#face blindness but only for white men with long brown hair and beards

[dude1sh]

me seeing any white man with long brown hair and a beard: bucky barnes?!!??!??!?

[wakamotogarou]

I Sing the Body Electric

By Walt Whitman

1

I sing the body electric, The armies of those I love engirth me and I engirth them, They will not let me off till I go with them, respond to them, And discorrupt them, and charge them full with the charge of the soul.

Was it doubted that those who corrupt their own bodies conceal themselves? And if those who defile the living are as bad as they who defile the dead? And if the body does not do fully as much as the soul? And if the body were not the soul, what is the soul?

2

The love of the body of man or woman balks account, the body itself balks account, That of the male is perfect, and that of the female is perfect.

The expression of the face balks account, But the expression of a well-made man appears not only in his face, It is in his limbs and joints also, it is curiously in the joints of his hips and wrists, It is in his walk, the carriage of his neck, the flex of his waist and knees, dress does not hide him, The strong sweet quality he has strikes through the cotton and broadcloth, To see him pass conveys as much as the best poem, perhaps more, You linger to see his back, and the back of his neck and shoulder-side.

The sprawl and fulness of babes, the bosoms and heads of women, the folds of their dress, their style as we pass in the street, the contour of their shape downwards, The swimmer naked in the swimming-bath, seen as he swims through the transparent green-shine, or lies with his face up and rolls silently to and fro in the heave of the water, The bending forward and backward of rowers in row-boats, the horseman in his saddle, Girls, mothers, house-keepers, in all their performances, The group of laborers seated at noon-time with their open dinner-kettles, and their wives waiting, The female soothing a child, the farmer’s daughter in the garden or cow-yard, The young fellow hoeing corn, the sleigh-driver driving his six horses through the crowd, The wrestle of wrestlers, two apprentice-boys, quite grown, lusty, good-natured, native-born, out on the vacant lot at sun-down after work, The coats and caps thrown down, the embrace of love and resistance, The upper-hold and under-hold, the hair rumpled over and blinding the eyes; The march of firemen in their own costumes, the play of masculine muscle through clean-setting trowsers and waist-straps, The slow return from the fire, the pause when the bell strikes suddenly again, and the listening on the alert, The natural, perfect, varied attitudes, the bent head, the curv’d neck and the counting; Such-like I love—I loosen myself, pass freely, am at the mother’s breast with the little child, Swim with the swimmers, wrestle with wrestlers, march in line with the firemen, and pause, listen, count.

3

I knew a man, a common farmer, the father of five sons, And in them the fathers of sons, and in them the fathers of sons.

This man was of wonderful vigor, calmness, beauty of person, The shape of his head, the pale yellow and white of his hair and beard, the immeasurable meaning of his black eyes, the richness and breadth of his manners, These I used to go and visit him to see, he was wise also, He was six feet tall, he was over eighty years old, his sons were massive, clean, bearded, tan-faced, handsome, They and his daughters loved him, all who saw him loved him, They did not love him by allowance, they loved him with personal love, He drank water only, the blood show’d like scarlet through the clear-brown skin of his face, He was a frequent gunner and fisher, he sail’d his boat himself, he had a fine one presented to him by a ship-joiner, he had fowling-pieces presented to him by men that loved him, When he went with his five sons and many grand-sons to hunt or fish, you would pick him out as the most beautiful and vigorous of the gang, You would wish long and long to be with him, you would wish to sit by him in the boat that you and he might touch each other.

4

I have perceiv’d that to be with those I like is enough, To stop in company with the rest at evening is enough, To be surrounded by beautiful, curious, breathing, laughing flesh is enough, To pass among them or touch any one, or rest my arm ever so lightly round his or her neck for a moment, what is this then? I do not ask any more delight, I swim in it as in a sea.

There is something in staying close to men and women and looking on them, and in the contact and odor of them, that pleases the soul well, All things please the soul, but these please the soul well.

5

This is the female form, A divine nimbus exhales from it from head to foot, It attracts with fierce undeniable attraction, I am drawn by its breath as if I were no more than a helpless vapor, all falls aside but myself and it, Books, art, religion, time, the visible and solid earth, and what was expected of heaven or fear’d of hell, are now consumed, Mad filaments, ungovernable shoots play out of it, the response likewise ungovernable, Hair, bosom, hips, bend of legs, negligent falling hands all diffused, mine too diffused, Ebb stung by the flow and flow stung by the ebb, love-flesh swelling and deliciously aching, Limitless limpid jets of love hot and enormous, quivering jelly of love, white-blow and delirious juice, Bridegroom night of love working surely and softly into the prostrate dawn, Undulating into the willing and yielding day, Lost in the cleave of the clasping and sweet-flesh’d day.

This the nucleus—after the child is born of woman, man is born of woman, This the bath of birth, this the merge of small and large, and the outlet again.

Be not ashamed women, your privilege encloses the rest, and is the exit of the rest, You are the gates of the body, and you are the gates of the soul.

The female contains all qualities and tempers them, She is in her place and moves with perfect balance, She is all things duly veil’d, she is both passive and active, She is to conceive daughters as well as sons, and sons as well as daughters.

As I see my soul reflected in Nature, As I see through a mist, One with inexpressible completeness, sanity, beauty, See the bent head and arms folded over the breast, the Female I see.

6

The male is not less the soul nor more, he too is in his place, He too is all qualities, he is action and power, The flush of the known universe is in him, Scorn becomes him well, and appetite and defiance become him well, The wildest largest passions, bliss that is utmost, sorrow that is utmost become him well, pride is for him, The full-spread pride of man is calming and excellent to the soul, Knowledge becomes him, he likes it always, he brings every thing to the test of himself, Whatever the survey, whatever the sea and the sail he strikes soundings at last only here, (Where else does he strike soundings except here?)

The man’s body is sacred and the woman’s body is sacred, No matter who it is, it is sacred—is it the meanest one in the laborers’ gang? Is it one of the dull-faced immigrants just landed on the wharf? Each belongs here or anywhere just as much as the well-off, just as much as you, Each has his or her place in the procession.

(All is a procession, The universe is a procession with measured and perfect motion.)

Do you know so much yourself that you call the meanest ignorant? Do you suppose you have a right to a good sight, and he or she has no right to a sight? Do you think matter has cohered together from its diffuse float, and the soil is on the surface, and water runs and vegetation sprouts, For you only, and not for him and her?

7

A man’s body at auction, (For before the war I often go to the slave-mart and watch the sale,) I help the auctioneer, the sloven does not half know his business.

Gentlemen look on this wonder, Whatever the bids of the bidders they cannot be high enough for it, For it the globe lay preparing quintillions of years without one animal or plant, For it the revolving cycles truly and steadily roll’d.

In this head the all-baffling brain, In it and below it the makings of heroes.

Examine these limbs, red, black, or white, they are cunning in tendon and nerve, They shall be stript that you may see them.

Exquisite senses, life-lit eyes, pluck, volition, Flakes of breast-muscle, pliant backbone and neck, flesh not flabby, good-sized arms and legs, And wonders within there yet.

Within there runs blood, The same old blood! the same red-running blood! There swells and jets a heart, there all passions, desires, reachings, aspirations, (Do you think they are not there because they are not express’d in parlors and lecture-rooms?)

This is not only one man, this the father of those who shall be fathers in their turns, In him the start of populous states and rich republics, Of him countless immortal lives with countless embodiments and enjoyments.

How do you know who shall come from the offspring of his offspring through the centuries? (Who might you find you have come from yourself, if you could trace back through the centuries?)

8

A woman’s body at auction, She too is not only herself, she is the teeming mother of mothers, She is the bearer of them that shall grow and be mates to the mothers.

Have you ever loved the body of a woman? Have you ever loved the body of a man? Do you not see that these are exactly the same to all in all nations and times all over the earth?

If any thing is sacred the human body is sacred, And the glory and sweet of a man is the token of manhood untainted, And in man or woman a clean, strong, firm-fibred body, is more beautiful than the most beautiful face.

Have you seen the fool that corrupted his own live body? or the fool that corrupted her own live body? For they do not conceal themselves, and cannot conceal themselves.

9

O my body! I dare not desert the likes of you in other men and women, nor the likes of the parts of you, I believe the likes of you are to stand or fall with the likes of the soul, (and that they are the soul,) I believe the likes of you shall stand or fall with my poems, and that they are my poems, Man’s, woman’s, child’s, youth’s, wife’s, husband’s, mother’s, father’s, young man’s, young woman’s poems, Head, neck, hair, ears, drop and tympan of the ears, Eyes, eye-fringes, iris of the eye, eyebrows, and the waking or sleeping of the lids, Mouth, tongue, lips, teeth, roof of the mouth, jaws, and the jaw-hinges, Nose, nostrils of the nose, and the partition, Cheeks, temples, forehead, chin, throat, back of the neck, neck-slue, Strong shoulders, manly beard, scapula, hind-shoulders, and the ample side-round of the chest, Upper-arm, armpit, elbow-socket, lower-arm, arm-sinews, arm-bones, Wrist and wrist-joints, hand, palm, knuckles, thumb, forefinger, finger-joints, finger-nails, Broad breast-front, curling hair of the breast, breast-bone, breast-side, Ribs, belly, backbone, joints of the backbone, Hips, hip-sockets, hip-strength, inward and outward round, man-balls, man-root, Strong set of thighs, well carrying the trunk above, Leg fibres, knee, knee-pan, upper-leg, under-leg, Ankles, instep, foot-ball, toes, toe-joints, the heel; All attitudes, all the shapeliness, all the belongings of my or your body or of any one’s body, male or female, The lung-sponges, the stomach-sac, the bowels sweet and clean, The brain in its folds inside the skull-frame, Sympathies, heart-valves, palate-valves, sexuality, maternity, Womanhood, and all that is a woman, and the man that comes from woman, The womb, the teats, nipples, breast-milk, tears, laughter, weeping, love-looks, love-perturbations and risings, The voice, articulation, language, whispering, shouting aloud, Food, drink, pulse, digestion, sweat, sleep, walking, swimming, Poise on the hips, leaping, reclining, embracing, arm-curving and tightening, The continual changes of the flex of the mouth, and around the eyes, The skin, the sunburnt shade, freckles, hair, The curious sympathy one feels when feeling with the hand the naked meat of the body, The circling rivers the breath, and breathing it in and out, The beauty of the waist, and thence of the hips, and thence downward toward the knees, The thin red jellies within you or within me, the bones and the marrow in the bones, The exquisite realization of health; O I say these are not the parts and poems of the body only, but of the soul, O I say now these are the soul!

[brattyfics]

— until we meet again, preciosa

PAIRING || bishop losa x black!ofc, miguel galindo x black!ofc (mentioned)

SUMMARY || She’s not his, and she won’t ever be, so he leaves her with words whispered like a promise. “Until we meet again, preciosa.”

TAGS || angst, unresolved feelings, not a hea, mentions of toxic relationships, sex (referenced).

WORD COUNT || 1.6k

Shadowy clouds hang overhead, blocking out the warming glow of the Sun. Raindrops pelt the roof above, drumming a beat of their own before pooling down to the concrete paved streets below. Isis watches stray droplets gather on the tall windows for several moments before stepping out onto the covered balcony. It felt colder than usual inside the three-story, Spanish-style shophouse, but outside it’s the opposite-- balmy, earthy. The air is heavy with humidity, so she has to take deep breaths, but she doesn’t enjoy it any less. Invigoration comes with the rain, brings hope for new beginnings, renews faith for the hopeless.

Down below, people dart between vendors to continue their shopping as the rain lightens. Colorful rays spring from puddles up towards the sky. A pair of young siblings splash each other while their mother sells delicious smelling tamales wrapped in banana leaves. Another young woman peddles gold necklaces, praying candles, and other little knick-knacks to the tourists of Sonora. Everybody has to make a living, including Isis.

She spends her days stroking the strings of a guitar or the keys of her piano, helping patrons of the music shop in between. The ground floor of the shophouse boasts string instruments and an extensive collection of vinyl records. After hours, she makes money hosting private piano lessons. She performs at the Discoteca down the street on weekends, fueling her passion for music almost 24/7 except when Preciosa is closed for ‘maintenance’.

Overstock merchandise and whatever else the Mayans’ Motorcycle Clubs needs to store clutters the second floor. Don’t ask, don’t tell is her motto, so whenever they come to the shop, she simply flips the sign to closed. There’s no point in fighting it. Besides, El Presidente always makes it a bearable, if not pleasant, experience. Bishop had called ahead to warn her that he was bringing Hank, Angel, and the new prospect, Angel’s baby brother, along. She could hear them bumping around, a noisy reminder that her shop only thrived because of the illegal deals happening in the back.

“Why don’t you put all that time and energy into something that’ll get you somewhere?” Being a musician wasn’t an acceptable career in her mother’s eyes, so the woman took every chance she could to crush her daughter’s dreams. “Nobody wants to hear all that noise!” Staring out into the street, she can’t help but wonder where she would’ve ended up if her mother had been supportive. Maybe she could have been a star rising to the top of Billboard charts or someone who worked behind the scenes, writing songs, singing demos. She had the skill set. Yes, her path would have been much different.

Isis had stood front and center, crooning out an old school blues song at a hole-in-the-wall spot when Miguel Galindo first laid eyes on her. It was a chance meeting, one that felt like fate at the time because dive bars weren’t his scene. The owner was a business associate who decided to try his hand at being a restaurateur; Miguel had been kind enough to come out and support. When he caught sight of her shapely frame in a slinky, satin number, he insisted on being introduced.

Miguel stood out in a crowd, wearing a tailored button-down, dark dress pants, and an expensive pair of Italian leather shoes. His salt and pepper beard groomed to perfection, hair gelled so that no strand was out of place. The moment she’d looked into his eyes, she was caught in his web. His masculine scent drew her in like honey to a bee. His charisma held her attention. Miguel sweet-talked her all night, insisting Isis sit next to him, eat h’orderves, and drink overpriced champagne. She obliged. Who could say no to that face? He used their close proximity to reel her in like a fish on a hook, leaning down to whisper in her ear. You’re beautiful. He told her. You have such a smooth, seductive tone. You should be performing for bigger crowds. Have you ever thought about branching out? He told her everything her mother never had, so she was a lamb to the slaughter.

For months, Miguel had treated her like his very own LifeSize doll to play with. He took her on shopping sprees, kept her draped in silk and lace. Isis didn’t think of herself as materialistic, but she couldn’t deny being showered in gifts felt splendid. He was always so tender, handling her delicately as his newest prized possession. As time went on, she became more like an ornament. Something for him to marvel at when he felt like it and then hide away the rest of the time. But nothing was worse than him leaving her to harden after he was finished molding her like clay. She asked for more—time, commitment, only for him to do the opposite.

Thus, Preciosa was born. A way for him to placate her and later make it easier for the M.C. to make him money.

“Just a few more minutes, and we’ll be out your way.” Isis jumped at the sound, turning away from the street to see Bishop. She hadn’t heard him come outside; didn’t expect him to venture up into her personal space.

Isis’ smile rarely reached her eyes, Bishop noticed. He stepped forward, holding a velvet box that felt heavier than it was. Her fingertips tickled him as he passed it over. Diamonds surrounded in white gold gleamed as the clouds cleared away for the Sun. Even Bishop could admit the set was gorgeous, but she didn’t look impressed. He hated being Galindo’s delivery boy, watching the way her face fell when the gifts she received became increasingly impersonal with each week. Not long ago, he’d also been tasked with passing along handwritten love notes or antique music sheets that she caressed like she would a lover’s skin.

“Thank you.”

She couldn’t hide her disappointment from him. Not for lack of trying-- Miguel always reminded her, appearances were everything. Smile. Don’t make me look bad. But Bishop watched her closely, knew her tells. Despite every nerve in his brain urging him to walk away, he steps forward to stand next to her. His calloused hands rest on the balcony’s edge next to her delicate pair, brown in varying tones of sepia and mahogany contrasting against the white paint.

Bishop feels the heat of her eyes on his frame, but he doesn’t let himself respond. Sharing this moment, a quick breath of fresh air will have to be enough. But she’s all around him, smelling of florals and sweet spices. He can’t think. He fumbles with his pockets in search of a cigarette. “You mind?” She shakes her head but is otherwise silent. Still watching him as he smokes; the way he takes long, steady pulls, cradling the stick between his full lips and then between his strong, veined fingers. She would bet her last dollar that he was an expert at other things involving his fingers and mouth.

When his hand drops again, she links her pinky with his, hesitant but exploratory.

Bishop looks at her, really looks at her like he sees her. It’s nice to be seen, especially when you’re the princess locked up far, far away from everyone you’ve ever known. She’s a black girl from Texas living in Sonora for goodness’ sake. This is no life, and she knows it. Several moments pass where neither can look away, both weighing their desires with the potential consequences.

With a deep breath in, she musters up the courage to ask Bishop what she’s been wanting to for months.

“Stay?”

Her heart feels like it might just explode while she waits for a response.

Bishop drops his head to his chest, cursing under his breath. “Fuck.” If Miguel ever found out… But he already knew what his answer would be. He’d been waiting for the invitation. The heated looks they exchanged, the way her fingers lingered on his when he passed her something. That damned pout she wore when Miguel forgot to send a flower arrangement-- she had no idea Bishop had been the one buying the flowers for some time now. No matter what mood she was in, fresh flowers always brightened her day. He loved watching that lonely look transform into something more lively, curious as she marveled over his choice for the week. He went for variety, slowly learning what she loved and what she just liked; her favorite color, favorite scent.

The subtle tension between them, he wasn’t even certain she noticed. The cash and the bling could’ve blinded her to all other men. But it didn’t.

When the Sun had gone down several hours later, and the guys were gone, Bishop redressed. Belt buckling with a clink, leather sliding over his shoulders easily. He let himself take one last look at her wrapped up in a poofy comforter set. The mustard-yellow velvet complimented her skin in the best way, bringing out a gold undertone. Her eyes seem to have brightened as well. He couldn’t resist leaning over to stroke her sweaty skin. Dark coils stuck to her beautiful face, frizzy in some parts from when she rode him, sweat escaping from her pores, flat in the others from when he laid her on her back and hooked her legs over her shoulders.

He wants to stay, to prop himself up against the intricately carved wood headboard and hold her in his lap while they whisper sweet nothing to each other, but he can’t.

She’s not his, and she won’t ever be, so he leaves her with words whispered like a promise. “Until we meet again, preciosa.”

NOTES || This fic and the collage above was inspired by @isisafrofairy’s gorgeous moodboard! Also, the wonderful “Until we meet again, preciosa” line is hers as well. This is my thank you for the moodboard you made for me. I really leaned on the pictures you used for inspiration and I think I managed to capture/include each element. It was so hard not to ruin the surprise, but I was able to shut tf up for once 😂 I’m really proud of how this turned out, and hopefully you enjoy it just as much! Also, I realize the moodboard had nothing to do with Miguel but he lives in my head rent-free apparently 🥴

GENERAL TAGLIST || @woahitslucyylu @briannab1234 @sheeshgivemeabreak @breakingnewsin-no-oneasked @angelreyesgirl @blessedboo @glimmerglittergirl @apantherinmypastlife @brownsugarcoffy @marvelmaree @starrynite7114 @scuzmunkie @thewarriorprincessxo @sadeyesgf @pearlkitten33 @imanerdychubbyqueen @literaturefeen @ourlittlesecretsoveragain @everyhowlmarksthedead @yourwonkywriter @trulysuccubus @sparklemichele @luckyharley1903 @thesandbeneathmytoes​ @amorestevens​

MAYANS M.C. TAGLIST || @cant-decide-at-this-moment

[sometimesiwrite]

The Way It Is

Prompt: Fake Dating

Pairing: Lambert & Essi Other Characters: Julian (Jaskier), Eskel/Geralt

Rating: Teen Content Warnings: No Archive Warnings; platonic/queerplatonic dynamics; pressure to engage sexually; coarse language; alcohol/intoxication; modern AU.

Summary: When Essi and Lambert are setup on a blind date, they don’t expect to get along as well as they do. However, when they decide to keep their relationship platonic and non-romantic, they realize they might face some uncomfortable pressure. For the sake of simplicity, they decide to tell people they’re dating, but is it sustainable? 

@witcher-rarepair-summer-bingo​

Essi fidgeted with the bent corner of her cafe menu, looking around at the various styles of local artworks hanging on the walls. She was early by about ten minutes, but that didn’t stop her from checking the pearlescent dial of her watch every thirty seconds. Finally, the bell above the door tinkled and a man walked in. Essi could tell from the way he was looking around that he was there to meet someone—her. The only other people sitting alone in the cafe were working on laptops and tablets; no one else waiting for a date. And this man was most certainly looking for one. 

He was handsome in a ruffled sort of way, though he’d clearly put in a bit of effort. His black casual dress shirt and slim light-wash jeans fit his lean frame impeccably, and a subtle quantity of mousse was clearly doing its best to tame his short, scruffy brown hair. Even his bristly beard appeared to have been trimmed recently. Though there was nothing particularly remarkable about his clothing, there was something striking about the way he carried himself, a devil-may-care sort of presence that Essi appreciated. For a blind date, she thought, it certainly could be worse. Allegedly, they knew each other, at least based on his abruptly out-of-the-blue text, and the closer she looked, the more her memory of him crystalized. 

A loud ping! emitted from Essi’s phone and the man looked up from his own cellular device, clearly having just texted. 

“Uh, Essi? Essi Daven, right?” He took a step towards her and leaned in, pointing to his phone screen. 

“Yes,” Essi stood to shake his hand, “hi.”

“Nice to see you again. Lambert.”

They sat down awkwardly, both struggling to find the will for smalltalk. 

“So…” Lambert had become keenly interested in a black-and-white digital photograph behind Essi’s shoulder.

“Listen,” Essi could feel the words start to tumble out of her mouth, and it was too late to do anything about it. Lambert raised an eyebrow,  “I don’t really know how to say this, so I’m just going to be honest and probably regret it later: I don’t really do this. Dating. I find it strange and uncomfortable and if I’m perfectly honest I think I’d rather die.” She didn’t cringe apologetically, which would have been the expected behaviour to accompany an outpouring of disinterest. Instead she stared at him, wide-eyed, lips slightly pursed as a muscle in her neck twitched, waiting for his response.

Lambert laughed. Genuinely laughed—a joyful release of tension and dread, “Oh, thank Fuck!” Essi blinked in pleasant surprise and watched as Lambert began to relax.

“Excuse me?” Her startlingly blue eyes widened in amusement. 

“No, no, I just mean—I would absolutely and one-hundred percent, without a doubt, rather die in a hole than date,” Lambert slotted the edge of the menu under his fingernails and let his eyes wander a little more freely around the cafe. 

“So then… why?” 

Hm. Direct, frank, amusing lack of filter… the memories were starting to come back from what limited, heavily inebriated, time they’d spent together.

There was something about the straightforwardness of this endearingly odd woman that made Lambert feel infinitely more comfortable. Usually, any kind of interaction with the potential of building mutual interest made him feel like he was playing a game he didn’t know the rules to. The signals, the code words that never meant what they said: having sex on the first date means you’re a slut; not having sex on the third date means you’re a prude; grabbing coffee means this; having dinner means that; if they your arm but don’t invite you up, it means that they’re actually a KGB operative and need to give you the launch codes for a super secret missile...

Fuck that, we have words for a reason. Say what you mean and don’t waste my time. For that reason alone, Essi was already scoring quite well in Lambert’s books. 

He shrugged, “You somehow remembered me from the KM Christmas party almost six months ago, and still asked for my number. I figure that at least deserves a coffee and a conversation.”

Essi was bewildered, “I didn’t ask for your number, you texted me.”

Lambert shook his head, “Impossible. No offense, but I absolutely guarantee you I did not.” He produced their short text exchange and scrolled to the top of their conversation: 

Hi, is this Lambert? From the KM Christmas party? 

You might not remember me, we got talking about 

the political situation in Kashmir after about…

Too many drinks. Eeep! 

Anyway, I’d love to get a coffee sometime, if 

you’re interested. 

Sorry, this is Essi Daven. 

You called me Goldilocks at one point and 

seemed amused XD 

Hope you’re well! 

Essi snatched Lambert’s phone, shocked and slightly outraged as she reached for her own device, opening her thread with Lambert. The text at the top was not from her, but from the man across from her: 

Yeah, hi, this is 

Lambert-from-the-KM-Christmas-party. 

As it happens, I remember you and our 

conversation quite well. Not many folks 

happily get into drunken political discussions

You know what, I wouldn’t mind grabbing a 

coffee. 

Let me know if you’re free in the next couple 

weeks! 

Lambert gestured emphatically at Essi’s phone screen, “In what world is this an acceptable way to ask someone out?! I wouldn’t have said yes to that!”

“I don’t know,” Essi fired back, “It was straightforward! I found it charming, okay? Is that a crime?”

“No, but I have some serious concerns about your taste in men.”

“Like you’re in such a fine position to judge after the hollow, paltry invitation you accepted—which I absolutely did not write, by the way. I want to make that perfectly clear.”

“Alright, alright, cool your jets, we’ve got bigger fish to fry.” Lambert narrowed his eyes as he passed Essi’s phone back to her, “You didn't fire the first shot, so who texted me from your phone and cleared the history?”

Essi nibbled the inside of her cheek, “I can think of a few.”

“Okay, next question,” Lambert pocketed his phone, “who added you to my contacts before you texted. Because we did not exchange numbers six months ago, but your name was already there when I received it.”

Essi shrugged, “Who has access to your phone?”

“I dunno. Really just Eskel and Geralt and neither of them would—”

“Geralt.”

“Why him?”

Essi’s bright blue eyes turned steely and murderous, “Julian… They’re working together.”

“Wait, wait, wait. Are you telling me that Geralt the-last-thing-I-need Rivia and Julian Alfred these-aren't-my-pants Pankratz think we're so helplessly undateable that they decided to secretly set us up?” 

“Eskel doesn’t know me that well; he wouldn’t try to set you up with someone he hadn’t vetted. Who did you talk to first when you got that text from me?”

Lambert’s eyes widened, “Holy shit, they’re working together.”

Essi nodded, a flood of embarrassment warming her cheeks. “Sorry to waste your time. You’re very nice but, um, I should just…” she got up to leave.

“Wh-hey, hold up. I mean, if you wanna go, go, that's fine, but there's something you might want to know first.”

Essi tossed her yellow bangs out of her eyes, “Oh? What's that?”

“This,” Lambert produced an Amex credit card from his breast pocket, “is Geralt's.” The cheeky glint in his eyes was a very convincing argument.

“Fine then. Coffee and a conversation.” 

The coffee was hot and decent, and the conversation meandered through the usual topics of music, movies, and television, but also dipped into deeper waters as they grew more comfortable with each other’s company. Of course, it didn’t hurt that neither of them had any stakes in the outcome of this “date”. It made it easier to be frank and open, which in turn led to them quickly enjoying their time together. So much so that coffee turned into lunch, which turned into a long walk in the pleasant weather, which finally landed them outside Essi’s apartment, just around dinner time. 

“I have to say, this was actually a pleasant encounter,” she said, turning to face him with a characteristic toss of her bangs. 

“Yeah, who’d’ve thought two people forced together by meddling friends would actually find it enjoyable?” 

“In light of that,” Essi squared her shoulders and found Lambert’s hazel-brown eyes, “I think it’s fair to say I want to see you again.”

He cringed regretfully and scratched the back of his head, “Ahh, yeah, so… I don’t know if that’s really--”

“Oh, relax,” Essi smirked with a casual touch to Lambert’s forearm. “I don't mean like that. I just mean--you're interesting and fun and, well I don't have many close friends and I feel like we connected well today.”

“Well…”

“I'll make it even simpler: I absolutely, one-hundred percent, am not interested in dating you.”

“Easy there, you know I love it when people get all straightforward with me.” 

“I mean it, I just want to be friends,” she toyed back, trying her best to look sultry. It kind of worked.

Lambert bit his lower lip in mock arousal, “Mmm, oh yeah...”

She swayed her shoulders forward and back, doing her best to emulate the seductive actresses and models of the 1950s, “I want to Netflix and chill with a documentary about Soviet propaganda.”

Her last comment prompted a playfully stern look from her companion, “Careful now, you’re wading into actual turn-on territory.” 

“You're such a weirdo,” Essi chuckled, giving him an endeared shove. “Seriously, though, would you like to do this again? Friends?” 

He nodded sincerely, “Yeah, I think I'd really like that. Just one problem, though.”

“If we claim not to be interested in each other but keep hanging out we’ll never hear the end of it?” 

“Bingo.” 

Essi hummed thoughtfully and nibbled the inside of her bottom lip, “Well… we could always… pretend?” 

***

“Sounds like you two are hitting it off. I’m glad. I know Essi’s been feeling a little isolated between work and being new to the city.” Geralt closed the fridge with his foot and headed towards the sofa, popcorn in one hand, three beers in the other. “I’ll take my card back, by the way.” 

Lambert reluctantly handed the Amex back in exchange for a beer and perched on the arm of the sofa. “She’s really something. We’re, uh—yeah, hitting it off is a good word.”

And hitting it off, they were. The last ten days since their first “date” had been more enjoyable than all the dates he’d had in the last year combined. Essi was a fantastic companion: sharp, witty, kind, took no bullshit… They had done absolutely nothing but hang out, and no one had pried them for many details about the nature of their relationship. As far as their friend group was concerned, they were simply dating in the way that most adults dated. This also meant more time to themselves without unwanted interruptions (namely Julian barging in with his spare key to gossip about whatever fires were currently alight on twitter). The first night Lambert had been over, it took Julian all of five minutes to “grab something from the fridge��� before parting with a knowing wink. 

To her credit and imagination, Essi had expertly fielded her cousin’s initial barrage of questions when she first announced their “involvement.” It wasn’t that she didn’t like her cousin, Essi adored Julian, but she was also the first to admit that the man had no boundaries. What he lacked in that arena, he certainly made up for with opinions, which he was always more than happy to bestow on his younger cousin—usually dating advice, almost always unsolicited. Lambert had a much easier time convincing his side that he and Essi were taking it easy to see where things went. Between Eskel being a consummate gentleman and Geralt having his own Delicate Sensibilities, neither of them had demanded any details. 

“As long as you’re both happy and everything’s healthy, that’s all that matters,” Geralt’s partner reiterated, reaching into the bowl on Geralt’s lap. 

“Jesus, Eskel, you sound like my Nonna.”

“That's no way to talk to your father,” Geralt smirked into his hand of popcorn

“You're no better,” Lambert took a swig from his beer, lips popping as he lowered the bottle. “I swear, you've turned into a couple of mother hens since you two got together. Quit fussing and watch the game.” 

Geralt put his arm around Eskel’s shoulders, “We have gotten a little soft haven’t we?”

Eskel huffed out a laugh, “Probably. Hey, Lambert, don't fuck it up or I'll kick your ass into next week.” 

“Thank you. See? Was that so hard?” 

“Eh,” Eskel shrugged, helping himself to another handful of popcorn, “I stand by my original statement. Geralt agrees.” 

“It's true,” he said between mouthfuls. “Essi’s a good woman. Smart, talented, kind, attractive.” 

Eskel cleared his throat.

“Eskel, she is, it's just a statement of fact it doesn't mean that she doesn’t have other…”

“I know it doesn't but I still think you could bear to be a little more…”

“Funny thing,” Lambert interrupted, “I still can’t figure out how this smart, talented, kind, attractive woman’s number programmed itself into my phone. Because I may have been drunk the night we first met, but I have never in my life forgotten a successful number grab. Fess up, fellas. Who was it?”

Eskel’s eyes widened, “Geralt, you didn’t.”  

“I… may have… helped Julian gain access to Lambert’s phone.”

“Unbelievable. The betrayal,” Lambert shook his head, eyes still on the game. “If only there was some way to square things up…”

“You charged everything to my company card, didn’t you?”

“First two dates and a fresh pair of pants. Thanks, bud.” Geralt accepted a pat on the back as Eskel began gently but sternly berating him.

Lambert shook his head, smirking as he took another swig of beer, leaving the two lovebirds to bicker amongst themselves. His hip pocket buzzed and he checked his phone: Essi. 

Next Wednesday? Pizza and a movie?  Still can't believe you haven't seen  Ocean’s Eleven. 

Yeah, okay, fine. Jeez :P 7:30 my place? I'll provide beverages. 

If by ‘beverages’ you mean watery beer…

Fuck off, I'll get the good stuff. Unless  you prefer Arbor Mist or some shit. 

*gasps* I am offended! (but also it's delicious)

*sigh* do you want me to get you some?

*turtles into hoodie* ...peach or cherry pls? 

Haha okay, fine, I'll get a bottle. Can't promise  I won't judge you forever, though ;) 

It's okay, I deserve it.  g2g, see you tomorrow! xox 

***

Lambert groaned contentedly, massaging his stomach as he sprawled back on his aging brown sofa, long legs resting habitually on the coffee table. The now-empty pizza box lay abandoned on the far edge, accompanied by four empty beer bottles, and a nearly-empty, unfavourably warm Peach Arbor Mist. The toilet flushed and Essi emerged. Her dark gold hair had long ago been pulled into a messy bun, but her indigo skinny jeans had been replaced by soft-looking grey leggings. 

Lambert shook his head in amusement as she settled back next to him on the couch, "I still can't believe you brought your own lounge pants"

"That's because I'm a genius," she quipped, crossing her legs and adjusting the height of her waistband. "Besides, when else will I have the opportunity to actually be comfortable during a date?" 

"You took your bra off, too, didn't you?" Lambert asked without missing a beat, eyes never leaving the screen. 

"Yup!" Essi confirmed, her sparkling blue eyes glinting with joy as she raised her glass to her lips.

The movie continued as the new friends settled into comfortable silence, their food-drowsy, alcohol-fuzzy states lulling them into a new level of comfortability around each other. Legs fell asleep, positions were adjusted, and shoulders leaned on as the two sought maximum comfort for minimum effort. Soon, an arm was around Essi's shoulder as she settled her cheek on a comfortable spot on Lambert's chest. 

"You good?" Lambert asked, only half-irritated at her seemingly endless search for the perfect angle. 

"I'm sorry, I thought I'd found a good spot, but..." A few more adjustments of her head and Lambert couldn't take it anymore. 

"Jesus, woman, here. Get up for a sec."

Essi sat up as Lambert rearranged himself into a sort of semi-recline with one foot on the floor so his other leg could make room for the tiny pain-in-the-ass that was taking up the rest of the couch space. At his invitation, she wriggled up to the crook of his arm and quickly settled in. Lambert hadn't really thought about what they were doing. Not when Essi had harmlessly leaned against his arm; not when their weight settled into each other; not when Lambert had put his arm around her; not even as he was rearranging to get to where they were now. It had all just... happened. Now, though, with Essi lying still, Lambert felt the weight and warmth of her body shifting gently against his, and it dawned on him that this had the potential to be, well, weird.

But the strange thing was, it didn't feel weird. He'd fucking cuddled before, but there was always a sense of holding back, a tension in his body, being on the lookout for signals from the other person to move onto the Next Step. But now, he actually felt comfortable. There wasn't anything that was supposed to happen after this. Nobody was asking anything of him, no one sending signals he could pick up on but never read properly, no sinking feelings of dread as the other person moved in for a kiss that always felt too soon. Essi was just there, breathing, content. And Lambert was relaxed.

The woman half-on top of him gave a twitch as the credits started to roll, and Lambert let out a private laugh, "Hey, Sleeping Beauty, show's over." 

Essi inhaled heavily through her nose and lifted herself up, "Hmmm?" 

"Movie's over." 

"Did I fall asleep? I'm sorry!" she sat and rubbed her eyes, taking a sip of water to rinse the stale taste from her mouth. 

"Eh, only a little." Lambert exited Netflix and tossed the remote back on to the table. "Thought you might wanna start heading home before it gets too late." 

Essi nodded in response as she grabbed the pizza box and brought it to the kitchen trash, leaving Lambert to bring the empties. 

"You going to finish this atrocity of a beverage?" Lambert waggled the near-empty wine bottle at Essi as he passed on his way to the sink. She merely scowled and shook her head, letting him pour it down the drain 'where it belonged anyway'.

Essi gathered her things and met Lambert by his front door, checking her pockets for her phone and keys one last time before putting her shoes on. 

"You okay to walk? Want me to come with?" 

It was only 10:30 on a weeknight, and she appreciated the gesture all the same, but it was fine to walk. "Thanks, though. And thank you for tonight. I really needed to get out of the house. I hope, um..." 

She trailed off, not sure how to ask. She didn't have the same physical boundaries that most others seemed to have. She was affectionate—often overly so, and it had led to more than a few misunderstandings in the past. She didn't want Lambert to feel as though she had ulterior motives when the simple fact of the matter was that she hadn't really been thinking. Between the instant relief of not actually being on a date and Lambert's easy manner all evening, she'd forgotten that most friendships didn’t generally involve that much physical contact. Would Lambert be confused now? Thinking they were onto something more than friendship? Had he been wanting more? Had she pushed past a point of no return and doomed their friendship?

She inhaled, "Were you comfortable tonight?" 

For a split second, Lambert flailed, wondering whether he’d made her uncomfortable. Fuck, she'd seemed comfortable, if anything it felt like he’d been following her lead but maybe...

"I—yeah. That was, I enjoyed that. Were... were you not—?" 

Essi smiled and Lambert relaxed again, "No, I was. I wanted to ask in case, that's all. Boundaries and all that. I'll text you when I'm home." 

Lambert opened the door and waved her off toward the elevator, "'Kay. 'Night!" 

The door clicked shut. 

Okay, alright. Fine. Did they cuddle? Yes. Did he enjoy it? Fuck yes. He absolutely didn’t care what anyone might think about how he chose to enjoy his time with other people. However, this didn’t stop him from acknowledging that he was in uncharted friendship territory. More than anything, he was worried about how Essi really felt. Of course, she had no reason not to be honest with him. But the last thing he wanted to do was play fast and loose with someone’s emotions, especially not a friend, and definitely not one as close as Essi. Time would tell. As Lambert’s head hit the pillow, the memory of her warmth and weight settled over him again, and he slept soundly for the first time in months.

***

“Yes Poppet, but have you slept together yet? Honestly, you’ve been dating for almost three weeks now, what could you possibly be waiting for?” 

Oh, I don’t know, hell to freeze over? You to mind your own business? Whichever comes first… 

“I mean, you clearly adore one another, I’ve never seen you happier. What’s there to lose?’”

Essi scoffed. 

Julian placed his hands on her shoulders, “I know it’s been a while for you, but I think you can afford to let yourself go a little, have some fun, hm? Besides, it’s better to find out sooner rather than later if you’re sexually incompatible.”

She took a deep breath, “That’s a very good point, Julian, I’ll think about that.” The dating act was starting to wear a little thin, but it was worth not having to explain to anyone that they weren’t doing exactly what it looked like they were doing. 

Julian took time to give his cousin a scrutinizing look, “Well, by the look of things it won’t be long anyway. If you spend all of your time together as tangled up as you were the other night when I came over, it’ll happen sooner rather than later. Just trust your gut, and when in doubt, a little hint never goes awry.”

Needless to say, Essi more or less ignored her cousin’s advice.

As the weeks stretched on, it became evident that they were quickly becoming what most people would consider to be more than friends. The first time they pulled the covers back and climbed into bed, each on their half of the mattress, they were aware that yet another boundary of friendship had been pushed a little farther into the grey zone. But, they woke up the next morning feeling happy, content, and refreshed, and surely there was nothing wrong with two people sharing a comfortable bed. Essi had woken up with crust in her eyes and her nightgown bunched around her waist. Lambert had woken up with morning wood and his hair a mess. Neither of them cared. People wake up in the morning, big deal. 

Still, it didn’t stop the questioning that oscillated in the background of Lambert’s mind. Was he unknowingly leading Essi on by allowing her so much closeness without a clearly defined relationship? She’d made her own disinterest clear enough on their first “date”,  but feelings change over time. What she’d told him three weeks ago might not be true anymore… 

And then there was that soft warm tingle in the middle of his chest every time she lay her head in his lap, every time he ran his fingers through her hair. He knew he wasn't in love. Not that he was an expert, but what was all that "when you know, you know" bullshit if he couldn’t trust his own feelings? He loved her, sure, but more like a... not a sister, that would be weird. He didn't know what like. Whatever. Fuck it. Eskel had said it best three weeks ago: “As long as you're happy and everything’s healthy, that’s all that matters.” Yeah, sure. We’ll stick with that.

As far as Lambert and Essi were concerned, it was what it was, and whatever it was was working… wasn’t it?

***

"Fuckin' finally!" 

The door to Essi's apartment clicked closed as the tenant wilted against it, emitting an exhausted groan, "Two. Hours. It took me two hours to get home!" She toed off her penny loafers and abandoned her purse and jacket in a pile by the front door, ignoring the hook three inches to her left. She flopped heavily onto her living room carpet. 

"I see you found my spare key," she added, not at all surprised that Lambert had managed to let himself in. 

"Yeah, you should probably put that in a less obvious spot," he answered, crossing to the door to hang her things up. "So, I see it's a lying on the floor kind of evening. Can I interest you in a drink to start? Vodka pairs well with the general vibe of Done-With-This-Shit, or we also have tequila if you feel like shouting out the window after a couple shots. Alternatively, there's gin if you want to cry later." 

Essi smiled with her eyes closed, feeling her body slowly relaxing into the spongy throw rug underneath her, "You know me so well." 

"Vodka?" 

"Vodka. Euch, I need to vacuum!," Essi peeled herself to a seated position as clinks and clatters began in the kitchen. She hopped in the shower to rinse the day off, and after a few minutes, there was a knock on the bathroom door. 

"Yeeees?" she called, playfully. 

"Drink delivery!" Lambert hollered back, "you want this now or later?" 

"Why are you so good to me?" 

There was a draught of cool air as Lambert opened the bathroom door, "Because you only marginally annoy me. Here," he passed his hand between the shower wall and the opaque fish-scale-patterned curtain. "What's on the docket for tonight?" 

Essi groaned, "I don't know, I'm sorry. I used all my brain cells trying not to murder people on the streetcar." 

"Okay," Lambert sat on the lidded toilet, "here's the thing. I kinda maybe figured that might be the case so I kinda maybe picked up a few things to make dinner." 

A shampoo-piled head poked out from behind the curtain, "You're kidding." 

"Nuh-uh." 

"I love you." 

Lambert chuckled, "Yeah, you're alright. Come on, hurry up, this bathroom's a fuckin’ sauna, and I don’t want the croutons to get soggy." Essi burbled an answer about conditioner and almost done, and Lambert took that as his cue to leave.

Dinner was simple: pan fried Salmon with crispy skin (delicate and buttery on the inside); wax beans in butter (tender and not overcooked); grilled brussels sprouts (just beginning to brown on the edges); and a fresh caesar salad. Everything done to perfection. Full, content, and ready to take their relaxation to the next step they settled themselves on Essi’s blue-grey sectional to begin the arduous task of deciding what to watch. 

This was proving particularly difficult with the addition of Essi's caveat that whatever they chose not be "too plot-heavy" which so far had included Masterchef, an interior design show, and program about shepherding in the Orkneys. 

"Sweetheart, you gotta give me some slack here. I thought I was on track with the sheep!" 

"I know, I'm sorry!" Essi muffled into his shirt sleeve. "I do like animals..." She gasped loudly. "BLUE PLANET."

Lambert stopped the endless scrolling and pushed play as the soothing voice of David Attenborough filled the small living room.

"Hey! Why'd you pause it?" 

Lambert was standing up, "If we're going to do this, then we're doing it right. Hang on." 

Essi slumped on the sofa as the microwave kicked on. In a few minutes, there was popcorn in their laps and half a bottle of vodka on the table with an ice bucket and lemon wedges in a bowl. Lambert read off his phone screen.

"We will take a drink when: 

-David says 'Extraordinary' -David uses a clear understatement such as 'But then again, living in an active volcano is not without its risks' -An animal is being eaten -An animal is mating -There is sped up footage of a plant growing."

"Oh no," Essi lamented, chewing her popcorn ungracefully, "I'm going to get so drunk." 

"You got it, Goldilocks. Fill up."

And with that, they were off, taking it slow with their vodka twists, but nonetheless feeling the warm buzz start to tingle under their skin. The box of microwave popcorn was empty by halfway through, and the remains of Essi's exhaustion had almost dispersed entirely.

"Ooh! Understatement! Drink!!" 

By ten o’clock, pink-cheeked and feeling boisterous, they had finished with their favourite parts of Blue Planet, or at least the ones they had patience for, and had moved on to Planet Earth II.

“Holy fuck, that’s a lot of snakes—Go, you little fucker! Go!”

The drama on the screen had caused the two to separate from one another while Lambert invested himself in the success of the small lizard. Once the baby Galapagos Iguana had made it to safety, they were once again able to recline without Essi risking an elbow to the face.

She bundled against him, scooting farther between his legs where he leaned in the corner of the sectional. He gathered her hair and draped it over her left shoulder so it wouldn't get caught in his buttons—they'd learned that the hard way. It was still damp, cool to the touch, and smelled like verbena sea salt shampoo. He felt a pulse of affection ripple through him as her weight resettled. He loved that feeling. It had taken some time to get used to it. But now it was high on his list of favourite things. He was happy. And it was healthy. And that really was all that mattered. 

Right?

Eskel’s words turned themselves around again in his mind as he wrapped his arm around the front of Essi’s shoulders. He let himself indulge in the texture of her cotton knit nightshirt under his fingers. He relished in the peace of mind at being able to just be there with someone who meant something to him and made absolutely no demands. He let himself relax. 

Essi felt a kiss land on the top of her head with a playful, "Muwah!" 

She giggled quietly, "Thank you!" Then, upon further thought… Did he want to kiss her? Her mind did a double take as she tried to get on top of the ball.  

It wasn’t impossible. They were close after all, and she wasn’t opposed to the idea. She’d recently found herself in a balancing act of realizing she could, in theory, have a deeper kind of feeling for Lambert. Only if, for whatever reason, it turned out he felt the same way. These weren’t the helpless uncontrollable feelings of ride-or-die infatuation; they were malleable, translatable, general feelings of affection and fondness that belonged in any number of different relationships and dynamics. 

No sense risking it, she thought. They'd found a liminal space of comfort and safety that she'd never experienced with anyone else before, and if the options were between being a little confused and ruining everything, the choice was an easy one. Then again, if Lambert was developing feelings for her, she didn’t want to miss an opportunity. Shit. Her cheeks burned as she felt the question rise closer to her lips. 

"Lambert?" she sat up abruptly and turned to her friend who was still moulded into the corner of the couch, watching the mating rituals of exotic birds with bewildered skepticism. 

He jolted at Essi’s sudden movement, "Hello, yes." 

Her bright blue eyes were now slightly unfocused, "Do you—? Nevermind." She lay back against him, suddenly skittish..

"Mm, nah, try again," he said, sluggishly. "What’s up, buttercup?" 

She swayed a little when she sat up, "Are you happy with what we are?"

Lambert blinked, caught slightly off-guard. The question was easy enough to answer, "Yeah! I mean I don’t know what the fuck we are, but I’m feeling pretty good about it. Shit, why? Are you not? I can be less… whatever. Or… more?" It wasn’t like he was repulsed by the idea of anything else happening between them—in theory it was a possibility. In practice, however...

Essi put an emphatic hand on Lambert’s knee, her glassy eyes going wide, "Do you want more?" 

"What? No! I dunno, I—maybe. I haven’t really thought about it. I mean…” Lambert searched Essi’s face for any clue that might help him know how to proceed, “I don’t not want anything else. Fuck, I don’t know! I’m used to doing things the other way around. You know the drill: uncomfortable date, smoosh faces together, have sex, hope feelings fall out. Lather-rinse-repeat. I dunno, do we have to… But what if we try something and...? I don’t wanna lose this." 

Essi leaned in close and whispered, “I have an idea.”

"Why do I feel like I'm going to regret this?" 

"We should kiss."

Lambert nearly swallowed an ice cube, "What?!"

"Just once. Quickly. Just... in case." 

"You want me, Lambert, to kiss you, Essi Daven, on the lips."

She nodded sincerely, "For science."

There was a brief pause during which Essi felt the beginnings of panic brewing in her stomach, but by the time she'd finished grappling with potential consequences, Lambert was filling their glasses. 

"Alright. Fine. My friend wants me to kiss her for science? Fuck it. I'll drink to that." 

They downed their drinks and squared up, knee to knee on the edge of the sofa as they each prepared for their best form—or as good as they could offer given the circumstances. They counted down, 3-2-1...

The kiss was quick, over as soon as it had begun, and both friends pulled away with questioning looks. Inconclusive. They tried again for a little longer, still returning with the same quizzical expressions. They went in for a third time, committing more thoroughly, and for a brief moment it seemed they might have found the semblance of a spark. But it didn’t build. It felt… fine? But no different than if they were lying together on the sofa. It was just another thing they were doing. They each tried to find the right word for what they were feeling, but were soon distracted by the oddness of it all.   

Essi started to giggle. Less than a second later, Lambert joined her, and they both pulled away, thoroughly satisfied that their experiment had yielded a strong No on the subject of More. There was a dull thud as Essi slid from the couch and onto the floor, still holding her drink in one hand and laughing hysterically. 

Lambert sighed and shook his head, "I think it’s time we got you to bed."

Headaches and dry mouths greeted the two friends the next morning when they blinked awake. Essi’s hair was a cotton-candy mess, having still been slightly damp when Lambert put her to bed. The brunet himself didn’t look much different from his usual scruffy state as he gathered Essi up in an armful of duvet and squeezed tight.

“Gods, Lambert, I still need to breathe,” Essi chuckled, pressing her back into his chest. 

“You’ll get over it,” he teased and self-indulgently nuzzled even closer. “You feeling alright? I mean, aside from the hangover. About last night?” 

“Oh no,” Essi groaned, “I’m so sorry, Lambert. I shouldn’t have said anything. It’s just—you kissed my head and then that got me wondering about whether you might want something else, and then I didn’t really know what was happening and—” 

“Hey, easy on the rambling, okay, I’m running on limited brain cells, here. Look,” Lambert sat up to find those big blue eyes, now shining brightly, “I have no idea what the fuck this is that we’ve got going on, but I like it fine just the way it is.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. And we can keep talking about that. Just, you know, maybe next time something’s on your mind, don’t wait ‘til we’re wasted at 2am?”

“Okay, deal. Can we go get bacon now?”

Lambert chuckled, “Yeah, alright, fine. Make me put pants on, I see how it is.”

Their conversation continued over strong coffee and eggs benedicts. Between their check-in that morning and everything that had happened the previous night, it was well-established that they were perfectly happy where they were. Rather, the main topic of conversation was their growing desire to level with their friends about the nature of their relationship. Eskel and Geralt, they both agreed, would be the easiest—Lambert could tell them that evening. Julian and Essi’s friends on the other hand would be a little more difficult. 

Telling Julian together would be best, Essi thought. He was bound to have questions, and if both she and Lambert were there to answer them definitively and explain that no, they didn’t have secret feelings for one another; and yes, they really were just friends and not at all interested in exploring the relationship further thank you very much. Exactly when this discussion with Julian would occur still wasn’t clear. Realistically, they could pick any time, but they decided to wait until Lambert could tell the Old Men. At least then they were assured some less invasive support. 

Their reaction was easy enough to predict: Eskel reassuringly repeated his standby “As long as you’re both happy with things…” and twirled a forkful of pasta; Geralt tilted his head thoughtfully and said, “That sounds very nice. I’m happy for you.” Lambert had expected mild disapproval, concern that they were deviating too far from the norm and into a complex dynamic that would be too messy to manage. Instead, Geralt simply said it ‘sounded very nice.’ Lambert smiled into the open refrigerator on his way to get a beer. 

The following weekend was Julian’s birthday, and, as per their annual tradition, the group all gathered on Friday evening at the birthday boy’s favourite restaurant—Vegelbud’s. The two decided to tell him the week after his birthday so as not to detract from his Big 3-0. Just one more week, and it would all be in the open. Easy breasy.

The afternoon of the dinner, Eskel and Geralt received a group text: Haven’t told Julian the details yet. Keep the beans to yourselves please (I’m looking at you, @Eskel). 

“Why me?” Eskel turned to Geralt over his paperwork, looking a little hurt. 

Geralt chuckled, “You have a slight tendency to overshare when you want to be supportive.”

“I do?” He turned on the bar stool to follow his partner on the way upstairs.

“It’s not a bad thing, but…” Geralt sighed, “Lambert has always needed to feel in control of situations like this. He doesn’t want one of us bringing this up before he’s ready to talk about it, especially in a public place, you know how he gets when he feels cornered. And Julian is Essi’s cousin…”

Eskel raised a hand, “You’re right, you’re right. All points taken. Are you showering?”

Geralt smirked as he headed for the stairs, “Come on then.” 

Four hours later and halfway through dinner, everything had gone swimmingly. The food had been expectedly delicious, the company and conversation excellent, and so far no one had felt the need to bring up Essi and Lambert’s relationship on any level. That is until Julian got a few drinks under his belt, and decided it was time to document the occasion. Geralt and Eskel were the first victims. 

“Aww just look at you two! So in love, so vivacious and full of adoration,” Julian held up his phone as Geralt touched the side of his head to Eskel’s. Beep-Chk! A perfect image of a happy couple was captured and posted to Instagram (#julianturns30 #dinneratvagelbuds #dinnerout #cutiesofinstagram #favoriteotp #gaycouplesofinstagram #livelaughlove…). There were a few more photos of the three of them together, the white chocolate raspberry cheesecake with the candle in it, a group shot taken by the waiter. It was all so close to being over, Essi could practically taste the refuge of the streetcar. 

"Come on, lovebirds, show us a smooch!" Oh no. Oh no, oh no, oh no. Essi’s stomach lurched and she felt her cheeks start to warm. Lambert’s hand landed gently on her knee under the table, his fingers pressing firmly into her leg as she desperately tried to think of something to say. 

"Oh, um..." 

Across the table, Geralt and Eskel shared a wordless communication: de-escalate, distract, redirect.

“You’ll want to eat that cheesecake before it gets warm” Geralt offered. “I hear it’s so light it’ll disintegrate in a heartbeat.” Eskel nodded in encouragement, taking a bite of his own. 

“I know, I know,” Julian shrugged, “Just a quick one. Say Cheese!”

"Not right now, Julian," Essi tilted her head, her eyes flashing a little. 

"Oh come on, Poppet! I know you don't like PDA, it's just one little picture--"

“Don’t call me Poppet.”

Eskel cleared his throat loudly, "Doesn't seem they're that keen on it. Maybe let's try for one another time." 

"It's past your one-month-a-versary, let everyone see how in love you are." 

"Julian," Geralt growled, "leave it." 

Julian covered his mouth in alarm, "I’m so sorry, have you not used that word yet? I didn’t mean anything by it, I just want the world to see how happy my beautiful cousin is!" 

“Really Julian, it’s not necessary we—” Essi’s fingernails were starting to dig into Lambert’s palm from the sheer effort of maintaining composure. She wasn’t sure whether she wanted to cry or disappear, and with neither of those being an option, it seemed the only possible escape was for them to kiss. They’d done it before. No big deal. It would feel off, but they’d just go back to her place and drink about it after. 

“Essi, what’s the matter with you, it’s just one little picture, and we all know you’re not camera-shy. On three, ready? One, two…”

"For fuck's sake we're not dating!" 

The table all silently turned their attention to Essi whose cheeks had been turning progressively redder. 

“What?” Her cousin laughed incredulously. 

“We’re not a couple, Julian. We’re friends. We have been from the beginning, but we didn’t want to tell you because we knew you wouldn’t fucking leave us alone until you could boast about having set us up.”

Lambert shared a brief look with Eskel before lowering his eyes to the tablecloth, his hand still firmly clutched in Essi’s. 

Julian gaped, “So, it was all… the cuddling, the laughing, that time I came over and you were asleep on the couch, that was all… a ruse?” 

“No, Julian, that was real. I told you, we’re friends.”

“That’s not friends! Since when have friends watched a movie half-on-top of each other?” 

“Two people can enjoy each other's company lying flat, Julian,” Eskel’s rich voice interjected across the table and the discussion ground to a halt. 

Geralt shrugged with his tea at his lips, “It is the twenty-first century after all.”

Julian’s cornflower blue eyes flitted back and forth between the two friends, utterly bewildered. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Well what with your complete and utter invasion of privacy for the sake of hooking us up, we didn’t necessarily trust you to believe us,” Essi answered curtly, her hand shaking slightly. 

“Poppet, you could have just told me—”

“Stop. Calling me that. And I did tell you, Julian!” she exploded. “I told you the first day I moved here. The first. Day. I said, ‘Julian, I think I want to take a break from dating until I’ve been settled for a year.’ And what did you do? Conspired with my well-meaning former mentor to hook me up with someone I had one good conversation with at a Christmas party. And do you know what? We are happy. But we’re happy in our own way. And maybe our boundaries with each other seem a little strange to you, but we’re not fooling ourselves. We don’t want to kiss each other, we don’t want to have sex, and we don’t want a relationship. And even though it’s absolutely none of your damn business, I’ll tell you anyway: we’ve talked about it. All of it. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I don’t think I want to be here anymore.” 

The chair legs scraped against the floor of the restaurant as Essi stood to leave, throwing her purse over her shoulder as she went. Lambert looked hesitantly around the table, “I should probably, you know…” He gestured after Essi with his thumb. Eskel gave Lambert the go ahead and he quickly stood to follow his friend out of the restaurant, leaving a very stunned Julian with the other two. He found her perched on the parking barrier in the small lot to the left of the front doors. He called to her and she looked up. Eyes shining, mascara running... 

“Ah shit, you know I’m no good with this kind of thing.” 

“I’m sorry, Lambert, I just—” she blew her nose, “—he just wouldn’t stop and I didn’t know what to do or say, and it all just came pouring out. I didn’t want it to. The whole time I was begging myself to stop, but I just couldn’t, it’s been bottled up for so long and-and—but it’s his birthday, and—oh, he must feel so awful! I didn’t want to make him feel bad, but—and with Eskel and Geralt there too! They must think I’m horrible! I’m so sorry, Lambert, I didn’t want it to be like this, I wanted to have him over and sit him down and be patient, and instead I’ve just made a complete mess of things. And on his birthday! It’s his birthday, oh God, this is the worst thing I could have done.” Essi choked back bitter tears as she tried desperately to stem the flow with her soggy tissue, “Are you upset with me, Lambert? If you are, I understand. Maybe we should take a break of some kind, you know. Not see each other for a while and—”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, hold it right there. Look, I’m probably not going to say any of the right stuff here, but I am absolutely not upset with you. You got that? And for what it’s worth, I don’t think us taking a break from spending time together is going to do anything. Unless you’re looking to punish yourself by taking away a nice thing which, okay. But the fact that you’re willing to ditch me instead of Arbor Mist says something about our friendship I’m not too pleased with.” 

Essi turned her wide, pleading, bloodshot eyes to Lambert who cracked a smile, “Jesus, I’m kidding! You adorable fucking mess, c’mere.” He pulled his petite friend into a hug and rested his chin on the top of her head until she quieted down. Neither of them was quite sure how much time had gone by, but Essi found herself wishing it had been long enough for everyone to have gone home so she didn’t have to face whatever aftermath she’d left behind. 

Meanwhile, Eskel and Geralt had settled the bill and offered to give Julian a lift back to their place for a night cap, not wanting to leave the evening on such an unsettled note. Essi needed space, and whatever company she needed, Lambert was clearly capable of providing. It was for the best, they suggested, and dissuaded Julian from trying to call her. 

“Best to sleep on things,” Geralt said, tucking his card back into his wallet and giving the waiter a nod in gratitude. “We can meet for coffee this weekend and sort this out. For now, just let her cool down.” 

Eskel clapped Julian encouragingly on the shoulder as they made their way into the damp summer night air. As they turned into the parking lot, they came face-to-face with Essi and Lambert who had clearly just turned to come back inside. Both cousins looked like they had seen better days: Essi’s eyes were puffy and red, her cheeks blotchy and streaked with inky makeup stains; Julian was perhaps less dishevelled, but the dark circles under his eyes were more pronounced, his boyish features now dejectedly weighted down with remorse and hurt. 

“Juian, I’m so sorry, I didn’t—” 

Essi’s cousin raised his hand, “Don’t. Please don’t. Essi, I am so, so sorry. I never meant to push you like that, I didn't realize... you both have been so happy this last month and—"

"It's okay, really, we can talk about this all another time. I'm just so sorry I ruined your birthday. We wanted to sit down with you and talk properly but..." Essi's tears welled up again, and Julian smiled weakly. 

"But we both did what we always do?"

She sniffed, nodding emphatically with a tearful, "Yeah.” Julian pulled his cousin into a fond embrace while the other three clumped together to watch the reconciliation. 

“Oh! Here,” Essi reached into her purse and pulled out a small, neatly-wrapped box. “Happy birthday!” 

Julian opened his gift without a second thought, his face brightening instantly. The box contained a set of premium ultra-light guitar strings and a pair of concert tickets. The perfect gift. Overwhelmed with gratitude, and the atmosphere having been recovered, Julian suggested they all attend brunch together that Sunday morning, his treat by way of apology. Geralt offered to split the bill as a peace offering for his part in the initial setup, and the five made a date. 

A fresh start, a promise of spending time together with fewer secrets and, Julian conceded, a few more boundaries. 

[honeyhan-123]

Neon Red

Summary: Feeling the failure of not being able to defeat Thanos, Steve longs to feel something else, anything else, and so he finds himself as a patron at The Golden Circle where our reader (known as Kitty by customers) is a dancer.

Warnings: Dark!Steve, Stripper!Reader, stalking, male masturbation, dubcon/noncon.

Word Count: 4.5k

AN: I’m so sorry there isn’t a Say Thank You update this weekend but please enjoy a slutty oneshot, it’s also a little spin off from the Project Legacy fic (you don’t have to read it to read this.) I would also love to thank @castedcaricatures​for betaing this fic for me and @iwantutobehapppier​ and @omega-nicole​ for giving me their opinions about an issue I had. 

My Masterlist

The neon red sign above the door reflected in Steve’s blue eyes as he stood, staring up at it, hesitating as he stood out on the street. He knew if his ma were still here that she would kill him if she ever found out he was about to enter an establishment like the ‘Golden Circle’ but that was exactly why he was doing it. She wasn’t here. No one was anymore. 

For once in his life Steve Rogers wanted to feel something, wanted to give into his more carnal instincts. And so here he was, wondering if he had gotten enough cash out of the ATM across the street, wearing a dark blue baseball cap pulled low over his brow, praying that no one would recognise him. 

Yet as he pushed open the heavy door and was greeted by the sickly sweet scent of the club, he realised his fears had been for nothing, hardly anyone spared him a glance, too enraptured with the dancer who was up on the podium. Even though it was a bit of a darker atmosphere than what he was used to, Steve liked it. He liked the dim red lighting - from where it originated he couldn’t tell - the plush brown leather booths, the mahogany bar behind which there was an alcohol cabinet that could rival Tony’s. It was modernised sure, but it reminded him of something that he might have seen back in his own time if he had dared do something so salacious and he knew that he had made the right call by coming here. 

Straying a little further from the stage, he sat in one of the lone leather high backed chairs, hands running down his thighs, a little unsure of what to do as he surveyed his surroundings, barely even glancing at the woman on the stage. A server came over, holding a tray with one hand as she lent down, practically pushing her chest into Steve’s bearded face and while he appreciated the view of her scantily clad nipples, he wasn’t all that invested.

‘What can I get you handsome?’ Her voice was wrong, it was too much, too overt in its sexuality. 

‘Just a scotch thanks.’ Even though he wasn’t interested he still slipped a twenty from his wallet, tucking it into the scrap of material that were her panties. ‘Keep the change.’ She smiled, her eyes seeming to eat him up before she turned and walked away, swaying her hips intoxicatingly. 

The dancer on the stage finished her set, a raucous applause following as she made her way around the crowd, collecting tips from greedy hands. Steve’s scotch was set down next to him and he thanked the waitress as a voice cut through the applause. 

‘Once again that was the gorgeous Glitter! Isn’t she just stunning? For those interested she does private shows too, just her and whatever lucky bugger in our lounges. Send an inquiry if interested.’ There was a pause in which Steve considered what the MC had said. Private shows, maybe that’s where he should be. But not with her, no. She wasn’t quite right. 

‘Next up, is the sensational Kitty! Gentlemen please give her a very warm welcome.’ Steve's gaze was at once pulled back to the stage as the deep red velvet curtain parted, revealing her. 

Immediately he knew. He knew she was the one. He watched enticed as she performed, her body twisting and twirling through the air with a sense of grace - of elegance - that the others just hadn’t held. For the first time since it had happened, he felt himself get hard, achingly hard. The desire to reach into his pants growing with every second that his eyes drank up her form. 

He could almost pretend that it was only him, that he was the only one in the room with her, that she was dancing just for him. He didn’t necessarily care about the other men watching her because he knew, deep down, that she was his. It didn’t matter that she didn’t even know him or that he had only just seen her, she was his for now and forever more. 

He waited until her dance was over, pulling a handful of twenties from his wallet and this time when she sashayed across the crowd for tips, his greedy hands joined the others. Swiftly tucking the money into the black silk, just above her vee. He relished in the way her eyes grew larger as she caught sight of the amount he had given, the way they had followed his deft fingers from her panties and up his arm before coming to rest on his face. 

‘Thank you.’ Just those two words had Steve ready to cum right then and there. Her voice was so soft and delicate, just what he had been looking for all this time. 

‘You’re welcome Doll.’ He fell in love with her smile, not that fake one she had worn when she was dancing, but the real one she wore now, her teeth gleaming in the dim lighting. 

‘I-’ 

She was interrupted by a portly man calling her name, taking her attention away from him as the man gestured to her to come to him. Pausing slightly, she turned back to Steve but he raised his hands, a smile on his face. 

‘Go. I need to head off anyway.’ He tried to make his voice as easygoing as he could, not wanting to let her know the dark thoughts plaguing his mind. She smiled at him once more before turning on her heel and crossing the room to who Steve could only assume was the manager of the establishment, his eyes following every sway of her hips until she led from the room and out of sight. 

Stretching out his muscles, he stood from the leather chair, leaving a twenty underneath his now empty glass before pulling his cap further down his brow and heading out of the building, his phone in his hand as he searched Stark’s database for just who this angelic Kitty really was. 

+

It really hadn’t been that hard to find her, the real Kitty. Ten minutes of searching had given him her real name, her address, her credit history, her family backstory. Camped out on the roof across from her apartment Steve chided Stark’s technology. In the wrong hands it could be quite dangerous, having such easy access to anyone’s personal details.

But it was fine, he was here to protect her now. 

He waited up on that cold roof for nearly two hours until a cab came by, stopping just outside the crummy apartment complex. Even in the dim light emanating from the streetlights, his Kitty seemed to glow, shining bright and beautiful like an angel. He watched as she let herself in, a few minutes passing before the light to her apartment flickered on. He blessed the fact that she hadn’t drawn the blinds, thinking herself safe, tucked away on the twelfth floor. She gave him an uninterrupted view of her apartment, of how she wandered from the cramped kitchen/living room into her even smaller bedroom, disappearing briefly into the bathroom before emerging in only a towel, her wet hair cascading down her back, sticking to her smooth skin. 

For the second time since the snap had happened, Steve felt his pants grow tight, the need to feel something, anything, overtaking him. He adjusted his perch on the roof, making sure he still had a good visual of the bedroom as his hand dipped down, briskly undoing his belt and pulling himself from his jeans. 

He watched as her towel dropped to the floor, the fluffy white cotton kicked aside, revealing her body to him. Despite the fact that he had practically already seen it in the club, he couldn’t hold in the groan it caused, his hand wrapping around himself and pumping furiously as the pretty girl in the window got ready for bed.

+

‘Hey Kitty, he’s back. Again.’ You tried to hold in the smile Glitter’s words caused, the jealousy barely concealed, but you couldn’t blame her. Whoever he was, he wasn’t like the other men who frequented the ‘Golden Circle’ in a lot of ways. He wasn’t sleazy like the others, his hands - while they did occasionally linger - never groped bits of flesh as they slipped twenty dollar bills into the thin straps of your outfits and although he never took off the dark blue baseball cap, making it near impossible to see his face, you could tell he was attractive, his biceps bulged and his thick thighs looked like the most comfortable seat in the world. 

While his continual presence did make you slightly uneasy, it also gave you butterflies, seeing his eyes always fixated on you, even when you weren’t the one on stage. He barely spared a glance at the other girls despite them trying their best efforts to draw his attention. He only wanted you. His presence made you not care about never booking a session in the Lounge because while the increased pay of a private show would have been nice, he was always by the mainstage, plus his tips were always far too generous. 

Your heart raced with the typical pre-show jitters, incensed by the fact you knew he was out there, waiting for you and when your music started you took a deep breath, fully transitioning into Kitty, the cheeky dancer, before stepping out on stage. Like usual, your eyes flitted around the club, searching for him and when you finally found him, sitting towards the back, you made sure to give him your cheekiest smile.

‘Let’s give it up for our resident cheeky little Kitty Cat!’ You barely heard the obnoxious voice of Mike the club’s MC, opting instead to go to your happy place. When you had first started at the ‘Golden Circle’ it had been hard to zone out from the leering and drunken men but reflecting back to your days as a ballerina had helped. Although it was now a completely different style of dance, pretending that you were on stage in your pretty pink pointe shoes performing for your family had given you the peace of mind you needed to get up on stage every night. 

Now however, your happy place had a much different setting. You were still up on stage, yet it was a smaller stage, a plush leather couch at the base of it, the walls lined with a deep red velvet, casting a sensual appearance over the room. Instead of a crowd full of strangers, you only performed for one man, a glass of whisky in his hand and a blue baseball cap pulled low over his brow as he watched you. 

You knew it was wrong, dangerous even, to fantasise about a client like that, but it was what helped get you through the grueling shifts and with the way he watched your every move, you didn’t think he would mind. 

As your dance came to an end, you did your usual rounds, sitting in a few laps, having your flesh groped as tips were slid into your red bodysuit. As always, you saved him for last, finally wandering over to his couch, your smile not as fake as it had been.

‘Well hi-ya stranger.’ You joked as you neared, and you thought that you just might’ve died when you heard his responding chuckle, one of his rare smiles gracing his lips. 

‘Doll, I don’t think we’re strangers at this point.’ You smiled as he leaned forward, his hand slipped down between your breasts to place a couple of bills there. You were surprised when his other hand crept up behind you, gingerly wrapping itself around your waist. ‘So, I was thinking… How about a dance sugar?’ Your eyebrows raised on their own accord, your surprise evident. Despite how often he came into the club, he had never asked for a dance. The only time that he had come close was when he had asked you offhandedly, if you minded being the one to serve him his drinks when you were on duty. Although you had felt guilty about keeping him to yourself you had gladly agreed, how could you not?

When you realised that he was still waiting, you snapped out of your reverie. ‘Of course Darling, anything for you.’ Despite how full your body suit was, you didn’t want to keep him waiting, so you stalked around behind him, beginning your routine as you slid your hands down his chest, your lips coming to his ear. 

Most of the time doing by-stage dances you found yourself having to grit your teeth, barely able to keep down the bile yet as you danced for your stranger the smile on your face was a hundred percent genuine. 

‘You know, I feel kind of bad. We spend all this time together, yet I don’t even know your name.’ He shuddered as you whispered into the shell of his ear, being sure to brush your lips against the soft, supple skin. 

‘I’m Steve.’ His voice was rough as he spoke, his adam’s apple bobbing, drawing your attention.Your hands danced back up his chest, smoothing out his shirt as you walked back around, being sure to keep one hand on him. 

‘Well it’s nice to have a name to put to my favourite patron.’ Your hand wrapped around his neck, gripping onto the dark blonde locks as you nudged his feet further apart with your heels, sliding into the new space between them. 

‘Your favourite patron huh?’ You loved the prideful tone that rang through his voice as you leaned down, pushing your chest towards him. 

‘Of course Sweetheart, how could you not be?’ Your hands trailed down his chest once more, dancing below his belt line, skirting the growing bulge to trace the tracks of the rough denim coating his thighs. From here your arms could squeeze your breasts together as you leaned over them, the stray hairs of his beard nearly touching the red satin cups and just as you thought he would lose control and lean into the soft skin, you whipped around. You swiveled your hips as you moved your hands up your body, raising one leg first and setting it down outside of his knee and then doing the same with the other before squatting, just above his lap. 

Your hips moved in a figure eight motion, slowly getting closer and closer to where he clearly wanted you to be. Looking back over your shoulder at him you spoke. ‘Tell me Steve, tell me how badly you want it.’ 

His groan was audible as you continued to tease, never quite touching him where he needed. ‘So badly baby girl. You have no fucking clue. I need you so badly.’ With his groaned words, you finally lowered yourself down onto him sending him a cheeky wink as you did so. 

Despite the clubs firm no touching rule, you allowed his hands to rest on your hips as you moved them, your own reaching back and hooking around his neck, giving yourself some leverage. ‘Do you like that Stevie? Does that feel good?’ 

He didn’t answer your questions verbally, but the way he thrusted his hips up against yours was a clear enough response. You continued moving against him, letting his hands force you down harder on his crotch, letting him use you as he chased his orgasm. ‘God… Fuck Doll. You make me feel so fucking good. Yes…’ His words were a jumbled mess as he came closer and closer and you felt his hands dance up your body to squeeze your tits. 

You knew you should pull away, knew it was wrong to let a customer touch you like that, but the way his groans were ringing through your ears was addictive. In that one moment, the only thing you wanted to achieve was getting this man off, whatever that meant doing. 

He rolled your pert nipples between his fingers, rubbing you through the smooth satin as he moaned. ‘Yes, that’s it Doll, I’m so fucking close. Oh god, fuck, Doll. Make me cum baby, make me fucking cum.’ You moaned with him as you moved your hips up and down his crotch and you smiled as you felt his thighs tense beneath you, a long loud moan coming from him that almost covered the sound of satin tearing. 

Your hips stopped moving as you looked down, barely registering through your shock the gaping rip down your body suit. You jumped out of his lap, trying to keep the material against your chest as you stared down at him, wanting to scream. 

‘Fuck, I’m so sorry Doll. I didn’t mean to. I was just holding it and then when I - it just ripped. I’m so sorry, here. Take my jacket back to the changing room.’ You pursed your lips, trying to refrain from showing your anger, knowing the tips would be better if you could make it back to the dressing rooms before the curses started spilling from your lips. He held out a smooth brown leather jacket and you murmured a thanks as you slipped it on, barely registering the obscene amount of money he slipped into your hand before you turned on your heel, disappearing down the corridor, and edgy feeling creeping its way inside you. 

+

Steve didn’t need to return to the club the next night to know he had messed up. There was a clear no touching policy and he had not only done that but he’d ruined your suit and your trust. He had seen it in the way you had barely smiled as he gave your jacket and then later how you had given it to one of the other girls to give back to him.

By the time he had realised you weren’t coming out for your floor shift, you had already left and when he finally got to your apartment, he was disappointed to see your blinds drawn shut. He had taken his frustrations out on a nearby trash can, cursing himself for losing your trust. You were the one thing in this fucked up world that made him actually feel something and just like with Thanos, he had fucked up and just like with Sam and Bucky, he had lost you too. 

But he hadn’t… not really. You were still here, you could still be his. He just might have to change his approach a little. It could still work. 

The next night Steve waited anxiously on the plush leather couch, admiring the velvet walls as the minutes ticked by. It hadn’t been long enough that he was worried you weren’t going to show, but he was impatient. He wanted, no, needed to see you again, to feel you rub against him as you drew him to his orgasm. Despite the terrible way the night had ended, the orgasm you had brought out had felt so good, it had been his best ever and he had cursed himself for those few seconds before he realised what had happened for not requesting a dance earlier. 

When he had first discovered your apartment and your tendency to leave your blinds open he had thought that would be enough, that sitting up on that cold and lonely roof with his fist wrapped around his cock would be enough. But it wasn’t, and now, he had a taste for more. 

He heard the click of heels through the thick mahogany door and anxiously wiped his hands along his thighs as the wood was pushed open, revealing your silhouette on the other side. He watched as you walked towards the stage, the door closing behind you, stopping just before you got to the platform. 

‘Why did you book the Lounge?’ In the silence of the room, your whisper sounded like a scream. 

‘I wanted to apologise, plus, I need to see you again. And I figured this way, we could talk.’ You scoffed at his words.

‘Talk?’ You mocked, laughing as you spoke. ‘You men never want to just talk. I thought… I don’t know what I thought but I know that I’m sick of it. So now you have two options, you can either leave or I can call security and have you escorted out. It’s your choice.’ 

Steve felt his mouth go dry, he couldn’t lose you, he wouldn’t allow it. ‘Doll please… you don’t want to do that. Please don’t do that to me.’ You ignored his warning, reeking of his desperation, but before you could open your mouth to scream, he had lunged from the couch, his arms wrapping around you, one securing your back to his chest, the other clamped over your mouth. 

‘I told you not to do that Doll.’ You writhed in his arms trying to twist away from him to no avail. The small groan that escaped his lips disgusted you as he sat down on the stage, pulling your hips against his. ‘Be a good girl for me, please Doll. You have no idea how much I need this.’ Your scathing response was made unintelligible by his hand as his other dipped into the sparkling blue skirt you had on, pushing the matching panties to the side as he swiped a finger along your slit. 

His breathing was heavy in your ear as his fingers swirled around your lips, gathering the slick that was beginning to pool. ‘See Doll, you want this too. I know you do. Fuck, I’ve seen it with my own eyes how you would dance just for me, even in that crowd of men.’ Your muffled protests turned into hesitant moans as he entered you with two fingers, his thumb pressing down on your clit. ‘That’s it, that’s a good girl. Just sit back and enjoy it, doesn’t it feel good?’

Your hands clutched at his thighs, your head resting on his shoulder as you gave in, your hips twisting against his hand, riding it on their own accord. His fingers scissored inside of you, curling themselves against your walls as his thumb rubbed your pearl frantically. You didn’t miss the growing bulge beneath you but you could barely form a coherent thought as he pulled you to the edge. 

‘That’s it Doll. Just let go for me, I know you’re close.’ You hadn’t realised when his hand had drifted down from your mouth to rest on your throat, but the gentle restriction had you seeing stars, screaming silently as you convulsed in his arms, letting go for him. 

You watched in silent horror as he lifted his hand from your mini-skirt and raised it to his lips, moaning around the thick digits. ‘You taste better than I ever could have imagined, I can’t wait to feel you.’ You shuddered against his thick chest and gasped as he flipped you around, your chest pressing against the cold hard wood of the stage. 

You yipped as he pulled down the skirt and panties, exposing your heated centre to the cool air, a moan coming from him along with the clink of a belt buckle. You tried to worm your way out of his arms even though you knew it was worthless trying, he was far stronger than you. 

Your eyes squeezed shut as you felt him, sliding along the slick that he had caused, coating himself in it before coming to your entrance and pausing for a brief moment. You barely dared to hope that he would pull away and yet when you felt him slowly sinking into your heat, you couldn't help but feel embarrassed. Of course he would just do what he wants. 

‘Oh god… Doll… Fuck.’ You felt the stretch of your walls as he eased in, pain shooting through you from just how big he was. You lay helpless on the stage’s edge as he began pushing in and out of your cunt, groaning obscenities as he did so. One of his hands dipped down, between you and the stage to swipe over your pearl teasingly. 

‘That’s it baby, you feel so fucking good, taking my cock so well.’ Your heavy breaths filled the air as you tried, and failed, to maintain your composure. Sweat was coating your skin as he thrusted, your knees rubbing themselves raw against the plush carpet. The familiar tightening ricocheted through your body you came close, your toes curling in apprehension, only to uncurl moments later when he pulled you from the stage, flipping you over and pushing your legs up, above your head. 

The carpet was rough against your bare back but the new angle was worth the pain, being able to feel him fill you so completely was worth it. His full lips covered yours, his tongue meeting yours halfway as moans tumbled from your mouth into his and vice versa. 

His hips were unforgiving as they pounded into you, filling you to the brim and hitting that special spot with every thrust. It wasn’t long before he brought you back to the edge, clearly reading the desperation for release written all over your body. 

‘Cum for me baby, cum on my cock.’ Your responding scream was lost into his hand, clasping over your mouth once more as your walls fluttered, clenching around him. His hips stuttered, his thighs tensed and he thrusted as deeply as he could as he came inside you, hot white ribbons coating your walls and groans filling the room. 

He rode out his orgasm, the obscene sounds emanating from your pussy echoing through the room as your breaths mingled with one another as they slowly calmed down. 

You lay, staring up at the man above you, his cap probably having fallen off during your struggle, and you finally recognised him. His beard was full and thick and his hair was much longer than you were used to seeing it but the amount of times your History classes at school had been forced to study him, you would never forget his face. 

The recognition must have been clear in your face as he hastily pulled out, his cum seeping down your thighs as he pulled his pants back up, handing you your skirt. 

‘St-Steve?’ You couldn’t even be sure the words had left your lips but the way he tensed at the sound told you they had. 

‘C’mon Doll, let’s have the conversation somewhere private.’ 

‘We are somewhere private.’ You argued with the man standing before you, the red light casting a strange aura around him. 

‘Yeah, but I’m nowhere near done with you.’ His hand was held out before you and you knew he wasn’t giving you much of a choice so you nodded, taking his hand and letting him lead you from ‘the lounge’, pausing to pass you his jacket as you approached the door of the club. 

The air outside was cold, unforgiving, as he led you outside, the harsh neon red light of the club slowly being swallowed by the dark night as you walked, hand in hand. To where, you weren’t sure, but you knew it would be wherever Steve needed you to be. 

+

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My Masterlist

[woahitslucyylu]

NSFW Alphabet - Miguel Galindo.

GIF is not mine, credit to OG creator. 

Cartel Daddy is here. Enjoy it, homies! 

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NSFW Alphabett

A = Aftercare (What they’re like after sex)

Miguel drips charm and he pours it all over you. After sex, especially a rough session, Miguel will slide you into a waiting bubble bath and hold you close as your high fades. He will rub your muscles with expert pressure and tell you Mexican fairy tales as you soak into oblivion. Miguel realizes that you sacrifice a lot to be with him, and when he has the opportunity to pamper you himself, he does. 

B = Body part (Their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

Miguel loves his face - it is his brand. His rigid jaw line, salt and pepper beard, his blinding white teeth - he is an Adonis and he knows it. Appearance is very important to Miguel, but bed-head Miguel is one of your favorite sights. His loose waves, soft eyes, and lazy smile make you melt every time. 

He loves your hips - the feminine curve of your body keeps his hands itching to hold you. His favorite sight is your shadow, outlined by the moonlight, in front of the floor to ceiling windows that wrap your bedroom. He loves to hold them as you ride him - bruising your soft skin as he pulls you down on him. 

C = Cum (anything to do with cum)

Miguel prefers to come in you - less mess and it feels so much better, but when Cartel Daddy is feeling freaky, he will come on your chest or in your mouth. Watching you willingly open your mouth for him to finish is one of his favorite sites. 

D = Dirty Secret (Pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

Miguel’s phone could set the world on fire with a few text messages, but buried in his pictures are whole albums of you - snapshots from adventures together, candids, and stolen moments while you were sleeping. Miguel may spend days away from you, but the pictures keep you close. 

E = Experience (How experienced are they? Do they know what they’re doing?)

Miguel’s entire life motto is quality over quantity and he feels the same way about his women. He’s had a few casual flings - everybody does in college, but as an adult, Miguel is selective - almost picky. He has to be. His world is illusive and everyone doesn’t get an invitation to the party. 

F = Favorite Position (This goes without saying)

Miguel is a dichotomy - both worlds blended into the most perfect Daddy, so it only makes sense that he prefers you in various ways. He lives for lazy Sunday mornings, when spooning turns into lazy love making with sloppy kisses and soft touches. He also lives for your body arched in front of him - his hand around your neck as he fucks you into the mattress - your moans barely audible over the harsh spanks and Spanish dirty talk. 

“Querida, I said don’t move,” His hand lands hard against your soft hips as he pulls your wrists together. “Take it.” He pulls your ass up - your body bending under his passionate assault. His gaze falls to the most intimate connection as he slides in and out of your warm heat - himself coated in your cream as you come undone. 

G = Goofy (Are they more serious in the moment, or are they humorous, etc)

Your Miguel’s safe haven and with you, he finds peace and the freedom to loosen the proverbial tie. While he isn’t performing a comedy routine by any means, he does enjoy the lightheartedness of being with you. His smiles cost you nothing but orgasms and soft, sweet kisses. 

The morning light stretches across the room - cover the bed with puddles of sunshine as you roll your body into his. “Wake up, sleepy head.” Your whisper is soft in his ear as your hand slides down his chiseled abdomen - nails raking across his skin. “Mi amor.” His voice dipped in playfulness as he rolls to face you - pulling you close. His hands cup your face with such gentleness as he smiles lazily - his soft brown eyes gazing at you. 

H = Hair (How well groomed are they, does the carpet match the drapes, etc.)

Cartel Daddy is immaculate and below the belt is not any different. He is groomed, trimmed, and smells like money. 

I = Intimacy (How are they during the moment, romantic aspect…)

Miguel’s relationships, at best, graze the surface level of who he truly is. With you, he exposes himself and pours into you - all the secrets on the table, all the ugly and hard truths, because without an honest foundation, Miguel knows it cannot work. He may spend hours or days away, but he will send the sweetest text messages - paragraphs of love letters written to su reina as he manages both worlds. 

J = Jack/Jill Off (Masturbation headcanon)

Meh - in all the years you’ve been together, Miguel rarely fails to make it home, so jacking off isn’t something he thinks about or even engages in as an adult. 

K = Kink (One or more of their kinks)

Daddy. 

Power. 

Money. 

Success. 

Miguel is powerful. He loves to feel that allllll the time. He has innate drive to win, to be the best, and if he has to be cunning and cutthroat while doing it, so be it. He gets off on the submission that you willingly give him. When you tip-toe into his office, dressed in your silk robe, and slide onto his lap and beg for his attention, he melts. When he’s knuckle deep inside you, with his hand wrapped around your throat and you whine for more from Daddy, that’s his favorite moment. 

L = Location (Favorite places to do the do)

Money buys freedom and you learned very quickly that when Miguel wants you, he will take you. Dressing rooms, darkened hallways, in the tinted SUV - Miguel isn’t burdened by rules. He makes his own. 

You slide into the waiting SUV as Miguel gave orders to Nestor. You were panting and he hadn’t even touched you. The distance, the longing, the attraction - it was overwhelming. You felt drunk. You smiled as you watched him - he was strong, dark, and intoxicating. As the car door opened, a partition slid between the front and back seats. 

“Ready?” Miguel slid into the leather seat as Nestor started the SUV. You slid into his lap and pressed your lips against his, rolling your hips into his. His hands roamed your body, tracing your curves and tender spots. His hands pushed your dress up letting it gather at your hips as you unbuttoned his shirt - sliding your hands down his chest. He felt your wetness as you rocked back and forth on his lap. You moaned in the pleasure of his hardness pressing against your most tender place. 

“Carina, I have missed you.” Miguel’s voice was dipped in lust as he continued to whisper in your ear. “I want to fill you up. I want you to scream my name. I want to remind you that you’re mine.” His hand slid against your slit as you rocked back and forth, panting for release. “Daddy, please.” You pushed against his hand as you begged him. Miguel’s smile was deadly as he slid two fingers into your warmth - circling your most tender spot. “Who’s is this?” His hand found your neck as he pulled you close. You rocked back and forth as you worked yourself out on his hand, whimpering with each new movement. “I love watching you fuck yourself. Come for Daddy.” His lips nipped and sucked beneath your ear as you bounced your hips against his rigid hand. 

The car slowed as you collapsed against him - a sweaty mess. 

M = Motivation (What turns them on, gets them going)

Winning gets Miguel off and winning is a broad term. You coming three times before he does? Winning. He tricks the US government? Winning. He moves more heroin than El Chapo? Winning. He is naturally driven to compete and win and with each new success, he is motivated for more. 

N = NO (Something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

Miguel didn’t share as a child and he most certainly doesn’t share now - especially you. He wouldn’t entertain a threesome or anything that would compromise your relationship. 

O = Oral (Preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc)

When you’re a brat, when you’re sassy, when you parade around the house in boy shorts and a tight shirt, his only solution is making you gag on his dick as he fucks your face. Saliva dripping down your chest as you choke to breath with his hand threaded through your hair, pulling your head up and down as he chases his own pleasure. 

“Mami, why can’t you just listen?” He urges as he comes in your throat. 

Yet, it is better to give than receive and Cartel Daddy will eat you like his last meal. Your favorite sight is the world’s most powerful cartel boss on his knees as he licks and sucks your most intimate place. When your knees close around him OR you grind harder on his face, he feels like he’s winning and you’re the ultimate prize. 

P = Pace (Are they fats and rough? Slow and sensual? etc.)

Whatever the mood calls for, Miguel will deliver. He prefers sensual and rough - bruises left from his rough grip, your body dotted with marks. 

Q = Quickie (Their opinions on quickies rather than proper sex, how often, etc.)

While Miguel loves you and loves being inside of you, if the time isn’t right, the time isn’t right. He may enjoy a quick session in the morning or even on a car ride home, but he isn’t intentionally seeking you out during the day for a quickie. It doesn’t mean anything, except that he’s busy af. 

R = Risk (Are they game to experiment, do they take risks, etc.)

While Miguel would never be discovered, Nestor and his security team ensure that - the thought alone thrills you and him. Whether it be in a fancy bathroom at the country club or in the SUV or even at your own home, the risk is an aphrodisiac. Being pressed up against your floor to ceiling windows with Miguel behind you reminding you that his men are just right around the corner has you dripping down your leg as he bunches your skirt and slides right in. 

S = Stamina (How many rounds can they go for, how long do they last…)

Again, quality over quantity - Miguel may only go for one or two rounds, but you’ll come more than you can count. 

T = Toy (Do they own toys? Do they use them? On a partner or themselves?)

Toys give him power and he is more than willing to punish you with a crop or his hand and torture you with a vibrator pressed against your clit as he pushes in you over and over again. Sensory deprivation is big for Miguel. He will bind your hands, cover your eyes - all in the name of pleasure as he works your body expertly. 

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

Like a classic Daddy, Miguel will tease you until your eyes are heavy with lust and you’re begging for it. 

“What do you want, princesa?” Miguel hovers above you - his hardened tip barely touching your warm center. “Is it this?” He pushes in - the stretch taking your breath away as he stays still - your walls clenching as he watches you grind against him, bringing your hips to his. “Harder, Daddy. Please.” Your legs wrap around him as he fulfills your request. 

V = Volume (How loud they are, what sounds they make)

He isn’t screaming, but he isn’t quiet. You live for his moans and breathless curses, and earning them comes with a cost that you will gladly pay for. Miguel’s dirty talk is about control and desire. 

“This pussy is mine.” His hand slides around your throat, tilting your chin as he fucks into you. “Who owns this?” The slap is harsh against your thigh. “Your’s, Daddy.” You whimper as his fingers press against your clit - your body releasing at his will. 

W = Wild Card (Get a random headcanon for the character of your choice)

Money is Miguel’s tool and he has no problem spending it on you. Weekends on yachts, helicopter rides to wine tastings, rented out restaurants and movie theatres - he will drop bags to make you feel valued and treasured. 

X = X-Ray (Let’s see what’s going on in those pants)

Average length, thick, a slight curve. 

Y = Yearning (How high is their sex drive?)

More than anything, Miguel craves you and that is not limited to sex. You’re his peace. You ground him when both worlds get too heavy and you help him see the bigger picture. While he always wants to fuck your brains out, he also thrives on quiet nights at home, you wrapped in his arms as the TV casts a soft light in the living room - letting him be normal, even if it is just a few hours. 

Z = ZZZ (… how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

Cartel Daddy gets tired. When you’re both basking in afterglow, his eyes will flutter and he will be asleep ridiculously quick. 

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

keep her in your pocket

For @roses-and-absinthe​ as requested.

Warnings: noncon/dubcon elements (intercourse, slavery)

This is dark!Steve Rogers and dark!Bucky Barnes x nonhuman!Reader and explicit. 18+ only.

Summary: Reader is a nonhuman brought to earth by traffickers and auctioned off to the dystopian community of men seeking to augment biological issues of infertility.

Note: Okay, so I finished this one shot on a whim because I wrote the first half a while back but it’s my first fic about a nonhuman reader so hopefully you enjoy it. Leave some feedback, like and reblog if you can <3

This was not a good sign. After so long in the cells, you knew your release was not truly freedom. The ship had stilled, the hum of the motors no longer droned in your head, the air was stifling. The captain and his greasy raiders walked the line of bars and unlocked each door one by one. Whispers; nervous, fearful, naively excited, filled the air. 

You crossed your arms and kept to the back of your cell. You had lost count of the time long ago. You barely bothered at all to think of it. What were you waiting for but your next jailer? You knew the insignia better than most. You had been warned most of your life to avoid it. Traders of the flesh.

You were foolish. You knew that now. You blamed yourself, not those immoral hoarders of coin. You should never have believed the blue-skinned harlot. You should’ve listened to your mother’s voice in the back of your head. No point in dwelling on it now.

When your door clicked and fell open, you stared at the man with the long face. Several other raiders waited outside, prisoners cuffed to a single chain led by the one with the eye patch. You were yanked out of the cell and your hands cuffed along with the others. You kept your chin up as you followed the train of merchandise.

The raiders kept pace with the prisoners, hands on weapons in case of resistance. It was laughable. You were half-starved and sleep-deprived. You hadn’t seen natural light in so long that the glowing tubes along the walls gave you a headache. You squinted and huffed. You shuffled along with the rest, the raiders’ voices shushing those who dared to speak.

The hull of the ship opened and you were led down the steep stairs into the unnatural sunlight. It was much harsher than that of your planet. Hot and unyielding. Waves of smokey heat rose from the ground and geometric buildings loomed over you like giants. There windows were black but glared down as they reflected the searing yellow rays from above.

The sun seared your bare arms as you emerged. Your tattered dress dragged around your sandals and the chain clinked in time with your steps. A crowd watched the motley line of prisoners as you were led to a platform. 

Several men in black stood at the head of the horde; the elite. Those who could afford such wares. The rest were the commoners who delighted in the suffering of those few lower than them. You noticed that most of them were male, or at least, looked to be. 

They looked like your people but less colourful. Their skin ranged the spectrum of beiges, tans, and browns. Your own people were more rosy; from the whitest pinks to the deepest reds. Your own skin was an eastern hue, a warm magenta resilient to the heat.

You were stopped at the end of the platform and the captain began his spiel. At the last auction, you had been spared a bid. There had been twice as many prisoners then. You kept your eyes above the crowd as you listened. The woman beside you wept; her odd antennae drooped along her forehead.

They began at the other end of the line. You dug your toe into the stage as you waited. You grasped your skirts and prayed that you were unclaimed once more. The cells were miserable but a familiar suffering was preferable to the unknown.

So far, none had been purchased as they stepped forward. The captain’s voice betrayed his irritation as he got to the middle of the queue. The men in their black suits shook their heads and looked at each other. The squat yellow woman retreated and the next stepped forward. 

You dared to look at the group of bidders. They muttered to each other, their disappointment obvious. Another glance behind them and you frowned. Why were there so few women here? Your chest twisted as the cuff tugged at your wrist. The antennaed woman stepped forward, her six-fingered hands clasped together.

Your jaw tensed as the men shrugged. They weren’t interested. Perhaps you were just as pathetic as you felt. You gulped and looked into the crowd. Your eyes were caught by a pair of blue ones and you flinched. The man squinted above his dark beard and you glanced at the next. He tilted his head and ran his hand over his golden hair. He elbowed the other and they turned and whispered to each other.

The woman beside you stepped back and the raider at your other shoulder shoved you forward. You stumbled and clung to the chain as you righted yourself. The captain hadn’t even posed the first bid before a hand rose. You blinked. The man with the golden hair signaled his interest with two fingers in the air. 

The captain offered a second bid and the man with the dark beard flicked his fingers. Your heart hammered as you peeked over at the other women. They stared at their feet. The captain continued the battle; each man countered the other in turn. They nodded as the price grew steeper and steeper.

The man with the beard raised a single finger to signal a pause. He leaned over to the man with the golden hair and they spoke again. The other men watched indifferently. Their own interest was lost as they had found no wares worth their money. The man with the beard smirked and waved to the captain. He called out double his last bid. The other looked just as content and did not offer a counter.

“Sold!”

🌆

Your cuffs were unhooked from the chain but you remained bound. You were led from the platform and away from hordes who watched. The rest were dragged back to the ship. You didn’t know whether to pity or envy them as your fate dangled before you. You were aware of the purpose for your purchase but it did not assure you.

You were led into the tallest of the hideous building. So lifeless and blinding. You were numb to the rush around you; the people dispersing as the entertainment had proven less than fulfilling. Your sandals clapped against the marble loudly and you entered a sterile elevator with your handlers; plain grey suits, polished shoes, vacant expressions.

Finally, a room among the highest floors, built of the same frigid metal. Attached was a shower with heads along the wall. You were undressed without a word and you allowed it. You were preparing for a life of it; however short or long that would be. Of an unloving hand; a utilitarian touch; guided by lust, by greed. The steam was the only warmth hidden in the icy tower.

When you emerged in the thin towel they allowed you, another man awaited you. A white jacket over his suit as the others waited wordlessly behind him. He was the first to look directly at you. The first to speak.

“I would have you lay down, though if it does prove problematic, these men can assist you.” It was a threat veiled as a request. 

You shook your head and went to the cushioned chaise before him. It was stiff leather and entirely uncomfortable. You clung to the towel around you and the man moved your legs. He planted your feet on the bench so that they were bent fully. He examined you, his hands on your thighs. 

Then he stood and pulled a device from his pocket. He hovered it over you from head to toe. He looked at the square screen on its face and nodded. “Viable.” He stated. You watched him retreat to the door. He turned to the other men. “Continue on.”

You were offered a plain white dress. It was pale against your lustrous skin, still glowing from the hot water. You didn’t shy before the men. This wasn’t a place for modesty; for shame. Those had been stolen from you alongside your freedom.

You were taken from the room without delay. This planet, this building, it was all forged in efficiency. You were but another cog in the machine. You didn’t need them to speak to you to know that. It was plain in the barren walls and the imbalanced crowds. The lack of females betrayed a fertility crisis. The manner of its men spoke of desperation. And your presence was an attempt at a solution.

The next room was bigger, hospitable even. There was a large round bed against the far wall, draped in black silk. A red chaise just a few feet from it, a couple armchairs positioned around a low glass table, a carpet of plush rose. Comically romantic given the situation; a poorly simulated eroticism. You looked around and exhaled.

There were two other doors; one to the left and one to the right. The one upon your left opened almost as soon as the one behind you closed. You watched the familiar man enter. His blue eyes sparkled above his dark beard. He was not alone. The man with the golden hair followed him. The latter surprised you given he had ceded to the former.

“Gorgeous, isn’t she?” The first one said as he strode around you. The other closed the door and remained not far from it. “I’ve never seen skin like that.”

“And what did the doctor say?” The other asked.

“Healthy. Viable.” The dark-haired man replied as he rounded you. “Promising.”

“He didn’t say so much to me,” You interjected.

The man with the beard stopped before you and neared until there was barely inches between you. “And she can understand us.”

“Unfortunately.” You countered and he smirked.

“Amusing,” He remarked. “But while I might have paid in part for the use of your mouth, I didn’t pay for defiance.”

You glared up at him and clamped your lips shut to keep from another retort. Remember the ship, the cell; what your sharp words had earned you there. It could be worse here. You weren’t eager to find out.

“As your new masters, we do expect a degree of co-operation though we will not shy away from enforcing our will.” He said as his lips curved slightly. “You can call us “sir”, though my friend here is a captain, he might prefer that.”

You stared at him. His blue eyes did not waver. “Sir.” You uttered through your tight throat.

“Very good,” His lips curved entirely and he backed away from you. “There’s little pretense to be had here. I doubt I need to explain to you what we intend.”

You looked between them. The golden-haired man, the captain, watched quietly with arms crossed. You shook your head.

“We made a deal of our own, if you’re curious,” The bearded-man continued. “We figured, since we share almost everything else, we might share you. To ensure our investment was not in vain.”

“Bucky, stop playing with her,” The other man spoke up at last. “Christ, I’m fucking… you know it’s been a while.”

“As long as it’s been for me, Steve.” The dark-haired one, Bucky, replied. “A couple minutes will barely make a difference.”

The captain, known as Steve, sighed. Bucky stepped around you and came up behind you. He bent and grabbed the hem of your dress. He lifted it past your knees, your pelvis, your torso, and you raised your arms stiffly as he freed you from the cotton entirely. You stood before them naked and stared at the wall.

“I might have the first go,” Bucky slapped your ass and you winced. “Seeing as I paid.”

“Half. As I did.” Steve asserted. “But go on. As you said, a couple minutes, maybe seconds with you, won’t make a difference.”

Bucky scoffed as he pressed himself to your back. His hands glided along your hips and sides and he cupped your tits. He purred into your hair from behind. “On the bed. And get that ass up.”

You gritted your teeth and stepped towards the bed if only to escape his touch. You knew it wouldn’t be a lengthy reprieve as you edge around the chaise and neared the end of the bed. You climbed up on the round mattress and a groan rose from behind you. 

You looked at Steve from the corner of your eye as he remained by the door. He watched you intently. You heard movement behind you. You closed your eyes and hung your head as you leaned forward on your hands. 

“That’s it.” Bucky coaxed as you listened to the rustle of fabric. 

The subtle clink of metal and leather as he unbuckled his belt. You tensed and sank your fingers into the silken sheets. Then his footsteps brushed over the soft rug and you braced yourself. The air was cool on your skin and goosebumps rose as the mattress dipped behind you. 

You flinched as the large, warm hands closed around your ankles and brushed upward; over your calves and thighs, along your ass as he kneaded it. Your nostrils flared as he moved between your legs and pressed himself to you. You felt a prod alongside his hands. You silently cursed as your body responded against your will.

His fingers slipped down as his other hand gripped your hip. He felt between your folds and found your clit nestled there. He rubbed you until you twitched. He chuckled and brought his fingers back to your entrance. You were embarrassed as he spread your arousal. He shoved a finger inside and you gasped.

He pulled in and out several times. You unintentionally squeezed his hand between your thighs as he let it slip down. He grasped himself and pressed his tip against you. He pushed inside just a little and you tried to move away. He kept you in place as his grip tightened on your hip. He forced you back and sank deeper.

He bent over you with one hand beside yours on the mattress. His beard tickled your cheek as he plunged to his limit. You bit your lip and grunted. 

“Keep fighting it and it will get worse.” He warned. You turned your face away from him and he let go of your hip to grab your chin instead. He forced your head back as he thrust into you. “It’s alright. You don’t have to like it, your body will do the work, huh? You don’t have to want the life but it will grow if you like it or not.”

You closed your eyes as he forced a finger into your mouth. He rutted against you with heady breaths. You sensed movement alongside the bed but you couldn’t look. The shadow loomed on the other side of your eyelids. Bucky sped up and you grasped at the silk.

“Mmmm,” He hummed as he drew his finger from your mouth. 

He slipped his hand around to the back of your neck and shoved your head down to the mattress. You whimpered as he pounded into you harder and harder. His pelvis clapped loudly against you and sent a pang up your spine. His grunts filled your head and made your blood boil.

You felt another hand; soft and warm, around yours as it clawed at the silk sheets. You opened your eyes and found the other man, Steve, knelt at the side of the bed. He watched you calmly as your body was jolted into the mattress. He seemed entirely unbothered by his companion’s presence behind you.

It was harder to breathe. Your walls could not resist the natural friction, the instinctual ripple as it thrummed within you. Your eyes rolled back as you bit down on the moan that threatened as you came. Steve slipped his fingers past yours and you squeezed his hand. You reached back with your other to bat away the one that held you down. 

Bucky caught your arm and twisted around behind you. You yelped and it only seemed to encourage him. He plunged into you over and over. His grunts grew louder and longer. He slammed into you so hard your legs collapsed beneath you and he hammered you into the bed.

Steve’s hand remained on yours as Bucky came inside you. The slick warmth was repulsive as it filled you. His hand slipped from your neck as he released your arm and you turned to hide your face in the mattress. He eased himself to a halt and lingered inside of you as he sighed loudly.

“She’s tight.” He slapped your ass as he pulled out. “If not a little resistant.” The bed jostled beneath him as he backed off of it. “Your little nice act isn’t gonna work with her.”

Steve’s hand left yours and you felt a tickle along your scalp. You were frightened by the whisper in your ear. “Hey, catch your breath.” His fingers crawled down your neck and along your shoulders. “Then, turn over. I’d like to see that pretty face.”

His touch sent a shiver through you. You brought your hands up to cover your face. The trickle between your legs sickened you. You took a few deep breaths and nodded to yourself. There was no way out; you’d accepted that back on the ship in your dingy cell. You knew how it would be but it didn’t make it any easier. Better it was over with.

You pushed yourself over onto your back and Steve’s hand brushed over your chest as you did. He was barely bothered by the accident as he watched you. He touched your cheek and traced the line of your jaw and then your lips. He smiled and slowly drew away.

He stood and began to undress. He glanced across the room and you followed his gaze. Bucky sat on the chaise, knees apart, his cock soft but twitching as he looked back at you. You tore your eyes away and focused on the ceiling. The rush of fabric piling on the floor was the only sound besides your breath and the incessant beating of your heart.

The mattress shifted and you felt warm flesh against yours as Steve pressed himself to your side. He cradled your cheek and kissed you but you turned away. “Come on.” He purred. “It doesn’t have to be like that.”

“It is like that.” You insisted.

He said nothing else and laid a trail of kisses along your cheek and down your neck as he leaned into you. He smelled like sweat and the smoke of the foreign city. He cupped your breast and kissed the top of it, nibbled along the skin, and swirled his finger around your nipple. It was a false sort of affection but it stirred something within you.

And then he lifted himself over you. His warmth enshrined you. His hand explored you blindly as he kept his face nestled in your chest. You were still tender as he dragged his fingers along your pelvis and you fought to keep still. He pushed his knees between yours and slowly nudged your legs apart.

He was gentler but still insistent. His fingers dipped between your folds and he toyed with your clit as you squirmed. He let two fingers slip inside and he lifted his head to watch your face crinkle. You pushed on his shoulders as he smeared your cum and Bucky’s along your thigh.

He took himself in his hand and you felt him against you. You tried to wriggle away from him but it only caused you to brush against his tip. He rubbed it up and down your cunt and angled himself inside. You held your breath as he filled you. Though he slid in easier than Bucky you still found yourself strained by his size. You bared your teeth and dug your nails into his shoulders.

He moved slowly at first. He didn’t look away as he rocked his hips against you. He reached to grab your leg and bent it against him. The artificial intimacy was worse than the act itself. You found it hard to resist his make-belief as your flesh responded without thought. You gulped at the air and turned your face away from him.

He let go of your leg but it hooked around his as it slipped down. He took your chin and turned your head straight. He pressed his nose to yours as he breathed in tandem with you and the motion of his body. Your eyes widened as you felt the climax building slowly. He smiled and hummed.

“I wanna see it,” He whispered. “I wanna see you cum.”

You hissed and slapped your hands against him helplessly. You couldn’t stymie the rise or the sudden peak and it escaped your lips in a squeak. Your back arched as you pressed yourself to him and your lashes fluttered in sheer ecstasy. He kissed you again and this time you couldn’t turn away.

His body melded to yours as he moved against you. His rhythm almost lulled you as the bed rocked in time. Your vision blurred and at last his hand fell from your chin. You closed your eyes as he panted in your ear and you felt the tension within him. A sudden release and he growled like a wild animal into your neck. His heat seeped into you and he stilled atop you.

He stayed like that as his breath petered out. He brushed his fingers along your temple and kissed your cheek softly. He jerked into you harshly as you heard a slap and he lifted his head to look at the shadow that loomed behind him. Bucky smirked and threatened another slap with a raised hand.

“Come on, lover boy,” He gloated as he dropped his hand to his cock. “Sentiment isn’t gonna knock her up.”

[a-god-in-ruins-rises]

1 I sing the body electric, The armies of those I love engirth me and I engirth them, They will not let me off till I go with them, respond to them, And discorrupt them, and charge them full with the charge of the soul.

Was it doubted that those who corrupt their own bodies conceal themselves? And if those who defile the living are as bad as they who defile the dead? And if the body does not do fully as much as the soul? And if the body were not the soul, what is the soul?

2 The love of the body of man or woman balks account, the body itself balks account, That of the male is perfect, and that of the female is perfect.

The expression of the face balks account, But the expression of a well-made man appears not only in his face, It is in his limbs and joints also, it is curiously in the joints of his hips and wrists, It is in his walk, the carriage of his neck, the flex of his waist and knees, dress does not hide him, The strong sweet quality he has strikes through the cotton and broadcloth, To see him pass conveys as much as the best poem, perhaps more, You linger to see his back, and the back of his neck and shoulder-side.

The sprawl and fulness of babes, the bosoms and heads of women, the folds of their dress, their style as we pass in the street, the contour of their shape downwards, The swimmer naked in the swimming-bath, seen as he swims through the transparent green-shine, or lies with his face up and rolls silently to and fro in the heave of the water, The bending forward and backward of rowers in row-boats, the horseman in his saddle, Girls, mothers, house-keepers, in all their performances, The group of laborers seated at noon-time with their open dinner-kettles, and their wives waiting, The female soothing a child, the farmer’s daughter in the garden or cow-yard, The young fellow hoeing corn, the sleigh-driver driving his six horses through the crowd, The wrestle of wrestlers, two apprentice-boys, quite grown, lusty, good-natured, native-born, out on the vacant lot at sun-down after work, The coats and caps thrown down, the embrace of love and resistance, The upper-hold and under-hold, the hair rumpled over and blinding the eyes; The march of firemen in their own costumes, the play of masculine muscle through clean-setting trowsers and waist-straps, The slow return from the fire, the pause when the bell strikes suddenly again, and the listening on the alert, The natural, perfect, varied attitudes, the bent head, the curv’d neck and the counting; Such-like I love—I loosen myself, pass freely, am at the mother’s breast with the little child, Swim with the swimmers, wrestle with wrestlers, march in line with the firemen, and pause, listen, count.

3 I knew a man, a common farmer, the father of five sons, And in them the fathers of sons, and in them the fathers of sons.

This man was of wonderful vigor, calmness, beauty of person, The shape of his head, the pale yellow and white of his hair and beard, the immeasurable meaning of his black eyes, the richness and breadth of his manners, These I used to go and visit him to see, he was wise also, He was six feet tall, he was over eighty years old, his sons were massive, clean, bearded, tan-faced, handsome, They and his daughters loved him, all who saw him loved him, They did not love him by allowance, they loved him with personal love, He drank water only, the blood show’d like scarlet through the clear-brown skin of his face, He was a frequent gunner and fisher, he sail’d his boat himself, he had a fine one presented to him by a ship-joiner, he had fowling-pieces presented to him by men that loved him, When he went with his five sons and many grand-sons to hunt or fish, you would pick him out as the most beautiful and vigorous of the gang, You would wish long and long to be with him, you would wish to sit by him in the boat that you and he might touch each other.

4 I have perceiv’d that to be with those I like is enough, To stop in company with the rest at evening is enough, To be surrounded by beautiful, curious, breathing, laughing flesh is enough, To pass among them or touch any one, or rest my arm ever so lightly round his or her neck for a moment, what is this then? I do not ask any more delight, I swim in it as in a sea.

There is something in staying close to men and women and looking on them, and in the contact and odor of them, that pleases the soul well, All things please the soul, but these please the soul well.

[jengajives]

Did a collection of defining moments for my Tolkien OCs a while ago and finally decided to post it. Got eight or nine different characters here depending on how you count.

When Agzil gasped, it brought nothing but a cold ash into his lungs. His limbs trembled. Even on all fours, they nearly didn’t have the strength to support him. An elbow buckled and he fell to a forearm instead, forehead hitting the dusty ground, flooding his eyes, nose, and mouth, with the same thick, grey soot that covered everything here. “You talk back again, maggot, and the Lieutenant won’t be so friendly!” The orc captain had a strong Lugburz accent. She was from here- the land of endless burning and choking and death. Made Agzil’s head spin. He obviously had done something wrong in his non-reaction, though, because the whip cracked across his back again with a blinding white-hot agony that dropped him flat to the earth. “Enough!” he heard Mirci crying, so distant he almost didn’t comprehend the words. “You’ve taught him your lesson, now leave him!” “You keep out of this, tinkerer!” Agzil breathed a lungful of soot so foul it made his lungs spasm. He coughed into the ground, and slowly raised himself to his forearms again. He could go no further. “You keep sticking out your neck for Gundabad trash, one day it’s going to get sliced!” the captain roared in the background. “Master may like your big metal beasts, but they done us no good! Done disrupted our ranks, made us look like fools- don’t you know we’re at war?!” When a voice spoke out from behind them all, somehow Agzil instantly knew it was not the voice of an orc. The Dark Master had Men in his armies, too, but as far as Agzil knew, Men didn’t speak the Black Tongue, and this newcomer used it with a natural and melodic lilt. Agzil wished he knew Black Speech. The captain barked something back in the same tongue, then Mirci spoke up in Common. “It wasn’t his fault, sir. It was my machine what went wild. Drive gears broke and the whole thing-“ She stopped abruptly. Agzil imagined this newcomer raising a hand in the way he’d never known a real general to do, and the fear that shot through him was icy and cold at the idea that this might be the Lieutenant of the Tower himself. Something sharp and cold tucked beneath his chin. Agzil felt a trickle of blood down his throat, and he worked to raise his head with the only strength he had left. His eyes met the empty, blank pits in a mask of iron, regarding him expressionless and still. He’d never seen Garavdúr before, but he knew what the War Wolf was meant to look like, and so of course he knew what he was faced with now. His entire body trembled, waiting, staring. Garavdúr did not speak for a long moment. Finally he lifted his sword away from Agzil’s throat and let his head fall, muttering softly as he did. “Pathetic creatures...” The heavy metal footfalls moved away. Agzil laid in the dust for a while before he raised his face again. Mirci’s head was there, coated now in black blood and ash, a few feet from where her body lay crumpled and lifeless. Agzil put his forehead in the dust again. The captain gave him another taste of lashing when he did not try to get up.

Thet wished her mother would loosen up on her hand so she could get closer to the extremely hot molten metal, but unfortunately, it seemed her parents were somewhat responsible. They were traders and always had been, and Thet had seen so many different types of places- dwarf-keeps and hobbit villages and little towns of Men- but never before had she seen metal being worked. It was stunning. “What is it going to be?” she asked eagerly, reaching out a hand as if she could touch the white-hot goop. The smith paused and flipped back the heavy iron mask to reveal fair golden hair and a beard done into neatly capped braids. Her face was smeared with soot. “Going to be a knife someday, little one,” she said in a kind and rumbling voice. “Maybe you’ll use it to cut up your dinner.” “Could you make it a necklace?” Thet asked instead, very eager. They had one necklace in the family; her father wore it at all times and she would recognize the dull reddish gold anywhere. There was a garnet set into the middle. She really liked the chain- how delicate and yet sturdy every individual link was. It was fascinating every time her father let her play with it. The smith looked at her and gave a friendly smile, then reached down with a pair of heavy clamps and broke one small section of the metal off. She twisted it into a crude spiral, bent a thin loop over the top, and then plunged it into her bucket of water. There was a hiss and a rush of steam went up from the boiling liquid. Quick as could be, the smith pulled the spiral out with another clamp and laid it on her table. She produced a length of thin leather from a pile nearby and slipped its end through the loop, and tied it off to create a loose circle. She held the trinket out in a gloved hand. “You be careful now. It’s hot.” Thet squirmed free of her mother’s grip and scurried forward on her crutch.  She wrapped her hand in a length of her cloak so she could accept the gift. It was tarnished and none too shiny; just a simple lump of steel crudely wrought into a pendant of sorts, but to Thet’s young eyes it was the most astonishing gift she had ever received. Something made just for her, only for her. Never had she had anything like it. She gripped it tight, pulled it close and looked up eagerly at the tall smith turning back to her work. “I’m going to be just like you someday!” The smith smiled and rustled a hand through the young dwarf’s hair. “You’ll need a good bit of beard before that, little one. Take good care of your necklace.” And Thet never let that shoddy piece of metalwork leave her side.

There was no silence after battle. Corien could only hear the groans of the dying. Flames crackling cruelly in the grass. Huff of beasts and screams carried far away from the walls of the burning city. Orcs that were not quite dead gurgled when he vaulted past. Men that weren’t quite dead begged and choked and sang in shaking, weepy voices. All of it was blurry. Smeared. Nothing real, no sound registering to his battle-worn ears. The only things he heard were the cries of bowstrings, and a clash of steel on steel and wood on stone and metal creaking and screaming and tearing apart. “Halbarad!” he screamed into the settling night. It was lost amidst the identical calls coming up from other places on the field. Other brothers and sisters found hewn, children lifeless, friend and lover ripped apart. Everyone was out to collect their dead. The ribbon tied to the haft of his spear fluttered lightly in the breeze that swept up from the river. It had been blue this morning. It was splattered now with black and scarlet, bruised and sickly beyond repair. He threw the spear aside when he at last saw the gleam of silver against a cloak of bloodstained grey. It took both hands to roll his brother face-up. The silver star Halbarad had always worn on his cloak was shiny and clean, but it was about the only thing left recognizable. Corien’s fingers trembled uncontrollably as he pushed the earth brown hair out of his brother’s face. Blood caught on his fingers and colored his palm scarlet, so he left red smears on the eyelids when he closed those familiar ice-grey eyes. “Halbarad,” he said. His voice sounded so steady it would have surprised him, had he actually believed it was he himself speaking. There was no way it could be. No way he could form the words. “Don’t.. Don’t be dead. You can’t be dead, I- I need you. Please don’t be-“ His eyes travelled slowly to the gashes that tore his brother from jaw to belly and the words broke on a sob. He thought he might have screamed, but so many others were doing the same thing that he couldn’t pick his own voice out from the roar.

Mosco sat listening to the bees. His back rested against the thick grey bark, and his legs were up on a bough, and around his head bees danced from flower to flower in an endless choreographed routine. They were right smart, bees. His ma always said so. They talked back and forth, spoke in their own special language of waltz. Ma used to say that the Greenhands were honey farmers because they had dancing in their blood, and that they and the bees were one and the same. He’d fallen asleep tucked into the branches of his peach tree. The sun was growing low, and at this rate he’d miss his own nineteenth birthday party, but the woods of the Southfarthing were beautiful at sunset in the summer, and he thought he might go for a walk. The grass felt good on his bare feet, if a little cool. His hair hadn’t grown in all proper yet, so sometimes his toes got chilly and he had to embarrass himself wearing socks, but he just chalked that up to his being a “late bloomer,” as Ma put it. He was just out of season. He’d ripen up someday. The birches that made up the part of the forest closest to the farm soon gave way to wrinkly old pines with boughs hanging heavy and dark over their beds of needles. Mosco hummed a walking song, not at all caring for a track to follow, but wandering aimlessly and contemplating his own infinite nineteen-year-old wisdom. The smell of rot stopped him just before he put his foot into it. Beneath the overhanging crypt of the pines, a deer lay dead. Its skin was drawn thin over bones that poked halfway through, and underneath he could see a red-yellow ooze that leaked out into the forest floor. This, he guessed, was what smelled so foul and attracted the bugs. Beetles crawled in and out of the dead animal’s empty eye sockets and nostrils. Worms pitted the parts of its muscle still intact. Mosco saw eggs peppering the ragged hide like white trees in a minuscule forest. His family didn’t eat much meat. They never slaughtered it themselves if they did. He couldn’t think of a time he’d seen a real dead thing. When he got home, he declined the offer of birthday cake and went right to bed, and dreamt of squirming things that burrowed down to lay their eggs in pits beneath his flesh.

Cypress knelt next to the crime scene and tried very hard not to cry. Stuff like this didn’t happen in the Shire. It wasn’t meant to happen. A whole crowd of people looked at her with big, terrified eyes, expecting her to lead them. To tell them what to do in this moment because she was the mayor and she was meant to know. Blood had never been spilled like this. Woodhall’s history was a peaceful one and nothing like this had ever happened before. She looked at the assembled group. It was hard to seem like she wasn’t completely out of her depth, because her voice squeaked rather loudly. “We... We should bury them, yes?” At once the hobbits broke into cries and murmurs that all laid over each other into a horrific cacophony. “They took half the year’s stock!” “How did they get past the borders?” “Why didn’t we know they were coming?” “Are we going to get my honey back?” The last voice was that of Mosco Greenhand, who looked as devastated as the rest, but with an air of determination in his eyes. Cypress raised her hands to quiet the townspeople. “Look, I know this is a lot to process and we can’t understand it yet. But the first thing we ought to do is give these three brave souls who gave their lives for the good of Woodhall a proper burial, yes?” A general murmur of agreement. Cypress looked down at the fair faces she had known, the throats and bellies split by goblin blades, and it made her feel desperately ill. This horror could not be left unpunished.

Sometimes, when Astorrel went to sleep, she had a nightmare. It was always the same one, and it always came on when she decided to rest like other creatures did and actually close her eyes for hours. So, naturally, she avoided doing so. Rested on her feet and never let her guard down while she did it. She never had liked sleeping anyway. Never had any reason to do so for the better part of an age. Lina changed things, though. Lina liked it when Astorrel was there to share her night and her dawn, sleeping and waking, both together as equals. And of course, Astorrel liked to be there when Lina wanted her, and she liked to be close to her beloved, so of course whenever she could she shared Lina’s bed. Made the nightmares come back though. In the deepest hours of the night, when Lina was still and the moonlight slanted in through the window to paint her brown skin silver, Astorrel would lie stiff with her eyes open and nonseeing, and she’d tremble. She knew that in the dream- at least, in parts of it- she was her father. She carried Mirlach, but the blade was younger and the gem hadn’t yet fallen from its hilt. The whole sword always seemed darkened and scarlet-stained to her, and sometimes it dripped. She would hold the fire of the Silmaril and scream and scream as the agony of it withered her flesh away and the stench of rotting burn rose hotly to meet her nostrils, and she would see everything that Maedhros had done to hold the heirloom of his house in his hand, and how in the end, the reward of the quest became its doom. She would feel the irrepressible heat of smoldering, burning rock, and taste the earth as it pressed in, swallowed, took her and her cursed Silmaril into its throat and entombed them there forever. And the dream let her lie, suspended there in agony, the unseen gem scorching her hand to withered bone and the rock pressing in on her, for the entirety of the rest of the world. When she woke up with her hunting knife in her hand, dangerously close to Lina’s back, she decided abruptly she would not be doing this again. She left the cottage that morning before dawn. The next occasion she saw her Lina was on the day she died.

“You’re doing it again,” Léothain said, pulling Wulfrun’s focus away from the herders leading in a group of freshly adult horses to settle in the city. “You don’t really think she’s going to be there, right?” Wulfrun flushed and went back to sharpening her sword. Behind her, Léo plucked the last piece of laundry from the line and waltzed over with his basket against his hip. He stood next to Wulfrun, who sat silent on the stone step and watched young horses and rough herders pass the house by. They didn’t come into the city much; spent most of their time in the downs and the fields tending to their herds. Wulfrun had heard they were capital horsemen, and they guided the herds well enough through the winding lane of Edoras, riding without saddle on their sturdy, gleaming mounts. The horses they were leading in were meant to be ridden in battle. She could tell from the way they moved; so confident with strength and quiet grace, heads set proudly. She’d have one someday. Her fa made enough as a carpenter, but wasn’t much for travel, and they only had one horse for the three of them. The fat little thing was functional enough, but far from the mighty steed Wulfrun dreamed of. “You’re going to be really lucky if you see her again,” said Léo in an irritating sort of singsong voice. Wulfrun scowled at him. The sharpening stone swept over her worn blade again. Again. When most of the herd had passed, she finally found what she’d been seeking. At the rear of the group, riding a tall, shimmering palomino, came the girl. She looked just a little older than Wulfrun’s proud fifteen. Her face gleamed sunshine golden, and the dark hair that should have been dyed probably yellow was grown out and black down to the ears. She wore sturdy, battered clothes like the rest of the herders, but her eyes shone a brilliant black from her regal face. She saw Wulfrun looking and waved. Wulfrun wished she knew her name. She waved back.

Riston wasn’t his proper name. He didn’t know what it was. Could be Jett. Pierson. Randy. Likely he had a family name, too, though he had no guesses as to what it could be and all the Bree names he’d ever heard seemed bizarre and strangely food-centric. He didn’t want to have a real name. He just wanted to be Riston of the elves. Riston of the Havens. That was who he was. He sat on the big smooth rock on the west side of the harbor and plucked absently at his lute strings. Nothing sounded right. Nothing fit how it was supposed it. He was meant to leave in the morning. Head east and find who he actually was. He didn’t want to go. What’s a name matter? he thought as he crossed his legs and tried to let the waves paint a tempo into his mind. Anything he tried to make manifest withered away. I know who I am. This is my home. A discordant note. He tried to retune, very aggressively. Even if I find my family somehow, it’s not like my Westron is good enough to communicate with them. His fingers clenched. It’s not fair. They can’t just ask me to leave like I’m some guest who’s worn out his- One of lute strings snapped against his fingers and on a deep-gut impulse he slammed his fist into the instrument’s wooden body. A crunch, and he’d broken his most prized possession. Riston sat for a moment, slowing his breathing, taking stock of the fist-shaped hole splintering his delicate elf-made lute, the most beautiful thing he’d ever owned. Then he put his face in his hands and started to cry.

[carewyncromwell]

I guess this is my “happy end” for Carewyn and Orion for that LOTR AU (once again started by @drinkyoursoupbitch​​ and @no-moon-nor-stars​)! Pictured are the newly crowned king of Gondor, Orion II Elessar, and his love, the current Steward and future Queen of Gondor, Carewyn Cromwell-Took! (Previous part here!)

When Orion, Ben, Wendy, Charlie, and their allies from Gondor and Rohan charged to the gates of Mordor, there was almost no hope of success. As the final battle raged on, however, wave after wave of reinforcements arrived -- Treebeard and the Ents Carewyn had befriended in the Forest of Fangorn; an army of men led by Barnaby Lee and an army of elves from Mirkwood, who came to support Fellowship members Selene and Artemis Clair de Lune; a battalion of dwarves led by the new King Duncan Stonehelm of Erebor; a militia of men from Dale led by Carewyn’s friend, Lord Andre; the eagles, ridden by both Gandalf and Carewyn’s long-lost brother, Jacob Cromwell-Took, who brought along some white magic of his own to blind and beat back the Orc advance; and Selene and Artemis themselves, who -- after smuggling Smeagol, Bill, and Cedric inside Mordor -- infiltrated the wall over the dark city and attacked Sauron’s dark army from above. Then the final blow was dealt against Sauron -- the Ring was destroyed, and with the destruction of Sauron also came the annihilation of Mordor. The day was won.

The triumphant army returned to the stronghold of Minas Tirith as heroes. As happy as Carewyn was to see Ben, Wendy, Charlie, and Orion safe, however, she was overwhelmed beyond words by who else greeted her at the gates of the capital.

Carewyn flung her arms out wide, rushing to Charlie and throwing her arms around him, hugging him tightly.

“You did it!” she said, her wide ruby red smile echoing in every word. “You all did it!”

Charlie squeezed his old friend tightly. “We did it. We couldn’t have done it without you, Carey -- if you hadn’t sent for reinforcements -- ”

“Carewyn Cromwell-Took.”

Carewyn looked up. Standing before her was Duncan, his lips spread into a mischievous grin through his now much-thicker brown beard. He’d had his thick arms crossed, but when Carewyn swept over to him and wrapped her arms around his neck in a huge hug, they fell lax at his sides.

“It’s good to see you, Duncan,” murmured Carewyn.

The young King of Erebor’s expression faltered somewhat, betraying genuine affection despite himself, as he brought his arms around her in return and held her like a dear younger sister he hadn’t seen in years.

Andre came up as well, opening his arms wide to ensnare Carewyn in a hug of his own.

“Look at you, Carewyn!” he said, looking over her new Steward attire and grinning. “One would hardly recognize you as the hobbit who escaped a band of orcs and wargs by floating yourself and your friends down the river in barrels...”

Carewyn bit back a laugh. “Not my most glamorous moment.”

“Artemis! Selene!”

Ben’s voice caught Carewyn’s attention. Riding in on fresh horses were their elfin friends, both looking very tired and beaten down, but with smiling, alight faces at the sight of them. Artemis made a beeline for Ben, leaping off his horse so as to throw both of his arms around him. Once Selene had embraced Wendy, she bend down to hug Carewyn as well.

“It’s felt so long, since we saw you last,” said Selene, “longer than I even know how to express. I think I now know why people with mortal lives act like they have no time at all...”

“I know -- it’s felt like years, somehow,” agreed Wendy.

A loud cry overhead signaled the arrival of the eagles. Carewyn beamed when she caught sight of Gandalf’s white robes -- but she was taken aback by the sound of a familiar, hoarse voice.

“CAREY! CHARLIE!”

It was Bill. He rode the eagle behind Gandalf and looked even more exhausted and worn than the Clair de Lune twins, but his freckled face was just as bright and his eyes were flooding with tears.

“BILL!”

“BILL!”

Both Carewyn and Charlie barreled over. Bill didn’t even wait for his eagle to fully land, instead launching him off of its back and hobbling with difficulty over to them, throwing his slightly longer legs backward and forward in precarious, reckless strides until he’d reached them. The three red-haired hobbits all threw themselves forward, seizing onto each other’s shirts and arms and squeezing each other’s shoulders in a vice grip.

“Charlie -- ” Bill choked through his flood of tears, “Carey -- ”

“Oh, Bill,” whispered Carewyn. “You did it -- you and Cedric -- ”

“I knew you could do it,” Charlie murmured proudly, clutching at his older brother’s back. “I always knew -- ”

Carewyn blinked back the traces of tears in her eyes, turning her gaze to the rest of the eagles landing. Her eyes softened in relief seeing Gandalf carrying a sleeping Cedric under his arm. Then she caught sight of the rider disembarking the eagle just behind Gandalf, and all trace of a smile vanished.

The final rider was a hobbit about a head shorter than Bill, dressed in worn gray robes one would be more likely to associate with a wizard. His black-brown curls had grown as long as a dwarf’s, sweeping down his back, and his eyes had been hollowed out like a skull’s, but they still sparkled the same shade of blue as Carewyn’s. His face was very white and weakly smiling, almost anxious, as he faced her.

“Wyn,” breathed Jacob.

All dignity forgotten, Carewyn flung herself out of both Weasley brothers’ arms. She tripped over the long skirt of her dress several times, but she didn’t care -- she would’ve tripped a thousand times more over, just to --

“JACOB -- JACOB!”

The two Cromwell-Tooks clung onto each other so tightly that it was like they never wanted to let each other go again. Jacob anchored a trembling hand on the back of his little sister’s head as he struggled not to completely break down.

“Oh Wyn -- my little Wyn -- ”

He pulled away at last, running his thumbs over her cheeks as his tear-filled blue eyes scanned her face.

“Look at you -- you’re a real lady! Shining like the Lady of Lothlorian herself...”

“You’re alive,” choked Carewyn. “I can’t believe you’re alive -- ”

“Jacob?!”

The two Cromwell-Tooks looked up as Duncan rushed forward, his eyes very wide and his face very pale under his dark beard.

Jacob’s blue eyes sparkled. “...Hello, Ashy.”

Carewyn had expected Duncan to perhaps run forward and hug Jacob too -- instead, when he reached Jacob, he immediately grabbed hold of his pointed ear and yanked hard.

“Owowowow -- !”

“You blasted IDIOT!” swore Duncan. “Disappearing like that -- let me guess, you got in over your head again, as per usual? How can you be so smart and yet so bloody daft!?”

“Owwww! Let go, will you?!”

Carewyn brought a hand up to wipe away the tear forming in her right eye as she looked up at Gandalf, who was smiling warmly.

“It seems your brother, like me, had battles to fight in fire and shadows,” he said. “Fortunately, like me...he also found his way back. He’s become quite a talented magician, for a hobbit -- I suspect he’ll be able to conjure up quite enough fireworks, for the next party in the Shire...”

“Thank you for bringing him back to me, Gandalf,” said Carewyn softly.

She then turned to the soldiers and courtiers who had escorted her to the city wall.

“Come -- let’s get Cedric a bed and proper medical attention. And prepare a hearty meal, in the main hall -- our King and his friends need it.”

Soon after was Orion’s coronation at the white Citadel of Minas Tirith. Representatives from many kingdoms -- Man, Dwarf, and Elf alike -- all came for the celebration. Once he was crowned, Orion bestowed honors onto all of his companions in the Fellowship of the Ring and all of the allies who had fought with them when things were at their most desperate. He vowed to the citizens of Gondor that he would do everything in his power to rule with patience, tenacity, loyalty, and fire and bring peace and balance to their world.

The coronation party afterwards was full of singing, dancing, and a great feast, where the Fellowship reconvened merely as friends, rather than soldiers. At one point, when Carewyn got up to speak with Merula, the new Captain of Gondor’s Guard, Cedric noticed something he hadn’t before.

“...Say, you all,” the youngest hobbit said with a frown, “who did Carewyn promise her heart to?”

Everyone in the Fellowship went stock still. Ben and Charlie immediately moved as if to hush Cedric, but it was too late.

“What?!” yelped Bill.

Carewyn’s best friend whirled on both Ben and Charlie, looking both beside himself and absolutely incredulous.

“You knew about this?”

Orion had gone very pale, his eyes darting around at each of the hobbits and Ben as he tried to make sense of what he was hearing. Artemis and Selene both looked at each other with a frown.

“‘Promise her heart?’“ said Artemis, bewildered.

Selene glanced at Carewyn and then gave an “oh!”

“Her left ring finger,” said the female elf. “If Hobbit tradition is anything like ours...Carewyn is engaged!”

“When did THIS happen?” Bill was still interrogating Ben and Charlie -- despite him only being about two heads taller than Charlie and much shorter than Ben, both men looked equally taken aback by his volume and level of passion. “What happened?”

“It’s not what it looks like!” said Charlie hastily. “That is -- well, yeah, she put it there, but -- I mean -- ”

Orion was barely taking in much of what anyone was saying -- his mind was moving too quickly.

Carewyn...was engaged? If she’d promised her heart, was that...like a betrothal? When had this happened? Had she been proposed to while she was in Gondor alone, while he was away? Had she always been betrothed, since before they’d met? To who?

Orion found himself clutching his own hands as he closed his eyes and tried in vain to stabilize his breathing. His thoughts were always way too loud and way too fast, when he was anxious...

He was startled out of his thoughts by a hand on his shoulder. It was Wendy.

“Come on,” said the dark-haired shieldmaiden under her breath with a smile, “let’s go for a walk -- it’s getting too loud in here.”

And so Wendy steered the new King out of the hall and out onto one of the balconies of the White Tower. It didn’t take long for Carewyn to notice Wendy leaving with Orion and, noticing how very ill and upset he suddenly looked, she quickly ended her conversation with Merula and left the hall after them. She found the two talking at the balcony -- Wendy noticed as soon as Carewyn arrived and rather quickly excused herself with a pat to Orion’s shoulder and a smile at Carewyn.

“Carey, would you please tend to His Majesty?” said Wendy, a wry twinkle in her eye. “You seem to have a special touch with him."

Carewyn watched her go with a swish of her long dark hair, frowning in confusion. Rather than dwell on it, however, she immediately turned her focus back to Orion. He looked so pale...

She reached out a hand to him.

“Is everything all right?” she asked, her blue eyes very concerned.

When she’d reached out to him, Orion’s gaze had flown immediately down to her hand and to the ring on her finger.

His eyes widened.

It was his ring. The Ring of Barahir he had given her, before she’d first left for Gondor with Gandalf. Naturally, it being made by Elves, it had enough magic to shrink or grow to the proper size, so it fit her finger just as well as it had his.

The ring that Cedric had thought represented some sort of romantic promise...was his ring.

It took a moment for Orion to catch his breath again. Once he’d managed to compose himself enough, he bent down so as to properly look Carewyn in the eye. He took her hand, trailing his thumb over the ring on her finger, as he led her closer to him. Although he managed to keep his voice level somehow, his lightly tanned face was still very white and his hand holding hers was trembling.

"...Carewyn...” he murmured, “the way you wear my ring...is there...a meaning to it?"

Carewyn blinked in surprise. Then her face relaxed, and she offered a small smile even as her cheeks darkened with a flush and her eyes rested on his shoulder and not his face.

 "...Yes. For hobbits, it represents a promise of one's heart -- one stronger than time, life, or death.”

Her eyes drifted down to their joined hands.

“...It was that promise...that was in my heart when I pledged my fealty to Gondor. When Denethor heard me pledge myself to 'my lord', ‘til he release me or death take me..."

She smiled wryly.

"...he was unaware that, in my own mind at least, I already had a lord to be loyal to."

Orion’s eyes widened. Carewyn raised her head at last, her face much more solemn despite the softness in her eyes.

"Even if just as your friend,” she said very seriously, “my heart is yours, my king."

She lifted their hands, adjusted them so that Orion’s was on top, and placed a feather-light kiss to the back of his hand.

For a moment, all Orion could do was stare. His dark eyes trailed over Carewyn’s face, lingering on her eyes and her ruby red lips -- then, his pale face flushing with a kind of emotion Carewyn had never seen before, he swept forward. His hands found her cheeks, cupping them gently as he leaned in and placed a tender, lingering kiss to her forehead.

“My lady,” he breathed, his eyes half-lidded and shining upon hers, “you are far...far more than a friend to me. And I hope that you’ll consent to be far more, as well...for among both Men and Elves...”

His eyes flickered down to her lips and then back to her eyes, in a move that almost suggested shyness.

“...the place you wear my ring...could also be seen as the mark of an engagement...were it to host a different band."

Carewyn stared at Orion.

“You...you’d want to marry a hobbit?” she asked, her voice very soft and stunned.

Orion’s eyes softened with some amusement despite himself. “I would like to marry you. If you’ll have me.”

“If I’ll -- ?”

Carewyn looked flabbergasted.

“Orion...I’m just a halfling -- you’re a king. More importantly, you’re...you. You’re gentle, and noble, and wise...”

“And you are warm and resourceful...and braver than anyone I’ve ever known in my life,” Orion cut her off gently.

His gaze flickered down to her lips again self-consciously. For all of his confidence as a Ranger, a warrior, a general, and even a king, Orion found himself oddly fretful and uncertain, in that moment -- as if he was standing on the edge of a cliff and would either fall to his death or soar up into the clouds, were he to jump.

“I realize that hobbits...rarely marry outside their own kind...especially to Men -- but just as I could see no one else as my Steward...I can’t think of anyone else I would ever ask to be my Queen.”

Her face flushed and her eyes sparkling like stars, Carewyn brought a hand up to rest on his cheek. She cradled his face with her hand as she bent her head just enough to rest her forehead against the king’s.

“Orion...I could not think of a single greater gift or treasure in this world than to be yours.”

Orion felt as though a weight he’d been carrying for ages had suddenly been lifted off of his chest. He exhaled, his eyes fluttering closed absently as he leaned lightly back against her hand on his face.

“Carewyn...”

One hand sank into the shoulder of her red and white velvet dress, while the other trailed affectionately along her cheek. Carewyn closed her own eyes, smiling fondly.

“I love you,” she whispered, a mere breath away from his lips.

She kissed the side of his temple, and then his nose and his lips. Without opening his eyes, Orion found himself mirroring her, littering her face with kisses as he trailed his hand along her cheek and through her hair. Several times their lips met, sometimes chastely, sometimes deeply, but always through the gentlest, warmest, happiest smile -- as though their hearts were both fit to burst from happiness.

A week later, Carewyn was crowned queen of Gondor, to the delight of her new people. Regardless of her heritage, the people of Gondor had not forgotten her courage and leadership in the midst of the War Against Sauron, and over the years, their affection for their “little queen” only grew. (This didn’t mean that she ever became very well-regarded in the Shire -- truthfully, someone that worldly and strong-willed would never really have belonged there. Most Shire folk didn’t dislike her, of course, but it was still a little uncomfortable to be associated with someone so thoroughly unlike the traditional image of a hobbit. The clear exception to this rule, however, was any hobbit with the last name “Weasley,” who were all always welcome in the kingdom of Gondor.)

One looking back on the reign of King Orion II Elessar and Queen Carewyn Dilthenrís could almost wonder if their romance -- however peculiar it was -- was written in the stars. After all...one translation for the name “Carewyn” is “white tower” -- like the fabled tower of the Citadel at Minas Tirith where she first inspired her future King’s people.

[meat-husband]

Ok, I just found your blog and I am 100% in love with it— it’s so good!! Keep up the good work!! Also, I have a request. I’d like to request the s/o is kidnapped by potential victims of Thomas and anyone else you’d like to add! I feel like someone may think the s/o isn’t suppose to be there and try to ‘save’ them from the ‘evil bad man.’ Thank you!!

Ok I know this is a common trope when it comes to TCM but tbh…. I love it.

—

“What are we gonna do?”

The man’s boots kick up dirt as he paces in front of the truck, gravel crunching under his feet. The headlights are dimmed, but they light up his figure against the dark sky, clouds of dust filtering through the beams as he moves.

“Wait for someone to come by, I suppose.”

The other one is calm, almost relaxed, leaning against the side of the broken down truck with no sign of panic on his face. He’s keeping his cool, but you can hear the light tap, tap, tap of his fingers against the side of the vehicle, a nervous sound that puts you on edge.

“This is the middle of fuckin’ nowhere. Anyone ‘coming by’ is only going to be more of those freaks.”

You want to be offended by his words, but he’s not wrong. They had only made it a few miles down the road from the farmhouse and it wasn’t going to be long before someone noticed that the three of you were absent.

That was the thought that made you worry.

Curled up in the passenger seat of the truck, you huddle against the door, pushing yourself as far away from the two men as possible. They haven’t tried to hurt you - you’re only in this mess in the first place because they had wanted to help - but you don’t want to be near either of them when you’re found.

“Fuck this!”

The sudden exclamation startles you and you look up, peeking out of the opposite window. The angry man is pacing away from the truck, apparently meaning to follow the cracked asphalt on foot.

Both men are old, but the angry man is the younger of the two, his thick beard streaked with gray but still mostly brown. They’re rough looking, the kind that Hoyt interchangeably calls both ‘bikers’ and ‘hippies’, made all the more rough by the gashes and wounds they’d collected over the last few hours at the house.

The older man glances at you through the half broken window on the drivers side. His face is bare, but the hair on his head is long and white.

“C’mon out, girlie, ain’t a bad idea to get movin’.”

“No, thank you.”

The door behind you is jammed shut, or you would have slipped out during the argument. The only way out now is the driver’s door, but you aren’t going to risk being snatched up again.

“What, you wanna go back to those monsters? I’m no gentleman, but we ain’t gonna hurt you. Took you outta that hellhole, didn’t we?”

You shake your head, half afraid to tell him the truth, wishing he would just leave so you could dart out of the truck and run back home. Tears blur your eyes and you bury your head into your arms, wondering if he would be so nice if he knew that you were one of the monsters too.

“I’m fine here,” you stutter out, pressing harder against the broken door. “Please go away.”

There’s quiet for a moment, but you know he isn’t gone, not when you haven’t heard any footsteps.

“Look, now,” you hear him say, a soft, low voice that only makes the tears come faster. “We’re gonna keep you safe, you don’t need to cry. Whatever those bad people did to you, it ain’t gonna happen again.”

You shake your head again, smearing tears into your skin as you try to wipe them away. He didn’t understand and you couldn’t make him understand, not without risking your own safety. They had thought they were rescuing you, dragging you out of the bloody house and away from the animals who kept you there. If they had simply left, sneaking out at night when the family was at rest, perhaps no one would have noticed until the morning, but stopping to take you with them had almost certainly ruined any chance they had of getting away.

Rubbing your eyes with the heels of your hands, you sniffle and pant, looking at him with red rimmed eyes. His expression matches his voice, a gentle look on his lined face, and you struggle to meet his eyes.

“I’m so sorry,” you hiccup, holding your knees to your chest. “I really am.”

You see the confusion on his face, but can’t bring yourself to say anything more. He tries again, urging you gently to leave the truck, but you hide your face and stay quiet.

A rumble, distant and low, edges into your hearing. You jump, suddenly sitting up straight and looking out the window, over the flat pastures to where you knew the house was. The man startles too, quieting as he watches you.

The saw is your first thought, heart beating wildly, but it takes you only a second to realize that this droning hum is not the faint roar of the chainsaw. A flash of light, brief but unmistakable, shines from somewhere further down the road, filtering through the trees. Both you and the man seem to come to the same conclusion at once, eyes meeting through the broken window.

“Get out!”

The man screams the command now, throwing open the door and half crawling in to reach you. You flail under his hand, kicking your legs as he grabs for you, but a blinding flash of light hits the cab of the truck and you know it’s too late.

A hand locks around your ankle, dragging you over the seats and out the door, landing in a heap on the asphalt. You feel the gravel and dirt dig into your knees and palms when you land, coughing in the cloud of dust that had been stirred up. The collar of your dress rips when he tries to pull you up by the shoulders, but you’re too breathless to fight him as he struggles to pull you away.

The cruiser is already coming to a harsh stop in front of you, headlights blinding in the darkness, but the man still tries, one hand gripping your ruined collar and the other picking you up at the waist. You’re dead weight, stunned and gasping, halfheartedly trying to block the light in front of you with your hands.

A door opens, slamming closed just a moment later and two sets of footsteps come towards you. The man gives up on his retreat, letting you slump back to the ground at his feet, panting as he slows to a stop. Your legs shake under you, too wobbly to keep yourself upright.

“Let the girl go!”

You hear Hoyt’s voice, but it’s Thomas that you see, stepping between the headlights with something heavy in his hands - not the saw, but something big and blunt, one of the tools he kept in the basement or something grabbed quickly from the barn. He’s only a towering outline against the light, but you can see the anger in him, shoulders tensed and heaving with rage, fingers wrapped tightly around the handle of his weapon.

“Tommy!”

Your voice is hoarse, but you push the words out anyways, stretching your arms out towards him. The headlights blur your vision, but you hear him, closing the distance in only a few steps, until one big hand is closed around your arm. He yanks you up, pulling you roughly to your feet and then into his chest. An arm around your shoulders keeps you close, his face pressed into the mess of your hair as he whines and grunts, and you have to cling to the front of his shirt to keep on your feet.

“Honey, you alright?”

You nod fervently, hoping that Hoyt can see you because you don’t think you could manage a spoken answer. A few gasping breaths steady you, but it’s not enough to calm the beating of your heart.

“You better not have touched a hair on her head,” Hoyt calls to the man. “‘Cause I don’t think Tommy is too happy with you tryin’ to run off with his girl like you did.”

Thomas jerks his head up at that, snarling from behind the mask, and you can see the man’s whole body flinch backwards.

“Fuck you.”

His words are defiant, but they’re said with a tired sigh, coming out in a deflated huff. Hoyt laughs and you hear the metallic click of a gun being readied.

“Make you a deal,” he offers, coming around the car to stand in the light. “You tell me where that other fucker went and I’ll make it quick, alright?”

The gun shines in the headlights, held outstretched in his hand, and you feel your stomach drop.

“I promise you, it’s a better deal than you’ll get from Tommy.”

[surveys-at-your-service]

Survey #414

“mirror, mirror, tell me who you see  /  am i you or me?  /  i can never remember”

How many people have you kissed? Four. Ever kissed someone you weren’t dating at the time? No. Of the people you’ve kissed, how many do you regret kissing? Two. Ever been kissed by a legal adult when you were a minor (or vise-versa)? Yeah, with Jason, but it was only a two-year difference. Ever kissed someone on a dare/as part of a game? No. Where’s the most public place you’ve ever made out with someone? Nowhere public. I wouldn't do that. Can you snowboard? Never tried. Have you ever made a mixed cd for someone? No. Do you use recycle bins at your house? Yes. Do you own more than one bathing suit? No. Have you ever kissed someone who smokes weed? Jason did occasionally with his best friend, but he stopped for me. How are you right this second? I'm all right. Last night was pretty rough, so I'm just glad that's over. My body is just tired. Is there anything you disliked about your last birthday? Honestly, I barely remember what I did on my last birthday. I just remember it was fine. Oh wait, actually, on the way home from going out to eat, we had to call the cops while behind a car whose driver was obviously drunk or high OFF. HIS. ASS. He was swerving like crazy and almost hit SO many cars. I was having an absolute panic attack. I pray to God that guy was more than just found and fined. Do you keep a diary or journal (offline or online)? No, unless you count surveys, I guess. What were you like a year ago? I was the unhappily the same. Is someone on your mind right now? Fucking always. Having a warm dream about him last night didn't help. Who was the last person you sat next to? My mom. What do you currently hear right now? My screen is split so I can watch John Wolfe play some indie horror games. What’s something you need to go shopping for? I need to get new bras baaaadly because I'm tired of none fitting properly. What’s the last thing you ate? I had a donut 'cuz Mom stopped at Dunkin' for coffee. Do/did you do good in school? I did up to college. Then I just... sucked. Do you always get along with your siblings? I mean I don't see/talk to them every day or anything, not even very regularly even, but we generally get along fine now as adults. We disagree about shit for sure, but keep our mouths shut. Or probably talk to Mom about it while I'm not present. I don't even think they like me half of the time. Are you frustrated with anything? So much. Why did you fall for the last person romantically? There were/are a lot of factors. Just she as a person is phenomenal. What’s your younger sibling’s name? Nicole. Can you speak in a different language conversationally; if so, which language? A tiny bit of German. Do you ever fear of falling asleep? With my nightmares, I used to dread it. Now, thankfully, my APAP mask has prevented them from happening, mostly; I've only had two in the month that I've had it, and I ordinarily had them every single night. Do you have an idea of what kind of profession you’d like to have? I do, but I honestly doubt I'm going to succeed in even making it a part-time job by this damn point. Which beach would you say is your favorite? I don't have a favorite. I don't even like the beach very much. What kind of cookie is your favorite? Chocolate chip. Have you ever had a churro? Yes. Too crunchy and ridiculously sweet, not a fan. Truth be told, are you more into looks or personalities the most? A good personality beats good looks any day. How is/was your chemistry class in high school? I actually didn't take chemistry; my graduating year, physical science was offered as the alternative, which I took. How does alcohol affect you? I get hot, and my face flushes badly. It'll make me more talkative. Have you ever tried lemon brownies? No, and I don't want to. I don't like lemon-flavored stuff like that. What was the last type of meat you ate? Beef. Have you taken any medication today? I have prescriptions I take every day. Have you ever watched Parks and Recreation? I've seen some of it at Sara's house. What is your favourite kind of pasta? Just spaghetti with tomato sauce and meatballs, really. I've been on a major chicken pesto kick lately, though. Have you set an alarm today? No. Think of a random person, and give them a message here, no names: Literally just the chance to say "I'm sorry" would be fucking amazing. Just two fucking words. What if there were two of you? Would the world be in trouble? No. That'd be a waste of space, though. Not like I'm contributing much to society. Would you prefer an ice cream sundae or an ice cream cone? I dunno man, it depends on my mood and what I want in the moment. Do you watch movies with the subtitles on? No; I find it to be distracting. Is the last person you kissed yours? I hate this saying. She's her own person that belongs to nobody but herself. But to just go along with it and answer the question, no, we're not together. Do you think you will be married by the time you are 25? Welp, I'm halfway through 25, so. Do you have siblings over the age of 21? All of my siblings are. Do you have a hard time admitting you’re wrong? No. Especially as I've aged, I'd say I'm pretty quick to accept if I've fucked up. Who has the ability to hurt you the most emotionally? Jason will probably always have that power, even if he's not in my life. Would you ever be a stripper? God no, nobody wants to see that. What are your plans for tomorrow? Just get through the day, man. Do you owe anybody money? No. How would your parents describe you? Reserved, shy, a deep thinker, animal lover, uhhhh... What is the most you have ever weighed? Let's not. Would you ever work at McDonald's? No. I'm never working in food service. If you aren't already, would you go vegetarian or vegan? I want to be a vegetarian and being a vegan would be perfectly ideal for me, but I really don't think I can healthily accomplish either. I am FAR too picky to where I'd almost definitely become malnourished. To make it even worse I absolutely cannot "suck it up" if I don't like a food, so it's not like I could choke down stuff I don't like. Not to mention I'd be pretty sad without any yummy food to look forward to, aha. Coolest person you've ever met? Uhhhh I don't know. Do you wear boxers? No. Girls, how old were you when you first learned how to put in a tampon? I don't remember. Would you ever attend a gay pride parade or festival? I would absolutely love to. Did you see Paranormal Activity 2? I think I've seen all of the movies. I liked them, given paranormal horror films are probably my fave. What would you do if an old man grabbed your ass? Kick him in the fucking balls so goddamn fast and probably slap him across the face at the same time. Probably cry later from feeling violated and having my fear of men aggravated. Do you like moustaches? It depends on the person, but I'd say I generally prefer an attached beard and a mustache versus JUST a mustache. Could you hack into someone's computer if you tried hard enough? No. I have no idea how to do that. Have you ever smoked a cigar? No. Do you go out on Black Friday? Hell no. NOT worth fighting people for deals. Do you have curtains in your bedroom? No; I have those blinds that you can close upwards or downwards. Did you like the Spice Girls when you were little? Yeah, I did. Can you sing the entire Fresh Prince of Bel-Air theme song? I think I can. Do you get heartburn? I'm literally on an antacid prescription, or else I get insane heartburn every day. Are you scared of elevators? To a moderate degree, yes. I'm terrified of it getting stuck. Have you ever seen a dead body in person? Yes, at an open-casket wake. Have you ever seen The Goonies? I have. If you're white, do you ever wish you were black? Or vice versa? I'm fine being Caucasian, but ultimately don't care. Do you bake cookies all the time around Christmas? I don't bake. Do you like your hair pulled? Uhhh... I'm assuming you mean this in a suggestive context, in which case no. Never pull my hair, actually. What kind of jeans do you like? Ripped skinny jeans. What do you think is overrated? Who really cares. Let people enjoy what they enjoy. And what are your goals for the remainder of this year? Lose lots of weight, find a job, get back into old hobbies and develop new ones... Name a city that starts with A in your state/province etc. Asheboro. Name a landmark that starts with M in your state/province etc. I'm blanking right now. When was the last time you gave a horse a carrot? Been years. I think I've only done that once, and I can't even remember where it was. Have you ever had to shovel snow? No. How many seasons is your favorite TV show in so far? MM was just revived for its fifth season! :') Where would you most like to go in your state, etc. that you haven’t been? NC actually has this really old Wizard of Oz theme park! It's on the other end of the state, though, and NC is one wiiiiiide state. What was the last bird you saw? A robin, I think. What color was the last thing you drank? Green. Has a wild animal ever been loose in your house? Besides insects, no. Well wait, scratch that, once or twice we had a small mice problem when we lived in the woods. What’s the name of the bookstores in your city? The only one I know off the top of my head is Books-a-Million. Where do your parents live? I live with my mom, and Dad lives in the same city as us. Have you ever seen or touched an iceberg? No, but that would be cool. What colour are your father’s eyes? Brown. If your ex turned up on your doorstep now, with nowhere else to go, would you let him/her stay? Well one, this isn't my house, so I can't make that decision. My mom being who she is though, she'd let pretty much anyone stay the night. If it was Sara, Mom would let her stay as long as she needed. The last time you cried, was it connected with someone of the opposite sex? Ugh, yes. My PTSD was BAD last night. Delicious warm brownies or a giant cookie? I'll take the brownie. Have you visited a haunted building or area before? No, but damn I'd love to. Have you been to North Carolina? Ayyyyeeeee that's my home.

[littlewickedwiccan]

For The Workers

Chapter 3 

Alfie x Reader

Warning: Swearing, obvs

Authors note: We finally get some one on one time with Alfie. Enjoy! x  

Chapter 1 || Chapter 2

Tags: @itsjusttaralove​ @advictedtohim​

Today is the first day you are stepping foot into the Camden warehouse as a worker rather than as an uninvited visitor. You’d not slept much the night before, you have a current of electricity running through your body and a knot forming in your stomach. You feel oddly giddy about spending the whole day in the warehouse and you just can’t shake yourself out of it. 

You’d been assured by Tommy before you left Birmingham, that there would always be a Peaky keeping an eye on you. Although it was meant to make you feel safer, it just made you very aware of all the eyes that were already being redirected in your direction.  

As you made your way through the large oak door frame, Ollie’s youthful face greeted you at the door. Out of all the men you’d come across in this place, he seemed the least threatening.  

“Welcome back. Alfie sent me to come show you to your office. It’s only small, but for the work you’ll be doing, it should be alright.”

Ollie gets straight to the point and starts leading you down the red brick corridors, past the workers that have already started on the day's tasks. You have to squeeze through men lugging heavy barrels on their sweat soaked backs, their caps pulled down over their tired eyes. You can feel the men stealing glances at you as you pass and you instinctively pull your ankle length coat closer around you.  

“This here’s Alfie’s office” Ollie pointed to the room you’d sat outside of that first time you’d visited with Tommy. The door was wide open and you could now see Alfie’s big brown desk and cluttered shelves looming in the shadowy space.   

“When the door’s open, feel free to pop your head in. If it’s closed, it’s best to steer clear.” Before you have time to get a better view inside, he carries on walking, making his way just a little further down the corridor and stopping at a room that only just manages to fit a small desk, a filing cabinet and a battered looking floor lamp.

“Cosy” you say as you glance inside at the sorry looking ‘office’, worrying about the lack of natural light and how humid the air feels in your lungs. 

“Well, feel free to make yourself at home. There’s a pile of invoices that need checking there on the desk to get you started. If you need anything, just give me a shout, I’m always around somewhere.” With that, Ollie flashes you a sheepish smile before he turns on his heel and strides back the way you came. 

Slowly, you step into your new office, placing your bag on the desk next to the papers and looking around at the flaking paint on the walls. There’s dust covering every surface and the light in the corner seems to dim in brightness every now and again, as if it doesn’t have the strength to carry on lighting the endlessly dull room. 

There wasn’t a huge pile of work to look at, so you decide you have a bit of time to take a walk around the warehouse, to get the lay of the land. 

You start to make your way deeper into the belly of the building. There’s not much to look at, mostly barrels stacked on more barrels. Every now and again you come across a worker hidden in the dark, sweeping, lifting or moving trolleys back and forth.

Before long, you reach some large double doors. They’re open just a crack and you can faintly make out a shadowy figure sitting in the almost empty room. You move in closer to get a better look and reach out a delicate hand, placing it on the heavy wooden door and push it open with a soft creak. 

Finally, the hunched figure in the middle of the room comes into view, it’s Alfie, sat contemplatively in a rickety wooden chair, his large hands in his lap and his eyes closed. You falter for a second, wondering if you should just leave him to it, but just as you are about to turn and head back, he acknowledges your presence. 

“My little cousin was born blind...”     

The sound of his deep voice cutting through the silence makes you jump.

“As a result, I now donate a considerable sum of money to a charity, which gives dogs with eyes to blind Jews.” He shifts slightly in his chair making it squeak in protest under his hulking figure. 

“The chairman of the board recommends that those of us who were blessed with the gift of sight, spend at least half an hour a day with our eyes closed so that we may better understand the darkness, and also, to increase our donations and that.”

You inch closer, moving to stand directly in front of him. You can see his face clearly now, he’s actually quite handsome considering he first appears a bit rough around the edges. His beard is golden and neatly trimmed, with a thin white scar cutting through the right hand side of his face and his hair is uncombed and slicked down with sweat. 

There’s a faint smell of rum, fire and freshly baked bread coming off him in waves. It makes you feel unnervingly calm and starts to tease away the knots that had previously sat uncomfortably in the pit of your stomach. You couldn’t help but think about those exotic plants you’d read about, that draw their prey in with delicious smells, only to clamp down around them when they were close enough and swallow them whole.  

“What time is it?”

You snap out of your thoughts and glance around the room looking for a clock, but there was nothing but bricks and barrels. 

“I’ve no idea, I think it’s...” 

As you reply, you watch as his hand lightly pulls on a thin silver chain and a pocket watch pops out of the front flap of his waistcoat. He brushes his coarse fingertips lightly over the smooth steel of the antique trinket, before turning it to face the direction of your voice. 

“Ere you go, what time is it?”

You step a little closer and bend your head low to read the hands. 

“Twenty-five past nine” 

“Right, five minutes left. What can I help you with love? Are you lost? Did Ollie show you your little office?” 

You roll your eyes at Alfie’s description of your work space. The use of the word ‘little’ makes it sound like you are a child playing worker while the grown ups do the real work in the ‘big boy’ offices. 

“Actually I was just having a look around when I stumbled on your little meditation session” You make sure to stress the word ‘little’, passive aggression is your strong suit. He seems to ignore it and continue as though you’d said nothing at all and this just irks you even further.

“I think there’s another chair over there. Go have a look and take a seat.” 

You follow the direction of his flippant hand gesture and see the chair in question, propped up against the wall. Dragging it over screeching the legs on the concrete floor, you set it down a small distance in front of Alfie and take your place. 

“I like to make sure to spend these moments thinking about the bigger things… it also means I get a bit of peace and quiet from people asking me stupid fucking questions. Do you believe in god?”

The question seemed to come out of the blue and it takes you a second to process what he just said. 

“...No Mr Solomons, I don’t. It’s a hard concept to grasp when you’re involved in this kind of life, surrounded by these kinds of people.”

“Call me Alfie. Well I don’t blame you, but I’m telling you Y/N, believing in something bigger than yourself can be a saviour in the darkest of times. How long have I got left?”

You notice he doesn’t lift the watch up for you like the last time, the silver timepiece just sits loosely in his open palm lying on his lap. Hesitantly you reach forward and carefully lift the watch up to face you. He doesn’t flinch at your presence or the weight of the watch being lifted from his hand, as if he had hoped you would close the distance on your own terms.  

“Twenty-eight past nine, two minutes left.” You lean forward again placing the watch back where you found it, again he doesn’t move. 

“I never said I didn’t believe in something bigger than myself Mr Solom… Alfie, I just don’t like the idea that there is a man up in the clouds watching my every move. I like to be in control of my own decisions, of my own life and the direction I take it.” 

“Hmmm. How’d you end up ‘ere then? Did you make your own decisions this time around? How’s that workin out for you?”

He had you there, you in fact did not make the final decision to come here, it had been made for you… by a man who apparently had more control over your life than you had originally thought. Of course you couldn’t admit this to Alfie. 

“Actually I did make the decision to come here. I needed a change of scenery, so here I am. Is that a problem for you Mr Solomons?”

“Not at all love. But forgive me if I’m not entirely convinced of your exhilaration at being ‘ere with us. Look let’s stop fuckin about and address the elephant in the room, I don’t want to have to keep an eye on you every second you're here...” 

Alfie leans forward in his chair, his eyes still tightly shut, elbows resting on the dirty linen of his knees and clasping his hands in front of him, his many bracelets jangling together as he did. You didn’t feel yourself do it, but you realise you’ve started to lean back in your chair. 

“As a businessman, I get Tommy Shelby’s reasoning behind your presence here I really do, but as someone that is not an absolute fucking idiot, I am fully aware that this is not a place for a woman of your… standing.”

It was like he’d said a code word that set your blood boiling. You hated people telling you where you were and weren’t meant to be. It was like you were naive and had no idea the dangers that lay around every corner for someone like you. You were a woman that had been through a lot, been a part of many different societies and social classes. You were more than aware of what could happen if you took a wrong turn or said the wrong thing in front of these types of men. 

“Forgive me Alfie...” you stressed his name between gritted teeth.

“But I’m perfectly aware of the environment I find myself in. Thank you for your concern, but I don’t need you to watch me like a child.” 

You try to stay conscious of the tone and volume of your voice. It wouldn’t be a good idea to start cussing out your gangster boss on your first day. 

“Hmmm. What time is it?” This time he showed you the watch again as he leaned back in his chair, creating more distance between you and causing you to have to scootch forward on your seat to be able to see the time clearly. To your surprise, Alfie hands you the watch to hold.

“You’ve got 10, 9, 8...” 

As you count down, you notice the watch chain start to release tension. Alfie had started to move gradually towards you once again. You try to ignore the warmth of his body getting closer and closer. 

“7, 6, 5, 4...” 

He was so close now you can feel the light caress of his breath on your face. Your brain is telling you to move back a bit, but your body refuses to budge. 

“3,2,1”

Right on cue Alfie opens his dark blue eyes and you feel like your body has turned to stone right there in that chipped wooden chair.  

“Right then… hello”

[gildersbane]

The Gilder’s Bane

“ Portraits “ 

Boots, loose around the ankles from their laces removed to  make a lasso, fell upon stone floors as Princess Petra marched down the corridors. Morning sunlight dipped in through dusty glass in arched windows. Lighting her path as she journeyed past locked doors and prying eyes toward the nursery. A place she’d not been since she was a baby, but which was now the home of a baby sister.

A baby sister who picked a truly terrible time to decide to join them. 

They weren’t expecting her for another couple weeks. Maybe if they had been allowed that kind of time, this whole mess would have blown over. Maybe without a new baby in the home and a mother recovering from labor, everyone wouldn’t be on high alert all the time. This would have been a problem, obviously, but they might have actually let it go after a couple days. 

But it wasn’t as if they could just put her back. She was here now and everyone was going to have to get used to it. And Petra… Petra was going to have to start setting a “good example”. Whatever that meant.  She liked to think that she was setting a fine example as she was. 

Steps came to a stop outside the cracked nursery door. Petra pushed it open the rest of the way and peered into the shadows. Inside it was dimly lit, with only a bit of light slipping through the sheer white curtain over the window. It was warm inside from the morning sun beating against the castle but the sleeping little one in the antique bassinet. Looking at this old, plush piece of furniture, the elder princess couldn’t imagine a time when she was ever tiny enough to fit inside it. It sat beneath a lovely canopy of pink cloth that draped around it. Providing a little fortress for the child to rest without light from the outside world slipping in.  For now, though, those drapings were withdrawn, as Meliora had just been in here with her daughter. Liking sitting with her in the leather armchair that sat just beside it within the canopy.

The little girl’s eyes didn’t open as Petra approached and looked down at her. She was swaddled in a plush blanket and peacefully sleeping the morning away without a care in the world. Despite the noise from the castle staff hurrying from one wing to another, the construction happening up on the roof and the barking of castle dogs beyond the window in the courtyard below. She didn’t stir. For however much longer that would last before she’d wake and begin to cry again for food or clean dressings or attention. It was a miracle she was able to stay quiet long enough for the nursemaid to step out and fetch something.

Petra leaned against the edge of the bassinet carefully. Looking down at the itty bitty princess as she lay. Her baby soft, warm brown skin. The tuft of dark, fluffy hair on just the very top of her head. She looked more like a doll than a little human.

“You’re lucky you’re cute.” Petra whispered as she stepped back from the child to let her have her rest. 

Clearly the currently nameless infant wasn’t in dire need of care. She was fine unattended before Petra showed up, surely she’d be fine for another few minutes while Petra took a walk to clear her head. Luckily she knew just the place for it that happened to be right down the hall. So Petra slipped out of the nursery without a sound, leaving the door ajar so she could hear her sister if she started to cry. A moment later she was walking further down the hall in a direction away from where she’d find anyone else in her family.

This path led Petra to one of the more prestigious halls in the entire castle. Down the hall, down a short flight of stairs and around a corner, she found the portrait hall. A place where portraits of every ruler of Argustead hung along with some of their treasured items. Alongside at least a dozen portraits of people Petra wasn’t certain the identities of. But it was the rulers who had the biggest and most ornate frames. 

Aside from the princess and her ancestors this hall was vacant. Everyone had much more important business elsewhere. With her head hung, Petra walked past more than a handful of her ancestors. Her paternal grandparents frowning down at the world in oil paint. A sour looking pair neither Lucien or Petra had ever met. Their parents beside them, looking even more uptight with ruffled collars that looked as if they would soon be swallowed whole. An empty space made to accommodate the portrait that would someday hang for King Lucien- The latest in a long line of great men. And beside that space…

“Hi, Dad.” 

Petra’s voice broke the silence that filled the hall with a solemn tone. Her eyes didn’t lift from the floor at first to look at him. But when she did, her chest felt tight and her shoulders heavy. Stoic eyes the same color as her own stared out at the world, seeming to follow her no matter where she stood. His expression was still and lacking any emotion but Petra didn’t mind. It was just good to see him again. King Samuel, late king of Argustead, stood poised with his head high. In his grasp he held his trusty wooden shield. He wore a deep red velvet suit with the silver trim like his own parents wore. Meliora had always used to tease him about looking like a tomato with those red clothes and auburn hair on his stocky body. Over the years he’d grown out the thick ginger beard that covered the lower half of his face in this portrait. It was painted only a couple years ago. Before anyone would have ever considered that the worst could happen. 

Below the portrait, hanging on the wall at eye level was an old, worn shield of wood. The one in the portrait but with a few more years and a few more battles added to its life. It’s circular shape had been broken by a large wedge of it having been hacked out by a powerful axe blow. The bronze plate at its center was scratched and dented but sturdy. Damaged as it was, it wouldn’t be of any use in a battle these days. But it had served Samuel well in his life, up until the very end. And when tragedy struck, it was with its king until the bitter end. Meliora had given her blessing to put the shield on display. To immortalize her late husband’s bravery and honor his memory.

‘Honor his memory’...

With a hefty sigh, the princess turned her back to the wall and sank onto the floor. She dropped her head back against the cold stone and closed her eyes tightly. She could feel the frustration rising again just thinking about everything that had happened in the last few weeks. Everyone partying at the Coronation like it was just another celebration, everyone telling her to stop acting the ways she’s always been encouraged to act, hammering in how things would need to be different now.

“How am I supposed to honor your memory if everyone wants to change everything you left behind?”

Petra knew there wouldn’t be an answer, but she needed to ask somebody. Nobody else seemed to understand why she couldn’t just let the past go. Why she didn’t want to stop doing the things he’d taught her to do. 

When she was little, Samuel always had an adventure for her. He knew that she’d never have the same esteem as Lucien since she was the second born child to the second queen… So he’d tried his best to give her as much freedom as he could give. As much room to forge her own path as their kingdom could allow. When he realized how much she loved to watch the guards training, he realized that she wasn’t going to be the same kind of reserved and quiet child her brother had been. He asked the captain to let Petra join the younger class of future soldiers. She trained along with the future squires and young hopefuls who longed for the days when they could be a brave knight for the kingdom. Defending their furthest borders from all manner of fiend and foe. It wasn’t the life most kings wanted for their daughters, but Samuel wasn’t blind as they were to what his children needed. 

Petra could still remember the swell of joy when she was given the family armor. It wasn’t a full suit, it hadn’t been as long as it was in the royal family’s possession. It had been refitted generations ago to fit a smaller body than the broad shouldered men of their family. It was a perfect fit for Petra. She wore that silver armor as often as she could get away with it. Sometimes even wearing the greaves under her gowns at formal events. She only got in trouble for it a couple of times. 

But even that had changed. All because of that sword. The moment she discovered it in that ancient forge, it drastically altered her life. In ways that she still didn’t fully understand. But it was special. Petra could feel it. A smoke creature no one could identify had come out of nowhere to attack her for it. It was a mystery that needed to be solved and nobody but her was even trying. She was certain that if she just went back up to that forge she could find clues. Maybe Petra could learn who put the sword there for her to find it. And maybe figure out why she was having such strange dreams. But Lucien had forbidden her from going back up the mountain. In fact, after her last fight, he’d locked her in the castle indefinitely. 

True. It was the worst Petra had ever been beaten in a fight… But the injuries were mostly superficial and wouldn’t even leave scars. Everyone was making a big deal out of the wrong things. She was okay. They needed to find out what was going on.

Why wasn’t anyone on Petra’s side in this?!

“Your highness?”

Her eyes opened with a start and the princess looked around the previously empty hall. The portraits still stared lifelessly out at each other on both sides. The only People in the hall were Petra and…. Whoever the guy at the end of it was. 

He didn’t look much older than her. A year or two, tops. He had a long, rounded face Petra may have seen around the castle a few times, but never paid close attention to. Maybe down on the lower floors by the dungeons. Where the court alchemists and royally appointed smart people worked. But this guy didn’t look like he was one of those people. He didn’t look aged or bearded enough for that. Plus he still had a full head of black hair divided into many thick locks atop his head. A lot of those old guys downstairs had long since lost their hair to the years.

He also wasn’t dressed nearly as elegantly as the court mages in their flowing robes. This guy’s clothes looked second hand and well worn. With visible repairs made to the seams of his green overcoat. 

“I’m kind of in the middle of something here.” Petra pointed out, gesturing to the portrait over her head. 

The boy didn’t seem deterred. In fact he only smiled and walked closer before stopping a couple yards back and bending at the waist to bow. 

“Your highness, I was hoping for just a few minutes of your time.” He said, lifting his head to peak up at her. “I heard whispers- gossip really. I had to find out for myself if it was true. Did you truly fight a … monster?”

A loud groan rumbled from the princess’ chest as she hauled herself up onto her feet, “What? Have you come to tell me I’m crazy too? That I should stop running into trouble? Or that it’s my own fault that some big purple smoke monster showed up and attacked me and tried to take MY magic sword?”

The stranger popped up from his bow, eyes wide and sparkling with delight at her words. His face split into a wide grin and his hands dove into the satchel he wore draped across his body. He pulled a roll of wrinkled parchment and a quill out and took a few steps more toward Petra.

“Crazy? It sounds exciting! In fact, I was hoping that you would allow me to be the one to document your account of the events.” 

This was definitely a surprise to Petra. This guy was the first to volunteer to listen to her.

“Who are you?” She asked, her brow furrowing curiously as she looked him over, “Why do you want my account? Hasn’t the king already given everyone the official story?”

Petra nearly rolled her eyes. Yes. Lucien’s story had, of course, been that the assault on her had been an isolated incident and not a reason for panic. That the one responsible would soon be brought to justice and that their peace wouldn’t be disturbed. Petra wondered if anyone actually believed it. 

With a sheepish smile, the young man bowed his head once again. “My name is Micha Fontaine. I’m an apprentice to the royal archivist. Mostly I help keep our scrolls organized and make sure the old books get dusted. But I’m hoping to change that.”

He righted himself and clutched his paper to his chest with purpose, his eyes full of resolve.

“Can I speak my mind, your highness?” Micha asked, his tone hopeful but careful. Petra gave a shrugging nod. She figured he was already doing that… “With all due respect to his majesty, I don’t think his story was… enough. The people want details. They want a mystery and they want to see it solved.”

Already Petra could see that she liked where this was going. 

He continued, his voice lifting enthusiastically. “I want to give the world a story they’ll never forget. Mystery, action, magic-!”

As he carried on, Petra’s ears picked up on something else in the castle. A different sound she couldn’t quite make out. A faint, distant droning. 

“If what I heard is true, your story of what happened three days ago could be just what I need.”

Petra raised a hand, trying to quietly shush the boy as his bright voice completely overpowered her hearing. That sound was still going. Shifting and changing in pitch somewhere within the castle. But what it was exactly she couldn’t tell with Micha talking over it.

“If I get your first hand account of your experiences then I could finally prove myself and move up in the world.” He blinked, watching the princess waving her hands to try and quiet him. “.... What are you doing?”

“Stop talking.” She whispered, eyes darting around the corridor, trying to discern what she was hearing and where it was coming from. 

The droning continued in an unbroken rhythm from somewhere else in the castle but here. It was an unfamiliar tone to someone who had spent every day within these castle walls. Petra had spent her entire life getting used to every voice, every creak and every groan these old walls held. But this was entirely new. It was also markedly nothing like the pounding of the construction. And with the castle locked down, it was very unlikely that they had a visitor. 

Not a welcome one anyway. 

One look at Micha’s face and Petra could see that he also heard it and was equally disturbed. Despite the fact that they’d never met, it was clear that the boy had been around long enough to know when something didn’t belong. As the princess took a few steps back down the hall the way she’d come, a chill rocked Petra to her bones. The humming was coming from…

Upstairs… The Nursery!

Petra gasped, her eyes snapping over to where Micha stood. “Come with me. Now!”

This apprentice archiver was not exactly the ideal backup Petra would have wanted when running into a potential danger. But she was unarmed and he was taller than her. He might at least tilt the odds in her favor if something truly bad was happening upstairs. 

Without pausing to explain or wait for him, Petra took off in a full sprint toward the stairs. She stumbled in her loosened boots but didn’t let that stop her. 

She never should have left her sister alone. She’d told her mother that she’d be there taking care of her. If something happened to her because she wandered off, it would be all her fault! Maybe Lucian was right. Maybe she was being reckless.

Slipping and sliding on smooth stone floors Petra, with Micha quick on her heels and stuffing his belongings back in his satchel, came upon the nursery door she’d foolishly left open. It was now a bit more ajar than she’d left. Confirming that someone had indeed come to this room since she left. She gave a glance back at Micha and signalled for him to follow her lead as she approached. And now that they were coming up on the room the sound they had both heard was clear as day.

It was a voice. Deep, smooth and melodic. A man’s voice by the sound of it. It held a calm but eerie energy with every moment it continued. It was very different from the booming, bone rattling roars of the monster that Petra had fought. This had to be someone else. Whoever this voice belonged to, they seemed to be… Humming. There was no mistaking it, though. It was not a voice Petra knew. And if she didn’t know them, they had no business with her baby sister. 

Casting out any doubts and any fears she might have, Petra threw open the door and entered the nursery, ready to confront this mystery man. When she entered, she saw the canopy curtains around the bassinet drawn closed, though the light from the window shined through them. It was warmer than it had been when she was last in the room. But a cold stab of horror still ran through Petra as she took in the dark silhouette of a figure sitting within the pink curtains. Taller than anyone Petra had known but unmistakably shaped like a person. A person sitting in the nursery of a three day old child, notably cradling something to their chest in the shadows. 

With Micha hovering in the doorway, Petra advanced. In a few quick strides she crossed the room and reached for the curtains to pull them open. When she ripped the curtains back, there was nothing that could prepare her for what she saw within.

Petra might have expected someone foolish enough to invade a castle and attack a child to be dressed like some sort of bandit or thug. But this person- or whatever they were, was dressed too well to be either. He wore a fine black and cream colored suit jacket with gold trimmings and embroidery around the lapels, cuffs and closed waist. His crossed legs were covered in what the princess could only assume were tall riding boots for they were all black and came up well beyond his knees. Making his legs appear even longer than they already seemed to be. But his clothes weren’t his strangest feature. 

He was… Tall. Nearly at eye level with Petra even while seated. And he was grey. Blue-grey like lead or steel and with nearly the same metallic sheen where the light struck him just right. His eyes, kept lowered even as Petra barged in on whatever mischief he might have been up to, were sunken and dark. If there were sclera in his eyes, there was no shine or whiteness in them. Only pools of darkness around two gold irises dotted with blue pupils. He almost looked like a statue sitting in Meliora’s chair. If not for the fact that when Petra looked to his grey hands, she saw him gently holding the baby princess’ tiny hand. While his other arm held the fragile baby close to his body and very out of Petra’s reach. It was worth noting that the infant was, as of yet, unharmed.

And then… there was his hair. Shimmering golden waves- literally- pouring from his scalp. Looking far more like molten metal than strands of hair, it seemed to flow away from his head and stop  of its own accord around his shoulders. Petra now wondered if the added warmth in the room was coming from him. 

This person- This creature was unlike anyone or anything Petra had seen before. He certainly wasn’t the same as that smoke creature. But she had no reason to believe he wasn’t just as malicious.

“Ah.. Hello, Princess.”

That deep voice cut through the silence, knocking Petra from her confused, stunned stupor. She’d been staring and trying to process what she was seeing for so many seconds that she was startled. She tightened her jaw and fixed the mysterious figure with a hard glare as she watched those hollow eyes slowly raise and settle on her. The sight brought abrupt and frightening memories of her dream before she’d awoken on the beach and left her with a powerful and looming sense of dread. The figure didn’t stand up. Didn’t make a move toward her. He only pulled back his thin lips into an unsettlingly calm smile.

“You and I have business to discuss...”

[verai-marcel]

The Light That You Shine (RDR2 Fanfic, John Marston x F!Reader, Chapter 1 of 6, 18+)

Summary: John Marston was proud to be part of the VDL Riders, a biker gang led by Dutch van der Linde, and had been with them since he had run from home at the age of 15. He and his makeshift family lived by three principles: live free, help those who need it, and punish those who deserve it. For five years, his gang was all he cared about and nothing else mattered. But then John meets you, and his priorities start to change.

Author’s Notes: Go check out @veradia’s biker AU RDR2 art for what inspired me to write this. This is a prequel to Before This Dance Is Through, so everyone is 6 years younger; John is about 20 in this story and so are you, my dear reader. 

Tags: prequel fic, eventual smut, romance, drama, violence, cheesy 80s vibe even though it's 2012, modern AU, switching POVs

AO3 Link is here, sweetheart.

--------------------

Chapter 1 - Start at the End

Word count:  2032

“Dammit Morgan, you could’ve warned me!”

Arthur grinned as he slapped John’s back. “Well, that wouldn’t be any fun, now would it?”

The others laughed while John rubbed the back of his head, leaning down to pick up the can of beer. It looked too shaken up to open at this point, so he set it on the table and glared at his brothers. Stalking past them towards the mini-fridge, he pulled out another beer, popped it open and took a long gulp. Dressed in his favorite black leather jacket over a plain white shirt, ripped black jeans, a chain on his belt to keep his wallet from being stolen, and scuffed biker boots, John looked like he bought all of his clothes in the late 80s and never changed.

“So, what’re we doing tonight?” Javier asked, leaning against the mezzanine railing. He had his medium length hair tied up, strands of it falling from the hair tie to frame his angled face. His leather vest and his blue jeans were impeccably clean, and not a single misplaced thread was on his V-neck shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He carried his favorite combat knife in a holster on his hip, hidden under the vest, and he wore black fingerless leather gloves.

Lenny sat on the couch, his freshly polished black boots propped up on the coffee table. He looked like he didn’t quite belong in a motorcycle club, in his black pants and black T-shirt. His white cowboy hat was clean, his white blazer crisp. He had his own knife holster, concealed under his jacket. 

Sean was standing behind the couch, leaning against the back of it. He wore a green headband around his shoulder length hair, fancying himself an Irish Rambo, choosing to wear a blue athletic cut T-shirt and olive green khakis. He wore his brown Timberland boots, the same ones he had since he joined the gang. They looked dirty and scuffed to hell, but they still did their job, so he had no reason to buy new ones. His green & red striped flannel was tied around his waist, hiding a knife holster.

Charles was sitting back in one of the arm chairs catty-corner to the couch. He had his long hair braided tight, the sides of his head shaved. His dark blue peacoat was open to show his black turtleneck and blue jeans. Both of his black biker boots had knife holsters with a few throwing knives.

They all looked towards Arthur, who shrugged as he looked at all of them. He had his worn cowboy hat on with his old bomber jacket over a grey shirt, faded blue jeans, and cowboy boots. He pulled a cigarette out and lit it with his silver zippo lighter, breathing in and letting out a puff of smoke before he responded. 

“Dutch wants us to go run security at some rich feller’s house party.”

“And how are we supposed to manage t’at? I don’t have any fine clothin’ for the occasion,” Sean groused.

“No amount of clothing can save you,” Javier joked.

Sean glared as the others laughed.

“Dutch said we just wear black polos and black jeans so we look like a security company,” Arthur said once the laughter died down.

“So. Is there an alternative motive for this job?” Charles asked.

“Of course there is,” Lenny said confidently. “There’s no way Dutch would deal with those kind of folks without a reason.”

Arthur nodded. “Word is that the rich feller has quite the car collection. We sneak in after the party while everyone’s wasted and drive a few of them outta there. Swap out the plates, get a paint job over at Hosea’s, done deal.”

“And if they have alarms or kill switches?” John asked.

“You know how to hot wire,” Arthur sniped. “You, Javier, and Lenny can deal with it.” He walked past all of them and headed down the stairs. "Meet you all back here by 6pm."

John shrugged. As they split up to prepare for the job, he looked around the small warehouse they called their biker club. Walking down the stairs, he went past their bike shop area underneath the mezzanine and paused for a moment. They had slowly built this place up from scratch, bringing in old furniture for their hang out space and tools to take care of their bikes.

And on the other side of the warehouse were two offices that had been converted into bedrooms. While the others had their own places to live, John and Arthur lived at the club, having both been orphans and taken in by Dutch. Their rooms weren’t anything fancy, just a little bit of room to sleep and store their worldly possessions. John headed to his room to take a nap.

Instead, he lay on his old mattress, staring at the ceiling. He had been with the gang for five years, since he ran away from his foster home. His mother had died six years ago from a drug overdose. When she was lucid, which wasn’t very often, she was kind, even as her eyes bled sadness at the edges; those were the memories he held onto the tightest. He didn’t even know who his father was, or if he was even still alive, but he knew that if he ever met him in person, he'd knock his lights out for leaving his mother such a wreck. 

After he had been sent to foster care, his foster parents didn’t try to understand him, they only tried to mold him into what they thought a proper young man should be. So he ran away. When Dutch found him, scrounging for food in a trash can behind the warehouse, he took him in. Gave him shelter.

Then there was Arthur. He was like a big brother, taught him how to fend for himself, taught him what it meant to give more than you received, even if it came with insults and punches to the face at times.

As more outcasts joined the gang, they also became his family, his brothers. Javier, Sean, Lenny, and Charles, one by one, they all joined and quickly became an intrinsic part of his life. He’d never want for more than this.

But lately, Dutch seemed off. For the past year, John had noticed him taking bigger risks, sending them on more violent jobs, and slowly stepping away from the hands-on work, leaving it to “the younger, faster men,” as he called them. There was a tinge of blind desperation in how Dutch led them now, almost as if he wanted to push them towards something greater, but wasn’t sure what that something was.

Rolling over, he stared at the wall covered in Led Zeppelin, Eagles, and other classic rock posters. He looked at the one Metallica poster he had and smiled wryly as he remembered Arthur throwing it at him, snarling “happy fucking birthday”, and slamming his door. He later found out that Arthur had snuck into the concert, stolen a poster, and ran half a mile to get away. And all because John had whined about not being able to go that night because he was sick.

He sighed and got up. He wasn’t going to get any sleep now. Leaving his room, he tinkered with his Honda Shadow Aero, his pride and joy, until it was time to go.

***

“We certainly look dangerous,” Charles said with a hint of humor in his voice as he calmly got out of the gang’s Sprinter van. 

“That’s because we are,” Javier said matter-of-factly as he hopped out next. 

Everyone bounded out of the van, with John the last out. He pulled the sliding door shut and followed the others into the house, hanging back as he listened to Arthur talk with the party host about the job. He trailed behind them as they were led around the house and made mental notes about where the party goers were allowed to go and where they were forbidden.

Once they were left to their own devices, Arthur turned around. “Alright men, let’s get to work.”

***

The party was wild, the party-goers were disgusting, and at the end, half of them were drunk, and the other half were passed out. 

It was almost far too easy to sneak into the garage, pick a couple cars that were not too flashy, and drive them off the premises. 

As they took off down some quiet back roads to lose any would-be followers, John sat and stared out the window into the pitch black night as Arthur drove with the window rolled down, his arm hanging out the window. Lenny and Sean had taken a car while Charles and Javier had left the party earlier, driving the van to Hosea’s shop.

“Hey.”

“What.”

John scratched his beard. “Do ya think—”

“I think more than you,” Arthur interrupted.

“Dammit Arthur, I’m tryin’ to be serious here!”

“Calm your balls,” Arthur said gruffly. “Yer so easy to rile up, I can’t help it.”

John let out an exasperated sigh. “Do you think Dutch is… do you think he’s tired of this? Of the club?”

Arthur was silent for a few moments. “Why do you say that?”

“He hasn’t been around much lately. He tells us to go do these jobs that are more and more dangerous. We haven’t done a charity drive or anythin’ nice for the community in the past two years.”

“Yeah, I noticed too. I don’t know, I’m sure somethin’ will come around. Maybe he’s been busy just tryin’ to get us steady work.”

“We used to just get jobs that were just jobs. Now we always have some double crossin’ or thievin’ or some shit that could get us in serious trouble!”

Arthur was silent for a little too long.

“Arthur?”

His sigh was long and tired. “I know. I know.”

The rest of the drive was silent as they drove the two hours back to the city.

***

After they had dropped the cars off at Hosea’s car shop, Charles drove them all back to the club in the van. It was 4AM by the time they all got back, and collectively they decided to call it a night and get back together the next night. As the others took their bikes and headed to their own homes, Arthur glanced over at John, who was still silent, still thinking.

“Yer goin’ to think yerself into the ground there,” Arthur commented.

John shrugged. “I can’t ignore it anymore.”

Arthur nodded. “Yeah. Let’s talk to Dutch tomorrow.”

As Arthur headed back to his room, John stepped outside and leaned against the brick wall. He pulled out a cigarette, lit it with his disposable lighter, and slowly took a drag as he stared up at the twilight sky, the stars barely visible in the city. He had an itch to be out in the open again, to sleep under the river of stars like he did in the desert. Or even to be out of a city, just for a while.

John finished his cigarette and slunk back into the warehouse, crawling into bed and staring at the ceiling until the sun came up before finally passing out when even his churning thoughts could no longer keep him awake.

***

“I swear, if we have to hear one more lecture about not having enough faith…”

Arthur just shook his head as he followed John out of the convenience store, quietly drinking his soda. 

“We just asked one damn thing, and he blows up at us like we’re questioning his entire existence!”

“You know how he is,” Arthur mumbled.

“I know how he was. How he is now… he ain’t the same.”

John’s statement was met with silence.

“You know I’m right,” John insisted.

Arthur let out a long sigh. “Well, what am I supposed to do?”

“I don’t know!” John looked away. "All I know is that things ain't the same anymore," he mumbled as he stuffed his hands into his jacket pockets and went silent as they walked back to the warehouse.

"Well," Arthur said after a while, "It weren't us that changed, that's for sure."

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Chapter 2 coming soon!

[drethanramslay]

95 & 98 for Ethan/MC pls 🥺

Thanks for the prompt Anon

You can find the prompt list here.

Taglist: @miyakokurono @trappedinfandoms @openheart12 @sekizincimektup @junggoku @ethandaddyramsey @edith-eggs1 @ethanramseysgirl (let me know if you want to be added or removed from the tag list 😊)

Warning: Long(I tried to put the keep reading tag but my damn wifi won't let me 😭), Angst and slight swearing

sorry if there are any mistakes :)

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Since that bitch of a governor had trolled them and everything had gone down south, the board decided to host a charity event.

According to Leah, a charity event back home would have been a banquet hall with a Dropbox and a couple of very persistent people who would pester you till you would go nuts.

But here, it was... different.

There was aerobatics going on in one end of the room where the stage was. The number of turns they were making on the hula hoops made Leah dizzy. People wearing designer suits and gowns were standing and chatting. The place was decorated in a very classy way, with red carpets and all. Expensive hors d'oeuvres like caviar and champagne which costed a year of her salary was being distributed.

What in the actual fuck was going on? Leah thought as she stepped into the ballroom looking around before she laid her eyes on Ethan.

Broad shoulders, strong biceps and his beard could make any woman weak.

He was wearing a navy blue tux, with a crisp white shirt. He had opened the top two buttons of the shirt and she could get a peak of his strong chest and the stray chest hair. He had gelled his hair which made him look sharper. When his gaze landed on her, the ocean blue eyes darkened as he took in what she was wearing. The primal lust he had in his eyes made her want to get down on her knees and submit to him.

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Red.

It's the colour of sin. The colour of temptation.

It was the colour of the forbidden fruit which Eve had plucked and eaten, while the devil whispered in her ears, caressing her inner desires.

Red. She was wearing red.

Ethan was standing in the corner drinking expensive scotch when he saw her enter. He almost lost it. Leah was beautiful and sexy but that night, she looked like a temptress. Testing Ethan and his self control.

Self control can go out of the window. How am I supposed to survive this evening with her looking like that?! How was he supposed to make an incoherent thought around her when she dressed up like that?!

There were very few instances when he thought Leah looked good with clothes on rather than off. He loved Leah's naked body, which he had only seen twice but in this case, he could stare at her in that gown, forever.

She had donned a blood red gown. It had extensive embroidery in it, making it look classy. The bodice was like a second skin and emphasizing her curves. It started from the neck. A shear net covered her décolletage. It was an off shoulder, with the sleeves extending down her hands, as if they were her wings.

But that was not the problem which made Ethan a walking hard on, it was the slits that ran down from a little below her waist and extended to the ground, putting those glorious, long, caramel legs on display. He wanted nothing more to throw those legs over his shoulder and eat her out.

It was going to be a miserable evening.

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As the waltz music played, Ethan summoned the courage to ask her to dance with him.

Leah was talking to a couple of investors, squeezing them for their last penny with her intellect. He was proud of his sunshine. She really was intelligent and had great people skills.

And so beautiful..

"Dr. Garcia... May I have this dance?" Ethan asked in a husky voice. Leah excused herself before turning towards Ethan with a huge smile on her face. "You may, Dr. Ramsey."

He takes her hand and leads her to the dancefloor where the couples are swaying. Ethan placed one hand on her waist and clasped her hand with the other. Leah placed her hand on his shoulders and they swayed.

Leah's forehead was at the level of Ethan's lips and she felt a ghost kiss on her crown. "You look like a goddess sunshine. So divine and gorgeous."

Leah blushed, giving him a beaming smile. "You look utterly ravishing E. So hot."

Ethan chuckled. "Your compliments always amuse me."

Their eyes met. Cool blue with warm brown, complementing each other. As they stared into each other's eyes, glancing into each other's souls, the people and the chatter faded away.

It was just Leah and Ethan.

"Sunshine, can you please stop biting your lip…it’s distracting.” Ethan said, as his eyes were on her lips. Her teeth were chewing on the luscious red lips, making them so inviting. He wanted to bite that lip.

Leah snapped out of her daydream. "Huh? How?"

"Well... It makes me want to do unspeakable things to you... Which comprises of you, me and a empty room."

Leah's body responded wildly you his words. "So what's stopping you?"

"You know why Leah." Ethan let out a sigh, staring at her lips one last time.

Leah winced and snapped out of the warm gushing feeling. All she felt was cold fury slowly settling into her veins. She was getting exhausted.

Exhausted of this game.

Exhausted of constantly being turned down.

Masking her face to an impassive expression. Her eyes hardened, putting the walls right back, to protect herself. "Ah, yes Dr. Ramsey. I see."

Ethan was confused by the sudden coolness in her tone. He searched her eyes, trying to find something but it just felt like watching a brick wall.

"Leah I-"

The music came to an end and applause resounded through the room. Naveen, wearing a kurta with a Nehru jacket walked on the stage. "Good evening and thank you for coming to this charity event. Thank you for the generous donations."

Leah stepped out of his embrace and turned on her heel and walked. Ethan was going to follow her but Naveen called him on the stage to speak a few words.

Every instinct in him was screaming to follow the woman who had his heart but he turned the other way. As he stood on the stage, he saw a blur of red leaving.

And at that moment, he felt such emptiness in his heart, it pained him.

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Leah sat on the bench, at the edge of the parking lot, away from everyone.

She needed some damn peace and quiet where she could calm down the whirlpool of emotions rushing through her veins. She took out a cigarette and lighter she had stolen from Jackie.

Leah usually didn't smoke. But at moments of stress and intense emotions, she would light a blunt or two and try to relax. To forget.

She took a deep drag, tilted her head up and let out a long puff, feeling the nicotine burning and soothing her at the same time. The familiar feeling of smoke in her lungs calmed her down.

She sat back and saw the rings of smoke floating towards the starry sky.

"Sunshine." Ethan called out.

Goddammit can't even catch a fucking break.

"What is it Ramsey?'

"Are you okay?" He asked pleadingly.

Leah laughed and Ethan looked bewildered. She stood up, with her cigarette in her hand. "Okay? Ethan I am anything but okay! I am pissed, hurt and so angry that I feel like punching your handsome face."

"I'm sorry if I hurt yo-"

"Damn you Ethan. You have that one talent of hurting me without intending to do it. The way you talk, the way you smile, the way your pupils dilate when they see me and the way your stupid arms feel around me is like a tear in my heart. It hurts so bad but I will always come back."

"I-"

"No! You will shut your trap and listen. Ethan Ramsey, you are a blind, dumb, romantic knucklehead, who has such a beautiful way with words. The way you say 'sunshine' with your dumb voice makes me swoon sooo hard. Around you I feel at a loss of words. My thoughts scramble and I lose my grip. "

"What's wrong with that?"

"See! This is what's wrong. You are so fucking blind that you can't see me totally head over heels in love with you."

"Love? BUT- but how can you love me?! It's insane."

"Yes I'm a fucking maniac and a colossal dumbfuck to fall in love with you!! And God, I know you fucking hate the entire institute of marriage and love but did that stop me? NO! You made me fall for you and I hate you for that." Leah was panting. She threw her cigarette on the ground and stomped on it.

"Ight peace out, dude." She was about to walk away but Ethan grabbed her hand.

"Sunshine, sit down."

"No I'm not-"

"Sit your ass, the fuck down." Ethan's voice trembled.

She wasn't going to win this war. So she obliged.

He sat down, and collected his thoughts. "I'm a hard ass. I have mommy issues. I lash out. I drink when I am stressed. And I can get pissed if things are not perfect... The list goes on and on... And you still love me?" Leah nodded her head and Ethan chuckled. "Goddammit sunshine. You know, I don't believe in this love institute. But... I believe in you."

"What is that supposed to mean?" She rolled her eyes and hugged herself.

"It means that I fucking lose my mind seeing men or women flirt with you. It means that when you enter the room I can't take my eyes off you. It means that I want to spend every waking moment beside you. If that's what love is....then I guess I am in love with you Leah Marianne Garcia."

Leah snapped her head towards him. "What?" She whispered out.

"I'm in love with you."

She cupped his cheeks and brought her forehead to his. "Say it again."

"I love you."

Tears streamed down her face. "I love you Ethan Jonah Ramsey. I love you so damn much."

Ethan pressed his lips to hers, tasting the tears of happiness falling down her face. It was such a tender and vulnerable moment. He never thought that he would be sitting on a bench, in a parking lot, confessing his feelings for a woman.

But Leah changed him, healed him, loved him.

He hugged her waist and kissed her harder, trying to pour all his love and affection for this beautiful woman in his arms.

"I need you..." Leah gasped.

Intertwining his fingers in hers, he pulled her towards his car, which was nearby.

He pushed her against the door and bent down to kiss her collarbone and the sweet spot under her ear. Leah let out a breathless moan and Ethan knew that they wouldn't be able to make it till his penthouse.

Opening the door of the backseat, Ethan climbed in first and grabbed Leah and placed her on his lap. Hands wandered touching and feeling. Gasps and moans filled up the small space and I love you's were exchanged.

Ethan tried to reach for the zipper of her dress, impatient to get her naked, but that just ended up in his hand getting tangled in the dress.

"Damn sunshine! Is this a dress or a trap?"

Leah laughed and tried to helped him not before banging her head on the roof of the car. "Ow." She rubbed her head and both of them burst out in peals of laughter.

Ethan kissed her lips they tried to accomodate but it was to no avail. Leah giggled and said, "Backseats aren’t as comfortable as movies make them out to be."

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