#battered old reading chairs

[mumblelard]

a familiar's work is never done but fortunately that work include lots of naps or happy friday the thirteenth imaginary constructs

[aamircoeur]

celebrity gossip 2 ー ken sato.

the moment when japan's "it girl" decided to confess on live television, too. PREQUEL. PART 1. sfw, fluff. scenario & situations r made up! enjoy reading <3

"wait, okay. no, gods, wait," you rambled. you and your two best friends, tamayo and shau, were currently watching ken sato's interview in 'evening, darlings'.

shau laughed at your obvious nervousness. "just sit back and enjoy the show, [name]!" they exclaimed.

the flat screen showed ken sato in a black shirt that fit him so perfectly, while his iconic smile was visible on his face. "and may i just ask, my darling, of what your favourite thing about coming back to japan is right now?" the interviewer asked, placing their elbows on the arm rest of their chair.

"mmh," ken sato leaned back and had his hand on his chin. "without a doubt, playing for the giants. it was my childhood dream, you know." he started.

"of course. we've yet to interview mister shimura on his thoughts about his team's recent win and overall thoughts now that it includes you." the interviewer answered.

ken sato nodded. "oh, yeah, it's definitely better now," he joked, receiving heartful laughs from the audience and from the interviewer. "but, really, the team is what actually made me better myself. they're great, lively, amazing people filled with talent. in the fields and out, they've really showed me that people can be genuine, and i appreciate that." the interviewer had an awed look on their face.

"he's really such a great baseball player, no?" tamayo commented.

"i know!" shau chimed in. the two discussed the giants' recent game while you were in between them, wherein each player showed their strengths, highlighting ken sato's swift home run the moment he became the batter. you blocked out their conversation because for one, you didn't know shit about baseball, and two, you had ken sato's second interview for 'evening, darlings' aired in front of you right now.

"i came to japan for my father, too. he has been my greatest supporter since i was a kid alongside my mom, and it was about time i thanked the old man." ken sato smiled. "and, of course, you can not miss the japanese cuisine." the camera focused on him alone, showing his sly smirk while he winked at the camera, making the audience scream, and you, internally.

the interviewer and ken sato continuously talked about any topics that the former threw in, but now, the topic was about ken sato's social life. more specifically, the topic was about his answer during his last interview there.

"if it matters that much, i like [surname]." ken sato said, his thumb swiping underneath his nose to try and cover up a forming smile.

"[surname]? the [name] [surname], japan's "it girl"? that matters so much, darling!" the interviewer squealed.

yeah, that.

it seemed like their yomiuri giants talk had ended, for shau wrapped their arms around you and pressed their cheek against yours. "and once again, japan's "it girl" is the talk of the town," they smiled while watching the interview with you.

"i don't even know how i got that title." you laughed.

tamayo wrapped her hands around you as well and leaned her head on your shoulder. "'don't know', my ass." she said, making the three of you giggle. "ah, i could never imagine ken sato admitting that he likes me on national television." she added.

"he does not like me." you said, wiggling out of their bear hugs.

"'does not like me', my ass." shau said, making tamayo laugh and you playfully rolled your eyes. "shush, now! the topic's juicy!" they said, turning their attention to the tv.

"so, my darling, do you remember your answer when i asked you if you had a special someone in your life?" the interviewer asked.

"ah, yeah," ken said. "i like [surname]."

what the fuck.

while the two girls squealed almost as loud, if not louder, than the audience did in the studio, you were a hot mess. you were smiling sheepishly from ear to ear, face and ears all flushed from embarrassment as your eyes stared up at the flat screen.

"there is absolutely no way." tamayo squealed, hitting your shoulder after each word that she said.

"my darling!" the interviewer said, trying to catch the attention of everyone.

"yes, darling?" ken sato answered. the interviewer obviously liked that response, undeniably with the huge grin on their face.

"you are such a flirt, mister sato." they said, playfully making a hitting motion with their hand. "am i your celebrity crush now?" they said, laughing, and earning some laughs from the audience as well.

"ah, no. not at all. it's still [surname]." he answered cooly.

what the fuck.

the audience and the girls beside you collectively lost their shit once more, and right now, your face felt so hot that one might get a third degree burn upon touching it.

the camera focused on ken sato, making the viewers see his features so clearly. dear god, was this man handsome. "i have yet another question, ken." the interviewer spoke.

"fire away."

"from your guest appearance here, darling, you've left quite an impression on our audience. i think you might be their brand new eye candy." they said.

kenji laughed and ran his hand through his hair. "i'm flattered, but then again, i get it." he said, winking at the camera.

"will the audience ever stop squealing at ken sato?" tamayo said.

"as if you weren't just squealing with me a minute ago." shau replied, and you laughed heartily at this. "[name], how are you so composed right now!" they commented.

you looked at your two friends with a flustered face then put your face in your hands out of pure embarrassment. shau hugged you again and rocked you back and forth while tamayo just laughed at you. the interview finally ended with a wave goodbye from ken sato. while talking to your girls about what happened, your phone played your ringtone as it lit up, showing you an incoming call from your manager.

"excuse me, ladies," you told you girls and they just nodded as you went out of the room for privacy. "hello, hanabi. is something the matter?" you greeted.

"good evening, [nickname]. you seen the interview with ken sato?" she said in a teasing voice. you audibly sighed as a joke and the two of your shared a laugh. "crazy stuff, huh? anyway, i'm just here to inform you of recent additions to your schedule this month." she said.

"additions?" you echoed.

"mhm, nothing too big. the photoshoot in paris, france scheduled this thursday is still on the go," they started. "and you are to guest in 'evening, darlings' the following week on sunday, aired on tuesday."

you had a surprised look on your face. "woah, what? right after ken sato's stunts?" you asked.

"yup! perfect timing, i think it's to stir drama by hearing your side of the story. whatever their intentions may be, we can use this to our own advantage. i figured that engaging with his romantic advances would be good for you. it would be a good opportunity to switch your target audience, too. and i don't think it'll be that hard to convince you, knowing that you fancy the guy," she murmured the last part quickly as a way to tease you and you just laughed.

"but, seriously, i fear that you've been too sexualized, and i know you're just more than how the media portrays you, but then again, so is everyone else in the industry," she said sadly, and you felt touched that she didn't want that kind of fame for you and actively wanted to change that. she really was more than your manager, and you were glad to have her with you.

"th-thank you, hanabi. really." you said.

"it's nothing, dear! anyway, you'll have your rest days from monday to thursday, and on friday, you have a duo photoshoot for a sports brand called, 'royals'" hanabi added, talking quickly with her reason being to save the two of your time.

"oh, interesting. i think tamayo had a photoshoot with them before. which model will i be doing it with?" you asked her.

"there's no model, [nickname]."

"huh?"

"you're doing it with ken sato."

p.s., huge thank u to @shauu for allowing me to use their name <3 !! also, the cuisine joke from paragraph 9 is a reference to ambessa medarda from arcane when she said that she wanted to try piltover's local cuisine (the men) :^P

taglist: @lunaryasha @vrxouei @m00nd0v3 @despacito-uwu16 @lovingyeet @moon-shampoo @hashxu @manjimeowmeow @sylvirmist-s-cottage @warlike-morning @beabadobeee @procastinatingbitch @zagreustomb @ttulipwritezz @/everyone else untaggable :(

[societyfolklore]

Through the Cold  

Title: Through the Cold  (the electricity is out, let's keep each other warm) Pairing: Avenger Bucky Barnes x  Agent Female Reader

Summary:  After a mission gone awry, Bucky and Reader find shelter in a remote house on the outskirts of town. With the power out and temperatures dropping, they’ll have to find ways to stay warm.

Word Count:  2.7k

Warnings:  Warnings // Explicit Content //18+, Minors DNI, Fluff, Pet names, unprotected sex (Don’t!), Fingering. Not Beta read.

A/N: Another entry for @the-slumberparty December daze challenge) Day 13 (Yeah I don't know if I’m not really doing this right…) The wind howled outside, battering against the thin walls of the small house you and Bucky had taken refuge in. Snow piled high against the windows, casting the room in a muted, white glow. The mission hadn’t gone as planned, but you were both safe for now and luckily you’d found this house before the blizzard turned dangerous. You leaned against the window, rubbing your arms as you watched the storm rage outside. Your breath fogged the glass, and the chill in the air seeped through every crack and crevice of the old structure. Still it was better then being outside..

“It’s getting colder,” you said, glancing over your shoulder at Bucky. He was crouched by the fireplace, fiddling with a bundle of wood he’d found in the corner. His metal hand glinted in the dim light, steady and precise as he arranged the logs.

“I know,” he replied, his voice low and calm. “I’ll get this fire going in a minute.”

You turned back to the window, shivering as another gust of wind rattled the glass. Your coat and gear were soaked from the snow, and you hadn’t had a chance to dry off properly.

“We’ll be fine,” Bucky said from behind you, his tone firm but reassuring. “It’s just one night.”

“I know,” you murmured. “I just hate being stuck like this.”

The sound of a match striking drew your attention, and you turned to see a small flame catch on the kindling. The firelight danced across Bucky’s face, highlighting the sharp angles of his jaw and the intense focus in his blue eyes. He fed the fire carefully until it roared to life, filling the room with a faint warmth.

“There,” he said, standing up and brushing his hands off. “That should help.”

You stepped closer to the fire, holding your hands out toward the flames. “Thanks,” you said softly.

Bucky nodded, his gaze lingering on you for a moment before he turned to inspect the rest of the room. The house was small, just a kitchen, a living area, and a bedroom. It looked like no one had lived here in years, but it was clean and dry, which was more than you could ask for given the circumstances.

“There’s no power,” Bucky said after checking the light switches. “Figures.”

“Great,” you muttered. “So, no heat except for the fire, no lights, and no way to charge our comms.”

“We’ll manage,” he said, his voice steady. “We always do.”

You couldn’t argue with that. Over the years, you and Bucky had been through worse. Still, the cold was already biting at your fingers and toes, and the thought of spending the night in these conditions wasn’t exactly comforting.

After a while, the fire began to warm the room enough for you to take off your wet coat. You draped it over a chair near the hearth, hoping it would dry before morning. Bucky did the same, his leather jacket and combat vest joining the makeshift drying rack. He had the luxury of running warm from the serum, while you were just stuck with whatever your body could muster and you were scrunching fingers and toes trying to encourage blood flow.

“Here,” he said, tossing you a blanket he’d found in the bedroom. “It’s not much, but it’ll help.”

You wrapped the blanket around your shoulders, sighing in relief as the soft fabric trapped some of the heat from the fire. “Thanks.”

Bucky settled onto the floor near the hearth, leaning back against the couch that looked to decrepit to carry any weight and stretching out his legs. He looked tired, his shoulders slumped and his head tilted back slightly. The sight tugged at your heart—he always carried so much weight, and it wasn’t just the mission that had worn him down. The fatigue that infected his soul at times came through,

“You should rest,” you said, sitting down beside him.

“I’ll rest when you do,” he replied without looking at you.

“Bucky,” you said, your tone soft but insistent. “You’re not doing either of us any favours by running yourself into the ground. Get some sleep. I’ll keep watch.”

He finally turned to look at you, his blue eyes searching yours. “You’re freezing,” he said after a moment. “I can see it.”

You opened your mouth to protest, but he cut you off. “Don’t argue with me, doll. Come here.”

Before you could respond, he reached out and tugged you closer, pulling you into his side. His metal arm wrapped around your shoulders, and the warmth of his body seeped through the blanket and into your skin. You tensed for a moment, caught off guard, but then you relaxed, leaning into him.

“Better?” he asked, his voice low and rumbling in your ear.

“Yeah,” you admitted. “Thanks.”

The two of you sat in silence for a while, the only sounds the crackling of the fire and the wind howling outside. Slowly, the tension in your body began to fade, replaced by a growing sense of comfort and safety.

“You know,” you said after a while, your voice quiet, “For someone who likes to come off as Mr grumpy pants, your being very sweet.”

Bucky huffed a laugh, his breath warm against your hair. “Is that so?”

“Mm-hmm,” you said, smiling to yourself. “Underneath all the brooding and the grumpiness, your might actually be a softie Barnes...”

“Don’t let that get around,” he said, his tone light but with an edge of sincerity. “I have a reputation to uphold.”

You laughed softly, the sound filling the small space. “Your secret’s safe with me.”

For a moment, you thought you felt him press a soft kiss to the top of your head, but before you could be sure, he shifted slightly, pulling the blanket tighter around both of you.

“Get some rest,” he said, his voice low and soothing. “I’ll keep you warm. Can’t have you getting sick or dying of hypothermia on me. Might have to get used to a new partner.” “Oh no, new people, the horror.” You teased back settling against him and tried to get some rest, it was going to be a long trek out in the morning. As you drifted off to sleep, cocooned in his warmth, you were sure you felt his face burry into your hair near your neck, probably just trying to get warm himself as he held you tighter. Waking up you were shaking, the cold biting in hard at your bone, Bucky wasn’t there. “B-Bucky?” “Here Doll.” Sitting up you could see in the dim light him moving the old mattress from the bedroom into the living room to cover over the window that had broken as the blizzard outside had broken the window letting the fridged air fill the room. You pulled the blanket tightly around you as he pushed it up again the widow blocking out the wind, and disappeared again the sound of wood breaking before he came in carrying the remains of a bedframe and tossed it into the fire place stocking the flame while you shivered teeth chattering violently before he rejoined you on the floor pulling up against him into his lap “Fuck your freezing Doll.”

“y-y-yeah.”

Bucky pulled off his henley putting onto you for extra layers you head under his chin while he wrapped himself tightly around the fire returning heat to the room.

“I got you, alright, you’re alright.”  He ran firm hand up and down your back trying to get you warm, kissing the top of your head while your buried yourself into him your face pressed into his neck shaking. Staying like this wrapped up in him and the blanket eventually the warm and you warmed your face pressed into his neck, your body relaxing as the cold ebbed and you were now more aware of the situation. How close your mouth was to his neck, the fact he was shirtless, how hard you were breathing? “I- I think.. I’m Ok..”

You tried to move and Bucky seemingly reluctantly loosened his hold pulling away enough to look down at you while you stared up into his face, cheeks pink from the heat. “You feeling warm enough now Doll?” His voice sounded rough and thick with a feeling you didn’t want to name.

“y-yeah..” your reply coming back quiet

“Good.” His hand pushed hair back off your face, his thumb running over your bottom lip. “Had me worried there Princess..” he gaze looked down at your lips. “Sure your warm enough?”

“Yeah? Why?”

“Oh just, thinking…” Bucky breath brushed over your face. “Got to be sure.” Before you knew what was happening his lips pressed into yours, it was tender but needing as his hand went into your hair his metal warm wrapping tighter holding you to him. Your little moan coming back dying on his tongue as it slide into your mouth your body melting against his.   Bucky rolled you onto your back his body covering yours as his hand ran down your side and pulling off his henley from you and unzipping the front of your jumpsuit his hand sliding inside the fabric while his hips ground into the side of your hip. “Doll you have no idea how long I’ve thought about this.”   Bucky growled his mouth leaving yours to move down you neck while he pulled the suit down past your waist your hips rolling back into his. “Thought about this perfect little body of yours.” “Buck.” Your voice didn’t even sound like yours, as it got higher his hand pulling the suit down past your hips and down your thighs and off as he marked up your neck.

“You’re so perfect Doll” His hands were everywhere, your breasts, your thighs as he explored and kissed before his hand slide inside your underwear palming at your core drawing up a moan from you as your gripped his bicep, before his finger slide along wet folds. “Oh Princess, looks like I’m not the only one wanting this.” You could yeah the smug smile on his face as he pressed fingers into your clit making your whimper. “Bet I could have done this weeks ago and you’d of let me right?”

“Oh god Buck, yes.”

His fingers eased your entrance only for a moment.

“Deep breath.”  You didn’t even have a chance before he pushed two fingers into your wet heat making your arch and moan “Oh yeah, that’s it, do that for me again.” He drew his metal fingers back out and repeated the action going all the way to his knuckles. “Oh good girl. Such a good girl.” His mouth up against your ear as he nipped at your neck again your hips rocking to meet his fingers. “Oh fuck.. auh..” You felt your face body bend as he curled his fingers forward your body getting hotter as he built up more pace.

“That’s it pretty girl.” He made the world melt. “Going to make it all nice and wet and warm for me.” You arched and rocked for him as he worked your body in a way no one else had taken time too the wind howling outside mixing with the way the blood rushed in your ears.

“Wanna cum now Sweet Thing? “ He asked drawing out another whimper from you, as your got impossibly close your walls holding tightly to his fingers “Or hold it for me?”

“I- I.” You couldn’t think

“I think you should, think I deserve to hear you do I?” He picked up the pace his thumb pressing up into your clit as he worked your cunt the sounds wet desire coming from getting louder. “Come on Doll, wanna hear it, can feel you squeezing.”  His metal thumb moved in tighter circles and it was your undoing. Pleasure crashing into you as it all got to hard to hold. Calling out for him as your grabbed at his arms panting.

“ARGH!”  Your writhed on the floor bucking into his hand your walls held onto his fingers tightly before he let your body slump.

“Oh Doll, you are perfect.” He pulled his fingers from you licking off the coating you’d left on them before undoing his pants kneeling over your body watching you skin shine in the fires light as he got himself free of his denim leaning back over you. “So perfect, and all mine.” He almost sounded like an animal growling the words as he kissed backup your chest while you lay breathing hard before he lifted your leg up pressing your knee into your chest as he slid himself up along your wet slick moaning at the feel of you making your whimper again.

“Should of done this a looong time ago.” He bent forward captured your mouth in a kiss so hungry you swore he was trying to devour you. His time pushed forward and he sunk himself in half way the sensation. You felt slit open in the best way, walls forced to take him.

“mmmugh.” You noise was muffled by the kiss again as he rocked gently letting you adjust to the feeling before slowly feeding you the remaining inches of him until you felt his tip kiss up again your cervix as he went to his hilt a long moan coming from both of you.

“Bucky God.”

“Yeah, fuck you feel so good Doll better then I dreamed.” Your mind blanked, he dreamed of you? You didn’t have a chance to think to long on that before he moved and he had you soring. Long deep moves that let you know he was there, firm sure movement as he gave you all of him each time.  “So tight for me, Doll.” He made you whimper and moan each time, both of his hands touching with care despite the way his hips pressed up into you.  “It’s ok, I got you.” “Oh god nghm..” It was hard not to loose yourself in the sensation as he filled you over and over, walls pushing back against him each time, Bucky managing to find the angles that sent your reeling each time as your breathing got tighter he moved like a big cat above you all rippling muscle your leg up against his chest as your own hips thrusted back to meet his. “Oh yes Doll. Yeah, just like that, move like that for me.”

His head would go back groaning when you ground your hips into his thrusts. But you felt that familiar strong need building as the heat in your blood reached boiling point.

“Bu-Bucky, Bucky..” Your voice as tight needy and raw as your hand grabbed at his thigh.

��Yeah, fuck come for me Doll. Going to make you mine, let me watch you break.” His own voice straining as his thrust got harder and a little erratic, his own edge clearly close as he waited for you to fall, needing you to fall apart for him.

You looked up at him, eyes locked on his steely blue that looked almost feral in the fire light as he took you apart, before it all got to much at the waves of pleasure crash into you pulling you under as your back arched on the floor crying out as your nails dug into his thigh, He hammered into you harder, before crying out hot ropes coursing into you painting your insides before collapsing down over the top of you.

“Jesus Christ Doll.” He swore holding himself up over you so not to crush you, your walls still grabbing as he twitched and pulsed inside you. All you did was pant and whimper as you came down. Bucky placing a softer kiss on your forehead. “Still with me Sweet thing?”

“I, think so..” You panted out, Bucky laughing a little as he ran kissed you lightly still breathing hard himself and wrapped himself around you in the blanket.

“Definitely warm now..”  You joked slowly coming back down as he pulled out and got onto his back pulling out over onto him.

“Yeah, me too.”  

[sunniskyies]

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐠𝐢𝐫𝐥 𝐢𝐧 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐚𝐫𝐦𝐬 || 𝐒𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐏𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐬 || 𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝟐

𝐑𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭: - 𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: Domestic fluff as you both settle back into life together <3 𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: Ford Pines x fem!reader 𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: - 𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐬: Literally just fluff, a bit of being a guardian figure to the kids 𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 2.2k 𝐀/𝐍: You guys are SO SWEET about the last one, so here's more fluff for you beautiful old man addicts <3

𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝟏 > 𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝟐 > 𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝟑 > 𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝟒

The kids are in bed— well, mostly. You can hear the chirp of excited conversation through the ceiling. It was late, Stan and Ford’s explanation taking a long, long time. It didn’t help that the retelling got as thick and awkward as wet cement when it came to talk of Ford’s portal, and the events leading up to his departure.

Exhaustion tugs at every battered bone in your body, but you’re so content you might as well be purring like a kitten in front of a roaring fire.

You're curled up bridal-style across Ford’s lap, his arms enveloping you; warm, cradling, completing. He’s donned an old red knit jumper he fished out of his old chest of drawers. It smells like it belongs in a museum, sort of dusty and woodsy. Your face is pressed to his chest, and you feel much younger than your age. It feels like your first day in this house, the two of you huddled on a sagging mattress giggling and talking of futures and other such nonsense; youthful, hopeful, infatuated.

Now the two of you are more than thirty years on, enfolded together like the pages of a book left on an old yellow reading chair. You don’t speak, saving that long conversation for a lick of sunlight and mugs of coffee cupped in hand. No, right now you just sit in silence, Ford’s large hands stroking dust from your hair, a thumb gently soothing the bruise forming on your temple where you struck the wall.

Still unaware of the time except for the inky night hanging in the air, you feel Ford shift. His arms move, body ready to stand up with you. He stops when he notices two large pupils staring up at him curiously.

“You’re still awake, dear,” he smiles, voice quiet. “Let me take you to bed, I must lock up downstairs, make sure nothing vile is seeping through that blasted portal.”

“Ford, no, let’s go to sleep. You can do that in the morning,” you say, trying to ward off the edge of desperation edging into your tone. You can’t help but remember the miserable months of nights in a cold bed while your lover hid away in the basement, sleeping on his desk rather than with you. It has to be different— he’s better now.

Ford doesn’t share your fretting. “No, it’s not stable. Reopening the portal… it’s not safe to leave these things.” He continues to stand up, your body delicately draped over his arms. He seems to notice your expression. “I’ll join you soon, love.”

You doubt that. He’ll probably be there ‘till morning, his simple task snowballing as his keen eyes notice the slightest things amiss. “No, that won’t happen. No, no, I’ll join you. I’m rather accustomed to the portal myself after all this time with it.” You dismiss, stretching a leg to try and stand on the floor.

Ford bundles you up closer, “Absolutely not! You need rest, I swear I will join you.” He begins carrying you to the hall. Your fingers clutch the red fabric of his sweater. 

“Please don’t leave me,” you murmur plaintively, the corners of your mouth downturned. You miss the way Ford’s heart stutters, your eyes all hopelessly syrupy and mournful through your lashes.

He hesitates.

“Please? You can stay down there any other night I promise, just stay this time.”

His jaw tightens. “I don’t want that. Not again,” he says firmly. “Okay… I’ll… I’ll come with you.”

You immediately relax again, at ease in the rhythm of Ford’s steps as he carries you to your room. A stupid grin hijacks your face as he ever-so-gently places you under the sheets (he remembered what side of the bed). You watch from your nest of sheets as he gets ready for bed in the soft lamplight, lifting up the duvet for him to slide in next to you.

His arm around you, frothy sheets up to your neck— you think you might die here and now for how perfect everything feels. You feel his nose bump the top of your head as he presses a kiss to your hair.

“If you’d have told me this morning that… that today would be the day I would’ve never believed…” you say, heavy eyelids closing as you're interrupted by a yawn. You feel his chuckle reverberate where you lean into his chest. 

“Go to sleep, sweetness.” He murmurs, tone laced with a smile. There are his hands again, rubbing soft circles on your arm, your hair. He might as well be rubbing in anaesthesia, his touch lulling you to sleep. Darn you Pines.

Before sleep pulls you under, “I’m so glad your back, Stanford,” slips quietly from your lips. Ford’s heart skips again. Arms tighten around you as if you’re a precious photo about to float away on the wind; skin softly creased from a lifetime of loving, hair matte and grey like faded ink from thirty years of waiting.

“I’m more grateful than you could ever know, my dear,”

A stretch trembles through your warm limbs, the aches from last night dulled by a deep slumber and the warm morning sunlight soaking through the window. A thrill passes through you, your arm sliding through the sheets to Stanford’s side and—

A cry pours from you as your hand meets cold, empty space. Your body is jolted upright, perspiration glistening on your forehead. Your heart is hammering, lungs gulping in buckets of air. Where is he? Where is Ford? Did he come through the portal? Did it really happen? You don’t register the wail emanating from you, nor do you register the pound of heavy boots down the hallway.

“____ are you okay?!” Ford exclaims, almost slamming into the door as he hurries in. His hand is tense, hovering above the gun strapped to his belt.

The sight of him— the feeling you get is so overpowering it’s nauseating. Your paralysed limbs untense, body slumping in relief.

“Goddammit Stanford Pines, you just gave me the fright of a lifetime,” you bemoan, uninvited tears swimming beneath the sieve of your hands. You don’t see as his face goes from confused to slack with realisation.

“Oh,” He groans. “Oh sweetness I’m so sorry.” Feeling horrible, he leans on the bed to pull you into him, rubbing your back. “I should’ve waited for you to wake up, I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay, it’s okay. I’m sorry, I probably scared you half to death.” You mumble, slightly embarrassed. As much as you are connected to Ford, thirty years has changed both of you, and you find yourself —embarrassingly— feeling like you need to impress him, like a teenager with a crush. God forbid he thinks ill of you!

You relish his rumble of a laugh. “I thought a monster slipped by me or something! I’m grateful you're okay.”

“Yeah, well, I think you might’ve just taken a year off my life, Ford.” You roll your eyes lovingly, a few of the last of those silly tears escaping.

After getting up and pulling on some summer-friendly clothes, you slip down to the kitchen to find the morning well underway. The sun is beating through the windows, and Dipper is sat cross legged on the floor reading a book. He’s reading with the cover down, but his furtiveness is wasted on you; you know he's reading A Good Girl's Guide to Murder. ‘Mature murder mystery books’ indeed, Dipper!

At the kitchen bench, Mabel is haphazardly balanced on a stack of books, multiple propped open at once. From the batter congealing the pages together and the fact that most of the books are iced, you know they are cookery books. And a cookbook in Mabel’s hands is either as dangerous as a matchbook to a forest, or as useless as shoes to a fish.

By the looks of it, it is the latter. Although, is there a faint… burning?

“Great Aunt ___!” Mabel squeals, revealing sprinkle-harbouring braces. “I'm baking, look I’m baking! See, I had this great idea to try and substitute the liquids in my Mabel Cakes with Mabel Juice because Grunkle Ford has never had either —can you believe that? Me neither, so I thought I could kill two birds with one stone and make them together… but I didn’t realise the plastic dinosaurs in the juice would melt in the waffle iron!—” You try to cut off the young girl’s 100-mile-an-hour babble, but that girl is unstoppable.

You wince as she holds up two fists of semi-cooked, eye-wateringly bright gobdules of cakey dough. You, pained, notice the half-melted dinosaurs, faces in liquified agony as strings of molten plastic drip from their bodies. Matchbook in forest, matchbook in forest!

“—So now it’s a bit of a Jurassic Park, another reason why I think Grunkle Ford will love it, even if it’s a bit of a.... disaster. But if you think about it it’s more like a Magical Mabel Disaster! And oh, I added extra sprinkles because you can never have too many sprinkles! Do you think the hardened dinosaurs will make up for the uncooked dough? Or should I cook it more? Doesn’t matter, it’ll taste great!”

You give her a wobbly smile, mostly because you fear what might happen if you open your mouth.

“I tried to stop her,” Dipper mutters from between his pages, voice smug and matter-of-fact.

“Oh don’t act like you're so grown-up, you’re reading a little girl's book,” she retorts in a sing-song. Dipper slams his book closed, the tips of his ears matching the cover.

“I think you’ll find it’s very sophisticated and easy to digest—”

You let the twin’s bickering fade into the background as you begin to tidy up the carnage Mabel’s baking attempt has left. Usually, she gets distracted by things quite quickly, leaving Mabel-messes scattered around for anyone to find. You don’t mind it though, all too glad to slide the Mabel Cake into the bin. You shiver. Those plastic faces… they haunt.

Ford was back down in the basement, the sounds of clanging and buzzing drifting up through the weary floorboards. You want to go down there, but that silly part of you doesn’t want to disturb him again today. No— that’s ridiculous! Ford loves your company, you don’t get in his way —it’s not like it was when Bill was around.

Five minutes later, you're standing in the small room in the basement holding a cup of coffee and a salvaged Mabel Cake. You see Ford through the glass, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, tools being used and replaced back onto his belt. He’s hauling colossal slabs of metal from the sides of the portal, the machine slowly being stripped down to bone. Like a massive carcass, it creaks and groans as Ford’s tools slice away at its flesh, and you hope he’s staying well out the way each time pieces of it fall to the floor like toppling trees.

After a few moments, Ford seems to notice you through his welding mask, though you can’t see his face through the tinted visor. He perks up though, dropping a massive saw to the ground and hurrying over.

“Hello, my dear! Is it too noisy?” He says as he slips through the door, pulling off his helmet and drawing you in for a sheepish kiss.

“No, just bringing you some of Mabel’s baking efforts— you don’t have to eat it, but she was awfully excited.” Ford surveys the cake with a smile, and you resist the urge to wipe the smear of soot from his cheek. 

“Thank you. For the sustenance, and for, uh, for checking in,” he says sincerely. Is that a flush you see? Your suspicions are confirmed when you set the coffee aside and bring him in for a deeper kiss, blouse-clad arms sliding around his neck, and you feel his pulse thrum beneath his skin.

The relief you feel! You’re not the only one navigating these unknown emotions, that the man who’s mapped the multiverse is also feeling the giddy nerves you are. Your skin prickles where his degloved hands bear your skin.

It feels strange to be held romantically after so long of loneliness. It’s not that you haven’t found love with the kids and Stan, but you could never bring yourself to even look at another in the way you used to look at Ford. Even if you never finished the portal, you would’ve spent the rest of your life alone, satisfied at least in the knowledge of how it felt to be loved, once. It excites you childishly knowing just by his kiss that Ford felt the same, the way he cradles you in his gaze and with his hands as if he’s trying to reabsorb every inch.

When you break away, his eyes open after yours, and he seems to be at a loss for what to say.

“Do you, um, want to go for a walk this evening? You haven’t left the shack yet, and we haven’t truly caught up…” you offer shyly.

“Yes! That would be… splendid! Spectacular. This evening. Perfect.” He blurts. The calm of last evening has clearly floated away in the daylight for both of you.

“Perfect.” You repeat.

𝐓𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭: @sleeplessdreamer14, @2hiigh2cry, @taffycandyqt, @papi-machucha, @muffin1304

© sunniskyies 2024, do not repost or translate my work

[awritesthings1]

Gone with the Leaves

Pairing: Tommy Shelby / Wife Reader

Summary: Despite your happy marriage to Tommy, you feel an undeniable jealousy towards Lizzie. Perhaps a day in the forest will do you some good.

ao3 link

A/N: I'm starting a tag list, comment if you want to be added :)

-

“You write like you’re running out of time,” mused Lizzie Stark, former prostitute, now Tommy’s secretary. “They have typewriters for those types of things, y’know?”

You saw the volley of cannonballs that launched and subsequently landed on Tommy’s desk as the words left her mouth. It wasn’t that you expected more of poor old plain Lizzie, but you thought that the time she had spent lying on her back staring past the shoulder of a customer at the ceiling would have taught her to read a room. Nevertheless, she stood there, quite amused with herself, smiling stupidly at your husband.

Tommy, who had been sitting at his desk all afternoon attending to letters, the ledger, and god knows what else, peered up from the paper. “What did you say?”

This time, it was your turn to be amused. He pointed accusingly at Lizzie, who by then had realised her impetuous mistake. Her wide eyes fluttered to you desperately, like a bee that had indulged itself in so much pollen that it became stuck in its own honey. No, that was putting it lightly. She looked to you like a frightened child who knew exactly what kind of trouble they were in.

You made sure you looked the other way.

“It was only a silly joke,” came her spluttering apology.

Tommy squinted, and his mouth curled into a frown. Smoke chased the deep exhale from the cigarette hanging between his lips. Your husband carried this terrifying look to him that many feared. Without the peaky cap to cover his striking blue eyes, you saw his glare cut away the cords in Lizzie’s throat with just one look. How could poor Lizzie defend herself from eyes that had witnessed nightmarish things?

“I’m not clear. Is it funny that I sign my letters by hand, or are you above using ink now that you have graduated from the bed to the desk?”

Lizzie’s mouth wormed into a thin line, yet she still looked to you for help. Of what help she thought you would possibly spare, you weren’t sure. For once, Lizzie used initiative and showed herself out.

Your heels clacked across the wooden threshold of your husband’s office. Now that no one was there to disturb you both, you sat down on Tommy’s lap. By then, he was leaning back on his chair, work abandoned for the time being until he could wash the sour sight of Lizzie Stark from his eyes.

“You know I don’t like her,” you said plainly.

There was no need for fake smiles or lies with Tommy. You knew him, and he knew you.

Tommy exhaled loudly, stubbing out the last of his cigarette on his ashtray and taking a swig of whiskey before his calloused hand found your waist.

He clears his throat. “It’s only business with her.”

“I know, but that doesn’t mean I like her any less.”

Tommy loved you, not Lizzie Stark, yet you couldn’t stomach the undeniable jealousy that arose with her presence. Perhaps it was a natural inclination women had toward their lovers. Lizzie had never done anything outwardly wrong to you. So, what was it then that turned your plain teeth into hissing fangs?

Everyone knew that Tommy was one of her paying customers before you met him, but so were all of Small Heath. You never felt insecure in your relationship with Tommy; there was no need to feel threatened by a prostitute. Yet that wouldn’t stop the catty feline that emerged from its slumber when Lizzie’s wandering eyes battered at your husband.

No. Lizzie Stark would never know what it felt like to be loved by a man like Tommy. What you held in your hands each night was a transcendental, unconditional type of love—one that surpassed the heart and soul, which drew two beings together in the most unconventional yet fitting way. The way that covers kept you warm at night, Tommy watched over your hearth and kept the fire burning, even if he were on the other side of the country.

You closed your eyes, leaning into the valley between Tommy’s neck and shoulder as you listened for the bah-dum-bah-dum of his heart. They sat together in silence, cherishing each other’s presence, while Tommy rested his cheek on your head. Outside, the world waited, barking at their front door and scratching at the delicately carved wood. Even the rain lashed at the windowpanes, playing together like one elemental orchestra.

The hand not resting on your waist rose to gently stroke up and down your arm. You shivered, but it wasn’t from the cold.

“I think you have some work to attend to in the bedroom,” you mumbled into his neck.

Your nose searched for the spot where he applied his aftershave.

“Eh?” Came his gruff response.

Your hand wandered down his suit in answer.

-

The sheets were bundled around Tommy’s naked waist when you sauntered back over to the bed with his case of cigarettes in hand. Gratefully, he took the case from your hand, wrapping an arm around your shoulder to pull you into the warmth of his chest. Then he began the usual routine. He fished out a cigarette to offer, but you shook your head no, so he slid it once, then twice, across his bottom lip. On the bedside table, he grabbed the half-empty matchbox to light the cigarette.

Tommy was the resident chain smoker in your house. With an appetite for tobacco and whiskey, you often wondered just how he sustained himself throughout the day. Of course, there were the home-cooked meals at Arrow House waiting for his return, although that didn’t stop you from worrying any less. It was pathetic, really, sitting all alone in his study, twiddling your fingers, and sitting beneath his portrait like you were praying to him. Tommy was no god, no matter how much he tried to convince everyone else. Yet whenever headlights passed the window and lit up the office momentarily, you would stand up and peer out, hoping to spot your husband exiting the car.

He cleared his throat, drawing your attention back to the present. You loved watching the way the cigarette shifted between his lips when he spoke, even more when his hooded eyes looked over at you. Tommy was a man of few words, simply because he didn’t need language to communicate. His body spoke for him in tongues for all his enemies to understand. And more importantly, in a way your body understood.

Your hand abandoned his tattoo to stroke a thumb across his full bottom lip. Lust swelled there, eager to chase the rest of the night away into a haze of pleasure until the sun rose. As tempting as it was, you sighed at the thought. You would rather spend this time taking in your husband, remembering the fine details across his face and body, from the scar in the hollow of his cheek to the rough texture beneath his shoulder blade where a bullet was once lodged. You wanted to trace the sockets of his eyes the way a blind person would, treasuring each valley, mountain, and cut of skin as if it were to disappear the second you stopped touching him.

“You’re beautiful,” you decided, bathed in candlelight, tangled up between the sheets and Tommy’s arms.

Tommy’s brows furrowed, and the cigarette hung dangerously loose from where his lips curled into a frown. He grunted, clearly dissatisfied with your words. Tommy wasn’t beautiful. He was hard, ambitious, and unmovable force.

Beautiful was a conventional word savored for the finest women. To you? It meant so much more. Crafted in a way that would cause people to stare, sure, but there was also a poetic sense to the word. The type of beauty you would use to describe a well-written novel or heart-wrenching poem. Thomas Shelby stood for something, and that was beautiful.

“Then what are you, eh?”

A lazy smile floated onto your face, so much so that you had to bite your lip to refrain from looking devastatingly pleased at his answer.

A woman, a dreamer, a friend, a reader, an achiever. “A wife.”

He huffed, raising his eyebrows playfully.

Why was it that most women felt like they could only fit the frame of one? With Tommy, you were never limited to the endless possibilities. You treasured being a wife the same way you treasured your other roles. Marriage wasn’t the end all be all. Perhaps that’s another lie men spun—that perfectly capable women stopped existing as soon as a diamond ring slid onto their finger. How sad, you thought, to waste away all that potential when men were still free to pursue stupid ideas like war and dog fights.

Tommy was unbothered by traditional ideas like that. Change powered his ambition; he had no time for parallel lines. You could be his wife, a writer, a singer, or a mother—whatever you wanted—and he wouldn’t think of you any less.

You hummed, chasing that cigarette from his lips and stubbing it out in the ash tray by his bedside table. Tommy didn’t seem too heartbroken about it. In fact, there was some mirth in his gaze. His hands traced up your naked spine, pulling your body further into his until you could smell the smoke in his breath.

“Yes,” he breathed in loudly through his nose, “my wife.”

-

The following day, you were invited to the Basnett's hunting party. You would’ve been more enthusiastic to write about your excitement to attend if the whole ordeal hadn’t been so troublesome. Because a few days prior, when you were visiting your husband’s office, you had caught sight of the letter on Lizzie’s desk, a letter that was supposed to reach you days earlier.

“What’s this?” You asked.

“Oh, nothing interesting,” Lizzie had said, too occupied with filing her nails while on the clock.

You kept your composure for the sake of keeping the peace. You didn’t wish to disturb Tommy if he were to walk by.

“This is a letter addressed to me,” you pressed.

“Oh.” She stopped for a moment, then leaned over to read the letter you had pulled from the messy pile. “No, it’s addressed to Tommy.”

“Mr. and Mrs. Shelby,” you hissed quietly, with emphasis on the missus.

“Hm, I didn’t notice.”

“You are paid to notice.” You fought the urge to comment that she was paid for other things not long ago. “How long has this been sitting here?”

Lizzie tapped her cigarette ash into the tray. “The post boy dropped that lot off yesterday.”

Even if it was only two days late to reach your hand, by society’s standards, that may have well been taken as you snubbing the invitation. Frustratingly, you had to cancel your plans that day and personally deliver your letter to the Basnett’s door, citing some excuse of it having been lost in the post.

“That woman is up to no good.” You said glumly that night into Tommy’s chest.

“I’ll speak to her,” he promised in that stoic tone of his.

Whether he had been true to his words, you weren’t sure because Lizzie made an effort to avoid you when possible.

“Oh! Mrs. Shelby! How wonderful for you to join us! Come in, come in. The men are readying their rifles for the hunt outside. How exciting!” Gushed Lady Basnett, shooing you into the atrium of her lavish mansion.

Your riding boots clacked across the floor before being muffled by an intricately woven rug. You stared up at the chandelier, childishly wondering if it would hit you if it were to fall at that moment.

“Right this way, Mrs. Shelby!” Lady Basnett ushered excitably.

You debated if all her energy was for show—to please her husband and be the good wife he expected of her. After she showed you through to the veranda and down to the circle of wives who had gathered under the trees while their husbands readied for the hunt, you decided that no, she must truly enjoy planning social occasions like this, as evidenced by the way she kissed Sarah’s cheek in greeting with a wide grin.

It pleased you to know that Lady Basnett found joy in something. Ever since her eldest died in the war, she has been known to be a bit of a recluse.

“Oh, what a beautiful ring! May we see it?” Doe-eyed Catherine asked.

She was one of the younger wives, like yourself. Catherine married an older man, twice her senior. Many of the wives here faulted her for it behind her back, but not you. You saw more of yourself in her than you did in any of the other women. Because, despite the age gap, the girl seemed to be utterly head-over-heels in love with a man society deemed old-fashioned for her. And how could you blame her when you swore an oath to a gangster of all people?

You obliged and let the wives twist and turn your hand to better inspect the diamonds on your ring finger.

“It’s perfect!”

“How many carats?”

“My Mary would be so jealous!”

After dutifully showing your wedding ring, you noticed the men beginning to mount their horses.

Catherine hooked her arm around yours. “Come on, we are going to be left behind!”

She jovially pulled you along the stone tiles at a speed that made you grateful for wearing riding boots. The backyard was grand in the sense that the acres they owned stretched vastly into the nearby forest. Although there were impressive features, like the hedge they had grown into a maze and the trees that were shaped into birds.

“Lady Basnett owned an aviary of budgies. Dear little things they were, she was devastated when they all escaped one night after the groundskeeper forgot to close the door,” Catherine commented, having noticed the way your head was turned.

You laughed, because you could precisely picture Lady Basnett as the type to fawn over little budgies.

Catherine led you to the horses, where some of the wives were already perched, waiting for the party to leave. None of them carried rifles, but rather wicker baskets strapped to the saddle for the picnic they planned to have at the top of the hill while they waited for their husbands to finish hunting.

Together, you set off, having mounted the back of Catherine’s mare. Deeper into the forest you went, the black mare trotting over loose dirt and rocks. Both of you remained at the end of the pack, preferring to keep to yourselves in light conversation.

Then it all happened so suddenly. One of the rifles went off up ahead, and a flock of birds rushed at you from the break in the foliage, startling your mare. You gasped in shock and reached for Catherine’s jacket to hold on, but only skimmed her. She went face first into the dirt while you were swept into the air like a leaf and fell with the grace of a rock. The ground thundered as the mare galloped into the distance.

“Fuck!” Catherine spat.

(On her fall she had taken a mouthful of soil and leaves.)

“They’ll come back,” you tried to reassure her.

-

Hours later, the two of you still had not been found.

“I was a prostitute before George found me, y’know.”

No, you didn’t know.

“That’s why I’m so young and he so old,” she smiled fondly, laughing as if it were the most normal thing.

You couldn’t find it in your heart to dislike her because of her circumstances. She was your friend, and a true one at that.

What was it that Tommy said? The past is the past.

-

The sun began to set when one of the men from the hunting party found you both huddled together under a tree. Kindly, he let the two of you ride the rest of the way back despite your hesitance to mount another horse.

When you returned to Lady Basnett’s, with Catherine in arm, the sun had been set for at least two hours. You hadn’t realized what trouble you had gotten yourself into until you noticed Tommy’s Bentley parked in the crowded driveway of the mansion. Men stood at the gate, armed and waiting. Catherine opened her mouth to remark how ridiculous it was, but you kept your lips sealed after recognizing the guards to be Peaky Blinders.

Tommy had to be beside himself.

A young boy who was playing between the cars popped his head out when the gates squealed open. His ears perked up, and he ran inside, clutching his peaky cap, to probably inform the adults inside of your arrival. People pooled out onto the front steps, the women covering their hearts and sighing with relief, and the men holding their hats to their chests. But when your husband, Tommy, came storming out, they parted like the red sea.

He stalked across the gravel like a predator, his eyes trained on you with an unblinking stare.

“Are you hurt?” He ignored Catherine, cupping your face and frantically looking between both your eyes as if you would disappear.

Upon further inspection, his eyes were bloodshot, and the white sleeves of his blouse were bundled into the golden garters. Your hands itched to muse his disheveled hair into place, but with all the curious onlookers, you thought better of it.

“No.”

George, Catherine’s husband, was quick to whisk her away inside. You heard Lady Basnett’s voice trailing after them: “Oh my, what a terrible thing. Come now, let me pour you some tea.”

Unfortunately, tea wouldn’t make up for any lost ground with Tommy.

“We’re going.”

You knew better to open your mouth to disagree. This was Tommy being afraid and carrying on. He retreated into himself. It didn’t look pretty or like he cared, but he cared; you knew he cared. It was only that no one else was allowed to know that the great Thomas Shelby felt any emotion.

At Arrow House, he swallowed two glasses of whiskey before saying a word. You were pulling at the hem of the overcoat that Tommy had shook off his shoulders to give you for the ride home. Your fingers just couldn’t stand the anxious silence that rang throughout the room.

“What the fuck happened?”

He stood in front of you, stoic as a soldier but cracking around the exterior thanks to his hand, which itched for the cigarette case inside his pocket. (A nervous tick of his.) You grab his hand between your own before he can fish out the case.

“The horse got spooked. It bucked Catherine and me off, but we’re fine.”

His thumb rubs across your knuckles as he looks past your shoulder out the window.

“Do you know where I was when I got the call? Eh? I was handling some business when Lizzie came in and told me some posh old woman was on the line, saying you were missing.”

He exhaled sharply, dropping his gaze to you, where you noticed his eyes soften.

“I thought…” He broke off.

His chin dropped, and he went to itch his nose with his other hand.

“What did you think happened? Is there something I should know about?” Concern leaked into your voice.

“No,” he huffed, clearing his throat. “It doesn’t matter. You’re home, and you’re safe.”

You bit your lip to stop yourself from saying anything that might push him over the edge. He was fragile in a state like this in the sense that he pushed the stronger, more vivid feelings to the side because you were his wife, not a Peaky Blinder. No, you would never be, even though you married one.

Often, you would wish you could turn into the leaves that swept off the pavement and into the air. Imagine then how much easier life would be for you both—to forget the animosity of life and rise above it all, breathe in that crystal air, and then finally exclaim the truth because up there no one could hear them or cared enough to try anyway.

Cautiously, you let go of his hand and traced your fingertips up to knead away the tension in his jaw.

“Thomas… Do you remember what you asked of me? To help you with the whole fucking thing—”

“From now on—”

“Thomas—”

“From now on, let me know where you are going. I will organize a guard to watch over you.”

‘You write like you’re running out of time,’ Lizzie’s poorly placed joke from the start of the week reverberated in your skull.

Was he?

“I need you,” he breathed, the smell of whiskey fanning over your senses.

You nodded, pressing up on your toes to kiss him. A soft breath escaped him when you pulled away.

“You have me.”

[writingoddess1125]

Tea Time

Wrote this and didn't proof read. Enjoy!

SUPER SWEET Fluffy McFluff 🍬 🍫 🍭

König 👑 x Reader + OC Daughter

König- A Colonel of Kortac, A living battering ram and a ruthless killer- A man who scared even the most hardened of soilders.

Now in a hand cast decorated in scratch and sniff stickers and being walked through his home by a little girl in a Ariel night gown. His usual tactical gear replaced by well worn sweatpants and a old Star Wars shirt, and his face bare to the elements.

However here he wasn't just König- he was Hans too, Husband to (Y/N) a simple nurse and father to 4 year old Eden. The little girl currently dragging him to her Disney Princess Bedroom by his uninjured fingers.

He'd been sent on temporary leave due to breaking his hand during his last mission- rolling out of a moving vehicle during an extraction (Lies. In truth he rolled out of bed wrong and crushed his own hand) However he saw it as a blessing non the less. You having gone out to run a few errands which left König to spend the day with his little girl.

"Papa Sit! I made us tea!" Little Eden squealed, König looking over the little pink table set up with stuffed animals and even littler plastic chairs. Smiling as he gingerly lowered himself onto the tiny plastic pink chair, huffing softly as he did so which made Eden bounce impatiently.

"Little small Princess, give papa a second"

Eden, oblivious to her father's predicament, handed him a toy teacup with a proud smile smile the second he could be seated.

"Here Papa!"

König, trying to grasp it with his uninjured hand, which happened to be his non dominant- His large fingers awkwardly able to grasp the tiny plastic cup- this one having Cinderella on the front of it, "Meine Hände sind heute nicht in Topform" (My hands are not in top form today) he joked- often his times home he spoke to Eden in his native tongue, helping her to learn and understand him and pick up the language herself which she had done beautifully.

Despite the challenge, König sipped imaginary tea which to his surprise had liquid in it- water it seemed with all the elegance he could muster. Eden clearly happy giggled, pouring her water tea into cups and declared, "Papa, du bist der beste Teetrinker!" (Dad, you're the best tea drinker!)

König face softened at this- God he missed spending time with her, he knew his job was important but these moments with Eden ment the world to him. Now enjoying these tea party activities, using his injured hand to hold a stuffed bear she had handed him he chuckled, "Danke Princess"

As the tea party continued, König found himself stuck in a tiny chair which was perfect as his little girl put butterfly clips in his short ginger hair and some purple makeup on his powdery eyes, now struggling to maintain a dignified posture- His legs beginning to fall asleep and the chair making it impossible to be comforble as the pink makeup brush batted his poor face.

"Princess- a little more gentle" He said calmly- Winking when some of the cheap kid makeup got into his eye.

"Almost done Papa!" She said, finishing off with a smear of lip gloss over his scared lips.

"Very pretty Papa!"

"Oh? War ich vorher nicht hübsch?"

(Oh? Was I not pretty before?)

"No!" She exclaimed honestly which made König laugh rather loudly. Nothing like the honesty of a child to humble any man.

Eden continued to serve her tea and even bringing up chopped up conversations and random handfuls of snacks she scattered on the table which König pretended to eat. Which was making him shift and damn near fall from his chair-

Eden couldn't help but laugh at her father's predicament "Papa, du bi't so komisch!" (Dad, you're so funny!) She exclaimed while clapping and stomping her little feet, But stopping as her attention went to her open bedroom door immediately as you peaked in having just returned and still dressed for running errands a smile going over your lips.

"Hans?-" You say softly holding back a laugh at the sight of your husband. All nearly 7ft of him crammed on a tiny plastic chair that you could see was bent out of shape from his weight.

"Mama!" Eden cried out, rushing to you quickly with a toothy grin. "We having a tea party!"

"A tea party? Oh that sounds nice" You say with a smile, looking to your husband who batted his poorly painted eyes at you.

"Very nice- Care to join us?" He said with a smile, you walking over and kissing his forehead gently, making sure to avoid the splattering of makeup over his chizzled face.

"Why I'd love to~" You purr, König smiling at this as he helps you sit next to him in a matching plastic chair. Eden excitedly pouring you a tea cup of her water tea and handing it to you.

You looked down at the cup in question, looking to Eden who poured König another cup as well.

"Eden- Honey, where did you get the water from?" You question, knowing she couldn't reach the sink yet- König sipping the tiny bit of water.

"The toilet!"

A snort leaving you in laughter at that moment as König shot out the bit of water from his mouth. You watch König face scrunch up in total horror and disgust as he jumped from the chair like it was on fire spitting and wiping his tongue as he marched away- you now dying of laughter on the floor as he stepped around you, Eden looked at her father confused as he rushed to the bathroom to brush his teeth.

"Verdammt noch mal!"

[under-cotton-and-calicos]

Take Me Back To Eden

Multiple Ghosts x AFAB Reader

AN: It’s been a long while. I’ve been busy [insert unhinged ao3 author life update here]. This has been sitting in my drafts for the LONGEST time jeez. Wasn’t really satisfied with any of the directions it took so I finally sat down and committed to something. May or may not have a sequel. I recommend listening to “Descending” by Sleep Token while you read this. As the title implies, I’m kinda obsessed with the band right now. Enjoy!

tags: cult sex, orgy, heavy dubcon, ghosts, ancient deity, mind manipulation, oral sex, vaginal penetration, rough sex, WEIRD CUM

Word count: 3.9k

With a pathetic sputter, the incessant humming of your old corolla’s engine gives way to silence. For a few moments, you sit in the dark and quiet, a mixture of excitement and anxiety raising goosebumps on your skin. You’ve done this hundreds of times, you’re sure that today you’re going to get your big hit. It has to be.

You slam your car door shut and take a deep breath, a gym bag filled with equipment and cameras slung over one shoulder, your free hand guiding the beam of your heavy duty torch across the entrance of the abandoned bar. The old, faded sign perched above its entrance is unreadable, faintly you can make out traces of looping letters. Its battered and dusty exterior belies the rumours you’ve heard about the place.

You were supposed to come with your posse, but every single one of them had work or family issues that cropped up at the last minute. Not one to be deterred by fear, you ended up making the drive down alone. In spite of the cool night, your skin is warm with anticipation as you cross the threshold and slip into the bar.

Not much is known about its origins or history- it’s a small, rundown lot in a slow and quiet part of town, so no one has ever paid it much attention. It had been a hole-in-the-wall style pub that attracted a small and dedicated group of patrons before mysteriously closing abruptly. Hours of digging through the net gave you enough reason to suspect that there was an abnormal cause behind why it still hadn’t been bought out for decades, though. The reports of ghostly apparitions in the crevices of obscure forums led you down a rabbit hole. Soon enough, you managed to find a video posted online, taken by some teenagers roped in by a bet. You studied it for hours, pausing at every frame.

You can still remember the sweet thrill, the goosebumps that formed on your skin when you noticed the wispy, grey figures hidden behind corners in several frames. Jackpot. 

Your friends had told you that they were edited but your gut told you otherwise. There was a genuine fear in those kids’ eyes, you bet on it.

As you manoeuvre through old tables and chairs, you notice that the furniture is still well kept, barring the fact that everything is covered in layers of dust.The retro style bar, stools and shelves are all in good condition, though lacking bottles of booze and the typical drink making paraphernalia. Maybe someone still cares for the place? 

You notice a few doors that hadn’t been explored in the video, so you try each handle, one of them leading to an empty storage room, another leading to a kitchen behind the bar, the next to a decrepit restroom. Curiously, there’s a long stairway behind a stuffy curtain going down to what you presume is a basement door. There’s an inlaid symbol on the door, made from burnished golden metal, its fine quality at odds with everything else in the bar. You’ve never seen anything like it before- the silhouette of a tree firmly rooted to the earth, its branches and roots reminiscent of…horns?

There’s something compelling about it. Your stomach dips at the thought of you opening the door, but you want to. There’s something on the other side of it.

When you yank on the handle, it doesn’t budge, breaking you out of your momentary stupor. You shake your head and blink. 

Caught up in the moment?

“Damn.” You sigh. Typically, you would leave lockpicking to another one of your friends. There isn’t much you can do about it, so you decide to set up a few thermal cameras overlooking the tables and bar, as well as an REM pod for proximity detection on the countertop.

Kneeling behind the countertop, you turn on your spirit box, its harsh white noise filling the quiet. Through the static, you call into the night.

“Hello? Is anyone there?”

There’s no response, but you introduce yourself and continue. You’re well accustomed to this pattern already, after years of this. The hauling of equipment, meticulously setting everything up, dicking around for a few hours and then packing up and heading home. Keep the time spent idle low, and expectations even lower. Perhaps it’s because you’re alone tonight. There’s a charge in the atmosphere, a certain secrecy and wonder to the ritual.

“I'd really like it if you told me your name.”

“Like.” The artificial, crackly word emerges from the static.

“Yes, I’d like it if you introduced yourself too.” You wait a few more moments before the next word. For a while, monosyllabic words are all you receive. So you dig and prompt until you tag onto something.

“More.”

“More?”

“M…More tha-an.” 

“There’s more than one of you?” You say, peering around the empty bar. There’s no sign of the specters from the video, only swirling mites of dust suspended in the air under the glow of your torchlight. “Where are you?”

“H-Here.”

Suddenly, your REM pod flashes green, red, blue against the shadows, signalling that something is close by, very close by. But instead of its typical bleeping, a warbled wail echoes through the empty bar, causing you to flinch from how loud it is. The fuck?

You turn around and direct your torch towards the pod. Your heart falters.

A crowd of grey specters are standing behind the counter, their forms towering over where you’re kneeled on the ground. Their bodies are featureless, rippling as though they could blink out of existence at any moment, at odds with the physical realm. For a second, you can’t bring yourself to do anything. You feel dread, you're stunned, but underneath it all, the irrational, ghost hunting geek in you is baffled. Holy shit, holy shit.

You jump to your feet, backed against the shelves. Their heads tilt upwards, following your movement. And then you’re fleeing, terror driving you to run from the very situation that you’ve been chasing down for years.

The moment you’re behind the steering wheel, you step on the gas, your corolla protesting as it's jolted out of its sleep and forced to shoot down the empty street. You don’t stop to turn and look.

“Wait.” A real voice overlaps with the one coming from your spirit box still clutched in your sweaty palm, but you don’t stop, turning the corner around the countertop and passing through an ethereal, translucent arm reaching out to stop you. You burst out of the bar into the cooler night air and shakily jam your key into your car, cursing as you struggle to get the door open.

Holy shit, you chant over and over again, they’re real, they’re real!

⋆｡°✩⋆｡°✩⋆｡°✩

Your alarm wakes you from a restless slumber, one of many in the past few months. With a groan, you fumble for your phone with your eyes still closed and turn it off. 

“Fuck…” You curse at the soreness in your back and slick between your legs. It happened again last night.

Tugging your underwear down, you stare at the sticky mess you’d created in your sleep. Glimpses of your dream, or nightmare, flash through your head, sending a quiver down your spine. Your breath hitches at the thought, you palm your stiff nipples through your ratty old shirt and begin fingering your cunt, warm and dripping wet. 

You’ve been tormented by a string of dreams lately, each one leaving you aching in the morning. So much so that you have had to incorporate masturbation into your morning routine. It’s never satisfying though, your fingers and toys don’t come even close to what you experience in the nasty recesses of the dreamscape hidden in your mind. All of them are vivid and realistic, but when you wake, you can only recall little snatches- greedy hands taking their fill of your body and being bent over, being filled…being defiled.

And with your equipment left at the bar, what can you do? There is no evidence of your findings. You can’t tell your friends that you’ve been having wet dreams almost incessantly since that night alone in the bar. You would seem like a lunatic.

But it wouldn’t be wrong to call this a kind of madness. Frantic and possessive. Bodies cast in vibrant colour, shadowed and swaying against you. Cast in the black behind your eyelids is a gold insignia, beckoning you closer and closer.

With a whimper, you cum, body folding over and shaking as you ride out your climax. Temporarily satiated, you slump back into your pillows dramatically, staring at your ceiling. Something from that bar had followed you home. And you want to go back.

⋆｡°✩⋆｡°✩⋆｡°✩

The empty district is just as quiet as it was the last time you were here. It’s a cold night, and you tug your sweater around your shoulders as you lean back in your car seat. It’s undeniable that you’re a little scared- you feel like one of those idiot teenagers in horror movies that get themselves killed for wandering recklessly into danger. Again, something tells you that it’s different. Or maybe you’re just horny.

With your torch in one hand and your phone in the other, you enter the bar. All of your equipment is just as you left it. You trace your finger over the REM pod on the countertop, dusty but intact. It’s…quiet.

What did you expect? To get jumped the moment you came in? There’s no sign of the specters as well. You’re a bit disappointed, because it means that those dreams you’ve been having might not have been supernatural at all, and worse, the specters might have been a figment of your imagination.

Just as you resolve to pack up your things and leave, a sliver of light catches your eye, cast against the dark floor. Purple light streams between the curtains that lead to the locked basement. Your heart begins to pick up pace again, and you rush over, brushing aside the thick, heavy fabric to see the stairway down illuminated. The door is open!

“H-Hello?” You call out, flicking your torchlight off and leaning it against a step. With hesitant steps, you descend, eyes adjusting to the dim artificial light. You know this atmosphere, this tension in the air from the distinctive purple haze of your dreams. Almost instinctively, your core warms and you can feel yourself shiver, a conditioned response.

 When you reach the base of the stairs, your breath stalls in your throat and you can’t help the whimper that escapes your lips. The same apparitions that have been haunting your dreams are there, facing you, as if waiting for your inevitable return. Your nervous eyes scan the rest of the room, it looks like you’ve stepped into another realm entirely- gone are the cheap and neon plastics of the bar, there’s a pool of fabrics and pillows, and an altar, carved from stone with tall pillars of candles by its sides.

Dazed, you don’t realise that you’ve been walking until you’re a few feet in front of the specters, their heads following you uncannily. 

“I-I…” You sputter, jittery under their heavy, obscured gaze. They haven’t even done anything to you yet, but your head is all cotton and gauze. Slowly, you sink to your knees.

“My dreams. I’ve seen you there.” You say, awe-struck. A delicate voice replies, soft as a gossamer sheet.

“I am glad that you’ve returned.” It confuses you. You’re not sure if the voice is coming from one of the specters before you or if it’s echoing through your head, like you’re on a phone call with someone in the same room as you. Up close, their forms are ethereal, shimmering and tinted purple from the lights, shifting ever-so-slightly.

You can still make out the shape of a mouth and a nose on their faces, as well as outlines of their limbs and hands. One reaches out to you, fitting the curve of your cheek in the palm of their hand- your eyes widen at the touch, it feels real, cold but solid against you.

“Good one…pretty one…” They close around you, clamouring to touch you. A hand combs through your hair, traces the curve of your ear, another slides past the collar of your shirt to the dip between your shoulder blades, and one presses its fingers against your lips.

Strange, you think, opening your mouth obediently for the cold fingers to savour the wet warmth of your tongue. Every cell in your body is alight, bristling with energy and ready to burst at the seams. This is what you’ve been wanting for so, so long. 

How could I have been terrified of them before this?

“More, more.” Not enough of you is exposed it seems. You shed your sweater, your hard nipples visible through thin fabric. The atmosphere bristles a bit, you think, as you finally discard your shirt, your breasts and inviting skin on display for them to grab at, their touch growing more hungry.

They whisper, trailing lower and lower. You close your eyes for just a moment, the jostling bodies around you giving way to darkness as you relish in the feeling of hands that grope your chest, firm nipples being pinched and tugged at, your bare body slowly becoming accustomed to their supernatural chill. Something bumps against your lips and you smile, opening your eyes once again to bat your eyelashes up at the specter that has its stiff cock in hand, unabashedly asking for entry.

You open wide, sticking your tongue out for the specter to slide its head against you. You think you hear a whimper, and you’re pleased to feel it twitching as you close your mouth around it, humming as you bob your head and take more of its length down your throat. It’s solid, hard like a human’s, and you can feel the bump of veins trailing down its shaft. Behind you, one kneels down and presses its torso up against your back, a hand cupping your soaking sex and another kneading your breast. 

“Here…!” Two more specters hovering over you tug at your arms impatiently, wrapping your hands around their own dicks. Obliging their requests, you stroke them lazily, eyes flitting between all of the spirits that surround you. The ones that are not latched to your body stand a short distance away, fisting themselves, undoubtedly staring at you get busy. Underneath their innumerable gaze, you’re exhilarated, and a thought flits through your mind- they’ll all have a chance to run you through later, and you’ll be able to experience it all in reality. 

The specter shoves two fingers into your needy hole, grinding them against your sweet spot. You falter, but the specter that’s in your mouth clamps its hands around your head, sinking so deep that your face is flush with their crotch. The two rut into your tightened grip, gasping and groaning fills your head.

“So good…so good…Ah!” 

When a finger flicks at your clit, you cum hard, body arching and thighs quaking. You’re stunned momentarily, and you swallow back the spit pooling in your throat, squeezing around the specter. Suddenly, its grip in your hair grows stronger, bordering on pain as it cums too, cold, thick liquid shooting into the back of your throat and covering your tongue. It tastes like nothing, you note, gasping for air when it detaches from you and releases its grip on your head.

What catches you off guard is the colour of its seed, a thick white substance that drips down your chin onto the floor between your legs, giving off an otherworldly glow. Immediately, another takes its place- the one on the right that had you fisting its cock guides it into your mouth and plugs you up again. This one is less patient, it holds you in place and fucks into your mouth. They use you like a sex toy, taking turns occupying your hands and mouth, grabbing at your chest and fingering your cunt. Any hesitation or endearing nervousness that occupied the specters has disappeared, and you’re elated. You lose count of how many have cum on you, they spill on your face, your chest, covering you in their ungodly semen. It becomes a dizzying cycle, and between your climaxes and theirs’, you lavish them with all that you can give, just as you did in your dreams. What you can take down your throat, you do gladly, an appreciative hum is your reward when you obediently swallow and accept the spurts of cum onto your body.

Suddenly, after a specter smears its cum across your tits, you’re pulled to your feet. Shaky and tired legs unable to support your body, you’re carried over to the altar that you saw earlier and laid upon it. It’s the perfect height, and you groan as a specter grinds its cock against your wet folds. Your legs are spread wide apart, and the empty spaces around you are quickly taken by eager spirits. They pause though, and seem to wait for something patiently. A name is called, something unintelligible, not in the human tongue, not anything you’ve heard before.

They say something in an alien tongue, and look upwards to the ceiling. There is something you didn’t notice before, the same sigil as the one on the door is painted there. In a split second, a collage of memories are made clear in your mind’s eye- you see offerings of wine and food, people kneeling before hulking statues and trees, orgies in secluded areas where hedonism flourishes, lush with the scent of sex and flowers.

The specter between your legs breaks you out of your reverie, and you’re suddenly in the basement once again, fully aware of your dripping cunt, the need. There’s an energy in the room that wasn’t there previously, charged and crackling. You groan when it fits its bulbous head against your entrance, hands kneading the flesh of your thighs as it enters you. And finally, finally you are one with them. You stare entranced at where you are joined, its thick, translucent cock stretching your starved cunt.

“Fuck me, please.” You rasp, throwing your head back when it begins to thrust into you, setting a brutal pace. Again, the specters crowd around you and put you to work. Closing your eyes, you lose yourself in the wave of pleasure, the friction of the heavy cock in your pussy, the numerous hands that guide you and delight in the touch of your skin.

“You…you…” The voice bristles in your head, and there it is again- snatches of that scene and the voice, it’s getting stronger. You can barely focus, between the ghostly bodies all around you and the thread of a connection to It. They’re both equally addictive- the delicious stretch and fill, the wandering hands all over your overstimulated body, and the irresistible draw to something powerful and primordial. Closer, closer, closer.

The specter fucking into you quivers, its pace quickening and its thrusts growing shallower. It’s about to cum inside you, and you wrap your legs around its translucent torso to force it even deeper inside. In response, its hands grab your hips with so much force that you’re sure they’re going to bruise.

“Perfect.” The word is whispered into the shell of your ear, low but with the power of a command. Instantly, you feel like euphoria has flooded your body, too much of it. Every sensation is painfully amplified, the bliss of each thrust between your legs rapturous and overwhelming. You cum, and the specter does too, you can feel its cold seed like ice in your hot, hot cunt, flooding you, seeping into your being. Every cell in your body is screeching from pleasure so high that it hurts. 

“Oh. Too much?” 

There’s tears streaming down your cheeks. Your thoughts are melting together and no words form on your tongue, all you can manage is a pathetic nod as your body seizes in agony and orgasmic bliss.

“Apologies, it’s been a while.” It says, and just as quick as it compelled you, the euphoria is sapped from your body. The relief is another form of pleasure, and as you relax, you feel a gush of liquid seep past where you’re joined to the specter- you’re squirting, a puddle of it forming on the altar and dripping onto the floor. 

“Sensitive, aren’t you?” It whispers again, cool and calm as you gasp for breath. “I like it.”

“What…what-” You’re cut off by the specter dragging its cock out of you, leaving you gaping for the next one in line. You let out a high-pitched whine as the mix of semen and your slick spills out of you. As though to comfort you, one specter cradles your cheek and promptly nudges its dick past your lips. They seem to be oblivious to the conversation going on, or they carry on in spite of it.

“Don’t think. Just let go.” Another cock is thrust into you, barely giving you any reprieve as it pounds into you, intent on getting you filled again.

What are you?

“A vague question gets you a vague answer.” It tuts, “I am the bliss that found its way into your dreams, the cruelty that left you wanting more, and the hunger that brought you back here to me.”

Hands reach out to pinch and twist your nipples and clit, forcing you to let out a muffled yelp.

“It hardly seems fair for you to pay little attention to those who have been fucking you so vigorously. Well, given that you can’t form a coherent thought, the ones that have you speared on their cocks are my most devoted followers. They have been so gracious as to offer their spirits for my perusal.”

And now you understand- it’s a god, an ancient deity on the ceiling looking down upon you, casting its impartial and frigid gaze on this debauchery, orchestrated for its sake.

“And you, my little pleasure, are the first taste of life I’ve had down here in a long time.” Its tone has a vicious bite, excitement palpable. At that, the specters, or puppets in you cum, the elation of their master influencing their own pleasure, no doubt. You choke around the cock forced down your throat, cutting off your breathing until it pulls free from you and you choke down air and seed.

You’re so replete, so tired, you’re not sure whether you can take anymore-

“You will.” 

Warily, you sweep your gaze across the hoard of hungry spirits hunched over you.

“After all, isn’t this what you wanted?”

Throughout the night, you’re used over and over, your poor cunt fucked and filled more times than you can count. Just as you think it may end, another specter is between your legs, alternating between lapping up the mess between your legs and pumping its seed into you again. All while some ancient and cruel god speaks to you. With each climax, you feel your consciousness slipping further away, the teasing and praise of the voice in your ear growing ever more distant…

When you wake, you’re exhausted. The specters had disappeared, leaving you on the altar. Despite the throbbing in your core and muscles, you manage to pull your clothes back on and make your way up the stairs, the unpleasant stickiness of your skin urging you to get home as soon as possible so you can take a shower.

A draft sends a chill down your spine, a whisper like a caress brushes past you.

I’ll see you soon, little pleasure.

You’re relieved to see your corolla on the streetside, and as you limp to your car you make a mental note to pack up your equipment the next time you’re here.

[lamentationsofalonelypotato]

Chapter 6: Batter Up

Pairing: Soldier Boy x f!reader, Reader POV

Summary: When the reader left Payback 40 years ago after a falling out with her childhood best friend she never looked back, but when two men show up to her apartment and start asking her questions about the past, the reader begins to think those things can’t stay hidden and starts to question what’s real and what’s fantasy.  This is a re-telling of The Boys Season 3, where the reader is a supe who's known Soldier Boy since 1927. The chapters will fluctuate between past and present. This is chapter six of my "You Call It Madness But I Call It Love" series. (I'm so bad at summaries please forgive me!)

Word Count: 3.1K

Warnings: References to Sex, Sexual Innuendo, Cursing (a few times), Drinking, Soldier Boy might be, is, really, absolutely, a little OOC,

Note: This is told from Reader's perspective. Any references to the reader is made using you or your. There is minimal use of y/n. I tried my best to proofread, but nobody's perfect. Reader is described as "curvy" occasionally. If you don’t like, don’t read, but if you do like, you’re my favorite!

Internal Monologue is in first person and is in italics

Series Masterlist

Main Masterlist

Philadelphia 1935

"Only you would bring a sketchpad to a baseball game." Ben shouts over the screaming fans in Shibe Park Stadium. The sun catches his hair turning it into a honeyed brown that drips down into his gorgeous green eyes that shine with charm. 

"I want to capture the devastation on your face when the Phillies lose." You snark back, tracing the curve of his mouth as it pulls down in a frown with the tip of your pencil on your sketchpad, and wishing that you could do the same with your fingertip. It was not the first time that you'd drawn him and by now you didn't need to look up at him to capture the angular structure of his face, but you couldn't help it.

"Funny." Ben taps the ridiculous white and red pinstriped baseball cap on your head that he bought you before the game.

It was a few days after your party, one day before Ben had to go to boarding school number seven, and Ben, being the person he was, decided to drown his sorrows in cheap beer and the electric atmosphere of a baseball game. Before his mother died Ben's father had taken him to a single baseball game, but Ben never forgot. He didn't have to tell you for you to know that it was one of the only happy memories from his childhood, despite his father getting so drunk that he forgot Ben was with him. You figured that Ben liked going because it reminded him of one day that his father didn’t tell him what a disappointment he was. Your heart ached at the thought. Ben didn’t deserve that. He didn’t deserve the constant disapproval of his father. Yes he got kicked out of numerous boarding schools, he swore like a sailor,  ran after whatever caught his eye, and he drank so much alcohol you wondered how he wasn't flammable. But Ben deserved more. And you wished that he would let you give it to him all the time, not just on the days you were out together or the times he snuck into your room.

Your thoughts drift back to the numerous boarding schools. Although you wanted to defend him, you couldn't come up with an excuse for that, especially since Ben didn’t just flunk out, he made an effort to get kicked out. Ben had a different story that resulted in his expulsion for each that never ceased to amuse you. Boarding school number one was vacated when Ben was only thirteen years old because he glued the history instructor to his chair. Boarding school number two was evacuated due to an “accidental fire” in the science lab, which Ben insisted he didn’t start. And then complained that he didn’t think that his lab partner's coat would catch fire quite that fast. Boarding schools three and four were within months of each other and both due to the fact that Ben got caught with a girl in the dorm. Something you wished he hadn’t told you. Boarding school number five you were the most proud of. Only because Ben used some of the minimal art skills you showed him to draw a naughty doodle of the English teacher on the chalkboard before class. Ben replicated the doodle in one of the sketchpads that you hid under you bed just in case someone were to find it. Finally, Ben left boarding school number six because he drove the dean's car into the swimming pool. When you asked him why, he said that he thought it "needed a wash."

"So is it everything you ever dreamed of?" Ben asks with a smirk.

"What?" You look up from the sketchpad at him in confusion.

"Your first baseball game." He emphasizes the word suggestively.

"It's certainly loud-" You begin to say, leaning towards him so he can hear you over the roar of the crowd.

"Yes, well lots of screaming is expected your first time." Ben wiggles his eyebrows. "Though I'd say that there should be screaming all the time-"

"Ben."

"But I told you that I'd be gentle-" He taunts.

"BEN."

"What? I like that I'm your first." His smirk widens and your cheeks flare bright red, prompting you to punch him in the shoulder.

"Shut up." Your mind can't help, but drift back to the other day when he trailed his fingers down the back of your corset and loosened the ties, which makes you flush a brighter red as a shiver goes down your spine.

The boos around Ben and you get louder as the bottom of the eighth inning begins and as one of the New York Giants' infielders steps up to the plate. Despite Ben's teasing it was your first official baseball game. He was outraged when you told him that you'd never been to one a few days before your birthday and he believed that it was his responsibility to take you to one before he went back to boarding school.

And as much as you pretended to hate it, you were having a lot of fun.

The roar of the crowd is electric and surges up over the trumpet blasts that fill the loud speakers, broken up by the sound of the vendors selling cracker jacks and other food items where they wander up and down the concrete steps of the stadium. The smell of beer, hotdogs, sweat, and peanuts swells over the crowd, while the golden glow of the noon day sun flashes against the metal overhang that shields the crowds from its rays.

"Are you hungry?" Ben asks, nudging your shoulder to grab your attention again.

"A little."

Ben waves down one of the vendors and buys you both hotdogs and a beer to share. And as you sit there and begin to eat, you realize that something about today feels different.

You can't put your finger on it, but him buying you a  baseball hat and food kinda feels like a… date. Ben had bought you things before from street vendors as you walked through Philadelphia, ice cream, pretzels, but being here, sitting so close that your shoulders brushed every few minutes was different. You briefly circle back again  to the other night when he helped you out of your dress. Neither of you had brought up what happened, but you wanted to. You wanted to know if he did that to help you or if he did that because he wanted to go further.

But at the same time you wondered if it happened because Ben was drunk. When he got drunk Ben tended to be a bit more clingy, well at least around you he was more clingy, but he’d never admit that. 

The crack of a baseball against a bat pulls you from your memory of the other night and Ben groans as the ball soars over the wall at the back of the stadium.

“That’s another 5 bucks.” He mutters.

“Told you not to make that bet with Adam.” You sing-song.

“You made a bet too.”

“A winning bet I might add.” You poke his muscular bicep with your pencil.

Adam Winthrop was one of Ben's drinking buddies and someone you had run into at the ticket booth before the game. Ben bet him that by the eighth inning the Phillies would pull ahead, whereas you bet Adam that the Phillies would be down exactly four points. Adam laughed at you, but agreed, while Ben stated that the Phillies were better than the New York Giants and you would lose.

You were eager to make him eat his words. And one look at the scoreboard meant that Ben was suffering through a four course meal.

"I have no idea how you did that. You don't even know what baseball is! How could you know that the Phillies would be down four points in the bottom of the eighth?"

"I've meant to tell you, I'm secretly psychic."

"Oh really?" Ben smirks, eyes darkening as they lock with yours. "What am I thinking right now?"

"That you're happy you didn't bring Missy Callahan." You smirk back at him to stop the butterflies that have erupted in the pit of your stomach.

"I am." He cocks his head to the side in a way that makes his dark hair fall into his eyes.

"Good." You turn back to watch the game so you won't focus too much on how good he looks and to resist the urge to run your fingers through his hair. "And I am getting it a little. My teacher is very good at explaining things."

"I'm good at explaining lots of things doll." You don't need to look at Ben to hear the smirk in his voice.

Damn it. The blush that creeps into your cheeks with his words feels like fire.

"Trollop." You snort, taking the beer from his hand so you can have a sip.

“You should be nicer to me, I got you food.”

“And a ridiculous hat-“

“You look cute.” Ben rolls his eyes and turns away, but his words stick to your chest like fly paper.

He thinks I look cute?

“I don’t think you look too bad yourself.” You respond, turning your eyes back on the field, but watching him in your peripheral vision.

“I know.” He grins.

“Keep being all cocky and I won’t buy you cotton candy with all the cash I’m about to make on this game.”

“What happened to gambling being unladylike?”

“We both know I’m far from a lady, darling.”

“Well the Dawson School for Girls will clear you right up.” Ben sighs, but you can hear the disappointment in his tone.

Oh yes, the wonderful news my mother dropped in my lap, how exciting!

When your mother had come into your room the other night she told you she had a big birthday surprise, which was that she was sending you to the Dawson School for Girls in Boston. You don’t know what prompted her to send you to a boarding school, only that she said it would be good for you.

Which probably meant she was doing it to keep you far away from Ben.

Maybe it won't be so bad. New city, new exciting people-

But no matter how hard you thought about it, you weren't excited and it was because of Ben. Not only would you miss him, you really didn't know what he would do without you. You weren't sure how long that Ben would be at his boarding school in New Jersey, and you didn't know where he would go when he got back.

If I was gone, who would be there for him when he got back? Who would he go to when he didn't want to go home? Would he end up at Missy's?

The thought that he would sleep over at her house makes an ice pick of jealousy stab you in the chest. You still weren't over what happened the other night at your birthday party, but you were getting through the best you could. Being here with Ben was helping you forget how mad you were.

"Y/n?"

"Hmm?" You look up at him.

"Don't focus too much on what they teach you there." Ben says, his eyes are still on the game tracing the pathway of the ball as it soars into right field.

"Why?"

"Because you don't need to change." He glances over at you with a frown as if the thought hurts. "And all those boarding schools are the same, they try to make you like everyone else. Strip you of everything that makes you different.”

"Is that such a bad thing? I've been the odd one out for a while-"

You think about all the other girls that you'd met over the years and of course Missy pops up. She was popular, pretty, and she'd caught Ben's attention. You'd never been that popular, Ben was the only close friend you had. Plus most of the people you interacted with were Ben's friends/drinking buddies who seemed to like you as much as he did. That always made you feel better, that Ben's friends liked you enough to let you come out with them sometimes, even if it was to the bar on the corner and even if it was completely unladylike when you staggered home drunk. It was usually Adam's fault when he bet you that he could drink you under the table and you weren't one to walk away from a challenge. Ben was always there to help you down the street and make sure that you got home okay, laughing when you tried to go into the wrong house or sang off-key. Of course when you arrived home those nights your mother practically locked you in your room, making you feel like Rapunzel, but never dissuaded Ben from coming in through the window.

"For you it is."

"Why?"

"Because you're different."

"I can't tell if that's a compliment or not." Your brow wrinkles and Ben presses a fingertip to the scrunch between your eyebrows under your hat, surprising you.

"I like that you're different." Ben shrugs.

Your cheeks flush bright red with his confession. It's the first time that Ben's ever said anything remotely like that before.

He turns back to the game as if he hasn't said anything.

“I like that you’re different too.” You whisper, barely audible over the crowd.

“Good.” Ben shoots you a sideways grin that makes you warm from head to toe. 

“So is that why you don’t stay?" You look back at your sketchpad, shading along the bottom of Ben’s strong jawline, reveling in the familiar scratch of the pencil against the paper.

“Huh?”

“At the boarding schools? Because you don’t want to change?”

Ben frowns for a minute before reaching for the beer between you. “I don’t like being there.”

“Because?”

Ben shrugs. “It’s not home.”

You didn’t understand that. Ben hated being at his own house with his father. Well, hated being anywhere with his father. The only place that he spent enough time sleeping was in your bedroom and you doubted that’s what he meant.

You wait for him to clarify, but he doesn’t. “Well I'm pretty sure I'm going to hate being in Boston because I'm just going to worry about you the whole time." It slipped out before you could stop it.

"You worry about me?" The corner of his lip twitches.

"Of course I do. You're my friend."

"And what do you worry about happening to me?"

"The usual: barroom brawls, alcohol poisoning..." You smile. "That or sleeping with someone's girl and having the guy come after you."

"I hope you know that you're my alibi if anyone tries to catch me."

"After all these years I'd expect it. And everyone believes me, because I'm trustworthy-"

"I'm not so sure about trustworthy, when we first met you lied for me." Ben's fingertips trace against the back of your hand where it is on the armrest between you.

"Yes I did." You swallow the lump in your throat, trying not to focus on how electricity seems to follow his touch, mildly surprised at the boldness of Ben's touch.

You remembered that night. When you ran into your father's study to hide from your mother and Ben was behind the couch hiding from his father. He had looked so cute with a scowl on his face, when he peered at you from over the back of the couch when you came through the door. You remember asking him what he was doing, but he hadn't said anything, just stared back at you. His father had been enough of an answer when he practically crashed through the door of the study, stumbling around the room and slurring his words together as he demanded you tell him where his son was. You had held his gaze and insisted that you hadn't seen Ben, and his father had left cursing under his breath. It was hard not be friends after that.

"Why?" Ben asks.

You pause considering. Ben's face is impassive, but you see a glint of curiosity in his eyes. His fingers are still resting on the back of your hand.  “Do you really want me to tell you? Or do you want me to lie?”

“I don’t think you’ve ever lied to me before.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I know your tell.” He replies smugly.

“I don’t have a tell.”

“You do.”

“What is it?”

“It’s no fun if I tell you.” Ben smirks, tapping the brim of your hat. “But why?”

You didn't want to admit it to him, because you thought that he would mock you. The truth was you'd helped him for two reasons, one because he'd looked scared. Ben wasn't afraid of anything and you hadn't seen the look in his eyes since the day you met, but you know that you did not imagine it when you locked eyes in the study. The other reason was because you thought that your problems with your mother and his problems with his father made you two the same or at least connected in some way. You were happy to meet someone that understood you. None of the other people you met understood what it was like to have a parent that never thought you were enough for them. And as you grew up together, Ben was someone that you could depend on no matter what, just as he depended on you. Even if he couldn't admit it to you or to himself.

“It might have also been because I was also in the study hiding from my mother and it kinda felt like we were sharing a secret.” You press your lips together. “I know that sounds stupid.”

“It’s not.” Ben breathes, holding your gaze with a sincerity that makes your heart warm. “I never said thank you.”

"You’re right. And I’ll hold that against you for as long as we live.” You smile up into his handsome face again admiring how the sun reflects off the perfect angles and rests in his green eyes.

“I wouldn’t have expected anything less sweetheart.” He holds your gaze for another few seconds before turning back to watch the final inning, his forearm pressed firmly against yours where your arms rest between you. And instead of moving back you allow yourself to lean into him, so close that your shoulders are touching, continuing to sketch through the final parts of the game and ignoring the urge to look up at him.

It really was a wonderful day, but that's the thing about wonderful days, they always have to end.

Thank you so much for reading! If you'd like to be added to the taglist for this series, let me know :)

Taglist: @roseblue373 @anundyingfidelity @cheynovak @cassiecasluciluce @muhahaha303 @deans-spinster-witch @kayleighmeister @demodemo909 @fruitfacess @bobbobbobinogs

[21wanderer]

A career in music

“Hi Sebastian, sorry if I’m late.” I said entering the music room. I’ve had a busy day, with it being my final day of teaching.

The young man looked up from his guitar and smiled.

“No worries, teach, I’ve just been sitting jammin’ a bit while waiting.” Sebastian said innocently.

“Well, I’m not a teacher much longer,” I replied as I closed the door.

“Does it feel strange to have your last day today?” Sebastian asked curiously.

“Sort of… But it’s a great opportunity. I still wanted to talk to you about the strings, I’ve been pulling.”

“Yeah?!” Sebastian eyes lit up, he sat up straight, eager to hear, what I had to tell him.

“I’ve been talking to a producer at Alpha Centauri and showed him some of your music, and he is considering you-”

“What?! Are you fucking serious?! They really are going to let me-”

I had to cut off the excited young man, I handed him my phone; “Here, you can read the mail, he sent me, yourself.” He smiled a million dollar smile.

I handed him my battered old phone and pretended to be reading over his shoulder, as Sebastian excitedly read the quite long e-mail.

Unfortunately for Sebastian the mail wasn’t real, as a matter of fact, I had written it myself, but I just needed to be very close to him and have him be distracted. Then I jabbed the syringe into his neck.

The young man immediately lashed out, falling off the chair and dropping the phone in the process. He looked up at me with a shocked, but already somewhat vacant expression.

I immediately sat on top of him, pinning him down, pressing one hand against his mouth, whilst holding his right arm down against the floor. He was no doubt much stronger than me, but with the drug debilitating his body, it was much easier than expected.

“I’m sorry, Sebastian,” I said with apathy, “but this is the opportunity, I’m talking about.”

He tried retaliating with his left arm, but soon appeared to lose control of it, causing it to flail around randomly until the drug really kicked in.

When he stopped struggling, I got up and checked the door was locked, and then quickly took off my clothes, stuffing it into a plastic bag.

Sebastian was completely unconscious by that time, so I could take off his clothes with ease as well. His naked body was a sight to behold – young, strong and handsome, except slightly twisted as his insides had decayed.

I laid on top of what remained of Sebastian to squeeze out all the air and gunk still trapped in his body. It was like lying on a deflating balloon, a visible vapour left every orifice, and soon he was completely flat and empty.

“I’m done with teaching, now it’s time to take what should have been mine.” I monologued, as if Sebastian could still hear me.

I picked up Sebastian’s skin, shook it a little and marvelled at the result. Not hesitating any further I stretched his mouth wide and began slipping my feet inside. It was a struggle to get inside, but eventually I got my foot all the way down. The next foot was easier, and as soon as I could wiggle my toes within Sebastian’s feet, I could easily pull his strong legs into place as well.

I fed my dick into his hollow shaft, and it sprung to life, after which I could pull his gaping mouth over my butt. I pulled the stretchy skin further up my body, my own gut being replaced by Sebastian’s flat stomach.

“You’re by far the most talented musician I’ve ever taught, and I’m sick and tired of teaching, now I’m getting the music career, I always dreamt of when I was your age.”

It wasn’t getting any easier, but I was so close. Getting my arm inside his mouth, whilst being stretched around by abdomen was more difficult than anticipated, but I eventually managed to get one arm in, and the result spoke for itself. It was smooth, tan, strong… and mine! I flexed it a couple of times, and even stroked my arousal a couple of times… It was perfect.

After a little more struggling, I could plunge my other arm into his, and that was the last major obstacle.

With a simple movement, the chest and shoulders slid into place, and with only his vacant head dangling behind mine like a hood, I was almost done.

I gently ran my new hand over my new firm chest, feeling my pecs, both slabs of smooth and strong muscle.

“Just imagine how far the two of us can go together as one. I want the fame, the money, the-” I paused, that would be the last time, that I would hear my own voice. It was time to finish.

I stretched Sebastian’s mouth wide one last time, so it could swallow me whole. A tingling sensation rushed through my body and mind, as Sebastian’s mouth snapped shut around mine.

The sensation of darkness and unintelligible pictures and thoughts rushed through me, but suddenly there was light and clarity.

“FUUUUUUUUCK!” I growled triumphantly. Looking down my new body, I was beyond satisfaction. I instinctively looked up at the clock over the door. I had been here longer, than expected. I needed to slip into Sebastian’s routine, there would be plenty of time for self-gratification later, though I had to strongly repress the urges.

I put on Sebastian’s underwear, socks, t-shirt, pants, his signature necklace and wristbands. There was something particularly pleasing about claiming these personal keepsakes as my own. Finally, I slipped on his biker jacket, it was a perfect fit and still smelled strongly of leather and the sweat of the young man.

I picked up his guitar and the plastic bag with the last remaining traces of my old self.

I quietly left the room, wanted to head outside to get some fresh air and sun.

Everything seemed brighter and lighter outside the classroom as I stepped into the hallway.

But after having only walked about 200 metres, I felt unwell, as if the hallway was spinning. I needed to sit down, so I sat on the stairs leading to the upper floors. I suppose the transformation wasn't completely done yet.

As I sat here, waiting for the dizziness to go away, I decided to put this new body to the test. I strummed the guitar like it was the most natural thing in the world, and I could feel both my and Sebastian's talent streaming through my fingers and the notes they produced.

It was almost an unreal sensation. I was better than my old self, I was better than Sebastian, I was on a whole other level. The dizziness had precipitated, and I got back on my feet. A couple of girls passed by in the hallway, they had noticed my music, they smiled at me, and I flashed signature Sebastian’s grin right back at them. Once they were gone, I burst into laughter.

I grabbed my phone and gave a call to NewU Records, who were the ones I had actually gotten an agreement with, and they were going to make me their new star, all I had to do was give them a call.

Everything was set up for Sebastian. Record deal, new apartment and future career, all set up by me. From my savings I've even bought a white convertible, which I think would go extremely well with my new identity.

I took it for a spin later that night, like a totally insufferable, self-absorbed and enviable celebrity with the world at his feet. It feels so good, it feels so right. This is going to be sweet.

[elexaria]

TW — mentions of suicidal ideation and suicide attempt

simon is out on sick leave, his mental health has gotten worse since johnny died. “can’t have you in service if you’re not 100%, riley.” price gruffly remarks as he signs simon’s papers, eyes looking up through thick eyebrows at si, who is angrily glancing away.

sick leave is torture. simon feels lost, no anchor to tether him down to earth. without work, he is nothing. without johnny, he’s ….. nothing.

he spends all day rotting away in bed, his thumb rasping against a battered old photograph of him and johnny on holiday in mallorca. johnny with a gorgeous tan, and simon all pink. no, he doesn’t get an impeccable bronze. that man BURNS.

the corners of simon’s lips twitch as he glances at johnny in the photo, admiring how handsome he truly was. he would give anything to see him again.

and then it gets hard to get anything but dying out of his head. if he dies, then maybe he can see johnny again. they can finally be together again. right?

the capt drops off a small bundle of johnny’s stuff at simon’s apartment, and then a small package is delivered in the post from mrs mactavish, johnny’s mom. various bits and bobs, some of johnny’s tshirts, his favourite cap, some sketchbooks.

his dog tags.

simon’s surprised to find them; he thought that they would be put in johnny’s urn or something. but clearly his mom thought otherwise, she must’ve known how much johnny adored simon. he would have moved heaven and earth for that mancunian.

still, suicide ghosts every waking moment of simon’s life. he glances at johnny’s dog tags besides his bed, chewing his chapped lips as he entertains the idea more. and again when he’s walking around the shops, glancing at various means of killing himself. his thumb rasps against the cold metal of johnny’s tags from within his jacket pocket as his free hand extends to read the packet of rat poison. might be a bit too painful, and apparently it stinks to the high heavens.

simon puts the box of rat poison back, continuing to walk around the shop, thumb still stroking against the dog tags as he continues to glance around the store. he can’t take painkillers, there’s a limit to two boxes per person. so, he settles on visiting the hardware store, and buys a bundle of sturdy rope. even grabs some plywood and metal brackets. “makin’ a swing for the little’un.” he mumbles to the cashier, flashing an uneasy yet somewhat believable smile to her as he fishes out some loose bank notes from his jean pockets. he’s not big on wallets.

for almost a week, simon sits on the edge of his bed staring at the bundle of rope next to a chair from his kitchen. he knows its the only way out, so why is it so terrifying? just do it, riley. do it.

he scrawls out demented ramblings on some loose leaf paper, barely readable chicken scratch to captain price, gaz and to mrs mactavish. “i’ll always be grateful for you for bringing my johnny boy into the world.” is somewhat legible in the letter written to her.

he neatly leaves the letters at the foot of his bed, taking a deep breath as he reaches into his pocket for johnny’s dog tags. for a moment, simon admires them in the dim lighting of his bedroom, watching as the thin metal clinks together. sergeant john mactavish.

as the tags slowly slip over simon’s head, the ball chain momentarily getting caught on a wry piece of scruffy blonde hair, they finally join with simon’s own tags on his chest as he stands on the kitchen chair. for a moment, his hand reaches out against his wardrobe to steady his balance. he slips the noose around his neck, heart thumping against his rib cage ferociously. do it, simon. do it.

simon’s trying his best to still his breathing, taking deep breaths as he tries to dull the nagging thoughts, against his instincts to not do this.

“tae fuck d’yae ‘hink yer daein?!”

simon falls back against his wardrobe out of shock, eyes wide with horror as he glances in the direction of that all too familar voice, that voice that immediately drowns out every single thought that was screaming at simon to kill himself.

it’s johnny.

he’s effervescent, an angelic silhouette of his mortal self. a halo of warm light, blue, ghosts around his form.

simon’s mouth is agape, eyes still wide as his body freezes. immediately, he tears the noose off of his head, damn near stumbling off the chair to get a closer look of the spectacle in front of him.

“johnny? but… you’re…”

“dead? aye, sherlock. i am.” the silhouette retorts sarcastically, flashing ghostly pearly whites in a lopsided grin, one that’s terrifying just like johnny’s signature grin. simon backs against the wardrobe, his breathing uneven and scant as he begins to panic. this isn’t normal, this isn’t right.

the mass of energy and light shaped like johnny notices this panic in simon, and seems to frown. it slowly moves towards him, a hand reaching out to touch simon’s shoulder. it’s hauntingly cold, and it makes simon recoil with horror. the spectre frowns even more, retracting its hand.

this can’t be johnny.

because johnny’s dead.

[paradiseismine]

Love at first bite - Boris Pavlikovsky x reader

Pairing: Boris Pavlikovsky (The Goldfinch) x f!decker!reader

Warnings: very fluffy, just Boris (metaphorically) drooling over the reader. Sfw still 🎀

Summary: you’re Theo’s cousin, in Vegas for a few days to visit him and his dad. While you’re cooking at the Deckers house, Theo gets an interesting and very good looking visitor.

Love note from Nina: I know not many people like my Boris fics, but I recently finished reading The Goldfinch for the first time, so bear with me here. Hope you enjoy it 💕

You had gotten to the Deckers house earlier that morning - Theo had already left for school, but uncle Larry and Xandra picked you up at the airport before leaving for work. That meant you were alone in the house for a few hours, so you decided to do some cleaning and cooking to wait for everyone to come home.

At around 3 in the afternoon, the doorbell rang. You opened the door, but surely wasn’t hoping to see such a tall, handsome dark haired boy in front of you.

“Hi! You’re Theo’s friend, uh… Boris, right?” you asked, trying to sweeten up your voice as much as you could and fixing your hair.

Theo didn’t have any friends in Vegas besides Boris, so of course you knew about him, but his accent seemed even cuter and more distinct in person as he spoke.

“Yes, that is me” he nodded, smiling softly. “And you’re…?”

“Y/n, I’m Theo’s cousin, nice to meet you” you answered, greeting him with a kiss on the cheek, something very common in your part of the family. “I guess he should be coming home soon. Would you like some coffee? I just brewed it, it’s still pretty hot”

Boris nodded and you turned around to get back to the kitchen, not catching his silly smile as he gently touched his cheek where you had kissed him.

“Are you coming, dear?” you raised your voice slightly so he’d hear you from the door, as you were now in the kitchen.

Boris soon came along and sat on one of the kitchen chairs. You served him some of the cookies you had baked earlier, as well as a cup of coffee.

“You made these?” he asked, mouth full of cookies already. “So good”

“Yeah, just before you got here, actually” you chuckled, finding his reaction funny. “So Theo would have something to eat when he came back from school, you know… But I made way too many, so I’m glad you’re here to help us eat them”

“I’m glad too” Boris answered, happily chewing on the cookies and sipping the coffee you had made.

“I was also making him a cake, so I’ll have to finish that and put it in the oven” you said, turning around to resume your work.

“I couldn’t find the cooking spray anywhere to grease the cake pan, so we’re gonna have to do it the old fashioned way” you shrugged, opening the fridge and reaching for a stick of butter.

“Can I help?” Boris asked, sounding like a little boy wanting to help mommy in the kitchen.

“Of course” you chuckled. “Can you grease the cake pan for me?”

“Sure” he responded, his accent thickening as his body got closer to yours in front of the kitchen counter. “So I just spread the butter on the inside, everywhere?”

“Exactly, and then you put some flour on top and make sure the whole cake pan is covered with a thin layer of flour, ok?”

“I can do that” Boris nodded. He did as he was told, and soon, the cake pan was greased and the batter was nicely deposited on it.

Boris helped you open the oven, chuckling at your worries that he’d burn himself. As soon as the cake was put in the oven and you had set the timer, Theo opened the front door.

He walked around looking for Xandra - it was weird that she hadn’t been home yet. But he saw Boris and you, which was more than enough to get him concerned - he knew Boris couldn’t see a girl doing “old fashioned girly things” (like cooking) and leave her alone. That foreigner boy was a little too flirty for Theo’s liking, and he wanted none of that to happen to his cousin.

He took Boris to the living room to talk more privately, leaving you in the kitchen to prepare the icing for the cake.

“Potter, she’s so beautiful! Your cousin?” Boris asked, nearly whispering. Too bad for him that you could hear it perfectly, and a hand quickly clamped over your mouth to stifle a chuckle.

“Yeah, Boris, she’s my cousin. She’s visiting for a few days. Why do you ask?” Theo answered, seeming annoyed. You didn’t even have to be looking at him to know he rolled his eyes so hard they nearly fell off his head.

“Would you mind if I kissed her? I don’t have to do more than kiss if you don’t want” he said, seeming a bit defensive. “But she’s so beautiful, I really want to kiss her, I never met a girl like her, so, uh, so женственный”

You blushed to yourself in the kitchen, stirring up the icing of the cake in order to keep normalcy - the noise from the whisk on the pot would be enough for them to pay you no attention at all. You had no idea what that last word meant, but it sounded like a compliment.

“Well, you don’t have to ask ME that, you can go ask her if she wants to kiss you” Theo spat, coming off jealous.

“Fine, you cranky” he answered. “But you better seem happier when I marry her” he added, as he walked towards the kitchen. “A woman like that has to have a good husband, and I make sure is me”

Boris entered the kitchen again as you were setting the icing bowl aside.

“Everything ok with Theo?” You asked, trying not to bring up anything you had heard from the living room.

“Da, he’s just cranky” Boris shrugged softly. “I said you were beautiful and he got jealous”

You laughed at his sincerity. “Really? You think I’m beautiful, then?”

“Totally, very beautiful. I asked if he would be mad if I kissed you” his right arm had ended up around your waist somehow, but it’s not like you were gonna swat it away. You enjoyed his touch.

“And what did he say?” You asked, turning your body to face him, your lips now dangerously close to his.

“I don’t really care. Can I kiss you?”

You nodded, chuckling and putting your hands to his cheeks, lightly pulling him down to compensate for his height.

Boris leaned in and kissed you very gently, as if you were made of sugar and could melt at the slightest touch of his lips. His arms were around your body, fingers lightly tracing the curve of your waist, his cold hands sending shivers to the hot bare skin of your belly.

His lips intertwined perfectly with yours, his tongue timidly slipping into your mouth as his hands grabbed your waist. You couldn’t help but faintly moan into the kiss and put your hand to his nape, fingers interlocking in his hair, bringing him closer. He was clearly trying to contain himself, and seemed utterly out of breath when you bit his lower lip maliciously.

When you broke the kiss, the look on his face was quite similar to when he used drugs: pupils dilated, eyes wide open, mouth slightly open and cheeks flushed. His palms were a bit sweaty and he muttered something in Russian that you couldn’t comprehend. You had gotten him wrapped around your finger - it must have been love at first bite.

[dhampling]

butter gn!reader, 2.5k

Astarion and his legendary beauty. Old hunting ground turned safe haven. A halo of well-aged tavern dust floats atop his perfect head in the sunlight and you couldn’t be more in love if you tried.

-

you and the vampire spend a short gloaming sun discussing marriage outside the Elfsong.

word count: 2,538

crossposted on AO3 HERE

read the tags and decide your fate!

He’s softer this evening and the room is fuzzy.

The smell of richly slow-roasted meats & seasonal field greens slapped up high on battered dishes and lathered with fresh salted butter, topped with baby mint, with window-grown rosemary; with truffle salts and crushed peppercorns. Red wine gravy. The open kitchen and the overworked barkeep with sweat glistening at his cheekbone.

Chalices lift from sticky dark tables, sleeves animated in shades of burgundy & emerald moving yellowed, peeling playing cards to chests. Hands joined in prayers of gratitude and glory. Extra chairs for those held close. Laughter; lilting as the bounce of those who whirl around the open floor to the sound of the bards, folding over in some giddy stupor and barreling back to the bar for more.

You nurse a now-warm pint of Balor Ale with eyes closed, calm in empty contemplation as the city smells and sounds wash over you. A late summertide tapestry. 

Though people mill about the bar frenetically and the sounds from inside the Elfsong are as raucous as ever; it all knots together to form a sweet, almost melancholy ambience. 

Nearby merchants bellow late-day deals on (mildly) heat-foetid produce. Peals of children laughing as they bomb through the cobbles. 

Occasionally you’ll flit your lazy eyes open to find him amongst the throngs of people inside.

And in perfect view, he lounges on the back support of an open booth seat Karlach occupies. 

Other party members dot similarly around the bar area and the wine flows free as the Chionthar among them. Legs crossed one over the other and cool hands coloured in late amber - one to support, the other to hold the stem of an ‘aged’ Rosymorn Firewine which threatens to spill a little overside as his arm moves in conversation.

From this angle he’s captured beautifully in the gloaming tenday light and from his slightly straightened poise it’s clear he knows that you’re watching for him. 

A voyeur. 

He’d question your intent, right by your ear, in a sing-song voice so sinfully rich it’d go straight to your head; before chortling in that one silly way he knows never fails to make you smile and capturing you - his darling dearest - in a kiss for the ages. 

Astarion and his legendary beauty. Old hunting ground turned safe haven. A halo of well-aged tavern dust floats atop his perfect head in the sunlight and you couldn’t be more in love if you tried. 

-

You see he looks to you after what seems to have been a joke told by one of the group, eyes heavy lidded with joy and the worn creases by his eyes a little deeper by the day. Checking in. You join your friends when you want and are gratefully received on those many occasions, but you revere your time alone. He holds back because he doesn’t want to upset you in the slightest. 

Despite reiterating that he is forever welcome to join you in said alone time - and all puns entailing your ‘ alone time ’ whispered in a soft silken purr aside - you feel it in the way he speaks to you. 

A fruitfly hums by your ear. You swat it away and look to him once more. 

Astarion’s eyes are back on the group. 

He listens to stories beyond your earshot and smiles, lolling his pretty head back and dipping to sip from his glass often, the tips of his ears twitching ever so slightly as he does. You clock the sparkling glassware as opposed to the standard tavern-offering pewter chalice and grimace. A heavy bell rings from one of the gilded towers in the near distance.

There’s a cathedral near where you’re from - you remember your visits there as a young thing. The height of the tallest spire seemingly miles above your tiny skull. Ribbed vaulting and lancets. You’d marry him there, when he’d let you, in one of the smaller chapels just off the aged cloister walkway. 

The old stone reminiscent of so many who’d loved in all sorts of mangled, patchwork ways before you two were even a thought. 

You’d find a way for the sun to forgive him once this was over, so he could stand in the light of a stained rose window and feel faith in something the way those born into religion do. 

A reception bursting at the seams with old friends at the Elfsong. You could dance yourselves to the point of a tired stupor with reason enough to do so. A celebration. 

Travel across Toril and find a way for him to be able to stomach real food, maybe. Have a cake with marzipan and trifle with rich sherry-soaked sponge for the guests. For him.

His lips show the faintest touch of a wine singe as he looks from Wyll and across to Jaheira, squinting in the sun before standing to - presumably - head to the bar. 

-

You close your eyes again and somewhere in the middle distance, bells continue to ring. A dopey grin as light heeled footsteps approach.

“I think everyone was beginning to wonder if we’d had a tiff.” 

Astarion sniffs gently and sits - almost slumped - toward you before leaning in for the kiss.

His lips open lazily to meet yours over and over again, skimming over the back of your teeth with a tannin-stained tongue and all the urgency of a tenday rest. A cold thumb brushes over the apple of your newly freckled cheek. 

A carafe of freshly corked wine on the bench before you both, glassware and a plate with warm bread. The butter you’d smelled earlier. 

“Could’ve come to me sooner, lover.” You pose with a slow blink, holding his arm still at the wrist to keep his hand to your burning face. 

Foreheads meet. The sun beats in the back and the still early evening air is interrupted by the faint buzz of insects and far-off children.

“I know. I do. You just looked so very deep in thought. Our heroic leader.” He jokes, emphasising ‘heroic leader’ in a mock grizzled tone before his head leaves yours and bringing you into his torso with his arm around you. 

His stillness feels reverent. 

He doesn’t jostle, not a single gesture. You steadily pour two glasses of Firewine from the hefty carafe and sit back into him again. 

“I was thinking about you.” You say in earnest while moving to toy mindlessly with the hand draped over your shoulder.

“Hm?” 

A flicker - his eyes are on you, a familiar burn, a fire poker. He knows that he’s often the subject of your pondering (if your word is to be believed) and has spent days of his own considering what that could mean.

On nights where his tongue sours with centuries of fermented scorn and his bedroll soaks through with thick, cold sweat; your mind is a fertile meadow and he resides as naught but a simple buxom milkmaid - giving and dense and virile atop dry grassy knolls and by stony running rivers, rutting and riding and suckling and spilling with bare teeth brushing shining cheekbones and dirt smears on thighs. Dimples on cheeks. Eyes of green and silver, blunt teeth.

“You. I was thinking about you.”

Astarion looks into the oncoming twilight. He rests his head to the side on yours, then nestles in a little. A sigh.  

From that meadow however, there’s a house with a thatch roof in the far distance; in which he sits by a roaring fireplace in comfortable clothes of his own choice and you, bundling through the door with a basket of fresh produce to stew in hand. 

Those lips alone capable of crafting a euphoria akin to a godsly blessing on him. 

One bedroom; perhaps two. 

Maybe even three. 

“How so, my sweet?” He speaks with the familiar measure of a thousand yard stare.

He doesn’t make the voyeur joke you’d seen so vividly in your mind’s eye, nor does he collapse around you with both arms at either of your sides and his chin on your head; burying kisses into your hair and cackling maniacally. 

His laundry must’ve dried on the balcony in your party’s quarters during the blazing height of Flamerule. Ruffled shirt linen, crisp and earthy.

“You want to know how I was thinking about you?”

A soft intake of breath. 

“Yes.”

You shift a little to look to the Lower City further down the hills and pathways of Baldur’s Gate, the span of the Chionthar and its banks now lit with flaming torches. 

The racket continues inside the Elfsong with songs being sung; food arriving at waiting tables and being spooned, hot, into hungry, wet mouths. Sweat slickened palms joining in prayer. Yellowed cards downed and reshuffled, hands dealt. Bards plucking at lutes and lyres on streets and in parks just far enough away.

He looks to you as you roll your tongue around the inside of your cheek. Soft round eyes seeking permission to dream alongside you. 

‘I was picturing a wedding. Our wedding. In the cathedral back near home - I’m sure I’ve mentioned it before.”

Though it hasn’t been left to sit long enough to aerate, you take a long sip of wine and a cloying film of carnelian remains on your tongue. 

His eyes sharpen.

“You didn’t just propose to me, did you?’ 

He quirks a brow.

‘Really, darling? Here?’

He gestures to your surroundings while feigning disdain and reaching for the other glass. You begin to shake your head.

‘Come on now, little love. Not even a ring?”

Astarion drinks. His voice is lower. You roll your head back in loving laughter and wriggle yourself from his grasp, buttering a chunk of bread before popping it cleanly into your mouth.

”You want a ring?’ 

A sip. A smile.

‘Go nick one. You’re the rogue here.” You quip, chewing still on the crust and wiping your fingers on a scrap of cloth. 

He brings them to his lips and licks clean any trace of salty butter, kissing each pad of calloused flesh attentively before sipping from his glass. 

“Thieving my own engagement ring? How very sad.’

Spare hand gesturing once again to the tavern in such a blasé fashion it would make you cringe if you still put any doubt into his estimation of you.

‘This whole thing.”

His brows furrow in jest, the corner of his mouth pulling at a quick smirk. 

“Steal one for me, then.” You suckle at your wine, keeping the vessel close pressed to your lips lest their wavering seriousness give your smile away. Astarion studies you.

“You’d accept a stolen ring as a sign of promise? Of intent to marry?” He queries, though not sounding as airy - nor aghast - as he likely means to.

“Depends who stole it.”

He looks back to the city in the distance. Silence between the two of you.

“What were you picturing in that pretty head of yours? The wedding.”

His hands roll over one another nonchalantly as he says the word. Wedding. The glass sloshes. He’s toying on the precipice of serious, a scene he can’t quite play at comfortably yet.

“Oh no no no, my love. You’ll recoil. It was far too homely for your tastes.” You shake your head animatedly, waving your hands in emphasis. 

He leans in towards you; a sordid grin. He’s comfortable now. The warmth in which his shirt dried vividly present.

“Oh go on, darling. Make me squirm. Tell me every fang-rottingly flaccid detail and I’ll absolutely hate it, I promise.”

You choose to forget the face of endless night this evening. 

The anticipated fast approaching absence of the tadpole means - most likely - the rescinding of Astarion’s ability to walk in the sun, to bask under the stained glass rose in the chapel; or to waltz in a quiet midday embrace atop the Elfsong veranda.

“Can I trust you to be as absolutely appalled as I imagine you’ll be?” You whisper, saccharine in mock secrecy. 

“I swear it. Hand on undead heart.” 

He lingers barely above you, solemn; a voice of liquid gold. 

You let the silence hang.

“A chapel’

He winces.

‘Cold and draughty in some early morning moment - a choir elsewhere in the building, not close enough to be loud but not far enough to have their verses be wholly indiscernible in song.” 

“Go on.”

“Maybe a little austere in tone owing to the nature of the environment, but each moment feels anticipatory. A small - no, intimate - service, fast but…’

You tap your fingers on the dry wood of the bench. Trying to recall the exact sentiment.

‘Eager. Full of devotion so sickeningly true it literally fizzes below the surface of the flesh. Both of us.” 

Now you sip, content. Astarion looks into the distance 

There are no burdens pertaining to the ‘Absolute’. Life is being lived and the day feels as if it is ending only for another one - just the same - to rise in its place tomorrow. The idea of fighting and peril waits for the morning chimes. An unspoken agreement.

“I keep forgetting I can make choices like that now, truth be told. To commit myself to something with no intent other than that which I decide.”

He’s wistful. A little contemplative. Fingers tapping away.

“There’s no rush, my dove.’ 

Eyes back on you, hand reaching for yours.

‘Besides - for the trifle I pictured at the reception; we’d need to solve your little taste problem first before I’d dream of allowing such an indulgence to go to waste.”

Astarion coughs, a glint in his eye.

“You’re questioning my taste now?”

“Oh, absolutely. Look at your choice in partner.” 

He laughs softly.

“You're an insufferable thing.’

Your fingers & knapsack are both heavy already with stolen gems, as are those of every friend you’ve met along the road. Rings of onyx, quartz; once personal keepsakes & now your plunderer’s spoils. He’s like a magpie whilst rummaging through burlap sacks and rotten barrels. Token pieces without rhyme or reason.

He knows they’re worthless to sell on, anyway.

‘Who knows, though. I might like that. Once I know who I am again.”

Wobbles his head. Examines his pristine fingernails, buffing them softly against his blouse.

“Did you just accept a proposal that you fictionalised in the first place?” You gulp the last of your glass before refilling it swiftly.

“No. But now, you’ve got me thinking.”

“Pray tell?”

He looks at you, eyes now awash with mischief. 

“Though I absolutely adore the vision of you on your knees for me - you know I do pet, hush now - I also like the idea of claiming the pose for myself. In a way that’s meaningful for me.’

He sips. You remain in place, hushed.

‘I’m not a details man, my love.’

Eyes on you.

‘Don’t do it for me. I want to. Once we know where we are.”

You beam at him. Pinpointing the moment he turns from rogue to butter, a soft smile on his face. Sincere in the last of the sunshine.

You’re not hinting, and you’d never intend to. When - or if - you’ll tie the knot is as asking the length of a piece of string. 

The road which brought you to this very bench, however; has been one fraught with similar nonsensical questions.

[durrtydawg]

The Sadir Inheritance

{Sam Drake x F!Reader} Chapter 8 | 'Gonna school me on this?'

masterlist ✨

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7

A few days have passed since Umm ar-Rasas. Everyone's a bit tense.

Word count: 6k-ish x

Breakfast. Reportedly the most important meal of the day, despite the fact that the only person actually eating anything substantial is Scott.

The three of them are up early, an outdoor café a few minutes away from the grotty hotel buffet a seemingly better option after an eventful few days. It’s a scene that should feel calm, indulgent, even, but there’s a weird tension making it, quite frankly, shit.

Sam doesn’t like it.

He takes a slow sip of his espresso, balancing the peel of his recently finished orange in a neat stack beside the saucer. The sharp bitterness hits him instantly. He swirls the cup, licking his lip, watching the crema circle the rim, then lets the warmth spread as he swallows.

Back in prison, coffee had been a different story. Hell - ‘coffee’ was a stretch. Instant crap that tasted like burnt dirt if he was lucky, handed out sparingly by guards who got a kick out of reminding you what little you had.

Sam had made do, though. Always did.

He’d scrounge for sugar if he could, boil water over makeshift kindling made from whatever junk he could swipe together. He turned a battered plastic bottle that had definitely been gnawed at by a mouse or three into a makeshift percolator, and ground the powder finer with the lid of an old tin cup.

The result was bitter sludge, yes, but it was his sludge.

Brewing coffee in that absolute ass-crack of an institution was a long, long lesson in timing, in patience, in knowing how to turn nothing into something. It wasn’t just about the caffeine. It was about taking control. About reading the room - when to brew, when to share, when to keep it to himself. That knack for reading situations, reading people, had carried him through then, and it carried him through now.

Even this morning, it’s not just the caffeine he’s after - it’s a moment to centre himself, to assess the situation.

Over the past two days, he and Scott have been grinding away at their search for leads: visiting lesser-known heritage sites, poking around in places tourists and looters alike had overlooked, and hedging their bets at the University of Jordan’s impressive library. Scott’s been all over his phone, trying to lock in an appointment to visit their archive.

Meanwhile, she’d been holed up in her room. They hadn’t been in the same room together since the night at Umm ar-Rasas when she’d collapsed in the crypt. She’d been shaken and pale after waking, enough to give Sam something to be afraid of.

He and Scott had agreed that she needed time to recover, though Sam had been the more vocal proponent of her staying back.

She hadn’t taken it well.

Now, watching her fidget with the edge of her napkin, chewing her thumbnail like it owes her money, Sam wonders if maybe they’d been wrong.

He sets the cup down, his thumb tapping lightly against the handle as his eyes drift to her. She’s twisting her nail between her two front teeth - a nervous habit he hasn’t seen in a while. It’s the same thing she did during their first proper call after she’d saved his ass, back when she was bullshitting him about being an archivist, when really she was working full-time in a pub deciding whether or not to pursue a masters degree.

He’d clocked her then - unsteady voice, fidgeting hands, eyes darting to the corner of the screen like she was trying to read notes. She wasn’t good at lying, and he was good at seeing through it.

There was something endearing about that side of her.

Usually.

But this? This isn’t just a lie. Nor is it endearing. It’s something else.

“So,” he says finally, leaning back in his chair. “I take it we all had a god-awful sleep last night?”

Scott looks up, halfway through a mouthful of eggs. “Sam shown you what we found yet?” He nudges the flatbread basket warily toward her, like he’s testing the waters.

What I found, Sam thinks, biting down the instinct to correct him. His tongue presses against the back of his teeth, but he manages a tight smile anyway, setting his espresso down as she shakes her head at the basket.

“Nope.”

Her eyes flick towards him, expectant but distant, like she’s only half here. Sam reaches into his shirt pocket and pulls out the old deck of cards they’d uncovered last night, the box crumpled, faded and delicate, but intact.

“Behold. Our big score.” He flips open the top, fanning out the faded cards across the table. “Not exactly the Holy Grail, but hey, they’ll look great in…I don’t know, resin coasters, or somethin’.”

Scott snorts, but Sam’s attention is on her.

Her eyes snap to the cards, her focus sharpening for the first time all morning. She drops her hand from between her teeth, resting her thumb on her bottom lip instead, her brows knitting together in that way he’s seen them do when she’s putting something together.

It’s subtle, but Sam catches it. The spark of intrigue. It’s enough to make him grin - quick, self-satisfied - but the moment doesn’t last.

Her eyes shift back to her torn flatbread, and the spark dims, replaced by that same guarded distance she’s been carrying since the other night.

“They’re cool,” she says finally, her voice measured, the faintest edge of sarcasm creeping in. “Nice of you to share them now.”

Sam huffs a laugh, leaning forward. “Didn’t think they’d make much of an impression. Hardly an ‘X marks the spot’ state of affairs.”

“Well,” she says, too quickly. She shrugs, her tone brushing off the comment. “Just didn’t expect you to hold out on me for two days.”

There’s a sharpness to her tone, and the tired half-smile she shoots him only makes it sting more. Sam narrows his eyes.

Yeah. Something’s definitely off. Quiet, snappy when she does speak, distant otherwise. The complete opposite of the enthusiastic chatterbox who had been driving them forward a few days ago with theories, questions, and connections that put the rest of them to shame.

He files it away for later. He’ll pull her aside, figure out what’s eating at her, but for now, he lets it go. No need to make things even more frosty.

Scott shifts in his seat, his eyes sliding to her, too, then back to Sam. He’s no fool, either. He watches her closely, a faint glimmer of curiosity in his eyes, waiting for a moment as if she’s about to say something else. Some expert finding… but after a second, he shrugs, as if accepting that she’s not going to give him what he wants.

Sam takes another sip of his coffee, the lukewarm bitterness somehow matching the sudden tightness in his chest.

He’s about to change the subject when someone catches his eye over her shoulder.

Sam stiffens, his pulse ticking up as he watches the man order a drink, movements casual, but presence growing increasingly irksome. The balcony at the hotel, the monastery at Petra, now this cafe out of the dozens littered along this street.

“Either of you want a refill?” Sam asks, keeping his voice light.

Scott shakes his head, stabbing his fork back into his breakfast. She hums something that alludes to a ‘no thank you’, reaching out for the deck of cards as she exchanges her nail for the withering straw of her orange juice.

“Alright. Be right back,” Sam mutters, standing and pushing his chair back. His boots crunch softly against the gravel as he heads toward the bar, his eyes locked on the man.

He’s not sure why this guy’s been bothering him, but something’s off. Maybe he’s just being paranoid - there’s no reason for it. Probably nothing, he tells himself, but the gnawing feeling in his gut won’t go away. Not until he knows for sure.

The itch at the back of his brain has ramped up, but he forces himself to relax, to approach this like any other conversation. No need to spook the guy. Yet.

The man is hunched slightly, leaning on the counter with one elbow as he fiddles with the menu. Up close, Sam notes he’s shorter than expected, maybe by half a head, but there’s something about him that’s wiry. Compact. Like he’d be quicker than he looks if he needed to be.

“Nice morning, huh?” Sam says, sliding in next to him and signalling for another espresso.

The man glances up, startled for just a fraction of a second before smoothing his expression into something more neutral.

“Sure is.” His accent is unmistakably American, Midwest, maybe. Polite? Yes. Cautious? Perhaps. “Came for the views, stayed for the coffee.”

Sam raises his cup slightly in a mock toast, downing the last drop left at the bottom. “Seconded.” He swallows, “You hit the monastery yet? It’s worth the hike.”

For a second, the man freezes. It’s subtle - his fingers hesitate around the menu in his hands, the tiniest hitch in his breath.

“Nah,” he says after a beat too long, the quick glance over his shoulder only aiding Sam's suspicion. “Didn’t make it that far.”

Liar.

Sam doesn’t let the doubt show on his face, but internally, a thread pulls taut.

He’d seen the guy the other day - antsy, overly observational. ‘Didn’t make it that far’ My ass.

“Fair enough,” Sam says, forcing a grin and nodding in thanks to the bartender as he slides over a fresh espresso. “It’s a hell of a hike.” He watches the guy’s face for a flicker, a tell, but he gets nothing but that same tight, polite smile and a slight impatient tapping of his thumb against the counter.

Sam turns momentarily, squinting into the sun as he clocks Scott looking at the two of them, fork twiddling between his fingers. He furrows his brows at Sam as if to say ‘you good?’. Sam nods imperceptibly, winking before turning back.

“Gotta have the lungs for it, I suppose.”

The man’s smile twitches, like he’s debating whether that’s a joke or a subtle dig. Then his lips tighten as he sighs, turning from Sam as if this conversation is the last thing he's interested in being involved in.

Sam's somewhat glad he's getting under his skin. A small victory. He’s cataloguing everything inside the organised chaos that is his mind palace - the guy’s rigid posture, the way his eyes don't linger too long on anything, the slight hesitation in his words. He's antsy, uncomfortable, and it goes beyond your regular social anxiety.

Sam sips his coffee, but his grip tightens just slightly around his cup, burning his fingertips slightly.

The bartender breaks the moment, sliding a smoothie across the counter toward the man. He takes it with a nod and swivels off of the bar stool, but when he speaks again, his tone is lighter, almost casual, bar his rushed movements. “Well, enjoy. Place like this, bit of a once in a lifetime type’a trip.”

It’s an innocuous line, but something about the way he says it makes Sam’s skin prickle. His grin makes the sentence feel… deliberate.

“Same t’you,” Sam replies, matching the tone. He straightens, giving the guy a nod as he trots back onto the main road.

Sam slides some Dinars onto the counter, thanking the bartender again before turning back toward the table.

He’s already running the possibilities through his mind - tourist, wanderer, someone who caught the wrong vibe. Or something along more sinister lines.

Hmm.

Sam drops into his chair with a sigh, swirling his cup in the palm of his hand.

His thoughts are spinning. The guy’s lie about the monastery. That weird tension in his smile. And that parting line - so casual it could’ve been innocent, but wasn’t. Sam glances toward her again, watching the way her fingers absently shuffle the cards. One more thing to add to the list.

Sam slides back into his chair, his fingers drumming once on the edge of the table before settling. She’s still staring at the cards like they might rearrange themselves into something meaningful if she looks hard enough.

Meanwhile, Scott’s hunched over his phone, thumbs darting across the screen, his mouth pressed into a line. Concentrating? Maybe. Irritated? Definitely possible. Either way, neither of them notice him sitting back down at first.

“Well,” Sam drawls, resting an elbow on the table and flicking a glance between them. “Don’t let me interrupt this lively exchange of ideas.”

Scott doesn’t look up, just mutters, “One sec,” while his fingers keep flying. The faint glow of the phone reflects in his sunglasses, but not enough to soften the scowl tightening his face. “Everything alright?” He asks, though his interest is half-assed, with whatever he’s furiously tapping away at on his phone being infinitely more interesting.

“Mhm.”

She finally glances up, blinking like she’s shaking herself loose from her thoughts.

“Right, I have just confirmed our spot at the uni’s archive,” he says, his voice clipped. “The guy finally got back to me. Two-hour slot from noon. See if there are any complexities we can iron out, yada yada.”

“Solid,” Sam says, keeping his tone neutral.

Scott leans forward, his hands clasping in front of him as he places his phone face down. “So, who’s coming with me?” He asks, lingering on Sam. “I figure two heads are better than one. You in?”

She sighs. It’s attention seeking and Sam finds himself biting his tongue to prevent him from tutting.

His eyes lock on hers for just a second before shifting to Scott.

“Actually,” he says lightly, “I was thinking you and I could check out the market by the hotel this afternoon. Might dig up something interesting - local stories, relics, you know, the stuff you can’t find in archives.”

Her brows knit together. “The market?”

“Yeah,” Sam says, leaning forward just a little as he plucks a cigarette out of the box in his pocket. “Figure it’d be good to shake things up. You can finesse some more facts from locals, since you've got such a knack for it.” he adds, fishing out his lighter from his pocket.

Scott looks like he’s about to question him, but Sam waves a hand. “Don’t worry. I’ll get us caught up on anything you find at the archives. Debrief over dinner?” He puffs at the newly-lit smoke, “You can lord it up all you like in front of some baba ganoush.”

Scott scoffs, narrowing his eyes as he shakes his head, mouth twisted into a lopsided grin.

That gets a small titter out of her, and Sam counts it as a win. She still looks tired, though, and it needles at him a little. He’s convinced she’s not entirely okay - maybe it’s a concussion after the other night, maybe something else - but he needs to figure it out without setting off alarms.

“All right,” she says finally, setting the cards down and giving him a half-smile. “Market it is.”

Scott shrugs, leaning back in his chair in an exaggerated state of nonchalance. “Works f’me.”

Sam nods.

//

He doesn’t miss the glance Scott throws her way before picking up his phone again, or the way her fingers drift back toward the box. Sam leans back, taking a sip of his fresh espresso, certain he’s now amped up with enough caffeine to make up for her missing enthusiasm. One problem at a time, Samuel.

You sit cross-legged on the hotel bed, the book open in your lap, your notebook resting beside you as you frown down at it. The ink from your green pen has stained your hand a little - a side effect from near-rabid scrawling for the past hour.

The ledger is heavier than it looks. Or maybe it just feels that way because you’re feeling… ropey.

As you scribble a few disjointed thoughts in the margins, the words continue to become more messy and impatient.

• Game records – poker? Dice? Bets escalate toward the end. > Poker. Sam found cards y’day.

• No clear indication of Inheritance yet.

You tap the pen against your lips, staring at the rows of names and numbers written in faded ink. English on the left, Arabic on the right.

While you were still uncertain on why there were two languages, you had established that it was some kind of betting log. You’re hardly a keen gambler, but those cards that Sam had revealed this morning set your head spinning… a satisfied hum pulsing up through the nape of your neck all the way round to your brow bone. A temporary recess in your headache that had been pestering you all on and off since the crypt. Just like when you’d found the book two days ago. Or, were you lured to it?

That thought had been playing on repeat in your mind.

It continues to wander, unbidden, back to the room underground. The way the air seemed… thin down there, oppressive, somewhat. You’d felt like you’d been tethered to the floor for a moment, like… a presence of sorts had you pinned in place. The aftershock of which has clung to your brain since.

You rub your temple absently, eyes flicking over the faded ink in the ledger. The headache had come back, right at the moment Sam and Scott returned to the car at Umm ar-Rasas, albeit nowhere near as bad as whatever had struck you while you were underground.

More of a dull, insistent throb at first, barely noticeable over the chatter and dust as Sam drove back, constantly looking at you through the rear view mirror, poorly attempting to hide his concern. But it lingered, refusing to let go, right up until breakfast this morning.

Scott had been sitting beside you, chewing and slurping and just plain… being there, and - lo and behold, there was the headache again. Sam’s fidgety clicking of his lighter was winding you up, too.

You spent the morning digging crescents into your palms to fight off your incessant irritability. Safe to say you sat with a face like a slapped arse. Poor form, really.

Maybe it’s the heat. Or the lack of sleep. Or the constant strain of chasing a legacy that might not even exist. You huff. Perhaps you should’ve eaten breakfast.

You shake your head sharply. Get on with it. Ten minutes til you’re meeting Sam in the lobby. Find something worth noting in this book, then go back to the two of them with newfound vim and a new, solid lead. Whatever happened in the crypt is over. What matters now is here, in this ledger.

Your pen moves again, your now rather doctor-like handwriting scribbling across the page.

• Emaan's betting records - self-written. Was he a gambler?

• Names: International. All men (tracks), hardly repeated. One of social events? Connection? Debt built?

The point about names is something you're looking to expand on. There's a lot of them. Rarely repeated, and if so, several months apart. You’ve noted them down, seemingly for no reason in particular.

If he was a gambler, is there any chance he could've... gambled the inheritance away? Bit of a stretch, especially given that you're still yet to understand exactly what's in the inheritance.

You continue reading, chewing the end of your pen, trying to ignore the soft thrum-thrum-fucking-thrum persisting in your head.

And then there's a name that appears twice on one page: William Campbell.

Odd. Checking the dates, there's only a few weeks between them. Cash bets. Like the others.

You jot his name down alongside the small list of others that have also been repeated.

Flipping a page, you stop cold. There it is again: William Campbell. Written neatly at first, like all the other names in the ledger, but something changes as you turn to the last few entries.

His name repeats again.

First, twice on a page.

Then thrice.

Then over and over again, written larger and more erratically with each appearance.

The bets grow larger, too - figures that would have been unfathomable at the start of the ledger. Plots of land. Even property, at one point.

Your pulse quickens as you write:

• William Campbell: only name repeated often. Appears exclusively at the end.

• Why does handwriting change? Emaan upset? Losing badly? Connection to inheritance? Did he bet it away?

• Late entries shift amounts - losses? Emotional decline?

The name stares back at you, daring you to say it aloud. Your fingertip traces over the scratchy ink of one particularly scraggled 'W', over tiny tears in the parchment most likely brought on from a fountain pen being pressed down too harshly for the material. Your lips move before you can stop yourself. “Who on earth is William Cam-”

The instant you speak his name, pain spikes in your head, so sudden and fierce that it rips a startled, strangled cry from your throat. The notebook tumbles from your lap, pen clattering to the floor as you clutch your temple and the duvet simultaneously.

“Fuck me,” you whisper, blinking rapidly as the pain intensifies, scrunching yourself into fetal position. 

You kick the book away, coiling back into yourself as it lands on the floor with a dull thud.

Without it in your immediate vicinity, the pain begins to ebb, leaving you trembling, eyes watering, and your breaths shallow and uneven.

You’re not new to headaches, but this… this was - is different. And it’s not just in your head. It hurts your entire body.

Just like the other night - like something was seeping through you; cracking, scraping, prying everything apart to make room for itself.

“What the hell,” you grit, staring at the ledger like it might come alive. 

You squeeze your eyes shut, shaking your head sharply as though you can dislodge the thought. Don’t spiral. Not now. Your reflection stares back at you from the dark TV screen across the room, hideously grey and wide-eyed.

It’s the same sensation you’d felt in the crypt: disoriented, unmoored, like you’ve lost control of yourself - like something’s prizing its way into your head.

A rhythmic knock at the door startles you back into some sense of normalcy. Normalcy being a relatively loose term, given how frazzled you’re feeling.

Your pulse spikes, head snapping towards it. For a moment, you consider ignoring it, glancing down to the ledger like it’s something rancid.

You’re half tempted to pick it up again - to read the name and confirm whether you’re well and truly insane, or if something is genuinely really fucking odd.

But the knock comes again, so you force the thought to the backburner.

"Don't make me bust this door down. We've already outstayed our welcome at this joint."

It’s Sam - his muffled voice laced with mock irritation. You frown, settling your hair and tapping your face with your palms to try and dust yourself off.

"Sorry -” You call back, clearing your throat as soon as you realise how mousy you sound. “Thought I was meeting you in ten."

“Yeah, well… early bird, worm, an’ all that.”

"I just need to put my shoes on…” You say, opening the door. He instantly peers down at you with narrowed eyes. “Wanna… come in?"

"As a matter of fact, I do." He grins down at you as he practically barges his way in, swinging the door into you before you can protest.

This provokes you to scowl, but you don’t argue, instead moving to grab your trusty 530s, unlacing them before perching on the end of your bed.

"So," he says, leaning casually against the wall, teeth smacking on a wad of gum. "Market's off."

"What?" You glance up sharply.

"Well, not off, per se.” He clarifies, rolling a hand, “Just - we're not going."

"We’re not going- why not? I was looking forward to it!"

He raises an eyebrow, corners of his mouth twitching into a teasing smile. "Wanna try tellin' your face? You look like hell."

You simply gawk at him, shoe dangling loosely from your hand. "If this is because you think I still need to 'recover', you're sorely mistaken-"

"No, no, not that." He waves a dismissive hand as he moves to sit beside you, leaning back on his elbows. “Well, not just that.” His dark green Hawaiian shirt flops sideways, and your eyes momentarily dart to the more form-fitting black vest clinging to his torso.

"So what?" You swallow.

“Wanted to see what’s up with you,” he starts, tone lighter but definitely probing. It makes you clench your teeth together. “You’ve been off. This morning - the past few days, even.”

Oh. You stiffen, fingers tightening on the lace, channelling your irritation into the stubborn knot between your thumbs and forefingers. “I’m okay.”

He snorts, sitting up straighter. “Sure, because ‘okay’ is exactly what comes to mind when someone’s been holed up, sitting on their hands for two days, looking like they haven’t slept in a week.”

In all fairness, his digs at your appearance aren’t entirely untrue, if your earlier reflection in the TV screen is anything to go by.

You stand, tossing your shoe aside with a huff. Jaw tightening, you cross your arms, glaring at him. “Maybe if you and Scott hadn’t benched me, I wouldn’t feel the need to ‘hole up.’”

“Benched you?” He laughs, but there’s no humour in it. “We didn’t ‘bench’ you. We told you to rest. Big difference.”

“I don’t need rest,” you snap. “I’m not a child. I was fine the other night.”

“Fine?” His voice rises slightly as he stands up, his frustration bleeding through his tone. “You passed out, remember? Or are we just pretending that didn’t happen?”

“That wasn’t-” You stop yourself, your hands curling into fists at your sides. “That was a fluke. I don’t need babysitting.”

He takes a step closer, his eyes narrowing. “Oh, for the love of - No one’s babysitting you. That line’s gettin’ old.”

“Really? Because that’s exactly what it feels like.”

Sam’s lips press into a thin line, and his gaze flicks away - until it lands on something beneath the bed.

“What’s that?”

Your stomach drops as he crouches down, swiping the ledger up from the floor.

“Sam-”

Too late. He flips it open, his expression shifting from confusion to something darker as his eyes scan the pages. You rub your hands over your face, anxiety beginning to spike. If he didn’t want you gone before, he definitely will now.

Oh, here it comes. That delightful, ‘I’m-about-to-vomit’ feeling. First, your mouth goes dry for no reason - like your tongue’s on strike and tripled in size, and you're suddenly aware of every single tooth in your mouth-

“It’s nothing-”

“Nothing?” he repeats, stepping closer. His brows knit together as he flips through the pages, his jaw tightening. “This doesn’t look like ‘nothing.’ Where did you get this?”

You try to swallow, but it’s like your throat’s gone on holiday. Your lips press together, unwilling to answer.

Sam looks up at you, incredulity flashing across his face. “Wait - you found this the other night, didn’t you? You’ve been sittin’ on this for two days?”

“No, I-”

“You’ve gotta be kidding me!” he snaps, slamming the ledger shut. “You didn’t think to mention you’d found something this important?”

You cross your arms, your jaw tightening. “I didn’t want to waste your t-”

“Waste my time?” He shouts, shaking his head. “You think this is a waste of time?” He waggles the ledger, his grip tightening on its spine. “This is the first physical ‘something’ we’ve had, and you’ve been hiding it under your damn pillow!” His mouth hangs open, then closes, like he’s weighing his next words carefully.

“You’ve had this for two days, keepin’ it to yourself, while Scott and I have been busting our asses to find somethin’ to go off of?”

“And whose fault is that?” you snap, gesturing out with your arms. “Hey? You told me to stay here. To ‘rest’. Like I’m some fragile fucking-”

“Because you passed out!” Sam cuts you off, his voice sharp enough to make you flinch. “You scared the hell outta me down there, alright? Him too. And you think I’m just supposed to let you keep pushing yourself without saying anything?”

“I was fine!” you bite back, your voice cracking.

“Were you?” His tone drops, quieter but no less intense. “Because you didn’t look fine to me. You looked awful-”

“So you keep saying. Wow, thank you, Sam.”

“Yeah, you’re so welcome. And now-” He jabs the ledger with his finger. “Now you’re hiding stuff like this, when you’re usually first to blurt out something worth lookin’ into. What the hell am I supposed to do with that? Huh?”

Your throat tightens, anger and guilt swirling together in your chest. “You’re supposed to think I can handle myself. Let me do things,” you fire back.

“Really?” He steps closer, his broad frame towering over you, his eyes darting all over your face, narrowed in what you presume is frustration. “Because hiding things like this sure as hell makes it seem like you don’t trust-” 

“It’s not about trust!” you shout, the words spilling out like a dam breaking. “It’s about the fact that you’ve spent the last two days treating me like a bloody liability!”

Sam freezes, the words hanging in the air like a physical blow.

You press on, your voice trembling but fierce. Oh, it’s exhilarating. “You and Scott, out there chasing leads, making plans, doing everything except asking me to help, when you know deep down I am far more capable than either of you are giving me credit for.”

You’re closer to him now, an accusatory finger mere inches away from jabbing at his chest. “And you think I didn’t notice? That I didn’t hear you both whispering about whether I should even be here after the crypt? I thought we were over that - that I’d earned my place!”

Sam’s jaw tightens, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. His lips part like he’s about to argue, but nothing comes out.

You take a shaky breath, your shoulders heaving. “You wanna know why I didn’t tell you about the ledger?” you ask, your voice quieter but no less raw. “Because I didn’t want to give you another reason to think I’m just slowing you down. I wanted to figure it out first. To come to you with something solid. Something I could be proud of.”

The words tumble out faster than you mean them to, and by the time you finish, your chest is heaving, your eyes stinging with tears that you’re trying very hard not to let fall.

Sam stares at you, his expression shifting. He swallows, like he’s taking a moment to mull over your outburst.

“You think you’re a liability?” he finally says, his voice rough from shouting, an almost concerning quiver present. 

“I think you’re treating me like one.”

“Lia- Jesus,” He exhales a sharp, mirthless laugh, running a hand through his hair.

“You’ve been carryin’ us so far. Half the places we’ve gone to? You. Half the leads we’ve followed? You. And now, this! You’ve been two steps ahead of me and Scott since day one, and it’s…” He shakes his head, “It’s really startin’ to… piss me off.”

The words hit you harder than you expect - both that and the painfully awkward self-deprecating huff of laughter knock the wind out of your frustration. You blink at him, unsure whether to feel insulted or… something else entirely.

The silence that follows stretches uncomfortably. 

He shrugs, his eyes skittering away from yours. “I thought I was doin’ the right thing. You know, making sure you didn’t burn out.”

The room falls quiet again. His eyes drift back to yours, lingering just a second too long. You can smell the gum he’s got resting between his molars, the space between you all of a sudden feeling a little too minimal.

And you’re not remotely sure how to take it.

It’s suffocating how close he feels, and yet whatever distance is left feels - ha - excruciating. God, there is a copious amount of adrenaline surging through you. His hand twitches at his side, fingers flexing, like he’s debating something. For a fleeting, reckless second, you think he might - what? Close the gap? Pull you in? Say something that’ll make you completely forget how much he’s pissed you off?

For fuck’s sake.

You shove the thought away so fast it nearly gives you whiplash. You’re angry at him, furious even. He’s a hypocrite. And overbearing. And arrogant as hell - so why the hell do you feel so-

It doesn’t matter. Because all he does is clear his throat, stepping back and breaking the spell as abruptly as it was cast. He looks down at the book in his hands, his movements stiff, almost nervous. The leather spine taps rhythmically against his palm as he averts his eyes from you.

“Well,” he mutters, his voice softer now. Honestly, you’d rather he was yelling again. At least it gave you less space to feel guilty. “You gonna school me on this, or what, huh?”

“What?” you reply, your voice quieter than you intend. The tonal shift is jarring to say the least.

“C’mon,” he says, extending the book out to you. “Got a few hours ‘til Scott gets back, and, uh,” He gives you a lopsided grin that makes you feel a little wobbly - you swallow thickly as you affix your stare down to the ledger, taking it from him. “I don’t have the patience for Prince Charming to one-up me t’day.”

As you sit down on the bed, flipping the ledger open to the start, your heart is still pounding.

It takes everything in you to push the thoughts aside, to focus on the words on the page instead of the strange fluttering in your chest and tightness in your throat. But, hey, at least your headache hasn’t come back.

“Do you have those cards on you?”

Sam pulls the cards from his shirt pocket, handing them over without a word as he settles beside you on the bed.

His presence is warm, oddly pleasant despite your argument, and all-in-all, entirely too close for comfort.

You busy yourself by shaking the box, the soft sound of paper-on-paper filling the silence.

“So,” you begin, flipping open the ledger, “this is Emaan Sadir’s. No doubt about it.”

Sam tilts his head, his eyes flicking between you and the book. “You sure?”

“Positive.” You tap a page lightly with your fingertip, the Arabic script written in an elegant hand that contrasts sharply with the chaotic scrawls further along. “It’s his handwriting - matches everything we’ve seen on the letters from London. Plus, the dates line up with the height of his career in Amman’s high court. He was meticulous at first.”

“At first,” Sam repeats, his brows furrowing as he leans in to get a better look.

“Yeah.” You flip to a later page, pointing to the messy, erratic entries. “But something changed. The bets started escalating - more cash at first, then property, land. Big stakes. Too big.”

Sam whistles low, sitting back. “So, what, he started losin’ it?”

“Maybe,” you murmur, the weight of the book pressing into your lap. “Or maybe he was forced to up the ante. We don’t know for sure, but…” You trail off, your eyes drifting to the final pages.

Sam follows your eye line, his expression darkening. “But what?”

You hesitate, chewing your lip. “There’s one name that keeps cropping up toward the end.”

His eyes narrow. “You think it means something?”

“It has to,” you say, your voice faltering slightly as your thumb brushes over the spine of the ledger. “It’s the only name that repeats. Over and over. Like it’s mocking him.”

The memory of the sharp, searing pain you felt when you spoke the name aloud bubbles to the surface, and you suppress a shudder. You don’t dare say it again - not after what happened earlier.

“What name?” Sam asks, his tone sharpening with curiosity.

You swallow hard, gripping the edge of the book. “I… I’m not sure how to explain it, but it feels off. Wrong.”

Sam raises an eyebrow, clearly sceptical. “Feels wrong how?”

“It’s just a gut feeling,” you lie, flipping the page with a steadying breath. “Look, see for yourself.” You gesture to the entries, careful not to meet his eyes.

He leans closer, studying the looping, jagged letters. “William Campbell,” he reads aloud, and your stomach twists.

It’s fine. You didn’t say it. It’s fine.

Your head doesn’t throb, but there’s a faint buzzing in your ears, a low hum that makes you shift uncomfortably. You press your lips together, willing the sensation away.

Sam doesn’t notice - thank God - and keeps reading.

“So this guy was Emaan’s big opponent? What, he cleaned him out?”

“Maybe,” you say, forcing your voice steady. “Or maybe it’s more complicated than that. We don’t know what Emaan was gambling for.”

Sam nods, his gaze flicking between the cards in his lap and the pages of the ledger. “And you think this Campbell guy has something to do with the inheritance?”

“I think it’s a strong possibility.” you admit. “But we still don’t even know what the inheritance is.”

The silence that follows is heavy, but it’s not uncomfortable. Sam’s eyes linger on the ledger, his thumb absently tapping against the cards as his mind works through the puzzle.

You glance at him, taking in the faint crease in his brow, the way his jaw tightens when he’s focused.

Despite everything, there’s something oddly reassuring about having him here - like the weight of the mystery isn’t entirely on your shoulders anymore.

The hum in your ears fades, replaced by a warmth that makes your eyelids feel heavier. You lean back against the headboard, the ledger resting in your lap, and let out a slow breath.

“Alright,” Sam mutters, setting the cards aside. “This is… this is good.”

You fall into a steady - if not somewhat rigid - post argument rhythm, your voices low as you work through the hefty ledger. Though, as the minutes pass, and much to your relief, the weight of earlier argument fades into the background, replaced by the sharp scratch of pen on paper, the clattering of Sam’s clunky laptop keys, and the occasional rustle of pages.

The notes pile up between you - disjointed thoughts, fragments of theories - but it feels like progress. Sam points out connections you hadn’t considered, his observations sharp and unexpectedly insightful.

You actually catch yourself watching him work more than once, the way his brow furrows in thought, the faint line of concentration etched at the corner of his mouth. The little scrunch at the bridge of his nose.

The hum of unease that’s hovered above you over the past few days is fading. But, annoyingly, you feel it being replaced by a warm thudding somewhere closer to the sternum region. Great.

He glances at you suddenly, catching you mid-stare. “What?” he asks, one eyebrow quirking up.

“Nothing,” you say too quickly, dropping your eyes back to the ledger.

Sam huffs a faint laugh but doesn’t push, turning his attention back to his laptop. The sound of his fingers flying over the keyboard fills the space again, grounding and oddly comforting.

Minutes stretch into an hour, maybe two. The room grows quieter as the both of you slow, the pace of your work giving way to the inevitable pull of exhaustion.

At some point, you barely notice yourself leaning into him, your shoulder brushing his.

He doesn’t move away.

Your pen slips from your fingers, landing softly on the notebook as your eyes drift shut. Sam shifts beside you, his warmth solid and reassuring as his arm settles loosely against yours.

It’s not clear who gives in first - whether it’s his head tipping slightly toward yours or your own tilting against his - but the end result is the same. The two of you, slumped together in a knackered truce, the chaos of the ledger momentarily forgotten.

By the time Scott knocks on the door, you’ve both fallen asleep, your breathing soft and even, tangled in a quiet that feels fragile and oddly intimate. A small reprieve in the midst of everything.

[prodigaldaughteralice]

So, I was tipped off a while ago by a post that’s probably still in my queue (I have a long reblog queue u_u;; ) that a few words were changed in the US edition of Monstrous Regiment. As it’s my favourite Discworld book, and I’d only ever read the US edition, I tracked down a second-hand UK first edition online and had a re-read as soon as it came, with my battered old US edition next to me so I could check when anything pinged me as ‘off’. Here’s what I found, not counting minor UK->US spelling changes like turning “girlie” into “girly”.

(There may be more that I missed, I didn’t have both copies open the whole time, but I’m pretty familiar with this book. As my sister teased me about when I mentioned I’d done this comparison, I did have it in my bed for several years as a teenager so I could reread it whenever my insomnia was hitting particularly hard.)

Spoilers from here on out, of course.

The first two are just kind of pointless? Changing “coprolite” to “coprolith”, which is just a less common word for the exact same thing, and changing “riff-riff-raff” to “riffraff” feels like they forgot Jackrum was playing drunk in that scene. Whatever. These don’t bother me.

There are a few UK->US type changes in the next one (“wooly vest” to “woolen undershirt”) which similarly feel pointless to me, but what really gets my goat is the last word. “The man’s bare chests,” plural, being changed to “the man’s bare chest”. Because that’s foreshadowing, but it’s not a giveaway, because on a heavier (cis) guy they do hang separate. It’s a nice little touch, and they took it out.

The next one is the one I’d been tipped off to, and it’s the change I’m the most annoyed about. “Turned her chair to the fire/around him the kitchen worked” -> “turned her chair to the fire/around her the kitchen worked.” I’m sure whatever editor changed it didn’t do so with any kind of malice or agenda, they just weren’t paying enough attention and thought they were fixing a continuity mistake, but it’s just such beautiful writing that they removed.

Because they’ve just had this incredible, delicate, vulnerable conversation about the girl Jackrum left behind him, and that that girl was him, and that he has a son out in Scratz and he doesn’t know what to do now that he’s leaving the army. Polly cries. And it’s Polly who suggests that he really can remain Jack Jackrum, he can go back to his son in medals and braid and be his father, and Jack gets to really settle in to the idea that he can be happy that way. Both those pronouns being “her” doesn’t feel wrong, necessarily; I always read it as Polly processing. But the switch between the two sentences is so beautiful. It’s a gentle closing of the conversation, it’s that girl being fully put behind him, and Sergeant Major Jack Jackrum (retired) getting to go on with his life.

The last one is just… odd. Inexplicable, and it’s the hardest to explain as just an editorial accident. They added a word that specifies something that was not previously specified. “One of them was Maladicta, in full uniform” becomes “one of them was Maladicta, in full female uniform.” I was thinking about it on this reread, and Mal is the only member of the squad who wasn’t publically outed at the Keep. Mal wasn’t involved in the actual raid— too busy gibbering and sucking on a sack of coffee beans— and at the trial Mal kind of stood in the back vibrating from caffeine overdose. Even Jackrum said “with vampires, who cares”. Only Polly knows about Maladicta.

And what that means is that Mal is the only member of the squad who could reasonably remain presenting as male in the army. Polly encourages a couple of young recruits in the very end that it’s their choice to enlist as men or as women, with Mal right beside her, and I think the original ambiguity there is really lovely— it doesn’t matter if Mal has an ‘a’ on the end at the moment, because Mal is there to help Polly fuck shit up, and that’s what matters. By adding the specificity, they just… took away a really nice bit of subtext, a really nice effect.

So yeah, I’m ticked off as a queer person about the (minor) subversion of the book’s general gender fuckery, but I’m almost more ticked off as a writer. Pratchett was so talented, and we talk about it a lot on a large scale of themes and motifs and characters, but he was also just so fantastic on a sentence to sentence level. This is craft! This is really beautiful, delicate writing, elegantly put together and perfected, and some US editors just. Took out some of it. And it’s still an incredible book! As I mentioned, I had it in my bed for years as a teenager so I could reread it over and over, it means a ton to me, it’s my favourite of his work and I love his work! But it hurts to see these little places where it was originally even better.

[tuliptired]

He's Good People Ch.2

Chapter 2: We Could Steal Time, for Just One Day (We Can be Heroes)

Pairing(s): Gn!reader/Ray, Gn!reader/Egon, Gn!reader/Winston

Summary: (Egon centric) You get to spend most of the day with the quiet scientist, as per his out of character invitations.

Warnings: talk of having a baby, though reader biology is never specified

Thank you for all the support so far!

read it on Ao3!

 There was a soft light hitting your eye, lulling you back awake. You were safe, in your own bed, in your own house, about to go to work.

Oh. These aren’t your sheets. This was not your house. You sat up. Ray was still asleep, curled up in extra blankets beside you. You looked around, Peter and Winston were motionless, the clock reading 7:22. Egon’s bed was empty.

Normally, you didn’t wake up in beds that weren’t yours. Normally, you didn’t wake up in beds that weren’t yours in houses that weren’t yours. Normally, you didn’t wake up in beds that weren’t yours in houses that weren’t yours that belonged to some men you had only just met. And you don’t wear their spare clothes, and sleep in close enough proximity that you can hear their snores catch in their throats. You ran a hand over your face. It all felt so shameless. Not respectable. What were you doing?

The door opened softly and Egon stepped in, holding a stained piece of fabric. He appeared to have showered and dressed in the earlier hours of the morning, and he pulled a drawer open for a new tie. You felt awkward in his space, as he went about his business. Thankfully, he broke the silence.

“Good morning.”

“Good morning…sorry, Ray told me I could sleep in here.” You unconsciously pulled the sheets over yourself, despite the fact your body was fully covered in baggy sleepwear built for the physique of a 50 year old firefighter.

“I don’t mind.” He pulled a tie out and examined it.

“You didn’t sleep?” You ask idly. His fingers made ease of the garment, smoothing it out.

“I’m fine.” He looked over at the sleeping forms of his friends, dead to the world. “They won’t be up for a while. It’s a Sunday.” He paused for a bit, pondering something, shutting the drawer.

“Would you like breakfast?” The question takes you by surprise, but the emptiness in your stomach is starting to ache.

“If it’s not too much trouble.” He freezes up, as if he didn’t expect your answer. He blinks, gears turning, the offer coming out beyond his own volition. Egon shakes his head slightly, as if wiping a thought away. He and Ray had habits of doing that, you noticed.

“None at all.” He starts out the room. When he reaches the kitchen space, he stands there for a moment, hands at his sides. Robotically, he pulls out eggs, butter, sugar, and a few other things from the fridge, managing to lay them all out methodically, in an organized chaos.

You feel a bit rude, just standing there. “Is there any way I could help?” You unconsciously roll up the sleeves of the sweatshirt.

Egon keeps working, mixing something intently. “No.” You blink. Hesitantly, you move to sit at the table somehow feeling a little ruder. As Egon notices you pulling a chair out slowly so as to not disturb him, he sighs, slowing his work.

“Not because I think you’d be inadequate. I just have a system.” He lit a pan on the stove, pouring a small amount of oil into it.

“A system for pancakes?” 

“Mrs.Stantz taught me how to make them in graduate school.”

You got a little thrown at that. “Mrs…Stantz?”

A silence. His arms are suspended in the air, batter flowing into the hot pan. “Ray’s mother.” You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding. He held one.

“Your parents never taught you to cook?” You try to alleviate some of the palpable tension still in the air.

“My parents were fans of quark on their gruel,” is all he said. “But. The Stantz family was different. They…put sugar in their coffee. Had big ‘sundee’ dinners.”

He seemed to think hard before speaking again, measuring each word like they could betray him. “Mrs. Stantz told me that…cooking for others was a way of saying you wanted them to live.”

That’s why he offered. You could smile at that. In the short time you knew him, you’d gathered that he didn’t seem as skilled as his friends in the ways of sociability. You really didn’t know him as well as you’d liked- he hadn’t shown you much, but you could appreciate the gesture. 

“Thank you, Dr. Spengler.” He stilled again, ever so slightly. You hadn’t noticed until then that the sleeves of his dress shirt were rolled up to his elbows. Maybe you ought to call him that more often? If you planned on sticking around. You didn’t know what your plan was anymore

There was a comfortable silence as he continued to work, diligently managing pancakes in one pan, potatoes and eggs in another. After a while, he pulls a small container out from the back of the fridge. 

“Do you feel strongly about mushrooms?”

“Do you want me to?” 

“These are top shelf. The Hennessy of the mycology world.”

“Can’t argue with that.”

Eventually, he was plating food for the two of you, potatoes and eggs (with Hennessy mushrooms) on one half, steaming pancakes on the other. Before you could smile and thank him, he stops you.

Swirling around a small pitcher one final time, he carefully crouches at the front of the table. A light, yellowish liquid pours out of it and slathers onto the pastry, making you unknowingly drool.

With delicate precision, he adds a heap to his own. When he decides it's enough, he takes a seat, gesturing for you to start. You take a bite and…

Good god, this was the best thing you’ve ever tasted. The pancakes were cooked thoroughly, the texture of it all feeling like clouds in love on your tongue. The mysterious syrup was the best part- it was homely, and almost like a candy that melted down your throat. You stared up at Egon in disbelief as you swallowed.

“Holy cow” 

‘More or less. Buttermilk syrup”

It's safe to say you dug in, making quick work of the stack that was once on your plate. Wiping your mouth, you had to sing his praises. He had the slightest hint of an indulgent smile, watching you eat. One of pride, maybe?

 “These are incredible, Dr. Spengler. What do I have to do to get Ray to give me the recipe?” You asked earnestly. To that, his smile quickly fell, and he hastily dismissed the idea.

“Don’t bother. His mother says I’m the only one who can replicate them.” He speaks as if you’re discussing nuclear codes. “Besides, I’ve got it memorized.”

“Are you willing to share?”

“I’d have to kill you.”

You made pleasant conversation for a while, even after both your plates had been cleared. Nursing a pot of coffee, he recalled something. 

“Your bag ended up in the laundry chute. Here.” But he misjudges how secure the latch was- and as he holds on to the wrong part the contents spill onto the table. The worn, brown bag of candy from the day prior rips, and Crunch Bars, hard candies, and fruit chews tumble out in front of you. Embarrassment engulfs you as you apologize, just short of lunging over the table to clean up the mess, detesting how weird you must look carrying around a bag that had nothing but sweets. 

He helps you rather the treats up wordlessly, before handing you one of the many blue wrapped chocolate bars.

“Would it be optimal to keep candies in my flight suit?” He voiced.

“Don’t patronize me,” your face burns still, your hands crumpling up the paper packaging.

“I’m serious. It would keep my blood sugars high.”

“Go for it, Dr. Spengler.” You grinned, sliding him a Crunch Bar. Something twinkled behind his eyes. Was this the first time you noticed that he and his arms looked strong, under all that clothing?

“Hey noise machines. You woke us up.” Peter stands in the doorway, Winston and Ray behind him sleepily.

“Sorry,” you pardoned yourself. Like a pack of bears, the men made their way to search for the delightful smell that was wafting towards them from down the hallway.

“Don’t be. I’ve never heard the professor talk so much so early,” Winston yawned.

“Hey! You left us with the dishes!” Ray whined, holding up the dirtied mixing bowls and oily skillet. 

“There’s raisin bran in the pantry.” Egon conducted you out of the room. He had you follow him back to the bedroom, stopping at the door to think to himself. You were used to it at this point. He emerged, with a light blue sweater and an unworn pair of track pants. 

“I’m assuming you’d like to shower now. Here’s a change of clothes-” His voice got a bit worried at the end as you thumbed through the garments, musing at a dark blue fabric sandwiched between what he had handed you.

He couldn’t meet your eyes, his pupils darting in different directions. He fumbled with his folded hands. “They’ve never been worn. It was either those or long johns.” He shuffles past you, in a hurry to leave you be.

Opening up the pile, you see a dark blue pair of boxers, making your face ignite with embarrassment. It's the thought that counts?

“Dr. Spengler!” You call over your shoulder.

He’s halfway down the hall. “...Yes?”

“Thank you.”

He nods, and disappears into the corridors of the firehouse.

The showers are in one large bathroom, reminiscent of a locker room. A wall of sinks and mirrors, opposite a wall of spacious shower space, where curtains separate each showerhead. Well, you´re already there. There's a small bottle of coconut body wash staring you down as you do your business. Of course a little bit wouldn't be missed right? It's a lot more liquid than you expected- and that ´little bit´ went a long way. As you exit the shower careful not to slip on the slick tile, the coconut scent wafts into your nose pleasantly.

You stared at the pile of clothes neatly folded on a bench, like it's a dragon to be slain. In a way, it was. You pulled on the boxers- they fit better than you thought. Ignoring how the image in the mirror made you feel. As your skin still dried, you felt the blue sweater in your hands. The knitwear was delicate in your palms, the yarn a bit worn. It felt more personal than the spare loungewear left in the basement. It felt like a person. 

 It was fairly large, dwarfing your body. The fibers carried a similar coconut and sandalwood smell that the soap had, making your body feel protected. There were the sweatpants, too, but whatever. They weren't like this. 

You left your pajamas in a neat pile as you dropped it down one of the laundry chutes, hoping your undergarments didn´t tumble out into the open. As you crept down the stairs, Janine was working at her desk while Winston gave Ray a hand repairing the Ecto-1. You sat with her for most of the morning, as she insisted on your presence as she handled clerical work and gossipped simultaneously. The 2 men listened to your conversations fondly. 

“You smell nice,” Janine commented questioningly.

It was around 12 when a woman walked into the firehouse holding a baby, greeted by Ray and Winston while they worked on the underside of the car. Winston seemed a little less enthusiastic as he held the bright hot flashlight.

"Hi Dana. This is Peter´s keeper,” Janine filled you in. The woman, Dana, gave you a kind smile. "The little bald one is Oscar."

The baby sat patiently, if not curiously, in her arms, a hand in his mouth. Dana joked at him to say hi, and he blew a small raspberry in response.

“He's adorable," you cooed, letting instincts take over as he reached out for your finger, which you gave to him. "How old?”

"10 months, and already very handsy." Dana bounced him in her arms as he tried to replace the hand in his mouth with your own. "Is Peter around?

"Somewhere." Janine yelled for him, and he beckoned for her to give him a second. Egon emerged at that point, wondering what all the noise was. His features relaxed at the sight of the infant.

"Hi, Egon." Dana greeted him, as he stood peering at the mother and her child.

"May I hold him?"

She blinked, a little dumbfounded. "I thought you said babies carried pathogens detrimental to your lymphatic system?" Oscar seemed very interested in him.

"Normally." He held his arms out, expectantly. Dana slowly concedes, and he takes the baby awkwardly. Oscar didn't seem to mind the weird angle, held almost like a freshly caught fish on his back. He kicked his feet and stretched his arms out, and Egon looked as if he was scared to move.

You laughed, though partially concerned for his stability. Babies got heavy fast. "Have you ever held a baby, Dr. Spengler?" You repositioned him so that he sat comfortably against Egon´s shoulder. "May I…?" You asked Dana, to which she nodded warmly.

Taking Oscar, you held him with ease, as he reached up to grab your nose. Bouncing him in your arms, he hit you on either side of your temples, exploring your face. "What´re you looking for?"

Unbeknownst to you, Egon was gazing at you playing with Oscar. So was Ray, across the garage. As you walked in a circle with him in your arms, Dana also watched on, amused.

"You're a parent?"

The question catches you off guard. “Oh, no. Not yet at least.”

“Waiting for ‘the one’” Janine cuts in, eyes not leaving her computer.

“Among other things.” Oscar plays with the collar of the sweater, tugging on it. Peter hopped off the last of the stairs then, exclaiming at the spectacle.

“You’ve got some hairless monster on you,” he feigns fear. Oscar looked at him once, before going back to your collar. 

Ray crosses to you both, cooing at the kid in your arms. Peter stopped him halfway there.

“Wash.”

Ray looked down at his motor-oil covered hands, and defeatedly sulked over to the garage sink. Peter turned to you, opening his mouth to say something, before snapping it closed. He narrowed his eyes and pointed a finger at you.

“Is that Eges’?”

You look down. “Is it?”

Egon went rigid, as usual, and swallowed silently. “Today’s forecast predicted a cold front.”

“We’re in the middle of the warmest spring in a decade. Mr. Softy’s outside.”

“Inaccurate journalism, then.”

While Ray’s eyes turned into slits from the sink, Peter’s widened. He put a hand on Dana’s shoulder and steered her towards the door. “I’m gonna have a quick walk with my girl here.”

“I was only stopping by for-”

“A quick walk.”

Oscar looked confused at seeing his mother go. He balled his fists in the front of your shirt. “The baby?”

“Keep it,” Peter called over his shoulder before the door shut. 

As Winston packed up all the tools under the elevated vehicle and Ray vehemently turned the pipe off, the phone rang. Janine took it, listening with “uh-huh’s” occasionally, before scribbling down an address on a notepad.

“There’s a client at,” she ripped the paper out and held it out for Ray, “this address. Golf course- she says there’s a puppet ripping out the green.” His eyes grew to the size of saucers as he read it to himself.

“Man! Are you sure this isn’t out of our zoning?” He pleaded with the tiny woman.

“I don’t know, Mr. ‘We’re ready to believe you’.” Janine resumed her typing.

“The day barely started and we’re already driving 2 hours out the way,” he grumbled., “Isn’t it Peter and Egon’s turn?” 

“It’s not. Last month we went down to that beach in Jersey.”

Ray’s incredulous glower deepened. “And you got ice cream afterwards!”

“And we’re very sorry yours melted.”

 He muttered a few things, before surrendering and pulling on his flight suit, Winston behind him begrudgingly. They repacked the car, pulled out the garage, and they were off.

Peter and Dana still weren’t back, so you sat back in the chair at Janine’s side. Oscar reached out to grab her sleeve.

“I’m returning this later, he’ll stain it.” She rolled her chair an inch away, sharpening a pencil. 

He babbled at her. “Don’t worry about Janine. She’s mean and old.” He tried leaning out of your reach to touch her face, entranced by something, before you spun the chair around. “She’ll steal your youth, Oscar.”

He looked a little bored, as he hit your temples for the second time. His brow furrowed as much as a baby could manage, as he examined your face again. “What?” You asked. He looked sad, making small whimpers at you. You turned the chair around again, showing him Egon. “He looks constipated, Dr. Spengler.”

Oscar suddenly got very excited, bouncing up and down and grabbing the air. You laugh, using your foot to bring a wheeled-stool over, waving Egon along to sit. He sat, legs comically too large for the tiny chair.

“Sure, let’s have a meeting at Janine's desk,” the woman commented dryly.

Egon looked a little bemused as the boy exclaimed for him, sitting in your lap. You scooted closer to him, so much so that your knees touched and formed a bridge, his skin getting warmer as you did. You place Oscar on the ledge you created, and he eagerly leans into Egon. He reaches for his face like he did you and Janine, but falls onto his butt in the process. Egon’s stiffness is endearing. It’s like there was a baby bear on his lap rather than a baby child. Jeez, he’s gonna burst a blood vessel at this rate.

Putting him out of his misery, you lightly grab each of his hands, steadying them on each side of the sitting baby marveling at the man in front of him. Egon’s skin is still warm, even more so now, as you coax him to pick Oscar up. The backs, at least, were a little rough and worn, but you expected no more from a scientist. He was still a man, at the end of the day. You glanced up at his panicking face, and you didn’t know any better, you’d say his chest was rising and falling more than normal. You held Egon’s large hands under your own as you aided him in raising him to eye level.

You leaned to the right, keen on teasing his bewildered face from behind Oscar’s rear end. “Was that hard, Dr. Spengler?” Oscar starts gleefully hitting his temples as he did yours.

“Do you want to have a baby.”

Janine’s typing stops. Egon’s glasses go flying off his face and land behind you, as the baby in your hands erupts in a fit of giggles before you could say anything. His hands recoiled from yours like you were a burning stove as you gently set him down, back on your own lap.

Egon looks like his brain is short circuiting and melting out his ears, which, for all you know, it was. Even with his glasses off, his face never failed to absorb you. He definitely had the face to make a few college girls lose their humility. 

He remembered human interaction and cleared his throat. “What I meant was. Oscar has a larger than normal head and large eyes. He also has an upturned, small nose.” His tone regained the scientific timbre it normally had. “Many people of,” he fished for the words, “child-rearing-age find these features…’cute’.” Janine snorted a laugh, then got up to search for his discarded eyewear somewhere on the floor.

“He’s to die for, no doubt. I just…” he’s resided lying against your legs now, his wonder satisfied for one afternoon as he teethed on one of Egon’s fingers, “Unfortunately, it takes 2 to to make a baby. I’m not exactly properly equipped to complete that job on my own” You sighed. How was your life gonna go back to normal, once your apartment was safe again? You hate to admit, but that job was you at your peak. Janine pressed the eyeglasses into Egon’s palm.

The door opened then, and Peter entered with Dana in tow. She smirked at the sight of you and Egon, knee to knee with a baby in between you.

“How cute, we’ll call up JCPenney and they can take a family photo,” she took to teasing Egon as you handed her back her son.

He sat limply in her arms, about ready for a nap. “He’s delightful, Dana.”

“Makes you wanna have one?” Janine turns in her chair to face you.

At some point during the afternoon, Janine sighed heavily at the idea of running around and completing the list of errands she’d let fester over the week as you ate together upstairs. Egon was tinkering with something at the workspace near you when he spoke up.

“Do you want me to do it?” He put the contraption down on the desk.

“You would?” Janine let her head fall on the back of the couch, holding the list out to him.

“I might as well. I can’t focus today.” He folded the paper, placing it in the pocket of his coat. As he started down the steps, he slowed, and turned his head towards you.

“Y/N? Would you mind joining me? I don’t get to the store much.” You had no objections. After washing the last of the wares you both had dirtied, you dried your hands off on a teatowel before descending the stairs on Egon’s heels.

He held the door for you as you stepped out onto the sidewalk, and the humidity hit you like  a brick. It had been a pretty warm spring, but the recent light rain seemed to cool the earth off, just a bit. It was getting gray and wet outside the longer you walked, clouds ghosting over the sun every now and again. You both walked together in comfortable silence, in an arbitrary direction (you’ve never been shopping in this area), as gentle drops on your head slowly turned into genuine precipitation.

Before you could suggest turning back, or grabbing umbrellas, the rain above you suddenly stops. As you look up, he’s holding his overcoat above your head. Head and shoulders undoubtedly getting soaked. 

“There’s a bus stop down the block. We can catch it if we run.”

With that, you’re off. Running like little kids down a hill, you narrowly avoid deep puddles and streetlamps as you giggle uncontrollably. As your feet hit the sidewalk with every step, the petrichor in the air fills your lungs like it’s your soul. In a way, in your adrenaline rushed mind, you equate it with the man next to you. 

When you finally reach the stop, the bus is lurking from the end of the street. Doubled over, you catch your breath, the air now feeling like fire leaving your esophagus. But you laugh through it all. And the man who shielded you from the rain lets out a weak, barely there chuckle. You straighten to thank him, when you notice how bad mother nature got him. Egon’s usually pomaded, high and tamed hair had fallen out of place, curls now coming loose on his head. He looked wonderful, other than most of his upper body being stained by the sudden downpour.

You can’t speak, staring at him, at the almost Grecian picture in front of you. His lips were parted slightly as he regained his energy, almost curled in a simper as the strong hands you felt earlier wiped some of the dampness from his forehead. His tie was a sky blue, unlike the sky that had dominion over you now. And god, he looked nice in blue.

As he noticed your staring, an eyebrow quirked up, only slightly. There was nothing for you to do but laugh, leaning into the tall man in front of you. He was stiff at first, and confused, but he succumbed to it soon enough, holding you as well as he couldn’t hold himself back from the ridiculousness of it all. You both probably looked like idiots, losing your minds on the side of the street. But for the first time since yesterday, you were sure of something. If this was what it felt like to be an idiot with him, you never wanted to be smart again.

[pookasluagh]

“Tell me about Prophecies.”

Crowley had asked about that one first, of course, but Aziraphale initially declined to answer. Now, he hesitated, shooting Crowley a wary look. “You might be upset with me.”

“Were you behind the troll attack?” He hadn’t meant to ask so bluntly, but it had been the only thing he could guess since he’d first read the word up on that card.

Aziraphale reared back in what seemed like genuine shock. “No! I didn’t even know about the trolls until you told me last week! God, Crowley, it’s nothing like that at all!”

“Then tell me. Please.”

“Probably easier if I show you,” Aziraphale murmured, not looking at him. He sat in the office chair at his desk and rummaged through a filing drawer. “It ties back to the storytelling regret. I always loved telling stories. I was never particularly imaginative like you, but if I’m talking about something that happened, or if someone gives me a plot to work within, I’m good at it. I know how to bring the story to life in the retelling.”

Crowley had rarely heard pride in Az’s voice, and it made him smile. “I know,” he said.

Aziraphale pulled out a battered composition notebook. “My friends used to encourage me to write my stories down. To maybe think about publishing one day, but I wasn’t interested. I needed a specific audience for whom to cater my stories. I might tell Muriel about an incident in the way they would best enjoy, and tell Ana or Newt or you in entirely different ways. It’s not like writing.”

“What’s that, then?” Crowley asked, nodding at the notebook.

“The only time I attempted to write something down.”

***** Chapter 14 (Baby Steps) of The Regret List is up! Outside factors and influences will now come into play, for better or for worse.

Fic notes: human AU, religious deconstruction, old friends, starting over late in life, rated E.