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keravnous · 2 months

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diet mountain dew; john wick/fem!reader (smut, 18+)

dating john wick - the playlist

The Boogeyman is out to get you. Little does he know, that you too are willing to do quite a bunch of things just to stay alive.

warnings: blood, guns, knives, injuries, physical violence/fighting, assassination attempt; dub-con, rough sex, unprotected sex, fingering, oral (female receiving), choking, dirty talk, spanking, a lot of manhandling bc for the love of god he doesn't know how to be soft anymore, gun kink, knife kink, size kink, strength kink, squirting, body worship if you blink, is this hate-fucking? idk; john has a horse cock change my mind; john is in his 50s, the reader is in her 20s; set somewhere after the series i guess? (I refuse to accept he's dead); problematic family relationship as a plot device; let's all collectively ignore the fact that he would actually never touch another woman or even dare to catch the smallest of feelings again; john gets off on the violence

word count: 10,6 k

thank you mel for a) listening to my ramblings and b) reading a good chunk of the first third of this dumpster fire and still going nuts about it, kissies and thank you v for listening to my keanu ramblings without losing faith in me

You wonder, if praying will help you. Probably not.

The sound of carnage, screams and gunshots in the hallway abruptly stops. You hear the assailant's heavy footsteps echoing off the floorboards outside of your hotel room mere seconds before the door bursts open, flies out of its hinges and rattles to the ground, wood creaking and breaking, splinters flying everywhere.

There had been a hit out on you for two days and every single soldier in your father's militia was ready to defend your life with their own.

Literally. You can tell by the man entering your suite.

You can tell by just how much he is covered in blood. You can tell by the way it drips down his forehead and how it soaks his white shirt - even the soles of his shoes creak with it. You can tell by the way he is totally and utterly drenched in red red red, and because you are certain it is not his.

They literally gave their life for you. The thought hits you like a blow to the head. People have died because of you. Fathers, brothers, sons. You recall your last conversation with your own father. They want us dead, they put out a contract on us - you had never seen him so nervous, so disheveled. What does that mean - his anxiety had been washing over you in seeping hot waves, sending cold shivers down your spine. It means, I need you out of the house - now.

Nausea bubbles in your stomach as the man now approaches you, casually strolls into the suite with his finger on the trigger of the gun dangling from his hand and you stare back at him - a deer in the headlights, frozen by fear in the eyes of its deadly predator. One of your father's men jumps from his cover, fires a shot and gets hit back with one straight between his eyes. It happens so quickly, that you can't turn your head away. You see the bullet piercing his forehead, blood splattering as soon as it exits the skull on the other side. His head flies back a little, and then his body goes limp, slack, as he falls to the ground with a heavy thud.

You want to scream. You want to vomit. You want to run. But there is nowhere to run to, nowhere to hide from him.

There's only one soldier left with you in the suite now and he is hiding around the corner, near the bathroom. The stranger - the assassin, the killer - does not lower the gun again, and does not let his eyes stray from you as he carefully enters the room. You feel terribly exposed, dressed only in your negligée, not daring to move.

Now, that the dim light of the suite's living room strikes his face, you can finally see him, see the man who has come to end you. He is older than you, maybe nearly twice your age, with dark hair and even darker eyes, matching his black suit. Lean and athletic, chest heaving slightly with physical exhaustion. The Boogeyman.

You do not know who or what you had expected, what cruel and dreadful images your brain had conjured up in the past 48 hours - 48 frightful hours of being moved around from hideout to hideout by your father's men, not staying in one place longer than necessary - but it certainly was not that. Not him. He is a lot more handsome than his reputation has led on. Seeing him on the subway around rush hour you would have never suspected him to be in this business. He looks nice. And that is exactly what makes him dangerous.

You have heard his name before. Echoing from the walls. Baba Yaga. Whispered with both: fear and respect. The Boogeyman. Blurted out: like a curse or like a blessing. Mister Wick: like redemption, like damnation. Jonathan, the king's son walking the earth as the devil.

John. The sound of his name is oddly human - disturbingly human - for someone looking as calm and collected, focused and concentrated as he does right now, while being drenched in blood and pointing a gun at you.

You must have said his name out loud, because his eyebrows twitch irritatedly, a movement so quick you barely missed it - must've sound desperate too, then.

Vision zeroing in on the barrel of his gun, your hands clutch the sofa's edge. There is so much adrenaline pumping through your veins right now that it freezes your limbs, has your ears ringing. The only thing responding to your brain fully are your eyes, and they snap away from the gun and over to the remaining soldier. It's a quick look, not even a second, but the hitman seems to recognize it and - with near inhumane speed - flicks his gun, and fires two shots. Blood splatters against the white door as the shots pin the soldier's body against it, and is it finally drops to the ground heavily it leaves a nasty trail, all wet and sticky and red.

Could be you.

You want to scream, but your body does not belong to you anymore, does not respond to your commands. It is a desperate, cruel sound that leaves your throat instead as you flinch with the sound of the gun being fired.

"Let's make this quick" his voice is gravelly and rough, like he has seen a thousand grim things and the pain of it has etched its way into his throat, left a nasty mark on every tone that ever dared to cross after.

That is when your fight or flight suddenly kicks in. Well, more specifically, it kicks in while he is speaking, as he starts to swap the empty clip of his gun.

He underestimates you. Everyone does. Your father, your brother. The countless men lying dead littered across the hotel's 25th floor. It will be his mistake.

You latch forward, grabbing the vase from the coffee table in front of you. The weight of it in your hand drags you down.

With all the strength you can muster, which is quite a lot considering the massive amounts of adrenaline that are currently amping up your body - you throw it at him. It connects with his forehead sharply; a deep, irritated noise bursting from his throat as it crashes, splinters and falls to the floor.

You are braver, braver than you should be as your assault does not end there, your body pushing you forward, leaping over the table and crashing into his broad shoulders.

I will not die today

Body ramming into his, he stumbles, as your fist connects with his chin. You have only been partially trained in hand-to-hand combat, after pleading your brother for months until he eventually gave in. Sadly, he wasn't nearly as thorough and honest with it as he was training his drug dealer and gun runners. But now, it is the only thing you can rely on.

There is nothing else; no one else left alive in that building who might be able to help you. It is up to you. So, you might as well try.

And Oh, does desperation fire up your blood.

I will not die today

The diversion does not last long and he - John John John only human only human only human - grabs you by you waist hard, fingers digging into your flesh and into the expensive silk, before he slams your body into the ground. All air leaves your lungs with a dull sound erupting from your chest, just as pain blooms around your ribs.

You cough and he looks down at you, confusion making his brows twitch, before cold-hearted determination takes over once more. John aims his gun at you once more, pulls back the hammer and you do not even think about it, your leg rising as you kick against his hand. The shot misses, buries itself deep into the expensive carpet a few inches next to your skull. You have no time to do either: panic or sigh in relief; instead, you deliver him a kick to his stomach, fighting yourself back onto your feet, punching him straight in the face.

John grunts and grabs your wrist, but you see it coming and throw yourself into his wide frame, wrapping your other arm around his back and thus hooking it underneath his right shoulder, dislocating his arm and preventing him from aiming his gun at you. You claw onto him as he twists your arm close to his stomach, while you wrap your legs around him, making it harder for John to shake you off.

I will not die today

You kick and dig the heel of your foot into his thighs and the back of his knees and he grunts and buckles a little, but turns wild and relentless quicker than you can blink, throws the two of you into the next wall. You gasp sharply as your back connects with the large mirror, splinters digging into your back - not deep enough to actually cut skin, but it stings nonetheless, the impact making you dizzy.

Sharp pain shoots through your back and your neck, but you are not willing to give up yet, as raw energy and rage and desperation surges through your body - one of your legs coming loose and your knee hitting his stomach repeatedly, making John grunt in pain and you use your momentum to dig your hand deep into his back, holding onto him and then swirling out of the deadlock he has got you in, jumping his back like a monkey.

His gun clatters to the ground and for a split second, the room falls silent. Then, roaring like an animal gone wild, he grabs your calves and slams his back into the nearest wall, has you screaming with the impact. You can feel blood pouring from your nose, feel it trickling down your lips.

I will not die today

John is stronger than you are, so so much stronger - the apex predator: all muscle, unbreakable focus and the sheer will to kill. But you are not only a little quicker; you also really want to stay alive. It is a force he rarely encounters. And quite frankly, it irritates him.

He may be older than you, taller than you and stronger than you but you have something he does not have: you actually still got something to lose.

And you fight like it, too. All scratches and sharp yells, as you punch and scrabble at his shoulders and tear at his tie, trying to strangle him with it. John is struggling against it, gasping for air and winding beneath your assault and then his grip around your claves grows hard like iron, seconds before he pulls - throws you over his head like you weigh nothing. You land on the expensive carpet with a heavy thud - groaning as you crash onto your side with sharp pain shooting through your shoulder, down your ribcage.

I will not die today

John sputters and stumbles forward, looking for his gun but you are quicker, kicking it away with your foot. It clatters back onto and slides over the wooden floorboards.

For a second you consider your choices, fighting yourself back onto your feet but John - a practiced and seasoned fighter - beats you to it and lands a blow to your upper back, sends you back down with him - a mess of sputtering saliva and painful groans. His body topples onto yours and he quickly rolls the two of you over the floor.

John is heavy and warm on top of you, as he keeps you in a tight headlock, your chest pressed to the floor and neck bend in a painful angle. He presses his strong forearm down onto your windpipe and you choke and cough, feet kicking, hands dragging across the wood, clawing at it feebly.

You can feel his breath on your cheek, hot and damp. You can feel his torso pressing against your back as he kneels behind you.

I will not die today

Mustering all your remaining strength, you trash against him, ramming your backside into his stomach. He grunts and for a split second, his grip loosens. It is all you need. Throwing your elbow back, you hit him in the chest and he caves in.

You cough, crawling forward and then scrambling back onto your feet, one of your negligée’s straps falling down your shoulder in the process. You hastily pull it back up, seconds before John launches a cascade of punches onto you.

A few of them hit you as you try to block them; dull pain igniting in your body, blooming in your face and arms. Your breath goes heavy as you stumble backwards. You cannot do this. There is no way. You just physically can't.

He is stronger. Taller. Heavier. Deadlier. Your body and every single muscle, bone, nerve in it aches and you wheeze but he is already onto you again, half-tackles you and grabs your waist, ready to smash you back onto the ground.

You cling onto him with all your remaining strength, struggling against his huge frame, wrapping your hands around his neck in an attempt to get him to stumble.

His hair tingles on your naked arms. Oh wait --

Tearing at his hair - which has him grunting in both, pain, and irritation at the unusual attempt - you clumsily pull yourself up onto his shoulders, cutting his face right above his eyebrow with your nails in the process until you finally wrap one leg around his throat and close it around there tightly, choking him. John tries to pull you off him and succeeds after quite the tussle, only to find your frame clinging to him, legs and arms wrapping around his body, hands scratching and feet kicking.

I will not fucking die today

In an attempt to either get rid of each other or submit the last blow, to finally kill the other, you two swirl through the room - a deadly dance of torn skin, smashed glass panes and mirrors, bruises and cuts. Somewhere in between kicks and punches, he managed to pick up his gun - and right now, you are mustering all of your exhausted strength to prevent the barrel from pressing against your skull.

Eventually, John crashes your bodies through a large wooden door, and is not quick enough - unable to stop his own oxe-like strength - to stop himself from stumbling into the room. The two of you only come a halt as his knees hit something soft and ironically that is what finally topples both of you over, landing onto the mattress of your bedroom with a soft thud and deep, exhausted grunts.

Your ears ring, and you are ready to lash out at him again despite the physical exhaustion, to strike him square across the face, as --

There is something hard pressing against your crotch.

The world falls silent.

No. No, there's no fucking way. It's got to bea hidden weapon. Must be.

But clearly, it is not. There, between your spread legs, his hard cock presses snugly against your panty-clad pussy.

And he just feels so huge - mouth-watering huge - that your body responds in its own way, hips snapping up, stuttering against the hard bulge. John lets go off a shaky, ragged breath, hand still clutching his gun. And you know, that this is your window.

Feeling the warmth that his body and his hard dick are radiating through his expensive suit, you roll your hips once - a languid, slow motion, rubbing your pussy over his bulge.

And he groans. A deep, primal sound that sounds a little coarse. John is looking at you, starring you down, but there is a shadow dancing over his eyes, turning his brown eyes into deep and dark, black pits that gives him away.

He is horny. The Boogeyman is fucking horny. You would laugh, if the realization wasn't knocking all air straight from your lungs. Because it just another reminder, proof of what he actually is: human.

And what a sight he is to see - eyes turning darker every second, his chest heaving with every breath and making it seem like his shirt is going to pop a button or two any second now, his cock prodding against its restraints and your clothed cunt.

It makes you want him. The thought leaves you dizzy, makes you gasp.

Apparently, that is all he needs to roll his hips back into yours. And that - that is just unfair. It's playing dirty. It's, it's -- His dick feels huge as it trails along your folds, has the muscles in your abdomen clenching.

"Fuck", you breathe, a little overwhelmed with and helpless at the sudden surge of lust that ignites your body, the wetness pooling between your legs.

John is not saying anything, just stares you down while he continues to slooowly roll his hips into yours, grinds his cock against your cunt. Your pelvis twitches upward as you start to meet his movements, and then you can hear it. He let's go of a deep breath, and it sounds like the faintest moan.

You need to hear more of that. You need more of him, your cunt aching and hole clenching around nothing already.

"John", and this time you say his name - consciously - it sounds a different way of desperate: your voice reduced to a small whisper, torn at the edges by a wanton whimper ripping from your throat.

If it throws him off-guard he does not show it, does not let you see it. Instead, he grabs your chin hard, gaze locking with yours. Dark pupils blown wide, swallowing the honey-brown of his eyes, and your breath hitches.

"Yeah?", he rasps, and it does not take more than one long look from you for him to lean in, to press his lips onto yours.

The kiss tastes of blood and adrenaline and doom, and you relish in it. Relishing the way his lips move against yours and his beard tickles a little, relishing how his tongue presses into your mouth. It feels like he is eating you whole, licking into your mouth, one hand dancing over your waist - featherlight, like he doesn't know how to touch a body without hurting someone, destroying someone.

I will not die today, motherfucker

Your whole body now sings with it, the security of an impending victory, as you roll your hips into his once more, your tongue now licking back into his mouth. For a second you think about how to strike again, now that he is seemingly distracted, but all will to fight leaves your body as one of his hands brushes over your knee, wanders further and eventually rests on your thigh.

The touch is electrifying and then his hand grows braver, his movements more certain, as he grabs your thigh, feels you up. It happens so suddenly, that you gasp into the kiss.

John parts from you, his lips a little plush already. "Oh God", you whisper as you stare Death Turned Human straight in the face, not a single thought remaining in your skull despite your lust.

He doesn't speak, as he gently let’s go off your leg and straightens back up and for a second you think he is going to hurt you, with the way his brows are furrowed - but he doesn't.

Instead, he moves in, right over your comparably tiny frame - a mountain of a man. John kneels above you, his weight pinning you down while he straddles your thighs and Jesus fucking Christ - what a sight he is to see.

Dark locks falling into his forehead, a little sticky with sweat and the bits of blood from the cut your nails gave him moments ago - right above his left eyebrow, still lazily trickling down into his lashes. His chest heaves with ragged breaths, as he hastily gets rid of his jacket, carelessly drops it to the ground. His black button-down clings to his muscular body underneath his waistcoat and his equally as muscular thighs pin you down to the bed, black fabric nearly tearing at the seams. And then there is his hard cock.

It looks as huge as it felt, with the way it bulges his pants, the outline of it clearly visible as it buckles proudly against its restraints. You are certain, you will not be able to close your hand around it fully - not a chance.

One of his hands - the one lacking a finger, which you only now notice and what sends shivers down your spine - wanders over your body, pulling your negligée down in the process, right tit spilling out of the soft silk. He immediately grabs it, cups it with his large hand and squeezes. You mewl, marveling at just how big his hand is, just as his whole body is in comparison to you. His fucked-up finger digs into the flesh, sending shivers down your spine.

John's hand gropes your tit, before he impatiently pulls the neckline down roughly. You sigh, arousal shooting down your spine and tingling in your lower belly, as two of his fingers nudge your nipple, pinch it.

He watches your face intently, as he continues to grope you, rolls your nipple between his fingers. You mewl, breath accelerating a little but it is just not enough and you buck your hips upwards. John grunts in, what you assume is an approving manner, and let's go off your tit, reaches to his belt at his loins.

Quickly pulling a knife from God-knows-where exactly, a sharp blade enters your vision.

You blink, panic seeping through your lust and your legs twitch a little with fear. If John notices it, he neither shows it nor does he say anything, just moves the knife closer to your body.

The blade shines in the dim light as it dances over your exposed thighs carefully, the metal cooly pressing against your skin, before he flicks it and cuts your negligée open. The thin, soft fabric cleanly cut in half it now lazily slides from your aching body, falls to its sides. Your chest heaves, shivers running down your arms and back.

It happens so quickly that you can only blink. As your brain finally catches up with your eyes, you come to realize that he is holding a real fucking tactical knife. You have thrown one once - they are sharp as hell and deadlier than a bullet. The sound of fabric tearing easily, like paper, proves your point.

And John's movements with the blade are so fast that your breath hitches, a little afraid he might cut you. But he does not, instead, he quickly pulls the torn silk off you and away from under you, carelessly tosses it into the dark of the room.

The edge of the blade dances over your skin and you do not dare to breathe, as he trails it up and down your curves, gently nudges your nipples. "I could kill you", he says calmly and then, in lightning speed, presses the blade into the crook of your neck. Your head sinks back into the mattress, in an instinct to flee the sharp edge.

All it does is to expose your neck further and something gleams in John's eyes, as he presses the sharp tip down slowly, carefully nudging your skin with it. The metal is cold and hard and sharp and your breath hitches. Just a little bit more and it might burst your skin, draw blood.

But, to your own confusion, you do not feel threatened anymore. Oddly enough, your nerves tingle with excitement. You blame it on the already high levels of adrenaline that still pump through your veins, rushing back and forth from your brain and your lungs, but a small voice inside of your head whisper gently, deviously, that you know That's not it. And he knows it, too.

It's in his eyes as well, the sheer excitement of it all, the fucked-up pleasure it evokes in the both of you lays heavy in the air.

It turns you fucking on. It turns you on, that the man who - minutes ago - tried you kill you and did hurt you very fucking badly in the process of it, now decides to let you live.

It turns you on, that you are at his mercy.

It turns you on, that he decided to spare you - just for now.

It turns you on, that these large and strong hands holding the knife have that sort of power over you. And thus, as the blade nudges your head back further, you moan.

"I could cut your throat", John's voice is heavy and thick with arousal and you can feel your heartbeat picking up, breath accelerating. His gaze drops down, watches the rapid rising and falling of your breasts hungrily, while another soft moan escapes from your lips.

"Don't", you breathe softly.

The knife practically burns on your skin, and you can feel arousal flooding your clothed pussy, rubbing your thighs together for any sort of friction. John can feel your squirming underneath him, but he can also see your eyes turning watery and dark with lust, pupils blown and a pretty pink spreading on your cheeks, your breath growing shallow. And he just really needs to fucking taste you right now.

As quickly as it appeared, the blade vanishes from your throat before he twirls the knife like the ruthless, reckless professional that he is, and buries it deep to the hilt in the mattress next to you. The sharp sound as it pierces the thick fabric has the hairs on your body standing up, goosebumps rolling over your skin.

"I'll do it later", he rumbles - casually, like he is talking about doing chores or picking up groceries - before hunching over you, grabbing your chin with his fucked-up hand, and kissing you again. His tongue immediately pushes into your mouth, like he is starving to taste you.

John eats you whole, with the way his lips move against yours. His hand cups your face, tongue licking into your mouth, toying with yours. His kiss steals your breath and you start to get dizzy with it, hips bucking. You can feel his lips curling up and then he parts from you, leaving you a gasping mess, spit pooling at the corners of your mouth.

"Let me touch you, John", you whisper, voice a little small because you do not know why you feel that way, and if he will even allow it. But you just need to feel him.

For a long moment his gaze dances over your face and something shifts behind his eyes, like a shadow gets lifted and then very quickly returns. Ultimately, he gives a court nod, so small you nearly miss it and gives you a little more room while straightening back up.

Carefully, as if not to spook him, you dart one hand out, place it on his chest. The muscle is firm underneath his suit and you run your hand along the lapel of his jacket, down and then back up, before it slips beneath it.

John's body radiates warmth under the black fabric of his shirt and your other hand comes up, before you shove the jacket off his shoulders and onto the floor next to the bed.

Your breath hitches.

He is wearing a holster, a reminder of his deadliness, of the gun laying somewhere next to you. Maybe, he sees the fear returning in your eyes, but he is quick to shrug the holster off, throws it into the dark where it clatters onto the wooden floor boards. What is left in front of you are broad shoulders and a muscular chest, the fabric nearly tearing at his movements.

As you run your hands over it, you cannot help yourself - you need to fucking feel him for real.

Quickly making work of his waistcoat and tie you toss both to the side carelessly, before your hands roam his broad chest. His button-down clings snugly against his upper body and you can feel the muscles work beneath the black fabric as your hands brush over them. You tug at the shirt, pulling its tails from his pants before hastily opening the first few buttons. The skin underneath is pale, littered by blue - red - black bruises, birthmarks scattered in between like stars. You pop open the rest of the buttons, greedy to touch him. And as the shirt falls to the sides your hands are already onto his chest, roaming over and admiring the muscular, defined canvas of strength, that violence has painted a pretty picture on.

John is watching you intently as you undress him and then explore his body, your pupils blown wide and dark, mouth agape a little. He is a little taken aback by it - by someone not seeing his body as the ultimate tool of death that it is, but as something else, that he cannot really pinpoint because he can't even look in the mirror without seeing destruction and decay. But the way your gaze wanders over his body, the way you touch him, is different from that and he has not felt anything like it in years.

And John wants. Carnal desire tugs at his brain, shoots arousal between his legs, makes his cock twitch and a low growl escaping his throat.

The sound gets you going: pushing yourself up with one hand, the other wrapping around his strong neck for leverage as you sit up, mouth immediately clutching to his throat. He tastes of sweat and after-shave - sharp and musky - and you run your tongue over his skin greedily, licking and sucking at the skin while your naked body presses against his.

It disarms him. The gentle touch that you put his body up to, while everything still aches from plowing through the better half of your father's militia and beating the hell out of you, confuses him. Your touch, your lips on his skin are soft and not aiming to hurt - instead, they grow more and more needy, wanton and hasty, as you lick over his bruised skin, tasting his sweat. Your hands over his abdomen caress his defined muscles, in awe of his utter strength, thumbs brushing through the soft and dark trail of hair leading beneath the waistband of his trousers. And all John can do, is watch, his gaze locking with yours as goosebumps erupt on his skin.

And you - oh you; your head swims with the way you turn this animal into a human again, unlock a different set of animalistic needs within him and hearing John's breath growing heavy really fucking does it for you, feeling his scarred and beaten-up skin underneath your hands, wrapping them around the deadly machine that is his body. It makes you want more.

Shedding his blood-stained shirt off of his shoulders, your hands roam over his upper back - feeling the scars there: of knives, larger and small ones and round ones of bullets that once pierced his skin. There is something else, a burn scar, in the shape of a cross and he hisses as your fingers brush over it, nails digging into the stunted skin.

It pulls John out of his stasis, reminds him of who he is and you can feel the air swinging with it seconds before he moves. His large hands wrap around your shoulders and then he pulls you off him, throws you back onto the mattress. You yelp, eyes growing wide as you watch his face as it turns from lightly dazed back to stern, wild, with his brows furrowed.

"That's enough", he says, voice coarse and it still feels like a small victory, even though he spreads your legs roughly, hands digging deep into your thighs - hard enough to bruise - before he kneels between them. He yanks your body forward at the back of your knees, watches your tits bounce and then leans in, his lips immediately attacking your throat, your neck.

His lips are surprisingly soft against your skin, his beard tickling a little as it brushes over your tits, your stomach, your thighs while his tongue licks fat stripes over your nipples and down down down your upper body, right to your navel. One of his hands creeps up your body once more and roughly cups your tit, squeezes, and gropes it, rolls your hardened nipple between his index and middle finger. His stunted ring-finger digs deep into your tit and you gasp, hips bucking. John's lips suck and nibble at your skin, before eventually ghosting over your pubic bone, teasing you before assaulting your thighs again, teeth biting down gently into the soft flesh. You gasp and moan while he gropes your body, inhales your scent - as you watch how his lips, tongue, and teeth dance over your thighs, moving closer to your cunt.

John finally, finally, puts his mouth onto your pussy, peppers open-mouthed kisses around your clit, before clothing his lips around it and sucking on it hard through your panties. Your hips buck as a high-pitched moan erupts from your throat, hands flying into his greying locks.

"Fuck", you whine, feeling fresh wetness flooding your folds, dampening the thin fabric further. John can see the outlines of your wet pussy pressing against your panties and parts from your clit momentarily, only to lick a fat stripe over your clothed cunt, watching it twitch.

"That's fucking pretty", he rasps, gaze locking with yours and you feel all air leaving your lungs. His eyes are so fucking dark, like gleaming black pits swallowing you whole, his breath a little flat with arousal.

You want him to fuck you. Really fuck you. To plow you open, rail you until you cannot sit nor walk. He is already so so close to you, but too far away at the same time. "Please", is all you manage to utter out. And it seems to be sufficient enough for him; seems to get across what you want, what you need.

John's fingers wrap around the front of your lace slip, tugging at the fabric - that rubs along your cunt at the sudden motion and has you gasping quietly - and then he pulls. The lace tears easily as he rips it apart, and cool air hits your wet and hot pussy, as he practically peels you out of your underwear, throws it to the side. The look on his face is wild and you can hear him taking a deep breath, smelling your arousal, before he spreads your folds apart with his thumbs, gaze wandering over your plump and flushed cunt.

Teasingly brushing over your clit with his thumb, John watches your reaction intently. And fuck, you do not disappoint. Throwing your head back, you moan, drawing in a deep breath through your opened mouth that heaves your chest, your eyelids fluttering.

You are dying for him to touch you and as he does, it feels like your body catches fire - lust washing away the dull pain in your limbs and near your ribs.

"Oh God", you breathe out as his thumb draws another wide and slow circle over your clit, your hands darting out and grabbing the sheets "Please."

And John complies, his thumb rubbing over your clit in a slow but steady rhythm.

Gasping, your hands clutch the sheets, knees darting away from each other, giving him more space. John accepts the invitation, grabs one thigh hard, fucked up ring-finger digging deep into your skin. His fingers move further, abandons your clit and dance over your folds, down to your hole. It flutters as two of his digits tease it, gently circling around it.

"Please", you whine once more, lifting your hips a little, a desperate noise leaving your throat. John smirks to himself, before pushing two of his fingers into you.

The stretch is sudden and bigger than expected and you moan coarsely, as he pushes his digits along your walls deeply and nestles them into your seeping hot cunt up to his knuckles. And Jesus, you feel so full already; your head swimming as you consider how big his cock must feel, then.

Your breath goes quick and shallowly as he starts to move them, and then he leans in. Nudges your clit with the tip of his tongue, licks over it.

You feel like combusting on the spot: your nerves tingling with arousal, your whole body still aching from the beating you gave each other earlier - the pain in your back blooming as you stretch it with your hips desperately shoving themselves near his touch - your pussy squeezing his fingers.

John pumps his thick fingers in and out of you, his tongue rubbing and circling your clit and soft, needy moans fall from your lips. Obscene, wet sounds fill the air, mingle with your moans and heavy breathing. His lips close in around your clit, sucking at it while his fingers rub along your spongy walls and your cunt squeezes them hard as fresh wetness floods your folds, your squirt wetting his beard and dripping down on the sheets below.

You can hear - feel - John humming against your pussy, peppering the wet skin with open mouthed kisses, licking over it, and tasting your slick.

You feel so fucking good - lust pulsating through your veins, loins on fire - and your head falls to the side, body rocking with sharp gasps and your mouth agape, eyelids fluttering as --

There's the gun. And the knife.

You could easily grab either one or the other next to you, pull the blade out of the matress or the hammer back; put a bullet right between his eyes or plow the blade deep deep into his skull. Killing the Boogeyman. Killing Baba Yaga.

That would do wonders to your family's business. It would emancipate you from it, you would be free. Free to rule.

"Thinking 'bout killing me?", John rumbles, tongue licking a fat stripe over your cunt, nudging your clit. Your gaze flickers back to him: hair a mess, eyes gleaming darkly, hands on your thighs to keep your legs spread. He does not look surprised. Neither does he look worried.

Realization hits you like a blow to the head: he is toying with you. Has been the whole fucking time. The wolf hunting the deer, running a few rounds through the woods to weaken it; its breath whistling with exhaustion, long legs buckling before it collapses - an easy kill. An easy kill for an old wolf, one, that can't quite handle a real hunt anymore.

But maybe, just maybe - judging from the look in his eyes - he got lost in his own game. Its reins slipped from his bloody hands, the wolf tumbling to the ground.

Looking back at him, your lips curl into a sweet smile. "Not anymore", your hand darts out, brushing the loose strands of dark hair from his face - the soft gesture leaving him visibly confused -, "John."

Two can play this game. And maybe, just maybe, the deer can tire the wolf out first.

Something gleams in John's eyes, dances over them like a shadow and he seems to accept the challenge - readying to tire you out - tongue licking over your clit once more, making you shiver and mewl, as he pulls his fingers out of your dripping hole. You feel empty and --

"Do you really think, you could kill me?", he rumbles, voice deep and rough around the edges, "Stupid slut."

And then, quicker than your brain can process it, his hand comes down on your dripping wet pussy.

Your breath hitches, topples over and leaves your throat as a raw, needy moan. Softly stinging pain blooms between your folds and sets your nerves on fire. Blame it on the bruises, blame it on the pain you both inflicted on each other moments ago, but: it riles you up. Mingles with your aching bones and aching cunt, has you arching your back.

"Y'really think you could kill me", he doesn't sound offended, not even amused - voice plain, like he is inquiring if you really believed the earth to be flat. Like you really are stupid.

And you start to feel stupid, too. There was never a chance. You never had a chance. Your death was sealed, determined the second John stepped into the hotel.

You were stupid to believe you could outrun or beat him. You are stupid. And John has every right to show you, teach you, punish you for it.

Giving your cunt another firm slap, John watches your hips twitch, hears your pussy squelching and soft moans falling from your lips. "Shit", you sigh and he slaps your wet pussy once more, feels your slick folds wetting the palm of his hand.

"D'you like that, girl?", and as your only response are wanton gasps falling from your mouth John chuckles deeply, gives your pulsating cunt another two firm slaps. Seeing how he is pulling you apart, how good he makes you feel really seems to do it for him, gets him quite talkative.

"Uh-huh", you make dumbly, quite illiterate, watching him stroking your flushed, hot cunt with two of his fingers. Shivers run down your spine.

And then he leans back in, licks a fat stripe over your sensitive, flushed cunt, from the hole up to the clit.

You squirm, mewl as his beard brushes over your overstimulated skin, leaving a slight burn that mingles deliciously with a fresh wave of arousal that floods your body scalp to toes.

The muscles in your abdomen clench as two of his fingers circle your fluttering hole and then push in, rubbing along your plush walls agonizingly slowly and you can feel yourself tightening around it. Your juices squelch from your cunt as you squirt against his tongue and your slick runs down your folds, wets his fingers and palm while his tongue laps at your pussy, tasting your sweetness.

John pushes is fingers deeper as you moan and sigh, hands fisting his hair and hips moving against his tongue, his digits thrusting into you.

"Oh god", you huff as his lips close in around your clit, sucking on it and the tip of his tongue flicking against it occasionally.

Another wave of fresh wetness floods your cunt as you squirt once more, wetting the sheets below, your slick running down John's wrist.

John parts from your clit, nudges it with his tongue, his beard glistening with your juices.

"Yeah, that's fucking it", another one of his thick fingers pumps itself into your tight little hole and his other hand - also slick with your juices - grabs your thigh, "That's a good girl."

You feel so full, your spine feels like it's on fire and your brain tingles with it, sends wave of pleasure down down down your body; muscles in your loins clenching, chest heaving. It becomes all too much as he leans back in, rubs his tongue over your clit, lips sucking and teasing your folds.

The slight burn of John's beard tickling your plush, hot cunt. His fingers working your open and stretching your tight little hole open far and wide, obscene squelching sounds filling the air as he works you open, brushing against your g-spot occasionally and making you see stars.

But it's too little. It's just not enough.

"Fuck", you whine as John's thick fingers brush over your g-spot with quite some force, tongue lapping at your seeping cunt, "Shit, please. Please, just fuck me, please!"

You can feel him grinning against your wet cunt, beard a little sticky with your juices, letting go of your pussy with an obscene pop. "Yeah", he licks his lips, tastes you on his tongue, "D'you want my cock?"

And that - that might be what makes you lose your mind. Because yes. Yes, you do.

You have been craving to touch it, to feel it since it had pressed against your clothed pussy earlier. Thus, all dignity leaves your body with one, clean whine that breaks free from your throat.

"Yes, fuck - oh god, John", you brabble, legs falling apart further, inviting him in, his digits sinking deeper into your soaking wet hole, "Shit, please fuck me, John - please, please, please --"

Pleas are still falling from your lips like a chant, as a surprising noise breaks the silence, so strangely beautiful that it has you nearly shuddering: John is laughing. It's a nice baritone sound, and the fine lines around his eyes crinkle with it - it's so beautiful, that it drowns the world out. You watch him in awe, as he shakes his head, avoids your gaze.

"Jesus. Look at you", he huffs, voice dripping thickly with amusement, "If you need it that badly--"

Straightening back up and kneeling between your legs, John slips his fingers from your cunt and makes quick work of his belt, trousers, and boxers. The second he frees is cock, you start to drool like a fucking pavlovian-dog.

His dick is so fucking huge. It is nicely curved and cut, the bulbous pink head glistening with pre-cum and a thick, pumping vein at the bottom that rakes from the base to the tip, as it rests between trimmed, dark pubic hair. His cock bobs against his abdomen as it bounces free, smears the pre-cum along the pale skin, twitches at the sudden contact. And Jesus fucking Christ, you just want to fucking touch it, feel its velvety skin in your palm. But you just know that you won't even be able to wrap your hand around its base fully, it's impossible, it--

"I-it won't fit", you whisper, a little taken aback by his sheer size.

"Oh, I'll make it fit, baby."

John takes his cock in one hand, thumb right beneath its head, and rubs it against your slit. And Jesus fucking Christ. Your hips snap up, meet his movements, and he grunts while he spreads his pre-cum along your cunt, gathers your slick. The thick head of his dick prods against your entrance and you take a deep breath, looking down between your legs. You watch how he slooowly pushes in and you gasp at the sudden intrusion, the delicious stretch making you moan.

His cock feels so fucking big, hot, and heavy, as he nestles the tip in, your hole clenching around it. John's brows furrow, and he doesn't wait long until he pushes his cock in further.

The thick base starts to stretch your slim rings of muscles, a sharp pain shooting through it. He can feel your hole protesting, can see you wincing. "Breathe, baby", he hums, "Let me do the rest."

His coarse voice mingles with his words and the waves of pleasure shooting through your body despite the dull pain, conjures up a pretty pretty image that floods your brain - there's sunlight everywhere, orange rays of it hitting a bed covered in white sheets, sweaty bodies on top of it; limbs entangled, hands intertwined with their golden rings shining brightly in the warm light, heavy breathing and sloppy kisses, and lazy thrusts as his cock fucks you awake. The thought makes you dizzy, your legs falling apart and hole fluttering open, inviting him in.

The slight burn leaves you a gasping, whimpering mess as he pushes himself in deep, nestles his huge cock in between your aching, hot, and tight walls.

And John feels like he is going to pass out. No blow to the head, no bullet to the chest, no knife to the stomach could ever make him feel as dizzy as the feeling of your hot cunt squeezing him does right now. His whole body is vibrating with want and lust and he just really hopes that you don't notice that he has gotten a little rusty. The thought quickly gets drowned-out as he looks down, where his thick cock practically splits you open, vanishes in your hole.

"Shit", he huffs out, places one large hand on your stomach and thrusts. Feeling himself moving inside of you has him moaning, gaze shooting up to you, meeting your eyes, as his hand presses down. "You feel me right here, baby?", he rasps and you nod, mouth agape by the sheer force of his thrust, tip of his cock prodding your cervix.

John can see his cock moving inside of you, the way your stomach bulges a little. He gets a little dizzy with, and then his eyes make the mistake of moving up to your face. And it takes a whole lot of fucking will-power of him to not just thrust and thrust and thrust and fuck you until you cry, bleed.

You are so fucking pretty. Mouth agape you watch how his cock vanishes between your legs, splits your cunt open, with his eyes heavy-lidded and cheeks flushed. Your lips are plush and red from his assault.

Your hands grip the sheets and your breasts heave with your deep breaths, that grow a little more flaccid. Next to you lays his gun, knife still buried into the mattress. His eyes drop to the weapons and his breath hitches. And for a split second, like a flash of light, he wonders what in God's name he's doing here. He is a professional. The Ballerina works like that. He doesn't.

A sweet, sweet noise rips him out of his thoughts. "J-john", you mewl, eyes still trained on his massive dick splitting you open, "I-it, it's --"

"Yeah?", he breathes, the sound all soft and careful around the edges.

"Heavy", you breathe.

"Does it hurt?", he kind of wants it to. Make you pay for what you did to him. He kind of doesn't want it to. Make you enjoy what he's got to give.

John realizes he is fucked.

You nod, head flying back into the cushions, while your brows dart together.

John's free hand flies to your clit, nudges it gently, before slowly rubbing wide circles over it. You gasp, as you feel fresh wetness flooding your cunt and dripping down your folds to where his cock splits your hole open, pools around it. He carefully pulls out a little and then pushes back in, assisted by your slick. The way you moan spurs him on and the circles on your clit grow faster and smaller.

Aching your back, you lean into the touch. "That's a good girl", he whispers, voice raw and coarse, dripping with lust and the exhaustion of holding back. John bottoms out, while continuing to rub your clit and he can feel your walls growing plush, your hole fluttering around his dick, relaxing with your hot, seeping cunt inviting him in. "Feels good?"

"Yeah, fuck", you feel like you are being split open, with his thick cock filling you to the brim and rubbing along your walls with every little movement, the thick head prodding gently against your cervix, "Shit, John."

It feels so fucking good, all thoughts being washed away from your brain as he starts to move carefully, thrusts into you once, twice. You moan, lips slightly parted, before your gaze flies to him.

And Fuck. John's chest is flushed a little, muscles of his abdomen flexing with every thrust while his gaze is trained down to where his cock fucks into you, brows darted together a little and his breathing audible.

"John?", you whisper, and his gaze immediately shoots up to you as your comparably tiny hand wraps around the wrist of his hand that is still rubbing your clit.

"Yeah?"

"Fuck me."

For a long moment, he just looks at you and you think - no, you are convinced - that you can see a glimpse of the human being he once was. Caring, sweet and gentle; as he seems to really take it into consideration if you are ready yet, if you know what you are begging for.

Apparently, he does deem you prepared enough, and the soft gaze gets replaced by a dark gleam as all gentleness vanishes from his face once more. Without a warning, John rolls his hips back only to thrust into you again, deep, and hard, immediately picking up a quick rhythm.

It comes as a genuine surprise to you and you gasp, mewling but it quickly feels just so fucking good, practically lights your body up and leaves every nerve-ending on fire, each thrust has you moaning loudly.

It spurs him on, makes him grunt and for a while, you both just watch him gliding in and out of your tight hole, with him feeling your muscles squeezing him and you feeling his cock stretching your open further and further. Your lips as slightly parted and his brows are furrowed as he rolls his hips into yours and you feel time getting lost on you, the only thing of importance remaining is the feeling of him filling you up. John's hands roam your body, wandering over your thighs and your stomach, your hips before angling your leg, pushing the heel of your foot on his shoulder, and grabbing your ankle with one hand, his dick slips into you even further, balls slapping against your ass heavily with each thrust.

You can tell that John has not fucked in a long, long time. It's not the way he does it - all fluid, languid thrust of his hips, muscles dancing under the soft skin. It's mostly the way he pants and grunts - sounds just as desperate as you feel. And still, he has the stamina of a racehorse.

You can feel that he wants to prove it, too, as his free hand grabs your thigh and hoists your other leg over his hip bone, practically pulling your lower half off the bed in the process. Your pelvis now clings to his, obscene sounds of his cock fucking into your wet pussy filling the air while he huffs with his thrusts, yet does not slow down.

The grip on both, your ankle and your thigh are hard, and you are certain his hands will leave a bruise but you just cannot bring yourself to care. Deep down you know, that someone will see them: your maids, your friends, your family.

But all thoughts, all worries get swapped from your brain as your gaze wanders up from where John's dick hammers into you steadily, rakes over his defined stomach and chest and finally, finally lands on his face.

He looks downright, utterly, and breathtakingly -- pornographic.

John's dark pupils blown wide gleaming with arousal, his cheeks are slightly blushed and a thin layer of sweat makes him glow in the dim light of the living room falling onto the bed. It surrounds him like a halo, a Saint of Death and Decay, with his dark hair falling into his forehead and onto his shoulders. He brushes it out of the way with his stunted hand, a ragged breath making his chest heave. There is still some of your slick wetting his beard.

You can't help your mind from going there, from wondering how different things could have been. What it would be like if you had met me in a bar instead of him entering your suite, leaving the hallway behind him looking like a slaughterhouse. Maybe he would have laughed at your jokes, in the dim light of your favorite bar in the city. Maybe he would have liked the same music as you do. Maybe, just maybe, he would have brought you home only to stay the night and fuck you until you would have lost your goddamn mind.

Your hand wanders down your body, strokes your waist and hip in the process, before it languidly drops between your spread legs, two fingers darting out and rubbing circles over your sensitive clit.

John moves quickly, his usual deadly precision shattering your peaceful fantasy, his hand ditching your thigh and closing in around your waist. "Don't you fuckin' touch yourself", he growls, and it's the first time you hear real, actual emotion dwelling in his throat - not his toneless, cold and mechanical rumble. He sounds pissed. Offended.

And the best part is: it seems to get him fucking going.

John leans in, your calf still resting on his shoulder and the slight pain of the stretch is delicious as he nearly folds your body in half. You can feel his dick sliding in even deeper into your hole and you gasp and whine, one hand coming up to dig into his biceps to just hold on. Hold on, while he pounds into you with perfectly angled, deep and strong thrusts, hitting your g-spot with every single one of them.

You know that the suite's door is in shambles, that anyone could walk in here and see you having your brains fucked out by the man who is here to kill you - but you don't care. Part of it is, because the gun is still resting next to your head on the sheets. You could just grab it and shoot anyone dead in heartbeat, whoever is trying to disturb the pleasure that shoots through your body.

But it is also him.

It's the way John is towering over you, back hunched, looking all wide and powerful and deadly, with the way he shields your body from view and harm as he thrusts into you. As he pushes all his rage, adrenaline, and strength into your tight hole, groans, and pants into your ear.

There is nothing you can do, despite holding onto him, nails digging into his back, clutching his broad shoulders, fingers running over his tattoos desperately. He is fucking the living daylight out of you, your body moving like a ragdoll underneath the mountain of muscles and strength. Your cunt is being split open by his cock, as you feel him hammering into you and you feel like you are going to lose your mind, panting and moaning with each of his thrusts.

"John, fuck", you moan sweetly, eyes rolling into your skull as he pounds into you, "You feel so fucking good, shit --"

"Yeah", he huffs, his forehead slowly sinking onto yours, "You too, baby."

You can see his eyelids fluttering, feel his upper body heaving beneath your hands, smell the blood on his skin, mingling with his musky scent. Blaming it on the sickening cocktail of hormones that is flooding both - your brain and your body - you lean in, your lips desperately smacking against his.

And Jesus Fucking Christ. Does John kiss you.

Kisses you like he is starving for it, licking back into your mouth - his body pressing yours into the mattress with his whole weight and muscle, while still thrusting into you.

Your hands tangle into his hair, tugging at it. John moans against your lips and your stomach flutters at the sound, and you want more. One hand moves to lay at the crook of his neck and your tongue presses against his, licking back into his mouth. Adding some force to his neck you invite John deeper into the kiss, and he follows suite, steals you the last bit of air your lungs were holding. Panting you part from him, thumb brushing over the crook of his neck.

Greedily breathing against his lips, you can't help yourself. You feel so alive and you want him to wreck you, to leave something behind that you will remember for every day your heart continues to beat. Greedily breathing against his lips, you can't help yourself but to whisper: "Harder."

John blinks, hips stuttering. And then, he grunts. His hand digs into your waist as he grabs you there, hold you in place will his hips rut into you. Picking up a near brutal rhythm, obscene sounds of your slick being pushed in and out and in out of your hole as he jackhammers into your g-spot, the bedframe rattling as John's thrusts pound it into the wall - leaving you a gasping and moaning mess. His belt clinks with his thrusts and you cling onto him, sharp whines escaping your throat.

"John John John", his name leaves your mouth like a mantra, sharp and high-pitched. His head falls forward, dark locks brushing over your cheek as his temple rests against yours and then you hear it.

John moans.

It's a deep, carnal sound. Your stomach flutters and lust shoots through your body at the noise, your tight cunt squeezing his thick cock as you squirt around his cock like a broken fucking hose, wetting his pubic hair. You can feel it rubbing along your wet folds, the sensation making you mewl, leaves your hips shuddering.

"Shit", you breathe, hands cradling his muscular back and then you can feel his dick twitching inside of you, accompanied by yet another one of his sweet, sweet moans, "Fuck, John--"

He raises his head and your gazes connect, before he leans in, presses his lips onto yours once more. The kiss is surprisingly soft and in stark contrast to the way he ruts and pounds into you and then he hits the spot once more and -

Everything goes white as your muscles clench and unclench suddenly, as you nearly scream against his lips; your hole practically milking his cock as you cum, pussy gushing and squirting around him like a broken hose.

John continues to fuck you through your orgasm and his heavy breathing reaches your ears through the cotton candy, that slowly wraps you in as everything turns light and bright. He moans deeply against your cheek as he comes, too - shoots hot ropes of cum into you and paints your walls with it.

His movements still as he buries himself deep into you, cock twitching with each thick rope of his cum and you can feel him fill you up, as his massive frame slowly sinks down onto you.

Your legs grow heavy and the stretch of your left leg is turning painful and you - a little clumsily - pull it away from his shoulder, stretch it out. Your limbs start to shake and you close your eyes, drawing in deep breaths through your nose.

The room is silent, the air heavy with the musky scent of sex.

Your chest still heaves with the remains of your orgasm, bliss still spreading in your brain and your veins, making you feel like you are flying. Your heart is still racing, as you feel him moving again.

Blinking up at him, you can see him grabbing the gun.

"Don't", you say softly, voice coarse from screaming your lungs out in pleasure just moments ago, "Please, don't." You are not ready to scream yet again. Not ready to scream in pain, instead of pleasure.

John does not reply. He pulls the hammer back, checks the chamber - all with one hand.

"Kill him instead, please."

He freezes, eyes locking with yours. "Who?", he sounds just as exhausted as you. The wolf, tired out. The deer, bleeding, limping.

Call it Post Nut Clarity, call it Finally Taking Your Future In Your Own Hands, call it Emancipating Yourself. Call it Having Wrapped A Deadly Assassin Around Your Pinky.

You were not safer here. You never were. Just more isolated. Easier to locate.

Easier to kill.

Realization hits you like a blow to the head, your vision swimming.

See? I will not die today.

"My father. Kill him."

#i'm back girlies #john wick smut #john wick x reader #john wick x you #john wick imagine #smut #my writing #keanu reeves #keanu reeves x reader #keanu reeves x you #keanu reeves smut

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somethingusefulfromflorida · 1 year

Text

My mom bought me this book for Christmas

The Resurrectionist by EB Hudspeth, a fantasy field guide full of anatomical illustrations of monsters and cryptids.

The musculoskeletal systems are fun to look at, but not nearly as in-depth as I would have liked. If you have more than a passing knowledge of taxonomy (or in my case, access to Wikipedia), a lot of the details fall apart under scrutiny

The harpy has four upper limbs connected to one shoulder girdle; it shouldn't have arms, only wings

The sphinx is not classified as a mammal, but is still somehow in the family Felidae with cats (and like the harpy is also drawn with only two girdles despite having six limbs. I will give the author credit for giving the sphinx a keel for the wing muscles to attach to)

It lists the Hindu deity Genesha as a cryptid, which is a no-no.

Cerberus is also explicitly not a mammal, but somehow still a canine (literally in the species Canis with wolves, dogs, and coyotes)

Both mermaids and dragons are listed as members of the order Caudata; the only extant members of Caudata are salamanders, which kinda makes sense for dragons, but not so much for mermaids (also, the author keeps playing it fast and loose with cladistics; both mermaids and dragons are in the same order despite being in different classes, and while dragons are explicitly said to be amphibians, mermaids are given the fictional class mammicthyes, which means mammal-fish. At that point, why not just call mermaids amphibians? Why make up a fake latin hybrid name?)

But what bugs me most of all is the classification of the Minotaur as its own order of mammal when in mythology it is explicitly described as a hybrid of two known species (made possible only by the cruel machinations of the divine, but still)

To use actual taxonomical nomenclature, the minotaur's species would be B. taurus × H. sapiens (specifically B. taurus♂ × H. sapiens♀; there are, to my knowledge, no legends of H. sapiens♂ × B. taurus♀). That's how ligers, tigons, mules, zorses, pizzly bears, narlugas, etc., are described.

If I had written this book, I would have leaned more into evolutionary biology. Most land animals have four limbs because they all evolved from boney lobe-finned fish, which split off from the boneless sharks and rays millions of years earlier, so any six-limbed vertebrates would need to be descended from a fictitious category of six-finned fish which would either be an offshoot of boney fish/tetrapods (I guess they'd be hexapods, though that term refers to insect arthropods), OR a precursor to boney and cartilaginous fish that both clades split away from much earlier (it's easier to lose structures than to gain them, so it makes more sense for a six-limbed ancestor to spawn four-limbed descendants than the other way around).

Think about how different elephants are from humans, and humans are from aligators, and aligators are from penguins, and remember that they all evolved from the same ancestor tiktaalik, an amphibious fish that existed some 375 million years ago. Imagine a precursor six-limbed species and how diverse all its descendants would look after 400 million years. Save for the occasional instance of convergent evolution causing two unrelated species to independently evolve similar body plans to fill the same niche, tetrapods and hexapods would look nothing alike. There would be very little recognizable overlap between the two. A six-limbed "pegasus" would not look like a real world horse, and a six-limbed "dragon" would not look reptilian/dinosaur-ish, for much the same reason that giraffes don't look like frogs; they're just too distantly related. Bonless sharks and boney fish and whales/dolphins all have similar looking bodyplans only because their environment requires the same hydrodynamic shape, while terrstrial vertebrates are much more physically diverse.

#biology #anatomy #monsters #cryptids #cryptozoology #book of monsters #evolution #evolutionary biology #evolutionary history #taxonomy #cladistics #science #hard fantasy #hard science fiction #hard science #tetrapod #hexapod

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asmutwriter · 2 months

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The Gangsta's Wife (Part 8)

DESCRIPTION: Whilst you're husband is away for business reasons you have an unexpected (and unwelcome) guest.

WORD COUNT: 2865

From Beginning / Previous / Next / Master List

WARNINGS: pregnancy, knife, knife violence, injury, injury detail, fight, blood, Thomas calls reader 'love', drinking, drinking whilst pregnant (brief), swearing

DISCLAIMERS

This is fiction. Please always talk to your partner before doing anything and make sure they are ok with what you are doing beforehand

This story does not follow the timeline of the show

It had been a couple of weeks since that night. Your husband was near London on business matters. He'd recently purchased a race horse so he was minding that over the past few days. You were taking this time of bliss to have a small nap. Your fatigue having increased over the past few days. Knowing you had caught up on the housework you decided to allow yourself a restful afternoon. You were going to read however sleep soon had other ideas.

You jump awake as you hear a gentle knock on the front door. You let out a soft grumble as you wipe your eyes. Pushing yourself up. Your hand instinctively going to your belly as you walk over to the door. Unlocking it. Assuming it was one of your in-laws, or one of your sisters who'd forgotten their key. Possibly even your husband. Your wide smile to greet your guest being stunned as you see a man waiting outside.

"Mrs Shelby?". Your scan over their frame. The smile fading completely when you see the knife hidden in his coat. You go and shut the door on him. His hand coming out and stopping it. You turn quickly. Making your way upstairs. Just as the door swings open.

Someone grabbing the lower half of you leg. Tripping you. The air from your lungs being forced out. You turn your body. You bring your free leg up. Kicking him. He grabs at the flesh of your lower leg. Yanking you down a few stairs. Able to straddle you. You struggle as he grabs the knife out. Holding the knife up to go in for a swipe. Bringing your hands up as a means to protect yourself. One over your face, the other near your stomach.

It goes through your palm. You scream out as he removes the item. Going in for another swing. Bringing your knee up and kicking them in the crotch. He grunts out. Hand going to his injury. You clench your good hand. Bringing it back and hitting it into his face. Hearing his nose crunch under your fist. He fumbles on the stairs. Nearly falling down them. Him moving off from over you. You bring your foot up, placing it onto his chest as you shove him. Him falling down the length of the stairs. Giving you enough time to turn back around. Scrambling up the stairs as you regain your footing.

Pain going through your body as you get upstairs. Running to your bedroom and shutting the door. Holding your wounded hand by your torso. Heavy breathing as you run over to the window. Lifting the glass panel up. You weigh up the option of climbing out. But the fall being too high. Plus you weren't overly agile or slim in the best of times. Especially not with a 6 month pregnancy belly. You bite at your bottom lip as you go to plan B.

You look for a place to hide. Noticing small blood spots on the floor from your injury. You take your hand. Then rubbing it over the edge of the window frame. Biting your lip to dull any sounds of pain as silent tears stain your face. Hearing the bedroom door start to open. You drop to the floor. Hiding behind the full length mirror you have standing in the room.

The door opens. Seeing two feet walk into your room. You bite at your lips. Shutting your eyes, every ounce of you willing yourself to not make any noise. You hold your wounded hand near your chest. Your other hand coming up and covering your mouth as you become aware of how heavily you are breathing.

The attacker goes over to the window. Presumably looking out of it. You watch as he carefully and quietly wonders around the room. Obviously having the same thoughts of you of your practicality of getting out the small space in such a rush. You see him look under the bed. In the wardrobe. Then he comes over to the mirror. You stay as silent as you can. Practically holding your breath.

Watching as his feet walk out of the room. Hearing them make their way downstairs. You look at your hand. Trying not to gag as you see the wound. You go to the bottom of your skirt. Hand shaking as you tear the end of it. Using it as you wrap it around your injury. Gritting your teeth as you finish. Holding it close to you.

Resting against the wall as your eyes remain fixed on the door. You will yourself to not pass out. Trying to focus on something. Anything. You sit for what must've been a few hours. Waiting behind the mirror. Scared that if you move you'll pass out. Or get found. So you stay still. As much as you can given that your entire body is shaking. Tears still falling down your cheeks as you watch the doorway. You become alert again as you hear noise downstairs.

Looking around you for anything that could be used as a weapon. Biting your lip as you're met with nothing of use to you. Then an idea. You bring your good hand down. Taking off your high healed shoe. Unbuckling the straps of them both. Quietly resting one down onto the floor as you bring the other one up. Holding the top of it. Heal outwards. Gripping around the sole. You move out from behind the mirror. Over to the doorway. Just around the corner so you can remain hidden. Giving you the advantage. Your hand slowly bleeding onto your shirt as you keep it close to your chest. Holding the shoe up. Getting ready to attack.

Your whole body shaking as they cautiously step into the room. You bring the shoe up. Aiming for their head. They turn quickly. Grabbing your wrist to prevent you from harming them. Going to reach for his gun but stopping as he meets your eyes.

"Tommy" you say his name. A small sob coming out. Dropping the shoe you held as you wrap your arm around him. Your wounded hand still clutched to yourself. Fresh tears falling as you hide your head into his shoulder. His arms coming up and holding you. Your entire body shaking.

He unwraps his arms. Moving away slightly as he holds your face. "Florence are you hurt?". So much adrenaline coursing through your body that you forget to answer him. His eyes going to your injured hand. He goes to take it. But you keep it clutched to yourself. "Let me look". He takes your reluctant hand in his. Gently holding the wrist of it as he unwraps the cloth you used. You grip at your skirt. Looking away as you clench your teeth. Body still intensely shaking.

"You're ok love. I've got you" he gently moves you to sit on the bed. Shutting your eyes as you feel queasy. You're hand going to your stomach as you take in a few deep breaths. John and Esme coming up the stairs.

"Thomas?"

"She's been stabbed. She has a sewing kit somewhere in here" you hear them fumbling about. Unable to work out which one announces they've found it. Your husband sits next to you on the bed. Gripping your good hand with his. His arm going around to hold you close to him. You feel someone grabbing your arm. Holding it out. Opening your eyes you see John is sat beside you. Gripping your lower arm and wrist.

Esme using a match, putting the needle into it before placing it into a drink of you presume alcohol or water. You go to move away. Shaking your head as she kneels in front of you. Tommy and Johns grip tightening around you. "The wound needs stitches. Its going to hurt but I'll be quick, ok?".

She takes your hand. Starting to sew your hand up. You cry out. Tommy holding your good hand as you go to push her away. John holding your arm out so you can't retract it. Your husband shushing you comfortingly as you cry. His arms keeping your body pressed against his as both the Shelby men keep you still.

She kept her word. Although it seemed like hours, the procedure was done in less then a minute. Taking the glass she had used for the needle and pouring it over the wound. Causing you to cry out again. Scrunching your eyes shut as you grip the hand of your husband. Fresh tears falling down your cheeks as you feel John lets go of you. Thomas kisses your temple, stroking your hair.

"Well done love. It's over". Moving the hand from your hair. Feeling him move from behind you. Your body weight resting against him. Feeling something cold hit your lips. Jumping as you open your eyes. A whiskey bottle. "Drink. It'll help dull the pain". You shake your head.

"Liz. Mary..." you whsiper. Going to stand up, Thomas's arm still wrapped around you. Keeping you sat on the bed. Esme speaks next to you.

"Both safe and next door" you nod. Letting Thomas lift the bottle. Letting your drink a large quantity of it before removing it. Placing it back on the side. You breath heavily. Shutting your eyes again as you try and focus on your husband. His warmth. Scent.

"They got Arthur and Michael too" John says. Tommy nodding in response. "I thought you said that we were safe"

"I thought we were too..." he says. Voice quiet as he holds you close to him. Your eyes remaining shut as your breathing becomes steady. You hear commotion from downstairs. You flinch. Eyes widening as you go closer to your husband. Body must still be on high alert from the chaos as you back away slightly. Thomas grips your hand slightly tighter as you watch the doorway. John cautiously going and seeing what the noise was.

"They took my son" you hear Polly say as she storms into the room. The Shelby boys and Esme relaxing slightly. "Thomas they took my fucking son" she says again. "You promised that he'd be safe. You said-"

"Polly" he tries to calm her.

"No. They took Michael. They took my boy" she shakes her head. Obviously trying not to break down fully. "You need to get my son back. Thomas get my so-"

"Enough." He cuts her off. The tone sharp and precise. Sending chills down your spine. "Family meeting next door. Now. John get Finn" he nods. Going out, shortly followed by his wife. You see Polly's eyes frantic as they look at her nephew.

"Thomas" she says. Sternness in her voice that you can only put down as a Shelby tone.

"I said go next door. I will talk to you there" she clenches her jaw. Borderline stropping out the room as she leaves. Hearing her footsteps loud on the stairs. He moves from behind you. Kneeling in front of you as he rests a hand on your cheek. His other hand still holding onto yours.

"I'm sorry Mr Shelby... I tried keeping the baby safe..." you shut your eyes. Tears swelling in them again. He nods. Lips slightly parted as he watches you.

"I'm going to change your out of these clothes, ok?" he speaks softly to you. You nod your head. Feeling him start to undo the buttons of your shirt. You wince as he pulls the sleeve over your arm and hand. More ease on the other one, less injured one. Throwing your blood soaked garment onto the floor. You hear him stand up. Opening your eyes you watch as he gets a damp cloth. Coming over he cleans up some of the dried blood on your arm and torso.

Where you'd been holding it so tightly against yourself you'd managed to bleed through your shirt. Tossing the cloth aside he gently places a new shirt over your frame. He kneels in front of you. Holding your good hand. Watching his eyes scanning your features. As you look down at him.

"I'm going to call the midwife and get her to come and check you and the baby over. I can't see any wounds near the child but I think its best if we check, ey?" you nod. "I need to go next door and have this meeting. Find out exactly what happened and why" You shake your head.

"Please don't leave me..." a feeble whisper comes past your lips. He looks at you. Nodding slightly before standing. You keep your eyes on his as he pulls you up by your good hand. One arm holding your hand still as the other goes to the lower part of your back. Letting you gain your balance. Your body still shaking.

"I'm going to find the man that did this to you" he speaks in a low, hushed voice. "I'm going to make him pay. For harming you. For harming our child". You meet his eyes again. Cold. The stare making your breath hitch. You look downwards. Keeping a hold of his hand as he leads you next door. Sitting you down onto a chair before the family meeting ensues.

The midwife came round less then 24 hours later. Checking over you and the baby and confirming that you were both fine. Although your body had gone into shock it doesn't seem to have affected the pregnancy. Once Thomas had heard this news you didn't see him for a long time. Not that he'd left you unprotected. You made note of the various Blinders patrolling outside your house.

It was midday during the weekend. You were playing a game with your sisters when you hear the front door open. You turn quickly. Standing up - mind you a little wobbly - but quickly to see your husband walk into the living room.

Your eyes scanning over his features as you look at him. Lifting his head up to look at you. "I need you and your sisters to come with me"

"Why?"

"Go pack a bag each. I'll wait here" he says. Eyes drifting to your sisters who look at him then at you. "Go" he says. Sterner this time. Your sisters having better judgement then you stand up. Scurrying past you and Thomas. Hearing their footsteps on the wooden flooring upstairs. Your eyes dart between his two blue orbs. His stay steady and fixated on yours. "Go" he repeats. You shake your head

"I want you to answer my question"

"I'll answer your questions when we get in the car and start driving"

"No. No you can't do that. You can't just expect to leave us alone for days. With no contact. No say as to where you've gone. Then turn up expecting me to get into a car with you without asking any questions. No". Reaching up he takes his cap off. Your eyes glancing at the small piece of metal that glints in the light of the room. Watching as he puts it onto the cabinet near the door.

You try to read him. His posture. Placing his hands in front of him as his eyes become steady on yours once again. You keep your ground under his menacing stare. Making a point by folding your arms over your torso. Feeling your hands shaking as you clench them against you.

"I want answers". Your voice a whisper. He takes in a breath through his nose. Exhaling as he speaks.

"Did Detective Campbell try and fuck you?". The sudden question shocking you. Taking you a while to come up with a response.

"Excuse me?"

"Did he try and fuck you?". You flit your eyes between his.

"He may have... suggested such notions... But I refused him"

"You should've told me"

"I didn't see it being necessary"

"I'd like to know when my enemy tries to fuck my wife. I believe that is the reason he hired that man to attack you"

"Because I refused to have sex with him?".

"And to enforce his argument of how dangerous this life is. That this world is filled with blood and violence". You bring your hand to your stomach. Holding it, rubbing a thumb over the swell of your belly.

"Why do you want me to pack a bag?"

"I'm going to move you and your sisters to a safe house. One that only I and a handful of my most trusted men know about"

"How long will we be there for?"

"Until I have dealt with the current threat and it is safe for you to come back home"

"Who will be with us at the safe house?"

"It'll be you and your sisters. I'll have a man guarding the perimeter who will change periodically. Plus someone else to deliver you food. The midwife will see you when she is needed but she is to come alone and be searched every time she comes". Your hands rest under your stomach. Breaking eye contact with him as you look down. He stays quiet as you process his answers. Nodding slightly before looking back up at him. "Good. Go pack a bag"

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TAGS

@whorecrux-of-slytherin @kkrenae @ireallydontcareanymorebrooo

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justmystyles · 11 months

Text

Now You're In My Life

summary: a chance meeting at a diner turns your world upside-down and leads you on a whirlwind romance with one of the biggest pop stars in the world.

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

Part 6

Part 7*

Part 8*

Part 9

Part 10

Part 11*

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

One Shots

All I Ask*

You're finally starting to get over Harry, what happens when fate brings you back together?

Having Your Baby

You get some life changing news, and come up with the perfect way to tell your husband.

Wallflower

You're sitting alone at a wedding, can a handsome stranger help you come out of your shell?

Line of Fire

You and Harry have been keeping your relationship off the radar, but his concern for you overwhelms his need for privacy.

Coming Home To You*

Harry comes home early and catches you by surprise in the best way possible.

Scars

Can Harry be the comfort you need after falling back into old habits?

Home Stretch

As the tour comes to an end, the schedule starts to visibly take its toll on Harry, and you can't help but worry.

Ooh La La

After a revelation on movie night, you and Harry decide to reenact one of the scenes.

Love Don’t Cost A Thing

Harry loves to spoil you, but you're having a hard time adjusting to his lavish lifestyle.

The Battle in Barcelona

A crazy crowd at the airport comes between you and Harry.

Misplaced Emotion

As Harry prepares to jump back into the spotlight, he has a hard time re-adjusting to public life, and it manifests in the wrong way.

Good News All Around

You reach a big milestone in your life, but feel overshadowed when you call to tell Harry about it.

Perfect Harmony

You're in the final days of the tour, and Harry makes a suggestion that ends up changing everything.

Lose You to Love Me

A run-in with your childhood sweetheart brings up old memories, and lingering feelings.

Lights, Camera, Action

What was supposed to be just another job becomes the start of something new.

Business or Pleasure?

You return to Love on Tour after an extended break, but after your last interaction, you come back to an awkward situation with Harry.

Reigning it In

You're about to participate in your first horse show, but the nerves overwhelm you. Harry finds you just in time.

Family Portrait

Harry has a couple of heartfelt surprises for you while you're visiting him on tour.

All or Nothing*

You find a new way to tease Harry during a tour visit, which leads to a new way to drive him crazy.

With this Ring

Harry takes his commitment to you to a new level.

Veiled Insecurities

Harry has some insecurities about your relationship, but instead of talking to you about them, they end up coming out in the wrong way.

Crossing the Finish Line

A sequel to Home Stretch, it's the final show and Harry charms you into making good on a promise you made last time you were together.

Lost and Found

A sequel to Lose You to Love Me, you and Harry reconnected a month ago, and he insisted you come along for the final show. when your emotions start to get the better of you, you wonder if you and Harry could ever really just be friends.

Heart Song

As a former member of the Love on Tour band, and current girlfriend of Harry, he asks you to reprise your spot for the final show.

Road to Recovery

After reading some negative comments about yourself, you nearly spiral back into old habits. you try to keep it from Harry, but he finds out and confronts you about it.

A Work of Art

After procrastinating for a few weeks, you finally make moves to finish your assignment, but run into an unexpected road block.

He's Not Me

You introduce Harry to the guy you're seeing, and you see a side of him you've never seen before and are shocked by his reasoning.

Sharing is Caring

You can't find your favorite handbag, Harry assures you he doesn't have it, but you see some photos tell a different story

Cantaloupe

In this one shot/flash forward from the Now You're In My Life storyline, you and Harry recap the big news from your family's Thanksgiving dinner.

Like Riding a Bike

Despite being on break, Harry manages to find his way back onstage.

Fa La La La Freakout

You will be meeting Harry's family for the first time over the holidays, and you are desperate for them to like you.

The Morning After

The morning after Harry's 30th birthday, you're hungover and Harry reminds you of your drunken actions from the night before, leading to a conversation you never expected.

Big Winners - Part 1

Harry and Y/N have been friends for fifteen years, they finally work together on an album, and it leads them to a night that will change everything for them.

Baby-Baby-Baby

Harry meets his niece for the first time, the joy and excitement are quickly replaced with a whole new set of feelings when his best friend, Y/N joins him at the hospital.

(*) - NSFW

#harry styles #harry styles x reader #harry styles x fem!reader #harry styles x plus size reader #harry styles headcanon #harry styles meet cute #harry styles fluff #harry styles smut #harry's house #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles fanfic #harry edward styles #harry styles imagine #harry styles x you #harry styles x y/n #love on tour #harry styles blurb #harry styles fic #harry styles one shot

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eyesxxyou · 8 months

Text

Backstage Show Pt.6

★🎸 {} .. hobie brown x groupie!reader

rating. m

word count. 5.5k

synopsis. it's been a long time since you and Hobie last saw each other. after he invites you to his next concert, despite better judgement, you go. you know yourself, you always fall into old habits

you and hobie get back together

🍒・．❕warnings. she's a long one, smut with LOTS of plot, fingering, hand riding, sloppy kissing, save a horse ride a cowboy, love making, a lot of references to other parts, angst, lots of angsy, a healthy(er) relationship, reader has more control than before

You and Hobie haven’t spoken in months. You imagined it was all too easy for him to pretend you never existed, that this was how all his relationships inevitably ended, unceremoniously without even a text to apologize for everything said in the worst of your moments. You were absolutely torn, terribly upset, and horrifically furious when he still used your picture on his album cover, the picture of you with his thumb in your mouth, only your lower face visible to his audience. It was like some sick wink at you. He knew you’d see the cover, knew that you’d know it was you. You two were probably the only two people in the world who knew.

Fuck him. He could fall off a building for all you cared. You didn’t need him. It seemed almost impossible to think that you were once obsessed with him, that you would have once kiss the ground he walked on and done the most heinous things for him.

Nearly half a year and you were beginning to forget what he looked like, what he smelled like, the smallest details about him. You were eternally grateful for it and unquestionably sad over it. Your sheets no longer smelt like him, the last remnant of him in your home. It was almost as if he never existed in the first place, how little he left around. He made it so easy for himself to disappear.

And he did disappear for a while. From your life and your mind.

Until he was back to touring in your location.

You weren’t going to the show. You never even listened to the new album affectionately named “Doll” after the title track on the 12 track list. You could only imagine what that was about, that and the rest of his tracks. You'd never know. You never would listen to it. You never bought a copy.

You got off of your shift with a sigh and made your way down the the bar near your job to grab a drink. It was Friday, you were able to get the weekend off, and you needed to be drunk the entire time. Mary Jane fans were swarming the streets and you couldn't stand any of them. You wondered which of them was Hobie's new plaything. When would they realize he would never love them even a fraction of the way they worshiped him?

Poor thing. Whoever they were, they were on the fast track to getting their heard broken.

You pushed open the door to your usual bar and found it roudier than usual. You managed to wiggle your way to the counter before you saw him. He was sitting out with his chair leaned back, his feet kicked up on the table, and a nice pint of frothing beer in his hand. He was smiling at some fan who had approached, wanting autographs. He was very obviously flirting with them until his eye caught yours slightly behind them. His smile faltered a bit as you whipped around and hid your face behind your hands.

He was more gorgeous than you remembered, fucking breathtaking. You never realized how much you would miss the individual features of his face. His golden eyes, his nose, his lips, his hair. You hoped he hadn't seen you, that you could get your drink and mind your own. But of course he had and of course he felt the need to come up to you.

"Y/n? Y/n, is tha' you?" You could hear a distance away and swiftly you asked the bartender for a kamikaze. This would be a long night. There was no getting away from him now. He was already making his way to you, lightly pushing people to the side to get to you.

Hobie sidled up beside you on the stool to your left, his knees on either side of your body. "How ya doin', doll?" His voice was so smooth and gentle in your ear you could just melt into him, profess how much you missed him all this time, beg for the two of you to go back to the way you were. But you refused to cave, refused to be so weak.

You didn't answer him. The bartender came back with your drink and you thanked her with a smile and a nod. You were no not talking mood, especially not with him.

Hobie's been missing you a lot. Things didn't feel the same without you around. Things didn't feel right. He felt a bit uneasy going on stage, the energy before and after wasn't exactly the same. He drank a little more, slept a little less, haunted over the way things ended. He thought he'd never see you again. The world was too large for something like that.

But here you two were. And you weren't talking to him. Why would you? You had confessed your love to him and he had squeezed your heart til it exploded in the palm of his hands. There was absolutely no reason in the world why you would talk to him.

"Still mad at me, luv?"

Something about his tone of voice made you upset, like he was telling you to get over it, what's past is past and it shouldn't bother you anymore. You finally looked at him, your lip twitching with disdain. "Why are you here, Hobart?"

"Oh, the government name." He placed a hand on his chest to feign hurt but the way you were acting did hurt him. It was deserved, more than deserved, so he took it as it was. "I'm here on tour. It's the night before our concert. We're jus' celebrating." He nodded over to his mates, all of them distracted by fans of their own. They hardly even noticed Hobie left them.

"I ain't think I'd run into ya. I though' I'd have ta hunt'cha down, luv. I need to talk to ya." He timidly placed a hand on top of yours. You needed something far stronger than a kamikaze. You needed straight vodka shots.

You pulled your hand from his, subsequently pulling your heart away and locking it up behind your ribcage despite the way it pulled and leaped for him. It's hard not to be in love even after months of never seeing him. But you wouldn't open yourself to getting hurt again. You might be in love but you're not gonna be dumb about it. "There's nothing for us to talk about. You made everything very clear the last time we spoke." Why aren't you punching him in the face? Why aren't you leaving? Why aren't you cursing him out? All of them are valid reactions. "I'm not gonna be an easy fuck for you."

"Just give it a chance, luv. Give me a chance. I really just wanna talk, nothin' else. I think with the way we left tings off wasn't the greatest–"

"Ya think?" You downed the rest of your drink and flinched at the sharp sting at the back of your throat. You motioned for some shots to the bartender and mouthed vodka while Hobie continued.

"I just wanna make tings right, dove." There was something very soft and genuine in his voice. He just wanted to give the both of you closure. You were done with him and that was okay, just as long as you knew the truth. "How about you come to the concert tomorrow? We'll talk after. Free admission."

You stared at him, gaze softening just a bit. How tender and palpable you could turn for him, like putty in his hands. With just a soft tone and a pleading gaze and you folded. "Fine. I'll go to your concert. We'll talk but I don't want to do anything, Hobie. I don't wanna feel like you're plaything again."

Hobie raised his hands in surrender. "I won't even touch you, luv. I'll never make you do something you don't wanna." It's true. He never made you do anything you weren't down for. And you were down for anything involving him.

Hobie rolled his lips, buying the bottom one to hide a grin. He stood up and dropped 40 pounds to pay for your drinks and a couple more if you chose to have any. "Have a good nigh', luv. I'll see ya tomorrow."

You huffed in response. It took everything in you to not turn to watch him walk away. You didn't want to stay any longer. You couldn't stand the thought of being in a room with him, pretending his was there when you were acutely aware of his existence staring holes into your skull.

You used the money to pay for your drinks and left the rest as a tip to the bartender before takinging your leave. You had to be rested for tomorrow.

—

Hobie ended up getting you tickets for the pit closest to the stage. The asshole. You stood squeezed between two fans screaming Hobie's name, dressed in gaze-attracting outfits. They screamed their heads off the moment they saw him and the other Mary Janes come out on stage, hoping to get his valuable attention. Your lips were sealed but your heart swelled seeing him where he was his very best. He was so beautiful, the stage lights casting down upon him from behind. He looked like an angel but you knew better.

His eyes searched the crowd for you and once his gaze landed upon your figure getting pushed around by fans trying to push their way to the front, he smiled. "How's everyone doin' t'nigh'?" Hobie kept looking at you, like he meant to be asking you specifically. You turned your head away, playing with your nails to show you weren't interested.

"Aww, don' be shy, a lil' louda." And the crowd responded with all their lungs could handle but all he wanted was to hear from you. All he needed was you.

"I've got someone special ina crowd t'nigh'. I wanna make sure tonight's a good show for them. So please, luvs, be nice to each otha t'nigh'." He knew you didn't want to be here, it was basic etiquette. Who wanted to be shoved around all night?

They started playing some of their new songs you've never heard before and suddenly you remembered why you loved them so much. They were all so mesmerizing on stage, their lyrics made you want to move, to jump around to close your eyes and feel the chaotic rhythm.

But as you listened, you realized a little more that the lyrics were about you and Hobie. To anyone else, it was just about two people who were in love but never meant to be together. It was a progression of events across the album, each song about different aspects of your relationship. "Worship" was about how much one worshiped the other to the point that it killed them. "How We Cave" was the end, about how they fell apart, all of it cleverly hidden within the folds of the song so that no one batted an eyelash.

The entire album was a wink and nudge to you, between the two of you. "Only we have to know" it said and you despised how much it meant to you. You needed to get out of here. Suddenly the entire venue felt as though it was crushing you, crashing down on your head.

You writhed and wiggled your way between people to make your way to the nearest exit. When you got outside, you took a deep breath, your exhale a cloudy haze before your lips under the cold air. You shuddered, reached into your pocket, and lit up a joint. You needed it, deserved it.

How he changed you, molded you into a person unrecognizable to your younger self. You had never been a smoker, never been much of a drinker, not before you met Hobie and he changed who you were so intrinsically. You never knew if it was a good thing or a bad one.

You knew the concert was over when people began funneling out, talking amongst themselves about who this new, special guest was. You pushed yourself off to the side and took a long drag of your joint, leaving strawberry lipgloss that you could taste with every drag. You wandered around the side of the building until you found the back entrance where Hobie told you to wait if the two of you managed to lose each other.

He came out about 10 minutes later, looking left and right until his eyes landed upon you. "Sorry, some fans wit' backstage passes I was meetin'. The boys are entertainin'em now." He excused himself, hopping over the guardrailing to get to you. "Since when did you smoke?"

"Take a wild guess." You took another drag before Hobie took it from you and took one himself. He loved the taste of you on it, took another drag because of it. "My bad, luv." He came and leaned against the wall beside you, his leather jacket the only thing protecting him from the cold. You weren't much better off either, dresses in an outfit similar to when you first met, you shivered from time to time while smoking with him.

"I saw you leave." He hummed and passed the joint back to you.

"Doubt I missed anything crazy. You were almost done anyway."

"The fuckin' Queen's ghost came on stage 'n did a backflip." Hobie countered, looking down at you with eyes that told you he was serious. His expression fell way into one of humor when you giggled and tossed your head back against the brick wall. "You're so stupid."

"I so am."

You didn't like how serious the undertones of his voice sounded. You didn't look at him, just smoked your joint to a bud before dropping it and putting it out under your boot. "I wanna go home."

Hobie stood from his position and offered out a hand to you. "Then lemme walk you." You looked at him, then his hand, and with a scoff, walked right past him. But you didn't tell him no, so he went right with you. You never said no to him along the way to your flat only a couple blocks away.

It was like the two of you were scared to talk about what you really wanted to. The way you two left off. Anyone looking at you would have said you were friends, not ex-lovers. And you weren't even that technically. You two laughed together, walked together without a single touch shared but all the longing glances of two people wanting to get back together after so many months.

And when you reached your flat, you turned and looked at Hobie and his massive height head on. "You can't come inside."

"I can't or you don't want me to?" He countered again because he knew you too well. You shoved him softly and he didn't even move. "Both. I know myself." If he comes in, you'll have sex, you'll wake up, and he won't be there. You would have let him in just to get hurt again.

"I told you, I won' touch ya, luv. I haven' yet, have I?" He was right, the only time he tried, he gave you the option to take his hand and you had refused, renewing your agreement that he would not be the one to initiate anything between the two of you. "We still haven' spoken. I don't think ya wan' everyone on the street to know our business, yeah?"

You crossed your arms over your chest and looked around. Finally, you looked for your keys to the front door and when you found it, you unlocked it. Hobie knew to be quiet as to disturb your neighbors and he surprisingly was considering his size. You knew where the stairs freaked and he followed your moves. Most of your neighbors were older people and that they'd have no qualms reporting you to your landlord.

When you finally reached your flat, you unlocked the door and let him in.

Your flat looked mostly if not entirely the same. Hobie smiled. "Good memories in here." He looked back at you with sparkling eyes. You closed the door. "Yeah, yeah, Hobie. Come on, we came in here to talk." You didn't want any of his bullshit anymore. You needed closure or you'd go crazy. Barely getting through the day without crying and throwing things was no way to live your life. Drinking and smoking all the time wasn't much greater either. You both were a mess.

"Yeah, yeah, we did." His playful attitude faltered as he crossed his long arms loosely over his chest and looked at his boots. "Look, 'm sorry, y/n. 'm sorry for all of it. You never deserved the way I treated you, you never deserved what I said to you."

You sat, you listened, you let him talk, your lips pulling to the side as you attempted to hold back swelling tears.

"I know I was wrong. I know. And I regret it everyday for the way I hurt you. We just…one, we shouldn't've had a conversation like tha' at a time like tha'. But I'm–" he paused for a moment, looking for the words. "I wasn't lying when I said I'm not someone you want to love. I am someone that no one has ever loved, doll. They have always left me because of who I am."

"But I'm not everyone else, Hobes. You can't decide for me who I'm gonna love." You interjected, a bit tearful. The situation frustrated you to tears and you felt a bit ridiculous for crying but Hobie didn't care, he reached out and wiped the fresh tears from your face. "Ya right. I should've let you make that decision yaself and 'm sorry for tha', luv. I was jus' scared."

"Scared? Scared of what, Hobie?" You croaked out, looking up at him with those big, beautiful eyes of yours that he adored so much, that he thought of in the darkest part of the night to keep him going.

He closed his eyes because he couldn't bear to look into your gaze. "I was afraid you would leave me one day because what would I do withou'cha by my side, luv. I was scared because I loved ya too and I knew I didn't deserve ya and one day you'd figure tha' ou' too."

He was scared to look at you, scared that it may ruin the moment to know how you were feeling about all of this. If only he knew him hard you fell for him again. Maybe the two of you weren't right for each other. Maybe whatever high power never ordained for you to be together. But fuck that higher power.

Hobie felt the weight of your lips ease against his and immediately took you in to him. He's been waiting to kiss you since the moment he first saw you but he promise he wouldn't touch you, not unless you touched him first.

Your hands reached up and caressed his face with your soft palms. His hand timidly came to your hips, waiting for you to writhe from him hold but you don't, you lean into him, standing on your toes to reach his lips better. You still taste like fruits and he hopes that your nether lips taste the same.

"I want you." You murmured against his lips in a daze of lust. "I want you right here, please." You kissed him harder pushing him back onto your couch before clamoring onto his lap with your legs straddling him. Hobie pulled you close, so close until your body pressed against his chest, rolling like waves under the exploring nature of his hands.

Your hands pulled at each other's clothes, removing shirts, tugging at the buttons of pants, a bra was tossed over your shoulder by you don't know who's hand. You wanted him completely naked, completely vulnerable to you for the first time and he wanted you the same.

Removing each other's clothes, you got up and stumbled clumsily to your bedroom where, by the time you got there, the two of you stood naked, embracing each other while you kissed. You had Hobie on the bed in seconds, still on top of him while you kissed hickeys down his neck. His hand slid down the soft skin of your naval, sliding between your supple legs to touch the slick nether lips of your pussy. He slid his middle finger between your folds and groaned softly. "Are you this wet all the time?"

"Only for you." You rocked your hips softly against his hand, shuddering as he curled his finger and let it slide into the wetness of your entrance. It was so easy to add another finger into you, and with enough working from his middle and index, scissoring you open while rubbing that sensitive ridge you've got inside you, he managed to add a third.

"Ahh– shit…Hobie." You rode his fingers, your hands holding his head where his jaw and neck met. You kept your eyes on his, your foreheads pressed against one another. "Keep goin', luv. Take wha'cha need."

You liked the warmth of his skin against yours. Two humans in love sharing in the taking of each other's bodies. Your teeth met his skin, nipping, biting, the salty remnants of sweat from performing still on his skin. He smells like weed, looks like heaven, and tastes like love. His palm worked against your clit while his fingers stretched you open in preparation for his size, which you haven't taken in a long while. You could feel it resting against your stomach, aching, smearing precum across your naval. You wanted it inside you in any way you could have him. But it seemed that he was intent on making you cum hon his hand first.

"Mmmh~ Ion wanna cum yet." You told him still rutting your hips against his hand. "I wanna cum with you." You wanted out, biting your lower lip as you whimpered. "I want your cock. Please lemme have it, Hobes. Please." You offered him puppy dog eyes like he wasn't already willing to give you everything you wanted and the world on top of it.

"Cummin' twice never hurt nobody." Hobie used his free hand to lift your head and make you face him again. "Jus' look a' me wit' those pretty eyes, luv. Can you do tha' for me?" He let his hand drop to your hip and felt the way you moved under the weight of his palm, desperate for a climax long denied to you for months. You nodded with wet, pouty lips and those pretty eyes.

Yoru walls clamped down upon his fingers as your ground your hips down hard and whimpered with the beginnings of an orgasm. “Just keep–” You tilted your hips to rub your clit a little more against the heel of his palm. You bit your lip and held him tighter as you rocked to the sway of your climax washing over you gently. Your body paused and you pressed your lips to Hobie’s to stifle your moan so you wouldn’t wake the neighbors. “Fuck– Hobie!”

Your tongues pressed against each other, your kiss sloppy and passionate, full of lust melting back into love. It was dark in your room, hard to see anything all you two had were your unadjusted eyes and the intimacy of touch to guide your way. Hobie laid back on your bed with his head in your pillows. Your scent surrounded him and he was in heaven as you climbed further up on top of him and grasped the length of his cock tenderly.

He let you do what you needed to do, sighing with perfect content as you dragged the tip of his cock between your wet folds. “Go slow, dove. I wanna feel ya.” He told you, shivering as your positioned him against your soaked entrance and sank down until your warm walls enveloped his fat tip. From there, you braced your hands upon his chest and did as told, slowly sinking down upon him, his cock spreading you further than you remembered.

You watched the way Hobie writhed beneath you, his hands gripping up and down your hips and thighs. “Fuck, y/n. Oh my…” He missed this so much, he missed you, this pretty, tight, warm cunt he dreamed about at night. All the toys he’s gotten in an attempt to replicate you, all of it in vain. He almost whined for you, biting his lip to contain something of a whimper. He wished he could se the way your folds parted for him or the way your hole stretched and struggled to contain him.

You liked the sight of him struggling to control himself. There was an overwhelming sense of power you felt you had over him for the first time in you entire fucked up situationship. His grip left bruises in your skin, tighter and tighter as you lifted yourself to the very tip of his member before pushing yourself back down, sheathing his cock completely, He made space for himself inside you, you walls melding to his exact length and girth. You had almost forgotten how good he felt, how he kissed your cervix so tenderly and pressed against sensitive spots you could never reach on your own.

"God, doll. Ya know wha'cha doin' t'me?" His hands find purchase on your hips, weakly following your movements as he watches the outline of your silhouette in amazement. The bed creaks a little with your movements, your moans mingle with the wet sounds of his pushing his cock into you, it's heaven in a single bedroom and you never want to go back to Earth.

Hobie lifted his knees and propped himself up, his hands gripping your hips a little harder so he could have his moment of control. He thrusted up into you, conjuring a breathless gasp from you as you gripped his shoulders for support. Your back arched as he fucked you, abused your cunt a little harder than you were used to over these past couple of months. You but your lip to contain the onslaught of moans you had to offer him, only letting out soft cries and whimpers to satiate his hunger to hear you.

You let him fuck into you, nice and rough, a position only those gifted in his department could pull off. You leaned down, pressed your body to his, laid on top of him with your back arched. You moaned into his neck, nosing at the angle of his jaw. Your hips flicked to meet the thrust of his hips. "H-Hobieeee." You squealed for him and he adored it, the way you dragged out his name like you wanted to hold it in your mouth for longer.

You stretched like a cat on top of him, you hands grasping at the pillow on either side of his head, scratching at the head post. You kept your face against his throat to hide your moans so only he could hear but they were so loud you had to bury your face in the crook of his neck and bite down to muffle them.

It was like he was tearing you apart, his large hands spreading you wide, his full lips muttering obscenities along the lines of his good you felt around him. So soft, so silky, so wet, so good.

When you kissed, it was not a kiss. It was just the parts, a sloppy meeting of tongues, teeth, and lips, all tangled up and touching on another. It was broken down by lust fueled by love, by the warmth of heated skin, by the kindness one human offers to another. He paused his hips to slide his hands up to hold your head with his fingers tangled in your hair.

"I love you, I love you, IloveyouIloveyou." You groaned against his lips at first before babbling it out like you couldn't hold it in you much longer. You needed it out, in the air. You hips rutted, you pussy leaving his cock soaked as you dripped. Your clit rubbed against his hair-covered pelvis and you shivered with pleasure. "Please, don't stop."

Hobie chuckled a little and you fed on it like you've never known any other substance. "I love you too, dove. 'N I wanna see you fuck me. Give me a show. Jus' f'me this time." This whole time, you've been giving shows to other people, now he wants you just to himself.

You sat back up, your hands against his stomach, scratching lightly as you rocked your hips. Hobie watched the way your body moved, hypnotized by the way you rolled and danced. You bounced on his cock, each one met with a lazy thrust into you.

You closed your eyes and tossed your head back, your mouth slightly ajar. You let the pleasure take you, you felt every thrust of his cock inside you, every point of pleasure it touched, the way your greedy, swollen clit rubbed against his pelvic bone, his hands on your hips, sliding up and down your thighs to coax you to continue. You loved his light voice, "you go' i', baby. Keep goin', jus' like tha'. My lovely, looks so pretty." His voice strained with each word, the beginnings of an orgasm making themselves known in his throat.

You shuddered, pussy trembling with your own climax. "I wanna cum together, Hobie. Please." You pleaded with him, looking back down at his fucked out expression trying to hold on to some cohesiveness. His muscles tightened as you fucked him harder, bringing yourself all the way up to the tip of his cock before coming down with a loud clap.

"Wha'eva you wan', lovely. I'll do wha'eva you wan'." He'll be whatever you want to. He just needs you in every way he can have you, for as long as he can have you. "You keep goin' like this 'n 'm gonna cum inside this gorgeous cunt of ya's."

You moaned at the thought of his cum filling you up, taking up the space his cock once did. "Do it, do it, please." You were just on the edge of your orgasm and he could tell. The way your walls clamped around him told everything and each movement brought him closer as well.

It was a simultaneous reaction. It took you both at once. Your moans were louder than before, mingling together embracing each other as your pussy quivered and milked his cock just the way he needed to shoot ribbons of cum right against your cervix and coat your walls in white. There was just so much of it and you continued to ride him, earning a few whimpers from Hobie as you milked him nice and thoroughly. To the point that his cum leaked through the tight seal his cock made with your entrance and dribbled down the underside of his cock and down his balls.

You felt so warm, so full. You fell on top of him, let him wrap his arms around you as you took in his scent so intrinsically his. You missed him so much, missed the feel of his sweaty skin against yours, missed the sound of his labored breath in your ear, then his chuckle he inevitably did at some point. You shook with his chest, rocking your hips a little to feel the comfort of his softening cock inside you.

"What's so funny?" You asked, drawing imaginary shapes against his chest in the dark.

"Really slutted me out in the end there. 've neva whimpered before." He laughed again, tossing a arm over his face to hide his embarrassment. You were laughing with him, a smile half pressed into his chest. "We could do it again."

There was a long stretch of silence as your laugher faded together and you sat there with him still inside you and his cum leaking out in globs, creating a mess between the both of you. There was so much you two needed to say, so many conversations you needed to have, but you narrowed it down in 8 words.

"I missed ya, luv." Hobie began.

"I missed you too." He'd never know how much hearing those words from his pierced lips would make your heart soar. The fact that he said it first, even more so.

"Remember tha' shower you was talkin' 'bout?"

You thought back to that moment of embarrassment for you when you had invited him to shower with you and he had refused. "How could I forget?" Even thinking about it now made your cheeks ache as blood rushed to them.

Hobie shifted a little beneath you. "I wanna take it now." A smile began to creep up onto your face and now your cheeks burned for another reason.

"Let's go take it then."

#across the spiderverse #spiderman atsv #atsv #hobie brown #spiderman #spider punk #hobie brown fic #hobie brown smut #backstage show #hobie brown x reader #rockstar!au #rockstar!hobie x groupie!reader #spiderpunk smut

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shitouttabuck · 5 months

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ok stay with me here but: (loose) anastasia (1997) au

evan buckley: the missing, presumed dead, youngest child of the beloved/beloathed buckley family, all of whom were murdered when he was a kid—all except his older sister. except he’s alive, with the unfortunate downside of total amnesia, and nothing to tie him to anyone except a broken something that just reads: buck. so buck grows up alone, and it sucks, especially because it’s not all he’s ever known. he might not have his memories but he knows he's known what love is. home, love, family. there was once a time i must’ve had them too. home, love, family. i will never be complete until i find you.

maddie buckley: only daughter of the buckley family, fell in love with a bad man who tried to kill her whole family to get to her. got away and got safe. doesn’t know if doug’s alive. her brother’s probably dead. surviving’s not the same as living, and she’s been doing it for so long. but… have you heard… there’s a rumour in los angeles. she’s got the best and the brightest protecting her, and all that buckley family money. spreading them both thin could mean doug worming his way out of the woodwork but if there’s even a chance evan’s really out there? she’s already decided.

eddie diaz: conman, but more importantly, dad. there was a war, and then another one, and his wife left, and somewhere in there his parents took his kid from him. he does not have the money to fight them with lawyers, but he’s stubborn and not particularly respectful of the law and he’s heard that maddie buckley’s protective service team has means and money that allow for a) duking it out in court with his parents or b) getting his kid back in ways that are more uh legally grey. and it just so happens the rumours are that maddie buckley will do just about anything and pay just about any sum to find her long-lost brother. blond-haired, blue-eyed, missing at age 10—nearly two decades ago. he could look like anyone, now. sure, there’s the distinctive red birthmark over his eyebrow, but makeup and tattooing go a long way these days. oh, and conveniently, his partner in literal crime, however mild, has an old inside link with someone on maddie buckley’s bodyguard team. chim never shuts up about henrietta wilson—hen, he calls her—particularly when eddie’s fumbling a job and having to improvise and he feels the need to point out just how competent his previous partner steadfastly was.

if eddie and chim are holding illicit auditions for evan buckley lookalikes, and this massive beautiful man stumbles in apparently already having gone to the trouble of dressing for the part? who is eddie to look that gift horse in the mouth? the quicker they see this con through, the quicker he’s together with chris again.

except buck thinks eddie really believes he’s maddie buckley’s missing brother, and buck is warm and ridiculous and so genuinely curious about eddie’s own family, on this journey to find his own, and eddie can’t help but share christopher, and buck listens with bright eyes and holds the photographs so carefully in his big hands.

cons are never victimless, and eddie knows getting chris back takes priority over any moral quandary of identity theft here.

but buck asks about chris’s favourite things and stays up late on their crosscountry train to come up with plans for an accessible skateboard for a kid he’s never met. buck tells eddie he wonders if maddie’ll recognise him, and he hopes she does, because he’s never had anyone see him and know him before. buck asks eddie if he thinks they’ll stay friends, once they’re both reunited with their families. it’ll be nice not to have to miss anyone again, he tells eddie one night, quiet. missing who you don’t remember is one thing. missing who you know?

he trails off and falls asleep not long after, but eddie lies awake in the bunk below him for hours. his moral compass has always swung with whatever cognitive dissonance necessary to justify his actions because the final truth is: heart over mind. and chris has always been his whole heart. so falling in love with your mark has got to be the stupidest, most dangerous thing you can do.

even this is okay; he can handle breaking part of his own heart. but he didn’t realise he was holding so much of buck’s too, and now? he doesn’t know that he can survive breaking any of that.

#i rewatched anastasia yesterday after a couple years and uh. came home and wrote this down at 11pm.#it will prob never get written but oh it's so fun to imagine buckanastasia eddiedimitri #writing tag #wip #911 #anyway. best movie in the whole entire world. invented romance #and oh the gender envy of a don bluth leading man........

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animasolaoriginal · 13 days

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(6) I n n o c e n c e L o s t

He finds her in a brothel of all places. A chance encounter, but one that will change his life – and hers – forever. – or: A story about a cowboy who falls in love with a prostitute, who happens to be so much more than that.

GENERAL TAGS: NSFW! Explicit! Size difference, age gap, slow burn romance. Cowboys, outlaws, prostitutes. Historical inaccuracy. Horses, guns, violence.

Chapter 1▫️2▫️3▫️4▫️5▫️6▫️7 ...

Chapter 6: The Flight

m!OC x f!OC -- WORDS: 6.6k -- READ ON AO3

when a girl doesn't know what's going on

Chapter 5 -- Chapter 7

His voice is low and quiet in the night, her mind fuzzy from sleep. “We gotta go.”

“What?” Her eyes fly open, her heart instantly hammering against her ribs. “Where? What do you mean?” She sits up, scrambles closer to him, gripping his thumb as his hand closes around hers.

He pulls her towards him, and then off the bed. He's fully dressed, while she feels the cold night air wafting over her naked body. She looks up at the large shadow in front of her, then looks around, sees the outlines of bags and pouches near the door. What's happening?

“Get dressed,” he tells her, gently holding her elbow as he watches her. “We have to hurry.” His words cause her to inhale sharply, even though there is no urgency in his voice. He's calm, surprisingly calm and patient with her, while she stands on shaking legs and wonders where left and right is, where anything is.

“I...” She looks around, wiping at her tired eyes. “My clothes are...” A memory hits her like a kick in the stomach. She gasps, pressing her free hand onto her belly, feels the slight ache, the bruise, the pain as the boot has hit her. “B-baths,” she stammers, her chest rising and falling faster, her lungs tightening. It is hard to breathe. The hand on her stomach moves up to between her breasts, clenches into a fist, urges the air to make it into her body, but she can only gasp, like a fish on land.

Ben's hands are on her upper arms, holding her as he leans closer to her. She looks up at him, helplessly, lips parted and trembling. The lines on his face are deep. He grabs her head, then pulls her against his warm chest, holds her tightly, squeezes the panic out of her. But it's only for a moment, and not nearly enough to dispel the shaking from her limbs.

He lets her go then, left to her own devices, the memory assaulting her spinning mind. Breathing is still hard, but she tries to focus on what he's doing. He rummages through the dresser, pulls out various clothes, inspects them, shakes his head, sighs, pulls out more. When he finally turns back to her, she's sunken to the edge of the bed, white-knuckling the sheets, forcing herself to breathe deeply.

He hands her some clothes, but she can barely lift her arms, let go of the bed, so he helps her dress. Gentle, his hands guiding her limbs, he pulls a thin, long-sleeved shirt over her head, carefully freeing her long hair once he's done, letting it cascade down her shoulders. The black shirt (a man's undershirt?) sits a little loose, but it covers her up completely. Rolling up the way too long sleeves, he watches her closely, and she looks back, focusing on his handsome face, the lines and creases, the beard, the shape of his lips.

When he's finished, he urges her to stand, and she does, then lifts her leg a little, one after the other, as he helps her into a pair of long-legged jeans. The waistband is wide and sits strangely high on her waist, bulging around her hips and loins. He huffs an amused little laugh and turns around, grabs a belt and snakes it through the loops, then pulls it tight around her, not too tight, but enough for it to stay above her hips. He knots the soft leather belt and tilts his head, looks down.

She does too. The pants legs are so long, she looks and feels like a child, too tiny to fit into any adult clothes. But she is an adult, isn't she? After the law? She doesn't feel like it. Ben crouches down in front of her, and she has to grab his broad shoulders to keep her balance as he starts rolling up the jeans legs until she can see her feet again. They bunch around her ankles in a thick roll.

He frowns at the sight, then sighs and unrolls them again, before he shifts on his knees and grabs a pair of scissors from the shelf behind him. Carefully cutting off the excess fabric, he nods to himself, while she watches him, still too sleepy to react, too afraid to move, too confused about what's going on. The cut hem of the jeans is rough, but it'll do.

He looks at her bare feet for a moment, mumbling: “We'll find you shoes somewhere... you gotta go without them for now...” She nods.

Finally, he stands back up, towering over her, she follows his movements, chin tilting up, eyes roaming his frame. She sees him packing the scissors into a small shoulder bag. His gaze is back on her, and he turns around to the clothes hanging from the shelf and grabs one of those button-ups, the thicker kind, it has a plaid pattern, and when he drapes it over her shoulders, slips her arms into it, it feels warm and soft. He leaves it open, unbuttoned.

“Ben?” she whispers when he's done dressing her. “What's going on?”

He looks at her, gently grabbing her small hand between his bigger ones, cradling it softly. “We have to leave. It's not safe here anymore,” he explains quietly, squeezing her hand carefully before letting go and walking towards the door.

“Is it... because of...” she stammers, watching him, gripping the wide hem of the shirt. “...what happened yesterday?” Her voice is barely audible, shaking badly, her heart throbs inside her throat, making it harder to breathe again. He looks back at her, clenching his jaw.

One stride of his long legs, and he's back in front of her, his hands grabbing her face with a force that makes her inhale sharply as he tilts her head up to meet his eyes. “You can't stay here, for multiple reasons,” he says quietly, his gaze hard, a deep crease between his thick eyebrows. “I'll explain everything later, okay? Now we really have to go.”

She stares at him, not understanding anything, but she nods into his hands, inhaling deeply, pushing the lump further down her throat by swallowing hard. Ben leans closer and presses his lips to her forehead, the warmth of his mouth, however short the touch is, leaves a pleasant feeling that slowly travels down her body.

He lets go of her and grabs the bags by the door, slinging the larger one over his shoulder before he hands a smaller one to her. She takes it, then snakes one arm through the strap and adjusts the bag hanging from her hip. Once all bags are somewhere on his body, he stops at the door, and she sees him clenching his jaw. He turns back to her and fishes something out of the front pocket of his jeans.

“Here, take this,” he says and grabs her hand, turns it palm up and places a small, long metal object on it. She frowns at it. “It's a switchblade,” he explains, taking it back to demonstrate to her what he means. His thumb pushes against the edge of the object, and it flips into a longer shape, a sharp blade snapping out of its body. A little gasp escapes her. “Just for emergencies.”

His eyes are on her as he pushes the blade back together, concealing the sharp edge, and puts it on her palm again. She stares at it, chewing on her lip, then nods. “Okay,” she whispers and slips the hidden blade into the pocket of her borrowed jeans. It feels heavy, making the pants sag a little, but the tight belt around her waist holds them up.

“Brave little girl,” he whispers suddenly, and when she looks up at him, he smiles down at her, a glint in his dark eyes. The faint hint of a dimple grazes his bearded cheek.

She feels the corners of her mouth twitching, but the moment is gone as soon as he grabs her hand and places his other one on the doorknob, unlocking it with swift fingers. There he hesitates. Nebbia watches him, his large hand warm around hers.

He looks towards the window then, his jaw working. When he lets go of her hand again, she frowns. He suddenly grabs the edges of the dresser half concealing the broken window pane and drags it over the old floorboards until it sits right in front of the door, locking them in. Her frown deepens. “What –”

With a little huff of a laugh, he grabs her wrist and pulls her towards him as he guides them towards the open window. She freezes as soon as she looks down. It's at least a ten foot drop, and the little awning below the window a slick, moss-covered ramp right into her doom. “No,” she gasps, sinking her fingernails into his arm.

He grabs her shoulders and turns her towards him. “I probably should have asked this sooner,” he mumbles before he bends down a little to meet her eye level. “Do you trust me?” he then asks, dark eyes looking at her in earnest, eyebrows raised a little.

She swallows hard, but there's no doubt in her mind. She's followed him here without hesitation, without second-guessing anything. Because it has felt right. “Yes,” she breathes. “I trust you...”

He straightens, exhaling loudly. “I don't know why you would do that, but I'm glad you do,” he says with a smirk. He squeezes her shoulder lightly, then steps past her. “I'll go first, you follow, okay?”

“O-okay,” she whispers, the mere idea of climbing out of a second-floor window into literal darkness causing shivers to rush through her small body.

And then the mountain of a man, laden with bags and pouches, squeezes himself through the open window, carefully stepping onto the little roof, leaning down to grab the edge with one hand, bending at the knees, before he takes a quick jump and vanishes into the night, out of sight, and only a soft thud is heard when he lands on the ground below.

“Come on,” she hears him hissing.

For a moment she is frozen in place, her limbs refusing to move, to follow, to jump down. She can already feel the vertigo in her mind, and she isn't even out of the window yet. And it's dark. How can her mind be afraid of this height when it can't even see the ground? Or is it because she can't see the ground that it assumes it's far deeper than it is?

“Nebbia!” His voice echoes quietly through the night and cuts through her frantic thoughts. Inhaling deeply, she lifts her leg and climbs over the low windowsill, white-knuckling the frame as she steps onto the roof. “It's easier if you sit down and slide,” Ben's voice comes through the haze inside her head.

She nods, even though he can't see her, and awkwardly squats down, her hands sliding down the old window frame, and when she feels something sharp cutting into her palm, she winces, lets go and shrieks quietly when she slides down a little, but her bare feet on the old metal panels catch her fall with a squeak. She feels her soles burning and her palm throbbing, hot blood pumping out of the cut. Trying to ignore the pain, she keeps going, inching closer to the edge in that strange crab-walk until she can see Ben standing just below her, his arms reaching towards her when he sees her.

“I'll catch you, come on,” he whispers.

She takes a shuddering breath and plops down fully, letting her legs dangle off the edge. Her hands grip around it, and the sudden sting rushing through her nerves helps in pushing her forward, literally. With a jolt she leans in, lets go and slips off the roof.

A shrill shriek escapes her as she falls freely for a fraction of a second before she feels Ben's large hands grab at her, holding her, and she lands against him with a thud, making him stumble backwards slightly. Her arms wrap around his neck as she clings to him, feet off the ground, body flat to his, heart thundering inside her chest.

He sets her down and pries her arms away from him, then hisses sharply through his teeth when he sees her bleeding hand. A grunt escapes him, but he doesn't say anything else as he holds her hand palm up in his larger one, fingers curled around it carefully, then pushes a hand into his pouch and grabs a roll of gauze, shoving it into her uninjured hand. She is still shaking from the jump, confused and in pain, but too numb to do anything, so she just watches him as he slides his hand into another bag and gets out a bottle of alcohol.

She frowns slightly when he uncorks it with his thumb and then takes a swig, the smell so familiar to her she inhales deeply, remembering the first time she's met him, a little over twenty-four hours ago. He holds the bottle to her, but she shakes her head, and he shrugs. “Put your hand on your mouth,” he tells her quietly, and she furrows her brows. “Come on, we don't have time, darling!”

Pressing her free hand to her mouth, she stares at him with wide eyes, unsure what's about to happen. He holds her injured hand tightly, then brings the alcohol closer to the deep cut. The pain throbs with every rapid heartbeat, blood gushing out in the same rhythm. She feels faint, can barely breathe through her nose. It gets worse when she feels a sudden sting, a horrible burning sensation, when Ben pours some of the liquid over her wound.

Her shriek is muffled by her hand, and she jerks her arm away, trying to break free from his grasp, but he keeps holding her hand until he's cleaned it. Her head is spinning, quiet sobs escaping her as the first tears burn their way down her cheeks. The pain subsides slowly, and she watches him wrapping the gauze around her hand, her breaths frantic and loud through her nose while she keeps her hand on her mouth.

He ties the ends together in a little bow, then cradles her hand between his larger ones, looking down at her. “Are you okay?”

She nods, slowly lowering her hand, taking deep breaths past her parted lips. “Th-thank you...”

“We haven't even left the camp yet,” he says with a sigh and a chuckle, shaking his head as he grabs her uninjured hand and gently pulls her along, pushing the half-empty bottle back into his bag as he walks. “This is going to be interesting...”

They sneak along the trees surrounding the camp, far away from the tents and wagons, keeping to the shadows. It's a moon-lit night, and she can see surprisingly far over the meadow ahead of them. He's headed for the large horse at the edge of the forest, but before they enter the little enclosure, he stops and drops her hand again.

“Stay close,” he whispers under his breath, and she nods, following him as he sneaks off towards a tent she hasn't noticed before. It holds all the saddles for the horses, halters, bridles and blankets, additional reins and stirrups, saddle bags and other horse riding equipment. He grabs a blanket, then a bridle and reins, throwing the leather straps over his shoulder, before he steps towards one of the bigger saddles that hang over long horizontal posts, and she remembers the horn she's clung to, and the slope of the seat, and how it's made her slip right between his legs, against his – “Come on!”

Clearing her throat softly, she bites her lip and follows him out of the tent as he carries the saddle along the edge of the meadow towards Thunder. The giant horse, a black shadow in the night, snorts quietly as they approach, and she watches with growing fascination how Ben throws the saddle onto his large back and expertly fixes it around the horse's body.

She wiggles her toes through the short grass of the meadow while he moves on to remove the halter from Thunder's long face to replace it with a different one. There's a little clanging sound as he pushes the metal bar of the bridle between the horse's teeth and then the rest of it over the animal's large ears, fiddling with the leather bands to make it fit perfectly. His long fingers move quick, like he's done this all his life – which he probably has. The big beast stands patiently, barely moving, and lets him work, and she keeps watching Ben as he ties the large bag and the blanket to the back of the saddle.

Once he's done, he pats the horse's neck affectionately, then moves his eyes towards her. His face is set, neutral, but a little dark, and he seems to listen to the noises of the night for a moment. It's very quiet, almost too quiet, the croaking of the frogs is muffled in the distance, the insects seem to take a chirping break, and only the wind rustles through the leaves of the nearby trees.

Then there's a different noise to their right, the snap of a branch, a little groan, leaves rustling. Ben's head snaps towards the sound, and she freezes, instinctively moving closer to him. His hand finds her waist almost as naturally. He doesn't seem to be too alarmed by it, though. Looking up at him, she sees him clenching his jaw, then meeting her gaze as he looks back. “Ready?” he whispers, and without knowing what for, she nods.

He grabs her waist, his big hands splayed along her sides, and lifts her up effortlessly, and while she holds her breath, trying to ignore the new wave of vertigo, she opens her legs mid-motion so she can sit down on the saddle with one leg on each side, the too-large jeans bunching slightly around her slim limbs. She grabs the horn, and only seconds later, Ben hoists himself up behind her, nudging his boots into the stirrups and moving his arms around her to grab the reins.

She settles between his thighs, scooting back against him, feeling his muscles flex when he spurs Thunder on, and the giant horse starts moving slowly, his hooves stomping quietly over the meadow as Ben guides him towards the edge of the forest where there's a little path leading through it. Out of camp.

Inhaling deeply, she white-knuckles the horn of the saddle, holding on desperately, even though she feels the sting of her wound through the bandage, wanting badly to hold onto Ben instead, but he rests his hands with the reins loosely on her hips, the touch warm, but not close enough, too casually, not nearly as comforting as his hand on her stomach, holding her against him. Now she has to squeeze her thighs around the horse to hold herself up and keep herself from falling off. And she already feels her legs trembling from exertion even though it has only been a few yards.

Thunder moves towards the path, and there Ben stops him with a short, gentle jolt of the reins. The horse snorts and bows his head, stomping his hooves idly. She turns her head to look over her shoulder at the big man behind her. He's tilting his head as he looks at something down in the grass. Following his gaze, she flinches when she realizes that there's a man sleeping on the ground, snoring slightly. Not the man, though, she thinks when a different face pops up in her memory, leering down at her angrily.

“That's how they got in,” Ben murmurs, and she wonders what he means. He inhales deeply, his chest moving against her back, before he fumbles with his bag and pulls out the open bottle of alcohol. He extends his arm and drops it to the man's side, it lands with a thud and falls over, spilling its contents in the dirt. “You didn't see anything, huh?” he mutters, and she sees him looking back towards the house.

When Thunder starts moving again, she grips onto his forearm, pulling it against her to steady herself. He shifts the reins into his other hand and slips his fingers over her stomach before he curls them around her waist, holding her gently against him. “Why did you leave the bottle?” she whispers as they start to traverse the narrow path through the trees.

“To be honest, I wanted to knock whoever was on guard duty tonight out with it, but that lazy bastard beat me to it, so why not leave the source for his heedlessness next to him, huh?” A deep, short laugh rumbles out of him and makes her body shake slightly as well.

“Ben, who got in?” she then asks quietly, pressing both of her hands to his forearm, feeling the muscles flex beneath his skin.

He sighs quietly. “Bad men,” he replies in a dark whisper, his thighs twitching when he spurs Thunder on to move quicker. The horse falls into a lazy trot, making them bounce slightly on the saddle. Her fingernails dig into his arm. “They were looking for –”

“Me?” she finishes in a little gasp.

“Yes,” he growls against her. “And me. That's how they've found us. Someone must have recognized me in the brothel, then put two and two together when you were gone the next morning. I was stupid,” he adds in a low hum. “I'm sorry, sweetheart.”

“Don't be, I'm glad you were, I mean, I'm glad you took me with you,” she says with a turn of her head when the wind picks up around them as the forest opens up to a wider field. The darkness is slightly denser around them now. “But I'm sorry I caused you... trouble... I... I'm sorry you had to leave your camp... for me...”

He leans closer, resting his chin on her shoulder, his rough cheek rubbing against her soft skin. “You didn't cause me any trouble, baby,” he breathes against her, tightening his grip around her middle. “We'll come back when the dust has settled.”

She shivers deeply, holding her breath as the warmth of his touch floods through her body. “S-so... where are we g-going?” she stammers, unable to move with how close he is. He keeps rubbing his face against hers, but then he leans back, the tickling sensation of his beard gone. She misses it already.

“Where our noses take us,” he says softly, brushing his lips against the back of her head before nuzzling his nose into her hair.

Another shudder crashes through her, and she nods, unable to do anything else. It's an adventure, she tells herself. Off to the unknown. At least I'm not alone...

More and more clouds push themselves in front of the moon, and suddenly the night is as dark as the last one has been, and she is once again sitting on this giant horse, flying through the darkness. Ben's grip around her is strong and comforting, and she would relax against him, if her legs weren't trembling so much from trying to hold onto Thunder's body. Somehow it has been easier to sit on him sideways, tucked between Ben's legs, instead of sitting like a man.

Also it hurts more, despite the warmth of the man behind her and his thighs caging her in. The constant up and down does weird things to her loins. Or it's the rough fabric of the jeans against her naked flesh. No underwear, remember? she thinks to herself, groaning quietly as she shifts on the saddle to find a more comfortable way of sitting.

And with the image of her naked body in mind, she suddenly realizes she has nothing, only the clothes on her body (which aren't even hers). She never owned anything, but it didn't matter, at least she's had a bed she could call her own, a constant in her life, a place to retreat.

But now she has nothing, and nothing lies ahead (or everything, if she wants to take the optimistic approach), the unknown is so much scarier than the uncertainty of which client would come to her room at night. At least it has always been the same job, the same expectations – well, before she's been promoted to full-time... whore, offering everything. Somehow she hates that word, but that is what she's been, isn't it?

The memory of Ben breaking the other man's nose because he has used that word comes back to her like the phantom pain of a boot against her stomach. She gasps, gripping Ben's arm tighter, shivering despite the many layers of clothes he's given her.

“Everything alright, sweetheart?” he says softly, leaning a little closer.

“Mhm,” she makes, biting her tongue. Her body aches at this point, her mind is spinning, every muscle tense. The rush of the horse's speed, the wind howling in her ears, her hair flapping around her, the tension in her stomach, the vertigo, the memories, the throbbing in her bandaged hand, the chafing between her legs, it's all too much, but she doesn't want to whine or complain. She never has, she's always taken life how it has come at her.

“We'll take a break soon,” he replies, gently squeezing her side. “Just a little longer, okay?”

“Okay,” she whispers, inhaling deeply, trying to focus on his warmth, on his presence behind her, on his strong legs around hers, on his – She closes her eyes with a groan, the sudden arousal not helping the burning sensation in her loins.

She still wonders why she even feels like that, why she is so attracted to him. He is so much older, so much bigger, he's a criminal wanted by the law (a murderer), but he has been nice to her, so is that enough to feel this tingling sensation every time he touches her, holds her, leans against her?

He's also your mother's ex-lover, that voice in her head reminds her. And he's probably only nice to you because of that!

Her eyes flutter open (not that it makes much of a difference in the impenetrable blackness of the night around her), her hands mindlessly rubbing over his arm. He can't be, right? Just because I'm Keira's daughter?

You've spent two nights with him now, completely naked, and he's not tried anything, have you noticed? He doesn't see you the same way you see him. Deal with it.

She swallows hard, trying to ignore the nagging voice hurling more doubts and insecurities at her. She fails miserably. A heavy feeling settles in her stomach (just below where he's holding her against himself). I'm just a kid, she thinks. That's what I am to him, right? A little creature to protect from the world, nothing more.

And maybe that is enough. That's more than she's ever had. Someone to look after her, take care of her, like a... parent? She has no idea how mothers or fathers would act around their children, she's never met any. She's always only been around the other girls, the other women. And the men that came to her didn't share their family stories either, they were too busy coming down her throat.

But does she want him to be a parent to her? No, comes the quick answer. She wants something else, she wants more, she wants to be close to him, really close, not just sleeping naked in bed together, even closer. They've met in a brothel of all places, and her expectations have been high when he's whisked her away, but the more distance they put between themselves and the house, the less he seemed to think about doing anything like that to her.

Pity.

And she starts to think the hard and lengthy girth she's feeling pressing against her ass (rubbing against her with every bounce of the horse's movements) is just the natural state of his cock (which only makes her crave it even more because that is just impressive). She should probably stop thinking these thoughts and start behaving like a normal girl her age.

But what do normal eighteen-year-olds think about in these times? Isn't that also the marrying age, the starting to think about building a family age? Or does that come later? She's never met any girls or women discussing marriage, so she has no idea. Living in a brothel surely is like living in a bubble sometimes. Has been. She's no longer there and she doesn't plan to return. Not if she can help it.

Which makes her think about the conversation she overheard this morning and Ben's mention of the bad men getting into the camp to get her. Who is after her? She is just a girl, one of many, who would have an interest in retrieving her? She's had a few clients who've been very fond of her and her skills, but would they go to such lengths to get her back?

And who owns the brothel? She always thought it was Madam Claire's business, not some person in the shadows who pulls all the strings. It is all rather mysterious, and the longer she thinks about it, the harder it becomes to think of any possible answers. And frankly, even though her thoughts have distracted her a lot, she still feels her sore butt scraping over the saddle.

She shifts again, almost loosing her balance when Thunder makes a little extra step over a root or something. A shriek leaves her, and she clutches at Ben's arm in slight panic. She feels him tugging on the reins, and the horse slows a little, before he stops altogether, bowing his massive head, causing a jerk to go through Ben's arm. “Easy, boy,” he hums at the animal. Thunder snorts. She looks around the darkness. Why did he stop?

He doesn't say anything, instead he loosens his arm from around her waist, and suddenly both of his hands are on her sides, drifting lower until he basically cups her rear. She squeaks in surprise when he lifts her up, one hand pushing under her thigh to nudge her to raise her leg. He moves her like a doll again, and she lets him, and then she sits sideways, almost on his lap now, before she slips between his legs once more, but it is much more comfortable now.

“Better?” he whispers as he leans closer, his beard tickling her cheek.

“How did you –” she starts, turning her head to him even though she can barely see him in the dark.

“You kept rubbing against my groin, darling, and probably not on purpose, right?” he says with a chuckle. She feels her cheeks warming up, happy about the darkness now. “Or did you?”

She clears her throat. “Uh, I...”

“I also assume it must be rather uncomfortable having your legs so wide open all the time, hm?” he hums provocatively into her ear. She shivers, but then she turns slightly and hits his chest with the back of her hand, staring up at him.

“Well, I never had the chance to get used to it, you've whisked me away before I got more experience on that!” she replies with a pout, her cheeks burning from the grin she tries to suppress.

His laugh is both surprised and genuine. She feels his hands on her waist again, his thumbs pressing lightly into her skin. “You'll get plenty experience with me, don't worry,” he replies quietly, leaning down again until his cheek rubs against hers, the scraping sound sending goosebumps over her limbs. Something else, hot, burning, itching, gathers right between her legs. “We'll be riding for a long time, sweetheart.”

A little sound akin to a moan escapes her. Everything he says sounds wrong to her, not wrong wrong, just... not the way he probably means it, unless he does and wants to play with her, oh he wants to play with her alright, but it makes her feel both more aroused and slightly strange, uncomfortable? Not really, just... strange. She sucks in a sharp breath and turns back, away from him, trying to ignore the way he holds her, leans against her, how he's warm, and comfortable, and... hard.

He leans back with a chuckle, letting go of her waist to snake his arms around her, grabbing the reins once more while pulling her closer to him, before he urges Thunder to move again. The horse gives a loud whinny, then falls into slow steps that quickly turn into his breakneck speed again.

She clings to Ben's arm, trying to hold on, now with both of her legs on one side. It does feel better, the strain on her muscles easing slowly. While it looks so easy for Ben to sit on Thunder's broad back, for her, it has been like doing the splits. Without underwear, in much-too-big jeans chafing her sensitive skin.

So apparently small girls like her cannot sit like a man after all. Not that she minds, actually. Sitting like this feels a lot better.

His arm is hooked around her stomach, fingers curling under her thigh to hold her steady, and it feels safer this way, too. He's closer, her shoulder blade presses into his chest, his touch is warm and comforting. And she can even lean her head back against him. Oh so much better.

They ride like this for a while, and she feels her eyelids getting heavier. The last time she fell asleep on this horse, she's woken up in a dilapidated house, surrounded by strangers. Her first (and only) day at the camp has been quite nice, actually, except for the ending of it. She refuses to remember it, but the memories still come. Breathing deeply, she forces them away and tries to focus on the woman named Genevieve, Ginny, instead, who's given her nice clothes (that she had to leave behind), who's been seemingly very happy to meet her, who knew her mother as well...

Will she see her again? Ben's said they'll return, but when? When is the dust truly settled? And will she ever be safe in that camp again, if they do return? She doesn't feel like it. Being with Ben makes her feel safe, but he can't be with her all the time, how they've proven last night...

And the second he's left her, she's been –

An angry huff escapes her. She doesn't want to think back to being manhandled out of the tub, held on the ground, forced to endure while a random stranger tried to take her from behind. She shivers at the thought. And it almost happened, too. Her first time, taken like that, a horrible, horrible thought. Stop thinking about it then! her own voice yells at her inside her head.

She swallows and squeezes her eyes shut for a moment, mindlessly rubbing Ben's arm as she holds onto him. He gives her thigh a gentle rub in return. “Almost there,” he whispers, his low voice vibrating through her body.

She nods, wondering how he can tell they're getting anywhere in this pitch-blackness. But then she notices the blue glow on the horizon, a thin strip of not-darkness creeping up the sky. Is it morning already? Probably not, but maybe it's coming closer. She looks around, noticing the shapes of trees around them on one side and a steep cliff face on the other, and straight ahead the land seems to open up more, there's more of that bluish glow, stretching all the way across the horizon.

Yet before she can focus on it, Ben turns the horse left, deeper into the forest. It's darker again, and the noises become more intense as Thunder slows down, the echo of his heavy hooves almost eerie in the dense space with all the critters scurrying out of the way, the insects chirping loudly, and the occasional howl of whatever animal lives close-by. Eventually he stops, and she squints ahead.

“We're here,” Ben says softly, slowly letting go of her and of the reins, resting his hands on his own thighs. She frowns.

It's a cabin, small, wooden, with boarded-up windows, a small porch and a roof that may be caving in at any moment. This man really seems to like the thrill of houses that are seconds away from collapsing.

“It's just for tonight,” he whispers as if reading her mind. She turns her head to him, but he already moves behind her, leaning up on the stirrup to swing his other leg over the horse's back, then jumps down with a thud of his heavy boots. Without hesitation he grabs her waist and lifts her off, and she's thankful he doesn't make her jump on her own.

She holds onto his forearms when her bare feet meet the rough forest floor, dead leaves and pine needles poking her soles. He steps back and fidgets with the bag attached to the saddle before he throws it over his shoulder, shoving the blanket into her arms as he passes her.

“Stay with Thunder,” he tells her, and she frowns as she watches him approach the old cabin, one hand on his gun holster. Her hand moves to the horse's long neck, patting him mindlessly, her fingers slipping through his long mane, while she waits for whatever comes next.

Ben gently nudges the door open with his boot, its rusty hinges squeaking in the silence of the night, before he steps past the dark threshold and vanishes out of sight. It's not silent at all, though. Nebbia feels as if every bush around them is rustling, as if all the animals of the forest are watching them.

She moves closer to the large horse, hoping he'll tell her in time if something wants to attack them. Ben's heavy footsteps are muffled inside the cabin, they stop occasionally, followed by a scraping sound as if he's moving furniture around. It takes him an awfully long time to make sure the house is unoccupied and safe.

When he finally returns, she has her arms wrapped around Thunder's large neck, savoring the horse's warmth, while she tries to keep her fears under control. Memories, the darkness, all her doubts, the nagging voices.

“Are you okay?” he asks, leaning over her to grab the reins and pull them over the horse's head. She shivers, lets go of the large animal and wraps her arms around the large man instead. He catches her with a surprised chuckle, one arm tight around her lower back as he picks her up off the ground slightly, balancing her on his hip while she lifts her legs and wraps them around him.

“Now I am,” she whispers into the crook of his neck, clinging to him like the child he probably thinks she is.

He gives a low huff, holds her close and carries her towards the cabin, pulling Thunder along. After attaching the reins to a pole next to the porch, giving the horse a reassuring pat on the neck, he then turns and enters the small house in the middle of the forest. Her eyes are closed by then as she gives into his warmth and strength, feeling safe and protected.

Chapter 5 -- Chapter 7

End notes: Now I could go on a tangent about cleaning wounds or how I only have basic (read: no) knowledge of how to saddle a horse and what all the things are called, or anything about horseback riding really, but I'll just leave this chapter sitting here like this.

(Note to myself: Remember the switchblade and the wound!)

I hope you enjoyed it. The adventure begins. The tension grows. The next chapter will finally quench the slow burn a little, but that's all I'm gonna say. Stay tuned!

Picture credits to their respective owners. I don't own anything (except the screenshot of RDR2's Shady Belle). I gathered them from all around the Internet. If you see your picture and would like to have it removed, please tell me!

Thank you for reading! Next chapter on Friday!

AO3 -- MASTERLIST -- INSPIRATION POSTS

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batmanisagatewaydrug · 9 months

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makenzie!! batman adaptation discussion for you: it could be argued that there are small elements of camp in batman begins (jonathan crane & falcone embodying them specifically, but also zsasz a little bit lmao), that are nearly obliterated in the two sequels... like nolan was toying with the idea of letting loose, mayhaps. it's really interesting to me, especially because batman begins is arguably the most boring film of the three. would love to know if you have thoughts on this

(my thoughts are getting away from me but also like how does this compare to the kind of camp in batman 2022?? neither are very similar to the 80s/90s films)

hi Elizabeth!!! I was waiting to answer this because I thought my Batman movie club was going to knock out all three Nolan movies pretty quick and I could give a more informed answer, but alas - we've hit a hiatus after Batman Begins, so that's all I'm going to have to work with and it's going to have to suffice because I don't want to leave this sitting in the inbox any longer.

I think for the most part Nolan's Batman movies are too wildly self conscious to qualify for true camp status, but without having revisited the Dark Knight and Rises yet I think I can agree that Begins has the most flirtation with maybe getting a little silly? I think Zsasz is too minor to make much of a dent in the all-consuming self-seriousness, but Cillian Murphy is really breathlessly committed to the Scarecrow and playing him as a straight-up comic book villain in a way that doesn't get to happen much later in the series. he tells Batman to lighten up while he sets him on fire, which rules and would, I think, probably not be allowed in the later movies. he ends the movie wearing a straightjacket riding a stolen police horse and gets immediately taken out by a lawyer with a taser! he's giving us everything he has to give! he has like four minutes of screen time and all of them are perfect.

I do think it's very interesting that throughout all three movies, Nolan is picking out antagonists who are known for being like. BOMBASTICALLY weird and over the top - Scarecrow! Two-Face! Catwoman! Bane! the fucking Joker!!! an entire secret society of assassins, COME ON - and then kind of fighting against the very nature of these characters to make them fit into the world he's envisioned, with mixed results; Harvey and Selina and Bane in particular all fall pretty flat for me. like, fuck, where's Lady Shiva's movie? not that she's not also on some freak shit, but a vicious martial artist obsessed with proving herself against the best fighters in the world seems way easier to fit into a grounded Bat universe in a way that doesn't feel anticlimactic than, say, a bad CGI Two-Face who almost immediately gets murdered. there were options!

anyway I've gotten way off topic, but I agree that Begins had the most wiggle room to set the tone for the universe by virtue of being the first and it did Try Some Things, especially with the presentation and pomp of the League of Shadows, as well as some of Bruce's Brucier moments when he's playing up his rich dolt image, but ultimately a lot of it got rejected in the latter installations in favor of getting ever grimmer.

comparing it to the 2022 movie is REALLY INTERESTING because they're both very dark and gritty, tonally, and I've spent a lot of time trying to figure out why one of them mostly works for me and the other one mostly doesn't (although I'll preface this by saying that they both have high and low points, especially: re their casting; Murphy's Scarecrow is inspired in a mostly bland movie and Paul Dano's Riddler is miserable in a mostly excellent movie, etc).

for me personally a lot of it comes down to how much trust the respective directors seem to be willing to put in their audiences to buy in and accept Batman as a story for what it is; this is largely what I mean when I say Nolan seems insecure in his story. Batman Begins, in particular, has much of its first hour bogged down by explanations of where every individual piece of Bat costuming and tech comes from, almost like Nolan feels a need to look at the audience and prove that it totally makes sense and could work; it comes across like he was specifically anticipating and writing for people who would call Batman's gadgetry unrealistic plot holes, and preemptively apologizing for what Batman is. the whole trilogy comes across as similarly cringing, like it can't quite shake being embarrassed by where it comes from.

The Batman 2022, to me, is sort of tonally similar, in that it's very grounded in the crime and corruption and grimiest parts of Gotham, but it reminds me much more of stories like the Long Halloween the way it's taking place in a sweaty haze version of the city that feels like a fever dream. everything is so heightened where Nolan's movies are so grounded as to be miserably earthbound; from the opening narration Bruce is already a prowling, larger than life shadow who calls himself a creature of the night and sulks around his miserable gothic mansion in running eye makeup while flinching from the sunlight. Reeves doesn't waste a fucking second explaining what Batman is or why Batman is because you are a 21st century moviegoer, you know what and why Batman is and we have shit to do. he already knows Gordon, the Joker is already in prison, the Batmobile is a muscle car that looks goddamn possessed and no, you don't need to worry about where it came from.

the whole movie is wrapped is this fucking. vaguely horny neon ambiance where you mostly know the rules but also have this sense that anything weird could happen at any moment; it's a space that is operating without powers or anything too outlandish for now but very much feels like it has room for a Poison Ivy or a Scarecrow twisting your mind, for a Clayface making you paranoid as you don't know who to trust. it's a gorgeous world to play in and I think it's going to lend itself much more to adapting the world, much more so than the Nolan movies where the addition of each new iconic character just came with the question of how much would be stripped away and flattened to make them fit in. camp requires that kind of playful artifice, things masquerading as other things, to work, and I think Batman 2022 really nailed that.

#thee batman #batman 2022 #nolanverse

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thebadgerclan · 2 years

Text

Hope

Pairing: Aleksander Morozova x reader

Summary: Hope has arrived at last...

A/N: This combines elements from episode 2 of Shadow and Bone (can you tell what I’m watching on Netflix rn 😂) and the book

The heels of your boots clicked off of the marble floors as you paced, wringing your hands together. Aleksander had been due back hours ago, but neither he or any of his Grisha had returned. There was trouble with the crossing read the missive you’d received. But we have found the Sun Summoner at last. I’ll finish up my business here and be home as soon as I can. All my love, -Sasha.

You might have believed it was simple travel delays; muddy roads or a lame horse, but then a scout arrived. “There was an attack,” she informed. “Drüskelle ambushed the coach.” She hadn’t said anything more, but ran to the hospital wing to prepare for any injuries or casualties. Which left you pacing in the foyer, worrying for your husband’s safety. It might have been hours or minutes before you heard the telltale hoofbeats approaching, and your heart stuttered.

It took a moment to make out the voices you heard over the blood roaring in your ears, but then you heard it, the most wonderful sound you could imagine. “Take her to the Vesda Suite.” The girl you assumed to be the Sun Summoner asked if she was a prisoner, but you were already striding toward your husband. “Aleksander!” you called, and his attention was immediately on you.

His face broke into a smile, and he opened his arms as you ran to him. “My love,” he said, folding you into his chest, resting his chin on your head. “I was so worried,” you said, letting the tears you’d been holding back fall. “I heard about the attack, and I thought…. I thought…” “Shhh, milaya, I am fine. Those damned witch hunters never stood a chance.” For a few moments, you stayed in his embrace, the steady thump of his heart beneath your ear soothing you.

“Is it true?” you asked when you lifted your head. “Is she real?” “She is,” Aleksander replied, unwinding his arms from around you only to drape one over your shoulders as you walked upstairs to your rooms. “She will be presented to the King tomorrow.” You nodded, resting your head against your husband’s shoulder. “So I get you all to myself until then?” Aleksander hummed his assent, and you smiled.

“Good. An entire evening to have my wicked way with you.” “As wonderful as that sounds, Y/N, I am far too exhausted to properly enjoy you.” You shrugged, opening the doors to your chambers. “That’s alright. Plan B will suffice then.” Aleksander smiled, watching as you fluttered into the adjoining bathroom and turned on the tap. “What does plan B entail, darling?” You emerged a moment later, a soft smile on your face.

“Me, drawing you a nice hot bath and helping you relax, before sharing dinner with you, just the two of us, and falling asleep in your arms.” Your husband sighed at the thought. “That sounds heavenly, my dear.” Aleksander peeled his kefta from his body, tossing it onto the floor to be washed, followed by the rest of his clothes. You couldn’t resist pulling him into another embrace, but you cringed away.

“Saints, you smell like horse.” Aleksander laughed, following you into the bathroom. “I missed you too, Y/N.” Your husband moaned softly as he sunk into the hot water, letting his head rest on the lip of the tub. You knelt at his side, pressing gentle kisses to his face, before washing his hair. Aleksander nearly fell asleep under your touch, but roused himself enough to bathe before he drowned.

There were 2 dinner trays waiting in the bedroom, and you and your husband ate in bed. Aleksander told you about the failed crossing, the miracle of the Sun Summoner, and the attack on the coach. “I was a mile or so back,” he said. “When I heard the commotion I got there as fast as I could. I should have had them take her on the hunting trails, she was too exposed.” “But there were no casualties,” you reminded, and he nodded. “No, no casualties.”

You passed the trays off to a servant and returned to bed, snuggling into Aleksander’s chest. “I couldn’t sleep when you were gone,” you said, and your husband smirked. “I never sleep well when you’re away.” “I know, darling, I’m sorry,” he said, sending a shadow to extinguish the lamps. “But I’m home now, and I’m not leaving again any time soon. I love you, my sweet Y/N.” You yawned, snuggling closer. “I love you too, Sasha.”

***

The next morning, you dressed in your black kefta and walked with Aleksander to the Hall of the Golden Dome. You could hear the Grisha shouting from a mile away, and when you looked at your husband, he just rolled his eyes. “You’ll be walking with us…” “She’s a Summoner… she walks with us…” “...enter as a lower-order Grisha…” “The Darkling himself is a Summoner…” “So you’re ranking yourself with the Darkling now?” Aleksander sighed. “I should have anticipated this,” he said, and the two of you entered the hall.

“She’ll walk with us,” he said, and the Grisha fell silent. “We are expected.” As the Grisha arrayed themselves in formation, you approached the Sun Summoner. “Miss Starkov,” you said, extending a hand to her. “It is an honor to meet you. I am Y/N Kirigan, the General’s wife.” You wanted to make it clear that Aleksander was off limits and off the table. You knew the draw he had, and you couldn't blame both men and women for being attracted to him, but he was yours.

“Nice to meet you too,” she said, nervously shaking your hand. “It’s overwhelming, I know,” you said, doing your best to reassure her. “But soon, you’ll get used to it, and everything here will feel normal. Like second nature.” “I hope you’re right,” Alina said, and before you could say more, Aleksander was at your side, kissing your temple. “I see you’ve met Alina,” he said, and you nodded.

“Indeed I have. If there’s anything you need, Alina, please don’t hesitate to ask.” The Sun Summoner nodded, and your husband took your arm. “Ready?” he asked, and Alina nodded. You made the trek to the Grand Palace, and when Alina demonstrated her power, you were awestruck. Pride was rippling off Aleksander, and as soon as he could, he was back at your side. “At last,” he said, squeezing your hand. “We have hope.”

#aleksander morozova x reader #shadow and bone fanfiction #the darkling x reader #general kirigan x reader #shadow and bone reader insert

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monkiebois · 1 year

Note

So for pittedpeaches three stories what would you say is your favorite scene from each of the three stories (and also would you be willing to draw them as a request or com? *Insert the "take my money" meme here*)

(ppssstt honey, if you'd like a comm their not technically 'officially' open but if u want one dm me on my main and we can talk ;) . ofc if its a request just Kofi's fine but yesyes i would be willing to draw a scene from one of those fics)

hmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

SPOILERS FOR THESE FICS UNDER THE CUT PLEAS EPLEASE LISTN TO ME WHEN I SAY IF YOU LIKE SPICYNOODLES YOU NEED TO READ THESE FICS AND EXPERIENCE THEM WITHOUT PRIOR KNOWLEDGE OHMYGOD

god pittecpeaches has such good fics i cant-AAAA I CANT CHOOSE ONE.

so i just checked thier profile and i havent read a garden across our collarbone yet-

but out of the two i have read (genus daturam and from three thirty to four) i'd say....

Every part of Red Son which MK touched seemed to burn. The conversations they had that evening played over and over in his head. Red Son wished he could have stayed there forever, eating meals, washing dishes, kissing between intimate talks about parents and inside jokes about metal peaches–

Wait a minute.

Wait a fucking minute-

MK had nearly closed the window shut when Red Son ripped it open. “I didn’t know about the peaches.”

MK stumbled back from the window, clearly not expecting Red Son to come back and say that of all things. “Uhh, what-”

THIS WHOLE SCENE HERE ITS BOTH HILAROUS AND SUCH AN AMAZING CLIMAX TO EVERYTHING THATS HAPPENED IN THE FIC LISTEN-LISTEN- NO GET UR ASS OVER HERE UR GNNA LISTEN TO ME AND LISTEN GOOD OKAY OKAY I NEED TO RANT-YOUVE GOT ME RANTING NOW MOTHERFUCKER/POS

theyve been secretly pining over each other for ages and then redson finnaly realises he's in love with mk and he knows mk doesnt know hes redson (WHICH IS HILAROUS OHMYGOD) and and and he LEAVES

FUCKER TRIES TO LEAVE BC "he loves red, not redson" BOOOIIIIIII

B O I

AND HE GOES OVER EVERYTHING THEY DID TOGETHOR AND ITS ALL BUILDING UP THE EMOPTIONS ARE ALREADY HIGHTEEND IN THE CHARACTERS AND READERS BECAUSE ALL THIS LOVEY DOVETY EXITEMNTY WEVE BEEN WAITING FOR IS FINNALLY HAPPENING ONLY FOR RED TO CUT IT OFF AND NOW HE'S GOING THROUGH EVERY THING IN THE DAY EBECAUSE HE WANTS TO TREASURE THE MEMORY EVERYONE CHATRACTERS AN DREADERS ARE FEELING THINGS AND THEN

OH SHIT

THE METAL MOTHERFUCKING PEACHES

THE INSIDE JOKE THAT ONLY MK COULD MOTHERFUCKIN KNOW

i am so normal about this fic * froths at the mouth *

“When I asked you to cut the peaches, you made a joke asking whether they were real or metal.” Red Son climbed back into the house. “But I wouldn’t know about that, would I? So why did you make the joke?”

MK’s eyes were wide and for a moment, Red Son saw it–the glimmer of realization. As quickly as it came it left, hidden by MK squeezing his eyes shut and laughing. “OH! Well, a long while back there was this race around the city, and the winner got what I thought were the real Peaches of Immortality but was actually–”

“But you didn’t say you made that mistake.” Red Son jabbed a finger into MK’s chest. “You said we did. The only people in that race were you, the Dragon Horse girl, and the Demon Bull Family. So how did we make that mistake?!”

MK stumbled on the floor, falling flat onto his ass. He stared up at Red Son, chuckling awkwardly. “Uh, well, I just-I guess I just-uhh-I don’t know, I’m tired, and it probably slipped out, there’s nothing to it, you don’t have to worry about it Red S-RED! Red, Red, it’s no big deal–”

MK was panicking, stumbling on his words, unable to look Red Son in the eye. It only confirmed what Red Son had begun to realize.

“You know who I am, don’t you?” He looked down at MK.

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA WHEN I SAY I FREAKED OUT DURING THIS SCENE I WAS FUCKING SCREAMING

I WAS CHEERING I WAS CRYING ALL THE FUCKING EMOTIONS CRASHING INTO ME AT O N C E

(rereads ur ask....oh you said pick a scene from each of them mkay mkay-

THE HAIR-WASHING SCENE IN GENUS DATURA

First off this is funny af definitly the kinda shit i would write

“Alright. I know you just told me you hate water,” MK turned Red Son, clasping his hands together with a strained smile. “But, I’m going to need you to get into the tub.”

Red Son’s eyes went wider than noodle bowls. He turned his head to look at the tub, now nearly filled with water. MK could see Red Son’s mouth hang ajar as he turned back to face him.

No, not face him. Red Son was looking behind MK, but why would he do that? All that was behind MK was the door-

Red Son scrambled for the exit on all fours.

It took several minutes of shouting and chasing the surprisingly slippery Red Son around the bathroom before MK finally grabbed him. MK latched his arms around Red Son’s waist and pulled him from the ground. Red Son screeched, trying to pry MK’s arms off him. His skin was so hot it hurt to hold him, but at this point MK didn’t care. With a mighty heave, MK tossed Red Son into the bath.

The water splashed out the tub, covering the tiles in a thin sheen. Red Son floundered for a bit, thrashing his arms and legs beneath the water’s surface before emerging with a loud gasp. His ponytail had lost all its gravity-defying heat, now clinging to the back of Red Son’s neck. Red Son shuddered, aggressively trying to wipe the water off his steaming arms.

HE SCRAMBLED ON ALL FOURS LMAO I CANT I COULDNT BREATHE WHEN I FIRST READ IT

The moment MK’s fingers touched his scalp, Red Son flinched. MK moved his hands away, worried that he hurt Red Son, only for him to let out a whine. “Why’d you stop?!”

“Sorry, sorry, I’m not stopping!” MK laughed. “But, really, you gotta let me know if this is too much for you.” He ran his hands through Red Son’s roots. He could see Red Son’s face scrunch up in surprise, but he didn’t seem uncomfortable. In fact, as MK continued to work the shampoo into Red Son’s hair, he seemed to lean into the touch, his breaths becoming slow, heavy, and relaxed.

As MK leaned Red Son’s head back to get a better angle, Red Son stared up at him with sleepy eyes, blinking slowly. There was a small, content smile on his face. MK didn’t think he’d ever seen that expression on Red Son’s face before. Red Son’s smiles usually ranged from a maniacal grin to a hidden curl of his lip, but this felt softer, like Red Son’s inhibitions were being uncoiled with each knot MK untangled from his hair.

It occurred to MK, suddenly, how intimate this moment was. A blush ran up his cheeks at the realization, but Red Son didn't seem to care. He just grinned, dreamily at MK as he washed Red Son's hair.

This…was nice.

It was a bit overwhelming, sure. Red Son couldn’t remember the last time another person’s hands were running through his hair like this. Maybe when he was a toddler? Before he learned to wash himself?

But, it was nice.

MK’s fingers worked themselves into Red Son’s roots. Every now and then, his nails would scratch at his scalp and it’d send a shock down his nervous system. Red Son didn’t mind it though. He leaned into the touch, a lazy smile stretched on his face.

Red Son looked up at MK as he worked. His vision had blurred considerably from the crimson jimsonweed smoke, but he could recognize the Noodle Boy anywhere. He still had that ridiculous hair style, and that traffic-cone colored coat, and a grin that haunted Red Son’s lonely evenings. He was unmistakable.

What was MK doing here? He shouldn’t be here. He was supposed to be kart-racing with Mei right now. If MK was actually here, his parents would probably have found out by now, wouldn’t they? Or at the very least, one of the bull clones would have alerted the other staff. Not to mention, MK was supposed to our kart racing with Mei right now. There was no way he could possible be here.

But Red Son could feel MK’s hands working into his hair, couldn’t he? And MK had carried him up here, had cleaned his face, had thrown him into this atrocious tub full of water. MK was taking care of Red Son. When was the last time someone had taken care of Red Son? Since he was a child? Before he had to learn to care for himself?

It was so nice. Red Son could live in the feeling of MK’s care forever. It was certainly a good distraction from his burning skin, his foggy brain, the doom which whispered to him in stanzas of half-remembered puffy poetry about death from the crimson jimsonweed, about the images which haunted you into Diyu.

MK began to wash the shampoo out of Red Son’s hair, using one hand to pour water out of the basin and the other to block the soap from slipping down into his eyes. It was a small act, but one that showed a careful attention to detail that MK rarely showed to anything at all. It was the sort of sweet gesture that told Red Son he was cared for by MK, that he was loved.

And wasn’t that what had been haunting him for weeks now? Love?

Images that haunt you/Will carry your soul down/And pass you to ten kings

“Oh.” He whispered. “I see.”

MK smiled down at him. “What’s up?”

The candles that hung on the bathroom wall seem to fan MK's face with warmth and light. It almost looked like the light was bursting out from him, like MK's body could only barely contain all the lights in the heavens. But, maybe that was just Red Son's delirious, slowly-dying brain seeing what he always thought of MK.

“I’m hallucinating.” Red Son murmured.

all of this man

all of this

for one, i love intimate moments like this in fics. and the way this author writes this its just OHMYHEART-

and something about hands running through hair man *CLUTCHES HEART*

AND THEN

AND THEN THE

"im hallucinating"

*flatlines*

GOD ITS SO GOOD I LOVE IT SO MUCH

anways yeah ill get to reading the third on soon but these are my fave scenes :DDD

#honeylavender27 #pittedpeaches #spicynoodles #mk #qi xiaotian #redson #fanfic

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vhenadahls · 2 years

Text

you’ve stayed soft and you’ve stood still

Phryne gets her confiscated photographs from Burn's photoshoot developed. The wrong people keep finding them, until finally the right person does.

G, 3800 words.

AO3 link in the first reblog!

Cec climbs back into the cab, off-white envelope in hand, fancy handwriting spelling out Miss Phryne Fisher across the front. “Just like old times, yeah?” He settles into the passenger seat, tapping the envelope against the dashboard.

Bert shrugs. “Guess so. What’s she got this time? Haven’t picked up photographs for her in a while.” Or anything. It is good to be back working for her, as loath as he is to admit it even to Cec. He puts the cab back in gear and pulls out into the street. “Well, what’s in it?”

“Dunno.” Cec undoes the tie holding the envelope shut, but doesn’t immediately say what’s in it.

Stopping to let a horse-cart cross the other way, Bert waves a hand. “What’s the holdup?”

“You think it’s all right to look through the stuff she’s asked us to get?”

The horse-cart moves on and Bert starts toward the house again. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see the nervous expression on Cec’s face. He shrugs again. “Never bothered her before. Figure she assumes someone will look through most stuff what comes into the house. What with us and Jane and Mrs. Stanley and everyone in and out.”

“You may be right there.” Cec drums his fingers on the dashboard for a moment, just barely out of rhythm. When he draws his hand back there’s little half-circles cleared in the dust.

The whisper of the paper flap tells Bert that Cec has finally opened it, and the rattling sound of photographs falling out says he’s looked, but he still hasn’t said. “A man’s gonna meet his maker before you say anything today.”

Cec clears his throat. “It’s - um - these are probably meant for the Inspector.”

“Of course they are, she’s always had plenty of things for the Inspector.” Bert turns right, onto the street that will take them to the Esplanade. “Didn’t know they had a case, though, wonder what she needed to get him so fast.”

“Don’t think they’re for a case, mate.” There’s an unfamiliar catch in Cec’s voice.

“How would you know? If we didn’t even know they had a case, why would we have any idea what they needed for it?” He pulls the cab into the alleyway behind the house. “Give it here.”

Without another word Cec hands the photos over - facedown. Confused, Bert flips the whole stack over. His jaw goes slack.

They’re not for a case. Or, at least, not one that he’s ever heard of. They’re of Miss Fisher, in various stages of undress, glaring at the camera. Some sort of silk robe, camisole and pants, and…

“Oh,” is all that comes out of his mouth.

With one quick motion Cec pulls the photographs away again, flipping them back over. “Come on, man, we don’t need to see those.”

He’s probably right. But. “Like I said, she never used to care who took a gander at whatever came into the house. Least of all us.” Slowly, Bert reaches a hand out for the stack again. Cec lets him grab them and flip them back frontwards.

Not the kind of pictures he’d ever expected to see of anyone he knows, even Miss Fisher.

“Mr. B’s seen us,” Cec says suddenly, and when Bert looks up it’s to find the old man gesturing at them from the kitchen door.

While Bert shoves the photographs back in the envelope, they both tumble out of the cab. Mr. Butler’s eyes narrow when they get within normal speaking distance.

“Are you two all right?”

“Right as rain,” Bert mumbles, holding up the envelope, slightly the worse for wear. “Just leaving this for Miss Fisher.” He steps around Mr. Butler and drops it onto the kitchen table. “Need anything else, Mr. B?”

“Not at the moment, Mr. Johnson. Thank you. I don’t think Miss Fisher has any other requests for you either, but she’ll send for you if she does.”

“Thanks, Mr. B.” Bert scarpers out the back door, and he knows Cec is right on his heels.

—

Dot nearly sings as she walks down the stairs. It’s so good to be back in this house. The house itself is lovely, of course, but it’s the people in it that have made it home these past few years. Jane, Mr. Butler, Bert and Cec. Miss Fisher herself, especially. And with Miss Fisher home now, everything is in its rightful place again, even with Dot herself living elsewhere and her job duties changing to accommodate.

She tidies the parlor on her way through, putting away a book and rearranging a tray of glasses, but the kitchen is her true destination. The hope of cocoa and a chat has remained strong through the months not in the house.

Mr. Butler’s hard at work when she arrives, half the table covered in various cooling dishes. “Oh, Dorothy, wonderful timing. Can you assist me with this one? I seem to have not left a large enough place at the table to set it down.” He’s awkwardly holding a large casserole dish, trying to set it down without placing it on top of an off-white envelope on the other half of the table. She grabs it and repositions one of the cooling racks.

“Will that work?”

“Perfectly. Thank you, Dorothy.” He sets the casserole dish down on the rack, shaking out his hands. After setting down the potholders, he gestures to the envelope she’s still holding.

“Any idea what that is? Bert and Cec dropped it off earlier this afternoon.”

She looks down at it. It’s the same sort of envelope the Inspector and Hugh sometimes bring evidence over in, but neither of them would write Miss Phryne Fisher across it, especially not in this flowing, elegant handwriting. “I haven’t a clue.”

The string’s untied and the envelope’s not closed, and there’s a corner of something poking out the top haphazardly, like Bert and Cec decided to take a look. Maybe she shouldn’t, but she shakes the contents out into her other hand. They’re photographs, obviously, but they’re all facing away from her. She flips them over, and knows in that same instant that her face has turned bright pink.

“Dorothy? Are you all right?”

Photographs of Miss Phryne: in some sort of flowy robe Dot doesn’t remember seeing before, in her smalls, and so on. Less revealing than that painting on her bedroom wall, but oh, not what Dot was expecting to find falling out of that envelope.

“They’re - um.” She swallows. “They’re photographs. She, um, she probably got them developed to give them…to give them to the Inspector.”

Mr. Butler nods in understanding. “Ah, I see. Well then, let’s just put them back in the envelope, and you can take them up to her.”

“Take what up to whom?” asks a new voice. “Something for me?”

“Miss!” Dot jumps so hard she stumbles, nearly knocking into Mr. Butler’s casserole dish. She steps back, giving the hot dish a wider berth. “I, uh. Didn’t see you there.” She holds out the envelope. “Your…photographs are here. Cec and Bert brought them by.”

“My photographs?” Miss Fisher holds out a hand, and Dot gives her both the photos and the envelope. A wide smile spreads across Miss Fisher’s face when she turns the stack of photos over. “Those photographs! Thank you, Dot, I’d forgotten I’d asked Cec and Bert to pick these up.”

Tucking the lot back into the envelope, she taps a forefinger against the edge before turning a wicked grin on Dot, who can feel the heat returning to her cheeks. “I’m glad to know my absence hasn’t dampened your investigative skills, Mrs. Collins,” she says breezily.

“I’m sorry, MIss,” Dot’s words tumble out in a rush, “the envelope was open, and people have left such nasty things for you before that I wanted to check, but I should have asked first, and I’m -”

“It’s all right, Dot.” The grin has softened now, into what Dot would call a doting smile on anyone else. “I’m only being honest, here, though a little teasing. It truly is good to be home.” Without another word she turns and glides into the parlor, leaving the scent of her French perfume behind.

Blinking, in a tussle between confused and delighted, Dot calls out, “don’t forget them in the parlor, Miss!”

“I won’t, Dot, thank you.”

—

Wandering around the house aimlessly, Jane finds herself in the parlor, running a hand over the spines of some of the books on the wall shelf. It’s the first time in a while that being in the house has felt right - even after coming home from school, with Miss Phryne and then even the Inspector abroad and Dot not coming round as much, the house had felt like a mausoleum. Now it’s real and living again, and she wants to soak as much of it up as she can.

Turning away from the bookshelves with a familiar book of poems in hand, she surveys the rest of the room. As lovely and homey as always, with her favorite armchair to her right, the piano across the way, the table ready and waiting with drinks for whoever might come to call. Everything as it should be, courtesy of Dot and Mr. Butler as - wait.

Nearly everything is where it should be, but there’s an envelope leaning against the decanter on the table. Large and not quite white, with writing across the front. Stepping closer, she can read Miss Phryne Fisher in looping, unfamiliar script. It’s open, the string trailing, but she can’t see what’s inside no matter what angle she tries.

“Now what could you be?” she muses under her breath. She definitely shouldn’t be snooping in Miss Phryne’s things, but this doesn’t really count as Miss Phryne’s things, out in the parlor and maybe a threat. People have tried to leave and do so many awful things before. If she can figure out what’s in that envelope, maybe she can ring the Inspector and get it sorted before Miss Fisher even has to know.

The book, she tosses onto her armchair. Hands steady, she reaches for the envelope, touching only the edges as best she can. There’s definitely something inside; she can hear it knocking against the edges when she shakes the whole contrivance. With a quick step to her right she turns the envelope over and empties the contents out over the piano bench.

Her cheeks get hot, and she knows she must be as red as Dot gets sometimes. Definitely not a threat, these - photographs of Miss Phryne, half-dressed, with a nearly angry expression that Jane luckily hasn’t seen much before. Like she’s angry at whoever took the photos, not whoever’s looking, but the distinction doesn’t seem to matter now. But it’s the half-dressed that has Jane shoving the photos back into the envelope, no longer trying to be careful of touching only the edges.

Once they’re all back inside, she takes a deep breath, holding the envelope in both hands. She’s seen plenty of women in less than what Miss Phryne was wearing in those photographs, including Miss Phryne herself. There’s a nude portrait of her on her own bedroom wall, for goodness sake! So why would these photographs be so embarrassing to see?

They’re for the Inspector floats into her thoughts, and she doesn’t know how but she knows it’s true (and, at the same time, knows she’s turning red again).

Ah. That would explain it all. And means that she should definitely take them up to Miss Phryne now, before someone else finds them. But as she steps into the entryway, headed for the stairs, a voice calls from somewhere in the back of the ground floor. “Miss Jane? Is that you? Your assistance would be greatly appreciated.”

It’s Mr. Butler. She shouldn’t keep him waiting. Glancing around for a moment, she slots the envelope onto the table next to the door, between a vase and a stack of gloves. Once she’s helped Mr. Butler with whatever he needs, she can run back and take it upstairs. Miss Phryne won’t mind waiting a few more minutes.

—

It’s been a lifetime since she last stood on this doorstep, Prudence thinks, or at least it seems that way. The last time she and Phryne even spoke was in London, half a world away.

At least this time she knows her niece isn’t dead.

Trying to banish that thought, she presses the doorbell, listening to it ring inside. It will take Mr. Butler a few moments to make his way to the front of the house, but she steps back anyway, to give him space when he opens the door.

He appears just as she plants her feet again. “Mrs. Stanley! How lovely to see you. I’m sorry, we weren’t expecting you. I was in the kitchen with Jane; I apologize if you’ve been waiting long.”

“Not to worry, Mr. Butler, I’m only here to speak with my niece for a moment.” As she follows him into the house, a flash of white on the table next to the door catches her eye. An envelope? Why there?

“You can of course come through to the parlor, Mrs. Stanley.” She looks up again at the sound of Mr. Butler’s voice. “May I take your coat?”

“Thank you, that would be lovely.” While he’s occupied with her coat, she pulls the envelope off the table - open, she notices, with the string hanging off and looking rather the worse for wear. She takes the proffered seat in the parlor and, once he’s climbed onto the stairs, flips it over to the front.

Miss Phryne Fisher, it reads. Of course. The better question is who left it there, not who it was left for. Quickly she turns the envelope over, emptying its contents onto the table beside her.

Photographs? Who would be sending Phryne…

Wait.

The photographs are of Phryne, she realizes, wearing rather less than she should be for any sort of photograph. And there are so many of them. “Phryne Fisher!” she gasps aloud.

“Yes, Aunt P?” Phryne’s voice asks. “To what do I owe the pleasure of my full name?”

Prudence snaps her head up to find Phryne at the bottom of the stairs and fixes her with a narrow-eyed glare. “What are these, Phryne?” She holds up the photographs with delicate fingers, trying not to touch them more than she has to.

Stepping into the parlor on light feet, Phryne leans forward to look at what she’s holding. “They’re photographs, Aunt Prudence.”

The urge to roll her eyes like a teenager of Jane’s age is strong. “Of course they’re photographs, Phryne. It’s what they’re photographs of. Why on earth would you do something like this?”

“They were for a case.” She sits down in the chair opposite. “And you wouldn’t have seen them if you weren’t looking through private things in my house.”

She should have expected that. “What you do behind closed doors is your business, Phryne, but you cannot leave them out in the open! What if Jane had found them? What if some new client of yours had seen them while attempting to retain you for another case?”

Phryne does roll her eyes, and the resemblance to expressions Prudence has seen on Jane’s face is striking for the two having no family history. “Honestly, Aunt P, you worry too much. Jane has seen plenty of women’s bodies before, including mine. She’s nearly a woman herself. If any of my clients happened to see them, I should think they’d be pleased, the lengths I’d go to for a case.”

She sits forward in her chair. “But you found them, Aunt, and now I can take them upstairs and they won’t get found again.” Pulling both envelope and photographs from Prudence’s hands, she tucks them back away and ties the bedraggled string around the fasteners. “I’ll take them right upstairs when you leave.”

Prudence sighs. “I suppose that will have to do.” She is never going to know what to do with this girl.

—--

City South Police Station is back to rights with the Inspector back in his office, Hugh thinks. Or, well, back in the station - he’s not in his office right now, he’s in one of the interview rooms in the back. Without Miss Fisher, this time. She’s back, too, though, and it’s honestly a relief in more ways than one.

“Constable Collins!” That’s the Inspector’s voice, with the edge to it that means he’s already called at least once.

Hugh scrambles out from behind the counter. “Coming, Inspector!”

The Inspector is leaning out of the first interview room, beckoning Hugh to come closer. “I need you to get the coroner’s report for me out of my desk. It’s in the top drawer, should be the only folder there.”

“Yes, Inspector, I’ll get it now.” Hugh hurries back to the office, trying not to take too long. Everything looks exactly the same as it always has, the desk neat and trim in the middle of the room, but it doesn’t feel the same at all.

“Top drawer,” he murmurs under his breath. Does that mean the top one in the stack on the right, or the long one that’s above them all? The coroner’s report and its folder could fit in either. He’ll start with the long one; that seems like a more reasonable place to be called the top drawer. But when he tries to pull it open, it sticks. Not like it’s locked, because he can tell it’s not, but like something’s caught on the underside of the desk. Jiggling the drawer doesn’t work. Neither does continuing to pull on it, not that he thought it would. Reaching into the small gap that he’s been able to eke out, Hugh runs his fingers along the top of the drawer.

Paper? How could something made of paper jam the drawer this badly? It must be rather heavy. But at least if it’s paper, he can put it back together if necessary. Hopefully it isn’t the coroner’s report that Inspector Robinson needs.

He yanks again, trying to both pull and jiggle at the same time. The sound of tearing paper rips through the air, followed by the drawer popping open and a flutter of paper somethings flying out. They scatter across the desk and the floor, some face-up and some facedown.

They’re photographs. Hugh leans forward to try and figure out what they are and whether he’ll need to patch them back together - and immediately jumps back, nearly knocking over the Inspector’s chair.

These are not just any photographs. They’re photographs of Miss Fisher, wearing rather less clothing than he’s used to seeing her in. Hugh’s face grows hot. She must have left them for the Inspector, not realizing they’d jam the drawer or that someone else would try to open it.

With the drawer finally open, Hugh can tell what it was that ripped - the envelope these photographs must have been in - and can see the intact folder underneath. He grabs the folder and flees. The Inspector can handle photographs of Miss Fisher all on his own.

—

His office definitely wasn’t this messy when he last left. Jack stands in the doorway, surveying what’s changed. The top drawer’s open, so this all likely happened when he sent Collins in to find the coroner’s report. But why would he have left such a mess? That’s not like him. Bending down, Jack picks up one of the pieces of paper from the floor and turns it over.

Not just paper, a photograph. And not just any photograph - a photograph of the Honourable Miss Phryne Fisher, clad in some sort of robe pulled close around her and glaring at the camera. He remembers where this is probably from, from that tennis case and the awful photographer, refusing to help without some sort of incentive, and Phryne confiscating the film as a Special Constable.

An indulgent smile spreads across his face as he looks down at the photo in his hand. He collects another photograph from the floor and sets both on his desk, adding them to the ones already there. In the robe, in a camisole and her pants, and the like. A progression. She must have gotten them developed and left them for him.

Taking a seat, he spreads the photos out so he can see them all before picking up the phone. She’s beautiful always, and she knows it, and he’s still frequently shocked that she’s chosen to share her beauty with him. But these are special, from before they’d gotten over themselves, before so many things.

He dials, and Mr. Butler’s familiar voice answers. “Miss Fisher’s residence.”

“Good evening, Mr. Butler, it’s Inspector Robinson. May I speak with Miss Fisher, please?” He’s called this number, made this request, so many times over the past few years. It still brings another smile to his face.

“Certainly, Inspector. One moment.” The voices get muffled while Mr. Butler puts his hand over the receiver, but he can still hear telephone for you and thank you, Mr. Butler.

“Jack?” Her voice is lovely, lilting, as always, and his heart stutters.

The pictures are beautiful. She is infinitely more so. “Hello, Miss Fisher.” He calls her Phryne more often, now, but there’s something about the continuity.

A smile is evident in her voice, too, as she asks, “And what has you calling on this fine evening, Inspector?”

He runs his finger along the long edge of one of the photographs. The one of her holding her robe closed: waiting, tantalizing. “Someone seems to have left me a gift at the station.”

“Oh? What sort of a gift?” she asks, continuing the game. He can just imagine her standing in the entryway, leaning against the banister as she talks. Like a Grecian sculpture.

“Mmm. Photographs.” Does she still have this robe? “All over my office. Including the floor.”

“The floor?” Her laughter is infectious. “That part wasn’t me. I was almost perfectly reasonable, leaving them in your desk drawer.”

Almost perfectly reasonable. This woman. “I have a feeling it was my stalwart constable who was responsible for them being on the floor. They may have jammed the desk drawer shut, and when I asked him to retrieve a report for me, he might have panicked.”

The laughter on the end of the line turns almost rueful. Not quite - this is Phryne - but. “These photographs have had a much more adventurous day than I imagined for them. The whole house seems to have seen them. Including Aunt Prudence.” The sarcasm in her voice is dry as the Negev.

He can’t help a wince at the thought of that conversation with Mrs. Stanley. But that she’d still gone through the trouble of bringing them here… “I’m glad they were intended for me, though.” Without intention, his voice has dropped a few notes.

Any trace of rue is gone from her voice when she answers. “Care to come home for another gift intended for you?” Warm, soft, familiar. Enticing.

Home. He doesn’t live at the house in the Esplanade, but some days it’s as good as. “That’s the best plan I’ve heard all evening, Miss Fisher.”

“Don’t keep me waiting, Inspector.”

#miss fisher's murder mysteries #jack robinson #phryne fisher #phryne x jack #phrack #mfmm fic #logan writes fic #AO3 link will be in a reblog because tumblr doesn't like links!

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idontwanttospoiltheparty · 2 years

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hello ! i was wondering if you could provide your unfiltered thoughts about the whole “paul doesn’t really need you/only makes any effort when he needs something from you/was not a good friend to the other 3 because he was emotional repressed” disk horse that’s been going on these past few days? not that necessarily agree or disagree with either side but as always i feel at a certain point people start to really strew away from the original discussion and bring their personal experiences into it. which yes is definitely part of diskhorse but then you end up having ppl talking over one another and missing the point entirely because now their trying to defend their own experience or dislike/like of a person…of course i come to you for your nuanced takes. cheers !

p.s. idk if it’s just me, but i used to think it was john who ppl had the most polarizing feelings about on tumblr, but honestly there seems to be something about paul that gets everybody from both sides so worked up about lol.

Ah geez. (not @ you anon, just at the fact I saw the disk horse and was like Ok <3 at some of it)

Okay unfiltered thoughts so like, disclaimer, maybe I'm wrong about some of this.

I think people are kind of into deifying these people to a weird degree where Paul not socializing in specific ways is read as inherently cold of him, when the reality is that the commitment John asked of him was… Big and on Very Specific Terms. Like, maybe pause for a second and imagine your bestie was like "you should live within a 5 mile radius of me actually", like don't get me wrong I totally get why John wanted that; he was afraid of losing Paul + he couldn't deal with being mobbed the way Paul could + he was Depressed™ and often didn't have the energy to leave the house, sometimes even get out of bed. I understand wanting your loved ones nearby but that doesn't mean it's a reasonable demand. Same goes for things like dropping acid. It's a mind-altering drug, it's not a game?

I think it's relatively undisputable that Paul did not always treat George fairly but I don't think it has all that much to do with him being too closed-off and a lot more to do with them having quite different perspectives on the world + Paul not being able to recognize George's merit as an artist in his own right. There is that anecdote where George was angry about Paul not taking George's hand during a trip but I'm sorry like either a) George was angry about something else and just gave a bad example or b) he literally had no reason to react that way about Paul being terrified because of a fucking drug-based hallucination. Like. (lol thinking about the line from Lavender Haze "And you don't read into my melancholia" maybe this has nothing to do with you George. He IS TRIPPING ???)

I also don't understand why Ringo was brought into the discussion because I've never heard Ringo complain about Paul being too cold towards him; granted, Ringo has been relatively conflict-avoidant his whole life, from what I can tell, but it's a bit Hm to make assumptions about his reasons for having a relatively short fallout with Paul when he didn't really give any. (Like, people don't read nearly as much into GEORGE and Ringo falling out a few years down the line)

Also it's weird to me talking about "needing" because in the end… That's the only reason anyone does anything with someone. John "needed" Paul to be more open with him, didn't he? In the end relationships are a give and take not simply coexisting.

Is Paul a closed-off individual? Absolutely, but it really isn't to the degree he's made out to be (in the sense where it borders on like, sociopathic), I think it's more that he happened to be surrounded by people who weren't and he's perhaps kind of an anomaly in showbiz because of that. There's also this reverse survivorship bias where people who fell out with Paul are far more likely to talk shit about him than people who remained on good terms with him for years are to praise him publicly. There's also this thing were people seem to forget John basically dropped like 90% of his friends post-75 (though somehow him doing this to Paul is considered an exception – also, like Paul, [coincidentally?!?!?!?!] this happened when he settled down with his kid [LOL coming back with my nuclear family take I will never actually formulate in full ig]).

I think that's all I've got for now. I can elaborate on some of it if you want though.

#ask #anon #discourse #paul #my analysis

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mclovinishereforsmutty · 8 months

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The Hobbit: ThorinxBilbo A/B/O 3

“Wait! Stop! We have to turn around. I forgot my handkerchief,”

“You’ll have to learn to manage without pocket handkerchiefs and a great many other things, Bilbo,” Gandalf responded, handing him a rag. Bilbo, somewhat embarresed, looked around too late to catch eyes with Thorin, who was watching Bilbo take the rag from Gandalf. They travelled through the shire and past the forest of Buckland, and on and on until it was nearly nightfall (they stopped somewhere i dunno). After a short dinner most fell sleep although once Bombur started snoring the rest were left awake from the noise. Bilbo gets up, unable to fall asleep, and goes to check on his pony.

“Good girl. Whose a good girl? This’ll be our little secret, Myrtle. You must tell no one,” Bilbo whispered, sneaking his pony an apple, and patting her snout. This moment shared between horse and hobbit lasted a short while until an inhuman shriek soundedthrough the night. “What was that?” Bilbo looked over out over the land.

“Orcs” Kili responded.

“Orcs?” Bilbo asked in a rather shaky voice. Upon hearing Bilbo, Thorin awoke in alarm. He looked around for the orcs Bilbo mentioned, but after realising there were none nearby, he settled into listening to the conversation.

“Throat-cutters. They’ll be dozens of them out there. The lone-lands are crawling with them. They strike in the wee small hours when everyones asleep. Quick and quiet. No screams, just lots of blood,” Fili and Kili explained, barely containing their amusement at Bilbos concern. Despite Fili and Kili teasing Bilbo, his fear rose with every shriek and howl from the far off orcs. Any intense emotion, especially fear, in an omega or alpha sends tier pheromones into overdrive, and Bilbo, who had never left the shire prior to this excursion, was truely terrified. Thorin who had barely been listening shot open his eyes at the sweet aroma of fresh bread and honey.

“You think thats funny? You think a night raid by orcs is a joke? You know nothing of the world,” Thorin reprimanded, scoffing at his nephews’ ignorance. His anger and hatred for orcs caused a flood of rich soil and campfire wash over the dwarves, Gandalf, and most of all Bilbo, but to him the scent didn’t seem harsh, closer to the comfort and familiarity of Buckland woods but with the excitement and adventure of what seemed to be a whole new world Bilbo had entered with this company.

“Don’t mind him, laddie. Thorin has more cause than most to hate orcs. After the dragon took the Lonely Mountain… King Thror tried to reclaim the ancient Dwarf kingdom of Moria. But our enemy had got there first. Moria had been taken by legions of Orcs… led by the most vile of all their race: Azog the Defiler. The giant Gundabad Orc… had sworn to wipe out the line of Durin. He began… by beheading the king. Thrain, Thorin's father, was driven mad by grief. He went missing. Taken prisoner or killed… we did not know. We were leaderless. Defeat and death… were upon us. That is when I saw him. A young Dwarf prince… facing down the pale Orc. He stood alone against this terrible foe. His armor rent… wielding nothing but an oaken branch as a shield. Azog the Defiler learned that day… that the line of Durin would not be so easily broken. Our forces rallied… wand drove the Orcs back. And our enemy… had been defeated. But there was no feast… nor song that night… for our dead were beyond the count of grief. We few had survived. And I thought to myself then… there is one who I could follow. There is one… I could call king,” Balin explained, as Thorin walked a ways to compose himself. Bilbo want over to Thorin, taking deep breaths as though he would never taste fresh air again. They stood side by side for awhile, quietly drinking each other in.

“What happened to the pale orc?” Bilbo cautioned, turning to Thorin only to be face to face with the rugged dwarf. Bilbo gasped in slight surprise, not expecting their faces to be so close. Thorin might’ve given a slight smirk at that, however the subject matter at hand stilled his face.

“He slunk back into the hole from whence he came. That filth died of his wounds long ago,” Thorin answered, with venom in his voice that was not towards Bilbo. He looked into the dwarfs stony eyes, his chizeled rough complexion brought out the smoothness of his lips. Bilbo wanted to know what they felt like on his. Thorin studied Bilbos face, his gentle mossy eyes, his small nose, and his soft pink lips. Another shriek from the orcs, and Bilbo jumped back into Thorin. “Hey, hey. Theres no orcs up here. They aren’t near us. Even if they were I’d protect you… seeing as how useless conkers would be against them,” he reasoned, gruffly. Despite his bluntness, he put his coat on Bilbos shoulders and brought him back to where his bag lay. Thorin lay down in the spot beside Bilbo and let their fingers barely touch until Bilbo fell relaxed.

“Thorin? You’ll still be here when I wake up right?” Bilbo murmured, half asleep at this point.

“I’m not leaving”

#alpha beta omega #bilbo baggins #fanfic #omegaverse #the hobbit #the hobbit bilbo #thorin oakenshield #thorin x bilbo

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mental-jhinstability · 1 year

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So someone in the JhinThresh server asked me about High Noon again

In my last ramble I focused on general horseback headcanons for them... but now I'll focus on Scenarios I Have Imagined Them In But Will Never Write For I Am A Coward.

Everything below the cut. Contains some level of NSFW content but nothing explicit. Also a bit OOC, but not wildly I don't think.

I was (past tense) going to write about them in a very specific scenario, and I did write a bit of it but I will die of embarassment if I share it. As a bit of background, there's a certain type of clover that grows in horse pastures. When a horse eats this, they start slobbering. A LOT. It's not harmful at all to the horse, just very much a nuisance. Well, what if only one of the two knew about this, and the one who didn't worried excessively over it? In my little fic this was Jhin; who noticed his horse had it in the middle of the night (thus no vet available) and got VERY worried and soft. Lowkey forgot Thresh was there and just started kissing his horse and is on the verge of tears the whole time thinking his horse may be dying. Thresh knows what's happening, knows it's not harmful in the slightest, but he chooses not to tell Jhin. He rationalises this as intentionally tormenting him but we all know he's really just gay as fuck and he wishes Jhin was kissing him all soft like that. So he doesn't tell Jhin it's nothing to worry about. Instead he comforts Jhin (albeit in his own weird way). In my headcanon, Jhin likes going for night rides just as a relaxing thing. Thresh offers to take Jhin for a night ride on his horse. As per my last infodump, Thresh's horse is pretty tall. Thresh has to lift him on to his horse and they both get very very flustered over the fact that Thresh has to practically grab his ass and thigh to get him up there (nobody said Thresh would pick Jhin up correctly). ALSO as per my last ramble Thresh rides with only a neckrope. So now Jhin has to clutch on to Thresh for dear life as to not fall off, hugging him like you would squeeze a teddy bear type tight. And then when Jhin nearly falls off, Thresh stops and then puts him on his lap. And holds his waist with one hand and rides with the other. And Jhin has to deal with this. He's not doing very good with that. He's bitching to Thresh the whole time about how undignified this is, how *barbaric* he must be to ride without a saddle, etc. Thresh realises that he can just let go of Jhin at any time and he'd fall off... but he doesn't. Once again he rationalises this by thinking that he's the Most Evil Guy Ever but truly he just wants to hold a cute boy on his lap.

The fic was planned to have a comedic ending by having Jhin go to a saloon/bar, mentions the slobber thing upon being asked why he sounds so pissed, bartender mentions it's Normal Actually, end with Jhin unsure if he wants to make out with Thresh or kill him.

If I knew how to write smut I'd have made it end a little earlier with Something Else but as I mentioned I'm a coward.

Another scenario; just them being as domestic as they can be, but with Horses. Doing barn chores together. Needing one to help the other on to their horse (with way more touching than is necessary.) Unconscious posture corrections, holding the other's hand to move it to the right spot, adjusting each finger. Thresh being overprotective because we all know Jhin is probably NOT wearing a helmet under that god damned hat so he's just... kind of clingy, but in his own bastard almost tsundere way (If you died of a brain injury, who would I have to torment?). Sexual tension MAXIMUM.

I've also thought plenty about other characters that aren't in High Noon but I want them to be. High Noon Jax as the aforementioned total weirdo bartender who sees Jhin crushing on Thresh and nearly has to kick both of their asses with the lamp to get them to talk to each other (Jax can have even more plot armour. As a treat.) Bonus if he lowkey adopts Jhin--personal headcanon that Jhin is a bit desperate for a father figure so he unintentionally latches on to Jax here--and ends up only threatening to kick Thresh's ass. Or actually kicking it, and Jhin helps take care of him afterward.

High Noon Mordekaiser doesn’t count in the previous but PLEASE imagine him teasing the living hell out of Thresh for his little crush. Asshole older brother energy. I know it’s a bit OOC but I don’t care I will do whatever I want with them fuck you Riot. Him laughing at Thresh and talking about how he’s horny for a mere mortal and how he’s too cowardly to do anything about the crush and Thresh yelling at him all flustered about how no he’s not he just wants to torture him… It’s not important the torture involves holding him on his lap and calling him cute. Not at all. Mordekaiser I don’t think would wingman like Jax would but he would tease Thresh even AFTER they got together. Bonus points if Jhin finds this hilarious and teases Thresh really hard about whatever Morde’s teasing him about this week until Thresh “punishes” him wink wink.

Also, Jhin falling asleep taking care of his horse. I’ve done it, so this is just massive projection probably, but let me be self indulgent. Thresh having to carry him to a safe spot (so he’s not sleeping standing up leaning against a very much sentient being that could kill him) and Jhin half-awake kissing Thresh’s chest thinking it’s his horse. Probably wakes up right as Thresh sets him down because the warmth is gone. And then he’s upset. He doesn’t know why he’s upset. He thinks he still hates this man. So does Thresh, actually. But once again it’s just them being gay as hell and denying it.

Thanks for coming to my OOC Ted Talk. I'm so sorry

#jhinthresh

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ribcages-and-bookpages · 1 year

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F!OC and 7DS scenario !

(I lost motivation for this because of getting sick so it's shorter than I wanted)

(Yve’s appearance; also has red lotus tattoos covering about 80% of her body and under all those tattoos is severe burn scars)

Born of two citizens of Liones, Yvonne, usually called Yve, was raised like any other child at the time; until she was 8 years old and became interested in becoming a holy knight so she could protect her family as others did. Fortunately for Yve, her parents showed confidence in her ambitions and began to help her train and would buy her what she needed to train herself as she became a bit older and continued to show interest in her dream. Everything was going well for young Yve as she became stronger over the years and showed promise with her magic and swordsmanship skills until finally, the day came when she joined the holy knights as an apprentice.

But exactly one week after her acceptance, her parents were killed in an accident inside the city after the horses pulling a carriage became spooked and trampled the couple, killing them shortly after their injuries. Yve pressed on though, she fought harder than ever before; even though the days were becoming lonelier as the days went on and she stared at her empty apartment, wishing for some companionship of some kind. She waited to do anything about it though as she focused on climbing up the ranks of the holy knights and became a platinum holy knight by age 20, which was her greatest accomplishment at the time; but it didn't last long.

The kingdom caught wind of a plot by a tribe of barbarians to split up and attack two sides of the kingdom in an attempt to overtake it, so the kingdom retaliated and sent out their own small armies of holy knights to dispatch the problem. There were two groups, group A and group B, and Yve was the leader of group B; this group's plan was to intercept the second cluster of barbarians that were going to hit one of the villages outside the kingdom for supplies and stop them there. They arrived before the barbarians and sought them out before battling against a small group of them and killing them all. Once they were all dead, Yve told the group to fall back to the village to get their wounded out of the open and to restock on supplies before the second wave arrived. Meanwhile, the two holy knights she was working with told her it was pointless and that they had done their job, so Yve followed their lead and instead of going back out after they restocked, they remained in the village and waited for orders from the kingdom.

That night, the village was attacked by a group of barbarians three times larger than the first encounter and they proceeded to burn it as they went; the two other high-ranking knights were tasked with keeping the barbarians back with other knights as Yve and a few select others began to evacuate the village, while a single knight fled on horse to retrieve help from the kingdom.

After a long day of fighting and using her magic, Yve found herself nearly done helping the villagers load into a wagon when she heard a child crying for help, so she ran back to the homes and realized the large burning complex of homes held a child inside, pounding on an upper floor window. Yve of course didnt hesitate and ran into the building to retrieve the child, but by the time she found the child every exit was in flames and she had no magic left to get them out; she knew if she tried she would fall unconscious, and they would both die for sure. She weighed her options, but as the child fell unconscious from smoke inhalation, she knew they didn't have much longer in the open air before it was too late and began to stomp on the floor until she fell through, then made her way to the basement and laid the child down on the cold stone. She then took off her oversized leather coat and laid it over both of them, while also covering the child's body with her own as the fire singed her hair and skin; and that's the last thing she remembers.

When she awoke, she was in a hospital bed in the castle's hospital wing and she was in so much pain she began screaming, so they had to drug her and put her into a coma for the time being; she was in almost full body bandages and had no hair left. She had overheard some nurses talking about her wounds and calling her disfigured and saying she should be put out of her misery while in a semi-unconscious state and began falling into a depression as she waited to heal. Things only became harder for Yve after she healed as she realized she had to learn to pretty much do everything again since she was completely bedridden and couldn't even move to feed herself, and this lasted for about eight months with many attempts at healing before she was sent to a somewhat large city outside the Kingdom walls where she could relearn to walk and things again, while also receiving the care she needed, such as bathing; although the 'hospital' was failing due to funding and Yve was just healed enough to be in such a place. Yve soon became deeply depressed as she felt the kingdom gave up on her and left her to rot for three months she did the bare minimum; but then one day, after she had a talk with one of the nurses, she decided her fate was her own and she would change it and see outside her bedroom walls again. She made it her goal to one day walk out of the village she was in and leaves it forever after having a life-altering talk with one of the nurses; Yve wondered why the gods kept her alive after experiencing something so terrible and the nurse's answer was, 'Why does it matter why? You are alive, that's what matters. maybe it was a fluke, maybe it was fate, but you're still alive and kicking so why not make it the God's problem?', and that made Yve see things a bit differently later that night. The nurse, who was named Maryann, was right. Yve was going to make it their problem, even if it meant staying alive through more hard events; she was spiteful now and wanted to have something to hate.

After that, Yve began to fight again to become even part of what she used to be, and even though it took four hard years before she recovered enough to leave the facility for good; she never looked back. During her rehabilitation, she began getting red lotuses tattooed over her scars to help her deal with her trauma from this event and remind herself that it is good in the dark, and she just has to find her good in the bad. Those four years were long and exhausting, but she changed as a person once again and found herself appreciating the little things in life that made her happy, no matter how small. Happiness is happiness. After she left she began to travel from place to place and do side jobs for the villages she visited, such as clearing out a den of giant spiders that were preying on a small village, or taking down a ring a men who were taking women from a larger village; but she never asked for much in return. Sure, she accepted payment for her deeds, but she never asked for much more than a home-cooked meal or a place to sleep, and she often saved her coins for food or other supplies instead of spending them on a place to sleep. Plus, when she was a holy knight she often slept outside or in odd places because it was the only way to get any sleep on long missions, so she finds it somewhat comforting, even to this day she can have trouble sleeping in beds; especially because of being bedridden for so long. Now, 26 years old, Yve's true adventure begins.

Yvonne hummed a small tune to herself as she walked through the forest, her black knee-high boots crunching the fallen twigs and leaves as she walked and she swung her jacket-covered arms; wearing a remake of her old oversized leather trench coat she used to wear before her accident, but this one had floral printed silk inside and fit her perfectly. Under her jacket was a white cropped tank with inch-thick straps and she also wore black leather pants with thick brown leather armor adorning her lower half and leather gauntlets under her jacket. She also had a pair of brown leather gloves on her hands with a matching belt with multiple pouches, then she had a sword in a holster on her left hip, and finally a large, brown, leather backpack on her back.

As she walked she kept her hands in her jacket pockets and her gaze jumped around occasionally to ensure no one or thing was around her waiting to strike. She stopped humming though when she heard a branch snap from behind her and she reached across her body and grabbed her one-handed sword out of its holster with her right hand and spun around while raising her left hand and preparing a blast in it, then pointed the tip of her sword at a short man with blond hair. She raised a brow as the man laughed nervously, "Hey there, sorry about that. I didn't mean to startle you, I was just on my way back to my way back to my tavern. Any idea where Clacton Village is? We can't seem to find it." He asked in a friendly tone as he gave a small tilt of his head. Yve stared at the male for a moment before giving a small nod and taking a folded piece of paper out of one of her many pouches around her hips then began to unfold it to reveal it was a map before pointing to where they were on the lap,

"We're here, But to get to Clacton you'll have to go the forest route because the main road there had a landslide so there's no safe way across." She started to explain in a soft tone before pointing at another spot on the map, "This is where you want to go, leads you straight to the village. Although I'll warn you, the village is pretty cut off from everything, and the people there aren't too sure about strangers, so be careful." She finished explaining. She then raised her gaze to the short male, who had his hand on his chin as he listened to her and stared down at the map before looking back at her and smiling a bit,

"Thanks for the info! Are you headed there too?" He asked with a small hum and another head tilt.

Although it seemed like a harmless enough question, it gave Yve anxiety and she glanced away as she seemed to shrink into herself,

"I'm not sure I'm comfortable answering that.." She said in a soft voice as she glanced away again. Quickly Meliodas shook his head and smiled

"It's okay, I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable, so I'm sorry about that. I was just wondering because we could give you a ride." He carefully explained as he tried to dig himself out of the hole he was creating, and his words caught her attention,

"We?" She repeated and seemed to relax slightly, although not completely. Yve has had her fair share of life-threatening situations and otherwise bad things happen to her and she actively avoided talking to most people for this very reason; to keep herself safe. As Meliodas nodded and smiled Yve listened closely and watched his every movement,

"Yeah, I've got my companions traveling with me. Maybe you've heard of us? We're the Seven Deadly Sins, and I'm Meliodas; the Dragon sin." He explained with that same smile never leaving his face. He was trying to be friendly but understood that Yve was hesitant, so he was trying to be careful so he didn't scare her; after all, he just wanted to help.

Yve's eyes went wide as he said who he was and found herself speaking before she knew it,

"Is Princess Elizabeth still with you? I heard she was traveling with the Seven Deadly Sins. Course, that was a few weeks ago, but still." She said quickly, then seemed surprised at herself and began to recoil back. The smile on Meliodas's face made her want to relax, but she couldn't still and glanced down.

"Yeah, she travels with us in between stays back at the Kingdom." He seemed a little confused and suspicious of Yve now. He tilted his head a bit and began to speak again, "How do you know Elizabeth?" He asked in an unsure tone. Yve couldn't help but glance down and smile nervously,

"Well, honestly I'm not even sure she'll remember me or recognize me.." She began to trail off but caught herself and shook her head a bit before continuing, "I was her personal guard when I was 18, back when I was a Holy Knight. She was the one person who kept it real, even though she was just a kid. She treated me like a person and not a weapon. I figure if there's anyone left in this world who might still be good, it's her." She explained in a quiet voice that got softer as she went on, rambling once again. During all this, Meliodas just quietly listened and began to understand a bit more, and as she finished explaining he gave her a reassuring smile,

"Well I can't promise she'll remember you, but I can bring you to her. She's at our tavern, I'll call her outside for you once we get there." He told her with a kind smile, hoping he didn't seem accidentally creepy again.

Fortunately, Yve didn't see it that way and instead gave one simple nod in response and soon the two made their way to the tavern. As they walked they asked each other some occasional questions, but Yve was noticeably unsure and only gave short responses all while seeming to be trying to hide her face behind her hair and had her hands in her jacket pockets. Meliodas didn't ask or push her and kept the questions simple as he tried to get to know her a little bit, and Yve had him answer the questions as well. By the time they arrived at the tavern, Yve had relaxed some and had even turned towards Meliodas a couple times and smiled, but her anxiety started getting the best of her as Meliodas told her to sit on the porch and he'd have Elizabeth come out; so she did. When The Princess came out, she immediately started crying and hugged Yve and rambling about how she thought Yve was dead; although Yve didn't tell her about the horrors she went through, she reassured Elizabeth that she was okay and tried to hide the burns on her face with her hair. Once the girls finished their small session of catching up, they went into the tavern and Elizabeth Introduced her to all of the Sins, where Gowther asked about Yve's tattoos; since he could see the red Lotuses peeking up under her clothes. She ended up taking a jacket off and showing the Sins some of the extent of her tattoos, but as Diane asked why she had so many covering her body, Yve became a little self-conscious and ended up telling everyone her story.

Once Yve was done talking, both Elizabeth and Diane were crying and saying how awful it must have been and the rest of the sins gave other sympathetic reactions as well, and that's when Elizabeth spilled the beans that her two fellow holy knights, Botulf and Krea, told everyone she died when she was transferred. Yve got understandably upset, then when Elizabeth told her that the two knights sold all her belongings from her apartment Yve became so upset she ended up punching a table and accidentally triggered her burst magic and exploded the table into small pieces. After Elizabeth helped Yve calm down, Meliodas suggested Yve come with them back to Liones so she could make things right with the Kingdom, and Elizabeth agreed while adding on that she would ask for a prison sentence of some kind; since Yve was upset and said she wanted to 'Make them suffer' as she did.

Fortunately, Yve agreed to this, and so her life was about to change forever.

#7ds #oc fanfiction #7ds oc #7ds meliodas

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