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milknhonies · 3 months

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Wails of Wedded Bliss

Chapter 6 || Masterlist || Chapter 8

Chapter Summary: Upon meeting the Baroness you are enamoured by her devotion.

Pairing: Sherlock Homes x wife!reader

Chapter Warnings: 18+ Dead Dove Do Not Eat, (No Smut), typical historical misogyny and sexism, mentions and discussion on miscarriages. Implied domestic abuse and infidelity.

Word Count: 9k

Author Notes: This is an important but rather sad chapter. I beseech you all to read the warnings. The details of this chapter are important to the plot of the missing Baron Thaddeus Pennicott.

Inspiring Song: "Flightless Bird American Mouth" by Vitamin String Quartet

8:30am Wednesday 7th May 1890, Grovelands House, The Bourne, London, England.

Sherlock tucked your arm into his side as you three entered the Groveland house foyer. The floor was made of fine marble tile and with ever step a light echo raced down the halls.

The inspector called upon a nearby dusting maid to fetch the head of the house. Who returned was a thin and tall man in a butler’s uniform with a sliver pocket watch hanging from his chest. His hair was the colour of autumn leaves and his face littered in freckles.

He bowed, “I am mister Edward Redmayne, head butler of the Groveland estate, how may I assist you?”

The inspector shook his hand and stated quickly, “We spoke on the telephone yesterday? A telegraph was sent.”

The butler smiled with a relieving gasp, “Detective Holmes?”

Lestrade sheepishly looked over his shoulder to you and your husband. He nodded. His expression wore a emotion of embarrassment mixed with annoyance. Perhaps he was jealous of your husband’s successful published case stories. You wished you could have told the constable not to fret as Sherlock was nothing short of a arrogant mule...yet again- the mark on his face...he probably already knew that.

8:42am Wednesday 7th May 1890, Grovelands House, The Bourne, London, England.

Upon meeting the lady of the house, you stood frigid by your husband. You felt somewhat self conscious by her grey eyes that lingered over your dress. Perhaps you should’ve worn your Sunday best before meeting a woman of such a high status.

The baroness was unmistakably pregnant. Her belly was bold and rounded beneath her maternity gown. She had been sitting calmly on a resting chaise, knitting a small bonnet for her future child. Her hands were covered in fine burgundy velvet gloves to match her modest dress.

Her face was framed by a light brown curls, that appeared almost white in some places, twisted into a bum at the base of her neck. Her pale face was blotchy with pink flecks and slight acne.

“Lady Pennicott, I am Inspector Braydon Lestrade of Scotland Yard,” the British officer proclaimed as he bowed dramatically forward. You withheld a girlish giggle by how low the man had bent his head and presented himself foolishly, and from the corner of your eye you manage to catch the whisp of Sherlock’s smirk.

The inspector waved his arm behind him and moved aside, “-and with me is Detective Sherlock Holmes and his wife, Mrs Holmes.”

You produced the baroness a respectable curtsy, your eyes glued down to the beautifully patterned carpet. You wondered how the servants could keep it so clean and freshly unstained by dirty guests. It must have been new.

The baroness shuffled her knitting needles and ball of woollen yarn into a Whicker basket and disposed of it beside her.

A slow stretching smile graced her thin lips as she spoke to you, “Oh, are you the little dear who solved that factory match girl incident?”

You weren’t sure how to answer her question. You weren’t entirely sure what the baroness was referencing until Sherlock stepped closer with your arm still cradled in his.

“No dear Baroness,” Sherlock pat your hand gently, “That would have been my sister Enola Holmes, she has her own detective office at present moment. My wife is here on my invitation. I wished to gift her a sight of the grand park and estate while I was here upon duty.”

The Baroness cocked her head, from her ears hung pearls that swung and hung like rain drops.

“Come forth dear,” she lifted her hand and beckoned you, “I would like to have better view of you.”

You wondered if she could smell the sweat beginning to drop down the back of your neck. You bit your tongue and tried to refrain from trembling. You were nervous. Her eyes were cold but her smile warm, two conflating details that you couldn’t understand. The last thing you needed now on top of a terrible start to your marriage was to be scrutinized by a haughty pregnant baroness.

She flickered your fingers for you to bend down to her. As you leant down, you swore you could smell copper, a metalic scent. A vein on your scalp pulsed. She scanned your face of its details. You dared to wonder what she was searching for. And then it clicked...the smell...

‘Dear god, you prayed, please don’t let her smell my blood, please let this not be my blood...’

You should have sprits on some perfume before leaving baker street.

She glanced behind you and questioned angelically, “How does it feel having such a clever husband?”

Your lips opened and closed. You resembled a fish. You were stumped to answer quickly.

‘Miserable, infuriating, torturous, pleasurable mixed with a cup of agony...’

She lifted her brows until you hurriedly blurted, “He is...formidable and righteous...” you stood up tall and took a step back, adding with a monetarism of truth, “I am very lucky to have become his bride.”

‘Lucky, while incredibly resentful.’

You reached back, Sherlock adopted your arm back into his hold once more.

Lady Pennicott rubbed her belly, her eyes started to twinkle, “And soon you will have a plethora of children that will look like him I gather.”

Your eyes fluttered. Sherlock’s hand tightened around your glove and his throat bobbed. You felt hot in the face.

Yes that’s right, that’s what normal husband and wife did isn’t it? They have children. That was your role, to be the mother of Sherlock’s offspring...

You couldn’t answer.

And there. That dear girl is when you questioned for the first time. ‘Is this what I want?’ and ‘Do I want Sherlock’s children.’ Because having a knowing of his barbarism conflated a fear in your belly...would Sherlock hurt his own children if he could easily hurt you, his wife?

When you hesitated for too long to answer her again, Sherlock said with a strained tone that was masked in a hopeful joy, “One may only hope, Baroness.”

“Lady Pennicott,” Graydon interrupted, “We have come to ask you on the whereabouts of Lord Pennicott and the evening he was last sighted.”

Her eyes narrowed at the inspector and with an annoyed twinge she muttered and wiped her hands on a nearby blanket, “I already informed the police of what I was informed of by our butler Edward.”

She glanced up next her right. Mister Redmayne observed her, looking down. The pair smiled to each other. She reached out to him. She grabbed his hand and they squeezed.

The inspector laughed nervously, “Indeed but Detective Sherlock Holmes was not presently involved in the case until yesterday.”

Her eyes flickered quickly to your husband and her face flared with confusion quickly to be matched with a impressed smile, “Of course, please sit all of you as I am near a indisposition with my child,” she gestured to the mirroring chaise and a chair beside the fireplace, “Edward, please tell Martha to bring tea and biscuits for our kind service men and Mrs Holmes.”

The butler bowed to you all and left the sitting room.

Lestrade took his place on the lone chair while Sherlock sat you beside him on the chaise. You took your time to lower yourself. Sitting on your bruises was uncomfortable while another cramp hit you. Your fingers dug into his palm.

From Lestrades breast pocket he pulled out a notebook and small pencil.

“Lady Pennicott,” Sherlock softly hummed, “Please, could you tell me what your husband is like as a person?”

The woman who you believed was in her late thirties smiled and stated softly, “My Thaddeus is a noble man, good taste in wine and very devoted to his work. He likes to go hunting and we share a passion for gardening,” she glanced up at the ceiling and paused, “He prefers to plant vegetables to donate to the church and orphans, whereas I have always loved to grow my flowers.”

The way she described him, her devotion was deep and honourable. She touched her round belly.

Sherlock looked over to the fire place behind the baroness. On the mantle was a magnificent portrait twice your height, painted on the canvas was who you recognised as Lord and Lady Pennicott. He was sitting up straight on a fine red cushioned chair with his dirty blonde hair and softened mutton chops while she stood at his right and her ringed hand on his shoulder. The similarities were there but Lady Pennicotts hair had lightened in reality perhaps from all the years that separated her likeness and her reality.

“I was informed Lord Pennicott is a father of five?” Sherlock asked.

The Baroness smiled proudly and pat her tummy softly, “Six soon.”

You couldn’t help notice something was missing from the painting, Sherlock also had a similar thought.

Where were the children in the portrait? Where was a family portrait in the house?

“Forgive me,” a breath of air escaped from him, “are the children away at school?”

“Oh,” her uncanny smile remained while her brows angled down, her throat tightened as she spoke, “I fear they are in the loving embrace of angels now. All of them were taken from us by God,” her eyes glanced to you, “They came out sleeping.”

Your heart sunk to the pit of your belly with sorrow and pity.

Five babies lost, five babies gone…five pregnancies… four and a half years of pregnancy and for what? Five angels.

A woman had one holy role in life, to bare her husband children, and when a woman was defective or produced a sickly child, it was a symbol of failure in society. But you never saw it that way...you imagined it must’ve been agony to lose so many babies. One or two was a common occurrence but five? Five was a curse to experience and relive over and over.

“Well,” you interrupted Sherlock rudely, cutting him off from his next abrasive question by squeezing his hand a little too hard.

You could see the mourning in the baroness’ face. You saw the classic look of all women made uncomfortable by something a man has said. What the hell would the detective know about a woman’s emotions after how coldly he has treated all women and yourself.

You shuffled on the opposite chaise and smile softly, “I will pray this one will come swiftly and feel the warmth of their mother.”

The baroness’ face lifted and warmed. She smiled happily and nodded, “Thankyou, oh I’m just so excited! This one really is a big one, I can feel it. I hope it’s a boy.”

Sherlock was staring at you intensely as the maid Martha finally delivered a pot of tea and poured the steaming liquid. His brows were knitted and his eyes held suspicion as he kept you in his sight. You politely nodded your head once at him before reaching for a hot cup and lifting it to your lips.

Sherlock sighed and turned back to his questioning, “You would say you liked your marriage?”

The baroness appeared offended by your husband as her face wrinkled and a sneer spread her thin lips, “Of course, any woman who doesn’t like her marriage should not be married in the first place. She is a burden to her husband if she cannot perform her duties as a wife.”

Lady Pennicott leant forward and collected her own cup of tea, she delicately pinched a biscuit and dunked it into the contents.

…you felt Sherlock drag his thumb across your fingers. You felt chilly, could he read your thoughts? Did he know truly how much you already hated him and his ideas of intimacy in your marriage? He clear his throat when both your glancing eyes caught each other.

“Can you tell me what happened,” Sherlock pressed, “The night of your husbands disappearance?”

“Well...after dinner,” the baroness sighed in thought and nibbled on her moist biscuit, “Thaddeus wanted to speak with me in his office about a spending I had made a week ago. You see, I had bought a cradle for the nursery. The one we had originally was broken and beyond repair, we disposed of it a month prior. Thaddeus was not pleased with the price and claimed it was an unnecessary purchase,” she paused and set her cup aside before she touched her belly again; rubbing in soft slow circles, she began to blushed, “He was sorely hurt by my choice. He then became very cross with me and left his office in a huff.”

She looked to the yarn, to the tea pot and then finally to the painting on the mantle, “I deemed that he would find forgiveness in his heart by the morning and brush it off. I returned back to the nursery to tidy up before I went to my rooms and went to bed to sleep in my quarters of the east wing. Thaddeus keeps himself to the west wing most nights.”

The detective nodded, “What time do you believe it was when you went to your bed, Baroness?”

She hummed softly while pursuing her lips, “A quarter to nine in the evening.”

“And how did you realise your husband was missing?” Sherlock stole a scone off the tea tray and lifted it to his lips. He paused amidst chewing it slowly.

The noble woman sighed and recollected, pragmatically, “In the morning Mr Redmayne informed me on how Thaddeus took off into the night astride Arion, our prize stallion Clydesdale. Thaddeus had not returned by the next morning and that is when concern drew near. I sent members of my staff to the factories to investigate his whereabouts and none had come upon him. I knew something had to be wrong so I alerted the authorities by the second morning.”

Your husband took a deep breath and discarded the half bitten scone, he wiped his hand unceremoniously on his jacket and throatily asked, “Do you recall if Lord Pennicott has any potential persons he might be deemed as an enemy towards?”

“Only his company competitors, Detective,” She said saccharinely with her smile, “He was a very loveable man.”

“Do you have a list of the names of staff who were working that evening here in Groveland House?”

The butler stepped forward and cleared his throat, “That would be in Lord Pennicotts office,” he pulled out a pair of keys, “I can you show you gentlemen in and where he keeps his accounts and other paraphernalia to his business if you’d like?”

Both Sherlock and Lestrade smiled and stood up.

“Baroness,” Sherlock gently requested, “Would it be overly bothersome if my beloved wife remained and kept you company while the inspector and I look in your husband’s office.”

Your heart jumped to your throat. What was Sherlock doing leaving you behind with the Baroness by yourself!?....what if you spoke out of turn or said something too presumptuous for your status!?...

“Most certainly not,” she beamed “I will gladly accept such delightful company,” She held out a hand, palm down to her right. The butler speedily stepped to her side and leant her his hand. She winced as she scooted forward on the cushioned lounge before struggling to rise to her feet.

Sherlock leant down and kissed the back of your wrist again, so scantily in front of the baroness. You tried tor refrain from loudly gasped and bringing anymore dangerous attention to yourself. Your husband left your side and followed the butler with Lestrade out of the sitting room.

So the party turned to two married women. The baroness was pleased.

She stepped closer to you and reached for your arm. You were surprised by her familiarity but you would not deny the assistance of a woman so desperately swollen and ready to birth any day.

“My dear, would you care to have a stroll with me in my garden?” She smirked and jerked her chin, “Knowing how dear Thaddie kept his space organised I suspect the gentlemen might be a while.”

You nodded and quickly made the warning assurance, “Are you in a condition to move great feets Lady Pennicott?”

“Fret not,” She giggled girlishly and waved her hand casually, “The physician told me fresh air is delightful for the health of the babe,” she tapped the top of her belly, “I have a month or so before they come.”

Your eyes widened, she looked huge enough to give birth now, surely she wasn’t a month away!! Maybe she was going to be blessed with a pair of twins. You had such a limited knowledge of pregnancy in women. Your grandmother hadn’t given birthed a child in the last forty years before your birth!!!

She pointed the way out of the main mansion to enter the garden paths. The sun was perfect today amongst the clouds. It was neither cold nor hot nor humid and dank...it was pleasant and you could smell the fresh nature of bushels and flowers.

“How long have you been known as, The Mrs Holmes?” She inquired cheerfully with her shining silver eyes.

“...Not very long,” you replied warmly before risking a white lie, “We recently finished our honeymoon.”

She grinned and waddled passed a wooden bench, she took a quick stop to rest and pat the seat for you to join her instead of standing dumbly.

“Shall I share some words of advise?,” She hummed, “From a woman that has been married for twelve years?”

“I would be ever so grateful,” you said rushed and desperate. You wouldve listened to anything she had to say. A woman of her standing must’ve held adequate wisdom.

She warmly cupped both your hands and squeezed them. And yet there was an ice creepy into her gaze. She appeared to dissociate, her voice losing its youthful lilt. Her lip wobbled slightly.

“Men are visual creatures. While you are so young and beautiful, you must become pregnant as soon as possible,” Lady Pennicott ran her palm across your waist, her eyes like razors cut across the yard to a bush of red rose buds, “It is inevitable that our husbands will stray their gazes to other women, it is in their nature,” those grey stones in her face rolled back and weighed you down, “as I said- visual creatures. The sooner you make a babe, the easier his devotion comes,” A joyous grin returned to her thin lips, she playfully tapped the tip of your nose and stated, “Trust me upon this.”

You clenched your hand behind you and strained a smile, “I thankyou for such wise words Baroness. I will endeavour to do what I must to conceive.”

At this moment in time Sherlock had proved himself a monstrous villain. Would it be possible for you to fall pregnant?

You looked out at the divine lush greenery and exhaled softly.

“Do you garden Mrs Holmes?” the baroness queried.

You chuckled softly and removed your gloves, you flashed her a sight of your palm, “I am afraid my hands have never been introduced. My grandmother preferred I focus on mastering piano and embroidery.”

The grey orbs fluttered back at you with a surprised him, “Embroidery is a lovely skill,” she pat your hand and pointed across the field, “Please help me up Mrs Holmes, let us take a look at my lilacs.”

You stood straight up and leant out your arm, she was surprisingly light for a woman her size. She leant against you and took small timid steps to her flower patches.

She stood and admired the flower patches, pointing to different types and explaining the breeds of flowers she hoped to grow in the future.

You finally bent over enough and cupped the petals of purple to hold up to your nose and took in a wiff “They smell lovely,” from the corner of your eye was a line of crimson, “I see your roses will soon be in bloom.”

She pinched a bud that was peaking to bloom soon.

“Oh yes, the soil is rich and healthy,” she giggled, “I can’t wait for Thaddeus to return, he liked the roses. He would stand here for a while and think. I know he will love the red colour. It is his favourite shade you see...” She sighed dreamily with her eyes scanning the bushes of scarlet rose buds, “I miss him terribly. I hope he’s alright. I want him to come home soon before the baby arrives.”

A fly smacked into your eye and you sputtered, battering it away. When you gracelessly composed yourself, you stood back up to your feet beside the Lady of Groveland.

You could see how her eyes puddles with droplets of mournful tears. You felt bad for any woman that did not know where her husband was. Especially if there was a rumour about him fleeing the marriage and abandoning her in her serious pregnant condition.

Taking the chance, you boldly took both your hands into yours and now squeezed them. Another buzzing from a fly sat on your shoulder.

The day was growing warmer and a bead of sweat rolled down your neck. The fly tickled your neck and suckled along your salted skin.

You tried your best to ignore the annoying creature.

“I am sure he will Lady Pennicott,” you soothed with a soft welcoming grin, “And he will be most happy when he returns.”

She sighed solemnly and glanced back at the rose bushes. You felt obligated for her happiness in that moment. Glancing back to the house you felt a opportunity come to you.

“May I visit your nursery Lady Pennicott, so I may have references for my own in the future?”

Her eyes flickered up, her face shine bright and her hand tightened over your wrists excitedly as though she was still as youthful as a school girl.

“Why of course Mrs Holmes,” she spun on her heel and wobbled a slight, she lifted her hand and called to the maid Martha still packing the china set inside, “Please inform the detective that I am taking his wife up to the nursery.”

“Yes Baroness,” she said with a humble curtsey and scurried off while Lady Pennicott took you totally inside the house and up a grand stair case from the foyer.

9:03am Wednesday 7th May 1890, Grovelands House, The Bourne, London, England.

Up, up, up you both climbed the stairs. You noticed how the stairs didn’t bother her ladyship once, she was fit and stridden widely whereas you were breathing a little hard by the top step.

She pulled you down a hallway to a white painted door.

She excitedly opened the door wide and practically skipped inside to show you around her future child’s room.

The walls were covered in light blue and yellow paint. There were small peonies covering the trim of the room. There was no carpet but who needed one when you had a newborn.

“Welcome to the resting nest of my baby,” Lady Pennicott proudly exclaimed, spreading her arms out at the room around you.

There was a tall shelf filled with stuffed animals and teddy bears. There was a rocking horse, a doll house, spinning tops, tin cars and rubber balls all waiting, collecting dust, awaiting the arrival of a playmate. There was a permabulator by the window sill. There was a rocking chair in one corner and against the wall closest to the door- you smiled and swaggered over curiously, “Is this the cradle you bought?”

It was made of fine cream painted wood. You chewed your bottom lip in the thought. It was a lovely crib, why was Lord Pennicott so upset by such a delightful purchase? He didn’t have money issues. You put it down as that you didn’t understand the way men thought and men will never know what women think.

“Yes,” Lady Pennicott chirped, “it is from William Whitely department store in Baywater next to the Howard & Co dress department.”

The Baroness sat down into her rocking chair and slowly moved it back and forth, watching you admire the nursery she spent hours and years consistently curating.

You clenched the edge and looked over the railing down at the empty bedding. There was a teddy lamb in the corner, you pinched it’s fluffy white tail and sighed. For a brief moment you let your eyes close and your imagination wander far.

One day you’d have this...with Sherlock. An empty cradle to be filled. You caught the vision of a tiny hand squeeze around your finger and the sound of soft gurgles with the warm pressure of a hand on your waist...was that Sherlock’s hand? Was that your child?

One day you’d have a baby to care for, to provide these things that meant love...yet, was any child of Sherlock’s capable of love? He certainly wasn’t as far as you were concerned.

You bit down a shudder and opened your eyes, feeling hot tears glide down a cheek. You pushed back and sighed, “I am most confident on one thing Lady Pennicott.”

“And what is that Mrs Holmes?” she said softly, she could see the unspoken pain in your face. You swallowed hard and your face fell into a smile, you flashed her a wink.

You laughed softly, “Your child will be spoilt rotten by the love you give.”

She chuckled with you and nodded.

“Have you thought of a name?” you inquired, waltzing over to the chested drawers of baby knick knacks on display.

“Thaddeus Colin if it’s a boy,” she hummed, “or Theresa Grace if it is a girl.”

“Theresa?”

She giggled gently, “That is my name dear.”

Mrs Theresa Pennicott. It suited her. Her old soul eyes reflected her devout name.

A shine of glass pierced a ray of sun into your eyes, you pinched the glass object carefully. You touched a long black tube pulling out of it. You couldnt understand it’s purpose, your eyes narrowed at the rubber end that was shaped like a thumb or a cows udder. There was a second tube attached to the first with a rubber squeeze ball at the end.

“What is this?” you humoured.

“Oh that? It’s a fantastic invention,” The baroness said, “It’s a pump for breast milk with a tube that syphons the milk into this baby feeding bottle. When babies start to teeth they can scar your breasts. This is an effective and modern method I look forward to trying.”

Your eyes widened, scarring!? Babies teeth could scar a breast!?

You placed the bottle bump back and helped Lady Pennicott when she beckoned to stand back up from the rocking chair.

“Have you ever felt the sensations?” She suddenly, “In which they kick within?”

Your face must’ve looked idiotic as you asked plainly, “Kick?”

She giggled and nodded, “Give me your hand, perhaps you may feel them moving.”

She plucked your palm and pulled your glove off your fingers. She pressed your entire hand intimately to her belly. You felt a sense of taboo shame, she was making you touch such a beloved spot.

“Do you feel it?” she then asked.

Felt what? Confusion flooded your mind. Your hand moved around her belly slowly.

“I am afraid I don’t know what I’m meant to be feeling?”

She moved your hand and again you felt absolutely nothing.

“They are very brutal on my body,” Lady Pennicott sarcastically assured, “trust me there is a kick.”

She made a point to push your hand harder, but all you felt was the hard material of her corsetry beneath her main dressing materials.

“Baby’s kick you inside?” you marvelled with stunned horror. This was the first time you’d ever heard of such a notion of a baby beating it’s mother inside.

“Not out of malicious intent Mrs Holmes,” she reassured, “mostly it is the baby using its limbs to move their cramped bodies inside or excitement at the sound of voices, I truly believe they can hear us while still inside. Fear not, to you it will feel like a faint touch like this-”

Lady Pennicott softly tapped your wrist, “Like that.”

And there again was new knowledge you heard from a woman on matters of pregnancy. You moved your fingers around, seeking the supposed feeling of a kick...

Still nothing. You frowned, was there something wrong with you that the baby was choosing not to reveal itself.

“How interesting...”

A soft knock on wood alerted you both to glance at the door.

“Mrs Holmes,” the butler from earlier politely spoke, “the detective is requesting your return, I believe he intends to depart.”

Your face fell. You couldn’t believe it but you’d found this experience immensely enjoyable. You had surprisingly made a friend of the Baroness.

The fair lady hugged your side and sweetly exhaled, “Then I shall escort you back to your husband, Eddie fetch me my cheque book.”

He nodded and walked ahead of you both. You solemnly shut the nursery door, trying to remember every precious detail as possible. It was a innocent place to escape from the crude world.

You returned to the bottom of the foyer and smiled at your husband that stood by Lestrade at the front doors.

By the bottom step you faced the noble woman and curtsied.

“Thankyou Lady Pennicott for your kind hospitality and agreeable cooperation to the case,” you heard Sherlock’s voice float over your shoulder.

“Of course detective, please,” the Butler returned with her cheque book, “find my beloved Thaddeus.”

She scribbled speedily with a modernised ink pen, a sharp tear of paper flashed to his direction, “Here. Thirty pounds. I am sure you are busy with other clients considering your reputation, but I beseech you to seek out my husband quickly.”

Sherlock bowed his head as he deposited the cheque into his pocket, “We shall try our hardest. Good afternoon Lady Pennicott.”

Your mouth might’ve collected flies. Thirty pounds. THIRTY pounds. That was a hefty wage for a year to many men.

Sherlock was granted his coat and walking cane along with Lestrade.

He opened the front door and left slowly, glancing over your shoulder back at the heavily pregnant Baroness.

9:21am Wednesday 7th May 1890, Grovelands House, The Bourne, London, England.

Sherlock and you walked up the gravel path in silence for sometime. You weren’t in much of a mood to speak to him despite well knowing conversation would need to spark eventually.

The three of you slowed down beside the inspectors horse cart.

Thankfully it was Sherlock who destroyed the silence with a stretched sigh. Lestrade grimly smiled at that sigh and rocked on his heels.

“Lestrade, show a useful skill,” Sherlock slapped a coin purse into his chest, “Find my wife and I a decent ride homeward. You still need to return back to the office and finish writing those reports on the Spring heeled Jack sightings....” he snickered.

The mutton chop male grumbled and left you pair alone to walk down the path into the main parklands to hail a cabriolet or another hackney carriage.

Sherlock pulled out his pipe and lit it quickly, he inhaled fast and asked curiously, “Did you learn anything else from our suspect?”

You squinted and felt a gasp pop from your lips, your hand snapped out and dug your nails into his arm with a scolding hiss, “Suspect? Look at the state she is in Sherlock. She clearly loves her husband. How could such a indisposed woman do anything to her husband?”

He smirked, “Perhaps a jealous one?”

Your brows pulled together. Jealousy wasn’t something you would’ve describe Lady Pennicott as especially with such a privileged life. Such an emotion wouldve been beneath her...but.. ‘It is inevitable that our husbands will stray their gazes to other women, it is in their nature.’

Sherlock pinched out a piece of card from his pocket, a business calling card, he flashed it through his fingers and let you carefully pluck it from his hand.

“it is no wonder Thaddeus Pennicotts name was so familiar,” Sherlocks huffed a puff of air, “He visits a like minded establishment.”

On the front of the card was a single image, a dove holding a olive leaf, and when you turned the card around there was a woman modelled in immodest clothing with text and an address in perfect hand writing.

“The Mayfair Row Dove club.”

You almost dropped the card in the mud at your feet.

He tucked the card back into his breast pocket and hooked his arm around yours, walking you closer to Lestrade waving his hands back at you both.

“I’m curious who his go to bird is there,” He chuckled.

You shook your head and scoffed in disbelief, “but she’s pregnant.”

“Men have needs,” Sherlock sighed, “I thought you’d have learnt that from last evening?”

Your nails dug harder into his arm and grit your teeth. Not everyone was as depraved as Sherlock, surely not. You couldn’t imagine Mycroft or your grandfather practicing such atrocities on women, especially women that weren’t their wives.

You noted snootily, “She said her husband liked to stand out by the roses to think. Perhaps he regretted his choice.”

Sherlock laughed cruelly and hard enough to almost drop his pipe from his lips. He plucked it out of his mouth and kissed you hard and squarely in front of Lestrade and any passing people that shook their heads in disgust at such public affection.

The taste of his tobacco filled your cheeks and floated down your throat into your chest. You could feel how his breath became your breath. Your head grew dizzy from it. His release left you trembling and collapsing against him briefly. His arm grabbed around your waist and held you totally against his chest.

“You see too much good in the worst people,” he whispered wetly into your ear.

“Not true,” you panted, you blinked your eyes hard and tried speaking again. You weakly pushed away from him back onto your own two feet. From the corner of your eyes you could see the inspector standing beside another hackney carriage.

“Not true,” you repeated and swallowed hard, “...I don’t see any good in you Sherlock.”

He grinned devilishly and walked you both to the carriage, He ignored Lestrade entirely except for retrieving his own purse.

“None at all?” Sherlock asked as he helped you step up inside of the carriage. It jostled as he plotted himself next to you instead of opposite.

You thought hard on his question for a time. You shouldn’t have ever been as petty as him. So you kept your silence before you could decide on a eloquent response. You did try to find the good in him. The trouble was you barely knew Sherlock and the side that you’d encounter was nothing short of a blagged, insufferable man that happened to be very experienced in the arts of the bedroom. So you tried to think about qualities you hadn’t seen in him but had at least heard of him.

“You help solve cases and even sometimes restitution, these deeds could be counted as decent and beneficial...perhaps good...”

He smirked until you finished hastily, “However your mistreatment and lustful addiction is nothing short of that than a person that suffers in his sin.”

A long annoyed sigh drew from his lips, however the corners jerked up.

He tug out his pipe and tapped it’s contents out the moving window, “Might I ask Mrs Holmes...” he inquired as he tucked in his pipe, and wiped his lips thoughtfully, “Do you think yourself better than me?”

The silence shared between the horses trotting along the cobblestones allowed you a chance to glare long and hard at Sherlock.

It was a jab, a jibe, a joke, a trick, a trap...

He wanted you to say yes... You could see it in his eyes the way they flicked to your lips and almost drooled with anticipation. He wanted to start a fight.

You didn’t give him the satisfaction of looking at you, you turned your head away and scoffed, “You may have quick wit and a expansive knowledge Sherlock, but I at least carry myself with the fairest morals.”

And that? The reply was granted a omen of Sherlock’s sickly chuckles and his heavy warm hand to sit over your thigh, running his them over the fabric of your skirts.

“We will see how fair a baker street whore morals really are when we arrive home then shall we?”

You leant against the wall of the carriage and chose to ignore him. You closed your eyes and held Sherlock’s hand to prevent it wandering anywhere else. His thumb rubbed along the back of your gloves hands.

You couldn’t understand Sherlock. And feared you never would.

HELPLINES:

If you are a victim of sexual abuse, assault or domestic violence or know someone who is please reach out to these links that share helpline services, phone numbers or emails. Consent and respect is important in every relationship whether between friends, family or even strangers.

Australian Helpline Services

UK Helpline Services

American Helpline Services

India Helpline Services.

#dead dove do not eat #dead dove fic #henry cavill x female reader #henry cavill x reader #henry cavill x y/n #henry cavill x you #henry cavill x ofc #sherlock holmes x female reader #sherlock holmes x poc!reader #sherlock holmes x y/n #sherlock holmes x you #sherlock holmes x ofc #sherlock holmes x reader #dark!sherlock holmes #dark!henry cavill

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sparklepocalypse · 3 months

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Hello hello! My thanks to @wordsofhoneydew, @getmehighonmagic, @hgejfmw-hgejhsf, @kiwiana-writes for the tags, and to @priincebutt and @piratefalls for the open tags! My tag is always open as well, but I haven't seen anything on my dash from @whimsymanaged, @duchessdepolignaca03, @firenati0n, or @thinkof-england yet, so tagging the four of you specifically! 😘

Shoutout to priincebutt and @cha-melodius for the very essential "horsepicking" services they provided for this snippet, because ya girl Mags is a little scared of horses, but ya girl's muse insisted that horses should be in Facing Tempests (AKA KHIX (AKA The Big Giant AU)). Giving you more paragraphs than usual because there wasn't a great cutoff point anywhere in the middle of this chunk of fic...

It’s probable that Henry will be rendered utterly insensate by the end of their ride. Alex had taken to Mr. Filibuster as well as Henry had hoped, and now sits astride the dun gelding as comfortably as if he’s been riding him for years. The breeches he’d loaned Alex are… well, the only reason Henry can’t claim that they leave nothing to the imagination is that he doesn’t need to imagine, thanks to Alex’s half-asleep locker room behavior the previous day. Currently, Mr. Filibuster and Henry’s own mount, a bay mare called Billie’s Royal Aurora, are meandering at a leisurely walk. But the moment they begin to trot and Alex starts flexing his frankly ridiculous thighs to post, or, god forbid, the way his hips will move at a canter – Henry might spontaneously combust. It’s his own fault, really. Henry could’ve asked one of the household staff to look for a pair of breeches that were better suited to Alex’s measurements. At the time, he’d stupidly allowed his cock to make decisions on his brain’s behalf, and his cock had insisted that Alex wear Henry’s spare riding breeches for… reasons. Thus far, Henry’s strategy to avoid blatantly staring has been to casually attempt to keep Billie a half-length or so ahead of Mr. Filibuster. However, this has led to a secondary dilemma. Trying to prevent his own breeches from causing permanent damage to the organ that had gotten him into this situation in the first place seems to be inspiring both horses to lean into the strong competitive instinct prized in Royal Stud stock. Both Mr. Filibuster and Billie’s Royal Aurora are decorated veterans of the stakes, and after about ten minutes of Billie pulling ahead and Mr. Filibuster strategically catching up, the horses are raring to be given the reins. “It seems like they want to run,” Alex says, and his gelding whickers as if in agreement. “Of course they do,” Henry replies. “Can hardly expect a racehorse to want to plod along like a Clydesdale.” Alex gives him a sly, sidelong grin that has Henry’s heart kicking in his chest and his cock kicking in his breeches. “Wanna let them?”

#red white and royal blue #rwrb #rwrb fic #alex claremont diaz #henry hanover stuart fox #alex x henry #my fic #firstprince #rwrb movie #wip: khix #wip wednesday

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monaskydancer · 3 months

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Into The West - Chapter 4

Fandom: Red Dead Redemption 2 Pairing: Arthur x fOC Genre: romance, adventure, drama

@photo1030 @cassietrn

_____________________________________________________________

"There you are, boy," Nancy gently patted Skydancer's neck, enjoying the soft fur beneath her fingertips, his jet-black coat shimmering in the morning sun. She reached into her satchel and offered him a carrot. "Don't tell Mr. Pearson, but I snatched that from the cooking wagon."

The stallion munched on the carrot, pawing at the grass. He huffed and pressed his nose against her hand. "I know, you're bored. Tell you what," she leaned in closer and whispered, "So am I."

She cast a glance around toward her own tent. It had been three weeks since she first came into this camp, and by now, she had a feeling for the daily routine among the gang. Her friendship with Tilly had grown a lot; they spent a considerable amount of time together. Whether taking a walk along the shore, having a drink by the fire in the evening, or just playing dominoes. Nancy hadn't played this game before and was eager to learn. She got better day by day.

She looked back at her horse. "Wait here, boy."

She walked over to her tent and prepared the saddle leaning against her cot. Rolling up the sleeves of her blouse, she then lifted the saddle and staggered back to her horse to begin saddling him up.

Some of the men, including Arthur, John, Charles, and Sean, had headed out earlier this morning. Nancy wasn't sure what they were up to, but considering the number of weapons they had taken with them, she suspected they were up to no good. She knew these men were outlaws, and they would kill if necessary—just like she would, just like she did. Arthur had told her he had killed men before, all of them far from innocent. She shrugged out of her thoughts as she heard Tilly calling.

"You aren't leaving, are you?"

"No, I just feel much better, and Dancer needs to burn off some energy. Besides, if I stay in camp the entire time, I might go nuts," she said, mounting her horse. She looked down at Tilly. "Care to join me?"

"I would like to, but I promised Miss Grimshaw to help in camp today. But next time for sure. Just, be careful out there, okay?"

Nancy nodded. Before she could turn Dancer around Tilly spoke up again. "Wait, one more thing. Can't let you go like that." She hurried away and returned with a sawed-off shotgun, a belt holster and some ammo. "Just in case."

"Oh, Tilly." She took it and put the holster around her waist, then took the weapon and ammo. "I doubt I'll need it, but thanks anyway." She pushed the gun into the holster and winked at her. "See you later." She spurred Dancer lightly. The stallion whickered and trotted away from camp and along the forest path until they reached the main road. The sun was shining brightly yet a soft breeze played with her hair. Nancy inhaled deeply, then exhaled with a content sigh.

"Alright, show me what you got. Ha!" She spurred Dancer into a sprint, the horse grunting, the drumbeat of his hooves vibrating in her chest as they raced across the grassy plains. She slowed down a bit as they neared a crossroad, then stopped completely as a stagecoach drove by, heading towards Valentine for sure, as she read the sign on the fingerpost. She looked after the coach, then glanced to the east. She longed to return home, even just for the sake of getting some of her belongings. Yet, she wasn't sure going alone would be such a good idea.

Besides, she told Tilly she'd be back later. Riding to the farm would take many hours. Returning was too risky anyway. Who knew who might still be looking for her in the area? Those three guys she escaped from surely had returned to whoever hired them, and that person knew she was still out there.

She looked back toward the road that would lead to Valentine. Should she go there? She had some money in her pocket. She could buy some goods for the camp. Dutch had told her there would be no need for her to provide anything just yet; that she had gone through a lot lately. Yet, she felt bad for not giving any money or providing any food or other goods. She wanted to show the gang that she appreciated the help and shelter. She turned her horse and spurred him again, heading towards Valentine.

The main road of Valentine was still a bit muddy from the rain the previous night. Faint billows of smoke rose from the ground as the sun warmed it. Dancer trotted slowly along the road. It was already quite busy in town. Nancy stopped in front of the general goods store and tied the horse to the pole in front of it.

No one seemed to pay much attention to her. Sure, why would they? The last time she was in Valentine was when she had been 16. Soon after, her mother had succumbed to an inflammation of the lungs. That was seven years ago now.

A little bell jingled as she opened the door to the store. The owner looked up from the newspaper and straightened.

"Mornin', Miss. How can I help ya?"

She cast a look around the shelves. "Thanks, but I'll just get my bearings."

The store owner nodded with a grunt and stuck his nose back into the papers. Meanwhile, Nancy pulled out a canvas pouch from her satchel and started filling it with some canned fruits and vegetables: corn, peaches, cherries, and beans. Then she took some ground coffee and whiskey. She wasn't keen on both drinks, but she knew coffee was valuable in the camp; most of the others liked it. Plus, the whiskey she found happened to be Arthur's favorite. She was sure giving him a bottle of his favorite drink would put a smile on his face. He should smile more often, she thought. She added crackers, canned salmon, meat, and a couple of bags of sweets into the pouch, then headed to the counter.

The owner wrote down the prices for the items. While he did so, she cast a glance at the newspaper. She furrowed her brow lightly as she saw one of the headlines. A shiver took hold of her as the headline jumped at her like a rabid dog in a dark alley.

"The Grapevine Murder: Assassination or Family Tragedy?"

Her heart skipped a beat. What was that supposed to mean? She longed to read the article but was interrupted as the store owner pushed the bill toward her. Her fingers felt clammy all of a sudden as she fumbled with the money. Handing the bills to the man, she then packed the goods back into the pouch. Without saying goodbye, she hurried out of the store, took Dancer by the reins, and led him down the road toward the newspaper boy. She had to know what the authorities were thinking about what happened at her home. Why would the paper call it a possible family tragedy?

She paid the paperboy and took one of the papers, then sat down on a crate nearby. She flipped through until she found the article. Her eyes drifted slowly over the written words, reading it with a cold claw squeezing her heart with each word. That couldn't be right. Why would they think...?

Nancy looked up and tossed the paper aside with a frustrated groan. "Come, boy." She led Dancer back to the road, running some more errands—buying fresh meat at the butcher, gathering some medicine—until she finally reached the post office. Normally, her father had gone to Valentine once a week to collect possible letters and other mail. Given the recent events, she could not just walk up to the post office and ask for her father's mail. That would only mean trouble.

'What happened at the Grapevine farm? Why did Russel Cohen have to die? There is just one person who could give answers to these questions. Nancy Cohen, the daughter of the late businessman, has gone missing. Did something happen to her as well? Or isn't she as innocent as one might think? You see, many questions still need answers. If you want to help solve the horrible crime, report any sightings of the Cohen girl to the authorities.'

The words of the news article still haunted her mind. How could anyone think she could have had anything to do with her father's death? Would whoever did it really go as far as blaming her for murdering her own father? That was when she spotted it, hanging at a pole near the post office: a poster with the iconic "WANTED" printed on it. She quickly stepped toward it, staring at a picture of herself—a quite recent one. She cast a glance up and down the road, then ripped the poster off and stuffed it into her satchel. She knew whoever was behind her father's death was trying to pin it on her. Those men who had ransacked the house must've taken a picture from her room. This was the plan all along: getting rid of her father for whatever reason, then making it look like she was the culprit. And with the second corpse, it surely did look a lot like it. The news article had even said so.

'Alongside Mr. Cohen, the officials found another dead body in the kitchen. The poor man was killed in cold blood with a knife to his neck. What made Nancy Cohen snap?'

She narrowed her eyes, then mounted her horse. She couldn't stay in town any longer. She had no idea how many posters had been put up, and she had no intention of finding out. If they discovered it was her on the poster, the sheriff would put her in jail until proven innocent. And by God, she couldn't prove it at all.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It was late at night as Arthur rode back to camp after he robbed a train with the help of John, Charles, and Sean. He hadn't been so sure they could pull it off just the four of them, but they did indeed. They had split up to cause a diversion, not making it too easy for anyone to catch up to them.

The moon was shining, faintly lighting the road ahead. Bounty, his mare, slowly galloped along the road. It was still a rather long ride. He wouldn't reach camp for another hour or two. Feeling weary, his eyes drifted shut for a few seconds. With a groan, he slowed down to a halt beneath a big tree a few feet off the road. He just needed a quick nap.

Once he had tied his horse securely to the tree and stuffed the valuables into a secret pocket in his coat, he sat down, leaning against the trunk. He pulled his hat down a bit over his face and closed his eyes. It didn't take long until he dozed off. He wasn't sure how long he had been asleep when he woke again, the feeling of cold iron pressing against his neck lightly. He couldn't see, with his hat still covering his eyes, but he felt he was in trouble.

"What's this? A cowboy caught off his guard?"

It took him a second to realize who that playful voice belonged to. He relaxed, pushing his hat back. He chuckled lightly as he saw it was indeed Nancy. She laughed and pulled the shotgun away, lifting it to her mouth and blew imaginary smoke from the barrel.

"Gotcha good there, didn't I?" she said and put the gun into her holster.

"You're lucky I'm not a 'shoot first, ask questions later' kinda guy," he said, amused, and shifted a little to sit up straight. "Besides, what are you doing out here alone at night?"

She sat down, cross-legged, her hands folded. She looked at him. "I was in Valentine today. Just getting some goods. Food, medicine and so on."

"And you're still out at night because…?"

She shrugged. "I needed time for myself. To think things through. Oh!" She pulled a pouch over and reached inside. "I got this for you."

He tilted his head, blinking in surprise as she revealed a bottle of his favorite whiskey. "Nancy, you didn't have to. That was expensive."

"You seem to forget I'm not a girl from the streets," she said, amused, and pushed the bottle against his chest. He reached up and took it from her. "I can afford things."

He looked down at the bottle, then back at her. "Thanks, Nancy." "You're welcome. You've done a lot for me. I thought it's time to do something nice for you. And unless you decide to get shot and make me care for you, getting your favorite whiskey was all I could think of doing."

He put the bottle aside and placed his hat down too. "Will you tell me now what happened?"

"What do you mean?" She looked down at her hands.

"Something's bothering you, I can tell."

She sighed and reached into her satchel, pulling out the poster. She handed it to him. Arthur took it and stared down at it, speechless for a moment. Then he looked back at her.

"Where did you get this?"

"Outside the Valentine post office. Not sure, there are probably more in town. I didn't pay attention until I found this one. I've read the newspaper, Arthur. They suspect I murdered my father," she growled. "Whoever did this will pay. I will make sure they do."

A hot tear found its way down her cheek. She hated that he saw her like this. Brushing the tear away and sniffling, she looked at him silently. He crumpled the poster and tossed it into the fire.

"I'll make sure there are no more posters in town. I promise. But for now, you should forget about it. You know what?" He snatched the bottle from the ground and opened it. "Let's drink."

"Sounds good to me." She took the bottle as he offered it to her. She took one swig, coughing from the unaccustomed sharp taste of the drink.

Arthur laughed, taking the bottle again. "Not used to the fine taste of whiskey, huh?" He winked and took a swig too.

"We produced wine, not whiskey, alright?" She pinched his arm and snatched the bottle again, taking a bit more of the drink. The liquid burned in her throat; she scrunched her face a little, exhaling loudly.

"Ha! Huh! Yeah, that will never be my kind of drink." She giggled.

"More for me then." He took one last swig, then put the half empty bottle aside. He leaned back against the tree, looking up at the night sky. She shifted and dropped down onto her back, her head resting on one of her hands.

"It's beautiful, isn't it?" She pointed at the starlit sky. Arthur looked at her, then up again. She added, "You see that line over there?"

He hummed. "I don't see any lines."

She chuckled and reached for him. "Come here." She tugged at his arm and he followed suit, lowering onto his back next to her. "There…" She took his hand and guided it up, making him trace the line of stars.

"Oh, yeah, that one." He said. For a second he remained silent. "What about it?"

She let go of his hand. "It's called Canis Major."

"Canis who?" He chuckled.

"Canis Major. That's Latin."

"I know Latin. Hola, muchacha." He turned his head and grinned at her.

She laughed. "That's Spanish. I mean Latin, the language the Romans spoke. Canis Major means Greater Dog, because it looks like a dog."

"A stick figure dog maybe."

"Point is," she emphasized, "It looks beautiful."

"That I can agree with."

They lapsed into silence for a while, just lying side by side, looking up at the sky. Just the sound of the crickets singing their song, in the distance a wolf howled and the fire crackled softly. Nancy turned her head toward him, taking in his features.

"Arthur?"

"Mhh?" He looked at her.

"Thank you."

"What for?"

"Distracting me. From everything. It means a lot to me."

He sat up slowly and took his hat from the ground, putting it on again. "I'm glad you think so. We should return to camp now though."

"Right, sure." She got up as well, preparing Dancer. She mounted him as Arthur mounted Bounty. They rode in silence until they reached the camp again. Not many were awake anymore, just a few tents were still lit.

"I better bring the goods over to the cooking station," she said and took the pouch. She made an attempt to unsaddle her horse when Arthur placed his hand on hers. His skin felt warm against hers.

"I'll handle the saddle. You store the goods and go to sleep. It's late."

"Thank you, Arthur," she said, smiling lightly. She turned, but hesitated. "There's something I... I thought about earlier today." She turned back towards him. "Before I rode to Valentine. By the crossroad, I had a moment of... I don't know. I contemplated whether I should ride back home or not."

"Why didn't you?" He shifted from one foot to the other.

"Maybe I was afraid." She shrugged. "Maybe I didn't want to go alone." Her eyes locked with his for a moment. He nodded slowly.

"Sleep it over," he said and started working on the saddle. "If you still want to go in the morning, we'll talk again."

"Thank you."

"Night, Nancy." He looked after her for a moment, then shrugged out of his thoughts and unsaddled Dancer and Bounty. He walked into camp, not feeling as tired anymore. He spotted John and Hosea by the fire and joined them for a while until they retreated to their beds as well. Finally, he crashed on his cot and fell asleep for the remainder of the night.

#arthur morgan #red dead redemption #rdr #red dead redemption 2 #rdr2 #arthur morgan fic #arthur morgan fanart #arthur morgan fanfiction #red dead redemption fic

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all-the-things-2020 · 6 months

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No Better Place - Chapter 6

Summary: Javi and Cassidy try to deal with their growing feelings for each other.

Warnings: mention of masturbation (things will get steamier from here on out, so please, no minors!)

Word count: 2700+

It took two days for Javi to work out the soreness from the trail ride, but it was worth every bit of pain. His dad had made several off color jokes the next morning when he saw how stiff and sore he was, but Javi just brushed them off. At least Chucho wasn’t nagging him to get out of the house any more. And, yes, Cassidy had laughed when he hobbled out of his truck the next afternoon, but she’d been sympathetic and given him a sachet of Epsom salts that she swore would take care of most of the muscle aches. And, okay, when he’d lowered himself into a hot bathtub that night he might have been thinking more of what it would be like to share that tub with her, and maybe he had closed his eyes and pretended it was her hand on his dick, but the soak had done its job. By the third day after the ride, he was back to normal and actually felt stronger and more alive than he had in months.

“Ready to start some ground work with Buster?” Cassidy asked when he walked into the barn.

Javi was taken aback. So far, he’d just been hanging out with the gelding, brushing him and picking out his hooves, but otherwise not doing much with him. In just a few weeks, Buster had gone from snorting and trying to climb over the fence every time he saw Javi to whickering at him as soon as he heard the truck door open.

“You sure?,” he asked.

“Yeah,” Cassidy said, handing him a halter and long lead rope. “He’s not afraid of you anymore and he’s put on some weight. Time for him to get back to work.” She motioned for Javi to follow her and headed out toward Buster’s pen. She put him in the barn each night with the other horses, but turned him out first thing in the morning. She’d explained that as an ex-racehorse, he’d spent too much time locked up in a stall and she wanted him to just be a horse as much as possible.

“When you groom him today, pull him out and put him in the cross-ties,” she said. “He might not be used to them, but we’ll find out. And if he gets silly, he can’t do much. Then take him for a walk over to the arena and I’ll show you how to lunge him a little.”

“Um, okay,” Javi said. Buster walked over to the fence and swung his head over the top rail so Javi could rub his forehead. “Hey, buddy, you gonna be a good boy for me?” He gently smoothed the gelding’s forelock out his eyes.

Cassidy chuckled. “Are you like this with those women you pick up at the bar?”

“Oh, yeah,” Javi teased. “That’s why they like me. I rub their foreheads.”

“I meant the sweet talk,” she said. “You come off all gruff and macho at first, but you’re really a big teddy bear, aren’t you?” She crossed her arms over her chest and leaned back against the wall of the barn.

Javi gave her the finger. “If you’re trying to flirt, it ain’t working,” he said. He stepped away from Buster, coming to a stop just a few feet from her. He saw her squirm a little and it was all he could do to keep from smiling. “Look, are we going to do anything about this?,” he said, waving his hand vaguely in the space between them.

“About what?,” she said.

Javi chuckled. “Come on. I see the way you look at me, and I know you see the way I look at you,” he said. “We’re attracted to each other. So how long are we going to play this game?”

Cassidy pushed herself away from the wall and closed the gap, so she stood a mere six inches from him. “I’ll admit there’s something between us,” she said. “But I don’t fall in bed with someone just because I think he’s hot. I have to trust a man before I take that step out of friendship into something more. And you haven’t earned that trust yet, Mr. Pena. So forget about trying to seduce me and concentrate on the horse, okay?” She leaned forward, patted the side of his face, and crinkled her nose. “I’ve got stalls to muck. See, I’d rather shovel shit than flirt with you.” She winked and went back into the barn.

“She’s crazy,” Javi said to Buster, who had watched the entire conversation with interest. The gelding snorted. “Yeah, I know, get back to work. No wonder she likes you.”

*****************************************

Cassidy hid in the barn until she was sure Javi had taken Buster around to the cross ties next to the wash rack on the far side of the barn. She did have stalls to muck, but right now she was more interested in hiding her emotions from him. Why did he have to be so damned hot? It had been all she could do to not throw herself into his arms when he’d walked up to her.

You promised yourself you wouldn’t do this again, she chided herself. Men aren’t worth it. Remember that.

She sighed. Who was she kidding? How many nights had she fallen asleep with a hand between her thighs, thoughts of Javi Pena swirling through her head? Get a grip, Cassidy.

She grabbed a pitchfork and tossed it into the muck cart. Time to get back to reality. Horse shit and the stack of bills on her kitchen table. That was all she should be thinking about. Not Javi’s fingers gently moving her hair aside, or the feel of his mustache brushing against her skin.

************************************************

The tall woman at the end of the bar was checking Javi out. Normally, he’d have left his seat at the table in the corner and slid up to her, but he was too busy keeping an eye on Cassidy, who was sitting half way down the bar. The Lobo was a bit rough around the edges and he wondered what had possessed her to come there, especially on a Saturday night.

It had been almost a month since their little conversation, and Javi had been careful to keep everything strictly friendly between them. They still joked around, and shared a beer most afternoons, but mostly they talked about the horses. Buster was coming along nicely. Javi was now able to work him in the arena on the lunge line and they were getting ready to introduce him to the western saddle. It would be a while before Javi got on his back, but Cassidy would probably be riding him in a week or two.

Right now, though, Javi was nursing a beer and watching guys strike out right and left. Cassidy was cordial but firm and Javi hid his smile as the latest jerk plied her with cheesy lines. Then Chuck Myers showed up.

Chuck was one of those good old boys whose daddy had given him a job right out of high school and had never had to work for a thing in his damn life. Last Javi had heard before he went to Colombia was that Chuck was on his second wife. Either she’d dumped him, or would soon, seeing as how he was hitting on women in the bar.

Cassidy shook her head at Chuck and turned back to her beer, but Chuck laid a hand on her shoulder. Javi tensed a little. He knew Cassidy could hold her own and he didn’t want to intervene and make her mad, but he was ready in case things turned ugly.

“I said I wasn’t interested,” Cassidy said, raising her voice in irritation. “Piss off.”

Chuck was clearly drunk, his words slurring a little as he tried to slide his arm around her shoulders. “You’re just playing hard to get, little lady. Makes it more fun when you finally give in, right?”

She shoved his arm away and Chuck’s face went dark. Javi got up from his seat. He’d seen that look before and it did not bode well. Chuck had ended up spending a night or two in jail after a bar fight in the past and it looked like he still had a nasty temper.

“She said she’s not interested,” Javi said quietly, stepping up behind Chuck. The other man whirled around, a bit unsteady on his feet.

“Fuck off, Pena,” he said. “This is between me and the lady. None of your business.”

Javi inserted himself between Chuck and Cassidy. “It is my business when some asshole is harassing my friend,” he said evenly. “She told you to piss off. So piss off.”

Chuck laughed. “Oh, man, you think she’s your friend? You’re just free labor, Pena. I know all about her little horse rescue project. She can barely afford feed for those nags. And it’s not like you’ve got a job or anything. Remind me, did they kick you out of the DEA or did you quit?”

Javi took a deep breath. Chuck wasn’t worth the hassle. “I quit,” he said quietly. “Because I was tired of dealing with lowlifes and entitled rich boys like you. Now are you going to leave Cassidy alone or are we going to have to take this outside?” He let his hand slide around toward the back of his jeans. “And may I remind you I still have a license for concealed carry.” He didn’t wear his sidearm very often, but the Lobo wasn’t exactly upscale.

Chuck raised his hands. “Okay, okay, jeez,” he said. “Didn’t know I was poaching on your turf.” He shook his head, downed the shot of whiskey in his hand and staggered away toward the tall girl at the end of the bar, who was still staring at Javi.

“Thanks,” Cassidy said wryly. “I had it under control, but whatever.”

Javi rolled his eyes. “Come join me at my table,” he said. “That’ll keep the vultures away.” He thought she might refuse, but after looking him steadily in the eye for a long moment, she pushed herself off the barstool and followed him back to the table.

“You really enjoy this place?,” she asked once they were seated.

Javi ignored the question and posed one of his own. “What are you doing here, anyway?” He took a sip of his beer. “I thought you didn’t like going out because of all the, and I quote, ‘horndogs’.”

“Just curious,” she said with a shrug. She took a long drink of her own beer. “And I was feeling lonely.” She sighed. “Okay, I talked to my mom today and I just needed to get out of the house. And this is the only bar I knew of. I’m new in town, remember?”

Javi smiled. “First of all, if you’re lonely, you’re always welcome at my dad’s place. He loves company. Second of all, the lounge at the Copper Lamp is probably more your scene. Way better level of clientele and the booze is better. Costs more, though.”

“Noted,” Cassidy said. She leaned forward. “Next time I want to waste some money, I’ll go there.” She sat back, her fingertip idly tracing the rim of her beer mug. “I’m not using you for free labor, you know. Money’s tight, but …”

Javi raised his hand to stop her. “I know my dad asked you to help get me out of my funk,” he said. When she started to protest, he shook his head. “He thinks he’s pretty smart but I do have some detective skills, so …” He shrugged.

“About that,” Cassidy said casually. “That jerk at the bar said you were with the DEA?”

“Yeah,” Javi said shortly. Fortunately, just then someone put some money in the jukebox and Elvis Presley filled the air. “You wanna dance? Let’s dance.” Javi jumped up and held out his hand to Cassidy.

She hesitated a moment, then said, “What the hell.” Javi led her out to the “dance floor,” a section of the bar that was kept clear of tables on all but the busiest nights. Two other couples were already out there, one actually dancing, the other simply swaying back and forth while they nuzzled each other’s necks. Javi placed one hand on Cassidy’s waist and took her hand with the other. She laid her free hand on his shoulder and they began to move to the music.

“You’re a terrible dancer,” she said after a moment.

Javi chuckled. “Never claimed to be a good one,” he said. He let his fingers splay a bit wider on her hip. She lifted one eyebrow but didn’t move away.

When the music ended after two songs, Javi led her back to the table, hoping she’d forgotten about her question. “Want another?,” he asked, nodding toward her almost empty beer mug.

“No, I’m okay,” she said.

“You sure? I’m getting one for myself,” he said, waving the waitress over.

Cassidy put her elbow on the table and propped her head up on her hand. “I learned a long time ago not to let guys buy me drinks,” she said. “They tend to expect something in return.”

Javi shook his head. “First of all, friends buy friends drinks all the time. Second of all, I’ve drunk enough of your beers that I definitely owe you more than one draft beer.” When the waitress stepped up to the table he said, “Two more of these, thanks, Cindy.”

“You got it, Javi,” she said with a smile and a wink.

“Wow, first name basis with the wait staff,” Cassidy said. “That means you’re either a good tipper or you’re here way too much.”

“You forget I grew up in Laredo,” he said. “Anyone who’s within a few years of my own age probably went to high school with me.”

They sipped at their new beers and chatted idly about the pros and cons of staying in one’s hometown past high school, Buster’s progress, and the best place to get tacos. When Cassidy had drained her mug, she placed both hands on the table top.

“Well, I’ve got to get up early to feed, so I’m going to head out,” she said. “Thanks again for helping get rid of that jerk earlier.”

“No problem,” Javi said. “I’ll walk you out, just in case he’s lurking around out there.” At some point, Chuck had disappeared, but Javi had been too busy paying attention to Cassidy to know exactly when he’d left.

He dug out his wallet, tossed a handful of bills on the bar as they passed by and followed Cassidy to her truck. She paused with her hand on the door handle. “Seriously, thanks again,” she said.

“Anytime,” Javi said. The dim lights in the parking lot were barely bright enough to find the keyhole in a car door, but he more than enough to see Cassidy’s eyes soften as she looked back at him. Javi threw caution to the wind and leaned forward to kiss her, gently. Her lips were as soft and warm as he’d imagined.

“Javi,” she said quietly as he pulled back. “You’re getting there, but you’re not there yet.” She reached up and stroked his cheek, letting her thumb trace his mustache. “Don’t rush things.”

“Sorry,” he said.

“It’s fine,” she said. “Just … nothing more right now, okay?” She dropped her hand and turned back to pull open the door of her truck. “Why don’t you go back in and introduce yourself to that tall woman at the end of the bar? She’s been watching you all night. I’m pretty sure you’ll get lucky.”

“Nah,” he said. “I think I’m going to head home myself. Surprise the hell out of my dad.”

“Well, drive safe,” Cassidy said.

“You, too,” he replied. She climbed into the cab of her truck and he waited until she’d started the engine before he went to his own truck. Once she’d pulled out of the parking lot, he turned his own key and sat for a moment listening to the rumble of the engine. The door of the bar opened and the woman from the bar stood silhouetted in the light. Javi sighed and put the truck in reverse. “Sorry, chica,” he muttered. “You’re too late.”

#pedro pascal #javier peña x ofc #javier pena fanfiction #javier pena fic #javier pena narcos #horses

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imagine-darksiders · 2 years

Text

Drabble snippet in which I ruin Ruin's reputation >:)

-----

Several storeys below you, in the building's shared allotment, stands a colossal horse with a coat so dark it resembles fireplace soot. No Earth-born steed has eyes that burn with all the fires of Hell and sturdy legs that are cracked and split like molten rock, revealing the rivers of liquid fire running beneath its skin in the place of veins. The rain does nothing to extinguish the unnatural fire billowing up from the beast's hooves, and yet, despite the horse's wild and terrible appearance, you can only watch on in amusement as it makes a valiant effort to ignore Mr Bronte's three, young daughters, each of whom are clad in their bright wellington boots and are keeping a tight grasp on their equally garish umbrellas. They've taken to offering the giant, stoic animal a series of vegetables that they've 'borrowed' from their father's beloved patch.

So far, the horse has bent his square, blocky muzzle down to accept three carrots, a radish, and an entire head of lettuce - nothing in his body language betraying anything other than grudging resignation.

You let your lips quirk up at the corners.

It's a well-known fact that the Horsemen's legendary steeds have no need of food or water to survive in the same way that Earthen horses do.

So to see Ruin eating these 'gifts' can only pinpoint to one of three reasons.

The first, that he enjoys the taste.

The second, that he enjoys rankling poor Mr Bronte by hiding the evidence of his daughters' harmless mischief.

Or the third, your personal favourite, which states that the horse has simply come to accept that the children are absolutely smitten with him, and as humiliating as it may be for the war beast to be coo-ed at and fussed over, he's about as honour-bound as his rider, and would never dream of harming the strange, noisy foals that play around his titanic legs.

He must not realise you're watching, because his ears suddenly flick forwards and even from up here, behind a layer of glass, you can make out his gruff, resonant whicker as the youngest sister slips over on the muddy grass and lands on her backside with a thud. He lowers his head again to investigate the fallen child and the eternal fire burning inside his nostrils glows brightly when he gives her a sniff, as if to make sure she's unhurt.

#darksiders #imagine darksiders #y/n #war x reader #Ruin

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leiawritesstories · 2 years

Note

okay leia i just thought of this so feel free to reject this prompt if it’s shit. i’m going to say “cowboy” and “love interest” because you have two cowboy aus going on lol

cowboy is teaching love interest about lassos but it’s going completely downhill, so they kind of lashes out on love interest. an argument begins and love interest says something like “i just want to tie this lasso around your neck and lalala” or “i’m going to catch you with this lasso and throw you at lalala”. cowboy can say “i dare you to try” or maybe just end up caught by surprise but the thing is the love interest ends up lassoing the cowboy! they finally made it yay but omg the cowboy is now tied down…

it’s just a loose idea but i hope you like it!!

I HAVE NEITHER REGRETS NOR APOLOGIES ABOUT THIS

word count: 2,176

warnings: horny horny Rowaelin, ropes, NSFW

Enjoy, y'all!

Riding Together

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Aelin shoved away the image of Rowan wearing her hat and all the things that seeing him like that did to her self-control and focused on the day, focused on leading the tour group of guests around her ranch.

Gods. So last night hadn’t been a dream.

But she could not allow herself to think of that. Guests, Galathynius. Focus. On. The Guests.

All the guests, not just the one she wanted to focus on.

“And here is where all of our horses live,” Aelin announced, pulling open the barn door.

The tour group she was leading oohed and aahed at the horses, strolling down the line of stalls to admire each one. Darrow gave a brief introduction to horseback riding before inviting anyone interested to have the chance to ride, and a very nice line formed up, the guests eagerly waiting their turns. Aelin and Darrow saddled up the usual batch of horses for the guests, leading them one by one to a horse and helping them mount.

This group had so many interested guests, though, that she was forced to lead Elentiya, her mare, out of her stall for herself. “C'mon, my girl, let’s show these city slickers how we gallop, yeah?” Elentiya whickered as if in agreement.

And then a throat cleared. “Ma'am?”

“Hmm?” She turned, forcing a blush not to rise as she met the bright pine eyes of Rowan Whitethorn, the Seattle businessman.

“I don’t think I’ve been helped,” he said, apologetic. “Could you guide me?”

Aelin flicked her glance quickly around the barn. Few horses remained, all of them wilder and less ready for untried guests to ride them.

And Elentiya.

Hell.

“Well, Mr. Whitethorn, do you mind riding double?”

“What?” His brows furrowed.

She chuckled. “We’re fresh out of single horses, save for the ones not yet tamed, so unless you’re willin’ to wait for the group to return, seems like you’ll have to ride double with me.” She winked. “But don’t worry, city boy, I won’t make any moves.”

He swallowed hard. “I’ll trust you, Miss Galathynius.” It was his turn to wink. “Nothing more pleasant than riding with an experienced rider, as I see it.” The innuendo in his voice not going unnoticed.

That man and his words.

Stop fucking thinking about last night, Galathynius!

“Right,” she said, leading him to Elentiya. “Since you’re the inexperienced one--” he let out a deep, soft chuckle at that--“I’ll help you get into the saddle, but I’ll be sittin’ in front of you.”

“My favorite,” Rowan whispered into her ear, low enough that only she could make out his words.

“Be professional,” she hissed, covertly pinching the crease of his elbow. “Now, step up on this stump here,” she instructed him, guiding him onto the step and helping him swing one leg across Elentiya, the mare standing quietly in place and waiting for Aelin. “Excellent. Now scoot back a li’l, city boy.” Rowan did, and she swung atop Elentiya in one fluid motion, settling herself so her back was flush with Rowan’s warm, solid chest.

“Isn’t this cozy?” he hummed, wrapping his arms around her waist.

“Behave,” she smirked, pressing her hips backwards just to hear him gasp sharply. “Let’s go, my girl.” She nudged Elentiya with her heel, and the horse stepped into motion. Rowan’s grip tightened around her waist, bringing a smirk to her lips. How cute, the city slicker and his nerves about riding horseback.

“You doin’ alright?” she asked after a few minutes.

His hold relaxed. “This is nice.”

She chuckled wickedly. “Well, you’re takin’ to ridin’ right quick, city boy. Let’s see how you do at a canter.”

“Wha--” His question was cut off when Aelin nudged Elentiya into a canter, his arms wrapping right back around her.

She grinned. “Loosen up, Whitethorn!”

It took him many minutes, but eventually, he did loosen up, his grip around her waist loosening, and grinned into the wide blue sky. “You know, this really is fun!”

“Glad you enjoy it,” she returned, grinning broadly, loose strands of her hair fluttering in the breeze.

They reached the rest of the group out in the open corral shortly later, joining up with Darrow and his presentation on lassoing. “An’ with enough practice, y’all can see how the ropers catch cattle so easily.” Darrow tossed the coil of rope to another ranch hand, who caught it easily and uncoiled part of it, tying a lasso knot with graceful ease. He then flicked his wrist, and out sailed the rope, landing neatly around the neck of the practice dummy cow to much applause.

Rowan, now dismounted with Aelin’s assistance, leaned into her side. “Now that’s a fancy skill,” he murmured.

“Miss G!” the roper called. “Show the city slickers yer skills, yeah?”

She barely had time to protest before he was tossing her the lasso. “All right, all right,” she laughed, detaching herself from Rowan and striding out into the packed dirt of the corral. “Now y’all just stand back, okay?” She gave the lasso a few experimental twirls, then reached back and flicked her wrist forward and out spiraled the lasso in a string of neat coils, the loop at the end floating down around the practice dummy’s neck.

The guests cheered.

“Your turn!” she declared, nodding to Darrow. He passed out short lengths of rope with the loops already pre-tied, teaching everyone how to hold the rope and letting them flick it towards the practice dummy. Most of them managed a passingly good toss, a handful even getting close to the plastic cow.

But Rowan? He was hopeless. The rope somehow tangled around his hands, he couldn’t toss the lasso more than a few feet, and he’d even managed to rope himself, looping the coil around his own leg.

“Havin’ fun there, city slicker?” Aelin teased from her perch on the fence.

“Shut up,” Rowan grumbled. “I can do this!”

“Mhmm,” she crooned. “When you’re ready for help, I’m sittin’ right here.”

“We’ll see who needs help when I lasso you, cowgirl,” he purred, challenge--and something darker--lighting his beautiful eyes.

Well, that went straight to her core.

“Good luck,” she smirked, hopping off the fence and watching him fumble with the short length of rope. He threw it straight into the air, swearing viciously when it landed in a heap at his feet.

“Fuck!”

“Alright?”

“Fine,” he grunted. He picked up the coil and shook it out, swore at it, and then flicked it into the air.

And to everyone’s shock, it sailed out in a neat arc and looped around Aelin.

She exclaimed in surprise as the rope tightened around her shoulders, pinning her arms by her sides. “Do I look like the plastic cow, Whitethorn?”

“Uhh...” he mumbled, flushing crimson.

Darrow strode over, chuckling. “Seems like someone got the idea!” he joked, swiftly untying Aelin. “Next time, aim for the plastic cow, city slicker!”

“Noted,” Rowan mumbled.

Aelin winked at him. “No one’s commenting on your accuracy of aim, Whitethorn.”

His eyes flashed dark. “Aelin,” he rumbled, his voice a warning.

She smirked and shrugged, striding back over to Elentiya. “Catch a ride with Darrow, city boy! I’ve got work to do!”

Aelin lounged on the porch swing of the family house as dusk fell, sipping the iced tea in her hand and watching as the vibrant hues of sunset faded into deep blues and grays. Evening was her favorite time of day, the hours when the guests were all occupied up at the guesthouses and she could just relax on her front porch, letting all the worries of running Galathynius Ranch fade away like the sunset.

Footsteps crunched in the gravel driveway.

She looked sharply up to find a very familiar man striding up to her porch, his t-shirt smudged with the dust of the day and his expensive khakis crinkled.

“Private property, Mr. Whitethorn,” she purred, not budging from her seat.

“I’ve an invitation from the owner herself,” he returned smoothly, taking the front steps in one long stride and planting himself in front of her. “Or do you truly not recall anything from last night?”

“However could I forget?” She winked. “Best ride of my life.”

Rowan pounced, his muscled arms caging her in against the cushioned swing. “And how would you enjoy a second experience?”

“Why don’t you find out?” she smirked.

“With pleasure,” he growled, sweeping her into his arms and kissing her fiercely, all tongue and passion, and walking her backwards into her house without breaking the kiss. Aelin groaned into his mouth, taking control of the kiss as she whirled them around and pressed Rowan against the wall, her hand fisting in his shirt. He grunted in surprise. “Aelin.”

“Ro,” she murmured, tracking a line of hot kisses down his strong throat, pushing his shirt up and off of him so she could kiss his tattoo. “So gorgeous.”

He lunged for her, intent on pressing her back into the wall and teasing her until her legs gave way, but she dodged, scurrying up the stairs and into her room with him right on her tail. “Playing hard to get, cowgirl?” he rumbled, padding towards her, every inch of his stature screaming predator.

“Just leading you to your favorite place,” she smirked. And dropped her oversized hoodie, revealing only bare, tanned skin.

“Fuck,” he groaned, shoving his pants and boxers to the floor. “You’re so beautiful, Ae.”

“I know.” She grinned. “Want to show me?”

“Such sass,” he purred, placing his broad, hot hands around her waist. “Such fire, baby.”

“You love it,” she shot back, trailing her own hands dangerously slowly down his chest, over the sharp cut of his hips.

“I do,” he smirked.

Then he tossed her onto the bed.

“But I love making you scream even more.”

Fuck her, this man and his dirty talk. She’d barely had the time to moan before he pulled her to the edge of the bed, dropped to his knees, and locked his gaze on hers as his tongue swept up her soaked core, licking a long, flat stripe up to her clit. “Rowan,” she moaned wantonly, knitting her fingers into his hair. “Gods, Ro!”

Spurred on by her moans, he devoured her, licking and nipping, his tongue everywhere all at once. He slipped two fingers into her, groaning at the way she clenched reflexively around the intrusion, and focused his attention on her clit, sucking the swollen little bud into his mouth and nibbling lightly. She screamed his name and came hard, her release coating his face, and he worked her through the throes of her orgasm, his fingers moving in long, lazy strokes. “So good for me,” he purred, kissing a path back up to her lips and guiding her back against the pillows.

Before he could kiss her, she’d flipped them over, straddling his chest, and whipped a coil of rope out from under her pillow. She smirked down at him, noting the way his chest heaved, and swiftly looped the small lasso around his wrists, yanking his hands above his head and securing them to her headboard.

“Baby,” Rowan moaned, testing the restraint.

“You look so good all roped up,” she smirked, raking first her gaze, then her hands, down his body. “Gonna give me a ride, city boy?”

“Yes,” he breathed. “Yes, please.”

Such nice manners. She winked at him and lifted her hips, then slid all the way down his cock, seating herself fully, both of them groaning at the sensation. “So full,” Aelin panted, her head tipping back in pleasure.

“Move,” Rowan gritted out, his eyes screwed shut.

She clicked her tongue. “Think you give the orders here, pretty boy?” He whimpered. “No, you do not.” Her fingers danced across his cheek, caressing the strong planes of his face. “But since y’look so desperate, I’ll give you a bit of a reprieve.” And she rocked her hips in a slow circle, moaning loudly, her control fast vanishing as she sped up her pace, bouncing on Rowan’s cock, chasing the pleasure he wrung form her. “You can move, Whitethorn.” He jerked his hips up into hers, frantic, curses and moans of her name spilling from his lips as he fucked her. She moaned his name as she felt herself hurtling toward orgasm, her nails scratching down his chest.

“Aelin!” he roared as he came with a grunt, spilling himself into her.

“Rowan!” she moaned, the feeling of him finishing inside her sending her over the edge, her orgasm rolling over her in waves. “Ohh, Rowan,” she panted, collapsing atop his chest, barely remembering to reach up and untie his hands.

“So good, baby,” he breathed, flexing his wrists before wrapping his arms around her, his big hands stroking her back. “So good.”

“Mmm,” she mumbled, carefully pulling herself off of him and falling into bed, letting him be the one to pick up the warm washcloth and clean them up. “Stay, Ro.”

“Of course,” he whispered, settling in beside her. “Of course I will.”

~~~

TAGS:

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@clea-nightingale

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@claralady

@fireheartwhitethorn4ever

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@thegreyj

@silentquartz

@backtobl4ck

#my writing #aelin galathynius #rowan whitethorn #rowaelin #cowgirl au #cowgirl aelin #rowaelin smut

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thelastspeecher · 1 year

Text

Stanuary '23 - Week 3: Fear

For this one, I decided to revisit my OG AU, the Stanley McGucket AU, where when Stan is kicked out of the house, he gets picked up by a very nice southern family and becomes their farmhand.

And of course, I had to go with the classic, the first fear we see from Stan in the show: acrophobia. Fear of heights. Enjoy.

———————————————————————————————————–

Stan walked into the barn. He put his hands on his hips, frowning.

Mr. McGucket told me to help Lute in the barn with somethin’. Where the hell is he? The barn was seemingly devoid of any humans. Stan looked at the closest horse, Angie’s mare Daisy.

“Have you seen Lute?” he asked. Daisy whickered softly then resumed eating her hay.

“Up here, Stan!” a voice called. Stan looked up. He immediately paled. Lute was sitting on the loft, his legs dangling over the edge.

“What the hell are you doin’ up there?” Stan asked. Lute rolled his eyes.

“Gettin’ hay. Duh.”

“Why do you need to get hay all the way up there?”

“‘Cause this is where we keep the hay,” Lute said slowly. “Did ya think these bales were up here fer decoration or somethin’?”

“…No.”

Yes.

“Sure,” Lute said, sounding doubtful. He shrugged. “Wanna join me up here?” Stan’s heart leapt into his mouth.

“No,” he blurted out immediately. Lute cocked his head curiously.

“Are ya sure?”

“I’m sure.”

“Huh. I would’ve thought you’d be chompin’ at the bit to come up here. Angie ‘n I were beyond thrilled when we were fin’ly allowed.”

“Yeah, well…” Stan muttered, trying to think of a way to shift the topic off him. “You two are so short, bein’ up there is probably the first time you’re taller than someone.”

“Har-har,” Lute said dryly. “I’ll climb on down and we can get to work.” He stood up. “By the way, there’s a trick to comin’ up ‘n comin’ down without hurtin’ yourself. So don’t try comin’ up here on yer own, okay?” Stan looked away.

“Not gonna be a problem.”

-----

Stan shielded the sun from his eyes with his hand as he peered into the canopy of the apple orchard. A big storm had blown through the night before, so he, Angie, and Lute were tasked with checking on the trees.

“Kinda surprised any of ‘em are still standin’,” he remarked. “I thought tornadoes usually took down trees.”

“Not always,” Angie replied. She was climbing one of the shorter trees to inspect the branches. “Especially a weak tornado like we had yesterday.” She looked down at Stan. “That was yer first tornado, right?” Stan nodded. “I’m impressed by how ya didn’t panic when the sirens went off ‘n the folks took us to the storm cellar, then.”

“Eh.” Stan shrugged. “I’m not easily scared.”

“Still. Impressive. Most folks get spooked by their first twister.” Angie began to climb down. Stan took a step back, giving her room to jump once she had reached the lowest branch. Once on the ground, Angie walked over to Stan. “Looks like the trees didn’t get much damage. At least, nothin’ that would need us to intervene.”

“I wouldn’t say that!” Lute called. He was in the branches of the tallest tree in the orchard. “We’ve got a branch here that needs to come down!”

“Ugh, great,” Angie muttered. Stan frowned.

“Why does it need to come down?” he called back. There was a rustle from the tree, but Lute was still hidden.

“Well, it’s broken off most the way, but won’t break off the rest of the way on its own. At least, not fer a while. Leavin’ it partially on like that fer however long it takes to come down increases the chance of problems later on.”

“Can ya get it with some brute force?” Angie shouted. There was some more rustling.

“Nope!”

“Should I tell Pa we need him to take it down with the saw?” Angie asked. She looked at Stan. “We ain’t allowed to use the saw quite yet.”

“Why not?” Stan asked.

“Our older siblin’s proved not to be trustworthy with it at our age, ‘n they’re more trustworthy ‘n we are.”

“Ah.”

“Okay, takin’ a closer look at this branch, I think it might be able to come down without gettin’ the saw,” Lute said. “I can’t get it on m’ own, but I think Stan’s strong enough to handle it.” Stan immediately began to sweat. “At the very least, he’s got enough weight to throw behind it.”

“Uh. What?” Stan blurted out. Angie elbowed him.

“You heard ‘im! Get on up there so’s we can handle it on our own. Otherwise, we got to get help from Pa.”

“I dunno if that tree can support my weight,” Stan said. Angie snickered.

“Please. There’s pictures of McGuckets in that tree goin’ back generations. You’ll be fine!”

“Seriously, Angie, I don’t think-”

“Go on! The sooner we get this done, the sooner we get to go into town ‘n go to the ice cream shop!” Angie said firmly. She shoved Stan towards the tree. Stan looked back at her, his heart pounding. She didn’t seem to notice his nerves.

And there’s no way in hell I’m gonna say somethin’. Angie raised an eyebrow at him expectantly. She’s not gonna let it go. Great. Stan looked up at the tree. He wiped his sweaty hands on his jeans. Suck it up and get it over with, Stan.

Stan took a deep breath and gripped the lowest branches. He pulled himself up.

Don’t look down, don’t look down. Just look forward and pretend like you’re not in a tree. Using this method, he managed to make his way through the tree until he caught sight of Lute. Lute grinned at him and held out a hand. Stan took the offered hand. Lute helped him onto the bough he was sitting on. See? No problem.

“That branch right there, it’s what we’ve got to take care of,” Lute said. He pointed at a large branch. It had been broken in the middle, but was still attached with enough substance that Stan could see why Lute couldn’t take it down on his own.

“All right, got it,” Stan mumbled.

“Did ya make it up there?” Angie shouted from the ground. Without thinking, Stan looked down. His blood ran cold.

Big mistake. Big fucking mistake! The branch that needed to come down was higher in the tree than Stan had realized, so the ground was even further away than he had expected. He immediately gripped the bough he was sitting on.

“Yeah, he’s up here!” Lute called back. He frowned at Stan. “But he got all pale out of nowhere.”

“Oh no! Are ya sick, Stan?” Angie asked. Stan swallowed.

“Nope!” he squeaked.

“Don’t listen to him,” Lute said, his brow furrowing deeper. “He don’t look good.” Stan could feel every inch of him shaking. All of his focus was now in stopping himself from throwing up, preventing him from making a snappy comeback. The lack of snark visibly worried Lute even more. “What’s wrong?”

“N-nothing! I’m fine!” Stan said. His voice quavered.

“It don’t sound like yer fine,” Angie said doubtfully. A breeze blew past, making the branches around Stan and Lute wave. Stan gripped his fingers deeper, the bark of the tree digging under his fingernails. “Lute, what on Earth is goin’ on up there?”

“I don’t know!”

“Stan, we can’t help ya unless we don’t know what’s wrong,” Angie said.

“Wait…” Lute’s eyes widened. “Ya refused to go up to the loft the other day.”

“What?! Why would someone not want to climb the loft?” Angie asked, sounding shocked.

“Was he reluctant to go up the tree just now?” Lute asked.

“Uh, yeah. I had to liter’ly push him.”

“Stanley…” Lute met Stan’s gaze. “Do ya have a fear of heights?” Stan’s eyes immediately darted away, which was answer enough for Lute. “Oh, shoot. Ya do, don’t ya?”

“I’m not afraid of ‘em,” Stan muttered. “I’m- I’m respectful.”

“Uh-huh, whatever ya want to call it,” Lute said, waving a hand. “Why didn’t ya tell us? We wouldn’t have made ya come up here!”

“We’re not the kind of folks to push people like that,” Angie confirmed. “Sure, it might be a good thing fer ya to work on at some point, but not sprung on ya with no warnin’ and no easy way out!”

“Can ya climb down?” Lute asked. Stan swallowed again. He shook his head. “All right.” He looked down at Angie. “Go get Pa!”

“Oh it!” came the response. Angie rushed away. Lute smiled at Stan.

“Don’t worry. I’ll stay up here with ya until the rescue arrives.” He threw an arm around Stan’s shoulders. “And I know yer reluctant to thank folks, so no need fer it. I can see it in yer eyes.” Stan nodded gratefully. “But in the future, Stan, let us know these things. Okay?”

“No promises,” Stan mumbled. Lute rolled his eyes.

“Fine, then at least suggest an alternative so’s we don’t get ya stuck in a tree like a cat again.”

“I think I can do that.”

“Good.” Lute sighed. “We should’ve just got Pa from the beginnin’. There’s no way the ice cream place ‘ll be open by the time we get to town now.”

“Unless…” Stan released his iron-clad grip on the bough briefly and eyed the trunk, trying to think of a way down. Another gust of wind breezed past. Stan gripped the bough again. “Never mind!”

#Stanuary #Gravity Falls #Gravity Falls AU #Stanley McGucket AU #Stanley Pines #Lute McGucket #Angie McGucket #my writing #my stuff #ficlet #speecher speaks

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thatswastelandbaby · 1 year

Text

@maggicktouched

Beck didn’t look back at Arbor. She felt a little guilty for being so short with him, but he’d nearly pulled his wand on a total stranger. And the way he kept looking at Yennefer, like she had some kind of plague that was going to ravage the land and destroy them all. What did he know? Why would he think he had any right to put himself in her business?

Why did it bother her so much?

She watched, curiously, as Yennefer took off her glove to extend her hand to the stallion in front of her. The horse idly wriggled his top lip against her palm, nostrils flared, searching to see if Yennefer had anything interesting to eat. He had no reason to notice the scars along the sorceress’ wrist. Even if he’d seen it, he’d have never known or understood… but she did.

As she watched the two get acquainted, it occurred to her precisely why Arbor’s expression riled her so quickly. She’d seen it a thousand times because it was how people looked at her. The fear that made his eyes glossy, the disapproval and disgust. She knew it well. People had been looking at her like that from the time she’d made her first shift. These days it was mostly strangers that stared at her from afar, sensing what she was even before their eyes met, but sometimes, when they thought she wasn’t looking, acquaintances, priests, even elders would stand straighter, tense their wand hands, and stare as long as they thought was socially permissible. They were all too happy to dismiss her before they ever knew her.

Perhaps that was what drove her to help Yennefer, even if it was at her own personal expense. Because she knew what her people were like. Because she knew that if Yennefer wanted to make a life for herself in these lands, it would already be an uphill battle. That wasn’t right. It wasn’t fair. But she was powerless to change people. She couldn’t stop Yennefer from being a victim of their prejudice, but maybe she could help her some other way—give her the happiness others sought to rob from her for no good reason.

After all, Yennefer hadn’t looked at her that way.

The fox’s ear twitched in Yen’s direction as she spoke, listening only partially as she allowed herself to get lost in thought. But what she said quickly brought all of her introspection to a screaming halt, and she flattened her ears back flat on her skull.

Goddamn it, Yennefer. She thought sourly, but Arbor’s last dwindling thread of patience snapped like a twig underfoot and his jaw set. She didn’t have time to interject before he was raising his hand to point at the sorceress.

“E-excuse me?!” Arbor stammered. She could smell the spike in adrenaline as his face turned pink with anger, even as his fingers trembled. “How dare you! That–That is the second time you’ve threatened me! In my own home, no less!”

“I’m sure she didn’t mean it. They’ve got a different sort of humor across the sea.” Beck said, not even believing that lie herself. She swore internally and shed her fox form with a sigh. Not a heartbeat later she was standing between the two of them on two feet rather than four. Abor opened his mouth, undoubtedly about to say something stupid enough to get him hexed so hard he forgot his own name, and Beck cut him off. “We’re going to be on our way now. Thank you, Mr. Breeman.”

Beck took Yennefer’s wrist in one hand, and the stallion’s reins in the other, and attempted to turn them around. The stern expression on her face suggested that she wouldn’t be helping her new friend with anything if she didn’t follow.

To his credit, Breeman was smart enough to let them leave without trying to pick a proper fight, and she was glad for that, because she was certain she wouldn’t have been able to stop it.

“That was a silly thing to say, especially right to his face.” She said, once they have crossed the boundary out of the farm to where her own horse was waiting. The golden stallion whickered affectionately and lowered his head down to her knee. In one fluid motion, she jumped, and he helped propel her up and onto his back, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. She righted her seat, and then the two began to move in an unnatural and perfect sync. Where she looked, he looked. When he shifted, she shifted. Like they were fused together and controlled by a singular mind.

“You can’t go around threatening people with illegal forms of magic. And how would that have even worked if you managed it?” She didn’t raise her voice, but there was a bit of heat to her words. Beneath her, Habrok let out an angry squeal and flattened his ears. It jarred her enough to realize that she was letting her anger get away with her, and it was infecting her familiar.

She shut her eyes, breathed into her chest deeply, and let out a long, controlled sigh. The angry flush left her cheeks, and the tension bled out of her shoulders slowly. Beneath her, she felt the horse snort, shake his head, and relax.

When she looked at Yennefer again, it was with a bit more compassion. “Look, I know you’re trying to help. You’re probably tired. You’ve been on a very long journey and this whole ordeal is stressful… but if we’re going to travel together, you need to think things through. If you’d have erased his memory, he’d have forgotten what happened to his prized stallion there. He’d have gone to the magistrate and filed a report, and a whole search party would have started.”

She flexed her fingers in Grani’s mane and looked back toward the village. “I’m not saying the way people are gonna treat you—and me for that matter– is right… but sometimes you just have to swallow it and move on. If the guard comes looking for us because they’re wary of you, it won’t be right, but there’s a good chance I can talk sense into them. But if they come after you for doing illegal magic and horse theft, then we are both going to be in trouble. And not the fun kind.”

“I am not in your home,” Yennefer said, gesturing her arms out wide to indicate that they were still inside. She knew what he meant of course, that she was on his land, accepting his hospitality, his horse, and here she stood, brazen enough to threaten his hard earned memories. How cruel she was, ignorant of societal niceties and customs. She resisted the urge to roll her eyes, though only through a great effort. As far as she was concerned, this man should be glad she hadn’t simply stolen the horse and rode off with it already. Were they not playing nice, going through this ceremony of asking and the reminding of favors? Hadn’t she proved she was not out to set the whole village on fire by the very fact that Beck had come to him, willingly keeping Yennefer at her side?

“Yes, of course, it was only a joke,” Yennefer said in such a dry voice there would be no pretending to anyone present that this was the truth. “I would hate to learn your sense of humor is as lacking as your wit.” She continued to glare at Abor, but when Beck led her away, Yennefer went easily enough. She was not one to stand by patiently while insulted, to take glares like daggers through her skull, but she also not inclined to start an unnecessary fight, particularly not if it would turn against her the only company she had left. The last thing she wanted was for Beck to change her mind after all Yen had done and how far she’d come just to meet her.

“It was lovely to make your acquaintance,” she said to Abor, making no attempt at all to make her voice sound genuine or to hide the smirk in her expression before she turned on her heels and followed Beck away. Once they had stopped by Beck’s horse, Yen returned to her own and took his reigns, resuming her soft stroking of his mane. “Illegal?” she repeated, amusement dancing in her eyes. At least until she saw how very serious Beck was. “Ah.” So it seemed her companion respected magical law. That was good to know early on. “My apologies.” She inclined her head politely to Beck. “I meant only to ease your burden in returning here. I hate to think your assisting me in this trip will make life at all difficult for you in the future. You must have noticed that your townsfolk have not taken kindly to my presence. A stolen horse from an unremembered assailant would hardly fall upon you shoulders, now would it? If I misjudged, I apologize.” Yennefer could be play nice--be diplomatic--when it suited her, and right now, it suited he very well to keep Beck happy, and she had to admit, that keeping Beck happy made her skin crawl far less than the things she had had to say and do to keep some of the kings she had served pleased.

She had to admit that Beck had a point, however. Beginning their journey with a search party on their heels was not the sort of seamless start she was hoping to make. Yennefer climbed up onto her own horse, clicking her tongue to keep the beast calm, and allowing a bit of magic to flow from her palm and do the same, less he get spooked by the sudden discomfort of Beck’s steed and follow suit. Truthfully, she had not not taken Beck’s reaction as anger, would not have seen that in her words had the horse not reacted. In Yen’s experience, the warning signs of anger took the form of angry seas and thunderstorms, not a slight trickling of ill feeling. She had spent a lifetime avoiding fists and screams and curses, and she had learned to yield her own anger like a sword.

But that sword was one that would remain sheathed as long as possible. It was unexpected, given her generally dark disposition, but Yennefer did not get angry any more than she laughed. Such things were saved for the right time, when she could afford it, when that anger would do her some good, not leave her a step behind. And now was not a time to be angry. So she bit her tongue. She did not like the idea of “swallowing it and moving on” when “it” was the sort of disrespect it had become very clear she would encounter at every twist and turn in this land. But for Beck--well, it was easy enough for Yen to tell herself that she needed Beck happy, needed her trust, and so it was worth doing what she must to keep the woman satisfied. That was all very true, and much easier to focus on than the nagging voice in the back of her head that said, whether she were useful to Yen’s plans or not, Beck was a woman worth respecting and taking care of.

“You’re right, of course. We are like to have far more trouble to come, and I would hate to start off on the wrong foot.” She led her steed forward, stopping only when she was side by side with Beck. “What I do not understand is why they would treat you poorly. I am a stranger, an unknown. But you are a neighbor. This is your home. Why should anyone see you as anything but one of their own?”

#maggicktouched #v: the wither 3

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lady-castleton · 2 years

Text

⸻ 25 Aug 1800 . 5 in the evening . Rotten Row, Hyde Park

Mrs. Henley did not ride.

She herself had never been an avid horsewoman, but the brief reprieve of an hour’s ride under the supervision of just the groom had converted her. The horses and their riders alike were slow and sluggish in the heat, turning the broad avenue into a shifting mosaic of colors and trim from a distance, wreathed in the haze of dust kicked up by the mounts.

It was fortunate, then, that Lord Richards thought himself an accomplished seat and had located her before a quarter of an hour had passed, touching his hat in greeting.

“Lady Castleton, I presume? Gad, what a crush. You won’t mind if I...?” But Richards had already fished a handkerchief out with a dandified flourish and proceeded to mop at his ruddy face, shiny with perspiration.

She bore the subsequent slow and obvious once-over in stoic, if practiced silence, noting how his gaze stuttered on her bandaged arm.

“Damnedest thing, this meeting.” Richards regarded the now damp kerchief with mingled disgust and confusion, dangling it from fingertips as if he did not quite know how to dispose of it. “Didn’t believe it myself when Lady Dower passed the message on. Smacks of an assignation, if I didn’t know better.”

Another up and down scrutiny as they proceeded, the parade of London’s most fashionable oozing down the path like spilled molasses.

“If you hadn’t specified about the feathers in your hat, I wouldn’t have known you,” Richards continued, tones brassy and swaggering, “But I suppose I can’t blame Perry for staying mum about it. Not a comfortable thing, knowing what your school chums likely think about your mother --”

“Stepmother,” she corrected gently.

“Er, that. Yes.” The twisting of the kerchief in his hands betrayed his actual nerves; his horse whickering and shifting uneasily despite their slow pace. “I suppose you wished a meeting for a reason?”

It was a petty sort of vengeance to let the man stew for several moments longer, yellow hair darkened to muddy mousey brown with sweat, before she responded.

“You owe the Viscount a certain amount of money, Lord Richards. The clubs and Lady Dower were simply kind enough to confirm it.”

If he were on foot he would have stumbled; as it was, his horse simply tossed its head in discomfort at his sudden jerking on the reins. “I don’t... Gad, Perry’s never minded that, he knows I’m good for it eventually!”

English was a mongrel of a language, made of more exceptions than rules, but its tenses were wonderfully clear.

“Knew,” Richards amended, sweat rolling down his face, “Knew. God rest his soul.”

She inclined her head in a nod. “Even so, the debt remains.” A pause as she turned the possible options over, before choosing one.

Richards, his false bravado having run out, visibly gulped when she favored him with a smile.

“I would like to know more about my stepson, Lord Richards. Perhaps you would accompany me to the Luncheon at the end of this month? The Sisters of Saint Therese and the Queen are hosting, and I know you have such a heart for fallen women.”

It took a moment or two before he registered her meaning, but before he could respond, she had turned her horse back around and signaled to her groom.

“Three o’clock, Lord Richards. It would be best if you were not late. It is a cause dear to my heart after all.”

She took no small amount of satisfaction in leaving him in the dust.

⸻ end.

#louisa;luncheon #ft. Lord Richards #theseason;luncheon #louisa;self para

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steele-soulmate · 2 years

Text

Tattooed Wings, CHAPTER 6, Peter Steele & OFC, Soulmate AU

SUMMARY: Mary Claire Bradley meets her soulmate- literally- the famous Peter Steele of metal group Type O Negative. But will obstacles including trauma, stalkers, and toxic family members get in the way of their life?

WARNING: mentions of child rape (nothing graphic) PTSD

WORDS: 2041

“What other kind of mischief do you get up to?”

I only smiled at him as I took his giant hands into my tiny fingers and stood on my tiptoes to lean into his frame. He released my hands to wrap an arm around my shoulders.

“Come on,” I breathed, pulling away and taking ahold of his hand yet again as I waved a goodbye to James and Aaron, who were busy getting the stage ready for the next show.

“I think you’ll like this,” I said as I led the way to the onsite stable. I kept my hand on my stomach as I skipped over the grassy ground, my archer’s hat pinned tight to my braided curls as we came up to the stable, where the jousting horses where kept.

“Greetings, my lady!” called out one of the jousters, who was hitching up his horse. “You’ll be on Daisy May for today- is that alright?”

“That’s perfect!” I beamed, leading Peter over to where Daisy May was waiting to be mounted. She whickered and bumped her head against my belly, getting a soft giggle in return.

“Will you be requiring a hand up, my lady?” asked one of the knight’s squires as he passed by carrying a saddle in his arms.

“If I do, I can have my soulmate here help me up!” I chirped, jerking my thumb over to Peter as I set my basket into locker number seven.

“I didn’t know that you rode,” he commented softly as I hoisted my skirts up onto my skirt hitches.

“There’s a lot about me you don’t know,” I responded, grabbing ahold of the saddle horn and hoisting myself up. I felt hands wrapping themselves around my waist as Peter helped me up. “Gramercy,” I said as I settled myself.

“Mary Claire!” cheered wee Remi, skidding into the stable just then. Her younger brother, David, bumped into her back a split second later. “Can we ride with you, please?”

“Come here,” I ordered, readying myself to scoop them into the saddle. Peter beat me to it though, picking up Remi and depositing her behind me and David in front. “Gramercy, Peter!”

“Thank you, Mr. Peter!” beamed Remi, hooking her fingers in my belt. Wee David waved his hand in thanks, his thumb tucked firmly into his mouth as I wrapped one around his front.

“You’re quite welcome,” he chuckled, following as I led the way out of the stable.

“Walk on my right side otherwise you’ll spook her,” I advised, smiling as I nodded to a group of patrons loitering nearby. “Greetings- come see the joust!”

Peter repositioned himself, keeping a hand behind wee Remi as he walked alongside us. I kept one arm wrapped around wee David as I steered Daisy Mae over to the jousting field. I waved to the crowd as I steered the gentle tempered mare over to get miked up. My soulmate followed me, much like a loyal dog, always on the lookout to protect me.

“Test, test, test- can everybody hear me?” I asked, my voice booming once I was miked up. “Clap your hands if you can hear me!”

The audience broke into thunderous applause.

“Welcome, ladies, gentlemen and children of all age to the Jousting Tournament of the New York Renaissance Faire! My name is Mary Claire, and I’ll be your host!” I boomed over the cheers.

As I laid out the rules of the joust, the competing knights on horseback trotted into the arena on horseback and greeted the audience, raising a fist into the air when I called out their names.

“AND NOW, LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, LET THE JOUST BEGIN!” I thundered once everyone understood what the rules were. The crowd erupted loudly and Daisy Mae whickered softly, stepping back from the noise as she tossed her head. Wee David leaned over and patted her neck, cooing softly. Wee Remi shifted behind me, her fingers still looped into my belt.

I smiled as I patted wee David’s head. The four year lad leaned back into my body and I wrapped my arm around him.

“Tá tú slán i mo lámha, a stór,” I murmured softly as the two opposing knights lowered their visors, readied their lances and charged.

~xoXox~

“Wasn’t the joust grand?” I asked wee Remi and David as they were lifted off of Daisy May by my soulmate. The wee ones cheered in response as I swung my leg around and got ready to hop off.

“Easy there now, sweetheart, I got you,” Peter said, his hands on my hips as he gently helped me off. “I got you.”

“Gramercy,” I murmured, burying my face into his sternum. “You’re so good to me- what did I do to deserve you?”

“You’re an angel sent from heaven to walk amongst us unworthy humans,” he said, wrapping his arms around me and just holding me. “If anything, it is I, who am unworthy of having you in my life.”

I giggled as Daisy May was led away by one of the stable hands, fisting my soulmate’s shirt in my hands as his heartbeat thudded into my ear.

THUD THUMP

“My favorite sound,” I muttered, curling my arms around to his back and grabbing a handful of his shirt. He only hummed softly as he cupped the side of my face with the palm of his hand- it didn’t take a genius to guess what he was saying.

“Hmm?” he hummed, pressing me to him.

“Your heartbeat,” I explained. “Your heartbeat is my favorite sound.”

“Mary Claire!”

I pulled away and turned to see Fred, who worked at the onsite bar running up to me, his apron praically falling off of him.

“Mary Claire, there’s a big spat down at the bar!” he panted.

“Following you,” I said, grabbing my basket from locker number seven before sprinting off after him. “He’s with me!” I barked to the man who was checking ID’s as I tore through past him.

The fight was short, but brutel, ending with me knocking out the drunk guy who was brandishing a knife. It was a really easy fight, even though he was armed while I was not- I was sober and pissed.

“No one else here had better be an idiot tonight, do I make myself clear?” I thundered, placing one foot on a chair as I rested a hand on my stomach. “If the belly dancers say ‘No’ respect that! Don’t be an immature little boy who just had his feelings hurt so he has to show off how much of a “manly man” he really is!”

Peter gently dragged me away, chuckling as he delt with my little temper tantrum.

“I swear, men are disgusting animals,” I muttered. “No offence meant.”

“None taken at all, sweetheart,” he chuckled as he eyeballed the drunk, who was being taken away by the police officer on duty for “disorderly conduct” and “public intoxication”. “I’m terrified of you now more than ever- remind me not to piss you off.”

“Good luck with trying to do that,” I cooed, sinking into his hold on me.

“Still…” he nuzzled his nose into the side of my head and I moved closer, sitting myself on his lap and wrapping my arms around his neck. He sucked in a deep breath of air as he wrapped one arm around my waist and cupped the back of my head, gently pressing myself into him.

“When’s the wedding?” the bartender teased us, leaning forward with his elbows on the counter.

“Dún an fuck suas tú coot,” I snarled, tightening my grip on my soulmate. The bartender roared in laughter at my response and continued on with tending to customers and wiping down the bar.

“What did you say?” Peter murmured into my ear.

“I said ‘ shut the fuck up you old coot’ in Irish Gaelic,” I translated. “Don’t tell my mom I dropped the F bomb- she’ll force me to hold a pepper in my mouth for ten minutes and I’m not talking about a ‘whooee it’s kind of warm in here’ peppers, I’m talking about one of those ‘hotter than the seven gates of hell’ peppers.”

Peter’s eyebrow shot up as he pulled back from me. I sat up and placed my hands on his chest, admiring the feeling of his strong muscles under my fingers.

“My nana was raised in a Hispanic household and much of her childhood was passed down to my mom,” I explained, feeling a urge to kiss my soulmate, but I hung back. I gripped the back of his head, my fingers tangling themselves in his neatly braided hair.

He hummed as he pressed our foreheads together. “Irish, huh? How many other languages do you speak?”

“English, ASL, Romanian, French, German and Russian fluently, and I also know bits and pieces of Irish Gaelic, Spanish and Italian,” I shrugged. “My mom quite honestly wasn’t the most supportive of me learning another language so I just said ‘F you’ and so I just learned.”

“Damnit, you really are perfect,” he said, an admiring look in his emerald green eyes.

“No not really,” I shrugged, tearing my eyes away from him. “Anna- she’s my eldest brother Adam’s wife, she’s originally from Ukraine so I learned to speak Russian to make her feel more welcomed. You just should’ve seen the look on her face when I asked her to pass the salt at the dinner table. She looked so happy and we spent most of the night talking in Russian and side eyeing Adam!”

Peter snorted as he drew back and kissed my forehead.

“Ya lyublyu tebya moya malen'kaya golubka,” he breathed into me.

“Golubka?” I asked. “Why little dove?”

“It suits you,” he hummed, bumping his nose behind my ear, making contact with my mermaid. “You like mermaids?”

“Come on, I want to show you something,” I whispered, standing and taking his hand. Loud collective hoots sounded as I led him out of the bar.

~xoXox~

“Look,” I breathed, pointing Peter over to the wall. He squinted his eyes, before taking a step back, a gasp exiting his mouth as a beautiful blonde mermaid swam past us. I giggled as he glanced down at me. “I have a tail and I swim with them sometimes.”

“You do?” Peter asked me as another mermaid swam past, her orange tail glittering under the sunlight.

“I can’t fit into it currently, but it’s so pretty,” I hummed. “I can show it to you later, if you want- or maybe- hold on a minute, I think I have a picture on my Instagram…” I whipped my phone out of my basket and began to scroll through the app.

“Aha, found it!” I grinned, showing Peter the picture. I wore a turquoise tail that looked like it was made of precious jewels and bright orange starfish pasties. I watched as Peter swiped through the photos, the look on his face unreadable.

“You’re a very breathtaking mermaid,” he commented, handing me back my phone and hooking his fingers into his pants. The causal motion brought my attention down to his crotch, where…

“Oh.”

Gramercy~ thank you, Old French? Tá tú slán i mo lámha, a stór, You’re safe in my arms little dear, Irish Dún an fuck suas tú coot, shut the fuck up you old coot, Irish Gaelic Ya lyublyu tebya moya malen'kaya golubka, I love you my little dove, Russian

TAGLISTS ARE OPEN/ ASK BOX IS OPEN/ REQUESTS ARE OPEN/ PLOT BUNNIES ARE WELCOMED

If you liked this, then please consider buying me a coffee HERE It only costs $3!!!

PETER STEELE TAGLIST

@starchild0985

#Peter Thomas Ratajczyk #Josh Silver #Kenny Hickey #Johnny Kelly #Mary Claire Bradley (OFC)#Peter Steele #Type O Negative #Heavy metal #Soulmate AU #Age gap romance #Amut #Matching tattoos soulmate AU #Tattoos #Mentions of child rape (nothing graphic)#PTSD

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rcreveal · 1 month

Text

Spring Cleaning

RCReveal

Summary:

The Whicker Street friends are busy with spring cleaning in this post S3 speculation when something odd starts to happen to Eric and Muriel. Everyone comes together to help out and enjoy the beautiful spring day.

Work Text:

Nina sat in Maggie's record shop writing in her “Coffee journal” having entrusted Give me Coffee or Give me Death to Eric for the afternoon. Every now and then she'd look up at Maggie bustling about carrying crates of vinyl from place to place and reorganizing the displays while the vintage jukebox played through a refreshed playlist.

The shop bell jangled and Maggie called out warmly, “Hello Muriel! How are you today?” as the scrivener angel entered the record shop carrying two steaming mugs.

“I am doing very well and I am bringing you these drinks from Eric!” they eyed Nina a little nervously while maintaining a blinding smile.

Smiling back gently, Maggie exclaims, “Is that lavender?” as she reaches for her mug. Nina scowls and scribbles some more.

“This one is for you, Nina!” Muriel holds out the mug to Nina. “There are a combination of 37 different herbs, spices, and coffee varieties! All with a ‘spring’ theme.” Taking the mug warily from Muriel, Nina sniffs, and her face goes stony before she takes a sip, “Hhhhhrrrgg,” she swallows hard, “How did he make a coffee drink that tastes like a wet sheep field? I can taste the muddy wool. Eck!” She reaches desperately towards Maggie who hands over her lavender mint tea. Nina gulps desperately and sighs, “See, that's perfectly balanced and spring themed and he made it spot on, exact water temperature and everything for maximal extraction of the aromatics.” Muriel is watching everything wide eyed. Nina cocks her head to the side, “How come you're delivering these and not Eric?” she asks sharply.

“Oh! Because he says that when you tell him how you feel about the drinks he gets worried you'll discorporate him! “

Nina looked slightly aghast, “He works in my shop. I don't discorporate beings that work in my shop!”

Maggie puts in, “There was Sophie…”

“I didn't discorporate Sophie!”

“You did make her disappear from the whole neighborhood for nearly three months when you told her how you felt about her service. You can see where Eric might get some curious ideas…”

“I…wouldn't…why?! Oh, I have to brush my teeth. The mud aftertaste!” Nina looked desperately at Maggie who just pointed at the little washroom in back. Nina scrambles over to it and they hear water running. Nina calls back. “I'll go talk to him! Eww, eck!”

Muriel takes a little sip of the abandoned coffee drink, and makes a thoughtful face, before turning back to Maggie.

"Maggie, what's everyone doing?” Muriel asks curiously.

Maggie takes in the shop and what she can see of Whickber Street, replies, “How do you mean?”

Looking at the assorted crates all over the shop, Muriel says, “Well, you are moving the records from place to place and reorganizing the order of everything. Nina is making a new drinks list. Mr Brown put carpets with different colors in the front of the shop. Aziraphale cleaned his shop windows and he has gotten out a ladder and paint!” Muriel points along the shop front towards the door to A Z Fell and Co book shop.

“It's spring cleaning, Muriel. After being shut in all winter, people like to tidy up and change things around. I like to listen to different music in the springtime than I listen to in the wintertime, so I'm pulling out my favorite spring music. Want to help?”

“Oh yes! I would like to listen to ‘spring' music and reorganize the shop!” Muriel burbles happily, “Aziraphale doesn't like to move the books around very much at all,” Muriel confides as they pick up a crate and follow Maggie.

After a few rounds of toothpaste and urgent mouth wash gargling, Nina stalks out of Maggie's shop to reassure Eric that she's not going to discorporate him if she doesn't like his coffee offerings while Muriel and Maggie freshen up the record displays.

“OH!” Suddenly Muriel cries, and scrunches their face and shoulders.

“Are you alright, Muriel?” asks Maggie. “What happened?”

“I felt…in my back!” they try to point at their back, “I've never felt something like this!” Muriel shimmied their shoulders against their jacket. “It prickles? And I want to rub it with something rough? OH! It is really, very persistent!” Muriel is dancing on the spot.

“You have an itch on your back? Can't you reach it?” Maggie asks while Muriel tries desperately to reach their hands to the middle of their back between their shoulders.

“May I scratch it for you?” Maggie offers.

“Yes! Please!?” begs Muriel.

As soon as Maggie starts to scratch, Muriel relaxes and sighs contentedly. After a normal sort of time for a scratch as between friends, Maggie stops.

“Why did you stop!!!” Muriel barks at Maggie. “Oh! I'm so sorry,” Muriel apologizes hands to mouth to an astonished Maggie, ”It just itches so, so, BADLY !!!”

“O-kay.” Maggie starts scratching again, “Let's just go see Mr. Fell, shall we?” Muriel nods, and apparently will agree to anything if the scratching doesn't stop.

Mr. Fell is refreshing the paint on his sign wearing some sort of painter's smock over his usual dapper shirt and waistcoat while Crowley is fussing at him to hire someone to freshen up the shop sign while steadfastly holding the ladder and passing up tools and supplies.

“But I like doing it myself, Crowley, really I do! It reminds me of illuminating manuscripts!” Aziraphale beams while he carefully applies gold paint to the sign that he's been lovingly sanding and preparing.

“Crowley? Mr Fell? I think something is wrong with Muriel? Do you think you could pause for a bit?” Maggie asked.

Mr Fell looked down from the ladder, pot of paint and brush in hand to see Muriel's upturned face scrunching again, just before Maggie started scratching again.

“Oh you poor dear, I'll be right down!” Aziraphale caps his paint pot and wipes off the paint brush on a cloth before tucking the paintbrush above his ear and handing the pot towards Crowley. Who doesn't take it right away because he's watching Nina shepherd Eric towards them while Eric urgently scratches his back with two wooden spoons.

“Something’s wrong, “ Nina tells the group, “Eric snapped at me and he won't stop scratching his back. Fix him.”

Aziraphale asks Crowley, “Do you have your kit with you, dear?”

“S’actually in the Bentley. I have a few I'd hoped you'd help me with. Plus I'd noticed you might need a bit of help.” Aziraphale smiles tenderly at Crowley.

Aziraphale directs the others from up on the ladder, “Please take Muriel and Eric up to the rooftop. Crowley and I will be up directly,” Aziraphale dismounts the ladder and grasps Eric's shoulder, “Help is on the way! Off you go!” ushering Nina, Maggie, Muriel, and Eric into the bookshop.

“I'll meet you up top in fifteen, angel,” Crowley says, plucking the paintbrush out from behind Aziraphale's ear and handing it to him. “I'll just put away this ladder and grab my kit.”

On the rooftop the spring breeze teases at being as warm as the bright sunshine promises, which is why Eric and Muriel are shivering a bit in their undershirts, Nina and Maggie having checked the two’s backs for anything that might explain the terrible itch.

“Good thought, Nina, Maggie, but that's not the skin that's causing the problem,” Crowley sauntered over to them in his black racerback undershirt and black jeans. He snaps on the outside restaurant heater that sits like a lamppost in the middle of their group of chairs.

“Muriel, Eric,” Aziraphale calls, “Please let your wings out, so we can take a look,” Aziraphale follows behind Crowley, also, very uncharacteristically, in his undervest.

“Bu-but, won't the humans see us?” Eric asks.

“Nah,” Crowley works a little miracle, “they might see some pigeons, but those are dead common, right? Go ahead. ‘S alright,” Crowley encourages.

When they still stare at Crowley owl-eyed, Aziraphale says, “And it won't itch nearly as much,”

That does it. Suddenly great black wings lift behind Eric and white ones arch over Muriel.

“Why do their wings look moth-eaten?” Maggie asks, concerned. And indeed, swaths of feathers seem to be missing from both Muriel and Eric’s great wings.

“Oh, it's just a bit of spring molting! It’s more common in youngsters to have so many at the same time!” Aziraphale reassures. “Muriel, Eric, please sit down, my dears,”

“It's the pin feathers coming in, yah see?” Crowley points out patches of what look like sharp quills. Lifting Eric's feathers gently, Crowley points out the irritated skin around the new feathers, “They itch like the devil!” he says sitting behind Eric and unzipping a case. Eric's feathers puff up nervously at the sound.

“What’re you gonna do?” Eric asks anxiously, as his wings tuck in tight to his back and slick down, one kohl lined eye flashing too much white over his shoulder.

Looking kindly at the nervous demon, Aziraphale asks, “Crowley, would you please see to my tertiaries? I never seem to be able to reach…” he sits down and his great white wings blossom out of his back like cherry blossoms on fast forward.

In close to his back, the angel points out a few pin feathers, even touching them puts his arm at an awkward angle.

“May I have your feather oil, angel?” Crowley takes an antique atomizer from the angel and sprays it on the skin around the new feathers, Aziraphale hums happily while Crowley massages the oil in. Conversationally, Crowley points out a feather quill that's red. “That one's still growing. But, these two,” he starts to roll the chalky white quill between his fingers until it shatters and the feather underneath can unfurl, “are ready” he brushes away the remaining feather sheath dust. The second just loosens enough that Crowley can cautiously slip it off. Aziraphale says, “that one is always a bit sensitive, thank you, dear.”

“It's like my Nana’s parrot!” remarks Maggie brightly, “He gets so tetchy when his pin feathers come in where he can't reach. He really loves being preened, but he was nervous about it when we first got him,” she's studiously not looking at Eric.

Nina remarks, “I get how you can tell when Mr Fell's feathers are ready, but what about Crowley's? His feathers are black!”

“Crowley, your turn,” Aziraphale says standing.

Crowley unfurls long slender wings, feathers deep ebony black. “Is it the usual patch?” Aziraphale’s hands are already stroking through Crowley's feathers uncovering a patch of black-sheathed new growth. Crowley sighs and nods sagging onto the seat Aziraphale just left, the demon’s legs straddling it and arms wrapped tight around the back. The angel applies oil with an ancient metal oiling pump that makes a ‘tonk-tunk, tonk-tunk’ noise with every pump. “I have to be more careful with Crowley's feathers,” he explains.

“Ngk. That one's not ready, angel!” Crowley calls out hunching over the chair. Aziraphale immediately let's go and tries the next pin feather. Crowley relaxes again when the next feather is released. Reaching back, Crowley can just reach a few of the pin feathers.

“This one and this one. But NOT this one. Right?”

Aziraphale gently removes the itchy pin feather covering and avoids the blood feathers.

“This reminds me of when my mum would take my sisters and me to get our hair braided,” remarks Nina.�� “I'll be right back,” she says and heads for the stairs.

“Muriel, I used to help my Nana’s parrot with his pin feathers. May I help you?” Maggie asks.

“Thank you, Maggie, I would like that very much!” Smelling the different oils, they choose Crowley's and hand it to Maggie. “This one smells like cinnamon Altoids!” Aziraphale hides a chuckle when Crowley grumbles, “And other occult things…”

Muriel looks over at Eric who's still looking anxious. Sitting facing him, Muriel reaches out, “I'm a little nervous. Will you hold my hands?” Muriel asks. “I've never done this before. Have you?” Their warm almond eyes catching his black ones.

“Once,” he whispers, eyes shiny, crossing his arms and tucking his hands in his armpits. Aziraphale and Crowley exchange a glance. Crowley kneels in front of Eric, murmurs to him, “It won't be like that, like after the f-f-Fall. When every feather coming in itched, then burned, then ached, no matter what you did…” he stares off over the rooftops and Aziraphale grasps Crowley's shoulder. Crowley clears his throat, “Point out the ones that are just itching like mad. Those are the ones that are ready. Anything hurts, you sing out and we stop, instantly. Ok?” Crowley offers, but Eric looks away from them all, wings and skin shivering.

Aziraphale suggests, “Why don't you try one for yourself, Eric. You can reach these here.” Aziraphale points to the feathers further out to the tips of Eric’s wings. Eric reaches out tentatively, rolls the pin feather between his fingers until the covering breaks in his hand and an iridescent black feather emerges.

A huge grin spreads across Eric’s face and his shivering wings settle, “You weren’t havin’ me on!” He reaches out and disintegrates sheath after sheath.

Looking at Muriel, he says, “I need to do this myself for a little. ‘Kay?”

“Okay,” Muriel says tentatively, “but I really am a little nervous! It tickles!” Aziraphale looks at them kindly and comes over to grasp their hands while Maggie continues to work on Muriel’s feathers humming to herself.

“Refreshments!” calls Nina, arriving back on the rooftop with two large pitchers of coral-colored beverage and glasses on a tray. Filling the glasses she brings them around, “My grandmother used to make us this punch when my sisters and I would get our hair braided. It was our special treat, since it took hours to get the braids done,” she brought Aziraphale, Maggie, and Muriel glasses.

Walking over to Eric who is working on his own feathers, Nina says, “My sister’s scalp was so tender, the only thing that kept her going was the promise of hair braiding punch. I thought you’d like it, too.” Crowley accepts the punch and after tasting it says, “Refreshing, and the rum is nice too.”

Aziraphale swirls his, “Mine doesn’t have rum!”

“You don’t like rum. Yours has champagne in,” explains Nina.

“Oh!” Aziraphale says approvingly and takes another sip.

Maggie asks dubiously, “Your grandmother gave you this?”

“Well, Grandmother made the punch. My sister, Mary, started to put the alcohol in when we were older,” Nina explained.

Eric tastes his, smiles a small smile up at Nina, who says, “Gotta get my best barista sorted. Let me know if you need a refill, or a hand. Some stuff, you need a friend to help with, ok?”

Muriel stretches out their other wing, “Could you do the other wing? IT ITCHES SO BADLY I WANT TO SCREAM!” Nina heads over to Muriel and starts working on the pin feathers with Maggie, eliciting some relieved noises. But the scrivener just can’t stop squirming uncomfortably.

Eric, always on alert for potential discorporation, suddenly stops preening. Urgently, he says, “Crowley!!” and dives towards Nina.

“Uh-oh,” Crowley intones, but he’s already in mid-dive towards Maggie.

The demons encase their human friends in layers of black feathers just before Muriel stands, hands clenched and screams in a voice that's become a chorus that covers at least five octaves,

“MAKE IT STOP !!!!!”

Aziraphale just has time to deflect the scream up into the heavens within a sweep of his white wings.

“My!” Aziraphale takes a deep steadying breath, “Muriel, I hadn’t thought of getting rid of all the pin-feathers at the same time like that, my dear!” placing a guiding hand on Muriel’s shoulder to help them sit back down. “Crowley, Eric, you can let Nina and Maggie up now.” Muriel is halfway down a pitcher of punch when Aziraphale turns back to the young scrivener. “And that will be enough of that!” he plucks the pitcher out of their hands.

“It doesn’t itch anymore,” Muriel smiles at everyone, a little dazed. Then swaying slightly, they say, “That punch made me tired.” They yawn and plop over on a lounger, snoring gently like a toddler who's just succumbed to nap time.

Emerging from a cocoon of Eric's black feathers, Nina leans over and bumps Eric’s shoulder with hers before he can slip away, “Eric, that was quick thinking. Thanks for looking out for me and Maggie. Again. You don’t need to be so nervous around me! I’m not going to discorporate you for making coffee that tastes like a sheep field! That was genius! Disgusting, but genius!”

Maggie has popped her head out from between Crowley’s wings, unfazed. Smiling sweetly, she pecks him on the cheek, “Thanks, Crowley!” and practically skips off to insert herself to bump Eric’s other shoulder.

“That was really nice of you to think of us, again! You do such a good job at both of our shops! Really, we only wanted to discorporate you when you were attacking the Bookshop with the other demons! Not now! You’re our friend!”

“Oh. Yeah. That makes sense.” Eric says ducking his head.

Crowley hand to his cheek muses, “We bise ?” before shaking himself and joining Aziraphale to try and assess what just happened to their little part of London with Muriel’s itchy outburst.

“I can’t sense anything wrong, angel. You?” Crowley shrugs.

“Nor I, but,” Aziraphale stretches a wing and runs his hand over it, “I think Muriel took care of all my preening for a bit. You?”

Crowley stretches his wings for Aziraphale’s inspection, purring a little when the angel scratches the place where the wing meets his back.

“Not a feather out of place, my dear,” remarks the angel.

Nina glances up from where she’s been deep in discussion about what exactly Eric had done to create his “sheep field of spring” coffee. “Eric, what about you? Are you still itchy?”

Maggie asks, “May we help if you still have an itchy spot?”

Eric stretches his wings again and Maggie catches her breath, clasping her hands to resist the temptation to touch his iridescent black feathers, “Oh, they’re lovely, Eric!” Maggie exclaims.

“Huh, they don’t itch and it dint hurt to preen them,” he shakes the feathers back into shape and then his wings fold themselves away into whatever place they exist parallel to this world.

“They’re kindov a lot,” he says a bit self-consciously.

Nina presses her lips together in a line, “Eric, I'm going to tell you what I told my nephew, Jaime. You're not too much. Not to me.”

“Not to us,” Maggie puts in.

Nina looks meaningfully at Crowley, who sagely contributes, “Huh?”

Aziraphale stepped in smoothly and said, “You're welcome to come up here whenever you like to stretch out." Looking over at Muriel, he chuckles and adds, “Or nap.”

“Come on!” Crowley challenges, “You haven't lived til you've lounged about in the spring sunshine with your wings out!” Crowley picks up a glass of punch again and raises the glass to the company, “You should try it, Eric.”

“Could you make a coffee that tastes like the feel of spring sunshine on your shoulders and the wind in your wings?” asks Maggie, “I’d love that,” she reaches out her arms and raises her face to the sunshine.

With the ghost of a mischievous smile, Eric unfurls his wings again, “Gotta do some research, before I make that sortov drink,” he swipes the pitcher of rum-fortified punch out from under Crowley's questing grasp and refills his own glass to Crowley's amused snort.

Affecting a serious tone, Aziraphale toasts, “To research!”

The group, except for the slumbering Muriel, who got a jump on napping in spring sunshine, raise their glasses, “Research!” then mostly break off into chuckles as they skive off to enjoy the spring day, spring cleaning forgotten.

#good omens fanfic #neil gaiman #fluff and humor #ineffable husbands #protective aziraphale #protective crowley #crowley loves aziraphale #aziraphale loves crowley #aziraphale & crowley & eric & maggie & muriel & nina #friendship #fluff #post season3 #maggie & nina #short one shot #mild hurt/comfort #ineffable idiots

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