#this is a really good price for this part of london

[dewitty1]

You can buy Sirius Black’s Islington home now

Number 12, Grimmauld Place, ancestral home of Sirius Black, is up for sale. Okay, it’s a well-presented grade II-listed Georgian flat in Claremont Square, Pentonville, N1. 

The iconic address, HQ of the main resistance to the dark forces of Voldemort, was a filming location featuring in ‘Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix’, starring Daniel Radcliffe as Harry of course, and Gary Oldman as homeowner Sirius, and is available for £385,000. The light and airy leasehold first-floor period property boasts access to a rear garden, with studio, separate kitchen and bathroom, and is mid-terrace. Plus, if entry to Hogwarts is not available to you, then the Gower School and Elizabeth Garrett Anderson School are virtually on your doorstep.

The wizardly pied-à-terre is also conveniently close to King’s Cross St Pancras station for when you need to catch the train from platform 9¾ (or hop on a Eurostar to Paris). It’s pretty minute, though, so probably not suitable for large pets or house elves.

More details

Edit-it was sold the minute it went on the market, that's how good the price is...

[bunny-jpeg]

house sitter au

while they serve their country, you serve them! *salute*

task force 141 are good at what they do. their ranks and medals are impressive, but it's hard coming home. home for them for a long time was a mediocre flat in central london that was vacant most of the year. it didn't help with the loneliness and disconnect the men felt after time abroad.

that's where you came in. an impressive resume and a bit of confidence that if you could handle toddlers, then you could handle four grown men!

when they were home, you helped clean and made meals. when they were away, you got free reign of the entire house. it didn't help that the paycheck every month was impressive.

the one thing they didn't tell you about the job was the lingering gazes of the men who you lived with. they never did anything, they wouldn't do anything without your consent. but when you were in the garden pulling out weeds (when was the last time the lawn was taken care of) you saw price by the doorway with a cup of tea in hand, watching you grumble to yourself. then when you were cooking lunch for yourself, you felt the hot gaze of johnny against your backside as you reached to the top shelf to grab some salt (who put this so high?). then it was simon's eyes on your lips as you enjoyed some ice cream after a long day dusting (how were these guys not sneezing from all the dust!). finally it was gaz who made a comment about how you looked nice when you were scrubbing the floors. he laughed it off as a joke, but the way he looked at you was a little more heated.

four pairs of eyes lingered on every part of your body, even the parts that you were insecure about. to end up in bed with them wasn't hard. it first started with the captain, then you made your way through the ranks.

price was burly and strong, he had you pinned under him on his large bed. his hands on your hips as he buried his cock into you. your ass in the air but your upper half was flat against the mattress, price soon interwove his fingers with yours as he thrusted into your sweet cunt. you realized soon after that he really liked when you called him captain. or better yet, daddy. you didn't know that you reeked of daddy issues, but price could smell it from a mile away. but don't worry, daddy's got ya. when he was finished fucking you, he'd play with your overstimulated clit while he smoked. he made sure to exhale away from you. he was the first however to punish you when you were being a 'bad' girl. sometimes it was shining his boots, other times you were the one getting his boots dirty. (hope you like rough laces against your soaked clit!)

johnny was a wild card. he liked to bite. and it wasn't like his teeth were too blunt to cause any damage. after the first time you were with him, you made him go to the drug store to buy you concealer to cover the jackson pollock-esque hickeys on your neck! he offered to buy you a collar to wear inside and you narrowed your eyes at him. "if anyone here needs a collar it's you, mactavish." but he could also be so sweet. while he liked it fast and rough, he always made sure his number one girl got to finish as well. usually before him. his kisses were sloppy, he was like a dog sometimes. his favourite place to fuck you however was in the yard outside. he usually have to shove his thick fingers in your mouth to keep you quiet. no one needed to know just how NEEDY you were for his cock. the number of times the other men caught him just pounding your sweet cock, using that strength of his to his advantage was something else. and of course, when they caught you, they hung around. three other men watching you face down in the grass with johnny having you by the hips. his praise his filthy, almost degrading. you were his special girl, but you were also a massive whore. but don't worry, bonnie, johnny will happily fuck any hole you have open.

simon was difficult. he only found out that your legs were open for business after he heard you and johnny going at it. the sound of the bed creaking and the scottsman's filthy tongue. but unlike johnny, simon was a little too big for you. while your sexual encounters started with oral and fingering. he managed to get just the tip in. but it wasn't enough, he eventually sank every last inch. the feeling took the wind out of you and you couldn't sit right for days after. his pace was slow, methodical. he watched you with a keen eye. the rise and fall of your chest, the noises you made. he knew he was selfish for taking so much of you, but you were unlike anyone else. after that, he started to take his mask off more. if you saw (and felt) his cock, you might as well see what was under the mask. cue a lot of worship from you, kissing at his heavily scarred body. he'd just hold you in his arms while you were in his lap.

kyle was the sweetest which compared to the other hulking men you were living with. it wasn't a hard bar to clear. all of them complimented you, but kyle was the one who'd bring you flowers when he returned from a mission. he mostly liked to keep his intimate time with you in his bedroom. his favourite position was to take you on your side. him spooning you as he thrusted his cock into your tight pussy. his nose in your hair as he moved against you. he knew the other men were taking your pussy for a joy ride, so he wanted to make love to you. flowers, candles, sweet nothings. the only problem was, instead him wanting to jump your bones. you wanted to jump HIS bones. you got loads of body worship from him, lots of praise to. he also liked when you called him by his rank, while not AS impressive as captain or lieutenant, it was still something he was proud of. he'd take you missionary style but a lot of the time, loved having you on top. with the afternoon light bathing your body in golden rays. he rarely left marks or bruises. no one needed to see what you two did in your off time. it was a secret for him and him alone. regardless of how you two fucked, he was the king of after care, letting you rest as he would read to you. either the book he had picked up while away or an article on his phone. he chuckled when he heard you snoring.

but sometimes, it was hard to choose between two of them at a time. so you ended up with both johnny and simon's cock pushed inside of you. your mouth hung open and your mind drawing a blank. but don't worry, they're worshiping your cunt. cooing about how sweet it is that you can take BOTH of them. of course you could! you were made for them. your stomach feels dense after they cum inside you about three times. the feeling of their cum in your gut makes your lethargic and just curl up after they get their fill.

other times its kyle and price. while they aren't pushing your pussy to its absolute limit. it still takes a lot out of you. you were on the floor of price's bedroom, riding the captain while facing kyle who had his cock in your face. as you moved your hips against the older man, your mouth and hand were on the sergeant's cock. you found out that both men liked it when you were covered in their cum, not push it inside of you as deep as they could.

when those who hired you asked how the job was going after a few months. you meekly asked what the health insurance policy was and did it cover birth control *hides face*

(you'd find out within a year that no amount of pills, iuds, rings or implants could stop one of those boys from giving you a baby)

<3

[gloomwitchwrites]

The 141 boys and the TikTok trend “everybody knows that I’m a good girl officer”

Firstly, I want to say that in this house, we say "fuck the police (derogatory)" every single day. However, I will indulge in this instance because it's our 141 boys and I think the trend with them would be absolutely smoldering. But I will change it up slightly, and pull from my Bodyguard!141 AU Post as well as lean into a security detail aspect for this one.

For the masterlist and how to submit your own request, click HERE

Task Force 141 x Female Reader

Content & Warnings (per the warnings MDNI): swearing, suggestive themes, dirty thoughts, flirting, secret relationship

Word Count: 1.5k

ao3 // taglist // main masterlist // imagines & what if masterlist

John Price

Price adjusts the ear piece in his right ear.

The blasted thing doesn’t fit right. It keeps slipping. It’s irritating but it’s manageable. Not like Price is running anywhere. At least, he doesn’t plan on moving too quickly. His job is to stand and observe. To make look after a certain MP’s daughter, and to take her back to the hotel when she tells you she’s ready to leave.

You are no stranger. Far from it.

And it goes far beyond the grounds of appropriate behavior.

Price has completely stuck his foot in it, bedding you when he isn’t supposed to. Stealing kisses in dark corners, and fucking you behind closed doors. He was hired by your father to look after you, and instead, John has taken it much further than that.

But he doesn’t fucking regret it.

Not at all.

John adjusts his ear piece and scans the room from left to right. You’re not in sight but that doesn’t bother him. This ballroom is packed full of rich schmucks who couldn’t give a shit about him.

He scans the room again, and this time he finds you.

You’re walking toward him, hips moving in a sultry sway that steals John’s resolve. You’re gorgeous. Perfect. And he can’t stop staring.

The corner of your mouth quirks with amusement, and John straightens his shoulders, making himself appear bigger. He needs to look professional. He needs to look like he’s not thinking about all the ways he wants to fuck you.

But it’s hard to focus, and when you approach, you glance over your shoulder at him, words leaving your mouth that John doesn’t entirely catch at first. Your foot pops in the air, and the friend you’re walking with giggles, her hand pressed to her painted lips.

Everybody knows that I’m a good girl, officer.

A good girl.

Yes. You are.

You’re John’s good girl.

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick

High-stakes missions have always been part of Kyle’s life. It is what he knows. What he thrives on. But between the missions, Kyle keeps working, and not with SAS.

Kyle mostly signs up for security detail at different places around London. Sometimes he might work as a bouncer for a club, or be monitoring people entering a music venue. Sometimes the gigs are swanky, and sometimes they’re not. Kyle doesn’t really mind as long as he’s paid.

That’s the whole point.

He’s saving. Wants to buy a house. Maybe find someone to settle down with. Life is going by fast. He needs some stability amongst all the violence.

And tonight? Tonight, he’s nothing more than a glorified security guard.

He looks the part in all-black tactical gear, and he isn’t the only one. There is an entire group of them all lined up in front of large windows, creating a bit of barrier. The event coordinator expected protests. All there is are a handful of people across the street with signs. They’re harmless.

Kyle doesn’t pay them any mind.

He does watch the regular people walking by on his side of the road. Some people are here for the event and others are just passing through.

Standing on the corner nearby is a small group of young women. They’re all dressed up like they’re heading to the clubs. Kyle pretends he’s not looking, but that would be a lie. There is one he keeps glancing at.

You’re fucking stunning. A beauty.

But Kyle has to remain calm. Aloof. He’s not here for you or anyone except the job at hand.

“Go over there.”

“I can’t!”

“Girl. He is so cute. Do it.”

Kyle casually turns his head, only to find you striding toward him. His throat drops into his stomach, and you waltz past him, pausing just to his right, flipping your hair, and batting your eyelashes at him and then your friends.

“Everybody knows that I’m a good girl, officer.”

Your friends scream, and then you hurriedly run back to them as if you’ve done something you shouldn’t.

A good girl? Sure you are, love.

Kyle smirks and looks away, doing his best to hide a growing smile.

Simon "Ghost" Riley

Simon sits in the driver seat of a large, black SUV. His fingers are itching for a cigarette. He needs the smoke—to feel the burn. To rid himself of some of this agitation.

It’s not annoyance. It’s not frustration. And it sure as shit isn’t anger.

No. Simon has a fucking rager in his pants, and his thoughts are filled with images of you. You—who he’s supposed to be protecting. Escorting you to and from events, pushing back the crowd, and keeping a firm lock on where you are at all times.

The black dress you’re wearing tonight is made of flimsy material. It clings to every curve and swell. Simon is hungry—a feral animal that couldn’t stop stalking you throughout the event.

Now, he’s about to take you back to your hotel. And he knows you’ll invite him in. He knows that the little black dress you wear will be nothing but a pile on the floor in due time.

But this need in his bones isn’t just Simon’s fault. You were a fucking tease all evening. You were bad. Openly flirting with other men in front of him, drinking more than you should have, and genuinely being a little terror to his sanity. All this behavior will only get you punishment. A punishment he’s happy to deal out once he has you behind a closed door.

A car door clicks, and Simon glances up, expecting to see you slide into the backseat. You’re not there. You’re next to him. In the front passenger seat.

“What the fuck are you doing?” asks Simon, his knuckles white as he grips the steering wheel.

You shrug and settle in. “Don’t know what you’re talking about,” you reply, leaning on the middle armrest.

Simon can smell your perfume. “Buckle up,” he growls, and you do so casually, as if you don’t hear his irritation.

He pulls out into traffic, and the moment the two of you are clear of the building, Simon feels your hand on his thigh moving dangerously close to his dick.

“This bad behavior needs to stop.”

Your body shifts and you sing-song the next words out of your mouth. “Everybody knows that I’m a good girl, officer.”

The words are bit slurred. You’re completely pissed, and Simon cannot help but laugh. No punishment then. Not tonight at least.

But tomorrow?

Absolutely.

John "Soap" MacTavish

This isn’t Johnny’s usual job, but it’s easy work.

Usually, hired security and local police take care of concerts and sporting events, but the military has been called in for this one, and Johnny is fine with that. Again, it’s easy work, and they’re paying him more for it.

He stands in one spot, scans the crowd, and acts casual while looking downright intimidating. The intimidation isn’t hard. They have him completely decked out in all-black tactical and balaclava included. All you can see of Johnny are his eyes.

It’s fun, actually. When he put it all on, he pretended to be Simon, only to receive a swat upside the head for it from the man himself.

Johnny has his hands casually resting on his bulletproof vest. No one is really looking at him, and those that do quickly look away. But there is one he can’t stop looking at.

You’re so damn cute, and you can’t stop glancing at him either. You’re with friends, and you keep smiling in his direction. If this were any other night, Johnny would approach you, flirt a bit, maybe even ask for your number. Might even take you home with him if you were open to it.

But Johnny is on the job, and he can’t afford to do that.

As you move closer to him through the crowd, one of your friends keeps saying something to you, moving their hands as if urging you to do something. Johnny isn’t sure what, but he’s curious. You don’t look like danger, and there is nothing about your demeanor that says that you’re looking to cause trouble.

Maybe it’s the balaclava. That seems to be a thing now.

As you approach, there is a pop of your foot, a quick flip of your hair, and a stunning smile. Your friend holds up her phone and you turn away from Johnny briefly to say “Everybody knows that I’m a good girl, officer.”

I bet you fucking are, love.

Your friends giggle with pleasure, and you quickly move away from him but not before you glance over your shoulder one last time, mouthing a silent “thank you.”

taglist:

@km-ffluv @glitterypirateduck @tiredmetalenthusiast @miaraei @cherryofdeath

@enarien @saoirse06 @ferns-fics @unhinged-reader-36 @miss-mistinguett

@ravenpoe67 @tulipsun-flower @sageyxbabey @mudisgranapat @ninman82

@lulurubberduckie @leed-bbg @yawning-grave81 @azkza @nishim

@haven-1307 @voids-universe @itsberrydreemurstuff @spicyspicyliving @keiva1000

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@suhmie @jaggersinclair @jackrabbitem @lxblm @beebeechaos

@no-oneelsebutnsu @kidd3ath @certainlygay @thewulf @lovely-ateez

@arrozyfrijoles23 @gingergirl06 @eternallyvenus @smileykiddie08 @vrb8im

[intromortal]

⸻IN PROGRESS

last updated 14.11.2024

a-n ! this is mostly for tracking and tag list purposes. these will all take a while because they're all on the longer side and are subject to change!! + i'm a slow writer and often very busy. but it's still fun to show you guys what i'm working on :) taglists for all of these are open!

CASHMERE COLOGNE.

falling for his client is definitely not part of jay's job requirements. quite the opposite actually. especially when said client is soon to be married off to super rich, super talented, super hot park sunghoon.

PAIRING bodyguard!jay x artist!reader

CONTENT ⚠︎ smut. mdni. angst, fluff, bodyguard!au, self-doubt, reader is an artist, she’s also shameless, (escaping an) arranged marriage!au, sunghoon really doesn't wanna marry you... but it's mutual so. honestly this is getting way more romcommy than i anticipated...

STATUS writing

WORD COUNT currently 9k, total est. around 30k (we hope)

warnings + more wips under the cut

WARNINGS: multiple smut scenes, voyeurism, exhibitionism, masturbation (f), spit, things happen in a car, reckless driving, public sex, use of ma’am, edging, orgasm denial, protected and unprotected sex, snowballing ...more to be added

TOO GOOD TO PUT A PRICE ON IT.

you would be crazy to turn down free rent in exchange of getting fucked daily by the guy you've been pining after for months, but your step brother happens to want something in return too.

PAIRING stepbro!sunghoon x reader x camboy!jungwon

CONTENT ⚠︎ smut. mdni. roomate!au

STATUS outlined

WORD COUNT estimated around 10k

WARNINGS stepcest, live-streamed sex, threesome, yes reader fucks sungwon for rent bitch i would too! ...more to be added

PUSSY JACKPOT !

you spend an extravagant night with jake and his friends at a casino to celebrate his latest promotion. it takes a wild turn when your sweet boyfriend decides to go all in and bet on your even sweeter pussy, knowing how all of his friends have been dying for a taste. no matter who wins though, you know it's gonna be you hitting the jackpot.

PAIRING bf's best friend!jay, heeseung and sunghoon x reader, bf!jake x reader, jay focused.

CONTENT ⚠︎ smut. mdni. gambling

STATUS outlining

WORD COUNT tbd

WARNINGS infidelity, semi-public sex, stepcest, rest of hyungline get to watch ...more to be added

BUCKLE BUNNY RODEO.

the yearly PBR world finals hit your hometown again, and as always you find yourself dealing with all the losers coming to your bar to drown their sorrows in alcohol. things take an interesting turn when the winner shows up and challenges you to beat the shabby mechanical bull at the center of the overcrowded bar, promising you an even wilder ride upstairs if you're willing to take his offer.

PAIRING pro bull rider!jay x bartender!reader

GENRE ⚠︎ smut. mdni.

STATUS outlining

WORD COUNT tbd

WARNINGS alcohol consumption, body shots, temperature play, facesitting, spit, cowboy jay has chest hair argue with the wall!! ...more to be added

↳ PART TWO.

it's been a year, and jay's fellow pro bull riders want a ride too, after hearing so much about you from their dearest friend. and who are you to refuse them, when they're talking so sweet and dirty?

WARNINGS heejake take turns, wet humping, like very wet, thigh fucking, tit fucking, oral (m. rec) ...more to be added

LAST TRAIN TO LONDON.

in some lives you're a painter, in others you're a musician, a writer. in some you get to grow old, maybe away from jay, maybe right beside him. in some you get to love him until your last breath, even when you're young and stupid. you're all over the world, all over time and all over jay's heart, for he lives and breathes to love you in every lifetime of yours, even if you don't remember. he always looks for you yet it's always fate bringing you back to him, this time it's by making sure you don't miss the last train to london.

PAIRING immortal!jay x mortal!reader

CONTENT angst w an hopeful ending, fluff, ⚠︎ smut, soulmate!au, reincarnation!au

STATUS outlining

WORD COUNT tbd

WARNINGS tbd

EACH TIME YOU FALL IN LOVE.

the sun shines bright even in the face of death, your most beloved husband cold in his casket despite the warmth of the weather, and sunghoon wishes circumstances were different.

or, you and sunghoon ponder on what could have been.

PAIRING sunghoon x reader ( + jay )

CONTENT angst, very minimal fluff, ⚠︎ smut, old people😞, multiple character deaths, time skips... more to be added

STATUS outlined

WORD COUNT tbd

WARNINGS tbd

⸻SERIES

MOTION PICTURE SOUNDTRACK.

jake has to be the most infuriating, cocky, stuck up actor you've had the displeasure to work with so far. and you wish you'd just rejected your role when your pr teams have the fantastic idea to push the limits on those... relationship rumors about you and your horrible coworker that have spread like wildfire everywhere.

PAIRING co-star!jake x movie star!reader

CONTENT angst, eventual fluff and ⚠︎ smut, fake dating, rivals to lovers.

STATUS outlining

WORD COUNT total est. 60k

WARNINGS tbd

A LITTLE DEATH.

your time at the academy is up and the choice of the companion for your graduation mission is ripped away from your hands without a notice, gifting (cursing) you instead with three less than ideal ones.

or, jungwon feels a little more human every time your touch lingers on his skin

PAIRING trained assassin!jungwon x trained assassin!reader

CONTENT ⚠︎ smut, mdni. angst, rivals to lovers!au, rival families!au, found family trope, everyone and their mama needs therapy, multiple character deaths, a lot of action, morally gray characterization

STATUS writing

WORD COUNT currently 11k, total est probably some shit like 150k i'm sick

WARNINGS multiple smut scenes ...more to be added

ENHYPEN AS SEASONS. hyungline + sunwon ↳ where i assign the members to a season and make fics out of it ! all of these contain smut but also tooth rotting levels of fluff jsjejdje i'm sorry this isn't me usually!! what happened!!!

• SUNGHOON AS WINTER / hockey player!sunghoon

↳ your younger brother brings you along on a snowy new year's eve trip to the mountains with his hockey teammates in hopes of finally getting you and sunghoon to get along.

• JAKE AS SPRING / florist!jake

↳ jake feels it's his duty to smooth out that frown on your face when you first meet him, as the self proclaimed town-happy-pill. he loves his job like nothing else, driving around in his flower delivery truck right along with layla, making everyone's days better. while you can't stand how bright he is all the time, what the hell is his deal anyway?

• HEESEUNG AS SUMMER / beachside barista!heeseung

↳ bleached hair, salt water, warm sun and sand between his toes. waves crashing, the buzz of alcohol and muffled thumping of music, heeseung loves summer every time all the same. this year you just happen to make it so much better, and even when he knows you're only there for this vacation, he hopes you can stay and warm him up for the colder seasons too.

• JAY AS FALL / ex!jay

↳ your friends convince you to try your local coffee shop's new blind date experience, months after your very first heartbreak. you don't expect your ex to be your match. or, mending a relationship turns out to be a lot more trouble than resolving murder mysteries.

! bonuses

• SUNOO AS SPRING BREAK / ex childhood bff!sunoo

↳ truthfully, leaving for a different college after promising you'd go to the same one in hopes of quenching his feelings from blossoming further wasn't sunoo's best move. or, sunoo is itching to finally be back home.

• JUNGWON AS CHRISTMAS / frenemy!jungwon

↳ it's no secret that you and jungwon butt heads constantly, and your friends have gotten quite annoyed by your antics. so what better way to resolve this if not assigning you two to be each other's secret santas? or, everyone is a little kinder once christmas comes around.

[thisapplepielife]

Written for @steddiesongfics.

If He Wanted To, He Would

July Prompt: Any Song Lyrics | Word Count: 2000 | Rating: T | CW: Language | Tags: Eddie POV, Modern Setting, Sports AU, Rockstar Eddie, Baseball Player Steve, Very Public Love Affair, Corroded Coffin, Good Uncle Wayne Munson

I've used lyrics from Take Me Out to the Ball Game & Blank Space.

Even the news is covering it. 

That's fucking ridiculous. There's an animated graphic, a live tracker of where his plane is, a moving dot over the Atlantic, like it's Christmas Eve and he's Santa Claus.

Eddie's gonna make it. He was always gonna make it, even as the press ran the numbers, the miles, and milked every ounce of drama out of it.

He made game one, and game four, and now he's racing back from playing Wembley in London to make it for game seven. The media has tried to sell the idea that Steve wanted the World Series to go to seven, just so Eddie would be able to attend.

Eddie's glad he's getting to see it, of course he is, but if they could have swept it in four, or locked it down in five or six, that would have been fucking awesome. Even if that meant Eddie missed seeing it live, and had to watch on television, in the middle of the night, across the world.

There are a shitton of tiktoks every week, dissecting their every move, looking for easter eggs. Eddie is just living his life, even if a million people are always watching him like a fucking hawk.

Goodie is walking back from the beer garden in the stadium, carrying his plastic cup in his mouth as he fiddles with something in his hands. Not spilling a goddamn drop. Eddie can only see this because he's being broadcast onto the stadium jumbotron.

When he climbs the stairs into the suite, Eddie asks, "Where's Gareth?"

"Got spotted. Now he's taking pictures. I just slipped away unnoticed. Sucker," Goodie says, putting his cup down on the table.

"Unnoticed, huh?" Eddie teases. He won't tell him. He'll just wait until Goodie sees it online for himself. "There's free beer back there you know?" Eddie asks. Neither one of them needed to venture out into the crowd.

Goodie shrugs, "I wanted this kind."

He could have had that kind, could have had any kind, if he'd just asked for it. But no, he wanted to be out among the people. 

None of them are particularly fond of baseball, but they are fond of Steve, so here they are. The whole band doesn't always come, but it's the championship game, so they did.

And the score has been 1-0 forever. 

Wayne is pacing. Unlike them, he loves baseball, even if he's been a little turncoat, switching teams like a lifetime of dedication meant nothing at all. He's gotten a little shit from his friends back home, but Eddie thinks it's honestly very sweet. Eddie loves that Wayne likes Steve enough to put him and his team as his number one with a bullet, now.

It helps that Steve's part of a fucking dynasty. It's fun to win, even Eddie gets that.

Wayne doesn't always hang out in suites. More often than not, he'd rather sit in the stands. Focus on the baseball, not the celebrity that's now surrounding it. But Wayne's been dragged into their highly publicized love affair, and now he's starting to get recognized all on his own, so Eddie worries. 

Plus, he'd rather have him right here, where they can spend time together.

"What's the count?" Eddie asks. 

"3-2," Wayne answers.

Eddie's distracted, filling his plate with the various appetizers that came with the steep price of the private suite. Sliders, pigs in a blanket, and all kinds of other fancified versions of comfort food. He's just scooping some mac & cheese on his plate when he hears his main guitar riff from Buckwild. He puts down his plate, making his way to the big windows just in time to see Steve step towards the batter's box. 

Steve only changes his walk-up music to Corroded Coffin when Eddie's in attendance. He currently walks-up to Milkshake, which is fucking hilarious. He's one of the first openly out players, and he really leans into it, changing up his walk-up music, usually to something a little queer. Eddie knows it's partially to poke fun at himself first, before anyone else can. 

But tonight, it's his song. Eddie's sure he's being broadcast on the jumbotron from some camera he can't even see, and may even be on live television. Eddie watches as Steve briefly points his bat, and at first Eddie thinks Steve's calling his shot, but no. Not unless he's intending to hit a foul ball.

No, he gestured at Eddie. At least where he assumed Eddie would be.

Eddie fiddles with the rings on his hand, moving from finger to finger, twisting them around and around as Steve swings and misses for the second time. Eddie can hardly watch, it makes him so nervous.

"What's the count?" Eddie asks. It's the only question he knows to ask.

"2-2," Wayne says from somewhere behind him. Wayne doesn't stand at the front when it's likely the camera is on them. Eddie gets it, he does, but he'd like him at his side. The windows are open tonight, and the fans in the seats in front of the suite have leaned up to talk to them, to get things signed, and Eddie has done it. They all have. Waving off security.

Nobody is being shitty, just excited, and Eddie's grateful he's been accepted by most of Steve's fans. There was always the fear that he'd be seen as a distraction, and sure, that's been a bit of the narrative, but Steve's in the goddamn World Series. His head is obviously still in the game.

Eddie signed a custom Corroded Coffin jersey with Steve's number on the back earlier, and if that wasn't fucking weird and delightful. And Harrington jerseys have been increasingly spotted at their gigs, from one in the crowd, to a dozen or more.

Steve takes the next ball, and Eddie was terrible at baseball as a kid. He swung at everything. He never had the self-control to wait for something good. 

He's glad he grew out of that, at least a little, because he waited, and now he has Steve. A goddamn home run in human form. 

Eddie's relieved when he hears the crack of the bat finally making contact with the ball, and he watches intently until Steve's safely on first, Eddie leaning out of the open box window, hanging onto the frame, screaming.

He rights himself, clapping hard as he spins in a circle, screaming some more.

Then, Eddie watches as Steve steals second on a wild pitch, and the stadium sound system blares to life with Gimme Three Steps.

Steve dusts himself off from his slide in, and Eddie is so fucking smitten. 

And his ass looks damn good in those pants. His milkshake did bring Eddie to the yard.

It's the seventh-inning stretch, and Eddie hears the familiar, "for it's one, two, three strikes, you're out," being sung by the entire stadium.

He's nervous now. More nervous than he ever is going on stage anymore.

They've made it this far, and he wants Steve to win the whole thing. 

They do win. Steve fielded a grounder, whipped it to first base, and with one last out, it was finally over. Gloves being thrown in the air, lots of hugs and jumping up and down.

Steve did it.

And Eddie smiles.

Steve isn't released, not yet. There'll be interviews, and a parade that Eddie unfortunately can't attend, so Eddie only gets a few minutes in the tunnel with him. Some stolen kisses and a silly groped handful, just giving Steve's cup a squeeze, to make him laugh. 

It's all too brief, but he'll see him soon. 

They go from the game straight back to the airport, Goodie and Gareth both pretty drunk after too many celebratory shots, leaving Jeff and him to babysit as they get wheels up, to head back across the pond. Their world tour, waiting.

They'll make it. 

Steve swears jet-lag is a choice, and Eddie's choosing to believe him.

Another city, and his turn on the big stage, as Eddie looks out towards the VIP tent. Steve waves with both hands over his head, making himself larger, more easily seen.

Steve attended a few Monday shows with Robin, when their schedules lined up enough to allow it. But now his season is over. He's a fucking world champion, and it's the offseason, which is Eddie's new favorite word.

If he'd known he'd fall in love with a sportsball guy, he would have made sure their tour had a lengthy break during this magical offseason.

Next year.

And Eddie is confident that next year is a given. That's how in he is with their relationship, with Steve. They both have their own lives, their own fame, their own increasingly busy schedules. But they make it work, because they want it to work.

The fans have dubbed all their crisscrossing travel as "if he wanted to, he would" and have been straight up swooning. 

Eddie likes that thought, because he does want to, and he knows Steve wants to, too.

He's committed to this thing, and so is Steve. And if that means flying for hours to be there for the important shit, even if you have to turn around and fly right back, well fuck, you do it. And you don't even think about it.

Eddie slips in a pop cover, mid-set, just being silly, because he wants to shout out Steve a little bit extra tonight. He sings and when he gets to "'cause you know I love the players, and you love the game" and the crowd gets behind it. Steve, too, if his hands in the air are any indication. 

He's a pop girlie at heart, and Eddie loves him for it.

Steve is comfortable in his own skin, and he likes what he likes. He's supportive of Eddie, of Corroded Coffin, and very demonstrative with his affection and admiration. The love is always free-flowing. But, heavy metal isn't his thing. Not really. And that's okay.

So, a little pop is injected for his benefit, Eddie saying 'I love you for who you are' right back.

Buckwild is last, is always last, and Steve's here, so that means a subtle lyric change. He only does it when Steve's in attendance, and it makes the crowd go wild. Changing one word is enough to send them into a frenzy, like they're part of something special and sacred.

They are.

When he approaches the lyric, Steve has moved closer, right at the stage, in front of the barricade, and puts his hand up to his ear, hyping the crowd, getting ready for it, and Eddie can hardly sing through his fucking smile.

When they exit the stage, the first face he sees is Steve's, and Steve opens his arms and Eddie hugs him, pulling back and kissing him, over and over.

He's the one. 

The one he loves.

The one he'll marry.

The one. Period.

Steve waves to the crowd that's gathered to watch, and then he puts his arm around Eddie's waist, ushering him away, one more show over.

In bed, Eddie rests his head against Steve's bare chest. These last few weeks have been different, brand new, and exciting. It's the first time they've really gotten to feel like they're coming home to each other. Getting to be in the same place for an extended period of time, Steve following the tour.

Steve brushes Eddie's bangs off his face, and kisses his forehead.

"You were amazing tonight," Steve whispers, and Eddie grins. 

"So were you, working the crowd," Eddie says.

Steve laughs, and Eddie loves it. Steve's not shy. He's had all the media training, probably more than Eddie, because he's got a brand, a team, to protect. Eddie just runs his mouth at-will, always has.

Steve doesn't hide backstage where Eddie can't see him, no, he always makes sure he's supporting Eddie out loud and with his whole goddamn chest.

So, because he wants to, he does.

If you want to write your own, or see more entries for this challenge, pop on over to @steddiesongfics and follow along with the fun! 🎶

Notes: Obviously inspired by the very public relationship of Taylor Swift and Travis Kelce. Goodie carrying the beer in his teeth is straight up a shoutout to Jason Kelce doing that at the Eras tour. 🍺

This one was so hard to stop writing for at the 2k max word count, lol.

[annameowbooks18782]

Carstairs-Gray family Headcanons!

They’re all super close and enjoy spending time together

Kit practically WORSHIPS Tessa

Jem spends a lot of his free time just singing, because his lungs are finally able to support all that air

He sings beautifully, which made Kit make so many remarks on how Mina will inherit his singing voice, which she does not

She does have an incredible voice, but it’s nothing like Jem’s; it’s Tessa’s, but they don’t know that because she never sings

Jem keeps denying Mina’s physical similarity to him, on the account of “she’s so beautiful, who could she POSSIBLY look like besides Tessa?”

Kit picks up painting, and since his bedroom window faces the garden, it’s perfect inspiration

Kit introduces Jem to rock and metal, and to everyone’s surprise, he loves it

Mina is besties (and eventually Parabatai) with Clace’s future kid, creating the next Carstairs-Herondale duo

Kit secretly learns Mandarin to surprise Jem, but he sucks at keeping it secret so Jem has to pretend to be surprised

Kit still has no idea he knew

The moment Jem and Tessa realize that Kit was deprived of love as a child, they shower him with love and do their best to give him the childhood he never had

A part of that is Tessa reading to him and Mina before bed (‘The Beautiful Cordelia’ anyone?)

The first time Kit calls Jem ‘Dad’, he cries

Tessa doesn’t cry when he calls her ‘Mum’, but she comes very close to it

Jem teaches Kit how to play the piano, because Kit thinks the violin is too hard (he’s right)

Mina, however, LOVES the violin

Kit buys her a violin of her own for one Christmas, and he manages to do so without complaining about the prices

Jem is a surprisingly good cook

Tessa is not

Always a good day when Clary and Jace show up

Mina has a period where she tries to learn every language she can; Mandarin from Jem, Welsh from Will’s ghost (because obviously he’s there), Indonesian and Spanish from Magnus, Hebrew from Simon

Simon loves hanging out at their place because of all the books Tessa has

Kit takes Jem to a ‘Sabaton’ concert once, and manages to convince him that ear protection won’t stop him from hearing the music

Jem enjoys every second of it, and also enjoys not having any damage done to his hearing

Mina loves climbing trees

She chooses to fight with a spear, and not even she is sure why, but she enjoys it

She also gets really, really good at it

Jem tends to tell her ‘use your voice. Sing, scream, talk, lecture. Because you might not always have it.’ And she takes him seriously and never hesitates to speak her mind

She’s the flower girl when Kit and Ty inevitably get married

Jem gets introduced to cars, and is absolutely terrified of them despite Tessa being an excellent driver

Kit tries not to laugh at him for it, but kinda fails

Jem doesn’t mind

Kit wants to study abroad, but Tessa doesn’t allow it

He goes to a university in London instead

Feel free to add more!

[granddaughterogg]

You Let Me Complicate You - Part 1

This is a love story about Simon "Ghost" Riley and you, starting with a random hookup and later navigating your increasingly complex feelings and desires towards each other.

~~Reblogs are always Greatly Appreciated!~~

PART 2 HERE

SUMMARY: You're all alone in London because of Reasons. On a particularly dreadful, windy, rainy Halloween evening you venture outside for a quick pint - but find Simon "Ghost" Riley instead. He's a consummate fuckboy who uses fleeting trysts to blow off steam collected at his deadly job, and you're a cynical, world weary girl who nonetheless very much enjoys no-string-attached sex. None of you are prepared for the horror of Actually Falling In Love. Also - the mask stays on for ridiculously long. What, oh what will become of this fateful encounter?

Chapter 1: SKULLFACE

As with many other adventures in your life - this one started only because you wouldn’t quench your curiosity.

It was an insatiable force, one that has driven you into a lot of shit over the years. On the other hand, you could call your life path - that collection of irregular zigs and zags off the beaten trajectory - anything but dull. And you owed it to that ever-present itch at the back of your head.

Let’s go back to the very start, shall we?

The start was unpromising. For one, it was Halloween evening, but you were on your own and it was pissing it down outside.

You sat in a tiny squalid apartment, its walls painted a nauseating shade of green and stared at the darkness behind your windows. Cold water splashed against the glass. Technically speaking, those windows weren’t yours. Nothing here was. You’ve just Airbnb’ed this hovel for a few weeks. The thing is, you’ve been awaiting news about a job.

They haven’t contacted you yet. You’ve been paying through the nose for this musty abode, bristling at the prices of groceries – at the prices of anything, really. London’s famous charms were lost on you. You hated this city. To you, it felt as if someone had squashed a dozen smaller towns into an amorphous heap. You didn’t know a single soul in those streets and you weren’t sure if you wanted to change that.

But how long can a lonely girl sit on her ass, browse youtube and marinate herself in misery?

And it was All Hallow’s Eve after all.

You always loved Halloween.

The weather discouraged kids from trick-and-treating. Yet you could still hear multiple footsteps going every which way on the wet pavement below, snippets of conversations and muffled laughter. Londoners decided to enjoy themselves tonight, weather be damned. 

You paused the video (it was about a groomer, tending to a particularly matted, hissy cat). You stood up with a sigh, slammed your laptop shut and went to the suitcase lying in the corner.

It’s been a week here and apart from your sensible job interview clothes, (which have been hanging on the door, properly steamed) you still haven’t found it in yourself to unpack.

Never mind that now. You unceremoniously threw the suitcase’s contents on the wooden floor and fished one particular object out of the pile; a little velvet dress, as black as the night.

You stood in front of the dusty mirror and pulled the garment on. It was one of those strappy numbers which start late but end pretty early. Hugged all your curves, not leaving much to the imagination. Your dear mother would’ve described this dress as „slutty”.

Just the way you liked it.

You’ve learned before that excessive preparations only dull your enthusiasm for the unknown. So you’ve slid your feet inside your trusted combat boots, smudged some black eyeliner here and there, put your hair up in a French twist with a simple metal pin, and threw on a jacket - and you were good to go.

Wherever those streets would take you.

***

It turned out that the streets wouldn’t take you far. Because it was raining fucking hard. 

It's one thing to merely observe the skies opening, and another to withstand their fury. You were trudging the pavement under your flimsy foldable umbrella, almost bent in half because of the gusty wind. You walked turned to the side, trying to avoid getting ballistic rainwater in your eyes, one half of your face damp and cold already. The light jacket offered little protection; soon you were soaked to the bone, and furious.

Screw it, you thought. I’m just gonna get inside any old place, have a pint and then go home.

You turned the corner and came upon a narrow crooked staircase leading below the street level, as was usually the case with pubs in this area. Some people were just leaving the premises, laughing and talking as they went. You caught a glimpse of bluish light, pouring from the inside along with some muffled bass beats.

Good enough.

You descended down the staircase; concrete steps crumbled under your tractor soles, threatening to throw you off balance. You passed by some folks on your way, squeezing yourself past them on a narrow path cutting through an overgrown courtyard. You pulled the handle of a heavy iron door. It was covered in graffiti and layers upon layers of old stickers. 

You stepped inside.

Your first thought was: This is not a pub.

You weren’t a local – hell, you weren’t even British – but after some time spent in this country, you’ve more or less become acquainted with the trappings of this cornerstone of any local community, what with its cosy nooks, mandatory fireplace and dark polished woodwork. Those kinds of places you knew. The beer wasn’t half bad, the tunes were usually tolerable and bartenders had this well-practiced cordiality to them. You liked the atmosphere of an English pub.

This, however, was different. Like, much noisier.

Your ears got filled with the metallic beats of dark industrial music. You couldn’t name the song that was playing. Deep inside there was a small dancefloor, where bodies swayed along with the slow, reverberating rhythm. 

This place was so dimly lit, that you had to squint just to adjust. The walls were raw concrete, with exposed brass piping running up and down in complicated patterns. It reminded you of a bunker. All the furniture seemed to be worn down and mismatched as if someone scavenged it from various vacant buildings. The bar counter was one giant slab of concrete too, its greyness punctuated by rows of tiny lights hanging from the iron truss under the low ceiling. 

The patrons all wore black. Not just your basic, nondescript black, oh no. You looked around (as much as you could while drifting in this neon blue semi-darkness, which revealed so little) and noticed some people in gothic finery. Velvet, lace, the works. Others chose leather or elaborate corsetry.

Ah, it’s one of those places.

You got your shit together, folded the damn umbrella, shook your damp hair to get at least some of the water out of it, and beelined to the concrete bar. At this point of the evening, you’d kill for a hot beverage.

The bar area was not too crowded, thank fuck. You clambered gracelessly onto one of the free barstools and smiled at the bartender. He was completely bald, with a ginormous nose ring and a thin face, eternally crumpled into an expression of faint disgust.

"Hello! One hot tea, please", you said breathlessly.

Dude looked at you as if you’d just spat on his mother’s grave.

"Tea? You sure 'bout that?"

"Well yeah", you answered. "It’s bucketing down out there, and I got chilled to the bone..."

The bartender wasn’t moved by your plight. 

"This is a club, not your Granny’s living room, see? We serve adults here..."

"Give ‘er a damn tea, Geoffrey. Don’t be a cunt."

A man’s voice rang out from your left. It was low and throaty, but also perfectly even in tone. It cut through the music and the bustle like a knife wielded by a steady hand. Your ears twitched pleasantly at this sound.

Geoffrey blinked at whoever it was that scolded him. Then he made a face and turned away to fulfil your order.

"I’m just saying, we’re trying to run a business here…" he muttered, putting the kettle on.

"I see that”, you assured. "Make that a tea and a glass of Scotch then. I could use both."

"Right." The bartender was seemingly placated by your offer.

When he put the drinks in front of you and turned towards other customers, you emptied the sugar packet inside the cup, stirred your tea for a while, finally sipped it - and sighed with delight. It all took a while. When the life-restoring elixir started to course through your veins, you stole a glance at the man who spoke earlier.

"Thanks for putting in the word for me", you said with a slight smile.

"Geoff's not a bad bloke. Just overworked." 

The stranger was tall and dressed in a black sweatshirt with the hood pulled over his head. He was looking straight ahead, away from you, cradling his whisky glass in two large, strikingly pale hands.

"I can imagine, with the place being so busy on Halloween and all...Anyway, I’m feeling better by the minute." 

"Drink up then, and that whisky too. You look like a half-drowned cat."

That voice was something to behold. So deep and guttural, with a thick accent that made short work of most of the consonants. As your ears helpfully suggested, it was probably Mancunian. One doesn’t simply grow such a voice. One earns it through incessant smoking and other recurring bad life decisions, no doubt. It was kinda hot.

...Wait a moment, did this perfect stranger just smack-talk you?

Your head darted upwards. 

"Did you just say that I look like shit?" 

Your tone was still playful - if underlined by a suggestion that you’re always ready to drop the playfulness.

The hooded man must’ve heard that undertone because he chuckled. That rumbling sound reverberated somewhere deep within you. Probably in your bones.

"Don’t be so hard on yourself, love. You're just a little worse for wear, is all."

That impassive tone of his stabbed you in the solar plexus. You've straightened up as if pulled by a string. The teaspoon fell into your tea, making a soft clatter, while you spun around on your stool to look this insolent git straight in the face.

"How do you know?" you bit out. "You weren't even looking -"

The following words got stuck in your throat.

Not only was the man hooded, but he also wore a mask. A tight black one, covering his head and the lower part of his face. A balaclava, your brain hinted helpfully. It looked like a part of the regulation equipment of the armed forces, and that's where the similarities came to an end. For the mask has been printed over – or painted, maybe? - with the image of a skull. Mainly its lower jaw. White paint glimmered in the bluish light, forming a wide, ghastly smile which grinned at you.

But even more striking were his eyes, large and protruding. Your stunned stare met two opaque irises, as dark and dense as a black hole. You weren't able to decipher their expression. That cryptic intensity of his gaze seemed to bend space-time. 

His eyelids and skin around the eyes have also been blackened, but his long lashes remained pale as frost.

You stared at this vision with your mouth ajar, like a dead fish.

"What?" He asked calmly and quietly. "Do I have something on me fuckin' face?"

You were always quite outspoken, but at that moment words eluded you.

"Cool mask,” you said finally because something needed to be said. „Cool...disguise. Is it for Halloween?"

He didn't blink. It was unnerving.

"I don't do 'alloween, love."

"So you wear this thing 'cause it makes you more interesting and mysterious and shit?"

The tall man leaned towards you, his eyes creasing in a smile.

"Look at you, sweetheart. It's clearly workin'."

"That's because of that stare of yours. It could pin a person to a wall...", you murmured.

"I could pin you to a wall. Just ask nicely.”

You felt suddenly weightless. Out of breath. 

"For how long?" you quipped, trying your damnedest to sound flippant. 

The nerve of this fucking guy!

"For as long as you'll need me to. I'm a dedicated man.”

There was no bravado ringing in his gritty voice. Just a calm statement of fact.

You cut a look at his arms. The black cotton of the hoodie did little to conceal their immense size. 

He could probably deliver on his promise.

You took a long breath, trying to regain your lost composure. It wasn't easy when this hulking freak stared you down, but you'd been in tighter spots before.

Goths, amirite, you thought. Ever the contrarians, regardless of their age. They tended to be good in the sack though.

You studied this new specimen very thoroughly - and there was plenty to stare at. The man was built like an industrial-sized fridge. Ridiculously tall even while sitting down and broad-shouldered, with a firm chest stretching the plain black cotton of his sweatshirt. Which, by the way, he wore zipped up almost to his very chin, like a layer of protective gear. Weird.

Those dim little lights over the bar made it hard for you to discern the details, but you also noticed the width of his torso and his powerful thighs, clad in simple blue denim. He was by far the plainest dressed patron of this edgelord cellar joint. Apart from the mask you didn't notice anything even remotely Gothic about his style or bearings. Although he sat motionless, cradling a glass of whisky in his long, strong fingers – he still exuded that kind of primal strength which you've learned to associate with the outdoorsy hiker type or the avid sportsman.

"Like what you're seein', love?”

You winced, a bit perplexed that he had caught you taking stock of his impressive physique. But you weren't about to let him know that.

"Yep”, you blurted out instead, staring boldly into those eyes, as dark and impenetrable as a shark's. "Do you?"

"I do, yeah."

Aaand here we go, you thought, relaxing immediately. For now, you were on a beaten path.

"You've said that I looked like -", you chuckled accusingly, leaning back on your stool. His stare was gliding all over you without any shame, probably filing the best finds away for later.

"I know what I said," he cut you off calmly, leaning closer. The height difference between you two was striking.

"Your mascara got smudged and ran off...to there."

You stilled as this complete stranger traced a pale finger across your eye socket. You drew in a deep breath as he touched your zygomatic bone, where nothing possibly could've smudged. His fingertip travelled even further, brushing over your sensitive skin and freeing a lone strand of hair from behind your ear. It was still damp from the rain.

He did it very slowly. Very gently.

You let him. As if you were hypnotized. Attempted a smile, but the corners of your mouth felt strangely numb.

"See? Now that's perfection", he stated in the same hushed, impassive tone of voice before turning back to his drink. The whisky glass disappeared in his hand.

You were silent. Your head was buzzing as if someone had set the radio inside to a non-existent channel.

The thing is, you knew perfectly well who you were dealing with. When it comes to seasoned fuckboys like Skullface here, it's all very simple; they're nothing to be afraid of. Such men are what a high wave is for the swimmer. An opportunity for a fun ride.

Back when you were a teenage girl, you liked to spend hours on end in the sea. At the time you'd like to imagine that this cool, salty, malachite green vastness was your lover. You drifted in the water, letting the wave carry you, surrendering yourself to its tender ruthlessness, allowing the element to hold you for a moment without dealing any harm, to guide you like a dance partner, and then to pass by and disappear into the distance.

It is just like dancing. As long as you know the steps, something beautiful can come out of it.

And you haven't had the chance to let loose on the dancefloor for so long.

You calmed your body by taking a few deep breaths. You couldn't calm your heart. What you could do, though - was to let your audacious spirit take the wheel.

You grabbed at your glass and emptied it in one sweep. Vile whisky did as it always would; it burned your gullet only to flare into a ball of pleasant warmth once it reached your insides. It was not a connoisseur-worthy beverage, but its aggressive sweetness suited your current mood.

You threw your head back and exhaled slowly.

He was watching, you could tell. He tilted his head slightly. Amusement emanated from behind the black mask.

"Say..." you drawled, leaning towards him with your eyes sparkling, for you felt a surge of vigour and boldness along with a freshly bloomed, alcohol-induced blush. 

"Does your mum know that you being a goth is not a phase?"

Skullface snorted softly.

"I am not a goth, love."

"Then why are you in this den for kinky weirdos?" You gestured around the dark interior, including the bare walls, the blue neon light and the throbbing, metallic, dark rhythms pulsing around you.

"I like goth chicks”, he admitted. Cheeky git.

"Why?" you prodded.

"Tattoos in fun places."

"Animal”, you chided him, setting your empty glass down with a bang.

"Excuse me, sir!" you called out to the bartender. "I shall have another."

"Like you came here for some lofty purpose. Wanna discuss the works of Kierkegaard...dressed like that?” The masked man snorted, summing up your entire scantily clad person with one tilt of his chin.

You chuckled quietly, taking no offence.

"I'm surprised that you even know how to pronounce his name."

He remained silent, so you fired away again, buoyed by the alcohol in your veins: 

"Weren't you supposed to add something scathing after the 'dressed like that' part? I'm still waiting for that burn to sting."

"If I did, I'd be a fuckin' hypocrite", he muttered. "Cause I very much enjoy it."

That solemn note of appreciation in his voice made you smile and nod. What an earnest freak.

The bartender came over and took away both of your empty glasses.

"What can I get you?" he asked, his gaze moving from his face to yours.

"Two glasses of bourbon, Geoffrey", the masked man said.

He noticed that you were opening your mouth and nipped those objections in the bud by raising a finger.

"Hey. Bear with me here. If you don't like it, you might drink whatever you want next. Even more of that fuckin' coal sludge you've been having."

"Excuse you, Scotch is hardly a sludge".

"That's what the bloody Scots would tell you. In much more...colourful terms, I s'ppose. I have a Scottish coworker and every time that we go drinkin', he gives me a bloody earful about the superiority (he pronounced this word rolling his r's) of the local distilleries over that Kentucky brew."

"You're friends with a highlander?" you asked. "Does he curse at you in Scots whenever he gets agitated?"

"All the fuckin' time. He's a twonk." A smile laced his words.

"You sure are passionate about your liquor choices." 

You propped your chin up with your hand, smiling at him.

"If I wanted to taste a fuckin' fireplace, I'd chew on a burnt log. Bourbon is the way to go. Much sweeter."

You couldn't help but laugh at his sudden fervour.

"You don't seem like the kind of lad who pursues sweetness," you quipped, trying to look into those impossible eyes of his and not blink. So far, it was a downhill battle. 

The bartender came back. Two glasses full of amber liquid landed on the counter with a dull clink. You didn't have the time to focus on them, because Skullface leaned towards you, shading you with his powerful torso and obscuring the source of the blue light. Your nostrils were suddenly filled with his pleasant manly scent, mixed with the fragrance of fresh laundry, some kind of a woody-citrusy aftershave, and a hint of something you couldn't decipher even though you knew that smell. Its memory, devoid of a name, tickled at the tip of your tongue. Fireworks?

"Sweet and rough things should go hand in hand in life. That's how you make it all bearable somehow."

"Somehow?..” you asked absentmindedly, mesmerised by his deep voice. By the promise tilting at the edge of those slowly, intently enunciated words.

"Hey, true balance is hard to find, 'cause life's a fuckin' mess. It's chaos, it's cruel. No point to it at all."

Holy mackerel, you thought. A goth girl admirer, an apparent powerhouse of a man and a homegrown nihilist in one. With eyes like two abysses and a voice like grit. This was going to be an enchanting evening.

Don't go crazy just yet, you admonished yourself. Don't let this stranger in a mask get the upper hand on you. Keep your calm so that he doesn't sweep you off your feet prematurely.

"So," you murmured, your tone casual, "What did Kierkegaard have to say, exactly?"

Dark eyes twinkled. 

"Many things. Like that our whole existence is absurd. It doesn't really matter what we do, so we might as well do whatever the fuck we want. And right now, I want to do...this."

He dipped a finger into his glass of bourbon and glided it across your lower lip.

You parted your mouth without protest, giving in to the shamelessness of this gesture.

"Just taste it."

[3rdsleeper]

r/s fics rec list!

(simplified by highly specific tropes)

remus does not want sirius paying his rent and sirius is having a normal one

inflations, invitations and flirtations by mblematic

summary: The Li-Lo at Lupin's. In which plenty of people crash on Remus' air mattress after Hogwarts, and Sirius isn't jealous at all. complete - 9k

practical oddities by lurikko

summary: Regulus needs a place to stay, Remus needs to get over Sirius. It’s August 1979 and things are getting out of hands. complete - 47k (ok this one technically they do live together, but its not necessarily remus' first choice iykyk please read it)

how remus got his groove back by RealityShowJunkie

summary: Remus Lupin becomes king of the cockroaches, Fabian Prewett writes a book, Gilderoy Lockhart is a catfish, and Sirius Black realizes he's a fucking idiot. complete - 42k

the son and heir of nothing in particular by aeridionis

summary: Remus is nineteen and tired, now. And he knows that if he and Sirius were ever going to become anything—if Sirius loved Remus the way Remus loves, and will probably always love, him—it already would’ve happened. complete - 23k

frog and toad aren't friends anymore by swordfishtrombones

summary: “Some people just aren’t good flatmates. I wasn’t trying to say I liked Adrian and Mary better than you, or whatever you’re thinking.” Sirius runs a hand through his hair and squints at the streetlight, twisting his mouth like Remus is truly hopeless. “It hurt,” says Sirius, “my feelings.” complete - 10k

an episode of skam (in the sense that remus is avoidant dismissive /j /j)

the lord of desperate longing by reyghost

summary: Sirius has a lot of feelings, Remus has his own issues too, and James is a very good best friend complete - 13k

and only felt good while moving by aeridionis

summary: The summer before university, Sirius falls in love and throws a punch and then he makes a friend. complete - 17k

SHAME by wiltedtddaisy (taotu)

summary: Sirius has some figuring-things-out to do. He’s not sure if Remus helps or makes things worse. complete - 82k

angle of doubt by mblematic

summary: The Map had been going missing. Or—not missing, exactly. Sirius always knew where it was; Remus had been spiriting it away. Which, it should be said, was fine. Really. complete - 9k

a bird at your door by moongnome

summary: Of pub quizzes, old films, Chinese takeaways, broken arms, and impassioned discussions of literature: Remus is confusing, and Sirius is just trying to figure him out. complete - 31k

if you're the bassist, and i'm the lead singer, then who’s flying this plane?

the cadence of part-time poets by motswolo

summary: After losing his mother at age eleven, Remus has spent the better part of the last four years bouncing from school to school or else running around London and pretending as though he wasn't the kind of well-bred boy his father brought him up to be. Now, with his chances all run out, Remus is sent to Hawkings Independent School as a last-ditch effort to clean up his act. There he meets the very people who will set up the rest of his life, and is forced to confront the pieces of himself he'd long thought had been lost. complete - 979k

dress up in you by MsKingBean89

summary: Sirius attends a charity rock gig organised by his best friend's girlfriend, and the tall, quiet bassist catches his eye... complete - 88k (ok sirius is not in a band in this one but please just go with it)

sirius black & the six by BellaBabe

summary: Remus shrugged. “Not much for the spotlight.” “Right,” Sirius drawled. “I bet you’re also not much for the rock ‘n roll perks.” Remus tensed, sparing Sirius a scathing glance. “I’m sober now.” Sirius quirked a brow in disbelief. complete - 79k

saturday nights and sunday mornings by SoupyGeorge

summary: A story about music and family, the price of fame and finding love somewhere completely unexpected. (its an arctic monkeys au) complete - 121k

sirius black learns the meaning of true love. remus lupin does too but in a much more put together and chill way

a series of sketches done in black ink by musntgetmy

summary: Sirius had always imagined the aftermath of falling in love would mean lightness, and an escape from all the horrors of his childhood. But the past never leaves, and even love can't stop bad memories from resurfacing. complete - 57k

dissonance by renaissance

summary: Remus searches for solace in all the likely places, but somehow he keeps coming back to Sirius Black. Featuring sad acoustic indie, spearmint gum, and irresponsible usage of social media. complete - 4k

the time when you were mine by renaissance

summary: the walk from Grimmauld Place to Parliament Hill is just under an hour, but it's easier going at four in the morning complete - 9k

as red as hearts and autumn by Rosie_Rues

summary: it's the autumn of sixth year, theres a flu epidemic at Hogwarts, and the Blacks want their heir back. complete - 43k

[aithusarosekiller]

Trans Reggie black brothers fic:

NOT EDITED (will be before it goes onto ao3)

Words: 2239

Warnings: outing (sort of, Sirius figures it out and asks him about it but nobody is told against reg's will), reference to bigoted parents

-

The light twittering of birds was silenced as Regulus strode across his room and pulled the window shut with a slight thud. If he wanted to get any work done before he was due to return to school he would have to do it now, or he would put it off until the last minute. It was a bad habit picked up from Dorcas but one he had come to keep under control for the most part. So long as nothing else disrupted him, he should be okay to continue. His parents were at some important function and Kreacher was out collecting shopping so there wasn't too much that could distract him.

He had managed to sit down at his desk and unscrew the lid of his inkwell by the time his bedroom door slammed open behind him. He heard the unmistakable sound of his brother's heavy-footed stomps come up behind him and had to force himself not to snap right then and there.

“Yes?” His tone was clipped but Sirius either didn't notice or actively chose to ignore it.

“Are you busy?” Without waiting for an answer he attempted to sit down on Regulus’ desk, only stopping when he received a murderous glare and shark smack to the arm; he narrowed his eyes petulantly and tried to hide his irritating grin. “Move and I'll sit in your chair then, my legs are tired.”

Regulus pretended to have not heard him and returned to the introduction of his Defense essay. After a few moments Sirius stood and walked over to the bed, sitting down silently and waiting for a few minutes to see if Regulus was going to say anything. Nothing happened.

“Turn around, you little brat.” Nothing. “Please.”

“Don't call me that,” The reply was quiet but Sirius still heard it.”

“Merlin, I try to be nice once,” He grumbled under his breath, trying to keep his composure and her to the point. “I want to talk to you about something.”

Regulus looked at him as if to say ‘go on’ so he did.

“Look, can you just come here? I'm trying to be nice to you and do sibling bonding or some shit so the least you can do one nice thing and not stare at me from across the room? I'll distract Father so you can visit your friends on Sunday if you let me have this.” He let the suggestion sink in for a moment, then watched as Regulus pushed away from his desk, stretching out the time it took to close the ink and place down the quill, then made his way over to his bed to sit at the opposite end to Sirius, his posture perfect and his hands clasped in his lap.

“Posho.”

“Sorry, do you or do you not have a pair of 35 galleon shoes in your wardrobe as we speak?”

“First of all, I got them in muggle London so technically they were £170, not galleons. And secondly, that is a very good price for a well-made, hand crafted, long-lasting product you intend to use frequently.”

Regulus couldn't help but laugh at that. “You sound like Narcissa.”

He didn't stop laughing when he was slapped on the arm or when Sirius snapped at him to shut up, it was only when Sirius attempted to redirect the conversation that his face fell back to his typical moody stare.

“I wanted to talk about school.” He managed to ignore Regulus’ sigh, having grown fairly immune to the constant dismissals by now, even if it still made him feel a little hurt when he thought about it late at night. “Over the summer term and a little bit before that, I've heard-”

“Oh for Salazar’s sake, if this is going to become one of your anti-Slytherin, ‘you're all evil' rants, I really want nothing to do with-”

“It isn't that!” He hissed, almost laughing at Regulus’ affronted reaction to being cut off halfway through his sentence as if he had not just done the exact same thing mere seconds ago. “Stop coming for my throat and give me a change to finish my sentence before you assume you know what I'm going to say.” He took a deep breath and started again. “I have recently been hearing your friends talk to you while you're in the corridor and then again while they're alone. And I noticed a few things.”

It was then that Regulus finally picked up on what the conversation was going to be about.

“Oh, for-”

“Shush, let me finish. I heard you and your friends talking quite a few times and I heard that they called you a different name.” He looked at Regulus knowingly. “You might disagree but I'm not stupid. I mean my grades speak for themselves really, I don't think I did any revision before the day of for my exams and I still…anyway. Your friends were calling you Regulus and they were calling you he and I'm no idiot. I know what that means.”

“You understand names, well done. Maybe you aren't a complete imbecile after all.”

“Alright, you're being rude because you're nervous so I'll let that slide. I know that it means you don't want to be a girl anymore. And that's great! That's okay. I just wanted to give you the chance to talk about it. With me. If you want.”

Regulus looked at him blankly for a while. He opened his mouth to speak at least four times before closing it. Eventually he picked up the courage to actually say something.

“I'm not a girl.” Sirius nodded along. “Your eavesdropping was right there.” Sirius frowned in disapproval but did not get the chance to interject. “I am a boy. My name is Regulus. Yes, like the star. My friends are okay with it because they aren't completely despicable people despite what you Gryffindors may like to think. And you didn't have to interrupt my homework to talk to me about this, you haven't spoken to me besides polite greetings since November.”

“Actually, it was your birthday.”

“December, then. My point still stands, Sirius.”

“Is it rude to ask when you knew?”

“A little bit, yes.” Regulus snapped. “I didn't always know.” He seems to consider telling the story for a second, then decided not to. “I don't want to talk about it.”

“Okay.” Sirius nodded. Maybe if the rest of the conversation went well he would tell him another time. “It's a nice name. Bit long but not bad.”

“Thank you.” It was robotic and almost cold but Sirius was not deterred.

“I might shorten it to Regs. I've heard your annoying friend call you Reggie but you'd probably kill me if I called you that to Regs it is. It's short, efficient, and probably won't get my ears cut off and fed to Kreacher.” Regulus couldn't help a smile like that, which seemed to get Sirius out of his tentative, unnaturally calculated state and make him grin himself. “I'll take that as a yes.”

“Sure.”

“I have a brother,” He mused to himself. Whether it was with shock or glee neither of them could say.

“You can't tell anybody.”

“I won't! I'm great with secrets. Really, name one secret I haven't been able to keep.” He took in Regulus’ meaningful look and recalculated. “Yeah, alright, but I won't tell anyone this. I promise.” He attempted to look as sincere as possible. When he looked down at the sight of movement, he saw that his brother’s hand was extended, palm up and waiting.

Sirius couldn't help but smile when he was it, moving his own hand to place on top before taping each of their fingers together as he muttered the words 'I swear on my life’. It was a silly way of making a promise that Andromeda had taught them when they were younger and caught her writing to her muggleborn boyfriend. They knew not that she had just made it up to get them to stay hushed but they had never really grown out of it. Without a word, they both retracted their hands, but Sirius was now smiling and Regulus seemed at least somewhat more relaxed so it was worth it even if it was a kids thing.

“I just wanted to say that I am glad you were honest with me,” Sirius began the little speech he had prepared in his head. He had gone over it time and time again, attempting to eradicate any signs of his usual self to form a kind, welcoming speech that would soften the situation. “And I am glad that you have been able to find yourself like this.” Regulus groaned into his hands and swore under his breath. “I am here if you want to talk about…this and I would be really happy if you trusted me to talk about you being….a guy now.”

“Oh Merlin, this is humiliating. Stop. Stop. Sirius, stop.” He waited for him to trail off awkwardly before letting out a relieved sigh and beginning his own explanation.

“Okay; thank you but I really don't need a lecture on my ‘validity’. I am aware of it. And I didn't not tell you because I was scared, it was because we haven't spoken properly in months and I doubted that you'd even care. It would be weird, that's why.” He grasped around for another point to make while he had the silence to be able to get a word in. “And don't you think I should have been able to tell you this in my own time instead of just barging in and asking me about it.”

“When would that have been?” He wasn't expecting an apology, but the bluntness of the reply still caught Regulus off guard. “Would you have told me? Would you really? Hm?” He got no answer. “Reggie.”

“The point is that I should've gotten the choice.”

“Well I admit I didn't think it through that much!”

“That's new.” Regulus drawled.

“I was just shocked when you didn't tell me. I was shocked that they knew basic crap about you that I apparently don't. Call me selfish but I care quite a lot about that. You used to tell me everything.” The anger in his voice was barely-veiled. “We used to be best friends but I feel like I don't know anything shoot you anymore.”

“And who's fault is that?”

“Yours! You are the one who got all those amazing Slytherin friends and decided I was the shit on your damn shoe, Regulus.”

“I don't want to do this right now.”

They fell back into relative silence. The sound of the wind against the old, thin window was all they could focus on for a few minutes. Eventually, siris cleared his throat and reached out his hand, patting his brother on the shoulder a few times like he was a delicate animal.

“What are you doing?”

Sirius blinked. “I'm comforting you.”

“Don't do that.”

“Fine, I won't.” He looked away again and waited.

“I can tell you want to ask something else.”

Sirius shrugged noncommittally, then gave in and asked what he had wanted to know the entire time. “Who else knows?” The hint of desperation in his voice was embarrassing but he hoped Regulus hadn't picked up on it.

“My friends,” He provided. “That's all really."

“And…” He didn't need to say it for the implication to be obvious. They both looked towards the doorway despite knowing the house was empty, as if anticipating their arrival. Regulus slouched slightly, seemingly having given up on acting properly.

“Do you think I'd still be here telling you about it if they knew?”

“Don't say that.” Whispering was uncharacteristic for Sirius but he didn't exactly want to say the words that left his mouth, they just sort of did. Giving away the card he held for his brother's wellbeing even after all this time.

“It’s not exactly a shock, is it? The perfect angel of the black family ends up being a man with a woman’s features, guess what happens next.”

“Regulus, stop.”

“...Sorry.” The apology sounded almost forced out but it was better than none at all in Sirius' opinion.

Sirius shook his head lightly. “It's fine. It's not like it's your fault. Hey, uh, if you wanted to, we could go shopping together at some point. Get you some stuff that makes you feel less, y'know.” ‘Girly’ was the obvious end to that sentence. Regulus frowned and turned to face him again.

“I can go shopping with my friends, thank you.” Sirius waited. And waited. Then, “When would you want to go?”

“Why, do you can be conveniently busy that day?” He suggested; Regulus stared silently. “Next Saturday?”

“Okay.”

“Yeah, good, alright. Cool. You're paying for your shit though.” He added as an afterthought.

“What? Why one earth to would you invite me shopping if you're not paying for anything?”

“I'm not your Mum Reggie.”

“You're uglier than her, that's for sure.”

Taking it as the natural lull to the conversation, Sirius pulled a face and turned to leave, spinning back around one step out of the door so he could confirm their agreement.

“Next Saturday, yes?”

“Yes, that is what I said.”

With that Sirius nodded silently and left, leaving the door wide open and Regulus sat on the bed wondering where in the name all of that had come from.

[melanieph321]

Ruben Dias x Reader - City Girls Part 4/8

Yeah, this chapter is not for the kids 😮‍💨

18++

Reader plays for the Man City girls academy. She struggles a bit but gets Ruben to mentor her. The the two don't hit off despite having many things in common. It all gets worse when Reader eventually catches feelings for Ruben.

Enjoy!

You've done well in training, well enough for coach to let you travel with the first team to their away game in London. If there is one thing you've gotten in bedded in your head from training with Ruben, it would be to "play with your mind." He would shout this at you every time you tried to dribble, or dribble when a pass could be made instead.

"Play with your mind, Y/N."

It was during the last minute's of Manchester City's fixture against Chelsea when their coach called you up from the bench. It was unexpected, terrifying even. But when an opportunity presents itself you take it.

"Play with your mind." You mumbled, as you ran down the field like your life depended on it. A pass was made and suddenly the ball was at your feet. You charged towards the Chelsea defenders, sweping past one without challenging the others. With a late pass to another charging City girl you managed to assist your first Super League goal whilst taking a knee to the side of your body. A price you were willing to pay for more moments like that.

"You should have seen me Ruben, I was amazing."

Despite it being a Friday night, Ruben had been more than willing to train you. "You shouldn't have charged the defender." He said. Raining on your parade.

"I got knocked down, so what? Isn't that what football is about, sacrifice?"

"You call getting injured and missing games sacrifice? I say it was a selfish move against your own teammates."

"Whatever." You scuffed.

You didn't expect anything less from Ruben. What you had gathered from spending more time with him was that he was uptight and practical beyond what was necessary. However, he did help you collect the balls at the end of every training session and for that you were grateful.

"Some of the girls invited me to celebrate the win with them, you should come." You said.

"You're going out? Tonight?" Ruben grabbed a ball, dumping it in the bag you held. He wore a skeptical look on his face, judging you.

"Just for a few drinks." You shrugged. "I thought it'd be good. Who knows, if I get cozy with the first team coach might let me play with them more?"

"Y/N, you're rated based on your performance, not your ability to socialize. Besides, you should be recovering from a game not to risk future injuries."

"Well, how do I do that?"

You tied a knot on the ball bag, letting Ruben carry it for you.

"Recover?" He frowned.

"Yes?"

Normally you'd consider a goodnight sleep the best way to recover, however, Ruben thought otherwise. "Hydration is most important, preferably water. And you must eat somthing, not less than forty-five minutes after you've exercised."

It was strange, being invited to Ruben's  apartment on a friday night. It was big. You stood in his kitchen, his dining table overflowing with healthy nutrients. The two of you were quite comfortable with each other by now, and Ruben was nothing short of a gentleman around you.

"I've prepared the heating pod to help with your blood circulation and then you can continue recovering in my message chair."

It was a passion of his, you could tell from the way he was explaining everything to you, like he really wanted you to learn.

"But first we eat?" You said hopefully.

Ruben blushed realizing that he was getting a bit carried away. "Yes, first we eat. Could you grab that jar for me?"

"Sure."

You reached up, the jar of pasta within your reach. Just as you grasped it with your fingers, a sharp pain shot through the side of your body.

"Y/N, you okay?" Ruben rushed to your side, seeing how you winced.

"My ribs." You groand.

"Let me see."

His arms grabbed your shoulders, helping you stand up straight. Your fingers trembled trying to raise your shirt, the pain too sharp.

"May I?"

Ruben asked for consent to help you. You nodded, letting him roll up the hemn of your top.

"Fuck."

You didn't need to look down to know that it was bad, Ruben's reaction said it all. He looked to you. "Ice bath, now."

Your body shivered in the cold water. Ruben had you sit in it for eight minutes, a timer going off when it was time for you to rise.

"Y/N, you alright?"

There was a light knock on the door, Ruben's voice heard on the other end.

"Yeah, I think I'm good."

"Um...I brought some clothes."

You wrapped a towel around yourself, moving to open the bathroom door. Ruben appeared in the frame. "It's just a t-shirt but it's big enough to cover..." He coughed. "....you know."

"Thank you Ruben, the t-shirt is fine." You moved to shut the door but Ruben's arm appeared in the gap. "I um....I also brought some ointment."

"Oh."

"For the pain." He said, offering you the bottle.

"Thanks Ruben, really. I just don't think..."

"What's wrong?" He frowned.

You shook your head, seeing how worried he became. "It's nothing, really Ruben. It's just that..."

"Y/N, please. If there's somthing I can do."

"Well..." You closed your eyes and sighed. "It hurts too much to lift my arms, so you're gonna have to help me apply the ointment."

Ruben froze.

"Of course, If you're not comfortable..."

"No." He protested. "only if.....you don't mind me helping you?"

Heat rose to your face, realizing what you were asking of him. Either way you nodded. "I'll be right out."

It was awkward, so fucking awkward. You stepped out of the bathroom wearing Ruben's t-shirt. It was shorter than you had expected, cutting just above your knees. Ruben sat on the edge of the living room couch, raising his head when you approached. His hair sprouted upwards as if he had compulsively been running his hands through it. "Shall we begin?" You immediately regretted uttering those words. Ruben looked unsure weather to sit or stand so he let you decide as you stepped up to him, letting him raise your shirt until he could see the bruise on your ribs. Your legs tremble beneath you, the draft between your legs not making things easier for you.

"Is this okay?"

Ruben scooped some ointment out of the bottle, applying it to you skin. He was gentle with his touch, easing up on the pressure if his movements made you wince.

"Ruben, I'm so sorry that I..."

"Sshh." He hushed. "It's okay, I agreed to it."

"Yes but..." It was really awkward, not to mention the tempting weight you felt in the pit of your stomach.

"It's okay Y/N, I'm almost done."

"Okay."

He kept his eyes above your waist, despite you practically offering him a view of the shape of you. Your legs, your thighs...your ass. He looked so focused, eyebrows furrowed and one hand held flat against  your lower back to prevent you from moving as he applied the ointment. It was strange, being taller then him for once.

"I could have challenged that defender." You said, still thinking of the game. "If I was stronge enough."

Ruben grunted. "It's why you don't see as much dribbling in the Super League or female football in general."

"What do you mean?" You frowned.

"Well, defenders are usually the fittest players on the field. They're supposed to be. But the rest of the players..."

"Ruben are you saying women aren't capable of dribblin because weren't strong enough?" An outrageous opinion, to you.

"No, not dribbling." Ruben raised his head, his chin caressing your abs. "Dribbling is easy for men and women, but getting past a defender one on one is different and not recommended in women's football. I'm sure that's why you can't get your coach off your ass. To him, passing the ball would the most efficient way to get past another teams defense."

"So you're saying there's a chance coach will let me play football the way that I want?"

Ruben chuckled. "If your willing to gain a few pounds, sure."

You frowned. The idea of gaining weight was not that appealing to you.

"I meant pounds of muscles, Y/N. Not fat." He read you like an open book. You looked down and smiled. Ruben was done applying the ointment. His hands now caressing the back of your knees, slowly, moving up and down.

"I should probably call Ester, tell her to come pick me up?"

Ruben shrugged. "Or you could stay the night?"

"Ruben."

"If you want."

He pushed you forwards, his hands moving from your legs to your ass. You gasped as his nose nudged your belly. The nerves along your spine came to life, raising the hair on your arms.

Ruben looked up, eyes drowsy. "Can I kiss you?"

"Please, yes."

You were practically begging for it, for Ruben to touch you, pleasure you anywhere that ached. He pulled you forwards his face nuzzling against his t-shirt. "You smell good."

You smiled. "I smell like you."

It felt like unfamiliar territory, a man in awe of your body, his hands moving all over you.

"Is this okay?"

"Yes."

Ruben had gone to raise your shirt again,  serenading any exposed skin with lingering kisses.

"You have to tell me if you're not comfortable with what I'm doing."

"Ruben." You raised his head, cupping his face between your hands, his rough beared between your fingers. "I want this." You nodded, not sure if you've ever wanted anything else this bad. Ruben's eyes burned in the dimmed light. "But you're hurt." He said, arms wrapping around your body, craving something that he couldn't have. Forbidden fruit.

"Fuck me with your mouth then."

Ruben looked up, his eyes batting in suprise. You met his gaze, biting your lip.

"I'm sure."

It's all he needed to hear. Ruben's hands suddenly become less gentle. They had previously moved around the area where it ached the most, but with your permission he slid a hand up your thighs, not stopping until you drew a sharp breath.

"Yes, baby. That's the spot isn't it?"

It was filthy. Whatever was unraveling between you seemed forbidden, meant to be kept behind close doors.

"Y/N, say you want this."

"I want this."

Ruben slid fingers between your folds, moving to please the aching burn that had its epicentrum at the tip of your clit.

"Tell me what to do?" He demanded, his hand not rubbing you fast enough.

"Please, fuck me Ruben."

"Fuck you how?"

You threw your head back, the pleasure immense. "Fuck me with your mouth."

It was wet and warm. Ruben's head tilted in search for your opening. Your panties had already been pushed to the side, revealing the part of you that needed his attention the most. "Yes." Your cried, almost loosing your footing to the pleasure that shot through your body, head to toe. "Yes, Ruben, just like that."

He groaned below you, his tongue helping himself to all you had to offer.

"Fuck."

Your hands went to his hair, your eyes squinting shut. Ruben had covered your clit with his mouth, gathering it between his wet lips, sucking you dry.

"Please Ruben, I'm gonna...."

It sent you over the edge, that and Ruben's rough hands reaching under your shirt, rolling your stiff nipples between his fingers.

"Yes." You cried out. Melting into a puddle of nothing as you climaxed. Ruben caught you in his arms, immediately climbing on top of you as he layed you back against his couch.

"I want to fuck you so bad right now, but I can't because you're hurt."

"No." You whimpered, your thighs wrapping around his stem, the bulge in his pants putting pressure against your sensitive pussy. "Yes, like that. Fuck me just like that."

"You sure." Ruben paused all movment, raising his head to look at you.

"I'm sure Ruben, please keep..."

You could say no more. Your shirt came off, tossed aside. Ruben then lowered his hips against yours, his hard erection aligning between your thighs. The friction between you wet pussy and his jeans would be enough to send both over the edge. And so he began, dry humping you like a horny dog.

"Please Ruben, harder and faster." You clung to him, locking your legs around his hips. Ruben groaned, his body trembling like yours. "Fuck Y/N, I don't want to hurt you."

"Por favor, Ruben, me machuque." (Please  Ruben, hurt me.)

He continued to hold back, sucking your nipples to slightly increase the pleasure. You were horny enough to be satisfied with what he was already doing to you.

"Ruben, I'm gonna...again."

Your head fell back against cuchens, mouth open, eyes rolling back in your sockets. Ruben himself moaned into the crease of your neck, with one last thrust ejaculating his load into his pants. You were both out of breath laying on top of each other, coming down from the high together. Ruben sat up once the mist of sex seized to linger. He ran a anxious hand down his face, looking less than pleased with himself. You felt strange too, a sudden need to put your panties back on. However, Ruben rose to his feet, towering over you.

"This can never happen again."

He picked up your shirt from the floor, tossing it your way. The expression on his face said it all, it was obvious regret.

"I'm calling a cab. You need to leave."

[evans23]

RICKMAS 2024 - DAY 9 - UNWANTED SOLITUDE [B1]

Pairing : Judge Turpin x OC (Emily)

Summary : She was the one. He knew it at first sight. He has been alone for a long time, a solitude he has never been able to fulfill but she was the one, even though she doesn't want him.

Tag(s)/Warning(s) : Arranged mariage.

A/N : And my favourite one is back !

OUT OF REACH : Part II

TO BELONG : Part III

Also read on AO3 - Wattpad

He had noticed her one evening at the theatre. She was in the stalls, the seats reserved for modest people who could not afford a seat. He had noticed her before the play began, a Shakespearean drama, not that he had followed any of the action. The scene, at no time, had fascinated him as much as this charming creature whose curls fell in cascades on her shoulders instead of being tied in a bun as propriety demanded. She stood straight and when she had raised her bright green eyes to him without seeing him, he had been captivated, hypnotized.

After that evening, he had not really thought about her, until that September afternoon when he had seen her in a dusty old bookshop where she was interested in a collection of poetry. He had gone in to buy a societal work that was causing a stir in court. He had been struck by her obvious education, yet her clothes betrayed her low status. She must have attended a parish school or one of her unofficial girls' schools that, in addition to teaching them how to be good wives, also taught them how to read and write and the basics of mathematics.

That was when the bookseller came up to her briskly, snatching the book from her hands.

"Miss, these books are for sale, you don't leaf through them like newspapers," he growled.

She looked down, blushing slightly.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, nervously playing with the ribbon of her dress.

The bookseller was about to retort, but Richard intervened, his deep voice echoing in the small bookstore.

"I don't think she did any harm to your books by leafing through them, sir," he said sternly.

"Lord... Lord Tur... Lord Turpin," the salesman stammered, bowing exaggeratedly. "I know she can't buy it," he added pettily.

The young woman blushed a little more, embarrassed at being humiliated in this way. Richard raised an eyebrow.

"Did she tell you ?"

"No, but I know her family well. Her father is a small merchant without money who struggles to make ends meet."

His humiliation was total and Turpin did not miss the eyes that welled up in his eyes.

"Miss is here at my request. This book, she bought it for me, but I think I will have to buy my books elsewhere," Turpin replied, his eyes flashing.

He grabbed the young woman's arm and led her out of the store without knowing what strange force was taking hold of him. He would never have done such a thing under normal circumstances.

"Sir," she said, surprised and frightened by his gesture.

"I couldn't let him insult you any longer," he said, finally releasing her.

She looked up, surprise evident on all her features.

"You shouldn't have done that, he won't allow me to come back and he's the only dealer who gives him prices..." she hesitated for a moment, biting her lower lip, "correct," she finally breathed.

"Reading is a rare quality, especially for a young woman..." he stopped himself just in time to say of your condition, "I know a small bookstore near Fleet Street where you can find what you're looking for at a low price. It's where shrewd men buy their books for next to nothing."

That was completely false. This bookstore was one of the most expensive in London, but he would make sure that the seller gave him the lowest possible prices against the promise that he would pay the difference.

She just nodded, clearly intimidated by his imposing stature.

"May I ask who I have the honour of speaking to ?" he finally asked.

"Emily. Emily Everwood, sir," she said before quickly correcting herself, "Lord Turpin."

"So you know who I am," he said more to himself.

"Well, you were in the paper yesterday morning," she said, looking up at his for the first time.

Indeed, one of his judgments had caused a sensation. A thirteen-year-old boy who had been punished with one hundred lashes before being sent to work on a plantation in the United States.

"I should be going. Thank you, sir," she said, looking down again.

She walked away quickly under Richard's heavy gaze as he watched her fade into the London fog. It had been a long time since he had felt this way. The last time was for a young woman named Lucy. She had rejected him for a penniless barber and was now living in a small, shabby apartment above a pie shop with their little girl. It had taken him a while to process the rejection, but he had finally moved on, vowing never to fall in love again. Except that he had just fallen in love again.

It didn't take him long to learn that she was the daughter of a respectable merchant but ruined by unfortunate investments two years earlier. He still ran his small business, but he was desperately short of money and the old man was ill.

She looked young, but she was only sixteen years younger than him. Nothing insurmountable. Not that age was any obstacle in their patriarchal society, but he didn't want a child to educate, he wanted a woman to support him as he turned forty-eight.

He thought for a long time. Was it worth the risk ? She was penniless, without title. She would bring him nothing compared to all that he would bring her. But he was in love and if he wanted to ensure his descendants, it was now or never.

So he had gone to the Everwoods one afternoon, dressed in his most sober frock coat, his back straight, his cane in his hand which clattered on the pavement. Emily's father had come to open the door for him. He was a tired but affable old man. He had stood there in awe as he saw the High Judge of London at his door, thinking quickly who he might still owe money to. Probably a lot of people.

"Mr Everwood, I am here on a matter of the utmost importance. May I come in ?"

The poor man stepped back slightly, his eyes wide with fear, to let Richard into his house, which was in serious need of work, even though his daughter maintained it with care.

"I... I can raise the money," Mr Everwood began.

Turpin held up a hand to interrupt him.

"That is not why I am here. However, the proposition I intend to make to you could solve all your problems," he began with controlled confidence, "I have noticed your daughter, Emily. I believe she deserves a better future than what you can offer her."

Mr Everwood clenched his jaw but said nothing, much to Richard's satisfaction.

"I can offer her a decent life, a position, a life where she will want for nothing. If you would grant me her hand."

The silence that fell was heavy. Mr. Everwood did not know what to say. He had not expected this and even less from a man like The Death's Judge.

"Dad, you can't decide for me," Emily's voice startled her as she threw open the door to his room.

Richard did not know that she was there listening at the door, but he did not blink.

"My daughter, think of our situation. This marriage would bring you so much. Think of your future, I have nothing to offer you, I am sick, I have debts."

"Dad,"

"Emily," her father interrupted him, "he must not be such a bad man and..."

He was interrupted by a coughing fit. Emily immediately handed her a glass of water under Richard's unyielding gaze.

"Miss Everwood, Emily, I am sincere in my desire to make you my wife."

"You don't even know me," she replied sharply.

"We will have plenty of time to get to know each other. After the wedding."

Emily didn't know what to say. She wanted to refuse him, she wanted to get angry, but on the other hand, she also saw the practicalities of accepting. Except that she knew Richard Turpin's reputation. Falling into his hands could be much worse than poverty.

"Emily, you are no longer... you are no longer a young girl. The chances of finding a good husband are almost nil. It is unhoped for."

Emily straightened up abruptly, her cheeks red with anger, stung that her father had dared to remind her of her status as an old maid.

"You want to sell me like one of your sacks of potatoes ? Like one sells a mare ? Dad !"

Richard clenched his fists but tried to keep his cool. He had to play it smart if he wanted to get the outcome he wanted quickly.

"Miss, I'm not here to buy a wife. I'm here because I see in you what I've been searching for a long time without being able to find. I'm sure we can get along. You'll never be afraid to challenge me, you'll never be afraid to put me in my place, and I in return will have a mate. I offer you and your father a better life, away from trouble. Away from misery when your father is dead and you find yourself begging on the streets. But, the choice is yours of course," he whispered the last words.

He suppressed a smile, knowing full well that his arguments had hit the mark.

"I'll come back tomorrow to hear your decision," and with those last words, he took his leave of the Everwoods.

The night was long and full of screams and tears at the Everwoods. When Turpin returned the next day, at nightfall, Emily was nowhere to be seen. She had locked herself in her small room, listening through the door to the exchange between the judge and her father as they discussed her and the bright future that Turpin would offer her.

"I... I know you're a respectable man," her father began.

She wanted to scream. 

Lord Richard Turpin, a respectable man ? 

What respectable man was nicknamed The Death's Judge ? 

He condemned more than he pardoned, had children whipped or had their ears nailed to the ground in public as a "lesson". Would this be what he would do to their children if he did wrong ? 

Would he beat them as she had been so often at school for the slightest mistake ?

"I agree to give you her hand. I entrust her to you," her father finished saying.

Her eyes burned but she refrained from shedding a single tear. No, she would not cry even if the bell had just fallen. Sitting on the edge of her bed, her hands clenched on her worn dress, she felt confused. A mixture of anger and resignation. She knew that it was the best thing to do, for her, for her father who had always sacrificed everything for her. Wasn't it up to her now to ensure their survival ?

"I'll be back tomorrow. I hope my fiancée will be here," Turpin said forcefully, turning his head toward the door he knew led to her bedroom.

As promised, he returned the next morning. Emily sat by the fire, her face downcast. She rose slowly as Richard entered.

"I wish to be alone with my fiancée," Richard said to Mr. Everwood.

Emily's father hesitated, it was not right, but one look from Richard dissuaded him from arguing.

"Emily, I know that's not what you wanted," Richard began when they were alone.

"If that's what my father wants, then... then I don't really have a choice, do I ?" she cut him off.

"I wish it were your decision," Richard said in a voice so soft that she looked up in surprise.

He looked at her for a long time, trying to probe her mind, to understand what she really felt. He could discern fear, resignation, but also a slight glimmer of rebellion.

She, she knew that refusing would be madness. Although she was considered one of the prettiest girls in their neighbourhood, she had never been proposed to and honestly, what man would have been worthy enough of her, of her wit, of her vivacity ?

But it was not because Richard Turpin was rich that he would have more respect for her and all that she could offer if only this world of men would offer him a chance.

"It is also my decision," she whispered, "I accept."

She plunged her deep green eyes into Richard's dark ones. She wanted to cry, he could see it, but she bravely held herself back.

"You will not regret it," he whispered, taking her hand, "I promise you."

"Promises mean nothing. Actions are what count," she replied in a harsh voice that surprised Richard.

Without taking his eyes off hers, he pulled a velvet box from the inside pocket of his jacket and opened it. Inside was a gold band set with a sapphire.

"To seal our engagement. It belonged to my mother," he said as he slipped it onto her finger.

Emily stared at the ring with a mixture of admiration and apprehension. She had never held anything so expensive in her hands and now, this ring was hers.

"Don't take it off," Turpin said more like an order than a request, "our marriage will be announced soon, you cannot be seen without your engagement ring."

She closed her eyes, understanding the hidden meaning behind this request, this order. Now that she was going to belong to him, she couldn't let doubt hover, humiliate her future husband.

And so, under Richard's strict guidance, the preparations began. The wedding would take place within a fortnight, at the end of September. In the meantime, the Everwoods' debts had been paid in full and a carpenter had come to take care of their dilapidated building.

"The wedding will be worthy of your new life, Emily," Turpin told her one day when he was taking her to see one of London's most renowned dressmakers to have her wedding dress made.

She let herself be undressed, dressed, and measured by the dressmaker, aware that Richard was waiting in the next room. The wedding dress would not be her only gift. He had told her that he did not want her to take her old things. At the manor, all she would have would be new and reflect her new status. She must leave Emily Everwood behind to become Lady Emily Turpin.

Emily, for her part, struggled with a thousand and one conflicting thoughts. She didn't want to become a submissive and silent wife, but did she really have a choice ?

On the wedding day, most of the guests were from Richard's world. On her side, there was only her father and his new suit that Richard had had made so that he would have something decent to wear.

Father and daughter advanced into the small chapel carefully decorated with white flowers. People whispered as she passed, but Emily didn't hear them, as if she had left her body. Arriving in front of Richard, her father lifted her veil and kissed her on the cheek before handing her over to her future husband.

The exchange of vows, the officialisation of the marriage by the priest, Richard's chaste kiss on her cold lips, she had the impression that all this had happened to someone else.

During the reception in a posh tea room, Richard was more than in his element while she, intimidated and trembling, would have liked to escape, but she couldn't. He held her firmly in his arm.

The end of the evening did not come too quickly for Emily who was at the end of her strength. Short of breath because of the too tight corset, her apprehension of making the slightest misstep and the fear that gripped her throat. The fear of having sealed her fate to that of a monster.

They finally arrived at the manor where the few servants were waiting for them.

"Here is Mrs. Watson, she will take care of you," Richard said, nodding to an old woman with features as severe as his master's.

The old woman led Emily to the bridal chamber and prepared her for the night, undoing her hair, removing her heavy jewellery, and undressing her into a silk and lace nightgown.

Shivering, Emily sat on the edge of the bed, feeling more alone than ever, not knowing that Richard felt this way too. In fact, he had felt this way for a long time, since childhood, since that day when his own mother had told him, when he was only six years old, that she had only had him out of duty and that she didn't care if his father could beat him like a plaster cast as long as he was not at her feet. But with Emily, with his new wife, he hoped to finally fill this unwanted loneliness.

Emily had also been alone all her life. She had been lucky enough to be loved by her father, but she had had a harsh education in this small school for girls that she had attended, where she and the other girls had been regularly beaten for no real reason other than that they were children who had to be taught obedience, submission. She still remembered how, every evening, she hid her tears from her father and where, every morning, her stomach twisted with pain, making her nauseous.

This had lasted until she was ten, when her father had discovered the true harshness of this establishment that promised to raise future young women as worthy as ladies and he had taken her out of school, deciding that she would teach herself at home with the books he could offer her and that she would help him in the store where she could learn to count and do accounting with him.

Growing up, her tendency to refuse the slightest constraint and her astonishing intelligence for a girl of her background and condition had made many men back down, not that she had never had the slightest interest in one of them. But as the years passed, her twenties faded and her beauty began to fade slowly, she too had begun to feel the weight of this unwanted solitude.

She jumped when Richard came into the room, dressed in night pants and the shirt he had worn during the ceremony.

He looked at her, a fire dancing in his eyes and advanced slowly, like a feline circling its prey. Emily. This woman who had captivated him with a single glance in a London theatre was now his, here, in his room and she would soon share his bed and his entire life.

He stopped right in front of her, placed his hand on her cheek and lifted her head gently before leaning down to press his lips to hers tenderly. She pulled back slowly, her eyes losing all defiance, all trace of rebellion. She was scared.

"You're mine now, Emily," Richard whispered.

She closed her eyes, knowing full well that she couldn't stop him from exercising his right as a husband. She had agreed to marry him, she had closed the trap on her herself, and now he could do whatever he wanted with her, subjugate her by any means necessary.

"You're mine and I won't let anyone forget that. And certainly not you."

[elderberries-and-honey]

One of Lawrence's favorite parts about Queenstown was the shops lining the coast. It wasn't as bustling as the streets of busy London that Winifred grew up with but it was certainly busier than what he was used to.

His favorite shop in particular though was the used bookstore. After Winifred had flown through nearly every book at the cottage, he was thankful for the cheaper prices and being able to provide with new and exciting stories.

While browsing books one day, he could hardly believe his eyes as he gazed into the window of the little shop. 'Could it really be?', he thought to himself, 'it truly is! A used typewriter!'

New ones had always been far too expensive, and the ones that weren't, never seemed good enough when he browsed the catalogs. It had been far too long since he'd seen Winifred get lost in her writing and this was just the thing to help her find her spark again.

As he entered inside he was greeted by the shopkeeper he'd become friendly with, Maragret March, who preferred to be called Marmee instead.

Smiling warmly, she came around the counter. "What is Mrs. Baudelaire getting-" She stopped herself, puzzled when she noticed there wasn't any book in his hands.

"The typewriter in the window... oh Marmee, it's perfect! How much is the asking price?" He enthused.

Grinning at his enthusiasm, she went on to explain it would only be €45, almost half the price of a new one. "I'm afraid though Lawrence, she needs some work done."

Lawrence's heart dropped when he realized what she meant. It wasn't in working condition, hence such a low price. After a bit of back and forth, he soon realized it would cost far too much for repairs and it was a task too far outside his respected skillset.

He thanked her for her time but couldn't keep the hint of disappointment from lingering in his tone before making his exit, completely forgetting to even purchase Winifred a new book.

"Mr. Baudelaire, wait!" Marmee called after him, finding him out on the cobblestone. Sighing, she put her hands on her hips, knowing she would never hear the end of it when she told her girls about what she was about to do.

She offered to sell him the typewriter as is, cover the cost of repairs herself and return to him as good as new. "My Jo, she's a writer too...I know how important this is." She explained.

It was such a generous offer, he almost couldn't bring himself to accept. After all, she had four girls to support and this would be an incredible loss for them.

But when he thought of his own wife, the passion that rose within her with a quill in her hand, he couldn't refuse it. 

next / previous / first

[laughroditee]

🔴 "Your Ghost" | Part 2 - XIII Death

Part 1 is here // Read on AO3 CW: this story takes place after Soap's death and contains supernatural elements, tarot, mentions of death and blood. this chapter contains descriptions of anxiety, mild violence, angst, and references to alcohol abuse. the series will eventually contain smut and be 18+. Characters in this chapter: Evangeline Stephens (female OC), Johnny "Soap" MacTavish, Simon "Ghost" Riley Summary: Evangeline reluctantly talks to Simon about Johnny at Johnny's urging. Word Count: 1969

Mood Music:

The ghost of John MacTavish looked down at me with a serious expression.  “I did.  I need yer help, Evangeline.  Yer the only one who can do it.”

“No,” I said.

He blinked. “‘No?’”

“No,” I repeated, my eyes a little too wide. 

“Ye haven’t even heard what I want from ye.”  John looked annoyed, his brows drawing down in a frown that lined his face. It made him look maybe just a little bit intimidating.  Having issues with displeasing someone, who me?

“Don’t want to.  Can’t.”  I shook my head for extra emphasis as if I needed it.  “Mm-mm.”

“Are ye always so childish?” 

Oof, right in the feelings.  “You want me to talk to someone, don’t you?” I accused, my finger jabbing the air at him.  

“How—?”

“Knight of Swords.  Air.  Communication,” I explained as if this were common knowledge and a perfectly logical conclusion to reach.  “You just have that very chatty air about you, and I dunno, man, I’m not about that life.  I have social anxiety.  I don’t play well with strangers because I’m too busy having a heart attack around them.  It’s just not a strength that I have.”

John looked momentarily apologetic before despair swallowed the expression.  This gave me pause.  Fuck me and my Catholic guilt.  “Fine!  Okay, alright, I’ll hear you out, but I can’t promise you anything.”  I sat down on the edge of the bed, just trying to quell the anxious jitters making my fingers shake, The Knight of Swords card dancing slightly in my grasp.  I placed it back with the other two in the reading and looked up at my ghostly kinsman.

John’s examining gaze was concerned as he stood across from me.  “Ye alright, lass?”

Reminding myself to take a deep breath, I simply nodded.

A single confirmation nod from John was all he gave before launching into his story.  “I was a soldier in life.  SAS.  British special forces.  We were on a mission a few months ago, chasin’ a Russian terrorist in the London tunnels.  Makarov.”  His eyes blazed as the memories washed through him, spitting his enemy’s name as if it were poison.  “We had ‘im too.  But the fucker was slippery.  My captain and I got shot while we were diffusin’ a bomb.”  John’s hand went to his shoulder as if to soothe the phantom wound.  “Makarov was about to finish ‘im off – my captain, I mean – but I managed to get up and clap the bastard, only… I ended up gettin’ shot in the head.  Killed instantly.  Then Makarov buggered off.”

I listened intently to John’s story, my heart squeezing in my chest for him.  “I’m so sorry, John.  I… don’t know what else to say.  You were really brave.”

He smirked.  “A lot of good it did me.  Still, Captain Price is alive, and I dunnae regret that.”  His eyes seemed focused on something far away, and I waited for him to continue.

When he didn’t, I had to prompt him.  “John?  What is it that you want from me?”

His eyes refocused on me, his mouth set in a grim line.  “I need yer help, Evangeline….  My boyfriend was there that day.  One of my teammates.  He’s not doin’ well.”

Shit.  I blew out a long breath as if I was trying to exorcise my demons.  “I’m so sorry,” I repeated uselessly.  “John, I’m… probably the last person you want to go and talk to your boyfriend about your death or literally anything else.  I suck at this kind of thing.  I never know what to say to grieving people, even if I’ve known them forever.  Words just aren’t enough.”

“Please,” he said, kneeling by the bed, his ghostly hand passing through mine as it lay on my lap, chilling me.  “You’re all I have, lass.”

Despite the urgency in his voice, I was hesitant for reasons that should have been obvious.  I stared down at the three cards on the bed once again, reinterpreting the reading as The Knight of Swords representing John, the Death card — for the first time in one of my readings — representing his literal death, and the Three of Swords representing his boyfriend’s subsequent heartbreak.  There are always multiple ways to interpret the cards in every situation; you just have to move through it and see what fits—a little like grief.

I looked back at him with an expression of resignation on my face.  “You’re lucky I like you.”

His face lit up.  “So you’ll do it?”

I sighed, coming to terms with the decision I was about to make.  “Yeah.  I’ll do it.”

“Sorry I called ye childish,” he said apologetically.

“Mm.”

“Yer beau’iful,” he tried again.

I gave him a grin.  “Aww, how kind of you to say.”

“Yes, I am kind. Now you compliment me.”

“Why should I when you just did it yourself?”

He chuckled before his expression sobered.  “Thank you, Evangeline. I cannae repay the favor you’re doin’ me.”

I looked back at him, noting how similar our eyes were.  “You can owe me in the next life, how’s that?”

“Sounds like a fair deal.  So, are ye gonna clean up this mess?”

“Sorry, you’ll have to clean yourself up.”

“Funny.”

I leaned down and started to gather my fallen tarot cards, picking out carpet lint and hairs occasionally as I stacked the deck.

”Y’know…,” he began, “ye make me wish I could’ve met you while I was livin’.  Think we coulda been friends?”

Deck neatly in hand, I looked up at him, a warm, bittersweet feeling blossoming inside my chest.  “Yeah, I think we could’ve been.  Could still be.”

He laughed.  “Well, bein’ friends with me is a blessing in itself.”

“I’m sure it is.”

We headed out by taxi to John’s old flat to see his boyfriend, Simon.  Simon Riley.  I turned the name over in my mind as we drove, wondering what kind of man he was.  It was odd traveling in a car with a complete stranger, knowing that you have a ghost with you.  I kept looking at the driver in the rearview mirror, paranoid that he’d be able to see John, but aside from my own awkwardness, the trip concluded uneventfully.

I stared at the door that I was supposed to be knocking on and felt immediately threatened, that familiar fight-or-flight feeling making my extremities tingle.  “Shit.  John, I can’t…”

“Easy.  I’ll be right here; I won’t leave ye.  But we have to get in and get to Simon, alright?  The eejit’s blootered.”

I stared at him in confusion.  “He’s what?”

John rolled his eyes, exasperated.  “Drinkin’, hen.  He’s right sloshed.  Now get knockin’.”

Stepping toward the door, I looked at John and said, “I feel like your Scottish level just increased.”  I wrapped my knuckles on the door before I lost my nerve and stepped back.

He smirked, though it didn’t reach his eyes.  “I think yer just too American to understand—“

The door flew open, revealing the personification of my Death card: an enormous man wearing a skull balaclava, no shirt, about one billion muscles, and an appropriately sized scowl.  His displeasure was evident despite the mask covering his features.  It radiated off of him in waves like heat, like the smell of alcohol that invaded my nostrils as it drifted out from him.  Piercing dark eyes stared down at me briefly before squinting, and then he slammed the door in my face.  I could hear his heavy footfalls retreating further into the flat.  I looked at John, at a complete loss, and maybe with a bit of anxiety.  Just a wee bit.

He sighed.  “Knock again, Evangeline.  He’ll answer.”  

“Why do you not look convinced?”

“Because I’m not.”

“I appreciate your honesty.  Is he gonna kill me?” I asked, somehow finding the nerve to knock again through my blooming dissociation.  It was a genuine fear.  What do I actually know about these guys?  Not much.  John hadn’t told me anything about Simon besides that they were both in the military.  He most certainly didn’t tell me about how absofuckinglutely intimidating his man was; he looked like he could just break me in half with those dark brooding eyeballs of his, no hands necessary.  My heart lurched, palpitating in my chest wildly like a canary in a proverbial coal mine.

“He won’t kill ye,” John assured me and my anxiety.

Ten beats passed. Nothing.

“Steamin’ bloody Jesus,” John said in frustration and then disappeared through the wall of the flat.  I could hear him swearing and yelling, all in vain.  He emerged, raking a hand through his mohawk in irritation.  When his eyes finally locked with mine, a silent plea filled them.

I didn’t like that look on John’s face; the pain and concern etched there was almost a tangible thing, and it hurt.  It made me feel edgy and a bit unstable, as if the ground beneath me wasn’t as sturdy as I believed before coming out here.  I stepped up and knocked again, louder, more insistent.  For him.

This time, I could hear the lumbering stomps of Simon’s gait as he approached the door to the flat, and I braced myself for whatever might come.  My hair sucked forward from the sudden vacuum the door caused, and I nearly expected the door to be ripped from its hinges, such was the velocity at which the door opened.  I hadn’t stepped back, but Jesus, I wished that I had.

“The fuck do you want?”  Simon’s voice was a low growl, his thick British accent raking across me like a physical attack.

There was that small animal voice in the back of my head as I looked up at the angry behemoth at the door, which said, with zero doubt, “You are going to die.”  He braced a forearm on the doorframe, leaning in closer.  My eyes widened fractionally with every millimeter that decreased between us.  Shit.

“Um… A-are you Simon?  Simon Riley?”

He blinked at me with unfocused eyes.  He’d been drinking heavily as he reeked of alcohol, which was wonderful for me because we all know that drunk people are totally predictable.  “Who’s askin’?”

My eyes flicked to John, who stood beside the door, nodding encouragingly.  “M-my name is Evangeline.  I’m here about John—"

“Johnny,” John — or Johnny — corrected me.

“Johnny?”  I glanced at my ghostly companion, who nodded.

Simon narrowed his eyes.  “The fuck you on about?”

“Look, I know this will sound crazy, but he sent me here with a message.”  This was a bit of a stretch since, now that I thought about it, Johnny didn’t actually give me a message for Simon.

“So, what, you’re a bloody fortune teller?” Simon asked, his gravelly voice seething with bitter outrage.

Shit shit shit shit shit.  “No, that’s not—“ I started, taking a defensive step backward, but he barreled on.

“What the fuck do you want here?”

“Johnny wanted me to—“ 

I had little time to react before he picked me up by my jacket lapels and slammed me against his door, the air quickly evicted from my lungs.  The back of my head stung as I looked in horror at him.

“Johnny doesn’t want anything.  He’s fucking dead.”

I froze under his gaze, which was both hateful and wounded, the cold rush of adrenaline coursing through my bloodstream.

Johnny interjected in a panic, “The first thing I ever said to him was,  ‘Let’s get ourselves a win.’ Tell him!”

I could feel my throat starting to close up.  I couldn’t move, couldn’t talk, couldn’t breathe.

“Shit.”  Johnny rushed forward, moving through Simon, trying to get him to loosen his grip, but it was useless.  Next, he passed through me, my body feeling the chill of his presence, a strange, otherworldly shiver as suddenly, my mouth moved.

“LT, let ‘er go.”  The voice was mine, but the speaker was Johnny, his Scottish inflection clear in my voice.

Part 3

[shanastoryteller]

HAPPY HOLIDAYS!!!!! Enola Holmes?

a continuation of 1 2 3 4 5 6

Victoria quite likes her sister in law.

Her husband can't stand her, but her husband can't stand much of anything, so she hardly considers that a point against the girl. In fact, on his most irritating days, Victoria considers it to be quite a large point in her favor.

It's a bright and blissfully quiet morning when the butler says, "The Marchioness is here, madam."

She doesn't ask which one. There's only one that would bother coming here. It's also one that she doesn't change to receive - it's not like she'll appreciate the effort.

"Enola," she says warmly as she steps inside the sitting room, leaving off all her official titles like she never does in front of her husband.

It's a good thing Mycroft has a large fortune and a rigorous work schedule. He'd be intolerable otherwise.

"Victoria," she returns, returning her hug with that deceptive strength that hides behind her wiry frame. "Are you - can I - there are some questions. That I have."

"For a case?" she asks, guiding her onto the couch so they can sit together. She assumes that someone is already setting up for tea.

Mycroft may hate Enola's past times, but Victoria thinks they sound exciting. She loves family dinners, listing to her and Sherlock talk animatedly of their latest case.

She shakes her head. "It's - personal. I'd ask my mother, but she's a little busy at the moment."

The price on her head is so high in London that she rarely bothers to come here. Victoria wishes that Mycroft would take care of that, but he's so touchy about his mother.

"You can ask me anything," she says.

Enola hesitates. Victoria is starting to wonder if she should be concerned, when she's seen Enola ask some of the rudest questions she's ever heard out loud with a straight face.

"It's about babies."

Ah.

"Are you...?" she asks leadingly, glancing down at her stomach.

"No!" she yelps, then bits her bottom lip. "Not yet."

"What do you want to know?" she asks, doing her best to keep her humor tucked away. Enola hates not knowing something, it must be terrible for her to even ask. "You really can ask me anything. I don't mind."

Victoria is only older than Enola by a handful of years, but this is what her mother had raised her for, and what she'd been focused on during her first year of marriage.

Thank goodness she'd had a son. It means that Mycroft left her alone, for the most part.

[sentientcave]

WIP WEDNESDAY BABES

Got two little bite size snippets for you all if you would care to partake. One from the next chapter of Retirement Party and one from chapter uhhhhh sixteen? Of Sparrow. I swear I'm gonna start posting that soon.

As usual, MDNI please

Retirement Party

It’s strange to be back in London. He still comes here once a week— A staunch refusal to switch to a new therapist, even if it would save him the short flight from Aberdeen Airport every Friday, his whole day eaten away by travel and the hour appointment with Dr. Clara. He doesn’t like her. She thinks he’s stubborn and resistant. She’s probably right. For the first time, he thinks it might be a good idea to switch. Or stop coming in personally, conduct therapy online. Being away from Dalisay bothers him. He doesn’t like that she’s alone in the house. If something happened, he’d be too far away to do anything about it. If she left, he wouldn't be able to stop her, but... She’d seen him off, kissed him at the door, said she’d make dinner for when he got back. She wasn’t going anywhere. She didn’t want to. He had to trust her, even if it was a difficult thing to do. It would probably kill him if he came home to an empty house.

Sparrow

Well. Makarov was a secondary objective at this point. If the opportunity to kill him presented itself he’d shoot, but there was no sense hunting the man down and losing his chance to get off the bloody boat with him and Morgan in one piece. If it were just Ghost, he might’ve chanced it. Maybe blown up the whole bloody ship. He didn’t really care if he lived or died— In many ways he’d been dead for years now, if not since they buried him, since he buried himself along with his family in that gray little cemetery in Manchester— But he did care if she lived. He could lie to himself and say it was out of loyalty to Price, getting his girl back home for him, but it wasn’t that. There was something in that soft, stubborn little bird that he recognized, something that resonated with the part of him that was still Simon Riley, deep down inside where the light couldn’t get in. He could feel the first stirrings of life in a long while, like she was spring, thawing the frozen ground and coaxing something green and delicate out of the mud. Maybe it was just him being selfish (he’d always been selfish), but he wanted to see what could grow.

[joanna-lannister]

I promised I would make a masterlist of all my favorite JC fanfictions, so here you go. Those fics aren't sorted out by Canon or AU, they are just a mix of what I loved over the years.

How My Story Ends by Millie55 Cersei and her army arrive in Winterfell to aide in the battle against the Night King. Or Cersei and Jaime reunite in Winterfell.

Casablanca by LordStannisTheGodDamnMannis666 Tywin extends Jaime’s business trip abroad at short notice with express instructions to fly directly to the next country. Jaime however rather likes the idea of a detour, and he knows the perfect person to join him. Aka As long as he gets there by Monday morning it doesn’t really matter what he does in the meantime, does it?

They Want to Make Me Their Queen by Millie55 Cersei has lost everything except 2 things: Jaime, and her Kingdom.

Until Death Do Us Part by LordStannisTheGodDamnMannis666 A new law is passed in parliament that changes Jaime and Cersei's lives for good, allowing them the opportunities, freedom, and happiness that they once could only dare to hope for.

my blood alone remains by houselannister The Austrian Princess is barely fourteen when she leaves her homeland for France. She speaks very little French, and is wilful, stubborn and capricious. She leaves Vienna with an escort of two thousand men, loyal Austrian soldiers.

The Ribbon by Magnolie Cersei is shipped off to France by their mother to part her from Jaime. But there is no without each other for them, only together.

Oh come all ye faithful by Magnolie Jaime and Cersei have their own ways and excuses to escape the boring Christmas Parties and even if they have to stay... there is always a way to spice things up.

therefore each to other bound by copacet Having escaped Stark custody, Jaime returns to King's Landing during the Battle of the Blackwater—thus solving some of his family's problems while also creating several new ones.

of love and beauty by liesmyth “We’re lions.” Jaime’s hand clasped around her own. “Let them all choke on it.”

The Price of Love by nightingalesighs Cersei studies her sleeping twin’s face one night trying to pinpoint when Jaime’s feature’s had changed. When his hair had started going grey and what caused the wrinkles on his familiar face.

She's always been afraid of storms by vwoolf Cersei's afraid of storms and seeks out her brother's company.

you gave away what you never really had, and now your purse is empty, I can see why you're sad by houselannister It's been five years since Jaime left London. Now Tywin is dead, and business is business. Cersei flies to Paris to get what's hers.

foreshore by lutece Still, the lions linger—perhaps they are dead across the sea, but in Pentos they have flourished with their cub.

The Better Cure by corrielle After being unhorsed by Loras Tyrell on Prince Joffrey's name day, Jaime visits Cersei to soothe his wounded pride.

perihelion by houselannister London, 2020 - After Tywin Lannister's death, Jaime and Tyrion uncover their father's most precious secret: a hidden sister. Money and power intersect with family and obsession.

Prophecies & Promises by spinsterclaire When the 18-year old Lannister twins find themselves locked out of their father's townhome, they visit an old acquaintance to escape the Manhattan blizzard. There, they must confront their fears about keeping promises, accepting fate, and bringing new life into the world.

Study Me, Study You by LordStannisTheGodDamnMannis666 Jaime needs help with his homework, and who better to help than Cersei?

Take My Hand, The Night Grows Ever Colder by LordStannisTheGodDamnMannis666 Across the Narrow Sea, in a stone house on the shore of Pentos, Cersei Lannister dreams of her children.

The Loneliest Girl in Town by Millie55 Cersei fears she may have lost Jaime for good - every last piece of him.

Quiet. by frozenpapers Tywin interrupts Cersei and Jaime.

Hush. by frozenpapers A phone call interrupts Cersei and Jaime.