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theunboundwriter · 1 year

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The Strawberry Killer

Chapter Three: The Missing Posters

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The weather had shifted while Dianne was inside. The fog had lifted and the wind picked up, grabbing onto her hair, and forcing it in her eyes. She had decided to walk to the coroner's office, it not being very far from the police station. Now that she was outside in the wind, she regretted her decision as she had no safe haven to conceal herself from its prying hands.

Why there was a coroner's office in Beckton of all places, Dianne hadn't the slightest clue. It was positioned between a small apartment building and an old playground. She first glanced up to the building, it only being three stories. Many of the curtains were drawn, blues and yellows and greens filling the small space. A window on the second floor caught her eye, at first because the curtains weren't drawn, and she could somewhat peer into the apartment. Then a face appeared in the window, staring numbly down at her. It was an older woman, her hair wrapped in curlers and still dressed in her nightgown despite it being the middle of the day.

She turned away from the apartments, beginning to make her trek back to the police department. As she passed by the old playground, the wind idly blew at the swings, the squeaking sound of metal rubbing metal filling the air. Puddles collected beneath the swings and at the bottom of a bright yellow slide, making nearly every piece of playground equipment unusable. Not that it mattered though, there wasn't a child in sight in Beckton.

As soon as the revelation crossed her mind, she noticed the catalyst that could have been the reason for the lack of laughter and pleasantness in this small town.

On a post, directly across the street from the playground, was a missing child poster. Dianne quickly crossed the road, not bothering to look both ways, as there wasn't a soul outside. As she drew near, she realized that there were more.

Eight, nine posters all stapled to the same post, faces of smiling children with the word 'MISSING' plastered to the wood. Dianne couldn't stop her mouth from dropping in disbelief. The longer she stared the more she realized that they weren't all kids, there were people of all ages missing in Beckton. The young, the old, and the in-between.

Jordan Landrey, age 29.

Last Seen leaving The Cardinal Kingston Bar at 11:00pm, on Saturday, October 17th

Meghan Otto, age 16.

Last Seen at home on Sunday afternoon around 2:00pm, December 1st

David Parksman, age 34.

Last Seen on Mockingbird Lane at 6:00pm, on Saturday, January 24th

Florence Hipp, age 62.

Last Seen at The Everlasting Faith Church at 7:00pm, on Sunday, March 3rd

James Bly, age 19.

Last Seen playing basketball at Beckton Park around 9:00pm, on Saturday, May 6th

Dianne stopped reading after that. All of these missing people and the Beckton police had only just now involved her department? She should have been sent to this town a long time ago. She and Detective Gregory were here now, she supposed. She just wondered how many more people had to go missing before this case would be solved.

Looking over the post that was littered in papers one more time, Dianne frowned at one paper in particular that caught her eye. It was on bright yellow paper, taking away the attention from all of the faces on the posters, the words printed in ugly red ink.

SIN HAS CONSEQUENCES. REPENT.

Dianne ripped the paper from the post, crumbled it into a ball and tossed it in the nearest waste basket.

When she made it back to the station, Detective Brody Gregory was there waiting for her. He sat with his feet propped up on his temporary desk, a cigarette between his fingers. He smiled when Dianne walked in but took notice of her frown as she threw down the too-thin manila folder that the coroner was able to give her onto his desk.

"This case has been a joke, Brody," she told him. "There's practically nothing. No, scratch that. There is nothing."

"It's nice to see you too," Detective Gregory smirked, putting out his cigarette as she sat down because he knew how much she hated the smell. "My drive was good. Lots of corn, though."

"Brody."

"Yes, I did stop for lunch, actually. But I didn't end up getting anything because the diner I stopped at was packed. I couldn't believe a place out in the middle of nowhere got so much business."

Dianne gave him a fixed look, one that said she wasn't amused. Detective Gregory sighed. "Anyway, you were saying there was nothing?"

"Basically. There weren't any autopsies done on the other victims, so there's not a lot to go off of there. The autopsy I had ordered on the latest victim didn't give a lot of information either, and they can't even identify our Jane Doe. No one's come to claim her, yet. There's been a few families filtering in and out seeing if they can identify her, but no luck so far. We can build a vague profile of our killer off of what our autopsy gave, but I'm not sure how much that will help."

He hummed. "You're right, sure does seem like a lot of nothing."

"The murders have stretched over the course of eleven months; we should be swimming in information and clues and at the very least have some suspects lined up. But we can't even identify the victim."

"Captain Josiah gave me a rundown on what we know. Have you built a profile for our guy yet?"

"He's a white male, mid-twenties to late forties. He's probably about five foot ten, to six foot two. Most likely lives alone."

Brody scratched at the scruff on his chin. "Dianne, that's at least half of the men in Beckton."

Once again, Detective Jennings found herself throwing her head back in frustration. "I know. We have nothing to go off of here. Any chance of finding fingerprints on Jane Doe's body was lost the moment she was thrown into that lake. We could have maybe found some other DNA under her fingernails, if she had scratched him, but that was lost too when her fingertips were cut off."

Dianne sat in silence for a moment, tapping on the surface of her desk with a manicured finger. "I think Jane Doe knew her attacker. She was strangled, and she let someone get close enough to her to do that. She trusted him. I'm not sure about the other victims, but maybe they knew him too."

"Beckton is the smallest town I've ever been to in my life," Detective Gregory told her. "Everybody knows everybody, so even if they did know their attacker, it doesn't narrow it down by much."

"On the way here, I passed by nine missing posters. Some of them even dated back to October. We might be able compare our Jane Doe to some of the missing persons reports and familiarize ourselves with some of the other victims while we're at it. Try to cross-examine the people they knew."

Detective Gregory nodded. "Alright. And let's look into any men in the area with previous misdemeanors. We can start asking questions while we wait on finding our missing person match."

Dianne nodded, already quickly typing away on her computer. Brody checked his watch, clearing his throat. "Want to grab lunch?"

She looked up at him, then glanced at her own watch. "You're buying," she said, standing. She grabbed her jacket and plucked up the manila folder on her way out.

#wip: the strawberry killer #wip excerpt #chapter update #finished wip #story excerpt #wip chapter #murder mystery #serial killer oc #my ocs #finished story #short story #original fiction

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hansolmates · 3 years

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shiver | 01 (m)

banner done by the wonderful @dnrequests

summary; jungkook changed since he moved out of his small town church community and attended college. when he returns for a christmas mass, you suddenly crave a taste of his fun and carefree life. in exchange, jungkook craves a taste of you pairing; bad boy!jungkook x church girl!reader genre/warnings; childhood friends to lovers, brief childhood friends to enemies, fwb!au, catholic guilt, jungkook is a meanie who eventually turns into a soft tsundere, bicuriosity, sexual exploration, virgin!oc, eventual smut—in this installment: touching over the clothes, mc is hornee, *pulls out cards against humanity* “a gentle caress of the inner thigh”, panty kissin, mc is a big ol’ pushover and hopeful for jkk:(( w/c; 1.9k a/n; it’s here! aaaaaa!!! i’ve been really eally realllyyyyyy nervous to post this. even though this is just a drabble series let me know how you feel about it! enjoy [shiver masterpost]

“Oh, you’re so dead.”

Jeon Jungkook isn’t thaaaat buff, he's more of a skinny kind of muscular. You don’t understand the hype, why everyone croons over Jungkook’s strength and physique. However, how else could you explain Jungkook being able to climb the currently dilapidated fire escape to the top floor of the chapel. The ladder is rusted beyond repair and is definitely a fire hazard rather than a fire escape. Yet he barely breaks a sweat doing it, and he wipes the minor sheen off his brow with the back of his hand. There’s some soot and whatever nasty residue from the fire escape that gets on his face, a black streak marring his already annoying face. He’s currently wiggling his fingers in a sarcastic “hello.” It makes you sneer, your two consciousness (inappropriate and appropriate) warring against each other to determine whether you still find this man attractive or not.

Convincing yourself that Jungkook is ugly is the worst quick-fix idea you’ve ever had.

The words of your Aunties, the family friends in the church, echo in your ears. Jungkook’s bad. They’d say over and over. It would cause you to snort and giggle, unable to imagine what sort of things he’s done to warrant such a cliché label. Yet some of the girls your age, girls that have gone off to college agree with sultry looks and longing eyes that yes, Jungkook’s bad. So bad, it’s good.

You haven’t a clue what he’s actually done to earn such a hushed title, his parents are lip-tight about his doings, unless it’s his achievements in the architecture graduate program. You hear things, though. Things that make you shamefully green with envy, envious of sin.

As soon as he finds proper footing in the storage room, he goes to the closet, immediately finding his backup clothes. They’re plain white button-downs, awkward long shirts with no shape or definition to them. They belong to the church, and no one ever uses them because they’re stiff and itchy. Yet Jungkook wears them like it’s tailored, and you have to look away when he quickly knots the bottom half of the shirt, fashioning it into a tasteful double knot in order to cinch his lean waist.

“Pretty sure it was just you that saw me,” Jungkook says dismissively, “so it’s fine.”

This bristles you the wrong way, and you put down the catering covers you were supposed to return to the storage room. You smooth out your Sunday dress, this shade of Boring Beige looking particularly pale in the morning sun. “How do you know I won’t tell?” you turn your nose up.

“Because I know,” he doesn’t even look at you, focusing on rolling the sleeves of his shirt. You weaken when you see the black shadowing across his forearm. That’s new, then again you haven’t seen him since last Christmas.

“Know what?”

“That you have a crush on me,” Jungkook says into the air like it’s common knowledge, adjusting the leather jacket on top of his outfit so the white-startched collar pops on top, “I mean, it’s hard for anyone not to know. You’ve been into me since youth group, Bunny.”

You hold your breath, counting to ten as you close the door behind you. A vision of you playing “Duck Duck Goose” as a five year old plays in your head, where you’d pick a bushy, big-eyed Jeon Jungkook each time, hopping over to him to pat his fluffy head so he’d chase you around.

It’s old news, your puppy love for Jungkook. How could you not like him? He's clever and sweet with his mother and always told the best stories in youth group meetings. Everyone thought your affections were so sweet, and while that attention weaned over time, your feelings have only increased the more self-aware you’ve become.

With a mind as open and honest is yours, it’s hard to ignore how well Jungkook has grown. What has also grown is your curiosities since the two of you have moved onto university. Jungkook goes to the university uptown, a far drive which only forces him attend masses during the holidays. You attended the local community college, wrapping up a bachelors in some vague major that you’re not attached to. You’re currently looking around for some graduate schools, but unfortunately you’ve been so wrapped up doing duties for Pastor Nina that you haven’t been able to look around properly.

Jungkook’s probably living a fun life, with the way he’s grown rough and loose, you resent him.

When you turn back around, Jungkook’s right in front of you, trapping you between his body and the door.

“Don’t be embarrassed, Bunny,” you furrow your brows, nearly growing cross-eyed when he leans in. “I think your crush is cute.”

You’re not sure what he thinks of you. Sure, he considered everyone a friend when you two were in youth group, but that was youth group. Premeditated, parents forcing other children to do the same things with each other for years upon years in the hope they’ll practice together forever and ever. Jungkook did not want that, evident from the way he dipped his duties as soon as he got into university.

You hate how easy he dips back into it though, calling you Bunny and making you feel like a little girl all over again. Bunny, because you’d hop around to him whenever he was in sight. Bunny, because Jungkook had been fondly compared to the wide-eyed, diamond-toothed creature. It was cute when you were five. Now, it’s just discomfiting.

“Don’t call me that,” you bite, “and I don’t like you anymore.”

“Sure you don’t,” he rolls his eyes, and you flinch when Jungkook’s hand rests on the curve of your waist, fingers slotting themselves between the pleats of your skirt. “That’s why you’re not moving away when I’m about to put my hand under your skirt. Because you don’t like me.”

You press yourself further into the door, your skin hot and vibrating. So warm, you feel like you could melt through the door and escape from Jungkook’s gaze. Sure, the young ladies in the congregation talk. Maybe you’ve heard a story or two about Jungkook being seedy, a result of being repressed after years and years of stiff routines and expectations thrust upon him. You could care less about Jungkook’s sexual appetite, until this appetite has reached you.

“Mm, you’re pretty,” Jungkook’s eyes roam your form, the daisy white blouse doing nothing to barricade Jungkook’s sudden interest in you, “you’ve never been touched like this, have you?”

“I’ve touched myself like this,” you hiss in defense, and it’s more out of anger than in pleasure. You don’t need a man to comfort you, but Jungkook’s eyes sparkle in mirth at the new information.

“That’s really sexy,” Jungkook slips down, roams his fingers down to your ankles and plays with the silver buckles of your Mary Janes. You shiver when his hands trail up up up to your knees, the swell of your thighs, and catch right under the elastic seam that holds your secrets together, “but I’ll have you know, it’s different when you have someone hold your pleasure in their hands.”

You’re in the storage room of your church, fifteen minutes before the Christmas mass, with Jeon Jungkook’s head between your legs. Your skirt is long, and Jungkook doesn’t bother to ride it up your waist.

It feels more forbidden that way, Jungkook hiding under the fabric of your skirt to get to your honeyed center, sneaking his way in with rough hands and soft touches.

“J-Jungkook,” you whimper, pressing your full spine against the wooden door, “we shouldn’t. N-not like this.”

What is wrong with you? Is it sheer curiosity? Do you just want to know what it finally, finally feels like? You should be pushing him away. There’s red lights flashing back and forth in your brain like sirens. Yet, do you really want to turn away the attention you’ve been aching for years?

You imagined your first time to be relatively special. The bare minimum, a bed, a talk, and a partner you’re mutually committed to. None of those things are met. Now you understand why all the young women in church whisper about sex like this. It’s a spur of the moment, it’s an unbridled pleasure you don’t want to stop, no matter how forbidden and sinful the act is.

“How else then?” you feel his deep voice straight through your panties, his lips whispering between the pink cotton like he’s sinking liquid heat into your skin. “I can’t sink my fingers into your sweet cunt during the candle lighting. Or when we open presents with the family after. That would be inappropriate.”

Your replies come out in breaths, puffs of air that conceal the moans you so badly want to let out as Jungkook pokes and rubs at you. He does nothing beyond the cotton fabric, only slides two fingers up and down your slit as he gathers the arousal between his digits.

“So wet already, that’s so sexy,” he’s kissing your core, and you sigh fretfully at the pleasure that feels so close yet so far away.

“P-please, Jungkook…”

“Please what?” Jungkook teases, fingers slipping back and forth between the elastic of your underwear, “please stop? Please touch me? Please fuck me?”

The church bell answers that, and Jungkook’s nose knocks right into your bud at the sudden intrusion. You yelp at the jarring stimulation, pulling him from under your skirts as the loud noise echoes in the room. Both of you wince at the pain, the moment interjected.

“You first,” Jungkook casually opens the door for you, as if he didn’t have you ten seconds away from begging him to make you come.

You don’t even look at him as you dash away, not bothering to take the elevator in favor of running off the heat. Two minutes before the procession. The church is packed to the brim, only the back seats left. Your family probably gave up on waiting for you up in the front. As you sit down in the corner, you’re momentarily distracted by the beauty of a decorated church on Christmas. Even though you’re part of the decorating committee and commanded most of the design, seeing the stained glass lit up with fairy lights and the poinsettia plants blooming burgundy on the altar, you’re impressed.

“There’s a draft here, you must be cold.” Jungkook talks to you so politely, a perfect picture of a gentleman as he drapes his leather jacket over your lap. He speaks as if it’s a pleasant surprise, a childhood friend he hasn’t seen in nearly a year.

You can’t tell him to move when people are watching and Jungkook is seconds from interrupting the procession, so you reluctantly scoot over so he can sit next to you. His scent overwhelms you even more now that you’ll have to sit next to him for a whole hour, lavender and vanilla overtaking your pew.

The jacket is heavy and heady on your lap, and you force yourself to stare straight ahead. Jungkook cannot weaken you like this, not anymore.

Thirty minutes later, his fingers are hovering at the start of the homily, caressing your thighs under the jacket with his big hands. A draft? Please. You clamp your thighs together, knocking your knees and hoping they’d lock together for the rest of the mass. Jungkook’s a master key, easily parting his way as if your muscles are pure jelly. You turn your head sharply, glaring at him with all the fire in the world.

“Careful,” Jungkook mouths, eyes flickering to the symbol atop the podium, “he’s watching.”

His fingers finally brush the damp blush cotton of your panties, and you shudder.

#ficswithluv #btsguild #btswritingcafe #kwritersworldnet #btsghostie #jungkook smut #jungkook x reader #jungkook fic #bts smut #bts fic #jungkook angst #bts angst #kpop fic #hansolmates

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bugichor · 2 years

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Flirtation with a Heathen (3/3)

pairing: father paul x reader

word count: just above 5k

summary: father paul abruptly visits you one evening

tags/warnings: 18 +, not sfw scene, blood, religion, losing religion, catholicism, death, and a quick reminder that the reader here is genderless and no gendered language is used even during the not sfw scene.

link to masterpost

An Evening Visit

For the next few days, you find yourself ruminating over your conversation with the priest. His words float around your mind like fireflies in a jar, each hitch in his voice, each breath, each curve of his lips that formed those beautiful consonants and vowels illuminating more and more meaning for you. You remember the heady look in his eyes when he asked you to attend confession with him, the darkness you had felt pulsating in the air between you, the wanting. You visualise the blush on his cheeks, the misstep in his words when your eyes had met, the nervousness he had displayed when you took communion, the way he had knowingly smirked at you when you insulted his talents, so confident and assured in his ability. The subtleties were endless.

But maybe you were over-analysing the situation. You had been known to do so, after all. When the both of you were teenagers, you were convinced that Riley Flynn was in love with you, when in reality, he only hung around with you for the closeness it brought him with Erin. But that was when you were younger and more selfish, back when the world revolved and you and you only. You didn’t think that you were imagining it this time. You knew, in fact, that he was interested in you. There was evidence for this.

For one, he wasn’t one for instigating conversations - a thoughtful loner at heart, you could tell because you were the same - but whenever he saw you, he made a point of speaking to you. The only other person he gave that sort of attention too was Riley, and you had a suspicion that was due to Riley’s trauma, not sexual attraction. Or at least, that’s what you hoped. Another piece of evidence was the phone call you’d had with Erin the night of that Sunday Mass. Your phone had buzzed so violently that night that it had taken you completely out of your work stocking the shelves of your bookstore. You checked it to find two missed calls and five texts all from Erin, asking with desperation about what had happened after she and Riley left you two alone. When you spoke to her, she noted the look in his eyes when he was speaking to you, the complete and utter lack of attention towards anyone else, the slight smirks you’d shared in flirtation. And when you gave her the details, she’d all but screamed with excitement. There wasn’t exactly much gossip on this heavily Catholic and conservative island, so flirting with a priest was pretty rousing news.

So, he had taken an interest in you, sure. But you doubted anything would come of it. Sadly, Father Paul seemed extremely dedicated to his craft and, at the end of the day, his heart was with God and that left no place for sexual deviance. The scenarios you envisaged daily would most likely never come to fruition and the best you were probably going to get was a flirtatious comment here and there, perhaps a wanting look or a brush of fingers; after all, there was nothing in the Bible that said flirting was a sin, at least that you knew of. The problem wasn’t his attraction to you, which you were almost a hundred percent certain existed, but his celibacy. Though you were sure that Monsignor Pruitt hadn’t been the most dedicated to that exact rule, you weren’t so sure about Father Paul. He seemed different, more passionate about his faith than the old Monsignor was. And you could understand that. It didn’t make it any less painful, though.

You decide it’s best to accept this as you’re closing up shop one evening, your hands mindlessly fiddling with the cash register. No matter how enjoyable it was to you, how tempting and gorgeous it felt, there was no point in continuing to flirt with him. If anything, it would only foster hope in your heart that one day, he might show a moment of weakness and kiss you. And you were sure his life would be easier if you didn’t cause him such a problem at Mass. It was a road that you felt you probably shouldn’t tread, not out of respect for God but out of respect for him.

You’re brought out of your thoughts when the bell above your shop door jingles. You weren’t expecting to see anyone tonight. There was a thunderstorm outside, one of those that turns the clouds a dark shade of grey and floods the drains within minutes, and everyone had been warned to stay inside past 6pm for the sake of safety - and so that Sherif Hassan didn’t have to get himself drenched saving you if you did get into trouble. It was half seven by now, past the closing hours for your little bookshop, and you wouldn’t be here yourself if it wasn’t for the fact you lived on the floor above.

A man lets himself in, closing the door hastily behind but not before a gust of wind fills your shop and knocks some books off of their display. You rush over to grab them and take to your knees, visions of possible water damage from the rain outside filling your brain. Having precariously collected the undamaged books into your arms, you shift your gaze to the man who caused this mess and find yourself blushing. It’s him, Father Paul, and you’re kneeling at his feet. Well, so much for keeping your distance.

“Jesus! Uh, I mean, jeez.” You correct your own blasphemy at the sight of him, your cheeks tinting a deep red when he smiles amusedly at your mistake.

He’s completely drenched, but it doesn’t look bad on him. He’s wearing the usual priest shirt and collar combined with some grey Levi’s and a zip-up hoodie over top. The shirt is clinging to his chest and you realise that he’s no bean pole, but there are muscles hiding beneath his get up - something you could do without knowing if you’re to stop yourself fantasising. His hair is limp with saturation and the curls fall over his forehead in beautiful ringlets and you wonder if anyone else has ever actually looked this good in the rain, or if he’d made some deal with God to forever be perfect. Raindrops are dripping from his forehead to his chin, rolling down the shape of his jaw and the length of his throat. His eyelashes are long and glossy, the tip of his nose a little pink from the cold, his eyes kind and striking at the same time. You’re entranced.

“No, it’s just me.” He jokes, his deep voice rattled from the cold.

He crouches, wiping his wet hands on the inside of his hoodie sleeves and takes some books from your arms, and when standing again, he offers his hand out to you. You study it for a moment, still flabbergasted by his appearance tonight, and the priest smiles warmly at you.

“I don’t bite.” He says, reassuringly. You wouldn’t mind if he did.

You take his hand then, allowing him to pull you up from your knees. His hand is warm and large and fills your heart with a pleasurable buzz as it wraps around your own, your fingers brushing against each other; the strength he possesses makes you feel weightless as he lifts you so easily to your feet. And when he releases your hand, it’s like all the light in your body, all the glow in your heart, fades back into dark nothingness, waiting patiently for the next time your skin cells meet his.

“I- I didn’t expect to see you here.” You stumble over your words as the two of you replace the display he’d ruined.

He smiles gently at you, “I didn’t expect to come here, either.” He says, a slight chatter in his teeth escaping with his voice.

“Shit, you must be freezing!” You realise and take his hand instinctually, leading him quickly up the stairs to your little flat.

He stumbles a little as you pull him along, like this was the last thing he’d expected to happen, but makes it up to the second floor of your building unscathed. You’re so focused on getting this man warm that you don’t take a moment to feel the way your hands slot together, the way he shifts your fingers so that they’re intertwined with his, the difference in size, your wrists colliding ever so gently with each steep step up. And you’re glad you don’t: you have to keep yourself together now, right? It’s the best thing for the both of you if you just ignore the way the little hairs on your hand stand on end and the warmth of his skin and the tightness of his grip and just the fact that you’re taking him upstairs to the one place you didn’t let anyone go.

Leading him inside, you notice his eyes wandering around the room and feel the embarrassment put colour in your cheeks and a tightness in your throat. Your flat was definitely one of a single woman on Crockett Isle. A collection of your favourite books lined the dark green walls, much alike to your set up downstairs, but they were less neatly placed here, with some falling over and others so well read that they wouldn’t stand on your bookshelf at all. There was washing up in the sink from the day before and your cat, Lucifer, was sitting up on one of the counters, cleaning himself vigorously. The rest of your place was just a little messy, the type of messy you get when you’re a generally tidy person but who’s going to see this place anyway? Perhaps you will leave a few sets of clothes on a chair in the corner of the room and a used hairbrush face-up on the coffee table. It wasn’t like you’d been expecting him to turn up tonight.

You set him down on the sofa, a thankfully well-kept part of your home, and run to the bathroom to grab a thick towel. Giving it a sniff, you decide it’s clean enough to give to him for his head and make your way back over to his place on your sofa. In your home. In your sacred place. How ironic that it had been so thrilling to be an intruder in his home, his sacred place, standing before him, before his congregation and making him purposefully vulnerable; but now the situation was flipped, it was unbearably uncomfortable.

When you return to Father Paul, he is sitting on the edge of the sofa, his hand reaching out to your curious Lucifer that seems to have taken an apprehensive interest in the priest before him. After a moment of tense staring occurs between them, the Father’s eyes kind and inviting, Lucifer allows him to pet his head and of course, he would be the only man that Lucifer had ever taken a liking to.

“What’s its name?” The priest asks as he leans back into the sofa and casually accepts the towel from your hands. He begins to rub his hair dry, his eyes still linked with yours, and you have to forcefully stop your mind from wandering toward visions of him exiting the shower, not enough towels to dry his hair and his body at the same time.

Instead, you think about the name you’ve chosen for your cat, half as a fuck you to your devout and controlling late parents and half as tribute to Tom Ellis, and decide against telling the truth.

“He’s called Lucy.” You lie, feeling your fingers twitch and goddammit, he was right. You did have a tell. The priest furrows his eyebrows a little, an amused smile crossing his lips, and you feel the need to lie more in the hopes that he’ll leave it alone. “Cats don’t care about gendered names.”

“Absolutely not, of course.” He says, a little sarcasm in his tone, a little pride filling his smile as your eyes dart around the room uncomfortably. You hate him for it: hate him for the way he can make you feel vulnerable with just a look, but it also attracts you more than anything else in the world ever has.

“Have you any other clothes I could borrow?” He asks, a touch of innocence in his voice that you can’t tell whether is real or not. “I’d be eternally grateful. It was really coming down out there.”

And, of course, you did just as he asked. You go to your bedroom and find some old clothing: a pair of grey joggers your ex boyfriend left behind and a big tshirt you often wore for comfort in the evenings. The tee was from a horror convention you’d visited on the mainland once and had a large print of Nosferatu on the front. Ironically, you thought, this may be the one iconic vampire reference the priest would actually get. Who hasn’t heard of Nosferatu, after all?

“Hey,” You shout from your place at your closet doors, wondering if you should pick up some boxers too. Surely, he wouldn’t derobe that much. Perhaps you were just being hopeful. “How come you came here anyway? I haven’t had a chance to ask, with your big, clumsy entrance and all.”

He laughs, the noise muffled a little. You smile to yourself proudly at his genuine laugh but it quickly drops from your lips as you enter the living room again, cosy clothes in hand. The priest’s back is facing you, his shirt and collar removed and placed carefully on the coffee table. You feel a hitch in your throat at the sight.

His back is slender, muscular. The curved line of his spine is gorgeously crafted from the base of his neck to the small of his waist. His hair curls cutely around the top of his neck, a few damp locks laying prettily against his perfect skin. His back muscles are gorgeous, and you see them shift beautifully under his skin as he places his collar atop his wet black shirt. The hem of his boxers peek out above his jeans and you feel yourself salivating at the sight. But no, this is wrong. He trusts you, clearly, enough to undress in front of you. How many people could say that about the priest of Crockett Island? You doubt even Beverly Keane, the woman constantly at his side, has seen him like this.

He turns to face you and you get a look at the front of his torso. His clavicle is perfectly shaped, collar bones prominent and pushing forward through his skin. His shoulders are broad, broader than you’d ever noticed in that slimming black shirt he always wore, and his throat is long and slender and veined. His abdominal muscles are impressive for a priest and you find yourself wondering how he possibly has the time to work out between studying the good book and giving captivating sermons. His arms look as if they were carved by angels, from the joints of his shoulder to the curve of his biceps to the blue veins in his forearms and prominent wrist bones.

A light tint of pink blooms through his cheeks as you look at him, a humble smile cast over his lips, that takes you out of your trance. You react awkwardly, slapping a hand over your eyes and holding out the clothes you’d gathered for him, your entire face warming within seconds.

He’s laughing again and you chew the inside of your lip as he approaches you, still topless (at least, you assume) and takes the clothes from your hands. “There’s no need to do that.” He says, your fingers brushing against his and sending electricity through your veins. “God has said that we should not be embarrassed of our genuine form, you know. To know that one is nude is to be ashamed of what he’s created for us. It’s laid out pretty clearly in Genesis, actually.”

“Sounds perverted to me, but that’s God for you.” You joke, hand still firmly placed over your eyes.

He stifles a laugh, “Perhaps he should’ve accounted for people’s ability to lust over a simple torso, hm?” And he’s flirting with you again, making it known that he is more than aware of the effect he has on you and more than comfortable with it. He likes it.

“Listen, I never asked you to turn up at my house and strip. That was all you, Father.” You shoot back.

And how could you not? Maybe this was morally wrong, maybe you shouldn’t have initiated such a coy and coquettish relationship with a priest, but it had already begun. The sins had already been committed and you were already going to Hell, if it existed. What was stopping you from enjoying the way down?

“And you never even answered my question. Why did you come? It’s not like you to make house visits to heathens. Millie Gunning, sure. But me?” You interrogate.

You feel him move closer to you, then, and the hair on the back of your neck stands on end. Your breath hitches as his fingers meet the hand on your face, pulling it away and allowing you to see him again.

He suits the clothes, actually. It’s a nice change from the usual buttoned up priest look, or god forbid the whole costume. He almost looks like a regular guy, if it weren’t for all those ethereal qualities he had. He’s stood before you, so close yet too far away to mean anything, his ass nonchalantly resting against the back of your sofa. And you already know that the idea of his ass touching your furniture was never going to leave your mind.

He doesn’t release your hand, allowing your entwined fingers to swing loosely between you both. “I came to see you.” He says. Your brow furrows, an expression that simply says ‘no shit’ forming on your features. “Well, that’s kind of it. I wanted to talk to you.”

Your heart is beating a little faster, your attention drifting between the hand you have linked with his and his lustrous deep-brown eyes. “And you decided that it just couldn’t wait until the storm was over?” You say, feigning confident humour.

His mouth quirks into a light half-smile, his eyes genuine and vulnerable. “I guess not.” He says. “You see, I haven’t stopped thinking about you since last mass. I’ve been distracted. I even misquoted the Bible to little Leeza and had her correct me. Me! Her priest!”

“God forbid.” You say facetiously, playfully. But he’s serious. His eyes are linked with yours, showing an intensity you’d only seen him use during sermon. That captivating look of passion, of want and need. “I mean - I’m sorry, Father. I didn’t mean to… Well, I didn’t think I’d have that much of an effect on you, honestly. If I’d have known, I wouldn’t have flirted with you. I’m-”

He cuts off your rambling. “It’s not that. I could tell from the moment you walked into my church you had less than holy intentions with me.” He says candidly and your throat tightens as he grasps your hand harder. “I just didn’t expect to feel the same way.”

“Father, I-” You begin to apologise but he cuts you off again, this time with his lips.

He moves forward, his large hand cupping your neck and presses his lips against yours, hard. You’re taken aback at first, your eyes wide and heart close to stopping, but soon relax into it, your lips parting and allowing his mouth to meld with your own. He’s a better kisser than you expect of a man of faith and you find yourself smiling into the kiss as his now free hand finds your waist, holding on desperately but still restraining from touching anywhere else. It’s cute, sure. But you want more. You want all of him and this moment of weakness might be your only chance.

Your smile grows as you find his hand with your own, taking it and placing it on your ass, encouragingly. There’s a hitch in his breath, a faint noise escaping his lips, and it seems this is all too much for the priest’s level of restraint. He moves both of his hands to your ass, holding on tightly as he pulls you into him and off of the floor to reach his height. Your arms wrap around his neck, fingers finally able to tangle amongst those curly locks at the base of his head, and your legs wrap around his small waist. You give yourself over, ready and willing to do whatever the priest wants with you, and he wants. Oh, he wants you.

Your lips move against each other gorgeously, decadently. His desperation is unyielding as he parts his lips further, allowing his tongue to explore your own and oh God, it’s good. You feel yourself getting excited as you kiss him more and more and more, your hips desperate to grind against his own. You feel his cock hardening beneath the joggers you lent him just moments ago, poking at the underside of your thigh, and you don’t know if you can contain yourself much longer.

You pull away from the kiss, breath heavy and mind flustered. You press your forehead against his own, looking into his deep-brown eyes. “You’re sure you want this?” You ask genuinely, despite your own wants and desires. He nods, an animalistic quality in his movement, lips parted and reddened and gorgeous. And you grin as you kiss him again, his feet clumsy as he carries you to your bedroom.

He manages to get you to the bed without any casualties, though you’re surprised considering he’s never been here before, and places you at the end of the bed, his frame towering over you. You hold his face as you kiss him deeply, but he’s no longer interested in your lips, pulling away and pressing his face into your neck, licking and kissing at the skin of your throat, his breath hot and wet in the most delightfully unbearable way. You feel yourself getting overwhelmed there and then, but hold yourself together, pulling him by his shirt to follow you up the bed. He crawls with you as you shift towards the headboard, his lips still making love to your neck and palms making dents in your bed covers. He begins to bite at your neck, to suck hard, and the heat in your veins erupts throughout your body as he marks you. That will be a difficult one to explain to Erin, you think.

Once his mark is complete, he lifts his head from your neck and begins to take off the Nosferatu tee you lent him. You let your hands roam over his striking shoulders, to his shoulder blades and back around to his biceps. He shivers under your touch, his eyes closing and a light moan escaping his mouth. You smirk boldly when he looks at you again and his cheeks tint, embarrassed. To level the playing field a little, you remove your own tee, pulling it off over your head with ease and throwing it across the room. He lets out a pleasurable sigh when he looks at your body, taking the time to lean down and kiss at your torso, from your shoulders all the way to the hem of your pants. You allow him to take this at his pace; as, you assume at least, you are the most experienced here. Your body is his to explore, to play and experiment with as much as he’d like to, and you’re willing to take all the time he needs. It’s not like you’re complaining about any of this, anyway.

After a few moments of drenching your skin in kisses and licks, you cup his face in your hands, bringing him back up to press your lips against his again. Your mouths meld together and you explore his back with your hands, the curvature of his spine, the prominent bones of his hips, the gentle stream of warm sweat trickling from the base of his neck down to his pants. He’s moaning as he kisses you, loud enough to send vibrations through your skin, and you lap it up, the proud smile never fading from your lips.

Feeling his cock ever growing in those borrowed joggers, you decide to encourage the next step by grinding up into his crotch. He rips his lips from your own when you do so, breathing heavily and scrunching his eyes closed in a sort of frustrated pain. For a moment, you worry that you’d pushed him, that this was all about to end because you ground into his cock just once, that you’d ruined it all. But that doesn’t happen. Instead, the priest kneels back on his heels, legs parted over your body, and begins to pull off the remainder of his clothing. You watch as he pulls away the joggers, revealing an extremely strained impression of his cock against his boxers, and you kick off your shoes and socks in anticipation of what was to come. He pulls his boxers off, releasing his length into the room, and you’re all of a sudden just a little hasty. It’s big, something you should’ve expected considering his height, and you find yourself gulping audibly.

“Is something wrong?” He asks, eyes genuine and kind, and it relaxes you to see his nervousness.

“Definitely not.” You say, nodding towards his length. “Someone up there has blessed you, Father.”

He smiles then, bashful and humble in the hottest way possible, and bites his bottom lip. “Are you always going to call me that?” He asks and you grin playfully as you grasp the back of his head and pull him into you again.

You work at your own pants as he kisses you, unbuttoning and pulling them off hastily. You throw them to the side and go to take off your underwear when he beats you to it, pulling the fabric away slowly and painfully. Once both of your clothes are gone, he parts your thighs with his hands and settles himself between your legs. The pace of your breath heightens, your heart rate racing as he encourages your legs around his waist, pulling your body as close as it can be to his and finally entering you.

And you see stars. Your head falls back against the pillow as he rocks his length into you, your eyes closing as he fills you up. The insides of your eyelids are covered in glowing stars, pulsating in time with his thrusts, and you know that if you were to die in this moment, you would die happy, drifting off into whatever came after death with a lightness in your heart that you’d never felt before.

You moan carnally, gripping his shoulders with all of your strength and digging your nails in to form crescent-shaped scars in his skin. He’s groaning, his breath heavy as he rests his face in the shallow dip of your collar bone, his mouth hot and wet against the skin of your throat as he bites and sucks more markings there. He uses one hand to steady himself, the other to slip under the back of your head, his fingers tangled in your hair as he holds you, and you don’t remember the last time you’d been treated so tenderly whilst feeling such a pain in your abdomen as his cock slipped deeper and deeper inside of you.

It feels so good that you begin to get close before him, your moans increasing in volume and pace until that gorgeous load of endorphins shoots throughout your veins, leaving you buzzing with electricity and pleasure from head to toe. You want him to feel the same, to understand exactly what he’s given to you, and so you begin to rock your hips harder in tandem with his, picking up the pace and tightening yourself around him. His groans become animalistic, his grip on your hair and the bedsheets beside you tightening until he can’t hold on any longer, and you let him finish inside of you, catching his body with your own as he flops forward, exhausted and exhilarated.

You didn’t know that sex could feel so good, that the feel of another person’s skin could be that sensual, that it could be so exciting, that your want for his blood and skin and teeth and tongue could hit you so deep down in the pit of your stomach. He was everything you’d ever longed for and more, and you'd been given him, and maybe God was real after all, because something had to be behind the craftsmanship of the man lay atop you, his skin slick with sweat and cum trickling deep inside of you.

The priest breathes deeply into your neck, catching his breath slowly. You wait patiently for his recovery, your arms wrapped around him and fingers painting soft, tender circles along his shoulders. When he’s able to breathe again, he lifts himself up and pulls out of your body, his body leant over yours in all its God-given glory.

You feel liquid trickling from where he’d bitten your neck and place your palm against it, lifting your hand to your face and noticing that it's not sweat or drool, but blood. It’s then that the pain sets in from his markings, his biting and sucking at your neck.

“Jesus, Father. I didn’t know you were into that stuff.” You play down the severity of the situation, joking to cover your immediate sense of worry.

But he doesn’t seem to share your panic at all. In fact, he’s smiling at you and there’s something different about him. His eyes are glazed over and glassy, a hint of yellow in his pupils, a darkness in his soul… it’s almost animalistic. He bites your neck hard and everything suddenly goes black.

#father paul #father paul hill #monsignor pruitt #monsignor john pruitt #midnight mass #words #father paul fic #father paul x reader #midnight mass fic #minors dni #blood #tw blood #vampirism #religion #catholicism #not sfw #smut

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sunwarmed-ash · 1 year

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Sinful Sunday Post

Tomorrow's gonna be some heavy angst (as is appropriate for my #1 most hated holiday) so if you want some smut make sure you check out the masterlists!

🔥Sinful Sunday Masterlist🔥

🕶👑Stranger Things Masterlist🦇🚬🕶

Stay safe my loves, I wish you all a stressfree weekend. But if you grieve by reading sad shit, come check back Sunday for chapter 2 of Eastside!

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kittenofdoomage · 3 years

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Sinful Sunday Masterlist (30th May 2021)

This is the list containing links to all the drabbles posted on Sunday 30th May 2021. They are also available on Ao3.

Dean Winchester

Worship

Bruised Belonging

Beach Nights

Possessed

Cool Whip

Royal Entanglement

Forgetting To Breathe

Sam Winchester

The King’s Favorite

Make You Scream

Wild Thing

Come Play

Overtime

Wicked Way

Haunted

Incessant

John Winchester

Irresistible

Well Trained

Benefits To Change

Cold Lesson

A Clean Break

Negan

Snug

Ragdoll

Eager Service

Over And Over

Favorite

Steve Rogers/Captain America

Passionate Reunion

Do It

Geralt Of Rivia

A Good Impression

Winter Company

Full

In The Dirt

Always Welcome

Multiples

Enough To Go Around

With This Ring

Overdone

The Last Time

Round One

There's a brand new bunch of drabbles now available on Patreon too!

#literally uploading to Ao3 now #bear with me #sinful sunday #masterpost

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damirae-sauce-week · 2 years

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DamiRae Smut-Week 2021 - MasterPost!

It's been a long, sinful week and we can't believe it's already over! But fear not, for we're still accepting new content AND we can always go back and enjoy all the amazing creations that were shared throughout the week!

This is our MasterPost with all the content!

DamiRae Smut-Week 2021

Monday, Oct. 25: Free Day

Tuesday, Oct. 26: Ardor in the Cold Jealousy // Nanda Parbat // “Don’t forget who you belong to.”

Wednesday, Oct. 27: Spirit of Inquiry First Time // BDSM // “You’re mine.”

Thursday, Oct. 28: Strange Circumstances College AU // Forbidden Romance // “We are stuck in a small space together. Oh no, my hand is on your ass.”

Friday, Oct. 29: Bad decisions, good outcomes Car/ Batmobile Sex // Friends with Benefits // “They’re gonna hear us.” “Then I guess you better be quiet.”

Saturday, Oct. 30: Devotion Wedding Night // Honeymoon // Alpha/Omega (Omegaverse) // “To love you forever.”

Sunday, Oct. 31: Samhain Evil AU // Aphrodisiac // “Welcome home, honey.”

If you want, you can also check only the Fanart and the Fanfiction separately

Here are the Official Announcements!

Don’t forget to follow us on Twitter for more content!

You can also check our Ao3 Collection and our Wattpad Reading List!

Don't forget to check our main page on your desktop browser to have easier access to our categories!

Thank you all! And please, keep subscribing new content!

#damiraesmutweek21 #damirae #demonbirds #damian x raven #damiraeswnews

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navegandoaciegas · 4 years

Text

➸ Masterlist (18+)

Add yourself to my Taglist!

Buy me a coffee. || My AO3 || Come talk to me! My inbox is always open.

Requests are closed at the moment but ideas are always appreciated.

➸ Dabi (BNHA)

don’t feed it - it will come back

➸ Bucky Barnes

One shots:

California Bound (dark, dub-con)

I love my baby to death + Sunshine Girl

Little Doll (dark)

No sweeter innocence than our gentle sin

Devotion

Sunday Sinday

Be good for you

Hay(wire)

Bang Bang

Baby Boy

Confession

A long way

Insatiable

Lock and Key

Lace

Undivided Attention

Crybaby

Not so shy now

Messy

Cloud nine

1-2-3 Way (+Steve)

Series:

Sugar, spice and everything nice

Priest!Bucky Masterpost

Kinktober 2020

➸ Lee Bodecker

Broken Wings {1/2} Broken Wings {2/2} (dark)

The Interview

Married men do it better

➸ Steve Rogers

All Day

➸ Requests/Blurbs

Bucky

professor!bucky + professor!thor x reader (part 1, part 2)

To make a housewife (charles blackwood)

Our forever begins now (dark!mob!bucky, non-con)

jealous beefy!bucky edges you (thigh riding)

priest!bucky with glasses

sugar daddy bucky takes you lingerie shopping

sugar daddy bucky + public sex in nightclub (pt.1, pt. 2)

dad!librarian!bucky hc

traveling with bucky would include

father james has a unique way of punishing you for your sins

sitting on bucky’s lap

petplay with bucky

touchstarved bucky

little bucky concept

bucky with lactation kink

bucky helps with your period pain

switch!bucky kinks

Lee

reader is jealous of lee

reader seduces lee

lee’s kinks

‘who’s pussy is this’

mrs. bodecker almost catches reader and lee

would lee catch feelings for secretary!reader?

“be a good girl for you sheriff”

anal with lee

➸ recommendation

dark fics recommendation list

fics recommendation list #2

#masterlist #bucky x reader #bucky barnes #bucky x you #bucky imagine #bucky fanfic #james buchanan barnes #james bucky barnes #james barnes x reader #james barnes x you #james barnes x y/n #sebastian stan x reader #marvel fanfiction

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edupunkn00b · 3 years

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Remy & Emile, Chapter 2: Sin

Prev - Sin - Next - Masterpost - [ AO3 ]

Word Count: 1106, Human AU, pre- and during Chapter 1 of Happily Ever After [ AO3 ] May Flowers Event Day 12: Birds of Paradise for freedom.

CW/Content Warning: toxic relationship dynamics

HaMorah means the teacher in Hebrew and is commonly used as an honorific like Mr./Ms/Mx for teachers at Jewish day schools or Sunday schools. ---

Emile carefully closed the dorm room door behind him, locking it and putting his keys back in his pocket. His boyfriend, Max, was sitting at his desk, reading a book on Jungian analysis. He didn't look up when Emile entered.

“Hi, Honey, how has your day been going?,” Emile smiled gently in his direction, waiting for Max to look up from the textbook.

“Fine.”

Emile swallowed but kept his smile. “Hmm ... it sounds like maybe you had a rough day if it's only been fine,” Emile retrieved his water bottle from his bag and dribbled some into the soil of the flowering plant on his desk, watching Max out of the corner of his eye. “Would you like to talk about it?,” he asked, tightening the cap on the water bottle and returning it to its pocket. Max shrugged, attention fixed on the book in front of him.

“I understand, Honey.” Emile's hand twitched as he considered rubbing Max's back but he refrained when he noticed the tightness in the other's jaw and how his fingertips paled where he gripped his book. “If you need anything, I'll be right here.” Emile waited a moment for a response that never came. He nodded to himself and quietly put his books down on his desk, pulling out his chair and preparing to study. The new essay Professor Howard had assigned that day weighed on him and the sooner he started it, the better he would feel.

After about twenty minutes of outlining and preparing a list of sources to investigate for his paper, Emile heard Max sigh from his desk. Emile sat straight in his chair and swiveled to face him. “Do you need something, Honey?”

Max turned in his chair to face Emile. “I saw on the calendar that you’re still teaching at your church this Sunday.” Emile blinked away a grimace at the way he called Temple B'nai Torah 'church'. It doesn’t actually matter what Max calls it though, does it? “Sunday is my birthday. I thought you would want to spend the day with me."

Emile nodded, smiling. “Yes, and I am looking forward to spending the whole afternoon and evening with you so we can celebrate.” He tilted his head, trying to meet Max’s eyes. “Remember? I told you about my class when we started making your birthday plans a month or so ago." He shook his head. "I can’t just bail on them.” Max wouldn’t look at him. Emile bit at his lower lip, eyebrows knitting together. “We don’t have enough staff to have substitutes.”

Max turned back to his desk, shoulders hunched. "When you do this, it makes me think you don't love me enough to ever put me first.” Emile swallowed and got out of his chair, closing the distance between them. He stood behind Max and gently placed his hands on his shoulders. When Max didn’t shake him off or move away, Emile started to knead the tightness out of his muscles.

"As much as I would like to, I can't always put fun with you before my responsibilities." Emile carefully began, wincing when he felt Max's muscles tighten at his words. He worked out the new tension before continuing. "I made a commitment to TBT to teach this year. I can't just - "

Max sighed heavily. “Fine, fine, fine. It’s fine." Max turned, pulling Emile onto his lap and burying his face in the shorter man's chest. "It's fine, Darling. You’ll be home by 1:30, though? Right?”

Emile smiled again, stroking Max's hair. “Yes, of course, Honey.”

…

Sunday morning dawned clear and bright. Emile let his religious school class have a little extra time playing on the temple’s playground at break time. It had been a long winter and the recent mild days were a taste of the warmer weather soon to come. Emile pushed some of the smaller children on the swings, laughing when they squealed, begging to go higher. He joined the children in a game of tag that soon grew so chaotic that no-one knew who was 'It' anymore and they all simply ran around, chasing and trying to tag the person nearest to them. Sooner than either Emile or the students were ready, though, it was time to go back to the classroom and resume their lessons for the morning. As the students filed back inside, one of the little girls he'd helped with the swings handed him a flower crown. Emile grinned and wrote לפרוח, the Hebrew word for 'flower', on the board, wearing the crown for the rest of their lesson.

When class was over, Emile stood outside the temple with his students, supervising parent pick-up. By 11:45, all but one student’s parents had arrived. After a few more minutes of waiting, Emile knelt down to get to his student’s eye level. “Noa, do you know your dad's phone number?” Noa shook her head, tears starting to form in her eyes. “Oh, Noa, sweetie, it’s ok. Let’s go to the office and get HaMorah Deb to look up his phone number, ok?” Noa nodded and took Emile’s hand when he stood.

They had just reached the doors when Noa’s father came running up, “I’m here, I’m here!” Noa grinned, dropping Emile’s hand and running to her father. “I’m sorry I’m late, pumpkin!” He looked to Emile, “I’m sorry, HaMorah Emile.”

He shook his head, “Don’t worry about it, Joe. You got here just in time.” Addressing Noa, Emile added, “See you next week?”

She nodded solemnly, “Yes, HaMorah.”

Emile checked his watch and his face tightened. He had just over an hour and a half an hour to get back up to Bellingham and his dorm room. He waved to Joe and Noa and sprinted to his car, “Have a good week!”

…

At 1:33, Emile dashed into the dorm room, cheeks flushed and panting. There was an event at the Performing Arts Center next to their dorm hall and he’d had to park in the overflow lot on the other side of campus. Max stood, smiling brightly at Emile. “Ready to go?”

Emile grinned, “Yes, of course, let just water my flowers first -“ his voice died when he turned and saw that the stem of the Birds of Paradise plant his parents had given him for his birthday was broken, bright blue and yellow petals ripped and scattered on the floor. Emile turned to Max, gesturing to the plant, mouth opening to ask what had happened.

Max stood near the door, smile broadening and a glint in his eyes as they met Emile's. “It’s after 1:30, isn’t it?” He reached for Emile’s hand. “We’re going to have to hurry, Darling, if we want to make it to the movie on time.”

---

It might be obvious from the quality of his character, but if Emile was real, he would be spending a lot of time on this website right about now: https://decolonizepalestine.com/

@tsshipmonth2020

#remy & emile #emile patshki #remile #remile needed their own story to get the air time they desserved #there is a big difference between mostly fluff and all fluff #mostly fluff is slightly angsty #mayflowersevent

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ill-skillsgard · 4 years

Note

Okay, I love a little angst, and I could see Faust visiting Faith at work and some prick keeps flirting with her and she’s very oblivious and doesn’t realize it. Or she has a tutor for college, and Faust walks in on him teaching her something, but the guys clearly flirting with her. Or lastly, her father setting her up with a family friends son who’s picture perfect and Stan making Faith go out with him for the night. But all these scenarios lead to a good banging lol.

Warning: 18+ anti-religious/anti-Christian themes/angst etc. **jealousy, angst and possessiveness in this part**

Faust x Faith Masterpost [x]

Faith awoke with a sharp intake of air. She glanced at the digital clock on Faust’s desk through misty eyes and paled when the late morning hour came into focus. She was due to meet her father in twenty-five minutes, and he expected her at the campus—not a half-hour bus ride from her dorm in an area of town known for its street crime. Even if Faust borrowed his roommate’s car to drive her, she wouldn’t have time to shower and dress before her father arrived.

A text from her dad warned of his impending arrival. She should have known better than to spend an entire Saturday evening humping her boyfriend, or at least set an alarm to wake up with ample time to get back to her dorm. In her panic, Faust woke up, looking ruefully unconcerned while she rushed to get dressed.

“What’s your deal?” Faust grumbled as Faith slipped on her black tights and lilac blouse, a worried expression on her face.

“We slept too late! My dad’s supposed to pick me up at school in like twenty minutes!”

Faust rolled onto his side, propping his head on his elbow as a dreamy smirk snagged his lips. Faith clicked her tongue. When it came to disappointing her father, Faust had nothing but encouragement to give, but his playful stare could not snuff her genuine panic.

“You won’t make it to school on time. Why don’t you just ask him to pick you up here?” Faust suggested.

“Hell no!” Faith exclaimed. “You don’t realize the amount of shit I’ll be in if he finds out I spent the night with you. Premarital sex is... No, I just can’t.”

Faust rolled his eyes. “It’s not like he’ll kill his own daughter.”

She rolled on one sock, then the other, grimacing when she noticed one was on inside-out. “You still don’t realize that he can and will pack up everything and move us away. Or he’ll make me go to a different school next semester. Trust me. You don’t get how strict my parents are. They’ve already made me read several pamphlets from church about the sin of fornication.”

“Well, clearly, you’ve learned nothing. We fornicated all night, babe. I fornicated all over that shirt, too,” he snickered.

“Faust! I’m serious. Now is not a time to joke. Wait... What?” Faith stopped in the middle of the room and stared down at her top, gasping. “Oh my god! There’s cum all over me! I’m so screwed.”

He got out of bed and went to the low-boy, pulling open the third drawer while Faith panicked.

“I am literally covered in your jizz! Why did you have to blow on my shirt?” Faith groaned.

Faust stifled a laugh as he pulled out a black t-shirt from the drawer. “Babe, you’re the one who wanted to suck my dick first thing after you got here. I can’t be responsible for where my unborn children go to die. Maybe you need to catch my loads a little better.”

She scoffed then scoffed again when he held up a faded t-shirt with a macabre design on the front and an illegible logo cresting the imagery.

“Wear this,” Faust offered.

“I can’t wear that in front of my dad. What does that even say?” Faith asked.

“Obituary.”

Faith shook her head. Faust shrugged and stuffed the shirt back into the drawer before grabbing a different one. “How about this? No pictures on it or anything.”

She grimaced again. “It just says Death. I’m going to church, Faust.”

“All right, all right. Give me a minute,” Faust said, rifling through another drawer.

The phone buzzed in Faith’s hand, warning her that time was running out for her to make herself presentable and come up with an excuse as to why she was nowhere near campus grounds. Faust pulled out a plain black t-shirt, offering it to her with round, sympathetic eyes.

“Will this work?”

She took the shirt and gulped. “It will have to do. It’s still all black, and my parents won’t be happy.”

Faust nodded, seeming to understand her predicament. “Why don’t you say you’re sick?”

“The only time I ever got away with missing church was when I had Chicken Pox,” Faith said.

“Say you have too much work.”

She frowned. “There’s never an excuse large enough to appease them. I appreciate the suggestions, but I’d rather you just help me with a plan.”

The man towering over her nodded, turning to select his outfit for the day. “I’ll take you to the diner down the block. You can say I picked you up for breakfast.”

“I’d rather not tell them I was with you at all,” Faith said as she gathered her purse and stuffed her soiled blouse inside.

“Ouch,” Faust flinched.

“I’m sorry... That was rude,” Faith replied, covering her mouth for a moment, eyes wide. “You’re right. We should do that just to make it look like I didn’t spend the night.”

Faust ducked into a dark long-sleeve shirt, pulling his black hair out to fall over his shoulders. “Might want to wipe the dried cum off your chin then.”

When Faith slid her fingers through Faust’s as they walked down the street, his grip fell limp. He stared ahead and didn’t take any casual glances at her. In fact, Faust had been silent since they left. Worry piled on top of anxiety over what she would tell her dad, and she dropped her gaze to the sidewalk, counting the cracks as they walked. She doubled her steps to keep up with Faust’s until they reached the front doors of the quaint diner he and his buddies went to after nights of partying and hungover mornings. He let go of her hand and stepped away from her.

“See you later,” he said, spinning on the heel of his boot.

She reached out and grabbed his arm. “Wait! You’re not even going to kiss me goodbye?”

Faust shrugged, his leather jacket bemoaning the gesture. “Wouldn’t want your dad to catch you kissing your boyfriend.”

“Faust... Please. I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings.”

He snorted, pulling out a pack of cigarettes and his lighter. “If that’s what you think.”

His pointed response stung, but Faith wouldn’t let him walk away without addressing the tension. “Seriously... I’m sorry. I wish you understood how hard it is for me to navigate this. You think I’m exaggerating when I say my father will stop paying my tuition and make me go to a different school, but I’m not.”

“No one can make you do anything you don’t want to do,” said Faust, inhaling a cloud of cigarette smoke. “You just let them run your life.”

Heat built up behind her eyes. She took in a deep breath and sighed hopelessly. “I don’t have the income to be independent. It’s not as easy as you think. Not for me.”

Stan’s car pulled up at the curb, and Faith’s heart dropped. Faust glanced at the vehicle, then back at Faith fidgeting with the hem of the black t-shirt he gave her. He nodded toward the street.

“I should go before your dad gets the wrong idea about us.”

“Faust—” she whimpered.

“We’ll talk later.”

Faith hurried to get into the backseat of her father’s car, staring out the window as they drove off and passed Faust on the street. Her mother sighed and shook her head.

“Smoking is a disgusting habit,” she muttered.

Faith’s sisters stared at her from their seats, then looked away when she met their eyes.

“What?” Faith asked.

“You’re in trouble,” one of them sang.

Stan glared at his oldest daughter in the rear-view mirror. He didn’t keep his indignation quiet for long. “Since when is it okay to wear all black in the house of Christ? We’re not attending a funeral, Faith. We’re going for worship.”

“I know,” she said, rolling her eyes. “It was the only clean outfit I had. I haven’t done laundry because I’ve had too much schoolwork.”

“Maybe if you didn’t spend so much time with that man, you’d have a proper outfit to wear on Sunday.”

“That man is my boyfriend. Am I not allowed to ever fall in love? It’s not like you and mom didn’t date before you got married.”

Reneta continued shaking her head. “Your father was a respectable man. He didn’t smoke and listen to evil music.”

Faith scoffed as her sisters listened with wide eyes and mischievous smirks. “What are you talking about, mom? You had nothing but nice things to say about him when he came over for dinner!”

“He was our guest, and a lady is always a kind host.”

“So, you don’t like him either?” Faith asked.

“Sweetheart, that’s not what I said. I just wish you would find yourself a nice boy. One who knows the importance of God—”

“If I smell smoke on you or catch you making a mockery of His word, I promise on His good name, I will make sure you never see that boy again,” Stan vowed.

Faith clammed up. Though she had plenty to say, she knew better than to push her luck. Her sisters whispered next to her, but Faith ignored them too. She fished her phone out of her purse and sent a text message to Faust.

You’re right. These people are fucked. I have to get away.

The service dragged for what seemed like hours, and when it ended, Faith was eager to leave. But instead of piling into the car to go home after the last prayer, Faith waited as her family mingled with others. As a revered minister of the church, Stan often welcomed conversation from those who sought his guidance and blessings. She sat in an empty pew, sighing with impatience as the churchgoers waited their turn for a private conversation with her father.

Faith peeked at her phone to see if Faust had replied, but the message remained unopened.

Though he hadn’t said much that morning, she feared her err had caused Faust to reevaluate his interest in her. A troublesome mass weighed in her stomach. Texting him again might result in him dubbing her “clingy,” Faith decided, so she turned off her phone until it was time to leave.

They piled into the family car and turned down the road in the opposite direction of the school campus. When Faith noticed, she perked up in her seat.

“Where are we going?” She asked.

“We’re having the Esders family over for dinner this evening,” said Stan.

Faith tried not to voice her displeasure, but nothing prevented the furrowing of her brow. “Well, that’s very nice, but I have to go home to work on my paper.”

Stan glanced back at his oldest daughter. “Your home is under our roof. And you can spare a few hours for your family.”

“Dad, I can’t spend the entire day doing nothing. It’s due tomorrow!” Faith whined.

“I won’t hear anymore, Faith. Bobby is your age, and you’ll be kind and cordial.”

“Oh, so that’s what this is about? You want me to spend time with another boy?”

“Faith, you’re helping host the Esders’, and you will be on your best behaviour.”

Faith kept to herself during dinner, helping set and clear the table, answering questions with curt replies, and after dessert, she stepped onto the veranda to call Faust. The line rang and rang until it cut off. Faust didn’t have voicemail, and he still hadn’t replied to her message from earlier. Dejected, Faith sighed as she looked out over the suburban street, the stained glass crosses hanging in bay windows and wind chimes tinkling in the cool breeze. The sound of footsteps rounded the corner, and she turned to find Bobby Esders approaching.

“Hey, Faith. What’re you doing out here all by yourself?” The flaxen-haired boy asked.

She forced a brief grin and leaned against the handrail. “Being by myself.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have interrupted. I was getting sick of all the church-talk in there.”

Faith nodded. “Same.”

Bobby tucked his hands into the pockets of his beige chinos. “I noticed you haven’t been to group in a while.”

“I have a lot of schoolwork. It’s a little more important than making arts and crafts and babysitting kids while they cry over which Veggie Tales movie to watch.”

“Yeah, I get that,” Bobby snorted with amusement, stepping up to the handrail beside her. “So... What did you do all Summer?”

The only voice Faith wanted to hear was Faust’s whispering in her ear, gently poking fun at her, calling her babe and stating interesting yet useless facts about his favourite bands and horror movies. Though she was polite, she turned to Bobby with a tight smile and sighed impatiently.

“I don’t know... Stuff? What everyone else does during the Summer.”

The boy accepted her response with a solemn nod. Bobby Esders was not oblivious. He sensed her discomfort and unspoken need for solitude the moment dinner began. With a nod, he backed away.

“Well, I hope you have a good night, and good luck with your schoolwork.”

Faith frowned. “I’m sorry, Bobby. I shouldn’t be so short with you. My parents have been treating me like a child lately, and it’s getting on my nerves. I should be studying, but instead, I’m here—”

“Pretending like you give a shit about church?” Bobby said with a secretive smirk.

“Um... Well, yeah,” she replied, blushing.

Bobby chuckled, maintaining his distance but relaxing his shoulders. He was tall like Faust, with zero body fat, bony arms, and a mop of blond curls. Faith hadn’t spoken more than a few sentences to Bobby since joining the church, but she always smiled at him when they passed in the corridors. He was pleasant and had one of the best singing voices in the congregation. His parents were wealthy business owners who donated large sums to the church and took a liking to Stan the moment he commanded the podium for his first service. Since then, Faith’s parents cultivated a friendship with the Esders family. Faith even heard them discussing how perfect it was that the two respective families had a daughter and a son of the same age, as though it was some kind of miracle. She dreaded the day Stan might suggest she try spending time with Bobby. And perhaps if she had never met Faust, she might entertain the idea of Bobby courting her, but that chance was long gone.

“Don’t worry, Faith. I might look like a goody-two-shoes, but it’s just the clothes my parents make me wear for church. I don’t really buy into any of this bullshit either.”

Stunned by his admission, Faith tilted her head as Bobby’s expression turned sly.

He continued. "And I know what our parents are trying to do with us. They’re trying to play matchmaker like it’s the eighteenth century or something. Trust me; I wouldn’t be out here bothering you if your dad hadn’t encouraged me. I can tell you want to be somewhere else, and I don’t blame you."

Faith looked up at him with a growing appreciation for his honesty. His bluntness still took her back, but she smiled with relief.

“Well, I appreciate your observation. My dad doesn’t seem to realize that I’m a person capable of making my own decisions.”

“I’m in the same boat. Do you think I want to spend all my free time doing church stuff? Right now, my friends are at home playing Call of Duty together, and I’m here, pretending like I give a shit about this stupid religion and all its oppressive rules.”

“Wow. I never pictured you as anything but...” Faith trailed off, flushing pink.

“But a Bible-toting nerd? Yeah, I get that a lot.”

Reneta called for Faith from the side door. She sighed, smiled at Bobby again, and smoothed her hands over the black T-shirt that still smelled like Faust’s bedroom. Bobby stepped aside, motioning for Faith to go first before he followed.

Faith turned on her phone after she collapsed in her bed in the corner of her dorm room. To her shock, Faust still hadn’t answered her message from earlier. She called him, but the line rang until the call dropped. Fighting back an onslaught of burning tears, she rolled over, stuffing her face under her pillow to absorb the sounds of her whimpers.

She worked an evening shift at the bookstore the next day. It was the last thing she wanted to do, but she decided that morning if Faust didn’t want to answer her, she wouldn’t press. If he couldn’t accept her apology and saw silence as an acceptable form of punishment, then she would return the favour.

However, by the time Faith made it halfway through her shift, her heart had grown twice as heavy, and she longed to hear Faust’s gravelly voice more than ever. She ducked away for a minute here and there to stifle her tears, returning to the floor with watery eyes and a sagging expression. Even her boss noticed her sunny disposition trampled upon by something she refused to disclose.

The only relief she found was when Bobby Esders strolled into the bookstore, surprised to see her working behind the counter, sorting discarded books to return to their proper shelves.

“Faith! I didn’t know you worked here,” Bobby said with a broad smile.

“Yeah, I started here in the Summer,” she replied, returning the grin.

“This is my favourite bookstore. I’m surprised we haven’t run into each other before.”

Faith forgot her melancholy for a time. With twenty minutes until close, she focused her time on helping him locate a copy of a novel he’d had no luck in tracking down. He purchased the book and offered to wait until Faith punched out to walk her to the bus stop. Her first impulse was to decline, but Bobby was too kind to allow her refusal, claiming he was going to the same stop, and he might as well accompany her there.

The last thing Faith expected to see was Faust parked outside of the mall’s entrance, leaning against the side door of his friend’s car, waiting. She flashed a concerned look at Bobby, who stared at the leather-clad man with a touch of disdain.

“Oh, that’s um... That’s my boyfriend,” Faith pointed out as Faust glared ahead.

“That’s your boyfriend? That mean, scary-looking dude with the hair?” Bobby scoffed.

By the time Bobby took another breath, Faust had launched forth with long strides, clearing the cobblestones in a second. His glare burned hotter as he approached them.

“Who are you?” Faust asked Bobby with an air of mocking disinterest.

“Uh—”

“This is my friend from church,” Faith stepped in. “His name’s Bobby.”

Faust narrowed his eyes on the man who was only an inch shorter than himself. “Your friend, huh?” He asked.

“Faust, don’t start. He was just walking me to the bus stop.”

Bobby took a step back, relinquishing the closeness with Faith he had enjoyed for the last half an hour. He’d heard stories of Faust and his buddies, as they had beaten up and antagonized his friends throughout high school. Anyone associated with the church was subject to the circle’s cruelty, and despite Bobby’s size, he was no exception.

“I don’t want to see you sniffing around my girl ever again, you got it, bible-beater?”

Faith frowned as Bobby cowered from Faust’s smouldering contempt. She pushed on his leathered arm and stepped between the two men, glaring up at Faust with her own scorn lighting her features.

“Stop it, Faust! He didn’t do anything. We were going to the same stop, anyway. Stop being such an asshole!”

Faust pushed his jaw forward, swiping his tongue over his teeth as she challenged him. He’d never seen Faith look so angry, and though she was laughably small in comparison, her scowl was enough to make him take a step back.

“Let’s go, Faith,” he muttered.

“No. I’m not going with you. I’m going home,” Faith refused.

“Fine, I’ll drive you,” he insisted.

“No! I’m taking the bus. You can’t return my messages or answer your phone when I call? Then I don’t need your help getting home.”

The city bus pulled around the corner, rumbling to a stop at the depot to pick up the people leaving the mall. Bobby watched, frowning, then looked back at Faith.

“Sorry, Faith. I have to go,” Bobby said.

Faust sneered. “Yeah, get lost. She’s fine.”

“I’m leaving too,” Faith said, turning, shouldering the strap on her purse before stepping away.

Before she crossed the road, Faust stepped in front of her. His expression softened when he noticed hers hadn’t. Faith was angrier than he thought. When he showed up to intercept her, Faust assumed she would drop everything and run into his arms, happy to see him despite the tension he’d allowed to rise. But her disgust was potent. She wasn’t about to be pushed over by his feeble attempt at soothing the situation.

“Don’t,” Faust punctured his firm stance as Bobby crossed without her. “Please.”

“Why would I go with you? You’re not even nice to me. I tried texting and calling you, but I guess you were too busy doing your own thing to care.”

“Yeah, ‘cause you pissed me off!” Faust hammered. “That whole ‘I don’t want my dad to see us together’ was a real dick thing to say.”

Before Faith launched another complaint, she closed her mouth and looked to the ground, then back up, glaring harder. “I said I was sorry. It’s not like you haven’t said awful things before. The only difference is you never apologize for them. I’m just expected to accept your unsolicited opinions about my life and my family.”

Faust offered no rebuttal. The couple stood staring at each other until Faust relented, scooping his hand into her hair to kiss her firmly. He hated that she was right, and he refused to admit it out loud, but the kiss acted as his justification.

It wasn’t good enough for Faith. She pushed him away.

“You can’t just act like a total asshole, then kiss me and expect it all to be okay.”

Faust rolled his eyes to the darkening sky. “What do you expect me to do?”

“Oh, I don’t know. An apology might be a good start.”

“Why would I apologize for you pissing me off?”

“Apologize for making a scene in front of my friend. Apologize for not answering me. Not accepting my apology when I had the maturity to realize I was wrong.”

“All right, well, I’m sorry. Happy? Now, let’s go.”

“No, Faust. I don’t think we should hang out tonight.”

Her refusal hit him hard. Faith always jumped at the chance to spend time together, so her steadfastness came as a shock. His shoulders slumped as he sighed.

“Please,” Faust said.

“Why? You seemed happy ignoring me yesterday.”

“I wasn’t happy. I was upset. What you said really fucked with me. Now, I’m over it, and I want you to spend the night.”

A flicker of sympathy sparked in Faith’s chest. She noticed his green eyes reflecting something she had never seen in him before: sadness. Faust reached out for her hand, and she stared at his outstretched palm, heart aching. Maybe what she said had hurt him more than she realized. She always figured Faust was above such emotions, that the only passion that lived inside of him was menacing anger that only came out when somebody threatened him or his territory. The regret tugging at his mouth proved her theory wrong.

She took his hand and he pulled her close. Streetlights illuminated as the parking lot emptied. Stars poked through the violet sky in clusters. They stood wrapped in each other’s arms for a minute before he held her out before him, staring into her eyes beseechingly.

“If you really don’t want to come over, I’ll take you back to your dorm.”

Faith shivered. When Faust noticed the goosebumps on her arms, he let her go and shrugged out of his jacket. Underneath, he wore a black t-shirt with a severed head spewing forth a waterfall of blood and entrails. The carnage spelled out the name of a band whose logo was utterly unintelligible. She smiled as he swung the heavy leather jacket around her so she could push her arms through the sleeves. The hem ended at her thighs, and only the tips of her middle fingers poked out from the armholes, but it was comfortable despite being several sizes too large for her body.

“Fine. I’ll come over. But I wanna have sex, and I don’t want you to hold back.”

“Faith—”

“Those are my terms. I don’t want you to treat me like a little flower. I want to fuck... hard.”

Faust snorted, biting his bottom lip as he rolled his eyes again. He placed his hand on the leather at her back, guiding her toward the car. “You might regret that request, you know.”

Faith smirked. “We’ll worry about that in the morning.”

#faust x faith #faust stuff #valter skarsgard fanfiction #Valter Skarsgard imagine

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potatocrab · 4 years

Text

Salvation is a Last Minute Business (18/18)

Chapter 18/Epilogue: We Could Go Places

Madelyn finally earns her happy ending.

“With my brains and your looks, we could go places.” - Frank Chambers as played by John Garfield (The Postman Always Rings Twice, 1946)

That’s all she wrote! Thank you to anyone to joined me on this wonderful journey! 😭

[read on Ao3] | [series masterpost]

June 22nd, 1958

“You’re late.”

Madelyn laughed at the sound of Nick’s voice, calling out to her the moment she arrived at the agency that morning, the bell above the front door indicating her presence. Her amusement persisted as she walked through the lobby, observing the care packages that filled the space. Even Ellie’s desk was covered with boxes and flower bouquets—more than what had been present the previous evening, or the day before that. There were more gifts scattered throughout the room, all sent in congratulations after news of Valentine Detective Agency’s success spread across Boston. Taking down Eddie Winter was one thing but solving a decade-old missing persons case and exposing a government conspiracy was another. Nobody expected the ragtag detective and his lawyer broad to take expose the Institute—not that anybody knew the university were hiding such abhorrent secrets in the first place.

She leaned against the doorway of Nick’s office, surprised by the lack of clutter that typically covered his desk. The stacks of case files and reports had been boxed away, leaving the room the cleanest she’d seen in years. Well, except for the small sprinkling of cigarette ash on the oak wood that he’d failed to hide—hell would freeze over before Nick Valentine gave up that habit. All that remained on his desk, aside from the usual decorations, was a single newspaper and a bottle of Irish whiskey, two perfectly poured glasses on standby. A Sunday tradition.

Madelyn grinned. “I think I’m right on time.”

“I wonder if Grace Kelly received this many flowers when she won best actress,” she joked, walking over to take her usual seat in the armchair to the left.

Nick chuckled, rounding the desk to join her with the two glasses in hand, the bottle and newspaper tucked under his arm. “I’ll let you know when I start feeling like a Princess.”

“You should see Piper’s office,” he added, passing her one whiskey-filled glass and the weekend edition of Publick Occurrences before sitting down. “Gal’s been flooded with offers from all over the state, including the Bugle, to run their editorial departments.”

“She’ll never take them,” Madelyn contended. “She has enough resources and connections to finally fund a full staff. Maybe finally move into a bigger office and give us the space back so we can do the same.”

Even though Nick smiled at the idea, he reeled in his excitement. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”

Madelyn feigned innocence, shrugging as she hid her grin behind a generous gulp of whiskey.

He glanced at her curiously, smiling against the rim of his cup as he also took a drink. He expertly diverted the conversation. “So, where were you this morning?”

She considered lying just for the fun of it, but decided the truth was just as shocking. “Church.”

“Madelyn Hardy, once again attending Sunday mass,” Nick replied, shaking his head in humorous disbelief. “I thought I’d never see the day.”

Neither did she. Madelyn was sure she had lost her faith the day her husband died, buried it along with Nate to be forgotten. His death, and her survival was more than guilt—it was sin. And then, one New Year’s Eve party later, everything changed. She’d been tested over the last several months, and despite the grief and the loss, she was also at peace. Nate was at peace. Somewhere along the way, she’d found salvation.

“You could say I’m a changed woman.”

Nick considered her words in comfortable silence, the two slowly drinking their whiskey while exchanging soft, lingering smiles. It was reminiscent of the ‘good-ol-days’, but calmer. He said what she was already thinking. “I’ve changed too. We all have.”

Madelyn contemplated asking if he had any regrets, or if everything they had done was for the best when he silently gestured towards the newspaper draped across her lap. She glanced down, smirking at Piper’s headline. Reunited!

“She’s finally learned to reel it in,” she jested, looking over the picture of Shaun Pearlman—now eleven years old—standing with his parents, Nathan and Nora.

“After such headlines as The Boogeyman Banished, and The Synthetic Truth,” Nick’s laughter was at the expense of their dearest reporter friend. “The article speaks for itself. It’ll take some adjusting, but the kid will be alright.”

Madelyn studied the family portrait again, focusing on their smiling, overjoyed faces. “It isn’t everyday that somebody gets a happy ending.”

“They’ve earned it,” Nick remarked, just the slightest hint of sorrow passing through his light green eyes. Jenny—the heartache would never go away. He remained silent, but his smirk slowly returned, encouraging her to continue reading through the newspaper.

Inside, there was a picture of Hancock—John McDonough—formally announcing his plans to run for mayor in the 1959 election. He had already been working with the interim mayor after his brother’s death, ensuring that any lingering Institute corruption was snuffed out. His platform hadn’t changed much—of the people, for the people—and judging by the large outpouring of support, a lot of Bostonians dug what he was offering.

“Are you going to vote for him?” Madelyn teased, chuckling when Nick grumbled a sigh and rolled his eyes without an answer.

There was another article about Preston Garvey and his Minutemen, reclaiming their post in Quincy now that the Gunners had been successfully chased out of town. MacCready had found a place in their ranks, grinning like the sun was shining out of his ass in the group picture that accompanied the article. It was a good fit for the former mercenary, even if Preston was a little weary about accepting him at first. The network of neighborhood watchmen were supported by the newly reformed Boston Police, Sergeant Danny Sullivan himself promising to oversee their continued partnership.

Correction—Deputy Chief Danny Sullivan—earning quite the promotion after the fall of the Institute exposed and removed more corrupted individuals from power. He was running his own campaign, recruiting the best and brightest minds to fill the ranks throughout Boston’s precincts with the promise that integrity and stability were there to stay.

“Still have a long way to go,” Nick commented, his distrust of the system would linger too. “But it’s a start.”

Madelyn nodded in agreement, flicking her eyes to another one of Piper’s headlines—Mr. Danse Goes to Washington.

“He’s not going to be happy when he finds out about this,” she laughed.

“The Lieutenant will get over being compared to Jimmy Stewart,” Nick replied. “The man’s a war hero, isn’t he?”

Her laughter continued as she read over the article, trying not to imagine Lieutenant Danse in a comedic movie from the past, and instead as the dignified officer he was. The headline was tongue in cheek but accurate—he’d gone to Washington, D.C. to testify on capitol hill about what occurred at Fort Hagen between the Institute and the United States military. He’d also promised Nick and Madelyn that he’d watch over the federal investigation closely, ensuring another cover-up didn’t take place.

“Here,” Nick spoke, standing to snag a second, unseen Publick Occurrences from his desk. “Special edition. Hot off the presses, as Piper would say.”

Madelyn exchanged copies with him, setting down her glass so she could examine the front headline closely. Valentine and Hardy—The Unstoppables.

“So are you the Silver Shroud or The Inspector?” she giggled, covering her mouth.

“Ha, ha, Mistress of Mystery,” he retorted sarcastically, sitting back down across from her.

There was a picture of them standing in front of the office building, the neon light of the agency sign burning brilliantly behind them. The longer she stared at it, the larger her smile became, warmth radiating through her body. She’d never felt more proud or honored to be a part of something important. She felt at home.

“This is going to give you more exposure than you’ve ever had,” she remarked, tapping the paper with her fingers. “There’s going to be people lining out the door asking for your help!”

“Our help,” Nick corrected with a small smile, leaning forward in his chair. “That is, if you’re still up to the task of being my partner.”

“Of course Nick,” Madelyn answered immediately, unable to stop from grinning. “You’d be hard pressed to find a woman as willing as I am to put up with your brand of bullshit.”

He laughed, louder and heartier than she’d heard him sound in a long time. “Has anyone ever told you how charming you are?”

Madelyn tilted her head to the side. “Funny you should mention that.”

The laughter settled into quiet mirth as Nick looked into his empty glass with a sigh. “I need a vacation first.”

“Really?”

“Really,” he echoed. “Starting with a proper meal. Care to join me?”

Any other time and Madelyn would’ve said yes. She frowned as she shook her head. “I have a date.”

“That’s nothing to pout about,” Nick smirked. The detective—her partner—regarded her with a warm smile. “I can forgive you this one time.”

The warmth had settled in her heart, and she wondered if she was glowing as she smiled at him, the happiest she’d felt in years. Nick reached over to gently clasp her hand, squeezing her fingers as he spoke. “It’s a good look, Madelyn.”

She stood up, leaning over the small distance to place a soft kiss to his cheek. “Thanks, Nick.”

“Sure, sure,” he watched her as she left, lingering only for a moment in the doorway. “See you later, doll.”

Madelyn sat in the vinyl blue booth of the Slocum’s Joe, gazing out the window and watching as people passed by on the sidewalk. Cambridge wasn’t nearly as busy since the Institute’s downfall, but hundreds of people still called considered the Boston neighborhood their home—including her. She’d made occasional trips to her apartment in the last few weeks but had only recently started living in D7 again now that she was sure it was safe. Codsworth and Dogmeat were more than pleased to have her home, the Mister Handy unit suffering a bout of anxiety after being separated from his mistress—even if it shouldn’t have been possible with his programing. Even now, the robot had difficulty letting her out of his sight, and she laughed when she noticed Codsworth across the street, hovering about as he walked Dogmeat, a leash tied to one of his metal arms.

“What’s so funny?”

She glanced up to find Deacon setting down two cups of coffee before sliding into the booth across from her. Two sugars and a little bit of cream for her, straight black for him. He wasn’t in his usual suit, swapped out for something far more casual and befitting for summer, black wig left forgotten on her bedside table. Of course, he’d never leave without securing his sunglasses—his eyes were only for her to see.

Madelyn titled her head, gesturing out the window as she took a slow sip. “It seems I’m always destined to have somebody stalking me.”

“I take offense to that,” he held a hand over his chest, feigning attack from her teasing words. “To imply that I stalked you.”

Madelyn struggled to contain her giggling behind her cup. “Hmm, and what would you call it?”

“Careful observation from afar,” he said, brows furrowing for a moment as he inspected the contents of his coffee before taking a careful taste—always with the suspicion. You can’t trust everyone, even the barista at their regular coffeehouse, it seemed.

“What would you call it now?”

Deacon smirked at her flirtatious question. “An up-close and personal liaison.”

Madelyn smiled, her heart racing in excitement as it usually did when they danced around this subject. There still hadn’t been much of a discussion—or a confession—since their infiltration of the Institute. No clear conversation about what their relationship meant. It didn’t stop them from acting like lovers, a constant stop-and-go ever since the evening she got shot, pausing when they needed to focus on the case instead of romance. Now that there were no more distractions, what she desperately yearned for was full steam ahead. She darted her eyes back out the window, forcing her mind to stop before she spiraled into anxiety and doubt. She was happy—right?

Deacon’s hand reached over the table to cover hers. “Do you want to go to D.C.?”

She glanced back to his face, momentarily surprised by his question. Any joke she thought about making—that everybody was going south—fell away. “With you?”

His expression faltered. “No, with Drummer Boy,” he said sarcastically.

“I dunno,” she nervously laughed, humor the only defense mechanism she could rely on. “Robby makes for a pretty good date when you aren’t—”

“Charmer,” he groaned, fingers tightening around hers, even though a smile dared to pull at his lips.

“Is this one of your business trips?” she persisted. “Or would this be for pleasure?”

“Why can’t it be both?” he responded, and it sounded witty enough, except all traces of humor had disappeared. “Can’t you tell when a guy is trying to be serious?”

Madelyn swallowed, and released a shaky breath. “What is it?”

Deacon didn’t say anything, and she was afraid she’d scared him off with her teasing. Minutes passed before he finally reached up and removed the darkened shades from his face, placing them on the table next to their forgotten coffee cups. Blue eyes locked on blue, but still, he remained silent.

“What do you want?” she prompted, slowly turning her hand over to lace their fingers. “Deacon?”

She’d seen that emotion in his eyes before—just last week—when he tried to tell her something important, and she denied him the opportunity. This time, she wasn’t afraid.

“I want…”

“Je t’aime,” she answered, filling the silence when he trailed off. His eyes widened, the shock quickly subsiding as a bright smile pulled at his lips. Madelyn knew it was a simple saying, but still translated. “I love you.”

“I—”

Not everyday that Deacon was at a loss for words. He suddenly moved, slipping out from his side of the booth and swiftly sliding in to join her. Madelyn turned to meet him, laughing as the butterflies swarmed her stomach like she was experiencing this—love—again, all for the first time. He leaned in close so only she could hear.

“Je t’aime,” he repeated with an ever-growing smile. “I love you too.”

There was nothing left to say, so he kissed her instead. Madelyn smiled against his lips, sighing when his arms wrapped around her in a warm embrace. Deacon was still grinning when they parted, eyes shining with an emotion she wanted to keep there forever. He pulled her close, and she rested her head against his shoulder, switching her gaze back outside.

The sun was shining, and she was happy.

#fallout 4 #noir au #deacon x f!solesurvivor #deacon #madelyn hardy #nick valentine #oh god it's over ;_____;#I'm going to go cry now #masterpost to follow

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