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janiikae · 3 years

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𝐒𝐓𝐎𝐂𝐊𝐇𝐎𝐋𝐌 𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐃𝐑𝐎𝐌𝐄 | 𝐊𝐋𝐀𝐔𝐒 𝐌𝐈𝐊𝐀𝐄𝐋𝐒𝐎𝐍

Available on my Wattpad: caterinarozier

-After being on the run for years by the side of the myth, the legend, the baddest bitch of all, Katherine pierce, you're finally caught, taken prisoner by the feared Klaus Mikaelson.

He could have had you desiccate for decades, drown underwater over and over again, be tortured everyday, be dinner to wolves, but instead, he decides to keep you prisoner in his dungeons, visiting you everyday until something sparks out of that.

𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝟏:

Katherine, Katherine Pierce; Katerina Petrova, survivor, she-devil, psychopath, evil slut vampire—those were all names constantly given to her.

I simply called her, 'my partner,' after all, that's what she was. We had a truce, a friendship made from the day I met her. She wasn't my 'best best friend,' neither of us had friends, just each other.

We've had many brutal fights, stealing each other's boyfriend, which was a game she started not long after we met, but we would always makeup and pretend like nothing had happened, killing the man who dared to get in between us.

The year was 1773, Katherine was celebrating her birthday. She had just turned 300 and was celebrating by pretending to be another slave and having a threesome with my master and another sex slave. She had sneaked in through a back door with the intention of playing peasant, having some fun, then killing everyone for her own pleasure.

I was seventeen, my parents and grandparents had been killed by an ancient organization named, 'Arsenov,' which had settled in Bulgaria, Katherine's homeland.

I was shy, terrified that they would beat me like they had every time I didn't follow instructions. I was suicidal, scheming to kill myself with whatever sharp object I could get my hands on.

"Get your filthy arse in there!" The master's son ordered, yanking me inside by the rope tied around my wrists and neck. He over-abused his power, raping every female slave just to prove to his father that he wasn't gay, which he was gay because he couldn't even stay hard when it was my turn, my back was still sore from the beating of that night.

I laid my eyes on Katherine as she placed a kiss on the master's neck, making her vampire face before stabbing her sharp teeth in him. My eyes widened and my heart dropped. I desperately blinked in disbelief at what was happening in front of me.

The master's son threw me to the ground, backing away to grab a sword and attempt to stab Katherine with it. Dehydration and starvation slowed me down. I stopped taking my rations about four days ago, with the intention of dying, but I suddenly feared death.

Even though my vision was blurry, there she was, kneeling beside me with a mouth covered in blood. "You want to live, young one?" I nodded, turning my view to the side as I was taking my last breaths.

I don't remember much after that, just waking up in her cottage. She taught me all of her conniving ways, told me her life story, her mission of running away, and took me with her. I have spent over 200 years by her side, earning enemies like the Mikaelsons.

•

Our heels clicked on the black concrete street after that tiring Salvatore masquerade ball, where I had just saved Katherine's life—again.

"So you sticking around with me on this one, cupcake?" questioned Katherine, smirking over at me our arms were hooked. I turned my view down to my red heels, sighing, "Katherine, I—"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa." She stood in front of me with her arms crossed. "You didn't use a petty nickname. Now, spill. What's wrong?"

I chuckled, "Nothing with you—just that that little witch of theirs is powerful, turned Lucy against us."

Katherine nodded, sauntering by my side again. "Well, let's kill her. We can't kill Elena, do you know what we can do with her life?"

"Buy ours."

"Uh-huh, that's right, smarty pants."

"Kath, don't be so petty. We have to stick together now more than ever—Isobel is gone because she turned to their side, too...you won't go, right? Tell me you won't go running to Stefan's arms, Katherine!"

She speeded in front of me, slapping me across the face. "LOOK, we didn't win tonight, I KNOW! We don't have the stone, but that doesn't give you the right to think that low of me! We've been together for two hundred years, I would think you would know me better by now!"

I slapped her back. "Yeah, and I'm doubting you because I know you! In 1864, you let those villagers kidnap me, so you could go check on little Stefan to see if he turned! In 1957, you abandoned me in that bar to go look for Stefan! And today, you left me cornered to run after Stefan! Katherine, HE HAS MADE YOU WEAK!"

Her chest heaved in anger, her hands clenched into a fist, and the look on her eyes as she stared at me through her eyebrows, warned me what she was about to do next. She grabbed me by the throat, tossing me on a white car, the glass shattering with my weight and the force I was thrown with.

I sat up, shattered glass cutting into my palms as I held myself up. Katherine stood in front of me as she harshly stated, "I don't need anyone in my life who doesn't want to be there," then vamp-speeded away.

I sighed, planning my next move. I knew her; it wasn't a good idea to go to her within the next hour or two, so I stood up and speeded away past streets until I saw a bar. Knocking out a woman in the lonely street, I dragged her away into a dark alley to steal her clothes.

I finished slipping the black coat on and stuck fists in the pockets as I made my way towards the entrance of the bar, a handsome man opening the door for me.

I sat at the bar, drinking bourbon as I stared down at my broken nail, hearing a familiar voice approach me. "What a nice evening you hosted, Damon. Even if you weren't seen for the most of it."

"Y/N," he sighed, sitting on a stool beside me.

"Hm." I picked my glass back up. "That's the first time you called me by my name since we reunited."

He took my drink to put it back down, grabbing onto my jaw and wrapping his arm around my neck to pick me up on my feet, pressing my body against his. "Yeah, well, I'm feeling quite nostalgic...care to...I don't know, say, do an act to relive old memories?"

I leaned my head forward, my tongue grazing my lips until he attempted to go in for the kiss and I backed my head away, giggling. I shook my head. "I don't go for Katherine's leftovers."

He smirked. "You sure didn't mind back then."

"Yeah, but back then you were nothing more than an inexperienced virgin—must say: I enjoyed taking your innocence, making you think you took mine."

"Oh, yes but that night, I found out how much of a slut you were...you were always just a cheap knockoff version of Katherine."

"And to her, you were nothing more than a cheap knockoff of Stefan."

The smirk wiped off and I heard snickering coming from the restaurant part, which was now alone. Just that blonde 'Carolina' and Stefan. They were both sitting, laughing at Damon as he let go of me, pulling out a stake from the sleeve of his suit.

I sighed, nodding with a slight smile. "I know, I know. Can a girl have one last drink?" Grinning, Damon leaned over to pull out an open bottle of bourbon to pour on my almost empty glass, then handing it over to me.

I looked over at Stefan, putting my drink up. "We shared a lot of good memories, Salvatores. I guess we'll continue on the other side." I pretended to sip for a second, then quickly spilt it on Damon's chest, bending back to dodge the stake, then standing up straight to take the candle that was set on the bar, setting Damon on fire before I ran away.

Through the glass windows, I watched as Caroline chased after me as Stefan helped Damon by vamp-speeding for a fire extinguisher.

Two wooden bullets to my stomach made me stop running so I stay still, standing still as I looked down at myself, opening the coat. My crimson blood was spreading through the white shirt I was wearing and I looked back up as Caroline shoved a piece of vervain in my mouth, forcing me to pass it down before I blacked out.

#klaus mikaelson #the originals #katherine pierce #damon salvatore #wattpad #elijah mikaelson #the vampire diaries #rebekah mikaelson #kol mikaelson #stefan salvatore #klaus mikealson x reader #elena gilbert #legacies

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goldeneyedgirl · 3 years

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TwiFicMas20 Day 3: Married in Vegas

I hope December is treating everyone well <3 Today’s offering is ‘Married in Vegas’. G requested it to be included in FicMas months ago, and it’s here. In pieces, because I may have over-estimated how ‘ready’ it was to be seen.

It also degenerated into something terribly depressing, when I was definitely going for something happier, rom-com meets coming of age, so large chunks definitely need to be rewritten.

Oh, and if you want more of a specific fic, you NEED to tell me, or it will simply languish on my harddrive, forgotten forever.

Onwards!

I meet him on a Thursday night, in the shitty little bar where I work. We talk, he drinks, and then he leaves.

By Saturday night, I am Mrs Alice Whitlock-Hale, with a ring bought from some cheap jewellery vendor and a plastic flower crown in my hair.

It was the best night of my life.

Okay, so I could start at the beginning. But the true beginning is a four-year-old girl being left behind when her mom runs away with her baby sister, and the middle is when, at fourteen, that girl is thrown out of her father’s house. She tries to go home once, at sixteen, only to find out that her dad and step-monster moved away. Left the state and left her behind without so much as a forwarding address.

But that story is depressing as hell, so we’ll start when things get interesting.

My ‘husband’ – Jasper Whitlock-Hale - was a strapping 6-foot-something soldier fresh from his last tour – honourably discharged, he was quick to inform me when we first met, and I could tell that was a point of some pride for him.

I worked at a bar called ‘Sassy’s’. It had been opened in the 70s and I was pretty sure it hadn’t been cleaned or redecorated since those halcyon days. The current owner was Bruno – his son, Emil, was the manager. They were both decent, in that they paid me on time and never groped me. It’s pretty sad when those factors qualify as ‘decent’, but you tend not to be too picky when you’re applying for work at places like ‘Sassy’s’.

Especially when you’re an underage runaway.

How were we still in business? Well, we did dollar beers after nine at night (it wasn’t good beer), and we served pretty good nachos, and we had a huge flat-screen television. Oh, and we ignored any kind of gambling that happened in the dark corners.

It started off as a totally normal night – the usual crowd waiting for their cheap beers, wiping down sticky tables, and killing time. If I was lucky, there wouldn’t be any decent sports playing tonight, and no one would bitch much if I switched the channel over.

He walked through the door just after nine, limping quite obviously. He was wearing a button-down shirt, jeans and a worn leather jacket. He looked kind of haunted – but that isn’t exactly unusual in Vegas; if you don’t arrive with regrets, you’re probably going to leave with them.

He also looked too young, too clean and way too promising to be a patron at Sassy’s. I was slinging beer at that point, as he approached.

“Beer, please,” he said as he sat at the bar.

“Dollar, thanks,” I said with a smile, grabbing a chipped – but clean – glass, and grabbed a dish of peanuts. They were pretty good – more than often, they were my dinner.

“Thanks,” he nodded once, staring at the amber liquid for a moment. He looked exhausted.

I kept working – stacking fresh glasses, packing the dirty ones into the ancient dishwasher behind the bar that Bruno had installed last summer, so proudly. Pretty sure it was older than me, but it meant that I didn’t have to deal with the washing-up anymore, so I smiled and thanked him, as if I didn’t spend at least half a shift trying to get the damned thing to work.

“Mija!” Luis ducked his head out of the kitchen, passing me a plate.

“Thanks,” I said. “Need a drink?”

“Nah, just fine girly.”

Luis had it easy. He was in college, so this was a part-time gig for him – he only came in two nights a week. He earned twice what I earned, but we didn’t get as many orders for food, so he got to sit in the tiny-ass kitchen (seriously, two people couldn’t fit back there) and study. He’d make me dinner every shift we worked together, which was nice of him. Tonight was grilled cheese.

On quiet nights, I liked to prop the kitchen door open, and sit on the bar and listen to him talk about his classes while I ate. He was always hinting about me going to college, about financial assistance and scholarships, but it just wasn’t going to happen for me.

I had a mouthful of food when the group in the corner started yelling for more drinks. These guys knew Bruno and Emil, so I had to tolerate their smart-ass mouths. They liked to tease the ‘princess’ who worked there. I got that from a lot of regulars, but these guys liked to imply that I was a whore, and tell me they’d wait for me after work to ‘test me out’.

Luis said it was because they were testing me, and they were pissed that Bruno never fired the white girl. Camila, one of the ex-waitresses, was the daughter of one of them and that was why they never tipped me. A form of protest. I never breathed a word about it, and treated them just as well as any other customer.

“Beers, gentlemen,” I said, sliding the tray onto the table. “Can I get you anything else?”

“I’ll say,” one of them leered and another slapped me on the ass. I rolled my eyes and turned to go back to the bar.

“Rough night?” the guy at the bar said as I returned.

“What? Oh, them,” I shrugged, picking up my sandwich. “They’re here every night.”

“They act like that all the time?” he asked.

“Yeah, but they’re just blowing off steam. Don’t like that I kept my job and one of their daughters didn’t,” I said. “Can I get you another?”

“Please.” He watched me move carefully. “What’s your name?”

“Mary,” I said, placing another beer in front of him, and grabbing a soda for myself.

“Jasper, ma’am,” he said.

“Nice to meet you, Jasper. You from around here?”

By closing time, Jasper had nursed four beers and half my sandwich – which he inhaled like he hadn’t eaten in a while. We’d chatted. He’d just returned from his third tour in the Middle East – he didn’t say much about that, though I heard some pride in his voice when he mentioned it.

We talked about Vegas a bit, about the things he missed when he was overseas (his aunt’s chocolate cake, the cool forests of Washington state, and books). He was just passing through Vegas, here for a few days. Trying to adjust back to civilian life.

He stayed as I cleaned up, loading the dishwasher and scrubbing down the benches and tables. He watched as David and Sammy came up to pay, smirking as I leant over the bar to reach the money, giving them an unwilling flash of my pitiful cleavage.

All twenty-six dollars of it, in crumpled bills.

“Thanks,” I smiled brightly, handing them a receipt and a package of matches with the logo on it. They grunted at me and left. Their table was a mess of napkins, peanuts and glasses.

“Hope they tipped you well,” Jasper said as he watched me load the tray.

“Oh, they don’t tip. They hate me,” I said, as I piled the garbage onto a tray.

“How long were they here?”

“Since five. It’s fine, really,” I said. “It’s tradition.”

“No, it’s being an asshole,” Jasper muttered.

Luis chose that moment to leave the kitchen, bag on his shoulder.

“It’s closing time,” he sung at me, just like every night. “You don’t have to go home, but you can’t stay here!”

I snorted. “Well, Jasper, it’s been nice talking to you, but I have to lock up,” I said with a little regret. He was a nice guy, and nice guys didn’t spend a lot of time at Sassy’s.

“Do you need a lift home?” he offered and then froze. “Sorry, that sounded really… seedy. I was going to offer to split a cab.”

“Thank you, but Luis gives me a lift,” I said.

“Okay. Do … you work any other nights this week?” he asked, almost shyly.

Luis was doing his best to be invisible, grabbing the trash and dragging it out the back.

“Tomorrow morning, from eleven til seven, I said. “Beer is full-priced, I’m sorry to say.”

“Okay. Thanks. It was nice talking to you,” he said again, fumbling with his words.

“You too. And if I don’t see you again, have a good time in Vegas,” I said, and, leaving money tucked under his glass, Jasper finally rose and limped out.

I sighed; dumping the glass in the sink and counting out the four dollars for the till, I jammed the tip into my bra. There wasn’t much else to do – I was opening tomorrow; we opened from 11am til 1am, so it would be me who unpacked the soda in the backroom, and the glasses and ran a mop over the perpetually sticky floor. So I could go into the kitchen and change out of my uniform and go and find Luis.

Once the hot pink wig was peeled off, my black hair stuck clammily to my face. My make-up had mostly melted off and it was a relief to tug on my leggings and hoodie and grab my bag.

Luis was waiting for me in the car as I locked up.

“So, you and soldier boy,” he began as soon as I got in.

“Ugh, really?” I pulled my tip out of my bra. “He was alone, and flirting with the waitress. Won’t see him again.” It had been a quiet night – fourteen dollars, plus whatever Jasper had left me. I mean, on average, I made maybe twenty-five dollars in tips a night.

And I stared. Two twenty dollar bills were staring at me, along with six dollars. A forty six dollar tip for four dollar beers. And half a cold grilled cheese sandwich.

“No, he didn’t like you at all,” Luis drawled.

“Shut up,” I grumbled, but inside I was giddy. He was dashing, and smart and polite. And now I could make my rent.

“Here were are. Sleep well,” Luis pulled up in front of the apartment block.

“Thanks for the ride,” I said, spinning my keys around my finger, and headed home.

The apartment block was a grim brick building of roughly eighty apartments. I lived in number 48. Well, I rented a room in number 48. The apartment was really Victoria’s. Victoria had two kids and never actually told me what she did for a living. Nothing would surprise me. She was a bitch, didn’t give a shit about her kids, but rented out the third closet-sized bedroom complete with air mattress and a locked closet full of canned soup to me for the princely sum of eighty bucks a week.

What did I know about my new husband?

He walked with a limp – I was guessing an injury that got him discharged from the military.

He had a twin sister – one he spoke of with equal parts affection and irritation.

He liked history – American military history, specifically.

He was raised in Texas, until his mother died when he was 10. He and his sister were packed off to live with his mom’s best friend and her husband in the wilds of Washington state, where he stayed until he finished high school. He never mentioned his father.

And he was a consummate gentleman.

I, on the other hand, lied my head off.

Well, I only told the usual lies – I was 21, earning money for college, hoping to be a nurse one day. Oh, and when he asked about my family, I told him they were dead. It was better to keep it simple, it meant there were no questions.

We got married on the Strip, Saturday night.

And when he woke up Sunday morning looking hilariously horrified at the fact we got married, I might have exaggerated how drunk I was.

That makes me sound like the worst kind of person, and I don’t think I am, really.

I mean, he was dressed very nicely, he had a black AmEx, and was clearly educated. But I didn’t want to take advantage of him, truly. I wasn’t looking for money or anything. He was so nice, so handsome and he made me feel safe. And before she left me, my mom always told me that life was meant to be full of adventures, and I had to get out there and grab them with both hands. She didn’t leave me with many good memories, so I kind of held onto that advice.

Just once, for a moment, I wanted to pretend to be the type of girl who could marry someone like Jasper Whitlock. The kind of girl who got to stay in beautiful hotel suites.

He kept apologising to me, seemingly more shocked that I had slept on the hotel couch than the idea we had gotten drunk, married and might have had sex. He looked completely panicked, pacing and muttering and staring at me like a stranger.

I took advantage of the giant bathtub and the endless selection of bath gels and lotions whilst he tried to be subtle about the panicked phone calls he was making, his knuckles white as he gripped the damning piece of paper that declared us husband and wife in the state of Nevada.

I emerged smelling of cherry blossoms and lavender. I mean, I only had the previous night’s clothes – my black mini-skirt, leggings, a Sassy’s tank top and my poor flats – but at least I was clean and tidy.

“I need to shower,” Jasper managed as I came out. “There’s coffee and juice if you want something.”

“Thanks,” I smiled.

As I went to grab a drink, his phone buzzed and I looked down to see the messages flash across the screen, one after the other.

ROSALIE (CELL) 9:17:04am: Cut the tramp loose. C spoke to E & u can annul when u get home. JFC.

CARLISLE (WORK) 9:17:11am: I’ve spoken to Eleazer, and he’s willing to work this out.

EDWARD (CELL) 9:17:24am: Tell me this is a joke or something. Rosalie keeps shrieking every time she calls.

ESME (CELL) 9:17:31am: Rosalie told us. Bring her home with you and we can fix it. Love you XOXO

BELLA (iMessage) 9:17:49am: R u ok? Saw on R’s FB what happened.

EMMETT (CELL) 9:18:00am: Did u srsly marry a stripper in Vegas?!?

EMMETT (CELL) 9:18:09am: Rose is losing her shit. Nice knowing u.

EMMETT (CELL) 9:18:34am: At least send pix of what she looks like dude.

I turned away from the phone, though it was fascinating watching the messages pop up. My cellphone was a beat-up second-hand Sidekick Tiffy had given me for my seventeenth birthday, the back bedazzled in pink and purple, and the only text messages I got were from Luis, Emil and Bruno, about work.

Or Victoria, bitching about the rent.

I grabbed my drink and sat on the couch, flipping on the television whilst I waited for Jasper to finish in the shower. He emerged, looking calmer, though pale and hung over, snatching up his phone, with a towel slung around his hips. I tried not to stare – goddamnit, this guy should not be marrying strange bartenders in Vegas. He would have absolutely no trouble getting a date. I knew I was bright red, refocusing on whatever cartoons were playing on the screen.

Jasper took me to breakfast at the hotel restaurant afterwards - I felt super underdressed with my sweater over my top, as I was served the fanciest eggs I had ever seen. Jasper crumbled a bagel up and drank about a gallon of coffee, barely meeting my eyes. I figured I might as well take advantage of my wedding breakfast, and also helped myself to fruit salad that included fruits I wasn’t aware were even available in America, and a doughnut that looked hand-painted with icing.

“I have some appointments today,” Jasper said, finally, when he finally pushed his plate aside. “We could meet for dinner later.”

I popped the last bite of doughnut into my mouth and wondered if he was planning on leaving town, leaving me behind.

Wouldn’t be the first time.

I had the day off, surprisingly enough. Normally on my days off, I had plans – sometimes I worked for a catering firm I was registered with, for some extra cash. Sometimes I’d hit the thrift stores to try and pad out my meagre wardrobe, or go and sketch or read in the park. I hated hanging around the apartment, since Victoria, James and Laurent kept unpredictable hours and could be there all day.

But today, I had nowhere to be. My phone needed charging and I could do with a few extra hours of sleep – a headache was definitely lingering. Plus, if breakfast was any indication, I needed to dress up for dinner. I was pretty sure that breakfast had cost more than my entire wardrobe. But I had one dress that was passable.

Luckily, the apartment was empty when I slipped in and collapsed into my bed, noticing only for a second that the hotel couch was far and away more comfortable than the ancient air mattress Victoria provided.

I was woken at five pm by a text message from Jasper.

360-555-0134 5:03:44pm: My meetings are done. Just heading back to the hotel for a shower. Our reservation is for 7:30pm. Pick you up at 7?

I couldn’t help the smile that spread across my face – I hadn’t been sure I’d ever hear from Jasper again. But he was taking me out to a fancy dinner. Hell, I would have been over the moon if we went to a movie and ate hot dogs in a park. Flipping open the keyboard, I tapped out a response.

775-555-0182 5:04:59pm: Sounds good – am sending my address. Hope your day was good.

I had two hours to get ready for the fanciest meal of my life.

I could so do this.

—

Considering my resources, I didn’t think I looked too bad. I’d left my hair loose, since I didn’t own a curling wand or straightener, and managed to paint my nails with the half-empty bottle of nude pink I’d found amongst my stuff.

My dress was a black polyester number I had fished out of a basket at the thrift store and had cost me eight dollars. It was a baby-doll style and I thought it made me look older. My shoes were black wedges that were nowhere near fancy enough, but I didn’t own any proper heels.

I had run to the drug store around the corner for a lipstick, a deep crimson that made me feel much older and more glamorous. The effect was somewhat spoilt by the fact I didn’t own a decent coat, just a purple cardigan and a hoodie. And the only purse I owned was a silver crossbody-bag that looked like I had only paid two dollars for it.

At seven on the dot, I emerged from my room to find Victoria, the kids, James and Laurent eating pizza.

“Look at you, baby,” James was practically drooling as I walked through, jamming my wallet and phone into the tiny bag. “Told you she was gorgeous.”

Laurent made a non-committal sound but his gaze never left my legs, ew.

“Where are you going?” Victoria demanded, glaring at me. She definitely preferred me as skinny, bedraggled Mary instead of girly Alice.

“I have a date,” I said.

“A date? Finally working for the money, Mary?” Victoria said. “Thought you were too good for that.”

I made a face at her. “A date. With a guy. Where he takes me to dinner and we talk.”

“You didn’t come home last night,” Victoria said carelessly, and I caught a dark look pass over James’ face. “Excuse me for assuming that you’d come to your senses.”

I swallowed my vulgar response and grabbed my keys. “Don’t wait up.”

My stuff was packed up – in the end, I had only a small duffle bag and my messenger bag of stuff for nineteen years of life.

Jasper was planning on driving back to Forks over two or three days. He had considered – and offered – to pay for us to fly back, but I’d never been in an airplane before, and figured a road-trip would give me time to prepare to meet Jasper’s family.

I wasn’t expecting it. Not for James to half-punch, half-slap me, and shake me by the throat. I couldn’t breathe, my lungs burning, slightly disoriented from the blows.

James half-threw me against the fridge, the handle digging into my back. I dropped my bags as he grabbed me by the scruff of the shirt and pulled me back towards him.

“You think you can leave?” he spat at me. “Stupid bitch, think you’re better than this?”

I tried to pull away, but I was too small.

“You’re just like Vic. Just like ‘em all. You’ll come crawling back when that prick gets bored,” he purred at me, one hand sliding down my stomach and I suddenly was terrified. “I’m not picky, I’ll take you back – when you beg.”

“James.”

We both jerked around to see Laurent standing in the doorway, with one of Victoria’s daughters in tow.

James pasted a bright smile on his face. “Just sayin’ good bye to Mary here. Takin’ her chances in sunny California.”

Laurent looked from me to him and shrugged. “Coming?”

James looked back at me and sneered. “Yeah. The trash can take herself out.”

Within seconds, they were gone, and I was alone. I span on my heel and headed to the bathroom.

I stared at myself in the mirror. My throat was red, where he’d shaken me, and my eye and cheek were already swelling – and my lip was split. My back and shoulder ached, plus my right ankle was tender.

Thankfully, the collar of my cardigan would cover up my throat, and my sunglasses would cover up my eye. Hopefully, my lip would stop bleeding by then. Nothing that indicated James had hurt me. But I didn’t want to hang around, in case he came back.

Snagging my bags off the floor, I dropped my keys on the kitchen table and fled apartment 48 for the final time.

Jasper was waiting in the bar with a coffee and the paper when I showed up. I’d tried so hard to dress nicely – a blue shirtdress and lavender leggings – but the women in the hotel foyer made me look like a middle school student.

“Hi,” I smiled as I reached the table.

“Good morning,” Jasper said, jumping up to take my bags. “Can I get you anything?”

“An oj?” I asked, looking around at the fancy surroundings. I wasn’t sure anything as pedestrian as an orange had ever crossed the threshold of this place.

“Certainly.” A hotel employee suddenly appeared at Jasper’s elbow. “Could you put these bags with mine? And the lady would like an orange juice, and perhaps the brunch menu?”

“Of course, Mr Whitlock,” the employee said.

I wriggled around in my seat, gazing around the bar. One woman was wearing the most incredible red and gold heels, and another had an embroidered floral dress that was to die for.

“The hotel had some computer difficulties this morning – we should be able to leave soon,” Jasper said to me, drawing my attention back to him. “I’d like to make it to Boise tonight.”

“Sounds good,” I said, as a waiter swept to my side, placing the fanciest glass of juice in front of me, and a tasselled menu. “Thank you.”

“I’ve already eaten,” Jasper said, looking guilty. “Early start. But please, get whatever you want.”

“O-kay,” I said. I wasn’t very hungry, and my throat hurt after James’ assault, but I needed to eat – I wasn’t sure if we’d stop for lunch. Rule number one was never, ever turn down free food.

A hotel employee appeared at Jasper’s elbow the second my breakfast plate was cleared, to let us know that the ‘issues’ had been fixed, and our luggage was in the car.

It was happening. We were going.

Mary-Alice Brandon: now leaving Las Vegas.

The motel was neat and pretty clean, with two double beds and a TV. We’d grabbed burgers through drive-thru, and were ready to settle in for the night.

I had some ancient pj bottoms and a tank top to sleep in, and didn’t think of anything else as I left the bathroom, my hair hanging loose.

“What the hell happened to you?” Jasper was at my side in a second, his eyes wide.

“What?” I gave him a confused look, and belatedly realised that my make-up was washed off and in my tank top my throat was bared, the bruises that James had given me so much darker and angrier than before.

“Oh, um, my landlord’s boyfriend had a problem with me leaving,” I said uncomfortably.

“Jesus,” he murmured. “We can find a doctor in the morning.”

I waved it off. “I’ve got painkillers in my purse. Just have to wait til I heal.”

Jasper was determined to buy me clothing as soon as we finished breakfast, and I gave up and let him drive me to the Gap outlet. It was a novelty to be able to purchase whatever I need, something I wasn’t used to, as I carefully chose jeans and dresses. I also picked up a winter parka on sale, when Jasper warned me how wet and cold Forks was.

But when Jasper went to pay, he gave me a Look. “My sister spends more on a single pair of shoes,” he grumbled at me as I gathered my bags.

“I’ve got everything I need, I swear,” I said. “Probably too much, honestly.”

On the way from Seattle, I tried to memorise everything about Jasper’s family and friends, so not to fuck this up worse than it already was.

There were his ‘aunt’ and ‘uncle’, Esme and Carlisle. They had one biological son, Edward, who was 22 and married to Isabella, with a toddler named something strange. Ness, Jasper called her.

Jasper’s twin sister, Rosalie, was engaged to a man named Emmett, who was also one of Jasper’s best friends. They were building a house in Forks, and were getting married at the end of the year.

Jasper’s best friends were Emmett and a man named Peter, Jasper’s roommate in college, who now worked at a law firm in Seattle and had a girlfriend named Charlotte whom Jasper called ‘an angel’, and designed wedding dresses.

I felt like I needed flashcards.

#twificmas20 #ficmas20 #alice cullen #jasper hale #alice/jasper #jalice #twilight renaissance #twilight fic #human au #getting married in vegas #wip #my fic #my fic: vegas

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eye-raq · 5 years

Text

Lethal Lust.

A snippet.

Rage flowed through him like molten lava.

His fury sprang to life.

His edge of irritation had definitely returned.

Today, at approximately 3:15 am, on Saturday, he was wearing a suit. A Harrogate Black Indochino suit made with 95% Merino Wool, and only 5% luxurious Cashmere; which was a shame because it added warmth, softness, and lightness. His feet were covered in D-ring detail Monogram Patent Leather formal dress shoes by Burberry. Fixing his silver cufflinks with obvious aggressiveness, he began to walk the length of the hallway.

It wasn’t a typical hallway located in a fancy banquet or ballroom. No. It was narrow and smelly. Windowless, and ancient. Gloomy with a sadistic secret. Hideously colored. Cold and annoyingly stuffy. And to top it all off, accompanied with flickering fluorescent light bulbs and walls with chipped off-white paint. When he walked, you could hear the sound of his dress shoes bouncing off of the hollow walls. His hands were clasped behind his back casually, whistling to himself a random catchy tune he came up with. Godspeed to the person he was looking for, the one that earned him a bloody lip that leaked onto his once perfectly crisp and white dress shirt.

This was child’s play. Hide and seek was for five-year-olds named Sally, Susie, Billy, and Mikey. So much for trying to be a different kind of horror. No matter how much he veered away from that narrative, people still found him to be like Micheal Myers. How he couldn’t tell you. Micheal was clearly otherworldly and not human. As for him, he was all human. One gunshot to the head and he would drop to his knees with eyes as wide as saucers, falling forehead first in a pool of blood. One quick step and a precise strike with a Karambit knife would slice open his gut leading to a slow, yet painful death.

Speaking of knives, he was currently holding a kukri: a middle Asia knife that is weighed in the front. It gives the user more downward force and power. Commonly used to chop down tree limbs, or in his case...human limbs.

With sharp ears like a wolf, he could hear breathing. Struggling, pained breathing. It was coming from his right. Oh, how nice...a dark room with a tiny rusted window that reminded you of a dank basement that belonged to a serial killer. Funny...he was a serial killer. Not like a Ted Bundy, or a Jeffrey Dahmer. Nah, those were the kinds he went after. Those were the ones who ended up here in his secret layer holding on to their last breaths before the final image they see is the morgue lights.

He could taste blood. His anger felt so good but it would feel even better if he just had that son of a bitch. His nostrils flared. With twitching eyes, he made his way into that pitch black room like he had night vision goggles on. With his hunting and tracking skills, he makes his way slyly into the room, twirling that Kukri knife in hand skillfully like a switchblade. Taking in a deep breath, then exhaling, he finally speaks.

“Funny...I actually thought to tie your legs with a chain but the urge to kill you was eating away at me. Excuse my fault...you won’t have long to worry about that shit anyway.”

Moving his eyes from left to right, he walks along the cold concrete wall, dragging that knife across it with every step.

“You won’t believe what I have in my hand. It’s your Kukri. You’re familiar with those, right? You use them a lot when you murder all those girls, correct? I can understand why it gets the job done.”

He takes the knife and places it firmly in his grip, walking with a rigid form. He could smell the alcohol and infection on him and it was only a matter of time before he unleashed again on his prey. His disgusting prey. The prey who preyed on little girls...one, in particular, Samara Jenkins.

—————-

15 hours ago:

“This is NBC 6, South Florida News. Today, Miami Police found the body of the missing six-year-old girl: Samara Ella Jenkins. Daughter to pastors of Heavenly Home Baptist Church, Ertha Jenkins, and Sydney Jenkins. Their daughter had been missing for over two weeks now. Miami police have been searching day in, and day out for this missing pure soul, and today...they finally made a discovery.”

Erik watched while the news reporter drowns on. The camera scanned the Everglades. It looked particularly dry and withering; a fucking Gator central. With narrow hawk eyes, a single vein appearing in the middle of his forehead, he took in the news he really wanted to hear, no matter how hard it was to listen. He needed to listen. It was his God-given duty to listen.

“Young Samara was found here in the wetlands wrapped in a trash bag, surrounded by Alligators. It took great difficulty at first, but the Police have confirmed that it is indeed Samara. The family has asked for privacy at this time, and the immediate finding of her murderer.”

Pausing his TV, Erik got up from his seated position, walking through his living room and towards the kitchen. His steel toe Doc Martens dragged across the freshly placed tile of his Miami apartment, walking past the black marble kitchen island and directly towards his office. It was time. If his memory serves him, it had been almost a month since his last kill. The urge was building up so much within him he was ready to combust. The sound of his Father's old grandfather clock that was given to him as a gift before he died ticked in the background eerily. Finally, standing in front of his fireproof wall safe, Erik cracked his combination. Pulling open the door slowly, he came face to face with his treat.

He’d like to call it… a souvenir. He took pride in it like a child did a sand castle on the beach. They served as trophy cases to him. There, lies a box with blood slides. In it housed 46 slides of his victims. Taking the box, Erik places it on top of his glass desk. Opening the box, he ran a single finger gently across the top of the slides as the glass slightly clattered. At times, he would refer to the slides as “my secret” or other times, “my pride kills...my friends.”

It’s funny that he called them friends. A few he caught the attention of by raising a glass with an easy-going smile. For others, he would pick up a random conversation from maybe bumping shoulders about the Miami weather and how shitty their jobs were. Or even, dropping a hint of sexual interest that always seemed to work since his looks were beyond dismal. Ordinary. Regular. No. Erik was handsome. The kind of handsome you would find in a Calvin Klein add or sitting in VIP at some high-end club surrounded by models. Not a woman could walk by and not stop and stare.

“I guess I gotta make it 47,” he lets out controlled breaths, eyes watering with anger. The person's blood who would reside on the empty forensic slide goes by the name of Dean Orrin. 38 years old and an ex-military man. A man who should be registered as a Pedophile but instead walks the streets of South Beach proud and cocky. This man, what a son of a bitch. This redneck. Such a waste of fresh air and space. The raging alcoholic and child abuser worked as a Respiratory Therapist at a children’s hospital. Can you believe it? A fucking children’s hospital. His shifts were Monday through Thursday, 9 am to 5 pm. He drove a 1992 Ford Mustang in red, seats covered in fresh leather.

Too bad the vintage car didn’t match this man’s physical appearance.

He was short, balding, square-shaped with a beer belly and a faux-friendly face that belonged to a white man you wouldn’t dare assume was a murderer of young black and Latina girls ranging from the ages of 4 to 10.

Erik would sit outside of Dean’s Miami Shores home on Ne 92nd Street. He lived alone, kept the doors unlocked to give off a friendly vibe, picked up the newspaper every day around 8:00 am, and ate the same old Salisbury steak TV dinner around 7:45 pm in front of his flat screen; his prized possession. One evening while Dean was away, Erik took the time to investigate Dean’s home. Of course, he would find child pornography on his computer, and even worse an entirely dark room with cardboard boxes filled with photographs of his victims bound and naked.

Erik picked up a picture of little Samara, afraid and weak with ropes around her little body. His eyes watered with rage, biting down on his tongue and ignoring the pain. He felt worse pain anyway. This was sickening. How could you hurt such an innocent child? Such pure light? It made no sense to him. Clearly, Dean had something deep and traumatic going on with him to resort to this type of lifestyle. Erik had demons too, and he sometimes wondered if they were all one and the same; a family of murderers United. He’d keep Samaras photo, it would only serve to kill Dean even more. Slide number 47 would be clean no longer.

Erik has built a file on this man for over a month now. After finding out about the murder of his Neighbors young Latina daughter, Cassie, age 8, he began to piece together the parts that Miami Day Police failed to do.

Dean’s way of going about doing things was getting to know the children that came through Giving Hands Children’s Hospital in South Beach. He would give them treats, learn things about them, and extract whatever information he needed from their files. No personal contact involving the parents, no meetups or anything, just getting the information and kidnapping the children.

He didn’t do it so often. Dean’s stretch would be at least a month or two in between. Samara was his fourth murder. Erik broke it down one rainy night in his office how Dean successfully snatched Samara and killed her. Heavenly Home Baptist Church held fundraisers for their neighborhood. The last night Samara was seen, only two weeks ago on a Thursday, was the night of Youth Day. It was an open house for anyone to come in and be a part of because Heavenly Hope housed generous, God-fearing people. Little Samara took her badminton racket to the back lawn, never telling her mother she was going out for some fresh air. She’d been gone for over an hour and Miss Ertha made a plate filled with Samaras favorites.

Well, you could probably guess what happened next, right? Everyone at that church searched high and low for her. Her parents and siblings had sleepless nights, signs and billboards were made, all in a span of two weeks. It hurts deep like an open wound. Erik never had kids, probably never will...but still...he could feel their pain. No matter, Erik was a man of his word. He wasn’t great in combat with a keen skill in blood spatter analysis, tracking, and weapons training for nothing. He’d put all of that to good use.

———

Saturday, April 1st: the day of fools. 1:30 am.

Sitting in an expensive suit that he intended to wear on a date, Erik finally finds the perfect opportunity to catch Dean. Erik could only hope that his date wouldn’t be angry with him, after all, she practically begged.

This motherfucker couldn’t be serious, could he?

He was already drunk off of Jack Daniels and now he was gearing towards entering an 18 and over club on Ocean Drive. The rage in Erik boiled his blood. Was Dean trying to age up his victims now? Is cockiness getting to him since he hadn’t been caught yet?

All of these things added to Erik’s fury, but the fury was what he needed to stay amped up. Anger for Erik made him more proud. He was correct to lay down an extra layer of plastic this time.

“Sick motherfucker,” Erik shakes his head, a single finger tapping at the steering wheel of his burner car that he used for kills; some beat up old Chevy with a stolen license plate.

This vigilante never sleeps when it comes to a kill.

Just stay in the shadows, Erik…

Night time is your time.

You have to be cunning to outwit your foes. The flashing club lights ignited his face purple, red, and blue. Bodies moved about in packs, sweat dripping and fingers intertwined. Erik could almost feel the heart beats racing among him. Young and naive they all were, especially the young girl Dean was eyeing.

She looked to be about 19, a drink in her hand and braids so long they swept the backs of her legs. She twirled, shouted to the music, and twerked in her own little world. Dean was compelled. Erik could see the killing fetish in his eyes so deep his pupils dilated an almost pitch black. Erik wanted badly to choke him up right here and finish the job but then that wouldn’t help him, would it? Keeping to the shadows, Erik watched until it was time for him to make his move.

———-

“Feel like making a deal with the devil?”

The young girl with honeyed skin and full lips turns to Dean, a little jumpy from being caught off guard. She regarded him, eyes squinted.

“Excuse me?”

“I said, do you feel like making a deal with the devil?”

Dean pulls out a baggy filled with LSD, swinging it in front of her face. The girl was tempted for a second, that was until she looked back at Dean and saw the sweat covering his face, a faded tattoo of a pentagram on the inside of his wrist, and the maniacal way he licked his lips.

“Uhm, no thanks. I’m okay.”

The young girl gave him a generous smile before sauntering away towards the back of the club. Clearly, Dean didn’t like being told no. He stood still for what felt like minutes, staring at her retreating form until she disappeared around a corner and out of sight. Like clockwork, Dean follows, a hand deep in his pocket and shoulders hunched. It was time, Erik had to make a move now before the young girl became Dean’s new victim.

Ignoring lingering stares of passion that he didn’t like nor accepted, Erik maneuvered through the crowd as they parted like the Red Sea for him, finally around that corner and hot on Dean’s trail. Apparently, the young girl wasn’t going to the ladies. There was an exit straight ahead, the LED of the sign almost blinding and cryptic. With much more speed now, Erik dashes to the back door, black leather gloved hand pushing open the swinging doors.

His dress shoes met a puddle, and his hands clenched into fists. There was no sign of either of them.

Fuck.

Deciding to make a left, Erik followed his path down the narrow garbage filled alley, head moving from left to right to find him. To his luck, he could hear struggling, choking breaths. Keeping close to the wall, Erik looked around that corner at the edge of the alley, coming face to face with the devil himself.

Dean had the young girl smashed against the brick wall, his hand lazily rubbing under her skirt. Every time she tried to scream, Dean would smash her face further into the brick.

“Shut up...shut up...shut up...SHUT UP!!!” Dean yelled, spit flying and a snarl on his face. He looked red from anger.

“Keep still you black bitch!!!! Keep still or I will slit your fucking throat with my knife!”

Erik has seen enough now.

Pulling out his 9mm pistol with a silencer, Erik’s 20/20 sniper vision aided him as he aimed a bullet at Dean’s side, watching as the stout man fell to his knees in agonizing pain, releasing the young girl from his deadly grip. She kicked away and down the alley in the opposite direction, screaming in tears and limping. A life saved, and one before him ready to be taken away.

Erik watched with joy and triumph as Dean stared into the darkness with confusion and pain, rolling around in the mud, shit, piss, and garbage juice.

“WHOS THERE!!!!!!!!!!” He yelled between cries, blood staining his teeth.

“AM I GOING TO DIE?!!!PLEASE, NO. AM I GOING TO DIE HERE?!!!”

Erik made his way towards him, adjusting his gloves and storing away his gun. It was so dark, Dean couldn’t make him out, but he could hear his footsteps.

“OMG. Who’s there!!!!!!!!!!”

Erik picks Dean up one-handed by his collar, silencing him with a tranquilizer to the neck. Dean was now dead weight. Luckily, his car was parked on the other side of the alley, and the coast was clear.

———

“Wha? Where am I?”

Dean blinked twice, rubbing his right hand over his dry tears. Sniffling snot, wrists in pain from being wrapped in chains, Dean stares into the pitch black, figuring he had to be in the trunk of a car with the smell of gas and rubber. Was this his fate? Was God finally judging him?

Death clearly doesn’t discriminate.

He took the lives of young girls, so now the price to pay was his life.

And to think he had a chance tonight with another kill. Maybe, it was too soon to go out for another thrill.

He could feel his death.

The amount of pain he was in, he felt like he was dead already. Ah, now he remembers. Someone shot him in the ribs back in that alley. Aiming for his respiratory technique, Dean breathed slowly and steadily, trying his hardest to avoid the feeling of his own blood dripping from his gunshot wound. If only he could apply pressure without bleeding out so much.

Whoever this person was wanted to take their time with him.

The sound of the car door slamming followed by the car shaking from the impact made Dean go stiff. It was time to meet His executioner. And when his time is up, would they tell his story? Make him another missing person? Dean much rather be seen in the spotlight like the Zodiac Killer had been. Too bad he wasn’t swift enough. Was it a parent of one of his victims? an off duty cop who just had to bring work home?

Whistling began.

“What?” Dean’s voice was scratchy and pathetic sounding.

With the trunk now open, Dean could feel the humid air of Miami pour in. Catching his breath and bracing himself, Dean came face to face with an unfamiliar foe. He had dreads braided back, a crisp suit that must have cost a fortune, hands covered with leather gloves and eyes so cold they could petrify you. He looked like a mercenary, or maybe a hit man. He was young, could be around early thirties. He smiled sadistically. Fuck. Was this bastard as crazy as him?

“It takes a monster to destroy a monster.”

That statement alone was bone chilling. He had the same kill stare but with a different goal.

“You’re playing my fucking game now. No little girls to touch and kill here. You should fear me.”

Swiftly, The unknown man grabbed Dean by the neck, pulling him up and out of the trunk. Dean rolled onto his elbow, pain shooting through his arm and dirt filling his lungs. It was so overbearing that he felt oxygen deprived. With his feet failing him, Dean tries to crawl away, but of course, that wouldn’t work, he was too fat and too weak.

“You can crawl all you want. Your fate remains the same, motherfucker.” Like the Hulk himself gripped his legs, Dean was dragged back across the ground, feet flapping and nails clawing at rocks and dirt. He could feel his skin splitting. With one struggling kick, his foot met the man’s face, bloodying his lip. No words were said then. His eyes were ice cold and demon like. Dean didn’t know what hit him, but those eyes made him get on his feet, and he ran into the abandoned building straight ahead. He didn’t hear the man’s footsteps, guessing that maybe he was too hurt to follow him and find him.

Little did Dean know his weapon of choice: a Kukri knife fell out of his back pocket. Erik has that very knife in his possession now, more than excited to use Dean’s weapon against him. This was going to be one hell of a bloody night.

——-

It was just too easy for him. He needed a challenge. That’s it...a challenge. Maybe a Russian who escaped prison and decided to go on a genocide killing spree. Or a calculated serial killer who played him at his own game. Dean was easy prey. They all had the same motive: hide in the most typical places, pray to themselves and breathe so loud the people down the road could hear, or worse, bleed out and leave a bloody trail. Dean’s wound was beginning to smell. Erik’s sense of smell when it came to infected, rotting, flesh was nearly non-existent. It didn’t bother him one bit.

All the lives he took when he killed in Afghanistan, Iraq, the States apart of JSOC and when he was an ex-assassin made it that way. The scars on his skin were there to prove it. Now, he did the kills without taking orders from no one.

“Dean...you fat ass motherfucker. Dirty, disgusting, sick, smelly ass, redneck, motherfucker.”

Erik drew in his bottom lip between his teeth, the sound of the leather gloves on his hand crunching from how tightly his fists were clenched.

“Why little Black and Latina girls, Dean? What’s so special about them? Is it the fact that they aren’t as privileged as your kind? The colonizers?”

Dean was so fucking stupid. How could someone go so long with precisely killing four little girls but hide where Erik could see him? In a dirty corner filled with old dusty crates and broken glass shards, Erik could see the silhouette of Dean Orrin. His body was practically leaning over from how weak he was. All that blood loss failed him. No energy, no will power, just dead weight.

Letting out a stressed sigh, Erik pocketed the Kukri, walking over to Dean. Picking him up by the back of his hoodie, hopefully choking him, he began to drag him across the dusty cobweb filled floor, startling him and causing him to scream.

“You a bitch, you know that? You kill little girls like you a man but wanna scream like a woman because you are about to die. I knew chicks more gangsta than you.”

Erik laughs hard, finally back in that hallway and headed towards his destination.

“Tell me,” Erik yanks him, hearing him choke up.

“Why little girls? Got raped when you were a kid? Touched your ex little daughter in her sleep and got a hard-on? What?!!!” Erik releases Dean, turning to yoke him up forcefully. Dean’s blurry and dizzy vision made Erik look like five Erik’s. He could still see the hard eyes though, they could never go forgotten.

“ANSWER. MY. FUCKING. QUESTION.”

Erik’s breathing was the only sound, Dean’s mind forcing him to speak but words couldn’t form. That pissed Erik off...oh...that made him mad. Erik’s eyes flickered a moment, before taking one hand to retrieve the Kukri, twirling it between his fingers, and ramming it into dean’s side, opening his gunshot wound further.

Dean’s screams were suspended in his throat, eyes watery and teeth grinding. His breath hit Erik’s nose causing him to drop him on the floor, back to dragging his lard ass leaving a bloody trail.

——

The old morgue was famous back in 95’ but it was closed due to concerns with keeping the dead cold until it was time for burial. It was gated off with grass growing so high gators could live here. No one dares to trespass, leaving it as a haunted destination to never visit. Erik had it soundproofed, and he fixed it up himself. He never used the morgue refrigerators, what was the point anyway? He didn’t care to slow up the decomposition phase. His job was to hunt, kill, and discard of the parts. Currently, in this fully double plastic-covered room, Erik had Dean on an operating table in the charnel house, head and feet restrained. He blinked up at the lights, failing to keep his eyes opened. Dean was already pale, now he looked almost chalky with skin leatherlike. Erik removed his suit jacket, hanging it neatly on a nearby coat rack. The sleeves to his white oxford shirt were rolled up to his elbows, surgical gloves on his hands and an entire surgical gown with goggles included to shield the blood splatter.

A medium force (velocity) impact spatter:

Produced with more energy or force than gravity.

The force of the impact causes the blood to break into smaller size splatters relative to the amount of force applied.

This type of splatter is usually seen in blunt force, stabbings, and secondary splatters.

Produced when the majority of larger drops of blood are broken into smaller spatters with diameters of 2-4 mm.

The force associated with this type of spatter is greater than 25 ft per second.

His first victim, Alejandra Lopez was just 4 years old. It was a rainy week in Miami; they called for thunderstorms around 90%. She was riding her little training wheel bike colored blue and pink down a small suburb in Little Havana. Her slicker hood was up, rain droplets shielding her vision but so what? she was on a mission. Her dad nicknamed her little trainer, speedy. Giggling, she made a sharp turn, only to fall off and in the gutter. She winced in pain slightly, but Alejandra was tough. Her mother was passed out drunk on the couch while her father was pulling doubles at the auto shop. Alejandra carefully lifted from the gutter, whipping off the mud from her slicker. As her doe grey eyes lifted, she came face to face with her murder. He struck her over the head with a lead pipe, watching as her tiny body fell to the concrete, cracking her skull further…

Erik couldn’t sleep after seeing that on the news.

So terrible.

The thought of that crossed his mind just now, causing him to pick up a broken lead pipe he found near a construction site on his way home from the beach. Twirling that lead pipe in hand, he turns to Dean, clearing his throat.

“You remember Alejandra? In Little Havana?”

Dean swallows spit, his eyes struggling to look to his right where Erik was standing.

“I-I-Yeah..yeah the little Mexican girl. I-I remember…” Dean began to cry.

“You remember how you used a pipe to crack her skull?” Erik’s grip on the pipe grew tight and painful.

“...yes…”

“How did that make you feel?”

“...good...but please...don’t…”

“There will be blood, Dean. And guess what? I got a lead pipe.”

Erik began to walk forward, pipe resting on his shoulder.

“WHO ARE YOU TO DECIDE MY FATE?!!! HUH??!!!!!!” Dean screamed at the top of his lungs, causing himself to cough up blood. He was going to die anyway, no use in screaming.

“I’m the Judge. Jury. And Executioner. Don’t fucking bark if you can’t bite.” He sounded baneful and destructive.

Everything went silent, that was until the pipe broke the wind from how forceful Erik’s blow was. Erik aimed that pipe to Dean’s head, the sound of his temporal bone splitting music to his ears. Dean shook, fingers twitching, and eyes wide with pain. His nose began to leak, eyes watering in agony. At this point, he could beg for instant death. Erik did damage for sure, his brain must be ricocheting in his skull right now.

An ugly laugh escaped Erik’s mouth, the sound of the pipe hitting plastic only audible to him since Dean’s hearing was no more.

“I-I-I w-won’t Let you-you…” Dean chokes on blood. His heart rate began to slow further.

“The question isn’t who’s going to let me. It’s who’s going to stop me?” Erik took this as an opportunity to pull out his Kukri. Yes, his now.

“I can imagine how many times you wipe this clean. Fucking sick...and I thought my traumatic past was bad? I can’t imagine yours…”

Holding the knife firm, Erik brought it to Dean’s right hand, cutting it off cleanly. At this point, Dean couldn’t even scream. He was already dying, all he could do was wither in pain. Cutting the hands of a pedophile. You touch young girls and murder them, you get your hands amputated. His dick getting cut off sounded great but Erik didn’t even want to SEE IT. Without saying another word, his other hand was amputated. The blood splatter Erik knew well stained the plastic.

With a clenched jaw and savage eyes, Erik takes Dean by his greasy head, bringing that Kukri to his throat.

“This is for Samara, and all the other little girls you killed. They have no fucking life, now you won’t.”

Erik twirled that knife, swiping across Dean’s neck quickly, watching the blood splatter briefly before slowing to a drip. The life could be seen leaving Dean Orrin’s eyes under those morgue lights.

——-

First off, it’s important to understand what dead bodies are like. They’re very heavy, they absolutely stink, they attract flies and vermin practically from the word go, they release a lot of unpleasant substances, they bloat and they can even explode. Draining the fluids as quickly as possible and mixing them with a lot of bleach before flushing them would prevent this.

Should the body be found, you need to make it as difficult as possible to identify. This means destroying the teeth, finger, and toe prints, and the DNA. The first two are easy, the last one is more tricky. Erik wasn’t a forensic scientist, so he just settled for the teeth and toes. Living in Miami, water was an easy source to dump bodies. Erik used to settle for burying them, but that took hours and a lot of footprints left behind. To make his life easier, he simply dumped the bodies far out in the ocean while taking a routine route on his boat. Applying weights to the feet and covering them with heavy duty body bags always helped him out. This was the only way he could dispose of the evidence before the police got wind of it, which they never did.

Erik wasn’t a wanted man, at least, not as Erik Stevens. When he was Killmonger, international police wanted his neck. Killmonger came out to play when he took the lives of vermin to satisfy his needs, but he went away when he did his daily routines. Believe it or not, Erik had friends, a foster sister, and maybe a possible girlfriend. It was odd, Erik considered himself to be asexual. He didn’t find romantic attraction or love for a woman. It never interested him in having a romantic relationship with a woman. He had sex, though it was more so because he could not because he wanted to. Being asexual had nothing to do with his dick, it was about the sexual and romantic attraction that didn’t spark his interest. It’s not like he didn’t try. There were days where he wanted that, other days he just didn’t and they were most days. Erik was attractive, rough around the edges, a lady killer without even trying. He needed to move on, make it look normal, kill those who deserved it in secret. These were the words of his late foster father who was a fireman.

Erik…

He could hear his father's voice in his head.

Be strong, Erik. Remember, use your disorder for the greater good. Kill those who deserve to be punished...

With a heavy sigh and all his upper arm strength, Erik heaved Dean Orrin’s body over the railing of his boat and into the ocean water. So long Dean Orrin. The pedophile. The abuser. The murderer. Erik took out the tiny glass vial of his horrid blood, twirling it in hand before pocketing it once more, turning to grab up his Hennessy.

“Ah, they playing Wu-Tang tonight,” he smiles as if it were any other evening, sitting back on his suede all-white sofa with his dress shoe covered feet resting on the fancy glass table.

Time to sleep on the water again.

@goddessofthundathighs @hearteyes-for-killmonger @panthergoddessbast @blowmymbackout @chaneajoyyy @bartierbakarimobisson @madamslayyy

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#amethyst1993 #killmongrer #Erik Killmonger #erikkillmonger #killmonger x reader #black panther killmonger #angst

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lady-plantagenet · 4 years

Text

Chapter 3 of a Bygone Era -

A Fictionalised Account of Isabel Neville’s life from the point of view of her and those close to her.

Points of view written so far include Anne Beauchamp, Anne Neville and George Duke of Clarence.

26 June 1465 - George Plantagenet, Duke of Clarence

The ride beyond the Yorkshire Dales was more than any reasonable man could endure and George’s spirit waned with each passing of the moon. Now arrived, he was glad to be relieved of his riding habit. The summer sun looked upon him, setting his glossy green silk aglow, elevating the golden weaved threads to a glimmer and his persona to a countenance so divine, Paris himself would have payed homage had they encountered.

Now, his cousin of Warwick requested his presence for a private audience before the dinner and George despite his wishes could not feign ignorance to himself. After all the noble blood of the land has been mingled with the Rivers, he intends to woo me himself, for Isabel. He set his cup of Rumney wine on the painted table of his chamber wondering what possessed Warwick to have his wines brought from Wallachia of all places. Mayhaps he has even befriended the Impaler himself. There is not a road in christendom left unexplored by the shadows of his ambitions.

Realising it was nigh time he appeared for the audience, he made his way past the stony winding stairs of what was unofficially called the Guy de Warwick tower and across the gleaming inner court, beset with a sea of jade shards bobbing to the wind in a biddable manner, until he reached the threshold of The Maiden tower. A wry chuckle escaped George. The choice of meeting amused him nearly as much as his lodging arrangements. The thematic allusions to the ancient Neville tale of Guy of Warwick and The elusive and noble Lady Felice did not elude him. While awaiting his receipt, he wondered whether ballads still held court in Isabel’s heart.

A servant he did not recognise before beckoned him into a suffocating chamber of cream and steel where George to his surprise was faced with the Countess of Warwick sitting beside her husband, as if they were a king and queen holding court. So this is how royalty ought to look. George thought back to his brother’s court and how the new queen’s striking beauty and liveliness did not sit well with the austere and mystical nature expected of one who claimed the sacred place next to an anointed king. The Countess, however, appeared as if a part of the room as a whole, as would the queen of heaven in a nativity tableaux.

As he knelt for each of their blessings reminiscent of a bygone era of peace and childhood, he rose with a solemn smile. To his discomfort the Earl and Countess did not avail the room of its stilted atmosphere with their faces remaining taut like sheets of ice.

‘George we are honoured to be having you here again and with us for near a fortnight, truly much time has passed since you were under our guardianship and a mere lad in the courtyard sparring with play swords’ said the Earl neutrally ‘however the time has come for me to address an issue that we had near no time to discuss while at court.’

What in the heavens could he be referencing? I do not remember exchanging anything but pleasantries with him. Best keep my mouth shut and refrain from guessing or else I may be held to have had expressed my willingness to carry out something I would ne’er do.

The Earl was waiting expectantly. George could not help himself and blurted: ‘My sister Margaret is arranging a marriage between myself and Mary of Burgundy, which she hopes will result in a double alliance between our realms when her own betrothal to Charles I is underway’. Just to think! Margaret and I living in the most marvellous court in Europe and when the Duke’s recklessness resolves in death, her and I can rule the Low Countries like two kings. ‘ And so, before you ask me to wed Isabel, I tell you that I cannot regardless of what you may think you have heard me say at court.’

The Earl let out a full-throated laugh so strong that his whole body appeared to be shaking. Even the Countess stifled a chuckle behind her long ringed fingers. Half a minute went by and the Earl’s head was snapped back in roaring laughter revealing the roof of his mouth, which in this moment was opened so wide it resembled a scarlet cave.

George could not understand what was so funny.

‘George, I am not your doting nursemaid concerned with your heart or an up-jumped merchant who is trying to seduce you with sweetmeats to cajole you into a coupling with my daughter, by entrapping you into my home.’ The Earl began. Laughter still seemed to coat his voice like sugary water hiding overlying vinegar. The incredulous tone denoted an arrogance such that it arose an eyebrow even in the Earl’s wife whose reputation for haughtiness cast a shadow that outran even the borders of her own lands.

George looked at the Countess expectantly - the woman who he loved very nearly as much as his own mother. The woman who never derided him for fidgeting with his book of hours during mass, the woman who applied salve to his wounds when he would constantly fall out of bed and vouched for him that they were earned on the sparring field, in order to shield him from Rob and Thomas Parr’s cruel derision and the potential of Isabel’s incisiveness. He peared down at the forest green of his doublet sleeve in shame. Shame for holding the Countess anywhere near in affection to his own wimple-wearing mother, whose frankness and coldness, though honest, rarely elicited charm.

‘And what you are trying to say cousin is that it is I that should be beseeching you to give your Isabel in marriage to me. That I was invited here to offer myself up in exchange for an honour much above me’ George’s face was puffing up into a crimson that stood out markedly against the cold watery colours of his doublet and cape. ‘You forget that though you may have made my brother king, you did not make me a man, and judging by what a king he turned out to be and-‘

‘And what?’ The Earl prodded on

‘-and what is in fact the truth about his and my diverging lineages’ George’s voice coming out as a strangled whisper ‘we both know the truth and how the divine order has been disturbed’

The Earl nodded knowingly, satisfied that he had extracted the confession he needed from his young cousin at his expense.

‘Therefore, I would find it odd that you find it amusing that I would be in good standing to marry the future young Duchess of Burgundy’ George continued his voice gaining courage ‘You dare insinuate that your offer of Isabel would be charitable and that it is I that should haggle for this honour, when dear cousin it is you who should be humbled by such a match’.

Having confirmed his own suspicion that George personally subscribed to that old rumour, the Earl then knew how to proceed further. He was about to express his proposal in full but seemed interrupted by the Countess who shot up as if in shock. The glare from the gilded edges of her caul burned in the hot summer sun, and indignantly she said ‘You would be calling your mother a whore! The one who sacrificed her life for you after Ludlow to see you safely spirited away to the Low Countries... She would have been queen, George!’

George was at a loss for words. The scales weighing up the two factors in his head were shifting in positions like two poles of a weathervane spinning frantically in a violent storm.

‘Veritas Lux Mea, cousin’ said a solemn George crossing himself. Since I was a ninny and blurted that out, I would do well to act ashamed by it. I shall play George the hero who bears the sacrifice of his mother’s dishonour on his weary shoulders and accepts the crown despite the love he bears for his brother.

The Countess who, like most women, raised her defences upon the suggestion of a fellow women’s dishonour - not for want of defending proud Cis’ honour but her own - was now reverting to her typically restrained composure and peacefully reclaimed her seat, while the Earl let out a resounding ‘hmm’.

George who just now realised that he had been standing throughout this entire encounter, made for the other side of the chamber for a heavy oak chair. Mayhaps I should have demanded Warwick give me his seat in deference and as an apology for keeping me on my feet and knees. Instantly regretting not doing that George stopped midway and took a seat on the chair he dragged with him.

‘George’ began the Earl calmly ‘It seems our minds are ad idem, do you recall the feast where you were made Earl of Richmond and John Woodville bested you at hawking?’

George nodded from the chair across the chamber, his previous bout of anger subsiding into a tired acquiescence.

‘I recall asking you whether you thought you could do better as king. Well do you remember?’ asked the Earl.

‘I remember that too’

‘I could make you king. With you on the throne we could cleanse this country’s government of the Woodville filth, restore piety to the court and mend our ties to France. Between us, what Edward did well was all my merit. If I were to be placed beside you as counsel, we could ensure that your reign would be at least an improvement on the current state of affairs’

‘Then you would recall cousin, that I gave no answer to your question about wanting to be king.’

‘You are too modest George’ said the Earl in an a tone so sweet it was resoundingly artificial. ‘I know your brother better than you do, the years between your ages made sure of that. I can tell you hand on heart that at six and ten years he had less of his wits about him than you now do. Besides if what you said about his paternity be true, then we would make god angry by failing to act’.

‘Now now cousin, if you would put me on the throne in hopes of restoring your French alliance I regret to tell you that I would never allow it. You know very well why. Just as I, you lost a brother and father to that bitch of Anjou and the latter’s head ‘till four years past still stood severed atop the gates of York next to my own father’s’ George realised that his tone was rising in aggression at a rate he could no longer contain, much like a wild horse who after daring to descend a steep hill could no longer calm its trot, descending into a grassy grave.

To his surprise, the Earl let out a melancholic sigh leading The Countess to instinctively place both of her hands over his. The crane white of her embroidered cotton chemise fell over both their hands like a bandage and it looked as though her touch was blocking a bleeding open wound.

The Earl’s voice now lowered to a solemn murmer, so much so that even George felt his fiery temper extinguish. ‘Now George, that is precisely the reason we must mend our relations with France. Margaret is but a distant relative of the French queen and given how France consented to me joining Edward and Bona of Savoy in marriage - his very own sister-in-law -, it is clear that the Spider King is eager to forge new alliances that would suit him better. Leaving that aside, you can now see why I laughed at your suggestion of Mary of Burgundy, for what man would want to be a mere consort of a Duchess when he can be King of England? And if that is what you shall become you can now see how a marriage with the heiress of Edward’s future ally would be quite impossible’

George had been flattered by his favourite sister’s concern in suggesting that marriage, but in truth, he was loyal to that match for his sister’s sake not for some idealisation of the future Duchess who was after all, still years away from her own flowering. Her father still entertains my dastardly brother-in-law Henry of Exeter at his court and with his own Lancastrian heritage, he would be far more likely than even the French to turn to Lancaster. Besides, what would I want with an eight year old bride?

‘I would not marry with Bona of Savoy or any other French Princess. I respect your logic but I cannot be bound to a woman who shares any kinship with the she-wolf that wrecked havoc over my life since I came into this earth’ stated George.

George suspected the Earl would arrogantly state that France would not give one of its daughters to a second son like him as an indemnity - a gamble too high even for the most compulsive gambler - which Louis XI was anything but.

He instead said: ‘I know that George. It simply will not do. All you need is here in England - a wife of a family even older than the Plantagenets whose loyalties would run with yours’

‘I know what you will suggest and I would marry Isabel, cousin. But not like this. I would not be your pawn like Edward was and I will not have her imposed upon me from above as if you would be my superior, ingratiating my humble person with so lofty a marriage’ said George

‘My apologies George, if my tone and actions were conducive to you believing me haughty. It is you who is the true heir of Lionel, Duke of Clarence, you would be our king and I your counsel but nothing more - I would not have thought you to accept any different. Now Isabel I recommend unto you for more than her blood. My finest daughter has the bearing of a queen from near birth and is well-read and wise beyond her years. If I may say so at risk of betraying her secret: she took a liking to you long before a marriage has even reached our minds and if I may be so bold, I believe you have noticed that too and care for her affection more than a jot’

‘Indeed cousin, I have always remarked her beauty and despite our familiarity, she still retains an otherworldliness to her that captivates and assures me, that in her, I may find the solace needed to keep my wits about me on the road to kingship’ said George already starting to alight from his chair in order to advance towards the Earl and Countess to ritualistically perform the hand-on-knee proposal for their daughter’s hand.

After once again receiving both their blessings and being brought up by the Countess to be embraced and kissed by her painted red lips as a son-in-law, he added ‘I do not know how strong her feelings are towards me, but at this point I could imagine no one else as my bride. If there ever was a plot concocted since our infancies to bring us together you may congratulate yourselves on your successes. I may not love her yet, but I am sure I shall forthwith. But cousin, you may count on my love and your daughter’s happiness as long as she be my wife and you do not perpetually dangle her fortune in my face to humble me, nor turn her into my keeper or a spy against me. Are we understood?’

The Earl and Countess nodded at what seemed both a reasonable and achievable request.

‘Do invite her to sit with you at dinner tonight, we have arranged a banquet honouring your return and perhaps you may be the one to tell her of your marriage. I am sure she would be joyous to hear it from you.’ said the Earl while the Countess smirked discreetly.

Exhausted after passing through more emotions in an afternoon than he would have in a week, George straightened his Scarlett hose which had wrinkled from all the twitching and tensing. He sauntered off out of the chamber and through the hall leading into the bailey, convinced he held his own as much as any man could against persons as formidable as the Earl and his Countess.

After the banquet George followed Isabel at her father’s behest out into the the courtyard of Middleham castle, away from the prying Neville eyes, yet still close enough that upon a twitch of the thread they would both fall back into their palms.

Isabel who had been so charming throughout dinner was now growing shyer with each miniscule step she daintily took. Her indigo skirts flashed in a dying opulence as the Wensleydale sunset befell the land in all its summer glory, and Isabel as well, as the snowy silk of her henin now appeared a pale orange complementing the warmth of her flushed cheeks where before the wine, were of custom icely pale.

George wondered at the how the hues of those northern lands were subject to the reign of the sun, which instead of setting at this hour as it would in the south, it merely turned all around it darker and in many ways deeper.

Finding it to be a fine time to stop this treck, George beckoned Isabel to sit by him. She happily obliged but said not a word as her gaze remained transfixed on the the juniper-coloured grass below them.

‘How did you find the feast my lord of Clarence? Father knew how much you love venison and Malmsey wine so he was very glad to have procured them for your arrival’ she said courteously yet still not sparing him even a look.

��It was more than I could hope it to be’ he smiled

‘I am glad of it, my lord’

George ever the impatient man, decided to urge the conversation forwards. He gently yet decisively reached for both her hands turning her ever so slightly towards him. ‘Isabel, it is not my lord of Clarence but George, why would you impose such formalities on our correspondance?’

To his surprise she did not flinch, but rather seemed to expect this sudden gesture of closeness. This he found passing strange. Yet through it all she still feigned a degree of wide-eyed shyness.

‘I suppose you are right... George. You and I are well-acquainted. You just seem so much changed that you appear to me a man of the court now, not the boy who used to play practical jokes on Dickon and Margaret’.

‘Ah yes, remember when I tied Richard’s bootlaces to the stirrups and when he tried to canter, the horse threw him into the lake?’.

‘I felt wicked for laughing, but in truth I laughed so hard that day, that I gave myself a stomach knot’.

‘We were always the most wicked ones, I think’.

‘Me?’ questioned Isabel, smiling and palm on chest as if shocked by such a revelation. The flirt in her is returning, I see.

‘Yes, you. Remember when you thought it would be amusing to trap a frog inside Margaret’s salve. The poor thing decomposed in there and it was months until she realised that at the bottom of her pot, lay the entrails of that poor animal’.

‘Now that I think of it, my transgressions were much more ungodly than yours. Oh George, now you have made me feel bad for the poor frog. I had nearly forgotten!’ She said warmth slipping into her tone like a hot spring over a snowy valley.

‘Yes but you were always shrewd enough not to get caught’. He added with a wistfulness at the tip of his tongue.

Read the rest on here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22268239/chapters/54573088

All Chapters included :)

#isabel neville #the white queen #george duke of clarence #anne neville #richard neville earl of warwick #wars of the roses #fanfiction #historical fiction #a bygone era #please r and r #george of clarence #warwick the kingmaker #house of york #neville

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fanficimagery · 6 years

Text

Imagine finding out you're Remus Lupin's mate.

Remus X Reader

Being relocated to an entirely different country was not something you had been looking forward to, especially with a one year old baby that you had taken into your custody when he was only six months old. The MACUSA worked very closely with the Ministry of Magic to have you set up in a magical only neighborhood, and that's where you stayed for four years.

Technically you weren't on lock down, but it was strongly advised that you didn't set foot outside the Wizarding World since you and your son were technically in hiding until further notice. The MACUSA and the Ministry of Magic gave you a monthly stipend for abiding by the rules they set for you, and you learned to looked after yourself and baby Asher while also doing some light work at a bookstore where the owner's wife was all too happy to look after Asher in the nursery room the store surprisingly had.

When the MACUSA and the Ministry finally gave you the all clear you had already built up a life for yourself and Asher, and decided to stay. Then one day at the bookstore you met a lovely woman by the name of Fleur Weasley, who was shopping with her daughter tucked into the crook of her arm, and the two of you hit it off when Asher had run around the corner to attach himself to your knees. Fleur then became a somewhat steady client of the bookstore and eventually set up a play date for Asher and her daughter Victoire. Befriending Fleur came with the added benefit of meeting her husband Bill Weasley and that- that was a blessing in disguise.

When Asher first reacted to Bill's presence, you had to tell your new friends Asher's backstory. The Weasley's were awed to learn of Asher's lycanthropy and the fact that he didn't need a full moon to transform, nor did he completely transform like the werewolves of the wizarding world did. And as Asher was getting older, the full moons were becoming a little harder for you keep up with him. But then Bill stepped in and confessed why Asher reacted so strongly to him, and you were surprised to learn of Bill's own issues even after having his scars stare you in the face every day for as long as you knew him. Though Bill didn't transform, he did pick up a few abilities and one of them was excess energy that flooded his system on the night of a full moon. When you learned he ran, you were all too happy to test Bill taking Asher for one full moon and were completely relieved that the two got on as if they were part of the same pack.

You were content with your life as it were, but Bill and Fleur were adamant you needed to meet more people. You had been prepared for the other Weasley's, the Potter's, and even Sirius Black.. but there was no way you could have ever been prepared for Remus Lupin.

"Are you sure it's okay?" You ask one last time, fidgeting with the hem of your shirt.

Fleur grins as she fixes Victoire's dress and Bill sighs. "Oh for the love of Merlin. Yes!" Fleur finally giggles and you crack a grin of your own. "Are you sure you don't want to bring Asher with you?"

"I'm sure. My boss' wife, Maggie, has taken him for the evening. I didn't want to overwhelm him with a bunch of new faces just yet. I want to meet everyone first before bringing Asher."

Bill nods as Fleur sidles up to your side. "Does zis Maggie know about Azzer's condition?" Her French accent never fails to amuse you.

"Yep. When Asher gets attached to someone who he ends up adoring, they become his. Someone got a little heated one day with my boss and Asher was nearby. He started growling and flashing his eyes, but Maggie was quick to hide his face against her leg and quieted him down. After that I told them everything."

"And they were okay with it?" Bill asks, surprised.

"They were.. worried, which I understand." You shrug and tug on the tail end of Victoire's braid. "All that matters is that they adore him and treat him as if he was their own grandson. It also helps that he's a pack creature and he loves to give cuddles to scent mark people."

Bill chuckles. "I knew that's what he was going. He does it a lot, especially after the full moon."

"To Victoire too." Fleur smiles fondly as she touches the top of her daughter's head. "Not as much to me though."

"It's because you're part Veela," you muse. "He adores you, but he's also intimidated by you."

"Poor lad," Bill says. "Now enough chit-chat, witches. We're expected at Grimmauld any minute now. And Y/N, since the townhouse is still unplottable you'll only be able to get in if we apparate with you onto the door step."

"That's fine."

Bill and Fleur make sure they have whatever it is they're taking to the casual dinner with a few friends and family before Fleur takes Victoire through the floo. Bill latches onto your wrist and you close your eyes the moment Bill smirks at you. The sensation of apparating never became familiar to you, so you barely dry heave when you feel solid ground beneath your feet once more.

"Welcome to the Noble and most Ancient House of Black," Bill tells you. "It's in a constant state of renovation because Sirius can't settle on what he wants and we'll have to be quiet near the stairs. There's a portrait of his mother that is absolutely barmy and she'll scream for hours if we disturb her."

You huff a laugh. "Why isn't the portrait just removed then?"

The door swings open and who you can only assume is Sirius Black winks at you. "Because that barmy bitch didn't want anyone to live here in peace. You must be Y/N."

"And you must be Sirius Black. Nice to meet you."

"You as well, sweetheart."

"Hey!" Bill suddenly remarks as Sirius holds the door open further to allow you two entrance. "No flirting with the witch. She's much too pretty for the likes of you."

Sirius mockingly gasps, holding a hand to his heart. "William, you wound me. But does this mean the radiant Fleur is now up for grabs?"

"In your dreams, Pads."

"And what lovely dreams they are."

You laugh as the two men continue to banter back and forth all the way towards the kitchen, they only calming down as they near a portrait that appears to be covered by dark heavy drapes. Then once in the kitchen you're assaulted by the noise of several gathered witches and wizards.

Bill first introduces you to his mum and dad, Arthur and Molly. His youngest brother Ron smiles and waves in greeting, as does Ron's girlfriend Hermione. The last two wizards to be introduced to you are distracted by the conversation they're having across the table from each other, and only look up when Bill clears his throat. Harry Potter is easily recognizable by the scar on his forehead and round spectacles perched on his nose, but the other- the one wizard with the shaggy, sandy brown hair and beard, and faint scars running diagonal across his lower face as if an animal had once attacked him steals your breath away.

Everyone had friendly greetings and smiles for you, but Remus' gaze snaps to yours and subtly narrow. His nostrils flare and you paste on a grin as he.. is he scenting the air?

Sirius notices his friend's behavior and easily distracts everyone, you happily going along and pretending the moment wasn't odd. Eventually Remus calms and greets you properly, and you ignore the obvious signs of him sniffing around you. Everyone soon settles down, Molly and Fleur dish out dinner, and conversation flows fairly easy. Then after dessert is served, the conversation turns rather rowdy and is only egged on by Sirius. Molly and Arthur take their leave then, taking a sleepy Victoire with them and leaving the younger crowd to truly get to know you.

The firewhiskey and butterbeers are passed around, and everyone turns their attention on you.

"So, Y/N," Sirius actually leers at you, earning an eye roll from Hermione. "What brings you to our side of the pond?"

Your lips twitch. "Asher and I have been living here for a few years now."

"Ooh. Boyfriend?"

"No. Son."

Remus chokes on his drink and Sirius smirks at him. It's Harry who then takes the reigns and asks, "You have a son?"

"Yes.. and no."

"Wait. I'm confused." Ron frowns.

You glance at Bill and he smiles encouragingly in return. "Trust me when I say you can trust them. They're good people and will treat Asher no differently."

Taking a deep breath, you then make sure to catch everyone's gaze before shrugging sheepishly. "Sorry about that. I just- Asher and I had somewhat been on Ministry lock down for a few years, and having free reign once again.. it's-"

"I'm sorry," Hermione readily interrupts. "Ministry lock down?"

"Yeah," you drawl in embarrassment. "The thing is.. Asher is my son, but not biologically. He's my godson who came into my custody when his parents passed. The MACUSA and the Ministry helped me out when Asher's biological father and his pack wanted Asher for themselves when they realized he would be able to perform magic."

Remus gulps. "P-Pack?"

Bill claps his hands together loudly. "Okay! Story time," he grins right before he nudges you with his elbow. "No one speak until after Y/N is done with her story. Clear?"

"Clear." Everyone sounds together.

Taking another deep breath, you explain. "Asher's biological mother (Addalyn) was a muggle and his biological father (Terrance) was a werewolf. It wasn't for certain that the werewolf gene would pass down, but Addalyn did not care for pack politics and the way they discussed her unborn son. So.. she left. And Terrance only scoffed as she packed her bags before turning his back on them. And before someone tries to interrupt by telling me the werewolf gene cannot be passed down, it can. At least in the non-wizarding breed of werewolf, which Asher is."

"Holy hell," Sirius quietly remarks.

"Addalyn then fell in love with another muggle (Eric), who eventually was clued in to what Asher could possibly be, and the two of them raised Asher together. Baby Asher then experienced accidental boughts of magic very early on and the MACUSA sent a witch representative to ease the muggles into the world of magic."

"Hence where Y/N comes in," Fleur grins.

"Yes. I was the witch they sent, and Addalyn and Eric were relieved to know they weren't hallucinating. They adapted fairly well, we became quite close, and then they died. Just like that," you snap your fingers to signify how quickly it had happened. "Terrance got temporary custody until the hearing of the will and everyone was quite shocked to learn that Addalyn and Eric, who at the point had more say so over Asher than Terrance, had named me godmother and Asher's sole guardian should anything happen to them."

"Terrance and his pack weren't too happy to give up Asher after they realized just how special he truly was, and they tried to rile up allying packs to fight us. But Asher was magically mine, since the will had apparently been bound in magic and blood, and the MACUSA were able to take Asher and give him to me. The packs weren't happy and threatened to hunt me down, forcefully take Asher, and kill any witch or wizard helping me."

"So they sent you away in hiding," Hermione quietly realizes and you find yourself not even a bit annoyed at the brief interruption. "That must have been terribly lonely."

"It was in the beginning," you admit. "But then I found a job in the wizarding village at a bookstore, and my boss and his wife were able to help me with Asher during his full moons."

"He's so young," Hermione murmurs. Her eyes dart to Remus who looks rather pale and shaky. "Do you have him on wolfsbane?"

"Wolfsba- no!" You utter in complete horror. "Any strain of wolfsbane will kill Asher!" Everyone's eyes widen in horror at that piece of information. "The full moon for Asher merely heightens every sense of his. His breed of werewolf, they have half-shifts. Only alphas can completely turn into a wolf, and at that it's really rare for an alpha to reach that level of power."

"What's a half-shift entail?" Harry wonders.

Bill smiles as he answers this one. "His face changes. The bones shift to give him a more animalistic look, he has a mouth full of sharp teeth, his eyes glow, and he's got a set of wicked claws. As long as he has his anchor- something which reminds him he's human when he shifts- he's sane. Y/N usually shows up at Shell Cottage and Asher will run with me along the beach. He likes to play tag and tackle me into the ocean."

"So let me get this straight," Sirius blurts. "He's in no pain?"

"No pain. He said it's like- it feels like bees under his skin. He can feel the pull of the moon, but he's not feral. He's quite cuddly and will scent mark you once he recognizes you and realizes that the person won't be leaving anytime soon."

"You should zee him with Victoire," Fleur smiles. "'ee protects her."

"Yes. So that's- that's how I came into the custody of my son and became a mother over night. Any other questions?"

After mostly everyone had flooed home, Remus and Sirius retire to the library.

"So what do you think about the new witch?"

Remus sighs and downs the rest of his whiskey, his head falling back onto the back rest of the sofa chair he's sitting in. "I don't know, Padfoot. She's nice. Wonderful even, but there's something about her-"

"That attracts Moony," Sirius muses. "And don't try to deny it. I saw you scenting the air. Bill did as well." Remus groans and his best friend chuckles. "Merlin, Moony, even Y/N noticed it. She was just nice enough to not mention it."

"I felt a pull to her," he finally admits. "Once I realized what the scent clinging to her was, my wolf was.. pleased. He- we," Remus then gulps, "were hanging off her every word. We wanted to be next to her, we wanted- we wanted-"

"To scent mark her as if she were your own." Remus and Sirius glance at the doorway and find Bill leaning against the door jamb there. "Has it occurred to you, Remus, that Y/N might be your mate?"

"What? No, that's im-"

"It's not. You've felt attraction to a witch before. Can you sit there and honestly tell us that your wolf was attracted to them as much as he was to Y/N?"

"Well.. no. If I got too close to a witch, my wolf wanted nothing to do with her. But Y/N, he was all too willing to climb over the table and cuddle her close."

"Exactly," Bill grins. "It's a mate pull." Remus gapes and Sirius chortles. "Now if you want to do something about it, she and Asher will be with us at Shell Cottage in a few days. If you want to speak with her, then will be the perfect time."

Shell Cottage is busy when you and Asher finally show up. You knew there were going to be a few people there, so you're not really that surprised. But Asher- Asher is beyond excited to meet some new faces. However, as he happens upon Remus and Sirius.. he starts to growl. And his eyes flash yellow.

"Asher?" You put a hand on his shoulder, but he snarls and pushes you behind him. Sirius is openly smirking and Remus is staying rather still as he keeps his eyes locked on your son. "Asher, it's okay. This is Sirius and Remus. They're friends of Bill's."

"But mom.."

"No buts, mister. They're friends. Now apologize to Mr. Black and Mr. Lupin."

"M'sorry."

Victoire rushes by and Asher is quick to chase after her, and you sigh at the men. "Sorry about him. He's usually more.. polite. Your scents threw him off." Remus tenses and you roll your eyes. "Honestly, Remus, it doesn't take a genius to realize you were scenting the air that first night we met."

Sirius grins. "Looks like the wolf is out of the bag."

"Shut it, you mangy mutt."

Sirius gasps and you laugh, and then it's your turn to be surprised as Sirius transforms into a large, shaggy dog right before your eyes. He's an animagus!

He barks once, licks your hand, and then chases after the children. Asher howls off in the distance, Sirius howls right back, and then the two are running side-by-side as Asher sports the biggest smile you've only ever seen him sport when he runs with Bill on the nights of a full moon.

"So that was your son.. in his transformed state. The bones in his face.. it really doesn't hurt him, does it?"

"No, it doesn't." You glance up at Remus who is now standing arm to arm with you and smile. "How are you faring today, Remus?"

"I'm good. Good," he gulps. The both of you watch the gathered family and friends spread out on the beach, talking and laughing as the children and Sirius play. "Listen, Y/N, can I speak to you? Privately."

"Sure." Remus leads you to a small hill and the both of you take a seat on the only patch of grass in a sea of sand. "So what's up, pup?"

He glances at you and drawls, "Really?"

"I couldn't help myself. But seriously, what's up?"

With bent knees, Remus plucks at the blades of grass between his feet. "There's no easy way to say this, it'll probably sound absolutely barmy, but-"

"Remus? Spill. Now."

"What do you know about mates?"

Brow furrowing, you shrug. "Like soulmates or..?"

"Wolf mates."

"I don't know. Do they actually exist? Because the non-wizarding werewolves have no such thing."

"Well they do. For the lycanthropes such as I."

You grin. "Neat. So why the privacy just now? You trying to tell me you've found your wolfy-mate, Lupin? I’m not really sure it’s any of my business."

"Yes. It’s you."

"Congrat- wait, what? Me? I'm a- I'm your-"

"Yes."

"But how?! We only just met!"

"All it takes is one meeting." He finally meets your gaze, but instead of finding horror or rejection, all he finds is your confusion. "Ever since I caught your scent beneath Asher's, my wolf has been whining in the back of my mind. It's been a hellish few days since Bill told me to come see you."

"So Bill knows then?"

"And Sirius. They knew that first night. I was confused as to why I felt a sudden pull to you and Bill spelled it out for me. I didn't think I had a mate out there somewhere. Never expected it, to be honest."

"I-" Your mind suddenly blanks and your jaw snaps shut. Remus' shoulders sag. "Okay. I, uh, I'm not really sure what to think. Wow."

"I'm really sorry-"

"Sorry? Don't be," you huff a small laugh. "I have a hot werewolf telling me I'm his mate. I'm just- I'm trying to wrap my head around it, is all. I mean.. you and my son are both werewolves. You can't get territorial over me when he inevitably growls at you for being too close to me."

Remus' lips twitch. "I'm sure we can come to some understanding."

"You better."

"So.. we're good? You don't have any questions?"

"Oh I have tons of questions, but I also kind of just wanna bask in the fact that I don't have to flirt my way into your pants. Your inner wolf kind of wants to jump me already and all I had to do was exist in the same room as you."

Remus snorts while shaking his head fondly at you. Then to test the waters, he hesitantly reaches out with one of his hands to take your own in his. Lacing your fingers together, he seems to breath out a sigh of relief when you squeeze his hand in return. "No running away?"

"Nah. I'm pretty stoked at where I'm at right now," you say. "But just- not too fast, yeah? If this is going to work out, we really do need to acclimate Asher to you first."

"That's fine. We have all the time in the world."

#fanficimagery #remus lupin x reader #remus x reader #remus lupin imagine #harry potter imagine #hp imagine #remus lupin #bill weasley #fleur delacour #harry potter #ron weasley #hermione granger #sirius black #sirius black imagine #bill weasley imagine #hp #imagine

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raendown · 5 years

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Pairing: MadaraTobirama Chapter: 5/18 Word count: 1956 Summary: When Tobirama is exiled from the Senju clan without warning, without even the chance to plead his case, it feels like his life is over. What does he have to live for now without his older brother to believe in him? Captured by the Uchiha in his moment of weakness, Tobirama slowly learns to live again with the last people on earth he would have ever expected to care for - or to fall in love with.

Follow the link or read it under the cut!

KO-FI in the blog header!

Chapter 5

The seals on his wrists were hasty and clumsy, no sophistication in the symbols. They were drawn in the fashion of someone copying an image without truly knowing the meaning behind it. Someone in the Uchiha had clearly gotten their hands on some kind of chakra suppressant seal to use as an example but it was obvious that none here were masters of the art. Any self-respecting seal master would have cried themselves to sleep at just the thought of having their work bastardized as much as the mock cuffs that had been forced upon him the moment he woke up after his last visit from the two brothers.

Not to say that they didn’t work. Sophisticated or not the seals accomplished what they were meant to. He could feel his chakra seething just under the surface, boiling and rolling and crashing against the barrier they made like water breaks against a cliff, but they were sufficient to keep him from releasing anything and thus he remained powerless. Maybe if he hadn’t spent the last month motionless and flopping about on the floor letting his muscles atrophy then he might have been physically strong enough to think about another route for escape. Hindsight had always been a bitch.

All things considered, though, his situation wasn’t nearly as bad as it could have been. He had expected his jailors to drive him hard with impossible tasks but Madara hadn’t lied when he talked about hauling laundry around. It earned him all sorts of different looks, from curious to barely concealed distaste, but he supposed he could understand that. He too would have stopped to stare upon seeing his ancestral enemy waltzing through the compound to go wash clothes in the little stream running through the western quadrant. Knowing he would have done the same did not stop him from making each trip with a stiff back and a constant frown of discomfort, hating the feeling of so many hostile eyes on his back. It seemed a miracle that no one had yet tried to attack him while he was vulnerable. Whether they refrained because Madara had warned them to leave him unharmed or whether they all simply enjoyed seeing him lowered to this state had yet to be determined.

Tobirama hurried back to the Head family home as quickly today as he had every morning for the past couple of weeks. Working for Madara wasn’t so bad as long as he was able to keep his pride in check. And doing that was easy enough when he reminded himself that he was literally nothing now, no clan name to back him, no authority to wield. Honest work was about the only option he had left, though if he had found honest work anywhere else he would certainly have expected to be paid for it, but even if he would hesitate to admit it he was grateful in a strange way for a break from the horrors of the battlefield. So far the work he had been given was mostly house chores and it was a novel thing not to wash blood from his skin at the end of every day.

Letting himself passed the front gate of Madara’s home, Tobirama first made his way around to the backyard to hang the clean clothing up to dry. When the line was full and his basket empty he went in through the back door, eyed the dishes in the sink, and then dismissed them in favor of wandering down the hall towards Madara’s office. Easy his duties might be but some of them were still abhorrent. That particular chore could wait until the end of the day when he could get rid of them all at once.

Madara’s office was cushier than his own workspace had been in the Senju compound, one corner of the room piled high with pillows in case the man was too tired to crawl down the hallway to his bedroom at night, the other wall lined with squat bookshelves and ancient weaponry hung like decorations above. Tobirama made his way straight towards the pillows to flop down and stare morosely at the man kneeling at his desk, right under the window where he could make full use of whatever daylight came filtering through the protective mesh screens.

“Done?” Madara asked, not lifting his gaze from whatever he was reading.

“Clearly,” Tobirama drawled in return. Then he sank further down in to the pillows and closed his eyes to sulk pointedly.

“Hmm, that was quick.”

“Didn’t feel quick. Why do your clothes always require extra scrubbing?”

Madara chuckled. “I make sure they’re extra dirty just to frustrate you.”

Even if he knew that wasn’t true, it still sounded enough like something he would do that Tobirama gave a low noise of disgust. Actually he had noticed it was really Izuna’s clothing that always took longer to clean and from the dirt stains in certain places he suspected a harsh training regimen as the culprit. He hadn’t yet found the courage to ask whether his rival had always trained this often or if it was a newly developed habit; he wasn’t sure he wanted to know the answer. Was he supposed to feel guilty about how much damage the man could do in battle without himself there as a shield, an equal force to cancel out the deaths either of them were capable of causing in a single encounter?

As if sensing his thoughts spiraling downwards again, Madara grunted from across the room and Tobirama opened his eyes just in time to catch the scroll that had been tossed at his head.

“You’re supposed to be a genius, right? Here’s your next chore.”

When he opened it to find columns of messily scrawled numbers he lifted one eyebrow with conflicted reactions warring inside him.

“Are you sure it’s a good idea to let the prisoner do your accounting?” he asked. Madara waved his question off with one hand, still engrossed in his own work.

“There’s no names on there to tell you who our suppliers are, no locations to give away. It’s just numbers. You’re a scientist, shouldn’t you be good at numbers?” The man shrugged carelessly. “Reckon the columns and you can take a break. Just make sure you’re back here to cook dinner.”

“Seriously?”

“Like I said: they’re just numbers. What harm could you do knowing how much we spent on food the past few months?”

Tobirama held his breath, unrolling the scroll to take a second look. There was a lot of damage he could cause with these numbers, actually. Many people would pay handsomely for even small information like this; he could think of a dozen different weaknesses he could assume from just food budgets alone. He would have liked to say he could buy his way back in to the Senju’s good graces by providing them with inside information but he wasn’t that stupid. They weren’t that easily bought, as much as he wished suddenly that they were. Since the scroll in his hands was as good a distraction as any against such musings he buried himself in the task given to him without complaint.

It was oddly nice to be given something to do that used his brain again after so long. Working out simple arithmetic wasn’t exactly a challenge but the routine calculations were time consuming and it was better mental exercise than wondering what he could add to his detergent that would make the laundry a little softer once it dried.

When the damnable seals had first been applied to his wrists and he realized Madara was serious about putting him to work he had thought perhaps they intended to take advantage of his mind. He’d been infamous from a young age for his genius and his knack for creating new jutsu, new weapons, and for the sealing skills he had cultivated with the aid of books sent to him by their Uzumaki allies. As much as he appreciated not being forced to bring those skills to bear in a war that would inevitably find its way to the people he once loved, household chores did get boring after a while. Being asked to help with the accounting was almost like Madara was granting him a treat for good behavior.

He avoided mentioning that in case the fool grew contrary and took it away.

Although it only took him twenty or so minutes to work through the entirety of the small portion he’d been given, Tobirama neglected to mention he was finished for another couple of minutes, taking an opportunity to quietly study the other man in the room. Madara was more of a mystery to him every day. The most Tobirama had ever known of him before was a screaming battle persona and the exaggerated memories Hashirama liked to wax poetic about every so often. He had expected his time under the man’s thumb to leave him bone-weary at the end of every day from bring run in to the ground with work; he had expected to be humiliated and degraded, to have his temper tried at every turn.

Reality was much harder to wrap his head around. Madara was calm in the moments between the never ending string of disasters that made up his life. For making such an impressive figure in battle he was incredibly goofy in everyday life. He woke with his hair sticking out at funny angles and walked in to walls before consuming his morning coffee. He sat down on pins the clan children left on his cushion and hung his body out the window to shout at them without a care for how it left his rump on comical display. He tripped on rocks and absently stabbed people with chopsticks while making gestures and even stood on his own hair sometimes when he tried to get up from his desk.

But in the moments around those, when he was still and there was no one to disturb him, he was as calm and poised as any clan head should be. Under the screaming and the wild mane there was a good head with a smart brain. Beneath that lay a bleeding heart that gave in to a good set of pleading puppy eyes faster than Tobirama had ever seen.

Had he been captured by any other clan at odds with the Senju, Tobirama knew very well that most would not have taken the time to hear his story let alone believed him enough to look in to it themselves. And even less would have seen any point in keeping him alive once they realized that he could be of no use as a bargaining chip. Maybe Madara really did just want a slave to keep his house clean and his yard tidy but he was a kinder master than Tobirama would have found in anyone else. If he had been given the option to choose his own path he would have chosen death in an instant. But if he had to choose his own captivity, as much as he hated to admit it, he would choose Madara a hundred times over.

At least, based on his experience so far.

Warm and comfortable in the mountain of pillows he had sunk his body in to, Tobirama never noticed he was falling asleep in the midday sun until his eyes slid closed and he was already gone. The scroll of accounts slipped from his fingers to roll gently across the floor and bump in to Madara’s knee but Tobirama was not awake to see the soft look in those dark eyes as his greatest enemy sat and watched him sleep away the afternoon.

#rae writes #madatobi #madara #tobirama #fanfiction

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rizlowwritessortof · 6 years

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You Can Leave Your Hat On

Inspired by the sexy af cowboy!Dean we were treated to in episode 13x06. If you haven’t heard the song by Joe Cocker, you should check it out. Perfection.

Dean x reader, no surprise there

Word count: 6226 (kinda got away from me)

Warnings: None, just the usual smut

Hope you enjoy! Special tag for my fellow Cowboy!Dean junkie @lipstickandwhiskey

You rush from the bathroom, a towel wrapped around your body and your hair still dripping, diving for your phone. You land with a ‘whoof’ on the bed as you connect the call, raising the phone to your ear with a breathless, “Hello?”

“Uh – Taz?”

“Dean?”

“Yeah. Am I uh – interrupting something?” He sounds amused, and you’re sure his mind is now picturing all kinds of naughty things. “Sound a little out of breath.”

You laugh softly, shaking your head. “Winchester, you will never change. I just got out of the shower, not exciting at all.”

“Hmmmm…. Naked? Sounds exciting to me.” You can hear the smile in his voice.

“Towel. Now get your mind out of the gutter and tell me why you’re calling.” This is the way it always is between the two of you – Dean and his sexual innuendo and you completely discounting it as teasing. Because he’s never actually tried anything, just the remarks, and the smirks, and you keep your heart locked away in a ‘that could never really happen’ box, laughing it all off.

He chuckles, and you doggedly ignore the goosebumps it raises along your arms. “Well, sweetheart – I called to ask you out. I need a date.”

“Well’s running dry? Are your charms losing their mojo?”

“Ha ha. No. It’s for a job. Big Texas oil tycoon just bought himself an ancient archaeological trinket at auction, and he has no idea that there are demons after it. We’re pretty sure it’s the key to a hell gate.”

“Silly Texas oil tycoon.”

“Yeah. He checks out so far, but we need to get that thing on lockdown at the bunker. Big charity shindig at his estate this weekend, seemed like the best time to try and get our hands on it.”

“Oooh, so it’s a dress-up thing. You’re paying, Winchester.”

“Yeah, yeah, First Bank of Whoever’s Name Is On This Card. How soon can you be here?”

“On my way.”

*****

“It’s good to see you, Taz.” Sam envelopes you in one of his patented, welcoming hugs and you squeeze him back happily.

“You, too, Sam. It’s been a while.” You step back and crane your neck to smile up at him.

“Are you ever gonna grow up?” he teases, and you shove playfully at his chest.

“Are you two ever gonna stop calling me Taz?”

“Nope. You earned it. I mean, I was out cold, that vamp was about to have Dean for his main course, and you went through the rest of that nest like a hurricane.”

You sigh and roll your eyes, but you’re smiling. “Where’s that brother of yours?”

“Right behind you, enjoying the view, sweetheart.” You turn to face him and find yourself wrapped in two strong arms before you can answer, and you return the favor. You give him a good squeeze and let yourself breathe deep, your face against his flannel-covered chest. He always smells so good.

You settle in, legs tucked up beneath you on the sofa with Dean beside you and Sam in a chair nearby. You all catch up, share a few beers and some laughter, a night off before the next job begins. The plan is to drive as far as Oklahoma City, where you’ll get outfitted for the big soiree and spend the night, then drive to Houston the following day. The charity event is on Saturday, 3 days away, and you’ll have plenty of time for ironing out the details during the drive and in your hotel rooms on the road.

Sam heads to bed, but you and Dean are enjoying your reunion and you’re reluctant to let it end so soon. A couple of hours later, you finally feel the exhaustion setting in. Your head is buzzing pleasantly as you stretch and stand up, yawning. “My usual room?”

“Unless you’d rather check mine out. All the comforts of home, and a lot more perks.”

You smile as you duck your head, blushing in spite of yourself. “Yeah, that’s probably a really bad idea. But thanks for the offer, Dean.”

You glance up at him, catching the wistful edge on his crooked grin. “Yeah, you’re probably right. See you in the morning, Taz.”

“Good night, Dean.” You reach down to ruffle his hair as you go by, barely swinging your hips free of the playful swat he directs to your backside.

You head down the hall, your duffle in hand, and enter the room you call yours when you’re here. You can’t help but wonder – would it really be so bad? You’ve thought about knocking on his door so many times. More than you like to admit, to be honest. But if you let that dam break… You take a deep breath and set your jaw, finish getting ready for bed, and crawl between the sheets, curling up in defiance of the temptation. You’ve survived almost every monster known to hunters, you’ve survived a couple of pretty bad relationships, you’ve survived losing friends and family. But you’re not sure you could survive Dean Winchester getting his hands on your heart.

*****

The drive to OK City actually seems to go pretty quickly, discussion of the case and plans on how to proceed taking up a lot of the time. You check into the hotel, grab a steak dinner at their overpriced restaurant, and hit the nearest shopping mall with an upscale department store. There’s a woman playing a grand piano in the lobby, and you can’t help but giggle at Dean as he shoots you an ‘are you kidding me?’ eyebrow raise. “Ready to get all classy and shit?” you whisper to him, bumping him with your shoulder, and he grins.

“Want me to help you pick out a dress?” he asks, an impish gleam in his eyes.

“Nope. I think it should be a surprise. Give you something to look forward to,” you fire back, spinning on your heel and heading for the upscale women’s department.

You reach the area and ask where the formal wear is, and a woman with lethal red nails directs you towards an alcove sheltered by tastefully placed pillars and silvery grey drapes. You enter, and are immediately greeted by a perfectly made-up and coiffed blonde. “How may we be of service today, madame?” she asks, and you smother a snort. Who knew you could be under-dressed to go shopping?

“I’m looking for a cocktail dress, floor length, something simple but elegant,” you manage, and she smiles pleasantly.

“Excellent. I’ll have the girls bring some out for your consideration.” She leaves through a silently closing door, and you roll your eyes.

“I hope that credit card of yours has a high limit, Winchester,” you mutter to yourself, and settle into the ivory brocade chair to wait.

You meet Dean near the front of the store, the bill for the dress in your hand. “What, you couldn’t find anything?” he asks in disbelief, and you laugh.

“They’re packaging it, it’ll be here in a minute. Here’s the bill, though.” You hand him the slip and watch his eyes widen.

“Holy shit. Good thing I got a $10,000 limit on this thing,” he muttered. “Between you and me, we’re pretty close to maxing it out.”

You grin. “Ooooh, let me see!”

He frowns at you, but his eyes are twinkling. “Hell, no! I’ll show you mine when you show me yours!”

You laugh. “Seems fair. Let’s pay for this fancy schmancy crap and get outta here, the high class atmosphere is giving me a craving for a good ol’ ice cold beer.”

You finally walk out of the place with your arms full of boxes and garment bags, and you smile as you see the hat box in Dean’s arms. “So, you got yourself a real cowboy hat, huh?”

“Hey – this is Texas. Formal means suit, boots and Stetson.” You nod in approval, suddenly dying to see him all decked out. This could turn out to be more fun than you’d thought.

*****

Saturday night arrives before you have time to worry about it. Armed with the floor plans of the mansion, notes on where the artifact would most probably be displayed (thanks to a little undercover flirting by Sam with one of the house employees), earbuds and your wits, it’s now time to get ready.

You manage to put your hair up, wavy tendrils escaping here and there, framing your face and dangling temptingly down your neck. The dress, in classic black silk, has a plunging neckline – well, at least it seems plunging to you, although the woman assisting you at the store had insisted that it was very tasteful. Your back is exposed, the material draping gracefully just below your shoulder blades. Your heels give you the height needed to let the gown sweep just a fraction of an inch from the floor, and a slit a little more than halfway up your right thigh teases a glimpse of leg with every movement.

You stare at yourself in the full-length mirror, a little in shock at the sight before you. You blow out a nervous breath and finish your makeup, then add earrings that sparkle in the light as they dangle from your lobes. You spray the expensive perfume that you indulged in just for the occasion, take a deep breath, and wait for a knock.

A rap of knuckles on the connecting door between your rooms makes you jump, and you hear Sam’s voice as he opens it a crack. “Are you decent?”

You laugh a little. “You tell me.”

He sticks his head in, and his eyes widen, his mouth dropping open. “Taz? Holy… Dean’s gonna die.”

“Considering what we’re about to do, that may not be the best choice of words, Sam,” you tease, smiling nervously.

“No, trust me. You look amazing.”

He disappears behind the door, then peeks back in again. “You’re ready to go?” You nod, and he swings the door open. “Come on, I can’t wait to see this.”

You grab the little sequin-studded bag that’s hiding a very small pistol and a pair of brass knuckles, and follow Sam into the next room. Dean hasn’t come out of the bathroom yet, so you stand and wait, smiling back at Sam a little nervously. The door opens and Dean comes out, buttoning the cuffs of his white shirt, glancing up once before stopping dead in his tracks, and you feel his eyes scanning you from your toes all the way up. His lips are parted, his eyes wide, and you hear him curse softly, almost to himself. “Son of a bitch.” His eyebrows raise as he struggles to speak, his mouth opening and closing several times before words actually make their way out. “Taz… you look fucking incredible!”

You can feel the color rise in your cheeks, and you let your eyes slide away, feeling suddenly shy and embarrassed. “Thanks.” There’s kind of an awkward silence now, and you gesture towards the door. “I’m… ummm… gonna go wait in my room for you to finish getting ready, okay?”

“Okay,” the boys mumble in unison, and you leave the room, blowing out a relieved breath as you enter your room. Having them staring at you in shock is disconcerting to say the least, and you need a moment to regain your composure.

You wander aimlessly around the room for a few minutes, and then you hear a soft knock before the door opens wide again. You feel a flush of heat through your entire body as you turn and Dean’s appearance literally robs you of your breath.

The western cut black suit he’s wearing looks like it was tailored for him, emphasizing those broad shoulders, the white shirt and bolo tie setting it off perfectly. His boots are black with grey, and to top it all off, a dark grey Stetson above that unbelievably handsome face. He looks like the epitome of a Texas dream, and you’re speechless for a few seconds.

“Well? Do I pass inspection?” he asks, an amused little smirk curving his lips.

“Wow. Yes. Definitely.” You blow a breath out and try to gather your scattered wits. “Spin for me. Let’s get the whole effect.” He grins, and your knees wobble. He turns slowly as you appreciate with every fiber of your being the fit of those pants, the way they almost caress his long, bowed legs and hug his muscular thighs.

“Okay, fair’s fair. Your turn,” he says as he faces you again. You smile back at him, beginning to get your bearings again, and make a slow circle. He lets out a low whistle. “Damn. I’m taking the sexiest woman in Texas out tonight.”

“Not so bad yourself, cowboy – so let’s go knock ‘em dead and steal an artifact,” you fire back as you grin at each other.

“Hold on,” Sam orders, “we need a picture of this.” So Dean stands next to you, his arm around your shoulders, while Sam snaps a couple of shots. You all put in your ear buds and hidden mics, and you’re ready to go.

“Okay. Let’s get this show on the road,” Dean says, and you ignore the little clutch in your belly at the sound of his voice with a little Texas drawl. It’s going to be so hard to keep your head on straight with him looking and sounding like this. Your sensible self gives your swooning self a stern look, and you straighten your shoulders and let him escort you out the door, his hand at your elbow.

*****

Surprisingly enough, you are actually enjoying the evening. Everyone’s in formal dress, but you’re in Texas. The party is outside on a fabulous three-level patio, huge sliding doors opened into a gargantuan living room. There’s barbecue, beer, and some fairly rowdy country music, and you find yourself feeling pretty comfortable - people are friendly, the men clapping each other on the back, a lot of laughter. Dean has had his arm around your waist almost the entire time, possessive or protective you can’t decide. Any time a man heads your direction, he steers you clear of the area. And now he’s even going so far as taking you out to the dance floor, a slower song playing, and he’s holding you close while talking to Sam softly. “Just be careful, Sammy. So far, no trouble, but keep your eyes open.”

His hand is firm, splayed against your back, and you can feel the warmth of his touch through the silk of your dress. You look up at him, and the glow in his green eyes makes your breath catch in your throat. “You really do look beautiful, Taz.”

You can’t look away, time just ceases to exist, and he bends his head slowly towards you. Then Sam’s voice in both of your ears - “Shit! Demons!”

“On our way,” Dean says, taking your hand and pulling you through the crowd. You’re both trying to act like you just want some privacy, not like you’re in too big a rush. When you finally get inside, Dean lets go of your hand and runs, and you gather your skirt and join him, amazingly managing to keep up even in your heels.

You can hear the noise, the fight, as you draw close, and you stop for a split second, whipping your skirt out of the way to take your demon blade from the sheath strapped high on your thigh. It only takes a second, but you look up and see Dean staring at you, lips parted and eyes dark, before you both rush into the room to help Sam. There are three of them, perfect odds, and as one of them charges, you bring the demon blade up between his ribs, sending him back to hell with barely a sound.

“Bitch!” the demon nearest to Dean spits at you, his face contorted in fury, but Dean impales him cleanly from behind, yanking the blade back as the creature drops face first to the floor.

“That’s no way to talk to a lady, asshole,” he growls, watching as Sam finishes off the ugly specimen he’s been battling. “Okay, there, Sammy?”

“Yeah. Let’s grab this thing and get the hell out of here before someone else comes.” He snags the artifact, cramming it into a pocket as Dean ushers you out with a hand on your shoulder.

“Hey, Taz?” he says softly, and you glance up at him.

“Yeah?”

“I was wondering – got anything else interesting up that dress?”

You look up to see his impish grin, raise an eyebrow and fire back a smirk. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

You all stop as Sam takes point, making sure the way is clear for you to make your exit. Dean bends close to your ear, whispering and sending goosebumps up your spine. “Oh, sweetheart, I’m dying to know.”

You hightail it out of there when Sam gives the all clear, piling into the Impala and leaving the mansion, dead demons and all, in your rear view mirror. Discussion on the way back to the hotel concludes that you would all be better off miles away, so you rush into your rooms, change and pack up, hitting the road within the hour.

“It’s safer if we get this thing to the bunker, anyway.” Sam’s voice broke the silence that had reigned since leaving Houston, everyone lost in their own thoughts. “They can’t come after it there, we can lock it in the vault with the rest of the world-destroying crap down there.”

“Yeah, would’ve been kinda fun to go out on the town while we were all spiffed up, but…” His eyes meet yours in the mirror, and the warmth there makes you blush a little. You smile, letting your eyes slide away, just catching his crooked grin. You wonder to yourself if his flirting is in your mind, if you’re the only one still thinking about what he said to you on the way out of that house.

Not too far into the trip Sam is already slumped over in his corner of the front seat, asleep. You’re dying to just bunch up your jacket and snuggle up in the corner of the back seat for a little nap, but those damn pins are still in your hair. You sit up and begin pulling them out, letting your hair fall down around your shoulders, then rub your fingers over your scalp, sighing in relief. As you move, you catch Dean’s eyes in the mirror again, and your heart flutters a little at the hungry expression on his face. His tongue darts out over his lips, and he snaps his mouth closed, pulling his gaze away to stare at the road ahead. You smile a little to yourself, getting as comfortable as possible and letting your eyes close, the dip and roll of the road rocking you gently to sleep.

A few hours later, you wake as the Impala rolls to a stop beneath a row of bright lights, sitting up to squint out the window. You’re at a rest stop, and Dean turns to speak to you as Sam stretches and yawns. “Pit stop. Sam, you wanna drive for a while? And Taz, if you don’t mind takin’ shotgun, I’d like to get a nap in.”

You nod with a sleepy smile, then open the door and unfold your legs, letting everything wake up a little before heading to the restroom. You and Dean get back to the car at about the same time, as Sam is climbing into the driver’s seat. “You get some rest?” he asks, and you smile at his affectionate smirk.

“Yeah. Baby rocked me right to sleep,” you answer, your smile fading slowly as he just keeps staring at you.

“You look all tousled and sleepy, sexy as hell.” You feel yourself blush, and you duck your head, feeling shy all at once.

“Stop,” you mutter, shoving at his shoulder, then open the front passenger door. “You’re such a tease, Dean.”

“Who’s teasing?” he asks as you get inside, and he closes the door. When he gets in, he leans up to your right side by the door. “I’m dead serious, Taz,” he whispers next to your ear, and you shiver. He sits back, then stretches out as much as he’s able in the back seat. “Drive careful, Sammy.”

“Always do, Dean,” Sam fires back, and you’re on the road again.

*****

Once the Impala is unpacked and all your gear back in the bunker, Dean pours a whiskey for each of you. “Good job, you two.” He raises his glass, Sam gives a nod, and you smile as his eyes meet yours before you all down the shots.

“I’m heading for the showers and bed. ‘Night, guys,” Sam mumbles with a yawn, then heads off down the hall. You’re perched on the arm of the sofa, your empty glass still dangling from your fingers. Dean holds up the bottle with the raise of an eyebrow, and you nod.

He refills both of your glasses, avoiding your eyes and gnawing thoughtfully at his lip, which you try unsuccessfully to ignore. You feel the tension between you vibrating in the air, your skin tingling with his nearness. He moves away, setting the decanter down, and your eyes roam over his shoulders, the henley he’s wearing stretched tight across the expanse. He turns back towards you, his eyes on the floor as he brings the glass to his lips, taking a sip, pulling his lips back, inhaling through his teeth at the burn of the liquor in his throat. You feel a throb between your thighs at the sight and close your eyes for a moment. “We really need to talk, Taz.”

“I need to shower.” You down your drink in one gulp, feeling the burn all the way down to your stomach, hoping it calms your nerves.

“Yeah, so do I.” He glances up at you, the hint of a crooked smile on his face. “Wanna conserve water?”

This you can handle, the teasing banter you normally have with him. “Maybe another time, Romeo,” you answer, turning to walk away. You stop just before leaving the room, speaking softly over your shoulder. “We really should talk. A little later, okay?” Then you continue on down the hall, inhaling as if you haven’t been breathing for the past five minutes. An idea is forming, and it scares the hell out of you almost as much as it excites you. You have the time it takes to shower to make your decision and fire up your courage.

You drop your duffle on your bed, grab the Men of Letters standard issue robe that’s hanging on the back of your door and your bag of toiletries, and head for the shower. You meet Sam in the hall in sweats, a towel around his neck, and he puts a hand on your shoulder on the way by, saying ‘goodnight’ again. You close the shower room door, stripping down and heading for the nearest stall, letting the water get to your perfect temperature before stepping beneath the spray.

You go to your room, perching on the edge of your mattress and waiting for the sound of the music Dean always plays when he’s in the shower. You’re so high strung that when you hear the muffled guitar of Metallica begin, you almost leap off the bed. You hurry to his room, praying that you’ll have the time you need. Thankfully, he carried all his gear to his room, and you smile to yourself. “All in, balls out,” you mutter to yourself, and you unzip the garment bag containing his suit, steeling your nerves, determined to see this through.

It’s a nerve-wracking twenty minutes or so before you hear him clearing his throat in the hall, on his way to his door. You’re shaking a little, but you close your eyes, take a deep breath, and stand tall as the door swings wide. He comes inside, his hair damp and mussed, clad only in a pair of boxer briefs that make your pulse stutter. He tosses his laundry in the basket by the closet, and then raises his gaze, finally seeing you. His mouth drops open a little, his eyes, widen, and you see his tongue twitch inside his mouth before his lips form an ‘O’, blowing out his breath slowly. “Holy fuck. Am I dreaming?” he rasps out, his voice soft and low. You’re wearing your heels from the gala, your legs bare, the rest of you covered in only his suit jacket, held closed by the top button. The lapels barely cover your nipples, the strings of his bolo tie dangling temptingly between your breasts. Perched on your freshly washed and dried hair is his Stetson, and you try desperately to keep your breathing even, to make yourself stand there as he devours you with his gaze.

“If you want to pretend this never happened, just close your eyes and I’ll disappear. We won’t ever have to talk about it again,” you manage to say breathlessly, and for a split second you are terrified of what his response will be.

“Sweetheart, if you disappear, I’m coming to find you,” he almost growls, and you feel your heart speed up even more, if that’s possible. You reach for your phone, laying next to you on the dresser, and hit ‘play.’ The sound of Joe Cocker’s gravelly voice softly begins to fill the room.

“Baby, take off your coat Real slow And take off your shoes I'll take off your shoes Baby, take off your dress Yes, yes, yes

You can leave your hat on You can leave your hat on You can leave your hat on”

As soon as the chorus hits, the spell is broken and you move towards each other. You can see the pulse at his throat, rapid and strong, his tongue slowly moving across his lips as his fingers reach to touch you. They start at your shoulder, trailing down the opening of his jacket, leaving goosebumps in their wake as they move all the way across your collarbone, the swell of your breast, to the lone button at the bottom. He deftly unfastens it, leaving the jacket in place as he bends towards you. His eyes stare into yours, pupils blown wide, for a split second before he crushes his lips to yours, one hand at the small of your back, pulling you hard against him. His other hand slips beneath the jacket, resting at your waist for a moment as his tongue probes your lips and you open to him with a breathless gasp.

His fingers move slowly, inexorably up your side before covering your breast with a soft moan into your kiss. He kneads at you, your nipple hardening beneath his touch, his kiss desperate and hungry. He whispers your name against your lips, moving them across your cheek to the sensitive spot below your ear, making your knees buckle a little as he tightens his hold on you to keep you upright.

“Never had a dream this good,” he whispers, his teeth nibbling at you, his tongue touching you briefly, his lips magic against your skin. You whimper his name as he draws his fingers together, plucking at your nipple. He kisses you once more, hard and quick, then straightens up, looking down at you, eyes gleaming voraciously. He moves his hands to your shoulders, slowly pushing the jacket off and letting it slip down your arms to the floor. “Are you sure about this, Taz?” he asks softly, one finger moving along your collarbone, and you tilt your head, looking into his eyes, your heart pounding.

“I’m sure,” you manage to answer, and then you are crushed against his chest, his skin warm and still a little damp from the shower. He kisses you and you lose yourself completely in the taste of him, the heat of his skin against yours, his hands roaming and gripping you, pressing you into the rigid length of him. You let your hands smooth over the flexed muscles of his back, the firm curve of his ass, whimpering at the ache between your thighs.

“You need something, baby?” He trails his fingertips around the side of your hip, over the crease of your thigh, letting them dip into your folds with a little groan that makes you whimper again at the sound of his arousal, the touch of his calloused fingers where you crave him. “Fuck, Taz… you’re killin’ me.” He steps away from you, grabbing your hand and moving towards the bed, and you kick off your shoes. “I need you to ride my face,” he growls, laying back and pulling you on top of him, grinding his hard cock against your pelvis as he kisses you hard, demanding, nipping your lip a little as he takes hold of your arms to help you move up his body. You let him move you as he wants until you are seated on his chest, his arms looped under your thighs and kneading at your hips. You reach for the hat, but he barks out a “No!” that stops you, and you stare down at him, a thrill zipping up your spine. “Leave it on.” You bite you lip a little, eliciting a groan from him, and he presses you down against his chest, smearing himself with your arousal. “C’mere,” he manages to say, his voice raw, before his biceps flex, pulling you to him, burying his face in your pussy with a moan that has you clenching every muscle in your body. You let out a breathy cry as his tongue sweeps through your folds, the sounds he’s making and the sensation of his lips caressing you, driving you nearly out of your mind. He’s groaning at your flavor, his mouth hungrily ravaging you, tasting every tender part of you, sucking gently at your clit but never quite long enough to let you reach the crest you’re dying for. You give up trying to keep from thrusting, grinding against him, and he growls his approval, his tongue spearing into you, rhythmically thrusting, his nose pressed hard against your clit. When your thighs are quivering and you’re on the edge of collapsing, Dean moves his lips to your clit again and sucks hard, his tongue flicking at the oversensitive nub as he pulls one arm free and slides two fingers into you, stroking relentlessly. You thrash against him, your nails digging into his thighs as you grip them behind you, and you shake uncontrollably as you let out a harsh cry, the orgasm pulsating through you in wave after wave of intense pleasure.

He eases you back, his head raised so he can still reach you with his tongue, gentling you with long, languid strokes as he pulls his fingers from you. He murmurs words of praise interspersed with his moans of pleasure at your flavor on his tongue, slowing until you are able to support yourself and sit up, moving from your seat across his chest. He swipes the back of his hand over his face and chin, then reaches for you, pulling you down for a sensuous kiss. You pull away after a time, your eyes focused on his as you slip your hand over his abdomen and under the edge of his boxers, making him suck in a sharp breath. “Only fair, don’t you think?” you tease as your fingers brush over his swollen head, and he grits his teeth together, hissing softly. You scoot down a little farther, working your fingers under his waistband and tugging his boxers down, freeing his cock with your lip in the grip of your teeth. “Oh, Dean,” you sigh, and he helps you rid him of the shorts, kicking them off his foot and holding his breath as you bend towards him. He’s hard and pulsing, precome weeping from the slit, and you take him in your hand, laving your tongue over the tip of his head in a slow drag that punches a grunt from his gut.

“Shit, Taz, holy shit,” he manages, and then you suck the tip of his cock into the heat of your mouth and he can speak no more, only incoherent noises. You suckle gently at him, pulling off and taking him back in, over and over, a little deeper each time. His thigh muscles twitch and strain beneath your hand, and you give them a squeeze before letting your fingers cradle his sac, fondling his balls as he bumps the back of your throat for a moment. You continue until he’s a thrashing, desperate mess beneath you, and then he grips your hair, keeping you still as he gasps out the word, “Stop.”

You pull off of him, keeping your hand on him, still stroking. “Dean, please, let me...”

“No. I don’t want to come like this, not the first time. I wanna watch you bounce on my cock, ride me with that fucking hat on. Come on, baby, please – ride me.”

How could you say no to that?

You drop one last lingering kiss to the tip of his erection, sweeping your tongue through the slit, savoring the sound he makes. Then you swing your leg over top of him, gasping just a little as he stops you, his hand cupping your sex and giving it a firm squeeze. He drags his fingers over your clit, making you shudder, then takes himself in hand, helping to guide himself to your opening. You brace yourself, hands on his chest, and lower yourself slowly down until he has filled you completely and you both hold your breath, throbbing and pulsating in and around each other. You grit your teeth, desperately holding on, not ready to let go yet, never wanting the delicious agony to end, and you see from the look on his face that he is doing the same.

“Dean…..” You moan his name, clenching around him, making him hiss.

“Taz, baby… need you...” he manages to grit out between his teeth, and you whimper as you begin to move. You barely shift your weight at first, still feeling on edge, but then, finally, you’re in control again. You begin to rock yourself against him, spreading your legs farther apart to take him even deeper, piercing you to the limit, rotating your hips and fluttering around him. The need grows in you, the desperate urge to drive his cock into you, and you raise yourself up, then drop, moaning as he hits that sensitive spot inside you that makes your vision fade momentarily.

His hands are sliding from your knees up to your thighs, gripping with each stroke. Your legs are trembling, and he plants his feet on the mattress, thrusting up into you, his hands moving to your hips to help raise and lower you. “Dean…” you whimper, your body quaking, and he reaches down where you meet, his finger rubbing over your clit once, twice, and you are done. You bite your lip to keep from screaming, your eyes squeezed shut tight as you buck against him. He drives himself into you hard, his own body shaking from exertion, and swears as he swells inside you, coming hard as he holds himself up, letting you writhe on him as the heat of his climax fills you.

You drop down on top of him as he lets his hips drop back to the bed, your face in the crook of his neck, the Stetson falling to the floor. You are sweaty and sticky, too exhausted to move, and his arms surround you, his hands caressing your back as you let your eyes close.

You both doze off for a while, and when you wake his lips are gently kissing your forehead, his fingers brushing the hair back from your face. “Hey,” he says softly, and you smile, your eyes still closed.

“Hey,” you answer, then sigh sleepily, letting your head drop back so you can look him in the eye. He kisses your lips, nibbling and brushing over them with his own, and you wonder how you’ve lived this long without this.

“So,” he says between lingering kisses, “I guess you keep some pretty amazing stuff up under that dress.”

“You think so?”

“Thoroughly impressed.”

“Mmmmm. Well, I enjoyed my ride, too.”

“Oh, yeah, that was a great ride.”

“We should make that a thing. A regular thing. You know, your thing and my thing together.”

He rubs his nose against yours, then kisses the tip of it, smiling. “My thing definitely has a thing for your thing.”

“Oh, yeah? I can kinda tell,” you tease, reaching down to touch his rapidly rising erection. You turn away for a second, reaching down to the floor as he turns to his side, propping himself up on one elbow and snagging a kiss as you return to your back, the Stetson in your hand. You plop it on top of his head as he looks down at you, smirking, and smile, feeling that fluttering in your belly that only happens around him. “I’m ready if you are, cowboy. And you can leave your hat on.”

@saenalife @salvachester @misswhizzy @jinkieswouldyoulookatthis @deansdirtylittlesecretsblog @geeklibrarian @leatherwhiskeycoffeeplaid @aprofoundbondwithdean @mamapeterson @mrswhozeewhatsis @littlegreenplasticsoldier @sleep-silent-angel @darcia22 @winchesterprincessbride @jessica-bones-winchester @ellen-reincarnated1967 @eyes-of-a-disney-princess @deangirl96 @iamflanneltrash @deanslittleangel2y5 @melanie451 @juliaspnlover @lovin-ackles @spectaculacular-sammy @dyingforlove1992 @bookchic20 @jodyri @selma-jean @avasmommy224 @shadowlightforcast @tonifish @savingapplepie-eatingthings @angelofwinchester17 @kittenofdoomage @masked-maiden42 @lean-mean-deanwinchester @ericuhlorain @undecided-garden @ceeceewinchester @typicalweirdbookworm @purplecocopops @feelmyroarrrr @callmesweetheartifyoumeanit @youtoldalie @tanithlowisabamf @deandoesthingstome @jxackles @nerdwholikesword @soivebuiltupaworldofmagic @kreweofimp @deansbaekaz2y5 @trippleberrydeanpie @gabavaldman @chaos-and-the-calm67 @darkx143 @disassociativedogma @ioanashalala @jencharlan @deansthirst @randomvlogstuff @just-a-touch-of-sass-and-fandoms @dorky-and-i-know-it @mischief-maker1 @hamartiamacguffin @winchestersandwordprocessors @percussiongirl2017 @bringmesomepie56 @akshi8278 @spn-dean-and-sam-winchester @torn-and-frayed @sandlee44 @kathaswings @evansrogerskitten

#you can leave your hat on #dean fic #dean x reader #cowboy!dean #dean smut

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royalfame0314 · 3 years

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About Hamzy

If the pickles belong to Korea, the noodles belong to Korea, the barbecue belongs to Korea, then the Koreans belong to China!

It totally scared me to see such a Korean girl swallowing like a pig, that spoiled my appetite! I have no interest in her “forage”! I love the Chinese delicious food!

The Korean food is the most monotonous of the world, so they try to steal the Chinese culture, the Japanese culture, and the European culture, to combine together to form their “culture”! But can you inherit so much culture with such a short history? The Koreans have to think twice before act.

Every time I see her swallowing, I could feel her pain! For her, to eat is not to enjoy, but a way to earn money to live on, that’s really a pity! I can feel that she is making herself sick!

I don’t know why so many fans are watching her videos, she always takes the same food in her video, even the color of the food is the same, that’s really boring! look, her black dog is looking at her!

Why does this Korean pig have such a big mouth??? It can put the whole spoon in its mouth! That’s impolite in the Chinese custom. Why does it put a megaphone under the table? I hate that sound! In China, we won’t make any sound while having dinner!

Don’t forgive her! Paocai(Chinese pickles) belongs to China, it’s part of the most important culture in China, especially in Sichuan, let’s protect our intangible cultural heritage!

Don’t forgive this two-faced woman, the apologies are made by her company and group, what she said at youtube is totoally opposite! She has earned enough money in China, she has her own shop at Taobao, she is famous in many Chinese platforms, now she goes into reverse and attacks Chinese friends online. It’s time for us to call on to boycott her and her goods online, to stop her action of stealing!

The Koreans are always notorious in the international society, they are good at stealing culture, they are completely impolite, uncultured, uneducated and foolish! Why does this pig have so many followers?

China has a long and brillant history, that’s why the Chinese food competes in terms of reliability and variety! Only in northeast China, we have hundreds of kinds of food! People from the south prefer something spicy and hot, so the Sichuan Paocai was born in such a culture! Maybe the Korean pickles are a bit similar, but Sichuan Paocai is more famous for its excellence in color, aroma and taste.

We can’t give in at the problems of principle. If this Korean woman goes on to make improper speech, the whole China would be of Korea in the near future! We must unite together to boycott this woman by protecting and promoting Chinese culture.

To those foreigners who want to earn money in China, you have to pay attention to your behavior and respect China! Don’t be a two-faced man, that makes us sick!

We don’t accept the so-called “apology”, that’s more like an excuse! The reason why I think so is that she makes different speech at ins and youtube, I believe that’s what she thinks deeply in her heart!

I want to say something to the interpreter, do you think that none of the Chinese people speaks Korean? What we want is not the explanation of that word, that’s nothing about cultural difference, there’s no need to do so.

I won’t be your follower any more, just go out of China! Hamzy! Have a look at what you have said at the Korean social platform, a two-faced bitch!

Hamzy, you’ve really made me sick! Don’t forget that the pickles are the Chinese traditional food, and the Koreans have always been the slaves of the Chinese people! Korea has been a dependency of China for a longtime, since the Tang dynasty.

Is the interpreter a fool? The standard phrase of the Koreans to humiliate Chinese nation is중국놈, don’t forget that there’s a Chinese ethnic minority called Chaoxian!

Maybe that’s the Korean’s nature! Don’t forget the event of THAAD and Lotte Mart! There’s no place in China for the two-faced Koreans!

All the Chinese people, please remember this name Hamzy, a Korean woman who earns our money while insulting us! This two-faced woman replied to her followers at youtube saying “As the Chinese have spoken dirty words first, my company made me to make an apology, the pickles are of Korea of course!”

It’s really great to see Hamzy is loosing so many fans! I wonder if she regrets and feels the strong force from the Chinese nation! Korea is such a humble nation that they think the whole space belongs to them!

Paocai has originated in China. In ancient China, we called it zu（葅）， a kind of Chinese medicine. It was introduced to North Korea from China during the Three Kingdoms Period. South Korea did not exist at that time~

The South Korea was divided from the North Korea, but they have nothing in common! The most notable character is “self-confidence”, they are so confident in their culture that they believe they possess all.

OMG Korea is a nation with a history of only 73 years! It’s even younger than our Communist Party~ no wonder they are good at stealing, because they have nothing!

The Koreans have stolen all the things created by the Chinese people, then what do the Chinese people create? The answer: South Korea! Byebye Hamzy, hope you’ll be lucky in your own country.

Who is she? A nobody from a small country? I don’t think her food is delicious~ just like something dirty, we call it rubbish in China! Can I say something to her at ins? Go out of China!

It’s a waste of time and food! Don’t make yourself a pig! After looking at her videos, I’m suffering from lack of appetite! There are so many kinds of delicious food in China, there’s no need to follow such a Korean pig!

Hamzy, you do your business in China, then you have to pay attention to your behavior, it’s right to transfer your traditional culture, but wrong by stealing and insulting us. China is no more the China of the past, you love your country, we protect ours, we are stronger than before!

Sometimes I feel that the Koreans are frog in the well, they have not seen the world, and think the world is theirs, they don’t have the ability to create, but the ability to steal, they are the laughingstock of the world!

It’s unwise to offend the Chinese people in the age of “Internet”! Those who invade China will be punished even though they are far away! Rest in peace, miss Hamzy!

The Korean who humiliates China, it’s time to go away! Do I need to buy a ticket for you, to send you to your own “stealing country”? Korean devil~ I hope you could learn more about history before you earn money! Don’t make a spectacle of yourself here any more!

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salimahbicharara-comun · 7 years

Text

Masterlist

Here is my masterlist. I know, it sucks, but is going to get better and bigger soon (Gosh, I hope it does) Always keep in mind that english isn’t my first language, so if you see any mistake, let me know!

Bucky Barnes

Ghosty Pancakes - Ghost AU. In an absolute state of lack of sleep and boredom, you summoned a ghost playing the ouija. Now that you have an unexpected new roommate, there is only one thing to do. Feed him, of course. Ghost!Bucky Barnes x Reader.

Glitter & Gold - Ancient Mythology AU. There is a limited number of encounters between gods and mortals. God!Bucky Barnes x Reader.

One

Two

Three (coming soon!)

A Map to the Stars - Space Pirate AU. Steve told Bucky to come back to the ship with a map that only a handful of people knows about. He really doesn’t understand why he’s so surprised when Bucky comes back not only without the fucking map, but with a very angry and screaming woman over his shoulder. Steve should be used to this, really, but he isn’t. Bucky Barnes x Reader.

One

Two

Three (coming soon!)

Wicked Game - Victorian AU. Three months after getting engaged to the elegant but cold Mr. Rogers, you find yourself trapped in the Rogers Manor. Surrounded by nothing but forests and lakes, you were more than enthusiastic when your fiancé introduced you to his childhood friend; James Barnes. Lonely to no end and accompanied by only the darkness and your thoughts, your nights start to get filled of wicked dreams of a man of blue eyes and a devilish smirk. Dark!Bucky Barnes x Reader (Please read the warnings before reading!)

One

Two

Three

Four

Five (coming soon!)

In the Deep Snow - Modern AU. Your beauty sleep in interrupted by your cat-loving neighbour. Bucky Barnes x Reader

Peggy Carter

Something ‘bout you (makes me feel) - A little kiss has never hurt anyone. Peggy Carter x Reader.

Bucky Barnes & Peggy Carter

Comin’ to you - Chicago AU. You killed without mercy your husband the night of your aniversary, or that’s what the papers said the morning you were interned in the prision of the city. There is a lot of people that want to meet you there. Bucky Barnes/Peggy Carter x Reader.

One

Two

Gamora Whoberi

Rosas - Gamora can stand a lot of things, but this is something she will not stand anymore. Even if her girlfriend is being a bitch about it. Gamora Whoberi x Latin!Reader

Ivar the Boneless

A Bitter Betrayal - Modern AU. In which Hvitserk discovers his wife cheated on him with his brother, but doesn’t know with which one. Yet. Ivar the Boneless x Reader.

Under the Mistletoe - Modern AU. Ivar hates people. It doesn’t matter if it’s his family or the family of his family. It doesn’t matter if it’s his nephews and nieces (that he loves with all his cold heart but he’s never gonna say it out loud). And it doesn’t matter if his mama invited the girl he has the most embarrassing crush on, he’s going to hate her too. Ivar the Boneless x Reader.

Queen Aslaug

Moon’s Water - Queen Aslaug knows there are mystics creatures out in the word, ready to harm or bless her in any moment that they please. She just didn’t know she would get to meet one in that moment of her life. Aslaug (Vikings) x Mermaid!Reader.

Hvitserk Ragnarsson

At Your Service - Modern AU. There’s a very important dinner tonight in the house, and Hvitserk’s boss wants everything to be perfect. Hvitserk can work with that; he can be the perfect and invisible butler that just smiles and serves champagne. That’s it, if he can get his hands off of the very attractive and neglected wife of his boss. Hvitserk Ragnarsson x Reader

Crossovers/Multi

Never is Too Much Cake - Modern AU. Virginia doesn’t want to tell her boyfriends when is her birthday, so they take in their own hands to celebrate it anyway. Steve Rogers x Bucky Barnes x Ivar the Boneless x Virginia.

La Vie en Rose - Modern AU. For the first time in his life, Ivar’s plan didn’t worked. And he can’t be more happy about it. Ivar the Boneless x Reader x Bucky Barnes.

Others

Sunshine Flower - After many years of hard work, you finally had earned the title of the hermit of the town. Now you can spend your days with your cat Lerroy and your flowers, reading and eating all the cakes you can afford. But then Hal Carter shows up in your door with his bright smile and his deep blue eyes and oh, no. Hal Carter x Reader.

Intro

Part One (coming soon!)

#masterlist #salimah writes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes x female reader #bucky barnes imagine #bucky x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes smut #bucky barnes x reader smut #dark bucky barnes x reader smut #ivar the boneless x reader #marvel fanfiction

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the-revisionist · 7 years

Text

the tristan chord, chapter 19

Note: Sorry this took so long!

xix. What time is it in the Milky Way?

her eyes are closer to me than my own honor ~ Anne Carson

“Are you going to put the tofu in the sauce?” Greg asks.

Wooden spoon poised above a pot of tomato sauce, Caroline hesitates. It is Wednesday evening. She is tired. The day—filled with interviews of teaching candidates, meetings, chatty texts from one lover in New York that she largely ignored and morose ones from the other one who was meeting in Halifax this morning with her solicitor about her impending divorce and Caroline sort-of ignored those too, a toddler who wanted and got, thank you very much, Christmas lights put up in the living room, in August—is fit to burst at the seams. Thus she gazes longingly over Greg’s shoulder at the glass of wine abandoned on the dining room table and is damned if she’s going to ruin her perfect Marcella Hazan tomato sauce—the simmering translucent half-onion poaching in a fragrant bloodbath—with crumbly bits of protein that resemble glue paste falling off ancient discarded wallpaper.

Helpless, she prevaricates. “Um.”

“No?” Greg pulls the Labradoodle Pout face.

“Well, Gillian’s coming for dinner and she likes things that are, you know—” Caroline pauses while attempting to find the most innocuous yet accurate term to describe Gillian’s culinary sensibilities, which are as omnivorous as her sexuality: If she’s hungry and it’s not a lot of fuss she’ll have it, even if it gives her indigestion.

But then you are an awful lot of fuss, Caroline reminds herself, and so goes yet another theory.

Greg wastes no time in supplying a descriptor for the woman he takes for thick-headed rube, even though he is too well-bred—and afraid of Gillian—to say in polite company: “Simple?”

“No,” she retorts defensively. “I’d say her tastes are more classic. Pure. She has a very, you know, refined palate.”

Skeptical, he nibbles at a corner of his beard. “Isn’t Gillian the one who ate a chicken kebab she dropped on the kitchen floor?”

“It wasn’t the floor, it was a kitchen chair, and the five-second rule was met.” As a rigorous scientist Caroline knows the five-second rule is absolute bollocks but as an unsparing bitch she will do anything to win an argument. “And, y’know, Alan and mum will be here too, and they aren’t that keen on tofu either.”

“Well it’s just sad, I think.” Greg folds his arms. “That they won’t try new things.”

“Have you ever slept with a man?”

“I fail to see why you keep asking me that question.”

“Just making a point this time. Gillian might try the tofu chips. Especially if she has wine with dinner.” She pauses. “Like, an entire bottle of wine, but yeah, she might.”

“She’ll probably just wrap them up in prosciutto like you do,” he replies morosely.

“It’s a testament to the sturdiness and versatility of the chip.” She smiles brightly, considers this a good save. “Hey, I ate the amaranth porridge this morning.” All the more reason to reward herself with wine tonight. Greg’s penchant for randomly assigning certain foods to days—Tofu Tuesdays, Amaranth Wednesdays, Quinoa Fridays—has only affirmed Caroline’s commitment to a parallel schedule of inevitable alcoholism.

Before walking away, he reverts to the Labradoodle Pout. His courtship of Blackburn Barbie, aka Brigitte, has not been going well and as a result he has been as mopey as Morrissey around the house. In turn Caroline has ramped up efforts to be kind and supportive or, at the very least, less bitchy—for starters, eating amaranth porridge without complaint. In addition, she consented to doing yoga with him on occasion; her motivation here is purely selfish, because she realizes that keeping up sexually with the likes of Gillian Greenwood may require a level of flexibility suitable to a preteen gymnast, or at least as close to that state as her sad-sack, wine-fueled, middle-aged body can attain. The other day during their marathon post-flood shag session she got such horrid back spasms at one point that Gillian leaped out of bed and started getting dressed because she assumed a trip to A&E was imminent. But a back massage, a glass of wine, and a story about a runaway lamb safely recovered during the storm fixed her up just fine.

Or maybe it was the timbre of Gillian’s voice as she relayed the tale of the lamb, floating ethereal as smoke above her as she lay face down on the bed, muscles melting under a vigorous work-over: Poor damned thing, she were afraid of the rushing water, y’see, so I had to cross over to the other side, grab her, and carry her—imagine me, wading through a stream, water up to my knees with a lamb across my shoulders, bloody lucky she’s so tiny and I know that creek bed like the back of my hand. When the spasms and pain finally subsided she rolled over, practically into Gillian’s arms, and stared up into those eyes which, at that moment, were the softened green-gray of the hills on a cold rainy day.

Gillian then smiled and said, better?

In response Caroline squeaked that she would really really really pretty please like to try that position again.

Nah, Gillian said. Can’t send you back to Harrogate all busted up. Besides, I’m rather enjoying you naked, helpless, and on your back—and in the 37 minutes that followed, she made absolutely certain that Caroline enjoyed it too.

But yoga is worth a try, lest she earn a reputation as a pillow queen—and that particular phrase riles up thoughts of Sacha, who is still in New York and whose initial copious outpouring of archly romantic texts at the beginning of the trip has dwindled down to an occasional flurry. Like this morning’s perfunctory check-in: a photo of the sunrise from a penthouse, a snarky recap of a dinner party, asking about Flora and work. Neither texts nor thoughts have led Caroline anywhere closer to a clue on what or whom she really wants. There is a lot to be said for being in the moment, Sacha had once said, and in this particular moment she is making spaghetti sauce and looking forward to seeing Gillian and admitting to herself she has a ways to go before completely fucking everything up, so there is that. For the moment she will settle for occasionally fucking up her back; at this morning’s quickie yoga session her back gave out a mere ten minutes into the routine, prompting Greg to chirp that the first downward dog is always the hardest while clearly under the illusion that his commentary was in some way helpful.

With the sauce at perfect simmer she sprawls in a dining room chair for a moment, drinks wine, smiles at the frosty white glint of the Christmas lights from the living room ceiling that reflect into the hallway, and briefly persuades herself that she is queen of all she surveys when reality so far has only proven that she is nothing more than everyone’s bitch and a pushover for a three-year-old. She knew the moment Greg brought up Christmas plans last night at dinner—a pointless topic of conversation given that she can barely plan an outfit for the following day not to mention that she has her head up her arse about two very different women and if she has to eat quinoa pilaf one more time this month she may go mental—that a seed of holiday longing would be planted in Flora’s attentive, obsessive mind. The child spent the morning relentlessly grilling Caroline about when Christmas would occur and, more urgently, about the appearance of Christmas lights: where lights? when? Which devolved into the terse, repetitive command of lights! as if she were a tiny demented film director.

So she got the lights.

Appeasing a child can be easy enough; a middle-aged sheep farmer a far different matter and especially when you take sex out of the equation. She has no idea what frame of mind Gillian will be in when she arrives for dinner. Her one-liner texts from the morning consisted of bitching about parking in Halifax, the lateness of the solicitor, the bad cup of tea she had at an overpriced shop, and then later, her father’s never-ending critique of her driving as she took him to a doctor’s appointment. Over the course of the day Caroline experienced uneasy moments of doubt, fearing that Gillian might yet again reconsider divorce, might give Robbie yet another go. If nothing else, her hopefully-soon-to-be-ex-husband is expert at mining and manipulating the deep well of Gillian’s remorse to his ultimate advantage—performing an emotionally elegant sleight-of-hand that magically strips away her ragged self-esteem under the guise of stalwart support, convincing her that despite evidence to the contrary she fails at everything and possesses nothing but raw, naked vulnerability. A bizarro world version of the emperor’s new clothes, and gaslighting at its finest. She is certain Robbie does not possess enough self-awareness to know what he does; it is precisely in those who lack it that the most craven impulse outs itself with unerring cruelty.

Meanwhile Lawrence arrives home, glares uncomprehendingly at the living room’s Christmas-in-August décor, and mutters a hit-and-run insult on the way to the refrigerator: “You’ve lost your mind.”

For an infinitesimal moment she regards him, and then raises her glass in a toast. “Probably genetic, so welcome to your future.”

He rolls his eyes, drops a satchel on a chair. “Our future is the shitshow outside.” He guzzles neon-flavored Powerade. “Gran and Alan are in the driveway shouting at Gillian.”

“Right.” Caroline sighs and returns to tending the sauce on the stove, poking at the onion softening slowly under its pearlescent dome.

“Please tell me we’re not eating weird shit tonight,” Lawrence begs.

“Spaghetti.”

“Thank God.”

The dinner guests plow through the doorway unannounced and without knocking. Gillian resembles a weary, wounded fox pursued by two gabbling old hounds—furrowed, scowling, and wincing as sniping cross-conversations pursue her. She wears one of her better flowery dresses and a matching navy blue cardigan sweater. The color-coordinated ensemble indicates that she asked Raff to pick it out, a task he does routinely, as he recently confessed to Caroline, but also reluctantly: This kind of thing will put me right into therapy, I know it will, he had said.

Greetings are, apparently, out of the question as Alan and Celia carry on conversing. “What do you mean, the doctor wants to change your medication?” Celia says.

Alan sighs. “It’s nothing, just a wee uptick in dosage—”

The remainder of the sentence goes unheard because Gillian finally meets her gaze and grins, and Caroline’s besotted brain goes on the blink at this live demonstration of collision theory: The chemical reaction, the charge that always existed between them is different now, the limits of those preexistent bonds are broken and altered into something new and viable and intense, and in the anguished relief and the reliable comfort of mere proximity now runs a strain of undisguised joy.

At any rate, she is pretty certain it’s not just the fact that she offers Gillian a very generous pour of a very good white.

As Gillian gratefully downs the vigonier, Alan sighs. “We’ll talk later,” he says to Celia. “Right now we are discussing Gillian—”

The mere utterance of her name brings about a reversion to a perpetual solid state of anger. Nose buried in the now-empty wineglass, Gillian seeks reprieve; she closes her eyes and inhales deeply, as if she can absorb each and every boozy airborne mote of wine. Then: “No,” she replies edgily. She sits the empty glass on the table and its jarring scrape marks a change in mood. “We’re not.”

“If you agree to settlement—” Alan begins.

“No, I won’t.” Gillian exhales violently, nods at the empty glass. “That’s all right, then,” she drawls, and then sets her lusty sights on Caroline in such a pointedly restrained fashion that a clandestine current of meaning crackles beneath innocuous conversation, and they both know that this combination of glance and tone will be interpreted by clueless observers in multifarious ways—as an in-joke about the wine or a veiled sarcastic commentary on divorce, present company, life as a whole—except the correct one.

At least this is what Caroline hopes, because she notices her mother’s eyebrows arch in a curious fashion.

“Settling would be the easiest solution,” Alan continues, oblivious to how his daughter’s eyes rake over her stepsister.

Caroline looks away, bites her lip, gives the sauce an agitated stir that splatters the stovetop. “Glad you like it,” she replies softly.

“There more?” Gillian asks in an undertone that makes her shiver.

“Oh yeah.” Worrying that her quick assent runs a bit too throatily sensual, she clears her throat in such a larynx-shredding way that she sounds like Rumpole of the Bailey straining on the shitter.

Solicitously Celia fetches her a glass of water.

Alan reaches a point of shouty exasperation with his obstinate offspring. “Are you listening to me?”

Pinching the bridge of her nose, Gillian is right there on the summit with him. “Yeah, I am, Dad. But what you don’t get is, is, it’s done. I’m done. I’m not getting back with him, that’s a pipe dream, and I’m not giving him some sort of ‘financial settlement’ either—”

Oh, the finger quotes, Caroline sighs dreamily. How elegantly she employs them.

“—and if you think I’m going to ask Gary for money you’re out of your f-f-bloody mind, he and Felicity already done enough for me. No, the quickest and cheapest way to get out of this bloody mess of my own making is my way.” Then, despite her best efforts, she surrenders a couple f-bombs: “And if it means I have ‘adultery’ written on my fucking divorce petition and ‘whore’ written across my fucking forehead, well then, let’s just leave it, all right?”

This effectively silences nearly everyone but Lawrence. “Wow. Dinner might actually be interesting for once.”

Before Caroline can defuse the tension by offering drinks all around, Gillian seizes her by the wrist and, with a gentle tug, leads her out of the room. “Going to have a chat. Be right back.”

“Here we go again with the girl talk,” Celia says indulgently, as if Caroline and Gillian are teenagers gallivanting off to talk about boys and jewelry and makeup.

“Talk some sense into her, Caroline!” Alan barks.

“Someone stir my sauce!” Caroline shouts back as she is led down the hallway, helpless as Richard III with the kingdom falling down about him, sauce probably ruined and the battle surely lost. Did Richard feel this euphoric as he headed for the fall? At the very end, what did he feel other than sheer relief at the inevitable?

“What is this thing in the sauce?” she hears Celia trill.

Alan is apprehensive. “It’s not the tofu, is it?”

Before she can scream no it’s not the bloody tofu Gillian gently shoves her in the bathroom, slams the door shut, locks it, and before Caroline can eke out a word of concern or affection Gillian claps a hand around the back of her neck and kisses her ruthlessly—that all-consuming kiss that she specializes in, the kiss of Don Juan’s reckless daughter. They pinball around the tiny bathroom, collide against the sink, knock a hand towel off the towel rack, and kick the metallic bin that sounds a scuffling hiss followed up with a booming gong. She nearly trips over her own feet but instead plops down right onto the toilet seat, opting to give Gillian credit for steering her there rather than lust-driven clumsy happenstance, which accurately describes her dance style circa 1989 and usually at its most frenzied to Dead or Alive’s “You Spin Me Round.” Then Gillian is on her lap—kissing her throat, biting her ear, fingernails of one hand etching the border of her scalp while the other eagerly cups her breast. She gathers a fistful of Gillian’s dress, the scratchy-soft fabric binds her knuckles and balls into her palm; self-bondage is the only thing preventing her from clawing bare skin with her nails and sliding her hand between those thighs and that is good because they are too close to fucking and the deep, sweet thrumming that rolls through Gillian’s throat drives her absolutely mad and she’s never been like this with anyone else before, no one, not John, not Kate, not Sacha or even some anonymous bint on the dance floor, no one. She has never been ravenous and reckless like this, never before abandoned her carefully considered plans of what love was or how it should be conducted. Love the abstraction, love the reality, dovetail dangerously into the current moment.

The kisses slow down and in the hunger that lingers between them, like silence seeded into and enriching the adagio of a symphony, Caroline realizes that their burning savor is not from desire or wine alone but running along the familial lines of whiskey. She breathes gentle accusation into Gillian’s willing mouth: “You’ve been drinking.”

It hardly seems unexpected, this pattern typical of Gillian: comfort sought in a bottle or a bloke. Should be glad it was the former and not the latter, Caroline thinks. So far as she knows, anyway, but then she can hardly demand sexual exclusivity when Gillian has given her free reign with Sacha. Their collision, their chemistry, has not completely broken all the bonds, nor recalibrated all the equations and reactions and networks. It has not—and most likely will not—reconfigure this whole complicated mess of molecules known as Gillian Greenwood, and this tempers Caroline’s disappointment.

Gillian pulls away slightly and squints comically, in the hope that playing up the role of lovable drunk will allay any potential Carolinian outbursts that simmer beneath a beautiful breastbone clad in an overpriced, casual linen blouse.

“Did. You. Know,” she drawls, punctuating each word with a soft jab at Caroline’s sternum, “that for the past two and half years, ever since they got married, Dad and your mum have been cruelly, cruelly hoarding a spectacular bottle of single-malt scotch in their little love shack, a bottle they got as a wedding present from the bloody vicar?”

Caroline sighs, groans, buries her face into Gillian’s neck—and inhales the weird manly shower gel that Raff owns and that his mother, out of sheer laziness, uses as well, and it possesses the power of a thousand colognes magnified into one spicy scent, like cheap cinnamon roasting in a toxic gas fire. On an actual man she would find it absolutely repulsive, but on a woman, this woman, it’s an inexplicable turn-on and so she sets to feasting on Gillian’s throat, but careful not to leave a mark. “I did not.”

Distinctly aware that she has offered herself as first course on the dinner menu—at least for the hostess—Gilliam stammers and squirms. “I n-needed to, um, reward myself for today.”

“Speaking of rewards— ” Caroline whispers. She releases the dress around her hand—and herself from the bonds of being good—and slips it between Gillian’s legs, fingers flat along her warm thigh and touching the scrunched elastic boundary of her panties, and then someone pounds on the door with such unbridled fury that Caroline knows immediately that it’s her most troublesome and stroppy child and she is both grateful for and infuriated at the unintentional cuntblock.

From her comfy perch in Caroline’s lap Gillian attempts an elegant, faun-like leap to safety but instead elaborately and drunkenly staggers, kneels, and twists, inadvertently graceful as if she’s attempting an Orthodox Jewish wedding dance—but for the saving grace of frantically latching onto the sink she nearly ends up face down on the tiled floor.

“GREG IS MAKING THE PASTA,” Lawrence booms. “AND HE’S STIRRING THE SAUCE.”

Because Lawrence only pays attention to shouting, Caroline has no recourse to volley back a bellow. Which, given a heightened level of sexual frustration, is easy enough: “TELL HIM NOT TO GET RID OF THE ONION. I HAVE PLANS FOR THE ONION.”

Whilst straightening and smoothing out her dress, Gillian stares at her suspiciously.

“IT’S ALMOST READY AND IF YOU DON’T COME OUT NOW YOU’LL BE EATING TOFU CHIPS ALL NIGHT.”

“ALL RIGHT. WE’LL BE THERE IN A MINUTE.”

“HAVE YOU WASHED MY SHIRTS YET?”

“FUCK OFF, I’M NOT YOUR SERVANT.”

“BOY YOU’RE JUST REALLY MOTHER OF THE YEAR, AREN’T YOU?” She hears him stomps away.

“Mother of the year,” Gillian echoes. Tipsily she giggles, leans against the sink, hugs herself, and Caroline is struck—not for the first time—by the fierce singularity of her solitude, witnessed many a time in crowded pubs, at weddings, during dinners, over cups of tea and glasses of wine, even lying next to her in bed. You cannot fix people. This Caroline now knows. She spent eighteen years indulging John’s fantasy of being saved from himself and those efforts were, in fact, the essence and bedrock of their marriage. But the urge to fix and to save and to make right remains deeply inculcated in her; it is a force that compels and confounds at once.

Wobbly, she gets up. In two steps she’s in front of Gillian and grips the edge of the sink with both hands, thus penning the shepherdess like one of her ewes. Not that she wants to trap Gillian, but rather retain meager control over not only the situation but also her wandering hands. In response Gillian’s fingers tap the buttons of her shirt, drumming out a subversive Morse code, dots and dashes of defiant desire. “You going to tell me what happened today?”

“Didn’t drag you in here to talk,” Gillian says, with a tug on Caroline’s blouse. A kiss, a nip of the lower lip, the sweet shock of pain. “There’s nothing to tell.” The lie is followed by a softer, wetter kiss. “It’s shit. It’s toss. It’ll be over soon.” Gillian pauses and there is a sensual wavering of the moment, as a flag in full furl before the wind dies down, all revealed in the microcosmic flutter of her eyelids. “We can talk later. If you like. After dinner.”

“All right.” Caroline is grateful she’s still holding onto the sink’s edge, because her knees buckle. “You look good. Really good.”

Gillian barks out a laugh and gives her a playful push. “You hate this dress.”

“What? No.” Automatically, Caroline straightens with indignation.

“Called it a peasant dress once, you did.”

“I did not.” Even as she denies it, she can hear herself saying it while in that cabernet-tinted cloud of repressed emotion that she operated in when they first met.

With an eyeroll, Gillian shoves her against the bathroom door, bites her neck, her earlobe, runs a wild, unrepentant tongue along the gentle swell of her throat, and hisses “peasant” at her.

Caroline shivers. “Must’ve been drunk.”

“Or just being a bitch.”

“Or that.” She sighs. “So. Shall we? Once more unto the breach, then?”

While brushing back the bangs from Caroline’s forehead, Gillian smiles with undisguised fondness; it’s unnerving, exhilarating, so much so that Caroline is caught deliriously off guard. “Comb your hair first,” Gillian replies. Then, with an exaggerated look at Caroline’s chest: “And calm your tits.”

As Caroline takes mortified account of over-exuberant nipples, Gillian darts out of the bathroom. She exhales a long breath, brushes her hair, and wills her body into submission.

In the kitchen Greg has taken over. She sets the table. Gillian gets more wine. Alan and Celia seriously debate whether Alan’s doctor resembles Richard Harris “before he started looking like a drunk.” Lawrence ignores everyone and everything except his mobile. Flora runs amok and takes it upon herself to show the Christmas lights in the living room to Gillian, who reacts with the appropriate awe and outlandish questions that make Flora cackle with delight: Did you put those up yourself, love?

Dinner starts out pleasantly enough, if only because everyone sublimates a spectrum of frustrations with pasta. Sacha would approve, Caroline thinks—and quickly quashes that thought as she admires her own plating expertise.

“The sauce is great,” Greg says, and then adds teasingly, “despite the lack of tofu.”

Caroline leans back. “Yeah? Thanks. And thanks for helping.”

“Your own recipe?”

“No. From Marcella Hazan.”

Lawrence, of course, tosses in the first conversational Molotov cocktail. “That another girlfriend?”

Gillian chokes on wine in such an elaborate fashion that it distracts Flora from endlessly twirling—and eventually wearing— the spaghetti on her plate.

As his daughter violently coughs and wheezes into a napkin, Alan shakes his head. “Always eats and drinks like a convict, she does. Gulping down everything.”

“Marcella Hazan was a food writer,” Caroline replies patiently to her idiot son. “And she’s dead.”

“Was she a lesbian?” Lawrence drawls mischievously.

Celia sighs. “What does that have to do with anything?”

Spastic fit over and done, Gillian wags a finger at her wineglass. “That’s, um, really, really powerful stuff, Caz.”

“Then maybe you should stop for the night,” Alan says.

Gillian gives him a disingenuous, snarling smile. “Well, old man,” she begins slowly, “maybe you should—”

“—have dessert!” Caroline interjects as Gillian glares at her, boldly telegraphing a reproach for preventing her from telling her father to fuck off.

Exhausted from an afternoon of father-daughter verbal sniping, Celia jumps in rather desperately: “What is for dessert?”

Beaming proudly, Greg pats his belly to indicate that a culinary delight is headed to the table: “Strawberry banana tofu ice cream.”

The family scatters to the wind: Lawrence scuttles upstairs, Celia murmurs something about biscuits at home that need eating before they go stale and drags her grumbling husband away lest he take up verbal fisticuffs with his surly daughter again, and Greg engages Flora in a game called “A Night at the Races,” where he and Flora run up and down the hallway in a very obvious attempt to tire her out. Briefly Gillian joins in the race until she is reprimanded for running with wine, and then disappears into the living room.

All this happens as Caroline cleans up. Afterward she relieves Greg of parental duty and gets Flora in the bathtub, where she is copiously splashed and anointed with suds in the process. Prelude to bedtime includes more running around upstairs, then the reading of a tale involving pandas playing badminton—the lesson implicit in the story involves good sportsmanship but Caroline’s takeaway is that maybe pandas shouldn’t be playing badminton to begin with. At the end of the tale Flora is still awake and demands more panda adventures. So Caroline improvises a story of a panda chemist who creates a magic potion that turns humans into pandas. As she rattles off ingredients for the imaginary formula—lewisite, calcite, phosgene oxime, titanium, feta cheese, pseudoephedrine, monkey brains, eucalyptus oil, banana farts—Flora falls asleep to the litany and Caroline dismally realizes that all her children are bored silly by her beloved chemistry.

Downstairs she finds Gillian alone, sunk into the couch, shoes kicked off, bare feet on the coffee table and terribly close to a glass of wine. Despite the relaxed pose her restless hands wrestle in the soft, inviting arena of her lap. She stares up at the small, white lights that limn the dimensions of the room and form an unimaginative rectangular constellation around them. Gillian likes starwatching, can rattle off useless facts about the planets, and Caroline swears to God that she heard Gillian say Cassiopeia the other day when they made love—a faint, ardent susurration on her skin. Caroline knows little about stars except that they collapse and break apart and their remnants hold court in the glimmering corridor of a nebula. Perhaps that’s it, Caroline thinks. There is no fixing or handling Gillian—who looks up at her now and smiles. There is nothing to do but gather together her bright broken pieces and keep them safe.

“This is nice,” Gillian says. “With the lights.”

The glow of the room brings her back to the Eddie confession, the two of them sitting on the sofa in Gillian’s home in front of the fire. In the years since they have sat together in silences ranging widely from the amiable to the charged, and so much has happened since that evening: Deaths and births and marriages and divorces and in the midst of it all is this woman whose presence in her life, whose volatility she cannot contain or really even fathom, remains fixed and constant.

Tiredness kicks in, the flow of lust runs sluggish in her veins. That and Gillian looks fairly knackered as well, so she doesn’t have to worry about another barely controlled makeout session. But before attempting any gesture that could be viewed as more than sisterly affection by even the most objective bystander, she glances around. “Where’s Greg?”

Gillian stifles a yawn. “Went out, he asked me to tell you. Meeting his lady friend for a drink.” She snorts and says the woman’s name in a wispy falsetto: “Brigitte.”

Sputtering a laugh, Caroline dives into the couch next to her. “Oh God. He told you about her.”

“Yep. Know everything about her now. Like, for example, she got perfect A levels—”

Caroline snorts derisively. “So did I.”

“’Course you did. I know what kind of wine she likes—”

“What?”

“Fucking chardonnay, Caz.”

“Is that different from regular chardonnay?”

Gillian grins and leans into her. She takes Caroline’s hand in her own, her thumb presses into the fleshy swale of Caroline’s palm, massaging a sweet pressure point that makes Caroline sag contentedly into overstuffed cushions. “Get this, she cried at the end of Titanic. I mean, I cried at the end of Titanic but only because I’d just wasted three hours of my bloody life watching it.”

“I fell asleep during Titanic,” Caroline confesses.

“Smartest decision of your life.”

While Caroline is content to have Gillian’s head resting against her shoulder and her hand massaged and caressed ad infinitum—as such they sit in silence for several long, exquisite minutes—she wonders if the subject of the day in divorce court should be raised. She hadn’t even known about the event until Alan mentioned it yesterday. Gillian has so many layers of unpredictability that sometimes in comparison other people appear almost logical, forthright, and uncomplicated. Of course, the limitations of her emotional intelligence force comparison with Kate—wondering once again if Kate had untold contradictions and complexities of character, or if Caroline was simply too selfish and self-involved to put forth a real effort of discovery. Think we all know the answer to that, twat, she tells herself. If Kate were alive, would she still be blundering through existence with a wife who was largely unknown to her? Has Gillian, through her own desperate needs, somehow inadvertently brought out powers of perception in Caroline that were otherwise dormant?

Sod it, she thinks, and asks cautiously: “Was it bad? Today?”

Gillian groans and, to Caroline’s disappointment, releases her hand and sits up—rather, hunches and hovers nervously over the coffee table. “Same as it ever is. My brilliant history of disappointing everyone. See it on everyone’s face. My dad. Robbie. Even your mum.” She reaches for the wine, stares into the glass. “Maybe someday you’ll look at me like that.” She gulps down the last of it and before Caroline can vigorously deny the claim, plows on. “Let’s begin with the old man, shall we? He cares what people think, my dad does. Remember when Gary gave that interview and ‘outed’ him, so to speak? Well, he’s acting like this is on the same level, it being on ‘public record’ that I’m an adulterer. Like who gives a shit anymore about things like that. Anyone who knows me knows it’s my fault anyway, right? Yeah, I know, you’re gonna say not my fault, shouldn’t have married Robbie, should have embraced a life of lesbianism—”

“I’d never say that,” Caroline replies.

Gillian squints at her accusingly. “Probably thinking it.”

“I think that about every woman, really.”

This, at least, makes Gillian grin for a moment. “But the thing is, I did marry him, I did cheat on him—I did.” She repeats it softly: “I did. And it’s just one more thing I’ve done wrong in a very f-fucking long list and every time he looks at me, I see him ticking off things in that mental list”—her index finger spasms and marks off items in imaginary list written on air—“all the things he knows I’ve done, all the things he suspects, and, Christ, it’s all m-messed up, really messed up—you know why?”

“Why?”

Gillian stares at her with the same sneering incredulousness that, most likely, greeted Robbie when he made the following suggestion: “After all this shit we talked about with the bleeding lawyers today, as I’m leaving he waylays me and says he still wants to get back together. Work it out. He looks at me as if everything about me is wrong, that I am the source of all his misery, and he still wants me. It completely does my head in. Is that what love is supposed to be?” She shakes her head, burrows back into the sofa. “He’s wanted to marry me since he was sixteen—he, he said that to me once. His way of proposing.”

“He’s not sixteen anymore,” Caroline replies. “And neither are you.” She thinks of Robbie—who never set foot outside of the country until his honeymoon, always wears the same shirt-and-tie combo to holiday gatherings, who still owns a Yorkshire rugby team blanket that he bought some thirty-five years ago and always insisted using it as a throw on the marital bed and then got quite cross with Gillian when she used it as bedding for an arthritic old sheep dog.

“Even when I was sixteen, I—Jesus, I didn’t want to marry anyone. I mean, I didn’t know who I was. Couldn’t find my arse with both hands. Still can’t.”

“It’s not love on his part,” Caroline says as she absently tucks hair around Gillian’s ear. “It’s an inability to grow up, move on, let go. He thinks he has some special claim on you, because he was your first—”

Gillian stretches and sits up, moving out of Caroline’s grasp. “He wasn’t.”

“Wasn’t he?” Admittedly Caroline is unsure of details; trying to establish some sort of shagging timeline with regard to Gillian’s romantic past has always seemed a fool’s quest, or at the very least an effort warranting a first-class historian possessing patience and superior spreadsheet skills beyond her own modest capabilities.

“I mean—he, he was the first person I had it off with, but he wasn’t the first person I loved.”

“Eddie, then,” Caroline says. Which makes sense. Gillian has never said as much explicitly, but in her stories about Eddie his magnetism, charm, and good looks were easily envisioned and Caroline vividly imagines the façade of his rough, alluring beauty, as if he were some kind of modern Dorian Gray, that overlaid the monstrous, festering piece of shit that he actually was.

Poised attentively on the couch, Gillian tucks her hands under her thighs. It’s a new trick, Caroline has noticed, a move to prevent her from biting her fingernails. Instead she ends up gnawing her lower lip. “No.”

Caroline pauses. “Oh.” She hopes that she has struck the right note of calm interest and not condescending, snotty-bitch surprise.

“You want to ask, I know.”

“You’ve no obligation to tell me anything,” Caroline says firmly, then continues in a slower, gentler tone: “I can guess, based on things you’ve told me before.”

Gillian says nothing, only frowns and looks away.

“It was one of those women? From Hebden Bridge?”

“Yeah.”

“You’ve never talked much about them. Or—her.”

“It was a long time ago.”

“You were very young.”

This statement of fact, framed however cautiously, lingers as an accusation and puts Gillian on the defensive. Which Caroline did not mean to do, but there was no other way of putting it out there. She rolls her shoulders. “I know what you’re thinking.”

“You were fourteen.”

“Fifteen,” Gillian corrects absently. She stills her restless hands, her fingers interlock and lace together tightly over her knee and remind Caroline of a puzzle she had as a child, she thinks it was called a bamboozler, where the challenge is careful dismantling followed by skillful rebuilding. Gillian looks up again at the orderly constellation of white lights that bathe them in a Milky Way of memories. It takes 25,000 light years to travel to the Milky Way, a journey that would be an epic mind-fuck of time’s perpetual collision: future, present, past. What time is it in the Milky Way? Caroline wonders. With increasing distance the past entices, always, and Gillian is no more immune to it than Robbie or anyone else.

“You’re thinking it was wrong,” Gillian says. “That she hurt me, took advantage of me. Maybe that’s all true. Yeah, I guess, I guess maybe it is. But you don’t understand. You don’t know how it felt—how I felt. It was like, like a new world for me and I was the bloody center of it, she made me feel that and—I really, really believed it, all of it.” She pauses. “Including the part where she said she loved me.”

With this crucial piece of the Gillian Greenwood puzzle in place, a design looms large, a pattern discerns itself. Enough so that Caroline requires for the moment no further details, no more components. Even though Gillian adds softly, “And I loved her.”

CHAPTER SOUNDTRACK:

Ella Fitzgerald, “Bewitched, Bothered, and Bewildered” Cigarettes After Sex, “Apocalypse” The National, “Empire Line” BONUS NONSENSE! Marcella Hazan’s tomato sauce recipe.

#last tango in tomato sauce #ltih #Caroline x Gillian

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zmediaoutlet · 7 years

Note

hmm i'm not good with prompts but: one of the boys is having a horrible day for very trivial reasons (accidentally nicked himself shaving, slammed the door on his hand, phone died inconveniently etc) and then other tries help. cue: (DRUMROLL) SEX but with the one still halfheartedly grumpy

(read on AO3)

He wakes up slow, to an empty bed. He lays there for a fewminutes, face half-buried in the pillow and making sure his breath comessteady, even. In half an hour he won’t even be able to really remember whathe’d been dreaming about. No sense in dwelling on it.

He slept like shit, though—they got home late, after dealingwith that annoying bitch of a naiad who’d been drowning guys on Lake Superior,and he hadn’t wanted to stay anywhere near water, just wanted to get back totheir bed. His ribs are all bruised to shit, and his right wrist—he rotates itslowly, shuffling down the hall, and okay, maybe Sam’s right, maybe he didsprain it.

The kitchen’s empty, when he wanders in. No coffee in thepot, and no grounds left in the jar when he checks. Groceries kept slippingdown the priority list, with the last few hunts they’ve been on. He looks intothe nearly-empty fridge, holding his wrist up against his chest, vague uneasestill lapping slowly at the back of his mind. Maybe he can force Sam to makethe run into town. Surely he must’ve earned a day off, by now.

When he heads into the library to try to wheedle Sam,though, it’s empty, too. He checks his watch—it’s already ten, so Sam ought tobe back from a run if he took one, the freak, and—oh. A note, propped on Sam’slaptop. Got a tip on a grimoire in Topeka, it says, in Sam’s goofyhandwriting. Home late. Dean drops the note on the table and sighs,rubbing his eyes with his good hand. Okay, so no lounging around with Sammy. Hecan get some stuff done, instead.

The weird unease from the morning lingers, though, and hiswrist—god, it really is starting to hurt. He wraps it up himself but he’salways awkward with his left hand and the bandage fits a little weird, and itstill aches as he separates their clothes out of the duffels they’d justdropped when they got home, as he starts the laundry. Almost out of detergent,too. The Impala’s due for an oil change and he manages it with one and a halfhands, but it’s a bitch, and he manages to spill about half the old oil rightonto the concrete when he fumbles the tray unthinking. That’s a fun half-hourof cleanup.

He hasn’t heard from Sam by one o’clock, and there’s aheadache lingering behind his eyes. Lack of caffeine, probably, so he forceshimself to sack up and make the damn grocery run. There’s hardly anyone intown, not that there ever really is, and the store’s empty but for him andEstelle at the register, who doesn’t even look up at him when he comesin. Coffee, beer, laundry detergent, milk and Sam’s stupid plaincornflakes and stuff he can turn into lasagna, and Estelle just stares at himdourly when he gets up to the counter and tells him the credit card machine isbroken. “Of course it is,” Dean says, under his breath, and her expression goeseven stonier. That kills the cash in his pocket, though he still slips hisfourteen cents in change into the little canister for cancer kids, or whatever.“Have a good one,” he says, and Estelle just grunts at him and goes back to herUS Weekly. Okay, then.

The bunker’s only about four miles from Lebanon, out in theempty farm country that hides it from normal people. It’s a bright day, humidand hot with summer, and he rolls down the window as he heads out of town,watches the corn and wheat fields drift by. He’s about halfway home, StickyFingers pumping out loud on the tapedeck, when something—shudders, and hegrabs the wheel tight with both hands and then there’s an awful snap andthe engine shrieks and he stamps on the brakes, squeals to a halt with gravelspraying around him, and then—oh, oh shit, and he pops the hood andscrambles out of the car into the thick air and the engine’s still ticking,trying to cool, and—fuck. Fuck. “Fuck!” he says, loud into the emptyeverything, because that was the goddamn timing belt and he can’t tell,not right away, what damage has been done. It’s only been fifty thousand miles,why—

“I’m so sorry, baby,” he says, propping himself on thesun-hot frame. He closes his eyes. “I’m gonna fix this, I swear. I swear.” Herubs a hand over his face, through his hair. He’s already sweating. Hard to seehow the day could get worse from here.

It’s almost seven when he makes it home, easing the Impalaalong as slowly as possible. When he walked back to town the co-op had had abelt, thank god, but he was going to have to order an actually good one fromChevy and rebuild about four things from scratch to make sure everything’s inorder. They’ve really got to invest in a truck with a tow package.

He’s sweaty and aching and smeared all over with enginegrease when he finally rolls her into the garage bay, babying her down theramp. He just sits there when he turns the engine off, rests his foreheadagainst the wheel.

Sam’s sitting in the library when he comes in, flippingthrough some ancient book with his laptop at his elbow. He doesn’t reallyglance up when Dean comes in, clearly absorbed in whatever crap is in thestupid grimoire. “Hey, where have you been,” he says, apparently to the book,while Dean stands there, still sweating. “Oh, do you have plans for dinner? I’mstarving.”

For a second Dean just stares, and then for another secondhe gets a very real and powerful urge to punch Sam directly in the throat. Heshouldn’t. If nothing else, it would fuck up his wrist even more. “Groceries inthe car,” he says instead, voice something strangled, and heads directly forthe shower.

He’s been standing still for fifteen minutes, eyes closed,just letting the blast of hot water hit him between the shoulderblades, whenthe door to the shower room opens.

“Hey,” Sam says, again, somewhere behind him. Sounds likehe’s actually paying attention, this time. Dean grunts, doesn’t bother openinghis eyes. There’s a pause, and under the rush of water he can’t really hearmuch. When big hands alight on his hips he flinches, almost slipping on theslick tile, but then Sam’s hands tighten and he’s kept upright.

“Don’t sneak up on people in the shower, dick,” he says, andit maybe comes out harder than he meant, but—fuck, cracking his head open wouldjust be the perfect end to the day.

“Sorry,” Sam says, soft, and he does actually kind of soundsorry. He slides his hands carefully up over Dean’s ribs, over his wet back,and the touch feels… nice. “How’s the wrist?”

Dean got rid of the bandages somewhere in the middle of hishalf-assed belt replacement, since it was smeared to shit with grease and thewrap was coming loose, anyway. It’s been throbbing, since then. “Hurts,” hesays, trying for stoicism, but his voice comes out all thick. Sam’s handssqueeze his shoulders, briefly, and then they disappear for a minute.

“Here,” Sam says, tapping his arm, and Dean opens his eyes tosee Sam holding three pills just outside the spray of water—aspirin, lookslike, and Dean sighs and takes them, swallows them dry, and then Sam’s handreappears holding an open El Sol.

“Beer in the shower?” Dean says, and Sam says, “Why not?”and, really, that’s not a bad point. He takes the bottle in both hands, becausewith the way things have been going he’ll probably drop it and slice open hisfoot, and the few cold swallows go easy down his throat. Sam takes the bottleout of his hand and sets it down somewhere with a clink, and then his handsreturn to Dean’s back, sliding smoothly on either side of his spine in long,slow strokes. Dean drops his head, shifts an inch or two so the water’s hittinghim on the back of the neck and pouring down over where Sam’s hands are moving.

After a few minutes, Sam says, “Saw the tool box was out. Andthe cat litter on the concrete.” Dean sighs. Sam digs his thumbs into themuscle at the base of his neck, pushing in slow pulses. “I was going to put thelaundry in the dryer but I think it’s broken, or something.”

“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” Dean says, groaning, and Samlaughs, quietly.

“Milk was spoiled, too,” he says, and Dean just wants to sitdown and never leave the goddamn shower. “I’m guessing it’s been quite the day.”

“How was Topeka?” Dean says, a little more sarcastic than hemeans to be. Sam doesn’t snark back, just squeezes his shoulders, and the topsof his biceps, and Dean sighs, again.

“You’ve got grease everywhere,” Sam says. He lets go ofDean, briefly, and when he comes back a slick washcloth smears over Dean’sshoulders, scrubs firmly up over his neck and up over the back of his head,even. “Did you take a bath in it, or something?”

“You try removing a crank pulley on the side of the road inJuly and see if you can keep it neat and tidy,” Dean says, and he can practicallyhear Sam rolling his eyes.

The washcloth scrubs down his arms, and Sam moves in closer,his chest pressing up against Dean’s back when he washes over Dean’s good wristand then so-carefully over his hurt one. He tucks his free arm around Dean’swaist, holding his forearm gently and swabbing Dean’s fingers, one by one, andDean leans back into the solid warmth of him, their skin slick together in thewater. It feels good, not that he’s going to tell Sam that. Sam’s mouth pressesup against his temple, though, his jaw prickly against Dean’s steam-soft skin.

“Can I take your mind off it?” Sam says, quiet, his thumbpressing gently into Dean’s palm.

“No,” Dean says, just to be contrary, and Sam snorts, rightagainst his ear. “I heard that.”

“Sure did,” Sam says, and steps in even closer so Dean canfeel his dick pressing softly up into the small of his back, just above Dean’sass. He keeps Dean tugged in close with one arm and with the other scrubs thewashcloth over Dean’s collarbones, over his chest, lets it scrape over his nipples.He keeps his eyes closed, lets his head droop down so his chin’s nearly touchinghis chest, and Sam kisses the back of his neck, the knob at the top of hisspine, and the washcloth smears over his stomach and lower, over the top of histhighs, and then Sam carefully cups his balls, makes Dean’s breath hitch in hischest.

“Spread,” Sam says, voice soft, and Dean obligingly shuffleshis feet further apart so that the washcloth can go—further, dragging slickbehind his balls, all the way behind to his ass, and he grabs at Sam’s armwhere it’s holding him steady, arches a little, and then Sam drops the washclothto the tile floor with a splat and then it’s Sam’s bare fingers, dragging firmover his hole and then back to his balls and then, finally, to his dick wherehe’s half-hard, plumping up just from this. He groans and Sam says, “What wasthat?” with his voice all light, and Dean says, “Shut up,” and curls his badwrist up against his chest, fumbles his other hand around to Sam’s hip to keephim close, and Sam kisses against the back of his neck, smiling, and jerks himfirmly, letting the water slick the way, wrist pumping and his grip just-right.He shudders out a groan and Sam’s thumb drags messily over the head of him,long fingers reaching down to cup his balls, and then he stops playing and just—works,perfect practiced grip and a little harder than Dean usually goes with himselfbut that just makes it better, because he could jerk himself off any time butthis is Sammy, taking care of him, for long steady minutes while Dean’s breathcomes harder, something coiling up deep in his belly, tension knotting, andthen Sam kisses over his shoulder and sets his teeth against the strainingtendon in Dean’s throat and pumps, steady pressure, and he slides his otherhand down Dean’s belly and behind his balls and presses two long fingers deepinto his taint and—oh, god, Dean comeslike that, jerking forward into Sam’s grip, on a long thin groan that tears outof his throat, and he drops his hand down to cover Sam’s where it’s still jerkinghim even as he spurts into the stream of water and his wrist throbs at him buthe—he just holds onto Sam’s hand, follows the movement as Sam pulls everythingout of him, until he’s empty, and he sags back against Sam’s body, thighstrembling.

“Whoa, don’t pass out,” Sam says, catching him around thechest. Sam’s arm squeezes a little against the trailing edge of Dean’s bruises,but he can’t really care right now.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Dean manages. It feels like his muscleshave gone liquid. Sam hasn’t let his dick go, is just sliding his thumb up and downthe hot tender skin, and—oh, he’s sensitive, but—but—he just keeps his handlight over Sam’s, shakes and wonders when his breath might finally steady out.Sam’s hard, pressing firm and hot against his back, and Dean thinks yes, in no more detail than that.

“Feeling better?” Sam says, and Dean works up the strengthto turn around, finally, and Sam lets him go just enough that he can fit himselfright back against Sam’s chest, his bad wrist tucked up between them. Sam resettleshis arm around Dean’s shoulders, the other cupped under the curve of his ass,and his dick’s now pressing slick against Dean’s belly.

Dean grinds in a little closer, watches Sam’s eyelidsflicker. His hair’s soaked, plastered close to his skull, and Dean drags itback from his forehead, cups the back of Sam’s skull in his good hand. Sam justwatches him, thumb dragging idly against the lower curve of Dean’s ass.

“No,” Dean says, finally, and Sam frowns at him. He rubs hisstomach against where Sam’s leaking on him and licks his lips, and smiles whenSam’s eyes drop to his mouth. “Think I might need more distraction.”

Sam blinks, eyelashes spiky, his cheeks flushed dark. “Icould do that,” he says, after a second, and Dean snorts, leans back and turnsoff the faucet, finally. Good thing the water heater here is bottomless. Samlets go of him long enough to grab a towel and wrap it over his shoulders, andthen Dean’s being kissed, properly, Sam’s hand big and wide over the back ofhis neck. Dean thinks, well, he’ll take a look at the dryer tomorrow, and thenhe doesn’t really have to think much of anything, after that.

#wincest #wetsammywinchester #anotherwinchesterfangirl #chiisana-sukima #baronsamediswife #my writing #sorry this took FOREVER anon #but it was a good way to punch myself in the face with writing #also #leonidaslion wrote a... sort of similar fic #of the 'terrible day' variety #it... slightly character assassinates sam #but other people like it #if you're interested in more of this sort of thing

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evilkitten3 · 7 years

Text

Dealing With the Monthlies

AN: I should be working on something else (an ongoing story, that essay I have to do if I want to go to college next year, etc.), but I'm writing this instead because I'm on a plane heading for Texas and my uterus is being an enormous bitch. Don't have your period on an airplane, children, it's absolutely horrible. Anyway, this is for my friend @tyranny-mutt, who has helped me improve my writing in many areas. And by 'many' I mean 'one', but it was one that sorely needed improving. This is for you, dude.

Title: Dealing With the Monthlies

Summary: Kaiba and Yuugi aren't dating. Really. They're not. Yuugi's only over there so often because Kaiba wants to Duel. They only slept together a couple times. Okay, maybe a lot more than, that but they aren't a couple! Too bad Anzu isn't buying it. (In which Yuugi suffers and Anzu forces Kaiba to be a better not-boyfriend)

Genre: Humor/Romance (for a… given definition of those words)

Characters: Kaiba Seto, Mutou Yuugi, Mazaki Anzu, Kaiba Mokuba Thief King Bakura

Pairings: Rivalshipping (Kaiba x Yuugi), implied Slateshipping (TKB x Anzu) (leave me alone I need this)

Warnings: Trans male character (Yuugi), not-straight people (everyone), a complete and total loser (Kaiba), and the Ultimate Mom Friend™ (Anzu)

To say that Kaiba Seto had not expected to awaken to his longtime rival Mutou Yuugi curled up on the bed and moaning in pain would be like saying that Mokuba had "kind of guessed" that his elder brother was interested in men. Seto's coming-out party had been less of a party than a morning greeting. If Seto remembered correctly, it had gone something like this:

"Mokuba, I'm gay."

"Yeah, no shit, bro. Pass the syrup."

Not that Seto had thought that Mokuba would reject him, but still.

So yes, Kaiba Seto was surprised to see his rival (and NOT boyfriend, so shut up, Jounouchi) curled up on the bed and moaning in pain. There was no visible wound, so Kaiba did what anyone who was connected to Yuugi did when something happened – he called Anzu.

"Kaiba, it's four in the morning," Anzu complained. "This better be important."

"Is Yuugi dying?" Kaiba asked, ignoring her entirely. "He's clutching his stomach and moaning a lot. I tried to ask him about it, but he just said 'get a knife and end it', which I felt probably wasn't the best solution." Anzu was silent for a moment.

"Kaiba Seto, you are a twenty-seven year old genius billionaire," the dancer said flatly. "Is this really something you need my help with?" Seto didn't replied, and Anzu sighed. "He's on his period, you nerd," she grumbled. "Just– be a good boyfriend and get him what he needs."

"Not his boyfriend," Kaiba objected.

"Yes you are, shut up," Anzu snapped. Kaiba heard something in the background that sounded like laughter. "You shut up too, Bakura, you're just as useless when I'm on the rag." The laughter stopped abruptly, disintegrating into grumbles. Kaiba wondered for what was not the first and would most certainly not be the last time why on earth Anzu had volunteered to let the Ancient Egyptian stay with her. He'd heard something about arm wrestling and well-earned respect, but it still didn't make much sense to him.

"What exactly does he need?" Kaiba asked. "Tampons, right?"

"Ugh, no," he could almost hear Anzu wrinkling her nose. "Yuugi hates those things, and for a good reason. He needs pads. Go into the bathroom; I'm sure he's got a stash in there somewhere."

"Which bathroom?"

"Which one does he usually use?"

"The one attached to my bedroom."

"Then try that one." Kaiba found the package of pads fairly quickly, wondering how he'd never noticed it before.

"Got it. Anything else?"

"Probably some sort of painkiller," Anzu mused. "Got any ibuprofen?"

"Of course I do," Seto snapped. "Have you met the idiots I have to deal with on a daily basis?"

"No, but I have met you," Anzu shot back. "I imagine you have to take several aspirin a day just to tolerate yourself." Kaiba scowled, but didn't get the chance to form a retort. "Also, get some chocolate. Chocolate makes everything better. It doesn't have to be fancy rich person chocolate; just about anything will do."

"Chocolate, pads, and painkillers," Kaiba recited. "Is that everything?"

"Just about," Anzu confirmed. "Also, whatever you do, do not challenge him to a Duel today. Last time he Dueled you during his period, he came home crying because he thought he'd hurt your feelings. And then he hugged Bakura. I had to threaten him with a violent and painful death to make sure he didn't try to push Yuugi away. Do you know how hard it is to threaten someone with a violent and painful death if with nothing but eye contact? It's not easy, I'll tell you that." Now Kaiba was wondering why Bakura agreed to stay with her. It didn't sound particularly safe.

"Any other suggestions and or death threats?" Kaiba asked. He was only being semi-sarcastic.

"He might wanna make out a little," Anzu teased, snickering. "Possibly a lot. Give him lots of smooches."

"For the eightieth time, Mazaki, we aren't dating!" Kaiba snapped his cell phone shut before she had a chance to argue, and turned to face Yuugi, who was giggling.

"Kaiba, we're pretty much dating," he said, grinning. "You know you loooooove me. Anzu's right; I want smooches. Also, can you carry me to the bathroom?"

"I don't think periods take away your ability to walk," Kaiba grumbled as he picked up his rival. "And we aren't dating."

"Are too."

"Are not."

"Are too."

"Are not."

"Are t–" Yuugi was cut off as Kaiba pressed their lips together.

"No, we're not. Shut up." He carefully set Yuugi down outside the bathroom. "I'm going to have Isono bring some chocolate. Go… take care of that." Yuugi laughed.

"You can just say 'don't bleed all over my expensive marble bathroom floor'," he said, amused. Kaiba snorted, snatching up his phone.

"Don't bleed all over my expensive marble floor," he repeated. "If possible, don't bleed on anything."

"Wish that was possible," he heard Yuugi mumble. And then– "Thanks, Seto."

"Whatever," he replied immediately, with no hesitation or waver in his voice. He wasn't blushing. They weren't dating. Yuugi was only here because Kaiba wanted to beat him. And sometimes that led to sex, but they weren't dating. Really. They were just… rivals with benefits. Is that even a thing? Kaiba wondered. Well, it is now. And sure, sometimes Kaiba started thinking about Yuugi and couldn't stop, and sometimes they went out to dinner before or after Dueling, and sometimes Yuugi could persuade him to eat lunch with his friends (usually Anzu and the Egyptian Bakura, the latter of whom was fun to argue with, but it wasn't a double date), and maybe sometimes he wanted Yuugi to sit on his lap and kiss him while he worked, but that didn't mean–

Kaiba dropped his phone. He sprinted down the hall, flinging open the door to his younger brother's room.

"Mokuba!" he hissed as loudly as he dared. "I think I'm dating Yuugi!" Mokuba looked at him and sighed, wondering why he was cursed with such a dumb brother.

"Yes, Seto. Yes you are."

AN: I am… surprisingly proud of this, actually. It was fun. XD Not as much Yuugi as I would've liked, but hey. Also, fun fact – this is the closest TKB has come to actually showing up in one of my fanfics so far. Even though he's pretty much my favorite character. I almost never write him. What the hell, me? Anyway, I hope you enjoyed the story, and please tell me what you thought! Thanks~ Kitty out.

#yu-gi-oh!#ygo fic #seto kaiba #kaiba seto #yuugi mutou #mutou yuugi #anzu mazaki #mazaki anzu #mokuba kaiba #kaiba mokuba #thief king bakura #rivalshipping #slateshipping

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pussymagicuniverse · 5 years

Text

Back From the Dead Red

The familiar salty sea air spread its beachy, fishy aroma across the shipping dock. The scent reminded Francesca of exhilarating days perched on top of Papa’s shoulders trying and barely touching the rigging that supported the foremast of Mourning Star. Staring from the steps of the boardwalk, Francesca watched with awe at a new arrival. She could hear the booming commands from the captain and first mate intermixed with the clattering voices that commonly joined in the pier side chorus. Young boys and girls in rags sold shellfish in their make-shift carts, wandering and curious visitors of pop-up shops that appear as frequently as they disappear, each baring trinkets and treasures from lands far from where the horizon lay.

“Oysters for sell!”

“Fresh oysters! Cuatro Reals,” bellowed a dark haired girl in an outfit composed of recycled fishing nets and loose fabrics.

She looked on with wonder at the large ship. The white sails glowed in the afternoon sun, the aged bronze of the figure of a siren at the bow matching the metal accenting the ship.

A loud horn signaled the end of the working day. Hopping down from her seat, Francesca fetched the young girl and placed a gold Real in her hands for one of her oysters.

“Gracias Senora,” the young girl cried with gratitude, fresh tears in her eyes.

Another horn sounded sending Francesca off in a hurry. She waved goodbye to the curious girl.

Her husband Lucio was to return home any minute and would expect the aroma of tonight’s dinner to seduce his freckled nose as he entered their villa on top of a hill. As she walked closer to the town center, Francesca looked out for the large, white clock tower with its winged gargoyles that pointed North, South, East, and West.

“Son las cinco y cuarto, perfect,” said Francesca when the out of place building came into her direct view. The sun’s amber light shone on the left face of the clock tower. Its very tip had already begun to disappear into the shadow. She always thought it quite peculiar and anachronous in the vibrant coastal town. For months after her arrival when she was a young bride, she tried to avoid the blank stares of the beaked guardians at all costs; but eventually daily life as the wife of a popular merchant required for her to inquire over her husband’s local business with the town elite and wealthy citizens. Not only did she dread the stares, she despised the lingering whispers after the golden doors closed shut. With a turn onto a steep hill with cobbled streets, 8-foot-tall wrought iron fences signal the entrance to a large, light blue house resting on the apex of the hill.

“Hola senorita Francesca. Staring at boats again?” said Eloisa, the family’s head of staff. A tiny woman of large personality who was once Francesca’s wet nurse. It was in her care Francesca was left in after a band of mutinous pirates raided Mourning Star midnight Christmas morning while Mama and Papa slept in a tranquil slumber. Francesca can remember the searing heat of the roaring flames flashing in honey, tangerine, and crimson. The fire crept along the sides of her sleeping chamber. The blooming obsidian smoke choked the air from her quarters. Her screams for help were answered by a soot covered man with a receding hairline and ugly intentions. Francesca blackened the proceeding moments from her memory for it nearly drove her mad during her years of eternal and penetrating grief. “I figured you wouldn’t return on time. So I began preparing for dinner for you and Señor Hierro,” Eloisa kissed Francesca’s cheeks twice and took her jacket from her hands. “But my duties are over, and I give you full reign of your house.” The elderly woman flashed a toothy grin at the younger woman. Francesca just rolled her eyes in jest and naïve deviance.

“Ah Ma, you have earned your keep for today. So dimelo what’s next for you?”

“I heard of a traveling actors group performing tonight in the city square. And I am late. Adios Señora”

Francesca swirled a wooden spoon into the simmering pot of creamy Alfredo sauce and little dumpling balls of potato dough the Italians called gnocchi. Bringing the spoon to her plump rose lips, she tasted for any absent flavors. Her nose crinkled.

“It’s definitely missing some spice.” She thought out loud and made her way into the walk in pantry Lucio built for her after striking a contract with a spice kingpin in South East Asia. Being the wife of a wealthy merchant had its perks, specifically in the grace of foreign spices that reached their pantry, insuring an explosion on their tongues. She rummaged through the different spices held within spherical vials.

“Ah, these will do.”

She made her way back to the stove holding vials of paprika, cumin, and ras el hanout.

Francesca yipped with joy when her micro experiment went as planned. The Alfredo gnocchi had a spicy kick that sent her nerves firing like a full moon celebration.

•

The entirety of the building appeared to be sculpted from the mountain side. The large central room held together by mosaic archways in the windows, doorways, and even above the heads of the wealthy crowds. An ingenious plan for skylights sent sunlight scattering and bounced off the crystals of purple and white onto the tan stone to give a light show of rainbow of colors. On Francesca’s pale grey gown glimmered hues of blue and pink and iridescent green like the shells of Egyptian beetles. Francesca found the twinkling lights more interesting than the company of airheads she sat with. It is quite inconvenient to wear corsets in place like this, she thought. She wiggled inside the wire cage. Her breathing shallow. Her adversaries, dressed in all the frills, poof, and glitter imaginable looked to the merchant’s wife with wonder, and some with envy, as she ordered for everyone in the language of the Arab servers. The young ladies loved to repeat to themselves the smooth words. “Teteria,” “Karak,” “Shukraan.” The words rolled from their lips and evaporated into the heavy air.

Francesca’s mind fleeted from her immediate surroundings to imagining how Lucio’s hunt for her ship was coming along. She was startled back into reality by the gentle touch of her elbow. Instinctively, she withdrew herself from the touch and looked at the man defense her fingers flexed into a tight fist.

“Perdon Señorita Heirro.”

“Oh no. No. Perdoname, I’ve been catching myself in the luls of daydreams more and more often than not.” Her cheeks tinged pink with embarrassment.

“I should’ve proceeded with caution rather than start a beautiful woman like you.” The man, she knew that his last name was Reyes winked at her. “You almost gave me a black eye with that fist.”

Francesca watched him, waited for him to make his point. A quick awkward silence followed, and he cracked with a cough.

“So… I wanted to inquire about a shipment Senior Hierro has arranged to arrive tomorrow from far east of China.” He said carefully. She felt the tea surge back up and her face expressed the disgust she felt.

“That’s business you have with my husband.”

“Yes I am aware. I have mentioned business with him but he requested more than was fair.” He touched her elbow again looking intently into her golden honey eyes, “I was hoping you could pu—”

“Antonio! What are you doing?” In a swirl a petite brunette shouted and pulled Antonio Reyes away from Francesca, “Today is for small talk, gossip, and tea.” she quipped as she snuck herself underneath his arm. The brunette winked at an anxious Francesca. All she could do present a meek smile on her face.

“Dios mio, I’m sorry Francesca. My cousin fails at social life.” The small brunette whose name couldn’t surface in her memory giggled childishly. Antonio seemed offended and he huffed, “Goodbye ladies,” and with a flare of his coattail he scurried off. Less anxious, Francesca smiled back at the woman in a gown that looked like it was made of millions of dew drops tied together by spiderweb. She sat back on the large satin pillows she rested on.

“Tea?” She offered, reaching for the pot, “Um, Tatiana right?” she questioned carefully as she poured the amber liquid into a second golden cup and refilled hers for the third time.

“You remembered!”

Francesca chuckled in relief. What an embarrassment if I got it wrong, she thought. The warm liquid washed over her and she moaned quietly into her cup.

A thick layer of smoke spread across the ground and the skylights dimmed despite it being noon. Conversations faded as bells chimed with the entrance of six women, clad in colorful fabrics of silk and chiffon, little gold coins were tied to a scarf around their hips, bells at their ankles, and veils of chiffon allowed the party goers to only see their deep, dark almond eyes. A group of men in loose ivory clothes and black turbans sat on pillows and began to play instruments that looked as ancient as the room she sat in. The women swayed and moved their hips in a sensual way that aroused the crowd. Francesca excused herself from her new friend and fluttered towards the bathroom on the far western side of the tea house. She approached the narrow hallway, but stopped in her tracks when she heard hushed words. A thud against the wall sent a short wave of vibration to where she stood. She hid around the corner and carefully watched the transaction between Antonio and another mysterious man in a dirty jacket and torn pants.

The other man, taller than Antonio to that his nose reached his chest and he had to tilt his head in order to look at him, he had his long arm across Antonio’s chest teeth flashing in his face.

“I swear to Aegaeon… we gave you 2 hours.” He growled, spit flying onto Antonio’s petrified face.

“Please, I couldn’t get the bitch to speak and then my cou—” Antonio pleaded but was cut off by the back of a ring adorned hand, causing a minor gash to begin bleeding. “What was that for?”

“For being an idiot.” Mused the man. He pushed Antonio harder into the wall. “I need a way into la casa azul.”

Francesca slipped an audible gasp as she realized the tall man was speaking of her house. Her blue house on the hill. Her eyes widen with shock and she covered her mouth with her hands pressing her back into the wall.

“What was that?” The tall dirty man looked down the hallway squinting to see a figure in the hallway only illuminated by a single gas lamp.

Francesca closed her eyes willing herself to be as quiet as possible. The looming heavy steps beginning to walk towards her corner.

Please… God, she prayed inside her head. The clicks of his heel stopped right before the threshold of the hall and the darkened room in which Francesca hid and turned back around. A sigh from Francesca was covered by the grunt and thump of someone being kicked.

“You’ll regret crossing me and taking precious time.” He spat and made his exit.

Oh’s and Ah’s of admiration quickly turned into shouts and screeches of panic.

Krizia Isamar Bruno is an artist, editor, and writer born and raised in Brooklyn, who decided to unpack her bags in Pittsburgh, PA. Her creations feature a magical and diverse world where moms and daughters live for and against each other.

She is the founder of Ofrendas Press, an independent publishing press focused on creating handmade books and publications by women of Latinx, African, and/or Indigenous heritage. Her first self-published work, Dominicana Americana, is available for pre-order at the Ofrendas Shop.

More of Krizia’s work can be found on www.kri-zia.com.

#novel excerpt #graphic novel excerpt #writing #creative writing #women writers #krizia i bruno

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