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tropes-and-tales-archives · 2 years ago

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Ace in the Hole, Chapter Four

Word Count: 4642

TW: Fake dating, dancing as foreplay. 18+ only to be safe.

AN: Part of an unfinished series. The series masterlist here.

The job on Saturday turned out to be exactly like before: you turned up at Nevada’s club, were handed a catering uniform. After you changed, you were led to the little back room area and settled in behind the bar. Like before, there was a crush of men all wearing variations on the same outfits: black on black, with gold or silver jewelry and similar smirks.

The only real difference was Nevada. Before, he had that woman hanging off of him. This time, there was no one settled on his lap as he held court in the fug of cigar smoke. That woman – you had seen her a few time when you’d be running errands for him, but you hadn’t seen her lately. Maybe they broke up. That would explain his terrible mood the afternoon you patched up his burn.

Like before, you were busy pouring and mixing drinks, and when the crowd eventually dispersed, you cleaned up and restocked the bottles that were low. You were familiar enough with Nevada’s club now that you knew where everything was, and you were walking back with an armful of scotches and whiskeys when you noticed Nevada sitting at the little bar.

“Have a drink with me,” he ordered. You studied him askance as you set the bottles down. He had shed his leather blazer and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt a bit. He looked a little rougher around the edges than normal. His stubble, usually perfectly edged, looked a little less neat. His eyes were a little more red-rimmed. He seemed tired.

You poured his drink – a double of Greenore 18 Year Old Single Grain with a dash of water. When you slid it across the bar-top at him, he fingered the cut glass tumbler and told you to pour yourself a drink too. When you went to pour you own whiskey – a less top-shelf brand – he tsk-ed you in disappointment and ordered you to take a Grennore too. It was a rare brand, hard to get, and you sipped it with relish, enjoying the coriander notes.

Neither of you said anything at first. Before, you might have tried a weak joke with him, but after his bad reaction when you patched him up, and after your embarrassing, failed attempt to pay off your debt in your office, you weren’t sure where you stood. You couldn’t be sure if he’d respond to a joke with a filthy innuendo or a terse demand to shut the fuck up because he owned you.

“Have you heard from your asshole brother?” he finally asked. He fixed you with a look that made you think he already knew the answer. Best not to lie.

“He’s been around,” you said. You took a sip of whiskey. “He came back about three weeks ago.”

“You didn’t say anything.”

You shook your head. “There wasn’t any need to. I’m handling this situation.”

Nevada gave a bitter-sounding huff. He drained off his drink and tapped the bar-top for a refill. “You always clean up his fucking messes?” When you nodded, he scoffed in disgust.

“I promised my mom,” you tried to explain as you slid his drink back to him. “Promised I’d take care of my brother and dad.”

There was obviously more there, enough to fill a lifetime of therapy sessions, but Nevada wasn’t your therapist. You weren’t going to tell him that you loved your mother but also resented her a little, how she effectively shackled you to your asshole brother and asshole father in her remaining months of life. How she converted your guilt at her terminal cancer into a promise you didn’t want to keep. How when you fantasized about leaving it all behind – your remaining family, the Roundstone – you swore you could feel her looking down on you in disappointment.

Another scoff from him. “Who the fuck takes care of you then?”

His question pulled you up short. He watched you over the rim of his glass, as you opened your mouth to reply and nothing came out.

Who took care of you? Well, no one. Even when your mom was alive, it was more like the two of you working together to take care of your dad and brother. Splitting your collective time to drive Sean to his outpatient programs, or do inventory at the restaurant, or drive your dad to his appointments with the few doctors he could afford in-network. Even when you were at college, everything came second to keeping the family together, as your mom called it.

Nevada’s eyes felt like they were burning through you, and you couldn’t discern what he was thinking. You finally just shrugged lamely. No one took care of you. End of story.

“I have another job for you on Thursday night,” he said, changing the subject. “I’ll send Javier to help cover the kitchen for you.”

“Okay.”

Another long moment where he stared at you as he finished his drink and you finished yours. Your eyes drifted to the bit of his bared forearm, where you could just make out the tender pink scar from his healing burn. He caught your look, and you swore you saw a sheepish look cross his face.

“It’s healing,” he offered. “You were right about the blistering.”

“Chefs get burned all the time. Spattering grease, hot pans.”

There was a beat, which would be the moment where any other man apologized for snapping at you as he did. Nevada obviously felt it too, but he didn’t seem like the type to ever say that he was sorry. Instead he offered, “I know I’m an asshole when I’m in pain.”

“So you have a chronic pain condition then?” you blurted out without much thought, and you said it so dead-pan that he nearly missed that it was a joke.

“You’re fucking hilarious.” He sounded gruff, but you could see the faint smile lurking around the corners of his mouth. He polished off the rest of his drink and then stood up. He pulled out his money clip, peeled off a few bills, and stuffed them into the tip jar. He reached down and picked up his coat and then pointed at you.

“Take your fucking tips this time,” he ordered. “And tell Big E out front to drive you home.”

----

Nevada’s next job for you wasn’t another bartending gig. Your first clue was the stack of boxes that showed up at your place that morning. It was incredibly early – the sky was still that indescribable color between the dark of night and the lightening of dawn – when one of Nevada’s men knocked on your door and thrust the boxes into your arms with a grunt.

You rubbed the sleep from your eyes and opened each one. There were three flat boxes that contained dresses – each one skimpier than that last. There was a silvery slip dress that covered less than the little paper robes you got at the gynecologist. There was a deep green bandage dress that would require some creative underwear solution. Last, there was a black…thing. It was an indecipherable series of straps and cut-outs with no apparent zipper anywhere. You were completely flummoxed as you how you were supposed to get it onto you.

The other boxes were just shoes. Shoes on shoes on shoes. You could tell a man – Nevada – had picked them out. They were all sky-high heels, and your toes went numb in dread anticipation.

Your second clue came in the afternoon. You were in the kitchen with Manny and Javier, helping them prep for the evening as much as you could. The two men were extremely capable, but it was still your place, and it was easy to get into the weeds during the dinner rush. You were engrossed in deboning filets of branzino that were the special de jour, and Eva had to call your name three times before you looked up.

“There’s someone here for you,” she said. You sighed – it had to be Nevada. You washed your hands and dried them off, and you made your way into the restaurant.

It wasn’t Nevada. A bored looking woman leaned against the bar, and she had one – no, two – giant tackle boxes with her. And a huge tote bag slung over her arm.

“Hey,” she said. “Vada sent me here to get you ready. I’m Mariana.”

You couldn’t help the smile that threatened to break out across your face. That asshole had joked that he’d send someone along to fix you up…and then did just that. Apparently he found your skills with liquid eyeliner to be lacking after all.

You shed your chef’s coat and gestured for Mariana to follow you. You lived in the apartment above the restaurant, so it was a short walk. The woman waved off your offer to help her carry her gear, and once inside your place, she gave you an appraising look. And an appraising sniff.

“How about you shower first?” she asked, not entirely unkindly. “You smell like a fish market.”

-----

If this were any other situation, you might be happy to have another woman playing dress up with you. You didn’t have many friends – most of your girlfriends from high school had married and moved off to the suburbs or to cities with cheaper cost of living. Making friends as an adult was harder than you had realized and besides, you didn’t even have the time to casually date, let alone find and nurture female friendships.

Mariana had laid out all the dresses and shoes, and she told you her opinions on all of it. On her advice, you opted for the green bandage dress that was skin-tight but still (shockingly) comfortable. The woman was a little older than you, you guessed, and she was one of those women who was perfectly made up. Perfect hair, perfect makeup. Her shoes matched her perfectly shaped nails. You felt like a swamp beast beside her, but you trusted her opinion.

But she was nice, and maybe she had enjoyed playing with dolls as a child, because she was smiling and humming as she transformed you. She chattered as she did your hair (loose curls) and your makeup (subtle except for the smoky eye that made your green eyes seem more vibrant). She pulled out a million products, dusted a lustrous powder on your shoulders and into your cleavage that made your skin glow faintly like a crushed pearl.

“How do you know Nevada?” you asked, and you felt a pre-emptive sting of jealousy, assumed she was an ex.

“That asshole is my cousin,” she said. She reached into her tote and pulled out a pair of earrings to hold by the side of your face. “Our moms are sisters.”

You breathed a quiet sigh of relief. “You do this for him a lot?”

Mariana snorted. She held up another pair of earrings and nodded in approval, then handed them to you to put on. They were long and dangly silver things, and they almost brushed your bare shoulders when they were in.

“I had a boyfriend,” she replied. “He was cheating on me. Vada moved him out of my place and helped convince him to never return.”

“He seems pretty persuasive like that.”

The woman laughed. “Yeah, he is. I think my ex is in Reno now. If he could get further away from Vada, he probably would.”

Finally, she stood back and studied you. You squirmed a little under her gaze, felt awkward and unwieldy. Lipstick on a pig, your father used to say when your mother would give you a little makeover before a school dance. You wanted to scrub your face clean and dive back into your shapeless clothing, go back to descaling fish….

“You look…” Mariana started. Then she laughed, and continued, “I don’t think Vada’s gonna even let you out of the building before he jumps you.” You felt your face turn hot, and she laughed again and added, “and if you blush like that, he won’t even let you out of your apartment.”

*****

Nevada had originally planned on taking Valerie with him, but that plan had fallen to shit when she started fighting with him over everything. He finally cut her off, blocked her number…but he still had a night out with some associates, and he needed a date.

You owed him. It seemed like a good enough idea at the time.

Standing now in your doorway, drinking in the sight of you (as you shrank away from him a little, shy at his wolfish gaze), Nevada realized that it was a terrible fucking idea. He had hoped that you’d pick the green dress, and it looked better on you than he had even imagined. Nevada wasn’t even sure where to focus – on those fantastic tits of yours, only half-hidden by the molded neckline of the dress. On those legs that he could just imagine wrapped around him. Or on that perfect ass, pushed into a perfect heart-shape by those heels, that he ogled as you went to grab your purse.

It took all of his restraint, his hands twitching at his sides as he followed you down the narrow stairs to the waiting Escalade.

“So what’s the job?” you asked, and you turned a little to face him.

Nevada ran his thumb over his lower lip and studied you. “A night out with some of my associates,” he finally offered. “I need you to pay attention without looking like you’re paying attention. Listen to what people are saying. Watch what they do when no one is looking.”

Your face got that tense look it did whenever you thought Nevada was pulling you into illegal business. You obviously watched too much true crime or something. He could barely get you to run errands without you assuming that you were an unwitting drug mule. It was charmingly naïve.

“Nothing illegal,” he continued, cutting you off before you could even ask. “But try to pretend that you want to be there. Act like you’re my date.” A pause, and he added, “have you been on a date before? Or can you at least act?”

Nevada had wondered a lot about your dating past. You seemed cloistered off from the rest of the world despite your age; he couldn’t really picture you out with a guy, grabbing a beer or taking in a movie or whatever boring shit guys in your world did. You rolled your eyes at his question though and said that yes, you had been on dates before. And yes, as such, you could act – you’d been on enough disappointing first dates that you could feign interest.

There was still a wall of reserve between you and him. Nevada knew it was because he snapped at you before, and he wished he hadn’t been so angry that day. He objectively knew that he took his anger out on the people around him, and in his idler moments, he wondered if that was why he was often alone.

The SVU pulled up outside the restaurant, and Nevada reached out and grasped your chin in his hand so that you were looking at him. “Try to make it believable that you want to be here. And pay attention.”

*****

Make it believable, Nevada told you.

At first, you just threaded your arm through his, and it was as much for the support in your stilettos. As you met his associates and their dates, though, you adapted to match their energy. Those women were similarly made up like you – tight, revealing dresses, well-done makeup, impractical shoes. And they were draped over their men as if they were accessories. Compared to them, you and Nevada looked like you were on your first date to an eighth grade dance.

You could feel Nevada tense up just a bit when you slid an arm around his waist, but he recovered quickly. He responded by wrapping his own arm around your waist to tug you a bit closer, and his free hand rested comfortably on your hip. You were reminded, once again, that if he were any other man who had just strolled into your restaurant, you would have happily dated him. He was attractive, and he had a magnetic quality beyond his looks. And his hand was warm on you, even through the fabric of your dress.

If you put aside the gulf between you – your brother’s debt, Nevada’s legally vague ownership of your restaurant – you could admit that this was as close to a nice date as you’d ever had. You’d had a few boyfriends and more first dates, and they had all been uniquely disappointing. Little more than overgrown boys, really.

*****

Nevada would say that you were drunk, but he watched you all night: you had exactly one cocktail (weak and watered down shit at that) and one glass of wine with dinner.

So maybe you were a fucking award winning actress when you weren’t peeling potatoes in your shitty restaurant.

His associates and their women were all in established relationships, comfortable with each other and their casual PDA. You seemed to feed off that energy and acted in kind, and Nevada could almost get caught in the fantasy and pretend it was real.

Like when you speared a scallop and held the fork out to feed it to him, and when you leaned forward to whisper in his ear. It probably looked loving to an outsider, but your breath ghosted over his ear as you murmured, “this scallop is overcooked and was previously frozen.” Which made Nevada laugh in surprise, which probably sold the whole routine even more. Just an enamored couple, feeding each other and laughing at inside jokes.

Or like when you stood up to go to the restroom and trailed a lone finger along his shoulder – enough to draw his gaze so that he could watch that perfect ass of yours as you wound through the restaurant. It was enough to make one of the men snap his fingers under Nevada’s nose, and the whole table erupted in laughter at the sight of Trujillo, apparently pussy-whipped.

Or when you returned with a fresh drink for him and, more than that, a kiss. It was only on the corner of his mouth, calculated and not a real kiss, but still…

Dinner talk was mostly in Spanish, and Nevada didn’t think you understood much of the language other than what you picked up in your kitchen, but he still caught the careful way you tried to listen without seeming to listen. Just like he had ordered.

Then after dinner drinks, then the group made their way to the club across the street. It was owned by one of the men, and they bypassed the line and were ushered to a VIP area a bit apart from the rest of the crowd. You kept your arm wound through Nevada’s, and he gritted his teeth at the feeling of your rounded breasts pressed against his arm. This was an act, he reminded himself. Just an act.

You weren’t drunk. You couldn’t be. Even when the men ordered bottle service, Nevada watched as you only pretended to sip at yours. You held it like an accessory, allowed them to top it off, but when you thought no one was looking, you poured a little out into the ice bucket.

Nevada watched you as you watched everything around you – the dancing on sunken dance floor, the crowd around the main bar, the waitresses in skimpy outfits as they wove their way through the crush of people. The other people in the VIP area, as they made out brazenly or did bumps of coke on the sly. You slid a bit closer to him, maybe unconsciously, and Nevada tightened his arm around your shoulders to hold you there.

In the low lights of the club, you seemed to glow, and he felt that flush of pride as other men eyed you up. He knewyou’d be a fucking knockout in the right clothes, and here you were now. On his arm. With him. If it wasn’t exactly a real date…well, he could pretend for now.

You turned your head to whisper in his ear again, murmuring that you hadn’t caught much at dinner but that you’d heard numbers and had memorized them.

“Write them down later,” he replied. He didn’t need any fucking numbers; the night out was just a bit of social glad-handing, but you didn’t need to know that. Not when you were so close to him, practically in his lap with none of your usual hesitancy.

“Is this too much? Am I being over-the-top?” you asked, and now he could make out the anxious edge to your voice. Even if you were acting, you still sounded like you.

“It’s fine,” he replied. To prove that you weren’t overacting, he just went ahead and pulled you into his lap after all, and you didn’t resist him. You did blush a little – he caught it even in the dim lighting – so maybe it wasn’t all acting after all.

He reached around and laid an arm along your thigh, a generous portion bared from the short skirt that rode up even higher as you settled onto his lap. Your skin felt like silk under his hand, and he felt his cock stir against you. If you felt it too, you didn’t mention it.

“I can’t tell what’s too much,” you continued, and Nevada knew you weren’t purposely putting your mouth that close to his ear. You pulled back and pointed to your left with your chin where another couple was vigorously and sloppily making out. “Over there, they are basically having sex.” You sounded scandalized despite the fact that you were perched on his lap.

He couldn’t keep the smirk out of his voice. “We can do that if you want, abejita.” He was rewarded with a shocked huff, and he caught the deepening blush that broke out across your cheeks before you settled back against him.

He wanted to add more, but you shifted in his lap again, enough weight and friction to really send his blood southward. You had to know what you were doing. No, you were too naïve and blushing to realize. Nevada had no idea what you were doing. Acting? Was it possible that you weren’t acting? The bass was loud, and there was a certain atmosphere that crept over dark and loud clubs.

Your hand drifted to the back of his head, and he felt you thread your fingers through his hair. It wasn’t overtly sexual though. It was soothing, like when you had cleaned and bandaged his arm weeks ago. Nevada felt that same creeping calm wash over him, like he was being hypnotized or put to sleep.

“You wanna dance?” he asked. He turned a bit to look at you. “You even know how to dance?”

You narrowed your eyes at him. “I’ve been taking dance lessons since I was four, Mr. Ramirez.” You put special emphasis on the “mister” that made him smirk.

“What, like that Riverdance shit?”

That earned him a tug on his hair, and Nevada had a brief, torturous vision of you in bed with him, pulling his hair like that. “I took all sorts of dance,” you replied. “Ballet, tap. Irish step dancing.”

He smacked the side of your thigh to motion you to get up, and then he stood beside you. He gestured out to the dance floor where people were paired off, swaying and grinding to the beat.

“C’mon, abejita,” he said. “Let’s see how well you can tap dance to this music.”

He led you to the floor, relishing how people’s eyes turned to watch the two of you. After you carved out a little space, you stood there awkwardly until Nevada pulled you against him. He settled one hand on the small of your back and pressed you against him. It was warm out on the dance floor, and you were warm against him too.

Once you were in place, you found the beat easily enough, and the two of you started just by swaying together. Nothing salacious, but you were close enough to him that he could make out the subtle lipstick on your lush mouth, the tiny sparkles across your cheekbones. He could smell your perfume, a delicate floral scent. You had one hand laid on the back of his neck lightly, and the other was pressed against his chest, giving a bit of counterbalance and distance between you.

“You’re not bad,” he told you after a while. He kept his head close to your ear so that you could hear him over the music.

You responded with a light laugh that tickled past his own ear. “’Not bad’ sounds like ‘not great.’”

“I’ve had better,” he challenged, and he was rewarded by the way your narrowed your eyes and scrunched your nose. It wasn’t a lie – Nevada had danced with plenty of women who had sold it better, working him for drugs or money. They were women who ground against him on the dance floor, who wrapped a leg around him, who openly palmed his cock in the middle of the club.

You weren’t that sort – for fuck’s sake, you’d been scandalized by the couple making out (okay, dry humping) in the VIP area. But you did give a graceful half-turn until you were facing away from him, your back pressed to his chest. And – Jesus Christ – that perfect ass pressed to his groin.

And as naïve as you seemed, you knew how to sway your hips to the fucking beat.

It was foreplay as much as it was dancing: you ground your ass against him, and he wrapped one arm around your waist and the other around your torso. That hand reached up and laid along your throat, and he could feel your pulse thundering away under his thumb.

When he shifted his hand to wrap around your neck – not choking you by any stretch, but a gesture of possessiveness for the other men on the floor who were openly ogling you? That made your pulse leap even more.

Your own hands found their way to him. You laid one along his arm around your waist, but the other reached up behind you and hooked around his neck. You threaded your fingers through his short hair again, and this time, you gave him a sharp tug that had to be intentional.

There was no way this could be acting. No fucking way. The couples you had arrived with had melted into the crowd; no one of any consequence was watching. Maybe you were caught up in the music, but you had to feel his erection grinding into you. There’s no way you could miss it, and judging by how you pressed back into him, you were acutely aware of it.

“Come home with me,” he growled in your ear. He didn’t care if he sound pleading or whiny. He fucking wanted you.

You didn’t answer for a long moment – there was such a long silence that he wondered if you’d even heard him. Nevada waited in dread. Maybe you’d switch back to business-you, demand to know what going home with him was worth in terms of your debt.

But you didn’t. You fucking didn’t do that at all. Instead, you did that half-turn again, all lithe grace until you were spun in his arms and facing him. And instead of bluffing your way though some brave little speech like you had that first time you had talked business….instead, you surged forward and kissed him.

Nevada might not have the best read on you, but he knew that you weren’t acting now.

#nevada ramirez #nevada ramirez imagine #nevada ramirez x reader #nevada ramirez x you #trouble in the heights #trouble in the heights fanfiction #tropes-and-tales

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tainted-darling · 5 years ago

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The Prissur and the Guard Chapter One: Orados

This is the first installment in my series! I hope you enjoy!

Word count: 1k

Story type: Original Fantasy

Warnings: Magic, crime mention

———————————————————————

Now, now, now, before I tell you the story of love and peril that you’ve come for, I must tell you of the world that it takes place in. Firstly, there are five kingdoms that make up the small land of Orados: Greenor, Fri’k, Hrethek, Bran, and Truu’n. Our story will focus on the royalty of Truu’n. Now in the society of Orados, those who have renounced gender are respected most highly. They are the only ones who may undergo training to be royal sages, and the Reyol has say over the King or Queen that they choose to marry. Furthermore, of the children of the Reyol, the Prissur is always first in line, no matter their age. If the family happens to have multiple Prissurs, then the eldest shall inherit the throne. All royals have guards that keep them safe; The Reyol with 5, the King or Queen with 3, and the Prissurs, Princes and Princesses with one.

The royal family in Truu’n, if you recall the place where this story takes place, is the Rosebond line. The Rosebonds have always been kind-hearted and well loved, especially the current branch, the Reyol Gree, the King Nathan, and the only child, the Prissur Elliot. Elliot and their guard, Virgil, shall be the main characters of our story.

Going back to the world in a larger portait. This has kept the people of Orados happy for centuries. But in the past half-century, a new form of power emerged: magic. This wouldn’t be a problem except for the fact that this new power can only be harnessed by those with gender. This has unsettled the general populous and scared the Reyols of Greenor, Bran, and Fri’k to the point of banishing any citizen using magic that is caught. As one would think, this caused a wave of new citizens coming to Hrethek and Truu’n. Now, this has also become a problem for the Reyols of Hrethek and Truu’n, as many magic users are criminals who jumped at the opportunity to stick it to the Reyols and gain more power to do more heinous acts. With the new increase of crime in the usually peaceful Hrethek and Truu’n, the Reyols have had to ask those who use magic without registered just cause to leave to the magic-filled neighboring country of Greet. This has caused many of those same criminals to move and start chaotic magical lives over in Greet, but that wasn’t a problem, as the arrangement was made with the rulers of Greet, and the Reyols were informed that the magic guard in Greet would be able to handle the criminals. This has brought about a new dawn of peace in all of Orados.

Now that I’ve spoken to tell you of the world of Orados, I will now begin to tell you about Prissur Elliot and their guard, Virgil. Now, Virgil himself is male, and has not renounced his gender. But this was not a problem for the royals when investigating guards, as they accept the most skilled regardless of status. Prissur Elliot has lived quite a life indeed, being trained so that they can handle themselves and set mostly loose to explore and quest. Elliot is now seventeen, and Virgil eighteen, both ripe ages for love. It has been clear for years to everyone except for Elliot that Virgil has been in love with them, and it has been excruciating to watch but also the talk of the town all over Truu’n.

But I feel as if I must describe the pair. Elliot has a bushy head of dark curls paired with darker skin and deep brown eyes. Virgil has much lighter skin himself, with spiky caramel brown hair and pleasant blue eyes. The two are both driven to help the people of their lands, and it has caused a deep bond to form between them. Over the years they’ve gone one thousands of adventures, bringing joy to both themselves and others. The pair fit like puzzle pieces, the combined cheeriness and determination of the two forming an unstoppable duo.

It’s common to find the two riding along the nearby mountain ridge, watching the sunset together. Most find it incredible how oblivious the Prissur is, despite having a high education and having read many, many stories of love. It’s so obvious that the two are pining for one another, and then not realizing that the other loves them back. It’s a yearly cycle, almost. A year ago, the Reyol and King caught on and deemed Virgil fine and loving enough for their child, and have been egging him on and attempting to help drop hints to the oblivious Elliot.

At this point, the only people who don’t know that the two are in love in the whole of Truu’n is the pair themselves. Elliot and Virgil spend almost all their time together, and do many things that would be deemed romantic. But, both are yet to confess their love, so they stay in pining agony.

But I can assure you that they will not stay that way. I know the whole of their story, up until death. I am here to share that story with you, and hopefully provide entertainment in the meantime. I myself am a current resident of Truu’n, and the story I’m telling was witnessed by my mother, and she passed it unto me. She wanted me to know the tale of the current Reyol Lance, because she believed that it was important to know the stories of all, especially the royalty. In this world, stories power all. If you ask any passerby for the story of their family, they would happily give it. At least here in Royal City, stories are a common object of trade, and few keep their stories a secret. It’s simply not how it’s done. I’ll have to continue the story later, because I’ve got to defend the city now! Farewell, my story-seeker!

#this is my first 100% original story on here #so please give feedback #I beg of you #The Prissur And The Guard #Original fantasy story #localdemon’s stories

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