#Window Cleaning Company in London

[mnssltd]

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[flemingsfreckles]

New Name

Synopsis: You and Jessie find a way to subtlety announce your marriage.

WC: 2.1k

Warnings: none :)

A/N: stuff in italics is in the past, previous stuff that happened… I promise replacement and drunk dial are being worked on… just sometimes you need a little bit of a fluffy break

Jessie smirked as she walked around into the locker room, immediately making a brisk walk toward her cubby where her jersey for the game today was hung. She could see it from across the room, everyone else’s, back of the jersey facing the room, names obviously on display, except hers.

Hers had been turned around, just as she has requested. As she reached it, she took a deep breath before reaching for the hanger and turning it to look at the back. For the first time she read not only her own last name, but followed by a hyphen and your last name. Unable to contain herself Jessie felt a huge smile break across her face as she quickly grabbed out her phone snapping a photo of the back before sending it to you.

You were at home, cleaning up from the breakfast you had made for your newly made wife before she headed out for pregame work. She had told you she needed to go in for something early, you didn’t question it. Jessie often had meetings, media, little extra training she wanted to do, small stuff that she’d add on before or after her game days so this was nothing new. What she didn’t tell you was why she had gone in so early.

That surprise came in the form of a photo. You opened your phone after seeing the notification from your wife, smiling when you remembered she was your wife now, not just your girlfriend, not just your fiancée, she was your wife.

Jessie 🫎❤️: had to come in to make sure this was all set

Jessie 🫎❤️: Attachment

You clicked on the picture and your jaw dropped. You saw the all too familiar image of a jersey, Jessie’s name and number on the back. Only now, your last name sat side by side with your wife’s. You stared and stared at the image.

Jessie 🫎❤️: Hope that’s okay, I’m thinking now that I should’ve double checked that it was okay to do today. We talked about it for the first game back but, I’m sorry.

You: I’m speechless, definitely not upset

Jessie 🫎❤️: okay, I still should’ve checked with you, I just thought it would be a cool way to announce it, and I figured it’s a good time to do it.

You: So everyone will know we’re married after today, I like that.

Private but not secret has been the motto that describes your relationship with Jessie. The two of you had been dating since she was at Chelsea. Neither of you ever publicly announced you were dating, but the speculation was abundant. The two of you were always together. You posted photos of Jessie with you at farmers markets, at coffee shops, on hikes, you always attended her games and she’d come see you in the stands, you weren’t hiding it by any means. PDA was never something you were big on so it didn’t bother you to be reserved around your girlfriend when others were present. After nearly 3 years together in London, when Jessie made the move to Portland, you followed her, only solidifying the rumors and assumptions that the two of you were together when fans spotted that Jessie was still coming over to the same girl after her move.

After a year in Portland together, you proposed, Jessie said yes and the two of you slowly began planning a wedding. Unfortunately with the Olympics, international windows, the NWSL season, on top of your job, little to no wedding planning was done by either of you. Not that you minded, it was fine, you’d get to it when you did. You were committed regardless, a piece of paper and a party weren’t going to change that.

It had been an off week for Portland, you and Jessie had been having an easy morning, both of you on the couch, books in hand enjoying each other's company.

“Would you ever have considered eloping?” Jessie puts her book down looking across the couch at you and nudging her foot into your thigh.

“Hmm?” You hum, engrossed in your book not fully hearing what Jessie had said. You finish reading the sentence you were on before putting your own book down to give her your attention. “Sorry what?”

“Eloping? Would you have ever considered it before?” She asks flatly before adding. “It’s in my book, I just was curious.”

“What do you mean ‘before’?” You shifted on the couch, pulling the blanket up more.

“Like we’ve discussed having a big formal wedding obviously, I mean like, before we discussed that?” Jessie clarifies.

“I mean, sure, I think I’d still consider it honestly, easy, quick, intimate. I’m honestly surprised you were more into the idea of the big wedding.” It was true, despite the small planning you had done, the guest list had been one of the first things, when it was all said and done the two of you were looking at a couple hundred names of people you planned to invite.

“I’m not, I actually always liked the idea of eloping. Just me and my future wife, somewhere with a view. I thought you wanted to do the full formal wedding, and I think it’s just been programmed into my head that I have to invite all my teammates and by default that’s a big wedding.”

You hesitate for a moment, listening and processing Jessie’s statement. Just as she goes to reopen her book you speak up. “Want to then?” You say, raising an eyebrow at her and giving a shrug of your shoulders.

“Want to, what?” She puts the book back into her lap.

“Elope?” You say casually, unsure of how Jessie had lost her way in the conversation you were having.

“Seriously?” Jessie squints across the couch at you.

“If you are?”

“When?” She cocks her head at you.

“I’m free tomorrow or if not tomorrow I’m also available the next day?” It’s true, you both were free, no plans, no responsibilities.

You watch Jessie squint at you before a smirk begins to show on her face. “I can’t tell if you’re kidding with me or not.”

“I’m not.”

“Okay.” She sighs and laughs. “Tomorrow then.”

“Okay, let me make some calls.” You immediately hop off the couch, making a run toward your phone that sat charging. You hear Jessie laughing at the way you frantically jumped from the couch, that was a sound you were ready to listen to for the rest of your life.

It took 2 phone calls, one to Jessie’s sister and one to a local company that helped you sort out everything you’d need. Jessie’s sister had always been Jessie’s best friend and since the two of you started dating, you became closer and closer with her, she was already set to be Jessie’s maid of honor, it made sense to call her and ask if she’d be your witness. You both also knew you could trust her not to let out your little secret before you wanted everyone to know.

The following day the two of you, Jessie‘s sister, a photographer, and the man who would marry you arrived at the trailhead of a quiet path that you and Jessie frequently hiked.

The five of you hiked to a small opening within the trees, a view of a mountain in the clearing. While everyone got set up, you and Jessie walked over, hand in hand, taking a second to admire the view.

“This is perfect.” Jessie said her head resting on your shoulder as the two of you looked out.

“I know.” You let out a satisfied sigh. “I can’t believe we were going to do the big party instead.”

“I don’t know what we were thinking.”

Just minutes later you and Jessie stood hand in hand, looking at each other with stupidly happy grins on your faces and joyful tears in your eyes as you were officially pronounced as wives. The two of you had just exchanged silicone wedding bands, all you could manage with a 12 hours notice, agreeing you’d get metal ones once you broke the news to everyone.

Jessie pulled you in for a sweet kiss, sealing your marriage. “I’m your wife now.” She said quietly as she pulled away, her forehead resting on yours as the two of you looked at each other.

“You’re my wife.”

Jessie sat in her cubby, jersey still hung up behind her as she nervously bounced her leg. Her other teammates would be showing up any minute, she wasn’t sure how to go about it. Did she make it a big deal? Make a formal announcement? Did she just wait for someone to notice?

That’s when Janine came around the corner first, giving Jessie a quick smile and wave that the urge to tell someone broke. Had it been anyone else Jessie might have been able to hold the news in, but her best friend, she couldn’t do it.

“We got married!” Jessie nearly shouts at her teammate who whips her head around from where she was standing at her own cubby.

“What?”

Jessie turns, grabbing the jersey behind her and holding it out to Janine. “We, last Friday, we got married, we eloped.”

“Holy shit!” She comes up, grabbing the jersey to hold it out and look at it herself. “Wow. I can’t believe it. Shy little Jessie, married before me.” Janine teased. Jessie could feel her face flush slightly. “Is this your announcement?”

Jessie nodded. “We decided might as well let everyone know, confirm the suspicions everyone has had for years now.”

“That’s really exciting Jessie, I’m so happy for you both.” Janine pats Jessie on the back before pulling her in for a quick hug.

“What’s exciting?” The two turn to see more teammates trailing in. A couple of them looked over where Jessie and Janine were standing.

“Go ahead, show it off!” Janine hands her back the jersey and Jessie wanders over to where the group of teammates stood. She slowly starts telling her teammates the news. It's only a few minutes before her whole team knows and the locker room is filled with congratulatory applause and cheers from her teammates as they all learn the news.

A few hours later you’re standing in the family section, sporting a jersey of your own, your new shared last name across the back. When you arrived at the stadium to get your friends and family credentials, a member of the equipment staff had met you, presenting you with a jersey that matched the one in the photo Jessie had sent you. A small note from Jessie attached to it.

‘For my wife, I love you.’ You smiled at the note, the fact that wife was your official title now still had yet to set in. You thanked the staff and quickly found a restroom to change in before heading to your seat.

You found yourself sitting watching, your right index finger and thumb playing with the silicone band that now rested on your left ring finger. It felt weird. Not bad, but new and different, exciting, every time you touched it you thought of Jessie and your perfect little wedding. A few of the other player’s family had asked about the jersey, some of them making jokes that you two needed to hurry and actually get married until you told them you had. You received the same congratulations that your wife was getting from her own teammates.

When the speaker came on to announce the starting eleven for each team you nearly held your breath waiting for Jessie’s name to be called. You didn’t know if she was having them say it, maybe she’d keep it just her name for the lineup. When you heard her first name called, your ears perked up, not only was her last name announced, but your last name followed hers, just as it was written on the jersey. You noticed a murmur in the crowd after the initial cheers died down. No doubt people were confused about her name but you didn’t care.

The game was an easy one, Portland beating Seattle and you got to watch your wife score a beautiful goal. As it landed in the back of the net she immediately bolted over to where you were standing, holding out her left hand toward the direction in which you stood before kissing her ring finger. She then turned to celebrate with her teammates, but the celebration definitely got the message across.

When the game finished you made your way down to the pitch to find Jessie. “Hi wifey.” You say, coming up behind her and wrapping your arms around her to pull her close.

“Hi wife.” She says, pulling her attention away from her conversation with Quinn who quickly congratulated both of you.

“My last name looks good on you.” You say as you lean over putting a small peck on her cheek.

“I know it does, we should’ve done this years ago.”

[msbigredmachine]

3 Sluts (Jey Uso)

Jey got two of 'em spittin’ on that thang… 😈💦

Pairings: OC/Jey Uso/OC

Word Count: 1732

Warnings: Threesome, SMUT

Credit to the owners of the pics and gifs.

----------------

His dark eyes, hazy, fixated and awestruck; his long fingers quivering on the back of her head. The cool outdoor breeze wafted over his saliva-slick length each time it escaped the warmth of her mouth, making him tremble in his spot on the large patio chair overlooking the clear blue waters of the Mediterranean Sea. 

“Mmm…yeah, baby, I like that,” he drawled, watching her lather up her spit all over his dick with her hand before slipping him back in her mouth. He felt his body deflate with a low, satisfied moan as she sucked him thoroughly, her acrylic nails scraping his turgid flesh as they worked in rhythm with her warm, tight throat. Main Event Jey Uso was in Paradise, in more ways than one.

“Yeah, Lolo, get that shit.”

The familiar sultry voice prompted Jey to look up, his stare softening from lust to love as his girlfriend, Iris, stepped through the sliding glass door onto the balcony. Wearing a yellow string bikini that complimented her curvy body and brown skin, it was a welcome switch from the seriousness of the power suits she donned at work. Said power also allowed her to whisk him away to the sun-kissed climates of Mykonos on a private jet for some well deserved time off, much of which included getting tag-teamed by her and her best friend London. 

Dating the heiress to the world’s most valuable Black-owned sportswear company granted Jey access to many precipices of pleasure around the world, such as the palatial villa the threesome were currently isolated in and had christened multiple times in just a few days. To have two of the most beautiful women he’d ever laid eyes on sharing their bodies with him on the regular was quite the experience, and he loved every second. There was never a dull moment with his fun, sexy freak of a girlfriend and her even bigger freak of a BFF.

“Hey baby,” he greeted her, rolling the breakfast trolley aside so she could squeeze into the chair with him. “That sleep was good, huh? It’s nine in the morning.”

“Y’all can’t blame me, you two knocked me out last night. Woulda slept some more if it wasn’t for all the moaning and cheek-clapping going on here,” she laughed. “The windows are open so I can hear everything.” She bent low to accept his kiss and lovingly stroked London’s hair, smirking at the look of complete bliss on her man’s face thanks to her best friend's magic mouth. “She’s good, ain’t she,” she asked.

London released Jey’s dick long enough to brag, “I ain’t just ‘good’, I’m the fuckin’ best.”

“Um, not as good as me, bitch,” Iris argued playfully, eyeing up her boyfriend through her long lashes as she guided his face back to hers, “Ain’t that right, Daddy?”

Her kisses were the cure for every ailment, Jey had since acknowledged, as he kneaded the soft, plump flesh of her derriere, moaning into her mouth as her tongue circled sensually around his own. At the same time, he felt his dick slide deeper down London’s throat, short-circuiting his senses momentarily. Iris giggled and decided to ease up on him, grabbing the can of whipped cream off the breakfast tray. Spraying a generous amount on a large strawberry, she held it to Jey’s parted lips for a bite. He chewed on it with a happy sigh, making her smile. It was nice to see him relaxed after working so hard for so many months.

“Mmm. Tastes perfect, just like yo sexy ass,” Jey praised, gifting her with a smack on her backside, “Give some to Lo, too,” he instructed.

Iris did as she was told and fed London with another strawberry. London sat up and took a sloppy bite, causing the juice to trickle down her chin, past the column of her neck and between her bare breasts. “Ooh, I made a mess,” she commented, licking her lips and eyeing up her friend with a sly, dark expression. “Help me clean it off, babe?” 

Iris looked at her with a wicked grin of her own before leaning over Jey’s prone body to lap up the sweet juice that had dripped down London’s chin. London’s giggles dissolved to soft sighs as Iris used her tongue to trail the rivulet all the way down to the middle of her breasts, angling her head to suck her pierced nipple into her mouth. With a throaty moan, London sat up straighter, cupping Iris’s face and pulling her in for a kiss. 

Wrestling fans have described a lot of his recent content as cinema, but to Jey, nothing he did could ever compare to the visual of hot, sexy women making out. It was a joy to watch the two centers of his universe indulge in each other. London moaned with every sweep of Iris’ tongue inside her mouth, his sexy girlfriend taking charge like she always did. Her grip on London’s chin was firm as their kiss deepened and got hotter. When it became too hot and he started to feel left out, he cleared his throat to recapture their attention, prompting the women to pull apart and giggle mischievously.

“Looks like Daddy’s missing us,” London commented, coming closer to press her lips to Jey’s, sharing the joint tastes of strawberry and Iris with him.

“Mm-hmm, sure looks like it,” Iris agreed, sharing a devilish smile with her bestie. “Let’s give him what he wants, shall we?”

Iris slithered down her boyfriend’s muscled body and settled on top of London, the can of whipped cream in her grasp. With her breasts pressed against London’s back, Iris drizzled some whipped cream all over Jey’s dick, from tip to ballsac, smiling when he hissed from the cold dessert against the sensitivity of his groin. London was going in on his balls while Iris wrapped her tongue around his tip, teasing for a few seconds before taking him fully into her mouth. The pleasure was quick to engulf him, his body hypnotized by their warm, eager mouths. He glanced down at his two girls, one on top of the other, his lips parted slightly in a sex-induced stupor as they feasted on his dick and his balls; it was hard to determine whose ministrations he was enjoying more. 

“Fuck,” Jey whispered, his body melting into the chair, his hand coming up to cover his eyes. Head from London was already mind-blowing enough, but adding Iris to the mix took it to another stratosphere. His dick had not known peace since they touched down on the island, buried in either one of his girls’ holes at any given time. Not that he was complaining, not at all. He could feel the slow strokes of Iris’ thick lips up and down his dick, marking every inch of his sensitive flesh like a skilled painter working her canvas. Meanwhile, London’s mouth was stuffed with his balls. Her free hand was underneath him squeezing his ass, adding a new layer of sensation that caught him off guard enough to buck his hips suddenly, pushing himself deeper down Iris’ throat which made her gag a little. But she was never one to back down, coming up for air for a split second before going back in. His deep voice rattled with pleasure as he gripped her hair, desperately holding on as he lost himself to the wetness of their mouths and their sensual moans and sexy slobbers, intensifying the heat swirling in the pit of his stomach. 

Handing the reins back to London, Iris returned to Jey’s side and caressed his sun-bronzed abs, watching his eyes roll to the back of his head with a smirk. He was getting closer, she could tell from his breaths, shallow and erratic, his handsome features scrunched in painful pleasure as she and London drove him crazy. 

“Unnh, I’m gonna fuckin’ come,” he groaned, moaning again when Iris nibbled on the side of his neck, pinching with her teeth.

“Mmm, look at me, Daddy, you look so fuckin’ hot when you’re about to nut,” she cooed, rubbing her hand up and down his tattooed torso as he managed to drag his gaze to hers. She leaned down and kissed him, using her tongue to play with his mouth. In her peripheral vision she could see London cranking it up, her head and hands rotating ominously around his dick. “You gon’ fill up her mouth with your cum, baby? Cuz she’s been such a good little slut for you?”

Too wound up to speak, he could only nod his head with wide, glazed-over eyes. Iris plucked his nipple between her fingers, stimulating him some more. Her mouth and tongue loved all over the side of his throat, combining lethally with London’s deep throat soon plummeting him into that familiar abyss of ecstasy. 

“Oh shit, shit, fuck!” Jey moaned, tossing his head back as the powerful orgasm crashed over him. His entire body jerked as his cum shot out and landed all over London’s chin and lips. The more she jerked him off, the harder he came in mesmerizing waves. The creamy, white nut covered his dick and trickled down to his balls and London left none of it behind. He struggled to gather his breath, exhaling shakily as she ran her tongue all over his still-sensitive length with a sultry giggle.

“Good boy,” Iris praised him, running her fingers through his hair and kissing his temple.

“Damn, y’all gon’ be the death of me,” Jey breathed, staring up adoringly at his girlfriend.

After London had licked him clean, she stood up and adjusted her bikini top. “Well, this was fun. But it’s gettin’ kinda hot. Wanna take the party inside?”

“You sure?” Iris asked, as London rounded the chair, kissed both her lovers on the mouth and helped them to their feet. “Yeah. We not doin' nothin' all day,” she reminded them, “I don’t mind just layin’ back and watching y’all. You two are so hot together.”

“Now where’s the fun in that?” said Jey, throwing one arm around Iris and the other around London as they stepped back inside the villa. “When we get upstairs, gimme ten minutes to recharge. Then Lolo, you gon sit’ on my face. Baby, you ridin’ my dick. I wanna see that ass bounce on me…”

THE END

----------------

Random drabble, I know, lol. Thoughts?

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[nsharks]

bleeding blue | apocalypse au

part eight —other parts

pairing: Simon "Ghost" Riley x fem!reader words: 3.2k tags: death. blood. zombies of course. reader menstruates. single dad ghost. there will be sex but it isn't here yet. slow burn!!! enemies to lovers. summary: After losing your companions, you run into a skull-masked man and his daughter. They are your last hope for survival. a/n: let's see how this trip goes

A neon-yellow lighter. A comb with a few teeth broken off. A deck of cards. That is what you have scrounged so far in this little convenience store that Blue convinced Ghost to stop in— the only stop in the village he will allow on the way to the military base. She spotted a rack of magazines from the window and the child in her begged him.

Fuckity fuck, Ghost. Please. Please. Please.

You’ve decided to sweep through the aisles to make this forced trip at least a little worth it for you. Broken glass and dust lay under the soles of your boots. All the food in here is gone, of course. The lighter you found can be useful.

Oh. You also found a corny romance book. You are in need of something to read, too. You left behind your old copy of A Farewell to Arms. You imagine that it was flattened to something unrecognizable by the mass of Greys.

You go to the aisle for toiletries. Again, these shelves have been licked almost clean. You fish your hand all the way to the back to see if anything could be there. You didn’t have time on your first trip to do much searching for anything other than medicine.

What your hand manages to knock against is a box. You pull it forward to inspect it. Gold packaging. Faded letters. It’s a box of condoms. First, you feel annoyed. It is useless to you. Expired, anyway. But then some memories come to mind along with a stir in your stomach.

Sex. Right. At one point, these were useful to you.

What you had told Blue the other day was mostly the truth. Coursework and exams meant that a steady relationship wasn’t on your mind back then. You were too young for it, anyway. You liked going out. You liked dancing with your friends. You liked meeting new people and sipping on drinks that were sweet enough to go down without a wince.

But what you didn’t tell Blue, and what you haven’t thought about in a long time, is that the last guy you had sex with was a little more than just someone you enjoyed the company of.

You trace your finger over the letters on the box, recalling the buried memory. A few weeks before the outbreak, you met him at a pub. He chatted you up. He was kind-eyed and sleek. A few years older than you. A jaw like the man in Blue’s magazine.

You didn’t even go home with him that first night. You just spent hours talking. And then texting. And then he took you out to that sushi place you loved in London three times because he saw that you were obsessed with the sashimi. He teased you for it. Finally, he invited you to his flat. He was different. He didn’t touch you until you touched him. You can remember it, that last time. The kissing. You whispered in his ear to take you to his room. He pulled out a box of condoms just like this.

The morning of the outbreak you remember telling your sister you might want something more from him.

She was thrilled to hear it.

There were a few people you texted that day to see if they were okay. Your parents, some close friends, and him. You never got a response from any of them. As you fled with Paul towards the forest, you’d dropped your phone. You only realized it later than night when you wanted to take it out and read over your old messages with him as a source of comfort.

Anyway, he was never your boyfriend, and he is now likely dead. Or Grey.

You haven’t thought about him for at least three years. Just another singed thread of an old life, unimportant to you now. Those losses are easier to deal with than the losses you had to actually witness.

You are just about to put the box back when a poke arrives on your shoulder.

“Hey, Twix, look what I found.”

Blue holds a solid stack of magazines against her chest. In her other hand, she holds up two bracelets with plastic, pink beads on them.

“Bracelets,” she smiles. “One for you and one for me.”

You raise a brow, then glance around. You spot Ghost at the front counter stuffing his backpack with cigarettes. His own treats, you suppose.

You look back at her. “Are you sure?”

She nods and offers one to you. As you slip it over your wrist, subconsciously hiding it under the sleeve of your coat, she says, “One of the books Ghost read to me talked about friendship bracelets. That can be this for us. I mean— we’re friends, right?”

“Oh. Um. Do you want to be my friend?”

“Well,” she slips her own bracelet on and waves her hand about, “Grim is my friend and he never saved my life before or gave me chocolate. So—” her voice turns hushed as if sharing a secret, “—I guess you are a better friend than him, huh?”

You bite a smile. “I guess so.”

Then, her eyes drift to the box still in your hand. “What did you find?”

“Huh?” You raise it up, almost having forgotten about it, and feel a warmth spread over your cheeks. “Oh, nothing, really.”

“What is it?”

“I-I don’t know, actually,” you splutter quickly.

“Maybe Ghost knows.” She rounds her lips as if ready to call for him but you shush her.

“No, no. Don’t ask him."

“Why not?”

“Because he—” you slide your eyes around, looking for the right excuse, “Because he doesn’t care for me, okay? I don’t want to bug him.”

“It’s not that he hates you or anything,” she assures you, sighing. “He just doesn’t trust you. Really, he isn’t so bad. He let you play would you rather with us, right?”

She is referring to the game that consumed the four-hour walk to get here. As you stepped over the same tree roots from your first journey, Ghost and Blue began a rather dark game of would you rather. Asking each other which gruesome death they would prefer. A humor she must get from him, you figured. Blue finally asked him: Can Twix play, too? He flashed you a look, jaw stiff, and you wanted to hide as you watched his eyes process this new name his daughter has chosen for you. To your surprise, he allowed it. Maybe to keep her calm, entertained, or both. You can’t say it wasn’t awkward for you, though.

Before you can protest again, she calls his name, and you regret not just telling her what they are.

He is quick to make his way over.

“Twix found something but she doesn’t know what it is,” Blue chimes, taking the box from your hand and passing it to him. You inch backward, your spine pressing into the shelves as you watch him realize what it is. Then, he offers you an unreadable glance, probably wondering why the fuck you would be looking at these.

His eyes shift back to her.

“Well,” Blue clicks her tongue. “Is it useful?”

“No.” He hands it back to her.

“What is it? Do you know?”

“Jus’ nothing useful,” he repeats, and she huffs, giving you an apologetic look and mumbling a sorry before tossing the box back on the shelf.

“Got ‘em all picked out?” He nods to her magazines.

She nods. “Yeah, I found some good ones.”

“We’re leaving, then.”

A clear sky hangs over your heads as you continue moving south. On your solo trip, you spent hours perusing Ribchester's streets, whereas now Ghost cuts right through, wanting to search the base before nightfall and then find somewhere safe to sleep.

There is no rain today, luckily. Even though it helps conceal your human scent, it also helps hide their rotten one, making it hard to detect them. It also can make shooting arrows trickier.

There is a light wind that howls like a moaning widow through the empty buildings, drowning out the sound of all three pairs of booted footsteps. Just as you told Ghost, there aren’t many of those fucks here. Their smell lingers in the air but most of them are probably trapped in the buildings and cars. Still, you keep your bow armed and Ghost clutches his handgun. Only one finds you here, but it isn’t much of a threat. A slow and pitiful one with a twisted leg that drags as it clambers out from an alleyway.

It catches the human scent, its pale eyes pointing toward the three of you.

They love the smell of living flesh. From your experience, they love the smell of fresh blood even more, but luckily none of you are bleeding, or else more of them certainly could've been drawn out like cockroaches.

Upon one look at it, you can tell this Grey must have been infected years ago, a woman tattered without any hair left on her skull. The thing is, the longer they have been infected, the longer their muscles have been rotting away. They grow slower.

For some reason, Ghost doesn't pull the trigger of his gun even though you know he sees and smells it like you do. He doesn't even reach for the axe tucked at his waist. You have never encountered Greys with him. You suspected he'd be quick to kill them. Confused, you aim your arrow and close one eye for precision, but a firm hand falls on your arm and forces you to lower it.

You give him a furrowed look.

He drops his hand and nods to Blue, who has been sticking close to his side.

"All yours, kid."

"Do I have to?" She puckers her lips in disgust and touches the fabric of his black coat.

"Good practice for you."

"With my knife?" she sighs dutifully. "Or the gun you gave me?"

"Knife. Save the ammo.”

The Grey is still a few paces away, but slowly trudging closer, enough that its flayed snarls sound over the wind.

Blue pulls out the knife from her pocket. You stand back and watch as she hurls it towards the head, but the blade pierces its neck instead, splitting the stringy flesh and exposing a larynx.

She winces.

"S'okay. You've got another," Ghost says.

She nods and reaches for the second knife strapped to her ankle. This time, her knife finds the skull, audibly cutting through bone and brain.

“Good. Now go get ‘em.”

You understand why he made her practice this. They don’t encounter them often in the forest, but he still wants her prepared— get her used to doing it on her own for the day she might not have him there. It is a reminder of what it means to be a parent in this world, and you don’t envy him for it.

Blue twists her knife out from the skull, some chunks of grey brain bubbling out, and she scrunches her nose but doesn’t seem too bothered. Before she runs back over, she mouths words to it just as you have seen her do to the dead animals. You can’t make them out.

“Sometimes I wonder what it’s like being one of those fucks,” she announces as you keep walking. She taps a finger to her temple. “I just wonder if you still remember your old life or have dreams and stuff. Or does your brain just not work at all?”

“They aren’t people anymore,” Ghost reminds her gruffly.

“I know, I know.”

“I don’t think they have dreams,” you quietly add. “They don’t sleep.”

“But maybe they are sort of sleeping,” she says. “Like sleepwalking. And maybe they are dreaming the whole time about things they remember from being a human.”

“No,” Ghost says. “They’re as good as dead. Don’t go thinkin’ like that.”

“I’m not saying I feel bad about killing them. I know they aren’t real people anymore,” she mumbles, kicking at a rock. She looks at you. “Twix, what would you do if you got bitten?”

Ghost mutters a Jesus Christ under his breath.

The question throws you off, even though it is something you have mulled over often. You hesitate, before honestly answering, “I think I would just kill myself.”

“Ghost would, too. Well, actually, our plan is for me to shoot him in the head and then run back home. Right, Ghost?”

He hums his response.

It must be a plan he reviewed with her before leaving.

A plan that he has ingrained into her brain from an age too young to fully comprehend the potential reality of it.

There are another ten kilometers to walk to get to the military base. The sore toes cramped in your boots and the growing blister at your heel wishes Ghost took the truck, but whatever his emergency plan is, it must call for every drop of fuel he has.

The terrain transforms back to soil and trees as Ghost departs from the road, and the rotten smell in the air remains faint. The game of would you rather resumes, but Blue quickly grows bored of it. Instead, she begins to poke at you with some questions as she likes to do. She seems to be more comfortable doing it in front of Ghost. It’s not like he can keep her away from you out here.

“So, Twix, how old are you exactly? You never told us.”

You tell her.

“Shit balls, Ghost,” she nudges a hip to his side. “You really are an old man.”

“Fuckin’ hell. I’m not.” He nudges her back, a bit too hard, because she practically stumbles, but it only makes her laugh more. “I’m just your old man, kid.”

Luckily, her questions stick to the minute things, and she doesn’t bring up sex again. Your favorite animal. If you have any tattoos. You should see how many Ghost has. Of course, you have only ever seen the skin of his hands a few times and the skin around his eyes.

The sound of rushing water is what quiets her.

You make it to a river.

Ghost leads you to where a bridge must have been on his map, but all that remains of it is a narrow beam of rusted metal and nothing to hold onto.

“I don’t think that’s such a good idea, Dad.”

Blue peers down the cliff and you take a look with her. The water isn’t moving too fast, but it must be freezing, and walking around in wet clothes is a sure way to get hypothermia. Ghost doesn’t have much of a choice.

He has her walk close in front of him and keeps both hands firm on her shoulders. You don’t have anyone to help you. You tighten your core to keep yourself upright, watching each step you take. Right, left, right, left. The wind dissuades you with nudges against your left side. You pause for a moment and look up.

They are already across.

You hear Blue shout just as your left foot slips. Air whirls around you and your arms instinctively jut out to grab hold of the beam. You hang from it, breathing hard from your nose. Your bare hand clutches the sharp edge and earns you a cut into your palm, but the pain is easy to ignore. Your ears ring. You muster all your strength to hoist yourself up, but it’s not quite enough, and you almost lose your grip.

Hissing, you look down at the water that laps between rocks beneath you. Maybe you should just fall in. Your skin prickles as you imagine the icy water engulfing you and soaking your clothes.

Hypothermia. Another real threat in this world. You recall the chapter from one of your textbooks. It can set in quickly. There wouldn’t be enough time for you to make it back to the village and search for dry clothes. You should’ve brought your extra pair of old ones. You didn’t even think—

What ends up engulfing you is warmth.

You are pulled up with ease and drawn close to a hard chest. Ghost locks an arm around your waist to steady you and naturally, you lean into his hold, your boots finding their place again on the beam.

You pant. For a moment you just stand there, before you start walking again, this time with him close behind you as he holds your shoulders just as he did with Blue. Because of the proximity, you can detect the rise and fall of his chest against your back. Underneath his thick coat, the muscles of his core are tightened just as yours are in order to keep his balance.

He couldn’ve just let you fall. Blue must have asked him to help you back up.

You find your voice when you are almost across. Blue watches with her hands tucked in her pockets.

“Thank you,” you tell him.

What he tells you, warm brass in your ear that arrives in the quietest voice you’ve ever heard from him: “Don’t become a liability for me out here, Twix.”

It unnerves you, the message that lies in his words. What he means to say is he has no problem leaving you behind if he has to. Letting you die.

But what unnerves you even more is the shudder that hums through your spine from the soft drawl of his voice in your ear, uttering this new name for you when he has never even once used your real name, and the way that his filtered breath works its way down your neck. Even though he has growled threats of murder in there multiple times, you find yourself not minding if he has a few more to offer just so you can hear his voice like this again. So quiet. Probably so Blue doesn’t hear.

But he doesn’t offer anything else.

Maybe you are just in shock. Maybe you are just glad to not be freezing, and his warmth has given a confusing relief. You swallow the strange thought and find a nice burial spot for it next to your grief.

When your boots make it to the soil, his hands drop and you turn around to face him. Annoyance finally finds you. Of course, his help arrives at the same time that he warns you of the limited supply of it he is willing to offer.

Through your teeth, you say, “I won’t.”

[targaryenrealnessdarling]

Please write me a Billy W story - no particular premise, but I would like heart wrenching angst and disgusting smut. Something that will make me feel like I want to bite through my own forearm like I know only you can.

@ewanmitchellcrumbs <3 xoxo

You got it, baby~ Tried the heart-wrenching angst but didn't want to kill my precious boy, hope you like!

Lost Without You

Warnings: past trauma, swearing, angst, mentions of breakup, smut (p in v, oral m receiving, tiddy succin) | Word Count: 6k~

Links to my Taglists: General Taglist | Billy W Taglist

Billy hadn’t been in a car since Cranstead Fields.

Couldn’t and wouldn’t.

In the summer, with the incessant heat and dry air, it was totally fine. He would walk for hours and hours, mostly people watching and mulling over the events of that hot July where he had nearly fallen victim to his own overly trusting nature. Or perhaps he was naïve. It was difficult to tell the difference these days.

London flocked with tourists in the Summer, with the school holidays in full swing not long after. He'd happily disappear into the crowds, not wanting to be seen, and only observe. He'd watch families enjoy their time off in the blazing sun, even at Cranstead Fields, sometimes he'd walk past and see young lads playing footie right where his car had been. The grass now free of the tinged black tips from the fire, had turned a pale yellowish green with the harsh heat.

He thought it was wrong that he kept coming back. And he didn't know why he did.

People had fucking picnics there, absentmindedly sucking on ice lollies to keep cool, laughing and enjoying life.

Right where his had nearly ended.

He felt helpless. But he hated that he even felt that.

He remembered panicking so much in that driver's seat, so much so he'd nearly made himself sick. Shouting desperately for his sister to help him. Remembered her face through the window as she'd winced at what she'd seen inside the glovebox.

He barely remembered the extraction.

The in-between was blurry and he'd been sobbing so hard that only one thing could've brought him to his feet now that he was kneeling on the grass behind his car.

He'd nearly laughed as she pushed a policeman out the way, ignoring the orders for her to stay away. After all, there was still a live bomb inside the car. But she'd paid it no mind and had been kept away long enough. She ran across the cordon, her skin beneath the sundress she was wearing flushed with heat, exhaustion and outright terror. Her bare knees hit the grass with a thud, they'd be stained later, as she threw her arms around him, pulling him into a helpless hug.

If he wasn't so upset, he'd have worried about how covered in nervous sweat he was, how unbearably terrible he must have looked with his tear-streaked face. He'd never cried so much in front of her before. Even now as he snakes his arms around her waist, pulling her close, he'd buried his face in her neck so she wouldn't see. He could feel her breathing heavily, her heart beating fast, and how much she was trying not to cry at finally feeling him in her arms.

She settled for running her hands through his hair, damp from the heat and sweat, whispering his name as if to bring him crashing back into the reality where they were both here. He was safe.

She always made him feel safe. Wanted. It was a feeling Billy didn't know he needed before she came along.

But as usual.

He'd fucked it up.

After Cranstead, she did everything. All the cooking, cleaning, making sure he was taken to the police station to submit his statement. Sometimes it felt like she was more his secretary than a girlfriend.

At first, he appreciated her company, her willingness to commit herself to his wellbeing. And it wasn't like she wasn't selfless before, she'd always been good to him, but she'd really turned to the dial up to 10.

Some weeks in, it began to have the opposite effect. He felt like shit.

It felt like he was a kid again. And while, deep down, he wanted her help, he couldn't help but feel like she was pitying him. And he didn't need any more fucking pity. That's all anyone does. The further away the Cranstead Fields incident got, the more his parents returned to their previous conversations. Jobs. Commitments. When he and she would move in together. What he was going to do with his life.

As if it was just as simple as just forgetting it. As if the experience hadn't torn him apart.

She began to notice something was off a few weeks after the incident. He was recluse, giving one-word answers annoyed, spending most of his time smoking out the balcony doors of his flat instead of eating.

He couldn't bear to look at her. Didn't want to see that sinking look on her face. To come to the realisation that their relationship was failing and entering that murky, horrid form, where you know you should end it, but neither party wants to say it.

He thought, she had realised sooner than she wanted to admit. She loved him and wanted to be there for him, like any good girlfriend would be. She stood, watching him have his cigarette with his back to her, her overnight bag strung over her shoulder, wondering what she should say in response to what he'd just said.

"I don't need your help and I don't need you"

She opened her mouth a few times, willing something to come out. But she was too hurt to reply. She knew what that really meant.

She thought about writing a note. But instead, holding the hot tears back, she threw her bag in her car and sat in the driver's seat for a moment before gathering the strength to leave. Billy watched her car, a tiny little Volkswagen, pull away. And never come back.

With her, the families and tourists also left London, making way for the dull, wet humidity that Autumn came with. Even though they never moved in together, he felt the loss of her presence in his flat. Every time he came home, it slapped him in the face and if he felt shit before, when she was here, he felt even worse now for having broken up with her the way he did.

He hadn't even had the courage to really say it out loud. Nor to face her.

Billy did what he usually did, and accepted the feeling with open arms, dragging himself further down into a spiralling era of depression. Therapy did fuck all these days, he thought. Just paying someone else to take pity on you, which is the last thing he needed.

The flat slowly became a tip without him really even realising, packets of empty cigarettes piled up and all he did was go out every now and then for food and pop by the jobcentre. Not like there was much out there at the moment. Job seekers allowance would have to do for now.

Today was no different. With Autumn came shorter days and he'd barely realised, stuck in the jobcentre that it had become dark and mercilessly rainy. He pulled his hoodie over his head, stuck his hands in his pockets and went out into the pelting showers. It soaked through his clothes immediately, not dressed for such weather. Hair damp and sticking to his head and his jeans clinging uncomfortably to his legs with every step.

Pulling out his vibrating phone, he declined the call from Lana and shoved it back in his pocket. She'd been on his case like no other. Asking where his girlfriend was and how he'd let himself get like this. She was always the one to call him out, he hated it on one hand, but on the other it was nice to have it handed to him plainly sometimes.

Not today though, he thought.

The weather was unrelenting, rain pelted down so quick he could scarcely raise his head without it getting in his eyes.

He stepped off the curb to cross the road, without looking. A pair of headlights screeched to a halt.

"Jesus!" He pulled back onto the pavement again, face illuminated by the bright lights as he squinted.

He'd only realised what was going on when the driver's side opened. Her Volkswagen still had the lights on and the windscreen wipers were still quickly whirring.

She stood out the car slightly, her otherwise dry hair now gathering drops of rain, her jeans now a darkened blue the longer she stood there.

He felt his neck get hot, seeing her now after so long.

"Billy" were the only words that came from her lips,

"Fucks sake…" he turned a bit to walk away, not looking back even when he heard the car door slam shut.

"Billy!" She called after him, rain slapping on the concrete as she jogged up to him and pulled on his arm, "Billy, stop"

He pulled his arm away, looking down at her, "what!"

"I'm not letting you walk home in this. Get in" she said, voice elevated over the sound of the rain, which was running all over her face, down her neck, soaking her clothes right through.

"I didn't ask for your help"

"Would you stop being so fucking stubborn for one second?" She countered, clearly annoyed. They stared one another down for a moment, ignoring the ways their stomachs fluttered to see each other again.

"Come on, get in" she said, softer this time. Both of them now completely sodden.

He watched her get back in the car, torn at whether he should or not. He was still a good fifteen minute walk from his flat and already wet through, his shoes as well.

A short five minute drive in the car with his ex was a tough choice.

He opened the passenger door, eyeing the seat for a moment. He leaned forward, and opened the glovebox to find it empty (apart from her logbook and various other scraps), his heart going a million miles an hour. Eyes darted about the footwell, desperate to see if it was safe or not.

"It's alright, Billy…" she said softly from the driver's seat. In the low light of the car, he'd almost forgotten how pretty she was.

To both of them, it was clear that there was still love there. But neither wanted to be the first to say it. Or even acknowledge its existence.

He swallowed nervously and slumped into the passenger seat, suddenly feeling bad at how wet the seats must be. But it didn't seem like she minded. She just put the car in gear and drove the familiar five minutes to his flat in relative silence, apart from the quiet hum of the radio.

Of course the first time he's in a car in months, it's with her.

She pulled up to the curb, keeping the car running, as if she'd expected him to open the door and just run out, without saying anything. But Billy surprised himself, sat firmly in the passenger seat, he didn't move.

He didn't know what was happening to him. But for some reason, now that he had her back within reach, he didn't want to let her go.

He felt like a dick. For treating her as he did back then, and even tonight, when she'd offered him a lift, not expecting to even come in for a cuppa, he'd been cold and reclusive.

She turned off the ignition, looking over at him as he stared distantly into his lap, "You alright?" She asked carefully.

He wished he hadn't caved and looked at her, but he did. And his mouth went completely dry when he met her gaze. She made him feel so safe. So safe. Even now, when there was no real danger or chance of it, her mere presence seemed to calm that quick pounding of his heart.

"Do uh…you wanna come in?"

It came out more desperate than he'd intended. But he didn't regret saying it.

One of her hands noticeably gripped the steering wheel tighter, and he could see the internal battle she was fighting. Deciding whether or not it was a good idea.

She cleared her throat, unbuckling her seatbelt, "Sure, yeah…"

Billy winced remembering how messy the flat was when he'd left, and wondered what she'd think. He knew she was never the type to judge, but it embarrassed him all the same.

He felt his heart pitter patter in his chest at seeing her in his flat again, where she used to spend so much of her time. Where they'd nuzzle close on his tiny sofa, watching old 90s movies. Where she'd make him breakfast every Sunday morning, without fail. Where she'd come home after a bad day, seeking nothing but the comfort of being wrapped up in bed with him, stroking her hair.

"Tea? Coffee?" He asked, slipping into the kitchen. She followed, her hands wrapped around herself from the chill of being damp.

"Tea…thanks"

The loud, unrelenting hiss of the kettle filled the silence for a bit. Billy was trying to figure out what to say, keeping his hands busy fiddling with the teaspoon. He hated this. Hated that now they had to pretend to be strangers. As if they hadn’t spent the last few years devoted to each other. Spent night after night in his bedroom, basking in the fucked-out glow of the evening watching whatever was on late night telly ‘til either of them fell asleep.

Milk. No Sugar.

She suppressed the smile that he remembered how she liked it.

She nods her head whispering a thanks as he hands it to her, palm over the top of the steaming mug. It must hurt, she thinks. But he gives it to her this way so that she can put her fingers through the handle and not scald herself. At this small, tiny act of kindness on Billy’s part, she can’t help it, she does smile. A sad one. But a smile nonetheless.

His hallway that leads to the living room and bedroom is a bit cluttered, with his several pairs of Adidas shoes piled near the entrance, where he’d toed them off and never bothered to put them away. Billy brushes behind her to carry his own cuppa to the living room, the warmth in her tummy doesn’t go amiss either. He’s a lot taller than she is, one of the things she always shamelessly loved about him.

On the corkboard are several receipts, important looking bills as well as some letters from the NHS, easily spotted with the blue header.

“Still going to therapy then?” she asked, voice half-raised to reach him in the living room.

The therapy I organised, she thinks.

“Sometimes, yeah” he answers quietly.

The living room is a reflection of Billy. Messy, not put-together, various items strewn about the room like empty cans of beer and old letters he’d not bothered to throw away. It’s not necessarily a disgusting mess like old plates of food, more just items, but worry still gnaws inside her at how he is currently living.

She looks out the balcony doors, mostly to avoid looking right at him sat on the sofa, bouncing his leg anxiously and at the obvious way he is also trying not to be caught looking at her.

"How's your parents"

She looked at him only briefly, "Alright. Dad's retired now. Moved to Australia last month. I'm paying them rent til the mortgage runs out"

Billy's eyebrows raised in surprise. The thought of her in that house by herself was a sobering one and he thought she must be lonely there all alone.

She'd always come to his flat, for a sense of privacy and independence, but also to do the things they couldn't when she was in their house.

Those lazy weekend mornings, warm beneath the sheets with their bodies pressed together. Sleepily brushing the sheets from her bare skin to touch it, tracing all her feminine lines and curves. Her breath against his neck, hurried and needy. Fucking her into the mattress until the early afternoo-

"You're being quiet" she said, almost so quiet he didn't hear. Billy steeled his expression, to try and make it obvious he wasn't thinking about all the times he'd had her in that very bed. Like he didn't know all her sweet spots, the ones that made her breathe his name in a way that couldn't possibly be replicated. In a way that made his stomach lurch into his chest in flutters.

"I don't know what you want me to say" she was holding the mug in both hands, staring out the balcony windows, looking at her car outside, being hammered with rain.

Billy poked his cheek with his tongue, hands still clasped on his lap, thinking.

"Think it's me who owes you an explanation" he replied, voice low. Like he was a child in trouble. What he'd said made her look over at him, her face and hair still damp.

"I don't know" she put the mug down, turning to him, as if she didn't trust herself to hold it, "is it?"

He forced himself to look at her, hating the way she was trying to mask how troubled she was.

“Look, I know you’re upset-”

She scoffs, pulling her tears back, crossing her arms, “Understatement of the year”

“I don’t want a fucking fight right now”

“Neither do I. But I have a feeling your explanation will make one” she kept shifting her weight from foot to foot, nervous.

Billy sighed, “I just-I didn’t feel like myself. Realised you were too good for me, and that someday you’d realise it too” he explains quietly, hands clasped together, “Thought why not speed up the process”

“And you think you know what I want, do you?” she counters, her fingers digging slightly into her palm, trying to ignore the way her chest is getting tight.

“I just want you to be happy. Sometimes you can’t get that with someone dragging you down like I was doing”

She laughs, a short puff of air off her chest, hardly able to believe what’s coming out his mouth.

“I didn’t do all that I did for my fucking health, Billy. I did it because I loved you. And not once did I ever make you feel bad for it, for giving you space” she argues, catching her breath a moment, “I just-”

“It’s not about that” Billy says sharply,

“Isn’t it? You said you didn’t need my help, remember? Or is that just a Billy way of saying you don’t love me anymore?”

“I do love you” his expression could have fooled her. He looks exasperated and angry, frustrated.

“You have a funny way of showing it” she snaps, “I was just trying to help you”

She steps back a little when Billy stands up, his height shocking her for a moment as she has to crane her neck to see his face. His fists are clenched hard beside him, body quite literally shaking with the anger he’s trying so desperately to keep in.

"You were suffocating me!”

She scoffs, “Oh I’m sorry, I’ll refer to the handbook next time my boyfriend is trapped in a car with a bomb in the glovebox, shall I?”

If he hadn't been so upset, he'd have laughed. She was always funny. Unintentionally as well. Yet another thing he loved about her.

He must have shown a little bit of it on his face, because she shook her head, “Oh I’m funny now, am I?”

It didn’t shake the small smile from his face. Billy only swallowed over the lump in his throat, feeling uncomfortably hot against the still damp hoodie that was sticking to his chest. His eyes softened instantly and he couldn’t bear to look at her as he thought about what he might say.

“It just made me realise…I mean come on-I haven’t got a job, a future, my brain’s fucked…” he confessed quietly, “...I didn’t have anything but you and I can’t help but feel I drag you down-”

“Billy…”

“No-look at you, you’ve…got your life sorted out, a home…you deserve someone on your level, someone…that might not be me”

His heart lurches right into his throat, blue eyes brimmed with tears, when she steps forward to take his hands, almost outright sobbing at the feeling of her skin against his again. Her thumbs drawing soft and gentle circles on them.

“Don’t think like that, please..” she practically begged in such a soft, desperate tone, “I could never ever imagine my life without you and when I had to-I just couldn’t…love you too much to do that”

Billy feels his heart hurting. For months it had been so rarely used. And now to feel it so full of love just in the last hour he’d seen her, the stretch to accommodate it was painful. But the nice kind.

“I nearly lost you” she chokes out, “And I hated that I couldn’t do a single thing about it…”

He feels his mouth go dry. Thinking back, after the incident, she never did cry about anything. Rather, she pretended to be the rock, emotional walls built high, so that Billy could allow himself to let go.

He was so absorbed, perhaps rightly so, in his own situation. How he'd felt. That he hadn't stopped to think how broken she'd been by what happened, and all he could think about was that desperate hug she'd given him that day. How tightly she held him, her hands touching every piece of him she could to check it wasn’t some cruel dream.

She was hurting just as much as he was.

"I'm so fucking sorry, I-" he paused halfway, choking up and unable to form the rest of it once he saw her teary eyes.

He could've sobbed when she put her hand so gently to his face, her small thumbs wiping away the wetness on his cheeks. She gave a small watery laugh, her smile breaking through the sheer exhaustion of her heartbreak in her eyes.

"You're really fucking thick sometimes, you know that" she laughed softly.

And he couldn't help it, he let out somewhere between a laugh and a sob. Finally allowing himself to run his fingers through her hair, some strands drying and some still stuck together, forming waves in their wake. Another thing he loved about her.

"It's a Washington trait" he replied, his voice quiet and desperate. Both of them trying hard not to lose it again and cry.

"I know, '' she said with a genuine smile, her eyes lighting up in front of him again from the glow of a street lamp outside.

It wasn’t clear who moved first, but neither of them cared enough to think. If her hands on his face was a small slice of heaven, having her lips against him again was paradise. She just fit against him so perfectly as he wrapped his arms around her waist, desperate for the contact he had been denied in her absence. His hand dipping slightly beneath the hem of her shirt, feeling her tacky rain-soaked skin, almost groaning right against her mouth as he broke to take a breath. The hand that was at his face tugged him closer, deepening an ever-desperate kiss, like they had both been freed to desire each other.

His lips trailed from hers to her jaw, to her neck, inhaling her familiar scent, sighing at the perfume she would always wear. That hadn’t changed either. He left open-mouthed kisses against the tender skin there, trailing down the slope of her neck to her collarbones, hot and quick pants of his breath coming in huffs against it.

Her hand tightened on his shirt, “Billy…”

She’d hate it if she could see the boyish smirk on his face. At him knowing how much she wanted him, needed him. How hot her body got when they were near each other and how that familiar pool of arousal settled between her legs at the idea of this intimacy.

He pulls her to him by her waist, tugging her to straddle his lap as he lands on his sofa, resisting the urge to rut against her as he feels her clothed core rub against him. She can feel how hard he is, how hard he has been since the second they'd touched lips. Their kisses are having less effect, only delaying the inevitable wanton need they have for each other. And yet he chases her warm, soft lips and goes back for more which each break of breath.

The second she goes to pull off her top, throwing it somewhere across the room, his hands are on her, unclasping her bra to join it and his lips and tongue running over the newly exposed flesh. It smells like a mix of her perfume, her natural scent and the earthy smell that the rain leaves behind.

He savours every breath, every soft moan that tumbles out her mouth when he mouths one of her perk, rosy nipples, taking one and running his tongue all over it. His hand joining the other to give it attention. He could die a happy man buried between her tits like this, feeling the pleasant thrum of her heart beneath her ribs.

When her hand slips beneath the waistband of his jeans, wrapping around his cock, he groans against her chest, sending vibrations through her torso. She smiles a bit, with flushed cheeks, that he's already hard.

"Miss me?"

He'd missed her playfulness. But the way she's tugging at his length, squeezing ever so slightly harder when she gets to the tip, smearing precum over the head of it as it weeps with arousal. It gives her attitude a run for its money.

His half lidded gaze looks up at her, her hair framing her face no nicely in the dim light of the room. Rosy lips parted in anticipation of his reaction to her touch, glazed and kiss-bruised from before.

"Fuck…" he breathes, tipping his head back slightly.

With his eyes shut she dips her head to his neck, sucking and biting softly on his pulse point, speeding up the motions of her hand only slightly. But not enough. She skims over his clothed chest, letting her legs fall between his to the floor, her lips kissing just below his navel over the smattering of sandy blonde hair.

Billy looks down with a sort of admiration, watching the way she tugs his jeans over his hips, taking his boxers with it. Her mouth covers every bit of skin that's shown, taking his hot and aching length in one hand to give him some languid pumps before she dips her tongue against the base.

It's the teasing that makes Billy breathe faster. But nothing prepares him for the way her mouth sinks over his cock in one smoothe warm motion. After having been together for so long, she knew how to take him well and so she takes as much as she is able into her mouth, relaxing her jaw and using the other hand to pump whatever else she can't fit.

He pulls his hoodie over his head and she can see the way his muscles on his stomach flex, trying to hold back as much as he can. His fingers thread through her hair at the side of her face to the back, not pulling her on him, just holding her as she bobs her head against him, her tongue running against the vein on the underside, a motion that makes his fists tighten against her scalp. Every now and then when her eyes look up at him, his breath is stolen from his lungs and feels as if he might cum right there and then.

She hums around him appreciatively, enjoying the heady, intoxicating taste of him after so long. Not wanting to cum too soon, Billy gently pulls her off him, his cock shining with her spit and still standing hard against his stomach.

"You're so fucking good…" he whispers as his thumb drags over her bottom lip, tugging her to his own in a deep and wanton kiss. She pulls her jeans down with her underwear before sitting astride his narrow waist again, dragging her wetness over his cock as she sways her hips over him. Being naked in front of each other like this again is just so right, so basic and human, it's like nothing ever happened.

He smirks in the kiss at how ready she already is.

"Miss me?..."

Her face blushes with embarrassment and she playfully swats his shoulder, "shut up"

He reaches between them, running the head of his cock through her slick folds. It'd be so easy to just slide inside, to be enveloped by her warmth and feel the familiar ridges of her core, squeeze him just as tightly as they always had.

"Billy please…" she sobs as he teases her, moving away when she tries to sink down on him, "please just fuck me..."

He didn't need to be told twice.

He squeezed the flesh of her ass hard when he sank inside, leaving red marks against her skin as she stretched to accommodate his size. Her lips parted, eyes softly shut as a gasp escaped her mouth, matching his.

Their breaths mingled with each other as she took him fully, the head of his cock kissing that rough spot inside, easier in this position.

"You were fucking made for me…" he breathed against her lips, using her hips to move her on hip. She mewled out in pleasure, tears pricking the corners of her eyes at feeling him so deep inside her.

He moved her on top of him, back and forth, over and over again, fucking her using his own hold on her waist, meeting her halfway with his own pressing of his hips, watching the way her tits bounced with ever harsh thrust. Her sounds, every soft moan of his name, were music, only urging him on.

“God…Billy…” running her fingers through his hair, she held him close, lifting her hips to aid their chaotic fucking. Trying and failing to hold back the intensity of her moans as her first climax fills her limbs with warmth, thighs trembling around him and a series of expletives as he shoves himself harder into her through it. It takes the wind out of her for a moment while she gathers her breath, the lewd sound of her slick against the base of his cock the only sound in the room.

Only he could make her feel like this. Lose control like this. It didn't happen overnight either. At first he'd been apprehensive to show how much he wanted sex. But when she teased it out of him, it couldn't be contained any longer.

"Taking me so well-shit" he moaned out, her breasts against his face.

He could feel himself getting close.

She squeaked in surprise when her back met the sofa, looking up at Billy over her as his large palm pulled her legs apart again. He looked so good. Naked, his cock hard and covered in her arousal, lithe form and his face, rivalling that of a statue carved out of stone. Sharp jaw and nose, his soft blue eyes, sandy blonde hair now tousled from their intense lovemaking.

How could she not love him.

He was perfect.

He unapologetically gave that boyish Billy smile as he looked down at her, her chest speckled with heat from the passion of it all. Her tits moving with her breathing and her cheeks as she smiled lazily up at him, tinged with the prettiest pink he'd ever seen.

Billy remembered the last holiday they went on together, in the late spring. They'd driven to Cornwall with a hired minivan. And before arriving into Port Isaac, they'd stopped on a country road in the late afternoon when the sun touched the sea. He'd made love to her in the driver's seat and admired the way the orange sunset kissed the colour of her hair. She looked gorgeous then, face flushed and legs astride him.

How she looks at him now reminds him of that afternoon.

"What?" She asked, when he just sat and admired her.

He just shook his head, "You're just beautiful…"

He captured her lips with his own, leaning over and slowly teasing himself back inside her, sliding through with the aid of her new rush of arousal from her orgasm. Slowly like this, she feels every ridge, every vein and it does nothing to stem the desire to have him do whatever he wants. As long as it's with her.

With the soft thrust of his hips against her, pulling her legs around his waist, his hand runs up her front, between her breasts to her neck, gently holding her while he looks down to see how his cock just effortlessly disappears inside her over and over. His hips meetings hers slower than before but with just as much power, as if trying to imprint the shape of him inside her so they’d never forget how each other felt.

Billy bites at the skin between her neck and shoulder, hoping the marks take there, before pulling her leg up in his palm and pushing it higher so that he can raise himself and fuck down into her.

"Billy…don't stop…" she breathes as her eyes meet his. He can tell the new position reaches somewhere so incredibly deep that she clutches his shoulders for purchase, nails leaving half moon shaped indents in his skin.

"Fuck, you're so-" he chokes out, the veins in his neck pulsing with desire the more he feels himself losing control. Her mewls and moans fill the otherwise quiet room, whispering his name like a chant, "I'm gonna-"

"Yes…Billy…need you" she whispers, her hands gripping his shoulders again when the pressure inside her lets loose once again, making her tighten around him.

He cums with a shattered moan against her neck, rocking himself against her a few more times for friction before stilling inside her warm heat as it convulses around him, the aftershocks of he orgasm only serving to prolong the pleasure of his. He can feel his blood humming with hunger and a sense of completion, like he's found the other half he'd been after, and doesn't want to let it go now.

He can feel their heartbeats against each other, her chest meeting his with every sharp inhale. Her skin is so warm and soft against him, he never wants to know what it's like to not have her again.

When he looks down at her, her eyes find his quickly and for a moment they admire the fucked-out expressions on their faces, the large dilation of their pupils and how their touch goes form harsh and needy to tender and loving.

She smiles tiredly and he can still feel her heartbeat inside her, even as he begins to soften.

"Tea's gone cold…" he breathes out between pants.

Her laugh fills his heart with warmth, a genuine laugh with teeth and those little lines around her eyes. And he can't help but feel a bolt of pleasure up his spine at how the laugh reverberates through her body to his cock.

He falls to his side against the sofa, lazily pulling a blanket over them and pulling her to his chest, running his fingers through her wavy, slightly tangled hair. He kisses the crown of her head, inhaling her scent, musky from the rain with a whisper of her shampoo.

"Stay here…please…" he begs, his voice thick, as if he couldn't bear the rejection of her saying no. Not after everything. He even feels his chest tighten at the thought.

Her head moves to look up at him, reaching out to bring his face to hers, kissing his lips so tenderly it made him want to weep.

"I could never leave you…ever" she whispers against his lips, slotting hers against his once more, her hand ghosting over his heart. To feel how alive he is.

Those three words don't even need to be said. They both knew it. Knew it had never left even in their absence. When their hearts had been divided.

But for old time's sake, they said it anyway.

Dividers by @saradika

General Taglist: @risefallrise @valeskafics

Billy W Taglist: @fan-goddess & for my Billy simps @assortedseaglass

*Bold means I couldn’t tag, if I can't tag you you can always turn on notifications for when I post. DM me if you wanna be removed besties

[youryurigoddess]

Aziraphale’s secret investigation and overlooked Clues

Remember this frame from Good Omens S02E06? Apparently Aziraphale had been using the empty carton box brought by Jim to store things in. It became a new home to at least two out of three “Lost Quartos” — the supposedly lost Shakespeare plays briefly but hilariously mentioned in the Good Omens book — as well as a very mysterious legal document.

Thought probably half of the Good Omens analysts here, including the ever so wonderful @fuckyeahgoodomens, who managed to find some information about the deceased John Gibson from New Cumnock (1855 - 1905).

Unfortunately the most interesting thing about this early 20th century provincial postmaster was his youngest child James (1894 - 1973), a quite famous stage (West End!) and film actor immortalized on screen in The Master of Ballantrae (1962), Witch Wood (1964) and Kidnapped (1963).

After that particular discovery the fandom-wide search seemingly led nowhere and the topic died a premature death.

And I almost figured it out seven months ago.

“But Yuri, you’re so clever. How can somebody as clever as you be so stupid?”, you probably want to shout across a busy London street at this point. Well, let me tell you. Much like Aziraphale, I'm blindingly intelligent for about thirty seconds a day. I do not get to choose which seconds and they are not consecutive.

Only tonight the stars have aligned in an ineffable way.

For those of you who don’t follow this account, some time ago I’ve realized that John Gibson isn’t the only testator whose estate was being investigated by Aziraphale right before The Whickber Street Traders and Shopkeepers Association monthly meeting.

If you watch S2 finale closely enough, you should notice that Crowley not only stress cleans Aziraphale’s bookshop — he also goes through the books and papers on his desk between the last three angels leaving the bookshop and Maggie and Nina’s intervention. A seemingly permanent arrangement of the props post-shooting, visible in detail both on Radio Times tour and SFX magazine photo shoot, sheds even more light on this detail.

The close-ups published after S2 release are legible enough to refer us to a much more prominent historical figure, Josiah Wedgwood (1730 – 1795) — an English potter, entrepreneur and abolitionist. Founding the Wedgwood company in 1759, he developed improved pottery bodies by systematic experimentation, and was the leader in the industrialisation of the manufacture of European pottery.

Long story short, I transcribed the handwritten pages abandoned on Aziraphale’s desk, found out the source and the full text of what could be identified as Wedgwood’s last will and testament, took a walk to visit his Soho workshop, and proceeded to write a lengthy meta analysis about it.

I was today’s years old when I realized that there’s something else connecting those two dead British men.

The Scottish Post Office Directory of 1903 recorded John Gibson from New Cumnock as a “stationer and china dealer” (above) operating from the shop located in the town’s post office building.

Indeed, a close look at his post office shop window in the Henderson Building (below, bottom left) reveals an artful display of fine china and pottery next to postcards printed by Gibson.

There are multiple ways to connect this surprising link with possible S3 plot points, obviously, but it’s getting late, so let’s just name the two most important ones.

You’ve probably heard of the Holy Grail, maybe from Monty Python or Good Omens S01E03 1941 flashback. Depending on the version of the story, if can be a cup, a chalice, a bowl, or a saucer — but almost always a dish or a vessel connected personally, physically and metaphysically to Jesus (unless you’re partial to Wolfram von Eschenbach’s idea that the Grail was a stone, the sanctuary of the neutral angels who took neither side during Lucifer's rebellion).

A slightly more obscure dish related to the Son of God appears in the sixteenth chapter of the Book of Revelation as a vital part of His Second Coming. The Seven Bowls (or cups, or vials) of God’s Wrath are supposed to be poured out on the wicked and the followers of the Antichrist by seven angels:

Then I heard a loud voice from the temple telling the seven angels, “Go and pour out on the earth the seven bowls of the wrath of God.” So the first angel went and poured out his bowl on the earth, and harmful and painful sores came upon the people who bore the mark of the beast and worshiped its image.

The second angel poured out his bowl into the sea, and it became like the blood of a corpse, and every living thing died that was in the sea.

The third angel poured out his bowl into the rivers and the springs of water, and they became blood. And I heard the angel in charge of the waters say, “Just are you, O Holy One, who is and who was, for you brought these judgments. For they have shed the blood of saints and prophets, and you have given them blood to drink. It is what they deserve!” And I heard the altar saying, “Yes, Lord God the Almighty, true and just are your judgments!”

The fourth angel poured out his bowl on the sun, and it was allowed to scorch people with fire. They were scorched by the fierce heat, and they cursed the name of God who had power over these plagues. They did not repent and give him glory.

The fifth angel poured out his bowl on the throne of the beast, and its kingdom was plunged into darkness. People gnawed their tongues in anguish and cursed the God of heaven for their pain and sores. They did not repent of their deeds.

The sixth angel poured out his bowl on the great river Euphrates, and its water was dried up, to prepare the way for the kings from the east. And I saw, coming out of the mouth of the dragon and out of the mouth of the beast and out of the mouth of the false prophet, three unclean spirits like frogs. For they are demonic spirits, performing signs, who go abroad to the kings of the whole world, to assemble them for battle on the great day of God the Almighty.  (“Behold, I am coming like a thief! Blessed is the one who stays awake, keeping his garments on, that he may not go about naked and be seen exposed!”) And they assembled them at the place that in Hebrew is called Armageddon.

The seventh angel poured out his bowl into the air, and a loud voice came out of the temple, from the throne, saying, “It is done!” And there were flashes of lightning, rumblings, peals of thunder, and a great earthquake such as there had never been since man was on the earth, so great was that earthquake. The great city was split into three parts, and the cities of the nations fell, and God remembered Babylon the great, to make her drain the cup of the wine of the fury of his wrath. And every island fled away, and no mountains were to be found. And great hailstones, about one hundred pounds each, fell from heaven on people; and they cursed God for the plague of the hail, because the plague was so severe.

[wingedblooms]

Elain Archeron, member of The Tortured Poets Department

i’m hearing voices like a madman - so high school

i’m seeing visions / am I bad or mad or wise? - guilty as sin?

you can mark my words that I said it first / in a mourning warning, no one heard - cassandra

and for a fortnight there, we were forever - fortnight

leaving me bereft and reeling / my beloved ghost and me / sitting in a tree / d-y-i-n-g - how did it end?

i saw in my mind fairy lights through the mist - so long, london

i cry a lot, but I am so productive, it's an art - i can do it with a broken heart

but my bare hands paved their paths / you don't get to tell me about "sad" - who’s afraid of little old me?

so I leap from the gallows and I levitate down your street / crash the party like a record scratch as I scream / "who's afraid of little old me?" / you should be - who’s afraid of little old me?

i hate it here so I will go to secret gardens in my mind - i hate it here

one slip and fallin' back into the hedge maze […] i keep recalling things we never did - guilty as sin?

these fatal fantasies / giving way to labored breath, takin' all of me / we’ve already done it in my head / if it's make-believe / why does it feel like a vow we'll both uphold somehow? - guilty as sin?

wise men once said / "one bad seed kills the garden" / "one less temptress, one less dagger to sharpen" / locked me up in towers / but I'd visit in your dreams / and they tried to warn you about me - the albatross

a rose by any other name is a scandal / cautions issued, he stood - the albatross

i spied the catch in your breath - i look in people’s windows

what if I roll the stone away? / they’re gonna crucify me anyway / what if the way you hold me is actually what's holy? - guilty as sin?

"stay away from her" / the saboteurs protested too much - but daddy i love him

crashin' into him tonight, he's a paradox - guilty as sin?

it’s happenin' again / how did it end? / i can't pretend like I understand - how did it end?

this cage was once just fine / am I allowed to cry? / i dream of crackin' locks - guilty as sin?

thought I caught lightning in a bottle / oh, but it's gone again […] please / i’ve been on my knees / change the prophecy / don't want money / just someone who wants my company / let it once be me - the prophecy

cards on thе table / mine play out like fools in a fablе […] poison blood from the wound of the pricked hand / oh, still I dream of him - the prophecy

lilac short skirt, the one that fits me like skin […] and I'll tell you one thing, honey / i can tell when somebody still wants me, come clean - imgonnagetyouback

i, i hear thе whispers in your eyes / i’ll make you wanna think twice / you'll find that you were never not mine / (you’re mine) - imgonnagetyouback

'cause the sign on your heart / said it's still reserved for me / honestly, who are we to fight thе alchemy? - the alchemy

i'll tell you something right now / i’d rather burn my whole life down […] i'll tell you something 'bout my good name / it’s mine alone to disgrace / i don't cater to all these vipers dressed in empath's clothing - but daddy i love him

if long-suffering propriety is what they want from me / they don't know how you've haunted me so stunningly / i choose you and me religiously - guilty as sin?

[mono-chromia]

Team Sport

A Drarry microfic//oneshot by mono-chromia

Cover illustration by my beloved @basiatlu (alternate versions can be viewed here)

Word count: 1.015

Read under the cut, or on AO3

Draco hadn't understood, but as he comes to find out, Hermione's words had made perfect sense. Harry Potter makes a sport out of sleeping; commiting to a nap the same way he does to a game of Quidditch.

'Mione had once called Harry a "hard sleeper", whatever that may be.

"A heavy sleeper?" Draco had asked, unsure if he was missing some muggle turn of phrase. It comes up when they are trying to figure out the sleeping arrangements in the shared hotel rooms for Luna and Neville's destination wedding.

"Oh, no," she says. "Well, that too, I suppose, so he won't mind if you get back late, but he sleeps hard. I can't quite explain it." Draco doesn't mention the undiscussed assumption that he and Harry are apparently to bunk up together. "You know how he always tries to carry all the plates and cutlery to the table in a single go? Even if there's sixteen people dining?" Draco nods. "It's kind of like that."

Draco hadn't understood, but as he comes to find out, Hermione's words had made perfect sense. Harry Potter makes a sport out of sleeping; commiting to a nap the same way he does to a game of Quidditch.

Their portkey takes them from 5 A.M. in London to 11 A.M. somewhere in the Mekong Delta region, so when they arrive in their room, Harry immediately crawls into the pristinely made hotel bed, nesting the crisp duvets and the pillows into an iceberg-like structure and sleeps. Hard. Sprawled on his belly with his clothes still on (he's wearing sweat shorts at least, not jeans, thank Merlin) but with his feet sticking out for temperature regulation. He looks like he knows what he's doing. Draco watches him fuss and clumsily toe off his socks (because what lunatic wears socks to bed? Ridiculous) and then doze off immediately, squeezing in a highly efficient, half hour kip before they are expected for their lunch arrangements.

Harry seems more affected by the jetlag than the rest of the company, so Draco finds him, not unlike a cat, sleeping in strange places and at odd moments during the entirety of their stay in Vietnam.

For instance, on a couch in the hotel lobby one early morning, while Ron and Hermione argue with the clerk over the tour reservation that Ron definitely made correctly, with his head in Luna's lap, hoodie pulled low over his eyes, and his arms hugged around his chest.

Or, on the lawn chairs by the pool in the middle of the day. Which, Draco supposes, isn't that strange a place to sleep, but Harry's commitment to the activity is once again proven when Hermione ambles over to rub sunscreen on his back and place a sunhat over his head, all without as much as a twitch.

It's really quite fascinating to watch (though no one else seems to think so) and Draco finds himself somewhat jealous, because even when he diligently works through his own list of requirements for a good sleep (freshly showered, moisturized, teeth brushed, clean sheets, glass of water on the side table, window open for airflow, access to his own pillow) he still doesn't often manage to make eight uninterrupted hours, let alone any misguided attempts at a restful nap. When Draco naps it means the situation is dire, that he is unwell, that he feels like something has crawled up his ass and died there, and it usually only exacerbates his condition instead of having the much desired effect it seems to have on Harry. That effect being that he wakes up content, mellow and sleep-soft (objectively) and exists like that for five minutes or so, before moving onto stage two of his post-nap euphoria, which includes but is not limited to; a general lust for life, toothy grins, silly jokes (objectively), and a propensity for affection towards whoever is nearest to him at any given moment.

Which means that Draco finds himself subjected to the feeling of gently excited hands on his wrists and back as they ooh-and-ahh at the view on their hike, and a chin hooked over his shoulder as Harry feigns mild interest in the book Draco is reading, before asking him to come swim.

Apparently, it also means that, when Draco is keyed up with homesickness on the third of their eight-night stay, Harry invites him into bed.

"You okay?"

Draco looks back from where he has his head stuck out the window, spooked and feeling slightly caught. He stares at Harry in his bed, making up the shape of his body under the sheets from his feet (sticking out from under the cover) to his rumpled head that's more under the pillow than on top of it. Harry's voice is thick with sleep and so, so soft.

"Oh," says Draco. "Yeah. Um. Just— a bout of insomnia."

Harry just hums, low and noncommittal, and for a moment Draco thinks that he might be sleep talking. But then Harry shifts and lifts up the duvet, wordlessly and casually extending an invite towards Draco, and waits for him to get in.

Draco would object, but maybe Harry's bed is just that much more comfortable, maybe that's why he sleeps so well, and well— truly it looks much too inviting to resist. So Draco doesn't object, and quietly pads across their room to slip into bed with Harry. The blanket is bunched up and skewed, there are more than enough pillows, yet none of them in the right spot to actually fulfill their intended purpose, but Harry isn't fussed in the least, and wastes no time snaking an arm across Draco's middle and slotting his head under Draco's chin. Harry seems to fall back asleep pretty much immediately, and Draco is suddenly surrounded by an aura of sleep-warmed sheets, skin-on-skin contact and a bouquet of powdery scented curls, clean skin and sweet spearmint breath. It would have been overwhelming if it wasn't so blissfully sedative.

A robust dose of Dreamless Sleep has nothing on the deep rise and fall of Harry's chest, the dozy twitch of his toes against Draco's leg, the blooming warmth in all the spots where their bodies are touching. Draco dreamily wishes he could bottle it. Who knew that sleeping was a team sport.

[the-fiction-witch]

You... You can't just Kidnap a Girl FAGIN! P1

Media The Artful Dodger

Character Jack Dawkins

Couple Jack X Reader (Lady)

Rating Cute

Requested:

Hey, I absolutely love your writing and I have an idea so basically y/n is the governor's daughter and belle's sister and she knows of jack and he's kinda admired her for a while and fagin knows it, but jack is in debt still so fagin kidnaps her or something to get jack the money and yeah that's it and maybe some ~smut~ . anyways I absolutely adore this fic so far and you don't have to do it but I just thought it was a cool idea 

I finished up with the rounds cleaning off my hands as I headed through the ward, my bottom lip between my teeth as Fagin followed me around while I was trying to work. He was panicking and frankly so was I, we had three days to get the rest of Darius' money... and currently we had about four pounds of the twenty-six required. 

"I told you no." I snapped down his stupid idea, 

"I don't know why you keep ignoring me dodge I have the best ideas..."

"You have terrible ideas, Fagin," I warn, 

"Why don't we... sell fake prescriptions?"

"No. I am not letting you get me in trouble."

"Why not... sell the damn mangy hospital cat." He said, "Five bob for the meat two for the skin, and we'll be on our way."

"Hosptial-" I began as I looked around spotting the little black cat on the floor nibbling at some removed fingers, the usual black fur, blue eyes and purple collar, "That is not a mangy street cat." I told him as I carefully went over and picked the cat up she very happily nuzzled into my arms for a cuddle starting to purr, "This is Lady Nightingale, Lady Y/n Fox's cat. This cat outranks the both of us." I warned him as I took the cat to the front office to keep it out of trouble, 

"she won't miss it-"

"Fagin." I stopped him, "I cannot. Cannot. be more clear about this. You touch that cat. it is both of our arses. That is the governor's daughter's cat and if so much as a hair on its perfectly brushed head is hurt I will ship you back to London myself," I told him,

"...When did you ever gain such an affection for cats?"

"I don't have an affection for cats. However, this one is a prized possession of someone very powerful and influential so it is in the best interests of our remaining alive if we do not hurt the cat." I told him as I gave the cat a pet and a check over as she tended to get into mischief on her way here, 

"Powerful and influential... with... money?" he encouraged, 

"Fagin..."

"If we happen to let the governor know his sweet girl's cat has gone... missing then surely a reward could be in order." 

"Fagin. We are on no condition kidnapping the governor's daughter's cat and holding it for ransom,"

"But think of the green dodge?"

"No. It is not happening. Not at all. No way. Absolutely not. I want you to swear to me."

"...Fine... I Swear I will not Kidnap the cat and hold it for ransom."

"Or hurt the cat."

"...Or hurt the cat."

"Alright then," I nodded just as I saw the door open, to a familiar sight.

Lady Y/n Fox wandered in, wearing her sweet little black leather boots, stockings, her beautiful lilac purple dress with a lobster tail bustle below it, and her sweet hair pinned up with her little dragonfly hairpin. She rushed in with a look of fear across her face as she often did but she relaxed a little when she saw me and Lady Nightingale, 

"Afternoon Y/n," I smiled, doing my best not to blush as I continued to pet her cat, 

"Good Afternoon Jack," she smiled, "I'm so sorry..." she said as she came to pet Lady Nightingale,

"It's alright I know she likes to come and keep us company,"

"Umm she likes to come to find you," she laughs, "Every time I open the window nowadays she bolts out to come to find you," 

"Yeah I guess so, but still I'm happy she'd be here with me so you know where she is." 

"I suppose so, and I get to come down and see you," 

"Yeah, I do get to see you, both of you." I smiled, "Well it was lovely to see you, Lady Nightingale, of course you are welcome to surgery as always as our best hospital patron, but now it is time to end the honour of your visit and head home with Lady Y/n," I laughed, 

"Yes and It was delightful for a visit with you two doctor Dawkins,  I know Lady Nightingale enjoyed it. and I'm sure she'll be back." She laughed as she picked the cat up in her arms, "Thank you for taking care of her Jack,"

"It's no problem really,"

"Thank you, I'm sure I'll see you around Doctor Dawkins," she smiled,

"I look forward to it Milady," I smiled giving her hand a kiss before she headed out with cat in hand, 

"Interesting... how you're on first name terms with the goveners daughter." Fagin smirked, "A lady no less..."

"Fagin. Do not. Hurt. Cat."

"I swear on Milife Dodge I won't hurt that cat."

"Alright then..." I nodded, "I need to get back to work," I sighed heading back to the ward, 

[givemea-dam-break]

Hi there! Previous anon, prompt 21 from the one just titled “prompts list”

21 - “It’s pointless to count stars.” “It’s also pointless to count your freckles, but I know that you have 13 on the back of your hand.”

a/n: perfect!! i hope you enjoy <3 this is a long one so buckle up

for those of you who don’t know, this is the rest of the ask: “ Could you maybe do prompt 21 with Lockwood? Maybe where Lucy has just joined, and all of his attention is on her, and reader feels forgotten? And so she ends up like laying on the roof because she's upset and wants to be alone and he comes out and joins her? "

warnings: mild angst prompt: "It's pointless to count stars." "It's also pointless to count your freckles, but I know that you have 13 on the back of your hand." gn reader

It's nippy out tonight.

Despite it being early summer, there's a chill in the air that bites the bare skin of your arms and your face. The slates that make up the roof of 35 Portland Row seem to have soaked up every last vestigial of warmth from your bones without even warming up themselves.

Up above, the sky should be dark, but the lights of London cast it in an orangey glow that makes you miss your old home, miles and miles away from the city. London may have its benefits, but you miss seeing the night sky in all its glory. You miss the constellations and the endless black that stretches over the world, free of lights and noisy night cabs honking in the ghost-lamp-covered streets.

Heaving a sigh, you pull your legs to your chest and wrap your arms around them.

What has led to you sitting up on the roof of a three-storey house?

A multitude of things, you think. It could well be the fact that the case from the other night freaked you out; that ghost of a murdered grandmother out for vengeance on her - now - elderly grandkids that had ended with you hanging out of a smashed window, held on only by George's kit bag that was stuck in the frame until he and Lockwood were able to hoist you up. Maybe it was that other ghost you saw on the way home from Arif's a week ago - its peeling face had just appeared out of the ground and almost caught your leg. That one was creepy. Or perhaps, and most convincingly of all, it's the new hire.

If you're being completely honest, you had been entirely supportive of hiring a new agent. After three months of (legal) work with just Lockwood and George, and a year of living with them before that, you were in desperate need of some other company. Too many times have you been greeted when coming home from a case by George cleaning the house in nothing but a T-shirt that if he dared bend down would reveal more than you were willing to see. Too many times had the two boys been just that - boys - and had irritated the living daylights out of you. You were in dire need of some new friends.

You just hadn't realised that everything would change because of it.

Lucy Carlyle is great, really. As a roomie? Messy, but nothing you aren't used to. As a person? Lovely, albeit grumpy in the mornings and prone to becoming frustrated when she doesn't really need to be. In all honesty, there is nothing wrong with Lucy, and you're slowly becoming quite close.

It's Lockwood that's the problem.

Your relationship with Lockwood, as frustratingly platonic as it is, has been founded on years of friendship that you will cherish for the rest of your life. As soon as you were able, your parents packed up and shipped you off to London to work for the notorious Fittes agency, and they benefitted from your labour. Safe to say, it pissed you off. You met Lockwood during his apprenticeship with an independent agent and hit it off, meeting George a mere month later when you were teamed up together. It was your trio and your anger at the system that inspired the creation of Lockwood and Co. Perhaps not the most prestigious of agencies, but it was yours.

It took a lot of work establishing a business, and you had to pull a few strings and fake some tears in order to get all of the DEPRAC insurance you needed - Lockwood wasn't exactly in the good books of some of their employees - but you all managed and had your own special roles.

Lockwood, the leader, the face of it all. He's always been your anchor, the thing that kept the ship from sinking. Whenever you were on a hard case that had you frightened, it was Lockwood that gave you confidence with nothing but an easy grin and a light joke. His Talent of Sight is stronger than anyone else you have met.

George, the researcher. He finds everything that essentially keeps you alive on a case: the backstory, the house plans, the history of the site and the ghost. If not for his desire to know absolutely everything he possibly could, the cases you've completed would have been impossible. Plus, he's a great cook and figured out that Arif's offered home deliveries. Life changing.

Then there's you. You've always liked to think you were the glue that kept the team together. Whenever the boys had an argument, it was you that got them to buck up and fix their attitudes. But you're also the one to slink the company out of trouble. While DEPRAC has grown used to Lockwood's charming smiles, they can't deny the person who keeps him on track and their sweet talk.

It was the perfect trio. Everything was balanced, and you figured it would still be once a new agent was hired.

Oh, how wrong you were.

Shivering in the cold, you can hear the voices of your friends pouring out of the opened kitchen window. You're not entirely sure what they're talking about, but you can hear Lockwood's questions. His admiration for Lucy is palpable, clogging your throat.

He's allowed other friends, you know, but it's not that what bothers you. It's the way he looks at her: that sparkle in his eyes when she speaks; the soft quirk of his lips that implies a private smile in favour of his infamous grin; how his gaze follows the twists and curves of her words.

It's the way you look at him.

You'd be lying to say that you don't care for Lockwood more than a friend should. The way you feel for him is entirely different than you've felt for anyone. Almost as if he's an amplifier of your emotions, igniting them to impossible levels until it feels like you're burning endlessly. For years, you've buried the feelings deep, refusing to acknowledge them. But, now, it's proving to be increasingly hard when he's exhibiting the exact same feelings but for someone else.

In your daze, you didn't notice the voices in the kitchen fade away, so you jump when there's a voice below in your attic bedroom.

"(name)?"

Lockwood. Your heart feels heavy.

You shuffle down slightly until you can wave your foot in front of the window. Seconds later, the glass pane swings open and Lockwood's head pokes out. His cheeks are already becoming rosy from the chill.

"What are you doing up here?" he asks. "We missed you at dinner."

Watching as he climbs out of the window and up onto the roof, you murmur, "Counting stars, I suppose."

He is quiet for a moment as he gets comfortable on the stone-cold slates. "It's pointless to count stars, you know. All the light pollution - can't even see them."

"It's also pointless to count your freckles," you say, leaning back on the roof and closing your eyes, "but I know that you have thirteen on the back of your hand."

A long pause. "So I do. Very perceptive."

You can feel his warmth when he lies down next to you, but you keep your eyes shut. Maybe if you do, you can pretend that his hand is close because he wants to hold yours; or that he's looking at you the same way you do him, with nothing but adoration and love and a little bit of humour. Anything is possible when your eyes are shut.

"So, what's the real reason for you being out here? You've not climbed up out here since that case in Camden when you had the misfortune of seeing George's bottom sticking out of a window."

Shivering at the memory, you say, "I guess I've not felt quite right lately."

"That I know. You turned down George's homemade sausage rolls. They're your favourite."

"They are." You clasp your hands over your stomach, fearing that they'll have a mind of their own and reach for Lockwood's. "I don't know."

A blatant lie, and you're sure he knows it because he shuffles an inch closer. His gaze burns on your cheek, but you don't look. It's easier not to. You're afraid you'll admit things that should stay hidden if you do.

"Is it because I kept you home from that case yesterday? I'm sorry - I just didn't think it was a good idea. I mean, you seemed quite ill -"

"It's not that," you say, but your voice is a mere whisper.

It's true. That isn't the bit that bothered you. It's the fact he took Lucy instead of you or even took both of you along. For god's sake, he even took George! It was just you being singled out.

"Then what is it? (name), I'm worried about you. You don't speak to me anymore."

The words are there, choking you. I love you too much to see you love someone else. It kills me to watch you forget about me.

He's like the stars in a way. You can't see the stars right now, but you know they're there, and the knowledge of that is painful because they're so close but so far. With Lockwood, it's similar. You know he's there, and you can physically see him, but he's so distant from you now. He's hidden by new lights that permeate your sky.

"It's Lucy, isn't it?"

Your heart is in your throat. "No."

There's a rustling of clothes as Lockwood sits up. "You don't have to lie to me."

Finally, you open your eyes, greeted by the orange haze of the London night sky. Lockwood's face is just in your vision, right at the edge, but the concern in his eyes is more than evident. There's a crease just between his brows, and the corners of his lips are turned down just so -

No. You need to stop looking for the little details. They'll be your downfall.

"I'm not lying," you insist. "I just - It's not easy to talk about."

"You've always been able to talk to me, (name). Why is this any different?"

"Please don't push me on this, Lockwood."

"It's affecting all of us, though. I don't know what to do with myself, for one, because you're not speaking to me as much. George looks lost without you chipping in for dinner. Which, speaking of, you've not eaten dinner for the past week. We're all concerned."

You don't mean to say anything, really, but everyone has a breaking point, and after weeks of bottling all your feelings up, you've reached yours.

"It's you."

"What?"

Sitting up, you shrug. The cold air bites your skin. "Ever since Lucy joined us, you've been distant. Don't get me wrong, Lucy is great. I really like her. But... You're saying I don't speak to you much now, but you don't make the time for me. You're so obsessed with her and her Talent that you don't have time for me anymore. It's easier for me to just keep myself away from it."

"(name)..." Lockwood frowns, but his eyes stay right on yours. "I don't - I'm not obsessed with Lucy. I've plenty of time to spend with you."

"But you don't." The words weigh heavy on your shoulders, and it feels like your insides are being squished. "You keep me home from cases and take her instead. You barely acknowledge me anymore. More often than not, when I walk in a room you're either fawning over her or about to drag me into a big long spiel about how much you love having her as an agent and friend. You've lost interest in me."

Something sparks in his dark eyes - anger. "You're joking, right? You're my closest friend! I wouldn't do anything to hurt you."

You drag a hand over your face, wishing all of your feelings could melt from your skin and soak into the roof. It's too much to deal with. You don't want this - arguing with Lockwood over feelings you're too scared to explain - but it's inevitable. Everything you've ever done has led to this moment.

"I don't want to talk about this anymore," you mumble.

But as you make to swing down through the open window, Lockwood's hand grasps yours. When you look at him, you can't help but analyse all of those little things - those downfalls of yours. The furrow of his brows, the crease in his nose, the little twitch in his cheek. The summer sun has brought out a few freckles on his face, barely visible in the light of the ghost lamps on the streets down below.

"Please, wait." The look in his eyes is enough to give you pause. "I'm not - I'm not obsessed with Lucy, I can assure you of that. Her Talent is interesting, yes, and that's what has me so distracted. But I haven't lost interest in you. I could never. That's like George losing interest in books and research."

Frowning, you grumble, "Thanks for comparing me to inanimate objects."

"No, no, that's not what I meant! But you get my point, right? I don't think George could live without those. And, so..."

He looks at you expectantly, with a flicker of vulnerability in his eyes. But it clicks.

It's as if the sky above you has cleared and filled itself with millions of bright stars. The weight on your shoulders has suddenly lifted, and your heart, so heavy mere seconds ago, feels light and free and hopeful.

"If you're worried that I care for Lucy more than I do you, you're horribly wrong." A soft laugh passes his lips. "It's quite impossible. In fact, you're the only thing I think of most of the time. It's led to quite a few close calls."

"You're not pulling my leg, are you?"

"I think you'll find that I'm holding your hand right now." It's a bad joke, you know, because he laughs at it. "No, I'm not. I promised you years ago that I'd never lie to you, didn't I?"

He did. Just a few months after you first met. It was the crux of your feelings for him.

"You really care about me that much?"

There's that grin of his. "More. I love you that much."

And it feels like the whole sky has lit up in brilliant colours, dappled with gorgeous stars. Your elation is bordering on being suffocating, and you're sure you're gripping Lockwood's hand harder than necessary.

"I hope you feel the same, otherwise I'll be really mortified."

The smile that splits your face is one you have never donned before, and he looks wholly entranced by it.

"I do," you say. "More than should be healthy."

"Ah, well, we have a knack for the unhealthy."

[elainavoid]

LN4 - Trouble

Haiii! I wanted to start my writing journey with a little fiction with a small series so here we go! This is inspired by the song I knew you were trouble - Taylor Swift. I hope you enjoy it because i am not really satisfied but decided to post this anyway. English is not my first language by the way, next parts will be coming later! It's also pretty short, have fun and enjoy your reading! Comments are really appreciated. I love reading comments, any feedback would make me happy! And enjoy again lol!

It was a late night in London, you could hear the raindrops hitting the glass window. It was so loud that you actually thought the full glass wall could shatter. Just like how your heart would be a year later. You were working at a pretty busy café, it was in the middle of London. The café was quite popular but your salary? You were barely making it to the end of the month. You were cleaning the countertops, the whole thing was a mess and they had to be squeaky clean for tomorrow morning. You were closing the café tonight. You were too busy cleaning and doing the dishes when you heard a loud knock on the front door, the whole thing was made out of glass, so you could see who it was. You thought that it would be a homeless person at first, no dumbass would be outside at night while this rain. You raised your head to glance at the person, turns out that guy wasn’t looking like a homeless person at all. Seemed like he was all wet, why wouldn’t he carry an umbrella? He kept knocking on the glass door. The sound really annoyed you. You were already angry because it was a friday night and you were spending your time here cleaning. You pointed your finger at the sign that was hanging on the door, “We are closed.” But you were not that heartless, he really seemed like he needed a warm place. Maybe he would at least keep you company while you were cleaning. You slowly walked to the door and opened it. He was even more handsome than you thought. No, maybe he seemed handsome because you wiped those glass doors three times this day.

“Hi” he said with a genuine smile. His voice was quiet but kind of cute.

“Hi,” you replied, “Want some coffee?” Tilting your head to the side and smiling. A warm offer, how nice of you.

His eyes lit up while he kept smiling. You noticed he was a little bit nervous, fidgeting his fingers.

“Please make yourself comfortable, I have a few things to do.” You added while walking behind the counters. He was like a lost puppy, following you. Then he sat down on the couch, the nearest one to the counter.

“Sooo, how is it going y/n?” he spoke slowly, as if he was reading your name.

You raised one of your eyebrows, looking at him with a confused face while you were pouring two cups of coffee. He pointed his finger at your apron, you realized and laughed. Your name tag. Walking up to him, you spoke quietly, you didn’t want to make much noise because it echoed in the whole café. “Not very nice to be honest, as you can see.” He chuckled, “And how is it going…?”

“Lando.” He told you, helding his hand out for a handshake.

You shook his hand, it was very soft, almost addicting. You wanted this handshake to last forever. And when you realized you were holding his and for a little too long, you immediately pulled it back.

“Sorry,” you mumbled with an embarrassed voice “I’m not really in my mind right know.”

Lando grinned, “Well, you are in my mind so no need to apologize.”

Okay, if inviting him inside was not a trouble. This definitely was. You were not used to hearing these cheeky pick-up lines, you were pretty sure your face was red like a tomato. He took a sip of his coffee, groaning right after. “Cold night.” He shook his head while talking. Taking a few sips between his sentences. “But you were nice enough to let me in. Thanks.” You could detect his British accent.

“You around from here?”

“Yeah, I am. British but I live in Monaco.” He said while holding his coffee mug. It was probably warming his hands. Cute you thought.

Monaco though, you looked at him, “Isn’t it where rich people live?”

Lando chuckled his smile growing, “Yeah wealthy. But I don’t seem rich right?” He moved his body, closer to you. You glanced at him, actually, studied him. Staring at him. He was wearing a basic grey hoodie and some sweatpants, not very rich but definitely young. These were your thoughts until you saw his watch. That one seemed expensive.

“So, I really have to clean those countertops,” you said changing the subject, pointing somewhere you were cleaning before opening the door for him. “Then we can leave.”

“We?” he said with a cheeky smile.

You stuttered a little, “I-I didn’t mean that.”

“I know, but you look cute when you are shy.”

Those words really made you melt. You met him twenty minutes ago, and he was already making you blush like a fifteen-year-old girl.

You took the coffee mug from his hand, gently. And walked, rinsed it under some water. A few minutes passed; you kept wiping the counters. When you finished, you looked at him, seemed like he was taking a little nap. You smiled, taking your apron off and putting the name tag in your back pocket. After that you stuffed your things in a tote bag and made your way to the couch. “Hey, I’m closing the café.” He opened his eyes slowly, looking at you with those blue eyes while smiling. You smiled back at him.

[jadedbutler]

Who else up terrorized by Moriarty no yuukoku

Sherlock encountering William at a Crime Scene (TM) what happens next may sadden you

Moonlight bleeds through the white muslin curtains billowing over the open balcony windows, silhouetting his slender form.

All the other lights in the manor have been snuffed out. He’s resting back against a nightstand by the window, cigarette poised between the elegant, gloved fingers of one hand still dripping wet with noble blood. The other hand loosely grips the blade sheathed in his cane. 

A cruel wind outside howls. The dark coat draped over his narrow shoulders flutters from the draft. He tilts his head slightly, and the moon caresses his delicate features, the slight down-turned curve of his mouth, the pale lashes dipped over his eyes. Breathtaking – the very portrait of a fallen angel, isn’t he?

“Fancy meeting you here~” Sherlock says casually, as if he’s not breath-taken, sidling up next to him. Careful not to step in the puddle of blood soaking the thick carpet, courtesy of the cane-sword, of course. Doesn’t exactly take a master detective to piece that one together.

The Lord of Crime, William James Moriarty, doesn’t acknowledge him right away. He purses his lips, not-quite pouting as he exhales a thin stream of smoke into the darkness. The tobacco somewhat masks the smell of carnage and kerosene surrounding him.

Although he’s a mere half-metre away, he’s so, terribly distant. Look, but don’t touch. Fragile in the way a broken window is fragile – come too close, and you’ll get yourself hurt. Sherlock wants so badly to cup that porcelain-cut face in his hands, brush away the tears he cannot shed. 

Instead, Sherlock gestures with his own unlit cigarette, perched between his middle and index fingertips. “Got a light?” 

The carmine eyes that finally rise to meet Sherlock’s gaze catch none of the moon’s light. None of the sparkle that had once danced in his irises, when he looked at the golden ratio or chatted at length about puzzles and mysteries. Now, dull and dark as the stains on the carpet.

Liam treats Sherlock with a wordless smile, raising his cigarette to his lips and tipping his head forward, offering. 

Sherlock leans in, pressing the end of his cigarette to the cherry of Liam’s, and they both inhale in unison until an orange ember blossoms between them. 

A lingering pause, ash-scented and bitter. 

Liam breaks first. “Are you here to arrest me, Mr. Holmes?” he asks in those deceptively demure tones of his. “I’m afraid that I can’t afford to formally cross your path for a little while longer.” 

Sherlock pulls back and sighs out a mouthful of smoke. “I’m hardly here on pure motives,” he holds up the earring he’d snatched from the cellar, presumably right before Liam had blessed the entire house with blood and combustible liquid. “But you already knew that, didn’t you? Liam.” 

The earring is a delicate thing – silver-backed and smithed into the shape of a leaf and stem, bearing tiny pearls as the bells of lily-of-the-valley. “It seemed like a simple request at first,” Sherlock drawls, flicking his hand so the tiny bells chime. “Finding this thing.”

Liam makes an obliging gesture with his smoking-hand. The grip on his cane does not ease for even a moment. 

Sherlock begins: “A young heiress from a neighbouring company is making her debut in society, and loses an earring – a gift from her late mother – the night after attending an event at a young lord’s manor. She’s set to leave London tomorrow, and wants the matching set before she departs.”

“Oho. Perhaps it had fallen off sometime during the festivities,” Liam murmurs, sliding his red gaze away from Sherlock and into some fixed point in the room’s shadows. “It’s easy to lose things in the fray.”

“ Perhaps ,” Sherlock snorts, batting his hand. “Except the young lord won’t let her search the premises the next day. Pretty stingy considering he was just throwing a party.” 

“I imagine he had some cleaning to do. It would be shameful to let a guest see the state of the place after such an eventful night.” 

Sherlock gives Liam a sharp look. He feels a tug at his mouth, and bites back the smile threatening to creep across his face. This feels far too much like the times Sherlock would ramble on to Liam about other cases and puzzles they’d solve together. 

“So the young lord happens to have a rather high turnover rate for servants, some who quit because of dreadfully low wages, and others who go missing entirely. A real piece of work, he is.”

“ Was ,” says Liam, softly. 

“Of course,” Sherlock continues, ashing into a cigarette case he’s untucked from his pocket. Can’t afford to leave around circumstantial evidence and get pinned as an accomplice, even if Liam is clearly going to burn this bloody place to the ground. “The case had your handprints all over it. A lost earring leads to a decadent noble who starves his staff and toys with them in his spare time.”

Liam takes another contemplative drag of his cigarette. Smoke curls around his unwavering smile. “The young lady will be glad that you’ve retrieved her precious jewellery for her.” 

“Yeah, yeah, I’m sure she’ll be thrilled I’d pulled it from the corpse of the hapless dead servant who had nicked the damn thing,” Sherlock scowls, snuffing out his cigarette entirely.

“By the way,” he jerks his thumb back, “I had to give Scotland Yard a tip about the servant’s body in the cellar, so you should wrap this up before you actually do get arrested.”

Liam lowers his hand, cigarette held loosely between his fingertips. “I see,” he says, and dammit all if he doesn’t sound just a little disappointed!

Sherlock hisses out a sigh. “Y’know, Liam, if you want to see me, you know where I live. You can drop by any time.” Then, in a voice softer than he’d intended, so low that it almost breaks: “You don’t have to do this.”  

“On the contrary,” nothing about Liam’s tone or expression betrays him, but Sherlock still feels a profound, aching loneliness grip his heart, squeeze tight. “This is all I can do.” 

Curse this rank, corrupt society, for making Liam think this way about himself. 

Curse Liam, for choosing the shadows and blood, for hurting himself, for staining his hands with this worthless lot.

And curse Sherlock, for leaving him behind, slipping out into the night through the balcony while Liam stays behind and drops his cigarette onto the kerosene-soaked floors, drowning the accursed manor in flame.

Next time, next time will be different. Sherlock won’t let Liam stay a puzzle he can’t solve.  

I've linked the fluffy follow up here if u want to see it 😮‍💨✌️🚬