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jointherebellion215 · 8 months ago

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Birdie

John "Bucky" Egan x female!reader

Summary: A rare night out in London has Bucky coming to terms with his feelings for you.

Word Count: 2.9k

Tags: mechanic!reader, songbird!reader, female!reader, she/her pronouns used, drinking culture, cursing, mutual pining, moderate bouts of denial, insecurities, women supporting women because it's what we deserve, let's pretend that The Old Therebefore is an ancient Appalachian folk song in this universe, maybe she's a Mary Sue idgaf, I just wanted to write something happy so LET ME LIVE, WWII era, there's no Y/N but reader has the nickname "Birdie"

A/N: Yeah, I'm obsessed with Masters of the Air. I had to write something for my mans before the creative procrastination literally killed me. Please leave a like, comment, or even a reblog if you're so inclined :)

You can read my OC version of this story on AO3!

Songs Mentioned in This Fic:

Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy by The Andrews Sisters

G.I. Jive by Johnny Mercer

The Ole Therebefore (Accapella) by Rachel Zegler

Disclaimer: I own nothing. This story and any recognizably named characters are based solely on dramatic portrayals of the characters from the series, not the real individuals they represent. All the respect to the actual service people who fought and died in the Second World War. Also, don't copy my writing without explicit permission. That includes you, you AI sonuvabitch.

Your heels clicked on the cobblestone streets, turning into the pub you’d heard so much about. You were out celebrating a very rare weekend off. The Brass had somehow allowed you and twenty other mechanics from base two days leave, so you took advantage of the opportunity and headed straight to London.

Your two best girlfriends from base were with you. Teresa was one of the toughest nurses you’d ever come across. She could give you a wide grin, crinkles around her hazel eyes, and reset a broken bone without breaking a sweat. It helps that she was already working towards becoming a nurse back in New Mexico, the war just sped along that process. You had bonded over your love of books, giving each other recommendations almost weekly.

You’d met Irene on the boat to England. She puked on your shoes almost thirty minutes exactly after leaving the port in New York. You gave a small grin, offering her a handkerchief and a piece of ginger candy and the rest was history. Finding out that she was a fellow mechanic was the icing on the cake. Coming in at a whopping five foot two, the spritely blonde could easily be found in a crowd with her loud Appalachian accent.

It seemed almost like fate for the three of you to have found each other. Being some of the few women on base naturally made you close, but you were closer with Irene and Teresa than any of the others. That’s not to say that you weren’t friends with any of the men, because you were. Friendly.

All three of you were dressed to the nines, in contradiction to your everyday work wear. You all got ready together in your hotel room, giggling while you applied makeup here, spritzed some perfume there. You all felt confident and were ready to have a good time. You spotted some familiar faces and made your way over towards them, your friends linked arm-in-arm with you. Lemmons was the first to greet you.

Of the fifty men on the ground crew, Sgt. Ken Lemmons was the most welcoming of them all. From the get-go, he didn’t care if you were a man or woman. He just wanted to know that you were capable. You were sure he had to go through some hazing because of his age, which probably changed his perspective on gatekeeping the job. This made earning and maintaining respect a lot easier for the women on your crew. We all came over with the same goal, it was better for all if we just helped each other out.

“Hey Birdie! Nice to see you out and about.”

Ah, the famed nickname. You tend to hum and sing under your breath when elbow-deep in a project. It helps you pass the time and clear your mind. Of course, the rest of the ground crew quickly caught on to this habit of yours, which quickly earned you the nickname “Birdie”. You, of course, never sing solo in public, so this confuses anyone who’s not around you while you’re working. But the name stuck, so here you are. Birdie.

Chairs are quickly cleared for you and your friends, which you all graciously take. You go up to buy some drinks, knowing what your friends like, and quickly return with your drinks of choice. Conversation flows, laughs are shared, and a few drinking games are played over the next hours. Teresa soon speaks up on a topic you’d been hoping to avoid.

“Do you think he’ll be here tonight?”

You shrug and look into your drink, “Dunno. Why does it matter?”

Irene, the ever supportive best friend that she is, backs up Teresa. “What do you mean ‘why’? This is your chance to finally make a move!”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” You quickly deny, taking another sip.

An unladylike snort leaves Irene, “My ass! You and Major Egan have been making googly eyes at each other when you think the other’s not looking for months. I’m saying it’s time for you to perk your tits up, buck on over and ride that—!” You slam your drink on the table, pressing your hand over Irene’s mouth, heat rising to your cheeks in embarrassment.

“Are you insane?” You whisper harshly, looking around to make sure no one overheard you. You seem to be in the clear, which makes you calm down a bit. Irene pushes off your hand, takes a swig of her drink, and consults the person who started this whole conversation.

“Am I wrong?” You look to Teresa, who cringes slightly in agreement.

You gape at the pair of them. Normally, you were the median between the two girls who had vastly differing opinions. But this is what made them come to a consensus? Unbelievable.

“Look, I’m not saying that I don’t want to.” You start, which makes your friends nod encouragingly at you. “It’s just that… Is he really as interested as you think he is?”

They both groan and slump against each other, like they’d just run a marathon. Teresa sits up, scooching your chair in closer so that the three of you were in a private triangle, cut off from the rest of the group.

“Let’s look at the facts here, okay?” Teresa starts to tick off a finger with each point she and Irene make. But you seem to always have a rebuttal at the ready.

“He brings you coffee every morning.”

“I thought he does that for everyone.”

“He constantly fixes his hair when you’re around.”

“He takes care of his appearance!”

“He walks you to the mess hall every day for dinner.”

“We just happen to be going the same way. And we happen to have the same dinner schedule.”

“He read The Hobbit when you said how much you loved it.”

“He’s an adventurous guy, it’s an adventurous book, what’s not to like about it?”

“You two literally will walk and talk outside alone for hours.”

“A man can’t have a stimulating conversation with a woman?”

“He laughs at all your dumb jokes.”

“Hey! They’re not all dumb. Like, the one with the goose and the—”

“Point proven. Anyways! He has your picture in the inside pocket of his jacket.”

That one stops you in your tracks. You brain tries to justify this meaning but comes up blank.

“He…” You struggle with an excuse. “He…” Your best friends give victorious smirks in your direction.

“He… likes the extra padding in his jacket?” You stutter over what is possibly the most pathetic, sorry excuse you could have ever come up with.

“When are you gonna admit to yourself that he likes you? Like, actually truly likes you?”

You gave a sad sigh, letting the insecurity you were feeling deep down come to the surface. “I just… He’s just so…” You had stomped down your feelings for so long that it was becoming hard to articulate what exactly you’re feeling.

“He just seems so unreal. Like, of everyone he could have chosen, why me? I mean, I know I’m great. But you’ve seen the other girls on base. They’re all so beautiful, smart, classy… and none of them are covered in engine oil ninety percent of the time.” You looked down at your hands, specks of grease and oil peeking out from beneath your nail beds. It seems like it would never completely wash out, no matter how hard you scrubbed. You hadn’t even painted your nails for this weekend, knowing it would be money wasted come Monday morning when you’re back on the clock.

Teresa and Irene share a look that you don’t see, then come forward and grab each of your hands.

“The words you just used to describe those girls. All of that is you, Birdie. That and more. You being a mechanic doesn’t make you any less of a woman, and to hell with anyone else who thinks otherwise.” You nodded in agreement, Irene’s words of encouragement slowly washing away your anxieties.

Teresa spoke up next, “You deserve someone who will rearrange the stars and the whole night sky for you. And I’m more than willing to bet that Major Egan is up for the job.”

“Besides, none of that 'unreal' stuff. At the end of the day, John Egan is nothing more than a man. If he can’t look past his nose and his d—" You gave a squeak to cover up the vulgar word Irene was about to blurt in public. She rolled her eyes fondly and continued.

“If he can’t see what you’re worth and make the effort to treat you a hundred times better than that? That’s on him. Not you. You know what you deserve, and you deserve everything you want. Absolutely everything.”

You sniffed, happy tears coming to your eyes. You brought your best friends in for a hug, thanking them profusely.

“Don’t sweat it,” Teresa grins into your shoulder “every girl needs to be pulled out of her well sometime.”

You pull back from the hug, grabbing your glass and tipping your head back, finishing the rest of your drink. “Even if he’s not gonna be here, let’s have a ball!” Your girlfriends cheer as the three of you go to the bar for refills.

One drink turns into two, which turns into a few more, and suddenly you’re buzzed. Your group are having a rambunctious time, Irene dancing by the local piano player. Once Irene looks over to you, she stops and whispers in the player’s ear. He nods, then starts a new tune. Irene starts up her voice, walking over to you and Teresa, encouraging you to join her.

The alcohol has loosened you up enough that you don’t feel the nausea you usually associate with being perceived, so you join in the harmonies you and your friends have practiced in your bunks at night.

He was a famous trumpet man from out Chicago way

He had a boogie style that no one else could play

He was the top man at his craft

But then his number came up and he was gone with the draft

Soon the whole pub was jumping and dancing along to the tune as you brought a new vibe to the pub. It was like a spark that started an entirely new night and everyone was eager to go on forever.

One song turns into an entire set, which ends with a full rendition of G.I. Jive, which had everyone singing along. It was a magical moment; made you feel like you were a part of something important.

Irene sidles up to you, giving you a hug. She says in your ear,

“I think it’s time to slow it down a bit. How about you sing that song I taught you.”

She means an old Appalachian folk song that’s been in her family for generations. You had heard her sing it one night and immediately loved the dark, but strong nature of the lyrics. It was an honor to learn it from her.

“I don’t know, it’s your family’s song and…”

“And I can’t think of anyone better to sing it to these soldiers.” You gave each other a look, her slight eyebrow raise gave you the courage to nod in acceptance. She smiled, hugging you again, her voice yelled out to the crowd.

“Birdie’s gonna sing solo!”

The announcement is met with raucous applause, Irene and Teresa shoving you towards a dodgy looking table. Crank offers a hand up, which you take gratefully. As you find your bearings on the tabletop, you quickly spin around and find all eyes on you.

The crackling energy in the air seemed to simmer, the fast-beating hearts of the pubgoers recognizing a moment to acknowledge you. Nausea starts to make an appearance, but a deep breath quells the sensation within you for the time being.

You take another deep breath. Inhale, exhale. Inhale. Exhale.

You close your eyes, open your mouth, and sing.

Meanwhile….

Majors Gale Cleven and John Egan walk down the familiar street, one eager to catch up with his fellow countrymen’s alcohol intake, the other just happy to spend time with his friends. They were arriving later to the festivities due to being caught up in filling out reports. By far the worst part of having a higher rank was the paperwork.

“It’s pretty quiet.” Buck acknowledges. “They’re usually rowdier by this point.”

Bucky sniffs, shrugging off the concern. “Ah, it’s probably nothing.”

As the two men approach the pub, they find that a crowd has formed. Soldiers, civilians, RAF, USAAF, old, young— people had obviously stopped to watch whatever was going on. It was dead silent, save for a voice singing. Was there a radio show on or something?

A familiar face peeks out at them from the crowd, DeMarco quickly waving them over.

Bucky is quick to question, “Hey, what’s going on?” but is immediately shushed by nearby crowd members. Buck cringes in apology, despite not being the one to disturb the peace. His best friend, ever unshaken by the opinion of strangers, carries on.

DeMarco leans in, whispering, “Your girl’s taking us all to church.”

“My girl..?” Bucky’s nose scrunches in confusion. He makes space through the crowd and quickly makes sense of DeMarco’s words. It was you.

I’ll catch you up

When I’ve emptied my cup

When I’ve worn out my friends

When I’ve burned out both ends

Standing on a tabletop, watchful eyes sat all around you like baby ducks flocking to their mama. You were captivating everyone with each note and word that flows from your mouth. Damn, you've got a set of pipes— a voice that belongs on the radio, in concert halls, on Hollywood records. He had no idea.

His little Birdie.

“Wow.” Buck mutters in awe from behind him, and Bucky couldn’t be more in agreement.

When I’m pure like a dove

When I’ve learned how to love

He hadn’t noticed before, but her eyes were closed. Like she needed to concentrate on each and every breath she took, every single movement her body made, before letting them out in an angelic melody.

As if by divine intervention, her eyes pop open and lock on his as she belts “how to love”

It could’ve been an eternity, for all he knows, the amount of time that they spent locked in each other’s gaze. The world pauses around them, everything frozen. Her eyes were already the kind to knock a man clean off his feet with a single gaze, but he thinks- for a brief moment- that his heart completely stops beating.

John Clarence Egan would swear every day from then on, until his dying breath, that the course of his life was altered in that very moment. He knew how it would continue from then on, and how it would end. How he wanted it to end.

Then the world starts back up and carries on.

Right here in the old therebefore

When nothing is left anymore

Her final hums are joined by a short blonde woman who stands nearby, another face he recognizes from base.

The applause that picks up after the end of the song is near deafening. The star of the hour gives a shy smile, a quick curtsy and is given a hand to step down from the table.

Everyone soon starts mingling, the normal chatter of the bar returning. But Bucky is stuck in his spot, dumbfounded. In all the conversations you’d had together, somehow this never came up. He should’ve put two and two together, as he recalls overhearing your hums one morning as he made his daily coffee delivery to you. But you had been caught off guard, so much so that you tripped off the ladder you stood on and fell. Luckily, his quick reflexes kicked in to catch you before any serious injuries occurred.

Remembering the sensation of his hands on your waist and thighs, face just inches from yours, sent his brain into a tailspin. That’s not even considering just how damn cute you were when, after a beat, you turned away from him and playfully mourned the cups of coffee that were splattered all over the hardstand.

“John. John?” A hand waving in front of his face knocks him out of his reverie. He blinks once, twice. Then looks to his best friend.

His voice comes out uncharacteristically weak in response, to which he then clears his throat and corrects. “Yes—yeah?” He pops the collar of his sheepskin jacket to try and hide the rampant red of his ears that signals the heat radiating from them.

Buck just shakes his head and gives him a knowing smile. “You sure know how to pick ‘em, Egan. Never thought I’d see the day.”

“See what day?” Bucky starts to consciously return to his body, leaning on the bar.

“The day when a girl finally knocks you on your ass. I knew you had a thing for her, but that?” He points to his face and motions to indicate where they had just been standing. “That’s something else. That’s something real.”

Bucky gives another shrug in response, to which Buck throws back an unconvinced frown. He turns his head to gaze over the pub patrons and is distracted by you once again. Any denial he was about to spout immediately dies in his mouth when you lock eyes with him again and give him a dazzling smile. The world starts to fade away again.

His heart pumps faster in his chest at the sight. Damnit. He sighs, telling his best friend the truth he’s been privately wrestling with for a while now, all the while keeping his eyes locked on yours.

“I know, Buck. I know.”

Bucky smiles back at you and is elated when your face lights up. You give him a wave.

“She kinda snuck up on me.”

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sloanesallow · 6 months ago

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(don't) touch

The last thing Sebastian expects is a jealous wife. Tags: MDNI, NSFW! Sexual content, mild bondage (wrists), feat. a needy and submissive Sebastian.

Sebastian Sallow x F!MC | 2k words [Ao3] | [Wattpad] | [Masterlist]

It's rare for Sebastian to be in London, but that is exactly where he finds himself that evening, celebrating the retirement of some ancient, well-respected, and powerful Ministry official. Considering he's only been contracted with the Auror's office as their curse breaker for a year, he's flattered by the invitation, but feels woefully out of place amidst the opulence of his older, more dignified associates.

Still, he manages to blend in—he always does—mingling and socializing with the other guests, many of whom have traveled from all over the world to be there tonight. Somewhere in the shuffle he loses sight of his wife, Sloane, and instead stands flanked by a group of giggling young women he recognizes as some of the Ministry's newest apprentices. Freshly graduated from Hogwarts, they flock to Sebastian, overjoyed to see another young face in a sea of 'old, wrinkly, men'.

"And what department do you work for, Mr. Sallow?"

"Do you live in London?"

"Is it true you were Hogwarts' best duelist?"

"You're still as handsome as your class portrait!"

"Might you be available for a dance, Mr. Sallow?"

Sebastian forces a chuckle, flustered as he realizes they are flirting with him. He's so used to the affection and attention of one person that hearing it from any other's lips makes his gut churn uncomfortably. He is about to respond when he feels a hand slip around the crook of his elbow and the familiar, flowery scent of his wife's perfume surrounds him.

"I'm afraid that won't be possible," Sloane says.

The young women simultaneously pout. "Why not?"

"Because he will be dancing with his wife."

Their faces blanch. "His...wife?"

"Yes." Sloane's fingers curl a little tighter around Sebastian's arm so that the golden band of her wedding ring is more obvious. When he glances down, her smile is polite, but her eyes are steel. It takes him an embarrassingly long moment to realize she is jealous. "His wife."

Multiple pairs of eyes dart between her hand and his before settling on the floor as they quickly shuffle away. As soon as they are alone, Sebastian clears his throat and arches a curious brow.

"You wish to dance?"

"No," she replies, prompting both his brows to rise. While she doesn't like to be the center of attention, she loves to dance if it's with him. She drops her hand from his arm and tilts her chin up to meet his gaze. "Meet me upstairs in ten minutes."

Sebastian's eyebrows can't raise any higher. "Only ten?"

"Five."

"Three."

He smirks when he sees the corner of her mouth twitch before she turns swiftly on her heel and departs. Sebastian pretends to be interested in the decorations, rocking back and forth on his heels as he counts to one-hundred-and-eighty. As soon as the clock-hand in his mind ticks over he slinks away, pretending to be on his way to the privy before diverting to the staircase instead.

On the landing, he follows his instinct and turns right, grinning when he spots a discarded evening glove on the floor. A heeled slipper is a few paces ahead, a shed stocking a few paces more. The trail leads to a door at the end of a long hallway and Sebastian wastes no time advancing to the treasure waiting on the other side.

As soon as he slips inside the room he leans back against the closed door, stunned to see Sloane already bare and spread out across an elegant bed, her pale skin an alluring contrast to the dark, satin sheets. For a split second he wonders whose bedroom it is before shaking the thought away because he simply does not care.

"Well now, Mrs. Sallow, what do we have here?" Sebastian secures the lock before crossing over to where she is, eager to join her for some unexpected fun.

"Not so fast," Sloane stops his advance with a slight shake of her head and he pauses at the foot of the bed, both hands and one knee already braced on the mattress. He looks at her curiously, surprised by the unfamiliar, assertive tone. "Strip for me."

Her words send a hot spike of pleasure straight to his groin and he flashes a lopsided grin. "Is that an order?"

"Yes."

Sebastian obliges, too aroused to question his wife's mood. He usually leads their intimacy, the dominant force to her softer nature. This side of Sloane is so rarely seen—especially in the bedroom—that he's thrilled to indulge for at least one evening. He slowly starts to remove his clothing, peeling away the layers of his evening attire until the pieces are scattered on the floor along side her dress and undergarments.

Naked, he continues to stand at the foot of the bed, trying not to look too proud as Sloane's eyes dance along his body in admiration, her tongue darting out to wet her lips. "Come here," she beckons.

His movements remain slow as he crawls over her, never once removing his gaze from her face. He stares down into her shimmering grey eyes and is about to press himself against her body when she reaches up, grasping his shoulders and using one leg swung over his hip to swap their positions. Sebastian is momentarily caught off guard, especially when her hands pin his wrists on either side of his head. Even though it would be oh so easy to break free and flip her back beneath him, he settles back with a grin.

"No touching," she explains. "Not unless I say so."

"Minx," he taunts, earning him a sharp but teasing glare. Sloane only moves when she's sure he won't, though he does crane his head back to watch as she carefully ties each one of his wrists to the headboard with some conjured silk. As she leans over him to secure the knots, her breasts sway above his face and Sebastian cannot resist—he flicks his tongue out against one already-pebbled nipple.

Sloane inhales a startled gasp, and in turn tightens the binds. "Be good," she warns.

Sebastian knows his expression is incorrigible. "I'm always good."

"I beg to differ."

"Oh?" he snickers. "I love when you beg, sweetheart."

She says nothing, and it nearly drives him prematurely off the edge with how confident his wife appears in this role. Still, he can't help but challenge her.

"Do you really think these binds will keep me from touching you?"

Except, when he attempts and fails to break free from them with brute strength alone, he resigns himself to the moment. Sloane flashes a tiny, self-satisfied grin as she leans back on her knees. She's straddling his waist, but besides her legs against his sides, she does not touch him.

"If you're a good boy, maybe you'll get what you want."

Sebastian's cock twitches and he wonders when did she learn to be so wicked.

Sloane slides her hands across his chest, nails softly scratching through the soft dusting of hair along his pectorals. She repeats the motion, causing goosebumps to ripple across his skin. She shifts her body as she lowers herself down again, this time to trail an agonizingly slow path of kisses from his jaw, down his neck and chest to his hips and back again.

Sebastian is not one to beg, or maybe he is, at least when it comes to Sloane and the sweet ecstasy she's denying. She straightens up again, and he shudders as her hands drift down to where he needs her most.

"Do you want me to touch you?" she sounds like desire incarnate.

"Yes," he croaks.

"Yes?"

Sebastian groans, "yes please."

His wife finally shows mercy and grasps his arousal, pumping a few times before swiping her thumb through the pre-come gathered on the tip.

"Fuck, Sloane," he hushes the curse, eyes fluttering closed as she strokes him just the way he likes. He can feel the heat between her thighs as she hovers close, and he rocks his hips back and forth, desperate to be inside of her. For as long as they've been together, his yearning for her has never waned. "Sloane, please."

"Please?" she repeats in a husky whisper.

"Let me..." his voice breaks on a deep moan and he tugs at the silk bindings. "Let me touch you."

"Three minutes," is her reply.

Sloane slows her strokes and Sebastian opens his eyes to see her amused expression. "Huh?"

"You barely lasted three minutes before begging," she declares but Sebastian can't be bothered with embarrassment right now.

"Maybe in this instance," he struggles to speak through his labored breath. "But if you untie me, sweetheart, you'll get the best ten minutes of your life."

Sloane hums in thought. "Five."

He opens his mouth to argue but all that comes out is a strangled sound of pleasure as she angles the head of his arousal to sweep through her slick folds to her entrance.

"Five?" she prompts again.

He shakes his head. "Three."

Sebastian watches through hooded eyes as Sloane slowly sinks down, and he's unable to stop himself from bucking his hips up at the sensation. Her hands press against his lower abdomen and she scolds him between own shaky breaths.

"Be good."

"Yes, wife."

Sebastian knows he's affected her by the shimmer in her eyes and the way her core clenches around him. As soon as he is fully seated within her, she circles her hips, fingers splaying out across his chest as she steadily increases her pace. She rocks back and forth, the quiet creak of the bed mixing with their heavy panting and moans. His eyes flick down from her face to where they are joined, his mouth watering at the sight of her impaling herself on his cock over and over again. Sloane lifts herself up a little more with each stroke until she is bouncing in his lap, and he hisses at the overwhelming tightness and heat of her around him.

"Sloane," he practically wheezed her name, straining his wrists as he tugged at the ties again. "Please."

She relents, frantic as she tugs at the knots until they are loose enough for him to slip out from. Sebastian grasps her immediately, one arm tucked around her waist and the other tangling in her hair as he tugs her down and smashes their lips together in a sloppy, hungry kiss. His grip tightens and he lifts his hips to meet her frenzied movements as they quickly skyrocket over the edge of ecstasy.

Her entire body trembles, thighs flexing around his hips as her silken walls flutter around him. He meets her release with what sounds like a roar, clutching her against him as they both slump. Sloane remains folded over his chest with her face tucked against his shoulder as they float down from the blissful high. Sebastian caresses her back, tracing every knot of her spine before sliding his hands over the curve of her bottom.

It's only then that he rolls them over, lazily grinning at the little whimper that escapes her lips as he presses her into the bed beneath him, still connected. Sebastian props himself up on his elbows to avoid crushing her completely, and spots her blooming blush.

"You aren't allowed to be so bashful after that, love," he teases and she sighs, raising her hands to sweep through his sweat-matted hair. He gazes down at her, smitten as the day he realized his love for her. Sloane—his beautiful and mesmerizing wife—who still manages to surprise him after all this time. "Who knew you had a jealous streak."

"I—I don't know what came over me," she whispers, still flushed from the passion she initiated.

"If this is what happens, well then I will need to encourage more young ladies to flirt with me, don't you think?"

Sloane furrows her brows and tugs his hair.

"Ow," he squeaks before laughing, easily snatching up her hands and pinning them where his had previously been. Her eyes widen in alarm but quickly melt into desire. Sebastian looms over her, brushing his lips against hers. "Can you be a good girl?"

"Yes, sir."

#hogwarts legacy #sebastian sallow #hogwarts legacy fanfic #sebastian sallow x mc #sebastian sallow x f!mc #sebastian sallow fanfic #siobhan sloane #sebastian sallow smut

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margowritesthings · 6 months ago

Text

The French Are Glad To Die For Love

A Bridgerton x Moulin Rouge crossover

pairing: Colin Bridgerton x ? word count: 2.1k words warnings: 18+ minors DNI, un-beta'd, mentions of sex, spitting, lots of debauchery authors note: surpriiise! i have been sitting on this since part 1, so to celebrate part 2 tomorrow here's my new mini-series! i have never written for Colin before, so i'm nervous, but i loved writing this.

i also need your help! i cannot decide if this mini series should be Colin x reader or a Polin fic, where Penelope is Satine. I have created a poll here for you to vote, so please let me know!

and as always, enjoy! it's been a hot minute since I last published, so thank you if you're still here.

Bridgerton Masterlist

The stars sparkle especially brightly tonight, the crimson lanterns guiding Parisians and tourists alike through the winding streets, and Colin Bridgerton stands in awe of it all.

He’d read stories, heard tales of this place during long nights at Whites, but nothing could have quite prepared him for what lay ahead of him, a long string of lights hanging in the sky leading the way to his destination.

The Moulin Rouge.

A house of debauchery and sin, of freedom and truth, filled to the brim with bohemians and artists and beautiful women unlike anything or anyone he’s ever seen before. Even now, 30 feet away from the illuminated windmill, he can hear the music and the joy spilling out from the building. His senses are filled with the perfume of hundreds of women passing him by the minute, all with real, toothy grins he rarely has the pleasure of seeing back home. It is far too impolite to be so happy in London society.

Colin steps forwards, his boots crunching against the gravel and his coattails flying in the breeze. His shoulders brush more wonderfully merry, positively inebriated partygoers on his way in, catching odd fragments of conversations that would have scandalised him and his whole family were he elsewhere.

But he wasn’t elsewhere. He was here, in the city of love, away from anybody who had ever known the name Bridgerton. His clean slate clutched close to his chest, waiting to find out what will be written on it next, Colin feels the fresh air on his face for the last time before his life is changed forever.

The heat hits him first, a symptom he knew all too well of too many people packed into a small space. But unlike every ball he’s been to, this doesn’t feel claustrophobic or fusty. It feels alive.

There is a feast for the eye wherever one looks. Burlesque dancers showing off stockings and garters by kicking their legs up, toes pointing towards the aerial hoops holding acrobats hanging from the ceiling. Gentlemen, if you can call them that in this state, wearing top hats, arm in arm with their glasses raised high, spilling their contents all over the wooden floor.

The music blasts loud from each instrument the band masterfully pluck or blow or bang, but laughter and conversation buzzes amongst the melodies. It is a near overwhelming amount of joy, one Colin certainly could use a drink to wash it down with.

If he could just find the bar…

Bodies fill his view, so entangled in each other it is difficult to tell where one starts and another ends. Frilly skirts flow over the knees of suits as ladies dangle from the necks of patrons, sharing cigars and passing around bottles of an unknown green liquid. Rosy cheeks as far as the eye can see, wether from too much of that green stuff or the exertion of all that dancing, Colin can’t be sure. Between them all, in tiny empty spaces, he can just about make out rows of bottles and glasses.

Weaving through the crowd is like treading through water, but their energy and joy seems to rub off on him. There isn’t a dance card in sight, women choosing their partners themselves whenever they like with a freedom Colin isn’t sure he’s ever seen before. Is this truly what people are designed to be when they are free?

Eventually, his hands find the sticky wood of the bar, quickly lifting themselves back off it on instinct at the sensation. When Colin looks to his left, he sees a woman pouring a shot of liquor between her breasts, a man knelt below her waiting to lick it back up, and he quickly realises why the bar feels so tacky- every surface here seems to be host to someone’s revelry.

“Welcome to the Moulin Rouge, monsieur. Can I get you a drink?”

Colin’s attention is quickly pulled by the welcome, his gaze snapping to a tall French woman dripping with red jewels that compliment her rich brown skin perfectly. She is captivating to be sure, deep hazel eyes commanding Colin’s attention, competing with the most incredible curls of hair he has ever seen. Ladies of the ton are welcome no matter their race back home, but Colin has never seen a lady allowed to wear her hair so beautifully natural before. The Afro framing her face has more tiny rubies that sparkle under the cabaret lights, and Colin is speechless.

“I…uh, pardon me, Miss, I-“ he sighs, giving up entirely at his failed attempt at decorum, “Is it so obvious I have never been here before?”

She laughs, gems twinkling as her head shakes with mirth.

“Not at all, but most gentlemen who have been here before know to wear a top hat. And there’s that look in your eye…”

As she speaks, she pours out one finger of the green liquor Colin has spotted a few times already, sliding it along the wood towards him.

“Wonder. Drink this. It will help with the nerves.”

Colin looks down, finding himself fascinated with a drink that seems to glow of its own volition. He has smoked blends and meditated with world weary travellers from across the globe, drank tea containing unknown substances that left him staring at blades of grass as if they held the worlds secrets, and yet this… whatever it is, seems to terrify him.

The barmaid laughs again, that melodic sound with the real joy Colin very much enjoys.

“It’s only absinthe, monsieur. Loosens the inhibitions, relaxes the body…” she explains, pouring a second out for herself and lifting it to him as if to prove her credibility.

“Santé.” He toasts to health.

“Amour.” She toasts to something far greater.

It leaves no room for argument, and all Colin can do is lift his own glass and tap it against hers.

It burns his tongue, leaving a fiery trail down his throat as he swallows and tries not to cough and splutter. A bitter yet herby anise flavour fights with his taste buds and seems to seep straight into his mind, teasing at those tense knots that held him back from fully immersing himself here.

When his eyes eventually reopen, he finds the barmaid beaming at him, unphased by her own potion. Rather used to it, if she shares a glass with every newcomer, he should think.

“Be careful, though, monsieur. Many a man has spent a night with the stuff and swears he fell in love with a fairy dressed all in green. Ruined him for any other woman for the rest of his life…” She speaks words that belong in fairytale, with a tone containing such severity Colin is inclined to take every single one of them as gospel.

“I dare say I should be careful, then. I do not think this green fairy would want to join the rest of my travels when she can instead entice all of Paris’ men to sin…”

The residue of the liquor smells just as strong as the full measure, which Colin tries to blink out of his senses when he puts the glass back on the bar.

Almost as if society itself had cleared its throat at him, Colin remembers himself, remembers just where he is. Undoubtedly the most unique establishment he had ever set foot in, but an establishment all the same.

“I beg your pardon, miss, I seem to forget myself. How much do I owe you for the drink?”

She considers him.

“Hm, the absinthe I think… for you, a kiss.”

Colin, already pulling coins from his breast pocket, pauses, a little grin tugging at the corner of his lip. The francs clink together when they fall back to the bottom of his pocket, a long forgotten currency of the past. It’s a perfect reminder of just how different things are here, how easily walls crumble between strangers and connection is offered so freely. He has never kissed a woman he has not paid for back home, so afraid of getting too close to another in case they ruin each other. Here, a beautiful woman leans over the bar, offering her flushed cheek for him to softly press his lips against.

And he does.

And it is lovely.

“If any more handsome men capture the eye of Mademoiselle Belle, I will surely be out of business!” A loud, hearty voice pulls Colin from one blissful moment back into the party.

He regards a rather large man, clad in a red tailcoat and stunning golden waistcoat. His top hat, near the same to all the other gentlemen in the room but somehow grander, tops wild orange curls that match a fantastic handlebar moustache. A true ring leader to this wonderful circus of debauchery Colin has found himself in.

“Harold Zidler, at your service. Welcome to the Moulin Rouge.”

“Colin Bridgerton.” He replies, offering a hand that Harold seems bemused at. Unsurprising, considering what passes for currency around here. Nonetheless, Harold shakes the offered hand.

”I must say, your establishment is rather…” he hesitates, unable to find a word in any language he has picked up along his travels that quite captures the Moulin Rouge. Perhaps he could blame the absinthe, or the intoxicating hedonism he feels rooting its way through his mind, hidden in the brass notes from the band and thrown with each cancan kick of one of the dancers that surrounds him.

Luckily, Harold seems well used to this phenomenon.

“Isn’t it? And you have seen nothing yet! I assume you are not from around here?”

”It is rather obvious, I have been told.” Colin adds a glance to Miss Belle, who’s skirt frills bounce in the lights while she shakes up a cocktail. He adds, “London.”

”Well, Monsieur Bridgerton, I promise you that what we have here in the Moulin Rouge is unlike anything you have back home in London.”

Colin’s eye is caught again across the room, as a beautiful woman with blonde tumbling waves spits a drink into a man’s mouth.

“I am inclined to agree with you there.”

It truly is unlike anything back home. Colin has travelled across Europe and back again, seen incredible sights and met wonderful people. He has felt that ease that distance from London society and its unwritten laws and social rules that bind him back home can bring. He’s seen beauty and felt freedom and thought he might have found truth somewhere along the way, but it pales to whatever is contained within these four walls.

In truth, it couldn’t be farther from London society.

”Just wait until you see my Diamond, Monsieur.”

… Perhaps not.

Intrigue hits Colin as Harold pulls out a pocket watch on a brilliant gold chain.

“Your diamond?”

”My Sparkling Diamond. The main attraction of the Moulin Rouge, my most sought after little chickee.” He speaks proudly, with a mist in his eye Colin normally finds on ambitious Mamas at grand balls, secretly trying to auction their daughters off to the highest rank.

“I do not believe she is booked yet for tonight…” Harold adds, that mist darkening, disappearing, leaving a shiver stuck between Colin’s shoulder blades.

Not because this Diamond is a courtesan. Colin is hardly a stranger to the profession, and he bears no judgement. In truth, he admires the women he has been known to spend the night with, finding the courage of living outside society so freely quite brave indeed. No, that shiver came from Harold entirely, Colin just cannot figure out why.

Harold excuses himself, though makes sure Colin knows to stay for the show, and Colin orders a whiskey on the rocks, insisting on paying in cash this time. Though singular in person, he has never felt less alone in his life. Looking around, there isn’t an empty chair in the house. If there were, there wouldn’t be room to put it down for all the dancers and patrons enjoying every ounce of the world they can. Music played straight from the soul ringing in his ears, Colin could make out every instrument. The lights dazzled in his eyes and the spot caught him every so often, lighting his drink up in his hand like golden ambrosia.

And then, darkness. Silence.

A single spot, though the mirrors scattered around catch the light and illuminate the faces of the people around him. Everybody is looking upwards, as if they all know she is coming.

Even if he did know, Colin could never have prepared himself for what he saw when he looked up.

Who he saw.

The Sparkling Diamond, shimmering high on a swing hanging from the ceiling.

The most beautiful, breathtaking, person he has ever seen. In any city, on any continent in the world.

Crimson lips part as each and every person hangs on the breath she takes.

”The French are glad to die for love…”

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ladylaviniya · 10 months ago

Text

Wails of Wedded Bliss

Chapter 1 || Masterlist || Chapter 3

Chapter Summary: After your wedding night, you find Sherlock to be most unusual and confronting in nature.

Pairing: Sherlock Homes x wife!reader

Chapter Warnings: 18+ Dead Dove Do Not Eat, Dubious Consent, Insults, Rough sex gone too far, internal bleeding, Menstration/Period, Arguing, Typical Victorian Era Sexism,

Word Count: 9k

Author Notes: Hi all!! Here's the next chapter, sorry no smut but lots of tension. Love you all and appreciate those most that have been showing their support through comments or Reblogs or both ★

Inspiring Song: "Caprice N° 24" by Paganini

•❈•≫≪•❈•≫≪•❈•≫≪•❈•≫≪•❈•≫≪•❈•

12:49pm Monday 5th May 1890, 221B Baker Street, Marylebone, Westminster, London, England.

Sherlock, as he paced his own bedroom was frustrated...and furious to say the least...he touched the cut on his bottom lip and hissed.

He was not equipped for this arrangement. He was unprepared for the handling of a wife. He was not aware he would be so much for his new bride to take...no whore in Mayfair Row demonstrated such complaints...however he reminded himself they were experienced women...you were a new lamb.

He hit the side of his bed, hearing your crying through the walls. Guilt became his executioner.

You were so frigid, he just didn’t expect you to struggle so viciously. You were unexpectedly a savage bitch!

He decided to take a deep breath. The deed was done.

He palmed his soft red cock and wrinkles his nose at the blood. There was so much...his throat clenched, mayhaps he was too rough...normally blood excited him...normally tears and sobbing made his member thick and hard...

He eyed the trunk chest at the foot of his bed...you could not survive his flavours. There was no possibility...He was a wicked handler and he knew you couldn’t ever meet that side of him...

•❈•≫≪•❈•≫≪•❈•≫≪•❈•≫≪•❈•≫≪•❈•

12:55pm Monday 5th May 1890, 221A Baker Street, Marylebone, Westminster, London, England.

The Housekeeper slapped her novel shut. She heard the many thumps and shouts, and now she could hear the horrid sobbing coming up from the floor above...your bedroom.

She sighed...it wasn’t the first time she had heard such things from the apartment 221B. There was single difference...you were his wife...not some perfumed pretender with a pimp expecting a percentage of commission.

Mrs Hudson felt for you. She didn’t leave her apartment until she heard the stomping of Sherlock’s heavy feet going down the stairs.

Her eyes widened, surely he wouldn’t leave you when you were in such a state?

Mrs Hudson was an old woman, she knew it was expected she would ignore it and carry on with her daily activities, Mrs Hudson though knew many married women who had died from that lack of acknowledgement in a violent husband.

She stuck her head out her door and saw him making his way to the front door of the building.

“What have you done?” she scolded him as his hand clenched hard on the door handle.

His face was red. The elder gasped at the line of red rolling down his chin from a cut on his lip...His teeth were pink and set in a vile snarl.

“Nothing that concerns you Mrs Hudson, return back into your hole!” he hissed back as he left with another door slam.

Mrs Hudson tutted greatly and ignored his words all together.

She gathered her skirts and climbed the stairs to Apartment B. She slid the key into the hole and entered the premises speedily.

She heard your weeping in your room and followed to the closed bedroom door.

She wrapped her knuckle on the wood three times, “My dear,” she called, “It’s Mrs Hudson, may I enter?”

When you sobbed harder incoherently, she took it as a sign she should enter. In truth you didn’t know or have enough time to process what she had asked.

The elderly woman pushed the wood open and gasped in horror at what she saw...a naked girl...your bottom half and blankets drenched in crimson red. Your skin was covered in the stench of sweat.

She covered her mouth and tutted, “oh you poor, poor deary.”

You sobbed harder at feeling her cold hands touch your hot shoulder.

•❈•≫≪•❈•≫≪•❈•≫≪•❈•≫≪•❈•≫≪•❈•

2:12pm Monday 5th May 1890, 221B Baker Street, Marylebone, Westminster, London, England.

You hissed and sulked softly as your body sunk deeper in the warm bath water.

Your housekeeper had so kindly spent an hour filling the tub up with hot steamy water. During that time you cried and faded into light sleep before coming back to life with the painful memory of what your holy beloved had done to you

The elderly woman would come back every so often to check the packing of linen rags between your legs. For a honest moment she was afraid you might die. She called for the doctor...one she could trust...Doctor John Watson.

After the bleeding had lessened, she encouraged you to drink a cup of water and come out for the room to enjoy the afternoon bathwater...

You hadn’t said a word to Mrs Hudson this entire time. Too ashamed and shocked to form a word.

You couldn’t even form a ‘Thankyou Mrs Hudson.’ Only quiet tears would melt down your cheek.

The hot waves helped your muscles relax and sooth the anxiety under your skin.

Your head flopped on the lip of the bathtub.

With fluttering eyes... exhaustion took over and you fell asleep in the bath tub listening to the crackling of the wood and flames of the fireplace.

•❈•≫≪•❈•≫≪•❈•≫≪•❈•≫≪•❈•≫≪•❈•

6:30pm Monday 5th May 1890, 221B Baker Street, Marylebone, Westminster, London, England.

A hot hand touched your face and you gasped at the dramatic change in temperature. You were sitting in a freeze tub of water....it had gone cold hours ago...

Your eyes opened and focused on the deep smooth voice of a man. Not just any man however.

“Mrs Holmes...” he purred softly, “The bath is cold, it would be in best interest if you redress.”

Your body was incredibly weak and chilly while also impossibly hot. You were a slight dizzy and confused. Your lips parted and closed again repeatedly like a fish.

When his face met his voice and his nose and eyes came into true focus, you shivered and leant back and flinched away from his touch.

Your husband released a lengthy sigh and rolled his eyes, “Very well,” he murmured before forcing both his arms into the icy bath water and hooked them beneath your back and legs.

As he lifted you out, your stomach dropped and you squeaked, feeling that gravitational pull to which you might fall. Instinctively your arms wrapped around his neck and shoulders. You clung to him savagely digging your nails into his coat.

You felt him walk, your wet body trailing and dripping all over the carpet.

He journeyed back to your bedroom.

As the cold air hit your skin you started to tremble and felt him lay you down on your mattress.

Your mind was a mess.

Another person was in the room you noticed in the corner of your eye. You cowered in your nude state and whimpered. You felt delirious and confused.

You blinked up at the other stranger. Another man.

You didn’t know if he was real at first until his burning hands pulled from his black gloves and gently touched your knees.

“Sherlock, she’s sick.”

“Yes, how eloquently obvious Watson, check her,” you heard your husband hiss.

You tried to move away, roll and crawl but you were flipped once more onto your back, your legs weakly spread.

You groaned and your eyes fluttered. You needed to vomit.

You felt a body climb onto the bed with you. Sherlock. His thumb dabbed and rubbed across your wrinkled forehead, he hushed you softly like you were some weeping babe or startled horse.

You felt the doctors hand touch your intimates and you panicked, your breath hitched and you moaned a soft, “N-no.” You tried pulling your thighs together but Sherlock reached down and spread your knees forcefully.

You didn’t understand what he was doing and the worst thoughts washed over you, was Sherlock sharing you with another man like a sick villain?

You wept tiredly.

A cold hard contraption pierced the hole of your body. A shudder ripped out of you as you felt your vaginal walls expand.

“Minor tearing...what caused the amount of blood is your wife starting her menses.”

Sherlock sighed, “Thank god, I thought I almost killed her.” The metal object pulled out from between your thighs.

The room was lit by candles and kerosene lamps. And so in the low light, Sherlock’s face was softened. The shadows kissed his cheeks and lips.

“Bed rest and warm towels, give her a few days to rest, heal. Usually women finish their blood within a week.”

The doctor pulled away and you heard the snapping of a bag lock. You managed to catch a medical case in his hands in your blurry line of sight.

The doctor fled to your door, before he left, his hand clenched the handle and he turned lightly. He hissed at the detective.

“Be gentle next time you participate in these activities Sherlock,” John snapped, “She is your bloody wife, not your whore.”

Your husband, ever so gently pressed his hot lips to your forehead. You had not predicted such soft kindness after his mistreatment earlier today. He hummed. He held and pissed your back up, he forced you to bend you knees and slipped your naked body beneath the coverings. Your wet body soaked the sheets, your cheek dug into the soft pillows.

“My dear Watson,” you heard him snicker, “I am nothing more than a mere gentleman.” You heard the doctor scoff and shut the door behind him.

Warm hands squeezed your shoulders and rubbed your jawline.

Peaking up at Sherlock, he wore an unreadable expression...he did not appear happy nor angry, rather he appeared tired. Bags beneath his eyes could tell you that much. His bottom lip was slightly swollen, a little red line cut through it, you softly huffed, it was where you’d bitten him hours ago to get him off you.

You couldn’t believe you were back in the same bed he had hurt you in. It made you feel cold and a desire to be distant again...but the warmth of his hand and the blankets had a power over you.

Your chest was sore and a light cough climbed out of your throat.

He did not speak and for that you were grateful. It would’ve been a near impossibility to continue a conversation with him with the state of your being.

The nauseas sickness sweeping of your belly subsided. All you wanted to feel was the warm covers, the goose feather pillows and his warm hand, softly patting your head...it took you back to a happier time...a time where your father and you shared a bed and he held you until you fell asleep...some days it felt like a dream...

You didn’t want to admit it but you dearly missed those times. Sherlock smoked the same tobacco, the scent soaked in his vest. It brought you the tiniest comfort...

You yawned and lazily blinked up at him.

“Try and get some rest wife...should you need anything, knock on my door.”

And with that he climbed off the mattress. Your body flipping lightly as it sprung up. Your nose sniffled softly.

Your heart deflated, ah there it was again. The coldness, the disdain, the reminder...he didn’t want to marry you.

After his foul entrance earlier, you wondered if such a feeling was unanimous at this point.

You shut your eyes and moaned. You tried to roll onto your side...you hissed lightly at the sore stabbing of your pelvis and the stinging stretch inside of you.

As sleep carried you out of reality, Sherlock made his slow departure, quietly sliding his way to your bedroom door.

He looked over the room and shook his head slowly...this once was his friends chambers, and before that a space where he kept his fun tools and artefacts.

Now he had a sick woman in the bed, his wife whom he hadn’t meant to brutalise earlier.

You were finally snoring when he managed to find the courage to leave the room, put out the living room fireplace and finally return to his bed.

As he removed his own clothing, he stared at the wall that separated your rooms. He wondered how badly your sickness might continue and if it was permitted to leave you alone while you bleed so profusely.

He thought about how these few weeks were in fact meant to be a honeymoon, how he had most furiously refused the ship tickets to France where his brother Mycroft insisted you both go for your romance to blossom.

Sherlock had very little intention to be a romantic for a woman he didn’t desire.

He tore off his shirt and rolled his eyes at the memories that transpired over the last two weeks.

You were nothing but a baby carriage to Mycroft, the future mother to the future Holmes son. So of course Sherlock could not understand his brothers incessant pandering to be a match maker of lovers.

The detective was no small minded idiot either...he knew plenty about you just from today...he knew about you before meeting you... He knew exactly why this marriage occurred on your end.

A bastard daughter of sir Y/L/N, son of the Lord and Lady Y/L/N. This was merely a way to keep your social hierarchy to a suitable and respectable level.

He had heard and read the scandalous rumours.

You were half the soft rose and half a weed in regards to your breeding...which meant you were a weed in the end, an illegitimate, unrecognised bastard.

He sat on his bed and untied his shoes.

Sherlock was not one to participate and discriminate the classes. Many a time it was speculated by John that Sherlock might’ve been a socialist.

The detective might’ve not cared for your breeding, but he didn’t appreciate being used as a climbing ladder of society which he didn’t receive well either way.

He was using you so that Mycroft didn’t cut him off financially, you were using Sherlock so that the people of culture no longer shunned and ignored your existence.

Mycroft was a down right fool if he believed such a union could ever bring together a matrimony of love. So Sherlock accepted it quickly...this would be what it was...a contract...you now needed to complete you aide of the bargain.

You needed to let Sherlock impregnate you...

With your stunt in rebellious adversity, you acknowledged his size and struggled to accommodate him, ergo your fear, pain and bite.

Sherlock huffed, he would need to wait another seven days before he could perform his husbandry duties upon you and press his seed within.

He laid back into his covers still staring at the wall...

He bit his lip. Oh if only he could punish you for such misdirected behaviours...he wondered how willing you really were and what lengths you were prepared to take to remain his Mrs Holmes so that the meek people of the middle and upper class might continue their false smiles your way.

A wicked smirk spread along his lips...

Perhaps a innocent bride was a perfect ingredient for his most filthy pleasurable plans...

Mycroft never stated how quickly it was expected of you to conceive and carry...he just said

��Soon.” And “Before he met the grave.”

He rolled onto his side and imagined you there with him in his bed. He imagined how your body curled up into such a small figure.

He envisioned the likeness of your tear stained face and an exhausted smile...

For now he would let you rest.

•❈•≫≪•❈•≫≪•❈•≫≪•❈•≫≪•❈•≫≪•❈•

7:00am Tuesday 6th May 1890, 221B Baker Street, Marylebone, Westminster, London, England.

The sound of a loud violin cord strong woke you up from your hours of needed sleep. You groaned as your head began to ache....

You drowsily tossed your head to the direction of your door way...your eyes narrowed. Someone was playing a violin very loudly just outside your bedroom.

You sniffled unladylike as your runny nose clogged your breath. You lifted your hands to cover your ears. Onto shaking legs you pulled out of your bed and used the canopy wood to steady yourself. You walked slowly to the wardrobe and plucked out a nightgown.

You hobbled to your bedroom door and as you opened the wooden barrier, the buzz of Paganini hit your ears. You wrinkled your nose as you watched your husband play the instrument, leaning over a table covered in papers, maps, receipts and a plate of toast.

As he saw you, his eyes widened slightly...you were not dressed appropriately for the hour of the morning. At any moment he might’ve had a client come inside if it were not for his honeymoon.

“Good morning, Mrs Holmes,” said Sherlock as he placed his instrument down on the table.

You sternly eyed him. Your hands trembled lightly. His face. His handsome evil features upset you. He offered a soft smile and kind eyes. You didn’t dare fall for his trickery. From the moment you had met him he had provided a twisted exchange of false care that twisted quickly to brutal cruelty.

You decided, you did not like your husband and it was not something you would hide from him.

“My grandmother insists that is the devil’s music,” You proclaimed, “It is most wretched to hear of a morning.”

He sucked in a deep breath of air and grounded, “I do not entertain superstitious conversation,

Paganini was gifted and because of this, other composers jealously invented rumours of a pact with Satan to dissuade the public from ever enjoying the expanses of musical differences.”

You glared at him. Of course he would say something so infuriating and liberal in the works. His tone tilted on belittlement and you felt there was absolutely no standing that could allow him to talk to you like this especially after yesterday’s events.

You lightly snorted, “As it may be so, I still urge the request you refrain from playing it so early and while in my presence. It woke me up most fiercely.”

In truth it isn’t what woke you up…You could still feel him there. The memory of his violent embrace haunted the muscles of your lower half. He was like a ghost remaining between your thighs. It made you feel ill to think about.

He looked down. A deep frown on his face. He wouldn’t meet your eyes. He pushed the plate with toast closer to you, “Mrs Hudson bid you a fair morning wife, you should be up earlier from now on to receive her.”

You looked to the softly ticking clock on the fireplace mantel and blinked, “Indeed, I shall need to apologise to her,” demurely you conceded, “I usually rise by six in the morning.”

“You are ill,” Sherlock said now holding the plate out to you for your weak hands to take, “I insist you sit and eat and return back to bed for further rest.”

You wanted to raise your voice at him. You wanted to scream and yell that you were not I’ll but rather hurt and in suffering after his careless mistreatment.

You couldn’t figure out if his gentleness last night was really a delusional dream. This world around you felt like some vicious game.

You chewed the inside of your cheek. You wanted to be a spitfire and tell him he needed to apologise for hurting you yesterday before you take anything from him...yet as your insides tightened at the smell of the warm butter soaking the hot cooked bread, you obeyed his demand.

You glided over to him and lightly pushed some of the papers on the table around. Sitting at the end, Sherlock mirrored your seating and went about picking up a newspaper.

On the front was a illustration of Lord Thaddeus Pennicott, a baron who from the title of the paper had gone missing.

You looked back to your breakfast and pondered on your husband’s work. How the articles written by John Watson had designed Sherlock to be a saviour to the public with a intelligence that might put most scholars to shame. The Sherlock you had come to meet was nothing like the gazette’s description, rather he was rude, ill tempered and coarse in handling any woman.

You chewed the soft delicious toast and swallowed gradually.

It was difficult to accept but not hard to see, you had married a brute.

You glanced at Sherlock again. His face was hidden behind the paper, his thick long fingers cradled and framed the edges of the news securely as he flicked through the gossips.

You nervously fidgeted in your seat as you ate breakfast. You did not see any tea and assumed you slept through any Mrs Hudson might’ve deliver.

It was so unusual waking up in a foreign home, having to accept this would be your place of residence for as long as your husband desired to live here.

You noted the oddities of your surroundings...objects you didn’t much think of as you moved in yesterday. There was a underwater helmet, a skeleton of some type of odd mammal, and even a telescope sitting on top of a piano.

You read over some of the framed newspaper headlines which were the retellings of your husband’s crime and mystery stories.

The will to speak to him again with level head and calm tones was as hard as walking through mud up to your ankles. You squeezed your eyes shut. You couldn’t ignore him nor refuse to speak to him for your entire marriage.

You licked your bottom lip and coughed into a napkin. Looking back to Sherlock’s newspaper you nodded and called across the table, “Are you helping with the Pennicott case, Mr Holmes?”

He flattened the paper on the table and stared at you as if you’d said something obvious.

“Of course not. Clearly he’s a man who ran out from his wife. It happens more often than you think,” he cleared his throat and picked up his cup to his lips, speaking into the cup “Perhaps you should sit pretty rather than voice your false interests in my work which you have no business in.”

You didn’t like the tone he used on you. Condescending. Icy. You wouldn’t allow it to continue. You remembered your grandfather telling you to put your foot down as a new wife or else you would be unattended to. It’s not that you desired the attending after yesterday, but you wouldn’t accept rudeness.

“Sherlock,” you hummed and crossed your arms over your lap as you tongued the inside of your cheek trying to not scream at him, “I am your wife,” you said it sternly, “Not a child, when I inquire on the better part of your interest, do not speak down to me like a dog.”

You jerked your chin dignified, holding your ground despite almost dropping the last crust of your breakfast.

He pursed his lips with narrowed eyes and thought before spoke. It was a chilling moment before announced, “You are my wife, that is true...and so I shall speak to you however you tempt me to, and this very morning you’ve put me in a disagreeable mood.”

Disagreeable mood?! You refrained from rolling your eyes at him.

You sat back and sighed, abandoning the last and tiny piece of bread. He was so foul to think of himself so justified. You expressed a disinterest to his music tastes and that indicated his deflating concern for you.

Not once had he asked in your wellbeing. Perhaps he was clouded with shame? ‘he should be shameful, he hurt an innocent woman.’

“Perhaps, you should practice on controlling and restraining your moods then Sherlock,” you griped, “I do not much care for your habitable outbursts.”

For the first time you caught his face expressing a new design...shock, flabbergasted. His face grew a small hue of pink.

You smirked a little at the small victory.

His chewed his bottom lip, “My habitable outbursts?” he pried, offence costing his words.

You swallowed and nodded curtly you leant back in your chair, “Now here at breakfast, the church flee yesterday, and the marriage bed rage also yesterday.”

An indignant chuckled crawled from his throat.

“You bit me like a wild cat,” he voiced rightfully, pointing hard at the small wound still in his mouth. The redden skin was a symbol of your defiance and escape. Instead of being embarrassed, you surged with pride that you punished him in such a manner.

You quipped back quickly, “and you stabbed me like an merciless villain.”

“A villain, you say?” his brows now raised and his eyes widened.

“Quite,” You glanced down at the plate and muttered, There’s no other term for what you did to me.”

Rape was not in the current vocab for this situation you believed. You were married and he was taking what was rightfully his as husband, he could have been gentler however. Your grandmother never shared that it could be so agonising, surely your grandfather had never inflicted such abuse into her?

Your husband slowly rose from the table and leant across it. You flinched and squeezed your eyes as you feared his sharp hand. Sherlock Holmes had every strength to hurt his weak wife, so why did you feel so mouthy in the sense of easily provoking him to rage or even potential violence?

The handsome detective with hot pale hands ran his knuckle down your cold cheek...it was wet. A tear had escaped. Dear god...you were trembling and clenching your skirts beneath the table.

“I can think of a plethora of words for what I did to you,” Sherlock muttered, he pulled his hand away and scoffed, “I did not think Mycroft to saddle me with such a stupid bride.”

A fresh flow of hot tears flooded your eyes.

A growl of outrage accidentally climbed from your chest, it came out like a needy whine, “I beg your pardon?”

“Granted my dear Mrs Holmes,” he smirked and clapped his hands gesturing to the room you left, “Now off to bed with you, I see your withering state worsen by the moment. Doctor Watson informed me you needed rest during your delicate...situation. Perhaps it has brought you to these hysterical theatrics.”

A light gasp of horror and a written expression of disgust painted your face, “I shall not, nay! I shall sit an disembowel your words,” you sniffled and tried not to fall into a pathetic sob, “D-did you just call me stupid?!”

As his smile widened and you angrily threw the last piece of bread at him, hitting his chest.

“You sir,” your bottom lip wobbled “Are out of place and feverishly I have discovered your lack of empathy most stunning, that or rather the amount of your selfish conceived motion that I am a docile woman who will put up with your conceited arrogance!!”

How dare he hurt you as terribly as he did in humiliation and physical behind that he should also find it acceptable to brandish you with further insults of your intelligence.

Before he could sit back down, you slapped your hands on the table, the china tinkled as you pushed yourself up to your feet. You hissed at him as you wobbled around the wooden furniture, “You may be London’s finest Detective, but I am your wife.”

You mapped your finger harshly into his chest and snarled with great venom dripping from your tongue, “By the lord of heaven, if I had only known the telling’s of our futures, I would announce full heartedly that you Sherlock Holmes would be the very last man I would prevail to marry.”

The room fell silent. His cold eyes burned I to your gullet. He licked his teeth, left slightly speechless and unsure if he should entertain the argument any longer than necessary.

Your belly felt tight. The toast was not sitting well. You were anxiously awaiting his roar, his bite or his strike. Your chest rose and fell with every desperate breath you took as to not fall into a heap of wailing. Breathe through the pain and the fear.

He stared at your lips and fluttered his eyes, shaking his head at you.

“...Good morning Mrs Holmes,” he bid gruffly and bowed his head before leaving the table to head over to the coat rack.

“And where is it you run off to this time?” You raised your voice shakily and waved your hands as if to conjure the words of his locations destination, “The same place you fled to yesterday and yesterday evening? To hide in a bottle?”

Mr Holmes snapped his head back at you, his eyes scowered your poorly glad form beneath the dressing gown. It took everything in him not to fuck your miserable mouth off.

“No...” he swallowed harshly, “I seek the companionship of bearable company.”

Your chest tightened and the whimper left, that could’ve been anyone or no one with how mysterious your husband had proven to be.

You rubbed your hot forehead and grunted softly to remind him, “It is our honeymoon.”

During the week of a honeymoon it was deemed improper to seek or receive guests and the company of any other than your married partner.

Sherlock leant forward, right down to your cheek, his lips scarcely touching the skin of your love and jaw as he whispered hauntingly, “And your honey is blood. I shall not interrupt your peaceful rest....” he kissed your face gently, and said at a room tempt tone, “Good morning Mrs Holmes.”

Argument over it would seem.

He picked up a walking cane and a hat, leaving the flat to yourself.

You sighed frustratedly and stomped a foot like a feral child. You wouldn’t put up with this, for this is not what was promised by the outline of marriage by every book, paper and word of mouth. You crossed your arms and sniffled. You wiped your eyes again.

Sherlock made you feel more like a child than a wife with how he used his words and the looks he threw at you. It was unfair and cruel.

You were a very smart young lady and practiced the skills of refine ladyship over the years of your teenage hood. You were a paragon of brilliance and etiquette...only for some lout you called a husband to drive you to irritation so unbearable that you felt it necessary to toss your breakfast scraps at him.

You ground your teeth and returned to your rooms to pick out a modest covering wrap over the dressing gown you already wore. It would be most annoying to have to strip your body everytime you vomited or perhaps didn’t reach the bed pan in time.

You shuddered and went about washing your face and fiddling with your hair...

As you stared at your washed out features, you heard your landlady arrive...

You thought about your wifely duties beyond the bedroom. With Sherlock going off to god knows where, you were totally left to your own devices and for the very first time in years, you had freedom to decide your days habits.

You thought half heartedly about calling upon Sherlock’s brother or the Doctor Watson to grant a visit and answer some questions beginning to form in your head.

‘Why is Sherlock so different in person compared to the papers?’

‘What displeases Sherlock into his outbursts and what pleases him to calm those said outbursts to dust?’

You tried to wonder on your marriage contract. You were not entirely privy to it even though you felt you had every right. It was a deal conspired by Mycroft and your grandfather after all. You wondered if Sherlock even caught a glimpse of it.

Why did Sherlock even agree to marry you if it was only to lead to his foul manners and hands to you?

Tapped your lips and shook your head.

What does every contracted marriage consist of? Land? Babes? Livestock? Wealth? Status?

You looked around your room and out the open door to the sitting room.

Sherlock did not strike you as someone in need of money...and yet...many of these items, surely were not affordable on a wavering wage as his alone? His family wealth most likely was directed towards Mycroft as the eldest.

And then you recalled your darling sister in law, her shrieking at the wedding, the words echoed back like a tunnel, ‘I can help pay off your debts when I marry’ she had said.

So it was money...debts...and enough to cause strains that would force him to accept your hand in marriage. You tried not dwelling on being reminded how undesirable you were as a bastard woman. This newly accepted information could be used to your advantage.

A fabulous idea occurred to you. An idea that would prove to Sherlock that you were in fact not a stupid imbecile.

Helplines:

If you are a victim of sexual abuse, assault or domestic violence or know someone who is please reach out to these links that share helpline services, phone numbers or emails. Consent and respect is important in every relationship whether between friends, family or even strangers.

Australian Helpline Services

UK Helpline Services

American Helpline Services

India Helpline Services.

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barbucomedie · 2 years ago

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Alabastron (Perfume Bottle) from Athens, Greece dated around 470 BCE on display in the British Museum in London, England

This bottle shows an armed Amazon wearing armour and trousers. The Amazons were a group of warrior women whom the Greeks believed to live North of the Black Sea. Unlike Greek women, they are often represented as wearing trousers, a long sleeved top, and a cuirass like the one here. The Amazon on this bottle also carries a shield with an attached patterned cloth and a quiver.

Photographs taken by myself 2020

#armour #armor #art #archaeology #military history #ancient #greece #greek #fashion #british museum #london #barbucomedie

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perfumeofarabialondon · 1 year ago

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Zahra Perfume Oil

A scrumptious oriental that gives proper respect to the weighty gourmands of the nineties, a mouth-watering caramel base the establishment of this enjoyment.

Order Now: https://perfumeofarabialondon.com/product/83/zahra

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thatztyv · 1 year ago

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Cench x Jack

(I really wrote this for me cause I'm obsessed with both of them at the moment 😵‍💫)

Description:

- Oakley meeting Tiana for the first time

Word Count:

- 614

Tɪᴀɴᴀ Gʀᴀɴɢᴇʀ

(tea-on-nuh grain-jur)

"Jack who is that?", I said and tapped him on his chest, then pointed at the girl.

"Oh that's Tiana", Jack said as he looked over at her.

"Tiana?"

"I went to school with her and she SZA's best friend.. you don't know her?"

"Nah this my first time seeing her", I said before taking a sip from my drink. "She look good."

"You should talk to her, she has a great vibe", Jack said.

"Call her over here."

"Tiana!", he said making her turn her head towards us.

Jack motioned for her to come over. She told the person she was talking to that she'd be back before walking up to Jack.

"Looking good Jackman", she complimented as she leaned in giving him a side hug.

"You too T."

"Oh I know I look good", she said and did a lil twirl.

I looked her up and down, biting my lip.

Jack chuckled.

"Hi I'm Tiana", she said turning to me with a soft smile.

"Hey I'm Oakley", I said as I checked her out.

She had on a white long sleeve cropped shirt and unbuttoned camouflage pants, showing off her black underwear and belly ring.

I've never seen any girl look that good in camouflage pants.

"Cench", Jack said hitting my shoulder, snapping me out my trance.

"Hm", I hummed turning my head to him.

Tiana let out a small laugh.

"You good?", he asked and I nodded my head.

"Yeah I'm good."

"He probably never seen a bad bitch before Jack, it's alright", she said making him chuckle.

"I like your outfit", I said, taking a sip from my drink again.

"Oouuu, I like your accent..it's attractive."

"Thank you", I said and smiled.

"Where you from?"

"London, you?"

"Louisville. I grew up with this doofus right here", she chuckled and nudged Jacks head.

"Alright now", Jack mumbled slapping her hand away.

"Always cheated off me in class constantly. I'm the reason why he passed. Kid probably doesn't even know the square root of sixty four", she laughed.

Me and Jack looked at each other before looking back at her.

She laughed again. "You don't know either? It's eight bozos."

"Can you guess who was the class valedictorian out of us two?", Jack said and playfully rolled his eyes making me let out a chuckle.

"Good to see you remember. I will always be smarter than you Jackman", she said before pulling one of his curls.

She just laughed as she let his hair go and jumped back some.

"Tiana! Oou I almost decked you in yo shit. You better be glad I don't hit women. Don't be pulling my luscious curls."

"Boy", she chuckled. "Luscious curls my ass."

"Tiana!", someone called across the room.

"Looks like they want me elsewhere", she sighed before rolling her eyes.

"It was nice meeting you Oakley", she said as she gave me a hug.

"You too", I said, taking in her sweet perfume.

Fuck. She smelt like expensive vanilla and strawberries.

She pulled back with a smile.

"Until we meet again", she said before walking away.

"You fell in love as soon as she told you her name", Jack chuckled as he shook his head.

He wasn't lying.

princess.t

Location: Louisville

Liked by centralcee, jackharlow, and 147,564 others

princess.t living great🧿 #backhome

View all 5,463 comments

sza bestie boo 😚

|_ princess.t love you <3

jackharlow I see my lil sexy ass 😩

|_ princess.t bitch-

centralcee found you 🙂

|_ princess.t well helloo 😏

brysontiller didn't know you were back in Louisville😧

|_ princess.t just for the week🫡

#jack harlow #wattpad #central cee x reader #central cee #jack harlow x black reader #jackman thomas harlow #central cee x black reader #jack harlow x reader #uk rap

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pictureinme · 1 year ago

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cheri cheri lady – kitten braden (1)

❧ you go to a peepshow. you meet kitten. your life is flipped upside down.

patricia 'kitten' braden x f!reader tags: voyeurism, oral sex, p in v, etc. (see ao3 for full list) parts: 1 (2) (3) (4) (5) (6)

You make your way into the part of town you swore you’d never step foot in: the red-light district. The only women around were streetwalking or advertising their clubs.

You were here to do neither of those things.

Being a closeted lesbian in London might seem like an easy job, that is, until that said lesbian gets horny. Who doesn’t? You considered paying for an hour or so, but you weren’t made of money. Plus, what if someone saw you? That’s why you were laying low in your unassuming trench coat and slacks.

If you walked quickly enough, no one would notice you aren’t a man looking to throw his money away to see some naked ladies.

Taking it slow, you decide to go to a peepshow. It’s easy, there isn’t any chance you’ll get into trouble.

In glimmering neon, you see the sign: Xanadu. You heard it was run by a union of sorts, and it was fully legal. No busts to get caught in.

Entering through the tinsel curtain, the smell of cigarette smoke and cheap perfume hung in the air. Exciting.

You walk quickly through the booths and their curtains, until you find one unoccupied. Shutting the curtains, you sit on the stool, wiping a trickle of sweat from your brow.

Fumbling through your coin purse, you put the allotted amount for twenty minutes into the slot.

The view quickly reveals itself: a lovely young blonde woman, dressed in a blue slip, was sitting on a flower adorned swing.

“Well, hello there.”

Her deep voice, coupled with her lusty blue eyes, had you stifle a choke, which was caught on the microphone.

She giggles, quite over the top.

“You’re an absolute beauty,” you manage to whisper, forgetting your preamble about how you’re a woman and if that would offend her in some way.

Her swinging stops, and a smirk finds its way onto her face, “Oh, a lady paying for a peepshow? How unusual.”

You scramble, “If that bothers you, I can leave, no problem. You can keep the money, of course and...”

Her finger comes to her plush lips in a shushing motion, “Don’t get all uppity, darling. In fact, I wish more ladies would come in. Make this a lot more fun, hm?

“I have to agree, Miss…?”

“Call me Kitten, love. May I know yours?”

Kitten’s tongue goes to lick her lips quickly, making your breath shudder.

“You can call me… (Y/N).”

‘Why did you give her your real name, you dunce?’ you think to yourself.

“A beautiful name for a beautiful girl. What made you brave this side of London just to see little ol’ me?” One of her straps falls from her shoulder, you can’t help but stare.

You chuckle, blushing slightly at the compliment, “Can you blame a girl for being horny?”

“Not at all, dear (Y/N),” Kitten leans closer to the glass, “I must say, I like it when girls talk so crass.”

“Yeah? I like it when girls wear pretty blue slips… especially when they let them fall so low.”

Your confidence grows by the minute. You know she can’t see you, but she sure as hell acts like she can.

“My, you’re quite the dirty girl. What would you like to see, love?” She bites her thumb, letting her lips wrap around it.

“Anything. I’m honestly content just… talking with such a beautiful woman.”

Kitten smiles widely, “You’re such a flirt, dear. I’ll show you something nice…”

You watch as she moves her hands down to between her legs, still covered by the slip. With a gasp, you find yourself imitating her movements.

“You like that, Miss (Y/N)? Do you like seeing pretty girls doing dirty things?”

“Yes, Kitten, but I especially like it when you do it.”

Giggling, she starts to touch herself around her clothing, “I thought you might say that. I wish I could see you, I know you’re doing the same thing I am, hm?"

You nod, but realize she can’t see that, so you let out a noise of affirmation.

“Miss (Y/N), you were so brash before, what happened? Cat got your tongue, or was it a�� kitten?”

“You’re driving me crazy, such a doll, you are.”

Her eyelids flutter closed, in seemingly faux ecstasy, “Your words make me the crazy one.”

Kitten’s slip falls from her chest, revealing her petite breasts. Eyes glued to her, your mouth falls open in a slight whimper.

“You know, all the men that come here think they’re rather disappointing, but you…”

She grins, and moves one hand to touch one of them. Still mimicking her, you whisper, “Kitten, you are something else.”

Just as you both start getting into the rhythm of it, a chime signals one minute till the end of your time. You have no more quarters.

“Oh, shame. I hope I see you around again soon, Miss (Y/N). You’ve certainly put me in a good mood,” Kittens seems genuinely saddened by this, but her peach pout is just too erotic for you to handle.

“I’ll definitely be back soon, Kitten. You’ve got me addicted.”

The view slides closed, and you’re left with both a soaked hand and underwear. Fuck.

#patricia braden x reader #kitten braden x reader #breakfast on pluto #cillian murphy smut #cillian murphy x reader

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may--hawk · 15 days ago

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I love you (mixtape)

And the bastard walks by, and the bastard walks by / Say it to him fifty times and still the bastard won’t cry

Crowley’s in some run-down gin bar clinging to the outer reaches of the London docks like a pustule sometime in the mid-1970s. It reminds him of the gin palaces he used to go to back at the end of the last century, back when he’d trawl around and drink warm gin and incite sins until London was near-frenzied with it because there was nothing else for him to do in this fucking city, this shithole. The bar’s not so different now: less wool, more polyester, less - although not none - public urination, more women. It’s dim in here, two in the afternoon and dark as the tomb, shadowed as a mausoleum in Edinburgh, and all around him the same desperate scrabble to get ahead as he’d felt in Elspeth, humans clawing their way up with their nails and teeth only to slip back down into the grave decades later. It doesn’t matter, none of it does. The air’s thick with nicotine, Crowley inhaling a pack of smokes with every breath. He’s done a few lines, and he hums, his atoms the same frequency as a star’s - Rigil Kentaurus, to be exact. He’s sitting next to a man he doesn’t like very much, but he doesn’t like a lot of humans, really. Aziraphale would say really, do you insist on seeing the worst in them - ? But Aziraphale doesn’t know what it’s like, does he, all white clouds and sunbeams and holy grace. The man’s useful to Crowley, so Crowley hunches over his glass of gin and turns to the man and lays out his expectations. He’s setting up a drug caper, a big one, involving a few first-world governments and third-world countries and second-world middle-men. The trickle-down effect should net hundreds of thousands of souls for Hell for a century to come. Maybe more. The rest is up to them, the humans. It always is, really. The bar stinks of avarice and desperation and bodies sweating in polyester; it’s thick in the air; it’s like perfume to Crowley, like hookah smoke, he takes it in, heady and deep, and grins, a sharp flash he catches in the mirror.

The door opens, then. A ray of light shafts in, mid-afternoon light, the kind that doesn’t come inside these sorts of places, isn’t welcomed, but comes in it does, and the light falls on the bar mirror, dusty and streaked, falls on - behind Crowley, just coming in - a head of perfect white curls. Crowley freezes. Crowley’s mouth parts, he can see it in the mirror, like he’s going to ask Aziraphale, what are you doing here, angel, you don’t belong here. It’s true: Aziraphale shines. He doesn’t belong here. Except Aziraphale belongs everywhere, Crowley thinks. He has the holy assurance of God. He can walk into a lion’s den, into a cathouse, across the open trenches of a great war. What’s a cheap gin bar in the face of Aziraphale’s God-granted assurance? Aziraphale takes it all in at a flash: Crowley draped over the bar, the look of sin, of a snake, slit-eyed, waiting to strike. Takes in Crowley’s wiles, his machinations. Takes in the measure of the man next to him, neatly and finally. The angel breathes in, short and sharp, an expansion of his chest, and his mouth twists in a small moue of disgust. He meets Crowley’s eyes, shakes his head once, and turns on his heel and leaves.

It’s happened, again and again - Aziraphale’s got this idea of Crowley, and it’s wrong, it’s wrong. Crowley’s a demon. When he says he’s not nice, he fucking means it. And yet Aziraphale has the nerve to - every time he comes across Crowley tempting someone, or wiling, or doing something evil or wicked or bad or wrong - to turn that look of disgust on Crowley. Of disappointment. As if Crowley has, again and again, failed to live up to his standards. Aziraphale’s even done temptations himself; little ones, surely, but temptations all the same. And the kicker of it all, what really takes the biscuit, is that Aziraphale’s not nice either. He’s a rotten bastard just like Crowley. Even worse, in some ways, with the hypocrisy and the gluttony and the lust, oh, don’t think Crowley doesn’t notice it, the little looks, the way his hand had lingered on Crowley’s in 1787 in the ballroom when they’d been presented for the first time - joke’s on the humans, Crowley knows Aziraphale down to his rotten squalid little core. Or the way he’d pushed into the same cab with Crowley in 1814 even though there really wasn’t room for the two of them, how they’d pressed together side to thigh to arm, brushing with every sway and jolt of the carriage, Aziraphale’s breath coming fast and harsh, and Crowley could feel him quivering with it, the lust, and he’d known if he’d only turned and knotted his hand in Aziraphale’s hair and pulled his mouth to him, if he’d reached over and pushed his hand between his thighs, the angel would open up to him, would make the sweetest little noises, that the very Heavens and Earth would shake with it -

And sure, Crowley’s worse with the other sins, with avarice and sloth and despair, but Aziraphale’s not perfect, he’s not good, he’s only playing a part, and so what right does he have to turn those eyes on Crowley, dark and disappointed, what right does his gaze have to linger over Crowley in the mirror and then drop to the ground, and turn away, as if unable to continue to bear witness?

Aziraphale blows him off for the next three months: declining invitations to dinner, avoiding his calls and returning them only two or three days later. I’m sorry, Crowley, I’ve been dreadfully busy, as if Crowley hadn’t been by the shop five or six times and hadn’t seen Aziraphale just sitting at his desk with a book in his hands staring off into space. And that stings too, as if Crowley’s not worth the pain of an honest answer. But then again, the angel’s never been honest. Another demerit. When the angel feels, apparently, that Crowley’s done his penance, he agrees to meet Crowley for dinner at a new Greek place around the corner, and they go, and Crowley’s a perfect little angel, isn’t that a joke, even smiling at the waiter, not wiling one bit. Aziraphale watches him a bit like a wild animal, nervous little side glances that settle into a near-smile over the dessert course. And because the angel’s a creature of indulgence, has been ever since Crowley’d seen that want in him and offered him that platter of meat, he asks Crowley back to the shop, hesitating as he does so, as if he shouldn’t allow the foul beast in, and Crowley says yes, sauntering, slipping in, widening the crack, because he is weak too, just as weak as Aziraphale, but in other ways.

And Aziraphale knows this all about himself too, knows his failings, because he’s clever, always has been, and he still has the nerve to pretend, to hide, to lie, and so Crowley saunters into the shop and sprawls on the sofa across from Aziraphale in his tight leather pants and his tight red satin shirt unbuttoned just so. Because he had been created for this: to wheedle and to tempt and to pry, to crack things open and work at them; it’s why he had been cast down and how he had wormed his way back up again to the light. And he’s a demon, he’s not nice, he’s wicked and evil and cruel and twisted, and so he pushes, he digs and digs and digs, spreads his legs wide, spills a little wine on the corner of his lips and licks it off, turns his head to Aziraphale, takes his glasses off, and he watches Aziraphale’s face get more and more flushed, not just from the wine, not anymore, watches him loosen his holy bowtie, watches him start to sweat, watches his eyes, dark and darting and miserable. And then when he’s got him worked up to a fever pitch, can feel it ringing through the air like a struck bell, he gets up, hips first, slinks over to the kitchenette for another bottle, and when he passes Aziraphale’s chair he puts a hand on the angel’s shoulder as if to steady himself, the angel so hot and solid under his palm, and he slides his hand across the slope of the angel’s shoulder, two fingers ending up just inside his collar on the hot smooth skin, and he leans down, Aziraphale’s corporation’s heartbeat thundering in time with his own, and he whispers in Aziraphale’s ear, “Want more, angel?”

Aziraphale chokes, a great big gasp of air wheezing through his chest like it’s being constrained by a great big coiled serpent. “More - yes - more wine - please-” he holds out his glass, waves it, though it’s still half-full, even spills on the floor, but Aziraphale doesn’t seem to notice. His eyes, Crowley can see from this close, are squeezed tightly shut, his eyelashes pressed firmly to his cheeks. Crowley reaches his other hand out - which means he reaches around him, a near embrace - slides his fingertips along Aziraphale’s bare wrist, exposed by his sleeve, tangling with the angel’s fingers. Aziraphale’s pulse hammers in his neck. He plucks the glass from the angel’s hand. A silent whimper from Aziraphale, the heave of his chest. Then Crowley saunters off to the kitchenette to pour them each another glass. He can feel the pain and lust rolling off Aziraphale, stronger than any cathouse, thick as bar-smoke, dark as smog back in coal-burning London, those long decades when the air was thick and gray and choking and there was no shelter for Crowley, no relief, no soft yellow space to be invited into and breathe deep and fresh. From here, he can see Aziraphale’s reflection in the window above his desk, pale and bright and holy against the dark night. Can see how Aziraphale’s got his fist pressed to his mouth, biting down on a knuckle. Crowley bets when he goes back in and hands the glass to Aziraphale there’ll be teeth marks in his flesh, deep indentations, the mark of sin. Aziraphale’s face is twisted, nearly sobbing, wracked with pain and lust, because he’s an angel, he’s good, he’s holy, he’s not supposed to lust, can’t do it without great pain, and Crowley, watching him, his own breath coming fast, faster, can’t breathe, feels something welling in him, thick and choking, and he thinks, tell me you feel it, angel, tell me you feel the same thing I do.

Read the rest of the mixtape on AO3.

#good omens #good omens fic #aziraphale/crowley #aziracrow #my fic #mixtape #he's a demon he's not nice

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