first, you don't think anything of it just closing your eyes again before you hear him mumble out a string of curses. That wakes you right up.

Stretching your arms over your head, letting a yawn. "Whats-" you yawn again covering your mouth before rubbing the sleep from your eyes, "wrong?"

Muriel looks at you with a blush creeping over his cheeks. The sun was already set, you sitting up noticing the fire had died altogether.

He takes a moment to gather his thoughts before finally speaking. "Asra, he uh." He looks around for an excuse but he can't find one. "he, well. Trapped us in here? Something about it being good for us." His voice is at a whisper by the time he finishes.

Your cheeks now start to blush, you had heard the threat but thought it was empty. You could just come clean, told him you heard everything and that you want to be with him. But Asra said he had to do it.

"I- oh. Why?" You hum finger combing through your hair, Inanna was nowhere to be seen. You guessed she wasn't restricted from leaving only you two.

His eyebrows knitted together before he shoved on the door once more. "Cause he thinks it will…. Be good for us?" He questioned more than answered.

"Oh," you whispered before slowly standing up. "Well. I guess we should make the best of it. We still have the bitters." You hum before heading over to the bottles on the table. "You want one?"

He follows you with his eyes but doesn't move from the door. "Okay." You walk over and push a bottle into his hand before sitting in front of the fireplace again.

Closing your eyes you focus your magic and create a few new logs in the fireplace. Opening your eyes you then snap as a small flame starts on your finger and you light the fire again.

Muriel has now taken a few sips of the bitters and moves to sit around the fireplace too. But slightly away from you, your knees barely touching.

You then bring the bottle to your lips taking a deep sip, maybe this would loosen you up so you could finally tell him how you feel.

Soon enough you both finish off the bottles, you're leaning on his shoulder and he's beaming softly at you. Though you don't notice with your eyes fixed on the warm fire.

"Hey, Muriel?" You whisper nuzzling into him. Your soft voice shakes him to his core or maybe it was just the bitters.

"Yes?" He looks down at you but he didn't expect you to meet his green eyes. You smile happily at him before twirling a strand of his hair around your finger.

"I-" you pause a blush forming on your cheeks, "I really really like you." You almost wanna run and hide as soon as it's out there, looking away from him and back to the fire. Though you feel his gaze follow you're every movement.

"Y- you do?" He barely gets out before nervously cupping your cheek to bring your eyes back to his. He needed to know if you were lying.

You swallow and nod slowly, resisting the urge to nuzzle into his beautiful hand. It was so cool against your warm cheeks. His green eyes never leave your face before he musters up all the courage he can and slowly leans towards you. Taking his time in case you change your mind or say it was all a joke.

Looking into your (e/c) eyes he knows you would never lie to him and he brushes his unsure lips against yours. That was all it took. Him trusting and you willing. You wrap your arms around his neck, fingers playing with the hairs at the nape of his neck as your lips slowly part in time with his.

The whole world seems to stand still, nothing matters but the heat from his mostly exposed body, the fire dancing over both of your skins. His hand stays on your cheek, softly stroking with his thumb. But soon you have to come up for air.

Neither of you say a thing, he sits up rather away from you a hot red blush running from his cheeks down his chest. Or maybe it was just the bitters.

You put your hand over his gently and stare at the fire trying to calm your pounding heart.

"Would you…" he starts to whisper but stops himself shaking his head. It was stupid, why would you want him.

"Yes." You turn and look at him. "Yes, I would." You're almost beaming at him. He looks off guard before shaking his head.

"You don't even know what I was going to ask." His voice is soft before you just can't take it anymore.

"Just shut up and kiss me, you goofball." You whisper cupping his cheek and pulling him in for a kiss. He doesn't resist and follows you, lips merging together in a sweet kiss. Time always stood still, everything didn't matter at that moment.

"I want you, you and only you." You whisper against his lips, his lips never lose the smile.

"I want you too…" he hummed pressing his forehead against yours softly. At that moment you hear the door open as Asra burst through.

"About time. I thought I would have you two locked in here for days." He laughs softly before looking over the two of you nearly fangirling.

"Asra," Muriel starts before you kiss his cheek and stand up.

"Asra that wasn't cool, but thank you. I don't think we would have ever gotten together on our own." You smile at your white-haired friend, though you knew about all of this beforehand.

"I know and look at you two! So perfect for each other!!" He squeaks. Muriel then stood up towering over behind you.

"Alright everyone out of my hut…" he looks between the two of you before mumbling "except Y/N…" Asra's eyes light up before winking at you and heading towards the door.

"Don't have too much fun." He calls out before closing the door behind him, Muriel going a dark red knowing what his friend meant.

You take his hand in yours, kissing his palm ever so softly. "in due time that will happen. We aren't going to rush anything. I don't even have to stay the night.." you start before he leans in and kisses you a bit unsure.

"Wh- what was that for?" You whisper looking deep into his green eyes.

"I- I don't want you to leave…" it takes a lot for him to say that but it has you smiling to no end.

"Don't worry, I won't." You hum softly. You'd never leave him, not again.

PART TWO

[trash-muse]

Ask Meme: What Would You Know About Love?

WHO: John Constantine, Zatanna and Asmodel @dark-musngs - with special guests Adam Constantine and Lyla Rose WHAT: Ask Meme - [forehead touch] your muse rests their forehead against my muse’s WHERE: Various places WHEN: Various WARNINGS: None. Trying something a little different - with time jumps.

2040 - Star City

“What would you know about love, Constantine?”

The bar was full of rowdy patrons, all drinking their fill and creating a constant hum of noise so loud that one could barely hear themselves think. But Adam Constantine heard the woman sitting across from him just fine. She eyeballed him impatiently, lips pursed ready to demand an answer.

Lyla Rose was one of Adam’s nearest and dearest friends. She was also quite possibly the bane of his existence. Well, maybe her and his boyfriend were tied for that title. Sorry... ex-boyfriend.

Every time Adam thought things would finally work out, his ex would find some other reason why they couldn’t be together. However, like fools they would fall back into one another again. It was like they were stuck on the old carousel horses. Up, down. Round and round.

But then, it was like his Dad said...

“Love is complicated.”

2020 - Central City

The morning sun streamed through the point where the curtains met, sending a warm beam of light across the bed. Adam stirred, shifting and freeing a hand to try and rub the offending light out of his eyes. It took a few moments, but after opening his bright blue eyes, Adam realised it was morning.

Hopping out of bed, Adam shuffled over to his bedroom door, yawning as he opened it and exited out into the hallway. He could hear voices in the kitchen - the accented baritone of his Daddy’s voice and the slightly lower octave of Azzie’s were easily recognisable. They sounded soft as they chatted away, making breakfast, and Adam knew they hadn’t realised he was awake yet.

He didn’t know what made him stop and watch them for a moment. Why he didn’t just join them with a good morning hug. But with head tilted slightly, Adam paused at the end of the hallway and just watched the private moment between John and Azzie.

“... Zatanna would have stayed if you asked her to.” Azzie seemed to continue an earlier conversation as he brought three plates over to the stove. His Daddy was making bacon and eggs. Adam could smell the delicious smell filling the apartment.

“She has her own place, Az.” John replied, using the spatula to turn the food. He was such a good cook, especially breakfast foods. “And they’ve fixed it up real nice too after what happened. Don’t blame her for going back. It makes this place look utter rubbish.”

“John...” Azzie sounded like he didn’t agree. He put the plates down and moved closer to John, hugging him from behind and resting a chin on his shoulder. Adam had seen them cuddle like that a number of times. He liked to imagine that is wasn’t just Azzie’s arms wrapping around his Daddy but his wings too. Of course, Azzie didn’t have wings in that moment. But if they were there, Adam was sure his imagination was right.

His dad put down the spatula and turned toward Azzie, which Azzie responded to with dropping his head forward and resting his forehead against John’s. It was a tender moment Adam thought nothing of at the time but would later no doubt recall the love between them.

“You love her.” Azzie so low that if Adam hadn’t of crept closer he wouldn’t have been able to hear it.

John sighed and didn’t deny it. But he didn’t exactly admit it either. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Why not?” Azzie didn’t sound like he was going to be convinced. A bit like the time Adam tried to lie and say he had brushed his teeth and he hadn’t. Azzie was very good at picking up on lies.

“Because love is complicated.”

“It’s not with us.” Azzie moved closer still, hands moving over John’s back. In turn, John hooked his arms over Azzie’s shoulders and the food sizzled away in the silent pauses.

“Not now. Hasn’t always been this easy.” His Daddy must have smiled because Azzie smiled back. They kissed gently and hugged tighter, not a gap between them. “Besides, Z doesn’t feel the same.” John jumped back to talking about Zatanna. Adam loved her too and wished she had stayed, but he guessed she wanted to go home. He was allow to visit but it wasn’t the same. “There’s too much that’s happened.”

“What happened?” Adam piped up before he could stop himself. Seeing no point in remaining hidden, he moved out into the kitchen, casting a curious looking in his dad’s direction.

Two sets of eyes shot toward him but Azzie was quicker to recover. “Don’t worry about it, kid.” He said, peeling away from his dad and coming over and picking him up. Adam giggled, he always loved being scooped up and hugged by Azzie. Maybe that’s why his Daddy loved him. Azzie gave the best hugs.

2040 - Star City

“Love is complicated. Love hurts. Blah, blah, you’ve said this all before, Constantine. Still doesn’t explain why you’re holding out for a bloke that won’t commit. That won’t share all his secrets until they show up and punch you in the gut.” Lyla wasn’t giving up and certainly wasn’t taking his answer without further explanation. Adam knew a certain white clad canary that had treated his dad with that same brash demand for less bullshit and more answers.

Adam rubbed a spot just below his ribs, right where his ex’s secret little half sister had punched him and winded him before he could ask her what she was doing in his apartment. His ex’s apartment. Adam didn’t blame her for the reaction. She had thought she was coming to an empty safe house. Adam thought he was surprising his boyfriend by coming home early. It was all a misunderstanding. Still it hurt that his ex had kept a secret sister and hid his involvement in the Canaries movement from him.

But, despite the hurt and the lies, Adam loved him. There would never be a moment he wouldn’t love him. The secrets hurt but Adam understood the reason for them. It was for protection. Still didn’t stop the words he lashed out with in anger. Didn’t stop him from walking out and seeking his best friend to go drown his stupidity and sorrows at the pub.

Maybe it was like what his Mum said...

“Love is forgiveness.”

2021 - Central City

The Van Geld Opera House in Central City wasn’t just host to the opera but a many number of stage performances. It was here the great magician, Zatanna Zatara, wooed her audiences with dazzling illusions and mesmerizing tricks. All eyes were captivated by her performance but none more so than the little blonde boy waiting in the wings.

As the red velvet curtains dropped and the crowd cheered, Zatanna rose from her bow and smiled at the little boy, giving him a wink that sent him scampering off backstage with a giggle. She waved off any stage hands and assistants that approached her with polite gratitude, and followed the sounds of childlike joy back to her dressing room.

“If I had known you wanted to bring Adam to see a show, I would have given you tickets.” Zatanna half scolded the man lounging on the dressing room sofa.

John took the mild chastisement with a smirk and a shrug, not put off that he might have been in trouble. “It was a last minute decision, love. You were all sold out.” He replied, watching Zatanna as she made her way to the vanity and placed her hat on the table.

“Mumma, are you mad?” Adam turned his bright blue eyes toward her, looking like he was ready to apologise for doing something wrong.

Zatanna laughed and shook her head, taking the few short steps back across the room to Adam and crouching to his level. “No, my little one, I could never be mad at you.” She offered a hug which Adam accepted eagerly. He really was a mumma’s boy. “I was just surprised by your visit, that’s all.” She rested her forehead against Adam’s, like she was sharing a secret with him. “Even if I was mad, I’d forgive you. Because love is forgiveness. And I love you so much.”

Adam giggled at the extra squeeze in the hug he was given, completely unaware of the look exchanged between his parents. The one that knew that message of forgiveness ran so much deeper. That if they hadn’t sorted out the complicated between them and forgiven their mistakes - mostly John’s mistakes, but who’s keeping score - then this family moment wouldn’t exist.

John watched the pair with unrestrained love in his eyes. Those before him plus the angel waiting for them back home - it was the family he had been missing and secretly craving all his life. “Besides, you still got a good view of Z pulling a rabbit out of a hat, right kid?” He asked with a chuckle.

“No Daddy!” Adam spoke up, excited once more and speaking a hundred mile a minute. “It was elephants. They were floating then PFFFT... they disappeared.”

“Wow, elephants, really?” John asked his son with the slightly false amazement a parent takes on to share in their wonder.

“Alright, boys. Home time.” Zatanna interrupted before the pair would go off on another tangent. She loved seeing their interactions - fatherhood really suited John - but she didn’t think they’d want to spend all night chatting. It was after Adam’s bedtime, after all.

2040 - Star City

“Love is forgiveness?” There was the ever present scoff in that question. The one that said Lyla thought he was off his rocker. “So what? He lied to you and you’re just going to forgive him?”

“I hope so.” A new voice approached the table.

“Will.” Adam looked up, noting the fact his ex looked more insecure and awkward in that moment then he had ever been in Adam’s presence. And Adam had bared witness to his poor attempts at flirting.

William Clayton stood rocking onto his toes with his hands shoved into his trouser pockets, looking extremely out of place and uncomfortable in the seedy bar. “Can we talk? ... In private.”

Adam nodded and rose from his seat, leading Will outside and into the side alley. They stood there, watching each other for a few moments before suddenly both speaking at the same time.

“I shouldn’t have gone off at you like that.”

“I should have told you from the start.”

Both men chuckled before Adam made a gesture for Will to say his bit first. Will nodded in thanks, wanting to get what he had to say off his chest.

“Adam, I should have told you from the start.” Will repeated, sounding utterly sorry. “I only just found out about Mia recently and thought it was safer to keep as many people in the dark about her as possible. I should have told you about her. I should have told her about you. I just... I was scared. I’ve already lost my family once. I didn’t want to lose it again.” He paused with a sigh, still standing out of arm’s reach. “But all I’ve managed to do is tear it apart anyway."

Adam looked at Will with a somewhat dumbfounded expression. Will, in his roundabout way had just admitted he thought they were family. That level of commitment was light years beyond what Will had expressed before. Maybe Mia had knocked some sense into him as well.

“I really hope you meant what you said about love being forgiveness.” Will continued, finally stepping closer and taking his hand out of his pockets. He reached out, hesitating to take hold of Adam’s hand. “I forgive you. And I love you so much.”

Adam drew in a long breath, unaware he was holding it until he heard those words. It was the first time Will admitted that he loved him. “I forgive you. And I love you too, Will.“ Adam replied, closing the gap between them and pulling Will into a kiss. “Love is complicated. But, I think we can work it out together.”

[spookyspaghettisundae]

One More Round

Tiny explosions cracked and clapped, thundering about and piercing the air. Flurries of snow cascaded down from the dreary sky, flaring up time and time again by bursts of colorful light.

The clock had yet to reach midnight and these goofballs were already letting their fireworks rip too early to celebrate the advent of a new year. Idiots, Holly thought with a sneer. A facial expression that made her wince, delivering the sting of a cracked lip and bloodied nose from the drunken brawl she had gotten into and gotten herself thrown out of a bar over.

Spiting the pain with sheer grit, she shrugged off whatever the multiple blows to her body had left her with and grinned to herself. Holly buried her fists in her jacket pockets and wandered about the deserted boardwalk. A little cloud of condensed air formed in front of her as she sighed.

A small tent that looked like it had come straight out of some carnival freakshow stood at the end of the pier. Soft crimson light poured out from the crack in between curtains covering the entrance to that odd tent. Written in patchy white chalk upon a small blackboard in front of the tent, the sign’s sloppy writing caught Holly’s attention.

She walked up to it and read the words written there:

FORTUNE TELLER

Discover Your Future $10

Her head still swam on a sea of booze-fueled stupor and a cocktail of dried-up adrenaline and endorphins that had followed her experience of decking some jerk in the bar fight.

And boy oh boy, she thought, had she decked him good. Probably cost him some teeth.

She dug around in her pocket and crammed out a wad of crumpled-up dollar bills.

Flipping through them and counting the last few in audible whispers, she shrugged and entered. Her self-destructive streak had been giving her a good time that night, all things considered—looking back upon one of her worst years in life—and she could use a silly little pick-me-up in form of some kook reading tarot cards or whatever their deal was.

Holly’s eyes watered and she coughed from the stinging wooden scent of sweet incense hanging heavy in the air, waving it away with a hand in front of her as if that helped at all. She blinked a few times and took in her surroundings.

Strange paraphernalia, such as amulets of feathers and animal teeth and dream catchers and silly crystals and rabbit feet and other nonsense dangled from silver chains connected to thin beams, encircling a small round garden table with two foldable plastic chairs in front of and behind the table each.

Dirt or gravel crunched as she pulled out the nearest chair and took a seat. The weary plastic frame creaked under the weight of her body. She exhaled and savored the strange warmth captured inside the confines of the tent. But the sensations of pain flooded back over her again, coupled with the sore aching feelings left over from her extensive workout before heading out for her sad little session of solo New Year’s Eve drinking.

Just before she could dwell too much on her loneliness or how that asshole in the pub had had it coming for how he talked to her, and she gazed too long at the blood where the skin on her knuckles had split, the curtains swished. A gust of cool air swept through the tent’s interior, and a figure emerged from the shadows of the tent’s darker, deeper bowels.

An elderly lady—whose face a deep purple hood concealed—hunched over and leaning against an elaborately carved wooden cane beset with what must have been fake plastic jewels, hobbled over to the table and sat down across from Holly.

A real damn cliché, she thought to herself, looking the feeble old woman up and down.

The fortune-teller had an air of precision and routine about her, each movement studied and repeated a million times. Common for any good grifter, she figured. Holly had not even noticed when this fortune-teller hack had placed candles upon the previously naked surface of the table, but the old woman now leaned forward and lit them with a cheap-looking red plastic lighter.

“Ten thousand dreams you have, yet with the insight of a donkey they’ll do nobody any good,” the old woman croaked in a thick accent.

Russian? Holly neither knew nor care, she did not get around much. She had avoided education and learning about the world as much as she could, focusing her life’s work more on trying to flush any memories of her traumatic past down the toilet.

“You callin’ me a donkey, you old hag?” Holly asked the fortune-teller.

The old woman looked up and the growing glow of candlelight illuminated her face, shedding some light on her countenance. A roadmap of wrinkles and a hideous scar along her cheek marked a face weathered by time and sanded down by bizarre experiences. She glowered at Holly, the reflection of burning wicks dancing in her irises.

“I see you walk a path of self-imposed exile, looking to engage in pleasure that interferes with any sort of deeper introspection,” the fortune-teller replied, grimacing at Holly. “Drink, fuck, drugs, drowning yourself in a dullard’s entertainment. Yes, I’m calling you a stupid donkey.”

Holly blinked and shook her head once the space for several sentences unspoken had spread between them.

“I mean, I guess you’re not desperate for business or ten fucking dollars, you fuckin’ asshole,” Holly said after swallowing an even angrier response.

Right before she pushed herself back up in a huff, a set of gnarled and bony fingers slapped down on Holly’s hand, pinning her in place. She refrained from leaving or even budging now, taken aback by this sudden physical response. Holly’s muscles twitched—she pushed back down the urge to lash out and give this old woman a fistful of knuckles like she had bequeathed upon the serial sexual harasser from the bar earlier.

Would probably split this old hag’s skull with one straight hit.

Another gust of cold air breezed through the tent’s interior, cutting across Holly’s burning cheeks and sending a shiver down her spine. It was like she felt the creepy thing that was about to happen before it happened.

Then the old woman spoke again.

“You dream of a black palace, hidden in between the cracks of this world. A world between worlds, where an old giant sleeps and only emerges to spread his dark seed in the world and reap the souls of those who he believes commit wrong.”

The blood drained from Holly’s face and her spine tingled anew. Over the course of those two creepy sentences, she had gone from wanting to snap this woman in half, to just wanting to up and leave, to sitting in shock, frozen and yearning to hear what else she had to say.

Because the old hag was spot on.

She indeed dreamt of that black palace. The place haunted Holly in her nightmares, ever since the events of her traumatic childhood. Constant medication and therapy had led her to believe that that palace was not real. That those infinite halls were only imaginary.

“You hear its whispers; you hear his words of caution. Yet you seek to commit sin after sin, sacrificing your innocence and drinking every humiliation as it feeds your rage, hoping to return there, and finish what he started. Your blood boils at the thought of all the things he took from you, the life you never lived, and now you want to tear the walls of his black palace down.”

Holly tossed the wad of crumpled dollar bills onto the table, convinced that this fortune-teller was worth her salt. But the old lady seemed to ignore the cash.

“I’m listening,” Holly told her, the words hissing out hoarse and tortured.

The flames danced in the old woman’s eyes. Little explosions crackled outside when new fireworks erupted, likely closer to midnight than the ones earlier. Holly was frozen in place, enraptured by this old hag’s presence.

She knew. Therefore, everything she said came crashing down on Holly with the crushing weight of horrible truth. Each word sliced through the haze of drugs and alcohol and woke her up more and more, awakening her to a secret world, a hidden entity with long blackened claws that peeled away at the layers of hollow pretenses of what people dubbed reality.

This time, Holly took the old woman’s hand into her own. Shook it, silently imploring her to go on. That gnarled hand was light and lifeless, as cold as the wintry air outside. Perhaps even colder.

The old woman let her but produced something from the folds of her veiled garments with her free hand. A crinkled old Polaroid photo which she gingerly placed upon the table in between them, right beside where their hands had met.

Though time had faded the image on the simple square photo and age had yellowed the originally white rim framing it, Holly recognized the picture right away. The black palace. Marble walls streaked with white and crimson veins, engraved with incomprehensibly alien writings, they stood out in the background of the picture, obscured by fog.

She could practically taste the dust of that place. That smell rust and iron in the air, and light that came from both everywhere and nowhere. Holly remembered slipping in that puddle of pus-like white substance on those sleek, smoothly polished floors.

She remembered that huge hand, encased in blackened iron, palm open and beckoning her to wander into the light. Attached to an arm too big to fit into the picture, just out of frame, huge and ominous and dwarfing the photographer.

Although she had not seen this exact scene with her eyes, she remembered sitting on the lap of that giant, that reaper, that monstrosity that dwelled in the world in between worlds, drinking in a dark destiny before it released her into the shambles of her rotten life.

“You can return there now, if you dare,” said the old hag.

Holly’s lip quivered, anticipating the words she wanted to utter without hesitation yet held back only by a budding seed of dread.

“Yes,” Holly whispered in reply, though inside she yelled it out for every world to hear.

“You can pursue your revenge, if that is what you wish,” the witch offered Holly.

“Yes.”

The old woman’s hand slipped out of Holly’s grip, which had gone limp with the dream-like state that had befallen her.

Her head swam again. Not in any stupor or haze of being under the influence, but the swirling cosmos of stars in her mind, the infinite sea of possibilities. And hurtling through that darkness between the stars, homing in on the brightest one, the flaring sun that shone out to her, representing her yearning to end things here and now.

The old woman stood aside and, with a sweeping gesture of her withered old arm, motioned towards the darkness between the curtains from which she had emerged to give Holly her “reading.”

The chair underneath Holly got knocked away, tumbling off the side and clattering against the worn rugs on the tent’s inner grounds, so eager was she to return to the black palace. To finish this, once and for all.

To find her own brand of peace, either way. Holly’s heart pounded with certainty, embracing the imagination of horrible deaths. Of the mental image of that skinless corpse, resting in a pile of human refuse and bodily fluids emitted only by decomposition. Of blood seeping from cut flesh—her own cut flesh. Of the giant sitting in his massive throne, commanding an innocent child to leave, lest he judge her like he had judged her parents.

“Wait,” said the fortune-teller.

Her gnarled, almost claw-like fingers rested gently on Holly’s leather-jacketed shoulder.

The old woman hastily scooped up the dollar bills and stuffed them into a well-hidden pocket upon her person. She paced back and forth as if uncertain where to fetch something she had forgotten, then produced a brown egg from another pocket.

Holly’s brow arched as she watched in disbelief, eager to enter the darkness within the tent and return to the black palace, but patient as the old woman seemed to know what she was doing.

The fortune-teller slapped the table’s surface thrice, sending drips of wax to fly from the candles.

“Iä, iä,” she chanted. “Wgah'nagl fhtagn.”

She slammed the egg down onto the table, hand flat, where yolk and egg white oozed out from underneath her palm. Blood trickled out along with the egg white in slimy, bizarre coils, like black oil floating on water and refusing to mix.

“Go. Now,” she said, and pointed to the darkness behind Holly.

Holly need not be told twice. Fireworks erupted outside, as if to orchestrate her steps into that place. Loud artificial thunderclaps, rupturing the deceptive silence of the night. The clock had ticked past midnight. The new year arrived.

She turned and pushed past the curtains.

Frosted tendrils of ivy and shards of rock crystal and quartz cracked underneath the treaded soles of Holly’s boots. Clusters of black berries drooped from thick sheets of plants creeping down the walls, and she pushed through the foliage that followed the silk and velvet drapes that she left behind her in her advance.

Fog billowed out around her and the tent turned out to be far larger on the inside than it looked like from the outside. For this was not the realm of the fortune-teller’s tent anymore—it was the black palace.

After decades of nightmares of this place, after all the time she spent being told and letting them tell her it was not real, she had returned to it. Found her way back, in the most unexpected of places. Instantly discarded all that conditioning, knowing this to be real—more real than any other experience in her whole life.

She ripped at the vines in her way, digging her strong fingers into anything that allowed her to grip it; dragging strands of plant life, snapping twigs and tearing leaves apart in her struggle to push forward. Every step took her deeper into that place of mist and marble and despair made flesh.

The underbrush tripped her up and Holly stumbled forward until her boots slapped against the hard floors of the black palace. The crevice in the wall, lined with sprawling tangles of wild plants, loomed like a wound in the shiny walls behind her. She still could have turned back now, but had no intention of doing so, nor would she even waste a thought on the mere notion.

Before her, a mummified skeleton rested on the floor, right where she had seen the skinless body of her father.

Each step she took landed on the ground with more force than the one preceding it. Her courage and anger swelled in her chest in equal measure and she knew where she had to go.

The pounding pulse of her heart drowned out the chorus of whispers that hailed from the walls all around her, and she arrived by the back of that tremendous giant throne. That monolith of wrought iron and cold stone.

Its shape and edges looked more jagged, sinister, vicious, sharper, and pointier than she remembered them. Like time had filtered them in a haze, dulled them to the point of blunting the breathing horror that the throne exuded in her memories, but her hatred and drive to find the owner of that throne lent her a clarity that pierced the veil of the fog around her.

She marched towards the throne and rounded its corners, craning her neck to see who sat upon it. But no legs rested there. There was nobody there. The throne stood empty, tall and imposing.

His voice returned, finally, like it had reached her through the curtains of dreams, haunting her nights and rendering them sleepless.

That monotonous tone, that detached, uncaring inflection riding on every word.

“Finally, you have returned to your true home,” he spoke.

A voice that came from nowhere and everywhere simultaneously. Even swiveling and looking around, she could not pinpoint its origin.

Instead, Holly grunted and gritted her teeth and scrambled her way up the side of the throne, grabbing hold of every angled diagonal and engraved indentation that afforded her hold, climbing up onto the seat of the throne upon which she could stand and better survey these twilit halls, perhaps rise above the fog.

“Behold the codex,” Holly spoke, every word ringing out with the same monotony as his voice.

Her blood ran cold with the realization. The giant was no more, for she had taken his place.

“Finally, a successor to the throne,” she said, speaking to herself. Imperious in volume, calm and stoic in the distinct and sharp absence of song that her speech delivered.

Herald of the void.

From where she stood, the mists swirled along the blackened floors of these halls. Still, the ceilings reached to dizzying heights, swallowed by darkness and unfathomable to natural human sights.

But as blood shot into Holly’s eyes and her transformation commenced on the most microscopic of levels, her vision changed as well. She saw windows into the world within that darkness, framed upon the horizon of the walls of the palace around her. Moving, living, fleeting images of the world beyond this world between the worlds, teeming with life, bustling with people.

Some gazed up at the fireworks, marveling at their splendiferous colors and bright lights. Others drank themselves into a stupor, laughing and carousing till they committed acts of unspeakable stupidity. There, someone cheated on their spouse. Elsewhere, someone stabbed a man to death over nothing but naked greed.

Holly saw it all. She witnessed every crime, saw every even so minute transgression unfolding before her eyes—eyes growing wide with terror, and the unfettered hatred in her heart taking over, with cold and slimy tendrils snaking outwards from that darkness within, infecting every fiber of her being, and filling her with murderous purpose.

And come one year from now, it would be time for her to ride. To embark upon the gifting and reaping. It would be her first round, her first turn as the new successor to this throne—as the new master of the black palace. A first time of tasting their despair and relief and drinking in their fear.

With many more rounds to follow.

In time, she would grow to fit upon that throne.

But for now, she had a year’s time. To watch. Remember every transgression. And make note of those whose punishment would arrive by the end of the year.

—Submitted by Wratts

[magicalforcesau]

Dancing with Ghosts in Your Garden ~ Chapter 1: Year 1- Summer

Ao3 link:

Summer came and went with the fleeting heat of a fever dream for young Anakin Skywalker. Aside from his general distaste for summer as a season with its blazing sun and sandy beaches, the overall course of the months seemed to elongate simply because for the first time in his entire life, he was excited to go to school.

He’d never belonged at school with the muggles. Not only did he constantly have to stress over hiding who he was, which frustrated him to no end, but he was somehow still painted as a freak. This would lead to Anakin getting into some form of a scuffle, which would result in accidental use of magic.

His repertoire of indiscretions included, but was not limited to:

Sending a student into a never-ending hole in the ground 

Floating up and away 

Causing a bully to only be able to breathe underwater 

Pantsing another bully in front of a pretty girl (okay, he didn’t use magic for that one)

Making a parent on the PTA turn mute

Transforming his entire class’s musical instruments into live snakes

Burping the alphabet, but with explosive fire (this was more of a result of spicy foods than confrontation)

Turning a teacher into a fat purple penguin 

And this meant he often hopped around schools like it was a playground game. He’d never had that many friends, and when he did, he understood that it was never meant to last. Honestly, none of the magical situations he got himself into were on purpose. They simply transpired from a raw energy within him, or so his mother always defended when the Ministry of Magic came calling.

This didn’t make the face she made every time he returned with an expulsion notice any easier. She insisted that she wasn’t mad and that she loved him regardless, but he knew that somewhere deep down she wished she had a child that didn’t force her to uproot her life so often.

It helped that she was also a wizard, but she’d given up that life in favor of the muggle world and sought to raise Anakin in it as well. She never used magic, save for the rare moments where she had to hastily put out a fire or turn a person back into their rightful form; always on the account of one of his accidental outbursts. It wasn’t that she detested it, but that Shmi Skywalker had an appreciation for those who did things with their own hands. She was hardworking that way and while Anakin saw her employment as a waitress to the pub below their apartment as borderline slavery, she seemed at peace with it.

He’d never even heard of Hogwarts until a man named Qui-Gon Jinn appeared on their humble doorstep with a huge stack of envelopes. He carried the airs of humility, wearing robes that looked much older than Anakin. His hair draped down his shoulders in a thick curtain that was fashioned half-up and half-down.

Anakin had to crane his head back to look him in the eyes, but he had a kind face that seemed easy to trust. Qui-Gon, he quickly discovered, was a professor at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry and came to deliver Anakin’s invitation in person.

“That’s a bit peculiar, isn’t it?” Shmi said warily. “Professors don’t normally make house calls.”

Qui-Gon had a twinkle in his eye as he nodded to her respectively. “Not typically, but we have attempted to send out Anakin’s letter all summer, but to no response.”

“We moved.” Anakin said and gave his mum a curious look. “There’s school for people like us?”

Shmi never took her eyes away from Qui-Gon and the two seemed to be speaking in a silent language that Anakin could not understand. He didn’t try to, because he immediately started buzzing around the room as rapidly as possible. This wasn’t just good news. It was marvelous news. This meant he wouldn’t have to go to that awful boy’s preparatory school in the fall. He could be amongst other wizards and learn how to harness the power within him.

In the midst of his scurrying around the room, he’d gotten so excited that he started to levitate off the ground. Neither adult noticed, even when Anakin drifted well above the impressive height that was Qui-Gon Jinn.

He overheard his mother softly ask, “Will he be safer there?”

“The safest thing we can do for him is to train him.” Qui-Gon said. “I know how much he means to you, Shmi.”

“Uh, a little help here?” Anakin interrupted.

Qui-Gon looked up and smiled at him, “How’s the weather up there?”

“Unsteady, sir. I don’t know how you manage it.” Anakin said.

A deep and hearty laugh broke across the room as he whipped a wand from the pocket of his robe. With the flick of the wrist and an utterance of “Descendo”, Anakin was placed back on his two feet once again. A part of him always liked when he floated off. He enjoyed being in the air.

Qui-Gon ruffled a hand through Anakin’s hair and looked to Shmi. There was more of that secret and silent adult-speak happening, but when Shmi looked to Anakin, he tried his best to convey that he wanted nothing more than to be amongst his own kind for a change. His little outbursts have been occurring more frequently and he was not sure how much more disappointment he could take.

To his surprise, she relented. 

And so it was settled. Anakin was to attend Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry in the fall- which was shockingly his mother’s alma mater. In his 11 years of living, she’d never mentioned it, just that she’d gone to school with other witches and wizards growing up and how she felt it was too isolated from the real world.

***

“Do I get a wand?”

“Yes, Ani.” She smiled lightly as they walked down the cobblestone streets of London. Cars and people buzzed throughout the town, each taking a slice of the rare sunny day. Normally, Anakin had zero interest in back to school shopping as it usually just included hand-me-downs from used outlets and the cheapest notebooks and pencils. Specifically, the kinds of pencils with erasers that didn’t function properly.

“Do you think I could have one like Qui-Gon’s?”

“The wand chooses the wizard.” She said, “Wands are unique. Just like people.”

He’d spent enough time in London to know for certain that there was not a wizard store at the market- not one that wasn’t mocking their culture with top hats and white rabbits. They passed familiar shops and boutiques until they made a turn onto Charing Cross Road and stopped in front of a charcoal pub with a faded sign hanging to the side. Anakin moved to continue walking as well, but Shmi was cemented to her position.

“Mum?”

She didn’t answer, only kept her eyes trained forward with a combination of knowing fear and unmovable determination. She took in a deep breath and reached for Anakin’s hand before leading him up to the large black door and pushing their way in.

It was equally unimpressive on the inside, resembling every other dive in England. Men and women huddled around their dimly lit booths and tables, trading barbs and sharing grub. He swore as they walked by a few, he heard his mother’s name leave their lips. Normally, a protective instinct would kick in, but his own beguilement was placed on halt. He was unsure what grabbing a beer was going to do for them, but then again, that was before the fabrics of reality opened before him.

His jaw dropped when a crummy hole-in-the-wall developed an actual hole in the wall and he suddenly stood on the bridge between parallel realities. There was the one at which he came from with its conformities, drab colors, and mundane days. What lay before him was anything but drab or mundane. While he’d never been here before, he automatically felt a singing rightness to it and found he could not bring himself to turn back- not even to express his sense of awe to his mother.

As if on a gravitational pull, he moved forward, his mother’s hand squeezing his own without a second thought. They drifted down the winding cobblestone street. It resembled the older paths in England with tight streets and turns as well as crowded rows of buildings. These, however, did not consist of standard row homes or shops, but an array of bright-roofed places of commerce. 

His eyes were pulled everywhere, unsure whether to fixate on the joke shop or the menagerie, which had its windows lined with an assortment of obscure pets ranging from rats to little colorful wisps of fluff that he could not name.

There was a shop explicitly for selling cauldrons as well as robes, which were written on the list Professor Qui-Gon Jinn had given them before taking leave. Anakin had memorized it backwards and forwards and still hadn’t fully grasped the act of actually buying this kind of stuff.

Adults and their children appeared out of nowhere in the middle of the road and nobody blinked a second thought. Afterwards, they tucked their wands into their boot or pocket and went about their business with a casual air that only came with experience. They were all dressed very different from him- wearing long and vibrant robes as well as mismatched hats. No two were the same and while some of the younger crowd was more modernly dressed, most appeared to be in costume for a stage play. Anakin tried his best not to gawk at the strangers, who paid his shock no mind. He was supposed to be one of them, but while the rational part of him was trying to stop staring at wizards openly performing magic in public, the bigger part of him could only revel in the joy that came with not being the odd man in the room. 

Various pleasant smells filled the open sky, which increased his sense of wonder. The street was lined with many different cafes and restaurants. The one that piqued his interest had a large light-up ice cream cone pinned on the roof. Just as his mouth began to water at the possibilities of how advanced magical ice cream could be, he was briefly tugged from his reverie by his mother, who took them aside and near the window of a different shop.

She knelt before him, a small and knowing smile playing at her lips, but also a bit of sadness that he could not understand. How could she ever want to leave this world? There was so much to explore and behold. What did their grubby flat above the old pub have that this place didn’t?

“Welcome to Diagon Alley. I know it’s a lot to take in.” She said and gave his shoulders a gentle squeeze. “And there will be time for that later.”

“And magical ice cream?” He tried. Though he wasn’t sure what was going to be so different about it. 

She chuckled. “One rite of passage at a time.”

And with that, she stood up and nodded towards the shop behind him. “In there, I think you’ll find what you’ve been anticipating most. I’ll meet you back here with your textbooks. Do not wander, Ani.”

He heeded her advice and swung the wooden door open to reveal a dimly lit storage room that was stacked from floor to ceiling with shelves of long, thin boxes. Singular orbs of fading light dangled from the high ceiling and cast a yellow glow onto each shelf, though nothing worth noting leapt out at Anakin. Juxtaposed to the rest of the marketplace, it resembled a cluttered library rather than anything enticing. He couldn’t see how this would be what his mother believed was the most exciting place.   

Well, aside from the gentleman positioned behind the desk, which sat next to a winding staircase leading to a closed door. At least, Anakin believed they were a gentleman, but it felt wrong to assume given they were clearly not human with a long snout, gray skin, and a very dinosaur-like shape. They wrote with a long feather in hand, clearly transfixed with whatever was being transcribed, and paid Anakin no mind. 

“Um, excuse me?” Anakin spoke after the silence felt like it might overwhelm him.

Golden eyes lifted from the parchment to study him and Anakin swore he saw a thousand lifetimes in the span of seconds, but was also fairly certain he wasn’t under a spell. He couldn’t decide if they were kind or not- just all knowing yet totally unassuming.

“Yes, young man?” Their voice kept things ambiguous with a slight waver that gave away their age and a tone that was coated in gravel when they spoke. 

“Um,” Anakin desperately wished his mother came in with him now, because he wasn’t even sure what he was supposed to be asking for from this creature. Said creature looked at him with expectant and timeless eyes, which eventually narrowed after considering Anakin.

“You’re new.” They said and got up from behind the desk, but not without the help of a cane and patience.

“Yes, sir.” He internally cursed for slipping, because really, he did not need to offend anyone on his first day in the wizarding world. While Anakin didn’t normally mince words, he hadn’t yet learned how to truly defend himself from this ancient wizard if that was required. 

But, no rebuttal or offense came. Instead, this old man smiled and nodded before gesturing for Anakin to come closer. Despite previous anxieties, Anakin did as he was instructed.

“What a pleasure it is to share this moment with you.” He said and upon closer inspection, had many smile lines crinkled around the corners of his eyes. “What’s your name?”

“I’m Anakin Skywalker.”

“And what are you?”

“Uh, a person. What are you?”

This was hilarious to Tera Sinube, who laughed so hard that Anakin feared he was going to knock himself off balance somehow. He did not appear very physically stable as it was. 

“Well, I’m a Cosian, but I’m also a person.” He said. “I was referring to your blood lineage. This can help when trying to pair wands to wizards.”

Anakin’s eyes felt like they were going to bulge out of his head, which provided more comedic content for the older wizard, who quite literally slapped his own knee at the confusion on Anakin’s face.

“You’re a wandmaker?” Anakin gaped, not caring about sounding foolish.

“Must be muggle-born.” Sinube smiled knowingly.

“Muggle?”

“Human.” He corrected, “My apologies. It’s what non-magical humans are referred to by wizards.”

While the statement held no edge beyond what naturally came with the tones of his voice, Anakin could not help feeling slightly bristled by the confusion. 

“My mum’s a wizard, actually.” He said pointedly, “My father was a hum-muggle, though.”

He might as well get used to the verbiage.

Tera Sinube stared at him more carefully over his long snout and bit his lip in what appeared to be concentration. 

“Skywalker.” He rolled the name around in his mouth and then his eyes widened a little before settling back to normal. “11 inches, Pear, with unicorn hair.”

“Huh?” 

Sinube smiled and drifted to the back to pick up various packages from shelves. “That was your mother’s wand type. Your mother is Shmi Skywalker, right?”

“You know my mum?” Anakin asked.

“I’ve never forgotten a wand nor the wizard it chose.” He said with a firm nod.

“Wait, I don’t get to pick the one I want? Because I know this guy and his wand is super-”

“-The wand chooses the wizard, Mr. Skywalker.” Sinube said firmly. “If it were backwards, I’d be terrified of the outcome. People have a tendency of prioritizing what they want rather than accepting what they need. And from that, we devolve into chaos.”

He wanted to push the point, because while arguing with a seasoned wandmaker about wands seemed foolish, Anakin really did enjoy the sleek fashion of Qui-Gon’s burgundy wand and believed that would most suit him too. However, Sinube did not give him much room to talk and instead laid out an array of thin boxes on the desk.

“I’ve been doing this for a very long time. Longer than I’d care to admit, actually, and I swear to you I’ve never come up with inconclusive results.”

Even as he said it, it felt like condemnation.

Because after a series of almost-disasters including, but not limited to: setting the entire wooden office on fire, turning Sinube into a Cosian Kebab, dissolving the floor into a gaping black hole beneath them, and literally turning the wooden wand into an angry python- it was easy to feel discouraged. 

There were also wands that simply didn’t react to Anakin at all, which was even more disappointing. He had managed to let Sinube give him the opportunity to try Qui-Gon’s wand type on the off chance that his interests and needs coincided. 

However, the 13” larch with dragon heartstrings acted as little more than a fancy stick in Anakin’s hand, much to his dismay and attempt at making it work.

“Ah, larch is a much sought-after wood.” Sinube said. “However, it is amongst the hardest to appease in terms of partnership. Its matches are typically hidden artifacts, so to speak, with untapped and unnoticed potential until the pair meets. Qui-Gon Jinn certainly matched that description as a young boy.”

Anakin wanted to further protest, but chose against it in favor of sulking. At this point, he cared a great deal less about matching Qui-Gon as he did finding a wand that would actually work with him at all.

“Now, now. One must not give up so easily.” Sinube placed a large hand on his shoulder. “I will have you know that some of the greatest wizards that ever lived were difficult to match. I was not alive in Headmaster Yoda’s time as a young wizard, but it evidently took days to find his wand.”

Anakin sighed, “I’m just so new to all of this, but I’ve always dreamed of it, if that makes sense.”

“It does and this moment will be a fond one if you let it happen.”

He tried to do just that and humored Sinube’s every whim of attempts and even climbed the ladder along the bookcase to grab more wands for him. It wasn’t until knocking a loose box from its hold on top of the bookcase and onto the floor- successfully rolling the wand across the room- that Anakin felt the room change.

Upon picking it up, the atmosphere transformed into one bathed in angelic light with a potent wind that swept all around them and took loose strands of parchment into the air. Anakin’s hand that gripped the wand grew impossibly warm, but never hot, and a strength seemed to manifest deep in the core of his being. Anakin’s soul felt complete where he never knew it was missing a piece. 

Eventually, the lights dimmed and the heavens ceased singing and while he believed he’d been the only one doused in glory, it was clear from Sinube’s face that he’d bore witness to the whole spectacle. Perhaps, this was why he did what he did for so long.

“And there you have it.” The older wizard grinned. “An 11 ½” holly with dragon heartstrings. Known for handling well with the impetuous and the quick to anger as well as accompanying one with a large spiritual journey ahead of them.”

Anakin reverently ran his thumb across the surface of the hilt. How he could ever want anything else seemed ridiculous now. He finally tore his eyes away from his wand to acknowledge Sinube.

“Thank you, Mr. Sinube.” He said as he handed him the money his mother gave him- apparently it was the exact amount, “For being patient.”

“It was my pleasure, Mr. Skywalker. I just ask that you always extend yourself and others the same courtesy.”

“I will!” Though his rush to race out the door did not support the statement. 

After Anakin left, Sinube’s eyes drifted to the wand that had been previously turned into a snake.

“Curious…” He said as he picked it up. Just as suspected, it was an elm wand, which was heavily believed to only react to wizards of pure-blood. Sinube, who was not human in any sense beyond spirit, hardly listened in on the political rubbish surrounding blood lineage. Still, it was odd that the elm wand reacted so.

***

Anakin dashed out of Sinube’s in such excited haste that he ran square into a family of wizards which knocked his wand from his hand and had it rolling onto the street. An array of passing feet accidentally kicked it along in transit and Anakin found himself scrambling on the ground in an ill-willed attempt to recover the wand he’d just struggled to meet.

“Excuse me! Sorry! Coming through!” He pushed his way through the crowd, never once taking his eyes off the ground and failing to really keep track where he was going. 

Finally, his wand was spared from the stampede as it was all but launched into a darker passageway and down a series of steps. Anakin breathed out a sigh of relief and frustration as he descended to retrieve his wand. It wasn’t until he picked it up and determined that it was still usable did he realize he had absolutely no idea where he’d drifted.

Behind him, there was the pocket of light he’d come from while ahead only lay an oblique of shadows that extended deeper and deeper into a silent unknown. He could still feel the sunlight that shined bright on Diagon Alley at his back. However, he was inexplicably drawn forward as though he were being called. In fact, his feet seemed to move at their own accord, because despite his mind telling him otherwise, he followed the path of noir and gray stone until reaching a crossing.

Strange and unhappy creatures seemed to shuffle around one another without exchanging pleasantries or even acknowledging one another. Somehow, this part of town seemed even tighter than the rest of Diagon Alley. The shop owners were grim and threatened their patrons, though the patrons did not seem kind either. A few cast curious stares at Anakin as he walked by, but he did not want to be caught idle for too long and went the opposite direction, away from the quiet community of threatening onlookers. 

As he drifted further along a narrow opening and towards a glowing green light, he felt a resounding cold settle in his bones without warning. His thoughts were screaming in meaningless questions as to why he was even here, but he resisted the urge to turn away. If he did, sleeping that night would be more impossible than enduring the chill that traveled up his spine at every distant echo.

He found himself clutching his wand instinctually, though he had no indication on how to use it. He slowly treaded closer to the ambient green hue that reflected off the stone wall. The anxiety that coiled in the pit of his stomach resembled that of being the follower and the followed. He was not sure which he was more fearful of in the present. When he rounded the corner, he realized it appeared to be from a wizarding shop, no less. While this should have caused relief, Anakin remained on high alert, noting that this shop did not resemble the others.

It was well-buried in the shadows, for one thing, and did not seem to be sought after despite its claim to sell antiquities. There were three front windows with a green light emanating off of them and highlighting the clear prevalence of skeletons throughout the store. He tried not to think too hard about their origin.     

He squinted his eyes as he made out the sign on the front. 

“Borgin and Burkes.” He murmured to himself.

He kept his steps silent and his breaths minimal, particularly when he realized he was not alone. Quickly, he rushed into the store in an attempt to avoid being seen by a large figure all dressed in black. The storeowner was clearly gone for lunch or other dealings, because he was not questioned when he slipped behind the counter after realizing the large presence was (hopefully unknowingly) following him inside. 

There was a moment of silence beyond what Anakin could barely make out as the ignition of a flame. 

He closed his eyes and wondered what his mother thought of his absence for the first time. What if she didn’t let him go to Hogwarts for wandering off? Surely, the rule of avoiding dark alleys applied to the wizarding world just as much as it did the real world. He felt remorse and regret, but didn’t even know where to begin on how to leave.

“Are you sure, Master?” A deep, but hushed voice asked.

“Yes. It is time to act. He arrives at Hogwarts this year.” The second voice sounded like more of a hiss than actual speech and crackled alongside the fire.

“There is much to prepare, then.”

Anakin peered his head from around the desk in a feeble attempt to catch a glimpse. Anyone that entered an empty shop to have a secretive conversation could not have been up to any good. What he was supposed to do about it, he was unsure.

The figure that had followed him into the shop was huge in stature- even larger and more dominant in appearance than Qui-Gon. He was dressed from head-to-toe all in black robes that were pulled over his head and shrouded him like a phantom. 

The other man was not present in the physical sense, but judging from what Anakin could tell, was either in the fireplace or he was the fireplace. Green embers flicked in every direction, wild in abandon and enchantment as the phantom spoke down. Anakin wished he could get a better look, but thought better of it lest he reveal his presence.

“Just see to it that you are ready, Lord Tyranus. The Sith will rise once again if all goes according to plan.” 

The phantom man knelt before the fireplace, as if to swear an oath. “I will not fail you, my Master.”

There was a long enough pause where Anakin briefly thought the conversation had ended, but a maniacal laugh rippled through the shop and he had to suppress the urge to whimper. 

“Good.” He enunciated. “Until the darkest day at the darkest point.”

“Until then.” 

“And by the way, my apprentice. You are not alone.”

Anakin’s eyes shot open and he burst into a blind sprint towards and through the door, narrowly avoiding a green shock of lightning that ricocheted where he’d previously been sat. Flames blew up behind him, lighting the dark path before him. He mindlessly chose his fate and sprinted down the cobblestone path to where he’d originally entered through. Well, it was where he believed he’d entered, at least.

His knees were almost hitting his chest. He was running so hard and determined to carry his strides as far as his little legs could take him. It finally felt as though his mind had lined up with his body and that every sense in him was on fire because of it. He could still smell the singed wood from the desk and hear the hushed tones of that dark voice.

There was so much he hadn’t gotten to do. He hadn’t seen Hogwarts or used his wand or made new friends. And for what? What did he have to say for drifting down strange roads that he had no place seeing? 

He didn’t dare look behind him at risk of seeing what was approaching him, ready to swallow him up whole and never allow him to see or feel light ever again.

His mother would never get to see him graduate, which he knew was something she’d always hoped for him. She likely hoped it would be at a regular school, but would grow to be proud of him anyways. At the very least, he had intended on proving himself worthy of her devotion, even if she claimed he did not need to do such things. He would start by avoiding the dark side of Diagon Alley.

If he could only make it out alive. 

He ran into a few angry and disgruntled characters, but none had the wits about them to stop him beyond shouting vulgar and threatening chants at him. He was numb to their words. He tried to listen for another presence running through them as well, but could only hear the steady pounding of his own heart and blood in his ears as well as the sound of his feet hitting the pavement. 

A kaleidoscope of white light exploded before him as he’d finally wandered his way back to the open world. In a bout of momentary blindness he continued to plow straight ahead, colliding nearly instantly into an unyielding force. He found himself sprawled on his back staring at the very blue sky before he had a moment to catch himself.

Surely, he was caught and about to die in broad daylight. His wand fell from his hand and tears streaked his face. He didn’t even know where to begin in begging for his life. He wasn’t sure why he even went down that stupid pathway- just that it had called him. He felt he knew more now, though,and that it scared him.

His breathing grew heavy and frantic, but two firm hands settled on his shoulders- not his neck. He mustered up the courage to look up at his probable attacker and make peace with the fact that he’d lived an okay life thus far.

“Are you alright?” A voice- very different from the one before- asked him and the face matched the voice in its concern. 

Instead of a hulking figure cloaked in black, there was a teenager- lean, medium-height, and light-skinned. Anakin would have thought he was an adult wizard by how he was dressed like a professor, in a pressed sweater-vest with a white button-up beneath, as well as ironed trousers and neatly combed auburn hair. However, his face was young and soft with caring blue-gray eyes. He held a certain air of authority and responsibility on him as though he’d been born shouldering the weight of the world.

Anakin sniffled and tried to come to terms with the fact that he was not about to die today and shrugged his shoulders in response. 

The older boy’s eyes looked from where Anakin had come from in horror. “Why in the blazes were you coming from Knockturn Alley?”

He ran an arm along his face to get rid of any tears or snot that might have gone rogue in his hysteria. 

“I-I got lost from my mum.” He said and hated how small he sounded, but he truly did not feel like explaining to a stranger why he’d decided to take a stroll into the ugly side of town. 

“In Knockturn Alley?” He furrowed his brow, unwilling to be shaken. Clearly, this place had a bad reputation and Anakin could understand why.

“Why is that place even there at all?” Anakin complained. “I… I thought it might be a shortcut and… it wasn��t.”

The older boy’s conflicted expression was traded for one of sympathy and he simply gathered Anakin’s wand for him as well as his own dropped belongings before helping Anakin to his feet.

“Well, no harm done, right?”

He wasn’t so sure, but he nodded all the same.

“Let’s get you back to your mum, okay? It can be dangerous around here for a first-timer and I’m sure she’s worried sick.”

He appreciated not being confused for a muggle this time, though this kid struck him as a seasoned member of the wizarding community. Even still, after what he’d just seen, he was happy to have the company. He didn’t miss the disgusted look he shot back to Knockturn Alley over Anakin’s shoulder.

“Do you go to Hogwarts?” Anakin asked.

“Why, most of everyone here either has been, will be, or is a student at Hogwarts.” He said and scanned the crowd. “I’m entering my fifth year.”

Anakin sighed, “It’ll be my first.” 

“I would have never guessed.” Though there was an obvious edge of sarcasm to his tone, which was a welcome surprise as he seemed regularly quite stiff. “I see you got your wand already.”

“From Tera Sinube’s. Just like everyone else, I’m guessing.” Anakin said, but did not miss the way his new companion flinched ever so slightly when he’d said that. There was a wand peeking out of his pocket, so it wasn’t that he simply didn’t possess one. He tried to think nothing of it and move on, taking notice instead of the button that sat atop the books that the older boy carried.

“Do all fifth years get badges that say they’re ‘perfect’ on them?” 

He chuckled. “It says ‘prefect’, actually. It’s a big honor at Hogwarts. I essentially was elected by the Headmaster and Head of House to uphold the code of ethics at the school.”

“So…” Anakin paused. “You’re a hall monitor.”

He thought about that for a moment. “Is that what muggles call it?”

“Yeah, mate. It’s a pretty geeky position actually. The hall monitor at my school got so many wedgies that they had to get his briefs surgically removed.”

He grimaced. “Yes, well, bullies are no strangers to Hogwarts either, but I’d like to think at least some of them heed to our words and authority. So, if you ever need anything, don’t hesitate to reach out.”

Anakin smiled. “Thanks. Trouble usually finds me pretty quick so I’ll need the connections.”

The Prefect smiled. “I can see that.”

***

By the time the Prefect had finally reunited Anakin with his mother, the sky above them began collecting orange and pink hues to resemble a mosaic painting. Anakin’s mood had brightened substantially since exiting the horrid Knockturn Alley and was all the more relieved to see that his mother didn’t appear too angry with him for disappearing.

Because he was still the kind of guy that liked hugging his mum, he ran to her all the same and enveloped her in a tight hug that she knelt to meet him for.

“I got lost.” He said, voice muffled by her shoulder.

“I know it’s all bright and new to you, but this place isn’t all rainbows and sunshine, Ani.” She sighed and stroked his hair. “You have to be mindful of your surroundings.”

Anakin understood what she meant more than he could say right now. For some reason, he felt he shouldn’t relay what had happened to his mother. Not only because it would upset her, but because thinking back on it sent a cold chill down his spine. He simply nodded in agreement and his mother finally acknowledged the young chaperone, who awkwardly stood off to the side.

“Thank you very much for seeing my son safely back to me. I hope he didn’t cause you any trouble.” She smiled warmly.

The older boy waved a hand of nonchalance, though his stiff posture didn’t quite sell the casual vibe he was going for. “Oh, no trouble at all. I was glad to be able to see Diagon Alley through the eyes of a newcomer.”

Anakin beamed. “He showed me all around! Mum, can I get an owl?”

Shmi chuckled. “Later. We must be getting home before it grows dark. I’ve got a late shift tonight at the pub.”

He slumped his shoulders a little bit. “You always have work.”

She sighed and gently pushed some hair out of his face. “I do what I must so we can have a nice life.”

Anakin wanted to say something along the lines of their lives not being so nice thus far, but he knew it would hurt his mother’s feelings and despite his disappointment, did not want to do that.

The Prefect smiled. “I better be off, myself. I’ll see you at school!”

He waved. “Yeah! I’ll see you then! Thank you!”

Shmi smiled down at him. “At least you’re already making friends. What was his name?”

Anakin blanked. “Oh… I don’t know! He’s a prefect though.”

“He saved you and you didn’t get his name?” She asked.

“He didn’t save me. I had it under control.” He puffed out his chest, even if deep inside he knew that was not correct. “But I was distracted. Hey, look at my wand!”

[northernwinedregs]

Truth Or Dare

 Date night. You grab a bite to eat together and head to one of your favourite bars, some subterranean dive with red brick walls and comfy leather booths. The kind of place that even in the early evening pulses music so you can barely talk and be heard; they want you to talk less, drink more, parting with your money and inhibitions. Before long the homemade halloumi fries and mozzarella dippers start looking good, and your bank account's a tenner lighter and your stomach's greasier.

 You both like this place because it's pretty and unpopulated at this time. There's no queueing at the bar, you have your choice of booths. Later, when the door is guarded and the place fills up, the heat and noise coats everything, like a film of sweat on the walls. When low conversation turns to raucous shouts, when the speakers gargle bass like a heart palpitation, when every minute is a summer Friday night. But for now, it's a place for people who want to take photos of their food, who want to chat idly over a few games of pool, who want that rarest of things – a discreet corner table. The bar staff have the relaxed luxury to make cocktails well now.

  You get the door and head in, down the industrial staircase. A thought occurs to you.

 “Truth or dare?” you ask her.

  She looks at you for a minute, weighing up not the question but the possibilities it entails. It's a game, a menu for the evening. Previous dates have taught you her competitive streak: the way she thrashed you at bowling, the ungracious card game victories, the pub carpet lap of honour after hitting a bullseye. She had to be – and was, inevitably – the best even at throwing cashew nuts up and catching them in the mouth. An arched eyebrow tells you enough, that she's playing to win.

 “Dare,” she says.

 “When we order at the bar, I dare you to put on a fake accent.”

 “Pfft, easy.”

  So you reach the bottom of the staircase, cross the deserted expanse of hard wood floor, the sound of heels muted by a throbbing bass line from the speaker, and approach the bar.

 “Well howdy,” she says to the barman, in a thick and entirely unconvincing Southern drawl, not quite sure of its origins. In two words she manages to straddle the border between Texas and Louisiana, settling down in neither state. “Gee, this place sure looks swell,” she adds, re-locating decidedly northward, and spinning back in time to a sterilised trans-Atlantic voice.

 The barman blinks in surprise and decides not to question it. You can't help but smile, at her willingness and gumption, if not accuracy. Not that you could do any better; your own voice is a soft mud of glottal stops and incapable of anything else. “What can I get you?” he asks.

 “I'll have a Guinness,” she says brightly, accent taking a trip back across the ocean to Dublin. And then, glancing over the cocktail specials chalked on the board behind the bar, she says, “I dare you to try that.” Her well-travelled accent, having moved from the north-east to the south goes west to California, and she's pointing at a cocktail called the Barroom Blitz.

 A dare's a dare, so you order the Barroom Blitz, and double down on the decision even after the barman questions the time and its strength. “Okay,” he says like a warning. “I'd stick to one of them though.”

 He busies himself with the cocktail. She gets her Guiness and sips it, while you chat and her pseudo-American accent travels from state to state, never quite finding a home. “Well, shucks,” she says at one point and cocks her head to the side when you laugh. She's taking the game seriously, even if her accent is an unconvincing nomad.

 Your drink is ready and only when it's presented on the bar that she laughs. An oversized martini glass holds a sloshing neon green, with a fluorescent umbrella and a bright straw. Like nothing occuring in nature. A sci-fi sort of drink, the kind of thing that'd get dispensed from a machine called an Inenbriator3000. The insides of a cartoon alien. You thank the barman for this luminescent monstrosity, pay, and find a corner booth at the back of the bar away from prying eyes and the intrusive music.

 She takes off her leather jacket and sits in the corner so as to watch the rest of the bar. You take off yours and sit across from her, with only her and the corner to look at. Not that you'd want to look at anything else: without even a sip of the bright green Blitz you are already intoxicated, the shadows welling around her, the brightness of her lips in the darkness, the white of her eyes in the semi-gloom.

 “Go on, try it,” she says with a smile, accent now moved back home for good. You do, and it's strong and unbearably sweet, like a romantic bodybuilder or a sledgehammer made of gummy bears. Like a lime on steroids with the attitude to match. Like a psychedelic apple from a liberal-minded orchard. You ask if she wants to try it – not a dare, just want to share – and she does, leaving a lipstick impression on the rim, and in one pulpitating moment you are so jealous of the glass.

 “How's the Guinness?” She takes another sip, as if needing a reminder and shrugs.

 “Good. Tastes like Guinness.”

 “That's all right then.”

 She leans forward on the table, arms crossed under her. Expectant, keen, anticipatory.

 “Your turn then.” And, at a quizzical look, “truth or dare, your turn to ask.”

 “Oh right.”

 And so it begins in earnest, back and forth. The punishment if you refuse to answer, or fail in the dare is you have to finish your drink in one: a task for her, to chug a pint of what is essentially ale soup, heavy on the stomach; a task for you to glug something so sickly sweet as a viscous pick n'mix.

 Truth: most embarrassing moment, the time she passed out at a party and woke to a hundred photos online of her inebriated corpse grafittied with pen. Truth: your biggest regret, the way you crashed out of university with very little to show for yourself. Dare: she slinks across the bar and asks a distantly neighbouring table if she can try one of their fries (she can, and they're pretty good). Dare: another round, another Ballroom Blitz, and this time she joins you. Dare: she goes to the bar and asks if they can change the music to classical (they could, but won't, and don't). Truth: the worst fight you've been in, when you got glassed in the face and ended up breaking a rib in the ensuing scrum. Truth: favourite childhood toy, her plush rabbit named Sludge which she once left on a school trip and cried so much they drove back an hour to retrieve it. Dare: you buy a neighbouring table a drink and wave coyly when they look over, puzzled. Truth: a pet-name she's gone by, and she is mortified to admit that during an adolescent emo phase she went by Kitten. Dare: a third round, a shot each of what the bar calls a Skullcrusher. You knock them back in unison and feel your brain compress like a grape protesting a steamroller convention.

 The drinks start to float through your bloodstream, making your thoughts stretch and elongate like hot rubber, your limbs elastic, and her face is flush red with tipsiness. And so too are you drunk on the sight of her bright face, the pixelating mouth. Your mind wanders to the warmth of her lips, her smoky eyes, the dark sea of her hair.

 “Okay,” you say. “Truth or dare?”

“Truth.”

 “Have you got any party tricks?”

 “Yes. Truth or dare?”

“Truth.”

 “Have you?”

 “Yes. Truth or dare?”

 “Dare.”

 “I dare you to show me your party trick.”

 She looks around conspiratorially. Something about the way she glances, not nervously, but instead just to see you aren't being watched – and you're not, from the sheltered nook in the corner – makes the room dispappear, as though the periphery dissolves and closes in around you. There is no bar, no song playing. Only her, in front of you, with a tipsy mischief written on her face.

 So she slides her arms under her t-shirt and starts to rummage beneath her clothes. You watch, suddenly breathless, and catch a tantalising glimpse of delicious collarbone; just as suddenly, all you want in this life is to sink your teeth into that collarbone. As you watch, you are being watched, a private moment between the two of you, eyes locked. This moment, perfomed for you, only pushes all awareness further away from your mind; the rest of the bar shrinks away to a dull haze of dim sound, a mere pulse in the bacgkround. And, with one final movement, she pulls her bra from underneath her t-shirt like a magic trick and throws it onto the table between you, as disdainfully as she would a used napkin.

 She looks at you throughout this party trick, and it is her straightforward desire that moves you so much: that there exists a moment when someone is looking at you and that is all they are doing; they are looking in order to look at you; it is a smile for your benefit alone; an eyebrow arches suggestively purely for your reaction. You feel transfixed, bolted to the booth's leather by her gaze intended only for you, and all you can do is stare back, your heart racing, your skin prickling with excitement at the sharp turn in the game's narrative.

 “Truth or dare,” she says and her voice is suddenly so much softer, and forms a sound for you alone.

 You reach out, suddenly aware of your body again, its pumping blood, its moveable limbs, and pick up her discarded clothing to tuck it inside your jacket.

 “Hey-” she begins, “-I'll be needing that-” but you shake your head and say, “no, you won't. Truth or dare?”

 “It's my turn,” she says assertively, but you no longer care for protocol. It's not that she's so exposed right now – her t-shirt covers everything but her arms, and she has her jacket on the back of her chair – but it's the knowledge that someone is just a little more vulnerable. You don't want the bar to fade away in her consciousness, you realise, and instead you want her exposed, knowing that she's surrounded by people and voices and eyes and sounds.

 “Nope, it's my turn again,” you decide. “Truth or dare?”

 She eyes you suspiciously, not with any malice, but a calculating trust. She may have assumed her last dare was to assert a level of power over the competition, but you're now determined not to let her dictate the flow of the evening.

 “Where are you going with this? Okay, dare.”

 You lean forward and smile.

 “I dare you to do the same party trick again.”

 Her eyebrow arches again, this time in confusion, not pre-meditation.

 “But, you've already got...” she says, before trailing off. “Oh, okay. I see how it is.”

 She glances around a second time, now with a more pronounced concern. Deciding no eyes are upon you, she wriggles in the booth, keeping her eyes locked on you, a dare of her own. You stare back, not wanting to submit dominance. She smiles sweetly, as though she was simply rummaging for her phone, before guiding her hands under her skirt and sliding off her underwear. Unlike the previous time, when she carelessly threw the trophy on the table with the smug contempt of a victory, instead she reaches under the table and covertly passes you a fistful of scrunched fabric. She sits back, smooths her skirt and looks at you intently. You, almost lazily, add the latest item to the inside of your jacket pocket. Her arched, suggestive eyebrow raises once more.

“Happy?” she asks. “What's next?”

 “A truth, I think.”

 “So I don't even get to pick now?”

 “No. Truth: does it turn you on, feeling so exposed now? What if someone – let's say the guy at the bar – was watching? How would you feel, him knowing how you were dressed? What's it like being someone who takes off their clothes in public? Go on, spread your legs under the table and tell me how it feels.” You say this in a low murmur, refusing to break eye contact. You're leaning in closer, so to her there is just your face and the sound of your voice.

 She finally looks away, glances around the room once more. Certainly carefully. Almost nervously. She licks her lips and you watch her tongue like a predator.

 “You tell me a truth first,” she says. “Does it turn you on, exposing me like this? Do you like the idea of me getting undressed in public? For you. Because of you. Do you want me to tell you how wet I am? Go on, say it. Tell me you want to hear how wet my pussy is, sat here all exposed, waiting for your next command.” Even this, she says as a dare. Like you're being goaded into relinquishing what small power you have over her. Like a predator is feigning weakness before its prey. She's introduced a new register to the vocabulary, as a test of her own.

 “That's not how it works,” you tell her. “If you won't answer my truth, you can have a dare instead. I dare you to touch yourself. Touch yourself for me.”

 She hesitates, if only for a fraction of a second, and that's all the weakness in her armour you need.

 “What, going to lose this game so easily, are we? You won't answer the truth, you won't do the dare I set. Sounds like you're giving up and that means I win. Oh well.”

 She bites her lip, not seductively as before, but in hesitation. In anticipation. She glances around, nervously now. You can see the calculation, her stubbornness that you adore so much.

 “You don't have to do anything you're not comfortable with,” you reminder her, but she shakes her head.

 “It's not that. Fuck.”

 She's flustered, and it's the first time you've ever seen her like this. Everything before now has been cool, calm, collected. Effortlessly so. Commanding, almost. It's the loosening of control as much as not winning. She who is so triumphant in every victory, she who gloats so completely when she gets two strikes in a row, or gets the question right on the television quizzes first, or is quicker to hand over her card when the waiter's produced the bill. Seeing this dissolution of her hierachy makes you adore her more, wanting to soften and immediately capitulate and kiss her. But you keep your resolve, let her squirm, and relish in it.

 She offers the bar once final glance, then locks eyes with you. She touches herself. That first soft moan is so delicate, so almost inaudible, and yet is the only sound you can hear. The only sound you've ever wanted to hear. For such a tiny, quivering exhale, it extinguishes all noise from the bar and once again your focus dissolves to her in front of you. There are only her eyes, burrowing into your soul. There is only her voice, faint and breathless. There is only her skin, her face, her neck. And as she exhales, so too do you find yourself breathless, your head swimming as you watch her. The universe, in that moment, exists only to watch her, watching you. Everything else is background radiation, distant starlight.

 “Hi, can I get you any more drinks?”

 The voice is a sudden intrusion, and snaps you both out of this private moment. Your booth is shadowed by a friendly staff member, busying herself amongst the tables. She smiles, and it feels as though all the blood in your body has rushed to your face.

 “Erm, we're good, I think,” you say, and your voice is a stranger's voice, weirdly booming and distant, like you are not wholly present but instead are some audio recording coming out of the speaker.

 “No worries,” the barmaid says cheerfully, moving away from the table as swiftly as she had materialised beside you. You look across the table and see a face, whether from the drinks or the embarrassment, is glowing red as a beacon. You both begin to laugh, nervous and giddy, somehow like children almost discovered for having stolen sweets.

 “One last dare,” she laughs. “I dare you to take me home.”

 And you do, and the game continues. If not posed in point-for-point questions, the game certainly continues its list of demands and admissions. Breathlessly and deliriously, you trade truths and dares. I dare you to kiss this. Bite that. Suck on that. Nibble and gorge and eat and caress and stroke and enter. Dares as mere verbs; dares only as intentions. And truths are spilled out in the hallway, on the bedroom floor, on the bed itself, on your knees, against the wall. Truth as aching, shuddering, declarations. Truths as names and cries and moans and  shivers and animal noises. Truths as adverbs: harder and faster and deeper. Truths as confessions, as close as we get to religion. Truths as invocations. Truths as pain and pleasure and teasing and torture. Truth in blood. Truth in flesh. Truth in sweat and hair and breath and hands and names.

 It is only in the morning, when the game is neither lost nor won, but forgotten, when you lie there together in the warm, optimistic yolk of the window-strained sun, when you listen to the flightless birds and hum of reluctant traffic and shouts and cries of an innocent morning, that she raises her head from your chest and smiles to offer her latest demand.

 “I dare you to go get breakfast.”

[snow--blanket]

little soldier, smaller gods

word count: 4846

fandom: ikemen sengoku

characters: tokugawa ieyasu based off/inspired by leigh bardugo’s work from the language of thorns!! please read it i implore you ***

There is a place where the children knew not to go and where the adults would twist their arms when they tried to. The path there started from gravel, to wooden pickets pledged to the earth, and ends at a dirt path, where it wound like a crooked finger beckoning. 

This cottage had the roof tilted unsightly, like an abused seesaw heavy on one side. the windows could only be called such – the aging moss and grime had kept it shut for years and years, and it resembled more like a foggy lens than transparent glass. 

In this cottage lived a man. He was old, hunched-over back and his movements were like old machinery. His voice, at the very least, he was still proud of. It rang silver and regal, and whenever he spoke, the words were like breath commanded. 

However, such was the cause that had driven away the people around him. 

This man was old and lonely, and he lived alone in the shamble of a house he once called a castle. The vacancy in his home bred boredom, and so he chipped away at little crisps of the cracked wall and stole iron wires from a crow’s nest. He melted steel over the hearth of his humble kitchen and it bled into his hands as it did into the molds. 

With his coal-ash fingers and his squinted eyes, the old man had created ingenious machinations – one, a clock that told the time by different twittering of different kinds of birds. Second, a mechanical wolf that howled and hunted cotton-like rabbits, and when gnawed on, had raspberry juice flow like blood. The third, gingerbread man that moved and danced on a tightrope, balancing things on its head. Fourth, a roulette wheel of different kinds of murders, and whichever the ball stopped at, it would happen in tandem the next day. 

Once, the roulette wheel stopped, and the next day, you could hear the hounds howl silencing the screams of a man being ripped from stomach to crotch. His blood flowed like raspberry.  

It seemed more than a little pathetic for an old man to tinker with toys, and still, still, his empty little heart desired company. Company, most of all, to admire his genius inventions, to awe at his skill. He wanted an audience. 

And so the old man’s hunched back bent over once more, his baked hands and his sight – strained like lemon being juiced – he created a toy soldier, decorated with six buttons on his uniform and a medal crested onto his lapel. 

Tokugawa Ieyasu, he said into the empty air, gazing at his creation. That is your name. You have been made to protect me, to serve me, and to bring me glory. 

The green soldier started moving, it’s fabricated limbs now stretching like clay, and appeared before him was a soldier whose eyes would only observe green, and the hair dyed from the petals of a sunflower. 

The old man sent the toy soldier to guard the front of his crooked house, as crooked houses attracted the crooked and the morbidly curious. 

Ieyasu stood dutifully under the loom of the tilted roof as shade with his hand dutifully at his waist, a ready grip at the hilt of his sword. 

When curious children came, he unsheathed his sword and swung in an arc, a warning. The children yelled and skittered away back into the village, and they would tell their mother and fathers about a little toy soldier with a sword in his hands. 

The mothers would go, Oh yes, my dears, I’m sure it was, and roll their eyes at them. Now, would you like to tell me the real reason for the dirt on your knees and the scraped elbow? 

The fathers would let them be, saying that a little adventure never hurt anyone. But still, late at night in the pubs, you could hear the exchanges between men regarding this fellow soldier with a sword, about the war that passed yet was still in the hesitance in their voices and the matchlock rifles hidden under the creaky floorboards, if only you stepped the right way. There are wolves, they’d say. Dangerous times for us all, and no wolf will eat my child. Still, they couldn’t help the lingering feeling that it was not so simple.

They were right. 

Ieyasu reported back to his master, and he frowned. “It seems you’ve scared them away,” he’d said disapprovingly. Ieyasu did not understand. Was that not what he was made for? 

The old man set foot in his room once more, engineering himself a painful brace to straighten his posture and screwed in teeth as glossy as steel into his bloody gums, his magnificence only slightly overwhelmed by the yells and rips of pain he’d vocalised, muffled only by an old, wooden door. 

The next day, it was observed that the old man no longer looked old — his bearing was upright as to effect a soldier’s, and his teeth were gleaming and his hands were dusted in powder so as to rid the burnt charcoal and molten ire that had been engraved into them. 

Ieyasu was ordered to venture forth into the forest, now. “Farther, into the forest, there is a beast of which can only be slain by the likes of you,” his master said, and crested upon his lapel another medal. It was only Ieyasu left. The gingerbread man had gone missing, and the roulette wheel went unspun a long time ago. 

Ieyasu felt his lungs fill with pride and marched on forwards into the forest once more, the steady thump-thump-thump of his heart beating to the drums of war. 

Time passed like this, and the mystery thickened around the crooked house with the old man whose posture was dignified and commanded respect, and the voice to charm them so. The deeper into the forest Ieyasu went, the more people took notice of a soldier in the forest, with his nimble fingers and white teeth. 

Finally, a group of scampering adults said enough was enough, and decided to open the closet lay in the monster. They took upon the pitchforks — sharpened like fangs of some beast — and swished here and there, chancing upon the crooked house. 

When they barged into the house, they were greeted by the smell of honey lemon tea brewing, the miraculous lights strung from both end of walls, even as there was no generator or power source anywhere in sight. The floorboards were shined like glazed cake in caramel, and the windows, more window-like, were open, letting the smell and sights waft out.

“I see we have an audience,” said the old man, who did not look old. His smile showed his polished, refined teeth, and the townspeople became all the more wary. “Sit down, why don’t you? The tea is almost done.” One might have thought it was a suggestion, had they not hear the voice that carried it. 

This is the problem with lesser demons. They dress in tailcoats and emblazoned suits, are pleasant conversation partners, smiled when needed and laughed little, so as to captivate the young ladies and make older women clutch at their handkerchiefs in bashfulness. They do not show their horns until you are impaled in it. 

Ieyasu, however, was still deep in the forest and rested under the shade, shifting his sword to a more comfortable position. 

A beast, thought Ieyasu. A beast that can only be slain by the likes of me. 

The likes of me. What exactly did that mean? He let his eyes rest on the sword by his side. Weaponised? A soldier? Perhaps both? 

He didn’t notice the wind this time, did not hear the high laughter of an old friend bark at him. 

He thought he heard the howl of a wolf somewhere, and the trees that once gave him shade lent to him darkness he found difficult to accept. “Who’s there?” he asked, his sword unsheathed in one swift movement.

The darkness answered, and a shape moved towards him. He felt the grip on his sword tense. An enemy! The first he’d slay. 

He thought about the medal crested on his chest. A beast that can only be slain by the likes of you. 

The shape moved, darkness peeling off its body like second skin. “I am not an enemy, sir. I come in peace.”

Peace? No enemy would be one with peace. “Lies! Unsheath your sword!” 

“I do not possess such things,” said the shape. It moved closer and closer, out of the darkness, and into the light. Ieyasu’s hand trembled. 

The shape was shaped like a human, at least like the humans children drew on sand with sticks. Except…. “I apologise,” said Ieyasu. 

The gingerbread man smiled, his how-many-days frosting, which once smelled like vanilla pods, now a smudge on his face, like the crying cottage, leaking out from it’s corners. His arms were gone, the edges bitten out by some zig-zagged teeth, and whenever he walked, crumbs followed him like a second shadow. 

“It is no bother. I have no need for these arms, anyway.” The gingerbread man’s eyes smiled, frosting eyes curved like a crescent moon inverted. He looked at the sword Ieyasu still held. “Though it seems you do.” 

“Yes,” said Ieyasu, and his lungs filled with pride again, his jaw cut sharp like shrapnels. “I've come to slay the beast that terrorizes this forest.” His tone was somber, as if he wanted to give the gingerbread man his own sword – to protect himself. “And the one that inflicted on you pain.” 

The gingerbread man’s eyes were pitying, two pricks of eyes of black that looked at him as if he was the one without arms. “It wasn’t the beast that made me so. It was myself.” 

“What?”

“Have you ever wanted something, soldier?”

“I live to protect other people, and my master. It is my duty and my honour.” The words felt familiar and came easy. 

”It started when i wanted something, you see. I was a mere gingerbread man, yet I was used as a toy placed on a string. He stacked books on my head and magical, glassy balls with it’s hook pierced into my hands. I wanted to be eaten, and I felt myself move. Then, I wanted to eat. so I used one of my hands and broke the brittle arm of the other, and I ate it.” 

“You are crazed,” warned Ieyasu. “Return with me. My master will fix you anew.” 

“Crazed I may be, I wanted it.” The gingerbread man looked at him. “Is there nothing you want, soldier?” 

“I want to protect my master and my people.” 

“And when he finds another soldier?” asked the gingerbread man. “If your people find another hero, and your sword will not be yours?” 

“I—” A beast that can only be slain by the likes of you. He had said that. The likes of him. “That is impossible.” The likes of him. There was only one him, after all. 

“Like a humble treat like myself might move?” 

“You are—” The likes of you. “We are different from each other.” Ieyasu snarled, but he was not able to hide away his confusion. “I am loyal.” 

“Maybe you are.” The gingerbread man nodded, and then tilted his head. “Perhaps instead of telling me to return, ask yourself why you remain.” 

“You are supposed to be nothing but a juggling toy,” hissed Ieyasu.

“That is the will your master has exerted upon me. I danced on the line he tied, and I walked at his command. But at night, when he is not watching, I tore pages from the books that would be my burden, and in doing so I thought: why not another page? Why not another book? Why not shatter another glasspiece?” 

“That is greed,” said Ieyasu. “I am not greedy.” 

“And nor are you righteous.” He looked at him differently this time, like he was nothing but an innocent cookie nibbled by the cupboard rats. “Tell me your name, soldier.” 

“Ieyasu. Tokugawa Ieyasu.” 

“I see. What master do you serve?” 

That was an obvious question. “Master—” But he couldn’t remember. Or had he known it at all? His master never called himself by anything but. Ieyasu remembered the moments where his master picked him up and laid him down somewhere high, and there he saw many people like his master enter the room. They hadn’t called him by any name either. “I don’t…know. but he is my king nonetheless.” 

Speaking of which, a king of which kingdom? He hadn’t seen any other soldiers in the barracks, only he. But, well, given his master’s private disposition, it was only to be expected that he only trusted one soldier as his guard. 

“I see,” said the gingerbread man. “And what of your medals? What was the first one for?”

Ieyasu looked at his lapel. “The first one—” the first medal that had been crested onto him, the first of everything. He’d slain the beast, he had killed a wolf once, one whose teeth shone like knives, and claws that tore at his arm, removing it from it’s sockets and two creatures howled in pain that night. And yet. Yet, his arm was here. Which wars had he won? What put the honour on his chest, this medal? “I do not recall,” said Ieyasu. 

The gingerbread man looked at him softly, and Ieyasu imagined that look was the kind one might give to a child. “I live with ants now, can you believe it? It seems there’s use to my balancing act, after all.” the gingerbread man turned on his heel and started to disappear into the shadows of the trees. “I hope you can find yourself, little soldier.” 

“I am not little!” yelled Ieyasu to the darkness. The wind howled then, a barking laughter that silenced the voice of a whining child. 

He didn’t understand. He was Tokugawa Ieyasu. He remembered this. His master was….his master. His king. He used to slay beasts, vanquish the evil in the name of protecting his master. He remembers the pain of his arm being torn, the pain of being snapped in half like brittle candles. So why? Why couldn’t he answer? Why hadn’t he? 

In the end, Tokugawa Ieyasu chose to slay the beast. Indeed, he was Tokugawa Ieyasu in the end, and who he served did not matter. He was a soldier, and he had a duty. He was to defeat the evil, protect the good, return to his master with another medal on his chest and the heart of the monster in his hands. 

Ieyasu stepped into the darkness once more, in search of the beast. It did not take long. Once he stepped into the shadows, it felt like an overbearing something was pressing to his sides, and there was a heavy stone in his chest, weighing itself in the cavity of his lungs. 

His feet brought him to the entrance of a cave, where it smelled like rotten flesh of a man whose insides were torn at and the scent of decay that followed suit. It was here. The beast was here. 

Although he wanted to pinch his nose, it wasn’t very soldierly of him. Yes; this, too, was part of his hurdle, part of the challenge in loyalty. He had to remain unwavering. He gripped his sword tighter. “Beast!” he yelled, and the sound echoed, like the cave was whispering on his behalf as to silence the doubts in his mind. “I've come for your head!” 

Instead of a powerful howl that shook the trees, what answered was a whimper. A dog came lumbering, dragging along its weight like a ball and chain. “You’re here again, boy.” said the dog, and Ieyasu flinched, reflex lost to instinctual fear at the sight that met him. 

The dog had two heads, parted at the middle like a tree branching east and west. He returned to his stance once more, noticing the blood that stained it’s gums, it’s yellow teeth like bones hollowed and sharpened. 

He pointed his sword onto the dog, a challenge. “What did you mean by ‘again’? Was there another soldier before me?” he pushed forth, courage bought by the blade. “Did you eat him alive as well?” 

“It has never been more than one,” said the dog, both heads speaking, and their voices overlapped like the cave that echoed. Caves of caves, voices on top of voices. “What did he make you into this time, boy?” Both heads tilted, like the slanted roofs, like wilting plants. 

“He made me into a soldier,” This, he said with confidence, for it was an irrefutable fact, no matter what anybody else said. “I see. Then a soldier you must be until a soldier you are no more.” 

One head twisted, warped like kitchen towels rung out to dry, and the blood squeezed out of it and watered the ground, dripping, dripping, dripping, like an overfilled kettle bubbling with foam and overflowing. The tendons stretched like gum, stretched in an unsightly way Ieyasu knew could not be right. 

Plop! One head of the dog fell to the earth, and it presented itself to Ieyasu like the silence of graves, like the smell of death masked by smoke. Something choked at his throat – a lump had made itself home there, and Ieyasu was no heavy eater, but he felt like he might throw up whatever he had for breakfast. 

“Well?” asked the dog, eyes like blood moons. “You have my head. On you go, boy.” the dog retreated into the cave, and his voice echoed. “Be careful of the master you serve.” Voices on top of voices, doubts on top of doubts.  

Ieyasu picked up the severed head of the dog, and its eyes stared back at him like it was truly alive. He turned his heel, remembering that it was nearing night, that his master was waiting. 

All the way back to the house of his master, there was no satisfaction to be found. What happened to heroism, to conquering fear? His hand still shook like a creature of fear and his heart pounded like a jackrabbit caught in some wolf’s fangs. Even with the medal crested upon his lapel, he could not ignore the feeling that he did not deserve….whatever he got. 

“I've returned with the beasts’ head.” These words, although sounded vain, were shame that stuck itself to the roof of his mouth, like moss to the ceiling. 

His master smiled, and even that couldn’t soothe his heart rate. “Good work,” he said. His master took the head from him, and the act was disturbingly casual. He gently guided Ieyasu away, back into his room with his work table. “Rest,” he cooed. “You must be tired.” 

Ieyasu found that he was tired, and stifled a yawn. “If you’ll excuse me.” The thrill of one whole day wore him down, and the beat of his heart followed the humming of his master’s. 

Ieyasu sat down on the chair, and he closed his eyes. Drowsiness took him – but before it could do so, he heard the high voice of a child in his master’s room. Of course, he had not been there to protect his master, and now some child had wormed its way into his master’s castle! 

Ieyasu leapt to his feet, and his unsheathed sword sliced the midnight air. With rickety, careful steps, he approached the opening of the door, the light cutting the darkness in one thin line. Ieyasu steadied his breath, tightened his grip, squared his shoulders. 

“Your name,” The voice of his master sounded through the wooden doors, and Ieyasu halted. “Is Tokugawa Ieyasu.” Ieyasu felt the air leave his body, felt the blood drain him like he was one of the rabbits in the mechanical wolf’s jaws, makeshift blood spilling onto the grass. “You have been made to protect me, to serve me, and to give me glory.” 

Ah, yes, this feeling. He remembers this feeling, remembers the stone in his lungs and breakfast threatening to exit his stomach the way it came. Ieyasu covered his mouth, a sourness taxing his tongue. 

The likes of you. He remembers these words well. The likes of him. What did that mean? His master had created another toy. With the same name, with the same voice that had commanded his movements. Tokugawa Ieyasu, he called it. 

Another soldier. Another one like him? 

Ieyasu crept to the door, the glazed caramel floors now looking murky and like the rust of gears, as if showing their true colours in the night. Ieyasu had never stepped a foot outside at night before, but…. the likes of you. The likes of him. The words resounded in his head, and he needed answers. 

He did not count his steps as he usually did, did not follow his legs to the beat of war drum in his heart, a memorised tune. He ran until his legs were weary, ran until all the breath in his body spilled to the cold air, ran like a thief under the watch of moonlight.  

When he arrived at the cave, he yelled. “Beast!” the sound echoed, the night wind paying no heed to the haste in his voice. “Come out of your cave!”

The darkness answered with a howl, and Ieyasu unwittingly took a step back. Unpeeled by the moonlight, a shape resembling the dog moved forward. Once it revealed itself, Ieyasu felt that sensation again, his tight chest, his body a scale weighed by stones. “You are not the beast,” his thoughts could come up nothing braver than ones that had slipped forth. 

The beast — now true to its name — howled heavenwards, as if answering the beck of some god that had come calling, answering to the moon that was their witness. “I am a beast by night,” the wolf snarled. “Your master made it so.” 

That was impossible. But was it really? Ieyasu had remembered the gingerbread man, remembered his master’s voice calling another his own name. “I do not understand. My master— he has created another soldier. please–” Ieyasu was not beyond begging now, with his shaken core and his forested eyes like trembling leaves. “–please help me.” 

“I told you, soldier. It has never been more than one.” The wolf looked at Ieyasu pitifully. “You are the same boy that has returned to me again and again, seeking my head on the orders of your master. Perhaps the soldier your master created is simply a toy.” The wolf tilted its head curiously, and it resembled the kind of curiosity he’d seen in children. “And perhaps you are one too.” 

Ieyasu wanted to open his mouth to reject the words, but before he could the wolf had pounced on him, digging his fangs into his arm. Ieyasu screamed in pain, trying to shake the wolf off him, but it would not budge. 

“Help!” he screamed, hoping the night would take his voice far. “Someone help me!” the wolf would not budge. My sword, he thought. Where is my sword? Ieyasu’s eyes scattered until he felt up the hilt of the sword nudging his ribs, and slowly, his right hand took hold of it. 

Ieyasu swung the sword and the wolf, barely scratched his muzzle, a small slice comparable to a child’s papercut. Ieyasu swung blindly into the night; hoping that it would hit, somehow. He had little options, he thought uselessly. 

In the perimeter of his eyes he saw the slight glint of ruby catching moonlight – like fragmented pieces of gems had come to his call for mercy. Thousands – thousands of ants had approached him, and they all came to swarm the wolf biting at his arm. 

From the darkness, the ants were led by an armless gingerbread man, whose voice carried the weight of more souls than Ieyasu. It was incomprehensible, surely. Why? he wanted to ask. Why you? Why am I not the saviour? What have I done wrong? 

It is no bother. I have no need for these arms anyways. He remembered the words of the gingerbread man, and realised why he had not needed swords. He had allies. An army. His blade was in pieces, and it remolded itself into blood steel when he needed them. 

“Run!” yelled the gingerbread man. “Run, little soldier!” 

So he did. And oh – what a disgusting feeling it was! He hoped that his legs would sag. He hoped his breaths would stop. He hoped for his heart to be squeezed out of his chest. How cowardly was he? A soldier in name, a coward at heart. He wished regret or justice made his body linger, but he ran like a coward until his sweat was condensation in the air. 

When he arrived back home, his master had looked at him like he knew he was out the entire time. “You’re sweating. You must be tired.” 

“Master, I—” Indeed, as if the air was purchased back into his lungs and the trembling in his arms stilled like dead wood, Ieyasu became all the more tired and drowsy by the second. Still, he had to find answers. He could not sleep until he got them. “Master. I did not slay the beast.” 

His smile was as deceitful as the smiling moon. “Yes, I know.” 

Ieyasu’s heart ached. “Then why did you…” Ieyasu gulped. “How did you know?” 

His master tugged at his hand, leading him to a supply closet full of old, unused toys. There were several lines of nutcrackers, a dusty doll in disrepair with it’s eye gouged out. “Because I created it. I created you.” 

Created. Not employed. He was not a soldier. He was a toy. “That is impossible,” said Ieyasu. “My heart beats. My hands shake. I bleed red.” 

“You move as much as the gears in a clock do, and bleed like breaking dams of a river. You are as alive as either.” 

“You are stolen,” his master said. “I kidnapped you from the village and fed you clay and ash, shaped your fingers that would perfectly fit a blade. You stand still when I do not wish for you to move, and you are tired when I say you are.” 

“No. No!” But he felt his throat choke on sawdust, the ashen gunpowder coating the film of his mouth and his tongue tasting steel. His arms were harder to move, as if walking through mud. 

“You are a hero,” he said finally, and Ieyasu felt that cowardice come forth again. “You return to me with the beast’s head everytime I tell you to, and another medal will be embedded into your chest.” 

So it was simply smokes and mirrors, then. He was to dance for his master, to perform. He realised then that he was not a soldier, but an actor. 

“You are nothing more than a toy,” his master whispered, and were his words not immortal? “And nothing more will you become when I do not think of you.” 

Ieyasu didn’t know exactly when he’d felt hatred for his master fester. Perhaps it was the hard, lonely rock carved out of someone who had too much darkness with them. 

Months passed and Ieyasu could only barely be conscious as the days blurred together. He reminded himself of what he wanted. He was Tokugawa Ieyasu. He was no soldier, but he was an actor, at the very least.  

The villagers stopped coming by his master’s house. They heard rumours. The house is haunted, they say. There are corpses under the caramel floorboards, they whisper. But it was simply an excuse, for no one could tolerate his company and the way he spoke like royalty. Mysteriously, more and more kids went missing around the vicinity, so they chose not to risk it. The village patrols were much too frightened of the wolves at night to ever conduct a search of the toymaker’s house. 

Eventually, the passing of time made the house as rotten as he, and the toymaker died in the hinges of a wolf’s fangs, the roulette wheel stopping: death by loss of blood. 

With time, more villagers came to the house – the weeping mothers in mourning of their children, and the rowdy teenagers in search of a dare. 

Ieyasu remembers each and every one of their wishes, whispered into the eerie air. He is an actor. He would perform for those who would watch. And so, he took upon those wishes and could barely muster a voice, not at all serene and all knowing, But a voice that had seen the many wandering souls and the secrets and bodies they’d buried. 

Now, Ieyasu waits in hiding. He bides his time with every new morning, waiting for a prayer of some lovestruck fool or greedy, traitorous bastard waiting to stab his master in the back. 

He never has to wait long.