#Road Led Display

[blistexenthusiast]

Relax We're Doing Great, Michelle Hamer

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[incognit0slut]

PART 1 | PART 2 | PART 3 | PART 4

Behind Closed Doors 3

Despite your promise not to sneak behind the team again, you find yourself in a compromising position when you’re forced to ride in the same car as him.

Warnings: (18+, MDNI) Nipple/breast play, dry humping, semi public, dirty talk, and technically this isn’t car sex but everything happens in a car, there’s just no penetration. ~2.5k words (not proofread)

A/n: This wasn’t supposed to be in my WIP but… I blame him for looking so slutty in that shirt. Btw, this is shorter because I already have a lot on my plate but I really wanna squeeze this in, so enjoy! If you’ve been following since the first part, our kinky, slightly exhibitionist duo is back

You liked to think you had a good sense of self control when it came to your sex drive. In your past relationships, you were rarely the one to make the first move. It wasn't that you didn't enjoy sex—far from it, actually—but you didn't see it as the centerpiece of a relationship. Sex was enjoyable, yes, but it wasn’t everything.

At least, that's what you thought until now.

You recently reached a realization that three factors led you to reconsider this long-held belief, and unsurprisingly, they all revolved around Spencer Reid.

The first one was his choice of clothes. It seemed like he had woken up one day and decided that undoing the top buttons of his shirt was the new norm. It was as if he was taunting you, and it was working. The moment you saw him wearing that shirt this morning, all you could think about was dragging him into a storage room and have your dirty, nasty way with him.

The second thing was the way your heart raced when he accidentally brushed his hand against yours as you both reached for the car keys. Emily had asked you both to interview a key witness, and naturally, you assumed you’d be the one driving because Spencer rarely volunteered to take the wheel. But to your surprise, he insisted on driving.

It was strange. You wondered what had prompted this change, but you didn’t protest. In fact, you let him. Happily. Because this set the stage for what became the third significant moment that made you reconsider everything.

Him driving the damn car.

You found yourself unable to keep your eyes off him. The way his hands gripped the wheel, moving with effortless control that hinted at a confidence he rarely displayed. Your gaze traveled up his arm, noting the tension in his muscles, and the way his shirt tightened across his shoulders with each turn.

Then there was his face. Your gaze drifted to his jawline, appreciating the sharp angles and the way it tightened slightly when he was deep in concentration. You had to squeeze your thighs together because watching him drive was enough to make you wet.

It was highly inappropriate, of course. You were both on the job, and there was a witness to interview. So you forced yourself to stay professional. It wasn’t until after you finished, after you and Spencer had informed Emily of what you had found and given her the necessary details over the phone, that your ogling became more prominent on the drive back to the station.

And despite being subtle about it, Spencer seemed to know the effect he had on you.

“Is there something you want to say?” His voice was low, slightly amused, as he spared a quick glance in your direction before focusing back on the road.

You forced yourself to look away from his hands. “What do you mean?”

“You seem… distracted.”

You swallowed, trying to muster up an explanation that wouldn’t give away too much. “Just thinking about the case.”

The corners of his mouth twitched as if he were fighting back a smile. “Really? Because it looked more like you were deep in thought about something else.”

You felt a flush of warmth rise to your cheeks. “Well, maybe the case isn’t the only thing on my mind.”

“Oh? And what else were you thinking about?”

“I don’t know if you’d be interested.”

“Try me.”

You turned your body towards him. “It’s highly inappropriate.”

“Now you’ve really got my attention.”

You hesitated, feeling the car’s warmth envelope you, making the space seem smaller, more intimate. “Okay, but remember, you asked for it,” you said, taking a deep breath. “I was thinking about... how well you handle the steering wheel.”

Spencer laughed, a deep, genuine sound that filled the car. “Is that your way of saying you like my driving, or something more metaphorical?”

“Maybe a bit of both. I mean, a person’s driving does say a lot about them, doesn’t it?”

“It does,” he agreed. “And what does my driving say about me?”

“That you’re good with your hands.”

Spencer’s eyes met yours briefly, and you squeezed your thighs tighter.

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” he said finally, his voice low. There was a brief pause and you wondered whether you had gone too far, whether this wasn’t the right time or place to flirt so openly, but then he spoke again.

“And since we’re sharing, I was thinking about something a bit inappropriate too.”

Your breath hitched slightly. “Like what?”

“Like how it’s hard to focus on the road when you’re looking at me like that.”

“…how am I looking at you?”

He gripped the steering wheel a bit tighter. “Like you want me to pull over to the side of the road and kiss you.”

A silence fell between you, and for a moment, you could hardly breathe. You felt a flush of warmth spread through your body, and you bit your lip, considering his words.

“And what if I do?” You asked softly.

You noticed his Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed hard, clearly fighting to maintain his composure.

“Then I’d have to find a quiet place for us.”

Your body responded immediately, a wave of heat coursing through you as your breath quickened. You could feel your pulse thrumming in your veins, an urgent, needy beat that matched the thoughts racing through your mind.

“Spence?”

“Yeah?”

“Pull over.”

For a moment, he didn’t move, his eyes searching yours. Then, without hesitation, he scanned the road for a safe spot. The anticipation was almost unbearable as you watched him steer the car onto a narrow, dark lane shielded by dense shrubs. The path seemed to swallow the sound of the engine as he drove further away from the main road.

The silence that followed was thick as he turned off the engine. You both stared at each other, acutely aware of what you were about to do, about the potential consequences, but everything blurred as you both moved at the same time.

Everything was fast, a rush of motion and emotion as Spencer leaned over the console. His lips met yours with an urgency that left no room for hesitation.

His arms wrapped around your waist, pulling you closer, while you clung to his arm. He kissed you hungrily, desperately, as if trying to communicate every unspoken word through the press of his mouth against yours. The more he kissed you, the more you felt the heat between your thighs and you realized that, in fact, you really had no control over your sex drive.

You then opened your mouth, letting him sink his tongue into you, pressing your body against his. But he was too far away, and you needed more of his heat, more of him. So, you undid your seat belt and did the only thing that felt natural—you climbed onto his lap.

You both moaned when his cock finally pressed against your core, and he found your lips again, his hand cradling the back of your head while the other rested firmly on your hips, urging you to move. The movement was instinctive, a rhythm that was driven by desperation.

You felt his mouth kisses trail from your lips down to your neck, marking a trail of heat that had you burning for more. Your fingers found the buttons of your shirt, and before you could second guess yourself, you undid them one by one.

Spencer’s hands followed the path you created, tracing the newly exposed skin. His large palms moved along your ribs before they rested just beneath your breasts, his thumbs brushing over your hard nipples through the fabric of your bra. You gasped, your head falling back in sheer pleasure.

His lips found your neck again, kissing and nipping at the delicate skin. His fingers pulled down your bra, exposing your breasts, and when he quickly sucked on your sensitive nub without warning, you bucked your hips, a strangled moan escaping your lips.

His sound of pleasure vibrated against your skin when you moved your hips at a steady pace, the friction driving you both to new heights. You could feel the material of your underwear sticking between your wet folds, and you wished desperately that there was no barrier between you. But time was ticking, and you both knew you were on the clock.

This had to be enough.

Spencer pulled back slightly, your nipple stretching with him, your supple skin following his movements until he let go with a soft pop. He then turned his attention to your other breast, his tongue teasingly circling your hardened nipple before hungrily engulfing it in his mouth.

Your hands gripped onto his shoulders, your nails digging in slightly as you arched your back. You felt his hands roaming over your waist, holding you steady, grounding you even as you felt yourself spiraling higher into a state of pure ecstasy.

“Spence,” you breathed, your voice trembling with need. His response was to look up at you with those intense, brown eyes as he continued to suck on your nipple.

His mouth moved with deliberate precision, alternating between gentle licks and firm sucks, driving you completely insane. You could feel your control slipping, your body responding to his every touch, and you found yourself unable to think of anything but him. The way he made you feel, the way his touch ignited every nerve in your body.

You tangled your fingers in his hair, urging him on, lost in the overwhelming pleasure he was giving you. His lips left your breast, trailing kisses up your chest and neck until he reached your lips, capturing them in a searing kiss that left you breathless.

The taste of him, the feel of his body against yours, was everything you had been longing for.

“More,” you whispered against his lips, your voice a desperate plea.

“I know, I know,” he murmured back. “I got you.”

You shook your head, breathless. “I wanna feel you.”

He groaned. How he wanted that to happen, but you were both gone long enough and reality was beginning to intrude on your stolen moment.

“We can’t, not here,” he said, his voice strained with desire as he rested his forehead against yours. “We don’t have enough time.”

You bit your lip, trying to push back the disappointment. “I know, but I-I need you.”

“Soon,” he promised. “When we have more time, I’ll give you everything you need.”

Your hips moved faster. “Everything?”

He nodded, his eyes fluttering close when he felt you pressing harder on his cock. “Everything.”

“You’ll finally fuck me?”

His breath hitched at your bold words, his control slipping further.

“Say it. Say you’ll fuck me.”

His self-control wavered, the raw desire in your voice pushed him to the edge as his palms gripped your ass.

“Is that what you want? You want me to fuck you?”

You never thought there would be a time when you’d hear those words from him, and yet here you were, craving for more. You nodded and grinded against him, trying to find that delicious pressure on your clit.

“Yes,” you whispered, your voice laced with urgency. “I want you to fuck me hard.”

Spencer groaned, his breath hot against your neck as he leaned in closer. “Then imagine me inside you,” he murmured, his voice low and seductive. “Think about my cock sliding into you, filling you up completely.”

“F-Fuck,” you gasped, moving against him rhythmically. Who would’ve thought he’d be good at this?

“Imagine my hands gripping your hips, pulling you down onto me,” he continued, his breath warm against your neck. “You’d feel every inch, deep and perfect.”

Your heart pounded as his fantasy played out in your thoughts. “Yes,” you gasped, finding it hard to keep steady. “Please, keep going.”

“I’d set a rhythm that drives you crazy,” he murmured. “Fast, then slow, teasing you, drawing out every moan and gasp until you’re begging me not to stop.”

“Oh God…” you moaned. “Please…”

He continued, relentless and commanding. “And when you’re close, when you’re right on the edge, I’d look into your eyes, whisper how beautiful you are, how good you feel wrapped around me…”

“Spencer, I—”

“And then I’d thrust harder, deeper,” he cut off your words, his tone intense. He pressed a hand against your lower abdomen as if to illustrate his point. “I’d fill you completely, over and over, until all you can do is cling to me and take it.”

You were practically trembling now, his words and slight touches driving you wild.

“I’m so close,” you managed to breathe out, your movements becoming less rhythmic and more desperate. His hands went back to your hips. His grip tightened, steadying and encouraging your frantic movements as he felt his own orgasm nearing.

“Come with me,” he whispered, pressing himself closer to you.

His words, his grip, his presence overwhelmed you. You felt the buildup, almost unbearable, as if every nerve in your body focused on the impending release. Then, with a final, mutual push, you felt the wave break.

Pleasure surged through you, intense and all-consuming. His grip on your hips tightened, pulling you down as he drove himself up, his name spilling from your lips in a cry of release. You felt him tense, heard his own cry muffled against your skin, as he reached his climax with you.

Panting, you both slowed, the car filled with the sound of heavy breathing and the soft hum of the engine in the background. Spencer’s hands softened on your hips, caressing now, soothing the spots where his fingers had pressed.

You ran a hand through his thick hair. “Has anyone ever told you that you have a dirty mouth?”

His grin was both sheepish and proud as he met your gaze. “You’re actually the first person to hear it.”

Your eyebrows rose in surprise. “Really?”

“Yeah,” he confirmed, his hands carefully adjusting your clothes. “It seems you have a way of bringing out a side of me I didn’t know I had.”

You watched him, a smile tugging at the corners of your mouth. There was so much you wanted to say, so many feelings swirling inside you, but the words felt too fragile for the moment. Instead, you settled for the silence.

Spencer didn’t seem to mind. He tapped your hip gently, drawing your attention. “Come on, I think we need to drop by the hotel before we go back to the station.”

When he caught the startled look you sent him, he laughed.

“To change my pants. Nothing else.”

“…oh.”

“You sound disappointed.”

You blushed, caught off guard by his remark and your own reaction. “No, I just—” you started, then paused, searching for the right words. “I mean, yes, maybe a little.”

His smile widened, pleased by your response. “I’ll tell you what,” he began. “After we finish this case, after we fly back, let’s spend time together. Just you and me.”

Your hands pressed against his chest, feeling the warmth of him through his shirt. You wondered what it would be like to have him pressed against you with nothing between you, to feel the rhythm of his heartbeat directly under your palms.

The thought made you both nervous and excited at the same time.

“Really?”

He leaned in for a kiss. “Really.”

“You promise?”

He smiled against your lips.

“I promise.”

[peachesofteal]

The House

The Crypt anthology Simon Riley / female reader

The House was a gamble.

Tucked away in a thicket of forest, boxed in on the side of a hill, it stands alone at the mouth of an uneven gravel road. The porch tips to one side, the front door to another, like the wood is weeping. White, stained paint contrasts with faded black trim, all of it peeling away.

“Not sure how old it is, to be honest. It’s been back there for years, owner let it fall into disrepair.” The realtor hesitantly dropped the keys in your hand with a grumble under his breath. “Good luck.”

The living room is habitable, barely, along with a single bedroom that has managed to fend off the rot and decay. After the floor is swept, cobwebs cleared, you rub your hands together trying to spark some heat between your palms. You didn’t think it’d get this cold, this fast, but the weather has turned in the last few days, and the furnace in the basement patiently waits for you.

Best to get it over with.

This isn’t the first house you’ve rehabbed. You’re familiar with weeping trusses, creaking stairs, raccoons curled up in kitchen cabinets, dirt floor basements and cellars. You’ve battled a furnace or two, cleaned a fireplace, nearly fallen through a rotten floorboard. It should all be old hat.

Should be.

Something about this house is different. Shadows dance in the corner of your eye, gone when you turn to look. Windows whistle without wind, and at night, you swear you can hear��breathing.

It’s all in your head, of course. A house stuck out here in the woods is bound to have some quirks, some unexplainable moments, passing as quickly as they came. Pipes, foundations, doorframes, they’re all shifting things, never truly solid. There are always growing pains, even in something old.

Besides, old houses always have stories. They have bones.

So, it should be old hat, but a wisp of a feeling so unnatural gives you pause at the top of the stairs, and a shudder rockets down your spine.

Suck it up, you chastise. You’re an adult for fucks sake.

The furnace is a monster. It’s big, and ancient, and rusted, and to your delight, still operational. Old furnaces, old washers and dryers, all the things made in the seventies and before, last forever. No LED displays, no excessive electrical hookups, no songs to announce the end of a cycle. Lack of extensive wiring leads to a longer lifespan.

It kicks back on with a loud groan, hissing and rattling, and you roll back on your heels, satisfied. Easy enough, you think, tugging your tools up and turning to leave.

Something catches your eye. A black scrap of cloth, haphazardly ditched in a corner of the basement. The light casts it in shadow, and the room goes cold as your knuckles graze the fabric, turning it to reveal faded white teeth and bone.

It’s a skull mask.

You chalk it up to being something left over from the last owners, a Halloween costume, or prop as you carry it up the stairs. Just another thing left behind, like the house itself. You toss it on one of the tables, making a note to throw it away later, distracted by the thud of a fist.

Someone is knocking on the door.

“Can I help you?” He’s too big. Too tall. Shoulders too wide. Chest too broad. There’s a curve of fat around his belly under the unbuttoned jacket, and you try to look away at how hips give way to too thick thighs. You’re not a small girl, by any means but this man… this man is a monster.

“Just wanted to come by, meet my neighbor.” Your heart pounds, so loud it rattles your eardrums, and your mouth dries. “I’m Simon.” You manage to spit your name out in response.

“Your neighbor?” You squeak in disbelief, and he nods.

“I live on the next property over. Over the hill.” Over the hill? The realtor said no one lived around here, and he must read the confusion on your face, because he chuckles. “I don’t live too close, it’s still about ten miles. You’ve got a lot of land here.”

“Oh. Right.” He takes you in from head to toe. There's a tenebrific flicker in his eyes that you barely catch, gone when the front porch creaks under your feet, a sharp whine forcing you to step off the board, lest you fall right through.

“How’s it treatin’ you?” You think you’re supposed to step off the porch. Be friendly. Extend a hand, but you can’t. Something roots you to the spot you’ve chosen.

“Good. Fine. It’s uh… not my first rehab.” He nods thoughtfully.

“Well, just wanted to drop by.” He gives you a smile. It’s not warm, or welcoming, but grim. Haunted.

You watch him disappear down the road, still stuck to the porch. Wondering.

Your dreams are caked in mud.

Held down by the earth, dirt wet between your teeth, grit and gravel clogging your throat.

You scratch and claw and scream but it only grows heavier, quicksand turning to cement, burying you deeper and deeper until you’re six feet under. Listless. Resigned.

Dying.

Dreams are always the same. Just when you get to the point where you think you might die, when you’re past the point of no return, the last sliver of life slipping away-

is when you wake up.

This dream is no different. You come to screaming, gasping for air, tangled in your blankets, heart racing in a gallop. You need the sky. The sun. The moon. Anything to prove you’re not buried alive.

The window suffices.

It groans as you throw it open and shove your face outside, cool breeze soothing your stomach, the roar of panic pounding between your ears. You breathe deep again and again, the trembling in your hands tapering off, feeling of impending doom, of collapse, leeching away.

You get yourself settled when the stairs creak.

Growing pains. The house is old.

It’s a manageable explanation, until a boot steps on the landing outside your room, just beyond the door. You fumble with the flashlight on your phone. “Hello?”

Nothing.

And then-

The steps move away. Down the hall. It’s certainly a person now, walking, and you fly out of bed, fumbling with your slippers, your sweater, throwing the bedroom door open and squinting the down the hallway.

There’s nothing there.

No one.

You’re losing it.

Days pass, and the nights tick by the same.

Same dream. Same footsteps. Same nothingness at the end of the pitch-dark hallway.

You start to stay up, drinking coffee late at night, sitting up at the head of the bed. Waiting.

The steps never cease. But you never see where they come from.

The neighbor, Simon, comes around again. He takes stock of you and comments on how you look exhausted, sickly.

You snap back with some smart-ass comment and a suggestion, mind his own business. The sleep deprivation builds into agitation, and then into tears. It’s embarrassing.

“Is something wrong?” He asks gently, stepping close, close enough you can smell him. Cedar. Flame. Charred wood in the bottom of a firepit, the leftover remains of a once loved campfire.

“I’m sorry, I… I haven’t been sleeping.”

“Why’s that?”

“You wouldn’t believe me. It sounds pretty crazy.”

“Try me.” He’s at your shoulder now, tilted down, trying to meet your eyes. When you refuse, he tips your chin backwards, baring your face to him. It’s too intimate. You can’t pull yourself away. “Go on.” The birch trees sway in the wind.

“It’s the house. I keep… I keep hearing things.”

“Things?”

“Footsteps, but no one is there. And I’ve been having the same dream, every single night since I got here.”

“What do you dream about?”

“Being buried alive.” His brows crease, framing fleeting caliginous shadows in his irises, mouth turning downward.

“I’m sure it’s just an animal in the house,” he glances up at it with a scolding, resolute glare, before returning his attention back to you. “As far as the dream, it’s probably just your subconscious telling you this house was probably more than you bargained for.” His mouth quirks to the side and you’re struck by it, confused. You didn’t notice earlier how handsome he is in a scarred, rough edged sort of way.

“Sure, yeah. You’re probably right.” He fishes out his phone and passes it to you.

“Put your number in there, I’ll text you. That way if you ever need anything, you can give me call.”

“Okay.”

A hand holds yours in the night. It’s warm, and heavy, and you squeeze it, curling your chin over it, a soft blanket of solace in a turbulent dream.

Old houses have bones.

When the nightmare wakes you later and you rocket out of bed, sweating and startled, you don’t hear the footsteps.

Instead, you hear your name being called. You stumble from your bedroom, frantic. The floor tilts between your feet, hallways contracting, crowding around your shoulders, ceiling weeping from the pressure.

You’re still asleep. You must be.

They breathe around you, expanding, narrowing, a dry rasp echoing from the bowels of the house.

Someone-

Something-

Calls your name.

It groans from the basement, floorboards singing under your heels as you trip down the stairs, turning the corner to crash through the door.

The light is on.

Did you leave it on?

You can’t stop yourself. Fear wraps a rope around your neck, but there’s nothing to tether you to the world above, nothing to prevent you from going down there.

But nothing prepares you for what you find.

In the dirt floor of the basement, a rectangular hole is dug. Long enough, wide enough for a body.

A grave.

Beside it, sits the skull mask you found when you fixed the furnace. The one you left upstairs.

You retch, skin prickling from a howling cry, ice cracking up your back, and turn to run. To flee, to fly back up the stairs like you did when you were a child, running from invisible monsters, trying to make it to the top before something snatches you around the ankle and drags you down into the abyss.

Instead, you collide with a wall of muscle.

You scream, pull away, only to be tugged forward.

Simon.

When he looks at you, he almost seems sad. “I told him not to do this.” He sighs, and you blink. He grips your upper arms, strength unnatural, fingers burning against frozen skin. “Told him it was too fast, y’know? You just got here.”

“Wh-what?” He’s walking you backwards, step by step, and no matter how hard you struggle, you can’t break free. It’s hard to breathe. “Simon, stop. Let go of me.”

“When I let ‘im go, freed him, I never thought he’d turn into… this. But it all worked out for the best, I think.” His mouth is moving, and you hear him, but the words string together into mush, and you can’t hold on, trying and failing to make any of it make sense. The only thing that registers is the horror blooming in your heart, the sweat slicking down your spine.

“L-let me go.”

“Can’t.” You teeter on the edge, heels suspended over the dirt pit. Simon is still holding you by your arms, balancing you above, and you cling to him.

“Stop- stop-“ He ignores you, grabbing your wrists, widening the gap between his chest and yours. His thumb finds your cheek and strokes away the tears there, the touch gentle, sympathetic.

“It won’t be too bad. You’ll be with him, and I’ll have you both.” The house groans again, and the lights flicker. You’re still suspended over the hole in the ground, flying, stomach turning over and over again, motion sick.

“With who?”

“Ghost.” He looks around, gesturing to the basement like it’s obvious. “This is where I buried him. Scratched him out of my soul and gave him peace.” Your head spins, and he holds you close for a second, cheek on your head.

“Simon-“ The protest is cut off by his lips on yours, impassioned, aggressive. He draws back, cradles your face with his free hand and then-

let’s go.

You land on your back with a scream, trying to scramble to your feet only to find yourself weighed down by some invisible force, the same cold clinging to you again, holding you like a lover. “G-get me out, get me out this isn’t funny.” He ignores you, stepping out of sight. Your chest explodes with agony, terror spilling from your eyes in rivers of salt, vision going so blurry it’s impossible to see.

Someone-

Something-

Holds your hand.

A shovel clangs, damp dirt crumbling into a blade. Simon looms with a heaping pile of earth. When he throws it down into the grave, onto your legs, you thrash. Scream. Beg.

No one can hear you.

No one can save you.

He goes about his work in silence, ignoring every plea, every bargain, every cry. The cold never leaves, only tightens its embrace. The weight of the dirt crushes you, compacts your diaphragms, your breaths growing more and more shallow with each passing second.

“Please,” you croak when it meets your chin. “Please.” The shovel pauses, shadowed over your face, small clumps and rocks falling over the edge onto your cheeks. It’s the next to be dumped, the next layer, the one that will finally hide you from view, from the world. Bury you. Alive.

Before it drops, you peer up through dusty cobwebbed lashes. There’s another man beside Simon. He wears the mask, the skull one, eyes glistening above the hem. They’re haunted, heavy with desiderium, but shining with something else, starvation, desperation. Lunacy.

Love.

He disappears in the next moment, and Simon looks down at you one last time. “This is the only way we can keep you, ‘m afraid. Have to make you a part of it, just like him.” You choke.

“A part of what?”

“The House.”

[godihatethiswebsite]

Tethered Bonds

✽ Poly 141 x f!reader (Omegaverse AU)

A lucky stroke of fate led you right into the arms of your alpha soulmates. But is it everything you dreamed it would be or just the continuation of a nightmare?

Main Masterlist ✽ Ao3

✽ Part Four - Hamster ball

See? The last update wasn't a fluke! :) Bit of a more easygoing chapter compared to the hecticness I've been subjecting our poor omega to. Bit more background on our girl. Give her a bit of breathing room before hopping back into more chaos.

Also: I've added a change to the reader's physicality. There's a reference to being underweight for medical reasons so I'm sorry if that takes any of you out of the experience. I try to not mess with that aspect, but I just felt it necessary given everything I put this girl through.

Trigger warnings: angst, depression, customer service, malnourishment

The dog survived.

Life had apparently decided against throwing you any more curveballs on your way back to the apartment – slushy roads and bad drivers notwithstanding (honestly, how could this many people forget what front wheel drive did on black ice and wet pavement?).

Densely populated areas gave way to suburban life as you drove the twenty minutes it took to escape the city center and arrive back into a world a little less crowded.

The area you resided in could generously be considered lower middle class. The crime rate was on the lower end of the spectrum though still a tinge too high for most members of polite society. Nothing too terribly outlandish; juvenile gang violence typical of a sizable city and the occasional asshat who decided the stuff in your car now belonged to him. But there was a police station a few blocks down the road from you that ran frequent patrols and the low level violence kept the rent at a decent affordability. 

There were less and less brownstones the further east you traveled, row house opulence giving way to multi level apartment buildings interspersed amongst a smattering of mid century moderns. Grass became a thing again, but only in long strips running parallel with the sidewalk – unless you were fortunate enough to own a modest front lawn on a small corner lot. Not that it was visible beneath the eight inches of snow that’d accumulated since it started falling late yesterday morning. 

It was only late afternoon by the time you were back in familiar territory, but this close to the impending holiday the local residents left their Christmas lights on 24/7 it seemed. Most abodes were adorned with at least humble decorations. 

Community members wrapped battery powered twinkle lights around the sparse barren elms, evergreen garland candy caning down metal street lamps, interlaced tinsel glimmering from passing headlights. Cheap vinyl stickers of cartoon snowmen and Santa's little helpers splattered across glass windows and sliding balcony doors in haphazard childish fashion. Mesh reindeer lawn ornaments and creepy animatronic statues recreating Saint Nick’s undertaking in kaleidoscopic – if not positively garish – displays. 

Muddied coir welcome mats proclaiming ‘Blessed Yule!’. A giant inflatable dinosaur taking up way too much space and spinning an oversized dreidel. You even gave props to the guy with a grinch head popping out the top of his chimney, smirking deviously at the passersby down below as if they were in on the secret. 

All walks of life celebrating the winter season in their own special ways. 

You couldn’t even remember the last time you bothered to hang a simple wreath.

You were fortunate enough to find decently close street parking as you pulled up to the curve, grateful the black Kia behind had left space enough for more than just a clown car. A group of rowdy boys bundled snug in thick mittens and hand-knit toques called for a ceasefire, taking your nearby arrival as an excuse to catch their breaths and stockpile more ammunition for the fierce battle they waged. Childish insults flew from behind snowy barricades as you stepped out of your car and onto the icy sidewalk.

It was a more than usual hassle making the trudge inside your apartment building. Normally you kept your grocery list light; manageable for the haul up three flights of stairs despite the fully functioning elevator. But with the previous week’s illness eating into more of your food supply than normal you’d been forced to compensate for the barren cupboards. 

Could you make multiple trips? Sure. Did you want to be outside in the blustery cold for longer than necessary? Nope. Hence the sight of you iron-manning your way through the building’s exterior entrance, clusters of bags biting into your arms even through your heavy winter coat, overstretched plastic really field testing its weight requirements and lumbering your already lethargic pace.

You were grateful that you’d remembered to double bag some of the heftier items, having almost made that same mistake the month prior if not for the shredding sound alerting you to the seam's fatal flaw. That’s all you needed was to be spending your evening on hands and knees mopping up shattered glass and pickle juice from grime-laden steps.

There's a sense of accomplishment as you haul the purchased goods over the threshold to your apartment, carefully depositing the burdensome load on the tile in front of your refrigerator, far too many to overwhelm your bite-sized kitchen table with. Doubling back to re-check the numerous door locks and deadbolts, you finally let loose a sigh as you kick off your snow boots and shuck the weighted material from your weary shoulders, hanging the ratty scarf on the hook next to it and giving your neck a chance to breathe again.

Rubbing the irritated skin hurt more than it helped. The damn thing was sensitive to abrasive material – only concealing it when absolutely necessary. Winter was easy; warmer months made the task trickier. Thankfully most people didn’t stare much at an omega with a patch of gauze taped over her neck. Newly bonded designations wore it as a badge of honor, proudly proclaiming to the world at large that they’d finally found their place amongst the upper echelons of packdom.

You, meanwhile, would have to be more careful in the future to wear turtlenecks if bombshell interactions were to become a normal occurrence. The last thing you needed were prying questions from nosy alphas.

A half gone tube of medicated ointment called your name from the bathroom counter, but the inflamed mating mark would have to wait until after you got the bulk of groceries put away. Canned items and other non perishables could be dealt with tomorrow. There was only so much strength left in your bones after a day like today.

The knock on your front door would have startled you worse if not for the preceding text message hailing the arrival. 

‘Paranoid’ would be the appropriate term. Practically overnight you found yourself turning into one of those god awful annoying conspiracy theorists that hide in the dark cobwebs of the internet, spouting schizophrenic ravings of lunacy and government surveillance, too wrapped up in their straight jackets for oxygen to reach their corrupted brains. 

It was hard not to be distrustful to any and all intruders of your dwelling, knowing full well the consequences that come from letting your guard down in a stunning display of naivety. The pinched tether on your bond reassured you of his distance, but he was far from being the only ill-intentioned alpha in a thousand mile radius.

Pulse fluttering like a baby bird and fingers flexing into trembling fists, you creep up to the peephole with all the finesse of a one-legged cat – despite knowing the face that would greet you on the other end. Per usual, the kind beta didn’t take it personally when you opened the door with barely enough space to let her inside, squeezing through the gap provided and scooting out of the way while you relatched your pacifying security measures.

All she offered was her usual glowing smile and a box of double stuf oreos.

“Hard day at therapy?”

Chloe had been an unexpected addition to the chaos of your life. For lack of in-unit appliances, the apartment complex housed a small laundry facility on the ground floor – free of charge, but awfully stifling come the summer months. Enough square footage that multiple people could use it at any given time, but not enough to hold even a quarter of the residents. On the weekdays, that damn thing could be packed tighter than a dented can of sardines (and smell just as fishy). It wasn’t unusual to find your neighbors making the trek of shame back to their rooms, hefting a still-soiled bag of clothing, waiting another hour or so in hopes of trying their hand at the laundry lottery all over again.

You were embarrassed to say you avoided the place like the plague for the first month after moving in. After all, what did it really matter? 

You didn’t leave your apartment at the time. There was no need for decorum – no call to impress. And as an unpacked omega with disabling agoraphobia it sounded like the worst sort of torture porn experience. It had taken running out of febreze and being on the phone with your dads to finally venture down there at three o’clock in the morning on a random Tuesday in hopes the facility would be barren enough that your musky basket could stop reeking up your closet. 

The scream you screamt upon turning the corner and finding another human being skulking around in the unlit void had you so sure your father’s were a hairs breadth away from calling down the fucking feds.

Turns out Chloe was a skittish thing a few years younger than you. A recent college graduate, this was her first real apartment outside of campus dorm life. But where you were up at the ass crack of dawn due to an anxiety-inducing aversion to civilization, she was down there to keep from running into the cute nerdy alpha across the hall and risking mortification at him peeping her dainty underthings.

Honestly you hadn’t been sure the smell of urine was coming from either laundry basket.

Once you’d calmed down enough to pull your fathers off the edge of booking the next flight down there to rough up some nonexistent predator, you’d managed to finish your chores on opposite sides of the room, neither engaging in any conversation beyond muffled apologies of humiliation. 

What followed was an uneasy truce born out of necessity, a silent acknowledgement that this would be a weekly safe space free from judgment and criticism. Silence turned to whispered greetings, whispers became timid banter, until eventually you were confessing in therapy to eating homemade peanut butter cookies on the floor in front of the laundry machines.

Now she was the only other person in this whole entire city besides Dr. Miranda that you could go to for advice and needed companionship. 

Originally you had no intention of exhausting any more of your social battery than had already been consumed. But therapy wasn’t for another week and you had too much bubbling inside to be contained by the cramped confines of your studio apartment. And Chloe was considerate enough that she knew not to overstay her welcome, her own introverted alarm clock ringing about the same time as yours.

“If only that had been the hard part,” you replied with a sigh, taking the parcel of outstretched goods and moseying on over to your butt shaped indent on the far end of the couch.

The sound of creaky hinges and clattering plastic informed you of Chloe’s detour to the kitchen. “Has that rust-bucket jalopy of yours finally gone to the great big scrap metal in the sky?”

Everyone’s a critic.

“How about we don’t put that out into the universe thank you very much.” Shoving a whole cookie in your mouth, you gratefully accept the cold glass of milk she passes over before taking up a spot on the cushion next to you, grabbing at her own treat from the open pack.

The mess of red curls atop her head and the loud pattern of her knit rainbow sweater deceptively implied a boisterous personality. Bright green eyes. A healthy dusting of freckles. Blue corduroy pants still smudged with gold leaf. One look at her 5 foot 11 stature and you’d think she was some sort of artistic fairy, flitting about from flower to flower like a social hummingbird. In truth she’d gone to school for fine arts, but in preparation for a career in conservation – something quiet and away from the harsh critics where she could help express someone else's ideas instead of her own.

Her soft hazelnut scent matches her sympathetic smile, always patient and warm with you. “Does it have something to do with why you smell like a latte? Oh dear–please tell me no one spilled hot coffee on you today!”

You duck your head from her doe eyed worry and concerned frown of dread, focusing on the cold bite of milk on your fingers as you plunge another sugary morsel into your clear plastic cup. 

As toxic as it might have been, you couldn’t bring yourself to wash the scent of alpha from the pores of your skin.

“Chloe, I…” Here goes nothing. “I met someone yesterday…”

For the second time in less than four hours you found yourself spilling your heart to a friendly ear. 

She heard all of it. The supermarket run-in. Tantalizing lemon. Silky coconut. Devastating chocolate. Therapy. The coffee shop mishap. Being gentled by a complete stranger.

The promise kept safe in your electronic device. 

Where Dr. Miranda had broached the topic with a level-headed sense of therapeutic resolution, Chloe had all but clutched her pearls the longer your tantalizing tale was spun. She wore her expressions the way she wore her heart on her sleeve, squeezing the life out of a proffered couch pillow in a way that made you hope she didn’t have any pets at home.

“How could he possibly expect any of this to not come crashing down in a fiery hellscape of cataclysmic fury that would put Dante’s inferno to shame?”

Can you tell she went to catholic school?

“I mean… it's not like I caught him off guard technically,” you try to bargain. “Like yeah, today’s meeting wasn’t exactly on purpose, but they would’ve had a whole night to discuss things amongst themselves. Maybe they just reached some sort of weird agreement with her?”

She bites her lip to hide the sympathetic frown. “Do you really believe that though?”

No. No you didn’t.

It wasn’t hard to put yourself in her shoes considering the thick iron cable anchoring you to another. If that bond came with passion... if you knew the cloying taste of devotion – the idolatry that comes from having your molecules grafted onto a lover’s DNA – you’d shred every muscle strand in your body, tear skin from bone with bloodied teeth to keep what was coveted.

And here you were. The other woman.

Suddenly the chocolate dessert didn’t taste so appetizing.

At your lack of a meaningful answer, she unknowingly goes for the throat.

“Perhaps you should tell them–”

“No.” 

The ice in your tone brokers no room for argument, instantly regretting the bite behind it as you watch her flinch back into the cushions with a meek whine. 

Your expression softens in guilt. Chloe is just trying her best to help you navigate an otherwise impossible scenario. Her suggestion doesn’t come from a place of cruelty, only one of care. Even if it does speak of ignorance.

Not that she didn't still try.

“Wouldn’t you want to know if the roles were reversed?”

“And what good would that do?” you press far more gently this time, the acid of pain climbing up the back of your throat. “No matter what they say there’s no tangible future for us. That ship has well and truly sailed – I know that now. My destiny was signed with an iron pen and the deed says I belong to him.”

Your voice quivers on the last word, the sting of acceptance cutting into flesh with a rusty barbed wire. You never thought there could be a feeling worse than hopelessness.

“Telling them will only ensure that both parties suffer for another’s twisted scheme,” you continue past the lump in your throat, “and I won’t subject them to the burden that should be only mine to bear. I refuse to let them live with that guilt.”

Maybe it’s her beta upbringing that keeps her from fully understanding the colossal weight of putting your bonded through such inner turmoil. Chloe will never know what it means to share someone's emotions across an unwavering connection. Pack life isn’t barred from her, but the same primal urges that draw us towards our mates are nothing but strings of thread easily pruned. 

Truthfully most betas never want it. To them, we all drew the short end of the straw; being forced into subjugation by ancient instincts that never shed their skin after the last ice age. 

After the eternally looping rollercoaster that's been holding you prisoner the past four years, you can't say you disagree with them anymore.

“...maybe they chew with their mouths open.”

The huff she pulls from your chest is genuine, catching you off guard with the attempt at levity, the small roast doing its job of diffusing the atmosphere. Her extemporaneous remark reflects the giggles in her eyes begging you to play along.

“Bet they don’t wash their buttcracks either,” you add with a half-grin after a few moments of quiet, relishing in the way she covers her mouth to stifle a snort. Her energy is endearing, granting you leave to feed off the sunrays of her carefree aura, unblemished by the malice of a hateful underbelly, continuing for the next couple minutes that her presence lingers.

If only laughter was all it took to make everything better.

Consciousness greets you like a lifelong friend – one waiting to welcome you into outstretched arms, promising comfort and geniality with its disarming smile, swaddling you in a blanket so thick and plush it cradles you like a pregnant mother’s womb. It beckons with a silvery tongue, promising a joyful reunion as you give yourself over freely under the guise of a fresh start.

All the easier for it to slip a knife between your ribs. 

You should’ve known better.

Sleep hasn’t been your ally since the night before the incident. Rest is not restful; it is a time where the walls between protection and abuse are at their thinnest. Where the toxic sludge of your connection oozes through the cracks like bubbling tar and coats your insides with its virulent adhesive. It chokes you with its noxious miasma, seeping into dreams and disturbing the regenerative process vital to your health.

Each day starts the same – dealing with the consequences of life on a strained leash.

Awareness comes into focus next like a camera in the exclusion zone, grainy and crackling under the effects of radioactivity while spreading like the beginnings of cancer through the pores of your skin. It clings around the edges, lethargic in its letting go, giving way only to the melodic chiming of your phone’s alarm that might as well be set to a booming fog horn. 

Eyelashes crusty with dried salt crystals peel apart like fly paper, pupils fully dilated as the blackout curtains remove the need for constriction. The rumpled towel beneath you leaves tender spots on your back from where it bunched up in the night – a result of the fitful writhing when the nightmares your mind guards you from remembering leave your body feverful and drenched, soaking through the lightweight sheets and condensing in a thin layer of slimy moisture.

And the nausea.

God, the nausea.

The condition was a constant in your life, but its disruption was the worst during the early hours of the day.

Movement requires a delicate balance first thing in the morning. Jostle your body too much and the empty bin wedged between your bed and your nightstand gets reacquainted with the bile of your stomach (they’re apparently in an intimate relationship that you’re just sandwiched between like an awkward third wheel).

Problem is, barring the use of hefty restraints, it's impossible to know which side of the bed you’ll be waking up on. Literally. 

Some days you find yourself facing the drab interior of your studio apartment rather than covered window panes, knowing the energy required to roll over towards the small nightstand will likely result in the emptying of your insides. Sleeping on your back had potential, but your form preferred to curl in on itself for lack of anything else to bring it comfort.

Lady Luck had apparently seen enough of your mental breakdowns the past forty eight hours to grant you a reprieve, taking pity on your string of misfortunes as the first thing your eyes take in upon blinking free from sand is the heavy satin of your window coverings keeping in the dark – some lavender pattern to help match the rest of your nesting materials. They’re still fresh out the box after all these years, though the accumulation of filth would tell you otherwise, dust bunnies taking up residence on the weighted linen.

Your furnishings haven’t been bathed in sunlight since the moving van.

The well-loved bottle of Zofran sits in its spot on the corner of your nightstand, next to your still ringing phone and a robin's egg stanley, a glass picture frame shoved in the far corner on the other side of your table lamp.

Still wrapped in a thick fog of drowsiness, leaden muscles flex and groan as your arm stretches the short distance, ears taking priority and fingers tapping at the illuminated screen until they locate the damn snooze button. Popping the small oval pill comes next, chasing it with lukewarm water before burrowing back down into the soft minky goodness of your comforter. 

You're awake an hour before you need to be, but not to get anything done. No rejuvenating shower. No balanced breakfast and a half hour of yoga. Just adjusting to the abject misery your bond greets you with every day as a not so gentle reminder of the alpha you left behind. 

It’s a constant struggle to remind yourself that the suffering is worth it for the lifetime of abuse from which you escaped. Better to be tormented by a path you chose than one unwillingly taken.

About forty minutes go by before the medication kicks in enough to allow you freedom of movement, pulling yourself from the tangles of your bedding with aching joints and low fuel reserves. Walking into the bathroom, you squint against the blinding overhead fluorescents, rubbing the spots from your eyes as you take in your frumpy reflection.

There’s a photograph next to your bed that you haven’t glanced at in a few months. Six familiar faces beaming into a camera lens somewhere high in the mountains. A family vacation from eight years ago; the best summer of your life. 

That girl in the picture is nowhere to be found.

Spiritless eyes meet your gaze in the glass, early crows feet forming from periods of prolonged stress. A bone deep exhaustion reflected in your undereye bags, the dull pallor of your complexion. The frizziness of unmoisturized locks begging for a drink. Wind chapped lips and an eternal frown. 

The oversized shirt hangs baggy on your form, once belonging to your brother but now in your possession. If you lifted up the garment you could practically count the ribs, a once healthy layer of fat and muscle cannibalized by famished cells and underutilization. It's hard to keep on weight when your stomach rejects the nourishment you try to provide.

If this is the empty shell you’ve become a full continent away from him then it’s hard to imagine what lifeless husk of a creature you might’ve deteriorated into under his brand of care. 

There’s no more energy left by the time you do your business and finish brushing your teeth, knowing what few bolts remain will have to go towards the impending headache of customer service. Taming your unruly hair will just have to wait until later – if at all.

You flick the lights on as you pass, trudging on shaky legs to the cabinets above the microwave. There’s still too much unease in your tummy for your usual coffee order, opting for a mug of herbal tea to help settle the irritated organ, a spoonful of honey cutting through the mild bitterness. Settling on a sleeve of poptarts for a lazy breakfast, you lumber your way over towards the couch and the awaiting annoyances.

Opening shifts were always the worst. 

Originally you’d approached the company with open availability in hopes of bettering your chances at landing a remote job. In those days, commuting to a location had been out of the question. It took months of submitting applications – relying solely on your family for all your expenses – before someone finally gave you an opportunity to rejoin the workforce.

(You wept the day you received the offer from HR. Having even a sliver of autonomy returned to you after a tumultuous period without it was as the first melting snow of a long envisioned spring).

Unfortunately it meant you were handed the hours no one else wanted to take. Most days that was the early shifts. 

It’s not like you work a whole hell of a lot. The job itself is only part time after all and fairly easy; fourteen hours max per week. But you’d quickly learned that the later you were scheduled, the clearer your brain was to focus, the better you performed overall. 

Now if only the big wigs at corporate would allow you to update your availability. When last you’d scrounged up enough courage to broach the topic to your immediate supervisor you were promptly informed that there was no current flexibility to your role and, when pressed, sent a look via Zoom that clearly said don't push it.

So much for ‘warm family environment’.

A small rolling side table acts as your makeshift desk, the apartment too cramped for something proper no matter how many attempts to tetris the layout. One of your fathers had come up with the brilliant solution while shopping at ikea for new end tables, spotting the piece of furniture and shipping it out to your location. You’d had to brave the awkward visit of the buff delivery man for a signature – hiding behind the door jamb like a sketchy criminal – but the purchase had been well worth it for how cluttered your poor kitchen table had previously looked, a jumbled mess of pens and wires, certifiably hazardous with its lengthy extension cord.

Armed with soothing chamomile and a warm knit blanket thrown over your lap, you boot up your laptop and log onto the program that would keep you chained to it for the next six hours.

Ask anyone that deals with customers directly: Christmas is the least wonderful time of the year.

Garbled phone calls over shitty receptions. The droning monotony of preplanned scripts. Old bitties recounting eight decades of family drama. Mass hysteria around shipping delays. ‘Happy Birthday Steve’ and the audible slick of his palm. Entitled socialites for whom the word ‘please’ never came preinstalled in their gold filigree hoity-toity dictionaries. 

The fifteen minute break is almost insulting. As if anyone can decompress in such a meager timespan. It’s no wonder why people used to chainsmoke their way through the stress of their jobs.

You try to remind yourself of the before times – the trials and tribulations that came from previous employments. Long grueling hours spent pent up in bustling kitchens, the dinner rush on crab leg nights testing your arm strength and patience for slow steamers. Pushy roofing salesmen harping over impoverished neighborhoods. Car guys calling you toots and insisting on being assisted by a ‘real professional’.

This job was by far the most laid back. No fussing over business casual, no extroverted coworkers crowding your space, no bosses micromanaging for the sake of being assholes. You were living a cushy life by comparison.

But then your mind wanders to Jose on the third floor kitchen, busy doing prep work for the various departments; a kind man once he warmed up to you and found you competent enough to last. Always sneaking you tender bites of grilled meats and a bowl of creamy lobster bisque.

Nyle bringing you ladies in the office a round of Starbucks when he came in for mandatory meetings. Sharing music with Stacy and gabbing about just aired episodes of your favorite tv show. Heather bringing in fresh blueberry bear claws from the local bakery near her home.

Going to the irish pub across the street with the guys in finance that knew the owners, getting drunk off free whiskey and cider on Friday nights. All smiles and laughter as you twirl across the dance floor to a live band performing hits from musicians like Flogging Molly and Great Big Sea…

…and you realize just how much you took for granted. That there’s a palpable difference between surviving and living.

You don’t even notice you’re six minutes over break until your laptop pings from someone trying to get in touch with you, startling you out of melancholic reminiscence and bringing you back to a somber present that longs for the taste of livelihood.

That time has ended; those figures mere ghosts of a past better left forgotten in the vaults of your memory.

Now, you make a small but tidy living solving other people's problems a few hours a week. Enough to pay for personal bills, groceries, and the occasional indulgence while your fathers provide the bulk of your utilities and the sum of your rent. Your lost independence used to bother you more, but the thought of a homeless shelter quickly silenced your tongue.

Your cellphone reads one o’clock by the time you're freed from servitude, happy to be logging off as you push the rolling setup back out of the way. The air bubbles between the contours of your spine pop and crackle as you rise to your feet, ignoring the rush of lightheadedness from six hours remaining stationary. Resisting the urge to itch at the healing scab on the side of your neck, you pad into the kitchen to whip up a turkey sandwich – cautiously optimistic on the inclusion of juicy pickles – before plopping back down in your usual spot.

The acidity doesn’t seem to upset your stomach any further, allowing you to munch in peace on the simple scrapings of lunch, scrolling through the kindle app on your phone for something to occupy your time with.

There’s never much to do around here when the people in your life are busy living their own. Your family checks in on you every so often, catching you up on the goings-on in the quiet neighborhood, your father taking the opportunity to gush about his lego collection to someone other than his partner for a change. You miss the camaraderie that came with building the Death Star.

Despite living hundreds of miles away, their calls always made you feel as if you were gathered around the sectional in the warm lit interior of the sprawling living room, Christmas tree glowing by the light of the fire, a hot cup of cocoa and the merriment of family.

The same couldn’t be said for your younger brother Alex.

Ever since moving out at eighteen he'd become quite a prick, a beta complex a mile wide that only got worse when he surrounded himself with the wrong kinda crowd. The loss of his once fervent companionship had devastated you. After the accident that brought your parents to an early grave, you’d kept each other afloat through turbulent waves of depression, tidal waves of grief. Six became four, but – even though that wound would never fully heal – you still had the strength of their love to turn to when forgone memories played like black and white film.

But after that last argument…

Four became three.

It's been years since you last had any type of contact outside the occasional cheap greeting card – just another notch added to your mile long grinchmas belt come the holidays.

Fuck him. 

Shaking yourself out of that spiraling rabbit hole, you turned back to the task of entertainment at hand. Since you didn’t feel like spending any more time on the phone listening to idle chatter than you already had today, you settled for choosing a book at random from your extensive TBR, diving into a medieval fantasy where brave warriors slayed evil dragons and an honorable knight could still save a princess. 

The minute hand goes round and round.

Dinner is as simple an affair as lunch; a cheap frozen pizza popped in the oven adding an extra layer of warmth to the already balmy interior. There’s no need for a plate as you pull it off the wire rack onto the cardboard box it came in, gooey cheese bubbling hot and steamy, sizzling toppings shiny with bright orange grease, savory aromas wafting as they ride the circulation of the antiquated heating system. 

Years of battling chronic fatigue have made you crafty, cutting corners on labor with gathered tips and tricks accumulated over hours of lengthy research. There’s no need to add to your pile of dishes; no plates or utensils to scrub free of dried food particles. Just you and your fingers tearing through the saucy meal chunk by chunk.

Dr. Miranda tells you it's all about the little victories. The moments of accomplishment no matter how insignificant. Doesn’t matter how you get the job done so long as it happens. Roll out of bed? That’s a win. A sleeve of ritz crackers for a meal? Glad you got sustenance. Just because you weren’t claiming a nobel prize didn’t mean your triumphs were any less important. 

Didn’t leave much in the way of riveting stimulation though. Just acclimatizing you to existing in a hamster ball where the difference between day and night is as little as the am or pm on the clock. 

After all, it wasn’t like your body signaled a change in energy levels. There’s no ‘getting tired’ when you never wake up.

The only time you ever felt a sense of normalcy was when you started the process of getting ready for bed, pinpoint focus narrowing in on the task of fixing your nest. Logic shuts down and gut feeling takes the reins. You lose yourself in the fussing over placement of plush fleece and textured sherpa, jersey knit sheets and squishmallow plushies. Weighted quilt blankets and cloud-fluffy pillows of various shapes and sizes, the assortment of pastel pinks and lush earthy greens giving off the enchanted forest vibes held dear to your heart. 

It wasn’t large or luxurious by any means, but the few modest pieces you did have were plenty enough for the cozy space, strewn across the full sized bed in an organized haphazard chaos understood only by the omega instincts that dictate your actions. 

Only, there’s something wrong…

You lament the smell of mildew as your nose breathes in the cloth of your pillowcase, whining in dejection at the offense to your delicate olfactory senses and pawing at the material in shame. 

An omega’s nest is a vital part of the care and keeping of their fragile emotional state. Oftentimes they’re seen as a reflection of their owner's inner consciousness and a handy tool to monitor their anxiety levels on a day to day basis. An unkempt nest can not only signal deeper depression, but if neglected for too long may result in bodily dysregulation that can affect them even right down to a molecular level, throwing hormones out of whack and causing real physical illness. 

Your nest hasn’t been properly cleaned in far too many months – no doubt adding to the high levels of stress that already permeate your everyday life. The sacred space that’s supposed to be your safe haven acts as just another graphic reminder that he’s taken everything from you. There's no true relaxation in your life because of it. 

For what was the point of washing the sweat-stained fabric if there’s no stopping it getting soiled again the following night?

Pulling the musky sheets up to just below your chin, you stare blankly at the evidence of what happens when you get your hopes up, sitting plugged into the charger on the corner of your nightstand.

The phone hasn’t rang once. 

You’ve been religiously checking the screen all day. Turned the volume from vibrate to blaring. Unclicked ‘do not disturb’ mode (turns out even telemarketers think you’re a waste of time). The device went everywhere with you, whether it was ten feet to the bathroom or six inches across the couch. Your desperation might have been otherwise embarrassing, but there was no worry of judgment besides your own in the guarded solitude of your apartment.

He'd given you a thimble of hope, and you were clinging to it like the last drop of water.

Whether it be a call or text; you didn’t know. But he promised you... promised you… that you’d be hearing from him soon. Threatened you against inaction on your part. And you’d just believed him. Believed that even for a moment – some tiny fraction of oblivion – there could exist a world where you didn’t have to feel quite so fucking alone.

What exactly has he been up to? Some prior commitment that pulled him from his phone? Maybe he’s just stuck at work all day? But then surely he doesn’t pull twelve hour shifts. Not like you found out their given occupations yet. Which means he’s gotta be sick, right? The weather’s been atrocious and you hadn’t physically seen him get in a car when he left. 

Shit! He went home smelling like you. How did the pack react? 

How did she react? 

They didn’t get into a fight did they? She probably forced him to delete your contact info. God, you were so selfish putting them through this mess. But hadn't John been selfish too in wanting to keep you around? Was that really a pack decision?

The tears culminating in your eyes were pathetic. Acid rain bleaching your pillowcase in big caustic globules, seeping into the fabric and burning through the thin membrane of your cheeks. Bitter rage tainted the half formed excuses, corrupting like malware into personal betrayal.

How could you be so foolish? What part of ‘you’re not allowed to be happy’ did you not comprehend? Hadn’t you already learned not to shoot for the stars, much less the occupants of unit 2B?! 

Poor, stupid omega.

You grasped your chest as if that could stop whatever clawed beast was burrowing its way past your ribcage to dig out a hole and lay its clutch. Flicking the bedside lamp off brought you as much darkness outside as there was feasting on your entrails and gorging itself for a long unforgiving winter.

Curling up in your repugnant nest, you couldn’t keep your heart from shattering as each teardrop extinguished the sputtering flame of hope.

You never got around to fixing your hair.

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[the-artist-grimm]

Crimson Angel AU - The Three Crown Bearers

(Text updated as of Nov 8th, 2024)

More Crimson Angel Lore! This time thinking about some of the previous/current vessels.

(credit to @/waokevale for the inspo! Its from their posts head-cannoning Forneus as a former crown bearer where I got the idea to have her in the lineup!)

Over the course of 1000 years Narinder had in total 13 vessels who bore the red crown, and each were chosen upon their deaths for displaying potential upon arrival into the Gateway. Though the prophecy stated that a lamb would be the final bearer, Narinder did not want to sit idle, and had hoped that others could clear a quicker path for the chosen liberator while he waited. 

Currently named bearers (featuring my SYMBOLISM obsession, deaths/numbers are somewhat related to the character as closely as I manage) 

Forneus - #7 (Lady Luck)

The 7th bearer of the Red Crown, and bared it approximately 300 years ago. Captured by heretics after drawing their attention away from a family in trouble whilst on the road, Forneus caught Narinder’s attention for both her fighting prowess and fierce sense of justice, and proved to be one of his more efficient vessels. Quick-witted and clever, she was a seemingly kind leader to her cult, but a ruthless warrior to all others, with her mission being to decimate the Bishops’ higher-ranking witnesses as opposed to taking them on personally. She also appeared to possess a remarkable amount of luck, hardly ever dying whilst on crusades. Yet despite that her term as vessel only lasted approximately 80 years, whereupon finding herself pregnant via one of her lovers, she willingly relinquished the crown so that she could raise her children in peace, not wanting to put them at risk.

Narinder, though somewhat irked, accepted her choice, as she’d managed to kill enough witnesses to set the Bishops internal hierarchies back by several decades of experience. Unbeknownst to him, however, the very children Forneus relinquished the crown for would join him not long after, with the cat herself being bestowed a golden skull and an open promise of reunion with her children in the distant future by the God of Wisdom and War. 

Forneus died of her heart-in saving those sheep, her heart was cut out during her sacrifice 

7 is considered a lucky number

The Chariot is the 7th Tarot Card, representing triumph through determination, self-control, and overcoming obstacles.

Became vessel at approximately age 20, is now over 400 years old

Ratau- #12 (The Shepherd)

The 12th bearer of the Red Crown, and bared it approximately over 40 years ago. Killed by heretics after refusing to acknowledge the threat they posed to all within the Lands of the Old Faith. Hailing from a village that willfully ignored the lambs and their warnings of slaughter, it was not until heretics arrived to razed the place to the ground that Ratau realized their threat, yet by then it was too late to act as he was slain. Upon his arrival in the gateway Narinder initially had no plans to make him a vessel, yet the rat’s anger towards both himself and the Bishops appeared to make him an easily manipulated enough target to try. And with the dwindling lamb’s population heralding the final liberator’s rise, the death god was desperate to have a vessel prepared to take on the role of mentor. 

Though a remarkably fast learner, Ratau proved inadequate in regards to his ruthlessness, unwilling to push his followers or himself to their limits. And upon being forced to sacrifice a follower following an incident with a mysterious fox, the resulting guilt led to Ratau relinquishing the crown within only a decade, much to Narinder’s frustration. He left the grounds with his disciples and isolated himself to a self-imposed solitude within the woods, only ever visiting his friends from time to time and trying to put his previous cult-life behind him. 

Yet as fate would have it, twenty years later Ratau would chance across a young, newly orphaned lamb within the woods, and though aware of the prophesied fate ahead of them, decided to take the little one in. Fourteen years later, that little lamb would rise as the final vessel.

Ratau died for turning a blind eye to the world around him, and thus, lost his left eye in turn. It was a slash and a stab through which killed him 

12 is considered a number of stability and order, fitting for a mentor

The Hanged Man is the 12th Tarot Card, representing ultimate surrender, sacrifice, and patience.

Became a vessel at age 25, is currently in his mid 60s.

Anthea- #13 (The Lamb/Unlucky Thirteen)

The 13th and final bearer of the Red Crown. Anthea was killed by heretics upon sacrificing herself to save the life of her guardian, Ratau, and had been a willing sacrifice due to a belief that she already lived on borrowed time. Of all prior vessels Anthea was the only one to have worshiped The One Who Waits prior to resurrection and vesselship, and proved to not only be highly devoted, but also far more empathetic and aware of his situation beyond those who came before them. When it came to their interactions with the god, Anthea often expressed a kindness to not just him but his typically overlooked disciples as well, bring them gifts and befriending the three to try and ease their imprisonments. Though coming from a genuine place of care, it was also born from Anthea’s own lack of self, with the lamb preferring to put everyone but themself first. 

It was through aiding The One Who Waits that Anthea’s perspective of self began to change, as Narinder slowly began to challenge their self-sacrificial tendencies the more he got to know them, with the two growing closer and eventually falling in love. Yet it was right before Anthea planned to confess her feelings that The One Who Waits seemingly betrayed them, ordering them to sacrifice themself just as they finally started wanting to live. 

Anthea died for being unable to express their own will beyond giving themself up for others, sticking their neck out so long as it mean someone else benefited from it. Their death was via beheading. 

13 is considered a number of bad luck, yet also of the ending of one cycle and the beginning of another, a transformation 

Death is the 13th Tarot Card, and represents the ending of one phase of a life and the start of another, change, and new beginnings.

Became vessel at age 26, and finished slaying all the bishops in 3 years, making them 29

Trying to go through and whip the game’s admittedly open-ended-ish/slightly vague lore into something more fleshed-out is really fun lol. Might make more vessels but thus far the only three who remain are 7, 12, and 13-which Narinder doesn't even realize that Forneus is till kicking about.

Also Weapons notes!

Forneus gets a hammer because it in a way represents justice (see a court gavel) and though it hits slow it hits HARD. In an RPG its the tank who usually gets it within the party.

Ratau I gave a staff since he's implied to be somewhat cowardly, or at least appears to not like killing to an extent with how he gave up the crown after sacrificing a follower, and since he gives us the curses in-game (yeah they're on Nari's orders but Ratau's the one handing them out), essentially making him a mage seemed fitting-plus in fantasy the mage is usually a mentor. He also has a staff in-game so it maintains that silhouette, albeit I made this one look more like a shepherd's hook considering it's meant to be his weapon as a cult leader.

Anthea, the Lamb, I gave a sword since it's the weapon of a knight in shinning armor, since their personality is that of someone always saving others after all.

And lastly a little doodle of everyone's death scars!

(Also if anyone wants to send asks about the AU or to the characters go ahead hehehe, this AU is taking over my life :3 )

Boarders are by @lambouillet

[navybrat817]

Like There's No Tomorrow

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader Summary: When you make a rash decision after you're passed over for a promotion again, Bucky encourages you to follow your dream. It's the start of an unforgettable journey. Word Count: Over 3.4k Warnings: Insecurities, impulsivity, reflecting, slight angst, slight feels (it's me), Bucky Barnes (he's a warning and the best, okay?). A/N: Writing this was very personal and therapeutic after my recent work experience. While I can't actually live this life, I know Firecracker and Daredevil will have many adventures together. Also for @the-slumberparty's Eight Types of Love Challenge (Ludus - Road Trip / Surprise)❤️ Thanks to the beautiful @whisperlullaby for the encouragement and @buckyownsmylife for giving this intro a look and assuring me it wasn't garbage, but any and all mistakes are my own. Divider by the talented @saradika. Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog for new fics and notifications. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!

You quit your job on a Friday afternoon.

On paper, it appeared to be an ordinary day. Nothing different from your usual routine. You got up, brushed your teeth, showered, dressed yourself, gave your boyfriend a kiss, selected a caffeinated beverage, and got to work. While you wouldn't call your job your dream job and some of the tasks were monotonous, you were good at it and you cared about your teammates.

In fact, they were one of the reasons you stuck around for as long as you did.

“Just wanted to say you've done a lot for us and we wouldn't be where we are without you.”

“I’m so sorry. I hope this doesn’t get you down.”

“I wish there was something I could say to make you feel better.”

“For what it’s worth, they made a mistake.”

Tears filled your eyes as you looked through the messages a few of your teammates sent after the promotion announcement was made minutes ago. There was an overall mixture of surprise and confusion when they heard you didn’t get it. They knew how hard you worked to move up and how badly you wanted it. You wished you hadn’t gotten your hopes up since that usually led to disappointment.

Of course, you were happy for the candidate who got the job. It wasn’t their fault you didn’t advance. Their success called for celebration. It didn’t make it any easier for you though and it didn’t lessen the hurt that you were passed over once again for something you were more than qualified for.

You somehow held it together though, not wanting everyone around you to see you break. Crying was reserved for the bathroom, your car, and home. Plus, you had shown enough vulnerability to management during the lengthy process and aftermath. They didn’t deserve an ounce more.

Especially after you were told that the value you provided wasn’t enough.

“I know this outcome is disappointing, but this isn’t a setback. You still have a lot to be proud of,” your manager told you the day before when you received the email entailing that you didn't receive the promotion and why. “Take the feedback we’ve given you and use that to get to the next level next time.”

He was only trying to help, but who would want to try again when they’re told they aren’t enough more than once? If the intention was to fuel your fire, they snuffed it out. Then again, your feelings were so raw because you hadn’t given yourself enough time to digest the news. Being told you were just out of reach was salt in the open wound, stinging much more than it should have as you tried to figure out what you did wrong.

Because you had to have done something wrong, right? Were the words you wrote in your application not eloquent enough? Did you not display the right amount of confidence in your interview? Why were you always on the cusp of greatness, but never quite there?

Blinking the moisture from your eyes, you straightened up and began to type again. Personal feelings aside, you had a job to do. You needed the income. You also had to prove that they were wrong in overlooking you. Again.

But as the sound of your fingers flying across the keyboard became white noise in your head, Bucky’s words from earlier in the morning shimmered into your mind.

“Just quit, Firecracker. They don’t deserve you and you deserve better.”

Bucky Barnes, your boyfriend. The kind of man you didn’t think was real until he came into your life. Gorgeous, faithful, doting, protective - you thought men like that only existed in books. He supported and hyped you up every time you went for a promotion and wiped away every tear when you didn’t get it. Your crying and self-doubt broke his heart and this morning may have been the last straw for him.

Maybe it was the last straw for you, too.

Glancing around the office as you saw everyone else typing with minimal conversation, the room had never looked more lifeless to you. There was nothing about the place or the job that inspired you, so why continue to give yourself over to a place that didn’t give back to you in return? Why stay in a place that dulled your shine?

The sudden realization hit you square in your chest that you didn’t want to be there anymore.

“Have a great weekend, team. Good luck and thanks for everything.” You sent in a message before you could stop yourself.

You had never had an out-of-body experience before, but it was as if your spirit was beside you as you began to close the programs on your computer. Glancing at your desk after you set your phone to voicemail, you realized you had hardly any personal touches in your space. Except for the photo of you and Bucky.

He was your one bright spot in the building.

With the utmost care, you put the photo in your bag once you shut everything down. Your heart sank as your gaze swept over your team, an uncomfortable pit settling in your stomach as you went to see your boss. Disappointing anyone always brought you a sense of dread and you didn’t want to let him or anyone else down, but you were thinking of yourself for once.

You owed yourself that.

“Hey,” your boss smiled as he glanced up from his desk before he noticed you had your bag. You shifted on your feet when his cheerfulness shifted to concern. “What’s up? Are you clocking out early?”

“Not exactly,” you answered, gripping your bag so hard your hand began to ache.

“Is everything okay?” He asked, leaning forward in his seat.

You didn’t know how to respond because it wasn’t okay and nothing he could say or do would change how you felt. You didn't want him to try and sway you to stay. The heartbreaking part was that he was, overall, a good boss. He taught you a lot and helped you better yourself. So did the team as a whole. They were rock stars. Each and every one of them.

But now they weren’t enough to make you stay and maybe it was a blessing in disguise that you didn’t go anywhere with your job.

So with a bittersweet smile, you uttered, “I quit. I’m sorry.”

You tossed your building key onto his desk and turned away before he could reply. Your mind raced as you put one foot in front of the other and ignored the stares of your coworkers who caught on to what had just transpired. It was hard to breathe, but your steps for once felt light instead of heavy. Your boss may have called out for you, but you didn’t dare look back. Not when you couldn’t stay in there another minute.

What you didn’t expect was for Bucky to be waiting outside as you went out of the door.

Your boyfriend managed to take your breath away every time you saw him and today was no exception. All 6’4” of him, he decided to cover his beefy frame with one of his favorite leather jackets, a fitting shirt, and tight jeans. His stormy eyes zeroed in on you as he pushed away from his old pickup truck and ran a hand through his chestnut hair. He was stunning.

He was yours.

“I’m so glad you’re here,” you blurted out as you raced toward him. “Get me out of here. Please.”

But why was he there? You didn’t plan to meet up with him until after work and your shift was only a little over halfway over. Did he want to surprise you?

He caught you easily with his large hands before you could stumble into him. “Whoa, easy. Get in,” he said, opening the passenger door and helping you in. Your hands trembled as you buckled yourself in, your body in flight mode because you had to get away from the office. He wasted no time getting in and peeling out of the parking lot, the building becoming smaller and smaller in the distance.

You weren’t even sure how far away he drove before he pulled over and stopped the car since you didn’t look behind you. Resting your shaking hands on your thighs, the high of walking out dissipated until it left you cold. Reality sank in. Would it pull you under?

“Talk to me,” Bucky urged, his voice calm and gentle instead of demanding. “Please?”

“I quit my job,” you whispered, your gaze set in front of you, but not seeing anything in focus. “I couldn't do it anymore.”

Bucky leaned over to turn your face toward him, sympathy and understanding filling his eyes. “Oh, baby, I knew today would be the tipping point. Waited most of the morning for you to walk out,” he said. You were about to question how he could possibly know that, but he could read you better than anyone. “Just a feeling I had.”

“I quit my job. I quit,” you said again, your breathing more shallow than before he engulfed you in a warm and grounding embrace. Your fingers twisted in his jacket as you breathed him in. Sandalwood and citrus were scents you now associated with love because of him. “What did I do?! I didn’t even give notice. I just tossed my card down and left. Fuck, I just burned my bridges with everyone there.”

You stifled a sob as you hid your face in his neck. You swore to yourself that you would never be that person who walks out on a job, but you did just that and screwed over your entire team. Would any of them understand why you did it or accept an apology? How long would it take for that guilt to go away since you essentially gave up after the words of kindness and encouragement they gave you?

“Breathe, baby. I’ve got you” he whispered, rubbing your back as you steadied yourself. “Yeah, you quit today. And maybe you burned a bridge, maybe not. But I couldn’t be fucking prouder of you.”

“You’re proud that I walked out on my team?” You asked, whipping your head up so fast you were lucky you didn’t get whiplash. “They don’t deserve to deal with that. Not to mention, I have nothing lined up.”

The thought of starting over again made your stomach drop again. The job market could be a terrifying and hopeless place. What if you couldn’t find anything? Or what if you burned through your savings by the time you did?

“I’m proud that you walked away from something keeping you down. After everything you’ve done for them, I’m sure most of them will get why you couldn’t do it anymore,” he assured you, the corners of his lips turning down when you sniffled. “And don't worry about not having something lined up. We'll figure it out.”

“We?” You questioned. Bucky was your boyfriend, but this wasn’t his problem.

“Yeah, we,” he said, pointing between the two of you with his forefinger. “You and me. I'm in this with you.”

Your heart melted before logic tried to take back over. “I should just go back there and apologize. I can say that I-”

He framed your face and pressed his warm lips to yours before you could say another word. He coaxed you to return the kiss with ease and you responded with parted lips and a sigh. His kisses left you lightheaded as sparks ignited, threatening to explode if you went much further. Which was why he stopped to let you catch your breath.

“No. You’re not doing that,” he said, his scruff tickling your forehead as he pressed a kiss there. He knew that was a weakness of yours and it instantly stopped you from arguing. “We're going on an adventure and we can’t do that if you’re chained to a desk.”

“An adventure?” You repeated with uncertainty.

“Yeah. We’re going to drive and see where it takes us,” he said, his lips touching your forehead once more before he started up the car again. “Just need to grab a couple of things before we go.”

“What about work for you?”

“It’s taken care of,” he assured you. He wasn’t the type of guy to lie, but when did he have time to plan this? Neither one of you had mentioned going anywhere.

Leave it to Bucky to do something impulsive to make you happy.

“Okay,” you said, trusting him and deciding to play along with his endeavor. “You said we need a couple of things. What do we need? Besides the essentials.”

“Your laptop. And a journal if you don't feel like typing.”

You refrained from rolling your eyes. “Yeah, yeah. I know. My laptop so I can apply for new jobs and pray that they don’t reach out to my now previous boss as a reference, right?”

“Oh, no,” he chuckled, a playful smirk on his face when you swung your head toward him. “The laptop is so you can write like you've always wanted to. And the journal if you prefer to write some of your thoughts and ideas down by hand.”

“Wait. You want me to write on this trip?” You asked, making sure you heard him correctly.

“Yeah, I do.”

Your eyes nearly bulged out of your head. You couldn’t believe what you were hearing. Your boyfriend was certifiably crazy, but you loved that about him. “Bucky, no. I can't just write,” you said.

“Why not?” He shrugged.

“Because it doesn't pay the bills or provide security,” you replied.

Writing was a silly hobby that you did from time to time to help you channel your emotions or escape from the real world. At best, it was a dream. Nothing more. He knew that. At least, you thought he knew that.

At the end of the day, it wouldn’t put a roof over your head or food in your stomach. How were you expected to hold onto dreams that wouldn’t take you anywhere? And at what point did you stop believing in them and yourself?

When did you start thinking so cynically?

“But working a job you're not passionate about just to provide safety is the better option? There’s a difference between doing something you love and doing something you’re good at when your heart isn’t in it. You’ve done the latter for years now,” He said with a huff as you inhaled. “That isn't living and you’re lying to yourself if you think it is.”

Your eyes narrowed as his words sank in, your shackles raising. “No, it isn’t living, but it’s the most practical thing I can do! And, yeah, I am good at my job because I worked my ass off!” You argued, taking a breath. You didn’t want to start crying or snap at him when he was right. “Or at least I was good at my job. And I would’ve done my best had I advanced, but I couldn’t even accomplish that.”

Which begged the question of why you applied. The higher title and pay would’ve been nice for recognition and comfortability. You believed you earned it. But was it what you wanted to do for the rest of your life? Was that your path when you looked toward your future?

You hadn’t taken into account your own desires and values.

“Hey,” he said softer than before. “I wasn’t trying to-”

“And say I do try and write for real. How can I even enjoy this adventure knowing I'm probably just going to fail again?” You asked in a small voice.

How many hits could you take before your armor cracked?

Bucky's jaw clenched. “And that's exactly why I'm glad you finally quit. You've had so many people over your head telling you that what you do isn't enough to achieve what you want. And now you believe it,” he said, his hands gripping the steering wheel hard enough that you feared he’d bend it with his strength. “Fuck that and fuck them for making you feel that way.”

Your mouth fell open as you stared, his fury for and defense of you making your chest tighten. “I…”

“Why can’t you be a writer, huh? Why not try? You’re talented and I’m not just saying that to make you feel better. That’s where your heart is and it shows with every word,” He pressed, knowing you put your whole self into your creative outlet. “And, listen, we have money set aside for the time being and more than enough for this excursion. So I don’t care if writing doesn’t pay the bills for a while as long as you’re happy and doing what you’re passionate about. We’ll have each other and that’s enough in my eyes.”

Contemplating his words, you had to give him credit. The job wasn’t something you did because you were passionate about it. You did it because it was safe and expected of you when in many ways it held you back. Besides, what did you have to lose at this point? If you didn’t try, you’d never know. You’d look back one day and regret it if you let the chance pass you by.

Why not do something impulsive?

Why not make the most out of the moment you were in?

“Okay. You’re right. I should try to write and we should go,” you nodded, taking a deep breath. “Let’s grab a few things and see where this trip takes us.”

“There she is,” he smiled over at you, making your heart swell. “There’s my Firecracker.”

The nickname would always warm your heart. “You know, this actually sounds a bit like that book idea I had the other day,” you said, excitement seeping through your veins. Your fingers twitched a bit, too, with the urge to write. “Do you remember? I told you about it while we were eating pizza.”

Bucky took one hand from the steering wheel to grab yours. “I remember everything you've ever said.”

“Flattery will get you everything, Daredevil,” you said, biting your lip to keep from smiling too wide. “So, we're really doing this. We're just leaving?”

“Not just leaving. We're taking a long overdue road trip," he says, bringing your hand to his mouth to kiss it. “You deserve it.”

“We both do,” you said, the uncertainty leaving your body more with each passing second. You even turned off your phone so you wouldn’t be tempted to look at any emails or messages. “We deserve to live today like there’s no tomorrow.”

“‘Like there’s no tomorrow’,” Bucky quoted back to you with a hum. “Sounds like a good book title.’

“I’ll have to write it down so I don’t forget,” you smiled, linking your fingers together. “And don’t forget your journal, too. I don’t want you to miss a thing.”

“I won’t forget it,” he promised.

“Bucky?” You asked, swallowing as he gazed over at you. “Thank you. Really.”

It felt like you could breathe again without a weight in your chest. You didn't feel perfect, but you felt good. All thanks to him. You didn’t know what you’d do without him.

“You don’t need to thank me, baby, but I should thank you for letting me take you away,” he winked, keeping your hand in his as he faced forward again. “Makes me feel like a real hero, even though you wouldn't let me storm the castle.”

Oh, he wanted so badly to go off on your manager, but there was no need. “You are a hero,” you said. He saved you without knowing. “But try not to speed, Daredevil. I don’t want us to get pulled over before we get started.”

He groaned, but nodded as he let off the gas. “I’ll try not to speed. Need to make sure I get you to where we’re going safely.”

“I trust you.”

You would find out soon enough that Bucky had a list of things written in his journal that he planned to do with you on this trip. Everything you had ever said in passing that you wanted to do or try, but never could because of work. Because he paid attention to you. And you were right.

You deserved to live today like there’s no tomorrow.

And he wanted to be by your side while you lived your best life.

So, lovelies, where are they doing on their trip first? Love and thanks for reading! ❤️

Masterlist ⚓ Bucky Barnes Masterlist ⚓ Ko-Fi

[wynnyfryd]

Trailer park Steve AU part 40

part 1 | part 39 | ao3

They're lying on their backs, Steve's head on Eddie's shoulder, Eddie running absent-minded fingers through Steve's hair. Led Zeppelin plays on low from the radio beside them, and the conversation ebbs and flows in sleepy bursts of disjointed thought. Talking just to talk. Because they like it; because they can.

"...Did you see Wheeler almost eat shit in the paint aisle this morning?"

"We should paint some stars on my ceiling. Make 'em glow in the dark..."

"God, what I would not give for more pizza."

"Who even eats cold pizza?"

Eddie shifts beneath him after a while, sitting up to bounce his legs and get the blood flowing again. With his weight leaned back on his hands, Steve can't help but notice the long line of his torso. Everything on display through the thin undershirt: the smattering of dark ink, the outline of his ribs, the cut of his slim waist. Steve wants to touch him.

"You know," Eddie says, surveying the empty room, the vinyl glinting in the lamp light, "it's really not half bad for a bunch of kids who thought they were gonna be hanging ornaments all day." He knocks his knee against Steve's leg. "I'd say you're well on your way to making this mobile house a mobile home."

Steve snorts at that, and Eddie pinches playfully at his side until the snort turns into a really undignified laugh and Steve rolls in on himself, curling toward Eddie, begging for mercy.

"You want to tell me what brought all this on?" Eddie asks. His voice is quiet and welcoming, eyes sparkling with some gentle offer of reprieve. The first rest stop sign after a hundred mile stretch of empty road.

Steve's mouth works; opens and closes and opens again, like it'll prompt his voice to sound or his brain to figure out the words. He still doesn't know how to explain — the fear, the paranoia, the way this place was starting to cling to him like black mold. "Just..." he shrugs. "Needed it, I guess."

Eddie gives him a long look. Unwavering and piercing; there's more pus in the wound that he's trying to lance, but he doesn't seem interested in drawing blood tonight.

He releases Steve from his gaze and goes back to his casual stretching — rolling his neck, popping his shoulders, shaking out his legs, his ankles, his feet — and then he gasps "Steve!" in a delighted tone that Steve does not care for at all. Usually means he’s about to get teased within an inch of his life.

"Hmm?" Steve lifts his head to look.

Eddie’s wiggling his right foot, drawing attention to the outer edge of his borrowed sock. "Is that a hole I see?"

Steve follows his line of sight, and sure enough, there's the smallest little tear by Eddie's pinky toe. “Oh, fuck off,” Steve rolls his eyes, “you can barely even see that.”

Eddie spreads his toes out wide, making the hole more obvious. "My, my, my,” he tuts, shaking his head with a big, disappointed sigh.

"You're such an asshole,” Steve mutters. Eddie's beaming; Steve flips him off.

"Well congrats, baby boy,” he drawls like a fucking pest, “now you're officially trailer trash."

"Hey!" Steve’s not sure if he likes that. Makes him blush to his ears; makes something sour roll in his gut.

Unfortunately it also kind of makes his dick twitch.

"Oh?" Eddie leers. His eyes dart to Steve's crotch, and then he shifts so he's hovering over Steve with Steve flat on his back, face on fire, pulse kicking hard. A vein throbs in his inner thigh. "Don't worry, Stevie." Eddie bends to nip at his jaw. "I meant it as a compliment."

"How is that a compliment?" Steve wants to sound annoyed. Is annoyed. But Eddie's skimming a light hand up his side, barest pressure that leaves a trail of tingling warmth in its wake, so the words come out more breathy than he intends.

"Because," Eddie whispers. Steve can feel his smile pressed against his skin. Eddie kisses up his jawline until he reaches his ear; mouths at the lobe and sucks it between his teeth, a sharp bite that makes Steve hiss. "All my favorite things are."

Steve bucks under him. "Trash?" he asks, breath catching.

Eddie's tongue traces his ear. "Mhmm."

His hand wanders to the hem of Steve's shirt, worming his fingers underneath, tickling the trail of hair below Steve’s belly button as he explains that all his favorite things are second-hand. Recycled and discarded items he’s restored with loving care.

Steve’s breath goes harsh and ragged, and he tries not to think about how that might apply to him.

Discarded.

Restored.

Favorite.

Maybe even—

He can’t let himself think the word.

—

part 41!

tag list in separate reblogs under '#trailer park steve au taglist' if you'd like to filter that content. if you want to be added tomorrow please comment and let me know (must be over 21; please either verify in the comment or have your age visible on your blog)

[amourdivine]

💜 𝐃𝐀𝐈𝐋𝐘 𝐋𝐈𝐅𝐄 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐅𝐔𝐓𝐔𝐑𝐄 𝐒𝐏𝐎𝐔𝐒𝐄 ♡ 𝑭𝑬𝑨𝑻𝑼𝑹𝑰𝑵𝑮 𝑬𝑿𝑻𝑬𝑵𝑫𝑬𝑫 18+ 𝑹𝑬𝑨𝑫𝑰𝑵𝑮 ♡

Hello lovelies! I hope you’re doing well today! Today, I bring you a different type of reading featuring an extended 18+ version. Since the extended reading option was the winner of my latest poll, I am really happy and excited to release this. Thank you so much for your endless support, I love you guys very much and I hope you’re having a wonderful week! ♡

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none of the images are mine unless stated otherwise

how to choose your pile.  take deep breaths for a few minutes & look at each and every one of the piles separately. see which one brings you to a feeling, a place or a memory. take your time and feel free to come back to it later.

♡ ♡ ♡     pick a card masterlist & information

disclaimer. this is a general reading for entertainment purposes. tarot is a divination tool & is not a substitute for medical and professional advice, nor is it meant to be taken as such. i do not take responsibility for any choice(s) made by you or others regarding my readings.

amourdivine. 2021 - 2023 © do not copy, redistribute or edit my content.

PILE 001 | DAY VERSION

judgement • page of wands • nine of cups • two of cups

Scorpio energy here - either one of you may have Scorpio in 6th, a stellium the 6th or perhaps you’re Pluto dominant. It’s a significant planet here. Your love for one another on a day-to-day basis will shine through in the way you handle the adversities thrown your way, how you wake up each day with excitement and gratitude for what’s to come. It may have been difficult for the two of you to finally come together, but I see two people waking up with extreme gratitude for getting to be with one another. It’s honestly quite sweet, you’ll feel as if all the roads have led you to this person, to spend your life with them in the big and the small moments.

The love will be shown in the stressful moments, hand holding when one’s having a crisis, calming down one another and facing the challenges together. For example, if you’re regularly waking up to nightmares, your person will calm you down, they’ll accompany you to a doctor’s appointment and do their best to ensure you have good dreams.I heard “through thick and thin” - you’ll be doing and planning everything together. You’ll be in sync, so if one’s doing the groceries, the other will be picking up the kids from school. It has a feeling of telepathy to it, like your thoughts and emotions will be picked up on by the other. It’ll be a very teammate-y kind of couple, the couple that does not let the other go without support. You’ll be very present in each other’s day to day lives and there’s an element of fun to it as well, of trying to keep things lighthearted and romantic as well, like going on weekly dates, making sure to lighten up each other’s mood, check in often and give keep the love alive through these small gestures, consistently.

Speaking of consistently, that’s how I envision your daily life with your FS, through constant commitment, effort, gifts and displays of affection. Your relationship will be a safe foundation for your daily lives, regardless of what happens, it will be so present that you won’t ever feel alone or doubt your FS’s love for you.

channeled song: Colors of Your Mood by Between Giants.

CLICK HERE TO PURCHASE NIGHT VERSION: YOUR 18+ LIFE.

PILE 002 | DAY VERSION

the sun • seven of wands • four of cups • the empress

Your daily life will have a lot of happy, positive elements. A lot of Leo and Libra here. You’ll make one another laugh a lot, cheer each other up. This person may be or may have been your best friend. I see an element of “inner child” here, a lot of dancing, giggling and nurturing one another. In your daily life, your person may help you stand your ground and you’ll be each other’s biggest cheerleader. Compliments and cheeky ways of flirting are ways where you’ll keep the flame alive, fighting together for a better future as well - you’ll stand up for one another a lot. If someone treats you poorly, like say, you’re walking by and you get catcalled or someone disrespects you at a grocery shop line, your person will say something. You’ll also naturally take on this role as well, because you’ll want to spoil one another a lot and fight to keep your love “young”. Perhaps family members or loved ones will be opposed to this relationship and the both of you will feel the need to prove everyone wrong, to show that you’re each other’s person and it’s the final say. 

You will fight off the boredom of routine by keeping everything interesting and unusual. You may travel a lot with one another before having kids or prioritize your relationship’s success and joy above everything else. Even if the two of you don’t have much money, I feel like you’ll be very creative and come up with different ideas to spark up your joy. Both of you may intensely dislike routine or boredom, so you’ll make sure that neither one of you is left unattended, unsatisfied or lonely. I also feel that either one of you may have slightly jealous tendencies towards the other, so it’ll be important for the two of you to never leave it unaddressed or dismissed, but I think it’ll be mostly harmless and may make one of you pouty, which the other will find cute. I see a lot of spoiling here, not just material, like I mentioned, but showering each other in love every single day, especially through words of affirmation and a lot of cuddling. This is the pile of the clingy, obsessed-with-each-other couple. Quite adorable, to be honest. You won’t be afraid of the PDA.

Random message, but if you have any motherly or love wounds, I think you’ll be able to heal through the love you receive from this person on a day to day basis. As if you’ll come at ease and your heart will finally rest once the days pass you by and you realize your marriage is not like your parents”.

channeled song: Chateau by Angus & Julia Stone.

CLICK HERE TO PURCHASE NIGHT VERSION: YOUR 18+ LIFE.

PILE 003 | DAY VERSION

the hermit • queen of wands • ace of pentacles • seven of cups

Your daily life will be busy in the pursuit of better opportunities. I think this person will encourage you to be your most authentic self with them. They’ll make you feel confident and in your power. This pile is giving me “power couple” vibes, like two people who own a business together and work tirelessly to make their dreams come true. It may be hard for you two to distinguish between one person’s dreams vs. the other, since you’ll both have very similar goals that will be aligned in the way you make choices. Your daily life together seems to be one full of really important decisions; you’re both perfectionists - and sometimes you’ll need each other’s push to simply do something instead of striving for perfection. I heard “done is better than perfect”. I also think you’ll both pursue a lot of intellectual stimuli together, maybe go to the movies or the theater together, museums and libraries. It seems that your daily lives will be very private, exclusive to the two of you, you may be the couple who doesn’t post much on social media but the people speak of a lot. I get the feeling you’re both important people, as I mentioned.

You may be in the public eye in some way. I’m guessing it has to do with your occupations. You can count on each other to only speak the best of one another. I think you and your FS will have a deep sense of loyalty and commitment that will naturally bleed into your day-to-day interactions and conversations. You’ll be the couple who plans the smallest of things together. It’s possible the two of you have similar placements or complementary ones, because the synastry here seems very easygoing, like it just flows naturally and two people are very committed to making it work, regardless. Even on a day-to-day basis, you’ll have interesting topics to talk about and you may be the kind of couple who ask each other’s opinions for everything, not out of codependency, but because they know that their FS has always something interesting to say. I see you spending time together in a more “lowkey” way. Your ways of demonstrating love to one another will be subtle but thoughtful, perhaps only noticeable to the two of you, almost like you’ve developed a secret language to speak to one another. You will get each other like no one else. Very clever and sweet. 

channeled song: Cardigan by Taylor Swift.

CLICK HERE TO PURCHASE NIGHT VERSION: YOUR 18+ LIFE.

PILE 004 | DAY VERSION

two of cups • four of wands • two of pentacles • ace of swords

Most of your day-to-day lives will be spent maintaining and looking after your stability, pile four. Regardless of how many times I shuffled, messages about money kept coming out. I think it’s possible you’ll either marry into wealth or become fairly wealthy after marriage and I feel like most of your routine will revolve around making healthy financial decisions with your FS. I think the two of you will be very, very protective over your family. Another message I got was about children, I think you’ll have plenty of them. It’s coming on very strongly that you’re possibly having big family - like three to five children, if that resonates for you, of course. I see it as a bit of a chaotic, but pleasant daily life regardless. Even if you’re busy looking after all that you have, I think you’ll aim to leave a good legacy behind and that will show early on in your marriage. You’ll be concerned about making good choices not only for the now, but for the future as well. You’re both very smart, witty people. I feel like you may also have a joint bank account, or some other way of holding each other accountable and looking after your material gains. I don’t see any “controlling” behavior here, but more so two people who are enthusiastic about how far they’ve come and how far they can go.

You’re both super hard workers as well. Honestly, it’s possible you may not spend as much time with them as you want to, but I think even when you’re away for a few hours, running errands or working, you’ll miss them. It’s got a feeling of two people who have never fallen out of love. I think you’ll be smitten with them for a very, very long time. I think you’ll also become an example of a healthy couple for your children as well. I’m sorry children are coming up so strongly (lol), but the energy of being busy, loving parents here is very obvious to me. You might become overwhelmed or overburdened by responsibilities at times, because I see here two people who sort of thrive in chaotic or busy environments and at times, you may have to delegate tasks or ask other family members for help. I think either one of you has always dreamt of building a big family and now that you have it, you want to do everything in your power to protect it, to cherish it. One or both of you is a natural provider and wants to give your loved ones all the best things in the world. 

channeled song: Still The One by Shania Twain.

CLICK HERE TO PURCHASE NIGHT VERSION: YOUR 18+ LIFE.

amourdivine. 2021 - 2023 © do not copy, redistribute or edit my content.

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[masivechaos]

there's nothing cats can't fix!

── ☆ patrick verona x gn! reader

── ☆ Request: yes / no

── ☆ Synopsis: Patrick finds you upset after a bad grade in math and he knows exactly how to make you feel better

── ☆ Warning/content: my English

── ☆ a.n.: 0.9k words-

masterlist/ ttihay masterlist / navigation / taglist 

── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ.─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ.───･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ.──

“Hey there,” Patrick grinned as he approached you. “How you doin’?”

You glanced up, eyes tired “I’m… fine, I guess,” you said as you got into your car “What do you what?”

“Can’t I just check up on you?” he dared with a smile playing on his lips, he rested his arm on the top of your car, he kept talking to you, bent over so he could speak through your open window.

You sighed, not answering to your usual banter. Patrick frowned “What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” you answered a second too fast.

Patrick shook his head “You can’t make me believe that lie. What’s happening in this head of yours?” he asked, a little softer. He didn’t want to press you but he also wanted to know. 

With your eyes closed and the back of your head against your seat, you spoke, “Just a bad grade in maths, nothing important”

Patrick’s face softened “Ah, maths,” he whispered “It’s just one grade. It’s fine”

You opened your eyes “No it’s not, it’s not my first C- and I feel like I can’t get better at maths. I try, I really do. But maybe I’m just not made for this.”

“Don’t say that,” Patrick immediately said “C’mon now, stop being so upset, it won’t help you get better.”

“I know,” you answered a little more harshly than intended.

Patrick rolled his eyes, “Get out of the car,” he commanded.

You glanced up, eyebrows frowned in confusion “What?”

“Get out of the car,” he said again, softer. Still not understanding, you opened your door. “Now, get into the passenger seat.”

Once settled, you sighed “I can drive myself just fine.”

“Choose another moment to act tough,” he said as he put his seatbelt on.

“And where are we going?” you asked, too tired to handle if it ever was a sort of joke.

He stared at the road as he drove “Don’t you trust me?”

You sighed “I do, I do”

Of course you trusted him. He was your best friend at the moment, he always knew what to say, how to cheer you up. When you first met him, you couldn’t have imagined how important he would become to you. He didn’t have the best reputation, hell, he even had lots of scary rumours about him (which you had found out were false).

And maybe, just maybe, you had a tiny bit of a crush on him.

It wasn’t your fault though. Who could resist the Patrick Verona grin?

You and Patrick drove to the sound of the radio blasting the Cardigans. He knew that during these moments, you didn’t like to speak. So despite his urge to make sure you felt a little better and the hint of worry in his chest, he kept his mouth shut, fingers drumming on the steering wheel.

After twenty minutes, he pulled over. You looked out the window “Where are we?””

“It’s a surprise,” Patrick smiled as he got out of the car and hastily moved to the passenger side and opened the door. “Come here”

You walked for a minute before Patrick stopped “Here we are,” he said.

Your gaze explored the frontage, eyebrows knitted together “Marceline’s cat café?” you whispered and then your eyes widened “wait-”

You turned around and beamed at Patrick, “You took me to a cat café? Why? How?”

As Patrick saw your smile, he knew exactly why he had done this. To make you happy “Well… you had been talking about wanting to go to one and you seemed pretty upset today so I thought… why not.”

You kept beaming at him “No way,” you whispered under your breath.

Patrick led you inside, the café was cosy and sunny, cats displayed everywhere, on the floor, on a chair, on shelves, on their cat tree “Oh my…” you mumbled in awe

You both took a seat “This is so cute,” you said when you saw a cat on the chair next to yours.

Patrick chuckled. Once you both had your drinks, you started to talk about mindless things, school, parents, homework, things like that…

“I swear it’s so-”

Patrick glanced up from his limonade when he heard you stop talking. And then he saw the cat crawling in your lap. He chuckled as he saw you froze with a huge grin on your face, not wanting the cat to leave.

The cat, with its long black hairs, turned around on your thighs before finally deciding to lay there, curled up.

“Patrick Patrick Patrick!!” you whispered, excited “Are you seeing this?

“I am,” he said with an amused grin, “He likes you.” Who wouldn’t? He thought.

You kept staring down at the little fur ball in your lap with a grin. Patrick’s heart felt warm in his chest, this was definitely a better sight than seeing you all upset because of maths earlier. You looked so adorable like this, a cat was enough to make you happy and he loved this idea. You carefully leaned forward a bit and wrapped your lips around the straw of your drink, the cold strawberry lemonade felt good for this hot weather.

“You’re feeling better?” he asked softly.

You glanced up from your lap, still in awe of the small cat “Yeah definitely, thank you” you said with a genuine smile that changed something in Patrick. He just loved you so much.

“Next time, don’t worry so much for a simple maths grade,” he smiled

“Yeah I know…” You were definitely someone who constantly worried too much for nothing and Patrick knew that. But now that he was here, he was going to help you as much as he could.

“And remember,” he grinned, “There’s nothing cats can’t fix.”

── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ.─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ.───･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ.──

[nytb]

Punch after punch

Click here first <3

A born and raised Zaragozan, surrounded by boxing for her whole life, Y/N. A cocky persona, an undefeated record - everyone wanted to take her down, but Alexia only desired to be taken out by the Spaniard.

Both stars met at Mapi's new apartment festivities - that woman always had an excuse to throw a dinner party. After many attempts to turn the invite down, Y/N caved - Mapi was one of her childhood friends, that meant a lot to Y/N.

Little did the boxing star know, it was a setup.

Mapi had been led down the "it could turn out to be the romantic story everyone dreams of" road. Alexia had her way with words, sweetening a manipulation scheme into a cute little invite to the dinner party a certain Y/N would happen to attend.

To be completely honest, Alexia had been pining over the boxer for a while now. In Spain, any female athlete that rises to the top that fast is going to show up on people's radars.

In Alexia's case, Y/N's first appearance in the midfielder's life was through an iPhone screen - a pool party at a rooftop in Zaragoza, both Y/N and Mapi's home-town. The boxer was the center of the party, women practically threw themselves at her at any possibility - but Y/N remained respectful, putting space between anyone who so much as dared to approach her body.

That detail was engraved in Alexia's mind - well that and her body. Boxers are known to have the body everyone dreams of, especially during fighting season.

Alexia had made it her mission to be one of the first people to show up, something that alerted Mapi - the midfielder loved to be fashionably late, to be the center of attention when she arrived anywhere.

As people showed up, Alexia's demeanor changed. Person after person walked through the door, Y/N was nowhere in sight. Was she a no show? Was her word worth nothing?

That was until high pitch squeaks came from the door. Y/N had arrived and the dinner guests knew it. The boxer, now tangled with two beautiful women on her neck as they welcomed her, didn't even fight against the invasion of her private space.

Odd - that's all that Alexia allowed herself to think of the situation, jealousy wasn't yet an option.

As Y/N made her way to the terrace, where Mapi was entertaining her Norwegian girlfriend's friends, Alexia made it her mission to stay on the sidelines. She wasn't about to be caught gravelling for someone's attention.

"I see you still love throwing parties" Y/N hugged Mapi, everyone around them eyeing the boxer up and down.

Tight T-Shirt, ripped Jeans, simple sneakers. A simple fit but paired with a godlike physique could be the downfall of anyone.

"And I see that you're still a workaholic" the defender replies "Didn't even have time to dry your hair or is this a quick visit?" she questions.

The boxer was quick to reply "Do you really think that I would do that to you?"

"Wouldn't be the first time"

Mapi had grown accustomed to the little time Y/N had for friends or family.

"In my defense" Y/N started "That time I didn't know that it was a stay over party" she joked.

"Let me introduce you" Mapi grabbed Y/N and threw her to the wolves. "Seeing as how this might be my only chance, it's your time to meet everyone" she laughed mischievously.

As the party went on, Alexia - still holding on to the not catching me groveling tactic - decided that enough was enough.

Making her way to the terrace, hoping to come up with a good excuse to leave the party early, Alexia was snatched by a tall Norwegian.

"Everything ok?" Ingrid questioned, full worry on display.

"Oh yeah yeah..." the midfielder replied, clearly her excuse was still being workshopped in her head "I - I don't.. "

The Norwegian cut her off "I think that the excuse you're looking for is over there" pointing to a corner of the terrace.

Y/N, sat on the floor, leaning back on her arms behind her back. All alone.

"Go" Ingrid surely knew something. "Don't think that you insisting on joining a random dinner party went unnoticed by me" she smiled.

Fuck.

"How- " the midfielder began to question only to be cut off again "Go quickly, I'm pretty sure that someone else is eyeing her, so don't waste your chance" and with a smirk and a quick turn of her hips Ingrid was off, back to her girlfriend's arms.

"Not like the noise?" Alexia asked as she joined Y/N's side.

"More like I would rather be sleeping and not have hawks eyeing me down like I'm their next prey" the boxer replied.

"Wha-"

"Oh, you're doing it too" Apparently everyone is cutting Alexia off tonight.

"I see that you didn't need me to introduce you girls" Mapi jokes, clearly not knowing how sour the introduction had gotten.

"Actually, I wanted to go say bye to you" Alexia hugged Mapi "I have to go, you know- stuff" the midfielder didn't even try to come up with an excuse.

"That was odd" the defender turned to see how Alexia was actually leaving. "I feel like I missed something" she scratched the back of her head, clearly puzzled by the interaction.

"Yup, my fault" Y/N stood up. "I'll go fix it, see you later" the boxer excused herself, picking up her pace to not be stopped by any guests as she made her way to the door.

Apartments having an underground parking was never this useful, even if Alexia wanted to leave, she wouldn't be able to do so before being seen by Y/N.

"Hey" the boxer exclaimed, hoping to catch Alexia's attention. "Sorry about that" she excused herself, clearly acknowledging that she was an utter dick to the midfielder previously "Tough day at work" she approached quickly.

"We all have those" Alexia replied, cold voice, standoffish. "Not really a good excuse though"

"Yeah because your having stuff to do was a good excuse" Y/N joked, it falling flat as Alexia didn't seem the slightest bit amused by the comment.

"Maybe we don't all eye you like hawks" the midfielder attacked back.

"Maybe I want you to"

"Hello, I'm Alexia and I have stuff to do" the midfielder mocked the boxer's previous failed introduction as she turned her back to the boxer, reaching for her car's door, wanting to flee whatever was happening.

"No" Y/N kept the midfielder's car closed, now positioned at an arm's reach between the boxer and her own car "Not going anywhere until I at least get your phone number"

The midfielder turned around "Has this move actually ever worked?" she scoffed.

"Maybe its the first time that I try it"

"You should try harder, this isn't going to work on me"

"So there is something that would work on you?" The boxer smirked, slowly entering Alexia's personal space. Slowly forcing the midfielder's back against her own car, the midfielder allowed whatever was happening.

"I thought that you liked keeping your personal space - private"

"Scared of what happens when I don't?" the boxer questioned, whispering mere inches away from Alexia's lips.

"No" a whisper that came off like a soft moan slipped her mouth.

"So if I kiss you, right here" the boxer graced Alexia's bottom lip with her thumb, pulling her closer "You wouldn't fight it?"

The midfielder's hands slid to the boxer's abdomen "You missed your chance", she whispered against Y/N's lips.

"Are you sure about that?" Y/N looked at the midfielder up and down, hunger in her eyes "Because your body says differently"

"And what are you going to do about it?"

"Maybe I would start by kissing you" the boxer pinned Alexia's hips with her own "I would start here" she whispers against the midfielder's neck, Alexia throws her head back from sheer pleasure. "Maybe I would lift you up into my arms, place you on the bonnet of your car" Y/N kept Alexia fantasizing "I would devour you right here - " her hands hover against the midfielder's body and before she could finish her sentence Alexia pounces.

Bringing the boxer's lips against her own, digging her nails into Y/N's lower back.

That's when Y/N took back control of the situation, pinning the midfielder against the car, holding the midfielder's head firmly in place as she worked her mouth.

The kiss quickly turned rough as Y/N picked up the pace, slipping her tongue into the midfielder's mouth as Alexia's quiet moans turned louder.

Y/N's mouth went straight to the midfielder's neck, gently nibbling at it as she picked the midfielder up off the ground. Alexia's ankles locking behind the boxer's back, bringing her even closer to her body.

"More" she begs and Y/N obliges, laying her on Alexia's bonnet, just like she promised. Tugging at the midfielder's dress, slowly lifting it while she deepened the kiss.

"More" Alexia moaned.

"Command me" Y/N nibbled at the midfielder's ear "Tell me what you want"

"You" she begged "Here, right now"

That was all it took. Y/N grabs Alexia's body and places her lower, letting her legs dangle from the bonnet. Settling herself on her knees Y/N devoured the midfielder, at first slowly, gently licking her from entrance to clit, reaching up to play with her nipples but as Alexia begged for more Y/N obliged.

Rough licks, putting pressure on her clit before introducing a finger into the midfielder and as she moaned, rolling her hips as she looked for a release of pleasure.

"Still." Y/N ordered "Stay. Still." She punctuated every word.

For a minute she followed the instructions given to her but as Y/N introduced a second finger into the midfielder she broke. Grabbing the boxer's hand that was previously stimulating her hard nipple, playing with it between thumb and forefinger.

Y/N stopped, lifting herself off the ground and hovering over Alexia. Keeping the midfielder's hands pinned against the bonnet, grabbing her wrists.

"I told you to stay still" Y/N groaned, pure lust displayed in Alexia's beautiful hazel eyes, mirroring her own. As the midfielder reached up, trying to pounce, taking advantage of how close the midfielder was, Y/N pinned her harder.

"No" Y/N muttered "That's not how this works"

The boxer grabbed Alexia's hips, leading the midfielder onto her feet. "You get what I give you" Y/N commanded "Now turn around"

Alexia didn't fight it, quickly turning on her feet and as Y/N pulled her flush against her body she moaned.

The boxer's hands travel down Alexia's body as she sucks on her neck, nibbles her ear, releases the midfielder's hair from the loose bun.

A quick attack as from one second to the next Y/N bit Alexia's neck, this time roughly, as she inserted a finger into the midfielder making her moan in the process. Her head flew back giving Y/N even more access to her neck and as she grabbed the boxer's hair, Y/N attacked her mouth.

Her tongue slips into Alexia's mouth, in total sync with her finger as she adds another. The midfielder's hips rolled again but this time Y/N pinned her hard against her body, not allowing the midfielder to move a single inch.

"Still" Y/N repeated.

Alexia moaned, each time louder as Y/N brought her close to release.

"Let go" the boxer ordered and seconds later Alexia crumbled, coming on Y/N's fingers, her hips shuddering. A loud moan threatens to leave her lips as Y/N muffles the sound with a deep kiss, this time softer. "Beautiful"

[artemismoorea03]

DP x DC Prompt: Delayed Reactions

Danny's powers didn't activate all at once after going into the Ghost Portal, in fact they hadn't even fully realized what happened for months. They assumed the change in appearance was just their eyes adjusting to the flashing because of how quickly it appeared then vanished again. But, as more things started happening to Danny and started changing, Danny couldn't help but wonder if maybe his accident had resulted in more than a permanent star that ran up his left arm to his heart.

He didn't tell Sam or Tucker though, after all Meta-Humans were so rare that there was no way they would believe him! Plus, if he told them then it would only be a matter of time before more people knew. So, he kept it to himself.

Which worked until Summer Break when Danny went to Gotham with his parents and Jazz for a Ghost Hunting Exp. Danny had no interest in 'Ghost Hunting' (though he had begun to do more of it after he realized that he could kind of sense and see the ghosts), so instead of listening to the expo he was going around learning more and more about the city. Gotham had some amazing other exhibits, an observatory, museums with huge space displays, and more interesting things than Ghosts.

Plus, it had the highest population of heroes!

Danny didn't expect that his second day in Gotham would end up so differently from the first one. It all started with a little girl about nine who had been crossing the street when chaos broke loose. An explosion on the next block rocked the entire city, causing Danny's skin to crawl, but what mad him sick was the fact that the explosion had thrown a car directly towards the little girl and a crowd of people.

Everybody else scattered, including the woman the girl had been walking with who seemed to forget her in an instant as they got out of the way of the car. But the little girl didn't move, just started terrified at the approaching car.

"Get out of the way!" People shouted to the girl, but unlike the rest of them Danny's instincts were screaming one thing.

Protect.

Danny ran forward as quickly as his legs could manage as he tried to beat gravity itself. Danny made it to the girl without a second to spare, wrapping her into a hug.

"Please work, please work, please work!" Danny thought, struggling to get his powers to work as he felt himself turn intangible with the girl turning intangible with him.

No sooner did his powers kick in did the car slam into the ground where they were standing before it bounced and rolled down the street, leaving a dent around the two of them but leaving both Danny and the girl untouched.

Danny let his power drop, as the girl looked at him for a second before she burst into tears and hugged him. Danny's vision swam as he hugged her back, fixing her hair.

"I gotcha, you're okay..." Danny told her, then let her go as the woman who had left her in the street called her.

The girl sniffled, then ran to the woman as Danny tried to stand. He could hear people talking, cheering and some were even applauding but it all sounded really far away. He could also hear another car approaching, but as his vision faded and his body felt as though it was filled with led nothing felt important anymore.

---

The Bats had tried to race to get to the civilians before the car hit them and had failed. Thankfully, the majority of people had managed to get out of the way to a safe distance but there was a little girl still in the road. None of them wanted to see the girl die, but they knew realistically they couldn't make it to her.

But somebody did.

No sooner did the stranger save the girl and let her go did they collapse into the middle of the street.

Suddenly it was no longer 'save civilians from a car that got partially blown up in Penguins newest scheme' but 'get the unknown Meta out of the street before his face was exposed to every media outlet throughout the city'.

[topgun-imagines]

At Peace

Requested: yes

Summary: Jake comes home after a long day at work to find you asleep during the thunderstorm. He can’t help but join you.

Word count: 0.9k

Warnings: thunderstorms, not really any.

Pairings: Jake ‘Hangman’ Seresin x fem!reader

Large, dark clouds were building steadily above Miramar. After a long day, all Jake wanted was to relax at home with you. He sighed as he watched lightning strike in the distance, his wiper blades working quickly to keep the rain from the windshield. You were waiting for him at home. That though was what made Jake press down on the gas a little harder.

The roads were empty on this rainy night, everyone deciding to stay cooped up inside rather than face the wet, February weather. Thunder cracked loudly, bright lightning flashing only seconds later. The storm was closer than Jake had originally thought. Now, more than ever, he wished he was home with you. He couldn’t wait to spend this rainy winter night with his girl.

There was only eight minutes before Jake was home. The closer he got to your shared house, the rain got heavier and the clouds darkened even more. The once bright blue sky was now a colour akin to black.

Those eight minutes seemed to pass by in a flash. Before he knew it, he was pulling up to the curb in front of your shared home and jumping out of his lifted truck. With quick footsteps, Jake headed into the house. The silence inside had him searching for your normally-bright presence.

When you two first got together, Jake learned that you loved thunderstorms. Every time, without fail, he would find you sitting next to the window, simply watching the lightning flash and the rainfall. Once the two of you got together, that became something that you shared. Oftentimes, you would end up cuddling on the couch, curtains pulled back and lights off to display the beauty of the lightning. The TV would be shut off, allowing you to relish in the clapping of the thunder. During those few hours, you never wanted to move.

Jake searched through the house. He checked the living room, your bedroom, the kitchen and the bathroom in search of you and sighed when he came up empty. Where could you be? With one last-ditch effort, Jake moved toward the back door. It led out onto the deck which had a beautiful view of the beach. Occasionally, a plane could be seen taking off from the base. You would often sit outside when Jake was at work, knowing that one of the planes that you could see in the sky contained your fiancé.

He stopped dead in his tracks at the sight before him. Curled up under a light, barely there blanket on the white couch was your delicate frame. The breath in his lungs seemed to escape all at once. Your fiancé looked at you in awe. He had never seen you look more beautiful. As silent as possible, Jake pulled open the screen door. He could easily see how peaceful you were. Your chest was rising and falling slowly and your eyes were fluttering as you dreamt. He couldn’t help but snap a quick picture of your peaceful state.

When Jake stepped outside, thunder clapped loudly. Even though most people would have jolted awake, you remained sound asleep. There hadn’t been a storm in a while so, this was the first time in a long time that he had seen you this at peace. You remained sound asleep, even as your fiancé slipped in beside you. As his arm wound around your waist, he was careful not to wake you. Even when he pulled you back into his chest, you didn’t stir.

Jake was nearly asleep when you rolled over. Grinning up at him sleepily, your arms wrapped around his toned midsection as you snuggled closer to him. One of his hands reached up, brushing a few wispy strands of hair away from your face. You seemed to relax even further, eyes slipping shut once more. Then, your fiancé leaned forward and peppered kisses across your forehead. Giggling softly in response, you tucked your face into the crook of his neck to hide from his ministrations.

It was hard to hide his grin as he pressed one last soft kiss to your temple. Thunder clapped above, and yet it couldn’t pull Jake’s eyes away from your soft features. The look of pure love in his eyes was hard to miss and it had you blushing intensely, looking back at his sweater-clad shoulder to avoid his teasing stare. “I love you.” He spoke quietly, thumb rubbing over your temple before he kissed your forehead.

Your eyes closed, revelling in the feeling. Once you whispered those same words back to him, your fiancé pulled you into his chest snugly. His warm palm smoothed over your back, fingers drawing intricate patterns against your soft skin. Content, Jake allowed his head to fall against your shoulder,

Moments later, Jake found himself nodding off against your shoulder. Now he understood why you loved thunderstorms so much. Even though there was thunder clapping harshly overhead and lightning flashing across the sky, Jake couldn’t help but feel an overwhelming sense of calm. When he was racing home to you, he was expecting to find you curled up on the couch, eagerly waiting for him to return to you before the two of you would fall into bed and listen to the sounds above. Instead, he got the opportunity to snuggle with you and feel your soft, smooth skin under his warm palm.

His eyes slipped shut and he allowed sleep to overtake him, content in simply lying here with you, under the violent, yet peaceful skies above.

a/n: Hope you all enjoyed!! Thank you for reading. Requests are open :)

Tagging: @topguncultleader @soulmates8 @t0kyoreveng3rs @there-goes-thefighter @supercatgirl006-deactivated2023 @blueoorchid @dempy @atarmychick007 @alexxavicry @bradleybeachbabe @chaoticassidy @nyx2021 @aviatorobsessed @avada-kedavra-bitch-187 @angelbabyange @oliviah-25 @cassiemitchell @classyunknownlover @shelbycillian @khaylin27 @bruher @sunsetsimpsblog @lovelywiseprincess @fandom-life-12 @ahopelessromanticwritersworld @emmza63 @cornishkat @iceman-kazansky @himbos-on-ice @starswholistenanddreamsanswered @wkndwlff @entertainmentgal8 @djs8891 @blackwidownat2814 @dakotakazansky @kmc1989 @shanimallina87 @memoriesat30 @sarahjoestewy-blog @ducks118 @marvelouslyme96 @linkpk88 @missathlete31 @xoxabs88xox @abbymwall @eternallyvenus @keileighr @rey26 @lt-spork @callsign-ember

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[wheelsgoroundincircles]

1962 Plymouth Savoy Max Wedge: Unleashing the Power of Muscle

1962 Plymouth Savoy Max Wedge

In 1962, a new era of muscle cars emerged, radiating brilliance and power. Chrysler led the way with their groundbreaking Max Wedge lineup, introducing the world to the fusion of unitized-body construction and the high-performance ram-tuned dual-carbureted 413 CI engine. Among these legends was the Plymouth Savoy Max Wedge, a remarkable vehicle that holds a significant place in automotive history.

1962 Plymouth Savoy Max Wedge

1962 Plymouth Savoy Max Wedge

The First Super Stock Max Wedge with Manual Transmission According to the esteemed Chrysler Registry and the meticulous documentation by Darrell Davis, this specific Plymouth Savoy Max Wedge holds a groundbreaking distinction—it was the first Super Stock model equipped with a manual transmission. The car’s odometer displays a mere 6,593 miles and has undergone a meticulous restoration process to return it to its original specifications. Notably, the engine has been upgraded, boasting a dyno-proven power output exceeding 500 HP.

1962 Plymouth Savoy Max Wedge

Unleashing the Power of the 413 CI V-8 Engine The 1962 Plymouth Savoy Max Wedge was powered by the formidable 413 CI V-8 engine. This was the first iteration of Chrysler’s renowned ram induction system, featuring a cross-ram intake manifold meticulously designed to optimize engine efficiency. The engine’s performance was further enhanced by the utilization of cast-iron header-style manifolds, which were rarely preserved but featured in this exceptional vehicle. Dale Reed of California refreshed the engine around 300 miles ago, ensuring its optimal performance. The correct Carter AFB carburetors reside beneath dual black air cleaners, accentuated by carefully placed decals.

1962 Plymouth Savoy Max Wedge

1962 Plymouth Savoy Max Wedge

A Unique Manual Transmission Experience One of the distinctive aspects of this Plymouth Savoy Max Wedge is its manual transmission. Unlike its automatic counterparts, this car delivers a unique driving experience through its floor-mounted shifter, allowing the driver to truly feel the power at their fingertips. Paired with a full aftermarket exhaust equipped with cutouts and the robust 8 ¾ Chrysler differential, this Max Wedge offers an exhilarating ride for those who crave the thrill of the open road.

1962 Plymouth Savoy Max Wedge

Captivating Style and Authenticity The exterior of this Plymouth Savoy Max Wedge embodies the spirit of the era. Finished in captivating light blue paint, it exudes a timeless charm. The interior features a complementary blue cloth-and-vinyl combination, while the white-and-blue two-tone trim adds an elegant touch. The front and rear bench seats provide comfort, and the radio delete plate pays homage to the car’s performance-focused nature. Notably, it features a knee-knocker S-W column-mounted tachometer and a beautifully presented trio of rubber pedals. The car’s attention to detail is evident throughout, with the inclusion of circa-1962 chrome fonts, single-lens tail lamps, and OEM steel wheels adorned with poverty-type hubcaps.

1962 Plymouth Savoy Max Wedge

1962 Plymouth Savoy Max Wedge

Provenance and Documentation Accompanying this Plymouth Savoy Max Wedge is a wealth of provenance and documentation that adds to its allure. It includes the original OEM IBM punch card and build sheet, which serve as a testament to its authenticity. Additionally, the window sticker provides insight into its original specifications, while the dyno sheet confirms its impressive horsepower rating. Vintage photos capture the car’s early years when it was part of a famous drag car collection, showcasing its illustrious past.

1962 Plymouth Savoy Max Wedge

1962 Plymouth Savoy Max Wedge

Conclusion The 1962 Plymouth Savoy Max Wedge stands as a testament to the golden age of muscle cars. With its groundbreaking manual transmission configuration, powerful 413 CI V-8 engine, and captivating style, it represents the pinnacle of Mopar’s storied performance heritage. Meticulously restored to its original glory, this Max Wedge allows enthusiasts to experience a bygone era’s raw power and timeless charm.

FAQs: How many miles does the 1962 Plymouth Savoy Max Wedge have? The odometer of the 1962 Plymouth Savoy Max Wedge reads 6,593 miles. Who documented the Chrysler Registry for this particular car? The meticulous documentation of the Chrysler Registry for this car was done by Darrell Davis. Has the engine of the 1962 Plymouth Savoy Max Wedge been upgraded? Yes, the engine of this Plymouth Savoy Max Wedge has been upgraded to a dyno-proven 500-plus HP. What is the significance of the 413 CI V-8 engine in this car? The 413 CI V-8 engine in this car was the first to receive Chrysler’s shortened version of ram induction, known as the cross-ram intake. It maximizes engine efficiency and pairs it with rarely preserved cast-iron header-style manifolds. What documentation and provenance come with this Plymouth Savoy Max Wedge? This Plymouth Savoy Max Wedge comes with various documentation, including the OEM IBM punch card, build sheet, window sticker, dyno sheet confirming horsepower rating, and vintage photos of its early years as part of a famous drag car collection.

[honeysickledream]

'Overgrown' - Simon 'Ghost' Riley x F!Reader | Chapter Two

(photo credit: me [@honeysickledream])

warnings/tags: F!reader, no use of Y/N and no physical descriptions of reader, reader is a healer and midwife, this is set in a very vague ‘middle ages’ time, forced/arranged marriage, some angst, slow burn (heavy emphasis on slow for this entire series), miscommunication, relationship issues, relationship doubts, no smut this time around (again) but still minors DNI, brief mentions of: pregnancy (side character), childbirth and recovery (same side character gives birth off screen) | that's all, I think, but if I missed anything, lmk!

word count: ~1.2k

synopsis: You had married Simon four months ago, the whole thing some stupid forced arrangement. You had left everything you knew behind to live with Simon in his cabin a few miles out from his hometown. You weren't sure you could classify your relationship as a marriage, or even say truthfully that you lived with him because he wasn't around very often. Some part of you hopes things improve, but you're not unwillingly to do what you can to live the life you'd originally planned for.

a/n: a bit shorter than the first part, but that's what I get for procrastinating my first paper of the semester. i have to get my procrastination under wraps (they say after not doing so while in undergrad)

<- Prev. Part | Next Part ->

The walk to town seemed further today. For every step you took, the dirt path seemed to stretch another mile. You’d been up since a little after midnight, deciding to be productive with your time instead of wallowing in your bed, fuming. Four loaves had been baked, the open hearth cleaned of ash and the wood replenished for today’s use. Clean sheets had been folded and put away, a chore you had been putting off since you first hung the linens on the line, and the shelves in the larder had been dusted for the first time in well over a month. You’d even fetched water for Simon’s bath after your own, leaving them before the clean hearth to heat at his leisure. When he was around, he often fetched his own water, but you’d felt the need to do it for him today. Maybe it had been your guilt for how you acted last night that led you to the kind task. A small, silent apology. A show of care, awareness. You supposed it was another sign of guilt when you’d left a little before he woke, still on edge from his return and not wishing to subject him to any more crankiness. No, you decided to bottle up your crankiness in case someone got on your bad side, like the nosy or overly-opinionated family members your patients seemed to have in spades. The south portcullis had just finished rising as the town came into view and the woods were left behind. All but the western portcullis were left closed during the night, though you weren’t sure why. The early risers were already on the streets, the town relatively quiet, a few businesses open and preparing for customers. The baker, a sweet man with a perpetually red nose and an apron that always seemed to have a new flower embroidered on the hem by his daughter, was displaying his fresh loaves with the usual remarkable precision. Across the road, the butcher and his apprentices—his twin sons—were laying out fresh hides on the racks beside their shop. A mother exited her home, flanked by her small army of sleepy children who all had their own ways to grump at her for getting them ready for the day. An elderly couple you’d gotten to know well these last four months, both regularly needing new pots pepper pastes and lavender, barely poultices for their joint pains, were slowly walking their usual route. When they waved to you, you waved back and gave them a warm smile. They had been married for ages, had a gaggle of children who each had gaggles of their own. Their oldest son and his family had moved back to the town a few weeks ago to be close to the aging couple and you saw them often when you did your house-visits. Nice enough folks, the oldest son and his family, and they always made sure to stay out of the way when you went about your business. The son had even tried to give you some extra coin for tending to his parents, which you kindly declined, telling him that you charged the same for everyone, no ifs, ands or buts about it. You turned down narrow road and made your way to the fifth door on the left, rapping your knuckles against the faded red door three times. Today was a one patient day, the other healers and midwives in the town tending to your usual patients as well as their own, and for good reason. The woman who answered was sweaty and out of breath, teeth clenched. You glanced to her gravid belly and gave her a sympathetic look. Apparently your suggested methods of inducing labor had worked, and by the tension in her shoulders and the exhaustion in her eyes, early labor had been going on for quite some time, and the likelihood of a quick transition to active labor now that you were here, was slim. ***

The late afternoon had been greeted by the sweet wails of a newborn, and those stopped outside the home, waiting with bated breath for babe’s arrival, broke out in cheers and song. Once the mother and babe were clean and situated, you began the second part of your duties as midwife: tending to the home for an easier transition. You sent the dirtied sheets and the mother’s shroud to a laundress paid for with the money from your skirt pocket, then prepared a light meal for the family since such excitement and tension could cause a heavy meal to not sit properly. After the new mother’s husband returned, and your final check for her and the babe’s health was completed, you took your payment, stuffed your messed apron into your medical bag and left. As was your tradition following a successful delivery, you popped into the bakery and ordered a small fruit tart. You ate it slowly as you stood outside and watched as the evening crowds began to form as the sky turned a sweet mixture of lilac and peony. The tart was flaky, the sugar on top not yet dissolved, and the fruit inside had just the right amount of tang. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw a familiar figure: Simon. Simon? Your heart painfully skipped a beat as your eyes followed him as he went to the butcher’s. You finished the rest of your tart quickly and dusted your hands off as you wove through the crowds to catch up to him. Seeing him in town was a first, you were nearly sure of that. And you were entirely sure that it was him when you peered through the window of the butcher’s shop, catching the eye of the butcher himself, his twin sons, and finally Simon whose brows rose slowly at you. There was a passing of coin and scribbled-on parchment, then Simon headed right for the door. Right for you. You quickly pushed away from the window and turned to face the crowds of people as if nothing had happened at all. Except it had, and you were sure you were about to be given a plethora of strange looks by Simon. Yet he didn’t give you a strange look. He did search your face, though, then looked you up and down. His eyes lingered on your torso, noting the absence of your apron, you supposed. “Done for the day?” he asked. You nodded. “I only had one patient today, and I’m thankful for that.” You chewed your cheek as you stood there beside him, the two of you looking towards the townspeople who didn’t pay either of you any mind. You looked down and noticed the basket in his left hand, the list inside it, and the money in your skirt pocket seemed to suddenly weigh a ton. Your mind wandered to the flimsy floorboard in your bedroom, the one by your door that you pried up almost every day, and what was underneath it. Money. Most of the money you earned from your profession went into the satchel hidden under the floorboard. A failsafe, an escape plan in case you couldn’t bear to remain in the marriage. “Are you headed to the market?” you asked before you could stop yourself. There was an opportunity lurking if he was. When he nodded, you followed suit. “I’ll come along,” you told him. “Maybe we could talk, too?”