#nicotine drenched heaven | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

cognacdelights · 4 years

Text

because she’s casual [5]

the romantic tirades of indie routledge series masterlist

my outer banks masterlist

add yourself to my taglist

she’s casual by the hunna

summary: armed with a bottle of jack daniels, indie and jj embark on a drunken midnight adventure. after settling in the local park, they can’t resist each other’s allure any longer.

warnings: sexual content. public sex. swearing.

A thick, star-sprinkled blanket of obsidian had consumed the humid heavens above as the imperious, incandescent gaze of July’s Buck Moon bore down on the unmarked dirt roads of The Cut. The air was oppressive and muggy as a tepid, unrelenting breeze circulated throughout the silt-covered back roads, offering little to no relief against the suffocating swelter. A natural, dulcet melody of placid, cadenced waves slapping against the jagged, craggy shoreline and the occasional, gentle swooshing of the leaves rustling against one another filled the desolate streets - drowning out the solemn, sombre silence of the witching hours.

Leisurely, she placed one cautious, Converse-clad foot in front of the other as she walked atop the rugged, uneven stones of the crumbling wall. The dainty, lavender-painted fingertips of her right hand had laced themselves securely with his in an attempt to steady her stumbling, tipsy silhouette, as her left hand remained coiled firmly around the elongated neck of the Jack Daniels bottle. An intense, concentrated expression contorted the doll-like features of her caramel complexion - forcing her full, neatly shaped eyebrows to meet as they furrowed together and the tip of her whiskey-soaked tongue to peek through the gloss-coated confines of her peach-coloured lips.

Without so much as a sliver of a warning, she halted - taking several drawn-out seconds to centre her precariously tipsy balance. The loose, nonchalant grip she held around his meaty, ring-clad fingers tightened as she brought the cool rim of the bottle to her nude-painted lips, taking a long, generous swig. An invigorating, burning sensation grazed against the half-healed scratches as the honey-coloured liquor trickled carelessly down her throat - compelling the corners of her plump, luscious lips upwards into a wicked smile before she persistently proceeded in her intoxicated obstacle course.

Several inebriated stumbles later, the youthful Routledge girl had reached the abrupt edge of the dishevelled dry stone wall. She tentatively manoeuvred her petite frame around the single, pointed stone to face the winding, sand-coated road, her bright, mahogany doe eyes watching the shaggy-haired blonde intently as his boot-clad feet came to a casual stop. An emphatic half-giggle and half-squeal erupted from the depths of her whiskey-drowned throat as she leapt from the small height of the jagged dry stone wall - the golden, saccharine liquor spilling from the cap-less bottle as she retreated to the safe haven of the pothole-riddled tarmac, simultaneously dampening the tangled ends of her chestnut tresses and drenching the scandalously thin fabric of her low-cut dress in the process.

“Hey, hey, quiet, pretty girl,” his soothing, husky tone hushed her - the rough, calloused pad of his thumb tenderly caressing circles against the delicate skin of her palm, “we don’t want the neighbours waking up and calling the cops.” Her glazed-over, umber eyes peered upwards into his - the luminous, amber speckles glimmering celestially under the silver light of the full moon - as she guided his comforting, burly arm around her petite, flannel-covered shoulders. His thin, rose-tinted lips placed a soft, adoring peck against her temple as they continued their aimless wandering of the dark, vacant streets.

Reaching the dry, untamed grasslands of the children’s playground, they settled themselves on the rotted, wooden bench by the rusted swing set frame. His shirt-clad back pressed comfortably against the cool, pine wood of the seat as the doe-eyed, cinnamon-haired vixen perched herself atop his lap without any indication of hesitation - her exposed, sun-kissed legs draping themselves sideways across his muscular thighs. His brawny, possessive arm rested nonchalantly against the defined concave of her waistline as his gentle, unclipped fingertips absent-mindedly toyed with the revealing hemline of her sable-coloured dress.

Once again, she brought the frigid rim of the half-consumed liquor bottle to her gloss-coated lips, taking several lavish gulps of the sweet, fruit-infused whiskey. As she revelled in the exhilarating, fiery tingle that laced the lining of her throat, she tilted the square bottle towards him - encouraging him to take a drink. His large, paw-like palm grasped the body of bottle, bringing the gloss-stained, glass lips to his own. Lackadaisically, he chugged several mouthfuls of the sweet, syrup-like liquor, unphased by the warm, hearty buzz occupying his chest in it’s wake. Her adoring, mocha eyes watched him intently - shamelessly admiring the faint, whiskey-drenched lines of stubble that graced his upper lip and jawline, and the cadenced bobbing of his pronounced Adam’s Apple as he swallowed the infamous alcohol with ease.

It was only a mere few seconds later that his clumsy, yearning hand delved into the vast, junk-littered expanse of his cargo shorts pocket. Retrieving the crumpled, almost empty packet of cigarettes and engraved Zippo lighter, he retreated from the cloth confines. Effortlessly, he flicked the crinkled cardboard packaging open with his thumb, pulling the penultimate nicotine stick from the metallic foil and gently placing it between his chapped, coral-tinted lips. His thumb grazed the delicate clip of the personalised Zippo lighter, igniting the meager flame; he brought the floundering, wavering glint to the tobacco shreds, taking a deep inhale of the noxious, toxic fumes to ensure it was well and truly lit. She continued to observe his every move attentively, admiration evident within the luminous, golden speckles of her sorrel orbs.

Eventually, the audacious, tenacious virago grew tired of his lack of attention as he savoured every last nicotine-laced drag of his cigarette, grasping the half-smoked butt between her lilac-painted fingertips and dabbing the burning embers against rotting pine wood of the bench. Positive that the remaining shreds of tobacco were no longer ablaze, she carelessly discarded the whiskey-soaked butt within the over-grown blades of grass. JJ opened his mouth almost instantly, poised and ready to both protest against and question her dauntless, brazen actions - but before he could string his reprimanding words together, her velvet, taupe-toned lips pressed against his.

Cupping her blush-tinted cheek with his clammy, bear-like palm, their amorous embrace gradually transitioned from a passionately sweet kiss to an ardent, fervid affair. His pointed, pearly teeth bit down on the lipstick-coated flesh of her bottom lip, tugging roughly on the delicate, sensitive skin. A salacious, yearning whine escaped from the very core of her strained vocal chords - offering him the perfect opportunity to slide his whiskey-soaked tongue into her mouth. She welcomed his assertive, dominant tongue with open arms, allowing him to lustfully caress her tongue with his own. Her dainty, periwinkle fingertips latched onto the stained, off-white cotton of his long-sleeved t-shirt, her voluminous, braless chest pressing against the chiselled muscles of his abdomen - the titanium balls of her nipple piercings protruding through the thin, raven fabric.

The sun-drenched, love-marked skin of her exposed thighs tingled under the searing touch of his devilish, meandering hands - the calloused, unclipped tips of his ring-clad fingers encroaching on the scandalously short hemline of her tight, figure-hugging dress. He gave the hickey-littered, caramel plains of her thighs a fervent, zealous squeeze before continuing their ascent towards the patterned, crimson lace of her g-string thong. His sumptuous, cavalier attempt to trace a teasing trail along her damp, hankering folds was thwarted by the tight, commanding grip of her dainty palms around his watch-adorning wrist. A smug, sultry smirk curved the corners of her swollen, glacé lips upwards as she retreated from their intense, sensuous embrace, “no, tonight it’s my turn to make you cum.”

“That’s fine by me, babe,” his masterful tongue swiped the whiskey-sodden trace of her impassioned lips from his own, as his low, husky tone rasped a response. His dark, cobalt eyes cast over with lust and desire, watching intently as her petite, curvaceous figure leisurely slinked between his parted legs, settling on her knees, on the unkempt, grass plains of the park. An loud, involuntary moan slipped between his thin, chapped lips - a subconscious reaction to the ungodly, sinful sight of the umber-eyed, caramel-complexioned beauty in such a devilish position.

She fumbled with the stiff, metal clasp of his belt in her drunken, inebriated state, having to focus her whole, undivided attention on the trivial task at hand as she worked the ripped and tattered leather free. The tip of her spirit-laced tongue peeked timidly through the confines of her swollen, nude-toned lips as she tugged hastily at the tense, rigid zipper. Eagerly pushing the several layers of clothing out of her way, her clouded, mahogany eyes peered upwards at the anticipation-filled blonde, seeking his permission. He sent her a craving, impatient nod the instant his dark, indigo eyes met with hers.

Her dainty palm snaked itself around the flaccid base of dick, the mere contact alone sending an invigorating rush of blood throughout his member. She began to sensually caress the entirety of his length with gentle, leisurely strokes - however, her pace gradually began to increase as deep, husky grunts of encouragement resonated from the depths of his throat. An ardent flush of heat consumed her intimate area upon hearing the low, pleasure-filled noises, the intricately embroidered material of her thong dampening with each salacious groan.

Her taunting tongue tantalised the very tip of his cock, circling the head in painfully languid motions and placing soft, delicate kisses against the sensitive skin. She proceeded to take the tip into her mouth, continuing to swirl her salacious, teasing tongue around the head as she sensuously sucked on the hypersensitive fragment of his length - impishly neglecting the further expanse of his inches. His meaty, paw-like hands grasped the eroded edge of the bench with a monstrously tight grip - the rough, scarred skin of knuckles turning a sickly shade of alabaster out of pure frustration. A raspy, petulant growl erupted from the deep, yearning caverns of his stomach, his tone authoritative and demanding, “Indie.”

Spurred on by his deep, domineering voice, she took as much of his poised, hard length into her mouth as she could, her warm, sensual palms working the remaining few inches of his bulging span. A barrage of emphatic, enraptured moans filled the otherwise eery silence of the unkempt, neglected grassland as she continued her salacious assault on his hardened dick - dauntlessly daring to take more of his poised, pulsing cock into her mouth with each rhythmic, fast-paced bob of her head. He threw his head back in pure, elated ecstasy, his shaggy, tousled locks tickling against the corroded, pine back rest.

Thrusting his hips upwards in a subconscious, euphoric daze, he vigorously forced the entirety of his solid, throbbing length into her unsuspecting mouth, the pre-cum-coated tip pushing it’s way into the tight, restricted dimensions of her throat. Unprepared and unexpected, a loud, dissatisfied groan surpassed her swollen, luscious lips. He, however, mistook her throaty vocals as a sinful sign of pleasure - tangling his large, ring-clad fingers within the matted length of her cascading, cinnamon waves as he applied a gentle pressure against the nape of her neck, compelling her bobbing head to meet with his rapid, rigorous bucks. Her throat soon relaxed it’s whiskey-drowned muscles as she leisurely eased into the comfortable synchronisation of the rhythm, a tidal wave of adrenaline surging through her veins from the ungodly, sensuous experience.

“That’s it, pretty girl,” his assertive, commanding tone praised her - the telltale, familiar surge of euphoria building within the depths of his stomach, “keep going.” As she persisted in taking the entire span of his hardened, bulging length into her mouth, an inharmonious limerick of profanities circulated the open, desolate area - the eager frustrations of his much-anticipated release gradually consuming him. As the elated surge of delirium proceeded to build within him, one final, zealous thrust into the relaxed depths of her throat tipped him over the metaphorical edge. “Fucking hell, Indie,” his deep, enamored tone rasped as the thick, viscous juices of his cum dripping down her throat, his cadenced thrusts slowing with each lackluster buck of his hips.

Retrieving his now flaccid, saliva-soaked length from between her gloss-coated lips, he tucked himself back into the fabric confines of his boxers. Forcing the stiff, uncooperative zip back up, he spoke again, “that dirty little mouth of yours is going to be the fucking death of me, Indie Routledge.” A complacent, pleased with herself smirk plastered itself across the very foundations of her prominent, doll-like features of her sun-kissed, caramel complexion, satisfied with his reaction. The rough pad of his ring-adorning thumb tenderly swiped across the corner of her mouth - ridding her angelic face of any evidence of their sensuously sinful tryst before placing a soft, loving peck against her full, luscious lips.

A mischievous glint occupied the glistening, amber speckles of her eyes as her dark, coffee-coloured orbs peered upwards into his, “can we stop at Russo’s on our way home and get some twinkies?” It was the most stereotypical, unapologetically Indie thing that the breath-taking brunette had ever uttered; despite being enthralled in her bid to embrace all things devilish, illicit and beyond her years, she still remained angelic, innocently niave and pleased by the simplest of things at heart.

“If that’s what you want, pretty girl.”

Taglist: @bellaguarneri @drewsephsmiles @spilledtee @outrbanks @ilovejjmaybank @jjtheangel @obxlife @tangledinsparkles @jayjaymaebank @linctaviaxbellarke @rafecamerondeservesbetter @belledutchess @tembo-ndoto @girlsru1eboysdroo1 @secretmoonphantom @lolitstiana @blindedbyyourgrace17 @rudyypankow @milamaybank @sunwardsss

721 notes · View notes

harrykilledmoi · 4 years

Text

Silence + Noise | Part One

1985. Manhattan, New York.

Noise, a live fast, die young, wild child living in the Chelsea Hotel, meets Harry, a newly immigrated, struggling, young poet in search of inspiration.

This is a story about life. A life so loud it’s quiet, and so quiet it’s silent. Fast and fleeting. It's about music and poetry and art in the filthy dwellings of its creators in New York City.

Rated: M (for language) Word Count: 5.3K Themes: AU, angst, 80s!Harry, Poetrry, love at first sight??? Pairing: Harry Styles x OFC Warnings: drug use + addiction, smoking

masterlist read on wattpad edits

Harry remembers the exact date and time that he first saw her.

June 30th, 1985.

10:34pm.

Although it could've been 10:36 as he was still unsure if his wristwatch was still running two minutes too slow. He does, however, vividly remember the weather.

The last remnants of spring were being washed away with the droplets that cascaded from the heavens that night. He'd thought he'd been lucky enough to leave the rain behind when he moved to New York, but like his writer's block, it seems the heavy clouds followed him across the pond as well. He was in search of inspiration and his small English county could no longer provide that for him. He'd only been in the city for a week but had still yet to find his footing, his place. It was the very words of Ginsberg that brought him to the seedy, down-at-the-heels boroughs of New York City, that propelled him to get on that plane, that brought him to her. Whatever the poets of Gotham were smoking, he wanted in.

He'd been walking down Canal Street that night, the rain lightly kissing the tops of his cheeks, puddles flooding around the soles of his loafers. Why he'd decided to wear the dark leather footwear on a night like that night was beyond him. It was his first official night out in the city, so it could be said that he subconsciously wanted to look his best. He'd spent his first week in the city holed up in his apartment. A corner walk up in an old hotel that rented rooms by the month.

The Hotel Chelsea.

The heartbeat of the city located in its underbelly.

He knew it from literature, from music, from art. He was told it was where artists are conceived, born, and died in a never ending forest fire of pathos, ethos, and on very rare occasions, logos. Swimming in a pool of their own shit and only their own shit, and then somehow making it glitter like gold. He was told it was where the muses lived. Every single one, from every myth and every legend. He was just waiting to meet his own.

He ducks into a dimly lit concrete stairwell when the rain begins to pick up. Soaking through the unbuttoned-at-the-top shirt he'd been gifted by a friend before leaving home. He stands under the small coverage provided by the building above him. Watching as bright yellow taxi cabs wiz by, distorting the already distorted refraction of soft warm light that spilled from the street lamps above. He watches a couple kiss in the rain before departing and going their separate ways and yet, although he was in the presence of such a magnificent amount of pulchritude, Harry was still unable to string words together into a verse that would do it justice.

A muffled cheer sounds from behind a door he hadn't realized led to anything, catching his attention. He turns, peaking into the frosted glass window located in the center of the old wooden door, leaning so close his nose flattens against it and his breath fogs the glass beyond its frost. He squints, trying to get a peek inside when the door swings open. He steps back swiftly, heart pounding, lungs heaving for air, hand pressed to his chest. The culprit, standing in the doorway eyeing him. Platinum blonde hair is the first thing he sees, then a sharply arched eyebrow over icy blue irises, and a cigarette, pressed between two lips painted in a maraschino cherry hue.

Harry struggles to collects himself when she side steps and gestures for him to enter or leave, either way, the purpose was to get him out of her way. His eyes are still locked on hers, swimming the in whirlpool of her energy, feet about to touch the sandy bottom of the frozen ocean within her eyes.

A snap of her fingers in the space between them pulls him out of his liquid dream like a buoy pulling a drowning boy to safety.

"Move it or lose it, I haven't got all day."

Her voice is unlike anything Harry had ever heard before. Although she looked lithe and delicate, her voice held grit and power. With an edge Harry could only imagine the sharpness of.

He squeezes past her through the door, their chest brushing as he scuttles. He dwindles when he catches a whiff of her. Whiskey and cigarettes and something else he couldn't quite put his finger on. Vanilla? Sandalwood? Whatever it was, he wanted more of it.

She scoffs as she pushes past him into the evening downpour, forcing him further than he'd planned on going. He turns quickly and watches her ascend the drenched concrete steps as the door closes, her tall, chunky heeled boots slapping against them like duck wings on water.

He stands there, staring through the small rectangular window at her blurred silhouette. It isn't until he's shoved lightly to the side, and then back, further into the bar by people trying to exit, that he realizes just how long he'd been standing there. In the process he loses sight of her.

The door opens again and Harry is pulled further into the small bar by a wayward group of people. He concedes in that moment, walking through the dive on at his own accord. His mind still spinning with a looped triptych of the encounter.

This was a new experience for Harry, the momentary loss of self in a stranger, specifically supernal, a particularly peculiar case of sonder. He'd had the luxury of knowing everyone in his small town and therefore had not been afforded the company of fresh faces and anomalous auras for the majority of his adult years of life. This was a feeling Harry wanted to relish in, to drink and be drunk on and its catalyst had just walked out the door to indulge in her nicotine laced vice, and in all probability, to not to be seen by him again. New York is a big city. All big, blinding lights and an even bigger populace.

That, however, didn't stop him from nursing an inaudible prayer on his lips as he ambles carefully through the bar, hoping, while trying to keep hold of realistic expectations, to catch a glimpse of the fair-haired sparkler one more time before he, himself, burned out.

The room, puzzlingly humid, dimly lit, and thick with people, carried the stench of old beer and rotting wood. A heavy cloud of cigarette smoke floats up from the crowd and threads through the dank wooden beams of the ceiling. The walls, covered in a deep red, are peeling and fading into a grimy brown, reminding Harry of the rust that sat on his neighbour's old chevy back in Cheshire. The floor, beer soaked wood that Harry was sure could give out at any moment if they weren't below street level.

Everyone in the room was gathered around a small stage made of old skids in the middle of the small space. A woman, small in stature with tousled brown hair tucked under a dark gray pageboy cap and black, thick rimmed glasses, stands on the stage in front of a microphone.

Harry heads to what he assumes could only be the bar. As if the rows of liquor bottles located behind a very well groomed young man hadn't been a clear enough indicator. His look, a stark contrast to the dwellers in the bar. A crisp white short sleeve button up, tucked into a pair of sharp black trousers, held in place with a black belt, silver buckle.

"What can I get you?"

Harry looks up at the bartender, then over to the bottles of liquor on the wall. A decent sized plank of driftwood sits snug in the center of the middle row of bottles. 'The Sick Rose' it read in a delicate, hand-painted cursive, the same red that dressed the walls.

He looks back over at the bartender who is watching him, waiting patiently for his answer.

"Whiskey, neat."

The bartender smiles before turning to grab the bottle of whiskey from the shelf behind him. He grabs a glass from under the bar top and place it in front of Harry before pouring.

Harry watches him intently, taking in every detail. From the way his brows furrow when the liquor splashes up against the side of the cup and onto the bar to the 'nectar of the gods' glisten of the liquid in the glass.

With a tight but genuine smile, the bartender pushes the glass towards him. Harry reaches into his pants and takes out a balled up fiver. He flattens it out on the bar top, a light, embarrassed chuckle leaves his lips before he hands it over, returning the smile with a curt nod.

Feedback bleeds momentarily over the sound of soft conversation drawing Harry's attention. He picks up his drink and turns his attention to the stage.

She's seated on a high stool, the woman on stage, and has a cigarette pressed between her middle and index fingers, the smoke cascading up to join the rest of the crowd's. In her other hand, an old, black and white school jotter with several coloured post-it notes sticking out of every side.

She gets off the stool and steps towards the mic, poised with her book open and resting on her forearm, against her chest. She speaks with candor. Her tone rhythmic, almost musical.

She pauses and the verse rings in Harry's ears. A dull ache pulses through his chest. The tips of his fingers tingle. There's an itch trickling up from under his skin that grows with every word, every pause, every breath.

This is what he'd been looking for. What he had come to New York for. To live and exist as the wordsmiths before him. In a dark dingy basement bar, last legs, glass of whiskey in hand, cigarette smoke clinging to every space. No more thicker than the voltaic energy that has the hair on his arms standing at attention. The baring of souls in stanza, in verse, in caesura, in rhyme. A chorus of pain and lust and life, oh to live a life like this. And now it was his.

He rubs his arm but knows that that isn't what will satiate his craving.

That the only cure lies within the keys of his typewriter and alabaster sheet of 8 ½ by 11.

Harry takes another generous sip of his drink with peeled ears and attentive heart. Hoping that the ability to write something, anything, would strike him like the lightning that had been streaking the sky that night.

He'd almost forgotten about her in the hurricane of poems and poets that swept on and off stage throughout the night. But when he sees her again, hours later, the initial rush of titillation he had felt returns like an unexpected punch to the gut.

He's three glasses of cheap whiskey deep, leaning against the small bar top. The crowd in the bar had gotten boisterous, rowdier, and now instead of poets baring their souls to the patrons, there's a louder than hell band on stage. He's sure they have no idea how to play their instruments but the magnanimity of their outrageous on stage antics made them entertaining enough to watch. The lead singer had broken a bottle over his head and made out with three different women on stage within the span of ten minutes and yet, once Harry had caught sight of the platinum stick of dynamite, he couldn't take his eyes off her.

She's seated in a worn leather booth at the far end of the room. And although there were copious amounts of intoxicated people standing between them, Harry had managed to maintain a clear and direct line of view.

The first thing he noticed was the smug smirk that never seemed to leave her lips. It was as if she was holding onto a secret that no one, not even herself, knew. The second was that she wasn't alone.

Next to her in the booth sat two people, a man, neck full of tattoos and decked out in leather. His dark, shoulder length hair looked as if it hadn't seen a wash in weeks but Harry could admit that the man was quite handsome, in a dangerous, "I'd steal your car" kind of way. The other, a woman, wild curly hair, tucked under a black beret. Her dark skin shown against the dim lighting in the bar and was a stark contrast to the bright red, latex dress she had on. The outfit was soaked in intimidation but the smile she had affixed on her face as she whispered to the object of Harry's full attention, was soft and genuine.

The blonde head of hair whipped around in Harry's direction and their eyes catch each other's.

In a movement too swift for him to register himself, he turns to face the bar, an embarrassing warmth making its way up his neck. He orders another drink even though he already has a full one in his hand. He throws it back, finishing it before the bartender could put the new one in front of him. Harry takes in a deep breath, trying to settle his nerves before turning back to catch one more glimpse of the blonde matchstick before calling it a night, but just like before she'd disappeared. In fact, the only person sitting there was her female friend, the male compatriot had disappeared as well.

Harry can't help but wonder. Had she gone out for a cigarette, or had she decided to take the brooding tattooed man back to hers. Maybe she'll be back. Maybe she wouldn't. Maybe she was still here.

He scans the room before his body propels him forward, a heart over head start of an active search, removing him from the bar and into the crowd on people. Popping up every now and then to see over the sea of heads.

When he finally does spot her again, she and neck tattoos are wedged in the narrow hallway leading to the restrooms. Their chests pressed together as they speak in hushed, harsh voices.

"Neck Tattoos" holds a small plastic bag above her head, a frown etched deeply in the curve of his brow and the edges of his lips. Harry watches as she attempts to grab the bag back from the man but fails, falling into him, her head turning and immediate locking eyes with Harry's curiously impeding stare. Her eyebrows furrow and her lips pucker. Her gaze is intense, hard but it sends a neon jolt of electricity through Harry's body.

She looks away, pushing herself away from "Neck Tattoos'" chest, as she makes another attempt to grab the baggy from him by propping herself up onto her toes. His large tattooed hand wraps itself around her wrist tightly and her eyebrows furrow in pain as he leans closer to her. Harry's body jerks forward as her eyes drift back over to his. His legs move to carry him closer but halts momentarily to size up the situation.

He'd always been someone who thought about actions and their consequences before making rash decisions. Logical and reliable were words that could be said to be synonymous with Harry Styles.

Heck! The most impulsive thing he'd ever done was what had brought him into this very situation. He didn't think a bar fight would be in the cards for him, ever. But he figures there's a first time for everything.

Harry makes his way over to them as quickly as he can, bobbing and weaving through the crowd, trying to keep an eye on the situation all the while trying to figure out how he was going to incapacitate "Neck Tattoos", who looked to be about a whole head taller than him.

The crowd seems to be fighting against him, trying to keep him away but he fights against it anyway. In that moment, Harry likens himself to salmon swimming upstream in the frigid autumn waters. A dangerous journey but to give up would go against their nature. Fight, however, was not in his nature but he thought himself fiercely passionate and empathetic which could be the same, he thinks. Harry finally breaks through the crowd and is within spitting distance of the two just as the snowy haired firecracker winds up and socks "Neck Tattoos" square in the nose.

Harry's eyes widen as "Neck Tattoos" falls, landing at his feet. He stares at the man on the floor before trailing his sights up to the woman who'd mystified him the short time they had been aware of the other's existence.

Her hand whips up and down as if shaking it will rid it of the throbbing that had begun to consume the limb. She bends down over "Neck Tattoos", retrieving the reason for the abruptly violent situation that oddly enough, no one else in the small bar acknowledged. She pats him on the shoulder comfortingly, her smirk returning to its place between her lips.

"Probably should get that checked out John. Broken nose wouldn't do that pretty face any favours."

Her words are firm but underneath it, there was a hint of something that told Harry that she actually was friends with "Neck Tattoos". That she cared about him, although her actions seemed to say otherwise.

She stands, and in the process notices one of her bruised knuckles bleeding. She brings it to her mouth, and it's all Harry can stare at, eyes still as wide as a deer in headlights.

Her icy blue orbs move up from the floor to Harry's face and he melts.

"Thanks for all the help man."

Her blood stained lips spit the sarcastic benediction with the prick of a sharp dagger.

Harry blinks. He opens his mouth and finds it hard to form words with the amount of indescribable feelings rushing through his blood stream, or maybe it was just the alcohol.

She sighs, rolling her eyes, and pushes past him, stepping over "Neck Tattoos", to a door adjacent to them. Harry twists his head to follow her, in a daze. It isn't until a loud clang sounds, the door closing, that he snaps out of it.

The spinning in his head comes to a standstill but the bubbling in his veins is far from subsiding.

His body is moving towards the door before his head can even fathom it. The pull is so magnetic. It's as if his soul had left his body and is pulling him along by hand, it's celestial.

He moves quickly, almost a blur, as he jogs out of the bar and into a dark lit alley. The rain had stopped and had left behind tiny reflective orbs of liquid on every surface that sparkled even in the darkness. He spins to his left, then his right in search of a halo of bleached tresses but comes up short.

A weight lands on his chest and trickles down to the pit of his stomach.

Regret, maybe. Nausea, definitely.

Should've said something.

He spins on the heels of his now drenched loafers with the intention of heading back inside to grab one more drink and quell his overstimulated mind and heart. He reaches for the large metal handle, when something catches his eye. A spark, several. Flickering and flashing to an off kilter beat. Small but bright in the darkness of the alley.

He closes his eyes and takes in a breath before letting go of the door handle. He takes a step away from the door, relieving his filled lungs with an aggressive puff. He's already been reckless thus far tonight, what's one more ill informed decision.

He opens his eyes and takes a few cautious steps towards the continuous tiny combustion. Slowly, hands curled in tight fists in case something or someone jumped out at him. In case he met one of those colossal rodents that New York was so famous for.

When he gets closer and his eyes adjust to the low light, he sees her. Leaning up against the grimy, graffiti filled, brick wall of the bar, cigarette between her lips, lighter in her bruised hand, pint glass filled with beer in the other. A brisk breeze flows through the wind tunnel alley way as she struggles with the lighter. A slick curse passes her lips every time the lighter goes out without lighting the cigarette.

Harry walks up to her, still cautious but fists unclenched.

"Need help?"

Harry chokes out the words but it's enough to cause her eyes to flick up, landing on the smile he struggles to keep soft. He doesn't wait for an answer, instead he steps forwards, cupping his hands around the lighter when she tries to flick it again. This time, the cigarette lights and she breathes out an audible sigh that dances around the smoke as it leaves her lips and Harry finally finds his voice.

"Y'alright?"

His eyes trace the lines of her face that are faintly illuminated by the end of her cigarette. Her soft lines a stark contrast to her hard glare. The corner of her lips fixed in a subtle scowl.

"Could be better."

Harry nods. He racks his brain for something to say. Anything to hold her attention for just a little while. Anything to keep this energy, au courant, from fizzling out.

If words came easier to him he wouldn't be in this alley. He'd be back in Holmes Chapel, in his makeshift cave of books and trinkets and old wood. With candles that smelt of Christmas and full body warmth, and his family would be just a quick jaunt away.

"You like poetry?"

Idiot.

He mentally curses his inability to come up with something less benign but stops when she lets out a loud, choking laugh. Her head tossed back in sweet amusement.

"Do I like poetry?"

She forces out through her chuckles.

"Is that a line?"

Her eyebrow peaks as she takes another drag of her cigarette then blows the smoke in Harry's direction. He blinks rapidly, the smoke causing his eyes to gloss over.

"You don't have to try so hard. If you wanted to take me home then all you had to do is ask. You're pretty and honestly I'm not picky."

Harry's eyes widen as he shakes his head, his eyes darting to a piece of soaked garbage on the cement, a candy wrapper.

Never had he met a woman so forward, so unapologetically crass and yet, still so enthralling.

"S'not what I want," he sucks his bottom lip into his mouth. His front teeth press down so heavily he thinks he might've drawn blood.

"Really?"

She flicks the ash of her cigarette and brings it back up to her lips. A crooked smile cause the smoke to exit her mouth from the side rather than in Harry's face. He nods, it's subtle, but she acknowledges his answer.

"Doesn't seem like it. You've been watching me all night and when people do that it usually means one of two things. One, you want to fuck them or two," she take another drag, "you're a perverted stalker."

Harry's attention snaps back at her.

"M'not a stalker."

She steps closer to him, her body flush with his.

"I believe you," her voice is soft as her hand runs down Harry's shirt collar, fingers hovering just above where his exposed skin starts and not stopping its descent, "and that's sad because I'm sure we would've had a good time. Never done it with one of the Queen's sons before. Guess I won't be crossing that off my bucket list tonight."

She steps away from him and flicks her cigarette. It hits the wall causing the cherry to burst and glowing ash to trickle down like fireworks on the fourth of July. She walks past him towards the door but pauses before opening it. Looking over her shoulder at him, she shakes her head and laughs before disappearing into the building.

Harry stands alone in the alley. His body quivers with shock, with fear, with sheer excitement.

His heart was beating in his ears. His head, a spinny, dizzying top, unrelenting in its momentum.

He attempts to steady his breathing as he leaves the alley, stepping onto the sidewalk. The streets no longer bare as the patrons of bars and clubs alike pour out, where they'd follow the call of the rest of their night. An after party here, a quick, regrettable in the morning fuck there.

Harry bobs and weaves through people, still high off of the sheer aura of the woman. Missing a step and nearly eating shit as he descends down the stairs into Canal Street station.

He dawdles through the station, stopping to take a look at some of the musings of urban philosophers in permanent marker on the walls. Declarations of love and lust, names of places and people, numbers if you're in need of a good time.

"I'm sure we would've had a good time."

He checks his pockets for his wallet or some change when he gets to the pay toll but comes up short. He throws his head back and sends a curse out to the universe.

A chime sounds and Harry double times his pace, looking left and right before hopping over the turnstile. All but flying down the steps, he glides into the train just as the doors begin to close, narrowly missing his torso.

He catches his breath as he looks around the near empty train car for a seat. An elderly woman with a small buggy filled to the brim with groceries offers him a soft smile to which he returns as her makes his way to the far end of the car.

He takes a seat, his back to the window. He clasps his hands together as the train enters the tunnel. His body shakes and rumbles with the movements of the vehicle as a loud, low whistle fills the space around him.

He leans back, resting his head against the glass with eyes closed. Words bloom behind his eyelids like spring flowers but refusing to link together like a daisy chain to create anything worth writing down. His lips part as a heavy sigh floats past them. The train comes to a halt as his eyes open with the door.

His eyes shift to the doors as the elderly woman makes her way slowly off the train.

She passes and when she's clear of his line of view, a glimmer of pale blonde catches his eye.

A few blinks and a double take help clear his vision.

There she is. Sitting at the other end of the train, head bobbing back and forth to the tempo of whatever tune is floating through the headphones that are snug around her ears. A bright red portable cassette player rests on her lap, legs clad in houndstooth.

Although she was quite a distance away from him, he could see her now. Really see her. Her hair glows in the fluorescent subway lights and Harry is like a moth to a flame.

When she stands to get off the train, he does as well. Stepping out of the train a few doors down from her. On the wall, in mosaic tile is the name of the station, his stop. He heads towards the stairs, staggering his pace to stay a few feet behind her.

She walks with purpose, with power. A strut that says stay the fuck out of my way.

When they make all the same turns Harry chalks it up to more than coincidence.

Divine intervention maybe? Not likely.

As they both close in on the hotel, Harry decides that he's going to say something. But when she stops abruptly in her tracks, it throws him for a loop. His legs, not quite registering what was happening, continue to bring him forward and closer to her than he'd planned. She spins around quickly, her eyes landing directly on his as he stops a few steps away from her.

"Are you following me?"

She points a sharply manicured finger at him. Harry steps back, shaking his head. He holds up his hands in surrender.

"M'not. I swear, it's just a-"

"Pervy stalker," a sing-song lilt carries the accusation from her mouth to Harry's ears.

Harry's eyebrows furrow.

"I live here?" It's a question more than a statement. He points to the building.

"You sure? You don't seem so sure."

Harry clears his throat as his hands fall to his sides.

"I do, I live here."

She raises an inquisitive eyebrow.

"Where's your key?"

Harry sighs, defeated.

"Was in my wallet, but I lost it."

"Your key?"

"My wallet."

She hums, nodding slowly. Her eyes narrow as she leans forward. She steps back and turns on her heel.

"Sucks."

She approaches the front door of the hotel, putting her key in the lock. She pulls it open with brute force before looking over at Harry, who's standing in the middle of the sidewalk, alone.

"Well are you coming or what?"

He nods quickly as he breaks into a light jog. Slipping past her through the door she'd holding open with her back.

As they begin their ascent up the main square spiral staircase Harry can't help but let his mind wander. Questions bounce around his mind and on to his tongue like a diving board. A deep dive, cannonball wave pool displaces his quietness.

"What's your name?"

It's soft but she hears him.

"Noise."

Her voice echoes off the walls, stinging like a sour note.

"Noise? Your parents couldn't have possibly-"

"They didn't," she cuts him off with an over shoulder smirk so devious Harry could swear for a split second he'd seen the devil himself. Afraid to ask anymore questions he stays quiet.

They reach the 4th floor and she stops, turning around the face him.

"This is me," she points to a bright teal door, the number 412 affixed to the center in bold brass.

Harry nods.

"Where're you headed?" She asks.

"512," his answer is curt as he keeps his eyes on the ground.

"Not sure how you're gonna get in without a key. You might just have to sleep in the hallway until maintenance comes in the next few hours."

Harry groans but nods, wishing her a goodnight, frustrated that he wouldn't he able to sleep in his own bed tonight.

He turns and begins to continue up the stairs.

"Hey 512," Noise calls out. Harry stops mid step and turns around to a mound of black leather being tossed in his direction. He fumbles when it hits his chest but catches it, his wallet.

"Welcome to New York."

Harry watches as she slides through her front door. His eyes narrow but the corner of his mouth lifts as he jogs the rest of the way to his apartment.

22 notes · View notes

faggyfemboyfrog · 3 years

Text

nights in hell feel different by a.s (@faggyfemboyfrog)

a oneshot based on a canon roleplay w/ @davedrawsdicks

cw: one-sided pining, sexual themes such as: masturbation, vivid descriptions of sexual fantasies, and sexual dreams, strong language and mild and/or brief mention of drug use ─ reader discretion is advised, and no minors are encouraged to read this.

───────────────────────────

Night in hell feels a little bit different now, if Andreas was being honest. And he was, because nothing felt the same anymore. Not since that beautiful blonde fell from the heavens for God-knows-why. He didn't even care, he couldn't care any less. His nights used to be spent out late, at the bar or a club with a few other demon-colleagues. The smell of arousal and the feeling of a white powdery substance clinging to his right nostril was always prevalent in his many rowdy nights.

Now, the tall entity lay on his couch whilst the fallen angel rested, nestled in his sheets. He wondered, if maybe Louis smelled the scent of his cologne on the pillows mingled with musk and nicotine. Did he snuggle into the scent, or did he cringe? Did it feel like home to him, like it's where he belonged? This was silly, yes, but Louis had been living with Andreas for months now. Never before had the demon been put to the test... never had he have to wait or pursue another correctly.

But here he was, his heart palpitating against his chest in thought. If he listened close enough, he could hear the little shuffles of the small male's legs searching for cool sheets. He was picking up on the smallest of movements, the tiniest of looks ─ he was obsessed it seemed. Andreas didn't want it to be that way, but he couldn't help it. He was living his life and then the angel practically fell into it. Now every day revolved around him.

Some nights the taller of the two wished he could ask to share the bed, not to make a move but to be close. He had been ever so slightly introducing more touch between he and Louis, but was trying to be respectful of boundaries. Now he could casually wrap his arm protectively around his angel, although he copped little mentions of being a bit possessive by fellow coworkers who he vented to from time to time. Still, he didn't have the guts to ask to share the bed. He could say it was because the couch hurt his back, because it did, but he was scared.

Demons, they were monsters right? And he's an angel, fallen or not. Andreas couldn't hide from the fact that Louis brought out unthinkable urges within him, and sleep next to him would make matters worse. All he needed was a stiffy first thing in the morning ─ as if he didn't deal with that enough. He hated the way Louis controlled his body inevitably and without even knowing it. The smallest things made his stomach drop. His smiles, his giggles, the way his wings contrasted against his own and the feathers had a glimmer of sparkle in Hell's light. The way he cuddled their pet rabbit, Despair, and the way he couldn't not want to save any and all hell-creatures he passed on the walks home from work together.

Then, there were the less adorable and more tempting things. Andreas was certain these things were not on purpose, but he couldn't help but feel completely and utterly teased ─ pushed the peaks of sexual frustration. Things like how comfortable Louis was able to be while dressing “feminine” and the way he looked in things like skirts and dresses, knee socks and thigh garters, all of it. The way he looked when he was concentrating, especially if he didn't understand the concept of something but was trying his upmost hardest to understand. It was the way his eyes were focused and the way his lips were persed or bitten whilst he listened attentively.

Andreas had a habit of staring. When Louis bent over, when he walked around normally, little peeks from the couch as Louis took a late night showers and hurried back to the taller's room in a big and fluffy towel. He wondered if the angel noticed, or if he was getting by with sneaking longing glances. The demon hadn't slept around since the night before the angel had arrived, that was how concentrated Louis had Andreas on the prize. The prize. He really couldn't find time to mess around, not when he was trying his best to be a good friend and potential boyfriend candidate.

It was easy to assume, Andreas was pent up. His lower stomach was heated and churning just at the thought of the other, feeling the tension take on his body and more importantly focusing directly on his lower half. ‘Come on, not now.’ He thinks to himself as he's draped over the sofa, a throw blanket pulled into his lap. He hears the faint snores of the angel in the next room and sighs, tilting his head back and letting the soft glow of the television run over his skin, his hand slowly slinking down his frame in self-defeat.

Andreas always felt the smallest bit of guilt, feeling terrible for the way he viewed Louis and without his permission ─ it had never been an issue, ever. He'd never cared. But now, now he felt bad for the way his began to slowly trail his finger tips over the waistband of his sweatpants. The way his breath hitched and his eyes closed when his head was tilted back was anything but holy, especially when his hands dipped into the fabric and underneath the soft boxers.

The amount of times the demon relieved himself to the perverted thoughts he harbored towards Louis, was too many to count. The amount of methods he used was limitless: biting onto a shirt that smelled like him, using said same shirt as a barrier between his hand and his length, grinding ─ humping the very pillow the blonde drenched his scent in before washing it for laundry day. A pervert? Most definitely. But only so perverted for him. A part of him wished Louis noticed, but he knew he'd be embarrassed.

“A-Ah~” He doesn't even notice he's touching himself while in such a trance thinking of Louis, until he's bucking his hips up to meet his fist. Shit. That was how easy it was for him to mindlessly become a mess for the blonde. He shivered and shook, feeling the rush of adrenaline course through him and the churning and tightness in his lower stomach. He sunk into the hoodie on his upper half, still smelling of the blonde who had borrowed it the night prior, inhaling softly as his hips thrusted and fist pumped. Fantasies roamed his mind, ones of complete possession and control over the other.

His hand gripping the sheets mocked how he wished he could gently squeeze at the Angel's neck, mouth hungry to capture the other's lips. He had the sweetest little figure, petite, doll-like. He was a beautiful male and he knew it, it was apparent in every way he walked. His hips swiveled in enticing ways that Andreas couldn't correctly impersonate in his mind. The way the taller could invision every little recoil in whimper was too vivid for when himself to handle, and he knew that because after just minutes of mentally fucking Louis's brains out ─ he came.

The tension slowly subsides but the mess doesn't, leaving the panting and tired demon to bend his neck to examine the puddle of slick before tiredly throwing it back in post-orgasm fatigue. His cock twitched and pulsed, before after nearly twenty minutes, it softens and is tucked back into the loose fitting boxers where it belongs. Andreas finally lifts his head, being careful as he gets up to not make much a noise. His fingers wipe at the sticky mess on his toned torso, covering his long fingers in the ropes of cum much to his disapproval. Gross. He hates the aftermath... well... his own, anyway.

He toddled to the bathroom, passing the open door to his room where the angel slept. He paused in front of the doorway, trying his best to make out the frame of Louis in the bed ─ however unable because of the dark. He shook his head before looking to his hands and going to the bathroom to rinse and wash, wiping his hands on a clean cloth and opening the door. Although, he could have sworn he'd seen Louis for a split second jump into the bed. The demon ignores this, maybe Louis had to use the bathroom.

2 notes · View notes

ebaeschnbliah · 4 years

Text

VATICAN CAMEOS

________________________________________________________________

‘Vatican Cameos’ is a well known phrase in Sherlock BBC. It’ s Sherlock’s secret code word to warn against some imminent life-threatening danger. The code is used three times in total:

First by Sherlock in ASIB when he is about to open Irene’s safe where she keeps her camera phone, guarded by ‘explosives’.

Second by Sherlock in TSOT when he is about to connect the last dots regarding the Mayfly Man case, the invisible man with the invisible knife, and what this means for Major Sholto.

Third by John in TFP when he learns that Eurus is able to ‘reprogramme’ people. Sherlock doesn’t pay attention to him though. He has just played Irene’s theme on his violin and is about to touch the wall of glass which seperates him from Eurus.

The word ‘cameo’ has different meanings. It can be a piece of jewellery, like a gem or small medallion, often with a profiled head carved in stone or some other hard material. The word is also used for small literary or filmic pieces or small theatrical roles. It looks like both meanings - ‘carved in stone’ as well as ‘small guest appearance’ - could apply to the wording ‘Vatican Cameos’ in Sherlock BBC, in a metaphorical reading of the story.

TBC below the cut …

Two restaurants lit by fire and flame

At Angelo’s ...

In the unaired PILOT/ASIP, Sherlock and John wait at Angelo’s restaurant for serial killer Hope. It’s the first time both men work together on a case. From the fireless mantlepiece right next to their candlelit table, a silent watcher observes the beginning of their relationship. It’s the bust of a pope (x x).

ANGELO: Anything on the menu, whatever you want, free. All on the house, you and your date. … Anything on the menu, I cook it for you myself.

A pope, head of the Vatican and supreme keeper of an unrelenting belief, is present at the first ‘date’ of two men, is forced to watch silently, how they fall in love with each other … while a living, breathing ‘angel’ isn’t only ready to serve them food and drink … no, the ‘angel’ even offers to cook the meal himself for free … everything they desire.

The ‘angel’, literally, lights the fire between Sherlock and John with the remark, that this would be much more romantic for a first date. The whole scene seems to be drenched in a yellow light.

Maybe also worth noticing ... the bust of the pope has been put on the same place at the mantlepiece as the skull in 221b.

At the Cross Keys Inn ...

Sherlock and John have rooms at the Cross Keys Inn near Baskerville. They meet in front of the blazing fireplace after Sherlock’s first encounter with the monstrous hound in Dewer’s Hollow. A heart adorns the mantlepiece right over the flickering flames.

The owners of the Cross Keys Inn are Billy and Gary, a gay couple. They have a dog which they couldn’t bring themselves to put down. A sign with ‘vacancies’ written on it, is placed above the statue of a hound. In the pigeonholes beneath, some lovely old fashioned keys seem only to wait for their task to open doors into equally lovely rooms. Bottles of wine are placed at both sides of the keys, the hound and the sign.

The name of the restaurant - Cross Keys - is a deliberate choice by the creators of this story (X) and it seems they really knew quite well what they were doing by choosing precisely this name. The image of two crossed keys features most prominently in the coat of arms of the Vatican, crowned by the papal tiara. This turns the Cross Keys Inn into another short ‘cameo appearance’ of the Vatican. The ‘crossed keys’ - the keys of heaven - have been given to a gay couple that provides food and drink and rooms for those, who want to fulfill those desires.

It isn’t new that these two characters are mirrors for Sherlock and John. (Follow the dog, Part 1 by @sagestreet ) Their names speak for themselves as well:

Billy is short for William, like William Sherlock Scott Holmes

Gary contains the germanic element ‘ger’ meaning ‘spear’

The ‘crossed keys’ of the Vatican

The flag of the Vatican, the papal colours, are yellow and white. They mirror the colours of the keys. The silver key symbolizes the pope's earthly power and the gold one represents god's divine power. The mechanisms of the keys (the bit/beard that unlocks) is turned up towards heaven, their grips are facing downward to show that they were given into the hands of the pope by god.

In heraldry ...

gold (Or) is mostly depicted as yellow and linked to the sun and faith, representd by the topaz (aspects linked to John and his mirrors)

silver (Argent) is mostly depicted as white and linked to the moon and purity, represented by the pearl (aspects linked to Sherlock and his mirrors)

The Vatican’s crossed keys represent the metaphorical keys of the office of Saint Peter, also known as the ‘keys of heaven’. They are the symbol of papal authority. Peter recived the keys and alongside with them, the power of binding and loosing was also commited to him. (Sources: X X )

“I will give you the keys of the kingdom of heaven. Whatever you bind on earth shall be bound in heaven; and whatever you loose on earth shall be loosed in heaven,” (Matthew 16:19:)

“What therefore God hath joined together, let no man put asunder”

This phrase is very well known from wedding ceremonies. Marriage, also called ‘the holy matrimony’, is one of the seven sacraments in catholic church. It is a convenant by which two people establish between themselves a partnership of the whole life. And to this day, the Vatican decides which type of partnership is legal and blessed and which one is a sin and damned. A view, carved in stone and unchangeble, it seems.

Faith, Hope and Love

Those three aspects, closely related to deep emotions, are also known as the three theological virtues. In christianity they are associated with the ‘salvation resulting from the grace of god’ (x).

If I speak in the tongues of men and of angels, but have not love, I am a noisy gong or a clanging cymbal. And if I have prophetic powers, and understand all mysteries and all knowledge, and if I have all faith, so as to remove mountains, but have not love, I am nothing. If I give away all I have, and if I deliver up my body to be burned, but have not love, I gain nothing.

So now faith, hope, and love abide, these three; but the greatest of these is love. (1 Corinthians 13)

The three virtues - hope, faith and love - are also an important part of the rosary prayer. The first three Hail Mary’s at the beginning of the litany are dedicated to them by ending each one of the verses with … ‘and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus, …

... who increases faith in us.’

... who strengthens hope in us.’

... who ignites love in us.’

The creators of Sherlock BBC took a rather special and original way to include those three virtues and Mary’s pregnancy into their story.

HOPE - is the name of the serial killer in ASIP, who offers two sorts of pills (chemistry), a good one and a bad one. One of his victims is the pink lady who had once been in ‘good hope’. But then her daughter Rachel was stillborn. Rachel is the code word to track down Hope.

FAITH - is the name of the serial killer’s daughter in TLD (who’s also linked to chemistry). She appears in two different versions, both presented as mirrors for John. It turns out that in one of the two versions she is Eurus in disguise ... the ‘other one’ ... Sherlock’s long locked- up emotinal part.

LOVE - is used in its Latin translation ‘AMO’ (I love) as code name for the person who is Mycroft’s - the brains - superior. This code word is also used by a second person, Vivian Norbury, to influence the Tiblisi hostage incident - the ultimate cause for the ‘death’ of Rosamunnd Mary and the eventual ‘birth’ of Mary Morstan, which will leads to the birth of baby Rosamund Mary.

Three different stories and yet, each one is about ‘TWO’ (even ‘I love’ appears as AMO & AMMO) and the concepts of choice, death and rebirth. All of it linked to the love story of two men.

The yellow thread

The colour yellow runs through the story told in Sherlock BBC, from the first series to the (by now) last:

This thread starts with Sherlock’s and John’s first ‘date’ at Angelo’s. The whole scene is drenched in yellow.

A secret code of ancient cyphers, sprayed in yellow paint, leads to the Yellow Dragon Circus.

Golden cats and big ‘yellow’ felines - lions - roam the story.

Yellow is the colour of the smiley face on the wall of the 221b living room.

There’s an assassin who carries a yellow ladder and a yellow tool case with a gun in it.

A bright yellow mask has been placed inside a box, alongside with a train, a phone, nicotin patches and a note.

The main colour of the wedding ... so much yellow. It’s the wedding that leads Sherlock to a revolutionary revelation and to a love deduction.

A canary trainer, a trainer of yellow birds, turns out to be the killer.

The Norbury case from canon, known as the case of the ‘yellow face’, plays a vital role in an episode.

The finish of a race is marked with a bright yellow band that floats slowly to the ground while a serial killer passes as winner.

Yellow is the colour of the sun, of fire and flames.

Yellowbeard ….

Yellow and white, gold and silver - are the colours of the Vatican. Colours that represent unchangeable tradition, stubborn persistance and inflexibility. Sherlock BBC links those colours stongly to John and Sherlock. The conductor of light, the fierce lion on the one hand and and the man in the moon, the virgin in the white sheet on the other hand.

A pope, carved in stone, is forced to witness how two men fall in love. The crossed keys of heaven are given into the hands of a loving gay couple. The christian virtues of hope, faith and love become a core element in that story of change and rebirth. What might the colour yellow stand for in Sherlock BBC?

What if it becomes the colour of victory for a much too long forbidden love?

Speculative addition: nuns versus Dracula

In case Dracula BBC is somehow related to Sherlock BBC, which role might have been given to the nuns? As catholic nuns, will they turn out to be another ‘vatican cameo’? After all, nuns do have great significance in Sherlock BBC since the beginning. There are the ‘headless nuns’ from PILOT and TSOT and furthermore, sister is just another word for nun. I’ve tried to follow the trail of those nuns/sisers in ‘The Roads we walk have demons beneath’.

Inspired by the comments on this post some time ago and the last bit by the new trailer for Dracula BBC. I leave you to your own deductions.

For more ‘vatican cameos’ try A CHRISTMAS TALE

December, 2019

#vatican cameos #the pope #crossed keys #yellow #sherlock bbc #metaphorical reading #pics edited #nuns #dracula bbc

50 notes · View notes

billyhardgrove · 5 years

Text

(3) The Girl in Ridgewell - b.h

A/N: I’m so sorry for how long this next part has taken for me to write. Uni has been a hectic and I’ve had such little time to write bit finally finally here’s the next part of The Girl in Ridgewell. I’m really going to try and start updating once a week because I still really like this idea, but please just be patient with me. Love you xx

** ALSO THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR OVER 2000 FOLLOWERS!! I FEEL LIKE I DON’T DESERVE YOU ALL BECAUSE I’M SO INACTIVE BUT I’M GOING TO TRY AND GET BETTER AND I’M GOING TO WRITE ANOTHER ONE SHOT WHICH WILL BE DEDICATED TO ALL 2000 OF YOU SO KEEP YOUR EYES OUT FOR THAT XX

THE GIRL IN RIDGEWELL | masterlist

Pairing: Billy & Reader

Word Count: 3.1k approx.

Warning: Swearing, smoking

Summary: Hawkins becomes unbearable and Billy wants out, but a couple towns over he stumbles upon a timid girl and all she wants is a can of coke.

[ PREVIOUS PART ] || [ NEXT PART ]

The water bounced off the pavement, as Y/N brought her arms above her head; a feeble attempt to keep her hair dry. But after a short minute, she found it pointless, her arms falling limply to her side. The can of coke she got from Billy still swung in her hand as she walked. Where to exactly? She still had no idea. Ever since Billy had driven off, she just walked in the direction he drove – it wasn’t as though there was a lot of ways she could go; the town was only one street long.

Soon the sidewalk turned to gravel and dirt once more as she found herself walking along the road. But the further she walked, the more the heavens seemed to open up, thunder grumbling along the horizon as lightning interrupted, igniting the sky with fire. Y/N could feel her throat begin to tickle, her arms begin to shiver, her body begin to fall into exhaustion as she risked falling ill. Though she didn’t really care. But she couldn’t stand the cold, and again she scolded herself to be so dumb as to leave the house without a jacket.

It wasn’t as though she had enough time to grab it though, she thought. All she wanted at that time was to escape, to get away from that house as quickly as possible so making sure she brought a coat was the furthest priority in her head.

Looking up from her muddy boots, she looked ahead, a spark of hope lighting in her heart as she caught the Motel sign flashing vacancies. She didn’t have any money, but even hovering in the lobby until the storm passed was her best option.

So, picking up her pace to a light jog, her arms wrapped around her body as she made her way to the motel. But it was when she was walking through the parking lot that she felt her stomach sink as she caught sight of it: a blue Camaro.

You had to be joking.

She had just gotten rid of the boy and the uncomfortable tension that seemed to linger between the two of them. Sure, it was nice of him to give her a lift, but from the swift mood change between the start of the ride to the end, Y/N had decided she didn’t like Billy. There was just something about him that didn’t sit right with her. Maybe it was the fact that he was rude, cocky and seemed like a complete asshole. Maybe it was the fact that he evidently had gotten into a fight just for the ‘shits’ of it, it seemed, or the fact that she got the impression that Billy was expecting something sexual to be given back to him for him giving her a lift (if the way his eyes raked her body was anything to go by). All in all, he was not someone she wanted to be associated with.

But Y/N was so cold, and the storm didn’t seem like it would cease any time soon so if she had to suffer more awkwardness in the chance that she bumped into the mullet-wearing boy again, she admitted it was the lesser of two evils. But realistically, she was sure she wouldn’t be seeing him again for he had probably got himself a room.

Except when she walked into the entrance way, who was it bent over the front desk, his voice low and charming, but Billy fucking Hargrove.

Great.

Y/N stopped in the doorway, dripping onto the stained carpet as her hair draped around and stuck to her face. Billy didn’t notice her until the lady at the front desk’s attention had been stolen from him and given to Y/N, her face pulling in slight annoyance at the way the girl was soaking the carpet she stood on.

Turning to see what the woman was looking at, as soon as Billy’s eyes had fallen on her, they rolled to the back of his head.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Billy mumbled under his breath. He had only just gotten away from the girl. Clearly the distaste to be encountering each other again was mutual.

Y/N merely rolled her eyes, ignoring him, part of her not wanting to agitate the boy. There was just something about him she felt had a short fuse, as though he could blow up at any wrong motion or response.

Billy didn’t acknowledge her any more than that, instead returning his attention to the lady at the desk as he continued to try convince her to let him stay in a room for $15 instead of the requested $25. But to his dismay – and strike to the ego – she wasn’t having any of it no matter what charming tactics he placed on her.

“No. It’s $25 or get out.” She replied sternly, her head nodding towards the door to where Y/N still stood. Slowly the girl started to step towards the pair, noticing how the exchange was turning sour as Billy’s shoulders squared and an angry frown was held to his face.

“If you let me give you the $15 now, I’ll get you the $10 tomorrow.” Billy tried to negotiate but the lady refused.

“Out.”

“You fucking listen-“

“Here.” Y/N cut in, now standing next to where Billy was and noticing how the boy appeared forceful. Clearly, she had interrupted at the right time for she feared Billy may have gotten aggressive if the way his hands were clenched into tight fists was anything to go by. Y/N had a ten dollar bill in her hand, offering it to the woman. She stared at it for a moment, then to Billy before finally snatching it from Y/N’s hand.

All the meanwhile, Billy’s eyes had turned and narrowed to the girl, and Y/N could feel herself want to squirm being under his gaze once more.

He could at least be grateful, she thought but didn’t dare say.

“I thought you didn’t have any money.” He snarled, not bothering to hide his irritation or acknowledge the kind gesture she did for him. But perhaps Billy was a little suspicious of her. The girl had made such a big deal back at the shop about how she didn’t have enough money for the coke and yet she had money all along? It didn’t add up. Not that Billy cared though.

“I didn’t want to break a note. Thought I could convince the guy to give it to me for cheap.” Y/N replied quietly, giving Billy a casual shrug. Y/N did have a couple of coins but just not enough for the coke alone. And Billy continued to look at her, his hard expression unchanging. Though he couldn’t deny that her words may have caught him off guard, expecting her to say she had picked it up off the ground. But no. Perhaps this girl had more to her than he first thought. Her admittance wasn’t of something that big or impressive but tactical and from the impression that Billy had gathered from her – that being that she was timid and weak – he could honestly say he would’ve never expected the girl to try and con a man into giving her a drink. Maybe Y/N had a little something more to her than Billy thought.

“Right…” Billy merely muttered, sounding almost bored. He then snatched the room key that was being waved impatiently in front of his face from the lady behind the desk. Turning on his heel he began to walk away, but upon noticing that there were no footsteps following him, he shouted out. “So are we sharing this room or what?”

The nicotine held him trapped to the line, hooked to the habit as he inhaled deeply, the toxic poison filling his lungs with pleasure only to be bellowed back out in a cloud of white smoke. Billy lay on the double bed, one of his hands held under his head that rested on the pillow while the other removed the cigarette accessorising his lips.

And Y/N remained standing awkwardly by the door, uncertain of what to do, of how to act. She was intimidated of course, for the tanned California God that lay before her still made her feel on edge.

She was starting to regret that minor amount of confidence she had back at the reception when she handed over the little money she had left. It had been impulsive, but – at the time – Y/N figured what was the harm. She was exhausted, soaked and freezing, and mostly desperate. So she saw an opportunity of shelter for the night and took it, even if it meant sharing that shelter with someone she wasn’t particularly fond of.

Again, emphasis on ‘at the time’, for now part of her almost felt like she would rather spend the night curled up outside in the storm than spend the next however many hours feeling uneasy and making a completely fool of herself in front of Billy.

“Are you going to just stand there the whole night, staring at me like a fucking creep?” His gruff voice pulled Y/N from her thoughts, and she coughed awkwardly, not exactly realising that she had been staring at the boy for a weird amount of time.

“Oh, uh, s-sorry.” She stammered out, shuffling uncomfortably on the spot while her gaze was immediately claimed by the floor.

Billy just let out a nasty taunting laugh, and she could feel those dangerous eyes on her once more but she didn’t dare meet them. And she couldn’t tell if it was due to his attention being directed to her or the fact that she still wore her drenched clothes, but goosebumps prickled her skin as shivers possessed her body.

Bringing her hands up to rub at her arms, she mumbled out; “I think I’m just going to grab a shower…”

Billy didn’t respond, simply because he didn’t care to as he continued to blow white clouds from his nose and lips.

So walking into the small bathroom, Y/N closed the door gently behind her before quickly stripping from her soaking wet clothes. Turning the shower on, she thanked God there was hot water as she felt it glide over her, her skin prickling in goosebumps all over again but this time at the relief of heat. Washing her hair and body, when she pulled the shower curtain back she was met with her own variation of white clouds, the steam from the shower fogging up the room from floor to ceiling. Wrapping a towel around her, it was then she was met with her first problem; she had no change of clothes.

It would be stupid to put her damp clothes back on but she had nothing else to wear. Picking up her wet clothes from the floor, there was just no way she could face putting them back on her body. She supposed she could place them over the radiator for a short while before getting changed back into them but that then left her with only the towel to cover her. God, why did she get herself into these situations? Now would the ideal time for her to have her own room, but of course those weren’t the cards she had been dealt. Instead she shared a room with Billy and she just knew of the snide comments he would make.

But what other choice did she have?

So, making sure her towel was wrapped tightly around her, so as there was absolutely no chance of it slipping off, she picked up her clothes once more before walking out of the bathroom and back into the bedroom.

Soon enough she felt the ever-growing-familiar feeling of Billy’s eyes watching her every move, but again, she made the effort to avoid looking at him at all costs. Walking over to the window to where the radiator was positioned beneath, she carefully lay her clothes on the heater, again grateful that the radiator was actually on.

And with every movement she made, Billy followed. His lazy eyes gazed through the smoke, trailing along her body from behind. While they drew up along her calves and thighs, then along her torso which was hidden by that small towel, he couldn’t help but pull his lower lip between his teeth for a moment.

It was a fucking shame that the girl was so weird and awkward because there was no denying she had a sexy body, Billy thought. But then again, it seemed like this was the only girl that he’d be interacting with tonight so why not play his cards a little and see if there was any room for fucking. It’s not like he was going to see the girl again after tonight so really the personality wasn’t a massive factor into whether he should fuck her or not. She’s gorgeous, there’s no denying it, so she’s the perfect candidate to add another notch to Billy’s belt.

So Billy sat upright on the bed, just as Y/N turned back around from putting her clothes on the radiator, her arms wrapping around herself once more, this time to stop any chance of the towel flashing her.

“I, uh… I didn’t bring a spare pair of clothes, so I just have to wait until they dry.” She told Billy, her eyes still never glancing to him as she pointed out the reason as to why she was only wearing a towel, even though she knew he most likely didn’t give two shits.

Billy still said nothing. Truth be told, he had a spare set of his own clothes in the trunk of his car – always handy when spending the night with a girl – but he wasn’t going to bother offering them to the girl, not when it would just be adding layers to the outcome he wanted. Why make it more difficult for himself? A towel was probably the easiest thing to remove from a girl anyway.

Billy just stared at Y/N with hooded eyes, smoke from his cigarette snaking slowly from his lips as he just watched her. It was one of his ‘moves’, if you like. It normally made the girl he wanted to blush at the fact his attention was on her for so long, probably ‘boosting the little self-esteem she had’, he claimed. Except for it to work, the girl had to be looking at him. And Y/N was very much avoiding his gaze.

For fuck sake.

So standing from the bed, Billy tauntingly walked over to where the girl stood, her wet hair hanging around her face. He stopped so as he was right in front of her as the overwhelming smell of smoke suffocated her nostrils. Lifting her head finally so as she looked at the boy, a confused look graced her features, confusion as to why he was suddenly stood so close to her, closer than she liked, if she was being honest.

His mischievous ocean eyes invaded hers, unblinking as he brought his cigarette back to his lips before exhaling the smoke through his nostrils.

It was then he spoke. “Want one?” But of course his tone was tainted with mockery for he knew the answer before she began to shake her head no. “Have you ever even had one, Y/N?” His voice was so deep, to the point she feared it rattled her bones. That smirk stretched across his lips as she shook her head once more in denial. “Hm, why does that not surprise me?” He was so close to her now, his mouth close to her ear as his eyes looked to see her expression.

She felt so helpless yet captivated, but embarrassed yet sought. Bile clogged her throat as she gulped in uncertainty and nervousness, but her cheeks flushed red and this strange feeling enlightened her stomach. It was confusing, like Billy had her under this trance from how close he was, almost as though he was flirting with her, seducing her, yet his words would’ve suggested anything but. Yet, maybe that was just the way Billy worked. Was he seducing her? God, how did her mind manage to become so boggled and hazy in such a short space of time?

Bringing his cigarette to his lips once more, he then chuckled darkly. “Are you a virgin, Y/N?” And she nearly choked at the sudden bluntness of the invasive question. But Billy simply ignored her, continuing. “If I had to guess, I’d say you were. I can tell from the way you’re so nervous around me, princess; the way you keep holding your breath anytime I lean into you.” Y/N didn’t even mean to do it, but as she exhaled as soon as he said that, she felt her cheeks flush once more having not realised she had been doing just that. His voice was like silk, infusing her ears with his suggestive words, almost like he was brainwashing her into being under his control. “The way you try to avoid looking at me because you don’t know what to do; the way your cheeks keep blushing redder and redder with every, single, thing, I say.” He chuckled once more, the sound resonating against her ear drum. And, God, why did it seem to add more fuel to whatever was lighting in Y/N’s stomach? Why couldn’t she stop herself from acting the way she did? “You’re a virgin, aren’t you, Y/N?”

God, was he arrogant.

The girl remained still, not moving a single muscle, not even flinching when she felt his finger tuck under her chin and cause her to tilt her head up so as her eyes had no option but to look at his. And from how close he was, Y/N could see her completely flustered reflection in his irises while his gaze looked deep into hers, as though he could see every secret she ever kept, as though he was invading and exposing every ounce of her being. But she thanked God it wasn’t possible.

“But I won’t lie, I don’t know how you’ve stayed innocent for so long. I don’t know how anyone hasn’t fucked you yet.” His lips almost ghosted over hers as she still remained paralysed in his presence. His hot breath danced across Y/N’s cheeks as Billy played her like a fiddle. “You’re fucking gorgeous, princess.”

And it was as though he was a magnet, his lips calling for hers as she felt her cheeks heat up this time out of flattery. It was as though it was all a part of Billy’s game, as though he would make the girl feel so insecure in herself, as though she was inferior to him before completely twisting it around, as though when he finally gave her some form of flattery, it would make her want him more than ever in fear that he wouldn’t ever give the girl a compliment like that again, so she should take it while she could.

And her mind yelled at her, screamed at her, screeched at her as her body betrayed her; Y/N’s lips pressed against his.

NEXT PART

Tag list: @leyla676 @thatpunkmaximoff @lufthexe @ephmrl-love @steveharrigntons @baebee35 @secretlyactivated @blissfulbilly @joebob15274 @delqcour @httpray

(I really hope I haven’t forgotten anybody!! If you wanted to be added message me HERE)

#billy hargrove #billy #hargrove #billy hargrove writing #billy hargrove x reader #billy hargrove imagine #billy hargrove series #stranger things #stranger things imagine #stranger things writing #stranger things series #dacre montgomery #dacre #montgomery #dacre montgomery writing #dacre montgomery imagine #dacre montgomery x reader #dacre montgomery series

58 notes · View notes

webcricket · 5 years

Text

Paradise

Characters: CastielXReader ft. Jack Kline and the Winchesters Word Count: 1764 Summary: Before he was born, Jack Kline showed Castiel a vision of the future; in it, the seraph saw paradise. Returning to you and Jack after a hunt with the Winchesters, Cas apprehends that the future is now. Please note, this is written with early season 14 powerless Jack in mind. Introspective angel. Fatherly fluff. Family.

“I saw the future. I saw a world without pain or hunger or want. I saw the world that this child… that your child… will create. And it is a world without fear and without suffering and without hate… I saw paradise.”

[Castiel, 12X23 All Along the Watchtower]

***

Interconnected by a network of river-like asphalt crevasses threatening to part and swallow a mis-stepping wanderer seeking sanctuary from the stormy night whole, inky rainwater ripples a sea of potholes spanning the parking lot. Swirling about a motel – the building a comparatively sunny island oasis in the murk – whose pallid green peeling façade has been moldering since it’s late 50s interstate-side family-fun road tripping hey-day, an ethereal fog faintly reeking of highway exhaust and weighted with the musk of damp earth rises from paved ground where the heat of day absorbed by blacktop thwarts the cooling effect of the downpour. Oily darkness seeps unhindered into the perimeter of pock-marked pavement; the crimson glare of a vacancy sign and choked yellow light blurring the nicotine-tinted windows of the motel’s main office fail, for the most part, in their combined effort to keep at bay the incursion of night; the artificial gleam coalesces – eerie influence heightened now and then by lingering lightening lashing the horizon – to illumine Castiel’s aspect with a celestially subversive hellish hue.

Hands pushed into his pockets out of habit more than to protect against the dank atmosphere, the rain-spattered host of Heaven treads carefully, pausing to let pass a plump earthworm making its way across the roughened concrete walkway; the simple creature toils – a ringed tube of muscle pulsing as its body stretches opaquely pink then contracts again to the color of mud – to Chuck only knows what terminus; and Cas, knowing we all have somewhere special we long to be on tempestuous nights such as these waits so as not to impede its slimy progress.

Standing thus, sodden chestnut curls crushed into the permanent tracts of worry etching his brow, the angel glances upward to determine the source of a steady streamer of droplets smattering his trench coat lapel. Focus following the roof edge, he tarries for a few of his vessel’s heartbeats to appreciate the rhythmic drip-drop-drip sputter of an overworked gutter; the mournful bellow of a fly-by-night tractor trailer interrupts the melodically and moistly saturating song.

That, and the argumentative tones carried in the muggy air of two brothers as they plod, battle-weary and bloodied, bickering over who called dibs on a shower first. The younger concedes to the elder with a sweepingly derisive gesture indicating defeat on account of sheer exhaustion. The elder, ever happy to accept a win – any win – grunts in smug satisfaction and flashes his teeth.

At the sight of them safe – unperturbed, presently anyway, by anything supernatural – the angel permits the subtle softness of a smile to smite some of the usual seriousness squaring his jawline; he keeps an affectionately tempered watch on the men until they reach their destination.

The humidity-swollen door of suite 11 gives way to the ungentle nudging of Dean’s shoulder; the pitch within engulfs his bow-legged form.

Trailing behind his brother, Sam braces a palm to the threshold. Swiping the other across his forehead, he smears at the wet of rain and caked sweat collected there that trickles to sting his vision. Sensing the concentration of a gaze at his back, he turns to peer at the sentry-like seraph situated along the opposite row of rooms; he offers him a tired smile and a courteous nod, the micro expressions a summary of thankfulness they made it through another day – together, and mostly unscathed – and a sincere wish for a goodnight.

Cas lifts a hand from its pocketed confines to acknowledge Sam’s unspoken sentiment before the hazel-eyed hunter, too, disappears from view. Gaze falling to his water-specked boots, seeing no sign of earthworms laboring near the soles, he shifts his attention to the closed door at his right marked 23.

The door appears utterly unremarkable, like any of a thousand other doors; and yet, the two beings lodged behind the wooden barrier – a soul resplendent with a love he strives in all he does to deserve whose fitful breathing pattern he recognizes for one of tenuous slumber over the din of a television left on for distraction in his absence, and a son, not of his conception, but nonetheless his progeny by providential circumstance, choice, and a reciprocal devotion too deep to be anything less than a bond between father and son – are to him of paramount importance.

Superficially speaking, he notes the paint eroded around the knob with repeated use – a once bold hue faded to grey; studying the lock scarred by countless misaimed keys, he sifts through his trousers to locate the puzzle piece of notched metal required to garner entry. Key eluding him, likely long lost in the late kerfuffle with several lately departed demons, he concentrates his intent on the bolt and flicks two fingers to free the mechanism; the latch relents to its divine undoing with a muffled click and the door swings inward.

Warmly caressing the two precious sleeping figures within, a rush of sultry air surges along with the seraph’s irrepressibly welling grace – an angelic greeting of sorts he cannot suppress that swathes your bodies, reassuring him directly of your well-being. Irises sparkling blue, their shining surface reflecting the black and white Western ambling across the television screen, fix on Jack in the nearest bed, and you beyond, curled into yourself and clutching a pillow in lieu of your preferred bed partner, as he endeavors to quickly re-secure the door without disturbing the prevailing peace.

Feeling the familiarity of his grace smooth every inch of your skin, a small sigh of delight escapes your lips as your respiration settles to a restful regularity; even in unconsciousness, you sense the seraph’s energetically charged arrival and respond with relief.

Carpet discoloring where it drenches beneath his feet as though he is a vagabond washed ashore by the tide from a long and aimless voyage at sea, Cas divests himself of his signature – and by convenient chance, weather appropriate – coat, casting it aside to dry on a chairback, before drifting further into the room. Fingers slackening the knot of his tie and unfastening the topmost buttons of his shirt, each initial step inward liberates boots and socks and lightens his heart with the emotion of a homecoming where you discover what you remember with especial fondness endures outside the bounds of time itself. It matters not to him that only a few meager hours have passed apart which may seem to some no time at all; the iterant angel cherishes every minute fortune blesses him with a family; and not just any family – his family – the one he forged and fights for on an unshakeable foundation of faith and fidelity.

Rounding Jack’s bedside, Cas’ regard lands on a comic book loosely hanging from the boy’s grasp; the colorfully graphic pages poise in a precipitous gravitational battle between insensate fingertips and the floor. He collects the comic, reads the title of Constantine plastered across the cover, and stares for a moment at the sight of the trench coat clad centric-character. The soft smile Sam caught a glimpse of earlier eases roundness into the angel’s cheeks and fractures the flesh cornering his blues in a charming chaos of creases.

Setting the comic on the side table for safekeeping, Cas reaches down to lightly comb the hair from Jack’s cloistered eyes; stooping, he tenders a kiss to the bared forehead. “Sweet dreams, my boy,” his lips brush the gravelly murmured hope into the Nephilim’s mind, crowding out the doubt Cas knows dogs him therein; knowing well that very same pain, it hurts the angel’s heart witnessing Jack struggle to find his way in the world – between worlds – just as he did. Cas is grateful he’s here to help him navigate, to pick him up with unfailing belief and forgiveness when he falls down because he understands from experience that is what it takes to go on when it’s so much easier to give in.

A static tingle of awareness runs his vessel’s spine, climbing all the way to pill the hair peppering his nape, a sure indicator of clandestine observation. Steeped in sentimental thought, he missed the signs of you rousing. Straightening, moving with deliberate slowness of action to relish in the escalating uptick of your heartbeat as you eagerly wait for him to turn, he tugs the blanket over the boy’s shoulders and tucks him in.

As soon as the angel’s chin slants in your direction, your eyelids squeeze in a mockery of sleep; you cannot, however, repress the waking of the smile curving your mouth. Swiftly, he’s on you. Arms caging, lips seal over yours to quiet a giggle; unable to subdue the gladness of greeting where mouths meet, the shared smiles meld into something even sweeter.

It’s you – always you, human frailty an affront to the unending potential of angelic passion – that begs mercy for a breath first; pardoning yourself from the kiss to pant into the collar of his shirt, you embrace him round the neck, demanding with gentle insistence he join you in the bed.

He surrenders to the promise of loving comfort without struggle; clambering over you to collapse on the vacant side of the mattress, he notches himself in the welcoming fold of your arms.

Fingers tangling his still damp hair, you draw his head to rest on the cushion of your bosom.

Serenity, safety, and love sheltered within these walls, evenness of your breath calming, he gives himself permission to fully relax. The spectral silhouette of wings unfurling dances upon the wall in the TV's undulant light; blanketing you, the feathery tips stretch across the gap between beds to shroud, too, his son. Contentment hums in his throat.

“You guys take care of those demons?” The hushed query echoes through the laddered rungs of your ribs and into his ears.

“Mm-hmm.” He vibrates in answer.

“Sam and Dean, they’re okay?”

“They’re Sam and Dean,” he teases, volume equally low so as not to wake Jack, “they manage to be fine in spite of themselves and just about everything else that tries to prove otherwise.”

Your chest bounces in a silently contained laugh. “And what about you, angel?”

The question needs no consideration. He’s never been better. This is the future – the paradise – Jack showed him once upon a time: a present without the pain of doubt, the hunger to belong, or the want of purpose. Castiel sees now that paradise isn’t a place you go to, it’s the people you’re with – the people you love and who love you in return. Outside a storm rages and darkness forever encroaches; in here, he nestles nearer, tells you he’s, “Good,” and means it.

Castiel tag list: (Closed, if you’d like to be removed please let me know!) @jeepangel @sammiesamness @willowing-love @roxy-davenport @blueicevalkyrie @im-the-nerdiest-of-them-a11 @thesugargalaxy @bluetina-blog @dont-trust-humanity @honeybeetrash @bucky-thorin-winchester @superwholockz @tistai @wordstothewisereaders @gill-ons @mrswhozeewhatsis @marisayouass @stone-met @castiel-savvy18 @samualmortgrim @trexrambling @magnificent-mantle @kdfrqqg @xdifsx @moon-and-stars-cas @mandilion76 @rockfairy @peaceloveancolor @unicorntrooper @anisolatedship @itsilvermorny @aditimukul @kudosia @goofynerd-67babylove @uninspirationalsonglyrics @gray-avidan @mishascupcake @mishapanicmeow @praisecastielamen @roseyhxnt @jessikared97 @let-the-imaginationflow @warriorqueen1991 @sebastianstanslefteyebrow @hisnameisboobear @kristendanwayne @fuschiarulerinthebluebox @coolpencilpie @jenabean75 @luciathewinchestergirl @morganas-pendragons @heyitscam99 @fangirl-and-stuff @selahbela @realgreglestrade @splendidcas @pointlesscasey @i-larb-spooderman @thewhiterabbit42 @thelostverse @castieliswatchingoverme @beccollie18 @dragonett8 @dixie-chick @jtownraindancer @carowinsthings @passionghost @sherlockedtash88 @futureparent @gabbie7-11 @myfandomlife-blog @dreamerkim @shamelesslydean @earthtokace @neaeri @justanormalangel @lone-loba @supernaturalymarvel @lilrubixx @wings-and-halo @thehoneybeecastielfollows @musiclovinchic93 @81mysteriouslyme @the-bottom-of-the-abyss @jaylarkson @iminlokisarmysofi @pixiedusts @spookysculderfiles @laqueus-ludovicus @missjenniferb @lexininja @jessiekay2010 @skrratata @rhiannonj79 @calicat79

#castiel x reader #castiel x you #jack kline #dadstiel x reader #castiel reader insert #castielxreader #castielxyou #cas x reader #cas x you #reader x castiel #you x castiel #castiel imagine #castiel fluff #spn x reader #cricket writes cas

96 notes · View notes