#empty biscuit tin

[mylunajewel]

Empty Metal 3D Embossed Biscuit Tin || autradingpost || eBay

[eowynstwin]

Blackbird, Fly - Four

Cowboy Gaz x mail order bride—only, not his. After exchanging letters for half a year with ranching man Hans König, you finally travel out west to marry him. - Gaz had been the only one to try and warn you. - ao3

previous

When you wake the next morning, Hans’ side of the bed is empty, the linens already cold.

As sleep leaves you in fits and starts, the aches pull you inward—glowing dull and orange like banked embers. Your whole body feels like a twisted ankle. Nothing is broken, exactly, but every muscle feels as if it’s been pulled in a direction God never quite intended it to move.

Your shoulders. The meat of your thighs. Your hips.

The entrance to your womb.

It isn’t the knife-sharp pain from before. Only the muted, persistent throb of a wound left alone to heal. In the cottony space between sleep and waking, you think there should be more damage—for all of what happened last night. And yet, there isn’t.

Still, you don’t move when your eyes finally open. Stillness seems the only defense against the bare truth of the gray morning.

Your husband used you hard on your wedding night, and did not care for the pain he caused.

You are not fool enough to think your experience unique. Women talked as much as girls did. Your mother’s friends were wont to complain when they thought the children out of earshot: husbands who grunted and sweated over them in the night, often without uttering a word. Sometimes not even waiting for the pain of childbirth to subside before claiming their marital due.

You just had come to believe, with every letter that arrived, that your fate would be different.

But it turns out none of this is a dream after all.

Your throat closes, then. Tears prick hot in the corners of your eyes.

Stupid, stupid girl.

You swallow hard. Sit up away from the pillows, even as the aches flare in protest.

Beside you, where your husband slept, there’s a noticeable dip in the mattress. Worn in over years of slumber, and you, you suppose, on Anna’s side of the bed.

Was Hans kind to her too, before?

Abruptly you swing your legs out from the linens, and go to find one of the dresses you brought along from home.

The house is empty when you descend the stairs, as far as you can tell. You hear the steady tick, tock of a grandfather clock somewhere in the sitting room that you hadn’t noticed yesterday, in all of the commotion of the wedding preparations. The floorboards creak beneath your feet as your grumbling stomach leads you along to the kitchen.

The space is as modern and well-appointed as the rest of the house, and bigger than any kitchen you ever imagined needed to be. A cast-iron wood stove with four burners and a large oven, a sink with a pump right there by the basin, and—you nearly stop dead at the luxury—an ice box, right there beside one long counter.

You momentarily forget the troubles of the night, crouching beside the little box in fascination. A cloud of cool fog descends when you swing open the door; you brush the tips of your fingers across the huge block of ice on the top shelf, jerking them away when the cold unexpectedly burns. Not once in your life have you ever seen so much ice in one place.

On the lower shelf, you find cuts of pork and beef, wrapped in brown butcher’s paper and tied with string. Bacon for breakfast, then, and biscuits if you can find flour. Your mother always said that a difficult thing was easier after having a meal.

You find the larder stocked with further luxury. Nowhere are the home-jarred goods that would populate your family’s pantry, garden-grown vegetables pickled in vinegar or hand-pressed jams fresh from the blackberry bushes along the road. Instead you find rows and rows of cans, factory-sealed tins of manufactured uniformity, colorfully labeled and containing everything you might have ever thought to grow yourself and more.

Beans of every variety. Corn. Carrots. Peas. Beets. Tomatoes.

How much must all this have cost? So many, and lined up deep into the back of the larder. You and Hans couldn’t possible eat them all before some of them began to spoil. Of course, if he could afford to buy so much, maybe that didn’t matter.

You find the flour, and baking powder as well. Breakfast is a quick affair after that, and thankfully so, as your stomach really begins to complain as soon as the food is ready.

There’s a small table in the kitchen—yet more luxury, you think, remembering the long dining table you saw yesterday—and it’s there you sit down to solve your hunger.

The hard wooden chair is not kind to the ache between your legs.

You bite into the bacon, crunching it to pieces. There—it’s all right. You have your breakfast. Isn’t that something to be grateful for? Breakfast, and a nice stove, and an ice box, and a kitchen so stuffed with food that you can’t imagine ever running out.

Isn’t this what a loving husband provides? A good home, for his wife to live comfortably in? Pretty dresses, like the one he gave to you last night? A nice ring on your finger—the little gem glittering in the sunlight streaming in through the kitchen window?

Hans loves you. Of course. This is love.

You bite into one biscuit, hot and steaming from the pan and burning your tongue. Your mother can make them better, but you tried the best you could to follow the recipe she taught you.

The front door opens outside of the kitchen. Something quick and sharp travels up your spine. Heavy boots step inside—your husband, come looking for you—you freeze without realizing it, holding half-chewed food in your mouth—

“Mrs. König?” calls Kate Laswell, the foreman, and you relax.

“In here,” you call, after swallowing.

Laswell enters the kitchen, and turns to you, at the table. She’s dressed in mens’ clothes, dusty trousers and a heavy jacket over a button-up shirt, and a wide-brimmed hat still on her head. She looks like she’s dressed to travel.

“I’m afraid I can’t show you the accounts today, like I said I would,” she tells you, no preamble, no pleasantries.

You remember then your brief conversation with her the previous night—and Hans’ disapproval at the idea.

You set down your biscuit. “Good morning, Miss Laswell. Why not?”

“I’m going over to visit the Vargas place. We’ve been working on a leasing deal. I’ll explain when I get back.”

“Of course,” you say. “Would—” you clear your throat, embarrassed— “Would you know where my husband might be?”

The lines of Laswell’s face tighten. She has a severe look to her that you think is always present—ranch work must harden anyone, man or woman—but there is no wedding happening around you now to distract you from the unmistakable displeasure on her face.

“Last I saw he was out with the herd,” she says shortly. “Anyway, I’ll be gone for a few days. The ledger is in the cabinet by the desk. Take a look at it if you find the time.”

She tips her hat to you before you can figure out how to respond—some part of you bristles at being given orders by someone who is now, ostensibly, your employee—and leaves the kitchen. You scramble to follow her, and catch her when she’s nearly out the door.

“Miss Laswell,” you call, “is Hans—is my husband—”

You’re not very sure what you intended to ask her, before you began the question. Nor, you realize, do you think she could answer honestly, if you asked her what you really wanted to know. It wouldn’t be her place, and it would be inappropriate of you to ask.

If you could actually work up the courage to approach it.

So you settle for, “Is my husband angry with me?”

She stops, and blinks at you. You see her look you up and down, briefly, but when she meets your eyes her expression is impossible to read.

“I have no idea,” she says, and her tone betrays nothing. “Gaz wants to see you in the stables when you have a moment today. Ma’am.”

She nods farewell at you and leaves.

The steady ticking of the grandfather clock punctuates the end of the odd exchange. Disoriented, you return to the kitchen to clear away the remnants of your breakfast, flushing in confusion.

Do you really want this?

His question rings now in your ears. Along with it come memories of the previous night. The Madame’s odd interest in you. The store owner Miss Boucher’s sidelong glance at Hans. Myriad other quirks of the brow or mouth that you only now grasp the meaning of.

Everyone knew, somehow, what was coming. Everyone except you.

And Gaz had been the only one to try and warn you.

You tug on a shawl as you step out onto the front porch, breathing in the mountain air. The morning chill hasn’t yet burned off, and the sky has yet to gain its full color. Across the clearing, Kyle Garrick is at work in the stable’s corral.

He holds one end of a long lead, attached at the other to the bridle of a red-brown horse, which trots in a wide circle around him. Occasionally, with the lunge-whip he holds in his free hand, Gaz taps the horse’s hindquarters, redirecting it patiently whenever it tries to move inward or otherwise deviate from its orbit.

Horses are scared creatures, Miss, I don’t know if you know this, Hans had written. You must be gentle when you train them, or destine them to a lifetime of anxiety.

When you approach, the horse’s attention briefly turns toward you, but Gaz taps it again and it goes back into its pacing. You have a moment to admire the long line of the cowboy’s body, the focused angles of his shoulders and hips, before he addresses you, sensing your presence without having to turn and look at you.

“Good morning, miss,” he says. “Did you sleep well?”

“Yes, thank you,” you say. It feels dishonest, even if it isn’t a lie. “Good morning, Mr. Garrick.”

The horse makes its way past you, and then Gaz brings it to a stop. He winds up the lead in one hand and makes his way over to you, meeting you where you stand by the corral fence.

You can’t help but notice how handsome he looks in the light of late morning. The serious expression on his face is the same one he’d worn the day before; you suspect it’s his natural disposition.

You remember the brief smile he’d shown you last night, before Hans had taken you away, and your cheeks warm despite yourself.

“I thought I might introduce you to the horses today,” he says. “If you’ve got the time, that is.”

“Oh,” you gasp, suddenly eager, “Please! I’ve been looking forward to it ever since Hans proposed! I told him about the two old nags we had on our farm, to pull our wagon, and he said—”

We must get you on a proper horse, then, to show you the true pleasure riding may offer.

You stop mid-sentence. Something about what Hans had written rings in your memory now with a different note. It seems…mocking, almost. Imbued purposefully with a meaning intended to escape you, given you had not the experience enough to catch it.

Shame blooms painfully behind your breastbone.

“…He mentioned he’d bring me to meet them,” you say lamely.

The smile Gaz gives you doesn’t reach his eyes. “He’s very busy, or I suppose he would be today.”

“I suppose,” you echo.

Gaz inhales deeply, and then he gestures to the red-brown horse. “Well—this here is Newt. I’ve been getting him used to the bridle today.”

“Hello, Newt,” you say to the horse. You reach a hand out, briefly, but then pull it back; your instinct is to let the horse get your scent, like you might with a farm dog, but you don’t know if you should. Your father had always handled the nags.

Gaz notices, and brings one big hand to Newt’s long face, squeezing the arch of his muzzle. The horse’s eyes droop in obvious pleasure.

“He’s a big baby,” says Gaz, expression gentling. “I’m trying to see if he’ll make a good cutter, but it’s too early to tell.”

You reach out again. Newt’s velvety nostrils flare as he inhales, and then his hot breath bathes your hand and wrist. You suppose you have his approval, because Newt simply works his teeth a little and makes no indication of displeasure.

“A cutter?”

“Yeah. The kind of horse that can cut a steer out from the herd so you can drive it someplace else,” Gaz explains. “Horses either got cow-sense, or they don’t. Here, come around inside and I’ll show you the rest.”

Long Mask Ranch, Hans had written, built its reputation on the quality of its quarter horses. In the early days of its inception, his father had struck an extremely lucrative deal providing the US Army with its cavalry mounts, which had turned out to be a perfect way for the ranch’s reputation to spread. Even after the army mostly withdrew from the region, every state in the surrounding countryside knew: if you wanted good horses, you went to Long Mask.

“These are the yearlings,” Gaz explains as he leads you through the stable. “Just now we’re getting them trained to follow directions. Won’t be riding ‘em for a couple years yet.”

He puts Newt away and beckons you to follow. In the neighboring stall, one of the horses pokes its head out over the gate. It’s a light-colored colt, yellowish in the body and white-maned.

“This is Gus,” Gaz says, scratching its fuzzy chin. “He’s a big flirt, yeah, aren’t you, boy?”

You also reach out to give Gus a pat, and the colt chuffs and butts his nose into your hand, proving Gaz’s accusation. You can’t help giggling a little.

When another horse across the building snorts, Gaz chuckles, and leads you in the direction of the noise. “Ah, yeah, and that’s Woodrow. Him and Gus are always goin’ at it, but you won’t ever see better friends.”

Woodrow is dark gray horse with a distinctly unamused face. He accepts a pat on the forehead with what you can only describe as resigned patience. Gaz feeds him a sugar cube from one pocket for his trouble.

He takes you further along down the line of stalls. You meet a spirited filly named Elmira, and a colt beside her named July whose love for her is unrequited.

“We’ve already gelded him, so it wouldn’t matter much anyway,” Gaz relates.

He speaks fondly of every horse as you meet them, with the familiarity of long days working beside each of them. It relaxes him, you realize, to speak of them—the hard set of his expression has softened, the serious line of his brows eased from their iron setting.

It makes him look—not younger, you decide, but properly his age. A cowboy just beginning the best years of his career, still hale and fit enough to meet the rough demands of the job, but with enough experience under his belt to confront any challenge with confidence.

Such confidence is obvious in the way he moves. He walks loose and easy through the stable, his every step as assured as the sunrise the next morning. The line of his broad shoulders, the swooping curve of his back—they tell you at a mere glance that home is in this place, working with these creatures, and there could be nothing more Kyle Garrick might long for besides.

Envy twists your intestines around its fingers. There’s an empty space inside of you that you’d been expecting, as your wedding vows had finally taken flight, to fill with that same feeling.

At the end of the stable, in a stall in the back corner, a horse pokes its head out over the gate. It’s bigger than the yearlings, with a pale face and a dark, gray muzzle. It looks right at you, with such a clear focus that it startles you.

“Ah,” says Gaz, when he sees. “Was wondering if she’d notice us.”

“She?”

He nods. “A mare. She’s…difficult.”

The mare stares at you, with deep, night-black eyes.

“What do you mean?” you ask.

Gaz works his lips over his teeth. “Mr. König bought her last year off another rancher who was ‘bout fit to shoot her. She’s a thoroughbred, and she ain’t never met a white man she likes. As like to buck a man off as to let him ride.”

“Oh,” you say.

Gaz leans against the wall between two stalls. “Mr. König thought he might be able to break her. So far she hasn’t gotten him off her, but she won’t let him come near without putting up a fight. I’m the only one can saddle ‘er.”

You frown. “Why would he ride a horse that doesn’t want to be ridden?”

At that, Gaz’s eyes go cold. Shockingly cold, like an empty winter’s night. “Suppose he just likes taking what he wants, I guess.”

You should reprimand him. You know it immediately. It’s no way to talk about his employer, and certainly nothing he should ever say in front of you, his employer’s wife.

But you remember the blood, and still feel the ache. You have to look away from him, ashamed. Embarrassed.

You cannot defend your husband, and he must know it.

“I imagine he must know what he’s about,” you mumble.

Gaz gives a derisive snort. “I don’t know about that. He’s of a mind to start with thoroughbreds, but she will not let him breed her. Damn near killed every stallion he’s brought her to try.”

It hits you so sharply that you inhale with sudden pain, pressure knifing at your eyes. You turn away from Gaz entirely now, pressing your hands to your chest. Every ache from the night previous ricochets around inside you again, knocking all the way down into your bones.

You tip your head upward, as if it will prevent the gathering tears from falling. What’s worse, Gaz puts a hand on your shoulder behind you. You flinch at the touch, hips aching where Hans had bruised them in his grip.

“I’m sorry, Miss,” Gaz says softly. He sounds like he means it. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

He knows exactly what ails you. And why wouldn’t he? He’s known his employer for years. He’s worked this ranch for longer than you’ve even known of its existence.

He knew the previous Mrs. König, who first endured Hans’ attentions.

You are a terrible fool, and you are the last to know it.

He doesn’t remove his hand as you tremble. He squeezes you gently, the same caress he’d given to the young colt Newt. It is so kind that it nearly breaks you.

“Here,” Gaz murmurs, “let’s see something.”

You turn back to him; he takes your hand, and leads you to the back of the stable. The mare follows the two of you with her eyes, expression unchanging as you approach her.

Closer now, she is a stunning creature. You’ve never seen anything like her. Her coat is silvery-gray, with darker patterns all over her body, like ink absorbed into paper and then laid beneath a light rain. Her legs and mane are the same dark color as her muzzle, and there is a deep intelligence in her eyes as she beholds you.

“You might be the first woman she’s ever seen up close,” Gaz says.

He takes up a position behind you, and turns your hand over in his, opening your fingers. Then, slowly, so the horse can see it, he brings them to her face, pressing your fingertips to the soft whorl on her forehead.

The mare’s eyes do not leave you. She exhales a little through relaxed nostrils, chuffing, flicking her ears toward you. You play with the starburst of pale hair, following the direction it grows; her lids, heavy with thick, black lashes, drop a little.

“I’ll be,” Gaz murmurs behind you. “I think she might like you, miss.”

A loud BANG claps against the wall on the other end of the stable, and the mare jerks her head immediately, flinging your hand away. She grunts, snorts, and dances away from the gate, shaking her head, eyes flaring wide.

You and Gaz both look to the commotion—

Your husband stands in the open doorway, cast in a dark silhouette by the late morning light.

“Just what the hell are you doing?”

-

next

a/n: the horses' names are all references to characters in my favorite western, Lonesome Dove by Larry McMurtry.

[octaneink]

Only the memories

Will Lenney x Fem!Reader

Next part: Confessions Summary : The reader looses something important, will she find it again? Warnings : mentioned death of a relative Notes : I don't know if I cooked? Writing this was hard because I kept crying and getting distracted. I feel like this could be better, but I don't know how to improve it?

Standing at the edge of the airport help desk, you look around in utter exhaustion. You have just been on an eighteen-hour non-stop flight with your carry-on and luggage. The densely populated terminal is a blur of non-stop new faces and continual movement, but all you can think about is finding your belongings and getting some much-needed rest.

You turn your head to look, catching movement in the corner of your eye as someone in a uniform walks up to you, “Good evening. I'm Sarah from Heathrow's baggage services.” She offers a sympathetic smile, but her eyes convey a hint of concern.

“I'm really sorry, but we have a situation with your luggage,” Sarah continues, her voice gentle. “Your bag did make it back to Heathrow, but,” she pauses, looking away briefly then back to you, “it appears to have gone missing from our facility. We've checked all possible locations, but we haven't been able to locate it.”

You feel a knot form in your stomach. “So it's just,” you gesture helplessly, “gone?” you ask, trying to keep your voice steady. You can feel the burn start behind your itchy, red-from-lack-of-sleep eyes. You blink back the tears.

Sarah nods, “I really do apologise for this inconvenience. We are conducting a thorough search and will do everything we can to find it. In the meantime, we'll assist you with any immediate needs and offer compensation for the lost items. Please come with me to our office so we can start the process and provide further support.”

She gestures behind you, into an unassuming door, leading you away from the chaos of the terminal, her assurances doing little to curb the panic you feel.

You read through the short paperwork, filling in your name, contact details, home address, and describing the bag and its contents. After visiting your home country, you had packed everything you wanted to remember into that one suitcase, including a small, metal biscuit tin filled with pictures of your grandparents and parents who had passed away during the pandemic. It was the last physical thing you had to your family, and now it was gone.

Lost in London Heathrow.

The longer you stay at the airport, the more you feel like its honest-to-god hell on Earth. Once that is all done, you manage to find your way back to your flat. Empty-handed and with a deep pit in your chest. Putting the key into the lock, you turn it, kick off your shoes, lock the door behind you, then head to your bedroom, where you face-plant on your bed.

You take a deep breath. Allow the dam to break. Then, sobbing uncontrollably, you turn to your side and hug yourself.

You allow yourself to do the most painful thing at that point—remember.

Four years have flown by since you lost your luggage at London Heathrow. Now, you find yourself on the set of WillNE's YouTube channel, three years in. The job brings you lots of laughter, chaos, and friendships with people you’d never thought you’d have. It has created a comforting pattern that you’ve grown to love.

Today, Will hired a set in London for two days. The set—from a certain point onwards—has white floors, walls, and ceilings. You are the first one on set, accepting the pallets that hold the luggage, and going inside to set up the temporary tables and cameras needed for the shoot.

First order of operation, you set out a line of slippers on the white floors for everyone, slip on a pair, and put your headset on. Head bopping and mouthing to the songs blaring in your headphones, you start to set up the tables, chairs and lay out the microphones for the shot. Leaving the cameras for Ieuan when he got there.

You then slip your shoes back on and start the task of setting up the one hundred luggage, it was a slow process, moving the luggage into the set, slowly creating a pile. Roughly quarter the way through, you stare at your sock clad feet and wonder if there was an easier way of doing this and hear the sound of the door opening. Ieuan, Will, Mikey, and James had arrived talking amongst themselves as they enter. 

You looked up after placing down the luggage you had in hand, and managed to catch the sight of the door close. “Mornin’ lads!” you greeted with an enthusiastic smile. 

“Morning!” the three greeted back, though Will had more enthusiasm, causing the two guys beside him to share a smile over Will’s head.

“I see you’ve started,” Will said, walking over to you on the carpet, then stopped as you waved your hand back and forth in a ‘no, no’ motion. 

“Shoes off on the white mister.” you said, pointing to your own shoe-less feet. 

His eyebrows scrunched together in confusion and James asked, “Have you been putting your shoes on and off when you stack the luggage in a pile?” you raised a brow at his sassy tone.

“Yes,” you nod your head, “how else would I make sure that the floor stayed white?” 

Will laughed, setting off the other two. His laugh was a slow, easy sound that crinkled the corners of his eyes, the kind that makes your own lips twitch upwards automatically in response. And your stomach do a backflip, landing with a giddy thud against your ribs. “You could have kept your shoes on, and we could have mopped up any scruff marks after you muppet.” Your smile dropped slightly.

“Fuck, you’re right.”

They laughed louder at that. 

Will, still grinning, jumped to the white floor then back with a dramatic sigh. “Oh, the humanity!” He gestured to the floor that now has slight stuff marks from the bottom of his shoes. “My precious, white floor. It's ruined! The set’s been violated!” Will dramatically stated, then crouched down and pretended to inspect the damage. He looked up at you, his eyes soft. “You're in so much trouble.”

You rolled your eyes and smiled softly at him. James smirked and wiggled his eyebrows, the smile dropped quickly on your face, and you flipped him off. “Real mature, James.” you muttered, turning back to Will, trying to hide the blush creeping up your neck. “Don't worry, Will,” you said with a reassuring pat on his shoulder. “I'll make sure this floor is spotless by the end of the day.”

Will looked up at you, a mischievous glint in his eye. “You better. Or I'll have to deduct it from your pay.”

James butted in, hip checking you “You’re getting paid? Favouritism.” James crossed his arms, raised a brow and smirked at Will “When will we get the same treatment?”

Will let out a fake laughing, clutching his stomach. “Pay? What pay? You think I can afford to pay you guys?”

Ieuan, who left to get more luggage, looked confused. “Wait, you're not paying us?”

Will shook his head. “Absolutely not. You're here for fun, right?”

Ieuan and James exchanged a look, then burst into laughter. “Right,” Ieuan said, shaking his head. “fun.”

You cut in “Alright, we’ll discuss the lack of pay during the union later. Lets get this pile sorted then we can start the video.”

Around an hour later, everything was set up, and they were ready to film. So you make yourself scarce and sit at the table off to the side, editing a video, with your headphones on. You don’t notice Will looking at you with soft eyes throughout the shoot. His gaze was soft, endearing, tracing the lines of your face, almost as if he wanted to memorise every curve. You're too focused on your screen to realise he's not looking at you as just an employee but as something more.

The day flew by. Between sorting the opened luggage, you managed to edit one video and make a decent start on another, by seven in the evening, your stomach was growling. Then, Will broke through your concentration by clapping, the sound echoed through the set. “Great job today, everyone! I’m happy to leave things be as they are and come back to do this all over again tomorrow. Make sure to get some rest, we’ll be back here bright and early!” He said cheerfully, though his eyes, despite the smile, looked tired.

You stretched, popping your back and cracking a wide yawn. “Alright, I'm out,” you announced, packing up your things. You looked up as you swung your bag over your shoulder, catching Will's eye. He offered a smile, his gaze lingering on your face a beat longer than necessary. “See you lads tomorrow! Bye.”

“See you.” Ieuan replied.

“See you later, boss lady!” James said with a grin, giving you a playful salute. You give him a sarcastic wave, heading to the door.

Will, his voice softer, added, “Get home safe.”

You couldn't help but smile at him, a warmth spreading through you. “Thanks, Will. See you tomorrow.”

The next morning, you arrived at the set with a sense of dread. You didn’t get much sleep that night, stupidly deciding to finish the video you started to edit. You ended up sleeping around two in the morning, then awake once again at six to get ready. The white floor, now marred with a few stubborn scuff marks, seemed to mock you. You moved through the motions of cleaning it up, your energy levels significantly lower than the previous day. By the time the boys arrived, you were already starting to regret not bringing a coffee.

The day dragged on in a haze. You looked up the props and location for the next video idea, calculating the costs and setting up the KPIs on Excel, with each item added to the Excel, your eyelids felt heavier with each passing minute. You even caught yourself yawning, covering your mouth with a hand. By the time they reached the third-to-last suitcase, you were ready to sleep for a week. You rubbed your eyes, the screen of your laptop blurring before you.

“Almost done’” you muttered to yourself, smiling as you noticed to see Will watching you. He looked tired too. He raised a brow, a silent, “You okay there?”

You smiled, giving him a thumbs up and mimicked wanting to sleep. He laughed under his breath and smiled.

James approached the table, lugging a small, unassuming white suitcase. “Oh, this one's small so it's gonna be fake.” he declared, Mikey and Will nodded and watched James zip it open. Inside, nestled amongst the soft lining, lay a single fluffy blanket. “That's it?” Will asked, confused.

James furrowed his eyebrows and asked, “Wot?” Mikey, defeated from the long days of shooting, tugged at the blanket. It provided more resistance than he expected, after one last hard tug, it released. Photos erupted from the suitcase, scattering across the floor like confetti.

Will and James stared in disbelief. “What the…” Will exclaimed.

“Holy cow, it's a photo album!” Mikey yelled, pointing the go-pro to the floors of scattered pictures, the blanket still in his other hand.

James knelt down, sifting through the photos. He pulled out an A4 size envelope buried under the pile, opening it and peeking inside. He pulled the pile out and said, “Oh, it's letters.” James put it on the table, spreading it out, “It's not in English. But it looks like it's addressed to someone called,” James said your name, so you look up with a raised brow.

Mikey and Will flipped through the photos on the floor, eyes widening at each one. Childhood pictures, family gatherings, birthday celebrations. They recognised you in some photos, your younger self beaming with joy.

Will holds up a picture of you beaming, holding the blanket in the luggage with a peace sign to the camera, “Hey, isn't that you?”

They all looked up at you, but you didn’t react. Everything went still. 

You walked up to the floor with the scattered pictures, your hand trembled as you reached out to touch the photos, the reality sinking in. You knelt down, your heart pounding. It was your childhood pictures, the one you thought had been lost forever. The letters — they were from your grandparents, letters you never received. This was your luggage. Somehow, it had found its way here, to the last place you ever expected to see it again.

“What are the odds?” you whispered, your voice trembling. Your eyes filled with tears, you pick one up of the five of you, and stood up, needing a moment to compose yourself. “Excuse me for a minute.” And head out the door. 

You stumbled out of the building in the back, tears streaming down your face. You clutched the photo to your chest. You remembered this photo, taken on your fifth birthday. You remember the joy on your parents face, their laughter. You remember your grandparents, their warm hugs, their gentle voices.

You slid down against the wall, burying your face in your hands. You startle when you feel a warm hand on your shoulder, you look up. It’s Will.

He looks concerned. "Hey, are you okay?" he asks softly.

You manage a weak smile, shaking your head. “I just…” you trail off, unable to find the words.

Will doesn't press you. He sits down beside you, wrapping his arm around your shoulder, his thumb rubbed circles around the top of your shoulder, remaining silent, simply offering his presence. You take a deep breath, the sobs subsiding slightly.

“It's just…” you begin, your voice thick with emotion, “I thought I'd lost these forever. I already forgot what they sound like, I was worried I’d forget what they look like.”

Will nods understandingly. “I can imagine.”

You look at him through blurry eyes, eternally grateful for this coincidence. It would have never been given back to you if Will had never decided to do this video. You tell him about losing the luggage, about the grief and the memories, about the letters you never received, the love you never got to fully show.

When you finally finish, a comfortable silence settles between you. Will doesn't say anything, but his hand remains on your shoulder, a silent gesture of comfort. You look at him, a small smile gracing your lips. “Thank you.” you say, your voice soft.

Will smiles back, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Anytime.”

You wipe your eyes, “Go back in,” you pat his knee, “I’ll stay out a bit more.” 

Will hesitated, his eyes searching yours. "Are you sure?"

You shook your head, a small smile playing on your lips. "Yea, I think I need a few more minutes here."

He nodded, his gaze lingering on your face. "Okay. But don't be too long, you’ll get cold." He got up off the floor, and as he did, he pressed a soft kiss to your forehead. 

You blinked, surprised by his gesture. He just smiled, eyes soft, before turning and heading back inside. You watched him go, his figure disappearing back into the building. You touched your forehead, a blush creeping up your neck.

You took a deep breath, the fresh air doing wonders to clear your head. You looked at the photo in your hand, staring at it blankly.

You spent the next few minutes simply sitting there, the photo clutched in your hand. You thought about your grandparents, about the love they had shown you, the love that still lingered in these faded photographs and the faded ink of the letters. You thought about Will, his kindness, his unexpected gentleness, and the soft kiss that still lingered on your forehead.

What do we think? Do you see bits where I can improve? Also, this is the first time that I've really written dialouge, I'm not sure if it was realistic to the persons? 🤔

Also, I did end up loosing pictures of my grandparents... so this hit hard, I wish it went something like this.

[biblical-chronicles]

Sweet treat

__________________________________

where Liam bakes you summat sweet.

__________________________________

You came home earlier than usual, kicking off your shoes with a sigh, glad to finally be back. Normally, Liam would be sprawled on the couch, flipping through the telly or engage in his usual messing about, but as you stepped further inside, the living room was empty. That was strange enough on its own, but the faint noise coming from the kitchen—something clattering, followed by a sharp “Bollocks”—had you raising an eyebrow.

When you stepped inside, you froze. The kitchen was a disaster zone. Flour coated the countertops like it had been deliberately thrown rather than used for any actual purpose. A bowl sat near the sink, batter dripping sluggishly down the sides in slow, syrupy globs. Meanwhile a whisk lay abandoned on the counter, too close to the edge for comfort, as if he’d given up on it halfway through using it.

And in the middle of it all stood Liam himself.

Absolutely drenched in flour. There was a streak of it on his cheek, dusting the front of his hoodie, clinging to the ends of his hair like he’d been through some kind of baking war. He stood frozen, a mixing spoon in his hand, looking at you like a kid who’d been caught red-handed raiding the biscuit tin. You stared at him. He stared back, not moving, as if that might somehow make him invisible.

“…Right,” you said, dragging your gaze across the mess. “Do we have a toddler I wasn’t aware of? One that’s clearly taken over the kitchen?”

Liam scowled immediately, shifting where he stood, clearly preparing some kind of defensive retort. But then, just as quickly, he changed tactics entirely. Before you could react, he moved forward, grabbing you by the shoulders and turning you around in one swift motion, practically herding you out of the kitchen.

“Oi—what’re you—”

“No peeking.” he muttered, steering you straight toward the couch.

You barely had time to protest before he was plonking you down onto the cushions like a child determinedly sitting their toy somewhere specific. Then, taking a step back, he pointed a flour-covered finger at you, looking dead serious despite the streak of batter on his sleeve.

“Stay.”

You raised an eyebrow. “This is highly suspicious.”

“Yeah, well—don’t.” And with that, he turned on his heel and marched back to the kitchen, leaving you sitting there, utterly bewildered.

You shook your head, biting back a laugh. Yep. Definitely a toddler taking over the kitchen.

For the next ten minutes, you heard nothing but clattering, the sound of the oven door opening and closing, and at least two quiet curses that made you seriously question what exactly was happening in there. You considered sneaking a peek, but something about the way he had manhandled you out of the kitchen made you think he’d probably tackle you if you tried.

Then, finally—Liam reappeared.

Still dusted in flour. Still looking far too pleased with himself. But now—holding a plate.

On it sat five… well, biscuits, you supposed. Wonky, uneven, some thick, some thin, one slightly too crisp around the edges like it had barely escaped being properly burnt. And yet, Liam looked absolutely chuffed with himself, beaming as he set the plate down on the table before dropping onto the couch beside you.

As he did, a faint puff of flour ghosted into the air, leaving a small dusting on the cushion. You saw it, but he looked so proud, so pleased with himself, that you didn’t have the heart to point it out.

Instead, you just glanced at the plate, then back at him. “Go on then,” he nudged it toward you. “Try one.”

You picked up the least questionable-looking one, eyeing it for a moment before taking a small bite. Surprisingly, it wasn’t bad. A little on the chewy side, maybe, but actually decent. Definitely edible. You chewed, swallowed, then nodded. “It’s good.”

Liam shot you a look. “Why’s there surprise in your tone?”

You snorted, swallowing down another bite. “Because you’re you.”

Liam scoffed, leaning back against the couch with a smug grin. “Exactly, and that warrants greatness.”

You finished the biscuit, shaking your head with a small laugh before glancing at him. “Alright, then—what’s the occasion?”

Liam shrugged, leaning back against the couch, stretching his arm along the backrest like he hadn’t just spent the last however long absolutely destroying the kitchen. “No occasion,” he said, casual as anything. “Was flickin’ through the telly, yeah? Ended up on some moronic cookin’ channel by accident. Dunno how—one second it was the footie, next thing I know, there’s some geezer bangin’ on about ‘the perfect gift’ or whatever. Said these are the kinda biscuits you should make for someone if ya had a missus, so I thought—” He tilted his head, lips twitching. “No issue. I’ll do that.”

You blinked. Then, despite yourself, a laugh bubbled up before you could stop it. “You—” You shook your head, already moving closer, wrapping your arms around him without caring that you were about to get absolutely coated in flour. “You’re ridiculous,” you mumbled into his shoulder, squeezing him tighter. “But I love you for it.”

Liam let out a small huff, but you could feel the way he melted slightly, chin resting against the top of your head. “Yeah, yeah,” he grumbled, but there was something softer in his tone.

You pulled back just as he grabbed one of the biscuits himself, taking a bite. He chewed, nodded in approval, then looked at you with absolute certainty. “Yeah. Perfect.”

You just shook your head again, shifting so you could lean into his side, resting your cheek against his chest. He smelled like flour and a bit of vanilla, mixed in with his usual warmth, and it was oddly comforting. His arm instinctively came around you, holding you there, and for a little while, you just stayed like that, listening to the steady rise and fall of his breathing.

Eventually, you moved to sit up—and immediately froze.

“…Are you kidding me?”

Half the biscuits were gone.

You turned your head just in time to catch Liam, mid-reach, fingers barely grazing the plate before he froze like a kid caught sneaking sweets before dinner. He blinked at you, chewing innocently.

“What?”

“What—” You gestured towards the plate. “You made those for me, and now you’re eating them all!”

Liam scoffed, sitting up straighter. “Had to entertain meself, didn’t I?”

You narrowed your eyes. “Entertain yourself?”

“Yeah! You were all snuggled up on me—nowt else to do! Couldn’t just sit here like a muppet, could I?”

You just stared at him, unimpressed. “Right. So the only logical course of action was to rob me blind?”

Liam exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. “Oh, relax—you got a bite, didn’t ya?”

You gave him a look. He grinned, entirely unapologetic.

“You’re so lucky I love you.”

He just leaned in, pressing a quick, flour-dusted kiss to your cheek before reaching for another biscuit. “Yeah, I am,” he muttered.

__________________________________

cute fluff for the Liam nation today, I would pay such a hefty sum to see that man on the great british bake-off, I just know it'd be brilliant.

hope you lot liked it xx

[cillianmurphysdimples]

A female Y/N / Cillian fanfic (Part Thirty Eight)

Absolutely not based on anything real at all, all totally fictional, fanciful and all total bollocks.

Warnings for sexual references and language. Adult themes. Not suitable for under 18s.

We Got Issues

Part Thirty Eight: Back to work after New Year, Y/N is mostly out of reach while Cillian seems to enjoy his opportunity to relax. They delight in her lunch break, but the world tilts a little by dinnertime. [Sexual scenes. Angst]

@meadowshelby @lavender-haze-01 @strangeions @borntodiemp3 @watermeezer @cherry-cilly @dragonsneversharetheirtreasure @aesthetic0cherryblossom @meister95 @vivianleighwishesshewasme

Swiftly proofread - apologies for typos.

-----------

New Year’s was a quiet affair, with a few calls around to family and friends on New Year's Eve, and a single sip of Cillian's beer for yourself at midnight. But it was happy - snuggled in together on the sofa for the countdown before falling into bed. New Year's Day was just as slow and comfortable, involving sleeping in later for once and spending the entire day in your pyjamas together, literally languishing on the sofa without a second thought to anything. All Cillian had wanted was to stuff his face with cheese, and all you'd wanted was him at your side. You both got what you wanted, though you suspected he was the happier of the two of you! And as life returned to normal on January second, with you returning to working hours, you were happy in the office just knowing that Cillian was pottering around downstairs with nothing pulling him out or away. 

On a short week - just Thursday and Friday due to the Christmas and New Year stretch - you weren't required to bank an office day, so you squirrel yourself in the office on Thursday morning at eight am, with a coffee and the tin of somehow not all eaten shortbread biscuits. You fix one earbud into your ear and immediately get the worst of your day started, in the hopes it'll be done and dusted quicker. As the recording starts playing, you tap ferociously against the keyboard to transcribe every word, winding back when you want to be sure. You're in tears before you get half way through the first recording and find yourself needing a moment to pause the audio and breathe. You're not sure if it's just your nature, as always, or if it's more hard hitting now that you're carrying your own baby, but you feel so anguished by the words uttered by the child on the tape. But you power through, restarting the audio after a five minute breather, and try to keep your focus throughout. Before you know it, you have the full audio documented and just in need of proofreading and spell checking. When you check the time, you're surprised it has reached eleven am already. Bursting for a wee, you slink down the top set of stairs and into the first floor landing, and step into the bathroom. 

As you step back out a few minutes later, you can't help the wide smile that comes to your lips. Downstairs, with music playing, Cillian is belting out ‘Nothing Compares 2 U’ in time with the late, great Sinead O'Connor. You stand at the banister for a moment, listening closely, and giggle when something evidently occurs as his singing stops abruptly and he begins muttering to himself. “Ah for fuck sake…fucking…shit!” You're tempted to go down and see what is going on, if for nothing other than the entertainment value, but you take yourself back up to the office to continue your work. When you next check on the time - after four phone calls and a string of emails - it's twelve-thirty, and you clock yourself off for your lunch break. You slowly plod down both sets of stairs and land at the bottom, empty coffee mug in hand, and smile when you're met with Cillian laid across the sofa. He's lounging gloriously - jogger bottom-clag legs stretched out, head nestled onto a throw pillow, and sleepy-looking eyes fixed on the TV that he then drags to look at you. 

“Y'alright?” He raises his eyebrows, but he doesn't sit up. 

You nod with a smile, and walk to the end of the sofa. You reach your hand down and push back his hair from his forehead. It'd made you smile when he'd returned from filming with his hair re-darkened to almost his exact shade. You'd become a huge fan of his grey locks, but you couldn't deny he looked more like your man with his hair this way. “Fine, just been on and off the phone for an hour.” You say as you draw back your hand. “Want some lunch? I was gonna make an omelette. I really want an omelette.” 

“I'll do it,” he says, tilting back his head with his chin raised high. 

“No, it's fine. Stay there, I'm up and doing it anyway.” You smile, and take your mug with you as you walk towards the kitchen. You set the mug beside the kettle - no point getting a clean one - and start pottering around the kitchen for everything you need. While nausea still lingers in your stomach, you find yourself ravenously hungry and the idea of eating is far stronger than the need to avoid food in favour of not bringing it back up. With the egg box, cheese, and spring onions laid out on the island counter, and your preferred knife and chopping board found, you begin the prep, only to be rudely interrupted by Cillian pressing his whole body up behind you. His arms instantly go around your waist, his hands to your lower stomach, and he places his chin over your left shoulder. “Hello.” 

He hums and, where his throat rests across your shoulder blade, it vibrates deeply into your body. “I want you for lunch.” He laughs at the cheesy line, but you find yourself back. “Will not do something more fun?” 

“I have an hour,” you grin, keeping your hand steady as you chop the spring onions, “and I am starving.” 

“I can feed you after,” he says as he moves his head, turning his face to lay kisses along the back of your neck. His hands move a little, wandering around your stomach and thighs. “And it doesn't need to take an hour. I've been waiting on you to come down for ages…” 

You smirk as he pushes his hips against your backside, “Oh, I can clearly tell that.” Dropping the knife down, you turn yourself in his arms and snake your arms up around the back of his neck. Face to face with him, he immediately transfers what had been neck kisses into a deep pressure kiss against your lips. Your right hand glides up into his hair at the back of his head. His hands rest firmly against your arse, keeping you pulled in close against his pelvis. It takes you by surprise when he moves his hands a little lower and lifts you, his hands under your arse cheeks, and plants you down again onto the closest stool. It takes you by surprise and you widen your eyes as he looks at you, lustful and seductive, and swipes his tongue over his bottom lip. He bends his neck and kisses you again, his right hand around your cheek whilst his left hand moves around your back. You push yourself to stand up again, and the obvious erection tenting against his joggers is alluring. Lunch is forgotten. 

You take his hand and drag him, willingly, towards the sofa. Lining him where you want him, despite this being his instigation, you push him down onto the sofa and quickly straddle over his hips. Kisses are free flowing and feverish, all huffed breaths, gasping moans into one another's mouths, and hands that wander up and down. He makes light work of removing your shirt, and your bra, and leaves you topleas across his lap before he reaches both hands up and cups them around your breasts. You hiss at the slight ache in your slowly growing boobs, but he takes a tender approach and doesn't squeeze. You move in for more kisses, grinding yourself over his erection through your clothes. He gaps into your mouth, as you wind your hips, and moves his hands from your bust to your arse, pulling you to him with considerable force. Sitting forward awkwardly, he lays you into the corner of the sofa and, as he moves back, drags your leggings and knickers down and off your legs. He tosses them to the floor with your shirt and bra, and then rips his t-shirt over his head and flings it down. He reaches towards you and separates your knees, then roughly pulls his penis free of his joggers and underwear before inserting himself between your open knees. He's too eager to even get the trousers off entirely, and he awkwardly pushes them down to just below his arse, giving himself enough freedom, as he lines up hungrily, one hand gripped around his cock and the other pushing into the sofa beside your head. You reach up for his face, even as he's focusing on his aim, and pull his head up until he looks at you.

He looks up briefly, but glances back down between your bodies as he ensures he's where he wants to be. Removing his hand from his throbbing erection, he plants it on the other side of your head, into the sofa, and then slowly pushes the head of his penis in against your vagina. There's a small sting, but a second later he's gliding all the way in without a moment's discomfort. He groans into your face, mouth wide open, as he slides up into you and you can feel every pulse and slip of him as he works in deep. His balls are tight and warm as they meet your skin before he begins to slowly move his entire body - not his hips, he wants it deep not fast. Your arms wrap around him instinctively, one hand up against the back of his head and into his hair the other gripped around his back, fingers trying to get purchase against his slowly moistening skin. You lift your head enough to steal a kiss against his gaped mouth, planting your lips against his bottom lip. As horny as you've been, you can tell he's enjoying himself way more as he continues to move his entire body against yours, pushing his hard cock as deeply as he can, moaning softly with each thrust forwards. He moves quicker, but still ensues he gets what he wants, and the intense feeling of feeling him so fully within you is intoxicating. The movements of his body above yours ebb you to the edge of orgasm and you try once again to grip at his back as you spams through the throbs your walls emit, easily drawing Cillian to his own high-pitched moaning orgasm. He pushes deeply into you, and his chest grazes against your hard nipple as he holds his position, his cock twitching as it spills and his mouth pressed hard into the centre of your brows where he lays his moans. 

The hot, heavy breath he blows into your face makes you chuckle, and you move your fingers through his hair as he moves back slightly, extracting himself from inside of you, and lays his head between your breasts without applying too much weight against your body. Still, your hand in his hair and you soothe him as his body settles. He hums and sighs, puffing air from his nose against your chest. “You okay?” You ask, chuckling again lightly. 

He nods his head where he lays, “Um huh.” You can feel the movement of his cheek and know that he's smiling. “Told you it didn't need to take an hour.” He giggles, and you laugh as you tap your hand against his head. 

“Ugh, get up you big bugger. You're hurting me.” You tease.

“Couldn't have said that when I was actually inside you?” He laughs once again and tut, shaking your head, as he awkwardly manoeuvres himself up. He stands beside you as you lay there naked, and tuck himself away into his boxershorts before pulling his jogger bottoms back up. He bends to the floor and lovingly picks up your clothes before dropping them, grinning brightly, onto your tummy. He pulls his t-shirt on quickly stands still, looking at you with sleepy eyes. “Still hungry?” He asks, planting his hands on his hips. 

Sitting up slowly, clutching your clothes, you nod your head. “Fucking starving.” 

He scoffs, “Right, stay there then. I'll make you your omelette.” 

It's a little later than usual when you finish up work for the day, and you tramp noisily down the stairs at close to six pm when a particularly long call is finally over. You're surprised not to find Cillian sprawled out on the sofa, and smile when you see him in the kitchen, midway through making dinner. “Oh, Jamie Oliver, is it?” You laugh. “Then why aren't you naked?” 

From his spot at the counter, dragging open the sealed package around a piece of salmon, he looks up at you with a smirk, “Ah no, sure I'm more of a Gordon Ramsay.” He raises his eyebrows before he looks back down. 

“Certainly swear like him.” You tease as you approach. You linger back a little, not wanting to be hit by the smell from the fish. “Had a fun afternoon?” Without him looking up you can see he pulls a face. “What's wrong?” You press. 

He sighs as he drops the salmon steak down against a waiting grill pan, then turns to face you. “I'd a call from Yvonne there, around an hour ago.” He says, holding his hands at an awkward angle to avoid touching anything after touching the raw fish. 

You find yourself instantly frowning sympathetically. “They got engaged?” You ask gently. 

He nods his head slowly, “Yeah - they got engaged.” 

“And even though we talked about it, the reality still makes you think about what that means?” You say, and once again he nods his head. “He isn't going to be their parent all of a sudden, Cill. Or start having a say in their whole lives. Day to day, yeah okay, maybe he'll have household choices along with Yvonne, but you are their father. And no matter who she marries, or what she does, that'll always be the case. It's exactly the same in the reverse, too. I'll never be their mother, never take anything away from Yvonne just because it's you and me here.” 

“Rationally, I know that. And I am happy for her, I said that. I'm glad she's found someone and it's got this far for her. I am. Just the thoughts of someone else living fully with the lads…” he sighs and sniffs. 

“They're not tiny anymore, Love, and they understand all these changes. Like Malachy said, it is weird but it's the family that exists now. Those boys love you, and you won't be replaced or pushed out.” You hope you sound reassuring. He walks over to the sink slowly and awkwardly turns on the tap so he can wash his hands. “It is just the boys?” You ask, as you give in to the anxious flutter in your chest. “It's not that it's her actually getting engaged?” 

He turns his head over his shoulder with a frown. “What are you asking that for?” 

“Because this is a big reaction to an ex-wife’s engagement for the man whose own life currently involves a pregnancy with his girlfriend.” You say as you shrug your shoulders. 

He shakes his head and scoffs as he looks back at the sink. When he turns off the tap, and grabs the dish towel to dry his hands, he turns back around to you fully and you can see he's been hit by your words. He shakes his head again, and his mouth bobs open like he can't find the words. Dropping the dish towel, he holds out his right arm and points his index finger at you, “You just can't accept that there has been nothing there, beyond the respect she deserves as the mother of my boys, since I met you. Can you? For fuck sake, Y/N! There is nothing in it like that. At all. Hasn't been for fucking years. Don't be pushing your fucking anxieties and-and the guilt that you feel down my fucking throat whenever I have a valid concern that just happens to involve her.” His anger is up quickly and you find yourself equal parts having expected it, and shocked by it. “You go around and around in your own fucking head all the time, and then I'm expected to fucking keep up and know the difference between what's actually happening, and what you're after dreaming up. I can't keep up, Y/N! I can't! It's fucking exhausting.” 

You frown deeply, “Cillian, I…?” You stammer. 

“What? You're gonna say that that isn't what you meant? You're only after fucking saying it, boy!” He holds his arms out at his sides. “Will you fucking listen when I say this - there is nothing with that woman that I want. Nothing. She's the mother of my sons, and I can't and won't pretend that that isn't important. But beyond that, Y/N, there is fucking nothing. Right? Are fucking getting this?” His temper raises his voice once again, “I don't want her, in any fucking capacity. Hmm? You and me, and that baby, and Malachy and Aran are what is important to me. So get it into your fucking head - I can't have this fucking row every time you feel threatened by a woman you barely fucking see. Just because we fucked around before, it doesn't mean I'm doing it now. Yeah? Got it? Me being worried about my boys lives doesn't equate to me being fucked off she's marrying some jumped up prick out of jealousy of it. So just fucking stop!” He thrusts his right hand out again angrily as he storms away, past you, and up the stairs. “Fuck the fucking dinner.” 

You turn, a little dumbstruck, and watch him walking away, banging up the stairs. “Cillian…? Hey?” You call out, shaking your head, but as you expect him to, he just ignores you. A moment later, you hear the bedroom door slam shut. You sigh out a heavy breath, and glance around you at the empty space all around. How the fuck did that happen? 

[armyvulcan]

emmrich and rook figuring out their routines together, learning to finish each other’s sentences

an object in motion, stays in motion. emmrich applies this practice to his mortal flesh most ardently, and maintains his physique with mindful movements, and calisthenics. rook, rubbing sleep away from her eyes one morning, is stricken with simultaneous shock, and arousal to find emmrich, clothed only from the waist down, his feet and toes pointed at the ceiling while his forearms balance his body upright. slowly, his hair sweeps against the floorboards as his arms bend and snap in fluid motion, calm waters steady

rook has an insatiable sweet tooth. decadent chocolate wrappers, empty pie tins, and crumbs of shortbread and biscuits are easy directions to her current location. emmrich makes it gospel when he returns from the necropolis to have a bagful of candied sage leaves, her newest obsession.

rook has a… colorful vocabulary, emmrich says. therefore, it only makes perfect sense for her to have a wretched notoriety of snoring. enough to have their colleagues rolling their eyes in the conservatory, spite and manfred having perfected their impersonations. emmrich’s just now able to drown out the noise while he’s reading.

to refuel the brain, and rejuvenate the soul, one must be diligent in scheduling their naps. it is, however, bastardly criminal to take three twenty-nine minute naps daily. rook doesn’t take naps, rook takes sleeps. she settles on enjoying the silence, watching his chest rise and fall in seconds-long intervals.

[shadowuserannie]

Accidental Brother-Sorry, Babysitter-Acquisition (Fic WIP) (Part 2)

“You know you don’t have to do this, right?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Nezha replied smoothly, skates whirring in their true form as he flitted about the area, getting it set up nicely with his true power before the others arrived. Unlit paper lanterns on strings were hung around the trees, soft blankets in the cleared area that was on the side of the cliff facing Megapolis, checking the snacks he’d brought that weren’t made of hair-

“Seriously, Ne-”

“-End that with that foolish nickname and the group will arrive to see a healing wound from a spear thrust to your mouth.”

Nezha’s back was to the simian, but he could feel the troublemaking smile.

“Nezhy, c’mon-”

Without looking, Nezha summoned his spear, split it to lotus petals, and thrust them at Wukong.

“What happened to hanging with your own family for New Years?!” Wukong yelped as he evaded them with no real effort, merely being dramatic in his movements for closer shaves. Nezha aimed more precisely-he was not tarnishing the surroundings before they could even get here.

“I am.”

There was an oof as several petals caught Wukong off guard, pinning him to the floor.

“What about your brothers? And your dad?”

“Busy.” Whenever time allowed, usually his father, mother and brothers tried to visit their poor, stuck brother/son who actually set plenty of seals long ago to be able to sneak out. Still, more eyes were on him during New Years’, that owing to celebrations being something more worthy of “leaving one’s post” for. Stupid.

Anyways, he typically got visited at least once during New Years’ with goodies brought by Muzha, but this year Jinzha had stopped by early and said apologetically that their father had decided to follow him and Muzha on an assignment that might not have them back until long after the celebrations had passed. Mother herself...well there were much better parties to attend to than an empty temple. Which was fine. Nezha saw them for New Years’ once every three years or so anyway. Missed New Years' was nothing in the overall of eternity of the Heavenly Realm.

Nezha tried his best not to leave his post during New Years’ festivities, because of the eyes, and also because paranoia meant celebrations = cover for thieves, despite the sheer amount of magic layered over his temple paranoia…was paranoia. That changed…rather recently, considering the spam habits MK and Mei had gotten into as they grew up and became larger yet somehow fonder annoyances to him.

“Still, I swear-”

“Wukong. How many New Years have you spent alone?”

“Come on, you stop by-”

“Once every few decades. For a few minutes.”

Wukong lets his head flop onto the ground. “Still unnecessary.”

“Making sure you don’t drown your sorrows in jiu for eternity, giving you tasks so you can get out of a place you’ve retired to for centuries, so the Heavens don’t impose worser tasks? Yes, definitely.” Nezha deadpanned.

Hmm. That string of lanterns was stretched too far.

Wukong made a sound that was somewhere between disbelief and teasing. “Psshh, Nezhy, I’ve seen you after cases with really bad assholes, remember? Know how long I had to spend convincing my subjects not to try what they saw you doing?”

“Why would you discourage them from following a far more responsible person?” Nezha arranged the plates carefully. Orange for MK, green for Mei, white for Pigsy, pink for Tang, blue for Sandy, gold for the irritating annoyance.

“Right, because over-steeping a dozen packets of black tea in baijiu instead of water is a fantastic example of sobriety.”

Nezha dropped the tin of almond biscuits, catching them just in time with his sash.

“That was-”

“-Most definitely not one time,” Wukong spoke with a fanged grin. “Remember when you told me about the fling with-”

“Wukong!”

The idiotic primate he would dearly love to cleave apart merely cackles at his misery. Unfortunately, he’s still the safest option when it comes to needing someone to sober him up or watch him in his drunken state, in the rare times Nezha cracks from sheer rage and brews his black tea with wine instead of water. Keyword being rare.

“…so didja bring any-”

“I refuse to kill children’s livers.”

“But yours is faiRRRAAAAA-”

“Stabbing your liver is fair game too.”

“Little shit.”

“Who’s not even five feet and uses glamours again?”

At last, with no help from the host whatsoever, Nezha finishes tidying the area and getting it ready for a small party. There are even snacks-double checked by Nezha to be safe-specifically for the monkeys, mostly consisting of fruits.

“Add any fur to this and I will chop off all 84,000 hairs on your body.”

Wukong hides the piece of fur behind his back and whistles.

“Reach for any peaches before they arrive and I will also rob your home of your peach chips.”

Wukong gasps dramatically, falling to the ground as if deeply hurt. “These accusations-”

“Are wholly true, you little-”

“Who’s calling who little-”

Nezha froze as voices definitely not quiet rose up from the foot of the mountain.

“They’re here.”

Wukong frowned at him for no reason as Nezha glamoured his Wind//Fire Wheels back to three-wheeled roller skates. He’d already dressed up before coming down to Flower Fruit Mountain, in a knee-length sleeveless red qipao and dark kuzi, no illusions needed there. His Armillary Sash was wrapped in a slightly fancier style about his arms, still and mimicking sleeves as usual. Rather than twin buns, he’d opted for a simple small one with the rest of his hair let down.

“You…ever going to tell them?”

“I’ve gone lifetimes without doing so with others, Wukong. Remember our deal.”

“Hypocrite.”

“Idiot.”

“You know that’s long gotten as ancient as you, right?”

“You-”

[benjhawkins]

Behold, the worst food I cooked this summer:

DANDYFUNK

A “dessert” made by sailors from rations of molasses and hardtack and baked until “brown and bubbly”.

George Boughton tells us the processes:

“A rough canvas bag was made into which hard ship's biscuits were placed; then we hammered the bag on the windlass until the contents were converted into what we termed flour. Next we courted the cook, offering to "wash up" for him all his greasy slushy pans, … in return for which voluntary service we secured a pinch of ground ginger, and the loan of a shallow square baking pan... We emptied the contents of the canvas bag, ... mixed this with slush purloined from the tin containing the awful stuff we used for greasing down the masts...we added a little salt water until a lovely dough resulted, when it was flattened out in the baking-pan, and placed in the oven until nicely browned.”

From Seafaring, by George Boughton, 1926

It tasted like molasses-scented sand! But I suppose after weeks of salt horse and hardtack dandyfunk would really be a treat.

[hotvampireadjacent]

Pickles is desperately sniffing through the recycling can hoping someone dropped a morsel of food in there. He’s such a nightmare.

HE JUST YANKED THE EMPTY BISCUIT TIN I THREW AWAY I HATE HIM

[easterbonnet]

Ron Weasley Headcanons

Enjoys the summer, likes warm weather

Can't cook or bake to save his life

Has a favourite pair of socks

Not one to try new foods

Appreciative of the little things

Always has empty chocolate and sweet wrappers in his pockets

Can sleep anywhere, anytime (falls asleep in an instant)

Always secretly thought he'd look cool with an earring

Has an old biscuit tin filled with chocolate frog cards

Really loves pork pies, and mince pies, and any pie really

Finds a sense of comfort in the smell and touch of knitwear

Definitely has a pair of lucky pants

Adores a warm glass of milk before bed

Snores

Boys will be boys - the ordinary boys

If he was a sandwich he'd be a sausage sandwich

Heavy handed

[wildbeautifuldamned]

Vintage Oval Tin with Lid Dutch Maid Quality Biscuit Assortment, empty ebay 71turd

[crowleystits]

I'd Like for You and I to Go Romancing

Chapter 5: Biscuits. I Think We Rather Need Biscuits

[read chapters 1, 2, 3 and 4 on tumblr]

"Care to provide any explanation?" Aziraphale questioned, before taking another sip of his delicious cup of tea.

"Not really." Crowley responded, turning away from the angel to make his way to the lounging area. Hyperactive as always, the angel thought, as he didn't seem to be able to stay in one place for more than a few minutes at the time. Aziraphale followed suit, the appreciating how the sun rays bled into the shop through the front windows, coating the dust over the old books, almost making it shine.

Crowley found his usual chair, sitting upon it as well as could be expected, long legs spread open, back slouched, nursing his tea slowly. Aziraphale joined him, on another chair of course, sitting as though a broomstick was permanently fused to his spine.

"People might look in and see you in your current... attire, my dear, don't you think you ought to change?" Aziraphale began, attempting to disguise the hint of bitter jealously his tongue seemed to ooze. How selfish he was, really, wanting this version of the demon all for himself. Angels weren't supposed to feel that way. But then again, they weren't supposed to consort and mingle with demons either, not really.

"What?" Crowley complained, facing the angel, brows furrowed in annoyance. "I'm decent."

"I didn't say that- it's just, it's not proper."

"Not prop- Angel, you really are stuck in the 1800s." Crowley continued, exasperated. "You don't like my ensemble, is it?"

No, that wasn't it at all, was it? How the black silk hugged his lanky body just right, loose enough that one just knew it was comfortable, just enough to make him look so utterly cuddlesome and endearing. The lapel of the pyjamas hung perfectly over his chest, the v-neck exposing a hint of black hairs over fair skin. He was beautiful. Not that Aziraphale hadn't noticed his beauty before. But to see him so relaxed was a beauty he had not yet had the opportunity to experience.

"I didn't say that-" The angel tried to save himself, taking a long sip of his tea. Perhaps the heat emanating from the china cup could justify the reddening of his cheeks. "You do look rather fetching."

Aziraphale could practically hear the smug grin on the other's lips after those words escaped his mouth, the silence weighing heavily in the air around them for a moment.

"Fetching, huh." Crowley responded, his usual confident self disguising almost perfectly the fervour that threatened to burst his chest open. Antiquated a term as it may perhaps be, it was music to demonic ears to hear Aziraphale confirm he thought Crowley was appealing. Angels do love all God's creations, wicked or otherwise, but this compliment seemed more genuine than it did angelic.

"I can't change out of it now. Now that I look fetching." The demon continued, a grin upon his face, sipping silently at his tea. A hint of mockery was in his voice, especially satisfied as he watched the angel squirm slightly in his chair.

"Oh, you devilish old fool." Aziraphale complained, reaching over to his left to place his empty cup upon a small side table. "Biscuits. I think we rather need biscuits."

And with that, the angel was on his feet, rushing to his small kitchen, rummaging through his cupboards to find a small, blue tin containing some exquisite little butter biscuits. Upon returning, he found Crowley was eyeing him intently, seemingly having finished his tea as well, as the cup laid by his chair on the floor. He allowed Aziraphale to sit back down and to start nibbling on a small biscuit before speaking, throwing one of his arms over the back of the chair he lounged upon, head tilted backwards so he could peer out of the window into the world outside.

"You know, I think today is a perfect day to go on a train ride. What do you think?"

"That sounds marvellous. Where would you fancy going, my dear?" Aziraphale said, excitement in his voice. He always did love trains.

"We could pop into Paris, if you like." The demon muttered, straightening his head so he could glance back at Aziraphale to gauge his reaction. "Get some crepes, see some sights."

"Oh, Crowley, that sounds wonderful." A giddy tone was evident in the angel's voice, as he placed the tin of biscuits by his empty tea cup, standing up as a way to signify he was ready to get on going. "But surely, surely you can not ride on the train like that."

"What, afraid humans will find me fetching as well, angel?" The demon mocked, lazily standing from his lounging spot.

Before Aziraphale had the chance to complain, a snap rung in the air, and Crowley was back to his usual self: tight black trousers, black shirt and leather waistcoat, a black jacket finishing it all off like some berries on a homemade cheesecake.

"Better?" The demon questioned amusedly, raising his eyebrows and placing his dark sunglasses, miraculously obtained, back over his eyes.

"Much." Aziraphale retorted with a little polite smile, adjusting his waistcoat.

"Before we go," Crowley began, taking a step towards the angel. "Close your eyes, angel."

"Whatever for?" The angel sounded confused, eyebrows bunching together but eyes closing all the same. The lack of response was about to elicit yet another complaint, but that was quickly pushed down when warm lips pushed themselves against his, threatening to make him lose his balance.

[read more chapters here]

[aurorackass]

Got another flash fiction story for you all to read. I hope you like it! This one was prompted by an image which I'll attach, which is by artist Abigail Larson

Word count: 280

Prompt:

Be Careful in the Forest

“There’s things in the forest,” the old woman said, bustling around the kitchen. “At night especially.”

I watched her fluid movements as she poured water from the kettle into two cups. Her efficient, tidy kitchen made sense now. Memory found what she needed when her empty eye sockets couldn’t.

“You wouldn’t believe the stories I’ve heard. Shadowy creatures with antlers- gods of old.” She started to load up a tray with the cups and a biscuit tin. “Have you brought gifts?”

“Gifts?”

“You have to bring gifts. Offerings. You do that, they’ll grant you safe passage. Food especially. Take some extra biscuits for them. If you don’t, they’ll take something.” A hand went to her face, a finger brushing the corner of one empty eye socket.

“Oh. I’m sorry.”

She turned and began to walk over. “Oh, don’t be. Here you go, love.” She put the tray down and sat on a groaning chair.

“Thank you.” We drank in silence. It was nice. I’m not used to that kind of quiet.

“If you must walk through the forest at night,” she said, turning and reaching for a shelf. “Take this.” Her grasping hands closed on an old-fashioned lantern and a box of matches. “Not like I need them. Some of the creatures will stay away from the light.”

I stood and took them. “Thank you, Agnes. Now, I must be off.”

“Okay dear.”

I gave her a smile she could never know about, then walked over to the door. “Agnes?”

“Yes?”

“Do not fear the forest. It will always protect you.” I pulled open the door. Ducked my head so that my antlers would clear the frame. “It is in your debt.”

I shut the door.

[riieks]

Imagine: You're Lokis best friend.

High-pitched laughter filled your ears as you watched the new king of Asgard sitting and joking with his closest friends. A smile spread across your face, considering Thor's rather childish behavior. He was overjoyed and gleamed in his limelight full of glee. He gave you a quick wave and made an inviting gesture for you to join them. But you were perfectly content in the slightly darker corner of the huge hall. The cup in your right hand was almost empty, which is why you wanted to get another helping.

Exactly at that moment you noticed the person standing only a few meters away from you. He was also in the shadows and looked grimly at what was happening before his eyes. With a sigh you plucked up courage and approached the man.

It was none other than Thor's little brother. Who preferred solitude and didn't like to admit it, but was clearly jealous of the new ruler. It had always been like this. While the blonde was taking all the credit, Loki would do anything to get even a little recognition.

However, there was someone he didn't have to make an effort to be liked by. Someone who accepted him. In every way the younger one was. And you were that someone. When Loki noticed your presence at his side, he looked down briefly. Only to scrutinize your form intently and give you his full attention.

"Y/N, have a nice evening. Don't you think so?" He tried to force a smile. However, you knew better and you knew him far too well. That's why your eyebrow jumped up and a slight sarcastic sound escaped your lips.

"Your entire posture just screams that you're not enjoying the evening at all." You answered simply, blinking at him with a grin, which he returned. "So obvious?" he asked and you nodded. The black-haired man was an open book for you.

"How many times have I told you not to let all those people bring you down?" you asked in return, receiving a terse shrug. There was a stifling silence in your conversation for a fraction of a second before you spoke again.

"Remember when we were kids, when you stole a whole tin of biscuits from the royal kitchen and we munched them under one of those tables?" a wide grimace on his face. Loki chuckled and shook his head.

"Thanks, Y/N," he spoke. Now with a softer voice and an undertone you couldn't read.

"For what?"

"For everything. You're a true friend," he explained, unconsciously embarrassing you. A little overwhelmed with the situation, you made it clear to him that there was no reason to say thank you. You never took pleasure in the dangerous adventures of the elder son of Odin, so you were usually found in the library with the magician, discussing a new book or he telling you about his fascinating magic.

Not a while later, the gods of celebration got louder and festive music rang out from all the walls of the huge hall.

"May I ask for this dance, my lady?" came suddenly from your cherished friend and it literally made your heart race. Because you hadn't expected that. He had politely reached out a hand, which you shyly accepted and could almost smell the stares of the others present.

But after a while the queasy feeling disappeared in no time and you just savored the beautiful moment with your soul mate.

[formulaes5]

love notes in the kitchen (say it all)

To my lovely thief, please stop eating my secret chocolate. Don’t even try to deny it, I know it’s you sweetheart. - xo Mark Five notes that Mark leaves for Sebastian, and one that Sebastian leaves for Mark.

☆ 3.2k, T, ao3 ☆

1.

Seb woke slowly to the cold morning. He reached out in front of him instinctively, in search of Mark and the heat that his body usually provided, grumbling when he came up empty handed. He cracked open an eye, incredibly disappointed to find a disturbing lack of Mark in their bed. He rolled over to face the other side of the room on the off chance that he might find Mark over there. No such luck. As far as Seb was concerned, It was far too early in the morning for him to be leading a Markless existence. This wouldn’t do at all. 

He rolled back over, just snuggling back into the duvet when he caught sight of a bright splash of colour on his bedside table. He reached out from the warmth of his duvet cocoon and grabbed the blue post-it note, wondering where it had come from.

Morning Sweetheart, Went for an early run while the weather’s still good. Please don’t be mad. Look, there’s coffee! - xo Mark 

Well that wasn’t playing fair at all, Sebastian thought grumpily as he sipped at his coffee. He had sat up fully intending to sulk at being abandoned to the tender mercies of the cold morning, but Mark had managed to throw that completely out of sorts by being so effortlessly lovely. How was Seb meant to be mad at his boyfriend when he had left him a good morning note and a coffee in his favourite mug on his bedside table? Maybe he could take points off for the coffee being slightly lukewarm, that would show him.

Seb picked up the note again. Black ink scrawled lovingly over blue paper. He traced his finger over the sloping lines of Mark’s handwriting, stopping at xo Mark to move his fingers over the letters with extra care, feeling far more soppy than anyone should be at seven in the morning. How was Seb even meant to try and be mad at Mark when he left hugs and kisses on a fucking post-it note for him. How was he meant to play out the charade of grumpiness at his lovely, thoughtful boyfriend who knew which mug was his favourite and left him messages on sticky notes that he bought specifically in Seb’s favourite colour? Seb felt warm in his chest and he knew it had nothing to do with the way he had the duvet wrapped around him to shield himself from the biting cold.

Once it hit ten o’clock then Seb would accept that it was probably time to get up and go for a run – inside, on the treadmill, like any sane person would do in the freezing cold – but until then, maybe he could harass Mark into climbing back into bed with him for a bit when he got back. Then they could take a shower together and cuddle up on the couch to watch a documentary under one of the many blankets that could be found at Mark’s house, which was really Seb’s house as well in all but name. 

Seb settled back in to wait for his boyfriend, deciding maybe he could forgive him just this once. The coffee wasn’t even that cold anyway. 

2. 

Seb cast a furtive glance back in the direction of the living room where he had left Mark laid out on the couch with the dogs, quiet on his feet as he crept into the kitchen. He was a man on a mission, and he was determined to succeed. 

He reached the pantry, managing to avoid raising the alarm by neatly sidestepping the squeaky floorboard where the wood met the tiles of the kitchen. He looked around for a minute, trying to find the red tin that had once been filled with biscuits, but now held something far more enticing. A prize worthy of the search.

Aha! Seb thought victoriously, spotting it tucked out of the way behind the rice and next to the vegemite. A rookie error on Mark’s part, clearly. He went to all the effort of hiding the damn thing, only to “hide it” directly next to his preferred toast spread. A lucky day for Seb. Last time he had spent an entire five minutes searching for it before he spotted it under the olive oil, which had been a much better hiding spot, or at least much better than this pathetic attempt. It was like he wasn’t even trying anymore. 

He cracked open the tin, only to come face to face with another one of Mark’s special blue post-its stuck to the inside of the lid of the tin – the ones that he used exclusively to communicate with Seb – damn it, he’d been rumbled. Caught in the act. How Embarrassing. 

To my lovely thief, please stop eating my secret chocolate. Don’t even try to deny it, I know it’s you sweetheart. - xo Mark

Seb snorted loudly, breaking off a piece of chocolate in defiance of Mark’s not at all threatening note. He whirled around at the sound of a throat clearing; Mark stood leaning against the counter, arms crossed, with what was clearly an attempt at a stern look plastered across his face. The effectiveness of the look was reduced somewhat by the spark of mischief in his eyes, and the smile threatening to break though his attempted scowl. 

“Caught you,” Mark sing-songed smugly, “I knew it was you, little thief.”

Seb shoved the tin behind his back in a rush. “I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about liebling,” he said sweetly, batting his eyelashes innocently at Mark, who wasn’t even fooled for a hundredth of a second, but was no doubt amused by his antics.

“Sure you don’t Sebi, sure you don’t.”

“I am the pinnacle of innocence, I will have you know. I have never done anything wrong in my entire life, and that includes The Incident.”

He doesn’t say Multi 2-1, but they both know it’s what he means. Once upon a time a statement like that would have made Mark seethe with rage, but now it just makes him laugh and pounce at Seb, grabbing him in a bear hug and lifting him off the ground with a playful growl.

“Ah! Mark!” Seb shrieks, “Mark! No, put me down! I’m innocent!”

He shakes Seb around playfully, ignoring the clang of the tin as it hits the ground and peppering his face with kisses, “Stop.” kiss “Eating.” kiss “My.” kiss “Chocolate.” kiss. 

Seb is giggling like a maniac, pretending to try and escape from Mark’s embrace as his feet finally touch back down to earth. 

“Nope,” Mark crowed gleefully, arms still wrapped tightly around Seb’s waist, “I’ve kidnapped you as punishment for your crimes.”

He tilted his head, “My crimes?”

“Yep, grand theft cacao, that is,” Mark said sagely, “you know what the fine is for that, right Sebi?”

“... What?”

“One kiss, then I s’pose I can let you out on parole.”

“That’s a pretty steep charge Mark, but I think I can probably afford it.” Seb wrapped his arms back around Mark, one hand reaching up to cup the back of Mark’s head and pulling him down to meet in the middle in a soft kiss, sweet and slow. 

Mark leaned into the kiss with a hum of appreciation, carding his fingers through Seb’s hair as he dipped his tongue into his mouth. His lips were soft and they tasted like stolen chocolate, and Mark found that he didn’t really mind at all.

3. 

Seb was having a quiet day at home. Mark had left in the morning to spend the day at the Porsche factory in Stuttgart, saying goodbye to a rather adorably drowsy Seb with a kiss on the forehead and an “I’ll see you tonight then sweetheart.” before shouldering his day pack and leaving the house for the airport, leaving Sebastian and the dogs to their own devices.

There wasn’t really anything interesting on the TV, just more early morning reruns of D-list sitcoms and morning talk shows that nobody really paid attention to anyway. Seb certainly wasn’t paying them any attention as he scrolled idly through his phone, looking over a recent text from Lewis about grabbing lunch with him and a cute picture of Roscoe wearing a hat. He looked over from where he was sat on the couch to the two dogs sat on their beds, raising his phone to snap a picture for Lewis, “No hats for Shadow and Simba :(”, he replied.

Seb checked his watch, realising with a start, that since Mark had left early that they probably hadn’t had breakfast yet, poor things.

He called them over and reached out to stroke their heads apologetically as they arrived, tails wagging, “Oh I’m very sorry boys, let's get you fed.”

Seb got up from the couch and walked over to the bin where they stored the dog food, encouraged by the big baleful eyes being shot at him by the two dogs. He stopped short of actually taking the lid off the bin when he saw the sticky note.

Sweetheart, do not let them trick you. I have fed the dogs. - xo Mark

“Nice try boys,” Seb said with a snort, “maybe next time.”

4. 

Seb slumped down in his driver's room at the track. Mark was never going to be able to attend the race in support of Seb, considering that the WEC season opener was on the same day as the formula one Chinese grand prix, leaving Seb to go on without him. It was only his third race wearing red yet, and even coming fresh off his win in Malaysia, Seb couldn’t deny that having Mark there with him would have been a great help. He wasn’t really upset with him, that would be ridiculous. He was just upset with the circumstances that had left him alone. He couldn’t be mad at Mark, not for doing his job; they were both adults with their own jobs, no matter how unconventional their jobs happened to be, and sometimes these things just happened. Right now he was just taking advantage of the relative privacy of his driver's room to have a good old fashioned sulk, mindful of Kimi on the other side of the thin wall separating their rooms. He could just sulk quietly.

He reached into his backpack with a dejected sigh, pulling his water bottle free and taking a drink in what he hoped was a generally pissy manner, not that anybody was around to see, but it made him feel better, and that was what counted.

Seb ran over the itinerary that the ever-helpful Britta had left for him on the table, really just the standard stuff. Media, media, something about actually driving the car, and then, shock of shocks, more media.

He reached into his bag, rummaging through his stuff in search of his phone. He pulled out Mark’s Porsche hoodie – happily lent to him by his boyfriend after the very minimum of eyelash batting. Mark was really just so easy in that regard, Seb thought happily – and put it on, reaching into the pocket to find his phone to send a text to Britta regarding scheduling. 

There was something else in his pocket, he realised belatedly. He pulled his hand from the pocket, coming back with… A little blue paper heart? He didn’t remember leaving that there, maybe it was Marks? Hang on, he knew that blue! He unfolded the heart carefully, mindful not to tear what he was relatively sure was a note from Mark.

The note unfolded to reveal Mark’s trademark slanting scrawl.

Sebi, sorry I can’t be there to tell you this in person, but good luck out there this weekend sweetheart. Knock it out of the park for me. All my love. - xo Mark 

Seb felt himself choke up a bit, the clear affection in the note compounding on Seb’s lack of sleep and his already emotional state to make him even more emotional. Mark was so effortlessly sweet, and it was just so unfair that he was all the way back home in England getting ready for the six hours of Silverstone and not here in China holding Seb in his arms, he thought to himself as he took a deep calming breath. 

Stupid, thoughtful, lovely Mark and his stupid handsome face and little handwritten notes that still made Seb’s heart beat out of his chest like a schoolboy with a crush. Seb was going to kiss his face off when he got home, he decided resolutely. That’d show him. For now he had a race to focus on.

5. 

Mark woke with his alarm, shooting a hand out to his nightstand to silence it immediately, not really thinking that it would actually wake Seb – who could sleep through just about anything – but thinking it was better to be safe than sorry. Seb was snuggled up against him in an old, oversized Red Bull hoodie that theoretically belonged to Mark. He had his cheek pressed into Mark’s bare chest and an arm flung loosely over his waist, and he looked absolutely gorgeous. Mark resisted the urge to tuck a strand of hair behind Seb’s ear. He gently eased his way out from under Sebastian’s head, replacing his chest with his own pillow, trying his best not to wake him as he moved Seb’s head.

He went through the motions of getting ready, getting dressed and brushing his teeth before finally sitting down at the kitchen counter for a relaxed breakfast. He casually checked his phone, and nearly choked on his toast upon seeing an email from the airline he was flying with, informing him that his flight had been pushed forward by an hour. Mark cursed, mentally calculating that he would need to leave in about five minutes if he wanted to make his flight on time. So much for a relaxed breakfast. He started shoving toast into his mouth in an entirely undignified manner that would have had his mother slapping him upside the head if he tried it at her dining table. 

He had been meant to wake Seb to say goodbye in around half an hour, but now knew that his plans would have to change dramatically. He dropped his plate into the dishwasher and did a quick double check of the contents of his bag before sprinting up the stairs and into his office, rummaging through his drawer until he found his special blue sticky notes and a pen. Walking at a more sedate pace into the bedroom, he stopped and thought for a moment as he leaned over the nightstand, uncapping his pen and watching the gentle rise and fall of Seb’s back. He took in the slight part between Seb’s pink lips and the fluttering of his eyelashes as he cuddled into Decoy Pillow Mark. He knew just what to write.

Hey there Sleeping Beauty, my flight got moved up an hour. I know I promised to wake you before I left, but you looked so gorgeous curled up in my hoodie I just couldn’t. I’ll call you when I get into the hotel. Sleep well. - xo Mark

Seb would probably be a bit salty when he woke to find Mark gone without even so much as a goodbye kiss, but sometimes he was just too cute for his own good.

+1

It had been a big couple of weeks, Seb’s retirement finally having sunk in for the both of them. No more races for Seb, a minimum of public appearances, just Seb and Mark and their quiet little life in the English countryside, less than an hour down the road from Silverstone. Of course Mark would still make semi-regular appearances at races in his capacity as a pundit, but now it would be Seb accompanying him to races rather than the other way around, which felt a little surreal to Mark.

They were both home for the day, with no plans to do anything in particular. Seb was off somewhere in the garden, trying to encourage his tomatoes to grow, and Mark was wandering into the kitchen in search of a snack. He opened the pantry door and tried to make a decision. His eyes wandered over some oat bars and nuts, as well as assorted other relatively healthy snacks, before turning around and deciding to grab an apple from the bowl on the counter.

There was a tin on the counter that wasn’t normally there. His secret red tin that was about as secret as the Sun, which is to say not at all. He picked up the tin suspiciously, narrowing his eyes at the weight, or lack thereof. He never even had more than two squares a week, so there was no good reason for the tin to be empty, other than Seb striking again.

There was something small in the tin, clunking against the sides – probably another one of Seb’s IOU’s, he thought to himself bemusedly – whatever it was, he was still mentally preparing himself to come face to face with the disappointing reality of a tin devoid of his favourite chocolate. This time Seb was really going to get it. 

He opened the tin, seeing no chocolate, only a square of blue paper folded neatly around whatever had made the noise. He grabbed the paper, recognising it as one of his own sticky notes that he used to leave Seb notes. It had a little bit of a weight to it, whatever it was.

Mark moved to unfold the note, prepared for a token or maybe even a small pebble that Seb had picked up on a walk and liked the look of. What he wasn’t expecting was a thin gold ring, which immediately bounced out of his hand and fell to the ground with what felt to Mark like a deafening series of chimes against the tiles of the kitchen floor.

He finished unfolding the note with shaky hands.

Hi Mark, I’m sorry for eating your not really that secret chocolate again, but you really need to find a better hiding spot for it. Marry me? - xoxoxoxo your Sebi

Mark bent down to pick up the ring. What the fuck?, he thought, what the actual entire fuck? He turned the ring over in his hands, noting a small engraving on the inside of the ring: Love You Forever. Mark might actually be going into shock. No fucking way had Sebastian just proposed to him through the romantic medium of eating all his goddamn chocolate (again) and leaving an engagement ring as an IOU.

Where the hell was Seb?

Seb, as it turned out, was stood nervously in the doorway, and was entirely unprepared for Mark to walk quickly towards him and lift him by the waist onto the kitchen counter, letting out a surprised little squeak as Mark muscled his way between Seb’s legs, cupping his cheek and kissing him passionately as he tangled a hand in his hair, still holding onto the ring. His ring. His engagement ring. His engagement ring from Seb. Seb who wanted to marry him.

They had discussed marriage briefly in the past, both agreeing that they would like to get married at some point, but not putting any kind of timeline in place. It seemed that Seb had decided that his retirement would be as good a time as any.

Mark parted from him with a gasp, not quite believing what was happening, “Yes, you bloody idiot, I’ll marry you. But only if you replace my goddamn chocolate.”

Seb just laughed. He laughed a bright and clear laugh, interrupted only when Mark leaned in and kissed him again. Just for good measure.

[aristocratic-otter]

It's been far too long since I had the time and energy to post, so I'm determined to do it tonight (even as I just found out my son has COVID...again. And I just spent all of yesterday evening with him. Fuck.)

Thank you to all of you who never gave up on me even when I disappear. The people who've tagged me since last I surfaced: @fatalfangirl, @cosmicalart, @aroace-genderfluid-sheep, @cutestkilla, @prettygoododds, @wellbelesbian, @ileadacharmedlife, @larkral, @whatevertheweather, @j-nipper-95, @artsyunderstudy, @facewithoutheart. @you-remind-me-of-the-babe, @iamamythologicalcreature, @hushed-chorus

From Westward Son (penultimate chapter up tomorrow or the next day!):

For several heartbeats, I hear only the frantic rustle of clothing. Then something touches my thigh. Baz’s palm, cold as ice. I hiss at the sensation. “Fuck, Baz,” I complain, “You’re a friggin’ icicle.” 

Then he presses his cold front side to my back.  I yelp and he chuckles softly. “Warm me up, hmm?” he murmurs into my ear. 

From Saving Simon Snow:

Physically shaking himself like a dog, he turns to me with a strained smile. “Home sweet home, right?” he says, though his voice is a little wobbly. 

“Right,” I say softly, watching him carefully. His eyes dart away from my gaze, and he’s suddenly a flurry of movement. He pops open the passenger side door, swings himself out of the car and hurries around to the trunk to retrieve our luggage (Bunce kept hold of hers). I let him get away with the deflection, but at some point I’ll probably have to convince him to talk about his feelings. This won’t be much of a (fake) marriage, if we both spend all our time smiling stiffly at one another and lying through our teeth. 

A little Simon and Baz mischief from my Age of Sail AU (need to come up with a title for that!

On the third beach over, we find a waterlogged chest. We open it to empty out the water and make it easier to carry and find tins of biscuits and candy, along with soggy clothing and a wooden chess set. Baz and I exchange glances and I know we’re both thinking the same thing. 

Twenty minutes later, we set off to continue exploring, carrying the chest between us. It’s lightened by the removal of two tins. The evidence of our theft resides in our bellies and the empty tins are buried in a sand dune. 

From Snow Fox (first chapter will be posted next week!):

How far would I be willing to go to save a child’s life?

A nascent plan swirling in my brain, I stand up and stroll over to Tarleton’s side. He’s insisted on doing the whipping himself, and right now, he’s hefting the leather weapon in his hand and testing his grip. 

“Are you well practiced with a whip?” I murmur, trying to make my voice light, but suggestive. 

It works. His grip on the stock of the whip tightens for a moment, and he stands up straighter.

And enjoy Baz and Simon having a light moment before things get real in To Heal A Broken Mind:

When I pull into a parking spot at the Pret, he looks at me, eyebrows raised. “Starting at midnight, you won’t be allowed to eat for nearly twenty-four hours,” I remind him. 

“Yeah, so?”

“So, assuming you’ve got no big plans today…” I trail off to allow him to answer, and to my great pleasure, he shakes his head. “Then you are going to eat your way through Pret’s entire sandwich menu, my treat. You’ll be so stuffed you won’t even want to eat tomorrow.” 

What's that, you say? Only four WIPs? No...not actually. I have a secret project I've been writing, and I just started on my CORB (no words yet, just outlining)...so I've got six again. Sigh.

Tagging everyone because who knows when I'll post again? Tag backsies for everyone above, plus @frjsti, @angelsfalling16, @alexalexinii, @bazzybelle, @bloodiedpixie, @bookish-bogwitch, @carryonsimoncarryonbaz, @confused-bi-queer, @dragoneggos, @erzbethluna, @ionlydrinkhotwater, @ivelovedhimthroughworse, @jasonfunderberkerthefrogexists, @krisrix, @letraspal, @messofthejess, @moments-au-crayon22, @moodandmist, @nightimedreamersghost, @onepintobean, @prettylightsbigcity, @rimeswithpurple, @rainbow-0bsidian, @raenestee, @subparselkie, @shrekgogurt, @sillyunicorn, @technetiumai, @tea-brigade, @thehoneyedhufflepuff, @theearlgreymage, @theimpossibledemon, @upuntil6am, @whogaveyoupermission, @yellobb-old,

Whew, that was a lot. Happy Wednesday, y'all!