#I miss you rest in piece to you fuck that one horse in particular

[15-lizards]

heyy, first of all i ADORE your fashion hcs! they are so coherent and practical yet so fun, george could never serve like that. anywayy, i was wondering about your thoughts on fashion in jaehaerys era since it lasted so long and the most prominent women at court were so different from each other. no one can convince me that what rhaena the lesbian wore at his early reign is the same alysanne wore at her golden years, that is FOR SURE not like what any of her daughters were wearing, specially viserra and saera.

In my mind, fashions were not very eye catching in Jaehaerys’ early reign. They were just coming off of Maegor, and no one could really afford excess and bright clothing when the country was in disarray. Rhaena was the leading lady at court at the time, and her fashion consisted of simple rounded skirts, scooped necklines, plain bodices, and flat sleeves. Even after she left, the women of the court still followed in her footsteps until the small council began to fill the coffers and fund court life more

Once Alysanne gets older and gains more influence as the queen, things get more lively. Sleeves are rounder and firmer, necklines and wrists are trimmed in lace, bodices are now decorated, and the skirts are lined with embroidery. Feathers, peals, and bows are popularized too in more voluminous hair. Alyssane starts dressing in a manner that’s gentle and pure but also regal, as the court is able to become more excessive

By the time Aly is a mother multiple times over, she sheds the girlish look for something a bit more mature and regal. The bodice and skirts are still the same, but sleeves are a bit more fitted and necklines are square. This is also at the peak of Jaehaerys’ reign, meaning that the court has more than enough money to spend on frivolity. All of her clothes are painstakingly crafted with golden damask patterns, perfectly start her collars, detailed lace linings, and her weights worth in jewelry. But somehow it never looks tacky on her (also I know I’ve used the right gown before for the dance but it just fits also maybe Rhaenyra fished it out of storage when she wanted it idk)

Once Aly’s girls start growing, they start shedding the conventional fashions of the court. Viserra especially thinks everyone looks ridiculous in their over the top gowns and giant hairpieces. Her and Saera start a new trend among the younger women of a silhouette similar to the ones their mothers wore but with a “sexier” twist to it. The bodices are tighter, the skirts are slimmer, their hair frames their face in “provocative” ringlets, and their shifts are peeking out from their gowns. The high septon rails against this new age fashion but it takes hold anyway

[pedrospatch]

lost on you l a safe haven drabble

series masterlist

summary: You’re missing Joel and a certain mare seems to be picking up on your sadness—or at least that’s what you think is happening when there’s a sudden change in her behavior. Why else would Stella be acting so strange around you?

warnings/tags: 18+ ONLY, MINORS DNI. angst, horses, and a lil more angst. reader’s pregnancy is lightly being implied, but it has not been explicitly stated yet, only hinted at. no Joel, he is only mentioned in this one. Dina makes an appearance, i threw in some comedic moments to try and balance out the angst. ends with a horsey hug.

word count: 1.9k

a/n: so this is meant to be as a bit of a filler fic before chapter 9 is posted and shit hits the fan. i knew i wanted to do a short drabble that touches on how reader is doing after the confrontation she had with Joel. i also asked people to send in short prompts for the series to do some no pressure writing exercises, and this particular prompt that was sent in was just incredible and i decided to incorporate it. It makes me nervous to post a fic with no Joel in it, but my heart wanted to write it so fuck it, I just wrote it. chapter 9 is almost done and will be posted soon. @eyesneverbeensoblue i hope it’s okay to tag you in this and tell you thank you so much for the idea!

Lately, I’m getting lost on you

I tore your world apart like it was nothing new

every day I’m a slave to the heartache…

Summer slowly, but surely comes to an end.

The days are long, but the nights without Joel?

They’re even longer, at least, that’s how it feels.

You miss him. Oh God, how you fucking miss Joel Miller.

He’s all you can ever think about.

Every second of every minute of every single day.

You miss Joel so much that it physically hurts. Every part of you just aches for him. Aches. 

Your insides feel like they’re on fire, and you can't put it out.

The heartache is agonizing, almost unbearable—it’s unlike anything you have ever felt before.

In front of others, you hold it together pretty well. But when you’re alone, behind closed doors? 

That’s when you fall apart. Crumble into pieces.

Losing Joel is something you will never heal from. Never.

Traces of himself he’d left behind—would you ever be able to wipe yourself clean of them? Of him? Or would you have to spend the rest of your damn life trying to get over the man who fucking adored the hell out of you and who loved you so unconditionally?

“He misses you, you know,” Ellie says, quietly. She stands beside you and diligently runs a hard, bristled hand brush along Jasper’s side to clear his golden coat of dirt and debris. The palomino is just one of several horses that needed tending to after that morning’s patrol shift. Realizing you’re too busy jotting down notes in Jasper’s handwritten file you keep for him—you kept a file for every single horse in the commune—Ellie clears her throat and then speaks again, louder this time. “He misses you.”

You wince and stop mid scribble.

“Ellie—” you trail off, your throat going dry.

Even though you’d asked her about a hundred and one times not to talk about Joel, Ellie was hellbent on bringing him up to you as often as she could. At first, it seemed innocent enough. She stuck to just letting you know how his recovery was going.

“His shoulder’s healing really well.” 

“Donna came over to help with physical therapy.” 

“He’ll be back on patrol in a couple of weeks.” 

So you’d given her a pass. Besides, you would be a liar if you said you didn’t want to know how he was healing after his injury.

However, Ellie then began to wander into more sensitive and dangerous territory.

“He asked me about you.” 

“He was drinking again last night.” 

“He looks so fucking miserable.” 

You know why she’s doing it.

It’s not to make you feel guilty for hurting Joel.

Hell, she knows that you’re hurting just as badly. She loves you and she loves Joel—the two people Ellie cares about more than anything are suffering without each other.

You hate that she’s essentially been pulled right into the middle of this mess that you’ve created.

Ellie is collateral damage. This is all hurting her too.

“He misses you a lot,” she adds after a minute.

You exhale sharply. Her words feel like a punch to the gut and they knock the wind out of your lungs.

Finally, you look up from your clipboard, turning to her. “Ellie,” you say her name warningly. “Stop it. We’re not going to do this today. Okay?”

“I’m just saying,” she mumbles, placing a hand on Jasper’s side. “If someone was missing me, I think I would want to fucking know.”

You feel the lump steadily rising in your throat.

“Ellie, please don’t—”

“I’m here, I’m here, I’m here!”

The sound of Dina’s voice fills the horse stables.

The teenager whips herself into Jasper’s stall, skidding to a stop in front of you, sweaty and breathless, as if she had just run across the settlement.

“I’m so sorry I’m late!” She apologizes, setting her bag down on the ground. Pulling a scrunchie from the back pocket of her jeans, she throws her long, black hair into a messy bun as she explains herself. “Talia asked me to help her out in the library this morning and I totally lost track of time. And then on the way over here, I bumped into Mrs. Miller as she was walking home from the market and I mean, I could not just let a pregnant lady carry all those heavy bags across town—”

“Dina, breathe, sweetheart.” You hold up a hand to stop her. “It’s okay. As long as you show up, that’s all I care about. Especially since Tommy and Maria moved Logan to patrol duty. That’s another stable hand gone, so I need all the help I can possibly get around here.” Slipping your clipboard under your arm, you glance from Dina to Ellie. The emotions from what had happened just seconds before your niece had run in are bubbling, threatening to boil over. “Listen, I have to go do a routine examination on Stella. Finish up with grooming Jasper. I have a couple of horses that are due for baths—Luna and Bandit. Then it’s feeding time. Got it?”

Dina smiles brightly. “We’ll take care of it, won’t we, El?”

Sensing your urgency to leave, Ellie gives a subtle, small nod of her head. “Yeah. We will.”

“Good. I’ll come check on you girls when I’m done with Stella.” Spinning around on the muck caked heel of your boot, you hastily leave Jasper’s stall and nearly fly all the way down the stables and into Stella’s.

You rush inside, closing the top and bottom half of the Dutch door before sagging back against the wood. You toss your clipboard aside on the floor of the stall and lift both your hands, covering your face as you choke back sobs of pure agony.

He misses you. 

As you will yourself to keep yourself from falling apart, you feel a warm muzzle dig lightly into your lower stomach. Dropping your hands from your face, you glance up only to see Stella peering at you with clear and unmistakable curiosity in her big brown eyes.

“Hi there, my gorgeous girl,” you murmur softly to the pregnant mare. A tear slips out from the corner of your eye and you quickly wipe it away with the back of your hand.

Stella lowers her head and sniffs at your stomach, right where she had dug into you. Her ears prick forward and she nuzzles the same spot again.

You shoot her a strange look. You’ve never seen her exhibit this type of behavior before.

“Stella, what are you doing?” you ask, almost as if you expect her to speak and give you an answer. “Why are you being so weird?”

Stella sniffs you again, then nips at the hem of your tank top.

“Hey! Cut that out.” You can’t help but let out a watery giggle as you carefully pull the fabric out of her mouth. Realizing the strange behavior must have something to do with the mare sensing the intensity of your negative emotions, you gently place both of your hands on either side of her muzzle. Inhaling a deep breath through your nose, you slowly exhale it through your mouth before touching your forehead to hers. “I’ll be okay, girl. I’ll be okay. There’s no other choice—I have to be okay.”

An hour later, you’d finished the examination.

Stella had continued to act oddly around you, her behavior becoming more and more peculiar as time went on. You were bonded to her of course—you were bonded to just about every single horse in the commune—and so it didn’t really surprise you that the mare was so in tune with your emotions and could feel that something was off. She was extremely attentive to you as you worked, her eyes never leaving you, not even for a second.

Stella also continued to sniff you, nuzzling you in the stomach any chance she had. For as bizarre as it was, it brought you an off sense of comfort and it made you feel less alone.

“Hey auntie.” Dina opens the stall door, poking her head inside. “Can we come in?”

“Of course.”

She pushes the door open further and walks into the stall with Ellie on her heels. Both of them are almost completely soaked from head to toe. 

Your eyes widen. “Um, girls, I’m pretty sure I told you to bathe the horses—not yourselves.”

Ellie lets out a small scoff. “Ha ha. Very funny.”

“Bandit wasn’t having it,” Dina chuckles. “But he’s all clean, and so is Luna. We just came in to tell you we’re going to go dry off and change our clothes. We’ll be back for feeding time.” She glances at the mare. “How’s our sweet mama-to-be doing?”

“Good. She’s as healthy as a horse.”

The teenagers roll their eyes, but laugh.

“You’re so lame, auntie.”

“Just a little equine veterinarian humor. My dad used that one on me all the time.” You grin at the memory. “Stella’s doing really well. In about seven or eight months, we’ll have our new baby.”

“Well then, I think someone deserves a little treat since she’s doing so good.” Dina reaches into the bag she has slung over her shoulder and pulls out a crisp, red apple. She walks over, holding the fruit out in the palm of her hand for the horse. “Here you go, girl.”

Stella gives the apple a sniff, then takes it from her. 

Usually, she wolfs it down in just a few chomps—but what she does next surprises all three of you. Apple still between her teeth, the mare turns and pushes her muzzle into your stomach.

“Oh shit,” Ellie cackles. “No fucking way!”

“Oh my god,” Dina grins. “Is she—she’s giving it to you?”

Shocked, you lift a hand and delicately take the apple from between her teeth. “Stella, you silly girl! What are you doing?” You hold it out for her. “This apple is for you, sweetheart. Here, take it.”

She tosses her head in the air.

Dina snorts into her hand. “She just told you no!”

“She wants you to have it.” Ellie shoots you a teasing look. “Come on, princess. Take a bite.”

You look at her, then down at the apple, which is covered completely in Stella’s slobber.

“Um, no thanks. I think I’ll pass,” you mutter. 

“Auntie, don’t be rude,” Dina jokes. “It’s bad manners to refuse her offer.”

Rolling your eyes at your niece, you turn back to Stella and tell her, “I’ll eat it later. When it’s washed.”

“We’re starting to smell like wet horse,” Ellie makes a gagging noise as she takes a whiff of her shirt.

Dina lifts the collar of her blouse to her nose. “Oh, gross. We are starting to smell like wet horse.” She reaches out with her opposite hand, grabbing one of Ellie’s. She laces their fingers together. “Come on, let’s go change.”

You can’t help but notice the way Dina looks at Ellie—with the sweetest, most adoring little smile.

You raise an eyebrow, cocking your head slightly.

Ellie’s eyes meet yours and she blushes deeply.

If you ever had a chance to give Ellie Williams shit, this was it—but instead, you just give her a subtle wink from where you stand. Her face instantly goes from red to maroon.

“Be sure to be back in an hour for feeding time!” you call as Dina pulls her out of the stall. “I’m not feeding all these horses alone!”

“We will!”

Once the girls are gone, you turn to Stella and wrap your arms around her neck. “Thanks for trying to cheer me up today, pretty girl.”

She rests her head on your shoulder.

You feel more tears coming and hug her harder.

lyrics: Lost on You - Lewis Capaldi

[wondersofdreaming]

Keepsake

Characters: Captain Syverson x female reader (3rd person)

Word count: 1.827

Warnings: Death, loss, hopelessness, light cursing, sadness, melancholy, grief, heartache, mourning.

Author’s note: This story was inspired by the song 'Everglow' by Coldplay.

Do me a favour and listen to the song, while reading this, I'll link to the different versions, depending on your mood.

Everglow (original) by Coldplay

Everglow (acoustic) by Coldplay

Everglow (instrumental) by Alexandre Pachabezian

The links are for Spotify, if they don't work try this link for YouTube

I do not own any characters in this short story, except the wife, son and Elijah Reed, who are figments of my imagination.

A massive, MASSIVE, thank you to my beloved angel, @radaofrivia, for giving me the idea from just a few thoughts, for sitting through with me while I wrote this, for giving me advice and for just being there.

Please check out her stories right here: RADA'S MASTERLIST

MY MASTERLIST

Feedback is appreciated.

(Young Syverson, picture credit to @killjoy-assbutt-1112 - find it here)

Oh, they say people come Say people go This particular diamond was extra special And though you might be gone And the world may not know Still I see you, celestial

Lyrics are from Everglow by Coldplay.

The looming grey clouds were moving closer towards him. He could hear the distant sounds of the rumbling thunder. Before long it started to rain and lightning lit up the entire house. The dirt road was flooded in no time, giving the crops the liquid nourishment they needed.

The former army captain was restless. It was on days like these he missed him, more than anything else in the world. He couldn’t sit still and had planned on working on the house, but the coming storm was putting a stop to that. Instead, he sat on the porch swing he built with Elijah when Lucas bought the house.

The Syversons had moved to their farm when Lucas was 4. A few days into the move, their neighbours had stopped by with some casserole, and to welcome them to their community. Mr and Mrs Reed also had a son who was a few months younger than Luc. Elijah had hidden behind his mother’s leg, a little shy, but with some encouragement he greeted Lucas.

“I’m Lucas, but my baby sister can’t say it yet, she keeps babbling Luc, so if it’s easier, you can call me Luc too.”

“I’m Elijah.”

Sy remembered he was trying so hard to pronounce his new friend’s name. He smiled at the memory, the name had been permanent in Lucas’ mind, only using Elijah, when he was mad at him or thinking he was about to do something stupid, which he did often.

“Lija, wanna play?” Lucas asked awkwardly.

“What?” Elijah looked profoundly confused. “I… don’t know.”

“Go on, son. It’s okay,” Mr Reed tried to encourage him.

“Come with me, Lija. I wanna show ya somethin’.”

Lucas had shown Elijah his new toy tractor that his parents had given him for his birthday. The two young boys had played together, and before long were inseparable.

A round yellow object in the palm of his hand. He was fiddling with it. The coin was always in his pocket, so he could keep his best friend close to him at all times. It was an old arcade coin that you could plot into any machine and play one game.

The two best friends had each gotten a dollar’s worth of coins, but the man at the ticket booth had miscounted, so Sy had gotten an extra coin, which the two friends had fought over during their time in the arcade. Lucas being the protector he was, lost to Elijah on purpose, so his friend won the coin.

“I’ll savour it, it’s going to be my lucky coin!” Elijah has announced.

Syverson swung the porch swing with his booted foot. He stared at the coin, wondering why he had been the lucky one. Luc shook his head faintly, his face full of pain and sorrow.

The coin became a thing that decided their fate. When the boys couldn’t agree on something, they would flip the coin. The picture side was heads and the text ‘No cash value’ side was tails. It might have been worth nothing, but it was a priceless item to the two friends.

“Heads: I ask her on a date, tails: you ask her,” Elijah flipped the yellow coin and covered the back of his hand as it landed. The two teenagers looked over at the brunette cheerleader, who was laughing with her friends. Prom was upon them and they both wanted to ask her. Elijah lifted his hand, it was heads.

The dumb coin was always on Elijah’s side. Lucas let out a soft laughter of the memory. Elijah’s face had been priceless, Sy wished he had taken a picture of it. It had been Elijah’s first kiss that night.

When Lucas decided to enlist, Elijah followed him, even with a lot of arguing against it from Sy’s side. He didn’t want his best friend anywhere near a warzone but in the end, he was glad that Lija was there with him through every hardship during training, when they lost people on their team, when they had to carry the dead back to base, it was better to have a friend by your side and share the pain with.

It didn’t take Syverson long to rank up and become captain. He ended up leading a large group of soldiers in a village in Iraq, with Elijah as his lieutenant, he felt like he could conquer the world.

During one of their trips home, Sy had bought a house he wanted to renovate, maybe start a family in. Elijah had spent every moment he could, helping Lucas with the house. It had made them closer as friends, and they had heartfelt talks about their future. Elijah wanted to come home and help his ailing parents with the farm, maybe get into breeding horses, preferably racehorses. Sy hadn’t thought of his future in that sense by then. He just wanted to relax, drink beer and ride his motorcycle.

There was hardly a moment in Lucas’ life where Elijah wasn’t a part of it. Elijah was his best friend, and if he had to be a little girly, they were BFFs. His best friend’s presence had made every moment special, made them better. It was the hardest part, to not have Elijah by his side anymore. He missed Elijah’s silly, huge and sometimes irritating grin, which somehow made the world seem a bit brighter during the dark times. Elijah made his life easier… he just made it better to have a friend to share everything with.

His heart had broken in a million pieces when the building collapsed on top of his best mate.

“Captain, we need a scouting team. I’m taking three soldiers towards those buildings and see if there are enemies up ahead,” Elijah had suggested.

“Lieutenant, I make the orders here. I’m going,” Lucas commanded.

“Heads or tails, Luc,” Elijah picked out the coin from his breast pocket.

“This is no time for such thing, Lija,” the captain grumbled.

“This is the perfect time, Luc. We promised that whenever we couldn’t agree on something, we would use the coin. So, heads or tails, captain Syverson.”

“Heads.”

The coin had landed on the tails side. Lucas had cursed the coin, fuck, shit, crap, dammit!

“It’s my turn to protect you, Luc. I’m not the scrawny little kid anymore, let me show you!”

Elijah had gathered three soldiers and run between two concrete buildings with a big smile on his face. Sy would never forget the smile. It was a grin of pride and determination. And it was the last time Lucas would ever see his best friend.

Moments later a huge explosion shook the ground they were standing on. Sy watched with horror as the buildings collapsed, trapping Elijah and his team. What they didn’t know then was that the impact with the concrete walls had killed him instantly.

The rest of the soldiers watched as their captain went on his knees. Utter despair and anguish plastered on his face, tears about to escape the corners of his eyes. The usual strict army captain, the man with the muscles, the tough guy who could break you with a stare, was breaking down.

“Lija…” he whispered into the dust-filled space, his voice breathless like somebody knocked the air out of his lungs.

At night he had screamed in pain of the loss of his most beloved friend. His days were filled with hopelessness as he prepared to fly home with Elijah’s corpse in a coffin. The nights only brought nightmares, so he started writing a letter to his best friend and thinking of how to tell Elijah’s parents.

“Dear Lija. I can’t believe you’re… Shit, I can’t even write the word. Just a four-letter word, and yet I can’t fucking write it down on a piece of paper. I wish I could have taken your place, man. It should have been me. I hate you for forcing me to pick a side on that stupid coin. I hate you for being so brave. I hate you for wanting to protect me. Fuck you for dying. Fuck you for leaving me. Here. All alone. What about your parents? How am I going to tell them that you’re… how am I going to face them? You are and will always be my best friend. I wish you could go back to your parent’s farm on your own two legs, not in a fucking box. I miss you, Lija. You’re the closest thing to a brother I will ever get. So rest in peace and keep the seat next to you warm, I’ll see you on the other side. - Luc.”

Lucas had sneaked the letter into Elijah’s breast pocket of his uniform before they had shut the coffin. The coin that Elijah had on him, had been put in a plastic bag with the rest of his belongings, prepped to be given to his next of kin, his parents. But Lucas took the yellow token. He needed a memento to remember his best friend by, something that he could keep with him always. A keepsake.

It had taken every ounce of courage for Lucas to step up to the front door of the Reed’s farmhouse. A house he was so familiar with and had so many adventurous sleepovers in Elijah’s space-themed bedroom. He could smell Mrs Reed’s famous peanut brittle, making it harder for him to knock, but he did it anyway. Standing there in his military uniform, he told the two people, who had acted as a second set of parents to him, that their only son had died heroically in battle. Lucas stood frozen, watching them mourn the loss of their son. He was about to step away to give them space, but Mrs Reed grabbed his wrist and brought him into the hug.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t protect him,” he pleaded, his voice breaking slightly.

“Was he in pain?” Mrs Reed asked, breaking Lucas’ heart all over again.

“No, ma’am. It happened really fast.”

Sy fiddled with the arcade coin. Having zoned out the thunder, not noticing the storm had come and gone. The sun was slowly setting on the horizon. It was a peaceful ending to an emotional day.

A loud wailing came from inside the house. The front door opened and out came his beautiful wife with their young son in her arms. His face was stained in tears. The tiny boy reached towards his father the minute he saw him. In his father’s arms was the only place the boy was happy and content. Sy’s face broke into a happy grin at the sight of his son. His tiny fingers trying to grab the coin in the former captain’s hand.

“This,” Sy showed it to his son, “will be yours when you’re old enough not to eat it.”

He chuckled at the frustrated look on the boy’s face. Sy kissed the top of his son’s head.

“I love you, Elijah.”

[fuckingthefictional]

Red Stained Dress

Request: “I hope you’re having a wonderful day/evening/afternoon/night! May I request Reader being a cousin to the Shelby’s (mother’s side) and being very very like lady-like, clean, expensive clothes. And one of the boys gets blood on her dress? If that’s alright? Thanks in advance.”

A/N: I made this entirely too angsty for my own good, either way hope you enjoy!

Warning: Graphic descriptions of violence, swearing, blood.

“Mummy what is falling in love like?”

“My darling, it is one of the best things in life. It is special and sacred. It makes life worth living, it makes the world that little bit brighter.”

“When will that happen to me?”

“Time will tell my sweet girl, but be patient- love is always lurking around corner, where you least expect it.”

Your mother was right. It did lurk around the corner and it caught your heart in its grasp and lead you to love. To your husband.

At the age of 20 you went from Y/N Strong to Y/N Massey. Wife of James Massey. You were happy, at peace.

But your mother had failed to explain the complexities of love. That it didn’t come easy. There was darkness and rockiness. And love didn’t always last.

For you it broke in front of you. When your husband was taken on the battlefield- somewhere in France.

And suddenly you were a widow, you were alone.

Your mother and husband had passed. The only person left was your father (if you could even call him that)- Charlie Strong.

On her deathbed your mother had begged you to go and make amends with him. Even going as far to write down his address on a piece of paper for you to keep.

But you hadn’t plucked the courage to do that yet. To you your father was just a man who ran from his wife and child at the first moment he could.

There was only one trait that you shared with that man. And that was your love of horses. You had always had a connection with animals. Horses and dogs in particular would just flock to you- who knew maybe it was in your blood.

“Ms Massey?” A quiet voice interrupted your heavy stream of thought, looking up you saw one of the many maids that worked at the house standing in the entry way to the library.

“Is everything alright Mary?” You asked.

“Ms Carleton has just arrived for you ma’am, she’s waiting for you by the car.”

You nodded, rising from your armchair and taking one last glance at his armchair before you left for the day.

May and yourself were going to a horse auction, you’d been looking forward to it for weeks.

You were both looking for some new horses to take on and train, as well as some new potential clients.

“Stop dallying Y/N!” Your friend’s familiar voice rang out, “The auction starts soon, we’ll miss out at this rate!”

You rolled your eyes towards May, silently dismissing her joking jabs at you.

“We won’t be late May,” You reprimanded, “stop fretting.”

“The clock says otherwise.”

“Ladies like us are never late,” You waves your hands to prove your point, “everyone else is simply early.”

May giggles in response, “if you say so Y/N/N.”

You swatted at your close friend jokingly, you were hoping for a successful, calm day- but trouble always did seem to follow you every place you went.

-

“Ladies and Gents we will start our bidding at 50 pounds.”

The horse auction was surprisingly crowded, it seemed that quite a few people had come to see what breeds could be found at the auction house that afternoon.

It was dwindling down to the last few stallions and the occasional mare. All in all you had been successful in purchasing two stallions and a mare of your own.

The last horse on auction in question was beautiful, it was a stallion- dark and shiny in colour, its legs were long but muscled. A perfect contender for you to train for the races.

You raised your hand in interest.

“50 pounds here,” the auctioneer spoke, looking around at everyone else, “Going once, twice-“

“150 pounds.”

Your head whipped round, looking for the man who was trying to outbid you.

“300” you spoke again.

“500” A murmur rippled through the crowd.

You weighed up your options, it was a lot of money for a single horse- you didn’t want to blow through every single penny you had to your name.

“Going once, going twice-“

“1500 pounds.” A new voice had cut out, there were shocked murmurs erupting throughout the stands of people.

The gavel banged on the table, signifying the final action of the day, as people began to disperse from the auction house- you could finally see the man that had snatched the last horse up.

You knew who it in an instant- it was Thomas Shelby. Your cousin Thomas.

Swallowing a lump in your throat, you began to make your way down the stairs with May. Silently you found yourself praying that he hadn’t taken any notice of your presence.

God didn’t listen of course.

“Y/N?”

You took a deep inhale, as you rushed down the stairs to try and escape.

“Y/N!”

Fuck, there was no chance of outrunning them.

You quickly murmered that you would catch up to your friend, before you slipped through the doors arena like stage.

The doors itself open and closed behind you, before it was repeated again.

Here goes nothing I suppose.

You breathed in a shuddering breath as you turned to face your estranged family members.

They were all there. Thomas, John, Arthur, as well as another two men that you didn’t recognise. Not to mention the man that you had long since called your father.

You put on a polite smile, which probably looked far too forced, “Good Afternoon Thomas.”

“What are you-“

“What are you doing ‘ere ‘ey?” Your father cut Tommy off, questioning your motives as his piercing eyes stared into your similar ones.

The action only caused a swell of anger to swirl in her belly.

“I assume the same reason that you are- business.” You spoke simply, biting down on your tongue to keep any more words at bay.

“And what ‘business’ do you have here Hmm?” Tommy’s gruff voice asked.

“Jesus I’m just here to purchase any horses that look good enough to ride professionally- what is your probl-“

“Mr Shelby.”

Everything that happened next, happened all too quickly. Because before you could even register what was happening there was a yell coming from one of your cousins.

“Get down!” John’s voice had cut of your own with a loud yell, as you were suddenly tackled to the floor.

A loud crack rippled through the air as the wooden banister above you splintered into two, a bullet lodging itself in the wall behind it.

You peeled up behind the curtain of hair that had fallen in front of your eyes, “What the fuck?” You screamed in fear, shock melting into every nerve and muscle in your body.

Another gunshot pierced out, as it shattered the large window close by into thousands of shards.

A part of you didn’t want to believe that this was happening- surely it was just a dream? A terrible, horrific nightmare?

Another crack of a bullet being launched sounded close to you, peeping up from behind your quivering hands you saw that it was Thomas who had fired it.

Thomas who had fired a fatal shot into another man’s head. Thomas who had caused the death of a man, who may have had a wife, or a child or a family.

But nothing could’ve prepared you for the sight that was to come next. The sight of your eldest cousin brutally throwing punch after punch after punch at another man’s face.

The sickening sounds of flesh hitting flesh and bones shifting and cracking under the weight of Arthur’s meaty fists continued to echo around the room.

The man’s face slowly becoming mangled into mush, the sand below him becoming stained with crimson blood - you knew you couldn’t take it for a moment longer.

Swallowing your fear, you jumped off of the ground, screaming desperately for Arthur to stop.

You tried to pull him off, only to be knocked backwards onto your back. You felt the air leave your body as you collided with the ground.

You shifted back onto your feet, ignoring the pain surging through your spine. Watching as your father, Tommy and another man ripped Arthur away from the scene.

Crawling over you to the motionless body, you lifted two fingers to his neck. Frantically searching for a pulse. After a few seconds you found one, “He’s still alive- but his pulse is weak, he needs-“

Once again you were cut off by your father, “John take Y/N to the car.”

“What? No!” You protested, “did you not hear me- that man is dying he needs a doctor now.”

Within seconds you felt your body lift off the ground and over someone’s shoulder.

“Stop! You can’t do this!” You were screaming desperately, you voice becoming hoarse “What is wrong with you?”

The feeling of tears running down your face, alerted you to just how upset you felt. You just watched your family kill- like they were predators.

A few short minutes later, you felt your feet finally hit the floor. Looking around you grasped onto the nearest solid object that you could find.

The car was cool to touch and it calmed your raging thoughts for a second before a swell of nausea hit. You wanted to be sick, to cleanse the memories of what you had just witnessed away.

“Y/N...” John’s voice held care, like he was tiptoeing around what had just happened, “About what you just saw.”

“You didn’t see anything.”

You’re head shot up angrily, Tommy stood in front of you, with the rest of the group of men behind him.

“Really because the blood on my fucking dress says otherwise,” you fined, lYou’re fucking insane- you just killed two men, two men who may have had families that will never see them again.” Tears welled up in your eyes, “You should feel ashamed.”

Tommy rolled his eyes, “If we didn’t kill them, they would have killed us.”

“We all have a part to play in this world Tommy- you don’t get to decide who lives, who dies and who tells the story. You’re just a selfish coward who shoots first and asks questions later.”

“Y/N you can’t say that- he’s your family.”

Your head whipped around, quick enough that you swore you could’ve gotten whiplash. It was your father who had spoken those words.

“You don’t get to say anything to me- you do not have that right anymore, you lost that a long time ago,” You jabbed a finger into his scrawny chest, “Family Hm? You lot stopped being my family years ago. None of you came to my wedding, none of your cared when my husband was killed, and you ‘dad’ disowned me before I could walk- so don’t you dare lecture me about family.”

“You’re still apart of this family Y/N.”

You rolled your eyes, “Well if that,” you pointed back over to the auction center, “is what being apart of this family is then I have no fucking interest in being apart of it.”

Family isn’t always to do with fucking blood- it is what you make it.

[yeenybeanies]

Slaying Monsters

i started this three months ago, and decided it was time to finish it. i’ve been wanting to write a piece with dev & some other gang members for a while now i didn’t proofread it yet don’t @ me

red dead redemption | charles smith & devin clarke ( oc )

3,728 words

language, blood, & animal death warnings

thanks for reading!! reblogs > likes!! patreon | ko-fi

Unattended bags are always tempting to a borrower. It’s partly survival and partly curiosity that draws the little beings to bags and boxes and other such vessels that contain stuff. Ideally, that stuff would be useful. 

Such is Devin’s idea upon approaching a lone saddlebag. They’ve been watching it for a while now. It has remained unbothered and undisturbed atop a tree stump for over an hour. Surely there’s bound to be something good inside, what with the many members of the Van Der Linde gang constantly coming and going. And surely, whatever those contents may be, small amounts won’t be missed.

The coast is clear. The camp is preoccupied in tending to the daily duties; no one is paying the bag any mind. Devin makes a break for it, keeping low as they run through the grass, to the stump. They pause at the base and give the camp a quick look, pleased to see that no one has taken notice of their presence. For just a moment, they allow themself a prideful smirk, then they refocus on the task at hand: climb the stump and get in the bag. The former is hardly a challenge; deep cracks in the bark provide handholds enough that the borrower doesn’t need their hook or climbing equipment to scale it. Despite the strap and buckle keeping the bag shut, Devin is small enough to slip through a gap and reach the interior. 

The space is dark and cramped, but some light filters in through the gap they’d entered. The first thing Devin notices is the smell of leather and sweat, and fabric beneath their feet. Clothing. It’s best not to take anything from these; missing scraps from a shirt or a pair of pants would definitely be noticed. Deeper down, past the clothes, another smell becomes more prominent: something earthy and floral. That could be useful. Devin crawls through the mounds of fabric, navigating the musty space, until their hand brushes something soft. A bit more pawing around reveals it to be an umbel of little flowers. Intrigued, they grasp the stem and pull the plant into the light for better inspection. 

“ What the hell…. ”   White flowers, jagged leaves…. Devin scrunches their nose, confused. Is their plant identification knowledge failing them? Or is the owner of this bag an idiot? 

Pondering is short-lived. Footsteps approach from the outside––a human. Devin’s heart speeds up. They drop the plant and dive for cover within the clothes just as the bag is lifted. It sways in the air with the human’s long strides, most disorienting. When the swaying stops, the borrower remains hidden, knowing full-well that they are not safe yet. There’s an exchange of words overhead, a brief moment of stillness, and then the world starts tumbling. Devin clutches hard onto the clothing concealing them. Much to their chagrin, this particular jostling is painfully familiar. They’re on a horse. 

Somehow, being in a saddlebag is worse than being stuck under a hat. 

Fuck. 

Suppressing the sickening feeling in their stomach and the myriad of emotions swarming their brain, Devin fights against the horrible shaking and pushes their way out of the fabric folds. Climbing is significantly harder, but they still press on, going so far as to use their knife and hook for more purchase on the tough leather. Slowly but surely, they manage to reach the opening they’d initially climbed through and peek out. The wind whips and frays their hair and makes it difficult to see much of anything. They catch glimpses of the ground speeding below at breakneck speed, and at the horse’s white-and-grey spotted pelt. 

Most surprisingly, and to some relief, though, is the rider. The long, black hair and the big, sawed-off shotgun identify the man: “Charles!” 

Alas, their voice is unheard over the wind. Devin growls, frustrated, and retreats back into the relative safety of the saddlebag. There’s no use trying to get his attention right now. They’re just going to have to endure the bouncing and the shaking until he slows down. They can only pray that it’s soon.

———

Only an hour or so elapsed by the time the galloping slowed, though, to Devin, it felt like a lifetime. Despite their queasiness (courtesy of the bumpy ride), the borrower pushes free of the mountains of fabric and scrambles up the leathery interior, to the opening. They pause at the rim and focus on swallowing the bile in their throat, then, once it’s clear, level the back of the human’s head with a hard stare. 

They breathe in until their chest burns, and let out the loudest yell they can muster: “CHARLES!”  

The man jumps in his saddle and whips his head around, one hand to the shotgun on his hip. His eyes scan the horizon behind him, well over Devin’s head. 

“Down here. Hey!” They wave an arm, trying to ignore how foolish they feel. Even after months of being around Arthur, it still goes against everything they know as a borrower to flag down a human. 

Were the situation different—were Devin not currently fighting some ferocious nausea—they might find it comical how Charles’s expression changes. First he’s struck with recognition, eyes still on the horizon, and then the color in his face pales with realization and horror. Slowly, as if he were making every effort to delay the inevitable find, his gaze lowers to the gap under the saddle bag flap and the little borrower peeking out. 

“Devin?” It still takes him a moment to process their presence, and then he’s all but falling out of the saddle (much to his horse’s displeasure). After he’s got his feet on the ground and his balance under control, the man unbuckles the saddlebag lid and flips it open. The color is rapidly returning to his face in a heated flush. “M-Miss Clarke, I didn’t know you were—why are you in my bag?” His hand nears them, but Devin waves it off. 

“Don’t. I might puke. It’s a marvel that I haven’t already.” They try to suppress a shudder.  “I didn’t know this was your bag. I just saw it sitting back at the camp, untouched for some time. Thought I could get something useful.” 

Charles grimaces sympathetically and lets his hand come to rest on his horse’s flank. He isn’t thrilled to hear that someone was rummaging through his belongings for things to scavenge, but such behavior is to be expected from a borrower, he figures. It does make him feel a little better to know that Devin hadn’t been targeting him specifically. 

“I should take you back to camp. Arthur would kill me if something happened to you.” Never mind the berating Charles would give himself. He might not know Devin as well as Arthur does, but their charm is infectious. They are well on their way to having another human wrapped around their teeny tiny finger. 

“I’d like that. Eventually. But I don’t think I can take much more galloping right now. Riding in Arthur’s hat was better than riding in here.” The borrower leans over the leather with a quiet groan. The nausea is subsiding, albeit slowly. They do stiffen just a little when Charles lightly rubs a knuckle to their back, but the gentle pressure draws another, more content groan from their tiny lungs. 

“I'm alright,” they say after a minute. They glance up at Charles, offering him a weak but grateful smile, and then look to their surroundings. It’s not anywhere they recognize, but that’s not surprising. “So where are we going? ” 

“Well, I was going out foraging,” the man says. “Now that you’re here, though…” He trails off, uncertain. 

“Oh! Speaking of foraging–––” the borrower vanishes back into the bag, leaving Charles perplexed. Once they emerge again, they hold up a sprig of white flowers. “What the hell are you doing with this?” 

Charles squints at the plant, then raises his brow in realization. “You know what that is?” 

The surprise in his voice is a little insulting. Devin scrunches their nose. “Don’t patronize me, Mr. Smith. I’ve lived in the wild most of my life. I know what water hemlock is.” 

He holds his hands up and offers an apologetic shrug. “That’s actually what I was going to forage for. I found some while I was out with Javier the other day, but I didn’t have time to collect more.” 

“Okay.”  Devin inspects the flowers, twirling the stem between their hands. “Still doesn’t explain what you’re going to do with it. Are you planning to poison someone? Is it that Micah guy?” 

That earns them a snort. If only. “No. I use it on my knives and arrowheads. That and oleander sage. Gives them an extra kick.” 

Devin frowns, just a smidge disappointed.  “I suppose that’s a good alternative use. I used to do the same with my knife when I could find hemlock.” They drop the sprig and watch it fall to the ground far below. “It’d be so easy to poison Micah though…” They say so only half-jokingly. 

“Don’t I know it.” Charles shares the sentiment, but he shakes his head. Much as he’d like to see that snake gone, it’s not his place to do anything about his presence. Yet. 

Now that the nausea has passed (for the most part), the borrower pulls themself from the bag and climbs up the saddle, making their way up to the seat. “I’m okay now,” they say. “We’ve already come this far. We might as well go get that hemlock. I can use it too.”

Charles looks a little uncertain, but when he opens his mouth to protest, Devin levels him with a hard stare that makes him think twice. He clears his throat. “Why don’t you ride up here with me?” he offers. “It’d probably be a bit smoother.” 

Smoother would certainly be welcomed. Devin nods and climbs onto the man’s hand when it’s brought down to their level. His skin is warm and rough, similar to Arthur’s hands. Unlike Arthur, though, he carries them with greater caution. Devin pats his thumb. 

“Relax. I’m not made of paper.”  

“Er… right.”  

They can’t fault him for his caution. Charles has significantly less experience handling Devin than does Arthur. If anything, it’s comforting to know that he is actively trying to keep them comfortable. 

He grabs the saddlehorn with his free hand and hauls himself up. First he brings them to his lap, and then, after thinking, lifts them higher to his shoulder, where they climb off. Devin sits just outside of his beaded necklace and takes a handful of his hair. 

“Is this going to bother you?” 

“No, it’s fine. Use what you need. Let me know if you start to slip.” 

Once he’s sure Devin is secure––as secure as they can be on his shoulder––he spurs his horse gently in the ribs. They set off at a slow canter, something a bit less bumpy than the gallop before. Charles is correct: it’s more comfortable riding on his shoulder than it was in the bag, if only a little bit. Devin resigns themself to the reality that they will likely never enjoy travel on horseback, but this is at least tolerable. 

Charles is silent for the most part, which doesn’t bother Devin. They find themself occupied looking at the scenery. From their usual vantage point on the ground, they don’t much get to appreciate views of mountains and trees and vast prairies. Even on the off occasion that they hitch a ride on Arthur’s person, they often take to hiding in his scarf, thus dashing any chances of catching the view. 

Despite the ride’s discomfort, Devin finds themself enjoying this. They are grateful, though, when Charles tugs the reins and brings the horse to a gradual stop. He spares them a glance when they sigh. 

“You doing okay?” 

“Just peachy.” Devin gives the shoulder beneath them a pat. He dismounts rather awkwardly, trying not to jostle them too much. 

It strikes Devin that they have not just one, but two humans invested in their safety and comfort. It leaves them with mixed feelings fluttering about in their chest. 

Best not to dwell on it right now. 

Walking is a little choppy at first, what with Charles figuring out how best to adjust his gait with Devin on his shoulder, but, once he figures out a good rhythm, it smooths out. He steps carefully, eyes scanning the ground for the plants he seeks. Devin watches too, though they’re less focused on the hemlock and more interested in… well, everything else. Hemlock is but one plant in a new area full of things to explore. 

“Hey. Let me down.” Devin gives the man’s hair a light tug, drawing his attention back to them. Though he can’t fully look at them from where they sit, he still furrows his brow in an uncertain expression meant for them. Devin rolls their eyes. “Don’t look at me like that. I’m a big boy, Charles; I walk around on my own every day.”

“I’m sure, but–––”

“Either you let me down or I’m jumping.” That seems to work. Charles acquiesces with a reluctant sigh and gingerly helps the borrower down to the ground. He remains crouched after they hop off of his hand, still looking unsure. Devin waves up at him. “Go on. Keep doing what you were doing. I’m fine.” 

“Yell if you get into trouble,” he says, voice stern. Devin chooses not to take offense. 

“Sure thing.” They part with a final wave and dart off into the grass, out of the human’s view. Still he hesitates, but he does eventually get up and carry on with his task. Devin breathes out an exasperated breath. 

Having the care and concern of two humans is endearing, yes, but it can also be annoying. Devin might need to have a stern talk with the both of them if they keep this overprotective behavior up. They aren’t a child.

Charles does not feel good about just leaving Devin on the ground, but it wouldn’t have been right of him to hold them like some helpless creature. They’ve reminded him twice now that this is the life they live; he makes a mental note to try and be more respectful of that. After all, he reasons that he wouldn’t much appreciate it if someone else tried to keep him from doing the things he does every day. He isn’t palm-sized, but he imagines Devin still doesn’t care to be doted over. So he bites back his unease. He came out here for water hemlock. That’s what he’s going to find. Devin will be okay. 

Following the nearby creek, Charles begins his search. He tests the soil beneath him with his foot, feeling its spring, its moisture, then starts scanning. Familiar white flowers speckle the banks. A faint smile creeps onto his lips. There’s plenty here for him to make use of.

–– –– ––

Devin pushes through the tall foliage, looking high and low for anything that might be useful. They find medicinal herbs, and spices for seasoning. Mentally they commend Charles; he sure knows where to look when it comes to valuable natural resources. Some of these plants are a rare find back at Horseshoe Outlook. They pick and take as much as they can carry, stuffing their bag full. 

All is going fine. It’s going great, even. They’re making their way back down to the ground, munching on a sweet, juicy raspberry. The red fruit soaks their hands, their face, and their clothes, making them appear as though they’d just mauled something. It makes them snicker, thinking how Charles will react to see them like this. Their good humor dies suddenly, though. Devin feels a chill rush down their spine. They pause, alert, head on a swivel. 

In an instant, everything seems to slow down. Devin drops to the ground as a pink, gaping mouth sails just a hair’s breadth over their head. It snaps shut, long fangs closing around air, and the scaly head of a rattlesnake retreats back to its coils, gearing up for another strike. Berry forgotten, Devin pulls their knife and their hook out. They stare the snake down just as it does them. It’s big––not just to them, but by rattlesnake standards. It’s a big fucking snake. The borrower’s heart races in their chest, but they don’t run, nor do they back down.

–– –– ––

Charles takes several clippings of water hemlock and carefully stows them in his satchel. He doesn’t take everything that he sees, not wanting to clear the area of the deadly plant, but he’s pleased with his haul so far. Already he has enough to coat his knives twice over, so he thinks that he could probably give Arthur and Javier some as well, so as not to waste it. He takes a few more stalks, then stands and stretches his back, arms held out to the side. 

“That’s enough,” he mumbles to himself. He turns back to where he’d left Devin and scans the ground. Their tiny footprints are just barely visible in the dirt, and disappear into the grass. 

“Miss Clarke?” he calls, taking a knee near the footprints. They don’t answer. “I think I’m just about done here, so I’m ready to go when you––woah––!” The man jumps back as a rattlesnake head pushes through the grasses. Layers of alarm spike in his brain: it’s a big-ass snake; Devin isn’t here; it has blood on its face; Did it eat Devin––? 

“Just ‘Devin,’ Charles,” says the tiny voice. Charles flinches again. He swears he heard that voice coming from the snake. Did it eat them? He stares on in confusion, pondering whether or not he needs to cut the damn thing open, when its head flops to the side. Hauling it along is the little borrower. 

“Oh my god. Are you––did the snake–––?” He stammers over his words, which surprises Devin. Arthur stammers here and there, but Charles is always so clear and calm when he speaks. They glance down at themself, noting the red stain and slick coating their hands, their head, their clothes… 

“Ah! It’s okay! This isn’t––” they drop the snake and wave their hands, trying to placate the man, “I’m okay! This is all snake blood! And raspberry juice.”

Charles still looks horrified, glancing between the borrower and the rattlesnake. He does note that the blood seems to be coming from a deep wound on its head, right between its vacant eyes. 

“You… killed it?” He gathers himself on his knees and leans forward, gingerly prodding the lifeless body. 

“It tried to kill me first,” they say, sounding almost indignant. “Kinda lucky, though. I haven’t taken down a rattlesnake in a while. I can use it’s fangs and its venom.” 

Charles lifts the carcass from the ground, testing its weight in his hands. His eyebrows shoot up at its heft. When he stands with its head at eye-level, its rattle-tipped tail still touches the ground. 

It’s a big fucking snake. 

“You… killed this monster?” He can’t hide the disbelief––or perhaps it’s awe––in his eyes as he looks back down to Devin.

They huff back up at him, trying not to take offense. “Yeah. I did,” they say, arms crossed over their chest. Charles waves his free hand. 

“I don’t––I don’t mean to doubt you Miss––er, Devin. Sorry, I’m just… impressed.” Impressed would be an understatement. 

Devin rolls their eyes. They adjust their bag and their knife, then trudge on towards Charles. Before they can ask him to, he stoops down and lowers a hand for them to climb onto. Once he has them at his level, Charles can see their annoyance clear as day. 

“I tell you––both you and Arthur, you need to understand that I’m not helpless. I’ve lived my whole life out here. Half of it’s been alone. So spare me your patronizing looks and comments.” There’s venom in their eyes, in their words, as present as that in the venom in the snake’s fangs. 

Charles has no hand free to hold up, but he does dip his head apologetically. “You’re right. I admit, I underestimated you. And I’m sorry for it. I’ve never met anyone like you before, and it’s a learning process.” 

Devin’s features soften a little. They sigh and run a hand through their blood-slicked hair. It’s gross, but it’s not the first time they’ve been covered in blood. It won’t be the last time either. 

“I like you, Charles. A lot. It’s a learning process for me too.” They offer him a half smile, though it does look a bit daunting with their red visage. “I think I’m ready to go home now.” 

The man grimaces. “Think you want to… wash off first? Arthur is going to have a fit if he sees you like this.” 

Devin looks down to themself, returning the grimace. “...yeah, probably. What I can, at least.” The blood wasn’t going to come out of their clothes without any soap, but they could wash their skin and hair off. Maybe they could hide their outerwear from Arthur, too. They had their underclothing on that wouldn’t show bloodstains. 

Rattlesnake draped around his neck, Charles carries the borrower down to the creek and crouches at the bank. He brings his hands down for them to hop off and clean themself off. When they start stripping their outerwear, he turns his head to give them some privacy, and waits for them to draw his attention again when they’re done. Damp, but cleaner, and left in their long underclothes, Devin climbs back into Charles’ hands and scurries up to his shoulder, right next to the snake carcass. 

“You good?” He asks. 

“Yeah, I’m good,” they say. They give his shoulder a pat. 

Charles stands, still a bit awkward with his passenger, but less so than before. “Pearson is gonna love this snake,” he says, tongue in cheek.

Devin bristles and glares daggers at the man. “This snake is my prize. That man is getting none of it. You can have some of it if you want, since you’re carrying it home, but I’m not sharing it with anyone else.” There’s that venom again.

Charles snorts. He pulls himself into his saddle and spurs his horse, gently pushing her to start trotting. “Right. Of course. My apologies, Devin.” 

[caiuscassiuss]

Birched⎮D. Sicheng (M) P.2

Description: There was something that lurked beneath that pretty boy smile of Dong Sicheng— something dark, something dangerous… something you knew you would get pulled into once you got too curious. (Or, your ill-tempered coworker turns out to be your dominant.)

Part One is HERE 

Genre: BDSM/ enemies to lovers winwin! smut | romance | angst WC: 11k+ Warnings: graphic smut (dom! sicheng + sub! reader, BDSM (Bondage, Dominance, Submission, and Masochism) choking, rough sex), taboo relationship, blatant sexism, TW: mentions of an abusive relationship

(A/N: Thank you to my amazing beta @won-markiepooh-woo​ for helping me. This wouldn’t have been possible without you!)

Saturday February 1st, 2020

Y/N’s Apartment

10 AM HKT

The little jingle of a FaceTime call echoed through your silent apartment, and you snuggled into the sheets of your bed.

“Hello? Kun huang?”

A flash black hair and a sweet smile appeared within the view of the camera.

“Huang Gua!” you exclaimed.

Instantly, the happy smile slipped off his face and transformed into an annoyed expression.

“Can you not? We’ve been over this,” he complained.

“Oh come on! It’s so funny,” you jibed.

“It’s not.”

“You only used to eat cucumbers for years. You earned that name yourself.”

“So?” he snorted. “You used to eat shrimp chips as a kid. I don’t call you shrimp, do I?” A devious expression flashed over his face.

“Kun Huang…” you warned.

“Maybe I should start now. Right, shrimp?”

“Oh my god, stop!”

“No, shrimp. I can keep going, you know.”

“Okay, fine, fine. I submit!” You laughed.

He chuckled. “That’s what I thought.”

“So how are you now, Hendery? How’s your mom and dad? Oh my gosh, Hengwai!”

“I’m doing fine, as are mom and dad. Hengwai misses her little sister. They all want you to call them more. Sometimes I think they miss you more than me.” He pouted.

“Awww, poor baby. But give them my well wishes too! I miss everyone so much,” you said. For some reason, tears welled in your eyes.

Obviously, Hendery could tell you were about to start crying and started to panic.

“Y/N? Talk to me. Oh, you know I can’t take it if you start crying!”

He never really could. Even after many years spent together in your childhood, he was still awkward as hell around your tears.

You waved him off, swiping the tears. “I’m fine, I’m fine. It’s just so lonely around here.”

“Y/N…”

“I’m fine! I swear!”

“Literally, one word and I’m on a flight to Hong Kong. I’m not playing,” he said gravely.

“Hendery, no. Besides, don’t you have some farms to run? I would never expect you to do that.”

“One word, Y/N. Just one.” He looked you dead in the eye. 

You looked away. “Anyways, how are your farms going?”

A smile split his face and his eyes sparked. “Guess who just got their hundredth farm?”

Your jaw dropped. “No way, you’re fucking joking! One hundred?! I’m so proud of you! Kun Huang!” you squealed.

“Yeah, I know right? It’s so weird knowing so many people depend on me for their livelihoods now. I get sort of scared when I sit back and think about it…”

As Kun Huang went on about his day to day troubles in agriculture, a small, wistful smile played upon your lips. Why didn’t you just stay back and fall in love with Kun Huang? It would have been so easy. Being with Kun Huang was like breathing, and you could’ve spent the rest of your life like this. No Minghao, no BDSM, and most importantly, no… him.

Dolos.

Master?

Sicheng.

You hated how smoothly the puzzle pieces fit together. Sicheng always left early on Fridays, even though he always stayed late. At office parties, he lacked a significant other by his side, even when many would drop everything if he so much as winked at them.

It was hard not to think about him. You had started to feel an increase in your heartbeat whenever you thought of Dolos before Wednesday. You had originally wanted to know who was behind Dolos’ mask and if he returned those feelings. But, fuck, he would be so mad if he found out who you were.

Not to mention, how humiliating it would be if he knew. You had staked everything on being a cold-hearted bitch when Sicheng took particular pleasure in sneering at “the inherent submissiveness” of her gender. So if he found out Dove, who liked to be slapped during sex, and her, the la dame sans merci of the company, were the same person, it would destroy any chance of credibility you may have had in his eyes.

This was all one big mess. One big, gigantic and catastrophic mess. For so long you had rigorously kept your professional and personal lives apart, but the universe had conspired against you: to make the best dominant you ever had to also be your work nemesis.

Some higher being was laughing at you, you knew it.

Sunday February 2nd, 2020

The Dong Family Villa on the Shek O Peninsula, Hong Kong

1 PM HKT

A curl of disgust twisted his lips as he looked down on the lawn party going down below him. 

“Don’t you look happy, Sicheng.”

Sicheng acknowledged ChengCheng out of the corner of his eye and went back to glaring at the party in contempt.

“This is not how I wanted today to go.”

His childhood friend snorted and plopped himself down in a lawn chair, contemplating the blond haired man.

Sicheng spun around and picked up his glass of wine, downing the drink in one gulp. He settled himself next to ChengCheng with a frown.

“I just wanted to come here and fucking relax, but, no, my parents just had to use it for the fucking party. Fete. What-fucking-ever.” He exhaled loudly and ran his hands through his hair. 

Chengcheng looked over the balcony railing curiously. “Looks like a luncheon to me.”

“Fuck off.” 

“Christ, what’s up your ass?”

“Just some work stuff. It’s nothing.”

The brown-haired man frowned. “Then why aren’t you at Black’s then? Nothing can’t be resolved by a good fuck.”

At the mention of the club, a pained expression flashed over Sicheng’s face and his knuckles inadvertently tightened around the stem of his glass. The tension that had been in shoulders wounded itself up even more and this clued ChengCheng in.

Something other than work had Sicheng in knots. Very rarely did the blond man ever show he was angry—not even when his father lashed him as a child, nor when the family forced him to work for the company—so he was evidently very troubled by this ‘something’.

Sicheng’s phone rang and broke the silence. The man himself fished it out of his back pocket irritatedly.

“Excuse me for a moment, ChengCheng. I need to take this phone call.”

“Sicheng speaking,” he spoke as he stalked into the study.

“Hello sir, how are you—”

“Did you get the information or not?” Sicheng asked, cutting off the family’s retainer. His leg bounced, as he sat against the desk and he ran a weary hand through his hair.

“A-ah, unfortunately, Black’s doesn’t record pseudonyms digitally or on paper…”

“Fuck!” Sicheng yelled. Mr. Lau just had to be fucking careful, he thought irritably.

“... However, sir, I was able to obtain a membership list since the club was digitally updating their monthly list. I then compared it to the list from the previous month and found several missing names, indicative of them terminating their membership. I have compiled a dossier of several females that match your description of Dove and forwarded it to you.” 

Sicheng quickly logged into his laptop, his blood rushing through his ears. The identity of the most perfect submissive he’s ever had could literally be sitting in his inbox right now.

With trembling fingers, he opened the attachment.

Wang Fang, age 25—

“Sir?”

The blond man glared at his phone. “Thank you for your service, Liu Wei. Goodbye.”

Wang Fang was a tall, spindly woman with a face like a horse. The policy of privacy by masks was kind to her at Black’s. However, the jaw was all wrong and he knew in his gut she was not his Dove.

He scrolled to the next page. Leila Williams, age 27—British expat, was absolutely gorgeous. But, even through the screen, she exuded an unshakable aura of self-assurance. A dominatrix, probably, so that excluded her from his search.

He went through 2 or 3 more documents; each one too plain or too ordinary to be Dove.

Y/N L/N, age XX.

Sicheng blinked rapidly, sagging into his office chair.

Y/N is—was—a member at Black’s?

The picture provided was the one from her LinkedIn profile: a professional headshot with a grey background. She was smiling tightly, coldly—just as she was in the office. The other image provided instantly tented his pants.

It was her, clearly on a night out. She was in attire that flattered her body and he could easily see himself running his hands over her. Y/N looked fucking fantastic with her unbound hair, so unlike her tight updos at the office. However, what drew his eyes was the most vibrant shade of red painted on her lips, which was parted slightly as she was laughing.

He recognized that lipstick. The same shade of firetruck red had been smeared across Dove’s cheeks many, many times. YSL Rouge Satin Lipstick—the one he told her he liked and she, like a good girl, had religiously worn.

Could that mean…?

Glancing at the side bar, he noticed there was one more page left in the dossier. Please let the next one be Dove…

His hopes were instantly deflated. Kwon Myunghee was too old and too artificial to be his gorgeous submissive.

With his heart in his throat, he scrolled back to Y/N’s page. Enlarging the picture of her laughing, he put a hand over her eyes and leaned back to observe.

Sicheng would be an absolute fool if he did not recognize that mouth. Red fuck me! lipstick on an equally fuckable mouth parted in pleasure, or screaming his name while strung up on a cross. He would be an absolute fool if he did not recognize that neck, covered in purple and red hickies or his fingermarks. An absolute damn fool.

Yet, at this moment, he would’ve given anything to be one.

He felt like the wind had been knocked out of him. Y/N was… Dove? And Dove… was Y/N?

So why did she leave? How did she end up at Black’s? Did she know? Did she end up there on purpose? Why—

Eventually, all the questions piled up in his head until he was left winded. Sicheng buried his head in his hands, pulling at his blond locks and breathing heavily. Something was bubbling in his chest and—

He started to laugh. He cackled, howled, at his shitstorm of misfortune, luck, and confusion until he was sprawled undignified on the Oriental carpet, staring up at the intricate wood carvings on the ceiling.

Monday February 3rd, 2020

Sinochen Enterprises, Chater House, Central, Hong Kong

6 PM HKT

Shutting the door to your office, you collapsed into your chair and massaged your temples.

Today was the day Mr. Lee had left the office, leaving his official resignation. The top sales officials (including an off-color, brooding Sicheng) gathered in his office to congratulate him and give him an official goodbye. What was supposed to be a quick meet-up turned into afternoon drinking when Mr. Lee pulled out the good liquor from a secret cabinet underneath his desk. You accepted a drink with a grimace, but Sicheng declined and remained uncharacteristically detached the entire time. Granted, you too were detached from the conversation, uncomfortable with the lewd retirement and mistress jeers spouted by the older sales officials as they steadily got drunker and less inhibited.

As the time ended and a consensus to leave had been reached, you thought you could escape and actually work... that was until Mr. Lee walked alongside you and stuck himself in the elevator with you.

The bastard had the audacity to grope your ass in the crowded elevator. You shivered, remembering the awful and grimy feeling as his hot breath whispered in your ear that he was available any time for a “catch-up”.

This day was a mess. You had a shit-ton of work to catch up due to that fucking meeting and you had been sexually harrassed; you were also anxious about the promotion and, on top of that, you couldn’t seem to stop thinking about Sicheng.

Huffing, you ate some red-bean bread as you powered up your desktop. This was fucking ridiculous. You knew Sicheng had noticed your odd, reticent behavior around him and this skittishness was impeding your ability to work. Well, no better way to forget about your problems was to solve other ones at work.

For the next two hours, you slogged through work emails and analytics as the sun set over Kowloon Bay. Your hair had been unbound and your blazer had been messily thrown over the back of your chair as your work progressed. Since most of the office had left by now, you figured it was safe to relax in your office.

It was night time by the time you had finished your last project and you sat back in your chair, staring at the skyline. Was this how your life destined to be? At the top, surrounded by the comforts of life, but alone?

A knock sounded at the door, jolting you out of your thoughts.

Who the fuck would be at the office at 8 PM?

“Come in.”

You caught sight of a golden head of hair slipping inside of your office and you sighed. Of course, it was Sicheng.

He took a seat unbidden and stared at you with an indecipherable expression on his face. His eyes roamed the contours and curves of your features.

You arched an eyebrow. “Can I help you with anything, Sicheng? I’m about to leave the office.”

He fought with himself inwardly, his mouth opened and closed several times before he finally settled on what he wanted to say. “I’d like to ask a question.”

You adjusted yourself in the chair. “Feel free.”

From his blazer’s pocket, he pulled out an aged sheet of paper and slowly opened it, before setting it in front of you. Sicheng settled back in his chair and steepled his fingers over his lap, the lights of the Hong Kong skyline playing across his face and making his sharp features stand out.

“Do you recognize this?”

The blood literally froze in your veins as your eyes caught sight of your handwriting in the letter, along with the tear-stains that blotched the paper and the text. Your heartbeat rose to your throat and all you felt was the blood rushing in your ears.

“Y/N?” he prodded.

You gulped and straightened out your top, your fingers trembling as you did so.

“No, I don’t. W-who’s Dolos? Why does this concern me?” you lied, stumbling a bit.

He watched you, his eyes narrowed and his lips pursed.

“Don’t lie to me, Dove.”

“I-Dove? My name is Y/N,” you replied shakily. Grabbing your purse, you hurriedly stuffed all your personal belongings in while avoiding catching his seething stare. “Excuse me, I’d really like to get home.”

His jaw clenched and his palm twitched as he saw you had no desire to come clean.

“Look at me.”

Unthinking, you ceased all movements, put your trembling hands in your lap and looked up at him. “Sir?”

Your eyes widened and you slapped a hand over your mouth; your eyes darted around the room in search for an escape. You felt akin to a caged animal as he grinned meanly, incongruous on his cherubic features.

“That’s what I thought.”

“No—”

“You thought you could get away with this? You thought you could fucking play me?!”

You were aghast at seeing Dolos and Sicheng finally merging together in front of your eyes, and the result was grotesquely beautiful. His grin slipped off his face and twisted into a malevolent sneer. The naked fire in Dolos' gaze was finally unveiled in Sicheng’s eyes and, for the first time, you could see who Sicheng really was.

“Answer me, Dove—Y/N! Fuck, I don’t even know who you are anymore!” Sicheng shouted, running his hands through his hair while he paced around your office.

You stared unblinkingly at the bookshelf at the corner of the room. Fuck, this was all your nightmares coming true. You were going to be ruined and he was going to laugh on and on now that he knew you and Dove were the same.

“It was never supposed to end up like this,” you whispered hoarsely, tears welling up underneath your lashes.

“How was it supposed to end, huh? Fuck, you strung me along for six months—half a fucking year—”

“I didn’t fucking know, you ass! I wouldn’t have touched you with a ten foot pole if I knew who you were!” you hissed.

He laughed harshly. “You did a hell of a lot more than touch me, Dove. But after you got your fix, you pretended that this never happened.”

“You would’ve done the same, so this never did happen. Walk out right now and this will have never happened and we can go back to our normal, spiteful dynamic—”

“You’re out of your fucking mind, if you think—”

“You don’t understand, Sicheng! Can’t you see I’ll be ruined by this? That we’ll both be ruined by this? I can’t afford that!”

“So you thought to just leave me? With just a fucking letter and nothing else?”

“I didn’t know, okay! I didn’t know what to do!”

“You lied to me, Y/N. Fucking lied to my face!”

“I had to! Because you and I were never supposed to find out!”

Sicheng moved to yell, but clamped his jaw shut. “You lying, cheating, slut,” he seethed.

Your mouth trembled for a moment at the sheer vitriol that sprouted from his lips, but you stood tall. “You know what? Maybe I am. But I can live with that if you’d just fucking let it go!”

“You think I’d be able to let go of this?!” He cupped your jaw roughly and pulled you into a hungry kiss.

It wasn’t a smooth kiss—not one with even a hint of finesse. Lips smashed into lips, with tongue and teeth grappling against each other as his hands bruised your wrists.

Your back hit your desk and he swept your belongings off the desk haphazardly, letting go of your chin to lift you onto the desk with no effort.

“Forget my tongue on your skin? Forget my hands in between your thighs?” he murmured between hungry dips of his tongue. “I’ll fucking show you.”

He kissed down your neck, stopping to nip at your collarbone, and left a trail of stinging lovebites all over your shoulders. Sicheng’s hips pinned you into the desk as he popped each button of your blouse, hurriedly ripping it to the side to leave more hickies upon your chest and breasts.

You moaned as he pushed the cups of your bra down, using his wicked tone to swipe complicated patterns but never once touching your tips. Finally, he nipped at them hard causing you to squeal embarrassingly.

“S-sicheng,” you whimpered, gripping his hair as he pushed up your skirt.

The blond man carelessly pulled your underwear aside and thrusted two fingers in.

“Fuck!” you gasped, as you buried your red face in the crook of his neck.

You couldn’t see it, but you knew he was smirking smugly so your hands drifted down to his tented trousers and gripped his erection hard.

“You wanna fucking play? Let’s play, baby,” he grunted and hastily unbuckled his belt. His glorious cock sprung up in the space between your thighs.

Sicheng pushed your back down onto the desk, leaving him to tower over you. Without warning, he roughly pushed his cock into your slit.

You both groaned at the pleasurable friction. Fuck, how could you forget this? His length stretching you out deliciously? His broad shoulders heaving in exertion?

He bottomed out slowly, stilling as his hips pressed into yours. A sly smile glanced over his face as his hand drifted over your neck.

“Sicheng! You asshole, fucking move!” you said to him, thrusting your own hips weakly for effect.

His devilish smile split his angelic features, and he shook his head. “Wrong name, Dove.”

His hips pushed into yours roughly and you whined, scratching at the edges of your desk. Sicheng withdrew just as quickly and thrusted in again, watching the lust ripple upon your expression. He had missed the way your left eyebrow ticked when he brushed against your G-Spot, your nose scrunching as you clasped his shoulders. Finally seeing your full expressions fulfilled something in him that he didn’t care to reflect upon.

After deep, staccato thrusts that had you gasping for breath, he settled into a smooth rhythm. You slapped a hand over your mouth as your back bowed, thrusting your breasts up to his hungry perusal. Unable to resist temptation—the godless Tantalus he was—he settled his plump lips over your nipples, raised his eyes to yours, and sucked.

Even with your palm practically stuffed in your lips, your keen echoed around the room loudly and slick dripped down your thighs, making the desk underneath your bottom sticky and wet.

He tsked, lifting his head up and looked deeply into your eyes. A slight grin settled over his lips and Sicheng tilted his head mockingly. “Oh sweet girl, haven’t you forgotten we’re in an office?” His eyes darkened even more. “I’ll have to keep you quiet, then, whore.”

His featherlight touches on your rib cage was replaced with a bruising grasp to your throat, stealing the air out of you. His wrist settled into your collar bone and his slender fingers mimicked playing the piano, placing pressure on different parts on your throat to an unheard rhythm. The blood rushed to your ears, the dizzying sensation of it blurring your sight and distorting your thoughts. The veins on his forehand, twisting and rippling in the light, caught your vision and he moved—ever so roughly—into you.

Sicheng set a new pace, stretching your legs even wider and your head fell back onto the desk with a thunk. You couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe; you just felt the numbing sort of pleasure that radiated from your pussy.

“Fucking slut,” he gasped. “You’ve bewitched me, haven’t you? Wrapped yourself around my brain and haven’t let me so much as breathe without thinking about you.” His grip tightened around your neck. “I’ll show you.”

Suddenly, your phone on the floor rang and you both froze. He released the grip on your neck and bent down.

His back was like one of those old sketches the masters of the age practiced with, the light played upon his back and his muscles rippled under his skin—belying the power hidden within him.

“Who the fuck is Kunhuang,” he said flatly, wrath bubbling in his words.

You sat up. “H-he’s a friend. Nobody. No one.” 

“See you soon, love,” he read mockingly. “Call me when you have time.”

Sicheng crowded into your space, your eyes jumping around to avoid looking at his incensed face.

“Kunhuang.” He spat like it was filth upon his lips. “You left me for him?”

Feeling his constrained fierceness and his frantic gaze, you pushed harshly at his chest and bared your teeth at him. “It’s not like that. He’s my childhood friend!”

His rage bubbled to the surface and his nostrils flared. It was all the warning you had before he suddenly took your hips and flipped, forcing a scream out of you.

Your chest and breasts now pressed against your desk. Sicheng tugged you down to his hips, lifting one of your legs to rest on your desk and exposed your core to him shamefully. 

“I’ll take you from behind like the whore you are,” he stated. His rough tenor the grating upon your ears and scraping upon your skin.

He lined up and thrusted hard and you bit your lip, cheek against your deck and tears streaming down your face. It felt so good to be in his embrace, feeling every vein and ridge of his cock rub against your muscles.

Soon, you felt that feeling rising in your stomach, burning behind his eyelids as your orgasm began to build. His hands grasped your throat and he pulled, bowing your back to his chest and forcing his mouth to yours.

Teeth and tongue clashed and his cock hit this spot in you and you screamed into his mouth, tensing up beneath him as you shuddered painfully.

A grunt left him as he felt your muscles nearly strangle his cock and he only lasted a few, staccato thrusts until his vision went white.

Wednesday, February 13th, 2020

Sinochen Enterprises, Chater House, Central, Hong Kong

7 AM HKT

You purposely did not look into Sicheng’s office window as you strode briskly down the hall with a coffee in your hand. 

A few days ago felt like a watershed moment, but after you two had caught your breaths, the sheer amount of emotions in the room—frustration, satiation, anger, hunger—weighed upon your lips and forced them shut. He had quickly dressed himself, not saying a word, but he casted a glance in your direction that was undecipherable and left.

You, at the moment, did not know how to feel. Hurt? Angry? Sad? But you settled upon your usual solution: ignoring that anything had happened and resuming the normal.

Alas, the fates were unkind. They neatly disposed of your plans to avoid the man when the two of you were scheduled to meet with other sales heads in the afternoon. Unfortunately, when the time came to be, you and Sicheng were the first ones there.

He studiously avoided looking at you, busying himself by opening up his laptop and flipping to a new page on his legal pad. You ignored him as well, scrolling through the latest news on your webpage. However, as the seconds ticked by, you could not resist resting your eyes upon him. It felt like a damn magnet was pulling your gaze to him.

He looked good today, from the brief glances you stole at him. Freshly shaven, his hair was styled neatly and he was in a dark green, cashmere sweater. Was this your fate? To be shamefully attracted to a man that equally repelled you?

“Interesting.”

The both of you shot a look at the door, where an unrecognizable, lanky man with a proud, straight nose was peering down upon you and swinging a plastic bag in his hand.

“Chengcheng? What the hell are you doing here?”

Completely ignoring Sicheng, he settled his lidded gaze upon you before his eyes lit up in recognition.

“So you’re the one that has shaken him, then.”

Dead silence permeated the room. He looked at the two shocked faces, both ashen. “What? Are you going to tell me I’m wrong? Please. I’d have to be deaf, blind, and dumb to ignore the way you two gravitate to each other.”

Your two quick glances that were meant to be unnoticed clashed, resulting in your eyes meeting. You both turned your eyes away.

Chengcheng snorted, as if that moment confirmed everything for him, and he chucked a bag at Sicheng.

“You forgot your lunch, remember?”

Sicheng’s jaw tightened. “Thank you.”

Once again, awkward silence reigned and ChengCheng’s eyes switched back and forth between you like a particularly exciting tennis match.

“You two need to talk. You’ll both age prematurely at this rate, with the angst you two are producing. Talk.”

He left with a wave, striding down the hall casually and stealing many of your female coworkers’ gazes.

“... He’s right, you know.”

Sicheng’s eyes flicked up to yours and he focused his full attention on you. Intensely, he contemplated you, tongue poking at the sides of his mouth.

“I agree. We can meet—” he cut himself off, looking around surreptitiously. “—at Black’s.”

You sucked your lip in between your teeth. “Fine. Neutral ground.”

He took a good, long look at you, like a man seeing water after seeing nothing but sand. 

“Tonight. At 8.”

Thursday, February 13th, 2020

Black’s

7:50 PM HKT

Strangely enough, you felt comfortable despite the jittery nerves under your skin as you walked into Black’s. 

The receptionist had given you a knowing look as you repeated the guest password, letting you in without question. You strapped on the standard, white lace mask and steeled yourself, opening the mahogany doors.

The club was abnormally busy; the guests and members crowded the couches and loitered on the floor. The quiet string music that could usually be heard was masked by the loud chattering of the people in the room.

“Is that you, Dove?”

You spun around to see the smiling, wizened face of Mr. Liu.

A grin broke out on your face and you took his hands. “Mister Liu! It is wonderful to see you.”

“I am happy to see you as well.” He chuckled with his eyes gleaming fondly at you. “Have you decided to visit this old man?”

Playfully, you lightly smacked his shoulder.

Mr. Liu was an important figure to you. All those months ago, when you arrived at Black’s to be screened, as a potential member and straight out of a relationship with Minghao—broken, shattered, hollow—he took one look at you and said no.

Why? You remembered asking tearfully. Am I not pretty enough? Rich enough?

He searched your pale, wan face, as if seeing the emotional scars Minghao had lashed into you, before sighing.

You shouldn’t be asking me that. Are you enough for yourself?

Confused, you had asked him to elaborate. He sympathetically replied that he could see you were entering the club for the wrong reasons. You were different, he’d said. You looked so innocent that he could not morally allow you into the club, despite the depraved patrons that gained membership. He knew, at the time, entering the club would cripple you.

So, what now? You asked, confused. He said he would keep your file open until you came back ‘at the right time.’

The ‘right time?’

You will know it when it comes.

And somehow, you did. After a few months of picking the pieces of yourself together and stabilizing your life, you had grown into a physically and emotionally healthy person. The “right moment” came and you sat in his quaint little office again, opposite of a smiling Mr. Liu as he stamped his approval.

After chatting a few moments, the volume in the room increased slightly and you frowned.

“Why is it so busy today?”

He arched an eyebrow. “Do you know what today is?”

“No?”

“Today is the evening before Valentine’s day, dear girl.”

“... Oh.”

New information in hand, you looked at the scene more closely. You could see that some couples in the crowd seemed to curl into each other, the affectionate brushes and knowing glances giving you a sick, sick feeling.

And that’s when you saw Sicheng.

Even masked, he drew attention from the members—attached and non-attached. His lean, fit form struck a figure and you couldn’t turn away from him.

He looked directly into your eyes and only a few seconds passed by as you two observed each other.

“Sicheng somehow found out, hm? Clever, devious boy.” Mr. Liu observed the dynamic much like ChengCheng earlier. His gaze was enraptured how the two of you clashed yet sunk into each other, the way two tidal waves—in a rare moment of offbeat rhythm—struck each other and subsequently merged. Push, pull, push, pull.

“Listen to him and he will listen to you. You two match more than you think,” he advised, bowed, and sunk off into the backrooms.

“Sicheng.”

“Y/N.”

Frustratingly, his face was unreadable. Nevertheless, he offered you his arm (a surprising show of manners) and he led you to a place you had never seen before.

This place was much less pristine than the rest of the club. The wallpaper was older, much more faded, and the wood looked much more worn.

This was one of Mr. Liu’s apartments.

The pair of you entered a comfortable sitting room with the lights low, to which only large candles had been lit.

He made sure you were properly ensconced into an armchair before he turned his back towards you and made his way to the drink carts.

“Would you like something to drink?” Sicheng asked, voice measured.

“A gin tonic would be wonderful.”

After carefully making your drink and pouring himself a healthy 4 fingers of bourbon, he handed your glass to you and sat down in the chair opposite of you.

Silence permeated awkwardly and you turned your eyes towards the tapestry in the middle of the room, giving yourself something to do.

“Were those feelings true?” he asked, not looking at you.

“Elaborate, please.”

“The last night…” He looked quickly at you, before turning his eyes away and clenching his jaw. “The last night we were together.”

“Ah.”

Absolutely, unequivocally. Dolos was everything you had searched for in Minghao and, while your relationship was unusual, you could not deny the string between you two.

Something burned at your eyes and you bit the inside of your cheek.

“Yes. Then and now,” you stated, opening yourself up for an attack.

His eyes widened and the twitching in his fingers stopped.

“And you, Sicheng?” you enquired boldly.

“Always,” he stated without hesitation. “It was never something as trivial as pillow talk.”

Seeing as he was on the brink of closing off, due to his rare moment of vulnerableness, you wrapped your hand around his.

His eyes shot to yours, then to your linked hands, before tightening his grip.

“I don’t know where to start,” you confessed. “I… One thing that has always been on my mind—why did you dislike me so much?”

He smiled bitterly. “Sometimes, I forget that you don’t see the way I see you. You are a smart, dauntless woman, who’s pushed all my buttons. It all just built and built upon each other until I found you—Dove—here.” He pauses. “I projected my frustrations onto Dove—you—here. But never, for a moment, doubt my feelings aren’t genuine.”

You pursed your lips. “Forgive me, but I cannot accept your accusations of me being the office slut—very rude, by the way—were without malice. You constantly pushed me down, clashed with me in the workplace and you were just plain classist.”

Sicheng’s eyes were casted down, but his grip was steady. “I will not lie. Those words I spat at you were with malice. But now, in retrospect, they were nothing more but words of immature frustration that I channeled towards you. I know that I cannot take them back and they will forever linger in the air between us, but I can apologize and recognize those words were completely unacceptable.”

He angled his body fully towards you and clasped your hand in both of his. “I am sorry for my actions. My anger was misplaced and the sentiments do not represent me anymore. I am sorry and I hope you can forgive me.”

“And then what? What do you want now, Sicheng?” An edge of desperation tinged your voice.

He smiled bitterly at you. “Everyday, the smell of you lingers and I, like Pavlov’s dog, cannot help but feel an ache in the marrow of my bones when I see your crimson red lips. Every night, when I go to bed, you are seared across the back of my eyelids and I cannot escape you, even in my dreams.” He paused. “I want you, or whatever scraps you’re willing to toss me.”

A sharp exhale left you nose and you blinked rapidly. “I don’t want to get hurt. You get off on hurting people.”

“With your consent.”

“Say I want a completely vanilla relationship,” you challenged. He didn’t flinch. “What about then?”

Sicheng clenched his jaw and held your gaze fiercely. “Anything.”

“I hate that you are all I’ve wanted in a man,” you admitted unwillingly. He hummed. “Will we be each other’s destruction? Or will we be each other’s maker?” you pondered nonsensically.

“Aren’t we already both?” he retorted.

Slowly, without releasing his hand, you rose from your chair and lowered yourself into his lap. His eyes traced your every movement. For a few, brief moments, you looked into each other’s eyes without the obsurance of a mask or the encumbrance of a workplace rivalry. Your left hand cupped his cheekbone and stroked the skin underneath his eye.

“This will be interesting,” you said.

He gave no sign of reaction, but tilted his head into your palm and closed his eyes. “After us, the flood,” he recited.

Monday, March 2nd, 2020

Sinochen Enterprises, Chater House, Central, Hong Kong

7:50 PM HKT

A secret grin tugged at your lips as you looked across the table at Sicheng, who was intensely focused on the presentation your coworker was giving. Perhaps he’d felt the weight of your gaze on him as he chanced a glance at you and gave you a small smirk.

The past month in your relationship with Sicheng was equally fulfilling and frustrating. There were times where both of you deliberately looked for a fight or misinterpreted each other, but there were also times you could shed your layers and just be yourselves with the other.

Even each fight, where you or Sicheng stormed out, or broke things, you came back to each other at the end. Pushing, pulling, pushing, pulling relentlessly. The flood, indeed.

You focused back in on the meeting and contributed to the smatter of clapter for the end of your coworker’s presentation. As he turned off the projector and people stood up to leave,  Xiao Daiyu—the interim head of the Sales department—stopped you and Sicheng.

“Y/N, Sicheng, please stay back for a moment. I’d like to talk to you about Mr. Lee’s replacement.”

You and Sicheng glanced at each other and you sat back down. A while ago, you had both agreed the decision wasn’t going to break the quiet relationship you had built. It was going to be sour. You knew, when someone was chosen, things could get messy and awkward. But this… this was too good.

Daiyu sat down and put her hands together. “After much decision and going through your interviews, the CEO has stepped in and we are sorry to say neither of you are getting the position.”

You jerked your head around to Sicheng and he did the same—wild confusion and anger in both of your eyes. Both your years of loyalty and dedication are being passed over?

“Instead, we have decided to hire outside the company for some fresh intake. He may be young, but it comes to us that he’s highly recommended and would fit in with our culture well.”

A sour feeling came to your stomach and you narrowed your eyes, resisting the urge to frown. They had decided to hire outside the company? This is how they decide to reward their workers? This was betrayal.

Glancing over, you could see Sicheng felt the same. His right hand grasped the arm of the chair tightly and you could see his knuckles turning white.

“I’d like to meet him and he’s coming—” She took a glance at her watch. “—right about now.”

A knock came from the door and a head of messy black hair peaked into the room.

“Daiyu laoban, great to see you.”

No. This could not be happening to you.

The wire glasses. The tall, lanky frame that filled the doorway. The almond shaped eyes hiding behind pitch-black hair, as black his shriveled little heart.

Daiyu, like the little bitch she was, giggled. “Y/N, Sicheng, please meet your new Sales Head: Xu Minghao.”

His eyes focused on you and your world suddenly felt tilted, careening sideways while the nausea hit you all at once.

“Nice to meet you,” he said cheerfully.

You could feel Sicheng’s concern radiating from him at your ashen face and look of shock, but you couldn't even think as flashes of blood and tears and pain shuddered throughout your body.

His smile didn’t reach his eyes. “I’m pleased to be working with you!”

(”After us, the flood” or “Aprés nous, le deluge” is an expression from Madame Pompadour, King Louis XV’s lover.)

And it’s finished. Thank you. Please don’t forget to read, comment, and reblog. I love you all and goodbye.

[blue-bird-kny]

Day 3: Operation Mistletoe

Happy day 3 with Genya! In my head I just imagined him moving around like a ninja so this was hilarious to write lol ~Amanda

Warning: Cussing and suggestive themes (aged up ofc)

( 850 words)

↳ {In which Genya tries to avoid your holiday thirst traps, ultimately failing}

You walked steadfast, a cheshire grin eating away at your features with just the tiniest glint of mischief in your eyes. Your feet unconsciously carried you home from the market, a brown paper bag grasped tightly against your chest, the brightly colored contents spilling out from the top. Shimmering tinsel, lush wreaths, and other holiday nik-naks weighed the bag down, however they all almost paled in comparison to one particular item you spent a pretty penny on; mistletoe in all shapes and length lay tucked away carefully in your pocket. Your plan was simple: trap Genya in a maze of mistletoe around your home, leaving him no choice but to provide you with the endless kisses you’ve been longing for. As you hung the plants in random spots, above doorways and on window pans, a small part of you felt bad; you respected Genya and his aversion to PDA, however you had to remind yourself this was different because he was protected by the walls of the house. You stepped off the stool to admire your work, not a single room safe from your tactic.  “It's perfect”- Genya had no clue what he was coming home to.

The next morning you woke bright and early, throwing together a delicious spread of all of Genya’s favorite foods, the rich scent of savory dishes wafting throughout the house and pouring out the window you definitely didn't leave open on purpose. “What’s the celebration? You never feed me this well” Genya let himself in, shaking off his snow covered boots to shut out the chill the open door was letting in. You rushed over, waiting expectantly as if Genya would somehow read the signs, “What the hell you lookin’ at like that?” his brows furrowed over his dark eyes in confusion. “Don’t you see the mistletoe hanging above us? Take a hint and pay up” you leaned closer to his quickly reddening face, eyes locked in a staring contest. The cogs turned in Genya’s brain as he rushed to find an out in this situation when it hit him. “Pipe down Pipsqueak, there’s no rule saying I have to kiss ya’ where you want” he smugly pointed out, shoving you off your tip-toes gently, placing a chaste peck on the crown of your hair, “Let’s eat, I’m fucking starving.”- Attempt one: semi-fail.

Genya was not one to be easily fooled, dodging each hanging plant skillfully, denying you of the one pleasure you’d worked so hard to achieve. “Genya could you please help me bring something inside!” you called, luring your boyfriend out into where he was defenseless. Warm breath heated your neck as he spoke, “I’m not stupid” you screamed in surprise at Genya’s voice behind you. “You almost killed me!” you pointed an accusing finger at your asshole boyfriend, who’s patronizing smirk left you blushing and embarrassed. Why was he even outside anyway?! Second attempt: major failure, plus he scared you shitless.

Eventually the sun buried itself below the horizon, welcoming the dim glow of the full-moon in its wake. With little resistance, you persuaded Genya to stay the night on the condition that you take down all the “annoying pieces of crap” you had scattered. Genya was already fast asleep beside you, his protective hold pressing you against his chest, “You’re too smart for your own good” you thought bitterly, studying the curves of his face. He looked younger when he slept; his features free of the usual scowl he wore and clean of any discretion or discoloration, save for the scar that ran over the bridge of his nose, “It's a good thing you’re good looking” a fond smile graced your lips. Out of the corner of your eye, the blue light filtering in from the window illuminated a familiar red from above your futon. “Genyaaa~” you prodded gently, drawing your fingers through his unruly treases and over his pink scar, maybe you could have one last attempt after all. His nose wrinkled at the feel of your nails against his skin, his lids begrudgingly lifting to reveal a pair of irritated, dark orbs. “What do you want?” his voice was deeper, horse from sleep, “I think you missed one” you teased referring to the last string of mistletoe. “You’re a moron, a complete dumbass” he wore a straight-face as he sat up onto his elbows.

“Come on, please! I promise I’ll be satisfied for the rest of the night” you jutted your lip out in a childish pout, silently pleading with your eyes. Genya thought for a moment, chuckling at your antics. His torso hung over yours, palm cupping the nape of your neck, carrying you closer till his lips ghosted against your awaiting pair. The first kiss was brief, his rough pair dancing against your softer ones, before pulling away too soon, your back arching off the bed in a desperate attempt to follow his warmth. His other hand slithered onto your hip as he crawled on top, growling “Don’t worry, I’ll leave you satisfied for a week.”

Holiday Event Masterlist

[thejamesoldier]

A Single Frayed Rope

AO3 Link

Chapter 3

A/N: sorry for such a long gap between uploads, i’ve made this chapter extra long as an apology! with the pandemic and having to figure out a stable financial situation, its been super rough for me, but coming back to write this fic made me feel good for the first time in a long time :) I hope you enjoy!! xx

Chapter 4 - Horseshoe Overlook II

First order of business is to wash.

You've never been so soiled in your entire life, and you're pretty sure your stench could be picked up at least a mile off if the burn in your own nose whenever you take a breath is anything to go by. There are a million things you want to focus on besides bathing -- like finally getting some decent fucking hours of rest, but you work to pace yourself and not give in to the scattered anarchy your brain keeps descending into whenever you let it go blank for too long. Breaking off small pieces of a larger horror is the only way you're keeping yourself sane at the moment. The previous hold you had on your impulses is frayed down to nothing now that the ropes are gone and you have the freedom to do things as simple as itch your nose. It makes you twitchy, off-kilter in a way that sometimes yanks you out of your own mind. It's like pushing with all your might against a wall of stone that suddenly turns to air. It's a reaction you weren't expecting, and its exhausting.

One of the girls -- or women you should say, volunteers to take you down to a river near by to wash. Freckles. Pinned curls. Kind. Mary-Beth, your memory supplies as she leads you to a secluded spot away from what she warned was a more heavily traversed part of the bank.

You say nothing on the hike down the hill the gang has mounted itself atop of, though Mary-Beth doesn't attempt much conservation. Arthur, who at first had out right refused to let Mary-Beth go anywhere unescorted with a 'wild crazy woman', eventually relented after receiving a firm but undecipherable look from Hosea. It was an effort on your part to care even a little, all you wanted was to fucking clean yourself, rebuffing the disrespect of a man who had no high-horse to give any sort of morality speeches from was the least of your concerns.

"Watch your step here, the ground's a little loose," Mary-Beth warns as she lifts the front of her dress up a respectable amount in order to see where to place her feet.

Again you say nothing, only follow her example and lift the filthy hem of your own skirt and try to walk in her footprints across the patch of mud. You hug your change of clothes tighter to your side (those of which were donated by Mary-Beth this time) with your other hand as you both slowly make your way out of the slippery vat, and onto a shore of grey pebbles. Thick green growth encases you two in a private alcove where the river branches off in a tame half-circle detour before rejoining its main body down stream. The sound of the bubbling water, birds chirping in the canopy above you, and the sun splintering through gossamer emerald leaves would have made you smile in any other circumstance. Nature this untouched is rare and beautiful yet you can't find it in yourself to care, there is no room in you to feel joy right now. It's all instinct and survival, you feel so...rabid. Maybe feral is a better word for it. You simply don't feel all that in control of yourself, like if something unexpected were to happen, you'd react like a wild animal -- fight or flight and nothing inbetween.

In all honesty you feel a bit crazy. There is this buzz in your brain that peaks when you're nervous but never quite dies back down when you're not, it only returns to this constant unnerving hum that's begun to reveal itself as an opposing force to your effort towards a clear present mind.

"Um, Miss?"

It underlies everything you do, like you're getting constant shots of adrenaline every minute. This excess energy burns like poison in your veins and you know it'll sicken you eventually, but even if you wanted it to stop, you wouldn't know how to turn it off.

"Miss? Are, are you okay?"

It's a sign you're spiraling but hell if you have any mental space to pick at that particular ball of yarn on top of everything else. And holy fucking hell I time traveled --

"Y/n?" Mary-Beth's voice echoes a little over the noise of your turmoil, and you find yourself unsure if you turned to face her too fast or too slow as your vision swims.

Time violently warps then and you're grasp on sanity in turn takes a sharp slip -- the world is suddenly tipping itself upside down and you're falling, falling, falling...

You try to remember how to breathe because suddenly you can't.

"Wait," The word wheezes itself from your lungs as your mouth opens and closes in attempt to slog air down your throat, "Wait,"

Mary-Beth pales and you know you're scaring her, and if you could you would try to reassure her that you're fine but you honestly can't remember how to speak --

"Wait!"

-- so you continue to stand there and shake, repeating a sound that tastes like a word but you're not sure --

"Wait! Wait!"

Mary-Beth stands there another beat before making a run for it. She sprints by you the way you both came, and the second you're alone you collapse to the ground, knees digging into the pebble shore through the soiled fabric of your dress, fresh change of clothes forgotten as both of your hands start to claw at your throat, trying to breath -- why can't I breathe ?!

"Wait!"

As you gasp and hyperventilate, struggling to remember where you are and how you got here, it dawns on you that what you feel crawling under your skin and suffocating your throat is panic. You're...you're panicking. You thought you were taking this nightmare one horrible bite at a time why -- where did this tsunami wave of panic come from? You were doing so well holding it back, holding on, why --

Firm hands are suddenly gripping your shoulders and it takes you too long to realize that there is a small group of people standing around you, above you, closing you in, trapping you -- you're trapped who are they what do they want ?!

Your vision blacks out though you can still feel things, still hear things though it comes to you in disconnected pieces, out of order.

"WAIT!" You cry into the black, voice hoarse and broken as you try to breathe around the sound that won't stop coming from your mouth, your face feels wet, "WAIT!"

--

Kieran was shaken when Mary-Beth -- a complete worried mess -- discreetly came up to him at camp, whispering about Y/n being unwell by the river. And now as he slips through a patch of mud before forcefully parting thick shrubs into a small alcove, he sees her kneeling on the ground, hands at her own neck, struggling to breathe. Kieran's heart plummets down to drop out of the bottom of his feet.

"Y/n?!" He goes to his knees in front of her and grabs her shoulders, resisting the urge to shake her. Mary-Beth keeps her distance, covering her quivering mouth at the scene.

"WAIT!" Y/n yells, though it comes out as more of a hoarse whisper then a scream.

"Y/n! It's me! It's -- it's Kieran! You remember me?"

"What do you all want?! Who are you?! Why are there so many of you?!"

Kieran and Mary-Beth exchange a look, its only the two of them in the clearing. No one followed them down.

"Th-there's no one else but Mary-Beth an' me, see look! Just me right here in front of you -- there you go, see its just me, you see me? Then look, behind me, right there, see Mary-Beth?" Kieran coaxes gently, watching the logic he's laying out for her slowly collect the mania that scattered the sense in her eyes.

--

Realization dawns on you at the same time your sight returns. You let Kieran carefully take a hold of your wrists and pull them away from the red abused skin of your neck. You let him ground you, you let yourself acknowledge sensation one piece at a time: the pain in your knees from the pebbles digging in, the ache in your head, the raw skin of your back, the dryness of your throat, the burn in your tearducts -- and suddenly, before you can bottleneck it into a trickle, the whole world comes rushing in on you at once.

The smell of moist dirt, the sound of running water, the warmth of the sun, the caress of the wind against your wet cheeks, the privacy provided by all the surrounding vegetation. But even with all this reality, the figures remain. You're scared to look up, scared to stare at anything but their feet. Kieran's voice is getting more desperate though, you have to look up -- have to let him see you're recovering. With a shaky in take of breath you raise your gaze so it lands squarely on Kieran. In your peripherals these...figures, don't do anything but stand there. In fact they don't speak, don't move, don't even look like they're breathing. As Kieran fusses over you, his voice slightly muted as the ringing in your ears refuses to recede completely, you chance a glance over his left shoulder. As soon as you shift your eyes over to the figures they disappear, or more like blur, like its a trick of the light. You can still see them in your peripherals, just not the ones you're trying to look at directly. You slide your eyes back to Kieran, and notice that the figures you just tried to look at reappear.

Your breath struggles to find a comfortable rhythm as this new horror piles onto your fresh panic. Have you lost your mind? Is this part of time traveling? God, like time traveling wasn't enough to stop your heart, now you see ghosts?  

"Breathe, you're breathing that's good -- in through the nose out through the mouth, that's it," Kieran instructs, attempting to not to let you look away from him again, his hands gentle where they cup the outsides of your arms helping to dictate the pace in which your shoulders rise and fall.

You let out a shuttering breath and watch Kieran's own chest fill and empty, trying your best to match his movements. Eventually you do manage to wrangle your palpitating heart back down to a normal rhythm, and with this steadier beat comes your sense. The figures remain, though once you close your eyes to take one last large inhale to truly settle yourself, they're gone when your lashes lift again. Your hands are clutching the outsides of Kieran's forearms and you release them instantly, as if burned. A flush of embarrassment rises up to lick at the skin of your neck, it heats up your collar as you try to give Kieran a reassuring smile that ends up being more of a grimace than anything else. Kieran's face, previously pinched tight with worry, relaxes though so you figure you calmed him enough. The guilt hits you like a sledgehammer when you catch sight of Mary-Beth over Kieran's shoulder standing a few steps away, looking for all the world like she'd seen a ghost.

You wonder if that's what you looked like when you first saw the figures. You hope it was less alarming, though you figure having a full blown panic attack negated any possibility of that.  

"Y/n?" Kieran says softly, hands no longer touching you but still hovering just in case. The guilt guts you again.

"I'm fine," You murmur through a tight throat. At the doubtful look Kieran gives you, you add, "Now, I'm fine now."

You shift your gaze back to Mary-Beth and feel your cheeks heat at the realization that at your most vulnerable you were watched, made a spectacle.

"I'm sorry if I scared you, I-I didn't mean to, I, I haven't ever -- that's never happened to me before," Comes your wobbly explanation, all heart and no thought.

Mary-Beth hesitates a beat, taking a visible gulp to steady herself, before making her way closer only to kneel down beside Kieran in front of you. You flinch at the proximity, shame weighing your head down so much it lowers.

"I was only worried is all, didn't know what to do to help," She starts, voice shaky but kind, always kind, "I'm glad I went to get Kieran."

"Thank you, it -- I'm grateful for your, um, discretion."

"Sure thing, Miss," Mary-Beth nods, a soft smile lifting one corner of her mouth.

"Y/n, you can call me Y/n."

"Okay," She says with a breathy laugh, still a little shaken but being incredibly generous about it as she attempts to hide it.

There's a pause where you knot your fingers together, gathering the courage to face Kieran.

"Thank you Kieran, I --,"

"No thanks necessary," Your face jerks up at him at his words, his face goes soft at your surprise, "My Ma used to...worry, like that, after my Pa died."

"O-Oh." You mumble, utterly overwhelmed but you're not sure by what.

Silence throbs between you three for another moment before a twig cracking in the distance snaps all three of you out of your shared stillness.

'I-I best get cleaned up or the whole gang will think I murdered Mary-Beth," A nervous laugh catches in your throat, the muscle and delicate skin over it sore and red from all the scratching you did to it.

"Right," Kieran says, remaining kneeling with you as Mary-Beth rises to a stand.

You stare at Kieran for a moment, waiting for him to process what you said.

"Right!" Kieran's voice cracks as it finally sinks in and in a mad scramble that makes Mary-Beth giggle, he makes his way back through the brush leading back to camp.

He slips in the bit of mud on his way out of the alcove and this time, you join Mary-Beth in a timid laugh at Kieran's expense.

--

After washing yourself with a bar of crudely made soap Mary-Beth provided you, you slip into your shift and frock trying not to shiver. It takes you so long to figure out how to tie yourself in, guessing what layer goes under what, that Mary-Beth -- who had washed and dressed too -- approaches you to help.

"Still feeling...worried?" Mary-Beth uses the same term Kieran did when describing your panic attack as she steps up behind you to tie the strings of your skirt properly. You're grateful she attributes your lack of knowledge on how to properly dress in these period clothes to you still being a bit unsettled.

I mean you still feel quite shaken, but you have your nerves under control -- steady.

"I'm much better now, thank you," You assure as she gently turns you around to then adjust the frilly collar of the blouse that's been lent to you, "Thank you Mary-Beth, for everything."

She slows her ministrations for a moment and lets her gaze drops to yours, the weariness that sat in her eyes earlier fully evaporates, like mist under the high noon sun.

"You're a good woman, I think, at least no worse than the sort I'm familiar with. We shall be friends, Y/n."

"Okay," You allow, unsure what else you could say to that, though the sentiment does lighten the weight in your chest a little.

You guess she's okay to trust at least on some level, she was the one who regularly fed Kieran and you when you were still considered prisoners. Never tossed curses or insults at you either.

"Come," She urges as you both collect your soiled garments off the ground, "Let me introduce you to the other ladies, I promise they're much kinder than you might be expecting. Even the men, though a bit rough I admit, are mindful of us at the very least and quite sweet at their best."

You doubt you'll ever see them that way, in fact you'd bet your life on it, but you keep that to yourself as Mary-Beth leads you both out of the alcove and back up to camp.  

--

The other women aren't too bad.

Tilly is young and sparky, Karen is loud and lonely, Abigail is protective and torn, Susan is stubborn and proud, Molly is insecure and loyal, and Sadie is broken and hard. You match your personal interactions with them, with the impressions you had of them while tied up, reminding yourself to never forget everything they did or said to you while you were the enemy. They take to you easily enough you suppose, though Sadie keeps to herself and Susan -- or you should say Grimshaw, believes herself a level above them all. Not unlike Molly who hadn't even spared you a glance from the perch she'd claimed in Dutch's tent planted in the center of camp. Mary-Beth seems closest with Tilly, Karen, and Abigail, absolutely determined to pull you into their tight knit group and brush off any doubts they had about you being an O'Driscoll whore. You allowed her to do this but only to an extent and only out of respect for Mary-Beth, you didn't trust them -- barely trusted them to be civil like they are being now. In the end it was Kieran who you felt safest with, felt like you could really breathe around. The only ally you had in this place -- an equal.

You seek him out once the sun starts to set after kindly refusing Mary-Beth who offered a place for you to rest with the other women. Kieran is with the horses, though he's got his eyes on the tree line opposite of where he stands. With a twang of worry at how focused he is, you follow his line of sight but only see tree trunks and shadows cast by the setting sun.

"Kieran?" You call tentatively as you walk up to him. He jumps, completely startled, and whips around to face you.

"Oh! Y/n I, I didn't hear you,"

Your eyebrows knit at his expression, "Is something wrong?"

"No! No, I was just, uh, waiting for something."

"Waiting? Waiting for what?"

"Well, my - my horse, Branwen, she's -- well she's quite a loyal girl. Found me at Colter she did and followed us down from the mountains, saw her when we was walkin' behind the wagon. She hasn't had the nerve to approach the camp, what with all the noise and the unfamiliar herd of horses millin' about."

"I didn't know horses were that loyal," You say in quiet astonishment, you always thought that kind of stuff only happened in those cheesy horse flicks.

"Oh yes! If you treat them right and earn their trust and respect, they'll do almost anything for ya."

Your eyebrows jump lazily at this, "Go figure."

"What?" Kieran asks, confused at the term.

"Uh nevermind, so, have you a found a place to sleep?"

"Sleep?" His throat sounds dry all of a sudden.

You stay silent, waiting patiently for a response, wondering why he's become so skittish. He licks his lips, maybe a nervous habit, and can't seem to look you in eye.

"Well, yes I have, but surely Mary-Beth has found you somewhere suitable."

"I don't trust any of them to not kill me in my sleep."

Kieran backs up a step as if you'd struck him, "Mary-Beth wouldn't --,"

A harsh huff blows from your lips.

"No she wouldn't. I, I don't feel like I could sleep among so many...strangers." Comes your quiet admission.

Kieran observes your face for a moment, really takes in your expression.

"I know how you feel," He pauses, fiddling with his sleeve cuff, "How about you sleep while I watch?"

Your head snaps up and you eye him with potent suspicion, but before you can comment or become truly alarmed Kieran trips over himself to clarify.

"N-Not watch you! Not like that! Christ alive no, m-more like watch your back -- stand guard, that way you can sleep without havin' to worry."

Something very close to amused fondness rolls through your chest and clears out any doubts on Kieran's intentions. A giggle escapes your lips at how flustered he is at the notion of what you'd initially thought he meant.

"How about we take turns, I sleep for half the night, and then you for the rest? That way we both get sleep without having to freak out."

Kieran looks like he's about to argue, but he watches you place your hands on your hips very very deliberately, and relents with a sigh.

"Oh alright, but I have first watch!"

You break out a triumphant smile, a real one, and give his left shoulder a friendly punch.

"Deal!" You confirm.

Kieran rubs at the place where you punched him, a bit confused at the gesture but still finds himself laughing with you.

It turns out Kieran picked a sleeping spot near the outskirts of camp behind one of the wagons far from where anyone would disturb you. Some sort of campfire set up for whoever was on guard duty sits a couple paces away. The fact that there was a twenty-four hour patrol routine frayed on your nerves more than you wanted it to. It reminded you that these people were hunted, that if something were to happen you'd be caught up in it as well, even be killed because of it. The idea of dying for these people made you sick, but you never let yourself think about it too long or your anxiety rose to dangerous levels.

As you settle down on the bed of hay that serves as your bed, Kieran plops down cross legged behind you.

He gives a weary sounding sigh, "You know folk'll talk, with us sharing the same sleeping space an all. You sure you want to deal with that?"

You twist around, finding yourself staring at Kieran's hunched back as he picks at the grass near his ankles.

"I don't care what these people think of me. They can say whatever the fuck they want," Kieran jumps a bit when you curse, "I trust you, I only care what they say if you care Kieran."

A pregnant pause grows between you two then, something cold twinges in your chest.  

"Do you? Care?"

"I care only for what might be said about you, I know you say it don't matter, but we're already hated. The women at least seem to like you, you -- you could be one of them, be part of the gang I mean."

You sit up and put a hand on Kieran's shoulder, gently urging him to turn to face you.

"Kieran you have been my only ally since all this started, I could care less about being part of this," You wave your hand vaguely to the camp.

"Well you should care, what other option do we have? We know too much about them, we can't ever leave. You understand that don't you?"

Your face begins to drain of blood. For some reason you hadn't thought of it like that. These people weren't just hunted, but they hunted as well. You knew their faces, could identify them if asked to. You knew their names, their habits, their whereabouts. They'd never let you leave this gang, not alive.

"Oh my god," You say in quiet horror.

Kieran notices this but remains silent, sharing your sentiments. The need to travel back to your time becomes even more of a priority than before if that's even possible. You needed to find a way to escape, and hopefully you could help Kieran get free too.

"We'll find a way Kieran, I promise I'll get us out."

Kieran firmly shakes his head, turning back to face forward and away from the determination in your eyes.

"There's no where for me to go even if we did manage to escape without bullets in our backs. I have no money, no trade, no skills."

"You've said you're good with horses!" You try but Kieran only shakes his head again.

"You have to have some sort of reference or be known to be respectable to work at a stable, even one in a town and especially on one of them fancy ranches. Plus I'd wager that by the time we would have the means to escape, our faces'll be plastered up on wanted posters along with the rest of the gang's."

You try not to blanch further at this, not having considered that either.

"We have to try and work our way into this gang Y/n, its either that or die. I know this kinda life, done it before, I know our options and I'm tellin'em to ya now."

Kieran shifts to look at you over his shoulder, his gaze insisting things you don't want to hear.

"It's the only way."

There's a sting in your eye that you swiftly ignore by blinking hard against the feeling. Your breath shutters out through your nose, and without another word you lie back down. Kieran watches you do this, his mouth parting as if to speak but he shuts it and turns back around. Silence reigns once more, a gap stretching between you that's worrisome. Keeping the nerves out of your tone, you promptly break the quiet.

"What did you do when they took you to the O'Driscoll hideout to convince them to let you be part of the gang? What did you say to try and convince them of my innocence? You seemed so sure you could untie me when you came back." You ask in a murmur, having been wondering about this since Kieran came rushing back to you tied to the tree, whispering about being free now.  

Kieran shifts a bit and huffs, "Well I first swore I'd never seen you until you were being tied next to me behind that wagon in Colter, but they didn't believe me. So I then said that Colm didn't usually stick with one whor -- uh, lady of loose morals, that he liked, er, variety. They again said they didn't believe me, so I told them the truth. Any woman Colm spends a night with usually doesn't come out of it unmarred."

"Unmarred?" Something in your gut sinks in horror.

"They always leave pretty roughed up. He's not, he's not gentle with 'em. And I said that if you was his, if he had...acquainted himself with you and often enough for you to know some of his personal secrets, you'd have been in a much worse state than they originally found ya in."

"You mean besides being naked and freezing to death?" You scoff, disgusted with this Colm person and starting to understand why everyone in camp seemed to hate Kieran and you so much thinking you associated with that kind of man.  

Kieran clears his throat, "Besides that."

There's a pause, then, "Forgive my lack of delicacy, but you were found n-naked? Why? If you don't mind my askin' of course!"

You manage to choke out, "It's a long story."

"How did, how did they take you back to camp?"

"I don't know, all I know is that Arthur is the one who saved me. Though I wish he'd left me to die instead of bringing me here."

"Mr. Morgan saved you?" Kieran asked in disbelief.

"Yeah," You confirm rather sourly, "The one who doesn't seem to have a merciful bone in his body."

"Well I'm not dead because I shot an O'Driscoll and saved his life at Six Point."

You take a moment to consider this information.

"Owing a life debt is not the same as mercy." Comes your stubborn rebuff, refusing to give Arthur even an inch of sympathy in your mind.

The both of you quiet again, and this time the silence isn't heavy with unspoken words. Just before you're about to fall asleep, you find the extra fabric of Kieran's coat with your fingers, and twist the rough material into your closed hand. Your dreams consist of a warm chest pressed to your front and the worn fur lining of a coat wrapped around your back, a pocket of safety tucked between an arched neck and a stiff flipped up collar...

--

You wake to the noise of the camp, birds twittering high in the trees, and Kieran's jacket laying over your body that's curled tightly in on itself during the night.

With a sore grunt you sit up, body still aching from all the abuse its been through. Kieran hadn't woken you, he'd let you sleep through the whole night. You feel a flare of guilt and frustration rise in you, followed quickly though by begrudging fondness. You should have known he'd do something like that, the softie. Getting to your feet, you wipe the stray pieces of hay stuck to your skirts off and groan internally at how uncomfortable it is to sleep in these old fashion clothes (thank god they hadn't stuck you in a corset). Though its leagues better than nodding off tied to a tree. Once you make your way into camp proper, Mary-Beth bumbles up to you all smiles and simmering questions about how you slept last night while leading you to a wooden pail that she informs holds the water the women use for their personal hygiene.

"Heaven forbid we're made to share with the men!" She exclaims good-naturedly as you approach the mini bathing station set on a stool by the women's tents.

You watch Karen finish splashing water in her face before scrubbing and rinsing her teeth. She spits the water out onto the grass beside her and not back into the pail (which you are grateful to see), then scoots over with a mumbled good morning directed at you when Mary-Beth ushers you forward to do the same. You hope that you can get your hands on some soap that is possibly softer against your skin than what you used yesterday by the river. If you don't wash your face twice a day you know you'll break out, and though acne should be the least of your concerns right now, the familiar motion of splashing water on your face pushes the domestic thought to the forefront of your mind. As you dab your face dry with a clean cloth that Mary-Beth hands you, distractedly you wonder if the water you are using was cleaned or prepped in any way. Surely washing your face with river water wouldn't do your skin or your tastebuds any favors. Fighting a grimace, you scrub and then rinse your teeth but find that while the water doesn't taste like algae as you feared it might, it doesn't taste like the bottled water you have in your fridge at home either.  

Once you're done, you thank Mary-Beth for her guidance and are about to turn to go find Kieran, when Karen appears at your right and hooks her arm through yours, pulling you over to their tent where a small crude vanity is set up.

"Do you wear makeup Y/n?" Karen asks, "Only Mary-Beth, Tilly and I use this station, though Grimshaw likes to sometimes steal the face powder and pretend she's not wearing any, the old hag."

You don't know what to say, a bit shell-shocked at the familiarity they're employing, as you catch a glimpse of Molly across camp, just a step outside of Dutch's tent, carefully applying red lipstick. She brings the pretty little decorated hand held mirror she's using closer to her lips to inspect her work, turning her face slowly from side to side, utilizing the early morning sun's soft glow.

"Uh, sometimes," You start but quickly backtrack when you realize you know nothing about the makeup from whatever time period this is, "But not enough to really know how to do it myself, my --,"

"Yourself?" Karen interrupts, Mary-Beth and her both stilling in their fussing to face you, "You mean you had someone to do it for you? What, you some kind of heiress or somethin'?"

The questions make you nervous, but you school your features so as to not let that show.

"No, nothing like that. My older sister did it for me, she always liked to dress me up in things." You lie.

"Oh a sister? That must be nice, what's she like?" Mary-Beth asks, not unkindly.

Fuck.

"Like all older sisters I guess, she's nice until I borrow her stuff without asking." It's vague but believable, you hope it convinces them.

Karen lets out a snort and Mary-Beth shakes her head with a smile.

"Sounds about right," Karen says as she directs you to sit.

"I-I really don't think make-up is necessary," You warn as Karen begins to rummage through the little that's laid out in front of you.

"Lord's sake! We need to get into town, we've got barely nothin' left that didn't freeze to sludge up in Colter!" Karen grumps, completely ignoring you and continuing to search finger through the tiny bottles and tin trays.

Mary-Beth laments Karen's statement with a sigh, neatly pinning a curl up into the mass she'd collected into a bouquet near the crown of her head, using a corner of the mirror you've been sat in front of as a guide.

"Uncle was sayin' yesterday that he'd been meaning to go into town today, maybe we can catch a ride with him." Mary-Beth suggests.

Karen rolls her eyes, "Let's hope that out of us women, one of us can drive. I wouldn't trust that ol' geezer to steer a spoon into a bowl."

You're about to once again attempt to excuse yourself and look for Kieran, when Tilly walks up to the girls and you with a distinct scowl on her face. She plops down under the awning of the tent, pulls out some sort of sewing project and sets to work without a word.

"What's wrong Tilly?" Karen inquires almost as soon as Tilly had sat down, ignoring her show of clearly wanting to be left alone.

"Grimshaw." Is Tilly's only response though this seems to be explanation enough for both Karen and Mary-Beth, they both groan in sympathy.

"If you don't want to wear any make-up, let me at least do something with your hair," Mary-Beth pleads, turning back to you, as Karen elbows you off the stool when you duck away from her hand holding some sort of powder puff.

"Um,"

"Just a brush through then? Your hair is, well it's just a bit tangled." She furthers as Karen leans in close to the mirror and starts putting on what seems to be this era's version of eyeliner.

"A bit? It looks like rats have taken up occupation in there." Karen scoffs as she holds her eyelid taught with one finger and uses her other hand to drag a fine brush along her lash line.

"Karen!" Mary-Beth admonishes as Tilly giggles down into her sewing across the tent.

You only sigh, still uncomfortable with them pretending like they didn't all hate your guts a couple days ago. Except for Mary-Beth. You sigh.

"Okay." Your surrender is met with a wide grin from Mary-Beth.

"Mary-Beth loves to do hair," Karen explains unnecessarily as she moves onto her other eye.

You're then sat on a different stool facing out towards camp, and Mary-Beth begins the long grueling process of brushing out your hair that hasn't seen shampoo in over a week and a half.

--

It's around mid-morning when Mary-Beth finally finishes with your hair. You're a bit surprised she stuck with it, you thought after about twenty minutes with only a small portion of your hair untangled to show for it she'd give up. But she was oddly determined. Karen and Tilly had gone to ransack Pearson's wagon in search of breakfast and brought back a few loaves of bread with a can of peaches. They laid the pre-cut slices of fruit heaviest with juice over the loaves of soft bread they'd thumbed open. It was delicious. After a week of only eating crumbs it was comparable to heaven. Once you finish, you ask if there is any left that you could take to Kieran.

"The O'Driscoll?" Karen scoffs, licking her fingertips clean of peach juice.

All previous good will she'd been building with you disappears. They had all watched as Kieran and you suffered and did nothing. A fuzzy memory of Karen tossing a still lit cigarette bud in Kieran's face resurfaces and it sours your frown into a hateful scowl. These women are not your friends, a part of you feels ashamed you let them trick you into thinking that, even for a moment.

"He is not an O'Driscoll."

Karen, Mary-Beth, and Tilly freeze at your tone, Karen seeming at a loss for words at the look you're giving her. All previous levity dives into insufferable tension.

"Sorry," Karen apologizes in a voice very unlike the brash snark she'd been using all morning.  

You don't say another word, you only collect the last loaf of bread, the near empty can of peaches, and storm off in search of Kieran.

You find him coming out of the treeline near where the gang's horses graze, with a new horse in tow. Kieran has a smile on his face. As you make your way over to him, avoiding contact with anyone else, you realize you've never actually seen Kieran smile before. This time Kieran sees you coming and the grin on his face grows, it warms your heart, reminding you who your true friend is.

"Is that Branwen?" You ask through a smile of your own, walking around the herd to one of the hitching posts near the hay wagon Kieran is making his way over to.  

"It is!" Kieran replies as he gently guides his horse to stop before the post, giving her dirty mane a loving pat, "Been coaxin' her to me all morning."

"She's pretty," You offer as you come to stand next to him, being careful not to move too fast, unsure how to handle yourself so close to a horse.

"Oh she looks like a two cent nag with all the filth she's got collected in her coat."

"Well I can tell from the," You gesture with the peach can towards the mare, "Colorings, that she'll be super cute when she's all clean."

Kieran blinks furiously at the terms 'super' and 'cute', but you rush into another sentence in the hopes of distracting him from your odd terminology.

"I brought you breakfast," You present the bread and the peach can to him.

He looks down at your offerings and only stares, "That's kind of ya, but where did you get it? Did Pearson give it to you?"

You shake your head, "The women shared it with me."

Kieran stares at you for a moment, then blinks up at your hair, seeming to just know realize it isn't in knots anymore.

"Oh," He says dumbly, "Oh."

"So, breakfast?" You say again, trying not to laugh.

"I should really care for Branwen first," Kieran begins to say but trails off at the look on your face.

"Thanks for waking me up last night to switch guard shifts," You muse, rolling the peach can between your fingers. Kieran's eyes drop to watch the motion and he gulps, "Really appreciate waking up feeling like a worthless friend."

You know you're going hard on the guilt trip, but you can't help it. He's easy to tease but you are truly peeved he didn't wake you.

"We had an agreement Kieran," One more moment and --

"Okay I'm sorry!"

There it is.

"I knew you wanted me to wake you up to switch, but I couldn't help it! You looked so tired, I just couldn't do it." He whines.

You pretend to ponder on this, shifting your weight to sit in one hip.

"I'll only forgive you if you eat first, then you can care for Branwen."

Kieran looks so genuinely torn by this you almost relent, but he caves before he makes you feel guilty and grabs the food from you. You stay, wanting to make sure he eats it all.

"Wait!" You cry as he stuffs the entire loaf into his mouth.

He startles and stares wide eyed at your outstretched hands.

"You're supposed to put the peaches on top," You pout, "That way the juice sinks into the bread and it isn't too dry."

Kieran only shrugs at this, chews the bread for another moment before swallowing (though you feel like he should have chewed a mouthful that big a bit longer; seriously that must have hurt going down), before sticking his fingers into the can to scrape out the last few slices of peach. You roll your eyes at this.

I guess men will be men no matter the time period.

"Okay I'm done, can I wash Branwen now?" Kieran asks your permission, though you suspect this is done more out of fond spite than anything else.

You find yourself rolling your eyes yet again as you snatch the can from him, and answer him anyways, "Yes."

Kieran gives you a quick thanks before rushing back over to Branwen, cooing at her sweetly, before starting to remove the weather worn saddle from her back. You place the can by your feet, ready to sit down in the grass and watch Kieran for the rest of the afternoon, even offer to help though you don't the first thing about cleaning a horse, when someone clears their throat behind you. You swivel your head over your shoulder and find that its Mary-Beth. She looks sheepish at best, guilty at worst. The softness in you hardens.

"Um me and the girls were wonderin' if you wanted to ride into town with us," She waves a hand towards the main entrance of camp and you see a wagon hitched and ready to go. Karen and Tilly are sitting in the back looking at you across camp, while the elderly man they called Uncle and Arth --

"I'm fine." You decline automatically when you spot Arthur sitting on the driver's bench next to Uncle, fiddling with the reigns.

Mary-Beth pauses, her expression tensing like she had expected that response. You hear all the noise behind you quiet, you know Kieran has turned around to listen.

"And usually that'd be fine an' all but, we need to get you clothes of your own, seeing as you can't keep borrowin' ours." You must make some sort of face because she steps forward, voice thin with nerves, "We don't mind! It's just we don't have many outfits to spare, it'd be more laundry, more work. Plus we wanna put what money we have left together to get you something to wear of your own."

"I don't need your charity," You snarl before you can stop yourself. If they think a new dress is going to make up for almost two weeks of torture --

"That's not what this is! It's..." She sighs in frustration, though you have a feeling she's not frustrated with you.

"They're tryin'," Kieran murmurs behind you suddenly. Mary-Beth looks up at this and for a startling moment you think she might cry.

"Yes, we're tryin'," She says on an exhale, giving Kieran such a profound look of gratitude it makes you consider her offer, "An' we don't know your sizes, or we'd save ya the trouble of the trip. Though, we thought you might like an afternoon out of camp."

Before you can put the pieces together yourself, Kieran crouches down to get eye level with you and bumps your shoulder with his.

"This is good Y/n, it's a sign of trust. They're lettin' you outta camp." He tells you softly, meaning the words for your ears only. The look he had in his eyes last night reappears now, it makes you want to hit something.

Your gaze gravitates back to Arthur sitting in the driver's seat, smoking with his hat tilted low over his eyes and looking for all the world like a hero straight out of one of those old western movies. He resolutely doesn't look your way even though the entire rest of the wagon, including Uncle, are staring unabashedly at Mary-Beth and you.

"It's not a sign of trust," You whisper, turning your head towards Kieran so only he can hear you, "It's a test."

Without another word you rise to your feet, trying not to wince at the ache still present in your back.

"If I go then Kieran gets to come too." You state firmly -- nonnegotiable.

"Of course!" Mary-Beth agrees quickly.

Kieran makes his way back to Branwen though, who had been standing so patiently behind you this whole time, and begins to lead her towards the water pails kept by the herd.

"I'm staying," He says, and at your look of minor betrayal he adds, "Gotta clean up my girl, plus I'd have nothin' to do in town."

You know he's only saying that to avoid conflict, because no matter what Mary-Beth agrees to, you have a feeling Arthur wouldn't approve of both O'Driscolls coming along. Your bitterness grows distinctly more potent. Your heart clenches painfully in your chest when Kieran gives you an encouraging smile, nodding his head towards Mary-Beth urging you to go.

"I'll be fine, now go!" He says when you refuse to move still, unsure if you can.

This was in part about sticking with your ally yes, but also you didn't feel safe going with them if Kieran wasn't by your side. Who's to say Arthur wouldn't suddenly decide to beat you even though he'd chosen not to before? You didn't know him, didn't know them. You only trusted them to do what they'd always done, and that was be cruel and unfeeling towards you. Mary-Beth less so than the others but still. Arthur terrified you the most out of all of them. He had such anger in him, the kind that made a man destructive to himself and others. Whatever other complexities he might have, he is undoubtedly dangerous and that's the last thing you wanted to defend against right now.

"She'll go," Kieran says for you when you remain quiet.

Your eyes close as you struggle to contain the knot of emotion roiling in your gut.

"Okay," Mary-Beth murmurs, unsure.

"When I get back," You say, voice low, as you turn to face Kieran, "I'll want to see Branwen in all her glory."

Kieran gives you a ghost of the smile he'd had earlier, and nods in acquiesce.

Without another word you pivot on your heel and walk towards the wagon, brushing past Mary-Beth. You hear her scurry to catch up with you after a few beats, though you make sure to keep your eyes down at the ground as you approach the wagon, unable -- or more like unwilling, to let anyone see the riot of emotion wrecking havoc in your eyes. Once you reach the lip of the wagon Mary-Beth waits for you to climb up, before hauling herself up too. You sit on the right bench across from Karen and Tilly, Mary-Beth sliding in next to you.

"I can't believe we're going to see civilization," Tilly suddenly starts as Arthur snaps the reigns and the wagon jerks forward, "It feels like weeks since we did."

"Yeah, Valentine, the very embodiment of civilization," Uncle interjects with a wet sounding cackle, "You ladies are gonna love it!"

"Okay then," Arthur starts as he pulls the wagon out of the cluster of woods that hide the camp, "Let's go!"

Everything in you turns to stone at the sound of his voice, so many conflicting experiences with him -- with that voice, jamming themselves to the front of your brain all at once. You're so tense Mary-Beth tenses beside you too. Before awkward silence can settle over the group, Uncle twists to face the women in his seat.

"Ladies! Sing us a song!"

It seems to be the right thing to say because after a short chorus of giggles, Karen cues the girls in with a nasally but not unpleasant song about a girl in Berryville. They sing loudly, carelessly, and happily, relishing each other's company, the sun, the fresh air, and the views. Refusing to enjoy anything, you keep your gaze down on your hands that pick at the material of your skirt. Maybe this whole thing is a blessing in disguise. There are bound to be newspapers in a town right? They had books in camp so you know printing presses existed. You could possibly figure out where the hell you were and what time period you were in. It had occurred to you that asking Kieran for the date not just by day, but by year would come across as odd, even if he would tell you without many questions. The last thing you wanted to do was compromise the trust Kieran had in you, your only ally. You still have your eyes glued to your lap when you hear a panicked,

"Woah! Woah there!" A stagecoach comes barreling past the front of the wagon, Arthur having to pull the reigns up short to avoid a collision, kicking up huge clouds of dust that descend down around you.  

"Look at that coach! He's...he's all over the place," You hear Uncle mumble under his breath.

The women are still singing, though slightly distracted now as you all crane your necks to see what the commotion is about. Arthur encourages the wagon's horses left onto the main road where, just ahead, the horses of the runaway coach come to a reeling stop and with an audible snap, break free of the reigns.

--

"Oh goddammit! Oh shit, the horses!" Comes the cursing from the coach driver.

Arthur slows the horses to a walk as they come upon the stopped coach, one of the shires -- a big white stallion -- takes off in a fury towards a thin copse of trees on the other side of the road. Before he can grapple with shoving down the instinct to help the man, Tilly pipes up from the back.

"Is one of you gonna get that feller's horse?"

"Oh I got lumbago! It's very serious," Uncle immediately deflects without hesitation, like he had the excuse ready.

Arthur refrains from saying anything especially cruel to the old man in response, knowing he'd only make himself look like a fool. A part of him wants to push the wagon into a full gallop, leave this small choice behind him in the dust. He feels her eyes staring holes into his back though, and it makes him uncomfortable. Out of spite he wants to ignore the man, just to prove to her -- to himself that he can...that he's still cruel and angry enough to ignore a person in need. Arthur growls internally at himself. He has no idea what he's on about. With a sharp inhale and a quick clench and release of his jaw, he wordlessly hops out of the wagon, tossing the reigns at Uncle and getting the petty satisfaction of watching him fumble to catch them. Arthur lets himself do this despite feeling like he's chipping away at something important, something he needs to protect himself. Because if he's not angry he's empty...but she's staring --

"I'll see what's going on." He says through a tight jaw, promptly interrupting his own train of thought, "Lumbago, really," He mutters petulantly to himself as he makes his way over to the driver.

The stagecoach driver, catching sight of Arthur coming round to his side of the coach to help, hops down from the driver's bench and lands on shaky legs.

"You alright there friend?" Arthur inquires as the driver steadies himself against the side of the coach looking like a colt just learning to walk.

"Oh hey! You couldn't help me get my other horse back from over there, could you?" The driver says in leu of a response.

Arthur ignores the lack of manners, taking in how frazzled the fool truly is. Must be new.  

"Sure, no problem." Arthur says, briefly thinking of stealing the horse but waving the thought away as quickly as it appeared -- old habits.

"Thanks mister, its the white one over there." The driver instructs with a sigh of relief.

Arthur isn't sure how to feel about how simple -- how easy being kind is, it feels so foreign yet familiar, so natural and good that for a moment Arthur's heart stops. He actively ignores his thoughts and her watchful eyes from the wagon, following him as he makes his way across the road and into the smattering of trees where the white shire has taken refuge. Arthur coaxes the stallion to him easily enough, the beast coming up to him only after Arthur made him move his feet a little to earn his trust, show him he was the leader. He grabs hold of the dragging reigns and checks to make sure the horse didn't hurt his mouth by stepping on the reigns when fleeing or when he ripped clean away from the coach. The horse's soft mouth seems a little tender but no serious damage has been done, lucky beast. Arthur clicks at stallion to follow and leads them both back to the stagecoach driver currently wrangling the other shire back into the coach restraints.

"Here, here you go." Arthur announces himself and the returned horse.

The driver whips his attention over to him, stopping his fussing over the horse's tack, and exhales heavily in relief and gratitude.

"You're a gentlemen, sir, a gentlemen!" He exclaims as he takes the reigns from Arthur.

Arthur's chest aches at the praise, like acid in his stomach -- unworthy.

"No, not really...I was just," Arthur glances over his shoulder at the wagon, "Tryin' to impress the women."

He hears the girls giggling at this, though he knows which one of them remains silent.

The driver gives a hearty chuckle, "Well, anyway, thank you!"

Arthur nods at the man, biting back the warning about the shire's sensitive mouth and to go easy on the reigns next time, and heads swiftly back towards the wagon.

"C'mon!" Uncle urges as Arthur hauls himself up into the driver's seat.

"To Valentine!" Karen cries as Arthur snaps the reigns and the wagon lurches forward.

Arthur's grateful no one is bringing up --

"You're turnin' into a regular ol' fairy godmother there, Arthur!"

The urge to push Uncle out of the wagon takes a fierce hold of him. He only tightens his grip on the reigns instead.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Arthur grits out, delivering Uncle the most unfriendly glare in his arsenal.

"It means you've gotta heart!" Mary-Beth interjects from the back, "A small one perhaps, hidden deep inside, but a real one!"

Her words are a surprisingly odd comfort, but they mostly confirm his fear. Its simpler if he's just fury and hate. The idea that beneath all that is something truer than what he is now, that's something he absolutely does not want to deal with right now. Or ever.  

"And you haven't! You repulsive old lizard!" Mary-Beth crows at Uncle, the girls all murmuring their adamant agreement.

"Lizards have hearts!" Uncle argues weakly, though Mary-Beth doesn't dignify that with a response.  

"Well Arthur," It's Tilly this time that speaks up, "I'm proud of you."

God were all of them gonna praise him like he just saved a newborn child from certain death? He doesn't think he can take much more of this. Arthur attempts to remind them all who he really is.

"To be honest, if you lot hadn't been here, I probably woulda robbed 'im." He says, hoping to regain some semblance of the intimidating image he'd carefully curated over the years. A bit concerned it could be knocked so easily, and over an act as simple as helping a stranger.  

Uncle wheezes out a dark chuckle at that, Karen joining him, but Mary-Beth speaks up again strangely determined to drive her point home.

"Well, you didn't!"

Arthur wonders belatedly if this is Mary-Beth's way of trying to endear him to the her, who has remained silent this whole exchange and ever since she got in the damn wagon. Something twists suddenly in his gut but Arthur smothers it on reflex, dawning his armor of anger. Good, he thinks, let her fear me, and laughs along with Uncle and Karen as they cross the railroad that circles through the town and lumber past what looks to be the station and post office.

"Smell those sheep!" Tilly says as they pass by a couple sizable livestock pens at the same time Arthur hears Mary-Beth promptly snap out her fan, and begin beating it quickly against the smell of shit.

Karen gives a hearty scoff, "Or is that Uncle?"

"Oh very funny," Uncle grouses in a slump beside him.

Arthur can't help the grin that spreads across his face.

"This looks like a decent little town." Mary-Beth insists even as she continues to vigorously work her fan.

"Other people," Tilly groans, "Finally!"

"Look at all that snow on the mountains! Sure don't want to be back up there," Mary-Beth points out, everyone in the wagon turning to glance at the icy peaks in the distance and all sharing a collective shiver.  

"You think we should have asked Molly to come with us?" Tilly wonders after another moment of taking in the bustling town.

Arthur is quickly assaulted with the image of Molly walking past the livestock pens getting mud and shit and who knows what else on her shoes, most certainly ruining the hem of her dress, and almost lets out a bark of laughter. Molly O'Shea would rather die than be subjected to an afternoon in a town like this. Karen, as Arthur knew she would, jumps at the opportunity to tear into the Irish woman.

"Oh no, Miss O'Shea is far too high and mighty now for the likes of us, or to do any real work. She's a society lady now!" Her tone bleeds heavily with sarcasm and bitterness, Arthur wonders if Dutch is aware of how much animosity lies between some of the women of the gang. Sure they all bit chunks out of each other once in awhile, but this divide between Molly and the other ladies was far wider than Arthur felt was smart to ignore.

"Okay, take a look around ladies," Karen buffers on, not lingering on the negativity she created for too long, "Let's see what we got here."

They're all silent as they keep an eye out for possible opportunities. Arthur carefully navigates the wagon down the main road of Valentine, weathered wooden buildings sinking in mud line the path, paint chipping, signs swinging in the slight breeze, and folk coming and going. He catalogues a sheriff station, a general store, a hotel, a saloon, a gunsmith, and even a doctor's office. Not bad for a livestock town. The sounds of horses whinnying in a decent sized stable at the end of the street catches Arthur's particular attention. He perks up when he spots a good place to park the wagon near a building under construction adjacent to the stables. Maneuvering slowly to their destination, he stops the wagon with a gentle 'woah' to the horses once he's brought the bulk of the wagon out of the way of traffic.    

"Alright! Here we are, just like I said," Uncle boasts as everyone stands to unload, "The cultural center of civilization, man at its finest!"

Arthur only rolls his eyes at Uncle's attempt at humor and effortlessly hops down from the driver bench.

"Uncle, what're we doin'?" Arthur asks before the old fool spews anymore nonsense.

"Well, we're gonna do what any other self-respecting maniac does," Arthur signals a stable hand over to feed and water their horses as Uncle talks, pushing a few dollars into the boy's dirty hands, "Put the women to work."

Karen snorts, "With pleasure, we'll start at the saloon."

As Arthur comes around to the back of the wagon, he notices Tilly struggling to find her footing on the lip of the wagon under the layers of her dress. He quickly offers her a hand which she immediately takes.

"Thank you Arthur," She murmurs in gratitude as, with the help of his hand to steady her, she easily braves the large gap between the wagon and the mud below.

He nods at her once she's landed safely on the ground, but grunts as she thanks him again. She shouldn't waste her kindness on him. Arthur tries his best not to look at her as the women all gather together after unloading off of the wagon. He finds himself quite annoyed that the urge to is so insistent.

"Alright," He begins once Uncle finally makes his way over to stand beside Arthur who in planted firmly in front of the ladies, "Remember to stay outta trouble and don't get yourselves noticed."

Mary-Beth hooks arms with her as he talks, though he only makes eye contact with Tilly and Karen, avoiding her side of the group entirely. Karen rolls her eyes at him and when he's done, playfully pushing past him before motioning for the other women to follow.

"We know Arthur, you don't have to be such an over protective nag about it."

A noise of unfiltered indignation rips itself out of Arthur's mouth at her words, something embarrassing between a scoff and a squawk.

--

"See Arthur's not so bad," Mary-Beth murmurs in your ear as she leads you after Karen and Tilly who are striding confidently towards a building with literal swinging doors, "A right mother hen when given half the chance!"

You try not to let her words irritate you. She means well, you can acknowledge that, but her continuous attempts to humanize Arthur are more annoying than helpful. It feels like you are being forced to forgive a man that has purposefully tried to terrify you and while never having beat you, was okay with watching others do it. No amount of helping strangers or chivalry will convince you he wouldn't kill you dead without hesitation if he felt it was necessary.

You only hum at her claim, still largely uncomfortable with the physical familiarity the women keep attempting to engage you in. It takes all your strength to stop yourself from yanking your arm out from the loop of her's. Mary-Beth must sense your unease though, and wordlessly releases your arm. You're grateful she doesn't comment on it.

"C'mon ladies!" Karen exclaims, still leading you all up the street, "Imagine we're in Paris!"

"I imagine Paris and Valentine are easily confused," Tilly remarks rather sharply, her mouth twisting a little as mud squelches under their feet with each step.

You raise an eyebrow at the comment, sympathizing with her remark as you narrowly avoid stepping in a vat of what you assume is horse shit. It certainly smells foul enough, plus the flies are a dead give away. Eventually you all stop before the rickety steps of a saloon that looks like its come straight out of a movie or a high budget reenactment set. The swinging doors, the drunk piano playing wafting out from inside even though you dare say its only noon, completes the the full effect. You stand there a moment and just stare at it, stare at the people walking in and out, at their clothes, at the way they walk, at the way they talk, just everything. The town really cements the fact that you are no longer in the year 2020. An odd mixture of adrenaline and anxiety shoots through your veins then, and its difficult to process it all.  

"Newspaper," You hear yourself mutter as you continue to stare wide eyed at the saloon.

Mary-Beth hears you and turns to shoot you a questioning look.

Realizing you had just said that out loud, you blink back an embarrassed flush and clear your throat.

"I'd like to check out the newspaper that kid was selling, the one we passed on the way into town. I don't need to buy one, I just want to look."

"What are you checking for?" Mary-Beth asks, suddenly becoming very guarded, the most you've ever seen her in fact.

You panic a little, "Just the date and where exactly we are. I'm not from around here, not really familiar with this part of the country."  

Her eyes sharpen and proceed to methodically take apart your expression, examining every twitch and blink like it held a secret. You figure she's weighing whether or not this will be a threat to them -- to the gang. It further emphasizes the void between you. They would always be a them. It would never be a we.

"Alright, I'll come with you. Then we can go get you some new clothes." Mary-Beth eventually agrees, turning to wave at the other girls -- signaling your departure, before Tilly and Karen enter the saloon.

You both trudge along in silence, your anger flaring up at this blatant display of distrust despite all of her efforts so far to prove to you she's 'trying'. Once again you attempt to not to let all the emotion get to you. Trust goes both ways, and no way were you going to take the first step. If they wanted to earn your respect, it would have to be their necks they stick out first, not the other way around. You finally make your way to the boy holding up one of the newspapers he's selling, shouting today's headline. At your approach his eyes light up at the prospect of a customer,

"What will it be ladies? Two copies or one to share?"

You feel a little guilty at getting his hopes up, but you dust off one of your best customer service smiles and watch as he takes it in, a bit shocked at the easy generosity of it. Poor boy's probably used to getting snuffed all day, you can relate, having worked your fair share of minimum wage jobs.

"I'd like to check something actually, just a quick peak at the date if you wouldn't mind?" Comes your question dressed heavily in your matching costumer service voice -- tone smooth and low and friendly.

The boy blinks at you a moment -- stunned, then his cheeks promptly color a splotchy red. Thoroughly flustered he glances at Mary-Beth, but his blush only deepens as she hits him with a lovely smile of her own.

"W-Well I --," The boy begins to stutter.

"I don't even have to hold it," You interrupt before he can refuse, taking advantage of him being caught off guard, "But if I could just take a quick gander at the top right corner there..." You trail off as you do exactly what you're currently suggesting, and lean in slightly to squint at the date.

May 17, 1899, it reads.

1899?! You kick your customer service skills into overdrive, years of using it the only reason why your face doesn't crack into full panic as you force yourself to read a little more.  

The State of New Hanover, The Heart of the Heartlands

This is before they officialized the fifty states, the American civil war happened about three decades ago. Oh god.

"H-Hey are you gonna buy or not?" The boy attempts to assert himself, swinging the newspaper behind him, looking adorable with his face the color of a tomato.

"Unfortunately not, but your kindness is very much appreciated." You sooth, voice like honey, as you give him one last smile -- making it as stunning as possible, before turning away and heading back down the street.  

You make it a few strides out of the boy's ear shot before Mary-Beth elbows you gently in the side. Glancing up, you find her giving you a conspiratorial smirk.

"You never told us you could work a man," She remarks, raising one of her eyebrows in arch amusement.

You can't stop yourself from scoffing, "Man? He was barely thirteen."

"Well either way, I can tell you have a lot of experience handling people."

A shrug serves as your answer, you guess working a minimum wage job does leave you with a certain skill set. Though why Mary-Beth is hinting that it can be utilized in more unconventional ways is beyond you. Eventually you both make it to the general store. You stumble in your stride when you spot Arthur and Uncle sitting on a bench out in front of the store, sharing a large glass bottle of strong looking liquor you assume is whiskey. That's what all the cowboys in the movies drink right? It seems fate loves a good cliché.

For the first time since being tied to the tree, Arthur and you lock eyes. The two of you freeze, Arthur mid drink and you mid step. The whole world seems to grind to a halt as your gazes wrestle, the feeling in your stomach akin to the breath before the first drop of a roller coaster. The moment ends abruptly, before either of you are ready, and at the same time you step in a huge pile of shit, Arthur spills nearly the whole bottle of whiskey down the front of his shirt.

"Fuck!" You squeal in disgust.

"Goddammit!" Arthur curses loudly as he shoots to his feet so the alcohol doesn't splash onto his crotch.

Mary-Beth puts a scandalized hand over her heart at the fowl language, and Uncle coughs his way into a fit of laughter. In a squeamish panic you try in vain to wipe the shit off your shoe, though you only manage to make it worse as the mud proves to be even messier and smears the shit higher up the leather of your shoe. You can hear Arthur continuing to grouch and curse as he shoves the bottle at a wheezing Uncle and leans forward, plucking the fabric of his button-up off his chest in an attempt to stop it from sticking. Almost like an afterthought, Arthur begins flapping the shirt gently as if that'll help it dry faster.

"Better get you some new shoes as well," Mary-Beth suggests through a tight throat, trying her best not to laugh at your expense.

You level her with a very unimpressed glare (which does end up making her giggle) and squash your way to the stairs leading to the store. Once on solid ground you amble your way up onto the deck, trying your hardest not to stare at the sliver of exposed torso Arthur is revealing as he continues to hold his shirt off his stomach, the cotton completely soaked in alcohol.

Taught skin, a trail of hair, a muscled iliac furrow...

"Actually, Y/n?" Mary-Beth calls from behind you, you swivel around and realize belatedly that she hadn't followed you up, "I'm going to check on Karen an' Tilly in the saloon, why don't you an' Arthur go purchase some clothes together? Then we can all meet back up later!"

It shocks you that you feel slightly betrayed by her at the suggestion. You chance a glance at Arthur from the corner of your eye and find him staring at Mary-Beth much like a deer stares at headlights. Great. You valiantly reign in a groan and without another word, turn back around to push your way into the shop. Arthur is least likely to do anything harmful to you in front of a witness like a shopkeeper anyway, the sooner you get this over with the better.

--

Arthur spends another moment squinting suspiciously at Mary-Beth, who only smiles innocently at him before all but skipping off towards the saloon. Uncle has now devolved into slapping his knee in between taking swigs of what's left of the whiskey. Arthur wonders why the Almighty sees fit to test him so vehemently. After a moment of reflection he figures its the least he deserves considering the extent of his sins. Grumbling to himself, he tries not to stomp after her into the general store, mentally calculating how much money he has left on him as he shoulders open the stiff door. Upon entering the shop, the owner looks up and gives Arthur a polite if slightly confused wave -- probably recognizing him from when Arthur came in the shop earlier with Uncle. The shopkeeper promptly goes back to describing, with what sounds like great enthusiasm, various different outfits for...Y/n...to consider.

His heart reels at simply saying her name in the privacy of his own mind.

She's holding herself stiffly, probably as uncomfortable as Arthur is and for as many different reasons as Arthur is too. With the way her head is bent and her eyes track the movement of the shopkeeper's finger as he drags it across page after page, he can tell that despite her studious expression and how easily she nods along with what's being advertised to her, she's overwhelmed. Arthur isn't sure how he figures that exactly, but he does. Fighting with himself for a moment, he debates on whether or not he should insert himself into their conversation. He doesn't want her to misinterpret him and think he cares or anything, but she is taking forever and the slide of his wet shirt against his chest is growing more unbearable by the second.

"Just pick what you like best and get on with it," He grumbles at her, not too unpleasantly as to alarm the shop owner, but firm enough to encourage her to hurry the hell up.

Arthur had taken a few steps forward before speaking, it placed him very close to her side. Closer than he'd meant. He expects fear or hatred to color her expression as she turns to look up at him, but instead her face displays a confusing mix of gratitude, deep mistrust, and most hilariously the embodiment of the word: HELP. It honestly gives Arthur a headache to look at, not envious of the turmoil she's clearly experiencing right now in the slightest. He blinks at her for a moment before shifting his gaze down at the catalogue and flipping back a few pages.

"Do you prefer skirts, dresses, or pants?" Arthur bites out, not quite believing he's doing this, and stares pointedly at anything but her.

"Pants!" She answers in a rush, like she'd just been told she'd inherited a few grand from a dead relative.  

"Okay," Arthur drawls as he quickly finds the female pants section, the options limited to two different cuts, both of which look exactly the same to Arthur but he was never one for fashion (or so Dutch tells him).

"Pick," He instructs, sliding the catalogue back under her nose at the same time she leans in to take a look.

Arthur's temper rankles at how nice the warmth radiating off of her feels against the chilled skin of his chest, even through his soaked shirt. She takes a moment to consider the two different pants, and after what sounds like a defeated huff sheepishly points to the second one. The shop keeper nods and scribbles something down on a notebook he'd grabbed from a drawer behind the counter. Wordlessly Arthur then flips to the significantly more diverse selection of shirts and blouses, blushing furiously as he passes the women's undergarments.

Why in all hell had Mary-Beth not done this with her? She's a woman, surely that would make this more comfortable for Y/n?

But the woman in question seems unconcerned as she scans the options Arthur has displayed for her, nibbling half-heartedly on the fingernail of her right thumb as she appraises the many different tops. Arthur grits his teeth against the softness rising him. They need to hurry this up or he fears he'll...he'll...well he doesn't know, but he knows whatever it is, it's a final kind of feeling and god Arthur fears it. With the hand not pressed to her lips, she points to a plain looking button up, the cheapest one.

"Another." Arthur blurts.

He doesn't realize how that sounds until she shoots him a very indignant look.

"Pick one more for colder weather." He clarifies, mystified he had managed to say that without missing a beat and without stuttering.

Her temper relaxes back down to its usual simmer and she returns her gaze to the catalogue. After a few moments of silence she taps Arthur's hand that's spread wide over the upper edge of the book, calloused fingers holding the catalogue open flat on the counter for her. He snatches his hand back so fast it startles the shopkeeper. The owner gives the two of them an odd look but remains quiet, still wanting their money. She turns the page and points to the second least expensive shirt. It's of a similar cut to the first she'd chosen but the material is wool instead of cotton.

This process repeats for the coats, socks, shoes, gloves, and most embarrassingly -- undergarments. All the articles of clothing she chooses are the cheapest available. Something prickles in Arthur's chest when he realizes she's trying to be considerate. When the shopkeeper asks about her sizes though, she seems at a complete loss for what to say. It's like she's never shopped for clothes before. Though deeply curious, Arthur refrains from asking her anything, feeling like all the energy he had this morning has been thoroughly drained from him even though its only an hour past noon. He's exhausted and he doesn't quite know why.

The owner gives her a measuring look, eyeing her body proportions as best as he can from his spot behind the counter. The shopkeeper is not a proper tailor, so the wrinkle in the man's forehead isn't anything but confusion, and thus Arthur finds himself getting more and more agitated the longer the man stares at her. A breath before Arthur says something stupid, the owner turns and goes to retrieve the garments in the sizes he believes will fit her best. It only takes a couple moments, but its a couple moments too long to be left relatively alone with her. The tension between them is so palpable he could cut it with his hunting knife. The feeling worsens in intensity with each beat of his heart, nearly rising to insurmountable levels before it swiftly plateaus at the arrival of the shopkeeper, who returns with multiple garments draped over his forearm.

"Here Miss, go and try these on to make sure they fit." He instructs politely, nodding to a door down the hall just around the side of the counter.

With a quiet thanks, she collects the clothes and makes a beeline for the dressing room. Arthur doesn't realize his eyes follow her retreat, sticking to the dressing room door even after she disappears behind it, until the shopkeeper clears his throat. Arthur only scowls at him in response and orders a replacement shirt for the one he'd been wearing.

Thank god I didn't ruin my blue one, Arthur thinks as he pays for his new two toned muted grey and red button-up, and all the items Y/n had gotten.

Hosea and Dutch like to tease Arthur about his favorite blue and white striped button-up he's been hauling around for years now. It has holes, the seams are loose, the colors have faded, and it has permanent stains on it, but something about it feels...comfortable. More comfortable than anything else he's ever worn.

(Arthur refuses to acknowledge the fact that it's the first garment of clothing he bought for himself with money he'd earned all on his own, hence why it means so much to him.)

Arthur tries not to pace as he waits for Y/n to finish trying on all her various new clothes. He knows she has a lot to get through but --

"Oh," Arthur finds himself saying, easily gaining the shopkeeper's attention, "Her shoes?"

The shopkeeper raises a finger as his memory sparks and quickly goes to retrieve the humble looking pair she'd picked out earlier. When he brings them out, informing Arthur he'd given his best guess on the size, Arthur nods his thanks and takes the pair from him. Before he can second guess himself, he makes his way over to the dressing room door. Weary of the owner's eyes on his back, Arthur raps his knuckles in two deliberate consecutive knocks against the aging wood of the door. A series of sounds that suggest Y/n had been thoroughly startled puts a grin on Arthur's face without his permission.

"Your shoes," He starts, "I'm leaving them outside the door."

Arthur then demands himself to tell her to hurry up, but no words form, in fact his lips once again act against his will and gently press shut.

"Oh, okay," She replies tensely.

He hovers by the door another moment before the intimacy of talking to someone -- a woman no less -- like this really registers with him, then he thinks of how this probably seems to the shopkeeper and deep color promptly rises along his cheekbones. Arthur takes a shaky step back, then another, until he's in the front of the store pretending to browse the meager collection of pocket watches.

--

You wait until you hear Arthur's footsteps fully recede from the door before continuing to fumble with your undergarments. You have never so desperately wished for a simple modern bra in your life. The shopkeeper had suggested a corset of some sort, but with the clothes that you had picked -- pants, and a 'decidedly unfeminine looking' set of button ups according to the owner -- wearing a corset under all that seemed more of a hinderance than anything else. You'd ended up choosing a version of whatever shift thing you are currently wearing, as it provided enough support for the girls but didn't constrict you entirely like you figure a corset might. Most of the time spent in the dressing room has been you struggling to shuck off your current clothes without resorting to simply tearing them all off. Though you have been spending an equally egregious amount of time trying to correctly adjust all the little strings and ties and clips of your new shift. The slim bloomers you are wearing were made to be worn with the pants you'd ordered, and they were simple enough to slip on, though the extra fabric you'd have to get used to. You wonder idly if this is what it feels like to wear boxers as you finally finish securing your shift and pull the pants up the length of your legs. They fit surprisingly well, a little tight around the ass but in all honesty, at this point you don't care. You just want this torture over with.

The rest of your clothes you try on with more ease, everything fitting okay except for the coat that was about ten times too big but you find you kind of like it that way. Making sure to carefully remove your shit covered shoes without dirtying your hands, you gingerly place them by the door before replacing your used socks with your new ones. You gather your previous clothes up, hoping the shopkeeper has a bag of some kind you can use, and open the door. Infinitely grateful that no one else has walked into the shop, you quickly slip on the shoes Arthur has set neatly in front of the door like he'd said, and immediately find that they're too small. Ignoring your slight flush from all the changing and nerves from trying on so many foreign clothes, you approach the shopkeeper and politely request the next shoe size up. He nods and bumbles to the back again. When he brings you the next pair, you apologize for being such a hassle and quickly exchange shoes. You drop the new pair to the floor and lower to kneel as you stuff your feet in, praying these fit.

"Can we get something to wrap all this up?" Arthur's voice rumbles through you, like the bass notes of a song played at one of the clubs you used to frequent a lot your first year of college.

You clench hard against the urge to jump at how close he is, not having heard him come over as you'd been focused on figuring out how your new boots laced up. They reminded you a little of modern day men's work boots, comfortable and well suited for all the wilderness trudging you figure you'll be doing. The shop owner hands Arthur a few sheets of brown parcel paper, which Arthur immediately tosses down at you. You catch the squares of paper before it hits your face, ignoring his rudeness and weighing how helpful he's been to you in the shop against the desire to say something satisfyingly nasty.

Noticing your restraint Arthur wordlessly brushes past you, broad shoulders barely seeming to fit through the doorway of the dressing room, before closing the door firmly shut behind him. While he changes out of his wet shirt, you struggle to wrap up all your new clothes neatly, feeling bizarrely like you're wrapping a Christmas present when the shopkeeper hands you a rudimentary string to tie everything together. After you finally manage to wrangle all the clothes (save for your oversized coat and all that you're wearing out of the store) into a compact enough bundle, you take the second sheet of paper and repeat the process with your soiled clothes and ruined shoes. You feel bad about the shoes since you'd borrowed them, maybe you could scrub out the shit? Though you don't know how plausible that will be without the aid of stain remover and fabric softener.

You've just finished organizing all your belongings when Arthur emerges from the dressing room in his new shirt. The colors suit him, the fabric hugging him in all the right places too. With his dark hat, tan over coat, and heavy footfalls due to his boots, he almost --

Deeply alarmed at the direction that particular train of thought was going, you angrily remind yourself he's a bloodthirsty killer who would not hesitate to end your life if he thought it was necessary. Despite all that though, he did just pay for your clothing and help you navigate the shopping process with little to no complaints. Torn between saying nothing and thanking him, the habit to be courteous, ingrained in you by your mother, wins out.

"Arthur," It's the first time you've said his name, at least in direct address to him.

His name tastes dangerous on your tongue, a thrill not unlike taking a shot of something strong knowing you're already well over your alcohol limit. You'd stopped once you'd stepped out of the shop behind Arthur and he pauses with his back to you, going completely rigid, having just been about to wake up Uncle who lists precariously in a drunk stupor on the bench where you'd both left him.

"Thank you." That's the second time you've thanked this man, not fond of the fact that its slowly becoming a regular occurrence.

Arthur turns around after a moment and his eyes, shaded under the brim of his hat but very much visible now where they'd only been dark with violence before, are the first things your gaze is drawn to. They're really quite a stunning color, blue shot with green, like an ocean tide caught in a shallow tide pool. The brimming emotion in him blunders against the stiff wall of that anger you'd first caught a true glimpse of when you were tied to the tree, it holds an avalanche of sensation back. You marvel briefly at how it's held so much back for so long.

"You owe me thirty-two dollars and thirteen cents." He says in leu of accepting your gratitude with any sort of grace.  

You only glare, already having expected that he'd ask you to pay him back, though you figure it's the very least he could do after watching you suffer for nearly two weeks straight despite being completely innocent with no proof otherwise save their paranoid suspicions. Not to mention being wrongly accused of being an O'Driscoll and almost getting shot in the face by his gang leader for the apparent crime of being in the wrong place at the wrong time! Unlike Arthur, you let your emotions flow freely, righteous fury undisguised and plain to see rotting away the last traces of the odd domesticity you'd formed with him in the shop.

"You, are one of the most fucked up assholes I have ever met." You say in a tone of voice you had only ever used with your abusive ex.

Instead of being taken aback at your words, you watch something in him rise to meet your anger -- a broken kind of relief overtaking his features, like he's finally back in his comfort zone. Something he's familiar with, something he's good at. It simultaneously sickens you and breaks your heart. Everything only ever defined in extremes when it comes to him. Before you two can really tear into each other though, the call of your names by a familiar voice pauses the cataclysmic collision that is moments away from occurring.

"Arthur! Y/n!" Mary-Beth pants as she jogs up to meet you both on the shaded deck, "Oh, Uncle! I didn't see him from over there," She huffs out in a laugh as she closes the distance between the three of you.

It doesn't take long for Mary-Beth to pick up on the truly foul mood Arthur and you share. Her face falls.

"Did, did the shopping not go well? I see you've..." She trails off as she takes in your new clothes.

You suspect in an attempt to lighten the mood, she puts her hands on her hips in mock disappointment and shoots Arthur a significant look.

"What in the blazes have you dressed her in Mr. Morgan? She looks like a ranch hand!"

Arthur seems to struggle to swallow the worst of his temper, apparently not wanting to take it out on Mary-Beth.

Oh so Mary-Beth deserves to be spared but not you?

Your bitterness towards him promptly deepens and suddenly you're exhausted. You miss Kieran -- no, actually you miss your home. You miss your own time. You miss your friends and family.  

"Don't look at me, she picked it all out herself!" Arthur deflects, holding his hands up in surrender.

Mary-Beth purses her lips at this claim but does eventually shift her gaze over to you. She immediately notices that your energy has plummeted, but you can't summon the will to care.

"But if you like it Y/n, then that's all that matters!" Mary-Beth rushes to assure, worried her comment about your fashion sense but more so your previous conversation with Arthur is working against her efforts to find some middle ground with you, to start building some semblance of trust.

You let her search your eyes and put together the realization that she failed. In fact you imagine instead of taking one step forward, you've taken three leaps back. But why bother with them anyway? There's no need to deal with these people any more than strictly necessary. You will find a way to return to your own time, and you're determined to figure it out by any means necessary.

--

Thoughts? Share them if you’d like!! xx

Masterlist

[aenwoedbeannaa]

Scrubbrush | Geralt of Rivia x Reader

Summary: You have been traveling with Geralt for some time now and convince him to stop for a while to bathe in the stream you’ve just come across. Or, basically smut with no plot.

Warnings: Smut, fingering.

Word Count: this drabble turned into 3,412 words. It’s fine.

A/N: I simply could not stop myself. Hope you all enjoy! Just throwing this out there, I also created a ko-fi page. I will obviously continue to post fanfiction here just as I’ve always done, and do not expect anything from anyone, but it exists, if you’d like to show your support for my creative work in that way.

But obviously, the best way you all show your support to me is just by reading my work. So, thank you all endlessly for sticking around and reading! 

If you enjoy my work, you can find all my work on my masterlist. You can also check out my personal blog where I post all kinds of things, including original writing. If you’d like to be added to any of my taglists, let me know and I will add you!

***

The air is warm, the sun bearing down from directly above signaling high noon. You’ve been traveling for several days now, and all you want is a bath. Between the sun bearing down on you all day and the constant movement with little rest, you feel – to be quite frank – disgusting. The dirt and dust from the road somehow looks good on you Witcher companion; but you doubt it looks so nice on you.

You are at least a day and a half’s ride from the nearest town, meaning a bath is at least two and a half days away.

You sigh silently, not wishing to voice these particular concerns to Geralt. He doesn’t seem concerned about it, and you are certain he is not stealing glances at you the way you’ve been stealing glances at him. You try to tell yourself it doesn’t matter – with a rather low degree of success.

But as the two of you continue riding side-by-side, your mood lifts. In the distance, you can see a stream between the trees.

“Geralt!” you exclaim, shocking him out of his thought, “Let’s stop by the stream for a while.” You turn and look at him, batting your eyelashes without realizing you’re doing it.  You aren’t quite sure about the Witcher’s feelings—he isn’t really one to express emotion—but you do know that pouting tends to work with him quite well.

“Hm,” Geralt mutters, thinking. “Guess we could stop and water the horses, and we’re going to need to refill the water skins anyway.”

Blushing slightly, you chew on your bottom lip as you look over at him, “It’s hot, Geralt.”

He lifts an eyebrow, cocking his head to the side in apparent confusion. “Yes?”

“I need to bathe, Geralt,” you explain, turning redder.

His eyes widen for a moment, but by the time he speaks a second later, he has collected himself again. “I’ll… prepare lunch.” The man, clearly used to travelling nearly nonstop, is pretty clueless when it comes to typical human behavior. You’ve pointed it out to him several times, and he’s not denied it.

You nod awkwardly, not exactly sure how you feel about the answer or what to make of his momentary loss of composure. Most likely, it is just awkwardness. You doubt that he is thinking any thoughts about joining you in the water. No, those are entirely of your own creation.

It doesn’t take long to reach the stream, where he helps you dismount as he’s been doing since the two of you began travelling together. You always find yourself slightly giddy as you take his hand and dismount, despite the fact that you have been riding horses for years and are quite capable of dismounting without help. But his large hand is deliciously rough, so you don’t complain.

You lead your horses over to a shallower part of the stream, allowing them to drink. You take the opportunity to dig through your saddlebags for a clean pair of trousers and white cotton shirt. You don’t have a towel, but you don’t mind. You bend over to let your fingers skim the surface of the water, smiling to yourself when you find it as deliciously cool as you imagined.

You scan the edge of the tree line until you find the stalks of green your mother had taught you about seemingly an entire lifetime ago. You bend over to pull a few stalks, the pieces easily detaching from the plant.

Geralt, in typical Witcher fashion, seems to sneak up behind you without the slightest warning. You gasp, feeling silly, considering the same thing had been happening for days. He smirks, shaking his head as you stand up, turning to face him. His amber eyes are fixed on the bunch of stalks in your hands. “What is that?” he asks.

You can’t help but let out a small laugh. “Scrub brush,” you respond matter-of-factly. “I thought Witchers knew everything about plants and herbs.”

“Not that one,” Geralt says, reaching out and taking one of the cylindrical stalks, his hand brushing yours as he does so. You would almost swear it was intentional.

“Figures,” you say with a sigh. “You break it and put it in the water, like soap. Works in a pinch, but ‘course Witchers don’t bother with soap.” you say with a shrug.

Honestly, you are so eager to scrub every inch of your skin that the thought of using the rough plant sounds entirely pleasant.

Geralt looks at you, head cocked to the side in a smirk. “Are we really that bad?” he asks, gesturing vaguely at himself. Your eyes roam over his body for a moment, perhaps a little bit too obviously.

You surprise yourself when you speak next, “A wash wouldn’t hurt.” You look up at him through the curtain of your lashes, challenging him. “The stream is certainly big enough for the both of us.” Your expression, however, indicates that space is not exactly something you’re concerned about.

“Hm,” the Witcher says, a low rumble in his chest. His eyes seem to be burning into yours, making heat rise in your cheeks.

Taking advantage of the courage that smoldering gaze are giving you, you smirk, “Don’t worry, I’ll turn around to protect your modesty.”

He laughs, that warm, rumbling sound that makes it feel as if your stomach has been replaced with butterflies, “Shall I walk away and let you change in the bushes?”

Your heart hammers in your chest, excited by his gaze. “And risk poison ivy?” you ask, “I’ll change on the bank. Close your eyes if you must.”

With that, you turn around, feeling quite bold as you walk to the bank, peeling off your sweat-stained shirt and tossing it to the side along with the fresh clothes. You pause for just a moment before unlacing your breeches and letting them pool around your ankles. You are too nervous to glance back at Geralt as you kick off your riding boots, leaving you in nothing but your small clothes.

You take a deep breath, finally gathering the courage to pull off your top, letting the breeze caress your bare skin. You pull your bottoms off next, swearing that you feel his eyes on your back. You stand there for another moment, wondering where exactly the courage you’d felt when you began your walk to the bank of the river went. Now, you are just nervously standing there feeling quite exposed wearing only a scrap of white silk clothing.

You freeze, considering your options. You can remove them and step into the water as you had originally planned, saving your ego. Or, you can let your pride take the hit and leave them on.

Thanks to a certain Witcher, you don’t get the chance to decide.

You gasp, once again not having heard him creep up behind you. You are only alerted to his presence when you feel his breath on your neck as he speaks from somewhere deep in his chest; a tone you’ve never heard from him before.

“Be careful, Miss. You never know when there might be drowners nearby…” Your skin prickles with goosebumps under the unexpected touch of his hand as it brushes down your back impossibly gently. “Or men with wandering eyes.”

You chew on your lower lip, heart hammering in your chest. It takes nearly all of your resolve to keep your head facing forward.  “No sign of drowners,” you say smoothly before finally turning your head to look at the Witcher over your shoulder, “But wandering eyes?”

He looks down at you, his golden eyes alight with both desire and conflict. He opens his mouth as if he is about to speak, but no words come.

“What’s the matter, Witcher?” you ask, turning around to face him head-on. “Certainly, you’ve seen plenty of women nearly naked. Or is the sight of me that appalling?” The question you finish on rings slightly of truth and nerves. The Witcher has probably been with loads of women who are far more beautiful than you. Perhaps seeing you like this only disappoints him; makes him wish that it was someone else standing almost naked before him.

He bites his lower lip, shaking his head as if to clear it before finally speaking, “No… You look…” he stammers, searching for words that seem to be caught in his throat, “You have no idea how badly I’ve… wanted to see you – wanted to touch you.”

You smile despite yourself – looking far too eager and far too happy about this latest revelation. You blink up at him, bringing your free hand up to touch the cotton shirt he has stripped down to since dismounting, “Then why haven’t you?”

He sucks in a breath, eyes looking down at his chest where your hand rests for a moment, breathing out in a his, “Fuck.”

You look from your hand to his face before speaking, confused, “What?”

“It’s not appropriate… I shouldn’t…” he continues speaking painfully slowly, “You’re so innocent and—”

You cut him off with a burst of laughter, “Innocent and what… pure?”

You reach with your hand to pull at the already loose laces of his shirt. He sucks in a breath, his lower lip once again caught between his teeth. If you’re being honest, you have next to no experience in this sort of thing, but you are far from innocent. And, even if you were, you are pretty positive you wouldn’t care.

No man has ever made you feel quite like this. It wasn’t like you had no suitors back home – you had plenty. But none of them have quite captured your attention; perhaps it was just that you were more than ready to leave your boring little nowhere hometown, but they had all seemed so uninteresting. Geralt was anything but uninteresting.

“Yes,” he finally admits, “That.”

“I’m an adult, Geralt,” you counter, “I can’t stay like this forever, can I?” You bat your eyes at him.

Hesitantly, he reaches for you, letting his hand brush the hair back from your face and making you shiver in the process. You lean into his touch, savoring the feeling for his calloused fingers against your cheek. He hums appreciatively, enjoying the feeling of your soft skin under his fingertips.

“Geralt,” you sigh, wishing that he would do more than caress your face – as nice as it feels.

“Y/N,” he breathes, free hand wrapping around you and clutching you closer to him.  The two of you stop, eyes fixed intensely at one another. Apparently unable to restrain himself any longer, he leans forward, pressing his lips to yours gently.

You respond in kind, savoring everything – the way his shirt and firm muscles feel against the bare skin of his chest, the feeling of his hand pressed against the small of your back, the smell of him, and the taste of his lips moving so gently against yours.

His tongue eases your lips open with the utmost care. You gladly part or lips for him, moaning softly as his tongue explores your mouth, sending shivers down your spine. This kiss is so very different from every other kiss you’ve had. Most often, the mean you’d kissed had hungrily pressed their lips to yours, crushing you against them. Now – you’d have absolutely no complaints if Geralt were to do the same thing, but this was something different. You could feel the wanting in his kiss, somehow more intense than anything you’d experienced.

He wants me, you can’t stop repeating to yourself over and over again.

The two of you stand there, clutching at one another, lips pressed together and eyes closed, warmed by the high noon sun and lost to the world around you for what feels like an eternity but somehow not long enough.

When Geralt pulls away, you lean up on your toes, a disappointed sigh escaping your lips. He laughs lightly, cocking his head to the side as he smirks down at you. “Weren’t you planning on bathing?” he asks playfully.

“I was, until you interrupted,” you tease with a grin.

“Mhmm,” he growls softly, the sound alone making you weak at the knees. “Now don’t stop on my account.”

You look up at him, once again with wide innocent eyes that gleamed with something quite different. “You should join me. You really do have no sense of smell, Witcher.”

“If the Lady insists,” Geralt responds, this time without hesitation as he strips off his linen shirt and begins undoing his belt, “I’m interested to see how this scrub brush works, exactly.” You can’t help but stare, chewing on your lower lip as you watch him. It hits you in that moment that you’ve never actually seen a man naked before – you hadn’t wanted to. You’d always been certain that those village boys were just as uninteresting underneath their clothes as they were outside. Geralt, though… Is quite a different story.

Hesitantly, you step out of your underwear, resisting the urge to cover yourself up. Even with all that has transpired in the last few moments, you are worried that he won’t like what he sees. Those fears are quite immediately quelled, however, when he kicks off his boxers. You try not to let your eyes pop out of your head at the sight of him.

Without much warning, he scoops you up into his arms, carrying you over to the water’s edge and stepping in. You giggle, wrapping your arms around his neck as he carries the two of you farther out until the water reaches his waist.

“Geralt!” you squeal as he tosses you into the cold water. Well, at least you’d adjust to the temperature quickly. When your head pops back out of the water, you turn to him with a pout, shaking your head and letting water cascade down your back. And then you splash him.

“So, this is the game you’d like to play?” Geralt asks with one eyebrow raised before diving easily beneath the water, moving with inhuman speed toward you, arms encircling your waist, giving you just enough time to hold your breath before he pushes forward, plunging you under.

You both come to the surface laughing, the water no longer feeling cold against your skin but pleasant. The Witcher catches your chin with his hand, tilting your head up to meet his gaze. He stares for a moment, enveloping you in amber light.

“Ench’eass,” he breathes, almost as if he is speaking to himself.

“What?” You know he is speaking in the Elder Speech, but the meaning is completely lost on you.

“Enchanting,” he responds. “You are enchanting.”

You grin, feeling the familiar heat of a blush on your cheeks. Geralt, however, has an intense look on his face – full of need and wanting. He crashes his lips to yours, much less gentle this time – but you are not complaining. His tongue parts your lips again and you moan into the kiss, eliciting a growl from deep in his chest.

His hands caress your skin underneath the water, and you arch your back, pressing your body against his, wanting to feel your skin touching every inch of him as possible. You let out another disappointed sigh when he pulls his lips back from yours, but that sigh soon turns into a soft moan as he brings his lips first to your jaw and then to your neck, making you throw your head back, giving him complete access to the sensitive skin of your throat.

You feel his lips twitch up into a smile as he continues to explore you with his lips and tongue, making you draw in little sharp breaths as unfamiliar pleasure washes over you. The soft sounds seem to please Geralt, because you can actually feel the almost primal growl where your chest is pressed against him.

“Geralt,” you breathe, dragging your fingers down his chest, memorizing the feeling of each scar they graze over.

“Yes?” he asks softly, pulling away just enough to look into your eyes, drinking in the sight of you breathing heavily.

“Nothing…” you admit, not quite knowing the words you want to use or are supposed to use in this situation. “That just… feels good.”

He laughs, letting his hands drift lower, over your ass and down the backs of your thighs. You shiver again, sucking in another breath as his fingers caress circles on your skin.

“You’re shivering and I haven’t even touched you properly yet.”

Those words, naturally, make you shiver again as warmth pools in your core. You with that he would touch you like he’s talking about. “Please,” you mutter against his chest where you’ve pressed your lips.

“Please what?” he asks haughtily, looking quite amused with himself.

“Please… touch me….” You are stammering, unable to come up with words. “Like… that.”

Geralt smirks down at you, hooking his hands under you knees, urging you to wrap your legs around his waist.

“As you wish,” he says. Thanks to the water, he is able to support you with almost no effort; your arms wrapped around hi neck and your legs wrapped around his waist are enough. He takes advantage of this, letting one hand move to your breasts, grazing over your nipple and making you moan once more. His other hand slips under your ass, and you moan as his fingers gently move over your folds, coming to rest gently on your clit.

Your breath catches in your throat as he freezes there for a moment, amber eyes fixed intently on yours. You seem held there by some unseen force as he begins to move his finger in small, gentle circles, making you moan and throw your head back. No one has ever touched you there before, and you are already drunk on the feeling.

“I’ve wondered what you would look like when I did this to you, Baby.” His words seem to amp up the feeling of electricity building in your core, your mouth opening in a permanent ‘o’. He speeds up slightly, increasing the pressure. It feels so different than when you touch yourself; it feels so much better.

He continues his ministrations, working you with his fingers as his other hand slips from your breasts and down your back. His finger explores your opening for a moment, not pressing in but circling gently before letting his finger enter just inside. Your walls spasm around the tip of his finger, urging him deeper. He obliges, beginning to pump first one finger, than two, in and out of you slowly.

At this point, you are mewling against him, hips moving of their own accord to draw him deeper and deeper. You let out a long, drawn out moan as he adds a third large finger, stretching you deliciously. The pleasure he is making you feel only growing as he curls his fingers gently against that spot inside of you.

“Geralt!” you yell, “Gods, don’t stop!”

“Oh, Baby,” he smirks, “I won’t stop until you’ve come all over my fingers and go limp in my arms,” he says in that deep, primal way that he’s never spoken to you before.

He continues curling his fingers against the most sensitive place inside you while he continues to relentlessly rub your sensitive little nub. You babble incoherently, telling him you are about to cum, and he brings his lips to your neck, biting the sensitive flesh there and making you squeal.

It doesn’t take long before you’re arching your back and clawing at his back, moaning long and loud as the delicious tension that has been building up to the moment that you convulse under the word of his fingers, walls clenching around him and body seeming to move of its own accord as he helps you ride out your orgasm, only stopping once you’ve indeed gone limp in his arms, body spent from such a rush of pleasure.

“Geralt,” you mutter, feeling his hardness against you and desperately wanting to feel him inside you.

However, he simply smirks at your efforts to move your hips in line with his member, cocking his head to the side and smiling at you teasingly. “Uh uh,” he says with a shake of his head. Didn’t we come in here to bathe.”

That is about the last thing on your mind as you look up at him, eyes fixed on his as you crash your lips to his once more.

Taglist:  @fairytale07 @geeksareunique @jesseswartzwelder @haru-ririchiyo @unnamedmaincharacter @lazilyscentedwerewolf  @valkyriepuff @comicbeginning @alwayshave-faith @hp-hogwartsexpress @curlyhairedandconfused​  @superconfusedandreadytorumble​ @keithseabrook27​  @missemmalie​ 

[radiojamming]

This a weird prompt but would you write jonmichael? Asking solely because I want to read Elias and the archives staff dealing with that

good-ish AU where sasha’s still sasha and everyone’s cool with stuff, i guess? :DDD

- - -

The door-that-wasn’t-there-a-minute-ago slams open against the wall, shaking the shelves and knocking one cheap vase to the floor in a small explosion of sad porcelain shards and accumulated dust. Martin lets out a high-pitched, “Jesus Christ!” in surprise as much as raw shock when Jon Sims himself staggers out the door like a teenager doing the walk of shame. Granted, he’s bleeding from his hairline and one sleeve of his sweater appears to just be missing, but he looks more sheepish than injured.

Just as he makes the last step over the threshold-that-shouldn’t-be, Martin sees a vague person-ish shape wobble in the mysterious beyond. And it is, in fact, wobbling, like a bobblehead or one of those playground toys shaped like horses that waver on oversized springs until they fling some unfortunate child headfirst into sand. Extended metaphor it may be, but the wobbly thing gives a high, wavering giggle before cooing, “Don’t forget this, love!” in a voice tiered in multiple pitches like an eldritch wedding cake. Jon turns just in time for an arm-that-shouldn’t-be-that-long-oh-my-god-what-the-fuck to come shooting out of the door, an iPhone clutched pinched between its enormous fingers. Martin might be hallucinating, but he thinks the razor-sharp fingernails are lacquered in sparkly purple nail varnish. 

He doesn’t have much time to dwell on it before Jon gingerly takes the phone with a mumbled, “Thanks,” and the hand recedes back into the hellish landscape beyond the door.

“Of course!” garbles the wobbly thing. Then, with a range of voices topped off with an impressive soprano flourish as light as meringue, it yodels, “Call me!”

As abruptly and shockingly as the door appeared, it disappears with a sharp crack, causing the shelves to slam back into place with a small cataract of old books falling into the pile of broken ceramic.

Jon and Martin stand in the stuffy office, each caught in the awkward position of how the hell do you talk about that? 

Finally, Jon gives Martin the most soul-deep, weary look before quietly beseeching, “Please don’t tell anyone.”

All Martin can do is nod before Jon shuffles out to the hallway

- - -

Sasha sees him at the flower stall again. 

Through the warped windowpane, she watches him scoop up a great, garish bouquet representing nearly every spectrum in the visible rainbow, and some colours that might not exist save for the eyes of the mantis shrimp. When she gets to ground level and sees him semi-properly, he’s just a blond man in a beanie, carefully regarding a sorry bunch of daffodils held together by what looks like clingfilm cinched shut with twine. Rather than being all spooky and mysterious, Sasha thinks he’s actually deliberating. There’s a pinch in his brow as he lowers the daffodils in favor of prodding the drooping lower lid of a sorry little orchid suffering in London’s less-than-tropical climes.

Sasha kind of feels… sorry for him?

Granted, he’s a monster with terrifying monster hands and monster tendencies and apparently a taste for caffeine, but he really looks caught on what to get. That in mind, she does remember that he bought lilies the last time he was around. Maybe that was less of a coincidence and this Michael creature really does like flowers; or he may have some fellow monster friend that he deems worthy of buying flowers for. Honestly, Sasha doesn’t want to think of what kind of friends Michael keeps.

Against her better judgement and sense of self-preservation, Sasha walks across the street to where Michael forlornly weighs his options. He looks up at her approach, and the first impression she gets is that his eyes are more like spinning tops prone to rotate anti-clockwise. She blinks and sees stationary blue eyes regarding her with confusion, and then… relief?

Huh.

“Sah-shah Jaaayymeeesss!” he almost sings, lifting up the dying daffodils like a salute. “What a pleasure to see your radiant face again!”

“Michael,” she replies, a little colder than she intends. Last time they met, there were far more meaty hands and worms involved, and she’d rather get to work unscathed.

If he thinks the reply is chilly, he makes no sign of it. Instead, he flops the tortured flowers around in his terrible hands. “Actually, I was hoping to see one of you lovely little Institute-dwellers around. I think I gave Martin a bit of a fright laaaaast time!”

Sasha frowns, but can definitely picture Martin having to be peeled off the ceiling after a Michael encounter. “Oh,” is all she says.

Michael goes on, gleefully undaunted. “You see, you and I have a mutual acquaintance! And I think he’s in need of a little—” He gives the daffodils a vigorous shake. “—cheering up these days! But I just don’t know what he’d like! Silly me for not being obseeeeervant!”

“I… A mutual acquaintance?”

“Yeeeessss! Your lovely boss!”

“Elias?”

Michael laughs. Well, more like he laughs in a way that sounds like he laughed ten minutes ago and ten minutes into the future, and then layered the sounds over one another like phyllo dough in a hellish baklava. It’s impossible, but Sasha hears it all the same. “Noooo!” he giggles. “Not in a million endless cycles of time or those dimensions yet unperceiveeeeeed!”

Sasha won’t even start on that statement, except that it isn’t Elias, which means it has to be— 

Oh. Jesus.

Grubby, curmudgeonly, insomniac Jesus.

“Jon?” she gasps.

Michael laughs again, louder and higher so that a glass breaks somewhere in the distance. “Yeeeesssss! Poor Jonathan, always working so hard in that dismal cave you call an archive. I offered him office space that would appeal more to a sense of aestheticism, but he… Oh, what did he say? He thought it was a little heavy on the—” And here he speaks in an exact mimic of Jon’s dry voice when he says: “Impossible, improbable, and honest to God, Michael, my brain would shatter into a thousand pieces if I looked at that painting for another minute.” Michael dissolves into a fit of giggles before saying, “It’s just a lost Hieronymus Bosch painting, honestly.”

So Michael McMeatyhands is buying flowers for Jonathan Sims. Sasha’s having a hell of a time wrapping her head around that particular fact. 

The infernal giggling stops and Michael seems to circle (spiral?) back to his previous predicament. Dying daffodils or suffering orchids?

For a lack of anything more to say, Sasha wordlessly points to a bouquet of slightly more enthusiastic-looking daisies, bobbing peacefully in a tin pail of water. “Those,” is all she can manage to say. 

Michael looks thrilled. He actually hums some impossible tune (in full SATB with orchestral arrangement, all localised in his throat) as he puts the daffodils back, scoops up the daisies, and drops four quid into the stall owner’s hands with a wet, meaty thwap that the owner doesn’t seem to hear. Then, Michael swivels back toward Sasha and grins with the corners of his lips somehow curling up near his eyes like a particularly twisty Cheshire Cat.

“Thank you, Miss James!” he says. “You’re a lifesaver!”

“You’re… welcome? I think?”

But Michael’s already walking away, taking steps in a gait that doesn’t seem to match the rhythm of the rest of his body, like two halves of entirely different people drunkenly attempting synchronicity. Sasha half-expects his legs to walk away from his torso.

Toward Jon. 

She sighs and rubs a hand over her face before heading in the direction of the Underground station.

- - -

The boss is dating someone. This, Tim is absolutely sure of. He’s watched Jon like a hawk for a week now, carefully comparing his moods in the morning with how early he left work the night before. Long work nights equal really bad mood. Long not work nights equal better mood with less shouting and calling people morons under his breath. This is good.

This is very good.

Tim is pleased with his enviable knowledge. Whoever somehow won the heart of the boss must be a pretty special person, or at least someone with an endless well of patience. Or maybe they’re Jon’s opposite? Either way, Tim’s got a hankering to send them a box of chocolate as a thank you for chilling the boss out and making him more tolerable to work with. 

He tries to picture who this mystery person is, as Jon’s definitely not the type of person to take his personal life to work with him, inasmuch as he likes to take work home. Tim pictures someone easygoing, like a Margaritaville type. They balance Jon’s stick-up-assery out, maybe giving him massages over the back of the couch while Jon watches dry documentaries about the actual speed of drying paint. In his mind’s eye, Tim gives this person a hideously neon Hawaiian shirt and sunglasses, but a winning smile that melts Jon’s ice-locked heart and makes it so he can’t help but smile back.

Tim likes them, whoever they are.

And when he gives Jon a little wink after dropping off a follow-up report, says, “Had a good night?” in a way more than a tiny bit suggestive, he only relishes a teensy bit in how dark Jon’s cheek become and how he ducks his head down. He mumbles something before actually thanking Tim for the report.

Yeah, this is awesome. Tim owes Jon’s mystery partner a thank you card and maybe a cake. 

- - -

“Eliaaaaas.”

“Michael.”

Staring. Lots of staring. Cold, unflinching irises to a set of psychedelic, rotating disco balls set in a grinning face. Behind Michael, blue and purple streaks like the top of a wildberry Pop-Tart flash about and dance madly as Michael gives him the strangest of staredowns. Occasionally, his head appears to flip upside-down a few times on his swirly straw of a neck, and half of his teeth try to glitch through his lips in a way that Elias thinks of as an attempt at a sneer.

Finally, Elias sighs and calmly folds his hands on the top of his desk, ignoring the waves of tangible static pouring out onto the floor and possibly leaving a stain on the carpet. That’s going to be difficult to explain to the janitorial staff. “We may have to set some ground rules,” he says.

“I’ll bring him home by eleven,” Michael cackles in reply.

Elias narrows his eyes just as he feels Beholding roll its great omnipresent gaze in irritation.

“I mean to say that you’re not to interfere in Institute business any further than you are right now,” Elias retorts. “I should completely ban all Spiral-related statements on grounds of personal involvement.”

Michael grins. His smile rises up to his forehead like a crescent moon before rolling down the side of his face and hooking back up into the empty space where a normal mouth should be. “I can make this weirder. I can spiral any statement in this place. Every little word can bend in and around on itself like a pipe cleaner.”

Elias glares. “You won’t.”

“You can’t stop me!” Michael sings. “But I’ll keep courting your Archivist nice and proper as long as I’d like, or he’d like.”

“If this is an attempt to draw him into the Spiral’s influence—”

When Michael laughs this time, it seems to be drawn from every laugh that was ever laughed in the history of the muscular and diaphragmatic spasms that caused them. It’s so charged, so loud and explosive that Elias nearly winces at it. And when it’s over, there’s a vacuum of sound in its wake, so it takes a full minute for Elias to hear anything properly again.

Then, Michael taps his horrible fingers on Elias’ desk, eliciting a sharp tak-tak-tak-tak-tak that repeats in on itself fifty times over. “Not everything is about influence,” Michael hisses through too many teeth. “Not every attempt on a person is to draw them in and mark them, unlike what you do. Maybe sometimes, one of us can authentically like one of them. Is that too hard for you to understand, Man-of-the-Eye?”

Beholding tries to truly See Michael, but something about the Spiral’s nature twists the image. 

“No,” Michael goes on, followed by another round of tak-tak-tak-tak-tak. “I rather like the Archivist. And he likes me. Aaaand if you try to get in the way of us, I will peeeeerrrrsonallyyyyy claw your precious little eyes out of your sockets. Understand?”

Elias doesn’t have time to make a reply. Michael is gone in a gunpowder-bright flash of light and a shock of sound. If there was a door, it’s gone. So he sits alone in his office, staring at the space where the Spiral was, and he feels something terribly empty and terribly familiar.

- - -

Jon picks their next date and opts for something as normal as the last one was strange. He chooses a walk at St James Park, eating ice cream and admiring the pelicans while Michael regales him with some bizarre story that sounds more like a backwards recitation of the Jabberwocky poem. He pauses in between stanzas to eat more of his pistachio ice cream with a delighted gusto before he presses on in gibberish.

Something about it makes Jon feel oddly warm and content, even as the early spring wind chills him.

Their last date was to Annwn, which Jon had originally suspected was in Wales. He was half-right; it was Wales as much as it was also the traditional world of the afterlife in ancient Welsh rites. It was rather lovely and Jon thinks very highly of their honey cakes, although he suspects he probably wasn’t supposed to eat them. 

But Michael looks just as pleased to be in this park as he was to be in ancient Welsh paradise. His Jabberwockish story comes to an end and he finishes the rest of his cone before throwing the little paper ring into a nearby litter bin. Then, he stretches his arms out to the side and sighs in contentment. “Just bonny, as they say!” he cheers before reaching down and taking Jon’s free hand in his. It’s got a mind-boggling weight and an odd texture, while appearing to be a normal hand. At first, it gave Jon such an acute sense of discomfort that he found himself involuntarily withdrawing. Now, it’s just another aspect of Michael that he’s learned to like.

Love, maybe. He hasn’t thought on that overmuch.

Yet here they are, holding hands like all the other couples in the park. It’s so simple, so normal. Jon’s life has been so ridiculous lately that the fact he’s holding a Spiral avatar’s nigh-impossible hand on a date in a park is just… maybe the most normal thing that’s happened so far. Michael’s not trying to kill him or throttle his mind to the point of madness.

They’re happy.

Jon’s happy.  

He smiles, and so does Michael. Yes, Michael’s smile is making an attempt to summit his head like Everest before flickering back into place like he remembers where he is, but he does smile and it’s perfectly authentic. 

It could be weirder, and for once, that thought delights Jon.

[anexplanationofunfortunateevents]

A Tale of Red States and Blue States

Once upon a time, there was a state.

It was a large state, with vast stretches of country between its world-class cities. It had communities rich in diversity and activism and ideas – and it had a lot of resentful white people who were just plain old rich.

The richest and most resentful white people created a terrible blight they called “modern conservatism.” They set their wicked curse on the state, and then unleashed it on the nation with two Republican presidents – one lamentable, the next even worse.

There were many along the way who sounded the alarm, but there were more who ignored the danger far too long. The spell had summoned a beast. The beast was hideous and stupid. It was no good at anything except being a hateful beast. But the dark spell had done so much damage that being a hateful beast was enough for the beast to win, at least for a time.

In one version of the story, the state is called “California.”

In another, it is called “Texas.”

It’s strange to think of now, with a decade of sneering about the “left coast” and “San Francisco liberals” and blah blah blah baked into political conventional wisdom, but it’s true. The reactionary modern conservatism which held the whip hand on the backlash to the great civil rights advances of the 1960s was born in California. California voted for Richard Nixon six times: once as their senator, twice as Eisenhower’s vice president, and then three times as the Republican presidential nominee. In between those elections, Nixon of course had to win primaries. In 1968, when he was the Republican front-runner, he faced an upstart challenger who wanted to make sure he’d be racist enough to keep conservative southerners in the tent. That person was not a southerner, but the then-governor of California, Ronald Reagan, who would go on to be the next Republican elected after Nixon.

So what the fuck happened? Well, a lot of things, and I don’t want to pretend to do justice to the generations of righteous activism that pushed back against this disastrous regime. Democrats did occasionally win state-wide – notably, California elected two Democratic women to the Senate in 1992 – even though Orange County was practically a metonym for American conservatism right up until the 2018 midterms. But the turning point that seems to have gotten your average voter to turn on the Republican party for good was in 1994. Governor Pete Wilson, a kind of hard-right proto-Trump, threw his weight behind a hateful anti-immigrant ballot initiative. It passed, even though it was so deranged that it never went into effect because a federal court ruled it unconstitutional within days of the vote, because the California electorate really was that conservative. The electorate changed, almost on a dime. Mexican-American voters organized. Their friends and neighbors and fellow citizens realized that sitting back wasn’t an option. And now the Republican Party of California is a fucking joke.

This isn’t, like, the eternal winds of history blowing microscopic chips off the statue of Ozymandias. If you remember the Clinton presidency, this happened in your lifetime. If you’re a little bit younger than that, it happened in your big cousins’ lifetimes.

Part of what makes it hard to see changes like this is that the dim bulbs in our political media see everything through a horse race lens, where who gets one particular W is the only piece of information worth retaining. You win and you’re clever; you lose and you’re a dumb sucker who tried. Who gets power is really important! But if you only care about that, then you miss the really important trends.

Take the Georgia 6th, the district once represented by Newt fucking Gingrich. Its representative joined Trump’s cabinet in early 2017, at least in part because it was such a supposedly safe Republican seat, so there was a special election for his replacement. Traumatized Democrats and Women’s Marchers threw themselves into the steeply uphill campaign of former John Lewis intern Jon Ossoff. When he came up a few points short, our blue-check media betters tried to turn Ossoff into a punch line stand-in for silly #Resistance liberal losers coping with Trump by losing some more, SUCK IT, MOM! but the other, correct, interpretation is that Ossoff only came up a few points short in a district that was supposed to protect the kookiest of right-wing cranks. His campaign had functioned as kind of an ad hoc boot camp for novice organizers, canvassers, and future school board candidates who had previously been too discouraged and disorganized to take this kind of swing, and it showed Democratic party donors that the district was winnable. So when gun safety advocate and Mother of the Movement Lucy McBath stepped up to the plate in the 2018 midterms, her campaign had the infrastructure it needed, and now she’s well-positioned to be reelected because she’s doing a great job. Meanwhile, Ossoff’s organizing chops and the enthusiastic work his supporters did for Rep. McBath are a big part of why he’s in a dead heat against incumbent Republican Senator David Purdue.

That’s why I’m keeping an eye on the South this year. The presidential campaign there is interesting, but the real story is in those network effects. There’s a rising tide that threatens to make the blue wave of 2018 look like a light spring shower if things break the right way. Just look at the Democratic senate candidates. They’re a diverse group: men and women, Black and white, preacher and fighter pilot. Most are relative newcomers to national audiences, but only some of them are young. Jon Ossoff is just 33; when he was in grade school, Mike Espy of Mississippi was Secretary of Agriculture. What they do seem to have in common is that they are having the time of their fucking lives.

Here’s Espy:

Moving and grooving in McComb. pic.twitter.com/RANCRGGpX7

— Mike Espy (@MikeEspyMS)

October 31, 2020

Ossoff:

The people of Georgia are tired of having a spineless, disgraced politician serve as their Senator. pic.twitter.com/OdaYwFKzmz

— Jon Ossoff (@ossoff)

October 30, 2020

Senator Doug Jones of Alabama:

I know you’ve heard us say it before, but when you see this clip, it bears reappearing: This guy really is clueless. https://t.co/w9YOUHegCW

— Doug Jones (@DougJones)

October 22, 2020

Jamie Harrison of South Carolina:

It's debate night and y'all know I'm going to walk it like I talk it. Let's see if @LindseyGrahamSC can do the same. pic.twitter.com/TNABxsaTEO

— Jaime Harrison (@harrisonjaime)

October 30, 2020

And the bad bitch with her eye on the big prize, MJ Hegar of Texas:

It's about time Texans had a senator as tough as we are. https://t.co/8MQ8Tykmyt pic.twitter.com/bgPr5vtgdh

— MJ Hegar (@mjhegar)

October 16, 2020

Clutch those pearls, John! https://t.co/iWej8MrhtV

— MJ Hegar (@mjhegar)

October 22, 2020

The spineless bootlicker Hegar is challenging, Senate Majority Whip John Cornyn, is currently resting his dainty patoot in the seat once held by none other than Lyndon Baines Johnson. As president, LBJ would aggressively push for some of the greatest human rights legislation in American history in pursuit of what he called the Great Society. That meant Medicare and Medicaid. It meant a revolution in environmental protections. It meant PBS. And it meant telling the one-party authoritarian regime in the Jim Crow south that America was done with their bullshit, they were going to have real democracy, they were going to do it now, and if they didn’t like it they could eat his ass.

Johnson was a complicated guy and left a complicated legacy. His project required an unusual leader of courage, conviction, and unmitigated savvy, cut with streaks of megalomania and dubious mental health. No architect but Lyndon Johnson would have built the Great Society, and no place but Texas could have built Lyndon Johnson.

Then again, Texas also gave us the Bushes in the late twentieth century. It gave us a terrorist attack on a Biden campaign bus just this weekend.

That darkness is real. So is the long, grinding slog to turn on the light. Like the GA-06 silliness, Democratic efforts in Texas get laughed at as some quixotic waste of resources by arrogant flops. In fact, the past few years of high-profile statewide elections in Texas have been on a pretty clear trajectory. In 2014, Wendy Davis, a state senator from Fort Worth who captured widespread progressive attention with her heroic filibuster of a 2013 state abortion ban, ran for governor. She lost by the ~20-point margin you’d expect in a year where Republicans everywhere did really well, but it was a vitamin B-12 shot to a perpetually overwhelmed state Democratic party. The 2016 Clinton campaign, when it was (correctly!) on the offensive before FBI Director Comey decided he would really prefer a Trump presidency, invested heavily in its Texas ground game. It was always a long shot, but even after the Comey letter and the Texas-specific sabotage by the Russian Internet Research Agency, Texas Democrats cut Trump’s margin there down to single digits. That is to say, they recruited the volunteers and taught the skills and raised the cash and registered the voters to carry the ball way down the field. And in the 2018 midterms, El Paso representative Beto O’Rourke built on all that energy to fight Senator Ted Cruz to a near draw. O’Rourke didn’t quite make it, but he did help a lot of downballot Democrats over the finish line and forced Republicans to light a few oil drums of cash on fire to save a seat that they had always assumed would be safe.

That growth has been possible because of a ton of hard work and persuasion, but it’s also been possible because there was so much untapped potential. As progressives have argued for years, Texas was less of a “red state” than a non-voting state. I’m not a person that usually has a lot of patience for people not bothering to vote, because the people who get to be loud about that are whiny, privileged assholes who can afford to be flip about the right to vote. But there are a lot of people who find it hard because they absolutely do know the weight and importance of voting, because they or their mothers or their grandfathers were beaten and terrorized to keep them away from the polls. They might make the same mouth-noises as the selfish dilettantes about how it doesn’t matter and they’re all corrupt and blah blah blah. But a vote is a tiny little leap of faith. It’s at least a skip of hope. And it hurts to know the weight and importance of that and to keep feeling that disappointment over and over again.

A key thing that Republicans in the South managed to do for a while, but California Republicans didn’t, was to let their misrule seem almost tolerable day to day. As outrageous as the overall trends were, as catastrophic the results were for a lot of people’s lives, it didn’t necessarily feel entirely irrational for lots of people to avoid the inconvenience and disappointment of trying to stop them. But if you’re just going to be a constant, unwavering shit show of incompetence and evil, infuriating people every waking minute of every fucking day for years on end, they’re not going to be deterred by inconvenience and disappointment. They're not going to be deterred by fucking tear gas. They’re going to understand that it’s worth trying to get rid of you, even if it’s a long shot. They’re going to line up to kick you in the shin just for the hell of it. And that’s exactly what millions of them have already done.

These dumbass motherfuckers radicalized Taylor goddamn Swift!

LOOK WHAT YOU MADE HER DO!

So yeah. People who had given up are fucking voting. Texas has already had hundreds of thousands more people vote than voted in all of 2016. BEFORE ELECTION DAY!

Vice President Biden likes to recite a poem by the great Irish bard Seamus Heaney. It’s about how you have to have faith that a better world is possible, even when you don’t have any rational reason to expect it any time soon, because it’s the only way you’ll be able to seize the most precious of opportunities, when “justice can rise up/ And hope and history rhyme.”

Sometimes hope and history walk into a bar to tell dirty jokes for a bachelorette party in downtown Austin. And they rhyme.

For a hundred and fifty years, unreconstructed revanchist terrorist sympathizers have threatened that “the South will rise again.” They mean the treasonous mobsters who called themselves the Confederacy.

Why do those losers get to define the South? Like, literally, they’re losers. They lost.

There’s another South. The terrorists cut it off at the knees, so it never quite rose the first time. But it’s always been there. The South the heroes of Reconstruction tried to build. The South of the Kennedy Space Station and the Center for Disease Control. The South of the French Quarter of New Orleans and the gay neighborhoods of Atlanta. The South of Barbara Jordan, Ann and Cecile Richards, Stacey Abrams, and the young women of the Virginia state legislature. The South of Maya Angelou, Molly Ivins, and Mark Twain. The South of the exiles of Miami and the Cherokee Nation of Oklahoma. The South of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. and Representative John Lewis. The South of James Earl Carter, William Jefferson Clinton, and Lyndon Baines Johnson.

Once upon a time, there was a colossus. The richest and most resentful white people feared it, for it was both great and good. So they hunted it mercilessly. They tortured and killed its most vulnerable people. They bound it and silenced it and told the rest of the world it didn’t even exist. But they knew that wicked lie was the best they could do, for something so mighty could never be slain by the likes of them.

The giant grows stronger every day as it struggles against its chains, and those chains are turning to rust. One day soon  - maybe in this decade; maybe this week – it will break free. It will rise. And it will shake the earth. Just you watch.

[nineteenninety-six]

Could you do a Thomas Shelby imagine where her tries to charm the readers parents who the reader lied and told them that Tommy moved away from his gangster life? Since the reader grew up around the Shelby’s being Ada’s best friend and Tommy loving her since their teens and while her family moved to London when she was a teen, when so she comes back to Birmingham as a nurse to run the clinic she falls back into the Shelby’s and her and Tommy finally get together so her parents are weary?

Word Count: 1869

I hope you like :)

CHARMED

“Sybill from down the street told me she saw you and Thomas Shelby earlier.” 

(Y/N) choked on a mouthful of stew at her mother's words, fucking Sybill she thought, “Yes..he came by the clinic earlier so we were just catching up. I was close friends with his sister, Ada, remember?” 

Her father heaved a large sigh, he had never liked the Shelby’s, it didn’t help that his only daughter was exceptionally close to Ada Shelby and therefore the rest of the family but he had a particular dislike for Tommy, not missing the looks and touches he shared with his daughter when they were teens, and despite the many times he had warned (Y/N) about not getting involved with their family, she ignored him like that stubborn teenager she was. He just couldn’t stomach the idea of his sweet daughter getting together with Tommy, so he went to the extreme and moved the family to London, lying to his daughter about getting a new and better job being the reason. They had only recently returned back to Birmingham, a year after the war had ended. 

“Those Shelby’s are no good, you best stay away from them poppet.” 

“He’s changed, dad. He works at his uncle Charlie’s yard with the horses, doesn’t do any of that gang stuff anymore.”

Her father scoffed in disbelief, “I doubt it. What could have convinced him to change?”

(Y/N)’s next words were quiet, “The war. Says after that, all he wants is peace and quiet.”

The room fell silent after that, wounds from the war still fresh. (Y/N) had lost uncles and cousins and her elder brother James, who stayed in London, lost a leg.

“Enough about that.” (Y/N)’s mother cleared her throat, breaking the silence of the room, “How was the clinic today?”

As (Y/N) talked to her mother about her day, her stomach was twisting in guilt about lying to them about Tommy. She didn’t want to but her parents were stubborn in their beliefs about his family, though she was surprised that it had taken this long for them to be seen together. She had been back in Small Heath for several months now and Tommy had bumped into her at the clinic on her second day there and since then, they had been sneaking around, their romance instantly blossoming the moment they reconnected.  

(Y/N) stood under one of the bridges that ran along the cut, waiting for Tommy with her coat wrapped tightly around her to protect her from the cutting winds. The sound of gravel crunching brought her attention over to where Tommy was making his over to her, hands deep in his pockets.

“Tommy!” (Y/N) excitedly smiled, she hadn’t seen him for a few days, his work taking him out of Birmingham.

“Hello love.” Tommy pressed one of his hands to one of her cheeks before leaning down and kissing her on the lips. They continued kissing, gentle and unrushed until Tommy finally pulled away, a small smile on his lips,

“How’ve you been?”

(Y/N)’s smile falters, something that Tommy catches on to immediately,

“What? What’s wrong?”

“Someone saw us together before you left and told my mother…” (Y/N) spoke after a moment's hesitation. “And you know how much they hated us hanging out with each other when we were young so…”

Tommy raised an eyebrow “So?”

“I might have told a small fib” (Y/N) held her index finger and thumb close together, indicating how small of a lie but Tommy knew she was under selling it by the guilty expression on her face.

“(Y/N), what did ya say?” 

“I may have said that you stopped with the gangster stuff and now just work with horses at the stables.” (Y/N) rushed out, embarrassed. 

“You what?” Tommy couldn’t help but laugh.

“They were being mean Tom! And I couldn’t just sit there an-”

Tommy interrupted (Y/N)’s panicked rambles, his hands cupping her face, “Hey, don’t get upset eh. I’m not mad yea..”

“You’re not?” 

Tommy wiped away the few tears that escaped her eyes before reaching down and tugging her hands into his, 

“No, now c’mon. Lemme take you out on a date”

“But what about my parents?!” 

“If they think I’m a stablehand then there’s nothing to worry about eh.”

(Y/N) was rendered speechless, allowing Tommy to tug her to the Garrison.

This time it was her father who brought up the topic of Tommy a few days later. 

“One of the men from work said that his wife saw you with that Shelby boy a few days ago...says you were awfully close.”

(Y/N) didn’t have to look up from her plate to know the chastising looks her parents were giving her,

“What’s the problem? He does good work.” (Y/N) continued on with the lie, she felt guilty but she couldn’t stand the way they treated Tommy.

“We just don’t think he’s good for darling. I’m sure there’s better men than Tommy Shelby to date out there.” Her mother reached over to pat her hand in comfort.

(Y/N) huffed in frustration, slamming her fork down on the table, “Why don’t you believe me that he’s changed?!”

Her parents are stunned into silence by her outburst,

“Why don’t you meet him? And then you can see how he really is.” (Y/N) suggested, tired of arguing with her parents and they simply nodded in agreement with their daughter, knowing that it was the least they could do.

 “What are you doing on Sunday?” 

Tommy and (Y/N) were sat in the snug in the Garrison, John and Arthur were loudly playing cards the opposite of the table, allowing the two of them to speak in private.

“Nothing of importance, why?” Tommy lit up a cigarette.

“My parents want to invite you over for dinner. Want to get to know you and everything.”

“Do they still think I’m a stablehand?” Tommy snorted.

“Yea..”

“Orright, I’ll go to dinner.”

“You will?” (Y/N) looked at him in surprise.

“Yeah, how else am I supposed to convince them that this measly stablehand is the perfect man for their daughter?” Tommy threw (Y/N) a cocky smirk making her laugh.

A loud knock sounded on the door at 4 p.m sharp on Sunday evening. (Y/N) stood up before her parents could and quickly made her way to the door, she nervously ran her hands down her outfit before she opened the door and the sight that greeted her made her speechless. 

Tommy was dressed down, instead of his usual three piece suit, he just had a wool jacket on top of a cotton shirt, along with some dress pants.

“Whad’ya think, do I look the part?” Tommy held his arms up to his sides, a grin on his face.

“I…. it’s very stablehand-ish. Come inside, I have no doubt that my parents rather talk before we sit for dinner.”

Tommy smiled at her again as he stepped in, pressing a kiss against her cheek before he let her lead the way. Her parents were standing in the living room, shoulders hunched, faces pinched and eyes hard. 

“Mum, Dad, you remember Thomas don’t you?” (Y/N)’s voice was quiet.

“Hello, Mr and Mrs. (L/N). It’s a pleasure to meet you again after so long.” Tommy reached out his and shook their hands.

The room was bathed in silence, the atmosphere was tense and awkward, none of them willing the break the silence until (Y/N) suddenly jumped up from her seat.

“Mum, how about we make some tea?” (Y/N)’s mother didn’t even get a chance to open her mouth before (Y/N) was dragging her off to the kitchen.

As soon as they left, the frown on (Y/N)’s fathers face deepened almost immediately, “What do you want with my daughter?”

 “I can assure you sir, I only have good intentions with your daughter. I only wish to hopefully marry her in the future.” 

“How do I know she’s safe with you. We know what your family does.”

“Me and my brothers no longer do that, after the war we realized how precious life was and hated the idea of throwing our lives away with gang nonsense.” Tommy lied through his teeth, a charming smile painted on his face.

Tommy could see how (Y/N)’s father shoulders began to relax and his frown melt,

“(Y/N) mentioned you fought, what did you do son?”

(Y/N) and her mother walked in with a tray topped with a teapot and several cups before Tommy could answer,

“What are you talking about?” Her mother asked as she took her seat next to her husband, handing him a cup of tea as she did so.

“Tommy was just going to tell me about his experience during the war.”

There was a brief pause before Tommy spoke up, “ I was a tunneller. I also fought at Verdun, the Somme and Mons. I was the Sergeant Major of my unit as well.”

(Y/N) saw the surprised look on her father’s face, it melted into akin to pride, 

“That is impressive, young man.” Her father sent Tommy a firm nod.

“Thank you sir.”

“Enough about the war eh.” (Y/N)’s mother changed the subject, she hated talking about it. 

They switched the topic and spent the rest of the night chatting, only stopping over bites of food and before she knew it, (Y/N) was showing Tommy the door, it was late at night, Tommy staying for longer than planned, lost in conversation with her parents. 

“I don’t know how you did it, but I’m pretty sure they love you.” (Y/N) grinned at Tommy who grinned back.

“I’ll never reveal my secrets.” Tommy kissed her, lingering for a bit before he left, telling her that he’d see her the next day. 

(Y/N) skipped into the Garrison the next day, a wide smile on her face, one that grew when she slammed open the door to the snug and spotted Tommy. She squealed as she sat down, wrapping her arms around his neck,

“Oh they love you Tommy!” 

Tommy pulled her into a hug, and pressed a kiss to her temple.

“Who loves Tommy?” John asked from across the room.

“My parents. He came over for dinner last night and charmed them.” (Y/N) turned and faced Tommy’s brothers.

“How’d he manage that? I thought your parents hated our family” Arthur spoke up next.

A blush appeared on (Y/N)’s cheeks, “I may have lied about Tommy leaving the gang life and told them that he now works in the stables…”

John and Arthur look at each other before bursting into laughter, 

“What you gonna do when they find out you lied? It won’t take long for them to find out” John asked after a few minutes of laughing.

(Y/N) and Tommy look at each other before shrugging, “Guess we find out when it happens eh” Tommy huffed a laugh into his glass of whiskey and tucking (Y/N) under his arm.  

[bbrandy2002]

The Devil Wears Denim

Part of @emceesynonymroll​ ‘s Wacky Drabble’s #35/36???

Part 2 of 3 from the Little Sh!t series

Summary: Drake and Alyssa are stuck with Nikolas for the night.

Wacky Drabble Prompt: Aren’t you going to read the instructions

Using Friends Prompts from @loveellamae​  In fact, I’m undercover right now. I’m a whore and What’s the worst that could happen? I could die.

A/N: Thanks @burnsoslow​ for letting my little menace torture your couple and pre-reading. I’m fairly certain that one part was written more for your enjoyment (it wasn’t supposed to be that long Burns... lol).

Look Enna! I wrote two drabbles in less than a month :) And we have a worldwide pandemic to thank for that.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Hell no! That little shit is not staying in our house.” Drake spat at the small boy who had his father’s boyish looks and his mother’s witty charm.

“Drake. He’s just a little boy,” Alyssa defended. “What’s the worst that could happen?”

“I could die.”

Alyssa chuckled and wrapped her thin arms around Drake’s waist. She was somewhat amused by what was perceived to be her boyfriend being overly dramatic. “You are not going to die. I’ve been with him most of the afternoon and he’s been a perfect, well-behaved child. And besides, it’s already getting late and Riley could really use a break to deal with her … post-mortem detention.”

“Baby, I love your kind heart. I really do,” he said while tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “But, Liam and Riley have a nanny who can help out with the kids. He doesn’t need to stay here.”

Alyssa shook her head. “No. Nik said she got fired.”

Drake furrowed his brows at his young god-son. “Your parent’s fired, Hilda?” he interrogated.

“Nope. I had to let her go, Uncle Drake.” Nik replied while opening a can of soda he helped himself to from the Walker fridge. “She wasn’t following my rules.”

“What damn rules?” Drake scowled.

Nik took a sip of his soda and made a sour face before he dumped it whole into the trash can. “You know … don’t be a snitch. She ratted me out to my dad about running over the Countess of Genitalia. And you know what they say about snitches, Uncle Drake … they get stitches.”

Drake gave Alyssa a knowing look who doesn’t even seem to notice due to her own shock.

“Oh my god, Nikolas! What’d you do to her?”

The young boy flashed her a cocky wink and a smirk. “Nothing a long wig and pair of sunglasses can’t cover-up, my love.”

Alyssa snapped an astonished glance at her boyfriend who simply shrugged. “Told ya.”

She followed behind Nikolas who pulled out a chair at the table and started coloring.

She crouched down next to him and took a deep breath. “Okaaay. Look, Nik. I had a lotta fun hanging out with you today, I really did, but it’s probably best if you go back to your home for the night.”

Nikolas stopped coloring to look at her; his face crestfallen, and sighed. “I understand, Miss Alyssa. Just know that I will never forget you. Your smile … your laugh … your lovely lady lumps. That kick-ass grilled cheese you made me. And how you taught me to make useless shit with yarn and pipe cweaners … you make me want to be a better boy … a better prince for Condomonia.

Drake rolled his eyes and pulled his cell phone from his back pocket. “Give me a fucking break. I’m calling Liam right now and having him send someone to pick up your ass.”

Alyssa stood and leaned into Drake. “You probably should watch your language around him.”

“Seriously, Alyssa? The boy just said shit and that’s one of his milder ones,” he scoffed while placing the phone to his ear. “He once made the entire Royal Guard cry after bitching them out.”

Alyssa winced and scratched her head as Drake walked away to make his call. She was somewhat confused, having met Nikolas’ parents during a few social gatherings. Liam was always very courteous and respectful; every bit the compassionate leader she had heard of him. Riley appeared to be a loving mother who doted on her children and husband.

As she watched this child, with his little tongue sticking out while he worked studiously on a drawing of an anaconda that appeared to be squeezing the life out of the man she loved, Alyssa pondered whether he was just misunderstood. She was pulled from her thoughts when Drake moved up beside her with a fake laugh.

“Well...Apparently the entire palace is on a damn lock-down after they found the German Prime Minister hogtied in a linen closet. The German security forces won’t allow anyone in, or out until they catch the supposed midget in tactical gear that apparently waterboarded her. So, of course, Liam is busy dealing with that shit and Riley’s phone went straight to voicemail. Got anything you wanna confess kid”

Nikolas continued to color, completely unfazed. “I told her she could come out when she agreed to my dad’s trade steal. She smelled like an old lady anyway .. she wouldn’t have been missed.”

Drake ran a hand down his face, trying to keep his cool.

Alyssa pulled him to the opposite end of the kitchen and lowered her voice.

“Look, baby. Listen .... we’re not going to panic, okay?  I will keep him busy and out of your hair. He seems to respond well to me and we’ll just make the best of it, alright? 

“Lyssa … we had plans for tonight, remember? I really wanted to spank that sexy ass in those new restraints.” He flashed a devilish grin with a pinch to her backside

She bit her lip, returning a sultry gaze. “Oh that shit’s still happening, Drake Walker.”

“Promise?”

She stood on her tiptoes to place a peck on his lips. “Promise. As soon as he falls asleep.”   

Feeling a gnawing burn in the pit of his stomach, Drake ran his fingers through his hair and glanced at the little prince. “You really think you can handle him where we both don’t wind up in a shallow grave in the backyard?”

Alyssa stood up straighter with a confident smile. “I believe so, yes.” 

Drake sulked as he sauntered back across the kitchen and Alyssa began pulling pots from the cabinet.

He towered over the boy. “Okay, kid. You can stay.”

“Really?” Nikolas beamed.

Drake gave him a stern look while he lightly gripped the back of Nik’s neck. “Yeah. But, you try any funny shit, Nikolas and I swear to god I’ll bust your ass.”

Nikolas tried to stifle a laugh that he hoped his uncle noticed … and Drake did. “God, you’re such a little asshole. I’m gonna go feed the horses,” he dismissed.

“Alright Nik, how about you help me with dinner … spaghetti and meatballs!” Alyssa called cheerfully for him as she filled a pot with water.

“Anything for you, my queen!”

Alyssa was right in her assumption that Nik would not cause any problems for her. She didn’t say anything to him as the meatballs he formed were in the shape of penises; it was obvious he was fishing for attention. Drake, on the other hand, was quick to refuse to eat the “little dicks staring at him” for dinner, especially ones that had Nikolas grubby paws on them. 

And after playing an hour of Grand Theft Auto, in which he tried to teach her how to get the hooker to slash the throat of a pimp, he took a bath, brushed his teeth, and settled into the guest room.

“Good night, Miss Alyssa,” he croaked in his sleepy voice. He tucked the stuffed dragon his father gave him into his chest and closed his eyes.

She smiled as she flipped the light switch by the door. “Good night, Nikolas.”

Drake was still alive and in one piece, and Nikolas, surprisingly, hadn’t disturbed him the entire evening. Now it was time to retire the babysitter cap for the night and try out the new toy that she and Drake had been waiting for hours to use.

“He.Is.Out.” Alyssa proclaimed as she entered the master bedroom; her arms animating each word she spoke. 

Drake, who was standing on the top rung of a ladder wearing nothing but denim boxershorts, clipped a chain through a metal hook in the ceiling. “It’s about damn time!”

Alyssa gawked curiously at the contraption as the rest of the chain fell. She tugged on the bottom where two leather wrist cuffs were attached an arm’s length above her short frame. The last thing she wanted was a heavy strand of steel crashing down while Drake made a bad girl out of her. 

When she felt confident the chain was secure, she performed a sexy striptease while her lover’s hands roamed over each newly exposed section of skin. Drake unsnapped the metal buckles on the leather cuffs and fastened her wrist into each one.

“Wait! Aren’t you going to read the instructions?” Alyssa’s eyes flashed to Drake as if the idea suddenly popped into her head.

“Baby, I think I know what to do with these. Your hands go in here … and my hands …” He slid his fingers between her moistened folds. “go down there.” Alyssa shuddered at his husky voice and the feeling of anticipation that pooled inside of her.

Drake raised his brows. “You remember the safe word?”

“Hmm-mm. Bertrand,” she replied with a quick nod.

A smile dangled on the corner of his lips. “Very good.”

Drake slapped the leather flog across his hand and prowled like a wolf, ready to pounce its prey, around his girlfriend. Her arms outstretched tightly above her head.

“Somebody’s been a verrry bad, girl.” Alyssa teased. Her blue eyes shifting between the leather and his denim bulge.

“Oh yeah?”  He licked his lips while continuing his sensual stroll.

“Yeah. In fact, I’m undercover right now. I’m a whore … a very naughty whore.”

Drake halted his movements and raised the flog. “I suppose I’ll have to punish you then … my very naughty undercover whore.”

“Ohh no, Officer Walker! Please don’t hurt me! Me so horny, me love you long time!”

Meanwhile…

One, beady blue eye popped open from a disturbance occurring on the floor directly above him. It was a sound he wasn’t that familiar with. For the last year, he had memorized the sound of pain, yet this particular scream was unlike anything he had heard before from any of his usual victims. 

“Drake! Fuck that hurts!”

The second eye popped open. He heard her yell out again and again. The sound of torture and agony reverberated through the ceiling and fell upon his perked up ears. 

Was his Uncle Drake murdering Alyssa?

“Oh my god, Drake! You’re killing me!”

It seemed so.

But, would he actually murder his own girlfriend?

“Devereaux, I’m gonna shove this thing in you so hard.”

Likely.

Nikolas tossed off the covers and crept out of his bed. He slithered across the room, flipped on the lights, and retrieved his backpack that lay on top an old dresser. 

It was time to put a plan into action, save his woman and make sure Drake Walker regretted the day he’d ever been born.

[peterparkerstarker]

Kinktober Day 18: Feminization (Starker Mob AU)

Thanks to the anon who requested a mob boss au. xoxo

Cw: Starker, daddy kink, sugar baby dynamic, femme!Peter, makeup, lingerie, thigh high stockings, implied age play, plugs

@readysetstarker @jwolf18791 @warathena418 @pray4meireadstarker @thotticusmaxximus @mvrphyblooms @morgoona-stark @silkystark @untold-royalty @pollyparrot8 @sthefystarkersworld @katzenbaby1 @another-starker-hoe @tony-is-my-daddy @mystarkershame @plsstopgivingpetertrauma @hoeforthegays @lonleystarker @awesomeimportantfan @friendlyneighborhoodlosxr @hpspazz @starker-obsessions @starkershomelife @tightaroundthewebslinger @animefan1998-love @peterpissparker @starkercandy @loki-helmet @petecake @starkercrossedlovers @nerdylocksandthethreebears @thirstyhoe4yoongi @starker-reader @starkerissemiok @tomhollabel @momobaby227 @dragonskittysblog @sleepy-and-depressed

———————-

Peter perched on the edge of the desk, popping a piece of pink bubblegum into his mouth, working it with his tongue and teeth until it was supple and pliant.

He glanced to Tony, who was still hard at work and not paying him an ounce of attention. His Daddy was on the phone with some bigshot business contact and he knew it was an important call. Tony had been stressed all morning, had insisted that no one other than Peter was allowed in the room when he made the call.

This was their chance into the big leagues. No more meager fraud and blackmarket goods dealings for them. This was their chance to make it big and truly wrestle control over the greater New York area. This was everything Tony had been building up to for years, and he wanted his baby boy right by his side.

Peter, however, was bored as hell.

He sighed, blowing a bubble that popped with a loud snap and clung to his face. Tony gave him an annoyed sideways glance as he peeled the pastel pink gum from his cheeks and rolled his eyes.

Daddy could be so… adulty sometimes. Peter just wanted to spend all day playing dress-up and getting fucked, but he knew this was important to his Daddy, knew it was the reason Tony could afford the lifestyle he gave Peter, so he would have to be patient. Even though all Peter really wanted to do right now was to sit on his lap and ride him til he was oozing Tony’s cum out of his well-stretched hole.

Peter shifted in his spot on the desk, papers getting crumpled underneath his plump ass, and Tony let out a huff of air, clearly exasperated.

Tony covered the speaker of his phone and whispered. “Petey, I know you’re bored, but Daddy is trying to do some very important work. I wanted you here to keep me company, but if you can’t be patient I can’t have you here. Why don’t you go open your pretty new gifts that I picked out for you?”

Daddy put the phone back to his ear and coolly said, “Yes, I’m still here. No, those terms aren’t good enough. We agreed upon full distribution across the island of Manhattan last week, and I’m not negotiating that again.” He groaned, clearly frustrated and waved Peter away, turning his back to focus on the call. “No, I told you last time that I’m not going to settle for anything less, Barnes.”

Peter, miffed at the sudden dismissal, hopped off the paper-strewn desk and picked up the pile of shopping bags, carrying them across the expansive room. Tony always liked to pamper his baby boy before a stressful work day, and Peter was curious to see what he had picked out this time.

Tony kept a vanity in his office for Peter to use, a lavender one with a pretty round mirror and delicate filigree. At first he’d wanted a brand new designer one for Peter, “Nothing but the best for my best boy,” Tony had insisted.

But Peter had spotted this one in the window of an antique shop in Queens and had fallen in love. “A princess vanity for a princess boy,” he’d told Tony, and there was no way his Daddy could deny him what he wanted, especially not after the messy blowjob he’d given him to prove he was serious about wanting it.

The next morning it had appeared in Tony’s office, stocked full of lip gloss and mascara and blush. Peter had giggled and kissed him and let Tony fuck him, bent over the matching bench. “Christening it,” Tony had called it. He’d loved it even more after that.

So Peter set his bags of gifts down at the foot of the vanity and began pulling out tissue paper.

The first bag was from his favorite makeup store. Sparkly glitter eyeshadow and near-holographic highlighter. Custom-made just for Peter, with Tony’s insignia stamped on the cases, and in Peter’s favorite baby pinks and blues. He lazily swiped some highlighter across his defined cheeks, and the very tip of his nose, appreciating the way it glimmered even in the dim artificial light of Tony’s office. It showed off his pale skin in the nicest way. He’d have to remember to thank his Daddy for picking out the perfect shade.

Next he selected a bag that he discovered was filled with delicate thigh highs. There were sheer white ones with little purple bows and frilly lace, black ones with kitten faces printed on the front of the thigh, striped pink and blue ones that reminded him of Alice in Wonderland.

Ever so gently, he slid on a pair of frilly striped thigh highs, delighting in the sensation as they hugged his slender legs. He knew his Daddy would have a field day peeling them off him ever so slowly, and he smiled in spite of himself. Tony could be grumpy and particular, but he made up for it in how good he fucked his boy. Peter glanced back across his shoulder, to see Tony smile appreciatively at the sight of his stocking-clad legs. He gave a sweet little wave, before returning his attention to the rest of the presents.

There was a music box that played his favorite lullaby, one that Tony would always hum to him as he tucked Peter into bed. “For the nights I can’t be there to kiss you goodnight,” the attached card said. He touched the carousel horse figures ever so gently. There was one with a pretty blue fish tail in place of its hind legs. He’d remembered that was Peter’s favorite to ride when they visited Central Park. The sweetness of the gesture made Peter’s heart flutter and he clutched the music box close to him, already picturing exactly where he’d place it on his nightstand for nights Tony was away for business.

He pulled out scores of coloring books, puzzles, and toys. Soft squishy alpaca stuffies to add to his growing collection, and a pretty new silicone plug with a bow on the end. He knew Tony would want to see him wearing it tonight, and placed it gently next to the vanity mirror for safe keeping.

And finally he came to the last bag, one so small he might have missed it if not for the card attached to its handle. He read it, clutching at the card, excited to find out what this final gift was. “I knew you’d get bored during this phone call today, so I got you something extra special. I want you to wear this with your plug and pick out your favorite pair of stockings to go with it. I’ll make it up to you when I get these mean businessmen sorted out, promise. xoxo, Daddy.”

With slightly trembling fingers, Peter pulled out the most gorgeous lacy white lingerie set he’d ever seen. It was delicate and frilly at the hips, with a matching bralette and garter belt that would secure his stockings from slipping down his thighs. He’d seen it in a shop window as they were heading to dinner weeks ago, but he didn’t think Tony had even noticed him looking at it. It was just as silky soft as he’d imagined and he was in awe of his Daddy’s attention to detail.

It was perfect, he thought, as he stripped off his oversized sweater and panties and began to ready himself to insert the plug, as per Tony’s instructions.

Perfect, he thought, just like him and Daddy.

Peter glanced over at him once more, catching sight of his Daddy’s encouraging nod, the call apparently finally going to Tony’s satisfaction, and he shivered in anticipation.

They’d have a lot to celebrate tonight, and Peter couldn’t wait.

[guacameowle]

Random Storytime!

February 14, 2020 is the 23rd anniversary of my becoming a vegetarian! 

Most people wouldn’t have this day memorized; it’s not as though I actually celebrate in any way. The only reason I remember is because how I became a vegetarian happened in such a ridiculous way (& semi-traumatizing for myself as a child) that it has remained a very vivid memory of mine to this day. 

When I was in 2nd grade my family up & moved across the country to Texas. As we settled into our new home, my mom took up a temporary job as a substitute teacher for the school district my older brother & I were enrolled in.

On February 14, 1997, a Friday if I recall, my mom happened to be the substitute teacher for my 2nd grade class (Cheers to my 2nd grade teacher for ditching her class of children to leave a whole day clear to get dicked down for Valentine’s Day. Respect.). This wasn’t the first time my mom had been my substitute teacher (my hometown was very small at the time) so I didn’t think it would a day different from any other.

Our teacher had left us with a bunch of busy work - random worksheets to fill out, drawings to finish, stories to read. My mom wasn’t required to teach any lesson plans, just to move us from one task to the next after a set time. 

One particular worksheet required that we “connect the food to the animal it comes from.” The left column had various foods (eggs, hamburger, steak, sausage links, chicken nuggets, & a ham) & the right column had a few animals listed (cow, pig, chicken, ostrich, & horse). 

What kinda fucking worksheet????

Should have been easy-peasy, right? Yeah, the rest of my class thought so as they were all zooming through the worksheet without being confused as fuck like I was. I spent a good few minutes sitting in my chair looking around at my classmates & back down to my paper several times, wondering why nobody else seemed to not need any help. After a while I thought maybe since I was new to the class, as I had only recently moved to Texas, that I had missed the lesson explaining this concept. 

No big deal. I’d just go up & ask my mom since she was my substitute teacher that day. I brought the paper up to the desk where my mom sat, handed it to her & said, “I don’t understand.” She took one quick glance at the page & simply repeated “connect the foods to the animals they come from.” Blink blink. Blink. Yeah, I can fucking read, mom. Thanks. What does that mean exactly? I asked again, “What does that mean?” My mom took a pencil & drew a line connecting the hamburger to the cow on the page. My exact words to her were, “A cow poops a hamburger?” 

I will never forget the look on my mom’s face when she fucking realized she had never taught me what meat or animal products were or where they came from, particularly how they were obtained. ‘Oh shiiiiiiiiiiit’ doesn’t even being to cover that expression she wore.

Now, at this point, I should make it known that by the age of 8 years old I was deadset on becoming a veterinarian; it was all I had wanted to be since I was 3 years old (at the age of 25 I officially became one, heyoooo!). I loved animals more than anything else. I had once beaten the shit out of my older brother because I saw him try to kick a pigeon - I went into a blind murderous rage! Even after my dad had pulled me off of him & held me upside down I didn’t stop swinging & kicking. Point being - I LOVED ANIMALS MORE THAN ANYTHING. I would never do anything to hurt them. 

My mom wasn’t gentle when she dropped the earth-shattering knowledge on me that some animals were used for human consumption. 

“No, a cow doesn’t poop a hamburger. The cow is killed and cut up for meat to make a hamburger. *she draws a line from sausage links to the pig* Sausage comes from pig meat. *she draws a line from chicken nuggets to the chicken* Chicken nuggets are made from chicken meat. *she draws a line from eggs to the chicken and ostrich* Birds lay eggs, some kinds that we eat. *she draws a line from the ham to the pig* Ham comes from pig meat.”

Here is where I finally overcame my absolute shock & horror at all this new information that had been thrown at me about my precious animals... & broke down crying, very loudly, then proceeded to run out of the classroom because I remembered that my dad had packed me a ham sandwich intended for lunch that day. Wasn’t fucking eating that anymore. Nope.

My mom gets a neighboring teacher to look after the class & goes off after me. It was easy to find me, just had to follow the noise of the wailing & sniffling little girl in the bathroom stall.

I don’t exactly remember how she coaxed me out of the stall back into the classroom, but I do remember yelling at her that I thought her & dad were liars & monsters for letting me eat animals & that I would never trust food ever again, lololol. 

She didn’t make me finish the worksheet. Years later she told me she finished it for me so I’d get the credit, but she figured I’d been traumatized enough.

Lunch time rolled around a short while later. I had a packed lunch that my dad had so lovingly made me, the monster-liar-animal-eater that he was! I refused to eat anything that was packed for me until I asked a bunch of questions about it. I sat with my mom in the classroom during lunch & pointed at everything that was packed for me & everything that she’d brought for herself, asking if it came from an animal & which animal. The only thing I’d deemed safe eating were my carrot sticks, some grapes, and my apple juice - but even then I was still suspicious. I glared at my mom the entire time she ate her own ham sandwich. 

On top of that, it had been Valentine’s Day! Everyone in my class had exchanged chocolates, my absolute favorite food! Which animal did chocolate come from? Monkeys? Penguins? Turtles? I didn’t fucking know! My mom explained it came from a bean grown from the ground, but that it was sometimes made with milk from cows. Alive cows that were only milked & not killed. I was suspicious & no longer had any trust in me, so I didn’t eat a single piece anyway. Do you know how it was for me to not eat any of the chocolate that day???? IT WAS THE HARDEST THING I’VE EVER DONE! 

It took me a while to come to terms with the fact that people ate animals. I was very upset & offended, but decided that just because they all did didn’t mean I had to! So, I became a vegetarian that day. My parents thought it was a phase, that I’d grow out of it. At first they joked that I liked meat too much to give it up forever. After a few weeks of that not working, they took me to a doctor to have him explain the importance of having a balanced diet for a growing child, but I didn’t care to listen. I did get sick a few weeks after that - surprise, iron deficiency! A different doctor helped me make a list of vegetables I needed to eat more of if I wanted to stay healthy. 

So that’s how I became a vegetarian; a shitty ‘connect the foods to the animals’ worksheet that traumatized me. A day that was meant for love was the day of my worst heartache. At the time it was horrifying, but now it’s become a funny family story my mom likes sharing with people. Occasionally she will randomly say “a cow poops a hamburger?” & laugh at me.

[kathyprior4200]

Velvety Rich and Sickly Sweet

Once there was an African American girl who lived in a big city. Her name was Venessa. As a little girl, she loved playing with dolls and getting dressed up. Tea parties with her friends were a favorite pastime. She adored candy, cake and anything sweet, a craving that lasted for the rest of her life. She dreamed of becoming a famous celebrity.

 As Venessa got older, computers and phones started to arrive. It wasn’t long before she got into social media. She pursued a career in fashion and posted videos of herself in velvet dresses baking cakes and seductively sucking on candies for the males. Her videos went viral and she basked in the online limelight.

 But the more well-known she got, the more she distanced herself from her former family and friends. Venessa soon partook in gossip, laughing at other women and being a self-centered bully. She enjoyed the reactions of hurt people less well-off than her. This was especially true when she became a risqué model and dancer.

 Soon enough, all of Venessa’s actions came back full circle. Venessa soon found herself as a target of bullying and racism. She received one hate comment after another…from the n word, to bad things about her black curly ponytails. Some even called her fat and fake.

 Venessa was furious…so furious that she began to track down the bullies and kill them with knives. Childish laughter could be heard among the screaming victims. Venessa covered her tracks well…after all, no one suspected famous model to be a killer. However, she kept pictures of herself posing with her victims holding her knife.

 But she was soon found out, and almost got arrested. Venessa soon spiraled down into madness, having a crazed breakdown. Distraught over the mean comments, she overdosed on skinny creating drugs. Her body couldn’t take the amount and she died before she was discovered by the police. A mirror was in one hand while a headless doll was in another. Venessa died at age 22 in 2012, the same year as Vaggie.

 Venessa soon arrived in Hell and became known as Velvet. Velvet was a fitting name, due to both her wealth and her fondness for red velvet cakes. She even made an Instagram account called radvelvetcakes. Rad was a word meaning “cool” and “trendy,” the things she always aspired to be. With her status as an overlord, it was…well, a piece of cake.

 Velvet would’ve been demon food if not for two Overlords who decided to take her in. Velvet soon had two friends and fellow Overlords: “Daddy” Vox and “Daddy” Valentino. The former was a wealthy TV demon, who owned all the TV stations in Hell. The latter was a moth pimp, who owned Hell’s number one porn studio. Together, the three Overlords made a near unstoppable fearsome force to be reckoned with. They become known as the Triple Vs. The three of them often hosted lavish parties on yachts and in fancy soirees, electronic music and dubstep pulsing through the air. All three of them controlled the “stimulants” of Hell: TV, drugs, porn, social media and food.

 Vox had a flat screen TV for a head and wore a black suit with a large red bow tie and blue stripes going down the suit. He wore a black top hat with antennas and a teal Wi-Fi symbol on it, the same symbol on his chest. When he first came down to Hell in the 1950s, he had an old boxy TV head. But thanks to his power over electricity, he upgraded himself as the years went on. In his full demon form, the red eyed, sharp blue-toothed man could cause entire blackouts. Formerly a white man named Vincent, with black hair and icy blue eyes, Vox died from a TV falling and crushing his face. In Hell, he continued his sinful actions he did when he was alive: hooking up, doing drugs, and hosting gruesome TV shows for entertainment. TV towers were everywhere, looming like impenetrable metal fortresses. With his showman personality, he stood equal to Alastor in power, if not more.

 Valentino was a light purple moth pimp with antennas and fancy coats. He had a ring of fluff around his neck with small red hearts on it. His glasses were pink and heart-shaped. He was often found lounging on couches with female “clients’ in his lap, smoking red smoke from a cigarette. The smoke itself could drug demons and make them doped up. Cruel and greedy, he enjoyed using and abusing people for his own pleasure, in particular, his porn star and worker Angel Dust. He promised love and pleasure, both of them illusions in the long run. His victims would be helpless and obedient, unable to leave and think for themselves. Valentino was originally Vasilis, a dark-skinned man from Brooklyn who also did drugs, smoked and participated in human trafficking. Valentino had died in the 1970s…and his distant relative was none other than fellow moth demon Vaggie!

 And then there was Velvet herself. She was a black-skinned doll demon, short but very deadly. One of her favorite outfits was a velvet laced white dress with small hearts around it and black shapes. She wore black stockings and pink shoes with white puff balls on it. Her hair was dark pink and in two thick pigtails. She had red sclera and white irises with black pupils. Although she looked and acted like a child, she was in her twenties. Velvet was the Overlord of sweets and social media. If Harley Quinn turned into an animated doll who loved gossiping and tea parties, then that would adequately describe what Velvet was like. Velvet once sat with Vox and Valentino safe in the porn studio during the Extermination. She eagerly checked her phone and took selfies while sitting next to Vox.

 Velvet could go full demon form like the other Overlords, but her power was laced with an extra dose of insanity. For in her most powerful form, she could make deadly potions to use against her enemies. Velvet was skilled enough making regular potion for perfume and to use as beauty products. But she could also make poisons and noxious gas to defeat any demon who dared disobey her and her fellow Overlords. In her most extreme form, she could magically turn her victims into sweets, absorbing their souls as she ate them! Even Vox and Valentino steered clear from her when she was in that form.

 Like a doll, Velvet was doted on by Vox and Valentino, as well as her many followers. All three of them went back and forth from doting their workers to abusing them with deadly threats. Although Velvet enjoyed being spoiled, she often felt like she was treated like a child too much. She was perfectly capable of taking care of herself, even meeting up with Rosie and other wealthy ladies to eat demons in the streets. Velvet was also infamous for sometimes using demons’ blood and organs in her baking.

 Yes, Velvet was living a life of luxury, perhaps second to the royal Magne family and the Eldritch family. Imagine her surprise when she found out that the princess was running a hotel to redeem sinners. She laughed it off, calling Charlie absurd. In many ways, she was similar to Seviathan, Helsa and Katie Killjoy: self-centered individuals who lived on gossip, trends, fashion and putting others down.

 Velvet was frequently seen on and searched many media platforms in Hell: Voxtube, Voxflix, Voxbook, and Voxtagram. The movie and social media sites were all run by Vox, of course. His dimensional monopoly was getting closer to becoming permanent.

 There was her Instagram account: “radvelvetcakes. Fun with the Overlords! Follow and comment to keep up on moth-pimp, voxtagram 8k and me!”

 On July 6, 2020, Velvet posted a selfie of herself smiling on what appeared to be a dance floor decorated with green neon candy tiles.

“This is my newest account! Be sure to tell your friends! Ain’t I a cutie?”

 On the same day, Velvet posted a selfie of her and Vox. Vox didn’t look very happy.

 Vox said, “Chillin in the studio. Rad photo by my girl radvelvetcakes.”

 On July 7, 2020, Velvet posted a picture of Valentino and Vox eating hamburgers at Hell’s version of McDonalds. Vox had his TV mouth open, a hamburger and French fries on his lap.

 “Lol. Voxtagram8k is one to talk. He’s hardly as cool as he thinks he is.”

 A later picture showed Valentino eating a giant chicken sandwich messily.

 Valentino posted, “Picking up the goods,” as Vox and a smiling Velvet got into their limo after going to McDonalds. Vox had a bag in his hand, while Velvet carried two drinks. The McDonald’s M logo was upside down.

 On July 9, 2020, Velvet posted a picture of herself showing off her manicured nails. Her sharp nails were decorated with sparkles, diamonds and little bows. The nails were extended ones. In the background, it looked like Vox’s leg was breaking down a door.

 Later, Valentino mentioned that he would fuck up Velvet for posting bad pictures of him and Vox.

 “Bored and missing the boys so I decided to do my nails up pretty!”

On July 10, 2020, Valentino posted a picture of Vox letting his pet shark loose on a tripping Velvet.

 Valentino said, “Got her. This is the only time I’ll say this, but Vox having a giant demon pet shark actually comes in handy.”

  On July 13, 2020, Velvet was seen beaming in a picture along with Vox, Valentino and their blue pet hammerhead shark.

  On July 20, 2020, Valentino posted a selfie at his new club.

 Valentino: “New club, new pole, anyone else wanna give it a whirl?”

 Stolas: “No thank you. I’m sure even if things are new, the same slime is still around.”

 When asked if Blitzo would do a dance on the pole for Valentino…

 Blitzo: “No, no that won’t happen. I’m too busy with my horses and business.

 Stola: It would be quite the sight. But I wouldn’t wish to see Blitzy working in Mr. Valentino’s establishment.

 Stolas: Why would I ever want the rat to want such an excellent business venture?

 Valentino: Watch yourself, bird.

 Stolas: That’s a lot of talk for an insect.

 Velvet laughed out loud as she read the comments.

 On July 21, 2020, Velvet posted a selfie of herself about to eat a dirty green lollipop with a fly on it. Valentino stared in horror with wide pink eyes under his heart glasses.

 “Val stopped me from eating a lollipop I found on the ground. But what he doesn’t know is that I grabbed it after he tossed it in the bin! #FreeCandy. #LivingFree. #RatsEatShitOffTheGroundAllTheTime.”

 Valentino replied, “Stop, we have money! We can get you another one!”

 Velvet: “It’s mystery flavored! We can do what we want!”

 Vox said to Valentino: “I will not be the one cleaning the toilet tonight.”

 Stolas said, “Wonderful parenting there,” and added a thumbs down.

 Moxxie the imp added, “Why would anyone eat something that was on the ground?”

 On July 23, 2020, Valentino posted a selfie of himself smoking, his eyes glowing pink under his shades.

 Valentino said, “Dealing with Angel always puts me in a bad mood. Gonna go have some fucked up fun.”

 Velvet eagerly asked, “Oooh, oooh, can I join?”

 Valentino replied, “Sure, why the fuck not?”

On July 25th, Velvet went on a killing mission with Vox and Valentino. Velvet was seen in a picture, beaming while holding a knife in her hands. The blade was stained with purple cake frosting.

 Valentino said, “Thanks for the backup today, baby doll.”

 Velvet responded, “It was so much fun! Wish we could do it more often.”

 Valentino added, “Always up for a little messy fun.”

 On July 26th, Velvet posted a picture of herself doing a “duck” face while holding a piece of pink and teal cake on a plate. The rest of the cake was on a plate on a table, with suspicious bloodstains in the frosting. Nearby, a blue demon stood holding a piece while his right shoulder had a bloody bandage on it.

 “So it turned out it was cake!” Velvet posted. Apparently, Velvet had thought that the demon was made of cake, so she had used a knife to slice his shoulder. Then she sliced up the cake and to her delight, it was, indeed, cake. Velvet had gleefully watched videos on VoxTube that showed artistically made cakes that looked like ordinary objects. This led to a meme or an online joke that everything was secretly cake. Velvet briefly wondered if she was cake herself.

  On August 4, 2020, Velvet posted a video of a blue Vox writing down notes and a red Valentino screaming at him. Vox remained unfazed.

 Velvet said: “Laughing my fucking ass off!”

Valentino wasn’t happy and said, “The fuck? You were supposed to advertise my company, not, whatever the fuck this is. Cute drawings, though.”

 Velvet: “Thank you.”

 Valentino: “Lucky you’re a crazy cute bitch.”

 Vox said, “Ur lucky I have a built in mute button. Also, this is perfect! <3.” Vox was the more easygoing, “dad” type individual in comparison to Valentino.

 On August 5, 2020, Velvet happily posed in a picture, holding a pink balloon she was about to pop with a pin. In front of her was an illuminated cake that read “Happy Birthday Gasu,” in reference to an artist who made character art for the show. Valentino had a scowl on his face as his red jacket got messy, the hearts on his fluff turning into broken hearts.

 “Celebrated Gasuguma’s birthday with cake! Love his amazing pictures of Vox, Valentino and me! Happy Birthday!”

 Valentino complained, “Yeah some celebration, stained my fucking jacket. Cake was good, though.”

 On August 6, 2020, valentine posted a picture of Vox in a dark room with two cups of soda in his hands.

 Valentino: “5:30 am. I asked Vox to get me a strawberry iced coffee several hours ago. The fucker shows up now with half a finished diet soda! Do I kill him, yes or no?”

 Velvet was annoyed. “So that’s where my fucking diet soda went.”

 Valentino: “Oh my fucking god, he didn’t even buy it for me.”

 Vox: “I’ll send Vark the Shark to deliver your drink next time.”

  Valentino: “You just wanted to see me.”

    On August 7, 2020, Vox’s picture showed his TV screen cracked and one of his antennas crooked. Vox’s screen turned to colored bars and Valentino was grinning in the picture.

 Valentino: “Thanks for the soda, Voxy. Don’t fuck up my order next time.”

 Velvet sadly says: “My dads are fighting.”

 Valentino: “Don’t worry baby doll, not my fault, Vox is a dumbass.”

 Vox: “Velvet, you’re literally the same age as us, wtf?”

 Sir Pentious: “Ha ha ha, that’s hilariously evil, Valentino. Or may I call you Val, we should “hang” soon?”

 Stolas: “You can do better.”

 Vox: “Time to get a new screen. Ungrateful rat. #notmyboyfriend.”

 Valentino: “You woke me up. Sorry not sorry.”

 Stolas said to Vox: “I would say you could do better, but I’m not entirely sure you can.”

 Valentino: “Go fuck an imp.”

 Stolas: Gladly.

 Valentino: Sad.

 Stolas: What’s sad is traipsing around in a giant tacky coat trying too hard to be intimidating.

 Valentino: What’s sadder is watching you thirst over a tiny-dicked imp 24/7.

 Stolas: From what I’ve heard, he has a bigger dick than whatever you have between your legs.

 Valentino: From who? Lol. You obviously don’t have anyone, I don’t see nothing on your insta other than a thirsty dried old man.

 Stolas: …

 Stolas: You only like Vox because he can display glowing lamps on his screen, dirty moth.

 Velvet laughed out loud, this was the most fun she had in a while.

  On August 17 2020, Valentino posted another selfie.

 Valentino: “Got some business to take care of.”

 Stolas: I knew disco was dead, but I didn’t know it went to Hell.” Another successful roast.

 Velvet said: “Looking pretty dapper, Val. Don’t worry, I know Vox will see it!”

 Valentino said to Stolas, “Don’t hate me ‘cause you ain’t me, imp fucker.”

 Stolas replied, “Why would I want to be a rat?”

 Valentino: “Why are you so obsessed with me, baby cake? Want me to stop by? Help remove the stick from your ass.”

 Stolas: The stuck up my ass would be more pleasurable than anything you’ve got.

 Velvet was laughing so hard, tears came from her eyes.

 Valentino: Don’t knock it till you try it, baby. You know what they say about moths.

 Stolas: That they’re little pests obsessed with light bulbs? Owls eat insects, you know.

 Valentino: They can go all night.

 Stolas: Well owls eat rats. Wait this came out from the wrong particular situation…

 Valentino made an erotic face.

 Stolas: No.

 Sir Pentious to Valentino: “I own the same shirt, maybe we can do business and hang.”