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virgil-writes · 3 years ago

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ash & soot

Long before the Winters come into play, a monster stalks the Forbidden Forest that surrounds the Village. Karl Heisenberg is sent to investigate, and heads deeper into darkness to find his prey, a thorn on his side and someone just like him. (Heisenberg x OC)

chapter 14 - prince

SFW, around 4.7K words. Heisenberg is a man of absolutely no feelings I guarantee you

Heisenberg has never done this before, not in almost a hundred years of existence, this tangling of limbs and shirking of duties. He has never once given in to such base urges without careful thought and consideration, instead preferring his encounters planned, short and sweet, in and out before anyone could get attached. He racks his brains looking for things to say once she is awake, for ways to tell her that this means nothing and that they will go back to being flirty acquaintances who spoke to each other in riddles. He digs deep into his thoughts to bury his feelings, refuses to acknowledge their existence long before they can rear their ugly heads. He breathes in, eyes closed, to gather his confidence, to build his persona like he did with the dawn of each new day. Whoever Karl Heisenberg truly was, truly wanted to be, he died every morning and was replaced by a driven, heartless monster.

She was a smart woman, she would get the hint. He will unwrap her arms from his torso, put his clothes back on and make some stupid comment about how she had a pair of tits to die for, but he had already been far too generous by gracing her with his presence this long. Then he will smirk and exit stage left, hold the mask until he is out of sight and has entered the forest, and will finally be done with the theatrics. Perfect plan, until his breath catches in his throat when she first stirs, fingers sleepily caressing his chest like she did the night before. He curses her for never making things easy on him.

She seems confused as she pulls away from him, her lazy stretch reminding him of a cat after a long nap. Her face has softened some, the usual furrow of her brow relaxed, deviant smile replaced with one of pure serenity, like a burden had been lifted off her shoulders. “Good morning, my lord,” she greets as she rubs sleep away from her eyes, and he is glad to notice her tone has changed, away from the throes of their passion and back to the casual nonchalance they had become used to treating each other with. “Did you sleep well?” He has no intentions of answering and she does not expect it, either, slides off the couch to gather their clothing scattered about. She hands him his without looking at him, dresses in silence as he does the same. The silence is tense but not awkward, like they were both content to ignore the existence of the other and of everything that had happened between them just hours prior. “Are you staying for breakfast?” The implication that she did not expect him to is crystal clear. If there was any hope of staying longer in his mind, she had quelled it quickly with that question, like she was done with him for the day, perhaps enough to last her a lifetime. It stings, but he is glad for it.

Heisenberg busies himself with putting his clothes back on - whoever’s clothes those were in the first place -, oblivious to her pacing around the house. He believes he is out of the woods and her reserves of kindness have run dry, only to lift his head and find her holding a basket with a loaf of bread in one hand and his trench coat in the other. From afar he can see it looks ten times better than it did when he walked in wearing it, cleaner, for one, holes stitched back together. He doesn’t stay and she sees him off with the same joy she has always shown him, watching him as he grabs the trench coat and food, then his hat from a hook next to the door, waving him away like she has done every time. They sign an unspoken contract that dictates they never speak of it again, though the fine print reads that it is not off the table and might once again come to pass if the opportunity ever presents itself. His journey back to the factory is quiet and uneventful in more ways than one, the forest sleeps away the early hours of the morning and his mind is void of thoughts and worries. He cannot help but notice that the world feels different, brighter, more vibrant even, the wind not hostile and instead a gentle breeze.

Heisenberg seems enveloped in a mist of cheer and placidness for the days that follow, all he has set in motion moving along like clockwork. Sturm awakens unbidden one night, for good this time, both a blessing and a curse upon him. He manages to study its performance and sketch improvements, however finds that he has forgotten to install an off switch on the damn creature. The freak hums and whirs night and day like it is singing him the song of its people, sometimes joyfully, sometimes in mourning, and that he is able to identify when the fucking thing is happy or sad is a clear indication that he has been listening to it for far too long. A stab of guilt hits him every time he yells down towards the bowels of the factory to tell the monster to shut it, he needs to work and the noise is maddening, but he is always reminded that he is the reason for it all, he has bestowed them all with a new lease of life and now has to deal with the consequences. This is all for a good cause, he reassures himself, and once the rebellion is over he will see to it personally that those who remain are given a humane dismantling and burial.

Every now and again he visits his little witch in the woods, when his days could have been better and he needs a pick-me-up. They never speak of the stormy night and the things they had done, not unlike he had planned, but speak of everything else, and they slowly climb the steps to an awkward friendship that is never truly allowed to blossom. It felt as if every time they would give each other a key, an intricately designed, golden key that would open the lock in their hearts. And every time one would try to open it, they would find yet another, stronger lock, closer to the end but not quite, mystery maintained. It was infuriating and addicting all at once, and he had grown quite fond of the back and forth that had become the most exciting part of his life.

Happiness is a drug that he should not indulge on, he decides. Amidst his work he plans something other than rebellion, other than murder. Sketches something other than machines, looks out the window on the top floor of the factory to daydream about the cabin that stood long abandoned at the edge of his land. It was large for a home in this ass-end of the world, two floors and an attic, a cellar that was used for coal storage and doubled as secret entrance to a tunnel connecting the house and the factory. A fenced garden in the backyard, a shed for tools and firewood. The outhouse was awkwardly placed, too close to the edge, but he had always thought it gave it some extra charm. Answer nature’s call while being dangerously close to it, as it were. The masonry oven outside had not been used for at least half a century, and the well had probably dried up by now. It had been his home for many years, before Miranda took away everything that was theirs and his life with it, before he began dedicating his life to rebellion and dreams of freedom. His room was the one at the end of the corridor upstairs, with a view of the river and the forest extending beyond the confines of the village. It was cramped and cold, a single floorboard always rattled during the night when the wind hit it, the window never fully closed and his father never bothered to fix it. Still, it was home, or it had been, and he sometimes found himself thinking of the good memories he’d had before it all went to shit.

Could it be home again, he wondered? It would be one hell of a spring project, between clearing the debris, dusting and fixing everything up. Nails and the corrugated metal roof would not be a problem, naturally, and the stonework of the first floor was still intact. But he hadn’t fixed a fence in many years, hadn’t sawed nor sanded a plank of wood in longer still. He had never been very good at cleaning anything except weapons and machines, and interior decorating was simply something that had never gone through his mind. It could be a home again, he mused as he brought the blowtorch close to his face to light his cigar, and maybe it would do him good to step away from the damp vapors of the factory every once in a while. But then again, would it be worth the effort and upkeep? He doubted the haulers would make good housekeepers, and he was content enough with his independent, bare, unkempt bachelor lifestyle. But those had never been his intentions, had they? A home but not for him, a home for her, right where he could see her, where he could walk a few minutes and knock on her door whenever.

All strictly professional, of course. She would be effectively isolated from the village and the outside world. Effectively isolated from everyone but him, and he could keep tabs on her and call upon her services when necessary. It was a proposal she would be dumb to refuse: a home easily three times bigger than the one she owned, a larger plot of land for her animals and garden, peace and quiet, access to the Duke for supplies, and even some fun every now and again if she played her cards right. There was also the matter that she would be… Safer, living so close to him, but that was of little importance. Naturally. It had only just occurred to him. He had not begun at that, no. He will give it some more thought over the next few weeks - neither of them would be going anywhere, now would they?

Mother calls him later that day to inform of a family meeting two weeks and a half away, to discuss usual business. They will gather at Donna’s this time around, and it should give them all an opportunity to parade themselves to the public. This is important, you see, she begins like she always does, for their worshipers grow restless with their absence. Heisenberg often feels like she has trained the villagers as one would a dog: starve them for long enough and give them a meager treat to keep them going, teach them that their devotion is rewarded with small miracles brought by hellfire and the tearing of flesh by lycans. He has spent far too long away from the public eye and it is always good practice to remind the villagers of his splendor, she continues. He agrees to strut down main street, bless every crafter that he comes across, and kiss the top of the head of every snotty child pushed in his direction by their parents. He even agrees to wear his Sunday best: the same thing he wore every single day, but with a shiny pin in the shape of his house’s crest.

He conceives his greatest idea yet in the meantime, a soldier that combines the combat capabilities of Eins and Zwei with the mobility of an aircraft. He has Sturm to thank for it, the incessant spinning of the blades having given him the spark to try and create a flying machine. No propeller blades, he decides as the very first thing when he begins drawing the schematics. He has had enough of the noise to last him a good couple of decades. Unsurprisingly, he is caught in a trance of working and passing out and waking up to work some more in the weeks that follow, entire days spent combing through the scrap heaps to find the right materials. He is reminded that the goddamn bed had done wonders for his back every time he deadlifts another engine to pick apart, but still refuses to say goodbye to his uncomfortable armchair and the wonderful massage of its loose springs.

He figures the name for it will strike him at the right moment, and for now focuses on adjusting the thrust speed, ensuring the soldier will land adequately and not simply crash while airborne, as funny as that would look. While Sturm required a sturdy specimen, this will need someone lighter, lankier, and he finds the perfect specimen in Miranda’s latest failed experiment, a young boy of some twenty years who had been orphaned long ago and had turned to the Black God for guidance. In truth, he was nothing more than an errand boy for Mother, bringing messages to and fro, collecting tithe and offerings for her. Heisenberg is curious to know what horrible sin has led him to where he is now, dead and open on his operating table, a wound bigger than his fist where the top of his spine should be. Cadou had begun to take hold when he passed, tendrils shooting out of the infection, and he saved the recently dead nematode for further study later.

Removing the organs is always the messiest part, and he drops armfuls of guts into a nearby bucket to discard later. The boy has broken ribs and is missing his heart, a sign that he had greatly felt Mother’s wrath. Heisenberg almost pities him, alone in the world with nothing but his faith to keep him going, but sooner or later he would have to learn that was the way of the world. It had worked just fine for him, painful but invaluable. He had played the cards he had been dealt and come out on top. Perhaps in another life he would have reached out to give the kid a hand, take him in and give him a job, so long as he stayed out of his way and kept his mouth shut. But then again, perhaps in another life circumstances would not have turned him to a ruthless bastard only out for himself.

Setting up the tubing always takes the longest, delicate work that requires his full attention and steady hands. It feels like fighting an octopus at the best of times, and it is a fight he does not always win. He blows away a hair strand that insists on obscuring his vision, but all he succeeds in is having more of it fall onto his face, beads of sweat also finding their way down his forehead to pool on his brow and slide onto his eyelashes. He wishes he had an assistant every time he does this, every time he pulls a corpse open and finds that his body seems to get in the way every time more than the dead one does. He wishes he had an assistant, remembers the offer he never made her, and regrets it an instant later.

Suddenly his mind has wandered away from his subject on the operating table and has wandered off into a fantasy world, where his little witch gently pulls his hair back to tie it securely away from his face, where she dabs away the sweat on his face with a cloth that smells of wildflowers. She stands patiently next to him, takes notes and follows orders, brings him refreshments and even gives his shoulders a good rub when she feels he has been working too hard. A world where she awaits him every night after a long day, where she greets him with the comfort of home and a hearty meal. His focus is lost from that moment onward, for he is taken with the need to see her, to spend time sitting quietly beside her near the fireplace. To hold her and watch her fall asleep in his arms, to hear her laughter and exchange glib lines with her after dinner.

Goddamn witch.

The poor boy suffers the brunt of his annoyance when Heisenberg punches the side of his ribs, the body resists but does not complain and helps none with doing away with his wishes. What was he thinking, losing sight of his goals because he wants his cock sucked? This is why it was always so much better to stay indoors, to kill such annoying roaches on sight. His carefully constructed mental balance has tumbled, his nirvana disturbed. He was doing just fine before she decided to kill some random lycan and forgot to hide the fucking body. Bored, but just fine. Lonely, but fine. Incredibly depressed, but f-i-n-e. He tries in vain to return to his work once, twice, and gives up on the third time, finally accepting that it would be impossible.

Perhaps it is best if he gets it over with, no? This was but a momentary stumble. He had all but forgotten about her for the better part of a fortnight, having instead turned inward towards his work and growing his intel network by skulking around and reading through papers Miranda had ‘lost’ in transport. Just as quickly as he had latched onto her, he had let her go, back to the hum-drum day to day of developing his metal army.

Or so he thought, faced now with a burning need to walk, almost run towards the forest to catch a glimpse of her again.

He looks down at himself, for the first time conscious of how presentable he was, and decides that it is probably best if he wears something that is not covered in rotting chunks of flesh. Somehow he does not think she will mind it; she strikes him as the kind of woman who would think it adds to his charm. He changes into cleaner clothes regardless, the same moss-colored shirt she had given him the day he showed up at her cabin. An idea shines upon him as he tightens his shoelaces, and he is soon giving orders over the comm system to all haulers: clean the damn place up. Throw the garbage up and over the railings onto the scrapheap, hide it under a carpet, it doesn’t matter. He wants the place presentable enough for him to bring his little witch over - he will tell her a little bit of what he intends, he will show her some of his plans, and he will ask her to work for him. The cabin would take a while but she could always drop by for a visit. All that he has decided in the span of less than a minute, and he hopes there will be enough time for everything to be set up when he makes his way back, holding her hand tightly as he shows her all of the wonders he has created. He also hopes he can keep up the momentum and not soil the plan by chickening out a while later, though something in his mind tells him that might be best.

Heisenberg stops in front of a mirror-like metal plate to check out his hair and wipe the blood of his face, at last satisfied with his appearance and ready to make his next move. He almost skips through the factory on his way up and out of the garage. He is getting laid tonight, goddamn it.

He is surprised to find the Duke’s carriage standing just outside. It must be a Tuesday, though he feels like he last saw the man yesterday; the merchant always completed his regular schedule around the village by making a last stop near - and in - his humble abode. He had much to discuss with the Duke, things of both professional and personal nature, but now was not the time, and he walked by briskly and greeted the man with a tip of his hat, intent on simply passing by.

He knows something has gone terribly wrong when the Duke cackles, and he spots the familiar tail wag of a furry hoofed animal beside the carriage. Heisenberg stops dead on his tracks then, a cold tingle running up his spine, his mouth dry. He stares at the man, mouth agape, trying to form his question but failing miserably. Had something happened? Had the Duke known about her all along? Had he done something to her? The Duke is the first to speak, his usual jolly self, oblivious or uncaring for the situation that has begun to unfold in front of him. “Ah, Lord Heisenberg! How’s the day find you?” There is a pregnant pause as Heisenberg looks at the merchant and back at the tiny goat that bleats at him incessantly, and the Duke roars in laughter, his massive frame shaking the entire carriage. “Oh, it seems the little one likes you! Two hundred lei and it is all yours, my lord. Should be quite the tasty dinner.”

Prince seems to understand its predicament, and cries ever louder, until it is all they both can hear and the sound almost drives him insane. “Where the fuck did you get it?” Is all he manages to say, his tone vicious, but the Duke does not seem to mind it. He looks around for any other signs of her, the dog, or the horse, a chicken, anything.

“My friend in the woods has sold it to me, of course. She no longer has any use for it where she is going, and thought it best to rehome it.” The merchant’s hand reaches out to pet the goat on the head and the whole carriage almost topples over with the weight.

“You know her.” It is not a question, and though there is much he needs to ask there is little he is able to process.

“Indeed. We have been friends for many years, her and I. Since she was a malnourished little girl living under Lady Heisenberg’s protection. Since long before you were born, my lord.” The man takes a long drag from his cigar as if to give Heisenberg enough time to go through his words, and he is glad for it, mind racing a thousand miles a minute. A hundred and something years, the mention of his grandmother’s name. “She has always been quite the ravaging beauty, however. Although I’m sure that has not escaped your notice.” He can hardly contain his exasperation, not at all used to the feeling that currently boils within him. If that man had ever touched her- “She is quite a talented healer, you see. For many years now she has supplied me with the most wonderful of concoctions.” As if to prove it, he lifts up a bottle of the antiseptic he has become so famous for, gives it a little shake and flashes Heisenberg a bright smile.

“She’s gone.” Again he doesn’t ask, simply repeats the information he has been given, and wishes he had his hammer close by to crush that smirk off the Duke’s face.

“Why yes, she has left, of course. It would not be the first time,” the merchant says with a shrug. “A free spirit she is, always has been. Off to find herself some excitement and adventure, I’m sure. I have told her many a time that the village life does not suit her,” he puts the bottle down and interlaces his fingers in front of him, resting on his enormous stomach. “Yet she has come back every time. Sweet, idealistic Morganna, always so kind for her own good.” In his confusion, Heisenberg realizes he has forgotten to breathe, and inhales sharply, blow after blow though he tries to recover, and the Duke is relentless. “Ah, that reminds me, she has left something for you.” He is no longer listening after the Duke’s mouth closes, far too stunned to process what is happening. The blond man hands him a small wooden box that smells like her, and Heisenberg does not care that he can see how much his hands are shaking as he pushes off the lid. He does his best to swallow the rage and the tears that well up in his eyes, the bittersweet thought that she had remembered him before she parted. The woolen slippers lay perfectly arranged inside the box. “If you wish to find her, I am sure she has not made it very far.” Heisenberg continues to stare down incredulously, and the Duke continues to yap like nothing has happened. He has tuned out completely by the time he closes the box again and raises his head to face the merchant. He might as well have been a shadow, disoriented as Heisenberg was, his face a misshaped blob in his eyes. There is no space for thoughts and he lets himself go instead, anger bubbling so close to the surface underneath his skin.

He grabs the goat before the Duke can protest, tucks it safely under his arm, box secured in the other as he marches back inside the barn and closes everything behind him. Gone? The way down is hazy and red, one foot after the other, instinct taking him through the halls and down elevators. Gone. He feels the haulers’ gazes upon him, and hopes they won’t dare showing vestiges of humanity now, or he will kill every last one and set fire to the corpses. The door to his quarters is kicked with entirely too much force and flies off its hinges, he places Prince gently on the floor in the last showing of kindness he would ever allow himself. Gone! The box is thrown across the room and shatters against the wall, tears in his eyes, a strangled cry coming out of him before he can stop himself.

“She’s gone.” He repeats and the words feel like sand in his mouth. He knows them to be true and it only serves to hurt him further. Behind his eyelids, she takes him by the hand and skips down the stairs ever onward towards the darkness, and he knows he is far too weak to stop it now. He has no tools to explain any of it, the crying and yelling and the way his body has slid against the wall and onto the floor like a puddle of muddy, gooey, revolting water. One last bit of control tells him that he should not care, that she is not important, that this is good, that he is free from her grasp. But its screeches are drowned in the uproar within him, and all he can think of is that she is gone and he misses her.

He is once again alone in the world and, for the first time, he knows what heartbreak feels like.

#Karl Heisenberg #karl heisenberg x oc #resident evil village #karl heisenberg x reader #virgil writes #sad day sad chapter #though i really should catch up on posting on tumblr

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schrijverr · 4 years ago

Text

Reunited

Tim and Bertie had fallen in love with Jonny on the moon, but when Bertie died Tim had left Jonny behind. He realizes how much he regrets it when he’s getting mechanized. After he finds out Jonny is alive, he vows to make it up to him and does his best to mend their relationship again.

On AO3.

Ships: Gunpowder Tim x Jonny d’Ville

Warnings: grieving and working through some issues. Tell me if I missed anything or if you want me to tag something!!

~~~~~~~~~

It was dark when Tim woke up.

He didn’t think he would wake up again when he had confronted the Moon Kaiser, so the fact that he was alive in the darkness was strange. He tried to move, but found his hands and feet were tied down to the surface he was lying on.

“Stop wiggling.” a voice said.

Tim did not know who the voice belonged to, but his head swiveled in the direction it had come from in an attempt to see who it was.

The person snorted and said: “I don’t think that will help, since I’m currently making you a pair of eyes. I’m Doc Carmilla, by the way, a pleasure.”

“What happened? What do you want from me.” Tim now really started to struggle against his bindings as he tried to get away.

“You were in an explosion.” the voice, Doc Carmilla apparently, told him gently, “You lost your eyes and I’m making you new ones. All I ask is cooperation.”

The fury from before was reignited in his veins as he continued to struggle fiercely. He wasn’t about to become an experiment of the Moon Kaiser or anyone else. He was Gunpowder Tim and if he’d had enough righteous anger to cut through thousands of Lunar Men, he would have enough to break out of here.

Doc Carmilla sighed and Tim felt a prick in his neck. As he started to loose his grip on the world, he heard her say: “Only people who cooperate get progress.”

When he woke up again a few days had passed, not that Tim would know since he’d lost his sense of time in the darkness. He startled, but before he could do anything Doc Carmilla spoke: “Don’t struggle again, it’s already been slow going since my help was emotionally compromised and I can’t work on your face if you struggle.”

“I don’t even know what you’re doing to me.” Tim protested.

“I’m giving you a second chance at life, away from everything that has brought you such misery. A new family to call your own that will be there forever. Don’t you want that, Timothy? Don’t you want that new beginning away from there?” she asked.

Tim thought about that. He didn’t really know the answer, he hadn’t thought about a future since he’d lost Bertie. His only focus had been to kill the Kaiser or die trying, no matter the price. What was he going to do now that it was over?

“It’s alright if you need time to think.” Doc Carmilla told him, “You’ll get plenty of time to think anyway.”

Then she started to work and most of the pain from getting metal shoved into still healing wounds took over for coherency.

But it came back to him when she left him, apparently done for the day. He pondered how he had avenged Bertie, how he could heal now, but the more he thought about it, the more he had failed him.

While they might’ve already been in love before they arrived on the moon and had known each other since they were little, it hadn’t been just the two of them, not anymore. There had been a fierce soldier, who really shouldn’t have been enjoying himself that much, that they had loved as well. His name had been Jonny, Jonny d’Ville. And Tim couldn't help but feel like he had abandoned him.

Jonny might have been manic from time to time with too much bloodlust for his tiny body, but he had also been soft and insecure.

Tim could remember the nights, where they had held Jonny between them as they whispered reassurances to him, while he was overwhelmed with the unfamiliar praise and affection that they heaped onto him.

But then Bertie had died and Tim hadn’t been able to see through his own grief. He’d gone on a rampage, leaving Jonny to fend for himself without a shoulder to lean on.

It felt like a punch to the gut and a bucket of cold water over his head. He had allowed himself to loose someone he cared about, someone he loved. He still had someone left and he hadn’t cherished the love he could have had.

Bertie would have killed him if he knew. The other man had taken to Jonny so quickly that Tim would have become jealous if he hadn’t trusted Bertie so much. Bertie took joy in figuring out what made Jonny blush or smile softly, just like he’d done for Tim so many years ago.

Tim missed that, missed Bertie, missed the three of them in a heap next to the campfire while Jonny softly sang of worlds far away.

Jonny never told them how he knew those songs and he would only sing them for Tim and Bertie in those quiet peaceful moments. Tim had learned to look forward to them and hold them near to his heart, but it seemed he had forgotten this lesson and now he would never hear Jonny sing again.

It was only then that it hit him that he might have been the one who killed Jonny. If he was here and did his duty then the moon was gone, along with everyone on it.

He had not only abandoned Jonny, he had murdered him as well.

That was what he thought about for the days that followed. Doc Carmilla would come in and work on him and he’d just lay there, mind somewhere else. He had failed both his lovers and he would do anything to make it up to them, but it was too late. He’d never be able to make it up to them again and that hurt deep to his core; the fact that he would never get to say sorry.

Then Doc Carmilla stopped coming and Tim was all on his own in the darkness once more.

Tim didn’t know how long he’d laid there before he heard a noise in the chamber he was in. He turned his head towards it, even though he couldn’t see and called out: “Who’s there?”

“Hmm, she’s farther along than I thought.” a heavily accented and slightly disappointed voice said.

“Who are you? What are you doing?” Tim was getting slightly nervous.

“Sadly, I have to fix you up.” the voice said coolly.

“Uhm, why?” this person obviously didn’t seem pleased of that and he was scared and confused in this never-ending darkness.

“Carmilla had to depart.” the voice answered, picking each word carefully “And I would have someone hound me if I didn’t and they found out, so here I am.”

“You don’t sound so happy about that.” Tim was getting worried the person would hurt him and he would be stuck and helpless here.

“I’m not, but you’re one of us now.” the voice sighed, “I’m Nastya, the engineer.”

“Oh, I’m Tim, Gunpowder Tim.” Tim replied.

“I know.” Nastya told him and after that she was silent, the only noises that of whatever project she was working on and the dripping of the IV keeping up his strength.

Tim tried to think of what he could have done to earn her anger, but none came to mind. What she told him also didn’t make sense, because who here knew him? He was still pondering that when she left, with a curt goodbye.

This awkward existing in the same space went on for another three days, before Nastya announced: “They’re ready. This is going to hurt, but then it’s over.”

He nodded and braced himself. For a second nothing happened, then something connected and his eyes started to burn. He screamed as his vision flashed white, a sharp contrast with the darkness from the past weeks, before his world went dark again as he passed out.

When he awoke this time, it was to a metal lab with contraptions and experiments everywhere. He was no longer bound and sat up in surprise. His eyes saw everything so clearly and it was hard just to take stuff in, but after a few moments he got used to it enough to walk.

Slowly he got onto his feet, still unused to walking after so long, and set out to find anyone who might want to tell him more about what was happening.

Tim was about to just start yelling when he heard voices further down the hall. He made his way to a doorway into a room with a few couches where five people were sitting and talking. He didn’t know who the metal man was, nor the red-haired woman, nor the other person, but his eye did fall on The Toy Soldier. It could be TS, who Nastya had referred to even if it didn’t like to be a someone. He was about to call out to it when the last persons face was revealed.

Jonny.

It couldn't be anyone else, even if Tim thought his brain was tricking him. It was the same face that would grin at him in the trenches or smile up at Bertie while laying in his lap. The same face. Jonny had lived, there was a chance Tim could make it up to him.

“Darling, you’re alive!” he yelled, racing forward to envelop a startled Jonny into a hug.

He squeezed him tight, before cradling his face in his hand and checking him over. Jonny looked completely unharmed, if Tim still had tear ducts he would have cried, instead he hugged Jonny again and said: “God, I was so worried about you, love, I’m so so sorry for leaving you, you didn’t deserve that I’m so sorry. How can I ever make it up to you, angel?”

In his arms Jonny looked very surprised, he’d gone still when Tim hugged him and now just sat there quite shocked. Then he softly asked: “You still like me?”

Tims heart broke, it got shattered in a thousand pieces that lodged themselves into his insides and tore through him. He assured him: “Of course I still do, I love you, I’m sorry I made you feel anything different, cupcake.”

Jonny sagged into his touch and Tim could feel his shoulders shake as his clothes got soaked in tears and nails dug into his back as Jonny clutched his coat tightly.

“Tim, Ol’ Sport, It’s You! I Did Not Know You Had Made It.” The Toy Soldier exclaimed, finally recognizing the familiar face.

“Tim, as in broke Jonnys heart Tim? Left him crying for days Tim? That Tim?” one of the people he did not know asked.

A stab of guilt went through Tims heart and he held Jonny closer as he kissed his temple and whispered: “I’m so sorry, bean, so so sorry.”

Jonnys grip only tightened in return, while in the background TS answered: “That Seems Like The Description Of Tim, Mx. O’Reily.”

“Who ordered you to call me that, go back to just Ashes.” the person, apparently Ashes, said then their look turned dangerous, “So, how do we know we can trust him to not do that again?”

“Hold on, Ashes, maybe let him explain first, we can threaten him later.” the metal man told them, he then smiled at Tim and introduced himself: “Hi, I’m Drumbot Brian, most call me Brian and I am the Pilot of this ship. Nastya did talk about finishing something, but she hadn’t mentioned what, has she explained what happened?”

“I don’t think she expected me to wake up yet.” Tim told him, not letting go of Jonny for a second, “She wasn’t there when I woke up and she’s mostly been giving me the cold shoulder.”

“That’s to be expected, with how we found Jonny over you.” the woman with the red hair said, “I’m Ivy Alexandria, pleasure.”

“Oh, yeah, I’m Tim, Gunpowder Tim, but most just call me Tim.” he didn’t extend a hand, too focused on the warmth of Jonny safe in his arms.

“Can we go back to focusing on what’s really important?” Ashes asked loudly, “Namely making sure this guy here doesn’t break Jonnys heart again.”

“I’m right here you know.” Jonny mumbled, “And he didn’t break my heart.”

Ashes raised a brow at him and said: “You cried for the first time in centuries and blubbered on about him enough for the Doc to not even tell you she picked him up. Not to mention this current limpet show.”

A flush overtook his features and he was about to let go, much to Tims dismay, when Brian stopped him and gently explained: “They didn’t mean it like that, Jonny, stay put, it’s obviously helping. They’re just pulling the overprotective card, let them do their shovel talk, then we’ll leave you guys alone to talk.”

Jonny kept holding on, relief clear as day, while Ashes pouted: “It’s not a shovel talk, Brian, it’s a proper intimidation act.”

Ashes turned to Tim and crossed their arms, from their standing position they looked down on Tim with disdain as they began: “If you hurt him ever again, I will cut you to pieces and make you watch as I burn those pieces to ash. I will kill you repeatedly in many increasingly painful ways and I will not stop until you beg, beg, me to please make it permanent and then I will kill you a few more times again, before I defy everything you are and murder you, before feeding you to the octokittens. Are we clear?”

Tim swallowed thickly and he could feel Jonny tighten his grip, before he softly whispered: “Don’t leave me, I’ll make sure to protect you from them, please stay.”

“Of course I’ll stay, baby.” Tim assured him with a kiss to his temple, before meeting Ashes gaze, “Nothing will make me leave or hurt you again, no matter how hard they try, I promise.”

Ashes scanned his face, but seemed content with what they found. They nodded approvingly, before ushering the others out while saying: “Come on, lets let these two catch up.”

With them gone Tim focused on what was most important, Jonny. Those others were obviously his family, so he’d felt the need to impress them, but now that was over and he had a cuddling lover to take care of.

Jonny was still crying a bit, although it seemed the heaving sobs from before had ceased. It was clear that Tims departure after Berties death had had more impact on Jonny than he could handle and Tim felt so incredibly guilty over ever leaving him. He’d known how much Jonny could doubt himself and their affection and still he’d left him in the middle of a war zone, alone, to cope with the fact that one of his lovers was dead and the other had apparently left him.

It seemed impossible, but Tim hugged Jonny closer, pulling him into his lap. He rocked him back a forth as he hummed softly.

After a while Jonny sagged even more into his touch, so TIm softly said: “I know we probably still need to talk about a lot, but right now I would love nothing more than to cuddle and sleep, if you’re agreeable, marshmallow.”

“Yeah,” Jonny mumbled into his neck, “I’d like that.”

“Good.” Tim told him, before scooping him up into his arms, half concerned and half glad he was still able to do that, as he asked: “What way, princess?”

A recognizable blush spread over Jonnys face as he pointed into a direction and Tim smiled to himself, some things never changed. Tim started walking while keeping up a constant stream of soft chatter, only pausing to ask for more directions that Jonny provided silently.

The room they arrived at was clearly Jonnys, the messy décor reminding Tim of his equally disorganized pack, while the belt and guns scattered around screamed Jonny.

Against the wall stood a big bed with a ton of pillows piled on it and Tim filed the soft nest away in his mind with new things to learn about Jonny in this new setting, as he gently put Jonny down between the blankets and other plush on his bed.

When Tim put him down Jonny whimpered slightly and Tim whispered: “I’m just taking off my shoes and outer layer, it’s a bit dirty and I want your bed to stay clean. That alright, sweet pea? Want your boots off too?”

Jonny nodded and Tim set to work. He kicked off his own shoes uncaringly and shrugged off his coat and trousers easily, but when he got to Jonnys boots he knelt down and softly undid the laces, before sliding the boots off gently.

He looked up and smiled at a now completely red Jonny and asked: “Do you want the belts off too, dove?”

After biting his lip, Jonny nodded and Tim undid his belts and slid them off, being mindful of keeping the same gentleness throughout the entire progress.

As Tim climbed onto the bed Jonny wiggled out of his own trousers as well and shrugged off his waistcoat. Then he rested his head on Tims chest, who instantly wrapped two arms around him and held him closely as he drifted off, the entire day finally catching up to him.

It took Tim a bit longer to find sleep. He didn’t know if it was because he’d woken up just over an hour ago or because he was still reeling over the fact that Jonny was still alive. It was frankly a miracle, but now that he thought of it, he should have seen this coming.

Back on the moon Jonny used to make a lot of immortality jokes, but he would get rather defensive if anyone called them that or didn’t believe him. Bertie and Tim just humored him and tried to keep an eye out, but The Toy Soldier always seemed 100% agreeable over it, which made sense after seeing it here. So the logical conclusion was that all those jokes along with the forever family comment from Doc Carmilla meant that Jonny really was immortal and after Ashes’ shovel talk it wouldn’t surprise Tim if he was now too.

That was quite a lot to take in, but Tim didn’t really have time for an existential crisis, he had to focus on Jonny and making things right between them. Apparently they were going to have forever and he needed to be his best for his beloved right now, so compartmentalizing it was.

It took a while, but Tim fell asleep too, listening to the soft breaths coming from the small figure in his arms. He’d studied Jonnys face closely, it was still as lovely as he remembered, even with ruined eyeliner covering it.

When he awoke it was Jonny who was studying him. He had been hovering over him when he’d opened his new eyes and had startled back when he’d realized Tim was awake. He said: “Oh, hi, good morning, Tim.”

“Good morning, sunshine.” Tim smiled, “How did you sleep?”

“Great, fine, better.” Jonny mumbled, looking a bit embarrassed, “It was nice to have you here.”

He had always been a terrible sleeper and Tim knew his and Berties presence had made it easier for him to sleep and it was nice to know that it still did. Tim smiled: “That’s good to hear.”

Jonny bit his lip, started to say something and then stopped. He looked at Tim again and Tim grabbed his hand, lightly squeezing to silently let him know that he was there and that it was okay. Jonny softly asked: “You are here, right? This is not just in my head?”

“Yeah, I’m really here.” Tim looked Jonny in the eye, but Jonny adverted his gaze, so he gently took Jonnys cheeks between his hands and said: “I mean it, Jonny, I’m going to do everything in my power to make you realize that I will never leave you again. What I did after-” a deep breath, “after Bertie died was stupid and hurtful and I have to live with the fact that I did that to you when you didn’t deserve it. I love you, Jonny, you’re my everything, and I will stay by your side and tell you that as much a possible for as long as you’ll have me.”

Jonny was crying again, Tim didn’t know if this was a good thing or a bad one, but he held him nonetheless, whispering sweet nothings into his hairline and leaving soft kisses along it.

“I’d- I’d like that.” Jonnys voice cracked, but he sounded so relieved and all Tim could do was squeeze him tightly and hope Jonny would understand.

They sat there for a very long time, Tims stomach was rioting, but he didn’t dare disturb the peaceful air around them. Jonny was playing with his fingers while Tim rubbed his back. After making one of his fingers crack, Jonny seemed startled for a moment, then he asked: “Have you gotten a tour of the ship yet?”

“What?”

“A tour, of Aurora, the- the ship?”

“Oh, no. I just woke up and wondered around a bit.”

“Then I’ll give you one, get dressed.”

Jonny was out of the bed and pulling on clothes, suddenly bustling with activity as he fluttered around the room. He turned and looked expectantly at Tim, who smiled softly and said: “I don’t have clean clothes, poppet.”

“Oh, of course.” Jonnys face got an understanding look on it as he began to dig through his closet, “I think I have one of Brians sweaters here from when I stole it and I must have a pair of sweatpants that can fit you. It will be too short, but it will have to do. And we have to ask Ashes to make sure they’ll get you some new clothes when we land some place habitable.”

The clothes thrown over his shoulder hit Tim, who took them and put them on. The sweatpants were indeed too short, but the sweater was oversized. It reminded him of Berties sweaters that he used to steal.

“Are you alright?” he asked, unsure what brought on the sudden need to move after Jonny had seemed perfectly content to just sit on the bed for the entire day not even a minute ago.

“You need to know where you’re going to stay, right? I mean, you can’t be expected to be with me the entire time, so I need to show you.” Jonny explained.

It sounded like watertight reasoning, but Tim couldn't shake the feeling that Jonny just didn’t want to come across as clingy, which had always been a fear of him. Tim put his arm around Jonnys waist and said: “I think I’m not going to leave your side anytime soon, but I do love to hear you talk, chipmunk, and a sense of direction would be nice. So lead the way!”

He saw a small smile flit over Jonnys face and couldn't help, but pat himself on his back for the excellent reply he had given.

They walked through the halls as Jonny rambled on about the different places behind closed doors, sometimes opening them to show Tim. He was not a very good guide, his talking was chaotic and all over the place and the route never really became clear. But Jonny seemed happy to talk and Tim was perfectly content to listen.

Jonny opened another door as he said: “So this is the kitchen, me and Brian mostly cook, because Ashes tends to burn anything and Nastya and Ivy can’t cook to save their life, you know, so we make the best of it and- oh, hi Nastya.”

“Hello, Jonny,” Nastya crossed her arms and gave Tim a judgmental one over, “Tim.”

“Hi, you must be Nastya.” Tim stepped forward and held out his hand, “We kind of did meet, but, you know, a face to the name.”

Nastya didn’t shake his hand and Tim dropped it. He could feel the nervous energy radiating of Jonny, from what the others had mentioned they must be close and it pained Tim that Nastyas anger at him had this impact on Jonny.

“I know you don’t like me.” he sighed, “I get it, I really do, I feel terrible about leaving Jonny too and I wish I could go back and slap me for it, but I did what I did, okay? I can’t change that and it seems like we’re stuck here together for forever, so you being mad isn’t going to make things better. I’m trying to make it up to Jonny, please, please, give me a chance.”

He didn’t see how Jonny made pleading eyes at her behind his back. He needed Nastya to be okay with Tim, he needed her to give him a chance and he needed her to be there and still like him if it went wrong.

Her shoulders sagged and she warned: “If I ever, and I mean ever, see Jonny cry over you again, I will cut off you genitalia and throw you in Aurora’s engine.”

“Nastyaaa.” Jonny whined, she raised a brow at him: “What, Jonny? It’s not like he won’t deserve it then.”

“I agree with Nastya, dear, full responsibility and accountability.” Tim said.

Jonny rolled his eyes and groaned: “Why is everyone suddenly so overprotective off me. I’m the crazy one and the oldest, I am the protector, not some damsel in distress.”

“Which is exactly why.” Tim and Nastya said in unison, they both looked at each other and Tim felt a slight victory at Nastyas small smile.

“Whatever, I still need to show Tim the couch room.” Jonny started to walk away, before Tim could follow Nastya stopped him and said: “Jonny isn’t the best guide, if you ever need to find anything, just ask Aurora.”

“The starship?”

“Yes.”

And with that Nastya walked away, while Jonny called out to him from where he had walked off in the other direction. Tim quickly walked over and they continued the tour.

Dinner that evening was provided by Brian and quite an awkward affair. Tim tried to get to know the others, but it seemed they had all decided to see if he proved himself worthy, before they accepted him. Brian did offer polite conversation, but that bled dry rather quickly.

In the end he just gave up and ate his dinner in silence, Jonny fiddling anxiously besides him.

The next few days went on quite similarly. He spent most of them with Jonny, who would alternate between too much energy and silent and sullen. Tim tried to keep up with him, but he was starting to get concerned about it and the stares at dinner, which was still violently silent, weren’t helping at all.

So, when they were lying in Jonnys bed, he still hadn’t gotten around to asking Ashes for his own (not that he wanted that), he asked: “What’s going on in that head of yours, munchkin?”

“What- what do you mean?” Jonny asked and Tim could hear the vulnerable defensiveness in his voice.

“I’m just concerned for you. You never want to talk and in some moments you bounce around and in others it seems the world could burn and you won’t move. I just want you to be alright, okay? I want you to talk to me, so that I can try and help.” Tim said, sounding a bit desperate, “I love you, sweetheart, I don’t want to see you upset.”

“Well, I don’t need your concern, I’ve been doing just fine without you.” Jonny spat.

Tim should have seen the outburst coming. He knew he couldn't just walk in and have everything be alright again, but it still hurt. He bit his lip, trying to keep a sharp retort in, but failed: “And I’ve really been seeing that independence lately.”

He knew it was a low blow, but Jonny was already replying before he could take it back and apologize: “Maybe if you weren’t smothering me so much, you would.”

“I- Me? Have I been smothering you?” inside Tim screamed at himself that this was just what Jonny did, he pushed people away and got defensive as if to prove to himself that they wouldn't stay if they saw him. But Tims already fierce soul had turned snappish and angry in the war and he couldn't help, but let false venom spill from his lips.

“Yes,” Jonny crossed his arms, sitting up, “you’re always around, a guy needs his space. I’m not some fragile child that will break the moment you leave me. I survived you leaving me already, I survived a lot without you before that. I don’t need you, but maybe you should think about how much you’re clinging to me.”

The words were a punch to Tims gut, he was trying so hard to be better, to stay, but the hurt was still there in Jonnys mind and that wouldn’t just disappear with Tim here. Maybe Tim deserved to be pushed away.

He got up out of the bed and stated: “Alright, if I’m smothering you that much, then I’ll give you some space.”

And with that he walked out the room. If he had bothered to turn around, he would have seen how Jonnys face crumbled as he curled into a ball on the bed, contemplating if he should call out, but the door was already closed.

Outside Tim realized he had nowhere to go. He still didn’t really know the way and no one aboard Aurora liked him enough to help. Fuck, he really did need Jonny. Why was he so stupid? Why did he let his anger get the best of him?

He suddenly had no energy to do anything and just collapsed on the floor outside of Jonnys room and leaned against the door. He wanted nothing more than to go back in and apologize, but he still wasn’t sure if Jonny was serious about the smothering and he didn’t want to risk angering him even more.

Maybe if he was nice and stayed out of the way tonight, Jonny would want to talk to him again next morning and then he could apologize.

Tim felt like such a dumbass, sitting against the door in his nightshirt. He probably ruined all he did so far. Jonny didn’t need him, not really. Here he had a family that loved him and would die for him, even if they did come back, but Tim still wanted to be the one to tell him how much he was worth and how much he loved him.

It might be selfish, but Tim wanted to be the one to make Jonny blush and smile. He wanted to be there when his brain got the better of him and he needed someone to hold him and tell him it was alright. Tim wanted to be the one who made him happy, just like before.

But now he might have ruined that, just because he snapped back at Jonny even if he already knew Jonny didn’t mean it, that he probably did it out of an insecurity that Tim only fed into instead of banished.

Like an idiot.

He never thought he would miss crying, but now he wanted to do nothing more than give himself over to heaving sobs and hope strong arms would hold him, that Bertie was still here and would make it all better again.

Yes, Bertie would have known what to do and what to say. Bertie was always better about these sort of things, about Jonny. As much as Jonny had him wrapped around his little finger, Bertie could get Jonny to do what he wanted just as easily. Always the right words and smiles ready.

Tim sighed and slumped further against the door and tried to get comfortable on the metal floor, Bertie wasn’t here and the hole in his heart felt deeper than when he was with Jonny. He needed to make it up to the other, but he didn’t know how.

What would Bertie do?

He pondered the question. Bertie would respect Jonny, not be stupid and push him when he was already upset, but if it did go wrong, he would catch him the next day. So that’s what Tim would do now. Tomorrow he promised to himself and Bertie, tomorrow he was going to apologize, grovel if he needed to, now he would just give Jonny space, just in case.

When he woke up, it was because he felt like he was falling. How he had managed to fall asleep, he did not know. He groaned and looked, only to find that it hadn’t been just a feeling, but that Jonny had opened the door he had been leaning against, causing him to fall backwards.

Jonny was looking down on him, a surprised look on his face, red rims around his eyes. He frowned: “What are you doing here?”

“Uh, well, you see, I, uhm,” Tim think of what Bertie would say, but he was not Bertie, he would never be that, so he just had to be himself as he confessed: “I had nowhere to go and I felt really bad about snapping at you, but then I thought that maybe I was smothering you, so I didn’t want to bother you, so I decided to apologize in the morning, because I am really fucking sorry and- are you crying, pumpkin?”

“You- you stayed.” Jonny sniffled, “I got really mad at you, but you still stayed here and tried to listen even if I’ve been really mean to you and you still tried to be nice and I don’t even know why I did that.”

Jonnys knees buckled and he collapsed next to Tim, who quickly sat up to wrap his arms around him. He rocked them slightly back and forth and whispered: “I promised to myself that I would make it up to you, honey. I’m never making the mistake of leaving you ever again.”

After a while Jonny said: “I’m sorry for getting mad at you.”

“I’m sorry for snapping at you, I know you didn’t mean it.” Tim replied, “I just worry about you and I got frustrated, but I shouldn’t have gotten angry with you. I never was the one who was good at that and I just didn’t think.”

Jonny was silent for a moment, then he whispered: “I miss him.”

“Me too.” Tim squeezed Jonny tightly, to reassure him and to remind himself that he was still there and not alone.

“I feel bad, because you’re here and that is already a miracle, but I still miss him.” Jonny was crying and Tim would be concerned about how often he’d seen Jonny cry these past few days, if his own eyes didn’t ache to join him.

All he could do was hold on and say: “It’s alright, well, it’s not, he should be here and I fucking wish nothing more than to have him here with us, but you’re allowed to grieve, dear, just let it all out.”

“Just- Why him?” Jonnys voice cracked, “Why did he have to die? I should have- should have protected him, but I was too late and it’s all so fucking unfair.”

“It is unfair.” Tim agreed, “It’s so unfair, but it’s not your fault, Jonny, it’s not. He would never blame you and neither do I.”

“I hate it, I just hate it.” Jonny pouted, cheeks and eyes wet, but his eyes full of rage, “I fucking hate it.”

“Yeah, I do too, teacup, just don’t hate it so much that it will ruin you, because he wouldn't want that for you.” Tim hated telling Jonny not to let the anger consume him after he had abandoned everything for his own rage.

“You got that perspective now?” Jonny asked, quirking a brow at him, a bit of a sharp edge to his voice.

“I know, it’s too late. Lying on a table in the dark gives you time to think, suddenly realized how pointless it all was and how badly I treated you and how much I wished I could make it better, to just be able hold you again and apologize.” Tim said.

The anger drained out of Jonny and he sighed: “You’re right, of course, you’re fucking right, I just wish anger or violence could be the answer that’s what I do. I can’t- I don’t- Not this. I’m not made for this.”

He sounded so frustrated and broken at the end and Tim just wanted to take all the anger, all the frustration and hurt from him, but he knew he couldn’t. Instead he kissed his forehead and sadly smiled: “No one is made for this, precious. I wasn’t, I’m still not.”

Jonny thought about that. Then he kissed Tim, it was soft and desperate and not really what Tim was used to, but he welcomed it nonetheless. When Jonny pulled back he asked: “What was that about?”

“You’re just so good for me and I know you feel guilty about what happened after B- you know? But you don’t have to feel guilty about it.” Jonny said, it was clear that he’d thought about it for a while, “It hurt, of course it fucking hurt, but I get it, I get it and I can’t be mad at you for it, as much as I want to blame you, I can’t.”

“Jonny-”

“No, let me talk please, because I don’t know if I can say all this again.” Jonny cut him off, “When I went- when I got here, no, before I got here, I- I was angry at my home and I burned it to the ground and it felt good to be angry and do that even if it was pointless, so I get it.”

“But can you forgive me?” Tim asked, scared of the answer, but needing to know.

“Someday, yeah, I can, just- just not now, not yet.” Jonny told him, “But we’re getting there and I still love you.”

The doubt that had been gnawing on him, disappeared with that. It was the first time Jonny told him that he loved him since he’d gotten here and he had been scared that the other didn’t anymore, that he had been too late. He breathed out in relief: “I love you too, starling.”

Jonny let out a small giggle, breaking the sad tension that had hung over them. He smiled: “You with your silly pet names.”

Tim laughed too and promised: “I got a whole lot more, Jonny-boy, don’t you worry.”

“Well, I’d like to hear them.”

“I will try my best, m’lady, but first breakfast!” Tim said, a weight off his shoulder as he pulled Jonny up. This conversation had been what they needed, a bit of clearing the air so that they could move forward and be sure where they stood even if a fight had brought it on.

They walked to breakfast hand in hand. The past few days they had been close, but the barrier of uncertainty was gone now and the contact now felt more natural. A happy bubble floated up in Tims chest as Jonny chattered on about a stupid dream he’d had.

Entering the dining room everyones gaze fell on them. Ashes stood up, butter knife in hand, and asked: “Has Jonny been crying? What did you do to him?”

Where before he would sit silent and say nothing, just send them pleading glances to keep their mouth shut, Jonny now snapped: “Don’t do this, Ashes. If he could, he would have been crying too. It was good crying, now shut the fuck up before I shoot you.”

“Are you sure?” Ashes asked. Tim noticed Nastya had stood up as well, hand at her holster.

“Yes, I’m sure. You could all be a bit nicer to Tim, it’s not like he doesn’t belong here. He is family too now, it would do you good to get to know him at least.”

Ashes looked a bit unsure at that, but they did sit down again and so did Nastya. With that done, Jonny seemed a bit more awkward, thorn between Tim and his other family. Tim just dragged him to his chair and said: “Come on, eat something. You get cranky when you’re hungry.”

“I do not.” Jonny replied indignantly.

Tim rolled his eyes playfully and smirked: “So that time you forgot to eat and then complained about the soil for two hours and threatened to shoot me over telling you to calm down, was just you being happily full, eh, bubbles?”

Jonny blushed a bright scarlet and mumbled something that was drowned out by Ashes chocking loudly. They now registered the pet names that they had missed in the surprise back when Tim had first arrived and exclaimed: “Bubbles?”

The flush got darker and Jonny gritted out: “Shut up.”

Some of the others laughed as well and Tim felt kind of bad for the embarrassment he was causing Jonny, but it really wasn’t his fault. He’d tried to keep the pet names on the down low with everyone hating him, but, with the more relaxed atmosphere between him and Jonny, it had just slipped out.

Tim had been about to save Jonny when The Toy Soldier asked: “What Is So Weird About Tim Calling Jonny Bubbles? He Always Uses Strange Names That Aren’t Jonny To Refer To Him.”

Multiple people at the table began to grin as Jonny tried to disappear into thin air with no success. Interested Nastya asked: “Really, TS? What sort of names then?”

“Well, I Remember Dearie, Gorgeous, Sweetie, Jellybean-” The Toy Soldier was cut off by Jonny, who shot it before glaring at everyone and saying: “Not a goddamn word.”

“Ahw, are you embarrassed about me, missy?” Tim teased, knowing the last time he’d used that particular moniker Jonny had spluttered for a full minute or two.

The effect was the same. The already prominent blush spread further and further as Jonny waved his gun haphazardly around and gaped like a fish. There was more laughter and in the end he just dramatically draped himself over Tim as he exclaimed: “Why do you hate me?”

Carding a hand through his hair Tim said: “I could never. Here, I’ll even make you coffee.”

“‘M gonna need something stronger than coffee,” Jonny pouted, still hiding his face, “but you’re making a strong argument.”

Tim decided he liked the new vibe in the room with the others, as it allowed Jonny to be softer and him to be more himself as well. He gently reminded Jonny: “I thought we had all agreed first coffee then something else, cuddle bug. Remember?”

With his face still hidden Jonny couldn't see the others biting their lips at the pet name. All wanted to see if Jonny would actually do it. They of course didn’t know how Bertie had made the most convincing puppy dog eyes as he played up the concerned boyfriend act when they made the agreement.

“Alright, but I’m drinking something stronger right after.” apparently Jonny was going to honor the agreement, even if the other party wasn’t there anymore.

With a smile Tim got up and went to make coffee after he had gently pushed Jonny off of himself. While he was away, Brian leaned over and softly said: “He seems nice. You look happier, Jonny. That’s good. I’m glad for you.”

Nastya and Ashes nodded. Jonny couldn't help but smile at that, he’d been so worried when everyone had seemed mad at Tim. He didn’t like to see his family members fighting and a part of him had feared that the animosity would never fade.

The moment was ruined by Ashes who asked: “How many times will you kill me if I ever refer to you as bubbles or cuddle bug or missy? And how mad will you get when I tell him you used to be a cowboy?”

They were answered by a shot through their head, however it was too late, because Tim had entered just in time to witness the murder. He raised his brow and asked: “I’ve gathered the immortality thing, but is this a regular occurrence?”

“Sadly, yes, there is 67% chance that someone will not survive the day when everyone is in a good mood, this rises to 91.5% when someone isn’t.” Ivy told him.

“Great.” Tim said, handing Jonny his coffee, which he took gratefully, before making himself a bowl of cereal as well as one for Tim.

Ashes and TS didn’t wake up during breakfast and Tim had a pleasant chat with Brian about string instruments, apparently the other played banjo. Meanwhile Jonny and Nastya seemed to be having an in depth conversation about whether Ashes would be mad if Jonny stole their tongue.

When the last spoonful was in gone, Tim got up and stated: “I want to see this observation deck that I’ve heard about. Come on, cowboy, lead the way.”

“Oh no, you heard that?” Jonny groaned, but he got up anyway to show Tim.

“I almost get the feeling that you’re ashamed of my pet names.” Tim told him, then more dramatically he went on, “The light of my life, my own little gremlin and cutie pie, ashamed of little humble me.”

“Oh come on, you dork. That’s enough teasing material to last them a few centuries, the vultures.” despite his words Jonny had a smile on his lips and Tim hadn’t seen him happier in a very long while.

He ceased his pet names onslaught and just let Jonny drag him away from the others to the observation deck where they both sat down to watch the stars.

Tim had wrapped his arm around Jonny, who leaned into him gratefully. It was oddly domestic after most of their experiences together being in the middle of a war, but Tim found that he quite liked this opportunity for a new them.

There was still a lot to do, a lot to work through and talk about. Tim had to adjust to an immortal life and fully win over the others, even if he was already on the way. He’d have to get used to living again, for the first time actually function without Bertie there. There was also Jonny, whose forgiveness and trust he still had to earn, despite the love he already had. It all seemed very daunting, but with Jonny under his arm, safely tucked into his side, it didn’t seem so bad anymore.

“I love you, nugget.” he told Jonny softly, planting a kiss on the top of his head.

“I love you too, Tim.” Jonny replied, shifting to make himself even more comfortable next to Tim.

Yeah, this wasn’t so bad. Tim could get used to this.

#RR writing #tw: grief #tw: emotional issues #The Mechanisms #the mechs #Jonny d'Ville #gunpowder tim #jonny d'ville x gunpowder Tim #Bertie x gunpowder Tim x Jonny d'ville #bertie (the mechs)#doc carmilla #carmilla #Ashes O'Reilly #Nastya Rasputina #jonny d'ville & nastya rasputina #the toy soldier #drumbot brian #toy soldier

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mochi-marie · 4 years ago

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hello! I would like to request a haikyuu matchup please :D (I apologize in advance if I write too much aksjk hopefully it'll make it easier to match me up?)

1) I'm a straight female and use she/her pronouns

2) I'm about 5'6", have straight brown hair (my friend says it looks orange-ish in the sunlight??), brown eyes, and I've been told that I'm kinda pale (but unfortunately flush easily lol).

As for things that make me stand out, I have patches of eczema littered all over my skin. I have a few on my hands and wrists and even though ik they're not a good thing and of course would much prefer not having eczema, I kinda like that it makes me unique. I also have round glasses (my eyesight is extremely bad ㅠㅠ), wear a lot of black, and recently have been wearing this tan overcoat everytime I go out bc it's big and comfy. oh, and I've always loved black low-top converse!

I'm overweight so I'm kinda insecure about my physical appearance, but I've been dealing with it for so long that ig I've come to terms with it and have just accepted that this is how I am (but I have been trying to exercise... >_>)

3) I'm a gemini, istp-t, and enneagram type 5. I think I treat people how they treat me; if someone doesn't talk to me, I probably won't talk to them unless necessary, and if someone is very friendly and nice to me, I'll be a bit more open and talk more. I'm usually pretty reserved and go with the flow, but around people I'm more comfortable with I can be very sarcastic and playful. I'm kinda a mom/therapist friend. I'm very lazy and an expert procrastinater (I do what's necessary in the most efficient way possible, unless it's something that I enjoy).

Some things I enjoy: cooking & baking, arts & crafts, reading, sketching, 80s music, watching anime/tv/movies (especially crime, mystery, and thriller), and photography (as far as taking scenic photos with my phone goes lmao). idk if this counts as interests, but I'm planning on majoring in business administration and accounting. and as for my clothing style, I currently dress for comfort bc I'm always inside, but if I get a chance to redo my wardrobe I'd like to dress in a style more like dark academia/comfy casual? I have no idea if those are the right words to describe it 😅

4) I'm pretty sure my love language is physical touch, but I also really enjoy receiving spontaneous gifts or stuff I've been wanting (and money lmao I'm a big saver)! I've never been in a relationship, but I know I would definitely have to be friends with someone before even considering a serious romantic relationship, so I would ideally be comfortable around them already. I have a tendency to bottle up my emotions and I'm honestly a bit of a tsundere, so I think I might be shy in voicing my wants/initiating things. as for my type, I would prefer someone tall, mature but able to be playful and can take a joke (I sometimes use "idiot" as a term of endearment sksj I can be kinda mean sometimes tbh), patient since I'll take a while to open up, and ideally ambitious and willing to take initiative (bonus points if they're able to keep up with my sarcastic banter!)

5) I definitely like to sleep in, but if I need to wake up early and I can do so relatively easily. ig you could say I'm more of a night owl. I'm in a constant state of tiredness (possibly fatigued but idk) lol. I could technically live without music but would 100% prefer not to. my favorite song is "eyes without a face" by billy idol. I've never really thought about what my ideal first date would be, but I would like if it was well thought out and personal instead of the typical movie and dinner I suppose.

thank you so much for taking the time to do this!! I apologize again for writing so much 😅 hopefully you'll be able to have some fun writing, and I hope you're doing well! and no worries if you're unable to get to my matchup; please prioritize your wellbeing <3

𝗻𝗼𝘁𝗲𝘀: i had such a blast reading through this entire thing!!! thank you for writing this much, seriously — i love it, it makes it so much more interesting and easier on my part to find a match!! <3

𝗞𝗨𝗥𝗢𝗢 𝗧𝗘𝗧𝗦𝗨𝗥𝗢𝗨

♡ . . . REASONINGS : filtering through the information, i have decided that, in my personal opinion, you are best paired with kuroo tetsurou!

starting off, the trench coat? comfy and casual dark academia fashion style? from looks alone, you seem like a pretty good match-up with kuroo. on the outside look in, i feel like you both would look like a really smart, cute, and sensible / mature couple! in all honesty, i think that kuroo would find your big glasses adorable ( and if you're prone to loosing them, he would find it sickeningly cute if you cling to him while you both searched for the glasses ). i imagine his breath hitches whenever his eyes lay on your figure in the setting sun, turning your hair into a pretty orange-brown shade that makes his heart beat a little bit faster. kuroo is used to being around more reserved people ( as he was once reserved, and now his best friend is rather reserved as well ), so becoming a friends-to-lovers dynamic would be easy. your playfulness and possible sarcasm seems to perfectly interact with his own, and considering some research about your enneagram and personality type, i think that your ( possible ) creativity and curiosity really intrigues him and keeps him curious and attentive with you. i feel that he might always be wondering what's going on in that pretty head of yours, curious to know what your next wonderful idea is or what your mind is thinking about. as an obvious friends-to-lovers trope, i think your relationship with kuroo would be very cute! i have a feeling that he'd love that your love language is physical connection, and would pick up on any ques if you're feeling cuddly and can't get the words out to ask for soft intimacy and cuddles! sarcastic banter? mature yet playful? i think your ideal type seems to perfectly match up with kuroo -- he would most definitely be able to take whatever playful insults you have to throw at him, and be able to throw some back. he knows when to be playful and understands if he ever goes too far, and will own up to any mistakes he may make. considering your hobbies and interests, i think your interest in crime shows / mystery and thriller movies / anime may really pique his interest, and he'd eventually be hooked right along side you. and he may not be the best in the world, but imagining the both of you together, baking or cooking something ( possibly late at night because of midnight cravings ) could be really cute!

𝗥𝗘𝗟��𝗧𝗜𝗢𝗡𝗦𝗛𝗜𝗣 𝗛𝗘𝗔𝗗-𝗖𝗔𝗡𝗢𝗡𝗦

♡ . . . staying up late at night and ending up heading into the kitchen together to make a midnight meal doesn't happen too often, but sometimes all you both need is a look at each other as your stomachs growl after a food-related ad on tv. ♡ . . . would absolutely make you feel like a queen all day and everyday if he can help it! will exercise with you if you would let him, and would celebrate all achievements with you; big or small! ♡ . . . kuroo is surprisingly one of the most thoughtful boyfriends, in my personal opinion! i feel like the dates would be well planned, memories eagerly waiting to be made! ♡ . . . the banter between you both is so cute!! it can be sarcastic, but it's never hostile, always playful and light, a smirk plastered onto his lips in a charmingly charismatic way! ♡ . . . stay-at-home-and-watching-a-show-dates!! whether it be wide-eyed and open-mouthed concentration on crime shows, or close-cuddling while watching some thriller or mystery shows / movies / animes!

𝗥𝗘𝗟𝗔𝗧𝗜𝗢𝗡𝗦𝗛𝗜𝗣 𝗠𝗢𝗢𝗗𝗕𝗢𝗔𝗥𝗗

𝗢𝗧𝗛𝗘𝗥 𝗣𝗢𝗦𝗦𝗜𝗕𝗟𝗘 𝗖𝗔𝗡𝗗𝗜𝗗𝗔𝗧𝗘𝗦

♡ . . . akaashi keiji, iwaizumi hajime, miya osamu, daichi sawamura

#boo.matches: anon 🍃

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natromanxoff · 4 years ago

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Freddie Mercury and the Wade Deacon/Halewood Connection (by Mike Royden)

...Freddie lived for music, and in August 1969 he seized upon the opportunity he’d been waiting for – to sing in a band. Too impatient to form one of his own, he did the next best thing and found himself a ready-made outfit. His quarry was Ibex, a Merseyside-base trio comprising Mike Bersin (guitar and vocals.) and John ‘Tupp’ Taylor (bass and vocals) and a drummer by the name of Mike ‘Miffer’ Smith.

...“We met the members of Smile at a pub called the Kensington,” recalls ‘Tupp’ Taylor. “We saw them play a couple of times and they were really good. They had a great vocal-harmony thing going. Tim Staffell, their bass player, was a really good singer, and Freddie was a mate of theirs. We’d all sit around and have amazing vocal sessions singing Bee Gees, Beach Boys and Beatles songs. We could do great harmonies because there was three of them in Smile, myself, Mike Bersin, who’d chip in, and Freddie, of course.”

At this point, it was common knowledge among the Smile crowd that Freddie was desperate to get into Brian and Roger’s band. Perhaps joining Ibex might be a way in.

“Freddie hadn’t quite persuaded Smile to take him on as a vocalist,” confirms Mike Bersin. “They thought they were doing OK as they were. So, he said, “You know what you guys need, and that’s a vocalist.’ He was right, too, as John Taylor recalls: “I wasn’t the world’s greatest singer by any stretch of the imagination.” And as Ken Testi reveals “Mike had never been confident about his singing, but had been pushed into it.”

Freddie first met Ibex on 13th August 1969. Such was his enthusiasm, that just ten days later, he’d learned the bands’ set, brought in a few new songs, and had travelled up to Bolton, Lancashire, for a gig with them – his debut public performance. The date was 23rd August, and the occasion was one of Bolton’s regular afternoon ‘Bluesology’ sessions, held at the town’s Octagon theatre. For Ibex and friends, it was the event of the summer. No fewer than 15 bodies, including Freddie, Ken Testi, and the band’s other roadie Geoff Higgins, Paul Humberstone, assorted friends and girlfriends, plus Ibex’s instruments were squeezed into a transit van borrowed from Richard Thompson, a mate of Freddie’s who’d previously drummed in ‘1984’ with Brian May and Tim Staffell.

...The following day, Ibex appeared in the first ‘Bluesology pop-in’, an open-air event on the bandstand in Bolton’s Queen’s Park. On the bill were local band Back, another called Birth, Spyrogyra, Gum Boot Smith, The White Myth, Stuart Butterworth, Phil Renwick and, of course, Ibex. In a report published the day before the Bolton Evening News wrote ‘The last -named act make a journey from London especially for the concert. The climax of the whole affair will be a supergroup, in which all the performers will play together. If the weather is fine the noise should be terrific”.

Remarkably, for such a relatively inauspicious event, Freddie’s first-ever public performance was extremely well documented. There were at least three photographers present, and the proceedings were covered in Bolton’s Evening News for the second time on 25th August. This even featured an uncredited photograph of Freddie, with the caption: ‘One of the performers gets into his stride’ If Freddie wanted to be a star, he was going about it the right way.”

“Freddie really loved going up to Bolton to play with Ibex,” remembers Paul Humberstone. “He was really on form. The band was very basic, but good. They did very reasonable cover versions, and were very loud. That was his very first outing with the band, but Fred struck his pose. Remember him doing ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’? He was like that only without the eye makeup.”

“Freddie was shy offstage,” recalls Ken Testi, “but he knew how to front a show. It was his way of expressing that side of his personality. Everything on stage later in Queen, he was doing with Ibex at his first gig: marching from one end of the stage to another, from left to right and back again. Stomping about. He brought dynamics, freshness and presentation to the band that had been completely lacking previously.”

Mike Bersin agrees: “As a three piece, we’d thought it was sufficient to play fairly basic music and not worry too much about stage craft. Freddie was much better at putting on a show and entertaining people. That was pretty radical for us. I thought that’s what the light show was for, you know, we make the music and the audience can watch the pretty coloured bubbles behind us, but Freddie was different. He was so wonderfully camp in that beautifully English foppish way. With hindsight, I recognise the determination to succeed that he had in spades. He demanded to be treated as a star before he was one. His talent and ambition made people react in very different ways, but it wasn't an unpleasant thing.

As the rest of us would wear jeans and trench coats, he was the fur-and-satin man and all the moves and poses he had with Queen, were already there with Ibex, he never imitated anybody, Freddie was Freddie from day one, he was entirely his own creation and a culture shock. He worked extremely hard to be something worth to look at and to listen to. He only had one pair of boots, one t-shirt, one pair of trousers, one belt and one jacket. Still he remained immaculate. We had some gigs in Bolton which were very significant to the band. While we were getting ready, Freddie had been backcombing his long hair to make it stand out more and twitching himself in the mirror for ages. I eventually yelled at him: 'For God's sake, stop messing with your hair, Freddie!', to which he responded: 'But I'm a star, dear boy!'. There is not a lot you can say to that. In many ways, you felt Freddie almost wasn't real.”

“I don’t think Freddie developed,” reckons John ‘Tupp’ Taylor. “The first day he stood in front of that crowd, he had it all going. It seemed as if he’d been practicing for years to be ready. We’d only ever sang together as mates before that. We’d never done anything by way of trying it out. He was going to be in the band and everyone was happy with that. Once Freddie was in, we changed in loads of different directions. We began to play ‘Jailhouse Rock’, for a start! I think that was the first thing we did with him on stage.”

Back in London, a revitalised Ibex began to make plans. “Freddie and the band very quickly became inseparable,” remembers Ken Testi. “They were spending large parts of their time together, working out a new set which included different covers and some original stuff.”

Mike Bersin: “Freddie was the most musical of all of us. He was trained on the piano, and he could write on the black notes. He said ‘We’re never going to get anywhere playing all this three-chord blues crap, we’ll have to write some songs.’ A couple of things came out of it, but they’ve all vanished now. I can’t imagine they would be very satisfactory anyway – largely because he was working with me, and my understanding of music was incredibly rudimentary. We used to argue about whether we should put in key changes. I’d say ‘What do you want a key change for?’ And he’d say that it made a song more interesting, it gave it a lift. I’d think ‘Why has he got this thing about gratuitous key changes?’ The idea of changing the key of a song just because it made it more interesting to listen to was really alien to me.That said, Geoff Higgins remembers at least one decent Bulsara-Bersin tune: “ They did a great song called ‘Lover; the lyrics used to go, ‘Lover, you never believe me’ and Fred later turned it into ‘Liar, you never believe me’ It was almost the same tune, but not quite. In fact, it was similar to ‘Communication Breakdown’, they used to rip off Led Zeppelin a lot.”

That said, Geoff Higgins remembers at least one decent Bulsara-Bersin tune: “ They did a great song called ‘Lover; the lyrics used to go, ‘Lover, you never believe me’ and Fred later turned it into ‘Liar, you never believe me’ It was almost the same tune, but not quite. In fact, it was similar to ‘Communication Breakdown’, they used to rip off Led Zeppelin a lot.”

Before they knew it, however, the summer was over and it was September. Mike Bersin returned to Liverpool to begin his pre-diploma years at the local art college, at what is now John Moores University. With nothing better to celebrate than the new term, the pre-dip freshers threw a party, and who better to provide the entertainment than Mike’s band, Ibex? Subsequently Ibex’s third and final gig took place on 9th September 1969 at the Sink Club in Liverpool, a former soul-blue hang out in the basement of the Rumbling Tum – a place Ken Testi remembers as a “pretty dodgy, post beatnik café”.

...Geoff has a further revelation, which called to mind Paul McCartney’s presence in the audience at the first-ever recording of John Lennon with the Quarry Men back in 1957. “Smile were in Liverpool that night… playing another club, possibly the Green Door. And because we were at the Sink, they came down to see us.” The rest of the story is almost too good to be true. Brimming with encouragement for their flamboyant friend Brian May and Roger Taylor wasted no time in joining Freddie on stage (or as near as they could get.) They probably bashed out a few Smile numbers and this occasion marked the first time the three of them played together in front of an audience. “We virtually had Queen in there,” remarks Ken Testi, “although of course we didn’t know it then.” However, here’s the sting: although Geoff Higgins’ tape recorder was still only yards away at the time, the tape ran out before the three musicians had the chance to play a note together.

Wreckage

Sometime between 9th September and the end of October 1969, probably while Freddie was staying with Geoff Higgins in Liverpool, [flat above Dovedale Towers, Penny Lane], Ibex underwent a mini upheaval – at Freddie’s instigation. “I recall him canvassing the idea of calling the band Wreckage, but nobody was enthusiastic,” reveals Mike Bersin. “Then he phoned me one night and said, ‘the others don’t mind. How do you feel?’ I said. ‘If they agree then fine’. So, we went along to the next rehearsal and all the gear had been sprayed ‘Wreckage’. When I spoke to the others about it, Freddie had phoned them all up and had the same conversation”.

The name-change went hand-in-hand with the departure of drummer Mike ‘Miffer’ Smith as Freddie documented in a letter to Celine Daley. Dated 26th October the letter bears the address 40, Ferry Road, Barnes SW13 – another flat rented that summer by members of Ibex, Smile and various associates.

‘Miffer’ is not with us anymore,” wrote Freddie, “cause the bastard just got up and left one morning saying he was going to be a milkman back in Widnes. (he meant it too).” He goes on to boast that Roger and he go ‘poncing and ultrablagging just about everywhere,” which led to the pair “being termed as a couple of queens.” Interestingly, this word doesn’t seem to imply any of its more modern connotations. There was another term for that, as Ibex’s former drummer was well aware. “Miffer, the sod,” wrote Freddie, “went and told everyone down here that I had seriously turned into a fully-fledged queer.”

“You can see he was exploring the concept there, can’t you?” interjects Mike Bersin, “to see how many people felt about it and how comfortable he was with it. He was always very camp, but when I knew him, he was living with Mary Austin, and I certainly knew at least one other girlfriend he knew at the time. So, he was kind of straight then, but if he hadn’t come out of the closet, he was certainly looking through the keyhole.”

Crucially, as far as Queen’s pre-history is concerned, Freddie pinpoints the date when Ibex became Wreckage: “Our first booking as Wreckage is on Friday, 31st October at Ealing College,” he wrote. He also names Richard Thompson, the former drummer in Brian May’s 1984, as Miffer’s replacement.

“I’d known Freddie for years,” Richard recalls. “I first met him in 1966. I used to go round his house to listen to Beatles records. Then we’d go and watch Smile play, before he joined Ibex. I knew all of Ibex’s songs, as I’d watch them perform, so there was no point auditioning anyone else.”

With Wreckage’s first (and Freddie’s forth) concert appearance just five days away, the band set about rehearsing a new set. “Mike came down today,” wrote Freddie to Celine, “for a five-hour live marathon practise. Richard collapsed halfway through and I’ve really gone and lost my voice (no kidding). It hurts just to breathe. Hope I’m OK for this Friday, ‘cause I’m going to out-ponce everybody in sight. (it shall be easy.)” Freddie ended the letter with this hitherto unpublished information: “We’ve written a few new numbers: 1) ‘Green’; 2) ‘Without You’, 3) ‘Blag-a-blues’, 4) ‘Cancer on My Mind’ (originally called ‘Priestess’.)

“Freddie always had very unusual titles at that stage.” Recalls Mike Bersin. “I can’t remember what ‘Green’ was about. It might be the one with the intro which went, E, A, D, G, D, A, E, A, D, G, D, A in guitar chords”. As neither Ibex nor Wreckage went within striking distance of a recording studio, none of these songs was ever recorded officially. Miraculously, however one of them has survived – and it’s the one that stuck in Mike Bersin’s mind, ‘Green’.

...“We also played somewhere in Richmond, at a rugby club,” recalls John Taylor. “A friend of Brian May’s arranged it, and Brian came along. He thought our image was ‘savage’. He thought we were really good. ‘Oh Savage’ he said.”

#ibex #ibex band #wreckage #wreckage band #freddie mercury #smile #smile band #roger taylor #brian may

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ohprettyweeper · 3 years ago

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Reposted from my old blog. Prompts are bolded; translations from Google Translate.

Part Four | Answers in the Blood

“Tonight, we begin a new chapter,” Quinn announced to her class. “Irish Mythology. Turn in your books to page two-hundred and twenty-seven.”

She lectured first on banshees, then selkies. Leprechauns, of course, were in the mix, and changelings. Finally, after giving her class and herself a short break, Quinn began the section on the dearg-due.

“This creature dates back to the Celtic era,” she informed them, hitting the clicker to advance to the slide which held information for notes and also a couple of images for the students to review. “A vampire-like creature, the dearg-due is believed to have found its beginning in a young woman with blood-red lips and white-blonde hair. Forced into a marriage that would benefit her father with many riches and separated her from her true love, the girl took the only way out from her abusive husband: suicide.”

Quinn advanced the slide show again, revealing the painting of a young girl, blood flowing from her wrists and her eyes staring at nothing. Her body was emaciated and her cheeks gaunt.

“Her husband would bleed her for no reason other than to see the blood flow. So, she starved herself to death. After, she was buried at Waterford, near Strongbow’s Tree. Though she had been kind and godly in her life, it is said that her husband’s abuse and her own suicide changed her in the afterlife. Heartbroken and vengeful, on the first night she was buried, she rose from the grave and sought to quench her thirst with the blood of young men, children, and the innocent. She calms her victims first with a siren song, then steals their blood, leaving them mysteriously ill or dead.”

As the lecture wrapped up, Quinn opened the floor for questions. Most of them pertained to the traditionally known creatures, but one student asked as to the origin of the dearg-due.

“Is it possible these creatures were actually the origin of the Heathens?”

Quinn cleared her throat. “I can see where you might make that connection, but remember, the vampire experiments of Old Dema began in response to the Banditos growing in numbers — so recent that some of your grandparents likely were alive at that time. I suppose it’s possible that this knowledge is available in Old Dema and was an inspiration for the Bishops and their experiments but I can’t say that I’ve come across the connection any other time. If there’s no other questions, class is dismissed. Please do remember, your papers over chapters ten through twelve will be next week. Email me or come by my office if you have questions.”

She gathered her things and went back to her office to spend the rest of the afternoon grading. By the time she could head home, however, the stack of homework to be reviewed was not much smaller than when she had begun a couple of hours before. Her student’s question regarding the dearg-due lingered in her thoughts; not because she had not thought of a connection between the Heathens and the dearg-due before. Instead, she wondered if perhaps the Bishops and their vampire experiments were the answer to her dilemma.

One of her favorite songs hummed in her throat while Faylinn cooked eggs for breakfast. She was looking forward to an easy day at work, then coming home to continuing her novel. Much to Ildri’s chagrin, Faylinn had not stopped writing the plot line surrounding Old Dema.

Not to mention, Faylinn’s dreams had not subsided. Though frightening more often than not, they fueled her muse and her imagination and chapters were pouring out of her. Before too long, the novel would be finished.

Someone knocked on the door; Faylinn looked towards Ildri’s part of the apartment. All the lights were off, and Faylinn could see that the bed was already made. Sighing, she turned down the heat on the eggs and made way for the door. Her breath caught in her throat when the man who was often in her dreams stared back at her. His red eyes were frantic, and his dark, curly hair was in disarray.

“What are you doing here?” Faylinn whispered.

“You have to stop the novel,” he pleaded. “The Bishops know. They know everything. Distance doesn’t matter. They’ll come for you.”

Horse hooves sounded in the distance like thunder rumbling in a far off storm. Faylinn’s eyes slowly focused in that direction; somehow, she could already see all nine Bishops riding her way.

“They’re coming for both of us,” he told her.

“We have to run,” Faylinn said, pushing her feet into her shoes.

The man shook his head. “No. You just have to stop.”

Thunder clapped loud overhead, pulling Faylinn from her most recent dream. How was it possible that the thing that had been driving her for so many weeks now was the thing that made her understand the danger of what she was doing?

“Maybe I need to see a shrink,” she muttered, pushing out of the bed and motivating toward the shower to start her day.

But the dream stuck with her throughout her entire morning routine. By the time she was through with her eggs and her coffee, she had made the last minute decision to skip work for the day and make use of the best resource she had regarding Old Dema.

Tyler finished his work and walked with Josh back to the Heathen district. Others — humans — took their time getting back, but Nico held no leniency in regards to his citizens returning home when their work was completed.

“It’s been weeks,” Josh said, nudging Tyler. “You’re going to have to accept that there’s no going back.”

Tyler nodded. “I know that. But, it doesn’t stop me from wondering what’s beyond the wall. Being this doesn’t stop me from wondering what life is like in the surrounding city.”

“They call it New Dema. Sometimes, if you’re mindful, the Bishops will send you into New Dema to capture someone and bring them here to be smeared and, possibly, eventually, changed.”

“How do you know all this?”

Josh took a deep breath. “They tell you, when they know they can trust you. If you want that chance, you cannot miss any mark. You cannot question them out loud, you cannot deny their authority.”

Tyler thought that over for the rest of the walk back to his dwelling. If he played the Bishops’ game, how long would it be until he was trusted to go into New Dema? What would the task of capturing people to come here entail? Tyler had long believed that nothing good could come of new souls coming here but he had known nothing but Old Dema for his entire life. Therein lie the problem; he could not imagine knowing something else, then coming here and being confined to the Bishops’ world.

Being changed was supposed to heighten his loyalty to the Bishops, but instead, Tyler found himself questioning the old figures more than ever.

When all of Dema’s inhabitants had been locked in their dwellings for the night, Keons met Nico in the sanctuary of the temple. The head Bishop waited at the altar, facing the large statue. Keons entered from the back of the room, walking reverently toward the head Bishop.

“You have information you’ve kept from me for too long,” Nico said, turning toward Keons, his hands clasped behind his back.

Keons stood a little straighter. “Probach meni, bud’ laska (Translation: Forgive me, please). It was you who taught me, Nico, that knowledge is power. I was not entirely certain the information I obtained was correct —”

“Enough stalling, Keons,” Nico warned in a measured tone. He leaned forward on the stone block used for changing humans to Heathens. “Tell me what you know.”

Keons took another three steps forward. His hands balled to fists at his sides, but he stood fast in his resolve to share the information with Nico.

“She has surfaced — the last Bandito child. She’s a woman now, of course, but I have no doubt that it’s her.”

Nico smirked. “You shouldn’t have any doubt. You are the one who let the child escape our grasp.”

Keons took a deep breath, fighting now to maintain his confidence. He had intended, those decades ago, for the knowledge of the child’s life and location to bring him into power within the walls of Old Dema; Nico was too smart for Keons. Too ruthless. He had sensed the plot from the very beginning and had cut Keons off at the pass by informing the other Bishops the child was still alive but would be allowed to live. Anything else would undermine the authority of the Bishops.

“When I rode out several weeks ago to retrieve an escaped vampire, I found the creature dead. Her neck was snapped and her body was there, lifeless, in Trench. The scent of the Bandito child was heavy in the air, and though I could not pinpoint her location, I knew she was near. Then, after the last soul was captured and brought into our walls before disappearing, I smelled her scent in that man’s assigned room.”

“But the room was empty,” Nico surmised. He stepped around the cement block, stopping inches in front of Keons. “She is following in the footsteps of her ancestors, and the Heathen in her aids every mission she accepts. You must find her and bring her here. Send the new Heathen.”

“You mean …?”

Nico’s smirk rolled into a satisfied grin. “Yes. That one. I want her back here. She holds all the answers, Keons, and if we are to take back New Dema — we need answers.”

Keons bowed gracefully. “Yak vy komanduyete.” (Translation: As you command.)

#twenty one pilots #fanfiction #dema inspired #the last bandito #repost

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mrsalwayswrite · 5 years ago

Text

The Difference Between Champagne and Rum Part 4 (Alfie Solomons x OFC)

Thank you everyone for your patience with this. Finally!! Here is the next part! I am not sure when I will have Part 5 & 6 done but I promise they are already plotted out...just got to write them. So this takes place in Season 2, so we get to see our beloved Alfie in his gangster glory.

Warnings: Swearing, some racial slurs, mild sexual content, nothing major

Words: 10k

The Difference Between Champagne and Rum

Part 4- Chance Encounters and Necessary Libations

~1922~

“Fuckin’ Italians.” Alfie Solomons muttered as he pushed through the door of Darby Sabini’s club in London. The obnoxious mixture of perfume, cologne and cigarette smoke assailed his senses making his throat close up. For the briefest of moments his mind returned to the smoke-filled, blood-saturated fields in France, with that nauseating smell making his throat constantly feel like it would rather seal itself closed than force more of the poisonous air into his lungs. Bombs going off. Piss running through the trench, mixing with the fresh blood. Men, boys really, screaming for God or their mothers…or crying out for death. Quickly Alfie shook his head before the memories could escape the locked box in his mind that was reserved for them. No, he had a different kind of pain in the ass to deal with currently.

He moved just off to the side of the main entrance, eyeing the swarms of men with slicked-back hair, women in flapper dresses and pearls, and the workers hovering in the shadows waiting to assist the guests. Realistically, the pause was also to give his hip a moment’s respite before he had to pretend the pain radiating like a flare out of his right hip was nothing. He would rather suffer then give Sabini one hint of weakness. The man was a shark, sniffing blood in the water and attacking anything weaker than himself. He scanned the place, noting the gaudy décor, bold colors and the aura of alcohol and lust infused in the air seeking to corrupt the mind with every breath. This was definitely Sabini’s place. Alfie sent a silent prayer heavenward that he never had to cross this threshold again. This place was certainly far from kosher. After he left, he might have to repent of sins he had not even committed just to cleanse himself of the stench of this place.

“Fuckin’ hip.” He rubbed a hand over it for a moment before straightening. The sooner he met with Sabini, the sooner he could leave. “Let’s get this shit done.”

Black hat on, long black coat hanging off his wide shoulders, scowl on his face- he stepped out of the shadows and moved forward. The guests parted before him, like Moses parting the Red Sea. Not that he minded, he actually got a thrill out of seeing people’s reaction when in his presence. He could be the personification of intimidating when he chose to be. His cane tapped on the floor with each step, only taking some of his weight. It could be its own added force of intimidation. A solid strike with it had taught many people it could be used for more than just a handicap.

“Mr. Solomons!” One of Sabini’s men finally approached him. The pinstripe suit, slicked back hair and thin moustache were enough of a giveaway before the man even opened his mouth to speak in his thick accent. “Mr. Sabini informed me to meet you at the entrance.”

“Yeah? Kinda hard to do that when you got your fuckin’ tongue down that girl’s throat, eh?” Alfie pointed at a girl walking by in a cream-colored dress, attempting to adjust it back into place. “Where is Sabini? He said to meet him here.”

The man attempted to wipe the lipstick off his lips, causing some to smear on his cheek, never mind the few spots on his neck he seemed oblivious too. “Mr. Sabini had an important family meeting come up. Once that is finished, he would meet with you. It should not take long.”

Alfie grumbled, rubbing a hand over his mouth and jaw, his beard prickling the skin. The idea of waiting for Sabini sounded awfully boring and insulting. Yet he needed to have this meeting. If for nothing else then confirmation that his new alliance with those gypsies was still worth his time.

Somehow the man seemed to sense Alfie’s decision to stay and gestured for him to follow. They passed the dance floor, nearby tables being used for both alcohol and snow, and the band at the head of the room. There was a slightly elevated section that the wop led him too. Only a handful of others sat at the tables, too focused on their own conversations and drinks to pay any attention to Alfie.

“I’ll inform Mr. Sabini of your arrival, he will be out soon.” The man gestured to a table in which Alfie took a seat. “All drinks are on the house.”

Alfie watched the man scurry off before ordering a whiskey when a server approached. If Sabini had not shown his ugly face before Alfie finished his drink, he would leave. Fuck this waiting-power game Sabini was playing. The truce between the two of them wavered like a flickering flame, some moments stronger than others but this newest insult was too much. He was affecting Alfie’s business and that was something the Jewish gangster would not tolerate.

His thoughts turned to his schedule for tomorrow and what needed to get done. Ollie had been harping on him to get a secretary with how business and paperwork had been expanding and piling up. Each time Ollie tried to bring it up, Alfie’s glare would shut him down. He did not need nor want someone else sticking their nose in his books and affairs.

About halfway through his whiskey he heard footsteps approach from behind. They were not Sabini’s usual cocky stride. No, they were light and with a clip from high heels. Alfie internally rolled his eyes. He wondered if Sabini sent a whore to distract him, he would not put it past the arrogant wop to try that.

“Is this seat taken?”

Her soft, sweet voice swept over him, causing him to tighten his fingers around his glass. His plan to be rude or ignore her flew out of the window. Her voice was a siren’s call, a lingering song from his past that he had never truly forgotten.

The chair across from his slid out and she gracefully settled herself. Light caught and danced off all the silver beads on her sleeveless gray flapper dress. Long gray gloves covered her hands that held a flute of champagne. His eyes traced up her form to her red, plump lips and delicate features to stare into her hypnotic gaze with gemstone eyes. The biggest change was her shortened hair, a bob now, very fitting with the current style apparently but a part of him lamented the loss of her long, sleek, blonde hair.

The air froze between them. Time and space no longer mattered. Their eyes beheld one another as if a magnetic force refused to let them escape. Trapped in this disbelieving look. Trapped in this moment. Yet there was nowhere else Alfie would rather be. Even after all this time, even after all the shit he had seen and survived, even though it had years since he last saw her…she was still the most beautiful woman to him. He doubted that was something that would ever change.

“It is you.” She breathed out as if momentarily in awe.

“Angel?”

A small smile tilted her lips up. “Damn. Alfie Solomons in the flesh. This must be my lucky day.”

A sound between a snort and a laugh emerged from his own mouth but never once did his eyes come off of her…not did hers leave his. A bubble of silence encased them but it never felt uncomfortable. They just stared at one another as if seeing the moon for the first time. His mind struggled to convince itself that the woman sitting before him was the very same woman he had pinned after for so long. Eight years had passed since he last laid eyes on her. Eight years in which he went to war and returned to expand his empire and reputation. The year before the war ended, her letters stopped. One of the only sources of light and joy in that fucking war ceased and it hit him harder than the bomb blast that sent him to the hospital. All his hopes, dreams and promises of reuniting with her ended then. Yet here she sat in front of him now.

His brain finally decided to start functioning again and he asked the first thing that came to mind. “What are you doin’ here? Your last letter said you was in America.”

She tensed minutely, barely anyone would notice but his eyes were trained on her and did not miss her reaction. After taking a quick sip of her champagne, she answered him. “I have been. I am currently traveling for business.”

“Business?”

“Mmm…I am not sure if you have heard but over in America, this awful law was passed and now alcohol is illegal. Apparently, it is the root of all evil, if you listen to some of the old women.”

“And where does business come in?”

She shrugged casually, peering over the dance floor for a moment. “There are some people willing to pay for alcohol, especially those with money…they just lack the connections to grant them this great evil.”

“So that s’where you come in. You’re a supplier of an illegal substance.”

“I prefer to think of it as a supplier of the finer things in life and good times.”

He chuckled, shaking his head in amusement. Even after all these years, she still continued to surprise him. “So what you sayin’, yeah, s’you still a trouble maker.”

“My dear Alfie,” she gasped dramatically, placing a hand over her chest in mock horror, “I have no idea what you are talking about.”

“Yeah, yeah, you s’fuckin’ angel. What are you doin’ at this club?”

She rolled her eyes, glancing around quickly. “My business partner and I were supposed to meet with Mr. Sabini but we have been waiting over an hour already.”

“Why the fuck you meetin’ with the likes of him?” He narrowed his eyes at her. Something within him roared in anger at the idea of her meeting with scum like Sabini.

“My partner thinks he has connections we could use. I disagree. With what I have heard, he is not a man to trust easily.”

“Yeah, you s’right, love. Stay well away from ‘im. What kind of connections you lookin’ for? Maybe I can help.”

“I actually planned on calling on you next week. Between us, your reputation may have…frightened my partner. He does not want to utilize your resources. He says you are too volatile and unpredictable.”

“Fuck ‘im too.”

She laughed shamelessly, eyes crinkling as she tilted her head back.

Heaven above, that sound was like music to his ears. He could not help as his own lips turned up at her amusement. Every fiber in his body demanded he snatch her up and leave with her, never let her out of his sight again, beg her to smile and laugh for him because he had forgotten how it warmed him from the inside out. Although, if he somehow doubted that she would approve of his idea of kidnapping her. That idea made his smile broaden slightly. They both may have changed since they last saw one another but he doubted her independent streak had abated much.

“Come to me bakery tomorrow. Yeah, I’ll show you me bread and give you some names to check out.”

“I would like that.”

“Right! S’settled!” He clapped his hands together loudly, drawing the attention of the few other patrons sitting nearby. “Stop by in the mornin’. Mmm…yeah. I’ll have Mrs. Liebgott in the front expectin’ you.”

“If I may be so bold…” She gestured to his hands. Curious, he nodded and watched as she changed seats to sit next to him. Hesitantly she pulled his left hand closer and seemed to be examining it.

“S’you a gypsy now? Gonna read me palm for me fortune?”

A small smile appeared, the only indicator that she heard his tease. Now so close, her scent taunted him. That same lavender scent, even after all these years, still hung around her like a pleasant aura. As subtly as possible, he inhaled deeply, wishing to permanently brand his nostrils with her scent. Fucking hell, what was happening to him? He was starting to sound like some kind of miscreant stalker.

“Is that…from the necklace I gave you?”

He glanced down to see her finger gently touching one of his rings. “Yeah, the chain got damaged during…” he swallowed thickly, “…during a fuckin’ blast. Kept it in me pocket until I got back to London. Eventually had the gold melted from the chain to form the ring and had the star put on it.”

He wondered what she thought of it. The star was no longer perfect like when she had given it to him. There were dings and scratches on its surface. One of the star’s spikes was dramatically shorter than the others. Yet it still was the same star and same gold, just now a thick gold band encasing the simple gold northern star.

“I can’t… I am surprised you kept it.”

Unsure if those were really tears in her eyes or just a reflection off the club lights, he placed his other hand over hers. Her hands were now sandwiched between his.

“Course I kept it. It was the company’s fuckin’ good luck charm, given to me by me angel, yeah? Why the hell would I get rid of it?”

A genuine smile appeared as she squeezed his hand. “I am glad it brought you luck. From what your reputation says, even the devil himself could not have taken you down, Mr. Solomons.”

“Fuckin’ hell, he tried a few times. I had a promise to keep though. An angel told me I wasn’t allowed to die.”

“You certainly are a man of your word.”

“Mmm…yeah, yeah. That s’me.” His thoughts seemed to move sluggishly when he realized how close they were. Hands clasped between the two of them, bodies leaning forward. It felt surreal. She was truly here…in the flesh. All he wanted to do was pull her into his lap, wrap his arms around her and never let her go. Yet it had been eight years. He had changed, and he suspected she had too. Did she still want him like he wanted her? Could she? Or was this all a dream sent to torment him?

A voice destroyed their peaceful moment. A figure coming to stand near them. “Sarah, I think it’s time we leave.”

“Of course, Hector.” Sarah squeezed Alfie’s hands one last time before releasing him and standing up.

Alfie stared at the man who helped Sarah slip on her fur-lined coat. His eyes narrowed as he noticed the man kept his hand on her lower back.

“Who is your friend here?” The man asked, his American accent easily recognizable. His blue eyes peered through his thin-rimmed spectacles, an intelligence there that was undeniable.

“Yes, my apologies. Hector, this is Alfie Solomons. Alfie, this is Hector Richardson, my business partner.”

Hector nodded slightly. “You seem to know each other well for how long you were talking.”

“We s’old friends, yeah. Haven’t seen her in years.” Alfie said, drumming his fingers on his cane.

“Old friends.” Hector repeated slowly. “Well pleasure to meet you, Mr. Solomons, but as I stated earlier, Sarah and I need to leave.”

Alfie grumbled, an unintelligent consent, wishing for this Hector to find himself at the bottom of the Thames. He did not like the look of him. He could not be much older than himself but this American carried himself like somehow Alife had insulted his mother. He had a handsome enough face, minus the slightly hooked nose and thin lips pursed in annoyance. What bothered Alfie the most was the possessive touch he had on Sarah. The idea to do some digging into this- Hector Richardson- sounded worthwhile.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Angel?”

“Yes, I promise.” She winked at him, furthering the scowl on Hector’s face. The two walked away, getting lost in the midst of the crowded club.

Her heady scent of lavender lingered behind like a pleasant memory. The feel of her hands in his brought a warmth to his soul that had been cold for a long time. In all reality, he knew he was overreacting to her reappearance. It had been eight years since he last seen her and truthfully at any moment she could vanish once again. Yet the irrational piece of his brain he usually silenced chirped that it felt like a missing piece was back in his life.

Grumbling to himself, he rubbed his hand over his mouth and jaw, thoughts now turning to tomorrow and their meeting. He could not help but smirk at the knowledge that she was getting into the illegal liquor business. Even after all these years, the girl who should have been a princess and high above the rest of the peasants was still rolling in the mud with them. Even if she still carried a dignity and grace about her that made others turn heads and take notice. She may be in the mud with the peasants but she was a queen, no one could deny that.

“Mr. Solomons.”

Alfie turned to the wop from earlier who approached, now cleansed of lipstick.

“Mr. Sabini can see you now.”

Quickly Alfie slammed the rest of his whiskey back, that familiar burn bringing him back to the present and this god-forsaken meeting.

“A’right, lets get this done, mate.”

*****

-The next day-

“So you see sir…that’s…that’s what ‘appened. Just an accident.” The young man stood quaking under Alfie’s gaze, eyes darting around as if any of the other bakers would step in and help him.

Alfie grunted, turning to stare at the large spill of rum soaking into the floor. All he could see was money wasted, laying on the ground. Sure the other lads had managed to save most of the rum in the broken barrel but that did not alleviate one of the newest bakers from learning to be careful with the goods. Normally the foreman on the floor would be dealing with this mess but unfortunately Ishmael was out checking a new batch of cane sugar from Jamaica before bringing it back to the bakery. So that left dealing with this imbecile to the boss.

“Clean this fuckin’ mess up.” He demanded, paused a moment to see the young man nod erratically then turned to head back to this office. The shit that needed to get done today kept piling up without any signs of a reprieve in the future for him. This was something he really did not need to happen today. A shipment was supposed to go out tonight that he wanted to look over once more then there was that pub owner he needed to address for his late payments along with…

“I’m sorry, sir… I won’t spill no more rum. Thank you, sir…”

Before the young man finished uttering his sentence, Alfie turned around to tower over the lad. He glared, summoning all his repressed anger and intimidation, then poured it like hot oil over the lad.

“May I remind you…that the distinction between bread and rum, yeah…IS NOT DISCUSSED!” Alfie ended roaring into the quivering lad’s face. “GET IT THROUGH THAT THICK SKULL OR I’LL FUCKIN’ CRACK IT OPEN!” Without waiting for a response, he turned and started towards his office. If the smell of piss was any indicator, he guessed he would not have any troubles again with that one.

Back in his office, he slammed the door shut, startling Cyril from his nap on his bed on the floor. The bull mastiff looked up at his master before laying his head back on his front paws, watching the muttering man, unaffected by his foul mood.

Shuffling around his cluttered desk, Alfie checked his pocket watch and groaned. It was only 9am and already he wished for the day to be over. He dropped down onto his seat to stare at the paperwork before him. It was an unending pile that he seemed unable to escape no matter the number of late nights or early mornings. Slipping his halfmoon spectacles on, he started again on the notice he had been reading earlier. Someone must have dropped it by late last night. It was from one of the police officers on his payroll, saying how they were getting a new captain and a few new recruits with a list of names. Alfie made a mental note to have the captain checked out, see if he could be of use before Sabini got to him.

A gentle knocking brought Alfie out of his thoughts but kept his eyes glued to the paper before him. “Oi! What s’want, Ollie?”

The creaking of his door alerted him to Ollie’s entrance.

“This better be good, yeah, or you can just fuck right off now.”

“Would you prefer for me to come another time?”

The teasing, sweet, feminine voice had Alfie almost giving himself whiplash with how fast his head jerked up. Ollie stood just inside the office, keeping the door open, meanwhile Sarah stood in the doorway looking like a vision as usual, a mischievous smirk on her lips.

“I like the spectacles by the way. They make you look…scholarly.”

Alfie snorted, taking the glasses off before rising. “Fuckin’ hell, love. I didn’t think you’d actually come.”

“I said I would. I always follow through with my promises.” She stepped further in, her heels clicking on the wood paneled floor. “I can come back another day if you are busy.”

“No, no. S’fine.”

“Ollie,” she turned back to smile at the man, “perhaps that pot of tea and scones would be beneficial right now.” She started to peel her fur-lined coat off, the same from the prior night if Alfie was not mistaken. Ollie immediately jumped to her aid, taking her coat and hanging it up on the hooks near the door. Sometimes Alfie wondered at the true intelligence of his assistant but the lad was certainly raised well in how to treat female guests. Probably due to his mother who was a tyrant when she wanted to be but would tear down governments for anyone she cared for.

“Of course, Mrs. Bondurant. Anything else I can do, Alfie?”

“No, just that.” He leaned on the edge of his desk, running a hand over his mouth and jaw. “Then we aren’t to be disturbed, yeah? When Ishmael returns, he can leave the papers with you for now.”

“Yes, sir.” Ollie gave one quick nod, his shaggy hair shaking with the movement before closing the door behind him.

“Mrs. Bondurant, eh? You married?”

She smiled slyly before taking time to look over his office. “Would it change things if I was?”

“Well that means I’ve been having inappropriate thoughts about a married woman, yeah, very inappropriate.” He watched her, wishing he could read her mind. He wondered what she thought of his office. It was cluttered with bookshelves and files. A fireplace sat abandoned in one corner, only used on the rarest of occasions in the dead of winter. There were a map London on one wall and a couple drawings from an local artist he admired. He also did not mind admiring her in the cream calf-length skirt and plum blouse, a very sophisticated and modern look. She looked ready to take on the world, especially in those heels that made her legs look like a divine treat but were sharp enough to stab someone with. He wondered if she wore them because of how they looked or as a weapon. Probably with her, both reasons.

Slowly, she moved from where she had been admiring a drawing to stand before him. “And if I am not? If I am simply Sarah?”

“You ain’t never been just Sarah to me.”

Her lips twitched as her eyes trailed over his face and eyes, reading and weighing out his words. One of her hands came up to brush through his bristly beard, her thumb rubbing across the scar just above his jaw.

“France.” He answered her unspoken question. “Shrapnel from a bomb.”

“I heard you were made a captain.”

“Not noteworthy, love.”

“I disagree, I like the sound of Captain Solomons.”

There was that teasing, mischievous look back in her gemstone eyes that he remembered so well. Standing so close, even in her heels, her eyes were level with his chin. A strange realization that so much had changed since they last saw one another except for this. She was still the perfect height in his opinion. Her hand on his cheek, he drew his own hand over her cheekbone before running through her shortened hair.

“Why you cut your hair?”

“Are you not aware? It is the latest fashion.” She batted her eyelashes and pouted her lips, the perfect image of a spoiled aristocrat.

He chuckled, running his hand through more slowly this time. At least it did not feel full of product like some women wore their hair. “Sure it is. Never guessed you’d be one to follow the rules.”

“Maybe I will grow it back out. It does help me not to stand out.”

“Love, you are a beautiful angel. Anyone who don’t see that is a fuckin’ fool.”

“I see you still have that charmer’s tongue and honeyed words.”

“I am a man of many talents.”

“Mmm…I seem to recall a few of those talents, especially involving that tongue of yours.”

“Only a few? S’shame, yeah, gonna need to fix that, yeah.” His hands landed on her hips, holding her close. Their gazes remained locked, a heat spilling out between them to fill the air. This teasing, flirtatious banter they so easily fell into felt different this time. Maybe it was because they were different people now. Maybe it was because the time spent apart. Yet Alfie guessed it was because they no longer were hindered by her family and his limited time before the war. No, now they were free. He hoped.

“Please tell me you s’unmarried, I don’t need to be fightin’ no angry husband later.”

“Afraid you will lose?”

“No, Angel, its cos if I kiss you, I ain’t lettin’ you go again, damn your husband.”

“How do I know you are not married?”

“Been too busy.” He dragged his lips over the shell of her ear, loving the way her hands gripped the front of his shirt like a safety line. “Now answer me question, love.”

“No, I am not married.”

“Mmm…good, good.”

“What now, Captain Solomons?” One of her hands reached down to gently cup his growing erection. “I thought I was here to talk business and see your bakery.”

He suppressed a groan, trying to keep his thoughts in line. It was hard to think beyond this bubble of lust they were creating. The lock on the office door had been replaced lately, so being disturbed was not an issue. There was nowhere to lay her down though. If memory served him correctly, she did not mind being pinned against a wall (although his hip may protest). He wondered how she would feel about utilizing his desk. It was very sturdy. His hands slipped down to cup her ass, pulling her closer as he lightly kissed a trail down her neck. “It ain’t goin’ nowhere.”

And of course that was the moment Ollie chose to reenter with the tray of tea and biscuits. Opening the door, his eyes fixated on the two, his mouth gaping slightly. In all honesty, he probably did not expect to see his boss caressing this strange woman as one of her hands cupped his cock, her other tangled in his hair, pulling his head closer. That would give anyone a shock.

“Ah, um…I can come…”

“That is alright, Ollie.” Sarah stepped away from Alfie, somehow disentangling herself with ease and speed that astounded him. Probably did not help all the blood had rushed from his brain down to his cock. “Tea sounds delightful. I have been missing a good pot of English tea. Soothes the soul.” She peeked over her shoulder at Alfie, who had a scowl on his face. “Business before pleasure, sweetheart.”

Ollie almost dropped the tray on Alfie’s desk with that last comment.

Grumbling, Alfie tried to subtly adjust himself and get his mind off the feeling of how good her body felt under his hands. God, it was like the best wet dream and a nightmare simultaneously; having her so close and ready, yet then it being ripped away suddenly.

“Oh? And who is this handsome boy?”

Alfie straightened, fear coursing through him. So lost in her he had forgotten about the dog. “Sarah, wait-“

It was too late, she knelt down on the other side of Alfie’s desk near Cyril’s bed. Even Ollie momentarily looked horrified. Alfie expected to hear a cry or a growl, yet the immediate sound that greeted him was her cooing and a tail thumping. Coming around to the other side of his desk, shocked did not even begin to describe how he felt at the scene before him. There lay his massive dog that had torn men to shreds in protection of Alfie, who normally disliked strangers and even then was choosy about who he let touch him….now lay on his back, legs sprawled, tongue lolling as he got his belly and chest scratched. Sarah knelt on the floor, facing him, her voice low and cooing at him like he was the sweetest puppy. It would have been comical if Alfie could wrap his head around what his eyes were seeing. Exchanging a look with Ollie only mirrored his own surprise.

“Didn’t know you s’dog person.”

She looked back at Alfie, the widest, genuine smile on her face he had ever seen. “I love dogs. They are the most loyal companions and great for cuddling.”

“Mmm…” Alfie muttered, rubbing a hand over his face and jaw. He watched a second longer, transfixed by the sight in front of him. Glancing to his side, he suddenly remembered Ollie standing there, who now was staring at her with a dreamy look. “Oi! Keep those eyes in your head, boy. Now fuck off!”

He did not have to be asked twice, most likely knowing Alfie was pissed at him already for interrupting…whatever was happening before he arrived with the tray. Ollie stumbled an apology, along with a parting before scurrying out of the office, closing the door behind him.

“Are you always so harsh with him?”

“Didn’t like ‘im starin’ at you.” He reached a hand out to help her back to her feet, much to Cyril’s dismay. Rolling her eyes, she allowed him to pull her to her feet. Before he could get his hands fully back on her, she evaded him to glide over to the tray.

“Now, tell me the tale of how Alfie Solomons became a distiller of rum and owner of such a fine bakery. I must confess I tried one of those honeyed scones with Mrs. Liebgott, who is a delight herself, and it was delectable. I may have to come back just for that.” Sarah poured herself a cup of tea while she spoke then sat to blow gently on the steaming liquid. At her last comment, a soft whine came from around the side of Alfie’s desk. “Precious boy, I will come back and see you too. Oh! What is his name?”

“Cyril.” Alfie shook his head at the strangeness of this encounter, but then again, when had him and Sarah ever met like normal people. He rounded his desk to sit in his seat, shuffling some papers out of the way to not spill tea on. “Why you askin’ ‘bout me business?”

“Curiosity…perhaps I am impressed and am trying to see how the young man I once knew with bloody fists has now become such a successful businessman.”

“You forgot to mention dangerous gangster.”

“You would not be the first of those I have encountered.”

He squinted his eyes at her, disliking that comment. Gangsters were not to be trusted. Who else around here besides Sabini had she ‘encountered’? Had she somehow met the Shelbys? The fuckin’ Russians? Why could she not stay out of trouble?

As if reading his thoughts, she waved a hand dismissively. “In America. Apparently it is a growing trend. Now, I am still waiting for my story.”

“A’right. First,” he pointed a finger at her, “where this ‘Mrs. Bondurant’ business start? Then you’ll get your fuckin’ story.”

Several silent moments passed, her holding her tea cup against her lips as she stared off to the side. Softly, just above a whisper, she finally spoke. “My father disowned me, said I was a disgrace to our family name. I never fit into the mold that he wanted. Do not look at me with that pity, it truthfully was not a surprise to anyone. Once he realized I refused to be married off to benefit his business and position, he no longer had a need for me. Besides, he had my brother who was beginning to follow in his footsteps. So I went back to stay with some distant family in America…”

“That’s why your letters came from there. The men thought I had me an American sweetheart.”

She chuckled. “I remember you mentioning that. Ishmael wrote me a letter about how you got into a fight when one of the men called me a ‘whore’ or something. Still defending my honor even in the middle of a war.”

“Fuckin’ hell…he did?”

She nodded slowly, smile growing on her face.

Grumbling about useless friends under his breath, he motioned for her to continue her story.

“I traveled around some, New York City, Chicago, Charleston. I have some cousins who got into the liquor business of distribution to places willing to pay for the stuff even though it is illegal now. Apparently I have a good mind for business and numbers so they convinced me to help them.”

“That man last night…”

“He is a distant cousin, a business partner. Him and his brother are the ones I work with.”

He shook his head, secretly pleased the man was not a suitor. “Why the fuck he so possessive of you?”

“We have had a few encounters with gangsters who…who wanted me to be part of the deal. They have become a bit protective of me since. And also his wife is one of my good friends. Before we left to come here, she told him if anything happened to me, she would cut his cock off.”

He laughed, not expecting that.

“He has a valid reason to be afraid. You do not mess with Southern women, they are usually sweet and kind but they can be brutal if they want too. Anyway, after an…incident, I had to lay low for a while. Hector had me stay with some friends in Virginia who are moonshiners. Actually one of them reminded me of you. It was uncanny. His name was Forrest Bondurant. I guess at one point while I was resting, some men came to the house asking questions about me. Forrest told them I was his wife…and it just stuck. It certainly kept the men in the area from trying anything. It is not like I wanted to go by Sarah Byron anymore.”

“Mmm…what was this incident?”

She shook her head. “No, I answered your question. Now I get my story.”

Fiddling with the rings on his hands, he found himself pouring out about life after the war. Only two women in his life had been able to boss him around, his mum and the angel staring at him with eyes of interest and affection. He talked about how coming back he noticed how many men could not get work, their families forced onto the streets. Plus while he was gone, his mother started to get sick. Without proper care, because she could not afford it, she began to deteriorate. Seeing this, he began to figure out ways to make money to pay for her care. Thus the rum business began. He still had all his prior connections, memories of how everything worked and now the man power to make it a business. The idea of the bakery had actually been inspired by his mum who complained that he always came home smelling of molasses and rum. He managed to afford her the best care until she passed two years ago. Now his life consisted of his business. He still “ran” Camden, giving protection to those willing to pay for it and trying to keep the wops off his turf. He dabbled with races some but that was more Sabini’s territory. With the growing popularity of his nephew, he was thinking about getting into boxing matches more instead of it just being recreational. He was unsure how long he spoke for, her asking questions along the way. The tea and scones were long gone. Cyril had gotten up at some point and sat next to Sarah, laying his head on her knee so she could pet him absent-mindedly as she listened to Alfie.

Dramatically, the office door opened. Ishmael entered, a surprised and smug look on his face.

“What the fuck, mate?” Alfie demanded.

Ishmael glanced at his boss and friend before turning back to Sarah. His eyes scanned over her like she was a new species he had discovered. “Damn, Ollie was right.”

“Ishmael?” Her eyebrows rose as her mind seemed to connect his face to her memories.

“Yeah, love. It’s me. What you doin’ here?”

“Just talking history and business.”

Ishmael leaned against Alfie’s desk, ignoring the glare being sent his way by Alfie, focusing on her. “You comin’ down to the floor to see the bakery? I’d give you a tour.”

“Oi! You got somethin’ important cos if not then fuck off, yeah?”

“Seein’ the lovely woman who holds me friend’s heart is important.” Ishmael winked at Sarah before looking over his shoulder at Alfie, a shit-eating grin on his face. “And I came to tell you that one of our lads got in a fight with one of them Pikey boys and now that big fella, the red-head, is demandin’ to speak to you.”

“Fuck.” Alfie groaned, rolling his eyes skyward. He needed all the patience to deal with that particular man, who was good at his job but just continued to rub Alfie the wrong way constantly. Looking over at Sarah, he could read the amusement and understanding in her eyes. “Love, I’m sorry…”

“It is fine, Alfie. I am sure I have taken up more than enough of your time today. You do have a business to run.” She stood up, brushing out her skirt.

“Have dinner with me tonight.”

“What?”

He rose, coming around the desk to stand before her. A sudden desperation in him that he could not let her leave without knowing he would see her again soon. “Lemme take you out tonight. I’ll pick you up at eight. I still didn’t hear none of your time in America and we never talked business.”

She paused a moment, eyes scanning his face. “I would like that.”

“Mmm…good, yeah, good.” Before she could grab it, he reached over and snagged her coat, helping her into it. “Ollie! In ‘ere!”

Ollie stepped in, seeming to have been waiting just outside the door. Probably expecting to get chewed out for letting Ishmael in.

“Good. Take Mrs. Bondurant to the hotel she is staying. Use me car, yeah, have David drive you.”

“Alfie…” She started to argue, hand placed on his chest.

“No, that’s an order, yeah?”

She cupped his cheek, before pressing her lips to it. “Of course, Captain. See you tonight.”

He mumbled something unintelligent, brain suddenly on hiatus with the feeling of her lips on his skin.

Giving a brief smile to Ishmael, she followed Ollie down the walkway, looking like a goddess amongst the dim and dusty bakery.

Alfie shook his head, dragging his eyes away from the door to Ishmael to ask him a question. His foreman and friend just stared at him smirking. “What?”

“Gonna propose proper this time?”

“Ah, fuck off.”

Ishmael laughed, pushing off Alfie’s desk. “Bout time you married and started having a house full of babies. Me wife is sick of making dinners for you all the time.”

“I’m just waitin’ for you to finally die then Ruth knows I’ll marry her right after your ass is buried in the ground. ‘sides, your ankle biters like me more.”

“Well you be waitin’ around a while…don’t plan on dying yet.”

“Good, good. I need you still, you fuckin’ bastard. Now let’s go crack some heads, yeah? Cyril, c’mon boy.”

Ishmael clapped a hand to Alfie’s shoulder quick before walking out of the office. Straightening the rings on his fingers, he allowed his boss persona to rise to the surface. Alone with Ishmael, they could joke but out in the bakery, he was the boss you did not fuck with or your blood spilled on the ground. Cyril at his side, he strode out of his office, wanting to deal with this mess as quickly as possible. He had a pile of things he needed to do still but nothing would stop him from seeing his angel tonight. He cracked his knuckles. Like she said, first business then pleasure.

*****

Unfortunately business took longer than Alfie wanted. It was closer to nine that evening when his car pulled up in front of the hotel Sarah was staying at. A nice place with brick walls, banners and an attendant at the door to greet guests and provide information. Alfie let his driver go home claiming to need the drive to clear his head, when truthfully he just did not want to be around anyone. That afternoon had been exhausting from dealing with the Pikeys working in his bakery (damn Shelby for convincing him this was a good idea) and then trying to catch up on paperwork. Parking the car on the side of the street, he hopped out, almost getting hit by an erratic driver before heading towards the hotel.

“How can I be of service, sir?” The attendant politely asked when Alfie approached the double doors.

“Um, lookin’ for a friend. She s’stayin’ here.”

The attendant glanced him up and down quickly as if assessing Alfie’s worth of being allowed through his doors. Before Alfie could give him a piece of his mind, the man spoke up. “Would you, by chance, be a Mister Solomons?”

“Um…yeah.”

“Ah. A Mrs. Bondurant said she would be waiting for you at the bar, sir.”

Grumbling to himself, he nodded to the man before slipping past the double doors and heading off to the bar area on the right. His eyes shrewdly scanned over the patrons before landing on her. What should of brought elation only caused a shot of fiery anger to course dangerously through him. Sitting next to her at the bar was a man who was much too close and much too focused on her in Alfie’s opinion. He was fully turned facing her, holding a glass of amber liquid in one hand and the other draped across the back of her chair.

Sarah was only turned slightly towards him but one of her hands were carefully holding a wine glass and the other a lit cigarette. Her dress was a deep red, V-necked so her cleavage peeked out enticingly, and two strands of pearls hanging over her chest with black heels that were sharp. She looked positively beautiful and sinful at the same time.

The man brought his face closer to hers, whispering something before leaning back and chuckling about whatever it was. Sarah laughed along but it seemed fake to Alfie. To his growing rage, he witnessed the man place a hand on her thigh as he continued talking casually.

Without warning, Alfie stormed over and practically yanked the man out of his seat, causing him to spill his drink all over the counter. “Keep your fuckin’ hands and eyes off ‘er, yeah? Or I’ll cut ‘em off. Got it?” He growled into the man’s face.

“What the fuck?” The man scrambled to stand up straight, made impossible by the way Alfie was gripping the man’s suit jacket. His own voice rising to meet Alfie’s anger. “We were just talking. Who the fuck do you think you are? Get your bloody hands off me.”

Permission granted and uncaring of the amount of stares he was receiving, he pulled the man upright to get into his face. “I’m Alfie Solomons, that’s who the fuck I am.”

Alfie watched the lightbulb go off in the man’s eyes as his name sunk into his thick skull. Where there had been irritation and rising fury, now was doused away with the realization of who held him and pure fear at the unknown of Alfie’s actions.

“Good, good. Anymore questions? No? Then fuck off, mate.” He released the man, who stumbled back before righting himself. He opened his mouth as if to say something but with Alfie’s pointed glare, he clamped it shut and briskly walked away without even looking at Sarah.

Rubbing a hand over his eyes, Alfie turned back to Sarah. She had not moved, a single eyebrow raised as she took a sip of her wine.

“You look like you need a drink.”

He chuckled darkly. “More than one.”

Taking the man’s seat, he plopped down and ran a hand over his eyes. He signaled for a whiskey from the bartender, who quickly cleaned up the spilled drink. “Sorry, ‘m late, love, I had some unforeseen business…”

“Was that necessary?”

He stopped at her abrupt interruption. Turning slightly to face her, he eyed her. “What?”

Pursing her lips, she took a drag off her cigarette before speaking, the smoke dancing out of her lips and floating above her head. “Was it necessary to come after William like that?”

“William, eh? You two s’friends?”

“No, I just met him.”

“Then pardon me but what the fuck is the problem then? You didn’t seem to enjoy none of how close he was to you or was I readin’ that wrong? You tryin’ for his attention? Hopin’ to fuck him?”

With that, she turned to face him, emerald eyes glowing with unbridled rage. “You listen, Alfie Solomons,” she spat out, keeping her voice low but no less deadly. “I can talk to, spend time with and fuck whomever I want. I am not some innocent posh girl you need to protect anymore. Nor am I yours in any way. I am my own and I can do whatever the hell I want. If that affects us then you can be on your way and do not expect to hear from me. Am I making myself clear?”

Alfie’s own anger rose up instinctively. No one had talked to him like that in years and he remembered how much he hated it. His own blue eyes met her emerald, flames practically flickering between them with the surrounding air thick with tension. He did not flinch nor look away when the bartender hesitantly slide his drink in front of him. This battle of wills between them, staring purposefully into her heated gaze made him notice something. There was a darkness that lingered in the edges of those beautiful, gemstone eyes he had always loved so much that had not been there the times prior they had met. No, this was something new and it broke his heart. It was the same darkness that lingered in himself, in returned soldiers, in people who had seen far too much violence and their minds could not forget. She was haunted, just like him. Whatever anger he held crumbled like dust at this realization. All he could think of was pulling her into his arms to protect her from her own pain. What had happened since he had last seen her those eight years ago?

“A’right, love, a’right. You s’right. Just don’t want to see you hurt, yeah?”

After a long pause, he could see the tension drain from her posture. Slowly, she brought a hand up to cup his cheek, her thumb rubbing over his scar. “Why do you still care? Why are you still looking out for me?”

“Cos you s’me angel. You deserve it.”

A hint of tears glistened in her eyes as she held his gaze once again, but with a very different emotion this time.

“Now, it’s been a fuckin’ long day after you left. Me temper may have gotten the best of me. Here we are and this mornin’ you promised to tell me your story…mmm…so…”

“Is that so?” She chuckled, pulling her hand back to grasp her glass, and there was that twinkle in her eye that meant trouble. “Perhaps I want to see if you will beg for it?”

He leaned forward, invading her space intimately, as he whispered in her ear. “There is only one reason I would beg…and we will both be naked before that happens.” Returning to an upright position, he witnessed her pupils dilated slightly and lick her lips subconsciously. A jolt of desire shot through him at her action.

“An interesting proposal, Mr. Solomons. There is one thing I have heard that I am most curious about.”

“Mmm?”

“Some new friends I have made informed me that at the Paradise you regularly pay more for blonde company.” She smirked, lifting the cigarette to her lips again.

“Fuckin’ hell, what are you doin’ at a whorehouse?”

“I told you, I thoroughly research those who I may be doing business with.”

“You s’still trouble, Miss Sarah. Fuck…what you learn ‘bout Sabini?”

Shaking her head, she laughed making a smile appear on his own face. The prior tension between them fully gone.

“When you start smokin’?” Not that it bothered him terribly. During the war, he had become used to the smell. It was one of the few ways a soldier could attempt to relax while in the trenches. He never acquired the taste for it personally, much to the amusement of some of his men.

She shrugged, “I cannot rightly say. It just happened.”

He nodded, taking a sip of the whiskey. Not terrible stuff, surprisingly. Opening his mouth to tease her about it, the words died on his tongue as a different voice called out to her.

“Sarah? Sarah Byron, is that you?”

The tightening of her hand around her glass was the only give away of emotions. Gracefully she turned to face the man now standing behind her. Alfie’s ire returned, especially with the look this man was giving her. In his crisp suit, cropped hair and smug smile, he looked the part of an arrogant aristocrat. He practically smelled of money from family inheritance.

“Yes…Joseph?”

He smiled broadly, eyes trailing over her body. Quickly he took that last step forward, plucked her hand and kissed the back of it. “My dear Sarah, it is a true pleasure to see you. I do believe your beauty has only grown since I last saw you. Unfortunately I have a brief meeting I must attend now but after, could I take you out for a drink or food? There is a splendid restaurant not far from here my driver could take us. It has been far too long since we were able to talk without any preconceived notions and expectations.”

“Sorry, mate, she s’busy tonight.”

For the first time, the man turned his focus on Alfie. Meeting his narrowed eyes, all Alfie could think of was a serpent.

“Oh? Is she? And who are you?”

“Alfie Solomons.”

The man’s eyebrows rose. “The gangster?” He looked back at Sarah. “Fascinating company you keep, my dear.”

“And who the fuck are you?” Everything in Alfie screamed at him to stand up and have this bastard’s face meet his fist…repeatedly.

“I am Joseph Coventry, Earl of Lancashire.” Keeping his sly gaze on Sarah, he pulled the single red rose out of his suit jacket’s pocket. He held it out for her, who took it somewhat reluctantly as he spoke again. “Truly a shame I must leave but I will call on you soon. Have a pleasant evening, Lady Sarah.” After a quick peck on her knuckles this time, he headed towards a far table already containing three men dressed similarly and with an air of high class.

“What the…”

Ignoring Alfie, she turned to the bartender. “Whiskey, a whole bottle, yes that one will do. Two glasses. Put it on my tab, please.” Snatching the glass bottle and glasses, she stabbed her cigarette out and left it on the ashtray before she got up and started towards the nearby stairs.

Alfie stared at the men a moment longer…this Joseph Coventry…an arrogant bastard if he had ever met one. It might be prudent to ask around about him. Alfie could usually get a good read on people, those that were trustworthy or not. Everything about this prick made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up and his hand to unconsciously twitch to grab the pistol under his jacket. There was something there…something dangerous and deadly just under the surface…and the man had his eyes on Sarah. No, Alfie would not tolerate that.

After taking that moment to memorize Coventry’s face, he followed after Sarah up the stairs. He had a few new questions for her and with her purchase of a whole whiskey bottle, he was unsure how much longer she would be sober for. Although the idea of seeing her drunk did amuse him slightly, he wondered if she would be the angry type or the giggly, excessively talking type. Personally he hoped for the cuddly type but he would never take advantage of a drunk woman. He may be a low life gangster with too much blood on his hands but he did have some morals.

He quickly caught up to her on the second floor as she opened the door to room number 16. Without a word or a look back at him, she walked through and into the hotel room, leaving the door wide open. He followed, closing and locking the door behind him before scanning the place. The room certainly had an upscale feel with its floral wallpaper, wood accents and gaudy still life paintings. There were only two other doors, one he guessed led to the washroom and the other to the bedroom. His focus though turned to the woman who had collapsed onto the couch, her high heels kicked to the side, and pouring two fingers worth of whiskey. Within moments after pouring it, she slammed it down and poured another. So many questions resided on his lips but he kept them closed. Moving around the room, he tossed his coat onto a nearby wingback chair and joined her on the couch. He sat on the opposite end, allowing her space. To his surprise, she poured him a glass and wordlessly handed it to him. After pouring herself another glass, she leaned back and closed her eyes. He could not help his wandering gaze, eyes drifting to those sleek legs with more skin exposed as her dress had ridden up with her unladylike posture, and the swell of her breast, straining against her dress.

“Do you remember…” she stopped, licking her lips as of to encourage the words to come out, “…last time we saw each other. I told you I was back because I was supposed to be getting married.”

“Yeah.” Then it clicked and his eyes widened momentarily. “That…that bastard? That s’who?”

She took a tentative sip of her drink this time, still leaning back and keeping her eyes closed.

“Fuck, love, think you dodged a bullet with that one.”

A snort escaped her but it was her eyes opening and turning to look at him that caused him to finally relax.

“Tell me, Sarah.”

And so she did. He could tell she glossed over much of her story and skipped certain parts entirely. Yet he let her talk, sharing about her past eight years and things she had done. He sat mesmerized by her and her story. After the “insult” perceived by her father, he disowned her, kicking her out of the house no matter her mother begging for him to reconsider. More determined than ever to prove herself and to never let a man control her, she got on a boat and traveled back to her mother’s distant family in America. Finally America decided to join the Great War and many men were sent over to Europe. During this time she became more involved in that family’s business and proved herself to be an asset. Once the war was over, she continued with the work but settled more behind the scenes. Prohibition happened which only proved to make business a challenge she thrived in. Her brother died in France during the war and with the grief of losing her son and disownment of her daughter, her mother fell into a deep depression and eventually died. Her father died last year, the only reason she felt confident in returning to London after all this time.

Somehow during her retelling, their postures changed. Alfie had shifted to sit closer to her, feet still planted on the ground and a glass in his hand. Sarah laid stretched out on the couch, her legs over his lap with her head on the arm rest and a glass in her hand. Together, they were slowly working through the whiskey bottle while she spoke. His hand skimmed up and down her legs, the feeling of her stockings and skin under his hand was intoxicating.

When her story ended, he asked something that had been gnawing on him for years. “Why did your letters to me stop?”

She threw back the rest of her glass, turning to look at the large window they faced. “I did something stupid and got thrown in jail for a short time before family could get me out. The sheriff was not a fan of me.”

Something about the way she tensed and refused to look at him made him wonder what happened to her while in jail. Nothing good. The thought of this sheriff laying a hand on her made his blood boil and he wondered if the man was still alive so he could kill him himself. Slowly and painfully.

Reaching a hand over, he gripped her free hand and entwined their fingers. There was nothing he could say or do to take away the pain no matter how much he wanted to. He changed the subject, hoping to bring her out of the solemnness that she was wallowing in. “How long until you head back?”

“Two weeks? A month? Depends on if we decide to go to France and meet some connections there.”

“That s’it?”

He could not disguise the sadness nor longing in his voice. Emerald eyes turned to meet his, mirroring his emotions. Slowly she sat up, setting her glass down before placing one hand on his shoulder and another on his cheek.

“I will not leave unannounced. I can promise you that.”

“Is it selfish for me to want all your time while you’re here?”

She smirked, dragging her thumb across his lower lip. “Something particular in mind to occupy our time?”

“I’m sure I can get creative.”

“Promises, promises, Captain Solomons.”

In a heated rush, his lips claimed hers. Whatever slow building fire that burned between them suddenly turned into an inferno and Alfie swore he felt like his blood was aflame. Unexpectedly she moved to straddle him, hands tugging on the buttons on his shirt. His own hands fumbled between cupping her ass and undoing the buttons on her dress. He sipped on the sweet ambrosia that was her mouth, drowning in the taste of her tongue and the heat between her legs over his straining cock. It was heaven. It was torment. There was one thing he knew, he could not stop. Whatever self-control he had flew out the window once their lips touched. He was fully under her control and had no intentions of going anywhere else. In one last draw of strength, he pulled away to meet her lust filled eyes. They had been drinking and he did not want her to regret this come morning.

“Angel, you sure?”

Slowly, she blinked as if awakening from a fog. Then she pulled off his lap to stand before him. A piece of him died when she turned and started to walk away. Did she regret this? Had he pushed her too far? They were certainly different people and with everything she had shared tonight, perhaps this was not what she wanted.

His breath caught in this throat, hope and fear warring within him when she stopped at the bedroom door. Meeting his gaze, she reached back and undid the last few buttons on her dress. It slipped down to pool at her bare feet, leaving her standing there in a sheer shift that left nothing to the imagination. She looked like both the angel he called her and sin wrapped up in a body that begged to be worshipped and ravished until she could not move. His blonde, green-eyed siren regarded him, a smile growing on her lips as he stared.

“Coming, soldier?” Turning around she strolled into the darkness in her bedroom, the slip coming off and dropping onto the floor like a trail for him to follow.

He did not think he had ever scrambled off a couch so fast. His shirt fell onto her dress on the floor, symbolic of their owners just a few feet away.

The rest of the night was spent in a haze of lust, laughter and contentment. Neither brought up the new scars scattered along both of their bodies. Pleasure was the purpose of the night. Something they certainly succeeded at if how sore they both were come morning was any indicator.

*****

-The next day-

Alfie sat at his desk, massaging his sore hip. He had been forced to use his cane more than he cared for today but thinking of the prior night and the reason why…completely worth it.

A knocking on his door had him looking up. “Come in.”

One of his men came in, a fellow soldier from France and now a baker, when he was not needed as protection on the streets.

“John, good, good. C’mere.”

John shut the door behind him and took the indicated seat, the chair creaking slightly under the weight. John was a large man, muscular and thick with a bushy beard and watchful eyes. Although Alfie would never tell him out loud, John was one of the few he trusted most that worked for him and found him indispensable. But Alfie did not want to boost the man’s ego more than it was.

“I got a task for your lads.” Alfie rubbed his hand over his jaw and mouth for a moment before continuing, damn the consequences. “There’s someone I need your lads to keep an eye on for me. A Mrs. Sarah Bondurant. Don’t let ‘er know, yeah. Just report who she s’been meetin’ with and make sure no one harms her.”

“This the woman who came by yesterday?”

Alfie raised a single eyebrow.

John shrugged. “Ishmael been talkin’.”

“Fuckin’ hell, that ugly bastard. Yeah, yeah, it is. Think you can do it?”

“Course.”

“One last thing. See what you can find out about a Joseph Coventry.”

“The earl?” John asked, clearly surprised.

“Yeah, I gots me a bad feelin’ ‘bout him.”

“Yes, boss. I’ll stop by in two days. Should have somethin’ by then.”

“Good, good. Thanks, John.”

After John left, Alfie toyed with the gold star ring on his left hand, lost in thought. After hearing everything from Sarah and seeing some of her scars, it only increased his desire to protect her. She would certainly be livid with him if she knew he had men looking out for her. He both loved and hated that independent streak in her. For now though, he needed to focus on work. He had managed that morning to draw a promise to see her again tonight, and this time he planned to take her out proper…maybe go back to his place after? He smiled at the thought of her writhing beneath his sheets. Maybe they should just go straight to his house?

A loud bang sounded from outside his door drew his attention back to the present and a scowl formed on his face. No rest for the wicked.

“Oi! The fuck is goin’ on out there?!”

#Peaky Blinders #peaky blinders fiction #peaky blinder fanfic #Alfie Solomons #alfie solomons x oc #mzwrites

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urcadelimabean · 5 years ago

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Fellowship of the Ring rewatch thoughts from one of those intense lotr nerds!

- One thing that strikes me after so long - I think the last time I saw it was about 3 years ago - is not just the music but the sound...the sound effects for the heaviness of the Ring, the way spells echo and amplify when Gandalf or Arwen speak them, the sound effects for bowstrings, the screams of the Nazgul being so inhuman, the drums in the deep of Moria, the scrape of stone on stone for the Balrog...if the sound hadn’t bee so good the movies honestly wouldn’t have worked this well. God the soundtrack.

- I will always have little quibbles about stuff -- the Ring moving onto Frodo’s finger in Bree with CGI, Galadriel’s over the top green CGI moment, the fact that we see too much of the Watcher in the Water -- but in general, like in GENERAL, the fact that these movies are so beautiful and well made....we didn’t just dodge a bullet we dodged a nuclear weapon LOL....we really did. These could have been so atrociously bad, but instead they are beautiful.

- no one should be reading LOTR as an allegory anyway, but the Ring is often read as an allegory for addiction or a nuclear weapon and somehow not as frequently likened to carrying trauma. Which is absolutely wild to me. The concept of carrying something that poisons and hurts you but that you can’t put down....it seems much more similar to trauma than many of the things I see it compared too

- I love moral complexity, greyness, etc, but I find the idea that the Ring is just utterly and completely evil very refreshing. That there are things that you cannot compromise on, that are indisputably evil.

- One thing i love about LOTR is the fact that it is not what people think of as “high fantasy” - it doesn’t take place in a shiny, perfect world, it takes place in a decayed, faded, eroded remnant of so many things that have been lost. The whole setting being created that way is so important. And magic honestly doesn’t even come into the story that much. The Ring is magical, but the way magic functions in LOTR is so different from how it functions in Harry Potter for example and I am so thankful of that because it’s a refreshing and beautiful and different world.

- I’ve thought a lot about how Tolkien’s time in the trenches of WW1 influenced his outlook and therefore his writing, but the part where Frodo is talking to Bilbo and he says “My own adventure was quite different. I’m not like you, Bilbo.” It really struck me as something straight out of Tolkien’s mouth. This was a generation that became so disillusioned about the point of war and all this bloodshed and all these young lives lost, who found out that this idea that ‘fighting for your country is some grand adventure’ is completely empty.

- Really has been bothering me for years that the conversation of racism in Tolkien’s works is restricted to conversations about orcs and dark/light. Left out of that conversation is all the talk about bloodlines, pure blood, heritage, etc, and all of that stands out so sharply to me...like HELLO. That’s clearly as much of or even MORE of a problem than the other things, and once you know how drawn white supremacists are to LOTR it’s not hard to connect the dots as to why. But the LOTR fandom has historically been absolute shit at admitting this.

- I really really love that in LOTR you have characters like Merry and Pippin who have no special powers, no special birthright or parentage and the reason they are heroic is simply because they are loyal and protective of their friends. The way they distract the orcs by waving to them to come get them, so Frodo can run away - it has nothing to do with how good they are at fighting, they dont protect Frodo with special powers, they literally just do WHATEVER they can even if it means sacrificing themselves.

- And then you have Sam - he doesn't have special powers, or special parentage, or magic - and it’s again a situation where his heroic moment is simply refusing to be parted with Frodo. He wades into the water even though he can’t swim. All these movies these days are just heroism = powers, and it’s so refreshing to see the opposite, of heroism even when it’s almost futile, and that’s why it’s heroic.

- There’s something so painfully bittersweet about LOTR, and it’s one thing I love the most. It feels real because it’s painful. It wouldn’t feel real if it didn’t have this thread of sadness running through it.

- Everyone saying Gandalf is a Christ figure....brooooo do you know Odin??? I’m not even denying there are Christian themes in LOTR but Tolkien created LOTR to be a pre-Christian myth. Clearly it is compatible with Christianity, but Tolkien was a scholar of all these pre-Christian epics and he knows there are themes that are shared across mythologies. Compatible with Christianity does not mean original to Christianity. Also all this death and glory shit is so Norse guys come on. anyway ODIN.

- GOD the mythic themes of hubris, the importance of promises, warrior’s deaths....LOVE THAT MYTHOLOGICAL FEEL!!!!!!!!! LOVE IT

- everyone wants in on a redemption arc but Boromir is out here literally getting shot full of arrows, dying a courageous warrior’s death and confessing his love and loyalty to his King.....everyone just want what he has!!!!!!!!!!

- love me some hobbits. curly haired. small. love food. would love to marry one one day.

- did I mention how much I love Ian McKellen? I swear every time I hear him say those lines to Frodo I heal in some amazing way. “All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given to us.” I remember the first time I read the Fellowship when I was 13 and Gandalf died I was just like “nope. that did not happen :)” and then sure enough I was right!!! and then I felt relived but not even that relieved because I literally had refused to accept it in the first place so I was just like :)

- Saruman should start a hair product line. His hair looks so silky. No but seriously Christopher Lee was perfect. Imagine how bad the casting could have been. I’m so glad they got the right actors. Viggo Mortensen!!!! that man

- Legolas after Lothlorien was literally like Gimli likes blondes? maybe I have a chance after all.....eyes emoji....

- never over the level of detail in the costumes, the armor, the chain mail, the Elvish in the songs, the way the scenes mirror paintings from book illustrations....like holy fuck. FUCK!! FUCK

- the way these movies do or don’t reveal things is so integral to how well they work. the fact that at first you meet one Nazgul, then two, then three, the fact that you hear the Balrog before seeing it, the fact that you rarely hear Sauron speak unless it’s indistinct, the fact that you never see Sauron in battle except for in flashbacks. It all preserves the mystery and suspense that makes it scary and compelling. Lotr made in 2020 would be like Aragorn vs Sauron and it would be literally awful.

- the amount of hugging and crying and actual human emoting in this one movie cleansed me of so much marvel fatigue. it’s so nice to see characters actually grieving and comforting each other instead of acting like cardboard cutouts.

- I’ve talked a lot about this before elsewhere but the reduction/interpretation of lotr to this black and white good versus evil type of story really does a disservice to the whole ass POINT which is that it’s a story about despair in the face of insurmountable evil, in the face of the destruction of the environment and the destruction of freedom and this awful powerlessness, and so it’s not just a story about despair it’s also a story about hope in the face of despair. which feels very needed right now.

- these bullet points are getting less coherent but I’m still just thinking about that last shot, of Sam and Frodo beginning to walk away into the wilderness towards Mordor, and the soundtrack.

#seagul shooting laser beams from eyes.jpg

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ladyfogg · 5 years ago

Text

We Have It All

Fic Summary: You ask John’s help on a job and he reluctantly agrees. When things get dangerous, however, his true feelings for you are revealed. Constantine Oneshots Masterpost.

Fic Song: We Have It All by Pim Stones

A/N: Another lovely commission.

Fic Rating: NC-17

Pairing: John Constantine/Male Reader

Warnings: Smut & Language

You stroll briskly across the parking lot, hood pulled up to block out the pouring rain. The bar is dimly lit when you enter, but you're still able to take in the crowd. It's a chill place, with quiet music and people scattered in groups throughout the room.

Say for a lone figure sitting in a corner at the bar.

With a grin, you approach him. Before you even get a word out, he says, “Whatever it is, no.”

You take a seat on the stool next to John. “You don't even know what I'm gonna say.”

Constantine glances over at you, cigarette dangling from his fingers as he brings it to his lips. “Doesn't matter,” he says. “I know what you're about, mate. And I'm not interested. So piss off.”

You wave to the bartender for a round before pushing your hood back from your face. “You will be when I tell you what the job is.”

His reaction to you isn't surprising. You and John have worked together on several occasions and they haven't exactly gone well. At least, in John's eyes. You happen to think otherwise.

“You said that last time,” John reminds you.

“I did. And I was right.”

John snorts with amusement as he takes a sip of his whiskey. “Debatable."

"Come on," you grin. "You made out great last time."

"Only after I conned us out of police custody."

"Exactly! Proof we're a great team." You nudge him with your elbow, giving your best charming smile. "You know you're curious."

John studies you with hooded eyes, the ghost of a smile on his lips. "Alright then, squire," he gives in. "What's this amazing job?”

“A very old rich man died and his vault is said to have thousands of dollars worth of magical artifacts,” you say. “Supposedly no one knows where it's hidden.”

“But you do.”

You grin and accept the drink from the bartender. "Yup! And I know how to get in."

John considers your words, taking a thoughtful drag of his cigarette. "How do you know your info is good?"

You give him an incredulous look. "Now you're just insulting me."

"I'm covering my arse," John argues. "No need to risk my neck without proof we're gonna get paid."

"The guy was a workaholic," you say. "The one place they haven't looked in his office. It's gotta be there."

John is quiet with consideration, watching you take a drink. "What kind of artifacts are we talkin'?"

Hook. Line. Sinker

It doesn’t take long after that for John to be on board. You spend the next few hours drinking and going over the details of the job. By the time you get ready to leave, John is fully committed.

The next day John is waiting for you outside of the motel, leaning against your car. You’re surprised he’s there so early. He looks exhausted but still damn good in the early morning sun, his trench coat slung over his shoulder.

"If we're gonna do this, mate, you gotta follow my lead," he says as you both climb in.

"It's my job, Johnny," you remind him, starting the car. "I'm the one who should be in charge."

"Aye, that's where you're wrong," John says, leaning back in his seat. "You asked for my help, which means you need me. Therefore, you do as I say, or I walk."

You raise an amused eyebrow. "Maybe I just like your company.”

John rolls his eyes. “I doubt it, mate.”

“Whatever you say, Johnny."

He shoots you a glare as he pops the end of a fresh cigarette into his mouth. "I'll remember you said that, love," he said, lighting the end. "Where are we headed?"

"We need to stake out the area," you say. "Make sure no one else is sniffing around. Once we have the all clear, we'll hit the place tonight."

"A whole day in the car with you," John smirks. "Must be my lucky day."

"Play your cards right and it could be."

The building is unassuming and will be ignored by most. On the outside, it seems like a boring office. You make a few laps up and down the street before finding a spot to park. Both of you are no strangers to stakeouts and settle in for a long day of nothing. A few hours pass with nothing but idle chit-chat.

“I’ve got a question, squire,” John says after an hour or so of silence.

“I may have an answer,” you respond. “No guarantees.”

John smirks and flicks his cigarette out the window. “Why me?” he asks. “There are plenty of other mages who would be chompin’ at the bit to help you.”

“Yeah, but you’re prettier,” you tease, flashing him a grin.

John doesn’t seem annoyed by your response. He actually looks amused. “I knew you fancied me.”

Laughing, you lean back in your seat, rolling your head to the side to look at him. “Do you want the truth?” you ask.

Intrigued by your tone of voice, John adjusts his body to face yours, giving you his full attention. “Wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t.”

“You’re one of the few people in this line of work I can trust,” you say. “And I know that whatever happens, you’ll have my back.”

John snorts with laughter. “You know what happens to people who put their trust in me,” he says. “And you know that when push comes to shove, I’ll save my own arse every time.”

“True,” you agree. “But I also know what you do for the people you care about.”

Amused, John places his arm around the back of your seat and leans in close. “Who says I care about you, mate?”

The heat from his body is tantalizing and you can't help but lean in as well, your noses only a few inches apart. “Oh, it’s just something I’ve…” You glance down at his lap pointedly. “...noticed.”

John's eyes grow hooded. He glances out the window as if to make sure you two aren't missing anything. It's already growing dark, storm clouds helping to mask the sunlight. When he looks back at you, his eyes flicker to your lips. He opens his mouth to speak but you don't give him the chance.

You grab the back of his neck and yank him into a kiss, something you've been wanting to do for ages. John immediately follows through, tongue gliding against yours. His hand cups your cheek, firmly holding you in place. Excited to see this through, you deepen the kiss eagerly.

Your feelings toward John have always been more than just casual friends. It’s no secret that you find him ridiculously attractive, and he hasn’t even tried masking his admiration toward you. For some reason, it’s never happened. You weren’t expecting today to be the day that changed, but you’re not about to look a gift horse in the mouth.

Unfortunately, the kiss is short-lived. Out of the corner of your eye, you spot movement inside the building and jerk away from John.

"Crap."

"What's the matter?" John asks breathlessly as he follows your line of sight.

"Someone got in before us," you say. "We gotta go."

John doesn't question you as you both get out of the car. You glance around to make sure no one is watching before jogging across the street toward the building.

"Let's go around back," he says, grabbing your arm.

“Nah, I’d rather go through the front door.”

Before he can stop you, you’re already halfway there, readying a spell in your head. You ignore John’s protests and the second your hand connects with the doorknob, you unleash the string of Latin words you prepared. The door pops open at your command and you stroll in.

You find yourself in an entryway decorated with marble floors and white walls. The decor is minimalistic and incredibly boring for your taste, but you are more interested in what the millionaire has in his secret stash.

Keeping your eyes peeled, you glance between three doorways, trying to decide which one you want to tackle first. Whoever is inside hasn't seemed to have heard the front door. No one comes running.

John appears behind you and you can see he’s fuming.

“You are going to get us killed,” he hisses, hurriedly closing the front door.

“Since when do you play it safe?” you ask, amused. Before he can answer, you pick the door to your left and head for it.

You find yourself in an office. It's richly decorated, which leads you to believe it belongs to the dead man. As you start to search for evidence of the vault, John closes the door behind you, pressing his ear to it so he can hear if someone is coming.

"Hurry up," John says. "I don't like this."

"Relax, we're fine. I have a plan if someone shows up," you say, opening desk drawers and feeling around for anything unusual. "We'll get out of here faster if you help."

John turns to face the room. Reaching into his pocket, he withdraws a handful of powder and starts to chant, eyes rolling back into his head. When he blows on the powder, it extends around him in a dense cloud before floating throughout the room.

You watch it move toward the bookcase before sliding through a slight gap underneath.

"It's that way," John says.

With a grin, you grab John and plant a smacking kiss on his cheek. "Well done, Constantine!"

John smirks. "I have my ways."

You both examine the bookshelf, pulling books until there's a click and it slides open. Behind it is a door with no handle, only a combination lock. You place your hands on it, mutter a spell, and push. The lock spins several times before the door opens and you're greeted with a beautiful sight.

A square room is lined with display cases of various artifacts, all looking beyond ancient. Swords, armor, scrolls, pottery...the magical hum coming from the room is almost too much to bear.

Time isn't on your side so you can't take the time you want to admire them. You have to move fast.

"What are you thinking?" John asks.

You ponder for a moment before pulling a piece of chalk out of your pocket. Carefully, you start to draw a symbol on the floor. As you finish however, John grabs your shoulder, trying to stop you.

"That spell is unstable," he says. "You can't predict what'll happen."

"Only if you don't prep ahead of time," you argue. "I know exactly what'll happen. Trust me."

John says your name in warning.

"It'll be fine," you wave him off. "Step back."

The moment you lift the chalk, the symbol glows bright and then in a flash, the room itself disappears, leaving an empty replica.

"All magic has a price," John says as you close the vault back up. "You're playing with forces you don't understand."

"Oh save it, John," you say. "You bend the rules of nature all the time! Why can't I?"

"I'm already damned," John says. "I don't want you joining me!"

"Damned for doing a simple transport and glamor spell? Wow, demons really are slipping if that's what they're going after."

"Come off it! You know that's not what I mean," John snaps. "When you use magic you shine like a beacon. Beacons attract all sorts of nasty things. Things you best not mess around with."

"That's not your call to make."

Suddenly you hear footsteps and voices headed your way. Thinking fast, you grab John and pull him against you into a searing kiss.

John's cry of surprise is muffled and he stumbles forward, pushing you onto the desk.

The door opens and a voice exclaims. "What the hell is going on here?!"

You and John pull away to find a well-dressed man standing in the doorway, a cellphone to his ear. He lowers it as he gives you an incredulous stare.

"Oh my god I'm so embarrassed," you lie.

"Sorry, mate," John says. "Didn't see you there."

"Who are you? Why are you going at it in my dad's office?" the man demanded angrily.

"We didn't think anyone was here," you say, wrapping your arms around John. "And, you know, why the time is right you gotta jump on it...pun intended."

"You need to leave!"

"'Course, mate," John says, slinging his arm around your shoulders.

The two of you hurry out and you don't breathe a sigh of relief until you're back in your car. Grinning, you turn to John, who looks pissed.

"What the bloody hell were you thinking?" he explodes.

"Hey, we got the job done," you say.

"And you could have gotten hurt!"

"So what? Why do you care?"

John doesn't answer right away. The way his eyes linger on your face makes you suddenly understand his concern.

"Aww, you like me," you tease. "You don't want me to use magic 'cuz you worry about me!"

John rolls his eyes. "C'mere." He seizes the back of your head and pulls you into a firm kiss. You return it enthusiastically.

The adrenaline from the heist coupled with your attraction to John sends your libido into overdrive.

“We should touch each other,” you grunt in between kisses, hands fisting his trench coat. “Like, right now.”

“It’s about bloody time,” John responds, tugging on the knot of his tie. “Just say the word, love.”

“I’ve already said it,” you grin, shrugging out of your coat. “Need me to draw you a picture?”

John rolls his eyes and tugs you forward into another kiss. “Prat.”

“Ass.”

You two grapple, torn between removing clothing and trying to touch each other. “Backseat,” you order as your knee hits the steering wheel.

John wastes no time doing as you command. After he climbs into the back, you follow suit, climbing onto him. Now that you’re in a more comfortable position, you bury your hands in his hair and kiss him as hard as you can, straddling his lap. John’s hands reach down and grab your ass, squeezing as he pulls you down to grind against him.

You can feel the heat radiating from John’s body. His trench coat lays crumpled underneath him already, tie forgotten in the front seat, so you get to work on the buttons of his shirt, needing to feel his skin.

John seems to have other ideas. His hands fall to your jeans, quick fingers undoing the button within seconds. You just manage to get a peek at his bare chest when suddenly his hand wraps around your cock.

“Shit!” you swear in surprise, grinding down against his hand.

John smirks, cheeks red and dark eyes shimmering with amusement. “Tell me how you want it,” he purrs, pulling the collar of your shirt with his free hand so he can place kisses along your neck and shoulder.

“You have condoms?” you ask.

“Aye.”

“Lube?”

“‘Course.”

“Good. Fuck me.”

John groans and kisses you, letting go of your cock so he can push your jeans down. You wriggle out of one pant leg and kick out of the other. There's rustling and condoms and lube are dropped onto the seat next to John before his hands return to your body.

Your cock is hard, rubbing against John's clothed thigh, the brief friction driving you crazy. John pulls you back by your hair, fixating you with a smoldering look before growling, "Turn around."

You do as he says and John seizes your thighs, pulling you closer. He runs his tongue along your hole, forcing a groan out of you. Unable to do anything by grip the front seats, you succumb to John's talented mouth.

A firm hand comes around to grab your cock. John pumps his hand roughly while he works you open with his tongue.

"Fuck," you swear.

"That's the plan," John chuckles. He presses a playful bite on one of your cheeks.

"Do it already."

John groans. The hand around your cock falls away and you take over, jerking yourself off as John rolls a condom on. When a lubed finger circles your pucker, you eagerly push against it.

John's hand closes around yours, forcing your pace to slow as he works you open with his finger. You grunt and groan along with him, body scalding to the touch.

The next thing you know, John is pulling you down, the blunt head of his cock pushes past the loose ring of muscles.

You lower yourself onto John, head falling back onto his shoulder. John's hand loosely grabs your throat, while his other squeezes yours around your cock.

And then he starts to fuck you. It's slow at first, giving you time to adjust to the wonderful stretch of him. You plant your feet on the backs of the seats for leverage. The two of you rock together, moans growing louder as John picks up the pace.

His mouth is relentless on your neck, sucking and nipping at a sensitive spot below your ear. You let him take over jerking you off, preferring to grasp his arm with one hand and the edge of the seat with the other.

You feel your balls tighten and you know you're about to come.

"John," you groan. "I'm close. I'm so fucking close."

"Come for me, love," John grunts into your ear. "Lemme make you come."

With a final loud moan, you crest that final wave of pleasure, spilling all over John's hand. He keeps pumping his hand and hips, milking your cock until he himself finally comes.

You slump against his chest, dazed and limp with satisfaction. John wipes his hand on the seat before carefully lifting you off his cock. You're turned just enough so he can kiss you.

The both of you lazily make out, coming down from your high.

"Took us long enough," you grin between kisses.

John chuckles. "Better late than never."

#John Constantine #Constantine #Hellblazer #legends of tomorrow

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