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zepskies · 2 months ago

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BETWEEN THE CITY & THE STARS - Part 1

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader

Summary: In the fall of 1945, Dean is having a difficult time assimilating back into civilian life after the War. He’s visiting his brother Sam in New York City, where he’s beginning to build up his law firm. At two minutes to closing time, you interrupt their evening to solicit a solicitor. Your request? You need help in order to divorce your husband.

AN: My day tomorrow is going to be a bit packed, so I decided to release this a bit early for you guys! So here we go! The first chapter of yet another new series, my first ever 1940s AU. 🥰 I hope you have fun on this one, because I sure did. Again, very much inspired by The Clock (1945), starring Judy Garland and Robert Walker. 💜

Prompt for @jacklesversebingo: Historical Epic

Song Inspo: For this chapter it’s “Cry Me a River” by Ella Fitzgerald

Word Count: 3.9K

Tags/Warnings: Angst, mentions of cheating, PTSD, historical tidbits

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Part 1: Legal Grounds

November 2, 1945

Dean idly read the pamphlet stacked with others on his brother’s desk, which advertised his new and successful enterprise.

Law Offices of Winchester, Bialystock & Bloom

What do you know? His brother had his own office, his own business, and his name on a pamphlet.

Dean couldn’t help but curl a finger around a steel ball on the abacus sitting at the head of the mahogany desk, right next to Sam’s nameplate.

He let it fly. The abacus began to clack as one ball hit the other.

Sam looked up from the deposition he was writing to give his brother a wry brow raise.

“So this is what you do, huh?” Dean remarked, crossing his arms.

Without his jacket, his suspenders were on display over his shoulders. His red pinstripe tie was still in place, but his white dress shirt was rolled up to the elbows. Meanwhile, his brother preferred to keep himself more presentable with his sleeves down to his wrists. Jacket on.

Dean glanced around the office, nodding at the line of bookshelves behind Sam, framing him as the bookish academic he’d always been. There was limited seating in here though, just a spare chair in front of the desk, and another to the right of it. Dean stood on the opposite side.

“If you’re bored, all you have to do is say so,” Sam said. “Which is strange, considering we’re smack dab in the middle of a city that never sleeps.”

He was right, Dean could concede. His little brother had given him a veritable list of things to do in New York City: visit the park, go to the zoo, see a picture show, visit a nightclub, or sample a host of restaurants that Sam knew Dean would probably enjoy.

He’d seen a lot of this place in the week that he’d been here visiting Sam, but a good deal of it he’d either spent alone, or with any willing young lady Dean came across, thanks to the demands of this office. If he was honest, entertaining young ladies was eating into the wallet in his trouser pocket, and the hustle and bustle was starting to be a little much for him.

“You don’t get tired of it?” Dean asked, gesturing to the out there beyond them. “The, uh…the lights, the noise, all the people?”

Sam picked his head up from his paperwork to consider the question. “No, I like it. Keeps my mind busy, and…I guess it makes me feel alive, you know?”

Dean supposed he could understand that, so he nodded.

Sam wasn’t fooled though. He thought he could tell what was running through his brother’s head, watching him fidget, and turn his head a bit sharply when a bus honked loudly outside the office’s glass doors as it thundered past.

It had only been two months since the end of the war. Two months since he and Dean met back in their family home in Lawrence, Kansas after three years fighting on two different fronts, in two different countries.

Both of them had enlisted, but Sam had spent most of his time in London while he was deployed, helping British Intelligence. Dean had clawed his way out of Normandy, and later, out of the Ardennes—the last offensive before the end.

Their experiences might as well have been worlds apart, but one thing remained the same: it had been three years in which neither brother knew if they’d see each other again.

Now, Sam saw the signs. Dean seemed a bit jumpy, overstimulated, but willing to be here to spend a little more time with Sam before he went back home. Guilt prickled in Sam’s gut.

“I’ve got some work here to finish up, but afterwards let’s go to dinner,” he suggested. “Maybe see a show?”

Dean’s lips flickered at a smile. “You’re burning both ends of the candle. You know that, right?”

Sam opened his mouth to reply, when there was a knock on one of the glass doors—at the entrance to the small building. Their heads turned, and through the open door of his office, they spotted you standing there in the evening light. You wore a wide-brimmed hat on your head and a scarf underneath, wrapped over your hair and under your chin to shield your face. You knocked again with a hand covered by a leather glove, more persistently.

Cocking his head in confusion, Sam stood from his desk and left the room to let you in. Dean hung back and sat on the corner of the desk to wait. He withdrew a cigarette from the pack and a lighter from his pocket as he did so, but he heard you talking with his brother by the door.

“I’m sorry. We’re closed, miss,” Sam informed you.

“It’s still two minutes until closing. At least, according to my watch.”

“…Well, I suppose you’ve got me there.”

“So can I come in? I need to speak to a lawyer.”

“You sure it can’t wait until tomorrow?”

“I’m afraid it can’t, sir.” Your tone was firm, and it more than implied that you wouldn’t be moved. Sam paused then, perhaps to take a steeling breath.

“All right. Come with me, please.”

You later followed behind him through the hallway and into the office. With a lit cigarette between his fingers, his arms crossed, Dean took note of you. He subtly glanced down at your crème-colored blouse, neatly tucked into the long, burgundy skirt (with lipstick to match), your modest, classy heels, and the way you wore your hair. His brows subtly raised. He’d met quite a few girls this week, but he hadn’t seen a lady like you in quite some time.

Should’ve shaved this morning. The thought was accompanied by the way he swiped a subtle hand over his prickly chin.

You gave him a cursory glance in turn, and offered a polite, “Hello.”

He stood from the desk and switched his cigarette to his other hand, so he could shake yours.

“Hey there. Dean Winchester,” he said. He offered a smile with no small amount of charm. “Pleased to meet you…”

You dutifully gave him your first name only. He found that a little strange, but you soon slipped your hand out of his and focused on the nameplate on the desk, followed by Sam himself.

“So you’re brothers,” you realized. “Do you work together?”

Dean scoffed. “Nope, I’m just here to distract him.”

Sam tossed him a sidelong glance. There was a subtle edge of bitter truth in there somewhere, and you didn’t seem to miss it. You looked between the two men, a hint wary.

“Well, as I said, I’m here to speak to the solicitor,” you said.

“That would be me,” Sam nodded. He went to his desk and sat down behind it, gesturing for you to do the same in front of him. You obliged him, smoothing your hands down your skirt once you were seated. “How can I help you?”

You met his eyes with a directness that surprised him a little.

“I want to divorce my husband,” you said.

To say it shocked the room would be an understatement. Behind you, Dean gave his brother a pair of raised brows. Sam didn’t allow himself to react too much in order to remain professional, but he still tilted his head, blinking, before he focused on you again.

“What’s your husband’s name?” he asked.

“Michael. Michael Milligan.”

“Why do you want a divorce, Mrs. Milligan?”

Here, your gaze fell to the folded hands in your lap.

“I have reason to believe he’s been unfaithful,” you quietly replied.

Once again, there was a pregnant pause.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Sam said. His sympathy was genuine, because he could see the way you’d hesitated to say the words, like they embarrassed you, shamed you, and saddened you all at once.

“But I have to ask,” he added, “do you have proof?”

Dean glanced his way, his brow raising once again. Sam knew what he was thinking, just as he saw how you frowned as well. But there was a reason why he asked, and it wasn’t to be unkind.

You sighed. “What kind of proof?”

“Pictures. Letters. A witness. Something of legal standing that we can use as leverage and as grounds to grant you a divorce, whether he wants it or not,” Sam said.

You let out another heavy breath through your nose. “No, I don’t have anything like that.”

“Then what makes you so sure he’s steppin’ out?” Dean chimed in. By now he was leaning against the wall, off to the side where he could smoke with the window cracked open. It let in the sounds of cars and distant honking, people traversing the sidewalks.

You turned in your seat to give him a tight look. “If you must know, there’ve been…signs. I won’t trouble you with the details, but I’m sure.”

You met Dean’s gaze, and then Sam’s firmly.

“So will you help me?” you asked him. Sam nodded.

“Yes, I’ll look into your husband and try to find some evidence of his…extracurricular affairs.”

Your lips pursed. “And how long will it take?”

Since you were being so direct, Sam levelled you with honesty.

“It may take time,” he said. “Realistically, we’re looking at months, even after I find what we need… It would be easier to legally separate.”

You had been slowly deflating the more he spoke, but now your expression became stony.

“Mr. Winchester,” you began. “I don’t want to just be separated. I don’t want to live in our apartment, let alone share his bed or wear his last name.”

Despite your best efforts, your voice began to shake. Tears welled up and stung in your eyes.

“I don’t want anything from him, other than his signature on the damn papers,” you said. “The case is that I can no longer tolerate that man in my sight, much less in my life. Will you help me? Or should I look for another lawyer who will actually do his job.”

Sam and Dean shared a glance. For his part, Dean couldn’t remember the last time he heard a woman curse. Despite your outburst, the tears clinging to your lashes stirred both men.

“I understand, Mrs. Milligan,” Sam said. “I’ll help you. Don’t worry.”

He began to look for his handkerchief, but you retrieved one of your own from your purse and quickly dabbed at your eyes, sniffling. You were embarrassed.

“What about your fee?” you said, withdrawing your checkbook. “I, um…I have a little money stashed away. I’ve always worked, you see.”

Sam nodded and went over what his rate would be going forward. Once the two of you came to an agreement, you signed the first check right then and there, even though he felt bad for even taking it from you.

You were still sniffling, and twice you dabbed under your eyes to make sure your face was dry. When you handed over the check, your hands shook, just a little. Sam wouldn’t tell you that he discounted his usual rate.

Again, he mentioned that he would need some time first to investigate your husband and begin collecting evidence for your case. He asked you for any documents you could safely bring him of your finances, for example. You agreed to do an investigation of your own.

“Just be careful,” Dean cautioned. He was getting an idea of what kind of man your husband was, but Dean couldn’t be too sure of what the man was capable of. He’d hate to hear of a girl like you getting hurt over a few papers.

Dean put out the bud of his cigarette on the ashtray lying on the windowsill. He pushed off the wall to approach where you and Sam were getting to your feet. You gave Dean a nod of acknowledgement.

“I will,” you agreed. “Thank you both. I’m sorry I’ve taken up so much of your time, but I’ll be heading home now.”

“Did you take a bus or a taxi?” Sam asked.

“Oh, I walked,” you replied, and you checked your watch as you gathered up your purse. You headed for the coatrack, but Dean got there first, helping you into your beige wool coat. It went nicely with the burgundy you had on, namely on your painted lips.

“Thank you,” you said to him, but you still didn’t smile. You were a hint demurer now. It seemed with Sam’s promised help, the fire had dimmed behind your eyes and your tongue.

“How about I give you an escort, make sure you get home okay?” Dean found himself offering. “It’s getting pretty late on a Friday.”

Sam shot him a knowing look, but Dean ignored him, instead focusing on your face.

You hesitated. “It’s a bit far though. Out of your way, I’m sure.”

“All the more reason that you shouldn’t go it alone at this time of night,” he argued.

You considered his offer, and him, with a quick perusal. You seemed to be judging for yourself if he was trustworthy. Dean kept his posture straight, yet relaxed. Maybe he’d liked what he saw the moment he took you in, but after hearing your situation, he felt for you. It really was just an honest offer to walk you home.

“Where did you serve?” you asked. “The Army, the Navy, or the Air Forces?”

The question took him off guard for a beat, but he answered you.

“The Army,” he replied.

“Your rank?”

“I was a sergeant, ma’am.”

You looked at him a little more shrewdly, then you relaxed.

“I might’ve guessed,” you said. “All right, Sergeant. Let’s go then.”

You buttoned up your coat and turned to leave the office. Dean shot his little brother a raise of his brows and a what do ya know? kind of smile. He grabbed his dark brown jacket and hat and followed you out.

Sam’s smile was more reserved, with a shake of his head. He closed the door behind you and Dean and locked it. He still had some work he wanted to finish before tomorrow, and Dean’s little show of chivalry would give him time to do it.

Dean had his hands in his coat pockets as he walked with you down the long city sidewalk. Night had drawn into the November sky, but with all these lights, he couldn’t see many stars. It was also cold as all hell. The frigid wind slapped at him every time they turned the corner of a building, snapping right into his bones.

Still, he supposed there was a kind of attractiveness to the city at night. The stores and their signs were all lit up gold and other neon colors. Couples and families walked together, all done up nice for wherever dinner reservation or movie they were trying to get to. It begged the question of what your husband was doing right now if he didn’t notice his wife out at this time of night.

“Where’s your husband tonight, if I might ask?” said Dean.

You shot him a look, reading between his lines.

“He claims to be working late virtually every night of the weekdays,” you said, “but he usually comes home stinking of alcohol.” Your eyes dimmed, even with the pretty lights shining in them. “He was in the Army as well. A corporal. He’s had a hard time adjusting to being back home, and I know that… He doesn’t sleep very well. And do you know, he had a hard time finding work for a while too. Luckily, he has his father’s business to fall back on.”

Dean tried not to show how much your words resonated with him. He didn’t think it a good thing to have common ground with your husband, if he was the kind of man you said he was.

“Yeah? What’s his business?” he asked.

“He manages a meat production plant, of all things,” you said.

“Ah, located in the Meat Packing District, I presume?”

“You’d presume right.”

Dean nodded. “I get it. I inherited the family home back in Lawrence. I just need to figure out what’s next.”

“Lawrence?”

“Kansas.”

“Oh, the Midwest,” you inclined your head. “What’s it like there?”

Dean scoffed. “Dusty.”

You almost laughed at that. At least it earned him your first smile of the night.

“Do you have an idea of what you’ll do for work?” you asked.

Dean chuckled. “Not just yet. Didn’t plan that far, you know?”

“Why not?” you asked.

“Hmm. Guess I didn’t see the point,” he replied with a mild shrug. It hid a deeper, darker well inside him. The part of him that hadn’t thought he’d make it back home after the war.

You turned to him then, and you saw it behind his eyes. The two of you walked in silence for a little while as the neighborhood blocks began to shift and change, becoming somewhat quieter, more residential. Dean put himself between you and the sidewalk when a taxi zoomed by too close to the curb, resting a hand on the small of your back for protection.

Part of you trilled inside at the small touch, but you immediately beat that reaction down. Dean Winchester was an attractive man, to be sure. His hair was a lighter brown than his brother’s, and shorter too. He had an air of roguishness about him, even though he’d been perfectly pleasant so far.

But by the way he eyed you when you came into the law office, you had a strong feeling he was a flirt. You had no room for that in your life, and not only because you were still a married woman.

Yet, there was something about him that…well, made you curious.

“I was a nurse,” you said eventually, earning his attention. “I was there when they liberated Paris.”

Dean turned to you with newfound interest lighting his green eyes. “You were at Normandy.”

You nodded. “For a while. Almost a year before D-Day.”

Dean let out a short, if humorless chuckle, running a hand through his hair.

“Well, that’s where I was. At that time, at least,” he said. "By the end, D-Day was just one of a lot of days."

You gave him a similar look; respect, and perhaps finding a kindred spirit.

“I did what I could do before, during, and afterwards,” you said. “I think that’s all we can do now, Mr. Winchester.”

“Call me Dean,” he said. “If you like.”

A second smile almost tugged at your lips. You nodded in agreement.

“Dean,” you said.

In another ten minutes, he was walking you up to your porch at your apartment building. You travelled up the four small steps, while Dean stopped at the second one. For the first time, you had the vantage point above him as you turned on your heel to face him. You were about to thank him when he shook his head, scoffing.

“This guy must be dumb, deaf, and blind, sweetheart,” he said.

Your face warmed in a blush, and you gave a rueful smile when you realized what he meant. He was looking up at you like someone who couldn’t understand your plight. You knew the feeling.

“That’s kind of you, but you don’t have to do that,” you said.

His brows furrowed. “Do what?”

“Try to make me feel better,” you said, scuffing the toe of your sensible heels against the brick platform. Dean crossed his arms.

“Why not?” he asked.

“Because the fact of the matter is, Sergeant, words don’t move me anymore.” You picked up your gaze from the ground, and you met his. “Flattery is just a pretty way of lying, and I’ve grown to really, truly hate lying.”

It took him a moment, but Dean nodded.

“I guess that’s fair,” he said. He had to stop himself before he proved your point with a smart word on your pretty smile. Although, it wouldn’t have been a lie. He tipped his hat up. “Goodnight then, Mrs. Milligan.”

You stopped him from leaving with just your voice.

“Please,” you said, your eyes briefly closing. “Just…call me by my name. My first name.”

Dean slowly smiled. “Perfect. I like your name better anyway.”

This time, your smile in return was genuine, if tinged with amusement.

“Goodnight, Dean,” you replied.

He gave you a charming grin and a more casual soldier’s salute. Then he stuck his hands back in his pockets, turned on his heel, and began to walk back the way he came. You couldn’t help but watch him go for a second or two. His legs were slightly bowed under his slacks, you noticed.

With a blush, you shook your head to rid yourself of those silly thoughts. You closed the door.

That night, Michael came home late, as usual—this time at two in the morning. He reeked of alcohol, also per usual, but this time when he rolled over towards you in bed to say goodnight, you stiffened. He also smelled like a woman’s perfume. Expensive stuff.

This was one of those signs you hadn’t wanted to tell Sam Winchester. Frankly, it was crude and embarrassing.

“Sorry it’s so late, darling. Got held up,” he said, kissing your shoulder through your nightgown. His fingers played with the ends of your hair while you laid facing away from him.

You squeezed your eyes shut. You were fighting every instinct you had inside you that wanted to recoil from his touch and bolt out of the bed. When just a few months ago, his touch was all you craved, almost desperately so.

“Where were you?” you asked. Somehow, you kept your voice steady and calm. “You weren’t at the office all this time.”

“Had a couple of drinks with the guys after,” he said with a shrug. “Sorry. The night got away from us, but, uh…I’ll be home on time for dinner tomorrow.”

With your back turned to him, you were able to roll your eyes.

“What’d you make tonight, outta curiosity?” he asked.

“Egg salad sandwiches,” you replied flatly.

“Hmm. No real loss there then.”

Your teeth clenched. “If I thought you were actually going to be home when you said you would, maybe I would make a rump roast with all the fixings.”

Michael paused, but then, he grasped your shoulder, slowly turned you around in the bed until you were facing him. His face was sterner.

“Excuse me?”

You remained quiet. Your gaze travelled downwards, avoiding his.

Michael huffed, shaking his head. “Sometimes you got a real mouth on you. One of these days, you just might regret it.”

He turned his back on you, laying on his side. You did the same while trying to stem your tears.

When did this become your life?

AN: Oof, sorry for all that angst at the end there, but I hope you liked the first chapter! Did you enjoy soldier!Dean and soldier/lawyer!Sam? Do you want to find a dark alley for Michael yet? 😅

And are you ready for what's coming up next? 😘

Next Time:

Dean both could and couldn’t believe it. He might not have been a saint himself when it came to the fairer sex, but if he went through the whole ordeal of marrying one, let alone a straight-shooting woman like you, beautiful, clever…

“Geez,” he muttered. “He could’ve at least waited until the ink dried on the certificate.”

Sam nodded in agreement. He picked up the receipt to the Cotton Club, and he shot his brother a grin.

“Wanna go to the club tonight?”

▶️ Keep Reading: PART 2

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liarom1ove · 8 months ago

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Whispers of Ether

A regular girl trying to live her best life in modern London is surprised when she receives a mysterious box from a distant relative-especially odd since she's an orphan. Naturally, she checks the box for anything valuable and finds a ruby necklace and a strange book. Imagine her shock when she wakes up in a world filled with monsters, realizing she's more connected to this place than she’d like to admit.

A tale of a modern girl in Middle Earth.

Warnings: none

~~The inherence~~

Y/N sank into her bed, the soft, worn duvet folding around her as she settled in with a satisfied sigh. The record player in the corner spun gently, filling the room with Adele’s soothing voice. A steaming cup of tea sat on her bedside table, its fragrant Earl Grey scent mingling with the warm vanilla and cinnamon notes of the candle flickering nearby. Everything about the moment felt comforting, almost perfect.

But her eyes kept drifting back to the mysterious box from Mr. Hawthorne, the lawyer. It sat on the bedspread in front of her, its intricate carvings catching the fading light in a way that made it hard to ignore. For a while, she just stared, uncertainty pooling in her chest. She recalled her brief, confusing conversation with the man, her curiosity now battling with the creeping sense of unease.

Y/N wasn’t exactly living a glamorous life, but she had carved out her little niche in London—working long hours, meeting up with friends for a pint when she could, and binge-watching terrible reality TV whenever the mood struck. It wasn’t perfect, but it was her routine, predictable in a comforting sort of way. So, when a knock sounded at her door one evening, she assumed it was her elderly neighbour, Mrs Jenkins, needing help with her Wi-Fi again.

But when she opened the door, it wasn’t Mrs. Jenkins. Instead, a man stood there looking as though he’d stepped straight out of a Victorian novel. His suit was immaculate, every line crisp, and his expression so severe that Y/N half-expected him to start reciting from a legal document on the spot.

"Y/N Y/L/N?" His voice was clipped, formal—like he was ticking off boxes in his head.

"Depends," Y/N said, folding her arms and raising an eyebrow. "Who’s asking?"

"Kelvin Hawthorne, solicitor. I’m here regarding the estate of your late relative, Mrs. Aina Althariel." He extended a small, ornate box toward her, handling it like it was something far more important than it looked. "I regret to inform you that Mrs Althariel passed away last night, and according to her will, this is to be given to you."

Y/N blinked, thrown for a moment. She tilted her head, a frown forming on her face. "Right… you sure you’ve got the right Y/N? Last I checked, my family tree barely qualifies as a shrub.”

Mr. Hawthorne didn’t flinch. His expression remained as stony as ever. "There’s no mistake. According to the records," he said, his voice calm and precise, "Mrs. Althariel was a distant relative, and she made specific arrangements for you to receive this."

"Uh-huh," Y/N muttered, eyeing the box with growing suspicion. Still, she took it, surprised by its weight in her hands. It was heavier than it looked, solid and somehow… significant. "Well, this is new. I usually just get bills or the occasional postcard from someone who thinks London’s still exotic. So… what’s the catch?"

"The catch," Mr. Hawthorne said, his voice steady and clipped, "is that you need to sign this document acknowledging receipt of the inheritance." With a swift, practiced movement, he produced a clipboard with a single sheet of paper and a pen, offering them to her with a flourish that felt strangely formal, given the odd situation.

Y/N took the clipboard, raising an eyebrow as she skimmed over the document. Just a standard acknowledgement form—confirming that she’d received the box and, apparently, its mysteries. She let out a sigh, the weight of the moment settling on her shoulders.

"Fine," she muttered, signing her name at the bottom with a dramatic flourish of her own. "Signed, sealed, and delivered."

Mr. Hawthorne gave a brisk nod, his lips curling into what barely passed for a smile. "My job here is done. Enjoy the… memento. Good evening, Miss."

"Really? No cryptic warnings? No riddles? Just paperwork?" Y/N quipped, but he was already turning to leave, his back straight, every movement measured. She stood there for a moment, watching him head down the hallway, half-expecting him to vanish into thin air. He didn’t, but the click of the door behind her felt strangely final.

"Well, that was… weird," she muttered under her breath, glancing down at the ornate box now in her hands. "What in the world have I gotten myself into?"

The carvings on the surface of the box were intricate, swirling patterns that seemed almost alive in the soft light. Y/N traced her fingers over them, appreciating the delicate craftsmanship. There was something oddly mesmerizing about the design as if the swirls were guiding her touch along invisible paths.

With a playful roll of her eyes, she leaned forward and flipped open the latch. "Well, Aina, let's see what kind of skeletons you've got in your box," she muttered under her breath. "Literally, I hope not."

The box creaked slightly as the lid opened, revealing its contents. The first thing she noticed was the nestled, on a bed of rich, dark velvet, ruby-red necklace. The jewel shimmered with an almost hypnotic brilliance, the deep red gem glowing faintly as if it had a heartbeat of its own. Y/N's breath hitched for a moment, a blend of awe and scepticism crossing her face.

"Well, this is definitely not your average heirloom," she murmured, her fingers hovering just above the necklace.

She hesitated only briefly before lifting the pendant from its velvet bed, the ruby swaying slightly in the air. It was set in a delicate frame of gold, shaped like a teardrop, surrounded by intricate filigree that caught the dim light of her room. As she turned it over in her hands, she noticed the same swirling patterns etched into the gold that adorned the box, as though they were part of the same ancient design. Even more curious, the ruby seemed to pulse gently in response to her touch, its faint glow intensifying for just a moment.

"Let’s see how you look on me."

With a small grin, she stood from the bed and crossed the room to the full-length mirror leaning against the wall. Holding the necklace up to her collarbone, she adjusted it, studying how the deep red of the ruby contrasted with her casual outfit. The gem sparkled against her skin, casting a faint, warm glow that seemed to enhance her features in a subtle, almost enchanting way.

"Well, aren’t you a stunner?" Y/N quipped, flashing herself a cheeky grin. There was something undeniably elegant about the necklace—it added a touch of mystery, an air of sophistication that felt at odds with her normal life.

Satisfied with the way it looked, she fastened the clasp behind her neck, the cool metal settling gently against her skin. She adjusted it once more, ensuring it hung just right. As she gazed at her reflection, a strange sensation washed over her as if the necklace was somehow more than it appeared. It wasn’t just beautiful—it felt… right.

"Regal, more like," she muttered, tilting her head as she studied herself in the mirror.

"Not too shabby for a piece of inherited jewellery," she mused aloud, twirling slightly to admire the way the ruby caught the light with every movement. "I suppose I should thank Aunt Aina for the fashion upgrade."

She returned to her bed, settling comfortably beside the box where old, yellowed parchments lay scattered. The pages were filled with strange, unfamiliar symbols—letters twisting and curling in ways her eyes couldn't quite follow.

She skimmed through the parchments, her brows knitting together in confusion. "A translation guide would be nice right about now," she muttered, letting out a wry chuckle. "Or maybe I should start brushing up on my Duolingo. Ancient rune edition?"

Setting the incomprehensible pages aside, her curiosity got the better of her as she reached back into the box. This time, her fingers grazed something solid—heavy and smooth. After a moment’s effort, she pulled out a thick, black leather-bound book. Its surface was aged but polished, and it held a weight that suggested more than just old stories.

With a breath, Y/N opened the book, and what she found inside made her eyes widen. The pages were filled with illustrations of creatures she had only ever seen in fantasy movies or read about in legends. Monsters with sharp fangs and claws, towering dragons with shimmering scales, and beings so strange they seemed to defy reality. Each creature was drawn in stunning detail, their lifelike precision enough to make her feel as though they were on the verge of leaping off the page. Beneath each illustration were notes written in what appeared to be runes—more indecipherable symbols that deepened the mystery.

"What in the world…?" she whispered, flipping through the book slowly. The drawings were both terrifying and mesmerizing, each creature a mix of beauty and danger, almost as if they belonged to some long-forgotten world.

As she turned another page, something even more remarkable fell into her lap—a large, folded map. She carefully unfolded it, revealing a vast, meticulously drawn landscape. Mountains loomed high, forests stretched endlessly, rivers carved their way through valleys, and cities dotted the map, all labelled with names she couldn’t begin to pronounce. The map was so detailed, that it almost felt as if she were holding an entire world in her hands.

"Middle-earth?" Y/N read aloud, the name scrawled across the top of the map in elegant, unfamiliar script. "What even is that? Some kind of theme park?" She scoffed lightly, but her curiosity deepened.

The book was filled with strange symbols and runes, their meanings elusive, as if taunting her to figure out the puzzle. Her brow furrowed, frustration starting to build as she traced her fingers over the intricate lines.

"Alright, Aina, you've got my attention," she muttered with a half-smile, the amusement in her voice mingling with genuine intrigue. "What the bloody hell is all this?"

With a sigh, Y/N absently traced the runes with her finger, running over the grooves in the ancient parchment. She was on the verge of tossing it aside when the impossible happened—the symbols began to shift and reshape right beneath her touch.

She jerked her hand back as though the page had suddenly scorched her. "What the—?"

The runes danced across the page, morphing fluidly into letters, then words. The transformation was graceful, almost as though the text had been waiting for her to touch it. Slowly, words in plain English appeared, as clear as if they had always been there, hidden in plain sight:

To the last Althariel who bears the name, your destiny lies beyond this world.

Y/N's heart skipped a beat. She blinked rapidly, rubbing her eyes to make sure she wasn’t seeing things, but the words stayed, clear and stark on the page.

"This… this can’t be real," she whispered to herself, a shiver running down her spine. Glancing around her bedroom, everything remained as it was—the flickering candle, her steaming cup of tea, the soft hum of Adele from the record player. Everything was perfectly normal, except for the impossible message staring back at her.

Y/N was still staring at the shifting runes when a sudden clap of thunder echoed through the room, so loud it nearly sent her heart into overdrive. Startled, she snapped her gaze toward the window. Heavy rain now lashed against the glass, distorting the usually sharp glow of the city lights outside.

"When did that happen?" she muttered, her voice barely audible over the storm. The once cozy, calm atmosphere had shifted dramatically, the warm candlelight now flickering eerily as flashes of lightning turned the night into a chaotic strobe.

The tension in the air was thick, like something was building, waiting to burst. But the sharp sting of reality snapped her back. She glanced at the clock on the wall, and a wave of panic hit her like a cold slap.

"Shit!" Y/N yelped, jolted from her daze. She was 30 minutes late for work.

Her heart hammered as she dashed around her apartment, throwing on her jacket while trying to pull her hair into something vaguely professional. She could already picture the disaster awaiting her at the office. Y/N worked at a top-tier music production company—the kind of place that could either make or break an artist's career. It was her dream to one day be the one making the deals, but for now, she was just the assistant to Felicity Kennedy, a woman who could strike fear into the bravest souls.

Felicity Kennedy, Y/N’s boss, was as sharp as she was brutal, a woman who could reduce anyone to tears with a single glare. If there was one thing Felicity hated more than incompetence, it was tardiness. Y/N could already hear her icy voice, dripping with scorn, as she'd undoubtedly demand an explanation for being late.

"Felicity is so going to kill me," Y/N groaned, frantically throwing the last few items into her bag, barely managing not to trip over herself on the way out.

But just as she was about to rush out the door, her eyes caught on the black leather book, still resting on her bed like some ancient relic. For a split second, she hesitated. Something about that book—the way it felt in her hands, the mysterious writing that had changed—called to her. It had weight, not just physically, but in a way she couldn’t quite put her finger on.

Without really thinking about it, she reached back, grabbed the book, and stuffed it into her bag. Whatever this was, she wasn’t leaving it behind.

As she was finishing putting on her shoes, the shrill ring of her phone made her wince. She didn't need to look at the screen to know who it was.

"Hello—" Y/N began, but she was immediately cut off.

"Where the hell are you, Y/L/N?" Felicity hissed through the phone. The sheer irritation in her voice was palpable, even over the storm's howling winds. "You know we have the meeting with Styles today, and I need you here. Now!"

"I know, Mrs. Kennedy," Y/N replied, her tone as placating as she could manage while shoving the last of her things into her bag. "I just got a bit behind... but I'm on my way now."

She rushed out the door, cursing under her breath as she realized she'd forgotten her umbrella. The rain was relentless, sheets of water pouring from the sky as if the heavens themselves were angry.

Still, she knew she couldn't afford any more delays. Holding the phone tightly against her ear with one hand, she used the other to navigate her way through the downpour, bumping into people as she went. The rain blurred her vision, the city's usually vibrant colors reduced to a grey, indistinct haze.

"You better be, or I promise you won't have a job when you get here," Felicity snarled, her threat as sharp as a knife. "Or anywhere else."

"Yes, Mrs. Kennedy, I promise—" Y/N began, but her words were cut short, drowned out by the sudden, blinding flash of headlights.

She didn't have time to react. The world around her seemed to slow to a crawl as the bright lights of an oncoming truck bore down on her. The last thing she saw was the vehicle's massive grille, the rain glistening off its surface, before everything went black.

#the hobbit #the lonely mountain #desolation of smaug #dragon #lord of the rings #lotr #legolas #bilbo baggins #thorin oakenshield #fili and kili #gandalf #the hobbit x reader #lotr fanfic #the hobbit fanfiction #legolas x reader

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whitehorselaw · 2 days ago

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At White Horse Solicitors & Notary Public, we recognize that family issues are often emotionally difficult and require thoughtful handling. Our team of skilled family law solicitors in London is prepared to guide you through a wide range of family matters, from divorce and child custody to financial settlements and domestic violence. We tailor our approach to meet the unique needs of each client, providing compassionate and professional legal solutions. No matter the complexity of your case, we are dedicated to securing the best possible outcome for you and your family.

#family law solicitors in London

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gloomwitchwrites · 1 year ago

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Tattoo Artist Simon "Ghost" Riley x Female Reader

Chapter Specific Warnings (per the warnings MDNI): canon-typical swearing, emotional hurt/comfort, angst, heavy suggestive themes, lots of kissing, intimate touching, domestic!Simon

Word Count: 8k

A/N: Part Nine of Ink & Needle

Evie fractures. You spend the evening with Simon in his apartment. An unwanted caller makes contact.

Chapter Eight // Chapter Ten

ao3 // taglist // main masterlist // ink & needle masterlist

The excitement of the day is starting to set in. Everything was a whirlwind this morning, and only now, in the quiet of the kitchen in Evie’s Cambridge home, is it all beginning to catch up with you.

The continuously growing list of things to do is as messy and vast as the scattered assembly of carryout boxes on the kitchen island. Most of it is Chinese takeout boxes—which, to your disappointment—is not like American Chinese takeout at all. Evie thought it hilarious when you began opening boxes only to discover multiple containers of curry sauce and mushy peas. Greasy burgers were ordered and consumed instead. Now, as you begin sifting through the mess, tossing containers into a trash bag, exhaustion is showing its teeth, reminding you just how hectic it’s been.

Outside the patio doors, the sun is low, it’s beams hardly breaking over the natural hedge fence along the property line. The lights above the kitchen island and stove are on, adding to the low, warm glow of the evening sun. Scattered across the countertop behind you are various stacks of paperwork. You and Evie need to go through all of it, but you’re unwilling to burden her with too much.

Evie is still grieving, and she’s eight months pregnant, quickly approaching nine. The only thing Evie needs to worry about is getting plenty of rest and the upcoming labor. She doesn’t need to fret over conversations with the estate agent or Archie’s solicitor. Not to mention the fact that the solicitor brought up potential troubles with Archie’s family, indicating a barrister might be needed if they decide to fight over Archie’s money. That did not reach Evie’s ears. Those people have already done enough, and if you can, you’ll keep their poison away for as long as possible.

No. The main concern is Evie’s pregnancy. With the move to London, all of Evie’s medical history has to be transferred to her new hospital and doctor. It’s incredibly close to the due date for everyone’s liking, but it can’t be helped. Evie won’t be giving birth in Cambridge.

Sighing, you toss yet another empty container into the bag, purposefully keeping your back to the stack of papers. You offered up the idea to the estate agent of selling the place fully furnished to which you were quickly dismissed. Frustrating, because it means your job becomes much more difficult, but understandable. People want to make new memories. They don’t want to cling to someone else’s old ones.

Over dinner, you and Evie discussed how she wanted to clear out the house of her belongings. Sell it? Donate it? Put it in storage? Take it with her? There wasn’t a true decision but there was an agreement on beginning the process.

It’s a start. It’s something.

Tomorrow, Friday afternoon to be exact, you and Evie are heading back to London. It’s a quick turnaround, but you’re eager to return and see your wraith. Just thinking of him, speaking his name in your mind, is enough to swirl the quietly simmering heat in your belly to a healthy boil. The warmth that arrives with Simon’s name spreads to your toes and throughout your limbs.

Smiling, nearly giggling, cheeks fevering with the memory of his kisses from Monday, you lightly press the tips of your fingers to your lips, floating in the memory of how they tasted his skin.

Then, you remember where you are. And what you’re supposed to be doing.

“Get a fucking grip,” you mutter under your breath, stuffing the last of the takeout boxes into the trash bag.

When you return from tossing the bag into the outside bin, you wash your hands before reaching for your phone. In the group chat with Jade and Sam, you give them a quick update, silencing your phone afterward, plugging it in to charge for the night.

Evie is upstairs somewhere, likely rummaging around in things she shouldn’t be. She has a knack for that, doing things without asking for help, believing that doing so is a sign of weakness. It’s that American Midwest can-do attitude. Independent and self-sufficient. A good ole’ Missouri girl. That’s Evelyn Green.

Rubbing at your right temple, you head upstairs, aiming for the master bedroom. The door stands open, and as you approach, you stop short the frame when you hear a choked, strangled sob.

“Evie?” you call out.

You listen intently, not sure if you’ve misheard. But you hear it again, a pained sound that sounds more injured animal than human.

Cold fear twists your stomach, drags it down to the floor, stomps all over it and grins.

“Evie!”

Shoving through the door, you don’t find her anywhere. Scanning the master bedroom, you notice the scattered clothes across the bed and the rumpled sheets. But the room is dark. The only light comes from the walk-in closet. Its angles are sharp like a blade and you fear the worst. What if she’s fallen? Surely, you would have heard the crash, or a solid thump?

Heading toward it, the rising fear intensifies until it lodges in your throat, waiting to emerge like a striking snake.

You step into the beam of light.

Sitting in the middle of a large pile of clothes is Evie.

She’s bent over, at least, as bent as her belly will allow her to be. Her pale cheeks are slashed with red and tear-stained. Her shoulders shake with every sob, each one appearing painful. And, in her hands, she cradles a little beige box.

The lid is off. The white ribbon on the top is yellowed and brittle. It rests to the left of Evie’s right foot on one of Archie’s button ups. Within that little beige box is a boutonnière. It’s Archie’s boutonnière. The one he wore on their wedding. It’s dried out now, more potpourri than flower, a silent witness to Evie’s suffering.

“Oh. Evie,” you sigh, going down on your knees in front of her, your hands outstretched but not touching, unsure of how she’s needing comfort.

She glances up. Chokes. Hiccups. “He’s gone,” she whimpers, and all you want to do is absorb her pain.

“I know,” you murmur. “I know, Evie. I’m so sorry.”

“He—he’s gone.” Fresh tears form in the corners of her eyes. They quickly compound on each other, rapidly filling the bottom of her eyelids. “He’s gone and I—”

A gut-wrenching sob rips from her. Like someone is reaching down her throat to tear out her vocal cords.

With extreme gentleness, you place one hand on her shoulder. The other cradles her hand holding the small beige box. “Evie—”

“He’s gone!” she wails. “And this is all I have left!” Evie gestures around at the clothes.

“You have so much more than that,” you soothe, lightly rubbing her shoulder in slow circles.

But Evie is shaking her head, sniffling hard, sucking up all the phlegm that threatens to slip from her nostrils. She’s a mess. A cacophony of a storm.

She glances up. Stares at the ceiling of the closet. “What happens when I start to forget his face?” Evie turns her gaze to you, the defeat and sorrow there sharp enough to shred the soul. “What happens then?”

“You won’t,” you insist, grasping the sides of her face. Strands of her dark hair stick to her tear-stained skin. Your brush them out of the way. “You love him, and the memory of that love is enough.”

Evie keeps shaking her head. “I can’t do this,” she murmurs, cradling her belly with one hand. “How do I do this without him?”

“You can, Evelyn Green. And you’re not alone. You have me. And Amelia. Jade. Sam.” With the pad of your thumb, you remove a few falling tears from her cheek. “This baby will be surrounded by love. She’ll never be without. She will always be safe. And when you tell her stories of her father, all she’ll know is how much you love him, and how much he wanted to meet her.”

Tears spillover to paint Evie’s cheeks as she leans into you. You wrap your arms around her, pulling her close, offering your shoulder to rest her head on. Neither of you talks, and this isn’t your place to say anything at all. This is for Evie, and whatever she needs.

Keeping one hand clutching the beige box, Evie reaches up with the other, fingers wrapping around your forearm. Digging, digging in where they land and are sure to leave little half-moons behind. Fuck it. You hardly care. You’re too focused on keeping her aloft, on being Evie’s anchor where she has none.

You won’t allow your friend to sink.

You stay like this until your knees hurt and your lower back aches. You stay like this until Evie signals she’s ready to let go with a gentle squeeze of your arm. As she pulls away, Evie wipes at her eyes. She still clings to that little box, but she needs rest, and you know she’ll never forgive herself if she takes it to bed with her and crushes it.

Placing both hands around the box, you silently implore her to let go. Evie does, hesitantly, and you lay the precious cargo on the ground. Presenting your hands, you put Evie to bed, keeping watch until you’re certain she’s truly asleep and not faking it for your benefit.

Only then do you return to the closet. Only then do you lift the little box from off the floor to carry it downstairs and set it next to your charging phone. Going to the mantel over the fireplace, you select your favorite photo from Archie and Evie’s wedding day. It’s a simple one, but the love oozes from it, sticks in between your teeth to blissfully rot away the enamel.

In the photo, Archie and Evie look at each other and not into the camera. It’s not staged. Just a moment caught when they thought no one was looking. A moment special only to them. Taking it to the kitchen, you rest it next to the box holding Archie’s boutonnière.

By the time you crawl into bed in the guestroom, it’s close to morning.

The few hours you manage to snag are not nearly enough. And when you awaken, you realize quickly that there is no amount of coffee in the world that can save you. Dragging yourself from bed, you clean up the clothes Evie left on the floor of the closet without disturbing her. Down in the kitchen, you make breakfast and place several phone calls. Nearly all of them are to Archie’s solicitor and the estate agent.

You’re exhausted. Fucking gone, but you have to do this for her.

Evie doesn’t drag herself out of bed until almost noon. By that time, the two of you need to start heading back to London. You take the driver seat, and Evie sits passenger with the little box holding Archie’s boutonnière and the framed photo resting in her lap.

“Simon came to see you,” are the first words out of Amelia’s mouth when she greets you.

“He did?” you squeak, nearly dropping the bag you just removed from the trunk of the car. Excitement and giddiness blooms in your chest.

Simon came to see you. He came…to see you.

But why would he not? He chased you down. Pursued you. Looked for you relentlessly. Of course he’d come by. You know this.

After visiting him at 141 Ink on Monday morning, you stopped to grab some groceries before heading home. Amelia and Evie nearly tackled you when you came through the door, both of them eager, pecking like annoying hens, seeking information. Too embarrassed to admit that you’d straddled him in front of the big window and sucked on his neck, you glossed over the more intimate moments much to their frustration.

Amelia had popped open a bottle of wine afterward and asked you if you knew anything about his history in the military. In all honesty, you know very little, just what he mentioned that morning. Thinking about it now, you truly don’t know anything concrete about your wraith. Physical chemistry is a good thing to possess, but that won’t last if there is nothing else to connect to.

Amelia already appeared to know this, and mentioned that you might want to take a delicate step with him in that area. “A bad injury” is what she said, but Amelia didn’t know any of the details. Then again, Amelia might know, and was only considering Simon’s privacy.

“Oh, yes. He was here. Burst through the backdoor and yelled at me for forgetting to lock the front one.”

Evie’s head pops up above the top of the car. “He yelled at you?”

You glance at Amelia, unbelieving that someone like Simon would raise his voice at her.

“Oh, posh,” she says, waving her hand dismissively. “Perhaps yell is a strong word. Growled. Said with irritation. Better?” Amelia shrugs one of the bags over her shoulder.

You and Evie exchange a knowing glance.

Could you go see him tonight? You consider the options. You could stay here and have dinner with Amelia and Evie. Or, you could go see Simon. Enter his shop while he’s working, observe him in his elements. And afterward—

“Are you all right? You look like you’re about ready to faint.” Amelia’s voice snaps you back to reality.

Shit.

Evie stands slightly left and back to Amelia. She’s grinning, knowing exactly where your mind drifted off to.

You smile awkwardly. “I’m fine. Just surprised.”

Amelia makes a face like she doesn’t believe that for a second. But she shrugs, not commenting about it. “You should visit him. It’s Friday. Make a night of it.”

“Are you sure?” you ask hurriedly, not wanting to sound too eager.

Amelia scoffs. “Evie and I will be perfectly fine.” She turns to Evie pointedly. “Won’t we?”

“Perfectly peachy,” winks Evie, shimmying her shoulders suggestively at you before following a cackling Amelia inside.

Your grab several more bags as if one less trip will truly cut into seeing Simon time. Then it’s done, and you’re nearly sprinting up the stairs for a shower and a change of clothes.

“How do I look?” you ask around your toothbrush, turning slightly so Evie can see every angle.

Evie glances up from her phone and grins. “If Simon isn’t all over you the moment you walk through the door, he’s a fucking idiot.” She points at you with her phone. “And you can tell him I said that.”

You snort, and then cover your mouth quickly. Evie laughs too but it’s more of a wheeze and that only makes the strangled, airless sounds you both make that much worse.

“Oh shit,” hisses Evie. “I peed. Thanks, bitch.” She half-rolls, half-flops out of the bed and starts waddling toward the bathroom.

“You’re welcome,” you call out to her retreating back.

Evie holds out her middle finger before shutting the bathroom door. Pulling on your coat and grabbing your purse off the top of the dresser, you head downstairs to slip on your boots.

Every step you take toward 141 Ink is light. Unhurried. It’s easy. Yes, you’re anxious, but that’s only because you’re eager to see Simon, to feel his hands on you, and forget yourself for a bit in his embrace.

As you near, that nervousness starts to slither up, blooming like a poisonous flower. Beautiful, but deadly, waiting for you to consume it. The black and eggplant-purple exterior come into view and that only amplifies what is already screeching under your skin.

“You’ve got this,” you tell yourself. “It’s fine. Calm. Down.”

Your heart and brain and limbs won’t listen. It amplifies further as you reach for the door.

Pushing it open, you’re met with warm air and the scent of pine underlined with the faintest hint of sterile cleaning solution. There is no soft chime when the door opens, but it might have been swallowed up by the music. Heavy metal rushes out from the speakers. It’s not overly loud, nothing that would damage the ears, but it’s certainly loud enough to muffle a conversation. You’re curious if this is Simon’s choice, or if it’s the customer currently in the tattoo chair.

Your glimpse of Simon and his client is brief. Immediately upon entrance, an all-black German Shepard leaps off the couch and greets you, tail wagging so fast it stirs up the air creating a breeze.

“Hello, Bravo,” you croon, scratching under his chin and then between his ears. Bravo leans into it, his tongue lolling out the side of his mouth in perfect contentment. “Good boy.”

When you straighten your back and glance up, you notice Simon in the back of the room next to the tattoo chair. He sits on a small stool with a black cushion on wheels. The person receiving their tattoo is on their stomach, back presented to Simon as he works. He hasn’t noticed you yet. He’s completely lost in his craft.

You take this time to observe him, standing there in the entrance of his parlor while Bravo aggressively licks the inside of your hand. Simon isn’t wearing a jacket, only a black t-shirt with short sleeves. It fits him snuggly, clearly hugging every muscle. Both tattoo sleeves are on full display. One is solid black. The other consist of various images and symbols that all interweave around each other. Other than the black t-shirt, Simon wears black joggers and sneakers.

Simon sits up a bit, rolls both shoulders. The muscles in his arms flex with the movement. Your wraith is all power. There is so much strength there, and your brain conjures up the memory of Riot Room when Simon lifted you effortlessly, held you aloft as he brought your bodies together over and over again.

He dips the tip of the needle into the ink, bends forward, returning it to the skin. Returning to his work. You desire closeness, to admire the art as he’s creating it on the man’s back, but also don’t wish to disturb his concentration. Watching him in his natural elements is peaceful. All that earlier anxiety is suddenly gone.

When Simon reaches for the ink again, Simon finally glances up. The moment your gazes lock, he freezes, hovering in a moment of stasis. It breaks, and Simon starts to stand, his arm extending outward to turn off the tattoo gun.

Nope. No. This is not what you want. You’ve disturbed him, throttled his concentration.

You shake your head vehemently, holding up both hands, pointing at the couch in the waiting area. Bravo lightly headbutts your thigh, clearly upset that you’ve taken away your hand for him to lick.

Simon holds his position. Knees slightly bent, legs just starting to extend like he’s ready to leap up at your request. Moving quickly, you settle yourself on the couch, Bravo jumping up next to you, snuggling down onto his belly, his large head plopping into your lap.

Only then does Simon sink back onto his stool.

The distance between the two of you is too much for your liking, but you know the feeling is mutual. Simon’s gaze is heated, and his body, which at first faced the client in the chair, is turned in your direction. Those dark, gorgeous eyes of his linger. They drag up your body, and back down again. Simon is taking his time, and under that wanton stare, you feel bare. Exposed. Chest cavity broken up and strewn out. Vulnerable.

It's unnerving. And yet thrilling. It’s how you felt when you first accepted his offer at Riot Room, when you off-handedly brought up the proposition and Simon made sure to end it.

His gaze remains a few seconds longer before Simon finally returns to the man lying face down on the chair. With one hand on top of Bravo’s head, you press the other hand to your cheek. It’s hot. Feverish. And you suddenly notice the growing slickness between your thighs.

Attempting to shift focus, you give most of your attention to Bravo, talking softly to the dog about your day, lulling the massive hound to sleep.

Even like this, you can’t help but notice all the times that Simon consistently glances up from his work, gaze focused in on you like you’ll somehow disappear. Sometimes it’s a quick one-two and he’s right back in it, set in on his work. Other times, he draws it out, as if silently telling you that he sees you. Those glances seize your heart, wrenching it right down into your stomach.

Once Bravo falls into a gentle snooze, and you have nothing else to direct your attention toward—except Simon’s lingering stares—you opt for productivity. With no idea how much longer Simon has with his client, you slip your phone out of your coat pocket and start catching up on work emails. Several deadlines are approaching quickly, and you’re terribly behind. You need an afternoon to yourself to simple work without interruptions. But that’s been difficult, especially when most of your time has been devoted to Evie.

“Done.”

Your head snaps up at the sound of Simon’s deep timbre. The client stretches, half-rolling half-stumbling to his feet.

Simon gestures for them to turn around. “Back to the mirror,” he instructs.

From off a rolling cart, Simon snags a hand mirror, presenting it to the client. It allows the man to admire Simon’s work. You have a clear view of the mirror. It’s just an outline, but it’s massive, covering the man’s entire back.

“Color and shading will take a couple sessions,” says Simon. “What do you think?”

You don’t catch what the man says, but you do hear Simon’s amused chuckle. He takes the hand mirror and places it on the tattoo chair. The two of them talk for a bit as money is exchanged and Simon hands him a care packet. The client shrugs on his shirt and coat, heading for the door.

As he approaches, he slows, noticing you on the couch. The corner of his mouth turns upward. He pointedly takes his time opening the door, a flirty smile on his face aimed at you as he steps out onto the street.

When the door clicks shut, you glance at Simon. His fists are clenched, hanging at his sides. Those dark eyes of his are bullets, ready to kill, completely fixated on the shut door.

“Simon,” you call out softly, a little of your worry slipping in. His gaze immediately adjusts, moving to you, softening entirely when he takes you in.

He tears off his black latex gloves and tosses them into the trash, already striding toward you as he does so. Bravo grumbles a protest as you bolt upward and off the sofa. You don’t even make it halfway to Simon before he’s on you, grabbing at the back of your neck and your waist, pulling you in for a kiss.

There isn’t a chance for you to push up the balaclava. And Simon doesn’t appear to care. He kisses you through the rough material, and you giggle against his cloth-covered lips.

“Simon,” you laugh, pushing lightly on his chest with your palms, voice slightly muffled from the balaclava.

He pulls back just enough to give you the faintest bit of breathing room. Then, he’s shoving his balaclava up to his nose, revealing those gorgeous lips of his. They are there and gone quickly, Simon already reclaiming what is so rightfully his.

You open and Simon slips his tongue inside, fingers digging roughly into the back of your neck, drawing you closer. This kiss is desperate. Needy. And so full of emotion that when he draws back, you’re momentarily breathless.

Simon’s smile is soft and you easily match it with one of you own. “Amelia told me you stopped by,” you murmur.

“You went to Cambridge,” he states. It’s not a question, and that gives you pause.

You nod. “I did.” You do not elaborate or give him an explanation. The situation with Evie is…complicated. While you wish to tell Simon everything, you also don’t want to unload, to dump all your worries onto him without warning.

“Do I have you for the evening?” he asks, hopefulness laced within the words.

A creeping sadness wiggles in. Simon cannot have you for the whole evening even though you’d love nothing more than to stay the entire night. But you won’t allow the disappointment to make a home. You are still here, with him, and that is enough.

“You have me for a few hours,” you answer, waiting for the discontent on his end.

It does not come.

Simon’s thumb traces the length of your throat. His smile is still there. Unchanged. “Do you want to join me upstairs?”

“Upstairs?”

“To my flat. For a drink.”

“Oh.”

“If not it’s fine,” says Simon quickly. “I understand. Quieter than one of the pubs.”

You nod eagerly, popping up on your toes. “Yes,” you breathe. “I’d like that.”

Going upstairs to his flat means that you and Simon will truly be alone. And that singular thought, one that speaks to uninterrupted pleasure, starts a thrumming in the lower recessives of your belly that only moves farther south with each passing second.

“Good,” he sighs with relief.

Did he think you’d say no? Is Simon just as nervous, just as eager to want to be with you?

Have you not thought about me? Not once? Because I’ve thought of you. Every day.

And what if I wanted it to be more? What if I still want it to be more?

Of course he does. Of course.

“Just need to,” he gestures to the room. “Close up.”

“How can I help?” you ask.

Simon thinks for a moment. “Floors?”

“Done.”

The two of you work in tandem, moving through the motions in a natural, domestic dance that seems so normal and so routine that it doesn’t feel odd. It’s comfortable. Cozy. Like you could live this life easily and not regret a single moment.

When the floors are cleaned, and surfaces are sanitized, Simon shuts off the main lights, locks the front door, and arms the alarm system.

Simon doesn’t say anything. Just overs his hand to you, palm upward.

There is no hesitation on your end.

Gently, you take his offered palm, admiring the little tattoos on his fingers as they fold over your hand. Simon guides you to a door you’ve never noticed before. It’s blocked off by a curtain, and when Simon opens it, the two of you step into a narrow hall. To your right is a door that leads out to the sidewalk. To your left is a staircase heading up to a landing.

Simon’s grip on your hand tightens as if you’ll make a run for the street. He does this sometimes. You’ve noticed these tiny gestures where he seems to cling a little too tight, and you question whether it’s a need to feel close to you, or anxiety.

Remembering what Amelia told you the other day, that you may need to be gentle with him, that Simon had a bad injury, you consider how that might influence someone. How it might change their perspective on things.

You return his tightened grip with a gentle squeeze of reassurance, silently prompting him to take the lead. Simon does, bringing you to the top of the landing. The front door doesn’t have a traditional lock but a passcode. Strange. Completely odd. But, then again, Simon is ex-military. Old habits?

Simon punches a series of buttons and the little red light on the top righthand side turns green. The audible sound of gears turning and locks—definitely plural—unlatching reaches your ears. Simon pushes down on the handle, and then you’re inside, Bravo right on your heels.

You’ve never thought about what Simon’s space might look like. Perhaps you figured it would be like any other bachelor pad. But Simon’s home is warm, and has a similar feel to the tattoo shop downstairs.

The interior is industrial with brick walls and exposed grey-black pipes running along the ceiling. The floor is hardwood, a deep, rich brown. To your left is a kitchen and dining area. All the cabinetry is black, the countertops butcher block, and the appliances stainless steel. To your right is the living room. The television is massive, and the sofa is large. You easily picture yourself and Simon snuggled on it, watching a movie.

Directly ahead of you is a short hallway. It branches left, disappearing to a place you cannot see. But you do notice an open bedroom doorway to the right of the end of the short hall.

“I have whiskey.”

You glance away from the doorway and find Simon. He nods toward a small bar next to the dining table. He’s right. There is only whiskey there. “Then whiskey it is.”

Simon laughs softly and grabs two rocks glasses. His gaze scans over the various bottles. Finally selecting one, Simon lifts it from its perch. Removing the cork, Simon pours a double on both. He brings your glass to you, and you take it with both hands, glancing down at the amber liquid.

This will hit you hard. You haven’t eaten since lunch.

“Are you hungry?” asks Simon, as if reading your mind.

“What?” you blink, looking up.

“I can order us something. Or I could cook.”

“You cook?”

“I’ve perfected a few meals.” Simon shrugs. “And instant ramen.”

“Instant ramen?” you ask, deadpan.

Simon crosses his arms over his chest, the whiskey in his glass sloshing slightly as he does. “And other things.”

“Are you sure? You don’t have to.”

“I want to,” he says automatically.

He wants to do this. He wants to do this.

“Okay. Yeah.” You nod. “You pick. Cook’s choice.”

Simons starts to turn away, but promptly returns, holding up his hand like he’s about to say something. He pauses, and sets his whiskey down. “Hold on.”

“Holding,” you say to his retreating back.

Simon disappears for a minute and reappears clutching a stack of papers. At first, you’re confused, but as he draws closer, you recognize them for what they are.

They’re pages out of a sketchbook, and there isn’t just a handful. Simon has to be holding as least a few dozen individual pieces of paper. And that’s not even the most startling thing. It’s the way he’s holding them, almost nervously, his thumbs rubbing the pages in an anxious tick.

Simon presents the stack to you. “Couldn’t decide on what I liked best.”

Your whiskey glass is on the dining table in an instant. Fingers itching, you gently take the papers from him. Already, from the very top sketch, you’re awed by the artistry. You don’t even look as you sink down into a chair. Placing them on the table, you begin to fan them out in a wide arc.

“These are lovely, Simon,” you murmur, captivated by how creative his mind is.

“You don’t need to select one today. Take a look and pick what you’re leaning toward.”

Quickly, you sift through them, spreading them out across the table, dividing them up to make the process easier. It’s almost overwhelming. Some of the pieces are similar, but most of them are entirely different. Completely unique.

As you start through your first organized stack, Simon is already in the kitchen, a large pot of water on the range. Before him on the countertop is a small pile of flour. He makes a well, cracks three eggs into the center, and the smallest splash of water. Taking a fork, he starts to whisk.

Is he—no.

You hold a paper in each hand but you’re not even looking at the artwork. You’re watching Simon make pasta. Fucking pasta. From scratch. And he’s not breaking a sweat. He looks so goddamn casual it’s almost maddening.

Bravo sits at your side, but all of his attention is on Simon. He licks his chops periodically but is otherwise statuesque. Your wraith wraps up the dough and sets it aside, quickly cleaning up his mess before retrieving a large frying pan, cutting board, and sauce pot.

Glancing between the artwork you pick up and Simon’s movement in the kitchen, you start to see a different side of him. Garlic, onion, fresh basil, and grape tomatoes are tossed into the sauce pot. Oil is drizzled into the large pan. Chicken breasts are pounded out, made thin, and then coated in breadcrumbs.

You at the table. Him in the kitchen, cooking you dinner. Nothing planned. Just present and existing, content with each other’s company.

By the time you’ve sorted through all the sketches and selected ten you’re leaning toward, Simon is rolling out the dough, cutting it into long strands, depositing the homemade spaghetti into the salted boiling water. The chicken cutlets are finishing under the broiler, topped with chunky tomato sauce and cheese.

Bravo’s no longer sitting but laying down. He’s still alert to everything happening in the kitchen, but Simon is meticulous, dropping nothing for Bravo to vacuum up.

“Simon?”

“Hm?” He briefly glances at you over his shoulder before returning his attention to the pot of cooking pasta.

You lick your lips, pausing before asking the question. “How did you get the tattoo shop?”

The tongs Simon holds hesitate before dipping into the water. “Part of my retirement,” he answers. Cooked pasta and leftover sauce are tossed together.

“Military retirement?” He nods but says nothing. You’re not sure if this will be too sensitive to ask, but you’re curious, and Amelia’s words from earlier in the week keep grating on your mind. “What did you do to earn you an entire tattoo shop at retirement?”

Simon divides the pasta up between two plates. “Early retirement from an injury. Got me this flat, too.”

Early retirement? An injury? What the fuck happened to him that the government would give him enough money to afford all this? That is unheard of, at least by American standards. You couldn’t say for certain what it’s like here, but it couldn’t be much different.

You sip on your whiskey, the amber liquid burning smoothly on the way down. “So you didn’t plan on becoming a tattoo artist originally?”

Simon shuts off the broiler and removes the breaded chicken cutlets. Placing them on a fresh cutting board, Simon slices them quickly, transferring one cutlet to each plate. “I was military.”

“I know,” you say quickly. “But—did you ever think about after?”

Opening a nearby drawer, Simon grabs two knives and two forks. “Sometimes.”

Why is he being so evasive? Was the injury that bad? Thinking on it, you do recall several scars. There is the one running along the edge of his jaw. That one is clear to the eye. The other scars you noticed were hidden under the ink.

Simon picks up the plates and you hastily clear away the sketches, piling up the ones you didn’t select.

“Find anything?”

“These.” You gently push a small stack toward him.

Simon doesn’t even look at them until your plate is in front of you and you’re holding the silverware. Social norms and general social expectations might say to be dainty when with a new romantic partner, but the food in front of you is begging to be devoured. Simon made this for you to enjoy, and you’re going to do just that.

And Simon doesn’t appear to give a shit anyway. With one hand, he’s cutting through his chicken. The other is spreading out the sketches you selected, his gaze entirely fixed on the paper. He takes a bite of his food. Chews. Lifts a sketch up to study it.

You tuck in, eating but silent, observing every twitch and change in Simon’s expression. There are few of note. You have no idea what he’s thinking. Is he conjuring up new sketches already? Is he itching to pick up his pencil or charcoal or whatever he enjoys working with and starting immediately? Is Simon surprised by your choices?

The strongest reaction you pick up on is the arch of a singular eyebrow.

Eventually, he nods, seeming satisfied. With one hand, Simon neatly situates your selections into a stack, setting it aside. Your plate is nearly empty at this point, inhaling the meal like an addict.

Simon settles into his chair, his gaze fixating on you. “Why’d you go to Cambridge?”

Does Simon mean to make it feel like an accusation?

“I went for Evie,” you answer.

“Your friend.”

“Yes.”

“That’s why you’re here?”

“In London? Yes. I am.”

You don’t know how far you can take this conversation before crossing into territory you don’t want to discuss. It’s not that you don’t want to discuss it with him, you simply fear the idea that you might unload on him. You are fully aware how stressing the entire situation with Evie is, but Simon doesn’t need to hear all of it at once. There are some things that are private. There are some things that if spoken to another, might break Evie’s trust in you.

Simon twirls his fork in his hand. “She’s pregnant.”

“Very pregnant,” you add.

“Married?”

How the fuck do you answer that?

“Widow,” you decide, because it’s the truth, and there isn’t any reason to hide it.

“How recent?”

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.

“She buried him a week ago.”

Simon stops twirling his fork. “A week?” You hear the surprise in his tone.

“Dead two. Buried one.” Saying it like that makes it sound so final. Archie is gone, and Evie is alone in that regard. She’s lost a piece of herself. A pillar of support.

This whole time, Simon’s gaze has been locked on you. But it drops down toward the floor for a brief few seconds before returning. Sometimes you really wish he’d take that balaclava off so you can get a full picture of what might be happening behind it.

“I’m sorry,” he says. Simon doesn’t press for more, and you nearly sigh with relief.

“I’m helping her for a bit. Easy for me since I work remote.”

“What do you do?”

Oh shit. Simon doesn’t know. All this time, and it’s never come up in conversation.

“Freelance mostly. Technical writing and editing.”

Simon swallows and takes a sip of his whiskey. “And what is that?”

“User manuals, medical documents, press releases.” You list a few more things and as you do, Simon’s lips stretch into a smile. “What?” you ask.

“That sounds incredibly boring.”

You burst out laughing, covering your mouth as you try not to choke. “Pays the bills. Wouldn’t call it exciting.”

This is easier conversation. This is what a normal back-and-forth is supposed to be between two people. Isn’t it?

But what is normal about this dynamic? The two of you met and hooked up in the basement of a club. You ran and he chased, kept chasing for three years, and when you finally appeared before him, you ran again and he followed after you without hesitating.

“Can you stay?” asks Simon, and you hear the silent plea in his voice. It draws up every needy thought simmering beneath your skin.

“For a bit,” you reply, purposefully being non-specific.

He inclines his head toward your plate. “Finished?”

“Yes.” You start to pick it up, standing with the intention to take it to the sink. Simon is having none of it. He whisks it out of your hands before your legs have a chance to fully extend. You plop your ass back in the chair.

Simon rinses out pans and cleans knives. Sitting in a chair and doing nothing is not something you’re accustomed to.

“Would you like me to help?”

“I’d like you to relax.”

“Yes, sir,” you murmur, finishing off the last of your whiskey.

He washes his hands and dries them on a towel. As he strides toward the dining table, he snaps at Bravo. “Kennel.”

Bravo’s ears droop, but he complies to Simon’s command.

Simon watches the German Shepard disappear down the hallway. He turns toward you, offering his hand. When you place your hand in his, Simon’s fingers take hold, drawing you out of your chair, pulling you against his body. His other hand cradles the side of your neck and lower half of your jaw. His thumb traces over your bottom lip.

“Can I take you to bed?” he asks, voice slightly husky with need. His thumb returns to your bottom lip, lightly pressing on it. “I want to kiss you. To touch you.” Simon is still holding on to your hand.

Not sex then? Just kisses. Touches. Even the thought of that is sending you into overdrive, every nerve in your body firing at once until your heart thuds loudly in your ears.

“Take me to bed,” you whisper, hardly believing you managed to get the words out.

Slowly, Simon’s hand falls away from your face. It is a gentle release, one that speaks of desire but doesn’t feel so primal and raw as when the two of you first came together. Walking backwards, Simon leads, entering into the dark of his apartment, heading down the hall, and entering the bedroom you noticed earlier.

You don’t even glance at your surroundings. You’re too focused on Simon, and the way he guides you around, easing you onto your back upon the bed. He drapes himself over you like a protective cocoon. One knee slides between your legs, forcing them to apart. The other digs into the bed just shy of your thigh.

Simon rests his forearm just above and to the side of your head. His other hand immediately goes to your waist. You are pinned in. You are under him, and it’s deliciously perfect. Better than what you’ve conjured up in your head. Beneath him, you feel protected. Safe.

Your fingers are already on the balaclava, pushing it up further, seeking him. You know not to go past the eyes, and while it pains you to not see Simon fully, you respect the boundary. That will fall away eventually. As will your uneasiness about being completely open and honest with him about Evie’s situation.

These things will happen. They have to. You want them to.

The moment you have full access to his lips, Simon is on you. Your hands fist the front of his shirt, dragging him closer. Simon lowers himself, his pelvis slotting perfectly with yours. Each kiss is slow. Measured. Every stroke of his hand along your waist, hips, and thighs sends a wave of rippling heat straight to your core.

It grows and grows, melting your resolve into mush. Your legs fall open wider, and Simon instinctually moves in. You clearly sense his needs. It’s fucking poking you. And fuck—what’s a few more hours? You can stay. You can.

Your hand slides between your bodies, slipping beneath the waistband of his joggers, your fingers finding him, wrapping around his hardness.

Simon swallows down a groan as his hips reflexively press against your palm. He breaks the kiss, breathing heavy, his teeth finding your throat.

Simon gently bites your neck, his large hand squeezing your thigh in warning. “Keep touching me like that and you won’t leave this bed until morning.”

The intensity of his delivery zaps you right out of your haze. “Sorry,” you gasp, withdrawing your hand quickly.

Simon’s answering growl pins you to the spot. He snatches your retreating arm, encircling the wrist, only to draw your hand back to him.

“Never apologize for touching me. Never.” His lips and teeth trace over your skin. When he finds your lips again, there is nothing chaste about the way he tastes you.

“Simon—”

“Not tonight. I—Not like this.”

Your hand that still rests on his chest slides upward. One finger delicately traces that scar you know so well.

“Will you walk me home?”

“You never have to ask.”

Simon guides your hand away from his groin. In the next moment, he wraps his arms around your waist, lifting up and off the bed, and onto your feet.

He’s smiling down at you, and it’s full of joy. You don’t know how to receive it. It’s almost too much, and you slightly feel undeserving of it.

“I’ll grab my coat.” You start to move but Simon’s arms around your waist tighten.

“Wait.” You glance up, find an intensity in his stare. “Can I take you out?”

“On a date?” you blurt.

“Movies. Dinner.” He shrugs. “Normal things.”

Your lips part slightly in confusion. There is nothing normal about Simon. “You don’t want to take me out for normal dates,” you say slowly.

Simon’s jaw clenches. “No.”

You grin, knowing you’ve trapped him. “What kind of date would you actually like to take me on?” Leaning forward, you rest your chin on his chest.

“Take you for a ride for starters.”

“On a bicycle?” you ask with mock innocence.

Simon sharply lands a slap to your ass. “I’ll put you back on that bed.”

“Promise?”

His answer is a growl, and a firm squeeze. “I’d take you to the coast. Or the country. Maybe up to Manchester. Show you where I grew up. All my favorite spots.”

“Go on,” you entreat.

“I’d show you the Highlands. Stay in a little cottage on a friend’s family farm.”

“What else?”

Simon’s brow softens, and then he’s bending down, capturing your lips in a deep kiss. “I’d make new memories with you,” he murmurs against your mouth.

“Promise?”

“That’s a fucking guarantee, love.”

For several minutes, the two of you embrace just inside his bedroom door. For several minutes, the two of you almost return to the bed, to fall right back into each other’s arms. But Simon has far more control than you.

Coats are collected. Bravo’s leash is found and attached to the dog’s collar.

The two of you don’t hold hands on your walk to Amelia’s. Instead, the two of you loosely intertwine a few fingers. There is no rush. No need to arrive quickly. And while there is silence, it’s a contented, peaceful thing.

Reviving. You are reawakening with Simon.

At Amelia’s front door, your parting kiss is not a kiss at all. With both hands, Simon cradles your face, closes his eyes, and rests his forehead against yours. You match him, closing your own eyes, placing your hands over his, simply breathing in his presence.

You’re practically skipping up the stairs to your shared bedroom with Evie. You expect to find her asleep. But when you open the door, you don’t find her tucked under the covers. She’s sitting up, resting against the headboard, wide awake, and crying quietly.

“What is it?” you ask, panicked, dropping your purse and coat onto the floor, crawling onto the bed to reach for her.

Evie wipes at her eyes, smirking through her tears. “Shouldn’t you be in your man’s bed right now?”

“Oh hush,” you mutter, waving her comment off. “What is it?”

Her smile falters. “Archie’s older brother called.”

The panic disappears. The contentment and peace that clings to you from your time with Simon evaporates instantly. All of it is gone. Poof. Like a popped balloon.

In its place is a seething anger.

“What the fuck does he want?”

“He wants to meet.”

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