#'capo' just didn't have the right ring to it

[nerdanel01]

Exquisite, Pt. II

Emmrich/Rook, teensy bit of Lucanis/Rook if you really squint 2k+ wc | SFW [Pt. I Here]

Emmrich had never considered himself to be a jealous man. He did not covet what others possessed, content with his lot and labors; envy had never come naturally to him.

And yet there he sat in the common room of the Lighthouse, seated in the chair with the clearest, unobstructed view of the kitchen, watching Agnes watch the Crow. 

It had been several weeks since he had left Nevarra behind, and the Mourn Watch with it. Weeks of Agnes being short and clipped with him, or outright ignoring him entirely. Try as he might to thaw the chill between them, nothing—not praise, nor flattery, nor thoughtful gestures—seemed to appease her. Any and all attempts he had made to spend time with her, or converse with her since they had returned to the Lighthouse together had failed, many of those efforts ending quite disastrously. Manfred, through the power of his sense of humor alone, had managed to develop a friendly rapport with her—but as for Emmrich, he suspected that Agnes would barely give him the time of day, if he asked. 

That on its own might have been tolerable; after all, given their cataclysmic falling out and the two year separation that had followed Agnes’ flight from the Mourn Watch, Emmrich had thought he would never see Agnes again in this life. Even if she hated him, at least now he had been blessed with the possibility (however remote) of repairing the rift between them. He did not think it would be easy, but he was glad to have the opportunity to try. 

But in the Mourn Watch, Agnes had always been closest to him— even during the period when Rolf Magnusson had been courting her. Emmrich had been her dearest companion, her confidant; he had become accustomed to that familiar place of privilege within her heart. No longer did she cherish him there. And unlike in the Mourn Watch, where she had made little effort at making other friends of her own, the comfort and ease and warmth with which she bore herself around the members of the Veilguard struck a startling contrast to the way she behaved around him. Watching her collaborate with Lace on their next moves, the fascination with which she listened to Bellara speak about her discoveries in Arlathan forest, all while she would hardly spare a glance for Emmrich himself… well. That stung, a little. 

The way she laughed and smiled and practically fawned over Lucanis… that more than stung, it smoldered painfully in his chest. 

Of course, there was no indication her relationship with him had gone beyond the bounds of friendship. But, Emmrich thought to himself—why wouldn’t it? She was lovely, cunning, capable; no doubt Lucanis saw that for himself just as well as Emmrich did. And he was possessed of that dark, enigmatic, Antivan charm—even across the room Emmrich fancied that he could practically hear Agnes’ heart palpitating every time Lucanis spoke in his native tongue, the same language of the operas Agnes had so loved. 

As if he were not sufficiently well-endowed with charm and allure: he was an excellent cook. 

Though Lucanis’ definition of ‘cooking’ clearly did not measure up to Agnes’. Three nights ago he had prepared dinner for the group. The pungent, mouth-watering smells of garlic and cheese had filled the Lighthouse, lulling everyone into a state of anticipation and rapture before the meal had even begun. But when at last it had been served, Agnes had just paused for a moment, looking at her plate, broken hearted. 

“Something the matter, Rook?” Lucanis has asked her, coolly. 

Agnes had opened her mouth, thought better off it, closed her mouth, and shook her head, no. It was not in the least bit convincing. Then she had picked up her fork, but before she had even touched it to her plate, she had dropped it back to the table, unable to hold her silence any longer. 

“How could you do this?” she had asked, sounding crushed. 

“Do what?”

And she had lifted her plate, tilting it towards Lucanis like an accusation. “You spent hours on this, and it must be incredible—it smells incredible, smells beautiful—only to just drop it onto the plate like slop for swine.”

Emmrich had to repress a grin. She was not wrong. But unlike Agnes, Emmrich had not expected the Nevarran custom of cooking—where food was as much a feast for the eyes as it was for the palate—to have held much sway in Antiva. 

The amusement and irritation were both plain in Neve’s tone when she interjected, “Fasta vass, Rook, you’re worried about what it looks like? It’s going to taste just the same.”

“It tastes heavenly,” Bellara added supportively, already twirling more of the pasta onto her fork. “Thanks, Lucanis.”

“It deserves better,” Agnes had muttered, half under her breath. 

“Fine,” Lucanis answered her, with an unbothered shrug. “If it bothers you so much, you can serve the meal next time I cook, jefa.”

By his tone, Emmrich gathered that the comment had been intended as a dig. But Agnes has only stood to reach across the table, extending her hand to Lucanis to shake on it. “Deal.”

And so now, there they were: Lucanis kneading eggs into flour for another fresh batch of pasta, with Agnes hovering around the kitchen island beside him, all questions and insatiable curiosity. Encouraged by her enthusiasm, Lucanis was teaching her how to form the dough into different pasta shapes: 

“And then you pinch here in the center, to make farfalle—”

“Oh!” Agnes exclaimed in delight. “Like little butterflies.”

Lucanis smiled at her, shrugged. “I always thought they looked more like bow ties, myself. Then there’s the conchiglie—shells—you just give the dough a little roll with your fingers, like that…”

“Can I try?”

… and despite his most valiant effort, Emmrich could not repress the slight twitch of his upper lip as he watched Agnes sidle closer, Lucanis peering instructively over her shoulder as her fingers worked the dough. 

Years ago, when she had left—when Agnes had fled the Mourn Watch and left him behind—Emmrich had hoped for her to be happy, to be loved in whatever life she built for herself after leaving Nevarra. 

Of course, when he had made that secret prayer, he had not expected to be present for it—to be forced to endure the exquisite torture of watching it happen before his very eyes. 

Yet there it was: Agnes’ eyes a little too keen for Emmrich’s liking as she watched Lucanis’ hands knead the dough into shapes, taking in the thickness of his scar-covered fingers, covered in handsome dark hairs—

“Emmrich! What’s that around your neck?”

Bellara’s voice startled him out of his forlorn musings. He blinked, then looked down, and lo—the delicate gold chain had slipped between the buttons of his shirt, the lazurite ring that hung upon it swinging like a pendulum. 

Hastily, he tucked it back beneath the fabric. “Oh, it’s nothing really.”

“It’s not nothing!” Bellara replied. “It is a very old and very pretty something, from the little peek I got of it. What is it? A family heirloom?”

It was nothing of the sort. But Emmrich did it feel inclined to explain exactly what it was, especially under present circumstances, and in present company. 

But, “Just show her, Volkarin,” Taash insisted. “She won’t give it up until you do.” The boredom in the treasure hunter’s voice did little to conceal the eagerness in her eyes; like Emmrich himself, Taash had a weakness for shiny things, and her own curiosity had been piqued. Across the table, even Davrin had glanced up from his carving to see what all the fuss was about. 

Emmrich felt himself beginning to sweat under his collar. 

Under the pretense of removing the chain, he unfastened the first few buttons of his shirt. Then, under Bellara’s eager gaze, he pulled the necklace out from beneath his shirt, cupping the heavy ring in his palm. 

“It is not an heirloom,” Emmrich said, as Bellara stood up to join him on the sofa for a better glimpse at it. “It was a gift.”

“Oh, wow, Emmrich, it’s gorgeous! Taash, come look!” Bellara enthused, beckoning the Lord of Fortune nearer before she turned back to the ring in Emmrich’s hand. It was truly a thing of beauty—the brilliant lazurite carved into the perfect facsimile of a scarab beetle, the aged patina on the gold lotus flowers of the setting only adding to its authenticity and charm. “But why aren’t you wearing it on your hand?” Bellara asked, all innocent curiosity. “You’ve still got a finger or two to spare.”

“I used to,” Emmrich answered, a certain melancholy weaving between the words. “I used to never take it off. Someone…” ‘Say it. Be honest, be brave.’ “Someone very beloved to me gave it to me, over ten years ago.”

Emmrich’s heart skipped a beat. In the kitchen, Agnes was no longer paying the slightest bit of attention to Lucanis, or the pasta. Her grey eyes—unreadable as they were—were fixed, adamantly, upon Emmrich himself. 

“So why not now?” Bellara asked, utterly unaware of the powder keg she was about to set off with her questioning. “What changed?”

Emmrich swallowed, choosing his words carefully. 

“I behaved very badly towards them. Hurt them terribly.” His left thumb worried at the base of his middle finger, where he’d worn the ornament for so many years after Agnes had first given it to him—it still felt strangely bare without it. “Pretty as the ring may be, I could not really endure the sight of it, after. The regret I felt for my actions, the guilt… it was profound.” He flashed Bellara a rueful grin. “But of course, by then it was too late to remedy my mistake.”

“So you wear it around your neck,” Bellara said, softly, practically swooning as she misinterpreted the gesture as romantic; “to keep it close to your heart.”

Emmrich felt his face burning, flushed with sudden embarrassment. “That’s—well, indeed, I suppose that’s one way of looking at it.”

“And what’s the other way?” Davrin challenged, not bothering to look up from the wooden carving in his lap as he asked. 

“Master Emmrich is a masochist, Warden Davrin,” Manfred interjected, unhelpfully, from the corner of the room where was playing a dice game with Neve. “He wears the bauble thusly to punish himself.”

“Manfred!” Emmrich hissed. 

“Is he wrong?” Davrin replied, a slight tilt to his lips that suggested he was hiding a smirk. 

“…I would not have used such language myself,” Emmrich replied, his face flushed brighter red than ever, “but yes. I wear it to remind myself never to make the same mistake again.”

“That’s sad, Emmrich,” Bellara replied, eyes fixed on him as firmly as Agnes’, although Bellara’s look was more doleful than intent. “And silly. Whoever gave this to you, I’m sure they wouldn’t want you to be beating yourself up like that.”

Agnes’ eyes slid at last from his face, feigning rapt interest in the pasta dough on the island in front of her. Emmrich cleared his throat uncomfortably. “I would not be so certain of that.”

“You should wear it anyway,” Taash said, straightening from where she had stood behind the sofa, peering at the ring over Emmrich’s shoulder. “Towers Age, isn’t it? It is old, and finely wrought—finer than any of the other rings you wear.” With a raised eyebrow, Tassh added, “Besides, whatever you did, it’s not like hiding it away is going to bring that person back.”

Back in the kitchen, Agnes was back to helping Lucanis roll out little ears into the dough with her thumbs. If she was still listening, she gave no indication of it; she looked rather like she had lost interest (in the conversation; in Emmrich himself) completely. 

Taash was right. Fate may have thrust the two of them back together, but Agnes was not the woman she had been when she left. The two years apart had changed her: made her more confident, more crass, more affable—at least, to everyone but him—and stamped out, he suspected, whatever love she had once borne for him in her young heart. If indeed she had ever really loved him at all. 

“I suppose not,” Emmrich answered, softly. 

Nevertheless, he still tucked the ring back beneath his shirt.

[thriftedtchotchkes]

his favorite girl, part iii

pairing: joel miller x f!reader

summary: tensions rise as your second lesson continues, but joel still refuses to admit his feelings to you—or himself. you'd concede defeat if you really believed he didn't want you. or if his actions weren't constantly contradicting his words.

warnings: 18+ MDNI, no outbreak, guitar teacher au, age gap (30 years), slow-burn, sexual tension, finger kink, smut, angst, f!masturbation, mild exhibitionism, mentions of guilt & shame

word count: 3.4k

series masterlist | part i | part ii

You have no idea how you're supposed to survive another afternoon with Joel, let alone an entire semester. He's basically Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, hiding under the visage of an unfairly sexy, middle-aged musician, but you never know which one you’re dealing with until he pushes you away or calls you his girl.

Today, he feels like a dangerous combination of both.

After your verbal agreement to keep things professional, yet again, he concedes and finally sits next to you on the couch. Guess that safe distance he was so desperate to maintain is null and void now that he’s made his feelings clear—sort of.

You assume his proximity is an olive branch, but it sure doesn't feel like one. Now, he's close enough to smell his cologne, an earthy, woodsy scent that's so Joel, it makes your head spin. It's also making this lesson infinitely harder to focus on.

You’d never even considered the possibility of him shutting you down this hard, but then again, a hot fling with an older guy wasn’t why you showed up on his doorstep in the first place. If he'd just admit he's interested, maybe things could be different, but he won’t, will he? So, what other option do you have?

You’re not going to throw yourself at him like some pathetic schoolgirl with a crush, even if that’s exactly what you are. You want him to want to touch you, to crave you the way you're sure he does, but right now he wants to teach you chords. Starting with C, apparently.

“We’re gonna try this chord again, alright? Same as last time, nice and slow,” he starts, reaching back to pull something out of his pocket. He presents you with a small, black piece of plastic that looks like a clamp, identical to the one on his guitar. "This here's called a capo. Go ahead and fit it right over the third fret—it’ll raise the key of the guitar. M’thinkin' that'll make things a little easier for ya."

You push your feelings to the side and accept it, following his lead and squeezing it into place before glancing up for his approval. He gives you an encouraging smile and nods, and your heart rate kicks up wildly in your chest.

God, why does his praise feel so good? And why does it feel like it’s been so long since anyone was this patient with you, or genuinely wanted to see you succeed? You realize you want him to keep looking at you like that, regardless of the nature of your relationship.

"S'perfect. Now, your fingers'll go here, here, and here," he arranges his fingers one by one on the three strings that make up the chord and strums. He lets it ring out for a moment, then looks up at you expectantly. "Any of this ringin' a bell from yesterday?"

Vaguely. Mainly, you're remembering how tempting his fingers looked while he was playing, but you'll have to do better than that today. Instead, you focus on mirroring what he showed you.

"Like this?" you ask hesitantly, pressing down on the strings and mimicking his motions. Tough nylon bites into your skin just as painfully as last time, but the sound you produce is pretty. Nothing like the muted, garbled mess from your previous attempt.

You meet his eyes, and they're filled with none of the surprise yours contain. He just looks pleased, like he had total confidence in you even if you didn't.

"Exactly like that. See? You're doin' better already. Must'a done your finger exercises last night like I told ya,” he says proudly, none the wiser.

If only he knew that’s exactly what you spent your night doing. Practically the entire night, if you’re being honest, and to no avail. It might’ve unintentionally improved your dexterity, but you're still stuck on everything that did or didn't happen yesterday. The only lasting result is how unexpectedly conflicted it made you feel. You nod, biting your lip to keep from grimacing.

“Sure did,” you play it off with a laugh. "I wanted to be as prepared as possible."

Prepared for something a little more physical than playing guitar, but that's a moot point now, isn't it?

You sound as fake as you feel, but luckily he’s so eager to continue the lesson, he doesn’t notice. Again, you follow his lead and try your best to ignore your disappointment and bury the residual hurt. You have a sneaking suspicion you're going to be doing a lot of that, but inexplicably, it's getting easier.

You're starting to realize it's not in spite of Joel. It's because of him. In a brief moment of self-indulgence, you let your gaze linger on his rosy cheeks and the newfound serenity in his eyes.

His enthusiasm is infectious, and his love for music radiates like a Texas heatwave, burning hotter with every chord he strums and string he picks. Even his posture is loosening, and the soft smile on his face seems like a permanent fixture.

It's that same warmth from earlier. That intimate connection you felt blooming in your chest from sharing in his joy. Cautiously, you allow yourself to hope, if not for you and Joel, then for your degree. For the goals you have yet to achieve that, regardless of the past 24 hours, still mean everything to you.

"So, what's next?" you ask eagerly.

His eyes light up, and you know you've asked the right question. He shifts across the strings to a new chord, his smile widening as you quickly move to match him.

"Next, we're learnin' F," he grins, nodding toward your finger placement. "Then, I figure we can run through some pickin' patterns if you're up for it.”

"I'm up for anything you are, teach," you reply earnestly, and the smile you give him feels genuine this time. You really do mean it in every sense. "But be gentle with me. It's been a while, if that wasn't obvious."

His smile falters, and something unreadable flashes in his eyes. After a moment, you realize what you said and how it must’ve sounded. You open your mouth to clarify, but before you get the chance, his expression clears. He chuckles, and it's a light, tinkling thing that fills your chest with a heady combination of relief and longing.

Of course, he’d take it in stride. You’re struck again by the resemblance to Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, left wondering if you're still imagining things. The subtle twitch of his fingers must be a figment of your imagination, too, or at least that's what you tell yourself. It doesn't matter now, anyway.

"'Course, I will,” he drawls companionably, his words commanding your attention, compelling you to hang on to each one like a lifeline. “Like I said, we'll take it nice and slow. Ease you back into things until you're ready for somethin' harder.”

It takes everything you have not to choke on your spit. Ignore it. Ignore it. Focus on the lesson and how incredible it’s going to feel when you finally finish the song and pass your damn class.

But you can’t. He’s too close, and he smells so good. You’re only human.

"I think I'll surprise you," you retort cheekily. You’re so fucked. "Plus, I like it hard. Just need a little build-up to get me there."

His hand tenses in a blink-and-you'll-miss-it movement, and you can't help the overwhelming feeling of pride pooling in your belly. You've never backed down from a challenge and you're not about to start now. This one is apparently still ongoing.

"Well, all right, then," he says smoothly, and this time when you shiver, he looks pleased. "Let's hear ya strum it, and then we'll work through the rest. Think you can handle that?"

You straighten up, sitting confidently with your fingers poised over the frets, ready to play. As you shift in your seat, your thigh presses firmly into his and sends a rush of heat straight to the pit of your stomach. "Yeah, I can take it.”

He shakes his head with an amused, yet undoubtedly shy smile. You bite your lip coyly, nodding at the sheet music you've just noticed on the rug at his feet.

"Are there more chords in this bar or is it just picking until the next line?"

It's a toss-up whether or not he heard any of what you just asked if his rapt attention on your lips is any indication. You're still teasing your bottom lip with your teeth, and it's not until you laugh that he finally snaps out of it. He shakes his head a little harder as if to shoo away the distraction, before reaching down to inspect the piece of paper.

He concentrates a little too hard on the page, looking but not seeing, so you reach over and point at a confusing string of notes that connect and repeat with seemingly no rhyme or reason. His gaze shifts to your daintily extended index finger, and you're hit with an intense feeling of deja vu, except this time, your roles are reversed.

“Can you show me how that part goes? It looks like gibberish to me, to be totally honest,” you prod him, trying to reel him back in.

As if on autopilot, he quickly discards the sheet and shifts his hands into place, ready to teach like he wasn't just daydreaming about your fingers wrapped around his cock, covered in his release. And if he wasn't, then you sure were.

“Y-yeah, sure thing. That line's just the intro, but the flow is somethin' else. Probably one of my all-time favorites," he says, his endearing mask carefully slotted back into place.

But you're onto him now. Begrudgingly, he tears his eyes away from where you're matching him on your guitar, waiting patiently for his next instructions.

"It really ain't as bad as it looks," he continues. "The timing's purposely a little off, but it's adaptable. This one's real easy to add your own spin to if that's somethin' ya wanna try."

With all of the skill and grace of a practiced musician, he plucks through the line to give you a preview of what was previously only lines and circles on a page. The notes blend seamlessly, a mixture of picking and what you vaguely remember to be hammering, and it evokes something you never expected.

An unidentified emotion takes root and feels startlingly like yearning and hope, carried by the short melody. It's beautiful. He circles back to the beginning, hopping along the frets slowly just for you, and he's beautiful. You watch him, enamored by his fluidity and ease of motion.

For him, all of this is innate. His guitar is a natural extension of himself, something he was born to hold. You used to think you were born for it, too. The reminder is a painful one, but thankfully you're not left to dwell on it for long.

"So, how 'bout it? Ready to give it a try?" Joel's voice cuts through the fog, as honeyed and mellow as the music at his fingertips. You want to hear that voice call you beautiful again and feel him panting against the shell of your ear while he stretches you out around his thick fingers. God, you want.

Yet, your hands move of their own accord and fall into place—it's the C chord. Apparently, you really want that, too.

"Ready, teach," you nod, and you know you must look like a lovesick fool.

Right now, you really don't care because your gorgeous guitar teacher is beaming and excited, and beneath it all, there's still a tinge of something that makes you believe all of this is real. A lust for more simmering just below the surface.

"You have my full attention, promise."

——

The next hour is spent walking through various strumming and picking patterns, and acquainting yourself with the fluctuating tempo. It's tricky, but you're committed. Again and again, you repeat the same bars, following Joel's interjected advice and corrections, and your mistakes become less obvious until they're all but gone completely.

Rewarding doesn't even begin to cover how a successful run feels. Even the pain blooming beneath the reddening indents on your fingertips feels good. Calluses are beginning to roughen the soft skin, but you earned them.

They're yours and yours alone, proof that you worked your ass off and achieved something remarkable. The results speak for themselves, bouncing around the walls of Joel's living room and breathing new life into the space. Your contribution to his little corner of the world.

And Joel looks so damn proud. He stays patient through every flubbed hammer and too-hard pluck, grinning when you complete the section without his guidance. Your lesson's already gone on long past its scheduled time, but neither of you seems to notice. You likely wouldn't bother to mention it even if you did.

Time trickles by like the slow drip of molasses, thick with the sweetest tension, yet the longer you play, the more a familiar ache starts to creep in and make your progression a little more difficult.

Your hand is cramping, and it hurts. You pause mid-strum to shake it out and stretch your fingers, sighing at the brief respite.

"Hurtin' again, huh?"

You huff out a laugh, remembering the last time he asked you that question. The throbbing in your joints would more than welcome another massage from Joel, but you don't exactly trust yourself to come back from that. You have to stay focused until the next line of the song, at the very least.

"It's really not that bad. Guess all those finger exercises are paying off," you joke, but you don't expect him to catch the underlying punchline. "I kinda figured it wouldn't go away overnight, anyway."

You can tell he's thinking about it, too. He nods understandingly, tapping a restless, arrhythmic beat against his guitar.

"S'all part of bein' a guitar player, unfortunately," he agrees, his entire body tense like he’s resisting the urge to reach out and inspect the subtle changes to your delicate skin for himself.

Your mind starts to wander as his tapping changes to slow circles swirled into the wood grain. You can't help but wonder if your new calluses would feel good sliding up and down his cock, if he'd like the coarse hint of pain teasing the ridge or circling the tip. You wonder what his own would feel like pressing into your clit. The skin of his middle and ring fingertips is noticeably rougher than the rest and with a little pressure—fuck.

You're wet. That can't happen. You have to concentrate. But his movements are starting to speed up, and you can almost feel them sliding through your messy heat.

The intrusive thought is thankfully interrupted when he stops the lewd motion and continues his reassurances like it never happened. Why does he keep doing that? It seems so pointless to keep pretending you’re not on the same page, but you’re not about to call him out and scare him off again.

You tell yourself to focus on the pain. Focus on what he’s saying, not what he’s insinuating.

"Pain's a good thing. It means you're stickin' it out and makin' some real progress," he says fondly, and it's almost enough to reclaim your attention. "Says a lot about the kind of person you are, too, what you do with that pain and how you let it shape ya. You're a good one, I can tell. Committed, like I was."

It's so much sweeter than anything you'd expected him to say. It helps.

"Fair enough. Still kinda sucks though," you grumble, but the slight quirk of your lips betrays your tone.

"Yeah, yeah. What happened to likin' it hard?" he asks playfully, and you feel that telltale whoosh between your legs.

You shift uncomfortably, subtly trying to unstick your underwear from where it's cemented to your core, but the unexpected friction makes you flinch. He picks up on it immediately.

"Look, why don't we take a break? I'll grab us some drinks while you rest up, and we can dive back in whenever you're ready," he offers, his voice raspier than before.

"Yeah, that, um...that sounds good. I'm actually gonna run to the bathroom real quick if that's cool," you reply, trying not to sound as flustered as you feel.

It's hot as hell all of a sudden, even though the AC hasn't stopped kicking since you got here, and you have a feeling cold drinks won't be enough to cool you down. He hesitates before nodding, then points down the hall.

"'Course. S'the first door on your left," he says, brows furrowing in concern. You all but speed walk past him to your temporary haven.

Backing into the door the moment it closes behind you, you squeeze your legs together as tightly as you can, but it only makes it worse. The ache is almost unbearable, and you know for a fact that you'll waste the rest of the lesson if you try to go back out there like this.

The entire afternoon has been such a complicated back-and-forth of conflicting feelings and confusion, but you still have no idea what do to about it. You want him to fuck you, but you also want him to teach you. He wants to teach you, but he also wants you in ways he won't admit to you. Or himself.

Your head is cloudier than it's been all day, and your thoughts are a jumbled mess of desire and rationality, both fighting for dominance. So, now what?

There was only one way to clear the fog last night, but you really shouldn't. You're in his bathroom for christ's sake, and he can't be more than 15 feet away, pouring you a glass of lemonade in the kitchen.

You do it, anyway. With one hand shoved down your pants and the other slapped over your mouth, you decide your best course of action is to rub one out in Joel's bathroom to rid yourself of this distraction once and for all. And it feels good.

The moment your sore fingertips press into your clit, your hips buck into your touch and you lose yourself to the friction. You're even wetter than you realized, and your fingers keep slipping from where you need them most, so you change tactics, ramming two of them inside you instead.

So much for resting your hand. Your motions are frantic, bordering on desperate, and you can't bring yourself to stop now that you've started. Wet squelching mingles with your muffled moans and fills the room, noisier than you’ve been all day even after an afternoon of playing guitar.

But you're getting a little too loud. The door rattles on its hinges every time your palm slaps into your heat, and your hand isn't nearly enough to mask your increasing volume the closer you get. Maybe you'll get lucky and he won't hear a thing. Or maybe you'll get really lucky and he'll hear everything.

You're too far gone to care. Just a little more. You can feel yourself starting to squeeze your fingers, and you just need a little bit more—

Then, there's a knock at the door and Joel's voice tentatively filters through.

"Everythin' alright in there?" he asks kindly, but he sounds wrecked.

It's obvious he heard everything, and yet he's still trying to be polite, desperately clinging to his morals and good, Southern manners. Too bad that turns you on.

Not bothering to respond, you keep going, fixated on how vivid a picture your unstifled moans and reckless actions must be painting. You wouldn't be surprised if it's just your imagination again, but you swear you can hear labored breathing and a litany of muttered curses coming from the other side.

He knocks on the door again, harder this time, and you quickly realize that any patience Joel had left is gone. You've finally pushed him past his limit.

"M'givin' you sixty seconds to get back in that livin' room," he grits out roughly. "You're finishin' out here."

The door shakes as he pushes off of it and stomps away, leaving you in palpable silence.

thanks for reading & stay tuned for part iv!

divider by @saradika-graphics

[hernando-valdez]

Traición | Self-Para

tldr; first & vine was trashed and hernando is spiraling

The weight that Hernando had been feeling for weeks had finally started to lift. Even with the chaos that had presented itself with Mikki's dynamic with Los Santos, he felt like he could at the very least get a hold on everything. He and Lyla were on steady ground, Penny was getting the B&B up and running and his mother was in good spirits. Great spirits even. Enough that she was starting to spend more time out of the house and had even helped him out a few days at the shop. Life wasn't good but it was getting there and the idea of finally getting shit balanced had started to settle his emotions. It helped that he was drinking a little less and spending more time working out and mediating. Preparing for whatever came next.

But nothing could have prepared him for this.

He had foolishly left his phone on the counter in his kitchen as he tidied up the house. His mother was out with one of her sisters and Lyla had already left for work after spending the night. It was a nice moment of solitude and he had the music in the house blasting loud as he wiped things down and sang along. But then the music kept getting disrupted by his ring tone and he sighed as he started coming down the stairs. "Finally a moment to think and people can't leave me alone? The shop better be on fire, coño," he yelled out and finally grabbed his phone. Suddenly the music seemed too loud and like he couldn't hear it at all as he started reading the article, if one could even call it that. He felt his chest tighten and for a moment he thought he might have been transported to his own nightmares. He read it again, and again and every word had his blood feeling like it could boil right out of him.

The emotions came in waves. The fear at having his Los Santos history put out there so plainly was the first wave. Something he had so meticulously cared for and hidden for his entire life. Lies told, moments missed and so much more. All of that work for some coward behind a screen to lay it out like it was just another story in the paper. It made him feel more vulnerable and laid bare than he ever had in his life before. Like every move he made could be his last and he felt like the ground was slipping from underneath them.

The second wave had everything to do with Alejandra. The woman he had basically given his life to. His loyalty, so much of his time. Nights and days. In the early years when things started to split in two, he stood by her, loved her even. He thought they had found trust in each other and he had been so eager to show her that she could rely on him. He was her confidant, her soldier, her most reliable and for a long stretch of time a man he had convinced himself she loved. But not only had she kept him where he was, she had sought to remove the very man from his life who meant the most to him. He and his father didn't agree but now he understood why his father had stood against her so firmly. And Hernando had been the idiot at her side. Of course they hadn't been intimate in years. Alejandra had started to pull away and she had no longer seen it appropriate as he became a Capo. The distance was clear but Hernando had foolishly thought that she still thought of him fondly, trusted him.

But that trust was clearly withered when she hadn't chosen him to rise any higher, to be trusted with the kind of power that could really make an impact. He had brushed it off, told himself that she meant it when she said she needed him exactly where she was. And then his father had died.

The third wave was an odd sense of vindication. An affirmation that he hadn't been losing his mind when he thought his father's death had been suspicious. Everyone had told him how much it made sense. The doctor's, his sister, his mother, his friends. And yet he knew that things hadn't added up. That his father had been doing well before he suddenly wasn't alive anymore. And now he knew the truth. The person he had given all his trust to had betrayed him. And not only that, had stood beside him at his father's funeral as if she had sympathized. As if she cared. As if she still loved him. As if she ever had.

He could have broken that phone right in his hands but instead he angrily pushed one of his speakers onto the floor, stopping the music as the thoughts in his head started to bang around like a percussion band. What was his next move? Where did he go? Who did he talk to? He moved through the house as his head pounded, trying to think of all the things he needed to put away in the safe. He tried not to keep everything on the property but he tore apart his room making sure he didn't forget a single thing. He thought about the fact that people who had known him for his entire life would now know what he actually did for a living and his heart ached so deeply that he had to pause to brace himself against the wall.

As he did, he caught a glimpse of the picture frames by his bedside of the people he loved and something clicked in him.

He quickly gathered his things and locked up the house, doing his best to clear his head as he got in his truck and quickly pulled out of his driveway. His main focus was what was held on the basement floor of the flower shop. But as he got into town, he started to become more aware of the reality of it all and drove faster, not wanting to give anyone a single second to stare too long. But as he turned down the block to the shop, he could see the smashed windows from there. Flowers spilled out all over the pavement. "Hijo de la gran puta," he yelled out, pounding his hands onto the steering wheel as he came to a stop. Just as he got his head together he felt like he was spiraling all over again as he hoped out of the car and started to see the real damage. Someone had graffitied the walls to say "criminal" and "leave our town." The display cases were wrecked and none of his staff were anywhere to be found. There were people walking by taking photos and yet he ignored them all as he stepped over glass and took the familiar path down to the basement.

Also empty and it occurred to him whether or not Alejandra would be closing rank. Whether he'd turn up at madre tierra or the boxing ring to find himself locked out. Would any of them call? Would they back him or would they fall in line with her like he had all those years back then? He could feel his chest tightening again but he pushed on as he unlocked the safe revealing weapons and money. Things he had earned for them. Things he had put himself through blood sweat and tears for and he piled them into bags. He knew it was only a matter of time before the cops came sniffing. Before they tried to get him and turn him. Thinking they could use his anger against Alejandra to his advantage. But he wasn't going to be anyone's puppet anymore.

Fuck that.

With his bags full, he shot off a text to Penny, then Mikki, then Lyla before pulling his phone apart and smashing the sim card below his boot. He grabbed a few of the burners they kept and threw them into the bags as well, sliding one of them into his pocket. There was only one way out of this and there was no entity that could help him but him. He was going to end this and he was going to get his revenge. Even if it killed him.

Hernando left out the back door, leaving his empty truck parked in front. He instead took one of the delivery vans, figuring it would get him far enough before he could switch it out for a car he had stashed about a half hour away. He wasn't running, but he wasn't going to stay right in town while the world fell down on him. He needed some space to think and going somewhere that few people knew of was his best bet.

He eased out of the Tonopah Valley town limits, reaching for one of the burner phones to let Lyla know he was alright and where to meet him later. As much as he wanted to leave her way out of this he knew he wouldn't survive without her. So this time he was going to pull her close and keep her safe. But his next call was to someone he knew he could trust. Someone who had also been wronged by the woman who had once ruled his world.

The phone rang a few times and Nando let out a sigh of relief when he picked up.

"McCoy, I need your help."

[throwaway-yandere]

can i smooch capo!mc on the cheek and like the tightest hug i think they need it

and also to have bragging rights like omfg i kissed the capo!!! and you didn't!!!!!

i get targetted by every love interest ever and am found dead in a ditch the next morning

😋 anon

Main Four:

Inquisitor Cyno: probably won't kill you, but will give you a long lecture as to why stealing kisses is a sin and you shouldn't even DARE hold hands with his blessing. He understands that "human impulses can betray their morals" but he still can't cope with the fact that other people have tainted his beloved.

Professor Tighnari: Embodiment of pure seething jealousy. Cannot comprehend as to how you managed to pull such a feat and regrets not making more moves when he used to be in the Innamorati Familia. You'll find an arrow buried deep just beside your head the next day with a warning sign. "Stay away. Don't think I don't know what you've done. I hear EVERYTHING."

Underboss Alhaitham: "You think that's something to brag about? Cute." This man is confident that his shared and forgotten history with capo!reader is enough to win their heart. Eventually. You may have stolen a kiss from them for now but he'll be the capo's last kiss. So what if you kissed them? Are you brave enough to confess your feelings? Because my dear friend, he already did. (Y/n) just doesn't realize it yet.

Architect Kaveh: He doesn't believe you. Kaveh thinks you're lying and he'll probably laugh at your face and call you delusional. If you insist on talking about it he'll sew your eyes and mouth shut with needle and thread. "Shut it. If I asked the disciples and find out you're lying you'll find yourself in big danger, you wench."

(Some of the) Secret Routes:

Visconti Diluc: In absolute agony. The best he got was when he kissed the ring on your finger as a sign of respect– how does someone like you have that opportunity?! It doesn't matter. That's what he'll tell himself. It doesn't matter, what maters is you should focus on getting (Y/n) to quit the syndicate. What matters most is their safety.

Musician Venti: He would be the most impressed one. Venti would think this is song worthy– he'd whip up a song about this in no time. It would sound joyous but the lyrics are grim and questionable. "A kiss in the cheek would make any man sweep– a sneaky rival down Starsnatch's steep~"

???: "You're acting awfully cocky, worm." You'll find that he's already inside your house– correction: dilapidated house. You don't understand what's going on, or why he's holding a small piece between his fingers– all you know is that whatever you say next might just be your last message on earth.

???: "I heard you've been spreading rumors about the 8th capo. Your mortal desires might just put you in danger." The least disturbed one, at least, on the surface. It's not like he knows capo!reader that much. "Still, why do you persist on bothering them? Isn't it already obvious that they're destined to die? When the day comes that they'll be consumed by darkness– I'll be the one to reap their soul. I advise you to not get attached."

[sunnysviolin]

If asks are open, then I wanna see more mafia au stuff. That was always my favorite au of yours! ^w^

Ye they are! I didn't know if anyone wanted to send any but I figured I would be like hey, I have tons of things in my inbox, but I love y'all <333 anyways take some mafia au!

TW: Mafia Au stuff so Death, Violence, Threats, the usual

Okay so I was thinking about Sally the other day and her place in all of this.

So Hero and Kel's mom dies right after Sally is born. It's bad and it's messy. Their father is pretty distraught from the whole thing and Hero might just go off the rails a little bit right at first (Her murderer is another one of his three kills) so the people who end up taking care of Sally right at the start of her life are mostly Kel and Mari.

The other three are not to be trusted to take care of baby. Sunny would accidentally leave her somewhere, Aubrey would try to start training the infant to kill, and Basil, shockingly, would just get too anxious. Mari and Kel are the only choices

It's honestly a good trial run for when Mari eventually decides she's ready to have kids (She and Hero have already said that they never will, but no one else in their administration knows that) because she still manages to hold her power with an iron fist in one hand while also holding an infant sally in the other. She will sit in meetings with her capos and others to talk business, and anyone who stares too long at the little girl who is using Mari's family ring as a teething toy is demoted swiftly and silently.

Kel takes care of Sally in short bursts. He's still grieving his mother, but he feels like he's the only one that remembers Sally even exists. He doesn't really know how to take care of her though, so he mostly just watches what Mari does and copies her when Mari absolutely can't watch her. It's enough though that Sally starts to give gummy little smiles every time she sees Kel

After he's done getting his vengeance, Hero slips easily into the caretaker role like he always did. He's moving a little stiffer and he stares off into space a little more, but he dotes on Sally. Their father disappears shortly after this (Of his own volition, he left a note) so Hero and Mari unexpectedly sort of end up with a child of their own

They do make one distinction from how they were raised though- Sally isn't allowed to know about their actual business. Not at all. Anyone who even hints at it to her will be taking a long walk off a short pier (The one in the hidden part of the park that no one knows about )

Mari and Hero aren't entirely sure why they chose to make things that way. Maybe it was wanting to do better than what they had, maybe it was fear of Sally turning out the same way as them. Regardless, she is kept in the dark

Sally grows up in the bakery and beloved by her extensively large family, but she always feels like she's missing something. She's tried to investigate, to see if there's something no one is telling her, but Hero and Mari are always there to remind her that she doesn't need to know anything except that her family would do anything they had to when it comes to keeping her safe and happy. It's enough until the day it isn't.

[murusagi]

[Ambush Meal] A Collaboration with Lord Toma!? Love and Madness of Delicious Meal Ft. Cage Translation

This is a part of Otomate’s April Fool’s Special Event in which the cast of several of the company’s franchises turn into social media personalities.

Orlok: ...Bonjourno. [Pio House] Episode 1926. Today, we're going to film your favorite series, "Oruru's Ambush☆Delicious Meal Next Door".

In this series, I'm going to make a surprise visit to someone's home and enjoy a meal there.

Nicola: Orlok, can you hear me?

Orlok: Yes. The earphones are working perfectly.

Nicola: Great. I also can see you clearly through this camera.

Gilbert: We better explain the rules to the viewers.

[Rule No. 1: Oruru must obey any instructions given to him through the earphones.]

[Rule No. 2: Oruru must eat the given food without being picky.]

[The ones giving instructions in this episode.]

Orlok: I'll do my best.

Direttore: Nice answer. Now then, without further ado, let us ambush our target this time around! Please press the interphone in front of you.

Orlok: ...Clicks.

Ding Dong

Toma: Who is it--oh, if it isn't Orlok from [Pio House]! Did you come here by yourself? What a good boy.

Orlok: Y-Yes…

Dante: ...He's stroking his head.

Nicola: That's Orlok for you. He's quick at gaining someone's favor.

Orlok: Umm… I'm happy to be able to meet Toma from "Love and Madness of Animal Channel".

Toma: Me too. So, what brings you here? Do you want to hang out with me or what?

Orlok: No. Actually…

Toma: I see, so you want to have dinner here. Hmmm… let's see.

Orlok: Huh… A-Am I not allowed to?

Direttore: ...We already made an appointment, right?

Gilbert: Yeah, we should have made it…

Toma: You kind of remind me of Shin, Orlok.

Orlok: R-Really…?

Toma: Yeah. He's like a lil brother to me. ...Right. Can you try me calling me Onii-chan?

Orlok: What?

Toma: I'll let you in if you do. How?

Direttore: That's quite the painful request from someone whom you just met.

Nicola: I understand his feelings, though. "Onii-chan"... It has a nice ring to it.

Dante: I'll give it some thoughts if you want to be called that…?

Nicola: I don't know how to feel if you call me Onii-chan at this age… You think so, right, Direttore?

Direttore: Fufu… I will hate it, for sure. Well, I don't have little brothers? No need to worry about that?

Orlok: U-Umm, so what should I do?

Gilbert: Oops. M'bad. We stopped giving you instructions. ...Do as he said. We can't go on with the filming if he doesn't let us in.

Orlok: Okay.

...To-Toma Onii-chan.

Toma: Hm? Sorry, your voice is so small I couldn't hear it. Can you say it again?

Dante: He definitely heard it!

Nicola: Orlok, one more time!

Orlok: Toma Onii-chan…!

Toma: ...Nice. This feels satisfying for some reason. That guy will never call me that, after all. Alright, come in.

Orlok: I… I feel like I lost something important… In any case, I'm coming in.

Toma: I'm making dinner right now. Wait a bit, 'kay?

Orlok: Y-Yes.

Nicola: Orlok, how's the target doing?

Orlok: U-Uhh…

Toma: Bolognese with lots of minced meat~I feel like an Italian already~♪

Orlok: He's humming… some spells, I think? He's frying something while doing that… Looks very focused.

Dante: I see. It's time for our usual "House Tour" then.

Yang: Go to his closet.

Orlok: ...What!?

Nicola: Hm? You're up, Yang? Too bad. I wish you wouldn't wake up for eternity.

Yang: You sure are messing around with me, filming while I was sleeping. 5 billion women are crying right now.

Dante: 5 billion…!?

Yang: In any case, off you go to the closet, Orlok. Let's uncover the true nature of our targ--What are you all…?

Knocks.

Orlok: H-Huh? I can't hear you guys all of sudden...

Gilbert: ...Orlok, can you hear us?

Nicola: Don't mind us and just go on, Orlok. Yang is currently reflecting.

Orlok: O… Okay. So, I don't need to go to the closet?

Dante: Unfortunately, you must obey any instructions that have already been given to you. Let's head there while Toma is cooking.

Orlok: A-Alright.

***

Orlok: ...I found the closet.

Gilbert: Looks normal to me.

Nicola: Hey, Direttore? You've been quiet for a while. Come on, say something interesting.

Direttore: ...Ridiculous.

Dante: Where did all his tension from before go!?

Gilbert: H-Hey, you okay? Is your stomach hurt or something?

Direttore: ...I'm not interested in peeking into someone else's room.

Nicola: Hey, your real self is starting to show, you know? Be careful.

Direttore: ...Oops. I sincerely apologize for the mistake, letting out my honest opinions like that.

Orlok: ...I found the closet. It doesn't look suspicious.

Nicola: Where should we go next? He lives in a one-room apartment so there's nothing to look at.

Orlok: The balcony, maybe?

Gilbert: Nice idea. Let's take a look. Maybe he has a kitchen garden or something.

Orlok: Then, I'll open the curtain…

Opens.

Orlok: ...This is…

Dante: ...A cage.

Nicola: A cage.

Direttore: That's undoubtedly a cage.

Dante: This must be… the cage he uses for "Love and Madness of Animal Channel", right?

Orlok: To observe the animals…?

Gilbert: Y-Yea. Let's just think it that way.

Nicola: But any animals who could go into this cage… For example…

Direttore: Human beings.

All: …….

Nicola: ...Let's just pretend we do not see it.

Dante: I-I agree. My capo's intuition tells me this isn't something you can touch carelessly.

Orlok: Y-Yes. I'll close the curtain.

Closes.

Toma: …..

Orlok: !!?

Toma: ...Did you see?

Orlok: I-I didn't…

Toma: Really?

Orlok: (gulps)

Toma: Fine. Follow me, I just finished cooking.

Orlok: O-Okay.

Toma: I could only make this much.

Orlok: Whoa… Amazing.

Gilbert: How could he make this many in such a short amount of time!?

Dante: Now that I look at it again, what are those strange ingredients!?

Toma: You're in your growth period, right, Orlok? Eat a lot.

Orlok: Tha-Thank you. But is it really okay for me to eat this much…?

Toma: This is Latium's famous Volcano Bocca, a soup containing shrimps, shellfish and vegetables. You can warm up your body with this.

Direttore: Latium… I feel like I heard about it somewhere.

Orlok: I'm digging in...ugh!

Dante: A-Are you okay!? Did he put in poison or--!?

Orlok: S-Spicy… But it has such deep flavors…

Toma: These are steamed crab dumplings, dobin-mushi, and fried sesames. I used the vegetables from Kaga, queen crabs and barracuda stocks.

Orlok: T-These are great too! It tastes like something a pro chef makes.

Nicola: I get him. They look like the high-quality food you receive at the inns around Kanazawa.

Gilbert: That's an awfully detailed comment you have there.

Dante: Where is Kanazawa, anyway…?

Nicola: A place with the best onsen around.

Toma: I also have a cake. I heard your birthday is on April 23? Mine is on April 12. Since our birthdays fall on the same month, I made it for celebration.

Orlok: T-Thank you… Hehe… I'm happy…

Dante: …

Direttore: What is wrong, signore? Are you jealous he got sweets?

Dante: W-Why would I…!? I-I-I just think the appearance gets my taste buds tingling…!

Nicola: Endure it for a while. I'll buy you gelato after this.

Gilbert: Anyway, how come Toma knows Orlok's birthday?

Nicola: ...Now that you mention it…

Dante: …

Direttore: Let's put that aside. It's better to keep that a secret.

Orlok: (munch munch)

Toma: How? Is it tasty?

Orlok: Yeah. ...It makes me happy.

Dante: I don't know how to explain it but seeing Orlok eat makes me feel peaceful…

Nicola: I get you. Seeing Gilbert and Yang eat doesn't make me this happy. It's not heart-warming at all.

Gilbert: Yang aside, why do you have to connect it to me?

Yang: For crying out loud, don't put me and Redford on the same shoes.

Nicola: ...Oh? I'm sure I already locked you up. You broke out already?

Yang: Of course. After receiving such a warm welcome, I should give my thanks…

Gilbert: S-Stop it, Yang! Don't pull out your blade!

Dante: You too, Nicola! Put your gun away! We're still filming!

Direttore: Oh… What a scandalous dispute. It pains my heart.

[We are experiencing poor reception issues. Please enjoy this beautiful view of Sakura.]

Orlok: Thanks for the food.

Direttore: What a good boy. He ate them all without leaving anything.

Toma: Amazing, you ate them all by yourself. I was planning to put the leftovers into a container so you can share it with the others.

Gilbert: I wanted to try some after seeing so many interesting foods like those.

Orlok: So-Sorry. All of them were delicious so I just…

Dante: It's all right. Finishing them off is part of the rules so you didn't do anything wrong.

Nicola: Great job, Orlok. We have enough footage with this.

Orlok: Thanks for today, Toma. I'll be going now.

Toma: Ah, wait a minute. I actually have a request for you.

Orlok: ?

Toma: I still need more footage for my channel, can you help me with that?

Gilbert: Well, why not? He helped us wrap up the filming without any troubles.

Dante: We should return the favor.

Orlok: Okay. I'd like to help if there's anything I can do.

Toma: Great to hear that. Now--.

Can you get into the cage?

Orlok: ….Huh? ...What?

Toma: I've been keeping my eyes on you. Since you look like a small animal, it’s just perfect.

Gilbert: I see, so it's come to this…

Toma: I figured you'll be lonely so I put some plushies inside.

Orlok: T-That's not the problem here…

Toma: Now, now. You can't tell unless you try. Get in there.

Orlok: I don't want to--.

Toma: Only you can do this, Orlok. Please.

Orlok: ….

Toma: Can you look here? ...Yes, nice. It'll gain more viewers, I'm sure.

Orlok: Can I… get out of here already?

Toma: No, you just got in here. Oh, right. I have some chains. Can you put them on?

Dante: Even chains… This is abnormal…

Orlok: U-Uuuhhh… Guys, what should I do…?

Nicola: You'll be fine, Orlok. It surprisingly suits you.

Direttore: I agree. I'm sure there are people who are into this kind of thing.

Orlok: ...I'm not fine at all…

Toma: It's not as cute as hamster, but there's a huge demand for something like this. Do you mind if I turn it into a series if it gets good feedback?

Orlok: !!?

Toma: I think we were meant to meet. Shin would scold me again if he were here, though.

Orlok: I want to go home…

Toma: Hm? You want to meet him? He's off for another recording right now, so he probably won't return for a while.

Orlok: ….

...I realized something. I shouldn't trust others. The only one I could rely on is myself…

Toma: Haha. That's a nice expression you have there. With that said, it all depends on you guys whether I should make this a series or not. Don't forget to subscribe to our channel!

T/L Notes:  Dobin-mushi: Food steam-boiled in an earthenware teapot

[imaginesbymk]

PINK + WHITE.

—chapter nine ; with heat & wet skin.

summary: teresa’s permanent resignation from the peaky blinders leads her to a whole new chapter of working in an art museum. but little did she know her best life would be butchered some time later when her former lover tommy shelby gives her no choice but to return to the peaky blinders after they make new enemies, with the leader, of all people, being the man teresa fell in love with one night after a wedding reception back in post world war; luca changretta. 

pairing: luca changretta x OC x tommy shelby

tags in this chapter: swearing, implied nsfw, drinking, mentions + drug use

[ chapter index / meet my oc / wattpad link ]

MASON was quick on his feet when he was given the slightly odd request Teresa had asked him to do last minute. It had nothing to do with the gallery or with separation of last minute business meetings to be scheduled in the margins of the diary. It was just that he had to safely track down a dangerous man. Luca Changretta was still in England, hot-headed with a plan.

Teresa loved fur shawls. Though she detested how the cheap ones she could afford wore out from time to time, from the "fur" falling out like leaves from a tree in autumn, or even its colour turning from new to depressed (and even she grew so envious over the women who wore the luxurious, expensive ones at parties). Tommy Shelby never bothered with buying her what she wanted, which she was fine with, but one man with the Italian genes spoiled her with one that she kept in her closet. A grey-ish white. Teresa often takes one look at it, before sliding it over to reach the silky see-through shawl when she is simply relaxing in her home. At parties she debated even thinking of taking it out, but then there was the other shawl that was made of black fur, and it closed together with a silver clip to keep her shoulders warm.

The fur shawl was just like the painting she avoids at her own work. Both were so beautiful and timeless, both sharing personal meaning. But tonight, it finally saw light from staying in the wardrobe closet for too long. Teresa held it out in front of her, then clutched it in her arms.

The bar was built together with grey walls, none sound-proof. On the other side you could hear the jazz band playing music for the party, or footsteps from the owner or a bartender heading out back for more stocking of gin. If you were on that side, you'd hear the giant doors spring open from the doorman that allowed Teresa to enter inside. The man at the counter watched as her dress fell all the way down to her heels, not too long so she wouldn't trip. Her hair was in its curls once more, and wrapped around like comfort was the fur.

She reached a booth and set her purse on the table. "White wine."

"Ma'am-" the server goes.

"A man will be joining me very soon." Teresa made a smile, as the unescorted woman if Luca were to not show up. Had she imagined if Luca burned the invitation letter she mailed to his hotel, or simply tossed it away, in future to be used as scratch paper, or even as a roll up (if Luca is one of the many people that did snow), she may have just wasted her time getting dolled up just to not be served at her booth.

"Last time I met up with a woman at a bar, she proposed a deal, and lied straight to my face."

She shot her head up.

Those eyes.

Looks like her night wasn't going to waste after all. "Are you talking about Polly?" She watches as Luca Changretta helps himself on the other side of the booth, the same server coming over to Teresa with her white wine.

Teresa waited while staring down at Luca's own glass being poured with four fingers of whiskey. Luca glanced at Teresa's outfit, not answering her question. "You're wearing the shawl I got you? I can't believe you still have it."

"What, like I got rid of it? Why would I give it to someone else who would treat it like a rag?"

"Hm." Luca took a sip. "So, why did you summon me here? Actually, I know the answer to that one. You're a businesswoman, as we both know. You invited me here to propose some kind of deal, eh? Like I got the time to spare one more fucking thing before I go do what I came to England to do?"

"I know about the vendetta, Luca." Teresa began. "And I know the deal you made with Polly, which was a lie, by the way. I know about that. What I also know is that you don't just plan on crushing the Peaky Blinders. You have more on your mind. You're so greedy that you would want to overthrow Alfie Solomons as well. If he were to betray Tommy with the deal you made with Mr. Solomons, you know you and your men would come after him as well and take over his business."

Luca nodded. "I had a feeling you knew. I had a feeling Tommy Shelby brought you back to Birmingham, no?"

"I know your patience is wearing thin, and you're done giving people more time. But then there's me."

"Right, forgive me," Luca places a hand on his chest. "Why not talk about the royalty in front of me as well? What could she possibly request for this time?"

"I wanna know why I was never sent a Black Hand."

Luca laughs, trailing his fingers around the rim of his glass. Whatever Teresa said or did, she definitely wasn't laughing. Nothing seemed funny to her on her end. She did, however, miss that laugh of his. It was more of a chuckle, but she loved it like it was honey in hot tea. "Let me tell you something. It's best to stay out of this, right? Since you resigned, messing with us is like throwing stones at the devil."

"I'll play in the snow with the devil to prove you wrong."

Luca scoffs harshly. "So you're one of those people that snorts white lines just to feel good?"

"That was just my own figure of speech, Luca. I don't do Tokyo," Teresa replied. She cringed at the habit Arthur and Michael carelessly picked up on. "It's everyone's thing now, but not mine."

"That makes two of us." He took another sip. "I'm doing you a favour here, Miss Griffith. Stay out of this and do your own thing."

"There's no need for you to call me that," she comments.

"Why the hell not? Formalities are a thing of the past now?"

"You're talking to me as if we just met. We had something together."

"Yeah, had."

Teresa gave a glare, grabbing her wine. Luca smirks. "All right. Whatever you say. Jesus, kid. You're so fuckin' difficult."

"Kid," she scoffs at his remark. "And Ada Thorne is on your list and she doesn't get her hands covered in blood. So why wasn't I included?"

"You feel left out?" Luca snickered.

"I just wanna know why. I know damn well you haven't forgotten about me. Even if what we had to you was just for pleasure, you found out that I was once a Peaky Blinder."

Luca stares. "You wanted out because you felt like it would devour you forever, so I respected your wishes. You told me why you threw in the towel. And I know you're not a Shelby, you don't wanna be a Shelby."

The server comes up to them. "Sir? Ma'am? Would any of you like to hear the specials tonight?"

"No, thank you." Teresa smiles.

"More whiskey," Luca says. "And for the lady, she'll have more wine." Teresa raised her brows. She didn't mind more wine, would she care so much about knowing her limit before it was time to wince at the tab?

"I forgot you love whiskey," Teresa points out.

"Italian whiskey," Luca made a hand gesture. "As I was saying... have you thought long and hard about this, as to why I'm here? As to why I want Tommy Shelby dead, how I now want everyone dead?"

"Your father." There was a pause between the two. The jazz band transitioned their music to a much slower song this time, and it started easing the nerves in both the former couple's systems despite the volume of alcohol consumed. "Arthur Shelby killed your father. John Shelby killed your brother Angel."

"If things didn't happen the way it did, my men and I would be cozying up in New York counting stacks by stacks."

"And I wouldn't be seeing you here," Teresa added. "Almost ever again," Teresa thanks the server for the excess wine refilling in her glass, then Luca's. "Now can we talk about the giant elephant in the room?"

Luca furrows his brows.

"I know why you left, Luca. I know it's been five years, but you really just packed up and left. I've never seen you so frantic until that day when you were running to the train." Not even an eye bat. "I grew miserable ever since."

"Can I say this?" Luca leaned forward, placing the cuffs of his tailored suit that it laid flat on the tablecloth. "Whatever emotion you saw in my eyes on that day, whatever it was, it was for the sake of being alive for my family. Someone's gotta help keep the business up and runnin'. None of it works if I'm not there."

Teresa stares at Luca. This man wasn't wrong. It wasn't like he was running everything in his family all on his own. His father led the family in Birmingham that Angel was a part of, even his mother lived with them, but what makes New York so important and comforting to Luca must have felt like a whole outlet of anything he ever accomplishes, how many Tommy guns he can hold and keep in his home like picture frames, how many men he has to hire from Sicily and America just to help kill one family. All of that was justified when he boarded that train to the Liverpool docks.

"Oh," Teresa straightened her back. "So much for being the big, bad capo."

"Be careful," Luca warned, pointing a finger at her. "Don't question a gangster's honour."

"You know I crack jokes here and there," Teresa's lips curled into a smirk as it reached the rim of her glass.

"So do I," said Luca.

She looked down at his hands that rested on the table. His experienced, non-scrawny hands that had a black hand tattooed on his wrist, one with a crown, and maybe some other new ones Luca got over time. She used to kiss all of them, even the one on his neck that was a cross. His right hand was wrapped with big, gold rings on two fingers, except he only kept his ring finger free of anything, that was something she wanted to bring up. "You got all those rings on your fingers but not a wedding ring.

"Not like you got one on yours, either. Unless you took it off before coming here," Luca jokes.

She shakes her head. "I've been too busy to fall in love with another soul. But you? You didn't tie the knot with Viviana back in New York?"

Luca scowled, knowing Teresa hadn't forgotten about that woman as he did. "No. I still see her occasionally."

"Yet you haven't done anything with her? Never bothered to find anyone to satisfy your mother?"

"My mother says any woman from New York or even from the old country would do."

"What did you say, after?"

"Mamma, you're killin' me.'" Teresa had to chuckle at that, Luca smiled at her. He then looked around the bar, seeing how more of the guests had gotten up to dance with their dates as the jazz music cranked up their higher tunes like a machine. "Don't tell me we're gonna be sitting here all fuckin' night. You wanna dance, Miss Tour Guide?"

The nickname he gave to her the first time. Did he really sit in front of her and tell her he couldn't remember everything they had, then? "I'm a little rusty," Teresa declines.

'We gotta stretch our legs somehow. I ain't even see your whole getup for the night."

Teresa had no problem getting up from the booth. She stepped out so that her heels were shown as well, and she placed the fur shawl down on her seat so her shoulders were out. The dress wasn't purchased by Luca, but by her, and she felt like a Grand Princess, like a little girl playing with their mother's dresses and makeup. She was never too insecure about her looks since it never bothered her, but she felt beautiful, and she wondered if Luca will still ever see her as beautiful whether or not she is clothed in front of him.

Luca kept on staring. "Then perhaps we can head somewhere else," he suggests. "Somewhere we're both quite familiar with."

How and why didn't matter, the young man who looked to be around Arthur Shelby's age paid no second thought to his surroundings as he aggressively snuffed the thick lines of cocaine that formed on the ledge up his nostril. He begins wiping away any excess off his face, exiting the balcony seats just as the Italian mobster escorts Teresa inside the dark theatre to their respected spots.

"You're a lover of theatre," Teresa spoke quietly as the show resumed to its first act.

"If you dress like one, you are one." Luca hooked his leg over the other, folding his hands on his lap.

It was silent, not the awkward or tense silence, but silent to respect and see the performance. Silence or absolute noise, the stage was the latter. The good kind of noise. The skimpy dancers twirled with batons, the man and woman playing the perky main lovers belted the note they must have spent days and nights rehearsing over and over.

Luca knew there would be performances every night back in New York City. There was always something to do and somewhere to go, otherwise you'd be glued to your chairs at home.

The show was about to end, and Luca, for the first time in God's glorious mysterious time, took Teresa by the hand and curled them together on his lap, his eyes were fixated to theatricality in front of the hundreds of people.

Teresa reacts, slowly looking down. It was nearly dark, but she could feel the giant, lumpy rings from his fingers bump into hers. He always held her hand during a show, and would only let go to join the applause when a number came to its big finish, or when the grand finale brought hypnotic joy and bliss in each audience member's senses like himself that he just had to give the standing ovation.

But just as the audience erupted in deafening applause, cheers and whistles, Luca and Teresa remained the only two members seated, their hands still holding.

HIS hotel room was neat and tidy before he left, now the sheets on the giant bed wrinkled like aged skin when Luca held Teresa down to remove her stockings. She missed his touch. The feeling of being pinned on a bed as he dominated over her, practically tearing what she wore for the occasion just to see her underneath as a sight for his sore eyes, it was definitely there, and her heart pounded.

"Luca," she breathed out a moan. He kissed her softly, now only responding with pacing movements, from positioning her to grabbing the protection from the nightstand drawers. Though he was careful with the dress and fur shawl that was set on the office desk he sat in earlier, within seconds her brassiere was tossed on the floor. With the help from Teresa, she managed to undress Luca from head to toe by just sitting up, and he was now unclothed from the fresh tailored suit his uncle made back in Mott Street.

They kissed again, and Luca went in.

+ me writing "smut": 🧿👄🧿 but ooooo shiiiit their “business” meeting was quite a night lol.

[kitmon]

Keys Are Under the Mat {1/?}

Llewyn Davis x OC

Summary: Struggling singer/songwriter, Llewyn Davis, has faced the rough and tumble world of the music industry as well as the callous hand of life. When an up-and-coming folk singer makes a trip back home and finds herself at the hands of the battered down couch-surfer, her first thought is to offer him a bit of compassion.

Warnings: Cursing, mentions of sexual activity

“Hold me, while I cry into your coat

Tie the rope round my throat, why don't ya?

Did you even read the note I wrote ya?

Boy, you're my antido-o-o-o-ote

Baby, it's only you I dote"

Her delicate fingers danced along the strings of her amaranth-colored acoustic. It was a fairly new guitar, given to her by a rather close colleague. She used to play at the Gaslight Café exclusively in the late fifties, not because she particularly liked that venue, more so because they were the only ones who gave a fraction of a fuck about her shitty guitar with a few broken strings and a makeshift capo that was made in the bathroom 10 minutes before a show using a sharpie and a rubber band. The crowd was always friendly; never hostile or awkward, just... supportive which was always appreciated on her part. Having people enjoy or at least pretend to enjoy her music was comforting at the time. As of right now, she was only visiting for old times sake, nostalgia purposes.

The new guitar was a testament to the amount of shit she'd been through. I mean signing a record deal is a pretty big deal, right? Having people know your name and buy your album. I mean, she was no Bob Dylan but she'd get stopped in the street from time to time which was unquestionably a step up from the loogies and cat-calls sent her way. Even now, her appearance at the usually humdrum populated café has drawn more attention than anticipated. The seats were all taken and the rather small building held far more people than the fire marshal recommended, but what a turn-out it was.

The audience hummed the chorus, cautious to not tune out her newfangled voice as it continued, nonchalant as ever as if there were only a few unamused patrons sitting in the crowd, but there wasn't. The populace of Greenwich Village loved her. She made a shit-hole like Greenwich something for people to keep their eyes on. And she didn't disappoint.

Her eyes remained lowered as she rather curled into herself and let the song end with a guttural reverberation. There was a silence as her eyelids lifted marginally, letting out a few pants of air to recover. Then an uproar, a surge in applause! She glanced up and flashed a charming smile, one that only showed the top row of teeth and caused her childish eyes to crinkle as she let out a giggle, concealing her laughter from the large array of eyes with her dainty hands. She adjusted herself and lifted a hand to reach the microphone.

"Thank you, you guys are a lovely audience, much nicer than Queens," the crowd let out a dispersed chuckle at her humor and she smiled again at their enthusiasm. She loved this, the feeling of having immense support. It made her feel... alive, to say the least.

"Okay, I'll be back in 20, take it easy while I'm gone." She waved off the crowd, unfurling herself from her guitar strap and handed the instrument to the stagehand, thanking the man afterward. She smoothed out any puckers or creases found in her dress as she stepped down from the stage, heading towards Pappi and another bystander, one who looked as if he'd been sleeping on the floor for days. Poor sucker looked as if he didn't even own a winter coat.

Pappi's arms extended out towards her, inviting her into his embrace. "You did great, kid," her eyes brightened at the compliment as she wrapped her arms around his torso and pressed her rosy cheek flush against his chest. The action should have been far more intimate than the two adults interpreted it, and most others would have perceived it that way as well. In fact, most familiars thought Pappi was fucking her most of the time.

Which he wasn't and neither one had ever considered it. Just business partners with an intimate brother-sister bond. Nothing more, Nothing less. The taller man, gripped her by her upper arms to gaze at her, with a gentleness, "Really, gave em a show."

"Aw thanks, Pappi, but I've got to admit that I'd still be singing songs on my back porch if it weren't for this dump." She jested, her hands hanging from her hips. Pappi let out a deep chuckle which was softened by her one-off laugh that wasn't exactly delicate or poised but was attractive in an unorthodox sense. The banter played out until somebody approached Pappi and tugged at the sleeve of his button-up to get his attention. She looked with furrowed brows and a curious expression as the man whispered in Pappi's ear with what appeared to be urgency. Pappi muttered a quick swear under his breath, and looked up at her with an apologetic frown and the same knitted brows she once wore.

"Sorry, kid. There's a few thugs out back making a mess," he patted her on the arm and told her he'd be right back after taking care of the 'mess'. Her head bobbed in understanding as her eyes watched as Pappi followed the man outback and into the fray. Her stare lingered on the door, but it was the serendipitous turn of her head that allowed her to acknowledge the ragged man sitting at the bar. His eyes fixated on the golden hue of the whiskey in his glass. She was almost certain he hadn't moved an inch since she came over, only stayed staring at the same glass of whiskey for at least five minutes. God, he looked like hell. His coat was hanging on by a thread, quite literally. Holes in miscellaneous places, unruly hair that looked like it hasn't been combed in days, shoes that looked soaked by the snow just outdoors and a runny nose that looked like the result of an oncoming cold. His wardrobe fitting flawlessly against the backdrop of the monochromatic greys and tans that made up the scene of New York in the Sixties. He looked familiar, she was sure of that. It was likely he'd played a few gigs at the Gaslight, same as her. Then again there were dozens of scruffy looking musicians who sidled into the Gaslight to perform, this one was hardly any different.

She sucked in a breath through her nose and ambled towards him, "So, you a friend of Pappi's?" Her elbows supported her weight against the hardwood bar, her fingers interlaced with each other as she peered down into the swirling rings of the once tall-standing oak. It took him a bit longer to register that she was speaking to him, "Oh, um, yeah, I guess..." His hand slipping up towards his face to rub at the skin, waking him up. His hooded eyes look over to her and away from that untouched glass of whiskey. Her laugh startled him, unexpected as it was. Her giggle was an unfamiliar sound. It shattered through the blaring car horns outside, the chatter of the audience, even threw the bullshit that spewed out of the radio sitting on the counter across from them. He just stared at her, unaware of just how ignorant someone would have to be to notice all the shit that's taking place everywhere around them and still have something to laugh about. It was selfish, but who wasn't these days. Everyone wanted others to be as devoid of joy as they were. Of course, there were a few stragglers who managed to keep a pep in their step and a smile on their faces. Those are the ones who get broken. They break down so quickly in a place that loses hope quicker than a bucket with gunshots loses water. But, she wasn't ignorant, and he knew this. She just decided to not take anybody's shit. And when nobody gives a fuck whether your dreams are accomplished or not, you learn to say fuck off right back. I guess that's what separates the losers from the winners. Her demeanor and the way she carried herself, with the balloon-sleeves and ruffled collar of her dress shirt, the way it was neatly tucked into her pinafore, it gave the impression that she was... incapable. But she was ten times more capable than almost everyone in that Café.

"If you don't mind me asking," she lifted her hand to wave down a bartender, not making eye contact with him until she knew someone was coming to attend to her request. "Got a name?" Her bright brown eyes locked with the gray and muddied irises of his own and it ignited a raft in his brain, making him adjust his position in self-consciousness.

"Um, yeah. Llewyn,"

Llewyn, Llewyn... she's heard that name before. She takes a sip from her glass of red wine the bartender had passed to her not to long ago. She takes a sip and contemplates why that name sounds so familiar.

"... Llewyn... Davis?"

It had slipped from her lips before she could even register it. And it surprised him, far more that she knew who he was. He couldn't remember meeting her or introducing himself to her before but then again, he was a performer. Not a very popular or reputable one mind you, but a performer none the less. She'd probably seen him at the Gaslight once before or something.

"Uh..., yeah... Hey, how'd you, um?"

"Oh, um I think I might own one of your albums. Inside Llewyn Davis, right?" The mention of his less than successful solo artist debut was a bit upsetting but he just dismissed it and looked away. "Yup... that's the one." His voice sounded disappointed and beaten but who could blame him. Chasing a dream so far that it only leads you to a dead-end can be frustrating.

"You know, I really enjoyed it," she mused, much to his disbelief but it must have only been out of politeness. "That makes one of us," he mutters, his frown dropping a millimeter or so. She couldn't decipher what he was referring to, but she could tell that whatever it was, it had sucked the rest of his joy and drive out of him. The business will do that to you, take a starry-eyed kid and promise them a dream only to drop them on their ass and tell them they'll never be more than a stand-in gig for a bunch of nobodies.

"I really loved the song— oh, how'd it go?" She pondered, the way her thick eyebrows scrunched up in concentration giving her the wonders of a child. The same way her determination to prove the potential the album had was childish. But it was the truth, she did enjoy the album and even recommended it to a few friends back when she bought it, now it just sits in a blue milk crate next to her record player, collecting dust. He gazed at her expectantly waiting to hear her utter at least a single lyric from his album.

"Oh!" She snaps her fingers in triumph, startling Llewyn once more. "It goes," and she readied her voice with a clearing of her throat and sang what she could remember. "Hang me, oh hang me, I'll be dead and gone," his eyes widened a bit at the surprise of her actually acknowledging his music, and the fact that she enjoyed it, no less. "Hang me, oh hang me, I'll be dead and gone," the lilt in her voice echoed through the Café and a few patrons stopped their chatter to cherish her sweet voice. The silence stuck around for a beat and her eyes fluttered open after her display.

"Yeah, that's it!" Her outburst wasn't expected and nearly knocked Llewyn out of his seat for about the fifth time.

"Yeah," he muttered, letting his eyes linger on her form a moment longer than he'd like to admit, brows furrowed in thinking. "Whad'ya say your name was again?" He questioned, curiosity getting the better of him. And there was that damn giggle again, opening his eyes to a whole new world of possibilities where you can giggle and laugh about things without having to feel sorry about the lack of a difference it makes. She answers and it's just nothing special but at the same time it feels like... a novelty. "Dorothy.”

[bookstantrash]

“Had this been a different situation, a different man, she would have kept going. Would have tried her very best to style it just the way her mother had instructed her to do, accordingly to the outfit that had been picked for her as well.

But she was not engaged to Cassian. She was not readying to spend her life with Cassian.” — I see you began with the dagger straight at my heart and is repeatedly stabbing me

“Nesta was going to be wedded to Eris soon. And just as she didn't give a shit about him, or the wedding, she couldn't' find it in herself to care about the hair she'd do that night either.” — Go with you hair messy and makeup simple and an okay dress. BE SPITEFUL NESTA FIGHT BACK

“Nolan had sprung the engagement announcement on her, simply raising a glass in toast, and then delivering the shocking news. She'd gotten up from her seat in a stupor, pushed along more so by confusion than anything else, until she'd reached the front of the room, and stood across from a frowning Eris Vanserra. Beron and Nolan had stood between them, facing the expectant crowd, and Nesta had needed to clamp down the urge to physically scream as he repeated the news of her engagement, one she'd had no idea about, once again to the onlookers.” — wait a fucking second. IT WAS NOT THE MOTHER ARCHERON BITCH BUT NOLAN?! JESUS NOT EVEN ERIS KNEW IT WTF IS GOING ON

"Let this engagement be a show of good faith between our families," he'd declared. And then he'd turned to her specifically, "And let any debts between any of us, be washed away from them as well." —HE IS NOT SELLING NESTA LIKE THAT AND TIEING HER HANDS SAYING HER DEBT WILL BE PAID NO FUCK NO

“But his declaration in front of so many witnesses, even if it was a veiled revelation, was enough confirmation for her to know, that should she agree to the engagement, it would all be done with.  The debts. The hidden jobs. All the blood on her hands.” — Jesus fucking Christ SOMEONE DO SOMETHING BECAUSE EVEN THOUGH I WANT THAT TO STOP I DO NOT WANT THAT TO HAPPEN AT THE EXPENSE OF NESTA HAVING TO MARRY THAT TRASH

“She'd been dutiful and stiff but she'd allowed Eris to slip the ring onto her finger, only stopping for a minute to look out into the crowed as cheers erupted.” — this is making me sick. I’m gonna throw up and then commit a murder.

“Looking for him. His reaction. The betrayal he would no doubt feel.

She did not find him.” — Cassian is too busy getting drunk because you two broke up and then he will get even angrier when he knows what happened

“Everything after had been a whirlwind. She'd gone back to her table, her parents both frozen in shock and still not yet thawed as this had been news to them too. But then they'd remembered their place in the family, and her father had hugged her, which she hadn't known how to respond to. Her mother had only nodded, a gleam of approval in her eyes that cast an ever darker shadow on Nesta's mood.” — THAT FUCKING CUNT AND THE USELESS FATHER I WILL KILL THEM

“Of course a mafioso prince nobody was better in her eyes than a Capo who was a bastard. And all because Cassian didn't have the same pedigree or lineage as the Vanserras.” — OH SHE IS ASKING FOR ME TO KILL HER THAT BITCH IS GONNA GET FUCKED UP

“He'd given her the paper, signed it himself at the bottom and gestured for Nesta to do the same. Nolan's lawyer had stood beside the pair as she'd finished up, quickly reading the short agreement between the two. Her marriage into the Cosa Nostra would effectively settle any debts between them. She'd wanted to leave right then, but curiosity had her hang back, and she'd asked what he got out of such a deal.” — I’m glad there’s a formal contract because I do not trust Nolan at all

"A daughter of the Archeron family shall marry into the Vanserra line, ending any blood debts, grievances and feuds that may be occurring between the Chicago Outfit and Cosa Nostra." She'd read out that particular line to herself and the other two men in the room. — PLEASE HAVE ELAIN MARRY LUCIEN PLEASE FOR FUCKS SAKE LET HER MARRY LUCIEN

Nolan had glared, rounding his desk and sitting down. "You think I don't know?," he'd finally asked, once he'd settled in. Nesta kept her face blank and confused. Nolan scoffed at that. "You and that Vitale bastard. I know all about that Nesta. Don't think anything is happening in this territory or his that I don't." — HE MADE NESTA AND CASSIAN BREAK UP ON PURPOSE AND SUNK MY SHIP BECAUSE HE IS SCARED TO LOSE POWER?! THAT MOTHERFUCKER

"You're threatened," she'd realized, and savagely declared. Good. if she couldn't get to Nolan after all these years, at least someone could. Even if that someone was likely going to hate her for the rest of her life. — CASSIAN COULD NEVER HATE YOU HE HATES THE SITUATION YOU ARE IN

Nolan wouldn't admit to what she'd guessed, but she knew she was right. "If you got it into your stupid head to go after that boy, you'd be tying this organization to a man that is not of yours or your family's status." — OH SHUT THE FUCK UP YOU ASSHOLE

Nesta had smirked then, finally understanding. "No. He most definitely is. All you men are monsters. But you can't control Cassian in the way that you could control Eris." Fear had entered into Nolan's eyes, too easily and too long for Nesta to not notice it. — YES YES CASSIAN CANNOT BE MANIPULATED AND CONTROLLED AND HE WILL HAVE YOUR HEAD IN A SILVER PLATE YOU PIG

"Grayson's coming. With his wife." — that douche got married?? Poor girl but Elain you should be happy, you avoided an asshole

“She'd recognize his handwriting anywhere, narrow and tall letters spelling out her name with an ease in every flourish. That and his insignia at the bottom. How Elain had known and put two and two together, she didn't ask. Elain was prone to know things she shouldn't and otherwise couldn't know. Elain never really brought it up and Nesta never asked.” — HE SENT HER A GIFT?! Oh my god this will be good

“Underwear. The asshole had gifted her underwear. A stupid, black, tiny thing that she had no idea what to do with. Should she laugh at the audacity or call him up and start screaming right then and there?” — LMAO I AM WHEEZING SJDJDH

"No fucking way," Nesta breathed out. This was risky, even for him. But now the note made more sense too. She snorted at that, then grimaced, realizing that she had no idea how Eris was like in the bedroom, nor did she have any inclination to find out. — I’m going to throw up at the picture of nesta and eris like that

"Yes fucking way. You put it in the underwear actually. It's supposed to come with a remote so you and your partner can-" She cut herself off, suddenly looking self-conscious at all that she'd revealed. — I do not want to know how Feyre knows that. I refuse. Nop.

“Feyre shrugged and went back to gift perusing. After a few minutes, Elain shuffled over to join her, not quite looking at Feyre. Feyre noticed the awkwardness, whispering something in Elain's eyes, to which Elain's face soured and she yelled at Feyre for being so gross. It put a smile on Nesta's face. How many more moments would she have like this with them? With anyone of her old life? It was a heartbreaking thought and one Nesta decided she wouldn't let herself think of too much. She had the dinner tonight, and in a week, her wedding. Now wasn't the time to lose her nerve.” — This is too painful and I’m angry and hurt fuck you Hortênsia.

“Nesta didn't have an ounce of her attention on anything occurring at the table. Not Eris, gleaming and pretty sitting at the other end, talking to his father and hers, and causing her mother to display a beaming smile every few minutes. Not Feyre to her right who were bickering quietly with one of her cousins or Elain opposite her who was looking only down at her plate. That reaction was likely the result of Grayson and his wife, four seats down from Elain, who Nesta had noticed wasn't drinking her wine and kept looking at Elain nervously. She wondered if Elain knew she was probably pregnant, and if the math was right, long before she'd married Grayson.” – SO MUCH DRAMA HAPPENING AT THE SAME TIME OOP

“Grayson hadn't reacted at all in the way a man in love should have acted, turning on her and running straight to his father about the infraction. Elain had sobbed in Nesta's arms while Feyre had planned out his full-fledged murder. Apparently Grayson was saying he didn't believe the child was his to Elain. Elain who had waited years during the on and off again relationship that Grayson had put her through. Elain who had wanted her first time to be special with a man she loved. Elain who had been royally screwed over by an asshole.” — THAT FUCKER THIS WHAT?! NESTA IF YOU KILL HIM I WILL TOTALLY SUPPORT YOU

“In the end, Nesta had gone with Elain to the abortion clinic, getting it done quickly and quietly, while Nolan had begun making plans for Grayson to marry into "a better household." Apparently Nesta was good enough for Nolan's dirty work and her sister was good enough for Grayson to toy around on the side and in the dark, but their family still bore the dark mark of her mother's disappearance and alleged infidelity. She may not have liked her mother, but Nesta was well aware of the power structures in place, most especially the misogynistic ones that were doling out double standard.” — this is so fucking fucked up. The sisters deserve better parents and Elain deserves someone who cherish and loves her

"Did you get my gift?," a cool, sensual voice asked in her ear, low enough that no one else could have heard. — HE IS THERE HE WENT TO THE DINNER AJDJDJDJDH

“But Cassian's gaze remained locked on hers, enough so to make her worry about what would happen once people around them picked up on his sudden attention on her. She hadn't known he'd be attending, didn't even know that he'd been invited. All the plans she'd had to get through the evening with wine and little attention had suddenly burst up into flames from the moment Cassian had laid his interest onto Nesta. She also realized he was still waiting on an answer.” — Oh wait a second while I go grab the popcorn because this will be GOOD

"So you did wear it. Tell me, does it fit? I didn't know your size, I was honestly just going by how far apart I keep my hands on your ass when I fuck you." — AUDJSHDHSHHSHD FUCKING LOSING IT HE IS SO HOT

"Your gift," she explained coolly. "I got it early. So you won't be coming to the wedding."

Understanding flooded his face before he tamped it down and made himself cold. "No. I have more important things to do with my time." — PAIN PAIN PAIN CASSIAN PLEASE STOP THE WEDDING SOMEHOW

“That stung more than it should have and Nesta clamped down hard on the urge to start screaming at him. So he wouldn't even see her off. Say goodbye. Nothing. But she supposed, she didn't deserve any better than that.” — NO NO YOU DESERVE BETTER THIS IS MOT YOIR FAULT HE IS JUST HURT AND ANGRY AT NOLAN AND THE SITUATION

"I'd suggest you start paying attention now since you clearly haven't before. If you asked me, this isn't the family you want to get married into blind. But then again, it's not like you ask me anything before you jump in headfirst. " — wait a fucking second. Cassian you know something. IF YOU KNOW SOMETHING THAT NESTA DOES NOT THEN HELP HER STOP THE WEDDING DAMNIT

"Ah," Nesta cried out unexpectedly, completely unable to keep the sound in as a jolt went through her core.  — HE HAS THE REMOTE HE HAS THE REMOTE I KNEW IT AIDJDJDH

"No!," she gasped out as it turned off. Everyone stared at her again. Nesta was panting slightly and likely looked fine even though she felt ravaged inside.  — HE IS EDGING HER HE IS TORTURING HER IN PUBLIC I-

As if to further his point, he shifted his left hand and placed the right one on her thigh. Nesta felt the thrum again between her legs and she bit her lip to hold in any sounds.

"How's that, bella?," he asked her laughingly. — I’m drooling. I’m dying I’m burning I’m losing it

“But the door creaked behind her and even though she'd told herself he wouldn't follow, she'd known he would.” — HE FOLLOWED HER OF COURSE HE DID

Instead he nodded at the chaise pushed up against the wall to the left, further into the powder room. And commanded her, "Go sit there. Take off the dress." — Yes daddy. I mean, yes sir. I mean, sir daddy. I mean—

“Cassian instead got on his knees and gently pried apart her legs, slipping a hand up her dress and pulling her underwear down. Nesta lifted her hips to help him along, hoping he fucked her sooner rather than delay anymore.” — fuck the holy water, me and Satan are enjoying the show

“That’s on you,” she accused hotly. If he hadn’t edged her so many times, making her practically drip for him, she would have been fine. But the lack of sex…no, lack of Cassian in her life, ever since her engagement was making her foolish. It was exactly that loss of the high he gave her that had her splayed out in front of him in a hotel powder room, where anyone could come knocking. Anyone at the dinner they’d left could come to check up on either of them, and how the hell was he going to explain his presence when the door had to be inevitably opened. — DYING DYIND THEY ARE SO HOT AND HAVE SO MUCH CHEMISTRY AND LOVE EACH OTHER SO MUCH

“Nesta didn’t know what to say to that, knowing full well that he was right in his anger, even if he wasn’t showing it outwardly. If the roles were reversed, she would have felt betrayed and likely would have lashed out irrationally because of it. At least Cassian kept his cool better than her.” — She has a point, and I’m glad she admits that.

“Nesta was forced forward suddenly as a hand clamped across her neck and tightened possessively. Her eyes flew open.

Cassian didn't stop fucking her, instead angling his thrusts further up to hit that elusive spot inside of her that only he'd ever been able to get. "Eyes on me, Nesta. You can keep your eyes closed when Eris fucks you, but when you're with me, you watch." — THE HAND ON NECK KINK THE DIRTY TALK DADDY PLEASE

“Cassian returned the kiss with fervor, as if he too had been starved of her for too long, slaking himself with her just as she needed to do with him. He tasted of rain and cold mountain air. Like the only thing hanging between her and a life she never wanted. Like freedom.

He tasted like he was hers.” — SCREAMING BEGGING CRYING

“With Cassian though, the lack of control, the lack of need to be in control, was a heady, intoxicating feeling. It wasn't many she allowed herself to trust that much. So when Cassian asked for obedience, sometimes, she listened. Other times, pulse thrumming in anticipation of what would come, she decided to play with him a little. Disregard his instructions and promote disruption between them.

Cassian always punished her for it. And she loved it. Every. Single. Time.” — THEY ARE SO HOT THEY ARE FUCKING EVERYTHING I LOVE THEM SO FUCKING MUCH AND I LOVE DOM!CASSIAN AND SUB!NESTA AND BRATTY!NESTA AND THIS IS SO AUDJDJDJ

“She heard the clink of his belt buckle. The slide of the leather against his pants was a soft hiss, sending a current through her veins, and if it was possible, making her wetter than before. Nesta barely held in the moan when he wrapped his belt around her wrists, holding them bound in place before thrusting into her.” — HE IS TYING HER UP HE IS TYING HER UP AJDJDJDJD

"That's my good girl," he murmured. "I told you Nesta, if you're nice, I can be nice to you too." She felt him shift his stance. Heard the sound of cloth rustling against something. And when she turned her head to lean on the chaise seat, where she'd felt Cassian's hand lingering, she saw a small, black device with a few buttons and writing she couldn't make out next to her. Cassian's finger pressed one of them and Nesta heard a quiet hum in the room. — THE DIRTY TALK THE PRAISE THE FACT THAT HE WILL BE USING THE VIBRATOR ON HER I AM GOING TO SELF COMBUST

“And then he began fucking her in earnest. Deep, hard thrusts that left her shaking with each plunge of his thick cock. So good that Nesta's eyes rolled back as she lost herself in dizzying bliss. She'd never fucked with a toy in the mix before, and Cassian knew exactly what he was doing with it. Pushing her to the edge and then taking it off of her clit when it got to be too much for her to handle. He knew by listening to her. How she moaned, how she cried out as he changed his pace or pressed the vibrator a little deeper against her. It was torture to be denied the orgasm she so desperately craved, but a whole new world of pleasure as well to be taken to the brink over and over again, reaching a height that she'd never been able to hit before.” — Men that are confident in using a toy during sex is so so fucking sexy of them and Cassian is the sexiest of them all, please sir daddy daddiest

“Nesta was still panting, still trying to catch her breath when Cassian undid the belt around her wrists and let them slump forward. He'd pulled out of her afterwards and she'd felt the slight trickle of him down her leg, too exhausted to do anything about it. Thankfully, for her depleted state, Cassian had walked into the bathroom, and brought out a warm, damp towel, cleaning her up while she'd tried and failed to rise up out of the bent position he'd kept her in. It was Cassian who straightened her dress back down over her hips. It was Cassian who steadied her wobbly legs as she'd stood up. And it was Cassian who carried her from her sleepy, leaning position on the chaise to sit on it properly in its center.” — he fuck he spank he choke he dom he also does aftercare

Nesta startled. "I thought you weren't coming?" Cassian stared at her as he slipped both devices into his pocket, but he didn't respond. Cassian straightened up his shirt, tucking it into his pants and pulling his belt through the loops as Nesta watched mutely. He didn't bother with a goodbye as he walked to the door and unlocked it. He was leaving. He would be gone. Nesta knew she should do something to stop him. Try and explain everything that had led to her decision to marry Eris. How convoluted a simple plan had ended up becoming. — NO NO GO BACK PLEASE PLEASE TALK AND HELP HER AND MAKE THIS WORK PLEASE PLEASE THIS HURTS FUCK YOU HORTÊNSIA

Instead she settled for less. "I’m sorry," she said to him, eyes fixated on his back as he stopped. He turned his head slightly to look behind him, taking in her disheveled sate. Nesta swore she saw something like regret pass through his eyes. She knew it would reflect the same in her own. 

Cassian turned away. "You and me both baby." And then he was gone. — HORTÊNSIA ISTG IF YOU DON’T FUCKING STOP WITH THE ANGST AND MAKE THEM BE HAPPY ASAP I SHALL CALL THE COYOTES CROSS THE BORDER AND HUNT YOU DOWN

Made

A/N: This chapter is so overdue. How overdue? It was supposed to come out during October for…Kinktober. But! We are finally here. Part 10!!! I can’t believe it and I’m so grateful to all the people still reading this cursed fic. Thank you and I hope you enjoy!

And, for Morgan, who put up with this chapter’s ideas SINCE October, @moodymelanist, you wish this was you, huh? 😈

Warnings: Language, References to SA, NSFW

~*~

Part X

“To forget someone, you need to stop loving them first. To forgive someone, you need to stop hating them first.”-Alex Haditaghi

Keep reading

[shxujobrave]

"Riku!!" Her voice almost SQUEAKS at the phone, gasping when the younger girl answered, a chuckle leaving her lips, shaky though, clearly not her usual laughter. But NOT in the bad way. "Oh, wow, I-- I was calling you but I actually didn't think of how to tell you this, but--" it almost seems like something BAD happened, come on Eileen! "I-- well-- guess what happened?? Or well -- what C-capo did??" Another small chuckle. "I'm--- he proposed, we're engaged!!"

Riku, for one, was a little curious about the woman’s ramblings, so wishwashy and nearly hesitant. So, there was no real reason as to why the blonde wouldn’t be a little nervous. Had she gotten in trouble again, or something happened with her friends? And so, she’d already started to drop the pen and papers that were in her hands, taking hold of her phone to pay more attention.

                         ‘He proposed, we’re engaged!’

Ah, that’s it. An engage---

                                    “......”

                                                “Seriously---?!”

And just like that, the blonde was up on her feet in a matter of moments---Well, hopped to a stand on top of her bed, music sheets and pens flying everywhere like big pieces of confetti. Blonde hair once perfect was now fluffed up into curls around her features, cheeks pinked so much in surprised happiness that it nearly hurt when a grin found itself on her lips. 

      “Oh, congratulations, Eileen...!”

Capo and Eileen, finally engaged. She’d never thought the day would be today!She could say many, many things right about now. Many along the lines of “It”s about time”. But, in the end, her own words just came out before realizing.

      “おめでとう~ おめでと!!! He really did? I’m so happy for you two...! This is good, this is amazing. You have to get Capo to send me a picture of your engagement rings! Ah---No, but first, please, I’d like to know what happened!”

Pacing this way and that on top of her bed, legs wobbling and papers crunching under her feet. None of that really mattered at the moment, though. No, no, all she wanted was to hear everything Eileen had to say. The emotions in her voice, her rambling words, everything---

It all will only just make Riku’s heart well up more in both happiness, and pride. She needn’t care about the fact that it’s pretty much midnight at her dorm, didn’t care about the giggles that were so nearly loud enough to become barks of laughter.

                                   This is a happy day, indeed!