#i will take dates with walnuts though

[buckysleftbicep]

letters though time (3) 𐙚 b.b

pairing: 1940s!bucky barnes x modern!fem!reader

warnings: angst.

summary: you find a letter from 1944 hidden in the old brooklyn apartment you moved signed by one james buchanan barnes. you write back, he did too, and somehow, across decades, you both fall in love.

word count: 1.5k

author's note: i love this chapter so much. please leave some feedback or a reblog if you enjoyed it! i tend to forget about tags, please be patient with me, thank you loves. stay safe out there!

series masterlist

You reread his letter so many times the edges began to curl.

He was leaving.

You stared at the letter in your hands, heart pounding like it was trying to outrun history. The words blurred at the edges, but you didn’t need to read them again. You already knew.

You knew the date, April 8th, 1944, etched into your memory long before his handwriting ever reached you. You had seen it in textbooks, beneath faded photographs, on a bronze plaque mounted inside the Smithsonian: Sergeant James Barnes, deployed with Captain Steve Rogers to intercept a HYDRA transport in the Austrian Alps.

You knew that mission. Everyone did.

It was the one where he fell. Where the world believed he died.

Except he didn’t.

You knew what came after, how HYDRA had found him in the wreckage and broken him in ways no one should ever be broken.

How their scientists, cruel and methodical, stripped him down to nothing. Rewrote him. Erased him. Until all that remained was a killing machine, sharp and merciless, a ghost with a metal arm and no name.

When you first started working at the museum, you had gone down that rabbit hole, read every article, studied every declassified file, perhaps even the ones you were specifically told not to read.

You had seen the stills, the grainy footage, the Winter Soldier moving like a machine, swift and ruthless, with eyes that held no trace of the man writing you these letters now. The man you had fallen in love with.

And now he was writing to you, sweet, hopeful, himself, without knowing what awaited him on the other side of that mission.

You gripped the letter until your knuckles turned white, heart lodged so high in your throat you could barely breathe. You blinked, hoping the words would change. That maybe this letter would say he wasn’t going, that he had changed his mind. That somehow, knowing you, and perhaps falling for you had altered the path of fate.

But the words stayed the same.

And so did history.

Please wait for me.

Your chest felt too tight to breathe.

You didn’t sleep that night. You couldn't.

You sat on the floor beside the cabinet, the old walnut drawer yawning open, its linen lining wrinkled and worn from too many anxious, trembling hands.

His letters were everywhere, scattered like fallen leaves around you. Pages upon pages, thick with ink and hope, with quiet jokes, whispered dreams, and all the soft, unspoken pieces of him that had stitched themselves gently into your heart.

And now history was threatening to take him away.

You couldn’t stop pacing the next morning.

Couldn’t stop chewing at your bottom lip, eyes flicking toward the drawer every five minutes like it would somehow answer you.

When the next letter came, you nearly dropped it from the tremor in your fingers.

April 1st, 1944 Sweetheart, You’ve gone quiet. Did I say something wrong? I hope I didn’t scare you with what I wrote. I just… I need you to know I’m serious. About all of this. About you. It’s crazy, isn’t it? Falling for someone through paper and time. But I have. I’ve fallen for you. And maybe it’s selfish, but I hope you feel the same. I’ll write again tomorrow. Just… say something, will you? Please. Always, James

You sat down that instant and scribbled out a reply with shaking hands.

Bucky, Please don’t go on this mission. I know that sounds ridiculous. I know you can’t just walk away from orders. But something terrible is going to happen. I can’t tell you how I know, it would change too much, but please… don’t go on this mission. You won’t come back the same. If you do come back at all. Please, just trust me. Please.

You folded the letter with trembling fingers and tucked it into the drawer.

So you waited. And waited.

But no letter came the next day. Or the one after that. Or the day after that.

The silence grew heavy, pressing. Like the space between heartbeats stretched too far apart.

By the fourth day, the ache settled deep in your chest—sharp and constant, like something vital was missing. You kept his photo tucked in your wallet, pulling it out so often the edges had started to wear.

You stared at it until the ink blurred behind tears you refused to wipe away. You paced the apartment like a ghost in your own life, whispering his name into the quiet, as if somehow, just somehow, it might find Bucky. Might bring him back.

On the fifth day, you found a letter.

But the paper wasn’t soft with affection, it was creased, angry.

April 4th, 1944 (Y/N), You ask me to trust you, but you won’t trust me to finish this mission. You want me to believe you, about this, about danger, but you won’t say why. Won’t explain. You just beg me not to go. You say I won’t come back the same. That I might not come back at all. Do you know how that feels to read? Like you’ve already written my end for me. Is this all just a game to you? Some story you’re writing? Because it stopped feeling like fiction to me a long time ago. I care about you. I’ve trusted you with more of myself than anyone else in years. And now I don’t know what to think. I need time. - J

You stared at the letter for a long time.

Then you sank to the floor, hands cradling your head.

Tears slipped down your cheeks soundlessly. You didn’t blame him. Not really. You couldn’t explain how you knew what was coming. No, you couldn’t tell him he’d be taken, tortured, frozen. You couldn't tell him that his future was a blur of blood and silence and death.

You couldn’t say it without breaking something sacred.

But still, it hurt. god, it hurt.

You didn’t write back. Not right away.

You told yourself he needed space. That maybe he would feel your silence and understand it wasn’t anger, it was fear. A fear too heavy to put into words.

You wanted to give him time. But you didn’t realise just how little time he had left.

Four days passed. Each one sharp around the edges, like they had been carved from glass. Fragile and ready to shatter.

And still...no letter.

And then, on the morning of April 8th, you opened the drawer and found his letter.

Your breath hitched before you even touched it.

The envelope was different. Heavier. The paper thicker than usual.

You unfolded it with trembling fingers.

April 8th, 1944 Doll, We leave for Germany in a few hours. I couldn’t go without writing you one last time. I didn’t want things to end on anger. I’m sorry I pushed you. I just...it scared me, that’s all. The way you spoke like you knew what would happen, I was shaken, and I don’t like feeling helpless. But I trust you. I do. I told Howard what you said. I didn’t give him details, just that someone I cared about, someone important, warned me something could go wrong. He seemed to believe me, said that maybe time’s not as solid as we think. He told me he’s been working on something. Said he might have a way to pull me through. So if I make it back, if I survive, maybe there’s a chance we would meet. I'll find you. Please wait for me, (Y/N). And if nothing else, just know this, I love you. Always yours, James

You folded the letter in silence, breath caught somewhere between your lungs and your throat. The ache in your chest made it hard to sit upright, let alone think.

Your hands trembled as you reached for paper, fingers cold and clumsy around the pen. You didn’t write paragraphs, didn’t spill your heart across the page in desperate, sprawling confessions.

There was nothing left to say that could rewrite history. So instead, you wrote only three words, quiet, aching, infinite. Words that had lived in your chest for weeks. Words that felt both like a promise and a goodbye.

I love you.

You placed it in the drawer, fingertips lingering on the edge like a goodbye you weren’t ready to give. The paper felt heavier than it should’ve, like it carried every unspoken word you hadn’t dared to write.

You closed the drawer gently, too gently, like slamming it might break something irreparable.

And that was the last time.

You never got another letter again.

For days afterward, you couldn’t bring yourself to touch it. Couldn’t even glance at the cabinet without that familiar sting behind your eyes, without your chest tightening like your ribs were trying to hold something broken together.

The silence wasn’t just quiet, it was cruel. Loud in its finality.

You told yourself maybe tomorrow. Maybe the drawer would open and there would be something waiting. Another slanted signature. Another piece of him.

But there was nothing.

And eventually, the ache settled in deep, bone-deep, the kind of grief that didn’t scream but pressed down slowly. You found yourself avoiding the cabinet altogether, skirting around it like it might hurt you if you got too close.

You stopped checking.

Stopped hoping.

Because it felt like mourning someone who hadn’t died, but who had still somehow left you behind.

a/n: i hope you love this chapter as much as i did! thank you for stopping by!

taglist: @ndanddnd @darling-eos @alikkatz @creepybake @maryssong23 @mgchaser @hiraethmae @coffeecigsandcommentary @iyskgd @silverdoragon @lori19 @counterstr1ke @cyberxlust @throwmethroughawindow @keira-kaz2y5

[utterlyotterlyx]

The Girl Who Cheated Death

Azriel x Fem!Reader

Summary - There was no one in any universe who would dare to approach you without fear, that is until you meet a certain Shadowsinger. Once stone cold and vicious in your own right, you soon come to realise that perhaps all it takes is a pretty male with hazel eyes to set you free.

Warnings - kinda dark reader, stone cold, lots of sass, swearing, drinking, mentions of physical abuse, mentions of trauma, some subtle sexual tension, everyone being afraid of the reader because she's giving death vibes x

Word Count - 8.9k

Physical descriptions are present in this fic.

Based on this ask! Thank you @cleverzonkwombatsludge for the request 🫶🏻

"Can I offer some criticism?"

"If it's constructive..."

"You're an idiot," the unwinding braid at your side loosened more with each twist of your fingers, and to your right, through the reflection of the recently polished vanity mirror stood Amren, your closest friend that you had gained when you had first moved to the Night Court one hundred years ago.

It had been no accident that you and Amren had met, in fact, she had been the one to seek you out after a rather intriguing show you had directed at Rita's. Amren watched man after man almost break their necks to look at you, the most beautiful resident of the Night Court, and in all of Prythian. Hair that reminded Amren of a black widow swayed behind you in perfectly loose curls, it was sinfully dark and shone in the faelight, shimmering so brilliantly that Amren had thought that threads of silken web were weaved between each glossy black strand.

Amren also remembered the dress you had worn, it was short and tight, the fabric hugged every curve of your body and kissed the thighs that were connected to those incredible taut calves. If looks could kill then the Night Court would certainly fall to its knees.

It wasn't what you looked like that caught Amren's attention, however. It was the way that every single person in that room shrunk away from your stare, a stone iced glare that was void of any life, all that lay in them was ire and boredom, which quite perfectly summed up what you felt about life in general.

The firedrake sought you out, coming by the gallery you had opened in the city which held an array of carefully collected artworks and mysteriously rare antiques, just to get a glimpse of you, to see the one who had been the first to pique her eye in centuries. Amren had not been disappointed by you. There was something about the way you carried yourself that attracted her to your aura, the perfect posture and slightly hooded eyelids that encased walnut orbs that glimmered gold in the sun. That wasn't all, no, it was also the way you spoke, so sultry and dark, but there was a certain elegance your words. A siren luring souls to the darkest depths of the ocean floor.

Rhys had once suggested that you'd never truly age considering you never smiled. That had earned him a rare small quirk of your lip, and he considered it to be his greatest achievement of his life to date.

It had made sense that the Night Court had been the place where you had chosen to settle, it had moulded very well with you, to the point where Day had become an infantile dream that was floating away in your subconscious. Forgotten.

Despite being a collector of sorts, Amren had soon found out just how far your talented talons stretched, you were incredibly well versed in old dialects, ancient symbols and traditions, a talent that Rhys had soon asked Amren to take advantage of since he was too afraid of you to ask you for aid himself.

Seemed as though the terrifying High Lord of the Night Court was actually scared of something.

"How exactly am I an idiot?" Amren enquired with darkened orbs that kept on glancing downward to the scars that littered the bare spine from the licks of Illyrian whips. They were slightly raised and pallid in comparison to the rest of your healthy glowing hue.

Untethering the last of your braid, you ran your nails over your scalp and pulled slightly, shivering at the relief that surged through you as your hair fell unbound down your spine. All the taut tension in your body quickly evaporated. Silently, you turned on your seat to face your friend, "You're asking me to revamp my evil lair to make it more welcoming for your odd little family," you said incredulously and unblinking, "You're an idiot."

Amren wasn't exactly asking you to make your own home more appeasing to the Inner Circle, she simply meant the private office that Rhys had bestowed to you for whenever he needed your help with something, and it had become a place that you frequented often. It was located in the library of the House of Wind so that your nimble fingers had access to all of the books and ancient texts they needed.

The only settling thing about that office was the view of the golden valley of Velaris, of the snow-capped mountains that loomed to the north. Everything else filled any resident with dread. Tall well-loved candles were scattered about the space, cloths stained with millennia old text hung from the ceilings, tomes lay splayed open on the desk and centre table, each depicting some form of terror. To you, your work was fascinating, studying the origins of evil and all of its forms, to others it was petrifying.

It wasn't odd to find the firedrake confined in your apartment, whether you be with her or not, glass of red in hand and reading some sort of research text. Amren often didn't even glace up at you when you entered your own home, all she noticed was your shadow gliding across the room, drowning out the golden candlelight.

"Rhys would spend more time with you if you did. He's actually really insightful, he could help you with your study."

"Why would I want to spend time with him?"

A poor attempt from Amren to try and push you into a monotone civilian life yet again.

"Fine," Amren rolled her coiling silver eyes and tutted, "Are you ready? Rhys doesn't like to be kept waiting."

Irritation was rife in her voice, you clasped a dainty blood diamond around your neck and allowed your shoulders to drop, "I don't particularly care for your High Lord's time." Rhys was not your High Lord and he knew it, he knew that you couldn't be ruled over and would never answer to anyone but yourself. A queen of her own kingdom. But one he very much wanted to keep on his side.

"Y/N," Amren bit, and you too tugged back the smirk that was quaking in the corners of your mouth.

Meeting her fiery gaze in the mirror, you rolled your head to the side in one swooped graceful motion, "I'm teasing, Amren." Rising from the bench before the vanity, you felt the silken hem of your dress brush against your feet. It was a simple garment, black buttoned up fabric, a deep v-neckline that showed the beginnings of your cleavage, short and soft floating sleeves that cuffed above your elbows.

Smirking with approval, Amren moved to the front door of your ornately beautiful apartment, a personal haven of yours that was vastly different to the office at the House of Wind. Brunette carpets thick enough to sleep upon covered the space, the walls were a shade of milked coffee, warm and inviting, and the ceilings were a soft cream and coved with intricate carvings. A large fire bundled into the far wall at the centre of a wall of windows, before it was a onyx seating area of plush deep seated sofas and armchairs.

It was charming. One of the best views of Velaris was from your living room window.

Leaving your home with the click of the lock, you followed after Amren, falling into place beside her as you walked up the winding paths to the House of Wind. The feeling of people's eyes trailing you had become something you'd become rather accustomed to, they were astounded by your beauty, amazed by how someone could look so breath-taking yet so horrifying.

The House of Wind was as it always was, incredibly luxurious in its own right and shivering at your entrance. It wasn't like the house didn't like you, it just struggled to adjust to your energy, it was starkly different to the usual joy it mostly held.

The echoing voices halted when you rounded the corner, your scent of jasmine and sandalwood soaring through the air, infecting their oxygen. Violet eyes appeared before you within a couple of moments, always wary, always laced with the tiniest bit of fear, "Thank you for meeting with us."

"Well," your eyes sliced across the room, absorbing every face and feature and feeling somewhat intrigued by a face you had never seen before. Tall and tan, shadows swirling at his shoulders, large wings that he had mindfully tucked behind his back, and shiny black hair that fell over his forehead. Rhys stood before you waiting for you to speak, your eyes found his and you hummed, tapping your finger against your clothed thigh, "Anything for the firedrake."

A chortled scoff flew from Cassian and Rhys stepped aside slightly to expose you to the general who soon choked on the air, "Something funny, Cass?" Rhys asked with a smirk, he motioned for you to find a seat and make yourself comfortable.

A deep rooted velvet armchair called to you and you moved to it, paying little attention to the hazel eyes fixated upon you. "No, not at all," Cassian sent you a tight-lipped smile which made Nesta grin, enjoying his discomfort nearly as much as you.

Flames danced in your eyes, the fire burning brightly in the fireplace that welcomed your gaze as though it was a mirror. Turning your head, you folded your hands over your thighs, feeling the exposed skin that lay there from the seamless slit in the fabric.

"How about you skip whatever small talk you were going to offer and get to the point, Rhysand?"

Widened pupils possessed Nesta's gaze, she leaned back into her seat and smirked, a wickedly feline feature, and spoke, "I like you."

No words left your lips, you held her gaze and felt your darkness bubble at her determination to withstand your stare, but she soon stood down; though, she continued to watch you, noting your posture and the way you held yourself. Nesta was in awe.

And she wasn't the only one.

"Straight to the point as always, y/n."

"Am I supposed to be anything but?" Rhys sighed, a headache already forming at his temples from your dry sassing. Perhaps he needed some of that powder that Elain had gifted to Azriel last solstice.

The High Lord pinched the bridge of his nose and slid his hand to rest on Feyre's knee, a sweet gesture, "We need your help with some particular text that none of us can translate. If anyone is going to be able to decipher it then it would be you."

"What text?"

Boredom coiled in your gut, "It's the story of Koschei, we believe that there may be a key hidden within the text that could help us to defeat him." The coil loosened and your eyebrow twitched, and a dark spot to your left caught that millisecond-long expression, sliding back to its master and humming in his ear.

Koschei was a death-god, a personification of evil. To have your hands on such a text would more than aid your research. It would make you infamous in the underworld of Prythian.

"Is it in my office?" Rhys straightened and nodded stiffly; rising to your feet, you brushed down the pleats of your skirt, "I'll take a look."

Before you could move from the room, a gentle clearing of a throat sounded from behind you, beckoning and hesitant. Slowly, you turned around, noticing how Rhys was now standing, "I would like Azriel to help you with this. I believe that your collective talents will be able to decipher the message faster."

Of course. The illustrious Shadowsinger that you had never had the displeasure of meeting. Azriel, Spymaster of the Night Court.

"Studies have shown that I didn't ask for your opinion, High Lord," if anyone else had used the mocking tone toward his title they would have been misted on the spot. But not you, never you. Rhys was too afraid that Hell would rise from your ashes and devour the continent if he even tried it.

A cool kiss slithered around your ankle, and when you peered down you found a shadow curling there, caressing your skin and shivering in delight. Your eyes followed the tendril back to its owner who was clearly mentally scrambling to pull his shadow back to the others. Hazel collided with molten gold and you found yourself yearning for the shadow to return.

"I have to insist," his voice wavered and it didn't go unnoticed by you.

Amren sucked in a breath, shrinking further into her spot wedged between Mor and Elain, knowing that she told had told Rhys multiple times to never order you to do anything.

"What do you fear, Rhysand?"

"I think that you'll find that the word fear is not in my vocabulary," he doubled down and you couldn't blame him, he was an alpha protecting his territory.

Ticking your head to the side, your eyes dragged up his body, and you smirked, a real one that made his blood chill, "Perhaps. But it's in your eyes," not giving him a chance to respond, you turned to Azriel, finding him looking up at you with an almost bewitched possession in his eyes, "Stay out of my way."

Not another word was spoken as you stalked from the room, the only sound being the footsteps of Azriel who had speedily followed after you. Neither of you spoke on the descent down to the library, even that vast space of aged excellence watched you enter; you almost floated across the room, a grace in your steps that Azriel had never seen before, and it had him needing to know more.

How Azriel had never met you astounded him, he would certainly remember a face like yours. It was one that held the power to haunt his dreams.

As promised, the texts had been left on your desk, and you moved to them instantly, tracing your fingers down the bound leather spine and examining the golden embossment, picking apart the symbols in your mind. Rounding the large oaken desk, you pulled the text with you, opening the cover and not even flinching when it thudded against the desktop.

Thick waves fell over your shoulder and you mindlessly tucked them back from where they had originated, not caring about the effect it had on the Shadowsinger who noted how your fingers grazed against your collarbone on its return to the ancient pages before your insightful eye.

"I've never been in here before," a weak attempt to strike up conversation with you. Azriel had heard much about you from Cassian and Rhys, of how awful terrifying you were, how you intimidated every single person that crossed your path and seemingly enjoyed the terror of it.

Azriel understood it, there was something about you that was unnerving, that he could understand why people were uncomfortable in your presence, but he only found himself in wonderment of it.

Without looking up, you turned the page gently and muttered, "Why would you? It's my office."

Displeasure was prominent on your tongue, the taste of it swelled in the muscle but you didn't allow it to be vile, you pulled the bile back and silently choked on it.

Azriel drank in the room, the begging to be lit candles and the large arched windows, the aged tapestries of history that were clearly too valuable to display in your gallery, "The creation of the cauldron," the words pulled you from the text and your gaze narrowed in on the Shadowsinger rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet with his hands folded neatly at his back.

"How do you know that?"

The Shadowsinger circled to face you and took a tentative step to the edge of the desk, "I've seen a couple of the same markings in a cave. This is the original?"

"Yes," there were many deplorable things you had taken part in to secure your collection as the most impressive in the entire universe, some things you weren't proud of, others, you were very much so.

"How did you get it?" Azriel admired the piece, a depiction of Prythian's creation that no one would ever guess was as important as it was, all because they couldn't read the first language of the fae.

Sitting back in your seat, you placed your magniscope on the surface, an ornate tool used by curators and researchers alike to read between the lines of existence, and watched him, "There are some things in this world that would make even your blood burn, Shadowsinger."

The way you said his name had a shudder flickering down his spine, your tone was sultry and low, like you knew of his darkness and had decided that it was a star in comparison to whatever lived within you.

A golden glow shrouded the room from the setting sun kissing the mountain peak, it washed over you, its light glittering your skin with shimmer, turning your eyes into burnished gold. The blood diamond around your neck cascaded speckles of its hue across the ceiling, and your chest rise an fell with even, calm breaths.

Forgetting the reason why he stood before you, Azriel allowed himself a moment to examine you, the beautifully loose hair that swam down that perfectly curved spine, the eyes and cheekbones, the full lips and the indents of your collarbone. You were by far the most incredible thing he had ever seen.

The stolen moment wasn't one that escaped your eye, a gentle heat pooled at your cheeks and you had no option but to look away, clearing your throat and pouring your attention back into the text in front of you.

Coiling the magniscope in your fingers, you hovered it over the written symbols on the page, moving it in line with every line and swirl you could see. It was a heavy object, and you hadn't been surprised when Amren had mistook the glass orb as a bookend.

"What do you know of Koschei?" Azriel found a place in the seat opposite you, his shadows danced from his shoulders and began to inch toward you, and he made no move or command to stop them.

"There are many legends," you began, craning your neck to peer at the top of the adjacent page, "Attacking his physical body won't harm him, he has split his soul into parts and placed them in other living creatures or sentient objects. Destroy the objects and you have a better chance of ending him."

Azriel angled himself forward, propping his elbows on his knees, "How do you know that?"

Again, without looking up, you spoke, "When you spend a lot of time in the Underworld of this continent you pick up a few things. You also learn how to decipher the truth from the lies."

Another gentle turn of the page.

The taupe scribing possessed the faintest words written in a pale gold ink, so miniscule that any other magniscope wouldn't be able to see it. Though yours wasn't just any ordinary magniscope, it was forged with the stardust of a fallen star, a star that used to burn the brightest in the northern skies.

"You know of the Underworld?"

For a moment, your gaze flickered upward, golden pools peering through your long thick lashes, "Very well."

It wasn't surprising that you had dabbled in the darkest reality of the continent, your knowledge was not cheap, and it wasn't knowledge that you could gain from books alone. Azriel wondered how many souls you had stripped from the earth on your quest for knowledge, perhaps it would cause his count to pale in comparison.

"I could only imagine what someone would do for this level of knowledge," his voice lingered, questioning, requiring to know every corner of the mind locked within the female in front of him.

"Are you trying to compare body counts, Spymaster? If so, I assume I would be disappointed with your lacklustre attempts."

Then you were back on the text, scribbling words down in the notepad to your left without even glancing to it, focused to the point where no letter strayed from the lines. But you still felt his eyes on you, waiting, scouring your face and trying to figure out why exactly he had never crossed paths with you before considering your occupation.

"Don't you have some doe-eyed damsel to go and rescue?"

Even with the fleeting few minutes spent with the Inner Circle, you saw how Elain Archeron looked at him, all love-sick and hopeful. Elain was a perfectly mundane being, content with all things bright and pretty. It was sickening.

Biting back the urge to roll his eyes at the thought, Azriel shuffled into his seat, seemingly getting more comfortable, "No."

"Shame," you mused, impressing Azriel with how you scribed, analysed and spoke all at the same time. A very powerful mind was dwelling within you, and it had his attention.

Azriel was finding your dry words quite amusing, though he was spending his time sat before you in silence, sketching every inch of your face and body to his memory.

A soft tug pulled at your brows, and if Azriel wasn't fixated upon you then he surely would have missed it. He let a minute pass, a minute where the pace of your analysation quickened alongside the rate of your writing. Again, your hair fell over your shoulder, clearly bothering you but you couldn't move it, not when you were so entranced, and it took all of his will to not do it for you.

Questioning you on your findings, your eyes held a certain twinkle to them as you explained your theory. That Koschei had in fact fractured his soul and implanted the pieces of it within other living creatures and objects, and that to hunt those objects down was the only way to be able to banish him from the world.

"Run and tell your master," you told him after you were done explaining how to find the first host of Koschei's soul, "I'm sure he will be thrilled with your input."

Which was very little, Azriel hadn't done anything other than invade your space and make himself far too comfortable, but he didn't argue, he simply stood from his seat and bowed, taking your hand in his marred digits and raising it to his lips, brushing them against your knuckles and thanking you before leaving you to your silence.

The ghost of his touch lingered on you skin, as did the licks at your calves from the shadows he hadn't cared to reign in upon his exit.

It was then that a small yet foreign warmth pooled in your chest, you rubbed the spot gingerly and sighed, returning to reality and shaking your head back to sense. Finding peace in the confined corners of your mind.

The next instance where you found yourself in Azriel's presence had been one warm afternoon in the library.

Velaris had been scorched by the sun, the summer breezes swept across the city, and you had decided to wear a simple grey dress that afternoon, it was lightweight enough to flow in the gentle caress of the wind but still managed to keep to your usual elegant yet sharp style.

Since that insisted couple of hours in your office a couple of weeks ago, you were ashamed to admit just how much your thoughts drifted to the Shadowsinger you had seen lurking in the corners of your consciousness. The darkness was lingering in the farthest reaches, as if it didn't wish to be discovered by you but couldn't steer itself away.

The ladder beneath your feet creaked as you reached across the shelf, tongue stuck out of the side of your mouth as you strained slightly, your fingers barely brushing against the spine of the book you needed. A familiar cool presence washed over you, trailing up your skirt and arms and extending from your fingers to remove the book from the shelf and place it in your awaiting grasp.

Peering back to the ground, you saw Azriel stood at the foot of the ladder with his hands resting at his sides; balling the skirt up in your fingers, you used the railing the lower yourself back to the earth and paused in front of Azriel who had a brow quirked in curiosity, "Thank you."

"You're welcome," his voice matched your own but he found himself faltering when you went to walk by him. His voice called out to you, "I just wanted to let you know that we found the first host."

You paused your steps and turned, "And?"

"It's destroyed," and clearly the gravity of it weighed on him, he had to have known that Koschei wasn't exactly going to make the objects easy to destroy, but it still didn't mean that it wasn't traumatising.

Understanding what he meant, at the life he had just taken to protect to continent, you took a step toward him, an olive branch of sorts, "Are you alright?"

Itching with confusion, Azriel nodded slowly, "I didn't think you cared."

You shrugged, nonchalant, and scuffed the heel of your sandal against the floor with your gentle kick, "I don't."

Azriel hummed, a serene grin tugging at the corners of his lips, "I think that you do," Azriel took a step forward and noticed how your back straightened and shoulders rolled back.

The book became plastered to your chest, "Whatever you think is of little concern to me."

Two weeks had passed, two weeks of not only searching for the first host of Koschei thanks to your wildly impressive knowledge, but two weeks of Azriel doing all he could to gain your attention. It had been difficult to see you at Rita's, swaying to the music without a care in the world beside Amren, and not be able to touch the skin that seemed as smooth as honey.

His shadows had been following you, reporting back to him of how you spent your days cooped up in your apartment reading or in your office analysing another ancient text. They reported no men, nothing untoward or damning, they simply whispering to him how pretty you were. They had been bewitched by you, utterly obsessed with everything that you were, and he couldn't blame them.

Turning on the balls of your feet again, you entered your office, leaving the door open in silent permission that Azriel basked in as he followed you inside, "I'm trying to talk to you, y/n."

A soft hum vibrated against your lips. Placing the book once glued to your chest on the centre table of the room, you faced Azriel once more. The office was cold, as was every chamber built below the main infrastructure of the house, and Azriel wondered how you could be so at home within it.

It was entrancing how a room so dark and full of evil texts and passages could make you look so ethereal. The glossed black hair he had often dreamt of running his fingers through was tied back in a loose thick braid, whisps of hair fell from the vines of it and settled over your eyes. Ornate jewellery twinkled in the pale sunlight, swirls of gold encased your fingers and wrists, and a coiled necklace that resembled a scaled serpent glided around the base of your neck.

"What would you like me to say? I did tell you how to find the first host so that you could destroy it. I don't require updates, Azriel," the movement of your tongue as you said his name for the first time had his resolve withering.

"Well, I suppose we'll have to warm ourselves by the glow of your I told you so."

Then, as though the sun was blessing the earth after eons of slumber, your lips widened into a grin, one big enough to expose your perfectly white teeth and Azriel felt the dark storm clouds in his soul splinter. A golden threat soared through him, reaching out to you and entwining itself with the thread bristling at your centre.

Sculpted fingers drifted over that spot in your chest that had become increasingly hard to ignore and you inhaled sharply. Azriel's pupils had dilated, they were wide and frenzied, and his hand was outstretched to you.

The smile on your face dropped.

"You're my mate," Azriel nodded at the words you had managed to utter, the same ones that had become lodged in his throat.

Heat prickled at his skin, nerves seeped into his bones. You were so unreadable, and Azriel was scrambling his thoughts to clear so that he may be able to figure out how you felt about it. About being fated to be his.

Azriel had learnt from Amren how unaffectionate you were, how much you hated anyone touching you. It was because of the Illyrian camps you had visited in your younger years where they had thought you a witch, and had punished you for it in a barbaric way; the evidence still lingered on your skin in long angry streaks, and Amren had admitted that night is what spurred on your need to understand the roots of evil.

It was understandable, to spend a lifetime studying the one thing that had ever truly hurt you. For what reason, Azriel didn't know, but he liked to think that it was to cause evil to cower in your presence.

Silence shrouded the room like a disease, infecting and poisoning everything in its path, and Azriel way becoming increasingly worried about how your smile had dropped. Was he truly that repulsive to you? He could only ever dream to be mated with someone like you, someone who welcomed death like an old friend and would entertain it in an eons long waltz, someone who was poised and elegant but so brilliantly lethal that it made even him shudder.

Taking an unsettling step toward you, Azriel loosened a breath when he saw that you hadn't retreated, his eyes were trained on you as he took another step, and then another, until his shadow danced with you own, "I'm your mate."

Rhys and Cassian would be mortified of the news, Azriel was sure that Rhys found you terrifying in the same way that Cassian found Bryaxis. No of that mattered though. Not to him. Not when he now belonged to a female as striking and dangerous as the blood in his veins.

A faint blush crept up your cheeks at the proximity, the tendrils connected to his essence peered over his shoulders seemingly apprehensively thrilled that it was you stood before them, "Yes, you are."

Azriel's gaze drifted down to your lips and left dragged back upward to your eyes, "Can I touch you?"

A part of you froze at the desperate question. You hadn't let anyone touch you in years, you couldn't remember the last time you laid with a male or female, you couldn't remember what a simple even felt like. Amren had never even tried to get too close to you let alone anyone else.

In the first vulnerable emotion you had ever let anyone see, you sheepishly nodded, eyes boring into his own and he didn't break his stare as his fingers twitched toward you, ghosting along your skin and melting at the heat they found there. Mindlessly, you shifted when his palm lingered a whisker away from the slope of your neck and his eyes became stitched with concern but softened when you had won the fight against your fear to stand still once more.

Azriel's hand lowered, resting against your skin that was softer than his imagination could ever fathom. His thumb drifted down the column of your throat and you swallowed, hard.

"You don't have to accept this or me," he told you, his voice tantalisingly cooing to you in a hush above a whisper, "But gods, y/n. I really hope that you do."

Azriel saw through you then, through that façade you wore like a medal. And he found what saw to be quite heart-breaking. Stood before him was a woman, one that possessed a brilliant mind and equally captivating beauty, but beneath it all was the girl who was brutalised so badly that she vowed to never allow another person close again.

"You're my mate," you spoke with a certain conviction that hadn't graced your words the last time, Azriel watched your lashes flutter, and he felt his soul singing when those eyes found him again, "I'm not letting you go."

Gracefully, your fingers curled around his wrist, your index finger sleeping just over the faint beat of his pulse, just where his marred flesh faded to memory, "You accept it?"

"I- yes, I do."

Jasmine and sandalwood drowned his lungs, and he would have died happy just to be able to say that he knew what your shampoo smelt like. Papaya and coconuts. He gingerly ran his fingers through your hair, noting how much you loved the feeling of it as you shivered in his arms. Azriel pressed a dainty but tender kiss to your brow, and it had you realising that maybe you were allowed to give yourself this one thing that the younger version of you had always dreamt of.

Azriel hadn't tried to push you further, he knew that the moment of allowing someone to touch you, to hold you, was far more momentous than finding your mate.

Instead he asked you a simple question, it was more of an offering than anything. To spend time together away from the prying eyes of his family, so that you may become comfortable with one another before allowing anyone else into it. You had agreed. Eagerly.

So the next few weeks drifted by, afternoon walks along the Sidra, morning breakfast drop-offs at your office, after hours visits to the gallery where you would tell him of your adventures and how on some occasions you barely survived. Azriel was in complete awe of you, he sat beside you on your love seat completely captivated by you, his fingers tracing small circles into your thighs and his shadows curling through your hair. And that smile, gods, that smile could make even the most poised male lose all sense. It was bright and gleaming, and your skin glowed with the happiness of it.

Then you had decided to break the news to the Inner Circle, and as you stood before those doors oozing with grandeur, you felt nerves pinch at your skin, "Are you ready?" Azriel's fingers were tangled with yours and he bowed his head to place his lips on your bare shoulder.

"Yes." Azriel gave your hand a gentle tug, willing you to move from your spot located just behind him.

The aura of the house had shifted, now, it was inquisitive, glancing to the mirrors and then back to your hands to see if what it was seeing was real. Laughter echoed at the end of the hall, your scent had usually silenced them by now, but not this time. Now that your scent was mixed with Azriel’s it seemed much less threatening. Pity.

Turning the corner, you became startled by the smash of a glass, shards of it glided along the floor and fell at your feet. Looking up, you found Mor frozen in place, wide eyes and bewildered. The rest of the room craned to attention, collectively moving their eyes from Mor, to you, and then to Azriel, and then to your entwined fingers.

It took a minute, but you could have sworn you heard the bell ding in Cassian’s empty brain, “Oh shit,” he rose to his feet, wings flaring slightly as a wide grin gripped his mouth.

Rhys appeared before you both, gaze lowered in surprise, clearly trying to picture a timeline in his mind. The High Lord looked to his Spymaster, “Are you-“

“Mates?” Azriel finished incredulously, knowing that your moulded scents had already infected the room, and turned his head to you, orbs gleaming and adoration speckled on his cheeks, “Yes.”

Elain Archeron had sank into her seat, doing her best to not pay attention to you in particular whilst her stomach churned with the scent seeping into her bones. Subconsciously, you moved closer to Azriel, a slightly territorial action that made him smirk.

It had been a brief conversation that you had suffered through, the one where Azriel had made it very clear that the situation with Elain was brutally one-sided. Azriel had only sought to be nice to her, to help her to adjust to her new body and life because she was Feyre's sister and Feyre was his High Lady, and she had taken his kindness for something much more than what it truly was.

Leading you to the velvet armchair that you would usually slither into, Azriel sat and motioned for you, turning you in his hands so that his touch never left your thighs, and pulled you to his lap. A bashful smile formed on your face and you could feel the eyes of the room on you, equally as confused as shocked.

"Since when?" Nesta had asked after sipping from the goblet of red wine between her fingers, the liquid staining her plump pale lips, and she used her thumb to wipe a singular droplet before it ran down her chin. Her eyes held an emotion you couldn't quite make out, Azriel had admitted that Nesta was just as unreadable as you at times, but the way his digits dug into your flesh told you that what the eldest sister was feeling was an assortment of jealousy. Not toward you, toward him.

"The bond snapped just over a month ago," Nesta hummed and burrowed herself into the cushions, pouting slightly, like she was an infant who had her favourite toy taken from her grasp. "We wanted to explore it before we properly accepted it or told anyone."

That made Elain's doe-like stare move from the floor to your mate who was sat with you on his thighs rubbing small circles into your shoulders, "So you haven't accepted it?"

Your jaw clenched at the question, the question that was perfumed with the last splatters of hope, "If you're asking if we've fucked yet, Elain, then no, we haven't. Does that answer your question?"

Azriel's fingers moved to play with the ends of your hair, knowing that the sensation of slight tugging over your scalp relaxed you infinitely, "I only ask because I know how physical Azriel can be. Surely you've heard the stories?" Elain feigned innocence, Feyre sighed from her seat and glanced to you apologetically, silently begging you to not tear her sister apart.

In fact, you had heard the stories. Trying to ignore the gossip of the city was difficult considering how used you were to eavesdropping into certain conversations in the underworld. So, unfortunately, you had heard about Azriel's many lovers, and you'd be silly to not feel insecure of it, but you wouldn't let her see that. Ever.

Craning your neck to the side, you smiled, your iced gaze slicing into her and making Elain shrink under the weight of it, "With all due respect, which is none," you leaned to the side, accepting the goblet of wine that the house had presented to you in premature thanks for the forthcoming words you were about to utter, "Your existence gives me a headache, so please go and find somewhere else to be."

Rhys' eyes widened but he suppressed the smirk forming on his face, hiding his lips behind his fist and closing his eyes. Not even Feyre or Nesta spoke up over it, they clearly knew better than to challenge you. Cassian however didn't really care if Elain saw his joy at your words, he had been growing more tired each passing day of her pining affection toward his brother, and now he understood why Azriel had withdrawn further from the female over the last few weeks.

It was because of the unique female before their very eyes.

The middle sister went to open her mouth, to retort something that wouldn't even irk you, but Amren shushed her, halted the words in her throat and willed her to die with them, "Don't even try it," Amren served you more than her own court, finding a kindred spirit within you, and she would shame herself if she let Elain speak to you as if you were nothing.

Elain would never understand someone like you. She wasn't worthy of it anyway.

No one had ever tried to understand Amren, not really, they thought her too complicated to be worth it. As long as they brought her pretty jewels and respected her then there was little else to worry of in their eyes. But you, you had understood her instantly and had found a particular solace with her, like you were peering through a mirror and she was your reflection.

Sipping the potent liquid in your goblet, you bowed your head to her, quietly thanking your friend for halting the small spat before it escalated and ruined the evening entirely. Tonight was not about Elain and her fragile feelings, it was about showing the Inner Circle who now owned your heart.

So, the middle sister vacated the room feigning a migraine, and the aura instantly lifted. A soft smile formed on your lips when your eyes landed on your mate, your entire face relaxed; entwining your fingers with his, you blushed when he pressed his lips to your knuckles and dragged your index finger down his cheek.

The Inner Circle watched on, knowing that they had never seen Azriel so taken by anything. They feasted on the sight of his shadows purring through your hair, on your colliding smiles, and how your gentle words to one another were contained in an ornate bubble around your bodies.

As the evening continued, you found yourself quite enjoying their company, you sat bundled into Azriel's embrace, finding comfort in the arms that were wrapped around you whilst Cassian spewed war stories, bragging at his prowess.

"Not to brag," you began with a smirk, "But at least eight men have described me as 'terrifying', and two of them are in this room. Choke on that ego, Cassian."

Nesta's grin turned feline and excitement bubbled in the pit of her stomach. What she wouldn't give to spar with you, to have your legs wound around her and that tense gaze splitting her in half. From the whisperings of Prythian, it was very clear that you had done some rather diabolical things in order to obtain certain artifacts that had been locked away in your most prized and personal collection. So prized that its location was unknown. She could only imagine what trinkets you possessed, and the things you had witnessed.

"What about Azriel?!"

The Shadowsinger shrugged, his hand resting on your thigh and squeezing the flesh there, "I've only ever been entranced by my mate, Cassian," Azriel drawled, sipping the amber liquid swirling in his rocks glass like molten bronze, "It's you and Rhys who are afraid of her."

"If it's any consolation, I don't blame you."

Cassian frowned, turning to Nesta and asking, "Are you scared of her?"

"No," she answered a little too quickly, so quickly that you had quirked your brow at the sound, "I find y/n to be quite exciting."

"Exciting?" Cassian moved to Feyre and asked the same question, his manhood decaying when she too said that you didn't scare her, "Mor?"

The blonde who could not rival your beauty had always watched you from afar, and had always enjoyed how you made males squirm. Mor rose her glass to the stars and stated, "Bring every man you meet to their motherfucking knees, y/n."

"Amen to that," Amren tipped her glass in response, downing the rest of the thick red sap and finally feeling at home in the presence of her family thanks to you, and she eternally thanked the male sat beside you for being able to breathe some light into the storm cloud that was your mind.

"Mother above," Rhys grumbled, the women in his life uniting and itching to wreck havoc. The action of Rhys swiping his hand down his face, dragging the skin slightly toward in frustration, made a deep chuckle float from your lips, so serene that Nesta likened the sound to a siren call and found herself drawn to it. "Did I just make you laugh?" Rolling your eyes, you nodded at the High Lord who turned toward his mate, "This is the best day of my life," then back to you, "Does this mean that we're friends?"

Rhys waited expectantly, childlike orbs pleading to you with their innocence. You had no friends bar Amren and you were content with that. It meant that you only had one thing to lose. But as Azriel laid his hand on the small of your back, gaining your attention and giving you an expression of promise, the resolve of your solitude cracked, "Why not?"

The door to the River House flew open, a sudden shrill chill soaring through the air from the wild winds battering against the city, no doubt spurred on by your fury.

Many months had passed, and in that time you had truly blossomed, sure you still wore the mask of the devil on your features in public, but when you were with the Inner Circle, a group of people you now proudly belonged to, that mask drifted away like ash in the autumn breeze; and when Azriel was beside you, it felt as though warmth and happiness was all that you ever knew.

Much to Elain's upset, you and Azriel had officially accepted the bond and had locked yourselves away for four weeks to make the most out of every single moment together, and Rhys had been understanding enough of the bond between you both to not drag your mate away on another mission. The bond between you and Azriel was something that Rhys had never seen before, not even between him and Feyre.

"She tastes like every dark thought I've ever had."

The ceremony itself had been astonishing.

The women of the Inner Circle had spent the better part of two days dressing your apartment for the occasion and Feyre had made it quite clear that the upcoming ceremony was going to make theirs look ridiculous in comparison. Rhys was split between jealousy and awe when he saw it.

No one had ever stepped into the apartment beside Amren and Azriel, he had decided to move into the apartment after your return from the four-week sabbatical at the cabin, it was as though you were gifting them with the last part of you, allowing them to see what they could never fathom.

Faelights were strewn across the ceiling, curling around the arched windows that displayed the golden valley of the city in a way Rhys had never been able to appreciate before; tucked between the vines of the lights was fresh foliage, an array of green hue ferns caressing fully blossomed white roses and pale blue peonies. Sprigs of cedar and rosemary had been wove between the foliage and flowers alongside splinters of sandalwood, filling the room with the physical aspects of your scents.

Only the Inner Circle had been invited, and as you were dressing in your room with Amren, you could hear Nesta whining of her foolish jealousy of having to watch Azriel marry you. Amren had simply raised a brow and smirked at you through the mirror as she finished securing your veil to the back of your head.

There was no one you would want to share the moment with other than her.

Amren had blindfolded you, leading you through the home so that the gift wouldn't be ruined just so that you could get ready together, for the most important and deserving night of your life.

The dress that you had meticulously chosen was the most incredible garment Amren had ever seen, so much so that the first time you had tried it on in front of her, she had nearly cried at the beauty of it; and there you now stood, twisting in the mirror and running your hands down the hem of your veil and then your hips. The dress was made entirely of white lace that you had imported from the Day Court, an off-the-shoulder neckline and sleeves that kissed your wrists, it was elegant and graceful, and made the freckles of your trauma glow like shooting stars.

A gentle knock had sounded at the door and Rhys stepped in, taking one look at you and finding his breath catching in his throat. "You look amazing," he breathed, approaching you with his hands deep within his pockets.

The High Lord had been honoured when you had sheepishly asked him to walk you down the aisle; Rhys had found himself consumed with the need to protect you, after seeing your guard disappear, he saw who you truly were, a woman who just wanted to be loved and protected, and ready to allow other people to do it for her after spending so long doing it herself.

"Are you ready?" Inhaling deeply, you nodded and turned to him, noting the outstretched hand before you and feeling your usual anxiety bubbling in your gut. Rhys, realising that he shouldn't have done something so bold, went to retreat but halted when you took a small step toward him, reaching your fingers out to his palm and sliding them into his grasp.

Azriel was right, your skin was a smooth as honey.

A gentle smile of triumph later, you spoke, "I'm ready."

It was that moment that Rhys was begging you to remember as you barrelled through his house, no doubt heading straight for him in the confinements of his office.

He could feel your anger slam through the walls, your footsteps sounding up the staircase and stopping at the top of the hall, a pause to remember just how much you liked him before stalking down the hall and bursting into his office. Rhys cringed, knowing what was coming as you strode to his desk and slapped your palms flat against the wood.

"If you ever," you pointed your perfectly manicured finger in his face, "Send my mate back to me in that state again. I. Will. Destroy. You."

The snarl of your words sent a shiver coursing down his spine, and in that moment you were the y/n he had met one-hundred years ago. Cold. Distant. Almost demonic.

In his defence, he hadn't sent Azriel on an overly dangerous mission, it wasn't his fault that his Spymaster was ambushed in The Middle. Azriel's spilled blood was entirely his own fault in Rhys' eyes, "I didn't mean for him to get hurt, y/n."

The rushed footsteps of another sounded in the hall, and when Rhys looked past your deeply heaving form, he was relieved beyond compare when he saw a bruised Azriel approaching, "Angel, it wasn't his fault. I was distracted," his voice grew louder as he paced closer to the pair of you, appearing at your side and turning your head in his fingers to face him, "I was thinking about you and I didn't hear them coming."

Watching your shoulders drop, Rhys sighed and wiped away an invisible bead of sweat from his brow, sitting back down and continuing his viewing just as you tilted your head to the side and popped out your bottom lip.

"You were?" Azriel's eyes softened and he dipped his gaze to meet yours, "That's the most romantic thing you've ever done. You were attacked because you were thinking about me, you actually bled because you were thinking about me?"

Rhys could only watch on perplexed at your words, you threw yourself into Azriel's arms, muttering small apologies for brushing against the bruises littering his abdomen, "She's crazy."

The Shadowsinger could only huff, too entrapped by you to really reprimand him, "Yeah," his eyes opened lazily, brimming with exhaustion, "But she's my crazy."

Azriel's shadows curled over your shoulders and shuddered, crying to be as close to you as possible, like they were trying to entwine with your soul so that you one day may carry them with you wherever you walked. In whatever world.

A bond like yours was made to topple temples and shatter worlds, it was made to transcend time and space; and as you wrapped an arm around your mate and led him from the office, not without sending one more warning glare to the male you had come to love as a brother, Rhys knew that no matter where either of you went, there would be no place that you could travel to where the other would not follow.

Author’s Note

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Amen

Summary: Terry and Patrice learn more about their love through life changing news on New Year’s Eve.

Pairing: Terry Richmond x Black!OC

Word Count: 3.3k

Warnings: Mentions of Death

Inspired By: Ask #1 + Ask #2

MASTERLIST

Grief was a bitch. 

A mean, ugly, unwanted bitch that had settled beside Terry as an unwelcomed guest just when he thought that he'd banished it out of his life, never to return. Over two years of joy that he'd fought tooth and nail to maintain came crashing down once grief came strolling into town without warning. 

Mike was dead. He knew that. He'd reckoned with it, talked himself through the anniversary of his death once before, sent well-wishes to his aunt every time he could, cried in the shadows, mourned, lashed out, and sat in silence with the knowledge that his little cousin would never come through the door again. Mike wouldn't see another birthday. He wasn't around for the wedding or Christmas. They'd never see another football game together. Mike would never meet Nyla. 

That fact came as a sobering realization while Terry watched his only daughter's chest rise and fall as she slept peacefully in her crib for the first time all day. A cold running through her daycare had finally latched on to her fresh immune system, turning his usually jovial baby into a shell of herself. He told his higher-ups that he needed to take the day to care for her in his mother-in-law's stead, but what he really needed was time alone to deal with his uninvited guest. 

Leaning over the sturdy walnut railing keeping his little girl safely inside her crib, he watched her with the ghost of a smile on his lips. Mike would've loved her. Terry was sure of it. He'd make his way to Fayetteville at any opportunity and cause havoc, probably irritating Patrice but definitely doting on Nyla in a way that only he could. 

Tears that had been fighting to see the world all day pricked Terry's eyes yet again. He almost let them fall but found himself blinking them back once Patrice pushed open the door and poked her head inside. 

She smiled despite work wearing her thin and waved with her fingers. "Can I come in, or would that be too much?" 

"Of course, you can," he answered, trying to put on a brave face to hide the true turmoil inside. 

Seeing her stand there, her bright smile directed at him like he was the sun, moon, and stars, was the first time he'd felt anything other than the weight of regret. He needed her to come into the room. 

Tiptoeing, Patrice approached Terry and peered over the crib's railing to look at Nyla. "How was she," she whispered before softly touching her forehead to check for heat. "Doin' any better?" 

"A little. I got her to eat and play for a bit before the medicine kicked in. She should be out for the night and good enough to sit with your mom by the ceremony on Monday. But, we'll see." 

"Good. Thank you for taking the lead. I know she was happy to have you around." She took a second look at her pride and joy, then focused all her attention on Terry. Worry and sadness had found a home on his brow line as they remained furrowed in thought. She leaned her head on his forearm and looked up at him. "And what about my other baby? How was he today?" 

The date wasn't lost on Patrice. She noticed when Terry slowly retreated into himself the week before. She saw him looking at Mike's Instagram when he thought she wasn't paying attention. She heard the conversation with his aunt when he promised to come by and see her the next time he could make it to Baton Rouge, even though she knew that time wasn't coming. Every shift in his demeanor and thousand-yard stare showed that he was reliving a hellish time she couldn't protect him from. 

No amount of soothing could pull him out of his rut. But that wouldn't stop her from trying. 

Terry continued to stare down at Nyla as he answered. "I'm okay. Not too up, not too down." 

"You need anything?" Terry didn't respond with words once he finally tore his eyes away from their daughter to look at Patrice. He only shook his head. "Can I give you a hug at least?" 

His first dose of physical affection for the day felt like the wind was gently placed back into his lungs as Patrice pulled him closer by his shoulders. His hands found her waist first, giving the spot a short squeeze before allowing his arms to fully encircle her body. 

"I love you. You know that?" 

"I know." That was the one thing he was sure of. His heart and mind were splintered into a million pieces, but he knew Patrice was there to help him put each one back in their proper place. His lips found her temple for a lingering kiss as he closed his eyes to ward off the sadness, still trying to take center stage. "I, um…I... didn't have a good day today…" Terry struggled with the words, opening and closing his mouth in hopes that something would come out while Patrice listened to him try to articulate his thoughts. A deep breath and closed eyes helped him settle before he spoke. "I could use some time together. Whatever you have tonight, I'll take it. I know you have to be up early tomorrow, so even an hour is –" 

His words were cut short by a simple kiss on his cheek. Patrice pulled back to look at him and flashed a reassuring smile. "Give me a few minutes to get changed, and you have me for however long you need me. I'll stay up late and everything. Dasia will understand if I cancel my hair appointment for tomorrow."

"I don't want you to do that." 

"We'll play it by ear," she answered to douse the early flames of a disagreement. "Twenty minutes. You can time me." 

Terry nodded in understanding and silently agreed to let Patrice out of his sight when he needed her most. Whether she was gone for 30 seconds or three days, the time away felt slow. 

Terry tried and quickly tired of distracting himself in Nyla's nursery before quietly slipping out and taking the trek to wait for Patrice like a lost puppy.

He settled into the plush velvet chair in the corner and sighed with the weight of the world on his shoulders. Closed eyes heightened his sense of hearing, giving him full access to Patrice's singing in the shower. 

Mike would've loved the Patrice he heard so much about. He'd call her 'big sis' and annoy her the way little brothers do. They'd argue endlessly but still find time for secret handshakes and inside jokes. He'd finally have someone on his side to pester Terry and receive sound advice from when the going got tough. They may have taken him in as their overgrown first child. They could've worked together to get him on the right path and save his life. 

Unfortunately, Terry would never know. The not knowing left the door wide open for sadness to creep back in. 

He breathed deep and tried to will grief away with Patrice's voice as a lullaby in the background. And for a moment, it complied. The dark, heavy cloud slipped off his back and down to his feet with every exhale, lightening the weight on his arms and shoulders until he felt close to a Terry who was safe, sound, and far from the troubles of his past. 

Mike would want that. He'd like to know what Terry had going on as the last person expected to settle down into a family man. He'd probably poke fun at his older cousin for attending birthing classes and fawning over ruffled outfits in Target when what he knew of Terry was brooding, reserved, and quietly menacing. Mike had seen his cousin kick up dust with the worst of them. Seeing Terry as a man who wouldn't so much as cough too loud if his wife or daughter was around would be a sight. 

As grief slowly packed its things and headed for the door, his comfort emerged from the steaming bathroom, looking like a lighthouse in a raging storm. 

Patrice's humming paused once she noticed Terry sitting in the corner. "Missed me," she teased, drawing a small, dry chuckle from her husband as she made her way to their dresser. "You could've joined if you wanted."

"That's alright. I know you need your time to decompress.” He gestured toward the garment in her hand. “Need help with that?"

She could've put her clothes on with no assistance, but Patrice knew that Terry wouldn't have asked if he didn't need the distraction. She granted his covert request for her attention by quickly plucking matching pieces from her sleepwear drawer and placing them in his outstretched hands. 

They spent time in comfortable silence while he slid soft cotton up her legs and then helped her into her shirt, kissing random spots of exposed skin along the way. "I didn't ask about your day. I'm sorry. I got a lot of…other stuff on my mind. How was work?" 

"It was work. Nothing too important. Glad it's the weekend. Two more days, and I get to see my first graduating class of freshmen that I taught. Isn't that crazy? I'm getting old, huh?" She laughed by herself. 

Terry avoided eye contact despite his faint smile, preferring to tie the drawstring at her waist in a neat bow like she preferred. "Never old. Only better."

"You're too sweet." Patrice cuddled him close when he was done and rubbed a spot at the nape of his neck to soothe him into closing tired, heavy lids. "I know it's tough, but I promise you'll be okay, babe. The sadness isn't gonna go away, but you'll learn to live with it. You'll learn to make space for all those feelings inside you at once. And I'll be here when you need someone else to hold some of them, too." 

Terry sighed. "I'm not tryin' to be a burden for you, P. We have enough going on as is." 

"You're not a burden, Terry; you're my husband – my friend."

To be accepted with all of the muddy waters traversing his mind and heart felt like too much to ask for in Terry's mind, especially from someone who'd spent so much time wading through all his bullshit without complaint. He owed her his life, the full weight of his love, until the day God deemed their time together but a beautiful memory forever etched in boxed trinkets and old photos. 

He wanted to give her the moon as she stood stroking his pain away with her fingertips but settled for kissing his way up her sternum on the way to her lips. 

One day, when other emotions had dwindled, and he was feeling more like himself, Terry would lay his head on Patrice's lap and tell her about the atrocities that had shaped the time before they reacquainted. That day wasn't today, and all he could think of was pouring his gratitude for her graciousness into making sure she was satisfied in the one area he could control. 

Shorts that had only been on her body for mere minutes found a new home on the floor alongside her top. Patrice was weightless in Terry's arms as he carried her to their shared bed, his lips attached to hers for needy kisses that felt more like life rafts to keep him above rough waters than affectionate gestures. 

Patrice questioning if he was sure about his actions fell on deaf ears, and soon, all of her inquiries became lost whispers in a room swirling with the sounds of desperate lovemaking. Terry left his mark on her neck and chest while he worked himself out of his clothes. 

His voice came in gravelly against the shell of her ear. "I fuckin' love you, Treece. Don't ever leave me." He was pleading and caught somewhere between raw desire and tremendous despair. "Please, don't ever leave me." 

"I'm not going anywhere, baby," Patrice reassured without hesitation.

Terry left soft kisses and big, salty tears on Patrice's cheeks once their foreheads met. "Please. I need you, Patrice." Grief was back and taunting him in his ear with its partner in crime, Doubt. She'll leave, just like everyone else. You don't deserve her. Lies filled his head with no shut-off valve in sight. The tears turned into sobs he couldn't ignore with breathing techniques or a change in his thought process. "I'm sorry. I just need you. I can't do this by myself. Don't leave." 

Patrice quickly cast amorous feelings aside to wrap her arms tight around Terry. "Woah, woah, TJ. I'm here! I'm right here." 

Grief was a bitch. Even when he threw his best punch at it, grief always hit Terry back with a haymaker that left him staggering and woozy in defeat. 

The moments after his heaving, hyperventilating meltdown became a blur of Patrice's soft-spoken instruction, lavender bubble bath, and candlelight. When he came back from a mental trip to Shelby Springs to live out alternate realities, where he emerged victorious with Mike by his side, he found himself nestled between his wife's legs, surrounded by fresh hot water and scented white foam. 

Patrice moved behind him, plastic crinkling as she peeled the back off of something he couldn't see before bringing her wet hands around to his face. "These'll help with the puffiness," she declared like an experienced esthetician informing a client. "I used to use this every other day in grad school. Cry all you need. No one will ever know by morning." 

A 'thank you' tried to rise from his throat, but Terry quickly found his voice too hoarse to say anything worth a damn. Patrice didn't mind, though. She was content to press another cold patch underneath his eye before grabbing the shampoo rinse cup resting near the baby monitor at the edge of the tub. 

Terry closed his eyes as the warm water washed over his short curls, sitting neatly behind a sharp hairline and tapered sides. His hair glistened under flickering lights provided by small flames in glass components. Patrice used her acrylic nails to work magic against his scalp, turning shampoo into a mountain of suds to cleanse the pain. 

"I swear every time my Nana and mama scrubbed my head, I felt like a new person after. One time, I was going through the worst friend breakup I've ever had, and by the time Mommy finished with me, I didn't even know that girl's name. Didn't even matter anymore." 

"What happens after the scrub, though? You just…go back to normal?" 

Patrice chuckled as she ran another stream of water across his head to start on a second lather. "Hell no. That's where the patches come in." Terry allowed himself his first genuine laugh all day, taking a stone out of grief's stronghold. His fingertips ran back and forth over the wet skin on Patrice's legs as he sat with his eyes closed in a battle for his sanity. They let the quiet ripple of water around them fill the humid air in the room, preferring to enjoy the feel of skin on skin over extraneous conversation until Patrice began running conditioner through each of his thick strands. "I love when you wear your hair like this. The haircuts are nice, but when it's grown out, it reminds me of young you." 

"Hot-headed, couldn't buckle down enough to work through being mad at not getting scholarships to still go to college me?" Terry scoffed, finding the notion of a younger, far less polished him being someone worth missing. 

Patrice shrugged. "I didn't know that Terry," she confessed. The stories of his anger felt like fables to Patrice. The only Terrence Richmond she'd ever known was sweet as homemade banana pudding after Sunday service and a whip-smart boy with the world at his feet. "My Terry and his little fro was always kind. Always noble and lending a helping hand. And now he's got a baby girl in the other room with a head full of her daddy's curls after she looked like Charles Barkley for three months." Terry smiled at the mention of Nyla and how she'd inherited at least one part of him after taking her mother's entire face. Patrice watched him reach for the monitor and bring it closer to his face for a look at his second favorite girl before she continued. "My Terry is who Mike loved. I never met him, but I know he saw the best in you. We all do, baby." 

More silence sat heavy as Terry wiped away fresh tears gathering at his waterline. Of course, they'd see the best in him when he couldn't see the best in himself. 

Grief came knocking again with Doubt in tow, but Terry ignored them to slide deeper into the water and rest his heavy head on Patrice's chest before speaking. "Mike and me…we used to get in a lot of trouble at my granny's house." 

"Yeah? Two badass kids, huh? Tell me about it."

"One time," he started, already smiling at the memory. "We got her beagle, Satchel, sick because we kept feeding him shrimp out of the gumbo. He threw up all over the back porch, and Mike got so scared that he told on us, thinking we wouldn't get the switch if we were honest." 

"Did y'all?" 

Terry laughed and nodded. "Wore our asses out. I hated that damn dog for the rest of his life. It wasn't his fault, but I was just a kid." 

"You knew better, though." 

"Whose side are you on right now?" Terry asked, looking up at Patrice with faux offense on his face. 

She giggled back. "Okay, my bad!" A final round of water cascaded down Terry's shoulders and back, washing the ugly soot of regret off of his grief to reveal the love making up its inner parts. Patrice kissed his wet hair and held her lips there even as she spoke. "Can you tell me more about Mike? I wanna know him through you."

The invitation erupted a dormant volcano deep within his Terry's heart.

He told stories of his cousin and their time together until the lavender-scented bubbles evaporated into tepid bath water. Until grief felt more like gratitude for memories made. Until Patrice's stomach ached from laughter. Until the clock struck midnight, and tears started to roll again. Until Patrice had wiped his entire face with her delicate fingertips several times over without a single inkling of exasperation or judgement while they lay face to face beneath cold sheets. And until she finally closed her eyes from exhaustion and turned her back for some shut-eye. 

Then, he talked to God. A long list of thank you's emerged from his heart. A thank you for keeping him alive, one for time spent with Mike, one for his daughter, and another for the only person keeping him afloat when all he wanted to do was drown. 

Terry looked at Patrice and smiled. Light from the television illuminated her face, highlighting her knitted brow and slight frown as she lay in the throes of a dream he could only imagine was vivid enough to evoke such a clear expression of disgust. The thought alone produced a genuine smile. 

Clicking the power button, Terry found himself in complete darkness, fighting for the words to finish his prayer. He sighed and looked back toward Heaven. "She's perfect, God. Even when she isn't. If you never give me anything else, thank you for Patrice."

"Hm?"

Patrice's groggy response to her name being called made Terry roll over on his side to calm her back into sleep. "Nothing, baby," he spoke into her shoulder before pressing a kiss on her skin. He wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her closer, earning a content sigh. "I was just praying for you."

She smiled without opening her eyes. "Well, amen to that."

Tears tickled Terry's waterline, this time filled with overwhelming gratitude. A blessing like no other. 

"Yeah. Amen to that."

-----

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[inkdrinkerworld]

For the Halloween thing, 14 with Remus Lupin 💖

Autumn is in full swing when Remus asks you out. You’d both been tiptoeing around your affection for each other for months, and as the cold swept in, Remus found his courage.

You’re walking around Cardiff, the leaves orange and yellow and falling off the trees.

Remus had taken you to the national museum there, then to a cafe where you’d gotten a hot chocolate and a slice of walnut cake. Remus had gotten a hot, black coffee and an extra slice of walnut cake for ‘himself.’

He’s walking you back home, more than a little mesmerized by you and the way frost comes from every word you say.

“What did you think of the woolly mammoth? Do you really think they existed?” You turn to Remus as you ask the question, your eyes round with wonder as you take a sip of your hot chocolate.

Remus weighs his answer, “I think they may have, I have doubts about their tusks being the real deal though.”

You smile, “So do I! They’re ivory just like elephants so I think we’d have harvested them all before they went extinct.”

Remus takes a sip of his coffee to hide the smile that wants to split his face at your excitement.

You go off on a little tangent, talking about the animals of old and how you think they died before the Ice Age, your hand moving wildly as if to punctuate your excitement.

By the time you reach your doorstep, your cheeks are cold and your body is buzzing with happiness.

Remus feels the same.

“I had a really lovely time,” Remus says softly, eyes holding your own as you stand on your top step to be just taller than him.

“So did I. You’re very welcome company, Remus.” He smiles this time, his scar glinting a little under the sun.

Before he can say anything, a couple leaves fall from the tree on the pavement, tangling themselves in his hair.

“Oh.” You gasp, walking a little closer to him. “You have a leaf in your hair,” your hand reaches up slowly in case he doesn’t want you to touch him.

When Remus doesn’t move, more from fondness that’s melted and mixed with adoration, you pluck the leaves from his sandy hair.

“There,” you smile as you hold the leaf up, a pretty auburn colour that goes with his sweater.

If Remus wasn’t smitten before, he is now. His heart all warm as you show him the leaf.

“Thanks dove,” he kisses your knuckles, reveling in the way your breath hitches. “Maybe we can meet next week to watch that movie you’re looking forward to.”

You nod, “I’d love that. Thanks for walking me home, Rem.”

Like he’d ever miss the chance to prolong your date.

[mars-archived]

enough for you | lee seokmin

pairing: bf!seokmin x gn!reader warnings: angst!!!, comfort at the end, mentions of emotional abuse and low self-esteem (please take care), brief mentions of drowning (nothing descriptive tho). a/n: self-indulgent what can i say. also i'm no stranger to emotional topics, but i don't want this to be seen as irresponsible from my part, so please let me know your thoughts!

seokmin was sure of a few things in this life. that he couldn’t live without his family, that the sun would always shine somewhere — though climate change has him worrying about this one —, that his best friends were his brothers by heart, and pizza tasted better on the next day. now, he was sure of one more thing: he loved you, he was completely and unapologetically in love with you. and he was almost sure it wasn’t mutual.

after three months of dating, be it too much or too little, some things started to call his attention — and not in a good way. it started simple, slowly, like the flavor of your birthday cake. you didn’t want to choose and just told him “surprise me”, which at first seemed very cute, but now got piled up in the list of odd behaviors.

like the way you’d never suggest something else for you to watch or listen to — even if he practically begged you. “i like the things you choose, they’re always so great” you’d say, and he believed you at one point. not anymore.

soon, it started to escalate to the point of ridiculousness. because you’d never say no to him.

going for a walk at 03h in the morning? of course! could you help with something trivial and definitely doable by oneself, even though you’re sick from head to toe and in need of proper rest? absolutely! can you disappear from everyone's life for like a week? say no more!

but his real turning point is when the two of you have to postpone the afternoon date, because your mom got injured and needed some assistance. he absolutely did not mind staying with you — despite your protesting — and saw no problem in listening to your mom rant for hours. in fact, he’s thankful for that. because how else would he find out you only had one other relationship before him (which, according to your mom, did not end so well)? that you used to be a theater kid and accept any role just so you could be on stage? or that one of your favorite hobbies is bird-watching? and what about your severe food allergy that nearly killed you once? fear of the dark?

it was all too much. things that you hid from him, like your allergy, hobbies, preferences and experiences; or that you lied to him about (“don’t worry, i love coffee!”, except you didn’t. “yeah, beach sounds perfect!”, but not really because the image of your cousin almost drowning under your watch still haunted you).

why did you never mention any of this? why did you feel like lying or hiding? to seokmin, all of this could only mean one thing, but he had to be sure. he needed the truth, for once, regardless of how much it could hurt him in the process.

“i need to ask you something,” suddenly hearing his voice during the movie startled you “and i need you to be completely honest with me, please”. he paused the TV and looked at you. a hint of concern in his face, but mostly serious.

“of course” you nodded, fully turning to face him.

“did you eat the cookies from yesterday? the ones with peanut butter and walnuts i brought from mingyu’s?” the question seemed too simple for such a reaction from him. he must be mad mad, you concluded.

“well- well i did. i thought i heard you saying he’d sent them for me, so i ate them without really offering you or leaving any left. i’m really sorry” your eyes were glued to the floor, face burning in embarrassment.

seokmin felt bad, he never wanted to make you feel guilty. and maybe you knew, maybe not, but he’d give you his house if you asked seriously enough. he loved you like that. but that’s exactly why you were now having such conversation, so he continued after a deep breath.

“you heard it right, but you still shouldn’t have eaten. and not because of me, but because you just so happen to be allergic to peanuts. in case you forgot”. he sounded disappointed now, and you noticed.

“how… do you know that?” there was no point in denying now. “your mom told me yesterday. she told me lots of things, actually” his eyes were avoiding you, and combined with a dry chuckle, it was clear he wasn’t only disappointed, but quite pissed as well.

before you could say anything and try to apologize, he continued. because in all honesty, he wouldn’t have the guts to if the words didn’t leave his heart right. now.

“you find birds fascinating, and the school theater club was your second home. you cry listening to sad melodies even if the lyrics are a bunch of nonsense, and strawberry-flavored ice cream is a big no for you, because you find the artificial taste insulting. i tried to think of a reason for why you would hide those things from me. and the only thing in my minds is that maybe you just don’t want this anymore”

it felt like a punch in the gut. you searched for his eyes, hopeless, and he still faced anywhere but you. was that how much you hurt him? words wanted to come out, but it’s like you couldn’t speak. inside your head, however, you screamed all of them loud and clear.

the few minutes you both spent in silence felt like days. and sensing that you didn’t really know what to say, seokmin concluded his thoughts.

“so if, for whatever reason, you feel like this is not what you want anymore, please just let me know. if you want to break up just say it, don’t worry about me. but i can’t keep doing this any longer. i can’t not know”

this time he was the one staring intensely at you. hoping you could see how much he didn’t want things to end, but would rather set you free and be hurt in the process, than keep you close with any sort of regret. you didn’t face him right away, though, vision blurry with the tears that occasionally fell on the carpet. you let a sob escape and quickly wiped your face. trying to recompose just enough to give him an answer.

“okay then” you finally faced him, noticing the crease between his eyebrows, and his glossy eyes. it hurt to know that you were hurting him this much, so maybe this was the best option after all.

“wait… do you mean it?”

“well… if that’s what you want i resp-” he cut you off immediately, “but it’s not! no. no no, that’s the last thing i want!” his voice was desperate, and some of the tears he held back started to fall. you were now confused.

“what do you mean?”

“you have no idea, do you?” when you shook your head no, he confessed. voice softer and ears reddening “i’m way too deep now. it just hit me that i love you. like, really. but i can’t give my all if you don’t feel the same. it’s just not fair.”

your heart started racing as if you were in danger, you feared it would explode outside your chest. you’re sure your inside out characters would be going crazy if you really had them.

“you…” his words kept replaying in your mind. i love you. just like that.

“yeah”

silence.

seokmin watched patiently as you let his confession sink in. yes, he needed to know where your relationship stood, but he wouldn’t dare to rush you or your thoughts. never.

“i’m sorry for making you feel like i didn’t love you too” your words caught him off guard. you loved him too? what? “i thought i was doing it right” a defeated smile formed in your face now.

“doing what right?” he was confused, to say the least. your own confession being left aside in order for him to try and understand.

“well, this… us”

“y/n… what exactly are you talking about?” for some reason, he sensed your answer would not be good. it still didn't prepare him to what you said next.

“i thought you’d like me better if i didn’t pick and choose so much… if i wasn’t too much work. i know it can be a hassle trying to go out with someone who’s allergic to food, or avoiding the beach in the middle of summer because i happen to have a bad memory of it. i didn’t really think my hobbies or past passions could be interesting to you. and maybe you don’t like the things i like in general, so i’d rather not risk it, you know?” you looked at him teary-eyed, but with a wide and hopeful smile. as if you didn’t just say the most absurd things he ever heard “i didn’t mind, really… i just wanted this to work”

although he was really good at acting dramatic, right now seokmin tried his best to react neutrally and not scare you with how much you’d scared him. but on the inside, he was concerned, guilty, and most of all, hurt. for you.

“so you think you’re too much work… for being you?”

“i just didn’t want to lose you by messing it up, not again” your voice cracked, betraying whatever composure you tried to keep “i figured this was the right way to do it.”

“so you were fine losing your true self as long as you didn't lose me?” he already knew you were not pretending anymore, but he still needed to confirm every single conclusion he got.

it killed him that you really believed everything you said. because at some point in life you stopped being yourself to not ‘inconvenience’ others and no one said a thing, no one cared enough to stop it. worst case scenario? someone out there was just fine with that, taking advantage of how much you wanted to fit in, even if it meant cutting your essence out.

“isn't that how it works?”

this could be an obvious question with an even more obvious answer to most people, but he tried not to judge you. it’s not your fault for being made to believe you were too much for anyone to handle. how could you be? he just wished it was easier to convince you that you didn’t need to make yourself smaller just to fit in one’s heart. because the right person would have enough room for the past, present, and future versions of you. just like he does.

“i’m so sorry, y/n. but that’s not how any healthy relationship should be” he tried not to sound condescending, because he needed you to understand, not feel embarrassed about it.

and as much as you wanted him to be lying to you, something about the concern and sadness in his demeanor, indicated that he was probably not. and it made you feel worse than you’ve ever felt before. realization slowly started to sink in, your eyes got blurry again and the familiar sting warning you about what was to come. you didn’t want to cry for the nth time, this entire conversation had you wishing the floor would swallow you whole. you felt pathetic, you look pathetic. but without noticing, the tears began to escape as you made one last comment.

“i just… it’s what worked before”

“oh, y/n…” upon hearing your words, seokmin sighed. pulling you into a comforting hug.

once you were comfortable in his embrace, he closed his eyes to let the tears fall free. it all started to make sense now, and he felt helpless. he wanted to cry out loud, sob, scream, fight someone — that bastard from your first relationship, preferably —, but you needed him more than ever. you cried silently in his arms, still trying not to bother, but he could feel your heartbeat, the way your body trembled as you tried to suppress another sob.

“shhhh, it’s okay. i’m right here with you. it’s okay” his hug got tighter, like he could fix all your broken pieces if he held for long enough “you can cry, it’s okay. please don’t keep it to yourself, you’re safe here. i’ve got you”

it took you some time to register what he’d said. you’ve been brainwashed into thinking your feelings were less than, that your sadness would ruin someone’s mood and therefore you should tone it down. so, being comforted like this — being comforted at all —, and told it’s okay to cry, felt foreign to you.

but for once, you allow yourself to cry harder, until it drains you, because you know there will be someone there to catch you.

[mrzombielover]

Since I loved the general relationship headcanons you did for Christopher, I gotta request it for Paulie Walnuts. Thank you so much and I’m sorry for the questionable taste in men 😭 I also love ur blog’s aesthetic!! I’m living for slashers, BrBa/BCS, The Sopranos, Type O Negative, Rob Zombie, and Slipknot rn so it’s perfect

THANK U SMM and im glad you liked my other writing!! im so happy to find other sopranos fans on here haha and also NEVER apologize for your taste in men around here!!!!!

- i actually love paulie sm lmfao he’s so funny

- dating him (as with all the sopranos men) would be uhh really interesting

- i feel like if you stayed completely separate from his work and ignore his goomars and bad moods he’d actually be very good to be with i think

- he’s sooo unserious tho

- he’s actually like a whiny teenage girl i stg sometimes you’re wondering if he’s pmsing with the way he acts

- always tries to make you laugh and he’s ego will be very hurt if you don’t laugh at his jokes

- likes a partner who can match his energy and make jokes too (but not jokes at his expense lmfao he’s fragile)

- sporadically, he is very romantic. he has the classic italian idea of how to treat a lady, and pulls out the stops on anniversary’s, birthdays, and valentines

- for men/gnc ppl, it’s totally different though so lmk if i should write separate hcs on this lol

- of course, his work comes first. you’d have to deal with that, but if you made a fuss about it he’d try his best to make it up to you

- ideal dates include him driving you around, taking you to a nice restaurant, and lots of people watching where he can make comments about the passerby’s and (hopefully) make you laugh

- also would not like you working, it hurts his ego. wants to provide anything you with anything you want, and would actually get upset with you if you tried to be more independent

- fantasizes about taking you to italy and lounging on the beach with you all day

- also totally random but i think he’d really love a smart partner. he isn’t the brightest so the bar isn’t very high, but intelligence is very attractive to him (if you don’t embarrass him with it i cannot stress enough that he’s fragile)

- would love it if you cooked for him

- also loves massages, giving and receiving. it feels very intimate to him and idk he just has a thing for it

this is lowk all i can think of i think, thank you for reading :))))

comments + reblogs greatly appreciated !

[grey-rkjt]

Stop Being Obtuse

It happens while they're sitting around the café, cups of overpriced coffee (Roy still doesn't understand what more anyone could need in their coffee besides coffee) growing cooler by the minute. Keeley looks her usual chipper self in a bright pink and gold jumper while Jamie is practically sprawled in his chair in some gaudy monstrosity of a hoodie that probably cost more than all of Roy's wardrobe put together.

It's a Saturday morning in the off season much like every other Saturday of this off season, just the three of them, hanging out as they seem to do so regularly ever since Roy and Keeley had followed Jamie to his mum's house that time. 

There's nothing special about today, or even the moment, when it happens.

"I still don't get why they look at the audience and ask us questions if they don't want a response!" Jamie argues back to Keeley, without any heat, completely settled into the clearly familiar banter.

The night before, the team had been roped into attending a local theatre production, for charity and because Zoreaux of all people had had a bit part. Roy had been pleasantly surprised—he hadn't grunted or growled once during the entire performance—that Zoreaux hadn't been half bad for all ten of his lines as Man at Train Station and that the plot wasn't completely terrible. 

Jamie, however, had barely been able to sit still, his leg bouncing until Keeley had steadied it with a hand. Roy had thought Jamie was annoyed or bored with the play, but come to find out, he'd been invested. When the main character had come to the edge of the stage and wondered if he would ever find his true love, Jamie had gestured widely, nearly smacking Roy in the face, towards the set piece door where the female lead had just exited and he had blurted, loud enough for the whole theatre to hear, “Why don't you just open the door, mate? She just fucking left!”

The actor hadn't broken—true professional, he was—but it did seem like his eyes drifted towards Jamie whenever he faced the audience for the rest of the play, as if wondering if Jamie would give an encore performance.

“It's called a monologue, babes, you know this,” Keeley teases. She pats Jamie on the hand, running her thumb over the knuckles, but she’s still laughing a bit at him. She's adorable like this, with that cheeky little grin and her eyes lit up in amusement. Under the table she knocks a knee against Roy’s and looks to him as if to say, He's ridiculous, isn't he?

Well, Roy can't argue with that and he gives a bit of a grunt as the corners of his mouth twitch upwards against his will.

“Then why's it called breaking the fourth wall if we're supposed to act like the wall’s still there?” Jamie asks. Roy didn't know Jamie even knew what breaking the fourth wall meant. “Seems unfair, they get to break it but we don't. Like one of them one way mirror-window things like the police’ve got, for interrogations, like.”

Roy takes a sip of his coffee and thinks Jamie might have a point. Fuck him, he's agreeing with Jamie fucking Tartt on theatre of all fucking things, while the vain bastard pushes his stupid “misty walnut” (or whatever the fuck it's called) highlighted hair out of his eyes.

And then it hits him.

“Fuuuuuuuuuck.”

Keeley and Jamie immediately stop their banter to look at him.

“What's wrong, love?” Keeley asks.

“Yeah, you having a stroke or something there, mate? You smell toast?”

Roy glares at Jamie. “I'm not having a stroke, you twat. And since when is me saying ‘Fuck’ cause for alarm?”

Jamie leans towards Keeley. “He's got me there.”

“Shush,” Keeley says. “Well, what is it?”

Roy exhales sharply through his nose. “Alright, Keeley, you've dated both of us and even though you rightfully tossed us on our arses when we showed up asking you to pick one of us, you must not think we're that bad if you keep hanging out with us idiots.”

“Oi,” Jamie protests, ignoring that Roy'd lumped himself in the idiot category, too.

Keeley nods, clearly a little unsure of where Roy’s going with this. “Yeah, ‘course, I'm fond of you both…”

“We're fond of you too, Keels,” Jamie says. Roy nods in agreement before turning to Jamie.

“And you've wanted to shag both of us since you were a fucking teenager.”

Jamie’s jaw drops and it looks like he's about to deny it but Roy cuts him off.

“We saw the posters in your bedroom. Strategically placed, they were.”

Jamie hunches his shoulders. “Yeah, alright.”

Keeley reaches over and pats him on the shoulder. “Aw, I think it's sweet.”

Again, Roy's not gonna argue with her. He needs to barrel on, say his piece before he loses steam.

“And you know how Lasso was always going on about triangles being the strongest shape…” 

Keeley seems to catch on a second before Jamie does, her smile widening and her eyes sparkling. She looks almost giddy.

When he gets it, Jamie blinks and his shoulders relax a bit. “You saying what I think you're saying? If you're taking the piss…”

He tries to sound as flippant as possible, but there's a true note of worry in his voice that Roy wants to growl at on principle but he knows that would probably send the wrong message. His growls are nuanced but they might not be that nuanced.

Instead, he just nods solemnly. Somehow, Jamie's eyes widen even more than Keeley’s and he glances at her as if for confirmation that he hasn't just entered Bizarro World.

“Fucking hell, you're serious?” Roy nods again and Jamie grins. “Keeley?”

Keeley is practically bouncing in her chair. “Yeah,” she says before settling a bit. “But we should really talk about this, yeah? Like you're both fit as fuck and I can't say I haven't imagined this a few times but…” She looks at Roy. “You sure about this?”

“More sure of this than anything else I have been in awhile.” And she's right: they have to talk. This can't be casual and he (can't believe he's saying this) cares too much about both of them to fuck this up. He doesn't want this to just be a bit of fun. He wants more.

“Hold on,” Jamie cuts in. “I've known I were into blokes since I was, I dunno, fifteen. Got that crisis out of my system ages ago, even if I never did nothing about it. But you're from the Stone Age. You sure you don't need a minute to have a crisis of your own?”

Roy stands up. “Maybe I do, but I sure as hell don't want to have it in the middle of a fucking café. And I'm pretty sure anything else I wanna do also shouldn't be done in the middle of a café, either.” He looks pointedly between the two of them.

Jamie chugs the last of his coffee and scrambles up from his chair. “Right, yeah, cheers. Let's get out of here.” 

They both hold out a hand for Keeley on instinct. She rolls her eyes as she stands. “I can get up from a table on my own, boys. But I can definitely think of something I’ll need your help with later.” She winks, and this time, Roy does growl while Jamie’s smile gets that old swagger back. 

Outside, Keeley loops her hand into the crook of his elbow and leans against him, like that's where she was always meant to be. Roy touches a quick kiss to the top of her head, earning himself one of her sunniest smiles when she looks up at him. He wants her to smile like that every day. Jamie's on his other side, his hands tucked up into the front pocket of his hoodie, but his shoulder knocks against Roy’s as they walk. It's not enough, so Roy loops his own arm around Jamie's shoulders and Roy feels something flip in his gut when Jamie lights up like a fucking Christmas tree. 

Fucking Lasso and his fucking triangles, but damn if he didn't have a point. 

[dingo-ate-my-hot-lettuce-crazy]

Rearview - Chapter 7 - Brick By Brick

Summary: A difficult conversation still paves the way for hope between Dean and the reader.

Characters: Dean, others mentioned

Word Count: 4.3K

Warnings: cursing, angst, angst, angst, mentions of domestic violence, mention of drugs, uhhhh, late, bad stuff, sad staff, mad stuff, smad stuff

Author's Note: im not going to lie im slightly tipsy but who knows if that made this chapter better if not im sorry I didn't write it- she did (points to mirror)

Songs: Fade into You by Mazzy Star

Series Masterlist - Chapter 8

You slept through the night for the first time in weeks.

Though, it did take a moment to remember where exactly you are. Your head turns to the opposite side of the king-size bed, reaching a hand out to the recently cold sheets, and it’s vacant. The slate grey comforter is folded away from the pillows in your direction, haphazardly bunching near your midsection. You take in the room around you now that it’s delicately brightened with streams of morning sunlight coming from the double-hung window, illuminating the room with a welcoming glow. There’s two identical wood nightstands adorning each side of the bed, a dark walnut-wood with a top and bottom drawer. The room wasn’t huge or anything, but big enough for the necessities and then some. The digital clock that sits on the nightstand closest to Dean’s side reads 9:12 AM. 

At least seven hours of uninterrupted sleep. Free from nightmares, waking up every thirty minutes, or just fitful rest. The Ativan definitely helped.

You’re almost drawn back to sleep as your head sinks into the pillow, like an anchor to the water when you lie back. It takes an effort to keep your eyes open, and you figure the medication is going to make you groggier in the morning for the next couple of days. Your hand reaches over to the phone sitting on the empty stand next to you, looking at the notifications missed from last night.

You can’t even bring yourself to fully react as you reread the text that had set everything off.

Is it really anonymous?

Dean should know. And you’re going to tell him.

That familiar sense of dread returns to your body, but it’s more heavy than it is anxiety-inducing. There’s still a weight of reluctance that sits on your chest. You envy those who get a release from talking about what’s on their mind.

While your phone is still open, an email notification pops up on the top of the screen. You click and begin skimming– 

Subject: Medical Leave Notification - Recommended Resting Period

To Whom It May Concern, This email serves to inform you that our patient was seen at Wayward Medical Center on September 21st. Following a medical evaluation, a three-day resting period is advised to aid in their recovery from acute stress disorder. This mandatory resting period is recommended to grant our patient to focus on their recovery. The recommended leave dates are September 22nd to September 24th, inclusive. We anticipate our patient will be able to resume their regular activities on September 25th. We understand this may require adjustments, and we appreciate your understanding and cooperation in supporting our patient’s recovery during this time. Should you have any urgent questions, you may contact our office with the number mentioned at the bottom of the email. Sincerely, Wayward Medical Center - Patient Services

So no school or work for the next three days.

What the hell will I do with myself?

Setting the phone back down on the nightstand, you aim to start your day figuring out what exactly is next. You swivel your legs to plant your feet on the hardwood floor underneath you, and your eyes catch on Dean’s sweatpants and large, draping T-shirt pooling at your waist.

The only clothes you had on last night at the hospital were your work clothes, so before the two of you got into bed, he offered you a pair of his sweats and a red tee with short-sleeves that almost draped to your elbows, with the mascot of the college you both attend on the front with lettering on the back.

There’s a distant opening and closing of a fridge door, and soft clanking of metal, pots and pans if you had to guess. And when you really listen, you can hear a faint humming, and you don’t even realize your lips turning upwards as you recognize the familiar riff from Stranglehold by Ted Nugent. 

Standing up proves to be a slight challenge, as you have to use the bed to steady yourself as your eyes almost clouded around the edges with black spotting at the immediate movement. It’s short-lasted thankfully, and you stand completely after a second of deep breathing and concentration on staying upright. You bite your cheek to keep yourself in check as you follow the comforting hum, leading you out of the bedroom as you’re hit with a wave of the ambrosial smell of breakfast foods. Bacon is slightly more overpowering but in the mix of aromas there’s something more on the sweet side you can’t put your tongue on. From the bedroom door you shuffle directly into the small kitchen on your right, where Dean is flipping french toast in a large frying pan.

In grey sweatpants. And then nothing above.

Upon hearing your feet scuffle against the floor, Dean peaks over his right shoulder and a smile takes the place of the concentrated purse of his lips as he shakes the pan back and forth on the stove as the foods intermittently sizzle in the oils.

“Hey,” he drawls warmly, his voice still low and raspy from little use.

You raise your eyebrows with a charmed grin as you watch him, glancing between him and the stove. You lean against the wall next to the door frame, your hands in between the small of your back and the wall. 

“Are we sure that I didn’t die? I’m pretty sure this is what Heaven looks and smells like.” 

Dean lips tighten into a thin-line, a staccato laugh from the back of his throat sounds even though his mouth is closed.

“You know,” he sets the spatula down on the counter, lowering the heat of the pan as he slowly turns to walk to you with a subtle sharp glint in his eyes, “That would be funny if you weren’t actually on the brink of death last night.”

You grimace, “Too soon?”

Dean’s hands travel to your waist, pulling you closer to him, and thankfully you see a lightness still in his eyes, “Just a little.”

He leans down to press a gentle kiss to your lips, pulling your body to his with a delicate intensity. Almost like he’s afraid that you’ll collapse again– afraid that you’ll slip from his grasp.

And then he pulls away.

“Good morning.”

You're a little lost, your eyes looking between his pair. There’s no oxygen in the room besides him right now. Breathless, you find yourself again as a grin spreads as casually as you will it across your face.

“It is.”

Dean’s smile is lopsided at your response and his hands slide to your shoulders. He squeezes them gently, brushing them down your arms comfortingly. “You’re feeling better, right?”

“Yeah,” You exhale the breath you didn’t know you’re holding as you relax into his hold, “I’m still a little groggy from that Ativan, but yeah, I’m better.”

“Good...” Dean looks relieved, and he steps backwards, releasing you from his grip but still holding your gaze as moves back to the stove to proudly show up the plethora of food in the pan.

“Because I’ve got enough breakfast to feed a small village.” Four slices of french toast, bacon strips and eggs all fit in his gargantuan frying pan as he angles it for you to see.

“Or maybe two hungry college kids,” you float closer to his pride and joy of ensemble of foods and your nose instinctively takes an exaggerated whiff at the sweet and savory blend that hovers in the kitchen. You feel his care in that smell. In just his cooking, you feel something click. It might’ve been something small to other people, but for you, it means the butterflies still make their flights, swirling their wings with a restorative sense of peace. A taste of intimacy that had long since slipped its way into your heart.

Is this what a real relationship feels like?

“Dean, you didn’t have to–”

He cuts you off with another quick peck on the lips.

“Wanted to. Plate–” he barely pays any mind to your thanks as he practically drops it into your hand, giving you no other choice at the moment than to help yourself.

It didn’t seem like he’s blowing off your appreciation, not at all. There’s a hint of a watchful smile on his face the whole time you fill up your plate with his food. No, it almost as if Dean was expected to do this for you. Like there was no other choice than to spoil you.

Dean definitely decorated his own apartment. You can tell; everything is simple and minimalistic. But cleanly, for a guy, you may add.

While his apartment doesn’t yield much space, his “dining room” is directly ahead of his kitchen on the far side of his bedroom, and is nothing more than a round top table that fits three guests at most. It’s almost farmhouse style the way that the wood finish with a slight rusticity to it, and his two chairs are classically Windsor-styled, a little splayed and painted black.  

A man’s color in a man’s living quarters. You almost laugh aloud at your own mockery of the principle.

Dean probably just doesn’t give a fuck. He probably bought the first one’s he saw.

Though his apartment may need a touch of character, you have zero critiques for his cooking. You swear you’ve stepped into a Michelin-Star breakfast joint with how good everything is. The bacon is crisp, and all sorts of good fatty, and you don’t even like over-easy eggs but the ones he put on your plate are cooked to perfection. And the French toast... best you’ve ever had. More than just a sugary bread, but it’s surprisingly flavorful. Little bit of cinnamon and nutmeg, Dean winks at you, like he’s fresh out of Top Chef. 

It’s hard to eat everything, but you manage to eat more than you thought you were capable of. Dean coaxes you to stuff more down somehow with his repeated plea, “One more bite?”

There are about five one more bites before you hit the back of the chair waving a white flag.

Dean even takes your plate for you once you relinquish it, and begins to clean up the kitchen, stuffing the last bits of your food into his own mouth. He nonchalantly stuffs the last bits of your food into his mouth as he shuffles toward the sink. A satisfied hum escapes him, earning you a quiet chuckle as you watch. After a moment—giving your stomach time to settle just enough—you follow him to help dry the dishes he’s washing.

“You know, you’re supposed to be resting,” he says, a slight scold in his tone as he eyes you in his peripheral view, reaching for the towel slung on his shoulder.

“I don’t think drying dishes is going to wear me out any.” You light-heartedly scoff at his caring insistence. “It’s the least I can do for you after all this.”

Dean shrugs indifferently, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “It was nothin’, really,” he adds, “I did this for the maintenance guy last week.”

“Oh,” you snort, a contained giggle escaping, “here I thought I was special.”

“You kidding? You are special. He didn’t get his service with a view.” Dean lazily brings his hand up the lengths of himself, gesturing to his bare torso. 

“Wow, I have my own Hooter’s guy.” You tease with sardonic proudness.

Dean turns his gaze to you with an unamused eyebrow raise, before going back to the dishes in his hand, shaking his head with a soft laughter. When the conversation quiets, you clear your throat. “I’m not trying to dine and dash, I promise—but, uh, when do you need me out of here?”

“Out of here?” Dean looks to you like you grew a second head, “I don’t need you out. Stay as long as you’d like.”

“I- Dean, I do have an apartment.” you protest with a small, grateful grin, “I appreciate the offer, but I somehow have to get back on track. And you probably have stuff to do…” 

“What ‘stuff’?” He gives you a challenging stare.

You open your mouth to answer, though nothing short of a couple of huffs are released as you shrug, “I don’t know, but this whole thing has probably derailed some kind of plans you had.”

Dean turns the sink faucet off, leaning against the extended counter of the sink with both hands, with a knowing look painted on his face, “You probably would’ve been the plans, you know?”

You bite your lip, turning your gaze downward at something apparently interesting on the mountain of now-clean dishes.

Dean inhales and faces you with his hip resting against the counter as he crosses his arms. You can’t help but notice the definition of his toned upper-body, as his resting hands unconsciously perk up his biceps from underneath.

“It’s Sunday,” he begins, his tone gentle but assertive, “The shop’s closed, there’s no class. You are my plans.”

He takes in your expression, reading you for anything underlying your concern for his schedule.

“Unless you’re itchin’ to go back? But, I wanna make sure someone’s there to take care of you.”

You shake your head and meet his apprehensive expression with a wave of dismissal, “I don’t need a babysitter. I’d just be in bed or doing homework.”

He points a chiding finger to you, “That’s exactly what I mean. That’s not resting. Homework spelled backwards is ‘stress’—and you can’t be stressed.”

Your gaze sharpens with a touch of amusement, essentially screaming, "oh, really?"

“Alright, so I didn’t make the Spelling Bee– sue me,” Dean says with a wry twist of his lips, though his intonation turns a bit more serious, “My point still stands. You should be taking it easy today. You don’t need to be doing anything right now. I don’t think this acute stress thing is somethin’ you can just walk off.”

You can’t help but roll your eyes at the reminder, “I can’t just get rid of my stress– it’s not the homework or anything, it’s just…situational.”

Dean’s head tilts slightly, eyes narrowing in genuine confusion, “What– what does that mean?”

And here you are, reaching for the pin and letting everything loose on your own accord.

A deep breath. “Nick, my ex…he’s been stalking me.”

Dean’s expression hardens at the familiar admission. “You told me he was trying to text you like a month ago. He’s still at it?”

“Not… not just online anymore,” you reply quietly, clearing your voice of that inevitably waver that’s bound to give yourself away, “There’s a car—a black Dodge Challenger—and it parks or waits near my classes and Silver & Flames, like it’s lying in wait. I got texts trying to get me to the student union alone, and it was there…”

“And that’s Nick’s car?” Dean asks, his tone woven with unyielding protectiveness.

You scoff, the idea seeming unbelievable.“When I was with him, he had this beat-up red Camry that looked like it had been around since the dinosaurs. But his license got suspended for a while– he couldn’t pay off a couple of tickets that had been on his record.” You shrug, feeling hopeless with the lack of solid information to back your assumptions, “He could’ve paid off the tickets by now, for all I know.”

Dean’s eyes narrow further. “Yeah, but if he couldn’t afford to pay off a ticket, how the hell would he have a Dodge Challenger? Those aren’t something you pick up at a mom-and-pop car shop—they’re expensive.”

You inhale, running a hand through your hair with your back against the counter with rampant memories and details making their way into your head, “When things ended between us, he was dealing. I don’t know how much he’s managed to rack up since then.”

“Drug dealing? Your ex was a dealer?” His brows furrow with a mixture of shock and concern.

You quirk a brow, his reaction not phasing you by much. It’s to be expected. Your arms now mirror Dean’s as they cross in front of your chest. “Last I remember, he was still selling.”

Dean tries to feel out what exactly that entails, “Like what—party drugs? Weed and Molly and shit like that?”

“And heroin, and DMT, and ketamine, and a lot of other stuff I don’t even know how to pronounce.” You rattle off like the darker days were just yesterday.

“Was he using too?” Dean presses.

“Yeah. Most of the time,” you admit softly.

“Even with you around?” 

“Yeah,” you confirm with a whisper.

His gaze sharpens. “So what was he like?” he asks gently, though there’s an evident edge in his voice, like he’s reigning in most of the incredulousness directed at this Nick character he’s learning about.

You glance down, trying to find the words– any words to make sense of the past, “When we first started dating, he had this front—I thought it was just Nick, his charm or whatever. But even after a couple of weeks, I start to see glimpses of the real Nick through the cracks. Warning signs, really. I thought he’d change– I hoped he’d change. Guess I just figured that if I could be my best self with him, maybe he’d be his best self too.”

Dean raises a knowing brow, “I’m takin’ it he wasn’t.”

“No,” your voice low and firm, enunciating for emphasis, “No, he was not.”

You continue, “He was manageable at first—relatively put together when he was going to class. And we did fight, but it wasn’t anything crazy then. He’d get distant, and I’d have to apologize even though it wasn’t my fault. Just typical couple bullshit. Then, at around the three-month mark, his roommate transferred colleges. And before I could fully settle in my apartment, he asked if I wanted to move in with him. Looking back, I realize how big of a fuck-up that was. Three months is nothing. I should’ve slapped myself for saying yes.”

“You get to make those kinds of mistakes,” Dean says, softening a bit. “You’re still young—it happens.”

“Yeah, well, this mistake cost me. It still costs me.”

Dean looks at you with an uneasy stare, almost unwanting to ask for you own sake, “What happened when you moved in?”

You notice your voice gets a little weaker, “It was fun and dandy for a little while. Once we were settled, we were like any other couple. Until that next spring semester. He started working a lot– taking extra shifts. He was flunking out of class, and eventually he just dropped out. I found out he started using and selling at his job—first to his friends, then friends of friends would stop by the apartment asking for him, until he had a list of buyers.”

“Wait—he would deal at the apartment?” His tone low and thunderous.

“Sometimes, yeah,” you reply, like it was nothing. “Other times, I’d be in class.” You scoff with your own disbelief this time, “I don’t know what he was thinking. He wasn’t exactly dumb…I just don’t think he cared about anything once he started using consistently.”

“Did he–” One concern in particular on the tip of Dean’s tongue before he backs away from it by a hair, “Was he dangerous?”

“I mean, he crashed my car–” You bitterly reply thinking back on that whole situation.

“Woah, woah, woah, hold on…” Dean stands up straighter, though he keeps one hand tightly braced against the counter still, “This was the guy that totaled your car? While you were in it? And never paid you back?”

Dean’s brain seems to jump ahead, the smoke leading him to the fire.

“He didn’t–” He has a hard time even asking, “He never did anything else, did he?”

Everything seems to still in your silence– in your own telling silence.

“Did he?”

And the dam is full. Little streams of water spill over, and there are cracks in the foundation, but you hold is together as the tears in your eyes form– but don’t yet fall.

“I want his name– full name.”

Alarm sounds ring in your head at his hauntingly calm statement paired with the wrath in his eyes as he walks over to his keys on the opposite end of the counter.

Your eyes widen with panic, following his movement as you’re glued to your spot on the floor, “Dean–”

He interjects, “No, really. What’s his last name? What’s his address? I mean, he’s got the balls to do all this stalking after all the havoc he’s caused. Maybe he needs a little taste–”

You almost fall into his chest, your hands splayed on his chest as you look to him with that raw anxiety that’s pummeled it’s way to the surface like the torrent of words fumbling from your lips, “Dean, I know you mean well, but it scares me—please, don’t.” Your voice trembles as you push through the strain in your throat.

Dean stops immediately, his eyes dramatically softening at your begging. Frustrated for you, he huffs, “He can’t do this to you, not when it’s clearly messing with your everyday life. We can go to the police, or…” You shake your head, your tone small and defeated, “I can’t, Dean.”

He doesn’t understand. “Why not?”

“Because I—I don’t have anything definite. I don’t even have a license plate number, and there’s been nothing direct. The texts don��t really say he’s gonna hurt me, so the cops can’t do anything.” Dean’s jaw sets. “Have you tried?”

You practically whine, pacing away from him now. “No, but–”

He cuts in, “Then I’ll go with you. Just tell them it’s been a month and that Nick or one of his friends keeps following you, and it’s already caused you to go to the hospital from the stress.” You bite your lip, finding the last bit of firmness in your voice. “If we don’t have concrete evidence, if it’s not 100 percent him, what are they supposed to do?”

Dean’s eyes narrow as he takes a step closer. “I don’t—” He hesitates, blowing out a loud breath of enraged despair, then continues matching your tone, “We can’t just sit around and do nothing. I can’t sit around knowing you’re too scared to even walk to work or class.”

There’s a beat of quiet.

Then words that are louder than which they are spoken.

“Can you file for domestic abuse?”

Your lip wobbles, and you can’t quite face him, “I– please…” Dean calmly steps over to you, almost like you're a cornered animal, and his hands move, almost instinctively, to cradle your face gently. “Did he ever hurt you? Can you give them a statement?” he presses with anguish, and you can hear the pain in his own question.

“I don’t have anything to show them. They only have my word,” you squeak, feeling the weight of your helplessness as a tear spills over your cheek.

“But your word is enough!” Dean protests as he lets you go. “They could keep it on record—in case someone else ever comes for–”

“I can’t!” 

You choke out a sob, shaking your head as memories of bruises and harsh words flash behind your eyes.

“We have to do something!” Dean’s heart is breaking for you, and you can tell–

But he can’t know the rest. Only the stakes.

“He threatened my life! I can’t go to the police without solid proof, or he’d hurt me—hurt everyone around me. Cas beat the hell out of him to get me out of that goddamn place after the car accident, and now Nick is one excuse away from going after Cas– I know it.”

Dean’s expression is melting in front of you at the agonizing truth. He breathes your name softly to himself, utterly helpless, as he rakes a hand through his hair before he grimaces looking away from you, “I’m not supposed to do this. I’m not supposed to stress you out right now, I–”

He stops, like he can’t even believe himself.

You stay rooted. “It’s okay.”

“No- No, it’s not.” Dean shakes his head before inching closer to you.

His troubled gaze, still filled with unspoken pain, remains fixed on the space behind you for a moment before he envelops you in his arms with a nudge so light it could’ve been the wind. You know he can feel the slight shiver that runs through you.

“Maybe—maybe we don’t have enough evidence yet, but we’ll get it. I can walk with you to class, to work; I’ll drive you if you let me, whatever it takes…” His voice is low, steady, determined.

“Dean,” you breathe into him, letting his warmth and concern seep into you like salve on a lasting burn, “one step at a time. We’ll figure it out.”

He sighs against your hair, head still resting on yours. “I know, I know,” he murmurs, his tone softening, and he scoffs bitterly. “I just hate the fact that my girlfriend can’t even walk out of her own apartment without feeling like she’s in danger.”

You freeze at his words and back up slightly to see his face– almost checking to see if he heard himself. Your eyes still rimmed red from earlier tears as you glance up at him but a ghost of a smile forms despite the pain. “Your ‘girlfriend’, hm?”

His mouth twitches, a chuckle breaking the heaviness for a split second. “Well… was hopin’ so. I figured we were there, just never really said it out loud.”

“’S nice,” you say, resting your head against his neck, the word trailing off into a quiet, tentative promise.

Dean huffs a laugh, half-mocking, half-relieved. “Yeah? Okay, then… it’s settled.” He presses his forehead against yours, his breath warm against your skin. “We’ll figure it out.”

Yeah, the word barely slips from your lips.

And you hope with everything left in you that he’s right.

a/n: short and painful 😀 im tired

taglist: @suckitands33 @globetrotter28 @supernotnatural2005 @star-yawnznn @muhahaha303

[hometoursandotherstuff]

What in the world is happening here? Beautiful, historic 1800 farmhouse in Perkiomenville, PA was restored by the current owner. Some interesting design choices were incorporated into this wonderful piece of history. It has 4bds, 2ba, 9.33 acres of land, and they're asking $795K. Take a look at what they've done.

Now, as anyone familiar with American History knows, the slide was an efficient replacement for stairs in early 1800 farmhouses. It was higher at the bottom so a stool could be placed underneath, next to a cow ready to be milked.

I appreciate that they left the floors and this wonderful fireplace. Why, though, do clean, straight walls look so out of place? What would look better? Maybe some texture?

Lovely. The big old pot over the fire.

They stood a vintage statue of St. Francis, the patron saint of animals, in the fireplace. Not exactly the place of honor one would expect.

The living room is very large and has a new fireplace. Lovely original stone peeks out of the drywall like wainscoting.

They put in a modern kitchen, although it looks like an island is missing. The pots are just dangling in the middle of the ceiling.

Family room. In order to sell any home, you must include at least one stylish griege room.

Plus a vintage/modern bath combo. Don't forget the gray walls.

I have no idea what's going on in here. It's a large bedroom with Buzz Lightyear running on air near the ceiling and some weird wiring for the chandelier.

In 1889, after the Eiffel Tower was built, it was every farm girl's dream to visit Paris. So prevalent was this, that the late actress/singer Judy Garland released the song "How You Gonna Keep 'Em Down on the Farm, After They've Seen Paree?" in 1919. Hence, this symbolic shower curtain.

The primary bedroom has fabric draped over the beams to create a romantic retreat, clearly inspired by the new dating show sensation, "The Farmer Wants a Wife" featuring hunky young farmers.

Some work was begun in this area.

Lots of wires, here.

The property is beautiful. Is that a little smokehouse?

Look at this wonderful barn that needs to be saved.

I don't know what's going on, but this property is a living museum and it looks like there's been some demo. Wait a minute, is that the top of a tower in the right corner?

Woah, talking about demo, everything here has been wiped out. The devastation.

It's a beautiful piece of property- the Perkiomen Creek runs alongside the 9.33 acre farm.

https://www.zillow.com/homedetails/10-Walnut-Ln-Perkiomenville-PA-18074/9946795_zpid/?

[ofstarsandvibranium]

since you’re taking requests can you do a roy x tartt!reader, like jamie is readers younger brother and is super protective even though he’s the younger one? maybe roy didn’t realize that reader was jamie’s sister since they’re so different, idk your writing is immaculate so i’m sure anything to come up with will be great <3

(thank you so much! hope you like this!)

"So...are you nervous?" you ask Roy as you and he walk up to Ola's, the place where you'll be having dinner as well as the place where Roy will be meeting your brother.

Roy scoffs, "Fuck no. But you seem to be," he says, smirking at you.

"Maybe a little," Roy cocks a brow at you and you switch it up, "Okay, yes, a lot. Can you blame me? I haven't introduced a boyfriend to my brother is ages! And he may be younger than me, but he's incredibly protective of me. So don't let him get to you if he becomes too much."

Roy scoffs again, "I think I'll be fine." He opens the door to Ola's, gesturing you to go first. When you do, you immediately rush over into the arms of a man. When Roy follows you, he stops. He knows that head of blonde walnut mist hair. The man pulls away and, "Oh fuck off!" Roy yells at none other than Jamie Tartt.

You immediately turn to your boyfriend, "Roy!"

Jamie's brows furrow and then his eyes widen, "Wait, no. You-He-You're dating grandad?!"

"Your brother's this twat?!"

"You guys know each other?!" you look at the men with an equal amount of disbelief.

Jamie shakes his head, "Hold on. How did you not know that we know each other?" he asks you in confusion.

"Roy said he coached football. He didn't tell me it was for Richmond!"

Jamie then turns to Roy, "And how did you not know that she's me sister?!"

"You don't look alike and you don't share the same last name!"

"Well, we're adopted sib-"

"And she always referred to you as Jam Jam!"

You get in-between the two men, "Alright, let's just calm down. Let's sit and order a round of drinks because we clearly need it."

Roy and Jamie nod, glaring at each other as they join you at the table.

After ordering some appetizers and sipping on your drinks, you clear your throat, "Alright. So there clearly needs to be some clarification here."

You gesture to yourself, "To explain myself, yes, Jamie, I only referred to you as Jam Jam when talking to Roy because I don't like name dropping you in case people want to get close to me just because we're family. And Roy never really disclosed specifics about his job. Also, you know I never really cared much about football because of him. Mummy would only just update me about if your team won or lost."

Jamie is leaning back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest and pouting like a child, "It's just fuckin' weird. You're dating grandad! He's me coach and trainer!"

"I didn't know that, Jamie," you emphasize, "Besides, I really like him," you reach over and rest your hand on Roy's, "Can't you be happy for me?"

"Fine," he mumbles and then sits up, "You're me sister and I love you, so I'll approve of," he waves his hand over you and Roy, "this."

"She wasn't asking for your permission, you twat," Roy rasps out.

"Whatever," Jamie shrugs, "But if you hurt her, I'll-"

"You'll what?" Roys asks, egging Jamie on, "She's her own person. A grown ass woman. She can handle herself. Besides," he laces his fingers through yours, "I don't plan on hurting her any time soon. I feel lucky to be the man she chose to date."

You look between your brother and boyfriend, giving a satisfied nod, "Great. Glad we've got that sorted out!"

[1d1195]

Time Extra I

Read Time here

This was one of the first stories I wrote when I came back from my hiatus a couple years ago. I thought about it every day for years when I was really not feeling my best and finally put it on paper. There are, what I think, some pretty intense trigger warnings on the other parts of the series--it's pretty different than my other happy fluffy writing. This is not going to be too sad though--there is a vague mention of the previous parts so read with caution but it won't be anything vivid. It's fluffy stuff based on this ask.

~2.6k words

I hope you like it :)

Everything was completely perfect. After so many years of feeling distraught and lost, Harry thought it was a miracle—no, that she was a miracle—that he could feel so happy, so complete.

Which was why it was terrifying to imagine that he could ruin it all.

Over the two years since they reunited, they didn’t talk much about the actual day once they moved past it. She would hear from her ex-fiancé’s family now and again. She would run into them at the store or something. Most were pretty kind to her overall, but she could feel the contempt in their voices. It didn’t bother her completely—it was just frustrating that she knew they would neverunderstand.

Harry still went to his regularly scheduled therapy appointment. She did as well. They both worked, they both lived together, everything was easy. They danced in the kitchen and watched Niall play his guitar at open mic nights.

Everything was completely perfect. After so many years of feeling distraught and lost, Harry thought it was a miracle—no, that she was a miracle—that he could feel so happy, so complete.

Which was why it was terrifying to imagine that he could ruin it all.

There was a plan. A big to do. He was going to have her family, his family, their friends all in the same place. He was going to tell her how much he loved her and that he never wanted to be away from her ever. The way time had separated them only to bring them back together had to mean something.

Harry was terrified.

Maybe it was just some sort of savior’s complex. She always said he saved her that day. He didn’t see how it was possible. There was no saving he did. He did the drowning, he ruined her day, he made her pass out, he made her scared and feel sick to her stomach.

Sometimes, when Harry was having a bad day, he would think about what her life would be like if he hadn’t called her. He imagined it would be very much the same as it was with him, but she would maybe have a baby to take care of by then. She would make dinner for her husband. There would be a pile of laundry to fold on the sofa and a new episode of her show playing on the TV. It would be normal.

But it was normal in their lives as well.

There were days they argued—nothing major, but the world didn’t end the way Harry thought it would. She slept soundly beside him and reached blindly for him if they separated at night. Her baking skills never ceased to amaze him. On days that he didn’t even realize he was struggling a little more than others, he arrived home to his favorite chocolate chip cookies (the ones that she put walnuts in because she knew Harry loved them) or those fudgy brownies that he could only eat one or he would get a stomachache. But they made him feel whole. Cared for.

She was there.

So of course, when he asked her to marry him it had to be perfect. It had to be special. It needed to be the most perfect moment of her life. The people who loved and adored her needed to be there and see how much Harry adored her. Very few people knew what happened that day. Most only knew that she found Harry again. They fell in love again—or as she liked to point out—they remembered they were in love.

Harry had stayed home unbeknownst to her. The final details of the plan needed to be taken care of and he was nothing if not thorough. As far as she knew, they were having a date night when she got home from work. Nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing that would set off some kind of alarm or spoil the surprise.

Harry was reading the speech he had on his phone—it had been memorized for over a year. He just needed to get the details in order. When she moved in, it felt so right. Part of him wished he had asked her right then.

You wanted red roses or pink ones? Niall texted.

Both.

Aren’t you a regular Casanova.

Proposing in front of everyone they knew seemed a little crazy now. Harry had left the restaurant after seeing the set-up, the little private table that would keep them out of sight of those waiting for her response. Now it was waiting. Waiting for her to get home, they would get ready, they would drive to the restaurant as boyfriend and girlfriend and hopefully return as an engaged couple.

Harry felt dizzy. If he messed up and it was less than perfect, less than what she deserved, he would lose his mind. She was his angel. Every single day. Each day he saw her and spoke to her. There was nothing, no one, more important than her. For a few moments he sat on the couch, his head tilted toward the ceiling, and he took those deep breaths that his therapist instructed him to take when he was feeling overwhelmed.

He thought about the first time he did them and she looked at him curiously when he turned his attention back to the show they were watching. “Are you alright?” She asked.

He felt embarrassed. “When m’feeling overwhelmed, m’therapist told me how t’breathe—”

She blinked. “Oh,” she interrupted. “Are you feeling overwhelmed about something I can help with?” She asked.

Of course she asked. The kindness that emanated from her was overwhelming in itself. “No, sometimes m’jus’ a little...” he shrugged.

She nodded understandingly. “I get that way too. Can you teach me?” She asked.

“Kitten,” he chuckled with a shake of his head. “M’sure y’know how t’do the deep breathing exercises.”

“Every doctor is different,” she shrugged. “Tell me,” she encouraged.

He knew she was trying to help bond with him over something she didn’t need to. Another way she could help take care of his addled brain. It was so sweet. He talked her through the steps, feeling awkward that he was explaining how to breathe to a professional that did this with her own patients every day.

“It’s supposed t’feel like a balloon is being inflated in your ribs,” he explained the metaphor his own doctor used with him.

“Oh, I like that,” she mumbled adding it to the back of her mind as she followed his instructions. “I’m sorry you’re feeling overwhelmed, baby,” she cooed softly, stroking his hair behind his ear. “Do you want tea or something?”

Harry smiled at the memory, eyes closed, face toward the ceiling. He heard the door open and in walked the angel. Her phone pressed to her ear, while she tilted her head to the side. Once she set her bag down, held the phone in her hand, she shook her head.

But when she made eye contact, she smiled at Harry, mouthing hi, and blowing a kiss with her free hand. Harry thought his heart would explode. “Mom, I just got home, and I’ve had a really long day,” she explained. “Can I call you tomorrow?” She asked. “Great. Love you too, bye.”

She put her phone on the counter and sighed deeply. “Every time I leave this apartment, I’m reminded why I never want to leave,” she grumbled.

Harry chuckled. “Everything okay with your mum?”

She nodded. “Fine, just going on and on about nonsense,” she rolled her eyes. “She’s meeting my sister for dinner and my sister did not offer to drive. It makes me immensely angry.”

“I see,” he frowned. “Where are they going?” He asked, wondering how much of the surprise her mum may have let slip.

“She didn’t say. I don’t care. It’s not like I can go drive her and pick her up myself,” she rubbed her forehead. “I’m sorry. I had a tough day with some tough patients and I’m letting it dip into our date night,” the frustration on her face disappeared at the word date and a smile replaced it. “I’m looking forward to dinner and especially dessert. They have lava cake,” she said knowingly.

Harry already knew that of course. He was sure to tell the hostess that she would want one. “I know, kitten,” he smiled. It pained him to say the next sentence, but he had to. It wasn’t fair to her frustrated. “Y’know... if you’re not feeling well, we could stay in and—”

“Absolutely not,” she shook her head fiercely. “I just need to change and touch up my makeup. I need a nice date night,” she leaned over the couch, kissed him squarely on the mouth and then headed toward the bedroom.

Harry smirked, feeling at ease for a moment and listening to the sound of her hum as she fixed herself up for the night. His heart started pounding as the minutes ticked by. In less than three hours he would have a fiancée.

Or so he hoped.

The thought of her saying no hadn’t really occurred to him. They lived together, they loved each other, it seemed like a natural step in the relationship.

Right?

Suddenly the thoughts of inadequacy rushed through him and stuck to every crevice of his brain. Every thought was plagued with the notion of shortcomings. He wasn’t good enough for her. There were all the thoughts of her being trapped with him for nothing but ruining her original wedding day.

Maybe she didn’t even want to be married again. Maybe reliving the memory of the first time she tried getting married was something she never wanted to experience again. The idea that he would bring it up and make her sad made him nauseous.

“What time is our reservation?” She called.

“Six,” he cleared his throat trying to push the emotion out of his voice and mind, but it was next to impossible.

They would leave in twenty minutes.

She would say yes. Save him embarrassment. Wait to talk with him in private. They wouldn’t get married. She would move out. There wouldn't be a them anymore. Harry would—

“Do you think they’ll have bread?” Her voice was closer, Harry could hear her heels on the floor of the apartment echoing closer to him. “Or should I have a snack?” Her fingers were fiddling with the earring on her left ear then she opened the fridge to look inside, scanning the contents of leftovers, and cheese bites that she kept for emergencies such as the current one. “Are you hungry at all?” Harry’s stomach hurt so much but it wasn’t from hunger. She didn’t look at him to ask the question, focusing on the snacks too much to notice that he had left the couch. “I’m honestly starving—”

“Will you marry me?”

The room seemed to freeze. The moment of time suspended for who knew how long. Slowly, she half-closed the fridge door to get a visual of her boyfriend in front of her. Her dress was unzipped—she intended for Harry to zip her up once she found a suitable snack. Only one earring was in her ear. The bobby pin she had pinched between her teeth muffled her voice just a bit.

Harry was on the floor. Knelt all but two feet away from her, a little velvet box held out to her in his shaky hands, making the sparkling diamond twinkle in the kitchen light. The bobby pin fell from her lips and sounded like a bookshelf had fallen on the floor in contrast to the quietness of the moment.

“Harry,” she whispered.

“I’m sorry,” he croaked, closing his eyes tightly to try and will the tears away. “I have this huge thing planned. All our friends and family are going t’be at the restaurant. It was supposed t’be a surprise because y’deserve everyone y’know and love t’be there but m’realizing y’might say no. Y’might—”

“Harry,” she repeated, her voice so gentle, but there was the sound of disapproval evident in just the tone of her voice.

“—not want t’get married. Not after last time. Maybe not t’me. M’sorry. I wanted it t’be perfect,” he whispered. “I had a whole speech planned ‘bout how much I love and adore you. How you’re m’favorite person on this earth and how I feel so completely safe and cared for and I want t’do that for you for the rest of our lives,” he paraphrased the monologue that he had memorized ages ago but suddenly couldn’t remember a word of it. “But you’ve had a long day and m’not going t’make it any easier asking in front of all of them if y’want t’say no. So, I have t’do it now. Will you marry me?” He repeated.

Her lips were parted just slightly. Her eyes shiny and beautiful. God, she never looked so beautiful. “Harry,” her voice was soft.

“If s’a no,” his voice cracked. “M’gonna say you’re sick. That I can’t in good conscience let y’go out when y’don’t feel well.”

“Harry Styles,” she whispered, a shake of her head. “Yes, isn’t an adequate enough word for what I want to say to you,” she promised.

His head snapped up again, he hadn’t realized he wasn’t looking at her while he rambled, terrified to see the rejection on her face. But that wasn’t rejection. Yes, he realized, wasn’t a word that meant rejection.

“You said yes,” he murmured.

“Did you honestly think I would say no?”

It was silent again. Like time suspended once more, he tried to remember if time was necessary to breathe. If there was something he was supposed to do or say. It took him that moment to realize he was memorizing every detail. Every skin cell on her pretty face, the way the air smelled, how the chill from the fridge was giving him goosebumps.

Without noticing it happened, he was standing. Harry’s face was in her neck, his arms around her waist and his nose inhaling her sweet scent. His eyes watered and he swallowed hard as he shook his head against her skin. “I love you,” he whispered.

“I love you, Harry,” she giggled, teary as well. Her arms around him just as tightly and she kissed the side of his head buried in her neck.

He wasn’t sure how long he stayed in her embrace, but she didn’t rush him. Eventually he pulled away from her. He grabbed the ring out of its cushion, dropping the little box to the floor beside her bobby pin, and slipped it on her fourth finger. She looked at it briefly. She had seen a diamond on that finger before but looking at this one now, the other one looked terrible in comparison. It wasn’t right.

This was right.

“I have t’take it back,” he whispered.

She smiled and nodded. “I know.”

“I’m sorry. I’ll never do it again.”

“Can’t believe you thought I would say no,” she giggled.

He rolled his eyes. “You are so perfect, kitten. M’so in love with you. If something isn’t perfect for you...” he shook his head. “You deserve perfect.”

“I hope you know,” she wiggled her ring finger in front of his eyes. “That means you,” she promised.

This relieved, happy expression crossed his face and he felt so overwhelmed with happiness that he thought he would cry. “How much time do we have before we need t'leave?” He murmured to himself looking at the stove clock.

“Forever,” she shook her head with a smile. Cupped his face and leaned in for his sweet, pink lips. “We have all the time in the world.”

--

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[cosmictap]

The Ghosts playing CO-OP Stardew Valley

A 100% canon list (says me and me alone)

Logan’s in the mines the day it opens and never leaves again (only to sleep), argues with the others about going to the festivals because that means a days gone by where he’s not in the mines (I haven’t tried to avoid the festivals but if it’s one that can’t be avoided he will only go to them on accident, because he forgot it was a festival day and tried to go to pierre’s or smth), hates fishing, doesn’t have the patience for it and gets too frustrated when it goes wrong. Often forgets to talk to people, but when he does, it’s mostly only with Abigail, who he romances on literally every save he has

Hesh is almost the complete opposite to Logan, *loves* the festivals, will happily go into the mines but does a lot of early game fishing for their money income + for the community centre, has watered half the plants before Logan actually comes out of his house. Romances Alex, likes the character arc he goes through w/ the male farmer

Ajax loves taking it slow, just a casual farming sim. This is until the skull caverns get unlocked, he *thrives* in them, doesn’t care much for fishing, will leave that to Hesh, rarely ever even goes to the beach unless he needs to to talk to someone (Elliot, Willy, Haley and Alex in the summer). I feel like he’d romance either Haley or Alex, Haley if playing with Hesh, and whoever he gets the hearts with sooner in his single player saves

Keegan takes it slowly the entire play through, his logic is that he’s so stressed in real life, his pixelated character deserves some rest, even if he can’t get it. Loves fishing, but he’s fucking *awful* at it, has never caught a single fish in SDV ever. Romances Sebastian because he’s emo… /j

Kick had a certain chaotic energy about him I feel would make early game a struggle to get through, but the second ginger island is unlocked he spends whole days there, and once the island farm is fixed, he sleeps there too, thrives off hunting for golden walnuts, will yell at someone if they try to cheat their way through it (either by looking up where they are or by using that parrot thing), rarely actually buys anything unless asked to. Dates multiple people, never marries though.

Merrick doesn’t play too often, he’s a busy man after all, but when they can find a clear day in his schedule? He loves the social aspect, will happily hunt around looking for every npc everyday, refuses to get the NPC map locations mod despite everyone telling him it make his days easier trying to find everyone. The change of seasons throws him off because peoples schedules change and he has to figure it out again.

I wrote this at 5:20 so please excuse any potential strange phrasing…

[beastinthebelfry]

Room 100: Saints and Sinners

Read/Follow Here

Stepping into room 100, Holly Albright isn’t entirely sure what she’ll find. Sure she filled out the forms, detailing her fantasy as extensively as possible, but as important as the location is to her fantasy, she had painted it in broad strokes, leaving enough open to interpretation to ensure that she wouldn’t know exactly what she was walking into.

She’s not at all disappointed as she steps through the door, leaving the dark, modern halls of Enchanting Temptations for the warm gothic tones of intricately carved Walnut and soft red velvet. She takes a deep breath as the door closes behind her, wood polish enveloping her senses in the tiny space. 

She takes a moment to truly appreciate where she is, to let it sink in that her fantasy is really going to come true. She runs her hands along the carved lineals,  detailed grape leaves and vines winding through the polished wood panels and ending with plump bunches of perfectly round grapes. Angels stare down from the sloped ceiling, arches framing painted murals of biblical scenes. 

She shudders at the intense gaze of the angels, their condescending judgment having the opposite effect on her now than in a real confessional. She hears a door close on the other side of the wall and her attention is drawn to the red velvet curtain hanging in the arched opening just above a similarly upholstered prayer kneeler. 

Holly steps up to it, smoothing the woolen skirt of her simple black dress as she lowers herself to her knees on the padded bar. She brings her hands up, palms together and thumbs crossed. 

“Whenever you are ready, little lamb.” The voice beyond the curtain is deep and reverent, a soothing balm to a sinner’s conscience. 

Holly knows this part by heart; has said it countless times since she was a little girl. “Bless me father for I have sinned. It has been… too long since my last confession.”  she pauses, a titter of excitement fluttering through her. 

“What ails you, little lamb?” the voice asks when she’s quiet a little too long. 

“I have… impure thoughts Father.” she replies. “Lustful thoughts. It consumes me. I can’t stop myself from imagining all the depraved things I want to do.” 

“I see.” he says, his tone taking on a sharper quality, like he’s resisting the urge to pass judgment on her. She feels a twinge between her legs at the thought. He clears his throat. “We are all human, children of God. To lust is natural.” Despite the words there’s an air of strain in his voice, as though he’s struggling to remain neutral, comforting.  

“I don’t think this is natural, Father?” Holly tells him. “I think there’s something really wrong with me.” 

She hears his thoughtful hum. “Perhaps you ought to tell me exactly what it is you fantasize about.”

Holly gasps at the thought of sharing such depravity with a man of the cloth, all the while clenching her thighs together in a desperate bid for friction. 

“Do not shy away from me, little lamb. You must be willing to lay bare your soul to the lord. I am merely his tool.” 

“I…well…” she hesitates, taking a deep breath. “I want to… suck cock all the time. Sometimes it’s all I can think about. There are days I’ll be at the grocery store and I imagine myself dropping to my knees in front of one of the stock boys and just pulling it out and shoving it down my throat.” she takes another deep breath, the exhale shaking as she tamps down the excitement. “I went on a date to the movies last week and we sat all the way in the back in the top row. There was hardly anyone in the theater so no one could see us and I just… I couldn’t focus on the movie. It was like something possessed me. I got down on the floor in front of him and sucked him off right there.” 

The long silence proceeding builds an exquisite tension that has Holly clenching her thighs together, even more desperate for relief. 

“What else?” 

“I’m sorry?” Holly asks. 

“What else?” The edge of his tone is razor sharp now, words clipped, cutting through her core. She fights back a moan as he no longer clings to neutrality. “Surely there is more you aren’t saying. What other depravities have you committed, Little Sinner.” 

“There’s a park, Father, near my apartment. A big park with lots of places where good people don’t go after dark. One of those places has an old cabin with holes in the walls between rooms, holes of all different sizes. I’ve used all of them but my favorite is the one big enough to fit my whole body through. I’ll go there in a little skirt and no panties and lean through the hole and just wait for someone to come along. It never takes long for someone to show up. Sometimes there’s more than one and they’ll fill me up from both ends, fucking me like our lives depend on it… oh Father, please, please help me.” she sobs. 

There’s a heavy sigh in response as she cries into her folded hands. “Enough of that.” he says abruptly, cutting off her tears. “You have come here for forgiveness and it is within my power to give it.” his voice still cuts, radiating cold authority. “But I do not believe you deserve it.” he continues and Holly gasps. “You come here seeking forgiveness, but I would bet the Sunday Collections that you will be right back to it when you leave here. People like you do not change, little sinner.” he sneers. 

“People like me?” 

“Whores.” he snaps. “Whores who think they can clean the slate and start over. Whores who go right back to their debauchery.”

“No! I want it, Father, please. I do want to change.” 

“Then you must seek penance through punishment. For without punishment, there is no penance that will right a sinner like you.” 

“Anything Father. I’ll do anything.” 

“I’m glad to hear that, little lamb.” The edge of his voice is gone now, her compliance soothing the tension. There’s a rustling of fabric before Holly jerks back in surprise, a cock thrusting through the velvet curtain. “We will rid you of your urges through exposure.” 

“B…but  Father, how-” 

A gloved hand pushes through the curtain as abruptly as his cock, leather creaking as he pinches either side of her chin between his fingers. “Do not question God’s demands of you.” he pulls her closer. “Now open your mouth.” 

She whimpers, doing as she’s told, letting him pull her closer until the tip of him rests against her lips. 

“Now, I know you know what to do next.” His voice is so low, gravel grating across every nerve ending in her body. It’s menacing in its timber. She rubs her thighs together, feeling the building slick, desperate for relief. 

She wraps her lips around the tip, circling her tongue around it and sucking gently. She hears the rush of air as he sighs beyond the curtain, his hand gently caressing the side of her face. “That’s a good girl, little Lamb. Very good. Just like that.” She hums, pleased with the praise and doubles her efforts, taking him in a bit more and sucking a little harder. He groans in response.  

She continues this way for a while, slowly working in him farther and farther into her mouth, sucking harder with each inch forward; tongue working faster. Eventually she grows restless and with a smooth motion forward she swallows him down to the root, earning a guttural grunt that sends shocks of pleasure to her core.

“Oh my,” he says, voice strained. “It would appear things are worse than I thought.” he tells her as his other hand slips through the curtain. “Look how easily you did that. I think more drastic measures are required.” with that he takes hold of her head in both hands, stopping her movements. Without warning he drives himself forward, gagging her before pulling back. He thrusts forward again, his movements swift and rough, a solid force of flesh against flesh as he drives his pelvis forward, his cock sliding down her throat.

Holly moans, her nails digging into the sill of the window. He pulls out long enough to let her breathe, but that’s it. It’s never enough to soothe the burn or fill her lungs, keeping her on a razor's edge. 

And then he stops, pulling free. “You're enjoying this.” his voice was accusatory, that hard edge back. “That’s unacceptable. This is supposed to be a punishment.” he released her head, disappearing through the curtain. 

“Father?” she calls when she hears a door open and close. He doesn’t answer and she sits for a moment longer before curiosity gets the better of her. Sliding the curtain aside, Holly sticks her head through the window finding the opposite side empty. It’s a near perfect twin of the one she’s in, the exception being a velvet padded chair instead of the kneeler.  

Holly startles when she hears the door open to her own booth and she pulls back looking over her shoulder to find an older man with thick dark hair standing in the doorway. He looks stern, face hard, his brown eyes nearly glaring at her. 

There’s not a lot of space in the booth, barely two steps between them. 

“Look at you.” he finally speaks, slamming the door behind him. She looks down at herself. She had worn a simple black woolen dress. Something that could be construed as either modest or enticing depending on one’s perspective. The hem stopped at mid thigh, forcing her to adjust it every time she sat down, stood up or bent over. In the act of leaning through the window, the hem had lifted higher than she expected, exposing her lack of underwear beneath her dark panty hoes. “How can you expect forgiveness when you have no shame?” he practically growls at her. 

He closes the distance in a single long stride, grabbing her wrist and pulling her to her feet. “You come into the house of God and defile his sacred covenants with your insincerity.” he yanks her forward, his other other arm a solid band around her waist. She feels his hands against the thin material of her panty hoes, moving downward around the curve of her ass to the apex of her thighs. She jolts as he presses two fingers against her, a solid pressure against her most intimate place. 

He heaves a breath, rage playing across his handsome face. “Filthy little sinner.” he grinds out through his clenched teeth. He presses up a little harder, forcing her onto her toes, a whimper escaping her. “Do you like that little sinner? Do you like to be defiled in the house of God? Do you feel him looking down on you, disappointed?” 

She moans, her core clenching. 

“Of course you do, you're just a whore. A filthy whore.” 

“Please Father.” she whines and without warning, he releases her wrist and brings his hand down against her ass with a solid thwack. “Oh!” 

“In the name of God I will cleanse you of your sinful urges.” he tells her, his voice low and dangerous. Wrapping his arms around her waist, he lifts her off her feet and turns her back to him. Stepping toward the curtained window, he forces her through, balancing her stomach along the sill, her lower half bared to him. 

Father!” she exclaims, struggling to find something to hold onto. Eventually she does, stabilizing herself in time to feel the first strike against her ass. “Oh fuck.” she gasps, earning herself two more in quick succession. “Oh please Father.” 

“What are you begging for, little sinner? Mercy or more?” 

He doesn’t give her a chance to respond, striking her again on one cheek, then again on the other. He alternates back and forth until she’s certain she can feel her slick down her thighs. She can feel her climax building with each strike, her core clenching around empty space, begging to be filled. 

Eventually he stops, a deep, shaking exhalation filling the silence. “It’s not enough.” she hears him mutter under his breath. “Lord, please give me the strength to return your lost lamb to the flock.” he prays. He then digs his fingers into the seam of her panty hoes along her pussy and pulls until they tear. 

There’s no warning as he drives two fingers into her. Holly screams, a sound that tapers off into moans as he pounds into her, stimulating her g-spot almost violently. The edge that had begun to fade comes racing up at full speed, a pressure in her abdomen that she knows all too well. She strains and flexes around his fingers until the pleasure becomes too much and she tips over the edge, a stream of squirt tearing from her pussy and undoubtedly soaking everything in it’s way. 

She’s shaking as she comes down from her high, her legs dangling useless on the other side of the wall. 

“Yes, that’s it. Let it out. Let go of the temptation and sin, Little Lamb.” 

“Is that it Father? Am I forgiven?” Holly asks softly. 

“Almost.” he replies, the sound of a zipper punctuating the statement. 

She feels him at her entrance, a thick, hardness sliding through the slick of her orgasm. The stretch as he pushes into her has her moaning. 

He doesn’t give her time to adjust, picking up a brutal pace that has her gripping at the wall on the other side. His fingers dig into her hips, keeping her in place, undoubtedly leaving bruises. Between his pace and the depravity, it doesn’t take her long to tip over the edge again, moaning and whining as he fucks her through it and into another. 

“Oh Father, Father, please. I can’t take anymore.” she cries. 

“You can and you will.” he tells her, his fingers finding her clit. The pressure sends her over again, her entire body convulsing with little tremors of pleasure even as her orgasm fades. 

Without warning, he pulls her from the window, turning her to face him and pushing her to her knees. The image he presents is everything she’s ever fantasized about. Face flushed but stern, he’s still completely clothed save for his cock sticking out of his zipper. 

“Open your mouth.” He orders her and she does, sitting obediently, hands on her thighs, tongue out ready to receive his communion. He jerks himself off for her, thick gobs of cum landing on her tongue, chin and lips. “Very good Little Lamb.” he replies, breath ragged. “The lord is pleased with you and has accepted your penance.” 

Holly hums delighted, licking her lips clean.

[maddie-grove]

2024 Rereading Roundup

These are the books I reread in 2024 (in order of publication date):

Pre-1960

A Little Princess by Frances Hodgson Burnett (1905): Little Sara Crewe causes a stir upon arriving at her fancy London boarding school, not just because of her vast wardrobe and many toys, but because of her rich imagination and accepting nature. When her fortunes reverse, though, her character is put to the test. This was a favorite "cozy" read in my childhood, and the elaborate descriptions of doll wardrobes and pastries, as well as the affecting moments of kindness among Sara and her friends, still do the trick. It is from 1905 and the classism/colonialism is still fraught, though.

On the Banks of Plum Creek by Laura Ingalls Wilder (1937): Young Laura Ingalls and her family live near Walnut Creek, Minnesota, first in a sod house and then in a wooden one, and experience more society than our slightly feral heroine is used to. I hadn't read this volume in a long time, and I'd forgotten how many highlights of the series are in this book: the introduction of Nellie Oleson, the town party and the country party, the apocalyptic locusts, the scary badger, and Pa almost getting lost in the blizzard.

Little Town on the Prairie by Laura Ingalls Wilder (1941): Laura and her family have settled in De Smet, South Dakota and survived the Long Winter, which means that Laura's ready for her greatest challenge yet...bitches at school. This was a semi-frequent reread when I was a kid (I preferred the later books in the series), but it wasn't as good on reacquaintance. Like, there's always some amount of libertarianism and Manifest Destiny going on, but the politics get really unsubtle here. Also, this is the one where there's a minstrel show.

1960s

Harriet the Spy by Louise Fitzhugh (1964): Harriet M. Welsch, an eleven-year-old aspiring writer living on the Upper East Side of New York City, spends her school days writing brutal appraisals of her classmates in her notebook and her afternoons spying on her eccentric neighbors. I reread this book (not a particular favorite of my childhood) around the same time I read a fantasy novel for adults published in the 2020s, and I was taken aback by how much more sophisticated and trusting of its audience's intelligence Harriet the Spy was. That may sound like damning with faint praise--the adult book was very bad--but I was delighted by how fully Fitzhugh enters into the world of these weird children and their complex classroom politics.

The Long Secret by Louise Fitzhugh (1965): In the summer after the events of Harriet the Spy, Harriet and her quiet friend Beth Ellen are hanging out because their families vacation in the same Long Island beach town. Two events disrupt this idyll: a series of mysterious notes containing pointed Bible verses delivered to various vacationers and townies, and the return of Beth Ellen's socialite mother. This book isn't as packed with greatness as Harriet the Spy, but it's got a lot of the same virtues.

My Darling, My Hamburger by Paul Zindel (1969): Headstrong, beautiful Liz and awkward, diffident Maggie are best friends at their (probably) Staten Island high school, at a time when the rigid sexual mores of the midcentury are clashing disastrously with the realities of the sexual revolution. I didn't enjoy this book much as entertainment--it's kind of clunky, in the way this era of YA can often be--but it's a fascinating window into a very specific period of time.

1970s

Nobody's Family Is Going to Change by Louise Fitzhugh (1974): Preteen Emma wants to be a lawyer; her younger brother Willie wants to be a dancer. Their father, a successful black lawyer who worked his way up from nothing, is unsupportive of both their ambitions; he has some legitimate concerns about Willie taking on a career that he associates with black stereotypes, but he also thinks dancing is gay, and when it comes to Emma he just thinks women shouldn't be lawyers. Their mother is, at best, a doormat. Emma goes looking for answers from an underground children's rights organization (that is run by children) but it has its own hangups. This novel reflects contemporary conflicts within various progressive social movements, and it's harder on the civil rights and youth movements than it is on women's and gay liberation. That's not surprising, given that Louise Fitzhugh was white and a lesbian, but the story feels lopsided as a result.

Blubber by Judy Blume (1974): Jill Brenner, a Pennsylvanian fifth-grader, joins in the bullying of chubby, immature Linda Fischer, partly out of deference to intimidating queen-bee Wendy and partly out of sheer boredom. This has been a controversial book for a long time, due to the intensity of the bullying and the fact that there's not ultimately a strong anti-bullying message. Personally, I think there's a lot to admire in the observation of classroom politics and the choice to make the heroine kind of a grody, incurious little follower. Where the book falls down is when it tries to draw a moral from Linda's and Jill's different responses to being bullied, even though their situations are totally different.

Bridge to Terabithia by Katherine Paterson (1977): Jesse Aarons, an abashedly artistic boy from a poor and perpetually stressed-out family, starts a life-changing friendship with Leslie Burke, the tomboyish new girl in school who's the child of relatively well-to-do hippies. As with Harriet the Spy, this book reminded me that sometimes the classics of children's literature are considered classics for a really good reason. I made the mistake of reading it on my lunch break at work and had to struggle not to cry at my desk.

1980s

Daphne's Book by Mary Downing Hahn (1983): Seventh-grader Jessica, already teetering on the brink of unpopularity now that her best friend's hanging out with the "cool" girls, is dismayed to be paired with class weirdo Daphne, who almost never talks and wears mismatched layers of clothes, for a creative writing project. She soon learns, though, that Daphne is talented and interesting and even kind of funny...and that her home life is more unstable than anything Jessica could have imagined. This is a very good entry in the "making friends with your weird classmate only to lose them to Social Services" subgenre of youth literature. I really like the part where Jessica and Daphne are planning their future in Boston, where they will have a really cool apartment and great careers and no husbands.

If This Is Love, I'll Take Spaghetti by Ellen Conford (1983): In this collection of slight short stories, teenage girls deal with problems such as "my parents think I talk on the phone too much," "my best friend is a bitch," "I have an intense crush on a mediocre pop star," and "I'm tempted not to starve myself to look like Cheryl Tiegs because my friends and family and boyfriend 'accept me for who I am.'" I've enjoyed other books by Conford, but the best of these stories have Comedic Monologues for Teens vibes, the middling ones are incredibly condescending towards their target audience, and the worst one is just a manual for how to frame an eating disorder as self-care.

The Dollhouse Murders by Betty Ren Wright (1983): Thirteen-year-old Amy, overwhelmed with inappropriate responsibilities for her intellectually disabled younger sister, runs away from home to stay with her Aunt Claire, who's moved from Chicago to prepare her grandparents' old house to be sold. This leads her to take on another dubious responsibility: solving a decades-old murder using a haunted dollhouse and addressing her middle-aged aunt's unresolved trauma. The spooky factor here is downplayed--it's more of a mystery than a horror story--and the family situation is handled with more nuanced than I would have expected.

Invisible Lissa by Natalie Honeycutt (1985): Fifth-grader Lissa finds herself the object of a bullying campaign by perky new girl Deborah, who starts with snotty comments about her busted shoes and escalates to diorama destruction. This is a cute, fairly lowkey story about classroom politics, just as I recalled. However, I forgot that Deborah at one point physically shoves Lissa's five-year-old brother and calls him the r-word because he has a speech impediment. Girl! I thought you were just doing passive-aggressive shit against someone your own age!

Double Trouble by Barthe DeClements (1987): Twins Faith and Phillip are separated after the deaths of their parents and adult sister in a car accident, with Faith going to a stingy and irritable aunt in the country and Phillip going to sketchy foster parents in Seattle. Other dangers--a sinister history teacher, a creepy cult, a violent bully, a mysterious museum thief--emerge, but at least Faith and Phillip have psychic powers! This book is an old favorite of mine; this time around, I found it interesting and a little troubling to consider in the context of the Satanic Panic.

No Place for Me by Barthe DeClements (1987): After her mom goes to rehab for alcoholism and her stepdad bails, seventh-grader Copper is sent to live with one aunt and then another, finally landing at the home of the "witchy" aunt whom her mother fears and dislikes. I've said it before, but DeClements has such a sharp sense of all the small miseries and insecurities of childhood. It's obviously upsetting for Copper that her mother has to be hospitalized for substance abuse issues, but almost every adult in her life makes the situation worse by being unkind or negligent in more-or-less socially acceptable ways. It is funny that this is a companion novel to Double Trouble, when the only paranormal element is that Copper's "witchy" aunt (spoiler alert: she's a kind and reasonable woman who's just into some New Age stuff) teaches her about lucid dreaming.

Five Finger Discount by Barthe DeClements (1989): Fifth-grader Jerry Johnson doesn't want anyone to find out that his dad's in prison for stealing auto parts and selling hot cars, although he's not personally averse to stealing if he needs materials for a treehouse or a Christmas present for his mom. A friendship with Grace, a preacher's daughter who also feels burdened by being identified with her parents, and a tense situation with a blackmailing fourth-grader force him to rethink things. This isn't my favorite DeClements, but I like how it explores why stealing is wrong without resorting to purely legalistic arguments or outlandish scenarios.

1990s

Monkey See, Monkey Do by Barthe DeClements (1990): In the sequel to Five Finger Discount, Jerry's dad is out of prison and back at home, but Jerry is increasingly anxious (not without reason) that he'll go back to his old ways. This is an improvement on the first book, partly because Jerry's dad is so well-drawn. He's exceedingly likable and warm and affectionate, but he chronically bails on commitments and picks fights with bosses and takes risks that make his wife and son miserable, and the fallout is genuinely heartbreaking.

Others See Us by William Sleator (1993): Sixteen-year-old Jared is looking forward to the annual family reunion because he'll get to see his hot cousin Annalise and show her that he's buff now. His plans for a Hot Cousin Summer, though, are derailed when he falls into a swamp and develops mind-reading abilities. I mean, they're not derailed derailed. Romantic relationships between first cousins are still very much in play. There's just psychic stuff going on as well. Strangely un-self-conscious cousin-yearning aside, this novel has some interesting ideas but has a stupid and sadistic ending.

Catherine, Called Birdy by Karen Cushman (1994): It's 1290 and Catherine, the headstrong thirteen-year-old daughter of a minor nobleman, is chafing at the extensive mundane duties of her station and the expectation that she marry whatever chode manages to make a good deal with her oafish father. She keeps a diary and records various medieval misadventures. Cushman balances making the past real to her young readers by making her heroine the medieval equivalent of a teen who just wants to go to the mall and emphasizing how different the past was, and she's mostly successful.

About a Boy by Nick Hornby (1998): Surprise! It's not YA! Instead, it's 1993, and bored, independently wealthy Londoner Will finds himself entangled in the troubles of Marcus, a thirteen-year-old who's unhappy at school (because of bullying) and home (because his mother is suicidally depressed). I saw the movie when I was twelve or so and read the book a couple years later, and it's a pretty faithful adaptation until you get to the climax. The book's climax is very dependent on taking place on a specific day in 1994, but, more significantly, it depicts Marcus as a more dynamic, active character, so I prefer the book slightly.

Election by Tom Perrotta (1998): Ambitious high-school senior Tracy Flick is running for school president, and she's unopposed until history teacher Jim McAllister encourages affable jock Paul Metzler to run against her. He says it's the spirit of democracy, but actually his problem is with Tracy. What's that about? The film adaptation is among my favorite movies, so I was pretty impressed that the book had plenty to offer on its own terms. I think it makes sense that the movie is broader and has a more heightened ending, but I enjoyed the more naturalistic minor characters and softer, more ambiguous ending in the book.

2000s

How to Be Good by Nick Hornby (2001): Katie Carr, a burnt-out London doctor with two young kids and a unrelentingly caustic husband, is on the verge of seriously considering a divorce when said husband undergoes an epiphany at the hands of a faith healer called DJ GoodNews. He wants to be a kinder person who helps others, but it's unclear what that means or whether it will have any positive impact on their marriage. This was my favorite Hornby on first read, but I wasn't sure if it would age well. Time is often harder on comedy and (on a more subjective note) time has only made me more sympathetic to Katie, who becomes impatient when her husband's do-gooding efforts put burdens on her and/or the kids. It worked just as well for me as it did in the past, though; I was often laughing out loud, and I felt like Katie was given her due.

Sammy Keyes and the Hollywood Mummy by Wendelin Van Draanen (2001): Sammy Keyes, middle-school amateur detective, hops a bus to Hollywood with her best friend Marissa to yell at her mom, an aspiring actress. (They have a complicated relationship.) When she gets to the "women's hotel" where her mother is staying, though, it's clear that something weird is afoot even before her mom's housemate is murdered. This was actually the first Sammy Keyes book I read back in the day, and it's a hell of an entry point. The mystery is tight, clever, and intriguingly bizarre.

Black-Eyed Suzie by Susan Shaw (2002): Twelve-year-old Suzie is committed to a psychiatric hospital after she stops talking, eating, sleeping, and making practically any voluntary movements. She envisions herself as being trapped in a box that forces her to remain totally quiet and still. I don't know about the science, but it's impressive how Shaw can write such a dynamic story with a heroine who has such a limited range of action. The style is very simple, which honestly would probably make it a good hi-lo choice.

A Spot of Bother by Mark Haddon (2006): An English family--repressed retiree George, his unfaithful wife Jean, their gay son Jamie, their headstrong daughter Katie, her toddler Jacob, and her luggish husband-to-be Ray--is thrown into chaos when Katie and Ray decide to marry and (unbeknownst to everyone) George has become irrationally convinced that the eczema on his hip is actually a malignant. This is a fun read with lots of good comic setpieces, but I wish it'd been just. Like. Twenty-percent more substantial.

[lindsaywesker]

Good morning!  I hope you slept well and feel rested?  Currently sitting at my desk, in my study, attired only in Blue Towelling Robe No. 3, enjoying my first cuppa of the day.

Welcome to the working week although, for those of you working in the NHS, welcome to just another day.

Friday night was quite chilled.  We ate Chinese food and I worked on the show.

Early Saturday morning, I got a text asking me to cover Jigs’ show.  Luckily, I had an extra show prepared, so I did 1.00 – 5.00.

Many thanks to everyone that listened to The Letter C (Pt. 3) with our executive producer, the knowledgeable Sue D’Silva.  Sue brought with her homemade date and walnut cake (which was very moist!)  If you missed the show, it’s up on MixCloud.  This coming Saturday, The Letter C (Pt. 4).  Executive Producer: Cazza McKoy.

Even though my team played like a bunch of amateurs, I was in good spirits because I love doing live radio.  Thank you for all your kind words and encouragement during the show.

I had Saturday plans but they got cancelled, so The Trouble and I were able to work.  I did some writing, while she did tax returns.  Once the work was done, we watched the 1990 film ‘Mo’ Better Blues’.  Damn, 35 years old!

I got some really good sleep on Saturday and woke up after 9.00 on Sunday feeling refreshed.  It was cold outside but I still went out in my shorts.  (I hate trousers!)  Sainsbury’s was pretty busy.  It almost felt like people had come out of their Christmas hibernation.  

About 3.00 pm, my first grandson Jerome Jr. (JJ) arrived.  He just turned 22 and he’s very tall (like his dad).  I don’t see him very often but it was lovely to have him and The Mighty Josiah in the same house.  Can’t believe I forgot to take a selfie with the boys! 

Under the threat of a TikTok ban, millions of Americans migrated to Rednote last month and, now that Americans can see how cool China is, the president will turn it into a PR stunt by re-opening TikTok, thus looking like the good guy!

It will be warmer today than yesterday.  It will hit 10 degrees on Friday (heatwave) and there will actually be sun next Saturday.  Bring it on!

Have a marvellous and momentous Monday.  I love you all.

[angellayercake]

I am curious about eating and then eating

Very curious 👀

Well Oakie!! You, @da-rulah and @adevilyoudo all have unlocked a sneaky peak of Banchetto!!! (although I think two of you may have already seen this 🙃)

This is not from the next chapter Insalata but from Fromagi e Frutta where Terzo and his little chef go on an actual date 💜

NSFW teaser under the read more

'No no you want to pair this one with the fig chutney and the cracker...' you trail off as he pops the cheese and grape into his mouth, his expression souring as he chews. So far he has decided to ignore all the suggestions he had been given, both from you and the ones so enthusiasticly given by the man running the stall. He drops back in his chair with a pout. 

'This is not a good substitute for your cooking cara,' he huffs crossing his arms and furrowing his brow. You have to press your lips together to stifle your laugh unable to help being flattered, but his lack of enjoyment thus far was entirely his own doing. Reaching over the board you carefully chose a slice of bread, smear it with cranberry conserve then a generous slice of brie. His eyes follow you as you finish it with a drizzle of fresh honey. You offer it too him but he doesn't even attempt to take it from you instead leaning down with a smirk taking a large bite directly from your hand. 

'Mmmm,' he lets out that delicious rumbling moan that can feel as much as hear. 'You see this is why I keep you around no? I would never know to do this.'

'You would if you just listened,' he shakes his head as he takes the rest of the bite deliberately sucking the remaining traces of stickiness and crumbs from you fingers. 

'More? Prego?' A man of his age should not be able to twist you around his little finger the way he does, but you are unable to resist the coy pleased look he gives you through his eyelashes. You want to say no and make him feed himself but your will power is in short supply around him at the best of times and he is well aware of that fact. 

'Fine,' you give in with a roll of your eyes which is more for show then put of genuine annoyance but he knows how easily he has won given the shiteating grin that spreads across his face. He props his elbows on the table and his chin in his hands as he waits for you.

'I'm ready for the next bite cuocoina,' he says giving you a sweet but insistant smile so you waste no more time selecting the next option. To contrast completely with the mild and creamy brie you chose a blue cheese, carefully piling it on a cracker with a slice of pear and a walnut. As you bring it closer he opens his mouth waiting for you to feed him.

'Really?' Yet again you find yourself making a token protest as you discover that you may enjoy feeding him as much as you enjoyed cooking for him. He didn't need to know that yet though. 

'It tastes better coming from your fair hands, cara. What can I say?' And so it continues until he has eaten his fill. You work your way through the variety of cheeses, offering him seconds of his favourites or changing flavour combinations where he wasn't so keen, all the while contending with him nipping and sucking and licking at your fingers at every given opportunity. Even though you had begun to build up a tolerance to his teasing and flirting, at least compared to the earlier part of your time with him you were beginning to reach your limits and with every tease felt closer and closer to just begging him to give you something. Almost as if he could tell you were at your breaking point he stopped you with a warm hand coming to rest on your thigh. 

‘May I have my desert now cuocoina?’ he asks fingers already sliding your skirt up your thighs until he can clearly see your underwear and the wet patch there is little point trying to hide. ‘Ah so you do enjoy hand feeding your Papa then.’ He spreads your legs and drops down to his knees so he is eye level with your cunt. ‘After all that fuss.’ He grazes his teeth over your clit, the material of your underwear protecting you but the threat still makes your thighs shake. When he does bite down it’s only on the hem of your underwear as he pulls them off you leaving you entirely bare to him for the first time.  

He just looks at first taking in the mess he has already made of you but in a split second his tongue is every where yet never stopping for long in any of the places you wanted him, needed him. Around and around and over your folds, the most gentle and frustrating suction as he makes little sounds of enjoyment that seem to vibrate through you. But his teasing as you fed him, his sucking and nipping at your fingers had already got you wanting so much more. Giving in you lace your fingers through his hair to guide him to exactly where you want his attention most. But he resists all your attempts, making the frustration inside you build and build. You try another tactic grinding your hips against his face but he pulls away as he presses your hips down onto the chair stopping any further movements from you and forcing a whine from deep in your chest. 

‘Cuocoina, please. I am just trying to properly enjoy my meal.’ He pauses to lick a long stripe, tongue flat and broad to give you as much friction as possible. You can’t breathe, not for a moment the sudden rush of pleasure the only thing your mind can comprehend but as soon as it starts it ends the only thing you can feel are the puffs of his warm breath. 

‘But perhaps you would prefer to feed me this too?’ He positions himself that he is are hair's breadth away from you before his vice like grip on your hips loosens. ‘Move’ he growls and you have to obey.