#catch the caper

[sleekervae]

So Good [0.7]

Masterlist

pairing: KNJ x rockstar!oc

summary: Kimberly calls Namjoon after her breakup

word count: 4,213

Purple text is Korean

Kimberly woke from an unexpected nap to find the light outside her apartment had faded into a deep indigo, the Los Angeles sky nearly starless. The bedside lamp still glowed faintly, its yellow light now too bright for her eyes. Her arm tingled, having fallen asleep beneath her, and strands of hair tangled in her lashes. She didn’t have the energy to move, so she stayed curled on her side, staring at the opposite wall through the curtain of her hair, her expression blank and a bitter taste lingering in her mouth. She hadn’t bothered to make her bed earlier, so her bare feet felt cold against the sheets, and she tucked them under the rumpled covers.

She couldn't remember when she'd fallen asleep, all she knew was the girls had come over with a bottle of wine to keep her company earlier that evening and that they'd dreamed it whilst old Billy Holiday records played, changed the sheets and threw out the things he'd left behind and didn't want. The girls offered to stay with Kimberly, and despite her insistence that she was fine, they made out a little sleeping area in her living room and curled up together, Chloe and Charlotte on the air mattress and Maria shared the bed with Kimberly.

Kimberly inhaled shakily, turning and see Maria still fast sleep behind her. She was sleeping in his spot, probably unaware of the hint of cologne that she didn't think would realistically wash out for a few months. Her head pounded in the conventional way that followed crying, though it could've been the alcohol too and she reached for the glass of water she'd placed on her bedside table, only dismayed to find she'd already drained it.

The clock beside her bed read a little past 2 a.m. Everything was quiet—too quiet. It felt like the entire city was holding its breath for her. Kimberly hated the silence, didn’t know what to do with it. For the first time, she realized there were no new thoughts left to think, and she felt a strange peace sitting on the edge of her bed, more accustomed to the emptiness than she could comprehend.

But despite the void, one thought kept circling back to her, probing at her mind over the past week. It always jolted her awake. She sighed and stood from the bed, careful not to wake Maria.

She had put it off for over a week, thinking it was the sensible thing to do, but now Kimberly couldn’t come up with a single excuse to delay it any longer. She knew she’d feel more at peace once it was over, so she picked up her phone and holed up in her bathroom. The brightness of the lights made her squint as she latched the door behind her, opened her contacts, and dialed the number. The phone’s shrill ringing made her anxious about waking the girls, her hands trembling, but Namjoon picked up after only two rings. She waited a second, hearing muffled conversation and the clearing of a throat she wasn’t sure was his at first.

“Namjoon?” she whispered, her voice scratchier and quieter than she’d realized. “Are you there?”

As soon as he heard her, Namjoon stood from the sofa he was slouched against in the shared living room. There was a hint of discomfort in her tone, and he felt the tension immediately in his shoulders, his jaw tightening. He and the guys were in between bouts of filming for another Run BTS segment, and nobody would mind if he stepped out for a few minutes to make sure everything was okay.

"You alright, Kim?" he mumbled, "One sec,"

He pushed through the film crew, motioning that he'd be right back, and migrated to the large backyard. The clouds were thick under the skies and the crisp air nipped at his nose. He hadn't been expecting her call, didn't have long until he'd have to come back for filming again but at her next words and the slight crack in her voice, he couldn't deny her, couldn't leave her.

"I'm alone now..." he mumbled.

“I, erm… I need to talk to you…” she murmured, raking her hands through her hair, trying to calm herself as she settled on the floor beside her shower. The deep tone of his voice was comforting, and it hit her just how much she needed him right now. She craved his presence, the sheer brilliance of his mind, the calm he always instilled in her. She had put off calling him because she didn’t think she could explain and didn’t want him to worry.

"I'm here," Namjoon assured her, "I'm here, but I don't got a lot of time, I'm afraid. We're doing some filming..." he lifted the phone down to check the time before holding it to his ear again, "What time is it over there?"

Kimberly pushed her lips together to stop herself from crying. Hearing him speak was overwhelming, it felt like a tight hug around the waist which squeezed too hard and winded her, filled her with rippling nostalgia, "It's just after 2am," she told him, "I'm in my bathroom,"

"Are you okay?"

"Yeah. The girls are asleep in the next room, I didn't want to wake them,"

Namjoon leant back against the wall, staring up at the greying sky over his head. He wondered if she was drunk, if she'd called him to tell something or just fancied a chat and he expected her to speak in the silence as she usually did, fill the gaps with a story or tell him something which would make him laugh but the other end of the line remained relatively quiet despite some shuffling. The silence knotted in his stomach, filled him with unease. With a shaky inhale, he couldn't wait any longer and he knew he didn't have much time to waste, "Kimberly, what's wrong?" he mumbled, scratching at the back of his neck, "Talk to me,"

There was a beat, a pause in which she closed her eyes tightly and swallowed the lump I her throat over and over, but it wouldn't disappear no matter how hard she tried.

"I broke up with Darius..."

The faint whimpered and sniffled cut through the quiet and shattered Namjoon's heart into tiny pieces, rendering him speechless, the vulnerability and shake in her voice knocking the air from his lungs. Namjoon rubbed at his forehead with the back of his hand in distress before he could find some words to offer as a response, "Oh. Oh fuck, I'm so sorry, Kimberly..." he swallowed, then he lowered his voice slightly, "Did he... what happened?"

She exhaled shakily, swallowing back her cries, He found someone else,"

Namjoon froze, though she couldn’t see his deepening scowl, the way his nose wrinkled in disdain. Anger surged through him. He had heard her cry once before, on a particularly hard day when she had planned to call him but forgot, worn out from the roughness of tour life. He had soothed her then, assuring her everything was alright, understanding firsthand how strenuous touring could be on someone’s psyche. Now, knowing she was sitting alone in her suffering, with no power to ease her pain, clouded his mind with immediate panic. He couldn’t shut out the mental image of tears rolling down her flushed cheeks, soaking into her pajamas, her delicate features scrunched in distress. The thought made him squirm. Taking a deep breath, he licked his lips, knowing he had to guide her through the conversation. He couldn’t sit back and listen to her muffled whimpers any longer.

"Hey, hey, it's okay. Just breathe. When did this happen?" he asked.

Kimberly took a deep breath, though another sobbing gasp fell from her lips. The sound made Namjoon's jaw clench and his free hand formed into a first. He opened his mouth to comfort her though somehow she found it within herself to speak again.

"I... I needed food for my fridge. So did Maria so we agreed to go shopping together..."

... Spring in Los Angeles always brought great promise, a hope for more prosperity, success, happiness and beauty that coexisted with the continual bustling of city life. Catch the Caper were back in the US just for a couple weeks before they'd take off for Asia, they were grateful for the bit of time they got to spend with their friends and family.

One downside Kimberly faced was her fridge being empty -- almost constantly. She usually cleared it out before leaving, God forbidding she came home to something that went bad and she certainly wouldn't be in the mood to clean that up. So she called up Maria and they decided to hit the supermarket.

Kimberly's fridge had a perpetual emptiness that mirrored her hectic lifestyle. She always cleared it out before leaving, fearing the inevitable stench of spoiled food upon her return—a mess she had no patience for. So, she called Maria, and they decided to venture to the supermarket together.

As they wandered through the brightly lit aisles, Kimberly's eyes widened at the inflated prices. The once affordable treats of her teenage years now felt like exclusive luxuries.

Maria sighed dramatically, holding up a small container of strawberries. "These better serenade me for what they cost now," she muttered, shaking her head.

Kimberly laughed at her friend’s theatrics, "Maybe we should start a garden and grow our own. We could sell the extras and make a fortune," she joked.

Maria rolled her eyes. "Oh sure, that'll be our next mercy launch. Catch The Caper Jarred Capers! Or... something. There's a better pun in there somewhere,"

They continued down the aisle, filling their cart with essentials and a few indulgences. Reaching for a box of her favorite cereal on the top shelf, Kimberly froze. At the end of the aisle stood Darius, his back turned, but she recognized the jacket she had gifted him. Her heart plummeted, a stone sinking in a sea of emotion.

“What’s up, Kimmy?” Maria’s voice broke through her thoughts. She followed Kimberly's gaze and saw him. Anger flashed across Maria's face as she clenched her fists, ready to march over. "Oh no. Absolutely not!” But Kimberly’s hand shot out, gripping Maria’s arm.

Kimberly couldn’t move. She was rooted to the spot, eyes locked on Darius, who was laughing at something the woman beside him said. His eyes crinkled at the corners—an expression that used to make Kimberly melt. Now, it filled her with a bitter mix of betrayal and heartache. A lump formed in her throat, threatening to choke her as they walked closer, oblivious to her presence.

Maria’s anger softened into empathy as she saw the devastation in Kimberly’s eyes. She wrapped an arm around Kimberly's shoulders, offering silent support as they stood there, watching the man who had once held Kimberly's heart so tenderly.

As Darius and the woman passed by, he looked up and locked eyes with Kimberly. For a moment, time stood still. They stared at each other, a silent conversation in that fleeting instant.

Then, without a word, Darius tore his gaze away, continuing to walk. The woman beside him glanced curiously back at Kimberly and Maria. Kimberly felt a rush of conflicting emotions—hurt, anger, sadness—swirling inside her like a storm. But amidst the chaos, a spark of determination flickered to life.

As Darius and the woman disappeared around the corner, Kimberly found her voice, though it was hoarse and shaky. "Let's go," she whispered, her tone final and resolute.

Maria nodded, understanding the silent command. She gently yet firmly took Kimberly's hand, guiding her away from the aisle where past and present had collided.

Outside, under the fluorescent lights, Kimberly stopped. She turned to Maria, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears but also with newfound strength. "Thank you," she said softly, her voice steadier now.

Maria enveloped her in a tight hug, offering unwavering support without needing to say a word...

"... I put all his stuff into boxes and I told him to come and get it, and that I never wanted to see him again," she chuckled pitifully, "I don't know how I could've been so stupid. He wasn't calling me as often, he was so distant, the signs were right in front of me..."

"You're not stupid," Namjoon assured, "You have every right to be upset, he broke your trust,"

Namjoon remembered calling her the day before the break up, he couldn't remember what they were chatting about but he could still hear the sound of her delightful laugh in his ears. The contrast now, the absolute devastation in her voice was such a heartbreaking realization. How long had she noticed Darius' distance, how long was she keeping it bottled to herself? And why was it so unfair that they were on opposite sides of the world, so far he couldn't hold her and assure her that she was going to be alright.

"And then you know... while I was packing his stuff up I started thinking about my future. And it hit me that I never could picture our life together -- ever. Marriage, owning a house, doing chores together and raising kids. That never crossed my mind with him. I don't know if it makes sense, but I think I knew deep down that he wasn't the once,"

"Oh, Kim... don't worry, I understand what you mean," Namjoon sighed, running a hand through his hair, "I'm just so sorry. I had no idea any of this was happening,"

"How could you?" she croaked back.

Three more weeks, Namjoon had three more weeks before he could see her in person, hold her properly. He knew she was even more excited than he was, just as enthused from the demos he'd played for her, had already hinted at his favorite songs he'd hear at her band's show. They talked practically every day together, via voice or just by text, and yet Namjoon realized he still didn't know everything about her, didn't have access to her the way her friends did. He never could've know how she was suffering.

"It's all gonna' work out. You're gonna be just fine," he drawled, conscious of how much of a cliché he sounded like, "I know it's not easy right now, Kim, and you're going through fucking hell but I know how tough you are. You're gonna be alright,"

"It's just..." Kimberly sniffled, pushing her hair out from her eyes again, her fingers tangled in the tight curls. Her mind was working in overdrive now that she was someone new to unload it onto, suddenly every repressed thought and question resurfaced, bubbling from her lips like mad, "I can't even believe how a person can be so callous, how you can spend a year with someone and suddenly look right through them. Like they don't even know you. I don't know how anybody could do that,"

"No sane, rational, normal human being would," he told her, "You deserve so much better,"

"I know I've made the right decision," she said, pulling her knees to her chest, "I just feel so lost, Joon,"

"Kimberly, please believe me, you have every fucking right to feel like shit. You have every right to let grief do its thing. But you can't let it consume you," he said, "And you might feel this way for a while, but I'm telling you one day soon it's all gonna' be bright again. You're going to go back to being your incredible self, and you'll be a little wiser, a little more gracious for yourself,"

Kimberly tittered, cradling her phone to her ear with a little laugh while made Namjoon's heart momentarily stop, "Joon --"

"You trust me, don't you?" he asked, hoping she didn't mind his interruption.

"More than anything," she whispered back, listening to the rhythm of his heavy breathing to ease hers. She pictured his face, that sweet, uncontrollable smirk that pulled into his lips, the twitch at the corners of his mouth.

"Then trust me now," he drawled into the phone, his voice confident, "Sometimes your life has to fall apart so you can move forward --"

Before he could finish, Namjoon was cut off by a producer banging on the window behind him, waving at him to come back inside. Namjoon gave him a thumbs up back, sighing in exasperation as he brought his lips close to the phone speaker again.

"Kimberly... I've got to go... I'm sorry," he sighed, raking a hand through his preened hair, "I wish I didn't have to, I'd love to stay with you and talk more --"

"It's okay, Namjoon," she assured him, "I don't want you to be in trouble because of me,"

"Even if you could get me in trouble, it would all be worth it," he assured her, sauntering back towards the door.

Her breathing was more even now and she was no longer crying so he figured he'd achieved something at least. He hadn't made it worse, but it didn't make leaving her any easier, didn't make the thought of her sitting alone seem less detrimental. He knew for a fact he would struggle to focus on the shoot, would worry about her, overthinking the situation beyond any logic.

"Thank you for talking to me," she whispered, her chest warming as he spoke back to her. She shuffled to stand up, taking a glance at herself in the mirror quickly. Her eyes were still so puffy from crying, her skin felt so dry from lack of care.

"Despite the circumstance... it's always a pleasure talking to you," he mumbled, chewing on the inside of his cheek. He swallowed hard then lowered his voice, speaking softly, "You know I care about you, Kimberly..."

"I do,"

“I’ll see you in three weeks, and I’ll show you the best time,” he promised. “We’re going to go to all the best spots in Seoul.” He heard Kimberly hum appreciatively, wondering if she was tired now, if he’d settled her enough that she’d crawl under the covers and fall asleep. He thought it best not to ask, knowing it would stay with him if he knew she was still awake and distressed. “Let’s talk tomorrow, okay? Just give me a call and I’ll pick up, no matter what time it is.”

"I'm looking forward to it already," she smiled. Her eyes felt heavy, aware that once the tone of the call ended she'd fall fast asleep.

She'd known the moment after she kicked Darius out, Namjoon had been the first person she wanted to speak to. Before her friends, before her mom, Namjoon had been her first thought to gather some rationality and now with the wave of drowsiness that hit her, she knew why. He calmed her down so well, she was shocked considering how she was crying only moments ago. It had taken only his voice, the endearing nature of his loyalty to her to relax her enough.

"Get some rest, please," he told her.

"I will. Have a good shoot, Joon..."

"Take care of yourself, Kim. Goodnight,"

"Goodnight," he waited for her to hang up the call before pocketing his phone, couldn't bring himself to leave first and the nose made him jump despite her wishing him well.

Namjoon could see in his own reflection that he felt crushed, sucked in his cheekbones and ran his hand over his face to snap him out of the daze. Hearing and knowing Kimberly was so hurt pained him, had made his entire body rigid with tension and he rolled his shoulders back to ease the build up, consciously tried to unlock his jaw but he was still on edge. He was painfully aware that he wagons the opposite side of the world and that he had so many commitments to meet, but more than anything he wanted to be there for her. She was a priority to him whether she liked it or not.

Stepping back into the house, his next revelation dawned on him. He hadn't thought about it when she was with Darius, would have never admitted it to anyone who asked him, let alone himself, but he now realized that he'd always been subconsciously waiting for her on some level. Now, he couldn't swallow back that pinch of excitement and hope, felt selfish for it but couldn't ignore that despite the fact he was miles away from her, there was a crack of possibility in what was once an overwhelmingly impenetrable wall, one he didn't know that he'd been waiting for appear.

Now, if only he could get past his management...

The boys were cloistered in the living room still, talking amongst themselves while waiting for the film crew to get set up again. Namjoon couldn't even think twice, he approached Jin from behind and tugged on his sleeve.

"I need to talk to you," he drawled quickly.

Jin glanced him, figuring he was joking at first as he looked around the room, "We're gonna' film again, can it wait?"

"No," he pulled on his shoulder this time, "C'mere,"

Despite his reservations and the time constraints they were under, Jin got up and followed Namjoon out to the next room. The other boys watched curiously, but Namjoon waved them off with a reassuring smile. Jin hesitated at the threshold, the air inside heavy with a sense of foreboding. As he stepped into the room, his curiosity grew as Namjoon immediately slammed and locked the door behind them.

"What's the matter with you?" Jin asked, "Who were you on the phone with?"

"Kimberly," Namjoon replied simply.

Jin rolled his eyes, shaking his head, "Oh, this ought to be good,"

"Kimberly and Darius broke up," Namjoon snapped, worried Jin wasn't taking him seriously, "They're done,"

Jin raised his eyebrows, "Wow. What happened? Is she okay?"

Namjoon began to pace up and down the room, "She's devastated, he's been cheating on her while she was away. Fucking prick..."

Jin cleared his throat, his own inhibitions and worries settling in for his friend, "And... how do you feel?"

"Why does that even matter?" Namjoon huffed.

"Because you dragged me into the office out of the blue and you're pacing like a mad man," Jin pointed out, "Would you calm down, please?"

"Well... I feel terrible for her!" he replied, turning on his heel and pacing to the opposite end of the room, "What kind of selfish bastard... and it's Kimberly! She's the kindest person in the world! Even if I wanted to swoop in and help her, even on the level of friendship, I'm a million fucking miles away --"

"Hey! You could write a great song about that..." Jin smirked.

"I'm being serious, Jin," Namjoon took a deep breath, "I just... I need some advice right now..."

"The way I see it..." Jin began, "You've got a shot. That is until you're able to wait until 2023," he pointed out.

Namjoon rolled his eyes, "Oh, fuck,"

"You know the rules!" Jin pointed out.

"Of course I know the rules!" Namjoon replied.

"Then you shouldn't even be bothered about this!" Jin sat down in the rolly chair, swinging his legs back and forth to drawl over the floor, "That being said -- you've got three weeks until the girls come. You could shoot your shot, but again three weeks isn't a long time. You don't want to come on too strong, it's disrespectful. And unless you're fucking magical and somehow can convince our bosses to let us date within that time span, then you're only going to hurt her more. Do you want to do that to her?"

Namjoon understood where Jin was coming from; he had told himself the same thing countless times, playing out scenarios in his head. The extent to which he had overthought the news was almost embarrassing, but Kimberly’s happiness was what mattered most. If a year from now she was still single and didn’t want him, he’d have to force himself to accept it.

But there was an undeniable elation bubbling inside him, a frenzy of flash-forwards of what could be if the chance ever came about. If his management became just a little more lenient. He hadn’t anticipated the opportunity that now presented itself, but he couldn’t help the optimism that filled him.

"Jin," Namjoon mumbled, rubbing his temple, "I still feel something for her... I don't think it's going to go away,"

There was suddenly a pounding on the door behind him, "Guys!" Taehyung called, "Production manager's threatening to bust down the door unless you guys come out!"

"We're coming! We're coming!" Namjoon called back, then he turned back to Jin, "We can keep this between us for now, right?"

"Do I even have a choice?" Jin scoffed back, "You're clearly besotted with her, you have been since you found out she had your flower tattooed on her," he continued, "But I'm warning you -- if you want to protect yourself and her, you gotta' be smart about how you go about this. And you gotta' ask yourself if Kimberly is worth your career..."

[clockworkreapers]

Catch these hands!

or not....

[gifs-of-puppets]

Happy Valentine's Day!

[toss-a-coin-to-your-stan-account]

i need more cozy mysteries where the amateur sleuth isn't married to a fucking cop and doesn't fucking have one as a love interest. and also doesn't have random fatphobia for no reason

[devondespresso]

had the unfortunate realization that blood is to kas!eddie as pickles are to me. straight up smelled pickle juice and im feral, mouth is watering, i need to bite it NOW or i will DIE

[ellieellieoxenfree]

i devastatingly failed to pace myself on bad monkey because i didn't realize it was ten episodes, not seven (side note: everyone who isn't watching bad monkey is a philistine; it's got the snappy ridiculousness of kiss kiss bang bang married to the surreal florida trashiness of claws and florida girls (double side note: RIP queen 2 good 4 this sinful world)) and i need something to fill its spot in the rota when i just really want the last three episodes now. this is the true torment nexus. i have played my own ass in the desert. my suffering will never cease, or at least it will not until the finale drops in october.

[themyscirah]

The only thing the continuing lack of simonjess content is good for is making the Jessica Cruz pining game more and more insane

[bargainsleuthbooks]

The Heist (To Catch a Leopard #3) by C.W. Gortner and M.J. Rose #BookReview #AudiobookReview

A year after THE BAIT, Ania Throne is on the prowl. Gone into hiding, she’s planned her next move to perfection, intent on winning her dangerous game of cat-against-cat with the Leopard. But Ania doesn’t know that even the best-laid heists have hidden flaws. Jerome Curtis has taken a job at a Hollywood movie studio to try and put his life back together. When a familiar face from the past shows…

[justhereforthemeta]

Romantic expectations and the story we didn't see: A magic trick hiding in plain sight

Here's a hopeful meta for all my fellow celestial brainrot sufferers out there. Cheers! :)

This idea started as a dead end, trying to track the movements of Crowley’s sideburns/tattoo because I thought time travel shenanigans were afoot. I had to abandon that theory when it was pointed out that David was simultaneously filming as the sideburns-having Fourteenth Doctor, and in-universe Crowley can do whatever he wants with his facial hair whenever he feels like it. But hey - null findings are still findings!

On the bright side, pausing the show to make notations in a spreadsheet forced me to slow down and notice other changes I'd overlooked the first time around: acting choices, costuming choices, references to book lore. And possibly a few surreptitious flicks of the wrist, in places where we’re meant to be focused on the magician’s other hand.

@amuseoffyre and @ineffablefood had a great exchange recently about romance and “the significance of misdirection and three-in-one (magic) tricks” throughout the show. I suspect Neil has done something brilliant with the audience’s long-standing expectations (since the 1990s, really) for the love story between Crowley and Aziraphale to develop. And while it is a wonderful story indeed, playing to this expectation lets Neil distract his audience from the blink-and-you'll-miss-them seeds he's planting for the final chapter.

Continued below the cut...

Let’s start at the beginning of Episode 2. First, context: In the previous installment, Crowley stormed out of the bookshop, was whisked away to Hell by Beelzebub where he learns about the Book of Life threat to Aziraphale’s existence, then returned to the bookshop to dance a little apology dance and hide Gabriel with an unintentionally massive joint miracle. In S2E2, we and Shax catch up with Crowley as he's snoozing in the Bentley.

Shax: “You’re in trouble”

A. J. Crowley, cool as a cucumber: “Obviously. Former demon, hated by Heaven, loathed by Hell. How will our hero cope?”

Interesting! Sarcastic? Yes, absolutely; but that’s also a good 4500 years and an averted apocalypse away from “I’m a demon. I lie,” wouldn’t you say? Someone is sounding a whole lot less depressed and aimless and navel-gazey (do snakes have navels?), and a whole lot more like he’s got a project to focus on, since his "what's the point?" ruminations on the park bench in E1.

And of course we all noticed the costume change right away. Hello, black turtleneck. Feeling cute today, thought I’d cover up my graceful long neck? That sounds unlikely. Let’s put a pin in this one.

There’s also an interesting acting choice going on here. Crowley speaks to Shax in a funny, drawling, too-cool-for-you voice that we haven’t heard in a while. Specifically, not since 1967. If you go back and give the S1E3 scene in the Dirty Donkey a listen, you’ll hear it (and if you know of another instance of it that I've missed, please let me know!). In S2E2, he keeps up this odd voice (if anybody knows what kind of affect this is supposed to be, please do tell!) throughout this dialogue with Shax, except for the brief moment when she first surprises him about the joint miracle having been detected.

1967 was a fun year. Crowley masterminded a heist! And seemed like he was having a ball doing it, right up until his little caper was called off after Aziraphale brought him the thermos of holy water. Crowley spoke to his co-conspirators in that same funny, very 60’s-caper-film voice. He wore a hip 60’s turtleneck. He bought petrol for the only time ever, so he could get those sweet James Bond bullet hole decals for his car (per the book, seen on the Bentley in the show).

Those James Bond bullet hole decals would of course have been part of a promotion for this 1967 release, which you just know our film-enjoying demon went to see in the theater:

Starring this suave, be-turtlenecked guy:

And now - begging your forgiveness - a brief rant.

There are a number of posts out there that refer to Crowley’s S2E2 turtleneck as a flirtatious sartorial choice - actually, ‘slutty’ seems to be the favored accusation. There are even a few posts floating around commenting on how sweet it is that Crowley swaps out his slutty, kinky, throw-me-over-your-desk-and-take-me turtleneck for a more dressy and appropriate collared shirt specifically to attend Aziraphale’s Jane Austen ball. 

Now this is all in good fun, and Crowley does indeed look fantastic here, and I do love a good fangirling sesh as much as the next person. However, fandom’s collective tendency to interpret what we are seeing on the screen through the lens of romantic expectation can, at times, give rise to a kind of blinkered enthusiasm that obscures the original text in a haze that is part Mandela Effect, part unrestrained horniness, and part in-group code talking and identity reinforcement.

Respectfully, Crowley’s black turtleneck does not appear at all in S2E5: The Ball. In fact, it never appears again after the end of S2E2.

For Someone’s sake, let’s collectively pull our heads out of the romantic fog/gutter for a moment and focus on what we are actually seeing in the book and on the screen. For Crowley, this is an uncharacteristic within-period costume change. There is a surreptitious flick of the wrist happening here, out in broad daylight, and we are all missing it.

So here’s a thing. Aziraphale appears to have settled comfortably into life on Earth, his neighborhood, his books, using Crowley as an outlet for sharing his good deeds that he would once have reported to Heaven. Meanwhile, at first glance, Crowley appears stuck in a rut. There he slouches on a park bench with Shax in S2E1: a guy who lives in his car, stagnantly clinging to old familiar habits, mulling over the pointlessness of it all.

Setting aside the bit about living in the Bentley (I’m going to attribute this to well-documented issues between him and Aziraphale, discussed in many other excellent metas, and move on), Crowley has at least two very good, proactive reasons for maintaining his contact with Hell through Shax. First and foremost, it’s a source of information he can use to keep ahead of potential threats to Aziraphale and himself.

But also, I would posit…he kinda likes it.

Recall that book GO was first conceived as a parody, with Aziraphale and Crowley as spy-against-spy (but not really) field operatives in an ages-old cold war between Heaven and Hell. Their entire book dynamic is rooted in the trope of two opposing agents who have been in the field for so long that they now have more in common with each other than with their respective head offices. Their St. James’s Park meetings among other spies and ministers trading secrets are a sendup of what was once a well-known Cold War-era cliché. 

Our contemporary Crowley still likes slick outfits and hellaciously expensive watches and high-performing vintage cars and pens that write underwater while looking like they could break the speed limit. He coaches Shax on how to blend in as a demon on Earth, and he helpfully redirects the wayward contact looking for the Azerbaijani sector chief. He loves improvising and getting away with shenanigans under the institutional radar. And boy golly was he impressed with Jane Austen: master spy, brandy smuggler, and mastermind of the 1810 Clerkenwell Diamond Robbery. 

And if you look at it a certain way, for as long as Crowley has considered himself to be on “[his] own side” - going at least as far back as Job - he could almost think of himself as a sort of double agent. It’s actually a very romantic sort of notion, befitting our hopeless romantic of a (professedly former) demon; but it’s romantic in a very different way than we, the audience, have been primed to watch for.

In other words, in a very “on my own side” kind of way, Crowley really gets a kick out of being a spy. Or at least, dressing up and accessorizing as one, and moonlighting as a good-doing double agent when he can get away with it. And also being a plotting criminal mastermind. Two sides of a coin, really. Just look at Jane Austen.

My point is: No, Crowley did not wait around for Shax to come find him in a turtleneck so that he could go flirt with Aziraphale later. He’ll flirt with Aziraphale no matter what. No, this:

is actually this:

Much like the one he wears to the Dirty Donkey in 1967: 

whilst holy water heist-plotting. Here's a clearer shot with gratuitous Bentley, because I love them:

…and which he'll wear again, with appropriate camouflage, while infiltrating Heaven in S2E6:

That is the 1967 planning a HEIST turtleneck for committing ESPIONAGE and STEALING THINGS in. Because turtlenecks are what modern human master spies wear to get their hands dirty - after all, he saw it in a movie once. 

Crowley dons his tactical turtleneck sometime during the first major break in the action (which doesn't happen until after the joint miracle to hide Gabriel) after he learns about the threat the Book of Life poses to Aziraphale. Loverboy started mentally preparing himself to go after that book immediately upon learning that it was in play as a genuine threat. 

Now let’s pick up at the S2E2 Dirty Donkey scene, reading the story from this angle. Of course, Crowley enables Aziraphale’s delusions about Heaven by hiding information from him, and does not disclose the Book of Life threat when they meet again. They go into the pub, Aziraphale shamelessly paws Crowley’s chest like the seductive Bond Girl he is, and Crowley gets to act all smooth and suave and intimidating as he chases off the interloping Mr. Brown (or Mr. Collins for the Pride & Prejudice fans, take your pick).

Ergo, theory: beginning in S2E2, Crowley is already thinking of himself as a Jane Austen/James Bond action hero (“How will our hero cope?”), psyching himself up to rescue Aziraphale by getting his spy game on and stealing the Book of Life.

Now, watch closely...This is where Aziraphale and Crowley brainstorm their plans to solve the problem they both know about: getting Maggie and Nina to fall in love and thereby get Heaven off their backs. Crowley’s vavoom plan is drawn from yet another movie (“Get humans wet and staring into each other’s eyes - vavoom, sorted. I saw it in a Richard Curtis film.”). But Crowley also implicitly shares his solution to the problem he hasn’t told Aziraphale about. And true to form, Crowley’s Jane Austen solution isn’t the same as Aziraphale’s Jane Austen solution. 

Two solutions that fail by the end of Season 2, and a secret third one that might still work...and there's our magic trick of three.

‘“I’m lost. Am I doing a rainstorm?” Yes, babe. And a heist, too - just not until season three. Can I get a wahoo!? 

I won’t spend time on A Companion to Owls during this meta, except to note that in all three minisodes, we get to watch stories that involve Crowley acting as a double agent on “his/their own side” - successfully making Hell and Heaven think he’s fulfilling their will while saving Job’s goats and children; failing to fool Hell when he does a good deed in Edinburgh; and of course, collaborating with Aziraphale whilst evading detection as an infernal turncoat during the Blitz.

(Because this is getting long, I'll also skip over Crowley's interrogation of Jim in this episode - I'll probably come back to that in another meta. But interrogating is a rather spy-ish thing to do.)

When we catch up with Crowley again later, he’s already slipped out of the bookshop, having left Aziraphale to his biblical reverie about Job. He saunters snakily down Whickber Street as usual, but with a very pointed and swift glance over his shoulder (see pic above). This demon is up to something - possibly something we didn’t get to see, something that may have happened offscreen while he stepped out. In any case, knowing there’ve been unfriendly angels in the neighborhood that morning, he’s rightly concerned about being spied on.

From this point until the beginning of episode six, there isn’t a whole lot of opportunity for Crowley to make any next moves. He babysits the bookshop, during which time he manages to wring some crucial information out of Jim; he follows his Crowley’s Angel around like a puppy, and downs a bottle of red like a good old fashioned lovesick boy once that’s been pointed out to him. If any plotting or scheming is underway, this occult being is keeping stumm for now.

This has been a long one, so I’ll wrap up with Crowley’s infiltration of Heaven with Muriel. The turtleneck disguise works (Archer fans, be vindicated!) long enough to gather some information that will be crucial not just to the denouement of S2, but also to Crowley’s journey in S3 (previous post on Crowley's Fall, Saraqael, and memory wiping). And Aziraphale gets to enjoy that view exactly zero times. The point isn’t oh, a turtleneck! How flirty! So cunty! So cute! Y’all. Everything matters. The costume change was a deliberate choice. In-universe, Crowley’s decision to wear his special spy turtleneck for spying in is a signal that he is out doing spy things, even as we watch.

In sum: Beginning in S2E2 and continuing through the end of the season, Aziraphale and Crowley are actively living out the scripts of two parallel, concurrent, and completely different Jane Austen stories. But you and I, dear fellow audience member, we came here for a comedy with a hefty jigger of romance, and that’s what Neil gave us to focus on. And right up until the Final 15, that was the only story we saw.

Meanwhile, Special Agent A. J. Crowley doesn’t have time to mope around at the end of S2E6. He’s kicked down, but he’s not out. He's got a Book of Life to steal, a very serious bone to pick with a certain memory-wiping angel, and his Angel and the world to save. 

“‘Heigh ho,’ said [romantic, optimist, former demon, hero, master spy] Anthony Crowley, and just drove anyway.”

[luveline]

hurt/comfort for hotch

maybe he’s been having a hard couple of days at work and says something rude to reader, that he doesn’t mean, he’s just frustrated. then they talk it outttt<3

ty for requesting ♡ fem!reader, 1k

"Did you get wholemeal bread for Jack's lunch?" Aaron asks.

You wince where you're sitting at the table, closing the book you're reading over your fingers. "No. I knew I forgot something, I just couldn't remember what," you lament. You'll have to get some before the grocery store closes at nine. 

You check your watch, a little silver thing that cost too much of Aaron's money, and you're so focused on telling time you almost miss his biting remark. 

"It's fine," he says bitterly. "I'll get it in the morning. I shouldn't have asked you." 

Your first instinct is to react in a similar fashion. "Ah, but you ask so little of me." 

He flinches at your tone. You hate to see it, and regret what you've said immediately, but it's not as if he were being particularly kind himself. A weird, stringy silence pulls between you, a tightrope waiting to buckle. The first to walk will be the first to fall; with the mood he's in, he'll bite. Tonight, you're miffed enough to bite back. 

Pissed, you stand up, grabbing your coat where it's draped across the table. 

Aaron holds out a hand. "Wait a second." 

"I don't want a fight," you say honestly. "It doesn't matter. I'll go get bread and we can forget about it." 

"I don't want to forget about it. I'm not being fair." 

You let your arms hang, coat in a ball against your thighs. "Aaron…" 

"It wasn't fair. Sorry." 

It obviously wasn't fair. Everyone forgets things no matter how hard they try, but you recognise that Aaron just got back from a week away. He's stressed, exhausted, and things need to feel normal for him. He asked you for something and you let him down. 

"It's a loaf of bread, Aaron," you murmur, defeated. "I didn't mean to forget." 

"I know." He rubs his brows, melting the last of your defences as he hangs his head. 

To love someone, you have to give in. There are times where you feel hurt and you have to forgive him before you're strictly ready to do so, because he's his own worst enemy in times like this. Though it's harder now, because you're not used to his derision. Disapproval, silent annoyance, sure. 

You put your coat down. 

"Since when are you sarcastic?" you ask gently, stepping into his space. You tilt your head a touch to the side, braceleting the crook of his elbow in a loving hand.

His eyes crease at the corners, short wrinkles stark, shadows beneath them. "I haven't been sleeping well, away from you both," he says. 

You trace the surface of his rough cheek with your eyes before bringing a tentative hand to it, thumb catching against stubble as you smooth it toward his ear. He doesn't smell like anything he usually carries, no aftershave or cologne nor laundry detergent, and the shirt he wears isn't sharply collared. It's safe to say he hadn't planned to be away that long, and even though he's home, he's not home yet in his head. You don't know how else to prove it, stroking his face, cheek in your palm, your other hand climbing his arm to rest over the hill of his pec. His heart capers under your touch. 

"I didn't mean it," he says. 

"I know," you say. Aaron often makes you feel small in the best way, his height, his naturally protective instincts, he stands by your side and you trust him to take care of you. You don't have to look out for yourself when he's in arm's reach. You aren't tall, aren't half as imposing, but you can try to offer him the same comfort. 

"You just need to relax. I get that it's not as easy to leave your work at the door as you want, but you… it's hard for me too. I need your help," you say. 

He closes his eyes. 

"Sorry," you say softly. "For forgetting. And for being sore about it. You don't put too much on me." 

"No, I do. You're right, I ask for a lot." 

"I have a lot to give, Hotchner," you murmur. 

He nods and you really do forgive him, then. You know he's only tired. You don't have to take it personally. 

"Would you hug me?" you ask.

Take care of him by letting him take care of you; he's visibly and heartbreakingly relieved to be asked, wrapping his arms around you. You love the way he hugs no matter how he's feeling, like you're something that needs a gentle hand. 

"Don't hug me too long, Paula's closes in twenty minutes." 

His fingers spread over the small of your back. "It doesn't even matter. Jack asked me for wholemeal bread and turkey and I wanted to get something right for once." 

"With mustard?" you ask. 

"He's a weird kid sometimes," Aaron says. He gets a bit of pep back, giving you a sway from one side to the other. "I'll get the bread in the morning, and I won't act like an ungrateful idiot when I do." 

"I don't think ungrateful is the right word." 

"But idiot's fine?" Aaron asks, his laugh warming your cheek. He kisses it twice in succession, hands roving up, and up, before lifting his head to tuck you neatly beneath his chin. "It's right." 

"What do you want me to say?" you ask coyly. 

"Alright," he says with a laugh, his chuckle vibrating in your arms where you've curled them behind his neck. 

"You're not an idiot–" 

"No, because now I know you don't mean it," he says. Finally, some light in his tone, that playful drawl that demarcates Hotchner-style flirtation. 

"You're not!" you say, leaning back enough to kiss the dip under his jaw. "You're just moody," you mumble into his skin. 

"And you're too good to me." 

"No, I'm not," you say. "You're better than you think." 

He pats your back gently. "You're biassed, honey."

You're super biassed. "Nope. Totally impartial." 

[jamespottersdaisy]

Sweet Nothing

Remus Lupin x fem!reader

And the voices that implore, "You should be doing more."

To you, I can admit that I'm just too soft for all of it.

based on a request

content- fluff, sickness, hurt/comfort?, established relationship.

3.2k

author's note- this is actually several blurbs put into one fic, no use of y/n, english is not my first language so beware <3

You feel a hand on your lower back, guiding you through the throng in the Quidditch Pitch to the castle. Raising your head, your eyes catch Remus's soft but rapt expression. His eyebrows are furrowed, his eyes opting for the best way to get you from the packed crowd with the least malaise.

You don't bother to speak; most probably, he won't hear you. Hell, you don't even hear your own thoughts in all this ruckus. However, you would always hear his calm and tender tone.

"This way, dove."

You let your body comply with his hand on your back.

"You guys are a menace," your disapproving timbre curls up his lips into a subtle smile, one that he tries to hide from you. "And I don't believe for a second that you had nothing to do with this."

He chuckles, his brown eyes catching yours for a moment. "I was with you the whole time, wasn't I?"

"They're not brilliant enough to think of a way of hexing the whole–" Your words are cut off when Remus pulls you to his right. You stumble from the sudden shove, feeling his tight grip on your arms.

You see a group of brooms whooshing from where you were standing only seconds before. "What are they doing?"

"Bastards," Remus mutters, agitated that they almost knocked you out.

"Your fault. You shouldn't have given them a reason to celebrate."

You know you are wrong; of course, the Gryffindor players would celebrate with or without the Marauder's prank on the opposite team. However, a little compunction wouldn't hurt. 

"It's not my fault that I'm a mastermind," Remus grins, pulling you closer by the waist. You can hear the cheerful shouts and music from afar, knowing that James is probably capering around, frisking on Sirius or Peter. 

"Should we go and celebrate with them?" you ask Remus, even though you despise the hubbub, everyone pushing and pulling others, stumbling to one another, hurting each other's toes. Who needs that? You can very well express your cheers in the common room celebrations. And Remus knows you well enough.

"No, we'll see them in the common room," he says, holding your hand tightly. "Are you hungry?"

"We just ate."

"Do you want snacks? I can get some from the kitchens if you do."

You chuckle at his tone, so soft but also pampering you. "Are you hungry? You certainly sound like you want something to eat."

"You?"

"Remus!" you elbow him, blush painting your cheeks. He laughs, a sound that manages to flutter chords in your heart no matter how many times you hear it. He brings your hand–which is entangled between his fingers– to his lips and places a tender peck on it.

"I'll bring you some chocolate from the kitchens."

That is how you know he craves chocolate.

"You two should break up."

"Come again?"

"I said, break up for a day, you're making Prongs sad," Sirius repeats shamelessly at you, going through a cookie bowl.

Remus is ambling down the stairs with a book in his hand. A book which he uses to smack Sirius on the head. He winces, scowling at your boyfriend.

"Prongs being sad is none of our business."

You let Remus sit on the sofa and put your head on his lap. Under a mere second, another hand, belonging to James, plunges into the bowl. 

"No matter what I do, Evans won't go out with me on Valentine's Day," he continues to inspect every cookie meticulously, looking for the right one. Your heart aches at the sight, and you decide that enough is enough. You snatch the bowl under his hand and lay back on Remus's lap with the cookies on your stomach. Remus smiles at the sight of you, his hand roaming through your hair.

"Stop sampling the cookies with your filthy fingers."

"They're my only comfort. Give them back," James attacks, ready to grab the bowl back, but Remus's hands stop him. He playfully swats James's hand away from the bowl. 

"She's eating them."

You grin at James, visibly smug about your boyfriend's demeanour. "I am eating them, Potter."

"You haven't touched them since Peter brought them from the kitchens."

"I will eat them, Potter."

You don't comprehend what happens next, or you simply don't remember. Maybe James groans and leaves your side, or Sirius starts teasing you again. Who knows? You just feel Remus's fingers tousling between strands of your hair. 

"What are you doing?" you whisper, a tiny smile adorning your lips.

"Braiding your hair," he drawls, his eyes glancing at your lips before averting back to your hair. 

"You know how to braid?"

Remus chuckles, shaking his head. "No, but I'm learning right now."

"By ruffling my hair?"

"I'm not ruffling, dove. I'm braiding."

"No, you're definitely ruffling. I can feel it."

"I'll comb them later tonight. Sounds good?" you smirk at his raised eyebrows, hearing your heart singing. Moments like this are what soothe your worries and take away the weight on your shoulders for that week. His quiet whispers and tender touch, adoring tone and smiling eyes always manage to find their path to your heart, warming it in an instant.

"Will you also bring me milk and kiss me goodnight?"

He smiles, bringing one hand to your chin. His thumb caresses the skin and journeys to your lips.

"If that's what you want."

You roll your eyes at him, taking his hand from your face in your hand. You start to fiddle with his fingers, oblivious of the beam in his countenance. You love playing with Remus's hand. They are larger than yours, as Remus enjoys pointing out with every chance he gets, but also so soft. 

Your eyes forcefully move from your intertwined hands to Remus's brown eyes. In a few seconds, your mind feels his finger resting under your chin. You gaze at him with confusion and affection as he leans in and puts his lips before yours. He doesn't kiss you, merely placing his lips inches away from yours. You know he is waiting for you. 

You smile for a moment, your warm breath hitting his lips. You know it puts him on the edge when you josh him, his breathing getting heavier, the black in his eyes widening.

But you relish it more than anything.

"Don't tease, dove," he whispers, and you can feel the anticipation in his tone.

You giggle, your smile growing against his, your fingers running through the hair on his neck. You don't torture him any more, crashing your lips to his. You let out an amused breath when you feel Remus return the kiss in a second, his hands wandering your body.

No matter how long you've been together or how many times he has kissed your lips, it is the same feeling every time. The burn in your core, the desire for more and the joy of his touch. You are too familiar with all these sensations, and yet you welcome them every time with a smile on your face.

"Get a room!"

You are familiar with Sirius's shriek, too.

Your throat burns with pain, your nose itching with an urge to sneeze, which never comes. You know for sure that you look terrible in your bed, with dishevelled hair, a red nose and swollen eyes. However, all this doesn't seem to phase Remus even a bit. 

"You're a mule."

He is annoyed and maybe slightly worried. His eyebrows are furrowed, and displeasure has gained a seat on his visage. He is staring at you with irritated eyes and a scowl beside your bed.

"And you're rude," you say, barely managing to raise your voice from a whisper. It's not your fault that your throat hurts when you talk.

"Dove, let's just go to Madam Pomfrey."

"For a cold?"

Remus groans, sitting next to you. He puts one hand on your right thigh before speaking again.

"You'll have a fever if you keep up like this."

"I'm fine, stop worrying," you say, even though you're happy that he does.

You're happy that he worries for you and cares for you. You're happy that he never leaves your side or your hand. You're happy that even though he rarely uses the words, he still manages to tell you he loves you with actions.

You don't need to hear it. You never need to hear it; Remus makes sure that you can feel it.

"You know I can't do that," he shakes his head, persistent with his efforts. "And you know I can't take care of you all by myself."

You chuckle at his words. For the last seven hours, he's been bringing you warm soup, making sure you're hydrated enough, and he hasn't let you stand up for even a second.

"You've done well so far," you smile despite the ache in your temples. "Remus, it's just cold. I'll be fine in the morning, especially with your pampering."

You don't see the point in visiting the hospital wing for a seasonal cold; it seems like overreacting. Remus, on the other hand, seems distraught seeing you in pain. He doesn't want to agree; you can see it on his face, but he agrees anyway. 

"It would help if you took a warm shower, you know."

You smile at him, knowing damn well that he wouldn't let you get on your feet without his help.

"Maybe."

Remus nods several times, immediately rising to his feet. "I'll run a shower for you."

You watch him sprint to the bathroom, and the next thing you hear is the water running. You are lucky that your roommates are not in your dorm room today. Or maybe you're unlucky that you got sick on Saturday.

You slowly start getting out of bed, your head throbbing. Remus comes back and helps you get to the bathroom. In reality, he merely follows you from place to place, as you're perfectly capable of walking. 

"You're acting like I'm a toddler," you laugh at his concern, which earns you a frown. 

"You are a toddler. Why else would you refuse to go to the hospital wing?"

"Because I'm fine," you grin, getting out of your clothes. Remus watches you, leaning against the doorframe, his arms crossed. "If you're waiting for me to ask you to join me, I'm not gonna do that."

He smirks at your tone, pushing himself off the doorframe. "I'll be there if you need me."

He leaves you alone, and you let hot water embrace your bare skin. By the end of the shower, you feel lighter and better, happy that your headache has eased a bit.

Remus waits for you in the room, and you notice that he has brought you another soup. 

"How many times do I have to drink that?" 

"Enough times for you to get better," he pushes the blanket on top of you when you lay down on the bed. "Cooperate a bit."

He takes the soup bowl in his hand and lifts the spoon. You grimace at the steam rising from the spoon.

"I'd rather not drink–"

"Open wide, the train is coming," he pushes the spoon to your lips.

"Remus!" you pull your head backwards, laughing involuntarily. "It's hot!"

"You haven't even tasted it."

"I can see from the steam."

"Fine," he groans, huffing at the spoon. "It's good now, come on."

Now that you're out of the excuses, you comply with him. Still, you pull a face when your tongue meets with the soup, albeit it is delicious. 

"It can't be that disgusting, dove."

"It is," you lie when Remus offers you another spoon, a bit of liquid dripping from your lips to your chin. 

"Let me see," he says, and before you can deny it, his lips are already on yours. 

You let out a disapproving sound from deep in your throat, even though your stomach tingles at the feeling of Remus's soft lips on yours. He pulls back an inch, but still close enough for you to feel his warm breath. 

"It was delicious," he mocks. "Liar."

"You're gonna be sick, baby," you whisper, your lips smiling a bit. 

He kisses you again, this time quicker and shorter than before. "You'll take care of me."

And you will take care of him the next morning because he definitely will be sick.

You don't feel your legs, nor do you remember how you got to the castle yard. You're in a trance, unable to hear or feel anything as you stride to a distant tree that will provide you solidarity. Anything except the suffocating weight in your lungs and the burning urge in your throat. You want to cry. You want to drop to your knees and wail, letting tears pour down your eyes, allowing the agony to leave your heart with your every cry.

But you don't cry.

You don't cry until you know you are alone. You don't cry until you are sure that no one can see you, no one can hear you. You don't cry until you are sure that you are out of everyone's sight who will pity you if they see your tears.

It feels too much. You feel too much. You feel too much, but you don't feel enough. You never feel enough. 

You run, but you never flee. You swim, but you drown. You smile, but you cry.

The moment you see the tree, your legs give in. You fall to the ground, a cry leaving your lips. You don't scream, you don't wail. You simply welcome the tears as you sit on the ground, pulling your knees to yourself.

Your mind echoes each and every word that pulls you too deep into the ocean.

"I expected more from you."

You thought you did enough.

"It's your fault."

You thought you did the right thing.

"You'll do better next time."

You thought you did better this time.

You hear your pained sob, pitying yourself. Your nails dig into your skin hard enough to leave a mark. You want to leave a mark. You want to feel something, something other than the pain burning inside your chest. 

"Dove?"

You whine at your lover's voice, so soft and tender, afraid to startle you. You don't question how he has found you. Somehow he always does.

"Go away, Remus," your tone sounds weaker than you expect, full of agony and desperation. You don't look at his face; you don't look anywhere but your hands. 

You don't want him to see your red eyes, tear-stained face and shaking hands. You don't want him to hear your heavy sobs and breathless cries. You don't want him to pity you.

"No," he sits next to you, still a bit hesitant to touch you. "What's wrong, sweetheart?"

"Go away," you cry, "please."

"I am not going anywhere, dove," he shakes his head, his eyes glancing at your hands. He knows it may backfire, and he knows you may draw up your walls even higher, but he takes the risk. He puts his hand on yours, parting your nails from your skin. 

You scrunch up your face when he kisses the skin where your nails dig deep, ready to burst into tears once more. You lower your head, refusing to let him see your pain. 

He doesn't let you. 

"Talk to me," he pleads, holding your hand close to him. "I hate seeing you cry."

Of course, he does, you think. Why would anyone want to put up with your bawling? Why would anyone want to put up with you?

You can feel the hatred poisoning your veins, darkening the light in your heart. You know this hatred, this darkness. You know who it is aimed at. You are too familiar with its burn. You know it is going to mock your weakness and insult your very being because you know you feel that hatred for none other than yourself.

When you talk, you want to drown your voice just to never hear it again.

"I'm sorry."

You don't see Remus's confused face. You don't feel his bafflement. You only hear his loving pitying tone.

"For what?" he asks and doesn't wait for your reply. "Dove, come here."

You despise your body for betraying your mind. You abhor your heart for betraying your will. You hate your frailty when it comes to Remus.

You let him hold you close to his chest, sobbing into his touch. His hands caress your hair, his lips leaving kisses on your temple as comfort. Your body trembles under his affection, the tears staining his shirt. 

"It's alright. You're alright," his tone hugs the scarred part of your soul. "I'm here."

"I'm sorry, Remus, I'm sorry–"

"What for, dove? You have nothing to be sorry about," he cuts you off, feeling that you're spiralling. "Tell me what's wrong. Tell me, we'll fix it together, yeah?"

You shake your head, clinging closer to his chest. This is the part you hate most. The part where the words line up against your tongue but don't know how to get out. Your feelings mock you, and you're afraid that if you talk, he will mock you, too.

Remus knows you. He has learned you well enough to know that you are struggling. He strokes your back, encouraging you to speak. 

"Come on, dove. You'll feel better," he kisses your hair.

"No, I- It's not.." you mumble something between your sobs, and Remus tries so hard to understand you. He waits, patiently giving you the time you need to organise your thoughts, all while embracing you tightly. 

"It's alright. Take your time."

You inhale a deep but shaky breath, your chest trembling from all the hiccups. You wish to speak, to share your pain with your lover, but it's just too heavy. So heavy that letters are like a burden to your tongue. 

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry," you don't know you're crying again until you feel teardrops on your hand. "I can't. This is it. This is all I got. It's not enough, I'm not enough."

"Hey, hey, hey," Remus pulls away, taking your face in his hands. "You're more than enough."

"No, no, I-I can't…I can't do better. I need to do better, I have to do better–"

Remus doesn't understand what you're talking about; your words don't make sense to him. All he knows is that your every tear is like a knife to his heart, your every sob is like a hit in the gut, and your every word is like a storm hitting his mind.

"You don't have to do anything. You're doing enough," he says, his heart clenching in pain at the sight of you. "Listen to me."

He puts his forehead on yours, closing his eyes. "Listen to me, dove."

He waits for you. He waits until your breathing calms down, your tears slow down, and your body stops shaking. You close your eyes, inhaling his scent.

"You're enough for me," he whispers, his hands still caressing your body. "I love you, and you're enough for me."

You feel the burn in your chest at ease, the burden in your tongue walking away. You feel your tears come to a halt, your soul finding comfort in his words. 

"I love you, too," you whisper back. 

"Then talk to me, and let me help you."

So, you talk. You tell him every word in your mind, every pain in your heart and every burden in your soul. You know he can't possibly solve all your problems or take away all your pain, but what he can do is always let you know he loves you, whether with his words or his actions.

I love Remus, I wish men were real.

Thank you for reading and please let me know what you think!

and if you please, buy me a coffee <333

[sleekervae]

So Good [0.6]

Masterlist

pairing: KNJ x rockstar!oc

A/N: Hi everyone, sorry I've been away for a while. School is bogging me down and life had been wild, in both good and bad ways. I want to continue writing and despite my chronic writers' block, I ain't giving up too easily. Thank you all for your patience and trust that I will be updating more stories as I go!

word count: 2016

Purple text is Korean

Kimberly jumped when her phone suddenly rang beside her, disturbing the small nap she was trying to squeeze in her bunk. She grumbled as she turned over in the small enclosure, feeling around in the sheet while being rocked over and over in the tour bus.

"Kimberly! Your phone's ringing!" Maria suddenly shouted.

Kimberly rolled her eyes, "Gee! Thanks Maria!" finally she was able to fish it out, her heart leapt when Namjoon's name flashed across her screen. It would've been close to midnight in Seoul, and he hardly ever called her this late.

Pulling her bunk curtain tighter to its hook, she answered the call, "Hello?"

A voice cleared from the other end, unfamiliar to her, "H-Hey, Kimberly! How are you?" the voice was slurred, too light to be Namjoon but the twinge of his accent was slightly eerie.

"Um... who is this?" she asked, a pit of anxiousness bubbling in her gut. From what Chloe had told her, Korean idols had their contacts guarded mercilessly, and if Namjoon got in trouble for talking to her...

"Eh? It's Namjoon, what're you talking about?" the voice tittered, a faint song playing in the background. She relaxed only a little, her curiosity growing.

"Really?"

"Yeah!"

"... what tattoo do I have on my left forearm?" she asked.

The voice paused momentarily, grumbling to himself for a quick answer when she suddenly heard a more familiar exclamation.

" -- Dangsin-eun mwo haeyo? Nae jeonhwagileul jwo!"

The voice on the speaker suddenly changed in pitch, half-laughing-half-crying as he shouted, "Joesonghabnida! Joesonghabnida! Dowajuseyo!" and a scuffle ensued.

Kimberly was partly amused, partly concerned, waiting curiously until she heard Namjoon panting into the speaker, "I saekkiya! -- Kimberly? Kim?"

"H-Hi! Namjoon?"

"Hi," he panted, giving a short sigh, "I am so sorry about that,"

"No, no, that's okay," she chuckled, "Are you okay?"

"I'm good, I'm good. My friend's being an idiot," he replied. Kimberly could still hear laughter in the background, she found his startle quite endearing.

"It's okay, I promise," she replied, "Who was that, anyway?"

"Jackson. He's a friend of mine -- if not more of a shit disturber," he replied.

"It's nice to meet you, Kimberly!" he called out. Namjoon grumbled back in Korean, a cuss word she figured.

She laughed merrily, "Aw, tell him I say 'hi',"

"And boost his ego even more? Nah," he simpered back, "I hope we didn't disrupt anything,"

"You're all good," she assured him, "We're on our way to Krakow right now so we have an off day,"

"Oh, fantastic. Are you resting up?"

"As much as I can in a moving casket," her attention diverted to a furious hissing from the common area.

"Shit! I need help!" Chloe suddenly shouted, followed by the pattering of socked feet.

"Fucking shit, Chlo! We agreed not to heat up Alfredo sauce in the microwave!" Charlotte scolded.

Namjoon laughed, hearing the commotion from the end of his speaker, "Everything okay over there?" he asked.

Kimberly sighed heavily, shaking her head, "Oh, everything's fine. If I'm quiet enough they may believe I've gone back to sleep and won't bother me," she chuckled quietly.

Maria called from outside the bunk, "You know we can hear you, Kim!" she scolded, "... Hi Namjoon!"

"Hi Namjoon!" Charlotte echoed a moment later.

"Hi RM!" shouted Chloe.

Kimberly tittered, "The girls say 'hi',"

"Tell 'em I say 'hi' back -- what?" his voice drifted off, "Of course she is! Yeogiseo naga!" and there was another short scuffle over the speaker.

"What is going on over there?" Kimberly asked, her curiosity peeking, just imagining what bafoonery was taking place in Seoul.

Namjoon sighed, clearly dejected as muffled sniggers slipped out beside him, "Jackson wants to know if you're pretty. I'm so sorry,"

Kimberly had to press her lips to keep herself from laughing, her cheeks burning with the red smile curling across her face. She choked back a giggle as she answered, "I mean -- I think I am," she shrugged bashfully.

"Then what the hell are you doing with a guy like Namjoon?" Jackson suddenly called, laughing then as Kimberly could imagine the glare Namjoon was throwing his way.

"Ib damul-eo," Namjoon grumbled.

"Dangsin-eun nae sangsaga aniya," Jackson scolded back.

Meanwhile out in the common area, Charlotte and Chloe couldn't help but overhear Kimberly's conversation, all the while Charlotte was mopping up sauce on the counter and Chloe was cleaning sauce off of the floor.

"I think she talks to him more than talks to any of us," Chloe noted.

Charlotte simpered, "They talk maybe once or twice a week, Chloe,"

"Over voice, at least," Chloe replied, "... You think Darius knows that they talk that much?"

"I'm not even gonna go there," Charlotte replied, hoping that Kimberly couldn't hear them, "I told her to be careful from the get,"

Chloe shrugged back, "I'm just saying -- if Luke was away and you found out he was talking to a super famous pop star a few times a week, wouldn't you be worried?"

Charlotte held pause, staring down at the greasy countertop as Chloe's words sent a shiver through her. She knew exactly how she would feel if she was in a similar situation. Nevertheless, she turned back to Chloe, mustering as much confidence as she could.

"As far as I know, Kim's not doing anything wrong -- so I'm not gonna' lambast her for what we think could be happening,"

Chloe knew Charlotte didn't like confrontation, she never had and was extremely uncomfortable if she had to confront one of their friends. But Chloe wasn't stupid either; she was fearful that Kimberly was falling down a hole she nor the girls couldn't dig her out from.

Kimberly meanwhile was none the wiser to her friends' conversation, "What're you guys doing?"

"We're just sitting around, having a couple beers," he replied.

"With the other guys?" she asked.

"Nah, they're out doing their own thing tonight. Believe it or not, we don't always spend all our time together," he chuckled, hoping on the off chance he didn't sound condescending.

"Fair. Spend too much time with someone, some heads are gonna roll," Kimberly replied, then she brought her voice to a whisper, "Hence I'm hiding in my bunk so I don't have to deal with the Alfredo sauce from hell,"

Chloe suddenly hollered out, "I heard that Kimberly! Stop flirting with Namjoon and come help me!"

Kimberly rolled her eyes, pulling back the curtain and sticking her head out of her bunk, "We're not flirting!" she called back.

Charlotte sighed after, crouched down over a messy spill on the floor. A zesty, garlicky smell was beginning to fill the bus, "We just need a mop," she muttered, "Maria! Open the window in the back!"

"Already on it!" and Maria hopped out of her bunk.

Kimberly huffed, though Namjoon chuckled from the other end, "I take it you gotta go?" he asked.

"Yeah, I'm so sorry," she replied.

"Don't be sorry. It's Jackson's fault, anyway," she could hear Jackson snap something back in Korean, much to her amusement.

"It's always a pleasure talking to you, don't be silly," she simpered, "I'll talk to you later, go have fun!"

Namjoon said his goodbyes and hung up the phone, his eyes lingering at his lock screen a moment more. Jackson meanwhile continued to sit and smirk up at his friend, much to Namjoon's annoyance.

"What are you smirking at?" he asked as he sat down, "And how did you know my passcode?"

"Don't be mad because I know your mom's birthday," he replied, "How long have you been talking to Kimberly?"

"A few months. She's nice," Namjoon muttered quickly.

Jackson scoffed, "So was Lim Ju-eun, she seemed very nice in your old posters,"

"Oh, leave me alone," Namjoon elbowed him softly, "She's my friend, nothing more,"

"I believe you," Jackson nodded, "I also believe that if you had the opportunity to date, you would snap her up in a minute,"

"She has a boyfriend, anyway," Namjoon pointed out.

Jackson sighed, "But none of that's not stopping her from rattling around in your brain all the time,"

Namjoon rolled his eyes, deciding to reach for another beer off the table, "Jackson, whatever you're about to say, just leave it alone,"

"I'm not trying to tease you, Joon," he said, his demeanour shifting to a serious undertone, "I'm worried for you,"

"Why are you worried for me?"

"Because you're falling for somebody you clearly can't have, and if that affects your performance --"

"It's not going to affect my performance, or my duties," Namjoon assured, "I told Jin and the others; Kimberly is my friend and any affection I have for her -- or for anyone -- isn't a priority. You would do the same if it was you,"

Jackson shrugged back, his gaze averting off, "I used to think that way..." he muttered.

Namjoon cocked a brow, staring long and hard at Jackson, "Hold on -- did you meet somebody?" he asked curiously.

Jackson nodded slowly, "You can't tell the other guys,"

"I won't," Namjoon assured him.

"Haneul -- or Hannah, I guess. I met her last year, she's a student at Yonsei, and we both went to the same restaurant for lunch," he explained.

"-- Have you spoken to her?" Namjoon asked.

"A couple of times. She's a little mean at first, she absolutely hates k-pop music" he chuckled, "But the more I got to know her, the more I really came to like her. And I think she came to like me, too," the way he spoke was so wistful, words grasping for the moment as though it had just happened. Namjoon had never seen Jackson so sentimental before, he hardly ever discussed his personal life like. They were both a lot alike in that rhetoric.

"So, what happened?" Namjoon asked, feeling the 'but' of his story creeping like a stark chill.

Jackson shrugged listlessly, "I had to let her go. I knew I couldn't have her, and it wasn't fair to make her wait for God knows how long until I could renegotiate my contract," he replied, "She said she understood, but I think I fuelled her hatred of this industry even more. She hasn't replied when I tried to check in with her, I know she probably needs so space to heal but... it sucks,"

Namjoon nodded slowly, "But you still think about her?"

"More than I would like," Jackson admitted, "I had a lapse in judgement; and I know I did the right thing in the long term, but I can't help but feel I wasted her time. I never should've gotten involved with her in the first place," he turned back to Namjoon, "My point is that I don't want you to make the same mistakes I did. As much as it paints me to admit, BTS is quickly becoming a global sensation and you can't afford to have your heart broken over someone you know you can't have. Don't get attached, you have to keep your focus,"

"I am focused," Namjoon assured him, "Kimberly is just my friend, and I am gonna make sure we do what we need to do to keep us all on track," he then placed his hand on Jackson's shoulder, giving him a small squeeze, "... That doesn't mean I can't feel for your situation,"

Jackson simpered, popping the beer can open and taking a swig, "It's better this way for us. Maybe one day it'll be different, but for now..." he shook his head, "We're stuck with each other,"

Namjoon took his own can and clinked with Jackson's, "I'll cheers to that," and he took a swig. His gaze shifted again to his forearm, remembering the pressure of the pen, the swift and sharp markings when Kimberly scribbled her number on his skin. He wasn't sure why he was so full of hope back then, blinded momentarily for what could have been though he knew fully well he could never have her. Jackson was right, he had to detach himself before she consumed him, or worse he consumed her and broke her heart.

After all, April was right around the corner...

[lovelytsunoda]

bare feet on linoleum // pato o ward

summary: when the voices in her head get loud, pato is there to keep her grounded

pairing: pato o ward x female reader

warnings: mentions of intrusive and anxious thoughts. title taken from the poem by lana del rey.

it always happened when she had nothing else to think about.

today, she was sitting at the dinner table, surrounded by her extended family. the trip home had been long awaited, and now she sat with her grandparents and her cousins, her four-year-old niece perched on the stool at the end of the table, a euros match playing softly from the small tv in the background.

nothing had even triggered it. in fact, it was almost a decision her mind made of its own accord: you have nothing else to think about right now, why don’t we get distressed?

in an instant, the vivid thought took over, a sucky feeling coating her limbs. she felt sluggish, clutching her hand into a fist next to her salad. her eyes seemed to cloud over as she missed something her grandad said (although it was probably a line of conversation she didn’t want to follow).

“amorcito?” patos voice was quiet, his hand reaching to unclench hers. she was gripping her knife in a white knuckled grasp, and he was worried she’d hurt herself, albeit unintentionally. “where’d you go, pretty girl?” his words were soothing, his thumb rubbing gentle circles on her skin.

she took a deep breath, attempting to let the thought go and bring herself back to the present moment. “sorry. I just got a little lost in my head there for a minute. my brain has decided to be a bitch today.”

“hey,” pato kept his voice low, gentle fingers slipping through hers to cradle her hand. “none of that. do you want to talk about it?”

she shook her head, voice crackly as the thought bounced around, turning the inside of her head into an echo chamber. “not particularly.”

pato nodded. he wasn’t going to push her, knowing she was scared of being judged for the thoughts that caused her distress, even if the rational part of her brain knew that her sweet boy was the last person who would judge her for anything. if she didn’t want to talk about the thought, however big or small, because sometimes they were small things that felt like big things, the least he could do was hold her close and remind her that she was more than her thoughts.

“come here.” he said softly, slipping a warm arm around her shoulders, and allowing her to rest her weight against him.

she sighed into his embrace, feeling his arm wrap around her as she gripped his hand tighter, desperately trying to redirect her thoughts, searching for something else to focus her mind on.

patos lips were warm against her forehead, the subtle mexican lilt to his voice soothing as he spoke “you are more than your bad thoughts. whatever it is, it will pass, okay my love?”

she nodded, turning to press a quick kiss to the skin on patos neck. just being in his arms was helping relieve the bad feeling. she no longer felt shaky, a contented warmth filling her veins. her mind cleared, though it still felt hazy as she thought about her boyfriend.

“think about something good.” he encouraged, the pair still oblivious to the world around them. “what book are you reading right now?”

she thought about it, her mind travelling to the wholesome crime caper she had started the night before, her mind honing in on the troupe of meddlesome old ladies attempting to solve a murder.

she also thought about her niece, who had just said something rather funny about prawns that she managed to catch through the haze of her mind.

she laughed along with the group, slowly coming back to herself as england scored a goal in the match that still played near the kitchen sink.

while her cousin and grandparents began to cheer, she turned to pato.

“thank you.”

he smiled softly, resting his forehead against hers. “you don’t need to thank me, amorcito. I’m always here when you need me.”

“y/n,” her cousin started “do you want to help me move the plates?”

if nicole had caught on that yn was lost in her head, she didn’t show it, but yn was thankful for another task to do. something to keep her busy.

after the table had been cleared, the football match relocated to another tv, her niece curled up in the couch with her father, yn stood in the dining room doorway, leaning against pato and allowing her mind to wander again, this time into what she hoped would be happier territory: one filled with visions of her own future.

as the match reached half time, natalie reached into the record cabinet, putting on a soft folksy record by a british artist yn had never heard of.

when the soft music began to play, pato folded yn into his arms, beginning to sway softly back and forth as he held her. she would always feel safe in his arms, shrouded in a sense of calm that was like nothing else as she rested her head against his chest.

when she was with pato, all of her insecurities, all of her anxiety, all of her negative thoughts, fell away. he’s, the odd negative thought would always find its way through, but pato would be there for her through it all.

when she was with pato, she was just her.

TAGS:

@magnummagnussen @libraryofloveletters @userlando @thatsdemko @httpiastri

[astralnymphh]

saturated sanctity

tonguefucking raw in the barn, away from dina's eyes ౨ৎ

. part two 𝜗𝜚

❛you had cunt on your mind, 'n cum on your breath❜

PREVIOUS CHAPTER . NEXT CHAPTER > .ᐟ ♡. summary; a chore so innocent and prosaic, far from featherbedding and near to plucking grain from your scalp– turns for the worst, or the best? i soundly connote, fornication ventured on two bends of eager knees, drinking you from beneath the hood 𐙚 .ᐟ ♡. cw; depictions of infidelity, homewrecking, semi-risky sex, jealousy, bit angsty, tension, guilt, pining, tears are shed, playing around, lusting, clit stim (r, fingers and oral), fingering (r), pussy eating (r), scant nipple stim (r), ass groping, ass slapping, breast groping, swallowing slick, pussy slapping, steamy make-out buildup, dirty talk, needy ellie, smug ellie as usual, dom!ellie, sub!reader (i swear sub!ellie is coming next chapter) domestic acts, bold text is flashback dialogue, petnames; babe, baby, good girl (lmk if i missed anything) .ᐟ ♡. pairing; farm!ellie x farmhand!reader .ᐟ ♡. a/n; ending feels a little lazy but it is what it is. hey i'll pull through on ss3 that's like the smut crux, if u get my jizzst..

✵ masterlist ✵ series masterlist ✵ got too lazy 2 proofread right away ✵ WC; 9.8k+

VOLUME TWO - The skin that flakes/ Under the hood

𝄞

Indulgences have the gall to peck at you. 

Pecky and prickly as the oncoming hens do, handwriting–on–the–wall misgivings that throttle you off a steady minute by minute track. Small nuances under light of sun kept doing so this week, numerous things apropos of bawdy suggestions wisped by that reckless pink snake of hers– always mere footsteps from running into Dina, ‘I think it would be, really, reaaally hot if you didn’t wear your p-panties at the table, tonight..’ always brain–caked in a bit of alcohol, hiccuping. Or, even when a cold cuff cocoons the hind of your upper–thigh, an inch below the crease of your butt and done as she passes like a ghost behind you in the kitchen. 

A plum bruise should have formed from how often you flicked that forehead of hers. But no, of course no. The only thing that formed each time was a cocky curl into her lips, corkscrewing those fine hazel freckles connate to a whirlpool in water.

Owing to the fact that she lacked sufficient care from you, has her pouting when you deny her. Denied her of that fiendish wish to lie beside each other– even if it be upon that packed sofa, or– of her vehement dreams, reposing within sniffing distance of an ambery lit fireplace, running her work–worn fingertips along your hill of chest, letting the beat beneath your breast verse in her hands a tale to beckon her own in accordance, toasting aflutter with love. She would push a kind pressure to said breast, emboss prints to squishy skin, mold it to her liking, and smirk when your nipple erects and bends under her hardy palm. 

On the other hand, woe of denial, she sought Dina in your figment. When she wasn't courting twisted fingers up your billowing skirt, she instead smelt her heart in twisting her from the inside out, which– even more woefully, gave Dina the impression that Ellie had come crawling back on starved knees. Woe is her, to misreckon and take what she thought was hers to safekeep.

Arteries, wrenched and awreck, you felt a toy in contrast to what really stood. Worry. 

Worries are the hens, pecking at you.

Will Dina catch you two here? Over there? This night, or the inbound day? Tines of time aren't obligated to tell, ringing of peril whenever they yen a sign to sow.

Thoughts would only continue to foment come light of day.

A lemony sun has risen beyond the hill laden skyline, plucking rays for your wake. Muted orange tones mingle and caper into flaming reds on the crest of your sealed eyelids, caught just as you bid adieu to your cotton sogged dream. For dreams die, at every crossroad.

“Mhh..” the gentlest brush of breath hinders sun washed quietude split, and a set of toes curving down to a stretch. Achy aches ache, as there’s enough ache to go around for farm hands such as you, ugh right? 

Disturbing be the sunlight drawing blinding rays on your bleary pupils, attempting to shade out familiar nooks of your room. Ah, there we go, hues of sable dark in unvisited corners and shyly crowding the light, fluid out of the clear glass pane. As the couch is situated opposite of this blaring window, it greets you quite rudely. 

The moment colors begin to mature and petrify within your vision, you're already hiking up a foot and rocking your bottom off the quaint sofa, veering a peek to the indent left. Slept like a log, huh? Feet plant weight on plods carrying you towards the wardrobe, grantingly aside the wide pearl–border window, flitting a forearm up to block incoming light. 

A huff bloats your cheeks and pouts ducky lips, then grumbling a burden off your shoulders, “Hhhmmmm..” no truer words were spoken.

You lodge fingers in oaken crevices and pull a sundry of drawers from their frame, rubbing cotton on wool as you dig without aim on what you may don, this or that, with which and what, where and when. Blah, yawn, bored, you avert your gaze on lucent glass and scrutinize a pine bough panorama– only for your eyes to spring and espy a sparkle.

A gleam of skin.

And a tuft of copper.

Ellie.

Her torso fit in a white ribbed tank, soaked in hues of gray at the dip cut collar, and handsomely clung to her perky breasts. An arm raises, a graceful length likeness of a canopy above her head, stretching freckled flesh over toned muscles, the grooves– shadowed in a whisper of brown, highlighted celestially, and exposing a small auburn bush beneath her pit. A seen groan escapes her slit gob, brows hefty– she crumples them dear into her eye sockets, ruching the thin skin. Exertion tapered her body akin to clay, and it was undeniably hot, scrunching her face up like that. Ellie then juts her hips forward and casts her head rearward as she stretches, releasing all tension in a swing of her arms down. 

Seems like she's tending to the fore yards.

Dew gleams honey, sweat paints skin, and portrays your girls as a ruddy rose in dashing spring. Ruddy, yeah, that solar ball in the sky sure made her skin popping arid of paleness. Naturally, her freckles betone like pepper, bulging on her red face– which scrunches in her gripe of stress.

Her lips part, mouthing an obvious, ‘Fucking hell.’ and baring teeth after, slightly. Lashes interwoven, her eyes stayed squinted, only to widen and dart when a muffled shout rattles the walls.

Right, fuck, Dina needs me.

Just as the drizzly auburn–head jogs from a peeking view and presumably into the house, you reverse and capsize through stacks of cloth until you land your choice– a sundress. Hey, it's hot today, let your butt breathe for a change. You dangle it by the thin straps prior to pleating up the skirt and slinking it over your crown, yanking every seam in place. Ruffles hit a stonecast above your knee, a sensible length.

But one question stands unturned.

Bra, or no bra?

Hmm.

No bra.

A proper chest of cotton cradles your breasts come rain or shine, not like Dina would mind with brine, nor judge off the heart– just freeing the girls. No biggie. The woven material lollops to a fare–thee–well, cozy on the curve, ribbing as it falls in place. Now, you just need something on your feet. Striding forth, waxing a gale, bare steps soften on each oak board's scant gap, sylvan grain texture grazing your toes. Just a few feet ayond the couch is your shoe cubby, small box frames home to varied work boots and scuffed sneakers, and based on today, you choose boots, clasping the hardy backstays in a pinch. You crouch and gripe at the sore sting your knees gave, manning it through and sliding foot by foot plumb to the squishy sole of your boots, tying up the cordy laces.

Guh, these boots are near rugged.

Ignoring the plain–in–sight fray to your boots’ hemp laces, you grasp and wrench the icy knob ‘round till the door grinds a cry open. Stepping under the arch, you brisk thump by thump and cut where the hallway bends, advancing the dining table.

A dyad of ears harks your growing din of solid steps, calling, “There you are, did'ja sleep like a log?” mellifluous notes of Dina's cadence carries, veering your sight on the kitchen– where she be, perching an oaken honeycomb rack to forearm.

That I did.

“Yuup–” you pirouette, spanning the table's border and hiking that very ridge plane into your butt, sighing, “sun was there to greet me, obnoxiously.” leaning into the table, you grouse lightheardedly.

“Oh shit– sorry ‘bout that, swear I'll put up a–”

“Don't worry, it's the one thing that actually wakes me up these days,” you crack a quip, chuckling with an open mouth.

Dina caters a kind tug on her mauve lips prior to whisking her eyes returned, a glossy honey to be. Syrupy knuckles press and crinkle in the hilt of a honey fork, pruning waxy slices and welling gold bubbles, crafting a drippy stream that canals into a glass bowl. Through laden light it gains a gilded life, casting a tiny star on the moist blob– and there you witness, nectar of the gods.

Capricious minds might have swiped a dollop of that sweet, sweet delicacy by now.

Weighing the silence, you tempt thoughts racing around your skull. What chore am I assigned today? Where is the cacophony of babbles and gurgles that follow Dina like a haunting spirit? Where did Ellie go? Ellie, Ellie, Els.

God did she look breathtaking in that tight–

A rush of thuds divert your curious eyes to the creaking stairs, preluding the swell of said babbles and a husky voice, Ellie's voice. 

“Dina?” hailed she, echoing halfway down the steps, “I changed his diaper!”

Dina cocks her head in heed, crowing back, “Okay! Just– give ‘im to her!” tone knocking against the hollowed walls, then, she sheers attention to you, “mind feeding him?” 

You hum a keen, “Mhm.” void of second qualms and wait on that certain honey–head to appear, hearing the increments of footsteps draw lower and nearer.

The honeylike cowl, stria of fawn auburn drapes soft strands to laze with a purpose on her neck, fashioning that scruffy mullet eyes prize after. Honeykin defines the head that tags after gray, deadbeat converse hop the last few steps and plant still on the oaken floor. For a honey so sinful sought you, and buys a bite of time, to stare.

Her liven pasture eyes catch on you, just a moment, and skip away, reminded of what she intends, “Uh, here.” her forearms unfurl and slink to you, offering JJ up in thankful arms.

You rub in bare flesh to hers, scooping the gurgly baby in a shyer than thankful human cradle, foreheads feckly bumping into each other as you swap, a ghosting of heads. A whaff of her work–spent scent digs into your brain, and you had to admit, it was a tinge sort of lovely. She had the farmyard tang about her, blessed with sweat, a firming physique, a stare that caught you a corpus melting in her esse.

Fairer than the weeks before her touching of you, the bounty it procured was tame, fair is the present. Fairest days, faring a harvest more splendid than dreams carping yonder ebony skies and heavy heads. An unruffled weightlessness many souls find hopes fed in, you found aplenty of in the waking world. With Ellie, you drank laughs, fiddled about the haystacks, snuck apples in your fist– nicking dewey chunks down her gullet in shared kisses, or let her shamelessly tug some of your ass meat in horny hands. Oh, isn't infidelity just the niftiest drug.

Smitten as a kitten, you are.

Carpe diem.

“You’ sleep well?” asked Els in monotone, pitching a paw up to weave through her jumbled locks, splitting strands.

Heaving a breeze, you sigh, “Decent enough, you?” and counter the question, bobbing your stance on bending knees– pray that baby doesn't scream, as always. 

“Like a baby,” she asserts, lush of a brag, dropping her hand and poking at the chubby–cheeked fella, who just got a free mention, “not so much this one, yeahh? Did you scream my ear off all night?” cooing.

“Mhm, heard that.” you add.

“Betcha did.”

“Hmm.”

Her eyes peek up, and goddess, it's that look again. Oh yes, the very gaze spilt upon the oaken table that hale spring day, a twinning star. These eyes, ladies and gentle–non–mens’, fondled a plight of husky play sat on the edge of her mucky mind, and it showed vividly in those flourishing pupils that thin her pine–lined eyes. Tilted smirk dotting dimples in her big appley cheeks, cuspid teeth goring a dint in chapped lips crying with dire need of moisture. Sexy– minus the lips maybe.

She knows what effect that look has.

What exactly sits vanward of that hormone tipsy mind, is an excerpt best served in the formula of two tongues tied– for even Ellie herself may strive to compose hunger incarnate at this fledgling hour of daybreak. And yet she cannot. The mere thought of your pussy clots her brain cells. So, how do we fix that?

Play pretend!

“Hey babe,” that auburnette already had her head whipped south towards Dina before you could flit a blink, feet sparking her a brisk carry yon the shabby oak floor. Creak, creak, clonk, foot by foot she departs a sliver of bitterness in your chest. 

A demure bitter, a sense you can simply shake off. For now.

“There you are..” spoken so softly from Dina, who still had a rack of flaxen honeycomb in her hold, slanting to an angle, “what took ya so long?” voice curling.

“Wasn't that long,” she emphasized her vowels, “m'here now..” 

“Good..” 

She was far from there.

“Mhh,” hummed Ellie, pressing her lips into a thin stroke, puckering about to intone a curly, “ohhh, honey– can I have a lick?”

“Mh–mm, that's for the apples.”

“Aww.”

A meshing of lovers. Real love, virgin love, dying love, feigned love, it all wreathes together on the outside– for the sake of earthly vein, tender were those emotions long ago. Hasty do the doves encircle a budding entanglement, and bells chime where dust remains uncollected on wanton hearts. Uncanny, do the crows crawl in their grandeur of an affection died– sprawling sooty wings through tough gravel and mushy mud, rendering them unable to fly again. Unearth that shit, and you're seated for a whole fuckfest, indeed. 

So consume what you see with a grain of shit–face nothingness.

Ellie slinks a glide upon Dina, pushing her harsher on the counter's nook and slumping arms to swaddle her torso. She cradled her in the natural bow of her body, projection of her bony hips plated dual plumb dimples in her ass, grinding with a purpose. Denim chafes on denim, bringing a light noise of fabricy licks. The cottony hem of her soiled tank begins to bunch with each rolled hump, proving the friction to be– lustful. Her hands wander her body, not yours, pausing and choking the fat plush of her thighs, losing sunny–ruddy pigment to wanting pressure, then releases, and traces back up.

Pupils of yours aimed so pinpoint on each sweep of her hand, yet, you bore an idle set of gestures. Cupping a waxy rubber bottle in your grasp, brimmed with milk opaque of lily–white and feinting a crisp chill to your fingertips, you park the nozzle to the baby's lips. Giving a squeeze with care, you feed him– idly, idly turned from the scene afore, except for your eyes.

Strain sets a pull on them as you stare.

A bitsy wince of, “Ellie..” dries moistness on her lips, shuddering to an ajar gasp.

“Mhm, like that?” husked with a bass that ripples, so, so deep in her diaphragm, you swore it nearly rattled your ears from where you poise.

A gasp died into, “We can't–” 

“But we can..” a frugal answer, meant for one pair of ears only. Only, what a joke. An ill timed joke on Dina.

Had it truly been for one person only, Ellie would not be striking risk right in the butt. Nifty as she is, juggling those risks aimlessly, she stares at you. The crown of her head ruffles up messily on her scruff as it pivots, flushed nose pointed to you, pale lids of supple creases kin to a beach cove as they open, batting reeds of chestnut everlasting. They flap, waiting for you, in the delay of that week–past chance snuffed. 

Intimidating, austere demeanor flowering in those buttony pupils– and she eyefucks you with them, even tugging a wink your way. A fucking wink. Her ploy of fondling Dina, so obscenely, clearly dirty, read in gold typeface as ‘Wish this was you.’ loud and proud. Much more so when her digits curl and dig dents in her waist, and her teeth carve marks as she bites her coral lip down, showing you. 

She's showing you how she wants to play with you.

Being an unwelcome voyeur, you felt the tail–tug to glance away. And in that fleeting veer, a loud smack resounded and left you surprised on the tips of your boots.

“Uh!” a yelp ejects air from its jailed position in Dina's gullet, forwarding her body with a jounce.

A foul, “Hehe–” trebles a giggle from Ellie, shit–eating grin withal, “so sensitive.. again?” her hand rubbing circles to where she struck ass.

Fuck.

Fuck, because she has uttered those exact words to you before, wetly on the shell of your ear, yesterday. At dead noon eve, stark flat on your bedroom door, a makeout you'd rather not divulge. Though, did Dina hear that thumping racket?

You feel a throb, a throb that drops. It beats from your maddened heart to your aching hole, literally. A web of hot arousal dribbles over the ribbing of your walls, leaking into a sticky splotch on the plateau of your panties. Fern eyes of something unholier–than–the–moan–of–a–devil felt denser working than self–pleasure, it tickled just right.

But it doesn't belong to you, so don't pluck that apple. Ignore that tickle.

“Okay, baby–” Dina gruffs and shoots her shoulders up, nudging Els’ clingy head off, “seriously, I got shit to do.”

“Hmm, suit yourself.” Ellie gave up and wacked her hands up in defense, feigning offense. 

You slither that milk–glossy tap gently from purling lips, cooing, “There you go.” as you set the bottle down with a placid thud, spurring a lone finger up to bat slowly upon the baby's nubby nose, how maternalistic of you.

A gait of striking steps softly approaches you. With your head huddled and stance shielded the opposing direction of the two, you couldn't see who that person was. Although, you deemed it safe to assume it may be Ellie, coming to poke at you again.

“Hey, could you help Ellie sweep the barn?” a honeyed voice entrances your focus instead, Dina, of course, “sheep dragged in a whole buncha’ shit, shouldn't take long though.” she notes, casually.

A long droning intervenes “Uhhh, I never volunteered to–”

“You did when you chose to live on this farm with me,” her voice strains, flowing into a breezy chuckle whilst gesturing for you to hand her JJ, “Right, babe?”

“Pshh–” 

Bearing aloft, you slink that baby's bum right into her curviform arms, feeling the cottony onesie drag on your forearm as his weight lifts off, bending at the knees scantily.

“Fiiine, I'll muck the– smelly sheep shit for ya’,” her voice bores deeper in exaggeration, becoming a blurry blob moving behind Dina's poise as she slinks forth, “gunna’ need a mask, I think.” and quips, wrapping her lithe arms to a cinch on her waist.

Dina grunts, butting her arms loose before it gets tighter and coasting a few feet yonder, “Barn, please.” reiterated she, flatly.

Tapered as her jaw is, she clenches it further, taking that blow of a refusal to her touch peevingly, teeth to a grind. Jeez, she's quite handsy today.

“Hmmph,” a grunt deadlocks at the fore of her compressed lips, rolling at the neck and cocking aside a signal for you–”c'mon.” she mumbled, clicking her waggish tongue.”

A scoff jumps from you, “M'not a horse.” you squint and trot your feet along, heavy timber steps pittering towards the ajar backdoor, dash of light spilling through.

“What? Didn't say you were.” she headstarts and jerks the door chasmally open, banging against the oaken trim.

“Door!” shouted Dina, now muffled as you enter beneath true light of day.

“Sorry!”

You wince both muck–free feet into a macula of moist earth, feeling your weight sink and squeeze a taint of muddy blob as you hoick off and traipse forth. A kittenly, “I think the only horse here is you– smelling of sheep shit,” comeback lightens the air, giggling, “Peee–yuuu, somebody get me a mask.” and shooing an invisible stench from your nostrils.

“Puuh–lease, as if you don't smell like a hot pile of garbage after your chores,” thrummed out of her gob easily, just so she could smooth in, “Emphasis on the hot.”

“God, you amuse me.” you shake your head low and smile, bloating the inwards of your cheeks ‘till they hugged your nose, two blooming mushrooms.

Her body spirals in a swing of her leg, now walking completely backwards, “Wasn't trying to amuse, m'being serious. U're hot.” she brownnosed, even giving you the fucking eye–up–and–down. 

This baser, coy weirdo. Can't go nary a breath without summoning a smile unto you.

Your wandering eyes travel up a stream of fading cumulus clouds, sheer stranding like a veil pierced with astral rays– and you mull mind over answers across those clouds, for how could you reply, origin of wit?

Then, so cross the dumbest, possibly weakest retort, transferring from sky–gaze to mouth.

“Andddddd u're not.” you skip ahead of her with a feign of sass, causing her to whip back around.

“Not what you said last night.”

Okay that's true, but..

You egg her on, splayed palm melding to cold, rusted iron grip of a shovel, “I said a great many things, remind me?” as you tease.

“Gladly.” a hotness more snug than the sun cupped your wrist, pricking your grasp open free of the shovel–hilt and spinning you like a ballerina– knocking shin to shin so you plaster flat on the splintered wood door of that barn. Els hovered close, horridly close, breath fervent to your mid–face, “where should I start, babe?”

You freeze, blizzard of a kindled burn, a smolder trenching roots through your reddening cheeks. That throb, returns. You just couldn't gauge which throbbed more severely– the banging of a mad heart, resounding echoed thwacks against caved ribs, or the chokehold of your beaded clit, squeezing up into your cunt and getting you to chafe moist arousal from your labia, wringing webs across your entrance.

No, not again, not here.

“You should start..” a gulp burdens the words back in your gut, re–rounding with a deflect, “by mucking the stable.” silkenly fallen to a wholly nether topic.

Dumbfounded was the look to darken her visage, bristly brows dropping like sawed trees and cleft of her lips bowing to a frown, unamused, “Seriously?” 

“Mhm!” you swerve the shovel handle at her unprovoked, letting her catch it prior to crouching under her barred arms and strolling off towards the sheep stall.

And like a dog, she tailgates hot on your hind. Bark bark bark, yapping ditto to one too, “Why do I gotta shovel shit n’ not you? –Huh?” yet in the most unserious, sportive tone, ever. Dorky smirk lingering in her words, pounding a laser through the thickset back of your skull.

Man, if Ellie was a dog– she'd be a damn Siberian husky. Pining for unending attention and peskily playful, too playful, even. 

Each crunch of hay behind you, every little sigh she put forth in bone–dry air, the sum of her laughy scoffs that no way in a verdant pasture heaven wouldn't be expelled without a toothsome smirk. She was the blight of you, your anathema, pockmarking inside your brain imagery of how she looked when you averted your gaze, meanwhile she beheld the rear of your head, cocksure of her annoyance. Oh, and goddess how it never falters to soar her heart high of a heavenly altitude, skirmishing every cloud with her melodious drum of life when even simply laying scrutiny to the hair awry with mess, shrouding your nape in the natural fall of it, bouncing on each step. A love of life that you could give.

That is all her mind bends to, pestering you, so help her goddess, she will enact anything, to make this abominable sin a grounded relationship.

Look upon me, won't you?

You tuck a finger around the tiny hook lock, opening the large sheep stall, “Because–” you pause, cutting past the rails and drawing an arm over to grasp a rickety rake, elevating it over the half–wall, “someone's gotta uncover the shit first.”

Her knee pooches out mildly as she recasts her weight on a wall, twiddling her thumb over every scuffed mark of the shovel, examining its ridges beneath her print. Yet, her eyes stayed absorbed in you, taking the waft of every leg stride, arching of your spine as you stoop down, extension of your hands grasping the rake's shaft– stabbing the crooked tines into a labyrinth of heaping hay, the screaming of metal scraping on concrete, causing her ears to tremble and tighten, alongside a squint. The noise muffles, then awakens as she relaxes her facial muscles, slacking her jaw to speak, “Y'really good at that, y'know..” mumbled, even.

“Mmht–” you smack your tongue moist, dithering your head in puzzled wags, “–I am literally just raking the ground,” humbled you, thinking of her dumbly so, “weirdo.”

“Pshh, yeah, but I bet you'll have this whole stall swept in like a minute tops.” she claims through a fried rasp, vailing her pale lids low as she stares– stares of yearn.

Further squashed upon hilarity, you whack a tuft of hay clean through air, then stake the rake upright to a wooden beam and lean, staring back rich with spite, “And I bet an hour for you, what– just standing there?”

“I don't see any shit yet, m'waitin’ on youu..” her vowel drawls long, smug–fuck expression curling those rosy lips.

“Oh really?” your thumb unlocks from the lot of your clutching digits, breaching the rake with a springy sound as it bludgeons against the oaken column. Ranging your foot forward, you brace the skimp distance from you to her, planting softened steps.

Maraschino cherry of her chubbed cheeks, a puckish smirk reads more and more intently as you approach. Each thwack of sole leather to hardy ground is a pump of excitement for her– reckoning your current passage as a rite of igniting something. Sway of your hips, stopping of your tracks in front of her, she wonders– or hopes, of what you'll do next.

You gave that freckled face a prompt pore–over, recognizing that flare of her brows jerking up slightly when you park optics onto her slit–open ones, inhaling, “Then let me do it.” and splaying your palm up to the ceiling, expecting the shovel plumb in–hand, easily.

“Hmm, nah.”

You furrow a lone brow, “Why not?” 

“Cuz’ I got it.” spoken cockily, lips flubbed out and head swung like a whip, winding the crescent strands of burnished hair out of her eyesight.

So cavalier.

If Dina were here, the place’d be fuckin’ primely polished. Be for real.

“Sure,” you blunt your accent, nigh on sarcasm, “what's gotten into you?” pleating your fist to a ball, you slot it between the warm pocket of breast to bicep, crossing your arms.

You.

You– are what's gotten into her. Two horny adults unchaperoned, in the convenience of privacy, sub rosa, a smidgeon apart, lusting with their parts of lechery, staring down at sorely empty hands that could be full of each other's flesh, it doesn't fare well. Emptiness, a sphere of it, sleeping in palms where it is an unwelcome voyeur– snoring, vibrating. Dormant touch never falls short of pulsation, like a magnet, it reaches for her. 

Stroking the shovel rod as she does, with those knobby fingers of hers, twining the length, was patently suggestive. Soft rings resonate with each tug of her clewed hand, rubbing up and down, slow and thorough, what the fuck. 

And worst–best of all? Eyes. Her sooty, pebble blown pupils thinning the evergreen in her eyes, pierced yours. Forbidding ones. 

God, wary of reality or not– admit this, it was definitely hot. Hot, how her ashen lids embrace the snow and veins, a human cadre of gossamery skin. Hot, because they read debaucherous– and could carbonize a bible to cinders with a single glance, sacrilege to poetry, ergo; ‘Fuck me’ eyes. And lastly, hot, as they sat a throne upon a wicked smile, exposing her front teeth lightly, spit line attached top to bottom. In short, breathing you in, made her high off lust.

Asudden, the bow indenting her mouth is backwashed in a swallow, and her eyes disappear beyond the hood of her brow bone, captivating her soul upon a sigh. A sigh she breaks contact for, a sigh she must take, in lieu of composure– when all she perceived of you was a temptation.

A bastion of forced air swells up her cheeks, lukewarm on the gums, pouty of the lips, “Fffffffuck–” mouthed she full of that exhale, shaking her head to a low duck.

“Fuuck, what?” a mimic of her quiet curse befell your lips, curving tone and brow in confusion.

That's when her head perked, an inch, a slanted inch, bedeviled eyes divided by the drop of a short russet strand, mouth pursing to vowel out, “You.” hoarsely.

“Like ‘Fuck you bitch’ or in a ‘I'm gonna fuck you’ typa’ way?” you undulate your head cartoonishly, heightening the emphasis of both those options, cause both appeared likely.

Fluff of her brows crooking weirdly, she gawks with an inlay of temptations, bought, “That is the dumbest fuckin’–” she chuckles dryly, nose facing heavenward as she spins the shovel, going clockwise ‘round you, “–question, I've ever heard.”

Step by step, on beat, you slowly spun with her encirclement, noticing now that you're inclined to back up into the wall as she kitty–corners you, idle mitt pressing finger wads to textured wood, laying spread.The scratch of it smooches your shoulder blades as you smush plane on the wall, calves ghosting wales of wood coarse enough to leave blushy marks, and yet you rely on it to camouflage from her intimidating gaze.

A heartbeat hastens, brimming your throat with a blockage capable of consuming the words before ears could, tethering a timid gasp out instead.

Ellie rasped deep, “Cat got your tongue, hmm? Don't back down ‘n me now..” the heat of her face hovers close, cocking her head laterally to fit perfectly in your headspace, air blown from every syllable fanning your sutured mouth.

The weight her stare threw upon you was, probing, and direful. Every attempted scape–glance was a gut instinct, a reflex when shagged to a set of human bars. Flesh of bone, bone in flesh, arm to arm, what a bloody mess.

You curl your shoulders inwards, pressing folded elbows skin–tight to your ribs, “Dumbest question?” a gulp cuts the sentence, “you didn't even answer.”

“Want me to?”

“Yeah,” in defense, you tested her, “I do.”

“Ohhaha– okay..” Els’ cadence rose to amused laughter, shifting on her feet slightly, “We can fuck.” but she spoke it like you requested of it, although, did you?

Fuck.

A bulbous mass pushed your legs clean apart, trampiling the dress to a tight pull around your thighs. Confounded, you drop sights, sinking your chin in towards your neck and realizing– it was her knee.

Rough denim rustles clemently, a whisper of two fabrics meeting, between your quads. A friction so faint, so hush, begins to purr more acutely when a– ahh, pressure. A carnal pressure is given, given with urge, urging on your barely confined clit.

It stings as she drives her knee in, getting  you to clench your insides, to seize up.

A juxtaposition doomed to interblend skin.

You impel up on the wall, heel sloping to rest on the flat trim. It smashed your pussy lips, causing a chafe, ramming fabric inside the rim of your hole, a velvety draw of sleek depressing on the cotton tongue of your panties makes it stay there. Thereupon, her groin grinds a roll, nudging your pussy on top of her knee.

“Remember this, babe?” Ellie gives thrall to the dense steel in her vocals, ticking her head aside more to pass that breath firmly on your ear, “–‘member how good my knee felt? Mhm? ‘So fuckin’ good’, you said?”

A diabolical coo, she's trying to get under your skin figuratively– and literally further.

But it surfaced that memory like a buoy, erecting ayond the navy sea line with its eye–catching signal. In you, it materializes. Last night, came a blanket of umbra, yawning its penumbra in the horizon. Witching hour, obscene–eyed, gloaming your senses and eating away at deceit. Deceived? Yeah, that's how you felt, daylight by day bright, a misinterpreter.

All throughout the day, she would ghost right past you en route to Dina, much like earlier– and love up on her. Spread her taint of arousal between you, her, and you, then her again. Leading on last night, where she stowed her knee, just like now, affirming how mortally she may succumb to madness without your vulnerable phasing unto her, except, in a casual way, short of poetry. On top of that continuous grind she gave on your groin, she marked you with a claim so bold,

So freakish, so outré.

Dirty with her perverted thoughts.

You remember it, hard.

‘You love me just as much as your pussy does, face it.’ 

Hence, her knee felt as fucking liberating as it did that stone stark night. Your clit throbs with an ache, coiling your womb in moreish begs, more, moree.. please more. 

“I remember.” uttered softly, throat shutting on the words as you choke up in sensation.

A cordial chuckle blows summery hot on your ear, “Hehe, good,” and is soaked deeper in with a puckered kiss, popping quietly, “Good girl.”

That made you shiver, in a growing delight. A heat seeping between your folds, has you bearing down on her knee, slopping that raw precum all over the ruined seams of your underwear. In bodily reaction, your cunt shriveled in on itself, squelching a drop on barely–there textile– glossing a wet patch on the knoll of her knee.

Ellie espied that moistness saturating through her jeans and spreading warm on flesh when it seeps, slinking her leg a wimp inch out to gauge the spot, a fucking masterpiece, smack dab on her knee, “Fuck,” she spews, pinning teeth to lip, “for me?” she questions, even with an obvious ass answer staring her in the eyes.

Forget Dina, this felt right– too right.

“For you.” 

Her teeth bare vast in a smirk, doubling up her cheeks, “God, I love you.” because finally, fucking finally, she will have her cake and eat it too.

But first, eat the space before you.

And so she does, tucking the wad of her nose squashed in the crevice of your nostril and cheek, brushing of her mildly cracked lips greet yours to part, a balmy ask of entrance. Wagging against, the skin barely hugs with cushy compress, then she nips your bottom lip and wedges her own between, indulging the bump of your cupid's bow to cradle a whisker inside her suckled hold– her humid realm of fog. Buds connected, she felt like butter searing, softness melting, disintegration inside your clasp of a satiny hole, and she was pungent of farmland, muck sweat, everything you could have prest for. Ellie pushes passion in the form of little spit bubbles down your throat– ingesting your voice, your taste, your brain, essence in whole. Taking each other in your own two gullets, bolts of song, and long gaping moans– and even longer pants of make–out exhaustion.

“Mhhh,” she shoves another groan to rattle your teeth, hopping over cloud nine with each moan you reciprocated– like music in a fairytale, a ballad, or of a siren song, splendidly spellbinding, yes? “–fhhck yeshh–” She hums, forwarding a buck of her knee fiendishly.

You yelped, and she liked that, an impish grizzle pushing past the swollen smile and drags saliva across yours.

But.

Those hands once empty, cannot lie powerless to being so. Hers, fly from the wall behind your head and trace down your biceps, buckling unfurled over the bulge of your loose breasts and cup them tender, giving a squeeze that dimples flesh above the neckline of your dress. Not a complaint rose from you, you liked it, yearned hard of it– loved it.

She could tell by the mere movement of your back, arching into her grasp, getting her fingers to squish them even flatter, laughing the kiss to a pause, “Look at you–” she hinds back to look at you, taking your eager rush to follow her lips into regard, “fucking cutie.”

“Don't call me cutie.” you astern.

“Why noott–”

“No.”

A grin enlightens her anyways, “Got it,” and slides her lip back between yours, suckling the plump of your upper, “Mhmm..” hummed so gravelly, so good on your ears, yummy.

This girl will be the first suspect of your murder. Murder of love.. in spring.

Adjourning the freshly–sown kiss with a sloppy smack, you interrupt, “Y'know–” mhhp, a quick peck, “–think I love you too.”

“Think?” she knits her brows together dumb on your featherly melded foreheads, squishing the grooves that form in–between, “could already tell from last night,” her rasp makes it sound of a patent fact, chuckling like an asshole when you whine amid her tease, “hmm–hm, sorry babe.”

“God, you're such a dick,” you bind your head lower and ghost your barren lips over her chin, smiling amongst your dim shadow.

Index and thumb of her hand thaw ripely of your chin, exerting under the bone and beckoning you up with a kind pull, “Would a dick do this–” she twines you to the left, “Mmph,” pasting a kiss beneath one eye, “or this,” twines you to the right, pasting another peck, “or even this?” and lastly, twines you faceward.

Patent of her pattern, you expect a delicate pair of those blood swell, pouty lips to spare something planets away from porny lust– a promise, that none of this was bad. However, hopes are dashed like a racehorse when your chin rears free and a blur of her auburn head plunges out of sight, and under the hood. 

“Els’, where are you–”

Oh.

A gale of air spills up the gap of your thighs, sought upon by the whipping of your sundress’ hem up crinkled in her dual grasps, pushed against your hip bones. Knees grind in shallow dust, planting just next to your parked feet with a soft rub between the four, the perfect position, an orgasmic view. Ellie lets a gasp free upon eyeing the fat blotch soaked thoroughly to a glisten, fabric eased in your labia, showing her the shape of it. God, ‘think she saw you clench just now.

She balls the fabric to one hand, dropping her other and husking dry, “There she is– fuck, missed me?” a waggy finger rises to your clit, toying it in meager flicks– almost as to pet it.

A wince cries from you, “Ahh–” and you perk on your toes, inching away from her fingertip now padded in your sodden arousal.

Yet that fucking finger follows, pressing a hiemal print to flatten your bloated clit, clothed labia hugging the willowy knuckle. Cocky chuckle– likeness of her unabashed assholery and spilt through grit teeth, she muses in your clamping pussy lips, “Hehe, yeah? Need my fuckin’ fingers, huh?” and those damned coos, that tender tune, gosh– you can't get enough of it.

But you've had your fill of plaguing rumination.

Dina's away, nay a breath of her lingers here, not a peep of her can disrupt you, disrupt what you feel– how Els’ makes you feel. It's not wrong, if you're not the one suggesting it. It's not immoral, if it was never held in the hands of your intention. It's not your fault, if you let it transpire. Nothing to rue, not your sin, not your wrongdoing. 

So you pluck the apple.

An ease of your quads down pricks your clit with the poke of her finger, cushing the delicate flesh, “Mhm– yes, yess.” whined you, nigh on breathless.

“That's right,” thick is her voice– like a coddling of wood thicket, pushing past the devout lips that embed themselves in the chub pliancy of your belly, lain of a smooch to your womb, a quiet one, “thaat's fuckin’ right.” and jerking your clit measured with tease, idly rubbing.

The gentle marrow of that contact with your belly and your clit, sent you aquiver. Your abdomen, shaking lightly against her mouth with a breath in, lading your stomach with a rise, high–strung by that simple kiss. Too sweet, you thought, sweetly toxified of honey, unorthodox to how hoggish she usually strikes as– you expected her usual playfulness.

Softness can be addictive, and her version of soft, definitely was.

“Soo fuckin’ good t'me..” her lips detach only to press back in, multiple times, same exact spot. She wouldn't dare budge, not when it was deemed her duty to kiss you there by some unknown force, or her own accord. Ellie whispers, lugging those honey–drug lips over the pouch of your belly, “need that good fucking pussy n’ my mouth.”

A tilt, a modest slant of your hips projecting your crotch against her collarbone was your ask of entrance, and she gave her answer so fast.

“Hold this,” she cranes the clump of skirt to one of your paws, letting go when you meet fingers over fingers with her and hold your skirt to your ribs. She stops playing with your clit completely, tracing said finger up your groin and under your pantyline, pleating the band in on itself as she journeys it to your knees– letting it freefall from there.

Despite the milk–warm weather lambent to your forehead when settled under the sun, meant zilch to the cooler world inside the barn. Not wintry, but a tangible change sensed in your bare pussy. That's why you fastened your quads to a clench, nearly sucking in your cunt– oh, and the fact that two olive fern eyes are bluntly viewing it. Stage fright, much?

 A fried gasp of, “Ohh, shit–” chills it further with exhalation upon discovering the raw truth to your aroused pussy, engorged in size and pinkish in sex irritation. Ellie was drunken in that eyeshot of serumy precum wetting a film between your slit, drawing gluey webs over your hole, barely open for full study. She needs you open, she longs to see, gulping a horny thought audibly before speaking, “spread them pretty legs for me, hmm? C'mon, it's just me–” she assures, donning that calming placidity whilst palming the round of your knees apart to guide you, “–there we go, uh'huh, fuck..” departed of her voice, husky as she studied the open spread of your filthy hole, dripping for her like it fucking knew she was looking at it.

All you could engage was a tunneled stare down of your protruding crotch and her reddish–brown dusted crown, the slump your knees took clung on the flank of her biceps– plowing with an indent in her bare sun–baked skin. Els’ face so sanguine compared to the paler pigment of her fingers, which now push your thighs uncomfortably agape to the extent of bulging fat between her knuckles. Eyes bark, luring under lids so heavy and lashes like a vignette– they bark and say, ‘Keep your fucking legs open.’

Say no less.

Taken in awe, “She's so fucking pretty–” she curses with meaning, a means to make it known, licking up a river between your folds upon seeing that exhilarating view, cupping a glob of slick in her pink muscle.

“Shit..” 

Withdrawing her tongue, she swallows the creamy delight, “Prettiest pussy ever, ‘uh'huh, that's right.” Ellie being Ellie, she slaps it, eyeballing the spongy skin recoiling.

“Ah!” 

“Yeah..”

Your nude cunt was honeydew heaven in her eyes, gleaming wet like grapefruit, that's why her tongue was already slipping out on open air. Head inching to intimacy, the button of her nose dovetails seamlessly between the tippity top of your folds, and your clit, kissed with a hot spell. That bud, it fit perfectly in the wrapping of her lips, straightaway suctioned further into the gummy pucker of her mouth.

An ache zaps that little bouquet of nerves and coerces you to nearly swoon over it, yelp hitching, “Ha– aah,” and shudder teething, “Ellie..” with a hump of your glutes butting her head back, only stirring that hungry mouth of hers to pop off and swaddle it back in, tongue flicking.

Her nostrils sunk deeper in, airflow turning muffled in your crotch– yet her moans remained, abounding, vibrating on your sensitive pearl, “Mhhhh, mhmm.” rumbling deep under the soft squelching her moving jaw brought to fruition. 

Ellie, you fucking god, giving those plumate licks that are barely there, but scarily paired with deftness, getting you to squirm and squeal, “Yess– baby, yess..” That pink muscle snagging under the hood sometimes, smacking that pretty tiny clit of yours around with foams of flavor whisking onto her taste buds, humming in the notes of sex.

“Mhhh, fhhck.” her lips sever an inch, mumbling into your clit, “fuck you and your pretty little hole, god, fuck you.” she curses, cause how dare you let her impulses conquer, returning a trio of digits along your legs and swiftly finding your pussyhole, dilating the lips apart and shoving all three inside. How dare you, engross her ears in your moans echoing akin of a cathedral in her skull, ushering her to fuck you unholy.

“Ellie!” you wail, hoisting on your toes a second and clutching her in those slobbering walls– which only gushed a leak of arousal on her digits, and blocked her from further thrusting slightly, taken aback by the sudden stretch.

Her lips pop off again, slurping up the wet laces strung to her pout from your fattened labia, “Schlp– jesus, you are fucking tight,” the deepness rippled in her voice, groggy from the moist caking her gob, “let me in, don't push me out.. c'mon..” she coos gently, eyeballing the swallow her fingers took past your soaked lips, knuckles disappearing.

“O–ohh,” you tried to mouth ‘okay’, but the word just didn't fit the part.

“Just like that..” Ellie cools a fresh sigh, praising with a proud curl on her face, “Good fuckin’ pussy..” 

Letting go, your gut loosens and heightens the sensation of her skinny fingers bottoming soundly inside your vagina, feeling the callouses rub as they curl and tickle your angelsent spot, airing lips find purchase behind her fingers– and a pointy nose bumps your clit pervaded with purpose.

Spry is the moan, moaning over ‘spilled milk’, “Oh my g– uhnn..” woe is you, clawing phantomly at the spring that coils inside your womb, unknowingly providing Ellie's eager mouth with your precum.

The physical reality around you, suddenly only consisted of you, her, the barrier that stills your back, and a void inside you– being filled.

Literally.

And figuratively? Cause jeez, you must give sanctuary to a sin–eating, fleshoid beast inside your bone prison of a body, coming back here for seconds like that.

Might you be the dirty.. dirty dog instead?

Rivers of filth, she pumps those glossy droplets out of you, leathery scars caressing your ribbed canal with each pleasuring undo of your senses, she steals them like they are impartial to your bliss– bliss is all she needed you to feel for her. Fuck the worry, trash the heartache, yank the anxiety out, and soften into a pretty blob atop her fingers.

Her sultry blessing sitting upon those fingers, that's how she deems you– you do well to remember that. Her, willing frame of hips thrusting back down on the friction she gives, burrowing her nose a scent so naturally seducing, a pheromone, fucking elates her own throbbing pussy. Nothing sugary, nothing stomach–churning, just the taint of you. The threading of her jean's crotch was enough of a brute, bullying her egged clit by driving a split in it, flattening the fleshy hood everytime she shifted weight from knee to abdomen, poor her. 

“Huhnn– shit,” heaved grizzlier in her carp of stimulation decay, lack thereof rubbing one out herself and watching your delicate skin expand and crease. How could you blame her– her hand looked so right plugging your hole.

You suck your belly in, drawing tense on that thickset motion playing with your g–spot, whimpering, “Els’, please.. I can't..” a well floods in your waterline, searing with tears of crystalline iodine.

You really can't.

That scruffy mullet hides most of her big cranium, but, it was so fucking hot seeing the nominal stroke of her face, blushing strawberries betwixt your butter–spread legs. Her nose bobs north and south, dragging the bulb of cartilage over that nippy rosebud she happily exhales onto, pushing you over the earthly edge born of paltry touching. Ellie cognizes the slick–clear gospel that you were pending climax, manifesting as your needy bear downs into her slopping mouth practically lactating your pussy juices deep in the pit of her stomach, and the swelling of your wooed clit led on by her tongue, growing big and reddish on her nose to where it clasps the tip in a pillowy fashion, dabbing a glob of creamy sap. 

A mouthquake splutters wetness mixed with her spit across your inner–thighs abd vibrates your folds, betrothal of her voice waking back up, sourly muted, “She's– suh good.. mhphh– to me..” 

“Ellie..” you falter on breath, leavening in pitch.

“Phh–” a frothy sound garbled in your pussy lips, pushing her spit bubbles inside your gaping hole and traveling deeper with her fingering you, “makin’ this pushhy’ mine..” flubbed she, lapping up her cupid's bow of smeared sleek.

Your hole clamps her in as the pang begins to tick its patchy count of time, wearing the glass knot of your womb to a cracking, and troubling the base of her digits.

“Fuck, you wanna’ make this harder?” she sterned to the velvety rim of you locking on her triple shafts, porking webs of your pre–finish to teardrop down your walls as her palm splashes against your loch–sodden slit and mashes your g–spot repeatedly, plush of your labia bouncing in ripples. The noises were abundant, and pornographic, mushy as she fixes so much of your arousal on the pads of her fingers, hormones spiking at the lewd noises, “you hear that baby, ooh, fuck.” foxily ‘ooed’ that foxy–maned girl, beguiled in how your pussy spurts for her.

It wept in slaps, eliciting a palping squelch to bang, bang– bang– pound, brandishing a chilly tempest through and through your bloating labia, quivering as it readies to release. The stuffing was intimate– like a punch inside your spirit, coaxing the fragile glass to a rend, ergo, pushing out every lash of pure lucid squirt.

On the beat of your hole gushing, yelps batting you shut in the plain intensity such an orgasm brought forth, tore Ellie from simply just watching– to drinking every drop. Her voice, dusky in the backdrop of your wails sounded, “Yes– yess, babe fuckk that's it.. mhm, all over my fuckin–” her words wane as her lips clock in, a sudden rush of void fleets with her fingers sheathing out, drawing a long lubricous bunch of webbing only to be nourished in the warmth of her mouth– pursing into your labia and shaking about as you squirt.

Ellie has no shame in getting soiled of you, even the devil himself blushed at the linkness of her mid–face pancaking your lissom skin apart, spewing you wide.

“Ah! Nuh– nonono, t'much, too– uhhnn..” your throat fails you, clumping wads of words that wanted to breach, but her mouth was too good, and it's fucking obvious that she wouldn't stop, not when she can have you like this, bucking onto her flat tongue. Sinfully good, disgusting in the rawest fashion, making your crotch burn with ecstasy more than it already did.

Water upon the push of her mouth, blowing in and slopping noisily at the meat of your pussy lost it's carry to your ears. A biome of shadow, veils your vision and a pressure rains less than tender between your eyes, blurring everything before you, ebbing the grasp of your skirt to an impossible job, hands ashake. All you could gauge above the hood was fiery sweat, hot, steaming– taunting sweat, licking at your forehead.

Her nose headbutts into your vagina, slinking languidly as her head finally smacks off your numb folds, laughing, “Holy fuck– y'taste so good,” the air windy to your soaked entrance, convulsing in front of her barren eye, “shoulda’ let me lick you sooner.”

Huff, and puff, until the binds of your chest blow down, sprouting with an entire current of air, panting more than dramatic as you dwindle down like a bird's plume, “Too.. huh– haah, bad.”

A new kiss is savored to your clit, absorbing the snift her snort gave, “Haha– yeah yeah, n'you liked it, don't lie.”

No lie was home to call. You’ve a truthful virtuality.

You truly did like it, love it, cave obsession over that moment– for now it passes, and not a peck of guilt ran prickly on your arm hairs, saving your gullet free of a stony gulp. No crows died in the revelation of your scandal, only doves, encirclement in a trance chirping nuptials to be had.

I really do love you, Ellie.

Is that so bad?

“I can’t catch my– oof,” you grab sudden air with your fructifying lungs, “–can’t catch my fuckin’ breath.” and the struggle was visible, muscles like puppet strings to your fingers losing proper grasp and billowing the skirt plop on her head.

The rotund shape of it wiggles from the draping hem, continuing to laugh when her wet–handed fingertips poked thin on your ankle, bulging on both sides as she drew your panties back up all the way, slithering under your skirt’s canopy and stretching the band to a snap on your hips, skin tiding, jerking you off warning, which for sure winded the breath back in ya.

“Sheesh, no care for my panties at all?” remarked you of fun wit, gliding your thumb apart to rub the bend of your hip crest.

“You literally ruined them before–”

“And whose fault is that?” you winched from the barn wall and met pupil–to–pupil with her rising figure, revealing how slick–fucked her face really is, glossing with evidence of your cunt.

“Mine..” proudly, guilt was basal to her tone, nonexistent, inching closer to you with a slight wobble swaying on her heels.

You hark the crunch of gravel below, but keep your gaze airborne, Ellie–borne, “Exactly.”

“Cause m'hot?”

“No,” you rock your head, evil smirk deepening the corners of your lips to your gums, “that's a dumb question.”

Her arms begin to slink at fore, elbows chafing her flank, “Wow, stole my line.”

“Still dumb.” you pinch the neckline of her tank, straining it up to wipe her mouth clean.

“Coulda’ just used my hand.” she still does, the dork, purging any excess to the hill of her bent wrist.

You scrunch your nose fakely, “Uck,” and express, mumbling, “Bring a rag next time.” 

Her hands then drop, creeping towards your sides, “Didn't think we were gonna–”

“Liar.”

Those strapping hands bend with wrinkles in her knuckles as they plant pleasantly on your hips, fingernails curling with lustier keys, tugging you plane on her body, “You're so fucking cute,” is all she could say, because there was no stem of denial baying for a different answer,

Doing this was always lingering a tail on her thoughts.

“And such a bitch, fuuck– want you so bad,” complained she, pushing the last of her grizzled groans past her blood–swell lips, which now dive in the sweaty nook of your swan neck– bespattering the sensitivity, “–need y’so bad..”

You comb a paw of fingers through her honey–cresten mane, dividing strands apart and giving a fond press to her scalp, whispering upon her pale–rosen ear, “Then have me–”

“I can’t,” her crumbled lips fail to cling, dragging dry beneath your ear, “I fucking can’t.” wearily said, wearing her voice to nothing.

Infidelity.

Wasn't nice at all, on both sidewalks.

A purer bid of tears wet her cheek, drenching into the flesh of your neck as she pushes into you, holding you dear, vast afar from intentions to let go.

“I know..” was a rare comfort, and wasn't one to you right now– for plucking that apple, ripped you of innocence. A blind eye you turn when sensuality is awake. Enrapture chokes your senses, sweeps you in the moment, clouds your memory of those ugly, nasty etceteras– those facets that deplore it. Even now, when Ellie collapses weight onto her ankles, pressing you into that same wall you saw heaven on, touching heartbeats incandescent for each other's total consumption, weeping wet on your bare shoulder– it hurts, aches you to say, “But I don't want to know.”

Clutch of your neckline, she bruises her knuckles tight in it, spiteful almost– gagging on tears that roll the wrong road, “Guh– fucking hell, don't say that..” 

“Ellie, it's–”

“Don't.”

“Not your fault.” you flap your fingers up, palm still glued, patting her head.

She doesn't belong to you.

Yet you act like she does.

Pity.

A sniffle is the intake of air you feel before her nose skims off, craning her neck to an angle where she can gaze adjacent to your cheek, for beholding may prove a demise. But she can't forgo this one ask, this dream perched upon her brain, “Babe..” she purrs, dead of cadence.

“Hmm?” a whirl invites your nose to her cheekbone, offering you the picture of her side–profile. Oh, those lashes so dashing, they curl, darken her snow of eye, and trap tears.

Why, it's as if a rainbow overcasts those auburn reeds.

Ellie's capsized tune finds its stream back to that scratchy rasp, silkenly intoning on your earlobe, “Can you sleep with me tonight?” her buds ghost the rim, popping on the syllables.

Is that even possible? 

You debate with the figments in your mind, casting doubt over your facial muscles, knitting, “Ellie, you know–”

“I don't.”

“Els.” 

Long forked strokes of her fingers run up your jaw, scrolling you to then focus on her face cocooning your entire sight, and a husk enlaces you, “Forget about Dina,” a glimmer summons her lips to curl once again, “just tonight, fucking please?”

Fucking please.

A silence rots in the cordial space sparsely separating you, wrenching her brows with a ravine indenting between them– the serious look you love. And her hold of hands appear to deepen in your cheeks, claiming your skin as one, melting into her prints, squeezing a reply from you.

“Please?”

Odds may dote on you, think about this.

“Okay.”

(couldn't tag everyone who wanted to be)

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[neil-gaiman]

Hi Mr Gaiman! My partner and I are reading American Gods together (taking turns reading aloud) and we came across a sentence we cannot make the meaning of. If you don't mind, what did you mean by "But the conditions of transportation were such that, for some, it was easier to take the leap from the leafless and dance on nothing until the dancing was done."?

I've read American Gods before but never caught the phrase! Thanks so much!

From Farmer and Henley's Slang and its Analogues:

To mount a ladder (to bed or to rest), verb. phr. (common).—To be hanged.

1560. Nice Wanton [Dodsley, Old Plays (1874), ii. 172]. Thou boy, by the mass, ye will climb the ladder.

1573. Harman, Caveat [E. E. T. S., 1869, p. 31]. Repentance is never thought upon till they clyme three trees with a ladder.

1859. Matsell, Vocabulum, s.v. He mounted the ladder, he was hung.

English synonyms. To cut a caper upon nothing, or one's last fling; to catch, or nab, or be copped with, the stifles; to climb the stalk; to climb, or leap from the leafless, or the triple tree; to be cramped, crapped, or cropped; to cry cockles; to dance upon nothing, the Paddington frisk, in a hempen cravat, or a Newgate hornpipe without music; to fetch a Tyburn stretch; to die in one's boots or shoes, or with cotton in one's ears; to die of hempen fever or squinsy; to have a hearty choke with caper sauce for breakfast; to take a vegetable breakfast; to marry the widow; to morris (Old Cant); to trine; to tuck up; to swing; to trust; to be nubbed; to kick the wind; to kick the wind with one's heels; to kick the wind before the Hotel door; to kick away the prop; to preach at Tyburn cross; to make (or have) a Tyburn show; to wag hemp in the wind; to wear hemp, an anodyne necklace, a hempen collar, a caudle, circle, cravat, croak, garter, necktie or habeas; to wear neckweed, or St. Andrew's lace; to tie Sir Tristram's Knot; to wear a horse's nightcap or a Tyburn tippet; to come to scratch in a hanging or stretching match or bee; to ride the horse foaled of an acorn, or the three-legged mare; to be stretched, topped, scragged, or down for one's scrag.

[gabi-trollastic]

Party From Outter Space (Villain Au/Future Au)

@happyqueenandgrumpydork *At Shadow Caper lair and home, in the morning Pinecone was watching when a commercial catched his attention.* "Hey kids, do you love Rainbow Crunchy cereal from Coronel Flake? 😄😃." Pinecone:"You bet I do 😄😋." "Then what about if I tell you there's an special surprise to you in your favorite cereal?! 🫵😎😄.*