corsetedcurses-blog
Beauty is Terror
“GIRLS DON'T HAVE IRON IN THEIR VEINS. IRON RUSTS WITH CHANGE. WE DO NOT. GIRLS DON’T HAVE GOLD IN THEIR HEARTS. GOLD YIELDS TO FIRE. WE DO NOT. GIRLS DON’T HAVE DIAMONDS FOR BONES. CROWDS STEAL THEM AWAY. WE REMAIN.”
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MILES RICHARDS
“Sounds brilliant,” Miles replies, always gratified by a quick acceptance of a dutiful apology. “We can spend our time in libraries and bookshops. No chance of seeing them anywhere near anything that could lead to self-betterment.”
He wanted to get the conversation as far away from that disastrous event as possible– further even. There were traits Miles Richards possessed that not everyone could boast of, and his easy amicability was one of them. He had heard on many occasions that he was more approachable than any of his friends or family, still very English but not nearly as prim and proper as, say, the rest of the graduating class at Eton this year.
Miles knew that the more he focused on that strange night the less relaxed and easy-going he’d seem to someone still deciding on him, but he had questions. The only answers he had access to were the ones she could provide, and he could not resist this temptation.
“On the topic of self-betterment, I should extend another apology for leaving you alone with that…American, no offence intended. He just was so…repulsive. There was something almost predatory in his nature, probably a result of his line of work. I don’t think I caught his name.” He pauses, giving her a moment to fill in the blank. “Anyhow, it was completely mannerless, to leave you like that. Was it awful, speaking with him?”
MADELINE BUCHANAN
She felt a momentary sense of relief at the thought that they could put the evening behind them and never, ever, have to rehash it again. Maybe at the rehearsal dinner of their wedding. Did Brits do rehearsal dinners? Madeline lets the daydream thought drift in her head for only a second, enough to keep her smile growing absently. It takes her another second to realize Miles’ question, and another half-beat to know she didn’t have an answer..
She offers a frown. How was the conversation moving towards the subject she had thought they had both mutually locked and thrown away the key on a second ago? And why, now thinking back on it, hadn’t tall, dark, and handsome at least thrown her a fake name.
“Honestly-- the whole thing was very weird. Or maybe just not my scene. But he didn’t even give me a name, which is honestly probably for the best.” She thought back to the black ensemble, the drink in his hand, the perfected part of his hair. “It wasn’t that terrible, really.” Madeline eyed Miles, searching to see if this guilt of his was real or a matter of politeness. “He was from the South actually-- we talked about having that in common.” What else... a slew of nicknames for her. A general air of apathy. Shockingly no offer of drugs. “Oh-- and he bought me a few drinks. Or--” Again, another frown. “Not even really bought, more like told the bartender his drinks were covered or something.”
She sighs, hoping for that to be the end of it. A quick look around at their lecture hall surroundings prompts her to nod to the door. “Maybe we should vacate before we get trapped in Advanced Macroeconomics, mhm?” She gives him a laugh, taking a step towards the door.
No Exit (September 2018) - Madeline x Miles
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MILES RICHARDS
He visibly winces at her dig, eyes squinched and mouth puckered in distaste. Miles knew he had no right to be affronted by her behaviour – not when he considered his own – but he felt affronted all the same. If his actions had confused her, they’d left him entirely baffled. That night when they’d left the bar, he’d felt giddy with the need to please her. The desire to prove how pleasant and fun-loving he could be had outweighed everything else, including his interactions with Harry, which nothing ever outweighed.
Just stop being a brat.
Harry’s companion’s parting words echoed in his mind. Miles could still feel that chilling wave of calm that numbed his senses when those ocean-blue eyes had set upon him and he’d offered his flippant advice. There was something unnerving about him, something infectious in the literal sense. He was a plague that only the strongest vaccines could ward against, and Harry was already so easily influenced and led astray. Miles wondered in a hot mixture of fear and frustration what the two of them had gotten into last night.
“Sometimes, ” Miles begins, looking upwards and hoping that the high ceiling would have the answers his brain did not. “ Having a sibling can be a wonderful thing.” How could he forget Greece? “ But with Harry, more often than not, I feel like a grumpy old man keeping a toddler from ingesting tide pods while…driving his tricycle over a cliff. Except with Harry, the tide pods are cocaine and the tricycle is a vintage Aston Martin.”
Miles feels a weight lift off of his chest at finally being able to explain some part of his dynamic with Harry to someone who might listen, even if he was only revealing the least distressing part.
“When we saw him at the pub, something inside of me…” Broke, Miles thinks. But that was too much to say. He backtracks, “I didn’t want his attitude to spoil your night, but I didn’t want that mate of his to be right about me being a brat, either. But maybe that’s exactly what I am.”
Miles sighs, rubs a hand over his face, and meets her eyes with a dejected smile.
“Truce?”
MADELINE BUCHANAN
If she focused her energy back on the way that he had made her feel on that unfortunate evening- the one she refused to refer to as a date anymore- Madeline could muster an acute degree of annoyance with him. And even if she chose to take the higher road in spirit, she could still manage to begrudgingly eye the way his sweater fell haphazardly over his form, or the way he stood, occupying space rather than purpose. But she really didn’t want to be annoyed with him. To do so would at least in part make for several uncomfortable years of mutual classes. Less importantly, she told herself, it would mean she would be moving two steps backwards in her plan to woo the Brits.
So instead of another eye roll, or snappy comment, she offers him a laugh to the description of his step-brother and his supposed antics.
“From what it sounds like, the only one that’s a brat is Harry.” Debating whether she was allowed to make such a comment given her lack of familiarity, Madeline reminds herself of her experience with the two brothers and shuts that thought down quickly.
“Look-- I get it. Not in a ‘I too have a problematic sibling way’ but in a ‘family is complicated’ way. Especially when you throw in an outsider into the mix.” She gives a shrug, claiming the title for herself because it appeared he was too polite to mention it.
“So maybe, in the midst of our truce, next time we don’t go to the spot where the most questionable of Oxford’s finest are.”
No Exit (September 2018) - Madeline x Miles
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(ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧
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MILES RICHARDS
Five days had passed since Miles’ night with Harry and two Americans had taken a strange and uncomfortable turn. There was something unnaturally giddy about how he’d acted once he’d left with Maddie, nearly forcing her to watch a “British” movie he didn’t care for in the least. He’d felt plagued by a desperate need to keep her happy that he had never felt towards anyone, and that had consequently forced her to end the night early out of fear of his awkward, overzealousness. And still, when he’d returned to his own dorm to sleep off the minimal alcohol he’d ingested in the hopes that he’d wake up normal, Miles had dreamed of Harry’s friend. He’d felt himself drowning in the pools of his blue eyes, relaxing and suffocating all at once.
Everything about that night confused Miles more than anything else ever had. And, naturally, he’d chosen to bury that confusion by ignoring Maddie, ignoring Harry, and deciding never to speak to that other man again– although there seemed no danger of that. Miles did not plan on forging friendships with drug dealers, American or otherwise; he supposed this was just one of the things he and Harry lacked in common.
After two hours of philosophy with Maddie ignoring Miles right back, he felt compelled to make some sort of peace. Though he could offer very little in the way of an explanation, the night was too strange to hang between them. It ran counter to what he’d intended and no doubt what she’d intended for that evening, and as such it would not do as their final point of communication. And if there was one thing a Richards could do, it was craft a well-worded apology whilst avoiding specifics.
“Hi,” he interrupts her quick steps effortlessly with two long strides, crossing from the opposite side of the lecture hall to block her path. He towers over her at his height, and puts his hands in his pockets to account for his mildly domineering stance. “Could we…talk?”
MADELINE BUCHANAN
So close, yet so far. She stops in her tracks, not bothering to look up at Miles, knowing the body that had invaded her exit strategy was none other than his. She tilts her head to the side, eyeing the space around him which would lead her to the door of the lecture hall. She reminded herself that she could easily just step around him. Maybe roll her eyes, throw a scoff, and proceed ignoring him for the rest of their university years.
But something felt innately wrong in doing that. And as much as she hated to admit it, Maddie wanted an explanation of what the hell had gone on. Besides, he was the one giving in first and approaching her. Something was owed for the effort-- the time of day at least.
She looks up, mouth twisting with a hint of anxiousness, as her arms cross over her chest to stand more firmly in front of him.
“Talk? Sure. As long as as it doesn’t involve Renee Zellweger.” She delivers a pointed look at him, brows raised. Come on Maddie, give him a break. She forces a smile, which eases into sincerity when she lets herself take a proper look at him.
No Exit (September 2018) - Madeline x Miles
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No Exit (September 2018) - Madeline x Miles
MADELINE BUCHANAN
So, ‘freshers’ week didn’t turn out the way she had expected. Somehow she had walked into a familial disaster on the most awkward date of her life-- and boy did she know how to choose awkward. It had taken only a few questions from the in-the-know Brits on campus to give her a minor run down on who Miles was, and precisely who Harry Villiers was. Nothing came up on the pseudo-drug dealer, but that made more sense than if she had found something out about him.
Maddie was left with only one option really. Avoid the situation, and start her British adventure off from scratch. It wouldn’t be the first time a freshman wanted to forget their first week, and she pondered that maybe that was more of the college experience than actually making positive memories of orientation. But regardless, she had one thing to turn to that would actually ground her back to purpose-- classes.
As she walked into the the Philosophy lecture, she naturally spied her tutor-- ex-tutor at this rate, probably. Bee-lining towards the opposite end of the lecture hall, she’s careful to not make eye contact. What a disaster.
****
Once the lecture let out, Madeline wrapped up her final notes on the complexities of the categorical imperative, and gathered her things. She eyed the exit door enviously, and focused herself on making her way across the room without interruption. Only four more years of casual avoidance of one of Oxford’s most eligible-- doable.
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JOHN SHELBY
She was tiptoeing closer to that unspoken line between them, edging nearer to an argument neither would win. As long as they’d known one another, Sabina had been the only woman to voice her concerns to him and seek only his opinion, not a solution. She asked him whys and what ifs the way most people asked him did yous and will yous, each comment hanging in the silence as she waited for his response. Though it hurt his pride to admit it, her interest in his mind made him stand taller, feel important; it didn’t matter what the other’s had if he had her good opinion.
And yet, at the end of the day, of their lives, of eternity, the truth held that Thomas Shelby was John’s big brother and best friend. Though John sought Sabina’s opinion on everything else, Tommy was not up for discussion.
“You’ve always done this with him,” John complains, turning onto his side so he can see her. He rests his cheek on his hand, his ice blue eyes melting as they slowly drink in the sight of her. It never ceased to amaze John how he could still be so hungry for one woman, after all these years. “Tommy is the best of us. He knows best, he does what’s right. Even if it’s hard to see at first, he does right by this family. He’ll do right by me. So, I reckon he’d let me catch a bullet before you, because he knows I’d never forgive him.” John falls flat on his back, mirroring Sabina’s position before he adds, “I know what he’s made of, my brother. Even if I didn’t before, there’s no way I couldn’t after France.”
John was only sorry everyone was misunderstanding Tommy. They’d let the way he looked after the war confuse their memories, drive all the light out of his brother until only a dark chasm remained. They saw him now as this ruthless, blood-thirsty monster. And that was the plan, John knew. Be hard as stone so no one’s brave enough to ask about the war, about what those Gypsy boats are carrying, about anything. John had to admit the newfound respect for the Shelby name felt right, streets emptying when they turned the corner felt right.
But Tommy wasn’t all solid; not all of him was changed. You had to be close to him to notice the cracks. You had to know what had happened to see it underneath him. And perhaps you had to have a bit of it living underneath you, as well. It was alright for the others to see Tommy Shelby as the villain in their storybook, but it made John ache for Sabina to see him poorly, as well. How he wished she could see Tommy through his eyes, just once.
“The real trouble is he needs himself a woman,” John decides with finality.
SABINA LOVERIDGE
She didn’t want to hear another word about Tommy Shelby, especially not from one of the few people she had ever heard sing his praises. She had asked herself so many times what it would take for John to see the truth of his brother, but as time went on she had come to know that there would be nothing that would sway John from his belief in Tommy. As much as the thought made her blood boil, it reassured her in equal part. If John could see the best in his brother, or else make it up in his own mind, maybe that meant he could accept anything that she was, had been, or would be. It was comforting, if only for a moment, to imagine a world where she didn’t fear losing John to her own makings.
Finished with the argument that had yet to happen and refusing to waste her words on a war already lost, she turns towards him again, her index finger prodding at his chest. “You ever even try to take a bullet for me John Shelby, and I’ll kill you myself.” The threat comes through her teeth, only half kidding. He drove her mad when he would say things like that. Worst yet, she knew he meant every word of it. Bloody men.
Again, her eyes flicker with things unknown, and she smiles back at him, deciding to save her momentary displeasure with him for a later date. “And don’t worry about Tommy’s love life.” Brows raise. “I think your brother’s going to get exactly what he deserves for once, when it comes to women. And soon at that.” She redraws the etchings of the vision in her mind; a woman, proper, too proper, pretty enough, if not so serious. And most importantly, coloured in the same hues as Tommy.
Burning From Both Ends (1919) - John x Sabina
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JOHN SHELBY
“Made her?” John furrows his brows in contemplation. “So you think he gets off on some whore bleeding all over his cock in the back of a bar?”
Since France, more men than ever were raising hands to their women and their whores; and those were the good ones. The bad ones were raising fists, bottles, God knew what else. It seemed to John that the war had awakened a bright violence inside of them, blackening their hearts and making men into monsters. But what if the Mikaelsons had been monsters even before the war? What if they hurt people, hurt women, just for sport?
“Doesn’t matter to us,” John shakes off the thought. He tells Sabina his exact reasoning. “I don’t want you worrying about the whore. That’s for Tommy to figure out, give the orders. He protects us, and I protect you.”
He laughs when she teases him, moves a hand to her hip and tugs her towards him playfully. The language his mother spoke when he was a child, before she’d passed, always sounded so beautiful on Sabina’s lips, always made him feel closer to that calm and happy part of himself; the part that was forever a child, mucking about and collecting frogs amongst the other Gypsy children, Shelby or no.
His father was Gypsy too, but his mind darkens at the thought of him. The man had only spoken Romani when he wanted something that belonged to someone else.
“You don’t just tell fortunes, Sab,” John says, as if he’s explaining to her what made up her life and her worth. “I know you…like I said, you’re more Gypsy than me. Maybe not in blood, but where it counts. You’ve got…fuck, like, abilities. Or something. And these Mikaelsons must’ve heard about you, thought they could just walk into town and take what they please.”
A new rage fills John’s chest, possessive rage mixed with fear. She was not anyone’s to take. She would make sure of that. And if she couldn’t, he would. Between the two of them, nothing bad was going to happen to her.
“Let’s just say if they carry on how they’re going, I’m gonna get me a fistful of fuckin’ pins and we’ll see just how much damage they can do to those ugly sons of bitches, eh?”
SABINA LOVERIDGE
‘Doesn’t matter to us’.
But it did matter, John. It did matter to them, and them in particular. And there was little that the hell-bound Shelby brother could do to stop the consequences of the events that had already begun. Sabina was sure of that, as sure as John was of his brother. But that was one thing Sabina had never managed to do when it came to John-- raise doubt over his brother’s intentions, and worst yet, his actions. She had never dared try either, knowing what blood meant to them. And still, the name Tommy Shelby caused a chill in her. She had never met a man so cursed to live. It was no wonder he looked for death everywhere he walked.
“I know that Tommy won’t let anything happen to his family-- but John-- the only reason he would ever protect me is because I’m useful to Tommy, more than either of us like to admit.” She looks away from John then, not wanting to meet his eyes for her next thought “What if I stopped being so helpful, hm?”
She drops down again to lay herself against the bedding, turning onto her back, her hands leaving his body, eyes fixating at the wooden frames above them. She could tell him that she was scared, that the fear was brewing deep in her. And what then? He worries more about her-- takes off to see her, leaving his family-- comforts her in his ways, while the source of her fear looms. No, she wouldn’t do that. She couldn’t.
“I think I’ve got a few spare pins laying around here somewhere. Might need to sharpen them up. Better yet--” She turns head to reveal the smile on her lips. “--a couple of forks and a comb might really do em’ in.”
Burning From Both Ends (1919) - John x Sabina
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JOHN SHELBY
John lets out a sigh, watching her fingers trek their path across his skin. He takes her wrist while she speaks, runs the back of her hand against his chest, up his neck, and along his jaw, ending her journey by pressing a kiss to her knuckles. Then he rotates her hand and kisses the fingertips exposed by her relaxed grip, then the palm of her hand.
“Didn’t have a lot to say, the bunch of ‘em,” John begins, now pressing her palm to his cheek.
It was only now without fear for Sabina running rampant in his mind that he could truly appreciate the strangeness of it all. The barmaid, the whore, and the rest.
“Tommy and I get to the Garrison, and there’s this little French, coloured girl says she’s our fuckin’ barmaid? Right, and she’s talking to these Mikaelson brothers, and they look chummy as all hell, so Tommy sends me round to see what they’ve been up to in our pub. And I find Valentina bleeding in the back, bleeding all over herself, half fuckin’ dead. And then after the brothers ask about you and take off, Tommy asks her what happened, and you know what she says? Stuck herself…with a pin! Stabbed her neck and bled out, fainted from the sight of it all. But Tommy don’t like that answer, says it don’t add up. And the French one looked like she’d be sick. I reckon he’s still got them down there, answering his questions.”
There was no doubt in John’s mind that Tommy would keep them well into the morning until they told him a version of events to his liking. Thomas Shelby did not accept that there were things in the world he did not understand; not a wager, not a con, not a trick in the book. John, on the other hand, believed in people more than his brother ever had. Valentina was friendly with Peaky Boys,spreading her legs to prove her loyalty and, from what he’d heard, had earned loyalty in return. Besides, Tommy was not the type of man anyone thought they could best, least of all a whore. And for what? Money and protection, when she could be offered both by the Peaky Blinders?
What reason would she have to lie? Better yet, what reason would she have to tell that lie?
She was either telling the truth or she was very confused, but in either case Tommy wasn’t going to like it.
How sharp was a pin anyway?
“What?” John looks at her soberly, the ghost of a smirk flirting with the corners of his mouth. She seemed unbelievably somber for someone who had just been moaning his name. But that was Sabina, he supposed. Worlds of strangeness living in her brain, only ever allowing him to peak inside and stay for a short while. “ I think you’ve got at least twice as much gypsy in you as I have from me mum. And it shows.”
SABINA LOVERIDGE
She tried to recall the exact sense of what her vision had entailed about the danger that was coming for them all. It was a fever dream more than anything, but she knew it was the truth by the way that the recollection settled itself within her mind. There was no doubt in the fragments of what she had prophesied. Little in the way of details either. But after what John had told her, Sabina knew that the men who had come that day were the embodiment of what she had seen.
“A bloody pin?” Her features contort at the idea, almost laughing from the imagery, but she stops herself for John’s benefit. The details he recounts gives her even less answers than she had had before, somehow. She stops short of frustration though, and forces herself to think of the possibilities of what those outside with powers could do. She thought of herself, and the stories of her ancestors. If elements could fold beneath capable hands, was there any end to what powers could be held by... creatures.
That was the trouble. They weren’t witches. And they sure as hell weren’t humans. They were some.... thing.
“What if she did it to herself?” She searches John’s eyes for understanding. “What if they made her do it to herself?” The thought sounds odd even on her own lips, but it sounded better than the thought of a pretty girl taking a pin to herself and nearly bleeding out.
His answer to her pressing question leaves a hollow smile on her lips. It was a John response, through and through, and she hated how much she loved the simplicity of it. She tsks at him, her hand moving from his jaw to sweep through a strand of hair, righting it in its place. “You’re right... you’re not nearly handsome enough to be one of us, eh?” The words are whispered in Romani, followed with a gentle, slow kiss to his lips. Again their eyes meet, and she brings herself to ask another question.
“Why do you think a pair of men like that have come all the way to old Birmingham for a girl who tells fortunes?”
Burning From Both Ends (1919) - John x Sabina
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JOHN SHELBY
Before long they are joined, if not in holy matrimony than in the most timeless declaration of devotion John knew, at least. Fallen fabric, flushed flesh, and the gleam of sweat against her light limbs, the column of her throat. Men took women, made girls belong to them, thrust themselves into their entrances and created homes. But Sabina took John, even the first time. While he had frantically searched for her with clumsy hands, a mess of freckled and sunburnt skin on a boyish frame, she had found him, and met his eyes with thickness clouding her own. Exposed to the elements, exposed to one another, she had calmed his over-excitability, grounded him in earth, and grass, and softness. And branded him a taken man, a man whose heart lived just outside of his body and over the rolling hills leading into gypsy territory. She had taken him, then and there. That simple.
That first time was the first and only time he’d been clumsy beneath her, but her hands wrapped around him still made his back teeth grind against one another, his throat go dry. Now, he had learned how to react to her, how to let her essence fuel not freeze him. Still she was something to behold, especially when wickedness took over and lit the wick in her chest that lighted her eyes. John takes her this time, moves her hips to connect and lets a curse fall from his lips. In that final moment before combustion, he rotates their position so she is pinned beneath him, pressed to her own mattress and certain of his weight. He finds her mouth and kisses her until they taste like each other, until their bodies are drained and their hearts full.
***
“I’ve no fuckin’ idea,” John admits afterwards, laying naked with her against his chest and his skin singing. “Never in my life have I met two sods like these Mikaelsons. Something really…I mean, just not right with them. Not in the usual way, like the wops and Jews, but something else.”
He had to tell her what they’d done, what they’d asked. It was something he needed to talk about, something someone needed to hear and help him through. It didn’t make sense, none of it. But Sabina would know what to say, how to
“They did something to this whore, Valentina Rossini. She was bleeding buckets, and they don’t even show any…you know, fuckin’ emotion or nothing. And then they ask about you…the Loveridge witch. That’s you, right? Has to be.”
He asks to clarify, hoping she has a living relative also called by that nickname as freely as she was. Someone else they were searching for, someone else who was going to face whatever it was they planned to do.
“They’re different, Sab.” John says. “They’re just different.”
SABINA LOVERIDGE
They could lay there for a thousand years for all Sabina was concerned. Never moving, never dawning clothing, never concerned with the world outside of the small barrier they currently occupied. This thought easily wrapped itself in her mind, as she danced her fingers across John’s abdomen- up and down, up and down. A little bit more down and she could perhaps silence the thoughts that were cutting through the stagnant air enveloping them.
But for once, John was acting with perfect reason. There was purpose to his visit-- aside from needs being met. Sabina forced herself to contain the sigh of irritation building in her chest. She propped herself up on her elbow, looking down to meet John’s gaze. It was easy to read the confusion in his words, but what bothered her was what was missing from his recollections-- fear.
“What did they do to the girl exactly?” Her eyes searched his.
“--is she--”
She can’t bring herself to finish the thought, so instead she allows herself a brief hope. “--did she say anything about what happened to her?”
John saying her name pricked at her in unexpected ways, more so than even him saying the word ‘witch’ did. If only he knew how much she was wished it wasn’t hers; how she wanted to toss it away in a ditch, and leave it behind.
Sabina brings her hand to cup the length of his jaw, her thumb running circles right at his chin. “John...” Her voice hangs low, lips pressing together momentarily. “...what do you think of me? Of the things I do?”
She had stopped herself from asking this very question a dozen times now for fear of the answer. But it was time for her to hear it, however it may cut at her. She had to determine how she would best protect John going forward, and to do that she had to know what he knew to be true.
Burning From Both Ends (1919) - John x Sabina
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JOHN SHELBY
“Hurt? Me? Hurt?” John teases. He places his large hands against the tops of Sabina’s, pressing them hard against his chest so they can feel how solid, whole, and perfect the flesh beneath them remains. He drags her hands slowly down his chest and stomach to the waistband of his trousers, tongue playfully running patterns against his bottom lip. “But if you’re looking for something to take care of, I’ve got something just for you…”
John was a simple man, had always been a simple man. It was the difference between him and Tommy, he might argue; John was someone looking to be happy with his life, nothing more and nothing less. And where this happiness was concerned, Sabina was at the very centre. His love for her burned so brightly, had burned so totally for nearly the entirety of his life, that he scarcely felt guilt over Martha, the wife he kept at home tending to their three daughters.
He did right by his family. He never knocked Martha around, never made his girls afraid of him or for him. He gave them all a proper house, proper food, good money –more than he ever had. And yet, right now he felt guilt over being here with her and not there with them. She should’ve been his wife, he lamented, she should’ve had him when he’d begged her to take him. And yet no matter the history between them, or the future before him, he was hers, and she, his.
To prove it to himself, he cups the perfect width of her jaw in his hand, training her hazel eyes on his blue ones. He needs her to see him, and to love him for what she sees. John lets go of her chin without losing her gaze, and moves both hands to the hem of her frock. He bunches up the fabric and yanks it over her head, delicacy gone from the air vibrating around them. It would return, however, when she needed it from him. But right now they needed this.
He hardens instantly at the sight of her, the warmth of her thighs around him matching perfectly with the image of her sun-kissed skin losing its colour in the chill of autumn. She was the only clean thing in Birmingham for John, even when she was dirty. Without hesitation, he slips his hand between where she rests on top of him and pushes two fingers inside.
SABINA LOVERIDGE
She resisted the urge to dig her nails into the pale skin of his chest, as his own hands commanded the movement of her fingers. Oh-- she wanted him, desperately, that was to be sure. But she wanted more than flesh and hands and fingers. She wanted what she had denied him-- she wanted what had broken her heart to deny. She wanted to belong to him irrevocably. And she knew that she could not. Not anymore.
So he’d have her body then, and she his.
There was a chill that coursed through her once her shift was removed; not for the absence of any thick material, but for the exposure of her frame to him. She forces her eyes to meet his, her lips opening to speak. The words are enveloped by a sharp intake of breath, the immediate reaction drawn from the pressure of his movement inside her. Her eyes close as she shifts her hips against him, spreading her thighs farther to sink deeper into her straddle against him.
“John...” She breathes out, eyes fluttering open. There was that self-satisfied smile that she loved to hate. No one wore ‘pleased with themselves’ quite as charmingly as her Johnny. The thought brings her back to their little game, but it also served as a reminder that he was just fine. All intact, no pieces missing, no new scars to rake over. He was perfectly fine. More than fine.
“He always needs to be taken care of, doesn’t he?” She murmurs with a smile, her hands moving to unbutton the clasp of his trousers, one slipping in to grasp his length. She strokes him slowly, a devilish look coming into her eyes. “I won’t be able to do much taking care of while--” Another breath escapes her. “--you’re busying yourself with your hands like that.”
Burning From Both Ends (1919) - John x Sabina
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JOHN SHELBY
And so, as was often the case, words failed him.
She sat upon the bed with her legs folded beneath her, so small and delicate at its centre. Laughter arches her brow as he approaches, the softness in her heart beckoning the softness in his own. With loose waves cascading over her slender shoulders and against the faded red fabric of her dress, she was the only home John ever sought anymore, the warmth of her skin bringing roses to her cheeks and heat between her thighs.
Sabina was his, and he would die to protect her.
Without need for thought, he crosses towards her. Dumping the sack onto the bed and ignoring the items that spill out, he takes her in his arms. John fixes her with a stare that pins her to the bed, one hand holding the small of her back and the other trailing down the length of her thigh and then up the skirt of her dress. The smell of her fills his nostril, and soon the taste is on his lips.
He moves a hand between her thighs, her kiss muffling his groan. John rotates his hand to cup the back of her thigh, squeezing tightly as he nips at her bottom lip and moves to her neck. He lowers her back against the bed, eager to lay with her and feel her wrap around him. As he moves his mouth back to hers, he catches sight of Katie’s doll upon the bed.
“I’m Father Fucking Christmas,” John decides, pushing the doll off of the bed with an exasperated grunt.
He only wanted to think of her, pacify himself with her scent, her voice. Pressing his mouth back to hers, he pushes away the thoughts of death and danger that had been dancing in his brain since the Mikaelsons had shown up and vanished before his eyes. John needn’t worry about such things; all was well. Sabina was here and she would never leave him.
SABINA LOVERIDGE
She did not allow herself to indulge in thinking of John often when he was away from her. It would do her no good, and would certainly move her one step closer to madness. It was almost a punishment, for everything that she had done and would do- for the pain she was certain she had caused him. John would never have understood, of course, and there were times Sabina herself questioned the rightness of denying him; especially when she had allowed him to do as he was now, making her body part and mend around his.
But now she would allow herself the full effects of the indulgence, and in this way, memorize her Johnny boy enough to recreate him in her darkest and weakest moments. Their mouths meet and it silences the thankful sigh that relieved her body from its tension. Skin alight with his touch she yearns for his hands to move quicker and yet linger, wanting desperately to have his grip on every inch of her.
Sabina pulled at his shirt tails, freeing the fabric from his trousers. She wanted the material off with haste, needing to feel his taught muscles beneath. It was his arms she loved to study most, barely wrapping her too thin fingers half around. They always reminded her of his strength, of what he was capable of, and yet, how little most had to fear from him. It was only his heart that had ever frightened her.
She tears her lips away, hands coming to grip his facial features, her thumb running across his bottom lip. Sabina wanted his eyes on her own, to gaze freely without distraction or rush. Just a passing blink of a moment.
To break her own interruption of their activities, she pushes against him with purpose. If he had any intention of keeping her pinned below him she knew her physicality could do little to stop it, and yet their forms trade places, a familiar acquiescence. And so her legs straddle him, now devoid of a shirt, her hands scouring his chest, noting each freckle, ensuring that she touched every single one.
“You’re not hurt, are you?” Voice breathy and shallow, she sinks lower into her positioning, allowing remnants of her locks to graze against his bared skin.
Burning From Both Ends (1919) - John x Sabina
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powerfulandlimited:
JOHN SHELBY
The moon hung low in the sky that night, a yellow orb of mischief that must have accompanied the evening’s festivities and helped put them into motion. John did not consider himself especially superstitious, but the full face of the moon staring at him as he rides across the countryside gives him chills along the curve of his spine, goosepimples decorating the nape of his neck.
John was a man of reality; flesh, blood, bone. He feared no God, not after France, and he believed in charms and potions about as much as he ought to, considering he had seen them in action more than once. But in the grand scheme of things, John Shelby did not put much weight on the words of gypsies and soothsayers– no matter who it was he liked to take to bed.
His brother was different, had always been different. Tommy Shelby, it seemed, had more of their mother’s blood running through their veins then he, Arthur, and Finn combined. He would liken Tommy’s superstitions to Aunt Polly’s, only Tommy wasn’t full of shit, tossing three or four bob at the nearest Charlatan with a crystal ball and a pendant. Tommy was careful because that’s how Tommy was; and being worried about whatever Sabina had said was just another way to be careful.
But the men who’d come tonight, the Mikaelsons, had made John a believer of sorts. Though they hadn’t quite gotten the story straight, a few things had been made painfully clear. For one thing, the little French flower was certain that whatever terrible thing had happened to Miss Rossini was Klaus’ fault, and that her Elijah had nothing to do with it. For another, Klaus had threatened the love of John’s life on his way out. And finally, when John, burning red hot with fury, had reached the door to confront the arrogant bastard, there had been no sign of the brothers Mikaelson.
It troubled John to think about what the Mikaelsons could want with Sabina almost as much as it troubled him to think about what they could do. He could not explain to himself how they’d disappeared so quickly, nor how they knew Sabina’s surname, nor how they had harmed Miss Rossini. In fact, John could not explain any of it at all. And the thought of her, with her wild, brown tresses tumbling over her bare shoulders, wide hazel eyes hot and infuriated…the thought of harm coming to her was enough to make him believe in whatever Tommy believed, whatever she had seen.
He’d collected the items she’d requested through Tommy; Ada’s hairbrush, One of Polly’s hairpins, Arthur’s old watch, Finn’s shoes with the right sole almost run through, and Tommy’s handkerchief– the last item being lifted almost without its host’s knowledge. He’d made a trip back to his house, afterwards, and procured Martha’s looking glass, Sarah’s favourite dress, Ivy’s favourite hat, and Katie’s favourite doll. John would have the house from hell on his hands when he went back, but that was a problem for another John, another day.
He ties up his horse, stroking the smooth mane absently.
John had to see her, feel her, be in the warmth of her gaze, else lose his mind completely. When the threat had been made against her, the harshness of the War seemed to flood back tenfold; there was a hopelessness in his heart, a frenzy of grief and panic that only she could cure. And yet he could not bear to say out loud that what he feared most was that maybe he could not protect her; maybe guns and blades would not be enough, and maybe he would die before he could save her.
But he pushes those thoughts as far back as he can, and enters calling her name.
He didn’t need to be a man who thought too hard, not now.
He didn’t want her to see him broken.
SABINA LOVERIDGE
There was a sense of ever-lasting dread in the air, but it was nothing new. The nights cloaked her in it. The turns of the moon warned her of it. The looks of those around her confirmed it. Dread was a companion of sorts now. It had curled itself deep inside of her years ago, and had festered and festered until she was sick from it. So sick, that when on the precipice of doom, she had almost become complacent.
From the moment Tommy had left her days earlier, Sabina had thought of the many possibilities of what could happen upon his return to Birmingham. What could happen to John... and yet each time she came to a certain conclusion of the dangerous events occurring in her name or for her name, she brushed off the idea. No. It wasn’t right. It wasn’t time.
She was going to do her spell, and the spell would indeed protect them. Until it didn’t. But it wasn’t time for that. Not yet. There was more cruelty to be endured first. The thought almost made her smile.
But with a warm suddenness, her mind calms itself, and she feels his presence before she hears his voice.
Sabina forces herself to remain seated on her bed, legs tucked beneath her. If she ran to him now she couldn’t be certain her composure wouldn’t break right before his very eyes.
Her eyes rake him over, and the smile she had forced down previously surfaces, this time for much better reasons. She wanted to hold his face in her hands, run her fingers through the tips of his hair, feel the weight of him on her. Instead, she grips at sheet surrounding her, angry at herself for all of it.
“And what do we have here?” She nods at the bag over his shoulder, eyebrow raised.
Burning From Both Ends (1919) - John x Sabina
#muse; sabina loveridge#para; burning from both ends#ship; guns and potions#RRH; September 1919#//kill me
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Phoebe Tonkin photoshoot unkown ♡
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DAMON SALVATORE
Relieved by Harry’s return, Damon’s mind settles, and almost all thoughts of murder slip back in to the recesses of his brain. Bloodshed and dead redheads could be penciled in some other time, but this evening was reserved for the perfect coup against the perfectly IQ-less. Damon only had to wait for Villiers’ gang of trust-fund blokes to walk through that door, and the games would begin.
“Oh, I know,” Damon smirks when Harry mentions sibling troubles. He wrap an arm around Harry, clutching his shoulder sympathetically. “Believe me, don’t get me started on my brother.”
Damon frowns when he catches the glare the Richards kid is giving him. He watches the boy shift his gaze away from them and speak quite curtly to his date. Whether it was his humanity finally showing up in the form of pity for the girl or his male bravado demanding he assert his dominance over that annoying brat, Damon decided to intervene.
“Hey, Richards,” Damon says, tapping his shoulder and forcing him to turn around. “I don’t..I don’t really like the way you said that to our girl.”
“Apologize.”
When Damon is satisfied, he looks back at Maddie appraisingly. He turns back to Harry’s step-brother.
“Good. Now, cheer up, take Maddie home, and watch Hugh Grant movies with her or something. Just stop being a brat.”
MILES RICHARDS
The moment Harry’s friend touches him, Miles immediately bristles. It was one thing to stand up next Harry while he was cavorting with his hooker or dealer or whatever this bloke was, but it was quite another to interact with him at this close proximity. There were muscles in Miles’ shoulder ready to throw a punch at that smug jawline, else shatter the nose that sat squarely between those beady eyes that were–
–And suddenly, Miles feels his shoulders go slack, the sharpness in his mind coated in a soft mist of complete and utter bliss. There was nothing of importance but for those eyes; crystalline pools of ice swirling in Miles’ mind.
He turns to Maddie instinctively, horrified as to how rudely he’d treated her, even in the midst of his own deep dissatisfaction.
“I must apologize for the tone I took with you just now. It wasn’t right. I’m sorry.”
A moment of confusion passes over him until his eyes are back on Harry’s friend. When the man finally shifts his gaze away, patting Miles twice on the shoulder, an idea seems to form in Miles’ mind.
“What do you suppose we get out of here, go back to your dormitory, and enjoy a night of classic British films?” Miles starts with an easy grin. “Such as, per se, Bridget Jones’ Diary?”
MADELINE BUCHANAN
Miles seemed-- well, Maddie didn’t actually know what he seemed like anymore, and given the series of events that had occurred, she wasn’t in the mood to guess. But she was getting the strong feeling that he wanted nothing else to do with her or their evening, after his little conversation with the stepbrother. Nonetheless, she took his snippy tone in stride, and instead delivered an annoyed glance at the chummy pair opposite them. ‘
She’s ready to follow Miles out, when her drinking partner intercedes. The sigh leaves her lips before she can muster it, her eyes attempting to meet his, in an attempt to stave off whatever he was going to say next. But he addresses Miles instead, and in a way that leaves Maddie more confused than she thought was possible. But more than confusion, it unsettles her, to the point where she takes a step back from both of the men.
She barely registers Miles’ apology-- who knew one could deliver something so seriously, with such a lack of sincerity.
“It’s fine, really.” She insists with an equal lack of muster, and marks her eyes on the exit behind him.
The interaction that follows leads Maddie to the conclusion that they must have all been in on some ridiculous joke, and she bristles at Miles’ suggestion. Except his over-enthusiastic thought didn’t seem like bad British humour. It almost seemed like a legitimate request, if completely off-beat with the situation. Again, she tenses with a sense of apprehension.
“Sure-- let’s just go, okay?” She purposefully avoids looking at the other man, as she walks past Miles, her arm slipping under his to pull him away.
“And no Bridget Jones’. If anything, Notting Hill.” She insists as they b-line towards the exit, and out of the pub.
A Laugh Riot
#muse; madeline buchanan#ship; barbie & ken#ship; eric & ariel NC17#ship; beauty and the brain#GFN; September 2018#// i cannnnnnnot believe they have to watch a movie thanks damon#para; a laugh riot
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