#i will SHAMELESSLY say that dally is my favorite

[unicornsaures]

my amrev mooties watching me mass reblog the outsiders stuff and probably being extremely confused or something

[mirajens]

The Man We Love

characters: freed and mirajane rating: m genre: angst warning: character death   found in ff.n and ao3 for @ravenstyx art inspo here from @summerbummin

It was easy to be stupid, to be cruel, because the man they loved was dead.

Laxus Dreyar was dead.

On the day of his funeral, it rained so hard that mud started rolling down the hill surrounding the church cemetery so everyone walked slowly, so they wouldn't slip. Raindrops rebounded off the clay pavers onto Mirajane's silk socks, her best socks, socks that Laxus loved seeing when she wore nothing else, socks that meant nothing right now because there was a void in Mirajane and it swallowed up all the emotions she thought she should be expressing, and yet, all she could do was stare at the freshly sealed grave of the man she loved.

And yet, Mira thought as her gaze slid over to the man standing next to her, here was someone who got the memo for appropriate distress at funerals. She and Freed were the only ones left after everyone went home: all the guests, the holy man, the servicemen, the rest of the Raijinshu, and even Elfman and Lisanna who were reluctant to leave their sister alone. It was only she and Freed now, and she watched shamelessly as he cried openly: ragged sobs tearing from his chest, face blotchy from breathing too fast, and then holding it back, his grip on his umbrella weakening as he squeezed the handkerchief he pressed against his mouth.

Mira thought, poor thing. Freed had loved Laxus as well. She'd never been able to resent him for that, and he never made her feel guilty for being the one who got to sleep in Laxus' bed at night. Laxus was never a cause of conflict between them, but right now, he existed so tangibly between them, a nonphysical pull.

The rain was getting ridiculous. Aside from her socks, the skirt and the sleeves of her dress were getting soaked as well.

Still, Mirajane moved closer to Freed, close enough that their umbrellas bumped when she wound her free arm around his shoulders.

"Come on, Freed. A storm is coming." These were the first words she'd said to him today. She couldn't bring herself to say I'm sorry. I know how you feel. It felt like it would be condescending, coming from her. And what was there to say to someone who lost the same as yours?

Freed let out one last sob, his voice shaking so hard when he finally spoke. "I-I can't, Mirajane."

She didn't want to leave, too. "There is no sense talking to gravestones," Mirajane said. She knew all too well. The dead didn't speak back. "Come," she said again, tugging on his arm.

Freed stayed put. "Please, leave me."

Mirajane shifted so she was in front of Freed, so she could look him in the face. "Would you like to come home with me?"

Freed's eyes widened. Mirajane knew that he knew that when she said home, she was talking about the one she shared with Laxus. Was he desperate enough to bite? Mirajane hoped so. And judging by the way he hesitated, he was.

"Come," she said for a third time.

"Okay." Freed blew out a breath, rough again. Defeated, heart-broken, unsure. "Yes, okay."

Mirajane took his hand and began to lead him away from Laxus' final resting place.

Mirajane opened the door to the small apartment she and Laxus kept two blocks from the guild. As she undid her heeled sandals and peeled off her soggy, silk socks, she watched Freed from the corner of her eye, taking in every detail of the studio. There were no walls, and his eyes went straight to the bed. Messy. Mirajane had been restless as funeral arrangements happened, but she could tell that he was trying to see Laxus in it. Humans were a base sort of animal, their emotions and desires easy enough to figure out if one knew where to dig it out from.

"Freed?" Mirajane walked to him, close enough that she could feel his exhale on her cheeks. His body heat radiating off him and passing through his damp clothes were almost unbearable. "Would you help me out of my dress?"

She watched his face go through hues of red more intense than the last. "Mirajane, what—"

"My clothes are wet. So are yours. I can toss them into the dryer."

They both knew that wasn't what she meant. "No, Mirajane. You don't know what you're taking about." Freed grabbed the hilt of his sword just so he could have something to hold onto and set to move back out the door. Mirajane's hand grabbed him.

"We are grieving. Should we not grieve together?"

"By fucking?" The snap of his voice startled Mirajane, but not enough to scare her. Not enough to wake her from her daze, Not enough to make her want to stop. "You would bring a man to the bed you shared with Laxus on the day of his funeral? You would disrespect Laxus like that?"

The disgust was evident on his face. Mirajane reveled in it, because she saw something else in it as well. Something that she could exploit. She wasn't very nice in grief.

"Don't you want to pretend?" Mirajane asked.

Freed broke, easy as an overstuffed balloon. His bloodshot eyes leaked and he wept like a child. Mirajane felt no remorse for it. Instead, she led him by the hand to the bed, farthest from the door, backed up against a big window so the gloomy afternoon light poured over the sheets.

Mirajane listened to Freed cry as she undid the buttons of her clothes, then his. He began to shake when both of them were undressed and she was pushing him down on the bed.

"Mirajane, please," the words sounded rusty and pitiful.

Seated on Freed's lap, she leaned down so she could press a kiss against the protrusion of his cheekbone. "Don't you think Laxus wouldn't have wanted this?" She would use anything, anyone right now, if it meant feeling something other than a horrible nothingness in her chest.

"I don't—"

"Because I think—" She pressed her lips down on his jaw, his collarbone, his pectoral. "—he'd want his favorite guy and his favorite girl to be happy."

There was something in Freed's tone that Mirajane couldn't quite put a name on. It was like he was terrified, regretful, but slowly resigned to his demise. He was an easy man. All grievers were. They did stupid things to crowd out the crippling sorrow in their system. "And will this make you happy?"

Mirajane shrugged, curls of silver hair shifting against her shoulder so it revealed her breasts. "I don't know. I just want to be tired so I can sleep tonight. Isn't that enough?"

She could see on Freed's face that it wasn't. But he put a tentative hand on her waist, anyway. Mirajane took that as encouragement and licked a line down the center of his chest, then his belly.

"M-mirajane, wait, wait." Freed inched back, hands pushing away Mira's arms. "I've never done this before." He swallowed, his pulse raced, his eyes were wide. Mirajane thought that he looked like a cornered animal. "Not with a woman."

Mirajane simpered. All soft curves, soft hair, early moonlight bouncing off her skin, she shifted between his legs so they were skin to skin again. A violent shiver ran through Freed. "Then would you like to stop?"

Freed blew out a breath. He was already half hard. "I don't know."

Mirajane reached between them so she could rub him. Freed bit his lip hard enough to make it pale. "I'll do all the work. Tell me to stop if you want me to."

He forewent nodding, tilting his face down so he could watch Mirajane's small hand wrap around his cock and jerk him off. She knew exactly where to touch, and how, and just the right amount of pressure and speed. Even close to the brink, Freed couldn't lose himself to the ecstasy. Guilt and grief was all-encompassing despite physiological reactions.

Before he could come, Mirajane, who watched his face raptly, squeezed the base of his cock, painful enough that Freed hissed. In apology, she slanted her mouth over his.

A mistake. Freed jolted away from her head and looked at her like she'd done something unthinkable.

"Sorry," Mira whispered. "No kissing, I promise. Okay? I'm sorry."

Freed nodded, feeling just a little bit ashamed about his boundaries. He didn't love Mirajane. He wasn't even sure they were friends. He had no business kissing her, nor her, him. It made no difference that she was naked, on top of him, about to fuck him on the bed she'd shared with the man he loved. The man they both loved.

To make up for whatever slight he felt he'd done, Freed laid his hands on her narrow waist again and let them slide up the slope of her ribs, the underside of her breasts. They were heavy, a little cool, perfectly curved. Fascinating. He'd never felt an inclination to them until now. Maybe it was the circumstance. He tried not to think, Laxus enjoyed Mirajane. And then, Must I, as well?

He thought he should at least try. He bent his head and lapped at her nipple, feeling no particular pleasure from the way Mirajane moaned, but he liked the way her skin smelled fresh and tasted just a little bit like rainwater, and how her crotch ground over his when she shuddered from the pleasure.

Instinct still existed, despite sexual preference. Freed knew which points felt good to any person, so he let his lips trail up her chest, her collar, and then he was sucking bruises onto her neck. He hoped he'd never see them after this. Her body was soft against his, not at all what he was used to, but he didn't find it unpleasant at all. He wondered if there was anyone who could resist Mirajane Strauss. He'd imagined he could.

Below, Mira swiveled her hips, spreading wetness on him, in no way impeding the delicious impetus. Freed was not a man who dallied. He nudged Mirajane off, took her by the hips so he could maneuver her on her knees. She twisted her head to look at him and found answers to her unasked question before he could even bother to look apologetic. He didn't want to see her face. Not when he was thinking of someone else.

Not at all chagrined, not at all distraught, Mirajane faced forward and reach for the bowl on the nightstand for a foil wrapper. She felt Freed grab himself, rub forcefully, and slip the condom on before she felt the head of him touch where she was most hot. To help, Mirajane grabbed between her legs, made a V of two of her longest fingers so she could spread herself apart and reveal herself to him. Soon enough, she felt the awful, wonderful ache, the slow slide, and she moaned. When Freed was in her to the hilt, she reached behind to grab his ass. He got the clue and started moving.

It felt forced. It felt like they were trying too hard to feel good. Freed squeezed his eyes shut and thrust like he wasn't with someone he grew up with. Mirajane rubbed her clit so hard, so desperately, she'd be both oversensitive and numb from it in no time. It was forced, but they were easy. Mirajane's back arched to a stiff curve and Freed dug his fingers in the flesh of her butt so hard, it would bruise in the morning. With the man they loved on their minds, it was easy to come.

When the rush of endorphins died down to make way for shame, Freed peeled himself off Mirajane, quickly feeling himself soften when the cool air descended on his sweaty skin. He grabbed the rubber by the base, discarded it properly into a trash bin filled with crumpled tissues and got up to dress.

"Are you tired?" Freed asked. He watched Mirajane slither to the head of the bed so she could lay her head on overstuffed pillows. By the way she sighed, they must have smelled like Laxus.

"Yes. I think I can sleep now. Thank you, Freed." She closed her eyes and sank deeper into the softness of her bed.

Freed nodded, even though she couldn't see. It felt disgusting putting on his rain-damp clothes on his sweat-damp skin. He grabbed his boots, his sword, his jacket, and walked to the door trying not to let guilt eat him up. Trying not to think of the man he loved that he betrayed before his grave was even cold.

Freed waited until he was by the door to speak again. "I'll turn the locks on my way out."

He didn't get an answer. He didn't expect to.

Mira rolled over to Laxus' side of the bed, still unable to cry even though she wanted to, hating herself, missing the man she loved, and hoping that the scent of him, like subtle cologne and something smoky, would forever stay trapped in this bed.

[bluboothalassophile]

I was going through your posts, when I found the RedRae historical AU and nearly died. That's, like, my all time favorite au! Do you think you can do a continuation, or a follow-up, please? Thank you if you do!

I hope this works and you enjoy this! =)

Dangerous Red Bird…

Jason was not the wander lust kid,he was the troublesome son with a sharp tongue, quick wit, a dangerous temper,and a gift for trouble and languages. When he’d been sixteen he’d run away tothe sea, mostly because of his father and grandfather trying to groom him forthe family’s company and Jason did not see the appeal in that. No, he’d ratherbe neck deep in some adventure or other than be his father and grandfather’spuppet.

He did not expect his running awayto lead to him encountering pirates, fighting the Belgium in Africa, and beingdrafted into the French Foreign Legion, dragged into a world with Assassins, orend up left for dead in the Outback of Australia. He’d traveled all through theEastern World, marveling at their zen, and peace, but all their art infighting.

Jason had trained under the guidanceof Masters in just about every form of combat he could learn, he’d even learntfrom a culture so ancient, it predated the League of Assassins, and was forgottenby all, tucked away in a forgotten part of the world. He’d learnedswordsmanship, marksmanship, hand-to-hand combat, and a hundred types ofmartial arts. Jason had been a beggar, he’d been a king, he’d been a thousandmen and only one, and he’d never lived a dull day in his life.

He’d seen women so beautiful they’dbe mistaken for goddesses, he’d witnessed men so brutal they were believed tobe demons, and he’d animals so exotic that no one would believe them if he describedthem.

Yes, life was never dull for Jason PeterWayne.

But he had returned three yearsago, after seven years of wilds and adventures, and raising hell, and learninghe’d returned home a man at twenty-three and agreed to work for his father andgrandfather in exchange for being a foreign agent. They were more than happy toagree, and Jason got to work for his country as well, as an American agent.Yes, over forty years after the Civil War, and his country was at peace, butthe tensions mounting in Europe had his country’s concerns and Jason was morethan willing to be employed as an agent.

Once he was employed he wasn’t homeoften, between his family’s business, and his other work, he was often over inEurope. Alfred penned him often, even sent telegrams on occasion. Jason oftentimes found himself laughing when a telegram would be awaiting his arrival atthe hotel, and he had not told his father or grandfather he was at that veryhotel. Most of the time the telegrams came when Jason was working as a spy,however, it was amusing so he let it be.

The second real time he was homewas two years after the start of his employment, he had returned home toreport, and to visit his family and help his father with the company. That’s whenhe first saw her.

Oh, she attracted his attentionimmediately because she was invisible.

He’d first seen her in a room, whenhe was surrounded by his family, and they were enjoying time in the library,and she walked in unobserved to collect their dishes. Now, most servants weretrained to be invisible, to not be noticed, however, she did it better thananyone he’d ever seen, and being highly alert and observant after his years oftravels he recognized her intelligence immediately.

On a day his family was out hesnooped in her quarters. It would make a great deal of sense for his family’sand country’s enemies to plant a spy here, and she struck him as they spy type.It was the sharpness in her eyes, the invisible way she worked at being ashadow. However, after a thorough searching of her room, and stealing of herletters he only discovered a little about her.

Her name was Rachel Roth, she was aspinster in the making, a few years younger than he. She had a love of booksthe letters she received were filled with recommendations. She had threecousins, an aunt, and an uncle, all of whom clearly loved and missed her. Theywrote of the on goings in a village in the countryside of England, she scandalsof a small community had him chuckling.

Rachel’s own drafted letters were enlighteningand he found her fascinating. She was clearly a sharp one, undervalued, andunder cared for, however, there was a wit in this woman’s neat writing and hertone was confident. He found it fascinating, her letters were so ordinary,writing of her woes, her reassurances that she was well, and promises that shewas safe. It was all so frightfully dull, and yet it was all so alienly amazing.Jason wondered if she was similar in person to this letter.

However, he had orders come in, andhe returned her letters before she’d notice they were missing and he sailed offto talk to his contacts. It wasn’t easy, he was an American though, and he wasgood at pulling that when he wanted. American warriors were men to be feared,men to be respected, and he might not have fought in the wars, but he had beenfighting since he was fifteen and he was good at it.

Jason was quick to return home withhis information, the Germans’ moves and the mounting tensions were a growingconcern in Europe, however, tensions had not snapped. Still it was a concern,which was why his first stop was his superiors then he went home. Gotham wasnot a long ride from his superiors, and he had not announced his arrival as hewalked through the city towards the Manor, he evaded the cars and the bustlinglife, and the pickpockets. And walked into the Manor, he knew the family wasout, it was Sunday, and he would have the Manor all to himself and couldsurprise them with his return, after being gone a year.

It was when he walked past thefamily’s private library that he paused, after passing, frowned as he walkedback three steps and looked in on a teetering ladder and her.

She was balanced like dancer as shewobbled with her teetering ladder, on one foot as she reached for books tomove, he felt his heart lurch when she wobbled as he dropped his coat andcaught the ladder before it could decide on if it desired to collapse or not.

The girl above gasped when shenearly lost balance on the now still ladder, as she fell to straddle it, her darkeyes wide and startled but not looking at him. He looked anywhere but her as hecoaxed her down, until she was at his eye level. She was the most beautifullittle woman he’d ever seen in his life, and that was saying something as heoffered her his hand, she was so petite and slight that he felt as if he wouldshatter her with a touch, but the grip she gave him was firm and sure as shehopped down and shook out her skirts before she tilted her head back to look athim.

Coaxing her to tea was a surprisingchallenge, and one he was eager to repeat, Miss Roth intrigued him when so fewever truly had. An occupational hazard, figuring out what everyone else was upto and how to use them.

Miss Rachel Roth presented him theultimate challenge with a true mask of indifference, both on her face and inher eyes, but there was something about the lazy, sly way she curled her lipsin amusement that told him there was more than her emotionless front shepresented.

Which was why today he was waitingfor her at the main enterence and she walked down calmly, dressed in an uglywool coat, and a simple dress, her leather heels were worn but kept and herdark hair was pulled up as she wore a weathered black cap. She looked gorgeous.

“Well, Master Jason, you haveannounced you require my company for the duration of your errands, and I havepromised your Grandmother that I will be home in time to help prepare her forthe event tonight, so there will be no dallying, Master Jason,” she statedmonotonously.

Jason’s own lips curled back then. “IfI didn’t know any better, little bird, I’d say you were ordering the Master ofthe house around.”

“Nonsense, I’m informing him of hisGrandmother’s demands,” she said as she walked out with him, he chuckled.

“You are a fiery one,” he mused.

“On the contrary, I’m very dull,”she dismissed.

“Do you ever just accept a compliment,or must you always argue?” he asked, oh the amusement he felt at this had himaching to smile, but his serious little companion did not as her dark eyesnarrowed on him.

“It would be rude to argue with one’semployer,” she smartly stated as she kept pace with him.

“True, but as you said yesterdaynone would ever work for my family in the private quarters,” he chuckled.

“Yes, that is very true, however, Iam also aware that arguing is rude, and a waste of time. I am merely correctingyour attempts at useless flattery to point out truths.”

“You are remarkably refreshing MissRoth, never lose your honesty,” he said. He meant it. After years of havingdealt with figuring out liars, and the double meanings of everyone else, shewas refreshing.

“Lying is too tedious to indulgein, I do not understand why people feel the need to,” she shrugged.

He laughed.

“You laugh at me a lot,” sheobserved and he smiled.

“No, but I do find you amusing. Youare refreshing, as I said earlier sunshine,” he smiled, she sighed.

“Please do not call me that,” sheasked.

“Why not, you are a true light in adark world,” he admitted, he didn’t think he’d ever met anyone so engaging orinteresting.

“Oh, I do believe that others wouldgreatly disagree with your assessment of me, Master Jason.”

“And what would they have said.”

“I’m a witch,” she smiled evillythen, and he smiled back feeling as if he were being let in on a great childishsecret. “The demon’s daughter, a killer, a dark soul forever condemned to hell.I am not sunshine, Master Jason,” she said with amusement.

“Well, there’s nothing wrong withwitches, I’ve met a few, I know a real demon’s daughter now, and believe mesunshine, you’re not a dark soul,” he countered.

“Flattery again, Master Jason,” shechided.

“Shamelessly, especially for a ladyas lovely as yourself,” he promised.

“Mmmm, that silver tongue of yourswill be your undoing, Master Jason,” she said as they walked.

“Perhaps, but probably not,” he chuckled,he could talk himself out of anything, even a hangman’s noose.

“So, Master Jason, as you haverequired my company, why not inform me of all the exotic lands you havevisited, and the foreign beauties they hold, I am sure they are most wondrous,”Rachel said.

“They are, very exotic, and wild,where would you like me to begin little bird?” he asked as he offered her hiselbow, Rachel hesitated a moment before she slipped her arm in his.

“Well, I am from the Englishcountryside, but I always wanted to visit France, so tell me about Paris,” shesaid and he groaned.

“You just had to be a romantic,” hesighted.

“I am not, I wish to know about itbecause my father was from there,” Rachel stated.

“Very well then, I will start bytell you that Paris is the most beautiful city I have ever seen, only rivaledby Florence and Venice, a true romantic city, however, the people…” he startedand he enjoyed the rapt attention Rachel gave him as they walked and talked. Sheasked interesting questions, not about love or romance, but about the food, andthe language, and Jason sound found himself regaling her with tales of some ofhis time in the French Foreign Legion.

He had never spoken to anyone abouthis seven years running, and Rachel was an enraptured audience as she listened.