#masters of the air for ts

[remythologise]

every time I remember the homophobic gay nazi interrogator from masters of the air:

[wexhappyxfew]

and then i breathed

(a/n): AND SO I JUST STARTED TYPING (enter danny devito meme). basically, i started with an idea for this and couldn't help but keep writing so please enjoy!! serving up a nice view of kennedy x bucky in the stalag because that's where we really see the most development from them, more than anything. and to say the least, i am majorly misty-eyed over this and especially kennedy's character. when first developing her character, i didn't realize how much she'd develop up until this point and i am absolutely loving every bit of her in this angsty, hurt/comfort perspective. and of course, bucky makes the perfect person to put opposite her in so many ways. someone who equals her in humor and dialogue. i sincerely hope you all enjoy - this is almost a love letter to the kennedy x bucky girlies. thank you!! :D

The sound of the plane breaking in half had hit her like a slap in the face.

She remembered the sound so vividly that when the silence consumed her, her mind became overwhelmed by that very sound - the intrepid ripping of metal straight in half as she launched herself out of the belly of the plane, pulling the cord on her parachute, swinging through the war-torn sky alive with flak, enemy fighters and bullets, dangling out in the air, half-hoping something killed her right then and there.

She could hardly remember the feeling - landing in the middle of Germany, mind an absolute wreck, looking around for signs of Lieutenant Bradshaw or Lieutenant Carlisle or even some of the boys who'd been deposited into Silver Bullets after the 100th had run thin and they'd split the girls up.

Jenkins, their co-pilot, Hefner, their bombardier, Thillburn, their radio ops, or their turret ball gunner, Stalinker, their other waist gunner, Klinger, and tail gunner, Gronkowski.

None of them had shown.

She was half-hoping Margie was somewhere nearby, but had come up empty-handed.

She remembered the words that had come through the comms when Lieutenant Bradshaw had said they needed to bail out.

The ringing of that fucking bell.

The sound still wrung around in her head when she wasn't doing something to keep her mind distracted. She remembered it like a stop-motion picture. Flashes of moments that she wasn't sure were even real, but were true enough that her body reacted in ways she couldn't explain.

She watched herself stand in the belly of the plane, pulling the wounded Thillburn over, and attempting to wrap his crooked arm that was knocked into the worst possible position, the blood coating his shoulder and chest, soaking through his coat and covering her hands in a sticky mess.

She remembered him yelling, his words clouded by fear, nothing but a blank thought in her mind - what had he been yelling? What had he been trying to tell her? Were those his last moments of human contact before she helped to plunge him out of the plane? Was he alive? She'd known the kid for a few weeks, with only a few missions run alongside him, but had he been dropped out of that plane and lived? He had family back home, he had a life, a girlfriend he'd been writing to. Was he alive?

The look in his eyes sometimes came back to her a night, when she settled into her bunk and stared up at the wooden ceiling; it came back like a bad dream each night. His eyes boring into hers, begging to keep him alive. The thought made her skin crawl, it made her heart race, it made her want to lose it, trapped in this stupid excuse of a camp.

"You gotta stay with me, Thillburn!" Kennedy had yelled, her throat hoarse practically, her hands slick with blood as Thillburn writhed there on the ground, the whole plane creaking and screaming through the air, parts flying off and exploding off behind them, the yelling in her comms enough to make her vomit, the bell ringing overhead, the entire plane contorting and spinning through the air like the nightmare it had been. Over and over. Thillburn screaming.

Jenkins yelling to bail out, his form appearing in front of Kennedy, as he pointed and yelled to the opening. Her wide eyes filled with terror as she watched Jenkins pull Stalinker up from the ball turret, half-dead on his feet, blood dripping down his face, a giant piece of flak hanging out from his chest.

Kennedy remembered looking up and seeing Lieutenant Bradshaw dropping down from the cockpit, landing with such precision and calculated gusto, that Kennedy was sure that only force on the plane that had kept her level-headed in that moment was seeing Lieutenant Bradshaw come towards the group and calmly manage the situation.

Moving the frantic Jenkins towards the opening and telling him to go, hastily removing tags from Stalinker, and helping Kennedy to guide the flailing Thillburn to the belly of the plane to drop out.

Kennedy remembered the look in Annie's eyes; fear bathed in absolute horror and uncertainty - yet shoving it aside for the crew. To uphold command pilot the best she could. Kennedy remembered hearing Thillburn screaming for her as he went flying out of the plane, like a rag doll in his parachute begging for mercy.

"Kennedy!" he had screamed out into the open air, "Kennedy!"

And that's when she shot awake, her whole body in a damn-near paralysis, as her eyes locked on the wooden bunk above her, the sudden realization of the silence succumbing around her and where she was, along with the pounding of the blood in her ears, racing - over and over.

Slowly, she shifted her gaze away from the top of the bunk and towards the tiny room, all the members of the 100th that were there, completely and entirely asleep. It brought her a slice of comfort to see Lieutenant Bradshaw curled up on the bunk beside Captain Brady, her tiny bit of dirty-blonde hair hardly visible with the current hold Brady had on her there.

Annie put out so much for Silver Bullets that having her safe there in the arms of someone who would lay down his life for her, was a comfort. She could see the laden forms of Major Cleven, Bessie, Crank, Murphy, and Hambone around the place, along with Benny who was in the bunk above Margie, who nearly lay on death's doorstep on a bad day. Days of her current state had left her barely alive, but she was slowly improving.

Slowly, Kennedy brought her gaze towards the window and felt her heart nearly launch out of her chest. Bucky Egan was stood there by the window, his form unmoving, and his head slightly hung downward, his hair looking as if he had tried to get it into some sort of conformed place, but had failed. He looked so much more….quiet, in this light. Where he looked as if he was the only person awake in the room, trying to come to terms with whatever the hell they were currently in. His broad shoulders were still pronounced and held high, but there was something distant and withdrawn about his form that she was sure if she kept staring, he'd fade to black.

"You okay?" Kennedy locked her eyes on his form by the window and swallowed, "I know you're awake, Farley." Kennedy slowly reached her hand up to her chest, attempting to calm her racing heart and keep quiet. She felt if she tried to talk to him now, her heart would pound out of her chest fully and her words would get clogged in her throat enough to make her physically sick. And Bucky would see right through her like she was glass. In the cover of night, she let her walls down for herself and she didn't want another soul to have to see her like that. Broken and vulnerable and cracked all over. Bucky didn't need that. None of them did.

"You were mumbling in your sleep." Bucky whispered quietly again from the window and she heard him shift a bit, like he was moving his weight from one side to the next by the window, his voice still muffled - he wasn't looking at her. Kennedy swallowed.

"Bad dream." she whispered out, her voice unsteady, "I'm fine." She heard Bucky let out a quiet puff of air that sounded a bit like a breathy laugh, but she didn't bother. It seemed by this point, despite all efforts, Bucky could read her like an open book whenever he pleased.

"You sure?"

"Positive." Kennedy answered back, softly and quickly, an uncontrollable pinprick of a smile on her lips, "You get that sorta stuff in your mind with the shit we've all been through." She was playing it off, she was trying to make it seem like it wasn't a big deal - even if she could still hear the bail-out bell ringing in her mind. Over and over. Again and again.

"What was in it?" Bucky asked her, a genuine softness to his voice that made her heart give a dull pound, "Your dream?"

"Nothing." Kennedy said quickly, louder than she wanted - she heard someone shift on a bunk across the room a bit. She blinked a few times as her heart began to race.

For a moment, lying in that bunk, with the only person awake in that room being Bucky, she wanted nothing more than to be standing beside him, reveling in his presence and his body heat and his tall form, telling him everything in that dream and letting him tell her they were fine, that things would be okay, that in a way, it wasn't real. Even though it was. But she felt glued to that bunk. Frozen.

"Nothing?" Bucky said, a hint of a smile on his lips - she could always tell when he was smiling through his words and she couldn't see him. His voice became a bit deeper, and a bit lighter all at once, with a slight hint of surprise and hidden joy he didn't want you seeing. But she heard it every time. "Nothing at all, huh?"

"Serious." Kennedy offered back, "I'd tell you if it was bad. I'm fine." Bucky let out a soft laugh as she continued staring at the top bunk, her mind slowly crumbling into shambles. She wanted to be there beside him, she wanted some form of comfort that wasn't a wooden bunk and the bitter cold. She wanted him.

"C'mere, Farley." Kennedy slowly turned her head and found Bucky, for the first time, looking right towards her bunk, his eyes glowing a bit more in the darkness, reminding her, surprisingly, of Frank, Marianne's cat back on base. Watching her with that look in his gaze that drew her in enough to want to get up from the bunk.

Kennedy slowly shifted, and pulled her long legs over the edge of the bunk, before letting her feet slide to the ground. She stood there for a moment before turning to him and taking quiet steps towards his figure there against the window.

As she approached him, in this sudden quiet atmosphere, where it was just the two of them for once, not another soul awake, she felt every inch of his gaze on her. The moonlight outside reflected the side of his shadowed face enough for her to see that sad, far-off look in his eyes, and the hint of a hollow smile on his lips.

"What?" she asked him, regretting that she could get nothing better to come to mind when she was suddenly stood by his side. She watched Bucky grin at her in the darkness, from right there beside her and looked out the small window again and nodded.

"First time you see the stars out here?" She followed his line of sight and looked out the dusty window pane and, for the first time, just as he had stated, saw the stars. Glowing, twinkling there above them, ever-present and shining just as brightly as they had when she was a small child back home in Boston, staring up at them at night, praying for the future. For a moment, the world went still and she was that young girl again looking at the stars.

"Yeah, actually." she whispered back to him, looking up at the dark sky, before slowly glancing over at him, his full face illuminated in moonlight. For the first time, up-close, she got a good look at the scars on his face, underneath his eyes, the bruising (which was finally, slowly fading) and the way his eyes seemed more sunken in than she remembered. She swallowed.

"How long have you been awake?" she asked him quietly, watching as the corner of his lip curled upwards at her voice.

"Long enough." he whispered, and then shrugged, "Happens nightly. Don't get as much sleep as I want. Half the time, I stay awake because I don't need one of those German fuckers coming in here and pulling some shit." Kennedy stared at him, her heart pounding at the way his jaw had clenched and his eyes had gone dark.

"Nightly?" she asked him, resisting the urge to reach out and tenderly touch that face of his and tuck him into bed. These boys pushed themselves to the edge, it was no wonder all the girls were acting the way they were with these boys out here. They had no one but each other and youth brought a sense of maternal instinct to them all half the time.

"Yeah," Bucky said quietly, before glancing over at her, his eyes big like a puppy-dogs, "it's why I knew you were awake. You stopped breathing heavy - you hear that sorta stuff when you can't sleep at night." Kennedy watched him, her eyes flicking between his eyes and those scars on his face and she suddenly wanted nothing more than to wrap him in her arms and tell him in some way the world would be okay again.

"You've been up every night since you got here?" Kennedy asked him softly, "Bucky…." Bucky let out a soft chuckle and shook his head before looking at her.

"Kenny, it's fine." he said quietly as he leaned towards her slowly, that little nickname Judy usually called her rolling off his tongue with ease - it was always Farley, always, always Farley, what was this? "Never been better. Hey, I'd tell you if it was getting bad, alright?" Kennedy watched him sling her words right back at her and sighed slightly, her worry rising to levels she wasn't sure had been possible.

"So," Bucky said, glancing back out the window they were leaned up against, smiling slightly, "what was going on in that dream of yours?" Kennedy sighed and she heard Bucky laugh quietly.

"Are you seriously going to keep asking me that?" she managed out back to him, as quiet as she could.

"Maybe." he said with a humorous tone to his voice, "You get all passionate when I piss you off, so, maybe."

"I really wonder what goes through your head sometimes." Kennedy whispered back, with a slight bit of teasing in her voice, before she felt reality wash over her and she couldn't help but look to him again, regaining that feeling of wanting some sort of comfort. She couldn't work out the feeling of her nightmares, or that feeling of being alone in that bunk and trying to fight off her mind - it was making her go crazy.

"You wanna know?" Bucky asked her, gently nudging her shoulder, his voice suddenly more serious than she'd heard it ever before, sending her a quiet smile, "I'll tell ya." She watched him, her eyes unable to turn from his in a way that made her eyes glued to his.

"I'm really fucking scared of the way this place'll change me." he told her quietly, that smile on his face fighting to stay on his lips, like a part of him was trying to convince himself that he wasn't scared, that this wasn't what he was feeling, that this wasn't the reality, "That I won't ever get back to the person I was before getting dropped in here like a sack of potatoes." He let out a weak laugh and leaned against the window pane again, "Fuck." Kennedy watched him slightly from her tilted head and watched as he struggled to keep that smile on his face.

"Keeps me up at night. All this shit." Bucky said again, trying to do some more, further, convincing for himself, to make it all plausible. Kennedy felt so quiet beside him that she was sure she felt like a nuisance because of the fact she was saying nothing. But it felt like Bucky was saying things that he'd bottled up and was now forcing out because of the fact it was spilling over at this point. And he was trying to pull it all back in, but failing.

"You're still Bucky Egan to me." Kennedy said, her voice, for the first time in weeks, firm and confident. She looked over at him, with a nod. "You always will be." Bucky smiled at her, tender and gentle, and nudged her shoulder affectionately.

"Thanks, Kenny." he said quietly and she smiled at him with a nod. Then, both their gazes were set out the window pane again. But Kennedy was itching to say something, to get her voice to work. She felt like she needed to say something else. Almost awkwardly, she reached up to rub behind her neck before glancing at Bucky again.

"I was reliving when the plane got hit." Kennedy said quietly, causing Bucky to look towards her with a mixture of surprise and worry written all over his face, "The dream. It was like I was on the plane again as it went down. As Annie told us to bail. It happens all the time. At night, even when I nap. It's always in my mind. Those final moments." His eyes worriedly washed over her face as she stood beside him, suddenly any sort of stars or moonlight seemingly forgotten about and his focus solely on her.

"Every night?"

"Mostly." she offered, with a nod, "You get used to it. The bail out bell. The plane snapping in half like a toothpick. The screaming." Kennedy shivered, with a nervous smile on her lips.

"You could've woken me up." he offered to her and she shook her head.

"I usually just count back from 100 and then I'm asleep again," she told him quietly, "my mind's usually blank the second time I get myself to sleep anyway." Bucky stood frozen beside her, his body ridged and his eyes hard and narrowed. He slowly nodded, like taking in what she was saying was physically hurting him.

"Thillburn?" he asked her. She must've been mumbling his name on her lips at night. He must be dead.

"Radio ops." she said quietly, "He was half-dead when Annie and I got his parachute on him and got him out. Haven't seen him since."

"What happened to him?" Bucky asked, his voice distant.

"Flak got him…..I think. Came right through the side of the plane." Kennedy managed, as her eyes became misty, "He was begging for me to save him, ya know?" She looked over at Bucky and that moonlight bathing his face and sniffled slightly, before shrugging and looking back down at her fingers, knotted into one another, her thumb rubbing in that same spot over and over when she was worried. She let out a shuddering breath.

"Kennedy, Kennedy, he yelled, over and over. Don't know if I even did anything to save him." Kennedy managed out, "I just hope he landed somewhere…..and if he went, it was peaceful. Ya know?" She looked to Bucky and watched him nod firmly at her - even just seeing him acknowledge her was enough to know in a way that she wasn't crazy deep down. That someone was listening to her and she didn't sound like she was talking out of her ass to him.

"Stalinker. Ball turret gunner," Kennedy offered looking over at Bucky, "must've died on impact. Flak got him." What if that had been Judy, Kennedy thought quietly, feeling her stomach turn.

"Jenkins, our co-pilot. He disappeared somewhere in the clouds." Kennedy said softly, "They were shooting at us after we jumped out. The Germans." Bucky's grip on the window pane made his knuckle turn white and she saw him glance over at her with a stern look in his gaze.

"It just…it lives in my mind. That moment, those 15 minutes of hell," Kennedy said softly, "it's so stupid, but I just can't get it out of mind. Thank God for Annie, hell she was the only stable one of us up there. She's the only reason I'm probably alive."

"Bradshaw's pretty good for that, huh?" Bucky said, his voice more strained than it had been and she nodded as she looked over at him, "She keeps us all going more often than not." Kennedy managed a shaky smile and nodded to him as her eyes welled with tears. He slowly looked towards her and noticed that look in her eyes, nearly quicker than herself and offered her a weak smile.

Bucky didn't take another second though to reach out to her shoulder, closing that small distance between them, rubbing his hand against her shoulder, in circles, over and over, allowing her to catch her breath for a moment, knowing he was right there beside her.

"It's not stupid, Kenny," Bucky said quietly, his thumb brushing against the bare skin on the back of her neck, "you know that. The shit we went through, how we all got here. It was all fucking hell. Thought I was gonna die out there. I'm half-surprised I'm even standing here talking to you now."

"I'm glad you are."

"Thanks, Kenny." She managed a watery smile his way as he smiled weakly back. They watched each other in the quietness for a moment, and she watched as Bucky smiled wider at her, which made her feel safer in that moment more than anything else.

"C'mere, Kenny." he said quietly, pulling with that arm on her shoulder to him. And with how weak and broken she felt, she took that small step between them, and let him pull her into his arms, collapsing into his warm embrace, her face breaking against his chest, as his arms wrapped around her, holding her up against his form.

Kennedy had become pretty good at crying without making a noise, but with each tremor that came from her body, she could hear her silent whimper in the back of her throat that was enough to make her fracture more.

The sound made her think of when she was younger, racing after her brothers on Main Street, unable to catch up to them because she was the youngest sibling and the shortest with the smallest legs. And she'd usually trip and split open her knee and be sobbing her heart out. And then her brothers would come back and coddle her and wrap up her knee with some fabric from one of their shirts and help her back home for her Ma to fuss over.

And soon enough, it happened all the time, and she was able to mask it all. She'd brush off her brothers and her Ma and she toughened up, so she could keep playing.

Eventually it became her way to hide everything from everyone.

But with the way Bucky was holding her, she knew he was looking through her like glass, like he always did.

Kennedy could feel his warm breath from his slow-moving breathing, washing down on top of her as his one hand stayed steady on her lower back and the other lingered between the back of her head and her neck, her unruly hair mused in his fingers as he continued to hold her there. A part of her told her to stand up, move away from his embrace and his arms and him; she was strong enough on her own, she could handle this. But her other half told her to stay there, let him hold her, in the cover of darkness, in the middle of the night - someone was willing to hold her there and not let go. No one had ever been like that towards her, no previous person in her life had been such a way around her.

Holding her in the cover of darkness to try to chase away any sort of nightmare like the ones she always had.

Slowly, she turned her cheek against his chest and listened to the soft pound of his heart in his chest. Her cheeks wet with fresh tears, her eyes itchy and no doubt beet red, she couldn't help but relish the feel of his arms around her - he was so warm, so present, just standing there. It was like the ocean waves had crashed over her, pummeling her down onto the sand, and were finally, slowly receding again, letting her breathe. Kennedy slowly pulled her face from his chest and looked up to search for his eyes again and found him already watching her with that quiet look of his; she attempted to smile.

"I'm sorry if the front of your shirt is wet. It's cold enough as it is," she whispered quietly, her voice sounding like she had been yelling for hours, "thank you, Bucky." Bucky quirked out that lopsided grin of his.

"I don't mind. Honored to have a woman like you wrapped in my arms," he whispered back to her quietly, a small laugh following, "I think we should do this more often." Kennedy sniffled out a small laugh, reaching her hand up to flick his shoulder in her weak attempt at protest that she always did with him. But with the way he was looking at her and holding her, she couldn't keep up their usual banter it seemed and just let him hold her.

"You think?" she whispered back, and then sniffled, smiling slightly, "You tell anyone about this and it's on-sight, alright, Major?"

"Yes, ma'am." he said, his voice low as she let out a small laugh and rolled her eyes at him, not entirely minding the feeling of his gaze on her and hands pressed onto her back. She watched him for a moment, before he cleared his throat.

"Hop in my bunk," he said quietly, "you'll sleep better. I'll be your knight-in-shining-armor or some shit. Fight off the nightmares." Kennedy watched him, her cheeks blazing, her eyebrows rising in surprise.

"Uh…really-"

"Yeah, yeah, seriously," Bucky said, "anyone's got questions, I'll give 'em their answers, alright?" Kennedy watched him.

"And to think you were heckling Annie and Brady because they were doing the same thing-"

"Kenny." Bucky said giving her a look and she couldn't help but chuckle softly.

"I punch sometimes in my sleep." she muttered.

"You can punch me whenever you need."

"Bucky." He let out a small chuckle.

"C'mon." he said softly, nodding his head towards his bunk. It was at least 10 degrees colder when she pulled from his embrace and they slowly trekked over to his bunk. She glanced at him and his tall form beside her and he nodded her on encouragingly. She pulled herself up into the bunk and rolled to the wall-side before shifting a bit and turning her head towards him, watching as he sat down and settled down inside the bunk beside her. He made a quick move of laying the blanket over them, keeping the few inches between them, very much a present and existing thing.

"Get some sleep, Kenny." Bucky whispered softly this time. She was staring up at the wooden ceiling of the bunk above her again and could feel her heart beginning to race. His body heat next to her was a help - with the wall on her other side. She felt comfortably cocooned in for the first time, knowing if the Germans were to come in, Bucky was right there.

Kennedy slowly shifted her head to the right and looked towards Bucky again and found him wide-awake, staring at the ceiling of the bunk above them, too. She couldn't help it. She rolled onto her side and then shifted closer towards him, causing his eyes to meet hers again.

That silent stare down lasted for a solid minute, before she pressed her body up against his side and wrapped her arms around herself before pressing her face against his arm and letting out a sigh, his warmth infiltrating her body and making her feel at peace for once.

And to say it didn't take long for his own arm to lift up and pull her closer, as she quickly snuggled in at his presence wrapped around her body, his touch firm, but gentle, was an understatement.

"Someone likes to cuddle." he whispered to her. She grinned against his ribcage, before sniffling.

"Shut up." she whispered back. He chuckled back.

She could finally breathe.

[hesbuckcompton-baby]

My OCs as Taylor Swift songs - 6/20

George Aarons - When Emma Falls in Love

'Cause she's the kind of book that you can't put down / Like if Cleopatra grew up in a small town / And all the bad boys would be good boys / If they only had a chance to love her / And to tell you the truth, sometimes I wish I was her

[antigonenikk]

do i dare//disturb the universe?

chapter 1/2/3/4

pairing: Eugene Sledge/John “Bucky” Egan

tags: crossover, post-war AU

summary: Eugene Sledge and John Egan are both adrift in the wake of the War. They find each other in a small bar in a small corner of Chinatown. And the rest, as they say, is history.

(tw: brief attempted SA)

“At the still point of the turning world. Neither flesh nor fleshless;

Neither from nor towards; at the still point, there the dance is,

But neither arrest nor movement. And do not call it fixity,

Where past and future are gathered.”

…

“Here is a place of disaffection

Time before and time after

In a dim light”

-TS Eliot, Burnt Norton

——————————————————————

All night he thinks about it. John’s smile. He lies in bed thumbing through Four Quartets, trying to concentrate on the page. He can’t for the life of him get past the line, “At the still point of the turning world.” He feels stupid. Around one in the morning he stops thinking at all. Stares at a crack in the wall.

It feels alien to be anything resembling happy. But he is. He feels less lonely, which makes absolutely no sense. He doesn’t know anything about John. He knows he was an officer. He knows he likes jazz. He knows he likes to hear himself talk. The type of information you learn about someone over a dinner party. Not anything you could base a real connection off of. Not like he had with Merriell.

Except that’s not true. He hadn’t really known Merriell any better than he knows John now. Loving someone and knowing them are two very different things. Try as he might never could break through. Walls on top of walls. Every time he got close he was shut out into the cold, Snafu’s mask of cold cruelty coming back with vengeance.

This feels different. John is nothing like Merriell. John’s not like anyone he’s ever met. He can’t figure out why that is. Maybe it’s the way he seems a bit too large for life. Always looking like he’s trying to crawl out of his own skin. Like he might shoot up ten feet tall and swallow up the whole room. Trying to touch something outside of himself that’s real. Something that reminds him he, himself, is real. Eugene understands the feeling. Seeing it reflected back on the face of another patches over that deep dark hole in his chest that started expanding ever since he first fired his first 60mm mortar.

I’m projecting, he thinks. But the feeling persists. He hears a baby cry next door and falls asleep with a pillow crushing his head into the mattress. He thinks about John’s smile and makes everything else go away.

It takes two weeks for them to meet again.

Eugene spends the days in between loitering around Central Park. He gets up every morning, with a birding manual he picked up at the library and notes every new species he finds in his small moleskin notebook. At first it isn’t about avoidance. Not for that first day at least.

On the first day he writes names down. Mourning Dove. Song Sparrow. Northern Cardinal. Blackpoll Warbler. The thought that he used to hunt these types of creatures for sport fills him with unease, a probing guilt he can’t shake even as their beauty overwhelms him. He thinks again of Four Quartets.

“Here is a place of disaffection.”

He thinks of finding an empty tent, his book of poetry left behind. Sid had thrown it away. Thrown it all away. He remembers how Sid’s friend had ribbed him for carrying a Bible. He remembers asking the man, Lucky maybe, what he believed in.

“I believe in ammunition.”

Two and a half years later the words still stick with him. Lucky, Leckie, had been shipped off at Pelelieu. Was home now, last he heard from Sid. Probably didn’t remember Eugene at all. And yet the words stuck with him through two campaigns, through three countries. Two continents. The truth of them.

Somewhere when the days melted into weeks and he stopped caring about eating with dirty hands. Somewhere around there the law of survival had become his new God. And the law of survival demanded sacrifice at its altar. It demanded violence from its people, it demanded priests of ammunition.

All these beautiful birds, all these fine feathered things. And here he was lumbering amongst them out of sight, a creature of violence. A thing that is tied in horrible knots between two wavering faiths. A thing who hates himself for it.

Here is a place of disaffection. Here.

He has killed birds and now loves them, eats besides a Mourning Dove, tossing it little pieces of sourdough. Thinks. I have loved man and I killed him too. And I enjoyed it.

John flew a plane. That he knows. It’s not the same. Killing from afar and not knowing. Different from watching the life leave another’s eyes. And wanting more. Feeling that deep wrath take hold of you. John, for all his great size and large smile and air of danger is just like the rest of them, the doves that fly about his head heedless to the fact that they are in the company of a hunter. That he could snap their neck in an instant. With complete and utter disregard for their right to life. It’s better for everybody if he stays away. That way he won’t get hurt. Eugene lies down amongst the sound of birdsong, and rustling leaves.

And so; for the next two weeks, he dedicates himself to the careful art of avoidance.

————————————————————

John is admittedly very, very drunk. He didn’t mean to be. It just happened. The night had started at the pictures. But he started to itch. Needed to get out. Halfway through Gene Tierney crying to the ghost of a dead Sea Captain he was legging it to the bar. It had been two weeks since he had seen Eugene. He had tried to find him, but the kid was damned slippery. Like a cat burglar. Turned sideways and just disappeared into the shadows. Couldn’t spot him at Church or at the Grocer’s or even on the block outside their buildings.

As shameful as it was to admit. John didn’t have many people to talk to these days. Not any who would want to talk to him. Gale had promised him. In the Stalag. That he would be worth knowing. That someone would think he was worth knowing, the version of himself he had deteriorated into. But that was a lie. A sick of a lie as any Buck had told him. No one wanted to know the new John. Not even John himself. If he could run out of himself into the street. Find a new face a new set of skin to step into. Someone, anyone else. But he was trapped.

And then came the disgust. Self-pity was the recourse of the cowardly. It wasn’t for soldiers. It wasn’t for men who had led others into battle and survived to tell the tale. His father never acted with self-pity. No, he got up and he shut his trap and he went to work twelve hours a day without a singular complaint. He would feel sick if he could see John now. His father’s cross around his neck burns.

Instead of self-pity John got too drunk and lost his money at dice and took the long way home, down darkened alleys. Hoping for something. Maybe. Hoping for a chance to feel someone else’s skin beneath his own.

And then he heard it. Soft noise, the sound of someone speaking. A southern drawl. He picked up his pace. Something inside him recognized the voice even from blocks away. Little cat burglar wasn’t gonna slip through his fingers this time.

He rounded the corner and had to stop for a second. Eugene was there, pushed up against the wall, broken glass bottle to his neck. His lip was bloody and so was his eye. But he looked completely calm. Soft brown eyes had become a cold, dead black. Their gaze met above the assailant’s head. John could hear the man as if through water, “Fucking faggot—“

And then John was leaping forward. Grabbing the man by the back of his collar and slamming him into the ground. The action came so naturally he barely even registered he was doing it at all. He looked up, trying to assess the damage. To see how bad Eugene was hurt. But Gene wasn’t looking at him. Instead he was stepping forward, slowly. And leaning down into the shitty little punk’s face. And then he was hitting him. With those cold dead eyes not looking at anything not wanting anything in particular. Like a walking ghost he hit the man without feeling, again and again. Until a tooth came loose and hit Eugene in the face. And then John was grabbing him instead, holding his bony spine steady against his chest, wrapping his arms around his stomach as Eugene struggled to get free. Shouting out in rage, battling against him. If John were any shorter, he would have been forced to let go. Instead he held on for dear life. He held on as the robber ran out of the alleyway. As Eugene finally realized where he was and went limp. As he collapsed and took John with him. As John sat there in complete darkness, until he felt brave enough to raise a hand and drag it through Eugene’s hair, like he might have for his little sister.

Like a damn bursting Eugene began to cry. John let him have his privacy. Was going to. But then Eugene grabbed onto him. And it had been so long since anyone wanted to hold him, since a person had touched him with anything but violence in mind, that he found himself grabbing back. Pulling Eugene into his lap and running his hand again through dark red hair.

He didn’t have anything to say. He was never good at comforting people. His mother would say it was one of his worst habits. Instead of speaking they sat there and he imagined the swing outside his childhood home to pass the time.

How he would sit there waiting for his father every day after work. Time passed slow back then. There was the worry of course that if John didn’t wait then his dad wouldn’t come home at all. But it was an easy worry. The worry any child might have. And for a while there his dad did come home every day. And the relief of it all, of not being left behind, left him smiling for hours. The two of them would swing back and forth, back and forth, watching the cows in the distance. Not speaking.

Time passed slow then. But now everything seemed to last forever. The good and the bad.

Eugene pulled away from him, hand over his face. John recognized the emotion. The shame over crying in front of a stranger was hitting him fast. He didn’t want to see Gene ashamed. Drunk and dizzy and quick he stood up and grabbed Gene with him.

“Listen, kid. I ain’t gonna make it home alone. Probably fuckin’ brain myself. Be obliged if you could, you know, help a fella out.”

Eugene dragged a bloody hand across his nose and eyes and then grew a bit colder again. Wasn’t a cruel cold feeling though. Not like before. More like the feeling of cool water from Lake Erie. Soothing. Sure of itself. Still water that you could wade in up to your waist without fear of being dragged into a riptide. Lake Erie was always John’s favorite.

“Alright.”

————————————————————

He didn’t know how he did it. But he’d got Eugene back up to his apartment. Drunken giddiness was coursing through him. He could see the kid sat on the rotting wood, next to John’s camping cot and pile of blankets, flipping through his copy of Maltese Falcon. John grabbed a passably clean glass and filled it with water.

He looked at home. If you could call a place like this a home. A cave seemed more accurate.

“You like detective stories?”

John sat the glass in front of him. Sat himself crisscross so they could really get a look at each other. Gene’s hands were bruising but it didn’t seem to bother him. His eye was swelling.

“What can I say? I’m a man of taste.”

After a silence he forced himself not to break Eugene answered.

“Thank you. I…I’m sorry.”

It didn’t seem like he had anything to be sorry for. Not really.

“Don’t be. No harm in fighting back when someone’s robbing you—“

“He wasn’t—“

“Wasn’t what?”

Eugene looked frustrated.

“He wasn’t robbing me.”

It took a second, watching the blush rise up on Eugene’s neck, to realize what he meant. Oh. Oh shit. He had thought or hoped maybe, that they were of the same sort. But not in any real way. His type were few and far between. And he was pretty shit at finding them. And none of them had ever…and then he realized what Eugene was implying.

“He. Was he hurting you?”

————————————————————

Eugene felt small, sitting on the floor, worn paperback in his hands. John was pacing, reeking of whiskey and lavender scented aftershave and cement. He had just wanted to go to a place where he could….just without worrying about being judged for it. He liked going to the queer bars. It was one of the few times he felt truly honest and at home inside his own skin. He’d gone outside for a smoke, trying to avoid this ginger asshole who kept trying to chat him up. Except that hadn’t worked out very well. Instead he ended up pinned to the wall by that same prick, screaming in his face when he wouldn’t bend over and give in like he wanted him to. He was a goddamn Marine. He wasn’t gonna let himself go down without a fight. He would have had the guy too. He knows he would have. Could have killed him if John hadn’t turned up.

John runs his hand through his hair and sits down again across from him. He grabs Eugene’s wrist, softly. It reminds him of being back in between those large wooden church doors. The touch this time is so soft he doesn’t even think to flinch.

“Are you okay?”

The fear. Being alone in an apartment with someone so much better than you in every conceivable way. Someone so beautiful. Someone you could tell should hate you for your very nature. John was a ladies man. Even if they had maybe sort of flirted one time a few weeks ago. Or he looked like one. But he didn’t seem disgusted with Eugene. He held his wrist gently. Wasn’t afraid to touch him.

“You…I don’t.”

It was hard to put into words. John shuffled closer, put his fingers to Eugene’s eye. All the air in his chest choked out. He couldn’t breathe. That line from Four Quartets. At the center point of the turning world.

“I should get you ice but I don’t have any.”

“You’re not disgusted by me?”

Eugene placed his hand above John’s wrist, lightly. He couldn’t help himself. Now they were connected. Wrist to eye to wrist and back again. Knees touching.

“It would be pretty hard to be disgusted by you when I’m the same way.”

Men like John… they weren’t like him. He didn’t get to be lucky like this.

“I’m okay.”

John didn’t believe him. That was obvious. He fussed over him the rest of the night like a mother hen. Tucked extra blankets around him and kept forcing glasses of tepid water in his hands. Cleaned off his split lip with a damp rag. Eugene had to physically hold himself back at that. Just because they were both homosexual didn’t mean John would want someone like him, anyways. He didn’t try to but he ended up falling asleep on John’s shoulder. Listening to the man read from the Maltese Falcon.

“He said: "I'm going to send you over. The chances are you'll get off with life. That means you'll be out again in twenty years. You're an angel. I'll wait for you." He cleared his throat. "If they hang you I'll always remember you….”

Words like ammunition and survival seemed so far away when you were warm, and comfortable, and you could feel another person’s stubble on your cheek scratching, the ever lively traffic outside a calming white noise.

[coffeeshades]

credits to the gif maker!

GUILTY AS SIN...? - PART II

summary: one summer with the man you can't have, but can't stop thinking about.

pairing: cillian murphy x popstar!reader

word count: 9.1k

warnings: 18+ (minors dni). explicit sex. angst. cussing, slight age gap, mentions of alcohol and divorce. no use of y/n, heavily inspired by ts and ttpd. if i missed something please let me know. (also this is a work of fiction, none of it reflects how i feel about the people mentioned in this, most importantly cillian's wife, who im sure is a sweetheart irl. it's fiction, just relax and enjoy it, and if not, move along, friends.)

a/n: hi everyone! here's the second part, finally. i had lots of fun writing this one, happy reading <3

part one

After staying at Cillian's for awhile, you decided to go to the place you had rented. The truth is, you didn't want to leave, but you had already extended your stay longer than planned, and you wanted to give him space with his kids. And you also wanted to give him time to process the event that took place four nights ago in his bathroom. Or you wanted to give yourself time to process it.

At this point, you weren't sure who needed the space more.

It was all very confusing because, yes, you've had feelings for him for God knows how long, but you've squashed them down like a stubborn bug for the sake of your friendship and, most importantly, his family. Those two things were always at the forefront of your mind, guiding every action and decision. But now that his family is no longer a factor and the two of you almost crossed a line, it's hard to ignore those feelings.

Those feelings that crawl up your spine every time he smiles at you or brushes against your hand accidentally. Those feelings also make you feel like the worst person in the world, as if you're betraying his ex-wife and their children by even entertaining the idea of something more with him.

It's all so delicate.

The cottage is nestled between rolling green hills and the glimmering blue of a distant sea. The place is like a warm embrace. The floors are laid with wide, honey-colored wooden planks, their surface worn smooth by generations of footsteps. Exposed wooden beams crisscross the ceiling, their rich, dark wood adding a sense of history and sturdiness to the space. The walls are painted in a soft, creamy white. The master bedroom is a haven of tranquility, with white linen curtains billowing softly in the breeze from the open window. The bed, with its wrought iron frame, is piled high with quilts and pillows in soft shades of blue and green. It's the best sleep you've had in months.

It rained earlier today. You've stayed inside all day, not wanting to venture out into the wet weather. The gentle pitter-patter of raindrops against the window was a soothing backdrop to your day, but it stopped around mid-afternoon, leaving behind a fresh, clean scent in the air.

Now you’re sitting at the rustic wooden table beneath the pergola, one leg tucked under you, grapevines overhead casting dappled shadows on the weathered wood. The garden around you is alive with color—wildflowers in every shade imaginable sway gently in the soft breeze, and the lavender and rosemary release their fragrant scent into the air.

Bon Iver’s voice drifts softly from your phone, which lies next to your notepad on the table. The music is haunting, its melancholy tones matching the weight in your chest. You’ve been here for hours, or maybe it’s only been minutes—time seems to blur together lately.

The notepad lies open beside you, filled with half-written lyrics, fragments of thoughts and emotions that you can’t quite bring yourself to finish. The pages are messy, scribbled lines crossed out, some words barely legible, as if your hand couldn’t keep up with the rush of thoughts.

You’ve been chasing this dream for so long—touring, recording, performing in front of thousands of people—but somewhere along the way, you’ve lost sight of why you started. The music that once brought you so much joy now feels like a burden; the words that once flowed effortlessly are now tangled up in doubt and frustration. The applause, the fame, the success—it’s all there, but it feels hollow. It feels lonely.

The sun is beginning to dip lower in the sky, casting long shadows across the water, but you’re too tired to move. You prop one leg up the chair and rest your chin on your hand. You focus on the water, trying to find some solace in its steady flow. But all you can feel is a deep, gnawing sense of unfulfillment, a yearning for something you can’t even name.

How pathetic.

You’re tired, so tired, and the dream that once seemed so bright now feels like a chore.

The door creaks open behind you, and you catch the faint sound of footsteps on the stone path. You don’t need to turn around to know it’s him. Cillian moves with a certain quietness, a soft presence that you’ve come to recognize. The footsteps grow closer until they stop just to your left.

"You should lock your door," he says, his voice low, carrying a hint of amusement but also concern.

You let out a small, tired laugh, not bothering to look up. "Didn’t think anyone would come by," you reply, your gaze still fixed on the stream; its gentle flow is the only thing that seems to make sense right now.

He doesn’t say anything for a moment, just stands there, his shadow blending with yours. Then he pulls out the chair next to you, the wood scraping softly against the stone, and sits down. You can feel his eyes on you, but he doesn’t press, just lets the silence settle around you both.

You hear him shift beside you, and from the corner of your eye, you see him glance down at the notepad on the table. His gaze lingers on the unfinished words, but he doesn’t say anything about them. Instead, he just leans back in his chair, looking out at the water with you.

After what feels like an eternity, he finally speaks, his voice softer, almost reflective. "I know that look. The one that says you’re miles away, stuck in your own head."

You don't respond, knowing that he understands you more than most people. The music on your phone shifts to another Bon Iver song, this time Beach Baby.

He continues. "You know, sometimes I think about all of it—this life, the fame, the roles I play. It’s bizarre, isn’t it? I spend so much time being someone else, living in someone else’s skin, that it’s easy to forget who I am when the cameras stop rolling."

His words hang in the air, and you turn your head slightly to look at him. His expression is thoughtful, his blue eyes distant, like he’s lost in his own memories. "It’s like… sometimes, I feel more like myself when I’m acting, when I’m being someone else. That's what made me fall in love with it in the first place. I just loved being somebody else. It’s easier, somehow. But then there are those moments, when the lights go out, and I’m just… me. And that’s when the loneliness creeps in."

You nod, understanding more than you’d like to admit. "It’s the same with music, I guess," you say quietly. "There’s this rush, this high, when you’re on stage, when everyone’s looking at you and you’re giving them everything you’ve got. But then it’s over, and you’re left with the silence, the emptiness. It’s like… who am I when it stops?"

He looks at you then, really looks at you, and you can see the shared understanding in his eyes. It’s a strange comfort knowing that someone else gets it, that you’re not alone in this feeling of being lost.

You take a deep breath, the weight of the words you’ve been holding back suddenly becomes too heavy to keep inside. "I guess that's why I'm here. To escape. To escape the pressure, the expectations and…just be," you say, your voice barely above a whisper. "Everything is a performance. Everything. When we're out in the world, we're expected to act a certain way, to fit into a mold. We have to edit ourselves. As honest as we try to be, there's always a part of us that remains hidden. And it's exhausting."

Cillian nods, his gaze never leaving yours. "And when you’re alone, you can let go of that and let your mind just be still," he says, his voice carrying the weight of someone who’s thought about this a lot. "It’s quite peaceful, isn’t it? But it’s also… terrifying. Being alone with your thoughts, with no distractions, no one to perform for. It’s like staring into a void sometimes."

You swallow hard, the truth of his words hitting you square in the chest. "Yeah, it is. But it’s also when I feel the most myself. When it’s just me, and I don’t have to be anything for anyone. Just… here, in the quiet, letting my mind rest."

For a moment, neither of you speaks. The garden around you is alive with the soft sounds of nature—the rustling of leaves, the gentle murmur of the stream, the distant call of a bird. Bon Iver’s music still plays from your phone—Holocene.

You break the silence. "Sometimes I think about it. I think about letting go of it." It's a terrifying thought but also strangely liberating. You don't know what it means completely yet, but just saying it out loud brings relief. Cillian just looks at you, his eyes reflecting understanding and empathy.

It was so easy, existing with him.

In this moment, you feel a little less lost, a little more understood. And as the sun dips lower in the sky, a mix of orange and pink hues, you realize that maybe, just maybe, you’re not as alone as you thought.

The next day dawns softer, brighter. You wake up with a sense of calm that had been missing for a while. There’s a lingering warmth from yesterday, the conversation with Cillian still playing in the back of your mind. As you sat at the same wooden table this morning, you found yourself scribbling lyrics that flowed easier, more naturally. They’re different—slower, more deliberate. There’s a depth to them that feels right, as if you’re finally tapping into something real, something honest.

Last night had ended quietly. After that heavy talk in the garden, Cillian stayed for dinner. The two of you kept the conversation light, avoiding the unspoken tension. It was there, hovering between you, but neither of you brought it up. Instead, you talked about mundane things and watched Punch-Drunk Love in the quaint living room. He pointed out every little detail he liked in it, and you listened, soaking in the emotion in his voice.

When the movie ended, he promised to see you the next day, and you reassured him it was fine, that you understood his absence. You meant it, even though a part of you always ached for more of his presence.

Today, with that newfound energy, you decided to venture out. An early morning walk turned into a drive to the nearby town. You pulled on a cap and sunglasses—a funny and somewhat ineffective disguise, but it was something. The town was charming, with narrow cobblestone streets, quaint shops, and a relaxed pace. Most people didn’t give you a second glance, and for that you were grateful. It was nice to blend in, to be just another person out enjoying the day.

You wandered through the market, admired the local crafts, and even picked up a few things—a handmade bracelet, a small painting of the Irish countryside. Lunch was at a cozy little café, tucked away from the main street. You ordered a hearty bowl of seafood chowder, rich and warming, with fresh bread on the side. As you sat there savoring the meal, your phone buzzed. It was Cillian, asking if you wanted to grab drinks tonight. You hesitated, your mind running through a dozen reasons to say no, but in the end, you agreed. You wanted to see him again, even if you couldn’t quite admit how much.

Back at the cottage, you took your time getting ready. You set the atmosphere, lighting a few candles, playing some soft music in the background. It felt good to take care of yourself and put a little effort into how you looked. You chose a pair of jeans that fit just right, a black top, and your favorite leather jacket. Casual but confident. A swipe of red lipstick added a touch of boldness.

You didn’t know where the night would take you, but you felt ready.

Cillian arrived right on time, his car rolling up the gravel drive just as you slipped on your jacket. When you stepped outside, he was already out of the car, leaning casually against the door. He smiled when he saw you—a warm, genuine smile that made your heart skip a beat.

“Ready?” he asked, his eyes flicking over your outfit with an appreciative glance.

“As I’ll ever be,” you replied, a hint of nerves bubbling up but quickly pushed aside.

The drive to the pub was easy, the conversation flowing effortlessly. You talked about your day, the town, the little things you’d picked up. He told you about his new movie coming out later this year, based on a novella set in the mid-1980s in a small Irish village. There was a comfort in the exchange, in the way your words mingled with the sound of the tires on the road.

When he pulled up outside the pub, you couldn’t help but grin at the sight. It was a small, unassuming place, the kind of spot that felt like a well-kept secret. The sign above the door was weathered, the windows glowing warmly from the inside. It looked cozy, inviting.

“Do I need to bring out my disguise?” you asked, amused, as you glanced at him.

He chuckled, shaking his head. “No, you’re safe here. No one’s going to bother us. I’ve been coming here for years. They don't give a shit about me.”

He was right. The pub was perfect—dimly lit, with a mix of old and new music playing in the background. The crowd was relaxed, more interested in their conversations than in who might be sitting at the next table. You found two empty stools at the bar and settled in.

Close to the drinks. Perfect.

You ordered beers—the kind that tasted awful but somehow fit the atmosphere. Cillian took a sip of his beer, and the reaction was immediate. He groaned, his head falling back as if in defeat, eyes closed as he savored—or perhaps endured—the taste. The dim light from the pub’s old-fashioned fixtures cast a warm glow on his face, highlighting the sharp angles of his jawline and the shadow of stubble that had begun to form. His lips, still wet from the beer, parted in a wry smile that spoke volumes of his disdain for the drink. His brow furrowed slightly as he kept his eyes closed, letting out a deep, exaggerated sigh as if the beer was the worst thing he’d ever tasted.

It was a dramatic performance, and you couldn’t help but laugh at how absurdly handsome he looked even in that moment. There was something endearing about it—the way he could make something so ordinary seem so intense. His dark hair, slightly tousled, fell over his forehead, and you found yourself staring longer than you meant to.

“Bloody hell, that’s awful,” he muttered, finally opening his eyes and giving you a side glance. His blue eyes sparkled with trouble, the corners crinkling as he caught the expression on your face. “You should’ve seen yourself, though. Looked like you were trying to swallow glass.”

You rolled your eyes, unable to stop the smile tugging at your lips. “Oh, please. You looked like you were about to keel over from one sip,” you shot back, sarcasm lacing your voice.

He chuckled, the sound low and rich, and the amusement in his eyes deepened. “Can’t argue with that,” he admitted, taking another sip with a grimace. “Piss beer, this is. I’d almost prefer water.”

“Almost,” you teased, lifting your glass to take another drink. The foam clung to the rim as you sipped, and you made a point to keep your expression neutral, though you could feel the bitterness spreading across your tongue.

Cillian leaned in a bit closer, his Irish accent growing thicker with each drink. “But then, what would we have to complain about, eh? I think the shite beer is half the charm of this place.” His voice was smoother, more relaxed, and you noticed the way his words seemed to roll off his tongue, rich with the lilting cadence of his heritage. It was endearing, undeniably so, and you found it increasingly hard to focus on anything else.

“Is that what they call charm here? I must’ve missed the memo,” you quipped, smirking as you met his gaze. The clever back-and-forth felt natural, easy, and it warmed you more than the alcohol ever could.

“You’re lucky I’m here to explain it to ya,” he said, leaning in just a bit more, his voice dropping to a playful murmur. “Otherwise, you might’ve gone your whole life without knowing the joys of terrible Irish beer.”

“Oh, I’m so grateful,” you shot back, sarcasm dripping from your words, but your smile gave you away. “I’ll add it to the list of things you’ve taught me.”

He grinned, clearly enjoying the banter, and you noticed how close he had gotten. His arm was now resting casually on the back of your seat, and every so often, your knees would brush, those accidental touches sending a small, electric thrill through you. The pub’s atmosphere, once filled with distant conversations and the clinking of glasses, now seemed to narrow down to just the two of you. The world outside the booth blurred away, and all that was left was Cillian’s presence, the sound of his voice, and the faint, intoxicating scent of him that mixed with the pub’s woody, earthy aroma.

The more you drank, the closer you both seemed to get, each sip loosening the barriers that had been in place. His laughter grew louder, more infectious, and his accent, more pronounced with every word, sent a shiver down your spine. It was more than just the alcohol—there was an ease between you that you hadn’t felt before, a sense of connection that went beyond the usual playful exchanges.

“Y’know,” he said, his voice dropping to a husky whisper as he leaned in even closer. “I think I’m starting to like this beer.”

You raised an eyebrow, your lips curving into a smirk, feeling a little more brave. “Is that so? Or is it just the company?”

He chuckled, his breath warm against your ear as he replied, “Maybe a bit of both.”

A familiar flutter stirred in your chest—the undeniable pull that you’d been trying to ignore for days. But tonight, in this pub, with its terrible beer and terrible lighting, you decided you didn’t want to fight it anymore. Not here, not with him.

You moved on to something stronger, whiskey that burned going down but left a warmth spreading through your chest that felt as intoxicating as the alcohol itself. With each sip, the edges of your nerves smoothed out, and you felt looser, braver, and a little sexier. You sat on the bar stool with your body angled slightly toward Cillian. The leather of your jacket creaked as you shifted, the red of your lipstick standing out against the dim light. You felt his gaze on you, not just looking, but really seeing you, his eyes tracing the curve of your neck down to where your top dipped, lingering just a moment longer than usual.

His look was hungry, but it wasn’t just that—it was curious, intrigued. He rested his elbow on the bar, leaning closer, his knee brushing against yours as he picked up his glass, watching you over the rim as he took a sip. The whiskey seemed to bring out the blue in his eyes, making them sharp and piercing, but there was softness there too, an openness that had grown.

“You know,” you began, a small, knowing smile playing on your lips. “I was just thinking about the first time we met.”

His eyebrow arched in curiosity, and he leaned in a little closer, his interest piqued. “Oh yeah? That was… what, 7 years ago? At the Globes, wasn’t it?”

You nodded, taking another sip of your drink, the liquid courage giving you the confidence to broach the subject. “Yeah, that’s right. And you… well, let’s just say you weren’t exactly my biggest fan.”

Cillian looked taken aback, a surprised smile curving his lips. “What? I don’t remember it like that.”

“Oh, come on, Cill,” you said, playfully nudging his shoulder. “You kind of hated me."

He laughed, shaking his head. “I didn’t hate you. I just… I guess I had some preconceived notions about you."

“Preconceived notions?” you asked, a teasing glint in your eyes.

He hesitated, looking almost sheepish as he ran a hand through his hair. “Honestly? I thought you were this… I don’t know, shallow, self-absorbed person. Just someone who was there for the attention, you know?”

You let out a mock gasp, placing a hand over your heart in faux offense. “I’m wounded! I can’t believe you thought that about me, really.”

He chuckled, but there was a hint of regret in his voice as he added, “But I was wrong. I figured that out pretty quickly.”

“Oh, really?” you asked, leaning in a little closer, your voice dropping to a flirtatious whisper. “When exactly did you figure that out?”

“The first time we really talked,” he said, his voice equally soft, the words carrying a weight they hadn’t before. “After I saw you in the hall, crying. I don't know. You were so real, and I realized you weren’t what I thought. Not even close.”

You raised an eyebrow, a playful smirk tugging at the corner of your lips. “Wow, so I had to have a full-on breakdown just to convince you I wasn’t a shallow, self-absorbed diva? Good to know, Cill. I’ll make sure to cry more often around you.”

He laughed, bringing his fingertips to his lips, his eyes crinkling at the edges. “Not quite what I meant, but I guess it did the trick, didn’t it?”

You remembered that night vividly, how everything had seemed to spiral downward so quickly. “I was having the worst night,” you said laughing, a slight bitterness creeping into your tone as the memories resurfaced. “I’d just been dumped by the world’s biggest asshole that morning, and then there you were, tearing down everything I said with some esoteric joke.”

Cillian winced slightly, the regret more pronounced now. “Yeah… I wasn’t exactly charming, was I?”

“You were a bit of a jerk,” you admitted, but there was no malice in your words. “But you made up for it with that burger offer.”

A grin spread across his face as he remembered. “I wasn’t sure you’d say yes.”

“Well, I figured a burger with you was better than sulking alone,” you replied, smiling at the memory. “And it was. I didn’t realize it at the time, but it was exactly what I needed.”

His expression softened. “I’m glad I asked, then.”

The bartender interrupted your conversation to ask if you wanted another round, and without a second thought, you both nodded in agreement. It seemed neither of you were ready to call it a night. The place was warmer now. As you waited for your drinks, your eyes drifted to the ceiling. Neil Young's "Harvest Moon" played softly in the background, the gentle melody weaving through the low murmur of conversation.

You glanced over your shoulder and noticed that a few couples had begun to dance, swaying gently to the music. There was something so natural, so easy about it, that you couldn’t resist the urge that bubbled up inside you. Turning back to Cillian, who was taking a sip of his drink, you couldn’t help but smile. “Come on,” you said, nudging him playfully with your elbow. “Dance with me.”

Cillian raised an eyebrow, looking at you with a mix of amusement and skepticism. He muttered something in reply but you couldn’t quite make it out. It only made you more determined.

“I didn’t catch that,” you teased, leaning in closer as if trying to decipher his words. “But I know what you’re going to say.”

“Oh, do you, piano woman?” he shot back, his tone light but with a challenging edge.

“Yes,” you said, grinning. “You’re going to say that you don’t dance.”

Cillian chuckled, shaking his head slightly. “You’re right about that. I don’t.”

You leaned in closer, your voice dropping to a low, persuasive tone. “I know, but you’ll indulge me anyway.”

He hesitated for a moment, his eyes searching yours as if weighing his options. Then, with a small, resigned sigh, he downed the rest of his drink in one go and set the glass back on the bar with a decisive thud. Before you could react, he grabbed your hand and stood up, pulling you along with him.

It caught you by surprise, the suddenness of it, especially considering he had just insisted he wasn’t the dancing type. As he led you toward the makeshift dance floor, he leaned in and said with a grin, “You’re lucky I like you.”

You laughed, a loud, genuine sound that felt as freeing as the night itself. “Oh, am I now?”

He smirked, his eyes sparkling with mischief. “Yeah, because otherwise, there’s no way I’d be making a fool of myself like this.”

You shot back with a playful, “Well, let’s see just how much of a fool you really are, then.”

As you reached the space where others were already swaying to the music, Cillian took your hand and pulled you in close. You could feel the warmth of his body, the solidity of his frame as he moved with you, the two of you finding a rhythm that was surprisingly in sync. It wasn’t anything fancy—just simple, slow movements to match the easy tempo of the song—but it felt intimate, like you were the only two people in the room.

Cillian leaned in, his lips brushing against your ear as he whispered, “Did you know I'm a failed musician?”

You couldn’t help but smirk, the alcohol loosening your tongue.

“Failed, huh? So, what happened? Couldn’t hack it with the rest of us rockstars?”

He chuckled, the sound deep and rich, sending a shiver down your spine. "Something like that. I was in a band, actually."

You leaned back slightly, raising an eyebrow in mock disbelief. “You? In a band? Color me shocked.”

It was kind of hot, imagining him on stage with a guitar in hand.

"We even had a record deal and everything."

"What happened?"

Cillian’s expression softened as he spoke, his voice carrying the weight of nostalgia. “My brother was still in school at the time, and my parents basically told me I could fuck up my life if I wanted, but I couldn’t take him down with me. So, it fell through.”

As you continued to sway together, the story of his past unraveled between you, each word carrying a hint of regret mixed with fond memories. “Those were great times, though,” he continued, his eyes distant as if he were seeing it all again. “I’d be out late, drinking, playing music in small pubs, thinking we were going to make it big. It was a bit of a rush, you know?”

You could imagine him there, young and reckless, with that same intensity in his eyes that he carried now, but wilder, untamed by the years. “So music was your first love, then?” you asked, your voice soft, genuinely curious.

He nodded, a wistful smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “Yeah, I suppose it was. I had been playing instruments since I was little. There’s something about it that just… gets into your blood. But then, acting came along."

“When exactly did you know that's what you wanted?” you asked, wanting to peel back more layers of him.

His smile turned almost bashful, as if recalling a secret he hadn’t shared in a while. “There was this guy who ran the Cork theater company—had a huge man crush on him. He was brilliant, and I ended up doing a workshop with him. After that, I just pestered him for an audition until he gave in.”

You chuckled softly at the thought of a young Cillian, determined and probably a bit of a nuisance, chasing after something he wanted so badly. “And that was it?”

“Well, there was a drama module in school when I was about 16, 17—during the transition year. That’s when I first got the bug. Ended up starring in A Clockwork Orange. It was sexy, dangerous, unlike anything I’d ever seen. I loved playing someone else, losing myself in the character.”

He paused, then flashed a self-deprecating grin. “There’s not much to look at, but if you give me a minute…"

You couldn’t help but laugh, shaking your head at his modesty. “You’re selling yourself short,” you teased, leaning in closer, your bodies moving in sync to the music. "Cill, you literally have an Oscar."

“Ah, the Oscar... just a glorified doorstop, really,” he quipped, his tone light but with that familiar undercurrent of humility.

"It's the work that matters, blah blah blah," you joked, rolling your eyes playfully. His eyes were crinkling at the corners with genuine amusement. "Exactly," he agreed, before pulling you into a twirl.

"Do you miss it? you ask, hands circling his neck as you sway. "Music, I mean."

Cillian blew out a slow breath, his eyes growing thoughtful as he considered your question. “Sometimes,” he admitted. "But life has a way of taking you where you need to be, not where you want to be.”

His words settled over you like a blanket, warm and heavy, as you mulled them over. Is this where I need to be? The question echoed in your mind, reverberating through the deeper corners of your thoughts. You weren’t sure you had an answer. You were a successful artist, living the dream so many could only imagine, but there was always that lingering sense of something missing, a quiet ache that you couldn’t quite place.

Where do I need to be?

The thought spiraled, unfurling like an endless thread, pulling at the edges of your consciousness. You started questioning everything—your choices, your path, the very essence of who you were. Those words seemed to tap into something deep inside, a reservoir of doubts and desires that you hadn’t fully acknowledged until now.

“Yeah,” you replied softly, almost like you were talking to yourself more than to him.

You rested your head on his shoulder, and he wrapped his arm around you, swaying slowly. See, this is the thing about Cillian, he had a way of making you feel seen and understood, even when you didn't fully understand yourself, even without saying a single word.

The warmth of Cillian's arm around you, the subtle way he moved—it all felt so natural, like this was where you were supposed to be. But then, the memory of four nights ago crept in—the way his breath had hitched as you said you weren't going to stop him from going further, the tension that crackled between you both like a live wire.

The room suddenly felt too small, too warm. Heat flushed through your body, a dizzying sensation that made it hard to focus on anything other than the way he was looking at you. A knot formed in your throat, and you swallowed hard, trying to steady your racing pulse.

The memory was like a current running through you, making you hyper-aware of every point of contact with him. The room suddenly felt too small, too warm. Your mind was swirling with thoughts, the alcohol making you bolder, more aware of the things left unsaid.

"I can't stop thinking about what almost happened the other day."

“What almost happened?”

He let out a low, almost inaudible chuckle, his lips dangerously nuzzled in your hair. “Don’t play coy with me, love. You know exactly what I’m talking about.”

You swallowed hard, trying to ignore the heat pooling in your stomach, the way your body reacted to his nearness. “I’ve tried to stop thinking about it,” he continued, his voice a hushed murmur that only you could hear, “but I can’t.”

His words hung in the air between you, heavy with unspoken desire. You wanted to let go of the restraint you’d been holding onto all night, but you were still aware of where you were, of the people around you—even if they weren’t paying you any attention. The thought of crossing that line, right here in the middle of the pub, was both thrilling and terrifying.

But Cillian, sensing your hesitation, didn’t push.

Finally, he pulled back just enough to look you in the eyes, his expression serious but laced with that familiar smirk. “Wanna head out of here?” he asked, his voice low but with a note of urgency.

You didn’t need to think twice. “Yes,” you breathed, the word escaping your lips before you could stop it.

The night air hit you like a shock to the system as you stepped outside, the cool breeze carrying with it the faint scent of rain. The streets were quieter now, the lively noise of the pub fading into the background. You were drunk, the world tilting slightly with each step, and neither of you could drive.

Cillian pulled out his phone, his fingers deftly dialing the number for a cab. You watched him as he made the call, the way his jaw tensed slightly as he spoke, his voice low and calm despite the alcohol humming through his veins. There was something undeniably attractive about the way he carried himself, even in this moment of mundane practicality.

“What about your car?” you asked, your words slightly slurred but still coherent.

He glanced over at you, a small, reassuring smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “I’ll pick it up in the morning,” he replied smoothly, his accent curling around the words in that familiar, endearing way. “Don’t worry, love.”

The cab arrived not long after, the headlights cutting through the night as it pulled up to the curb. Cillian opened the door for you, and the two of you slid into the backseat, sitting close together but not touching. Not yet. The space between you crackled with unspoken tension, the thrill of anticipation hanging heavy in the air.

You found yourself playing with your ring-clad fingers, the cool metal a small distraction as the silence stretched out between you. The driver turned up the music a bit, and the opening chords of Inhaler’s "Dublin in Ecstasy" filled the car. The song was somehow fitting, its pulsing beat and haunting lyrics adding to the electric atmosphere.

It started to rain, the droplets tapping against the windows and turning them foggy, adding a sense of intimacy to the small, enclosed space. The outside world became a blur of lights and shadows, the city fading away as the cab sped through the streets. You could feel Cillian’s gaze on you, the weight of it almost tangible as you sat there, both of you lost in your own thoughts.

You turned to look at him, and for a moment, the world seemed to hold its breath. The music became more intoxicating, the beat syncing with the rapid thudding of your heart. He noticed you bopping your head slightly to the rhythm, and a small, surprised smile crossed his face.

“You know this?” he asked, his voice laced with curiosity.

You smirked, leaning back against the seat as you replied with playful confidence, “I know every song ever made, actually.”

He chuckled, a low, rich sound that sent a shiver down your spine. “Is that so? A human jukebox, then?”

“Something like that,” you teased, the conversation light but charged with something more, something neither of you could ignore any longer.

The cab’s interior felt smaller, more suffocating as you neared your destination. When you finally arrived at his place, Cillian paid the driver, and the two of you got out, raising your jackets over your heads to shield from the rain, which had grown heavier. You both ran to the entrance, your footsteps echoing in the quiet night as you giggled like teenagers, the spontaneity of it all making you feel light, carefree.

He fumbled with his keys for a moment, the sound of metal clinking against metal filling the air before he managed to unlock the door. You stepped inside, the warmth of the house a stark contrast to the chill of the rain outside. The living room was dimly lit, the only light coming from the faint glow of the night sky through the large windows. The shadows played across the walls, casting everything in a soft, almost ethereal light.

You tossed off your jacket, letting it fall to the floor, your clothes clinging to your skin from the rain. You could feel the fabric sticking to your body, the dampness making you shiver slightly, but the heat in the room—and the heat between the two of you—kept you from feeling cold. Cillian wandered off somewhere for a moment, leaving you standing there, your heart pounding in your chest as you waited, the anticipation almost unbearable.

When he returned, his eyes locked onto yours, a predatory glint in his gaze that made your breath hitch. He took a step closer, the distance between you shrinking to almost nothing as he asked, his voice low and laced with a hint of something dangerous, “What should we do now?"

The question hung in the air, heavy with suggestion, and you felt a rush of heat flood through you, your pulse quickening. You moved toward him, your steps slow and deliberate, closing the gap until you were inches away. “I’m sure you’ll think of something,” you murmured, your voice trembling slightly despite the bravado in your words.

His hand reached up, fingers brushing against your cheek before trailing down to remove a stray piece of hair stuck to your face. His touch was light, almost reverent, but it sent sparks of electricity through your skin, making you feel like you were on fire. His hand continued its path down your arm, and you followed it with your eyes, watching as his fingers traced the outline of your veins, the simple action making your breath catch in your throat.

He moved his hand up to your shoulder, his fingers ghosting over the strap of your top before slowly sliding it down, his touch leaving a trail of heat in its wake. Your skin burned under his touch, a mix of desire and something else—something that felt like shame, but you couldn’t bring yourself to care. It felt too good, too right.

His hand slid up to your neck, his grip firm but not painful as he held you there, your breathing coming in short, ragged gasps. You clung to his black t-shirt, your fingers digging into the fabric as you tried to steady yourself, but the room seemed to spin around you, the intensity of the moment making you dizzy.

Cillian’s eyes bore into yours, his expression dark and filled with an unspoken promise as he whispered, his voice rough and filled with desire, “Tell me what you want.”

You wanted him—every part of him. You wanted to forget everything else, to lose yourself in this moment, to give in to the desire that had been simmering between you for days. And as his grip tightened slightly on your neck, pulling you closer until your lips were just a breath away from his, you knew there was no turning back.

"Kiss me," you whispered, your voice barely audible.

So he did. He kissed you, long and slow. His lips were soft yet urgent, and you melted into his touch. Your hands found their way to his damp hair, tangling in the strands as you deepened the kiss, savoring every moment. His breath mingled with yours, warm and laced with the faint taste of whiskey, his hands still cradling your face as if you were something fragile, something to be cherished.

But then the kiss deepened, the restraint unraveling as the need between you grew too powerful to contain. His hands slid from your face down to your waist, pulling you closer until there was no space left between your bodies. The kiss became more urgent, more demanding, as if he was trying to consume you, to lose himself in you. You responded in kind, your own hands gripping his t-shirt, pulling him closer, wanting more—needing more. The heat between you intensified, the tenderness giving way to something hotter, something that felt like it had been a long time coming.

The rain continued to patter softly against the windows, a distant sound that seemed to fade into the background as your focus narrowed to just him—to the way his hands gripped your waist, to the way his breath hitched when you bit down softly on his lower lip.

You started moving backward, the need to feel him against you overwhelming any thought of where this might be going. Your feet stumbled slightly as you both moved toward the couch, the dim light from the windows casting your entwined shadows across the floor. He guided you, his hands firm and sure, but there was a tenderness in the way he led you, as if he was still holding back, still trying to keep a grasp on the control that was slipping away.

You reached the edge of the couch, and he paused for a moment, his gaze intense as he looked at you, his chest heaving with the effort to catch his breath. “You're in control here,” he said, his voice barely more than a whisper, thick with the weight of the question, with the possibility of what was about to happen. "We stop whenever you want to, okay?"

Ever so polite, you thought. You answered him by pulling him down with you, your lips finding his again with a renewed urgency. The cushions gave way beneath you, the soft fabric enveloping you both as you sank into it. His body pressed against yours, the weight of him grounding you.

As the kiss deepened, became more frantic, more desperate, you could feel the tension in him—the barely restrained control he was struggling to maintain. His hands roamed over your body, landing on your jeans and slowly playing with the button, a silent request for permission.

"Don't stop now," you teased, your voice barely audible against his lips. He responded by deepening the kiss even further, his hands moving with purpose as he unbuttoned your jeans. He stopped for a moment, lowering himself to his knees in front of you, his hands taking off your shoes before sliding your jeans down your legs. He positioned himself between your legs once again, kissing you rough this time.

The couch was vast and soft underneath you as one of his hands traveled up your thigh—still not as high as you wanted it. You let out a needy moan, encouraging him. When his fingers brushed against the edge of your already wet panties, you couldn't help but arch your back in anticipation. He pushed them aside, his eyes never leaving yours. When his fingertips made contact with the wetness of your folds, he groaned too, in a way you found very satisfying.

"I've thought about this…a lot," he murmured, slipping a finger inside you, making you gasp with pleasure. "What you might sound like. What you might taste like. What you might feel like."

He pulled away from you swiftly, and you moaned at the loss. He kneeled down in front of you, his gaze intense as he leaned in to kiss your inner thigh, sending shivers down your spine. He pulled down your panties. You went stiff, suddenly aware of how exposed you were. He opened your thighs a little more, as if he wanted to see more. "I want to make you feel good," he whispered. "Let me taste you."

"Yes," you breathed out.

You couldn't stop looking at him as he pleasured you, his touch sending waves of pleasure through your body. Each flick of his tongue and gentle bite made you arch your back in ecstasy, completely lost in the moment. His hands tightened around your thighs, pulling you closer to his face. He groaned in pleasure, and you opened your thighs wider. His tongue was thorough and deliberate, exploring every inch of you with precision. Your hands grabbed the couch cushions, trying to ground yourself as you felt yourself spiraling into pure bliss. And just when you started to roll your hips, he slid two fingers inside you, hitting that perfect spot that made you gasp and moan uncontrollably.

It was too much. Pleasure consumed you as you arched your back violently against his touch and you moaned his name over and over again, letting go. You were drunk on him— his touch, his mouth, his scent—lost in the euphoria of the moment.

"Fuckin' incredible."

Well, yes, fucking incredible indeed. But not as incredible as it would feel to have him inside you completely, filling every inch of you. To reduce him to the whimpering mess he had just turned you into.

Before Cillian could do anything, you sat up and pushed him flat to the floor. You were both drunk and too eager to make it to the bedroom, so you might as well just do it right there on the living room rug.

He grunted in surprise, but his hands quickly found their way to your hips as you straddled him, pulling you closer. You removed your top, your breasts spilling out as you leaned down to capture his lips in a hungry kiss. His fingers gently tangle in your hair as you pull away from his mouth, pulling his black t-shirt over his head and tossing it aside.

He stopped breathing as you worked your way down his chest, leaving a trail of kisses and nibbles until you reached the waistband of his jeans. Your hands made quick work of the button and zipper, and you eagerly slid them down his legs, revealing his growing arousal.

When your fingers wrapped around it—fuck—his skin felt hot and smooth against your touch, his breath hitching. You positioned yourself to take him in your mouth, savoring the taste of his desire as you licked a slow, teasing path along his cock. Cillian let out a ragged moan, his hands tangling in your hair.

You lifted your eyes. He had propped himself up on his elbows, watching you with his lips parted, pupils blown.

You had him.

You took him deeper, relishing the way he arched into your mouth, his groans spurring you on. With each flick of your tongue, you could feel him losing control, surrendering to the pleasure you were giving him. "Fuck, stop," he gasped, his voice strained with need. "I need to be inside you."

“Condom?” you asked, the question hanging in the thick air between you.

“Upstairs,” he said, his voice rough, almost pleading.

You hesitated for just a second. “I don’t mind… if you don’t.”

For a moment, he froze, his blue eyes darkening as they searched yours, as if to make sure he’d heard you right. Then, with a low growl that sent shivers down your spine, he nodded.

You released him with a smirk and sat up, swung over him. You positioned yourself so that his hands were on your hips, guiding you down onto him. The anticipation was electric, every nerve in your body alive with the need to be closer to him, to feel him, completely and without anything between you.

As you sank onto him, his eyes rolled back in ecstasy, a low moan escaping from both of you. The feeling of being filled by him sent a shiver down your spine, igniting a fire between you that burned hotter with each thrust. Your hands clutched at his shoulders, nails digging into his skin as you matched his rhythm, lost in the intensity of the moment.

This was going to end you.

His movements became more urgent, his breath hot against your skin as he whispered your name. The room was filled with the sound of your mingled gasps and moans, a symphony of pleasure that seemed to echo off the walls. He felt so good, so right. His thrusts became more deep and harsh—you wanted even more. As if he read your mind, he sat up against the couch and kissed you deeply, his hands gripping your hips tightly.

"Bloody hell," he murmured against your lips, both his hands grabbed your face as he looked deeply into your eyes, and you circled your arms around his neck, pulling him closer and circling your hips in rhythm with his. Your breasts pressed against his chest, the heat between you both rising as your bodies moved in perfect synchronization. He was close—you were close. His hands roamed your back, your ass, and your breasts, and you threw your head back when his mouth found its way to your nipples.

"Oh fuck," you gasped, "Yes, oh—" you screamed as white-hot pleasure shot through your body, causing you both to reach the peak of ecstasy together. You felt his cock swell, filling you completely as he released with a guttural groan.

The intensity of the moment left you both breathless, bodies entwined in a tangled mess of limbs and sweat. He had leaned back to the floor, and you had gone with him. He was rubbing your back, and your face was pressed to his chest.

"You okay, love?" he asked softly, his fingers tracing soothing patterns on your skin. You hummed, feeling content and safe in his arms, basking in the afterglow of your shared pleasure.

You stayed like that for a moment, feeling his chest rise and fall beneath you, the quiet rhythm of his breathing syncing with yours. His fingers kept tracing those gentle patterns on your back, grounding you, reminding you that you were still here, still connected. The afterglow wrapped around you both, a warmth that made you feel safe, cherished. You could still feel him inside you.

“How bad would it be if we just stayed here?” you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper, as if speaking louder might shatter the moment. There was a part of you that didn’t want to move, didn’t want to break the spell.

He chuckled, the sound vibrating through his chest, and you could feel the rumble against your cheek. “Well, love,” he said, his voice laced with amusement, “I’m not sure how comfortable the floor will be in about twenty minutes, but I’d say it’s worth a try if you are.”

You laughed, the sound light and free. “Fair point,” you conceded, shifting slightly to look up at him. His eyes were warm, a little teasing, but there was an underlying tenderness that made your heart skip a beat.

“Come on,” he said gently, his hands sliding down your sides as he carefully helped you up. “Let’s get cleaned up. I promise the bed is much more inviting.”

He rose to his feet, extending a hand to help you up. You accepted, your legs feeling a little shaky as you stood, still a bit lightheaded from everything that had just happened. His hands lingered on your hips, steadying you, and you couldn’t help but smile at the care in his touch.

Together, you made your way upstairs, his arm draped around your shoulders as he guided you toward his bedroom. The space was warm, cozy, with a lived-in feel that made it undeniably his. The bed was unmade, sheets rumpled, as if he’d just gotten out of it before coming to find you.

He led you to the bathroom, where the soft glow of a single light illuminated the space. He turned on the shower, testing the water temperature before gesturing for you to step inside. You did, letting the hot water cascade over you, washing away the remnants of the night, though the memory of it clung to your skin. He joined you a moment later, his hands gentle as he helped you rinse off, his touch tender, almost reverent. You stood under the water together, letting the steam envelope you both.

When you were both clean, he handed you a towel, wrapping another around his waist. He left the bathroom for a moment and returned with a t-shirt and a pair of boxers, offering them to you.

“Here,” he said with a soft smile. “This will do.”

You took the clothes, slipping them on. The fabric was soft, worn in, and it smelled like him—woodsy, with a hint of something earthy and warm. You found yourself breathing it in, the scent comforting in a way you hadn’t expected.

When you were both dressed, he led you to the bed, pulling back the covers and slipping in beside you. He held the blanket up for you, and you slid in next to him, the cool sheets a welcome contrast to the warmth of his body. He immediately pulled you close, his arm wrapping around your waist as you nestled into his side, your head resting on his chest once more.

The room was dark, but the faint light from outside filtered in through the curtains, casting soft shadows across the walls. You could hear the rain still pattering against the window, a soothing backdrop to the quiet intimacy between you. His hand found yours under the covers, fingers intertwining as he held you close, his breath warm against your forehead. You could feel his heartbeat under your palm, steady and reassuring, and it lulled you into a state of deep relaxation.

“Thank you,” you whispered, your voice barely audible, but you knew he heard you. You don't know for what exactly you were thanking him, but it felt like the right thing to say in that moment.

He responded with a gentle squeeze of your hand, his lips pressing a soft kiss to your hair.

You didn’t need to say anything more. The silence between you was comfortable, filled with unspoken understanding. You both knew that tonight had changed something between you, something profound and unnameable, but for now, it was enough to just be here, together.

a/n: there you have it, i hope you guys liked it!! please like, reblog and comment. i wanna hear your thoughts! and as always, thank you for the support <3

[imamotherfuckingstar-lord]

our street

bucky barnes x reader, fluff

a/n: based off cornelia street by TS

The street was quiet, cars driving by in a lulled trance that only ever happened in the late hours of the night. Bucky held onto your hand freely since the two of you were alone; after a night out with the rest of the group, the two of you managed to sneak away. “I need to get some sleep; I’ll see you guys back at the house” was his excuse thirty minutes to bar hopping with Steve and the others. You waited a good thirty minutes after his departure to feign an upset stomach, hugging your friend’s goodbye and heading toward your apartment. No one questioned anything and you were sure the barhopping had planned its part in the grand master plan.

Well, it wasn’t the most brilliant plan, but it worked every time.

A whole six months of sneaking around and keeping things quiet. Bucky and you managed to successfully develop and nurture a healthy relationship – most of your time was spent away from the facility because it gave a sense of normalcy to the courtship. He would come over to your apartment most mornings with bagels and coffee. You would sneak into his room at the facility when everyone was asleep, unaware of what was conspiring under their noses. Alarm set for the early morning so you could pretend that you slept at the facility instead of driving back into the city. It took effort to keep things under wraps, but it had been worth it.

“Took you long enough.”

Bucky stood under a streetlamp, where he had been casually scrolling on his phone. He grinned when you stumbled into his arms, engulfing you in the safety of his embrace. He kissed you on the forehead when you whimpered that you didn’t want to walk back to your apartment.

“I actually think I drank too much,” you complained, allowing him to lead you toward the curb of the street. He held out a hand for a cab and grinned, explaining that you weren’t actually supposed to get drunk. “No shit.”

Bucky laughed. “A cab for three blocks, insanity.”

He was joking, of course, but you tugged him away from the curb. His hand fell to his side, and you told him you’d be fine to walk. He started to protest because if you were too tired, he really didn’t mind getting a cab. “Or I can carry you on my back?”

“Don’t be absurd. Of course, you can carry me on your back! You’re stronger than Steve.”

Your matter of tone sent Bucky into a laughing fit, turning himself away from you. He kneeled and beckoned for you to hop on – never one to ever deny yourself a ride on Bucky, you did as you were told. Effortlessly, he adjusted to your weight and stood up. Your hands fell over his shoulders, loosely holding onto his neck. He started toward the direction of your apartment, and it was quiet for a good five minutes, the two of you taking in the city. The cars passing by the handful of people walking by who didn’t bother laying a single glance in your direction.  The same street, different moments – Bucky grabbing food from the corner deli because they had the best turkey sandwiches. Your favorite coffee shop a block down, where the two of you would sit at a table; Bucky reading a book while you did a word search. The bar that none of your friends knew about, that you would frequent so much every bartender knew Bucky and your order. On this street, your lives felt normal.

It did something to you.

It made the things you held in your heart easier to say out loud.

“Just so you know…” your words were quiet, a tiny bit messy from the tequila shots. “If you decide, one day, that this isn’t something you want I would never be able to walk down this street again. I’d move to another block, another city because I don’t think I could bear it. Losing you…”

Bucky’s pace slowed down but he continued down the street – toward your apartment. “I think we should tell everyone; I don’t want to hide this anymore.”

A sweet relief filled the air, and you kissed his neck. “Then you can finally move in with me.”

The corner light came into view and Bucky grinned, looking both ways before crossing. “That might be the best plan we’ve had yet.”

“We are true masterminds!” you shouted, yelping in excitement when Bucky began to run. You held on tight as he raced toward your soon to be shared apartment, laughing as your hollers of joy filled his ears. He grinned as he pictured the small engagement ring, he picked out weeks ago in his pocket. A lightness filled his heart with each inch forward against the pavement. Somethings were worth keeping to oneself but the love he had for you, could no longer be contain on this single, perfect street.

He wanted to share it with the whole world.

[takami-takami]

Keigo and daddy kink please 🛐🛐🛐

I might go feral omg

Keigo thinks he's in love with the way the word daddy sounds when you whine it.

The titles sir and master have always settled a bit too formal for his tastes. When he calls you his baby, he drips it thick from his tongue like syrup, laced with every ounce of tender affection he has; so it stands to reason that you would respond warm and sticky in turn, a whimper of daddy dripping from yours.

Keigo takes good care of his sweetheart. His home is nestled between your thighs with a "s'okay love, lemme spoil you."

Huffing once, the puff of air against your clit has you squirming; oh, he has no choice but to pin those thighs in place, nice and secure. If you were to ask him, he'd say his hands simply serve as a preventative straightjacket for needy messes that can't control themselves.

"Who am I to you?"

Keigo drawls the question, lowering himself toward your core and grazing against it with his stubble. His lidded eyes give way to the truth: this is just a formality. You both know the answer.

"Daddy," you whimper without hesitation.

Satisfied with your answer, Keigo's delicate lips latch onto your clit, humming with a deep moan. He can hardly keep them from smirking as your fingertips dart to ruffle into his fluffy locks, legs kicking along the expanse of his back.

Overwhelmed already by a single kiss? Keigo rolls his eyes. He can make it worse.

He cranes his neck back from the kiss with a wet smack— panting in arousal, himself.

"You're dripping, sweetheart," he murmurs, head hanging back in his slouch. Thick digits prod your hole in circles to gather your slick before dipping the middle finger inside. "All that from a kiss? Must really like me, huh?"

You whimper. His teeth flash.

"Sweetest cunt in the world," he barks, diving back in like a man starved.

The tip of his tongue flicks in circles once, twice, before laving the flat of it in thick laps against your swollen clit. He repeats the cycle, peppering in kisses and sucks as needed.

"Kei—" A sharp slap against your thigh corrects you. The steel of his rings stings, aching like the bruise of his grip as he kneads your flesh. "Daddy, 'ts too much."

"No," he sighs, mumbling into your heat. "No, no it's not. Y'can gimme more."

When you huff in response, Keigo pulls back, brows raised in faux confusion.

"And how would you know anyway, princess," he mocks sweetly, flicking your leg before walking his fingers up toward your core. You must be confused, must be naive. Mirroring your pout of disagreement, Keigo decides it's his job to correct you.

"What happened to— ahem. 'Daddy knows best, daddy please! Oh, daddy, fuck me'," he whines with his head thrown back, pitching his voice high to your trembling humiliation. Your skin scorches, steam practically hissing out your ears.

"I don't sound like that!" Your squeak matches his tone perfectly.

He snorts. You call him a bastard.

He loves you. You love him.

He dives back on your clit, popping it into his mouth with a suck. His fingers curl up and pump deep. Your fingers entangle in his hair, mussed up in knots of adoration once more.

Predictable, predictable.

"Did'ya forget already? Don't worry, baby, I'll remind you. Daddy's gotcha. Don't gotta think, just lay back nice and pretty for me."

The strings wind tighter and tighter, twisting in your core and squeezing around your neck. It drags you down into the pool of depravity— he drags you down, firm arms wrapping around your center and pulling you down with him like a siren does to its catch of prey.

And like the crash of a wave, your back arches, mound secured air-tight against his mouth. Past the ringing in your ears, you can almost catch a "good girl" mumbled against your clit as he closes his eyes and feasts himself through your finish. Messy and unbearably loud, he laves and gulps down your essence like the sweetest, syrupy treat.

The moment your spent hips fall limp against the mattress, his tongue swipes across his bottom lip. Toothy grin wide, he wipes the mess away with a single thumb and dives back in; again, and again, and again.

It's a good thing you have daddy to take care of you. Who knows where you'd be without him to clean up the mess.

[taylorcritic]

The thing that baffles me most about this amnesia that people have with Taylor Swift is that she says she found out with the rest of the world that her masters (along with her old record label and all the masters of all the other artists who were signed to her label) were sold...... even though her dad was a shareholder, would have been informed about the sale, and raked in $15m from the sale of her masters. This was covered in a documentary that aired in Australia recently and no one paid attention. Her PR team even made a comment saying that TS has moved on from mastersheist which is obviously not true since she takes any opportunity to criticise Scooter Braun / Scott Borchetta and is still re-releasing music. She's a pathological liar and everyone's just.... okay with that? Spending fortunes on re-releases that are poor quality (see: all too well re-recording glitch, poor mixing in SN TV, generally being semitones out in Red TV and more)? I'm not a TS hater, I'm critical of her and hate Swifties but c'mon

I wouldn't be surprised if it was all a ruse for her to become a billionaire. She's definitely going to buy back the old versions when the Taylors' versions are released.

[lady-rose-moon]

I heard you were looking for requests, so... Here I am! 😁💕

What about Y/N finding out that she's pregnant again and she has to tell Loki - and of course Haven. 🥺🥰 Something super fluffy. 🥰

Please and thank you! 🧡

Together || T.S!Loki x Reader ||

A/N: thank you for the request, lovely!! So sorry that I took so long! I hope you enjoy it!

My Main Masterlist

Cabin in the Mountains || TS!Loki x Reader ||

Pregnancy seemed to come less naturally after Haven, every time you tried to conceive with Thomas, it always ended with you crying over a negative test. Especially after Odin fell into the Odinsleep and Thor refused the throne - making the throne fall to Loki alone. 

Something had to be wrong with you, you decided after you returned to the cabin when Odin awoke eighteen months after he collapsed in the main hall of Asgard’s palace. Something had to be wrong with you for not being able to conceive as quickly as you had conceived Haven. Thomas seemed to be so much calmer than you in this situation, more understanding with the stress of having a toddler and the move to becoming Queen Regent of Asgard when Loki became King. 

Still, the God of Mischief spent night after night tangled in the sheets with you, following your wishes of having another baby. 

However, Loki had been away now for a fortnight, having to return to Asgard because Odin wished to discuss a matter with both his sons. The sorrowful farewell had broken your heart but at least you had your daughter there by your side, a memory of Loki and such a sweet child. 

It had been a fortnight since you had seen your husband and it was starting to show. You spent more time with Haven, wrapped up in the blankets of the master bedroom than out in the warm summer weather. You relied on your daughter for comfort while Loki was away and you anxiously waited for your God to return.

Another day began for you and still there was no sign of Loki returning. Your stomach twisted with sudden nausea and you barely made it to the bathroom before you emptied your stomach into the toilet, gripping the sat desperately as you gasped for breath. Waves of nausea crashed over you and you whined brokenly,  holding your stomach in pain. This felt familiar somehow, an ache deep in your body, a memory of a feeling you’d felt years ago.

With hope in your heart, you decided to head into town with Haven, showing the toddler around the town and stopping at a coffee shop before heading to a pharmacy and grabbing a few pregnancy tests. You needed to be sure, you needed to know whether what you thought was right.  

When you got home, you smiled as Haven run into the living room, a happy grin on her mouth as she jumped onto the sofa. “Mummy, mummy!” she called brightly, kneeling on the sofa with a grin as she looked over the back to look at her mother, “come play with me!”

You stared down at the bag in your hand, deliberating between getting your theory confirmed or playing with your daughter. In that moment, Haven was so much more important than any kind of pregnancy test would ever be. Setting down the bag on the countertop, you smiled and strode over to your daughter, picking her up and settling her on your lap. You held out your palm and it lit up with the beautiful forest green of your seiðr, catching Haven’s attention almost instantly. 

The little child had always been mesmerised by the sight of seiðr and wished to know all that she could about the magic that she had along with her parents. She sat on your lap watching as your seiðr formed many different animals all playing around in the air above your hands, laughing and reaching out when a cat broke from the formation to rub against her face affectionately.

Haven laughed and looked up at her mother with pure love in her eyes, her enjoyment only increasing when you changed the animals to an illusion of you, Loki and Haven. The child smiled adoringly at the illusion, her hands reaching out to her father with a childish grin. “I miss papa,” Haven whispered softly, her eyes flicking from the illusion to you behind her, “when will he be back?”

“Soon, my little sunshine,” you replied, brushing your nails through her hair comfortingly as she sagged against you with an adorable sigh, kicking her legs impatiently. “Your father will come home when everything is sorted with your grandfather,” you whispered to her, lifting her into your arms and walking down to her bedroom, “now, it’s naptime.”

Haven whined and shook her head, tears welling up in her emerald eyes as her lip trembled. The little girl obviously wished to sleep with you but you needed to see what the pregnancy test said so you needed to get her down for a nap. Walking into Haven’s room, you laid her down in her toddler bed and knelt beside it with a soft smile. “Sleep little one,” you whispered, kissing her forehead and gently brushing her hair away from her face, “I’ll be here when you wake up.”

It took ten minutes for the child to settle and allow sleep to take her and you stayed by her side loyally, whispering stories to her and shining magic above her to act as a lullaby before she fell asleep. Now alone, you took a deep breath and left the child’s room, heading over to the plastic bag on the counter. 

You took two boxes into the bathroom and used them before sliding down the counter, waiting for the two minutes to pass. 

Those were the longest two minutes in your life. You thought of all the bright things that could happen when another baby is brought into your lives. Thomas would be so happy to have another baby, Frigga would be overjoyed to have another grandchild to play with and Thor - well, he’s not exactly allowed to babysit but he’s a cool uncle when supervised. You thought of your stomach swelling, thought of Thomas walking around with this infant in his arms, you thought of how your family would feel much more complete. 

The shrill ring of the timer broke you from your thoughts and hesitantly, you picked up one of the pregnancy tests and gazed down straight at the stick with two lines. Shocked, tears welled up in your eyes and you dropped the pregnancy test. Pregnant. 

You smiled ear to ear and picked yourself up off the floor while your hand fell to your stomach. Suddenly, the roaring thunder of the Bifrost startled you out of your thoughts and you grinned as you raced through the cabin to swing the front door open. 

There he was. Loki. Back and safe. You released a broken sob and ran down the steps to jump into his arms. The God’s arms wrapped tightly around your back and he nuzzled into the crook of your neck. You sobbed as you held him tighter, nuzzling into his neck as you tried to calm your breathing.

He was back. Your husband was finally back. 

“I thought you weren’t coming back,” you bawled into his shoulder as his gentle hands caressed down your spine.

“I promised I would come back, pet,” Loki whispered lovingly in your ear. He helped you back into the cabin, his touch grounding and comforting for you. He was back and already the ache in your heart had evaporated in favour of the oceans of love you held for the prince in front of you. 

You heard the small pattering of feet before you saw a whoosh of blurred light and heard Loki release a laugh of delight as he fell on his back with Haven clinging to his body. The small girl was crying and happily chanting ‘daddy’ as she kissed his face. You helped Loki to his feet, smiling as he cradled Haven in his arms expertly.

“I have something to tell you,” you whispered to the both of them, looking over to the living area with the roaring fire and you conjured three glasses of hot chocolate on the coffee table. You guided your husband and daughter to the living area and quietly sat down, smiling when you saw how desperate Loki looked to know what you had to say. 

Haven sat on Loki’s lap eagerly, her sparkling emerald eyes trained on you lovingly. “What is it, mummy?” she asked in her tired yet overjoyed voice, her body practically buzzing with happiness over the return of her father. 

“Haven, you know how we talked about you soon being an older sibling?” you asked, seeing Loki tense up in front of you, his intelligent brain firing with reasons before he realised and you could see the moment you realised because his eyes snapped to you, tears shining in his eye. 

“Well…” you continued with a small smile, biting your lip before resting a hand against your flat stomach, “mummy is going to be giving you a baby sibling soon.”

Haven gasped, her eyes shining with excitement before she jumped off the sofa and ran around the coffee table shouting ‘i’m gonna be a big sister!’ before she stopped in front of you with a bright smile, “when will the baby come, mummy? Tomorrow? In a week?”

You laughed softly and stroked her ebony hair. You saw a lot of Loki in how she looked, she was his mirror image and soon, you hoped your next child would be the same or a small sliver of hope held out that your next will look like you more. “They’ll come when they’re ready, little sunshine,” you whispered to her before lifting her up, seeing the worry in Loki’s eyes immediately before you playfully glared at him and he backed down with a fond smile.

You carried Haven to her bedroom and laid her down in her bed, pulling the blanket up to her chin. “Go back to sleep, my little sunshine,” you whispered tenderly to your child, smiling when Loki knelt beside you at your child’s bedside.

“Will I have to share my bedroom with the baby?” Haven asked as she rolled onto her side and gazed at her mummy and daddy.

“For a while,” Loki replied with a soft smile, pressing a kiss to Haven’s head and gently pushing hair out of her face, “then we’ll add a new room to our cabin and that will be their room. Will you be a good big sister?”

“I will! I promise!” Haven grinned, her eyes shining with such joy she seemed that she might explode if she got anymore delight.

Loki smiled lovingly and helped you to your feet, whispering a soft ‘goodnight Haven’ before walking out of the room. The God left the door slightly ajar incase Haven needed either of you. 

Once you were in the silence of your bedroom, Loki dropped to his knees and pressed a kiss to your flat stomach. “A baby,” he whispered tenderly, green magic swirling around him, transforming him from Loki to Thomas, “another baby. You are truly a wonder, Y/N Sharpe.”

You laughed and ran your fingers through his curls, smiling at the contented smile on his face at the reassurance of your love. “Our family is growing again, Thomas,” you whispered quietly, smiling when he looked up into his eyes, “we will continue to do this together.”Thomas melted at your gentle words, his thumb gently stroking against your flat stomach. “Together.”

Main tags:

@lokisgoodgirl @lokisninerealms @evelyn-kingsley @slpnbty2001 @jennyggggrrr @hahaha12123445 @ozymdias @holdmytesseract @itsybitchylittlewitchy @lovingchoices14 @xorpsbane @huntress-artemiss @muddyorbs @nerdy-fangirl-65 @lonadane @silverfire475 @chantsdemarins @iamsherlocked1479 @kittiowolf210 @just-someone11 @stupidthoughtsinwriting @loki-laufeyson-1054 @fictive-sl0th @coldnique

[yomenameisanna]

Welcome to my first fanafic!

Hope you like it <3

Realitionship: Lucifer x Diavolo x Mc

Warning(s): Sex toys, Edging, refers to Mc as Master, Light BDMS, Masochism, Sadism, Collars, Foot fetishist

In Diavolo's bedroom...

"MASTER PLEA- UGHH PLEASE LET ME- URGHH LET ME C-UGHHHHH-UM LET ME CUM"

You increase the vibrater In Diavolo's ass.You notice Lucifer is trying not to make any noises. You have a sadistic grin on your face. Both of your puppies gulped.

"UGRHH" "p-pl- URGHH"

"I'm not sure what you said Lucifer~"

"No-nothing...

ARGGHHH"

You scoff "You're so pathetic like that Lucifer 'The Avatar of Pride' huh" You tug on Lucifer's Leash

"Mas-Master Ple- URMMP"

"I didn't quite catch that Diavolo"

"Please let me- me CUUUUMM- URGHH"

"Alright, but make sure you do it on Lucifer"

"Wha- NO"

"Are.You.Defying.Me?"

"N-no, sorry Y/N"

"Huh what did you say?"

"Mas-master"

"Good" You say as you pat his head

"I- I'M CU-CUMINGGG~~!"

Pffft you laugh at the sight of a cum covered Lucifer

"Aww my puppy look so cute~" You say as you rub some cum of his face.

"Lick it."

"Wh-"

"Don't. Make. Me. Repeat. Myself."

"Y-yes" Lucifer than proceeds to lick Diavolo's cum off your fingers

"URGHH"

"Does seeing this slut" You say as you tighten the grip on Lucifers hair, he then let's out a "Mhh"

"Does seeing this slut licking your cum off my fingers turn you on?"

Diavolo's cock twitches

"Y-yes- MRRGH"

You had increased the vibrater In Diavolo's ass to the max

"Feel good puppy?"

Diavolo tries to respond, but to ultimately fail, and instead only making moaning noises. Lucifer looks to his left greedily. Wanting that same pleasure he witnesses.

You notice Lucifers cock twitch "Y'know all you have to do is beg right puppy?" You say as you pull on Lucifers leash. Proceeding to step on Lucifers bare dick that lay in front of you a Human.

"UWAA"

"That's a new noise"

Lucifer blushes not noticing Diavolo taking out the vibe in his ass, and replacing it with his thick juciy cock.

"GAAH"

"D-dia ARGGHH"

Pfft they looked so pathetic in front of you A Human.

"You know" You say as you step on Lucifers cock even harder.

"It's quite entertaining watching the 2 strongest demons fucking like a rabbit infront of me A Human.

Lucifer opened his mouth with a puff of hot air breathed on you foot. He puts his tongue on your socks. Proceeding to then bite you sock. Pulling them of you leg.

Precum oozed on you're feet

"Ugh, so nasty for the Avatar of pride to be such a slut" You say as you move you're still socked foot to Lucifers mouth

"Take it off" You say as you rub his face.

He has no choice but to comply. Lucifer breathed hot air on your socks. Putting his tongue on it. Proceeding to then bite it. Taking them off.

"Lick it"

"Wha- No way!"

"Huh? What did you say" As you say this you move your leg down and stop on his dick.

"Lick it if you wish to cum"

He complies

"URGHH"

Diavolo had just found Lucifers G-spot

"No don't-

N-not there~~!!!"

"Are you feeling good from this LucIIII URMGHHH"

"Diavolo don't forget to pinch those cute priced nipples~"

"Huh! Priced!?"

Lucifers face is reder that Levi's face when you had caught him playing hentai games. Wich was an entirely other story.

"MRRRPH AHHH YE-YESS!!!:

"MORE~!!!"

"Let-ts cum together LucIIFERRRR~~!"

You activate your pact with Diavolo and make him stop

Both Lucifer and Diavolo beg you to let them cum. Oh boy it's gonna be a long night.

[matrixxsystem]

Terrapin Soup Part 4 (3/3)

"Yes dear. Aren't you curious?" Leo hesitated for a moment, glancing from Usagi's hand to his expression, how could he say no to those big eyes and cute little smile.. God he was so gay- "..I mean who wouldn't be-? Y'know what, yeah, fine." He took Usagi's hand walking with him, "Just show me, I'm down for whatever." Usagi chuckled as he unlocked the door to the basement in the kitchen, turning the lights on and letting go to head down first. "It's a bit cold down here so just a warning." Leo nodded, watching his step as he descended, normally he'd feel really uneasy about downing into the basement of some guys house where they were alone, and where he knew just the kind of things that were waiting for them there.. But for some reason there was that lingering hunger in the back of his mind. Sniffing the air Leo got a mix of many different things, nothing back, but all different animals, like the back of that butchers shop close to their home that he used to sneak out to when he was younger. Sitting at the door or on the roof beside their open skylight trying to calm his hunger by pretending he was content with just smelling the meats and not taking anything. It was a candy shop of meats, and that excited him more then it should've. 

Part 5 Part 1

TS Master Post

[flying-bi-son]

Im not into that mistress/master dom(me) kink nor am i kinkshaming those that are so don’t come in my dms with ts.

And specifically to white people involved in that kink

DON’T SLIDE INTO MY DMS THINKING THAT MY BLACK ASS IS CALLING YALL MISTRESS OR MASTER

You’ll figure out a way to make ice cream under hell before that EVER happens. Have a horrible life that only gets exponentially worse as you continue to cycle air through your respiratory system🖕🏽🖕🏽🖕🏽🖕🏽🖕🏽🖕🏽🖕🏽🖕🏽🖕🏽🖕🏽🖕🏽🖕🏽🖕🏽🖕🏽🖕🏽🖕🏽🖕🏽🖕🏽🖕🏽

Lost your fucking mind

[hesbuckcompton-baby]

My OCs as Taylor Swift songs - 5/20

Frankie Bevan - this is me trying

I was so ahead of the curve, the curve became a sphere / Fell behind all my classmates and I ended up here / Pouring out my heart to a stranger / But I didn't pour the whiskey

[antigonenikk]

do i dare // disturb the universe?

chapter 1/2/?

pairing: john “bucky” egan/eugene sledge

summary: Eugene Sledge and John Egan are both adrift in the wake of the War. They find each other in a small bar in a small corner of Chinatown. And the rest, as they say, is history.

Chapter 2: april is the cruelest month

“April is the cruellest month, breeding

Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing

Memory and desire, stirring

Dull roots with spring rain.

Winter kept us warm, covering

Earth in forgetful snow, feeding

A little life with dried tubers.

Summer surprised us, coming over the Starnbergersee

With a shower of rain; we stopped in the colonnade,

And went on in sunlight, into the Hofgarten,

And drank coffee, and talked for an hour.”

——————————————————————

New York isn’t what he was expecting. He’d never been of course. He’d been to San Diego technically, for all that being stuck inside the barracks for two days before shipping out again to Alabama counter as “being in a city.” But the only real city he’d ever lived in had been Peking. He’d developed an idea subconsciously that New York would be the same. That the streets would smell of wood burning coal and fry-oil, that there would be streets crowded with sprawling marketplaces. That there would be labyrinthian alleyways and war torn buildings and giant palace complexes.

New York was not the same. The people seemed alien to him. Just as alien as the ones back home in Alabama. Their faces looked through him, leaving him a deep sense of panic that he had turned invisible. That he was a ghost. The streets smelled of baking bread and wet asphalt, and the noise of thousands of people all speaking English at once overlapped and brought him back to Pavuvu. When they’d all been living on top of one another, trying to pretend the world wasn’t ending.

It was unfamiliar. But it wasn’t all bad. He’d quickly found a place near Times Square, lured in by the neon lights and the friendly crossdressers prowling for rough trade. It felt liberating, to be here, to be alive and not in hiding. He’d remember what Shelton had told him. About the Red Light District down in New Orleans. How boys would cruise by the dockyards. He hadn’t believed it, not really. But it was true. There were people like him. Hundreds of them.

He didn’t dare touch anybody. Didn’t go out at night with desire on his mind. The wound of waking up cold and alone on that overnight train still stung a bit too deep. And besides, he’d always been a bit of a hopeless romantic at heart. The idea of cruising made him feel uncomfortable. Akin to jumping into the line of fire just to feel something. Instead he spent his days trying to figure out how to spend his unemployment. He had six more months of it left. And then it was pick a college or get a job. The possibility that he would choose wrong. That he’d waste the sum he’d earned through unwilling murder made him sweat. So he distracted himself. Spent hours at the bookstore, wandered the streets of lower Manhattan. Always somehow made his way to Chinatown by nightfall. And wasn’t that a gas. He thought he’d find something familiar there, but instead of Mandarin everyone was speaking Cantonese. And there were no families in sight. Just worn down men like himself. He’d found a bar though. A little place that reminded him of where he, Shelton and Burgie would go when they got Rec Passes. A hole in the wall with cheap beer and soft music. He’d sit in the corner sipping on drink after drink until it hit midnight. Then he’d drift over to the streets, empty as they could be, and try to clear his mind. Replace it with the sound of his feet moving one two three four. Marching easy like at base camp when they got far enough away from the huts. It didn’t seem to matter at night that you were lonely. With the sun gone down there was no one left to see. Almost like it never had happened at all. None of it.

That night he was feeling sorer than usual. He’d been at the butcher’s earlier when a car backfired. And he recalled with humiliation how he’d dropped to the floor like a sack of bricks, hands reaching for a sidearm that wasn’t there anymore. It had felt like eyes were on him. Like the whole store was staring. And so he’d ran out, kept running until his lungs started to ache. And spent the next hour curled in an alleyway for better cover, packing and repacking his pipe, not seeing much of anything at all. Now he was trying to return to normalcy. Beat down the shame. A glass of bitter Tsingtao in front of him. The place was filling up quick for a weeknight. And suddenly it just wasn’t worth it. Didn’t feel right. He wanted to be alone and to wallow and to curse at fucking everything that had led him to this point. He felt the inner lining of his jacket for his little Bible and tried to breathe. Getting up he strode towards the door, going for calm, hand on the book the entire time gripping.

And then his feet were knocked from underneath him and he landed hard onto his palms, hard. Groaning, he felt rage growing quick inside of him, begging for a release. He turned his head and felt himself torn between completely annoyance and unwilling attraction at the blue eyes and smiling face that stared down at him. He settled for an unimpressed scoff.

——————————————————————

New York was….well. It was. In a lot of ways it was like London. The only real city he’d had time to experience. The buildings were just as tall. Although these ones weren’t bombed out. Destroyed by the hand of some dumbass kid playing God, little toy soldiers collapsing into coffins. The buildings in New York were tall, and filled with pomposity. Just like the people. At first he barely noticed it. Off from Port Authority he’d made his way to Manhattan. Everyone was getting hitched and moving to the damn suburbs, so it hadn’t been hard to find a studio in a less than glamorous spot of town. After finally finding a place (a whole fucking week of living in a dirty ass hotel was starting to get to him) he holed up. Bought half a liquor store’s worth of booze, a carton of cigarettes and a month’s worth of canned food and just did nothing. Slept with a blanket on the cold floor, unable to bear the thought of buying a mattress. He checked the taps every few hours to make sure he still had water. He checked the cupboards four times a day to make sure he had enough food. And he let the panic run its course. Let it flood into and through him. He was all on his own now for the first time in five years. It felt alien. To not have someone lying beside you. To have enough to eat and drink. To be able to hear yourself really think. The silence rang heavy and weighed on him. And after two weeks he decided being a hermit wasn’t for him after all. And so he set out on the town. But man, he couldn’t stand most of the people.

He knew people now. Knew of people at least. Knew which bars were cheap, which folks were generous and would let him mooch. Knew the name of the baker and the grocer and the butcher and knew the price of a loaf of bread to the letter. But friends were off the table. It felt like everyone in the city was looking down on him. Looking at his sunken cheeks and his dead eyes and his twitching arm. Couldn’t stand it. So he rode the subway instead. The novelty of it hadn’t warn off. And even though his feet ached like a bitch he’d make a game of picking a random direction and just walking. Up the subway steps and through the alleyways, the long meandering streets. It felt a bit like the March. A bit like home. But that thought made him feel….But he didn’t think about the March, so it was fine. He played darts at bars all over the city. Got drunk as all hell and made a fool of himself. Listened to enough jazz to make his ears bleed. God. The jazz. Really that was the only time he was happy. He’d pick a spot. Any club in town. And fuck were there a lot of them. He’d sit and he’d watch the bands play. Good bands. Bad bands. God awful bands. It didn’t matter. The music sang through him. Made him want to bust up and dance and laugh and cry that he was alive at all. He lived for the nights. Lived for the music. That was reason enough to while away the days. Even if he didn’t have Buck anymore. Even if he was a shell of the man who was once a respected Major, he had the music.

That night he’d made a detour. Figured it would be funny to head down to Chinatown. See if Chinese drink had anything on Irish Whiskey. See if Chinese music had anything on American. He picked a small place, lit up with quaint little red lanterns that reminded him of the fireflies back home in Wisconsin. Except he didn’t think about Wisconsin. So he sat and smoked half a pack of cigarettes. One by one. Sipping on the oddly bitter beer the bartender had handed him, the name of which he couldn’t pronounce.

He could feel himself relaxing finally, a hazy buzz coming over him, when he turned and saw the Little Doll. Didn’t know how else to describe him. The kid, couldn’t be older than twenty one, was hunched over in the corner. His hair gleaming bright red beneath the lights. His face was an unearthly sort of white. The kind of white that reminded him of his sister’s dolls. He used to touch their cheeks when he was little. Amazed at how pure and clean the porcelain looked. Amazed that anything could be so untouched by living. The boy didn’t look untouched by living. His eyes were big and downturned and achingly empty. Cow’s eyes. Doll’s eyes. Sad little things. John heard him talking to another patron briefly and had to do a double take. The kid could actually speak Chinese. After that he tried to not look at all. But the buzz was gone. All that was left was a restless feeling. The need to constantly look over his shoulder and check that the Little Doll was still there. He felt giddy and stupid and old.

He got up to leave, drowning the rest of his piss poor drink in one go, and stumbled on the next step, watching as if in slow motion as the Doll tripped over his foot and went sprawling. Fuck. That had to have hurt. John felt himself grinning for a reason he couldn’t explain. For a moment he was a kid back on the school yard, getting ready to pull at some girl’s pigtails. He cleared his throat and reached his hand out determined to help, maybe. And then Doll turned around and he was met with the nastiest little look he’d ever gotten outside of when he’d dumped a whole bucket of ice-water over Buck’s head their second week into Basic. And he couldn’t help it. Really. He started to laugh.

He felt his hand shoved away with more power than he would have expected as Doll sprung up, glare still fixed to his pretty face, sneering out in a deep southern drawl, “Get outta my way, puhlease.”

He could feel the patented John Egan grin, the one that annoyed Buck to hell and back, making its way across his face as if it belonged there, even though it had been MIA for two years now. There was no way in hell he was about to do that.

[jewishbarbies]

tbh i don't listen to her music but sometimes come through the anti TS tag to get a breath of fresh air since i always get forced to see something about her no matter where i'm at. and seeing (mostly) TS fans jump rina's throat (on twitter) and calling her an opportunist is beyond frustrating. i don't want to compare artists with my bias being to rina but my god mainly swifties need to step back and look at the bigger picture than just "corny and mean woman."

rina trending makes me incredibly happy but the mostly TS fans spamming on twitter is so tiring. so thanks for being the breath of fresh air when i need it lol

happy to help bestie!

it’s honestly ridiculous because they’re all about “women helping women” and then get mad when taylor being vocal about her masters makes other women feel like they can also be vocal about their masters. like. that’s literally the point of speaking up??? they’re a bunch of ignorant racists.

[thezfc]

The View host didn’t want to talk about TS and her new boy toy in part because of the Swifties and how they come after someone. Haines thought was it’s just another publicity stunt, why give it more air. But TS is a master at getting air time-we’re even talking about it at work.

https://apple.news/AMhdIiGBKSKu8GB72UVaZfg

All the media know it’s fake but they want the clicks so they love it