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whatsnewalycat · 8 months

Text

what do you need?

Pairing: BratTamer!Joel Miller x Brat!F!Reader

Rating: Explicit (18+ ONLY)

Word Count: 3.7k+

Warnings: no show spoilers, established relationship, non-canon compliant, post-outbreak, smut, swearing, brat “taming”, D/s dynamic, dirty talk, degradation kink, praise kink, pain kink, impact play, collar wearing, maybe might have taken a snippet of dialogue from how the world works by bo burnh@m for horny reasons, unprotected piv sex, crying, shower, overstimulation, choking, spitting in mouth, fluff

A/N: I feel like this story is going to be presented as evidence when I'm rejected from the pearly gates post-mortem. Happy birthday to Joel Miller, sorry your birthday was a huge bummer that one time. Big big smoochies to @frannyzooey for helping me with several things and just generally being awesome.

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You’re having one of those days.

You know.

The kind of day where everything you come into contact with barbs into your flesh and tugs at your nerves.

Noises out on the street too loud, cupboards too empty, coffee too weak, counters too cluttered, shower too cold, clothing too tight—fuck, even your skin feels too fucking tight.

Overstimulated.

Exhausted.

Restless.

You’ve given pieces of yourself out hand over foot, and now you’re at a deficit and the world around you is still hungry, even though you’ve been picked to bare bones. Everything is too much and too little all at the same time.

The toddler that lives in the apartment above yours is throwing a temper tantrum. The kid’s defiant screeching rubs against your brain like fiberglass until all four walls of your living room feel like they’re closing in around you, squeezing you out like a tube of toothpaste, suffocating you.

And you’re thinking: If I don’t release some of this pressure I might go all fucking Hindenburg and explode.

The apartment door swings open, and Joel walks in, his broad shoulders all slumped like he’s carrying the goddamn weight of the word. He glances over at you as he slides the chain lock closed, “Hey, darlin’.”

You look up from your place on the couch, where you’re hunched over crossed legs, elbows digging into your thighs. All sharp angles and tense muscles. Without responding, you return your attention to the glass of moonshine dangling from your grip. Swirl it around a little. Take a big swallow and try not to wince as it burns down to your belly.

Joel stands there for a beat, watching you, waiting for your manners to kick in. When they don’t, he huffs and stomps into the kitchen. Cupboard doors slam and glass clinks as he searches for a clean cup, then pours himself a drink.

And, christ, he’s so fucking loud.

Every noise he makes is an exclamation mark. A shard of glass pressing into your eardrum. A sliver wedging further and further under your fingernail.

He walks over, eyes glued to you, each heavy footfall a stubborn grain of sand that won’t leave that space between your toes no matter how much you wiggle them.

By the time his weight shifts the couch cushions and sets you off balance, tilting in his direction, you know what you need.

You need to get under his skin like he’s under yours. To push him until his edges are hardened and sharp to the touch. You need him to pry open the emergency hatch and empty your mind.

“What’s wrong?”

Your nostrils flare. You bring the cup to your lips and take another big, burning swig of bootleg liquor, then say, “Nothing.”

“Nothin’,” he repeats, his voice low and disbelieving, “Now, why don’t I believe that?”

You sit up and glare at him, meeting his dark eyes, all shadowed by his drooping brow as he tilts his blank stare at you.

Excitement flickers inside you. You tilt your head right back and drop your voice, mocking him, “Reckon it’s ‘cuz I got a fucken attitude.”

His jaw tightens, mouth flattening into a straight line as he narrows his eyes at you, “You gonna talk about what’s got your panties all in a twist, or just be a nuisance about it?”

You bat your eyelashes at him and shrug.

“I see,” he searches your face, turning his wrist in slow circles, moonshine sloshing around in his cup, “You know, if you need me to do somethin’ for you, or… to you, all you have to do is ask. You don’ need to do this whole thing.”

“What thing?” you blink. Play dumb.

His eyes roll a little as he brings the glass to his lips and tips it back. Taking its contents all in one swallow, he slams the glass down on the end table with a thunk. Shaking his head, he looks at you, “Are you fuckin’ done?”

You smirk at him, dragging your eyes up and down his body. He’s studying you with this stern stare, teeth clenched, the muscles in his jaw twitching like little warning signals: PROCEED WITH CAUTION.

A warm fluttering starts at your center. Setting your glass down, you crawl onto his lap. He doesn’t move, doesn’t blink, doesn’t do anything but watch your face as you drag your fingernail along the tightened line of his jaw.

Threading your brows together, you coo, “You’re just so cute when you’re angry.”

“That’s enough,” he grabs your hand and squeezes it hard enough to make you gasp with delight, then says, “Open your mouth.”

“Make me.”

It happens so fast.

One hand on your forehead, the other gripping your jaw, yanking your mouth open.

“Stick your fuckin’ tongue out.”

You do.

You hear it first. The squelch of him gathering moisture. He spits onto your tongue, his saliva moonshine flavored and melting into yours. He does it again, then groans as he rubs it into your tastebuds, the rough pad of his thumb scraping against the tender muscle.

“So, what, you had a shitty day, now you’re actin’ out? Tryin’ to get me all worked up so I punish you?”

The words are all hoarse and heated against your cheek. His cock twitches beneath you and you grind into him, tongue still stretched out.

He spits on it again.

“Is this what you wanted, you little shit? Hmm?” he tugs on your chin, “Do you like it when I spit in your fuckin’ mouth?”

“I like it,” you tell him, nodding, placing your palm on his chest.

His throat rumbles like he’s pleased. He loosens his grip, then brushes his thumb against your bottom lip, glancing down at your mouth, “Do you want more?”

“Yes—yes, please.”

“Much better,” he purrs, “Open.”

You open your mouth wide and stick out your tongue. Another hot wad of spit plops down on it, moonshine flavored, Joel flavored, and you moan.

He cups your cheek and murmurs, “See? You can be a good girl. Can’t you?”

Sparks sizzle up your back bone. You nod and bat your eyelashes at him, closing your mouth and swallowing his spit, sliding your hand through the soft patches of gray in his beard.

His throat rumbles. Dark gaze flicks from your eyes to your lips, ”Now, tell me, darlin’, what do you need?”

The question trickles down the middle of you and twists into a stubborn knot. Your heart flutters when your lips part, but courage dies in your chest.

You shake your head and mutter, mostly to yourself, “It’s stupid.”

His brow furrows just slightly.

Heat blooms in your chest and on your face. Nervous energy makes your throat bob and your tongue go numb, and you shake your head, “Sorry.”

He fully frowns now, searching your face, “Sorry? What for?”

You shake your head again, dropping your gaze, and clamp your mouth shut.

Joel releases a big sigh, curling your body into his, and kisses your forehead. He murmurs against your skin, “Do you trust me?”

“With my life.”

He lets you sit in the wake of your own answer. The weight of his expectant silence wriggles under your skin and makes you squirm. You cast your gaze downward and shrug, “I don’t know.”

He’s quiet.

When you glance back up at him, his expression has softened into one that makes your heart ache. It’s almost doleful, the way he looks at you.

“I don’t know how to explain it, I feel,” you intertwine your fingers with his, “Empty here,” you pull the clasped hands to your chest, “But full… in-in my head. Everything feels like too much—I don’t know, Joel.”

The tears that prick your eyes take you by surprise. Usually you keep these pesky blue feelings to yourself, so as not to burden him. You should be used to this world by now. Your skin should be thicker.

You feel weak.

Pathetic.

Shame rips through you. More tears erupt from deep within your chest and stream down your cheeks, burning the whole way. A rush of adrenaline pumps through your body. It tinges your blood cold and makes you panic.

You let go of his hand and bring your knees to your chest, burying your face between them, blubbering, “I’m sorry.”

“Hey, don’t,” he sighs, not quite sure what to do with this, and slides his warm palm up and down the curve of your back, “It’s—it’s ok.”

All you can do is shake your head. It’s not ok. He doesn’t want someone like this. A crying, sputtering mess. Someone who gets upset because, what, noises seem too loud?

“Look at me, babygirl.”

You can’t help the whimper that bubbles up your throat. He only uses the term of endearment during rare, tender moments. When he needs you to know, really know, that above the games and the rules and the agreements behind the locked door of this apartment… he cares for you.

You sniffle and wipe your tears on the stiff denim of your work pants, then peak up at him.

He searches your face, and says, “Let me take care of you.”

Your eyebrows thread together and your lips part. He just keeps staring at you like that, so earnest, his eyes fertile earth you could take root in.

“Ok,” you whisper.

“Go take a shower. You can be a good girl and do that for me, can’t you?”

“Yes.”

You stay there for a moment, eyes locked on his, and ask, “Can I have a kiss?”

He hums, dropping his gaze to your lips, “How do we ask?”

Heat coils around you. He studies your movements as you unfold yourself and sit up straight, then climb on top of him, knees framing his hips, “Can I have a kiss… please?”

His hands land on your waist, “Course you can.”

You slide your palms up his chest, his neck, to cradle his jaw, then lean in to capture his lips in yours. The kiss is molasses and moonshine. Syrupy and rich. Intoxicating. It warms your insides and leaves you wanting more.

When he pulls back, he smooths his touch around your backside and gives your ass a firm smack, “Go on now.”

You try on his Texas accent and tease, “Go on, git,” and start giggling when he blinks at you, then add, “Ok ok I’m going!”

“You’re lucky you’re cute, y’know that?” he calls after you as you scamper into the bathroom, closing the door behind you.

You pull back the shower curtain, flip on the hot water, and strip off your clothes. The weak stream splatters hot against your skin when you step inside. For a minute, you just stand there with your eyes closed, relishing the warmth.

The bathroom door opens, then closes.

You wash your hair as Joel strips off his clothing into a pile on top of yours. His shadow on the shower curtain grows, then disappears as he pulls it back and steps inside. Your eyes close as you tip your head back into the water stream and massage the conditioner from your hair.

He plants his palm at the small of your back and brings himself closer. A soapy washcloth meets your bellybutton and moves in circular motions, working up a lather. When he hits a weak spot, and a tickle shoots up your body, you giggle and grab his wrist.

“You don’t like it?”

Feeling through your wet hair for any remaining gobs of conditioner, you open your eyes to meet his, grinning, “I do, I’m just ticklish.”

His lips curve into a smirk and he shakes his head as he returns his attention to the task at hand, scrubbing the day’s grime off your body. The hot water works with his meticulous attention to dull the serrated edges under your skin.

“Turn.”

You do, taking a backwards step towards him. Your nerves tingle with want, the snarled tips of them all stretching in his direction, untangling to beckon him closer.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, and starts on your back. Your shoulders relax under his praise. Under the firm pressure of the washcloth scouring your skin. He draws circles down your spine, around your hip, between your legs, leaving a trail of suds for you to rinse off.

When he’s finished sudsing and you’re finished rinsing, he says, “Go wait for me in the bedroom,” so you swap places with him and squeeze the excess water from your body and hair. You step out onto the bath mat and wrap a towel around yourself, then tiptoe into the bedroom.

Across the patchwork quilt, Joel laid out your collar. You dry yourself off and fasten the leather strap around your neck, then wait for him in the middle of the bed with your legs crossed.

When Joel enters the room, it seems to shrink around him. Every inch of him is gleaming and dewy, his hairline all steely gray and combed back into damp, dark waves. He appraises you while tucking a ratty towel around his waist. You feel your shoulders pull back. Your spine uncurls, pointing straight at the ceiling.

His eyes flick around the room as he walks to the side of the bed and hooks a finger in the little loop of your collar, tugging you to your knees. You crawl to him, following his firm guidance until you’re eye-to-eye and just an inch or so apart.

Under the squeaky-clean soap scent lies something so unmistakably Joel. Woodsy and masculine, it cattle-prods your heart.

“What am I gonna do with you?”

Heat sparks from deep within you and blooms in your guts, your cheeks. You feel yourself arching towards him, leaning closer, trying to taste his breath.

Some smart-aleck answer parts your lips, but he preemptively interrupts you.

“Rhetorical question.”

An amused smile twitches the corners of his mouth.

His mouth.

You stare at it, fingertips buzzing with energy, yearning to feel the soft curve of his plush lips.

“Look at me.”

Your eyes flick to his, smoldering but critical. A wide, calloused palm lands on your waist and slides around to your backside, cupping the heft of your asscheek. You swallow hard. This thick, pulsing ache starts between your legs and makes you whimper. An attestation to your pliancy.

His throat rumbles and he pulls a sharp breath through his teeth. Joel likes the noise, because he knows what it means. It means you’re putty in his hands. Giving yourself over to him, letting him take control. He digs his fingers into the tender flesh of your ass and smirks when you gasp.

“That’s what you need, hmm?”

You nod, eyebrows drawing together, batting your lashes at him.

He doesn’t let up. Quite the opposite, actually, he grips you harder, rumbling out, “Jus’ need someone to take care of you? Fuck the angry out of you?”

Again, you nod.

He tugs on your collar, “Use your words.”

The grasp is bruising and constant and fucking delicious. Dropping your gaze, you breathe, “Yes si—”

“Look at me.”

Your cunt clenches around nothing as you comply, meeting his lust-blown eyes.

“Yes sir.”

“That’s better.”

Joel releases your ass cheek and tugs at your collar.

When his lips meet yours with a firm, ravenous kiss, urgency overcomes you. You clamber closer, hooking your hands behind his neck, dragging your nails through his damp curls. Each time the kiss renews, it gains traction, intensity, evident in his nips and groans, and his harsh, wandering touch. Grabbing your ass, your tits, your thighs. Pinching your nipples so hard you gasp and nod.

He buries his fist in your hair and pulls back, panting, “Turn around ‘n’ bend over.”

You do, reluctantly parting from his lips to spin 180° and raise your ass in the air, pressing your ear to the mattress.

“Close your eyes,” he knocks your knees further apart, and when you comply, letting your eyelids flutter closed, he murmurs, “That’s it. Now you’re gonna sit there and take what I give you, hmm?”

The rough pads of his fingers trail electric up your seam, ghosting along the hungry, aching nerves. You gasp and nod, “Yes sir.”

His throat rumbles, and his fingertips start to work your throbbing clit in hard-pressed circles. He’s heavy-handed in the way he touches you. It’s not delicate, or teasing, or gentle—it’s fucking perfect. Heat bubbles up your middle and spreads across your skin, pulling a whimper from your throat.

Joel’s free hand slides up your spine, his palm pressing firm and slow across every vertebrae, coaxing you to stretch your backbone, arching your hips towards him.

“There we go, that’s my good girl—”

You moan at the rush of pleasure his praise gives you. Your heart starts to thud, heavy and thick in your chest, and his hand between your legs starts to work you faster, jolting your center.

“Fuck, Joel—”

Another gravelly sound surfaces from his chest. He slaps your ass, hard and firm, and you gasp at the sharp sting. He does it again. The smack rings in your ears and the divine pain it’s coupled with resonates deep in your bones. He does it again and again and again, all the while rubbing your clit in vigorous, tight circles, growling out, “All fuckin’ wound up, acting out, this is what you needed, hmm?”

“Yes yes yes yes—”

The feeling at your center grows and spreads, building building building—then it swallows you whole. Your body convulses with pleasure so acute and overwhelming, you try to pull away from him, to close his hand between your thighs, but he grabs your hip and kneels on your calf, keeping you spread open.

“Don’t you run away from this,” he barks as you let out a choked sob, “You take this fucking like a good girl, you hear me?”

“It’s—fuck, it’s it’s—”

You want to tell him it’s too much, but the tide of pleasure draws you back with violent force and washes over you again. The noise that comes out of you is guttural, barely human, this half-howl, half-cry. It’s excruciating and overwhelming and so fucking good.

Joel chuckles, “That’s it, let it go, darlin’.”

You do. A sensation overtakes you, that’s warm and secure. The weight strapped to your shoulders, that skin-too-tight, noises-too-loud sort of feeling melts away and you nod, “Yes, sir.”

He withdraws his hand from between your legs and grabs your waist, bringing your bodies closer. The head of his cock nudges against your entrance and he plunges forward.

“Fuuuuuuuck,” you gasp as his thick, throbbing length slides into your well-lubricated cunt.

He splits you open cell-by-cell, his own needy moan mingling with yours, and tells you, “God, your pussy—fuck, that’s good—”

There’s no warm-up period. No sweet, slow strokes, or whispered words of comfort, or gentle anything. Immediately, he’s fucking you hard and fast. You push back against his harsh thrusts, each impact devastating and intoxicating and heady with a feral energy that fills your body with static.

Joel closes a fist in your hair and yanks, tilting your head to the ceiling, and you let out a long, sick moan that makes him groan with delight. His arm slips around you and pulls your back to his chest. Your head falls back on his shoulder, mouth gaping open to babble out, “So fucking good, fuck fuck fuck—I fucking love it, Joel, holy fuck—”

His big hand wraps around your throat and squeezes, restricting your airflow, and you let out wheezing, gasping breathes as he grunts in your ear, “Yeah you fucking do. Pussy jus’ needs a good pounding, that it? My little slut just needs to get fucked, hmm?”

You whimper and nod, as much as his grip will allow. His fingers crush your pulse, leaving you light-headed. The scraps of breath you manage to take in carry the sharp, tangy scent of sex. You revel in the feeling of him filling you over and over, each roll of his hips collects electric at your core, gaining traction and energy.

When you look up at him and meet the corner of his dark, lust-blown eyes, he releases his grip on your throat and pulls you into a heated kiss. Both of you start to take in short, frantic breaths, passing soft moans back and forth. That gooey static in your middle grows and grows. Your limbs start to quiver and you cry, “Oh my fucking god, Joel—you’re gonna make me come—”

“That’s it, babygirl, let it go.”

You do.

You let it consume you, a bright, blissful warmth that pulses through every inch of your body. Joel moans as your cunt clenches down around him, then pulls out in time to shoot his load onto the bedspread.

For a moment, the only things in existence are the two of you. His ragged breath in your ear, your heaving chests and empty minds.

He departs your body and stretches out on the bed with a groan. You only feel his absence for a second before he hooks his finger into your collar’s loop to pull you closer, “C’mere.”

An obedient creature, for the time being at least, you follow the suggestion and curl up at his side. You smooth your palm up his heated chest, all dewy with sweat, and admire his broad frame. His distinguished features. While surveying the map of scars and wrinkles and grays on his rugged exterior, your gaze meets his, and you find a remarkable softness there.

He seems to study you with the same sort of reverence as you do him.

“You’re beautiful, y’know that?”

It makes you smile, which, in turn, makes him smile. A gorgeous and rare spectacle. The expression carves out a dimple in his cheek and crinkles the corners of his eyes.

You scoot closer and kiss him, your lips soft, gentle. He kisses you back in a similar manner, slow and sweet, twisting your brain in a big, beautiful kaleidoscope of emotions.

The intimidation you felt when you met him, still hot-to-the-touch after all these years, tumbling around with tiny glimmering glass bits of desire and apprehension and pride and excitement and awe and dread and security.

And love.

Of course love, even though neither of you dare look at it directly. Only suckers allow such a thing to exist in this world. But it’s there, nonetheless. Weaving its way through each fragmented shard, pulling it all together.

#pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal #joel miller #joel tlou #joel the last of us #joel x reader #joel x you #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller x female reader #tlou fanfiction #joel miller smut #pedro pascal character fanfic #pedro pascal fanfiction #brat tamer joel miller #the last of us fanfiction #whatsnewalycat writes

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lavender-romancer · 6 months

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I'd Do Anything

Part Four Tommy Shelby x Reader

You met when you were sixteen and from there, your lives ebbed and flowed closer and further away from one another but there was always something that brought you together.

”*°•.˜”*°•. ˜”*°•. ˜”*°••°*”˜.•°*”˜.•°*”˜.•°*”˜

previous chapter

September 1918

It had now been three and a half years since you'd seen Tommy in person and some parts of you debated whether you fit into one another's lives anymore. Whenever you would eventually be reunited, nothing was guaranteed. The love you had before wouldn't be the same, you wouldn't be the same people or know how to interact like you did before. Everything would be so different. It was incredibly daunting but you didn't give too much time to those thoughts. You knew being close to the front of the second 1918 battle of the Somme was as close as you would get to Tommy for a while now. Assuming he was even in those trenches, the two of you hadn't spoken through letters for so long by this point.

You'd been writing to Polly the last few months. After many attempts to create a dialogue between you and Tommy you gave up, he wouldn't write back and soon you lost track of where his battalion was stationed. It seemed futile to try anymore so you wrote to others who wanted to hear what you had to say. Polly told you to focus on your work and not think about him. But it seemed harder with every day that passed, the more you felt disconnected from him. The string that had attached the two of you together since you were young felt like it was fraying.

Every small thing that had happened in your life felt insignificant when you looked into the eyes of soldiers. Your pain, your anguish paled in comparison to theirs. Even their eyes looked haunted, it was the worst at night on the ward when men would wake up screaming and then they would be sent back to the front once again. Sometimes they would beg to not be sent back, praying to God for their death to be quick and every night you seemed to be haunted by the possibility that Tommy longed for the release of death.

He didn't think he would be so close to the same front for so many years. He was only 25 miles away from where the Battle of the Somme had taken place. Digging out trenches for infantry and doing all the grunt work tunnelers preferred to their normal role underground. Tommy was just glad to not be back in La Bassée digging deep concrete dugouts during the cold winter last year. He was lucky he hadn't got frostbite on most days, it was relentless hours with few breaks and the constant anxiety that they would hit a mine or a water source that would flood the dugout.

Tommy never thought he'd be glad to be digging out trenches but he was, there was order and a method to all of it. After the Germans stabilised their trenches clay-kickers and engineers were ordered to dig stronger defenses with even deeper dugouts. All he could do was pray to a God he knew didn't exist that they wouldn't put him back underground. Mines weren't being used anymore but Tommy wouldn't believe he was free of the torment until the war was over. He couldn't do it again, he refused to hear the shovels again.

The Second Battle of the Somme ended in early September and you were reassigned to Hèbuterne. As you approached late October there were more and more whispers that a peace deal might be reached- irregardless of how impossible that seemed with the amount of casualties being reported.

The unlikely outcome of peace talks was reaffirmed when you were relocated again to Cambrai. There to give medical assistance to the allied forces pushing the German forces using tanks and other heavy machinery. In two days 12,000 allied men lost their lives and it was a victory. This fatality toll was better than earlier battles and you couldn't quite believe the brutality of it all. Soldiers recovering discussed how they had breached the Hindenburg Line. You wished you could talk to Tommy about it all, where was he? No one knew where tunneling units were given; it was supposed to be more secretive.

Your station didn't change for a while, you were to act as a walking wounded CCS and also a rest station for the XXII Corps. You always hated being a walking wounded CCS, it often felt like sending lambs out to slaughter after you had looked after them. Looking into those soldiers' eyes as you cleared them for duty after stitching them back up when all they wanted was to go home. Their eyes would plague your dreams more than when they would plead for a quick death, some of these men you had seen multiple times and by this point they wouldn't even plead.

After a week or so you walked into the huts to check on new patients as walking wounded was essentially a rotating door.

“Bullet only grazed you I see?” you asked, walking up to the first man.

“Y/n?” The voice asked and you looked up from your tray of sterile needles and implements. It was Arthur. The Arthur who had teased you and treated you like a brother for so many years, he looked like a frail shell.

“I-” you faltered before your eyes began to well up, it had been so long since you had seen anyone you loved that you didn't know how to react. Arthur just reached out and held your shaking hand.

“Come on, let's get this sorted and we can talk.” Arthur said softly, in the kindest voice you had ever heard. It refocused your brain, you went into an autopilot state of mind. You became a sister again, devoid of identity and there to help. After he was patched up your hands started shaking again and you both walked out to get some extremely watered down tea-it was essentially hot water.

The two of you sat down on a bench together, your dress covered in mud and a bit of blood on your sleeves, Arthur didn't look much different. There was a respectable distance between the two of you but you wanted to hug him so badly it was infuriating.

“I'm so glad you're alive.” Was all you could say.

“I could say the same for you. A lot of these places get bombed.” Arthur stared out at the littony of men under makeshift tents on stretchers.

“I'm not unfamiliar with it.” You paused, “Where have you been? Do you know where the brothers are?”

“I've been all around it feels like. Pulled from one place to another getting patched up and sent out again, it's a never ending cycle until I finally get shot on the head.” He spoke plainly and without emotion, every now and then bringing the mug to his lips.

“Cigarette?” You asked, offering him one. “I'm not exactly supposed to smoke but I don't know if it will matter after long, we could all be dead tomorrow.” Arthur brought out some matches and lit both of your cigarettes as you simultaneously breathed out smoke.

“I'm glad you're not in the trenches. I'm glad you're here but not any closer. I don't think I could take losing someone else, I haven't seen either of the boys in months, maybe years I can't remember.” Arthur looked up at the sky and placed his empty mug next to him on the bench. “It feels like time just throws you along, I don't think I've felt like a person until this very moment. I know I'll have to go home at some point but I don't think I'll ever feel human again.”

“Don't say that.” You turned to him.

“There's never just one direction, it's this fight then, this battle, then this wound, then this hospital and all of it round and round and round. My life is stuck in this fucking loop and my head… my head can't fucking live with it, I- I think I might be broken, Y/n.” Arthur looked at the ground with a sad expression, maybe it was pity for himself you weren't sure.

“There's rumors of peace talks.” You offered and he scoffed.

“It's just more fucking words. Words won't save anyone until they fucking mean something.” Arthur stubbed out his cigarette and stood up. “I need to report back, I think-” before he could finish you enveloped him in a hug that was so tight you thought he might burst. You held you close and sighed.

“I feel like a child when I hug you, like it all goes away and we're playing together in the street again.” You said quietly before drawing apart.

“It will never be like that again, Y/n. The sooner you accept that, the sooner you can try to live.” Arthur said with such sadness in his eyes before turning and heading towards his commanding officer to report back.

It was only a month later when the bloody thing ended. Even later than the 11th of November when you could finally go home. Transport was full, boats even fuller and you feared catching some sort of illness so you stayed. Liaising with nurses near Cambrai to help locals with any medical issue, writing to Polly and even traveling around in a mobile medical vehicle to make sure no one was left behind. It took close to two months and you all but forgot that you'd missed Christmas when you arrived back in Birmingham.

At no point had you ever taken leave. You didn't see the point since you knew you wouldn't want to go back to the front and it was your duty to be there. What could you do in Birmingham? Run the betting shop? What would be the point when everyday people were dying and you could have helped prevent some of it? No, you had made the right decision.

Tommy didn't know what to do with himself. He stared up at his ceiling with a blank mind, his eyes sunken with dark circles. How could he sleep when he heard the same thing, the shovels. The war hadn't killed him but he was convinced that he could be the one to do it.

“Thomas,” Tommy heard Polly call “Come downstairs.” He regrettably stood up and rubbed a hand down his face before walking downstairs, hearing surprisingly happy voices.

“I thought you'd never come back!” Finn yelled excitedly before jumping into someone's arms.

“She wasn't going to leave any of us, were you dear?” Polly asked with a raised eyebrow and then he heard your laugh- there was less emotion behind it.

“How could I ever leave such a troublemaker like you! Someone's got to give Polly a break.” You put Finn down and smiled at him.

Your gaze rose to the man in front of you, Tommy. Your Tommy. He didn't look like the man you remembered but you didn't care, you walked toward him and enveloped him in the same hug you gave Arthur months ago.

“I'm so glad you're alive.” You whispered close to Tommy's ear and his arms wrapped around you timidly at first before pulling you even closer.

It was your smell that made Tommy emotional. Not replying to letters kept home at an arm's length but when he had come home for a weekend's leave it would always be Finn asking for you that left a bitter taste in his mouth. He knew it was wrong to thrust you away with a lack of replying but he just couldn't do it.

“Tom, where is she?” Finn asked in a quiet voice as Tommy sat by the fire still in his uniform taking his boots off.

“She might not have been allowed to come home yet.” Tommy answered.

“But you're here? Are you not together?” His eyes looked even sadder.

“We both have important jobs but they don't work together,” Tommy paused. “I miss her too.” He replied looking into the fire.

“Why couldn't you come home?” Tommy buried his face in your neck and his words were slightly muffled. Polly pulled Finn by the hand and took him into the kitchen to give both of you some time.

“What did you say?” You asked softly, pulling back slightly. Tommy's head was bowed a small dim beam of light highlighting his jaw perfectly- his hair flopped over his face and you noted to take him to the barbers soon.

“Why didn't you come home?” He asked quietly and your breath hitched in your throat. “I understand what it's like out there. Polly and Finn won't understand but I do, even more so and I came back.”

“I couldn't bear it.” You said after a few moments, you walked forward and sat down on one of the steps of the creaking stairs. “I didn't know if any one of you was alive, I couldn't face this house without any of you. If I focussed on my work, on my routine, then I didn't think about if you were dead.” You looked at Tommy as he sat next to you, “You stopped writing. I thought you might be dead and Polly didn't have the heart to tell me.”

“Writing to you gave me solace at the start. When we all thought it would be over soon with some fucking diplomatic intervention,” he laughed coldly. “The further it got into the nightmare the more I didn't want to bring you into it.”

“Everything has changed from who we were before. But we can trust one another like never before.” You put your hand over his.

“And why can we trust one another more than before?” He asked with a slightly concerned face.

“Because at one or multiple points in the last few years, we have seen death or thought we were about to die. We're both broken.” Your finger traced up and down the top side of his hand.

The two of you sat in silence for a while, until Tommy turned his head to look at your face and the both of you hadn't realised how close you were. You had both aged and matured in different ways, both of you had a sadness behind your eyes that had never been there before. Being plagued by memories of such intense suffering had an impact, long hours and lack of proper nourishment making the two of you look very different to how you remembered. But it didn't matter, you were each other's person in one way or another. Leaning your foreheads against one another, your head's went quiet for a moment- you couldn't hear the screams of agony and Tommy could no longer hear the shovels.

Peaky blinders taglist: @queenofkings1212 @severewobblerlightdragon @cl5369 @fairypitou @stressedandbandobessed7771 @shadow-of-wonder @hipsternoionlylikeunicorns @curled-hair-red-lips @lucystivinsky1315 @lovemisshoneybee Series taglist: @swordofawriter @jessimay89 @globetrotter28 @marcysbear

#peaky blinders #tommy shelby #tommy shelby imagine #tommy shelby x reader #tommy shelby imagines #tommy shelby angst #peaky blinder fanfic #peaky blinders imagine #tommy shelby x you #tommy shelby x y/n #peaky blinders imagines #peaky blinders fanfic #bbc peaky blinders #peaky blinders tommy shelby #peaky blinder imagine #pre war tommy shelby #tommy shelby fluff #tommy shelby fiction

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passivenovember · 1 year

Text

wait until you taste me

Max says the dumbest shit in the world.

Billy forces himself, tooth and nail, to give the grace he never got to touch with his own two hands. She’s a teenager. She’s dumb and her nature is rose-colored. Heart-shaped fillers slipped covertly in that delicate space behind a splash of blue.

Her head is filled with hot air. Good intentions. Speckled with delusions that are charming when she’s not so reckless, and.

Billy doesn’t want to smash her hopes on ground in front of her.

Life will, eventually.

Life always does, but. Billy figures he could try and be the storm wall that protects her garden of wonder.

He gets over that real quick when she can’t do the same in return.

When she bats her eyelashes and says, “I’m glad you and Steve are friends, now,” at Sunday dinner the week before Spring Break.

In front of everyone.

Billy thinks her head is the size of the Hindenburg. She’s full of helium and she’s flying too close to the sun.

Neil tucks a wad of flavorless peas into his mouth. “Who’s Steve?” He asks.

And immediately, Billy’s walls shoot like salt pillars from the ground.

He weighs his options. What would happen if he got up from this table and ran? If he tucked Steve Harrington and his name and his reputation and his memory into a plastic bag and disappeared.

Billy’s got delusions of his own.

He’s full of quilted daydreams, stitched from every moment Steve has ever looked, smiled, laughed at one of Billy’s jokes. The thread is golden, the color of every late-night promise to drive Billy across county lines.

Billy’s delusions are plushy-soft comfort he’s not ready to bring out of the closet.

So he takes a sip of water. “Steve,” Billy says. “He’s. Steve Harrington.”

Neil leans forward. “Harrington?”

“Yes sir,” Billy wills his voice not to crack.

He’s reluctant to spoil this part of his exile. To call the hounds in, bloodthirsty, to trample and tear the thing he’s clutching like a spot of gold to his chest. He digs his heel into Max’s foot under the table and wishes he wasn’t in his Saturday lounge-around clothes. He yearns for his boots, to break a bone. Eye for an eye, to somehow cancel the marrow that’ll splinter in his face when Neil finds out the truth.

“Good family,” Neil says. Every syllable lands like crystalized hail. They clink and roll and clatter all around the dining room. “Might be a good influence.”

“He is good,” Max says happily. She kicks back. It stings. “Billy and him–”

“He and Billy,” Susan chimes, and Billy thinks how ironic that Susan would choose now to become a real person when she’s usually set dressing.

Reanimation, just to fire a canon and contribute to the sinking of Billy’s battleship.

Billy dabs his mouth with a wadded-up paper towel. “May I be excused?”

Neil’s eyes snap to, and for a single, terrifying moment, Billy thinks he remembers. Carlos. The Pier. California. He wasn’t too drunk, he wasn’t irate, he remembers–

But Neil. He nods, brows knitted with faux worry. “Everything alright, son?”

He only lives up to Billy’s expectation of him when it’s deserved. When Billy’s done something besides breathe, one inhale after the next.

“Just tired,” Billy says. Wonders what would happen if he ran.

–

Max says the dumbest shit in the world.

She’s a chick. She’s a girl with an attitude the size of Missouri and a tongue that can pierce the skin, and that’s where their similarities end, careening over the mouth of a cliff into nothingness.

Billy learns early on that if he wants any peace at all he’d better tune her out just short of plugging his ears with cotton and bloody fingertips and dynamite, so when the wailing reaches a fever pitch he can blow his head off and float far away from here.

Sometimes, though, Max’s scowl will clear and it’s like the Oracle is speaking through her.

You know, this garbage disposal noise you call music actually rocks. Or, I’ve been thinking about piercing one of my ears. It looks cool on you, I guess. And, when Billy needs to hear it most, your dad’s such an asshole.

She’s a wrecking-ball with no awareness of her swing.

And when she speaks, it’s not the same as I understand.

It’s not, I look at Neil, I see the way he wishes you were dead and I get it, now. Why you’ve always got a lit match in your palm, ready to burn the world to the ground.

When Billy least expects it, Max’s words are daybreak. Filled with light so blinding Billy's a bug under a microscope, slowly catching fire.

Two days before spring, Max slams out of her bedroom while Billy’s working on his bench press.

He hardly notices.

He’s floating, a little. Like a balloon. He’s listening to the new Tears for Fears album because Steve’s obsessed with it, and he’s pretty when he’s excited, and Billy’s a sucker for the plush, wide-lipped smiles that drip like gold from Steve’s face. “They’re good, Bills. They’re like if Halloween and Valentine's day had a baby.”

Billy’s stuck in a ground-hog day memory of the way Steve’s hair flopped into his eyes when he promised, “They’re like us.”

And.

Billy’s not paying attention. He’s at least twenty shoulder-presses in, he’s smiling, he doesn’t really notice when Max’s heavy, sock-feet steps don’t carry on through the living room, and that’s his first mistake.

Before Billy knows what’s happening, Max looms over him.

He feels, like the distant brush of a spiderweb on his back, Max glaring. Searching his face.

But Billy’s a ship lost in a sea of brown eyes.

He almost can’t find it within himself to be pissed that he can smell the peanut butter on her breath, almost, but then Max says, “You know Steve wants to kiss you, right?”

And Billy sits up so fast that he almost knocks himself out on the barbell.

“Woah, you’re bleeding,” Max steadies him, brows pinched with concern. “Are you–”

“You can’t say shit like that.”

“I’m just pointing out the obvious.”

Immediately, something warm starts to trickle over the right side of his face. “Shit,” He says, at the same time Max howls, “Oh, god, you’re bleeding–”

“What the fuck did you think would happen?” Billy tries not to move his head too much. He grips the edge of the bench until the leather splits like canyons until he’s sure the pads of his fingers will separate, too.

“I’m sorry,” Max babbles, “I didn’t mean to–”

The house is silent.

Beyond the throbbing in his skull and past the strangled, nervous way Max is breathing while she waits for him to strangle her to death, there’s nothing.

All of Hawkins might as well be gone. Deleted from the page like a bad line of poetry. Billy wonders what would happen if the drapes parted from the window. Would anything stare back at him? Streets and mailboxes and cloud-covered skies. Would the black cosmos would press hard against the glass, would their refuge of plaster and slate would crumble under the weight of the universe–

“They’re not home,” Max says. Every space monster to his roost.

Billy nods, wincing at the pain that fries and curdles behind his right eyebrow.

Max steadies him. “Shit, do you need some ice?”

“Don’t need ice, I need a rag,” Billy says, “And a beer.”

“You don’t need a beer.”

“Fuck off.”

“I’m serious,” Max tells him, arms crossed. “If you have a concussion the last thing you want to do is get drunk–”

“I’m not gonna get drunk off one beer, shitstain.”

“Billy.”

“Max,” Billy snarls, working to push his voice fifteen octaves higher until they sound exactly the same.

Max lopes furiously down the hall, returning a second later with crisp, beaded PBR in one hand and a wet rag in the other. Billy dabs his brow with the scratchy fabric, knowing Neil will reem him later for getting blood all over Susan’s good cloth.

Billy can’t think about that, now.

He reaches for the PBR and Max tugs it out of reach.

“Max–”

“I’m just. In biology, we’ve been reading about fetal alcohol syndrome.”

Billy feels like he got pushed in front of a train and whacked his temple on a railroad spike. “I’m not a fetus.”

“No, but our bodies are still developing,” Max says, like Billy’s an idiot. He’s thick and dumb and ridiculous for not paying attention in eighth-grade science class and knowing that the legal drinking age is twenty-one for a reason.

Billy doesn’t give a damn about that. “You made me split my brow, dipshit.”

“That’s not really my fault,” Max bargains. “I was just saying that Steve–”

Billy yanks the beer from Max’s hands. “Shut up,” He insists, nails burrowing under the pop-top, but just as Billy’s about to crack the seal and give himself over to the only thing in the world that would soothe his agony, Max is on him.

“I’m worried about your brain,” She says, just short of tackling him off the bench, and.

Well.

She hollers. When she’s keeping secrets. When she’s trying to get her way. And Billy squints his eyes, ready to reiterate she has nothing to worry her stupid redhead over and it’s not really her place to worry about him, anyhow–

“You might have a concussion.”

“And you might have a death wish.”

“What’s it taste like, anyway,” Max wonders. “If it’s so good. It looks like root beer.”

“It tastes like piss.”

“Why do you drink it so mu–” When Billy glares, sharper than a new glade, Max bristles like a porcupine, “Look, I’m sorry I scared you–”

“You didn’t scare me,” Billy snaps. Spiders scare him, locked jaws and missed curfews and slashed tires scare him. Not little red-headed stepsisters who can’t mind their fucking business.

Billy wants to throw the PBR at her.

Steve scares him. Steve–

Billy presses the can to his eyebrow, instead, hissing through his teeth at the feeling.

Max’s shoulders drop, “Thanks for not drinking it,” She mutters, and it’s so sincere, so steeped in the sisterly worry Neil’s always preaching about, that Billy can’t swallow the question that bubbles up his throat like strawberry perfume.

He has to know, “Why do you think Steve wants–”

“Whenever he watches you talk he always gets that look on his face.”

“What face?”

Max’s sneakers sing on the hardwood, dragging like nails against the chalkboard in Billy’s mind that’s been scrubbed clean and scribbled with Steve’s name, over and over and over again. “The blank one. You know, like when boys are about to kiss you and every thought flies out of their head like–”

“How do you know what that face looks like,” Billy demands, stomach turning over on itself when her freckles burn away in shades of red.

“Lucas–”

“God, that’s sick.”

“Don’t be an asshole. Just because Steve’s a loser and you’re a raging dickhole with a face only a mother could love–”

Billy winces, his molars grinding. It has nothing to do with the pain. Nothing to do with split brows and annoying sisters. “You’re one to talk, I can’t even look at you without wanting to Ralph.”

Max rolls her eyes. Deflates. “Sorry,” She says, soft and small, and.

She’s eyeing the PBR. Neil would kill Billy if he ever found out, but.

Billy cracks the beer and hands it to her. “Get lost before my head stops swimming.”

–

Steve’s fridge has the warmest light Billy’s ever seen, but maybe Billy’s just high.

The glow cuts him from marble. He’s the work of artists long dead, the picture of beauty. Billy sways against the kitchen sink, feeling very much like he could fall asleep to the soft harmony of ketchup bottles and pickle jars making a grab for the fairytale prince.

It’s Friday. Just before spring break. They’re staring down a two-week barrel of nothing but lazy mornings and hazy midnights and each other.

Miles and miles of nothing but this.

Billy’s excited. He could live forever in this moment, and the thought bubbles laughter out of him, surprised and happy.

Steve looks at him, startled out of thought. “What’s so funny?”

“Nothing.”

Steve smirks, and. His nose is perfect in the refrigerator light. Billy never noticed before. He re-shelves a jar of olives, the fancy cheese-stuffed kind, and tugs a hand through his hair. “What are you even hungry for?”

“Whatever you want,” Billy chews on his thumbnail, stomach churning.

“Nothing sounds good. I don’t think I’ve got food in here, anyway.”

Billy watches him open a bag of sliced cheese. Is so warm and content he could fall asleep next to the bread box. “What do you call that?”

“Not food.”

“It’s food.”

“It’s ingredients, that’s not the same thing,” Steve pulls a slice from the bag, folding it a million times until it splits evenly down the middle.

“It’s food, Harrington, it’s a whole meal,” Billy smiles in spite of himself when Steve nibbles on one half and holds the other, grinning, out in front of him. “No, I’m not–”

“Don’t even try it, Hargrove, I know you get the munchies when you’re stoned,” Steve wiggles the cheese at him, eyes big and brown and as expectant as they are beautiful, so.

Billy pops the cheese slice and eats it without tasting anything.

Steve watches him, unblinking, “Well, what do you think?”

“It’s cheese.”

“Yeah, but you’re not full, right? Because there’s only more of that if we stay here.”

“Where else would we go?” Billy frowns, not getting it. The cheese is better than the single-packaged shit Susan gets from Melvalds. It’s smoky, and aged, and Billy could polish the whole bag if he wasn’t worried about the cheese farts.

Steve fiddles with the corner of the bag, avoiding Billy’s eyes, “We could go out–”

“Close the fridge. You’re letting all the cool air out and now our dinner is gonna spoil.”

“Our dinner is not a bag of cheese,” Steve grumbles, but he hip-checks the door, collapsing onto his elbows in front of the paper towel dispenser. He tugs at his hair until it looks like it hurts, until his sprouting laugh lines disappear, and Billy hates it.

He wants them back.

He swims through the fog, trying to think of something funny to make Steve smile, but Harrington’s already pushing away from the counter, frown deep-set. “Why don’t you ever wanna eat anything when you’re here?” He demands.

And Billy can’t say that it’s the fault of his kid sister. That her insane, paranoid ramblings about love and blank expressions have gotten under his skin, and now everything Steve does feels like the start of something else.

Billy can’t admit that he wants it to be something else, so. “I eat popcorn sometimes.”

“I’m not talking about snacks, I mean real food,” Steve says. He studies Billy’s face, “Do you get your energy through photosynthesis or something?”

Billy laughs, loud and sudden. “No, I just–”

“I could cook for you.” Billy almost brains it on the spotlessly tiled floor because Steve’s eyes get bigger, somehow. Sparkling with earnestness. Steve shuffles, hands on his hips. “I want to cook for you,” He says, like it means something else entirely.

And whatever it is. Billy can’t handle that.

He bristles, says, “I don’t feel comfortable eating anything that costs more than the house Max and I live in,” Hoping it’ll sink the lifeline Steve’s trying to throw him.

“It’s just organic shopping,” Steve shoots back.

Which. “Huh?”

“It’s got like, less sugar. And preservatives, or something,” Steve shrugs, tongue darting pink and swift across his cupid’s bow. “My mom does the shopping when she’s home.”

Billy frowns. “Well, I’m not eating half of your mom’s paycheck. What will you eat?”

“You know, making dinner for you means I’ll get some, too,” Steve says. A smile tugs lazily at the corners of his perfect, clever mouth, and Billy is swallowed by anticipation.

There’s nothing he loves more in the entire world, probably, than seeing the subtle birth of each smile. The way Steve paints them on as if he were writing secret letters addressed to Billy, slipping them between the folds of conversation so Billy is surprised whenever they unfurl and bloom like tulips in the springtime.

Steve’s eyes hunt over his face, “You’re sure you’re not a plant? A sunflower?” Steve asks. He scoots close, fingers reaching to tilt Billy’s head toward the kitchen light, “Look like one to me,” He says, and.

Out of nowhere, his face goes carefully blank. His eyes land somewhere and stick, like the spindly legs of a fly to trapping paper.

Steve is watching Billy’s mouth.

He’s leaning forward, he’s–

Somewhere, in the back of Billy’s mind, Maxine bangs on a door labeled No Admittance, hollering about the way boys look when they want to kiss you.

It scares Billy, how much he wants it.

How much it would kill him if it never happens.

“I’m not a fucking plant,” Billy says, shrugging away. He stares wildly around the kitchen, his heart pounding like a drum in his chest. “This kitchen is disgusting.”

Steve watches him, quietly amused as Billy pretends to find something on the counter to scrub.

Billy works a damp paper towel over every inch of the counter, putting an island between them so Steve doesn’t have the chance to swoop close. Get his hands on Billy’s face.

Those fingertips would send sparks flying.

Billy would char and burn and bubble over, so.

Steve watches him for a quiet moment and Billy avoids his eyes, terrified of what he’ll find when he has to stop scrubbing the counter. “What are you doing?”

Eventually, the marble will come away on the paper towel. “Cleaning,” Billy says. “If we’re going to eat a bag of cheese in here, it’s gotta be spotless.”

“Wanna go to Benny’s?” Steve asks.

Billy stares at him, then, stomach growling on command.

Steve’s answering smile is brighter than the harvest sun. Billy could sprout into fields of marigolds, he could be picked and kept forever in a vase on the fireplace mantle. “I don’t want you to feel like you’ve gotta clean up after me,” Steve tells him.

Guilt, sharp and swift, pangs in Billy’s stomach. He wants to insist that it’s no bother. That he’s used to cleaning up after Max and sweeping away the delicate bits of himself that clatter to the ground. And even if there were fruit punch stains all over the marble, the remnants of Steve living everyday in this house, Billy wouldn’t mind cleaning up after him.

Billy wouldn’t mind taking care of him.

Steve shuffles around the island, smile sheepish and cute. “C’mon, we can have pancakes.”

“I want chicken strips.”

“Alright.”

“And a double chocolate rootbeer float with ranch–”

“For your ice cream?” Steve teases, “That’s disgusting.”

“For my fries, asshole,” Billy shoves him playfully, “Do you want to feed me dinner or not?”

Steve rocks away and lands closer, cheeks red like strawberry ice cream, “I want to do a lot of things for you,” He admits quietly, and.

That face is back again.

Billy wants to pull away, but he’s caught. Steve catches him, hook and line, says, “Billy–”

And Steve kisses like he’s never done it before, but has always wanted to try. Like he’s been waiting his whole life and every one before that for Billy. For this moment. High spring nights and empty stomachs and yearning, soft as fresh soil.

His fingers thread into the curls at the base of Billy’s skull.

Their knees bump together, Billy grabbing onto Steve’s shoulders to stop from falling back against the trash can.

The kiss opens up.

Gets sloppy and good and Billy could live here forever. His lips could swell and melt into Steve’s and it would be perfect.

Steve pulls away, but he stays close. Their lips brush on every desperate breath. “Sorry my kitchen is disusting,” He says.

Billy can’t think straight. “I’ll clean it for you.”

“Let’s stay in,” Steve says. He kisses Billy’s jaw and both eyelids, licking slowing into his mouth.

Billy throws the paper towel in the garbage can.

For the first time in his life, he’s full.

For an anonymous donor! I hope you enjoyed this drabble :)

#harringrove #harringrove for turkey #fluff

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northirish · 1 year

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Considering how venereal diseases rampaged through some armies during WW1 I wouldn't go near a "dangle parade" if I was a regimental surgeon unless I was armed with a gasmask and the thickest pair of welding gloves this side of the Hindenburg Line

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captain-price-unofficially · 6 months

Text

Australian soldiers of the 1st and 4th Divisions under the command of Lieutenant General Sir John Monash fighting during an attack on the Hindenburg Line

#wwi #western front (wwi)#european theater #hundred days offensive

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queen-susans-revenge · 3 hours

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Things My Momma Taught Me

(reprinted: I actually wrote this years ago, but just stumbled across it again. And we're not too far off Mother's Day, so.)

So I was walking around the Tenderloin looking for stray twenty-dollar-bills that might have fallen into gutters, and I was thinking, as I often do, about my mother.

A few years ago my mom got all upset because she heard that today's youth lacked moral guidance. So she sat me down and she said, "Daughter," she said:

Don't ever cross a picket line.

Work for Greeks.

Don't you ever eat something that you find dead at the side of the road, unless you were in the car that killed it.

I'm not sure where my mom got her fine Depression-era set of ethics, except that I think she heard the last one on a radio show. Her enduring affinity for Greek employers (and her corresponding loathing for the French) probably stems from her experience working as a waitress in Alsace and Italy. Apparently, if you innocently drop a plate full of spaghetti in somebody's lap, and they have to go and make a big stink about it, your Greek boss will defend you, whereas your German boss will take the comp'ed meal out of your paycheck, and your French boss will probably slap you across the face.

Anyway, it's the first point that really stuck with me: I'm convinced that, in the Final Judgement, when the goddess Ma'at weighs our hearts on her golden scales, the murderers will make out better than the scabs. (And bad tippers will be thrown straight into the jaws of the crocodile.)

But speaking of my mom's international wisdom:

It's best if you don't eat raw oysters in a Mexican street market.

Here followed a tale of heartbreak and amoebic dysentery. But my mom survived both the oysters and the French, and pulled herself up by her bootstraps to become the world's leading eastern North-American paleoethnobotanist, which was always a lot of fun to write in the little blank under "Mother's Occupation." Now when she calls me up, her conversation tends to go something like this:

"It turns out you can tell the species of acorn just by looking very closely under the microscope. So that's very exciting. I'm going to have to try that on my own acorns when I get home. Mmph. Excuse me. I was pulling a cork out of a wine bottle, with my teeth."

But all intrepid globetrotting archaeologists need their endearing phobias. For Indiana Jones it was snakes. For my mom it's blimps. I don't know if she was a Hindenburg victim in a past life or what, but it's really no fun being in a car with her if there's a Goodyear Blimp in sight. She keeps scanning the sky anxiously, wondering if it's following her, wondering if it's watching us. Also among her bizarre phobias is the conviction that I'll be sent to jail someday…ha ha! Trés absurd!

Laugh, damn you.

Anyway, back to the blimp thing. For a woman of science, Mom is actually very attuned to signs and portents. There was this one time that a headless pigeon fell from the sky, literally at her feet.

These are bad times.

"These are bad times," she told me. "Bad times, when headless pigeons fall from the sky." And I can't deny it.*

But the last thing my mom taught me, the biggest thing really, and more important than Fortean events, is the definition of love. I remember when I was a little kid, I got worms. Just like a dog. Tiny little white wrigglers that squimed around in my asshole. And they itched and would keep me awake at night. So I remember that, in the weeks it took for my de-worming pills to work, my mom would spend an hour or so every night picking these worms out of my butt so that I could get to sleep.

That is love, in all its shocking profundity. When you spend hours picking worms out of somebody's buttcrack, that is love.

So, I love you too, Mom. Thanks for picking the worms out of my butt. Thanks for getting me drunk all those times. Thanks for teaching me right from wrong, and thanks, in advance, for posting my bail.

Happy Mother's Day.

*later she called me back up to tell me it was a good portent actually. It happened because a hawk had moved in to the neighborhood.

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alchemistoftheend · 1 month

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The Piper (Case #9220611)

Pre-Statement

Statement of Staff Sergeant Clarence “Lucky” Berry, regarding his time serving with Wilfred Owen in the Great War.

Original statement given November 6, 1922.

Date of Event(s): 1917-1918

Statement

Wilfred was the only person he knew that ever saw The Piper

tf does he have against poets???

“There was an emptiness to it and every time he tried to put the war into words it just sounded trite, like there was no soul to what he had to say”

Wilfred had a habit of trailing off and tilting his head when reciting his poetry, as though his attention had been taken by a far-off sound

They were assigned to attack the Hindenburg Line near Savy Wood, pushing towards trenches on the west side of St Quentin.

Wilfred was unusually quiet, Lucky attempted to raise his morale but he shushed the Sergeant, and turned his head to listen.

“At the time I didn’t know what it was he was hearing but it kept him silent”

During the charge, Lucky got caught in barbed wire and saw Wilfred

standing, blank-faced, and his head swaying to some silent rhythm.

then he heard it, a faint, piping melody

“It’s whistling tune was unmistakable, and struck me with a deepest sadness and a gentle creeping fear”

There was a single gun shot, hitting Wilfred before he was hit by a mortar shell, he didn’t return with the wounded soldiers

A week and a half later, a scouting party found Wilfred in a crater along with the remains of Joseph Rayner

a man had just died, and nobody had noticed except Wilfred

“I met the war.”

He said it was no taller than he was and had three faces. One to play its pipes of scrimshawed bone, one to scream its dying battle cry and one that would not open its mouth, for when it did blood and sodden soil flowed out like a waterfall. Those arms not playing the pipes were gripping blades and guns and spears, while others raised their hands in futile supplication of mercy, and one saluted. It wore an olive green, wool coat, underneath—where it was not stained black—was a body beaten, slashed and shot and until nothing remained but the wounds themselves.

The piper came to claim Wilfred, who begged for his life.

It paused its tune before offering him a pen.

Wilfred knew he would live to play its tune but it would return for him one day.

Wilfred was wearing the same look he had before the shell hit and for a moment I could have sworn I once again heard that music on the breeze

Since then, every time they went over the top he watched the soldiers faces

A few of the men seemed distant, and were slightly tilting their heads, like they were listening to the distant music

Those men never returned

to pay the piper

the debt of Hamelin, who for their greed had their children taken from them, never to be returned.

I began to wonder: were we the children stolen from their parents by The Piper’s tune? Or were we the rats that were led to the river and drowned because they ate too much of the wealthy’s grain?

Even now, I can’t hear Exposure without being back in that damned trench at wintertime.

“I can say without a word of a lie that across all the war I never saw a soldier fight with such ferocity as I saw in him that day”

I hasten to add that that statement is not given in admiration – the savagery I saw in him as he tore into a man with his bayonet… I’d just as soon forget it

I could have sworn that I saw him cast a shadow that was not his own.

“Almost over now, Clarence,” Wilfred said

He sat there staring quietly for some time, Clarence could I knew he was listening to The Piper’s tune.

Wilfred Owen died crossing the canal at Sambre-Oise two days later.

He stopped turned to Clarence with a smile on his face

At that moment, a trickle of blood start to flow from an opening hole in his forehead.

But here, the bullet hole simply opened, like an eye, and he fell to the ground, dead.

It was on that day the first overtures of peace were made between the nations,

Clarence believed that very moment, when Wilfred fell, that the peace was finally assured.

Post-Statement/Thoughts

There are no follow-ups for this statement as it is too old

Jon feels like he’s heard the name ‘Joseph Rayner' before

Let’s start with the entity of this episode, the slaughter

war and what not

First of all, Wilfred Owen is a real man who wrote war poetry and died a week before Armistice

tbh i’m a little scattered brained and don’t know where to start

not that this episode was overwhelming i’ve only sleep for about 2 hours

anyways, let’s start with the description of war/the slaughter

three heads

play its pipes of scrimshawed bone

scream its dying battle cry

one that would not open its mouth, for when it did blood and sodden soil flowed out like a waterfall.

The slaughter seems to also be associated with music

a faint, piping melody that silenced those who hear it and condemns them to die

it’s also disturbing to those who hear it

Lucky describes the feeling as “striking me with a deepest sadness and a gentle creeping fear” and the music brought Wilfred to tears

Wilfred Owen’s Exposure, now i could analyze this poem but it’s 7:28 am on a Monday so moving on

to pay a piper: an idiom that means to face the consequence of one’s actions/decisions esp when accepting the responsibility of choosing a particular course of action

Originating from the story “The Pied Piper of Hamelin”

the town on hamelin gets overrun by rats, spreading disease and ruining crops. the townspeople try to exterminate them and failed. Then, a man named Pied Piper offers to solve the problem using his magical pipes. The people agree to pay him and with his tunes lire the rats into into the Weser river and they drown. however, when the piper came back to town the people refused to pay him liked they had agreed, feeling betrayed piper decided to get his revenge. the next day, as the townspeople gathered in the church piper plays a different tune on his pipes to lure the children out of the town never to be seen again

so to pay the piper: the debt of Hamelin, who for their greed had their children taken from them, never to be returned

When Clarence says “were we the children stolen from their parents by The Piper’s tune? Or were we the rats that were led to the river and drowned because they ate too much of the wealthy’s grain?” i know that certainly means something 🫤

i’m so tired pls help

context woohoo, so when the slaughter or i guess the piper takes soldier were they being punished for the own greed for the greed or someone else’s

something something music

this was weird “but here, the bullet hole simply opened, like an eye”

it’s probably a stretch to say that this was the referencing the entity, the eye but idk

also wtf would The piper/slaughter give Wilfred a pen

“The piper came to claim Wilfred, who begged for his life. It paused its tune before offering him a pen. Wilfred knew he would live to play its tune but it would return for him one day”

ok now that i think about i believe this has to do with wilfred’s war poetry

i don’t know how to put it but i think the pen was for the Wilfred to immortalize the war. He wrote poetry well before he met the piper but at best it was described as trite, like there was no soul to what he had to say, but then after his encounter with the slaughter his poetry gains widespread popularity. Lucky (Clarence) himself, who described his work was lifeless, later says that he couldn’t help but feel like new works sent him back to being stuck in those icy, barren trenches

#rusty quill #the magnus archives #tma podcast #tma shitpost #magnus institute #jonathan sims

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karahalloway · 9 months

Text

Mission:Cordonia - Hard Drive

Fandom: TRR x Mission: Impossible II

Pairing: Drake Walker x F!OC (Harper Gale)

Series: Mission: Cordonia

Synopsis: Drake drives after Harper and things get wild, in more ways than one...

Word count: 3,700

Rating/Warnings: E (swearing, road rage, all kinds of dangerous driving do not try this at home)

Chapter theme song:

A/N: So, I apparently had too much fun writing Game of Thieves, so after I finished it, my mind decided that it would be great idea to create a follow-up exploring the car-chase scene from Drake's POV. So, here we are! There will probably be two more parts after this.

A/N2: The clip (for anyone who hasn't seen the movie, or doesn't remember) is below. Enjoy!

youtube

Hard Drive

"Dammit..." I cuss under my breath as she drives off.

As asset recruitment went, that had crashed and burned like the Hindenburg.

Not that I strictly know why I need to recruit her in the first place.

Apart from the very clear directive I received in my mission brief.

...you may select any two team members, but it is essential that the third team member be Harper Gale. She is a civilian, and a highly capable professional thief. You have forty-eight hours to recruit Miss Gale and meet me in Stormholt to receive your assignment...

In and of itself, such an instruction — while rare — isn't that left field. Because even though IMF prefers to operate in the shadows, there are times when the mission parameters call for third-party assists. To gain access. To throw off suspicion. To provide specialist expertise.

So, over the years, I've found myself teaming up with all manner of civilians — from world-renowned scientists, through morally shady politicians, all the way down to your entry-level gang-banger in order to get a mission over the line.

But Gale isn't any of those things. She's a common thief. Admittedly a drop-dead gorgeous and bitingly sassy thief who's quick on her feet... but a common thief nevertheless. And those are a dime a dozen. In both IMF, and the underworld.

So, that doesn't explain why The Secretary has gone to such pains to single her out as a mission-critical part of this assignment.

Which means that he obviously knows something I don't.

But I'm not gonna find out what by standing on the Beaumonts' drive like a moron.

"Hey, Pete," I call, turning back around. "One more for you."

The valet manager deftly catches the token that I toss to him. "Right away, Mr Dallas."

"Thanks," I acknowledge as I pull out my phone.

One of the upsides of having had to pretend to be the Beaumonts' external security consultant over the past couple of days is that I'm now on a first name basis with most of the staff.

Which definitely pays dividends when you need something done quick.

Like I do now.

Unlocking the encrypted device while Pete radios through for my ride, I tap on the tracking app and enter the number that I pulled off her phone while waiting for her to crack the safe.

Because somehow, I'd known I'll end up in this exact situation.

After a few moments' calibration, the software throws up a map with a flashing red dot in the centre.

I feel the corner of my mouth twitch. You can run, but you can't hide, girl...

"Your vehicle, Mr Dallas," advises the valet, pulling up in front of me.

"Perfect timing," I grin, pulling my wallet out to extract some notes to stuff into his breast pocket as he exits the car.

"Oh, th-thank you, sir," he stammers, clearly unaccustomed to receiving a healthy tip for his services.

"You're welcome," I nod, getting behind the wheel of the Porsche 918 Spyder.

Besides the fact that the average Joes manning these kinds of events made fuck all money while the guests drank champagne costing several grand a pop, it always paid to cultivate goodwill with the staff. Not just from a common decency point of view, but also because you never know when you’re gonna need their eyes and ears.

So, parting with a couple hundred Euros, or a favour, in exchange for potentially priceless intel down the line is always a fair trade in my book.

"Have a wonderful evening!" enthuses the still star-struck valet as he closes the driver's side door 'round.

"Yeah. We'll see about that," I mutter under my breath as I slot my phone into the cup holder at the top of the centre console.

The evening hasn't exactly gone to plan so far...

But, as The Secretary likes to say, this was Mission: Impossible, not Mission: Difficult.

Which means that even though Gale would probably like nothing more than to shoot me on sight, I have to go after her. And somehow convince her to change her mind.

Otherwise, I'm gonna be up shit creek with this mission...

...and with The Secretary.

And neither of those things is something I'm particularly keen on letting happen. Now, or ever.

So, pressing my foot down, I throw the car into drive and take off with a throaty roar as the naturally aspirated 4.6-liter V-8 kicks the 608 horses under the hood to life.

And, despite the height of the stakes, I feel a grin spread over my face.

Fuck, this car's something else!

Thanks to the less-than routine nature of my work, I frequently find myself behind a wheel. Planes, trains, automobiles — I've driven them all. But I can still count on one hand the machines that have simply taken my breath away.

And the 918 is one of them.

Because despite the fact that it doesn't come with the covetous price tag of a Koenigsegg, or the iconic lines of a Ferrari, the 918 is still a work of art. Not only does it go like shit off a shovel, but it also handles like a dream. Which means you're not crapping yourself every time a high-speed corner comes around.

And for these unlit, backcountry roads that I'm about to drive, that is critical.

Reaching the end of the gravel-lined drive, I spin the car out onto the main road and open up the throttle.

Gale is already a good few miles ahead of me, and — based on the way she hightailed it off the estate earlier — has no intention of slowing down. So, I'm gonna have to step on it if I want to keep pace with her.

As even though I have a lock on her carrier signal, her phone could be a burner — she could decide to turn it off, trash it, or leave it in a dumpster somewhere. And I'm up against the clock, so I don't have time to play hide-and-seek across the width of the continent with her.

Probably shouldn't've told her about the alarm...

But, hindsight's always 20-20.

Not that that necessarily would've changed my decision.

Because despite the fact that I need her professional skill set, I couldn't let her swindle the Duke out of his priceless heirloom. For one, it had merely been convenient bait. And for another, next week's auction is all that stood between the Beaumonts and bankruptcy.

And while I may operate in the shadows, I'm not a complete ass.

Plus, I'd wanted to be up front with her. From the very start.

Because nothing sinks a team like secrets and bad blood. And I'd much rather deal with any potential fallout now, before the start of the actual mission, than smack, bang in the middle of it when a lack of trust has the potential to claim actual lives.

And — if I'm being honest with myself — I kinda like the chase. It makes the eventual win taste that much sweeter.

Especially with a woman like Gale.

I swallow an inadvertent groan as my mind falls back to the feel of her pressed up against me in the tub, her eyes flashing with defiance, and a hint of—

I shake my head. Focus, Walker.

But the Beaumonts' unexpected interruption had been worth it. Because it'd convinced me that despite her civilian status, she has exactly the right combination of brains and balls needed to not only stay alive, but actually be an asset on this mission.

But, I don't have her yet. And if I'm gonna finish reeling her her, timing will be key.

So, as I spot a pair of Mercedes tail lights in the darkness, I ease off the gas.

Because her emotions are already running high and I don't want to spook her further by making her think that she's being tailed.

Especially not on these blind-spot riddled roads, in the middle of the night, where one moment of inattention could easily become your last.

And what I definitely don't need right now is my mark ending up in the ER — or worse, the morgue — because I let the heat of the moment get the better of me.

Best that I just hang back, let the dust settle, and re-engage upon arrival at our destination. When she's hopefully calmer.

Key word — hopefully.

Because let's face it. I'd be pretty pissed off too if some asshole'd fucked me out of a six-figure payday.

So, I can't exactly blame her for her explosive reaction.

But, unfortunately for her, there's a lot more at stake here than a jewellery heist gone wrong. Like stopping an IMF agent-turned-rogue operative from unleashing a virus so deadly that it makes Ebola look like a common cold.

Better pray she's got a conscience...

Rounding the bend, we come upon the lights of the town of Ramsford.

But, despite the fact that we're entering an urban environment, Gale blows past the 50 km/h speed limit sign like it doesn't exist.

"Christ, girl..." I grumble under my breath.

And even though I told myself mere minutes ago that I was gonna hang back and give her space, as I see her whip the roadster 'round a narrow corner at breakneck speed, I find myself throwing my original plan out the window as I press pedal to the metal to keep pace with her.

Because while I don't want to lose her, I also know that engaging in a midnight drag race through the streets Ramsford's only gonna result in one thing — the cops coming out of the woodworks to breathe down our neck, and Gale even more pissed off at me than she is already.

So, I need a Plan B.

Skimming my thumb over the controls on the steering wheel, I pull up her number and hit dial...

...and pray that I can talk some sense into her.

The ring of the pending call echoes out from the Spyder's infotainment system once... twice... thrice...

She finally picks up after the fifth ring. "Hello...?"

"Would it kill you to slow down?" I ask dryly.

I see her stiffen as her gaze flies up to the rear view mirror in disbelief.

I flash my headlights at her in response.

"How the hell did you get this number?" she demands as she manages to find her voice again.

"You got your tricks, I got mine," I tell her simply, easing up on the gas slightly as I pull up behind her.

"Yeah, you're a regular David Copperfield," she snarks down the line.

"I prefer Darren Brown, personally..."

"Hmm..." she purrs. "Then you're really gonna love this trick."

The call goes dead.

I shake my head with a scoff. 15-Love to Gale.

But the match ain't won yet. And I'm not backing off that easy.

So, hitting redial on her number, I wait for the call to reconnect...

...but all I get is radio silence.

"You wanna play it like that, huh?" I say under my breath as I swing the Spyder out into the oncoming lane.

Luckily, at this hour, the roads are deserted. But that doesn't means that they're gonna stay that way for long. Which means the time for games is up.

Opening up the throttle, I force my car up alongside hers. Raising my voice so that'll carry over the roar of the engines, I shout, "Pull over and listen to me, will ya? Just listen!"

"Yeah!" she scoffs in reply. "'Cause that worked out so well for me last time!"

"You walked away, remember?" I remind her. "Can't guarantee that'll be the case next time 'round."

Her gaze snaps defiantly to mine. "Is that a threat?"

"It's simple maths!" I tell her. "You can't evade the law forever! Especially not with a Red Notice hanging over you. But if you help me, I can make all that go away."

"Go aw—?" Her eyes suddenly widen. "Holy shit! You're a spy!"

I answer her with a self-deprecating shrug. It paid the bills.

She recollects herself to throw me a sly look. "Prove it!"

Without warning, she rams her Mercedes into me.

"Jesus fuck!" I cuss as the Sypder lurches to the side from the impact, it's rims scraping the curb.

Flipping me the bird, Gale punches the gas to dive back in front of me, whipping her car 'round a tight bend.

Spitting profanities under my breath, I yank the Spyder back onto the road.

She wants to play rough? I'll play rough.

Throwing the engine over to sport mode, I reach for the seatbelt over my shoulder and click it into place as I throw the car after her, the rev counter on the dash going mental as the engine doubles down.

And despite the adrenaline-fuelled chase, I can't help but grin.

This girl's definitely something else...

And she's sure as hell determined to make me work for it. Or — at the very least — give me hell for the way I screwed her over back at the Beaumonts.

Either way, she's got my blood pumping, and she knows it.

Which makes me even more determined to catch her.

We hit a round-about, and Gale looks like she's going straight over...

...but at the last second, she slams her car hard to the left to take the third exit instead, tires smoking as they battle for traction on the cobblestones.

"Shit," I cuss, twisting the wheel hard over to keep pace with her, the Porsche's Pirellis screeching in protest.

Exiting the roundabout, the road in front of us cuts suddenly to the left. Slamming on the breaks, Gale skids her Mercedes 'round the bend, the force of the manoeuvre kicking the roadster's tail out. Very narrowly missing a lamppost, she manages to right the car at the last second to barrel it down the start of a tight switch-back that led to the centuries-old bridge on the edge of the town.

"Sweet fucking Jesus, girl..." I gripe under my breath as I speed after her.

There's being cocky. And then there's being reckless. And the way she's driving, she's definitely tempting fate. Because there's only so many times you can luck out before your luck actually runs out.

Which means I have to figure out a way to stop her before she runs herself off the road.

Depressing the gas pedal again, I search for an opening that I can use to dive in front of her and force her to slow down. But she seems to anticipate my plan, and closes off the gap before I'm able to make use of it.

Grabbing the e-break, I rip it upwards, forcing the Spyder’s tail out as I skid the car 'round her, looking for a gap on the other side.

She rewards me for my efforts by ramming into me again, nearly sending me into the flimsy metal railing that lined the edge of the asphalt.

I feel my jaw tighten at her antics.

First time? Kinda funny. Second time, not so much.

Especially since there were only a grand total of 918 Spyders ever made, and I damn sure don’t want to be responsible for taking one out of commission.

So, I make the reluctant decision to back off again, biding my time until the road opened back up.

We hit the bottom of the switchback, engines blaring and tailpipes sweating, and she immediately punches it towards the old stone bridge that spans the Rams river.

"Better luck next time, Walker!" she calls over her shoulder.

But my attention isn't focused on her. "Watch the road, girl..."

She whips her head around at the last second to clock the rickety Fiat that had just pulled out from behind the blind corner, straight into her path.

Instinctively knowing that she isn’t gonna avoid a collision, she ditches the breaks to try and swerve the Mercedes 'round the hazard instead.

But her momentum is too great, she's forgotten to account for the oversteer...

...and she descends into a tailspin.

"Fuck..." I curse under my breath.

All rational thought evaporates as my adrenaline spikes and my faculties give over to raw instinct.

I gotta save her.

Barrelling the Spyder after her without any semblance of a plan, the only thing I'm focused on is stopping her before she hits the bridge... or worse, the river.

The nose of her car whips past me, and I wrench the wheel to the right, clipping her bumper.

The off-the-cuff interference is enough to change the course of her trajectory, helping prevent her getting wrapped around the stone pillar at the foot of the bridge.

But the Merc's still freewheeling out of control.

Jerking the Porsche 'round, I slam it into the side of her car, trying to use the weight of my vehicle as a ballast to counteract her momentum.

But we're still going too fast.

We go flying down the narrow concourse of the bridge, like a pair of buzzards locked together in a high-stakes dance, speeding towards our fate.

The force of the impact whips her head around. She catches my gaze, and despite the low light, I see the sheer terror in her hazel-green irises...

...and the world around me condenses down to a single point.

Her.

The bridge, the cars, the entirety of my being fades to inconsequence in the face of the nakedness of her vulnerability.

I'm barely even conscious of my actions as I battle against the inevitable, trying to keep a lock on the steering wheel that’s threatening to jump out of my hands, feathering the throttle with a mix of reflex and dogged defiance in an attempt to alter the course of our trajectory, to slow us down, to narrowly avert disaster.

Because even though I know in the furthest recesses of my mind that I'm engaged in a fool's errand, like Icarus, I'm too much of a stubborn ass to back down.

Especially when I know that I'm literally the only thing standing between her and death.

The Merc hits the curb and slams into the low stone wall lining the side of the bridge. The centuries-old mortar crumbles under the weight of the impact, falling away into the ravine below.

But — whether by the grace of God or blind, dumb luck — the red roadster somehow catches itself on the mess of granite and skids to a stop, suspended over the edge of the bridge.

Only... there's no Gale in the driver's seat.

Throwing the seatbelt off, I leap across the seats into the Merc, where I find the driver's side door flapping over the darkness with Gale hanging on for dear life.

"Ahhh...!" she squeaks, scrambling for non-existent purchase as she tries to maintain her hold on the elbow rest...

...but I can see she's slipping.

Knowing that we're fast running out of time, I throw myself forward, reaching for her.

"Harper!"

Her eyes snap to mine, and I can see the fear and desperation welling within.

Latching onto the top of the door with one hand to anchor myself into place, I snap a hold around her wrist with the other and heave her back up.

"I got you, girl..."

Clearing the side of the car, her free hand shoots out to tangle into the material of my shirt as I pull her toward me. She crashes against me with a sob of relief, knocking me backwards into the seat.

She lands on top of me, trembling, and I wrap my arm around her, holding her to me, heart hammering as I stare up into the night sky, trying to catch my breath.

Her quaking form sink against me as she buries her face in the crook of my neck, fingers still latched onto my shirt, our hands still entwined.

Sweet Jesus, that was close...

"You okay?" I ask, running my hand over the arch of her back questioningly.

"Yeah," she nods shakily, not quite meeting my eye as she quickly wipes the wetness from her cheeks.

"Hey," I say softly, reaching up to cup her face in my palm. "It's—"

"I feel like such an idiot..." she grumbles.

"Well, you're the one who decided to Mad Max it through Ramsford like a—"

"Shut up!" she reproaches, smacking me on the chest.

"Christ! I save your ass twice and this is the thanks I get?"

"I didn't need saving!" she counters, laying into me again.

"The evidence points to the cont— Ow!"

"The only reason I'm in this mess at all is because of you!" she cuts in heatedly. "If you hadn't shown up tonight I'd—"

"Probably got caught anyway..."

"Fuck you!" she shouts, giving me a shove. "And then instead of taking 'no' for an answer, you decide to chase after me like some—"

"For fuck’s sake..." I grit, grabbing her by the back of the neck to yank her towards me.

Her eyes widen, but before she has a chance to protest, our mouthes have crashed together like cars in a freeway pile-up — violently, hazardously — the unexpected brush with death and the heart-thumping chase beforehand having already kicked both our pulses into overdrive.

And as our lips meet, that pent-up tension explodes like a flash-bang.

Her teeth scrape against mine with an intensity that's almost feral, even as I feel her body press into mine, her nails raking over my shirt.

My tongue thrusts past hers forcefully to claim the coveted warmth of her mouth, coaxing a soft moan from her as my free hand glides down her body to clamp onto her backside, pulling her to me hungrily as I throw every rule I'd ever been taught out the window.

Never get involved.

Well, too late for that.

Because I'm sure as shit involved now.

Permatags

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Picture credits:

Drake - Porsche - Harper

#harper gale #drake walker #the royal romance #game of thieves #hard drive #mission: impossible #mission: cordonia #mashup #Spotify

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