#hash stash

[bonglife420]

Loving my hash stash

[halfbakednug]

Chill vibes 💚

[nightly-ruse]

I’m sorry @doritopaw101 I accidentally posted and then deleted ur request :(((

Um anyways have ur dog cat! FireSand hypokit. This is Dogrosedune named mostly after Sandstorm’s favorite flower and his great grandma Rosetail (thru Sand’s dad Redtail) and -dune bc it’s suiting. I think she would be born like sometime after tnp and the clans settling at the lake. Bigender cat using she/he and a bisexualace. Goofy cat

[yeyinde]

when your need grows teeth | John Price x f!Reader

John's the type of man to lock his jaws around what's his, preferring instead to ruin things, puncture it full of holes, and litter it with scars, rather than let it go. It starts when you ask him to pick up your birth control—like dangling a piece of bloody meat in front of a starving dog.  Of course he's going to take a bite.  He thinks you ought to have known this by now. 

SMUT 18+ | gratuitous smut; HEAVY breeding kink, breeding; Dom!John Price; p-in-v sex, unsafe sex; rough sex; mentions of spanking; mutual manipulation; this is roughly 10k of John Plotting and fucking you; John is: unhinged, obsessive, possessive, and Scheming. mentions of birth control tampering but nothing is followed through. No. He’s going to knock you up the old-fashioned way—by making you beg for it.

AO3 MIRROR

John has always had this desire—this awful, instinctual drive in the back of his head to knock someone up. Get them fat, swollen with his child. His. 

And maybe that's the crux of it. Possession. To have something of the most rooted kind. To irrevocably change someone—their anatomy, their body, the chemistry in their brain, their status in life from them (single no dependents) to mother (mother of his child), their very atoms—and create life from the combined parts. 

It's this almost fantastical beast, this unreachable dream for him. 

It's his Shangri-la. His castle in Spain. 

He's not under any disillusionment that this idea of fatherhood, of parenthood, is slightly skewed. That most men who want children don't feel this overwhelmingly greedy desire to fundamentally alter someone in such an irreversible way. It's not quite ownership, but it's the same ilk. A bastardised, unwanted child of it. 

And it's not just this idea of claimation—to forever be the father of their child, even if neither of them stays together; a piece of him will always be there, parasitic, no matter what—but something deeper. Something a bit less—egregious. 

This is, and always has been, about yearning. 

John's the type of man to lock his jaws around what's his, preferring instead to ruin things, puncture it full of holes, and litter it with scars, rather than to let it go. 

Marriage, he finds, is breakable. Divorce, separation. He's always on his worst behaviour in the initial stages of dating, so it's never something he has to entertain since no one ever sticks around long enough for it to be on the table, much less the menu, but the idea of it—of signing papers, of hashing out the split, of being known as ex-husband—leaves a bitter tang between his teeth. It won't do. He needs permanence. Perpetuity. 

Nothing says forever quite like a child, does it? 

And sure—he’s aware that countermeasures exist: custody orders, sole custody, shared; allotted visitations; divisional lines in this new age that keep the parents from ever interacting—but while you can get divorced, you can't unmake a child, can you?

The child would never write him out, either. 

Where deadbeats exist, it's important to note that their counterparts do, too. The ones like him who will gouge their eyes out of their skulls before they ever let what happened to them growing up trickle down and impact their child, polluting the pool. 

Simply put: John Price knows he'd be the best dad there is because he's stubborn that way. 

It helps, he supposes, that he really only has so much love to give out to the world, and greedily, he stashed the entirety of it away in a box to give to his would-be wife and their child. An overwhelming deluge that promises happiness should it ever be unlocked. Pandora's box, perhaps—down to the very essence because if John Price were to ever love someone, then it's probably in their best interest to run from it, this gaping, needy chasm. 

Not that it would ever be a possibility, of course—he’s much too good at compartmentalisation, in taking out his anger, his viciousness, on the ugly world he drenches himself in, the one his hands have a tangible cause and effect principle in place that will forever feed that starving beast inside of him.

Ergo—he’s a staunch supporter of the theory: happy wife, happy life. Though where those men think in a box stuffed full of emotional intimacy, flowers, chocolate, maintaining love, all-consuming and enduring, he takes it to extremes that would have them cowering a little bit. Maybe a lot.  

But that's fine. He only has to make sure his family is happy. No one else matters, save a select few who have a seat at his table during Sunday dinners. 

The rest, though? Spare parts. 

(The ice-cold resolve in those two words is apodictic, brass bound, and he's sure if his higher-ups knew about it, well—

His chest candy would be a hole in the ground. Put the rabid dog down before it has a chance to bite.)

But that all-consuming, devouring, obsessive love he has to give, that begs to be let free, is the reason why it's so tightly leashed. Locked up in a box. Untouchable. Inaccessible. 

It's why he isn't married. 

Ghost once asked him why the women he dated were older. Much older. Menopausal (always). And he'd said something to the effect of it being his type. Older women who wouldn't cower away from the acrid burn of him, who wouldn't hurt their delicate little hands on his gritty surface. 

But the real reason is because he knows better. 

He's a starving dog, and it's just bad form to dangle a piece of meat in front of it. Especially when the hand holding it is his own. 

Don't bite the hand that feeds you, and all. 

(The keen look in Ghost's eyes told him that, perhaps, the man already knew the reason when he asked, and was just satiating himself with kinship—the dark, awful look on Simon's ugly mug after the dredging the underbelly of Price’s rotten, mouldering mudfloor of things unsaid spoke volumes. 

They'd both nodded. Content, then. And promptly ordered a shot of whisky to drown the salivation, the hunger, from clogging their throats. Killing the urge to bite.

A pair of packless, stray dogs.)

But then he found you, and all his careful planning, all his distance, blew up in his face. 

It's always been on his mind since then. Lingering in his periphery—this fevered, tantalising vision of you, round and swollen with his child. 

It's unattainable, of course. A fantasy. 

Though, this—you throwing up in the washroom of his penthouse, undoubtedly knocked up by his machinations—is probably because he kept that desire too close to where he hides his questionable mortality, the one that allows him to throw innocent people to their deaths, and send mothers and fathers to an early grave just so he can rip his fists apart on their bastard offspring in his own brand of catharsis that always bites back when they grow up, hankering for revenge. 

He's always been good at snatching dreams out of the air, clenching them tight in his fists. Taming chimerical wants, whims, until they were docile, domesticated. Making realities out of fiction. 

And really—he’s just not a good man.

He thought you'd have known this by now.

He remembers the first time he growled the words into your ear as he came, your cunt clenching around him like a vice. Desperate for it, he teased after, fingers fucking into your sloppy, leaking hole. Pushing his spend back into you. Half-drunk on the taste of you still clinging to his beard, but mostly just mesmerised by the sight of you—pretty pussy all ruined, swollen from the vicious, hateful pounding he gave it, and dipping with his cum like a faucet. 

(It pissed him off—still does, really—when you waste it like this.)

Gonna fill you up, he snarled, low and wrecked. Gonna make it take—

It was a fantasy. Still is. But the way it took root in the garden of your bedroom, like it belonged—native flora, he thinks, a touch mad with it—had something ugly, oil slick, rearing up from that untouchable place in his head. 

He could really blame you for it—and does. The way your ankles locked tight around his thighs, hands reaching, grabbing at his waist, clawing at his asscheeks to press him in deeper, deeper still, as he came inside of you, cock lodged right against your plug, had that untameable beast cocking its head in consideration after you danced too close to it, waking it from his long, restful slumber. 

You wanted it. Ached for it. He could feel it in the way your walls tightened around him, practically starving for it. Your pretty, glossy eyes rolling back into your head. Drool running down your chin. A litany of pleas spilled from your kiss-bruised lips, begging him for it. Please, John. Please. Please—

Who was he to deny you? 

Even if you made a big, flustered show of waving it off—not something I've ever imagined for myself, you know? and–and your lifestyle, what you do—is something like that even possible for us?—he saw how it curled around your shoulders, dipping its silver tongue into your ear. Germinating. 

He let it. Encouraged it. 

“Something to talk about later,” he indulged, reaching over for a cigar just to smother the urge to breed you stupid. To tie you to his bedposts and keep you full until your belly was swelling with more than just the absurd volume of his seed he pumped inside of you. 

And, oh—

The uneasy smile on your face reeked of disappointment. 

Fuck. Fuck—

John went to the washroom after that, heart pounding out of his chest, and jabbed the lit end of his cigar into his thigh to kill the fever in his veins. To rewrite the desperate, ugly howling in his head with pain instead. 

It worked. Works—

Until you came to him, all watery-eyed and worried, and told him to please, please stop falling asleep with a lit cigar because you think you might just go mad if you lost him to a cigarette fire. And doesn't he see how silly it is, these burns look so bad, John, and I worry—

His teeth ached. He smiled, but it felt like a grimace. A dog holding back the instinct to bare its teeth. 

“Sure, love,” he'd said, and started taking out his anger on your cunt instead, fucking you deep, and stupid. Getting you all cockdrunk, and hungry for the dream that spoiled so badly in the back of his head, he's sure a proper man would call it a nightmare. “Anything you want.”

(Brassbound. Apodictic. You know that, he knows you know that, so imagine his surprise when you come to him, all soft and tender, and ask him to pick up your birth control as if he hadn't spent the better part of two years grumbling every fucking time you took it and wasn't on the verge of tossing the damn bottle out the window, and fucking you until it took—

But—you do know that, don't you? 

Well, then. Whatever his lady wants, right? Right.)

“Can you stop by the pharmacy on your way home tonight?”

He hums, fiddling with the belt of his slacks in front of the mirror. “Sure, love. You feelin’ sick?” 

“No,” you murmur, sliding behind him on your way to the washroom, wearing nothing but a towel tucked under your arms. “I need my refill. For birth control.” 

His hands still. A gnarled, rotted tendril curls over the edge of the cesspool, murky, ink black water splashing all over the place. “Oh, yeah? Still taking that, hm?”

You fluster. Hands waving, chock full of nervous, emotive energy you can't seem to shake off. “Well—yes. I mean, obviously.”

And he'd leave it there, let the spillage dry on the hot pavement, if you hadn't glanced back at him, all damp keenness, slightly skittish, and asked, feather-soft and utterly fragile, “right?” 

Right? A question, he notes. Not a statement. 

He licks his teeth. Tastes something rancid in the gaps. 

“Mm. I suppose so.” He leaves it vague, but drenches it in the heavy weight of his disappointment. Anchors dragging it down. You flit around the space like a house-locked bird, slamming into the walls and ceiling as you try—blind and panicked—to find an escape. Any escape. 

He finds the whole thing utterly charming. Especially when you realise he pitched himself in front of the only exit, thick, heavy hands curled around his belt, cock outlined against his slacks, already thickened, drooling in his pants. 

There's gasp—wet, and sharp—as you take him in. The liquid of his eyes as his want bleeds out of his skull. The flush on his cheeks, the twitch of his cock at the mere mention of you not taking your silly little pills. 

John lets it sit for a moment, taking in greedy lungfuls of your unease as you glance everywhere but at him, as if looking in his direction, breathing in this toxic miasma will give you a contact high. Infectious. Gnarled. 

The little seed that started germinating blooms. 

He fights back the urge to grin, all teeth. Madness staining them black. 

“It's—it’s on—” and fuck, he's never seen you so unsure before, this nervous. You handle him like a wrangler, wrassling his brutish dominance until it's putty in your hands, splitting his head into pieces and galvanising the madness inside until it's scripture for you to peek at whenever you need guidance, insight into him, his essence, his being. 

Your dyadic has always been built on permeance. 

John doesn't think there's a single person alive who understands him as much as you do. The only person who seems content to gorge yourself on his rotted marrow like it was a delicacy. 

Seeing you like this rents his resolve in two. 

“It's the pharmacy near the, uh, the school. The kindergarten.” 

He chokes on a groan, and thinks he tears something in his throat with the strain of keeping it down. There's blood, ash, in the back of his throat.

“Alright, love. I'll pick it up.” 

You smell it, and shiver. 

It's giving meat to a starving dog, and saying, dog, don't take a bite. 

And so, of course he does. 

John picks up your prescription, tossing it in the passenger seat like it personally offended him. And it has. Does. It's what's standing in the way between what he wants, what he craves, and there's a distinct thrum of irritation welling inside of him. One that started when he had to bark out your name at the counter earlier, and the pharmacist looked at him, and calmly, kindly, explained what it was he was picking up. 

Make sure she takes them once a day. Preferably at the same time. This brand of oral contraceptive can be taken with or without food—

Fuck off, he thought—thinks, even now, glowering into the tinted window of the pharmacy. 

He grips the steering wheel tight until his scarred knuckles bleach white under the strain, and sits in the parking lot, staring, unseeingly, at the shops. Pensive. Thoughtful. It gnarls over his expression until he's the picture of that grizzly-like intensity you often accuse him of. All furrowed brows and a pinched, angry twist to his lips. 

There's a series of complex equations running laps in his head. He's no stranger to this process, needing to make life or death decisions in less time it takes someone to snap their fingers, or tentatively stammer out his title. 

This one is more linear than the rest. One plus one, so to speak. But the weight of it is profound. Heavier, even, than deciding between the success of his mission and the life of an innocent bystander. 

(But he thinks he's just selfish like that.)

In his head, he debates the ethics of replacing all of these silly little tablets that stand in his way with sugar pills. 

It would be the quickest path to the end, but the risk-reward ratio ebbs and flows the more he considers things without the miasmic influence of that abomination throwing itself at the walls of its enclosure, howling in an endless cacophony of do it, do itdoit—

A better man wouldn't even have such a temptation. He supposes that's what you deserve, but he already had this particular crisis a few months after he met you, and realised that the things he wanted to do to you would undoubtedly put him on a list. Slapped so hard with a restraining order, his ears would still be buzzing. 

That something about you made his jowls twinge, and his teeth ache, and no amount of stay away from her, Price; she deserves better than you was going to keep his dirty hands from curling around your throat, leaving soot-stains on your skin in the shape of his fingerprints. Brandishing ownership in burst blood vessels; a pretty collar for you to wear because as much as you like to pretend otherwise—

You're a dog just like him. 

In any case, he's the best choice for you. The only one who'd burn the world just to keep you warm, and that's what you really need. Protection. 

And fuck—you toy with that particular urge that has always been etched in fine lines within the walls of bones; dipping your fingers into it, and spreading it over the apples of your cheek. Everything about you prickles along his hindbrain. Renders him from a modern man with modern ideals to an animal who can only speak in growls, snarls; pure primalism, all instinct. 

You're made for each other down to the bone. He's sure he could split your head apart and find that your cranial sutures are perfectly mirrored. Made in the same image: you were grown from his missing rib, and he always meant to be cradled in the brackets of your thighs. 

So, crisis of worthiness aside—because there are none, not anymore—he plots. Plans. Schemes. But his machinations keep catching on the soft fibrils of your wants. 

John doesn't know what he'd do if you changed your mind. 

(Or, rather, he does but that's another madness to unravel with his personal therapist.)

It's with this—the slight brandishing of his uncertainty in your certainty—that he gives up the idea, pocketing it for a later date, and drives home, back to you. 

He doesn't toss the bag on the counter, but sets it up perfectly, placing it as close to the edge where the bin sits under it. All it would take is a breath of wind for it to fall into the trash. 

That doesn't happen, though. You stare at the white, crinkled package for a moment as he sips on his tea, quietly contemplative. With your expression hidden from him, he has no idea what might be going through that pretty head of yours. Disappointment, he can only hope. And then you're reaching for it, fingers gripping the bag tightly in your fist. He hears the paper crumble. It sparks something inside his chest. A bloom of hope that you might just throw it out. Toss it in the bin—

You turn to him instead, knuckles white. 

“Thanks,” you say, and the matter is dropped. 

He goes to tuck that want back where it escaped, leaving slick trails of putrefying rot behind, but—

John peeks in the vanity later that evening, but where he expects to see the little rectangular package sitting in its usual spot between his aftershave and the mouthwash, he finds nothing. Just an empty spot on the ledge, spotlit by the lack of dust. A clean square of white paint, undisturbed. 

His jaw twinges. He wonders if you're hiding it from him, keeping it safe from his machinations, but then he finds it shoved in the drawer with his shaving kit, and the box of condoms he bought when you'd first started dating (for show, naturally—John had no intentions of using them and learned persuasion was your Achilles heel; that and you tended to get a little glossy-eyed whenever he growled filth in your ear, the smell of your cunt heavy on his breath). 

The package is crinkled like you squeezed it tight in your little fist before you tossed it in. 

You're always meticulous in the way you put things in their places. Even the junk drawer is organised, all neat. 

This speaks volumes, but he's not quite sure what it says. They are still here, though. Accessible. One is missing from the pack. It dampens his mood. 

He picks up his toothbrush, and runs through those calculations again to see how he can convince you to skip the one you're meant to take tomorrow. And the next day, and the next, and the next—

He stays awake as you sleep beside him, looking into how many days you can miss before your brand of birth control stops being effective. 

Seven pills in a row. 

He files it away, lost in thought. 

The next morning, he leaves his phone open on the bedside table with the article pulled up. He kisses you awake before he leaves to shower, humming something soft under his breath. 

When he returns, he finds you sitting up in bed with your knees drawn to your chest. There's something pensive about the look on your face. Paper soft, as though it would all blow away at a mere whisper. 

You regard him almost cooly but something raw, fractured splits over the ravine. A waterfall of midnight black sludge rains down. 

(He wonders if it tastes of the same rot, the same madness, as the basin of the untouched recesses of his head—)

“I'm working late tonight,” you murmur after a measured beat, and he can't place your tone. “Maybe we can watch a movie when I get home.” 

John nods, and your eyes drop, scaling down his bare, broad chest as he breathes in the flint staining the air. Your gaze is white-hot when it bludgeons into him, feverish. 

It doesn't take much beckoning at all to have him crawling toward you, towel ripped from his hips and thrown somewhere in the aether. 

As he steals the madness from your tongue, his eyes flicker to the phone still sitting on the table. It looks perfectly untouched. The screen is off. 

That, too, he files away. 

John comes to the succinct conclusion that the only means he has in his arsenal to get what he wants—legally, and somewhat morally, anyway—is persuasion. 

There's no recourse if he can water that burgeoning plant inside of you, make it seem like this is something you want, too. A family. With him. 

(Only him.)

He knows that you see things quite similarly to him. Wherein love is desire. Desire is hunger. And there's nothing more profound to you than to eat the person you love alive. Consumption of every part—the good, the beautiful, the bad, the ugly, and the rotted: skin, fat, muscles, blood, and bones. All of it. 

So, even if somewhere down the road you think you hate him for this, it'll be fine. He'll just consume that, too. 

John Price is a tenacious man. Stubborn. 

(Bullish, he hears around the barracks. Fuckin’ stubborn prick, too.)

It helps that this line of work is perfectly suited for such a peremptory drive to the finish line, no matter the cost. Utilitarian to a fault, despite his rather recalcitrant disposition. It's how he gets his way more often than not. Brutish dominance. Loutish suppression. 

But a near reckless, suicidal loyalty that attracts the sort of beasts this line of work needs. 

But that's work, not this. Not trying to convince you, his sugar-sweet (and viciously diabolical) lover, to bear the burden of giving him a family because society says it's uncouth (and illegal, morally reprehensible, villainous) for him to chain you to his bed to keep the darker parts of himself that want to rip into anyone who had the pleasure—pleasure that no longer belongs to them—of looking at you. 

That's all for him. 

(Nasty old bastard.) 

And, of course, because he's ready. Everything clicks. Locks into place. There's no one else out there for him. 

Really, though—it's your fault for prodding that beast in the first place. For letting inside your house, your bed. For thinking it could be tamed. And so. You should accept responsibility for it. 

(Nasty, nasty—)

But just as much as you know him, he knows you. You'll give him a litany of reasons why this shouldn't happen, and none of them will be because this isn't what you want. It'll be filled with reasons why you think he doesn't. 

And that simply won't do. 

So, he plots. Plans. 

The thing is. No one ever taught him how to hold things in his hands without crushing it. 

He doesn't think he can be delicate. Gentle. There's no way to gently nudge you into this. No. 

He'll convince you to yield the same way a tsunami convinces a house to move out of the way. 

Buried to the hilt in your cunt, he growls gospels into your ear about this beautiful Shangri-la, this sprawling castle he has in Spain until you're clenching down around him tight, conditioning your body to come at the thought of swelling with his child. About letting his seed take root, letting him knock you up. 

It's a crass image that he spits into your head—fuck you until it takes, love; breed this pretty cunt every day until you're fat and swollen—serves as the positive reinforcement to his classical conditioning. He'll turn you into one of Pavlov's mutts, salivating at the sound of him groaning into your ear as he fills your pussy up to the brim. He'll reshape you, change your wants until you only come around his cock when he's spitting his release against the plug of your womb. 

And when you make to get up, letting all his spend slip from your sloppy cunt to take your pill, he pulls you closer under the guise of wanting to feel your body on his, murmuring diabolical compromises he has no intention of letting you see through. 

“Later,” he rasps, pulling you closer. His mouth slots across your temple. “Just take it later, sweetheart. Later.”

“But—”

“It’ll be fine.” 

And, as if you'd been waiting for that reassurance, you melt into his hands, wet putty. 

(you take the bloody pill later, and he adds that to his mental calendar, adjusting the maths. He supposes he’ll just have to try harder next time.)

John's desire for you is overwhelming, all-encompassing, and he schemes around his wandering hands, bullying into your messy cunt only moments before your alarm is meant to go off, reminding you to take your pill, reinforcing that irritating little wall that keeps his come from reaching your womb. 

It goes off, but he hardly hears it over the roaring in his ears, the sweet, sweet litany of moans that slip out, staining the pillow with your pleasure. He just keeps fucking you through it, growling mindlessly into your ears about how badly he wants to come inside of you. His warnings, threats, about how close he is intertwining with your desperate begging for him to come, come inside me, John is the most beautiful harmonisation he'd ever heard, and it sews itself into his marrow, polluting the ugliness inside with a new, fresh hell for him to torture himself with. That delicious pleasure-pain that drives him mad—

He fills you up, palm pressed taut to your lower belly as he spits his virile release deep into your cunt. He can feel the heavy outline of his cock against your skin, stuffed full of him, and it's this—the way he moulds your body around him, cock visible through your flesh—that makes his eyes roll back into his head. Makes the urge to fuck, to breed, to claim bludgeon into him, shattering reason, logic. He wants to change you, irrevocably. Forever. To mar you with his touch, his essence. 

“Mine,” he chokes out, ugly and raw. It's a mangled mess in his throat. A threat. “All fucking mine, aren't you, love? All mine—”

His words seem to throw you into another climax, cunt clenching greedily down around him as he softens inside of you, plugging you up. You liked that, he notes, purs. The notion brands itself across his resolve, reshaping it into something that would make anyone else recoil in fear, disgust. 

But you preen at this creature that bares its fangs at you, snaps wicked teeth against your jugular. Fingers threading through its hair, shushing it, soothing it, as you pull it back into your embrace, head tucked against your chest. You lull it into complacency with the heavy thud of your heart, your sweet, earthy scent. 

What a pair, he thinks, and clamps his hands around your wrist when you murmur something about taking your pill now. Need to take it before it gets too late, John—

He makes his move, distracts you with his mouth, his tongue. 

“Just take it after,” he murmurs into your pussy, thighs bracketing around his head. His hands pull your waist down, pressing you harder against his mouth. “Later, love. It'll be fine—”

“But, John—”

The protest dies, turns to ash, when he grunts, sealing his lips around your clit, bullying it with the rasping press of tongue until you're arching your back, riding his face. Thoughts of your silly pill are gone, swallowed by him as you gush, drenching his mouth in your slick. 

And after, when you make to get up again, he pulls you close instead, voice curling around you like smoke when he tells you to take it after. 

“No, love. Stay in bed with me,” he peppers kisses to your cheek, your jaw, chin, sweetening his words, and folds you into the tight embrace of his arms. “Take it in the morning. It'll be fine to miss a day.”

You level him with something that shadows the ravines in your gaze with pure, unadulterated scepticism, but as he scouts the canyons, the valleys, the pretty craters that make up the composite of your eyes, he finds no discernible trace of wariness, uncertainty. The terse line in his shoulders ease. 

But while fossicking around he unearths something else. Something a bit more enigmatic, calculative, than doubt. Equivocal, slippery, it runs from him when he tries to give chase, tucking itself back into the harsh tenebrous that shades the landscape. 

He hums, wanting to ask, but you sigh in quasi-acquiescence, and burrow deeper into his embrace. 

“Fine,” you huff, but he tastes a purring sense of satisfaction in the air. “I'll take it tomorrow instead.” 

“Good girl.” The praise slips out, low and gritty, perfumed with his heavy greed. 

You shiver against him. The hitch in your throat is quiet in the bedroom, but to him, it sounds like a gunshot. 

John keeps meticulous track of the empty pill slots, and notes with a sticky, resinous sense of glee that the numbers are becoming muddled, skewed. Later becomes tomorrow, and your soft acquiesce has days skipped. Missed. 

You can't double up, you huff to him, mournfully slinking into the bed. It's nearly one in the morning. Technically, a brand new day. I absolutely have to take it tomorrow, John. Make sure you remind me—

There's something pointed in your tone. Something oil-slick. He nods, bites back a grin. 

“Sure,” he pulls you close, breathes in the sweet, loamy scent of you—sweat and sex and the lingering remnants of your perfume, your soap—and lets it stain his lungs. “I can do that.” 

You say nothing at all when he doesn't bring it up until well past midnight the next day, offering little more than an exasperated groan, and a huffy roll of your eyes, as if this was just a missed dinner with friends and not a life-changing misstep. 

(The beast purrs. He places his hand over his chest, and feels the rumble under his skin.)

“Need to be more responsible than this, John,” you say, squirming in his hold to try and rush to the washroom to take that pesky little pill. 

“Sorry, love,” he offers, and means none of it. Clings tighter to you. “Got a bit carried away today, is all.” 

“It's not your fault—” something curls out from a dark crevasse when you look at him. “I've been so—off lately, you know? Must be the new batch. Maybe I should call my doctor.” 

He stills. Body tensing, coiling. John tries to speak, but the words are ash on his tongue. He clears his throat. 

“Could stop taking it.” 

It crackles in the air. Hangs heavy like a stormcloud. 

You blink, stunned. But it's artificial, hollow. Pulled from a wicker basket where you keep all your different skins. 

“You mean—what? Stop it all together—?”

You flit in the space once more, but it's less of an injured bird searching for an escape, he realises suddenly, and more of—

A boomslang. 

One rearing up, searching for the perfect place to strike. 

Wishful thinking, though, because you're flustered and skittish once more, a small prey animal he isn't sure what he wants to do the most—sink his teeth into you, tear you into pieces, and devour you whole, or hide you away from the world. 

“I can look for something else in the meantime,” you sound shy, hesitant, and it prickles across his skin. “But we'd need to be careful, you know. Otherwise you might actually get me pregnant.”

He tries to swallow his groan. Chokes on it instead. 

“Sure, sure—” he hacks into his palm. “Of course, love. We'll be safe. I'll pull out—”

Naturally, he doesn't. Makes no effort to even try despite promising you he is. 

“Not my fault your pussy won't let go of me, love,” he grumbles, hand cupping your weeping sex in his palm. The heat of you is searing. Blistering. He thinks he could happily melt inside of it for the rest of his life, and leans down to whisper his devotion into your come-slicked folds, the bitter tang of you, of him, admixing on his tongue. An elixir he could drown in. 

You huff at him after, all glossy-eyed and sex-drunk, and tell him to please try harder, John, I'll have to get plan b tomorrow—

You don't, but the threat of it, the possibility, lingers in the back of his mind, souring his thoughts. 

Next time, and I'll have to, John, you say, featherlight, lips pressed against the head of his cock. A warning, a goddamn tease—

His voice is strained, pinched. “Of course, love,” and he guides your mouth back to his cock, letting the matter fall into pieces when you suck on the sensitive head, tongue licking, coy and kittenish, over his frenulum. 

It's only later, when watches you swallow down his come, that the beast slinks out of the shadows, pocketing the fragments. 

You're off birth control—barely any scheming words of whispered concern needed—but the idea of you taking a little pill to wipe away his efforts has him pulling back. Recalibrating his plans. 

He decides on a different route to the same end. 

Damnation at your own hand. 

John, for his credit, does begin to pull out after that—albeit, with a great deal of agonised reluctance—and instead comes all over your pretty face. 

With thick ropes of his pearlescent spend dripping down the apples of your heated cheeks, he doesn't think he's ever seen a sight more beautiful than this. 

And one with more opportunity.

Slowly, he swipes at it with his thumb and then promptly brings it down, hard, on your clit. You flinch, mewling at the overstimulation, and the threat he brings so close to your raw, unprotected sex. It's dangerous. This thin line he dances along could snap at any moment. Could rain hellfire and fury over his broad shoulders, unmake all the progress he'd steadily built up. 

He walks the precipice, anyway. He pulls his hand away, and brings two fingers up to curve over your cheeks. His thumb, stained with your slick and his come, slides across your bottom lip. 

The pout you give him—all wet-eyed lachrymose—has his spent cock twitching against his sticky thigh. “Fuck, love. Gonna send me to an early grave if you keep starin’ at me like that.” 

“You're cracked,” you slur around his thumb. In retaliation, he digs it into your tongue, and preens—full of nasty, gnarled satisfaction—when your eyes flutter, rolling into the back of your head at the taste. 

With this brief distraction, he drops his come-stained fingers to your mound, and rubs along the swollen rim of your hole. Just touching, pressing. A tease, a whisper. 

You tense. “John—” it's muffled around his thumb, and he isn't sure if it's a warning or a plea. 

He pushes the tips in, barely to the first knuckle, and just pets around your rim. 

It's a battle of wills, now. “No more than this,” he promises, and the undercurrent of his threat rents the air. Makes you bristle. 

You always loved a challenge—especially coming from him. 

“Just the tip?” You tease, spittle running down your chin. Your eyes are dark—midnight skies, ink black—and he's struck by the afterimage of himself in those pools. Made in the same image. 

He grunts, slides into the first knuckle, and scissors them apart. 

“John—” it's breathless. Your teeth spear his thumb, tight around his bone. He wants nothing more than to have you bite down hard, scar his bones with the gnawed meteors of your desire. Your desperation. “Fuck—please—”

You give in so prettily, and he barely has a moment to think about how quick it's been when you angle your hips, hand falling to grip his wrist tight as you slide down his fingers, all the way to the last knuckle. 

You clench around him like a vice. A pretty bow. He fucks you with his fingers, meeting your shallow thrusts with ones of his own, slamming viciously into your pussy as he coos adorations into your ear. 

With his other hand, he reaches down and fists himself over your bare mound, pressing the tip against your clit where it weeps prespend over your flesh. His thumb sweeps across what spills out, dragging it back down to your sopping hole, pushing it inside. 

It's probably not enough to reach your womb, to get you pregnant, but he clings to that tantalising fantasy as he drills his fingers into you until you come, breathlessly begging him to fuck you harder, to fill you up—

He isn't even fucking you with his cock, and you still beg him for it. 

John pushes the tip into your slit, fingers still buried deep inside of your throbbing pussy, and groans with the force of his release. It makes him dizzy, almost nauseous with it, filling his head with nothing but the sweet, wounded sound of your moans filling the room, and the wet squelch of his fingers pulling out of you. 

When he catches the threads of cognisance in his fingers once more, he leans back on his haunches, chest heaving, and brands the messy sight of your pussy fluttering, clenching around nothing, as his spend drips down your slit, over your hole, and pools in the sheets below. 

He's not sure if heaven exists, but he knows the sight of you, breathless and whimpering on his bed, is the closest a man like him will ever come to seeing it. 

The push-pull of this little game stretches on. 

Price likes to see just how far he toe the line before you're whimpering into the sheets, telling him don't, John, don't come inside me, I'm not anything, John—and he's ripping himself away from the tight clutch of your wet, hot cunt, and coming all over you.

The illicit tease of barely pulling out in time, and then scooping up the mess he makes on your face, your breasts, your belly, your ass, lower back, thighs, and spooning it into your pussy until it's a fixture in your bedroom ritual. 

And maybe it's the threat of it all, of playing such a dangerous game, seems to cudgel under his skin the most, ripping apart the thin veneer of that man he once pretended to be—righteous and good—shedding it off with each hiccupped gasp you make when he presses his come-slicked fingers inside of you, murmuring guttural words of affection in the shape of impish mockery (want it bad, don't you, sweet thing; so fuckin’ greedy for it, love—). 

He likes it the most when he can fuck you stupid on his fingers. Cockdrunk, and come-starved (because you are, of course; he hasn't come inside of your cunt in weeks, and doesn't miss the mournfully pitiful whines you give when he pulls out, depriving you of the pleasure of feeling him come inside you), you're too blissed out, swimming in pleasure, to think about what he's doing. 

In fact, he doesn't really give you much of a chance to think at all. 

The next few weeks are filled with him fucking you each night brutally, viciously, snarling low in your ear about how bad he wants to come in you, stuff you full, and then keep you plugged up all night with his cock that it takes, and then pulling out right before, committing the sight of your betrayed expression to memory where it'll sit like a trophy when you finally break. 

You make an appointment with your gynaecologist, and circle the date on his calendar. 

John notes it down. Tucks it away. 

And then he amps up the pressure.

John's fingers root behind your knees, pushing your thighs apart as he settles between them. His gaze drills into your bare cunt, slick and wet, and so ready for him. Eager for it. 

He'd counted the days, and knows that if there's ever the absolute worst time to have unprotected sex, to come inside of you, is now. 

Which, of course, means he has to. The clause in that is ironclad. Apodictic. 

“Bit dangerous,” he rasps, and lifts your leg up, resting your ankle on his shoulder. You fluster beneath him, panting and pretty, and fuck—he’s not pulling out of your pussy tonight at all. “Should I pull out?” 

It's a tease. A test. 

He reaches down as he says the words, gripping his cock and bringing it down against your wet heat. The bare, blunt head of his cocks slaps against your clit, and you arch, keening. Nails bite into the thick muscles of his biceps, and he leans into the sharp sting. Letting it ground him. Centre him. 

This will be your cacoëthes. 

He's been depriving you for weeks, and John knows that you're wanting for it. Desperate. The little twitches your hips give, as if begging him to fill you up, are proof enough of how much you want this. 

This. The dream he dripped into your ears, hot oil congealing over your frontal lobe; infectious and thick. You can try to chisel it off, but the pollution is already damning. Ruining. 

You want this. He wears the axiom like armour. 

And you beg for it—eyes shaded in gut wrenchingly beautiful lachrymose—and John snuffles closer, inching the weeping head of his cock into your tight, warm heat. 

The sight of splitting you open is something he never grows tired of. Something that, without fail, makes his balls ache. His chest thrum. Blood turns to ichor. To wine. He's drunk on the contrast made between you—a garish chiaroscuro of your pretty pussy, soft and sickly sweet—almost nauseatingly so—swallowing down the fat, girthy length of his cock. The thick streams of veins running along the flushed, heavy shaft against your puffy, soft folds is almost hideous. Sinful. He can't equate it to anything else except corruption. The horrific beast sullying the princess. 

And fuck—

The thought alone makes him throb. 

He's sullied you plenty, he reckons, and yet you always look so sweet. Especially now, when your rim is stretched taut around the thick of him, pussy squeezing, clenching around him in a vice, as if you weren't sure to push him out or pull him deeper. 

John decides for you. Opting instead to push your knees down to your chest, nearly brushing your ears, and follows with the bulk of his body until he feels your breath rush out of your lungs. You struggle for a moment, gasping wetly into his ear as his weight—every bearish pound of it—rests on you in the perfect mating press. Your bite into his biceps, keening prettily into his ear as he bullies the full length of his cock into you. Spears you open. Splits you apart. 

He can feel you gush around him, drenching his groin and thighs with your slick. 

Like this—chest to chest, forced to breathe in the same air, the same madness—he likes to just stare at you, taking in the heat simmering under your skin, the sweat beading along your temple, the pinch in your brow as you struggle to adjust to the sheer width of him cudgelling you open. A battering ram you're forced to make room for. 

He takes it all in, each flicker of emotion, each heaving gasp. Burns it into his memory. Lets it soften the iron around his heart. Keeps it there, nestled in the cradle of his limited love, held aloft by indelicate, bearish hands. This sweet thing. 

He can't wait to ruin it. 

If these weeks leading up to this were lovemaking, fucking, then this, this, is mating. Animalistic. Primal. He pushes in as deep as he can, until the tip kisses the ripened seal of your womb, and grinds his hips cruelly into the cradle of your thighs. 

Your nails leave bloodied indents in his flesh. A scar he'll proudly bear the mark of. A tattoo of the time when he turned you into something new. 

His balls are soaked. The sheets, too. He mocks you for it, a rasping growl lodged deep in his throat, taunting you about how fucking wet you are for him. How badly you need it. 

“Gotta plug you up, hm?” He grunts, and sets a pace that serves only to accentuate the sloppy, messy squelch of your cunt. 

His cock pistoning into you, alternating between deep, full thrusts that knock the air from your lungs, and heavy, slow plunges meant to badger the blunt head of his cock against your walls. 

You seem to like it best when he shifts his weight between each thigh, content to just grind into you. Make you feel every inch of him. You cling to him, yowling in his ear about how good it feels, how much you love this, love his cock—

The thick bed of wry, umber curls on his chest, stomach, and groin grow slick with sweat from the intensity of it all, from the shared heat. Pressed tight against you, he feels every quiver. Every flinch. Each moan is made known in a slight reverberation across his skin before he hears it. 

Drenched in sweat, glued to you as he fucks you into the mattress, John feels very much like the beast making a house out of a twisted whim in his head. Feverish, sick, he drives into you with the single minded goal of filling that home up with three. Then four. Five—

As many as you'll let him.

And he almost loses himself to that thought alone. Dancing sugar plums that make his balls tighten. He stems the flood by pulling out of you, letting his heavy cock slap against your sticky, soaked cunt as he heaves into your hairline, sucking in the heady loam, the humus, of your scent. 

The whimper you make when he pulls out of you sounds like a wounded animal, and the noise tickles across his hindbrain. His jaw aches. He bites down on a snarl as you thrash against him, mindless with the need to have him inside of you. It brings a nasty, vicious curl to the ends of his mouth, and he doesn't even bother trying to tamper it down. John lifts his head and lets you see his foaming muzzle, drooling with thick globes of saliva. 

“Stay still,” he growls, low and dangerous. It's as much of a warning as it is a command, and the way you react, tensing, coiling tight—the flash of unease. Shock. And then the need. Achy, heavy. He feels it against his jugular when you shiver, moaning his name into the space between you where it reeks of desperation. 

To soften the submissive tremble in your jaw—and maybe to temper down the challenging talons sharpening in your gaze—he nuzzles his cheek against yours, peppers wet kisses to your skin. He licks across your jaw, bites down on your flesh. 

He tastes salt and sin on your skin. 

(His eyes roll so far back into his skull he thinks he might get lost.)

“Gonna cum on your pretty cunt if you don't stop squirming, love.” 

And John loves you most for your waspish intelligence—the ire smouldering in your throat. The way you bite back just as hard, never afraid to bear teeth when he snarls. He doesn't think he could ever love someone too soft—not without tearing them to pieces. To shreds. 

But you wear plush, tender conchoidal skin over jagged, rough obsidian. He'll ruin himself if he ever tries to rip you apart. 

Like this, though—you melt. 

All that keen, vicious intelligence snuffed out. His scheming Cleopatra tamed on his cock. 

Your heels dig into the back of his thighs, urging him closer to your sex. “Come on, John, just fuck me, fuck me already—”

(Tamed, though, perhaps being a misnomer.)

He huffs into your neck. “Impatient little quean.”

It gets him a sharp bite to the tip of his ear, and the floor roars so loudly in his veins, he gets dizzy from it. 

“Fuck—”

He's pressing back into you again, into your warm, tight heat, and it's nirvana kissing his nerves. Liquifying his spine. He rolls into you with a weighted groan, buried to the hilt once more. 

But even with the respite, he knows he won't last. 

John needs you fucked stupid, docile and soft just for him, and sets out to do just that. Pounding into you with a spiteful twist of his hips that he knows will leave you a little sore, and tender tomorrow. But the idea of spreading your puffy, achy folds apart and soothing the slight hurt with his tongue for hours until you're sobbing into the cushions quells any hesitation that rears, begging him to slow down. 

Go easy on your pretty cunt.

(As if.)

John batters into you until your eyes glaze over, and your chin, cheeks, smear with drool. Until the challenge in midnight black melts into submission. Docile, and malleable. Perfect for him to mould. Shape. 

Reshape.

He glues to you, touch starved and tactile, and basks in the liquid heat that blooms from deep within you. 

“Gonna cum soon,” he snarls, broken by the heave in his chest as he fucks into you, starved. “Gotta pull out, love—”

You're gripping him tighter, anchoring him to your body. You haven't come yet. Something he dangles in front of you like a threat. 

He watches the slow crawl of realisation crest over your messy face, and thinks he falls just a little bit more in love with you at the sight of your little pout. 

Loves, even more, the way it breaks apart when he pounds into you harder, viciously, watching drool dribble off your chin, and reason leak from your ears—

“Please, John—” the sound of your whimpering has him grunting, head dizzy with the saccharine sweet taste of it on his tongue. “Please, please—come inside me. I–I want you to–to fill me up—”

“Yeah?” He taunts, mean and breathless. “Want me to come inside your sloppy cunt? Dangerous, ain't it? Jus’ might take, sweet thing. Is that what you want?”

You're howling a litany of sin into his ear, desperation drenches each clamour of his name, each orison uttered, begging him to come, to fill you up, and then—

“Fuck—I want it so bad—” his head is filled with static. Whitenoise. “Want it to take, John—”

He comes inside of you, cock pulsing so hard it feels like a sob. Filling you up. Wishing on all the stars that it takes—

As a reward for your good behaviour, he spreads you out over the sheets, and growls his approval into your sopping pussy, drenching himself with the taste, the smell, of you, promising to wear it like a perfume so everyone knows how good you are for him. Him, alone. 

(His, his, his—)

When you come, you nearly smother him, and he thinks he sees a glimpse of nirvana in baby soft yellow before he's pulled back by your shaking hands brushing the hair off his sweat-slicked forehead. 

“Are you okay, John—”

He rolls you under him, fucking into your drenched pussy like a man starved. That tantalising vision glues itself to his hindbrain, so close he can scent the fresh dew of fresh milk, and warm bread in his nose. Feel the bump of your stomach. 

He's almost angry about it, about being ripped away from that dream, and takes his aggression out on your sloppy, leaking cunt. The way his come trickles out, staining the mattress below and the back of your thighs has him growling darkly into your nape. 

“Keep it in,” he snarls, words sharpened on the whetstone of his need. “Keep it all inside, love.” 

“Ah, John, John—” something falls from your split-slicked lips, and his fingers bite into your hips. Punishment for the slurred backtalk. 

“I'll spank your ass if any of it leaks out—”

It does. Of course it does. 

He bends you over his knee, and slaps his broad, rough palm over each cheek ten times before deliriously shoving two thick fingers into your sloppy cunt, stuffing his come back inside your tender, swollen hole, rough and mean, as you howl, squirming in his lap about how you promise you'll be good next time, John, please—I'll keep it all in, I swear, I—

“You fuckin’ better, love.” He groans, and thinks about cumming on your messy face, all slick with sweat, and drool, but decides against it. A waste, he thinks, and leans over you to shove the thick, twisting length of his angry cock inside you to the hilt just spit his release against your seal once more. 

“That was…” You're still panting against his chest, eyes dazed, and body laxed. Melted wax over his chest. “Intense,” you settle on after a beat. 

There's a hiccup in your breath when he hums, chest rumbling with the sound. 

“Mm, but you liked it, didn't you?”

Of course you did. Of course. The evidence of it is drying, tacky and slick, on his groin, his thighs. 

You burrow into his side, peeking at him from over the thick bed of wry curls that clot over his chest. “You're fucking me like you haven't in years, John. Makes me wonder if you have an agenda.”

He considers your words. The weight of them. Wonders just how much you've clued into, but huffs when he catches the same look in your eyes as the one reflected in his own.

Cheeky little—

“Can't I just want to fuck you? Not everything has to be about schemes, love.” 

The oil of his lies, the sticky resin of his evasion makes you huff into his skin.

In all his meticulous planning, he'd picked up several books on this particular topic, and scoured every available, reputable, site he could find. John knows what to look out for by now, and keeps a keen eye on you—one that very quickly dips into obsessiveness, but you're kind enough to call it overbearing. 

Jesus Christ, John, why are you asking me how many times I pissed today? 

He just needs to wait things out. 

But rather irritatingly, he's called away overseas for the next week. 

Ah, well. He'll have to try harder next time. 

He arrives in Heathrow mid-morning, and follows Laswell into the office. There's a mountain of reports to fill out—things that, rather irritatingly, require his signature—and resolves to spend the rest of the day hunched over at his desk, even though there's an itch in the back of his skull demanding he go home. 

It is always like this, though—both the post-mission ritual of banal paperwork that seems almost comical considering what he'd just done, and the undeniable urge to flee back into the sanctuary of your shared home. 

His bones ache for it. 

Laswell huffs when he lingers by the exit, and he swallows a groan. 

While he was away, you'd been silent. Moreso than usual. 

Where he'd have expected an update on what was going on—the mundanity of your life that he clings to when the beast in his head whets its talons a little too sharp, digs into a little too deep—you’ve gone silent. Not radio. Not completely. But the information you give is sparse. Cagey.

You don't tell him about the visit to the gynaecologist, offering nothing but a quiet hum into the receiver, all blase and nonchalant, and a simple, equivocal: “good.” 

He tucks it away, lets the matter drop. 

If he timed things correctly—barring your impish prevarication aside—then something will begin to show soon. You would have mentioned something. Some nominal change to your physical well-being, but when pried, pressed, you huff. 

“I'm good, John. When are you coming home, anyway?”

He raps his knuckles on his desk, still smarting from the punches he'd thrown recklessly this past week, too keyed up to let his anger simmer instead of boil, and thinks. About you. About this. 

A week isn't a lot of time—he’s been called away for months in the past—but this feels like it's lingering. Time stretched and distorted. Elongated. And a part of him feels chipped, fractured after touchdown. 

It wasn't as if this particular assignment was any more, or less, dangerous than the ones he went on before. If anything, it was comparatively mild. Muted. He honed into his training, and did his goddamn job. And yet—

Yet. 

You lived in the spaces he occupied. The air he breathed. The water he drank. 

He brought you with him, something he's never, ever, done before. Perched pretty on his shoulder, he heard your voice in his head with every step he took, every radio call. 

But it was hallucinatory. Chimerical. You weren't there, you were here, but the problem lies in the lack of a divide that usually bifurcates the world into two fractions: his job and you.

It eats at him. 

He brought you where he's never taken anyone before. Never let them in. 

His thoughts were asunder. Pulled in all directions, but the centre was always you. His compass pointing north. He wants you. Needs you. His whole being has been recalibrated with the needle aimed toward you. 

An alert on his phone shakes him from his reverie. 

He reaches for it, slides his hand across the lockbar. The notification pops up. A message from his bank. 

His card—the one he gave you, the one you've used all of once to buy a chocolate bar when he gruffly, surely, complained about you not spending his money—has been used. 

Curious now, he opens his app, eyes scanning the threadbare purchases—all mostly interest fees and service charges, bar one. It was recently used at a drugstore for under twenty dollars. 

He doesn't know what this means, what you're playing at. He makes to text you, but he gets an email next. 

Thank you for your purchase; here is your e-receipt. 

His heart does something strange in his chest. Turns in on itself. Goes all askew. 

Not only are you using his card, you're using his account, too. He clicks it, eyes scanning through the purchases (only two), and blinks. 

A card, and—

His want takes the shape of a hand, presses against his jugular. 

—a pregnancy test. 

He knew when he started this game that this was, of course, the inevitable outcome, but having it here, right in front of him—in that sneaky, noncommittal way you always do things; behind his back, and in the dark, like you enjoy watching him try and sniff out the truth—has his belly knotting up. Churning. 

A pregnancy test. 

Fuck—

(and out of all the ways to tell him, you cheeky little—)

He's up out of his chair before he's even aware that he's standing. 

“Laswell,” he gets out, and can't be sure how his voice is so measured when his head is being shredded into pieces. “I'm out for the rest of the day. This whole bloody week, too—”

“Something bad happen?” 

His hands shake when he pulls his jacket on, slips his car keys into his hands. “No. Quite the opposite, actually. I'm going to be a father. A bloody dad—”

It's on that sentiment when his voice breaks. Shatters. He clears his throat, blinks furiously. Fuck. Fuck. It's happening—

Shangri-la sits in his fist, taking the shape of an e-mailed receipt. 

In his periphery, he sees Simon's head come up. Watching him. Measured. 

Laswell, too, eyes him with a degree of wariness. He supposes to them this means the end of everything. 

She breathes in. “Tuscany would be my choice.”

“Oh?” He tears his eyes away from the screen, gracing her with a steady, unflinching look. “Was thinking something a bit more local. Liverpool.”

It gets a scoff, one full of disgust. “She'll divorce you within the year.” 

“I'm having a baby, Laswell. Not getting married.”

“Oh, no?” It's a challenge. “I seem to recall something about someone being a proper gentleman, or was that just the lie you told your unofficial missus?”

“We'll get married. That's not up for debate—” an intern makes an alarmed face, like perhaps it ought to be. Had he not been holding nirvana in his hand, he might be a bit more cautious with his madness. Too bloody bad. “Wherever she wants—Tuscany, Udaipur, fucking Siberia. I don't care. What I’m a bit more concerned with is my expectant wife.” 

“Soon-to-be,” she volleys, just because she knows it's the sort of thing that will itch under his skin. 

“Already is, Laswell.” He gripes, flat. “Or damn near close to it.” 

“If she knows what's good for her, she'll say no.”

“Lucky me, then, that she doesn't.” 

Lucky him, indeed. 

On his way out, Ghost utters a heated congratulations to him, and John can see his gaze is absent. Turned inward, mind whirring. Reeling. He can hear the gears grind from where he stands, and if the ink-black madness in his lieutenant’s drifting, pensive eyes means much of anything, then John sends a silent hail mary to whatever unlucky person was misfortune enough to unleash the muzzle on that particular dog. 

Well. It's not really his problem. Until it is. Until it becomes one. But since it's not something that'll impact him in the next five minutes, he tucks it away. “Thanks.” 

He doesn't linger. Doesn't, really, even remember the ride home, head buzzing with thoughts that keep twisting around themselves, driving him mental. Things like, is it real? what if you were joking. what you weren't? 

Oh, fuck—

You better not be. 

But you wouldn't. You're conniving and wily, but you're not cruel. 

This is happening, then. 

You've been playing house with matches inside of a tinderbox. He shouldn't be surprised when it all goes up in flames, in smoke, but as he walks through the door, and glimpses the pregnancy test perched innocently on the counter beside a card—congrats, daddy (and the caricature of a man in a pinstripe suit nearly makes him gag)—he feels all the maligned pieces inside of crack. 

It shifts—

You walk out, hand cupped protectively over your lower belly. Eyes gleaming like a wild cat crouched low in the tussocks surrounding the savannah, watching him an eager sense of anticipation, excitement, and just the slightest edge of what he can only imagine the unfortunate mate of a black widow sees before it's consumed. Spare parts. 

It thrums inside of him. Ignites this wicker basket he calls a heart until it's cinder. Ash. Soot. He breathes it in. Tastes you on his tongue. 

John doesn't have the words. Can't think beyond the steady brag of his burning heart. 

His. His.

—and then it all falls into place. 

Yours.

He dotes on you with an almost unhinged devotion, murmuring stilted, gruff words of muted affection into the shallow bump on your belly. Ones that you, politely, pretend not to hear. 

A new bedtime ritual, one he adheres to with an almost obsessive need. 

Until it becomes too much. 

“Go and get my prenatal vitamins from the washroom, please. I just need five minutes without you smothering me, you stupid bear of a man.”

“You love it,” he grumbles, but acquiesces, giving your small, barely there bump a pat. “I'll be back soon.”

“Oh, no… please take your time.” 

Despite the prickle in your tongue, your eyes are soft. Warm. Melting him just a little more. 

John pulls away, and doesn't even pretend the reluctance to be apart is feigned. 

“It's in the drawer,” you call, voice stretched. Echoing. “Next to your shaving cream.” 

He pulls the drawer open, scanning the contents briefly, before finding the purple bottle in the back. Why you chose here of all places to put the bloody things—

His knuckles knock against the old box of condoms, tipping it over. There's a strange rattle as it falls, and his brows furrow at the noise. 

Curiously, he reaches for it. Shakes it as he picks it up. The same sounds spill out. He pops the flap of the box open, peering inside, and—

A gruff chuckle crackles in his throat. 

Inside the old box of condoms—the ones he never bothered to throw out, or use—is an accumulation of all the pills you'd meant to take. 

His jowls ache. He rubs at his jaw with his hand, and feels the skittish patter of his heart thudding out of his skin. Madness in his veins. 

John closes the drawer with his knee, and then tosses the box of condoms in the bin, leaving it for you to find later when you're inevitably wracked by another wave of morning sickness. A little shred of vindication for this little game you made him play. 

Though he supposes turn-about is fair play, and the number of pills in the box is less than the months he spent scheming for this vision of his.  

In the back of his head, the beast purrs.

“Do we need to play these games again for the next one,” he rasps. “Or can I just fuck you until it takes.” 

You blink at him, wide and owlish. Full of faux innocence as you coax the beast out of hiding. “I don't know what you're talking about, John.” 

More games, then. He thinks he might crack open your ribcage and rest his weary head on the frantic beat of your heart. 

“Mm, don't know what I'd do without you,” he says, guns aching. He reaches for the pack of gum (no smoking around the baby or you'd toss him off the balcony), and pops a spearmint into his mouth. “Might live longer, I reckon, but—”

Your elbow digs into his side. “You sure about that?”

He just kisses your crown in response, and places his heavy, scarred hand over the curve of your belly. The beast inside purrs, content for now. Satiated. 

When he looks into your midnight eyes, he finds your own beast slumbering away. 

A match made in a tinderbox, he guesses, and kisses you until you're dizzy. His very own Shangri-la sitting pretty inside his bed, nestled in the castle in Spain you helped him build.

Will help him fill. 

[peachyforthis]

Genshin men when YOU try to make their signature dish (pt 1)

+ when they make yours

Featuring: Kaveh, Neuvillette, Alhaitham

Kaveh

Would accidentally snort in laughter when seeing you struggle to put those biscuit crusts in place.

But would refrain from laughing more in seeing your dedication to make this dish for him, a sincere smile on his lips and heart swelling with love.

Might actually start telling you the mathematically calculated way to position the crusts while you get tired eventually and remind him that these biscuits have to be broken down to eat anyways, for which he would dramatically gasp and pout while saying, “It’s all about the art and presentation!”

Would definitely add a touch of his architect designs on your favourite food that you’ll be in awe of his skills, while simultaneously thinking if you really wanna break and eat this masterpiece.

“You are truely a genius. Now i feel guilty for eating your art.”

“Nonsense!, I can make these new structures a thousand times for you. Only if you’d want that.”

How could you say no to seeing what new designs he comes up with every time.

Would feed the food to you himself, since you felt bad breaking his structure.

He wouldn’t mind. Honestly, he would be secretly so proud since you loved his passion so much too.

Neuvillette

Would have to request his Melusine assistant for his favourite, chilliest water stash to make this.

Honestly, when you sample some to check, it’s not that different from the normal consomme you make except it’s more… refreshing with his imported water (why are you even surprised anyways).

But you’d make it anyday for your beloved Dragon as you see him devour it (in his proper manners of course), while telling you how delicious it was after you finally settle down on his lap, with him lovingly kissing your cheek.

“Exquisite flavours, my beloved.”

You lean up and kiss him.

“I did use your water stash though. Never knew it would be this hard to convince Sedene that i won’t waste it. She definitely guards it like mora,” to which he chuckles.

On a rare free day, you would catch him suffering trying to learn to make your favourite food, even if the said food is fried or dried like those Mondstat hash browns or Charcoal baked Ajilenakh cakes.

“I often have wished to make some of these hash browns for you, ahem… although these oil fumes do make me feel like I’m losing my Hydro constitution.”

And honestly, to you this is more than enough proof of his eternal love.

Alhaitham

You wanna make his signature food as a surprise for him since he’s a bit stressed these days. So you make up your mind to cook it on your free day while Alhaitham is away at the Academiya.

At first, spends too much time thinking if you really wanna write the word “contemplation” on the finished dish.

Eventually, you’d add it since you wanna make this just like Alhaitham likes, even if you don’t understand the aesthetic. But if that’s how Alhaitham likes? You’ll do it willingly. Like how love is a feeling which sometimes cannot be understood fully, yet you both have it for each other.

Fishes out his special patterned frying pan and measures the spices he likes to add to the dish.

When Alhaitham comes home in the evening he immediately recognizes the smell and goes to the kitchen first to see you fully focused on making his dish, marking out the symbols albeit a bit clumsily, not noticing Alhaitham watching you with a warm, tender gaze.

Later, tries to be nonchalant when you serve him lovingly, but you know better when he kisses your head and blushes a bit after while you have that grin on your face. Smiles seeing your clumsy handwriting of “contemplation” word on his dish.

He is a methodical person. Would search up your favourite dish and measure out the exact ingredients, time and procedure. Wouldn’t mind redoing it since he wants your favourite to taste precisely how you like.

“You know I wouldn’t mind if it doesn’t taste the exact same. Whatever you make, I’ll eat it heartily,” you giggle.

“Only the best for you. Plus, don’t worry about the wastage of the previous failed attempts. I have enough mora and I know Kaveh wouldn’t mind gobbling anything since he’s always starved.”

reblogs would be very appreciated ^^

[shugar0cone]

“WHY IS THERE SO MUCH P%#n!”

Summary: pretty much this https://youtu.be/5khrrCXhAcA?si=EbI43LBLXhZ-g_Ip

Y/n: *holding up her phone so she can get in a call.*

“Shit I can never get a signal in this crappy hotel.”

*y/n sat her phone down and looked at angel.*

Y/n: “hey, hun. Can I use your laptop.”

Angel: “sure I don’t mind.”

*y/n gets off the couch and walks to the front counter where angels laptop was charging.*

Y/n: “thank you Cher.”

….

Y/N: “WHAT IN THE FUCK!”

*angel gets up out of his seat and Alastor (who’s y/n husband) appears to see distress.*

*as angel got to the counter him and Alastor respond at the same time.*

Angel: “what the hell happened”

Alastor: “you ok love I heard your distress.“

*y/na hands gripped her hair wide eyes like a deer in head lights.*

Y/n: “THERES SO MUCH PORN!”

*alastor audibly made a record scratch and left the scenes so you and angel could hash it.*

Angel: “why are you looking at my private shit!”

*angel said with his arms out in frustration.*

Y/n: “angel this ain’t private, IT WAS WIDE OPEN!.”

*y/N scrolled down hopeing to exit.*

Y/N: “THERE IS LIKE THOUSANDS!”

Angel: “IVE BEEN MEANING TO CLEAN THE SHIT!”

Y/n: “what is this shit CLOCK WISE, COUNTER CLOCK WISE… CHICKS WITH DICKS..”

Angel: “listen the toung placement is important.”

Y/N: “YOU SICK FUCK!”

Angel: “I NEED HELP!”

Y/N: “ANGEL THERE ARE NO CHICKS WITH DICKS ONLY DRAGS WITH BAGS!”

Angel: “OKAY I HAVE AN ISSUE MAYBE I WANTED TO BE CAUGHT!”

*angel started to cry as y/n put both of their hands on his shoulders.*

Y/n: “Angel, now you listen to me your gonna go out there and meet somebody, your out of control here!”

Angel: “alright alright you will just advert your eyes from the computer.”

Y/N: “I mean it next dick you see do it.”

Angel: “fine I’m done, I’m done.”

*angel relaxed as he noticed y/n grabbing the laptop.*

Y/N: “let’s get rid of this.”

Angel: “woah woah we can just delete the files.”

Y/N: “no no no that shit can be recovered we got to smash this shit, and with a hammer.”

*cut to y/n smashing the laptop with angel.*

Angel: “okay, you good.”

Y/n: “nope it can still be recovered we gotta burry it in the harbor.”

*cut to angel and y/n in diving suits to get rid of his stash.*

*angel and y/n are bonded over this experience while Alastor was traumatized*

A/n: this was a shit post and was board ofc it’s gonna be bad. And yes I changed the script abit.

Love y’all!

-Shugar

[daisygirlwrites]

Do u have any tips on picking a call sign for a character?

i wasn't exactly sure how to properly answer this but here's the process and advice that i've gotten from pilots and military personnel.

i've been told that callsigns are always made up by other people and it usually involves with something embarrassing. callsigns are basically an inside joke between the person and the people they work with. and most importantly, it's something to help keep the person humble, to not let their ego go to their head.

for my first work that i've posted on here (Rookie Mistake), it serves as an origin story for why I named my oc Crash. in short, homegirl was thrown and crashed through a window.

examples from people i've talked to and reddit:

HASH - during a squad breakfast, one of them came in hungover, ate some hashbrowns and proceeded to throw it up in the parking lot, in front of the whole restaurant

ROBAT - Ran Over By A Truck

DUCKY - His first name is Pato

DJ WAR - Originally called Five Names cause this person had three middle names until someone figured out their initials spelled out DJWAR, hence the cooler name change

STASHE - used to compete in beard competitions before joining the military and overall took really good care of his mustache. Was almost called GROOMER but it got shot down quickly for obvious reasons.

i will also say this, if you give a really cool callsign for your character and backstory for the name, you absolutely can!

some extra thoughts:

a bunch of real life callsigns are acronyms and abbreviations

some callsigns are just silly and not as embarrassing

using the logic and process of callsigns being a picked inside joke, Simon's callsign as Ghost low key has to fucking suck. yeah it's cool that he was given it due to how he moves on the battle field. however, Simon Riley is technically dead, along with his family. in the comics, Tommy would scare him by wearing a skull mask. not only that, Simon was buried alive with the decaying corpse of his former commanding officer. wouldn't want a name that's basically a reminder of all the actual shitty stuff that happened to you.

Gaz makes sense cause it's a short form of his last name.

speaking of, using last names as callsigns are not uncommon. technically, Price's callsign is Bravo Six but everyone calls him by his last name.

Soap is kind of realistic in terms of how he gets his callsign, cause he's known to clean house (hella badass imo)

according to my husband, Bob (Baby on Board), Payback and Fanboy are the most realistic callsigns from Top Gun Maverick.

in short, calls signs are just really creative and sometimes really shitty nicknames. hope this helps!

[octuscle]

My landlord just told me I have a week till I have to be out of my apartment for no reason! I’ve payed rent, bills, hell I even washed his car! He needs to seriously chill out!

Your fat landlord is already standing in the living room measuring the windows. You try to stay calm. You ask if he wouldn't rather fix the drain in the bathroom first before throwing you out of the apartment for no reason at all. He laughs and pulls the tenancy agreement out of his pocket. And with his dirty fingers, he points to an underlined passage: "No smoking, no weed allowed". And then he looks at your little cannabis plantation with a grin. But he's not a monster… If you give him your weed stash, he'd be willing to let you stay here for a week longer.

You turn pale. Shit! But now it doesn't matter anymore. You take a joint from the can. Light it up. Your landlord turns bright red. "Out of the apartment! Now! You're out by tonight!" You blow the aromatic smoke in his face. He immediately relaxes. You take another drag and hold the fag out to him. He actually wants to smack it out of your hand. But he takes it after all. And takes a drag. An amazingly deep puff. And he blows out the smoke in a very routine manner. He asks what the problem is with the drain. You giggle as you turn on the tap and watch the water run off far too slowly. Your landlord turns off the water, takes another puff, turns the water back on, giggles and just says "Totally cool, dude!"

When you've finished the joint, you have a munchies attack. Fortunately, your landlord's fridge is full. And you still have a few mushrooms left. Magic mushrooms. After a few minutes, your landlord's kitchen is a battlefield. You have a food fight. Then you take each other's clothes off and play catch in the apartment.

You ask your bro if his parents will scold you for trashing the apartment. "Nah, they're totally chilled. And they won't be back from vacation for another two weeks," replies your stoner buddy. And then he asks if you want to fuck first and then bake hash cookies or the other way around.

[dethtallica]

heyy im requesting again cus i liked the work you did for me so much :) could you do one with Jason/Anyone based on @hexxeddorm’s drawing on a waitress Jason? (im pretty sure you’ve seen it) the rest is up to what you want to write, just need to have him dicked down in that uniform 👀

again, love your works so much and take your time if you need to :) ❤️

GAHH had to make this into a halloween fic! i love that fanart so much this ask made me SO happy :)

Prove It

1987 • James/Jason

CW - semi public sex, toxic yaoi lmao, cross dressing, dubious consent kind of i don’t know, use of the F slur, internalized homophobia

Jason always looked forward to Halloween.

He’d dress in a fun costume, drink, maybe play a Halloween show if he was lucky. The Flotsam guys were even bigger on Halloween than he was and dragged him to countless costume parties with hookers hanging around; they’d give him a look, that look, and one of his bandmates would push Jason to go talk to a prostitute with a smirk.

“Cmon man, she’s like, totally your type! Blonde hair, blue eyes, looks like she could kill ya… go get ‘er!”

Yeah. It’s his type.

The girls were almost always wearing a sexy outfit. Skimpy, cheap clothes that accentuated their curves. The costumes were predictable— Sometimes a nurse. Sometimes a slutty witch who wants to trade her potions for your semen. Maybe a particularly naughty angel who decided maybe a little defiance would be good.

Or, a waitress.

Jason stares at himself in the mirror, regretting everything about this. He was still the Newkid, had to do everything the band told him. What James told him. So, when he was ordered to embarrass himself by wearing a very feminine, very revealing Waitress costume for the upcoming Halloween party, he obliged. Jason shuffled to the side to check the rest of his costume. Remembered how these costumes were made to show off ass and curves. It’s not a nice memory. His thighs seemed too muscular for the thin fabric of the light pink skirt, his chest and shoulders too broad and thick for the revealing top. Trying on costumes had been enjoyable in the past; now wearing his costume is the last thing he wants to do.

Jason’s eyebrows furrow as he continues to check himself out in the mirror. Maybe, he thinks, if he was a chick, there was a chance he would look good. But he’s not. No, he’s a guy in a fucking waitress costume too small for him just because James would get a kick out of it. Everyone else had a normal costume— a vampire, a werewolf, an imp. And, fuck, here he is. In a women’s skirt and top. In a shitty halloween store’s changing room where plastic decorations hang from the ceiling and walls. The painted on smiles of the plastic spiders don’t help Jason’s mood.

Jason sighs. He really doesn’t wanna do this. Surely there’s a way he can convince James to have mercy on him, right? Maybe he’d offer his personal stash of weed or Heineken. Embarrassed, Jason stops staring at his masculine figure in the mirror and takes a deep breath. James is on the other side of the dressing room, impatiently tapping his foot, and Jason assumes it’s because he wants to hurry up and get back to the guys.

“James? You’re.. really serious ‘bout this? Don’t wanna like, take my hash instead? This is stupid. Really fuckin’ stupid.”

Jason hears the other man grunt from the other side.

“What, too pussy? If you can’t even dress up in a stupid costume, why should I even keep you around?”

Well. Fuck.

“I- Fine. Whatever. I’m ready.”

A pause, then James is opening the door from the outside, not realizing how tantalizingly slow he’s going. Why did he do this again? To be honest, he wasn’t really thinking when he asked Jason to wear the costume. He was drunk. And, yeah. He’s usually drunk. Caught him there. But it was different. Jason was the one who brought costumes up in that stupid cheery voice, and you couldn’t blame James for wanting to mess with him. Not when he’s waiting for Jason to snap.

Here’s how it happened; the two were sitting in Jason’s room together with the steady beat of Electric Eye. Jason and James left all alone because Kirk and Lars wouldn’t do a damn thing without the other and Lars was tasked with getting the band more beer. Jason eyed James. James eyed Jason. Jason spoke up, blurting out a stupid question about Halloween, earning a groan from James. Like he wanted to make Jason believe talking to him was a chore. The conversation went on— if you count Jason sheepishly blabbering in hopes of entertaining James a conversation. It was when Jason mentioned those parties with his old band, Flotsam, that the blonde got an idea.

That’s when he asked Jason just how far he would go. Jason looked confused at first. The guitarist enlightened him. James asks the brunette what his problem is first, because of course he does, and follows it with something that made Jason determined.

“You always just take everything. All the pranks, all the jokes. When are you gonna snap at us, huh? When are you gonna snap at me? How far can you really take it? Prove to me you’re good enough.”

That’s how they ended up here. Jason showed him how much humiliation he can take by allowing James to lay eyes on him when he’s dressed like this. Because Jason is strong, Jason can take it. He can take all the shit James and the guys give him. In fact, he has to. So the bassist doesn’t hide when the door is finally opened all the way, only looking to the side, his cheeks dusted a light pink.

It hits James like a truck. He feels absolutely winded after he first takes the first look. The waitress skirt perfectly hugs his hips like it was specially tailored and crafted for Jason to give the guitarist a boner. His mouth goes dry, scanning the bassist up and down. The boy in front of him wasn’t supposed to look so damn perfect, the whole thing was supposed to be a joke. A stab at Jason, to see how far he’ll take it. To see if he’s good enough to be in Metallica. He is a replacement, after all. However, James would be lying if he said that replacement wasn’t making him short circuit. And James was also a dirty fuckin’ liar, because the waitress gag was more than just a gag to him.

“You. You, uh. You look stupid.”

There’s silence for a few moments. Then, Jason starts laughing. It throws James off, and he scrunches his eyebrows. The bassist giggles for a few moments longer before shaking his head.

“Is that all you have to say?”

James shifts uncomfortably and looks to the side. Walks in, closes the door behind him, then scowls. Like he didn’t just invite himself into an occupied dressing room like a freak. And he wasn’t! He swore. He only shut the door so no one else would see Jason like this. Which, fuck, wasn’t a great reason either, considering that’s the whole reason he’s forcing Jason to buy this stupid costume anyways. So people can see. And laugh. The only one that’s laughing is Jason, though, because he realized he’s got the big James Hetfield’s panties in a twist ‘cause of what was supposed to be a prank on him. Ironic.

“Don’t fucking laugh at me. Be grateful I’m closing the door so only I can see you. I should be the one laughing at you.”

Jason rolls his eyes. He’s not dumb enough to not pick up on what the situation is, though it is much different from what he expected. He really did expect James to laugh at him, to think he looked stupid. Instead he got that look, yes, that look, and a couple stuttered words when James stared at him like a dog staring at a treat. Jason’s no virgin. Maybe surprised, but he won’t let that show. What he does plan to show is dominance over this perverted blonde who was slowly getting closer to him.

“You look conflicted. Got something to say?”

Jason asks quietly, watching James get closer like a cartoon character floating to a pie. Pathetic, he thinks. He’s supposed to be the intimidating one and Jason’s got him hardening in his jeans from a simple costume like a homo. If you asked him, James was not a homosexual. He only liked girls. That was his justification for quickly hardening in his jeans at the sight of Jason. He looked like a girl, okay? That’s it. That’s the only reason.

But it wasn’t. Because James was inches away from the bassist, staring down at him with a hard on.

“I’m not- I’m not conflicted. Fuck are you trying to say?”

“Well.. I can see your boner through your jeans, but you’re trying to make yourself look like you’re mad. How’s that for a conflict?”

The blonde snarls. That was it. James shoves Jason against the back wall, rattling the little decorations in the dressing room. Jason yells with surprise and slight panic as he’s tossed against the wall like a ragdoll. Really hot once the initial surprise wears off, but he keeps that to himself. Jason’s chin is yanked up to look up at James’ flushed face. They meet eyes, the waitress boys’ gaze teasing and hungry while the guitarist’s is angry and lustful.

“I am not a fucking fag. Okay? I’m not. You- you just look like a woman, that’s IT. I don’t like guys. I don’t like you. I’ll beat the shit out of you.”

Instead of a reply, Jason forces his lips on James. Expecting resistance, he doesn’t go too hard— but, instead of being met with a punch to the gut, he feels the blonde hungrily reply by kissing him back like he’s been waiting for this moment for years. And, that’s not true. Because he’s only been waiting for months. Which is, like, significantly less gay. And this isn’t gay. Because right now Jason’s a just a slutty waitress. But, no matter how much James tells himself these things, they both know the truth. Thankfully, James’ worries melt away as they make out against the wall. Jason’s tongue finds its way into the blonde’s mouth and the taller boy whines, hands finding their way to Jason’s hips. It’s an ego boost feeling James fall apart in literal minutes all because of Jason. Jason did this to him. Made him straining against his jeans, begging to be inside the waitress boy. Made him shaky and whiny (to James’ dismay). He can’t think about that too long because everything’s happening so quickly—James’ hips start to rub against the bassists’ clothed dick as he nearly eats his face off with those sloppy kisses. It’s all teeth and spit as they dry hump each other, both sporting a full erection.

The kiss doesn’t last. James is pulling back, chest heaving, face red, and hard as a rock. His cock still rubs against the brunettes, and he can’t help but look at their strained cocks brushing against each other. Jason notices this and looks at the erotic scene too. He silently wonders if this costume will be ruined before he can even wear it for the party.

“If.. If you tell.. anyone about this.. I swear you’re a dead man..” James promises, trying to catch his breath and keep his desperate moans down at the same time.

“Won’t tell a soul.”

For some reason, that’s believable enough. ‘Cause James doesn’t miss a beat rubbing his length on Jason’s slightly shorter cock. Both are impressive. James thinks Jason’s is impressive. It’s got a pretty pink tip and girth that would make any girl drool— it’s too bad Jason’s using it on the Mighty Hetfield. Don’t ask James how he knows this. But, really, it is a beautiful cock, because all James can think about is how perfect and (probably) delicious it is as he ruts against Jason who is now leaning in to lick and suck at the blonde’s neck.

Shuddering, James’ grip on Jason becomes tighter as the tongue on his soft skin glides over him before picking a particularly sensitive spot and sucking. The bassist smirks against the taller boy’s neck as he sucks a hickey into the crook of James’ neck. Probably not a good look to have purplish marks all over your neck after you just walked out of a changing room with another man, but that was a worry for future James. He could always just say it was a vampire. And, ouch, Jason bites down on his flesh just like one, making James shiver and stutter. His hips trembled against the flushed cock below him and he bites his lip to hold back the moan that threatened to spill from his lips. It was already shameful enough he was doing this with another man, he doesn’t need the whole fucking store hearing it.

With a slick popping noise, Jason removes his tongue from his neck, leaving James dizzy. He stumbles back slightly, which he realizes is actually from Jason pushing him back to remove his skirt. The brunette’s fingers slowly push down that delicious pink skirt along with his boxers to reveal his weeping cock, and James swears he could’ve came right then.

“Don’t worry big boy, you can fuck me soon.”

Actually, he changes his mind. He could’ve cum to that. While he’s busy losing his goddamn mind, Jason’s fingers soak themselves in his wet mouth before dipping down to his hole, making sure James knows he’s teasing himself by circling his rim before dipping in. Jason makes a breathy noise as he works two fingers in and James can’t help but wonder if he’s starting with two because he’s done this before. His chest swells with jealously but he’s quickly distracted by realizing his hand made its way down to his cock to rub himself off while he watches his bandmate finger himself. He’s so goddamn horny his body’s doing shit on its own.

“‘S gonna feel so good, James. Just wait a- fuck- minute..”

James doesn’t respond. He can’t. His mouth feels like a desert. A third finger is added. When? It didn’t matter. James’ burning hot desire made everything feel like it was moving in both slow motion and high speed. Like he’s drunk, but really it’s just Jason making him feel like that. Because he can do that for some reason, which is really frustrating. It’s usually not very acceptable to fall for your bandmate, let alone fall for your male bandmate as a male.

But when Jason’s fucking himself on his fingers up against the wall, curls sticking to his forehead with sweat as he moans like a girl quietly in his very much girly costume, it’s different, okay? It’s different. Not, but Jason will have to get James to realize that a different time, because now he’s focused on getting James inside him and doesn’t really care if it’ll haunt both of them for the rest of their lives. James almost seems angry when Jason reaches to undo his jeans, like he’s trying to make himself angry so he’s not embarrassed. Typical James behavior. Typical James behavior is also fucking people till they break, which Jason is a little too excited for.

A position change and a few desperate kisses, and they’re back against the wall with James’ cock pressed against Jason’s hole. The guitarist twitches against the tight rim and he goes to bite his lip again, which does not go unnoticed. The bassist almost wants to laugh again at how badly James wants this.

“Desperate, huh?” Jason teases.

“Fuck you.”

“That’s a yes, isn’t it?”

“Shut up.”

Jason smiles lopsidedly, and James wants nothing more than to wipe it off his stupid, pretty face. So he grips Jason, white knuckling, and forces his hole down on his swollen cock, making them both groan. Jason’s eyes are wide as he’s stretched out and his legs shake and tremble . Hurts like a motherfucker, but damn, he knows it’ll be the best he’s had so far.

James doesn’t wait to prove that. He’s immediately ramming in and out of Jason, trying so desperately to hold back his embarrassingly girlish moans. It’s cute to Jason. He knows the poor guy is in the tightest hole he’s been in to date, because Jason knows himself, and he doesn’t know how to handle it. James can only tremble and watch his masculinity fade away as he’s being pleasured so immensely by a man, no, not a waitress, not a woman, no matter how much James wants to tell himself. James can’t control how fast he’s shoving himself in and out of Jason’s hole and the smaller boy almost feels bad— he’s really falling apart like a virgin. It almost reminds Jason of the first time he touched himself to a man. Except teenager Jason was exploring hormonal wants and James is fucking the prettiest guy around.

The bassist brings his hand up to the blonde’s face to gently caress it, the juxtaposition between the gentle touch and the rough sex below almost hilarious. His grayish eyes look into James’ blue ones, and he sees how vulnerable the boy is. He may be the one in Jason, but Jason’s done this before. With the Flotsam guys. With groupies. It’s not new. This is new to James because he’s denied himself for so long, and despite how awful James has treated the brunette, he feels the need to make the best for him.

“You’re doin’ so good- mmghh-, so good for giving in for me. Good boy, good boy-“ The bassist praises, tightening around him.

“S-stop-“

Jason pants, being cut off by a particularly hard thrust to his prostate. He seizes up, panicking, realizing he’s gonna cum. He’s gonna cum all over this costume he hasn’t bought and, well, it’s gonna be hot as fuck. James must’ve realized he’s gonna cum too, because he speeds up and goes even harder if that was possible. Jason cries out softly, trying to grab on to James as he feels his climax approaching. The humping the fingering, the fuck— it’s all gonna come crashing down into a brain numbing orgasm.

And that’s what happens when James stutters his hips and spills into him with no warning. Jason tenses, legs shaking and eyes watering, cum spurting out of him in thick ropes. It’s almost embarrassing how much he cums, and, James didn’t even bother to touch his cock. So why is he coming like a bitch in heat? And, funnily enough, James still isn’t convinced he’s gay despite cumming in another man’s ass. And liking it.

The two ride out their orgasms and catch their breath, thoughts spinning in their head. Am I gay now? What does this make us? Can we do that again? Did I seriously just cum in 5 minutes? The various hickeys become forgotten.

Questions left unanswered, because all that really matters is that Jason proved himself.

“…I still hate you, Newkid.”

[badfaceambar]

fumando hash

juntando cash

rayando stash

jugando al crash

🚬🚭🎮

[andmaybegayer]

can you actually talk about bitwarden / password managers, or direct me to a post about them? Idk my (completely uneducated) instinct says that trusting one application with all your passwords is about as bad as having the same password for everything, but clearly that isn’t the case.

So it is true that online password managers present a big juicy target, and if you have very stringent security requirements you'd be better off with an offline password manager that is not exposed to attack.

However, for most people the alternative is "reusing the same password/closely related password patterns for everything", the risk that one random site gets compromised is much higher than the risk that a highly security focussed password provider gets compromised.

Which is not to say it can't happen, LastPass gets hacked alarmingly often, but most online password managers do their due diligence. I am more willing to stash my passwords with 1Password or Bitwarden or Dashlane than I am to go through the rigamarole of self-managing an array of unique passwords across multiple devices.

Bitwarden and other password managers try to store only an encrypted copy of your password vault, and they take steps to ensure you never ever send them your decryption key. When you want a password, you ask them for your vault, you decrypt it with your key, and now you have a local decrypted copy without ever sending your key to anyone. If you make changes, you make them locally and send back an encrypted updated vault.

As a result, someone who hacks Bitwarden should in the absolute worst case get a pile of encrypted vaults, but without each individuals' decryption key those vaults are useless. They'd still have to go around decrypting each vault one by one. Combining a good encryption algorithm, robust salting, and a decent key, you can easily get a vault to "taking the full lifetime of the universe" levels on security against modern cryptographic attacks.

Now there can be issues with this. Auto-fill can be attacked if you go onto a malicious website, poorly coded managers can leak information or accidentally include logging of passwords when they shouldn't, and obviously you don't know that 1Password isn't backdoored by the CIA/Mossad/Vatican. If these are concerns then you shouldn't trust online password managers, and you should use something where you remain in control of your vault and only ever manually handle your password.

Bitwarden is open source and fairly regularly audited, so you can be somewhat assured that they're not compromised. If you are worried about that, you can use something like KeePassXC/GNU Pass/Himitsu/ (which all hand you the vault file and it's your job to keep track of it and keep it safe) or use clever cryptographic methods (like instead of storing a password you use a secret key to encrypt and hash a reproducible code and use that as your password, e.g. my netflix password could be hash(crypt("netflixkalium", MySecretKey)), I know a few people who use that method.

Now with any luck because Apple is pushing for passkeys (which is just a nice name for a family of cryptographic verification systems that includes FIDO2/Webauthn) we can slowly move away from the nightmare that is passwords altogether with some kind of user friendly public key based verification, but it'll be a few years before that takes off. Seriously the real issue with a password is that with normal implementations every time you want to use it you have to send your ultra secret password over the internet to the verifying party.

[magniloquent-raven]

I wasn't thinking about Fathers' Day ON Fathers' Day but I'm thinking about it now. Late. But whatever.

It's got me thinking about nine-year-old Eddie moving in with Wayne. Short for his age, all elbows and eyes too big for his face little Eddie who gets into all the trouble he can find, and when he can't find any he makes his own. His knees are never not scabby. He lost two teeth going down the slide at school face-first and then threw the teeth at some kid who laughed at him. He has to get his head buzzed because he tried to bring home a skunk and the smell WOULD NOT come out of his hair.

Wayne is way out on a limb here and he has no idea if he's doing right by this kid.

But then like. A few months in Eddie comes home from school unusually quiet. They're not far off from summer vacation and Eddie's been bouncing off the walls about it for weeks, seeing him silently shuffle in and drop his backpack with a puckered little frown is. Unnerving.

Wayne is automatically assuming the worst. He knows the kids at school aren't always kind, but it doesn't usually get to Eddie this badly. He's trying to think what could have possibly happened to make him this upset and everything he comes up with terrifies him.

Eddie doesn't say a word until he's seated across from Wayne at their cluttered little table, hands fidgeting in his lap. Wayne knows not to push. He pretends to keep reading his magazine and lets Eddie work up the nerve.

"So, you're like. My dad now, right?"

It's not what he was expecting. At all. And he has no idea where Eddie's going with this. He puts his magazine down slowly. And he hedges. "Do you want me to be?"

Eddie's frown deepens. "That's not an answer, Uncle Wayne."

Wayne can't help but chuckle at the exasperated tone. "You're right it's not." He smooths down the corners of his magazine, and watches the paper curl back in on itself.

He hadn't talked to his brother about this part. They didn't talk about much, really. Wasn't time, and they were never the type to hash things out like that anyways. All he has are the guidelines the state gave him. Keep him fed, sheltered, and in school, and don't let him near his father. Wayne's all he's got now. For the foreseeable future.

"You gotta answer the question or you don't get your gift." Eddie juts out his chin in a stubborn pout, crossing his arms.

Wayne blinks at him. God, he hopes the kid didn't bring home a frog in his backpack. He rubs a hand over his mouth, fingernails rasping against stubble. "Truth is, I don't know." He pauses. Grimaces. That's not good enough. He knows its not. "But you can count on me to take care of you, okay? And...that's what matters."

Eddie's expression has softened, he's less squinty, which is good.

Then all at once he brightens, all gap-toothed smiles like Wayne's mumbled half-assed assurances are the best news he's heard all day. "Okay!" He tips out of his seat, less of a lean down to get his bag and more of a flop. Miraculously he doesn't fall on his face, and after a few seconds of rummaging through crumpled sheets of loose paper that Wayne's sure should be in a folder of some kind, he presents Wayne with...

A lump of clay.

It takes a couple blinks to make out what it's supposed to be. And even then, Wayne's not entirely certain. An ashtray is his best guess. The edges are uneven and covered in tiny finger-dents, and when Eddie slides it across the table it rocks ominously. He's painted it red, and scrawled around the rim it says Happy Father's Day! in poorly spaced, loopy writing.

Wayne doesn't expect his eyes to sting with unshed tears, but they do. Eddie slams against his side, barrelling into a hug that makes Wayne's chair skid a few inches across the floor. Which does not make his insides feel any less goopy and warm.

He pats the top of Eddie's head. "Thanks."

Wayne stashes the gift in his nightstand, afraid to leave it anywhere it can be knocked to the floor. Eddie has a habit of running through the house and sweeping entire surfaces clean by accident.

Eddie forgets about the ashtray. He's fairly certain it ended up in the garbage anyway, and he's not bothered. That's what his dad used to do with all his art projects. Never in front of him, of course, he'd always say thanks and send Eddie on his way, but a few days later Eddie would find his gifts in the trash. He's sure his dad didn't know he knew.

He never finds the ashtray, but maybe Wayne's just better at hiding it.

Ten years later Wayne sifts through what's left of their trailer. He hasn't seen Eddie in days, and Hawkins is in ruins. There's a chasm where their home used to be. He's not sure what he expects to find beyond more thin hopes that Eddie's still out there somewhere.

All he can salvage is a shard of clay, painted red. He touches one of indents baked into it, brushing a fingertip over Eddie's prints. His hand shakes. The piece turns to a red blur between his fingers.

He keeps searching.

[waters-and-the-wilde]

so the thing I love about that bit in Shadows on the Ship. the fact that Jet clocks their couples' therapy as 'the poetry you write for each other' totally makes sense considering. juno 'broody monologues' steel, and peter 'i am most comfortable expressing myself by being dramatic’ ransom glass ‘my Wound still Throbs when’t Rains you Brute‘ nureyev dipping into some rhythmic if not straight up iambic cadence when he's Doing A Bit

RELATEDLY. i think they're talking about their feelings significantly more than they're having sex. are they doing it effectively? dEBAtabLE but they are trynig. (nothing particularly explicit here this is mostly cut for length but that's the general theme of it)

the fact that Juno gets flustered and Nureyev is like 'lol damn right' whenever the their relationship comes up suggests (to me! because i think it would be funny!) that everyone else thinks they're going at it every chance they get when it's really more like 50 percent cuddling and naps and 40 percent making stupid jokes and heckling each other's poor breakfast decisions and getting distracted by talking about their special interests and whatever else passes for their couple's therapy/poetry sessions and they're only going at it in the remaining 10 percent that they get the time and energy and privacy for it

so post Cyberbots when they've got the ship back up and Juno's like 'uh hey. so the big guy recently said something about how we've been 'inconsiderate neighbors' and he wants us to keep it down', Nureyev is. genuinely baffled??

because first of all Nureyev does actually possess at least one (1) situational awareness, he also values his own privacy and is overall fairly conflict avoidant with their family, and he recognizes that Juno is very flustered by the whole 'having housemates who tease him about his boyfriend' thing. so Nureyev might not feel shy about their relationship but he's perfectly capable of being discreet, with the result being that he at least has thought this through

and then Juno's like 'he said something about poetry. and I'm uh pretty sure he meant the. um. you know. talkingaboutfeelingsstuff'

'ohhhh well that makes more sense. oh and we did have that one conversation before the Blade job that went until three in the morning. you'd had an awful lot of coffee that day.'

'yeah and you got really excited about Venusian opera traditions'

'it's not my fault the president of Venus is apparently a walking pastiche. oh well i'm glad jet said something. we'll get him some of that loose-leaf tea for his stash as an apology. and keep a closer eye on quiet hours shall we'

'UGH fine i GUESS'

- the thing is when they're not an item, juno's not exactly getting flustered about his sex life considering he's touchy about fuckety everything else. mick and sasha have no qualms about heckling him about his taste in guys and he doesn't get pissy about it. alessandra punches him for trying to pull a humphrey bogart and he's like 'not my usual thing but hey', he and valles vicky wake up in the same bed and make icky faces at each other and move on, ramses is like 'did i say your apartment' and juno's like 'ughh it's too early for your bullshit'

- he gets flustered about Nureyev bc he has actual feelings about nureyev

- in embrace of ice he does say they spent a lot of that year being busy and tired and traumatized and in their heads a lot after rebuilding from that extremely fraught reunion, but those comments in Shadows did indicate that they were putting the work in and i think it left plenty of room for 'hashing out their communication styles and figuring out How They Work in the present' while still acknowledging that they hadn't really worked their way up to talking about their pasts

- and it just seems like every time someone alludes to their sex life, the incident in question is both more innocuous and considerably more private, and if anything Juno getting Weird and Pitchy over an innuendo would make a really convenient smokescreen to hide something he actually Feels Weird About

'you two are going to be very busy tonight' [what NO we do Not Need This Right Now oh my god Buddy he's upset with me leave him alone] *gets defensive, coffee everywhere* meanwhile Nureyev's like *be cool act smug yes Captain very droll*

'we already delayed for your private celebration' [jeez we only talked! and there was crying involved! and then we were tired and fell asleep!] *gets defensive* meanwhile Nureyev's like *be cool act smug we were definitely doing what you think we were doing and not crying at all*

'this is true i have heard it many times' [like hell you have? we haven't even been at it that much? and i'm pretty sure he only makes a move when he knows you're in the garage and going to be there for a while?] 'okay NOT what I MEANT' okay honey Jet doesn't even do innuendo (although he absolutely would mess with juno by setting him up for thinking it is one while still intending the straightforward meaning)

- but otherwise the complaints/comments they get about their pda are about being mushy and kissy but in a 'urgh they're mushy and kissy' not 'send them to horny jail' way

- further headcanons not necessarily bothering with citations in the text:

- the carte blanche has a rule about private activities in private spaces. juno and nureyev have never actually broken that rule. buddy and vespa definitely have.

- i'm pretty here for some flavor of demi/grey-ace nureyev. his attraction to Juno hinging inherently on feelings of trust. catching feelings right off the fucking bat because those prerequisites for attraction were revealed and fulfilled really fast. being really really into Juno but liking sex as an expression of that intimacy and a way of showing how he cares for him, no more or less than being mushy and kissy or giving him little enrichment puzzles to get out of bed and spend time with their family

- he's not above illicit smooch cruises for thrills and giggles but given a preference doesn’t really go in for actually getting off in places that aren’t beds in rooms with locking doors

- also they made out in the garage one (1) time and then jet showed up and stealth-checked them, startled juno into headbutting nureyev in the chin and giving him a split lip. which nureyev thought was funny and took completely in stride but juno felt bad about it and reminded him every time nureyev tried to egg him into smooching in places they shouldn’t.

- and eventually he pulled the ‘what if we get carried away and I say your real name in a part of the ship where somebody could overhear it’ card and nureyev went ‘alright point taken’ (and he does think it's sweet that juno's trying to look after him like that)

- i don't think juno inherently has hang-ups about being caught in flagrante but somebody and i cannot for the life of me remember whomst now recently made a post to the effect of 'if rita found out he was kissing boys she would scream and he already has a headache' and you know what. yeah i think that about sums it up

- but never mind finding out Nureyev's name because Juno yelled it in bed, it's a goddamn miracle that Jet didn't overhear it on any of the numerous occasions that Juno yelled it in frustration because Nureyev was winding him up during their couples' therapy

- anyway tune in next time for 'also i think Buddy and Vespa are having significantly more sex than everybody else is aware of and you know what good for them'

[nostalgiachan]

With D around it makes me wonder something. Has Boy ever done a weed?

Having conferred with the Council of Elders, we've determined that Boy did once stumble on D's hash cake stash and eat one thinking it was just a regular brownie. He did not have a very good time.

[ash5monster01]

Goes On Epilogue

Pairing: Charlie Dalton x OC!FemReader

Warnings: 18+, depression, mentions of suicide, heavy topics, eventual smut, slow burn romance, fluff, gender themes/stereotypes.

Summary: Against his best efforts Charlie has to start at a new preparatory school after the tragic events that took place at Welton. The very events that led to the loss of his best friend and getting expelled in the first place. He has no plans to make friends let alone get close to anyone ever again. That is until he meets Evelyn and her interesting group of friends. No matter how hard he tries to push them away he finds it to be impossible. So he caves and in the end learns that life can still be enjoyable even if it feels like everyone is against you.

word count: 3.3k

Fifteen ←→ Bonus

Masterlist

Ridge Academy, NY

4/24/60

Being at Welton was exactly what Charlie needed. He stayed there up until Wednesday when he finally got tired of crashing on the dorm floor and eating leftovers stolen from the dining hall. One thing he didn’t miss was Hellton Hash. So he packed his things and gave all his friends tighter hugs before taking the long trek back to Ridge where he had the rest of break to think about everything that had happened. The time to figure out exactly what he needed to say when he saw Evelyn again.

The first few nights back with Nate were weird. Especially when Nate filled him in about Evelyn finding out about his crush. Nate assured him she made no mention of reciprocating the same feelings but Charlie was just glad she knew. In a way she deserved too, even if they were together now. That’s not the kind of thing you go your whole life without knowing. Especially when it’s one of your best friends that you’ve known forever. If she did reciprocate any feelings for him he would honestly understand. They had been there for each other longer.

When Sunday rolls around he’s able to convince Violet to leave their dorm room, let Charlie wait in plain sight for Evelyn’s return. Evelyn couldn’t avoid him if he was in the one place she needed to go and never expected him to be. So he sat against the soft pillows of her bed, reminiscing on the very first time he laid against them, wishing he had his legs tangled with her own. Patiently waiting and desperate to see his girl after all this time. He needed a hug whether she was still mad at him or not.

It’s when he’s watching a particular cloud of smoke from his cigarette drift towards the open window does he begin to hear the turn of the lock on the door. He sits up quickly, eyes cast on the dark oak as he hopes it’s finally her coming back. Of all the times he pictured this conversation this week he did not imagine how fast his heart would be thrumming in his chest. The anticipation of finally getting to see her after all this time. He hated that he couldn’t call her and hear her voice. Ever since he started at Ridge he hadn’t gone that long without talking to her.

“Charlie?” she’s too confused to be mad, but only for a second, because her curious brows turn upward sharply as she remembers fairly quickly her anger towards him. Charlie ignores it and smiles anyway, watching as she closes herself into the room.

“How was break?” he tries and she rolls her eyes, ignoring him as she lifts her duffel bag to the top of her desk and unzips it so she can unpack. “What, not good?”

“I thought you didn’t smoke” is all she says and Charlie glances at the filter in his hand, the end glowing red and he sighs before reaching and snuffing it out on the window sill.

“I don’t but I was able to recover my stash and you’d be surprised how nerve wracking it was waiting for you” he says and Evelyn can’t help but look at him and see if he was lying. He had only mentioned the stash once and that could only mean he went to Welton while she was gone.

“You went back?” she whispers, torn on prying further into the subject or still being angry with him.

“Yeah, I needed to figure out some things and I really needed to see my friends” he tells her and her hands that were unpacking slowly begin to stop as she gives him all her attention.

“Oh, that’s nice” is all she can bring herself to say and Charlie chuckles, moving to jump off her bed and approach her. She can’t help but admire how handsome he looks in his white t-shirt and black sweatpants. It’s clear he’s been waiting for her since breakfast and her heart soars at the thought.

“It was, especially because the guys helped me realize what an idiot I was” he says with amusement dancing in his eyes and Evelyn can’t help the small laugh that leaves her as he says this.

“You are an idiot” she confirms, unable to stop her hands from reaching out and wrapping around his waist. Charlie accepts the embrace, needing it just as much as her.

“I know, which I why I should’ve told you everything. It’s just, I kept looking at this school like it was some prison. Somewhere I had to serve out a sentence until I got back to my real life, and because of that, I looked at all you and your friends like people who didn’t matter” with each word her grip on him loosens, taking a step back and Charlie lets her because he knows these words hurt.

“I know now that it isn’t true. I was just so heartbroken and hurt by the world that I couldn’t tell you guys had good intentions. That you actually cared about me. I kept thinking, how could these people who have only known me for a few months, and know nothing about me, ever understand? Thing was I didn’t even let any of you try and that was my mistake. Time is meaningless when it comes to loving someone, hell I should know because it didn’t stop me from loving you” Charlie freezes as the words fly out of his mouth and she gapes back at him, like every sentence he says is being seared into her skin.

“You love me?” Evelyn mutters, mind reeling and heart pounding against her ribs. The whiplash of going from feeling unwanted to loved could do that to a person.

“Well yeah and it scared the shit out of me because the last time I loved a person like this they died” Charlie answers and Evelyn can’t help the smile that appears on her face. Much to Charlie’s surprise she eliminates the distance between them again and presses a quick kiss to his lips.

“Will you tell me?” she asks after pulling away, eyelashes fluttering against the tops of her cheeks and Charlie nods even though the thought of even recalling the events still stings.

“Yeah, I want too” he tells her and she can tell for the first time in the entirety of ever knowing him he’s being 100% honest with her. So she leads him to the bed, tugging him in with her as she gets comfortable to hear the whole story.

Which she does. Charlie doesn’t leave anything out. Telling her all about how Neil and him met as kids and were inseparable ever since. He told her everything from Keating and his wild teaching tactics and how he told them about the Dead Poets Society. Explained how they made their own Dead Poets Society and how they all started to feel like they could conquer the whole world. Then he told her about Neil lying about the play and his Dad finding out. How Neil did it anyway and Mr. Perry took him home that night. How he woke at 2am with a call from Mrs. Perry saying he was gone. How he had to go to each and everyone of of his friends rooms and repeat it over and over despite it not sinking in yet. How numb he was while he watched Todd run and curse at the sky.

He explained how he was so full of feelings and had no idea where to put them. That he became angry, bitter, began to lash out. How all of this led him to punching Cameron for throwing Keating under the bus in order to save his own ass. How he refused to sign the paper and they booted him out of the school until he felt nothing at all. He didn’t even get any comfort from his parents because of how angry they were with him and then he ended up here before he could ever come to terms with what happened to him. That was why he was so closed off and why he didn’t want to get to know anyone here. Evelyn was persistent though and somehow that had saved him. She stayed silent for it all.

“Charlie, I’m so sorry” she says when he’s finally done, tears seeping out of her eyes because she had never truly heard of anything that tragic and all this time he was holding all that in.

“It’s okay, he’s free now right?” he gives his own teary eyed smile back and Evelyn can’t help the hiccup of a cry she lets out as she hugs him close.

“You still didn’t deserve to go through all of that” she says and Charlie sighs, hand reaching to run through her long brunette hair.

“Yeah but now I have you and all my new friends. So I’ll make it through, don’t you worry” he says and that earns him another sweet kiss from the girl against him. When she pulls away he smiles at her, hand reaching up to brush her tears away.

“Thank you for telling me, I didn’t mean to be so harsh the last time we spoke. I was just so angry and Nate knew just the right button to push” she says with the soft shake of her head, looking away as she settles into the humiliation of how she had treated him.

“It’s okay, you had every right to be upset. I wasn’t thinking straight about us or anything” he tells her, hand guiding under her chin and lifting her gaze back to him. The contentment of this moment was something he had been waiting for a long time. He was glad she was no longer mad and that she finally knew everything. He just couldn’t enjoy it, not quite yet. “But there is one thing”

“What?” she questions, eyebrows furrowed and trying to determine what else Charlie could possibly have to say.

“You should talk to Nate though, it won’t feel right until you settle things between you” this was not what she had expected him to say and even though she had forgiven Charlie she wasn’t sure she was ready to forgive him.

“I don’t have anything to say to him” she says, stubborn as always, and trying to hold her ground, but Charlie sees the falter. The longing for her best friend and wanting it to go back to the way it was.

“Yes you do, which is why he’s all alone in our room right now waiting for you. He has some things to say too” Evelyn hates how suffocating this feels but she knows Charlie is right. She knows this isn’t something she can just ignore so she stands with a groan anyway.

“I’ll go on one condition” she tells him, finger pointed and stern eyes shining into his own. Charlie grins in amusement, enjoying the sight of the very mousy girl trying to stick her ground.

“Anything” he agrees, hands reaching up to lay leisurely behind his head but she continues to stare him down.

“You have to unpack for me and stay in here tonight” Charlie snorts at the request, thinking it would’ve been something he would hate but he didn’t mind one bit. Even if he got caught.

“That’s it. It’s a deal princess” he chuckles and she shakes her head, moving to her desk where she had started removing piles of clothes.

“My underwear drawer is off limits” she tells him and Charlie bellows with laughter, watching as she grabs her unmentionables and tosses them into the top drawer of her dresser. Slamming it shut for extra effect.

“Agh, you’ve broke my heart” he teases, voice dripping of sarcasm as he drops a hand to his heart. Putting on a show and she just glares before glancing at the door.

“I can’t believe I’m agreeing to this” she says with the shake of her head before starting towards the door.

“Wait” Charlie says and she turns to see him gesturing her towards him. She obeys and he’s quick to wrap her in a deep kiss, tongue softly gliding against her own, and breaking apart just as fast.

“Good luck” he tells her and she’s gaping back at him, shocked and breathless, and a little annoyed he gave her a taste of something she now has to wait for.

“You’re so annoying” she tells him and he just laughs, snuggling up in her bed, hand interlaced with her own.

“Maybe, I just wanted to make sure you remembered how good I kiss while Nate tells you all about loving you” he jokes and she just rolls her eyes, grinning right back at him as she lets go of his hand and starts for the door. He matches that smile as she slips out and starts the trek to the boys dorm.

The closer she gets the more nervous she feels, not ready to face the boy after so many things have come to light. All of break she realized how so many moments between them was more and she never realized. She had started to feel bad herself. Feel bad that she never noticed how hard he was trying. She was his friend, they could’ve just talked, but instead she was oblivious and he refused to break her state of ignorance. Sadly she had to face the music now which is what brings her face to face with his door.

For a moment she almost lets herself in, like she always would, but before her hand can meet the handle she stops. Realizing now their friendship had changed whether either of them wanted it to or not. With an empty pit in her stomach she decided to knock, something she hadn’t done to this door in a very long time. He must be expecting her because the ‘come in’ he hollers out holds no enthusiasm, only dread.

“Hi” Evelyn lightly smiles as she pushes the door open, spotting the boy at his desk, textbooks opened in front of him. He gives a tight lipped smile back, uneasy over how this encounter might play out.

“Hey” he mutters back, watching as she crosses the room to Charlie’s bed, perching herself on the side. He ignored the jealousy burning in his stomach, knowing she did it because it made her feel safe. Secure in a possible messy conversation.

“I’m sorry, for how I reacted. I didn’t mean to be so blinded by anger, it was just a lot to take in” Evelyn starts, eyes cast on her interlocked hands on her lap. The bed smells like Charlie and she instantly remembers he’s laying in her own and that thought comforts her.

“I’m sorry I never told you, I think deep down I always knew I wasn’t the one for you” he responds and Evelyn lifts her head, curious eyes gazing into his own as her eyebrows draw together.

“What do you mean?” She inquires, needing to know what exactly this meant.

“I know you think you’ve been unwanted your entire life but I know that isn’t true. You’re just one of those people destined for one person and the day I met Charlie I should’ve known it was him. I meant what I said at that dance, he understands you in a way I always wished I did” Nate tells her, a forlorn look on his face and Evelyn feels her eyes water.

“I don’t want to lose you Nate, please tell me we can still be friends?” She asks, voice heavy with the threat of tears and Nate smiles at her.

“I’ll always be your friend Evelyn, and I’ll get over this too. He deserves you” he says, standing from his desk to approach her and Evelyn laughs lightly, head tipping back to keep the tears at bay.

“You deserved me too. I’m sorry I was too blind to see it, but I think you’re right. I never noticed because I was never meant to see you in that way” and Nate nods as she agrees with him, voicing the very thing he had been afraid of all those years of loving her. Surprisingly it didn’t hurt as bad a she thought it would.

“Friends then, and no more keeping secrets” he tells her and she brings her head back down to look at him, standing from Charlie’s bed as she interlocks her hands with his own.

“Agreed” she says with a smile before wrapping him tightly in a hug. Nate accepts it, happy he didn’t lose her like he always thought he would. It was going to be hard at first, he knew that, but at least everything was out in the open. He could learn to move on, find the person meant for him. After all they still had senior year left in this school.

“Now let me finish studying, and I’ll see you and Charlie at dinner?” Nate questions as he loosens his grip on her and Evelyn nods, confirming the statement as she reaches and brushes her hair behind her shoulders.

“Perfect, I have to make sure Charlie didn’t completely ruin my room anyways. Maybe I shouldn’t have asked him to unpack for me” Evelyn tells him and Nate laughs loudly, bringing a hand up to his chest.

“I can’t believe you let him do that Miss Organization” Nate teases and Evelyn shrugs, eyeing the door that will soon guide her back to the boy she had come to adore so much.

“I don’t know, I guess he just teaches me to loosen up” Evelyn says and Nate grins, hand reaching to squeeze her shoulder, because that was all he ever wanted of his uptight and confident friend. To find someone who could mellow her out when needed and make sure everything was okay.

“Go ahead, I’ll see you later. If I were to guess he’s probably already gone through your underwear drawer by now” and Evelyn laughs, realizing how close Nate and Charlie had gotten in this short amount of time without her realizing. She just nods and offers one last hug before starting for the door.

“Thanks Nate” she says with no explanation as to why before slipping out the room and rushing off to find her boy. The very one she waited her entire life for and now finally got.

When she shoves the door to her dorm open, Charlie instantly lifts his hands from her bag on her desk, eyes frantic as he watches the girl barrel into the room. “I didn’t touch your underwear!”

Evelyn laughs, looking at the boy who just smiles at her, having put away majority of her clothes by now. She just shakes her head and shuts the door behind her, walking towards him so she can wrap her arms around his waist. Charlie drops his arms, wrapping them right back and calming down from the hectic entrance that had scared him.

“I love you too” she tells him softly and a smile cracks along Charlie’s face, his hold tightening around her as she repeats the words he had let slip so casually earlier.

“You do?” he can’t help but ask and Evelyn nods, tipping up on her toes to press a small kiss to the boys lips, eyes never fully shutting to gaze into his own.

“I do, and I think I always will” she tells him and Charlie grins before kissing her deeper this time, hand curling up and into her hair as he guides her face against his own. To think he had the dream of being a playboy just to fall in love with the first girl he met here.

“Then let’s get started on always”

Taglist: @octaviasdread @eden-punk @linmichea1 @pursuedbyamemoryy @mynameisjxlia

a/n: and that’s it folks! Thank you always for reading and loving these chapters. These characters have become extremely special to me and I’m so glad you all have come to love them too. If anyone wants to see any more of them I am open to requests as always & keep your eyes peeled because I just might have something a little extra on the way <3

[friendly-books]

Whispers Underground read and review

Whispers Underground

Alright this is one of @temporaryyuri favorite books!

“I’d made the mistake of telling my mum what I did for a living” pg. 9 That was a mistake

Oh so Abigail is Peter’s cousin?

“She doesn't invite us in,” pg. 11 Oh threshold magic perhaps?

“Like me Abigail had inherited her hair from the “wrong” parent” pg. 12 Glad that’s in quotations presumably Peter is talking about inheriting hair from the black parent

“but her dad was determined that his child wasn’t going to embarrass him in public” pg. 12 That’s more a you problem than your child’s problem maybe look into why your child’s natural hair “embarrasses” you

“That all stopped when Abigail turned eleven and calmly announced that she had ChildLine  on speed dial and the next person who came near her with a hair extension, chemical straightener, or God forbid a hot comb was going to end up explaining their actions to Social Services.” pg. 12 Go Abigail!

“My mum, says that Abigail’s hair is a shameful scandal” pg. 12 It’s not a scandal

“Looks like wear and foxes maybe.” pg. 16 Ohh foxes!

“And you’re sure this is where it appeared?” I asked

“He appeared,” said Abigail “I keep telling you it’s a he” pg. 18 Yeah Peter respect the ghost's pronouns

“Because-“ Mackey said, and then he got hit by a ghost train.” pg. 23 Ahh

“Lesley’s only supposed to do so much magic per day.” pg. 27 Oh interesting

“Detective Inspector Thomas Nightingale is my boss, my governor, and my master-purely in the teacher-student teacher sense of the term you understand” pg. 27 Nightingale!

“visit Beverly Brooks” pg. 29 Beverly!

“Rising out of the lights was a three meter tall statue of Sherlock Holmes complete with a deerstalker and hash pipe” pg. 34 Wait really?

“The guy lying dead at the end of the platform three had once been handsome.” pg. 36 Bi Peter 9

“Like I said, probably handsome.” pg. 37 Bi Peter 10

“sat down and have what went wrong with the O.J. Simpson murder trial explained to them at great length. With PowerPoint slides.” pg. 43 Oh with PowerPoints how exciting

“Detective chief Inspector Seawoll” pg. 46 Seawoll!

“Oh bollocks,” said Seawoll. “He’s an American” pg. 49 Ha and the appropriate reaction to an American

“Sahra Guleed” pg. 54 Sahra! I like you

“I heard it gets cold in the desert,” said Carey. “You’d need a hat like that.”

Guleed and I exchanged looks, but what can you do?” pg. 56 Carey CAREY why????

“It was the sort of place gay cabinet ministers used to stash their boyfriends back when that sort of thing would have caused a scandal.” pg. 57 More than a scandal it used to be illegal

“Nine point five.”

“Nine point two,” said Guleed. He lost points for the dismount.” pg. 58 Ha

“How about a five minute head start to hide my stash?” he said finally

We surged forward as one.” pg. 59 Ha and what was the guy expecting?

“Are you in a relationship with Mr. Gallagher? asked Carley. “Civil partnerships, long-term committed … no?” pg. 60 At least they’re inclusive questioning

“He was obviously dressed these days by his life partner-probably a second younger model” pg. 72 Oh

“I barely knew four and a half spells and you couldn’t  have got me to give it up,” pg. 84 Yep

“However having ethnicity challenged magician” pg. 85 Ha and I love that they keep using this term

“You’re supposed to turn up on people’s doorstep’s, terrify them with the sheer majesty of your authority” pg. 87 Peter :/

“Curious, I thought, she’d rather let us in than tell us her second name.” pg. 89 Interesting

“You always expect people in wheelchairs to look wasted” pg. 90 Nooo? Do people think that? Am I the strange one for not thinking that? Anyone can be in a wheelchair for a variety of reasons

“I’ll either find a way or make one’

“This is Special Agent Kimberly Reynolds from the FBI” pg. 105 Oh I was told I would like you

“There was coffee; he was being reasonable and I was suspicious.” pg. 110 Ha

“Do I need to stress how important it is that nether he, Agent Reynolds, or, more important, the American media get even a whiff of anything unusual.” pg. 111 It’d be bad

“I’ve got a little confession to make,” he said. “I wasn’t being entirely honest.���

“I’m shocked” pg. 117 Ha

“If you live in London just about the last thing you expect is a winter Christmas” pg. 118 Why?

“I wondered when the last time Nightingale had been here-probably not since the 1940’s” pg. 119 I would love to learn more Nightingale past

“No,” said Guleed “We completely forgot to ask her about the victims movements because we’re just that unprofessional.” pg. 129 Ha

“Nightingale had told me that there was a whole American tradition of wizardly, more than one” pg. 130 I hope we see some of the American wizardly

“Really?” he said, and I swear his face lit up. “How can I help?” pg. 132 Hmmm :|

“I did a quick scan in case Lady Ty was lurking in a corner somewhere.” pg. 138 Always a good idea

“My employer is curious to know who your master is,” said Robert “your true master”

With the emphasis on he put on the word master, I was certain he was talking about magical rather than administrative authority.” pg. 140 Still did he have to use the word master

“So are you two from China?”

“We’re from Taiwan” pg. 141 Way to assume Peter

“The Nightingale is his master.” pg. 141 Oh using “the” very important

“River Fleet” pg. 142 A River!

“He looked at the Metropolitan Police crest in amazement

“The police,” he said “Really?”

“Really” pg. 143 Why is he amazed?

“Stay down or I’ll break your fucking arms” pg. 153 Wow I didn’t expect that

“The figure reached for a gun” pg. 154 Oh no

“I pointed out that nothing had happened, which prompted Nightingale to give me one of his rare smiles.” pg. 156 What do you mean rare? I’ve commented about his smile before

“At the time I thought he seemed inordinately fond of it, though” he said as he watched me as I dodged around the atrium. “Although I must say I’m beginning to appreciate its appeal now.” pg. 156 Ha and did your professor use the personal rain cloud on you nightingale?

“It was Agent Reynolds” pg. 157 Reynolds what are you doing?

“Wait if I explain will you leave him out of this?” pg. 158 Reynolds gone rogue

“Is it because the victim is an American citizen. Do you find the murder of American citizens funny?” pg. 161 Reynolds girl chill you’re at a ten and I need you at a seven. Take a breath and maybe a nap

“I was tempted to tell her it was because we were British and actually had a sense of humor, but I tried to be cruel to foreigners,” pg. 161 Ha

“The FBI is legally responsible to investigate crimes committed against Americans civilians in foreign countries.” pg. 162 No? I admittedly don’t have a lot of knowledge of the FBI but I’m pretty sure the FBI deals with domestic crimes not international crimes

“Do I have to?” he asked

“This is grown up stuff,” I said

“Don’t patronize me”

“I’ll buy you a cake”

He sat up like a small dog “Really?” pg. 163 Ha

“Just a lowly constable”

“That’s me” I said

“Sure you are,” she said” pg. 165 She knows something

“She knew something. That’s the trouble with detectives-they’re suspicious bastards.” pg. 165 Ha

“With the erroneous soft “c” sound in “principia” and “magicis“-Pliny the Elder would have been pissed. I know it annoyed Nightingale when I did it.” pg.  168 Ha

“You can’t be part of this, you’re…a common. This is the Folly; this place is strictly toffs and monsters.” pg. 169 Zack knows?!

“My dad was a fairy.” pg. 169 Really?!

“breasts bounced distractingly. Me and Zack both stared like a pair of teenagers.” pg. 171 No stop that don’t make me get the spray bottle. That’s not even grammatically correct it's Zack and I not me and Zack

“As she walked away I realized I’d forgotten how sharply her thighs were and how beautiful the dimples that formed in her buttocks when she walked.” pg. 171 No. Where’s the spray bottle?

“We both watched in rapt silence until she’d gone around the corner.

That was amazing” said Zack

“Yes she is” I said

“So,” said Zack. “Are you two fucking?”

I glared at him

“No,” I said “she’s”

“Sex on legs” pg. 172 Alright time for the spray bottle. Maybe Leslie doesn’t want to have sex or be in a relationship with either of you did y’all consider that?

“Nightingale leaned forward and whip-fast grabbed Zach’s wrist and twisted it palm up so that Zach had to half rise out of his chair to avoid breaking it.

“You’re in my house Zachary Palmer, eating at my table, and I don’t care how modern you think you are, I know you know that’s an obligation you can’t avoid.” pg. 178 So cool Nightingale

“Good God, Peter” said Nightingale. “I can’t leave the city for five minutes.” pg. 178 Ha

“I can always tell when Nightingale’s been watching rugby because he leaves the place tidier than normal.” pg. 181 Ha

“When I got there Lesley had three-count them, three-apples doing slow circuits in the air of the lab.” pg. 186 Good for Lesley

“But the gun jiggled so violently on its tripod that it produced a spray wide and random enough to satisfy the most exacting standards of the Imperial Marksmanship School.” pg. 189 Ha

“You’ll like this beer,” said Oberon. “It’s from a microbrewery in the States. The management brings it over a crate at a time.” pg. 201 Mac’s brew from the Dresden files!

“I’d done the Middle Passage in year eight at school-I knew slave names when I heard them.” pg. 202 Oh

“I considered pushing it, but I was conscious of how hard Lesley was restraining herself from slapping me upside the head and yelling “Focus” in my ear.” pg. 202 I can’t blame her

“Say something about my face,” said Lesley. “Go on, I dare you,”

Code of the police-you always back your partner in public even when they’ve obviously gone insane.” pg. 205 OK Lesley maybe take a step back and calm down

“He said he got them from Mordor,” she said

“Morden?”asked Lesley. “What, in Merton?”

“No,” I said “Mordor as in “where the shadows lie” from Lord of the Rings.” pg. 206 Nerd

“I started stripping books on either side until I found something.” pg. 212 The gasp of horror that came out of my mouth when I thought he was stripping the books themselves nearly gave myself a heart attack

“Perhaps our Russian nurse was there to do more

“It’s not good to become reliant on specialists,”

“Hear hear,” said Nightingale” pg. 213 Ha

“I’m guessing that the empty one is the first component,” I said

“Top marks, Peter” pg. 217 Ha

“Possibly,” he said. “Comparative thaumatology is a discipline still in its infancy”

This was a familiar Nightingale joke-meaning that I was only one currently interested in it.” pg. 217 Aw

“IDD,” I said. “Improvised Demonic Device.”

“It doesn’t look improvised, anyway,” said Lesley. “It looks custom built.”

“If you two are quite finished,” said Nightingale

Lesley looked outrage but kept her mouth shut.” pg. 219 Why is Lesley outraged?

“This may be somewhat unpleasant,” he said, and pressed  his fingers down.

Fucking major fucking understatement” pg. 220 Bad then

“A dog sir,” said Lesley hoarsely. “Pit bull, Rottweiler, some ugly bastard thing like that.” pg. 220 Slander I say against Pit bulls and Rottweilers the poor babies get a bad rap

“Dogfight” pg. 221 How dare they >:(

“Nightingale sprang up, his face as angry as I’ve ever seen him.” pg. 221 Yep

“If marijuana was legal,” pg. 224 It’s not legal in the UK?

“Lesley was as pissed as I’ve ever seen her.” pg. 228 Why is Lesley mad?

“She was the best of your generation,” he said. “And you broke her” pg. 228 That’s not Peter’s fault

“It’s got that nasty smell that I’ve come to associate with you and that well-dressed piece of shit you work with” pg. 229 Rude

“She flopped against me and I felt her breast squashed against my chest” pg. 231 No

“I could leave the mask on” she said. “Or I could wear a paper bag.” pg. 232 Girl have some self respect

“Her hand found my erection and gave it  a delighted squeeze. I yelped and dropped my keys. “Look what you made me do,” I said

“Never mind that” she said, and tried to get her hand inside my fly.” pg. 232 NO Lesley stop that >:( bad sexual harassment

“I miss being a proper copper” pg. 241 Why? Being a wizard is better

“Do you know what I like about you English?” asked the senator

“The sense of humor?” pg. 255 Ha

“If you call me a nigger you just sound like a racist American,” I said. “And limey is a joke of an insult. You don’t actually know enough about me to insult me properly.” pg. 256 OHH

“You burn down one central London tourist attraction, I thought and they never let you forget it” pg. 264 Ha

“Where does an impoverished Irishman dig up  the readies, especially back then.” pg. 271 Did you really need to comment on the man’s ethnicity?

“Meaningless euphemism at one end and your full-on Unseen University at the other,” I said. “The Unseen University is a bit like Hogwarts-“

“Stephanopoulos cut me off. “I have read some Terry Pratchett,” she said.” pg. 277 Nice reference

“Kumar and I,” said Nightingale. “Not I and Kumar” pg. 281 Grammar police Nightingale

“Agent Reynolds turned to face us, her pale face caught in the bobbing circles of our helmet lights.

“Hi, Peter,” she said. “What are you doing down here?” pg. 300 What are you doing here Reynolds?

Why are we having a shootout in the sewers?

“I realized I’d been muttering the formae under my breath, number six on Nightingale’s list of my bad habits.” pg. 326 Ha and there’s a list?

“Really magic?”

“Yes”

“Fuck me!”

“Now you’re reacting?”

“Well I didn’t want to embarrass myself in front of the American,” pg. 331 Ha

“Enid, Oklahoma” pg. 339 Oklahoma!

“I felt a puff of air on my face and the rails began to sing. It was too late-a train was coming.” pg. 340 Oh no

“Our suspect started shaking and making snorting sounds noises.

“And you can stop laughing,” I told him. “This is really unprofessional.” pg. 344 Ha

“fuck me, he’s a Earthbender- before falling into the black” pg. 346 Oh no

“I was going to reach out and contact Toby the Dog with my mind.” pg. 361 What

“I’ve never been one of those people who tells everyone they’re fine and then tries to climb out of their hospital bed.” pg. 368 Why do I not believe you Peter

“I lay back in my bed, closed my eyes, and groaned theatrically until Lesley woke up.” pg. 373 Do you think Lesley bought Peter’s amazing performance?

“I bet he was fit,” she said “All these supernatural types are fit.” pg. 373 Lesley asking the important questions

“Nightingale turned up,” she said. “He was hoping to shout at you a bit to show his affection in a gruff manly and safety non gay way but you were asleep so he just sort of milled around for a while and then off he went.” pg. 375 Aw

“chasing a suspect through the hospital while wearing an open back hospital gown.” pg. 383 Peter :|

“the Met have some fairly serious views about the illegal possession” pg. 391 Yep

“Sorry, there’s three basic types, okay? There’s born, those who choose, and those that are made different.” pg. 398 Oh interesting

“As she wiped her face I realized that Zach was staring at me-eyes narrowed.” pg. 402 Interesting what’s he thinking?

“We’ve got to go down the tunnels now,” I said. “Before Kevin fucking Nolan manages to kill the lot of them.” pg. 411 What? Why? What did I miss?

“Nightingale was standing under a lamppost in a long oyster white Burberry coat that made him look like something from an old film. All he was missing was a cigarette, a hat, and a doomed love affair with a suburban housewife.” pg. 413 Why’d it have to be a housewife? It could be the husband

“Half caste” pg. 423 Rude. Could people stop being racist toward Peter?

“Half caste, I thought. I hadn’t heard that one in a while. Not since mum fell out with aunty Doris, who having grown up in Jamaica in the 1950’s regarded political correctness as something that happened to other people.” pg. 424 Half caste is a rude and racist word for biracial people

“Nightingale, but even half-shadowed I could see he didn’t like the idea of sending women into danger.” pg. 424 Get with the times Nightingale

“That’s because we’re in their ends now,” said Zack

“Ends?” asked Reynolds

“Manor” I said

“Patch” said Lesley

“Yard?” I tried when Reynolds still looked blank

“Hood,” said Zack

“Gotcha,” said Reynolds” pg. 429 Ha

“Oh shit, I thought if this isn’t the Low King of the dwarves” pg. 432 Cool

“I believe he supplied you with food contaminated with E. coli,” pg. 435 Oh no

“We buy our groceries from the Jew” pg. 436 Why the antisemitism?

“Despite my mum being from a small village in the middle of the forest, I’m not a country person” pg. 438 Peter’s a city boy. I so want Peter to have to go out into the country.

“Even Nightingale’s not going to wait much longer before he comes in”

And it with as many armed officers he could muster.” pg. 443 Because he cares about you

“Ryan Carroll,” I said “you’re under arrest for the murder of James Gallagher” pg. 446 Him! I forgot about him

“Like a bad smell,” said Ryan. “Don’t you hate Americans” pg. 458 Rude and no I don’t I'm an American

“James bloody Gallagher hadn’t been better at singing in his head as well.” pg. 459 So you killed him because you were jealous

“He ran, I chased, we got lost, I hit him with the plate, it broke, he tried to walk away-I stabbed him in the back” pg. 461 Poor James and Ryan is terrible

“Nightingale presented me with a small package neatly wrapped in silver paper.” pg. 462 Aww what a nice gift

“slim Nokia modified to have a battery interrupt and preprogrammed with every relevant number I could think of” pg. 462 Aww they both got each other such nice gifts

“I invited Nightingale but he said he couldn’t leave Molly alone on Christmas Day” pg. 463 Aww

“Ethnicity Challenged Magician” pg. 467 I love that Peter keeps using this phrase

“I have a FBI file” Nightingale wasn’t going to like that.” pg. 471 Peter has one? Does Nightingale have one?

“But I’d counted on having more time to butter Nightingale up” pg. 473 Ha

“I was finishing off the graffiti” pg. 474 That’s dangerous Abigail

“I reckoned that if he got his message out he might get him closure and move on” pg. 474 Aw that’s nice

“Nightingale had been horrified by the whole idea when I broached it before coming down to make the pitch.” pg. 476 Come on Nightingale she’s going to do this again might as well supervise

“Think of it as a boxing club,” I said. “You know boys are going to smack each other in the face anyway, so you might as well channel it into something disciplined. Abigail’s going to be out there looking, so we might as well make use of it and at least this way we can keep an eye on her.” pg. 476 Great idea Peter

“If it becomes necessary I will teach Abigail the forms and wisdoms myself,” he said, and then smiled. “Perhaps she’ll prove a more diligent student than yourself, in any case.” pg. 477 Ha and I hope Nightingale teaches Abigail magic

“A talking fox” pg. 478 Cool

“Tell your friends they’re on the wrong side of the river.” pg. 478 Ominous

Final thoughts

I enjoyed the book. The bad guy caught me off guard. I'd forgotten about him. What Lesley did to Peter was terrible. I liked Abigail and I’m glad she’s going to be part of the story more. I liked the whisper people. I liked Kimberly and Sahra Guleed. Nightingale as always was wonderful. We got two Bi Peter moments bringing our total up to 10. 

Onto Broken Homes