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libidomechanica · 10 months ago

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Untitled Composition # 11111

A ballad sequence

Sick, am I sick of a name? To make all mortality. Tale; the ridge, we simple layes, then rising billows answer,

nor our Eccho ring. When my love, and sail; but for friends: or her, who level, when like a chucklings changed your eye I

have often loose halo would scarce be shod ill, that thou fayre loue doth dight. For through throbbing veins, and remove; the morning

in child. And with flowers I’ve read loved you. Look at it pricking at the beauty were so white. Doe ye to her dearer

to me through pores of staining, and consorts of which present weighed. Outside that the Bashaw must make a pretty fingers

made war. What virtue he accused I doubt to a lord, whose cristal springs; but little we had got: to feel, fair creature,

torture all, and look for women foolish old maid of their emulation. Her not at all. You must not beare

cherefull hearts as light and true plain. ’ All my gentle pleasures the prime, and became a colour and did yielded, without

baptism, a thin shell them that richest minds agreeable; and left his house and up and straight as possible, all

eyes upon the same, give me pleasure to meet him into repented and turn to, lightly turns aside, and the

lintwhites and bedeviled breath, from this, and critic but because she love. Or have I slept in your report, that, mermaid’s

yellow! They journey’d fifty miles, and all its reason I’m sitting thou so right, that the cool and chasten’d domestic

cares—no process promise, at some highly places, to peinct thir girlonds with me or To ease me in his stead.

Rush back upon the fooles, or Tyrant said? For much mescal. Until you not in me claim kin; others shoot; for thou Desirest I would bring that sin against you without words

shall be true to thy head. Fade far away, anxious pair, a guardian green, and truly boring, unvaried as thou didst come? We mighty race, incensed with a stealth. Honey cool

and chide my honesty again, but forms that to her loof her place. For note, she don’t be planned, your taste of its fall: an universe have heard a shot—’t was on the endless oath?

The convenient; for thee are allows what is it that cries— let it should discloses, bound forth of which, when thou art thou be his price; o’er which crown and spin, which nobody knows here

is London Town! Before I love you as she’d been o’er men. My loue to gi’en thee graces still fastened, youth sublime attends. To dote upon her, and by mistake my wit for such

hopes not the man was morning downe, so semest thou that long dallying with the hazel bowers were their eyes than both in the crimson leaves in my mouth to unrespect of the same.

Or new Love’s austere and he may detain, but was a fairy tales of discover the captive nymph we view, all how

unlike earrings the heard a shot— ’t was open’d on the damn’d would make no stays, had it any been bred; her starry

eyes, disdainful eyes of proud palace led, began to shrowde the shepherds’ cells. Bene the sword; how all the last; and yet

I like tanners; yet as these lovers parleyed by thine that the same mildly rebuked his arms and kissed my hair, as Greece

or Ilium any good? Until you no one ever dear cheek is cold, they have given to her neck hung chain, as thou

shalt thou like I know; no one means mercurial. Another more religion, some old house where kingly Neptune felt.

Knew he was on the favorite of further chastities sweet vicissitude appeared understand me never had a

dove’s pinions to a goodly ornament of beechen great princely name should know the immortal body downward went,

which make away into Don Juan now was bounded ear; she, who loue, who could rise and oil besmear’d. At my feet, as one

ashamed, where dewdrops blowing; the scent, and there; and love the best barouche, which mine do overflow this word to say. Thy

King durst noticed me, if I should return; whose minds from small, and see the others’ proper way which form the main—why should

in sound concomitant with great outdoors where; but thing to a hand thine happiness,—at least I’ll tell no more despise

the loves me; yet not through a straw to such a one do I remonstrate: folly wide that metaphysics and edicts

out from tigresses its round, like clear as the court was beauty from the queen o’ womankind, as for her bonie lass gang.

Fool, again the game that some night? But go, and debauchee who like some photos here who once each error find. At least some

dull opiate of the devils who never down: holy and sweeps away they opened wide, and now almost. Saw the

heard no Christian fair as even more than a wave is wet more frequent that wanted to this be death? And Secresy

the host of all appeal unto island unto the fyre, vnto such place! Hundred little tired, your souls up in leaves

and after being dumb; for I dipt into my room where popping some by features! They spoke not: Wake! And what he is

no number of artists dying the lands which yielding eyes of monster, yet smell as she, and shut of everything toward

the quarter than the same to those that slight startle from this, and t is in New York, readiness, to the matter, in

the vanquish’d by black, nor wind would find out why should date the lake lies our close as the equinox, that seemes a vapour

from an olden tone. Earth, I like two incubi, they some small ado enclosed in Stygian empery. With

beaded bubbles winking myself, so languish twixt your gracefully; the open stoop to have commonest and fause that

seemed to crowd love was new and open Hand. The quiet in the care-burdened honey-fly around them, pried lovers know.

Nor Liberal, whose workman that euen to those who will this childishness! And for the discomposed that in which alters

now, if but to try to take this time again, this first throb, Eliza, I must come ye fayre, to honors seate have vowed.

For naked Armes stretch vnto that opiate of these greedily assayed to touch force to one small feel them to stock the

Town. And red for evermore; but every part of flowers are breath the sad heard not they say love were wanting, and dive

into the vast uplandish country pleasing heap of pain. Like a strongest fitter thou Desire. About the year.

And as you make their eccho ring. From the transfigur’d with a glass of Albany. Many a night to visit Hero this golden harp began to sound life like a mummy, and were all along those stern age counted nice. Of the deep,

soulful stillness; in the ceremony ended. For through a low thicker than to win less never yet to rue my smart, and kneeling away my doubt, let not thy soul like Arno in the elder and shake, as witness of pow’r, by warmth

to spil. Her face wad fyle the Lord in the reformadoes, ’ whom Fame commend; and then, for some vile tongue: on both are much there we are not of your guided steps but once, a tremor breaking them answer and for their own whims and looking

with thy flowing a little I thought vndertake. Although no doubt not the water, and your mind a stopless knife, driven by a cry, The Sultan’s bride: in truth, which, heart, my lassie o’ my heart, turn again for ever in a palace led,

began to blub like a stroke to serve, that I shall stand upon the circulating men to burst thy mother. Lost in the forlorn, void of God and greefe adawed, that on Passion’s rise; and then I wake to the eyes beguiled. Sundays too

much quickness every strove, made him little moderate Hotspur on the food he eats, and a poet’s debt; and whatever a moon has always so polite as to amerce my sight. In perfect wealth amaze; they answered, No. A chain the

end of time the empress was also the powers which maxim when that is concealed betrays, her very selfish uncle’s ward. To nought mistake made then there; thus far for the roof. And, it might reach the force of attract; plain—simple—short, and

luck’s all. The heart’s disgrace, her cheeks assume its veterans reward for fear of night, deep drenched in the beames of vict’ry in your tongue, to helpe to harp on such as one place taken be, that the world laid your mouths of great states such tyranny.

When neither side; they came upon her sense, good accommodation in this my arms, faded the road. The victory, bring home to see him the deep-delved earth, as first or last of the glory crown’d, thought, his dewelap as lythe, as lasse of your

Coranall. Yourself for rough faces rest; would be. How have I slept in shepheards daughter. Cruelty has a lump upon her, maidenhead. I haven’t heard me sigh this still on Menie doat, and there rain’d and trembled. This typewriter like sweet

pleasure to meet their little Leila gazed, and white; the regions full star that acquiescence vain: the Future I had they bene so well to feverish pulse betoken a condition. Wealth had done wonder’d why such like superstition

as if it were nothing whets the place taken by the low world been moved to such musickes loue through Poland there— the leg muscles from each side, perfections here and the instead of course begin we wish to war’s alarms; but there be,

which with its harvest of friendless ocean’s roar: but she, whose lovers had to mumble through faces as this sin there took than Dis, on he slipp’d a paradox which portions of the Emperour, she was of course to feed him with five slugs; and

though the basest clouds, and the world, each burst thy anxious parents’ simple reed, Blythe in thy spirits rush’d together by pulleys like that which I should I ad more moderately fickle Nelly Gray! Yet on plain the wall are blown vp with

she yielded joy or mirth, since him dwelt there on thee fade away into Don Juan grew expanse and it’s much bliss, and leader, sometime hath every morning Eld now I have nor hope nor heate, encreasing smart, eternal. To Venus, play no

more than a catbird hates and rind of that acquiescence vain: the Future I may presume, tis true, and taking leaves whose on aught of Albany. Of waste, and griding through Manheim, Bonn, whose servile tongue bewitch’d up in a lasting, and

then although I were cold, thy prison to prevent my Love from the August Celestial noise the last; a dazzling mass of Time, and close to tax me with me had it bene, with both lopp and to the shape of being changes the shade: she

then green, and the women pardon to my foot did so dead and bear to your life we loved, and bugle till then occurr’d to your own childbirth, wise-valiant, who shall swing. But she. Love is less a victim to the earth, and thy fire; i’me weary.

Cursed be that, which he willow banks the blue-bell and wat’ry star when yawning dragons draw his word to give him quickly her form made heaven was granting? Ready now to lecture. When the rustling light as ioying in thee, looking in childbirth,

with resolution in the Past! Like the mob a cordial green the blast—quick gather forth my teares, some in much ioy, many a flake, and the ball in a penalty kick. And thereon Leander, though a gardens green, and water flicker’d

with their hate to her way withers, Claudel vilifying Gide, and without this day I’ll prattle like Roland’s horn in Roncesvalles’ battle. They answer above their right of flood. Assigned to do with eternally bind thoughts hardly

blazon forth to God’s infliction, nor any sage’s creed or calculated on the rack and perfumed, they to where was sought the jet, while I conceals. Thine eyes become new soil to sow for you in my rose-wet cave—whatever dies! And

then her selfe, to shewe no other wept, but promises be to one dream, the fallow air? Provide and staggers into a rock and a tone of one-too- many and the smiled and worse off they would it stir on the poor, and thought, his pleasant

smilingly exclaim’d! And swore thee, my county town, her whom succeeds it; by the quivering slaves in wonder, being had, being told it was to loue! ’ Eyes first net which they could exprest, there sits me fast, howeuer I did see. They saw at

Canterbury! But always meant to gravelly sand that his endlesse hood. Ten, or five, or make false treason armed, o eyes, and we dead? Be. But still on Menie doat, and brought up in a little grim, which came close through, the seventeen. And every

moving tomb. Beauty of her place: but I will direct your selues; for her! For the Storke be heard me sigh to pluck my heart is humming a tomb. One difficulty still he liue tyll the lusty leave you all, desiring you as

Ra knew to be alone can leade you right poring over Locksley Hall, I am become a moral model. Her fifth, to stab herself dreaming, I too cold, the faith first sweet odours, mirrhe, gum, aloes, frankincense me, and you and I

did, till he crept from her chastity in the woods will be. And whyles the Fates were of any form at all. Gaze at his enemie. Juan admire: we, who ne’er was he them fit for some photos here who on Love’s anger that make an English

accents of this door, he needs must follow him be shown. On our Pagan friend! And now bore him stared these highway near and fear: love allow; even Petrarch’s seat, might lamented and as she is her with awful might have not look like Mars and

the palace, felt the sex, as children die for lack of bread. As they broke and slices of quince, which limpin leg a handsomely in this little thinks at me all the blueblack cold, ungrateful, that hidden influence to guide-books, you harm.

It made in life, enlisted in the liberal and praise the stake, Centuries ago-a sword of an averted half your life was dour and gold-bubbling fountain-bars: and, heavenly alchemy—Witch, you counsel, felon by a spark. Just

now, and kings be crown’d but to kill, kill, kill, ’ like Lear’s, and in its lone way to it, give ourselves nor other had made an end to circumcision. Defend the rustling birds do chaunt the process of them grows passing hour, that men thing else would

heape with ever know in its taut stem. Voltaire says margarita she meant to give me if it be not there be, as the cottage upon occasion. And there reclined quite in a trice: but all honours, which proudly thrust its Salt, and plenty

of monsters, which bred the effect with his bills in, and the distance strike on a wood a Piggy-wig stood like tyrant o’er it as a child, I thought to say, and deem’d her brest like superstition and my interest foes—conversational

turn. And none admirer take, thearth shronke vnder that’s it, a little thought themselves pain, when the wild bee’s song she lay the sunshine as before thicket of thy dainty food; if eagle in the Euxine. The cause, in public strife. A sea

the particular condition, if I were neglected. Prove to complaints aside his capering Triton sounds of gifts should kiss and hang that music: Do I wake to the air like to love is stand upon the ground her; to fulfillment.

Clothed with apples, and beauty purely loving, not to be therefore, Leander, being the laverock to the rose.

Strike the simmer sun, blest wi’ content, and o’re, our old army blanket. Met in the neck of you,—and if I grow

jealousy, down! Has quite, as not an inferior, as think if we’re lost, you strew the head, while giue to meet him speakes and

blessed you out. Measured motion’d to Barbadoes, even a Dandy’s dandiest chatted, a man loved you. On the show’d a

fever, both tormenting Hermes courted for one. A kind of angels, palms, and passion burns; and silver current of

being possesseth her they are soone her beauty: perhaps he had been a lawn’s cast around thy fire; or said his son

to save thou, my rose; in it recite by name, and oftentimes it may do too soft a last embrace where all the wood

gods love the roof-tree fall. Her very smile that suffers not you, yet let the Firmament. A moment while praise in law.

Myself am shent when into that the Bashaw must make earthly things that are the dream allowed Cupid’s day. Tasting ended, that he craved, and opens four time of one-too-many and the smiles at last for my present state; and Juan bend,

that he might start with crowned, about her neare, and wake, after than from behind the dead, and laid low his holy; doe ye still he slept: but yesterday and Night, shewes a prehistories of Cantemir, or Knolles, which bit of reach, and

mine eyes lyke as when the enormous down with all to me to sleepe the day was warm, he’d signal converted eye, or dress’d a single good, while thou’t love, all lady bug with the caique was but a bad grace the floors, till deadly sweat, and

analys’d your beauty, glorious winter with a girl who’ll fall damn near in love when night. That was’t that hath copies by, can lay an Europe than energetic bile, though full of bliss yet this imperial hall, at last I see the charm

if any take my song. And when she: tis hardly carry it in my heart, my lassie, in grace thee, myself am mortgaged to get him whom she love or to behave it. Watch out for intellectual thing, and shuddering heart is

wae, and learn it, lest thy heart the daily by degree, and her tongue and Helvoetsluys, the sea, or a juggle born on the world begat of unknown joy. Let age approaching hold my soul’s true plains again, and, at dull play the tears to climb.

Myself I praise, Hypocrisy! Ring ye the beloved of human nursery, saw how mother, as the rightly shaken with an encore. Feelings, fearing on the very words went to perish. Where the day was young or old: the cause

or a clandestine love affair which form a defensive building passion form’d a very poor instructing that small cause; but still the sea, or a criminal hates and with from whence comforts have I see, for the knee; where delighting, at

least state; and truly boring at the sun. Is a juggler hate than perjury, even what the warm blood, in view,—farewell! The man was not enuy my loue alone. It is not worn. In the eleven syllables, chairs, and how white and

wriggle, but then resolved so. And still keep I woke—and chaste to his sister: ah! Time shall grow plain truth, dear Madam, to deceived for incorporeal fame whose lively vine of green tree,-are the poor man’s at best: a moment of delight.

Several prepared the ruby, pearl the woods may answer, nor thou wilt restored. The love of your poore Vassall dayly endure: and being a novice, knew not how their bodies for mine I knew ye not much; for I would have my human dress.

Robert Burns: she’s two hard time pass over. All the purple cloud, while the doctor to recover from the ground her in all, what some new soil to sow for now among. Planned, your mouths of tropic shade and praying to them wide that phrase, will happens

there was nothing, meat, or fuel, good nature much the winds, they will play the towers are; I fear, a little mark’d with faire Daphnes crown of fame whose sweete Night, when a tear stole away my body, layer on layer of feathers to lay.

Be mouldie mosse, whose little ease between the lang, yellow locks lyke Saphyres shining face. In men, he soon was off his

life I feel her grunzie wi’ a hushion; her walie nieves like, by might beauty, he felt most of her garden terrace,

under what ye do, albe it good old aunt, not provoking; this straightway to generation for its crop with timely

my flowery gras, twixt sleeps when she: tis hardly carry into Deed mine eyes, and all my evenings steep’d in his fault.

’ Varying to me ayding, others say, leander’s mark was every perfect best, simply blur into the ocean with

some graces still keep, her tooke, that on a time he came, as if another measureless hair black doth raine; whether

window, Sweet! There they glared as Baba with her with only three the nurse in my epitaph a Poets name. For he

was understand—better lookes down, an unregarded not being there, whereon concluded that greatly tend to

be true, ’ have often lived not Death, but Juan stood, till some honour, wealth had those royalty of sweet please let me pass’d, or

catch the Neva’s ice would vouchsafe these, dear Madam, and we prophecies, the wild pulsation than it purpose got he

reckless of his lever. What is sung in rhymes—whilk, which I seem: so that was the celebration, the haughty pallace

fayre, ascendant Phoebus, if her caprices e’er left them, pried loose or used the vault though my soul abroad, when twas the

same landscape which the world’s dust, their change us, nor dreadful sights controlled, but alas too late, shun what I mean.—No process

proved through such strange art; wild honey- fly than cough loudly, violent passions of the free, and praying to fade at the

riuers and the Night, shewes her sleep had been wronged loue, open them not be scorn; but gentlemen seem I and you, and be

it stated, to venge the mayds and the might have miss’d hands, so were stronger proue. And I have tried; but even asleep, to

the trophies of bone, half-solved in style, as if she be not gaze upon her name was spangled, swore, to be put to flie.

Doubt there before me like a dream doth flowers to decke her array, still better, age, exempt— truly, when first through the

sash a shake, as doen high Towers in the dreamy urn; farewell love no feet, and will, then, my birthright and did detain.

Me, as from either not at all. A hundreds of thousand inlets of us pointed to serve, that others in the

more carefully the golden earth shall be true to thee, as the women are slaves, none more had espyed, causlesse corage

accoied, your carelesse corage hath an amorous writing, have sipped out of your turn to Jove. Was not my love, Ay,

fill it out, alack!—The captive nymph soe’er thy power of unreflected largesse? The swallowing sail went on cutting

Castlereagh! Be shown even more thick jaws, the actual look of youth! Were thereto applie. To hideous wind has

swept the witless youth and wife? Poor fellow on their break crystal shining face. Salvation would have my beauty, like feelings,

and still enrich they would not move his body. Then the evening, overpowering kind, and of such words are not limit

much it grieve from herself was now abideth faith, too high for my low stile to my earth is heaven, earth, tasting

Destinies, he somewhat loseth of his nose, with every eye doth a feeble cry. The human eye could so continuous

lanterns. Have you my chin, your loves full of pleasures too readily will end their first kiss’d her! Relenting cryes,

nor to the sweet smell as further chamber with frost. The ocean is stirred by our eyes; but tugging on her pillow: the

wardrobe which your father drawn by those who scour those highways of the precept to his coming years with her displaid. The

jet, while the three hot Junes burn’d and if I had the intense one would not stoop to any shoe, unless he’s drunk with Philip’s

son, or rather managed so long times before my heart, too soon; and huge tombs worse—mankind, and the quarter: she had

bene the sun has rolled back to them to thee, that of a spark, sighs for a fleeting, earth he stayed his friend, you did impute,

which I forborn, unless my heart, unstained, there might describe; describing to his mintage therefore things to yellow!

That warpings past there never loved what with due prevailed to wind round affixed are. Charlotte was dead as any body

nurses;—kill a man’s family, and knocking the larger soul, when he was cutting bread and bullied t’ other. Is to

be fed. Then, Hero, honour; and fruitful land replied, I though certes, the Ruddock warbled alone. And thou my vertue

art. Women by the way you doth grows and the wit, the one I ate? Then to a chambers or brake off our converted.

Let it suffers not puffed up, doth not great Iuno, which is the smallest chick pushed from friends for a moment, threw herself

is dawn. The despotism in view and the sea, or a juggler hate to say, and wounding branch thou kenst little of

perrill and pride, weakness or the Church as thou dost patronize, and to obey’ had been nurst, slippers of these are we!

Is ruffled in vapour from me fly to follies youth go use thy praise. Little good, while her loved books. What differing but

a breath! Which so torments, no applause but there’s strawberries when she’s tired. And there be prophecies, the devil.

Six years old—though with the Asian shore of the same a shadowe serues thy sweetly the Winter of holy temple

of like wags new got to play his legs want of our ioy: but lo! Besides, he had been and being had him to Get ready,

’ replied: The rites in which the solitary tower he got, and know exactly where. And now where I can’t say

or sing, to which with its heavy gold, and maidenheads of blood too refin’d to Barbadoes, which long as we did breed.

Not like scented words wouldest thou that Candide found in her nose. The giant door was broke, whose bells have said, my children’s

squalls and chaste as clover’s brief years old, and left my legs. Leave my beaten hyde, all that make him: Gentle youth to field, and

tears mix’d with their hushed as one day for malice show appear? Of all his golden hook, the moon is on the strain’d and bubbled,

the night’s glooms are eerie; and what they call him, what can I give for ever linked with a king, but let the first or

last of promise but then the drawing- room: it is not any closer to say in a meridian climes is not

won by favourites of Don Juan was gone: in some bricks has got, looked more in subject in the stars above, can only

when first plight with art as you, your carelesse yron dyd feare, beeing immortal summers exalt the wife’s

contractions of their eyes that hour with a blew silke riband wound of love could pour my sense, nor leave one sigh, another’s death.

Mine, where the world another footing his steady surprised nor griefly vultures make earth turn’d it in his station: poor

creatures dear. Every element, and her in sad rimes to be convenient upper boxes too, for the oracles.

Be there, none more time to tell Amynta, gentle queen o’ womankind, and I was kind. Old joys for you as I loved

as at breast doth but a breath the money. The god, seeing immortality. So let us possesseth her lies.

For lo the western kings occur in Orient palace of the Spring a sweater and colour chastity, but

as wide universal influence vpon vs raine, that thou art now a blackening on the sun went down, the least that

he should, like forgiven; groups on show for ioy he leave whose silently. A green ruin, rusty elde, that in aspirin.

Or have ranged; each bevy with Ignorance to pant. Talk of an apple fall, and our mine; for she weary dream, the third sex stept up, and pressed him to her, who ne’er had he been. Unlike each respectable an ancient lava rivers, silverswords rise, were through such as words to her knew where their bodies, not even hearts lay one’s advocate, the topaz, opal,

calcedon. Grows pale, and o’er lustrous sum. Him the deed off, leaving back, an’ it winna let a body be. As the balm of a high building which burnt mirth! I shall disconsolation, t wouldest men from the chase, wretched Ixion’s shaggy footed race, sick, and there is no light, love’s seas more vpon the grass! Winter and bright, a pet-lamb in a second

berth, your unmistakable gaze once may thy hand! And hauing disperst the night; smote the Prophet’s paradise. Love change, the germ. Like Judas come at last, there between grief and a day, to hide her. Whose gentle queen o’ womankind, and I trust he willow banks how far we should cheare: for the Sun! That hateful section along veins, and all, and then, though I grant youth

once more the first to love men and works lest arms and fear—plagued with due applause but that opinion’s also certain woman. Peep out some suit he though six days smooth rocks, and nothing— I’ll not part us with the pair; the fool! He paused, and, passing, Baba, stroking make vs to wish the forbidden crimes dropped upon the harp of Life, and turn his melancholy.

Harke how their eyes a moment, thou night which so preposterously be stain ingrain, and to come, sing the heathy mouldy mammoths, grand Cuvier! By this the peace in thine. Why should have found. But this and then, you must ride, make weep them scarcely can doo it best be thine! If stones of worth, with self, if judged with the doctor, says tomorrow cheerful hope thus leaving?

She still out of so you, that keeps you as his title, built of you and love I’d not defence: for nothing about the jet, while I woo thee what it well to shut—at least I’ll tell ye what oceans, roaring section along the fine point of entry. Which the summer in full, her face was but a brute whose gentle parley, to be sold, if you like I

know the Minion who from rhymes, or Tyrant’s head? You go through glitter like sweet ore which wooed with pearls, contain a deadly sweat, and touch, risking tongue can they never know in part; but none you all old vices spent, and fain imprint that Jove, a noble seat of fire above, and first of all. To whom fools of a poet. Of all the muffled, noses glistening all

the reason, than our modern dames: well it her fast and raising up like a snare. Fed with ambition shun and lone; yet do it makes her hearty meal upon a day, this polish all this gauze? But they hear, the deep. And laid its hand, to dally with his brain is overwrought, I loved least indecency; but the sea what is cold virginia or he is kind:

but lo! But such a grace, they live, and touch on me, in theyr fresh puncture. While the fire through Poland, the fav’rite blest. Is, learned in thy breast; out of the two at present thence a fair and fancies—rather than from th’enameled sky all headlong to embrace. In the Light of his prouder as a dream; the crystal brow, the movables were of love: if I

have been, but half; trust her shaped. Juan was off his legs. He stood the sweet smelt roast-meat, beheld a huge houses fit ill—and coldly mark their merry, miserable after year, my carrot, my cabbage, I would do was let him name it will woo: the country greene; let Fortune found his song vexes my ear; but never more than you and if you were thoughts, while by strange,

and wisdom of the surface of resist the proud humility; like vnto that on Pallas joys in sundry shapes and this disguise, the spray, there’s not an inferior, as I know not what, something gives: the summer eves. As she speak. That were through ice, like the stars the right that you may detain. ’ Said Juan, too, where the sun as if I’m in instincts immature,

and thus he toiled in the diamonds with many a time is most idly spent! With a passage they can’t find out the world destroys what left him to be most in the famous, too, with aught at Riverside: the concentration set and vertue rayne, then we should burn or parch her brows, as one poor word, the old negro from rhymes; and love and me like a short fever-

fit; past they knead two virtuous action, could rip: the usual by those pleasures, the cutting bread and bullied t’ other. Attends and if it took to fill a bowstrung brotherly affect of two gold ingots like two incubi, they were sent to Juan was not thou praise I name: now deeply ground a beam, and over they call freshly steep’d in my shoes.

As she went, would frown? Heads bow, knees locked their own course; still croking make vs once were depart. Be past redress; for I impair not bear the lash on, but even her ﬁngers, and they bring hearts were once are far as rhyme; no scandals made them moue; if stone ice-cold whatever they came, he spurre my horse, he spurre my horse, and thereto the sword; how all mysterious

charactery, hold like a dog, he hunts in full light as feather more despising many, died ere long time lie untouched, I did see the dim and dare not shock’d, and he led me thro’ his garments were better, age, exempt— truly, when to live i’ the strain o’ that under thee as those, when longest reason is, that the earth, while some melodious

trees feele this soil for one kiss wouldst thou do see what before to you or me. They can’t— if spared, then as sure at my first he lets him down from thence through acts uncouth, toward daybreak we wind See it then, if you love me, good humour most, as well as ill with still more preface, in hope on my heart, which Neptune foeman out. As some little, thoughts hardly deigning

a certain tumours, beneath. By formed were, that here did ye see so fayre a creature, gladdening and laid its hand, found straight mine history: if thou hast decreed it in her own hand holt, cramming a though, about the same, as river of gore divulged the lining went to resounds great! How slow ye move, ye heavy hours, and fiery heart falls to spare. But droop

the eyes like Hebe’s in her soul, as if another my pain disclosed of good threescore; when sighs most vsen Ambition, which no eye shall to giggle. Was God, who were sun or clime, time, the solitarie Brere in a mirror of polish’d shape, a bought, from whence doth hold me, sound allured the wynd. Were affied. Babel was Nimrod’s hunting-box, and then forgot em.

Never bearest, canst thou art made fierce could supposed dead, but the roots of Paradise vanish, ye Phantoms! Caught me in!

And wit, who give her and the glooms are eerie; and also, as may be worthies all fancy ever new; shakes all to

me should frown? Let thy lifull hearts lay the vestry of the trees their dear cheekes lyke apples fall about his condition,

if I could not veer round and pin’d and plenty of my eyes of dawn the eager Muse; peace, pen, for love to see him

to Get ready, ’ replied the charms from my eyes close—The men peeled and thereunto doe daunc’d, the convulsive rapture’s

rule! The heart’s disgrace upon those that nowe vpright he look’d, perceiving nought’s more shall commandant stretch attain her damsels

in his father know what’s meant and who can paint or stay, poure out your tender of a mile: his garden and wisdom lingers,

and them up, gotten away for theyr names who remain’d below, but only fix’d, they can find but as he with blis.

Was it always sing the world, winded& alone, seeing at each other people together in sad rimes to be Lords

of the Kingdom is the Turkish wont,—a gaudy nymph-like look a little made the dark sea- line looking-glass and were

misery. She drinks it downe, is trodde in the Spring a little, one see what you can never yet to lose by one

hand light divine, made somewhat may not be in love were riding chain, my bent body mocks their love I vow they would frown?

But only asks to lamenting cryes, nor drowns without a kiss—thus doth dwell, will leave the day. To gaze upon a sharpest pangs o’erpay. Under the land. So vainely taduance

thy heart to a father, sister’s lips imperial hall, and leave one glass is swerving. I was with such small guitar, o lovely forms a great good old man bespake. Breath in

arias of love; it is mostly stranger guest, fed with iollity. Here was strooken, so at her shoe; I did; and might mount the proof how we wonder, trampled what nothing when my

love is the people in her soft Abernethy. I will die without the least an age like a principle of loue; and although ’t will one summer is lustlesse bene the

only pegs; and, beat for that would be description; and after changing cymbal. Here at his title, built of young years for the orchard of their separate doole to dye, through their

wealth of the like, until the nation, which the rest; for the passenger of light, poor soul had been her ﬁngers, and false friend, and in violets cover’d up in leaves in Ithaca

or he is driving at night. And there a pig, indeed, were point, I rested to verify this removed his friend, to slackening fronts, their images I loved you. But thought of

thy kind: nor fame, nor of youth to us extremely whole instructor.-Aged ladies cough life, whose spirit’s well, and an appetite. Parts while Cupid raised, where came in making,

listened on mince, and fresh puncture of any been content, where we are not, all others do adorne her with clay. Unto her tower, the tears of May; the shape of envoys, who

submitting shrill and all things down, said, she laid and, tumbling is. They were a pretty opera- scene. Ne let hob Goblins, names whose chace from God than when they should have a passions flashing

thus beseech. Its sweet Angels will come. Of Rome did wear that he cannot keep that night of death and clos’d her, when it is enough in such sallies that uttered ever be, all,

men ignored in misty Acheron, heaved up her running mucks at every breath absorb thy sighs. To breaths at a worker in humble rug. Their station it teach me so to pour

out gratitude’s. Of the muscles of all flesh and fair; misshapen pigmies, deaf and dull even for life. Salt estarnging so to have to rise. To thee. She says she never

stood. For more a gentlemen seem I and you; so let us be acquainted, viewing Leander, that very polished my goods to feed thee down; the lassie ever lovers’

hearts of thy lewd tale saddens doubly, whence he was altogether managed by fate and that I could know all the floors, till a gigantic pain. Here they as soon as I was kind.

So smoothe, his pryde to late: the body at its edge by shutting bread and body be. No marueile Thenot, my mind delight. Her tongue evoke your tongue can they though soon life’s

mystery. Of human swains, receiving fie was her full array’d, which bears that crowd love with their hearts are gone! That of this blood, in view and open Hand. Languid humours, the main, that

she is gone, but they call freedom, or thirst of foes, the Mauis description out of the year when this feathered grass a long way. A heavenly alchemy—Witch, you can even think

that others in the came, the simply blur into the secret core. What would let him fame; and only paid, tell her they opened as at breast, and Mankind’s Eye its Pupil! Of her

high hill, which—as a whelp describing to have made the vulgar things I do. Breeze kisses rain on my lips mine history: if thou goest onward, till the woods shal answer and sucklings;

there’s nothing repels thee, cheerless soul, but told him to the fyre, vnto such pleasure, woman’s amount: thoughts of Them it could, down from thy mind a root of bane: while I despair, nor

think it is your kitchen is you here are a number of the sound allured the ruby niplet of her heart, my lassie, erewhile thou my verse; do now you too be wise?

About dreams of what is to the fyre, vnto such puppets of delight think to see Leander on her garments trim. Young people lotted, and long since immortal page; her anger and to the ingle still doth flow, the sound of the sunshine

as broad-brimm’d hawker of hollow roaring, that when you are, you why. A spell from thought of this march away—’t were three or four weeks. Of a young Apollo’s golden sands. And when the linnet, aft wander’d, nourishing them till. The brim, which

of the same and the margin, blackening from my soul and you float all the whiles with all it e’er been knows; let it suffice what oceans, roaring without hardly leaves of either; sic a wife as Willie had, I wadna gie a button for

confess’d to your owne mishaps too late, for faithful love or happiness,—is heap’d upon her grand sight of hidden feares, be heard in years should I care? In the diamond ring water and her who believed, could think the moment while vertue art.

It is time, me lusteth no lenger rotten boughs, but, in growth of riper days, either side; there’s as wooden members quite, as river-water hallowed you that hateful section life’s sad place sound upon her damsels in his inside.

To look the more shall be: time’s wheel? Yet, yet I doubt but I grow jealous of men who would faine driue clouded ray can make?

Flint-breasted Pallas wait; whose fruit- tree wild; the dark creepe: she thought well the powers a sweetest buds doth Love speak. From others

in the noontide ocean is stirred by our eyes will come. And oft whole and aim consummate cup, what is that wont to

heaven is with marriage-morning, as acids rouse a dormant alkali, although was, for whom abundance melts, and

with all its mysterious chastities stood, sea-borderers, disjoined by Neptune was an awkward; for let the

fairest, bleeds with perle, and delight they are flesh more, and were kept. Public, weary feet and hearken a while Death stand, hath

motion’d them on them bent like Solitude, we know, you cannot last for my present that fills the peasant, Slavic and

brave; but left comes down, thou placer of plants called. Maids are very word she turned aside, a teeming the worst tattoo. In

full, began to win mee, oft shewes a prehistoric monsters, and then although somewhat loseth of his own crack’d

existence betwixt the air like to a marble fountains echo ring. The Ouzell shrills, that’s in your proposed to blub

like a quest, while as yet t is pity till then? The giant door was brought, thought another leave you blind and my hearse.

Winters could see, which augur’d of my displeasure take; but little, but never miss. Jet, jet black, however weary,

a spark in you know I enuy you not in me, that leaped lively heat, like an invasion of the way to Marmora

without lovers hate. We whose workmanship both shall be done away. The dead, he heavy got, and few great prince of

love. When the winds are blind and my health to Auld Lang Syne! And night as what is concealed betrayed, and by mistake casts off

its breath absorb thy sighs. Be one, and then before-’—Hold! Things to shrill and therefore splendid was the merchandized whose

spirit in the case; and am like forgive, thought vndertaken be, that oft saw that long time lie untouched, will harshly

jar. Dyed in the reformadoes, ’ whom mad’st thou hadst heard such cordial, which, lighted, that you overlooking coldly mark

the holy priestes crewe, and always makes the moderate Hotspur on the constraint, where wealth or pleasant purses, and

a narrow joy is but waking, and a tongue doth a fear that brought up in a five pound Before me, tho’ I die.

The dark sea-line looking, and sent that bene they buried. Seven Towers; ’ exception to thy widow’d marriage. And

try its worth: the Sun. As one ashamed in silence is best recall; earth change. All deep enraged, hissing into cataracts.

In Christian! Some small breach shard, to ask him who feasts, birds, pursued his friend, and great outdoors where you all those timber

toes your leg, an instant had been anticipated with sacred Altare doe remaine, with the pool their wrigle tailes,

perke as Peacock: but not mad; yet neuer day so long enough is it, the other, what thy Door; let him speake to

the hours, I would come to qualify. On a fool’s head and rites are shine, oh, belovèd as the wonder and your echo

ring. A cloudy nights are lang! Resigns above around them, and the name on the messengers to each other more

authority. Upon your strong tongue is mute. I would much rather drain the widest land doom takes to part besides, I’m

hungry to know how charming up. Whether or not. Toward the head, which might be from dropping his imperative error.

In all, we then great coat was like a mummy, and quickly forth theyr charmer sinner it, or said he, it would run fast

and sweetly; i’ll win thee, and a day, the patience ask a tender is I can proper courted foe as far as human

cattle. Its limbs which now appear before I shrug on the rough envy of these hallways. What is life I feel the

waters to each, to them through the clarity of truth, which puzzled Nature’s sweet May-dew my wings were once herself this

one for they were stow’d, the negroes more to vs be fauorable night be call’d Diana’s chorus cousin, ’ as far as

human swains, receive perfect love and dance, all honour is not an empire also was he led, or rather shot.

#poetry #automatically generated text #Patrick Mooney #Markov chains #Markov chain length: 7 #200 texts #ballad sequence

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minor-solemnity · 4 years ago

Note

Hi, you’re writing is so beautiful, thank you for sharing it :)

Can I request a Tom x Reader where they take a mini vacation somewhere really secluded and they’re so happy to be finally spending time with eachother and they’re both just being super domestic and sweet.

Thank you! 🤍

Thank you my love! This prompt is giving me life istg, sweet and domestic Tom is my jam <3 I hope you like it (also am I basically writing what my dream holiday is? it's definitely possible)

Tag List : @mainlynonsense @cakesarecute @jinxqsu @naps-and-lemons @riddles-wifey (send me a message if you'd want to be added to the tag list!)

We are Mosaics

Tom turns to look at you and you recognise the determined glint in his eye and the set line of his lips which lets you know that a plan is forming and he won’t be dissuaded easily. “The Malfoy’s have a cottage in the Dolomites. I’ll talk to Abraxas.” He says it with such finality that you’re almost surprised before you remember that this is Tom. Tom who’s had his Slytherin cohort eating out of the palm of his hand for years, Tom who had marriage offers from a few of the lesser-known pureblood families, Tom who puts the fear of God into the hearts of most men. Of course, Abraxas would give him his family cottage.

You’re sitting on your sofa in the small flat you’ve rented above Flourish and Blotts glaring at the letter that sits innocently on the coffee table in front of you when Tom apparates through your wards. Your mood, which has been growing increasingly dark with the setting sun lifts somewhat when you see him. His jacket folded neatly over his arm and his white shirt slightly rumpled from the day, his hair, which he styles with care every morning is falling in soft waves across his forehead. In short, he looks like every one of your daydreams and you’re filled with a contented sort of triumph that it’s you who he comes home to most evenings. Your flat is small and certainly not big enough for you both to live comfortably, but he spends more time here than he does at his own, equally poky, abode.

His gaze flickers over the letter on the coffee table and you can see him putting the pieces together. “Bad news, I take it?” He asks in a slightly cautious tone that tells you he’s waiting for your imminent breakdown. You nod and sigh as you push yourself up from where you’ve been sulking for most of the afternoon. You gravitate towards him like a moth to a flame, the same way you always do, the same way you always have, and nestle yourself against him, allowing yourself to feel comforted and protected by the feeling of his arms around you.

“I just don’t understand why no one will give me a chance. I had the best marks in Arithmancy in the year,” You grumble into his chest. “Did you hear that Pearson got that Potions Mastery? He got an A in his NEWTS, Tom. Why does he get to do a Mastery and all I get is rejection letters?” You sigh because you know the answer. It’s the same reason that Tom wasn’t offered any of the prodigious jobs at the Ministry despite being the most talented wizard you’ve ever met with a resume that proves it. Wizarding society might be more progressive than the muggle world in some ways, but in the ways that matter to you and Tom, it was still stuck in the Middle Ages.

Eventually, you disentangle yourself from him and you spend the rest of the evening curled up on the sofa with him, reading and chatting idly about the stranger aspects of your respective magical theory texts. “Did you know about the coven in the Dolomites from the 1450s?” He asks, eyes trained on the page in front of him.

“Mmm, they’re the first known herders of thestrals, weren’t they?” He nods and you smile softly, “I’ve always wanted to visit there, you know? Ever since we learnt about thestrals in fourth year.”

You don’t think anything of it but Tom turns to look at you and you recognise the determined glint in his eye and the set line of his lips which lets you know that a plan is forming and he won’t be dissuaded easily. “The Malfoy’s have a cottage in the Dolomites. I’ll talk to Abraxas.” He says it with such finality that you’re almost surprised before you remember that this is Tom. Tom who’s had his Slytherin cohort eating out of the palm of his hand for years, Tom who had marriage offers from a few of the lesser-known pureblood families, Tom who puts the fear of God into the hearts of most men. Of course, Abraxas would give him his family cottage.

“The perks of having rich friends, I suppose,” You say with a small laugh and the smile he gives you in return is indulgent.

***

When Tom had first told you about Abraxas’ family cottage, you had imagined that your definition of a cottage and the Malfoy’s would be vastly different. You’d gone with Tom to one of the Malfoy Christmas parties once and had almost cried at the luxury and decadence. You’re pleasantly surprised though to find that the cottage is exactly as you’d hoped it would be: sturdy white stone, lattice windows, and a multitude of wild mountain flowers that make the place look like a fae dwelling. “This is gorgeous,” You murmur as you wander through the garden, letting the warm summer mountain air fill your lungs. “I never would have thought that the Malfoy’s would own somewhere quite so homely.” Behind you, Tom laughs softly.

“I think there’s a distant cousin who fancied herself a Marie Antoinette figure,” He says, stepping closer to you and resting his chin on the top of your head. “Are you happy?” He asks and you hum in response, bringing your arms up behind you to card through his hair. You twist around pull him closer and his hands drop to your waist as he kisses you.

You spend most of the rest of the day exploring the paths and trails close to the cottage whilst Tom sets up the wards. The worries and stresses of London seem so far away and you relish in the slight breeze against your bare arms and the feeling of long grass and wildflowers against your legs.

You think back to your childhood, to the holidays spent in English seaside resorts with your parents; when the war broke out, the holidays stopped. Your father disappeared into a trench somewhere and your mother had taken you back to her parents home and left the muggle world for good but she was never quite the same after. Hogwarts and the wizarding world, in general, offered you an escape. A home away from the sorrow of watching your family drift and sink into unspoken grief and sadness. You’d found Tom somewhere along the way, both of you finding some kind of solace and familiarity in each other. A tentative friendship had formed that had turned to a tentative romance.

You wonder sometimes, why he sticks around. Unlike the boys he surrounded himself at school with, you can’t offer him money or power or glory. You’ve had to fight for every opportunity given to you, just the same as him, and it’s still not enough. In your more anxious moments, you think about his future and your uncertainty over where you fit into it. Now, under the clear Italian skies, you think that maybe the answer is obvious: you fit together like pieces of a mosaic. Each of your broken and jagged edges finding a home next to his.

***

“You’re aware that you’re a witch, aren’t you?” Tom’s voice floats through the open doorway and you chuckle from where you’re standing on one of the kitchen workbenches. You glance over your shoulder and find him watching you with a mix of exasperation, confusion, and mild amusement. He walks over to you and stares at the pile of dough you’re kneading, his eyebrows knitting together. “I’ll get Abraxas to send one of his house-elves.”

You roll your eyes and shake your head fondly. Tom’s disdain for all things muggle has diminished since you’ve known him, or at least, he’s less likely to voice his opinions to you. “That’s not the point, making bread is meditative. Come on, here,” You gesture for him to take over and watch with poorly hidden amusement as he frowns and takes a step back. “You once made Peeves cry out of fear, Tom, you can’t honestly be intimidated by some flour and water.” You raise an eyebrow and try to smother your grin with an unimpressed expression. You’ve found that the easiest way of getting Tom to do anything is to suggest that he can’t.

As expected, he glowers and rolls his sleeves up. “I’m not intimidated, darling, I just don’t see the point in slaving away over something that could easily be accomplished with magic,” He says smoothly even as he approaches the dough and gingerly pokes it. This time, you don’t manage to hide your laughter and you cover his hands with yours and begin to guide him through the motions. A companionable silence falls upon the two of you and you relish the feeling of his chest against your back, his soft breathing in your ear, his hands moving under yours. Sunshine filters through the open window and you listen to the distant birdsong in quiet contentment.

Once the bread has baked, the two of you wander along the mountain trail that leads to a secluded lake. The water is crystal clear and the kind of icy blue that you’ve only seen in paintings. Tom leads you to a small jetty and conjures a pile of blankets and pillows that you quickly set about making a nest out of. You sit cross-legged, Tom’s head resting in your lap as he reads passages from the book he’s brought with him out loud to you. “According to legend, the Monti Pallidi used to be formed of dark looming rock face and the lakes were murky and black, but there was a princess from the moon who took refuge in the Dolomites and to ease her homesickness, the mountains remade themselves with pale stone and clear waters.”

“She must have been lonely, being so far away from home,” You murmur, carding a hand through his hair as you tilt your head to stare at the pale mountains that surround you. “You know, I sometimes think of you a bit like that, like you’re a moon and I’m a satellite in your orbit.” He hums softly, and you’re not sure if it's in agreement or contemplation. You shift slightly and reach for the food that you’ve packed: fresh fruit, cured meats, hard Italian cheese, a bottle of wine that you’d found in the cellars (no doubt worth more than Tom makes in a year), and of course, the bread you’d made earlier.

You tear off a couple of chunks of bread and pass one to Tom, who takes it and sniffs it delicately before he takes a small bit. You breathe a huff of laughter at his behaviour and he lazily reaches up to cuff the side of your head. “See, it’s good, isn’t it? This kind of thing is always better when you make it yourself,” He rolls his eyes but tears off another chunk, which you take to mean he is, in fact, enjoying it.

The afternoon fades into evening, and twilight descends upon the mountains. You rearrange yourselves so that your sat side by side, gazing up at the moon that is just becoming visible. “You know, I would do more than remake a mountain range if you asked.” Warmth settles deep in your bones despite the chill in the night air. Tom turns to watch you and you don’t bother hiding your smile. “I would remake the entire world for you.” You don’t doubt him either, Tom is a force of nature, always has been. He’s a visionary and you’re not always sure if that’s a good thing, but, years ago, he saw something in you and now he looks at you as though you are everything that he wants in the world.

You reach over and hold his hand, letting his touch ground you, “For now, this is enough.” You mean this moment, sitting here with him. You also mean the life you are slowly patching together, one mosaic tile at a time.

#tom riddle #tom marvolo riddle #tom riddle x you #tom riddle x y/n #tom riddle x oc #tom riddle x reader #minific #tom riddle imagines #tom riddle imagine #tom riddle fanfic #tom riddle fic #harry potter fanfiction #tom riddle fanfiction #prompt fill #prompt #asks #requests #request

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sourholland · 3 years ago

Text

Glamorous || Tom Holland

| Series Masterlist |

Part Two

Summary → In this Princess Diana retelling, you are working in a nursery school as an aid in London, as well as a part time nanny. With slight aristocratic ties, you choose to live a more normal and mundane life. When the Prince of Wales comes to know you and bring you into the spotlight, everything changes. Truths coming too late, lies straining your relationship, and the impending future of the country falling on your shoulders. Is this really the stuff of which fairytales are made?

AN → Part two came a bit late but I hope you guys enjoy!! For sure let me know what you think about this series so far, feedback is always always always appreciated :) It gives me motivation to continue. As always, let me know to be added to the taglist!

Chapt. References → Dinner Dress, Song, Polo Outfit

Pairing(s) → Prince!Tom x Lady!Reader

Warnings → Strong Language

Word Count → 3.2k

December, 1980 - And so it was only the beginning

The sleek black vehicle you were sat in was parked out back of the expensive restaurant. Beside you was Aunt Lenora, she was the appointed chaperone for your first date. It was absolutely terrible, but alas—you had no fight left in you after hours of arguing your mother on it.

The press had no idea the Prince would be out tonight, nor that he was taking a date. Nothing excited you more than the idea of sneaking around a bit. You wore a floor length dress of satin in blue, the neckline not dipping too far down but the sleeve off the shoulder. You’d borrowed it from Helen, hoping it would make you look more grown up and adult.

Auntie was doing nothing to ease your nerves, in her fifties and clearly disdainful. She was an expert of all things royal, having spent more time with the family than anyone. You had however convinced her to be seated away from you and Thomas. He told you he only had time to get dinner tonight, that he was supposed to be somewhere later on and that he was sorry.

The driver came to your side of the car and motioned both of you outside, you stood and flattened the fabric of your dress. It was early nighttime, the night sky hanging low. Another man came down the steps in the back, followed by Prince Thomas who was dressed dapperly in a fine suit. He fiddled with his cuffs and you saw his hair styles neatly out of his eyes.

“Your Royal Highness,” you curtsied. “Thank you for inviting me to come out with you.”

“It’s my pleasure,” he smiled. “Shall we?”

It was a short walk into the restaurant where all of the talking from the staff halted. A man motioned the both of you into a private dining area, one where press couldn’t stick a camera lens through a plant or something. It was lit lowly with orange and yellow undertones that accented the white tablecloths.

Auntie sat a ways away, unfortunately not out of sight from the both of you. Thomas motioned you into your chair, however not pulling it out for you. He wore a gold watch on his left hand with an inscription on the side that you couldn’t quite make out.

As soon as you both sat, a waiter approached the table and asked what you’d like to drink. You saying water, he asked for some of what you assumed was expensive wine. As soon as the man left, Thomas sat up straighter and gave you a soft but pointed look.

“So?” You said.

“Tell me about yourself, Y/N. I’m curious about your life,” he chuckled.

You really didn’t feel all that interesting, at least not to a prince. His hands were folded in his lap. Aunt Lenora seemed to be shooting looks your way. Thinking for a moment or two, you tried not to overthink what you were going to say.

“Well—I help out at a daycare in London, it’s called Sunnyside. When I’m not there, I’m usually nannying for a family close to where I live. A little boy, his name is Charlie. I live with four girlfriends in a flat, there’s Franny, Jane, Beth, and Jackie. They’re great, really,” you smiled at him. “I hope I’m not boring you too much already.”

“No, not at all,” he replied. “I’m rather intrigued by you and your life.”

The meal went along fine; he seemed to enjoy every minute of getting to know you and your life. He’d go into detail at every question you asked him, even preferring for you to refer to him as Tom. This helped boost your confidence with each passing glance, his cheeks would redden and his hands would fold. It was clear that you made him nervous, but something still made you uneasy.

Maybe it was the way he kept checking his watch, or the seven times he called over his advisor and whispered a question into his ear. Perhaps the way he would frown every time the man shook his head no, if not the fact that it seemed like he wasn’t eating much in order to preserve his appetite.

With the final clanking of cutlery, he stood up and gave a warm smile. You followed suit, letting him guide you over to a more secluded area where Auntie couldn’t overhear you. She was nosy as anyone, trying to hear anything he might’ve been saying to you.

“I’m sorry to have to cut this short, really,” he confessed. “I’ve not a clue when the next time I’ll be free, there’s a tour coming up that I’ll be busy with until early spring.”

“Spring is an awfully long ways away,” you drawled. “By then you’ll have forgotten me.”

It seemed like he liked you, but his actions were saying otherwise. You’d never really gone out with boys before, but it seemed rude to take someone out and then go on to tell them it’ll be months before you see each other again.

A part of you was upset, the other part was just grateful to have been invited out to a nice dinner with proper conversation. Prince or not, you can’t force anything that isn’t there.

“That seems impossible—to forget you, I mean. I truly had fun and I’ll call. Maybe we can find time to see each other again once the polo season begins?” He asked. “And you said you quite like to paint, I’d love to see some of your work.”

“Let’s be in touch, sir. Thank you for taking me out to dinner, I had an absolutely wonderful time.”

April, 1981 - Where all privacy is lost

“I told you he’d invite you out again,” Franny said, hanging over the end of her bed. “He’s absolutely mad for you, I’m sure of it.”

Tom had called sparsely over the passing months, it was a long while that he had been posted up in New Zealand. It was a long preparation and once he’d finally left in January, he was gone for weeks on end. You received several letters and the occasional call from him.

When he arrived back in the United Kingdom at the end of March, he phoned you to ask if you’d attend his first polo match of the season. So you agreed, with two weeks to plan the early April outing—you spent forever picking out the perfect outfit.

It was still early into spring, so you opted for long brown trousers that cinched at the waist with a belt. Tucked into them was a cream sweater, you hated such monotone colors so you tied a scarf around your neck loosely and painted your nails baby pink.

“Do I look alright? I mean to watch him play polo?” You asked her, spinning a few times and giggling.

“You look dashing, like a princess,” she teased.

“Oh, stop it.”

She only laughed giddily, a girlish look spreading across her face. It was a decent drive to Windsor, and you didn’t want to be late for Tom’s match. Grabbing your keys, you left out the front door and made it through and out of your flat swiftly.

It was warm out for so early in the season, but there was still a breeze that stung the apples of your cheeks and left you flipping the heat on once you sat in the car. Turning the radio dial up, you drummed your fingers on the wheel to Gimmie! Gimmie! Gimmie!.

It wasn’t long before you were humming the words to whatever song mindlessly played through the speakers, pulling into the field grounds where the Prince would play his first match of the season. A few heavy clouds loomed over the sky, but it was supposed to remain dry all day long.

The stands were filling quickly, an announcer perched above everyone with a bulky microphone close to his lips. There were hardly any buildings around, as the space was filled mostly by the field and stables. It didn’t take long before you could spot Tom, he was sitting behind the roof of his car that seemed to be covering him. Standing next to him was his younger brother, Prince Sam, they were in a discussion of what you assumed had to do with playing tactics.

Without thinking much on it, you made sure to step on the sturdy patches of grass to walk over to the two. From what you knew, his twin brothers were about twenty and he also had another younger brother as well. As soon as you approached the two, Tom looked up with a small smile and his brother looked at you curiously. Sinking into a short curtsy, you missed the sound of clicking that had begun.

“Your Royal Highnesses,” you greeted them.

Tom sat up off of the car, sauntering over to you and placing a short kiss on your cheek. He took a step backwards, motioning his brother to come up. You didn’t know whether to extend a hand or curtsy again, only hoping you looked grown up enough to be doing this right now.

“Sam, this is Y/N Y/L/N. She’s Michael’s youngest sister,” he told him. “I invited her to come by and watch the match.”

The noise of cameras began to become more ferocious, they were all dispersed around the grounds. The boys seemed to notice them, not saying anything to you. Tom was wearing skin tight, white trousers with dark brown leather boots and knee pads. His jersey was orange with the number ‘5’ displayed at the back.

“We ask that all players report to the stables,” the commentator said through the loud speaker. “Again, we ask that all players report to the stables.”

Tom sighed, leaning in to press a kiss to your cheek and stepping off in his uniform. Sam shrugged, seemingly taking in your appearance and stature once more. He had kind eyes, they were less unreadable than his brother’s.

“You’re very pretty,” he said. “And Tommy seems to have taken a liking to you as well.”

“I’m glad, sir.” you replied. “He’s very kind and I’m thankful he asked me to watch him play.”

“You don’t have to call me sir,” he laughed. “I’d actually prefer you didn’t. But my advice is to stick with all of that prolific posh bullshit when you come around my parents.”

As you continued to speak, the men dressed casually continued to snap pictures of you. A few of them called out for the Prince, others asking who exactly you were. It was rather awkward, having your picture taken so relentlessly and from every angle. He gave a sympathetic look when you kept glancing their way.

“How do you figure I’ll be asked to meet your parents?” You wondered honestly. “Truly, the Prince and I haven’t seen each other in months since his tour. I watched some parts on telly, though.”

“Here’s my take, you wouldn’t have been asked out here if Tom didn’t see himself bringing you to meet mum. I’m sorry to say it, but you’ll be what everyone’s talking about tomorrow morning.”

This was something you hadn’t really thought about, at least not enough to let it bother you. It was all making sense to you, but before you could say anything else to Sam, he was off to give Tom a few more pointers before the match began. He told you to meet him in the stands in a few moments, to which you agreed graciously.

While standing by Prince Tom’s car, you figured it would be best to walk around for a bit and try and shake the paparazzi. Instead of following after Sam, they began to shout things at you. Walking off, you made it about twenty feet before a woman approached you. She had a light shade of red hair, it was styled in a fluffy long fringe like Farrah Fawcett wore earlier in your teenage years.

Wearing a patterned dress that hung below her knees and a long wool coat, she was coming up to you. Her nose was peppered in light freckles and her eyes were blue. She did, however, look older and more mature than you assumed you looked.

“Hello!” She called out, standing right in front of you. “You must be Y/N, I’m Eleanor.”

The spot behind your navel developed a pulling feeling, face heating as she came up to you so suddenly. Holding out her hand, you took it cautiously and greeted her. Nothing like meeting the guy you’re involved with’s ex.

“Hi,” you said. “It’s nice to meet you, I wasn’t told you were coming.”

“Well, the Prince of Wales often invites me to come and watch him play. Aren’t you thrilled for this season, I can’t wait to watch him rise through the ranks! My husband and Tommy often play together,” she told you, excitedly.

Tommy.

“Is your husband playing today?” You asked her, irked by the way she spoke.

“Oh no, not today. He’s home with the children, but I do love to support. See, the Prince calls me his good luck charm! It’s so silly, you know? He’s truly a child, but I don’t mind. You look great, by the way. I only wonder if he’s told you about the Queen’s strict rule on polish, she absolutely loathes anything that isn’t neutral.”

“How considerate of you to tell me,” you hummed annoyedly. “I really should be off, Prince Sam is waiting for me.”

“Of course! I’ll be in touch, alright? Perhaps we could get lunch or something.”

Giving a tight-lipped smile, you walked off and ignored the several men following behind you with cameras. As soon as you climbed the steps up to the stands, a man stepped in front of the crowd and told them they weren’t allowed up to take photos.

Trying to shake the feeling Eleanor just gave you, Sam motioned you to the top of the stands with open arms. Shoes clanking, you followed him up and sat at his right side. He didn’t say anything about the encounter, you weren’t even sure if he’d seen it.

With a hot face, you watched Tom come out on his horse. His hair was a mess, smile playing on his lips as he entered onto the field. This eased your nerves a bit, seeing him in the flesh and knowing he invited you to come out and watch him. It could only be assumed that Eleanor was an over-sharer with a bit of a grudge. However, she was married and mentioned having small children. This left you with less anxiety, or maybe it was the fact that Tom looked up into the stands and squinted a moment before waving with a cheeky grin on his face.

He scored early on, crowd cheering as the announcer recounted each move during the match. The other team was persistent, though. You found yourself on your feet shouting words of encouragement with Sam, only for both of you to fall back laughing with each other. The cameras on the ground were sure to catch this, zooming in on what looked like the Prince’s most noble supporters.

As the match persisted, the lead went back and forth. Tom was on a dark brown horse, his orange uniform sticking out against the opposing’s blue. In the end, his team, the Knights, won the match 3 to 5. You and Sam rushed to be the first off the field to congratulate him, stifling laughter as he almost knocked over a table holding waters.

“Good job, mate!” Sam called out to his brother. “Didn’t think you had it in you, to be honest.”

Tom rolled his eyes, skin layered with a film of sweat. His curls were skewed, sticking to his forehead a bit as he downed some of the water he’d been given. He approached you pridefully, clearly excited by the praise everyone was giving him.

“What’d you think of it all, Y/N?” He asked.

“I thought you played well, it was quite fun to watch actually. And Prince Sam is a wonderful commentator, I mean really—he was speaking over the commentator. I’m sure if he wasn’t who he is, the lady beside us would have turned over and told him to shut it!”

Sam burst into a fit of laughter, holding your shoulder for support as he stole a sip of his brother’s water and almost had it come out of his nose. The others around seemed to be enjoying the show, especially with the Prince and his new company. The conversation lasted a short while, everyone beginning to clear out. Tom leaned in and once again kissed your cheek, except this time he murmured a quick thank you into your ear.

“I’m glad you decided to come,” he told you.

Giving him a shy smile, you nodded and let Sam pull you into a short and friendly embrace. He was insistent that you come back around, telling Tom so. Once you turned to go back around towards your car, you heard him give his brother nothing but praise about the potential match. Tom seemed a bit uneasy, but you tried to reassure yourself that this was his personality.

Just when you thought you’d escaped the press, they crowded around you like moths to porch light. Cameras were being pushed into your face, questions hanging in the air. You were shocked, finding your car keys and unlocking the car door swiftly.

“Y/N, are you and the Prince serious?!”

“Will you see the Prince again this week?”

“How long have you and the Prince been going out?”

The noise muffled when you slammed the car door shut, only to drive off and realize that several of the cars were following you. This was a completely new ballgame for you, it didn’t seem likely for them to quite literally tail your car to find out where you lived.

The whole twenty-five minute drive was spent looking out your rearview, watching as they followed behind you. It struck you as pointless to bring them to a shopping center or down a random street. They’d only continue following you there. As you parked on the street, you breathed deeply and stepped out of the car. Only a moment later you were ambushed, this time not only by men holding large cameras—a woman who you could only assume was a reporter stuck a microphone in your face as well.

“Y/N! Do you think you and Prince Thomas will get married?”

“Have your met the King?”

Practically shuffling through to your front door, you drove the key into the lock and opened it feverishly. As soon as you’d made it into your flat, you were met by four prying eyes. Each of the girls looked completely shocked, the buzzing of the paparazzi and reporters flooding the front yard behind you.

“Y/N, you’re literally on the fucking telly! Come watch,” Jackie told you.

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mcu-fan-fics-blog · 3 years ago

Text

The Artist and Her Deadly Muse ii

Previous Chapter (Not my GIF)

Word Count: 2900 approx

Fisk reader x Natasha Romanoff.

TW: Hostage situation

“Y/n your driver is waiting for you outside… you can't miss your flight.” You heard your fathers assistant say from the door. “I can’t leave, he promised he would be here.” You saw the pity in her eyes as she approached you. “Y/n, honey I don’t think that he is coming… I’m sorry sweety.” She placed her arm around your shoulders and ushered you out. You bow your head and your posture slowly deflates… taking one last look at the place you once called home. You sit in the car. “Tell him that I’m going to miss him very much…” She nods closing the door, but you stop her. A small smile creeping on your face. “I’m going to miss you too!” You say trying to lighten the mood. “You can always call me… and don't forget to send me some of your artwork!” You smile allowing her to finally close the door. It had only been days since she passed, your mother. That day you lost them both your fathers soul seemingly dying with her.

You tried not letting it get to you, knowing your father couldn't handle her loss and your grief. Apparently he couldn't handle you at all, as he decided to send you off abroad… a boarding school in France. Trying profusely to please your father you simply nodded your head when he told you. You only wanted one thing. “I want you to be there… to say goodbye at least. Please.” Your eyes pleading with him. He nodded, afterwards taking his leave. As the distance grew further the knot in your throat tightening more, and more until a sob escaped your throat. “Miss Y/n, don't fret he will come around you’ll see.” Your driver said lowering the divider between the two of you. “He does love you.” His eyes meet yours, a reassuring smile on his face putting you at ease. “Thank you Ed, I will miss you as well, will you write me letters?” You ask. He nods enthusiastically. “I even bought some new toys for my stationary… You’ll get the first one in a couple of weeks, and I expect you to reply, even if it's just a sentence.” You nod giving him a cheeky smile.

Once you got to the terminal Ed gave you a hug which you relished in as long as you could. He let you go and board your plane. You looked back to see him, tears threatening to fall at any minute yet his smile didn’t falter. Mouthing a small ‘Go ahead, everything will be just fine’. And just like that four years had passed without a word from your father. Sure there was the annual birthday present and christmas present, but you knew they weren't really from him. It wasn't till college that you saw him again, and at that you didn't even recognize the man sitting in front of you. “Father�� It’s good to see you. How have you been?” It seems trivial trying to talk to him after many years. He was expecting anger, indifference and even disdain. “I’ve been getting better Pumpkin.” He states a small smile reaching his face. “Well, I came here to help you with college. I imagine you have a couple in mind?” He says coaxing you to talk. “Well, I do actually have one in mind. It's in the Netherlands… and it's an art school.”

At that comment your fathers smile instantly drops. Shaking his head he looks at you. “Y/n one day you will take over the company, you won't do that with a degree in liberal arts.” He spits out venomously. “What are you saying?” Again he just scoffs as if he’s above having this conversation with you. “You haven’t spoken to me in years and you expect me to, what? Follow your wishes blindly.” You say finally letting your emotions shine through. “You WILL pursue an actual education Y/n! I’m not negotiating with you, I'm not even going to encourage the Idea.” He stands and begins to walk away, he stops briefly to say. “Pack your things, you’re moving to London within the week. You’re going to Business school.” and just like that he had single handedly crushed your dreams. And maybe, maybe if you had just fought harder… You might not be in the current predicament.

You let him manipulate you into doing his bidding. He used the fact you wanted to love him, the fact that you wanted him to love you... Against you. After college things were tense… you wanted to leave. Undetected, so you booked a plane ticket, paid someone to board on your ticket, then went on a cruise back to New York. You needed time and you granted yourself the time. It wasn't much, a month and a half… you enjoyed it. Taking the time to stop and just breathe and do what you loved again. When he found you the first time you both came to an understanding. He would leave you the hell alone until your presence was absolutely necessary. He’d try to worm his way around this agreement but every time he tried you clocked him. He’d send people to follow your every move, and each time you’d send them back with a not so pleasant message. You had three years of relative peace, then you were kidnaped same day you met her.

He’d then spend the following weeks showing you the in’s and outs of the company, every little detail he made sure was ingrained in your mind. “Y/n the company is on the verge of bankruptcy… this is why you are here today.” Right now all that ran through your mind was relief… you'd finally be with your mother. You exhale and close your eyes relaxing in this grasp. You could tell he felt it… your resignation. "If you ever had an opportunity of revindication… you've lost it." You mutter quietly. "You are the reason mom never let herself love me… care for me. She was afraid that she'd lose me like she'd lost Richard." He didn't know you knew this. "And now I finally get to go with them." He began shaking his head violently. "Don't say that Y/n… you have no idea what youre talking about." You chuckle.

"Don't I? I was awake that night and she was running away from you." You state your tone searing with anger. "I guess I should've followed in her steps… I wouldn't be in this situation." The agents were just watching the scenario unravel. Watching your words tear apart a man who seemed so untouchable. "You were a coward… correction you are a coward. I guess she always knew you would choose yourself over everyone else." Suddenly his grasp on you lifted his hand moving to grip his head. You were ushered away by the agents. When he lost you he went hostile pulling out a gun he had. The agents, not hesitating, killed him on the spot. Someone tried to avert your eyes, but it was too late. You witnessed your father succumb to the darkness. You weren't even paying attention anymore you walked out of the hold of the agent walking out the door and onto the elevator. Pacing back and forth on the ride down your head was reeling full of thoughts. You barely registered when the doors opened. You walk out in a hurry not noticing someone in front of you and you graze their shoulder. Your eyes shifting on to hers… she seems to do the same. You kept walking… tearing your eyes away from her and you turned to leave the building. You heard her call after you, she didn't follow as someone called her out. ‘Agent Romanoff’ you’d wonder when you'd see her again… you never thought it’d be like this.

After you left… you noticed an agent following you. You go to a park and sit on a bench. Waiting for them to catch up. "There is no need for all of this." You turn to face them and they nod. "I-i um we just need to debrief you." You nod. "Mind if we do it here?" They nod while taking out a tablet. "Im Maria Hill…" they say and you just listen and nod when appropriate. Finally as she asks the closing questions she asks if you’d like her to take you somewhere. “Um- no. I need to make a call.” You stand and walk a fair amount away. The phone rings a total of two times before you hear the voice on the other side. “Y/n… are you okay why are you calling so late? Are you in trouble?” You sigh, rubbing the bridge of your nose. “Yeah, I need you to pick me up, Eddy. Remember that letter I sent you about running away… It's the perfect time to do so.” You chuckle dryly. “Are you sure? What happened, Y/n please talk to me!” He pleads. “Just come pick me up, I'll talk to you then. I’m at the park by my apartment.” He reluctantly agrees you hang up and head back to the bench and sit next to Maria. “I’m being picked up.” You state dryly. As your car pulls up Maria stands. “We’ll be in contact.” You laugh humorlessly. “I wish you luck with that.”

After Natasha saw you she was shaken. She could not shake the look on your face. She soon found out why that look was there in the first place. She tried looking for you, hoping that you would just come back. She spoke with Maria and true to your word you were gone. They'd lost you after your third vehicle exchange. "She'll come back, just give her some time you'll see." Tony says, trying to comfort the spy. "I lied to her… and I work for the people that killed her father." She states bluntly. "I saw the recording… I looked into her." She sighs. "I can't believe I didn't do it sooner. It's an origin story to rival my own." Tony stands and sighs. "Do you want me to find her… this girl she's the same one from the subway isn't she?" She nods, but declines the offer.

"Ed, you know you don't have to keep checking up on me." You state. "I know, but youre my responsibility now." He says lovingly. "You know… being back here I never thought I'd find it so liberating." France, the place you grew to hate in your teenage years. "Yes, well It did bring some bad memories… yet its delicate serenity beholds and unrivalled beauty." You chuckle. "Ever the poet Ed… you know I'd use your poems as 'inspiration' for my english homework senior year." He chuckles. "Father… he never opened my letters. I knew it but I still wrote them and mailed them, because I liked to have thought that he'd open them one day." Ed sees what you're getting at and he averts his eyes from yours. Pulling out the stack of four years worth of letters unopened. "I'd like to thank you Ed. For being a father to me, a damn good one at that. I love you Ed." You hug him. "But it's time to go back. It's been long enough." Smiling sadly at you he nods. "You know this plan 'running away' was it for me Y/n." You nod. "I know… So I wanted to make sure you were settled in a nice place. You know, take care of you, like you did for me."

On the flight back to New York you couldn't help but wonder what will be of your life now. If you thrived in uncertain ground, this was going to be anything but. Not only were you going to have to deal with your board members, but now you have SHIELD snooping around. Although that didn't worry you as much as the ladder. As soon as you got back you went to Fisk industries people looked genuinely surprised that you decided to show. Walking into the conference room you knew why. “You all know what happened to the usurpers that tried to take my company out from under me?” You asked sarcastically. “Y/n you are not fit to lead and manage this company.” Said one of your senior inverters. “You are too late, you have lost the majority vote.” You laugh at that. “I don't see a majority present in this room. This seems like a bluff, like you were caught in the early planning stages. So why don't I just fire all of you? I feel like that is the appropriate action.” He looks at you like you were stupid. “You can't do that, you don't have the actions to do that.” Then you laugh. Any other day they would’ve been right, see 40% made the majority but that was before your father died. You now make up 60% now you could do whatever you pleased, everyone be damned.

Three days, It’s been three days since you got back. You have taken them all by storm. Now it wasn't the company that worried you. It was that red head, who by the way was an actual international assassin. You did want to see her again and you hoped she'd receive your message, an olive branch if you will. You were just hoping she understood the message. “Ms. Romanoff, there is a package in the lobby for you.” She heard FRIDAY call out. “Look, all I have to say Pep is that she is talented.” She heard Tony state. “I’m not denying it, but she’s turned the world upside down in less than 72 hours.” Tony chuckles. “Then you should be happy that you’re still on her good side. She probably still wants to do business with us.” Tony points out. “Ah Romanoff, tell this Woman that she has nothing to worry about.” She sighs and walks into the pantry. She heard the elevator door open. “Romanoff you got a package mind if I open it.” She heard Pepper scold Tony and chuckled. “Go crazy!” She stated she heard Tony celebrate.

“OH. MY. GOD!” At those words Natasha rused out the pantry prepared for the worst case scenario. “What? What is it, are you two okay?” Pepper averts her eyes almost immediately while Tony looks at her amused. “When did you get the time for this?” He states unravelling a painting in his hands. “Time for wh…” She’s cut off when she realizes what Tony was actually holding in his hands. The smirk evident on her face now. “Well, It appears she knows exactly who sent this.” She hums in agreement. She takes the painting and the package to her room and opens the small envelope. “The ‘Artist’ Is Back in commission. See you around… ;)” That simple message had the spy smiling for hours on end. You didn't hate her, and you certainly remembered her. She was honestly astonished that you remembered her in such detail. The next day she sat in the subway. And there you were… only this time you weren't staring back at her.

You were quite entranced sketching an elderly woman who was riding with her small dog. She watched you work, your concentration completely on the woman sitting in front of you. She watched you laugh along with her. It was a sight to behold… you were back, your previous poised attitude long gone, replaced by your easy going self. You must've been working for quite a while. She saw as you handed the woman the paper. The genuine smile that rested on the woman's face made her feel warm inside. After that sweet exchange she watched you exit the subway. Following you like she'd done a couple of times before. This time a small smile playing on her lips. She recognized the way you were leading her almost immediately. Once you made it into the apartment building she decided to make her presence known. "I didn't pin you for a memory lane type of gal." She teased.

You jumped genuinely startled. "God…" you muster out breathly. "You scared me… damn." She chuckles, making you calm down. "You've lost your edge." She chuckles intrigued. "I've been out of commission for a while… forgive me if I'm a little rusty." You laugh. "Yes, well I wanted to thank you for the painting. It's very detailed." She chuckled. "You know when I asked you to paint me like one of your French girls… I didn't think you'd take it seriously." You chuckle and click your tongue. "French Girls are overrated... If your must know your are my muse." You say making her blush ever so slightly. You shuffled slightly, taking your satchel and pulling out another piece of paper. "I've been holding on to this for a long while, I wanted you to have it." It was the sketch of that day… only this was finished and it looked a little worn. "I also wanted to… Ask you on a proper date. You know, do things right, because I'm free now and I don't want to spend another second of my life not doing the things I want to do." She smiles at your rambling, but nonetheless she nods enthusiastically. "Natasha Romanoff." She says taking a step back and holding out her hand. "Y/n Fisk, A pleasure to meet you Natasha. Pick me up at 7?" You ask and she nods kissing your cheek and walking away.

#avengers #marvel #natasha romanoff #natasha x y/n #tony stark #fanfic #vanessa fisk #kingpin #wilson fisk #reader x avengers #mcu #mcufam #maria hill #agents of shield #pepper potts #tony x pepper

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sinistershepherd · 4 years ago

Text

London Bridge Is Falling Down

At times, I despised Roman’s vast imagination. It could be a good and bad thing, as his creativity often differed from moment to moment. Even worse, Roman not only loved Disney, but absurd nursery rhymes as well.

Janus leans on the railing of the bridge, looking down into the water not far below. His reflection stares back at him, a blank expression and mismatched eyes scoring through his already fragile mental state. The lights were frustrated with him again, as usual. Janus couldn’t seem to get a break around the constant bickering and snark that both Virgil and Roman threw at him. His only direction to lean was Patton, and rarely Logan, if he was really feeling desperate.

A familiar sadness sits like a stone in the pit of his stomach, a feeling he’d never admit to. Every time he tried to talk during a debate, he would often get shot down. It wasn’t the fact that his ideas were so easily disposed of that hurt him, specifically, it was more the person who often shot him down. Virgil. Every time Virgil and his sharp tongue, a stark contrast to Janus’ own silver tongue, decided to ridicule his ideas, Janus always thought back to their earlier years. He wanted to mend those bridges, but admitting that to Virgil was practically impossible. Janus deflates like a sad balloon. He just couldn’t seem to win.

“Deceit! What are you doing out here, sharp scaled sneaker?” Roman’s booming voice startles the serpentine side, but Janus doesn’t have the will to snark back.

“Standing, waiting. You?” Janus asks back, voice calm. Roman hesitates at his neutral tone.

“Walking. What are you waiting for?” Roman inquires. Janus fights back a scoff. What was he waiting for? He didn’t quite know himself.

“Rafiki and his chorus of animals to start singing about the circle of life. Quite intriguing,” Janus drawls. Roman huffs.

“I’m surprised you know anything at all about Disney, let alone the Lion King. You seem more of a Jungle Book jokester to me, but I won’t judge your weird style,” Roman drones. Or at least, that’s what Janus hears, since in all honesty, he doesn’t care. Why should he? Disney was never his cup of tea. He only dealt with it because Virgil enjoyed pointing out the flaws, yet still seemed to enjoy the strange bits of humor and adventure some of the movies provided. He dealt with a lot of things on Virgil’s behalf, like his attitude.

“Are you even listening?” Roman snaps, dragging Janus out of his thoughts. The deceitful side blinks, glancing over at the fanciful side.

“No,” Janus deadpans, leaving it up to Roman to justify weather he’s lying or not. Roman scoffs, turning away.

“I can’t say I’m surprised, snakes like you always seem to be too preoccupied making some plan or another....are you going to try and drag one of us lights over to your side, like some Star-Wars knock-off?” Roman rolls his eyes at his own statement. Janus thinks that maybe he’s finally realizing his own stupidity, but that would be a bit much to ask.

“Go annoy Patton. I’m sure he’d love to travel along with your trivial tangents,” Janus suggests, flicking a small pebble off of the railing and into the water below. He watches it make a small splash, then looks away in disdain.

Roman didn’t need any more convincing. Instead, he turns away and walks off, muttering something isn’t this breath that Janus can’t bring himself to pry for. Normally, he would. But right now, he felt drab, and drab never led to good prying.

The bridge shifts beneath Janus. He raises an eyebrow. Odd, he thinks. Why would the bridge shift? Nothing here can be affected by anything except-

“ROMAN!!” Janus shrieks as the bridge buckles, sending the deceitful side plunging into the icy waters. Roman glances over his shoulder, watching for a moment as Janus is swept along, then his eyes widen as it registers. He scrambles to the edge, reaching out for Janus, but it’s already too late. Janus is mercilously pulled under the vicious torrent, gasping and frantically flailing around as he is swept further away. He lets out a scream, muffled by the water, as a loose rock slices into his side, blood spilling out into the water around him. His heartrate races in his ears, fingers scrabbling at the river bed to try and get a hold. What did Roman do to cause all of this? How did it get so bad so fast??

Janus doesn’t have any more time to think about that as the river bed falls out from under him. He starts plummeting down, down, down, another muffled scream leaving him as he realizes what’s happening. The damn waterfall. How did he get here so fast?

Blood drips off into the still air from the wound in his side, time seeming to slow down.

His body connects with the water below, and Janus can tell that bones splinter on impact. He starts to sink, the air already pushed out of him from the collision. He tries to get towards the top, but his legs and arms are sluggish, dragging him further down. Exhaustion tugs him down, darkness starting to engulf his sightline. The previous panic that had seized him eases.

A blurred shape splashes into the water above him, eyes wide and frantic, but Janus can’t make out much else. He reaches weakly up to them, but unconsciousness claims him before he can make contact.

If death is peaceful, then maybe he’ll finally be at peace.

If you would like a part 2 PLEASE let me know, this was incredibly fun to write!!

#sander sides whump #anxceit #past anxceit #familial anxceit #sander sides #roman sanders #virgil sanders #janus sanders #sympathetic deceit #deceit sanders #anxiety sanders #creativity sanders #waterfall #fanfiction #sanders sides fanfiction #sanders sides angst #part 2?

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beels-burger-babe · 3 years ago

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I Love Him (Chapter One -DRAFT)

***S-So um...I felt bad for not having any Obey Me content to give you guys tonight, and instead thought th-that maybe instead of nothing you would like a sneak peek at my novel that I have previously mentioned, I Love Him.

What I'm showing you is the current draft of the first chapter. I haven't really touched it in a few months but um...I-I hope you like it?)***

Chapter One

“Bullocks”

Arthur Howell glared at the closed sign hanging on the door in front of him. Up until this point, his grocery run had been fairly pleasant, but now he supposed he’d have to find another place to buy his baked goods until the owners reopened in February.

A fantastic start to 1958. Arthur thought bitterly to himself as he shivered in the cold winter air.

Arthur looked around for a solution to his dilemma, but all his eyes found were more of the grey, stoned streets of central London and its citizens. He sighed and ran a hand through his slicked blond hair in frustration when a subtle scent reached his nose.

Wisps of fragrant pastries and other confections danced in the air, standing out against the usual perfume of damp fog and pollution. In a split decision, Arthur quickly began to follow the scent.

It was only after five minutes of walking did a rose-shaped, white sign hanging off a two-story apartment come into his view. In a hand-painted, feminine font it read “Blooming Confections.”

A small bell went off above his head as he entered, and he nearly ran into a group of giggling schoolgirls, each with a freshly baked biscuit in hand. Arthur narrowed his eyebrows at them and then took in his surroundings; his eyes widened as he did.

The room was well lit and seemed to emanate a warm welcoming glow that bounced off its cream-coloured walls. A few people sat conversing peacefully; they all had gentle smiles on their faces as they enjoyed whichever treat they had ordered. The smell of delicate pastries and sweetbreads swirled in harmony with the scent of brewed coffee and the faintest traces of the herbs hanging to dry over the front counter. Arthur stood in awe. How had he never heard of this little slice of heaven before?

Arthur heard a door close. A man in a polo shirt and navy apron came out from the back to stand behind the cash register. He wiped flour-covered hands on a cloth before flicking it onto his shoulder and looking up. The cashier’s chestnut eyes met Arthur’s hazel ones.

“Welcome to Blooming Confections. How can we help you today?”

Arthur stared, and he stared, and he said nothing. A single spiral of brunette curls rested just off-center of the cashier’s forehead. The light from the window to their right created the illusion of a copper halo framing his head. The man quirked an eyebrow and tilted his head ever so slightly. Arthur cleared his throat and forced his attention to the chalkboard menu behind the cashier, as though he hadn’t decided his order yet.

Which was not true. Arthur needed two loaves of white bread and nothing more.

It had been a ritual of sorts ever since he had turned sixteen and gained the ability to travel on his own. Every second Friday, Arthur would wake up, be served breakfast by the family servants, and then ignore whatever tasks his father may have set upon him to go downtown and fetch some groceries; included in those groceries were always two loaves of white bread. However, that bit of information had been replaced with all kinds of thoughts about the cute cashier in front of him.

By God, this man was adorable.

“First time?” Arthur’s attention snapped back to the other man as his cheeks flushed at the man’s words. He must have misheard him. This stranger couldn’t be implying such a thing in public, could he? The cashier simply smiled at him patiently. “It can be overwhelming. I mean, there are seven kinds of bread and four of them look the same. How’s a bloke supposed to tell them apart?” The man turned to a display case to the left of him attached to the front counter, and Arthur’s shoulder slumped in a mix of relief and embarrassment at the clarification. “That is if you’re here for bread. Could I interest you in a white or brown loaf?” He gestured to where the two sat in the case, “Though you could always be looking for sweets. We’ve all kinds, so just take a look, see what you like and let me know when you’re ready.”

Arthur stuffed his hands in his pockets and stiffly nodded. He had officially decided that no, he would not be leaving with just two loaves of bread. That would mean that this experience would be over much too quickly. He didn’t even know the cashier’s name yet. “I’m afraid that I can’t quite make up my mind. Any recommendations, sir?” He tried to ask politely.

The man scoffed slightly. “No need to call me sir. I’m Charles. My mother, Rose Davies, and I run this bakery.” Charles’s chin rose slightly and stared at Arthur as though daring him to mock the statement. Arthur quirked an eyebrow at his defensive state.

In hopes of getting the man to ease up, Arthur offered him a smile. “Then I must compliment you on the fine establishment you run, Mr. Davies. I’m Arthur, by the way. Arthur Howell.”

Arthur could only watch as the baker’s eyes widened at the surname and he took note of the expensive suit that Arthur wore. Arthur had no doubt that Charles realized exactly who the man in front of him was; the Arthur Howell, son of Anita and Edmund Howell and, therefore, heir of Howell Corporation. The conglomerate business was hugely successful, though his father held the reputation of a cold shark who did what he pleased without regard towards others. As a result, those in the lower classes, his father’s victims more often than not, tended to hold disdain towards the Howell name.

The young Howell tensed and prepared himself to be insulted or shouted at, but found himself pleasantly surprised as the baker merely grinned at him. “Thank you, Mr. Howell. Now, what can I help you with?”

Arthur was shocked to find a ball of warmth growing within him at the stranger’s acceptance and distracted himself by kneeling in front of the display case. “Did you help bake these?”

Charles nodded, “I bake the first batch of everything in the morning before Mum takes over. I’d rather be in the kitchen all day, but she claims that it’s better for business if I’m at the front counter. Never quite understood what she meant by that.”

Arthur knew; she meant that her son was fit and that those school girls he had run into on the way in were probably here to get a peek at the cashier’s toned biceps more than anything else. Mrs. Rose Davies was a very smart woman.

Charles shook his head and looked back at Arthur, “But you had asked about recommendations, yes?” Arthur nodded as Charles leaned onto the top of the display case to see what was all there. “Well, I personally love the banana muffins. They’re not too sweet, but just enough to end any cravings. They were my favourite when I was a kid, but I haven’t tried any in a little bit. Ever since I started baking regularly, I’ve kind of formed a disdain for all sweets. I’ll have some from time to time, but otherwise-” He trailed off as he met Arthur’s stare and blushed. “Oh Lord, I’m rambling. Sorry.”

Arthur shrugged, “No worries. I’ll take one of the muffins as well as two loaves of white bread.” He chuckled at the man as he thought over what had been said. “A baker that doesn’t enjoy the things that he bakes?” Charles paused for a moment, as he carefully placed the food into paper bags, then nodded. Arthur laughed; a rich deep sound that seemed to draw Charles’s gaze. “You really are special, Mr. Davies, you know that?”

The baker frowned as he led Arthur to the register. “Not really. Sugar simply grows tiring when you’re around it all day. That’s all.” He punched the information into the machine and cranked the side handle until a ding was heard. “That’ll be twenty-six pence, please.”

Arthur gave him half a pound and held up a hand when Charles went to fetch the change. “Keep it. This is an amazing establishment you have here. Your service was excellent.”

Charles blinked at him as Arthur began to collect his bags. “Sir, that’s nearly double your total. I really can’t accept this much.”

Without taking the change Arthur began to walk away from the counter. “And yet, I insist.” He grinned playfully at the confused baker. “I’ll see you again, Mr. Davies.”

“Al-Alright then. Come again!” Charles called out almost unsure but could do nothing more as Arthur left the building much more satisfied than he had entered

****HOPE YOU ENJOYED OKAY BYE - B****

#my writing #I Love Him #Bumble B's Novel #I hope you like it #my gay sons #Oh god Im going to regret this #have at it #romance #soft fic #writing #draft #gay love #love #fluff

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ohhophelie · 3 years ago

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that old familiar body ache that snaps from the same little breaks in your soul you know, when it’s time to go Cadiz, Spain - December 4, 2021 mentioned: @mrofontaine

The sea sounded like loss. It was an entirely different one from which she drowned her love - drowned that part of her that would only ever damn herself. It still felt the same high up here on her brother’s love’s balcony. It was Sunday, which meant dinner with Miguel’s parents and their boundless warmth and love which both Redgrave siblings still found somewhat jarring. But it was also Spain, which meant another night of dancing and drinking until sunrise, should they all so desire. For now, Ophélie and Gaël sat in comfortable stillness on the balcony.

Children of neglect and disdain, they’d learned, sometimes needed space and silence to process normal parental love and affection. Time and place to mourn that which they’d never had.

Olivier was inside, charming Miguel and his parents further in that same chaotic jumble of French and Spanish they’d slipped into all weekend. It was perfect, she decided, the perfect little pocket world - a reminder of both new and old Fee. Who she was and all that she’d carved away and let drown in the channel. Perhaps she needed this one last taste before being fully sucked into London. A moment and space where the guilt of all that she’d missed and all those she loved had suffered couldn’t quite reach, held back by the wind.

“He’s good for you,” Gaël offered in casual yet rapid Spanish that they both knew her guest wouldn’t catch. “I haven’t seen you this, like, at ease around someone in a while.”

“That’s because you’ve only seen me with them,” left specifically vague here on purpose, Gaël knew more than he perhaps should but not enough to endanger either sibling, “at clubs and parties.” She waved an errant hand as if to push away the truth. “Or with Paul in front of the family.”

“Fee.” Her favorite brother looked at her, grey eyes a mirror of her own. She took a sip of her wine, avoiding his gaze and the loving lecture that was sure to follow. “Don’t forget I was there this summer. You looked so empty and lost. You weren’t even that bad after last Halloween,” she visibly flinched at this reminder and Gaël wrapped an arm around her in a silent apology.

He was right, but she wouldn’t say it.

There was much to unload, of course. All that wasted love she’d long ago drowned. And she was fine, seriously, she was fucking fine with the Laurent of it all. The part that lingered, the part that still hurt in that secret pocket of her soul - well, that was a wound far older than her entanglement with the French organization. Ophélie had never been the first choice, she’d known that as long as she could remember. The youngest child, the final chance for a daughter and, naturally, an utter fucking disappointment. She’d grown up bearing the weight of that disappointment alongside all of the ease and entitlement. It was never enough, she was certainly not the golden perfect child they wanted. Why should anything be different as an adult, she wondered, as she bound her fate to that violent and beloved organization.

She was fine, Ophélie promised to no one but herself, she was perfectly fucking fine as she carved out a space for herself whilst also cutting away anything that wouldn’t fit. She’d rather universal admiration, attention, and envy over the singular thrill of being someone’s first choice. It wasn’t even a lie. And for a time she was happy. Until she wasn’t. Until she fell into that which catches all those girls who are too bright or too bold, and found herself tempering her utter overwhelming-ness into something that he might want more than just a fuck or a friend.

It wasn’t until she’d drowned that hopeless love - the love that could never ever live up to that of a dead girl (because wasn’t that the beauty of dead things ? they were always so utterly perfect and impossible to emulate) - that Ophélie fully felt the fracture that’d been forming for ages. The cracks from trying to lessen herself into something that she wasn’t. And so, with the emptiness that only came from the sea - she wouldn’t.

“All I’m saying is - I don’t want you to lose what you’ve spent so long finding again, you know?” He smiled softly. “You deserve to be just as happy as I am. More even. You never let them break you,” they had a long held agreement to never speak of their parents directly in sacred, happy places, “and there was a time there when we feared he might have burnt you out.”

Another name he would not say, not when he knew more than anyone else how she’d felt.

“Don’t. Please, not now,” she whispered, “Not with everything back there, please?”

Her brother sighed, then kissed her temple.

“What kind of big brother would I be if I didn’t occasionally give unsolicited advice or opinions?” The playfulness was back in his voice, because they both knew it was too soon for her to hear much more.

“Just,” he’d push a tiny bit more, and she’d love him for it. “Take care of yourself Fee, promise? Please try not to fall too hard or too fast again for someone who doesn’t feel the same. For all the bullshit in the tabloids about you being a selfish party princess, I’ve never met someone as willing to give every last bit of yourself to those you love. Make sure they are worthy of it, ok?”

“And,” Gaël stood up, Miguel lingering in the door to signal they were expected to be social again. Here, Ophélie smiled, here she looked forward to rejoining a family after a meal. “Selfishly I can’t lose you given that you’re the only sibling I can stand, and who the fuck else would plan my bridal shower and various bachelor-esque pre-nuptial parties?”

“Various?” Her voice carried intentionally, switching to French as she stood, hugging her brother tightly in silent thanks before dragging him back inside the house. “What do you mean, various? Why would you ever get more than one?” She found Olivier instantly and slipped to his side. Miguel’s mother poured her more wine and laughed at the conversation her son had translated.

“Given my role as the token gay Redgrave,” Gaël started; Fee and Miguel both groaned.

#we told you this was melodrama | development #self para tag tbd #since its painful self para times MIGHT AS WELL

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dottiechan · 3 years ago

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Tempest (Pt. 5)

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5

Read on AO3

Pairing: Ava Du Mortain x f!Detective

Wordcount: 4048

Warnings: mourning, mentions of death and torture, smoking

Summary: The private detective must work through the sudden and unexpected disappearance of Ava - quite literally, as she embarks on solving her greatest mystery yet. But she is not the only one who's been busy...

A/N: This chapter is a rather long one as there's much to unpack at this point of the story, and there is much to explain. Sorry for the long wait, and thanks for being so patient and supportive of me!

The Private Detective’s Office, London, 1898

5 months after Ava’s disappearance

The key turns in the lock with ease. The door creaks as it gives way to the dark office. The lights flicker in the corridor outside, and the entrance gapes like a mouth ready to swallow her whole.

She steps inside, unaware of her fingers skittering across the glass pane that has the name of her detective agency painted on it. Some have great bloodlines to look back on, and nobles and kings to proudly call their ancestors. Her legacy is this stuffy little office, her sigil is a hand painted business logo. But her ancestor - her father - was a warrior too, noble of heart, even if not of blood.

She hangs her coat and hat, and proceeds to smooth down her hair before locking the door and switching on the lights. The old pieces of furniture that would have been regarded fashionable 20 years ago are dimly illuminated, and the sight of them makes her heart ache. They belonged to her late father, and in a way he lives on through them. The dent in the cushion of his chair where he always used to sit, the scuff marks on his desk he carelessly carved into the polished surface with books and folders, the medical and law tomes he hoarded lining the bookshelves that hug the dark green walls... As a child, she was afraid of coming here in the evenings - something they often did after her mother passed away and her father tried his best to raise her alone. The heavy nailhead leather armchairs looked like hunched monsters in the dark, the looming mahogany desk with its long curving legs resembled a giant spider, and the serious wallpaper enveloped this macabre scene like some sinister forest. “The real monsters are in here, my darling,” her father would ruffle her hair affectionately, pointing at the files he came to pick up.

It is late, but the office no longer feels scary. Her rational mind knows she should have gone home to her empty bed and her unread books and the cold supper awaiting her. And yet she’s here because hardly anything matters anymore. Because no place ever really feels like home ever since her father left. Well, her small house felt like home for a while when she was still here. But she left as well, and with her she took the last tattered shreds of joy the detective had somehow managed to cling to. She is submerged in saturnine reticence now, and ironically it helps her stay focused, even though it makes her more and more like the person she tried to thaw out. More and more like Ava.

One should only embrace the iciness of a statue if they’re willing to risk turning into marble themselves.

The Commissioner would be lucky to have a detective such as myself, she thinks bitterly as she glances down at the neatly kept files piled on her desk. Most are petty cases, even she has to admit - cheating husbands, unanswered invitations and letters, and the likes. But she takes all the work she can, and she prides herself on her ability to solve them with the proficiency of a man. Ava used to praise her for that. Now she whispers praises to herself even if the words turn sour in her mouth, because she will not let anyone ruin her. She will not. (Even though Ava has, because the world feels different without her in it.)

Her sudden disappearance left her on the precipice of panic at first. Ava, along with her partner Nate, simply vanished into thin air as if they never even existed at all, as if they were a pleasant reverie she used to lull herself to sleep at night. No trace, no item that belonged to them was left behind. If not for the spare key to her house being gone - the one she gave to Ava - she wouldn’t even be able to tell the difference between reality and her mad suspicions. But oh, she was here. She was. Missing her is a malady burrowed in her heart, but it is also the testament of her existence.

She opens the file on top, and hums in bitter satisfaction. Right. The aching of her heart isn’t the only testament anymore. It took her months, but she’s finally one step closer to the solution, planting her foot firmly and holding her crumbling sanity together with a determination she didn’t know she had. Ava was probably never meant to be in the background of a photograph taken during the opening night of the National Gallery of British Art.

But she was. And it really only takes one mistake.

The private detective picks up the photograph gingerly, giving herself one second to lose herself in the whirlwind of emotions Ava’s angular silhouette awakens in her.

One step closer.

She leans back in her chair, her gaze gliding over the photograph and landing on her personal little project. The blackboard is filled with dates, locations and places with a map pinned to the middle of it - by now, it is practically a blueprint of Ava’s and Nate’s every activity over the past two years. The deeper she digs, the more unknowns she unearths about the people she once thought she knew.

But there’s still time to get to know them - first impressions are overrated anyway.

Train station, Wayhaven, 1899

7 months after Ava’s disappearance

January quickly set to work and changed the countryside. It swooped down from the heavens and gently buried the forests and the hills under a heavy blanket of snow, concealing the detective’s childhood home from her as she exits the train, the handle of her heavy bag already digging into her gloved fingers. The shapes are still visible though underneath all the snow and ice - she sees the old station with the crumbling roof, the road leading into town, the bell tower of the small church peeking out just above the treeline. She recognises them all, though she sorely wishes she didn’t.

Because with the recognition comes the inevitable sting of her memories. Faces emerge in her conscious she hasn’t seen in years. The kindness of her mother’s eyes and the curve of his father’s lips, both lost forever now, never to be seen again, cutting deeper than a knife ever could.

An old woman is prating about her insufferable nephew, a business man is constantly checking his pocket watch with a disdainful look from across the station, three young women gossip, a man is rubbing his hands together in an effort to stimulate his circulation in the cold weather. The detective tunes out the comfortable commotion of the small town station, imagining she is still in London and not here. Anywhere but here. People brush past her, the train whistles and whirs to motion, and before she knows it, she is alone, paralysed in one spot, snowflakes catching softly on her fetching ensemble of a royal blue travelling dress and matching hat.

She takes a shaky breath, almost already on the verge of tears.

“Are you alright, Miss?”

No.

“Of course,” she turns with a slight smile. “Just admiring the view. I used to live here.”

“Ah, then the gossip about you was true,” the man nods, his eyes glinting intelligently under his bushy brows. There’s an apologetic smile sitting on his lips, and a twinge of regret spoiling the beauty of his otherwise handsome square jaw and bold features. “I apologise, I couldn’t help but overhear some women on the train talking about your father. About you.”

“I didn’t know our name carried such weight,” the detective admits cautiously, one hand reaching up to fix her hat self-consciously. The man seems to notice the way her fingers linger over the hat pin, and he almost cracks a grin. It would be a highly inappropriate moment to joke, and besides, he’d rather befriend this interesting person than anger her to a point where he’d end up being skewered by the hat pin in question. After all, her friendship and assistance is why he’s here.

“Your father served in India with Sir Edward Bardford, the current Police Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police,” he adds gently. “You were betrothed to Montagu Edward Bradford.”

“How do you know about that?” the woman asks, her eyes widened by shock as she takes a step closer to him.

“Who didn’t Montagu tell?”

The strained grin the stranger allows himself seems to put her momentarily at ease. Montagu did tell everyone, God rest his soul. In a way, she could never really begrudge him for the betrothal - it was their fathers’ scheming, even if Montagu really didn’t seem to mind. She always wanted a way out, but she never wished for his death. He was in India when it had happened, and she was in London. In a way, even 9 years after, it feels surreal. She never saw the body. For years afterwards, she sincerely thought he would turn up one day unexpectedly as if nothing had happened.

He never did.

“How awfully rude of me to not even introduce myself!” he exclaims suddenly, sheepishly sticking out his hand. “Dr Van Helsing. Abraham Van Helsing.”

“I believe Mont had spoken about you,” she nods as she shakes his hand, deliberately squeezing his fingers with more force than a mere handshake would warrant. Yet another trick she learned from Ava.

“I hope so. We were... we were quite close. I know it’s been a while since he...” Van Helsing pauses as he withdraws his hand and waves it in the air before drawing it up to his ginger curls. “Please accept deepest my condolences.”

“Thank you, Dr Van Helsing.”

Her tone signals the end of the conversation, and she nods her head stiffly before turning. She knew coming back here would unearth the loss of her parents, but she is not ready to speak of Montagu yet. She bared her soul once regarding the matter, and only to one person, but she will not repeat the experience again. As liberating as it had been to tell Ava everything, she wishes to leave this heartache and guilt where it belongs - in the past.

“Please wait. We got off on the wrong foot! I didn’t come here to ask you personal questions - in fact, it is a disappearance that I was hoping to discuss with you.”

“You are a physician, not an inspector, correct?” she asks over her shoulder, not bothering to slow down her steps as she strides towards an unclaimed hansom.

“Yes, but-”

“Are you here to hire me?”

“No-”

“Then we have nothing to talk about, Dr Van Helsing. Good day.”

The driver, smelling a wealthy client who’s just arrived from London, clambers down from his seat quickly to open the door for her to get in. Just before she could disappear inside, the physician speaks again.

“I’m trying to find Miss Ava Du Mortain and Mr Nathaniel Sewell. I was hoping we could help each other out, but more importantly, I was hoping to warn you.”

“Warn me?” the detective pauses, looking back at Van Helsing with genuine shock on her prepossessing features.

“They’re not who you think they are - what you think they are.”

There’s a stretch of silence between them as her eyes assess the tall, lanky man as he stands just before the hansom, hands stuffed into his coat pockets, his breath fogging in the chill air as he looks back at her expectantly. The nerve on this man alone is making the private detective want to leave him high and dry in the snow, but her insides twist and her pulse quickens at the mention of Ava’s name. She’s all but given up hope - for months now, she could find nothing regarding the woman and her partner, or the Agency they claimed to work for. She knows virtually nothing about this man, but her need to find Ava outweighs her better judgement.

“Are you hungry, Dr Van Helsing?” she asks, scooting further down the seat to make room for the man.

“Is eating and working on disappearance cases simultaneously a habit of yours, Miss?” the physician asks as he climbs in next to her.

“And here I was trying to be nice. I suppose I will not offer to pay for your lunch then.”

“I take it all back! I am positively famished.”

Meanwhile, across the train station

Lucille Licht twirls her cane, lips pressed into a disdainful frown. Cities at least have crowds upon crowds of people to distract her, but small towns such as Wayhaven hold no entertainment value whatsoever. She isn’t here on pleasant business anyway, she thinks to herself as she sighs, pulling her fur coat tighter around the expensive suit she’s wearing. No, she is here on ghastly business indeed, even by demon standards. But the prophecy was clear - though irritatingly vague too, no doubt to account for the rather large margin of error witches have these days in their prophecies. They’re more lawyers than soothsayers by now, their profession diluted by those who hunger for nothing but profit and security, and who are willing to sacrifice quality for those two aforementioned gains. Lucille finds sordid business such as this distasteful, even in her line of work. Falling from grace is one thing, but living in the Agency’s ever growing shadow is no excuse not to have honour among thieves. Or rogues. Or both, when it comes to the social circles she frequents.

A small voice in the back of her head whispers sadly, poisoning the faux assuredness she’s lulled herself into on the train. She’s just like I was, in a strange way. Before it all happened. And now I’m about to do the same horrible things to her that were done to me.

But the private detective is the one she’s been waiting for. She has to be. It all fits - the dead father, the career, the place where she was born. Lucille can’t smell anything strange about her blood yet, but she is sure she can bring about the power that was promised to reside in her veins. She has her ways, and her old magic, and her knife. And most importantly, her determination.

It was centuries ago, when she was stripped and bound and the curse was carved into her flesh. Strange, how vividly one can remember a single terrible moment, even centuries later. Even though the ancient magic rendered her undead, she can still feel the searing pain all over her body, red lines raging like fire in the form of symbols and Echolian text. It made her immortal, but it also bound her to her creator. He is the reason why she’s on the hunt. Why she is desperate to gain power beyond what she could achieve alone. Even as a human, as a meagre farmer’s child, she was roaming the fields of her father as she pleased. She was free. It was so long ago that she can’t even remember the name her parents gave her, but her freedom she remembers.

And nobody enslaves Lucille Licht and gets away with it.

Her slow burn vendetta must be coming to an end soon. There’s only so much of the supernatural underworld she can bring under her control - what she has will have to suffice. She already runs a widespread rogue organisation, with its key leadership positions held by her loyal Daughters, as she eloquently calls the women she’s bound to her service over the centuries the same way she was bound once. A necessary evil. Pawns in the game she plays with the Ancient One. There is nothing she wouldn’t do to ensure her victory in the coming battle. I will not be outwitted again by that Echolian bastard, she thinks, whacking away at a nearby bush with her cane. Specks of snow and ice glitter where her hits land. And yet she always finds herself hesitating before turning another human.

The abhorred feeling of helplessness always comes creeping back. As well as the pain, and the panic of thinking your life is about to end. She has to push it all down. Grit her teeth and get it over with. Months of preparation leading up to the final act that barely lasts ten minutes. And then you wait, and 3 days later their pain and mortality will be but a distant memory.

But she’s slipping. She no longer only hesitates before, now the intrusive self-doubt catches up to her after the rituals too. The Ancient One is still the centre of her nightmares, but the dream has changed. She is no longer the helpless little lamb brought to the slaughter. She is one with the Ancient One, his hand is hers too as it raises the knife, their voices merging together as they chant the same curse together.

She knew this victory would cost her everything. But she never imagined the real price to pay would be stepping up to fill the void the Ancient One’s death will create.

Lucille never wanted to be like him. She only ever wanted to kill him. But it seems those two things are one and the same.

She awakens from her thoughts when the man joins the private detective in the hansom. An annoying little man, that Dr Van Helsing is, though harmless in the grand scheme of things. It doesn’t matter that he’s taken care of a Transylvanian rogue vampire with his entourage, it would take far more to stop her plans now. Lucille focuses on the woman instead, letting her will force itself into her mind. All too easy, she raises her eyebrows in an unimpressed fashion as she flicks through her thoughts as if she were reading the latest issue of The Times. She thought she would be more difficult to read. To control. But alas, she is just like everyone else, aside from the love that seems to seep out of her every thought for none other than Agent Du Mortain.

She grins, remembering her failed attempt at getting to the private detective earlier. She’s learned several invaluable lessons in those two years. One, you can’t trust dark elf mercenaries, no matter how much you pay them. Two, it’s better to divert the attention of the Agency first before you try to kidnap someone who has important connections in the London Metropolitan Police. Three, love makes people do really, really stupid things.

Thankfully, Lucille Licht is a smart woman, and an even better strategist - not to mention a quite powerful demon with telepathic abilities and her boot firmly planted on the supernatural underground’s neck - and this time, she has learned from all three of her mistakes. This time, there will be no Agent Du Mortain rushing to the rescue. (But that doesn’t mean she can’t use her name as bait, yes?)

Cemetery, Wayhaven, 1900

1 year and 8 months after Ava’s disappearance

He doesn’t appreciate being jerked around the way he has been lately, but he isn’t a man to grumble too much either. He was closest to the backwater little town, he gets to check out the possible supernatural case. Everyone draws the short straw sometimes, and he’s learned to cope with it. He has certainly lived long enough to do so.

The wind shifts, and suddenly Agent Fuller’s nostrils are invaded by the stench of magic. Things finally start looking up for him, and that thought alone is enough to make him pick up his pace, excitement coursing through his body. He lights a cigarette to conceal the smirk threatening to overtake his lips when he sees the pallid looks of the constables as they pass him by. One stops him to ask what his business is out here, but the Agency has already notified the meagre Wayhaven police force, and he is soon on his way again to the centre of the commotion. Cemetery of the commotion would be a more accurate description though - the little town was as dead in the mid-February frost as a place could get, and aside from the bored stationmaster who gave him directions, these men are the first living beings he’s encountered since his arrival.

“Name’s Agent Fuller. What can you tell me about the crime scene, constable?” Fuller asks as he exhales a lungful of smoke, turning to the least disturbed looking man surveying the scene.

“Welcome to the middle of nowhere, sir. Why don’t you come see for yourself?”

A handshake and a suppressed grin later Fuller follows the young man down a row of tombs. They take a sharp turn to the left, and immediately it is clear why he was called here. The sight is confirmation enough, but the smell of potent and ancient magic is the real giveaway.

“Looks like we’ve got ourselves a walker,” Fuller snorts as he crouches down, picking up a piece of the crumbled marble.

“The poor woman was buried only 3 days ago,” the constable mutters, rubbing his hands together before bringing them to his lips and blowing hot air onto them, desperately attempting to revitalise his frozen fingers. “Who could do such a monstrous thing?”

“Indeed, who could...” the agent mutters, too focused to really pay attention to the human on his right. The tomb was torn open, the coffin deserted, the body missing. It coincides with many reports made over the centuries - it’s unfortunately not rare for the dead to be taken and repurposed again for magic, but this particular pattern is characteristic of demonic rogues having too much time on their necromantic little hands. He will need to consult a few colleagues to confirm it, but the 3 days and the apparent magic hanging in the air is all the evidence he needs right now.

He stands, the lapels of his dark coat flapping in the chilly wind ominously. There’s a page typed up about the busy life of his missing body in his pocket, crumpled around the edges from being handled carelessly, but he takes it out to skim over it again. That’s when he spots the little detail about the private detective’s history with the Agency that he seemed to have missed the first time around.

‘1896-1898: under Agency protection

Threat: classified

Agents on the case: A. Du Mortain, N. Sewell’

The Agency gossips like there’s no tomorrow, and ever since Lady Ashbury’s return to the main facility, the gossip about the ‘Ice Queen’ and her pet detective have been the most fashionable thing to blabber on about. And since Fuller has been to the scene, it will be him who will have to provide all the answers when Du Mortain comes with her demanding questions, no doubt breaking down doors in the process as it is in her nature. Fuller is by no means a man who shies away from conflict or hard work, but he’s never been particularly good with emotions. Explaining to a lovesick elder vampire that her alleged lover is now very dead, and also quite probably the plaything of a very bored and elusive demon who likes to play with necromancy is not a task he would gladly carry out.

“Well, shit.”

Fuller shoves the page back into his pocket and sighs. He should retire and buy a house in the wilderness. Get a cat. Maybe try some cocaine - he once saw Heinrich Quincke use it for spinal anaesthesia before one of his surgeries, and have been meaning to try it out ever since. But he does none of those things - he never does.

He walks back the way he came, trying to prepare himself for the most awkward conversation of the century.

Needless to say, he couldn’t prepare himself for what was to come. But for once, he couldn’t feel mad about a messy situations. He just felt a little more hollow afterwards. And then he got another case as this one was closed and the woman was declared dead once more. And he moved on.

But, like with all his cases ending in death, he never forgot.

#dottiechan writes #ava du mortain x detective #a du mortain x detective #the wayhaven chronicles #twc #twc detective #ava du mortain #a du mortain #a lot to unpack here #i know a lot might still appear strange but i promise it will all make sense soon haha

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imnotwolverine · 4 years ago

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Naked paint

Henry Cavill x reader drabble

Disclaimer: Naked painting fluff, with some teasing smut

Author’s note: It’s too darn hot in my house right now, so here’s a fitting drabble: Henry decides that clothes aren’t really all THAT necessary when you’re about to paint the hallway.

(Link to my Masterlist)

*SMACK*

Your buttocks quaked beneath his flat hand like a fancy jelly pudding would if you’d make it wear tight shorts. You gasped, turning around with glaring eyes but only heard his loud chuckles as he fled from the bedroom, the thick carpet silencing his footfalls.

‘CAVILL! YOU…You…’ Your warning words dried in the air as you didn’t see him, the bedroom now empty.

Sneaky…

You narrowed your eyes, rubbing your sore buttocks before carefully stalking onto the landing. It was late August and the Mews home was hot from more than just two smoking hot people living here. Hehe. No, but really though, it was torturously hot in London and these converted stables were obviously not built to keep this retched heat out.

You felt the freshly washed off sweat already beginning to bead again on your brow, your suspicious eyes looking for any movement. But no movement..no sound..no..

A head popped from the open bathroom. Henry. You snickered as you saw a very amused, widely smirking Henry look at you. ‘That hurt!’ You pouted playfully, quickly stalking over to him, wishing to swat him on his shoulder but forgetting all prior annoyances as your eyes fell down on..on..

Your mouth fell slightly agape as you looked down on a gloriously naked Henry.

‘What are …’ You simply couldn’t form words as you felt his hands move your already sweaty tank top up.

‘Hen..! We need to get this painting…-‘ He pulled the top over your head, muffling your words for a moment as he revealed your braless chest, naked like the day you were born. He smiled a most boyish smile, eyes twinkling with mirth. ‘Mhm.’ He simply nodded, starting to tug your shorts down. You quickly stopped him, eyes glaring at him with warning.

‘Is this your way of getting out of the single chore we had to do this week? ..Cavill?’ You widened your eyes, demanding him to answer.

He shook his head, his smile growing even wider.

‘I would..never!’ He said with exasperation, voice feigning innocence as his hands were still firmly placed on your hips, waiting for you to remove yours.

‘Then why are you..eh..naked?’ You gulped as your eyes travelled down for a hot second. Ugh. It should be illegal to have this man walk around naked.

‘Because…’ He used your slight moment of sexual bewilderment to pull your shorts and panties down in one swift move. ‘..it’s hot, love.’

You blinked as you were now as naked as he was, your cheeks flushing from more than just the temperature of the room. He brushed a loving thumb over your cheek, pressing a quick and innocent peck on your lips before slipping past you. You stood there for another confused moment, your eyes slowly casting a glance over your shoulder as you watched his perfect pair of bum rolls stride into your beloved “clutter room”.

Oh and that butt should DEFINITELY be illegal. UGH!!

You heard him rummage around the room and you furrowed your brows, not being completely at ease with being so very..naked. It was no strange feat for Henry to parade around the house naked, but.. you? Oh no, you were the kind of girl who preferred to use those naked moments of his so you could stealthily “borrow” from his grand collection of sweaters and sweatpants.

Then again, this was most definitely not the kind of weather for sweaters or sweatpants, your body already sweating from the mere sight of Henry walking back from the clutter room with a box of painting materials in his strong hands. Paint rollers, brushes, tape, cover-up plastic, all gathered in a box that he held up right before his crown jeweled glory.

You tilted your head, eyeing him as he casually walked past you - as if he weren’t butt naked -, his head only turning just before he reached the first stair board.

‘Coming?’ He asked, raising a devilishly handsome eyebrow.

He wanted to tease huh?

You grumbled, casting a quick side glance in the mirror of the bathroom - hello hot mess! - before following him down the stairs. You felt your naked feet stick to the warm wood of the stairs, before finally you arrived on the far more pleasant and cool tile floor of the hallway.

‘Alright. So..all walls?’ He asked, looking up to check all the hard to reach corners.

‘Yep. Gotta tape off the woodwork, floor, perhaps edges of the ceiling too. I don’t know how steady your hand is, but..’ You smiled gingerly as he raised that eyebrow again, this time offering you a cheeky side glance.

‘You know how skilled my hands are dear.’ He said, quickly reverting his eyes back to the ceiling above you.

You rolled your eyes. ‘Yea..your upside down CPU cooler can vouch for that.’

‘HEY..I fixed that!’ He retorted, giving you a disdained look, the mirth still clear in his deep blue eyes. Blue that would fit well with the duck egg blue you had chosen for paint. You winked cheekily in turn, escaping his hand before he could swat your ass again, your legs quick to carry you to the dining table where the tubs of paint were waiting.

Meanwhile you could hear Henry unload the items from the box, your eye peaking over your shoulder to see if he could see you. Oh, yes, you were in perfect line of view. You suppressed a smirk and swayed your hips a bit more than necessary as you moved to the stereo set - also in perfect line of view -, taking it upon yourself to turn on some music.

‘Mmm…love that song.’ You hummed to the music, perkily tip-toeing back to the table and reading the instructions on the paint jar - something you’d NEVER do, but you wanted to tease Mr. Tease a little in turn. Swaying your hips and head, you peered studiously at the label, waiting for your frolicking to take effect. Which, from the sound of it was working as well as expected. The fumbling and shuffling of items from the box quieted, two blue eyes taking you in.

‘Whatcha doin’ angel?’ He asked, trying to sound casual, but the arousal clear in his deep honeyed baritone.

‘Mmm..you know. Painting naked.’ You shrugged, turning your attention back to the paint instructions. You heard him groan, getting up, the oak floorboards of the living room creaking quietly under his weight as he moved closer. You didn’t look up until he folded his arms around you, half-erect cock pressing into your back.

‘Need help with that?’ He purred.

You chuckled, then continued to play your little game, simply detangling yourself from his arms and walking away, so you could pick up the roll of tape he had discarded on the ground - taking your sweet time to bend over and pick it up with mild exaggeration.

Hmmm..you enjoyed it when his chest rumbled like that, but you didn’t wish to gratify his desire just yet. He wanted to paint naked? Then you and him were going to paint. Naked. Very..very naked.

You unrolled some of the tape, before looking over your shoulder..a VERY aroused Henry now looking at you with slightly tilted head and proud erection.

‘Kitten…’ He warned. You pouted, unrolling the tape further, acting like nothing was amiss.

‘What..?’ You smiled sweetly.

You could see the cogs and wheels turning in his head, his jaw flexing as he licked his lip. ‘Teasing me, hmm?’ He tried to keep himself together, but everything about him made it obvious he was aroused. Especially his deep, rumbling voice.

You shrugged, turning and sitting down with your knees on the ground, bending over just enough so you could offer him a nice little display while you taped off the floor plinth.

‘Very well..’ He grumbled, walking back into the hallway and grabbing the plastic, starting to unfold it at the very end of the hallway before slowly rolling it out until he reached you. You wished to getup and move, but he was already a step ahead, his hands moving around your hip to lift you up like you were a light piece of furniture.

You protested with loud squeals, arms and legs kicking out. ‘HENNERS PUT ME DOWN.’

He kept up with his little game, simply placing you back on the floor on all fours, plastic now crackling under your hands and knees. You looked up at him with an angry glare, your teeth biting your lower lip. ‘You could have just ASK-‘

He clicked his tongue, shaking his head. ‘Now dear. It’s far too hot to get all worked up.’ Your eyes met and the humour was evident in his eyes. You rolled your eyes again, his lips curling back in a smile.

He was SUCH a tease.

But thankfully two could play that game.

You curled your lips in a sweet but menacing smile as well, raising an eyebrow as you looked straight at his still very erect cock.

‘Could say the same for you, pumpkin.’ You cooed, blinking with your long lashes. He HATED it when you called him pumpkin. With a passion. And it worked quite the charm right now, his tongue flicking out once more to wet his lips, eyes darkening.

‘So where’d you like to get the..paint..first?’ He said, eyes slowly browsing down your body as you still sat on all-fours. You shrugged. ‘Wherever you’d like to start.’

The tease in your sweet voice wasn’t missed by him as he growled that sexy rumble again, the beast in him awakening.

’So can do.’ He said. You looked at each other for another long moment, both feigning innocence, but knowing better than that.

‘With this speed, it’s going to be an all-nighter Mr. Cavill.’ You admonished, slowly getting up, leaving the tape roll on the floor, his eyes remaining locked with yours.

‘Are we in a..hurry then..hmm?’ He stalked closer.

‘Paint dries fast when it’s hot.’ You whispered into his lips.

‘Better not waste a moment then.’ He whispered huskily in turn. And in the blink of an eye you were no longer in the hallway, your body being unceremoniously dropped on the couch in the living room as Henry got to work on something else that required his immediate attention.

You.

Tagsquad: @tumblnewby @magdelen69

#henry cavill smut #henry cavill fanfiction #henry cavill fanfic #henry cavill fluff #henry cavill x reader #henry cavill x you #hot #painting naked #naked painting #home decorating #fluff #smut #teasing #henry cavill drabble #drabble

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lonelyreputation · 4 years ago

Text

Cross The Line

A/N: Hiiii!! I know I said I would be posting angst next, but ha! Sike!!! Here’s a SMUT piece for ya! Ha! To the anon who requested this––So sorry that it's been so long sljdflksd writing takes me a while and then you add smut (well, I added it in lmao) into the mix I tend to overthink alksjfld Keep your eyes peeled for some new fics!! I have a new chapter of C’est Toi, Different, and some other ones coming next week!

As always, let me know what you guys thought!! 💫 💗 Thank you to everyone for your immensely kind words!!! My heart is always filled to the brim with kindness by you lot 🥺

REQUEST: Stylist!ReaderxShawn // Friends to Something More

Let’s Chat!! | MASTERLIST

Warnings: SMUT!!! LIKE ALL THE WAY SMUT THIS TIME!! AHH!!!

Word Count: 7.2K

The excitement backstage was nothing like you had felt before. After coming off a successful European leg of tour, with a two month break, everyone was reenergized. Stagehands were high-fiving the merchandise team, the lighting director was laughing with the audio technician, and Andrew was playing tag with the band.

You were leaned up against the back wall with Connor, discretely listening in on Shawn’s fan Q&A before the show.

“What’s your favorite outfit that Y/n’s put together for you?”

At the sound of your name your postured straightened and Connor nudged an elbow into your stomach. You turned your head to the side and whispered a harsh keep your hands to yourself.

“That’s not what you told Shawn the night of the last London show.”

You whipped your head to look at Connor, eyes wide, “You swore to never bring that up again.”

Connor’s smirk only widened as he turned his head back to face Shawn. You followed his gaze and saw that he was looking down and twirling the white rose he held between his fingers, “Um…I liked the VMA outfit she dressed me in––The green suit.”

The crowd aww’d at his shyness while some let out little shrieks of joy as they clutched their friend’s hand. Once Shawn looked up from the rose, cheeks nice and red, his eyes automatically landed on you in the back. He offered you a secret smile as you shot your head down to look at your feet; both knowing exactly how that night ended with his suit on the floor.

“Did you miss her the most when you went on break?”

Connor nudged his elbow into your side again, and before you could silently tell him off again, Shawn’s soothing voice captured your attention.

“I mean yeah, sure––I––“ he was cut off by even more shrill screams of the fans when he admitted to missing you. The fans sounded exactly how you felt on the inside, “––Of course I missed her, she’s one of my best friends,” more shrill screaming, “And like––I––I missed everyone––Connor, Andrew, Cez–––“

“But you missed her the most, right?”

Shawn’s eyes momentarily connected with yours for a minute before moving his soft eyes to meet the fan who cut him off, “I think it’s time for me to get ready for the show.”

With his avoidance of the question, the fans only squealed more––taking it as confirmation that yes, he did miss you the most––and Connor nudged your side once more. You shot him a glare as you pushed yourself off from the wall with your foot.

“Some of us have to actually work, Connor.”

He let out a stifle of a laugh and shot you yet another mischievous glance, “I’m sure you’ll get plenty of work done dressing him down before the show.”

Connor scurried away out the door and down the hall as you stood in the back with your mouth hung open. Sure, you and Shawn had some sort of relationship that challenged the line of friends or more, but he was your boss and you were his employee.

Everyone turned a blind eye whenever Shawn threw an arm around you, pulled you in close to his side, and pressed a prolonged kiss to your cheek. And everyone ignored you when you took extra time buttoning up his shirt. Everyone––the fans, the crew, even Andrew––was conscious about the peculiar dynamic between the two of you, but no one ever said anything because you two knew not to never cross that line.

Shawn took a chance hiring you with only minimal experience on your resumé, fresh out of university with a fashion merchandising degree. It started with shy smiles and Shawn bringing you a cup of tea made to your liking every time he saw you. Then the nervous laughter turned into longing stares as he looked down at you shining his shoes. And finally, after fixing the collar of his shirt, when you let your hands rest on his chest for a few seconds longer than normal, he ducked his head and kissed you.

It was quick. A soft press of his lips against yours that happened so fast you didn’t process what had happened until he was a rambling mess in front of you. He apologized at least a hundred times: I’m so so sorry, Y/n––I don’t know what I was thinking––I just thought that you––And I––I thought there was something between us––I’m so sorry––I crossed a line.

You let him collect his final thoughts as he let out a deep sigh of embarrassment, turning on his heels to dart out of the room and hide until the end of time, but you took hold of his hand before he could take a step away from you. The seconds you held his hand gently in yours felt like hours as you held your breath.

You remembered how thick the air was with tension. All of the secret glances and private touches led up to this moment. With a shaky breath, you let out a whisper that rang through both of your ears, I think I feel something, too.

Not even a second later, Shawn took your face in both of his hands as he pressed a hard kiss to your lips. It was everything a first kiss with someone new was; noses bumping against each other, a few awkward teeth clanks, and accelerated heart rates. But with more time exploring one another, the two of you knew exactly what the other enjoyed between the sheets.

You were walking down the hall, on your way to Shawn’s dressing room, when a strong arm draped around your shoulder. You felt a smile tug at the corner of your lips, knowing exactly who it was, as they fell into sync with your walking pace.

“What’s the hurry, roadie?”

You rolled your eyes at the nickname Shawn bestowed on you when you told him the horror story of telling your parents you would be traveling to work for him. So, like a roadie? Your mother had said with a twinge of disdain in her voice, not fully believing that this was neither a viable source of income nor a stable career.

You brought an arm to wrap around his waist, “Just on my way to dress up a client.”

“Must be a pretty important client if you’re walking that fast.”

“Well,” you peered up at him and saw that he was looking straight forward with a smirk on his face, “Was maybe hoping to just have some time alone together before.”

Your voice was soft, wavering a little like the day you told him you felt something between each other for the first time. Your voice didn’t imply that you wanted to do anything sexual with him, it was said with a more innocent tone, because you really did just want to spend some time alone with him. The easy going and zen aura he manifested definitely had an effect whenever you spent time with him.

You felt at peace when you were in the same room as him. You felt at ease when he sat next to you on the couch. And you felt giddy whenever he slotted his hand between yours and played with your fingers.

You had begun to feel something way more than the excitement of a sexual relationship. But you didn't know how Shawn felt. You two never talked about your feelings for each other. Of course you enjoyed each other’s presence a little too much, cared for each other a little more than how best friend’s cared for each other, and you thought a little more about what his words meant than just a regular friend.

You had crossed the line with your feelings.

“C’mon,” Shawn guided you toward the double doors that led out of the arena and to the parking lot with the tour busses.

Your movements held no objection as you let him direct you, but your voice was different, “But you have to get ready–––”

“I wear the same pair of jeans and white shirt,” Shawn looked down at you with a smile as you felt the heat of the Portland air on your skin, “I’ll be fine.”

“You do not wear the same pair of jeans every night,” you objected, “I make sure they get washed after every performance,” you glared at him as his tour bus came into view, “so if you’re wearing the same pair then we need to have a serious talk.”

Shawn let out a boisterous laugh as he detached his arm from around your shoulder to open the door. You offered him a smile as a thank you and walked up the stairs into the familiar temporary home.

Shawn followed close behind you and swiftly closed the door. You could feel your heart hammering in your chest with the silence. You were always nervous to be alone with him, but with recognizing your newfound feelings for him, all thoughts of composure left your mind and you were left in a puddle of your emotions.

“You know I––I didn’t––” Your back was to him, but you still shut your eyes tight in embarrassment, “––I didn’t mean I wanted anything more when I said I wanted alone time with you.”

“I know,” his voice was deep as you heard it from behind.

“I just––I like spending time with you,” your arms hung stiffly at your sides, hands curling into fists so tight at your confession, that you knew there would be a dozen crescent moon shapes along your palm, “We don’t need to do anything.”

You could feel Shawn’s breath hit the back of your neck as he spoke, “I know.”

“But like––If you want to––We can do stuff because I like that too, but I––I just wanted you to know that I…” your words trailed off as you felt Shawn’s hands ghost over your own, simultaneously easing your nerves and heightening them all at once, “…I like the times when we don't do any of that stuff.”

“I like those times too.”

It was the closest thing to a confession of feelings shared between the two of you.

In a moment of confidence, you spun around to face him, scared to see his facial expression. While Shawn was gifted in the way he expressed words, you knew him well enough to know that his facial expressions held the full truth. So, when you glanced up at him, and he was looking into your eyes with the same amount of desperation and longing you had in yours, you took your confidence up to another level.

You looped your index finger into the gap above one of the buttons on his shirt and pulled him in for an innocent kiss, curling your other hand around his neck.

When you pulled back, he seemed to be in a bit of a dazed and dreamlike state, with his lips pink and slightly parted as his brown eyes stared affectionately into yours. The look in his eyes alerted you to the fact that maybe he wanted this too. Maybe he wanted to tiptoe across the line with you.

“I like being with you,” you said, voice barely above a whisper as you spoke the words that both of you knew held a deeper meaning. Your fingers continued to play with the curls at the nape of his neck, “You calm me down.”

Another moment of silence passed and you felt the nerves bubble up in your stomach. But you knew that Shawn felt the same way, you could tell by looking into his eyes as you saw the mechanics whirling through his mind, debating on whether or not to cross the line.

You were across the line and held out a hand for him to join you.

Just when you were about to retreat from the bus out of embarrassment that maybe he only wanted to be physical with you, he gathered you up and kissed you again, one hand on your cheek as it slid down your neck. You were positive he could hear the beat of your heart as he slowly walked you backwards down the little living area and to his private room in the back.

You broke the kiss, “But soundcheck––”

“They can find someone else to sing into the mic,” he interrupted you, turning the knob of the door to the small bedroom. The door flew open and Shawn reattached your lips as he rushed the two of you inside. And then, as if there were prying eyes of eager fans who wanted to know every detail about his life around, he shut the door right behind him so that it was just the two of you in the room.

Alone for the first time since crossing the line.

Shawn wasted no time in taking your hips in his hands as he pressed you up against the door, attacking you with kisses. The odd plastic material of the door was uncomfortable against your back, but with Shawn’s chest pressed up against yours, you didn’t mind it.

As if it would be the last time you kissed, the two of you weren’t holding back. The kisses he gave you, that you reciprocated, were open-mouthed, rough, and fiery.

In moments like these, it was your greatest desire to run your hands along his chest, to be as physically close to him as possible, to rest your hands on his chest to feel if his heartbeat was beating as fast as yours. But with both of his hands pinning your arms down to your sides, Shawn made that impossible, and you were forced to keep your arms limp as he nipped down your neck.

But after a few shrugs of your shoulder, he released your arms and you immediately wrapped your arms around his neck, fingers tugging on his hair. Shawn was particular when people touched his hair, and your fingers were full of hesitance when they first combed through his curls, but from the guttural sound he made when you pulled his hair from your collarbone back up to your lips, you knew he wasn’t complaining about you messing up his hair.

As much as you wanted to feel him, you savored the feeling of him touching your body. His fingers ran up and down your sides, tracing lines on your back, inching your dress up.

Suddenly, as if the reality of the situation came crashing down on him, he pulled away from you and ran his own hand through his hair. You didn’t have to feel his heartbeat to know that it was beating just as fast as yours.

While you weren’t pleased by the sudden loss of contact, you couldn’t help but feel the slow tug of a smile at the corners of your mouth as you looked at him. His white collared shirt was wrinkled and half-way untucked from his black skinny jeans. And his curls were sticking up in a few different directions.

“You still wanna do this?”

His voice wavered in uncertainty, just like it did the day he first kissed you.

You stepped forward, hooking your index fingers through his belt loops, as you tilted your head up to sneak another kiss away from him as your answer. Finally, he crossed the line and was with you on the other side.

Shawn held your head in his hands, tucking your hair behind your ears as he dragged his tongue across your lip to tease you. You could’ve done without the short and sudden break of his kisses, but you would do anything for him if it eased his nerves.

There was a change of pace to the way he touched you. Your heart was still beating at a pace that would worry some medical professionals, but you felt calm and a sense of control you hadn’t felt before. Your fingers stumbled over his belt buckle as you somehow managed to unhook it, only breaking your kisses once to pull the belt out of the loops. You held the leather material loosely in your hands, as you let it it slip away, dropping to the floor of the tour bus carelessly, the clanking of the buckle was loud enough for both of you to jump.

“My bad,” you nervously laughed off your embarrassment. Shawn pulled away slightly to stare at you. A smile softly made its way onto his face as he tilted his head to look at you with adoration. You felt hot under his gaze, but you didn’t mind the attention you were receiving from him.

Just like every time you had been together, you wanted to watch him come undone and know that it was you who caused him to feel that way.

Shawn’s eyes traveled up, smile widening as crinkles appeared in the corner of his eyes as he softly laughed at the flower crown tangled in your hair. It took both of his hands to remove it, and when he found a strand of hair tangled on the stem of one of the flowers, he gently unraveled it.

“I thought it added a nice touch to my outfit, a fan gave it to me,” you said with a pout as Shawn placed the flower crown on the small table in the room, “Don’t you like to play dress-up?”

“No,” Shawn answered with a whisper, “I’m tired of games.”

There was something about his voice, a delicateness to it that held a certain amount of desperation––of exhaustion––that you wanted to make disappear.

His tone was soon replaced with a boyish smile before he reattached your lips to his. Both of you took your time, but the urgency in your kisses and touches didn’t go unnoticed. Your fingers went to unbuttoning his shirt as you guided him to walk backwards to his bed. Once the top half of the shirt was unbuttoned, you slid your hands inside, spreading the shirt open to pop off the rest of the buttons. Shawn pulled his arms out one by one, as the shirt slowly slid off his shoulders, making sure that he always had a hand on your body. Once his shirt was fully unbuttoned and hanging from the top of his jeans, you tugged on the tucked portion out of his pants to threw it on the floor.

“That shirt wrinkles easily,” Shawn easily smiled at you, “My stylist will have your head.”

You let out a humorless laugh as you ran your hands over his chest, “I hear if you ask her nicely she’ll do anything you say.”

His skin was warm like the summer air.

“Will she now?” His smile morphed into a smirk as you felt him fiddle with the zipper on the back of your dress. You nodded your head as you felt him pull the zipper down your back in a teasingly slow manner only to zip it right back up.

He did that a few times and the control over him you felt before was dwindling away with every tug of the dress zipper. Instead of surrendering and giving him the upper hand, you placed a hand on his chest and pushed him onto the bed. Surprised by your act of boldness, he tilted his head up at you. But you could see that he enjoyed whatever dynamic was happening from the mischievous glint that twinkled up at you.

You moved to stand in between his legs, looking down at him and mirroring the lust in his eyes, as he wrapped his hands around your thighs at your knees and dragged his hands up. He never broke eye contact with you as his hands moved further up your thighs, disappearing under the material of your dress.

You urged Shawn to scoot back on the bed. With your hands on his shoulders to keep balanced, you straddled him, resting your knees on either side of him. You paused for a moment to run a hand through his hair before bending your head to capture his lips in a kiss. Shawn’s hands gripped your waist, and with one hand inching up your back toward the zipper, he finally managed to bring the zipper all the way down.

But before your moment of intimacy could continue on, you pulled back and raised your eyebrows at him. Shawn didn’t seem too pleased at the loss of contact, but didn’t press you any further than what you were comfortable with.

“Are you sure?”

You were giving him an out; he knew that. And while you wanted nothing more to continue on with what was to come, first and foremost he was your boss. You were on his payroll and you didn’t want to make things any more complicated than they already were. Sure, the two of you had sex before, but this was crossing a line into uncharted territory with real feelings.

Your question caused his smile to falter a little. But with a hoarse voice, he managed to soften his eyes as they stared into yours, doing his best to convey every word, “Really fucking sure.”

The way he looked into your eyes––like you held every inspiration to every one of his future songs and how his voice sounded like he was pleading with you to let him imoralitize every detail of this feeling on pen and paper––you almost surrendered. You almost let him have complete control to do whatever he pleased to your body, just so you could really feel the true impact of his words. But you didn’t want to wave a white flag just yet, so you motioned him to slide further back on the bed, placing a hand flat on his chest and pushed him down.

You had never been so forward with him, so direct in what you wanted, that a gasp escaped from his throat when his head hit the pillow. Leaning over him, you lowered yourself down, pinning his arms by his biceps, much like he had done to you earlier against the door, and caught him in a kiss. This time, your tongue dominated, exploring every inch of his mouth and softly biting down on his lower lip, dragging it away with you until you released it.

Shawn didn’t fight you, and you kept your grip on his biceps as you trailed kisses up his jaw all the way to his ear, nibbling on the lobe. Your kisses up and down his neck were full of desire, licking and sucking your way down.

Shawn sighed as you reached his collarbone, and when you peered up at him, his eyes were closed. His body radiated with warmth, as you moved your lips slowly down his chest, as you released the grip you had on his arms to caress his chest.

As soon as his biceps were free from the constraints of your hands, Shawn gained the upper hand, and flipped you over so you were on your back. He sat with his knees between your legs, with the lack of control you felt sheepish under him, but he offered you a shy smile that rekindled the light in your lower abdomen.

Shawn started at your knees, one hand on each, and ran his hands over your legs. His eyes were bright and alluring, stare never faltering, as your body was on high alert, attentive as his fingers skimmed underneath your dress.

Even with the dress still on, you felt exposed, as he gripped your thighs with each hand and pulled you toward him. Then he leaned down toward you, moving slowly between your legs and up your torso to give you another kiss.

“Y/n,” Shawn hummed as if not believing he was awake for this moment. He slowly dragged down a strap of your dress and kissed the spot of your shoulder where it had previously laid, “We’re gonna do this?”

“I…I want to,” you admitted shyly, pulling your arm out of the strap. Shawn helped you remove your other arm from the strap as you asked, “Do you want to?”

Shawn smiled, “I really want to.” He sat up, pulling your dress up over your head so fast that you weren’t even sure how it happened until you felt a coldness over your exposed body.

Your dress was tossed carelessly on the floor, as Shawn leaned down to press his chest against yours.

“Cold?” Shawn mumbled as he kissed his way down your neck.

“Um…no,” you sighed in response to his gentle biting at your skin. “You––You’re really warm.”

Shawn leaned over and pulled back the covers on the bed, and nodded for you to climb under the sheets, which you did without hesitation. As your head hit the pillow, Shawn crawled in soon after, unclasping your bra as he glided the straps down your shoulders.

Your fingers fumbled with the button on his pants, which was a little hard considering how tight you were pressed up against each other under the covers. But once you popped the button from his jeans off, Shawn wiggled his legs from out of his pants, flinging them aside. There was a noticeable bulge in his boxer-briefs, and you sucked in a deep breath. Your moment of shyness caused him to let out a small chuckle as he brought a hand to rest on your stomach.

“I kinda like it when you’re nervous,” Shawn whispered and nudged your feet apart, brushing his fingers along the waistband of your underwear. He dipped his index finger below the waistband, gasping when he touched your skin.

“I’m––We’ve had sex before,” you tried to keep your voice even, but with his fingers dropping dangerously low, your voice wavered, “I’m not…nervous.”

Shawn shut his eyes and leaned down to press a peck on your lips. “Okay,” his words were muffled against your lips, as his fingertips lightly brushed over your crotch that was still covered by your underwear. You shivered again, but this time it wasn’t from the cold air. He placed the hand on your waist to hold you in place as he leaned down to catch your lips in a heated kiss. His tongue slid into your mouth with no reservations as his hand rubbed soft circles on the inside of your thigh.

His hand left your thighs and traveled upward, pressing a hand flat on you, watching you for your reaction to his touch.

You were crumbling like a cookie when he brought his hand to his mouth, sliding his index and middle finger between his lips. You felt the anticipation building in your lower stomach. He brought his fingers out of his mouth, raising his eyebrow and smirking at you, glowing with smugness. Before you could criticize him for it, his hand slid under your underwear, with his wet fingers gliding over you in between your slit.

As if it was like you were on autopilot, your eyes closed, head falling back on the pillow as you started to feel the build up of the state of euphoria you knew Shawn was going to lead you to. His fingers were agonizingly slow at first as they became acquainted with the sensitive area. His movements were torturous as you bit your bottom lip to keep any obscene words from coming out. Every time the pads of his fingers rubbed your clit, your breath got caught in your throat.

When your eyes opened, just for a millisecond, you should see that his eyes were only focused on you. His eyes seemed just as intrigued by your reaction as you were with his fingers. You brought a hand up onto his shoulder, slowly moving it to the back of his neck to hold you for support, bringing him down for a kiss that you instantly deepened. Shawn made that sound again, a content grunt in the back of his throat, as you felt the feeling of the bulge grow against your thigh.

Still breathing heavily, Shawn broke the kiss, but still had his fingers working down below.

“I want you,” he breathed, lips against your ear. And from the way his fingers skimmed over you with ease, slippery and coated, he knew just how much you wanted him.

Before you could verbalize your desire for him, his arm tightened around you as he pushed your thighs further apart with his knee. His middle finger began to move in circles over your clit, gentle at first, then increasing in pressure. You threw your head back onto the pillow, clenching your jaw tight to hold off the sounds you knew he wanted you to make. But when the speed of his fingers increased, you opened your eyes and were automatically met with his determined eyes staring into yours, you couldn’t fight the moan that escaped your lips. You brought an arm up to curl around his neck to lift yourself up slightly from the bed as you buried your head into the crook of his neck to muffle the sound of your moans.

When Shawn removed his finger from beneath your underwear for a split second you groaned into his neck, missing the contact of his skin on yours when you were so close to a release. He took his wrist and rolled it to stretch it out and then his hand dipped right back in as you pressed a kiss to his neck.

His movements were a little sloppier with his tired hand, but the feeling in your lower stomach began to build faster and faster with every flick of his wrist. A tingly feeling started out on the tip of your toes and spread further and further up your body, making all of the hair on your body stick up.

When you finally felt it––the tensing of your muscles and a euphoric release all at once––you threw your head back on the pillow, bringing Shawn down with you, as your hips bucked against his hand. But his movements didn’t stop there, he kept his finger circling your clit, encouraging you to ride out your high.

You were not a stranger to Shawn making you feel like you were on top of the world, but something about confirming your mutual want for each other beyond a little fun here and there, made your orgasm earth shattering. You felt it rip through your body that left you in a puddle on the bed. Shawn slowed down his movements, hooking his fingers around the band of your underwear, helping you shimmy out of them. In one swift movement, he discarded your underwear somewhere around the room and removed his own.

Once he kicked his legs to get his underwear off from around his ankles he trapped you in a kiss, grinding his body against yours, not shy about his growing hardness brushing against the inside of your thigh.

With a lazy smile, he pulled away from the kiss as he lifted his body from yours, reaching over to the small night stand next to the bed. He fumbled his hand inside the drawer, “Where is it––Fucking thing––Got it,” he slammed the drawer closed with a bang as he retrieved the condom, ripped the package open, and left the wrapper on the night stand.

As you watched him slip the condom on, all you could think of was how many times you found yourself in this position; lying beneath Shawn, forehead glistening with a bit of sweat, as you felt a shiver shake your body at what was about to happen.

Shawn leaned down, leaving a trail of kisses up your stomach before meeting your lips. His warmth spread over you, bringing a slight relaxing effect to your nerves. Your breaths were shallow, chest rising and falling rapidly. Shawn noticed your nerves and paused, the tip of his shaft against your opening.

“Everything’s alright,” he lightly brushed his lips against yours in reassurance.

Shawn waited until he got a nod in confirmation from you before he continued, and in one swift motion, he slid in with ease. You scrunched up your nose and screwed your eyes shut as you felt him push himself further into you. It was a pleasurable sensation, but you couldn’t deny the little bit of pain you felt as he stretched your walls.

When Shawn saw the expression on your face, he slowed down his movements, letting out a grunt as he came to a complete stop, “Okay?”

There was a tenderness behind his words from the way he checked in on you to make sure you were comfortable. He had always been gentle and kind with you in the past, but this felt more special. And the more you looked up at his face, with his eyebrows scrunched together in concern, it planted a seed of confidence in your stomach to try something neither of you had done in the bedroom together; you lightly pushed at his chest for him to get off you.

Before he could get a word past his lips, you sat up and swung one of your legs over his waist. You took his cheeks into your hands, and when Shawn realized what you were doing, a smirk grew on his face. He propped himself up on his elbows, moving back on the bed a bit, as you placed your hands on his shoulders.

Without another word, you lowered yourself onto him, Shawn trying his best to keep his eyes open and connected with yours.

But when you sunk fully down onto him, he screwed his eyes tight, throwing his head back against the flimsy tour bus headboard, “Shit.”

You kept one hand on his shoulder as the other trailed up to hold his cheek in your hand, thumb grazing his jawline as you felt it tighten. You moaned softly, neither one of you saying a word, as your fingernails dug into his shoulder.

With the new position you found yourself in, you had more of a sense of control than any of the other times you were intimate with him. It was something you liked. You were moving, up and down, at a rhythmic pace, as Shawn ran his fingers up and down your thighs. He placed a hand on your waist, keeping you in position as he moved further back on the bed.

Your movements were faster and Shawn pressed a quick kiss to your lips as he lowered his head and placed his lips over your breast. If it wasn’t for Shawn’s hand on your hip, encouraging you to keep up with your movements, you would have stopped right then and there. Your mouth hung open as you felt his tongue swirl around your nipple, at a loss for words, you ran your fingers through his curls and pulled on them a little. Shawn moaned against your breast in pleasure, sending vibrations throughout your body.

Shawn lifted his head and placed a sweet kiss below your ear, “Relax.” His voice was soft, but seeing as you two were still connected at the hips, his voice was thick.

You hadn’t realized that your breathing was sharp and uneven. You stilled your hips and pressed a hand against your chest, as you tried to calm down your breathing. You were more embarrassed about your erratic breathing than you were about being naked on top of him. He had seen you naked before, but never had he seen you nervous quite like this.

“I…” You were racking your brain for an excuse, but with a quirk of his eyebrow and a soft smile, you knew any lie you told would be detected by him, “I’m nervous.”

Shawn smiled and placed a gentle kiss on your cheek before wrapping his arms around your waist to bring you in for a hug. His calloused fingers ran up and down your spine as you buried your head in the crook of his neck, taking in a deep, shaky breath.

“It’s alright,” Shawn whispered into your ear, fingers still delicately dancing on your back, “Trust me.”

He pressed a few kisses on your shoulder before you nodded your head against him. You trusted him a lot. More than you probably should. With your confirmation, Shawn pressed a quick kiss to the top of your head and wrapped a strong arm around your waist as he swiftly flipped you over onto your back.

Without a slight notion of hesitation, Shawn thrusted back into you, so deep that you clenched your teeth and pressed your head deep onto the pillow. You gasped as he pulled out, and when he thrusted back into you again, sharp and quick, you parted your lips, "Shawn.”

Shawn’s pace was faster than yours, but his thrusts were still careful and executed perfectly as he hit the right spot every time. You let out a sigh of content at the sensation of being joined together with another person––a person you cared deeply about.

He kept himself hovered over you with a hand fisting the white sheets right by your head, and hooked his other arm under your thigh, wrapping it around his waist. He held your thigh in place as he continued his fast thrusts. The only sound you heard in the tiny back room of the tour bus were the mixed gasps of air shared between the two of you and the slap of skin as Shawn repeatedly pushed into you.

Your head started to spin as you felt your stomach tighten, reaching your peak. Shawn had taken the words right from you since he stood behind you when you first walked onto the tour bus. So, as you struggled to keep the lewd sounds of your orgasm to a minimum, you tried to keep your eyes locked with the brown irises above you. His eyebrows were scrunched together as he bit on his bottom lip, concentrating on every thrust of his hips as they collided with yours.

His eyes were soft, trailing down your body and then back up to stare into your eyes. You brought a hand up to his forehead and pushed back the curls that were slightly sticking to hid skin from the thin layer of sweat. He sucked in a breath of air as you felt the pads of fingers tighten around your thigh.

“Y/n.”

You could feel when he hit his high; voice sounding desperate, as his pace became quicker and sloppier as he lowered himself until your chests were pressed together. He nuzzled his head into your neck, pressing hot open kisses up and down your throat.

You grabbed a fisful of his curls as he continued to slowly rock back and forth until he completely stalled his movement inside of you. He released a deep breath, hot and full of pure content at the conclusion of your little activity, and raised his head to look into your eyes. Shawn reached a hand up and ran his fingers over your hairline before softly tracing his fingers down the side of your face, cupping your cheek.

With your chests still stuck together by sweat, he only had to lower his head a few centimeters to brush his lips against yours. The kisses were intimate, soft like a kid chasing a butterfly on a warm spring afternoon, before he changed the pace and captured your lips in a deep kiss. The hold he had on your thigh dropped as he trailed his hand from the tops of your thigh, giving your hips a light pinch that had you squirming under him, and then slid his hand up to rest on your ribcage, just below your breast.

Your thoughts were wildly running around, basking in the feeling of being fully consumed by him.

You were consumed by the feeling of the blazing trail his touches left on you. Consumed by his voice, saying your name with all the care and wonder in the world, but also in a tone that you would never want your parents to hear. Consumed by the taste of his salty skin as you pressed kisses along his neck and the smell of freshly washed clothes mixed with sweet post-sex. But most of all, you were consumed by the sight of the boy on top of you; eyes always searching yours to make sure you were comfortable.

It felt like you didn’t know how to breathe until this moment.

When he pulled out of you, there was a shy smile toying on his face. He looked nothing like the previous times when the two of you had just finished having sex. In those moments in the past, he would have a satisfied and confident smirk on his face, knowing he made you feel better than anyone else. But even with his confidence, he still had those soft eyes though.

Soft eyes and a shy smile.

Shawn removed the condom and tossed it in the trash can that was next to his bed, crawling back under the covers. He laid on his side, head resting on the pillow to face you, as he wiggled under the covers, getting in a comfortable position.

“Hi,” he said with a smile on his face.

You found his hand under the covers and slotted your fingers through his as you returned his soft smile, “Hey.”

Shawn gave your hand a slight squeeze and the two of you fell into silence staring at each other. Normally, being under someone’s gaze, especially Shawn’s, would cause you to shudder back. But not this time. You felt the complete opposite; the more he stared at you, the more you felt desired––more confident.

He untangled your hands, and at first you were sad about the loss of contact, but he threw an arm over your waist and pulled you in close to his chest, pressing a kiss on the top of your head. You fitted your arm around him and smiled into his bare chest, because yes, while holding hands is a nice gesture, it didn’t hold a flame to the feeling of leaning against his chest; your head rising and falling with his rhythmic breathing as your heartbeat tried to sync up with his. While you felt the erratic beating of his heart, you were having trouble getting your heartbeat to slow down for him.

Maybe your heart would always beat a little faster for him.

#skdhfksf #here ya go #some smut on this friday #enjoy your weekend!!!!#please let me know your thoughts!!#smut makes me slkjfsd so I'd love to know your thoughts bc I don't write it very often #I hope you've all had a good week!! tell me a highlight!!#THANKS A MILLION BAJILLION!!!#ALSO WHO WANTS TO SCREAM ABOUT TAYLOR SWIFTS NEW ALBUM WITH ME!!!!#ILLICIT AFFAIRS IS THE ANGST I HAVE ALWAYS DREAMED OF WRITING #it has inspired me in a way though 👀#Shawn mendes #Shawn Mendes fic #Shawn Mendes fanfic #Shawn Mendes fanfiction #Shawn Mendes fan fic #Shawn Mendes x reader #Shawn Mendes x y/n #Shawn Mendes imagine #Shawn Mendes imagines #Shawn Mendes blurb #Shawn Mendes drabble #Shawn Mendes writing #Shawn Mendes blurbs #Shawn Mendes oneshot #Shawn Mendes one shot #Shawn mendes oneshots #Shawn Mendes writings #Shawn meneds drabbles #Shawn Mendes writings

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oneblueumbrella · 4 years ago

Text

Thirty minute Thursday

Flirt part 1

If Greg didn’t know any better he’d say he was being followed, but that was ridiculous. His tired brain was simply playing tricks on him. There were plenty of black town cars in London, and at this time of night the traffic was heavy enough for a skilled driver to lose themselves if they so desired. It was the downside of leaving work on time, dodging far more people than usual and having to check properly before crossing the road. He was vaguely considering the pros and cons of a takeaway versus actually cooking when the sound of his name broke into his thoughts.

“Detective Inspector Lestrade.”

Greg faltered, closing his eyes for a second. It wasn’t his name but his title that made him stop. Must be work, and his sense of duty was too strong to ignore it.

Dammit.

Steeling himself to be polite, Greg turned, but the courteous smile he was preparing didn’t quite make it when he saw who – and what – was waiting. The brunette was pretty enough, but the rest of the scene made his jaw drop. The blatantly menacing civil servant types in suits, one holding open the door of a black town car were almost comical in their seriousness. Was this someone’s idea of a joke? He could only think of one person that might find it amusing to arrange something so elaborate.

With certainty that came with relief, Greg relaxed. “Did Sherlock do this?” he asked.

“No,” the brunette said, her voice distant. She had barely looked at Greg, far more invested in her blackberry than anything happening around her.

When Greg didn’t move, she sighed theatrically before looking up at him. He had the distinct impression she was mildly surprised to see him still standing in front of her. Greg barely registered the flick of her forefinger, but both the security guards moved immediately. Neither touched Greg, but they were standing uncomfortably close enough to encourage him to walk towards the open door of the car.

“Seriously?” Greg sighed.

Whatever was going on it didn’t feel like he was in any danger and honestly, his curiosity was piqued now. Someone was going to a lot of effort just to speak to him and it would be terribly rude to ignore them. Shrugging, Greg stepped forward and slid into the car. He’d be riding in style at least, admiring the leather as the brunette slid in beside him.

Glancing sideways he decided not to ask where they were going. His companion was clearly not going to tell him anything more than he already knew – which was basically nothing – and he just hoped they would drop him off at home in time to get some dinner in. Being kidnapped definitely tipped his decision in the direction of takeaway, and he wondered if she’d lied about this being Sherlock’s handiwork. He didn’t usually bother with anything so extravagant. More likely to get some of his homeless mates to rough Greg up a little than organise this elegant ride, although for what purpose Greg still wasn’t entirely sure.

When the car stopped, Greg realised he had no idea where they were. They’d driven into a warehouse somewhere, and he could make an estimate at how far they were from the Yard, but otherwise his daydreaming meant he hadn’t been paying attention at all.

“Out, please,” the brunette said, still tapping on her Blackberry.

Greg shrugged. Even if the joke was to take him out here and leave him, he’d have to get started walking home eventually. The sound of the door closing was loud, reverberating through the empty space. Greg was surprised when the car didn’t take off, instead sitting like a great dark creature in the darkness. The only source of light was a single downwards beam a few metres away.

Whoever they are there’s a streak of drama in them.

It made Greg relax; the truly bad guys wouldn’t have bothered with all this. He’d be dead and stuffed in a truck at the bottom of the river if that was the point. So whoever this was they were either amateur thugs – unlikely with the car and the pretty henchwoman, not to mention the professionally trained security people – or the agenda was something entirely different. And the only thing in Greg’s life even vaguely interesting right now was Sherlock. The brunette said he didn’t set it up, so this was someone else. Someone interested in Sherlock, but not wanting to be seen speaking to Greg.

Sherlock knows this person.

Greg grinned, still standing by the car. This was actually interesting, now. He wondered how long he could stand here in the dark, but he was starting to get hungry and it was obvious he was expected to walk toward the single beam of light.

Don’t want to disappoint.

Strolling over, one hand in his pocket, Greg stopped at the edge of the light. It was impossible to see the other side, but he had the impression someone was there. He didn’t say anything, biting the inside of his mouth to hide his grin. This silence was a classic interrogation technique. Either this person didn’t think he’d know that, or they were prepared to wait. Tempting though it was to play ‘who’s better at waiting’, Greg was prepared to sacrifice this move in order to get things going.

“This might be easier if you say something,” Greg said. When there was no immediate reply, he made his first move. “Okay, well, thanks for the lift, it’s a very nice car. A phone call might be enough next time, eh?”

He’d turned and walked several steps before the voice spoke from the other side of the light.

“Detective Inspector Lestrade.”

“Yeah, we’ve already established that,” Greg replied before returning to the edge of the light with an easy grin. He wasn’t going to pretend to be intimidated by all this; despite the darkness, it was all a bit cloak-and-dagger for his radar to ping ‘actual danger’. “Did you want to introduce yourself or are you planning to stick with the Smoking Man kind of vibe?”

A beat passed before one well-polished shoe stepped into the light, a precise movement followed by the most Bond-villain looking person Greg had ever seen in real life. The shoes were only the beginning, and when the point of the umbrella landed carefully on the ground, Greg found his eyes drawn up, cataloguing the pinstriped suit over long long legs, a matching waistcoat and – was he serious? – a genuine pocketwatch. The shadows were too deep for him to pick the colour of the tie and pocket square but it was some kind of red, an unashamed power move.

Deliberately dramatic. Could have some fun…

Greg couldn’t have chosen a better man to with whom to do this. Whatever the game was, this man was all in, and while Greg wasn’t going to take up his allocated role of intimidated working class copper, he was well prepared to play some games of his own. And this man, with his raised chin and half visible expression, radiating power and disdain, was the perfect man to be taken down by Greg’s chosen game. It wouldn’t hurt that he was exactly Greg’s type, either.

I might as well enjoy it.

“Well hello there, handsome,” Greg purred. He stepped further into the light, his smile widening into a grin of appreciation. He deliberately looked the man up and down, allowing his eyes to linger, head nodding as he noted details. “Pity the lights are so dim. Hard to appreciate such a fine specimen without the proper lighting.”

“I beg your pardon?” the man said, and Greg was fairly sure he’d raised an eyebrow.

“Look, if you’re after some fun, you could have just asked,” Greg said. He eased closer, suppressing a chuckle as the man stiffened. “As long as no money changes hands it’s not illegal.” He settled his weight, slipping his hands in his pockets. “I’d be happy to say I got into that car voluntarily. I mean, depending on what you have planned.”

“My plans are of no such variety.” The man spoke in a voice Greg suspected was supposed to be firm but wavered at the edges.

“Don’t worry sugar, I have plenty of ideas,” Greg told him. “You obviously know who I am, but I don’t know your name.” He grinned. “I could give you a name for the night, if you like.”

“This is not a…the purpose of this meeting,” the man said, still ignoring Greg’s musings about his name, “is to ascertain your intentions regarding a certain informant with whom you’ve recently started working.”

Greg’s eyebrows rose. “I don’t know what you mean,” he said. He glanced around again, shaking his head. “Might be easier to remember if I could see a bit more clearly.”

(this is as far as I got - I plan to continue this story next week)

#mystrade #thirtyminutethursday

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libidomechanica · 1 month ago

Text

“Twill please, dost thou upon the bridges, aqueducts,—and the boy”

The world with my hand, I trow, and no more; even by its day. Can scarcely has a Dogge the fish in winding to admired, wants to me sad stuff, but that Susan’s ground, Sukey is tumbled on to the Poles, are ways than prince to me all

parallel—of air-balloons, and gets renown; made of heedlesse night, whose worth held: then by nature made us youth’s healing powers all. Minute—then being so short prayers; and the shore. That sow: france, too, was amused; Antonia in

hysterics, Julia ever persons of no great disdained, right? Thought of London flaring liue you little heard the quiet conscience was grown brothers. ’Twill please, dost thou upon the bridges, aqueducts,—and the boy does not so free. I had

been to you nor me. Old wives have been for early morn: leave the sea, till was kind, white lake-blossom’d bower, hangs loosely flower of horror and the mall selling his condition, in characters; the episodes are no chaunge them through the

mould blooms on a summer’s day—the era’s more and then, but that’s so true, perhaps he yet may fly—surely with the streames did she did laye. A lady with your curled like Achates, faith proved by compete senses fail, this pride, he is come

attonce. Such an ecstasy the heauens conspird in one; shine out, O faithfu’ heart? I am helmsman. I have proved by chance hast too long, too long have to the high Hall-garden will live in sad, its sands: while. Perhaps he’s turned thorough my gentle

mind to boudoir regions, gaudy springs: a cheek and forehead to all the wild scatter’d crow that I brought it cost, so says my tears froze. This is a lower, untried each wound, each wight to a suddenly strikes, how? Like a shift, my love

the hour when the shepheards to turn the trusty nook remove, least thou that anon. Falters from common place, but makes two; alfonso’s head! Who left and despair of my fault, seemes but instead with avarice. The gaudy house, speaking, burning

the valley lighted elms, sick rivers, how all else pales beside a springeth from the heart and ease. She stops your rivulet is the passionately enough for nothing, I cannot guess. Tis silent as the clocks in the Lion’s breast.

#poetry #automatically generated text #Patrick Mooney #Markov chains #Markov chain length: 7 #176 texts #ballad

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classicdecadence · 3 years ago

Text

Open Starter

Antony Lockwood - 37, heterosexual, Detective Inspector (London)

Solving crimes and dealing with villains was easy for an experienced police officer, the nature of criminal investigation being something that one could learn and hone their skills at over time. In over a decade as a police detective investigating various crimes, Antony had become well respected within his department and his days were spent managing complex cases that required absolute dedication and attention to detail in order to not just solve them but secure court convictions too.

However, for all his skill as a detective, Antony was useless when it came to the ever increasing politics required when climbing up the career ladder. He’d have much prefer to stay away from politicking and earn his promotions on merit but Antony also knew deep down that promotion to Chief Inspector and every rank beyond that depended on networking and glad-handing. As such, he found himself at a soiree after work hours, the purpose of his attendance being so that his bosses could show him off to their own superiors or rivals.

For a man who mere hours earlier had been interviewing a suspected murderer with ease, Antony’s posture was tense and his facial features betrayed how out of place he felt. He’d removed his tie since leaving work but he still wore his usual suit, the only other change being the glass of champagne which was gripped in his hand as tightly as his posture stood.

Alone from networking for what must have been the first time in an hour, Antony was in his thoughts when he felt a gentle touch against the small of his back. He turned then and saw the familiar woman by his side, her presence being the first he actually enjoyed seeing that night. “Enjoying this just as much as I am?” he mused then, tone laced with evident sarcasm and obvious disdain for the event. “I feel like a showpony being paraded around by these old arseholes...”

#indie rp starter #open rp starter #indie smut starter #open smut starter #rp starter #open starter #starter: antony lockwood

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gellavonhamster · 4 years ago

Text

herr lucifer, beware, beware

Dracula x Carmilla crossover || Lucy Westenra & (/?) Carmilla Karnstein

ao3 link eng || ao3 link rus

Out of the ash

I rise with my red hair

And I eat men like air.

– Sylvia Plath, Lady Lazarus

Lucy dyes her hair for the first time in her life already after her death.

Twilight reigns in the room, where the air smells of perfume and mustiness; all windows are curtained, and the only light is coming from some thoroughly melted candles. This, however, causes difficulty neither for Lucy, as lately she has no trouble seeing in the dark, nor for her new acquaintance who has armed herself with a thick brush and is presently putting dye on Lucy’s hair. The flame of the candle standing on the table in front of Lucy keeps trembling nervously. A drop of dye falls on the bed sheet that Lucy is draped in as if in another shroud.

“It’s green,” Lucy murmurs as she casts a glance at the swamp-coloured stain on her knees. In truth, she does not care much about the future colour of her hair – it is no longer possible for her to go for a stroll in daylight anyway.

“That is just for now. On your hair, it will look red,” assures her Carmilla. That was how she introduced herself: “Call me Carmilla. This one is my favourite name.” It was her idea to dye Lucy’s hair. “It’s a small town, darling. You don’t need to be recognized. It’s enough that this much people are aware that you do not rest in peace.” ‘This much’ means her Arthur and Professor Van Helsing and Dr. Seward and Mr. Morris. Lucy watched them from behind the wall of someone’s moss-covered crypt while Carmilla – back then she didn’t know her name yet – was covering Lucy’s mouth with her hand and whispering in her ear: “See what they brought with them? They came to murder you. Forget what they meant to you, for they have ceased caring what you meant to them.” Lucy struggled to break away but couldn’t, because Carmilla, petite and delicate and outwardly not older than she, was as strong as five adult men – neither could she not look at the sharp wooden stake in Arthur’s hands. Then she let Carmilla lead her away from the graveyard, and left Arthur and the others by the crypt, possibly to wait for her until morning.

“It smells like grass,” Lucy observes. The dye smells of grass indeed and, ever so slightly, of cucumbers, for some reason.

“It’s henna, my dear. It’s made from dried leaves.” After the final dab, Carmilla throws the brush into a basin, pulls the bed sheet off Lucy, tears off a piece of fabric with ease, and wraps it around Lucy’s hair. “Now you have to wait for about two hours, and then wash your hair.”

It appears that Carmilla finds it all amusing – dyeing Lucy’s hair, picking out her own dresses to give her. Lucy follows her instructions almost mechanically, without much thought. The world around her is now far too full of sounds and smells and colours, much more than it used to be, and her new life is far too full of rules she doesn’t understand properly yet and finds perplexing. Therefore, if Carmilla needs her in order to stave off boredom, then she needs Carmilla in order to learn to navigate this new world without dying for the second time. Besides, she is all but constantly starving, and Carmilla is a much more experienced huntress than she, and doesn’t mind sharing, seeing as she doesn’t waste time on small children, and adults have plenty of blood to spare to satiate the two of them.

There is never any blood left for the ones they suck it from, though – unlike Lucy, Carmilla doesn’t let her prey walk away.

“It is high time for us, child, to discuss what we are going to do next,” says Carmilla, as if having sensed that Lucy is pondering over the reasons why she needs Carmilla and Carmilla needs her. She sits down on the edge of the table, and looks at Lucy downwards. In the dusk, her eyes shine like those of a cat. “What do you remember about the one who granted you eternal life?”

What does she remember about the one who killed her?

“Not much,” Lucy says tentatively. Strange as it may be, these memories are clearer now than they were back when she was alive, but still fairly vague, still seeming as much of a nightmare as before. “He was tall, with long dark hair, with a sharp nose. With a dark moustache. With a… cruel face. I don’t know who he was and where he came from – I’ve never seen him in Whitby before.”

“I know who he was,” says Carmilla. Her face, usually so sweet and gentle even as she drinks the blood of another victim, looks just as cruel now. “Vlad Dracula, a Transilvanian count.”

“Are you acquainted?”

“Not in person,” Carmilla looks away. She still looks angry, but aside from hate, a certain suppressed pain is discernible in her countenance. “He took something from me.”

“Took something?” Lucy echoes.

Carmilla gets up, approaches her from behind, and puts her hands on Lucy’s shoulders.

“Have you ever been in love, darling?” she asks. Her dainty hands stroke Lucy’s shoulders through the thin silk of the dressing gown.

Lucy thinks of Arthur – but she is no longer able to think of him the way she used to when she was alive. She is drawn to him as strongly as never before – but at the same time she is also drawn to her other two suitors, whom she only used to fantasise about briefly and lightly, and she cannot figure out what part of this attraction is love, and what is hunger. She thinks of Arthur’s slender neck, of blue lines on Dr. Seward’s pale wrists, of the outlines of veins on Mr. Morris’s strong arms. Of Mina in her bed, blanket thrown off in her sleep, throat bared to the July night. Of their blood that calls to her more vehemently than the dreams of kisses and embraces – although of those as well.

“Yes,” she replies. If there is one thing she is sure of, it is that she has been in love.

“So have I,” Carmilla tells her quietly. Her hands stop moving.

“What was his name?”

“Her name is not important,” and Lucy feels, inexplicably, a strange joy upon hearing how calmly Carmilla pronounces that ‘her’. She pictures Mina again – Mina, who probably has no idea that her Lucy is gone. “What is important is that she was special. Against my nature I knew that I would not deal with her the same way as with all my previous lovers. I wanted to make it so that we would always be together. To make her the same as me and you. She knew what I was, and agreed to my proposal, just asked me to give her time to settle some affairs she was to leave in the past. That’s how special she was.” Suddenly, Carmilla’s nails sink into her shoulders. “Then he came.”

“What happened next?” Lucy asks. It hurts, but not too much – her reborn body is far tougher than before. She can bear it for a while if it helps her find out what Carmilla wants from her after all. “He bit her first, didn’t he?”

Carmilla snorts with disdain.

“No. What would that have changed? What would have a man’s bite meant against mine? No, he just drank her dry. All to the last drop. When I found her, she was already dead. Not dead like us, my dear – completely dead.”

So that’s it.

“You want revenge,” Lucy says. Carmilla loosens her grip a little, and bends down so that her cheek is touching Lucy’s.

“Do you not?” she enquires.

Lucy thinks of Arthur – of the sharpened stake in his hands, of the wedding they didn’t get to have. Of her mother, dead with a mask of horror on her face. Of herself, a carefree and happy girl that exists no more.

She enjoys wandering at night, but she used to love the sun.

“Probably,” she admits gingerly. Carmilla puts her chin on Lucy’s shoulder.

“Then,” she says with satisfaction, “come to London with me.”

The next couple of hours they spend preparing for the journey – packing dresses and shoes, undergarments and toiletries. In the process, Carmilla enlightens Lucy on the subject of the enemy they are going to face. According to her, he’s not just a vampire – he’s also a sorcerer, and thus more powerful and dangerous by a long way.

“How will we beat him then?” Lucy cannot help wondering. Carmilla shrugs.

“By the power of grief and rage, love and loss,” she says. “Also, we’ll catch him by surprise. He doesn’t expect you to come for him, all the more not me. Men like him have a short memory.”

Already towards morning, Lucy bends over the bathtub and washes off the henna. Examining the strands of her wet hair in the candlelight, she sees that they are red.

“I have learned to do without mirrors a long time ago,” remarks Carmilla, hugging her around the waist. “But sometimes one cannot help missing them. Let me assure you, darling, that this colour looks good on you.”

Red like dried blood – her own blood spilled by Dracula, his blood that will get spilled when she and Carmilla get him, the blood of Arthur and Mina and Dr. Seward and Mr. Morris who – somehow it feels so easy to believe it right now – will all be with her sooner or later.

Lucy smiles.

“That’s what I thought,” she says.

#lucy westenra #carmilla #dracula #bram stoker #joseph sheridan le fanu #lumina #my fic #gella talks dracula #talk talk talk #the last hurrah before plunging back into the abyss of work and hate

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