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scrapsovereign · 7 months ago

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I wrote a smutty one shot because I wanted to sin outside of the longer fic I’m working on and felt like I needed the practice.

I Think He Knows

Link to story on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/55385323

Astarion comes home early unexpectedly as a week long case wraps up before lunch.

He is going to scold you for leaving your dirty adventuring gear in a heap downstairs, but is so happy you're home he almost forgets all about it.

Until he sees what you were doing in his dirty clothes in your freshly changed bedsheets…

(POV female Reader x Magistrate Astarion/3k words of straight up filth underneath the cut)

You were so close to your climax, rubbing and thrusting the soft, spongy spot inside of your entrance with your fingers when you heard the jingling sound of the front door opening.

Shit.

“Darling, home from your adventuring so soon?” The voice of your beloved calls out to you, the musical words carried up the stairs by the acoustics of your shared townhome.

How are you home so early? What in the nine hells- how is he home so early? He sounded fairly confident in the sending spell he replied to as you made your way within the final stretch of the road home that jury deliberations were going to take at least until the end of the day.

You can hear him grumble unintelligible words of disapproval at the filthy armor you had peeled off shortly after you arrived home and left on the floor of the foyer.

“Adventuring gear strewn about the floor again? My sweet, we’ve talked about this…”

Your heart pounds from his scolding and you sit up in bed, covering your drenched thighs with the soft, clean linens of the duvet. Hands wet with the slick of your arousal work swiftly to halfway fasten the buttons of his dirty work shirt that you blamed for the cause of your activities after you had arrived home early.

The stairs creak under the weight of his feet as he makes his way up to your shared bedroom.

Running your hands through your hair, you try to smooth out the area that had been frizzled by your rutting, wiping the sweat off your brow.

You can feel a heat wash over you when you flush at the sight of your husband whisking around the corner of the hallway in irritation, black silk robes floating behind him as he sharply turned the corner. He was always gorgeous, but there was something irresistible about him in his magistrate garb- even more so when he would take it off.

An involuntary clench rocks your body forward when you notice he had already begun the process of undressing on his way up the stairs. His flawlessly pressed shirt had been undone a few buttons to the middle of his chest, reading glasses hanging down from a single breast pocket on his waistcoat. You followed the trail down his lithe frame to his fine silver and black leather belt, down the lines of immaculately tailored trousers.

Whatever temper that had flared in him melts away just as quickly as it had arrived. After a very long week of going through the motions without you at his side, the ache in his chest that set in with your absence fills with a warm light at the sight of you in your bed. You are finally home.

The intensity of the look you share while he stands in the doorway makes you suddenly aware of how your nipples felt brushing against the fine linen of his filthy shirt as you breathe…and the throbbing sensation between your legs.

“My brave heroine, have you returned from your travels victorious?” He lilts, sauntering over to you.

“Even if we had found the mountains of gold rumored to exist underneath the City, it wouldn’t compare to the treasure that awaits me when I return.”

You capture his face with your hands when he looms over you, drawing him to stand at the edge of the bed. You shift your hips and move your legs so that the insides of your knees are touching the finely woven and expensive wool of his trousers.

“Clever little thing, using my own honeyed words against me.”

When your lips meet his, it is so perfect, so sweet that it tugs the strings of your heart. You pull away momentarily before slanting your mouths hungrily against each other. A half-lidded, lusty gaze from him and a ragged breath from you snap you both together like two ends of a magnet.

Your tongues glide against each other in concert as you kiss deeply, devouring each other now that you have broken your fast. You catch his tongue in your mouth and suck on it like you would his cock, eliciting an obscene groan that vibrates in the back of his throat.

He reaches up to pinch your nipples through his shirt, disarming you as you squeal and pull away. Dragging your bottom lip between his teeth, he chuckles at the filthy moan it draws out from you.

He pauses, his expression flattening as he sniffs the fingers that clutch his face. Suspicious eyes point downward at your uncovered lap, focusing on the sheen that coats the inside of your thighs in a vertical line. His pointed ears perk up and you sharply inhale as he nips the finger that had been inside of you minutes ago.

“Well, well. Couldn’t wait until I returned home? You naughty girl,” he grits out, squeezing your hands that rest on the side of his face. You clench again at his scolding, maneuvering your legs to rest inside of his to hide the rest of the evidence, pressing your knees tightly together.

“Perhaps I wanted to be ready for you when you returned home,” you purr out, surging forward to take his lower lip in between your teeth. Your front teeth clack together as he pulls away from you, straightening up with a dark, throaty chuckle.

“You’re a terrible liar, darling,” he turns away to drape the fine, obsidian silk of his magistrate robes over the same dressing bench you had found his perfumed and discarded shirt. Next, he removes his waistcoat in a similar fashion, placing his reading glasses with care on the bedside table next to you.

“While I am grateful that you never developed the skill for deception, you seem to have forgotten how well I know your particular brand of foolishness,” he takes the cufflinks out of his sleeves and rolls them up, tugging at the ends to ensure they are secured. You bite your lip and lean back on your hands in anticipation of what’s to follow. He has you trained like a pet, needy and eager for his touch.

“It seems a reminder is in order,” Astarion breathes out, running both his hands up your knees, over the tops of your thighs. He grasps the crest of your hips, a perfect handle for him to guide and manipulate your movements.

He revels in seeing you like this, desperate for his touch. You gasp out in surprise when he digs his fingers in, yanking you forward towards him.

“Have you forgotten how we would rip the armor off each other after battle back in our adventuring days? How we could barely make it upstairs at the inn or into our tents after a long day on the road?” He kneels down in front of you while he issues the reminder. You match his eye level as he speaks and lean back on your arms, watching Astarion slowly pry your legs apart.

“After the very last job we completed together you blamed the adrenaline rush that consumed you for your voracious appetite, almost stroking me to completion under the table at the Elfsong,” He kisses a line up your thighs, his lips lingering on you as he moves closer towards your drenched core.

“What can I say? I’m cursed to put my hands on everything. If I remember correctly, your hand was also up my skirt, doing the same thing- hah! That was a good night. My favorite part was when you fucked me in the alley later against the walls of the tavern.”

He pauses at your recollections, his face having reached the apex between your thighs. You crane your head up to see his eyes peeking above the crest of your sex, half-lidded and cloudy with lust.

“Cursed to put your hands on everything, you say?” Astarion rumbles out, gently moving your legs wider as he presses his lips to the corner of the inside of your thighs.

“Could you be a good girl for me and keep your hands to yourself while I pleasure you?”

You felt his warm tongue then, lapping and sucking along your tender flesh. Throwing your head back, you gasp at the sensation, rolling your hips forward. He suddenly withdraws his mouth with a pop, giving you a wicked look before languidly running the flat of his tongue against your slick, soaked outer lips.

Your wandering hands that had begun to card through his silver curls tense and freeze above him while he languidly licks up and down your center, the sensation driving you mad.

You need more.

Grasping the back of his head, you make an attempt to mash your engorged clit against his nose with a sudden upwards thrust of your hips, whining in desperation when you feel the sudden loss of him pull back from you.

“Ah-ah, what did I say, little love?” he tuts, delivering a single, punishing flick of his middle finger to your clit.

The only response he receives is you sobbing out his name, your back arching with the pain and pleasure of his correction. He leans on his elbow on the side of the bed and looks up at you expectantly with a raised eyebrow.

“Delicious as that was, I believe I am still owed a different reply,” he repeats the motion and you throw your head back, keening as you undulate your back against now rumpled bedsheets.

“Hells, Astarion, it’s not like I’m on trial,” you complain breathlessly. He perks up suddenly and rests a hand underneath his chin, the other drawing lazy circles on your hip, a villainous twinkle in his eye as he regards you with bemusement.

Uh oh.

“Now there’s an idea, love,” he drawls out, drumming his fingers on the crest of your hip. The tapping of his fingers unexpectedly feels good…really good. The percussion elicits a small roll upwards from your hips to meet them.

“...There’s an idea indeed. But we can’t have you showing up to your court date still filthy from the road, can we? In the tub you go, up you pop,” he orders, holding his hands out to you.

Once you are sitting on the bed, arms raised above your head, he lets go suddenly. The motion leaves you confused until you feel the barest touch of his fingers tracing up your sides. He collects the edges of his rumpled shirt, raising it above your head. Hastily throwing it aside, his hands return to cup your full and aching breasts. Thumbs draw lazy circles around your pert nipples, you hear him hum in appreciation when they pebble and harden with his touch.

“Can you stand up for me, beautiful?” You sat forward, feeling only a little unsteady on your feet from the orgasm that you were so recently denied as you rise.

Your mouth opens in surprise when Astarion sweeps you up in his arms. He carries you to the tiled bathing room, setting you down in the tub while he activates the enchantments that fill it with rapidly with warm water.

He wastes no time unbuttoning his shirt, peeling it slowly from his chest. You watch him make quick work of removing his clothing with practiced ease. He enters the waters of the bathing tub with you in a fluid motion, denying your hungry gaze the view of his naked form that it so desperately craves.

He takes a sponge sitting on a built-in ledge on the wall and soaks it in the water, ringing it out. He swipes it sensually up the side of your breasts, slowly down your neck. Maneuvering you to face away from him, you gasp out as he perches your slippery sex upon on his thigh. The sponge goes down below the water and you chase your pleasure rutting along him while he brushes in long strokes up and down your abdomen, to the bottom of your breasts, gently kissing the side of your neck.

You’re an absolute mess. You grasp the edge of the tub, head thrown back against Astarion’s shoulder in ecstasy, breasts bobbing up toward the surface of the water.

“Please, please Astarion…” you gasp out, a pressure building in your core as you rock along the alabaster expanse of his thigh, your legs spreading wider underneath the water.

“Please what, darling? Use your words,” He licks a line from your neck, up to your sensitive ears, nipping and sucking along the cartilage. You cry out softly at the sensation, squirming in his lap.

“I need you inside me…please,”

Astarion presses a kiss to your shoulder and looks around the would be peaceful and quiet bathing room. Lazy rays of the mid-day sunlight stream in through the sheer window treatments that illuminated the tiled and grouted surfaces of the floors and walls. At this time of day, he would be going through cases and preparing notes to bring with him to his next session at the beginning of the next tenday.

Seizing the opportunity his pause brings, you grasp his hand in yours, plunging it down below the water, the destination between your legs.

You hear a knowing chuckle behind you when he slips free of your grasp with an effortless rotation of his wrist. He encircles you with strong arms, nimble fingers pinching both of your nipples tightly. He smiles devilishly as you moan and writhe against him. Now that you’re cleaned up, it’s time to get dirty again.

“Mrs. Ancunin. As it stands, you are being accused of pleasuring yourself while you are filthy on our freshly cleaned sheets. How do you plead?” He practically growls out the last few words, the change in timbre sending a shiver up your spine.

“Ah! Not guilty…”

Astarion bites a sensitive spot on the side of your neck that he knows drives you absolutely insane. He flicks his tongue over your skin, delighting in your sobs of frustration.

“Not guilty your…?” he asks in between swipes of his tongue.

“Your honor” you gasp out, gripping the seat of the tub beneath the water with white knuckles.

“Present your proof to the court.” He nips at the crook of your neck.

“I was…uhm…technically ‘resting’ when you got home. I didn’t know the sheets were freshly changed. And…I almost stood on my own just now without falling down…so if it’s all the same to you-” you lift your hips and angle them so that you are almost successful at impaling yourself on his twitching cock. He catches you at the waist, pressing his forehead against your shoulder.

“Wicked thing. Are you ready for your verdict?” He tuts, lowering you just enough so that your slick and throbbing entrance is barely grazing along the tip of his penis.

“Yes, your honor,” you gasp, trying to wriggle out of his grasp.

“On the count of pleasuring yourself while you are filthy, I find you guilty.” He whips you around to face him and hungrily claims your lips, still holding you above him. He moans greedily in to your mouth as you try to grind down on him again, he’s not sure how much longer he can resist you. You're so eager, so responsive, and all his.

You break the kiss by successfully dragging your teeth over his lower lip.

“And my sentence, your honor?”

He releases your waist.

“Ride me.”

You both groan out and curse in mutual relief as you plunge down on his length. Your walls are already beginning to tighten around him, pulsating with the lewd sounds that you both make, echoing off the tiled walls of the bathing room. Astarion growls at the sight of your breasts that slap against the surface of the water and the feeling of your walls milking his cock.

He grabs your ass and yanks you forward, positioning you over him that his mouth is on your breast, licking and sucking your sensitive nub. He slams up into you, moving your hips up and down on him, guiding himself deeper. You feel the rumble of his ecstasy bring you closer to your peak as you sob out with pleasure at the change of movement and pace.

“Gods, Astarion I’m so close,” you’re so perfect, so tight around him-

“Then let go, my sweet.”

The spasming of your walls against him send him over the edge with you. His eyes roll to the back of his head, moaning your name in euphoric relief. The profane noises of his release, sensation of his warm seed shooting into you, his cock spasming inside of you brings you to the peak again.

“I can’t stop, Astarion, I can’t…ahhhh!”

A second wave crashes through you. He continues to fuck you through your drawn out orgasm, marveling at how beautiful you are unraveling in his arms. Slowing the pace he kisses you again, savoring the taste of you as your hips gradually slow down and lift off of him.

Giving him a satisfied sigh, you nuzzle your forehead into his neck.

“And they both went to horny jail and lived happily ever after.”

“Technically, it would be prison. Jail is for holding the accused prior to sentencing my love,” You grumble and nip his ear in irritation at the reminder.

Astarion laughs softly, kissing the side of your flushed and sweaty face.

“What do you say we dry off and take this to the other room? I’d like to request a hearing to negotiate an early…release,” you nip and suck your way along the line of his pointed ears, eliciting a new series of debauched noises from his lips.

“You’re insatiable,” he says with a smile, throwing his head back in bliss.

He wraps your legs around his waist, supporting your back with his strong, lean arms as he stands the two of you up. You watch the water drain away with his utterance of the correct enchantments under his breath.

“Early release is only granted for good behavior, prisoner- which you haven’t demonstrated since you arrived home. I hope you’re ready for your punishment.”

#astarion #bg3 astarion #bg3 fanfiction #magistrate astarion #astarion x reader #astarion fanfic #astarion fanfiction

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acourtofwhatthefuck · 2 years ago

Note

2 “Fuck me properly or I’ll find someone else to do it.“ “No you fucking won’t” with az please

🥵🥵🥵🥵

—————————————————————————

He’d had the absolute audacity to ignore you all day. And now he had the nerve to monitor your every move. And every move of the male who currently had his hands on you.

It wasn’t that you expected Azriel to spend every minute of Starfall by your side. You were merely fucking, merely the friend that Nesta had brought around months earlier.

But it hurt you that Az had barely spared you a glance, considering how close you’d become as of late. And maybe — maybe — some small, petty part of you wanted to hurt him back…without thinking too much about what that meant.

Which was how you’d ended up with a stranger’s hands on you all night. He’d told you his name, which you hadn’t bothered to remember. All you were focused on was his body grinding against yours.

And so was Azriel, apparently. If his intense gaze across the room was anything to go by.

You drank and danced and laughed with the male, giving Az the same treatment he’d given you. And only when you knew Az had gotten an eyeful of your behaviour did you peel from your companion’s side and excuse yourself to grab another drink.

The kitchen was empty, quiet. And perhaps that was why you heard the approaching footsteps.

Or perhaps Azriel wanted you to hear his approach.

Even with your back turned, you knew he was standing in the doorway. His shadows snaked through the room and brushed your arms, the touch cool and tickling. They retracted as you turned and casually pressed your back against the counter.

Azriel stared at you. His hazel eyes were a tad glazed, his stance looser than usual — evidence he’d been helping himself to the faerie wine.

“Having fun?” He asked you quietly.

“Oh, yes.” You sipped your drink. “Arun is splendid company.”

“His name is Aric.”

You shrugged. “It’s not his name I’m interested in.”

Az laughed without humour. “You’re not interested in him at all.”

“Sure I am.” Pushing away from the counter, you approached him. Tried to ignore his delicious scent enveloping in you. “I don’t have to just exclusively fuck you, you know.”

He looked like he was trying to mask a sneer. “You want to, though.”

Your eyes flicked over him. He looked incredible tonight, his leathers swapped for a more casual shirt and trousers in tones of black and slate grey. His hair was stylishly messy, a few strands falling into his eyes. He looked divine, good enough to undress then and there—

But his attitude…his cocksure attitude after ignoring you…it pissed you off.

Which was why the words fell from your mouth.

“Actually, Azriel, I was thinking it’s time we end this little arrangement between us. I think it’s run its course. The last time just wasn’t up to standard.” You smirked, looking him up and down. “I have to think of my own needs. So fuck me properly, or I’ll find someone else to do it.”

His eyes flared. His jaw ticked.

And then suddenly, you were being lifted off your feet. You barely had time to register what was happening as you were shoved into a nearby closet. Cramped and musty, housing shelves of long-life food, there was barley enough room for you in there, let alone you and Azriel.

But he squeezed you both in. And slammed you against the door, causing it to shut behind you.

“What did you say?” He growled, his hips holding you in place.

“I said.” You smirked, “Fuck me properly, or I’ll find someone else to do it.

Another growl. Deeper, more guttural. “No you fucking won’t.”

Before you had a chance to think up a smart response, to piss him off more, he yanked you around, pressing your front up against the door. A thrill shot through you, pooling wetness between your legs. A moan threatened to break free of your throat as he yanked the hem of your dress up, baring your bottom half to the cool air.

“No underwear?” Az hummed, nipping at your neck. “You filthy fucking female.”

His hand reached between your legs, and he dragged a finger straight through your folds, causing you to emit a loud moan.

“I planned to get lucky tonight.” You goaded. “Hence my dancing with Aric.”

“Your dancing with Aric was to piss me off.” He sunk a finger into you, and you gasped. “You don’t deserve to get lucky, considering you’re such a brat.”

Your head fell back on a moan as he pumped that finger. “You love me being a brat.”

“You sure about that?”

You pushed your ass back against him, smirking as his hardness pressed into you. And the way he grunted told you precisely how much he loved it.

He pulled his finger out of you, and you almost whispered at the loss of the feeling. But then you heard the clinking of his belt unbuckling.

“You want me to fuck you properly?” He gritted out against your ears.

“Yes.” You gasped. “Unless you’re not up to it. In which case—Aric!”

His hand clasped over your mouth, smothering your shout, and you couldn’t help laughing. Licked his palm for good measure as his fingers dug into your face.

But then you heard his trousers drop to the floor.

Your mouth went dry. All thoughts eddied from your mind.

“You asked for it.” He hissed, nipping your earlobe.

You were pure, wet heat between your legs. But even that couldn’t prepare you for the way Azriel slammed into you. The head of his cock teased your entrance so, so briefly — and with one great thrust, he was seated inside you fully, your noise of pleasure and pain catching in your throat.

“Speak his name again,” he growled, pulling out to the tip, “and I’ll leave you here to sort yourself out with your hand. Do you want me to do that, Y/N?”

You whimpered against his hand, wanting — needing — him filling you up. And he knew that. He chuckled darkly, slicking his cock with your soaked folds.

“Answer me.” He demanded, teasing your entrance. “Is that what you want? For me to leave you alone in here to make yourself cum?”

“No.” You moaned. “Fuck me.”

The tip slid in, making you bite down on your lip. “Hm? What was that?”

“Fuck me, Azriel. Fuck me.”

You heard him hiss — and then he slammed right back into you again, causing you to press harder against the door. He kept his hand cupped over your mouth, the other coming to rest on your hip.

And then he unleashed himself on you.

He was…frenzied. A pure animal, as he fucked into you. The sounds of your slapping skin, your heaving breaths, your building moans, were so loud, it was a wonder they didn’t reach out through the house, to the other guests gathered there.

“You like making me jealous, don’t you?” Az growled, reaching down to sink his teeth into your shoulder. “Like driving me mad by grinding on another male in front of me?”

“Fuck,” You gasped. “Serves you — oh gods — serves you right for ignoring me.”

“I was trying to stop myself ripping this fucking dress off you.” His hand slid from your hips to between your legs, his fingers finding your clit. “But you would have liked that, wouldn’t you?”

“More than you know.”

“Gods, I love fucking you.” His hips picked up their pace, and you were so full, so wet, so frenzied by his fingers rubbing your clit, you didn’t know how you were still standing. “I could fuck you all day, you know that?”

And gods, you could fuck him all day. All day, every day. He consumed you, and you consumed him, and it was perfect.

“Cum for me.” He bit your shoulder again, circling his fingers harder, faster.

You were on fire. Your legs trembling. Your pussy clenching around him. And as he pulled out to the tip, pressed down on your clit and slammed back in, you completely and utterly lost it.

A scream ripped through you, so loud that even his large hand couldn’t muffle the noise. The sound seemed to spur him on, and he pulled that hand away from your face, grabbing both of your hips.

Your entire body slammed against the door as he thrust into you harder, harder, harder, and then he was stilling, your feet lifting off the floor as he spilled inside you.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck.” He growled, throwing his head back. His fingers dug bruisingly into your hips, and the slight pinch of pain almost had you falling off the edge all over again.

The small, cramped room fell silent in the wake of your releases, only your heavy breaths filling the air.

And finally, after what seemed like hours of you trembling against the door, he pulled out of you, pulling some of his seed with him.

“Was that properly enough for you?” He breathed, yanking his trousers up.

Gods, yes, it was.

#asks #ask #acotar #acotar fandom #azriel #smut

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tmwcs · 6 months ago

Text

Warnings: unprotected smut, breaking an entry, hint of kidnapping, heaven and hell, yandere love, Timelapse (this takes place right before Se7en series) last installment of the “His Mark” series.

A/N: stupid tumblr didn’t save my adjustments so this is my second time posting this with the actual ending corrected. This isn’t proofread…sorry.

“We’re going to bed, don’t stay up too late.”

Your mom pitter patters her way through the hall and joins your dad for bed. You shut off the remaining hallway light and walked towards your room. Nothing but a small candle illuminated the area as you slowly undressed. You barely slipped into your bedroom attire when you heard a small clatter outside the door. “Mom?”

You walked out, tiptoeing through the dark with only the moonlight peering through the large windows. A glorious view from where you stood, it was mystical. You stood somewhat dumbfounded as you tugged on your robe, enclosing in the exposed skin of your décolleté, a sudden chill crosses over your skin and you brushed against your bare thighs. You gave a slight whimper, one that could make a man’s mouth water upon hearing it alone; seeing you emit it was a whole other experience.

A sound foot step a front causes you to snap your head and face forward. The silhouette of a tall, lean, and masculine build stands in your way. The outline of his knee-length coat flared a Victorian fashion, with a fold over collar that tapered nicely over his chest. His broad shoulders are squared off, while the sleeves of the coat fitted his arms rather delicately, covering his muscles. The cuffs rested delicately over his wrists.

His trousers were form fitting, all black just as his coat. They showed off the length of his legs, tucked neatly into the knee-high boots, made of leather. With one hand casually tucked into his coat pocket, he strides over. The moonlight shows you his chin and mouth, while the shadow remains over his eyes and the upper ridge of his nose. A smirk graces his features. You wanted to scream at the intruder and alert your parents, yet something about his presence made you feel comfort, oddly enough. Something in the air that surrounded him told you that his intrusion was not out of malice. It was hard to explain, but there was this feeling; it was as if you had known him or seen him somewhere. He wasn’t a total stranger yet you couldn’t pin down the memory of ever meeting him.

He continues to silently approach you. You couldn’t see past the shadow that his eyes were admiring you, drifting up and back down as he faintly licked the corner of his lips.

He said nothing. Which was more than appropriate considering you also remained silent during this encounter.

Finally, he closes enough distance and stands abreast of you, directly in front. A full view of his face confirms his handsome identity. He was smooth and delicate, yet masculine. Beautifully dashing.

He reaches up and gently punches the tip of your chin. His thumb and index cradle you for a second before drifting down over your collarbone. His motions transitions from dragging to tapping as his fingers trail over your shoulder and effortlessly hooks onto your robe, pulling it off shoulder. The satin material hangs loosely, and gravity takes effect as the other half of the fabric drapes down and falls, leaving the entire robe to drape over your elbows. The thin straps of your camisole barely hung on to your shoulders. You felt the robe slipping past your forearms and collecting around your wrists when he firmly places a hand on your lower back; partially wrapped over the side of your waist and pulls you closer.

“W-wait…” your voice was soft and airy. He interjects by clearing his throat. His voice was hoarse as the subtle growl from his chest echoes in the hall. The corner of his mouth extends the smirk, baring teeth.

You tremble as his pull forces you to take your steps, nearly causing you to trip in his direction. Once you both make contact, with you pressing into his chest, he embraces you fully. The hand that was loosely tucked into his pocket reaches up and around your waist, uniting with the other limb as he holds you close. With you pinched in between his wrap, he tilts his head and looks down at you adoringly. Your face is subtly turned towards the window, avoiding rest against bud white buttoned, long sleeve, which was adorned by a black silk vest under his coat. A small chain looped and hung out from the small pocket; it was your first time seeing a man dressed so formerly. Who was he? Why was he here? What did he want?

Your thoughts are pleasantly interrupted as he tilts his head further down, and tucks your hair behind an ear. His head returns to a leveled position as he straightens the tilt, and presses his lips against your hairline above your brows. You could feel the flaring of his nostrils as he takes in deep inhales, savoring the way you smelled, and the way you felt. His musky scent had a subtle ember scent, like fresh charcoal that hid behind a mixture of cedar wood, vanilla and lavender. It was an unusual blend yet it made up an unearthly scent. You raise your hands and gently press against his chest, wanting to create some distance. But his hold was strong, and it only tightened the second he felt you attempt to pull yourself away.

A small, dark chuckle comes from his lips when suddenly the sound of large flaps startles you. You weren’t able to see the source of the noise as his embrace restricted your movements, limiting you the freedom to shift and turn. It sounded as if the wings of a large bird was extending freely inside the house. You heard the sound of its bones-frame hitting the walls and ceiling as it stretched out, feathers flourishing as they finally lay at rest, draping down to the floor.

He has wings? Is he an angel?

Your thoughts race back and forth as you try to ascertain what was happening before you. A wave of fear hits you when one of his wings extends violently, and with brute force of its impact, shatters the window. Your parents are heard rummaging from their bedroom as they call out your name. Before you could return their call, you were pulled away as he glides through the shattered opening, taking you away.

The abrupt sense of levitation causes your feet to tingle as he sweeps you away. His aerial ability was smooth as he glides through every narrow path beneath the roof of the porch and through the tree branches. Once you both were out in the open, he extends your bodies higher, his large, black feathered wings shined under the moonlight as they emit large, and elegant fluttered strokes through the air, gaining efficient flight. You look down and saw the reality of how far up you were. Even at night, you could see the regional outlines of land and water as he took you higher and higher. You gasp out of fear as your feet dangle against his boots. It was only natural for you to grab hold around his neck, enclosing any ounce of distance between your bodies. You continued to look down and gasp frighteningly as your cheek presses against his; your fingers tuck under the trim of his collar as you grip on the material for dear life. He smirks upon feeling you hold on…this was a feeling he could get used to.

His arms continue to embrace your waistline as he takes you above cloud. Leveled with the pearlescent full moon, he keeps your bodies stationed in stagnant position, hovering over the distant earth.

His hand moves down, and scoops your upper thigh. He motions you to wrap it around his waist, which you hurriedly did, as well with the other, all to further establish comfort, ans ease the terrifying sense of being so high above ground. He wouldn’t let you fall, would he? He didn’t take you all the way up just to kill you…or did he?

“No baby…I won’t ever let you fall.”

His voice was soothing and caused your sparkling, dewy eyes to look up. Did he just read your thoughts? How?

He chuckles once more. “I know everything…” he reaches up and pushes the disheveled strands away from your face. “Don’t cry.” He murmurs upon seeing the watered shine glistening from your wide peepers.

He gently leans in at the neck, his eyes half closed and finally, his lips meet with yours. Success at last.

He kisses you into a state of solace. The faint taste of cinnamon and citrus laced his tongue, and the sudden fear from dangling in mid air slowly dissipates. His hands roam behind your back as he continues to hold on strongly. His smooth and gentle gesture transitions to roughness as he nibbles on your bottom lip, pulling slightly away. With your thighs wrapped around, he reaches under the short hem of your camisole, and traces his finger along your panties. He singes the material, without burning your skin. The material burns apart and disintegrates slowly, leaving you completely exposed.

You’re not sure how to describe your desires. It was contradicting. You wanted him but also were afraid; he had an established persona of dominance and intimidation surrounding him.

“Let me take care of you…let me in.”

He whispers against your ear, and the warmth of his vocal breath made you melt. You nod as you closed your eyes and let out a moaned gasp for air. He was so desirable…this man…this angel…

“Hmph…I’m no angel, baby.”

His grin pressed against your neck told you of his sinister presence as he puncture through flesh, stretching you open. His words would have concerned you more except the way his cock thrusted into you, so abrupt and unexpected…it was like heaven…

“What about Hell?”

He kept smirking out his words upon reading your thoughts. “S-stop…stop that.” You gasped out, begging that he would refrain from teasing you any further. The manner of him intruding your mind and responding was so…

“Don’t like it? Hm?” He tilts his face as he gains more access to your throat, tenderly kissing all parts of your neck. “Don’t like me reading your thoughts baby?”

“Stop! Please!” You gasp as he picks up the pace and thrusts faster, deeper, and harder. His grip migrated from your waistline and onto your derrière as he cups the cheeks underneath the skirt of your nightdress. The satin material drapes over his grip as he sets the momentum, lifting your rear and pushing it down repeatedly. Your cross your ankles behind his waist, closing in on him with the grip of your thighs. Fuck yes…yes baby.

You moan violently, chest heaving and your head tilted all the way back as your arms rest around his thick neck. His long hair was styled black with a mullet. The front bangs draped over his brows with the center part exposing his forehead. His lips latched onto your collarbones as he moved your body, making you bounce on his thick and lengthy cock. “Tell me it feels good baby…say it.”

“Ffffff…eels….good! S-ssssso..g-g…good!”

You stuttered your words in between each breath. You struggled for air yet it was the most sensational feeling in the world. The way his hips slam against your pelvis, squeezing and squelching his length into the tight cavity. The way he eased that tight knot in your womb, sending tingles throughout every part of your body, sourcing from your stomach. He caused you to leak at each thrust, slowly releasing the ounces of your orgasm until it reached an exploding level of ecstatic ecstasy.

You shouted out loudly, and of course you were out of reach for anyone or anything to come save you. “Oh my God!” You screamed over and over. A hand travels up your spoke and palms the back of your head as he gently presses your face into the nook of his neck while he sucks on skin and grits out his words, grinding teeth as he does so. “Stop saying his…name…..swear to the Devil baby…”

Your eyes remained squinted tightly shut as the tears of pleasure escape from the corners. You shook your head, absorbing all of his thrusted motion and bouncing vigorously against his chest. No way you could ever do that. Not a chance!

“Do it…” he grits once more, noticing your stance against his demand. He goes in faster and harder, causing you to scream. Your chest felt as if it was going to explode, there was a small sense of sharpness and pain that came from deep within, more than likely due to the violent gasps for air and prolonged moans of pleasure.

“No! Stop…I-I can’t!”

He holds you tightly against him and goes in harder. You wouldn’t think it was possible but he proved your wrong as he develops inhuman speed and fucks into you, blowing your mind away. Your bodily fluids secrete, escaping in mass amount, glazing his shaft and getting the both of your abdominal regions drenched. “Do it…or Ill make you bleed.”

Your hands grip the shoulder pads of his coat as the tears of ecstasy decorate your cheeks. Your barely open your eyes to view the fluffy clouds beneath his feet, your thighs trembling around his hip as you feel yourself coming close…you were going to come undone and it was all that you wanted. So much, you caved in.

“I-I…!!” You gasp out. “Oh God!!” You griped the material of his coat as he kept up with his ferocious movements. It felt too good to even breathe, let alone speak. He grips a handful of your hair and pulls your head slightly back, giving a faint yank. You yelp from the brute of his grip as he tells you, with a slight bit of anger in his tone. “I said…DONT…say his name….”

You nod your head in obedience, realizing your mistake as the pleasure was too great. He continues to slam into you, balls against your taint, and your rear cheeks against his groin. Seconds away from release, you scream out. “I’m!!!….I’m going to cum!”

He regains a full grip of your derrière and goes faster. His thrusts are sloppy and fast; his cock sliding so nicely in and out of your womanhood. “Now baby…tell me you love me.”

He punches the soft spot repeatedly as you felt the rush of pure energy ecstasy flow through your veins. “I love you! I love you!! Oh fuck!! I love you!! Please!!”

You screamed as loud as possible as you extend your fave towards the galaxy, choking on air as you gulp down large lumps of saliva, his cock mercilessly thrusting and never slowing down as you came undone. With your breast in mouth, he suckles and growls as he joins you, releasing the hot streams deep inside. His thrusts never slowing down until he pushes out the last drop.

You hug his neck tightly, motioning your hips slowly up and back down, holding on as you finish the act by riding the length of his cock.

“Yeah baby? You fucking liked that, didn’t t you?”

He gently pulls the hem of your dress over your derrière, partially covering it as you continue to smooth his cock in and out, his hands grip your waist. He doesn’t pull out, instead he keeps it in, loving the way you keep the slow and steady manner you carried out, while stabilizing yourself by interlocking your fingers behind his neck.

He pulls you away, just enough where he could get a good look at you, and the way his shaft was going in and out. Holding on, your hands felt him regaining himself as he prepares for round two. “How does it feel?…” he partially speaks calmly as he rests your hips against the hilt of his own, leaning your chest back as he hold your waist firmly. You relax back, palming his thighs as he leans you parallel to the earth. “To be fucked by the Devil?”

His words made you wince as your eyes remained squinted shut. In all honesty, your upbringing would have you think that the act that had just taken place was morbidly cruel, and horrible. You would hate it except…

“Except?…” he smirks, going back to reading your mind once more.

“Except… I think I’m in love with him.” You whispered out, barely catching your breath from experiencing such a vibrant orgasm.

“Good girl…” he whispers. He nibbles against your skin, leaving soft marks of his teeth.

He starts off slow, and starts to pick up the pace once more, intending on fucking you all over again. You feel the pleasure and pain of overstimulation taking effect, but we’re too exhausted to beg him to stop. Your vision was growing narrowly back, tunneling you to unconscious. Before you fully backed out, you hear him spoke for the last time, all before your body went fully limp, and completely free for him to do whatever he pleases with it.

“Keep dancing with me baby…dance with me all the way to Hell.”

You flicker your lids, feeling entirely too scared to keep them closed and fall into unconsciousness with this man…this creature. He smiles. In doing so, he felt the shiver crawl up your spine beneath his finger tips. “What is it baby? Love it when I smile at you? Do you love my teeeeeeth?”

His last word and the tone tbh at it carried made your breath hitched; you black out.

…………..

You awoke the next morning. Was it all a dream? It felt so real. You rushed out of your bedroom and found the windows all intact, not a single shard of glass on the floor.

So it was a dream then….

A knock on the door brings your mind back to clarity, it was Lily.

“Hey girl! Sorry I’m late.” She lets herself in. That’s right, you nearly forgot that you both were going to the cafe this morning. “Oh-uh, yeah…no worries. I still have to get dressed anyhow.”

She follows you to your room. She makes herself comfortable and flicks on the TV while you changed out your undergarments. “Can you believe this guy? This one they call the Senator. Some people are saying th at he’s going to control the city…I don’t know though, the guy seems kind of crazy.”

He was crazy. You’re too smart to openly speak on the matter, especially with your parents already considering joining his church. But let’s be honest, it really wasn’t a church so much as it was a cult, and the only sole reason your otherwise rational family members even considered joining was because they thought it would provide them a safe spot from those monsters that began appearing in public. The first showcase of murders occurring at the hands of these metallic figures was last week, and it is all the medics could talk about—that, and the senator and his church. Your parents became disappointed when you refused to go along to meet him. Good thing you were well on your way in getting your own apartment next week.

“Oh wow, I didn’t know you got a tattoo.”

You snapped your brows in a crinkled notion as expressed confusion. What the hell eas she talking about?

“I didn’t get a tattoo.”

“Then what is that around your titty nipple?”

You look down and through the mesh, see-through bra, there was a dark shadow that wreathed around your right areola. “What the hell?”

You snapped off the undergarment and with there, two small black angel wings formed a complete circle right outside the pink skin. “WOW how cool! Why’d you make them black though? Good thing you got it where it’s not so visible, with the way things are going, people would mistake you as a non-believer.”

Lily makes her quirky joke, little did you both know that her words would hold more truth than she was aware in the near future.

“H-how…I don’t know how I got this.” Your words come out stuttered in shock as you step in front of the mirror, gazing at the black mark in the reflection. Looking further, you both discover after moving your hair to the side that your neck was fielded with tooth marks. “Oh my God, y/n!” Lily begins laughing as she continuously pokes fun at you.

“This….i couldn’t have….”

Lily laughs at your expense, jesting about how you may have a distorted memory or were probably too drunk to recall, even though she knew you weren’t a drinker. “N-no….i didn’t..I swear, I don't know where this came from!”

The television radio pops on as Lily mistakenly hits the button on the remote. Immediately, a song plays with the information displayed on the wide screen. “Oh hey, I love this song. Have you heard of it? It’s from this new band, called Enhypen. Here, listen.” She turns the volume up and you stare at the screen, noting the seven figures with their band name below.

Upon closer inspection, you felt an odd sense of familiarity when you looked at one particular male centered in the group. Unlike the others, he wore a lace mask over his eyes. Strange, why would he be the only one wearing such a distinctive piece?

“Teeth.”

“What?” You asked, compelling the girl to state one more time.

“The song, its called Teeth.”

The title triggered your brows to twitch as the calling echo of the man’s voice beats into your mind.

‘…Teeeeeth…’

Maybe it was just a coincidence. After all, it was only a wet dream; just something you’d have to out in the back of your head. Little did you know, that a few weeks from now your entire world would sway. A terrible ordeal leaves you hopeless, and your saving grace was none other the one who wore the lace mask on the television screen. But you wouldn’t have recognized him that night in the woods. Why would you? This was nothing more than a wet girls dream…

Or was it…

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writtenbyshama · 11 months ago

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Long Way Home [Part VII]

[Azriel x Reader fanfic]

Synopsis: Y/n is the daughter of a healer in the city of Velaris. After a small incident, she moves to the House of the Wind to work for the High Lord, Rhysand. Everyone in the house seems to welcome her except Azriel, the second in command. Even though he is just blankly polite and does not acknowledge her much, she can't help but fall for him. Does Azriel return her feelings or remain unfeelingly aloof?

─•~❉᯽❉~•─

Read Part 1 here.

Read Part 2 here.

Read Part 3 here.

Read Part 4 here.

Read Part 5 here.

Read Part 6 here.

─•~❉᯽❉~•─

Part VII

My mind was still fighting the wine induced muddle, trying to grasp the fact that Azriel was really here. My body though, acted on a reflex. I had repacked the basket, rolled the mat and was out of the clearing before he opened his mouth to speak. I heard nothing but the gush of blood into my head, and I quickly went inside and locked the door of the main entrance.

I didn't know what to think. Azriel had come here. He had come to a place which was unknown to everyone but me and father.

The mat and the basket slipped from my hands and thumped on the wooden floor. The cloak was halfway down my shoulders as I pressed myself against the door, parting the curtain of the window adjacent to it to see if he was outside.

He was.

There was a verandah extending from the front door with a wrap-around porch. The roof over the verandah was held upright by two carved pillars, and Azriel was sitting down and leaning back against one of them. His head was turned the other way, watching the stars still falling.

His usual leathers were absent; in their place was a black shirt and pair of black trousers. The buttons of the shirt glinted in the light like gemstones. His hair was ruffled, silver jewellery adorned his neck and hands. He was the still the most beautiful fae I had ever laid my eyes on, and the mating bond within me flared to life for a moment and tugged painfully.

I wanted nothing but to open the door, walk out and hold him.

The sensible part of me held me in check. Even though he was supposed to be my mate, he had given me nothing but pain until now, and I couldn't let go of it that easily. I clamped down on the bond, let the curtain fall back and went upstairs to my bed.

The entry of my room's balcony was set with French windows, and its curtains were always parted to let in the scenery. The sky was still lit, but fading as the event was coming to an end. This was the second time since that night when I cried myself to sleep.

─•~❉᯽❉~•─

The next day, I found a note on the kitchen table. It was my father's handwriting, with two words on it.

I'm sorry.

Well, that solved the mystery of how Azriel came to know about this place. It didn't matter. I was not angry. I was not sad. I was empty, tired. The spark of feeling in me had withered and I had no idea how to revive it.

In the days that followed, Azriel made a habit of lingering. I noticed him flying in at dusk, possibly after finishing his duties. He never imposed himself on me, he was just...there.

As I moved inside, he followed from outside. The porch around the villa had a thick, low wall for comfortable seating which he took advantage of. Every room I was in the ground floor, I could see him out the window, seated on the porch wall. He was in his usual leathers and cloak, and I could see the dim light emanating from his chest and the back of his hands. His head was always turned the other way, as if he was looking out, but I knew he watched me when I wasn't looking at him.

I let him be. I didn't want to talk to him, let alone argue and send him away.

He perched on the balcony wall when I was in my bed, and the only room he couldn't look into was the bathroom. However, I could see him from the window, on the porch railing directly underneath it.

As it was, he was comfortable. He had his cloak to protect himself from the cold, and I'm sure he ate during the day.

He was waiting for me to willingly let him in. And for that, I hoped he had the patience of a saint because this wasn't going to be easy.

─•~❉᯽❉~•─

Tags:

@kalulakunundrum @thelov3lybookworm @hnyclover @impossibelle @sourapplex @brujitafantomatico @venuseuripedis @darling006

─•~❉᯽❉~•─

Read Part 8 here.

This fanfic can also be found in Wattpad, along with other exclusive parts like playlists and pictures. Here's the link: https://www.wattpad.com/story/358573037-long-way-home

Happy reading! <3

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bowieandqueen11 · 1 year ago

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Seductress / Izzy Hands Imagine

Request: Hi i was wondering if you could do an izzy x reader where lucius purposely tries to make izzy jealous (it works btw) the rest is up to you also could the reader have gender neutral pronouns so everyone can share the fun! Thank you for fueling the hyperfixation fire! Lots of love 💕

Aww lovely that's so kind of you, thank you!! I love writing Lucius being a little shit (affectionate) towards Izzy lmao we love a flirty bestie!

Warning: Nothing too graphic but NSFW, some sexual innuendos and some strong language!

(I do not own OFMD or its characters, all rights go to creators. Gif credit goes to @dizzy-izzy-hands.)

☆.。.:・°☆.。.:・°

You should have known rightly from that tell-tale smirk that Lucius had nothing good planned.

The man had barely been able to sit still all day. He seemed to have taken it upon himself to be as much of a nuisance as possible: must have unwrapped himself from Black Pete's arms that morning, sat up with wide stretching arms and a smile as ferocious as the jaded depths of Davy Jones' locker itself as he decided, with an assertive nod to the rest of the crew, to cause as much mischief as he could that day.

After all, Lucius, the king of pickpocketing, was more than acute at spotting stolen glances from miles away. Of noting darting looks; that morning, as he had sipped his orange juice and observed Izzy over the rim of his glass, it hadn't escaped his notice how he had almost- god, so he had been so close to not losing his nerve. He had warbled, almost swaying from side to side as Izzy plundered the depths of his mind to try and find the courage to sit and have breakfast on your other side, but as soon as you had raised your eyes curiously to see what he had been doing, he jolted back as if electrocuted and scurried off back to the deck. Lucius' sigh had been frustrated enough to blow bubbles of juice out and splatter them onto your already scowling face.

Nor had he missed the lingering wistfulness shrouding Izzy's eyes that same afternoon: the way he had watched you from the rigging of the Revenge, clinging onto the rope as if for dear life any time you passed him by. From helping Roach roll more barrels of dried meat down into the kitchen, or nearly keeling yourself over the edge of the ship to avoid Edward and Stede's impromptu sword fighting lesson, Izzy had been almost... calm. Placated? Silent? Bashful, Lucius thought, as he had watched the man's fist squeeze so tightly into a ball he thought the leather might tear down the seams right there and then. With a hand on his hip and a huff in your direction, Lucius was getting incredibly fed up of being the only one to notice how bashfully Izzy tried to look anywhere else when your eyes met. How your voice cracked when he had come sliding up to you, hammer looking quite menacing as he thumped it against his palm and asked you why you had made it your life's work to cross Izzy's line of vision any time you could.

'This has been going on for weeeeeks, when are you two just going to stop pretending you don't want to slam each other into the wall until you're gasping for air every time you see each other', he had groaned, throwing his head back and trying to beckon Wee John over to give his concerns some backing. The man, too busy sewing a hole in his trousers back together, and having enough sense to fear for his life with the way Izzy was glaring daggers his way, quickly shook his head and buried it back down in the mottled fabric.

'I have no idea what you're talking about', you had replied curtly, effectively ending the conversation. Even if he had flared his nostrils and thwacked you teasingly over the head with the long edge of his sleeve, a blind man would have been able to see the glimmer in your eye as you looked hopefully in Izzy's direction.

No, this man really did not miss a thing. And it was beginning to drive you insane.

Thankfully, he had been gracious enough to already warn you ahead of time about his brand new spanking plan to get this idiot of a first mate to admit his feelings for you. About how, once Stede had informed the crew that they would be stopping off on a little island called 'Tangerine Grove' during the sunset, so he and Ed could have their daily constitutional through the silver gleams cast by pale tree light only the rock hidden away behind the tip of Blindman's Cove could bring, a lightbulb had gone off in Lucius' head.

Which is how you had ended up here: shivering under the growing violet wisps of dusk that splattered the spring sky, sitting alone along an unfamiliar stretch of beach, wishing you could rescind your acceptance of Lucius' excited plan and instead go join your friends as they ran, barefoot, through the wet grains and wrestled each other into the waves. Only Izzy was still standing apart, looking entirely uncomfortable as he rubbed his jaw against his shoulder. Without even realising, he found his heel to be tapping a thousand miles per minute upon the ground: a horrid itching sensation spiking its way up his legs as he tried his best to look nonchalantly towards the dipping curve of the sun. To look anywhere else apart from at you. God, he fucking hated the way you made him feel so... fragile. So stunted. Even Edward had encouraged him that morning to try and express his lingering feelings to you, but a harrowing hatred had pierced his heart and caged the words from escaping their writhing chambers.

Hatred at how foolish he felt running away. Hatred at how Edward teased him, despite seeming like a lovesick idiot for a stupid twat that would be seem like shit scraped off the bottom of his boot compared to you. Hatred at how vulnerable he felt. Hatred for himself. For how he had been the harbinger of his own ruination. How, in the end, his misery was no one's fault but his own.

'Well now', Lucius enunciates in a sing song voice, clucking his tongue at the end. You almost jump out of your skin as he appears before you, drawn away from watching Izzy's face contort in flashes of fury as Lucius' torso replaces your view. His furrowed brow and pursed lips almost endue him with a sage like intensity, as he dips his head and shoots you an almost sympathetic frown.

He waggles his eyebrows as he perches down on the cragged rocks lining the shoreline next to you. 'What do we have here, then? Little Y/n, sitting here on this god forsaken rock with stupid arse over there too emotionally gagged to come keep you company. How tragic. Do you think the stick up his bum stops him from walking over here? Or maybe it's-'

'Lucius, you really don't have to do this.' You grab onto his arm, almost pleading with him through the frantic batting of your eyelashes, but Lucius just pats your fingers and intertwines them within his own. Laying your hands on his lap, he cocks his head and carefully strokes a path down your knuckles.

'Anything for my bestie', he winks, before glancing rather conspicuously behind his shoulder to trace Izzy's path. 'Besides, if that man doesn't just admit his feelings, one of us is going to end up kicking him up the arse. And as much as I would love that to be me, I want one of my favourite people in the whole world to be happy more. Trust me, I’m fantastic at forcing two knobheaded people to admit their true feelings for each other.'

’Oi, I'm not a kno-’, you try to retort with a roll of your eyes, but are stopped short by Lucius grabbing the bottom of your chin like crab pincers digging into your skin, and has already turned your face so your nose is lined up directly with his mouth.

'You know, it's been a long time since I sketched you.' His fingers dart up your face, walking their way up your cheek until Lucius brushed his knuckles back down to your jawline. 'If you like', he leans closer to you and purses his lips, 'we could fill the rest of Stede's journal right up.' He makes sure his voice is loud enough - sultry enough, that even Roach perks his head up from where he's laying starfish on the shoreline.

There we go.

Bingo.

A muscle in Izzy's tense jaw jumps: a minute twitch, but enough to let a far too smug looking Lucius know that he's on the right track.

'Or if that's not your jam, I know something else we can do', he leans in closer so his lips move against the shell of your ear with each word, and despite yourself your back rolls with shivers at the warm blows against your inner ear. 'Roach clued me in to some hidden compartments Stede had built into the ship. No more audience - just us, if you catch my drift', he finishes with an accentuating wink and kiss to the back of your hand.

The sound of a high pitched whistling even made Frenchie and the Swede pause their scuttling in the dirt for starfish, whipping their heads under their arms and burying themselves in the sand as they waited for the cannon fire to land. Nothing came, though. Instead, the sound only grew louder... and louder... until everyone was glancing uneasily up at the puffy clouds, waiting for a cleft to appear through the weaving pink breeze.

Only you and Lucius knew to look inland, rather than up at the heavens.

And there he stood: the incoming hit. The seething tempest. The washed up wreck.

The poor man was already fuming. If he bit his tongue an inch harder, the blood would begin to pour out of the corners of the man's mouth as if he had willingly swallowed arsenic, and was allowing it to fester in the recesses of his heart. Anything, anything would be better than letting it tremble. So blood it is. Down the poison willingly goes.

You would have been able to hear the sigh that blew out from Izzy’s flaring nostrils from the crow’s nest. Forget that: you’d be able to feel the burning steam radiating off his near vibrating body from the next continent. With each passing second Izzy could feel his heart decaying in pulsing oozes through his chest cavity. And with every smile, every lingering brush of someone else's fingers on your skin, the rot residing in his soul became that little bit more mutilating. The touch of Lucius' pointer finger against your cupid's bow finally goaded his insides to slither out in a body wracking convulsion: his heart finally mouldering out through the corner of his eyes in snaking tendrils.

He finds his feet pounding across the horizon before the rational part of his brain could try to keep up. Lucius barely has time to register the swarm of black buzzing in front of his face before claws have dug into his striped shirt and have hoisted him up like a ragdoll. The feel of Izzy's teeth baring against his nose is enough even to make Lucius' head recoil.

'Get your fucking little, dirty, clawed rat hands the fuck away from them.' Izzy spits at Lucius' boots, content only when the man grimaced and took a hop backwards and away from his lacerating fingers.

'What's your problem, Dizzy Izzy', Lucius hisses back, hunching down onto his haunches and resting his hands treacherously on your shoulders: far too close, as he squeezes you reassuringly. Too damn fucking close, for Izzy's taste. 'Just because it's not your fingers, doesn't mean you have to be so jealous. We don't own each other on this ship. If you're interested, all you have to do is say.'

'Who says I'm fucking jealous', he tries to shrug, but his voice is strained. Wracked. He's obviously trying to stop himself melting to your feet and placating himself at your shrine right there and then, ready to die under your heel.

Izzy glances uncertainly along the ground, doing his best to seem as straight laced as usual, but growing more and more discourteous in his manner at the way Lucius grins at his growing discomfort. 'Oh come on, you wouldn't mind if Y/n and I headed back to the ship right now, right? After all, Dizzy Izzy doesn't get jealous. He wouldn't care if he could hear screaming coming from-'

'You shut your fucking mouth.' He shoves a thick finger into Lucius' chest, nearly toppling over himself trying to get his arm in to separate the man from your back.

'Or what?', Lucius replies, trying to keep his grip by your neck while also trying to bat off Izzy's slicing hands. He manages to pull back and wring his hand out right before Izzy bared his teeth and took a chunk out of it. 'What are you going to do, Izzy? Give me a lashing? I'm sure you'd love to do that to Y/n. Or maybe for them to do that to you - I've always known you were a mas-'

'You little. Fucking. Tease.' Despite the ferocity of his words as he spits them out from his serpent tongue, the tenderness of his fingers as he reaches down to grip your wrist surprises you. He tugs you up, taking a step around your body as if to shield you from the gratified smirk Lucius is radiating.

'I could destroy you, you know, and everyone would thank me for it. Because that's what you do, isn't it?' He was trying his best to sound as bratty as possible, but there was an almost imperceptible shake in his fingers as he tightened his grip on your wrist. 'A proper little seductress. Using and destroying perfect things.'

'Perfect?', you whisper out from behind his back, your hand coming up to touch your lips as if you could taste the sweetness dripping off the word. Izzy's brows furrow as he curses himself. Fuck. He's fucking done it now. What kind of sap will you think he is? Standing there with knees nearly knocking before you, some kind of fucking pirate with his squeaky voice and thumb circling delicate paths along your wrist.

'Do you really mean that?', you ask, the eagerness in your tone enough to make Izzy's breath falter in the back of his throat. He nearly chokes on it, but finds just enough to pant out the truest words left in his rotten body.

'I... meant, what I said.'

You flash your eyes toward him in surprise, but the man is already staring directly at you. What you were surprised about though, were the tears that were shrouding the usual piercing glare of his irises. He looked almost… childlike. Mythical. Almost pitiable, standing on the long stretch of mist, feet crushing into the grains of sand as if he were willing himself to stay anchored, to not fade away with his tears into the spray of mist.

A man strung up by the tendrils of heart, doomed to stay wanting, waiting, fading into the rays of light.

It was almost phantasmal. And as you used your free hand to cup Izzy's cheek, it was almost enough for him to trick him into believing that he was alive again.

Even Lucius’ mouth drops down into a surprised ‘oh’ as a lone tear manages to tear a ragged path down the first mate’s sullen cheek.

He snorts, raising his eyes to the piercing blue skyline and trying to blink the tears back past his eyelashes. It's when the whining starts: the soft, pitiable howls of a kicked man being held for the first time of his life, that the patchwork mould surrounding what's left of Israel Hands' inner sanctum begins to crack away. He burrows himself into the warm, welcoming palm of your hand, allowing the water to flow over the bud of his nose.

Before your feet could even register that they were moving, Izzy has dragged you away from Lucius and into the shade of a nearby orange tree. A few fireflies began to peek their heads out from between the stout leaves at the disturbance: like honey dripping down from bowed boughs, brushing kindly against Izzy's glowing cheeks and making him seem almost saint-like as they gathered around his head. The sound of your shipmates begins to blur into the distance as the singing is replaced by the wretched pants of Izzy's breath.

He slams your back against the curved bark of the tree, sliding his boots in front of yours and leaning his body over you, effectively trapping you between the scratchy bark and the heaving muscle of his abdomen. You shiver, unsure if it's due to the champagne bubbles lapping their way towards your bare feet, or the feel of Izzy raising the wrist he's almost bruising above your head, no longer trying to hide the fact he's holding you in place against his body.

'Why do you stay around such unsavoury characters.' The bastard bares his teeth at you. God, he was enjoying this far too much. Enjoying raising his knee until the bone nearly kneaded against your groin. Enjoying using his free hand to grip onto your jaw just as Lucius had done, but far needier. He digs into your skin as he tilts your head back, and you can feel his smirk branding it’s way into the bare strip of skin between the nape or your neck and the hollow of your earlobe as he leans down to whisper: 'A fine creature such as yourself should be careful of deranged creatures like that. They slink out of the depths like demons. So perverse.'

Fucker makes sure to run his lips from your shoulder blade right up to your pulse point first, though.

'You should thank me for saving you from his depravity.'

'Oh of course', you begin to smile, playing along with his little fable. His little knight in shining armour tale, so he didn't break apart so easily. 'I have to thank you. You've been watching me for a while, haven't you? Taking care of me from afar...', you take a chance while he's distracted breathing in your scent to dip down and nip at his earlobe.

His legs start to waver then, and with a quick reflex that had got you onto Stede’s crew in the first place, you manage to steady him with a hand placed around the firm muscle of his waist.

'I did my best to save you from that seductress.' His teeth clash against your bottom lip in an almost wantonly manner, hovering his mouth over yours. It takes almost all of his self control to seem like he’s seething as his nose pokes against yours; it takes every piercing shred of self restraint he has to not wet your bottom lip with his tongue.

As tough as he thinks he's being, he’s not incredibly subtle in his thoughts and temptations, if the way he can’t stop staring at your mouth is anything to go by. Something wild makes his eyes gloss over: a tightly leashed repression, a long tempered heartache burrowing their way out of his eyes until he can barely hold back the parasitic tears.

His mouth trembles as it falls open, 'you deserve someone proper. Someone better-', he swallows thickly, eyes darting quickly between your own and back down to your widening lips. 'Someone better than them. Someone better than me-'

He looks wonderstruck, and you can't bear just to see its ferity anymore. You have to taste it. And if the manic glint in his eye is anything to go by, Izzy is in exactly the same boat.

His words are quickly enveloped by your mouth. He gasps against your tongue, his own quivering as an overwhelming rush of pure love gushed through him like the rips of a storm. He wastes no time: afraid this was a trick, a prank, a cruel mirage, his mind still trapped in one of his restless, far too fleeting dreams. He lips frantically latch, smother, tug, overwhelm you until you can barely breathe. Can barely feel. Your eyes flicker close in bliss as he allows you a moment of respite from all his pent-up want, his all consuming need, planting a trail of open mouth kisses followed by wide planted licks down your throat.

The slide of your feet against the trim of his steadying boot is a welcome relief from the burn of Izzy's hand as he grips onto your waist like a man possessed. His fingers clench, nearly lifting your lower half up to grind against his abdomen, stopping himself only at the last second and lowering you back down into his unforgiving grip.

You almost gasp when you feel your name roll of his tongue and reverberate through your neck in a hoarse moan. He tries to subdue his embarrassment by finally... finally reaching up and lacing the fingers clawing at your wrist within your own. If he wasn't too busy devouring the bare stretch of skin between your neck and your breast, Izzy perhaps might have felt embarrassed by the way his pelvis was bucking up wildly, leather slapping lewdly up against your inner thigh.

But he isn't embarrassed. He doesn't feel anything at all, except for a coursing rush of life flow through his veins for the first time in years.

He crumbles against you, surprisingly gentle as he claws and kneads and mewls into you, his lips dragging down and over to the side of your jaw now with quick, tempered nicks. His hand lets go of yours to trail down your inner palm, a shit eating grin branding its way into your chest as it traces down your arm, and then quickly falls so both hands are squeezing tightly into the meat of your waist. He bites down at your skin, incisors almost drawing blood against your pec. He swipes his tongue against the cut in apology, sucking against the skin as his trousers bounce up and tighten at the sound of you mewling. You scramble your free hand onto his shoulder to try and keep yourself in place, the man ravishing you so forcefully the tips of your toes could barely touch the ground.

Your full weight is resting on his torso, happy to let yourself flop over his shoulders and allow easier access for him to litter hickeys along the sinews of your throat. He does so gladly, making sure on his way to lift his hands and move them to slap down on your buttocks with a squeeze that leaves you reeling.

You're too busy whimpering at the feel of Izzy's inner thigh beginning to bulge against your crotch to feel the sting, his leather trousers beginning to tent in an uncomfortable way that made his biceps squirm as he wrapped them around your back. To mask the sharp barks that he begins to whine, he bites onto your bottom lip and pulls it down with his teeth, until he's satisfied that his tongue has full access to delve down your throat.

You quickly pull back and glance behind Izzy's head when you hear a sing-song 'you're welcome!' and vindicated hum of Lucius receding into the distance.

For someone who saw Lucius as such a threat, Izzy Hands could be quite the little seductress himself.

#ofmd #our flag means death #izzy hands #israel hands #izzy hands imagine #izzy hands x reader #israel hands imagine #israel hands x reader #izzy hands lemon #con o'neill #ofmd imagine #our flag means death imagine #ofmd s2 #ofmd s1 #edward teach #stede bonnet #lucius spriggs

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yeyinde · 2 years ago

Text

NEON MEDUSA | cyberpunk au

Captain John Price x Reader

"Make the smart choice, love." He doesn't give you anything else. The line goes dead with a click. Silence. Unbearable. Stifling. It permeates the air around you, buzzing like static. A disturbance in the airwaves. A rustle in the stagnant life you've been sloughing through for the last three years. A moment later, your phone chimes. A map appears. Some remote bar on the outskirts of the city—the only place Makarov's influence doesn't reach. Make the smart choice. It's your freedom or your head.

》 WARNINGS: THIS SERIES WILL BE 18+ | no smut; allusions to political corruption, moral ambiguity; standard Cyberpunk rules apply; body modification; technological supremacy; the existential crisis of questioning your humanity

》 WC: 11,1k

》 NOTES: Remember when I said I probably wasn't going to do a chaptered fic? Yeah, me too

SERIES MASTERLIST | NEXT

PART I | STATIC IN THE AIRWAVES

He sits in the crowded bar with nothing to keep him company but a half-empty glass of scotch and a burning cigar.

He alternates between the two. A swallow of his drink. A sip of water. A drag of his cigar.

(Routine. Always in threes. Always with that same pinched look on his face, partially hidden in the shadows, concealed beneath a beanie, and shaded in smoke.)

The ochre tip flares to life when he draws it close to his lips, taking a harsh drag of nicotine. The flash of light, brief and evanescent, illuminates his face in short bursts of orange in a room bathed in indigo save for the stage, where his gaze stays, fixed, almost unwaveringly, on the dancers as they display the greatest feat of technological advancement to date: nanobots.

Their chromatic skin shifts into various hues to accommodate each request made by the patrons, their bodies morphing into something new with each token taken from the hungry-eyed viewers.

Despite the keenness in his sharp eyes, he makes no purchases of his own—seemingly content to just watch the hedonistic spectacle unfolding before him.

It is not uncommon for people to come here and just observe, happy enough to watch whatever the rest of the people—voyeurs—order, but there's something about him that stands out.

(Or maybe it's just you.

He piques your interest in a way most people just don't. Not here. Not in the gold-dusted cesspool of opulent depravity.)

And there isn't anything noteworthy about him. Nothing that stands out against everyone else.

He was easily swallowed by the curated tenebrous that leaked into the tight space of the auditorium—an artificial sense of seclusion and privacy in shades of shadowed indigo that means little when you can see everything from your perch in the observation deck. He isn't flashy in any sense—his broad shoulders are covered in a raw topaz corduroy jacket with tuffs of seashell white plumage around the collar and button lines, and he wears a simple pair of black trousers, and leather boots. A charcoal beanie sits low on his brow.

He's big. Bigger than most of the men in the room—both in width and height. He'd tower over them, and his broad shoulders and thick bulk would swallow them whole.

Your vantage point—a hidden nook in the upper deck known only as the observatory: a domed room completely opaque from the outside looking in with high, arching golden bars dividing each rectangular window making it look a little too much like a cage for you to ever find comfort behind its glass walls—gives you the perfect view of everything in the club. The circular, egg-shaped room with its glass floors and walls has an interface built in to spy on the patrons below.

It's a place where you spend most of your nights when you weren't wandering the alcoves in the underbelly in search of trinkets to sell, or money to make to somehow chip away at the insurmountable debt you owe the owner of the club for saving you, a price you'll never begin to pay back at your current rate.

You come here to watch the spectacle at one of the most exclusive clubs in the city.

(And—

Take notes.)

The bar is a hidden gem of the red light district, a place only known by reputation and hushed whispers in the derelict underground.

On its surface, it looks like any other staple of depravity that the sprawling steel metropolis tries to pretend doesn't exist when foreign diplomats venture close to the technological epicentre of human advancement. Another grim, ramshackle bar in a desolate sea of many. Dingy wax paper covers the floor-to-ceiling windows, giving the passersby a tantalising view of a dancing silhouette beckoning them forward with mechanical fingers, and a bright red grin.

It's only when they try to enter the establishment does the stark differences between every other brothel masquerading as a bar come to light.

A bouncer stands in the enclosed foyer covered in piss-stained cardboard, and a cracked comm with loose wires sparking on the wall. It reeks of stale cigarettes and mildew. For added effect, the shadow of a bug skitters into the fist-shaped hole in the wall.

"Password?" He barks, his hand curling, pointedly, over the handle of his gyrojet. A threat.

It deters most people simply wandering by in search of sin.

Except for the ones with an invitation. The password. That prized piece of information gets them access to a club funded by the Inner Circle.

Most of the clubs in this district are known for their loose morals and shady rules, but none are as infamous as the White Horse, who dabbles in more than just pleasures of the flesh. A place where shady deals are conducted in secrecy in the opulent booths overlooking the stage. Where the madams, and misters overseeing the dancers turn a blind eye to illegal requests that are made.

A den of sin and filth wrapped in decadence. A place where anything goes so long as you have the money, the power, the status. Where nothing is barred, and the beds on the upper level are never empty.

More money passes through here on a bad day than those living in squalor near the district will ever see in their extended lifespans.

Men spend impetuosity to drag the dancers away, the nanos shifting into something new, something garish, to their deviant delights.

And men like him are a dime a dozen. You can find one anywhere in the red light district, sipping on alcohol, and feasting on the libertine victuals offered for the taking. Nothing about him is particularly noteworthy. Another concealed face in the louche mouth of debauchery.

And yet—

He stands out.

The only vice he partakes in is a cigar and drink. He doesn't let his eyes linger on the soft curves of the dancers, or the bared flesh they offer up. He watches with a detached, almost clinical disinterest.

Maybe, then, it isn't so much of what he is, but rather what he isn't.

There is a wryness to him, a soft derision in his steel gaze that seems out of place in a seedy bar filled to the brim with licentiousness. Most men come to quench their lustful appetite on the display of grandeur in front of them, making demands with a press of their finger to shape the dancers in front of them to whatever matches their hunger.

None of them has ever looked so disgusted.

He tries to hide it, face folding into something passive, nonchalant, when he thinks people are staring, or when the barkeep makes his way over to pour him another shot, but it breaks sometimes. Beneath the rim of his odd bucket hat, startling blue eyes morph into contempt at the men around him. Even with the rim pulled down low over his brow, covering the colombina mask concealing the upper portion of his face, you catch the anger frothing in cerulean.

It's an odd look considering where he is, and the prestige, the importance (both financial and influential) that he must carry just to be let inside, and yet—

Scorn. Derision. Disgust.

None of it is directed at the dancers gyrating on the flashing stage, putting on a grand performance of a technological prowess yet to be made available to the general public. Their willingness to contort their artificial bodies into various forms—men, women, genderless beings, animalistic features, elongated limbs, and a whole host of pabulum effigies—just for the paying patrons' lustful amusement incites none of the blunt disdain he directs at the men and women around him.

It's not the performers, then, but the audience.

Some come here with their status placed upon their head like a crown, chin refusing to dip down an inch lest the artificial diadem slip from their clinging fingers. They wear their aristocracy like a perfume, letting it permeate in the air surrounding them for all to inhale, to notice. They like to pretend they aren't enticed by the display available to them and are often mockingly cruel to the dancers, and the workers catering to their paying whims. It's a game to them. Coming here is a sport. A fulfilment of a quota.

An invitation alone is worth more than the going price of most cities, and the opportunity to maybe rub elbows with the financier of the establishment is enough to make greed spin in their eyes.

As cruel as they are to the staff, and as much as they like to lift their noses high in contempt, it's a farce. They're posturing.

The intrigue in their green eyes doesn't mask their peacocking.

His, you find, is genuine.

But why?

It's there that he makes his fatal mistake.

A man, a regular from Verdansk, grabs a passing dancer a little too hard, jostling their shoulder until metal grinds together in a piercing whine that goes wholly ignored in the pulsing bass, and jeers from the crowd.

He pulls them down, a lustrous smirk creeping across his face, and whispers something in their ear before jerking his chin toward the upper deck where the rooms are.

The exchange, his rough treatment of them, goes largely unnoticed—or rather, ignored—by the crowd. It's hardly a spectacle—not worthy of their attention like the display on the stage.

But he catches it.

Amongst the vile sycophants and their greedy stares, he stands out in stark contrast when his eyes narrow in anger, knuckles whitening around the glass.

You've only heard of his type in passing. The kind that thinks they're sticking up for something greater than themselves.

A hero. A martyr. A saviour.

Muted whispers in shadows. Promises they'll never be able to keep burrowed into filament; sweet words laced with that detestable thing that rots your insides, and leaves you sick with apathy when it extinguishes. Jaded and wrong and—

His type poisons you with hope, and leaves it to crumble in the hollowed amphitheatre of your aching, mutilated chest when they realise it's futile and do the one thing they're best at: running.

For the greater good, of course.

The battered remains of love in shambles mean little to them when they place the world on their shoulders to absolve themselves of their sins. The weight of it crushes pity and sorrow and contrition and failure into a ground powder that they can sneeze away with—

I had no choice.

Heroes, you find, are usually just a pantomime of their internal ugliness. They lash out at what they name injustice but sometimes slip up and use their given name when calling everything wrong with the world, with them, into question.

It's a good thing that they usually avoid places like this.

One where the people who fight for good, for humanity—the ones who wave and blink and grin on the holographic advertisements on each major street corner, or wander around with their translucent skin and faux smiles as they shell out promises (and products) of a better tomorrow—let their faces twist in horrific depravity under the strobe lights and cover of darkness. Politicians. People in power.

It's enough to snuff out any sense of optimism.

This is a place where hope comes to die with a single press of a greasy finger against a holographic screen.

A man like him has no reason to tuck himself into the corner, eyes misting over in anger and contemptuous spite at the patrons who feed the rapid descent of mortality.

The sight of him gnarls a sense of unease in your chest. A burgeoning bloom of that poisonous seed they warned you to stay away from. The one that strikes like a cobra and burns like a molten rock against your skin. That leaves you a raw, gaping wound festering in the cesspool they make sanguine promises to pull you out of.

They never do.

They make grand claims about being given a prophecy of martyrdom, and how they must devote themselves, wholly, to a cause that never comes to fruition like it does in the aeons-old fairytale of a bygone era when romance meant something.

Your fingers curl over the golden bars of the gilded cage you've been left in, and you wonder through the raw ache in your chest as it splits open, another wound among many, who he's trying to save here.

Then, grimly, you wonder how long it'll take for him to give up like the rest.

Intrigue gnaws at you until the needling pinch of curiosity becomes too much to bear.

(Curiosity, and something you'd rather not think about—)

It's easy to slip away from your perch unnoticed. No one bothers with you much outside of bringing you to sporadic liaisons with the man who acts as a silent owner of the bar—among many, many other things—and you use that sense of anonymity to wander down to the ground floor, and toward the man sitting in the corner.

The difference between them and him is made more apparent when you move closer.

A cybernetic thumb and forefinger knead the skin over the bridge of his nose, eyes pinched shut in a passage of pain that flickers over his face. With him too preoccupied with his headache, he doesn't notice you sidle up, and you take the opportunity to study him with an eager gaze.

He's handsome.

Muted neon blue cuts through the skin of his cheeks, running over his cheekbones, and dipping down toward the corner of his mouth. A flash of metal on his temple peaks beneath the rim of his beanie, catching in the shadowed glow of the pink and purple strobe lights flashing through the dim room. The circular curve and the soft metallic give the impression of the beginnings of a cranial implant. One that costs a hefty price to upkeep, but gives the wearer unlimited access to information fed directly to their non-dominant eye.

It's something only issued to the military. To the police force.

But the shape of it is archaic, old. Something of a crest—a familial design unique to the big families, to the clubs, that run the city, or parts of it. Gangsters. Mercenaries. Merchants. Scholars. Politicians.

Nepotism, undoubtedly, shaped the enhancement, but the design is foreign to you. You think of the common ones—the local police force and security, Shadow Company; the innovative engineers of the Inner Circle; the Shepherd family and their long, and bloody, history of politicians, leaders—but none fit the intricate weavings snaking down his temple.

Another peculiarity to add to the growing list.

The limited light in the darkened auditorium colour him a chiaroscuro of light of blue and grainy black, and the way he keeps his palm positioned over his face as he rubs the tension from his brow leaves the rest of his face hidden from your prying gaze. A shame, you think, and make the mistake of moving closer.

Beneath a metal knuckle, his eye cracks open.

"I'm not interested."

The timbre of his voice is rough—a masculine rasp that's abrasive, and thick with something heavy in the back of his throat. It makes you shiver. You blame it on the noviceness of your incipient intrigue.

"Oh?" You mock, and offer back a shrug you hope is more blasè than perturbed. "That's kinda surprising in a place like this."

"I'm not here for that—" his words cut off with a sharp huff, voice tapering off as he digs his thumb into the divot between his brow until the skin is indented from the metal.

The way he says the word is full of an exhaustive sort of contempt: the kind that says he's tired. Of this, of the anger coursing through his veins.

A hero on the verge of cracking apart at the seams..

(It didn't take him long.)

He's a picture of bone-weariness when he bows his head over the table, elbows knocking against the surface with a harsh thud that makes you wince. He doesn't seem to notice it—or maybe he's so far gone, that anything that isn't bitter disappointment or the white-hot sting of rejection feels almost good to him. A break in the routine. A physical hurt in place of the emotional turmoil saviours like him must face.

If, of course, he even is one.

You question your original assessment of him when his wrist bends, and his long, thick fingers wrap around the rim of the glass.

A hero. Maybe you were wrong.

He looks like the same tired men who spend their waking hours working a job they hate, one that grinds against their skin until a hole forms and the wound begins to rot. Miserable. They reek of bitterness and discontentment. And when they're not being burnt out against the heel of a profession that doesn't even know they exist, much less care about the droop in their shoulders, the callouses, the ennui and megrim towards life, they combat the existential despair by saturating their organs in liquid formaldehyde to stop the slow, methodical rot of that pesky little thing called hope. Happiness.

You wonder if he came here for something different to numb the self-inflicted loneliness, or if all that anger he directs at the men is just a reflection of his desires that disgust him so much.

It's the crushing sense of disappointment that maybe you were wrong and, worse yet, maybe he was right.

(In this life, there are only idiotic hopefuls and those smart enough to know better.)

Still.

He's different in a way you're not used to. A man with rough edges and sour words; blunt and bludgeoning.

Interesting.

You wonder what makes him tick. What ugliness he's hiding, and what secrets he's running from.

His neck is thick, muscles tensing when he tosses his head back, and swallows down the last of his drink.

(You wonder what it would feel like to sink your teeth into his jugular—)

"I don't need another drink, either," he says, voice thick from the burn of alcohol, and little more than a growl.

You offer another shrug—one that he doesn't see when he bows his head again, palms scoring down his face.

"Again," you murmur, a fleeting tease. "Still not offering."

His thumb presses into his temple, index finger sliding over his forehead until it rests in his webspace. He inhales deeply in palpable exasperation, broad chest expanding and pulling the charcoal shirt taut across his shoulders.

"Then what the hell—"

His lids crack open, eyes sliding to the side as he stares at you, properly, for the first time since you wandered over.

The surprise in his gaze as he takes you in makes your heart jump, slamming harshly against its bone prison. His eyes—a deep, almost unending blue—are pretty. Piercing.

He swallows again, hand pulling away from his brow slowly—dazed, almost, as if he'd been expecting one of the dancers on stage instead of—

Well. You.

Human. Wholly.

It usually catches people off-guard to see someone so bare, so void of any visible enhancements or upgrades.

On the surface, anyway. The debt you wracked up from the man says something must have been done. That one day, you'll dig too deep into your tissue and find wires and cylindrical tubes instead of veins. A circuit board instead of a heart. An artificial stem instead of a brain.

More android than human.

Your teeth sink into the soft flesh around the corner of your mouth, and you brace yourself for it—for the—

"I didn't realise I talkin' to a bloody bot."

It doesn't prickle against your skin—one that bleeds red, and bruises in flaxen when you dig your fingers in hard enough. It doesn't.

"I'm not."

He blinks at you once, mystified, but then something in his gaze sharpens. A keen awareness, a spatial depth, that seems out of place on a mere man. You think of the holographic images of grizzly bears mid-hunt, stalking their prey through the thick furze, and then of the curiosity that dips from beady, ink-black eyes when they find something that disturbs their territory. An unknown thing—neither predator nor prey.

He turns in the seat, shifting until his body is facing you. His elbow rests on the table, hand dropping down again to hold onto the rim of his glass. The other drops to the back headrest of the seat.

He doesn't move over or offer you a spot to sit. A pointed gesture, you're sure. A sign of your disturbance. An unwelcome visitor.

You ignore it in favour of drinking in the display of his body, loose and lax in the seat with his knees spread, and the toes of his boots akimbo. His muscles flex under the tight, grey shirt, moving with each shuffle of his hips to get comfortable.

He's bigger than you thought. Threateningly so.

"That right?" He says the words slowly, and draws them out in that coarse voice of his.

His index finger taps a strange rhythm on the rim of the glass as he considers the weight of what you divulged, and your eyes are quickly drawn to his human hand—thick, scarred fingers; knuckles scabbed and cracked—and to his nails. They're short, and jagged. Grizzled. They're dirty, too. A fine line of dirt sits under the gnawed hyponychium, bitten down to the plate.

"Fancy that—a purist."

His words make you snort, and you tear your gaze away from his filthy nails—dirty hands—and shake your head in refusal. Dismay. Exasperation. Some amalgamation of them all.

He isn't the first to assume that of you, and you know he won't be the last.

Your physical appearance is startling to some who quickly think you're an android with your untainted skin, void of any visible enhancements like the ones cutting through his cheeks, etched into his temple, his chin. The entirety of his left hand.

Some consider the relationship between humans and technology to be almost symbiotic. After all, artificial intelligence, modern human evolution, and cybernetics wouldn't exist without the fundamental human imagination, nor their human hands to construct life into these grand things.

It usually falls into two categories—technological subservience: those who believe AI, androids, robots, cyborgs, and nanobots were created by humans and therefore, belonged to humans; and technological coexistence: the merger between us and them until the lines blur, and it becomes one and the same.

(Or, more extreme: technological dominance—zealots who believe that god exists in the mainframe of AI, and worship them like deities.)

On the opposite scale lies the purists. Those who believe that the relationship is not symbiotic, but parasitic. A curse.

"Hardly—" The defensiveness in your tone makes you wince, and you soften the edge of your words when his forehead creases, adding: "It's all internal."

"Internal, huh," his eyes dip, rolling down the length of your body as if confirming your claims. The weight of his gaze makes your skin burn, blistering under the intensity of his bold stare. "That's unusual, ain't it?"

"Not where I'm from."

"And where is that, hmm?"

The way his voice tapers off into a growl makes you shiver. Feverish.

Dangerous. This man is dangerous.

"I—" You swallow down the thick pool of anxiety that swells in the back of your throat. You're not afraid of him, but there's this overwhelming sense of intimidation that bleeds from the furrow of his brow, the unrelenting stare he fixes on you—almost as if you're being interrogated. Unease makes your stomach churn.

Maybe this was a mistake—

His eyebrows lift in a silent display of impatience.

It's not something you speak about openly—or at all, really—but the words brim on your tongue, as if pulled there by the magnetic draw of the man sitting in front of you, fingers tapping against the rim of the empty glass while the other reaches over his chest, torso twisting as he blindly pats around for the cigar burning away in the ashtray.

"I don't know," you murmur, letting the words puncture your chest when they slip past the seam of your lips. "Don't remember much of it."

He considers your words with a slight tilt of his head. Thick, metallic fingers draw the burning cigar to his full mouth, partially hidden behind the wry curls around his lips and chin. He settles in his seat again, eyes lidded, heavy.

"That so?"

The end burns orange when he draws in a mouthful of tobacco-saturated smoke, eyes creasing slightly as the endorphins bloom under the deluge of nicotine coursing through him.

The sight of him, thick thighs spread over the polymer seat of the booth, elbow resting on the table with his wrist bent, fingers still on the rim of the glass, cigar in his other hand, makes something warm fill your chest.

Trepidation, you hope.

You offer a shaky shrug in response, and nothing more.

He hums. "Unusual, innit? Not rememberin'."

The entire history of your life is a black hole until three years ago when you woke up in a luxury hospital room with an unplayable debt on your head and a body that has never really felt like your own.

(A man, maker, who called himself your saviour, and ensured you'd never really be free.)

You echo the words he said to you all those years ago when you asked who you were, where you came from, and why you didn't know—

"It must not be worth knowing."

It's a murmured echo not meant to be taken seriously. There's no deeper meaning behind the regurgitated words that ring out in your head; a quick response to those questions that rear late at night when you can't sleep, and your mind wants to torture you further.

It doesn't matter.

And really, it doesn't. You can't remember it, and in the three years you've been living, reacclimating to the idea of recall and recollection, no one has ever tried to find you.

There's no memo being sent out to the great beyond with your name or face attached to it. No one but him has claimed to know you. To care.

Whatever happened in that life is gone. Empty. A black void of nothing, not even embers or a crackling voice. It's a hole where your sense of belonging goes to rot.

It does not matter. Not anymore.

But the way he flinches at your words—a barely concealed jerk of his limbs, half-aborted when he realises he's doing it—makes you think, for the first time in three years, that it might.

It's swallowed down by a flash of teeth peaking through his amber beard. A rictus grin greets your words.

"That so?"

All you can do is nod.

"Doesn't help convince me you ain't a bot."

"I'm not."

His brow ticks up. "Do bots know their bots? Androids can be made to think, created with sentience, but they aren't. It's only when they hurt, do they realise—they were never human at all."

Your chest tightens. He didn't just strike a nerve, he bludgeoned into it.

"I am," you argue, but the words are less sure, firm, than you want them to be. They tumble out, shaky and filled with the fears that have been twisting inside your head since you blinked into existence, and read accounts of androids doing the same. "I bleed. I hurt. I feel. I think. I—"

He bites on the end of his cigar before drawing both hands up in front of him, palms open and facing you.

"Easy, there." He mutters, voice low and muffed around the stem of the cigar, and—

Soothing.

"I'm only teasin' you. If you say you're human, you're human. That's all that matters, mm?"

You shudder. "I am, I—"

"What's your name?"

You echo the name given to you when you woke up in a daze and were told to meet the man who saved your life. The one he greeted you with when he welcomed you into his luxury office of cut mahogany and reinforced carbon.

When it slips out, the pinch between his brow deepens.

"That's your name? Or is that just what they call you?"

"It's—" you flounder for a moment. "It's my name."

"You don't sound too sure."

"Can I be sure of anything?" You volley back, venom leaking into the words.

"You haven't gone lookin'?"

"For what?"

Where would you even start?

"You know…" he begins, shifting in his seat once more. There is a tension in his brow. An even curl to his lips, teeth still bared. "I try to find people like you. Bring them home. To justice—or whatever that might be. A lot of 'em claim to not remember, to not know what they did, or why they ran. You tellin' me somethin' similar, love?"

"I'm not missing."

His eyes are filmed with a facsimile of something placid. Even. But there is a current beneath the surface. A raging torrent of unsettled water churning up the seabed. It'll drag you to the bottom, and press you flat against the rocks as it roars above you.

You might be able to crack your eyes open under the swell, fingers digging into the murky sediment below your supine body, and vaguely make out of the rippling surface. A taunting mirage just within reach but the tumultuous waves would crush your fingers for even trying to grasp for it.

You shiver.

"You sure about that, love?"

Love. Love. The words stick against some part of your head, clinging to the fibrils and ringing across gyri until every synapse rattles with the heavy tenor splitting you apart.

"—Do you know me?"

The look surfaces.

"No." You seldom feel hopeful that anyone does anymore. Maybe on a distant planet, in a distant city, someone is still looking for you. "But I am lookin' for someone."

"Looking—" your brow furrows together as you eye him warily. Concern etches into your chest. Knotting tight like a spooled ball. "Looking for who?"

He shrugs.

He shifts in his seat, brings his hand away from the glass, reaches into the sherpa-covered folds of his jacket, and pulls out a small device. He proffers it to you, the design is reminiscent of a netphone, but—

Out of date.

You stifle a grin as you take it from him, but it's barely hidden, and he huffs when he catches sight of it. A soft chuff of mirth spilling from between full lips.

"Watch it," he mutters.

Your eyes run along the length of the thin phone—dark chrome, chipped in some places along the sleek, curved edges, but the screen is intact—and you marvel at the oddity presented to you. It's not like the netphones made by Four Horseman Corp., but the design is almost a replica.

The man reaches up, and presses his cybernetic finger against a small, concave placeholder near what must be the mouth of the device, and the screen flickers to life.

A man stares back at you. His hair is blond with the sides shaved, and the top long. Handsome, you think, with his full lips, and long nose. The light dusting of his beard around his cheeks and moustache—just as blond as his hair. He looks like the models that pose on the holographic glass of the boutiques downtown.

"Who is he?"

"Alex Keller. He's been missing for six days."

Six days.

Something ugly rots inside of you.

"And you think he's been here?"

"Last place he was."

"Couldn't be," you murmur, shaking your head. "I'm here almost every night, and I've never seen him before."

"Might not 'ave noticed him, bein' so distracted 'an all."

"Distracted?"

Your lift your chin, confusion etched into your furrowing brow.

When he catches your eye, he jerks his head toward the stage. "You work here, don't you?"

"Work—"

It never really occurred to you that he'd think you were a dancer. A working bot. An android. Pleasure Androids—a disgusting attempt at cheekiness from the makers; the slogan on the advertisement makes pledges and promises about the state of the art pleasure-bots designed to suit your needs, upgraded now with nanobots that change their shape, their anatomy, in the blink of an eye.

You exhale through your nose. It isn't the first time you've been mistaken as such, and maybe if you were, the debt would have some small indent in it by now, but—

"No, I'm not allowed." You murmur, shrugging. "I know the owner so I just come here sometimes to hang out. People watch." A wry smile twists at the corner of your lips. "You see all manner of things in a place like this. Kinda entertaining if it wasn't so—"

Disgusting.

"You know the owner?"

His words are careful. Concise.

"Do you?"

He shouldn't. He is many things, but stupid isn't one of them.

The man says nothing, and gives away little more than a slight incline of his shoulders. Neither agreement nor refusal. His prevarication worries you.

"Hey, who did you say you were again?"

He brings the cigar to his lips, eyes never wavering from yours, and draws in a mouthful of chemical fumes. It was that intense stare that drew you to him, but now that the weight of it is on you, you find yourself feeling like little more than a bug under a microscope.

His chest rumbles when he shifts, twin funnels of smoke flaring from his nostrils. It disperses into wisps, and quickly scatters when it meets the fur lining his jacket.

"I didn't," he mumbles, voice pinched in a low, airy growl tinged with smoke. More evocation.

"Well," you add, brows notching up in a pointed gesture for him to continue.

He doesn't, opting instead to bring the cigar back to his mouth. Ashes drop, landing in his umber beard.

He's messing with you. Drawing your discomfort out.

"Who are you?"

The demand comes out less forcefully than you intended, words trembling with your surmounting unease.

It would be all too in character for him to send someone to spy on you, to catch you unawares, and to feed the hungry with his secrets.

"Doesn't matter."

Your glare does little to away him. "I'm leaving—"

"I'm just lookin' for my friend."

"Like I said, he couldn't be here. I've been here every night this month. I would have seen him." Seeing the gnarled expression that slips over his brow, a broken anger tinged with equal parts frustration and, most breakingly of all, desperation, you add, if only to soften the blow: "I can ask around, maybe. See if the workers know anything."

"I've been," he rasps, words still bleeding with his frustration. "They don't know anything."

You huff, shaking your head. "Asking those kinda questions here is what makes people go missing in the first place. Is that what your friend did? Come poking around and—"

Balming one wound just to prick at it later. Your words, the bitter sting, get you a flash of teeth, bared canines in sharp indignation.

The man leans forward, eyes pelagic and fixed, unflinching, on you. It makes you squirm. Heat blooms under your cheeks. The rush of it makes you dizzy.

"And what makes you special, then?"

You shrug, and hope the tremble in your limbs goes unnoticed. "I get a free pass."

"Why?"

"It helps to know people."

"Like the owner."

"Yes," you murmur, voice laced with your hesitation. "Like him."

"Him, hmm?" His eyes narrow. "And his name wouldn't happen to be Vladimir Makarov, would it?"

"How—?" Then, hastily, you add: "No. The tech mogul? No. Why—why would—"

"Save it." He reaches into his breast pocket and draws out a sleek, black card. Cupping it in the palm of his hand, fingers curled over the edge, thumb braced against the side, he tilts the screen. Immediately, the black filmed surface under his thumb shivers, flickering into a shape. A logo.

The emblem makes your eyes widen. "Military police?"

He hums. When his thumb pulls away from the surface, it changes back to a blank, black rectangle. Void of any meaning. Any substance.

Your breath quickens when he slides it back into his pocket.

"Why are you—"

"Makarov's been naughty, hasn't he? The future Zakhaev promised is a bright one, isn't it? Better eyesight. Better sense of smell. New, indestructible limbs—" He rolls the knuckles of his cybernetic hand at you, appendages moving instantly. "Stop ageing. Stop getting sick. Everything that could kill us is no longer an issue, hmm? For a price, of course."

"Nothing in life is free—" the words are ripped from Imran's advertisement ages ago. Nothing in life is free, but sometimes a better tomorrow is worth the price of today.

"Yeah," he murmurs. "Just get a loan through the Four Horseman, hmm? Pay them back a paltry sum every month. Worry about the payment later—upgrade yourself now."

The new slogan. You try not to shiver under his abrasive, scorching stare.

"But," he continues, shrugging. "When you can't pay, is he the one who sends his henchmen after them? The ultranationalists. The ones that take back his tech through force and sell the parts on the black market. And—" his eyes harden. "The cycle repeats. People die, debts go unpaid, and yet—mysteriously enough, he grows richer. Now, why is that, mm? How can that be possible?"

"Makarov isn't connected to the Ultranationalists. He's—"

"A businessman? A pseudo-politician? A philanthropist just tryin' to make the world a better place, hmm?" He leans forward, eyes cutting into jagged ashlar. "Then why is the Horseman funding them?"

"He isn't. It must be some kind of mistake—"

"You say that like you know him. Know him personally."

"I don't—"

"Don't lie to me, love. Won't do you any good." He leans back, hand falling to the side of his glass. He taps out a strange rhythm with his index finger—the old tune of some forgotten song. Tap, tap, tap-tap, tap. "I heard about you."

His words are a strangled pressure around your throat. Heard about you. Impossible. No one has. No one ever does. You're as invisible as Makarov wants, followed around by his henchmen at a sizable distance. They never bother interacting with you. Never speak unless they have to.

You're a flea hiding in the soft coat of a millionaire. Unneeded. Unwanted. A burden.

Your circle mostly consists of people who frequent the underground. The black market where you can find almost anything for a price—even the age-old books about fairytales and fantastical adventures. Information, too, if you know what you ask for.

Your face has never shown up on a missing person bulletin. No one has ever asked about you.

(No one cares, no one knows—

—six days.

Three years.

It doesn't matter—)

In your crushing silence, the man's eyes narrow. There is no flash of victory in his gaze, but you scent the arousal of a predator stalking its weakened prey nevertheless.

"Heard 'bout your debt, too—" he tuts, a rasping coo that sounds how you imagine the bristled tongue of a big cat would feel shredding your skin. "He's the one who saved you, ain't he?"

It becomes too much. The pressure bubbles over.

All your meagre years of existence have taught you to quell the surge of fight or flight, to push it down and stand firm, stoic, amid the array of nefarious people who happened to cross your lonely path in the catacombs where they barter over lives, and makes deals with the devil for any number of precious commodities—even people. A person with a debt, you found, is worth significantly less than someone without. A truism you've heard hissed into your ears when you turned their offer of freedom down.

Handing the leash from one hand to another is hardly autonomous.

You know from these experiences that any sense of weakness or fear is blood in the water. A struggling fish on the verge of being eaten by the predators lured in by its futile struggle to stay alive.

In its effort to survive, it inadvertently signs its death warrant.

If you don't look like you belong, then you don't. A simple fact you've picked up from years of weaving in and out of Makarov's towering shadow.

It's easy to forge some sense of delusive confidence in the face of those people, the ones who clutch at your arms hard enough to leave an ache in your bones, but something about his composure, his gall, to approach you like this makes that carefully constructed mask crumble into broken pieces at your trembling feet.

His eyes, you think. They're not the flat, empty gaze of a predator sparking to life when a piece of meat is dangled in front of it, but something deadlier.

The assured placidity of a man who can play the long game; a hunter who is used to stalking his prey over long distances.

The look in his eyes says he can wait this out for as long as it takes.

Fight or flight. You've crushed the concept down to basal parts: a silly whim that will just get you killed. Fight and you'll be forced to contend with people who've been doing this a lot longer than you have. Flee and you'll never be allowed back inside.

You've never had any choice but to ride the high of adrenaline and paranoia out until they got bored with your vacant stoicism.

(Or—when in doubt—use your trump card of touch me again and do you have any idea what Makarov will do to you?)

Somehow, you know neither option will work on him.

And it itches under your skin. Hackles raising. Heart pulsing. Blood rushing with the heady cocktail of adrenaline.

You turn, ready to flee, but his hand lashes out through the shadows, catching your forearm in a tight grip.

"Look, love," he murmurs, words low, guttural, like he's speaking to a cornered animal. "This is bigger than you. Than me. Do you want that debt gone? To be free of 'im? Well, here's your chance."

A test. The information he knows is too much for any regular officer—even a military one.

"Makarov isn't like that."

There's a flash of something—disappointment, maybe; disgust—but it's gone in an instant. Hidden behind layers and layers of distance.

"Maybe not. But several of his companies showed up on someone's ledger. We know this person wasn't a partner in the Horseman. He wasn't one of the four. But he was collecting money from Makarov."

"It's probably through his charity fund."

"Don't you wanna know why your saviour is funnelling money to corrupt officials? Or why do people who can't pay for upgrades end up dead on the street? Stripped down like a piece of meat and sold for profit. Doesn't any of this concern you?"

"Makarov would never do that—he'd never stain his public image."

"He isn't the man you think he is. None of them are."

"Maybe you're not the man I thought you were. Maybe coming over here was a mistake."

An impasse. Uncrossable.

He's a rat, you think. A plant from Makarov to test your resolve. Your will.

The glare on your face hardens. Yuri must have told him your type. Must have let it slip the kind of man that seems to catch your interest. Broad shoulders, thick thighs. A tapered waist. Gruff, chiselled men with dirty hands, stained from hard work. Honest, good men.

Men who belong in fairy tales. Blacksmiths and forgers. Miners. Ironworkers. The kind who wants nothing in life but simplicity, a warm bed, and a hearty meal. Ones who stand up to injustices but would never, ever call themselves a hero.

A rough gentlemen that wouldn't even consider themselves as such.

Stupid. How stupid.

He was always too good to be true. You should have known better.

When the silence stretches on, pulled taut like a rubber band, he huffs. Shattering the icy tension with another roll of his massive shoulder.

"Here," he reaches into the folds of his jacket once more, and retrieves a new card. A chip. "If you ever change your mind, gimme a call."

Makarov is a smart man.

"I won't."

But he's raised you to be smarter.

Makarov is many things—a money-hungry monster included—but above all of that, he's a businessman with a reputation.

He's only one-fourth of a massive tech conglomerate that puts public relations and corporate profits over everything else—even personal gain. None of the heads makes any decisions without express permission from everyone who eats at the table. Doing otherwise would get you killed.

Have you ever heard the story of a hydra? That's what we are. Four horsemen. The heads might change but there will always be four.

To do something like this would put him at direct odds of everything the Horsemen, the Inner Circle, set forth to do. Risking it all to sell his own repossessed parts at a lower profit margin on the black market is absurd. Crazy.

He'll make more money on the interest each debt accumulates than he would having it paid off in full, or even wiped. It's an unspoken underline all the Horsemen profit from. Their own personal gain.

You can't see him losing that over a meagre payout in the black market.

And as a regular peruser of the market, you would have noticed him, or someone in his circle, down there.

(You know everyone down there.)

It's impossible.

And yet—

The run-in with the man rattles you still.

You're quick to deduce that he isn't a plant by Makarov. He'd never let one of his talk about him like that or accuse him of the kind of things that would bring the Horsemen together in a way that could only end with Makarov on trial.

It being Makarov is a gamble he'd never take.

But him not being on Makarov's payroll is equally risky. It's not exactly a secret that the Inner Circle runs around with shady groups—Ultranationalists., and Konni rogues being some of them—but nothing has ever been confirmed, and the Ultranationalists have never been loyal to anyone except their agenda.

People who tend to ask questions about the Horsemen are either added to the payroll or, if that doesn't work, silenced.

Military. They don't usually get involved in corporate affairs.

But you suppose a missing friend is enough to spur anyone on.

You should forget him. Should push him from your mind, and pretend he was just a figment of your imagination. Something that crawled from the foetid cesspit where hope rots, and stood in front of you offering sanctuary with hands that leaked pestilence down on the grungy floor of the club that bred and reared depravity.

What he was offering couldn't exist in the same space as that place.

But he knew you. Knew about your debt. The one thing you wanted more than anything else offered up in a chrome-plated palm. And—despite everything you've tried to erase it—the only group who'd have the ability to do so approaches you.

It's odd. This whole situation seems strange.

Offering up information on Makarov to the military in exchange for freedom. You know it isn't him. It can't be. The risks outweigh any potential money Makarov would make doing this. His life for a paltry sum when a single person's debt on their upgrades singlehandedly paid for several of his his penthouses in Al Mazrah.

Seems too good to be true, and you were taught to be wary of the hand that feeds you.

Logically, you know you should toss the chip away, and never deal with this again. Or, better yet, to hand it over to Makarov to deal with and bargain for a chunk to come from your debt.

If you were selfish, you would.

No.

If you weren't selfish, you would. But you are, so you don't. You don't because he didn't promise a chunk, he promised all. All of it. Gone. Erased. Voided. The balance on your head would be zero. Nothing. You'd be free of Makarov—a man who saved you only to imprison you in a gilded cage.

A man who is more enigma than you could ever begin to unravel.

Why he keeps you around on a short leash, content to let you weave in and out of his many assets as you please, only having to meet with him every few months in what feels like glorified check-ins to confirm you're still desperately seeking a way to sever the ties that are reinforced with steel.

The man is strange, but Makarov and his murky intentions for you are even more so.

It makes those needling questions rear again. Ones that can't help but wonder if Makarov keeps you around because you happen to be his greatest achievement: manufactured sentience.

After all, even the most sentient androids in the world know, fundamentally, that they are not humans. There is a categorical difference, and the idea of false humanity was deemed too cruel to bestow upon someone—android, cyborg, or otherwise—and so, telling you outright that your insides are an immaculately designed machine is not only illegal, but it's also the one thing he'll do anything to avoid—

"—a PR nightmare," he spits, words soaked in the same venom that leaks from his narrowed glare. You watch the implosion from your perch near the floor-to-ceiling window in his penthouse, eyes gazing impassively out at the technicolour city sprawling below. His voice carries through the room. "A fucking—"

Disaster.

In a stroke of unfortunate luck, someone in the local police department made a report on a man left for dead in the gritty downtown streets of the city—affectionately named Killhouse—after being stripped of all his implants with near-surgical precision.

No one ever reports on these specific cases because of how often they happen, and where. It's no secret the police keep a wide distance around the area that moonlights as a broken redlight district and the entrance to the black market. It's almost wholly under the thumb of the constantly warring Vanguards—the Hellhounds and the Tyrants are almost always in some type of civil dispute—and a very not-so-secret secret is that they pay the police to turn the other way.

This, then, is quite a deviation in how things are normally done.

His debt to Four Horseman Corp is made known to the world—an insurmountable number that never seems to decrease due to the exorbitant interest piled high.

It brings about uncomfortable questions, and the greedy outlets sink their claws into the morsel offered like starving rats scavenging for scraps. They plaster it everywhere until a discussion starts.

Why is interest so high?

The discourse surrounding the oligarchy on technology is not a new one by any means, but for the first time in a very long time, it doesn't feel like it's going to get swept away anytime soon. The launch of their new nanotechnology is halted until it dies down. Until the media circus has quieted enough not to let sales of a new product tank.

PR nightmare, indeed.

The timing is suspicious, but the cop who made the report is new enough that it doesn't raise too many eyebrows. Human error. A simple mistake.

You think back to the man, fingers idly running over the groove of the chip you told yourself you'd toss out nine times already, and wonder if it's connected.

Makarov's call wasn't too impromptu considering he regularly likes to check in, but he sent Anatoly instead of Yuri and something about the brutal man leering at you sets your teeth on edge.

His usual meetings mainly just consist of him lauding your neverending debt over your head, and reminding you he doesn't accept dirty money. And, of course, to gather names.

Your appearances at the White Horse are less about contemplating the depravity of the upper echelon, and assembling a list of men and women who visit, and what they purchase.

Makarov's greatest achievement—and his biggest spy.

"You hear anything?"

In the darkened glass, his reflection lifts his head from where it was bowed over a netpad, angry eyes skimming through the abundance of articles, and fixes themselves on you. Narrowing.

"Hear what?"

"What else?" He huffs. Wrong answer. "Anything about this when you were at the club."

You haven't been back since that night, offering excuses to your watchman, and glorified chauffeur as to why you couldn't go.

"No," you say and hate the way your mind immediately flashes back to that man. "Nothing really."

He stands up from his chair—throne, really—and lays his palms flat on the surface of his chrome-plated desk. It sparks to life under his fingertips, LED lights flaring through the wires embedded into the grain. A holographic menu in net blue pops up in front of him.

The glass inverts the image, but you could make out the familiar cage anywhere.

"You left your post for a while. Borodin said you slipped away from him."

It's not outright accusatory yet, but you catch the paper-thin wisps of suspicion in his tone all the same.

It doesn't surprise you when he follows it up with, "so, where'd you go?"

"I saw someone," you shrug. "Wanted to get a better look."

"Who was it?"

"I don't know." It's not a lie. Not the whole truth, either, and you think he senses that.

"It wouldn't happen to be a police officer, would it? This stupid shit—," he lifts his hand, sweeping it across the articles drifting by in the side of the screen before laying it over his brow. "—could end me. And the timing, too."

Words bubble in your throat. You don't know what compels you to speak them aloud—maybe the needle of humour weaving through the conflicting tangle of everything gnarling inside of your chest—but they tumble from your lips without any regard to who, exactly, you're speaking to.

"Maybe once you're gone, I won't have to worry about my debt anymore."

The hand rubbing his forehead stills.

You tense, teeth sinking into your tongue until you taste blood. Stupid.

"Is that what you think, kitten?" Slowly, he lifts his head, hand sliding down until it covers his jaw. His eyes are burning. "You don't owe a debt to me—you owe a debt to the Inner Circle. Not the Horsemen, not Zakhaev. But to us."

You turn from the window with a sharp jerk, eyes widening. Despair sinks its claws into your jugular.

"You're an asset. An investment. The technology used to save your life is unprecedented. Do you think we'll just let you go? Do you know how long it'll take to pay your debt off, kitten? Five hundred and thirty-six years—and you're barely paying off the interest as it is."

Makarov often has his lackeys do the intimation for him—Anatoly in particular—while he hides behind the mask of a charismatic innovator just looking to improve the world. It's rare he ever raises his voice, or his hand.

This, the picture of anger perched behind his chrome throne, is the closest to something true to his real self than you'd ever seen before. Anger. Bitterness. Contempt.

He moves slowly around the desk, and you feel every second of it like a blunt stab to your chest. Trepidation, fear.

You've become so complacent with what Makarov pretends to be that you forget who he really was.

When he finally reaches you, the storm cloud in his gaze clears into something like sadistic victory. Vindication.

He leans down, his chin brushing over your cheek.

"You better hope nothing happens to me. I'm the only reason you're not being made to work for us as well. You like your freedom, yes? Then I suggest you pray I stay alive, kitten."

You stare at the image on the screen, and try not to let yourself weep at the sight of it so bluntly looming before you.

A debt owed to the Inner Circle.

A contact promising payment in addition to employment to them. The handler of the current account is Vladimir Makarov.

Maybe it's naïvety, ignorance, but you've always assumed the loan was only to Makarov. He was the first person you saw when you woke up—the first real one, anyway—and something about him seemed almost too big for the small room you were housed in. Too surreal. Everything felt new and strange and familiar and old and comforting and—

And then he said:

You know how this works, don't you?

You didn't. Or maybe, once upon a time, you did, but everything inside of your head was scraped clean with a scaple until the walls were barren and empty. Void of any substance.

Who you were was a black hole. A vaccum.

Makarov was the one who filled the vacant space with purpose. With meaning.

And you hated him for it.

Made to pretend to be whatever he decided fit his needs; a puppet for his amusement.

He owned you.

Made you whole again.

In that, you just assumed that he was the one who footed the exorbitant bill to resuscitate you from whatever hell you clawed out of, narrowly avoiding the gnashing maw of death. It made sense.

And in many ways, you just assumed that he would die.

A corrupt CEO. They're rampant here. Heads roll all the time, and you were content with waiting it out until someone put the barrel of a gun to his forehead and told him his tyranny was up. Freedom drenched in the blood of your financier.

Fitting, isn't it?

You were pulled from the blood-soaked cobblestone, and given a second breath of life by his hands.

Born in blood.

(Born in blood. Died in blood. Born in blood. Freed.)

You slip the chip into your phone, breath held in your throat as the calling card loads.

It's archaic. No one uses these chips anymore except old people, and the government. Untraceable. It's good for a single contact number only. The sight of it makes you huff—a shaky bloom of mirth in your chest.

It feels out of place. You trample it down, hiding it behind a mask of indifference, nonchalance. The same veneer Makarov glues to his own.

(Something you'd rather not think about.)

The screen idles for a moment. No answer. A sham call. A fakeout. A—

He doesn't appear on the screen. It's blank. In the black surface, your sallow face stares back. Traitor.

"I was wonderin' when you'd call."

"You expected me to?"

"If you were smart, you would have."

"If I was actually smart, I wouldn't be calling you at all."

"Mm, I'm glad you did," he murmurs, voice tinny and thin through the speaker. "A debt that big won't just go away…"

It stings. You swallow it down. "Yeah. Guess you got that right."

"What's wrong?"

"Aw, do you care? That's sweet."

"I've been called many things, love. Sweet ain't one of them." He shifts. You hear the clink of his metal fingers tapping over the ancient phone in his hand. A surly old man with an old chip. You stifle a laugh. It's ridiculous. You're ridiculous. This whole thing is—

"—Important that we find the link between the missing parts and Makarov. It might lead us to Alex, and—"

"Huh?" You blink. "I never said I'd—"

"Go see what you can dig up for me. I need something—a paper trail. I can't get into the black market, but you can."

"How do you know what?"

"Know a bit about you, love."

"How?"

"You ain't the only one with friends in high places." Another shift. The grind of metal against metal. "Now, are you in? Or are you gonna try and pay this debt off on your own, hmm? How long will that take you? Few hundred years?"

"Makarov will kill me if I do this—"

"And how many people will be killed if you don't?"

You don't answer. Can't. That responsibility shouldn't be on your head.

He sighs. A rough huff of static through the line.

"If you want that debt gone, meet me at the location m'gonna send you. You called for a reason. Makarov can't touch you if you owe him nothing. Their ship is sinkin', love. You gonna go down with them? Be a prisoner your whole life? Or are you gonna be smart an' abandon ship while you still have the chance, because once I leave that place, m'not gonna answer again. You'll be on your own."

"I'll think about it."

"Make the smart choice, love."

He doesn't give you anything else. The line goes dead with a click. Silence. Unbearable. Stifling. It permeates in the air around you, buzzing like static. A disturbance in the airwaves. A rustle in the stagnant life you've been sloughing through for the last three years.

A moment later, your phone chimes. A map appears. Some remote bar on the outskirts of the city—the only place Makarov's influence doesn't reach.

Make the smart choice. It's your freedom or your head.

#captain john price x reader #john price x reader #captain price #john price #captain john price #captain price x you #captain john price x you #finally #she's here #and she is a behemoth #price cod #cod but make it Cyberpunk #cyberpunk au #cod au #cod cyberpunk #captain john price x cyberpunk au

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greeenchrysanthemums · 10 months ago

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Appearances for the GG rivals au character.

I am no artist, so these will simply be written descriptions with a few images thrown in here and there. These are all subject to change at any time, as well, since this is still in its early planning stages.

For Gem, I imagine she looks a lot like in this gorgeous fanart, except her dress has slits up the side to allow for easier movement and her hair is a low bun with a braid wrapping around the front of her head, like this.

Scott and Impulse wear armour similar to how applestruda draws it in her au, with their cloths in shades of teal and yellow. Scott, I like to imagine, has long, back length hair, that he wears down and covering one eye. Impulse has shortly cropped hair and two little nubby horns that are tipped in black, as well as sharp clawed hands. Scott's teeth are sharp; no one quite knows why.

Grian's eyes are entirely black like a barn owl's and his hands end in sharp talons rather than nails. He doesn't have wings, not anymore at least. He wears a high collared red tunic and brown trousers, but both are rarely seen past the heavy, ankle length, black cloak he hides himself under, which is held closed by a silver brooch in the shape of an eye. The cloak has a hood but he never wears it. He always seems to be sliming, whether that smile is devious or genuine is up for debate. The brooch looks something like this, minus the blue center and the circlular details

Scar wears a similar black cloak, held closed by the same brooch, though he wears his with the hood up, and it has red flower detailing on the hem (so, similiar to his secret life look but its a full cloak). His eyes are still green, though, and he has a single grey streak in his brown hair. His tunic and trousers under the cloak are both black and he wears his shirt just a little bit too open at the top. He also always wears a smile, but pretty much everyone can agree it is deceptively kind.

Mumbo and Etho wear matching outfits, claiming it is professional since they share a job, but it is something they choose to do not something that is required of them (they are just silly, really). I imagine they are simple outfits consisting of white tunics with black trousers and thick, leather aprons on top (mumbo's is red and etho's is green). They both wear goggles and thick gloves, as well as chunky boots, all for safety since they work with explosives. Etho wears a black bandana on his lower his face. His goggles replace his headband in this look, being what keeps his hair out of his face. His scared eye is missing entirely; he does not have a false eye, it is just an empty socket. Mumbo wears his goggles around his neck when they are not on his face.

Bdubs dresses similarly, minus the apron and goggles, since he works out in the garder. His shirt is white, and he has brown trousers. Over that he wears a thick cloak that is almost always covered in some manner of flora and/or mud. He completes the look with a wide brimmed hat to protect him from the sun.

Cleo is also dresses similarly to Etho and Mumbo but her apron is a plain brown that is stained with soot. Her tunic sleeves are always rolled up to show off her strong arms and she doesn't wear her safety gloves nearly as much as she should, and she forgoes eye protection entirely. One of her eyes is missing (surprisingly not related to the lack of protective wear), replaced with a glass eye of a slightly different shade of green than her organic eye. Her hair is pulled into a much messier bun than Gem's, with frizzy stray hairs going every direction.

Ren and Martyn look like how they are typically drawn in third life fanart. Ren's eyes are red, as well as blood shot, and he almost always appears angry.

Pearl wears a white tunic with flared sleeves tucked into a pair of high waisted black trousers. Over this she has a deep, red cloak that stops at her waist. She has a crescent moon shaped birth mark on the left side of her face. She carries a sword around her waist. Her hair is always down and messy under her hood.

Bigb just looks like a baker, I am not sure how to describe it. But he always seems to have flour stains on his clothes no matter how hard he tries to wipe it off. Big strong arms for him as well.

Skizz wears the same armour as Scott and impulse, and his underclothes are black. The sleeves of his tunic are ripped off and he does not wear his gauntlets. He refuses to elaborate on why. He is a dove avian.

Tango wears a short sleeved red tunic and black trousers with big chunky boots. His hands are clawed, and his ears are pointed; both are tipped in a red to black gradient. His eyes are entirely red. He has a long tail that ends in a tuff of fire that doesn't seem to have any real heat.

Jimmy wears a blue tunic with a brown vest over it. Brown trousers and chunky boots. His sleeves are always rolled up and he is always covered in some manner of dirt, both because of the work he does on the farm, and from being very clumsy. He has bull horns, one of which is chipped. He also has a tail.

I still don't have set roles for joel and lizzie just yet so they do not have designs in mind either, unfortunately.

#GG rivals au #geminitay #grian #hermitcraft #life series

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tutyayilmazz · 1 year ago

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The sheer number of older and more experienced professionals involved in Måneskin introduces a tension between the rock conventions that characterize their songwriting and the fundamentally pop circumstances under which those songs are produced. They are four friends in a band, but that band is inside an enormous machine. From their perspective, though, the machine is good.

The American visitor to Rome arrives with certain preconceptions that feel like stereotypes but turn out to be basically accurate. There really are mopeds flying around everywhere, and traffic seems governed by the principle that anyone can be replaced. Breakfast is coffee and cigarettes. Despite these orthopedic and nutritional hazards, everyone is better looking — not literally everyone, of course, but statistically, as if whatever selective forces that emerge from urban density have had an extra hundred generations or so to work. And they really do talk like that, an emphatic mix of vowels, gestures and car horns known as “Italian.” To be scolded in this language by a driver who wants to park in the crosswalk is to realize that some popular ideas are actually true. Also, it is hot.

The triumphant return to Rome of Måneskin — arguably the only rock stars of their generation, and almost certainly the biggest Italian rock band of all time — coincided with a heat wave across Southern Europe. On that Tuesday in July the temperature hit 107 degrees. The Tiber looked thick, rippled in places and still in others, as if it were reducing. By Thursday morning the band’s vast management team was officially concerned that the night’s sold-out performance at the Stadio Olimpico would be delayed. When Måneskin finally took the stage around 9:30 p.m., it was still well into the 90s — which was too bad, because there would be pyro.

There was no opening act, possibly because no rock band operating at this level is within 10 years of Måneskin’s age. The guitarist Thomas Raggi played the riff to “Don’t Wanna Sleep,” the lights came up and 60,000 Italians screamed. Damiano David — the band’s singer and, at age 24, its oldest member — charged out in black flared trousers and a mesh top that bisected his torso diagonally, his heavy brow and hypersymmetrical features making him look like some futuristic nomad who hunted the fishnet mammoth. Victoria De Angelis, the bassist, wore a minidress made from strips of leather or possibly bungee cords. Raggi wore nonporous pants and a black button-down he quickly discarded, while Ethan Torchio drummed in a vest with no shirt underneath, his hair flying. For the next several minutes of alternately disciplined and frenzied noise, they sounded as if Motley Crüe had been cryogenically frozen, then revived in 2010 with Rob Thomas on vocals.

That hypothetical will appeal to some while repelling others, and which category you fall into is, with all due respect, not my business here. Rolling Stone, for its part, said that Måneskin “only manage to confirm how hard rock & roll has to work these days to be noticed,” and a viral Pitchfork review called their most recent album “absolutely terrible at every conceivable level.” But this kind of thumbs up/thumbs down criticism is pretty much vestigial now that music is free. If you want to know whether you like Måneskin — the name is Danish and pronounced MOAN-eh-skin — you can fire up the internet and add to the more than nine billion streams Sony Music claims the band has accumulated across Spotify, YouTube, et cetera. As for whether Måneskin is good, de gustibus non est disputandum, as previous Italians once said: In matters of taste, there can be no arguments.

You should know, though, that even though their music has been heard most often through phone and laptop speakers, Måneskin sounds better on a soccer field. That is what tens of thousands of fans came to the Stadio Olimpico on an eyelid-scorching Thursday to experience: the culturally-if-not-personally-familiar commodity of a stadium rock show, delivered by the unprecedented phenomenon of a stadium-level Italian rock band. The pyro — 20-foot jets of swivel-articulated flame that you could feel all the way up in the mezzanine — kicked in on “Gasoline,” a song Måneskin wrote to protest Vladimir Putin’s invasion of Ukraine. From a thrust platform in the center of the field, David poured his full emotive powers into the pre-chorus: “Standing alone on that hill/using your fuel to kill/we won’t take it standing still/watch us dance.”

The effect these words will have on President Putin is unknown. They capture something, though, about rock ’n’ roll, which has established certain conventions over the last seven decades. One of those conventions is an atmosphere of rebellion. It doesn’t have to be real — you probably don’t even want it to be — but neither can it seem too contrived, because the defining constraint of rock as a genre is that you have to feel it. The successful rock song creates in listeners the sensation of defying consensus, even if they are right in step with it.

The need to feel the rock may explain the documented problem of fans’ taste becoming frozen in whatever era was happening when they were between the ages of 15 and 25. Anyone who adolesced after Spotify, however, did not grow up with rock as an organically developing form and is likely to have experienced the whole catalog simultaneously, listening to Led Zeppelin at the same time they listened to Pixies and Franz Ferdinand — i.e. as a genre rather than as particular artists, the way my generation (I’m 46) experienced jazz. The members of Måneskin belong to this post-Spotify cohort. As the youngest and most prominent custodians of the rock tradition, their job is to sell new, guitar-driven songs of 100 to 150 beats per minute to a larger and larger audience, many of whom are young people who primarily think of such music as a historical artifact. Starting this month, Måneskin will take this business on a multivenue tour of the United States — a market where they are considerably less known — whose first stop is Madison Square Garden.

“I think the genre thing is like ... ” Torchio said to me backstage in Rome, making a gesture that conveyed translingual complexity. “We can do a metaphor: If you eat fish, meat and peanuts every day, like for years, and then you discover potatoes one day, you’ll be like: ‘Wow, potatoes! I like potatoes; potatoes are great.’ But potatoes have been there the whole time.” Rock was the potato in this metaphor, and he seemed to be saying that even though many people were just now discovering that they liked it, it had actually been around for a long time. It was a revealing analogy: The implication was that rock, like the potato, is here to stay; but what if rock is, like the potato in our age of abundance, comparatively bland and no longer anyone’s favorite?

Which rock song came first is a topic of disagreement, but one strong candidate is “Rocket 88,” recorded by Ike Turner and his Kings of Rhythym band in 1951. It’s about a car and, in its final verse, about drinking in the car. These themes capture the context in which rock ’n’ roll emerged: a period when household incomes, availability of consumer goods and the share of Americans experiencing adolescence all increased simultaneously.

Although and possibly because rock started as Black music, it found a gigantic audience of white teenagers during the so-called British Invasion of the mid-1960s (the Beatles, the Rolling Stones, the Who), which made it the dominant form of pop music for the next two decades. The stadium/progressive era (Journey, Fleetwood Mac, Foreigner) that now constitutes the bulk of classic-rock radio gave way, eventually, to punk (the Ramones, Patti Smith, Minor Threat) and then glam metal: Twisted Sister, Guns N’ Roses and various other hair-intensive bands that were obliterated by the success of Nirvana and Pearl Jam in 1991. This shift can be understood as the ultimate triumph of punk, both in its return to emotive content expressed through simpler arrangements and in its professed hostility toward the music industry itself. After 1991, suspicion of anything resembling pop became a mark of seriousness among both rock critics and fans.

It is probably not a coincidence that this period is also when rock’s cultural hegemony began to wane. As the ’90s progressed, larger and again whiter audiences embraced hip-hop, and the last song classified as “rock” to reach No. 1 on the Billboard Hot 100 was Nickelback’s “How You Remind Me” in 2001. The run of bands that became popular during the ’00s — the Strokes, the Killers, Kings of Leon — constituted rock’s last great commercial gasp, but none of their singles charted higher than No. 4. Let us say, then, that the era of rock as pop music lasted from 1951 to 2011. That’s a three-generation run, if you take seriously rock’s advice to get drunk and have sex in the car and therefore produce children at around age 20. Baby boomers were the generation that made rock a zillion-dollar industry; Gen X saved it from that industry with punk and indie, and millennials closed it all out playing Guitar Hero.

The members of Måneskin are between the ages of 22 and 24, situating them firmly within the cadre of people who understand rock in the past tense. De Angelis, the bassist, and Raggi, the guitarist, formed the band when they were both attending a music-oriented middle school; David was a friend of friends, while Torchio was the only person who responded to their Facebook ad seeking a drummer. There are few entry-level rock venues in Rome, so they started by busking on the streets. In 2017, they entered the cattle-call audition for the Italian version of “The X Factor.” They eventually finished as runners-up to the balladeer Lorenzo Licitra, and an EP of songs they performed on the show was released by Sony Music and went triple platinum.

In 2021, Måneskin won the Sanremo Music Festival, earning the right to represent Italy with their song “Zitti e Buoni” (whose title roughly translates to “shut up and behave”) in that year’s Eurovision Song Contest. This program is not widely viewed in the United States, but it is a gigantic deal in Europe, and Måneskin won. Not long after, they began to appear on international singles charts, and “I Wanna Be Your Slave” broke the British Top 10. A European tour followed, as well as U.S. appearances at festivals and historic venues.

This ascent to stardom was not unmarred by controversy. The Eurovison live broadcast caught David bending over a table offstage, and members of the media accused him of snorting cocaine. David insisted he was innocent and took a drug test, which he passed, but Måneskin and their management still seem indignant about the whole affair. It’s exactly this kind of incongruous detail — this damaging rumor that a rock star did cocaine — that highlights how the Italian music-consuming public differs from the American one. Many elements of Måneskin’s presentation, like the cross-dressing and the occasional male-on-male kiss, are genuinely upsetting to older Italians, even as they seem familiar or even hackneyed to audiences in the United States.

“They see a band of young, good-looking guys that are dressing up too much, and then it’s not pure rock ’n’ roll, because you’re not in a garage, looking ugly,” De Angelis says. “The more conservative side, they’re shocked because of how we dress or move onstage, or the boys wear makeup.”

She and her bandmates are caught between two demographics: the relatively conservative European audience that made them famous and the more tolerant if not downright desensitized American audience that they must impress to keep the ride moving. And they do have to keep it moving, because — like many rock stars before them — most of the band dropped out of high school to do this. At one point, Raggi told me that he had sat in on some classes at a university, “Just to try to understand, ‘What is that?’”

One question that emerged early in my discussions with Måneskin’s friendly and professional management team was whether I was going to say that their music was bad. This concern seemed related to the aforementioned viral Pitchfork review, in which the editor Jeremy Larson wrote that their new album, “RUSH!” sounds “like it’s made for introducing the all-new Ford F-150” and “seems to be optimized for getting busy in a Buffalo Wild Wings bathroom” en route to a score of 2.0 (out of 10). While the members of Måneskin seemed to take this review philosophically, their press liaisons were concerned that I was coming to Italy to have a similar type of fun.

Here I should disclose that Larson edited an essay I wrote for Pitchfork about the Talking Heads album “Remain in Light” (score: 10.0) and that I think of myself as his friend. Possibly because of these biases, I read his review as reflecting his deeply held and, among rock fans, widely shared need to feel the music, something that the many pop/commercial elements of “RUSH!” (e.g. familiar song structures, lyrics that seem to have emerged from a collaboration between Google Translate and Nikki Sixx, compulsive use of multiband compression) left him unable to do.

This perspective reflects the post-’90s rock consensus (PNRC) that anything that sounds too much like a mass-market product is no good. The PNRC is premised on the idea that rock is not just a structure of song but also a structure of relationship between the band and society. From rock’s earliest days as Black music, the real or perceived opposition between rocker and society has been central to its appeal; this adversarial relationship animated the youth and counterculture eras of the ’60s and then, when the economic dominance of mass-market rock made it impossible to believe in, provoked the revitalizing backlash of punk. Even major labels felt obliged to play into this paradoxical worldview, e.g. that period after Nirvana when the most popular genre of music was called “alternative.” Måneskin, however, are defined by their isolation from the PNRC. They play rock music, but operate according to the logic of pop.

In Milan, where Måneskin would finish their Italian minitour, I had lunch with the band, as well as two of their managers, Marica Casalinuovo and Fabrizio Ferraguzzo. Casalinuovo had been an executive producer working on “The X Factor,” and Ferraguzzo was its musical director; around the time that Måneskin broke through, Casalinuovo and Ferraguzzo left the show and began working with the stars it had made. We were at the in-house restaurant of Moysa, the combination recording studio, soundstage, rehearsal space, offices, party venue and “creative playground” that Ferraguzzo opened two months earlier. After clarifying that he was in no way criticizing major record labels and the many vendors they engaged to record, promote and distribute albums, he laid out his vision for Moysa, a place where all those functions were performed by a single corporate entity — basically describing the concept of vertical integration.

Ferraguzzo oversaw the recording of “RUSH!” along with a group of producers that included Max Martin, the Swedish hitmaker best known for his work with Backstreet Boys and Britney Spears. At Moysa, Ferraguzzo played for me Måneskin’s then-unreleased new single, “Honey (Are U Coming?)” which features many of the band’s signature moves — guitar and bass playing the same melodic phrases at the same time, unswung boogie-type rhythm of the post-Strokes style — but also has David singing in a higher register than usual. I listened to it first on studio monitors and then through the speaker of Ferraguzzo’s phone, and it sounded clean and well produced both times, as if a team of industry veterans with unlimited access to espresso had come together to perfect it.

“There’s hundreds of people working and talking about you and giving opinions,” De Angelis said at lunch. “So if you start to get in this loop of wanting to know and control and being anxious about it, it really ruins everything.” Here lies the conflict between what the PNRC wants from a band — resistance to outside influences, contempt for commerce, authenticity as measured in doing everything themselves — and what any sane 23-year-old would want, which is to have someone with an M.B.A. make all the decisions so she can concentrate on playing bass.

The other way Måneskin is isolated from the PNRC is geographic. Over the course of lunch, it became clear that they had encyclopedic knowledge of certain eras in American rock history but were only dimly aware of others. Raggi, for instance, loves Motley Crüe and has an album-by-album command of the Los Angeles hair-metal band Skid Row, which he and his bandmates seemed to understand were supposed to be guilty pleasures. But none of them had ever heard of Fugazi, the post-hardcore band whose hatred of major labels, refusal to sell merchandise and commitment to keeping ticket prices as low as possible set the standard for a generation of American rock snobs. In general, Måneskin’s timeline of influences seems to break off around 1990, when the rock most respected by Anglophone critics was produced by independent labels that did not have strong overseas distribution. It picks up again with Franz Ferdinand and the “emo” era of mainstream pop rock. This retrospect leaves them unaware of the indie/punk/D.I.Y. period that was probably most important in forming the PNRC.

The question is whether that consensus still matters. While snobs like Larson and me are overrepresented in journalism, we never constituted a majority of rock fans. That’s the whole point of being a snob. And snobbery is obsolete anyway; digital distribution ended the correlation between how obscure your favorite band was and how much effort you put into listening to them. The longevity of rock ’n’ roll as a genre, meanwhile, has solidified a core audience that is now between the ages of 40 and 80, rendering the fan-versus-society dimension of the PNRC impossible to believe. And the economics of the industry — in which streaming has reduced the profit margin on recorded music, and the closure of small venues has made stadiums and big auditoriums the only reliable way to make money on tour — have decimated the indie model. All these forces have converged to make rock, for the first time in its history, merely a way of writing songs instead of a way of life.

Yet rock as a cluster of signifiers retains its power around the world. In the same way everyone knows what a castle is and what it signifies, even though actual castles are no longer a meaningful force in our lives, rock remains a shared language of cultural expression even though it is no longer determining our friendships, turning children against their parents, yelling truth at power, et cetera. Also like a castle, a lot of people will pay good money to see a preserved historical example of rock or even a convincing replica of it, especially in Europe.

In Milan, the temperature had dropped 20 degrees, and Måneskin’s show at Stadio Giuseppe Meazza — commonly known as San Siro, the largest stadium in Italy, sold out that night at 60,000 — was threatened by thunderstorms instead of record-breaking heat. Fans remained undaunted: Many camped in the parking lot the night before in order to be among the first to enter the stadium. One of them was Tamara, an American who reported her age as 60½ and said she had skipped a reservation to see da Vinci’s “Last Supper” in order to stay in line. “When you get to knocking on the door, you kind of want to do what you want,” she said.

The threat of rain was made good at pretty much the exact moment the show began. The sea of black T-shirts on the pitch became a field of multicolored ponchos, and raindrops were bouncing visibly off the surface of the stage. David lost his footing near the end of “I Wanna Be Your Slave,” briefly rolling to his back, while De Angelis — who is very good at making lips-parted-in-ecstasy-type rock faces — played with her eyes turned upward to the flashing sky, like a martyr.

The rain stopped in time for “Kool Kids,” a punk-inspired song in which David affects a Cockney accent to sing about the vexed cultural position of rock ’n’ roll: “Cool kids, they do not like rock/they only listen to trap and pop.” These are probably the Måneskin lyrics most quoted by music journalists, although they should probably be taken with a grain of salt, considering that the song also contains lyrics like “I like doin’ things I love, yeah” and “Cool kids, they do not vomit.”

“Kool Kids” was the last song before the encore, and each night a few dozen good-looking 20-somethings were released onto the stage to dance and then, as the band walked off, to make we’re-not-worthy bows around Raggi’s abandoned guitar. The whole thing looked at least semichoreographed, but management assured me that the Kool Kids were not professional dancers — just enthusiastic fans who had been asked if they wanted to be part of the show. I kept trying to meet the person in charge of wrangling these Kool Kids, and there kept being new reasons that was not possible.

The regular kids, on the other hand, were available and friendly throughout. In Rome, Dorca and Sara, two young members of a Måneskin fan club, saw my notebook and shot right over to tell me they loved the band because, as Sara put it, “they allow you to be yourself.” When asked whether they felt their culture was conservative in ways that prevented them from being themselves, Dorca — who was 21 and wearing eyeglasses that looked like part of her daily wardrobe and a mesh top that didn’t — said: “Maybe it turns out that you can be yourself. But you don’t know that at first. You feel like you can’t.”

Here lies the element of rock that functions independently from the economics of the industry or the shifting preferences of critics, the part that is maybe independent from time itself: the continually renewed experience of adolescence, of hearing and therefore feeling it all for the first time. But how disorienting must those feelings be when they have been fully monetized, fully sanctioned — when the response to your demand to rock ’n’ roll all night and party every day is, “Great, exactly, thank you.” In a culture where defying consensus is the dominant value, anything is possible except rebellion. It must be strange, in this post-everything century, to finally become yourself and discover that no one has any problem with that.

#måneskin #maneskin #i had a free nyt article so here you go #the article is so painfully a middle aged american perspective #which the author admits #and like thinking the fans on stage is staged?!??#or like how there can be no more authentic rebellion - maybe that's what it's like from your cushy position #but doesn't go into tdi at all #the stuff about the industry surrounding them i agree and its worth the read though

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leatheredgirls · 3 days ago

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Model: Danny

Site: Feti Style.

#Model #Danny #Fety Style #Black Leather Flared Trousers #Black Charol Pumps #Platforms #Pink Satin Bra #Black Leather Bolero Jacket #Leather #High Heels #Skinny #Brunette #Skintights #Possing #Tease #Linger

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womenofwrestlingfashion · 1 year ago

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Summerslam 8/5/23

Dakota wore the Tacked Vegan Leather Flared Trousers in Black from Manière de Voir ($140)

#Dakota Kai #cheree crowley #Tacked Vegan Leather Flared Trousers #trouser #trousers #black #manière de voir #women of wrestling fashion #wwe #Summerslam

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femmefatalevibe · 1 year ago

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Femme Fatale Guide: Fall Wardrobe Essentials

Staple Tees:

**Purchase in Modal, Pima cotton, or a cotton-cashmere blend**

Fitted crewneck tees (long-sleeves/tees & tanks for layering)

Relaxed fit long-sleeve tees

Turtleneck long-sleeve top (fitted & relaxed fit options)

Contour bodysuits

Blouses/Shirting:

Silk button-down blouse

Cotton button-down blouse

Silk shell top/t-shirts/camis (for layering)

Sculpt knit top(s)

Self-tie wrap blouse

Shirred boatneck, mock neck, or cowlneck silk blouse(s)

Leather button-down

Knitwear:

Thin cashmere/wool crewneck sweater (fitted/relaxed fit)

Thin cashmere/wool turtleneck sweater

Chunky relaxed-fit cable knit sweater

Knit polo-neck sweater

Cashmere sweater vest (crewneck, v-neck, and/or turtleneck)

Mockneck cashmere/wool sweater

Cashmere long-sleeve sweater dress

Cashmere/knit skirt (mini, midi, or maxi - depending on your personal preferences)

Sophisticated coordinating knit set (top/pants or skirt of your choice)

Casual knit set (top/pullover and relaxed fit pants)

Cashmere cardigan

Cable knit cardigan (doubles as a light jacket)

Bottoms:

Black straight-leg jeans

Black bootcut/flared jeans

Black straight/bootcut trousers

Wide-leg trousers (I love a solid black, black pinstripe, and black with lace-up detail selection)

High-waisted leather pants

Split hem trousers

Stretch jersey/cashmere pants (straight-leg or flared)

Quilted leather/tweed mini skirt

Knit/wool mini and/pencil skirt

Leather skirt (mini or midi)

Silk midi skirt

Dresses/Jumpsuits:

Knit/sweater dress

Little black dress (shift dress/A-line cuts are great)

Blazer dress/jumpsuit

Slip dress (for layering)

Minimal black jumpsuit ("LBJ")

Leather and/or denim dress or jumpsuit

Jackets & Outerwear:

Black tailored blazer

Leather blazer

Tweed jacket

Trench coat

Leather moto/cropped/bomber jacket

Black wool coat

Raincoat ( I like Rains for high-quality options on the affordable side that are still built to last for several seasons)

Statement jacket/coat

Footwear:

Sleek flat/low-heel black boots with a pointed-toe or square-toe silhouette (I love Vagabond, Jeffrey Campbell, Vince Camuto, and Sam Edelman for more affordable, high-quality options)

Black loafers/sleek black flats

Black lace-up boots

Black heeled boots

Black pumps

White sneakers

Rain boots (I recommend the Melissa Shoes Welly/Grip/Step boots or a stylish, sustainable, and more affordable option)

Accessories:

White/black ankle & crew socks

Black control top tights

High-waisted shapewear shorts

Chunky/small chain necklaces & bracelets

Simple pendant necklace(s)

Pearl necklace

Simple diamond studs

Crystal drop earrings

Minimalist bangles

Stackable rings

A sleek, minimalist black tote (can fit a laptop for work/travel)

Black shoulder bag

Small black bag (top handle, crossbody, etc.)

Statement bag/evening bag

Cashmere scarf

Silk/decorative scarf

Fingerless/touch-screen friendly, lightweight gloves

Lingerie/Loungewear:

Seamless bra/underwear

Lace bra/underwear

Matching pullover cotton sweatshirt/sweatpants

Knit or jersey cotton top/lounge pants set

Luxurious pajama set (silk, Tencel, cashmere, etc.)

A to-die-for piece of lingerie like a lace slip/silk teddy

Silk or cozy robe

Cozy open-back slippers

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deadboyfriendd · 2 years ago

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Cochise l: Nellie

Summary: A dark stranger blows into town, bringing Hell with him. Little did he know, Hell was already here, in the form of you. The air here is stale and the residents stagnant. This town was as wild as the west was able, and you are the most wild thing about it.

Warnings: Fem!Reader, Outlaw/Doc Holliday!Eddie Munson x Reader, wild west/Tombstone AU!, Sherrif!Steve (he has a mustache), guns and gun violence, death of minor original characters, period-appropriate death, drug use, angst, fluff, save a horse, ride a cowboy, wet dream, smut included, feminine rage embodied and I gave her a gun

My content is 18+ Minors DNI

Word Count: 4.4k

Author's Note: This is for Drac <3 thank you for beta reading!

Find the series masterlist here!

When the dust blew in from the East, Hell came with it.

And Hell hath no fury like a woman’s reproach.

1890. From the ashes of the Civil War rose a phoenix of economic expansion and spurs the great migration west. Farmers, ranchers, prospectors, killers and thieves seek their fortunes. Cattle drovers turned cow towns into armed camps with murder-rates higher than those of modern-day New York or Los Angeles. Silver is discovered in Arizona, and the prospectors dragged their young wives and their Parisian fashions with them. Siphoned together out of greed, hundreds of Texas outlaws banded together to forge a new way forward, resulting in the birth of early organized crime.

Out of this chaos came the great legendary lawmen, and none as mean as you.

The air was stale this time of year, heavy enough to flatten a lizard, when the turn of the season brought the green back to the ironwoods and the snakes back from their hides. When it brought the heat back with a haughty laughter and a heart full of vengeance. The sun cast down a glare that warped the mirage of the desert backdrop of Cochise County, turning from a comforting radiation to a wasp sting when the night turned. The cereus blossom fragrant with rot that filled the stagnant night air and its timely beauty– and ultimate untimely death.

He reaped a certain morosity with him, spurs scraping across the floor like a toll, steps sure as snow in the northern country– as they dragged the dust from his heels eastward. His skin was of alabaster, and his clothes of obsidian. He was not from here, and it drew a shudder from the mesquite doors upon their sun-dried hinges. The dirty faces of prospectors, drunks, and cattle drovers turning to peer at him under sweat-laden brows.

The Whispering Sands was not the ritzy bar, no, that was the bar located in the lobby of the Grand Hotel up the holler. No, Your dealer was as straight as a Christmastime wreath, your doors hung as crooked as your dealer, and if you didn’t carry when you walked through, you had spares. There would be no clean men and women with their Parisian dresses and costly hat pins occupying this place. This was the lowest of the low.

He peers at you from under the brim of a coal-stained, honest-to-God gunslinger wool Stetson, lined with the hammered silver and turquoise-inlaid band. It laid flat across the top and around the brim. You hadn’t seen one like it since your wedding night on the ritzy hardwood grounds of the Grand Hotel herself. He takes a seat in a singular fell swoop, frock coat flaring outwards and casting a soft breeze over your presence. Single-breasted, large notch lapels. Beneath it, his dark pinstripe trousers folded under the weight of his body, the silver brocade vest above the black cravat remaining stiff. From where your eye connected with him, you could see the nickel plating of a Colt 1873 single action revolver, sheathed under the oiled ellipse of the leather-bound shoulder holster. It was apparent he wasn’t here to push cattle.

It was a fleeting gaze, the kind that rattle each of your vertebra and settled in your coccyx. A single golden curl slipped over a broad shoulder and swung heavy in the tension between your two bodies.

There was a resonant patriarchal tenor that buzzed amongst the patrons in this space, tense on the outcome and flat-lining in deliverance. They tried to avert wandering gazes from this new resident— strung together words in staccato, interrupted by morbid curiosity and on-looking eyes. Michael Doten– amicably monickered “Mudsill”, shattered this hum like china. He was a worm of a man, slimy in all of the worst ways, and, on this day in particular, aptly under the impression of laudanum and drink. He shared these sympathies with his own father– a man no more than fifteen years his senior.

He slinked through the door with the demeanor of an old tom-cat, crooked in stride and greasy to the touch— not that you could fathom anyone wanting to touch him at all. He demanded a house whiskey with a slovenly belch– a concoction made from your own sarsaparilla, burnt raw sugar, and chewing tobacco.

“Michael, I’d say you’ve about had enough today.” You chided, firm in your answer. The stranger peered a doting gaze towards you, then turned it toward ‘Ol Mudsill from a downturned hat– wistful in demeanor and daring in residence. He watched as Michael cast a thumb of brown saliva onto your floor, intentionally ignoring the existence of the spitoon a mere few feet from it.

He sneered towards you through leather-laden eyelids, a protuberance straight from the aforementioned spittoon, and filled with piss and vinegar, “Now,” He started, “ – if I wanted an old bitch telling me what I can and can’t drink, I would have considered marrying.” It was a slimy statement with a profound lack of remorse. It dripped from the gaps of his rotting teeth like a tar.

“I wouldn’t marry you, even if I was fixin’ to face death herself.” It wasn’t the first time you had denied him a drink, nor was it the first time he had spoken ill toward you. You doubted it would also be the last. You were a harum-scarum, devil-may-care woman, tough as nails and pretty as a mink stole.

“You don’t listen too good, now do you?” Mudsill spit back, standing now. Your fingers grazed the pearl handles of the Remington Model 1890 tucked away in the fold of your dresses. You hoped to God you didn’t have to use it.

Before ‘Ol Mudsill could think of something to say back, the dark stranger stood, “That’s no way to talk to a lady.”

“Is that a fact?” Mudsill raises a wiry brow towards the man, standing erect in front of him.

“Yeah, that’s a fact.” He said back, quietly. It was a discerning quiet, the kind where you figure trouble might be brewing.

“Well, for a man that don’t go heels, you run your mouth kinda reckless there, don’t ‘ya?” The stranger said, standing a little more erect– like he was fixing for trouble, though, by the context of the rest of the conversation, you’d say trouble had already been brewing. Now, you waited for the pot to boil over, “No need to go heel to get the bulge on a tub like you, huh?”

Mudsill glared toward him though tight lids, a reckless abandon only a drunk could possess, “Is that a fact?”

“That’s a fact.”

“Well, I’m ‘real scared.” Musill replied with a bobbling nod of his head, reaching for the firearm tucked away behind his waistband.

“Damn right, you’re scared. I can see that in your eyes.” The stranger followed the movement of his hand momentarily, eyes settling over the worn wood of the stock before meeting back up with his eyes, “Yeah, go ahead, skin it. Skin that smoke-wagon and see what happens.”

“Listen Mister, I’m gettin’ awful tired of you–” He was cut off, the stranger landing a stinging, open-palmed blow to his face.

“I’m gettin’ tired of your gas, now jerk that pistol and go to work.” Mudsill stared back, stunned. Frozen like a scared lizard. Another blow. “I said throw down, boy.” A third blow landed across his cheek, harder this time. You could see where the blood filled his mouth and covered his teeth. “You gonna do something or just stand there and bleed?”

“No?” The stranger raised an eyebrow, reaching upwards to put a forceful hand on mudsill’s shoulder, “Now, come on, Junior.”

The wire snapped behind ‘Ol Mudsill’s eyes, and with a sleight of hand, he reached for the worn pistol tucked into his overcoat. The dark stranger was fast, but you were faster. The pearl grips cold and smooth against the sweat of your palms. Quickly and in one motion, you stepped out from the bar, hand forced steady only in fear alone.

“You’re bluffing.” Michael sneered towards you, taking a step forward, closer to you with the barrel now in your direction. It was enough for the stranger to bear his arms as well, though, he wouldn’t need them today. The barrel met Michael’s forehead.

“I don’t bluff.” Your thumb met the hammer, pulling it back enough for a deafening swell click, “Now your family may be back to rush me, but that won’t stop me from blowing a canoe through your head first, y’hear?”

His eyes widened, and he pulled the barrel back from you, finger leaving the sheath of the trigger and thumb only staying tucked around the grip enough to keep it held.

“Don’t come back here. Ever.” You ordered, and he nodded slightly.

“Yes’m”

The stranger spoke then, pistol still planted firmly against the back of the offender, “And you’re gonna drop that weapon right here, Michael.” He ordered.

The worn colt clattered against the floor as he tossed it from his waist-height to the ground. The stranger took this as the opportunity to grab Michael by the collar and drag him out the front doors like a calf. You could see the durst stir from outside, but didn’t sense a further commotion. You sat idly in one of your stools, letting free an exasperated sigh as you threw your head down against the bar. You didn’t sign up for this when you found yourself out west.

You felt the stock of a pistol press into the meat of your upper arm, “Here. Keepsake. Hang it over the bar, Nellie.” The stranger spoke back to you, sliding the firearm across the worn mesquite bar top.

You raised a brow at him, more at the moniker, but also at his enthusiasm, “Nellie?”

“I had a horse like you once,” He released a breathy laugh between his words, maybe more nervous at the fact that he was comparing you to a horse, “ —even after she broke she was meaner than hell, but prettier than a mink stole. It’s a pleasure, Mrs–”

He thought it was foolish, comparing you to that mean old mare, but he didn’t have time to dote on it before you stopped him mid-sentence.

“Ms.” You corrected.

He couldn’t help the way his eyes flitted down to the ring on your finger, a single thin gold band that he dwelled on for just long enough for you to notice the cogs attempting to turn in his head.

“Dead.” You clarified, and he felt his heart contract as the word left your lips.

“Sorry to hear that.” He dips his head low, only now taking off the Stetson to greet you properly, “Name’s Munson. Edward Munson.”

You shook your head, forcing that still-bruising ache away to push a smile, “Ain’t no changin’, may God have willed it, Mr. Munson.”

He matched your smile, handsome cheeks creasing deeply around the curvature of his mouth, “Just Edward will do, ma’am.”

You pulled open the humidor, nimble fingers gracing along the stack of cigars beneath its lid. You chose the one with the cleanest-looking wrapping, one that looked sufficient enough as a thank-you, before offering it to him. He took it with a nod of his head, thick fingers wrapping around the base gently before pulling the kerosene vase near him. You watched the smoke roll from between his lips in a vapid crescendo, all too graceful and all too beautiful.

“I take it you're not a prospector?” You questioned him gently, voice sure, yet smaller than his resonating alto.

He laughed softly, the kind that heaves itself from the chest. Hearty, “No ma'am.”

“Then how does someone like you find yourself in a place like this?” You leaned an elbow on the bar, chin resting firmly in the warmth of your palm. You tried to ignore the sweat building between the flesh.

He looked down at the cigar between his fingers, twirling it around and feeling the paper it was rolled in, “Well I find I could ask you the same thing–”

The bell above the door was shrill in the staleness of the air, the resonance of the prior entanglement floating back up in a cloud in an attempt to re-settle over the old furniture like silt. The man that waded through its wake was tall, but not gangly, no, he did not share the demeanor of a scarecrow. He looked like he meant business.

You pulled your attention away from Edward for a brief moment, your eyes tearing from his personage and settling over the familiar face, “Hello, Sheriff.”

“Hello, ma’am.” The sheriff tipped his hat towards you in greeting, peering briefly at the man sat at the bar in front of you, “‘Ol Mudsill seems pretty shaken up, did somethin’ happen again?”

“Nothin that Edward here couldn’t handle.” You watched as his eyes flicked back and forth between you and Edward, like he was trying to piece a puzzle together but there were too many missing pieces, “Sheriff, this is Edward Munson, just unloaded from the train in Tucson.”

“Pleasure’s all mine.” He reached a broad hand out to meet with the sheriff’s.

He accepted the offer, hands locked together in a firm grip, “Steve Harrington.”

“Pleasure.” Edward mentioned, politely.

“You have a place to stay, Edward?” He asked, hand still interlocked with his for a brief moment.

“Not as of yet. Know of anyone housing?”

“I’d say the Grand Hotel just across the way.”

The walk to the other side of the road is brief, but the sun beat down against Eddie’s back like a brand– the eyes that followed his movement, the hands that held the iron. The dust kicked up behind him and collected at the bases of his boots seemed to slow his stride as he sunk into its softness. He would have to have them polished tomorrow.

Steve turned to him, boots casting a hollow thud as they stepped up onto the decking of The Grand Hotel, “I am inclined to ask, what exactly happened back there?”

Eddie cleared his throat, righting himself, “Just some drunk. Got all riled up when she wouldn’t serve him and started waving his gun around.”

Steve shook his head, removing his hat to run a finger through the hair beneath it, sand ripplying against his scalp beneath his finger, “Christ, well, thank you for handling that for her. She’s been through too much this year.”

“She dealt with that right on her own, sheriff, the only part I took part in was getting him out.”

Their boots made a clunk against the sun-rotted wood on the staircase of The Grand Hotel, stairs creaking in affliction. There was a moment of silence between the two men, tense and fleeting, like there was still something to be said.

“Her husband died last spring.” Steve finally mentioned, understanding that it wasn’t his place to tell.

“She mentioned it.” Steve felt a relief at him knowing. He didn’t want to be the one to have to bear the shock of the statement.

He sighed before continuing, “Shot and killed on that bar floor. ‘Couple of bandoleros robbing the place.”

“Chist–- She seemed capable.” Eddie mentioned to him, raking his hair back under his hat. He felt the sweat bead around where the band met his skin.

“But still, no woman should ever have to bury her husband.” The sheriff said, reaching up to place nimble hands on his hips, “‘Specially not that young.”

The Grand Hotel is the essence of luxury in the west. Well, as luxurious as they could ship by train. Mahogany covered the expanse of the palace in a grandeur scale, only being broken by the pin-striped wallpaper covering the upper half of the wayne-scotted wall on the second floor. The taxidermied elk that hung above the bartop was shipped from the northern country, as were many of the axis and whitetail deer that hung on other walls.

This seemed to be the only place in this town that a fine layer of dust hadn’t settled over.

The velveteen nature of the drapery that hung over the stage to the left in a heavy abismality had remained nearly untouched by the traces of the desert around it. The gold of the drawstrings that held them back still contained the luster under the light.

He couldn’t help but to search for you in the madness of coiled, unabashedly tentative curls piled on the heads of the women in the large bustles that scraped between tables and each other. You looked like you belonged here, but he knew where you would be.

This night’s show had ended already, the lingering patrons also taking residence within the palace. The backing curtain drawn to a close and the actors retired to their quarters. Marlowe’s Doctor Faustus, overrun, overplayed. Edward thought about it. Of all the things in the world to know, why learn The Devil’s craft? He figured if it was the only thing left to know, he’d probably learn it, too.

There is a man of about five foot, ten inches sat at the bar, elbows rested against the glossy finish of the bartop. He is a burly man, Eddie can see that even from his sitting position. Steve guides Eddie towards him, taking his own seat next to him. Eddie stayed standing.

He looks back behind him, Steve muttering a few words that Eddie couldn't seem to hear over the drabble of lobby patrons, “Milt. County Marshall.”

He sticks a rough hand out, and Eddie takes it in a firm clasp.

“Edward Munson.” He shakes his hand once, Milt was a man of few words.

Steve buys Eddie a drink. A golden bourbon, not watered down like many of the bars out west did for reserve. Real golden bourbon. An import. A thanks.

They settled on a less-occupied corner of the palace, one that lacked faro tables and drunk patrons. On the opposite side of the baby grande that played anything its player knew how.

“Her husband was a good man.” Steve said between sips, sweat dripping down the crystalline glass like glitter, “Too good if you’d ask me. It’s what got him killed in the first place.”

He felt the pang in his chest, a tightening of muscles like tears, “It’s a shame. Pretty woman like that having to run that place by her lonesome.”

Steve chucked a bit in agreement, looking back over his shoulder like you would somehow appear, “That isn’t by our choice. She could have her pick if she wanted it.” He took another sip of his drink, and Eddie knew he was right. You were pretty, sullen skin like satin, hair like ribbon. He’d pay all of the money in his pocket just to touch.

“She doesn’t?” Eddie questioned, looking over to meet Steve’s eyes.

“I’d reckon not.”

He tried not to think about it, instead focusing on the piano. He watched the woman sat on top, the way the lace of her undergowns flowed upwards with the swing of her ankles. He watched the man play with skilled– albeit drunk– fingers.

This place was lively, perhaps a little too lively for the hour. People still yelling obscenities and praises over faro, ice in glasses. He felt the sweat from the glass beneath his fingers, and it matched the band of it building beneath his cap. His collar felt tight, like someone had been pulling it from the back. Shouldn’t it have gotten cooler when the sun went down?

“I’d reckon I’d better turn in for the night.” He said suddenly, placing the glass down on the bar in front of him, about a milliliter of fluid left watered-down and pooling at the bottom.

He ascended the mahogany staircase to his quarters, where he would retire for the night. However, as he stripped himself of his frock coat and underclothes, he couldn’t help to peer towards the luminescent glow coming from The Whispering Sands upper floor across the bend.

The curtains billowed outwards towards the street below, casting a light over the sand beneath it like a halo. White linen backlit by yellow butane lighting. And there you sat, all woman. He’d have half a mind to buy you some night clothes, and the other half a mind to burn them if you even had them.

He watched the way your skin rippled at your lower back as your bare skin pressed against your vanity stool, and the way your skin stretched over your shoulder blades as you pulled your hair to the side, raking through it with the brush in front of you. Your lips fell into a supple pout in concentration, and your lashes kissed your cheeks as you looked down. He could feel the windowsill digging into his palms, it grounded him– kept him from free-floating into the stagnant desert air.

The Grand Hotel is a loud place, and it never sleeps. The faro games did not stop on his account, and he didn’t expect them to. He closes his eyes, a glass breaks. A fight breaks out downstairs in a triad of commotion, shuffling, and yelling. This was the first time he had been in a bed in days, yet, it felt horrendously unceremonious. Sleep would not evade him in the way he willed it.

The flooring creaked, drunk patrons hit the wall outside of his quarters with intense, muffled thuds. Two people in the suit next to him were clearly of relation. He tried to ignore the way the oak headboard creaked and hit the wall in a rhythmic fashion. He tried his hardest not to think of you.

This place did not sleep, and he knew he wouldn’t either. So instead, Edward collected his hat and gun, pulling his trousers back on and lazily doing his shirt back up.

The night air had cooled some, less blistering than when the sun was out, yet it remained stale. He walked a bit, eyes still shimmering with the adjustment of light from the palace to the stark darkness of the desert. Light traveled a lot further here, darkness even further. The hum of the palace dimmed as the distance between them grew, air heavy like a barrier that stopped the noise from traveling.

He settled himself in the soft sand beneath him, back planted firmly against the knotty base of that twisted old ironwood. Someone else still awake at this unholy hour plucked delicately at old piano keys– these ones slightly more out of tune and reverberated off of the walls with a static hum that resonated through the otherwise empty streets. Sleep evaded in a thankless percussion.

And there you were.

He allowed his fingers to trail over the delicate expanse of your shoulder, brushing soft curls over its bridge. Soft presses of his mouth trailed from your year to the valley of your clavicle. He pressed your gowns down your shoulder as he went, the loose garment sliding off with ease.

In your glorious, supple nature. All woman all the time. Your hands, nimble and soft, were forceful against his chest as you pushed him back against plush white linens. Fingers as sure as death and as right as rain. The haze from the butane lamp cast a glow around you, baby hairs illuminating around your head like a halo.

Slowly now, but with an urgency, you right yourself in between his knees, undoing the buttons of his shirt in a way that made him want to beg just to feel a finger brush against his skin. He whined as he watched you with wide eyes.

His buckle made impressions on the inside of your thigh, a welcome breeze blew through the open window, gracing the overlaying flesh in a ritual of human intimacy. Songs of “Oh- Gods” and small giggles creating perfect songs- a gathering drum backing and an underlying hum of the desert around you. You could feel his hands on your back, fingers his fingers unwrapping you from linen bed sheet confines and introducing you to your own bedroom like an heirloom– a home in which you yourself haunted. The palms of your hands feeling the smooth surface of stone beneath the skin, and the dewey droplets from his own flesh dampened them with a waxy residue.

His fingers pressed firmly into the plush of your outer thighs, and your skin was soft. Calves skin, another import. Too soft for this place. Too soft for this sadness.

“So soft.” He whispered, voice a tenor to its usual pitch.

He watched where your bodies connected, the way you slid up and down on him, the way his fingers rippled your skin where they dug in, the gyration of your hips. Your hair is down this time, braid long since combed through, and the ends of it tickle as they brush against him.

“God, Nellie.” He isn’t particularly introspective or anything, but he does know that he’ll never feel something like this again.

Your tender touch a velvety petal trailed down the expanse of his chest where it heaves, nothing left to impede your touch. No overcoats, no holster or gun. Your hands like the claws of the bobcat pawing into the sand where his heart lay in an unmarked grave.

“Edward,” You whispered against the shell of his ear, his hands pressing the center of your back to bring you close against your chest. It was a plea. It read like a prayer. “Take me, please.”

His upward thrust slowed from long, meaningful bass crescendos to harsh uneven staccatos. Your breaths became erratic in nature to match. Your release washed over you like a storm, rolling and violent and all at once. His own followed suit.

Edward realized then that this was how the west would be won. If it wasn’t, he’d wage the war himself.

#eddie munson #eddie stranger things #eddie munson headcanons #eddie munson fluff #eddie munson oneshot #stranger things #stranger things s4 #eddie munson smut #eddie x reader #eddie x y/n #eddie x you #Spotify #outlaw!eddie #cowboy!eddie

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