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galaxiasgreen · 7 months ago

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🍺🖤This Hell We Create

Sebastian x F!Muggle!Reader with eventual smut [E-Rated, 3.6k words]

"It's hot." "No, and here I thought it was the Arctic." When he makes no move to do anything, you raise your chin, glaring up at him. "No shirt, no service." "I am wearing a shirt." A glint of mischief pierces briefly through his mood. "You know, most women usually ask me to take off my clothes—"

The freckled stranger has been visiting your pub for three months now, drinking to forget the worst times.

You might be the person he needs to remember the best.

[MASTERLIST][NEXT] [read on AO3, read on Wattpad]

TW: swearing, alcoholism, grief, discussions of death.

1: stupid questions

The freckled stranger has been in your pub every day for the last three months.

It never matters whether it's windy, raining, or overbearingly sunny. It never matters whether it's busy, tables crammed, the counter sticky with spills, or if the tax on drink has gone up. It never matters if he's in a good or bad mood. Every day, right as expected, he shoulders inside Ye Olde Hen House, ignores the chorus of greetings from the tipsy regulars, lumbers to the bar and orders a drink. His choice is always the same: cold stout, brought over in as many glasses he can take before he's one whit away from passing out.

You're used to hauling out drunkards. In this part of the old city they trundle in after labour shifts, seeking to forget the day's worries, and wind up on the floor by hour's end. You pity them their weak constitutions and poor decision-making, and the wives who will have to suffer their company upon their brazen return in the middle of the night.

To his credit, the freckled stranger has never been that drunk.

Yet you pity him most of all.

The first time he steps foot inside the pub he immediately draws your eye. Most of the regulars are in their forties, pot-bellied and cheerful like Christmas adverts of St Nick – but the freckled stranger is around your age, five-and-twenty, with youthful skin, a smooth gait and broad, firm shoulders. His hair is a bed of chestnut curls, and the ends shadow his eyes, also a dark brown, like coffee. Stubble grows in patches over his sharp jaw. In the heat of summer he wears only a linen shirt rolled up at the sleeves, and you can see muscle there, and tattoos, though you force yourself to look away before you can determine what they are, burying your curiosity behind professionalism.

When he makes it to the counter, he slaps down a handful of change and sinks onto the barstool, looking at you, gaze burning expectantly but not with disdain.

"Pint of beer, please."

"Two pence."

He pushes all his coins over. You extract two pennies, then fill a glass to the brim. He drinks quietly but greedily, siphoning the beer like it's his first liquid in days, and when he finishes, every drop consumed, the glass clatters to the countertop in a white-knuckled grip, pronouncing the veins in his hands like cobalt forks of lightning.

"Another, please."

You raise an eyebrow. "Knock that back any faster you might see Heaven before you mean to."

"What makes you think I'm going to heaven?" He throws out a few coins – pennies and halfpennies this time. "Pint of beer, please."

He drinks slower and slower each time as the alcohol alleviates his worries. You feel pity, strong and true. Same age or abouts, and people would look down on you for having a peasant's job, but at least you're not wasting your life away like the freckled stranger.

At least of yourself you make a name, whilst the freckled stranger makes a fool.

By his fourth, sometimes fifth drink, he's spread-eagle on the countertop, playing with the pocket change between his fingertips, wide-eyed with fascination.

"Don't fall asleep," you tell him, squeezing a cloth over a soiled plate. "Or I'll kick you out."

"Not sleepy," he slurs, flicking a half-penny into a tailspin. "Am pensive."

"Pensive... right."

"Pensive about pennies." He chuckles to himself. "Your coins are so funny. What's the point of half-pennies and farthings?"

The use of your is unusual, but he's drunk, so what's new. "Why don't you ask King Edward?" you say humorously.

"You say it like he's only next door. Know him, do you?"

"'Course. We're best mates."

"Put me in contact. I'll change— more make sense."

You purse your lips. He's too drunk to respond coherently, though there's still about three fingers left in the glass, which he eventually works up the means to finish, leaving his lips sticky with cream. By this point it's almost closing time and he struggles to get to his feet. You don't help him. Why should you?

"Ta," he hiccoughs roughly in your direction, and staggers out the door, out of view. You wonder where he goes, what he does in the daytime, whether he has family, or friends, or a pretty girl who pities him too.

He's in a mood on a particularly hot June evening, when he walks into the pub with his shirt unbuttoned.

Do not look. Despite being a complete wastrel, the freckled stranger, you hate to admit, is extremely well-built, with a finely-toned chest and brawny arms that could easily win many wrestling matches, and many hearts too. Maybe he already has. The long stripe of flesh between the two front panels tease a wide chest tattoo, inked over his pectorals like fine canvas – what appears to be two runic symbols and the number 706.

You quickly glance away. That's already too much. Just because a man is attractive doesn't mean you should be staring. You compose yourself and make your way over before he reaches the bar.

"Shirt," you say. "Button it up."

He halts, drinking in the sight of you. Up close, all you can smell is his musk, salty like the sea, and just as powerful. His hair is soaked with it too – there are dirt marks there, like he's been in a scrap, but he appears uninjured.

"It's hot."

"No, and here I thought it was the Arctic." When he makes no move to do anything, you raise your chin, glaring up at him. "No shirt, no service."

"I am wearing a shirt." A glint of mischief pierces briefly through his mood. "You know, most women usually ask me to take off my clothes—"

"Do up your shirt," you grind out, "or get out."

The mischief dissipates as his eyes narrow, but he reluctantly buttons up the front. The shirt is ratty and torn at the elbows, but still smells enticingly like him, and he doesn't bother going up all the way, leaving an annoying glimpse of that unusual scrawl of symbols.

"Happy now?"

You go around the counter, ignoring him. "What do you want?"

"What do you think?"

Your eyes narrow. "You know the cost."

A hand slips into his pocket and produces a handful of coins, which he dumps out flippantly. They clatter to a stop in a wide arc.

Impertinent. Your lips flatten. Two can play that game.

"You've been here enough times to know the correct change by now."

He snorts. "Every bloody coin looks the same."

"It has Britannia wielding the trident on one side."

"Who the hell is Britannia?"

You roll your eyes. "Edward is on the other. Know who he is or have you really been living in the Arctic?"

"I remember your best mate." Finally he takes two pennies from the pile. "You could've just said it was the biggest bronze coin and saved yourself the hassle."

You could've also told him it literally says penny on the rim, but who knows if he's able to read – or whether he can right now. "You don't learn if you don't figure it out for yourself." You take them from his proffered hand. "Pint or half-pint?"

"Another stupid question."

"In that case, I won't serve you—"

"Wait." He grunts in annoyance and holds out the pennies again. "One pint of beer, please."

"That's better."

He takes the drink, and your gaze dips to the hand clenching the glass – you've never seen a drunk with such... muscle definition before. His frame is broad, his chest like full barrels of whiskey. He looks like he knows how to handle his body – how to use it to full advantage.

Shame. If only he didn't have the personality of a wet rag.

You serve another few people before he motions for you again, and this time you pour him the drink without saying a word. He exchanges the right money for the glass.

"I'm sorry," he mumbles, before you go away again. "I've been rude."

You hesitate, suspicious. "Yes, you have."

"You're just doing your job."

"Yes, I am."

"Can you forgive me?"

That same glint of mischief there, except this one is charming – this one prods a little more insistently at your mental walls. You snort.

"This time."

He takes a sip, leaving a trail of foam on his mouth – he thumbs it away and licks the tip.

Hastily you look away.

"How long have you been working here?" the freckled stranger asks one Tuesday night, when the pub is dead.

You slap your cloth to the countertop, soaked with wood polish. You've talked to him a few times now, but this is the first that's been more than polite greetings, menial chatter, and get out, you're completely sozzled.

"Why?"

"What d'you mean, why?"

"Why d'you want to know?"

He leans back, lips tugging upwards. "I know you but I don't know you, if that makes sense."

"And it should stay that way."

"I just think it would be nice to properly appreciate the woman who serves me drinks every day."

You roll your lips. He's a good talker when he wants to be – when he's sober. "Been working here longer than you've been drinking here, that's for sure."

"A year? Five years? How old are you?"

"Careful."

"I'm twenty-six."

"Didn't ask."

His gaze on you is lowered but penetrating when he braces his chin in a hand. You can't help but feel a little flushed.

"Do you own this fine establishment?"

"I do."

"Not your husband?"

"Not married."

"But you're so old."

"Do you want to get kicked out?"

His smile curls. "Put-off marrying because it will mean handing all your assets to your undeserving husband?"

You pause to glare at him. "So you know the lack of women's rights but you can't figure out which coin is a penny?"

"Women's rights makes sense. The coins don't. Why do all the bronze ones look the same? I'm still waiting on a meeting with Ed about that, by the way."

"Oh, the lack of women's rights makes sense, does it?"

"I said women's rights makes sense. I'm on your side."He shrugs. "Personally, though, I'm more of a supporter of women's wrongs."

A laugh gutters out of you, and with a self-satisfied, feline grin, he drinks.

Something is very wrong when he comes in on his four-month anniversary.

If rain could embody a person, the freckled stranger would be a barely-contained hurricane. He looks the worst you've ever seen – dark crescents beneath red eyes, skin frighteningly wan, burst blood vessels webbing across his cheeks like crinkles on a flattened wad of newspaper. He glowers at anyone who looks at him askance, a clear signal to stay the fuck away.

He slumps bodily onto his normal barstool – and there comes the pity, an avalanche crashing through your body.

"Beer."

You don't move.

He lets out an annoyed sigh. "Pint of beer, please."

You pour it. "What's the matter with you?"

"Nothing."

"Fine. All the same to me." It's not all the same – he looks like the truth might kill him from the inside. "Stout's out. I've got porter."

His eyes flash. "Porter's weak shit."

"That or ale. Take your pick."

"Porter then."

You pour it. It's infamously dark in colour, like his eyes right now, black and molten and unforgiving of a world that has cut him up and left him to die. When he takes the glass he doesn't thank you, just jams the rim between his teeth and gulps ravenously. The slam on the countertop reverberates.

"Another."

"Seem to be missing a thank you and please—"

"Can you just—" He catches himself. "Not today. Just not today."

"Today is a regular ol' Thursday for me," you point out coldly. "If you want some leeway for your absent manners you're going to have to give me a reason."

He mumbles something inaudible.

You lean forwards. "Didn't catch that."

Finally his gaze settles on you, and it's guarded, striking, like steel.

"My twin sister died four months ago today."

When people turn to drink, it's mostly because of one of two things: grief, or loneliness. Now you know the freckled stranger is both. You can see it in the shadows that cling to him, in the trembling of his cracked knuckles, grasping the glass like it's the only thread between him and sweet oblivion.

It doesn't surprise you to hear it, nor see it with your own eyes – but a death of a twin... now that's something you've never heard before. Especially not from someone so young.

"Sorry to hear that." The condolence softens your disdain, just a little. "I can't imagine—"

"No, you can't imagine what it must be like, yes, it's awful, is there anything you can do? Sorrows and prayers, sorrows and prayers!" The laugh is hysterical. "I don't want that. I didn't come here to listen to your pity."

Strange... until this conversation, pity was all you felt.

Now you're just angry.

"Why'd you tell me then?" you shoot back, as your temper builds in your belly. "You blurt your sob story and, what, expect me not to say anything?"

"I came to drink, so that's what I'll damn well do."

"Then shut your cakehole, drink your damn porter and stop fishing for sympathy."

Something cracks along his expression. He splutters. "Like hell I'm fishing—"

"Four months, you said? Yet here you are, sulking. You look like she passed only yesterday. Is this what she would've wanted, for you to drink yourself into stupor every bloody day?"

Genuine anger clouds his face. "You don't know what she would've wanted."

"I know you care for her deeply, so I can guess she cared deeply for you too, and I don't know a single loved one of mine who'd want me to live in this hell you've created for yourself."

He stands to his feet – nearly stumbles. "You can't talk to me— like— you don't—"

"Look at you, too drunk to even stand. You drank before you came here, didn't you? You've been drinking all day, feeling sorry for yourself. If you won't accept my condolences, fine, but you better heed this warning instead: if you ever talk to me like that again, I will have you chucked out and barred not just here, but every damn pub this side of the city, and I won't give a rat's arse about your grief or your shitty coping strategies. Do you understand?"

Something lifts and vanishes from his eyes, like a dark shape that flees arrest in the cover of night. The crack in his façade widens, and maybe it's the reek of him, of old stale drink that wisps out of him in short breaths, but something makes you lean back, give him space to process your words, to process his mistake in crossing you.

You were yelling all that, and the rest of the pub has quietened in response. One of the regulars stands up and makes eye contact with you, but you wave him away. You're all right. The freckled stranger understands now.

The look on his face is not just defeat... but clarity.

"Understood," he rasps out eventually.

"Good." Your heart races – you fight to control it. "Now, I've got other customers waiting, so if you don't mind keeping your voice down?"

But he knocks back the rest in one go and leaves without saying a word.

Maybe you were a little harsh.

You stew on it the next morning as you prepare for a busy day. Wiping the surfaces, preparing the stock, checking the tills, rallying the other staff and replenishing the taps – so much to do and occupy your mind, yet there you are, face creased as you think of the freckled stranger and his grief.

He needed the push, you don't regret that, but you do regret, just slightly, how you delivered it. It could've gone so many ways – he could've complained to the police and tarnished the pub's reputation, could've destroyed furniture, glass, could've hurt you. You might own Ye Olde Hen House but at the end of the day you're a glorified barmaid – a wench, some of the older patrons sometimes use against you derogatorily. Who are you to offer the freckled stranger life advice?

You thought he might not appear that evening, but at eight o'clock, he shoulders through the door and takes the same bar stool, right in front of you, as always.

"Pint of beer," he murmurs, "please."

You pour it for him, making it extra frothy, but say nothing when you slide it over. This time he pays the correct coinage, no fuss. So he's capable of using his brain just as much as you're capable of feeling guilt. His knuckles blanch over the glass, clenching it hard – you find yourself distracted by his hands, solid and engulfing, like he would never yield anything in his grip.

You let out a scathing sigh. "Look, I'm sorry."

He raises a finger and tips the glass back until all the porter has slid down his throat.

"Can't have this talk sober," he says, using his muscled forearm to wipe his mouth messily. "Another. Please."

He sets out the coin, you pour him the drink. He doesn't say a word until the next one goes down, and the next. Eventually he massages the bridge of his nose.

"I'm sorry myself," he forces out, even though the drink softens the consonants. "You shouldn't have to apologise."

"I was harsh."

"You were an arsehole."

"Funnily enough that's why I'm saying sorry."

"No, but... it was nice, your bluntness." He sags on the counter, but his gaze is still locked on you. "Every bloody person I know has been coddling me for months. Sorry about Anne this, I'm sad for you that. The condolences and sadness and hugs and well-wishes has never stopped. Even my best friends Ominis and Garreth keep tiptoeing around me like I'm as fragile as a Remembrall."

"A what?"

"Glass," he amends swiftly. His thumb presses into the curve of his jaw, protruding the strong cords of his neck. "I'm so fed up with it. So fucking fed up."

"You know you're not helping yourself, right?" you say, hoping this doesn't cross a line again. "Coming in here to drink—"

"Every day, I know. I just need it. I need to drink. I need to— to forget what I did—" He shakes his head and grasps his temple fiercely. "Tell me something. Quick."

"What?"

"Anything. Your favourite book, how your parents met, the drama of whoever you're shagging at the moment, I don't care. I don't want to think. Just – give me anything. And another beer. Please."

So you tell him your favourite book – you don't get to read very often, you're lucky you can read at all – and you tell him the less-than-exciting story of how your parents met. You're not 'shagging' anyone at the moment, which you say with a roll of your eyes, so you're relatively drama-free. Your life is utterly mundane, as you like it.

You don't leave him with nothing, however.

"I've been at this pub since I was eighteen, seven years ago. Inherited it off my parents now that they're too old to work."

He must do the maths as he squirrels away another beer.

"You must enjoy it."

"It was either here or the match factory. You must know how that went."

He smiles indulgently. "Expert in women's rights, remember?"

You huff a snort.

"You get how this place works, then."

"I've been helping out here since I was a tot, so yes, I know everything there is to know. Plus it pays well and keeps me mostly protected, and I get to be part of the community and meet new people."

He lets out a breathy chuckle.

"Like me?"

You tip your head.

"Yeah, like you, I suppose." You gently pry the empty glass from his hand. "Another?"

"Stupid question."

But he smiles fondly this time, so you make a face and pour his fourth beer without complaint.

You don't talk much from then. You're busy with other customers and he's probably tired of chatting, though you meet his eye several times during the last hour, like a hook on a thread that catches by accident – or fate. It's those coffee eyes that you're drawn to. They dance like fingers on skin, to a rhythm as constant as ocean waves, cascading down your spine even when you turn away.

By the time the other patrons have left and the gramophone has run out of records to play, all that's between you and closing is the freckled stranger.

"What's your name?"

You glance his way. "Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why'd you want to know?"

"It's not an interrogation. It's just so you're not the bar girl in my head."

"In that case," you smile sweetly, "it's none of your business."

"You drive a hard deal, bar girl," he says, taking it in his stride. "My name is Sebastian Sallow."

"Didn't ask."

"Trade you? I'll even throw in a middle name as a bonus."

"No thanks." You flick towards the door. "Now, it's nearly one o'clock and my pub is about to close, so you better skedaddle before I toss you out by ear, Sebastian Sallow."

"That's a lot more effective now that you can use it against me." The barstool scrapes – Sebastian Sallow manages to make it to the door without stumbling once. "Will I regret telling you?"

You hold the door and smile indulgently as he steps out.

"Stupid question."

You shut it in his face.

[MASTERLIST][NEXT] [Gorgeous art by FlamboyantJelly][Divider credit]

#hogwarts legacy #sebastian sallow #sebastian sallow x reader #sebastian sallow x mc #hogwarts legacy fanfic #azkaban seb #muggle reader #thwc #the bar girl #my writing #my stuff #being a good author and promoting my work lol

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rafesplaymate · 6 months ago

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Pose for Daddy

Rafe Cameron x Glamourmodel!Reader

ᡣ𐭩. ݁˖ . navigation. ᡣ𐭩. ݁˖ . masterlist.

warnings: smut. p in v. choking. dom / sub dynamics.

a/n: pic is for storyline aesthetics. reader can be imagined as anyone. although —reader has a boob job (canon).

This is the kind of photo Rafe takes of GlamourModel! Reader after they get freaky, hear me out…

ᡣ𐭩. ݁˖ . ݁༉‧₊˚.ᡣ𐭩ྀིྀི

As much as Rafe loves having her under him... he thinks having her on top is a religious experience all on its own. He already worships her in every way after all.

"Mhmmmm.. feels s’good Rafey..." she drawls out in a light, airy moan. The mini denim skirt she was wearing pushed up up over her hips as she grinds her soaked pussy against Rafe's rock-solid dick. She's been teasing him all day with that scandalous, pink top. Her perfectly designed chest highly accentuated and the necklace that was once a silver-diamond Playboy bunny gifted to her after winning ‘Playmate of the Year,’ now replaced with a white-gold "R.C." necklace. The 18K diamonds glistening and contrasting perfectly against that flawless skin-tone. He paid a pretty penny for it, he’ll say that much.

"That's right my little star, grind that pussy right on daddy." Rafe grunts out, his big hands gripping tightly into her curvy hips. Cobalt eyes cutting deep into her; his focus solely on her and her only. She has her head thrown back, plump lips parted around squeaky moans and airy whines. Her swollen clit bumping against his pretty pink tip. Feeling the streams of pre-cum make her already soaked pussy even messier. "You look so fucking gorgeous..." he drawls deeply, bringing a hand to her face, four fingers pressed against her left cheek as his right thumb grazes over that pretty, luscious pout that looks even more taboo from the swelling and his spit still dripped down her chin due to their earlier make-out.

She parts her perfect lips, and that gives Rafe the opportunity to press his thumb into her mouth, the pad of his finger running down the length of her tongue as she opens her eyes too look at him. She brings a dainty hand to grab his wrist attached to the hand on her face, gripping it lightly as she makes eye contact, she bites the tip of his thumb softly, a cheeky smile spreading on her face as she begins to lower her mouth to take it all the way in. Holding eye contact as she gives his thumb a quick suck.

"Keep it up and daddy will stop being so nice." growls Rafe his already rock-hard dick practically stone from how turned on he was. More pre-cum leaking out and adding to the mess already between her legs. His grip on her hip tightens, locking her in place. Sure to leave behind bruises in the shape of his fingertips. He removes his thumb from her mouth, sliding it down her lips and bringing a string of her spit with it. Adding onto the mess he previously made on her chin. He then grips her throat tightly. Pressing his dick harder against her pussy and grinding his hips into her rhythmically. Watching as her eyes roll wildly again and her head tips back. Smooth neck already littered with his bite marks.

"Fuuuuuck." he says in a drawn out deep, throaty groan. “Get me going so fucking bad, don't even need to be in that tight little hole and you already got my dick so fucking hard." He says harshly. Shit- Rafe had stamina. He's fucked plenty of girls on the island into whimpering messes, legs shaking and gasping for air while he maintains his composure. But she gets him going like no other. All his nerve endings ablaze.

He's still got a grip on her throat, and hand gripping her hip as his eyes now watching intensely where they're pressed together. Watching with intensity how her cute clit peaks out and bumps against his tip, strings of their arousal clinging erotically. He's so entranced, loving how her pussy lips get more swollen the more she grinds against him. Her smooth, toned tummy contracting with her heavy breathing and the contours of it bending beautifully as she grinds her hips back and forth.

When he looks back up though, his breath stops and he feels starstruck. His biggest fantasy already looking down at him, her pretty manicured hands gripping the sides of those busty tits as she massages and pushes them together. Plump lips parted as she moans, eyes low and hazed over with lust, voluminous hair falling messily around her perfect face.

"Aaah-fuck! Shit y/n!” groans out Rafe, his slim, toned thighs tensing tightly as he digs his heels into the bed. Stomach clenched and his hips rutting up off the bed taking her up with him as he grinds even harder against her. Head pressing deeper into the pillow behind his head, eyes clenched tightly. Thick-white ropes of cum shooting across his toned tummy. Leaving a mess as his hips fall back into the mattress. His body loosens with the after shocks of his orgasm. Relaxing deeper into the big mattress. He’s on cloud 9. His eyes are still shut, no longer clenching as he catches his breath. Swallowing deeply with a prominent gulp and only coming back-to when a girly giggle rings through the bedroom.

He opens his eyes, glazed over with bliss to look up at the source. His pretty girl still looking at him with low, lustful eyes as she brings her french-tipped middle finger to her lips, having swiped through the mess on his tummy and sucking his cum off the pad of her finger. Rafe smirks at her, running his fingers over the mess on his stomach, feeding his cum into her mouth with four fingers shoving until she gags. "My little fucking minx," he drawls out. Voice throaty and deep. He takes that hand shoved into her mouth and brings it to the back of her head, hand tangling into her messy hair as he grips harshly pushing her down to meet his lips.

The pair makes-out harshly, gasping and moaning into each other's mouths. Strings of spit exchanging messily, Rafe tasting the remnants of his cum as he nibbles on her swollen pout. He feels her hips beginning to grind again, pulling back to hiss at the feeling on his overstimulated dick.

"You still need daddy to take care of you, don't you baby?" He smirks, left hand coming to grip her right hip as he uses his strength to halt her movements. A whine of dissatisfaction drawing from her throat which he shuts down quickly. “Hey, sshhh” Rafe reprimands, smacking her left cheek lightly with his right hand. Gripping her cheeks immediately after. "Don't start, m'going just give me a sec." Holding her up by the grip he has on her face. He removes the hand from her hip to blindly reach around the bed, grabbing his phone when his fingertips touch it.

“Do that little pose you were doing that made daddy cum so fucking hard," he demands as he opens up his camera app, switching the lens to face her as she leans back and pushes her tits together again. Lips parting seductively and suggestive as she tilts her head to the side. Messy hair framing her face as her low, lustful eyes look into the camera.

“That's it princess, do what you know best," he praises, snapping the picture before tapping onto the gallery to admire his work. Biting his lip when he sees how perfectly erotic she looks in the picture. Pride swelling in his chest at the fact that he gets to call her all his. His initials lying inbetween those perfect tits, his marks littering her throat and chest, his spit dripping down her chin. Her once perfectly put together appearance now completely disheveled all because of him.

“Shit,” he says with a smile. Continuing to admire his work and the picture he knows he’ll make his lock screen. Shutting up her whining when his attention strays from her too long. She’s so desperate to cum.

“You really were made to be in front of a camera babygirl.”

ᡣ𐭩. ݁˖ . ݁༉‧₊˚.ᡣ𐭩ྀིྀི

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stargirlie25 · 11 months ago

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Me having a conversation with an e/riel. Feel free to fact check by looking at the books.

Me: Why do you ship Elain and Azriel?

E/riel: Well for starters, he was the only one to go save Elain when she was in hybern.

Me: First of all, Cassian offered first. Second of all Feyre was also there and saved her (what Elain said)

E/riel: Ok but still it was romantic

Me: But it was not. Because her sister ALSO saved her :) Feyre went to UTM and got tortured,SAed,killed people and died all for Tamlin anyhow...

E/riel: Well Madja said a mate knows whats wrong with their own mate and Az figured out that Elain was a seer.

Me: Elain being a Seer was not what was wrong with her. Also Rhysand figured out Nestas power.

E/riel: Az gave Elain truthteller when he had given it to no one ever.

Me: Only because Mor begged him with tears in her eyes to stay back. Cassian offered her first (again) and then Az offered her TT bc he would not have to use it. Not to mention, Elain only took it when Feyre assured her she would not have to use it. She gave it back without a glance

E/riel: Well Feyre imagined Elain and Az as ´´Death and his lovely fawn´´

Me: Okay. Well did you also catch when she said TT is the only connection between them? Not to mention something admirable about Elain is that she is always full of light. What literally takes away Light? Darkness=Azriel. Not to mention, Azriel is death and his home sucks the life from Elain. Not that Feyres aesthetic painting mind matters anything to me :)

E/riel: What about the fact that Lucien thought Elain was crazy?

Me: What about the fact when he travelled all around to find somebody on a quest so dangerous and the only confirmation he got was from Elain?

E/riel: Elain was wearing Cobalt blue the first time she met Az.

Me: Considering Elains devotion to Graysen, there is a high chance of her wearing that color for Graysen because his crest is cobalt blue. Even if its not true, Lucien wears a coat that´s fawn brown (exact same shade of Elains eyes)

E/riel: A smile and blush bloomed on Azriel in regards to Elain.

Me: Dont care. Thats just an action. Although since you say that, did you know that a smile bloomed on Elains face after her father died (who she loved dearly) in regards to Lucien?

E/riel: What about when a charged glance went through Elain and Azriel.

Me: Sexual attraction. Lots of characters have it like Feyre and tamlin,Aelin and Chaol,Azriel to Mor....

E/riel: Well, Azriel jacks off to Elain every night while looking at the gift he got for her.

Me: Dont be shy you dont have to say a gift. You can say he jacks off to headache powder. No problem. Almost like when Nesta slept with multiple men. Trust me, that does not affect me!

E/riel: Elriel is true mates because Az was the only one to smell Eluciens bond.

Me: Bryce smelled Nessians bound, Ruhn and Lidia smelled bryce and hunts bond, Tamlin smelled feysands.

E/riel: Gwyn is a lightsinger because Az chest sparked because of her.

Me: Well than ig Lidia and Bryce are lightsingers too. Get those evil bitches away from Hunt and Ruhn right?

E/riel: There is nothing romantic for Gwynriel

Me: Thats literally just your penny for thought. Why would i care when SJM provided common banter, mate language and history for Gwynriel, and scenes where they challenge each other when she said history,sparks,conflict,and challenge all makes a good couple.

E/riel: Elain gave two gifts to Az. Not lucien

Me: Headphones for Az bc Nesta and Cass fuck so loud? So romantic i cant! Im so glad my girl SJM is saving the good,meaningful gifts for Elucien.

E/riel: Az waited for Elain to come to the table and told everybody to not eat until Elain came back.

Me: he was thinking of his mother being a slave. Thats what the situation of eating when Elain was tending to everyone reminded him of. How his mother was treated. Its not romantic but it is a very sad thing to think about.

E/riel: Azriel loves Elain. He only has not thought about a future with her because he does not allow himself to!

Me: Honestly i don´t mind that you think that! Although that is not canon. Sleeping with Elain is the only thoughts he PLEASURED himself to. Not allowed himself as some say. Again, that´s just your penny for thought. He says ´´He hadn't gone that far with his planning´´ Meaning sexual thoughts is fine but anything further is like nope, nope,nope,nope,nope too far.

E/riel: Elain literally loses her newfound boldness around Lucien.

Me: There is so many more reasons that we could come up with than what meets the eye. Have you considered it was because she didnt know what to do. Or she saw the look on Lucien ´ s face and shrank because she did not intentionally cause it and felt bad? Or maybe she FELT Luciens pain and shared it because of the bond? So much possibilities to think of especially considering we have limited text and not the actual characters POV. Also i wonder how far she will shrink when she finds out about Az and Rhysands conversation in the bonus chapter. Or maybe she heard it already?

E/riel: Azriel actually gets Elain.

Me: The way he literally does not though! When Elain begs the IC not to kill graysen Az says its best for him to be killed in acosf. When Elain says nesta cant make choices for her and then Az says she should not be exposed to the innate darkness even though later we figure out Elain is willing? When Elain says she is not a child to be fought over and than Az says he will defeat Lucien in a blood duel with her?

E/riel: Scrying is dangerous! Of course Azriel did not want her too.

Me: Yet, he said ´´Nesta really should do scrying´´ but not Elain because he underestimates her. Which is the ONLY thing SJM provides to what Az could have been doing.

E/riel: Azriel listened to Elains laugh probably because he loves the sound!

Me: Maybe its because Elain never ever laughs like that around him or the ic He was literally monitoring them which means to keep tabs on someone which directly relates to his fricking job 😂. So many words to choose from and SJM chose monitoring.

E/riel: Az gave Elain a rose necklace.

Me: Ok and? Elain gave it back. She does not want that shit. He gave it to another person. It felt wrong to clasp it around Elains neck but it sparked something in his chest and made him smile for Gwyn.

E/riel: Lucien only sees Elain for his mate but Azriel sees her for her.

Me: Nope. His reason for wanting to kiss Elain was simply ´´What fi the cauldron was wrong´´ and refers to Elain as the 3rd. She is literally a theory or more so a possibility to him. One he has not thought through in the slightest. Also, Lucien was going crazy in hybern in regards to Elain before he knew of their bond AND Elain has not accepted the bond yet he still cares for her.

E/riel: Elain called Azriels scars beautiful.

Me: first of all, its a 50% chance she called his scars beautiful. Feyre said she was not sure which one she was complimenting, the scars, or the big glowing cobalt siphon atop his hand. Second of all, even if it was 100% fact that she said his scars specifically was beautiful, it seems he does not believe it at all. He tries to not to look at his hands. He does not want to taint her with his presence or touch her beautiful skin with his scars.

E/riel: His shadows vanish around Elain and lightens. They also do that around mor who he was in love with for 500 years. Also his shadows are like snakes ready to strike in regards to Elain.

Me: Shadows lighting and vanishing are the same thing. Light takes away darkness as darkness takes away light (another reason why they are horrible together) His shadows are losing its darkness around Elain and Mor. Mor was wrong for him. The amount of pain it caused him to be in Love with her? Want that to continue with Elain and Az? Azriel does not need his darkness to be hidden. He needs it to be embraced *insert Gwyn*

E/riel: SJM would never pass on a good angsty trope like forbidden love!

Me: firstly, the only thing forbidding e/riel is Elain herself. If she rejects the bond, she can be with Az all she wants and NO ONE has a say on that. Not Rhysand. Not feyre. Not cassian. Not Lucien himself. Although she hasnt after 2 years. There is an answer to why. Its not like Elain knows she has to wait until her own book to reject it. Second of all, Forbidden love is the absolute WORST trope to give BOTH of them. For Elain, she has always hid in the shadows of her sisters in the series and the fandom. You really think Elain Archeron always full of light wants to hide in the darkness and play out Azriel´s fantasies? As for Azriel, he has been secretly silently in PAIN loving Mor for 500 years. So you want him to go through it again with Elain? No. He wants the bond nessian and feysand have. The love they share. The joy of being with your equal. The connection of a mating bond. Being proud to showcase it to the world. Forbidden love would just tear them apart.

E/riel: SJM does not write about virgin romances! Plus Gwyn is a virgin!

Me: Yes she can. Gwyn already lost her virginity against her will so biologically she is not going through the bleeding and the actual losing her physical virginity. Although it is a fact she has never slept with someone. The scene where Cassian *ahem* first enters nesta is very descriptive and SJM describes the pain of Cassian entering her......So yes she can for sure write about Gwyn having sex. This is also goes against the statement that Gwyn cant have sex because of her trauma. False. She is interested in romance books and asks Nesta if the sex was good. I think Gwyn would enjoy sex with someone she trusts in and out.

#anti elriel #anti e/riel #anti elainxazriel #anti azriel and elain #pro elucien #pro gwynriel #elucien #gwynriel

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hometoursandotherstuff · 1 year ago

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This is so cute- it's an 1860 railroad station in lovely Stanfordville, New York, converted to a home. 3bds, 4ba, price dropped $55K to $840K.

Love the floor and the fireplace with built-in shelving.

There appear to be some original antiques in here, like pictures, the sign case, folding chairs and writing desk.

Nice large kitchen with black quartz counters and Shaker cabinets.

I like how they stenciled signage on the walls, doors and stairs.

There's a full kitchen and family room in the basement.

Plus another sitting area with an original stone wall.

Nice bedroom with lots of closet space and built-ins.

Original doors and stairs.

This bath is very large and has beautiful cobalt blue floor tile, with penny tiles on the walls.

Very large bedroom.

This bedroom has sliders to the deck.

And, this bedroom is huge. It's more of bonus space b/c it's so open.

Cute screened in porch opens to the deck.

Look at the koi pond in the yard.

Nice fire pit area.

The land measures 2.74 acres.

#converted train station #unique homes #old house dreams #houses #house tours #home tour

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intricatechaosofyou · 2 years ago

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ENCHANTED

Pairing: Bob Floyd x f!reader

Fandom: Top Gun: Maverick

Summary: the last thing you wanted was a night out, but a certain WSO might change your mind

Based on Taylor Swift’s “Enchanted”

Part II

Warnings: drinking, alcohol, language

Author’s Note: Happy Valentine’s Day!! Here’s a little Bob one shot for everyone wishing he was here today.

━ ━ ━ ━ ━ ━ ━ ━ ━ ━ ━ ━ ━ ━ ━ ━ ━ ━

The last thing you wanted to do tonight was go out. It had been a long week and you just wanted to curl up on the sofa with a bowl of popcorn and a sappy rom-com, but your friend had other plans for you.

“Emily, this is ridiculous,” you whined as your best friend coated your lips with a glittery gloss.

“Stop talking, you’ll mess me up. And stop complaining. It’ll be fun. We’re going to the Hard Deck.”

“That makes it worse,” you complained.

“That makes it better! A chance to hook up with a Naval officer.” Emily smiled wickedly and shot you a wink. “Why do you think I dolled you all up?”

You glanced at yourself in the mirror. At Emily’s request, you were wearing the sundress that only fell halfway down your thighs and pushed up your cleavage. She had even done your hair and makeup. She really had dolled you all up.

“I still don’t like this idea,” you admitted, toying with the end of your dress.

“You will,” Emily assured with a wink.

—————

It turns out, Emily was very wrong. You didn’t like this idea at all. The night had been horrible so far. Your best friend had disappeared five minutes after you arrived, charmed by a blonde aviator who introduced himself as Jake Seresin, callsign: Hangman.

You were about ready to go home. You had faked enough smiles and forced a few too many laughs for one night. Besides, it was still early enough for that movie you wanted to watch in the first place.

Still, you couldn’t leave without telling Emily. Even if she went home with Hangman, she’d still worry about where you were. So as you looked around the bar trying to spot your friend, you found yourself staring at a beautiful pair of cobalt eyes.

It was like you couldn’t look away once you saw him. You weren’t sure what it was but it seemed like time stopped, like everyone else in the room vanished. You weren’t one to believe in love at first sight, but this certainly seemed like it. With a blush you turned away from him and focused on the drink in front of you, suddenly enamored with swirling the liquid in your glass when you felt a presence to your left.

“The usual, Bob?” Penny asked the figure who was now seated two stools away from you. Turning to look at the customer you found the owner of the beautiful eyes. There he was, a few feet away from you. And he was even more attractive up close. The glasses that adorned his face fit him well and the khaki uniform he wore was oddly doing it for you.

After the man nodded to Penny, you decided to pipe up. It was now or never.

“Bob?” You asked, making the man in question turn to you. “Is that your callsign?”

The man looked bewildered to find you talking to him but nodded nonetheless. “Yes, ma’am. It’s not as interesting as some of the others.”

“I like it. Certainly much better than ‘Hangman,’” you scoffed.

“You know Hangman?” Bob asked, tilting his head.

“He charmed my friend about an hour ago. Haven’t seen her since,” you lamented. “I assume you’re familiar with the walking Ken doll as well.”

With a chuckle, Bob nodded.

“Does that mean you’re a pilot, too?”

“Weapons systems officer, actually. I don’t actually fly the plane. I manage all of our weapons and act like a second pair of eyes for the pilot,” Bob explained, waving his hands in front of him as he talked.

“Sounds important.”

Bob blushed, looking down at the bartop. “Yeah, you could say that.”

You smiled at the man. He seemed less cocky than the rest of the aviators in the Hard Deck. It was like a breath of fresh air. With a smile, you moved to sit in the stool right next to him.

He looked down at you, smiling shyly.

“Tell me more,” you prompted.

Over the next few hours, you and Bob talked about everything from your jobs to your favorite songs to why your friend had dragged you here in the first place. He was endearing, stuttering every once in a while when he stared at you for too long and gesturing with his hands whenever he got excited about a topic. Caught up in the playful banter, you lost track of time and when you checked your phone, you realized it was almost midnight.

“I should be getting home,” you muttered, playing with the hem of your dress.

“Oh, right.” Bob hesitated, running his tongue over his bottom lip before speaking again. “Do you need a ride home?”

“I’ll call an Uber. I don’t want to keep you if you need to get home to a girlfriend or something.”

“No, no girlfriend or anything,” Bob replied with a shake of his head. “It’d be no trouble to take you home.”

“Then, I’d appreciate it,” you admitted.

Bob closed the tab, insisting on paying for your drinks as well, as you texted Emily that you were leaving, having found a ride. When the two of you got to his car, he opened the passenger seat door for you and helped you in before getting into the driver’s seat.

As he drove, the only sounds were the radio playing some song from the 80s in the background and the occasional direction from you. It was comfortable. You felt oddly at ease in the passenger seat of Bob’s car even though you two had been strangers mere hours ago.

When you arrived in front of your house, you turned to the man. “Thanks for the ride, Robby.”

“Robby?” He questioned, small smile gracing his face.

You nodded. “Does that bother you?”

“Not at all,” Bob admitted. “Will…will you be at the Hard Deck next Friday?”

Humming, you shrugged, playful smile on your face. “Maybe. Got this weapons system officer I wanna see again.”

“I think he wants to see you again, too.”

You leaned over the center console and pressed a chaste kiss to his cheek, giggling as you watched a rosy color spread over his face. “See you next week, Robby.”

With that, you opened the car door and scurried to your front door. After you stepped inside and closed the door, you fell back against the wood, dreamy sigh escaping you.

God, you hoped you’d see Bob Floyd again.

I was enchanted to meet you

—————

The next weekend, when Emily suggested you go to the Hard Deck again, you immediately agreed.

“And here I thought you hated this place just last week,” Emily mused as the two of you walked up the path to the bar.

“I found a new appreciation for it is all,” you replied.

“Because of a certain pilot?” Emily wagged her brows at you, making you roll your eyes. After the previous night out, Emily made you spill everything about the man who drove you home.

“WSO,” you corrected.

Emily stifled a laugh at your response. “Oh, honey you are whipped.”

“Am not.”

“Whatever,” Emily replied, pushing the door to the bar open. Her eyes immediately fell on a tall blonde by the dartboard. “Hangman!”

The blonde’s eyes snapped up and a lazy smirk appeared on his face once he recognized your best friend. In a few short strides, he was in front of the two of you. “Hey, Emily. Good to see you again.”

Your best friend giggled out a reply to the man as your eyes searched the room for a glimpse of those glasses and cobalt eyes.

“Looking for Bob?”

At the mention of the man in question, you turned to face Hangman.

“W- what?” You croaked.

“Are you looking for Bob?” Hangman repeated. “Saw you two talking last time you were here. Figure you’re hoping to see him here tonight.”

Your cheeks heated up. Were you that obvious?

“Is he here?”

Hangman shook his head. “No, not tonight. Him and his pilot had to eject this morning. The hospital is keeping them overnight for observation.”

“What?” Your face paled, breathing becoming slightly labored. “Are they alright?”

Hangman nodded, placing a comforting hand on your shoulder. “Hey, breathe for me, kid. He and Phoenix are fine. They’re only keeping them as a precaution.”

Nodding helplessly, you placed a hand on your chest, trying to stop the panic bubbling inside you.

“You want some water?” Emily questioned from your side.

You just nodded again and let her pull you towards the bar, leading you to sit down on a stool.

Penny placed a glass in front of you. Muttering a thanks, you brought the glass up to your lips and nearly chugged the liquid.

“Hey, little sips, little sips,” Emily reprimanded, pulling the glass away from you. “You okay, honey?”

“I don’t know, Em. Why am I so concerned about a guy I barely know?”

“I think you like him,” she replied.

You groaned, dropping your head down on the bartop. You knew she was right. But how could you have fallen for a guy you only met once?

—————

The next weekend, you and Emily were at the Hard Deck again. You were determined to see Bob.

As soon as you entered the building, you caught sight of the cobalt eyes you had been thinking about for the last two weeks. It was as if your legs acted of their own accord. You were weaving through the crowd, Emily shouting your name behind you. When you reached Bob, you launched yourself at him, wrapping your arms around his neck.

“Woah, hey!” Bob grunted as you collided with his chest, staggering a few steps back at the sudden weight. His arms instinctually wrapped around your waist, bringing you closer to him.

“I was so worried!” You admitted, burying your face into the crook of his neck.

One of Bob’s hands came up to cradle the back of your head, gently threading his fingers in your hair.

“Hangman told me you ejected and you were in the hospital,” you ranted, pulling back from the man and cupping his cheeks in your hands. “Are you okay?”

Bob nodded, letting you tilt his face back and forth to inspect him for any injuries. “I’m okay, (y/n). I’m okay. Couple of bruises but I’m okay.”

You let out a shaky breath, wiping at some of the tears that had trailed down your cheeks. “Okay.”

Someone clearing their throat to your left caused both of your heads to snap in the direction of a few aviators, no doubt friends of Bob, staring at you.

“You gonna introduce us, Baby on Board?” Hangman asked with a smirk, one arm slung across Emily’s shoulders.

Bob blushed slightly and you stepped away from him, just keeping your hand on his elbow to remind yourself that he was there and he was alright.

“This is (y/n). We met a couple weeks ago,” Bob explained.

“It’s nice to meet you all,” you said with a small smile.

“Is this the one you wouldn’t shut up about?” The man with the mustache asked.

Bob’s blush darkened, free hand rubbing at the nape of his neck.

“Shut up, Rooster,” the only woman aviator of the group piped up, elbowing the man who had just talked. “It’s nice to meet you, (y/n). I’m Phoenix, Bob’s pilot.”

You smiled and shook her hand. Bob had talked about her when you had last seen him. “It’s nice to meet you. I’m glad to see you two safe after the ejection last week.”

“Me too. Million dollar plane taken down by a damn pigeon. Impressive, isn’t it?” Phoenix said with a sarcastic smirk.

The rest of Bob’s coworkers introduced themselves to you, happy to have you joining them for the night. You partnered with Phoenix to destroy Fanboy and Payback at pool, watched Hangman beat Coyote at darts, and sang along with everyone as Rooster played “Great Balls of Fire” on the piano. But throughout the night, you never strayed far from Bob. The two of you were always in reach of each other, sharing shy glances and smiles during the night.

When Rooster had started up his fifth Jerry Lee Lewis song, Bob tilted his head towards the door. You got the hint and followed him out of the bar.

The two of you leaned against the railing of the patio, staring out at the water before you decided to speak up.

“I was glad to see you here tonight.”

“I could tell. That hug caught me off guard,” Bob said with a chuckle.

You blushed, looking away from the man. “I’m sorry. I was just so worried when I heard what happened last week and I was so happy to see you safe. I don’t even know why I was so worried. We barely even know each other. I was just so enchanted by you when we first met–”

“(y/n),” Bob cut you off. “I get it. I felt the same way.”

Relief flooded you as you glanced back at him. “Really?”

“Yeah. I couldn’t get you off my mind the past two weeks. Your name just echoed in my head. I should’ve told you that night, but I didn’t.”

You stared at Bob, slightly overwhelmed by the eloquent admission.

“I’m sorry. That was really forward of me,” he began.

Without a second thought, you grabbed Bob’s collar and pulled his lips to yours before he could retreat in on himself.

It was slow and soft, everything you expected kissing him would be like. His hands moved to grab your waist as his tongue prodded at your bottom lip.

As you opened your mouth, letting his tongue in, you threaded your fingers through his hair, trying to pull him closer to you. It was instinctual, the way you needed him as close to you as possible.

When the two of you parted, you stared at each other, chests heaving as you both tried to catch your breaths.

“You free tomorrow?” Bob questioned, his country drawl a little thicker now.

“Yeah. What’d you have in mind, Robby?”

“Dinner?”

You smiled brightly, trailing your hands down his chest. “Sounds like a date. But for tonight, why don’t you take me home?”

Bob nodded and pressed a fleeting kiss to your lips before digging his keys out of his pocket. And as he drove the two of you to your place, hand grasping yours, you smiled.

Maybe going to the Hard Deck wasn’t the worst thing in the world.