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lingerasthesmokeoncedid · 2 years ago

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You Taste Like Birthdays

A Ransom Drysdale x OC Fanfic

Ransom Drysdale's great love story - told in seven part(ie)s.

“You’re like a big parade through town. You leave such a mess, but you’re so fun." -Regina Spektor

Ransom Drysdale was always called a party boy. That’s what they said in the society papers. That’s what all the shameless gossips claimed.

And as far as he was concerned, he was a Party Boy. Just not in the way they meant it.

He was a Party Boy in the same way that Harlan was a family man – he had one, but he didn’t particularly enjoy it.

He wasn’t a party boy because he loved them or because he preferred getting blackout drunk to anything else.

He was a party boy because that was the only time he got to see her.

PARTY #1: DEBUTANTE BALL

The first time she properly spoke to Ransom Drysdale, he was slipping two crisp 100 dollar bills into the breast pocket of a suit that cost more than her life. This wasn’t the first time she’d seen him, of course, and not even the first time she’d met him either. Her family ran in the same circles as his family, which meant that every birthday, New Year, Fourth of July, goddamn Arbor Day or White Day at the Country Club, their orbits collided.

Despite being the same age, though, she was slightly (embarrassingly, if her mother’s repeated attempts to put her on diets and force her into a wardrobe of shapewear and all black was any indication) north of Rubenesque, bookish, introverted, deeply insecure, and too smart for her age. More likely to find herself sipping tea with Harlan Thrombey than sneaking glasses from the wet bar with his grandson. Not Ransom’s type – even at sixteen. Not even worth his notice, not with so many devastating beauties buzzing around.

And yet, on the night of her own debutante ball, when she abandoned the crowded dancefloor to lock herself in the butler’s pantry with a slice of cake and a good book, he found her.

Found her when no one else seemed to notice she was missing.

When their eyes met across that dark space, she couldn’t help but feel as she never had before.

Special.

But she hadn’t spent her entire childhood hiding from her father’s heavy-handed wrath and her mother’s Valium-tinged disappointment between the pages of books for nothing. She was smart. Smarter than Ransom Drysdale gave her credit for.

“Isn’t this my lucky day?” He asked, as he swanned through the door and closed it behind him. “The lady of the hour. Waiting for me in all her…glory.”

He lifted one eyebrow and smirked, clearly ready to relish whatever feminine attention he felt she was about to lay on him. And to be fair, there was a part of her that wanted to pretend. How fairytale perfect would it be if Ransom Drysdale – the Ransom Drysdale – had chosen her? If, after a lifetime of being ignored and passed over, she’d been noticed? If he’d seen her in the heat of the spotlight, in her debutante finest, and fallen madly, madly in love?

It would have been perfect. A dream come true. But to even pretend it was a possibility was very, very stupid.

Raking her eyes lazily over his handsome form (made even handsomer by a custom tuxedo), she flipped a page in her book, hoping she projected all of the detached cool girl energy she felt.

“What did they give you?”

Ransome made a noise – something between a laugh and a choke. She didn’t look up. He was too charming and tempting. If she gave him too much attention, she’d be lost. A human eclipse.

“What?”

“Ransom, we’ve known each other since we were six years old. You’ve never even said hello to me without someone making you. Please. Give me some credit here.”

He breezed past her objection. “You looked incredible out there, you know. When you disappeared, I thought I’d come and find you. The best looking guy should always get to dance with the best looking girl.”

Yes, he must have thought her a special kind of moron. Or maybe he was just used to girls falling at his feet. On a good day, she was way below the young models and cheerleader types who typically occupied his time. But in this ludicrous white gown her mother selected, slathered in too much makeup, and crumbled over a book in a butler’s pantry…she knew the money was the only explanation.

“Yeah, and I’m sure that 200 bucks you just shoved in your pocket just now had nothing to do with it.”

Her unexpected guest didn’t have an answer for that. Despite everything, she smiled. She’d shut up Ransom Drysdale? That was way better than any gift she’d get tonight.

“Alright,” he finally muttered. “You caught me.”

No apology. No shame, even.

“Was it really so ridiculous, though? That I would want to dance with you? Do you have some kind of inferiority complex or something?”

“Or something,” she muttered, not wanting to read into the fact that he didn’t seem to think it was so ridiculous.

Silence, then. Beyond the pantry walls, the party raged on. No one missed the guest of honor. No one even cared enough to realize she was gone. None of them were here for her, after all. Every invitation tonight had gone to her parents’ friends and associates, not hers – though she wouldn’t have had any friends to invite, even if she could.

Was it any wonder she’d rather believe the handsome party boy was only there because someone paid him?

“That’s bleak.”

“That’s realistic,” she countered, turning a page. “No, what’s the objective here? They slide you a cool two hundred and you sweet talk me back to the party?”

Over the lip of her book, she watched the vague outline of Ransom’s cut figure go slack as he leaned against a nearby wall.

“No, actually. My grandfather likes you. He saw you leave and sent me after you. He felt bad. Your own damn party and no one wanted to talk to you.”

That stung. She liked Harlan Thrombey, too. His pity was even worse than Ransom’s condescension.

“Funny,” she managed after a moment.

“What is?” he replied.

Well, the fact that you’re still here, she considered saying.

“It’s funny that he thinks they didn’t want to talk to me. I’m not locked up in here because I’m some sad and lonely little princess. It’s because this is a good book, that is an awful party, and those people in there? I don’t want to talk to them.”

He said nothing. She slammed her book closed, surprised by her own intensity, but unable to hold back.

“I mean, can you blame me?” She asked. “Those people…they’re awful. All of them.”

Her body tensed. Shit. She shouldn’t have said that. His parents were at that party. His grandfather. He’d even been at that party until just a moment ago.

She didn’t regret feeling that way. But she did regret saying it out loud. Especially to the most powerful guy she knew.

“You know, I do think I would have come after you,” he said, the words a soft marvel on his tongue. “If my grandfather hadn’t asked me to, I mean. I would have found you.”

“C’mon, Ransom. Haven’t you lied enough tonight? You’re better than that.”

When she raised her eyes, she found Ransom affixing an abrupt stare squarely on her. All words died in her mouth.

He tilted his perfect chin, assessing her with new curiosity. He silently posed a thousand questions, apparently found the answers written in her face, and seemed to come to some internal conclusion.

“Let’s go,” he said.

It wasn’t a request. But it wasn’t a command either. She wouldn’t have answered a command. It was more like a call to adventure.

“What?” She asked.

He pulled at the twist of his bowtie. “You said you hate these people, right? You want to get away? Let’s fucking go.”

Skepticism attempted to hold her back even as she rose to unsteady high-heeled feet. “Where?”

He slipped off his jacket, fumbling in the pockets as he did so. “Wherever we want to. Here.”

In one smooth gesture, he offered her something. Her heart briefly swelled. He was going to give her the money.

Only, what landed her in hand wasn’t cash. It was a heavy metal key. A car key.

“I’ve already had a few drinks, so you’ll have to drive.”

He didn’t exactly seem like the safety first kind of driver. She tried to hand the keys back.

“I don’t know how. My mom thinks learning to drive is as good as admitting we’re poor. People will think dad can’t afford a chauffeur.”

She’d always wanted to learn, though. Any tiny scraps of independence she could snap up would help her eventually escape her hell-clutch of a family. But she’d never gotten the chance and considering it was easier if her family ignored her existence, she wasn’t exactly going to sneak out to do it. Ransom smirked and slipped his arm around her waist with the effortless grace that came so easily to all devastatingly handsome men.

She suppressed a shudder at his touch. He was only doing it to lead her away. That was all. Companionable at best. Not romantic.

“I know you don’t drive. That’s why I hope you’re a fast learner.”

It was the first time in her life she’d left her parents without permission. She’d planned her escape from them since she was twelve years old, and she’d taken notes from the heroines of her favorite novels. She would stay quiet, she would build a rich inner life, she would develop skills (skills marketable enough to land her a job in the future that but not draw attention or suspicion) and, above all, never step out of line.

Breaking the rules drew attention and detangling herself from her family’s wealth and influence and cruelties and pretensions required as little of that as possible, thank you very much.

So, really, she knew better than to go everywhere with Ransom Drysdale, much less leave her own debutante ball with him. And she knew better than to read into his late-night driving lesson or their harebrained escape.

Still. She went. He was the most fun she’d ever had in her life.

The next morning, a paramedic’s pen light woke her in the still-smoking cab of Ransom’s car. The donuts he’d bought her (her mother had her on a perpetual diet, so he’d bought them and called it a birthday present) were crushed in her lap. The magnum of champagne they’d swiped from the party still sloshed around in the back seat. Apparently, she hadn’t been a fast learner.

When the paramedics tried to move her from the car, they found that they couldn’t. Because Ransom, only half-conscious in the passenger’s seat, wouldn’t let go of her hand.

In that moment, when they tore her away and unwound the borrowed scarf from her neck, she knew she’d made a mistake. But she didn’t care.

PARTY #2 – 21ST BIRTHDAY

In light of their near-miss with death, she hadn’t gotten the chance to get Ransom’s phone number. And once she’d gotten discharged from the hospital, her family kept her under fairy tale villain levels of lock and key.

(She suspected the only reason she didn’t get shipped off to boarding school after her “little stunt” was because the only boarding school prestigious enough was currently home to her escape artist partner, Mr. Ransom Drysdale himself).

As such, she couldn’t get in touch with him. Her mother had allowed her to return his scarf back through a courier service despite her insistence that Ransom had given it to her and was, therefore, hers to keep. But beyond that, she never spoke to him, and he appeared to make no effort to reach out to her.

Which was fine. She was under no illusions that Ransom Drysdale had fallen for her or that their midnight joyride had changed anything. She didn’t think his attempt to kiss her – a near-miss that caused her to lose control of the car in the first place – said anything about their relationship except that he was a little sappy and handsy when drunk.

Just because she got flushed and starry-eyed when she remembered it didn’t guarantee that he remembered it at all.

No, as the days passed after debut, she resolved herself, quite practically, to the understanding that he would, most likely, go right back to ignoring her at every party. Their one night together was nothing more than a fluke. A memory to her and a fuzzy, half-forgotten mistake to him.

She believed that. She gave herself permission to accept it. But then, Ransom Drysdale did something no one ever did.

He surprised her.

After four months of solitary confinement, her parents allowed her out to a party again. And there he was, waiting for her. And from then on out, their lives passed in parties. At the dances and balls where they’d once been practically strangers, she found strong arms and nauseatingly handsome smirks pulling her into corners and closets. They snuck wine bottles and got tipsy and shared hatreds and gossip. They ordered pizza to the back door and “accidentally” bluetoothed raunchy rap music through the speakers during toasts. He confided in her secrets about his family. Told her about a story he'd been working on – just a short, nothing special. On the night she got into MIT, she showed him the acceptance letter – he was the first one to know.

It was something like friendship, these secret hours they stole from under the snobbily upturned noses of their families and acquaintances.

So, when at Tilly Potter’s 21st gala ball, she passingly mentioned her own plans to celebrate her official freedom from her family (a freedom she planned to use the following day by spending all of the money she’d saved at her IT desk job on a tiny shitbox apartment near campus) by ordering takeout and watching old movies in the comfort of her bedroom, it surprised her – but did not shock her – that Ransom intervened.

“That’s the saddest shit I’ve ever heard,” he barked, stern and disbelieving. “I’m sick even thinking about it. No. Absolutely not.”

“Rude—”

“Don’t thank me. I’ve been saving you from your own shitty parties since you were sixteen. I’m used to it by now.”

And that’s how it went. On the night of her 21st birthday, her parents held an exclusive (code word for small) dinner party at their house. After the incident at her debutante ball all those years ago, they hadn’t ever again trusted her not to embarrass them publicly, so that was all she had. Small, exclusive, intimate dinners where they sandwiched her between them, monitored her conversations for any inelegant slip-ups, and did their best to keep her away from “That Drysdale Boy.”

They couldn’t keep her under lock and key at the parties other people threw and that they were required by every social law to attend. They were powerless to not invite the Thrombeys. But dammit, they would do their best to keep her from his influence under their own damn roof.

Unfortunately, they overlooked one small problem. Ransom was a tricky son of a bitch.

When the party was over and the birthday girl retired to her bedroom, she opened the door to find a message written in lipstick along one of her many windows.

BACK DOOR – 10 MINUTES – CHANGE.

Ransom hadn’t done anything to prepare her for this night – it was a surprise in nearly every respect – but given everything she knew about him (plus the underline beneath the word change), she had a feeling night clubs and birthday shots and strobe lights and dancing were in her future.

Which, to be clear, she dreaded. She hated night clubs and loathed the idea of wasting her birthday watching hungry-eyed girls making passes at Ransom all night.

But still, she slipped on her sexiest dress (not a huge compliment, honestly, considering the state of her wardrobe) and a pair of heels before giving her makeup a smokey-eyed zhush and retreating downstairs to the safety of his idling car.

She knew she was a fool for it. They were basically friends of proximity and convenience and necessity. But no matter how she loathed the thought of insecurely sweating a drunken night away at whatever exclusive, Fort Knox guest list hot spot Ransom had picked out, she knew she couldn’t turn it down. Not when it meant another night close to him. Not when he’d done it all for her.

He sped – he always sped, terrible driving teacher that he was – towards town with the top down, blaring some music she loved. Was it a coincidence? Or did he remember her mentioning the band?

She didn’t know and maybe she didn’t care to know. It was better, on her 21st birthday and under the perfectly starlit sky and Ransom’s hand so close to hers on the clutch and his scarf around her neck for warmth and her favorite song lodged in her throat and her throbbing eardrums, to believe that he’d chosen it for her.

They didn’t talk. They didn’t have to. And with the wind and the music and the engine and the traffic and her heartbeat, they couldn’t have heard each other even if they wanted to.

By the time the car screeched to a curb-choked halt in front of TLJ, Boston’s hippest night spot, though, all of the silver moonlight-tinted glow vaporized under the head of the neon and jealous girls’ stares.

She twisted her hands in her lap, suddenly feeling very silly. She was a chubby nobody in a dress a half-size too small and lipstick a specific shade of power red. If she believed she meant anything to Ransom, if this romantic birthday jailbreak had made her believe something might finally be happening between them, it all vanished in that moment. He was Ransom Drysdale – he’d used her birthday as an excuse to get fucked and fucked up. She would never measure up to the line of women in the queue, hungry for his attention.

She didn’t belong here.

And what was worse, just having him this way – part way, just a piece – was no longer enough for her. It was pathetic.

Ransom dropped the keys in the valet’s hands, completely oblivious until he opened the club’s door and discovered her was holding it open for no one. Wordlessly communicating with the bouncer and ignoring the stares from anyone on the street, Ransom jogged back.

“What the Hell’s wrong with you?” He asked, his tone that tenuous mixture of good-natured and condescending that only he could pull off without offending her.

She glanced up at the club, then down to his scarf around her neck. He always loaned it to her when they played getaway car in the Beamer – she got cold.

But it wouldn’t be appropriate now. Not inside a nightclub on her 21st birthday. She began to unwind it – her hands where shaking.

“Sorry – It’s fine. It’s just—”

Her trembling fingers were suddenly wrapped up my strong, masculine ones, stilling her attempts to unknot his scarf. “Hey. Just – just wait here.”

“What?”

“Wait here.”

Confused, she followed the directive and wrapped herself up again. He was gone so long people in line snapped pictures of her, alone in the car. So long her fingertips started to lose sensation in the cold. So long she resigned herself to the fact that he’d left her in the car to enjoy the party by himself.

But then, just as she contemplated sliding into the driver’s seat and speeding the car away without him, the Beamer’s door swung open. Ransom slipped inside with a case of champagne, which he balanced on the center console between them.

“Ransom—” she started.

“Stupid party anyway. Let’s go.”

And with that, he rocked the keys in the ignition, peeling off into the night in a haze of smoking rubber and engine fumes. She tried to speak, to apologize, to ask questions, anything, but he merely turned the volume up on the car’s speaker system – louder and louder – louder.

His jaw was locked too tight to have spoken anyway.

She wondered what that meant. Sometimes, Ransom got so angry she wondered about his heart – if he didn’t find a way to manage it soon, she thought, it was likely to give out one of these days. But while he always claimed his anger was about one of two things – money or his family – she knew better. There was always a third option. He might have been angry at himself.

Was this one of those times? And if it was…why?

When the car finally stopped again, she felt her entire body flood with light. Not silver moonlight, not like last time. This was all gold.

The historic movie theatre on a back street of Boston had been built in 1917, and despite the fact that no one really went there anymore, it was one of her favorite places on Earth. The movies had always been one of those sacred places that her parents hated, but that they considered safe enough for her to enjoy alone. All her life, the movies had been her escape, her refuge. A place in the cool dark where nothing mattered – not her name, not her family, not her past.

When they entered the one-room movie house that night, still done up in that plush Art Deco style, she found the entire place empty. The candy counter was abandoned. The Coke machine unmanned. The popcorn piping hot, but unattended.

Strange. The cinema wasn’t the most popular spot in town, but she’d never seen it this Ghost Town empty…

“What’s going on—”

Ransom helped himself to snacks. “I told you. That club was shit. I know the guy here, and I’ve never seen Double Indemnity, so…”

He’d planned a party for her at that club. And then totally changed his plans when he got there and saw for himself how much she would have hated it. Party Boy Ransom Drysdale abandoned all of the leggy blondes and blow and whiskey to sit here in a dark movie theatre with her.

It didn’t mean anything. It didn’t mean anything.

To him. But it meant everything to her.

She didn’t kiss him then. His eyes were wide and sincere and hesitant and his lips trembled from the effort it apparently took him to be honest with her. If she’d been any kind of brave or if she had any kind of faith in herself, or believed he said, she would have crawled on to the candy counter, pulled him between her legs, and kissed him as she’d wanted to do since she was sixteen.

But she didn’t. Not until she was a bottle and a half of champagne deep and bold enough to slur, “Ransom, why did you do this? This…” She hiccupped and gestured to the cinema around them and the movie flickering before them. “This isn’t you.”

She wanted him to say because I love you. Instead, he tucked a lock of hair behind her ear and glanced down at her lips. His permanent mask of privileged indifference and smugness slipped – just for a second. But a second was all it took for her to see it.

“Because…you would have hated that club. It wasn’t what you wanted. And I just think you and I have wasted too much time not getting what we want.”

And then…she blacked out.

Did they kiss? Did she try? Did he push her away? Did she ask him what he wanted? Did she dare hope she was the answer?

She never fucking knew because all she remembered was him saying it and then waking up the next morning in her little apartment near campus.

Someone had brushed her hair and her teeth. Someone had pulled her out of her dress and tucked her into bed wearing a fuzzy pair of socks and her slip. Someone had left salt tablets, ibuprofen, water, and Pedialyte on her bedside table.

Someone had left an entire box of pizza in her fridge – from her favorite joint down the street, and with extra toppings, just the way she liked.

Someone had left a birthday card on her kitchen table – signed with nothing more than a hesitant “R.”

Someone had shown her more of himself last night than he’d ever shown anyone before.

And not only did she not remember a damn thing about it, but she was pretty sure she hadn’t even gotten to kiss him.

PARTY #3 – FUNERAL

Her 21st birthday sort of hit pause on their – friendship? Acquaintance? – whatever it was for awhile. They still spent their family obligations together. That didn’t change. But he didn’t spend as much time with her there. Or as freely. And the friendship they’d been building over the years suddenly vanished. She hated it and hated that she hated it and hated herself for thinking they would ever be anything else but convenient friends.

But then her parents died. Plane crash. She told them commercial jets were safer, that a private plane was a very expensive death trap, that she wouldn’t cry at their funeral if some half-awake alcoholic of a pilot killed them both someday –

But then…it happened. And she did cry. And there, as she shivered in the middle of the lavish funeral they’d planned years ago (her mother – always the perfectionist, always the planner), big strong hands wrapped a scarf around her neck, and then tucked her into his arms.

Ransom.

He held her hand the entire day. And the next. And the next.

When she finally resurfaced from her suffocating grief at losing two people who’d made her so angry and so lonely and so suddenly rich – he was the first thing she saw.

“I hated them,” she choked against his tear-stained sweater.

“Yeah,” he breathed, rubbing her back with uneasy, unpracticed strokes.

“I always thought my life would be so much easier if they weren’t around. At least then I wouldn’t have to tell people that my own family didn’t love me.”

“I understand.”

“And I miss them. I still miss them. Is that crazy?”

She knew how he felt about his family. If anyone could slap some sense into her, save her from this growing black hole in the center of her chest, it was Ransom.

Instead, he tucked her head beneath his chin.

“No. It’s not crazy. Or, if you are, then so am I.”

That didn’t exactly rule out the possibility. But when she laughed and looked up at him through eyes full of hazy tears, she smiled.

And from that moment on, it was as if their time apart hadn’t happened. It was as if, for the first time in a long time, maybe for the first time ever, she was home.

PARTY #4 – VALENTINE’S DAY

It took Ransom longer than most people to get the hang of the whole “being friends” thing. He didn’t let himself get close to people. He didn’t know how to be vulnerable. And as far as she could tell, he didn’t have any nurturing instincts. Cunning instincts? Yes. Business instincts. Sure. Sexual instincts? So she’d heard.

But nurturing? That wasn’t really his thing.

Strange, then, that he managed it. In the months after her parents’ death, she was so absorbed by mourning and sorting out their affairs that the general human stuff like eating and sleeping and showering and getting fresh air became extremely low priorities.

So, Ransom picked up the slack. Took her for top-down drives in the Beamer for groceries (frehs air? Sunshine? Check). He brought her leftovers from the cooking intensives he was taking with Harlan for book research and practiced his new skills at home (steady nutrition? Check). He would run the hot water for a bath, have to “take a call,” and insist she bathe so that they didn’t waste the water. He’d even taken to telling her that her house was creepy and he needed to sleep and, besides, he wasn’t used to sleeping alone (a lie – he always left a woman in bed before he got tired, but the lie got this particular woman into bed and at least six hours’ sleep every night).

It saved them both their prides, these little discrete deceptions of his. He didn’t know how to love. She didn’t know how to be loved. He pretended he was just accidentally helping her – going about his normal routine and just so happening to benefit her. And she accepted as long as she believed that lie.

But deep down, she knew the truth. Ransom didn’t have nurturing instincts. But he did have survival instincts.

And in the season of her life when she most felt like dying, that was more than enough.

She could hardly believe it, then, when she resurfaced from a long night preparing job applications – even if she wasn’t going to leave Boston like she’d always planned, she was not going to play happy homemaker with her parents’ money, thank you; all of that was going to be donated as soon as the banks finally put the funds in her name – to find the house empty and Ransom gone.

In his room, forgotten on his bed, was a crumpled invitation and instruction sheet.

It seemed that Ransom Drysdale had run away to take part in a charity bachelor auction.

A strange feeling cut through her months of grief and lethargy.

It wasn’t quite jealousy. She’d felt enough of that for Ransom over the years, and she knew precisely what that felt like. This was something different, something even more unsettling.

Concern. She was concerned for him.

Well, that just wouldn’t do.

“250,000.”

In one of Boston’s finest ballrooms, the chic audience first gasped, then cheered as she ran through the back door and screamed her bid.

Waves of pouting rage rolled off of her fellow bidders. But Ransom’s eyes glinted as he followed the protocol of offering her arm and placing a gentle kiss on her cheek.

“You found the invitation then?” He asked. “You went snooping in my room?”

She bit the inside of her cheek. Something about his tone didn’t sit right with her. “I wasn’t snooping. I wasn’t looking for the invitation, either. I was looking for you.”

A muscle in his jaw flexed, but he said nothing until their photographs were taken for the local society pages.

As the highest bidder of the evening, the hotel graciously made a donation of their own and gifted her the use of a suite for the night – not for sex, she assumed, but just as a token of gratitude. She and Ransom retreated there almost immediately. Coming to this party had been a hasty decision, as had been her bid on him. She hadn’t exactly accounted for the reactions and gossip and questions it would stoke amongst their peers, so they decided to make that tomorrow’s problem and disappear.

Once up there, though –

She barely made it through the door before he was on her. Pinning her arms over her head, he hungrily attacked her bare neck, grinding his body against hers with a ferocity she so desperately wanted to be real.

“What the Hell are you doing, Ransom?”

His lips temporarily moved from her skin, but he stayed so close she could still sense the way they shifted into a smirk. “Showing you what I’m worth.”

He pressed his lips into the curve of her neck, and it took everything in her not to melt. How many times had she fantasized about this exact moment. Wanted this very thing?

But it was like a photonegative of a dream – technically, everything was there…but wrong.

“Ransom.”

“This was what you wanted, right? Bought and paid for. I’m all yours.”

“Hey—Hey—”

“I thought we had a good thing going. Uncomplicated. But what do I know? I guess you can put a price on me and it’s a quarter of a million bucks—”

“Ransom, Stop!”

His hand froze at the top of her thigh. His lips above hers. A cloud cleared from his eyes, then returned. There he was again – that Ransom she’d spent most of her life trying to push aside. The cold, smug, unfeeling asshole millionaire failson.

"Right. You really should be calling the shots here. Get your money’s worth. Please. Tell me what I owe you.”

A wave of disgust rolled over her. He really thought so low of her? That he was just like his family – always putting a price on their affection? That he was nothing but a dollar sign to her?

“That’s not why I did this,” she muttered, unable to strengthen her voice any louder. Her body still radiated from his touch. “I did this because I know you hate this stuff and I wanted to… I don’t know. You’ve been rescuing me a lot lately. I thought maybe I could rescue you, too.”

He recoiled. “You – That was a stupid amount of money for that.”

“Avoiding this kind of stuff is important to you, and –” She paused. They didn’t ever talk about their feelings for each other, good, bad, or indifferent. But fuck it. “And you’re important to me.”

Ransom suddenly couldn’t meet her gaze. He slipped out of his jacket and hung it up in the closet, apparently in some attempt to regain his composure. “Yeah. Well. You’re. You’re important to me, too.”

An hour later, they ate a trough of room service food in bed. Fluffy hotel robes on. Gowns and tuxes off. Crappy television noise filling the air between them.

She hadn’t realized she’d dozed off onto his shoulder. Or that she’d even dozed off. Until –

“Hey.”

He shifted his shoulder but did not remove her. She swam back to awareness. “Mm-hm?”

“I didn’t meant it, what I said earlier about us being uncomplicated. We’re…we’re plenty complicated. You’re good. The only good thing in my life. I think I was afraid…I guess I thought I’d lost that tonight.”

It was as close to an apology as she’d ever get. And she still didn’t know what it meant.

“What do you mean?”

“Nothing,” he muttered. “Just…I owe you one.”

Exhausted or not, she did understand that. “We don’t owe each other anything. That’s just how this works.”

She didn’t care to give this a name. (Love). Nor did she say anything else. But as she drifted back to sleep, she did feel him tuck her closer into his body and lay her down in the crook of his warm frame.

PARTY #5 – THE BOOK LAUNCH

After that night, they both got their shit together. She got a job in Boston. Sold her family’s estate. Got an apartment. She asked her doctor about sleeping pills—it was hard to rest without Ransom, who’d moved out and gotten his own place now that she was functioning like a normal person again. She started going to dance classes. She took up breadmaking in her spare time. Started a terrace garden. Even picked up a library card.

After a little pressure, Ransom asked his grandfather if he might have any openings at the publishing house. He started tinkering with ideas for a murder mystery himself. He, too, moved into a new place and, now unused to seeing himself in the society pages, decided he liked it better that way.

Every morning, she walked to her favorite coffee shop on her way to work. And every morning, he met her in line, bought them both breakfast, and then parted ways.

Dinners for two were just easier to make than dinners for one, so they often ate together.

They liked the same movies, and no one wants to go the movies alone, so they often visited her favorite cinema together.

And bars. And parks. And weekend trips to the Martha’s Vineyard. And the library. And family dinners. And brunch. And concert. And the theatre. And the occasional Red Sox game.

But they were absolutely, categorically, unequivocally not dating. There were no kisses or handholding or anything resembling physical intimacy, and the same rules about emotional intimacy applied. Namely – none, ever.

But all the same, when Ransom’s grandfather launched a new book series and threw a party in his own honor, it was essentially a given that she would go with him.

Upon her arrival, though, she couldn’t find her date. For awhile, she was content to sip champagne and stuff her face with canapes while making small talk, but when she’d drained her glass and realized her other standard party friend – Harlan Thrombey himself – was nowhere to be found, she keyed in the security code for the elevator, left the atrium party behind, and headed straight for the offices.

It was strange, she admitted, to think of Ransom as hard-working. That he’d now rather be at work than at a party. But she wasn’t surprised when the elevator doors to the publishing house’s main floor opened and she heard his and his grandfather’s voices. What did surprise her was the realization that they weren’t talking about work at all.

“You’re crazy, old man.”

“Perhaps. But a crazy old man can be right about something every once in awhile. Broken clock and all that.”

“I’m not having this conversation. You have a party waiting downstairs for you and a press to schmooze. And I have whiskey to drink. I ordered the good stuff and I don’t want Walt guzzling it all. He won’t appreciate it—"

“And your date? You must have your date worrying after you. You did invite someone, didn’t you?”

That hung in the air. Harlan must have known that Ransom had invited her.

“She’s an easy choice,” Ransom sniffed, dismissively. “Don’t read too much into it.”

“If she’s such an easy choice, then why won’t you take me up on my offer?”

…Offer? Her heart clenched.

“I said I would consider it,” Ransom replied.

“Ransom, I like her. I always have. She’s good for you. And what’s more, I think you’re good for her, too.”

“You say that as if it means anything.”

“It means – it can mean everything.”

She held her breath. Her knuckles tightened around the champagne flutes so hard she feared they might shatter. But still, she listened.

“Pops, I don’t do the emotional attachment bullshit. You want me to be a better man? Don’t chain some poor woman to me. Build a time machine and raise your kids better. Might give me a fighting chance at being halfway decent.”

“Ah, but there’s the rub. You say you don’t do emotional attachments. But if that’s true, then what do you call all these years since you first met? What do you call this last year since her parents died, come to think of it? You can deny it all you want. The evidence is clear. A rose by any other name. Love by any other name. You—”

It was the wrong moment to lean forward. She hadn’t been able to help it. But it gave her away, creaking a floorboard and drawing Harlan’s attention.

“Ah, my dear. Come to fetch us, have you?”

She raised the glasses in her hand, fighting to keep her expression neutral when all she really wanted to do was cry – or laugh – or both. “Actually, I came to join this party. Seems a lot more fun than the one downstairs.”

Ransom’s gaze burned into her until she turned to face him, at which point he slapped on one of those wincingly fake smiles he usually only reserved for the most awkward of cocktail chatter. “Well. This is a pretty exclusive party. I don’t think you’re on the guest list. We should head downstairs.”

It was a brush-off, but she gratefully accepted his diversion.

She couldn’t…

It wasn’t…

He…

She wasn’t drunk enough yet to face what she’d just learned from listening at this particular keyhole. That Ransom might have loved her. And that Harlan believed in that love.

“Very well, then,” Harlan said, a note of disappointment in his voice. “Ransom, do think about my offer, will you?”

“Not on your life, old man.”

Later, in the thick of the party, she and Ransom accidentally stoke a private moment. It was clear he’d been trying to avoid just this scenario all night – looping them into every peripheral conversation they could find, filling his mouth and hers with every passed appetizer that crossed their path – but she’d finally caught him in a corner.

“So, that whole thing with your grandfather?” She finally asked, her voice trembling. “What was that about?”

“Just a business deal he wants me to do with him,” Ransom evaded. “Nothing serious.”

The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end. He must not have known she’d heard as much as she did. What business deal could possibly involve her?

None. Obviously. He was lying. But she was too afraid of the truth to call him out on it.

Ransom cleared his throat. “Whatever happened to those jobs you applied for out west?”

She loved the change in subject. She just wished it wasn’t to this subject.

“Oh. I had some interviews, but they never really went anywhere.”

“That so? Harlan said a few of them called for character references. Can’t imagine anyone turning you down after the glowing reviews he gave.”

He was pressing. Suddenly, she forgot how to breathe.

“Yeah. Well. I got a few offers. But I turned them down. I wanted to be closer to home.”

As soon as she said that last part, she knew it was a mistake. He latched onto it.

“What the Hell does that mean? All you’ve ever talked about since we were kids was how fucking badly you wanted to get out of here. You had every chance. Why haven’t you gone?”

It took all of her strength to say it. “C’mon, Ransom. You know why.”

The job offers outside of Boston had piled up. But every time she thought about taking one, she ran into the same heartbreaking reality. If she left this place, she would have to either leave ransom behind or ask him to go with her. And if she asked him to go with her, she’d have to confess her feelings and…

That was the thing about them. They never said how they felt. They were fun. Uncomplicated. One long party. Which was why, even now, her confession wasn’t much of a confession at all.

You know why was as close as she could get to I love you.

So, she repeated it again, hating the way tears formed in her eyes and her voice cracked. “You know why.”

Tonight, she’d heard him tell his grandfather – the one person in the world Ransom actually respected – that she was an easy choice. That caring about her didn’t matter. They’d spent half a lifetime dancing around one another, making massive, fun messes in each other’s lives and then twirling around the rubble. They were all wrong for each other, an impossibility—

That’s why she didn’t expect the kiss.

Dropping his champagne glass to the floor, not even caring when it shattered, Ransom captured her cheeks with his hands and crashed his lips to hers, breathing years of unsaid feeling into her very heart.

Their first kiss.

And yet, it tasted like every happy memory she’d ever made with him. Birthday cake and champagne and popcorn and starlight.

PARTY #6 – New Years’ Eve

Ransom was an asshole. The difference between Ransom and the woman he loved was that she probably only suspected it somewhere deep, deep down, whereas he faced that truth every minute of every day and had since he was a boy.

That’s the thing about expectations. When you expect something of people, they start to adapt to it. All his life, people told Ransom he was a rich prick. Above the rules. Loveless and ruthless and just like his family.

So, that’s what he became. It was easier to give people what they wanted.

But what made him a real asshole? Well, a few things. Starting with the way he’d convinced her he wasn’t one.

For most of their lives, she’d been his home base – a place he could be safe. When he was with her, he had the creeping hope that he could be more.

She let him be more.

More than the money. More than the cars or the couture or the future inheritance or the name.

When he was near her, he believed it was possible. But the real crime was letting her believe it.

There were more things that proved how big an asshole he was, too. The way he took her to bed the night of his grandfather’s party, something he’d been dreaming about since he was eighteen. The way he didn’t push her away then. The way he allowed her to love him, the way he indulges the slow entwining of their lives until they shared only one.

The way he fell in love with her – finally, recklessly, completely.

The way he told Harlan yes. He would marry her in exchange for controlling interest in the publishing company.

The way he kept that secret from her – even on New Years’ Even. With an engagement ring weighing down his coat pocket.

Tonight’s gala was thrown by The Drysdales for this exact purpose – to give him a perfect backdrop against which to propose. Romantic – to make her feel special. And public – to prop up the family name and reputation.

Harlan had his heart in the right place when he offered the deal. He always knew – no, he believed – that his grandson needed incentive to do the right thing. And as far as Harlan was concerned, letting himself finally love that girl was the best thing he could ever do. He hadn’t made the offer maliciously, this bargain with Ransom and her future. But Ransom had taken it all the same.

And he hated himself for that. Nearly as much as he loved her.

As the clock ticked toward midnight, Ransom paced on the great outdoor terrace – abandoned, for now, by the rest of the party because of the flurrying snowfall. He carried a glass of whiskey. He wasn’t in the mood to drink, nor was he particularly thirsty, but he knew people were watching him – they were always watching – and he had to look the part.

The part of Ransom Drysdale. A part he’d been playing the rest of his life. One he’d be playing until the day he died.

He glanced inside, scanning the room for his almost-fiancée. Wedged between his aunt Joni and Uncle Walt, she sipped champagne and did her best to fit in. But Ransom could read her better than anybody.

She was fucking miserable.

Such a small realization. The woman I love is miserable. But it cut through Ransom like a freshly sharpened axe.

In that moment, a lifetime of parties past flooded his memory. The first night they’d spent together – she’d been hiding. Her 21st birthday – she’d nearly worked herself into a panic attack thinking about that party he’d planned for her. She’d retreated at her own parents’ funeral because she didn’t want to face their associates. She’d bought him from that ridiculous Valentine’s day auction because she wanted to free him for a night and even on the night of his grandfather’s book launch, she’d been in the office to flee the party.

She was trying her best to fit in now. But he loved her precisely because she never could.

All she’d ever tried to do was try to escape nights like these.

Escape.

God, that was all she wanted to do. This life – she hated it. But she stayed.

For him. Because he didn’t have the guts to escape.

And if he asked her to marry him tonight, she was going to say yes. And it would be selfish. So selfish. Because he would be chaining her to a life of this. A life of parties she hated and people who didn’t give a shit and no, no, no escape.

He saw it as clear as the glass separating them. He didn’t want to marry her because of his grandfather’s offer. He wanted to because he loved her. He wanted to spend the rest of his life with her. And it was unconscionably cruel, indescribably selfish, to keep her.

The doors to the terrace swung open, and partygoers ambled out. Ransom checked his watch. The fireworks would start soon. The countdown would begin any minute.

“Ransom?”

He turned, and there she was. Looking like forever.

It broke his heart.

Everyone thought he didn’t have one. Maybe that’s because it was always hers. And he was pulling away now, trying to walk away while his heart still rested in her hands.

“You look deep in thought,” she said. “Making your resolutions?”

“You know I don’t buy into all of that shit.”

He regretted his tone. He didn’t speak to her that way – ever. But she took it in stride, slipping into his side. “Everyone’s distracted. We can make a quick getaway. Go have an actual good time, just the two of us.”

God – yes. He wanted that. More than anything.

“Where would we go?” He asked, jaw set, eyes on her even as she gazed at the sky over the harbor.

“Anywhere we want.”

She tried to slip her hand in his. He pulled away, knowing if he didn’t, he’d never be able to let her go.

“C’mon. You’ll miss the fireworks,” he said.

But she didn’t move.

“Forget the fireworks. Let’s go.”

“We’re not going—I’m not going anywhere with you.”

She blinked. From the corner of his eye, Ransom caught a glimpse of his grandfather – not even pretending to hide the fact that he was monitoring this situation.

Well, sorry, Harlan. At least you’re used to being disappointed by me.

“Ransom, what’s up with you?”

A minute left in the countdown. Less than a minute left with the only person he’d ever loved. And he’d have to spend it hurting her.

“New Years’ got me thinking. That’s all.”

“I thought you didn’t go in for that stuff.”

“About us.”

Thirty…

“Oh?”

“Whatever this is, this thing we’ve been doing—”

“I wanted to talk to you about that, actually.”

“Yeah?”

Twenty…

“What changed?”

“What do you mean?”

Fifteen…

“We’ve been together almost all of our lives. But the night of Harlan’s party, everything changed. We changed. You changed. Why?”

It would have been easy to lie. But he knew telling the truth would destroy her. And she’d hate him enough to finally leave.

“Because Harlan said he’d give me the publishing company if I married you.”

Ten…

Her perfect mouth fell in shock. She started to laugh –

“God’s honest truth,” Ransom intoned.

Nine…

“No, you—”

“Don’t worry, though. We’re done here.”

Eight…

All around them, the party tangled together, preparing to kiss and sing. But she stumbled back from him. “Done?”

Seven…

“You and I? It would never work. If I could have loved you, I would have done it by now.”

“You asshole. You liar—”

Six…

“God, I wish you women could get together and write some original fucking material.”

He tried to walk then, but she reached for his jacket, turning him around easily.

“Hey. You love me. I know you do. What’s really going on here?”

Five…

“What’s—Fine.” Four… “You are what they want.” Three… “Harlan loves you. My family has always said what a perfect choice you were.” Two… “And I would rather fucking die than give those fucks what they want.”

One. Happy Fucking New Year.

All around them, kisses and embraces. But they were drifting apart. The start of something new for them both – a life without the other.

“So, that’s it.”

“Yeah,” he said, wanting nothing more than to grab her up in his arms and say no, it wasn’t, he couldn’t ever let her go.

But for the first time in his life, Ransom was strong. Unselfish. And he let her release him from her grip.

“You know, Ransom?” She said, her voice surprisingly strong for goodbye. “I hope, I really do, that one day you can learn to love something more than you hate them.”

As she turned away, he bit back a laugh – a sob? – at the irony of it all.

He did. He did love someone more than he hated them – his family. Loved her so much, he set her free.

A week later, there was another party. Some winter gala for homeless leopards or whatever vapid shit the wealthy of the Eastern seaboard decided deserved their attention. Ransom attended. It was expected, so he went.

As he always did when he entered a party, he scanned for her. Not that he could have spoken to he. Not that she would have so much as looked in his direction. But still.

He swept the room once. Twice. By the fifth pass, he was sure she wasn’t there. And by the seventh, he heard something that made him smile.

“—everything. The houses, the cars, the polo horses. She sold it all, resigned from the country club and the museum board, and moved out west.”

“That family lived here since Boston was founded. And that girl ruined it.”

“I know. What a waste.”

Ransom emptied his glass of whiskey, then lifted it in a little toast. It wasn’t a waste, he thought. It was a better reason for a celebration than any party he’d ever attended.

PARTY #7 – PARTY OF ONE

When Ransom left that night, he retreated to his bungalow. From a box in a hidden compartment beneath his bed, he withdrew a small envelope. Then, he collected a gold lighter from his desk drawer. He poured himself a drink. And he went outside.

The winter air bit his skin. The snow ruined his hair. But he took a long swing of his drink, relishing the frigid temperature.

What was the weather like in California today, he wondered.

When the drink was empty, he reached into the envelope and withdrew two crumpled 100 dollar bills, lifting them to the snow-dappled moonlight for inspection.

He’d never spent that money he got paid to take her out at her debutante ball. Never knew why.

He just knew how fucking grand it felt to light those two bills on fire – and watch the ash and snow tangle on the wind like confetti.

#ransom drydale x you #ransom drysdale x reader #chris evans characters #chris evans fanfiction #ransom drysdale x ofc #chris evans x female reader #chris evans x reader

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sarahjkl82-blog · 3 years ago

Note

#9 our first dinner party, with Zach?

To my lovely @tardisfangurl , I am so sorry that you have had to wait so long for this but what with trying to work full time and apparently, I have to parent too (wtf is that about?) BUT IT IS HERE NOW!

Thank you to my beautiful, @yespolkadotkitty for the beta - YOU ARE A TRUE STAR ⭐️

Zach Wellison x Reader (Brothers and Sisters)

Warnings: PTSD, anxiety, food, smut

Zach and the Dinner Party

“C’mon you,” you tug at Zach’s sleeve as he stands by the sink, staring off into the middle distance, obviously at a loss as to where to begin, “Everyone is desperate to get to know you properly. You don’t need to worry because they love me - they will welcome you and you’ll be part of the group before you know it.”

When he turns to face you, you see his khaki t-shirt is trembling from his heart racing. “Yeah, and they’ll see that I’m not good enough for you. A washed up ex- marine doesn’t really offer much.”

“I wish I could open up that head of yours. Take out those thoughts and throw them away as they’re not doing you any good. Just making you feel rubbish and for zero reason,” wrapping your arms around your boyfriend, you squeeze him until he grunts due to the lack of oxygen, “Anyway, this isn’t your granny’s dinner party. This is just friends who work stupid hours, getting together to eat and drink before we put our noses back to the grindstone. It just so happens that you’re here and instead of me feeling like I’m the only one out of my friends who can’t hold down a relationship, I will have you to pass me beers and kisses all night.”

After sucking a sharp, juddery breath and nodding, Zach manages to smile down at you, “I can pass beers. And kisses - I can definitely supply some of those too.”

“That’s not all you’re going to be doing, mister,” you pull rank with your former marine, hauling yourself to your full height, despite your head just reaching his shoulder, “It’s field day, soldier and there’s lots to do.”

“Oorah!”

Throwing a cloth and spray at him that he catches effortlessly, you bend over to unravel the flex from your ancient vacuum cleaner and notice from between your legs that Zach has not started to clean, “Why haven’t you started moving yet, soldier? You waiting for a goddamn invitation from the president?”

“Just admiring the view, ma’am,” you catch Zach’s eyebrow twitches minutismally as he gazes at your butt, that you can’t help but wiggle at him - garnering a sweet chuckle in response.

“The quicker you clean, the quicker I can let you admire the view up close,” you purr, tapping him on the leg with the head of the cleaner.

Putting on some nostalgic rock from the nineties, you turn the volume up as the two of you quickly scrub through your tiny shared space. The beautifully domestic feel of singing out of tune - totally fucking harmonising but somebody doesn’t appreciate your talents - and dancing ironically badly with air guitars as you land on sofa cushions to save your poor old knees, isn’t lost on you. It has only been a short time of knowing Zach, but when you know, you know right?

You first met him whilst he was helping in the kitchens of the VA office where you supported vets to complete their high school education with their maths, reading and writing, find vocational courses or for those who were ready to go further, their college applications. Every time you popped by to grab some food, he’d always sneak you a bit extra so that he could be treated to one of your beautiful smiles that totally eclipse your face, making your eyes disappear.

One day, you put on your big girl panties and leant across the serving hatch to say how much you looked forward to seeing his face every day and that you’d love to take him for a drink after work. Amusingly, you had to repeat yourself several times as he gazed dumbstruck at you - almost as if you’d been speaking in Klingon and had three heads with the level of confusion painted across that poor man’s face.

Later, he owned up that he’d felt like an IED had gone off in his head - that there’d been literal ringing in his ears. That the pretty girl he looked forward to seeing asked him out for a drink. His shock at being asked - genuinely asking if you meant him - had made you roar with laughter as you passed him your number on a serviette.

One date bled into another until three months later, here you were, virtually living together (he totally had moved in but neither of you were ready to own up to that obvious fact) with all your spare time either tangled together across the couch or snuggled up in bed. Tonight would be the night where he met all of your friends at once. He’d met most of them individually and was well liked amongst the crowd, but you knew that the thought of your looming turn of the dinner party was making him tremble with anxiety.

When you’d offered to cancel with your friends, there’d been a flash of anger from him that had ripped through his body like a hurricane - pouring out during his dreams. The anxiety that you thought him weak - not worthy of being around your friends - had left him a sweaty damp mess that night as he woke screaming, flailing - still thinking he was in Afghanistan. He’d tried to push you away when you’d cradled him to your chest but the tears that flowed on him realising that you weren’t going to let go, were the sweetest release he’d felt in a long time.

“You look hot,” Zach rubs his thumb across the beads of sweat collecting like a tiara of hard work upon your forehead as he becomes distracted by you cleaning near him.

“Yeah, I do,” you wink, grabbing his butt so that his hips are flush with yours.

The laugh this brings from Zach is music to your ears as his face crinkles at your cheesiness. Standing so close, you nuzzle his cheek - his sandalwood scented soap making every nerve within you fizz and tingle as you allow your lips to lightly graze his skin. Tilting his head slightly - a smile still playing upon his mouth - he searches for you. With his fingers finding your hair, your heart catches in your throat as his lips brush tenderly against you.

You don’t want this moment to end but as Zach draws back and places a small, loving peck on the tip of your nose, you stick your bottom lip out like a truculent child which elicits another chuckle from him, “C’mon sweetheart, we need to get started on dinner.”

“Can’t believe you are going to have me making pasta from scratch. Did you know - there are places that make it for you so that all you have to do is throw it into boiling salted water,” you grumble sarcastically, brow furrowed.

Zach shakes his head at you - rolling his eyes slightly as he takes your chin between his fingers, “When you cook for people, it’s nurturing them - that’s something everyone needs. For years, all my food was ration packs and eaten quickly as if you take your time, that can make you and your whole squad vulnerable.

“I know I’m not the greatest catch - I can’t offer you everything I want to give you but I can cook. And knowing that my food nourishes you, eases me here,” he taps his chest on the left before bringing his fingers to stroke your cheek, “It’s also great to have the time to enjoy creating something where I’m not at risk of being shot at.”

A brief flutter of guilt at your laziness flickers within your chest as you consider everything Zach has been through before he arrived at your door. You bury your face in his chest to hide your wincing, not feeling worthy of his gaze - breathing the smell of your shared laundry soap and conditioner, and that smell that is just just entirely him. Always immaculately clean and scrubbed, Zach still takes militaristic care with his showers - only ever becoming preoccupied if you decide to join him.

“Hey, hey beautiful - I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you feel bad,” a kiss is pressed into the top of your head, “If you want, I can run out and buy some pappardelle.”

“No, I’m sorry and I deserve to feel guilty as I was entirely being a dick,” you mumble into his chest, “Let me swim around in it until I get all prune-y.”

Prising your head gently back from his chest, Zach smiles down at you, “Nope, soldier. I can’t let you do that, I need you fit and ready to concentrate, stat.”

“Yes, sir. ‘Oorah.”

✪✪✪✪✪

“I stole my mom’s pasta machine,” You throw over your shoulder at your boyfriend, as you scrub your hands at the sink behind him in your galley kitchen - your bums almost touching due the narrow proximity.

A chuckle vibrates the air by your ear as a pair of arms wrap around your middle, “Not stolen. I asked her if we could borrow it for tonight.”

“Oh,” you huff, “So there was no need for my cloak and dagger tactics to get it out of her kitchen?”

You watch as a large hand tries to muffle the laughter erupting from Zach’s mouth, “I wondered why you were being so weird that night. You kept disappearing.”

“Yeah, I was loosening it surreptitiously from the table so it didn’t have to be a smash and grab,” you frown at the unnecessary effort you’d put into pickpocketing until you catch Zach’s twinkling eyes, “Look, I warned you that this was a thing with my family. We all try to steal things without the others noticing - you know this! You hollered at my brother when you caught him - what can only be described as - sashaying away from here in my heels.

“It’s like a really irritating bit that has gone on far too long but now you messed it up by asking for my mom’s permission - gah! I will never live this down, teacher’s pet,” you playfully jab your boyfriend in the ribs.

With nowhere to easily escape, Zach’s hands simply catch your wrists to try to cease your tickling torment of him, pinning them effortlessly above your head to an overhead cabinet before growling in your ear, “That’s right, I’m a good boy. I asked your mom for permission to borrow her pasta machine.”

After pressing a line of kisses into your neck, he suddenly releases your hands leaving you desperately wanting more as he grabs the eggs and flour from the side, “C’mon you, we have pasta to make.”

Biting your lip and wishing that Zach had continued in that vein, you follow his broad back through to your living room where your dining table is for once, not only clean but clutter free. Using a large bowl, you watch as he pours in three cups of 00 flour to one cup of fine semolina flour - his large hands gently whisking the two together, barely causing a cloud of dust to rise.

“Right, beautiful, while I mix these - you beat these eggs,” Zach instructs as he brushes floury handprints onto his joggers before passing you a bowl, six eggs and a fork.

Diligently cracking each shell against the side of the bowl, the contents of the eggs plop satisfyingly as you whips them together into a frothy orange concoction, “Where did you learn to make pasta? Is it since you’ve been working in the kitchen?”

A small snort to your right makes you look up at the gorgeous crinkles emanating from his eyes, “Hah, no. Not much fresh stuff served in the canteen.”

With a small kiss to the side of your head, Zach disappears momentarily to reappear cradling a pile of rosemary, garlic, anchovies and a small bottle of white balsamic vinegar, “When I was small, my mom and dad just worked all the time or went out with their friends, which made me the typical latchkey kid of the seventies and eighties. Our apartment was next to a lovely Ligurian lady who’d immigrated here in the fifties and she hated that I was left alone so often.

“Signora Guilia would have me finish my homework at her table and then make me scrub up to help her make dinner. The food was always much tastier than whatever my mom left me to make with the microwave chef at home and I loved spending that time with her.

“She had this heavy wooden dinner table that must have been passed down generations before it got shipped across the seas. The knots that surrounded the pasta machine were always slightly floury as it was constantly in use - it was my favourite point to sit at the table.”

Feeling your heart grow within your chest, you watch avidly as Zach traces the imaginary knots of the old lady’s table gently across the Formica surface in your home. He so rarely shares anything willingly about his past - only allowing you in when he’s at a virtual breaking point - that you treasure these moments of peaceful reflection.

Perching on a barstool by the kitchen door, you swing your legs whilst you watch him confidently moving around - your favourite pastime even when you’re both at work. The moments you snatch together between classes, with you leaning against the stainless steel surfaces of his work space with a steaming coffee in hand, chattering away to Zach as you watch him preparing the canteen lunches with his sous chef hat on. - him sneaking small kisses and sharing shy smiles with you.

Having roughly chopped the ingredients, Zach throws them all in the blender, adding a good glug of vinegar to the mix before blitzing it into a green sauce and setting it to one side. After checking the beaten eggs, he creates a well for them in amongst the mix of flours in the bowl slowly bringing the ingredients together with a couple of tablespoons of extra virgin olive oil until it creates a ball. Plying and pressing back and forth, Zach’s knuckles effortlessly knead the gloriously golden dough - adding a little more flour after initially finding the mixture too sticky beneath his warm palms.

“Signora Isabella would cut the dough into smaller sections - flattening each piece with her rolling pin before handing them to me where I’d feed them into the machine, watching them grow thinner and thinner and longer and longer with each pass through the rollers. I loved being in charge of that dial, turning it until the dough was papery thin.”

Not realising that you’re just gazing at him adoringly until you catch the rosy hue upon the tips of his ears, you avert your eyes to try to quell the embarrassment building within Zach, “What can I do to help, honey?” you offer, “I’m just sitting here like a lemon while you do all the work.”

“Wanna get the meat started?” Zach’s eyebrows question as his brow furrows, “Needs seasoning, a layer of flour and browning in the pan.

Think you’re up to that, chef?” he winks at you, flashing that delicious dimple your way.

“Oh I dunno, you’re testing my skills of domesticity there,” you tease before shaking your head and gesturing at the comfortable yet mismatched living space of randomly gathered nicknacks and creaky second-hand furniture, “As you can see, it’s not my strong point.”

After sliding from your seat, a slap on your bum sends into the kitchen as you shoot your boyfriend a mock shocked look across your shoulder. Opening the fridge, you not only grab the neck of lamb but two bottles of beer that seem to call your name. Blindly passing it through the doorway, you can’t help but smile when the bottle in your hand is swapped for a gently pressed kiss to the inside of your wrist.

Heavily seasoning the meat, you roll it in flour before heating the oil beneath a cast iron casserole that you’d discovered for a steal in a local goodwill. Sneaking up behind you with the green sauce in one hand, Zach comes to check on your progress as you absentmindedly flick through your phone and steal an amaretti biscuit instead of turning the steadily browning meat.

“Browning not burning,” he mutters as one arm removes the meat from the gas to a nearby plate and the other arm slips around your tummy. Biting the juncture between your neck and shoulders as a playful warning, Zach then deglazes the pan with a splash of white wine, reducing it until the liquid from the pan disappeared. Still working one handed with you snuggled into one side, he throws the lamb and the green sauce back into the casserole before spinning you into him to swap places so he can grab the chicken stock from the fridge to add to the dish too.

Both Zach and you stand there in silence watching the meat stew come to a simmer upon the stove - the worn, softness of his t-shirt against your cheek.

“Ready to help me make the pasta?” Zach muffledly asks into your hair.

Against his chest, you nod albeit entirely reluctant to let him go. Following Zach back into the living room, you stand beside him at the table - whilst you were browning the meat, he’d separated and rolled out the blocks of dough, ready to be passed through your mom’s machine.

“So what do I do?” You ask, peering over the machine as despite it being a permanent fixture in the family kitchen of your childhood, you’d only ever run your playdough through it as a kid and gotten such a telling off, that you never went near it again.

“We’re gonna start with it on the widest setting, and keep passing and tightening it until it’s about the thickness of a dime,” he passes you a piece of dough to start feeding into the machine - you catch a slight smile curling up at the corners of his mouth as he takes in your confused expression, “C’mon, you must have used this with your mom as a kid?”

“Nope,” you pop the p, shaking your head in response to Zach’s question, “We weren’t ever allowed in the kitchen as we’d make a mess. Ruin something. Probably what cemented my love of microwave dinners.”

“Time to put that right then,” he brushes your cheek with a warm, slightly floury thumb, “‘K, so you need to feed it in from the top really slowly and crank the handle - don’t look so panicked - I’m gonna help you.”

As you start to send it through the rollers, you watch the magic being created - the dough being squeezed ever thinner and flatter. Over and over, again and again, Zach adeptly changes the setting each time until you are left with an impossibly long, papery thin pasta, ready to be cut into chunky strands of pappardelle.

You cannot help but be amazed by this transformation - all big eyes and mouth agape as you turn to Zach. The tug you make upon the seam of his t-shirt is entirely unnecessary as you notice that he’s grinning at your childlike expression of wonder.

“Look what we made! That’s so cool,” you enthuse emphatically, “I do feel like that’s the best you’re going to get from me unless you let me have a coffee break though.”

“‘K soldier, at ease. Want a cookie with that coffee?” Zach asks, pressing a kiss into your forehead.

“Only if you insist.”

✪✪✪✪✪

Hands clasped tightly around mismatched mugs of steaming coffee, the two of you stretch out together on the sofa with the tv softly playing out some comedy in the background. You still giggle at the lines you’ve heard a million times before but you notice the tap, tap, tapping of fingers against the ceramic of Zach’s cup. Placing your cup upon the creaky floorboards, you remove the mug from his hands - putting it down next to yours - before moving to the opposite side of the sofa to snuggle into his chest.

On placing your head upon him, the rapid thud of his heart sends a wave of worry through you and as a response, you tuck your arms around him, squeezing Zach tightly. Oh how you wish you could squash all those fears that roar away inside his brain. How you wish you could pull him out of that reaction to retreat inside himself and switch off that constantly ringing alarm inside his head.

“I’m right here, you know,” you utter gently, as you nuzzle into him, “I’m not going anywhere.”

A heavy swallow comes from above you but no verbal response. You stick your hand between the sofa cushions behind you - rummaging through broken remotes, crumbs and hair grips before your fingers find purchase on what you were looking for and triumphantly pulling out your half rolled up tube of intensive hand cream.

“I love the special places you have for keeping your things,” Zach chuckles tightly.

“Hey, I knew exactly where it was,” you shuffle yourself so that you’re now sitting between Zach’s legs - holding out your hand for him to place his in yours, “C'mere baby, let me sort those hands out for you.”

Massaging Zach’s hands is one of your most favourite things to do. When he’s constantly scrubbing them at work to ensure hygiene, they often get cracked and sore and so they benefit from the miracle cream that you rub into them but that’s not the only reason you do it. Squirting a large blob into his left hand, you start to relax the muscles by using your thumbs to caress large circles into his palms - working in spirals from the centre to the edges.

Stroking downwards from his knuckles to his wrist, you start to feel a little of his tension ebb away as his head flops back on the armrest and his thick, dark eyelashes flutter softly upon his cheek.

“I swear, your skin is like lots of little straws just drinking up this moisture,” you utter as you wrap your hand around each finger, gently rotating each joint, “It’s so dry. I’m gonna get you a tube to keep at work.”

Your only response is a deeply satisfied grunt from the other end of the sofa, followed by a settled sigh as his breathing evens out. Starting at the base of each finger, you rub in anti-clockwise circles until you reach Zach’s fingertips - at which point, you realise he may have dropped off. Still keeping the soothing movements going, not wanting to startle your handsome boyfriend from a much needed doze, you watch his chest slowly rising and falling, remembering his initial fear of sleeping next to you - how he used to fly out of bed to lie upon the sofa.

It took weeks of gentle cajoling to convince him that you were at no greater risk from his nightmares than he was from your bed hogging nocturnal activities. Gradually, Zach allowed himself closer and closer to you and spread himself more evenly across the mattress rather than trying to sleep on the edge of the bed. Now, you are pretty confident the only reason he ends up there is because of your need to starfish during the night.

As you switch to his other hand, Zach shuffles slightly - one eyebrow raising his eyelid to check it was still you between his knees. His lips part into a sleepy soft smile as both eyes slowly blink back open.

“Think you’ve got magic in those hands of yours,” he mutters thickly through a yawn, sniffing as he rubs the heel of his left hand in his eyes.

You feel a glow beginning in your tummy at his words. Kneeling forwards you press a kiss to his forehead, “What’s left to be done?”

“Dessert, and entrée - but I’ll sort the antipasti once people arrive,” Zach scratches his chest, gazing up at you, “The tiramisù needs making.

“Listen, I’ll go get the ingredients and put some fresh coffee on - you sit here,” Zach pulls himself upright, ready to get back to work, patting your bum to get you to sit further back so he can slide past.

Grabbing your now almost iced coffee from the floor, you watch your boyfriend’s ass disappear back into the kitchen from where you can hear the electrical hum of the kettle, the bangs of cupboards being rummaged through, and the soft clunk of the fridge closing again. Moments later, Zach reappears with his arms full of delicious things - including that box of amaretti biscuits that you may have dipped into several times already.

Setting the things down upon your table, as a gesture to get up and help, Zach then strokes the back of your neck.

“‘K so Signora Giulia would always make her tiramisù with amaretti biscuits - might have to be a bit lighter on how many she used to pack into hers though,” he chuckles, shaking the nearly half-empty box in your direction.

“Must be those damn mice again.”

“Yeah, I’ve never met mice that are as neat as yours,” Zach drops the last biscuit into the freshly brewed coffee, “I mean, they even put the wrappers in the bin.”

“I’ve trained them well.”

“If you could do that with the ones that hang out in the dry storage larders at work, that’d be great,” Zach muses as he whips double cream, mascarpone, golden caster sugar and Marsala together.

You turn back to enjoy how the brisk whisking of the delicious mixture highlights the lean muscles in his arms, “You know the mice aren’t so keen on lady fingers. They told me that the sponge isn’t as moreish as the almond flavour.”

“I’ll keep that in mind for next time,” Zach chuckles as you sidle over, wrapping your arms around him, “Hey, you here to cause trouble?”

“Always,” your hands slide beneath his T-shirt, enjoying the soft, smoothness of his back muscles as you rub up and down his body.

“I can’t concentrate with you doin’ that.”

You giggle, sliding the worn material up before nuzzling the bare flesh between his shoulder blades, “Y’see why I always smack your hands away when I cook - you do this to me all the time!”

“Okay, okay - just stop kissing me while I grate chocolate across the top of the desert. I need my fingers, if you don’t want to serve your friends Pot Noodles and donuts from the bodega,” Zach pleads with you as you continue placing delicate kisses down his spine.

Sliding your hands around to his tummy, you keep them travelling lower until you reach the thick cotton waistband of his joggers. For a moment - as you feel his hands rapidly grating dark chocolate back and forth - you hover your fingertips just above his sensitive skin, refusing to touch until the need for band aids has passed. A satisfying clunk of metal upon Formica tells you that the danger has passed so your hands wrap around Zach’s steadily growing erection. The breath that catches in his throat makes your pulse quicken.

Pushing away the bowl of trifle, Zach suddenly spins around. After a short, hard spank to your ass, he wraps you in his arms. With zero hesitation, you search blindly forward until you find Zach’s lips upon yours - little shivers of pleasure rushing through you as he deepens the kiss. A moment of guilt passes quickly when you consider that he can probably taste the almondy sweetness of the stolen amaretti mixed in with the bitterness of the espresso from earlier.

All thoughts rapidly subside as you hear a small growl emanate from the back of his throat when your fingers snake into the curls of his hair. His hands are on your hips, steering you towards the wall - your head bumping a poorly hung frame to the floor in your desperate need for each other. You catch a small worried look from Zach as he quickly checks you for gaping wounds but on seeing that you are still in one piece, he returns to devouring you.

Tugging the hem of his shirt upwards, Zach breaks away from you momentarily to pull it off before his hand finds purchase on the back of your head to pull you close again.

“You are such a fucking tease,” he growls in your ear - nibbling and licking a stripe up your neck, “I’m gonna have the image of you clasping my cock, kissing my back whilst I cook all next week.”

“It doesn’t just have to be an image,” you softly pant, “Perhaps I’ll have to come visit you - not just for a coffee.”

With those words, Zach swiftly dispatches you of your T-shirt - and oh, how the sensation of skin upon skin maddens you. Just jammies means no underwear. His hands find your breasts - softly squeezing them as his thumbs brush relentlessly against your nipples. He pushes the wall away from behind you, guiding your body backwards until the back of your calves hit the sofa where you fall in a puzzle of limbs.

Leaning on his elbows over you, Zach nudges your nose with his to get your attention, “You sure?”

Had it been any other man, you’d have teased him but with Zach’s bruised and weary soul, you remove the element of sarcasm, “Yes. Yes, I want you. I want you to fuck me.”

You catch the tic in his bottom lip as he kneels up between your legs - his warm calloused hands skirting gently over the curves of your body. Zach then gets up from the sofa, grabs the leftover mix of tiramisù from the table and flicks your torso with it - the coolness of the liquid making your skin twitch.

“Oh,” your breath catches in your throat, “Zach, you made a mess.”

“Yeah,” he considers as his eyes rake over your body, “Better clean that up, huh?”

Small huffs of warm breath tickle your skin as he lowers his face towards you. Starting with the smudge upon your collarbone, his tongue expertly laves across your body - not missing a spot of mixture. His mouth descends further south - every lick inciting fire inside you - until he sucks upon your nipple when every meaningful thought ceases to be.

Your desperation builds as he continues to feast upon your breast - your hands clawing, scratching at him. Zach only breaks momentarily to swap sides, fastening his mouth around the other nipple with an indecent slurp. Wrapping your arms around his shoulders and squeezing tightly, you crush his head into you before tugging his hair to bring him back up for a kiss - his tongue delivering a sweetly creamy flavour from your skin.

Zach’s hands stroke and grab at the flesh upon your hips before his thumbs find the elastic of your pj bottoms to slide them off. You tug at the string of his joggers, rolling them down over his hip that his cock suddenly springs free, tapping his tummy with a tiny bead of precum. You stroke your finger through it before bringing it to your mouth - making sure that his eyes are upon you as you suck upon your digit.

Quickly shucking himself of his socks and pants, he settles himself back between your legs but now… now it’s your turn. Grabbing the spoon from the bowl on the floor, you trickle a trail of mixture down from his tummy button, over the sweet little curve of his belly. You keep the trail of sweetness going right from the base to the tip of his cock.

The shallow hitch in his breath and groan he releases as you slowly pay attention to this most sensitive part of his body is music to your ears.

“You are so fucking delicious.”

Your hands clasp around his peachy butt as you lick the mixture from the head of his cock - swirling your tongue back and forth, licking the little drips from where the head meets the shaft. There might not have been too many there but you take your sweet ass time sucking and licking there whilst keeping your eyes upon his face.

Occasionally, you feel a soft stroke upon your cheek or a rub into the knots in your shoulders as Zach watches the movements of your tongue. As there was still a lot of mixture upon the top side, you suddenly take the whole of him into your mouth eliciting a thunderous growl from him. The mix acts as a tasty lube - adding extra wetness that makes it easy to slide Zach’s cock in and out of your lips.

As his hips start to roll towards - meeting the forwards and back motion of your mouth - and you see his head drop back, you know that it’s time to slow it down again. Ensuring that you’ve licked and sucked every bit of the mixture from his skin, you release his dick with a pop.

With a gentle shove, Zach pushes you backwards - a grin upon his lips, “Two can play at that game, beautiful.”

Scraping the metal spoon against the sides of the bowl, Zach takes the remaining mixture and splatters it against your tummy and thighs. And then he pauses. Staring deeply into your eyes, he waits. Stretching the moment out before lowering his head to lick the batter from your belly - licking tiny circles into you, nuzzling the softness and kissing your sensitive skin.

Trying to send wordless hints to Zach by lifting your hips and opening your legs wider goes seemingly unheard with zero response. It isn’t until your tummy and thighs are licked sparkling clean that he gives a hint that he already knows where you want him. Need him. Shuffling closer to you, he lifts your knees over his shoulders before sliding his hands between the couch cushions and your bum. His fingers squeeze the ample flesh as he takes a deliciously long pause to gaze appreciatively between your legs.

You are wide open in front of him with his face hovering less than an inch above your pussy. Slowly, you watch him drag his eyes up your body until his eyes catch yours. He begins to lick - softly, delicately right upon your clit and it’s almost too much for you. Flattening out his tongue, he laps long, slow stripes, hungrily tasting your slickness before returning to the mind-bending, ultra-light flickering.

Feeling his eyes fall upon the heat surging through your body, you glance down to watch how he wrecks you beneath his tongue. Breathing hard and fast, you writhe under his touch before Zach moves slightly lower, sticking his tongue right into your cunt. Thrusting back and forth - making the muscle as hard as he can - he prepares you perfectly. Riling you up, making you wild for his cock - the best control Zach exerts over you.

Easing himself up, you feel Zach leave you once again. Leaving you wanting and desperate for more.

You call teasingly after him as you hear your bedside table drawer go, “Grating chocolate over me next or dripping lamb ragú across my body?”

A soft baritone chuckle tickles your ears, “Neither of those are good suggestions- I’d end up grating my fingers and I’d have to blow on the ragú before spilling it over you.”

Taking the condom from his hands, you roll it down towards the tight curls at the base of his cock. A frisson of excitement rushes through you as he lines himself up at your entrance - the thickness and weight of his length pressing against you. With one small thrust, Zach pushes the head inside and you instantly clamp down with all your might - your muscles trembling, fluttering around his hardened flesh. You look up to see him smiling down at you before pushing in a little deeper.

His spread of you is exquisite. How he opens you deeper and deeper until he bottoms out inside, with you both moaning your pleasure to invisible gods. You lock him in place by wrapping your legs around his back - your eyes focussed on each other in the golden afternoon light.

As your cunt clenches upon him again and again, a switch is flipped in Zach’s head. Gone are the gentle slow strokes and in their place are short sharp hammers from his hips and small bruises under his fingertips. The slapping of skin upon skin as he draws you in and pushes you away all starts building to a delicious crescendo as he finds that sweet spot inside you- hitting it again and again.

As he hammers away, you can feel your muscles start involuntarily squeeze and buck around Zach’s cock as you drown in waves of pleasure. Crashing through your tummy and spreading to your limbs, you allow yourself to be swept away as pleasure ripples throughout your body - not only submerging you but pulling Zach under too. He groans deeply in your ear, driving back and forth for a final time before permitting his own orgasm to overwhelm him.

✪✪✪✪✪

A cloud of steam puffs out as the silhouette of your boyfriend appears from the bathroom with a towel wrapped around his waist and one draped around his shoulders. His dark curls are hanging damp and soft over his eyes as he roughly rubs them dry, you can’t help but watch him rather than focus on the book you have open and resting on your tummy.

“You gonna get dressed, or are your friends so used to your exploits that nakedness is an option for you?” Zach teases as he sits on the edge of the bed - the hand not drying his hair, lazily squeezing your breast.

A cheeky grin spreads lopsidedly across your face, “Yeah - skin is always fashionable and surprisingly, always fits - no matter how much my boyfriend feeds me!”

The giggles and chuckles that fill the air are rudely interrupted by the sharp buzz from the intercom. The fun and ease dissipates quickly - a flash of panic distorts Zach’s features replacing the easy smile that was so recently there with a furrowed brow and mouth agape, gasping for air.

Raising your eyebrows insincerity, you grab his chin in your fingers as you gaze deeply into his eyes, “I can tell them to fuck off,” you gaze over at the alarm clock on the side, before turning back to him, “They’re fuckin’ early for a start. Listen, it’s still not to late for me to tell them all to fuck off - you and me, we can have a week of eating lamb ragú and homemade pappardelle until it comes out of our noses.”

A huffed laugh breaks through the short breaths, “You’d do that for me?”

“Course I would,” you laugh, “want me to?”

A few droplets fall like tiny diamonds upon your skin from where he shakes his head firmly. The intercom buzzes again, so you jump up - as naked as the day you were born to answer it, “What do you want?”

The tinny voices beg to be let in from the burning sun so you throw one last look at Zach over your shoulder, checking he is ok before responding, “‘Spose you can come in but take the stairs slowly, I’m still naked.”

A mock yelp of disgust echoes through the speaker with promises of pigeon steps to your front door.

“See, I bought us some time,” you grin, pinning Zach between your legs and pressing kisses all over his soapy sweet skin - his lighter chuckles muffled by your neck.

✪✪✪✪✪

“You alright, love?”

A bunch of brightly coloured gerberas are thrust into your face on opening the door of your apartment by your old colleague from when you both worked together in the local high school. There’s a flurry of kisses, handshakes and hugs before you push ice cold beers into Alex and Gray’s hands. Alex follows you onto the sofa chattering ten to the dozen about some of your former shared students. Half listening to him, you watch over Zach’s buzzing around the room protectively.

“How’s he doing? Tonight must feel quite overwhelming for him seeing all of us at once,” Alex mutters quietly as he catches your wandering gaze.

“Not great, but he did manage to sleep without any major nightmares last night - which is fucking massive progress,” you twist the fabric of your shorts between your fingers as you continue to watch him flit to and fro between the table and the fridge organising the antipasti.

Alex’s boyfriend, Gray sits upon the bar stool making small talk about where he likes to buy his prosciutto from, trying to take Zach’s mind off his obvious discomfort. Eventually, you watch him jump up to help alongside him - asking how he can help. You hear a small murmur from your boyfriend asking for the focaccia dough to be brought through from where it was resting in the kitchen.

You allow a little relief to run through your veins as you watch the two men working alongside each other, preparing sundried peppers and tomatoes, bresaola, and mozzarella across the plate - sprinkling them with olive oil, basil and chilli. Zach gives a muttered instruction to Gray who seems to understand as he retreats into the kitchen to find whatever it was your boyfriend asked him for.

“Gray’s being beautifully patient with Zach,” you whisper in Alex’s direction, your fingers tugging at the label of your bottle.

“He’s been there. He gets it.”

“What, being the new guy in the group?”

Alex snorts, “No honey, not just that. He was Delta Force. Fighting for president and country fucked him over too. We still have nightmares, sobbing and panic attacks.”

“Shit.”

You watch Alex drain his beer, nodding at you across the sofa. He sniffs before responding, “Yeah, no plain sailing here. But, he’s worth every crushingly tight hug. Every set of sweat soaked bed linens. Every welfare phone call from the police checking we are both okay from the shouting our neighbours hear.”

“I love him, Alex,” you quietly confide.

“I love Gray,” he agrees, patting your leg, “They are both two incredible men but fuck, have they both been used up and spat out.

“Want another?” Alex waves his empty bottle at you.

You nod smiling at him before returning to watch the two men preparing food quietly next to each other, their hands happy to have something to do.

✪✪✪✪✪

The door buzzes twice again with you answering to more friends and their partners, who are laden with beers and plants that soon fill your minuscule apartment to the brim. Zach finds comfort in adopting his work role - ensuring everyone is fed and watered adequately - managing tight smiles through his anxiety. Every time you pass him, you kiss and stroke him, whispering in his ear, kissing him between his shoulder blades as you squeeze past him in your tiny kitchen and passing him beers as soon as his empties.

“Thought that was my role tonight,” Zach mutters into your hairline as you press the latest ice cold bottle into his palm.

“Yeah, well, you’re slacking in your duties,” you tease before tugging his hand to get his attention away from the simmering pasta, “How are you doing?”

“S’a lot of people,” he honestly responds.

You nod at him, “Yeah, it is. A lot of people in quite a small space. If you need a break, go lay down - no one here will judge you. In fact, I remember a dinner party at Alex’s where he’d split from his previous partner and he spent the entire time in bed, sobbing whilst we all sat there eating gyoza and sushi we’d ordered in as he couldn’t bring himself to open the fridge.”

The tale brings a smile to Zach’s lips, just enough to make his dimple flash, “Nah, m’okay but thanks. Thanks for everything. You’re so fucking patient with me.”

“Just as well you’re hot, eh?” you wink at him, pinching his butt as you grab the mix of pasta bowls and plates from the side.

“Right folx, we fucking made the pasta from scratch so be grateful bitches or I will personally sling each one of you out of here,” you jokingly warn your friends.

“Like fuck you did,” Chimi pipes up from the sofa across the room, “You are telling me that the person who would probably burn a Pot Noodle has made pasta from scratch?”

“Zachary Wellison, what have you done to our favourite these-hotdogs-are-only-a-week-out-of-date human?” Chimi’s husband, Anthony, questions.

Zach spins with an air of alarm in your direction with the pot of ragú held tightly in his hands, “You served out of date food? I thought these people were your friends?”

Alex chuckles across the room, “Yeah, you should see how she treats her enemies.”

“You’re fucking mean, the lot of you. Anyway, dig in you ungrateful bastards,” you moan as Zach slinks over to swap a kiss for a plate of food, squishing up next to you on the sofa.

An air of slurping silence fills the room as everyone tucks into the delicious food. Groans of delight gradually trickling through the room as the freshly prepared food hits tastebuds perfectly.

“Zach, this is incredible,” Soph gawks at her plate wide-eyed as she spins another strand of pasta around her fork.

You furrow your brow in mock anger as you grumble, “Where’s my praise?”

A chorus of wows and well dones bring a rosy hue to Zach’s cheeks and you feel him shift awkwardly next to you. Where your thigh rests against his, you try to send him a small signal of just being there for him by knocking your knee into his.

“Zach, my sister is looking for a sous-chef in her restaurant - if this is how you cook, she’d be really interested in having you work for her,” Anthony calls across the room, “She has a lot of ex-military and homeless working for her so she’d get your background completely.”

Pushing himself up suddenly from the sofa, you watch as Zach marches out of the room - his knuckles white and his mouth a thin tight line- hiding himself in the bedroom.

“‘Scuse me,” you place your plate next to Zach’s on the floor.

“I’m so sorry — I didn’t, I didn’t mean anything by it. Just thought it would be the perfect opportunity for him,” Anthony apologises profusely as you turn to leave the room.

“I know, honey. Just give me a minute,” you pat his arm as you pass him.

✪✪✪✪✪

Hot tears run in rivulets down his cheeks, pooling on the pillow beneath his head. You quietly shuffle onto the bed next to him, running your fingers through his curls.

“They all think I’m a fuckin’ waste of space. Utterly useless and undeserving of you,” Zach stutters into the thick material.

“Is that what you took away from that conversation?” You gently question, stroking the wetness away with your thumb.

Zach sits up with a snarl in his throat, “I took from it that I’m in need of saving. Of pity jobs passed my way, ‘cause they can see that I’m just a washed-up vet who’s draining and using you.”

“Okay,” you pat his thigh. “Give me a moment. I… I want to tell you something.”

A creak signifies your weight leaving the bed and you swear you hear a louder gasp from Zach as you walk away into the living room. Five concerned faces and one guilt-stricken one turn towards you as you come into the room.

Chimi quietly asks, “How’s he doing? We can all go if it’d make it easier for him?”

You shake your head confidently, “No, I don’t think that would help him. Just… Can I borrow you for a second Alex, please?”

Pulling him closely behind you, you knock at the door before entering, “ Zach, honey. I have Alex with me. You know we used to work together at Laguna Creek with the seniors?”

A silhouetted nod comes from the hunched figure sat on the opposite side of the bed to where you and Alex come to rest.

“So when the job at the VA came up, I couldn’t help mulling it over as it seemed perfect for me but I couldn’t actually make myself sit down and write the resume or cover letter. If they didn’t shortlist me, it would have been a confirmation of every teacher’s nightmare that they’re no good at their job and letting the kids down.”

A tearful snort comes from Zach, “That’s ridiculous, you’re amazing at what you do.”

“Might seem like it but it felt very real at the time,” moving closer to him before continuing, you add, “If I made it to interview but they didn’t hire me then it would have been confirmation of the same and I don’t know that I’m tough enough for that rejection as before you came along, all I was was a teacher. It was my whole personality. I lived for every kid who passed through my hands but it wasn’t really living.

“Anyway, it was Alex who made me do it. He sat one night and rewrote my resume - adapting it perfectly for the job. He also wrote my cover letter too. And… and drove me to the interview.”

You watch as Alex’s phone lights up in his hands as he scrolls back through his Google Docs - you see your name written next to the acronyms of CV and CL as he slides the phone across the bed.

“And thank fuck he did, or I wouldn’t have you here with me,” You place your palm between his shoulder blades - still feeling the erratically fast pounding of his heart through his shirt.

You see a small shrug from Alex, before he responds, “That’s what friends do. When they spot a great path for you, they lift you up. Encourage you to go for new experiences and explore ways for you to grow.”

“I don’t know what it’s like working with my life at risk. I don’t have your lived experiences. Nevertheless, I do know what it feels like to not feel worthy or good enough and I now know that the paralysis from that fear, almost held me back from meeting you.”

With a tug of your arm, Zach pulls you across the bed into him, wordlessly sobbing into your hair as you hold him tightly in the darkened room.

✪✪✪✪✪

“…Then the surgeon had the audacity to ask me to make him a cup of tea, as if I hadn’t been there for entire fucking 12 hour surgery making sure that his patient was suitably anaesthetised and moved fucking regularly,” Soph splutters over her story as you shake your head in wonder as to how she hasn’t murdered one of those egotistical maniacs yet.

A soft shuffling in your hallway alerts you to a presence in the doorframe. The corners of your mouth instantly turn up on seeing Zach’s beautiful face as he shyly enters the room. A genuine, caring welcome back cheer erupts amongst your friends on seeing that he’d rejoined you.

“I’m really sorry. I shouldn’t have…”

“Shhh,” Chimi quietens him abruptly, “You have nothing to apologise for. Want me to heat your food up?”

“Oh, that’s really kind but I think I’m done, thanks,” Zach smiles gratefully at Chimi, patting his tummy before turning towards her husband, “Anthony, I’m truly sorry and I’d love to take you up on that offer.”

Anthony shakes his head at Zach, “You have nothing to apologise for - I should have thought about how it looked to you. I’m truly sorry, man.

“I hope you don’t mind but I’ve boxed some up to drop at hers tonight - already texted her about you and your food and she’s really excited.”

“So, who’s ready for dessert?” you jump up from the floor, grabbing licked clean plates from your friends’ hands.

Zach quietly sits on the couch listening to another of Soph’s tales about the OR - even allowing himself a small chuckle at how she had gotten her own back on the baby doc who’d been so rude to her.

As you pass around heaped portions of the tiramisù on mismatched plates, a collectively indecent groan is sung in chorus by the guests. The hum of approval, you deflect from his cheeks by piping up and winking at your boyfriend, “Yeah, it had a similar effect on me earlier when Zach gave me a little taste.”

Your comment has Soph snorting the trifle through her nose as Chimi’s eyebrows hit the ceiling. Zach gives you a playful shove as everyone resumes eating before placing a kiss on your forehead.

“I’m gonna need another container if there’s any left over,” Anthony mutters thickly, his mouth full of mascarpone.

Chimi narrows her eyes at this, “Thought she had Moretti on desserts?”

“Nah, this isn’t for her,” Anthony shakes his head as he loads up another forkful, “It’s for me - once you go to bed.”

✪✪✪✪✪

The happy sighs of full tummies fill the room as Anthony and Gray gather up the remnants of a meal well enjoyed. A whoosh is then added as the two men get on with washing up while Chimi and Soph grab the empties, popping them in the box by the front door with yawned promises from Alex that he’d take the box out as he leaves.

Coffee cups drained, you sit cross legged on the couch with Zach’s head resting in your lap - your hands alternately trying to plait his longer curls and stroking gently through them. You watch as his eyes grow heavy under your tender touch, his breathing slowly becoming heavier and his face morphing into a little boy’s - the day’s stresses and tribulations ironing away the furrows and creases, leaving slightly parted, pouty lips.

“Listen,” Chimi interrupts your reverie, “I think we’re all agreed that if you ever want us to come over for dinner again, Zach needs to be busting your ass with the cooking ‘cos that was fucking amazing.”

“Not just for his cooking skills though,” Soph agrees, “He’s softened your edges and it’s genuinely lovely watching the two of you together. He’s a good man.”

Alex nods over the top of the cushion he’s curled around, “I like him. He’s a keeper.”

You nod, gazing down at the precious soul in your lap.

“I just got a message from the sitter that they’re still awake,” Anthony grimaces at Chimi.

With a roll of her eyes, she holds her hand out to him to be pulled to her feet, “Guess that’s us, theydies and gentlethems.”

Alex ruffles Gray’s hair before adding, “We’d better head too. Soph, did you Uber over?”

“Straight from work, baby. I am dedicated,” she stretches out her arms in a ta-da of sorts, “Mia’s got the car as she’s on nights so a lift home would be really fucking appreciated.”

“Yup, gotchu girl,” Alex leans over to kiss your cheek as his goodbye - your arm pulling the back of his neck into an upside down and slightly awkward hug.

“Has everyone got their doggy bags?” You question as they head towards the door to find their shoes.

Lots of confirmations, thank yous and shout of goodbye echo through the hallway before it’s just you and Zach again.

“‘K you monster, you can stop faking it now.”

“Wasn’t faking it. Was dropping off at points but then they started saying nice things and I fought the sleep to hear what they said,” a thick, low rumble from Zach is spoken into your thigh.

“Yeah?” you tease, tickling his sides, “Ego suitably inflated?”

Snuggling his head into your thigh, you feel the cock of his cheek as he grins, “I think they missed the fact that I’m devilishly handsome but talking about how I bring out a softer side in you and that I’m a great cook - that’ll do for now.”

“Cheeky fuck,” you dig your fingers into his tummy before stroking the jab away, “I was thinking that perhaps we should get a key cut for you. For here. Cos it seems like you might not be working at the VA for much longer.”

“Baby, don’t get too ahead of yourself - I don’t know that she’ll like my cooking let alone hire me,” Zach gulps as he props himself up a little. His eyes dart around a little before he focuses on the sean of your shorts, “Also, I don’t know if I want to leave the VA. The thought of not seeing you all the time is not one I’m sure that I want to consider.”

“Sweetheart, you’d be coming home to me. You’d still be laying in bed next to me and making my coffee first thing in the morning,” you assure him as you stroke his slightly stubbly cheek, “The VA isn’t meant to be a permanent stop for you. But me? I’ll be permanent for as long as you’ll have me.”

Zach pushes himself to his creaky knees before taking your face in his hands, “Guess we’d better get that key cut.”

Tag list: @astroboots @silverwolf319 @sirowsky @leonieb @alliterative-albatross @bison-writes @the-ginger-hedge-witch @danniburgh @day-off-inkyoto @green-socks @tardisfangurl @absurdthirst @ezrasbirdie @mrsparknuts @zukoyonce @yespolkadotkitty @lunaserenade @theravenreads @honestly-shite @sharkbait77 @speakerforthedead0 @agirllovespancakes @songsformonkeys @adamdrivercouldchokeme @lv7867 @anxiousandboujee @kesskirata @insomniamamma @elegantduckturtle @charnelhouse

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#pedro pascal #josé pedro balmaceda pascal #pedro pascal fanfiction #pedro pascal characters #jose pedro balmaceda pascal #pedro pascal#ppascaledit #pedro pascal smut #zach wellison x you #zach wellison x reader #zach wellison #brothers and sisters #Zach Wellison fluff #Zach Wellison smut #pedro pascal character #pedro pascal x you #pedro pascal edit #pedro pascal x reader #pedro pascal fanfic

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wistfulrat · 4 years ago

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a 4-part rec list of my fave drarry fics - the thrillers, dramas, soft bois, and wankbanks getting me through 2020′s shitstorm

[the soft boi list is here and truly i’m not surprised this rec is going to be the longest bc if there’s one thing a bitch is going to do, it’s yearn.

as always! if you love a fic, follow the authors, leave kudos & comments, send them nice msgs bc free art is still labor xoxo]

part 3: soft bois

mood: for when I need respite, a balm to the all-consuming shittiness of life

includes: fluff, comfort, low-stakes, slow-burn fics. a wistful look, a rainy morning, an unexpected grace, a stupidly disarming joke. i could live inside these fics. the smallness of human lives removed from the site of that which hurts & irreparably changes. the story-equivalent of a deep breath after a long day. pregnant silences & pensive mundanity & shy smiles. banter with bite but without the cruelty. the color lavender. weirdly whimsical. soft fics are not necessarily conflict-averse (no drarry fic rly can be, considering the context) but, they offer the reader a generous distance from the initial harm. they’re the quiet cleaning up after a storm. sometimes healing is an exacting surgical knife and other times it’s a slow scabbing. you read these fics to be reassured that the way forward is not always ruthless. and honestly?? they deserve a semblance of peace godDAMmit.

The Way Down by @letteredlettered - 65k - T “and I thought that if someone talked to you as though you were a human being you might—maybe you could act like one” --the way i think about this line daily. the characterization of draco in this fic is one my favorites bc he’s earnest and neurotic and tired of harry’s shit. which is to say, he cares so so much. and harry doesn’t know what to do with that bc he’s got a monster in his chest and lives as a recluse. but they both humanize each other in ways no one else can. “you’re just a person” has to be some kind of drarry ethics of belonging and it makes me CRY. -

Little Deaths and How to Avoid Them by @greaseonmymouth and dustmouth - 96k - T “Maybe it’s not about deserving it? Maybe you just get to have it anyway. . .I’m allowing myself to want something and to let myself have it and to fight for it.” --harry runs a daycare and also works at a library. draco spends a lot of time in said library. they bond over sci-fi books and therapy anecdotes and quiet philosophical conversations held over cafeteria soup. and harry’s struggling to understand his asexuality. draco’s learning how to live with anxiety and depression. they both want to be deserving of love. incredible fic with beautiful art by dustmouth. -

Open for Repairs by @drarrytrash - 35k - T “A few leaves rustle in the gutter and the muggle world pays no mind to them, to two lost boys holding on for dear life.” --all of their fics feel exactly like this. like you’ve been allowed to look at something private, tender, unexpected. draco, known abba fan, is a repairman in the muggle world & harry can’t stop breaking thrifted things in order to see him? say less, i'm thERE. also “I think I have a crush on you” goddddd - other faves by them: Counting Down By Ten - 2k - T: draco’s stepped outside of the party for a smoke. harry follows him bc of course he does. i could read this 100 times and not get tired of it. - Clouds That Veil the Midnight Moon - 36k - E: FUCKING HILARIOUS I CACKLED THROUGH THE WHOLE THING. draco’s wolfy problem and harry helping him and harry being flustered by how much he likes draco and draco’s hot heroic moment. shutup it’s perfect. “He almost asks if Draco ever gets tired of being a miserable complaining shit all the time, but he knows that he, personally, never ever gets tired of being a miserable complaining shit.” and “It’s the traumas,” Harry says gravely” --lines that live rent free in my head -

Harry Potter and the Future He Doesn't Really Want, Thanks by seefin - 70k - E “That was the only logical thing to do here, wasn’t it? It was the next step, it was the end of hurting each other and the beginning of the exact opposite.” --harry lives with luna and neville and also he dreams about the future sometimes? and he keeps running into draco. draco thinks this is sus as hell, until he doesn’t. feat. taxi rides, museums, cinemas, rooftop conversations beneath a lunar eclipse, mid-sex innocuous banter, draco and harry discussing nicki minaj. this fic charmed my ass off. seefin writes the most effortlessly hilarious dialogues. i smiled at my phone like an idiot at least 7 times. - other faves by them: Wild - 93k - E: “he liked feeling needed, for the things that he was needed for back at the house in Ireland. For cooking and gardening and driving. Easy things.” --this shit makes me cry it’s so good. harry lives in Ireland with these three brilliant, hilarious, wandless witches and draco’s a potions student who's come to study under one of the housemates and the boys have so much shit to work through but their love becomes so tender and honest. draco yells at harry a lot and harry lets him and they both keep each other grounded in something real and fuCK. - Divination for Dickheads - 7k - G: “I’m terrible at having crushes. I’ve never played anything cool a day in my life.” -- oh harry, we knOW. a bus ride, a fortune teller, an aquarium birthday party. god i love this fic. -

Modern Love by @tackytigerfic - 61k - E “But we’ve worked so hard at this, haven’t we? Yeah, I know it’s a horror to have to talk about it, but fuck it. We’re friends now, but it took so long to get here. Have you ever had to work so hard at something before?" --the steady blossoming of their friendship in this fic is so goddamn beautiful i want to yell. it’s draco and harry learning to trust each other and the whole thing unfolds so slowly, in this whimsical mix of london streets, wizarding politics, church halls feat. a Hot vicar, and a magical antique shop owner who’s married to literal poseidon?? goD the environment of this fic. immaculate. [also there’s a tender shower scene that makes me cry every single fucking time so if you read this fic pls dm me so we can be embarrassing about it together tbh] -

Nice Things by aideomai - 22k - M “He kept waiting for the weird shock of touch to not knock him clean out of his head, leave him quiet and warm and happy.” --8th year. harry forms an unlikely friendship with draco that begins with smoking weed on a windowsill. harry is touch-starved and draco touches him like he touches all his close friends - like it’s easy. the quiet affection in this fic, the way harry burrows himself into touch bc he’s been without it for his entire life. reading this is like being held. -

Running On Air by @tinyhistory - 74k - T “do you remember when we were eleven?” --alexa play coldplay’s the scientist it’s sad girl hours and we’re about to fucking yearn. you’ve seen this fic rec on every drarry list under the sun and i'm here to be redundant. the hype is so goddamn real. this story is a lyrical masterpiece held together by lines that act as refrains that will rattle around your brain until you die, probably. draco’s been missing for 3yrs. harry goes to find him. it’s their odyssey of homecoming. -

Title of Their Sex Tape by @cibeewastaken - 12k - T “But Draco, Draco was everything but boring. Draco made sitting in the rain watching an empty house fun.” --auror partners pining and draco being eccentric and harry being very earnestly gay about draco’s eccentricities!! god this fic is so genuinely fun skskd feat. undercover missions, murderous faeries, a book heist, a stunning navy dress, harry’s eyelashes. -

How We Throw Our Shadows Down by @thistle-verse - 14k - T “Draco is about to say something else— to thank Potter for what he’d done, however poorly— but Harry is smiling at him again, and it’s so soft and perfect that Draco holds in any inadequate words, lest he spoil it.” --draco collects tea cozies and of course harry has the one he wants. the sad and tender gays are at it again feat. conversations in the rain at a train station, melancholy Blaise, muggle photos, wizarding e-bay, the Dursleys. -

Helix by Saras_Girl - 92k - E “Draco sighs in his sleep and Harry clings on to consciousness, needing to hold on, to give this tiny, insignificant moment the attention it deserves” --I think maybe you can describe every soft Saras_Girl story as giving tiny, insignificant moments the attention they deserve. like, this is an 8th year fic about snails and it’s full of whimsy, grief, compassion, and easy humor. an absolute must-read author in this genre if you want languorous, episodic fics full of distinct OCs and affectionate creatures. - other faves by them: Light up the Night Sky - 98k - M “Draco, sometimes you make my head feel like soup” --the one where harry is a fireworks artist and has a pet chameleon named ken. draco is on the wizarding arts council. they both pine like hell. - Headlights in the Snow - 71k - M “they stare at each other in silence, Harry’s heart beating so loud in his chest that he thinks the biddies must be able to hear it over the sound of their card game.” --the one where draco drives the knight bus and carts around the biddy club, a group of rambunctious old ladies who knit and drink tea and gossip. harry can’t help but fall in love with the everything about this. -

Follow the Water by @xanthippe74 - 38k - T “Harry’s heavy thoughts lift at the sight, like dark clouds blown away from the sun by the wind. The tent doesn’t feel so cramped and stifling now. It feels cozy. And safe. It’s the same feeling that Harry gets when he’s at the Burrow for Sunday roasts, when a group of people who care for each other deeply are crammed into too-small a space.” --harry wanders to the lovegood house on a sunday afternoon. he’s baffled to see that luna’s taken pansy, greg, and draco under her wing. what follows is a summer of forest walks, scavenger hunts, gardening, water fights, odd cakes, faerie rings, and picnics. so many picnics. i love the pace of this fic, the innocent return to childhood things, the way luna brings out the best in all her friends. reluctantly soft slytherins are just *chefs kiss*!! -

Going Postal (A 125pg comic) by dustmouth - T what. a. beautiful. ass. comic. the wizarding fashion, the textures, the character design!! harry travels a lot for his job as a resourcer. draco works in the regulations dept. they pine like a bunch of lovesick idiots via field report notes. god i love dustmouth’s art. -

All the Earnest Young Men by @tepre - 29k - E “Draco is twenty-seven layers of personality wrapped up in drama and humour, and a wit so sharp it still stings when he doesn’t see it coming. But there is something below that, too. Something that makes Harry ache just looking at him.” --the way i would lay down my little life for tepre’s characterization of draco, whom invented the word earnest. he’s a magical art theory expert and portraits are disappearing all over London and harry’s the auror assigned to this case. and well. they’re both so very avoidant about how gay they are for each other and it’s like!! shutup and kiss!! which they do in fact, shutup and kiss. -

Trenches by sara_holmes - 3k - M “Somewhere in the distant part of his mind that hasn't frozen solid, he thinks that maybe he and Draco are about to become more than auror partners, smoking buddies, wine-mates and co-inhabitants of a snow filled trench somewhere in western Scotland.” --the plot line here is literally “it’s cold and i need a fucking cigarette” but let me tell you how I never tire of the shared loaded-silences of two emotionally repressed gays. -

The Years Before Love by lomonaaeren - 13k - M “That’s one of the meanings of peace, he thinks, as Hermione hugs him...That he can do things slowly, softly, without worrying that they won’t be there tomorrow.” --andromeda taking harry under her wing and harry finding solace in teddy. narcissa and draco showing up and the tentative relationships that slowly develop in the quiet calm of andromeda’s house. found families and kisses in the snow and special xmas gifts ugh what’s not to love -

The Moon Looks Lovely Tonight by Omi_Ohmy - 35k - M “I want this to be a house where people are welcome, where they don’t have to be any one way or another” --in which harry collects lost things--owls, best friends, inept bakers, potions experimenters--and turns the mausoleum that is grimmauld place into a home. feat. your fave drarry tropes like shared-beds and reluctant waltzing partners. -

[part 1: thrillers | part 2: dramas | part 3: soft bois | part 4: wankbanks]

#drarry fic rec #drarry fic #soft drarry #OK FINE I RAMBLED BUT WHAT DID WE EXPECT #alexa play futile devices

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heli0s-writes · 5 years ago

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About a Bruise*

Summary: After months of doting, loving, adoring Steve, because he requires the time and trust of convention, you sink to the floor and say, “Will you do something for me?”

Warnings: Smut. Oral sex. Facial.

A/N: 1.5k words. Happy Monday, here’s Stevie G! Part 2 HERE

He’s never had it like this.

Steve Rogers still gets butterflies when he undresses in front of you. Carved out of marble by the precise and masterful hand of Erskine’s serum, yet he still stands a little hunched, a little conscious of himself.

You’re confident. In him, more than anything.

You’ve always been the instigator, or at least played the part. Steve’s nerves don’t eclipse his lust, no. But they do make him careful.

Too careful.

Gentle sex only. He holds you like an infant in need of swaddling. Kisses you slow and soft like your lips are buttercream. You love it, but sometimes you want to coax something else out of Captain America.

Something baser. Darker.

So, you get on your knees one opportune night after he gets a sip of Asgardian mead. Liquid courage— just a little.

After months of doting, loving, adoring Steve, because he requires the time and trust of convention, you sink to the floor and say, “Will you do something for me?”

“Anything.” He whispers. Your eyes are swimming pools engulfed in dusk and midnight— shimmering secrets. He’d do anything. Especially when you’re kissing his thighs and raking your nails over the fabric of his jeans like that.

Steve hardly wants to fuck with the lights on. But he’s caught off-guard and buzzing.

“Will you—” A playful bite and it makes him gasp. “Will you come on my face?”

He catches himself against a counter, legs feeling like jelly. “Wh-what?”

Your hands unbuckle his belt, still supplicated with chin on his knee, “You said anything...”

It’s filthy. Your thighs clench in anticipation. The impeding moment where Steve bites his lip, squeezes his eyes shut and grunts— god, you love that sound. Ragged. Overwhelmed. Always too short. You want to hear it more often.

A muffled jingle as you slide the denim down and marvel at the way his cock rises from his boxers. Majestic, heavy, wondrous thing. You love it and he rarely lets you get a good look at it. Shy boy.

He’s blushing pink when you slip it off, letting the tip brush against your cheek. You nose the underside of him, hands up and down his strong legs. He smells warm and musky. Lovely, like always.

Steve’s tilts his head limp over his back.

He shudders when you begin with your tongue first before eager lips stretch to fit him, guiding until he’s nestled in your mouth. And then you move, deliberately measured, building a lazy pace, sluicing him up with spit.

“Ah, shit…” Steve’s words are already betraying him. You smile as his cock pops out of your mouth.

“How’s that? Still wanna go to bed?” Thick lashes framing glittering doe-eyes peer up at him. Purposely coy. “Or do you want to stay here?”

He returns to himself. Dazed, he blinks at the bright lights and the glossy tiled floor. The marble countertop of the sink where he grips like a lifeline.

The guest restroom down the hall. Turn a corner and twenty people are sitting on couches, drinking cocktails and cajoling. Your mouth back on him wipes the thoughts from his brain.

Squelching when you push him back past your molars, crushing your tongue.

You slide him out, voice hoarse and breathy and it chills him to the bone the way you whisper, “Door’s not even locked. Someone could come in at any time.”

With a two-handed fisting, you squeeze deft strokes, slippery with saliva. It’s amazing, he thinks, how you look so innocent while doing the kinds of things he tries not to think about in public. A determined suck and you cup his balls. Fuck, he loves that. Won’t say it, but you know it, too.

“Make me look so pretty with your come on my face.”

Even though he’s the one jammed halfway down your esophagus, Steve chokes. It stirs him, and your eyebrow raises the same time he pulses. Improper for Captain America to be turned on by that, isn’t it?

He sees the twinkle in your eye. Knows you know. Knows he’s fucked.

He’s trying to be as quiet as possible while you work, but his heart is beating too fast, breath snagged between his teeth and lungs on fire. All the blood pumping out of his heart is going straight down—and damn it, he’s so fucking hard. Always so hard with you.

“Jesus Christ. Oh, fuck, honey.” Bad words from such a good boy.

Coquettish licks on his head contrast the feverish grip of your hands. One is curled tight at his base, the other moving irresponsibly fast, fingers crooked and pistoning over the rest. The restroom is silent like a tomb, and he imagines that the echo might bounce all the way out into the goddamn yard. Maybe he doesn’t care, though.

A kiss to the tip before you rub your cheek on his thigh like a cat. Steve’s hips begin to rock, hungry for more when you slow. His palm plants itself on the side of your head, fingers twined through the updo you’d fashioned your locks into a few hours ago. “Don’t stop.”

There it is. That dark thing.

He’s never fucked like this.

Suddenly bold because he’s at the end of his rope and about to blow—completely collapse and pour down your throat and all over that pretty dress you chose to wear to the party. Little cherries, long-hemmed, low-cut. You’ve set an entire trap he willingly fell into.

Hooded blue eyes meet yours, looking down the bridge of his nose, lips parted to match. Panting. Grunting. Shedding his golden boy skin and turning savage. “You want this, sweetheart?”

You nod and bite your lip, exhilarated smile stretching out from the sides of your teeth. Steve fists your hair until you yelp at the sting. He slaps your hands away, hisses at the strands of viscous dribble sliding down your forearms and takes over.

You gasp when he presses his cock against your face, rubbing it right over rosy cheeks you’d perfectly applied blush to. Over the contours of your jaw, your eyebrows. A slap of it to your chin.

Nasty. Filthy. Delicious. Bad boy.

Stutters from his throat, ragged murmurs, clipped consonants of curse words and taunts—You want it? Yeah? You want this all over your face, pretty girl? Fuck. What if someone walks in? Someone’s gonna see—ah… Gonna see you takin’ my big load.

And it’s the shocked silence of your astonished eyes and falling-open mouth that does him in. Rendered speechless that he’s yanking your head back-- and the tiny wince—the split second that your face jerks—he’s done for.

There it is. That sound you’ve been hungry to hear. Steve Rogers snarling like an animal as he leans into a final pump, hips juddering forward into his fist, fixed on the way your face receives him. And goddamn, he thinks.

He’s never loved a girl like you.

Pretty as a painting, with thick strokes of creamy white in heavy diagonal lines. You catch some in your mouth, lick it off your lips, giggle blissfully at the tang.

Knees still planted on the floor, and as Steve regains his senses, he’s glad your dress is long tonight.

On the couch, you sit one leg crossed over the other, chin on your fist as you listen to Wanda tell a story. Bright and alert, laughing along to all the right jokes. Bucky hands you a drink before he makes his way back to Steve by the pool table.

“Gone a long time.” He mentions casually.

“What’s that?”

Bucky pauses behind the rim of his whiskey, “I said, you were gone a long time. Came back lookin’ a little rough around the edges.”

“Hm.” He probably does look a little rough, even after you combed your fingers through his hair and smoothed the wrinkles from his jeans. Kissed his mouth and he could still smell that pungent sweetness on your skin after you rinsed.

Bucky watches him shoot and sink two solids, catches your eyes across the room roaming. Steve’s so drawn to you that he perks up a little naturally.

New love. A little wild at the seams, tearing the good Captain America to wicked little pieces in your hands. Bucky laughs quietly because it’s about damn time.

Fresh-faced, more beautiful than before, Steve thinks. Hair down and fluffy-full, haphazardly settled in place. He can’t help but stare. A little red smudge on the corner of your eye when you scrubbed the mascara off, running along with him down your cheek. It’s still swollen like the plump edges of your lips from overwork. He swallows thickly, catches himself thinking too much on it.

From across the room, you find his ruddy cheeks and hold him in a knowing gaze. Then, your tongue slips out shamelessly—with Bucky in the audience and all—and you lick the corners of your mouth. Naughty.

The butterflies so faithful to his tummy flutter at the sight. Whirlwind flapping growing in a darkening storm. You, in the center of his hurricane on all fours.

Bad, bad boy.

Steve finds himself wondering about your red knees under the dress and how long they might take to bruise.

perm tags: @whothehellisbucky @serpentbaby @badassbaker @alagalaska @cake-writes @crist1216 @star-spangled-man-with-a-plan @infinity-saga @jamesbarnesthighs @pinknerdpanda @xoxabs88xox @imsoft-barnes @momc95 @typicalangel @wretchedgoddess @readeity @iwannasail @ya-lyublu-tebya @geeksareunique @wildefire @satanxklaus @jhangelface0523

#marvel #steve rogers #smut #reader insert #steve rogers x reader #captain america #steve rogers x you #fanfiction #mcu #steve x reader

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soulwillower · 4 years ago

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if you’re too shy • richie tozier

(richie tozier x cam girl!reader smut)

[based off the song if you’re too shy (let me know) by the 1975.]

requested: i can't find it lol BUT 🤍anon (i think) requested a fic based off of the 1975′s new song, if you’re too shy let me know !!

warnings: swearing, alcohol use, switch!richie kinda, smut, unprotected sex, a tiny bit of cumplay i guess, mentions of phone sex, oral sex (female receiving), face sitting, a bit of dirty talking, UNEDITED as always

also i wrote this in a different style than usual and idk if i like it much but u can let me know what u guys think,, if its weird i can go in and change the povs since its 3rd person richie

[losers + reader are 21+ in this.]

7.4k words lol

♡

i see her online all the time i'm trying not to stare down there while she talks about her tough time

"h-hey, man, who's that?" the voice from right next to richie makes him damn near leap out of his seat. it makes beverly chuckle a bit as she takes a bite of her apple, shaking her head. "it’s nobody." richie says quickly as he tilts his phone towards his chest and shoots a toothy grin to bill. his friend raises his full eyebrows, "wh-what, so n-nobody was sending you n-nudes?"

"something like that." richie mutters, stomach fluttering as the image flashes in his mind’s eye - the curves, the dark red lace, the plush skin painting a perfect scene in richie’s vivid imagination.

richie looks back down at the photo. his his thumbs hover over the profile picture; he'd found her originally on his instagram explore page, the photos teasing and immediately he had to know more. y/n.

and then a few days later, he'd subscribed to her only fans, which he never quite thought he'd do with anyone, but he couldn't help it. she was so enticing, so perfect and so alluring. it was the playfulness that pulled him in; and he swears he's never lusted after somebody like he has with her. it was kind of starting to freak him out.

"is that o-onlyfans?" bill says and richie shoves bill's nosy face off his shoulder with a panicked grunt. "fuck off, mushmouth."

bill laughs and stan and bev perk up from across the table, staring at the two, interests suddenly piqued. "did you subscribe to a girl's onlyfans, rich?" stan says with a grin, setting his pen down on his notebook.

richie just smirks and wiggles his brows a bit, enough to confirm his question. bill chuckles from next to richie.

"let me see." bev says, wiggling her manicured nails in a "gimme" motion. richie hands his phone over with red cheeks. normally he wouldn't care about his friends discovering he's paid money just to see a hot chick's bod, but this was different. for some reason, he felt connected to her. god, that thought made him want to slam his head against a brick wall. she doesn't even know him, for all he knows she could live in the middle of.... montana, or like, ohio.

bev whistles and stan nods, "if i looked like that," bev mumbles as she tosses richie's phone back towards him, "i'd do that too. mad props."

noises of agreement fill the table but richie's just looking at the small smirk that peeks from the corner of one of the photos and he can't help but wonder what her eyes are like in real life. he wishes he could meet her.

girl of your dreams, you know what i mean there's something 'bout her stare that makes you nervous and you say things that you don't mean

it's a cold day when bill and richie find themselves stumbling in to the coffee shop for a drink. bill's muttering about some girl in his creative writing class that gave him head when richie's eyes catch a figure so familiar yet foreign that he stops dead in his tracks. bill turns to him, face confused. "r-richie, what's wrong w-with you?"

richie shakes his head, stammering in disbelief, "that-that's her, bill. the girl, from onlyfans. y/n." he whispers, gesturing with his eyes towards the girl working the register.

bill’s jaw goes slack, green eyes raking over her form and igniting richie’s stomach with boiling rage. as if bill’s doing something that only richie is allowed to do – as if they're not both being total creeps.

“h-holy sh-shit. she’s b-beautiful.” bill mumbles. richie elbows him in the ribs, shooting him a glare that prompts an eye-roll from his auburn haired friend.

richie swallows and watches, his throat feeling like sandpaper as she laughs at something the customer in front of them said. bill nudges richie, "i-i'm gonna get a s-seat. t-talk to her."

he winks and grins as he walks away, leaving richie with his reckless self. he thinks he's sweating through his sweater as he walks up, finding himself face-to-face with her. "hi, how can i help you?" she asks, giving him a smile

holyshitholyshitholyshit.

he might've just came right then and there. okay, he's gotta say something cool, something smooth. don't be a dumbass, tozier.

"howdy, sugar. i'll have my coffee like i like my women." his mouth blurts as his brain sirens go off, PUT ON THE BRAKES, RICH – "a hot shock to the lap.”

she glares at him, cheeks light pink and eyebrows pulled together in annoyance and yep, richie's probably going to get hard because of that look but he's also probably going to toss his body off a bridge because what the fuck, tozier?

he can hear bill laughing quietly from a ways away and he quickly shakes his head, muttering quietly, "jail. jail, richard."

"funny." she deadpans, clearly not amused. because of course she isn't.

"sorry, i'll have a black coffee, y/n." he mutters, eyes widening to himself when he realizes she was not wearing a goddamn name tag and he just said her name.

this is a disaster. she gives him a bewildered, slightly creeped out look and if richie wasn't panicking, he'd gape at how she still managed to be effortlessly gorgeous even now.

he sighs, shaking his head, the door of the cafe opening and blowing a gust of frigid air through the warm room. fitting - douche chill.

"look, toots, i don't want this to be weird. i- um, i recognize you." he says, cheeks aflame. she raises a brow, face straight for a few moments, unsure what he means.

it's not long after when recognition flashes over her own face - must have ruled out coffee shop, university and her local gym - and she nods with a tight, almost uncomfortable smile.

he tries not to think of the livestream he watched last night where she showed all her new gifts and modeled lingerie, and how he’d spent his time to himself with his left hand immediately after watching. his cheeks are red with shame.

"okay." is all she says, writing down a scribbled order on the coffee cup. her eyes shoot back up and give richie a once-over that really makes his fingers itch - god, why did he have to be this way?

he almost runs his fingers through his curls but decides against it, eyes opting to focus on her own gorgeous eyes as they meet him. "i'm impressed i have a fan who looks like you, i must say. even if you are a complete jack ass." she purrs and his jaw nearly smacks the floor at its velocity as it flies open.

"what's that supposed to mean?" he asks then with a small grin, flattered at the tiniest of compliments that just barely, in his mind, eclipsed the insult that he so very much deserved.

"i'm saying you're kind of a dick. it's too bad, because you're real cute." she says casually, handing him his change. his stomach flips and butterflies release in his chest, a feeling that he's not felt in almost five years.

but damn, of course he messed up - he got the chance to talk to the hottest girl on earth and he started it by saying an awful joke that wasn't funny at all. of course she though he was a dick, he is one.

he's shocked, though, as he waits for his coffee with bill, who is still snickering into his hand every few moments, to find his coffee cup with extra sharpie scribbled on the white paper. a name.

y/n. and below it is a phone number with a small heart scribbled, and richie can't tell if it's a seven or a one but he figures he'd try every phone number in the damn state if it meant he could fucking text her. holy fuck.

"maybe i would like you better if you took off your clothes i'm not playing with you, baby i think that you should give it a go" she said, "maybe i would like you better if you took off your clothes i wanna see, and stop thinking if you're too shy, then let me too shy, then let me know"

he didn't text her for two days and three hours. yes, he counted it. no, he won't think about why he was obsessing over the numbers - but since the time he'd finally had found the courage to text her today, things have escalated proficiently.

she'd just mentioned how hot it was in her apartment since her heater had gone haywire - even though the winter winds were cold, she'd claimed she was burning up in what she was wearing.

and the mere mention of her clothing had sent richie into somewhat of a spiral, spending at least seven minutes glued to his phone and scrolling through the saved album he had of those photos of her that she'd posted; his sweatpants getting increasingly tight and his palm suddenly aching to slip through the fabric and find some release.

but, in true trashmouth fashion, he apparently needed that sweet, sweet rejection from a hot cam girl he'd somehow weaseled into getting the number of in order to wank off properly, so he types out a text and hits send immediately.

what are you wearing?

and then he almost vomits in embarrassment – what was she going to think? did he just royally fuck up? oh god, he’s going to have to shave his head and move to canada.

his phone buzzes and he nearly passes out when he lays his eyes upon the image attached – there her body is again, curvy and full and beautiful, her skin glowing in the fading light of what he assumes is her bedroom. and with it:

this. what are you wearing, rich?

and then he pulls his gaze from his phone and stands, breathing heavily because holy shit.

he's gotten nudes before, but.... none from someone like her. holy shit.

he walks to his bathroom, splashing water on his beet-red cheeks. he swallows, staring at himself in the mirror. fuck.

he slaps his cheek once, then winking at himself in attempt to muster any sliver of confidence. and then he snaps a picture, only in his boxers.

and then he has to physically refrain from making a joke about wearing the same lingerie set as her, instead sending a flirty text that he knows any other woman would blush at. he just doesn’t know with y/n, and maybe that’s why he loves it so much. she's keeping him on his toes.

you like what you see?

he sends that one afterwards, shaking his head because oh my god, she's going to respond with "no" and then bill him $40 for the nude she sent him. not that he wouldn't pay, but...

his phone dings and he nearly breaks an ankle running to his desk.

yeah, i do. but maybe i'd like you better without any clothes on.

he almost yells out loud at this, but he has a feeling that waking up stan in the middle of the night would not be optimal after their 'roommate agreement' they'd made that explicitly states richie cannot scream between 1am - 9am. so instead he smirks to himself, face turning red.

he's getting harder by the moment, and as he stares at that picture she'd sent earlier, he lets out a breathy groan. the lace....

we could face time yk

or we don't have to.

he reads her words in live time, watching the thought bubble appear again and watching it like a hawk. he can just imagine her sitting there with a small smirk as another text comes in and he almost groans as his dick twitches.

like, if you're too shy or something ;)

he stares at the screen for two seconds at that sinful photo she'd sent just before those texts and then sighs, shaking his head and pressing the green face-time call button.

i've been wearing nothing every time i call you and i'm starting to feel weird about it sometimes it's better if you think about it this time, i think i'm gonna drink through it

three days later, richie was undeniably and unequivocally drunk. but, as he's just explained about three times to mike, he knows that it is just easier to not think right, especially about her, right now - and the best way to do that is by getting so piss drunk that even if he tried to "hit her line," as he so eloquently put it, his dick would be too whiskey'd out to make a full appearance.

it's for the best. mike had fake gagged at richie’s cadence with a laugh, but richie was dead serious because he was starting to think he had a real issue.

it was obviously just a fun thing to do between two near-strangers, but he'd found that he was starting to almost pavlov-style condition himself into getting turned on every time the name y/n came across his recent texts or face times, and it was getting to be too much.

especially when her post notification popped up and he cracked a fatty in the middle of his econ lecture. christ, the point of elasticity of markers in the u.s. was not something he pictured when he usually had to quell a pitch in his tent. so yeah, it's too much.

because yes, he loves her fucking body and wants nothing more than her, but in truth he longs for the feeling of her skin against his; to touch her, to kiss her, to make her his. all the time.

but yet, it was just a good way to get off without all the strings and ribbons and yarn and whatever the fuck her soft-looking knit bra is made from attached.

so much for not thinking about her.

but i see her online (and don't think that i should be calling) all the time (i just wanted a happy ending) and i'm pretending i don't care about her stare while she's giving me a tough time

it’s noon the next day and he's laying in (for some reason) stan's bed instead of his own with a blinding, mind-splitting headache and an insatiable craving for a cheeseburger, eyes squinting in lust and something akin to shame as he watches the livestream y/n had just started. she’s in a slip – a very thin, silk and see through slip and it makes him more frustrated than he’s willing to admit.

as he stares at her smooth skin and wonders how it'd be to touch it all, her eyes catch something in the chat and she smiles coyly. "hi, rich." she purrs and richie almost chokes - holy shit, she saw him join.

"do you like my gift i just got?" she asks coyly, snapping the straps of her bra with a small smile and he stiffens almost instantly, thinking of how many times he'd seen her skin in videos and photos that were just for him.

how she'd moaned his name two nights ago on face time, her fingers buried inside herself slightly off-camera. and oh, how he wishes he could see all of her, but they'd not crossed that line yet - anything they'd done hadn't been yet proven visually, only from facial expressions, noises, and the brutal honestly of being together through face time.

he wants her so fucking bad, he needs her like he needs water to drink and air to breathe and it's murdering him as he watches her react to the chat of her livestream, playing with the hem of her black lace panties.

god, he needs a cold shower or something if he's going to get anything done today.

and then he's calling her an a few hours after her stream ends because he just can't wait - he feels his stomach twist with shame as he realizes he should not be doing such a certainly a terrible idea. but she answers after three rings. "richie." her siren voice purrs and he literally feels himself fall deeper into the pit.

"hi there, toots. got any coffee in the pot for me?" he asks, sounding surprisingly eloquent compared to how she normally makes him feel.

she hums in fake thought, and it makes richie grin. she's fucking adorable. "come to the shop, i have my break in ten." and then she hangs up. he sighs, rubbing his face with his hand as he shakes his head. he's utterly fucked.

he's there in record time, a smirk plastered on his face as he walks in and sees her sitting at a table, lookin' all pretty. just for him.

"what made you think of calling?" she says in loo of a greeting. he sits across from her and wills his eyes to meet hers. "nothin' toots." he says with a half shrug, taking a sip of the coffee placed in front of him that has the the name 'dick' written on it in her handwriting. he rolls his eyes affectionately.

"oh, so it wasn't anything to do with my livestream this morning?" she asks with a look, eyeing him. her eyes are swimmable, they hold so many stories and secrets and maybe richie's just hungover, but he's feeling very flustered.

"we-w, uh, no. what... what are you talking about?" he rolls his eyes at himself inwardly, cursing stuttering bill and his contagious speech patterns. "-i don't know what you're talking about, sugar." he recovers fairly smoothly, if he may toot his own horn. and honestly, he can pretend not to care as long as he doesn't look into that goddamn stare of hers.

he chuckles awkwardly, cheeks aflame as she stares at him with a bored look and a small hum. she still looks perfect and he's even more nervous now, because oh god, oh fuck, he's gonna get slapped in the face by y/n.

it was pretty unspoken since they'd started doing... stuff... that richie probably still watched her content online, but she'd never fully addressed it until today during the livestream in front of a thousand others.

he's choking on his spit in shame but then a smile splits her face and richie's sure he's suffocated on his own saliva and gone to a sinner's heaven. or maybe hell.

"oh, richie, i'm just teasing you. look at your face!" she says with an airy laugh, pinching his cheeks and making him want to shrivel up as he turns even redder. what the fuck? "-so cute. alright, i've got to get back to work. i'll see you around, rich." she says with a wink, taking her coffee and tossing it into the trash bin as she stalks towards the employee back room.

he gapes as he watches her leave and then gets up and makes his way to the exit, clutching the coffee like it was trying to jump out of his grasp and make a run for it. god, she's too much.

"maybe i would like you better if you took off your clothes i'm not playing with you, baby i think that you should give it a go" she said, "maybe i would like you better if you took off your clothes i wanna see, and stop thinking If you're too shy, then let me too shy, then let me know"

"-babe, you'll have to try harder than that." richie says with a chuckle, watching his phone screen as the beautiful girl on face time gives him a sly, challenging look. she's in a green lace bra, one richie's not seen yet and he can feel himself stiffen as she absently trails her fingers over her chest.

they'd been much closer over the last week since he last saw her in person, enough so that in the three-is weeks of knowing her, he's positive he's head over ass for her in a way that he shouldn't be. and yet, she still comes back every time, still texts him and answers those face time calls. he's baffled, honestly.

"i know you hate me because i'm right." he adds, not even totally remembering what point he's trying to prove as y/n shifts back a bit and more of her body is revealed, her hair glowing dimly in the soft lighting of her room. his eyes run over her curves, her full thighs and stomach and hips that fill over her panties and he almost groans.

"whatever, maybe i'd like you better if you took off your clothes." she says coyly. and richie's half flattered, as usual, but the more he thinks of it the more deflated he feels. he kind of thought they were growing something more than just getting each other off over face time like horny fifteen year olds. he grins nonetheless.

"you say that a lot, you know." richie says breathlessly as he stares at her. she tilts her head ever so slightly and grins, biting her lip as her eyes move around her screen with a conflicted look. "-why?" he adds.

she hums again.

"well. okay, so there's the visual world - like, the internet, onlyfans, instagram- it tells us that everything is amazing. and we should want everything. and it makes us yearn for everything that we don’t have and everything that’s unobtainable. you know, love, a relationship beyond physical. and even physical, it's different when it's online."

her words confuse him much more than they aid him. "you think... that because of the internet, love is unattainable?" he asks with furrowed brows, unsure how somebody so perfect and, quite frankly, lovable, would think that.

"it is for me." she says it with a small sense of forlorning but mostly it's whispered. enough that richie's heart skips a beat and he's, for the first time, not having a hard time keeping his eyes on her face instead of her body.

"what?" he asks dumbly. she just laughs, shaking her head and he stares at her on his tiny phone screen in the dark.

"that’s something that, you know. in real life, person to person, it has a lot of connotations of... trust and vulnerability and connection. doing what i do- and what we're doing… on the internet - it has the opposite of those connotations. like, before you, i didn't- i didn't really do this, i just was selling stuff. because guys don't want to fuck the girl who sells her body online. and you know now, i want to..." she trails off and richie doesn't dare interrupt her because he thinks she's about to say something he's wanted to tell her for a while now.

"i don't know, i guess. exploring someone's body in physical presence isn't seen at all as voyeuristic, or anything apart from...like, an intimate exchange." she says it casually, brushing hair from her face and shit, richie's swooning. he's in fucking love, he knows it, because y/n is so smart and intelligent and he's so fucking trashed for her. as she speaks, her hands move and distract him slightly from her body, doused in blue light from the screen and splayed out for him and only him on her phone camera.

the soft lace on her hips and chest make his body stiffen and it causes him to suppress a groan as she sighs, but richie knows he can’t screenshot this heavenly sight because she’ll definitely notice and she can probably already tell he’s having a hard time not staring at her alluring figure as she talks.

"-whereas, you know. as soon as it happens on the internet, it becomes kinky and cam-girly. and, you know, that's fine. i love doing it. it's just, i'm not sure where the authentic communication even is now. or if i get to have a happy ending." she says and he finally sees her blush for the first time.

he wishes he was there with her, he wishes that he could touch the redness on her cheeks and caress her curvy body and taste her skin on his tongue. he wants to feel himself inside her, he wants to be with her and kiss her lips and yet he can't, so he sighs and shifts in his position, moving to turn up the brightness of his phone so he can see better.

"shouldn't you get to be the one to decide that, doll?" is all he adds. because he feels kind of lost and just as confused as y/n is with this.

he's starting to feel weird about it, because... is this authentic? what makes things like hookups or whatever the hell they've been doing authentic? shouldn't this be easy? it's just phone sex, phone sex with a really hot girl.

a girl who is complex and alive and full of sincerity and richie is definitely falling harder than he should.

she just sighs but makes no other comment. and then they just stare at each other, richie's face illuminated in his dark room by the phone's reflection.

well, i found a motel it looked like the bins i think there'd been a murder so we couldn't get in i need to get back i've gotta see the girl on the screen

"come over and watch a movie with me." he says into the phone, biting his lip. the silence from the other end of the line is deafening as she makes her decision, because they both know she's not about to come over just to watch the shining or psycho.

they've never done that before, and richie knows if she does come over, then whatever they have will crash down in a fiery mess. and he hates how excited that makes him as he waits in silence for her to drop the ball. so to speak.

"okay." she says, sounding shocked herself, and richie can't contain the excited grin from eclipsing his face. "yeah?" he asks breathlessly, and she's quiet for a little longer. "yeah. text me your address."

she hangs up after that, and richie's thumbs shake as he types his address and sprints out to where stan, mike, ben, and bill are playing video games in he and stan's living room, wheezing at all of them to get out because someone fucking unbelievable is about to walk through that door.

she's there about an hour later, cheeks flushed when richie opens his door, looking just as nervous and flustered. "hi, chee." she says breathlessly, staring up at him with those goddamn eyes, the eyes that pulled him in the first time. his stomach flips in affection at her nickname and he offers her a drink as she takes in his shitty apartment. he wonders briefly if stan ended up buying that rosé that he'd given him shit for considering, and then prays that stan will stay the night elsewhere.

she's already pouring out glasses of wine when he snaps back to reality, and he grins at her, mumbling in thanks as she passes him a glass that's certainly poured almost to the brim.

"what are we watching, then?" she asks coyly, lifting a brow at him. his cheeks are red, but he tugs her arm down the hall towards his room with a grin, their wine sloshing from their glasses as they move erratically.

"we're watching psycho, y/n/n." he says as he pulls her into his room, glancing back to see she's already swallowed down almost half her glass, a lipstick stain on the side of it. faintly he knows stan will be frustrated if richie doesn't clean that off, but he's more distracted by her lips.

"i like psycho." she says with a nod and a cheeky grin, "the whole 'voyeuristic gaze' thing with hitchcock." she mumbles, and richie recalls faintly learning about that in one of his film classes freshman year and he grins as he takes a hefty gulp of his rosé, figuring he's already given himself away and if she's going to do that, he can too.

he hums, setting down his glass and grabbing hers to set it besides his on the bedside table. he turns around, intending on grabbing his laptop so they could watch the film, but she's so much closer that he'd expected and her hands fall onto his shoulders and he almost shits himself.

unpleasant, but honest. just richie's style.

"can i try something?" she asks with a grin, and richie nods, knowing that she could do anything to him and he'd gladly let it happen and most likely pay out of pocket for the damages afterwards.

and then she's pulling him from her grip on his shoulders, her lips sliding against his and making him grip her hips. his mind almost explodes at with y/n-sensory-overload because he feels her everywhere - on his lips, against his hands, on his shoulders, and pressing against his front.

her lips taste like chamomile and rosé.

she thinks his lips taste like vanilla and cigarette smoke, just as she'd always imagined. he feels so real, pressed against her lips and his body against hers, and she sighs as her tongue slips into his mouth because god, she's needed him for so long. and now she has him.

his hands move, touching every inch of her as their tongues fight for dominance. she pulls back, smirking as she gently pushes him onto his mattress, sliding onto his lap smoothly afterwards, grinding her hips against his slowly.

the moan he emits is heavenly and she could cry because she finally gets to hear it in person and not through the crackling static frequency of the phone.

so she grinds down on him again, eager to feel all of him. he's hardening against her core and she whimpers into his mouth in need as his fingers slip under her top, rubbing circles on her bare skin and making her shiver. she's noticed to this gentleness; it was rare when she did get to enjoy the comfort of another body with her own, and when she did they were hardly half as loving or caring as him.

she's desperate now, she needs to feel him inside her after all these weeks of teasing and waiting, so her hand snakes down to palm him through his sweats. he lets out a small groan into her mouth, biting her lip as he pulls back slightly. their eyes meet and his are hooded with lust, lips parted as she pumps him slowly from outside his sweats. his hips buck up lightly into her palm and she smiles gently, kissing him slowly.

"let me make you feel good, y/n." he mutters, eyes pleading as he stares up at her. her stomach flutters with butterflies and she nods, shocked that he wants to pleasure her.

he gently pulls her off his lap until she's laying on his mattress and he stares down at her, biting his lip as he takes her in. he can't fucking believe she's really here. she slowly pulls off her top, leaving her in her bra and jeans as she stares up at him with a wry, seductive smile. then she unzips her jeans and slides them off, leaving her in his favorite set of hers - black, lacy, and revealing. she looks utterly stunning and he groans, his hands falling to run over the skin, tracing the lace on her breasts. her cheeks are red as she gazes up at him.

"touch me, richie." she orders and he almost groans as he drags his lips over the valley of her breasts, sucking on the soft flesh and admiring the splashes of budding purple and pink that he's created. her heartbeat is quick under his fingertips and he moves to unclip her bra, kissing her skin as the fabric falls away.

she's slightly cold in his room, and goosebumps appear over her flesh as richie leans to catch a nipple in her mouth, flicking his tongue over the sensitive bud. she lets out a quiet whine that has richie rutting into the mattress next to her, his fingers trailing down to dance at the waistline of her underwear.

and then he's pulling aside her panties, his fingers running up and down her slick folds and making her jump in lust. he can't wait, just like her, and he's rubbing her clit teasingly as she pleads, "chee, please." her eyes are eyes closed in bliss as his finger slips inside her, crooking slightly as he moves it. he presses his lips to the skin of her breast, pumping his finger and then soon adding another, crooking them both in a way that makes her let out guttural moans of pleasure. he marks her breasts with littered pink and red marks, smiling to himself at her figure.

she can't help but swoon as she watches him, his hair in his face slightly until she brushes it back, his fingers curling inside her and making her gasp, pleasure coursing through her body. his thumb softly comes up to rub her neglected clit and she grabs his shoulders to steady herself, the pleasure almost too much.

she's honestly slightly shocked - knowing richie as little as she really does outside of the literal booty calls at two in the morning and the accumulative forty five minutes they'd spent in person, she'd expected him to be... well, good. just good. because there's no way someone so funny, caring, and smart could also be that good in the sheets.

but right now, he's making her see goddamn stars.

"i've been wanting to touch you for so long, sugar." he mutters, eyes raking over her figure as her breath comes in stuttering gasps. she watches him with blown-wide eyes as his demeanor changes right before her, making her fall apart at his fingertips.

"that feel good, honey?" he asks, smirking as she whimpers, clenching around his fingers. "yes, god you feel so good." she utters, making him groan in approval from where he's sat back, watching her face contort in pleasure. she lets out another moan and richie stares at her body, watching his fingers as they fuck into her. he can't take it, then.

"will you sit on my face, doll?" he blurts, and she nearly yelps out as his fingers leave her. it's abrupt, but she's started to notice that this is how he operates - impulsivity is his second nature. and she loves it.

her face burns as she nods, the thought of richie under her making her whimper with anticipation. "yes, richie, please." she moans out again and he's grinning, laying back on the mattress with a wink. "c'mere, need to taste that pretty little pussy." he mutters and she feels herself clench around nothing, desperate for him as she swings a leg around to straddle his head.

immediately, his hands wrap around her thighs, thumbs smoothing over her stretch marks as he stares up at her, eyes glinting with desire. slowly, his finger pulls the seat of her lace panties to the side and his breath hits her bare, throbbing pussy, making her breath hitch. she cards her fingers through his hair and lowers herself slightly, gasping in shock as his tongue darts out to lick a bold stripe up from her entrance to her clit.

"chee," she moans out, tightening her grip in his hair and sending a groan through his body that reverberates and makes her shiver. his lips attach to her clit and fiery pleasure snakes through her body making her legs shake, a moan escaping her lips immediately. he sucks lightly before releasing to swirl his tongue, her moans making richie impossibly harder through his sweats.

"so good, rich." she mutters and he groans, tongue spreading her wet folds and slowly prodding at her entrance, dipping in slowly before pulling out, teasing her.

she can't help but grind down slightly, making richie grip her tightly, tongue sliding into her again and making her yelp. "you taste so good, baby." he mutters lowly before slowly reattaching himself to her heat, her eyes rolling slightly at the sensation as he fucks his tongue into her. one of his hands snakes up to her ass, gripping it tightly and then slapping it, the stinging pleasure making her buck her hips against him, emitting a hiss from her.

"rich, i-" she cuts herself off with a sharp gasp, the pleasure from richie's mouth making it increasingly harder to speak. her toes curl and her head tilts back as his tongue flicks over her clit, teeth grazing it slightly and making her buck.

she's embarrassingly close already, and judging by the way richie's smirking under her, he can tell. "please, please." she mutters, hips rocking on him as his tongue swirls, nipping softly at her clit and making her cry out. "please, make me cum, 'chee." she mutters and his tongue moves quicker, hand slapping her ass again.

and then she's clenching her thighs on either side of him and grinding down as she hits her peak, moaning quietly as she shakes in pleasure on top of him. he rides through her high, lapping at her and pulling away with a grin as she moans his name dejectedly. she's worn out from the best orgasm she's ever had and he gently nudges her so he slides in between her thighs, her back now on the mattress. he kisses her cheek and she keens quietly.

"fuck me, richie." she mutters, eyes still closed. his eyes snap to hers, surprised at the dominance in her voice after how she was two seconds ago.

he moans quietly, kissing her deeply as he ruts against her and relishes in the feeling. he's pulling off his sweats and boxers in record time and then he's pumping himself as he grips her hips, turning her so she's on her stomach, ass propped up slightly. his hand runs over the smooth skin of her ass, snapping the elastic of her panties and making her moan quietly.

then he's lining up her hips with his, pulling aside the lacy seat of her underwear to press against her entrance. he waits a moment as he leans to press a soft kiss to her spine, slowly easing into her. she moans loudly as he eases in, her face pressing against the pillows. she smiles as she smells the scent she'd just recently come to know as his, his cock stretching her and filling her up fully as he buries himself to the hilt inside her.

"so tight, sugar." he mutters and she whimpers, getting antsy as she adjusts to his size. "richie, please, need it so bad." she mutters, bucking her hips back against him in need.

"say that again." he mutters, sounding strangled, and she grins into the sheets. "please fuck me, richie. need it so bad, need to feel you ruin me." she whimpers, chest fluttering in anticipation. his hands grip her hips as he pulls out of her slowly, almost as slowly as he entered, before stopping almost all the way out. she moans loudly in pleasure as he pushes back in, snapping his hips against hers and filling her completely.

she briefly thanks god that his roommate seemed to be out for the night as she moans his name loud enough for the neighbors to hear.

he sets a brutal pace, his cock thick as it fills her up and makes her toes curl. he pushes her hair away from her neck and presses kisses to it as he hits a spot inside her that makes her scream his name. his fingers move to pinch her nipples, rolling them as he fucks into her.

she's completely blissed out at the feeling of him inside her, so glad that he invited her over and that they finally get to touch each other. "rich, oh my god." she emits, eyes squinted shut in complete pleasure.

"fuck, toots, takin' me so well, aren't you?" he asks, hands kneading her ass before slapping her right ass cheek harshly, making her arch her back. at the new angle they both let out a groan and richie knows he'll fucking cum too soon if they stay like this, so without warning he pulls out completely.

y/n whines, breathing heavily as his hands come to flip her around. now on her back, they make eye contact and she bites her lip, pulling him in for a searing kiss that knocks the wind out of both of them. images of richie in his room alone, snaps and late-night face times play through her mind as he grips her and slides her hips down towards him on the mattress and lines himself to her again, pulling her legs up so they're against his chest before pushing in.

he gives no time to adjust to this angle and it makes her moan loudly as he hits a spot deep inside her that pulls her closer and closer to her second orgasm.

his name leaves her cherry lips like a mantra and he can't stop staring at her as he fucks her into the mattress - the way her tits bounce with his brutal pace, the way her face is twisted in pleasure, the way she clenches and spasms around his cock.

one hand grips her breast, rubbing her nipple with his thumb and forefinger as he kisses her again, addicted to her taste as he feels himself coming closer and closer to the edge.

"chee, fuck, right there." she moans out and he groans in pleasure, the feeling of her walls clenching around him making his hips stutter. he keeps his thrusts up, though, as her fingernails rake down his back leaving small trails of burning pleasure in their wake.

her skin is covered with a sheen line of sweat as she looks up at him, hair wild and lips kiss-bruised. "god, don't stop, 'm gonna cum." she mutters and he snaps his hips harder, eager to make her cum so hard all she can think of is his name.

he moves a hand down to rub at her clit and he moans into her neck as she clenches hard around him, her hips bucking spastically. he can tell she's about to cum, and after a hard thrust, she does for the second time, spasming around him and sending waves of pleasure up his body. she's moaning his name, pulling him closer in bliss as she becomes sensitive and god damn it, she's so fucking beautiful.

"please cum, richie." she whispers against his lips, "please." and then at her will, he's spilling into her, hips stuttering as he pushes as deep into her as he can, loving how she clenches in sensitivity around him. he stays inside her for a moment as they breathe, coming down from their highs and eyes closed as they take in what just happened.

"holy shit." he says because yeah, that's like all he can say right now because he just got to fuck y/n and she's kissing his fucking collarbones right now and its making him blush and his heart flutter.

"that was...incredible." she whispers against his skin and he can feel her smile against his skin. it makes him feel all soft inside as he pulls out of her and flops next to her, kissing her forehead.

his fingers flutter over her sensitive core, smiling as he sees how wrecked she is, some cum dripping down her leg. he then soothes over the lace panties, patting her lightly and kissing her red cheek.

"rich?" she asks, making him look up at her. he hums in question, pushing some of her hair back. "can we still watch the movie?"

his heart swells and he grins, kissing her softly. "of course, doll. you're too cute." he says with a wink, making her roll her eyes. he hands her his shirt and then pulls sweats on himself, mumbling "stay here" and padding out to the kitchen to get her water and snacks, then returning minutes later to see her holding his phone in her clutch with a smirk.

"what're you doing?" he asks with a smile, but she shakes her head, making grabby hands for him and the snacks. so he laughs, cuddling up with the girl of his dreams and watching a flick, falling sleep with tangled limbs and a lipstick-stained neck.

and after she leaves the next morning with a kiss and a wink, he checks his phone and smirks to himself as he notices the lock screen she'd apparently made last night while he was making snacks.

a photo of her in his bed, wearing his shirt, a soft smirk on her face, neck littered in budding hickeys and a hand between her thighs next to her black lace panties.

god, she's going to be the absolute death of him.

//tag list: @gabiatthedisco @blisshemmings @simplesammyx @dickology64 @clownsloveyou @emnotm @moon-shine-baby @toziershmozier @daughter-of-the-stars11 @lets-vibe-bro @trashedfortozier @oceandog13 @beauregard-s@finnskindofwoman @kait-tozier @upamongthestarss \\

#richie tozier x reader #richie tozier smut #richie has adhd #losers x reader #losers club x reader

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angelicamerlinbarnes · 3 years ago

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TUA SHOPS / MALL AU

(This is a weird ass mall just work with me here okay)

(Oh, and did I mention they’re all staying in the mall because they’re the last humans left after the zombie apocalypse?)

(BEWARE: mentions of abuse and harassment/assault, murder, death, annihilation, zombies, implied cannibalism but that kind of comes with the territory with zombies let's be honest, etc.)

(If you can handle watching Umbrella Academy, this will be fine for you.)

(Mechanics Shop) Luther came here after an accident left him deformed and lonely. He expects he’ll be there the rest of his life, having no other prospects to fall back on, and he actually thinks that might be alright, maybe. He likes fixing cars well enough and the donuts at Agnes’ are to die for, even if he has to pay for them with some bickering with Diego. He has a good routine - a good life. Until the zombies come to town and stay, and Allison the Fallen Angel Actress comes with them.

(Bakery) Diego took over the bakery when Agnes died. He’s been here since the first zombies came in, and sleeps around with Klaus almost every day, though they both deny feeling any sort of love for each other. (What fucking liars.) Diego wants to get the fuck out, to end it all if that’s what it takes, but his family keeps him here. And then Klaus storms off after one of their fights, and gets bitten, and Diego holds him in his arms as he fades, finally confessing that he loves him. Klaus looks at him with his wide green eyes one last time, whimpering Diego’s name, and Diego makes a split-second decision and kisses him on the mouth. And Klaus bites his lip.

(High-End Fashion) Allison was an actress who fell from grace about a week before the apocalypse. She came to stay with her brother Klaus and Ray, her childhood friend whom she’s almost laughably in love with, helped her get a job here. It’s just as well, since the zombies moved in three days later and they’ve been trapped here ever since.

(Vintage Shop) Klaus is happy to have Allison back in his life. He’s been stuck here in the mall in this weird vintage record/clothing/shoe/whatever store since he turned seventeen, hooked on drugs and going mad. He’s a brilliant inventor, but he can’t cure zombies. And he can’t cure a broken heart, which is what he’s got ever since Dave. And Diego - oh, Diego - Klaus loves him more than he thought it was possible to love another human being, and Diego - Diego - Diego is gonna leave him to save the goddamn world. Fuck, Klaus needs a drink.

(Comic Book Store) Five hates people, but he hates them even more when they’re dead. He’s crazy okay, he knows that - his best friend Dolores died in the first wave and he’s been pretending this mannequin he stole is her ever since. He buries himself in his comic books to distract himself from the doomsday sure to come soon enough, and finds solace in his family’s company - mostly Ben and Diego and Klaus. When Diego and Klaus are turned, Five is the one who has to burn their bodies… and that’s what makes him do it, really. End the world.

(Library) Ben has been researching zombies since long before they were real. One of them tried to bite him, but he dodged them, though only by leaping too close to a grenade. As he was dying from the gashes in his chest filled with shrapnel, Klaus found him and dragged him to safety inside the mall. They’d never met before that day, but now they’re partners, especially as it was one of Klaus’ wacky inventions that did and continues to save Ben’s life, implanted in his chest and keeping his lungs from being impaled by the shrapnel. Ben will always carry, both figuratively and literally, a piece of Klaus in his heart.

(Musical Shop) Vanya mostly stays in her music shop, playing violin by herself. Klaus likes to tweak all the other instruments so they play by themselves like ghosts. Vanya doesn’t let herself get bitten - but Leonard tried. And she made him pay. She spends her days with Sissy, trying to cheer up the beautiful woman she fell in love with when she first moved here… but Sissy is a shell of herself, sad and lost and lonely, and there’s nothing Vanya can do to change that, no matter how hard she tries. And she tries. So. Goddamn. Hard.

(Tech Store) Ray is just trying to get the wifi working again. He reads as many books as he can, mostly on civil rights movements and survivalist theory, but there’s not much time. If they want to send out a signal for help, someone has to brave the outside and reattach the antenna. And Ray knows, has always known, that that’s gonna be him.

(Martial Arts Studio) Lila used to be a martial arts teacher before all this shit went down. She watched her studio and students get ripped to shreds by zombies, and she could save nobody. She made it to the mall by pure luck, and is decorated in scars from scratches and attempted bites. She still practices her craft every day, training to break them out to somewhere safer. But the longer she spends here, the more she knows they’ll never make it - they’re all going to die for each other, in the end. And die for each other they do.

(Record Shop) Eudora used to be a cop. She’s always been on the side that’s moral, righteous, and good. So what’s she supposed to do now that she has to steal and kill to survive? (Make Diego do it for her, that’s how.) She’s bunkered down in the record store, blasting music throughout the mall randomly every day. She’s found out classical lulls the zombies to sleep and metal sends them running. But they always return, more feral than before. She falls so deeply in love with Lila she’s terrified to act on it, but in the end it doesn’t matter - Lila is bitten, and Eudora’s the one who has to burn her down.

(Cooking Store) Sissy is anxious and paranoid, having lost her son Harlan in the first wave of zombies. He ate her husband - not that she cared. He was a dick. But - but - her son. She drifts along like a ghost now, without him. Vanya loves her, and holds her, and takes care of her, but there’s just nothing that can be done. When the zombies finally get in, Sissy just bares her neck and gives in.

(Baby Boutique) Grace is a brilliant inventor and healer who taught Klaus everything he knows. She’s responsible for the shields and fences that keep the zombies out of the mall, and is working towards a cure for the zombie infection. Hopefully one she can dump out on the masses. She dies fighting off the zombies long enough for Ray to fix the antennae, feeling humanity slip out of her as she stares at the sun and moon, eclipsing in the distance. She figures a blind zombie is better than another seeing one.

(Evil CEO) Reginald invented the zombie serum, and he’s not sorry. It’s just a spot of fun that… got out of control, he guesses. He just had some people he needed to get rid of, and this way everyone would be focusing more on the oh-my-god-real-life-zombies part than the hold-up-were-they-murdered part. But then Ben figures it out. Reginald’s stupid, annoying, nerdy son figures it out. And what was Reginald to do? Just let him live? His Klaus-touched heart sits in Reginald’s bloody hand, and Reginald grins and shoves it in his mouth whole.

(Wedding Boutique) The Handler is that crazy bitch who wears wedding dresses every day. She always looks a bit sick, but she also always wears crazy make-up, so they just brush it off. Until one day Five catches her changing and sees the prominent bite marks all over her, proving she’s been bitten nearly six times over. She turns around and looks at him, sneers, and opens her gaping maw when he grabs a nearby candelabra and sets her hair on fire.

(Sports Store) Hazel and Cha-Cha are partners who have been here since the beginning of the apocalypse. Hazel used to be a girls’ soccer coach and Cha-Cha ran the boys’ football team at the same high school, but that’s all over now. Hazel’s been fucked up since Agnes died (only of natural causes. Ha!) and Cha-Cha’s seen her zombie walking around since then. She makes it her mission to shoot it down before Hazel sees it, and manages - but the two of them still go out in a blaze of glory together, sacrificing themselves to take out a horde of the undead just days before the mall falls.

(Woodworking Shop) Leonard got bitten in the third wave, just before entering the mall. He made it a week before they found out. He tried to bite Vanya and she pitched him over the side of the terrace. They use the logs from his wood shop to kill zombies who get too close, setting them on fire and hurling them into the masses.

(Thrift Shop) Dave was travelling with Klaus, the two of them rather involved, and got bitten just before he and Klaus made it to safety. Klaus had to kill him and has been depressed about it ever since, setting Dave’s body to rest in the thrift shop where Klaus does all his experiments. Five and Grace use the body as a test subject, but Klaus doesn’t need to know that. When he figures out how to make a zombie-killing nuke, he lays the button down with Dave, hoping they’ll never have to use it since it will most certainly destroy the world along with all the zombies. The last human left alive runs from the zombies towards the button. He presses it. The zombies close in, Five shuts his eyes, and the planet explodes into nothing.

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derl30 · 4 years ago

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ALTERED STATES REVIEW TIME!

OK, this tumblr is, today, a vehicle for me to review ALTERED STATES. And you (the one person who stumbled on this review two-hundred years from n- oh who am I kidding, when the aliens from A.I. who show up to thaw out Haley Joel Osment and the teddy bear who was the real hero of that movie find this) should be very excited about this. Because this movie is insane. And highly entertaining.

Yes, the movie poster looks like ass. If I told you this was a movie where William Hurt (not the William Hurt from that awful 90's Lost in Space remake, or the one who slept through an entire performance as Duke Leto in the Syfy miniseries of Dune. This is before the body snatchers got him) took ayahuasca and got in a isolation tank and it blew his mind so hard he started devolving into a neanderthal and creating dimensional portals and he couldn't stop because he was addicted to finding the truth of existence... Well you wouldn't get that from this poster, would you? So let's move on. Shall we?

The film opens in 1967 with William Hurt's character, psychopathologist Edward Jessup, already immersed in a sensory deprivation tank, whilst his colleague and “buddy” Bob Balaban (he's just Bob Balaban in everything I'm not giving you his character's name look it up yourself if it's bugging you so much) oversees.

Now, you may notice I put buddy in quotes. The reason for that is that Jessup is a self-obsessed ass who seemingly has no reason to be around other people unless he can expound to them one of his various monologues. Bob Balaban barely gets a word in edgewise throughout the entire film. Bob Balaban.

See, Jessup loves the sensory deprivation tank experience. Unsurprisingly, as it allows him to be completely alone with himself for hours.

Later, at perhaps the lamest party ever, a bunch of faculty are chilling out and listening to the Doors. Everyone we see is talking about Jessup. Why? Well, much as Jessup is obsessed with himself, everyone else seems to follow suit by being obsessed with him. One young woman, Emily, (Blair Brown) is introduced to him in this very shot below as he arrives at the party:

Notice how is framed in holy light? There is a closeup after, of him framed in blinding glowing light followed up with a zoom in on Emily's face, enraptured with this incredible dynamic man. So much so that the moment he tries to make a goddamn sandwich she starts grabbing his celery (get your mind out of the gutter) and flirting with him. Which for these two that means talking science, immediately. Talking more at each other than with each other. This is often the way with Paddy Chayefsky's scripts.

PAUSE

Paddy Chayefsky is doubtless one of the great American writers for the screen. He wrote Marty, The Hospital and Network (which is a fucking incredible piece of work). He got an Oscar for all three. He also wrote this movie (Altered States, remember? Good lord) and disowned it completely three weeks in to production. His scripts tend to have very intelligent, driven characters at the center, who monologue extensively at each other. These scripts are not attempting to sound naturalistic.

Ken Russell, however, directed the film. He, like Chayefsky, is top notch at what he does (Direct. I said he directed the film like a second ago, come on keep up). His films, like Women in Love, The Devils, (which was banned in several major countries upon release and has never been shown publicly in its full, uncut form (by the way it's a masterpiece)) the Who's Tommy, Gothic, and Lair of the White Worm are all fucking gonzo nuts. I mean like, when you gave this guy the reins, you were going to Overthetopsville and there will be no stops on this trip. And god bless! I love directors who GO for it!

You're getting the chance to make a movie. Stop hemming and hawing and hit me over the head with what you want to say! Film is a visual medium, USE IT!

I feel I might have made my feelings clear here. So, moving on...

Ken Russell and Paddy Chayefsky immediately started butting heads, right from the start. Chayefsky was a BIG deal, and he wanted control over the picture in a BIG way. Ken would listen to his suggestions on everything to lighting and set dressing, and politely tell him, “No.”, and continue being the director of the film. Chayefsky hated him pretty quickly.

He had much more control over films like The Hospital. Which, if you watch The Hospital, well, it shows. You've got great actors (George C. Scott, Dame Diana Rigg (Dame may be the greatest official title of all time)) saying great dialogue. But its just two very witty bitter people sort of expounding on topics and speaking at each other and suddenly admitting they are in love and discussing what drapes they will have to buy for their new home. It's utterly preposterous, and it doesn't work in the way Sidney Lumet got it to work in Network, by literally making one of the lead characters realize his life is turning into a ludicrous soap opera.

So of course Ken tried to humanize, naturalize, the dialogue sequences. And it works! The film feels more human than the Hospital or Network. Despite the fact that Jessup is literally becoming more and more inhuman throughout the film. One of the ways he does this is by having the character's eat, drink, and work on other things during the dialogue sequences. This is perfectly normal in film, it's called giving the actor “business” to do, during the scene. Chayefsky HATED this. “They are mumbling my precious dialogue! Chewing through it! Sucking it through a straw!” Sorry, Chayefsky buddy. It works for the picture. Chayefsky also felt the actors were too emotional with his dialogue. Right. See, they call that acting.

UNPAUSE

Which brings us back to the first meeting of Emily and Jessup at the party. They are eating during this important scene! I can just picture Chayefsky seeing this, and running to the studio brass to tattle and get Ken Russell fired (as he got Arthur Penn of Bonnie and Clyde fame fired before Ken Russell came on board).

Emily and Jessup are, true to Chayefsky form, extremely intelligent, driven people and hearing them discuss topics such as anthropology and schizophrenia is quite interesting. It's just that what is to come, film being a visual medium, will eclipse just about any dialogue, no matter how good, from our mind thingys.

The two give up on the science talk and go straight to banging on her couch. After, she asks what he was thinking about. His answer is priceless. “God. Jesus. Crucifixions.”

She smiles.

Bwahahaha! Oh Paddy Chayefsky, you sure know women.

He admits he used to have religious visions. She listens to him from the sweaty couch whilst he sits naked on the floor, and starts going on about his father's horrible death of cancer and his loss of faith. And he admits to her that he's a nut. Her response is to call him a fascinating bastard. I think Lucas may have taken notes for Padme and Anakin.

So naturally, they get married immediately.

But none of that matters because Jessup gets back in the sensory deprivation tank and has his first vision. A nightmare of his dying father and lost faith in christianity. It's pretty great, filled with foreboding hospital rooms, his father's face being covered in a burning Shroud of Turin, everything covered by horrible blood red clouds and then THIS FUCKING THING SHOWS UP AND ITS ALIVE AND WRIGGLING

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!

excuse me...

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!

The many-eyed goat is slaughtered over a gold bible and suddenly Jessups screwing Emily again and we enter a blood vessel looking thing and the vision ends and he never mentions this again. Oh. Okay,

Emily continues on about what a nut Jessup is as they make marriage plans. Her monologue:

“You're an unmitigated madman. You don't have to tell me how weird you are. I know how weird you are. I'm the girl in your bed the past two months. Even sex is a mystical experience for you. You carry on like a flagellant... Which can be very nice, but I sometimes wonder if it's me that's being made love to. I feel like I'm being harpooned by some raging monk in the act of receiving God. (Emphasis mine)

"And you are a Faust-freak Eddie! You'd sell your soul to find the great truth. Well, human life doesn't have great truths. We're born in doubt. We spend our lives persuading ourselves we're alive. And one way we do that is we love each other, like I love you. I can't imagine living without you. So let's get married, and if it turns out to be a disaster, it'll be a disaster.”

It's a disaster.

As in, by the next scene. It starts off happy enough looking, they have kids and people are smiling. And hey, wow it's seven years later! But, well, see, whoops, they are getting a divorce. Well, not they. See, he is divorcing her because he considers the seven years with her a complete waste.

She still loves him, desperately. He doesn't give a shit about her or the kids. He tells Bob Balaban this, straight up. And then starts bugging him about deprivation tanks and Hinchi Indians in South America who have sacred mushrooms that can really fuck you up.

It's at this point you would like for Jessup to be hit by a Mack truck. But the movie continues on. By the way, this is one of the kids he doesn't give a crap about:

That's right. Drew Barrymore's first role is a kid that William Hurt doesn't give a shit about. Something that William Hurt would make a career out of with narcoleptic performances in Lost in Space and Syfy's Dune. So, Emily takes the kids to Africa for her anthropology work while Jessup goes to South America to go deeper into his own creepy mind.

The Hinchi Indians agree to allow him to participate in the drug ritual. They enter their holy cave.

This shot is beautiful. At this point the film becomes increasingly gorgeous. Ken Russell has started to go into overdrive, ladies and gentlemen. Buckle. Your. Seatbelts.

The Indians grab Jessup's hand and cut him, freaking him out. They pour his blood into the drug mixture. They begin to drink. Then he takes a sip. The intensity of the film here has quadrupled. The vision begins, fireworks going off all around him. He sees cave paintings of humans and komodo dragons and this:

The proper life he left behind with Emily. He's convulsing, sweating. The Indians are all around, masked. Snakes. He's laughing in pain. Energy spills from the void. A snake under the parasol strikes and begins to strangle him. He and Emily march toward a nuclear explosion as energy pours from the cut on his hand, becoming a lizard. From within a sandstorm, Emily watches him, naked. Jessup looks at her, entranced, as the soothing sands cover them both, slowly.

It's a beautiful sequence. A perfect film sequence. I can't overstate how strong the vision sequences are from this point forward. Great visual effects work and the madman mind of Ken Russell create something unforgettable, with it's own pace, independent from the rest of the film.

Jessup awakens with a komodo dragon laying before him, ripped to pieces. The Indians and the others all claim he killed it in rage. Jessup remembers nothing, takes samples of the drug to reproduce it, and goes back home.

Back home, Jessup keeps doing as much of the drug as he can and having Bob Balaban record results. They can't up the dosage any more so Jessup hops back in to the self deprivation tank to create a more extreme experience.

In his next session, Jessup states he is having a vision of early man, hunting a deer and killing it. Suddenly he states he is one of them, killing the deer. He begins to grunt like an animal. The two pull him out. He's incredibly pale, blood seeping out of his mouth. He can't speak, and has difficulty breathing. He insists they do an X-ray. It shows that there is a vocalizing lump in the front part of his throat. Jessup claims that his body had begun to revert to a simian state. The medical doctor agrees, stating the throat X-rays looks like that of a gorilla.

Luckily his throat returns to normal. So Jessup finishes up his day by having over a student of his and sleeping with her.

Our hero, people!

At this point we hardly feel sorry for him as his body suddenly begins to twist and bulge in the middle of the night, shifting in and out of neanderthal shapes. It's a horrific sequence, disturbing as hell. You certainly didn't expect the film to shift into body horror.

Jessup feels normal after a while. but sees visions of lava explosions, the birthing of the Earth all around him. Not a good sign.

He goes to pick up Emily from the airport the next day. She asks how he is doing.

“Oh, fine.”

Yeah right.

Emily has been told what Jessup has been doing and is worried, which of course pisses off Jessup even more. The guy is obviously obsessed with reaching the truth and root of existence, much as Emily surmised earlier, and we see he has no fear of even losing his own soul, again true to her word. The only thing that allows us to give a shit about him at this point is that Emily cares for him and she's decent people, okay?

So back Jessup goes into the tank with his ayahuasca or whatever it is. Alone. The tank door opens from the inside.

The hand that pushes it open is covered in thick hair. He's devolved.

Ape-Jessup escapes the tank room and chases a janitor around the building. Again, this scene is fucking freaky as hell. We can't get a good look at this screaming animal that was Jessup.

The janitor gets a guard to help and chases after him into the boiler room, where we finally get a good look at him when he assaults the security guard and escapes.

AAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!

Ape-Jessup runs through the city at night, making his way to the zoo where he kills a antelope and eats it. The Ape-Jessup sequence goes on way too long, but is nonetheless unforgettable. The makeup is much more convincing than the above picture suggests, and whoever performed Ape-Jessup did an admirable job.

The cops find an unconscious Jessup in the zoo and bring him in. Emily picks him up and questions him. Jessup admits everything that he can remember. He also admits that he probably killed that security guard. And once again doesn't seem to give a shit. Prick. He calls it the most supremely satisfying time of his life.

Even Emily seems disgusted with him. But, she's also fascinated with what he's accomplished. As an anthropologist, his transformation fascinates her. And so, she agrees to help oversee his next session. Big mistake.

Before the big session Emily and Jessup romantically reconnect, and then into the climactic session we go!

Get your popcorn ready!

After a few hours in to the session, the video monitor shows Jessup begin to literally melt apart like goo, reverting to primordial ooze, the very beginning of existence. An attempt to open the isolation tank doors blasts everyone unconscious, as light and energy pour forth. Emily is the only one left. She sees Jessup's life energy pulse from within the tank.

Rain pours down around them. The pipes on the walls twist and turn like jelly. The ground is covered with a pool of swirling fog and energy. Emily advances toward the vortex of the tank.

In the emptiness of the beginning of everything, Emily seizes the energy before her and reconstitutes Jessup.

They take him home. While he sleeps, Emily rages over the fact that she loves such a insane bastard, and can't get over him. And, then, after Bob Balaban leaves, leaving Emily alone, Jessup wakes up.

He sweetly admits that the truth he learned was that there was no learnable truth, just unknowable horror, and all that's real is human experience. And he'll be a good boy from now on. Well too bad!

Because that horrible truth isn't done with him, and it's back to goo-Jessup! Emily tries to help him, grabbing him, but this in turn effects her, turning her into a shimmering lava form of herself. Both of them begin to self-destruct as Jessup, enraged, watching her in pain, struggles to retake his humanity, slamming himself into the wall, reforming himself through sheer will and physicality. He grabs her and brings her back, mirroring what she did for him during the final session. They embrace naked in the hallway. He finally admits, “I love you, Emily.”

Fade to credits.

Awww true love!

What can I say to sum up? Awesome 80's practical effects. Genius wacko go-for-it Ken Russell directing. Out of this world vision sequences. A awake and actually remarkable performance from William Hurt. An occasionally turgid but often fascinating script by the ever ornery Paddy Chayefsky. Whats not to like?

Well, the ending is a little rushed. The ape sequence goes on for a little too long and takes up perhaps too much of the films overall running time. The central love story is, well... a little hard to swallow, but hey, I guess there really is somebody out there for everyone. Even self-absorbed, deadbeat, cheating, sensory deprivation loving, ayahuasca dropping, Harvard teachers with a messiah complex!

And on that note, aliens from A.I. Artifical Intelligence, have a good day, and don't leave poor Teddy alone with no one to keep him company!

Sayonara!

#altered states #ken russell #movies #review #funny?

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kyouxa · 4 years ago

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Diabolik lovers Dark Fate: Kou Mukami (Dark Epilogue)

To get the vampire ending, just choose the M (blue) choices. For the manservant ending, choose S (violet) choices. The brute ending will require you to choose both S and M choices. Please no reposting onto other sites, and please ask me before translating this into another language!

Place: Sakamami mansion — Yui’s bedroom

Yui: Nn… hm?

(It‘s so bright outside… I must’ve fallen asleep before I even noticed it)

I‘m also… conveniently hungry. Let’s go and make something to eat then.

(No matter how depressed I am, I still feel hunger…)

Place: Sakamaki mansion — Kitchen

Yui: I think I can go and make myself some soup. But all the products here are already old, so maybe I can use anything else around here… ?

(For making pasta… no, I should forget that idea. Like this I may end up remembering him…)

No matter what, I think I’ll have to go for the soup.

Place: Sakamaki mansion — Dining hall

Yui: (I guess my stomach’s full for the time being… so, what should I do from now on?)

(The sound the clock makes… is it really such a loud noise?)

(Or is it because the house is so quiet, and that’s why I’m noticing it for the first time? It was so lively back then when I was here with everyone together)

(It’s a kind of scary feeling knowing that nobody’s here…)

…..

(...It’s useless. My thoughts are all over the place now. I have to think about the future, and stop thinking about the past)

(Ah, the birds are tweeting…)

Place: Sakamaki mansion — Outside

Yui: (It‘s such a nice day outside. Even the sky shows its beautiful color…)

(...Kou-kun, I wonder what you’re doing right now?)

(I’m really trying to forget you… but without even noticing it myself, my head’s so full of you)

(At first, I didn‘t understand what Kou-kun was thinking about all along)

(Everytime I convinced myself to believe he’s nice, the next moment I saw myself in was him getting angry at me, and forcefully sucking my blood…)

I was always so scared of his furious whim, trying to get him back to be the tender guy I fell in love with.

Could it be that… Kou-kun was scared too?

If it was a give-and-take relationship all along, then what’s the reason for him being so tender within his cruel punishments?

(...But then, why?)

(When I was going to be attacked during the time the founders showed up… why did Kou-kun help me out without wanting anything in return?)

(He was already injured to begin with, and even though he knew that, Kou-kun still protected me and fought for my safety)

(In that moment… even his voice was amiable…)

After all of this, I still don’t want to believe the fact that I’m nothing more than food for him...

Kou-kun… !

Place: Sakamaki mansion — Living room

Ruki: Azusa, Yuma. Have you seen her walking around here?

Yuma: What’s this about, Ruki? Why are you panicking so much?

Azusa: ...Is she, not here?

Ruki: No, I can’t find her anywhere around.

Yuma: Talking about it, I haven’t seen her around today either.

Azusa: Maybe she… took a walk outside…

Ruki: I don’t think she’d get the sudden idea of walking around the demon world all by herself.

I have a bad feeling about this. We need to go out and search for her.

Azusa: Hm… understood.

Yuma: Can’t be helped then, sheesh. That goddamn sow really has the nerve to leave without telling anyone.

Ruki: I’ll go to the main building and ask the Sakamaki brothers for help

Yuma: ...Why would you go there? It’s not like these guys would be willing to cooperate without making things even more difficult.

Ruki: There’s no other way than trying to move forward. Meanwhile, both of you will search through different locations.

Yuma: Okay-dokey. Then I’ll go around the forest to search for her there.

Azusa: In that case… I’ll start searching all over the castle for her...

Ruki: Yes, I’ll rely on you.

Yuma: ...Ah. Should we get Kou to help us out too then?

Ruki: …..

We should leave him as he is for now.

*Ruki leaves*

Yuma: ...I can’t stop having strange feelings. Did something happen we don’t know about?

Azusa: Who knows… at least I know nothing about it.

Yuma: Guess it’s okay then. Well, see you again later.

Azusa: Hm...

Place: Sakamaki Mansion — Garden

Azusa: ...She‘s nowhere around here either. Where could she be… ?

...Do I smell blood?

???: Ah… Nn…

Azusa: ...Kou!

Kou: Kch…

Azusa: Kou… Kou!

Kou: ...Nn…

Azusa: ...You’re bleeding a lot. If this continues, it will get dangerous for you… I have to call for Ruki…

Kou: Wa...it…

Azusa: Kou?

Kou: Don‘t call… for Ruki-kun…

Azusa: Why not… ?

Kou: Please don‘t… Azusa-kun…

Azusa: And… why are you laying around here, as if you fell down somewhere… ?

Kou: …..

Azusa: Kou… hey. Give me an answer.

Yuma: Azusa, what’s wrong!?

Azusa: Yuma, Kou… he’s heavily injured.

Yuma: ….. !

No way, did you… jump off the balcony!?

Azusa: You jumped from the balcony… ? Why?

Kou: …..

Yuma: ...Just what were you thinking… !? You huge idiot!

*Yuma grabs Kou*

Kou: Ngh… Nn…

Azusa: Yuma… ! I don’t think jolting him is good… !

Yuma: Just what were you thinking… !?

Kou: ...Nn, Yui.

Azusa: ...Kou, he‘s calling for her name.

Yuma: ….. !

Azusa: But why… ? You said… you don’t like and don’t want to be with her… didn’t you?

You acted so cold… and even slapped her hand. But why… do you now call for her name when you’re about to die… ?

Yuma: Ruki must take a large part in that, bet he was the one declaring both of them to give up on their relationship.

Azusa: Give up…

Yuma: Because of the fact that we can’t become Adam, it seems as if he tried messing with his feelings… Hey, Kou. What about all of that?

Kou: …..

Azusa: Yuma… Kou is unconscious…

Yuma: Sheesh… how could you become so desperate to go ahead and jump off there, you idiot. Damn.

Instead of trying to talk to us, you rather decided to pass your limits and go off trying to kill yourself!

*Yuma picks Kou up*

Yuma: ...Aight. Even while being all lanky, you’re still unexpectedly heavy.

Azusa: Should I… help you… ?

Yuma: Nah, I’ll be fine carrying him… geez, this entire situation is such a strange mess to deal with right now.

There definitely must have been something going on between Ruki and Kou that we don’t know about.

Azusa: Say… Yuma. Why do you think Kou jumped off there… ?

Yuma: Because Kou must really like that girl.

Yet both sides are important to him, so he couldn’t choose one. That’s probably why he decided to be the one disappearing instead.

Azusa: I don’t understand the meaning behind this at all.

Yuma: The main point of all of this is him causing us trouble again… and yet he’s the actual dainty one when it comes to situations like this.

Azusa: Hey… Yuma, use this other way… if you want to go back to the castle… here.

Yuma: I’ll not head back there right away. Azusa, you’ll be the one going back to explain all of this to Ruki.

Meanwhile I’ll be the one going to the human world to start looking for her.

Azusa: The human world… ?

Yuma: She probably returned back to her world, so I’ll go to check if I can find her. Later.

Azusa: ...Understood.

Yuma: (The smell of human was pretty intense in the forest… because of the lunar eclipse, I can distinctly tell she went there)

Place: Underground waterway

*Yuma sniffs air*

Yuma: ...As I thought.

(For real, what’s the exact reason you thought you shouldn’t be together with her anymore… ?)

Kou: Nn… Nn…

Yuma: Geez… you always need others to help you out, hm?

Place: Sakamaki mansion — Dining hall

Yui: … Nn!

(I-I got startled… what was that sound just now… ?)

(Maybe it was my imagination? No way… the sound I heard right there was way too clear to be—)

*glass breaks*

Yui: ….. !!

(It wasn’t my imagination… ! That means… someone really tried not to hide the fact they’re coming in here)

Don‘t tell me… that’s Shin-kun?

*footsteps approach*

Yui: (Is he really… coming this way?)

(What should I do… !? I have to go and hide myself somewhere…)

Place: Sakamaki mansion — Hallway

Yui: (I’m sure he’s getting closer to me… he really must be searching for me in this mansion)

(Quickly… I have to find a place where I can hide myself in… !)

Place: Sakamaki mansion — Torture chamber

Yui: (I-I really hate… this place)

(But if I stay quite, I should be fine)

(And yet… I’m scared. What should I do… why do I feel so awfully scared… !? My body won’t stop shivering either… !)

(...Kou-kun, please help me!)

#Diabolik Lovers #diabolik lovers translation #Diabolik Lovers game #diabolik lovers dark fate #diabolik lovers dark fate translation #kou mukami #mukami kou #kou mukami dark fate translation #kou mukami dark fate #translation #otome game translation #dark fate #otome game #Ruki Mukami #Yuma Mukami #Azusa Mukami #Mukami brothers

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serpentsapple · 4 years ago

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(This post includes major spoilers for The Grisha Trilogy and the Shades of Magic series.)

@dykeblight replied to our introductory post with the following:

alright bud since u decided to put this in the main tags of the books ur critiquing ur ready to hear my take on this. first of all the wording in this post is pretentious as hell and it bothered me all thru out reading it. second of all, let’s lay some shit down: the only books ive read discussed in this post are adsom and tgt, and while i agree that tgt isn’t the most radically feminist book series out there, i have to ask: why are u focused on women writing this? why is this post generalizing

horrible male authors but name dropping female ones? alinas journey was largely about her realizing that she could make her own choices. about her not needing to be queen or supreme ruler or some shit. about how she could literally settle down with the worlds most boring dude and still be happy. anyways, beyond that: adsom. first of all, whenever someone pulls the “not like other girls” card for lila, i have to pull the “she’s genderfluid” card. it wasn’t Explicitly stated in the series, and v

has expressed regret for that, so it’s probably going to be more obvious in the next series. also, adsom is very much a period piece. you couldn’t be a woman in the early nineteenth century doing what lila did without like, yknow, *not being a woman.* the threat she got on that first ship— a period piece! if it was a male author, then that’s gross. but it’s not, a woman wrote it! lila also proceeded to burn the whole goddamn ship down. sometimes authors don’t want to write traditionally feminine

characters!!! sometimes women want to write about what THEY can relate to! and ve schwab, as a queer woman, probably did that. so now we come back to the question of WHY are you calling out only female authors for this? you could have accomplished the same goal by just including books and authors that you deemed Respectable. not to be that bitch, but there was literally no reason for you to post this lmfao. i think we should first tackle the issue that is men having access to keyboards, and

maybe then we can broaden our horizons by critiquing everything women do thats decidedly not perfect.

We created this blog to discuss these topics, so we welcome other opinions and interpretations!

To reiterate our goal and perhaps clarify... male authors already receive enough publicity and analysis - to the point they eclipse, at times, their female peers, even when it comes to writing female characters. How wonderful of them to treat fictional women as fellow human beings! (How shameless of others to treat them as their personal sexual fantasy!) Yet we would like to hear what women have to say about themselves. It is why we focus exclusively on their works.

Furthermore, we believe these works as worthy of analysis as any text written by a man. And it is precisely because of this conviction - their books potentially as grandiose, as mediocre as any man’s - that we will not refrain from criticising them. To treat them differently would be implicitly agreeing with the notion they aren’t as intellectually engaging as men’s writings.

Moreover, we are not advocating for “feminist” books from women. In fact, we dislike this qualifier: too often misattributed, rarely useful, always commercial. We desire convincing female characters, as talented as they are flawed, as just as they can be immoral. Thus, while we have grown tired of uncreative, unnecessary sexism in fantasy, we are not expecting perfect little militants in every story. We expect to be moved and stunned, to be left inspired or reflecting on what we read.

I hope this has cleared up our intent with the blog. Now, for the specific series discussed...

While I could see this be Bardugo’s aim for Alina’s journey, I disagree with it being well executed. Narratively speaking, I do not think Alina was treated fairly and was able to make true choices. Throughout all three books, Alina remained unobservant and somewhat self-centered, never challenging the affirmations of others and instead regarding them as truth. Let’s take the example of the Darkling: she accepts his supposed initial good intentions and views him, to the very end, as some kind of lost and anguished “boy”. Yet that isn’t what the text shows - on the contrary, the Darkling is a hollow character that spent centuries sitting on his behind, doing nothing for his fellow Grisha. Alina is never given the chance to realise this and reevalute what happened to her.

Beyond this, I feel like Alina’s journey was contrived from the start. Bardugo does not allow her to see beyond the words of others, nor does she allow her to actually grow. Alina’s crush on Mal and her fixation on remaining with him - despite him disliking what she is! - stems from a child’s anxiety and solitude. Instead of becoming her own woman, making her own choices and yes, having to face losing relationships, Alina regresses to the safety of her childhood, powerless and normal, just like Mal. Let us remember that, to remain with him, she sealed her powers within herself, endangering her health! So symbolically, it is a slap in the face: just when she embraced her powers - meaning letting go of her fears, of Mal -, she loses it all and go back to square one.

This is why I don’t find Alina’s journey satisfying. Even if it hurts, I wish to see female characters confronted to their fears and their flaws, and grow from them*. That is not what we witnessed with Alina. And: why is it that female characters must be “depowered”? Why does the Darkling (and Ilya Morozova) get to keep his immense powers, must live with his guilt, yet Alina loses every and any scrap of magic? Why is she punished for her greed so much, when she hardly is the greediest? (This echoes also Genya’s “punishment”, so heavily tied to her being a beautiful woman and beauty being, in Bardugo’s world, a key quality for women. Nikolai’s monstruous transformation is cruel but never specifically targeted at his sex.)

Why is it female characters only whose “happy” ending involve going back to their boyfriend’s house, complete with potential children? In a fantasy world, is it the best we can offer to these characters? Why does “making her own choice” usually involve them being unambitious and - I am barely caricaturing - happy housewives? Where are the female characters being greedy, powerful to the point of madness, and fascinatingly ruthless? Where are the genius, the good but scheming inventors and princesses? Where are the female Darklings and the female Nikolais?

Yes, it may not be Alina’s story and that’s alright. But reading the story she received, I could not help wondering: is it truly her story, or is it her story in a narrative unfair to women?

As for Lila... what Schwab stated confusingly in interviews or twitter threads cannot be used to analyse the text itself, though it may help. In this case, it holds a very different perspective from what she may affirm outside of it, so let’s keep close to what she wrote.

I disagree that it is a period piece. Her series is firmly set in a fantasy version of our world, with four alternate but equally real Londons, and with interactions between them that differentiate her England from ours. She chose to keep this England similar to ours, so the departure from it could be obvious; she chose, again, to have Lila threatened with rape by sailors even in Red London, her full invention. She chose, still, to never mention the miserable reality of lots of poor women like Lila in our England - namely, prostitution. She picked what suited her, as authors do, yet could not come up with any other plot than sexual assault. That she is a woman does not excuse her utter lack of imagination on that front! I find the notion that female characters are condemned to sexual threats depressing, on top of insulting towards authors who still strive to be creative.

And this is all ignoring what Schwab forced her other female characters to endure, which is sexual slavery, somewhat coerced pregnancies and social isolation, plus being sexist caricatures and butchered so men could be sad about it. In that context, what is Schwab exactly saying about women, if even her heroine is misogynistic and desperately trying to escape this reality? If Lila isn’t a woman - which she is in the text, she never denies being one, she only affirms being different, meaning a full human being! -, does that mean women’s place is in caricature and distress and death? If she is, then must they reject their womanhood and deride other women to be in the spotlight?

And this is all, again, ignoring that Schwab who, yes, admitted wanting to write a female character she wished to see in fiction, that resembled her... had Lila’s whole development derailed in favour of male characters. Lila’s ambition and excessiveness vanished in a third book dedicated to temptation! Lila’s anger and recklessness receded in front of Holland, all so we could learn about his sad backstory. Which involved, as salt to the wound, the stereotypes of a greedy girlfriend and the ever failing mother Schwab is so fond of.

Our post never suggested that women should not write non traditionally feminine women. Rather, that would be quite refreshing! I would love to read about these women that we hardly see.

Is it what Schwab wrote, though? Lila indeed crossdresses and appears androgynous enough to sometimes pass as a man (not always, in a manner that is most convenient to the author). Yet: she constantly mocks other women for being vapid, gossiping, feminine, in a word weak. Yet: Schwab has her, in the second book, attend a ball dressed femininely and feeling insecure about it, all to state she is - quoting! - “not most girls” and have Kell, her love interest, compliments her. She has the happy tomboy reaffirmed as able to be feminine and beautiful that way! How is that not depressing for every woman and girl who never want to be feminine? Why did Schwab choose to have her in a dress instead of a suit, like Lila would probably have preferred? Why did Schwab choose to strictly divide women and men into two categories, dress-wearing and not-dress-wearing? Why is Lila alone in her plight as an androgynous woman? Why didn’t this fantasy world have women and men dressed in a way they felt comfortable with?

This isn’t a period piece. Schwab was free to make that choice... and she did not. I would add, too, that women in real life have always struggled and fought against misogyny. They were women and they were still complex human beings and they still tried to live as comfortably as they could. Sometimes they failed, yes, because society wouldn’t want them to. But women like Lila have existed, and behaved like her, and dressed like her, and dreamed as big as her. Why should not we expect as much of fiction, then?

Sidenote: I am especially critical of that awful “tomboy turns into a lady” trope that fandom will seize it and run. It is disheartening to see countless edits and fanarts of Lila depicting her as feminine instead of androgynous as she was written, and often in feminine clothing at that. So if even the narrative later ends up confirming it...

*Or perhaps spiral down, willingfully blind. Alina’s story isn’t supposed to be a tragedy, however, so this does not apply here.

(If you don’t mind, I would like to hear why you found the post’s wording pretentious?)

#reply #shades of magic #the grisha trilogy #our posts #mod V

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rosesisupposes · 6 years ago

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A Whisper In The Dark

Part 7 of Another Goddamn Hero Story

read on ao3

Chapter Pairings: Royality; Analogical; Remceit

Chapter Warnings: Minor Character Death(s); Dissociation/Hallucination; Graphic Violence; Graphic Threats of Violence; Mild Gore; Emotional numbness/depressive episode; Grief; survivor’s guilt; Mentions of human experimentation; Mentions of child abuse;

Word Count: 6,604

Taglist: @residentanchor @royally-anxious @bewarethegrammarpolice @jemthebookworm @arandompasserby @sparkly-rainbow-salt @astral-eclipse @thelowlysatsuma @monsterinatophat @turtally-pawsome @um-yes-hi-hello @idkaurl @potestessemagishomosexualitatis @hawthornshadow

~~~~~~~~~~

Sofia Rodriguez was in a hurry and really didn’t need any more delays right now, thank you very much. She checked her watch again in frustration, as if being more aware of the time would make her less late to her after-school job. You’d think a bodega only two blocks from her home would be the most convenient thing, but today she despaired that she hadn’t prioritized proximity to school instead. Police had roped off the streets she normally took home for three square blocks, and her watch blinked the seconds urgently at her as 2:45 crept closer and closer.

She winced, as much at the time as at the reminder that her only working watch was still the plastic Disney Princess one she’d begged her mama for as a little girl. It was far too childish for a sixteen-year-old, not to mention about two gasps away from needing a new battery anyway. Maybe she’d be able to buy one with any extra money she made from this job, anything on top of helping with groceries and household expenses.

That is, if she wasn’t so late that she lost her job on the spot today.

She looked at her wrist obsessively again, walking as fast as she could without breaking into a run. 2:39, and she was definitely more than six minutes away. With a groan she ducked down an alley. The police hadn’t roped off her shortcut, luckily, so there was a chance to be less than five minutes late, maybe.

Coming out into the better-lit street, she heard a distant rumble. ¡Puñeta! Those damn supers better not be in the Heights, she thought angrily. Since the Fang Patrol had been rounded up when she was young, her neighborhood had been having a respite from active super activity, comparatively, at least. Tía Stephanie still prayed in thanks for how few attacks they’d had recently, while Sofia had often sat on the stairs eavesdropping while her family cursed the city for the old damages that had yet to be fixed.

Though, at the same time she hoped for uneventful days, there was a tiny part of her that still watched all the supers, that kept mental catalogues of her favorites, that admired their outfits. She pretended not to watch the news coverage on the tiny TV in the bodega, but she secretly thrilled to hear any coverage with heroes’ quips and catch phrases or villains’ dramatic manifestos. In a tiny box hidden well under her bed, she still had a tiny crown. She’d thrown it away in a fit of tears, when she’d first seen the beautiful Prince’s transformation, but she hadn’t been able to part with it, in the end, and dug it out of the trash.

She shook her head away from childish, daydreaming thoughts and picked up the pace towards her job, practically jogging now. She was now only a block away, and it was 2:45 exactly. She’d barely be late at all!

Someone bumped her as they passed, full-out sprinting. She almost cussed him out before she realized he wasn’t just an obnoxious jogger from a nicer neighborhood, but what looked like a worker in a polo and slacks. She looked around her and saw that he wasn’t the only one - people were running or ducking into houses or stores all around her, and some shops were preemptively rolling down their metal shutters. She risked a look behind her and cussed loud and long, a mixture of Spanish and English, as she sprinted the last distance to the bodega.

There were approaching clouds of smoke and debris, several blocks away now but approaching far too quickly, punctuated with rumbles and booms she’d been ignoring. She ducked into the safety of the store, the normally-friendly Mrs. Santos practically tugging her to the ground as she got Sofia inside and locked the doors. She muttered under her breath, something about shutters and madness. Two patrons who’d already been inside were huddled as far back from the windows as possible, but Sofia couldn’t bear to be in the dark - she had to know who or what was outside.

She peered out from the side, as little of her body exposed as possible. The cloud had gotten closer, and now she could see it was advanced by a series of explosions. Buildings burst with each rumble, glass and brick dust sprinkling down. There were now two distinct sounds - the screech of metal scraping against brick followed by the almighty crash of buildings bursting and falling. Sofia risked sitting up on her heels to get a better look.

The villain had dark silky hair that fell in long sheets far past her waist. Skin as golden-brown as Sofia’s own was set off by the dramatic black-and-purple costume she wore. She had what looked like feathered ornaments around her neck and wrists and cheeks. With a twirl, the villain’s mouth opened, and the sound of metal scraping rock sounded again as pieces of yet another building crashed to the ground. The ragged, torn skirt of the dramatic, medieval-style gown revealed scuffed black boots underneath as she turned once more.

Sofia realized with a shiver that the villain was breaking the buildings with her voice. The metallic screech was emerging from her throat. Which meant this must be The Violet Condor, one of the least predictable villains in the city. There was no sign the Condor’s most frequent companions, either, so the outlook was bleak, unless someone like Dr. Vectorious could be bothered to come all the way out to the Heights. Hopefully, she’d keep attacking just pieces of buildings, not collapsing them entirely regardless of occupants.

Suddenly, the dark-clad woman jerked and spun. She looked enraged, but wasn’t using her power to attack. It looked almost like there was a bee buzzing around her head.

Then the bee suddenly grew many sizes and proved to be a super, a short man who hit The Condor across the face before shrinking once more, zooming around her head. Who is that? He’s one of the ones who hardly goes in the field, isn’t he? Why’s he here of all places? Sofia wondered.

The hero seemed to be winning, exhausting the villain with his dodging in and out, growing and shrinking in the blink of an eye. The Condor was unable to keep up with his changes, and had lost any focus on destruction of the neighborhood. Sofia breathed a sigh of relief. It was nice, feeling protected again, even for just a day.

And then with a start, she realized there was a civilian out there, in the blast zone. No, not just one, but several, hiding against the walls - how had she not seen them before? Was that…?

She screamed as she recognized her mom, her mom’s siblings, their children - her entire family was crouching against the far walls of the street, perilously close to the supers’ fight. Standing, she sprinted to the door, struggling to undo the locks with shaking hands. Mrs. Santos was there behind in an instant, and Sofia prepared herself to tell the well-meaning woman that she didn’t care if it was unsafe, she could not just sit by while her family was hurt. But the bodega owner just helped her unlock the door, running out into the street before her, swearing in Portuguese.

Sofia was dimly aware of others sprinting into the open street, but her vision and attention were fixed only on her family members and the terror on their faces. She dodged rubble and other civilians as she raced across the block to them. A trash can flew through the air and landed by her as debris swirled around. She paused for just a moment, grabbed the lid to protect her head, and ran on. As she reached the opposite side of the square, she could see her little cousin Maria reaching out a hand towards her as she wailed. Sofia reached out to grab it, only to have her fingers meet air. The flame of protective fear was extinguished, replaced by the cold, curling knowledge that they’d never been there, that Sofia had run into the exposed street for mere shadows.

She whirled, seeing her sudden realization reflected in the faces of the civilians that now flooded the streets as she saw a very different emotion on The Condor’s face. It was abject terror and anger.

“No!” the purple-clad woman screamed. “No, you can’t take me back!” The feathers around her neck and wrists rippled. Sofia swallowed bile as she realized they weren’t ornaments after all - they were implants, growing out of reddened, angry flesh, flapping uselessly in the wind. “You won’t burn us again, cabrón!”

Sofia had less than a split-second to react. She dove behind a brownstone’s front stairs as the sonic blast of the Condor’s voice howled through the street. It wasn’t just chunks of buildings falling out, now, but entire floors being removed and ceilings caving in. Sofia clutched her garbage lid with clammy hands, suppressing the urge to scream as chunks of stone and shards of glass landed on it and slid off. She wished in vain for an extra hand to cover her ears as she heard the cries of those who were more exposed than she, of the people who’d been out in the middle of the street with no protection. What could she do? She was just a sixteen-year-old girl, with a metal trash lid and no powers whatsoever. She was only just barely able to keep a part-time job to help her mom. The most she could hope for was getting out of this day alive.

Peering as much as she dared over the wall, braced to hide once more, she saw the size-shifter grow once more. His eyes darted across the street, and she could see his distress even from here. He seemed to stare through the villain rather than at her, more concerned with the threats he saw around him, somewhere. Sofia felt ice spreading in her veins. Just like she had, just like the others who’d run out into the open heedless of danger, both hero and villain were seeing apparitions, convinced of their reality. And when supers were convinced of close danger…

The Violet Condor started to scream again, walls trembling and crashing as pavement rippled. The hero (what was his name, Sofia couldn’t think of it, something about bugs?) seemed deaf and blind to her attack until he started flying directly towards her, shrinking as he went. He flew directly into the shockwaves of her ongoing scream, somehow able to struggle against the blast towards the very epicenter.

Sofia stifled a gasp as the hero, only just visible from the bright colors of his jumpsuit and jetpack, flew directly into the Condor’s mouth. Her screech wavered and distorted, until she started to hack and cough, choking on the hero himself. The sonic vibrations, instead of fading, got deeper, shaking the ground just as much as the air. Sofia risked a looked and flinched back under her trash can lid as the roar grew in volume and intensity, a terrible, apocalyptic melody over the percussion of debris and destruction. Parts of brick, shards of glass, and pebbles clattered on her lid, scratching her face as they missed her makeshift shield.

She thought she heard her mother’s voice, or Maria’s scream. She thought she saw her uncle standing in the street, or maybe her childhood Prince, the one whose gift of a crown was the only reason she was sure he hadn’t been a daydream. Or maybe, she just saw a smile, a smirk, a predatory grin through the dust clouds before something hit her head and everything became darkness.

~~~~~~~~~~

[UPDATE] D.R.E.A.M. Index #337261 Classification: A.3.i [Tertiary Tier Hero, Legacy] Name: Swallowtail Status: DECEASED /////////Recognition: Pending Honor Roll ‘18 Civilian Name: [CLEARANCE: TOP SECRET] Terrence Williams, Jr. Affiliation: Hero ///////// H.A.T.C.H. Status: Inactive Partners/Sidekicks: N/A Primary Foes: N/A Powers: Shape-shifting: size reduction and addition; Tech-assisted flight; Costume: Bodysuit in bright florals; yellow, black, and white jet pack painted with namesake butterfly wings Age: 25 Height: 5’3” Pronouns: He/His H.E.A.R.T.S. Class of ‘11 Note: Unconfirmed relation to members of DI#Z-3286 - Fang Patrol, but confirmed Hero and son of supers; Classmate and fellow scientist to DI#337255 - Dr. Vectorious; A less active hero, primary role as research/support to S.E.A.M. Stokes and Mayor Stokes. /////////Killed in IR 18-Z-0011 by DI#Z00000 - Unknown Villain

~~~~~~~~~~

Everything was dark. Roman hated the dark. Or did he just dislike it? Or maybe he just wouldn’t mind, were the dark to go away. He was… apathetic towards it.

But, wait. Was it really dark? He wasn’t sure. He could see defined shapes, but everything was as washed out as twilight. There was a bed underneath him, one he could feel. It was strangely hard today. The lights were both too bright and too dim at once. The sun’s rays through the window struggled feebly to light up anything past the sill.

Roman didn’t have a window in his hidden home.

Sitting up was a monumental effort as he struggled against the invisible weights that dragged on every fiber of his muscles and skin. He wasn’t on his couch, not on his bed. He wasn’t home. He was somewhere alien, with no memory of how he’d arrived there.

Dimly, he realized he should be infuriated, or terrified, or… something. He should feel something. He should be worried that he didn’t. Was this the grey? Had it come on with no warning?

Where was Patton?

Where was he?

And why couldn’t he feel worried about not being able to answer any of these questions?

He looked around the small room. Plain, metal-framed bed. Small bathroom. Sparsely-populated bookshelf that was bolted to the wall. Postage-stamp window. Rough grey stone floor. Speckled, industrial style ceiling tiles. Fluorescent lights that seemed to be humming much louder than most of their kind. Either that, or there was some other electrical feedback, and it was putting his teeth on edge. He could feel the headache coming on. At least he was feeling something.

He stood, grunting with effort, and shuffled to the door. The handle was locked, a fact he accepted without surprise or anger. But it confirmed his suspicion. He was in some sort of prison or hospital. He frowned, trying to piece together his last memories before waking up. They’d been fighting the heroes, and he’d visibly flustered ‘Flex for the first time, and then there’d been screaming and… dark.

So probably a prison, then. He’d never been in any prison before, but this one seemed a lot nicer than TV prisons always looked. Maybe Harmony City spoiled everyone. Or, at least, everyone outside of Sycamore Heights.

God, why was he so tired? Or maybe not tired so much as… drained. Lethargic. Colorless. He knew without trying that he wouldn’t be able to summon any constructs. It felt like a another depressive episode, but he wasn’t usually this self-aware, not without his partner.

Where was Patton?

Roman leaned against the door, already losing energy fast from the effort of standing. He noticed the electronic hum got louder as he did so, and frowned. Was it coming from the door, not the lights? He squinted through the opaque glass and was able to make out a faint blue glow. It pricked a memory, not a strong one, but a relatively recent one. Where had he seen it before? Something in a street, he thought, and he’d seen it from ground level. The weird van, from the day before. When they’d interrupted the heroes. That one villain had been handcuffed and pushed quickly into a truck with this same glow.

As if summoned, Moonshadow appeared on the other side of the fogged glass, sunglasses balanced jauntily on their nose. They removed something from their neck and held it near the door. Some odd clicks and whirrs later, it swung open.

“Hey there, Red,” Moonshadow drawled. “You gonna sit in there all day, or you want to party?”

Roman stepped out into the hallway, and immediately felt a wash of adrenaline and anger and nerves. “How did you get out?”

The other villain smirked, petting the snake coiled around their wrist. “My honey never abandons me for long. C’mon, let’s go get yours.”

“Aren’t there guards?” Roman asked, flexing his fingers as he summoned his costume and a makeshift mask.

“Oh sweetie, put that away. Just follow my lead, yeah?”

Roman pouted, but kept the mask as his construct melted back, leaving just the loose t-shirt and drawstring pants he’d woken up in. He follow the lanky villain, listening to their quiet murmurs to the snake that was now snuggled around their neck.

He took the opportunity to take in their surrounding. It still looked more like a hospital than a prison, but each room’s door was a heavy slab of metal, and a glance out the intermittent windows showed high fences with barbed wire surrounding the building. The metal flickered with that same glow of the doors and the handcuffs.

“Have you been here before? What is this place?” Roman asked, speaking low just in case.

“Oh, yeah, all the time,” Moonshadow said. “Welcome to cheeku.”

Or, that’s what Roman heard, at least. “Whomst?”

“Cheeku. C-H-E-A-C-U. They like making their acronyms pronounceable, haven’t you noticed? It’s for City of Harmony Enhanced Abilities Containment Unit. Aka, Super Prison. Aka, home away from home! All my faves are here, and they know my favorite snacks and everything!”

“How do you escape so easily every time? Just this guy?” Roman asked, gesturing to the snake, who flicked a forked tongue at him.

“Nah, babes. He just comes when he gets clingy and doesn’t want to wait for me to escape on my own.”

The snake wriggled, falling off Moonshadow’s very high shoulder and landing on two human feet. “Yeah, that’s why,” the man said. “Not because you got caught the same day as two powerful villains who can give us some cover for our escape, for once.” He waggled his still-scaley fingers in a little wave at Roman. “Hey, don’t think we met during the heist. I go by the Viper, but at this point it seems silly to hide real names. I’m Damon. This is Remy, who is unfortunately my partner.”

“Shut up, you love me,” Remy said, pulling the shorter man in for a kiss regardless of how very serpentine his face was.

“I do,” Damon replied softly, kissing back.

“This is precious, but can we free my boyfriend now?” Roman asked patiently.

Remy was clearly rolling their eyes behind their dark glasses, but they broke off anyway and walked to the next door down. “Any other super friends who might be in here or just the wind-boy?”

“Wind boy? Really?” Roman glared at the tall villain, who ignored it. “No, no one else.”

They finally came to the room with a label on the door of “DI#337437 - Gale Force.” Roman peered through the door. It was easier to see from outside - Patton was lying on the bed, seemingly bored more than distressed. Damon was fiddling with the lock, his hands shrunk into tiny lizard appendages, until he grinned and the door swung open.

“Sunshine!” Roman cried, darting through to wrap Patton in a hug. “I missed you!”

“Oh, we’re free now?” Patton asked, looking over Ro’s shoulder at the tall villain and their boyfriend. “Thanks!”

Patton walked into the hallway and experimentally hovered, testing his powers. “Oh, good, for the a second there I thought I’d forgotten how!”

“You have the rooms to thank for that,” Damon muttered, shaking his arms out to try to get them more human again. “They’re Enhanced Ability Neutralization and Stasis Chambers. EANSCs. It works on all supers - no one can use their power while in one.”

“Is that what was in those cuffs, too?”

Remy nodded. “It doesn’t last as long or as effectively. Transporting supers here is the most dangerous part. Especially when it’s me. I’ve broken out before getting here about… hm, 70 percent of the time?”

“I didn’t realize your power was escapism,” Patton commented. “I thought it was invisibility or something.”

“Oh, no, hun. People get to see me, and they are welcome for it. They’ll just never remember, if I don’t want them too. All I need is a second of distraction and eye contact.”

“And what about you, slimy boy?” Roman asked.

“I’m scaley, you ass. I can only become reptiles. As you can see, though, it takes a while to get back,” Damon explained with a frown at his still-lizard-like fingers.

The small group finally came out into a open air, a guard station with a TV. The uniformed guards all started, standing with glowing wands, but Remy just wordlessly slid their glasses down and stared. The guards froze, their eyes turning to marble as blank as Remy’s own.

Roman walked over to one in interest, and flicked the woman’s head experimentally. No reaction. “Damn, that’s powerful.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Rem,” Damon’s voice interrupted. “You should look at this.” He stood in front of the TV, watching frantic news coverage.

Roman and Patton turned with Remy, all three trying to make sense of the chaotic footage. The street on the screen looked like a full-scale invasion had just ripped through. Everywhere, there was destruction. Not a single visible building remained standing and intact. And there were bodies strewn everywhere, like so many fallen leaves.

“Holy shit,” Remy whispered. “This… who is this?”

“They don’t know,” Damon murmured, stricken. “There was only one survivor, and she saw next to nothing.” The camera cut to a teenage girl, bruised, bloodied, and trying not to break down as medics extracted her from the rubble.

“That’s the Heights,” Roman said. “Someone attacked the Heights, and I wasn’t there.”

“Honeybear, it’s not your fault,” Patton cooed. “It’s those terrible heroes, we’ll just fight them extra hard, okay?”

Roman sighed. “That won’t help, Patton.”

The reptilian man in front of him stiffened. “Patton?”

“Oh, sorry, we haven’t introduced you. Gale Force aka Patton, this is Damon aka The Viper.”

Now Patton stared as well, mouth agape. “...Damon? Damon McLeggan?”

“Oh my god, it’s you. Pat? This… you survived the collapse?”

“Dam’, I thought you died years ago. In the explosion, in the lab…”

The two supers reached out, grabbing hands as if they expected the other to melt away. “I used to wish I had, Pat,” Damon said soberly. “Still do, sometimes. He was the one who did this to me,” he said, gesturing at the burns and scales alike that covered his face. “He’s the reason I’m a freak now. Not a proper super, too weird to be a civilian.”

Roman’s heart leapt out of his chest as he saw Patton actually start crying. “Did… do you know what happened to her?”

“She survived, if you can call it that. She… he deformed us both. But my mind wasn’t as affected. She was his favorite ‘project,’” Damon said with a shudder.

“Patton, who’s she?” Roman asked softly, supporting his partner with a warm hand on his lower back.

“Val,” Patton said, voice cracking. “Valerie.”

“My sister,” Damon said. “More related than blood could ever know. She… you’ve seen her, probably. She snapped. Only I can calm her down, ever. She’s out causing havoc as The Violet Condor now.”

“…oh god,” Remy said with feeling. “Damon… look.”

Everyone turned in their direction. They pointed a shaky finger at the screen. A solemn-faced reporter was flanked by headshots: a smiling black man, and a scowling Latina woman. “Civilian casualties are still being finalized, with the most recent count being 23. But we are able to confirm two known supers who were also killed, apparently by each other under the influence of the unknown threat: Swallowtail, a close associate of Mayor Stokes, and The Violet Condor, a tragic survivor of the Mystic Magician’s experiments. Families of the fallen, if any, have been notified.”

The last two people who’d ever called Valerie “family” stared in heartbreak and horror.

“Fuck this,” Damon spat out. “Fuck heroes and villains and this whole damn city.” Remy placed a hand on their partner’s shoulder, but Damon hardly seemed aware. “If not even she can survive in this shithole, why did we have to live through any of this? There’s a new bad whose bodycount has already passed records and I’m not staying around to see any more people I care about be added.”

“But we could get revenge for her, Damon,” Patton said. “We could make the bastard pay for taking away our sister. For our family.”

“…she used to say the same thing, after the home was flattened,” Damon said softly. “You two were always so alike, thick as thieves. Kanga and Pooh. I can’t do it, Pat. I can’t risk it anymore. I need to have something left - or someone.” He reached up and grabbed Remy’s hand where it was still resting. “Rem… let’s run. Leave this city, find a new one. Please?”

“Of course, my love. Anything for you,” Remy said softly, looping both their arms around Damon’s shoulders and kissing the top of his head. They looked up, making eye contact with Roman. “Take these stairs to the bottom and go straight out. I’ll stun the guards for your escape, but only if you follow that route exactly. Gucci?”

Roman nodded, and they were gone. Or rather, they’d never been there. Or rather, Roman and Patton had always been alone in this room, surrounded by frozen guards. Patton stared at the TV still, tears leaking out of his eyes. Roman wrapped his arms around him, holding him close. Patton was oblivious, not even leaning in as he normally did.

“I failed her, Ro. She survived, all this time? This is what happened to her?”

“Patton, it’s not your fault-”

“And this unknown comes out of nowhere, kills her, kills heroes, kills kids just trying to get home?”

“Pat-”

“I thought… I thought there was no more family to hurt,” Patton said, his voice a tight whisper. “I thought I had nothing left to lose. Well, now I definitely don’t.”

“Patton, you’re scaring me.”

“Good. If I scare you, they’ll be scared too. That bastard will pay for what they’ve done, whoever they are. I don’t care whose help we need.”

~~~~~~~~~~

D.R.E.A.M. Index #337498 Classification: Z.3.ii [Tertiary Tier Villain, Acquired Powers] Name: The Violet Condor Status: DECEASED Civilian Name: [CLEARANCE: CONFIDENTIAL] Valerie Torres-Rosario Affiliation: Villain Partners/Sidekicks: DI#337500 - The Viper; DI#337397 - Moonshadow /////////Much like his relationship with DI#337397, Viper is more a friend and caretaker than partner-in-crime to the Condor Primary Foes: DI#337255 - Dr. Vectorious; Powers: Supersonic auditory blast; Additional Powers - Unknown /////////Blast/stun effect while in earshot, less powerful at further distance Costume: Long-sleeved medieval-style ballgown in shades of purple with black leggings/boots; /////////Despite the appearance of ornamentation, the feathers are actually part of her skin, though do not serve any functional purpose Age: 21 Height: 5’4” Pronouns: She/Her H.E.A.R.T.S. Class N/A /////////Attempted to enroll her along with DI#337500, but she dropped out at age 11 Note: Survivor of DI#265333 - The Mystic Magician’s experiments, one of few successes of DI#265333’s attempts to imbue civilians with superpowers. /////////Pending: formal request to change term from ‘success’ - while no physical deterioration occurred due to the experimentation, new information from other sources indicate dramatic psychological change and damage, particularly loss of ability to filter emotions and a seeming loss of empathy/sympathy for anyone except DI#337500 and DI#337397 /////////Killed in IR 18-Z-0011 by DI#Z00000 - Unknown Villain

~~~~~~~~~~

“So.”

“…since the moment we met? Really?”

Virgil reclined on Logan’s couch, lying upside-down. A perk of super-healing and a side-effect of flight was a lack of headrush no matter how he sat. He glanced up at his best friend and crush, who was sitting more sensibly with both feet planted on the ground. It was a lazy morning

“Yeah, Lo. I showed up at school, this huge kid who was absolutely terrified of himself and the world, and this tiny, beautiful nerd walked up and said ‘Hello, welcome to H.E.A.R.T.S., we’re here to help.’ Of course I fell a little bit in love immediately.”

“You don’t have to emphasize the ‘tiny,’ you know,” Logan muttered, adjusting his glasses over his continuing blush.

“But it’s part of your charm, L. You’re all this intelligence and energy in a small package, but never let anyone underestimate you. You’re a superdense bundle of brilliance.”

“…I… um. Thank you,” Logan responded, blushing deeper than he’d thought was physically possible.

“But, yeah, we had those two years of becoming friends. I was so worried when you and Terrence graduated, I thought you were gonna leave and I’d be alone again. But then you stayed, to get your doctorate. So I got to keep seeing you, keep spending time together. I thought you knew that I had a crush and just, you know. Didn’t return it. I wasn’t gonna let it affect anything, ever, especially while you didn’t seem to mind. And then I was 18 and you weren’t, so I really backed off until we’d graduated and you still weren’t tired of me.”

Logan adjusted his glasses again. “I… apologize for my complete and utter ignorance, Virge. I am truly unsure of how I managed to be so oblivious for…”

“Nine years?” Virgil added helpfully, smirking slightly.

“…yes. That.” He ran a hand through his hair, then paused as realization arrived. “Oh goodness, is this why you never dated anyone in all this time?”

“Nah, I haven’t dated because I’m awkward as all fuck out of costume,” Virgil said blandly. “But I’ve also yet to meet anyone who compares to you, so…”

Logan raised an eyebrow at that. “Not even the Marauder? I’ve seen how you’ve been flirting with him.”

“Okay now you recognize flirting? Not when I asked you to prom? ”

“…you asked me to prom?”

Virgil’s only response was to bury his face in both hands at once and groan.

Logan looked down at his best friend and super-partner of the last four years. He was aware of Virgil’s objective attractiveness, of course. His vision didn’t need that much correction. Virgil was tall, and muscular, and utterly committed to protecting as many people as he could, whether he knew them or not. And he had a soft side, the loveable teddy bear side, where his whole body would shake as he giggled at memes, and he spent hours on the phone with his siblings and moms in between biweekly visits, and he got misty-eyed over street cats. He was powerful, but unassuming. He was aware of his ability, and did his best to do good, but never believed he was the only one capable. And Logan felt grateful, every day, that they were friends and partners. They were an excellent team as heroes, but even better as people who spent so much time together that they practically knew each other’s minds.

Oh.

Oh, perhaps that’s what Virgil meant by having a crush. Perhaps that was why Joan kept “accidentally” sending him links to aromantic spectrum identities. And why Talyn kept mentioning quoiromantic and demiromantic attraction recently.

Oh my god, I’m a fucking idiot, Logan thought.

“I mean, you’re also a PhD at 22 but go off I guess,” Virgil replied, one eyebrow raised. Logan clapped a hand over his mouth. He’d said that part out loud, apparently.

“Virgil, I apologize for taking so long to realize it, but-”

A sudden, urgent buzzing at their wrists immediately caught both of their attention, and they leapt up in an instant, changing into costumes and exiting through the window.

~~~~~~~~~~

They were being sent to Sycamore Heights, just the two of them. No, all active supers were being called in. Fuck, no, it was Blackout level: everyone, every possible hero or neutral. Even the chaotic goods and quasi-villains.

And then the call vanished, replaced by summoning just Logan and Virgil to City Hall.

They walked in, not sure what to expect. The assistant at the front desk had his face buried in his hands. There was no bustle of activity through the halls. Virgil gently urged Logan to walk in front of him so that he could guard his back.

They entered the mayor’s office to find Joan and Talyn both sitting at the table, not the desk. Talyn’s makeup was smeared and wiped off. Joan looked older, more tired than either hero had ever seen them.

“Joan?” Logan asked softly. “What’s happening?”

“They killed Terrence,” Joan whispered. At the words, tears started to flow down their cheeks once more.

The blood drained from Virgil’s face. While he’d been flirting unsuccessfully with his best friend, caring more about relationships than the city, Terrence had been killed. He could have stopped this if he’d just been on patrol, just been anything other than selfish.

Logan made it to a chair before sitting heavily, in shock. “Who…? How…?”

“We have no idea,” Talyn said miserably. “He and The Violet Condor took each other out, somehow, because of a third villain we’ve never heard of. And we’ve got practically nothing. Just one single eyewitness who is also a terrified and definitely traumatized sixteen-year-old.”

Logan turned from his seat, and reached out to pull Virgil towards a chair too. “V, you’re gonna collapse if you just keep staring into space,” he said softly. “Sit, okay?” Virgil obeyed, numbly. “I’m here,” Logan whispered, rubbing the other’s hand. “We’ll figure out what to do together.”

Virgil shuddered, still staring into space. “I… we were gonna go to the club this weekend,” he said, voice low. “Terrence kept complaining that I never went out, and he’d convinced me to try. He was gonna help me pick out an outfit and everything.”

Talyn made a strangled sound into their hand, and tears leaked through their fingers. Joan wrapped a protective arm around them, rubbing their back.

Virgil was gripping the sides of his chair, white-knuckled in his effort to keep it together. Logan kept rubbing gently, but when the tiny ping of the intercom went off, Virgil flinched and a chunk of the chair came with him.

“Fuck, sorry Joan,” he said as the mayor went to answer the summons. “I… crap, please tell me you two have a lead. If I don’t go punch something right now…”

“We can go to the supers’ gym,” Logan interjected quickly. “You can’t fight anyone like this, Virge. Not someone entirely unknown.”

Talyn sniffed, but straightened. “I… let me tell you what we do know, okay?”

“Is that okay, Virge?” Logan asked, peering at the tall man’s face for confirmation. “We can wait-”

“No, tell us now. We need to know. We need to avenge him.”

Talyn’s mouth was a thin line as they looked from Virgil’s tear-stained scowl to Logan’s impassive mask. They sighed, and pulled a notebook over.

“This is from our sole survivor and eyewitness, Sofia. She, and she believes many others, thought she saw her family in the street and ran out of safety to find them. On reaching them, they disappeared. She says she also saw both the Condor and Terrence yelling at empty air in the last moments before… So the power appears to be some sort of mass hallucination and distress.”

“Did she see anything or anyone who appeared to be causing it?” Logan asked. His question was addressed to Talyn, but his gaze was fixed on Virgil.

“She thinks… a smile, in the debris clouds.”

“Very Carrollian,” Logan commented, trying to get any sort of reaction from his partner. “But that means either a further illusion, or an actor who did this deliberately, with full knowledge of the effect.”

“So, a whole new level of evil,” Virgil said. His eyes were bright with tears and fire. “A new low bar of wrong. But we’ll make it right,” he said, turning to Logan with determination. “Whatever it takes.”

“Whatever it takes,” Logan echoed. “I promise.”

Joan was standing at their desk, phone receiver to their ear. They slowly, slowly lowered it, staring out the window at the skyline of Harmony City. “Guys?”

“Yeah?”

“There are… visitors. At the front desk.”

“Oh dear, is it the families already? We can go-” Logan began, but Joan shook their head.

“They’re… for you. I don’t believe you’re expecting them. But… I think you should see what they want.”

“Who-?”

But Virgil was interrupted as the doors sprang open in a burst of wind. The Crimson Marauder and Gale Force strode in and stopped just beyond the threshold.

“Oh good, you’re here,” the Marauder said.

“Sorry about the door, my precious ruby over here just got a little impatient!” Gale Force said with a giggle.

Virgil was immediately in between the villains and the rest of the room, tensed in a fighting stance.

“You really don’t want to mess with me today, airbrain,” he growled, low and dangerous. “I would love an excuse to beat that fucking grin off your face.”

“Now, now, Flex, jumping to conclusions is just so rude,” the Marauder chastised. “We aren’t here to fight. Or at least, not to fight you.”

“That’s right,” Gale Force added. “We’re here to make you an offer. It’s about this new villain.”

“Let me guess, you’re in league with him and you’ve brought his demands,” Logan said cooly, braced at Virgil’s side and ready to get Joan and Talyn to safety, if needed. “We’re not interested. We don’t negotiate with terrorists or mass-murderers.”

“My dear, sweet Doctor, you’ve got us all wrong,” the Crimson Marauder said, stepping forward with wide open arms. “We lost family today. We don’t want to bargain with that mamabicho piece of merde.”

“We want to destroy him,” Gale Force said, eyes cold. “We’re here to help you do that. We may hate this city, but the people deserve the best there is.”

“And here we are,” the Marauder finished. “So. Partnership?”

Logan and Virgil made eye contact. Both had an eyebrow raised in skepticism. Eyes flicked up and down, to the villains and back, a silent conversation whose vocabulary had been formed over five years of school friendship and four years of crime-fighting as a unit. Finally, Virgil turned back to the villains with a curt nod.

“Whatever it takes.”

~~~~~~~~~~

D.R.E.A.M. Index #337505 Classification: Z.1.iv [Primary Tier Villain, Unknown] Name: Agent Whisper /////////Coined by civilian eyewitness S.R. [They] didn’t exactly leave a calling card Status: ACTIVE Civilian Name: Unknown [Unregistered] Affiliation: Villain /////////We need a new affiliation label. Villain doesn’t cover it anymore Partners/Sidekicks: None Primary Foes: [Unknown] /////////Can we list everyone? Powers: Pathokinesis - Broad Spectrum; Illusions - Broad Spectrum; Additional Powers - Unknown Costume: [Unknown] /////////Reports vary from black shapeless cloak to jumpsuit with psychedelic patterns that moved, suspected use of illusions Age: [Unknown] Height: [Unknown] Pronouns: [Unknown] H.E.A.R.T.S. Class Unknown /////////[They] could have been a student and we wouldn’t know. The power profile doesn’t match any records, however Note: All we know about [them] is that we know nothing about [them]. [They] are responsible for the deaths of the following: /////////list clipped as of 2018.11.17: see Incident Reports 18-Z-0011 through 18-Z-0047;

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a/n: Is Agent Whisper my worst fuckin’ nightmare? Yes, yes he is (and he’s yours, too)

[Note on timing: This story is set in 2018, when I first started writing it. The first chapter takes place in September, and we've now progressed in-world to early October]

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reddeadtrash · 6 years ago

Text

Ghosts

Summary: There is something strange about the woman they find in the winter wilderness. She is cold, unwavering, and strangely menacing. Arthur Morgan finds himself pulled in by that vivacity. Unbeknownst to him, she knows many things that elude this cowboy. Like magnet to metal, no matter how far he throws her away, he always finds himself going back.

Pairing: Arthur Morgan x OC

Rating: M

Word count: 2000

A/N: final chapter for today, then it’s weekly updates hunnies

CHAPTER TWO: HAVE FAITH

He said one of these days you'll get out of these hills. Keep your nose on the grind stone and out of the pills. See the ways of this world just to bring you to tears. Keep the lord in your heart you'll have nothing to fear.

“What fresh is hell did you bring upon me, now, Dutch?”

Arthur looked back from Dutch’s cabin, the harsh wind of the mountains whipping at his face. His cheeks were bitten red, skin around his mouth raw, and rashes had begun in the corners of his eyes. If they ever made it out of this mountain alive, Arthur would delight in the warmth of a good bath.

Mrs. Grimshaw stood in a tight black dress, breasts pushed up almost to her chin. Back in her first days, Arthur had found it particularly hard to avoid the old-woman’s bosom, especially when she put it on display as such. She had such fine taste in clothing, and she knew how to make people work, but it seemed that people were more scared of a nip-slip than Mrs. Grimshaw herself.

“What are you talking about, Mrs. Grimshaw?” Dutch asked, walking out of his cabin. The door clanged shut behind him.

“That girl you brought along,” Susan went on. “She’s impossible. Dresses like a man and doesn’t want any of the clothes I usually reserve for the girls. Where exactly did y’all find her?”

Dutch’s face split into a grin. “Oh, Mrs. Grimshaw,” he chuckled. “Let the woman be! We are headed out now anyway. Is everything in order?”

Susan’s face went flat. “Of course!”

“Then let’s ride!”

The entire caravan was on the move when the sun had barely made its ascent into the sky. Slow flakes trickled from above to settle onto Arthur’s shoulders, who was riding the last wagon. Beside him, Charles, and sitting among the stocks was Hosea and Arya. The latter was dressed in a huge black woolen coat she had taken from one of the men’s closet, a red union shirt, and black pants held with thin suspenders. She still had on those strange leather boots.

Arthur was pretending not to listen, but his soul still harbored the nameless doubt about that girl. When he sneaked a look back, noticing how she’d fashioned her hair into two braids running tight along the curve of her skull, her saw her bent towards Hosea.

“A train?” she was saying.

“We planned to hit it before coming down,” Hosea answered. He was wrapped in many woolen layers, but his cheeks were red, and his breath puffed out in thick white clouds. “We decided to take more time. Our dynamite line was broken anyway. We will settle down here, and then come back up to hit the train when we’ve got all we need.”

He must have been showing her a map, Arthur wasn’t sure, as he was looking forward. They were traveling further south, and the warmth was beginning to seep into his coat. They rode along the sharp decline of the hills some more, bodies jostling simultaneously, Arya and Hosea whispering on about plans and places. All of this was giving Arthur nausea. As they rolled down from the snowy tops and onto frozen mud roads, Arthur’s stomach roiled with doubt.

Telling her all these plans. All the places they had in mind to hide out from the law. Arthur didn’t like it. In fact, he never liked strangers. His mind had been trained to doubt everything. And now, his chest was burning, and he wanted to tell Arya to sit in the other wagon.

Just at the instant where he was going to propose it, the wagon shifted to the left and crashed onto its rear haunch. The sound it made, as they exited the Cumberland bridge, was metal and wood grinding against each other. Arthur made a deep sound in his throat, stopped the horses, and jumped down from the seat.

“Aah, I broke the Goddamn wheel!” he cried out in anger.

Everyone jumped down, gathering behind the wagon to examine the broken wheel. It lay against the wagon, out of its socket, soaked in mud.

“That’s an easy fix,” Arya mumbled.

Charles gave the woman a side look while Arthur bent beside the wheel. From his vantage point, he saw the weird exchange of eyebrow game between Charles and Arya, and then she sighed and picked up the wheel.

“Can you big boys hold the wagon up?” she asked, plunging her fingers into the dirt on the wheel to bring it upright.

Arthur’s growl stayed stuck in his throat. He nonetheless joined Charles to hoist up the end of the wagon. Straining, he watched from the side as Arya hooked the wheel back on and hit it with a few swings of her hips until the wheel clanged into place.

“There it is!” Hosea exclaimed, hands in the air. Arya’s face did something strange. It split and splintered into a smile, and Arthur saw just how white her teeth were, how full and red were her lips. For a brief instant, very brief, he forgot how to breathe.

He’d seen many beautiful women in his days. Blondes, brunettes, reds. Light skin and dark skin. Tall and short, stout and elegant. He’d seen the variety of body shapes, of eyes, of smiles, and of cheeks. He’d tasted those lips and caressed those curves. Arthur Morgan had been with many women that he considered beautiful, yet none could compare to his Mary. His Mary. Brown-haired beauty. Freckled nose and cheeks. Heart-shaped lips that always looked wet. His Mary.

Arya was coming quite close to eclipsing his Mary. That smile, dimpling her round cheeks, softening the almost perpetual angered look on her face, was going to be imprinted in Arthur’s mind for a very long time.

He found himself sitting in the driver’s seat, frigid fingers clutching the reigns, Arya and Hosea still talking it out in the back of the newly-fixed wagon.

By now, Dutch’s wagon was way ahead. Arthur had to follow the wheel tracks in the dirt to know the path, because dear old Hosea was too busy letting the new girl in on their plans. He thought about her running off in the middle of the night, bringing that breathtaking smile with her, and giving all that information to Colm.

Arthur spotted Javier hanging off the road.

“Climb on in, cowboy!” Charles joked.

Javier crumbled something in Spanish yet swung along the edge of the wagon to sit among the stock. “Miss Reed,” he greeted, tipping his hat towards Arya.

Arthur mulled that over. Arya Reed.

Somewhere in the afternoon, they’d arrived at Horseshoe Overlook. Susan Grimshaw had arranged every single little detail; the kitchen wagon, healing kits, and respective tents. Dutch’s monster of a tent, complete with the vinyl player and Molly’s things, gloomed on the outskirts. Hitching posts. Cleaning wagon. Empty tables. It looked like home, or as close to home as it could get. This was camp.

Arthur’s own tent was off beside Dutch’s, not far from the man’s protective glare. They’d spent a few days settling in, scouting ahead to see if the coast was clear. There were no lawmen in effect in the perimeter of camp, and the only bounty in town was on a dog slayer in Valentine. They were as safe as they could get.

Arthur had used the down time to hunt. Alone with his horse and his bow and arrow, he scoured through the lands. At peace, serene with nature, Arthur felt at home within the wilderness. The weather was chilly in the morning, but with the warm sun, it got very comfortable during midday. Nights were cold, but on good days, when the sun had become more than warm, the night tended to stay warm too.

When Arthur rode back into camp, his skin crusty and hair dirty, he smiled at the usual praise from the women.

“Good one, Arthur,” Karen cooed in that cracking voice of hers, motioning to the white tail deer on his horse.

“That’s gonna make some good stew!” Mary-Beth cheered, showing pink cheeks under the hot sun.

As Arthur hitched his horse and slid off, he spotted a caramel-haired woman sauntering against the blue horizon. Dressed in a mud-stained black union shirt and black pants, Arya was helping Sadie hoist tin bins of water to Pearson’s wagon. She kept readjusting her suspenders and flipping her braids behind her back. Mud had stained her cheek where she’d had absentmindedly wiped at her face.

The two women made a hell of a pair. Sadie with her rough ways and untamed attitude. Arya with a calm coldness that sent chills to the core of the soul. Arthur watched them interact; Sadie going on and on and on, while Arya nodded along with a look of murder written on her features.

“Arthur!” Dutch was calling him from his tent, waving and smiling.

Gathered around him were Micah, Hosea, Lenny, Javier, Bill, and Charles.

“Arthur, now that you’ve joined us, we can start the preparations for the train heist.” Dutch cleared his throat. “With the information so nicely provided to us by the O’Driscolls and Miss Reed, we know the train will be crossing into the Grizzlies.”

“We were just there, Dutch,” Micah grumbled. “Why couldn’t we hit it while staying there?”

“Because Bill’s stupid detonator was broken,” Charles answered, giving the former man a side glance.

Bill put his hands up. “It’s the detonator’s fault, not mine!”

“Now that everything is in order!” Dutch bellowed over the bickering. “We will ride tonight. Charles and Javier, you ride ahead right now to scout for us. I don’t want any surprises.”

The two aforementioned gave a sharp nod to the rest of the gathered bodies and walked off.

Dutch continued, “The rest of us will ride tonight. We will camp at the halfway point. In the morning, we will wait for the train, who, according to our information, arrives in the early afternoon.” He produced a small stack of papers from his vest and started handing them out. “Hosea has made makeshift maps if ever anything happens.”

Arthur grabbed his and was surprised when Dutch handed one to Arya and Sadie, who were quietly standing behind the group of men.

“Miss Reed and Mrs. Adler!” Micah sing-songed in that grim voice that was between a rasp and a growl.

“Probably a better shot than you,” Sadie grumbled back. Arthur smirked at the way Micah frowned deeply.

“Why is everyone convinced I’m a bad shot!” he growled.

“We leave at dusk!” Dutch exclaimed, before closing the flap to his tent.

Arthur watched as everyone dispersed. Sadie and Arya went back to their chores with Pearson. Micah disappeared to the edges of the cliff beyond the trees, twiddling something woody between his fingers. Hosea grumbled on about plans and money but stayed somewhat close to Dutch’s tent.

Arthur wasn’t sure if bringing the women on such a high-stake heist was a good idea. He had no doubt that they could fend for themselves, but he was still not sure if Miss Reed had clear intentions. As he thought that, he watched he roll up her sleeves and hoist up more buckets. She stopped once she held a bucket, cocked her head, birdlike, and in a swift motion, locked eyes with him.

Blue met black and Arthur cleared his throat awkwardly. He turned and walked off, thinking he should start preparing his bag for the ride ahead. All the while, he could feel the heavy dark stare of Arya burning holes into his back.

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