#Sell men's wedding band

[ivaluelab1]

Do you keep walking past your jewelry box and wondering, is it finally time to sell your wedding rings? If so, that question is often preceded by, where do I go to sell my wedding rings?

[evita-shelby]

Happy wife, Happy life

Or Tommy gets drunk and assumes his wife is someone else so he sleeps on the floor instead

For @runnning-outof-time with the prompt 34) “I didn’t get your name.”

Gif by @cillianparadise

The sight of Tommy, this new Tommy who is always in control at all times, drunk as hell and stumbling into the bedroom, is a sight for sore eyes.

It is the old him, the one who laughed and loved horses and had ambition but not the sort to get you murdered by the Crown's most evil men.

“Did you have fun tonight, love?” You ask as your husband of four years stripped down to join you in bed.

“Sorry, sweetheart, I am sure you’re a catch, but I got a wife.” He answers, perfectly serious too and lies down on the floor after taking his pillow with him.

You can’t help but laugh and tease him. Not like he’ll remember this tomorrow.

“Oh, so you’d rather sleep on the floor instead of your bed, Mr. Shelby?” you ask letting you arm hang over the edge of the bed and just low enough to bop his nose.

He hates it, and rolls his eyes at your immaturity.

“Yeah, happy wife happy life.” Tommy responds as if it made all the sense in the world.

Good boy, you say and he thanks you for the praise and rejects your advances while he’s at it.

“What if I told you your wife was in bed and can’t sleep without you with her?” you ask while you lightly pester him in ways only you did.

“Mhm, she’d shoot me if she caught me in bed with another woman, especially you.” He turned on his side and you paused as you raked your fingers through his mop of dark hair.

You.

Was there another tramp trying to woo him away from you?

You knew from the beginning that every woman here would sign off on their firstborn to be in his bed, and sell their soul to the devil to be in your shoes.

You were jealous, so much so that when he left for France you told him he could fuck a whore so long as you got to fuck a fella in return.

Your threat saved him from a bout of gonorrhea which Barney got from a whore who gave it to every man in the battalion save for Tommy.

“She doesn’t have to know,” you say keeping up the act so you know which woman you have to scare away from your fucking husband.

Couldn’t these ladies see the wedding band in his finger?

“She will, you aren’t exactly doing yourself any favors working in the pub, Miss. Miss?” Tommy faltered forgetting the name of the mousy barmaid. Looked like Jane Seymour , with that holier-than-thou face that got Anne Boleyn short of a head. “Sorry, I didn’t get your name.”

“Grace. Grace Burgess.” You filled in the blanks and knew you’d make the blonde bitch leave Birmingham and scurry the fuck back to Belfast or your name isn’t Y/N Shelby.

Part 2

[zweiginator]

What if divorced!art gets dragged to a club one weekend by his foundation-buddies and he obviously doesn’t want to but he forces himself and then it turns out that escort!reader is also there with her friends and they see each other outside of «work» for the first time… And her friends doesn’t know about her escorting so maybe they recognize him and maybe she goes to talk to him because her friends says she should «flirt more»🤭 And then ofc he fucks her in the dirty club bathroom

divorced!art upset because he hasn't seen you in weeks. everything has been busy since he hit the ground running with tennis again. practice after practice, signing sponsorship deals, galas and charity fundraising. and you had been busy too. art didn't know this, but you're a student as well. you didn't tell him not because you didn't want to share your life with him, but because it made you feel juvenile. of course, it's university and you're almost finished with your degree after five and a half years instead of the usual four--but you still feel dumb talking about that part of your life with him. for you to bitch about group projects and essays about political science while art is upset about custody battles and petty divorce politics--it feels trivial.

but your friends want to celebrate the semester being freshly over. just a few more summer classes for you and you will finally graduate. you'll finally get to hang up your hat and say goodbye to escorting. to that taboo little secret that's been dragging your eyes into sunken purple holes for the past fourteen months.

and your friends don't know, of course. it's impossible to explain to a group of girls whose parents pay for tuition and books and groceries. gas, clothes and even the designer heels they wear to the club they're standing in right now--that you need to do this. for money. to survive.

no, it isn't ideal. but this is the real fucking world and sex sells.

so they think you're prudish. they've never seen you have a boyfriend or flirt because that's your job every other day of the week. to pretend to be in love. to fuck lonely assholes and pretend to care about their lives. to believe them when they say they aren't a bad husband. that men have needs.

they urge you to flirt with men at the bar. but like always, you're just not interested. and all the men in this shitty tavern-bar-turned-college-club are all the same. middle-aged men who shoved their wedding bands in their back pockets to pick up pussy from a doe-eyed girl in her twenties.

none of them are remotely attractive. and you're thanking your lucky stars that you don't recognize a single one of them.

your friend taps on your shoulder. "there's one hot guy here. you may recognize him. he's kinda famous."

you down the rest of your drink. "oh really? i doubt i'd be interested."

but she points to a man leaning against the bar way off in the corner. sad eyes and salt and pepper hair that was once dirty blond; you've seen his baby pictures. he's tall and in love with you and you with him and you could strangle him right now because he hasn't returned your calls or texts in over five days.

"art donaldson." your other friend sighs. "he's a tennis player and i'd fuck him if i didnt have a boyfriend."

it's then that art turns around. likely feels the eyes of six girls burning into the back of his skull. he's holding a beer bottle and he looks forlorn, his typical woe is me demeanor that makes him so fucking attractive to you. lights up that neanderthal part of your brain that makes you want to fix the unfixable.

and then he smiles. it makes you blush and your friends, not knowing the tendrils of your history together that have now become rooted in the ground beneath you, tell you to go for it.

"he's staring right at you."

you know that. art knows not to make it clear he knows you; it would open up that whole can of worms.

so he waits for you to come to him and you pretend to be nervous which isn't that hard because you are already.

when you get to him, he whispers in your ear.

"they don't know about your job, im assuming?" he wants to wrap his arms around your waist but he refrains.

"they don't. but they know you, and they're very fond of you. they want me to flirt more."

art flags down the bartender. he gets you a gin and tonic, remembering how you liked the one he made for you that first night at his hotel room. you were just trying to make him feel better.

"well im glad im the lucky man." he sits down on a stool and hooks his leg around the stool next to him to bring it closer. he motions for you to sit and your friends are all staring at you but pretending they aren't.

"me too. although i don't know how much you deserve it." you take a sip. "given how you haven't responded to my calls in awhile."

art takes your drink from your hand, sets it down. he rests his hand on your lower back.

"im sorry honey. i haven't been meaning to be an asshole. there's a lot going on with tennis and everything."

you run a hand through his hair. "i get it." you feign a frown. "you just may have to make it up to me." and when you uncross your legs, art can see your thong. he tenses his jaw.

"i do need to make it up to you, don't i?" he takes a swig from his beer. "i'll tell you what." he glances around, at the bathroom door swinging open. "why don't i go to the bathroom to freshen up and you come check on me in a few minutes, yeah?"

he's so close you can smell the beer on his breath. you nod and he goes toward the bathroom.

your friends want to come over and ask you all about it, but then you're knocking on the bathroom door with your special knock. the one that only you and art know.

he pulls you inside, and the bathroom is dingy with a flickering light and graffiti on the walls. drawings of dicks and crude words but art sits on the toilet seat.

"c'mere." he reaches out to you and you go to him. a pavlovian response that makes you so fucking wet to be near him. to be on his lap like you're supposed to be. he kisses you like he missed you because he has. he's not supposed to. his lips trail wet, hot kisses up your throat and he's greedier than usual. dragging your pussy over his throbbing erection. he's only wearing his briefs on his bottom half and you tug at his shirt because you want to see all of him. feel all of him. he does the same to you. panting into your mouth because his cock rests between your folds. nudges against your clit as you grind on him.

"fuckin' ruined pussy for me." he throws his head back and you grab his jaw to kiss him. sloppy and disgusting but you love the taste of him. how your lipstick melds into his saliva. drips down his neck like you're a vampire taking him for everything he fucking has.

"yeah?" you rake your nails down his chest and take his cock out. it's bare against your pussy, your panties pushed to the side.

"nothing turns me on anymore. nothing gets me off. only you. that tight fucking cunt."

he never talks like this. so crude. but you love drawing it out of him. milking those dirty words as you stroke his heavy cock for him. people bang on the bathroom door but neither of you fucking care.

you sink down on him. you do it all at once. you're addicted to how his hips spasm and his eyes roll back and he lets a strangled moan-groan hybrid escape him. he holds onto the flesh of your ass as you fuck him.

the porcelain of the toilet creaks unsteady below you and you're completely on top of him, your feet behind you as you fuck him harder and harder. but he asks for more because he wants you more.

"fuck me--fuck me--" he repeats it over and over. guides you up and down and up and down his cock from base to tip. "your pussy was fucking made for me. i need it, i need it--"

his mouth hangs open and you can't believe he's yours like this. you want him to cum but then again you don't because then he can't be inside you anymore. and that's precisely where you want him.

his jaw is tense and his neck pulses with his heartbeat as he presses his forehead to yours.

"i want you--" a moan. "to hit me. i want you to fucking claim me."

so you smack him, and his arms wrap tight against your waist because he's cumming and he wants it to stay like this forever. but if it can only be a few more minutes, that will do too.

[bullet-prooflove]

I know that you hate her but it was never her fault, not really.

For Lee Dutton

Tagging: @kmc1989 @queenslandlover-93 @newyorkrican922 @bryandechartisasmolbean @lovethis-lovethat

Companion piece to:

A Boy from Bozeman - Lee says goodbye to the woman he loves.

The Worry Doll - Lee still keeps the worry doll you gave him.

Wild Fire - Lee tells you the truth about the wildfire.

Experiance (NSFW) - Lee's gained some experiance since the last time the two of you were together.

Blind Date - John puts the word out around town that Lee needs a wife.

Fire Wood - Lee always chops firewood when he's pissed.

Wedding Bells - You and Lee tie the knot in secret.

Until Your Dying Day - You make a promise to Lee.

References to:

The One That Got Away - In light of Lee's recent wedding, John reflects on the one that got away.

The Other Woman (NSFW) - John was never meant to be with Evelyn.

John is waiting for Lee on the porch of the farmhouse when he returns home from his honeymoon. He’d dropped you off at the end of the trail where Kayce had left the VW. You have to be at the conservation centre in Helena this afternoon to discuss the soil samples you took from Pasture 12. Lee intends to meet you afterwards to help you pack up your stuff for your move to the farmhouse.

It's the coffee cup in his father’s hand that pisses Lee off, it’s the chipped one from his kitchen. He can smell that special brand of coffee you like, the one you buy from the farmer’s market. This is John Dutton trying to send a message and Lee reads it loud and clear.

Nothing is yours, it all belongs to the ranch.

Lee doesn’t say anything as he sits down on the opposite side of the steps. If they’re going to talk about this, it’s going to be on equal terms because Lee, he will not stand before this man like a naughty child. He’s done bending to his father’s will.

“You left one hell of a mess for me to clean up.” John says taking a sip of his coffee as he stares out across the pasture.

Lee knows he’s talking about the angry phone calls he’s been receiving from ranchers since the news hit that Lee had gotten married, the ones that were trying to trade their daughters like cattle for a piece of the ranch.

“I never said I wanted a wife.” Lee reminds him as his gaze fixates on the cattle roaming in the distance.

“But you took one anyway.” John points out, his gaze coming to rest on Lee’s silver wedding band.

“I know you hate her…”

“I don’t hate her.” John tells Lee, setting his coffee cup down alongside him. “She’s just not right for the ranch.”

“But she’s right for me.” Lee says tucking his hands into the pockets of his jacket. “She was back then and she is now.”

There’s silence between the two of them for a moment before John sighs.

“I had someone like that.” He says quietly. “A long time ago I had to make a decision between the woman I love and what was best for the ranch.”

“You mean Lou.” Lee says and John tilts his head towards him in surprise. “I saw the two of you together after mom died, I heard what you said about how you loved her, how you’d always loved her.”

Lee has known from a young age that his mother and father didn’t act like other parents. There was always a coldness between the two of them, a practicality. It wasn’t until the night of the wake when he saw his father interact with Lou that he realised why. John hadn’t been able to take his eyes off her during the event, he held onto her hands a little too long when she gave him her condolences and that night after everyone else had left, he’d undressed her in the room his wife hadn’t shared in years.

Lee doesn’t know what happened after that, only his father is now in a causal relationship with Governor Perry  and Lou sells honey at the farmer’s market with her twenty six year old son, Joesph.

“The men in our family, they don’t marry for love.” John says quietly. “We marry for duty and that’s what I need you to do.”

“What are you saying?” Lee asks him, his voice barely more than a whisper.

“When I get back to the house, I’ll have Jamie draw up an annulment, voiding the marriage.” John says clasping his hands together. “After that we’ll pick someone more appropriate, someone whose the right fit.”

Lee can’t speak, his eyes sting as he pulls the keys to the farmhouse out from his pocket and dumps them into his father’s lap.

“I’m not leaving Anna.” He says, his voice raw with emotion as he raises to his feet. “You took twenty years from the two of us, you don’t get to have the rest.”

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Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

[holylulusworld]

Between a rock and a hard place (1)

Summary: You are in big trouble and in need of money. Two wolves are more than willing to help you. For a price…

Pairing: Mobster!Walter Marshall x fem!Reader x Mobster!August Walker

Warnings: angst, language, power imbalance, debts, scared reader, extortion, mentions of character's death, mentions of a cheating husband, degrading, groping, implied mentions of prostitution

Between a rock and a hard place masterlist

They look like kings sitting on their plush chairs as you tremble in front of them.

In reality, they are wolves, with sharp teeth and claws ready to rip you apart.

One of them with thick and luscious curls and a thick beard, and the other one shares the same features with neatly styled hair and a mustache.

Walter Marshall and August Walker.

Both are equally pretty and deadly at the same time. Gods amongst mere humans. 

Their blue eyes sparkle as you try to find your voice. 

You’re a pitiful sight to them. A broke woman, with no hope, or money left.

All thanks to your useless and unfaithful husband. 

He recently passed away and left more than a hole in your heart. Six digits of debt are now yours to pay.

“I-“You drop your gaze and swallow thickly. You wring your hands, wincing as you miss your wedding band and engagement ring. “I sold my rings and all the jewelry I own.”

“How much do you have for us, mouse?” One of the wolves gets up to stand in front of you. He roughly wraps his large hand around your throat, thumb brushing over your windpipe. “I could easily break you.” He smirks, as your eyes widen in fear. “Maybe I will.”

“August,” the other wolf slowly gets up to place his hand on his brother’s shoulder. “We talked about impulse control, brother.”

“Ha! Do you want to tell me something about impulse control? Brother, you are the incarnation of impatience and easily loose control.”

You shrink into yourself. Crowded by both of them you feel even smaller and vulnerable. Your legs are about to give in, and you wince anytime their eyes land on you.

“I sold the car and his golf clubs,” you whisper, not daring to speak louder. “The house…I couldn’t sell it. The bank will take it.”

“You will learn that I hate repeating myself,” August flashes you a devilish grin. “So, how much do you have for us?”

“Eight thousand and fifty dollars,” you sniff. “I know it’s not much, but I’ll pay every buck he owes you back.” Your fingers tremble when you get the envelope with the money out of your pocket.

“Aw, look at her,” Walter coos to mock you. “She’s already trembling for me, brother.” He lifts your chin with his index finger. “Look at me, lamb.” He leaves no room for arguments when he intensely stares at you. “Good girl.” Walter praises when you hold his gaze for a few seconds.

“I wonder what else she has to offer.” While Walter cups your chin to tilt your head, August circles you like prey. “Tell me, mouse.” He whispers in your ear. “Is this cunt tight?”

“What?” You splutter, while tears well up to your eyes. You struggle to breathe. These men treat you like a piece of meat, not a person. All they have in mind is getting their money back. And they don’t care how you pay them back.

“We have a club,” August slaps your ass hard enough to bring more tears to your eyes. “Maybe you can work a dick to pay us back our money.”

“Brother, I don’t think this pussy is worth five-hundred thousand bucks,” Walter tuts, but his eyes drop to your chest. “Maybe she can ride my dick and I give her fifty bucks every time she swallows me.”

“Mouse, what do you say?” August places his hand on your shoulder. “I let you ride dick at my club, and you pay me back my money this way. Or do you want to ride his dick for the rest of your pitiful life?”

“No…” You shake your head. “You can kill me, but I won’t work at your club.” You have a little self-respect left. Even if these beautiful monsters hold your life in their hands, you won’t stoop even lower and sell your body to random men. 

“She’s got some fight left, August,” Walter smirks darkly at your predicament. You try to put a brave face on, but he can see the fear in your eyes. “So, lamb. How do you wanna pay us back our money if you don’t work his customers dicks?”

“I don’t know,” you sniff. “I’ll find a way. Even if it’s not my fault you lend money to my deceased husband. I didn’t know about any of this. He never told me about his problems or that he ate some other bitch’s pussy.”

“Walter, I think we got a cocky mouse,” August wraps his hand around your throat from behind to tilt your head. He forces you to look at him, making you wince in pain. “If I tell you to ride dick, you ask which hole my customer wants to fill.”

“August,” Walter tuts. “I think she’s too mousy for your club.” You hear August sigh deeply behind you. “I like me some shy mouse. They are best at sucking dick.”

“She owes us both, not only you.”

“If she works at the club we will never get it back!” Walter grunts. “If you give her to me, I’ll have a nice kitten to play with.” His features darken and he wraps his hand around his brother’s wrist. “We both know she’ll never be able to pay us back.”

“I’ll pay back every buck,” you croak. “Please…” You start to cry. “It’s not my fault he died and left me nothing but trouble and debts. I would’ve sold the house to give you the money.”

August huffs. He’s not in the mood to waste more time on you. “Have her for tonight. I want her at the club tomorrow!”

Walter glances at your quivering lips. He’s mesmerized by the sight of your fear. In his line of business, people mostly fear him. But he never was enchanted by one of the faceless people he tormented in the past. “No.”

“No?” August cracks his neck and gets ready for another fight with his brother. “Please enlighten me, Walter. How do you intend on getting the money back if you keep her?”

“I was looking for someone to share my lonely nights with,” Walter grins down at you. “She’s not too bad to look at and knows how to shut her mouth. I don’t like the mouthy bitches you wanted to share lately. All they have in mind are clothes, social media, and money.”

“Oh,” August drops his hand from your neck. He pinches your ass, making you jump. “You want to share the mouse?”

“I bet, she will look pretty stuffed with two big cocks,” Walter dips his head to glance at his brother. “Do you remember the cute little thing in Dublin? The one we found at the pub?”

“She squeaked like a mouse when we punched her pussy with our cocks,” August groans deeply. “She was tight but lacked endurance. I bet this one won’t pass out on us when we use her all night long.”

“Right, lamb?” Walter cups your chin again, “You will be a good girl for us. Did you ever cum on two cocks at the same time?”

Your eyes widen, and you feel an icy shiver run down your spine. These men see nothing but a body they can use in you.

You are trapped with them in their territory and scared shitless. Still, your panties dampen at the thought of them using you to their liking.

“She just pressed her legs together.” Walter drops his hand from your chin and steps away. He admires your trembling form for a moment, drinking every micro-expression in. “I bet she’s a little brainless slut.”

Part 2

Tags in reblog.

[mamaestapa]

joe wanting to leave somewhere but you wanting to stay blurb

Mans Best Friend|| Joe Burrow x reader

•pairing: Joe Burrow x reader

•summary: You drag Joe along to a friends purse party and he becomes best friends with the dog

•warnings: none, this is all fluff :)

“Y/n,” Joe groaned as he followed you into the kitchen of the large house. You poured yourself another glass of lemonade, rolling your eyes at Joe in the process. “Do I really have to stay?” He asked, folding his muscular arms over his chest as he watched you fill your glass.

Your best friend from college was hosting a purse party today and she insisted that you come over for good food, fun times, and of course, a new purse. You accepted her invitation and brought Joe along with you. You figured Joe and your best friends husband Andrew would hang out while you spent time with the girls outside, obsessing over all of the cute purses and other accessories. However, when you and Joe pulled up to your friends house, you discovered that Andrew was out with his friends, meaning Joe was stuck at the purse party with you and ten other women—with no other men in sight, well except for Moose the doodle.

“Sorry Joey,” you said, stepping up on your tip toes to place a kiss on his cheek, “you’re stuck here with me.” Joe rolled his eyes and huffed out a sigh of annoyance. He loved you, but he hated stuff like this. “I don’t even care about purses,” he grumbled, following you out of the kitchen and over to the sliding glass doors. You stopped in front of the door and looked up at your husband, giving him your best RBF. “Joe,” you sighed, “do you know how many football events you have dragged me to in the past five years that I don’t care about?”

Joe couldn’t lie, you did have a point. He’s brought you to many football related events that didn’t pertain to you at all. But you still went along with hun to each one, and you stayed the entire time. Even if they bored you a bit.

You reached out and grabbed his left hand, your finger running over his gold wedding band, “I go to those events because I love you and want to support what you love, Joe. Please do the same for me, just this once?” You pushed your bottom lip out in an exaggerated pout as you looked into his soft baby blues. He sighed dramatically, “Fine.” You smiled warmly at him, “Thank you babe.” He grabbed your left hand, bringing it up to his mouth to place a kiss over your diamond wedding ring, “only because I love you so much.”

He let go of your hand, both of you leaning in to give the other a loving kiss. As you pulled away from each other, you gave Joe a gentle pat on his right pec before you opened the sliding glass door and headed back outside to the patio, where your best friend was starting to set up all of the purses she was selling. Joe watched as you walked back over to the table set up outside. A small smile on his face as he watched your face light up when your best friend held up a simple black Kate Spade purse. Joe shook his head in amusement, letting out a sigh as he reached for the door handle to go outside and join you and the rest of the women. However, he stopped when he noticed Moose sitting down next to him. Joe looked down at the dog, a smile making its way onto his face as he reached down to gently pet the sweet doodle. “Looks like it’s just me and you, Moose.” Joe mused to the dog as he looked out at the backyard full of women.

.As you and your friends bought purses, you noticed Joe never joined you back outside. You decided to go back inside to see where your husband had went off to. You walked back into the house, wearing a wide grin and holding a Kate Spade purse. You set the purse down on the counter and called out for Joe.

“Joe!”

No response.

“Joey!”

Still nothing. You frowned slightly at the silence. Joe never ignores you. You hoped he wasn’t upset with you for dragging him to this party… You were about to call out for Joe again when you heard chuckling come from the living room. You walked through the kitchen and toward the living room, a wide smile making its way onto your face as you looked at the sight in front of you.

Joe was sitting against the couch, a grin on his face, chuckling happily as Moose climbed all over Joe. The dog left wet kisses all over Joe’s face as his tail wagged happily from all of the attention he was getting.

“Looks like you found a friend,” you smiled, pointing at Moose. Joe looked up at you, grin still on his face as he said, “Moose and I have become quite good friends while you were busy screaming over purses.” You playfully rolled your eyes as you sat down next to your husband. Moose was now sitting in front of Joe, looking at him with what looked to be a sort of grin. You smiled as you looked at the dog.

“I think he likes you.” You chuckled. Joe nodded, “I think so too.” He looked over you, smiling warmly as he reached for your hand, “You have fun?” You nodded, “I did. Did you?” Joe glanced at Moose as he said, “I did.”

A couple weeks later, you and Joe ended up adopting a doodle that looked just like Moose.

If it wasn’t for your purse party, Joe wouldn’t have found his new best friend.

hey loves!!

second blurb of the night, ah! i thought this idea was sweet to go with the blurb request :) i hope you all liked it!

that’s all the blurbs i’ll have posted for tonight, but please keep sending them! i’ll be doing blurb nights either once a week or multiple times a week. i have a lot to work on, so it’s looking like this will be a multiple nights a week type of thing ;)

thank you to everyone that has sent me a blurb idea! they’re all such great ideas and i can’t wait to write them🥰

hope you’re all doing well🤍🤍

[lizisodd]

All the flying limbs and severed hands, many with wedding rings. I learned in marketing class that Western men started wearing wedding bands in World War II — a way to sell two rings instead of just one.

[nysocboy]

The Kelvin/Keefe wedding rings are back

Remember the rings that Kelvin and Keefe wore on their "wedding band" fingers in Season 2? Plain silver for Keefe, filigree for Kelvin. Fans argued like mad. Wedding rings? Chastity rings? God squad rings? I finally decided that they weren't significant, since no one commented on them or even zoomed in on them: you had to blow up a screen shot to notice.

Well, they're back in Season 3: matching men's silver wedding bands with black diamond inlay (the real thing sells for over $4000), on the ring finger of Kelvin's left and Keefe's right hand. That's the opposite of the hand they favor, which is important if the actors have to keep putting them on and taking them off.. And in universe, they'll come together when the guys hold hands -- romantic.

For the first few episodes, they are not emphasized in any way. Kelvin displays his quite often, but Keefe's is hard to see due to the staging or Cavalero's presentation (he deliberately hides it during the break-up scene, so why put it on in the first place?). One scene where it's obvious was cut -- to not give away too much?

. In Episode 3.6, Keefe’s is gone -- he must have returned it -- and Kelvin keeps fiddling with his and taking it off and putting it back on. They are obviously symbols of the relationship. Which means that the guys exchanged them for that purpose. Which means that for all his talk of dude-bros and best dude friends, Kelvin knew exactly what their relationship meant. I'm not putting "wedding rings" in quotation marks anymore.

[sparklingmineraltequila]

American Wasteland

Note: Finally, a Cassandra POV. Sorry that it's a tiny bit shorter but I have had one of most emotionally traumatising weeks of my life. Don't worry, next chapter I'm back on my shit with smut and all.

Warnings: 18+, drugs, alcohol, sex work, references to past abuse, domestic violence

Hot afternoons can feel like an impending scream. It's the mundanity about them that has always killed Cassandra. All the filth and despair of wide, yawning night with its neon lights and hookers on pavements and aching solitude is manageable; at least she can focus her misery on something concrete. But these baked afternoons, when the hours bleed into one amalgam of humming fans and beading sweat, plunge her into a white hot light of clarity at just how fucking sad she is. She's indulging herself too. Has been for the past three fucking hours, doing nothing but picking at her nail beds and staring at a stack of Crash's books against the wall and studying them. He dog-ears his pages, she already knows that, and from here she can see that he cracks the spines too, not surprising. Cassandra quickly pushes down the bubbling sentimentality she feels at the closeness of Crash in those simple acts. Harder still when thinking about those ice blues eyes, the absent minded twisting of a wedding band that's no longer there but the memory of an ex-wife that Cassandra knows nothing about but her name, that oily scent of tobacco on his fingers when he pushes them past her lips. The trailer door opens and he comes in: Crash holding a pharmacy bag,

'You're up,' he states, not daring to make eye contact after what transpired last night. Cassandra thinks it's the first sheepishness she's ever seen cross the stoic lines of his face. She doesn't reply.

'I got you some aspirin,' he continues, setting the bag next to the bed, regarding her for a moment longer which she returns with a glacial look.

'I don't have to talk to you,' Cassandra deadpans, not even bothering to sit up.

'I know,' Rust returns, with an equal frostiness that sends Cassandra into indignant fury.

'How dare you take that mild-ass tone with me,' she spits, now shifting to sit up, 'I got fucking drugged and fucked and then made a complete goddamn fool of myself spewing my guts on the side of the road like some fucking teenager.'

'You are a teenager.'

'I'm twenty fucking years old.'

'Oh you think that a couple months, some cussing and hard-ass attitude means you ain't a teenager. You've still got your goddamn baby hairs, Cassandra.'

He's right and it makes her sick. All the things that she's done to shed that oppressive sheath of girlhood to become a woman. Woman: the word always seemed glossy and unattainable to Cassandra. Fuck if she didn't practice at whatever she thought it entailed: learning how to properly inhale, switching from tights to stay-ups, conditioning herself to like beer by forcing herself to order Blue Ribbons when she went out. It would also mean a whole new type of navigation in her relationships with men; the idea of sex now lingering behind every exchange. Sex. It's what has practically defined her life since she went through puberty. Who to do it with, who not to, how to use it, how to make that biker think you want him without ending with your head bashed against the stage when he realises you don't. Cassandra has learnt to keep her desire and attraction to a minimum. Like with dope dealers, the dumbest shit you can do is get addicted to what you sell. Then Crash came along and fucked up her whole plan. In and out of stripping, pay for rent and save up for student debt, get away from dad and stay alive and sane. But no, not since that night that he came in that year ago, hair starting to turn from that golden to the caramel brown that it is now and cut surprisingly short for a biker. He'd sat with Ginger and a few other of the Iron Crusaders, nursing a Lone Star with a look. far more terrifying than the feral cruelty behind his companions' eyes: ice cold impassivity. A man with nothing to lose has a degree of violence to him allowed by his complete detachment to anything and anyone. Cassandra knew this and yet still locked eyes with him every time she saw him watching her on stage. Never a lap dance, though. She'd tried once and his disgust had made her feel smaller than any of the copious insults dolled out by her father,

'No.' Crash had said firmly, pushing her off with a surprising gentleness.

'It's fine, y'know. It's my job,' Cassandra had tried to reassure him, sitting next to him. He'd turned to look at her and had asked,

'How old are you?'

That had made her arch her eyebrow,

'19. Why? You like 'em older?'

To a less observant person, Rust's jaw muscle twitching would've gone unnoticed,

'Yeah, I do,' he'd said, shoving a twenty dollar bill in her panties' waistband, Cassandra noticing how he'd chosen to place it on her hipbone, 'Clear off, baby.'

'Want me to send over Rose? Red-head, real pretty.'

As Cassandra had said this, a burly Iron Crusader had called her name from across the club, making her turn,

'Yeah, baby?'

'Come bring that pretty, lil' ass over to daddy's lap,' the man had slurred, making Cassandra wince and start to head in his direction. That was until Rust had grabbed her wrist, halting her,

'Easy, Thunder,' he had called over to his fellow Crusader, 'I haven't decided whether to take this one for a spin, yet. She any good?'

'The best, Crash,' Thunder had cackled back, raising his beer in salute to him. With that, Crash had pulled her down into the booth next to him, lighting and a cigarette with complete disregard towards a confused Cassandra perched next to him. When she'd tried to straddle him again, he'd pushed her off,

'Listen, I have a quota to make so do you want a fucking lap dance or not?' She had huffed with a slight agitation in her voice that she hadn't yet learned how to conceal. In those days, she was hungry for it: money, sex, attention, security. Too hungry to learn how to manage it when it spilled over and tinged her tone in desperation.

'What's your quota?' Rust had asked through an exhale of smoke, seemingly uninterested.

'Around 50 dollars, at least.'

He'd arched his eyebrow at her,

'You tryin' to do one over me?'

'I'm desperate, not stupid. If I was trying to scam someone, I'd have picked some liquored up truck driver who hasn't gotten some since Missouri,' Cassandra had stated dryly, making Rust's lip quirk up momentarily.

'50 dollars, at least, by the end of your shift, huh?' he'd drawled, cigarette pinched between his fingers.

'Yeah.'

'What time's your shift end?'

'About another hour.'

'How much money are you on?'

'Straight floor work? About 40.'

Rust had reached into his back pocket and pulled out a tattered, leather wallet before putting down 5 ten dollar bills,

'50 but you stick with me until you're done.'

Cassandra had eyed the bills with suspicion and Rust dryly stated,

'Don't be an idiot, Cassandra. Take the fuckin' money and just sit your ass down.'

'You know my name?'

He had jerked his head towards a huddle of Iron Crusaders in another booth,

'You're popular.'

'Oh.' she'd nodded, slightly deflated by the implications. Rust had picked up on the tinge of shame in her eyes,

'Ain't no shame in it, baby.'

'You don't have to be nice about it.'

'I ain't nice.'

Cassandra had regarded him for a moment longer, thrown off by his apparent self-discipline,

'So, you're stuck with me for an hour. What do you wanna do?' she'd asked, tucking her knees onto the booth. Rust had barely spared her a sidelong glance,

'What're you drinking?'

'Jack and coke.'

He'd scoffed at that,

'You're nineteen.'

'And you're a biker running meth so who's breaking the law more, here?'

That had gotten a proper look from Rust, almost turning his head in her direction before handing his glass,

'How's straight whiskey?'

Cassandra had taken the glass from him and taken a straight gulp while being watched by an impassive Rust,

'What's your name, baby?' she asked in a saccharine tone, a slight tilt to her head.

'Drop the act.'

'I don't have a fucking act. This is how I talk.'

Rust had hummed at that,

'Crash.'

'Crash, huh?'

'Yeah. Crash,' Rust had replied, fixing her with a cold stare. Cassandra had nodded, slightly intimated,

'Ok, Crash.'

A schoolgirl crush had morphed into a worrying codependency that had left her strewn on his mattress, in a semi-catatonic state. Worst part is: Cassandra cannot bring herself to hate him. The sickest part of her is even hoping that he kind of finds her attractive like this: at her rawest, most ugly state. She doesn't know how much longer she can keep the jig up; this near constant state of self surveillance is weighing on her heavily and this lacquer of practiced indifference is eroding. Fast. Even now, as Crash places a glass of water, a carton of Marlboro Golds and a bag of those plasticky powdered donuts by the mattress, she can feel her resolve faltering; trying to ignore the small disappointment that he cares so little to concede her her cigarettes. The grit in her wants to right-hook him hard and run away from this place, but she can't and she won't. She doesn't have anywhere left to run and the humiliation of having to ask to crash with one of her fancy college friends gnaws at her. She notices him staring at her, crouched by the mattress. Burying her head in the pillow, she mumbles,

'Stop it. Please stop it cause, I swear to god, that I'll cry if you don't.'

'Cry, then,' Rust mutters, 'Ain't no shame in it.'

'Yes, there is. A lot. Crash, I'm-I'm a whore,' Cassandra chokes out in a sob.

'Hey-Hey, you never fuckin' say that ever again. You hear?' Rust says, voice raising slightly as he clasps her jaw with his hand, 'What happened last night was me, all me. You were high out of your fuckin' mind and, even if you weren't, you couldn't had said no if you wanted to.'

'But I liked it.'

Rust ignores the heat that pools in his gut at those words,

'That don't make no fuckin' difference.'

Cassandra brings her hands to her face, trying to conceal her tear streaked cheeks. A futile endeavour, given the heaves of her sobs,

'It ain't even that. I've been a stripper since I was eighteen. Eighteen, Crash. What the actual fuck is wrong with me?!'

'You were a desperate, little girl with a daddy who beat her and no other choice in this cesspit of a fuckin' world other than to strip for men like me.'

'Not for men like yo-'

'Yes, Cassandra. For men like me. Stop making fuckin' excuses, you're smarter than that,' Rust borderline snarls, her chin still grasped in his hand as he shakes it slightly, emphasising his words.

Cassandra stares at him for a moment before she gives Rust the type of embrace that she hasn't given since she ran up to the police officer who pulled up, just as her dad burst out of the house with the jagged end of a bottle of malt liquor in hand. She buries her nose between the seam of his leather jacket and his faded t-shirt, inhaling deeply: sweat, Camels, beer, faint scent of deodorant. She moves her head up to thank him in the only way she knows how to and starts to kiss his neck. Rust gently grasps her shoulders to pull her away,

'Not now, baby. Tomorrow but not today.'

'I can-'

'You ain't in the right state of mind. I can see it. You ain't my Cass, right now. You're that scared little girl tryin' to reconcile the fact that her daddy has hit her for the first time and that it ain't gonna be the last.'

Cassandra flinches at that,

'Why the fuck would you bring that up?'

'To remind you that you should be scared.'

'Of you?'

'Of any man.'

Cassandra eyes him narrowly as he stands up,

'You heading out?'

'I'll be back, tonight.'

'Can you hand me a book?'

'Which one?'

'Something relatively chill.'

Rust goes to his stack against the wall, runs his hand down and stops at a book before lifting up the ones above it and slotting it out. He hands it to her,

'First bit of philosophy I ever read. I think most of what he preaches is placid bullshit but it ain't too intense a read.'

Cassandra takes The Stranger from Rust's hand and briefly flicks through the pages before landing at the first one. She squints to read some pen scrawl,

Houston, 1987,

For all those sleepless nights and to kickstart those philosophy courses that you've been mentioning,

From Claire to Rust

Cassandra's head snaps up, brow furrowing. She recognises one name, not the other. Her voice is gelid as she ask,

'Who the hell is Rust?'

[fieldandfountain]

Mercy

Criston Cole x Reader, ongoing, 1200 word chapter

You are a lady of the far North. Criston Cole deserts his post on the Night’s Watch, and stumbles injured onto your land. You have every obligation to hand him over to justice, but can you really send him to his death?

Takes place several years after episode 10, when the war is coming to a close.

romance, hurt/comfort

You know you were a dutiful wife.

But your husband is gone now, fled to Cregan Stark’s war. After two years, you wonder if he will ever return but you find yourself enjoying your solitary life. You live in a small keep, alone but for your servants and the occasional village girl who visits you for a talk.

Your house was never a great one, and you married a landed knight, a vassal of House Umber, who in turn were sworn to the Starks. You do more work than the great lords ever will, helping with the birthing of lambs, the shearing and the washing of the wool. You spend long hours at your loom, working until the sun sets. You are proud of the work you do, the fine fibers you make, the beautiful woolen cloth you display in your chambers and sell at the market. You love the turn of the sunlight over the snow and the throaty cries of the sheep, though you are lonely, and have been since your wedding day.

The greatest point of interest from the outside world is the passing of men on their way to the Night’s Watch. They come in weary bands, already in their blacks to show that they take no part in the war between Queen Rhaenyra and her half-brother Aegon.

As a northerner, you have great respect for the watch. You know the wildlings will attack your lands first, and you have been lucky to merely lose a few sheep to passing scavengers. It isn’t unknown for a woman to be stolen: it is a point of pride among them to take a girl in her sleep. The men of the Night’s Watch keep you safe from such threats, with their courage and sacrifice.

But still your heart aches for the wretches who stumble along the road. They stare at you hungrily as you sell your wool. Perhaps you are the last woman they will ever see as free men. Volunteers do exist, but they are the minority. Most do not go willingly, but are sent as punishment. There are those who deserve it, murderers and rapers, but it was their lords who decided what crimes were worthy of the wall. Some might be sent for merely raising their hand to a nobleman, or stealing a wheel of cheese. Others are sent on a lie.

And you are aware that many are there merely for being on the wrong side of the war. The Dance of the Dragons, as they call it, has split the Seven Kingdoms down the middle. You have never seen a dragon and you hope you never will.

xxxx

It is nearing sundown, and you have returned from the barn with your lantern, your loyal sheepdog Briar by your side. One of your ewes is pregnant and you feared she would deliver tonight, but all is well. As your feet crunch over the ice you hear a low cry. A sheep must have escaped its pen, and your heart lurches as you see a wash of blood over the snow.

Wolves.

Briar whines, her nose sniffing briskly, and you do not know what madness propels you forward. You creep down the trail of blood toward the thicket, where the falling sun casts shades of vermillion and gold over the pines. You hear panting, and eyes like embers peer at you from shadows of the spruce trees.

“Lady,” calls a voice.

The man is clutching his leg. At first you think he is one of your shepherds, though you cannot decipher which. He does not look like Watt or Alek or Lenn from this distance. You hurry over, pulling off your cloak to wrap around the wounded man but as you near him you panic.

Black.

He is dressed in black. He is sworn to the Night’s Watch and it is a crime punishable by death to leave his post. You have every obligation to ride to the village, to raise the hue and cry, and have him arrested. That is the duty of a true northerner, especially one so entirely dependent on the protection of the Watch. But you see the deep gash in his leg through the tattered breeches, the blood running freely through deep punctures. He has been caught in a bear trap.

“Mercy,” he cries and your heart fails you.

You can turn him in tomorrow. He can’t go anywhere. You set to work, taking a knife from your belt and ripping up your underskirts to form a bandage. Briar darts about him, alternately barking and sniffing. Occasionally you steal a peek at his face.

He is disturbingly beautiful.

You’ve never seen a Dornishman so close, and the rich hue of his skin is a wonder to you, even in the pallor of his agony. His brown eyes speak an eternity, and his parted lips are as though chiseled in stone. Girls would sometimes giggle about the lust of Dornishmen, but he does not appear particularly lustful to you. It irritates you that your heart is beating faster for a deserter, and a wounded one at that, and you steel yourself and continue your work.  

“Mercy,” he whispers again, and he collapses into the snow. His brow is burning to the touch. You must get him warm, get him inside, but you are unsure how.

“Your leg is bandaged, but you must help me. I cannot carry you.” He grunts in understanding. Slowly, you get him to his good leg, but the weight of him is almost unsupportable as you push through the wooded glade.

If anyone saw you, you would be ruined. You are already committing treason for childish pity. Your husband has often chided you for acts of charity or mercy, and you can feel his rage.

He is not here, you remind yourself. You are lady of this keep in his absence.

The servants have departed for the night, thank the Gods, but you they might arrive any time at the manor. You must take him to the bakehouse. It will not be used for several days at least, and you can start a fire without causing alarm.

Night has fallen by the time you have gathered bedding and a fire is crackling in the oven. He just manages to hold the broth you hand him, and drinks greedily. His gaze is bleary and desperate.

“I am (y/n),” you say. You want to tell him he is safe here, but you can’t. You will have to think, decide if you can truly betray the Night’s Watch.

“(Y/n),”says the Dornishman in a weak voice, and you start as he grips your hand. “You have saved me, and I owe you the truth, though I am sure to die for it. My name is Criston Cole.”

It takes you a moment to understand. Criston Cole. The Kingmaker, Commander of the Kingsguard, sworn enemy of Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen, who your husband is fighting for in the distant land. Sent to the wall for his treason, in an act of spectacular mercy.

And his life is in your hands.  

[ivaluelab1]

Do you keep walking past your jewelry box and wondering, is it finally time to sell your wedding rings? If so, that question is often preceded by, where do I go to sell my wedding rings?

[separatist-apologist]

I'm Going Out Tonight

When I walk in the room, I can still make the whole place shimmer

Summary: He rolled his neck and Elain paused, drinking him in. Even with his red hair plastered to his face, sweat soaking through his thin band t-shirt, Lucien Vanserra was the hottest man she’d ever seen.

And bass players were so her type.

“What did you say?”

He grinned, resting a broad hand over his muscular chest. “I asked if you had a man.”

Her mind flashed an image of Graysen. Too busy with work and the woman he was sleeping with on the side. She was there to pretend she didn’t know about that, wasn’t she? Did Graysen ever answer that question honestly, besides?

Holding up her drink, Elain ran her tongue suggestively over the straw. Lucien’s smile sharpened, those russet eyes darkening with obvious want.

“I don’t remember.”

Read on AO3

For as long as Elain Archeron could remember, she’d been making plans. Written on lists, tallied in her mind, Elain tried hard to leave nothing to chance. Born out of her chaotic home life, Elain craved the stability that came with knowing the future. She felt a sense of purpose, of control knowing where she’d be in fifty years.

Up until that exact moment, Elain could have laid out her entire life start to finish. Married to her longtime boyfriend Graysen, with two children. They’d have a modest home in a good school district—he’d keep working in finance, and she’d continue overseeing her bakery. Maybe, once she had her children, she’d sell it and stay home full-time. Elain had contingencies for both.

She knew exactly what daycare she’d put her kids in, should she decide to keep working.

What Elain couldn’t predict was Graysen. She thought she could. He was dependable. 

Reliable.

Fucking another woman in the bed they shared.

That last point was brutal. Elain had gone out of town for her youngest sister's wedding. Graysen had begged off, trapped in the office on some miserable project that had been keeping him late–forcing eighty hour weeks on him. She’d been nothing but sympathetic.

As it turned out, his project wasn’t so much a what as much as it was a who. A who with, by the looks of it, tacky taste in shoes and cheap lace bras. Elain had come home early, jealous that both of her sisters landed men that were willing to propose. Men who seemed silly and stupid with love. She wanted that, too.

Elain heard them before she ever saw them. Graysen, who was so fucking quiet in bed she could have heard a pin drop even when he was balls deep, was having sex with a screamer. 

“God, yes, just like that—!” Was the first thing Elain heard when she opened the front door of the apartment they shared. 

“You like that?” Graysen’s voice groaned in reply. She scoffed without thinking, embarrassed by how stilted he sounded.

The anger came second. Elain froze, eyes sliding around her immaculate living room. Two pairs of shoes were kicked off in opposite directions. Heels scuffed, clearly worn enough to rub away the knock off label on the bottom. A bra hung from the side of a chair, along with Gray’s suit jacket. 

Elain could follow the trail of clothes peeled off in passion down the hall. The bedroom door was flung open, giving her a front-row view of the beautiful blonde riding her fiance. She watched for a moment unblinkingly.

And then turned and walked out. 

“Why didn’t you confront him?” Arina Vanserra asked, pouring a glass of red wine in front of Elain. “Call him a bastard, throw his shit at him?”

Elain put her elbows on the table, resting her head in her hands. “I don’t know,” she admitted. “I wasn’t thinking.”

“Clearly,” the blonde retorted, leaning over the swirled marble counter with jewel-bright eyes. “But now you do know, and you can have a little revenge.”

She only sighed. “I don’t want revenge. I just want an explanation…and maybe to slap him.”

“And he gets away with it?” Arina demanded, pulling the elegant knot of blonde hair from the nape of her neck. 

“A slap is hardly getting away with it,” Elain protested.

“We both know you won’t slap him,” Arina insisted, shaking out the strands with a soft moan. Elain’s best friend worked as a curator at a museum, living some absurd sex in the cityesque fantasy, what with her wealthy husband who oversaw a slew of companies up and down the country. He still had time for Arina.

Elain would have bet all the money she didn’t have that Eris Vanserra would have saved Arina the time and cut off his own balls before he ever slept with another woman. He always seemed just a little afraid of her. 

“Look, hear me out. My brother-in-law is in a band. He’s got tons of hot friends. Put on something sexy and come out with me.”

“Is his music good?” Elain asked, already disinterested. 

“How should I know? The front man is hot, though. I’ve met Jurian and I’m pretty sure he’s still single.”

“Well I’m not,” Elain retorted without thinking. 

Arina arched an immaculate brow. 

“Not yet,” she amended.

“Don’t make me go alone. Eris is feeling guilty since their dad died and it turns out his youngest brother has a different dad. He’s doing all this family stuff, but his brothers are insane people,

Elain. You can’t even tell Lucien has another dad for how he acts. Just as stupid as Eris, but without any of Eris’s interest in money.”

“Maybe he’s smart,” Elain replied, glass to her lips.

“Very funny,” Arina said dryly. “Please? I’ll buy all our drinks.”

“I’ll go if Eris buys all our drinks,” Elain said, certain this was a terrible idea.

“We share a bank account, so that was always a given. Where something sexy—”

“I’m not sleeping with the band,” Elain informed Arina firmly. “I’m not sleeping with anyone until I figure out what to say to Graysen.”

Elain didn’t figure that out all week. By the time she got home, Graysen had cleaned up the apartment and himself. Elain didn’t dare ask if he’d cleaned the bed, and when he asked why she was stripping the sheets, she just shrugged. As if he questioned it at all. He was hunched over his phone all night, fingers flying. She wondered, in a moment of icy jealousy, if he was texting that other woman.

Making plans. They hadn’t set a wedding date. She laid awake that night wondering if he was planning to end things, or if this would just be her life. If he meant to marry her, but would always have someone else on the side. 

She wasn’t proud of herself when, at four am and unable to sleep, she went through his text messages. Elain sent them all to Arina, who was up that early for reasons Elain never wanted to know about.

Just dump him.

But she didn’t. Even with pages and pages of screenshots from a woman named Emily–several of which contained pictures of Graysen’s rather mediocre penis—Elain wished him well that morning before she went to work. 

And the next day.

And the next day.

And the next day. 

Until finally, Elain had to admit that maybe Arina had a point. Maybe she was angry. And maybe she did want just a little revenge. 

Graysen, who had barely noticed her all week, finally looked up from his terrible phone when she walked in the room. His brow furrowed at the sight of her in that strapless blue dress, so short there was no way for her to bend over without showing everyone what was–or wasn’t, to be more precise–beneath her dress.

“You look nice,” he commented, eyeing the tall shoes she wore. Shoes far too tall to ever wear on a date with him, given his complex around being five foot seven. Elain wasn’t trying to impress anyone, save for Arina who would never have spared Eris’s ego when a perfect pair of heels were in question. 

“Thanks,” she replied, tossing a long piece of her golden brown hair over her shoulder. “I’m going out tonight.”

“I guessed as much. Where?” he asked, rising from the couch. Elain almost asked if he wanted to know because he was jealous, or if he was trying to figure out if he had enough time to bring Emily over.

“All night. I’ll stay with Arina,” she added, feeling the slightest twinge of guilt. Why couldn’t she just be a little cruel? Rub it in his face, humiliate him? She almost turned around and rubbed all the make-up off her face. What was the point? He was back to staring at his phone. 

“Have fun,” he told her, not bothering to even pretend he’d miss her. It irritated her the entire way to the concert venue—more nightclub, than anything. Located in a dirtier part of town than

Elain was used to, she found she rather liked the atmosphere. The moment she walked in, all heads turned to look at her—nearly all with appreciation. Her shoes stuck to the dark floor, sticky with what she hoped was alcohol and nothing else. 

The room itself had the faintest smell of cigarette smoke clinging to the walls. She walked to the bar, hips swaying, as she drank in a packed room of men with tattoos holding cheap beer and women in tight jeans and tighter dresses. How many had come for Eris’s brother's band, and how many had come for a night of dancing only to realize it would be a night of loud music? Arina was in jeans and winged eyeliner. She grinned when she saw Elain, beckoning for Elain to join her at a high-top table just beside the bar. Eris was there, absurdly out of place in his black slacks and buttoned-up shirt. Even with the sleeves rolled to his elbows, Eris looked like a day trader who’d accidentally stumbled into the wrong bar. 

“You look insane,” Arina praised, twisting in her chair for the bartender's attention. She had it, though likely not for the reasons she wanted. Eris, too, glanced over at the dark-haired man looking at his wife with lurid appreciation.

“Thanks,” Elain said with a heavy sigh. The stage, at the far end of the room, was already set up though no one occupied it. She assumed the group of women loitering just at the front were familiar groupies, flanked by more men in shirts with the sleeves ripped off. Graysen would have laughed at all of them.

Graysen was probably sullying her sheets again.

A beer was put in front of her. Elain didn’t argue with it, though she wasn’t exactly a beer drinker. Next time she’d get her own, would put it on Eris’s tab. 

“Did you confront him?” Arina pressed, ignoring the way her husband was still staring the bartender down. 

Elain shook her head. “I don’t know what I’m waiting on.”

That drew Eris’s attention. She’d always liked him, though she’d never admit that out loud. He and Arina had been married by the time she met her friend—to hear Arina tell it, Eris took her on three dates and then just decided they’d be married. It would have been strange were it anyone else. Elain sometimes thought they’d just spawned from the ground together.

Eris’s mind worked like hers did. He liked plans, liked contingencies, and sure things. And when those amber eyes lighted on her, she knew that Eris understood exactly why Elain was so reluctant. 

“The future isn’t knowable,” he informed her. Arina narrowed her eyes.

“Who asked you?” she demanded. Eris only smiled, winking at her before he picked up his drink and took a sip. 

Elain had to resist the urge to rub her eyes. “I know. Just…I end things and then what?”

“And then you sleep with someone here.”

Eris snorted, looking around with exaggeration. “Yes, any one of these men would make a fine brother-in-law. What about him?”

Ignoring that Eris considered her a sister, or likely a sister to his wife, Elain and Arina both looked at the man in question.

“Elain could have him if she wanted him,” Arina declared with a sniff, though Eris had certainly chosen the most unwashed individual in the dim establishment. “Why would she, though?”

“You brought her here,” Eris replied reasonably. “I don’t think anyone here is her type…but it’s fun imagining what you thought would happen, all the same.”

Arina glared daggers. Elain took the opportunity, given a red-haired, curly woman had come out on stage to begin setting up. “Is your brother's band any good?”

Eris grimaced. “They’re certainly loud.”

It was easy enough to figure out which of the four people on that stage was Eris’s brother. The long, red hair tied off his face and a tight, thin black t-shirt that showed off his muscular, tattooed body were a dead giveaway. His skin was a golden brown that gleamed beneath the overhead lights and privately Elain thought he was much better looking than Eris. For one, he looked as if he spent more time laughing than making the people around him cry. She considered asking Eris how he’d gotten the trio of scars over one of his russet eyes before she thought better of it—she didn’t want them to think she thought anything about Lucien Vanserra at all. 

Not even when he picked up that red bass guitar. And certainly not when he offered a smile to the crowd, lighting up his truly beautiful face. It was a cruel sort of beauty, but overwhelming all the same.

“I’m gonna need another drink,” Elain said, sliding from her chair.

“You and me both,” Eris grumbled, trailing just behind. 

Lucien’s band was called Band of Exiles, and despite what Eris said, they were pretty good. The redhead sang, while a blonde worked the drum kit and Jurian, who was not half as handsome as Arina made him out to be, played guitar. Elain tried to pretend she wasn’t staring at Lucien’s broad hands fingering the thick strings of his bass, that she wasn’t wondering what they’d feel like touching her.

That was made all the more difficult when he happened to look over between songs. He was looking, at least at first, for his brother she assumed. Instead, he found her. Looking at his sweat slicked body with what she imagined was an embarrassing amount of interest. He’d smirked, jerking his head upwards as if to say caught you. 

Cocky like his brother. 

Elain ordered a third drink in a tall glass, reminding herself to take it slow. Standing at the bar, back to the band, Elain swore she could feel Lucien’s eyes burning against her back. She leaned over the wood and let the bartender flirt with her, even though his eyes kept sliding down her cleavage. Elain offered him a fake smile, laughing just a little too loud even when he told her that she had a moonstone aura, whatever the fuck that meant. 

She was delighted when she returned to her seat to find Lucien, still playing his guitar, looking a little less smug than before. It felt good, in a twisted way. Having his attention, when it was so clear the crowd at his feet was dying for it. Knowing he couldn’t have her, that she could wreck his night…all of it was intoxicating in a way the alcohol in her hand could only hope to be. 

Arina had gotten up to dance, which meant Elain had to, too. She hadn’t counted on that when she picked out her shoes. Still, that was at least fun. She forgot about Lucien, about Graysen, about the man behind her who tried to grope her ass and got an elbow to the gut for his trouble. When was the last time she’d had fun? 

The music ended around midnight, much to Eris’s delight. “Let me go congratulate my brother on pissing off our father, and then we can go home.”

“You’re so old Eris,” Arina called after his retreating back, a grin on her face all the same. “I’m getting old, too. My feet hurt.”

“God, same,” Elain agreed, grateful to sit. She watched Eris wade through over-eager women and clap his brother on the shoulder.

“You know,” Arina began, pressing her shoulder against Elains. “Lucien is single.”

“Shut up,” Elain said automatically.

But she’d been wondering. 

Right on cue, both Eris and Lucien turned to look at Elain, and she wondered if Eris had told his brother the same thing. Arina waved, earning an easy smile from Lucien. He waved in return, eyes back on Elain. 

“I won’t say anything if you don’t want to come home with me,” Arina told Elain, sliding from her chair. “Just saying.”

Leaving her alone, and at Lucien Vanserra’s mercy, Elain realized. She didn’t smile when approached, offering her a calloused hand.

“Hey.”

He hadn’t done any singing, which was a tragedy given how deep his voice was. Elain nearly melted at his feet. Holding her glass, she forced herself to be cool.

“Hi.”

“So you’re the Elain Archeron. I’ve heard a lot about you,” he told her, still standing though he could have taken a chair. Sweat dripped down his forehead, sliding over the thick, muscular column of his neck. It was fucked, how much she wanted to taste him. 

“All good things, I hope.”

He rolled his neck and Elain paused, drinking him in. Even with his red hair plastered to his face, sweat soaking through his thin band t-shirt, Lucien Vanserra was the hottest man she’d ever seen.

And bass players were so her type. 

“What did you say?”

He grinned, resting a broad hand over his muscular chest. “I asked if you had a man.”

Her mind flashed an image of Graysen. Too busy with work and the woman he was sleeping with on the side. She was there to pretend she didn’t know about that, wasn’t she? Did Graysen ever answer that question honestly, besides? 

Holding up her drink, Elain ran her tongue suggestively over the straw. Lucien’s smile sharpened, those russet eyes darkening with obvious want. 

“I don’t remember.”

He chuckled. “Maybe I could help with that.”

“Oh, I don’t think I could forget about you.”

“I’m counting on that,” he replied. “Give me fifteen?”

“And then what?”

He shrugged. “Let me take you back to my place and make you something to drink.”

He kept his gaze firmly on her face. Elain nodded. 

“Fine. But no promises.”

Lucien held both hands up in surrender. “If I’m a shitty mixologist, I’ll send you home in a cab, no questions asked.”

“I’ll hold you to it.”

Lucien’s smile never faltered. “Oh, I’ll bet you will.”

He left her at that table, all but swaggering back to the stage to put away equipment and let a group of women flirt with him. 

“His ego will be intolerable after this,” Eris grumbled, causing Elain to start. She hadn’t seen him standing beside her. “You couldn’t have rejected him? Humbled him a little?”

“The night is still young, Eris.”

Not so young that Graysen wasn’t awake. Elain stared at her phone long after Arina and Eris left. She felt a little like the groupies lingering, hoping to be chosen to go home with the band. 

Awake?

She’d sent that, foolishly. 

Angrily.

And she’d gotten a response.

What do you need?

Nothing. It was a cowardly move, sending him one of the screenshots she’d stolen from his phone with a kissing emoji.

More cowardly still to add, I’m not coming home. 

Still, it absolved her of the evening she was certain she was about to indulge in. Lucien returned, shaking off the women to make his way to her.

“My car is out front. Do you care if we stop for something to eat? I’m starving.”

“I never say no to food,” Elain assured him, trying to shake off some of her anxiety. Going home with a stranger, even if he was related to her best friend's husband, wasn’t part of any plan. In fact, Elain had never been with anyone but Graysen, and up until a week before, had been perfectly content with that.

Lucien seemed like he had experience. Like he might expect her to be a lot better at any number of things than she actually was. Her steps slowed when they reached his rather nice two door sports car, held open by him. 

“I can take you home,” he offered, catching the way her body shifted. Elain shook her head.

“Forgive me for being nervous.”

His smile was softer beneath the orange of the streetlamp. “I could forgive you for any number of things, I’m certain. Nerves, though, don’t require any forgiveness. I’m nervous too.”

“Shut up,” she replied, rolling her eyes.

He shut her into his car, jogging around the front before locking himself in with her. “You don’t believe me?”

“Absolutely not,” Elain retorted, ignoring the way her heart thumped at the thought. 

Lucien glanced over, pulling into the sparse traffic of the late night. “When we get home, remind me to put you in front of a mirror.”

“Stop it.”

He only chuckled. “Sure. But you know I’m right.”

Lucien didn’t comment on her appearance again, though he did put his hand on her bare knee while they waited in a drive thru line. Rubbing idle circles over her skin, he’d bought her a chicken sandwich and a milk shake, and hadn’t said a fucking word about if he thought she ought to be eating that.

Graysen never could help himself. 

Maybe Lucien didn’t care because he immediately shoved two cheeseburgers, one after another, into his mouth while he drove home, with a third in a greasy brown bag when they parked. He had a nice place–hardly a starving artist. As they took the elevator up, Lucien, still eating fries from the bag, said, “I have a day job.”

“Doing what?”

“Data analysis,” he told her with a grimace. “It pays the bills, though.”

Lucien? In a suit? Elain thought she might die at the thought. It prompted her to run a finger over the brightly colored tattoos on his arm. He glanced down. “With all these?”

He smiled. “No one cares as long as the work is flawless.”

Elain was certain everything about him was flawless, though she didn’t voice that out loud. Instead, she followed him into a glass-lined hall, all the way to the very end. Lucien slid his key into the lock and pushed it open with his shoulder. 

“Home for the night,” he teased, flipping on a light. 

His apartment was lovely and open—immaculate in a way she could appreciate. Faux brick walls and wide windows, coupled with exposed pipes made it seem much older than it was. His dark furniture and hanging plants made everything seem cozier and brighter. Elain liked it all immediately. 

He set his bag on a kitchen island, kicking off his shoes while she walked around the living room.

“It’s not much, but it's mine.”

“It’s wonderful,” she disagreed. That was enough to convince him to abandon the rest of his food in favor of coming toward her. Hands slid up her arms, brushing the strands of her hair off her neck. Elain shivered when his lips ghosted over her neck.

“I need to take a shower. Will you hang out for a few while I do that?” “Where?” she dared to ask. Elain could feel his smile against her skin.

“My bed, if you feel so inclined. Make yourself comfortable anywhere you like, though. I won’t be long.”

He released his hold on her, his eyes brutally dark with lust. Elain followed after him, reaching for his hand as they walked down the dark hall. Lucien laced his fingers with her own, thumb rubbing the back of her hand. 

His bedroom was just as inviting as the rest of his apartment, made more so by how rich the scent of him was. Elain wanted to bury her face in the ruby red bedding and inhale, wanted to rub it all over her until she could smell him long after he’d left.

Instead of acting like a cat in heat, Elain sat on the edge of the bed and removed her shoes.

Lucien watched, hand on the doorknob to the bathroom. “Keep going,” he said, eyes fixated on her legs.

“Aren’t you supposed to be showering?”

“I’m seconds from begging you to join me,” he admitted, his chest rising and falling rapidly. Elain had to pretend she wasn’t in danger of drowning in her own arousal.

“I might. Maybe you should get undressed, so I can make an informed decision.”

His shirt was over his head in a second flat. Elain’s heart pounded in her throat at the sight of his sculpted chest. He ran his hand over his flat stomach, that smug smirk back on his face. Elain’s eyes traveled over his muscular torso to the strip of copper hair that vanished into his pants. 

His movements were exaggerated, drawing out the moment between unfastening his pants and pushing them over his hips. She could see the prominent bulge in his dark boxer briefs–nothing mediocre about him, she supposed. 

Elain swallowed hard when his fingers hooked in the band of his underwear, and then they were gone, too. Lucien stood in all his naked, tattooed, sweaty glory. He needed a shower undeniably, and Elain thought she might scream if he walked away from her. 

“I’ll shower with you,” she whispered, rising to her feet. Without her heels, she was comically shorter than him. There was no way in hell sex was going to be possible standing up, and fuck if she didn’t want to try all the same. 

“Will you help me?” she asked, perfectly capable of unzipping her own dress. She’d zipped herself into it just fine hours before, determined not to let Graysen touch any part of her. Lucien nodded, and she swore his hands trembled as he swept her hair over her shoulder. 

“What am I going to find beneath this?” he asked, pulling the metal inch by inch down her spine.

“Nothing you won’t like,” she replied. That was a lie given Lucien very clearly didn’t like the strapless bra, if his insistent fingers pulling at the clasps were any indication.

He tossed it to the floor before he ever finished taking off her dress, revealing her breasts to his hungry gaze. 

“Just as I suspected,” he whispered when she stood before him naked. Elain didn’t dare move, though part of her wanted to reach for the cock jutting between his legs and feel it in her hands. Wanted to see how he’d react if she stroked him, if she got on her knees and took the thick, large length of him into her mouth—

“Perfect.” He interrupted her thoughts with his near mindless appreciation. 

“Don’t be silly,” Elain replied, a little embarrassed by his assessment. It was impossible not to compare him to Graysen, who had never once said anything half as nice. And she’d been prepared to marry him. 

Lucien shook his head as if he were trying to clear it from some fog. “I’m not. You…wow.”

She was in danger of crying. Elain nodded towards the darkened bathroom door, swallowing all the nerves fluttering through her.

“Are we going to shower or what?”

“We’ll try,” he agreed, fingers twitching without touching. He turned as if it pained him, the muscles in his back, his ass, his thighs, all flexing at the same time. Lucien was not the only one resisting the urge to touch. This was hell, she decided. Pure hell. 

Lucien flipped on the light and the water, holding his hand beneath the spray to check the temperature before gesturing for her to step inside. Elain swallowed, well aware she could not take back what happened next. It was all well and good to let him bring her home, to let him buy her food, and hell, even look at her naked. But this was something. Something real, something rebellious, even. 

It was closing the door on meticulously made plans and a future she had wanted so badly, she couldn’t leave Graysen even in the wake of his infidelity. Some small part of her balked, demanding she go home and fix things with Graysen.

A louder part screamed to get under the water. Elain reached for the glass door and did exactly that, and as the steam curled around her body and warm droplets slashed over her face, Elain decided this could be a new plan. A blank slate. She could have this night with Lucien, and in the morning she could reform her life without Graysen.

Lucien was just behind, closing them in the shower. She could feel his erection pressed against the curve of her ass, his hands dancing up her spine.

“Tell me you don’t have a man,” he whispered, kissing her shoulder blade.

“What if I did?” she questioned, arching her neck so he could have better access. 

“I might cry,” he said, tongue liking the length of her throat. “I might beg you to reconsider.”

His teeth tugged at her ear lobe, drawing a soft gasp from her lips. 

“And if I don’t want to reconsider?”

Lucien’s hand slid against her stomach, pulling her back against his chest.

“Then I might drive to his place and tell him how well I fucked you…and depending on his reaction, fight him in the parking lot.”

She burst out laughing. “I might like to see that.”

He went still. “So you do have a man?”

“I don’t,” she assured him, surprised by how good it felt to admit that. The only guilt Elain felt was how soon she’d ended things. She turned and wondered the wisdom in admitting to him she’d ended things an hour before. He might change his mind.

Lucien sending her home, hurt and disappointed, meant she could try again in a few months. Not telling him and wrecking whatever happened in the morning seemed far worse. Elain calculated quickly before reaching for the base of his cock to squeeze. Lucien gasped.

“I broke up with him tonight,” she told Lucien, drenched beneath the steady spray of water. Lucien blinked. “He’d been sleeping with another woman and I was waiting for the right moment to end things.”

“And that was tonight?” he managed.

“I wanted a little revenge,” she admitted. “Arina was right—it would have felt good to pay him back. But then I saw you and…”

She stoked again, confident Lucien wasn’t going to stop her.

“And?” he rasped.

“I wanted you more.”

“Oh thank God,” he breathed, yanking her slick body against his own. There was no space between them when his mouth slanted against her own, rubbing every golden inch of his body against her own. Elain scrabbled for him, digging her nails into his tattooed shoulders to keep from falling to the floor.

He tasted like old alcohol and somehow, sweat combined with something distinctly masculine. She liked it, was immediately addicted to the softness of his lips and the way his tongue slid over her own. Elain could have kissed him forever just like that–his tongue tasting her, his cock pressed against her hip. Her hands twined around his neck, fingers tugging the ponytail from its holder until it cascaded over his shoulders. 

She had to stand on her tiptoes to reach him, a fact he was blissfully unaware of until he turned her, a careful maneuver even if they weren’t in a small, wet glass box. Elain gasped, nearly tumbling to the ground.

“Sorry,” he gasped, sliding his hand beneath her ass and lifting her. He made it look easy, which only aroused Elain more. She wrapped her legs around his hips tightly, back against the cold tile. The angle was perfect, though probably not sustainable long-term. She had no intention of having sex with him in the shower, though she couldn’t pretend the wet rub of his body wasn’t absurdly erotic. 

“Lucien,” she panted, arching her neck under his hot mouth. “Lucien, I—” she yelped when the spray of water hit her body, the nozzle held by him. When had he pulled it off? How had he managed such coordination when she was half sliding down his body? 

“Sit,” he ordered, gesturing towards the little tile bench at the very end of his shower. “I have to clean myself. Hold this.”

“Lucien–”

He pressed the metal into her hand, closing her fingers around the nozzle. “Spread your legs,” he said, stepping back into the waterless shower to watch. “Show me what you like.” Insecurity flooded through her for a moment—Elain nearly gave him back the shower head. She hesitated when he wrapped a hand around his straining cock and pumped himself in encouragement. 

They were having fun.

Going slow.

She wasn’t used to someone who wanted to prolong things. Wanted to draw it out. She wanted to be the kind of woman who did this–who could just have fun. Lucien released his cock, a half smile on his face when he realized she wasn’t going to play along. He took half a step towards her, earning a spray of water to his face for his trouble.

“Wash yourself off, Lucien,” she ordered, pleased when that sultry grin returned. “Nice and slow.”

He reached for a bottle of body soap in the caddy behind him. Elain almost forgot what she was supposed to be doing with the shower head when he ran his hands over his slick chest, creating suds over his skin. Lucien groaned the moment she turned the shower nozzle on herself. Elain intentionally avoided her clit, though the vibration of the pounding through her. 

“I’m starting to think you’re a daydream,” he told her breathlessly. 

“Come see for yourself.”

Lucien did, but only to take that nozzle from her. Elain enjoyed the view—Lucien was the hottest man she’d ever seen, especially when his muscular body was dripping water. Elain kept her thighs parted, running her fingers up and down without ever touching her pussy, eyes locked on his face. She almost screamed with delight when he turned off the water, his hair untouched, which was just as well. Lucien beckoned for her, so absurdly hot she almost died.

“You think you’re hot shit, huh?” she whispered when he snaked an arm around her waist. 

“I do right now,” he agreed, hauling her up against the marble sink edge. “Most nights I come home alone and jerk myself to the thought of someone half as gorgeous. And now you’re here…” he sank to his knees, spreading her legs wide against the counter ledge. “And you’re wet…”

“You do not go home alone,” Elain panted, squirming when she felt his breath against her skin. “I saw the groupies.”

“Cut me some slack,” Lucien teased, nipping at her inner thigh. “I don’t bring home everything with a pulse.”

His mouth inched higher and higher, tongue teasing and dancing over her body until Elain was close to plunging her fingers into his hair and shoving his face against her. Graysen hadn’t gone down on her since before they moved in together—said it wasn’t his thing. Elain had gone along with it, though she missed being touched this way. 

She didn’t even have to ask. 

“I would,” Elain lied, bracing her foot against his broad shoulder.

“Is that all I am to you? A big cock and a willing mouth?”

“Shut up, Lucien.”

He looked up and the sight so indecent, so erotic that Elain shivered. “Make me,” he whispered.

She hooked her legs around his neck and pulled him closer. Lucien groaned, his tongue sliding up the center of her before she’d fully pressed him into her body. Tugging at his hair, Elain leaned back until her shoulders were pressed into his mirror. 

“Is this what you wanted?” she asked, unsure what gave her the courage. Shut up and enjoy it.

“Yes,” he managed, sliding two of his fingers into her. Lucien’s breathing was ragged and wrecked, his pupils blown out. “Up on that stage, it was all I could think about.”

“Liar,” she tried, but Lucien’s lips were back on her pussy, sucking at her clit to shut her up. There was certainly merit to his claims, given the enthusiastic way he was eating her. Lucien’s fingers pumped out of her, his other hand holding her tight against him until there was no conceivable way he was breathing. Elain was on fire. Arousal skittered over her skin as her release gathered along her spine. 

“Lucien,” she panted, trying so hard to slow herself down. It only excited him, prompting him to lick and suck faster. “Lucien, I’m goin—”

The rest of her sentence was a mangled scream everyone in his building likely heard. She couldn’t stop her bucking hips, rolling over his face as wave after wave of pleasure washed through. Golden spots of light blinded her, leaving her tethered by her iron grip in his hair.

Lucien had her in his arms, limbs flailing, in a heartbeat. 

“Fuck me, I want to see that again,” he said, kissing her roughly. The taste of her own pussy in her mouth made Elain feel electric—wild and new all at once. She barely noticed when he dropped her to the bed, his body pressing her into the blanket just beneath. Lucien was painfully hard, the head of his cock rubbing her inner thigh with near mindless need. He leaned over her, reaching into a side table for what she realized in retrospect was a condom. Elain had forgotten about that right up until Lucien was rolling it over his erection. He managed to make even that look sexy, though it could have been the out-of-control lust burning through her. 

“I hope you weren’t planning on going home tonight,” Lucien whispered, spreading her so wide her hips ached. He rubbed his thumb over her still quivering clit, smiling when it jumped. 

“Big talk,” she taunted breathlessly.

“If I come fast, I’ll just fuck you again,” he retorted breathlessly. Cock in hand, Lucien rubbed it up and down her slick pussy as if acclimating himself to it. Elain lifted her hips in invitation, urging him to just take what he wanted. All the teasing was intolerable when he’d built her up as hot and hard as he had.

Gripping her knees against his chest, Lucien slid in, and in, and in. Elain could barely breathe, her body balking at the stretch it took to accommodate him. Lucien threw his head back, eyes rolling into his skull. 

“I hope you don’t have plans for the rest of your life,” he whispered, pulling himself out a few, slow inches. She might have laughed had that next thrust into her not felt so exquisite. Elain gripped his thighs, digging her nails into his skin with each new push of his cock. Lucien whispered soft obscenities, prayers to gods she was certain no longer existed. 

Elain pushed at his chest, laying him back against the bed before straddling his waist. “This is better,” she whispered, needing the changed angle if she wanted to get off again—and Elain desperately wanted to come around his cock. 

“Fuck, yes, Elain use me,” he whispered, gripping her hips as she sank back onto him. She rolled her hips and the pair exhaled in time. Elain hadn’t realized it was possible for sex to feel like this. Elain was filled, was drowning in pleasure so warm and sweet she hoped she never surfaced. 

Digging her nails into his chest, Elain asked, “Tell me you like this.”

“I love this,” Lucien replied quickly, arching his hips to meet her. “Don’t stop—please don’t stop.”

As if she could. Elain, who barely came once without the aid of a vibrating toy, was in danger of coming twice in the span of half an hour. Had she once thought she was hard to please? Lucien seemed to find getting her off easy. 

He barely seemed like he was paying attention to what he was doing at all, if his blown-out eyes and his head thrown back. Elain hadn’t realized men arched their backs at all—or that they liked being fucked like this. Not hard and fast, with punishing strokes, but with the rhythmic, steady roll of her hips while she ground herself against him. The copper thatch of hair trailing over his stomach was slick with her arousal, gleaming in the dim light from the nightstand lamp. 

“Your pussy is so fucking tight,” he praised, fingertips all but surely leaving bruises imprinted in her skin. “You’re my pretty fucking girl, aren’t you?”

A rush of heat flooded between her legs. Elain whined in agreement. Was she pathetic for wanting someone to say something nice about her? 

“My good girl comes on my cock, doesn’t she?” Lucien continued, clenching his jaw as if he, too, were fighting the need to release himself. “She makes a mess of me.” His words were all talk—he was panting, chest heaving. He was going to come and Elain was desperate to watch him unravel.

“You come for me,” she whispered, trying out this new persona. Polished, glittering Elain–not sad, complacent Elain. The Elain who climbed into a strange mans shower and fucked him senseless. 

“Elain,” Lucien whined. She was so punishingly close. One more, one more, one more, she swore, nails dug so hard into his chest she might have drawn blood. “Elain, please, I—”She came as he shot upwards, burying his cock in her so deep she saw stars. 

“Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck,” Lucien moaned, his own release going on seemingly forever. He reached for her, holding her tight against his still slick chest. “Holy shit, baby, that…fuck.”

Burying her face in the crook of his neck, Elain nodded. “I know.”

“Give me ten minutes,” he panted, sliding her off his body carefully. Elain crawled up the bed and buried herself in the sheets that carried his distinct, masculine scent while Lucien disposed of his condom. 

“What are you doing tomorrow?” he asked when he padded back into the room.

“Aren’t you supposed to wait three days so you don’t seem desperate?”

“Oh, I am exceedingly desperate,” Lucien assured her. He slid beneath the blankets beside her, pulling her into his chest. “I thought you knew that.

“I was giving you an out,” she teased, poking him in the stomach.

“What are you doing tomorrow?” he asked again, softer this time. “Let me buy you breakfast. And lunch. Dinner, too.”

He brushed his fingers over her jaw, tilting her face upwards for a kiss. 

“Are you asking me on a date?”

“Yeah,” he breathed. “Say yes.”

“What if I don’t?”

“I’ll fuck the yes into you,” he promised, shifting until half his body was pinned against hers again. 

“Aren’t you tired?”

Lucien pressed a kiss to her forehead. “Of you? Never.”

[topguncortez]

I want to know what Jake and Athena would have gotten up to on their wedding night in an alternate universe where they aren’t dead.

ahah who said they were dead??? anyway

Rafael went all out not wasting any expenses when it came to the reception for Jake & Athena. He had hired the best chefs from around the world to come in and make the meals, imported in the best wine from France, a band to play music while they ate. Athena would change out of her wedding dress, into something that was much more suitable to walk around and showboat her new found title to some of the highest ranking mafia men in the world. Jake would celebrate his wedding, and his new found alliance with the Santiago family. He also uses their wedding night as a chance to try and sell his guns and drugs to other mobsters, sharing the best Cuban cigars and Scottish whiskey with them.

After the reception, Jake planned on taking Athena to a private island off the coast of Greece. They would first stop in Italy, so Athena could show Jake her mother's grave and the vineyard she used to run around in as a child. Then they would jet to Athens, spend the night there before traveling by boat to the island that Rafael had gifted them.

It would be two weeks, just the two of them, the only communication being done between his brothers and the guards that watched over the island. Jake didn't want to be bothered while he had his wife to himself. He knew that the moment they got back to the States, it would be full steam ahead into business as the Seresin and Santiago houses are now fully joined.

And in all honesty. . . I wouldn't be surprised if a Seresin heir was conceived during those two weeks. . .

but all that is a dream cause they are dead.

or are they. . .

[amarantine-amirite]

No Hypotheses

It all started when I got distracted sneaking out of the house.

I was on the bus and I looked out the window to see a sign outside Costco that read: WARNING - unattended bags will be taken into parking lot and detonated. Persons will be reported to law enforcement should detonation of unattended belongings result in loss of life or damage to property. I missed my stop because I couldn't stop giggling at the sign.

This is not my first time getting lost on the bus. I know better than to wait around at the bus stop if the next bus isn't gonna arrive within the next five minutes. I know to keep an eye on my watch. I know to check schedules. I know not to go too far away from the bus stop.

The next bus wouldn't pull in for another 45 minutes. The stop was right in front of this shop in Chinatown. I stuck my head in the door and discovered that the shop sells cursed stuff. They have a doll that trashes your other toys if you don't play with it, some jewelry that makes misfortune happen to you, and brandy that makes you have nightmares if you're mean to people.

I looked toward the back of the store and saw a curtain. The sign next to it read: Lethal goods - No children under the age of 18 past this point.

The clerk took one look at me and rolled her eyes. "If you're looking for gremlins, we don't sell them. Yes, even though we were featured in the movie Gremlins, we don't sell gremlins," she said, hoping she wouldn't have to deal with yet another dumb teenager who thinks movies are real. "That was a movie."

"Well, good to know, but that's not why I'm here." I chucked, "I have a bunch of people on my shit list, and I need something to seriously teach them a lesson." I noticed the clerk's name tag read: MaryBeth.

MaryBeth seemed intrigued. She pulled out a set of silver cufflinks with blue enamel studs. "Well, we have these cufflinks," she said, "These will guarantee every pigeon in town will use you for target practice."

My eyes widened. "That'd be perfect for Virginia," I know you don't get cufflinks for a girl, but she can pull it off. Besides, Virginia seriously pissed me off.

At the end of last year, she approached me, demanding that I share my swimming goggles. I clutched them to my chest, visibly overwhelmed, and told her to back off. A teacher overheard the commotion, stepped in, and insisted I give her the swimming goggles. The teacher said, "She lost hers and just wanted to borrow them to find hers."

I gave Virginia the goggles, but I never got them back. I didn't find out she stole them until I spotted her using my goggles the following day. She pretended that she lost mine and bought new ones. She had at least three different stories of how that happened, none of which were believable. In the end, I had to buy new ones.

I felt my phone vibrate. I saw a text from Dad. "Hey, are you at that weird store in Chinatown that sells cursed stuff?" he asked.

It surprised me that Dad heard of this place. "Um, yes," I texted back. I couldn't figure out why he didn't demand I leave.

He replied instantaneously. "Can you see if they have any cursed wedding bands for men that look like this? We need it for your sister's wedding". Next to the message was an image of a man's wedding band that looked like two gilded blades of grass.

I recognized the design. My sister Mairead was getting married because her boyfriend Rand would die in exactly three months. I helped her purchase rings for both her and her fiance.

Our parents thought it was stupid of her to marry Rand when he was going to die in three months. "It's like buying a Ferrari that you're only going to drive once," they'd tell her. She never listened. She was in love with this guy.

They tried to split them up. They tried. Nothing worked. All they could do now was do something to stop the wedding.

I purchased the cufflinks and left. On the bus ride home, Dad texted me again, asking for the phone number of the store that sold cursed items. He told me that if I gave him the number, both he and Mom would look the other way at me sneaking out of the house. I gave him the number, which turned out to be a stupid stupid decision.

The wedding went ahead as planned. Mairead walked down the aisle to the song "Foolish Games" by Jewel. I have no idea why she picked that song because that is totally not a wedding song.

I thought they had laid off and just let her marry the guy. Their arguments never made sense and seemed cold-hearted. I hoped they had accepted that no wedding is a waste of money if you're marrying the person you love.

That is, of course, until after Rand put his ring on. Somebody said under his breath, "But all of them have been deceived, for another ring was made."

At first, everybody thought it was some joker in a hobbit costume who thought it would be funny to crash the wedding and quote Lord of the Rings. They looked around, but we failed to see any idiots cosplaying as hobbits. Then we thought it was probably a stupid kid who thought it would be funny to quote Lord of the Rings during the ceremony. That seemed more believable.

I felt myself die inside. I was the only one who knew the truth. That's no kid, I thought to myself, that is my dad.

After I gave Dad the phone number for the store that sold the cursed stuff, he called them and ordered that ring that would kill the person wearing it. The ring Rand had been given wasn't the one Mairead and I picked out. It was the dupe he bought at the cursed store. The curse on the ring would kill Rand within the hour. Once Rand put it on, he only had one hour left to live.

Neither Rand nor Mairead had any idea. They still said I do. The minister still pronounced them husband and wife. Rand still kissed his bride.

We took the bus to EndZone Sports Bar for the reception. The curse kicked in 30 minutes after the ceremony. The bus driver kicked everybody off the bus because Rand threw up. It took the bus driver 15 minutes to get Rand off the bus. In those 15 minutes, Rand couldn't move, couldn't even breathe, and eventually died.

The bus stopped halfway between the chapel and the restaurant. People gathered around as the driver changed the banner to read: call 911 emergency alert police. The people in the area had no idea what happened but suspected there was a story. The emergency was Rand dying on the bus.

Even though we were nowhere near the ocean, Rand's autopsy report listed his cause of death as cone shell poisoning. Nobody suspected any foul play.

[42lolita]

SOME BASIC KNOWLEDGE FOR LOLITA NEWBIES

If you are new to Lolita and want to step into this special street fashion, you need to get familiar with some basic knowledge before that. Otherwise you may do not know what other Lolitas are talking about, and can easily make jokes in Lolita fashion.

JSK: jumper skirt. Skirt with shoulder straps, sleeveless dress, vest dress all can be called JSK. Since it’s without sleeves, it usually matches with an inner blouse to wear. For some JSK design, Lolitas also only wear the JSK, without an inner blouse, which is beautiful as well. For example, the following “Dream in Cage” JSK from indie brand Alice Girl is a standard JSK design.

OP: short name for one-piece. It especially refers to a sleeved dress. There can be short sleeves OP or long sleeves OP. The following two long sleeves dresses are very good example of what an OP means.

SK: skirt. The normal match for a skirt is a top shirt. A SK may be designed with shoulder strap or without.

BNT: short name for bonnet. The western ancient women often wear decorative hats with large eaves. The bonnet is usually decorated with beautiful ribbons or flowers or other beautiful themes. It can make the full Lolita coordinate more beautiful.

KC: Katyusha. Headdress and headband that matches with a Lolita dress.

FULLSET: short name FS. It means the complete Lolita costume which usually include headdress (KC/ headband/ bonnet), wig, choker or necklace, shirt, dress, petticoat, tights, shoes, umbrella, bag, wrist cuffs, etc. The wig, umbrella, wrist cuffs and bags are not necessary for all Lolita coordinate, but the headdress, choker or necklace, JSK or OP, petticoat, tights, shoes are necessary for a Lolita fullset. Usually these components need to be the same or similar color scheme or have some designed elements echoes each other.

Choker: clavicle chain, short necklaces.

Ouji: a similar fashion with a more masculine appearance, usually worn by men, but some female Lolitas also wear Ouji, so some Ouji set has size for both female and male.

If you like Chinese Lolita indie brands, you may encounter some Chinese terms in Lolita community. The following ones are mostly mentioned among Chinese Lolitas.

小物: accessories. This usually includes accessories such as headwear, wrist cuffs, necklace, earrings, etc.

小萌款: popular style. The "little cute style" in the Lolita group is also the "pop style" in our ordinary wearing style. It refers to the large number of people who buy this Lolita dress, and the demand is very large, which is very popular with Lolitas.

再贩: Lolita dresses are usually pre-ordered. There are rarely ready to ship stocks and if miss the pre-order, you have to buy second hand ones. However, popular models (non limited) are very likely to restart the reservation after a period of time, which is called 再贩.

柄图: the print on the Lolita dress.

花嫁: bride. In Lolita, it refers to the wedding dress.

素鸡: shirring, some kind of elastic band which is used to adjust the size of the skirt, making it more comfortable wearing.

地球人: people who don't wear Lolita dresses. Because a long time ago, some people in the forum said Lolita dress is too exaggerated and called the girls who wear Lolita dress as "Martian". Lolitas began to use this word 地球人 to call ordinary people "earthman", which is now a neutral word.

山: imitations. Never buy imitations, never wear imitations to tea parties or formal parties.

穿山甲: people who wear fake Lolita dress.

知山穿山: Lolitas know it is fake Lolita dress and still buy and wear it. Never do this. When you buy a Lolita dress, please always be careful to avoid the fake ones. Plese only buy from the brands official store or trustworthy resellers, such as 42Lolita, as we promise that we only sell authentic Lolita dresses from the original designed indie brands.

切替: Japanese transliteration, similar to the meaning of splicing style, refers to the style with different patterns and different fabrics connected to form local discontinuous patterns. Generally, it refers to the Lolita dress with solid color on the upper body and printing on the lower body.

H价: Selling the secondhand Lolita dress at a higher price than the original price.

Thank you for reading this, and welcome to share your ideas with us on 42Lolita site. We do hope each girl can find and wear your desired Lolita dress, and hope Lolita dress can make you more confident and beautiful. 42Lolita provides both popular and newest released Lolita dresses from trustworthy Chinese indie brands. We also provide kinds of coupons from time to time that can be found on https://www.wethrift.com/42lolita , so please do not miss them. Let’s shop happily and save happily. 😊

Best regards,

42Lolita team

[kleenexwoman]

wait but do u have posts about ur fics so i know what to ask u about 🤲🏻💖

Master List now in progress!

STRANGER THINGS

Ego Death With a Side of Demonolatry

a lesser key for a smaller lock at https://archiveofourown.org/works/45536833

Eddie summons a demon, and it decides to possess Steve and take Eddie's virginity. I came back from a witch convention with COVID and had this as a series of fever dreams. Take that as you will.

now i can wake up and face the day at https://archiveofourown.org/works/49101538

Inspired by a post on @thorniest-rose about Steve being BPD. Mental institution abuse, conversion therapy, electroshock. This one's getting a longer second chapter soon.

Eddie Sells Billy Bad Tabs at https://archiveofourown.org/works/48920308

Inspired by a discussion on the Eddie Sluts Discord about Eddie having the chance to punch Billy. I suggested a more subtle method of revenge.

Everything That Rocks

Move to the City at https://archiveofourown.org/works/48409945

A little metal RPF. Eddie hooks up with Rob Halford (inspired by real events in Rob's life) and sells weed to Axl Rose (Indiana boy).

Gary Rock City at https://archiveofourown.org/works/48735946

A Reader/Eddie fic. Reader finds Eddie at a bar and talks about their favorite metal bands.

MARVEL

Writing About the Gods

the whisper of the wind and the words of the woods at https://archiveofourown.org/works/406564

Thor takes Steve to help him fix a drought in Middle America--by having sex with the goddess Columbia. I've been informed that Thor is actually with Columbia in the American Gods TV show, which tickles the hell out of me.

Permit Me to Tell You How to Wage War at https://archiveofourown.org/works/40130454

Speaking of American Gods... Justin Hammer makes a new friend in prison. This is me smooshing Sam Rockwell and Crispin Glover together like I like to do. Not gonna tell you much else cause NOT FINISHED YET.

Five Times Loki Flirted With Royalty (And One Wedding) at https://archiveofourown.org/works/43872652

Loki said that he'd flirted with princes and princesses both. Join the fun and subscribe as the royalty and deities are slowly revealed.

on a high hill, his clear gaze at https://archiveofourown.org/works/44892385

my heart was not so hard as your arrow at https://archiveofourown.org/works/45244795

sweeter than ambrosia is your love returned at https://archiveofourown.org/works/45260953

An Eros/Loki teenaged love story I wrote for the Valentine's Day bingo at @marvelrarepairbingo. I thought Eros was cute as shit (I didn't know he was in a boy band and I apologize to my edgy middle school self, lol). Hail Eris Discordia, as always.

Writing About Being Jewish

The Angel and the Wise Man at https://archiveofourown.org/works/249466

This was an attempt to do an X-Men: First Class fic in the style of Isaac Bashevis Singer. Some asshole started arguing with me in the comments and made me lose my wind entirely. Fuck that guy.

the fruit of your hands, the breath of your being at https://archiveofourown.org/works/438561

Three chapters of suburban AU Cherik mpreg free verse. I turned the first one into a poem I read at my open mic and impressed a bunch of crustpunks with it.

When Orchards Burn Their Lamps of Fiery Gold at https://archiveofourown.org/works/42156090

Tony Stark goes to shul for the first time after he finds out his daughter Morgan is autistic, and talks with Magneto. This is a very personal work and Pepper is real shitty about autism in it for Story Reasons.

A Taste of Orange and Plum at https://archiveofourown.org/works/43590858

Magneto and Emma Frost compare holiday memories. I found out some FASCINATING shit about Nazi Christmas for this fic!

Bad Shit Happens to Steve and Bucky

Tarot Americaine at https://archiveofourown.org/works/35152768

First Steve runs across a magical mutant carnival somewhere in the Midwest on his USO tour--and becomes small again for a night--then he's co-starring with famed eternal beauty Emma Frost in his own series of low-budget action films. Then, eventually, he goes to a Hellfire Club party on Halloween and meets thinly veiled versions of real life people I want to rag on. NOT FINISHED YET.

a slice of life and cucumber at https://archiveofourown.org/works/36433486

I literally just gave Bucky a day I had. It's stuff that happened to me, but it's Bucky. And also I hurt my foot instead of my arm.

Every Breath That I Held For You at https://archiveofourown.org/works/40856901

My answer to what happens when Steve goes back in time to share that dance with Peggy. Past Tony/Steve, and Peggy is not portrayed kindly in this for Story Reasons. I also spend about half a chapter just making the characters watch a play that I really liked. NOT FINISHED YET.

Coffee in Paradise at https://archiveofourown.org/works/33429637

So I wanted to write a coffeeshop AU for Steve and Bucky that had intense longing, Sugar Daddy Tony Stark, a threesome where the guys pretend really hard not to have feelings for each other, and just a whole lot of angst and loving detail about stuff like sandwiches and interior decoration. And this is it. It's gonna be long and meandering. There's random sex dreams sprinkled in. And very powerful, magical things want Steve and Bucky to be as happy as possible. NOT FINISHED, ENDPOINT INDEFINITE

pizza in heaven at https://archiveofourown.org/works/35266066

A "The Good Place" fusion/crossover where Bucky is basically Eleanor and Tony is... well, he's still Tony. They're fake soulmates! Tahani is there running things and has Heelys. I attracted an infamous troll to this one.

The Sun is Also a Warrior at https://archiveofourown.org/works/43872903

Captain America but it's a 1940s urban fantasy universe where humans mix with magical folk pretty freely. Dracula is in it. NOT FINISHED YET.

so pricketh them nature in their courages at https://archiveofourown.org/works/39808719

Captain America if Steve and Bucky were Arthur and his most loyal knight. Peggy is Guinevere and once again not portrayed kindly for Story Reasons.

The Seventh Spring at https://archiveofourown.org/works/43591576

I tried to smoosh together Captain America (apex of corporate entertainment) with a couple of Ingmar Bergman movies (apex of thoughtful independent film). Will probably remain unfinished because I got on antidepressants that work and I can't write the grim shit I was gonna.

FAIRY TALES

Fairytales at https://archiveofourown.org/works/141004

Inspired by Sara Bareilles's "Fairytales" and the "Real Housewives of X County" shows my mom was watching all the time, this Yuletide Exchange original imagines popular princesses as modern women with their own TV shows.

The Legend of the Dancing Queene at https://archiveofourown.org/works/2803193

Inspired by ABBA's "Dancing Queen" and Christina Rossetti's "Goblin Market," this Yuletide Exchange poem tells the story of a girl cursed to dance for centuries by fairies (literal centuries, until the 1970s).

The Uses of Enchantment at https://archiveofourown.org/works/42710370

An "Enchanted" fanfic following Nancy Tremaine as she struggles to adjust to ruling her new kingdom. NOT FINISHED YET.