#Randall Pace

[feel-the-fire]

Dance with a madman, won’t you?

[askthebrokenones-fm]

“’M fine,” he replied. “Joints ache, that’s all. It’s nothin’ unusual.”

He gestured at Randall, humming, “C’mon. A chair would be nice right about now.”

@askthebrokenones-fm

"Straps," Randall nodded, committing that idea to memory as he replied, "I'll get right on that, thanks for the suggestion!" These were the sorts of important kinds of feedback he liked to hear, and as soon as he got the chance, he'd add them on-safety first, after all.

Upon seeing the look on Egore's face at this little twinge, he asked concernedly, "Are you alright?" He was sure flight took a lot out of his friend, and so he wondered if he should see about grabbing some of the salve he mixed up for Sinclair, it might help, if needed...

[beatingheart-bride]

@theheadlessgroom

Afterlife at Gracey Manor felt like a dream come true. The Pace family had long since settled into their life of domesticity within its walls. It had been over five years since June and Wilhelm had first entered the mansion's front door, and the family had never been happier. Leonidas and Erika were about to celebrate their fifth birthday, five years that had been nothing short of heaven on earth for Randall and Emily.

With all three generations of Paces residing under the same roof (to say nothing of the Graceys also being family through everything but blood), it felt like the afterlife couldn't get any better. It was a peaceful existence, one full of all of the love and family that they'd been robbed of during life.

It was the early morning, and the Paces had just made their way down to the ballroom for breakfast: through the grapevine, they heard whispers of visitors having arrived from overseas. It had been a great while since the last visitor passed through Gracey Manor's walls, and thus the news of a new visitor's arrival was enough to pique the Pace's curiosity.

"Overseas is a long way to travel to visit the manor," Emily remarked as she and the rest of the family headed towards an empty table to take a seat for their morning meal. "I wonder what brought them here?"

[normaltothemax]

“stop this madness.”

He barks out a hoarse, slightly hysterical laugh. Madness. Spock has no idea how right he is. He's been fighting a switch for the past several minutes, Jake or Steven pushing to front, to spare Marc having to be around during the frankly terrible storm they'd taken shelter from in their cave.

Switching in front of Spock, though? It was one thing when Jake came out in the middle of a fight, but if Steven fronts for seemingly no reason? If he all of a sudden starts speaking in a British accent? The other man will know something's up, might even be able to figure it out, smart as he is.

Marc shakes his head where it hangs between his knees, squeezes his eyes shut. "Trust me, I'm trying."

@fasciinating (x)

[askthebrokenones-fm]

Sinclair bowed his head further, curling his body down to be able to fit through the door. His gangly arms folded up to his chest, a long shaky sigh exhaling from his lips.

Sinclair replied slowly, "Maybe... A blanket." The forced grin curled into something a little more genuine, as Sinclair attempted at a stab of humor, "I'm not really fit for the weather... Like this."

(((crawls out of hell with this) @theheadlessgroom It's been a bit since I did Sinclair interacting with Randall-

[fear-is-truth]

tags: mature content 18 +・fem!reader・smut・unprotected p in v・car sex

the old honda civic rattled slightly, the worn-out shocks barely holding up against the weight shifting inside. rough fingers dug into your sides to keep you steady as he shifted, the car groaning beneath you both, the air thick with sex and sweat. your eyes flicked down, catching sight of a few crumpled burger wrappers scattered on the car floor, an empty soda cup rolling with the movement. it felt cramped, claustrophobic almost, the windows fogging up even more as you tried to adjust your position, hitching your hips trying to get him to move along.

every slight shift of your body made the seat groan, but he wasn’t giving you much room to move. his body was pressed flushed against yours, his belly pushing you deeper into the worn seats. the friction from the cracked leather scraped against your ass, making you wince, but the uncomfortable sting somehow only heightened the intensity of pleasure. ralph’s — no, randall’s new scraggly beard scratched your skin as he buried his face into the crook of your neck, a grunt escaping him as the car swayed just a little from side to side.

“mhmph, f-fuck… ralph,”

you moaned, pressing the flat of your palms against his chest, but he didn’t let up. instead, his hips rutted in a more shallow, more frantic pace, and you couldn’t help the small, shaky breaths that escaped you every time you feel the tip of his cock bully into your sweet spot.

“stay still for me baby,”

ralph grunted with effort, pausing for a second to reach his hand between you; irritably adjusting his balls to keep himself from coming too soon. you tried, digging your heels into his ass to anchor yourself as he proceeded to fuck into you with a rough, frustrated need. his mouth found yours again, that goddamn fucking beard tickling your chin as he wiggled his tongue past your teeth and started to explore the wet cavern. you whimpered into his mouth, fingernails digging into his pale skin until he broke the kiss, strings of a saliva connecting you. ralph’s frustration came through in every deep thrust, every grunt as his laboured breath came in hot, uneven puffs.

a strained moan reverberated through the cramped space when he came.

fingers tangled in your hair as he continued to twitch and throb inside you, and when you opened your eyes, you saw that ralph’s face was contorted into an expression that could only be described as euphoric rapture. your walls expanded and contracted rhythmically, fluttering around him as he came down from his high.

© fear-is-truth 2024 — do not repost, modify or translate

[ivystoryweaver]

March the 9th

Marc Spector x gn!reader 1.4k words, angst, sex is implied, no smut, tw abuse, not beta'd

☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ

Your skin tingles as you struggle you steady your breathing. Pacing the floor for an hour does nothing to calm that fuzzy feeling in the center of you.

He’ll be here soon.

You’ve memorized the pattern on the ceiling over your bed, because you stared at it the entire night, never once slipping into blissful slumber.

Your phone never rings. No emails, no letters, no messages.

But he always shows.

Bouncing on your toes, you smooth your hands down the lines of your body, checking your reflection, which lets you know you look the same as you did five minutes ago.

☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ

The first year...

Your family moved onto the Spectors’ street when you were nine years old. You quickly befriended the Spector boys, often playing with them after school and on weekends.

Then, one day, Randall was gone. You were supposed to play with them that day, but you had the flu.

Marc was never the same and you didn’t see much of him, except at school. The Spectors didn’t throw him a birthday party and he didn’t show up at yours either.

So you created a handmade birthday card for him, making a point to cross his path at school. He was absent.

The next year approached, and you realized the Spectors once again would not be throwing a party, so you gave Marc his birthday card on March 8th. He jerked it out of your hand, eyes downcast, muttering, “thanks,” before shuffling away.

You called his name, scampering after him, but he never looked back. The two of you were in middle school now and Marc didn’t seem to have many friends at all. Hopefully he would read the card, which invited him over to hang out.

He did.

On the night of March 9th, he crawled through your bedroom window for the first time. Tears streaked down his cheeks as his body trembled.

“Can I sleep on your floor?” He brokenly whispered.

You had a queen sized bed, so, of course you didn’t let your clearly devastated friend sleep on the hard floor.

“Don’t tell anyone,” he murmured drowsily, once he slid beneath the covers. “Please, they’ll kill me.”

You didn’t understand and he wouldn’t explain. You were only twelve years old. You squeezed his hand and let him rest.

He talked to you after that, only sometimes.

The next March 9th, you gave him another card, with another invitation to come over. He did. Your fingers tangled with his.

Again at fourteen, when, after swiping the tears from his eyes, he kissed you. He kissed you for a long time and you thought you’d never felt anything so magical.

At fifteen, he kissed and touched you all night long. Your heart was his now.

Still, he kept to himself for most of the other 364 days a year.

At sixteen, he climbed into your bed and the two of you lost your virginity. Neither of you had a clue what you were doing - clumsy and wild and sweet. But he kissed you and held you and he tried. You loved him and you had never felt so close to anyone in your life.

He flinched away from your touch several times, so you thought you must be doing something wrong.

It wasn’t until seventeen that you saw his well-hidden bruises and red welts by your bedside lamplight.

“Who did this to you?” Tears streamed down your face as your fingertips traced lovingly around anger and drunkenness unleashed on his beautiful body.

His eyes met yours and you knew. He came to your bed a lot more after that.

Then came eighteen. Three months before graduation. You asked him all the time where he wanted to go to college - where the two of you could go together, but nothing ever came of it. He only answered, “I have to get out.”

March the 9th of year eighteen was the last you saw of Marc Spector for a long time. He didn’t make it to graduation.

He sent you a letter in year nineteen.

‘I’m sorry,’ was all it said.

Year twenty passed. 21, 22, 23…

You graduated college and met someone. But every March the 9th, your fingers would trace his picture, so your "someone" didn't last.

More than a few March 9ths ago, you somehow wished him right back to you. He knocked on your door, shuffling anxiously from foot to foot, swallowing hard and expecting rejection.

You threw your arms around him. “Happy birthday,” you whispered against his cheek before his mouth found yours.

He took you to bed and you knew then that your heart would only ever be his.

It wasn’t enough though. He granted you a half-hearted explanation about danger and old debts and how he was so messed up - he could never bring it all into your life.

You had enough dignity to refrain from begging him.

The next March the 9th was the same. And the next, and the next.

☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ

This year, you’re resolute. It will be the last. It has to be. You can’t do this anymore. He doesn’t love you - not the way you love him. You’ll wish him happy birthday, take him to your bed, but - never again. It hurts too much.

A sharp knock jolts you out of your reverie, sending all the air rushing out of you. Squeezing your eyes shut, you steady yourself, giving yourself one final moment to prepare for your last night with Marc.

You reach for the door and find him holding flowers. Irises.

“You like these…right?” Dark eyebrows shift hopefully.

You breathe his name, your heart flaming with adoration. You take the bouquet and wrap your arms around his neck like always, whispering, “Happy birthday,” against his cheek as his lips seek out your own. He tastes you slowly…sweetly, his breath mingling with yours.

You lose your grasp on the irises, forgetting to care as they spill to the floor. Strong arms wind around you as his hands spread across your back, pressing you against the solid warmth of his chest. The kiss goes on and on until you’re dizzy and breathless and hot tears wet your eyes at the thought of never tasting him again.

You fight them back as the two of you finally make it through the front door and he kicks it closed. He takes you to bed and you drown in the essence that is Marc - unearthed secrets, soul-crushing burdens, beautiful desperation and a kind of hungry tenderness. You bury your nose in the crook of his neck, comforted and tormented as you inhale the spicy, sun-kissed scent of him, your lips tasting, committing him to memory.

Saltiness seeps into your mouth and you’re not sure if it’s the slight sheen on his skin as he works his way into you, or the tears slipping down your cheeks.

Your fingers twist through his dark curls as you pull your body flush against his - the heat of your tongue - the twist of your body - the scrape of your fingernails desperately attempting to communicate your need for this man.

He’s been your birthday wish most of your life.

He holds you against him until the calendar turns to the 10th. The sun rises and you realize he’s never stayed this long.

Which will make the speech you’ve planned so much harder. You shuffle to the bathroom while he sleeps, steeling yourself for the heartbreak. As you stare into the mirror, tears burn your eyes and you wonder if you can go through with it. The thought of never seeing him again is crushing, but you can’t go on like this.

Finally, you straighten out your appearance and freshen up, fighting like hell to keep your composure.

Marc is awake, sitting on the edge of your bed in only his boxers. You expect him to be dressed and ready to walk out the door, but as his warm, coffee colored eyes find yours…

He gently smiles.

“Marc?” You whisper, slowly approaching him.

“Come here,” he softly instructs, reaching for you. You sink down beside him, your foreheads touching sweetly as he grips your arms.

“Could…do you think I could stay?”

Tears trickle down. Again. “I don’t know,” you whimper. “I-I can’t-"

“I know.,” he nods, pressing an urgent kiss to your mouth. “I’m sorry. I’ll go.”

He’s off the bed and reaching for his clothes before you can blink, but you don’t let him get far. “Stay,” you urgently plead. “Stay with me.”

He freezes, eyes wide and hopeful. “F-for tonight, or…”

“Stay,” you repeat, pressing your palms to the heat of his bare chest. “Stay or go. Just decide.”

☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ

Next March the 9th…

“Happy birthday, baby,” you murmur against his lips as he rolls you underneath him.

“Happy anniversary,” he returns, sealing his mouth to yours.

☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ

Marc Spector-Centric stories

Moon Knight Masterlist

Main Masterlist

[santrrl]

hello! i love your writing!!! saw your requests are open. logan with a reader with physical mutations? something like mystique or morph but they can’t turn it off. how do you think logan would comfort reader? thank you!!

Thank you sm 😭🩷!! And of course <33 I kinda based it on a mix of Randall from monsters Inc and mystique where if the reader has high emotions or scared than they shift if that's alright !!<3 as always bullet points and then another short ? Fic :)

L.H X MORPHING! READER

-the first time he sees you he ignores you, as you're just new, why would he see you different?

-until the outside of you turns slightly purple from embarrassment, as you were gawking at him.

-he turns around expecting mystique or something, but deep down he knows she isn't like this.

-as the days go past and you know eachother, sometimes he leaves out things to scare you to see if your mutation is truly reactive or not.

-fucker knows its mean but he probably pays kurt to jump out at you on the first day knowing you've not seen him before.

-things like fake mice, or your favourite foods in the fridge (don't ask how he knows he just knows.) Just to see you turn a color, or physically droop in dread, like a Bassett hound.

-it kinda amuses him, you being like a cartoon character sometimes, so he's not too hard on you. Hell now you're practically jumping out of your room fighting incase logan had planned to scare you.

-he's not the only one doing pranks though, if you're walking around blue from nervousness best know he's gonna ask you. "What's wrong bub? Whose scaring ya?" Teasingly, but if he had your mutation he would've went red hearing that Scott had left a note saying 'watch out' as a joke.

-HUNTEDDD Scott down and 'talked to him'. Against a wall. And against Scott's will.

-safe to say you weren't turning invisible anytime soon from him.

-if you ever got upset at it he'd definitely run to you.

-"Bub look at me, it's not that bad. If I can see I can help."

☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆

-he secretly loves being able to see if you're okay or not because it gives him an excuse to be a hero to you

-if you're genuinly considering the vaccine that eventually gets out, he goes nuts. You're on the couch he's pacing like an angry father. "Like...why would you even? Theres- i- what. We're you. Thinking." He's so mad he doesn't even know what to say.

-hell pick you up and just kiss you at that point and say "no." Really angrily before leaving

It'd been a few months since you'd joined the school, familiar with everyone, but mainly Logan and colossus, as they were the ones you trusted most. Once the news started getting wind of you mutation and that you'd joined the xmen, you didn't know whether to laugh or to cry.

"Newest xmen recruit.." "xmen seems to have dissapeared.." "should we be worried?" "I saw them go up and it was like...so cool mr news man! Like it disappeared" said many news stations, and you weren't exactly accustomed to being one of the trending tumblr tags.

"Bub, pete." Came Logans voice as he entered the kitchen. "Hello, logan." "Lo' " you smiled, yellow slightly entering your arms and chest. "You see the news?" He scoffed, leaning on the counter. "Yes.." you groaned laughing

As you all chit chatted, it was only a matter of time before Charles had called you to his office, some monthly test thing or something.

Colossus whom had almost never left his steel form anymore simply stayed put, knowing he was excluded, and you and logan went trodding to his office. "Scott giving you more hassle?" He grumbled quietly. "Nope.." you sighed. "Nothing I consider harassment." You smiled at him.

The day went on, test and test, and eventually it was time to go to bed, for you at least. Waving bye, you walked through the corridors, careful not to alert any children, before reaching your room. Laying there you felt off. Was it the test? Was it charles? Lo?

You couldn't get your mind off of it, and by now you were practically lilac, so you went up to find logan. As you trodded however you heard voices down the stairs behind your room.

"What the.." you'd start, and as you walk down, you saw something that made you turn invisible at the second. Logan had Scott in a mean chokehold, and you knew he was too mad to go near. So thus? You kept invisible. Stripped off all your clothes and walked down. The clothes would've made it obvious that you were there.

"Wanna repeat what the fuck you've been telling my girl huh?" You heard the struggle. His girl? The way he said it implied he was mocking Scott but...

"Cmon!" He groaned, before Scott slipped out and nearly fell straight onto you as he walked. "Listen ill leave her alright!? I just...wanted to take my mind off you know." He frowned as he turned and stormed off.

Forgetting completely you weren't supposed to be there, you spoke up. "So what was that about?" And logan nearly jumped at you in response. "Jesus, christ why are you here?" He groaned still pissed. "I got nosy." You shrugged.

"Wait."

"What lo?"

"Are you naked?"

".....maybe"

"Fucksake."

I WROTE ON PHONE SO SORRY<÷<3<3

[raziiyah]

Can we all agree that

Randall is NEITHER a Sweet woowoo misunderstood baby NOR is he a completely Heartless and soulless demonic creature with 0 feelings?

Like even in Monster's at Work we can see that Yes. He's definitely an awful person who has done terrible things and is still out to go do more terrible things BUT we also can see he has shown to be genuinely grateful to Johnny for saving his life and actually considered Johnny to be his Best Friend (even if it was completely one-sided on his part)

yesss randall is definitely not one or the other for me

i LOVE randall but i do not see him as a sweet misunderstood baby. he has done so much awful things and as of now shows no sign of remorse. it's supposedly been 20 years since college and he's only gotten more bitter over the years; far from who he was at the beginning of college. it's unfortunate that he got mixed up in the wrong crowd, but every bad choice he's made was his choice to make. also i feel like some people forget just how messed up his plan with the scream extractor in mi was, not to mention his sadistic and murderous desires (if randall was visible during his fight with sulley it would NOT be family friendly 💀)

but he isn't doing what he's doing just for the sake of being evil, yes he's mean, but at his core, it's just that randall will go through great lengths to get what he wants, to get the recognition he craves so much, and most especially, to one up sulley. his mindset was warped by ror, which changed his life forever. monsters university fleshed out this part of randall's character, as it provided context on why he’s the way he is, and gives a different meaning to his words, actions and intentions.

though i felt randall and johnny's best friendship was random considering what happened in mu, it was an interesting change of pace to see post mu randall actually like someone. randall mentioned that he owed johnny one, but i feel like they still genuinely enjoyed each other's company. like you can see that randall and johnny actually have a connection that isn't just strictly business, unlike randall and waternoose.

i do think that part of randall also still craves johnny's attention like he did in mu. considering he's been wanting to get in with the “cool kids” since literally day one of university suggests he's been wanting recognition and status for a very long time. and with johnny still having power and status as the ceo of fear co., i feel like randall would've still wanted to work with him despite what happened in mu.

i feel that even post uni randall still feels a need to impress johnny. like when he scares tylor, it seems like he immediately looks to johnny for his reaction and approval. then, he makes a joke at chet's expense, and after, goes to stand by johnny's side. with chet being johnny's former right-hand man, it makes sense why randall takes digs at him

i imagined that sometime in university, randall said something mean to chet and johnny found it funny, so he kept doing it for his attention (like the chet-wetter thing) and even now, he still brings it up and likely says and does other mean things to chet to raise himself up and put chet down

i would've liked to think that randall narrating johnny as his “best friend joined at the hip” could've just been something he made up for his own sake, but since maw johnny seems to actually neglect chet in favour of randall, i guess the writers just decided randall would actually just be his bestie moving forward (though i think leaning into the other concept would've been cool)

would randall feel like johnny was just using him, perhaps like he did in university? maybe. but perhaps he'll take a false sense of love and acceptance over nothing

though i don't think randall would've stuck around unless it benefited him, and that proves to be true when randall abandoned johnny after he got jailed lol, with johnny not being in a place of power anymore, he's useless to him now

now that randall is on his own, i want to see him work solely for himself, by himself. not under anyone, no boss, no more with being a follower. unless some other random monster shows up or they bring back waternoose or something, randall is very likely going to be the main villain of the next season, and this could be an opportunity to see more of his personality, especially since we still have yet to see randall interact with mike and sulley

maybe he could show a shred of regret, acknowledge the weight of his actions, or how much he's changed, but still show that he's gone too far now to go back to how he was. maybe he hates who he was before. or maybe he hates who he is now. but he's done too much and worked too hard to just accept that he's lost and go back to how he used to be

maybe mike could say something along the lines of "what happened to you, randall? what happened to the nice, friendly guy i knew in university?" and randall could be like "the guy who was naive? the guy who was insecure? the guy who was nothing more than second best? that guy is gone wazowski. long gone."

or maybe randall could tell sulley how he genuinely feels about him, and how much he was affected by always being in his shadow. perhaps sulley could acknowledge his skills and say that he could turn things around and do great things at the factory, and randall could laugh at the idea and say some stuff like "work together? under your management? what a joke. i don't think so. i'm not standing in your shadow, sullivan. not anymore."

idk lol but i think it would be cool to give randall some kind of scene that acknowledges his past or makes you sympathize with him a bit but not excuse his actions, or something to make the audience reflect on how tragic his character is or what could've been. i'd also like if he went as hard as he did when he nearly pushed sulley off the door to his death, especially considering the position sulley is in now

mu's existence changed and fleshed out randall's character (even if he didn't have as much scenes as he could've) and i would love to see this show do the same. except tylor is the main character and the show focuses more on mift; even mike and sulley aren't really the focus so i don't think they'd put that much emphasis on randall (but i'd love to be proved wrong)

for the record, though i currently think randall is in a state where he's far from redemption, i'm not completely closed off to the idea as long as it's in character and written well. though no offense but idk if maw/disney could actually manage to pull that off lol. whatever happens i just hope they do his character justice at least 🙏

[satansapostle6]

Love The Sinner | Dexter Morgan

Dexter Morgan, a vigilante serial killer hiding in plain sight, loses sleep for the first time in his life when he’s met with the very last thing he expected: a kindred spirit.

Warnings: Violence. Mature language and themes. Sexual content.

Part One.

Part Two. Innocent Until Proven Sexy.

Johnny Bertelli, in the many long months of my murder trial, became my favorite fucking person. The jury thankfully didn’t really see it that way, but we were running circles around the prosecutors. Our claim was naturally self defense, and I have to admit, it was a fucking good one. Story goes, I entered George Randall’s house to confront him, for causing my daughter’s suicide. I got angry, and things got heated, with neighbors to attest to the fact that we were both yelling. George got angry, and attacked me. And I defended myself. The story’s so good, even I believe it.

Technically, I did come to return George’s dishes to him, and he did get pretty heated with me when we argued, so really, we weren’t telling too many lies here. As far as George’s various embellishments, this case was pretty clean. I would say the only challenge Johnny and I faced in court was spinning my obvious lack of remorse when I was arrested. But I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t looking forward to seeing Johnny take on a real challenge. It really is funny to watch this giant Italian guy pacing about the court during his addresses to the court while he’s built like Luca Brasi.

At the moment, I’m sitting up on the stand beside the judge, while the entire courtroom scrutinizes my every move and micro expression. There are about fifty pairs of eyes on me, but right now, I only care about one. A pair of sharp green eyes, that I still recognize from when I couldn’t work that goddamn phone. But I quickly snapped out of it, bringing my attention back to Johnny, and the trial. Somehow, this felt less interesting.

“So. Nicole, I know you’ve been through a lot in the past year or so, so forgive me,” my lawyer began, evoking sympathy from the court, “But did you have any intention of murdering George Randall when you knocked on his door?”

I took a moment, almost chewing on the question as I reluctantly relished its bitter taste.

“No.”

One thing good lawyers tell you: never answer more than the question you’re being asked. Even if you think it makes you sound better.

“Now, Nicole… I’m sorry that we have to go through this… Frankly, hurtful line of questioning. If you need to, just focus on me, alright? For now, this is between us. Not the court.”

I nodded. “Thank you.”

Johnny nodded kindly. God, we were fucking good at this. I was so close to nominating us both for Academy Awards.

“Can you tell me what you were thinking, as you knocked on George’s door?”

I thought for a moment, calling back to our preparations for this trial.

“I… I was naturally angry, and disgusted, when I read my daughter’s suicide note, stating that George Randall had…”

I did genuinely choke on the word.

“Raped… my daughter,” I told Johnny. “I was appalled, but… More than anything, I wanted answers.”

Johnny looks at me curiously. “‘Answers’?”

I cleared my throat. “I… I just couldn’t understand how someone, a human being, could be capable of that sort of evil. I mean, to rape a child? To cause a twelve year-old girl, my little girl, to take her own life? What kind of monster does that?”

Johnny nods, agreeing with me. “Yes. It’s unthinkable. That’s what it is, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, unthinkable, and unspeakable… But unfortunately, my client, Nicole, does not have the luxury of being able to ignore what this man did… Because this man’s evil claimed two lives; not only the life of twelve year-old Isabella Carvalho, but Nicole Carvalho’s as well, if the prosecution prevails,” he says harshly. “That is the truth; if the prosecution succeeds in wrongfully convicting Nicole Carvalho of murder, she will receive a prison sentence, or God forbid, the death penalty, for defending herself against the man who attacked her, the very same man who raped and drove her daughter to suicide at only twelve years old.”

Johnny nods solemnly, looking at me gratefully before turning to the court.

“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I believe that this is a crucial factor in this case; George Randall may be dead today, but the fact remains, he was neither murdered, nor a victim. He raped a twelve year-old girl.”

A harsh wave of silence washes over the court, as most hold their breath.

“He raped a twelve year old-girl, driving her to the irreversible act of suicide at the young age of twelve, not even a teenager yet, and when that girl’s mother knocked on her door, he couldn’t handle it, and lashed out at her!”

The jury seemed just as disturbed as they should’ve been at this. I sat quietly on the stand, not having to say a word. Johnny was working the court. Together, we were such good liars, I think we even believed ourselves, on some level. As Johnny continued his argument, highlighting me as the victim in our perfect narrative, I looked around the room with a deep sadness in my eyes. I really was thinking about my daughter. I felt like I was living in some dystopian world, a world where my daughter was dead, and I had become a murderer.

Everything around me felt so distant and surreal, but then, I looked into his eyes. The man I had hardly noticed before, because he looked like every man. It was him, watching my trial, next to another man he’d come with, a short bald man. I couldn’t believe my eyes, but it really was him, the man who had helped me with the phone at Miami Metro all those months ago. It was him, I was sure of it, sitting there lost in the crowd watching the proceedings of my court case with his eyes darting back and forth like at a basketball game. I looked right into his cold green eyes, and suddenly, reality hit me again.

I was no longer lost in my melancholic fantasy. I was brought back to real life, in all its delicious violence and passion. I didn’t believe in God, but this man had the presence of an angel. Not, like, a cartoonish cherub with tiny wings and a halo, but a real, biblically accurate angel. I looked into his cold, icy eyes that seemed to watch me with an almost inhuman precision, and I felt so strange. This feeling was like nothing I’d ever experienced before with any other stranger. I looked into his eyes, felt his austere gaze on me, and I could’ve sworn it was like all the blood drained from my body.

I looked into this man’s eyes, and I felt more things in that one millisecond than I’d ever felt in my life. This man looked to me like an angel. Not because he was so soft and comforting, but because I could’ve sworn I looked into his hawklike eyes and heard a voice tell me ‘do not be afraid’. It felt just as surreal as a human in the bible encountering a real angel, in all its terrifying glory. In that moment, I had no idea what came over me, but when our eyes met, I looked at him for a moment, no longer lying, or playing a character. I looked at him from across the room, electrified, and for a split second, I smiled. I don’t know why, I couldn’t help it.

I risked my entire court case just to look at this strange man across the room, and I just smiled, with no remorse or concern for anything but my own appetites. What was even stranger was that he looked at me, saw my flirtatious smile, and returned it, for so short of a time that afterwards, I couldn’t even be sure if it was real.

*****

After today, I left the court room with Johnny in tears. Real tears. Not many of them, but enough to warrant sunglasses. I was still emotional about Isabella, given that she was practically murdered, and it just so happened that it came out from time to time in public. After walking out of the courthouse with Johnny, with his hand on my back as we ran past the journalists trying to get interviews and photos, I wiped away the last of my tears, brushing mascara clumps off of my fingers.

“You did good, kiddo,” Johnny promises me.

I just smile, nodding. I love this man, because he talks to me like we’re on The Sopranos. I hurry down the street with him in my Jimmy Choos, rushing to our cars just as I accidentally bump into a man on the street.

“Oh, sorry—!” the man exclaims, as his companion turns.

I suddenly stop as, right there on the street, the man from Miami Metro and his bald friend stand right in front of us. Johnny is somewhat confused by my lingering, but waits with me. The bald man looks at me like he’s seen a ghost, staring at me like he’s starstruck. Fuck, I think, he must recognize me. I thought he was about to panic, or act like I have something contagious, given about half of society currently sees me as a murderer, but he seems to have a completely different reaction.

“O-Oh my God!” the little bald man exclaims, as the other man just smiles at me uncomfortably. “You’re—You’re—”

He seems incapable of finishing the sentence.

“Nicole Carvalho,” I finish the sentence for him.

“…Miami MILF!” he exclaims, before I can finish. “Murderer I’d Like to Fuck!”

I frowned, not really expecting that as Johnny chivalrously comes to my defense.

“Hey, pal…” my lawyer begins, before I cut him off.

“Johnny, it’s alright,” I turned to him, not threatened by this man.

The bald Japanese man scrambles before just handing me his coffee cup. “Do you think you could sign this?!”

As far as strange interactions after I became a household name, this honestly wasn’t the worst.

“You… want me to sign this?” I question, needing confirmation as he hands me the mostly empty coffee cup.

He nods. “Yeah!”

But before this can go any further, the man from Miami Metro intervenes, taking the coffee cup from me as an act of courtesy.

“Okay, Masuka,” he says responsibly, “I don’t think we need to do that—”

I take the cup back, smiling as I fish for a pen in my purse. “It’s alright,” I promise them, deciding to just sign the cup, “I’ve always wanted to give an autograph, albeit, under different circumstances… What’s your name?”

The bald man practically jumps for joy as I sign the cup. “Vince. It’s Vince.”

Honestly, his morbid fascination with me was somewhat… well… fascinating. I was probably a murderer, or at the very least definitely a killer, but he didn’t seem to care, because I looked good in a pencil skirt. God, the halo effect is real.

“Okay, great, I’ll make this out to Vince:”

“Thank you!” Vince says far too enthusiastically.

I nod. “Mm-hmm.”

The man from Miami Metro just stands there, awkwardly, frowning sympathetically as I sign and give back the paper cup.

“Here you go,” I say charismatically, “Just… Promise not to lift it for prints, okay?”

This makes even the sandy-haired guy from the police station chuckle, before Johnny chimes in, with perfect comedic timing.

“She’s kidding, of course,” Johnny says quickly, smiling, “You wouldn’t find much if you did.”

I smile as I seem to have made the bald man, Masuka’s, day.

“Thank you,” the sandy-haired guy says sheepishly, “And sorry…”

“Not a problem,” I offer, “At least I get to feel like a celebrity for… two seconds.”

“Oh, come on,” Vince Masuka says, “I’m sure guys ask you for autographs all the time.”

I smile awkwardly. “Surprisingly, no.”

“Really?” he thinks. “Huh. Well, they should, because… All due respect… You’re a dime piece.”

I smile. “Well, that just brightens up my day….”

He laughs a laugh that I can only describe as Beavis and Butthead-esque.

“Alright, well… Thank you for your time,” the Miami Metro guy thanks me politely and apologetically. “Vince… let’s leave the nice woman alone,” he prompted, seeming desperate to get away.

But why? Why was this man who had been watching me for days suddenly so keen on getting away? He must’ve wanted some semblance of distance from me… To watch me in the shadows, without me knowing he’s there. He was trying to get away, but I didn’t let him. I just couldn’t. He was like a fly stuck in my trap.

“I’m sorry, what was your name?” I ask him.

Forget the cat, curiosity was killing me.

“Uh, Dexter,” he says in a friendly manner, shaking my hand.

“Dexter,” I smile, as if trying it out.

Of course it had to be something like that. I considered that maybe he’d given me a fake name, but given that he had a friend with him, I supposed it probably wasn’t.

“Well, Vince, Dexter, it was nice meeting you,” I wave as I walk away with Johnny.

Vince looks at me like a lost puppy, waving hopelessly as I walk away. Dexter, on the other hand, gives me a tiny wave before the friendly smile on his face disappears, revealing a colder, smarter mind beneath the surface, if only for a second. I had no idea who this man was, or why he was really so interested in my case. Logic told me he could’ve been just as pervy of a fanboy as his friend, but something told me it certainly wasn’t that. I didn’t know what his fascination was with me, but I knew it was something dark. There was something just so present, and unnerving, in the way he looked at me, even just as he waved goodbye to me on the street.

I just couldn’t quite place it, and it was killing me. I racked my brain, but still, I couldn’t think of just one instance where somebody looked at me the exact same way this Dexter character did. It was strange. However, there was one memory of someone in particular that wasn’t exact, but a close match. The closest thing to the look I saw in Dexter’s eyes was the look in George Randall’s eyes, right before he died, somewhere between the tenth and eleventh stab wound.

-

Part Three.

[sassenach77yle]

||COUNTDOWN ||SEASON 2 EPISODE 05 || UNTIMELY RESURRECTION ||

#83daysofoutlander☆

He was turning to go through the door when I sprang up from the bed and caught him by the sleeve. “Jamie! For God’s sake, Jamie, listen to me! You can’t kill Jack Randall because I won’t let you!” He stared down at me in utter astonishment. “Because of Frank,” I said. I let go of his sleeve and stepped back. “Frank,” he repeated, shaking his head slightly as though to clear a buzzing in his ears. “Frank.” “Yes,” I said. “If you kill Jack Randall now, then Frank … he won’t exist. He won’t be born. Jamie, you can’t kill an innocent man!” His face, normally a pale, ruddy bronze, had faded to a blotchy white as I spoke. Now the red began to rise again, burning the tips of his ears and flaming in his cheeks. “An innocent man?” “Frank is an innocent man! I don’t care about Jack Randall—” “Well, I do!” He snatched up the bag and strode toward the door, cloak streaming over one arm. “Jesus God, Claire! You’d try to stop me taking my vengeance on the man who made me play whore to him? Who forced me to my knees and made me suck his c*ck, smeared with my own blood? Christ, Claire!” He flung the door open with a crash and was in the hallway by the time I could reach him. It had grown dark by now, but the servants had lit the candles, and the hallway was aglow with soft light. I grasped him by the arm and yanked at him. “Jamie! Please!” He jerked his arm impatiently out of my grasp. I was almost crying, but held back the tears. I caught the bag and pulled it out of his hand. “Please, Jamie! Wait, just for a year! The child—Randall’s—it will be conceived next December. After that, it won’t matter. But please—for my sake, Jamie—wait that long!” The candelabra on the gilt-edged table threw his shadow huge and wavering against the far wall. He stared up at it, hands clenched, as though facing a giant, blank-faced and menacing, that towered above him. “Aye,” he whispered, as though to himself, “I’m a big chap. Big and strong. I can stand a lot. Yes, I can stand it.” He whirled on me, shouting. “I can stand a lot! But just because I can, does that mean I must? Do I have to bear everyone’s weakness? Can I not have my own?” He began to pace up and down the hall, the shadow following in silent frenzy. “You cannot ask it of me! You, you of all people! You, who know what … what …” He choked, speechless with rage.

He hit the stone wall of the passage repeatedly as he walked, smashing the side of his fist viciously into the limestone wall. The stone swallowed each blow in soundless violence. He turned back and came to a halt facing me, breathing heavily. I stood stock-still, afraid to move or speak. He nodded once or twice, rapidly, as though making up his mind about something, then drew the dirk from his belt with a hiss and held it in front of my nose. With a visible effort, he spoke calmly.

“You may have your choice, Claire. Him, or me.” The candle flames danced in the polished metal as he turned the knife slowly. “I cannot live while he lives. If ye wilna have me kill him, then kill me now, yourself!”

He grabbed my hand and forced my fingers around the handle of the dirk. Ripping the lacy jabot open, he bared his throat and yanked my hand upward, fingers hard around my own. I pulled back with all my strength, but he forced the tip of the blade against the soft hollow above the collarbone, just below the livid cicatrice that Randall’s own knife had left there years before. “Jamie! Stop it! Stop it right now!” I brought my other hand down on his wrist as hard as I could, jarring his grip enough to jerk my fingers free. The knife clattered to the floor, bouncing from the stones to a quiet landing on a corner of the leafy Aubusson carpet. With that clarity of vision for small details that afflicts life’s most awful moments, I saw that the blade lay stark across the curling stem of a bunch of fat green grapes, as though about to sever it and cut them free of the weft to roll at our feet. He stood frozen before me, face white as bone, eyes burning. I gripped his arm, hard as wood beneath my fingers. “Please believe me, please. I wouldn’t do this if there were any other way.” I took a deep, quivering breath to quell the leaping pulse beneath my ribs.

“You owe me your life, Jamie. Not once, twice over. I saved you from hanging at Wentworth, and when you had fever at the Abbey. You owe me a life, Jamie!”

He stared down at me for a long moment before answering. When he did, his voice was quiet again, with an edge of bitterness. “I see. And ye’ll claim your debt now?” His eyes burned with the clear, deep blue that burns in the heart of a flame. “I have to! I can’t make you see reason any other way!” “Reason. Ah, reason. No, I canna say that reason is anything I see just now.” He folded his arms behind his back, gripping the stiff fingers of his right hand with the curled ones of his left. He walked slowly away from me, down the endless hall, head bowed. The passage was lined with paintings, some lighted from below by torchere or candelabra, some from above by the gilded sconces; a few less favored, skulked in the darkness between. Jamie walked slowly between them, glancing up now and again as though in converse with the wigged and painted gallery. The hall ran the length of the second floor, carpeted and tapestried, with enormous stained-glass windows set into the walls at either end of the corridor. He walked all the way to the far end, then, wheeling with the precision of a soldier on parade, all the way back, still at a slow and formal pace. Down and back, down and back, again and again. My legs trembling, I subsided into a fauteuil near the end of the passage. Once one of the omnipresent servants approached obsequiously to ask if Madame required wine, or perhaps a biscuit? I waved him away with what politeness I could muster, and waited. At last he came to a halt before me, feet planted wide apart in silver-buckled shoes, hands still clasped behind his back. He waited for me to look up at him before he spoke. His face was set, with no twitch of agitation to betray him, though the lines near his eyes were deep with strain.

“A year, then” was all he said. He turned at once and was several feet away by the time I struggled out of the deep green-velvet chair. I had barely gained my feet when he suddenly whirled back past me, reached the huge stained-glass window in three strides, and smashed his right hand through it. The window was made up of thousands of tiny colored panes, held in place by strips of melted lead. Though the entire window, a mythological scene of the Judgment of Paris, shuddered in its frame, the leading held most of the panes intact; in spite of the crash and tinkle, only a jagged hole at the feet of Aphrodite let in the soft spring air. Jamie stood a moment, pressing both hands tight into his midriff. A dark red stain grew on the frilled cuff, lacy as a bridal shirt. He brushed past me once again as I moved toward him, and stalked away unspeaking. I collapsed once more into the armchair, hard enough to make a small puff of dust rise from the plush. I lay there limp, eyes closed, feeling the cool night breeze wash over me. The hair was damp at my temples, and I could feel my pulse, quick as a bird’s, racing at the base of my throat. Would he ever forgive me? My heart clenched like a fist at the memory of the knowledge of betrayal in his eyes. “How could you ask it?” he had said. “You, you who know …” Yes, I knew, and I thought the knowing might tear me from Jamie as I had been torn from Frank. But whether Jamie could forgive me or not, I could never forgive myself, if I condemned an innocent man—and one I had once loved

“The sins of the fathers,” I murmured to myself. “The sins of the fathers shall not be visited upon the children.”

[askthebrokenones-fm]

Sinclair sighed, "Yeah... I'm glad I did." He took up his cup, smiling into it. "Maybe I'll make it a tradition instead of just moping around. Ehm... If you don't mind."

https://www.tumblr.com/askthebrokenones-fm/712174639277899776/theheadlessgroom-askthebrokenones-fm

@askthebrokenones-fm

“Ah, I was glad you came to me, lad,” Randall smiled as he watched Sinclair add in the creamer (he and Egore were in agreement that adding cream, milk, sugar, and so on was “murder” for a perfectly fine cup of coffee; anything that wasn’t straight-up black made him gag), saying, “And that I was able to be here for you. I…I know what it’s like to spend a day like today alone, and I know it’s never very pleasant, so…I’m very glad you knocked on my door.”

[advisorykitty]

Hello can I make a request? Did you watch the anime Bungo Stray Dogs because I want to request Randal with Reader like Elise. She was "created" by Randal and in the episode when Sebastian first appeared, Randal spent so much time with Sebastian that Elise!Reader was upset because he didn't attend the tea party the two usually held.

Spilled Tea

Elise! Reader x Randal

[Y/N] was furious.

Not the "I'm-going-to-yell-until-my-voice-goes-hoarse" kind of furious—no, it was the quiet, simmering kind that settled deep in her gut, like hot coals waiting for someone to poke at them. She paced the length of the hallway, arms crossed, glaring at the pristine white walls of Luther’s house as if they were the source of all her problems.

Why was she mad?

Because Randal—her dear, ridiculous creator—had once again forgotten their tea party.

It wasn’t like it was some casual thing they did. No, this was tradition. Every week, at the same time, they would gather in the little tea room, surrounded by dainty china and enough sugary snacks to make even Luther cringe. And what had Randal done? Ditched her. For Sebastian.

Ugh. Sebastian.

The new pet—awkward and always a little too stiff—had somehow weaseled his way into Randal’s good graces, and now Randal was all about Sebastian, he wasnt even that good of a birthday gift!. They spent hours together, playing games, talking about who-knows-what, while [Y/N] was left to brew tea alone.

She kicked at the edge of a rug as she stormed down the hall. The sound of her foot smacking the floor echoed, and she half-wondered if anyone was going to come check on her. Probably not. No one ever did.

"They’re all idiots," she muttered, tugging at the ends of her hair in frustration. "Every last one of them."

Just as she was about to storm back into the tea room and throw a cup for good measure, she ran smack into a figure.

Thud.

"Ow!" she yelped, stumbling back.

Nyon stood there, looking bewildered, his large always shocked eyes blinking in confusion. His hat—never removed—tilted a bit to one side as he scratched the back of his head, his fingers moving in a nervous rhythm behind him.

"S-sorry," Nyon muttered, his English broken as usual. "Didn’t see."

"Of course you didn’t," [Y/N] grumbled, rubbing her arm where she’d collided with him. "Nobody does."

"Why... angry?" Nyon asked, tilting his head, trying to figure her out.

"I’m not angry," she snapped automatically, then sighed when she saw his confused look. "Okay, fine. I’m mad. Randal forgot about me again."

Nyon’s expression didn’t change much, but he did take a step back, giving her some space. "Randal... distracted. With... Sebastian."

"Tell me something I don’t know," [Y/N] muttered. She slumped against the wall, crossing her arms tighter around her chest. "He never misses our tea parties. Until now."

Nyon shuffled his feet, clearly not knowing what to say. He wasn’t exactly known for being talkative or helpful in emotional crises. "You still... important," he mumbled.

"Yeah, well, that doesn’t help much," she sighed, feeling the irritation bubbling inside her again. "I feel like I’m just a side note to him now."

Just then, a voice echoed from down the hall.

"You’re still sulking, huh?"

It was Nyen.

He strolled in, smirking as he leaned against the wall. He was always ready to poke fun at her misfortunes. His arms were crossed, and his tone dripped with sarcasm. "What’s the matter? Can’t keep your 'CrEaToRs' attention?"

[Y/N] shot him a glare. "Shut up, Nyen."

"Oh, come on," he said, feigning sympathy. "Did you really think he’d stick around when he has a shiny new toy? How naive can you be?"

She rolled her eyes. "This isn’t just about being jealous, you know. It’s about feeling—"

"Emotional," Nyen cut in, mocking her tone. "Yeah, yeah. Next time, just grab Randal by the collar and drag him to tea. No one’s stopping you."

"Thanks for the advice, really helpful," [Y/N] retorted, but a small part of her appreciated his brazen honesty.

Before she could retort, Randal appeared at the end of the hallway, his usual cheerful demeanor shining through. "Y/N?"

He stood there looking a bit sheepish, as if he had just realized something was off. Sebastian hovered behind him, awkward and unsure, like he was trying to blend into the wallpaper.

"Randal," [Y/N] said, her voice tight with irritation. "Where have you been?"

Randal blinked, clearly confused. "I’ve been with Sebastian," he said as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "Why?"

She threw her hands up in exasperation. "Because we were supposed to have our tea party! Remember? The one we have every week?"

"Oh!" Randal’s eyes lit up in recognition. "Right! Our tea party! I forgot!"

"Of course you did," [Y/N] groaned, fighting the urge to scream. "You know, for someone who’s supposed to be my creator, you really suck at remembering plans."

Randal frowned, a hint of guilt creeping onto his face. "I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to forget fufu~"

"Ugh," she sighed, her irritation softening just a bit as she looked at Randal’s crestfallen expression. "Just... let’s have our tea party now, okay? I need some snacks and a distraction from all this."

"Yes! Let’s go!" Randal said, brightening up immediately.

As they started walking towards the tea room, Randal practically skipped to his chair, plopping down with a bright grin. Sebastian, however, hung back, hovering near the door.

"Uh, is it okay if I...?" he started, his voice trailing off as he glanced between Randal and [Y/N].

"Of course, you’re invited, Sebastian!" Randal chirped, motioning for him to join.

Sebastian hesitated, taking a cautious step forward. "I don’t want to interrupt your... thing."

"You're already interrupting it," [Y/N] said, rolling her eyes. "Just sit down."

He slowly approached the table, and as he sat, he looked like he’d just been sentenced to death. "Uh, thanks?"

"You can pour the tea," Randal said, practically bouncing in his seat.

Sebastian looked like he was about to protest but caught [Y/N]’s pointed look and reluctantly picked up the teapot. As he poured, he managed to spill a bit on the tablecloth, his cheeks flushing in embarrassment.

"Smooth move, Sebastian," [Y/N] called, barely holding back her laughter.

"Uh, I’m sorry?? .I—" he stammered, only to be interrupted by Randal.

"Don’t worry, you’ll get the hang of it!" Randal said, waving his hands dramatically. "Just make sure to keep it on the table this time!"

Sebastian sighed, trying to regain his composure. "I was trying to—"

"Just be careful, okay?" [Y/N] interrupted, smirking. "Last thing we need is you drowning in tea."

"Yeah, that would be—" Sebastian started, but once again, Randal cut in.

"Time for the ceremony! Everyone stand up!" Randal declared, his eyes wide with excitement.

Sebastian looked around, clearly perplexed. "Wait, what ceremony?"

"You never mentioned that," he said, trying to make sense of the situation.

"You should’ve asked before coming," [Y/N] said, rolling her eyes, though she couldn’t help but laugh. "It involves Randal being extra and making everyone uncomfortable."

"Yes!" Randal declared, grinning like a fool. "Everyone stand up!"

Sebastian stood awkwardly, clearly unsure of what to do. "Um... am I supposed to do something?"

"You just stand there and look pretty," [Y/N] said, nudging him with a playful grin.

"That’s really not my strong suit," Sebastian muttered.

As Randal began his ridiculous "ceremony," pouring tea into the cups with exaggerated flourishes, [Y/N] couldn’t help but feel a warmth spreading through her. Despite the frustration earlier, watching Randal be his usual weird self made her heart lighten. Even Sebastian's awkwardness started to feel like a welcome change.

Wait. No don't feel that way. Randal is your sole purpose!

As the laughter flowed, Randal suddenly paused, looking serious. "And now, we all make a toast! To tea, friends, and not forgetting our traditions!"

"To tea!" [Y/N] echoed, raising her cup with a smile.

"To—wait, do we have to toast?" Sebastian asked, looking caught off guard.

Randal shot him a wide-eyed stare. "Of course! It’s part of the ceremony!"

Sebastian sighed but raised his cup anyway. "To... tea."

"And to me!" Randal added, grinning madly.

As they all took a sip, Sebastian attempted to interject. "I was thinking—"

But Randal cut him off again, waving his arms. "No time for thinking! We need more sugar!"

Sebastian’s mouth opened, clearly about to say something, but Randal continued. "You know, if you mix the sugar with the milk just right, it tastes like—"

"Randal, I really—" Sebastian tried again, but Randal was on a roll.

"And don’t forget the cookies! They must be chocolate chip, or else they’re just eugh!!"

"Randal can i-"

[Y/N] quickly interrupted Sebastian again.

"Sure I'll go get the cookies!" She giggled and skipped to the kitchen, feeling happy about the passive aggressive revenge she had gotten on Sebastian.

It was his fault for interfering anyway.

[peachessndreamss]

Private Bennett's Lover - Part 2

Summery : Tom Bennett and Mrs Randall can't seem to keep away from each other, despite the risks.

Characters : Tom Bennett x Married!Female OC Mrs Randall

Warnings : Canon typical language

Word count : 8K

A/N : Getting this edited and ready took way longer than I planned so I am sorry about that.

Series Masterlist l peachessndreamss Masterlist l peachessndreamss ask box

Rain had started the evening before and truly set in overnight, the entire sky was blanketed in dark clouds making the morning feel more like the dead of night, the rain that lashed down in sheets was icy cold and bounced up everywhere it hit the earth. 

Tom watched the torrent pouring down as he heard the words he’d dreaded most. Even on warm and bright days the assault course was daunting, a 6 mile course over uneven and changeable terrain, dotted with obstacles which made crossing No Mans Land look like a summer stroll in the park, but on a day with heavy rain and brutal cold winds it was a horrifying prospect. 

The only small candle Tom could hold onto as he changed into his physical gear was that Mrs Randall might be in her drawing room when they ran past, she might notice him. Tom had struggled to keep thoughts of her from his mind. Whenever he found himself idle, which was more often than not, Tom couldn’t help but wonder what she was doing, if she was thinking of him and when he might see her again. 

Tom was buffeted out of the barracks and into the weather alongside his fellow Privates, all of them desperate to get this over with and get back inside. Within minutes of being exposed to the rain Tom’s clothes were soaked and sticking to his skin, his breath was forming clouds in front of his face and his vision was inhibited by the driving rain. 

Despite the cold Tom was sweating as he threw himself up the wooden wall, his fingers gripping onto the wet wood and sticky mud as he hauled his body upward, his white t-shirt dragging through the filth.  As he jumped down the other side into a pool of ankle deep filthy water he brushed the back of his hand over his forehead, unable to tell if he was wiping away sweat or rain from his face. 

After a few seconds to catch his breath Tom set off again, moving around the outer wall of The Big House and finally coming to the place he was certain the drawing room overlooked, this was mostly just a stretch of leaf strewn woodland path, but there were hidden hazards like deep puddles and coils of barbed wire hidden by overgrowth. Tom slowed his run significantly and turned his attention from the path ahead of him to the upper windows of the house above the perimeter wall. The windows of the house were glowing with light but through the rain Tom wasn’t able to make out if anyone might have been looking down from them. 

While distracted Tom moved too far from the centre of the path and his foot caught a concealed coil of wire, the wire wrapped around his foot and pulled the limb from right under him. Tom crashed down to the path, his hands slipping on the wet leaves and his face slamming into the ground, bright white lights burst behind his eyes and his mouth was suddenly filled with the earthy taste of mud and the coppery tang of blood. 

He cried out in pain, shock and humiliation as the sounds of laughter rang out from behind him, the thunder of running feet shook the earth and rattled Tom’s head as he scrambled to get back on his feet, his hands slipping from under his weight as he tried to push himself up. 

Tom felt a strong hand grip the back of his t-shirt and yank him up. Tom clumsily found his feet as he blinked rapidly, trying to get his vision to settle. 

“Get moving Bennett,” the Lieutenant Commander shouted in Tom's face before shoving him forward, Tom stumbled again but with a shake of his head managed to set off, his pace slower as his head throbbed but at least in a straight line. 

Tom felt his forehead grow warm and he brushed his palm over the skin, seeing it come away dirtier with mud and bright red blood. He touched his fingers to the space above his eye, feeling a hot, slick sensation and seeing the tips of his icy white finger tips crimson. 

“Fuck,” he spat but he didn’t dare slow his pace again or stop to feel the wound any further, he knew he’d only get shouted at again and probably punished. He allowed himself one more glance at The Big House, now hoping against all hope that Mrs Randall hadn’t seen him fall. 

For the rest of the week Tom nursed his damaged ego and fussed over the nasty gash above his eye. After a few days of fairly good natured teasing Tom’s fellow seamen had all but forgotten the incident and were on to the next thing. 

As the next Saturday rolled around and Tom found himself making the walk up to The Big House, he couldn’t even bring himself to care about missing another weekend in the village, another opportunity to drink in the pub and chat up the barmaid. 

Even the cut above his eye and the yellow and purple bruise around it couldn’t take the spring out of his step as he made his way across the green lawns, made lush by the rain and now the sunshine that warmed his body. 

Bill gave him little more than a tertiary look before telling Tom he would be working in the garages that day, on the east side of the house. 

His shoulder slumped slightly as he made his way around the side of the house and toward the out buildings where the stables had been converted into a large garage, the shadow of the house left him feeling cold and his mood dower, he felt it was unlikely he'd run into Mrs Randall in the while he cleaned her husbands car. 

The converted stables were dark, cold and smelt damp, even with the doors open wide, providing a teasing view of the glorious sunshine that was tantalisingly close but utterly out of reach. 

Tom found a bucket and sponge in what once would have been a manger but was now being used for storage. The Vice Admirals black Bentley was parked half in and half out of the stable block giving Tom full access to the vehicle. The lower half of it was caked in the red mud of the county, most of it had dried but a cursory rub of it with a dry sponge told Tom he would need to soak the muck off, making this job far more taxing than the week before. 

He filled the bucket with icy water from an outside tap before throwing the sponge in, splashing the cold water back on himself, it soaked through the fabric of his trousers and instantly chilled his skin. He cursed to himself before lifting the bucket off the ground and carrying toward the back of the car, setting it down near the back wheel. 

Tom picked up the soaked sponge and squeezed the excess water out before slapping it on the top of the vehicle and starting to rub in large circles. The water ran down the curves of the car in rivulets, some of them snaking up Tom's wrist and down his forearms. As the water reached the crook of Tom’s elbow he decided it was going to be a miserable day. 

He was tipping out his 4th bucket of dirty water when he spotted Mrs Randall.  She was making her way around the side of the house, her stride quick and purposeful, the sun shining on her face and a small smile turning up the corners of her lips. 

Tom straightened up, finding it impossible to take his eyes off her and she walked toward him. He was struck by the thought that she was so different every time he saw her, as if every time they’d met he'd meet a new woman and find something new to like about her. 

“Private Bennett,” she greeted with a smile as she strode straight past him and into the darkness of the garage. 

“Mrs Randall,” Tom replied with a smile, turning on his heel and following her inside, not bothering to re-fill the bucket. 

“Back for more punishment?” she teased as she rubbed the side of her boot on a boot brush fixed to the back wall of the stable. 

“Wild horses couldn’t keep me away,” Tom replied with a grin as he lent against the car, pleased that he’d managed to clean at least the top half before she turned up. 

“Speaking of which,” Tom added, inclining his head toward her, “Have you been riding?” 

“Walking,” she replied, “I enjoy walking and the grounds here are quite extensive.” 

Tom nodded, his idea of “going for a walk” had always been to the local pub or to a dance in the hall in town, he’d never had much of an opportunity to go walking for the pleasure of it. 

“And what do you do on these walks?” Tom asked. 

“Think mostly,” she replied with a shrug, moving to rest on the edge of a workbench that ran around the edge of the room,  “I find it’s when I do my best thinking actually, and just about the one time I’m ever really on my own,”. 

“Wha’ about out here?” he asked, his eyes flicking to the open expanse of ground in front of the stables that was completely deserted as far as the eye could see, “I’d ‘ave thought we’re quite alone out here,”. 

“Hmm,” she considered for a few seconds before pushing off from the workbench she’d been leaning on and moving toward him, “Quite alone,”. 

Coming to stand in front of him, Mrs Randall reached up and touched her fingertips to the cut on his forehead. A shiver ran down Tom's spine at the warmth of her hands and the gentleness of her touch. 

“What happened?” she asked softly. 

“Made a tit of myself on the assault course,” Tom replied with a shrug, his bravado faltering when her touch lingered far longer than it needed too. 

“Wasn’t paying attention you see." 

“What had you so distracted, Tom?” she asked, her soft voice above a whisper and her touch now a caress. 

“I was looking for you, I wanted you to see me” he replied softly before reaching up and taking hold of her hand at the wrist.  

Her skin was warm to the touch and Tom felt a tingle in his fingers as he brought her hand away from his forehead and to his lips. He took a slow breath as he brought her palm toward his mouth, catching the spicy, warm scent of her perfume before pressing his lips to the centre of her palm in a gentle kiss. He saw her breath stall in her throat and her eyes widen as his lips lingered for just a moment before releasing her hand. 

She let her hand and arm drop like a dead weight back to her side, her whole body suddenly vibrating like a taut string someone had plucked. Her palm burned where his lips touched her as if his lips left a brand on her skin and her stomach fluttered as if full of butterflies. 

“I do see you Tom."

She took a small step forward, positioning one of her feet between his and bringing their bodies far closer together than polite society would allow. Mrs Randall brought her hand up to his face, slipping her fingers into his hair, the tendrils silky to the touch. She lifted herself up, half terrified and half thrilled to press her lips to his in a soft kiss. While Tom had been stunned into inaction for a few seconds it didn’t take long for him to come back to his senses, wrapping his icy hand around her and pulling her body hard against his. 

Surprised by his sudden movement she drew her face back from his but Tom moved his other hand up her body and brought it to rest on her cheek, using it to hold her as he brought his lips back to hers. His kiss lacked her gentleness, his mouth claimed hers with a fiery need that spread through her body, making the skin on the back of her neck prickle and the tips of her fingers and toes go numb. 

Tom’s tongue slipped along her bottom lip and groaned as the taste of her filled his mouth. He felt his head spin, like he’d had a few too many pints and stood up too quickly, she was the most intoxicating woman he’d ever kissed and he tightened his hold on her as she pressed herself harder against him, feeling how her soft body moulded to his own. 

Mrs Randall gave a small whimper and Tom could have believed they were the only two people left alive, until the grating, carrying voice of the Vice Admiral reached their ears. 

“...saw her coming back from her walk, heading toward the stables I think,” he was saying, his voice reaching them on the gentle breeze that blew across the lawns. 

With a look of horror she wrenched herself out of Tom’s embrace, immediately missing the feel of his body and the fire of his kisses. She looked around her frantically, wondering if there was any possible alibi she could give for being alone with him. She looked back at his face and found his blue gaze blazing and his mouth open as he breathed deeply. She touched her fingertips to her lips before taking an unsteady step backward. 

“I-I-I” she stammered, but found she didn’t have the words for any of the thoughts and emotions currently raging through her. 

“Go on,” he said, motioning toward the open doors, the more distance they could put between them the better. 

He watched as she turned and took a few unsteady steps before reaching down to grab the bucket and sponge off the floor beside his feet, the bucket was empty but the sponge was still wet enough to make a reasonable look of being in the middle of his task if the Vice Admiral decided to stick his head in the stables. 

Turning his attention back to the car he could only hear the sound of her steps changing from the cobbles of the stables to the crunch of gravel outside and he breathed a quiet sigh of relief knowing that there was no reason for the Vice Admiral to expect they had been together. 

“Ah here she is!” The Vice Admirals' private school accent grated on Tom as he rubbed the sponge halfheartedly over an already clean part of the roof. 

He kept his head down and face turned away from the open doors so not to be seen or be noticed. 

“Were you looking for me, darling?” Tom heard Mrs Randall reply, the falsely cheery sound in her voice that Tom could tell was entirely fake. 

Their voices drifted away to an indistinguishable sound carried by the breeze as the two of them walked away from the stables and back around the side of the house, leaving Tom alone in the cold, dank and dark. 

He dropped the sponge back in the bucket and stood stock still, staring at his own reflection in the car window. He touched his fingertips to his mouth. Had she just kissed him? Did he pull her body into his own and slip his tongue along her lips? Was anything from the past 20 minutes real? The spinning feeling in Tom’s head was back and he placed a steadying hand on the car. 

Of all the reckless, dangerous, illegal and just plain stupid things Tom had ever done in his life, kissing the Vice Admirals wife was surely the most reckless, dangerous and stupid of all, and despite that, the corners of Tom’s mouth tipped up in a smile. She’d kissed him first, she wanted him just as much as he wanted her, and Tom was confident their kiss wouldn’t be just a one time thing. She’d be back for more. 

With that thought burning in his chest like a candle Tom didn’t feel so cold anymore and somehow the stables were less dark than a moment ago. With a newly found spring in his step Tom picked up the bucket and went to refill it. 

More than an hour later, Mrs Randall watched Tom return to the barracks across the east lawn, the sky had remained clear and the afternoon was warm and bright. Tom had taken his jacket off and slung it over his shoulder, he walked with a confident swagger and appeared to be whistling to himself.

She saw him look toward the house, his eyes scanning the bottom floor windows, instinctively she took a step backward further into the shadowed interior of the room, not wanting to be caught watching him. The memory of their kiss consumed her thoughts, in some way she thought she could still feel the press of his body against hers 

The sharp knock on her study door brought Mrs Randall out of her thoughts and she called for them to enter, moving toward the desk and sitting in the large leather chair that creaked as she sat. The Housekeeper entered, her black uniform absolutely immaculate and a small slip of paper clutched in her hand.  

“This is everything left in the wine cellar,” she said, placing the list on the table, “one more party and we'll be dry,” she added, a note of disapproval in her voice. 

Mrs Randall knew the Vice Admirals parties had taken a toll on the Royal Navy’s cellars, but she’d not realised they were quite so close to running out. She looked over the list, her brows furrowing. 

“Thank you,” Mrs Randall replied, “I’ll speak to Vice Admiral Randall about making some orders, but this will do for now,”. 

“And the menu for Saturday?” The housekeeper asked, taking the small slip of paper back off the desk and tucking it into one of the many pockets of her dress. 

“Oh the usual please,” she replied, finding her mind was already wandering. 

“Very good Mrs Randall,”. 

The housekeeper turned and left the room with barely a sound, only the snap of the door closing confirmed Mrs Randal was alone again. 

Glancing back out the window, Tom was long gone and he'd likely be back at the barracks by now. She sighed softly and folded her arms around her middle, her hands grasping the opposite elbow. When she thought about Tom the fluttering feeling returned to her stomach, her cheeks flushed with heat and she couldn’t help but smile to herself. 

In her year and a half of marriage, those stolen moments in the stables were the first time she had felt desirable. With Tom, there had been no question that someone had wanted her, and wanted her as more than just a pretty thing to parade around and host dinner parties. Kissing Tom had been a moment of madness, and every second of it from stepping up to him to ripping herself from his arms made her feel alive. 

The small clock on the mantelpiece chimed the hour and she sighed deeply, sitting up straight at her desk she pulled the small stack of envelopes toward her, flipping the top one over and opening it with a flick of her thumb. 

Back in the barracks Tom was lounging on his bed, cigarette between his lips as his shipmates started to return from the village in ones and twos, most of them clearly a little worse for wear after an afternoon in the pub. One of the more sober men caught sight of Tom and grinned at him. 

“Did ya have fun at Big House?” he asked sarcastically, “Cleanin’ up after the Vice Arsehole?” 

Tom rolled his eyes in the direction of the sailor before fixing him with a dark glare. He took his cigarette from between his lips and tapped the ash off into an empty tin can at his side. 

“Better t’be up there than catchin the clap from some 2 bob whore,” Tom replied coldly. 

The man who’d spoken to him flushed with embarrassment and Tom got a vicious thrill of satisfaction to see the man's cheeks colour and his mouth flap open like a fish out of water. 

“Fuck off Bennett,” he spat before throwing himself onto his own bed and glaring at the ceiling. 

“Ah come on mate,” Tom taunted, turning on his side to look over at his fellow sailor, “VD can ‘appen to the best of us, but givin’ it to your poor wife must have really stung." 

Tom only had half a second to get off the bed and on his feet before the other man was on him, grabbing him by the collar and shoving him against the wall. His head bounced off the concrete wall, the impact making lights burst in front of his eyes and his ears ring but he still laughed. 

“I didn’t give anything to my wife,” the private spat, his face turning an uncomfortable shade of red. 

Tom raised his eyebrows and smirked. 

“So, did you ge’it from her then? I heard times were hard back home but…” Tom’s voice trailed off as he glanced around the room and found grinning faces of other sailors. 

“You fucking bastard,” the other man spat as he pulled Tom away from the wall and slammed him back into it. 

The blow should have winded Tom but he’d been ready for it and just laughed again. 

“There’s a war on mate, nothing wrong with your good wife getting a job to help support the family, although most men might mind about their Missus going on the game." 

Tom only had a few seconds to duck as the other man let go of his collar, pulled back a balled fist and thrust it forward, crashing with surprising force into the spot Tom’s face had been just a second before. The man’s fist connected with the concrete wall with a sickening crunch, he howled in pain, snatching his fist back and cradling it against his stomach. Tom watched, his face unimpressed as the other man staggered backward. 

“You fucking bastard, you fucking fuck,” he spat as he turned and staggered along the line of beds toward the door. 

Tom shook his head and scoffed in disgust before taking a cigarette from the pack on his pillow and lighting it as he sat down on his bed. He glanced around the room, finding every other pair of eyes in the room watching him carefully. 

“Good time in town?” he asked no one in particular. 

There were a few murmurs from around the room but no one else attempted to engage Tom in further conversation. Tom smirked and shook his head before lying his head back on his pillow, letting out a curl of smoke between his lips. 

On Thursday morning Tom became aware there would be another party at The Big House that Saturday night. Saturday, during the day, would also be the last time he was expected up there to perform some menial task or another. He hoped his final task wouldn’t be to fix the window he was planning to use to get to the party. 

Saturday morning dawned grey and wet, looking out toward the sea from the ballroom it was almost impossible to tell where the grey sky ended and the grey sea began. Behind her she heard the floorboard creek and a small cough. She turned and saw Tom stepping into the room from a side door. 

“What have they had you doing today Tom?” she asked with a shy smile as he stepped further into the room, letting the door click shut behind him. 

“Polishing silverware,” he replied. 

“Oh, he’s having another bash tonight,” she said with a sigh, feeling faintly embarrassed that Tom had been polishing the knives and fork’s they’d use that night. 

“I’d guessed as much,” Tom shrugged, not wanting to let on that he was already well aware, “the kitchen was in a frenzy,”. 

“Yes,” she agreed, a fleeting look of embarrassment crossed her cheeks, “all seems a bit silly with everything else going on,”. 

Tom’s eyebrows quirked upward and he raised and dropped one shoulder. 

“Is just how the world works, someone’s dancin’ and someone’s dying,”. 

“God Tom,” she sighed, pressing her fingers to her mouth, “you must hate me,” she added, looking away from him and down toward the floor, a crease appearing between her eyebrows. 

“I don’t ‘ate you,” Tom said, his voice softening, “I don't think I could if I wanted’t”. 

She lifted her eyes back to his face and felt the heat of his gaze wash over her, making the fine hairs on her arms stand on end. Her eyes were drawn to his mouth, she remembered in vivid detail how his lips had felt against hers, how she’d tasted him on her tongue and felt her entire body awaken, as if he’d breathed life into her. 

Seized by a bone deep ache to feel his mouth on hers again she glanced over her shoulder, the doorway she’d entered the room through was ajar and the slice of corridor beyond was empty. 

“Come with me,” she said softly, taking a few steps toward him before passing him and walking toward a seemingly solid wall in the far corner of the room. 

Tom’s brows furrowed with confusion, but he stepped after her, their steps making the old floor of the ballroom crack and pop. When she reached the far wall Tom watched with fascination as she pushed gently against a seam that was unnoticeable unless you were an inch away from it and a small portion of the wall swung inward and she stepped through. 

Tom followed, ducking his head so not to bump it on the low lintel of the hidden doorway. The space beyond the wall was cold and dark, the walls were bare stone and lights were bare bulbs that glowed dimly. Behind Tom the secret door swung shut. 

The Old House was built with a maze of seemingly endless corridors and passageways that ran around the rooms and parallel to the main thoroughfares of the house. These hidden places meant the staff could move through the house quickly and unseen. 

She only took a few steps away from the door before she stopped and spun on her heel, knowing most of the staff would currently be focused in the kitchen there was next  to no chance of the two of them being found. 

Tom hadn’t been expecting her to stop so suddenly and he barely stopped himself before crashing into her.

“Whoa, watch yourself,” he said, steading himself and finding her so close to him he could have counted her eyelashes. 

In the close and dark space he breathed deeply, his nose catching the dank smell of the corridor, the spicy burn of her perfume and something else undefinable that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. 

Without hesitation Mrs Randall lifted her arms and slipped them around his neck before bringing her lips up to meet his. She moaned softly as she felt the warm caress of his hands at her waist and his strong grip and he drew her toward him, pressing the length of her body against his. As their lips moved against one another, his left hand slipped up her back and grasped at the back of her head, feeling the soft tendrils of hair beneath his fingers as he gently angled her head to the side. 

She broke away from his lips for a second, her eyes opening and meeting his. Even in the semi-darkness Tom couldn’t mistake the passion in her eyes, he felt stripped by her gaze, like he was the first man she’d ever looked at like this. That thought made his stomach twist and his heart squeeze in his chest, it was thrilling and frightening, and Tom never wanted her to stop looking at him like that.  

He brought his mouth back to hers, this time his tongue flicked along the seam of her lips before slipping between them and taking a taste of her. 

Mrs Randall’s hands slipped from the back of his neck round to the front of his shirt, gripping at the material and trying to pull him closer toward her, wanting to feel the press of him all over her body. Tom tightening his arm on her waist and she was shocked and aroused when she felt the hardness of the muscle between his thighs as it pressed against her stomach. 

With practised ease, Tom manoeuvred the two of them around and pressed her back against the cold stone wall. The sudden icy contact made her gasp but Tom pushed himself closer to her, sharing the heat of his body with her. 

“Jesus Tom,” she breathed, breaking her lips from his and breathing heavily. 

He chuckled softly as he used his left hand to take hold of her right wrist, pulling her fist off his shirt and pinning her arm to the wall behind her, their hands at face height. He kissed along her jaw and up to the lobe of her ear, biting down softly on the flesh and hearing her quiet moan filling the small space. 

Tom used his other hand to loosen the first few buttons on her silk blouse, the soft and flowy fabric slipped easily against her and exposed the delicate skin of her chest. 

Tom’s breath caught in his throat as he eyed the soft tops of her breasts where they heaved with her breathing. He moved his mouth back along her jaw to give her an innocent peck at the corner of her mouth before dropping his head lower and kissing the swell of her breast. 

He released his hold on her right hand, feeling it drop down beside her body, his left hand then travelled to cup the breast his mouth currently wasn’t working over. His kisses were hot and wet but her skin was burning on his lips. He experimented with a soft bite at the height of her breast and he was rewarded with another breathy moan and a roll of her hips. 

She moved her hands to grasp at his back, her nails clawing at the rough fabric of his work shirt, the scent of the soap he used for his hair filled her nose as her mouth and chin brushed against the crown of his head. 

“Oh God Tom,” she moaned.

To her own ears her voice had sounded like a strangers, breathy and needy. She grabbed at his hair, threading her fingers into the soft strands and yanking his head up away from her breasts and crashing her mouth back into his. Pushing her tongue into his mouth without a second thought as she ground her body against his, feeling a thrill from the slow, undulating movement and the friction between them. 

Tom squeezed at her breast as he pressed forward with his hips, there was no way she could be unaware of the effect she was having on him. He broke away from her lips and breathed her name, letting his hand slide up her chest to her neck where he pressed his thumb against the hollow at the base of her throat. 

“What are you doing to me?” she whispered against his lips, “You’re making me mad." 

Tom laughed softly before kissing along her jaw, his breathing heavy and his blood pumping noisily in his ears as he fought to regain control of himself. 

“Nothin’ mad about this,” he said softly, “Nothin’ mad about how badly I want you." 

“Jesus,” she whispered, her eyes closed as he kissed from below her ear up across her cheek to the tip of her nose. 

“We can’t do this." 

“Why not?” Tom replied, his voice still soft as he kissed softly up her nose to her forehead. 

“I- I’m…I’m married,” she said, stumbling over her words as she struggled to think straight. 

Tom brought his mouth back to hers and any further arguments died on her lips as his tongue slipped between them and everything else in the world ceased to exist. 

From somewhere in a distant room a clock chimed the hour and broke whatever spell had settled over Tom and Mrs Randall, the two of them drew apart, both breathing heavily, faces flushed and lips wet. 

“I have to go,” she breathed before bringing her hands to the front of her blouse and attempting to do the buttons up with shaking fingers. 

Tom’s own hands were steady, as he reached forward and took charge, buttoning up the final two tiny pearl buttons and smoothing his fingers over the collar. The silky fabric looked rumpled and creased but there wasn’t anything else to be done about it. Just like there was nothing to be done about her bee stung lips or the pink flush on her chest and neck. Tom was certain she’d never looked more beautiful. 

“I���ll come back tonight,” he said as he ran his hand over his own head, getting control over his hair. 

“Tom no, it’s not safe,” she replied, her eyes moving between his eyes and his lips. 

“I don’t care,” he said with a shrug. 

She opened her mouth to argue but he cut her off with a kiss, just a quick, soft peck on the lips before straightening up and smiling. 

“I’ll see you later,” he said before taking the few steps back toward the hidden door and slipped through it. 

She could just hear his tread as he crossed the ballroom over the thundering of her heart and the thumping of the blood in her ears. She stayed put, the icy stone at her back suddenly much more uncomfortable without Tom’s warmth to counteract it. She placed a trembling hand over her racing heart and pressed her eyes closed. 

Whatever there was between her and Tom was madness, a risk to both of them in so many ways it should have been unthinkable but despite the risks she knew she would see him again and she would kiss him again, he’d hold her again and she’d taste his hot skin. The risks paled in comparison to the way he made her body feel. 

Once Mrs Randal felt she’d regained her composure she carried on along the staff corridor and up a tightly twisting flight of stairs to the 1st floor of the house before following another concealed corridor right into her own dressing room via another concealed door. 

Her gown for the party that night was hanging on the front of the wardrobe, the beaded bodice and skirt caught the last rays of weak sunlight that filtered through the west facing windows casting rainbows all over the pale yellow walls. 

“Mrs Randall?” a voice came from her bedroom where there was a maid laying a fire ready for the night, “can I draw you a bath?” her maid asked as Mrs Randall stepped into the main bedroom. 

The maid's eyes narrowed at the appearance of the lady of the house, her flushed cheeks and bright lips combined with the dishevelled look of her blouse and hair had the maid wondering what she could have been getting up to on a Saturday afternoon that left her looking like the village girls after they’d gone for a roll in the hay with the sailors. 

“Please,” Mrs Randall replied, her voice distant, “as hot as you can make it." 

The maid nodded and went to draw the bath. In the meantime Mrs Randall sat on the edge of the bed, wringing her hands in her lap, her mind unable to think of anything other than Tom Bennett and his addictive kisses. 

Once the bath was ready she undressed, leaving her blouse and skirt in a pile by the door that the maid attended to while  Mrs Randall sunk under the scalding hot water up to her neck. The maid passed her a bar of magnolia scented soap and left a large linen towel on the back of a chair for when she was finished. 

She stayed in the water far longer than normal, lathering the sudsy bar of soap between her hands over and over and once steaming water had turned cold she finally lifted herself out and stepped onto the waiting mat and wrapped herself in the towel. In the mirror over the small sink she noticed her cheeks were no longer flushed and her lips looked less swollen. 

After drying herself and dressing in her underwear Mrs Randal stepped through from her bathroom into the dressing room. 

The maid was waiting for her, looking bored, she’d been sitting on the seat at the dressing table, her feet swinging back and forth as she absent mindedly fiddled with the silver handle of the hairbrush. She shot to her feet when Mrs Randall entered the room. 

“Sorry,” the maid muttered, her eyes on the floor. 

“Don’t be sorry,” she replied, “I’ve been a rather long time."

“I’m very sorry Mrs Randall” the maid started as she carried a silk shift toward her, “But there are no more stockin’s, your last pair laddered and there’s no ration for them until next month." 

Mrs Randall just nodded as she slipped the shift over her head and let it fall down her body in cool, silky waves, a lace trim finishing about mid-calf. 

“Nothing to be done about that, I’m sure no one will notice." she replied. 

“I can draw a line on the back of your leg, I’ve seen it magazines, makes it look like you’ve got your stockings on even if you ain’t,” the maid offered, looking pleased with her suggestion. 

“What a clever idea, we can use brown eyeliner, that’ll do the trick." Mrs Randal agreed, smiling at the girl who seemed to flush with pride. 

An hour later she was standing with the Vice Admiral in the entrance hall of The Big House,  wearing a diamond tiara but no stockings and greeting guests as they arrived. 14 guests that evening, navy men and rich industry moguls with their wives who’d come to rub shoulders, discuss deals and drink someone else's wine. 

“A vision as always,” someone greeted her with a kiss on both cheeks and she laughed politely. 

The party ate their evening meal in the formal dining room before moving into the ballroom for dancing, drinking, gaming and cigar smoking for the men. Ever the hostess she made several rounds of the guests, checking if they needed more to drink, an after dinner snack or anything at all she could help with. 

By 11 pm her feet ached from standing in her heels and her cheeks ached from smiling and laughing. No one at the party would have ever known how she could think of nothing but Tom and the possibility he could be hiding around a corner, waiting for her. 

Mrs Randall excused herself from a circle of women who were discussing the trouble getting hold of fresh seafood in London and made her way out of the ballroom, turning to the right and around the corner where there was a small flight of stairs that would take her directly up to her rooms. The stairs were out of sight to anyone who wasn’t directly facing them. They were deeply carpeted like much of the house and a dark wooden bannister ran up one side. 

Sitting about 6 steps up was Tom Bennett, he lounged back on his elbows, his long legs stretched out in front of him and a smug smirk on his face.

“Jesus Tom,” she hissed, her hand flying to her chest, stopping in her tracks at the shock of seeing him sitting so brazenly in her house, “anyone could see you!”.

“No one has yet,” Tom shrugged, bringing one of his hands up to his mouth to run his thumb over his bottom lip. 

“And if they did it would be just about the last thing you'd ever do,” She hissed walking towards him, glancing over her shoulder in the direction of the ballroom to make sure they were still alone. 

Tom laughed, looking like a man without a single worry on his shoulders. 

“Tom you really can't be here,” she said, her voice quiet as she reached the bottom of the flight of stairs. 

Having Tom in the house, while it was full of guests, suddenly brought the terrible risk they were both taking into sharp focus. If anyone saw the two of them there would be a series of very awkward questions, followed by nasty accusations and rumours running wild and while she might end up a social pariah he would lose his job and who knows what else. 

She took a few tentative steps up the stairs, stopping when she'd reached about the same place his knees were. The staircase was relatively narrow so Tom’s body was blocking her from moving much further. 

“Tom please, I need to get up the stairs." she said softly. 

“You could just,” he paused for a second to smirk up at her, “Step over me, Mrs Randall," 

She narrowed her eyes at him for a second before taking a further step up, bringing her feet level with his hips. She lifted her right leg, making to step across his body but in a single quick movement he had grabbed hold of her at the ankle, his warm fingers wrapping around the bare skin. She stumbled slightly, catching hold of the bannister for balance. Her breath caught in her throat and her heart started to thunder, heat spreading up her leg from the place Tom touched her. 

Never taking his eyes from hers, he ran his hand up the curve of her calf and back down to the delicate bone of her ankle. 

“No stockings,” he mused as he sat up and pressed a single kiss on the ankle bone. 

“There’s a war on,” she whispered, her voice shaky, “stockings are a luxury." 

Tom scoffed before turning his eyes to her ankle and how his hand looked holding it, he smirked and pressed a second kiss to the inside of her ankle. 

“You've got diamonds but a pair of nylons are out of the question?” 

His fingers traced up and down the curve of her calf again, his fingertips brushing the back of her knee. 

“Please Tom,” she pleaded softly, acutely aware that the risk of getting caught went up with every passing second. 

He looked up at her, his bright blue eyes looking dark and stormy. His fingers moved back down to grasp her ankle before he released her. She stumbled again as she tried to place both feet together and hold onto her balance. Tom stood in a smooth, swift movement with one of his arms slipping easily around her waist and steadying her.

Standing on the step above her Tom gazed down at her, studying the curves of her face and the colour of her eyes. 

“Please what?” 

“Go, before you're caught." 

“I’ll go, but you’ll be seein’ me again,” Tom replied before pressing his mouth to hers in a single bruising kiss. 

He loosened his hold on her waist and slipped down the stairs as quiet as a ghost, she watched him go, her whole body aching to be held by him again. After a few minutes to calm her thundering heart she returned to the party, trying to forget the feeling of his lips on her skin and hoping his warm hands hadn’t smudged the eyeliner running up the back of her leg. 

Tom was able to slip back into his barracks without being caught, he sank into his bed and closed his eyes with a smile on his lips. Despite the long day he felt as awake and energised as he ever had before, he knew he’d struggle to get a wink of sleep that night but somehow he didn’t mind that when he had every moment of that day to relive, every touch, moan, sigh and kiss was his to revisit and relive in detail. 

Sunday morning dawned bright, the Vice Admiral had started his day by attending the weekly Holy Communion held in the barracks chapel while she’d had coffee and toast in bed. 

After breakfast Mrs Randall had moved to the library and was sitting in a large wingback chair looking out across the lawns and down towards the waters edge, a small paperback sitting forgotten in her lap. Even from several miles away the smell of the salt water carried on the wind when it blew in the right direction and this morning she'd thrown the library windows open, blowing out the stale smell of cigar smoke and bringing in the salty tang of the sea air. She even occasionally heard the calls of the seagulls as they circled overhead. 

There was a polite knock on the open library door. 

“Yes?” she called. 

“Mrs Randall, the Vice Admiral would like to see you in his office,” the butler announced primly. 

“Summoned like a common sailor,” she muttered to herself as she stood and followed the man out of the library and toward his office. 

The butler knocked and opened the door on her behalf. The office beyond the door was brightly lit from the sun streaming through the window. A fog of cigar smoke hung heavily in the air, the desk was strewn with maps, letters and lists. On the top of all the others was a letter with the royal coat of arms at the top, followed by a short note, written in a small, tidy hand. 

“Ah darling,” he greeted, not looking up from the map spread in front of him.

“You wanted to see me." 

“Yes,” he replied, finally looking up at her. 

As their eyes met she felt nothing, no tingle of attraction, no spark of desire. She might have been looking at a stranger as much as she was her husband, the man she'd promised to love, honour and obey. His own eyes showed nothing more than friendly recognition, she was merely someone who lived in his house and nothing more. 

“I've been summoned to High Command,” he said, indicating the letter on the desk. 

“It’ll be two weeks of conferences, planning and marching orders I expect, dreadfully boring stuff,” he added. 

“Will you be shipping out afterwards?” She asked, her thoughts more focused on the men in the barracks just down the hill rather than the one sitting in front of her. 

“Oh possibly,” he replied with a shrug, “or there’s talk of a posting for me overseas, there in need of a man in India to run the Royal Navy posts over there and I heard last night I was top of the list,” he added, his body seemingly puffing up with pride. 

Mrs Randall nodded, still standing on the edge of the rug like a Private brought in for a reprimand. 

“That was all,” he said after a beat of silence, “and I'll be off tonight,” he turned his attention back to the map. 

She opened her mouth to speak but found there was nothing to say. She didn’t want to thank him for summoning her here and announcing his plans to her like she was a member of the staff, she didn’t want to know anymore about where he was going and she couldn’t think of a single pleasant thing to say before leaving. So she left in silence, closing the door behind her with a satisfying click. 

With little else to do she headed for the boot room, changing into a pair of hardy leather boots before striding out across the lawns towards the woodlands that made the eastern edge of the property. 

Once in the shadow of the trees she finally felt able to breathe clearly, the air here was fresh but held onto the scents of rotting leaves and stagnant water. The ground beneath her boots was soft with leaf mulch and scattered with broken twigs and other debris. In the trees birds trilled and chirped at each other, flitting from branch to branch, knocking loose leaves toward the ground. 

She'd not slept a wink the night before, her mind completely possessed by thoughts of Tom and his promise that she'd see him again. She'd fantasised about hearing the floorboards outside her door creak before her door was pushed open and he sought her out. But the morning had come and her room grew bright with the rising sun leaving her with a headache and sore eyes. 

The Vice Admiral would be gone for two weeks, and after those two weeks they might be packing up their lives and moving halfway around the world but with Tom time seemed different, he made minutes of stolen conversation feel like hours, he made an hour of stolen kisses feel like days, two weeks of him might just feel like a lifetime. News of the Vice Admiral’s trip to London would make its way round the barracks quickly enough and with a thrill she found herself believing last night's fantasies might become her reality.

[askthebrokenones-fm]

Sinclair made himself comfortable in one of the lounge chairs, folding his bony limbs into the chair with the creaking of distended bones.

He accepted the afghan gratefully, long fingers curling against the purple fabric. "Thank you." He bowed his head in a nod, murmuring, "If you wouldn't mind."

He watched Randall double back to the closet, silently gazing at him with glowing pinpricks before finally sighing, as a means of explanation and an apology for intruding on the tip of his tongue, "It's my death day."

(((crawls out of hell with this) @theheadlessgroom It's been a bit since I did Sinclair interacting with Randall-

[rjzimmerman]

Excerpt from this story from Inside Climate News:

Across the American South, tides are rising at accelerating rates that are among the most extreme on Earth, constituting a surge that has startled scientists such as Jeff Chanton, professor in the Department of Earth, Ocean and Atmospheric Science at Florida State University.

“It’s pretty shocking,” he said. “You would think it would increase gradually, it would be a gradual thing. But this is like a major shift.”

Worldwide sea levels have climbed since 1900 by some 1.5 millimeters a year, a pace that is unprecedented in at least 3,000 years and generally attributable to melting ice sheets and glaciers and also the expansion of the oceans as their temperatures warm. Since the middle of the 20th century the rate has gained speed, exceeding 3 millimeters a year since 1992.

In the South the pace has quickened further, jumping from about 1.7 millimeters a year at the turn of the 20th century to at least 8.4 millimeters by 2021, according to a 2023 study published in Nature Communications based on tidal gauge records from throughout the region. In Pensacola, a beachy community on the western side of the Florida Panhandle, the rate soared to roughly 11 millimeters a year by the end of 2021. 

“I think people just really have no idea what is coming, because we have no way of visualizing that through our own personal experiences, or that of the last 250 years,” said Randall Parkinson, a coastal geologist at Florida International University. “It’s not something where you go, ‘I know what that might look like because I’ve seen that.’ Because we haven’t.

“It’s the same everywhere, from North Carolina all the way down to the Florida Keys and all the way up into Alabama,” he said. “All of these areas are extremely vulnerable.”

The acceleration is poised to amplify impacts such as hurricane storm surges, nuisance flooding and land loss. In recent years the rising tides have coincided with record-breaking hurricane seasons, pushing storm surges higher and farther inland. In 2022 Hurricane Ian, which came ashore in southwest Florida, was the costliest hurricane in state history and third-costliest to date in the United States, after Katrina in 2005 and Harvey in 2017.

“It doesn’t even take a major storm event anymore. You just get these compounding effects,” said Rachel Cleetus, a policy director at the Union for Concerned Scientists, an advocacy group. “All of a sudden you have a much more impactful flooding event, and a lot of the infrastructure, frankly, like the stormwater infrastructure, it’s just not built for this.”