#i just need shots of will drinking over all the whiskey blues lines

[girlscience]

you guys don't understand how badly I need a hannibal/will video set to this song. idk how to make videos but i will make it myself if i have to. it's so clear in my mind how it would go

[givethemsmut]

Cody Rhodes x Reader

Made of Gold | Chapter Two

This chapter got long… my bad… 😂 3,462K ahead…

A week had gone by in a blink of an eye when Layla and I had started to plan another weekend of mischief. Forcing Layla’s hand I picked the same bar as last time. I had something to prove, someone to convince he wanted me when I damn well knew he didn’t.

Yardbirds was more crowed than last time when we found two seats at the end of bar, the perfect view of the entire bar. It didn’t take long to spot Cody and his friends making a ruckus in the corner booth.

Scooping up both shots I kissed Layla on the cheek and wished her luck. Making a b-line over to another stranger covered in tattoos I introduced myself fearlessly. He was among their two tables and them mingle already meant he was a friend of Cody’s.

There was no fear, I knew I wasn’t actually going home with anyone. It was all a game. Entertainment. An escape.

Teaching me to play pool I leaned over the table in my short dress, directly in Cody’s line of sight. Tattoos finally told me his name, Dom, as his hand smoothed down my ass, dangerously close to the hem.

During his turn I sat back on the table’s edge, laughing at what he said, and shooting back shots professionally. I couldn’t have been less interested in the embodiment of trouble named Dom. I wanted the one person who didn’t want me.

It didn’t take long before Cody’s hand latched right above my elbow when he demanded to talk to me privately. Yardbirds had a beautiful outdoor section filled with fire pits and ivy growing on the building making it feel less exposed.

Shivering, I stood there waiting for his lecture, “What the fuck are you doing? You don’t even know Dominik.” His anger spewed all over while my nipples got hard right through the material of my dress. “He just got married last year. They’re trying to have a baby. These guys aren’t going to tell you that.”

“I didn’t ask, Cody. You’re protecting my virginity harder than me.”

Stepping into me, forcing me backwards, he boxed me in with his intensely blue eyes pinning me down. “You know what? I’m not babysitting you tonight. I’m actually here trying to get laid.”

His mouths was close to mine, enough to drooling over his cologne. Walking back inside I was angry nothing had worked, annoyed that I thought I had a chance at all. He was older than me by years, independence, owned his own house, had a career, and two cars - I had high school and a toxic home life. We didn’t fit.

Walking back inside after I gave myself a few seconds to catch my breath I headed right for more drinks. I was on the way to drinking my weight in liquor when I decided to stop protecting my virginity at all.

Cody wanted to police me than I was going to give him something to police.

Sliding into the booth Dom had occupied, I cuddled up to him not caring about anything Cody told me about his personal life. All Dom needed to be to me was someone who took my virginity since Cody wouldn’t. It felt desperate but the only thing motivating me was the fact that he was here to get laid.

The idea of seeing him flirt, touch someone, leave with someone fueled a new kind of feeling; jealousy.

Dom’s hand innocently found my knee while my eyes looked for Cody. He was talking to a beautiful girl with his arm around her neck when I leaned into Dom. His mouth found my neck and a moan slipped from my mouth.

It might as well been on the overhead speakers when Cody’s attention shifted to me. Selling it more now that he was watching I arched my back into Dom and let my hand find his tensed bicep. “Dom, we should go somewhere,” I whispered my words to him realizing we were surrounded by people.

Prying my eyes from Cody I let myself sink into Dom right there in the booth. I didn’t even need to look anymore. Our mouths collided in a messy make out fueled by whiskey on my part.

Dom’s wet tongue found mine, bullying my mouth into opening against his. I couldn’t help the noises my body made when I whispered to Dom, “Don’t stop.”

After a heavy make out session in round booth I couldn’t help but let my eyes find Cody. His eyes were glued to me and pissed off. Climbing out to the booth, Dom followed suit behind me when his arm rested around my neck. “Let get out of here, babe.”

Cody came over pretty quick, determined to make sure I don’t succeed in loosing my virginity at all. “I need to speak with you. Right now.”

I rolled my eyes at the urgency when he lead me outside to his truck. He shouted at me before attempting to round his car, “Get in the fucking car.”

Cody had snapped and I wasn’t innocent. “No, Dom is waiting for me inside.”

Taking bigger steps, he stopped right in front of me, “What the fuck did you just say to me?”

“No.”

“I wasn’t asking. Get in the fucking truck or I’m gonna go in there in beat him until I feel better. Is that what you want?”

“Go get laid the way you want and stop caring about me.” I stood my ground even with an unhinged Cody stepping towards me until my back was against his truck. “Let’s call a truce, you do you and I do me, no more interference.”

“You really don’t care that he’s married? He’s not going to appreciate anything you give him.”

His hands boxed me in like I wasn’t dismissed. Cody was right against me, his erection between us growing and his heart beat wild when my hands landed on his chest.

My body instantly arched, hips looser, and my one hand trailed down to the belt he was wearing. “And you would?”

“You’re driving me insane. I’m trying to protect you and instead Dom’s fucking mouth is all over you. No one in there is boyfriend material, none of them are gonna tell you they’re married or dads. None of them are gonna call tomorrow.” His sharp words hit me like a ton of bricks through all the tension sitting between our close bodies.

“I don’t need a gentleman… and I don’t need to be protected.”

His husky voice dropped lower, “You get one shot at your first time, why don’t you deserve a gentleman?”

Pushing my hips forward my shoulder blades pressed into his truck. My hands loosely grasped onto hit light blue button down, tugging his body to fall further into mine. I didn’t feel like explaining my entire theory on why I wanted trouble instead of love.

“Can we go back to your place?”

Cody’s hand smoothed down my backside, stopping at my ass, when his mouth hit my ear. “Not a good idea. I’m barely hanging on. This fucking dress. I can’t want you. I’ve worked too hard to throw it away.”

“Throw it away? I’m six months away from eighteen, no one needs to know that.”

His hand tugged my dress up further so it barely covered my ass and I felt my body vibrate. My entire body shook for him and I could barely stand in my heels anymore.

Every part of me felt less stable.

“I can’t violate my contract. I can’t attract this kind of heat. Goddamnit.” He swore me off as I started to unbutton each button until his chest was exposed. His tattoo in cursive read dream as I traced the curves. “Go back inside before I ruin your pussy.”

His voice was derived of emotion when he tensed and his hands covered mine, stopping me from unbuttoning the last button.

“Cody. You can’t be serious.” I whined more than I meant to all because my panties were wet and he was rejection.

Stepping to the side, his back against his truck, and his hand out he repeated himself. “Go.”

Back inside, the warmth envelopes me and I hit the bar for another drink before Dom finds me. Wrapping his arms around me from behind I try to smile but I know he’s not the man who insinuated he was gentleman and would ruin my pussy.

“Let’s get out of here.”

Twisting around to face him, I let his hands skim over me when I let my body speak before I did. “I don’t care who sees.”

His thumbs found my hard nipples and mouth found my neck while I drank my drink through a straw. Sitting down on the barstool he pushed my knees apart, standing between my legs, leaving no space between us.

“You sure you don’t care?” He asked and I felt his hand fall down the front of me finding shelter between my legs. Gasping at his fingers teasing my panties I tried to compose myself but I couldn’t help how disappointed I was it was him.

Cody had joined his friends at the pool table, holding a pool stick and his eyes glued to my mouth that fell open in another whimper. I could feel every ounce of anger and hated him for not claiming my virginity as his.

That night I left with Dom but nothing happened. We went back to his hotel and watched horror movies all night and fell asleep too drunk to not regret everything.

Next week started April break so Layla and I were bound to weekend warriors. We showed up midweek to Yardbirds and Cody and his friends were sitting in their usual booth but this time eating dinner.

Sitting at the bar we ordered drinks, letting it feel like groundhogs day, when a new stranger appeared next to me. “I’ve seen you around,” his words might have not meant it but he was implying I was easy.

The easy girl who kept coming back for more was really the still virgin trying to piss off Cody making him think his friends had a chance.

“Can I help you?” I sliced through the bullshit.

“Can I buy you a drink?” He asked with a million dollar smile. Holding up my drink to my lips I left my drink answer for me. “Okay… maybe not right now. I’m having some people over, I have a hot tub.”

I couldn’t help when my eyes looked around him and he responded before I could. “Cody is my best friend, he’ll be there. I know what you’re trying to do.”

Layla looked interested and tried not to make too many faces when her ears perked up. “And what’s that?”

“Make Cody jealous. It’s working but right now that brunette is distracting him.” His body ate the little space between us and I realized breezing through his friends wasn’t going to convince him he should be next in line. Realizing Cody was out of reach I focused on Matt.

“I’m over that. Can my friend come too?” I asked innocently as I polished off my drink.

Shaking his head, he took my hand and led us outside. Shouting to Cody from a car down, “Do you have room for one more? I’m full.”

Layla was getting the boot when I volunteered to go in Cody’s car instead. “I’ll go, it’s okay. I’ll meet you there.”

Confusion struck his expression when he granted me permission. “It’s not going to change he’s got someone with him but suit yourself.”

Climbing into the back of Cody’s truck I saw the woman in the passenger seat, her body turned towards him and her hand on his leg. “Am I dropping you at a hotel?” His voice was smug and full of advisories he didn’t dare say in front of her.

“No, Matt invited me.”

Cody stopped looking over his shoulder at me and simply drove to Matt’s house. The whole time I had to witness the nameless brunette rub his thigh and practically beg to suck his dick.

Her hand must have went too far when he made a noise of shock. The ride was torture and Cody didn’t even care I was in the backseat.

Hoping out I saw Matt getting out of his Audi when I jumped into his arms like we had been separated for a lifetime. Smiling and laughing he whispered, “I don’t care how you get turned on as long as I’m the one reaping those benefits.”

Setting me down on the trunk, his hands cupped my face and our lips touched. If my brain could let Cody go I would have fallen for Matt right then and there. It was a perfect kiss but all of me still felt pulled to Cody.

Helping me down he slapped my ass, “Let’s go to the hot tub. You want a shirt or wanna go in your bra and panties.”

“What if I’m not wearing either?” I walked backwards just to see his reaction.

“Dirty girl. I’ll grab you a shirt.”

Matt’s house was less modest, a mini mansion with all the grand details you would expect. His friends started pouring drinks and flicking the lights on for the outside, it was like a party house with all the neon lights everywhere.

Layla cuddled up to a guy with long hair and beard I didn’t know yet and I couldn’t help but smile.

Handing me a fresh shirt he said into the shell of my ear, “Not that I don’t want you to go naked…”

Holding onto his hand I dragged him down a dim hallways by the front door. “Stand here, don’t let anyone see,” I demanded while I shimmied out of my dress.

Cody’s voice sounded close when he slapped his shoulder. My eyes looked up and my hands covered my exposed boobs when our eyes met. Cuddling into Matt for shelter he shot Cody a shit eating grin.

Wearing Matt’s shirt we dipped into the hot tub while everyone else got warm by the fire. We were laughing, talking, pouring more rounds - it felt easy.

It didn’t feel sexual when Cody and his date joined us in the hot tub. As much as I wanted to rub Matt in his face for rejecting me, Matt felt like a friend, one willing to help me be cruel.

Whispering in my ear, “I’ll follow your lead,” he pulled me closer with his arm around my neck.

“Cody, you still a few weeks out on injury?”

“Yeah, still in rehab before I can test. Feels good tho. You guys meet tonight?” I avoided eye contact with him altogether.

Matt responded instead when the brunette started kissing Cody’s neck where a tattoo lived. Watching his mouth fall open at her touch I nearly lost it.

Straddling Matt’s lap I stood up first so Cody could see the white shirt was practically see-through and I wasn’t wearing panties. “Oh yes… come here baby,” Matt cooed.

Tit-for-tat became clear when I could hear the water moving and the sound of kissing. Pulling off the heavy, wet shirt, and letting it plop down on the cement I sat on Matt’s lap vulnerable.

Exposed.

“Goddamn.” I heard Cody say without trying to listen when Matt’s mouth closed around my nipples forcing me to whimper at his touch.

His hands grabbed me ass, pushing me into him and I could feel his length only become more hard when I panicked this was going too far. I wanted to forget Cody; not fuck someone else with him watching.

“Matt, I just need a second.” Gently pushing him back, I carefully wrapped up in a towel before I nearly jogged to the bathroom. I wanted to serve myself up on a platter for him but the way I coveted my virginity all seemed pointless for it to end this way.

Hiding, I didn’t even go into the bathroom when Cody showed up. Without a single word his mouth pressed against mine and I had forgotten how to breathe entirely.

His tongue found mine effortlessly, his hand fisted the material of the towel on each side, hiking it up so slightly, and the way I melt into him felt like an orgasm already.

His mouth attacked my neck and whatever skin I had exposed when I begged him not to stop. “Cody… please.”

“You have to turn eighteen first.”

“That’s months,” I protested.

“You can let Matt fuck you and I beat him so badly he doesn’t even remember doing it or… you can wait until you turn eighteen so I feel less pervy.” He said the words so smoothly it sounded rehearsed. “Deal or am I beating up poor Matt?”

“Deal…” I hesitated before letting him hold up my weight. “Can we get out of here for real? I drank way too much.” I could feel the warmth swirling in my stomach and the drossy after effect taking over.

Taking my hand he led me through the house when Matt stopped him. “What the fuck man. I didn’t do all that work so you could fuck her.”

“She’s a fucking virgin, you were never tapping this. You wanna fight about it? Book a match on Smackdown.” Shoulder checking him he led me right back to his truck parked along the curb.

Opening the door for me I climbed inside still clutching a towel to my body. Cody was in wet trunks in the drivers seat blaring the hot air and I could have sat there all night drooling over Cody.

“Why me? You don’t even know me. Do you even know how many girls I've fucked? You really just wanna be another one?"

“I wanna be the girl who's hot enough to fuck not just flirt with. Look at Layla, my best friend, guys can't stop touching her. Even that guy tonight - he’s in her web. He's captured. Everyone want to be captured, right?”

Cody’s hand cupped my breast as I gasped. "Do you feel captured or trapped? You don’t deserve either.”

I couldn't respond right away. I didn't know. All I knew for sure was I wanted Cody to be my first and I was drunk.

“Freedom comes at a cost. Maybe all we can hope for is trapped or captured.”

His truck turned off in the driveway and he sat back even more, his head crashed against the head rest. “Six girls. That’s how many I fucked. None of them girlfriends.”

His eyes were closed, letting me stare without shame. “Why no girlfriends?”

“Too busy? Too much of an asshole? I’m sure you could ask them and they’d tell you I’m too dedicated to my job. I’m not a good boyfriend.”

“I don’t expect you to go cold turkey for six months until I turn eighteen.” The towel was barely covering my thighs when I started to get wet.

“Do you know how hard it is to control myself around you? I’m only able to do that by not letting you touch me.”

Pushing his hand up to my tits I let him palm them, squeeze, even pinch the nipple before I accidentally moaned. “I can help in other ways… there’s more than sex.”

“I need to know what have you done. I don’t wanna hurt you or be too rough.” His fingers were still pinching my nipples when I sucked in a breath instead of exhaling.

I felt my cheeks brush up red and my body stilled at the embarrassment.

Cody’s hands cupped my face, “Don’t be embarrassed. Let’s go inside before my neighbors think we’re hot boxing.”

Inside Cody led me straight to his room this time, shirtless he worked to find dry clothes like a bronzed God. Sitting on his bed I watched intensely, not even blinking when his shorts came off. Walking to the edge of the bed until his legs brushed the duvet he looked down at me in nothing. My mouth fell open and it was no use trying to seem unimpressed.

“Take this off. I got you a shirt.”

It felt like a test of wills when he stepped back only enough to allow me to stand and drop the towel. I had zero shame when the towel fell soundlessly to the floor letting Cody see every inch of me.

“Fuck, I need a cold shower.” Was all he said before he disappeared behind the bathroom door hanging off his bedroom.

After a few minuets of privacy I carefully opened the unlocked door, “Cody?” He must have not heard me when the foggy shower doors depicted a perfect outline of his body. His hand words over his length vigorously when I gasped out loud.

[fear8not1]

heyyy for kiss prompts may i suggest 36 with maxiel? 💖

thank you for your request ! this turned out a bit bittersweet (i rewrote it thrice and just couldn't make it happy LMAO) so feel free to ask for another kiss if it's not to your tastes.

not my best but it's a very fun exercise !

send me a ship and a number and i will write a kiss

36 (as a promise) - on the flip of a coin - maxiel, 732 words

The music is loud. Loud enough to cover Max’s voice. Not loud enough to cover Daniel’s.

“I’m leaving F1,” he yells in his ear, blue lights aggravating his eye bags when he leans back to look at him, “I’m taking a break.”

Max blinks once, twice. He looks down at his drink, mentally counts the shots he’s taken, but he’s nowhere near drunk enough to hear things wrong.

Daniel is leaving. “You’re kidding, right ?” He asks, trying to search for anything on his face that’d indicate he is — the usual amused sparkle in his eyes, the small smirk. But there’s nothing.

Daniel leans forward again, lips brushing his ear as he speaks. “No, I just- I can’t do it anymore, Max. I gotta leave, mate.”

If Max isn’t drunk, maybe Daniel is. He checks the empty glass in his hand, even though he knows he’s only had a beer and a whiskey coca. Nothing crazy. He opens his mouth to ask why and how and when and complain about the fact that it’s the first time they’ve went out in months and losing him now, when he feels like he’s finally reached him, would be unfair but…

But he gets it. Daniel’s skin looks dull, pale, his signature smile long gone. His cheeks aren’t red from laughing, the lines on his face much deeper than they once were, and, from where he is, Max can see his collarbones peeking from his shirt. He’s not wearing his team kit, not a single item reminding that he drives for McLaren. He used to wear Red Bull merch often. Even off track. “I- I can be there for you, mate. You don’t have to- we can talk about it when we’re sober, yeah ?”

Daniel shakes his head, smiles sadly and bumps their foreheads. The contact hurts, but Max’s brain replays the past few minutes so much he barely registers it. “No, Maxie. Can’t do, won’t do. I…,” he takes a shaky breath, steals a sip from Max’s glass, “I need you to know. Now. Press’ll know in a few days. You gotta be ready, mate, they’ll be all over you.”

Max nods quietly, frowning so hard he can tell he’ll have a headache soon enough. He knows why he’s doing it. He understands. It, somehow, makes it worse. He can’t be angry at him, can’t be sad for him — it feels natural, considering the last few years. “Danny, I- will you come back ?”

The Australian shrugs, looks away for a few seconds. It gives Max enough time to look at him, properly look, for the first time in years. Red Bull, Renault, McLaren, they’ve all taken their tolls on him. Like a disease, it has spread throughout the years, quietly and undiagnosed, and it was now too late to fix it easily. He had to step away. Leave for a while. Work on himself as a last chance treatment. Pray it works.

“Probably,” he ends up answering, voice so quiet Max would have missed it had he not read it on his lips, “I’ll try to come back next year. They might not want me back.” His words are carefully picked, as if he had spent his nights trying to figure out how to break the news for others.

Max doesn’t want to think about that. “They’ll do. You’ll come back,” and, as he says it, he isn’t sure if he’s trying to comfort Daniel or himself, “in a year, then. Gives you enough time to go crazy doing normal things. Then, back to us.”

Daniel stares at him for a few seconds, licks his lip clean from the sticky beer residue, and smiles. It’s nothing like his usual smile, but it’s a small victory, at least. He wonders if he’s also thinking of clumsy nights, years ago, when adrenaline would run too high and healthy outlets were needed. If he’s over it, the way Max is pretending to be.

He wonders, but Daniel puts a stop to it, leaning forward just enough to brush his lips against Max’s. With his free hand, he caresses his cheek and whispers, “I promise, Max. I’ll come back to you,” and kisses him gently. He tastes of alcohol, of beer and whiskey and toothpaste, of salty tears and disappointment, of nights Max will forever miss.

But it’s good enough, for now. It’s a promise he can cling to.

[simp-ly-writes]

Betting on Hearts (pt.2)

Cross-over: Contemporary! Peaky Blinders x The Gentlemen (2024)

Pairing: Edward "Eddie" Horniman x afab!Shelby!Reader,

Summary: It has been some time since you had last seen the Duke of Halstead and his business partner, Susie Glass. With the help of your family, you invite yourself to a surprise meeting, striking up a potential deal while dealing with the aftermath of your's and Eddie's earlier encounter. What will result from it all?

Warnings: 4000~ words, mentions of drinking, drugs, and anxiety.

A/N: Thank you for the ask and messages @kyros420! :)

Masterlist | Taglist Request | un-edited.

You wear a blue double-breasted blazer, the fabric is wool to match the pants of your suit; the articles fighting against the crisp English weather in early spring. A breeze gusts down an alleyway, crashing into your side as you huff out in annoyance, heels picking up their pace as you navigate the city streets.

Red light. Tapping your foot against the pavement as you look at your watch, still making good time if you don't get stopped at another intersection. Feeling around your handbag, your fingers slip past the cool metal of your gun, locked and loaded- ready for a misadvernture. You sigh out in relief once feeling the double-stapled papers, and with that, a green light flickers above your head as you shove through the crowd and towards the newest "Garrison" location.

Arthur is already making his rounds around the bar, the late lunch crowd has the space filled to the brim. The bell rings above the door as you step inside, smiling at a few of the employees who greet you and point towards your brother currently leaning over a table. Suit a bit wrinkled but his leather shoes freshly polished as he claps an officer on the shoulder, setting down another shot before he spins around your way to the sound of your voice.

"Arthur!" you shout, walking towards him, dodging various bar-goers already drunk on a late Tuesday afternoon.

"No need to shout now, haven't lost my hearing yet," he retorts, loosening his bowtie while tipping his head up the stairs towards his office and the staff break-room. You nod, gripping the banister as you make your way up the uneven stairs. "You really must get these fixed, Arthur. I have no clue how these got approved by the health inspector."

"Says the smuggler," your eldest brother fires back, pausing on the stairs as you crash into his back. He sends you a toothy smile, leg rising backwards as if to kick you down the stairs, "you wouldn't dare-"

"-or would I?' he voices back childishly, leg extending back further as you start to lean back with a grimace.

"Arthur," you strain his name in a tight tone, "I can't believe you are the eldest at times," telling him off like mother used to as his hands come up, leg falling back to the stair before he more swiftly continues the climb. Shaking your head you enter his office, locking the door behind you both. Arthur moves towards the bar cart, "Gin, Whiskey, or lukewarm wine?"

"Do you have tea?" Taking a seat in one of the leather chairs positioned in front of his desk. You cross your legs, a tea cup almost shattering with the force it gets slammed down with into your hands. "Wonderful service," you sarcastically comment, ripping one of the sugar bags placed on the saucer before delicately stirring it into your drink.

"Only the best for family, now why come to me and not fuck off to Tommy like you usually do?" You take a long drink of your tea before setting it on the desk, disregarding his comment and throwing the files onto the table. Arthur leans forward, squinting at the papers before you shove his glasses in front of him.

You watch as he nods along to the printed text, skipping a few pages before falling down to the empty signature line. He taps the dots in a row, eyes looking over the white pages as you level his stare. "You want me to sign this or somethin'?"

"No. Just... need some help is all," you mumble the rest, eyes falling to your lap as you pick at your nail-polish.

"Come again?" Arthur asks, hiding his grin behind the papers as he taps his ear, faking not being able to hear you. "Fucking hell, Arthur, I need your help! There," you huff out, falling back into your chair, gripping your tea as you choke down the rest of it.

"Then help is what you shall receive." Arthur drops the papers on the desk, standing before crouching down beside you. "Happy you came to me for this," he states in a softer voice, head tilted- awaiting your response.

"Don't let it get to your head now," you say back, hating the way the his soft words crack through your anxious-feelings. "What can I do?"

"Can you fit into your old uniform?"

--

And to think Tommy's house was outrageous- was an understatement, you say to yourself while walking up to the Halstead estate. The gravel crunches under each step of Arthurs boots as you held onto his arm- doing your best not to break an ankle. A swift three hard knocks across the wooden door sounded in the countryside as you took a step back to the sounds of footsteps approaching.

Plastering a smile, you tipped your head towards the member of staff as Arthur removed his hat in greeting. "Good afternoon, sir."

"Afternoon, ma'am, officer. Is there a reason for your appearance here today?" The butler's eyes furrow, examining Arthurs uniform with a raised brow before scanning over your designer handbag, meeting your eyes as you flash him another smile as he quickly adverts his gaze.

You tap your brothers arm thoughtfully, casting your head down, smiling fading. "Yes, we are some of Eddie's friends when he was deployed, is he in today? We would love to see him before my brother here gets called back and my vacation time gets used up."

"Ah, I see. I hate to report to you but-"

"What guests do we have here today?" An older woman comes down the stairs, practically gliding across the tile floors as the staff member prompt bows their head and moves to the side of the door. "Your grace, they are here to see the Duke- friends from overseas."

The woman looks over you both, clapping her hands together before inviting you inside the home. Your shoulders drop once hearing the door close behind you both. "Eddie never told me of his friends from deployment, it is a great pleasure to meet you both, I am Sabrina, Edward's mother. I'm sure you have many stories to share but please, is there anything we can serve you?"

"Thank you for your kindness and for allowing us into your home, your grace," eyes casting down to the waiting chairs in the foyer yet you stay standing. "I'm alright, Is there something you would like brother?"

"No, I'm fine," Arthur comments, eyes distracted over viewing every rare collectable and hand-crafted accent in the home. "Is there any where my brother and I could sit and wait for Eddie? I hate to intrude on such short notice, your grace, but-"

"Oh! Yes, I do apologies, you both must be tired from your travels, Edward always went straight to his room after coming back home. If you will follow me, the study is just up the stairs here." Sabrina leads you both further inside the house as you admire the wainscoting and rich-wood's of the hall. The group stops to a pair of heavy oak doors that groan to open.

The space if further divided into a desk room with a bay-window looking towards the pond as a small waiting space is already prepared with tea and lunch, hot on the coffee table before you. You crinkle yours eyes in confusion, wondering how quickly the staff were able to prepare everything before your arrival. Eyeing the room, a bookshelf is offset against the wall answering your question as you and Arthur take your seats.

Pouring out the teapot, Lady Sabrina leaves you both, the oak doors softly closing behind her as you lean back into the leather sofa, it creaks as you shit your weight, placing one leg on top of the other. Arthur stands, already restless as he unbuttons the top of his uniform and rolls up his sleeves. "Fuckin' puts Tom's office to shame," he comments, moving to stand in front of the window.

You shake your head, opening your handbag as move towards the desk room, settling the papers across its surface and un-caping your pen atop the stack. Seating yourself into the nearby chair, Arthur walks over to you, leaning on its arm- observing your precise actions. Next you place your gun in your lap, safety is on, the weight of the metal in your lap helping to ease your nerves as Arthur sniffles, feeling into the various pockets of his jacket.

"I am fine now, brother. If you need powder, smokes, or whatever-" your hand circling in his face, "you can leave through the staff-halls to outside, just don't take the car."

"You sure, I can stay-"

"I am fine, Arthur. Thank you for serving your role," you say with a smile, reaching up to tussle his hair as he huffs out, mockingly reaching out to mess with your own. The glare you send has him standing straight, casting you a playful wave goodbye as he exits the space. The newfound silence of the room catches you off-guard, the ticking of the clock getting on your nerves as you fix your appearance in your phones camera.

Yet that silence is swiftly broken as horridly-somewhat-hushed voice and footsteps cast down the hall, making their way into the room. You keep fixing yourself up, smirking at the hitching of a breath as your phone clicks closed, falling back into your bag by your foot. "Hello, your grace, Susan," you greet them both, not bothering to stand as they both still in the doorframe.

The Duke is dressed in a three piece suit, a brown with blue plaid running through it. His neck-tie is delicately patterned around his neck, complimenting his handkerchief and light blue dress-shirt. Your smile only grows seeing the distant mark of all those night ago just barley visible underneath the left side of his jaw that current clenches and unclenching, drinking in the appearance of you.

To ensure he remembers your last meeting with one another, you lean your body towards the arm of the chair. Your suit flexing more skin down your chest, his eyes trail upwards, seeing that all-too familiar mark against your skin. He shifts his necktie, eyes refusing to meet you own as he makes his way around the desk, the sun casting an outline of his broad shoulders. Your fingers begin tracing the chairs carvings, your head tipped towards him, you bite your lower lip, letting it fall slowly just as your hand moves from the chair, down to your thighs.

Eddie gulps, eyes now trained on the black metal settled in your lap, pointing outwards in a crude manor as you caress the weapon, circling your finger muzzle. You emit a few soft laughs through your nose, enjoying the attention of the room being casted upon you.

Susie walks up to the desk, footsteps never faltering in precise movements before leaning against the wood. Her hands settled in front of her body, eyes watching your own as you cast her a wink. Enjoying the way her eyes snap away from your own only to return a split-second later, darkly glaring as you lick your lips in delight.

Her grey pin-stripped suit does wonders for her long legs as your foot shifts closer to her own, heels barley touching each other. You hold one another's gaze, searching each others eyes for who would be the first to dare speak. Yet Edward beats you both to the trigger, "I see you have brought forward the contract we discussed during out last... meeting. I hope that your presence also allows for Miss. Glass and I to offer a proposition?"

Your tone loses humour as your sentence progresses, "I am not one to break my word, your grace. Now speak."

--

Arthur would be lying if he was not relieved to be out of the walls and greeted by the crisp English air. His cigarette smoke floated out of his mouth as his fingertips relished the burn of the bud before stomping out the remaining sparks with his boot. Starting to reach into his jacket pocket, looking for phone a cough makes him fumble with the device, flicking his head upwards- his hair flipping back into place as he glares towards a dishevelled man, cigarette unlit in his hands.

"Mid if I borrow your lighter?" Freddy asks, already beginning to walk over to Arthur, standing at full height as he adjusts his uniform, eyeing the other eldest son from head to toe. "Here," Arthur holds out the metal lighter, a gift from his wife that holds an engraving of their wedding day. Freddy hums out, pressing his cigarette closer to the flame, blowing his smoke away from the two.

"So..." Freddy takes another drag, cigarette dancing between his fingers as he swashes it near Arthur. "...What are you doing here? I didn't think Eddie hired any new staff recently, nor mum."

"M'not staff, here with my sister who is currently speaking to your brother," Arthur clarify, attention now drawn back to his phone, checking it over for any cracks before sorting through his emails and text messages. John had sent yet another cryptic message of emojis and phrases that he couldn't quite grasp.

"I'm Freddy," the robed-man introduces himself, not bothering to stop out the remainder of his cigarette once dropped to the floor. He extends his hand as Arthur looks it over, "Arthur." His hand is smooth, hardly a callus or scar to displace the skin the Shelby notes, yet holds a firm few shakes.

Freddy proceeds to open and close his mouth, trying to start conversation as Arthur turns back to his work, absent-mindedly nodding along to whatever he says before walking away to take a call through the stables. Freddy walks behind him, continuing his one-sided conversation about his newest investment idea that was sure to work this time.

--

You pick up your gun, going to stand just as Susie straightens beside you, stepping closer to interfere as Eddie raises his hand, the room in a pause to your chuckle. You place the gun in the back waistband of your pants, wiggling your hands in a playful gesture. "A pity, how much trust you lack in me, I did patch you up, your grace," you tease, now walking around the office, hands drifting over the various collectables before setting on a record to fill the remaining space in the room.

You lean against the bookshelves, looking between the pair and then the table where fresh ink stains the papers with the Duke's signature. "So, you wish to give me a undisclosed share of your... medical business for me to manage your import/export AND get you a meeting with the rest of the Shelby clan. My oh my, Edward I know you are new to this business but Susie-darling, I expected better of you. But! I respect your father, I am willing to be lenient with your brothers antics in my industry yet you surely must understand that your side does not hold enough for me to accept this deal. I already have given you my presence for no added cost but this, this is rather silly, for lack of a better word."

Susie flings herself off the desk as she walks across the room to stand in front of you. Her eyes squinted into slits, cutting through your words as you swallow down the rest of your speech. Her mouth is tipped in a rehearsed smirk as you stand up straight, head tilting upwards to look at her. Leaning forwards, you watch as her shoulders tense, foreheads nocking against one another before shifting your head closer to her ear. You bathe in her ruining composure, her manicured hands pulling into fists at her side, you are fed by the chaos of it all as Eddie rounds the desk, watching in need to separate the both of you if necessary.

You lift up your hand, her breath hitching in wait as you place a hand on her shoulder, your lips part as she takes a sharp breath inwards. "Don't make me have to talk to your father about this deal, Susie. I know you can figure something out. You both can, but until then my time has been served here."

You drop your touch from the woman, moving around her towards your bag to pack the contract away yet you are stopped by her voice, commanding you to turn back around to face her. "I will go up to 15% of revenue share and will take the tax of any operations cost for our product's travel."

"20%," you counter-offer with a knowing smile, watching as her eyes flick up towards the ceiling before closing, working out the details in her head. You can imagine the words and numbers floating around her head as Eddie comes to your side, bag and contract in hand. You press a kiss to his cheek in thanks.

"The highest I can go is 18-"

"25% then," you state, making your way towards the door, hand starting to turn the door handle. You can hear their posh mumblings behind you. Eddie fixes the watch on his wrist as Miss. Glass's tone strains, fabric shifting before the room stills once more. "23%, taxes paid, and product for your brother's."

The door clicks open, you can see the hall, the sun dipping through the windows as evening nears. The downstairs lobby is pattering with house staff preparing for dinner, you can her the Lady of the House ordering things around and the familiar gruff tones of your brother conversing with another. Yet you turn around, both of your hands clasped around the handle of your bag.

You allow the suspense to build, the song slowly fading to an end and just as the last note falls. Eddie takes a long blink, Susie grips the back of the couch, "offer taken," you smile at them both and with that, the double doors slam behind you, heels clicking against the wood down the hall as your car dings open. "Lets go Arthur!" you shout into the lobby, his hurried footsteps follow after you as he voices his thanks to the house before closing the passengers door.

"We got ourselves a deal?" He questions, looking at the side of your face for an indicator as you hold solid, turning the car into drive, the gravel crunching underneath your wheels once more.

You don't give him an answer right away, "Put everyone on call for me please." His hand move across the dash, a series of three rings before a Birmingham accent allows you to release a held in breath. A smile coating your lips as you lean back into your seat. "Give me news, sister," Tommy demands, you can hear his children running rampant in the background. "No bath, no!"

"I think you should help your lovely wife before I-"

Johns voice squashes your conversation as he enters the call, "Who's dead, married, or havin' a child? I sure hope its you Arthur, your wife has been looking at Tom's kids with those eyes again..."

Arthur groans beside you, "Fuck off John."

"I don't think this family needs anymore children, we already have three boys," Ada pops up.

"Hey Ada," you greet her.

"Don't you 'Hey Ada' me now, how did the meeting go?" she asks, you can hear the giggle in her voice, the underlying tone that you both would be having another wine-filled event in your living room later tonight.

"Yes, how did the meeting go," Tommy asks, his tone rigid before he mutes himself, probably telling the children off. You can hear the banging of metal in the back of the call, John still at work, you shake your head knowing his wife was already preparing yet another speech about sharing enough time together, 'as a family,' just the same way that Arthurs wife did.

"I got us a deal Tom, yet Bobby wants to see you again. Didn't specify to me no matter how much I pried," you comment with annoyance, fingers tapping against the steering wheel as you wait at the lights, the streets empty yet you had been in your fare share of accidents to know not to cross the lights without a signal.

"Good," Tommy simply says back, "Now go home."

"Already on it," you answer sweetly just as he jumps off the call.

"Hey- I got a few last meetings, we still doing dinner at your place sis?" John asks Ada as you turn down the next street, dropping Arthur off as he shouts his goodnights to everyone before slamming your car door close. You wince, worrying the damage to the body of your car before backing out of the driveway and back towards your place.

"Yes, remember 4pm sharp everyone!" Ada announces and with that, you end the call, sighing to yourself, eyes casting heavy as you exit the vehicle and enter your near silent home. Your pets greet you at the door, their feet tapping against the floor, tails wagging back in forth within your presence.

--

Coming out of the shower, towel wrapped around your body and head you startle seeing a delicately placed box at the foot of your bed. Cautiously looking around the room, no signs of forced entrance or violence appear. You examine the box, checking each side without touching in case it was a placed bomb yet you feel or hear nothing coming from it.

Slowly you pull the bow away, letting it fall onto your covers as you gently lift the top off and your breath hitches. You see Eddies signature once more, your fingers trace over the dried ink with thoughtfulness as you take in every handwritten letter pressed into the card-stock.

Miss. (Name) Shelby, I owe you many thanks in recent times, for helping to mend on old soldiers wounds, for accepting Miss. Glass's and I's deal, and for reigniting a part of myself I haven't felt in such time. I hope that it is not too selfish of me in asking for more of your time and in requesting for you to join me for dinner within my social circle. Within this box, you will find the dress I owe as I await your answer. Your Grace, Edward Horniman.

You read over the note a few dozen times, a smile only growing as your cheeks warm. Pressing the card to your chest, you catch the faintest scent of his cologne coming off the card as you chuckle through your nose at the detail. Setting it delicately on your bedside table, you pull off the paper to find an elegant dress. You pull it out, letting it unravel to your feet as you spin around to the mirror, inspecting it over your body.

Stepping back you curse out, picking up your foot abruptly with a hiss. Looking down a small pin, a set of two birds looks up at you, gleaming in the warm lighting of the room. You settle down on your knees, picking up the accessory while looking back towards your closet where the original dress hung, freshly washed yet still stained and you didn't have the heart to rid yourself of it.

Looking back towards the nightstand, your smile only grows before you are dressing yourself and darting to find your handbag. A small business card poking out between the papers. Oh Edward, you sigh out to yourself, already pressing the numbers into your device.

The phone rings, anxiety starts to overtake you as you walk up and down the halls before moving back into your room- worried to waking any of the staff within the residence. "This is Edward," his baritone voice fills your ears as you look out your window, fingers playing with the bottom of your shirt.

"Hello, your grace," you tease out, doing your best to hide the growing giggles overcoming your anxiety, filling up with excitement as you bite your lip.

"Hello, Miss. Shelby. I do hope this call means well..." His voice trails off just as yours starts once more, "It will if you can answer something for me?"

"Anything."

"Can you take the dress off me too?"

↳ Taglist: @daffodilstark @leavemeslowly @iamasimpingh0e @kneelarmhstrung @surazim @milllieeee

↳ A/N: Hope you all enjoyed this!!! I am running out of ideas, I have a few sentences for different ideas but cannot come up with something I am happy with for an episode-by-episode series... always open for ideas like usual!

[communicationthroughlyrics]

You Hold Your Hands in the Air, Screaming My Name (One Shot) 18+

A long day at work, and your favorite bar is closed. So, you ignore your gut and go to the nightclub down the street.

3.9K Word Count

MEN AND MINORS DNI. AGE 18+. SMUT, A HINT OF BLOOD PLAY IF YOU SQUINT, SLIGHT DEGRADATION AND EDGING.

A/N: Just a random thing that ballooned the more I wrote. Kinda on the fence about it. It has been A WHILE since I have wrote anything smutty, so lemme know, lol.

It had been an insanely long, hard day at work. Your job was not strenuous by any stretch, but today was the day that everyone just wanted to make your life hell while you worked your 10-hour shift. It was only 5:30 pm, but you were over it and just wanted to relax and unwind after work. Ever a creature of habit, you have a “typical” hole-in-the-wall bar you like to visit after work, but of course, it was closed tonight due to some electrical fire or something along those lines. You should have just listened to your gut, and gone home. But instead, you found yourself at a new bar. 

There was a dull glow of blue and purple neon, and due to the later hour, the music was thrumming throughout the venue. You watched as bodies moved in tandem with their partners, and the music, the patron’s soulful eyes gazing at the person they were dancing with. You weaved your way through the sea of dancing flesh, sweat, booze, and perfumes, up a few steps, making your way up to the bar top, leaning against the counter to get your poison of choice. Your gaze drifted to the floor watching the movement on the floor below, leaning against the thick wood counter, tapping your fingers against it as you waited for your glass of whiskey. 

“Another Aperol Spritz, please.” A thick, beguiling voice came from behind your spot on the bar. You subtly turned so your front was pressed to the bar, so you could look at who the voice belonged to. A smaller, toned figure in an all-black cocktail dress, slit up to her upper thigh, black and red heels, stood next to you. Her hair was pulled back in a messy bun, and a sheen was oh-so present on her skin. Your guess is she had just made her way off the dance floor, which was confirmed by the screaming of what you would presume to be her friends waving her back to the dance floor as the song changed. As you stood there, slowly side-eyeing the woman beside you, your drink was slid in front of you. 

“Old Fashioned.” The bartender broke you out of your trance, your gaze going back to him. You slipped him a tip and grabbed your glass, walking away from the bar, past the blonde who was now turned and looking at you, to find a secluded table in the corner, where you were more than happy to just sit and watch. You would need to consume considerably more alcohol to do that. You peeled back the suit jacket, and loosened your tie, unbuttoning the top few buttons of your dark blue satin shirt. You were bobbing your head up and down to the song, alternating between scrolling through your phone and watching the dance floor. 

Multiple songs and at least three more drinks had passed, and you had all but given up on the phone in your hand and chose to just watch the dance floor as all the bodies moved seemingly in tandem with one another. Your eyes kept drifting from one group to another when your gaze finally came across the blonde from earlier. She was swaying and grinding to the music, drifting from person to person. It seemed like she didn’t have someone she was dancing with in particular. Your eyes stayed glued to her figure, running dry as you watched how she moved, you gulped large amounts of your drink, successfully bleeding the glass dry and opting to suck on the ice while you waited for the waitress to come and get your order. 

The brunette waitress was hellaciously attractive and shot you a smile as you grabbed your drink from her hand. She shot you a brief smile, and you felt that someone was staring at you. Your eyes wandered until you came across the blonde again, but this time her eyes were locked on you. You smirked, watching with intent as she continued to dance, gyrating her hips on the person she was currently partnered with. You found it slightly disturbing how she continued to stare right at you, her mouth agape, while literally dry-humping someone else in public. As the song came to a close, she pushed off the poor soul she was dancing with and started to make her way straight for you. You gulped, finishing the last of your drink, and setting the empty glass down to run your finger around the rim. 

Almost as if on cue, the waitress popped herself into view, and you typically wouldn’t have minded, but the blonde making her way to you held your rapt attention. You’re sure that she had probably asked you if you wanted another, but you couldn’t hear her, between the music and now your heartbeat, which pounded louder and louder as the woman approached. There was a devilish smirk adorning her features, and as she stepped up to your table. She almost pushed the waitress out of the way, and your gaze drifted upwards as now the blonde stood over you. 

“You just gonna stare at me all night, or grow a pair and dance with me?” Her tone caught you off guard, it honestly rocked you straight to your core. 

“Sorry, I don’t dance.” You smirked, sending a lopsided smirk to the blonde, the waitress now sidestepping you both and walking away. 

“Mmm. That’s a shame.” She responded, clearly unimpressed by your answer. 

“How so?”

“Well, you strike me as someone who can dance, and of all these people, I think I would like to have my body pressed against yours the most.” She shot you a seductive look, leaning onto the tabletop with her arms squeezing her cleavage enough to make you want to faint, but faint right into them. 

“That is a shame, I suppose. I guess that’s why you’ve danced with every other person in here?” You smiled at her, leaning into her face.

“There’s no shame in trying to find the right person. I just feel like you’re it…” she shot you a questioning look like she was asking you a question. 

“Y/N.” 

“Y/N. I’m Scarlett.” She shifted, sitting herself down across from you. Her eyes were piercing, even in the club’s neon. She stared right through you like she was trying to read all of your thoughts. “Humor me, Y/N. One dance, one song. If I’m wrong, you can come back and be the weirdo in the corner.”

“Wrong about what, Scarlett?”

“We’ll call it a science experiment. In chemistry.” She looked at you, eyes were somewhat expectant, and you laughed. 

“I’m hardly a science experiment,” you respond cocking an eyebrow. “But in the interest of humoring, what if there isn’t any chemistry?” You ask as she clicks her tongue. 

“Ah, good question.” She smiles. “Then I guess no one in this god-forsaken bar has chemistry with me, and I just have to find a new place to find my person.” You raise your eyebrow, shooting her a questioning look. 

“This is how you’re trying to find ‘your person’, by dancing in a nightclub?”

“Dancing is a love language, Y/N. It’s important.” She leaned back in your direction. 

“Fine.” You get up, sticking your hand out for her to grab.

“Fine? That’s how you respond to me asking for a dance?” She crossed her arms across her chest. You raise your eyebrow in her direction again. 

“I’m your last resort, Scarlett. You’ve danced with everyone in this place. Let’s see if you saved the best for last, hmm?”

“That’s a better response, Y/N.” She smirked as she stood up, straightening her dress, and grabbing your hand as you led her to the dance floor. You wormed your way through the musk and sweat, centering yourself on the floor. You turned towards her, and she pulled you into her body by your tie, slowly beginning to move to the heavy bass the song was providing. You began to feel the bass come through your shoes, and up your body, and before you knew it, all you could focus on was the music and the woman in front of you, grinding your thigh, with her arms around your neck. Your forehead was covered in a thin layer of sweat, and she pressed her head to yours, staring at you eye-to-eye as you danced. 

You weren’t sure how long you had been out there, but your dress shirt now clung to your body, drenched in perspiration and displaying the musculature beneath. But you had been dancing with Scarlett for what seemed like forever in the best way possible. You both hadn’t left each other’s presence since making your way onto the floor. But now, you needed a drink and were exhausted. Your mouth was dry, and your aching body needed a break. There was a slow, sensual song playing, so Scarlett and you were swaying back and forth, her back to your front. 

“Thirsty?”You rasp into the shell of her ear. You smirked at the goosebumps that erupted in response. She turned in your hold and wrapped her arms around your neck once more. 

“You could say that,” she stared at your eyes, and you couldn’t help but notice the dilated pupils and seductive tone in her voice. 

“Come on,” you grab her hand, walking back to the table to grab your coat. It was times like this when you were glad that you lived close, to the heart of downtown. You grabbed the coat, flinging it over your shoulder while she grabbed her clutch from the table she had been seated at with her friends. You smiled at her as you held the door open, and you both slipped out into the crisp fall night. She shivered, and you slipped your coat over her shoulders. 

“Thanks, Y/N.” She clicked beside you, her heels matching the beat of your heart. You suddenly stopped, catching the attention of the figure to your left. When she stopped just ahead of you, you pulled her back into you. 

“You didn’t tell me the experiment results.” You husked, placing one hand on her cheek, and the other on her back, watching as she pushed against your touch. 

“The jury is still out, but…” she grabbed the edge of your dress shirt, pulling you even closer. “You get to be a part of the next experiment.” She smirked, her lips coming dangerously close to yours. 

“Next experiment?” You laugh, failing to notice her biting her lip. 

“Yeah, the next experiment is seeing if I picked correctly.” She looked up at you, waiting for you to initiate anything. You don’t move for a moment, and she shifts her weight, almost like she’s becoming restless. You laugh at her becoming suddenly antsy, to which she lets go of your shirt and begins sliding the coat off of her shoulders. You stop her movements, pull her into your taller frame, and begin walking. She cocked her eyebrow, waiting for what you would do next as she walked backward. Suddenly, her back met a tall, metal door frame, and she gasped at the cool sensation on her frame. You crashed your lips to hers, grabbing both sides of her head and keeping her still while you kissed her fervently. She moaned into the kiss, and hiked her leg up around your backside, pulling you close while she grabbed onto your shirt. You bit her lower lip harshly, causing her to gasp and open her mouth, to which you graciously entered and took control of the kiss. You both fought for some semblance of dominance, to which you quickly showed her she wouldn’t win. 

Pulling away when breath was required, you rested your forehead on hers, and she looked up at you. No words being necessary, you bent down, lifting the smaller woman by the back of her thighs, and wrapping her legs around you. She clung to you like a koala, squealing as you carried her inside the building. You stayed this way, making your way past the doorman to the elevator.

“Good Evening, Ms. Y/L/N.” The doorman smiled, and you shook your head his way. After pushing the button, you shifted Scarlett in your grasp so she was now looking down at you. You smirked, and the elevator doors opened just as you were about to kiss. She groaned, and you smiled, letting the occupants out of the elevator before stepping in. You pushed the button for the top floor, causing the woman to raise an eyebrow. 

“Top floor?” She asked, looking back at you. You slowly let her body slide down your frame, she whimpered as you intentionally made her legs straddle your leg, which was propped up on the mirrored walls of the carriage, causing her clit to rub against the fabric of your trousers.

“Mmhmm.” You respond, now stalking forward and pushing her back to the other side of the elevator. You ducked your head, kissing her once more. This kiss was laced with a passion you were unaware you had been withholding, and she moaned loudly into your mouth before you detached and began leaving openmouthed kisses down her jawline. She wrapped her leg around you, while grasping the hair at the back of your neck, pulling your head backward before guiding it back to her. You both kissed each other until the doors dinged open, and you broke the kiss to make sure it was the right level. When you had ensured that you had reached the correct floor, you both continued kissing, and you slowly guided her backward towards your door, never breaking contact. Eventually, the whines and whimpers became too much, and you picked her up, this time flinging her over your shoulder, your arm holding tight to the swell of her ass under her dress.  You were close enough, you could smell the arousal of the moaning mess that was now grabbing your ass, while you fished the keys out of your pocket and opened the door. She shrieked when you didn’t put her down right away, but rather smacked her ass as you walked through the penthouse to the bedroom. 

You flung the woman off your shoulder, throwing her onto your massive bed, before resting your knee on the edge, unbuttoning your shirt while she watched. She just stared at you, lip trapped in between her teeth. Her legs were rubbing together, you could tell she was worked up. Her pupils were blown at this point, and just as you finished unbuttoning your dress shirt you reached down, grabbing her ankles and pulling her towards you. You pried apart her legs, causing her to whine at the loss of friction where she so desperately needed it. 

“So fucking needy, whining the whole way up here, rubbing your legs together on my bed.” You growl at her, causing her eyes to roll back. A moan was her only response. “Words, baby.”

“Just, want you…” she whimpered, rolling her hips up in the air. You let out a sardonic laugh. 

“You want me?” Her gaze was glazed at this point, but she continued to writhe and whimper while you stood between her legs. “You chose me last, Scarlett. Remember that.” You bark in her direction, before grabbing her legs firmly and flipping her over on her stomach. You grabbed the zipper of her dress, slowly, painstakingly unzipping it. You trace your fingers up and down the now bare skin, groaning at the lack of undergarments. In one swift movement, you pulled the dress down, off her frame entirely. She shrieked at the sudden loss, before beginning her ministrations again, trying to get some relief. Her thighs were coated, and you ran your finger up the inside of her legs, causing her to groan at the contact. She looked at you over her shoulder, spreading her legs further, asking you for more contact. 

“Mmmmm, baby girl, you have to beg to get what you want.” You lean over her, placing your hands on either side of her chest, and capturing her lips in a kiss. She flipped herself over underneath you and began to unbuckle your belt. You tutted her, swatting her hands away. This caused a groan to come from the other woman.

“Please, just want to feel you.” She gave you her best puppy dog eyes, sticking her lower lip out. You dipped your head down to bite the protruding lip, just hard enough to cause her to moan and draw blood. 

“You just want to feel? That’s it?” You taunt her, leaning back out of her reach. She made some grabby hands in your direction, shaking her head no. 

“I want to feel you all over me…” She whined. “I want you to touch me, to fuck me, please…Y/N.”

“I’m sorry, what was that?” You ask again, wanting to make sure you heard her say it loud and clear. 

“Touch me, Y/N. FUCK me, please!” 

“Such a fucking dirty girl, demanding like that.” Her admission was the only invitation you needed. You grasped the buckle of your belt, pulling it out of the loops on your pants, before tauntingly sliding your pants down. You climbed up over her, kissing and nipping down her jawline, to her collarbone. You bit and sucked, leaving dark purple bruises along her collar, and straddled her leg so your thigh was slotted in between her legs. You grasped her hips firmly, guiding her up and down your thigh just enough to ease the tension she was feeling, but nowhere near enough to get her to release. 

“Fuck, Y/N, please!” She whined, pulling your hair as she tried to guide you to where she wanted you the most. 

“As much as I love your begging baby, let me take care of you.” You whisper into her ear, nipping at the shell, and jingling her earrings in your mouth before working your way back down to her chest. You now shift yourself to be fully in between her legs and begin sucking and tweaking at her pert nipples. She moans as you suck and nibble on one, then the other, switching back and forth until you had given them enough attention for your liking. She keeps trying to push herself against you, and you have to reach one hand down to hold her hips down. 

“Behave.” Your tone left no room for error- if she didn’t do as she was told, she would get nothing. She continued to whine as you made your way down her body, nipping and marking every inch of exposed flesh you saw fit. You finally settled in between her legs, running your fingers up and down the inside of her thighs s you watched her essence drip out of her pussy. You nearly go animalistic at the sight, but hold enough restraint to keep teasing.

“So wet for me, Scarlett. You’re a mess, doll.” You mutter, and she whimpers and mewls, one hand playing with her nipple while the other tangled into your hair. She couldn’t even put together a coherent sentence at this point, she was just a babbling mess. You barely traced your finger through her slit, causing her to shake and moan, back arching off the bed. 

“FUCCKKKK, Y/N!” Her eyes were pinned shut, and she threw herself back to the bed. You slowly traced your finger over her folds, gathering all the arousal you could, before you plunged one finger into her clenched hole. She released a pornographic moan at the sudden intrusion, finally getting what she wanted. 

“Fuck, you’re so goddamn tight,” you mutter, slowly pumping your finger in, knuckle deep. You curled the finger, finding her spongy spot instantly, causing the woman below you to scream out a string of profanities. 

“An…another…please.” She whimpered, placing her hand around your wrist. You slid another finger in, stretching her out slightly, and working her up further. The obscene sounds coming from how wet she was were spurring you on with her whimpers and moans. You felt her clenching around your digits, and slowly worked a third in, spreading her lips open enough to see her clench around your fingers. 

“Fuck, so pretty all spread out for me,” You could tell she was close, but you wanted to push just a little bit further. You thrust your fingers at a slower pace, a frustrated groan coming from the woman. 

“Faster, please…” she tailed off when you added a fourth finger, leaving your thumb to rub her clit sporadically, sending her mind into a spiral. Her body began to convulse and she beneath you, and as she began to tighten around you, you withdrew your hand. Her eyes flew open, staring. At you, as you worked your way back up to her, and she tried to push you back down. You were finally hovering back over her, swooping down and taking her into a breathtaking liplock. It was a kiss you never wanted to pull away from, but you did, begrudgingly. “Please…Y/N… finish me…” she panted, trying to push you by your shoulders back down. You smirk at her desperation, but your own was too great. You wanted to taste her, to feel her cum in your mouth. You begin trailing open-mouthed kisses down, before settling back in between her legs. Her fingers raked their way up your upper back, surely leaving marks in their wake. 

You kissed around her exposed sex, intentionally leaving out the area where she needed you the most. You slipped two fingers back into her, groaning at the sloshing noise that came from her waiting pussy. You licked one long stipe up her folds, laying your tongue completely flat against her, causing her hands to fly to the comforter and grip it tightly. 

“ooOOOhhh!” She moaned, her body shimmying under the sensation. You buried your tongue deep within her, groaning and rolling your eyes back at her tangy, sweet taste. The moans you were eliciting were sending shockwaves directly to her core, your nose nestled directly against her clit. Every move you made, the tip of your nose brushed against her bundle of nerves, sending her senses into overdrive. Your tongue set a feverish pace, your fingers delving into her sporadically to further stimulate her from the inside. 

When she finally felt like she was close, her hands flew to the back of your head, grasping the hair and holding you where she needed you. You slid your hand up to her chest, grabbing hold of her nipple as the other was knuckle deep inside of her, curling against her g-spot. You lapped at her, plunging your tongue in with your fingers, and moving your head around so your nose rubbed against her clit. Her body tensed, and she threw her head back as she silently screamed, the veins in her neck bulging out, as you gently worked her down from her high. 

“Fuck, Y/N,” she moaned, as her hands wandered all over your body and hers. You pull her in for a deep kiss, letting her taste herself on your tongue. She moaned at the taste, and you groaned into the kiss in response. You pulled away, resting your foreheads together once more.  “That’s one hell of an experiment, babe. Maybe I would have passed chemistry if all the lessons were like this.” She laughed, your grip tightening on her hips at the thought of anyone else being like this with her. “I think. The experiment went well, don’t you?” She asked clinging to your body. 

“I think the results were inconclusive. We need to test further,” you respond, slipping yourself off the bed, and walking to your closet. You will go all night to prove to her that this is more than a social experiment. 

[pochipop]

＃OVERWATCH !! ♡ — LET ME PAINT YOUR SKIES (MOIRA X READER).

#. synopsis! — moira, a frustrated geneticist in the throes of an impossible war against her superiors, meets a despondent young artist drowning sorrows at the bar. as it turns out, the latter is a particularly good listener, and the former is the type of woman you’ve only met in your wildest dreams .

#. characters! — moira .

#. warnings! — light angst, mentions of alcohol consumption, extreme slow-burn .

#. word count! — 11.7k .

#. others! — navigation & masterlist .

#. a/n! — sorry i've been gone so long, got busy w/ school and irl stuff :// feel free to hmu to play overwatch lol (i swear i'm not ass all the time!!) anways, moira kissers, this one's for you!!

This place is as rundown and decrepit as they come these days, —a hole-in-the-wall type of establishment with old, creaky stools and paint that chips off into the drinks from time to time. Fruit flies are more regular than most customers, and they provide little bits of extra protein to those either too wasted to fish them out of their shots or unfortunate enough to not notice them. It's incredible that this place hasn't been permanently shut down, actually, with health and safety hazards galore. . . And yet, despite all its undeniable (and very obvious) flaws, you quite like it here. It's where you come when you're stuck in a rut and need to drink away some sadness.

Sure, it's not the healthiest of habits, but everyone has their vices. This is yours, —but it's an occasional thing, for the most part. You go months at a time without so much as glancing in the direction of any alcohol whatsoever, and most times when you indulge, it's more of a social thing than that of a desire to get plastered. Unfortunately, old habits die hard, as they say, and being an artist has its ups and downs. The highs are more intoxicating than any alcoholic beverage could ever be, but the lows hit you like a semi truck. They claw at your ankles and pull you down into the depths so mercilessly, as if feeding on your sorrow is the feast of a lifetime.

Thus, here you are again for the first time since mid-November of the prior year. It's been roughly five months since you've sat on this stool, ordering shots from the grumpy bartender who never remembers your name and doesn't care much about conversing with his customers. This time, however, a fresh face stands out to you. She'd come in when you were still nursing a whiskey on the rocks, insisting that tonight would be different, that you wouldn't leave with your head all foggy or your balance thrown completely off. You've since changed your stance on that, of course, —as one simply does when they're wrung dry of artistic inspiration and turn to seeking some sort of haven in an unhealthy vice.

Still, the woman at the other end of the bar has your full attention, even if she hasn't realized it yet. Even from her slouched position you can see that she's quite tall, —and equally as thin. She's dressed in more formal attire than yourself, a starkly white button-up and a pair of black dress pants as opposed to your own ill-fitting jeans and a greyish-blue sweater you'd picked up simply because it was seventy-five percent off. It's certainly comfortable, but stylish is most definitely up for debate.

Her foot taps against the bar counter, the toe of her black flats ringing out in little thumps that nobody seems to notice but you. She swirls a shot glass in her elegant hand, —her long, lithe fingers adorned with lengthy nails all painted a uniform shade of violet. Strands of short, ginger hair fall over her forehead, clearly unstyled after a long day. Whatever she's going through, you're sure it isn't pleasant for her to have ended up here alone on a Thursday night. Even so, you silently wonder if she's aware of just how attractive she is. In a sense, she's almost ethereal to you, with her extended limbs and sharp lines. . .

You reach for a napkin and are pleasantly surprised when the rusted dispenser sitting loose just a seat away isn't completely empty as it usually is by this time of night. Digging in your bag for a moment, you find an old ballpoint pen buried at the bottom. You try to take something to write or sketch with wherever you go, —but sometimes you still find yourself wholly unprepared for when inspiration strikes.

It takes a bit of scribbling before the ink begins to flow. Even then, it's rather choppy and doesn't come out in a smooth line. But, it's the best you have on hand, and so you're sure to use it to your advantage in whatever way possible (which isn't many.) Your gaze flickers between the woman at the end of the bar and the napkin you're sketching her likeness on in inconsistent ink. It's certainly rough, but it's the first thing you've drawn all week that you haven't felt the urge to light on fire, so you're considering this a win. 

You get a little carried away with the shading and the general environment, adding flowers that aren't there and little markings all around for some additional texture and pizzaz.

"Interesting," a low-toned, curious voice says from just over your shoulder.

You startle at the sudden interruption, nearly scribbling a horrendous line across the center of your sketch. The woman had been so silent in her move, (or perhaps you'd just been too engrossed to hear her make her way over) that you were left flinching under her looming shadow.

She seems fittingly confident for the aura she gives off, —like some kind of CEO.

"Uh. . . Sorry," you apologize, hoping the mood won't become too awkward. "This must seem pretty weird."

This is pretty weird, actually, and you can acknowledge that much. After all, when someone trudges to the bar late at night, it's not as if they go there expecting that some equally as frustrated stranger will see them and be unable to resist the urge to sketch their likeness on a painfully thin napkin.

"I've seen weirder," she replies, —and though you don't ask for examples of that, you're rather curious about what she'd give as some.

She sits next to you now, on the bar stool just to your left. Her knee brushes against yours as she does so. 

"You're an artist then, I presume?" She asks without missing a beat.

You nod, letting your pen drop to the bartop, giving her your full attention now. Something about her demands it (not that you're complaining.)

"Yep," you answer, though you can't bring yourself to sound particularly stoked by that admission at the moment.

She takes notice of that much too quickly for having just met you.

"You don't seem very pleased about it," she notes. "Trouble in paradise, perhaps?"

An Irish accent clings to her words; not a heavy one, all things considered, but more than enough to be obvious. It's quite attractive.

"Yeah, something like that," you say with a bitter laugh, —one directed more at yourself than her statement. "Nothing I'd want to bore you with."

She hums in acknowledgement, not trying to pry anything out of you that you aren't readily willing to share. That makes you like her all the more. 

"I understand that quite well," she seems to sigh. "I'm a geneticist, —seasoned and well-ingrained in my field."

That makes sense. She speaks with an air of confidence that you assume comes with not only age, but experience, and it's clear she's well-educated.

"Yet here I am, constantly being pestered and questioned by those around me," she complains. "They insist upon checking and checking and checking again for ethical violations, —as if any true scientist has ever been able to examine the fullest potential of life without bending a few rules."

You gather rather quickly that she likely just needs someone to vent to, and a stranger is as good as anyone else. Though you're sure it won't be long before she gets into specifics and you lose the plot entirely, you have no qualms about keeping her company for the time being. In fact. . . This might as well be just as much for you as it is for her.

"They say rules were made to be broken," you quip, hoping it'll be enough to keep her talking.

"I don't know that I'd go quite that far, —but what I will say is that being ethical will do no good if it leaves us plateaued and unable to advance," she says. "Humanity is shackled by so many things. I am searching for the key to those shackles, —searching for the means by which to unlock the true potential of human beings. Just imagine what could be achieved if every individual was consistently performing at their highest levels of functioning. Productivity would skyrocket, advancements that have taken decades in the past would come about in less than half the time. . . There's so much waiting to be discovered, and yet so many seem to want to stand in the way of that."

"I'm sure that's frustrating," you acknowledge. "Obviously I'm not familiar with your field, but it seems a bit counterintuitive to stunt your progress when advancement is such a crucial part of today's society."

At this point, you're just speaking and hoping something sticks. It'd be nice to have someone to share time with, even if all she does is rant about things you're nothing short of completely removed from. 

"Exactly," she practically hisses. "Sometimes, I'm utterly convinced that I'm surrounded by fools. Fools who haven't a clue what it means to strive for the betterment of humankind."

Truth be told, she knows you don't get it. She knows you're telling her what you think she wants to hear from you. . . But, at this point, it's enough. She doesn't have the patience to keep it all bottled up anymore, and your vague attempts at encouragement are something she's rather pleased by (for the time being, anyway.)

As a result, she goes on, and on, and on, well into the early hours of the morning. She drinks, but seems to hold her liquor so well that it hardly affects her at all. Or, perhaps you're just a bit sensitive in that department. Either way, she finds you to be a tantalizingly good listener, even if she lost you the moment she started detailing something about stem cell research and the possibility of using the brain's localization to its 'fullest potential.'

By the end of your time with her, you're drunk less on the drinks you've admittedly been nursing, and more on her. A woman of such. . . Confidence and refinement. Perhaps in great contrast to the artist at your core, who craves some semblance of chaos and passion that burns so hot you can feel it course through your veins.

It's only after you've parted ways with her that you realize you never caught her name.

You return to the bar several times after that, though you seldom have the urge to drink any of your problems away. Your long, strange conversation with that enchanting force of a woman weighs heavily on your mind. Her very likeness on its own had helped to chip away at your stunted inspiration, giving birth to new designs and a perhaps pretentious series of paintings in which long, slender fingers with sharpened nails painted a deep violet color held different types of flowers. A part of you wonders if she’d like them. . . After all, they were born only because you’d had the chance to meet her (and spend at least a good two hours staring at her hands.)

Now, however, you’re content with staring at the art displayed at this gallery. It’s clear many of the paintings are uninspired, simply taking the form of references, —which is all well and good, of course. . . But there’s a sense of romanticism missing from most of them that isn’t quite scratching the itch inside your chest.

You stand before one such piece; a beautiful painting of a teacup filled nearly to the brim with amber liquid. It’s accompanied by a few cookies, ones that look delectable in spite of their bland appearance. The scene is nothing revolutionary, but there’s a sense of warmth it exudes that the other works here lack, so you’ve chosen to camp here for a bit, if only to bask in its delight for a while longer.

“I don’t presume this is one of yours.” You’d know that voice anywhere.

Perhaps a bit too quickly, your head whips to the side, eyes immediately scaling upward. You meet the duel-colored stare of the woman you’d met at the bar, and the intensity of her gaze leaves butterflies tickling your stomach. She’s dressed much the same as the night you first crossed paths with her, but her hair is pushed back completely, —not a single strand out of place. She wears some subtle makeup, a bit of color on her lips and liner on her eyes. You couldn’t even begin to picture her in casual clothing.

You blink, clearing your throat as you remember that she was likely looking for a response.

“No, not quite,” you reply.

She hums in acknowledgement. Her hand almost looks empty without a glass in it, you note, but choose to say nothing of it.

“I’m y/n, by the way,” you introduce yourself, hoping that she’ll follow suit. . . Hoping that she’ll take it as a sign that you’d like to see her again at some point, even if just at random.

“Moira.”

You swallow. It’s a name that sounds so elegant, and it suits her completely. Before you can compliment it, she turns her full attention to you, no longer dividing it between the painting. She never seemed particularly interested in that one anyhow.

“Are any of your pieces displayed here?" She asks. "I'd be interested to see them."

You swear the smallest semblance of a smile quirks at the corners of her lips as she speaks now.

"No, unfortunately not," you reply. "The deadline was too tight, and. . . Nothing I'd created recently felt worthy of the spotlight."

Untrue. The few paintings you'd stayed up until ungodly hours to finish were more than suitable; but they were of her. Only her hands, thus far, but. . . You still felt the urge to keep them to yourself. That's why you'd lugged them back to your apartment instead of keeping them at your worn-down studio.

She hums in acknowledgement.

The conversation is running thin, and you feel your chest tighten. She’d gone out of her way to speak to you first, so you assume there’s some semblance of a spark here, even if only a little one. You yearn to keep it safe from anything and everything hellbent on snuffing it out before it even has the chance to burn brightly.

“How’s work been for you, then?” You ask, somewhat desperate to keep her talking.

Moira heaves a heavy sigh, —not so much at you, but at the mention of work. You take that as ‘less than stellar.’

“It could be better,” she replies bitterly.

It’s then that you let impulse take over. Working as an artist is the culmination of your life’s devotion and effort to refining your skills. . . But it can be a bit lonely. Usually, that doesn’t bother you much, —it’s a feeling that rarely bubbles up enough to even cross your mind; but since you’d met Moira, it’d been much more difficult to ignore. In the end, you took a chance, perhaps a bit rashly. And yet, it paid off.

“I’d be willing to listen, if you’d like someone to talk to,” you offer. “There’s a little cafe just down the block. I’ve heard the pecan pie is to die for.”

She stares for a few moments, as if eyeing you down like prey. At the very least, Moira seems to be giving some thought to your offer, and you consider that as good a sign as any. Eventually, she breathes out through her nose just loud enough for you to hear it (and make note of the amusement it carries.) A smirk tugs visibly at the corner of her pretty mouth, and this time, it’s not one you’d have to squint to catch sight of.

“Suppose I am feeling a bit peckish,” she notes, then tells you to lead the way.

You’re almost dumbfounded that you’ve gotten this far. It’s all too easy to abandon the gallery and travel with Moira to the newly opened cafe just a ways off. You’d stopped by a few times since its grand opening just a few months back, but had never ordered anything more than a simple drink. You’d also never taken the time to sit down and enjoy the sweet atmosphere of the establishment, always rushing about too frantically to even consider the possibility.

This time is different. You sit with Moira by a large window, tendrils of sunlight pouring in from above, creating long shadows on the table between the two of you. She orders a simple cup of dark roast, but decides for the both of you that the pecan pie does, in fact, look too heavenly to pass up; so she requests one slice with two forks.

She tells you about her day, —about her work and her ongoing struggles to convince her superiors that she knows exactly what she’s doing and should be permitted to do as such. You still don’t understand most of it, but you make sure she knows she has your full attention nonetheless.

And then she makes the decision to turn the direction of the conversation.

“How has life as an artist been treating you since we last spoke?” She inquires.

You’re almost thrown off by the sudden reciprocation of curiosity. Between the both of you, you’d simply assumed she was leading the more interesting life, and had been completely content to listen to her spew her frustrations while sipping on coffee for an hour or so.

Still. . . It felt nice to know she cared about your own ventures, if only out of politeness. (Though, really, Moira didn’t seem like the type who’d ask a question she didn’t care about receiving a genuine answer to for the sake of saving face.) 

“Better,” you smile softly. “I was struggling to find inspiration, —worried that everything I was producing was just bland and uninteresting. But, after speaking with you, I started digging myself out of that rut. Since then, things have steadily been getting back on track, so I suppose I should thank you for that.”

Moira hums in acknowledgement.

“I’m happy to have helped, though I’m not certain I truly know what I did to spur any of your artistic inspiration,” she admits.

“You’re alluring,” you tell her without thinking the compliment through. 

You qualify: “Unique. Very visually striking.”

She raises an eyebrow at the sentiment, then offers you a low chuckle in reply.

“Is that why you asked me here?” She questions, though she doesn’t seem perturbed by the idea. “To be your muse of sorts?”

Your heart thumps a little louder in your chest now, though you’re not sure why.

“No,” you answer honestly, shaking your head a bit, “—but I’m sure that’ll be a secondary benefit.”

Will it ever. 

“I take it you simply enjoy my company then?” Moira continues.

“Precisely,” you nod. “It’s exactly that.”

She stares at you for a moment longer, her eyes all but boring holes into your own. In a good way.

Finally, she cracks an amused smile, and mumbles: “Likewise.”

At that, you’re certain you’ve won the lottery. You talk with her a bit more about a variety of things; what it’s like to be a full-time artist, about her nails (press-ons, apparently, —you could hardly believe the notion), —about how right everyone was about the pecan pie. She disappeared before you could say a proper goodbye, paying the bill and scribbling her phone number down on a napkin that she left at your seat while you were in the restroom. You grin to yourself the whole way back to your apartment, letting the day’s events wash over you like the evening tide.

Just before you turn in later in the night, you send a quick message to her phone thanking her for paying the tab and telling her that next time is your treat. She responds in almost record time, and you let yourself believe for a moment that maybe she’d been waiting around for you to reach out since she’d left the cafe.

Looking forward to it.

As late spring turned to early summer, you kept in contact with Moira, if only passively. She was a busy woman, unsurprisingly, and despite the continued conflict with her peers and superiors, she remained wholly devoted to her work and ideals. It was easy to recognize that you came second, —if you even made her list at all.

But that was okay. It didn’t weigh heavily on you as it might have if she were anyone else.

You saw her only a few times here and there over the weeks, returning to that same cafe to chat for a bit over coffees, venturing to a steakhouse on the far end of the city for a night of fine dining, and attending an opera performance with her after she’d been given tickets by a work colleague as a regifted-gift when that individual had no interest in attending themself. Each time, you saw a new side of Moira; getting to know her better, getting to experience the many shades of her. 

It was mid-June when you heard your phone buzz late at night, vibrating against the oakwood of your bedstand. On the off chance it was Moira contacting you at such a strange time, you shot upright, startling yourself awake in the process. You snatched your phone off the surface, squinting at the brightness only to realize it was a completely unrelated, automatic notification from an app. But you sat there that night, your stomach tied in knots, that device clutched a bit too tightly in your hand, only to realize something all at once.

You were falling for her. For Moira. And you were so certain that that was a terrible idea.

You laid awake, thinking about everything that could possibly go wrong in the face of this newfound revelation. Really, had anyone else had a say in the matter, the more shocking part of it all would have been that it took you so long to put two and two together. —She’s addicted to her work, utterly devoted to her job. That had long been established. Any plans you sought to make with her had to first be run through her hefty work schedule; the one that was so bizarre and so obscure that you’d given up trying to make sense of it a week into your acquaintanceship.

Any relationship you could hope to forge with her would be a lowly affair. Her first love was destined to be science. Still, you rationalized that Moira wasn’t much unlike you, in that sense. You too were deeply devoted to your career, thinking of it often, keeping your art at the forefront of your mind more often than not.

Even that aside, there was so much that could go wrong here. If she were to feel the same way, which seemed so unlikely to you that even considering it felt like something akin to a cruel joke, —it was more likely to be fleeting than anything else. Yet, a part of you still wanted it. . . Wanted the push and pull, the long weeks of her undoubtedly forgetting that you even existed, just to fall back in her arms at the first sign of affection. Foolishly, a part of you still wanted the late nights and early mornings, —wanted to feel your own heart break as you watched her slip out of your bed through hazy eyes, leaving you lonely without a proper goodbye.

Obviously, you were getting miles ahead of yourself.

Still, the fact remained that you liked Moira. . . You just weren’t sure what exactly you were supposed to do about that.

The summer heat became sweltering before long. Moira traded her long-sleeved dress shirts for short-sleeved ones in the same color and style, and you began to stare not only at her hands, but at her arms now when the two of you found time to get together. You’d sit and listen to her frustrations, —always about her working life and how it was so difficult to deal with being stifled, told that she couldn’t do this or that because someone had deemed it inappropriate by their own standards.

Admittedly, you still didn’t get it. Her work was so different to your own, and in the end, she didn’t really get yours either. But, each of you managed well enough. Your relationship was symbiotic. She had someone to vent to, you had someone to lust and desire for, someone to get your inspiration pumping. . . And that was good enough.

Until it wasn’t.

You did your best to drown your feelings out. There was too much at stake, what with Moira being your closest friend in the city, you assumedly being hers (since she often made note that you were the only person she spoke so candidly with,) —and you didn’t want to disrupt the balance the both of you had created together. It worked, and they say what isn’t broken doesn’t need to be fixed.

But it was breaking you, little by little. It was something you could ignore at first, until ignoring it became much more difficult, and you defaulted to stuffing it down on purpose, forcing thoughts about the bow of her lips and the dips of her waist into the back of your mind. If she ever caught sight of your wandering gaze, she never mentioned it. Still, you were prepared to chalk it up to admiring her frame for artistic purposes, and Moira likely would have bought that without much thought otherwise.

And then came the banquet, —the gathering, the party— whatever the hell it was. You didn’t really know what it was about other than that it had to do with Moira’s work, and that in itself was enough to signal to you that you probably wouldn’t have been able to make much sense of it anyway. She’d asked you to attend alongside her, saying that it would go much smoother with someone there to talk to (presumably so she could ignore everyone else that would be lapping at her ankles, vying for her attention.)

Whether her colleagues liked or disliked her and her methods, it was surely undeniable that Moira was intelligent and could provide insight into just about anything (within reason.) Thus, she’d requested that you come along as her so-called “plus one.” It didn’t help that when you mentioned that you’d likely be out of place at such an event, she responded by assuring you that many of the scientists would surely be taking their partners and spouses along with them.

“So, this is your way of asking me on a date?”

It was a joke. You gave a sly smile to project that, and it seemed that she understood the intention. You just hoped she didn’t catch sight of the desperation that lingered in the back of your stare, —desperation born from the desire to cross every line known to man and then some. 

The worst part is that she didn’t deny it. She seemed unphased by the proposition even, telling you to “call it what you’d like.” And you would, albeit not to her face again. In your mind, this was a date. Perhaps one of convenience more than anything else, —but a date nonetheless.

When the time comes, you meet Moira just out front of your apartment. It’s the first time you’ve ever seen her sleek, black car in person. She’d made mention of it before, (only when you’d asked first), but your get-togethers with her had been within comfortable walking distance of most things in the city. This time, however, the venue was a bit further out, and because the occasion called for fancier clothes, Moira decided driving there would be the best option.

You watched through the slightly tinted windows as she reached over the passenger seat, her long, slender arm easily reaching the inner handle of the car door. She pushed it open for you, and you got in, feeling like some kind of moviestar. It wasn’t often that you saw a car as expensive and luxurious as hers around your admittedly worn-down apartment complex. It was even less often that you got to ride in one.

“Wow,” you note, slipping your seatbelt on, “I figured you’d drive something nice, but this is really something else.”

She lets an amused tuft of air escape her nostrils.

You turn to look at her now, taking her in as the last rays of dying sunlight spill down from the sky. She’s in a nice suit, as expected of her, —one that compliments her lengthy stature noticeably even in a sitting position. The fabric of her blazer is a deep, crimson red, a few shades darker than the scarlet iris of her right eye, and it’s paired with a black undershirt and black dress pants to match. Her hair is slicked back, and her hands are hidden under a pair of black gloves. She’s almost too stunning to be real, you think as she seems to examine your own attire.

Though Moira pays you no compliments, the light smirk that curves her lips upward ever so slightly says enough.

“I’ll have you home before it gets too late,” she says. “This is more for appearances than anything else. Those matter much more than one might think in the scientific field.”

Unsurprisingly, she seems less than excited about all of this, and you temper your own expectations as a result. It wasn’t so much the event itself you were looking forward to, —it was just getting to spend time with her that really lit your fuse, so to speak.

“I’ve got nothing better to be doing,” you note. “I’m yours for the night.”

Maybe that was a little too forward. As soon as you’ve said it, a part of you wishes you hadn’t. . . But Moira gives you a little hum in reply, throwing you a final glance before fixing her eyes ahead, and that’s the end of it. You like to think she was pleased with that admission, though. The drive is quiet, but in a comfortable sense. She seems to be in neutral spirits in spite of her distaste for the final destination, and you’re glad for it (not that you mention it.) 

The venue was about as extravagant as you would expect; chandeliers hanging from the ceiling in the party hall, well-dressed staff members carrying platters of red wine and bubbling champagne, weaving their way through the guests with surprising grace and elegance. You can’t help but think to yourself that you’d never survive a day doing their job.

Moira snags the both of you some wine.

“Can’t help but think this is a bit nostalgic,” she comments as you put the rim of the glass to your lips to take a small sip.

The dark red liquid almost matches her outfit.

“I guess so,” you smile sheepishly. “It’s been a bit since we first met, and that’s the last time we drank together.”

“Indeed.”

She takes her own sip now, her lipstick clinging to the glass. You let yourself stare for a moment, gaze caught on her mouth. . . You let yourself wonder what it’d be like to pull her in, match your hand to the curve of her neck, —kiss her, taste the wine on her lips. It’s a bad idea, of course, but. . .

You just can’t help it.

“I suppose I should give you a proper thanks,” Moira notes after a few moments of silence. “I’m sure this kind of event isn’t much like anything you’d be used to.” 

“Not in the slightest,” you shake your head.

She appreciates the candid way you answer, not trying to soften the blow for the sake of saving face. Your honesty is part of your charm.

“Lucky you,” she notes. “These things are practically the bane of my existence. They’re just glorified circle-jerks, —everyone squanders their time meeting here to drink alcohol and grit their teeth while they speak with colleagues they haven’t seen since the last one, even though they promise to keep in touch every single time.”

You get the feeling she’s quite pleased they never actually go through with that. The very prospect seems more like a threat than a broken promise.

“Sounds. . . Fake,” you answer lightly.

“Utterly synthetic,” Moira says, venom lacing her words.

She really isn’t holding back tonight, and there’s a certain luster that comes with it, ��the kind that makes your insides twist into pretzels. Though she’s seldom the type to be vulgar for the sake of it, her gloves seem to be off tonight. Metaphorically, anyway. The actual gloves on her pretty hands are still there, tightly fitted to her elegant fingers. You’d be a tad more bitter about the view they steal away from you if not for how nice they look on her.

“Worse off, you may think idle workplace gossip would be less common in a career such as mine, —but you’d be wrong,” she tells you. “The amount of nonsense they spew never ceases to amaze me.” 

And here you thought it was an impossible task to impress her. Imagine your shock when you found that a tried and true way of doing so was just to spout off pointless grains from the rumor mill. . .

“Seems hellish,” you remark.

You shiver at the mere thought of it, your eyes surveying the loose crowd now, looking for anyone who seems to be questioning your presence at Moira’s side or making assumptions about whether you really belong here. You don’t, and that just makes the anxiety worse. Another sip of wine down the hatchet, but your worries don’t go down with it the way you’d hoped they would.

“Hellish may be a bit of an understatement,” Moira mumbles sourly.

“Really though, a proper thank you for coming along is in order,” she sighs. “If you have anything you’d like in return, do tell. Money isn’t much of an obstacle, —within reason, of course.”

Unsure of how to say that all you really want is for her to pull you in and let her body meld into your own, you give her a little nod and a polite smile instead.

“I’ll let you know if anything comes to mind.”

She seems pleased enough by your confirmation, swallowing down the rest of her wine in a few ungraceful gulps. The way her throat contracts as she tips the glass back sends a shiver down your spine. Everything she does is so mesmerizing, and at this point, it’s just unfair. No one person should be able to captivate you; mind, body, and soul the way she always has, even from the very start. Sitting at a rundown bar, standing tall before a painting of tea and cookies, —drinking down blood red alcohol under dazzling chandeliers and crystalline lights that dance off her eyes like fireflies in mid-July. 

You stand by as the night drags on, going much too slow for Moira, and far too quickly for you. It’s clear she’s not content to just be by your side here, and that hurts a little more than it should. She has another two glasses of wine and leaves a lipstick stain on each of them. . . And she doesn’t know just how much you’d risk for her to leave that same mark anywhere on you. 

For the briefest of seconds, you consider asking that of her in return, but you banish that thought to the shadow realm just as quickly.

A few fresh faces greet Moira with varying levels of that synthetic politeness she’d mentioned not long ago. Seeing it in real time is like looking through a kaleidoscope of disgust, and you have to force a scowl off your face. You try your best to zone out when they come around, figuring that you’re not supposed to be privy to whatever information they’re sharing, —and that you wouldn’t understand much of it anyway. Unless they were suddenly struck with the urge to discuss color theory or artistic interpretation, you were pretty certain you wouldn’t be of much help. Moira’s field of expertise was worlds different than your own. 

“Doctor O’Deorain,” a pretty blonde woman greets, her hair pulled back into a sleek ponytail and a little black dress clinging to her body in all the right places.

Moira regards her with less hostility than the others, her expression softening a bit.

“I wasn’t expecting you to actually show up,” she continues with a familiar giggle, losing the formal nature of her address. “I’m almost afraid to ask what you were offered in exchange for your attendance.”

If she’s comfortable enough to joke with Moira, you assume she’s known her for long enough to have built that kind of comradery. Maybe it was just a hunch of yours, but you’d have been willing to bet that Moira didn’t ease up to people very quickly. You like to think you were a slight exception to the rule.

“More like what they threatened to take away if I didn’t,” Moira answers, that characteristic bluntness still present in her tone, —but it’s softer with this woman, for one reason or another. 

The blonde laughs again, seeming content in the redhead’s presence. Jealousy prickles at your heart, making you feel utterly ridiculous. Her blue eyes finally travel to where you’re standing, as if she’s just now realizing that you’d been standing there the entire time.

“You brought a friend along?” She inquires, her kind smile never fading. “It’s nice to meet you.”

You open your mouth to speak, but Moira beats you to the punch.

“Lover, actually,” she corrects, one of her gloved hands sneaking around your waist, pulling you closer and nearly knocking you off-balance in the process.

Your throat goes dry, face falling into an expression of panic, but you gather yourself before the blonde woman can take notice. Though you have no idea why she’d lie about such a thing, you can only assume that Moira has her reasons, and the last thing you’d want to do is correct her in front of a colleague, —even about something like this. You’ll probably never see this woman again anyway, so no harm, no foul. (Well, maybe some harm to your heart, but what else is new.) 

The woman seems shocked by even the idea of it. 

“It’s nice to meet you as well,” you say with a forced smile.

It’s not that she isn’t kind or easy to talk to. She’s both of those things, actually, and you can admire that (and you do.) But you’re still reeling from Moira’s sudden concession, and making small talk is the last thing on your mind. 

The rest of the conversation is a blur. You do your best to fall into the background, hoping that each of them might just forget you even exist. Your heart hammers wildly in your chest, beating something dangerously close to out of control.

The feeling of her hand on your waist all but burns itself into your flesh. 

By the time they’ve said their goodbyes, she’s taken it away. But it’s far too late to fix the damage she’s done.

Moira never does explain herself that night, and you don’t have the nerve to ask. Questions are ripe on the tip of your tongue the entire ride back to your apartment, but you sit in silence just as you did before, —albeit much less comfortably.

It’s then that you’re forced to acknowledge the crueler parts of her. . . And yet, you fear, you’re still falling for her anyway.

Communication is brief and inconsistent over the rough week and a half following the event. You send a few messages out of nicety, hoping she might choose to spark up a conversation. . . But she doesn’t, and you chalk it up to her being busy with work. At least, that’s the story your rational mind would like you to believe. The part of you that you’d like to shut out completely warns you only of the possibility that you’re being overbearing, and it’s pushing her further away.

You begin to worry that it’s now or never. If things continue as they are, Moira might as well just be another person who only contacts you when it’s convenient or they’re feeling a little nostalgic and want to hear a whisper from a ghost of their past.

As a means to counteract that possibility, you decide that it’s time to put that favor from Moira to good use. Best of all, —it’s utterly free of charge.

She agrees to meet you at your little painting studio to provide some assistance. Upon arriving, she walks around and gazes long and hard at each of your pieces, —finished and unfinished alike, sparing you the flurry of compliments she’s sure you’ve heard a million times over. If she were anyone else, her silence might have been a bad omen, but you know her well enough to understand that she means well.

“I’m not certain I can really be of any help,” she says, giving you a sidelong glance over her angular shoulder. “I enjoy art, but I haven’t the slightest clue how to create it. I leave that to the lot of you who’ve crafted your skills and put in the time.”

“For many of us, —myself included— inspiration is just as important as skill,” you reply. “These days, it’s been running a bit dry. But I was hoping you could get the wheels turning, if you know what I mean.”

Moira thinks she has a good idea of it.

“And how, pray tell, should I go about that?” She asks. “Do I just need to sit here and pose?”

“Actually,” you say, hoping to rip this off like a bandaid, —because you know it’s bizarre and that she might well say no, but you’re sick of wondering about it.

As it goes, you’ve prepared for the worst, but you’re hoping for the best.

“I’d like to paint on you.”

She looks at you evenly, as if she’s not shocked by the request at all. You’re more surprised by her lack of a visceral reaction than she is by your requisition.

“Interesting,” she notes, though it doesn’t sound like this is particularly intriguing to her, “—where, exactly?”

“Just like that?” You laugh. “No hesitation? You’re just gonna let me do it?”

“That’s dependent on the where,” she replies, an amused smile thinning her lips out. “If I’m right to assume you’re keen on keeping this within a certain boundary, I see no real reason to object. I do owe you, after all.”

Above most things, Moira is practical. She sees this as repayment, not only for your attendance at her working banquet, but also for the many afternoons, evenings, and nights she’s talked your ear off, sharing her own disgruntled feelings over coffee, steak, and whiskey neat respectively.

You offer her an appreciative smile, as if she’s done something so loving for you out of the kindness of her beating heart.

It’s more out of obligation, you fear, but you’re fine to ignore that for now.

“Will an arm suffice?” She asks.

“Maybe two,” you answer cheekily, and she doesn’t object.

You grab her a wooden stool to sit on, one much less rinky-dink than the barstool she’d sat on the night you first met as you go about procuring your materials; paints, brushes, —the necessities for this kind of ordeal.

“Can you roll your sleeves up a bit more for me?” You request.

“Would it be easier to just discard the shirt?” She asks.

Your breath catches in your throat. Yes, she’s probably right in some sense. . . That likely would make this process increasingly easier in a pragmatic sense, —but you’re certain seeing her in such a state would do numbers on your heart that you’re not sure you’re really equipped to handle.

“I. . . I suppose so,” you nod.

You try not to stare as her elegant fingers undo the buttons of her shirt with ease, like she’s a master of the craft. Her back arches ever so slightly as she slips her arms out, long and limber as they fall to her sides and she keeps the mess of white fabric balled in her hands now. Her bra is a stark black, the kind of deep shade that really contrasts with every inch of her pale, porcelain skin. You swallow nervously at the sight of her, taking the shirt from her hands to drape it over an unused easel.

She seems to have no reservations about this. Maybe it’s because she’s simply confident in every aspect of herself, —or maybe it’s because she trusts you enough to remain stoic in the face of it. You don’t ask, and Moira doesn’t tell.

“Any ideas?” She says instead, “—For the artwork.”

“I was considering something floral and nature-themed,” you answer, focusing in on that aspect of the ordeal so as to forget that she’s sitting in front of you like this, so much of her on display for your eyes only.

“Butterflies with carnations,” you add, “—or daisies, perhaps.”

“I’m impartial to hyacinth myself,” she notes.

It’s not so much a suggestion for your art piece as it is something Moira simply wants to share with you. Still, you think it best to run with it, and you give her a slightly lopsided smile.

“Hyacinth it is.”

She watches with curiosity as you go through the motions, —mixing colors, cleaning your brushes between them, dabbing them dry. It’s not often that Moira has the luxury of watching something like this in person. . . In fact, now that she’s thinking of it, she’s not sure she’s ever witnessed an artist work firsthand at all. In her lifetime, she’s seen innumerous things she would personally describe as incredible, —and unbeknownst to you, this is one of them.

“This is actually quite relaxing,” she says. “Like a massage. I don’t fancy those much, I loathe the thought of a stranger touching me so extensively, —but this is nice.”

You offer her a small smile.

“I’m glad,” you reply. “I knew it was a bit of a strange request, and I wouldn’t have blamed you for turning me away, but I’m happy you felt comfortable enough to allow it.”

“Perish the thought,” Moira shakes her head slightly. “If anyone knows about unconventional methods, it would be me. I know better than most that in order to reach one’s full potential, sometimes it’s necessary to step outside the proverbial box.”

That wasn’t quite your mindset going into it, but if she was ready and willing to place a perfectly good excuse for this in your lap, then so be it. Truth be told, you were simply a conduit of passion to your very core, and in a perhaps distorted sense of the word, this was romantic to you.

You hum in acknowledgement.

“While you’re here. . . Can I ask you something?” You inquire.

Though it feels like your heart is in your throat now, you manage to keep your hand steady enough to continue your work with little disruption.

“You can ask,” she says, “though my ability to answer might waver depending on what the question is.”

“At that event. . . You told that blonde woman we were lovers. Why?”

It’s been eating at you since it happened, in more ways than one, and now seems like as good a time as any to get it off your chest. You steal a peak at Moira’s face, noting the way she remains completely composed, even in the face of such an off-color inquiry.

“So I did,” she says plainly, certainly not the type to deny responsibility or deflect accountability for her own actions. “It’s an unfortunate fact for me that my colleagues can be quite. . . Eccentric. And by that, I mean they often poke their noses in the affairs of others with something similar to reckless abandon.”

Her brows furrow now as she thinks about it, clearly agitated.

“It’s not uncommon for them to pry into my personal matters, and I was hoping to quench their overbearing interest in my romantic life by giving them a glimpse into it, —if only a false one. Like I said before, everyone there is in it for themselves. It’s all synthetic. . . An act they put on to please one another a few times a year. That night, it was my turn to do the pleasing.”

“That makes sense,” you acknowledge.

Of course it did. You weren’t expecting anything less from her of all people.

“Did it work?”

A low rumble of brief laughter resounds from her chest, —husky and divine.

“Like a charm,” she tells you. “I’m sure they’ve found another staff member to harass with their incessant yammerings about intimacy and partnership.”

“You’re not a fan of those?” You ask, and the question is punctuated by the quiet ripples of your paintbrush through water as you clean it.

Moira is silent for a few moments, as if pondering on your inquiry.

“I don’t. . . Dislike intimacy,” she replies, —though she doesn’t sound as sure of that response as she normally would have had the two of you been discussing anything else.

“Rather, I don’t dislike the idea of it,” she corrects quickly. “In practice, I suppose that’s a different story. I don’t offer my trust like candy, and for me, intimacy only follows trust.”

“I’d argue this is quite intimate,” you note softly, blending two shades of deeper purples together on her bare skin. “Does that mean I’ve won your trust?”

You fear you’re pushing your luck here, but can’t stop yourself from asking. Eventually, Moira lowers her chin a bit, seeming amused by your line of questioning.

“I suppose so.” 

Bingo. 

If nothing else, that was your win for the day. If nothing else, —Moira trusted you. . . And that was more than enough for the time being.

You thrive off the high of that evening for the next several days. You don’t even worry when things go silent on Moira’s end. It’s all too easy to simmer yourself down now that you know for certain she trusts you, —and it’s almost elating to hold that information so near and dear to your heart. She invites you for a drink that Saturday night, in the cooling heat of summer, and you jump at the first opportunity to see her in person again.

This time, the bar isn’t quite so run down. It might just be the fanciest one you’ve ever set foot in, and the outfit you wore that you were worried would come off as overdressed now feels like the opposite. Things like this remind you of just how different you live in comparison to Moira. . . It’s easy to forget that she’s quite wealthy, and though you’re well past your struggling artist phase, you’re far from living the way you imagine she does day in and day out.

She’s not keen on discussing work tonight, so you sit around nursing lemon drop martinis with sugar-lined rims, hanging off her every word like the admitted lovesick fool that you are.

It’s nothing profound, nothing inherently important in the grand scheme of it all. . . But it’s nice to know that her favorite season is autumn, and it’s nice to know that she can play a bit of piano. It’s then that you really understand just how much little things really do matter, even within the finite days we’re given. Especially within them.

Just like your drink, it’s slightly bittersweet.

You talk with her well into the night, eventually forgoing the bar to simply walk around under the stars and the city lights. And maybe it’s alcohol or that aforementioned trust she’s placed in you, —but she tells you that she misses her home on nights like these, and when she sees you shiver, she drapes her jacket over your shoulders and walks a little closer to you now. So close that the back of her hand brushes against yours, —once, twice, thrice— but the fourth time never comes.

Instead, she reaches out in between the hum of passing cars and the hollow breeze that swishes by, and takes your hand in her own. You don’t bother to bite back the smile that graces your lips.

That night, you consider telling her all the things you’ve been keeping bottled up inside, —all the time you’ve spent groveling over her and her unfair ability to captivate you like no other. But, a part of you is almost certain she already knows now, as if the poetry written in your heart has all but flowed right into her own from the lines in your palm.

As summer moves both far too slow and much too fast all in a single breath, Moira becomes a semi-frequent guest in your studio. Sometimes she simply watches as you work on canvas, and at others, she becomes the canvas herself. You have a little collection of photographs of her now, —posed according to your will, displaying her painted arms in the process. It must be hours upon hours now that you've spent gracing her skin with your brushes, listening to her tell you about her day; the good and bad parts.

She leaves out the finer details, not wanting to bore you with the intricacies of a job one could only understand through years of training and experience. Still, you know more than you probably should about her research, and you're there when the scientific community at large decides that she's a perfect fit for their next public enemy.

For how harsh the punishment is, you'd think she would have been more upset, —but she remained indifferent to it all, as if taking it in stride was the only way she knew how to cope with it. Moira asked that if you stumbled across any articles of her, you pay them no mind. . . And you didn't. Maybe that was a naive choice, but her work was only your concern to a certain extent, and you were already well aware that she was prone to bending ethical guidelines. At the end of the day, you knew her as a woman rather than a scientist, and that was that.

You have to admit, it’s a little tortuous seeing her so often, being constantly reminded of just how hard you’ve fallen, and yet never having the courage to act on it. You often hype yourself up, readying yourself to shoot your shot, —but as soon as Moira is actually in front of you, all the confidence you’d spent the prior day and night building up all but crumbles to your feet in pathetic little pieces.

You sit with her at that cafe again, sipping on lattes together in the early afternoon. She seems more relaxed today than she is most of the time, —like something amazing has happened, though she hasn’t told you what. If anything even happened at all. For a moment, you let yourself believe that she’s just happy to be here with you.

The new employee of the quaint shop slips you a napkin with some scribbled numbers on it, and you feel a sense of deja vu. It wasn’t too long ago that Moira gave you her phone number in much the same way.

“His number, I presume?” Moira inquires. 

You nod.

“I was wondering when he’d decide to make a move,” she laughs. “He’s had his eyes on you since you sat down.”

“O-Oh?” You utter, heat rising to your cheeks, “—Has he? I didn’t notice.”

You were a little distracted by the way she held the handle of her cup, though you’re keen on keeping that particular detail to yourself.

“Indeed,” she confirms. “So, any plans to take him up on it?”

“Ah. . . No, I don’t think so,” you shake your head. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m flattered and all, I just. . .”

“He isn’t to your liking?” Moira guesses.

She’s so nonchalant about this that it’s close to driving you wild.

“I don’t know that I’d say it like that,” you mumble.

“He’s not your type, then?” She revises.

“I don’t think I have any specific type,” you answer.

“Perhaps there’s someone else?”

Your face falls and it doesn’t go unnoticed no matter how quickly you right yourself. There’s no hiding that it’s the case now, —but you have a feeling she already knows as much. She’d known it for days, weeks, —maybe months. Maybe she knew you were falling for her before you yourself had the wherewithal to pick up on it.  

“Something like that,” you mutter, taking a long, drawn out sip of your drink.

Something like that. 

She doesn’t press it any further, letting it drop completely for the time being. You part ways as you exit the cafe, and while she spends the rest of her day in her lab, you meddle about your studio, unable to keep your focus steady enough to get much done.

Perhaps there’s someone else. . .

You sigh deeply, frustrated and overwhelmed. If there was ever a time when you wished she’d be as blunt as she always seems to be, —it’s now. A part of you is certain even rejection would hurt less than this; less than the unknown. You’re sick of sitting in this pit of misty grey indifference, stuck in limbo, always waiting for the right time (that never actually comes.)

“Fuck,” you curse under your breath. “Fuck.”

You feel pathetically underproductive, sitting against the wall in your studio as the sun begins to set. You’ve done so little, but your mind has been racing for hours, and there’s still no sure-fire way you’ve found to reason yourself out of this mess. Telling her how you feel is always an option, but there’s a risk there that you’re just not comfortable with as things stand now. Moira pushes and pulls, and you don’t know what to make of it.

She makes that choice for you, as expected of her.

When your phone buzzes, lighting up with her name on the screen, you’re close to jumping out of your skin. It says so little, but it makes you feel so much.

Dinner? 

Though you’re not particularly hungry despite having eaten very little all day, you quickly agree, if for no other reason than to bask in her presence and soak her in for everything she’s worth (which is more than any simple number could ever do justice, no matter how large.) For the sake of having an idea of how to dress, you ask where.

My place. 

And so it goes. You get her address and she tells you to swing around by 7:30. You’re there by 7:28, spending the last two minutes outside her door, preparing yourself for whatever is to happen next. This building is incredible, —clearly high-class and unsuitable for the average working person based on price alone. You’d expect nothing less of Moira. 

The outside pales in comparison to the inside, however. Her bookshelves are filled to the brim with titles, —some academically inclined, and others more for pleasure (though you’re not certain Moira would see much of a difference between the two.) She greets you in her typical attire, dress pants and a white button-up, although the top two buttons are undone tonight and her hair lacks any form of styling. You’re staring as she sits you down at a table overlooking the city, but you can’t help it, and you can’t bring yourself to look away. There’s something about her tonight that has your heart shivering in your chest.

“Dinner will be ready in just a few minutes,” she tells you. “Feel free to look around. I don’t mind what you touch as long as it isn’t broken.”

There’s a twinge of a smile on her lips and eyeliner slightly smudged beside her eyes. This is probably the closest you’ve come to seeing Moira in her rawest state, topping even the version of her you saw that night at the bar. It seems like that was so long ago now, but also feels like it was just yesterday somehow.

“You’re cooking?” You inquire.

“I dabble,” she replies. “It’s a necessary skill. I’m no Michelin star chef, mind you, but I can manage a proper meal.”

She hasn’t even set the food before you yet, and you already know she’s being far too humble. In the meantime, she pours you a glass of champagne, apologizing for the fact that it’s all she has on hand besides whiskey. You think nothing of it. If you didn’t know better, you’d consider this a date. . . And maybe you will, if only to yourself.

While she’s off in the kitchen, you run your fingers along the many book spines of her collection, imagining what she’d look like just sitting near a window in this place, a cup of tea resting near her, those elegant fingers flipping through pages. 

Dinner is mostly quiet, but delicious. As you’d guessed, she was certainly being humble about her own culinary skills. She takes your compliments with lilted smirks. Moira seems more comfortable here, which makes sense. . . This is where she lives, after all, where she sleeps and spends a fair amount of time (you’re assuming) when she’s not in the lab or off doing something with you. She keeps her space impeccably neat.

You ask about the things strewn about her place, —about some of the awards she displays on a shelf all to themselves. It’s pressed into a corner, like she isn’t much proud they’re even there. She doesn’t seem to mind telling the tales, but doesn’t jump at the opportunity; like she’s doing it to quench your curiosity rather than stroke her own ego. She gives you a few book recommendations after gauging your tastes, —offers to let you borrow her copies, and you tell her you might just take her up on the offer, even if you won’t.

“It’s a bit late,” she says at a quarter past ten, “I hadn’t meant to keep you so long.”

But she doesn’t apologize for it, and Moira doesn’t seem sorry at all. 

“I can drive you home,” she continues, “—or I could walk with you.”

She leans in a bit closer now, and you swallow nervously. You’re convinced you’re misconstruing something, but her lips are so near to your ear that you can almost feel them ghost against your skin.

“Or you’re welcome to stay,” she says softly, “if you’d like.”

You’re scared she can feel your heart hammering away in your chest. A part of you wants to just do as she’s offering, —stay the night with her, let her crawl under your skin, let her wrap you up in her arms and melt into her. But you’re not certain you’re ready for that yet. It’s a leap, and the both of you know what happens between adults when the lights dim and you stay over.

When you say nothing, she places one of those beautiful, elegant hands on the side of your face, cupping your cheek. You never really knew Moira could be that gentle. She waits, watching as your eyes flicker about for a moment, then leans closer; almost touching, but not. Like she’s waiting for permission or rejection. You meet her gaze, then let it flicker off nervously, and a smirk grows on her face.

Moira’s lips fall just to the side of your own, pressing a light kiss to the corner of your mouth. She leans back, standing to her full height, letting her hand linger on your face before pulling away. You were hesitant, and she could feel it.

“Goodnight,” she says, —as if she already knew how this night was going to end.

She’s not upset, and you let yourself smile up at her.

“Goodnight, Moira.”

This thing with her is intoxicating. It’s like a drug, and it’s getting in the way of everything. You’re finding it difficult to even be in her presence now without your eyes wandering or thoughts sneaking off somewhere they need not be. You fantasize about her more than you’d like to admit.

And now, you know that she must like you to, —at least to a certain extent. There’s plenty you aren’t certain of, plenty you’ll likely overthink in the future, but. . . You want this. You want her. You’ve known that for weeks, and now the only question left is what the hell you’re going to do about it.

You tell yourself the next time she comes onto you, you’ll accept her advances more readily. You’ll ask for the kiss she silently offers, tell her you want to stay the night. . . Maybe you’ll take the initiative, grab her by the ivory button-up and stand on the tips of your toes to press your lips against her mouth, even if it’s somewhat out of your character.

But then what?

What happens after, when the heat has cooled down, when the water’s stopped boiling, —when her dry luster has dimmed and you’re tired of being tossed to the wayside everytime she’s set her mind to something else? What happens when you’ve fallen down the list of her priorities and she has a million and one things to think about before she ever gets to you?

What happens when you run out of excuses to make for her. . . ?

And why doesn’t that seem to matter to you as much as you know it should?

You wonder if that’s what it means to love someone. . . To know that there are parts of her you’ll likely wretch at the sight of, to know that there are facets of her that you’ll find absolutely fucking repulsive, —and you’ll love her in spite of it, just as you do now.

Or maybe you’re just a lovesick fool.

She kissed you a few nights later in your shabby little studio. Your eyes had flickered from the roses you were painting on her arm to the glimmering red and blue of her irises that still shone even in the yellow lighting of the dying bulb above your heads, and then to the bow of her lips. Moira reached out, tucking a few strands of hair behind your ear, as if this was how she’d chosen to test the waters. Your stare was so tender, and even she, in all of her romantic ineptness, could see that you were practically begging for her to make the first move so you wouldn’t have to be the one to break the ice.

You felt one of her fingernails trace your jawline from chin to lobe, then back down again. She cupped your cheek that time around, her surprisingly smooth palm sitting warmly against your skin.

You’ll never forget the way she paused just then, or the way she met your gaze just to lean in closer, a smirk tugging at the corners of her lips before she asked simply: “May I?”

And even when you were still uncertain of what that really meant, —uncertain of what she’d do in the moments that followed your approval, if only naively, you gave her a nod, because you trusted her.

Her lips were soft and imperfect, and her lipstick wasn’t the type she could kiss with and leave nothing of the remnants behind. The reddish-orange color left an imprint on your mouth, faintly, of course, but it was there. It served as proof that what happened wasn’t just in your imagination anymore. You felt your heart stutter when she pulled away, and your head was swimming.

Since then, you’ve gotten that same feeling more times than you can count. Sometimes, it seems to live in the marrow of your bones. You had it for hours on end the first night you spent with her, all but glistening in afterglow under your worn-out covers. She never complained about the quainter life you lived, even though it often paled in comparison to her own. Moira held you just the same whether on your creaky frame and dreary mattress or on the king-sized bed in her luxury apartment that overlooked the cityscape.

You get that feeling when she takes your hand in her own, —when she traces shapes and cursive letters against your flesh under humble moonlight. You get it when she peels you apart, when she looks inside your chest with a single glance, when she soothes your deepest flaws simply because she can.

And it’s not always perfect. Sometimes she’s snippy, sometimes you’re sensitive, and sometimes you sleep in the spare room of her apartment just to make room for your thoughts. Sometimes she doesn’t call when she knows she’ll be working late, and sometimes you don’t see her for a few days when her workload piles up too high and she shacks up in her laboratory. Sometimes she forgets to make the most of every moment, and sometimes you shut her out when you know deep down that you shouldn’t.

But there’s always love to be found, —no matter where you are. She attends company banquets with you on her arm, just to show you off like a prize. You sit and watch her with stars in your eyes when she cooks, when she reads, when she paints the press-on nails she wears like claws for protection. She makes your coffee for you in the mornings, memorizes the way you like it, and keeps the additives on hand (even when she drinks hers straight from the pot.) You make her your greatest source of inspiration, filling in page after page of her likeness, never tiring of a single thing.

It’s not always easy. Love never really is, —not even in most of the movies these days. But as Moira crawls into her bed, —your bed—, the bed you share now more nights than not, her hair ever so slightly longer now than on the night you first met, she drapes a thin arm over your waist and welcomes your warmth, pulling you closer, smelling faintly of the perfume you gave her for her birthday, —you’re certain some things are not just meant to be, but are meant to be maintained: and this love is one of them. 

[annebaby]

small Billy the Kid / Billy Bonney short story! i am a new writer, please be patient with me!

warnings: some drinking, slight body typing, romantic shit, slight reference to sex! besides that, nothing too serious hehe.

i hope you enjoy!

You’ve been singing in bars and honky tonks as soon as you parents were able to get you in. Your pretty blonde hair, striking brown eyes, and feminine body type determined your fame before you even had the training you needed. A new bar every night, new town every few days, it was exhausting in the least.

Every night was the same. This performance was bound to be the same. Singing your song, swaying on the stage, and listening to the men holler was nothing to you. That is, until you laid her eyes on a tall, blue-eyed slender man. His looks were charming, any girl could admit that. His brown button-down, dirty old jeans, decked out gun on his belt, and his ratty old hat all set the scene for a fun night.

As you closed out your song with the ending note, you smiled and blew kisses to the audience.

“My name is Y/N Y/L/N. Thank yall for letting me sing out here.”

You picked up your dress and slowly exited the stage, making an A-line straight for the bar. Whiskey was necessary after a performance like that.

“Howdy, just let me grab a shot of whiskey please,” you say. Your voice is almost raspy after your singing.

As you wait for your whiskey shot, you feel a presence approaching behind you. Turning around, you’re met with the piercing blue eyes of the man from the audience. You didn’t realize how large the man truly was until now, standing next to him. He had curly brown hair, icy blue eyes, and he was towering over you.

“Why, hello sir. Whatcha wantin’?” You asked. A smile played on your lips, clearly seductively intrigued by his presence.

He smiled as he looked down, hands fiddling with his belt.

“Well, I was a-hopin’ I could get to know you a little better, ma’am. Your singin’, it was just so heartwarming.”

You laughed. His compliment was heartfelt, truly. It was just his nervousness that made it so unserious. His fiddling, slight blush on his cheeks, it all made him look so adorable.

Suddenly, you seemed to recognize him under all the nervousness.

“Wait, are you the man on all ‘em wanted posters ‘round town? What’re you doing out in the open like this?”

Awaiting his answer, your whiskey shot is slid to you from the other side of the bar. You whisper a slight ‘thanks’ before returning your attention to the outlaw in front of you. You’d never encountered a man like this; a man so wanted, but for all the wrong reasons. He quickly broke your train of thought, carefully trying to answer your question.

“Well, I run with a group o’ guys ‘round here,” he says. He points to a gathering of young men sitting at a table. They’re all snickering and minding their own.

“Them boys ‘ere, they’re like my family. They protect me, I protect them. S’ that answer your question, Ms. Y/LN?”

You didn’t realize how hard you had been staring into his eyes until he stopped talking. Snapping out of your trance, you nodded slightly before taking your shot. Feeling the burn go down your throat was enough to amplify the hidden romanticism of your encounter.

“Now forgive me, but I don’t even know your name honey,” you say. You’re smiling harder than ever, trying to tone it down but you simply can’t.

“It’s Billy, Ms. Y/N. I remembered yours from your performance.”

You looked down at your empty glass and placed it back onto the bar table. Standing out of your seat, you put your hands on your hips.

“Well Billy, are you gonna ask me to dance or are you just gonna keep thinkin’ ‘bout it?”

Billy laughs at your boldness, eying you up and down. You really were beautiful. Your hair flowing down, eyes sparkling in the light, how could he not ask you to dance?

“You’ve read my mind, Y/N.”

Billy takes your hand as you start sloppily dancing on the main floor. Despite all your years in the bars, never had you picked up on how to dance. You’ve tried your best, but it’s always ended in a drunken night and a gnarly hangover the next morning.

“Now, I outta warn you. I ain’t the dancing kind of girl myself. Don’t be surprised if your boots got a few scuffs on ‘em before the end o’ the night,” you say, slightly laughing.

You’re looking down at your feet, trying your best to keep up. Billy then puts his fingers under your chin, forcing you to look up at him.

“You gotta look at me, hon. Focusing too much on your feet is gonna make you stumble. Just look at me, and focus on me.”

You smile, slowly feeling his hands return back to your waist. He squeezes you slightly, reassuring you that you’re doing fine. Before you know it, you’re swaying and dancing with Billy easier than ever before.

Looking back up at Billy, you suddenly feel the urge to kiss him. Mentally slapping yourself at the thought, you blush and look away. Billy notices your blush, and matches your exact thought, pushing your face to look at him before he slowly leans in and kisses you.

The kiss is slow and sweet, pure feeling and sincereness laced in its addictive meaning. His lips are plump, and they taste like the sting of cigarette smoke and your lipstick.

He grabs the sides of your face, not allowing you to break free. Your hands grab his hat, pulling it off and onto the floor. You grab the ends of his hair and slightly tug, needing so much more. Billy smiles into the kiss, happy that his need is clearly being reciprocated. He pulls back from the kiss, smiling and looking into your eyes.

You smile back, not entirely sure what had just happened. It wasn’t your first kiss, but you had never had one that full of passion and sincerity. Never had you kissed someone so handsome, so dangerous and wild, and you loved it.

Billy bent down to grab his hat off the floor, before grabbing your hand and pulling you to the exit of the bar.

“Need you, now.”

Such a perfect start to a once-in-a-lifetime wild west love.

[lushlovers]

Jamie, J Burrow

summary; he just misses her.

warnings; heavy angst, alcohol abuse, swearing, mentions of bars and driving under the influence, talk of loss of loved one's. all around sad stuff.

word count; 1k

note; this is inspired by one of my favorite songs at the moment, Jamie by Zach Bryan ft. Charles Wesley Godwin, feel free to listen as you read for the best experience. i did cut it short because i'm not killing off joe, sue me.

please let me know if i missed anything in the warnings and if any of the warnings mentioned above may even slightly trigger you, please skip this work. there will be a fluffy one-shot of the burrow's coming soon for those who choose not to read. <333

There ain't much a war when it's 4:34 With the man you were before that bar door.

This Joe wasn't who he used to be. Drowning his sorrows in whiskey or any hard alcohol he could get his lips on was never his way of grief. Never had he ever been such a heavy drinker in all of his time in this world. He doesn't even like to drink. But love drives people to do the unimaginable, unfortunately for him, Joe Burrow was no exception to that fact.

No one loves you enough to give you a ride and your cars sittin' right outside, Oh, Jamie

Given the time no one was answering his calls and he wasn't in the right might set to find any friends who were willing to go with him and be the designated driver. Joe's made a few mistakes in his life, drunk driving was never on the list of those. He learned from a young age that was never a good decision.

Keep your tires between the ditches And your eyes peeled on the road.

Unknowingly, Joe swerved the expensive BMW that used to belong to his wife, driving it gave him a slight sense of relief. He used to always drive it, never alone though, she always in the passenger seat. She never liked being away from him, always loving just being in his presence.

There's two more minutes before you're back home.

The bar he chose to drown his feelings in drinking at was just seven minutes from their his expensive home. Going back there was always dreaded, especially knowing the one he once loved wouldn't be snuggled up in his clothes waiting on his arrival. He's not sure how he's driven the five minutes, his minds more clouded by liquor than it's ever been.

Don't 103 feel so free? You always loved the revelry Oh, Jamie

His wife was always one to get him out of his comfort zones, introducing him to new things. One thing she could never get him into was partying. She always used to tell him about the parties she had went to when they were back in high school, Joe never could imagine jeopardizing his nearly spotless career, so he settling for story telling.

The flashing red and blue in a cracked rear view.

"Goddammit," he murmured, pressing his foot down a bit harder as the cop's light flashes along his clammy face. As if his life could get anymore difficult, the last thing he needs is a DUI charge against him. The cracks of her rear view mirror obstructed his line of sight ever so slightly, he remembers the call he got from her stressed about the crack in her mirror. He was quick to reassure that it was the cold or something.

He remembers the smile he once owned.

Joe used to be the happiest man on the planet. He had a great upbringing, the perfect wife, a baby on the way, anything a man could ever ask for and then some. There was almost never any complaints from him about anything. He was simply content all the time. He used to smile until his cheeks would hurt, now the only expression he made was when the burn of his drink of choice hit him.

But he ain't gonna stop for any cop, from here to damn near Wichita County.

If he gets caught in this act. his excuse'll be that there was no where to pull off. There's no way he could pull him over in this area, maybe he'll understand how close he is to the neighborhood? What Joe couldn't seem the grasp was the fact that he was driving so dangerously, the cop who saw him to he was out of his mind and needed to be stopped immediately.

I'll go tonight, boys. I don't mean no harm. I just miss my lovin' lady and layin' in her arms. (2x)

The only thing his mind was on was her and the baby girl who he never got to properly meet or hold. His girls.

'Cause there's a tombstone hidden in a place that he don't visit.

Every time he took the tiny dirt road back to the secluded place he chose to lay them, his heart broke impossibly more. Life could never be the same for him, everyone knew it. The funeral gutted him from the inside out, seeing her their completely lifeless made his breath catch. Panic set in pretty quickly and all he saw was black.

Where the love of his life was laid to rest, he'll make it there by dusk that is where they'll draw their guns, Oh, Jamie.

He felt heavy, like he was carrying burden on him at all times or maybe he was the burden. His eyes blurred with tears that he was quick to wipe away. The blue and red lights followed him the entire way to his destination, no shock there though.

Cause this life ain't worth livin' if the love that you've been given is taken before you are.

There was nothing left for him. No one to come home to, no one to call his own, no one to run his mouth about to his friends. nothing, just a canyon in not only his heart but his soul. Nothing could fill this, no amount of booze or therapy could fix the pain he felt at this time. He's tried it all and failed every single fucking time.

Now Jamie is dancin' and spinnin' around his baby in the stars.

He had this analogy. That they were watching him, dancing around in the clouds and painting every sunset to keep him going. Even the simplest of tasks felt impossible in his situation.

I'll go tonight, boys. I don't mean no harm. I just miss my lovin' lady and layin' in her arms. (2x)

[b-afterhours]

Avenue of Sins: Neon

A Sequel to Avenue of Sins

SUMMARY: ‘90s. It’s the aftermath. Jaded, Bill and Alma navigate their new lives as they try to drag themselves out of the dark debacherous trenches they had once ensnared themselves in. It’s easy to forget their evils when a silver lining introduces itself into their lives but can they create a less hedonistic life that would be just as satisfying?

WARNINGS: adult content, mature readers only.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: This is the last chapter (it's a long one), but an epilogue and a one-shot helping to fill some gaps should come shortly. Thank you all who have read this story, commented, and stuck to it over the years. Writing part two of this story has been so fun and a wonderful character study to do. Enjoy and again thank you all so much! 

Chapter Twenty-five

September 1993

Ruth Anne’s Bar was a cement block-built establishment. The faded robin egg blue exterior paint was flaking and chipped. The standing marquee sign by the door advertised: Wet Your Whistle Wednesdays! 25¢ BEER. 

Unfortunately, they had missed that by a few days. Only a few used cars were outside the gravel parking lot, which eased them. It was true they didn’t want to run into anyone they’d known from ages ago, but it was inevitable. Still, the less, the better. It was still early enough that the weekend crowd hadn’t started crowding the place. 

There was a slight stench of light beer-induced vomit permeating under the scent of menthol cigarettes when they walked into the incredibly dim, sticky, smokey bar. When the door slammed shut behind them, the patrons inside sat and stared them down, and they stared back with the same scrutiny. Bill felt Alma squeeze his hand once everyone conceded by turning away and resuming conversations over the country music playing loudly on the jukebox speakers.

“I’ll find a seat for us,” Alma said, looking up at him. “I’ll be okay,” she said when he looked apprehensive about letting her go alone. He kissed her before she went on her own, just so that any eyes remaining on them could see who she belonged to. If it hadn’t already been made obvious. 

He had only been to Ruth Anne’s twice, underage, with his old friend Scotty. Alma would visit occasionally when she came back from New York. Even her dad warned her about getting too drunk and joked that he didn’t want a call to be picked up before they left. Alma explained on the car ride that she was on a bender after her mom passed and that the last time she’d been, Antonio picked her up. That following morning, she woke up on the bathroom floor of her old home with scraped palms and skinned knees from tumbling on the gravel parking lot.

The patrons of Ruth Anne’s were mostly blue-collar, as were most of the people in town. Even if Bill and Alma stood out, someone knew someone—who knew someone—who knew they were local, so they were left alone.

When Bill approached the bar, the bartender wore a white halter top and straight red hair that covered her fully freckled back as she grabbed a bottle of Wild Turkey from the sparse liquor shelf. As he scanned it, there wasn’t much to choose from besides different tiers of whiskey. None you’d consider top shelf, though. Once the bartender fulfilled a burly, long-bearded man's order a few feet down the bar, she turned to Bill.

“Julia?” He was surprised to see his apathetic pre-teen neighbor, who was never impressed by his whole punk thing, was now a woman in her mid-twenties.

“Billy,” she smiled as she chewed on a wad of gum. “What do you want? Need to use the phone?” 

“Just the same, I see.” He muttered under his breath. “Uhm, this is all you have?” He leaned on the bartop and pointed at the liquor shelf. 

“Yup.” She punctuated with popping her gum. 

“That’s shitty.” 

“That’s what people drink, so that’s what we buy.” 

“You don’t have tequila?” He asked, and Julia just shook her head impatiently. “Fine. I guess I’ll do two Jack and Cokes then.” 

“Never heard of it.” She winked. 

Bill peered over his shoulder and saw Alma putting quarters on the dart machine to secure a turn. His eyes followed her, and she sat down at a high-top table right against a wall, unbuttoning the first few buttons of her sleeveless top. She felt his eyes on her, and looked at him, giving him a little wave. 

“Here you go, killer.” Julia grabbed his attention by placing the drinks down in front of him. 

Bill’s eyes flashed dark when his gaze met hers for a moment. She didn’t even react to it in the slightest; she just continued to chew her gum, unimpressed. She was always so weird to him. He felt as if he were made of glass in her presence. She just saw right through him, but it seemed she had no idea she was doing so. 

“Wanna start a tab?” She raised her thin, pencil-filled brows at him. 

“Uh, sure...” 

“Wanna tack the outstanding tab your brother ditched onto that?” 

“Which one?” 

“Alex.” She smirked. 

“I don’t know who the fuck that is.” He scoffed, quickly grabbed the drinks in front of him, and walked off while she laughed. 

“It’s Jack,” he warned, setting the drink in front of Alma before sitting across from her. 

“Thanks. No tequila here.” She giggled, stirring her drink with the thin cocktail straw.

“No wonder you were calling your dad,” he lightly laughed, putting a coveted cigarette to his lips. 

“Whatever,” she smirked, taking a sip of her drink. “One drink of whiskey is fine. Anyway, what were you and my dad talking about for so long?” 

Bill took a deep drag on his cigarette. She had asked him just before arriving, but he accidentally missed his turn, which saved him, but it also didn’t provide enough time to think of a good lie.

“Mm. He was just asking about the whole record shop acquisition. It’s long and boring having to explain, but he was interested.” He shrugged, blowing smoke above him as he leaned back in his chair. “And I was telling him about the zoo.” 

“The zoo,” Alma sighed, grabbing the cigarette pack on the table and fiddling with it, indecisive about having one. “That was fun for a little while, at least. You know—I know I was being a bitch about coming, but… it hasn’t been so bad.” She admitted. “It’s been nice to see our family, and everyone’s been so, kind.”

“I told you,” he said with a pointed look. “For me, it’s just nice knowing we aren’t coming back.” 

“Aww, you’re too city now.” Alma playfully joked.

He raised his brows in amusement and was glad Alma’s general attitude had turned around. With that confession, he felt he had done his job well. He had created a good boundary around her and their daughter, in which they didn’t have to worry about anything but enjoy themselves. However, it was a job he hadn’t expected to come with so much emotional labor from him, but that he could face later in private if he could help it. Being in Strathburg was certainly draining him, but he was glad Alma deviated from their plans for him to enjoy a much-needed drink and a smoke. 

After all, he had accomplished what he came to do. He had gotten Antonio’s blessing, and that deserved a little private celebration on his end. He laid his hand over the one she kept twisting the pack with, feeling her anxious energy, and passed his lit cigarette over for her to take a drag from. 

“Mm,” her gaze fell, blowing smoke. “Do you think my dad will actually come to Seattle? He never said yes or no.” 

Bill took the cigarette she passed back and put it to his lips for a deep puff before stamping it out in a teal plastic ashtray on the table. He wasn’t sure what to tell her. She had told him how Connie revealed that she and Alma’s father had visited her family in San Antonio during dinner. Alma was upset on the car ride, telling him about it, especially knowing they had gone three times now. 

“Uh,” he sighed, scratching his brow with his pinky. “I don’t know, love. But he knows the door is open.” 

“Yeah.” She looked a bit sad, but then sat up, picking up her drink, and they tapped glasses. 

As they played darts, the bar began slowly filling up. They shared a look and decided that after their game they should leave. From behind, Bill pulled her body flush against him to steady and guide her aim, but to no avail. Being against him was the only fun Alma was having because she was losing. She couldn’t use the excuse that she couldn’t see well, since she wore contacts now. It was rare that she ever won games when competing against him. As Bill's score quickly hit below fifty, Alma gave up since her score was still in the hundreds. 

They were putting the darts up for the next players and ultimately decided to have one last beer before leaving, as they still had a little time.

“How come you never speak Spanish to me?” He asked, pulling her chair out for her to sit down, and he decided to lean on the tall table facing her. 

She lightly laughed. “Are you going to speak it back?” 

“Si,” he smirked. “I know, un poquito.” He said, pinching his thumb and pointer finger close. 

“Un poquito? Por que tienes un chiquito pito?” She laughed loudly and took a sip of her beer. 

“Ah, okay,” Bill began to laugh as well. “I don’t know much, but I know what that means. And that’s not what you tell me in bed.” He said as his hand slid up her thigh. “Es muy grande. You even scream it.” 

“Alma!?” A female voice exclaimed, disrupting their laughter.

“Fuck,” she muttered under her breath, looking past him now and begrudgingly setting her beer glass down on the table. “Tarilynn!” 

“Oh my god! It’s been a while since I’ve seen you!” She said, approaching with her arms out for an embrace. She was wearing short cutoffs and a camo tank top. “What are you doing here?!” 

“Oh, you know, visiting family...”

“Of course. What else, right? And,” she turned her head and gave Bill a disingenuous smile. “Bill… wow!” 

“Hello.” He tightly pursed his lips and gave her a nod. 

“You look,” she looked between the couple. “Well, you both look great! You, especially Alma!”

Alma complimented her back. Bill didn’t agree with Alma’s flattery, but he just minded his business by taking a drink of his beer. Time had not been kind to her. Before they both even knew it, Alma was getting dragged into a dart game with her, despite several protests, until she begrudgingly gave in to get her to shut up. Tara had always been very pushy since grade school. The first time Alma ever kissed a boy was because of Tara’s incessant peer pressure in the form of a dare at the 8th grade formal. She remembered it being an oddly humid kiss. 

Bill looked at his watch and informed Alma of the time when she asked. She looked up at him apologetically, but he wasn’t upset with her—just Tara, who insisted that he buy her a beer. 

“For us, girls.” She smirked at him, with her fading fuchsia-covered lips. However, she was just subtly strong-arming her way into getting a free drink from him.

While Bill ordered, Julia shook her head at him, noticing what had happened. “She’s going to expect you to keep buying her drinks if you don’t cut her off after this.” She warned. 

“Felt like she does that a lot.” 

“She’ll find someone else right after you with no problem.” She said, which made Bill chuckle. 

People were filing in through the door behind him as he waited for the drinks, and suddenly he felt a hand on his shoulder, which made his body stiffen and his jaw tense. In his peripheral vision, he could make out the stature of a man similar to his own. 

“I can’t believe this shit!” The man hollered excitedly behind him. 

Bill turned his head, and his stern look fell when he saw his old friend Scotty. They embraced each other happily, both surprised that their paths had crossed again. Their connection and correspondence had been lost over the years. The last he ever heard from Scotty was that he was living in St. Louis with a girlfriend. 

“What the fuck are you doing here?” Bill said, still shocked to be in the presence of his old friend. 

Scotty looked cleaned up, but he still had a cool flair about him. He had nicely kept wavy chocolate hair just above shoulder-length, tucked behind his pierced ears. There was a hoop through his nostril now too. He was wearing a tee shirt with the Joe Camel cigarette mascot on a motorbike, which he cut the hem off. So it sat right at the waist of his jeans, revealing skin only if he moved ever so.

“I could ask you the same, dude! Look at you! You look legit in this polo, man!” He playfully dusted off Bill’s shoulder. “I knew I’d bump into someone here, but I didn’t expect to see you!”

“Eh, yeah… Visiting family, whatever,” he muttered dismissively. “Just decided to drop in with Alma since we’re in town.” 

Scotty grinned. “Same here! She lives with you in New York, right? You finally locked that down, or what?” 

“Eh, well, basically.” 

Scotty rolled his eyes and excused himself to quickly buy a drink, and they both walked back to the table and stood beside it rather than sit down. When Tara took her glass out of Bill’s hand without so much as a thank you, Alma looked over after shooting her darts, and her eyes widened, surprised to see Scotty as well.

“Hey, Scotty! It’s been a long time.” She said, walking into his lanky arm embrace. 

“Since, uh… since that basement show that got busted!” He said, snapping his fingers, recalling when they had serendipitously run into each other in St. Louis. “A pleasure as always, Alma.” He said with a little bow.

Alma laughed. “Yeah! Are you still with Ki’?” 

“Kiara, eh, no.” He lightly winced, pulling a cigarette from his pack of menthol cigarettes. “We–” 

“Alma! It’s your turn.” Tara interrupted, which made Alma's lip curl in annoyance. 

She apologetically excused herself and went back into the game, one she was winning this time, but she couldn’t care less.  

“Boy! She will just always be pretty, huh.” Scotty winked at his friend, tapping each end of his cig’ on the pack. “Been here for a week now, and there’s nothing left to look at here if you get me. You ending up with Alma is like getting the last chopper out of fuckin’ ‘Nam, man!” 

Bill laughed. “And what happened to your girlfriend? I remember you living together.”

“Ah yeah.” He paused to light his cigarette. “We did that off and on, bullshit. And then, we had a daughter. So we were good for a cool minute and then broke up again. Straight done-zo. But it’s fine; we’re better as friends. And sometimes we’ll still hook up, so I’ll take it.” He said, taking a drag from his cigarette. 

“Oh. You have a daughter?” Bill was happy to hear that. 

“Yeah!” He smiled, pulling on his wallet chain. “Her name is Jasmine Marie. We call her Jazzy, though.” He unfolded his weathered red leather wallet and showed him a picture of his child. She was cute, with a cappuccino complexion and hair braided back into two poofs of curly, dark hair. “She’s three here, but she’s five now.” 

“Yeah, she’s cute, man. Alma and I have a daughter too.” He smiled. “She’s almost two; her name is Echo.”

“No shit? So you finally did it! Good for you, man!” He laughed, tucking his wallet in his back pocket. 

Bill laughed. “At least once.”

“Ha! Well, at least you made it fuckin’ count!” 

Bill dug into Alma’s purse—pushing tampons and a tube of cherry chapstick away from her pocketbook—to show him a picture of his child. One Alma had taken. Unfortunately, his wallet didn’t have any room to add a photo of her. He’d need to get a new one. 

“Dude!” Scotty said, snatching the pocketbook from Bill to look at the photo closer. “Hell yeah, man! She’s adorable, but of course, you’re cute, dude.” Scotty teased, passing the wallet back. Bill noticed some guy in a trucker hat glance, overhearing his friend. Scotty was only joking, but you couldn’t make comments like that in a place like this. 

“Have you heard anything about Jones?” Bill inquired before he took a drink of his beer.

“Jones?” He sat his beer down after taking a sip. “Mm. Not much. Last I heard, he lives in Tulsa and is in the military. Uh, Air Force, actually. Has a family and all that. So yeah, it sounds like he’s doing alright to me. And you? Still running that place in New York?” He suggestively wagged his brows.

“Yeah. But I’m on to something else now.” 

“Oh?” 

“I bought a record shop. It’s a venue too. But it’s in Seattle, where I’m living now, too. And yeah, it rains a lot.” He said before he was asked. 

“Well, no shit, Bill. But for real? That’s legit, man! You have to tell me the details of that. I’m managing a Chicago band. We just did a short East Coast tour last month! They're good. No bullshit!”

While they spoke, filling in the gaps of missed time, Julia approached, grabbed empty drink glasses, and took an order at their table. Her swiftness and her memorization skills were quite impressive to Bill. Alma was still beating Tara at darts, and it was the only thing entertaining her because all the trivial trauma dumping that Tara was doing was just fucking ridiculous. Anytime Alma tried to get a word in with her, it fell on deaf ears, and she turned the conversation back on herself. It was by a miracle that she recognized a bar patron when they entered.

“Roger!” Tara shouted. Suddenly, she seemed uninterested in the game and Alma altogether. “Uhm, I think I’m done playing.” She said to Alma, placing her darts in her hand.

“Sure. You know where to find me…” She trailed off because Tara unceremoniously walked off, effectively ditching her. While Alma was grateful to be free of her, it still felt shitty. 

She joined Bill and Scotty, who were cracking up about something. 

“You fuckin’ dog!” Scotty laughed, shaking his head. 

“Yeah, yeah…” Bill said, amused when his gaze found Alma’s. “You finished your game?” He asked, reaching out to her and putting his arm over her shoulder. 

“Fuck that game. She was…” Alma groaned, a bit flustered. “Something else.” 

“That girl you were with?” Scotty pointed behind himself with his thumb, and Alma nodded. “Looking at her made my dick itch. Excuse me, I know she’s your friend.” He raised his hands, meaning no harm. 

Alma laughed. “No, she’s not. So, where are you living? What’s been going on with you?” 

“Capone’s old stomping grounds.”

“Chicago?”

“Yes ma’am. I just got done telling Billy this, but Kiara moved there with our daughter Jazzy about two years ago to be close to family. And I followed. My old man took off when I was a kid, and I didn’t want to do the same shit.” 

“Yeah, of course! I love hearing that you have a daughter, too.” She genuinely smiled, happy for him. “How long are you here for?” 

“I take off in the morning with my little sister. But, uhm, Billy told me I’d have to talk to you about booking the band I manage.” 

“Oh shit!” She raised her brows. “Well, yeah… but you should also come see us too. Fuck working.” 

“Oh, for sure! I’ve been wanting to head that way, actually. Just give me the word!” 

Bill subtly took a glance at his wristwatch while they spoke. If they were younger and on a date, he would have gotten Alma home at the hour she was expected. That rite of passage had passed them by, though. However, they left their daughter with two elderly people, who were most likely up past their bedtime to watch her. Echo may have tucked them into bed herself by now, for all he knew. 

“Uhm,” Bill spoke up regretfully as he interrupted the laughter they shared about some tour mishap that Scotty experienced. “I think we have to pick Echo up now.” 

“Ah, no worries, man,” Scotty said understandingly, taking another cigarette from his pack. “I’m taking the first leg of the drive in the morning, anyway. I’m just going to burn one more and head out after. ” 

“Maybe we can wait until you finish,” Alma said, looking up at Bill. She felt it would be rude to leave him behind since he arrived solo. 

“Fuck it, I’ll have one too,” Bill said, and then he suggested that they could smoke outside. 

He briefly stopped by the bar to pay his tab, while Alma and Scotty waited by the jukebox. They were snickering mischievously while looking through the catalog to play obnoxious pop and hard rock tracks they knew the patrons would hate. Bill waited for Julia to personally pick up the generous tip he left for her. 

“Thanks, Billy!” She hardly took a glance at the cash but could tell just by handling it that he left her something substantial.

“I left my business card under the clip too.” She furrowed her brows questioningly. “Do you want to bartend here forever?” 

“Well…” 

“Think about it. I have a place with a bar in New York City where you’ll get tipped three times more than what I just left with you.” 

“Really?” Julia said, tilting her head with intrigue. 

“I wrote my business partner's number on the back. Her name’s Bianca. Tell her you know me; she’ll expect your call whenever it comes.” He knocked on the counter with his knuckles and said goodbye to her before she could fully process his proposition. 

Bill lit his cigarette once out of the bar on the warm, muggy night with Alma and Scotty. The men walked behind her, speaking some before parting ways. They reached his car in the backside gravel lot, and they paused to say goodnight. Alma stood back, letting them have a moment after hugging him and telling him how nice it was to see him.

“Stay in touch this time, fucker!” Scotty said, flicking his cigarette down and stomping out the ember. “Seriously though.” 

“Yeah, for sure. I’m in a better spot now, so.” 

“I get you, man. Life, right.” He sighed. “Well, it was good to see you, brother.” He said before they embraced tightly. 

Alma took Bill’s hand again when he joined her again. “Have a safe trip, Scotty.” She said, waving.

“Thanks, Alma.” He said, putting a hand to his heart, appreciatively. “Don’t forget, I’m gonna hit you up! Business first, party later.” 

“Lame.” She teased, making him chuckle, just before he got in his car and drove away. “What time is it?” She asked Bill when they entered their SUV, a few parking spaces away.

“Your dad’s going to be fucking pissed!” He exclaimed, feigning alarm, before he chuckled. “It’s almost eleven.” 

“You wanna make out before we leave?” She cheekily asked, reaching over to brush the side of his hair. 

“Get in the back.” He said, nudging his head towards the back seat.

“Bill… the car seat, and I’m on my period…” 

“Excuses.” He tutted, putting the gear in drive and hitting the gas pedal, causing the car to lurch forward enough to pin Alma’s back to her seat for a moment. 

“Hey!” She glared at him, displeased. “Fine.” 

Bill bit his lip to keep from laughing, especially when she crossed her arms. As he drove to Alma’s father’s house, he turned left onto an old, dusty country road. Before she could ask where they were going, she quickly remembered there was a secluded enclave where teens and young adults would go to hook up, which fell on the very lonely road they were on. She remained silent in fear that he’d change his mind and turn around just to mess with her further. 

The lover's cove was anything but inviting. The moonlight struggled to illuminate the area. The moonbeams that broke through the tree canopy gave the area an eerie green glow. The cicadas and nocturnal wildlife could be heard skittering and cooing in the surrounding brush. The headlights had long been cut off when they parked next to a tree with a thick trunk and away from the other two cars parked. They’d look abandoned to the flora if they weren’t mildly rocking.

Bill stepped out of the car without a word to open her door, but he paused with his hand on the door handle, kicking dry twigs and garbage away. An unusually cold breeze struck Alma once the door opened. 

“Make it quick.” He said, leaning in to kiss her before she could pout. 

Though he was mostly joking, there was some seriousness behind it. Car sex was difficult enough with his height and long limbs, but now there was a car seat in the way. It wasn’t sexy to have to pause the passion that they were currently sharing while making out by having to uninstall it. Most importantly, it wasn’t wise to overstay their welcome. It wasn’t worth getting harassed by the menacing pack of feral dogs that seemed to appear at the most inconvenient times, or worse, harassed by bored small-town police. Bill wanted to enjoy himself despite these obstacles because, while he had never been here with Alma until now, he knew that if things had gone differently they’d have ended up in this creepy, secluded patch of land long ago. 

Bill kept inching his hand up her skirt but was becoming frustrated when she kept clenching her legs closed. If it wasn’t in the shower, Alma always worried about the added mess her menses created. However, sex was messy as is, but Bill never minded it the way she did. Besides, they didn’t have time to worry about any of it. 

“Don’t be so hasty,” Alma breathlessly said as she broke away from his lips. “We just got here.” She reached for the button on his trousers, somewhat contradicting herself. 

She slid out of her seat and stood on earth in front of him. She bent forward and took him into her mouth. Even with eyes that had adjusted to the dark, it was difficult to see her work while he leaned back with his hips jutted forward, but he could certainly feel each lick, suck, and pump with her assisting hand. 

His hands continuously pushed her hair back to at least see a glimpse of her pretty mouth on his cock, but he kept getting lost in the feeling, especially when she was taking him to the back of her throat. His eyes fluttered closed as he moaned appreciatively.

“Baby…” he said breathlessly. “I’m gonna come if you keep doing that.” 

His warning only encouraged her, and that’s when he had to take control because he knew she was trying to skirt away from sex. If she made him cum down her throat without having to bend over, could he really complain? His hand cupped the bottom of her chin, gently pulled her away, and got her to stand upright for their lips to meet again. She felt his hands beginning to push her skirt up. 

“Turn around,” he said with guiding hands on her hips. 

She slightly hesitated but obliged nonetheless. “Wait a second.” She whispered as he pushed her skirt over her ass. The sound of his hand smacking her ass cheek bounced among the trees before he pulled her panties down to the middle of her thighs. “Let me–” 

She gasped when he pulled the tampon out of her and tossed it somewhere in the brush, startling some avian wildlife that cawed in irritation. Suddenly, she felt his mouth at her core, taking some greedy licks, much to her surprise. There was only one instance where he’d gone down on her while on her period, and that was only by accident. It happened during a drunken night when the lights were off and the black-out curtains were drawn to keep the city lights from shining in the bedroom of their old Hell’s Kitchen apartment. Unbeknownst to either of them, she had started her period. Bill assumed she was just really wet because he was doing such a good job. However, he was drunk and was being quite sloppy. It wasn’t until he rose to kiss her that Alma noticed something off, or rather tasted something off. 

Bill straightened up, pushed Alma to lay her chest on the passenger seat, and lined himself with her entrance. Despite his demanding attitude, Alma appreciated that he pushed in gently. She was rather sensitive during her time of the month, to the point where it was almost uncomfortable until her body could acclimate, and the intrusion became pleasurable. For Bill, she felt the same but somehow different. She was slick, and it was gritty and felt a little taboo. Occasionally, the wind swayed the branches above enough to let the moonlight illuminate his cock, revealing the sangria fluid coating him and making some animalistic fire ignite in his chest. It was as if he interpreted it as some sanguine pact.

Alma pressed her face into the seat once she let her inhibitions go. The apprehension left her, and her breathy moans began to flow out past her lips. He thrust into her with less hesitation, feeling and seeing how she was responding favorably to him now. 

She gasped at a certain snap of his hips. “Fuck! Like, like that.” 

Bill bent into the SUV from where he stood, so half his body was inside, just like hers. The pressure of his hands on her achy hips and his thrusts felt incredible, but also relieving. Bill could feel her impending climax building inside her, but her needy moans were intoxicating him. While he always tried to be a gentleman and preferred that she come first, he couldn’t hold back anymore. Especially when she pressed her bottom harder against him to feel him deeper inside. A deep moan erupted from his chest, and Alma could feel his warm release within. It felt so visceral, fucking outside, communing with nature in the most natural states of their bodies. He never ceased his thrusts, continuing in the same rhythm Alma asked him not to deviate from. 

“Ah,” Bill gulped. “There you go.” 

He ran a soothing hand up her back once she met her peak. They stole kisses in between catching their breath. Bill slowly pulled out of her, jolting them back into the reality of their situation. He stepped over to open the backseat door, where there was a spare package of baby wipes to clean themselves with. What a starkly unsexy reminder that they were parents and needed to get back to their responsibilities. 

…

It was just a little past eleven when they returned to Alma’s father’s home. Antonio and Connie were sitting on the front porch with mugs of coffee in hand with Echo. They were chuckling to themselves while she played with their favorite hen, Pinto. She didn’t seem so bothered, as the hen liked to sit and brood. Bill and Alma stayed a while after gathering the baby bag and gifts, never realizing how they never bothered to really fix their clothes. Alma’s top was still unbuttoned and Bill’s polo untucked. Connie had apologized to Alma for not putting Echo to bed, but Alma assured her that it was fine and that she’d fall asleep on the car ride. The young parents thanked Connie before she decided to go back inside with Pinto, ready for bed, and to give them privacy. 

“So late?” Antonio raised his brow, but he wasn’t upset. He didn’t believe either of them for a second when they said they’d only be away for an hour. 

“Sorry. We ran into old friends.” Bill explained, trying to keep the smug smirk Alma had called him out on for having when they arrived, from spreading across his face. The ‘I just fucked your daughter’ look. “I’m going to get Echo in the car,” Bill said, picking her up. “Say bye, baby.” 

"No, bye-bye!” She protested. 

“No, no. Just bedtime, mija.” Antonio said to her. “Goodnight, amor.” 

“Sleepies!” Echo listened and seemed to understand that it was quite late. She even looked tired, even if she was fighting it. 

“Yeah!” Alma said, caressing her cheek before Bill walked down the porch steps, taking her back to the car. “Thanks, Apá.” 

“Mhmm.” Antonio nodded. “She’s a sweet girl. Reminds me of you. Thank you for giving me a grandchild. Your mama would be so happy. So proud, like I am.” 

Alma swallowed the lump in her throat. “Yeah…” she inhaled deeply. “Please visit us. I don’t want this to be the last time I see you.” 

Antonio nodded. “Okay, mija. Bill makes Seattle sound pretty. He’s a good talker.” 

Alma smiled and was surprised that he’d complimented her boyfriend. When Bill returned, he stood at the bottom of the steps, watching Antonio and Alma lovingly embrace. He walked up a couple of steps, and finally, Antonio gave him the most proper, even pressured, handshake. It was a subtle sign of respect between men. 

“Before you go,” Antonio slowly walked, with the assistance of his cane, to the little porch table and grabbed a small gift bag. “All the paperwork for the old house is in there. Signed. Notarized.” He said just to get it out of the way. Their trip wasn’t about the home, it was only just the lure to get her to Missouri. “But there’s a pair of gold basket earrings for Echo too. I had bought them before I could ask if her ears were pierced.” He bought them the same week he learned he had a granddaughter, out of excitement. “Anyway, I wanted to give you the rosary inside there too. It holds some of Leo and Lily’s ashes.” 

“Oh…” Alma nodded and mournfully smiled. “Thank you.” 

“Mhm.” It was mostly for him that he had given her the rosary. It gave him comfort to know that, in some capacity, all his children were together. “You said you have an early morning?” He said, speaking to Bill, who had just stood by observing. “But also, you said you’re not leaving until the evening?”

“Uhm,” Bill cleared his throat. “Yeah. We’re going to visit the springs before we go.” 

…

When they arrived to the spring, everything was much different from what they remembered. The acres that it sat on had been purchased and were made into a private park. To enter, they were in a line of cars, waiting their turn to pay the ten-dollar fee.

“Ten?” Bill asked, appalled and disgruntled with the attending agent. “American dollars?” 

“Here,” Alma said, leaning over him and passing the cash over with a friendly smile, and the attendant waved them in. 

“Alma?” Bill turned to her while she was so close. 

“Just go. There's a line behind us.” She pecked him on the lips before sitting back in her seat.

“Money isn’t the issue; it's the principle.” He griped as they looked for a parking space. “How are you going to charge to see some flowing water and some fucking grass?” He peered over his sunglasses while reversing into a parking space.

Alma giggled at his irritation, but she did agree with him. The parking lot was once just a dirt patch, but it is now paved and painted with park slots. There was a large pavilion and even a children's playground now. An obvious indication of what the fees went towards.

Alma and Echo enjoyed the more populated area, where families splashed about the roped-off section of shallow waters. The only problem was that there were many older children not minding where they were going and nearly bumping into Echo and other children her age. In the last incident, Alma and another mother had to quickly sweep their daughters into their arms when two boys roughly played far too close to them. The women looked at each other a bit flustered, imagining the worst had they not been quick, and then slightly chuckled together, shaking their heads. They left to join Bill, who had been busy looking for a spare picnic table.

“Maybe… we should go find your spot?” Alma suggested, seeing as he was still slightly peeved. 

“Let’s eat first; I literally just sat down.”

After eating their packed lunch of ham sandwiches and potato chips. Bill led the way, following a footpath along the water. He knew the direction, but after so many years, he wasn’t positive if they’d find the place he’d like to escape to during rough times. The footpath had deviated and faded after some time. They were trekking in inches of flowing water in their Converse now. Bill couldn’t recall if the path took this turn but continued looking ahead, hoping to see any familiar landmarks.

As their feet fell on washed-out muddy land again, Alma turned her head behind herself, taking note that there were no obnoxious park visitors to be seen or heard anymore. Nor were there people floating in the spring to the left of them. It was just the family among the trees and water. She almost ran into Bill when he suddenly paused in front of her.

“Could you hold her for a second?” He asked while passing Echo to her. He took off his shirt, folded it in half long ways, and tucked it behind the waistband of his black swim trunks.

He took Alma’s backpack and wore it on the front of himself, since he was wearing one as well. He needed both hands to hold back thin, hanging branches away from the path. 

“Are we close?” Alma questioned, covering Echo’s face when they ducked under a branch he pushed away from them. 

“Yeah.” He said, even though he had begun doubting himself. 

Alma started to lose hope in ever finding it and worried about getting lost, but she didn’t want to discourage him by voicing it. The landscape became a bit rocky, and she had to be mindful of where she stepped to keep from tripping. They met a small fork in the spring. The water was about calf-high in the deepest part, or so that’s what it appeared like. The water was too murky under the shade of trees to be certain. 

“It’s just past this,” Bill said as they stood on the edge of the water. 

This was vaguely familiar to Alma; however, she didn’t remember it being nearly five feet at the widest part. It was merely a foot over a decade ago. 

“I’ll go first. Just watch where I step and follow it.” He instructed. 

Effortlessly, he walked across, only pausing to say there was a large rock where he stood. Alma hiked Echo further up on her hip and held her tighter as she followed. The water went above her knees and was ice-cold. She stood on the rock Bill had pointed out and held Echo out to him, doubting herself when she could have taken Echo across perfectly fine. Instead, he held his hand out and pulled hers, assisting her to follow through. 

“It better be close,” Alma said, hugging his side, still feeling the chill of the water.

Bill chuckled. “It is. I remember now.”

A few minutes later, the pathway opened up to an undisturbed grove. The water was placid, and you could see the tall grass on the bluffs in the distance swaying with the wind. It was still as pretty as she remembered it so long ago. 

They laid a blanket down and settled on the bank among the wildflowers. There was evidence that others had also discovered this place over the years, but luckily they had it all to themselves today. Alma took her crop tank off but remained in her unbuttoned denim shorts and red string bikini top, and sat next to Echo on the blanket. As she dug through one of the bags for sunscreen, Bill kicked off his wet Converse. He just stared ahead in thought for a moment.

“Do you want some?” Alma looked up at him, holding out the bottle of sunscreen. 

“Yeah. In a minute.” He crouched down and rubbed a spot of white sunscreen into his daughter's forehead before grabbing a cigarette and a lighter from a bag. 

Alma watched him walk into the cold water alone, puffing away and inspecting the shore. It seemed like he wanted a moment. The very first and last time she came here with him, it was just a week before he left her life for another. She was convinced she’d never see him again. That she’d never have a time in which this would ever happen again. It didn’t help that the weekend before when he came to sleep over, she broke down crying, asking him to stay and begging him not to leave out of selfishness. When the weekend before that, at the field party, she told him she understood why he had to leave. She was rather embarrassed of herself for it. 

It was here that she definitively accepted that he needed to go. He picked her up early in the morning, tapping on her bedroom window, and he had a deep bruise under his eye and across his cheek. It pained her when she noticed them on his body, but it devastated her when they were visible on his handsome face. 

At the beginning of their friendship, she noticed the bruises, but if she asked about them, he’d shy away or have an excuse for them. Eventually, she was able to put the pieces together, until he finally confessed. She felt so helpless, but the only thing she could do was offer her room to get away from the abuse whenever he wanted. She didn’t care if they got caught, but luckily they never were.

Alma lightly snickered when the water met his waist, and he shivered a bit, but then he ducked down. His whole body disappeared into the water, all except his raised arm that held his cigarette between his long fingers. When he emerged, he put his cigarette to his lips while slicking his hair back. 

“C’mon!” He said, turning around and waving them over. 

Alma fixed Echo’s periwinkle bucket hat on her head, which matched her checkered bathing suit, before gently coaxing her to meet her father on her own. 

“Go with daddy, E’!” She encouraged.

She got up on her chubby legs, giggled, and shrieked happily as she ran toward the water. Bill met her by the edge, flicking the spent cigarette close by to pick up later, and scooped her into her arms. 

Alma pushed her shorts off and picked her bikini bottoms out of her ass crack before joining them. As she feared, the water was rather cold when her feet were immersed. Even being as hot as it was, you’d think it would be a little relieving, but the drastic change in temperatures was shocking.

“Oh, stop!” Bill laughed, noticing her apprehension. “You’ll get used to it fast.” 

“It was warmer in the family area.” She said, inching her way in. 

“Yeah, ‘cause 50 kids are pissin’ in it.” He chuckled a bit when seeing Alma grimace with disgust at the thought. 

“But the baby? I might be too cold for her.” 

Bill looked down at Echo in his arms, and she stared back with a smile. With his hands under her armpits, he began lowering her down into the knee-deep water.

“If you’re going to dunk her, be nice about it,” Alma said with worry.

“I know, I know.” 

Once her feet went in, she kicked her little legs and wiggled her toes happily, seemingly unaffected, until he lowered her further, and suddenly she stuck her legs straight out in front of her. Her little body was now hovering at a perfect 90-degree angle above the cold water, causing them to laugh loudly.

They decided to sit on the shore for her to splash about and acclimate to the cool water, while they took turns applying sunscreen to each other. They spent time in waist-deep water after inflating a baby floatie for Echo to join them. 

“Just go all the way in,” Bill suggested when Alma kept tensing up anytime her dry upper body made contact with the cool water. 

Alma gently pushed Echo towards him, and once she floated off, she pinched her nose and disappeared under the water. Bill reached for the floatie and smiled at his child as she wiggled her fingers around the edges of the floatie to touch the water. He was happily speaking to her when he glanced towards the same spot where Alma had submerged herself and furrowed his brows. The water ripples were gone, a small school of minnows swam by, and air bubbles on the surface burst. She should have gone in and out, but seconds were now passing. 

Suddenly, he felt something by his thigh and then on his hip, until Alma jumped out of the water behind him and wrapped her arms around him, giggling. 

“Don’t do that,” he laughed, turning his head over his shoulder to kiss her. 

She stayed on his back with her arms loosely around his neck as he walked a little deeper into the water, where they stayed, enjoying each other's company under the blazing sun. 

When they noticed Echo’s fingers and toes beginning to become pruney, they decided to take a break and lay out on the blanket on the bank with snacks between them. While fiddling with her Polaroid camera, Alma looked over at Bill, who lay on his back with his legs crossed and eyes closed, and wondered where his mind was. She watched Echo crawl over to her father, and he opened one eye to peek at her and smiled with full admiration for her. 

“Pretty girl,” he said, cupping Echo’s face with his two large hands while she sat on his belly. She looked like such a big girl from when he first ever saw her. It would be a year, this very week in September, that she came into his life. How quickly a year could be. How quickly his whole life had changed. 

Before Echo appeared in his life, he appreciated how time could go by so quickly. Especially after that fateful night, it was a comfort knowing that incident in time was slipping further and further away. The passing of time would encapsulate it into some shitty blip in the timeline. It also meant that he could further separate himself from his former self, too. Now, looking at his daughter, he just wished time would slow down. 

Alma took a snapshot of them with her camera, and he turned his gaze at her. She winked at him, and he reached for it to take a photo of her. She posed, hugging her knees and gazing behind her shoulder with a contented smile. 

Eventually, Echo was lying in her mother's lap, enjoying the TLC of the reapplication of sunscreen on her legs. Alma looked over at her when she felt her going limp, and her eyes were fighting to stay open. She grinned lovingly, amused by her pampered baby, and rocked her a bit for a nap. 

They were back in the water, after creating a makeshift barricade of bags around Echo. Bill used a portable umbrella as a canopy and wrapped her lower legs with a thin blanket to keep her from quickly getting up before they could notice. They swam about until, eventually, Alma floated peacefully on her back. He left her undisturbed and admired her. How her skin looked golden under the sun, and her beautiful face rested in contentment. The image familiar.

It was here that he finally admitted to himself that he was in love with her. The realization swelled and broke his heart simultaneously. Years ago, he admired her just like she was now, floating in tranquility. A flood of conflicting emotions finally consumed him. Happiness, regret, love, and unworthiness. He swallowed hard, took a deep breath that inflated his broad chest, and slowly exhaled. He had everything now, but it was hard to accept if he really deserved any of it. 

Alma paddled her arms suddenly and stood upright in the water, while he quickly corrected the despondent expression on his face. She smiled at him, none the wiser, as she began swimming closer to him.

“Take me to the deep end.” She wrapped her legs around his waist and her arms around his neck, facing him. 

He went just to his shoulders when their lips met. Her hand ran over his slicked-back hair lovingly. Bill was squeezing Alma so tightly that she nearly couldn’t breathe, but she liked it when he felt so needy for her. 

“Can I take your hair down?” He asked, running his hand down one of her french braids. 

She nodded and allowed him to pull the hair ties from the ends of her braids and wore them on his wrist. She ran her fingers as best she could through her scalp before leaning back to dunk her head. He preferred her wavy hair down and wild, but it was also how she wore it when he first brought her here. They gazed into each other's eyes, both in admiration. 

“I love you.” They said at the same time, and they both bashfully laughed. 

At first, he expected Alma’s lips to meet his again and puckered his to accept, but instead, she rested her chin on his shoulder and hugged him tightly. His hands ran down her wet hair, and he sighed wistfully. 

“Did you ever come back here after I brought you?” He wondered. 

“I tried the first summer you were gone. But I never found it.” 

They waded in the water for a bit, inching closer and closer to the bank as they did. Alma kept her legs wrapped around his waist and floated half her body over the water as he slowly walked. Occasionally, his hands sneakily grazed sensitive skin, just as he did so long ago when they were in this same position in the water. She found it amusing and cute of him. 

“I like this bikini,” he said, plucking the red string high on her hip as they walked out of the spring together. 

“Yeah? The one I wore when I first came here was like a nun’s bikini now in comparison.” She said, making him laugh. 

“I guess you could say that.” He remembered the two-piece white bikini she wore. It was another purchase she made under her mother's nose, who only allowed her to wear a one-piece. While it wasn’t as skimpy as the one she was wearing now, he appreciated how much of her skin he could see then. 

Bill silently rummaged through the bags to check the time on his wristwatch while Echo continued to sleep. Alma walked further up the bank and began picking wildflowers she deemed pretty. Creating a small bouquet of yellow, violet, and white petaled flowers. 

“Is it time to go?” She asked Bill when she returned. 

“We have a little bit of time.” He said, rubbing his hand on her thigh before she took a seat in front of him. They still had to take the 3-hour drive back to Kansas City and board a late-night flight right after. 

She reached over to Echo to gently unwrap her legs from the blanket, as she was a little hot on the cheeks. However, she stirred in her sleep, was displeased, and whined over the disturbance. Alma quickly took her into her arms and rocked her. 

“Shh, shh.” She softly brushed the little hairs on her forehead. “Sorry, baby.” 

Bill quickly dumped out the sun-warm water from her sippy cup and added cooler drinking water to it before handing it to Alma, to which she smiled appreciatively. She gently rocked her until she became content in her arms. While lying in Alma’s lap, she began to crown her daughter's head with the bouquet of wildflowers as she slept. 

Bill watched reflectively, recalling how Alma had done the same to him, and now she was adorning their child the same way. He remembered having his head in her lap, enjoying that the shadow of her breasts was shielding his eyes from the sun as they shared a skinny joint he made with old stubs from other joints. At the same time, Alma was also recalling the time she lined his hair with white flowers, looking cute yet rugged with the bruise on his face. 

“What happened?” Alma paused and softly grazed the bruise on his cheek with her thumb. 

He frowned. He didn’t like talking about it, and he had already told Alma as much. Suddenly he rose, and all her work fell from his head as he shook the flowers onto her.

“Hey! I wasn’t done.” He chuckled as he pinched his tongue and used his saliva to extinguish the ember on the joint. She could tell he was deflecting. “Sorry.” Her face fell regretfully. 

Bill took a deep breath, resting his arms on his bent knees. “There’s usually no reason.” He looked out towards the water as he began to explain. “But this time… I started it.” 

“Wh–”

“Someone stole some of my New York funds. Not all.” He reassured. “I hide my money in different places for this exact reason.” 

“But… you still have enough?” 

Bill’s face fell. “Well. Yeah, enough.”

“How much was taken?” She asked carefully. 

He bit his lip nervously. “Fifty.” He put his hand up before Alma could voice her worry. Fifty dollars was a lot to lose in the early ‘80s. “I can get there and have some to stay a week or so in a room somewhere, but…” A pit began to build in both their stomachs. The thought of him being on the streets in New York City was terrifying. “I’ll be fine. I still have a week to make some of it back. But anyway, I pissed my dad off enough for this,” he pointed at his cheek.

Bill's heart grew heavy with regret and disdain for himself after the memory passed. Alma was busy admiring their pretty baby when she heard a sniffle behind her. Carefully, she turned her head slowly and met Bill’s reddened eyes as they stung with tears. 

“Bill?” She said softly. Confused and concerned with his sudden change in mood. 

He rapidly blinked his misty eyes, hating that he was caught too deep in his thoughts. This trip was getting to his head. 

“I hate this place.” He said through gritted teeth, trying to compose himself. “Not. Not here.” He corrected himself. 

“Just Strathburg.” She nodded, understanding what he meant. 

“Yeah…” he cleared his throat. “This is one of the few places I’d like to come to get away from everything, you know.” He said, looking out at the placid water. “I was watching you float earlier, and it reminded me of the last time we were ever here. The sun was setting, and the light was golden, and you were content with your arms out.” He explained by picturing it perfectly in his mind. “It’s when I realized I didn’t want to leave you behind. I realized I was in love with you, for real. I’m so sorry I left.” He bit his lip. “I should have told you that before I did. There are many times, even after that, I should have told you.” 

Alma was trying to take in everything he was confessing to her before speaking and took a deep breath. “You had to leave, though… I know what you were running from. It would have been selfish if I really had asked you to stay. You know that. But we made a promise to each other, and I found you again.” 

Bill lightly sneered because, from the point that she did find him, he should have done so many things differently. It should have been the start of a happy life, but he just continued punishing himself by denying himself it. Perpetuating his abuse. “You did, and I felt happiness I hadn’t felt in a long while. But I was so shitty. I’ve done a lot of things I can’t take back, and I regret that. I wasn’t good to you for a long time.”

“I don’t think I was all that great then, either.” 

“No.” He frowned. “You were just reacting to how I behaved. I just…” he quickly swallowed the lump stuck in his throat. “I just want to say, I’m sorry.” 

Alma’s breath hitched, as she wasn’t expecting an apology, but she hadn’t realized just how much she needed to hear it until he did. She bit her lip and turned away when she felt her eyes well up with tears. 

“Mm.” She lightly whimpered, turning back to him. “But I’ve forgiven you a long time ago. Y-you literally saved my life.” She bit down on her quivering lip.

“Still, Alma. You deserve an apology. When—when I did what I did that night. That’s the one thing I don’t regret… and… and sometimes I wonder if that makes me bad. Am I a bad man? Like,” he bit his lip and looked pained as he squeezed his eyes shut. “Like him?” A tear fell from his eye, which he quickly wiped away. He was revealing his deepest thoughts out loud, and it terrified him. Alma’s heart broke, understanding he was comparing himself to his father. “No.” He shook his head, rejecting that thought. He would never be him, he worked too hard to fully believe that. “That night. Killing Craig.” He allowed himself to speak the word plainly. “I later realized that I had killed that old version of me, too, that night. And then, you left,” he sighed. 

“I shouldn’t have.” She said remorsefully. 

“You had every right to, Alma.” He said with deep understanding. “I kept pushing you away, and you even tried to…” He couldn’t bring himself to mention that she tried to take her own life. It saddened him too much. “I had already done too much damage. But I missed you even harder, and I was fucking miserable without you. But I felt like I deserved it.” 

Tears slipped down Alma’s face, and her hand clamped her mouth to choke back a sob. “No,” she shook her head. “You didn’t deserve that after what you did for me. I hate what I did. I fucking robbed you!” 

“It’ll be a year this week… I stopped being upset about that.” 

Alma nodded, trying to compose herself. They had both done things that they deeply regretted. It was good they were laying everything out here because it was best to keep moving forward, as they both agreed upon. Forward, without the hurt. 

“You’re a sweet man. I’ve always thought that about you. Even when you were an asshole, I still knew your heart. You’re not a bad man. Don’t ever say that shit again.” She took in a deep, shaky breath. “I am still so sorry for keeping her from you like I did. She loves you so much. She always knew you, I would talk about you to her even when she was still in my belly. On the phone, I’d put the receiver next to it so she could hear your voice. I felt her move for the first time during one of those times.” 

Bill nodded as he rubbed his sniffling nose. “It’s been a year…” he reiterated as he exhaled loudly and looked at his sleeping daughter wearing a crown of wildflowers. “I’ve known her longer now than when I didn’t.” And he was glad for that; she was just nine months old when she came into his life. “And you’re not bad either.” He said, looking at Alma now. “You care; you always have. I think maybe you care too much,” he sadly laughed because she would always act as if she didn’t care about anything at all. It wouldn't be very rock’n’roll if you acted otherwise.

“I still remember when I finally got to New York, and a few weeks in, I was fucking starving in the shitty rent room I was in. I was down to change basically, and I happened to be digging around the duffle bag I had and found sixty dollars in a little tiny pocket.” Alma’s eyes widened. She had put together leftover Christmas and birthday money and a paycheck from Dairy Queen after learning that his money had been stolen. “And it had a little note, and all it said was, I love you. No signature.” He had kept that note until it inevitably disintegrated. 

Tears slipped from Alma’s eyes again. “I never knew if you found that or not.” 

“I did.” He nodded appreciatively. “I got a hot meal that night, but I was able to build off that money and finally get a place or really rent a room for a while but…” he lightly chuckled. “I don’t know what would have happened if I didn’t have that. That’s why I give you anything you want now. And you gave me her.” He pointed at Echo while he paused, licking his lips in contemplation. “You know… I want to marry you.” Alma’s eyes widened, completely taken aback. “I-I’m not proposing here. Give me some time to do it, right? But I just wanted you to know that I intend to. It’s why I dragged you two here because I wanted to come to ask for your dad's permission in person. It’s stupid and old-fashioned, I know, but I just wanted to do one thing right.” 

“You want to marry me?” She pointed at her chest in disbelief and then turned to look out at the spring in thought. “Well… I don’t know?” She said, turning back to him.

Bill’s brows furrowed, and his lip turned. “You don’t know?” He said confused, even slightly offended. 

“I mean… Technically, you are my boyfriend. But—I don’t think I can recall you ever asking me to be your girlfriend. I just was, one day.” She chuckled.

“Really?” He shook his head, amused at her stubbornness. “Well,” he sat up straighter and took her hand in his. “Do you want to be my girlfriend?” He smirked. And then he thought this was exactly where he should have asked her so many years ago. 

“Hmm… I guess I’ll give it a chance.” She playfully said with a grin. 

He laughed and scooted up, so that she and their baby sat between his legs, gently pulling her close to put an arm around her. “I love you, Alma.” 

“I know. I love you too, Bill.” They shared a deep, passionate kiss. It was needy and full of want, but most importantly, resolve.

She began to get up then, with Echo in her arms. “Do you want to leave?” He looked up at her, still as beautiful as ever, as she would always be to him. She held her hand out for him to stand up. “Together this time.” 

~~~

Summer 1996

The family had been in New York City for the past month. They arrived for Bianca’s 45th birthday party in late June—however, only a handful of people were privy to her age. As far as birthdays went, this was her 10th year turning 25. 

The family decided to stay for a month instead of having to drop in and haul the family back to their Seattle home so quickly. Besides, Bill needed to oversee some things at Trigger Finger, as he had been too preoccupied in Seattle. Now was as good a time as any to catch up on things he had been pushing aside. 

It was early in the day, just a little past noon, while Bill sat behind the desk in the loft, overlooking paperwork and making calls. Operation hours at the club were still hours away. However, when Bill told Alma he and Echo would be going out to give her some space, he didn’t quite mention he’d take her to work. Luckily, she didn’t question where they were going; she was just too tired to even ask or, frankly, even care. 

Echo sat on the front end of the loft, on top of the acrylic floor that looked directly down into the bar pit. She was four and a half now. As she liked to tell people. She looked over at her father leaning in his chair, laughing about something, and sighed heavily. She was becoming rather bored, having thought they were going to the park. She took her Barbie and a plastic brachiosaurus in the passenger seat for another spin in their hot pink Barbie Jeep. Cruising the parameters of the makeshift track, she made of blocks and a children's book, which she would wreck into them and giggle to herself. 

“Today? Eh…” He glanced at his daughter, who was now pushing the Barbie Jeep as hard as she could across the floor and watching it spin out, causing the dolls to tumble off. “How quickly could you get here?”

“Papa?” Echo said, standing up, but he didn’t hear her. 

She walked over and did a few twirls, as little girls do, to entertain herself on the short journey towards the desk.

“Papa.” She grabbed the arm he held the phone with and shook it a bit. “Papa?” 

“Hey, uh, just page me.” He said to the person on the end of the line and hung up. “What is it E’?” He said, pulling her into his lap. 

“I’m hungry.” 

“Hmm.” He said fixing the butterfly clip in her hair. “We have a kitchen here, remember? What sounds good?” 

“Mm.” She scrunched her eyes in thought, a funny little quirk of hers. “Sopa?” 

“The kind your mommy makes?” He asked and she nodded. 

“De estrellitas.”

Bill smiled, it was cute when she spoke a little Spanish here and there. Usually regarding food. “Uhm. What else? I don’t think we have that.” 

She looked a little disappointed, and then her eyes lit up with another suggestion. “Scrample eggs?” 

“That sounds excellent!” He said, tickling her side, and together they left the loft, hand in hand, to the kitchen. 

Echo looked over at the dimly illuminated stage and the shiny spot-lit poles curiously until the shiny disco ball she had been eyeing in the loft grabbed her attention again. So big, she thought. She loved the disco ball night light she owned since she could ever remember. She just wished it was just as big. 

Bill sat her down on top of a steel prep table before he gathered the ingredients and utensils he needed. He sat a steel bowl next to her with two eggs inside and asked if she’d like to help crack them. She excitedly nodded, and he handed her an egg and guided her hand to tap the edge of the bowl. 

“Good job, baby! Do the next one,” he encouraged before turning to start the burner behind them and plopping a knob of butter on the skillet. 

Bill glanced over at Echo as she watched him cook her scrambled eggs. A strange, creeping shiver ran up his spine, and then he uncomfortably cleared his throat once the realization came to him. It was easy to forget that the retrofitted kitchen was once the old loft. He realized that where his daughter sat was roughly the same spot as where he choked the life out of someone. He pushed that thought away. He took one life, and he created one. That had to have balanced the cosmos for whatever it was worth. 

“Mmm! Smells yummy, Papa!” Echo giggled with her hands on her belly, and he smiled at her before plating her eggs and drizzling ketchup on top. Just how she liked it. 

“Do you want to take the dumbwaiter down? It’ll be dark for a second.” He gently warned. 

“Yeah! I’m not scared, Papa!”

He helped her inside with one arm as he held onto her plate with the other. Maybe Alma wouldn’t be too happy that he was letting her do this, but some mischievous fun under parental guidance couldn’t be that bad.

“I’ll meet you down, okay?” He said, kissing the top of her head.

Echo held onto her knees, and suddenly she was encapsulated in complete darkness inside the dumbwaiter. There was a light jolt, and down she slowly went, and she snickered to herself, tickled. He always let her do the fun stuff her mother would worry too much about. Light slowly filled the space of the compartment as it inched down until the lift lightly jolted to a stop. 

“Papa?” She said it nervously, as he wasn’t at the bottom to meet her like he said he would. “Papaaa?” 

“Boo!” He said, suddenly appearing before her. She lightly shrieked and then began laughing when she saw that he was. “Sorry. That wasn’t nice of me.” 

“I wasn’t scared! I wasn’t scared!” She vehemently declared, as she wanted to prove she was a big girl.

“Of course not. You’re brave, remember?” He chuckled, holding his hand out for her as she quickly climbed out. “Look who’s here,” he nodded toward the bar.

“Queenie!”

“Hey, baby girl!” She said, crouching down to embrace her. “You look so cute today!” She complimented her color-blocked romper, which she insisted on pairing with sparkly rain boots.  

Queenie helped her up the bar stool, and then her father sat her plate down in front of her. 

“Is there a liquor delivery today?” Bill questioned, it wasn’t the typical day for it.

“We’re doing two-buck Mickey night again. They’re bringing some extra cases since we sold out last month.” 

"Oh, right, right.” He nodded and then lightly frowned when his pager beeped. “Uhm, could you watch E’ for a sec’? I have a meeting with Alvin.” 

“Yeah, sure.” She glanced over at Echo, who was happily eating her scrambled eggs. She passed her a black cocktail napkin, noticing the ketchup around her mouth. 

“He’s coming up the private stairs. In and out.” He assured, smoothing his tucked black shirt. He was grateful that Queenie had shown up and had her to keep an eye on Echo. He didn’t want his daughter anywhere around creepy Alvin. Alma would simply side-eye him for allowing her to ride the dumbwaiter, but having her present for a drug transaction, he shuddered to think what she’d do. “E’, be good for Queenie, alright?” He said, running his hand down her long side ponytail. Her hair had darkened to a medium brown, but still, her golden baby hair remained on the ends. 

She peered up at him, chewing a mouthful of eggs. “Mhmm!”

“Is it good?” He chuckled. 

“The bestest! I love you, Papa.” 

“Oh good! I love you, baby.” He kissed her on the cheek before leaving. “Thanks, Queenie.” He winked. 

Echo watched him ascend the stairs to the loft pushing a lock of hair that fell over his forehead back, and once the door shut, she looked over at Queenie, who was rearranging some mixer bottles in front of her. “What’s two buck Mickeys?” 

Queenie lightly laughed. “It’s beer, sweetie. Uhm, how ‘bout I make you a Shirley Temple?” 

She smiled brightly. “My mommy makes those!” 

“I bet! She taught me,” she said, winking at her. “How many cherries do you want?”

…

The New York City streets were full of honking cars and heavy foot traffic when they left the toy shop. He bought her a metallic pink ball for her patience at Trigger Finger, as his meeting with Alvin went a little longer than he’d liked. 

“Do people play there too?” 

“Hmm?” He said, biting his lip and looking down at her while they walked hand in hand to his trusted jeweler. 

“Where we were?” She said, squinting at him since the sun was in her eyes. 

“Oh! The club? Hmm,” he bit his cheek. “No, not like at the record shop, honey.” He opened the door for her and was glad the displays caught her attention, deterring her questions. 

“Mr. Skarsgård!” The jeweler exclaimed, happy to see one of his favorite customers. 

He had very hairy arms, Echo thought to herself, when she watched her father speak to him. It was just a quick stop before going home, as Alma asked him to take her earrings and a few rings she had to have cleaned while in town.

“Maybe some earrings for her next time?” The jeweler nodded over to Echo after Bill paid the man.

“I have some.” She quipped, pulling on one of the small gold basket earrings her grandfather Antonio had gifted her. 

Bill smiled. “She likes what she likes. Well, I’ll see you around.” 

“Yes, yes. Always here for you. Tell the wife, I said hello.” The jeweler said before they left. 

“Are we going home now?” Echo inquired when they stepped out. 

“One more stop. We’re having pizza for dinner tonight.” 

“Yay! Pizza!” 

They arrived at the penthouse, and Echo was still talking to him as they made their way up. She was quite talkative and inquisitive. 

“But he’s so loud, Papa!” She complained. 

“I think you’re mistaken about who's the loudest, honey.” He lightly chuckled. “But do you like New York?” He asked when she also complained about all the walking. “You might go to school here next year.” 

“But why?” She scrunched her eyes.

“Well, they have some good schools here. It’s just a year, just to see. We can always go home to Seattle.” The elevator doors opened, and Bill warned her that they needed to be quiet when entering the penthouse. 

Alma was inside, freshly showered after smelling like old milk and sweat. She changed into an oversized sweatshirt that belonged to Bill and a pair of his boxer briefs. She had a little time to relax on the couch and read a few chapters of a new romance novel in peace and quiet while enjoying a parfait. Now, she was curled up on the couch, hugging a throw pillow, when the door opened. It was like slow motion when she saw Echo enter, and the ball she was holding onto bounced loudly against the black marble floor and continued to roll down the hallway. 

She closed her eyes, pleading that it didn’t disturb the sleeping children before her in their bassinets. But to no avail, their daughter wailed from being woken up by the noise. Well, the quiet was nice while it lasted, she thought, sighing deeply with defeat. It was only a matter of time before their baby daughter's cries would wake up their son too. 

Bill grimaced with regret and apologized to Alma on Echo’s behalf. He didn’t think about the ball being so noisy when he bought it. “Uhm, Echo, go ahead and change to your pj's.” He said to her so that he could help Alma with the babies. 

“I told you! Luxe is loud!” She said, cupping her ears before jogging to her bedroom.

“That’s Vida, honey.” He said, quickly putting the boxes of pizza on the kitchen counter to assist Alma. “She still gets them mixed up?” 

Bill picked up his son, and he was quick to settle. Since Luxe was born, they always called him a lazy boy, but now they have begun to call him a much more affectionate nickname, Lucky. He just liked to sleep, eat, and giggle. His twin sister, on the other hand, was more active. Vida was born with her eyes wide open, as if she didn’t want to miss a thing from the very start. 

Luxe Gunnar and Vida Wilde were close to six months old, and now their family was complete. Though they only tried for one, two was a shock, but they couldn’t have been happier once they arrived. Echo finally joined them again in a princess nightgown and sat next to her father, who was effortlessly holding both babies now while Alma made them bottles. 

“Don’t you see who’s crying?” He asked Echo. 

“Vida.” She giggled. 

“You always blame your brother. Why?” 

Echo remained quiet, but she had a disapproving look in her eyes as she peered at her little brother. He was as chill as ever; her attitude towards him was unwarranted.

“Because he’s a boy?” Alma suspected, passing the bottles to Bill. He mastered being able to hold them both, turning his wrists in, and able to feed them both simultaneously.

“No…” Echo looked away, feeling caught. 

“Mhmm,” Bill said. “Papa’s a boy; you like me, right?” Echo nodded. “Well, Luxe loves you, E’.” 

“I love Vida.” She replied, completely unaccepting. 

“You have to love both, baby.” Alma bit her lip, amused at her daughter's favoritism, but she hoped she’d get over that quickly. “V’ loves you, and Lucky loves you.” She kissed her daughter on the head. “What’d you do today?” 

“I went to the club with, Papa.”

“Oh, really now?” Alma approached Bill and gave him a pointed stare before grabbing Luxe. They were both amused that, that kind of statement could come from a four-year-old. At least she only knew the place as “the club” and not its real name. 

“Just say, Papa’s job, baby,” he told Echo. “I was going to tell you.” He said to Alma, lightly chuckling while bottle-feeding his youngest daughter. 

“I already knew. You wouldn’t wear dress pants to the park.” She winked. 

The family settled in, with both parents holding a baby while they ate pizza in the living room that evening. They discussed what to bring to Bianca’s Sunday dinner when they finished up. Bill told her about his day out with Echo, and suddenly they realized all the children were quiet. They had all fallen asleep. Silently, but efficiently, they got all the sleeping children into their bedrooms down the hall. Echo now slept in the guest room on a king-sized bed with frilly pink princess bedding, while her twin siblings shared her old nursery. They left the curtains open in both rooms to let the red neon light of the marquee across the block illuminate their rooms, acting as a nightlight for them.

Bill was finally able to dress down into gray sweatpants, and while carefully going down the wrought iron spiral stairs, he saw Alma digging through Echo’s backpack.

“Anything I could use in there?” He lightly laughed. Two months ago, they found a pocket knife and a plastic disposable lighter in her bag, and since then, they checked it periodically.

“I feel like such a fucking cop.” She said with disgust, zipping the bag closed. “Just a cocktail napkin from Trigger Finger.” Bill plucked the black, silver logo-printed napkin from her hand and balled it up. 

Bill and Alma settled on the couch together. He pulled her to lay on top of him while he laid back, and they both heavily sighed, grateful to have a moment together. For how long they weren’t sure, but they would cherish every second while they could. 

“You didn’t kiss me when you got home.” 

“I didn’t?” 

“That’s fucked up.” She said with a playful smirk. 

“A lot was going on when I walked in.” He defended himself. 

Their lips met then, and their kiss of hello turned into a deeper one, full of desire. His hand ran through her damp hair, and then he felt her hand on his crotch. Suddenly, she pulled the waistband on the sweatpants, and her hand went down it. 

“Right now?” 

She paused the kisses she left on his stubbly neck. Her eyes were intense when she met his. “You’re so fucking hot when you’re being a dad.” 

“Oh.” He said with a raised brow before her lips feverishly met his again. She moaned when she felt him begin to stiffen in her hand. 

“Let’s do it on the balcony.” She suggested climbing off him and pulling off the boxer briefs she was wearing. She knew Bill didn’t find it particularly sexy when taking those off of her. 

“Yeah?” 

“We can be loud out there.” She smiled deviously. 

Before they could enjoy themselves without restriction, they still had to tiptoe up the back staircase and bring along the baby monitor. 

“Jesus fucking Christ, Alma.” Bill let out a breathy laugh while they sat on a large outdoor lounge chaise underneath a blanket on the balcony. 

Alma sat in his lap, a sheen of sweat on her warm skin, and laughed against his lips. They were still buzzing in post-coital bliss. 

“Just one more.” He pecked her lips. “One more baby.” 

“You’re fucking insane!” She laughed in disbelief. “I knew you were a sick fuck.” 

“But we’re so fucking good at doing it.” He chuckled. “And you look so beautiful pregnant.” 

Alma paused and ran her thumb across his brow as he looked at her, hoping she’d say yes. “I love you.” She tilted his head down to kiss his damp forehead. 

“I fucking love you.” He said, taking her left hand and glancing at her toi et moi engagement ring. A gold bezel, emerald-cut green sapphire sitting next to a pear-shaped diamond. 

They had been married for a little over a year now. Last spring in Vegas. It swelled his heart, knowing she was all his—at least on paper, officially. She had given him a chance at a real family life; he never knew how badly he wanted. He accepted it all now. He felt like he was the most deserving, regardless of how hard it was to get to the point he was living in now. Even at times when they wished them away, the bad parts served their purpose. Their greatest sin was behind them, agreeing that they had only done it to preserve their lives. How little did they know that they were actually defending the lives they’d create after that? A perseverance of their love personified living, even long after they take their last breaths on this mortal coil. Maybe they would pay for their sins in the afterlife, but this worldly life on earth that Bill and Alma built together was the only life that mattered. This one was enough. 

[honeyandbloodpoetry]

Bug Like An Angel

A short Leon S Kennedy X Chris Redfield one-shot. Leon is falling into a deep depression after his run in Spain, and finds himself lonely at a bar trying to numb the pain. Something better comes along.

Leon stared down at the empty glass, his vision swimming. His head ached, his limbs were heavy and yet...

"Another round!" He called to the barkeep. He was sweating underneath his jacket, skin sticky from something more than just the heat.

Whiskey on the rocks. It burnt going down, and made him even hotter once it was inside. Leon gripped the glass as if it were a lifeboat. As if it were all he had.

Images of Krauser, Luis, Mike, Martin--so many people he lost--began to flash through his head. Even the people that were alive felt unreachable. Ada, with her soft curves and easy smile and ice-cold deception, Sherry's watery blue eyes and determination through the worst of circumstances, Claire's attitude and leather and sense of justice, the way Ashley always seemed to make him smile. They felt so far away. Untouchable. He was alone.

The drink was all he had indeed.

There's a bug like an angel,

Stuck to the bottom

Of my glass, with a little bit left.

As I got older

I learned I'm a drinker,

Sometimes a drink feels like family....

"Hey there, buddy." A strong voice said, slipping in next to Leon. The DSO agent didn't even look up. The voice stalled for a moment, and Leon couldn't help but feel the large presence. Everything in the room seemed to gravitate toward the man next to him.

Or maybe he was just really, really fucking drunk.

A gentle hand on his arm. It felt like a hundred pound weight. Like it was going to crush him. Leon slowly looked up and met eyes with the guy bothering him. The gears in his head slowly turned, and then there was the flash of recognition that made him dizzy. Chris Redfield. He met him after the whole shindig in Spain, when he gave the Kennedy Report. Claire's brother. Him and a few guys from the BSAA had taken him out for drinks. It was a good night...nothing like this, drowning in whiskey and gin all by himself.

"Haven't seen you in awhile." Chris said, voice upbeat but his eyes gleaming with concern. "Just happened to stop in here with some of my men and noticed you. Think you could use some company?"

Leon still felt sore from Spain. It had been months. The pain wasn't going away. It made him stiff and bitter. Only drinking seemed to make it abate, if only for a few hours. "No." He slurred, Chris' edges blurring. "I'm fine."

Chris grimaced. "You don't look fine, Kennedy." He suddenly disappeared, and Leon stared blankly down at his empty glass. It should have been full again by now, no? He was loud enough... Did someone cut him off? Irritation spiked.

A few moments later, Chris returned with a plastic cup. He held it out to Leon. The DSO agent stared down at the cup and pointed with one finger, the word loose. "Liquor?"

"No, it's water. You need to sober up, Leon." He pushed the cup closer, a little bit sloshing over the rim. "I got lemon in it and everything, man."

"I'll pass." Leon shuddered when Chris used his first name. It was involuntary, echoing the way Krauser said his name when he killed him and...

The rim of the cup was pressed to his lips. "Wha--"

Chris tilted the cup, letting water flow into Leon's mouth when he spoke. He blubbered on it for just a moment, then swallowed without even thinking. The lemon was refreshing. He began gulping it down, the coolness a welcome contrast to the heat from the whiskey.

Family...

....

Chris was silent, just tilting the cup and letting Leon have his fill. He had dealt with men in places like Leon was in before. Broken. Hurting. Just seeking respite. Hell, he'd been there himself. Probably would be one day again, counting on his line of work.

A little bit of clarity came back into Leon's eyes and Chris smiled. "Attaboy," He said warmly to the younger man. "You'll be alright. I got some sliders on the way too." He pulled the cup from his lips, lingering for a moment on the way the little drops of water that clung to Leon's stubble shimmered in the low light.

"Why do you give a shit?" Leon asked bluntly. "Nobody...nobody except Hunnigan has... Checked... After everything... Raccoon City..."

Chris frowned. Poor guy. He really was drunk off his ass. He heard a lot about Leon from his sister, and it was a whole lot different from what he was seeing.

"Because I know what it's like." Chris reached a hand out and placed it on Leon's shoulder. The smaller man startled, then eased back down. "A neverending nightmare, right? If we have to live through this shit, we might as well look out for each other."

A tray of sliders was slid onto their table by a waitress, dripping gooey cheese and still steaming. Chris smiled at the way Leon's eyes laser-focused onto the food. He did look like he had lost some weight in the months since the Kennedy Report.

"Nobody else will, yeah? So eat up."

...

Leon reached across the table and grabbed a slider, stuffing the entire thing into his mouth at once, most of it falling back to the table. He was clumsy, almost silly in his movements, but once the food hit his stomach he could feel himself sobering up, at least a little.

"Thanks." Leon said. "I don't have much to say but..." His eyebrows rose as Chris effortlessly engulfed a slider all at once. "How the hell does your mouth open that wide?"

"Practice." Chris grinned, speaking through a mouthful of meat and cheese.

Leon blushed despite himself. Fuck. Still off my game... I didn't expect to see anyone here tonight... And yet, he couldn't deny that he was feeling better. More steady. It hit him how alone he'd been since being released from the hospital after his mission and delivering the Kennedy Report.

"Yeah?" Leon said, grinning. "I bet I can fit two."

Chris actually guffawed in disbelief. "Yeah, okay. You couldn't even get one down without spilling it all over the place."

"I wasn't trying." Leon countered.

"If you can do two, I can do three." Chris learned at him, shit eating grin plastered across his face.

"What are you, bro, a snake?"

"Ugh, don't talk to me about snakes... Now why don't we make it a bet?"

....

Leon and Chris stood outside the bar roughly an hour later, the former much more light on his feet. The stickness and heaviness seemed to be gone, the slur in his words disappeared. Chris was pleased, and despite coming over to help the guy out, he had actually had a good time.

"So you really killed this fucking B.O.W. with only eggs?" Chris laughed in disbelief.

"They wouldn't let me put it in the report because they thought it was bullshit!" Leon exclaimed. "But yeah, the bastard was severely allergic to eggs, even after he mutated. The worst part was just trying to nail the aim."

"Taking down a giant man-eating monster with eggs. Holy shit. That's Agent Kennedy for you." Chris couldn't stifle a laugh. "I have to ask though...why did you have so many eggs?"

Leon blushed. It was cute. "I was on the field for a long time and got hungry. So I just picked them up in the village as I went."

Chris cocked an eyebrow.

"I didn't waste time! I had them raw." Leon said hurriedly, almost embarrassed. The blush deepened. Ah. So he cared what I thought of him.

"Not weird to me." Chris shrugged. "I pop a couple eggs into my smoothies every now and then. They help." He flexed one of his biceps, keenly aware of how tight his simple black t-shirt was. He was also keenly aware of Leon's eyes darting away before sliding up his arm and across his chest, then back up to his face.

Chris was tempted to hit the younger man with my eyes are up here but decided against it. He seemed skittish and stiff after his run against Saddler, and Chris didn't want to jinx this.

In fact, he wanted to see Leon more often. Just to check up on him and discuss missions of course.

....

Leon felt Chris' hand glide over the small of his back. It sent a warmth up his spine, but it was a heat worlds different from drunkenness. Maybe just as addictive though.

Still not completely sober, Leon leaned into the touch as Chris walked with him to his apartment. Chris didn't move his hand, and for a few moments, Leon felt content for the first time in a long time.

"Steady there?" Chris asked, and Leon could swear he heard the cockiness in his voice.

"Yeah. Still a little woozy." Leon played it cool as they approached the gate to his building. "This is it. Nothing special." He stalled, thinking of inviting Chris in with him. He hadn't been with a man since Jack, but...

No. Not again. He wouldn't get close to someone just for them to...to...

"Are you free next Friday?" Chris asked, dopey smile on his face. "My partner Jill will be on a mission of her own, my men and I've got nothing to do... We were thinking of maybe playing some sports together. I used to do football back in school."

"I can tell." Leon said, immediately regretting it. "Ah...sure. I could use something to pump my blood."

"I thought so." Chris flashed a thumbs up. "I'll come get you. Afternoon, okay?"

"Okay..." Leon felt confused. And flustered.

"It's a promise. Don't break it!" Chris waved as he turned away. "See you then!"

Leon watched him walk away. "See you..."

Maybe things could get better again.

[tsdrinks]

Breaking Down Every Alcohol Lyric in Taylor Swift’s Musical Catalogue

It’s known that Swift enjoys a drink from time to time, as she’s referenced various types of alcohol in her songs throughout her career that’s spanned almost two decades. In this article, we’ve tracked down every reference to a specific alcoholic beverage Swift has ever sung, broken down by album.

Editor’s note: In order to curate the list, I listened and read the lyrics to all 231 of Swift’s released songs and features (much to the enjoyment of my lovely wife). Yes, even the 2007 Christmas album. No, it didn’t have any alcohol references. All in all, the listening took a little over 15 hours. 

I entered this project fairly neutral on Swift and came out, well, not quite a Swiftie, but certainly a fan of her more recent eras. Now, let’s get into the list. Are you …Ready For it?

Taylor Swift, Fearless, Speak Now and Red

Swift’s first four albums contained no references to specific alcoholic drinks. This is unsurprising considering the records came out when Swift was between the ages of 16 and 22. Swift wouldn’t make her first alcohol reference until 2014, with the release of…

1989

On “1989,” Swift, who was 24 at the time of the album’s release, references alcohol in only one song.

“Clean”: “You’re still all over me like a wine-stained dress I can’t wear anymore.”

Reputation

“…Ready For It?”: “Island breeze and lights down low. No one has to know.” Island breeze is a fruity vodka cocktail.

“Gorgeous”: “Whiskey on ice; Sunset and Vine. You’ve ruined my life by not being mine.” The first whiskey reference of Swift’s career! A big moment (to us, anyway). 

“Getaway Car”: “I knew it from the first Old Fashioned we were cursed.” Ah, the Old Fashioned: A true classic and probably the most well-known whiskey cocktail. A well-made Old Fashioned truly Hits Different. This is back to back songs on the record referencing whiskey. In her bourbon era? 

“King Of My Heart”: “Up on the roof with a schoolgirl crush, drinking beer out of plastic cups.”

“Dress”: “I’m spilling wine in the bathtub. You kiss my face, and we’re both drunk.” We’re seeing a stark tonal shift on “Reputation” compared to the pop star’s first five albums. More booze, more romance, less wide-eyed country gal. 

“This Is Why We Can’t Have Nice Things”: “Jump into the pool from the balcony. Everyone swimming in a Champagne sea.”

Lover

“Paper Rings”: “The wine is cold like the shoulder that I gave you in the street.”

“Death By A Thousand Cuts”: “My time, my wine, my spirit, my trust. Tryna find a part of me you didn’t take up.”

“London Boy”: “And you know I love Springsteen, faded blue jeans, Tennessee whiskey.” “London Boy” seems to be about Alwyn and is chock-full of cheesy British references. This line comes toward the beginning of the song, sort of an “I love America, but this British guy…” thing. Springsteen, faded blue jeans and Tennessee whiskey are three things Swift equates with America, or at least Nashville, where she moved at age 14 with her family to focus on her music career. Here, we have it on record: Taylor Swift loves Tennessee whiskey.

“False God”: “Hell is when I fight with you, but we can patch it up good. Make confessions and we’re begging for forgiveness. Got the wine for you.”

“You Need To Calm Down”: “You are somebody that I don’t know. But you’re takin’ shots at me like it’s Patrón, and I’m just like, damn. It’s 7 a.m.” Another line that doesn’t refer to alcohol in a literal sense. In this case, it’s a simile. Patrón is a popular brand of tequila commonly consumed in shot form. 

Folklore

“The 1”: “Rosé flowing with your chosen family. And it would’ve been sweet if it could’ve been me.”

“The Last Great American Dynasty”: “Filled the pool with Champagne and swam with the big names and blew through the money on the boys and the ballet.” This line harkens back to “This Is Why We Can’t Have Nice Things” with more swimming in Champagne imagery.

“August”: “August sipped away like a bottle of wine, ’cause you were never mine.”

“This Is Me Trying”: “Pouring out my heart to a stranger, but I didn’t pour the whiskey.”

Evermore

“Willow”: “Lost in your current like a priceless wine.” This refers back to the first line of this verse: “I’m like the water when your ship rolled in that night.” It’s another case of Swift using alcohol as a simile; she’s caught up in the current of this person’s presence — trapped in the riptide. And it appears she feels like she’s drowning, as priceless wine being lost in a current evokes shipwrecks like the Titanic. 

“Champagne Problems”: “Champagne problems.”

“Champagne Problems”: “Dom Pérignon you brought it” Dom Pérignon is a brand of Champagne, and Swift sings about Champagne a lot in this song, as you can guess from the title.

“No Body, No Crime”: “Este’s a friend of mine. We meet up every Tuesday night for dinner and a glass of wine.” Este Haim of HAIM, that is. Her and her sisters’ band is featured on this track.

“No Body, No Crime”: “Her husband’s actin’ different, and it smells like infidelity. She says, ‘That ain’t my Merlot on his mouth.'” In this fictional song, Este believes the red on her husband’s lips is not from her merlot — a dark red wine — but presumably from another woman’s lipstick. 

“Ivy”: “So tell me to run or dare to sit and watch what we’ll become. And drink my husband’s wine.” On “Ivy,” Swift tells the story of a married woman who falls in love with someone else and has an affair.

“Closure”: “I’m fine with my spite and my tears and my beers and my candles.” This is the first beer reference we’ve gotten since “Reputation.” Swift may not be much of a beer woman. 

Midnights

“Maroon”: “‘How’d we end up on the floor, anyway?’ You say. Your roommate’s cheap-ass screw-top Rosé, that’s how.” Screw-top wine: Not typically the best. Should’ve Said No to that one, perhaps.

“Maroon”: “The burgundy on my T-shirt when you splashed your wine into me.” Oof, wine spills are the worst. Shake it off, Taylor.

“Mastermind”: “I’m the wind in our free-flowing sails and the liquor in our cocktails.” You can’t sail without wind, and you can’t have a cocktail without liquor (mocktails don’t count).

“Paris”: “Cheap wine, make believe it’s Champagne.”

“Paris”: “‘Cause we were somewhere else in an alleyway, drinking Champagne.” From make-believe Champagne to real Champagne in the same song. That’s a success story. 

Conclusions

All in all, Swift has made 28 specific alcohol references in her work. This isn’t counting references to being or getting drunk or vague, unspecified drink mentions, such as the line “my fourth drink in hand” in “Dear Reader” or “Clink clink” in “Slut!”

Nineteen of the 28 were wine references, so it’s a safe bet that Swift is more of a wine drinker than anything else. However, she’s also sung about whiskey or whiskey cocktails four times, which indicates that perhaps she enjoys a little bourbon or an Old Fashioned from time to time.

Seven of the alcohol lines came on “Evermore,” which is officially Swift’s booziest album. In her drinking era during COVID-19? If there’s one thing we can always count on from this megastar, it’s relatability.

“Evermore” is followed by “Reputation” with six alcohol references, then “Midnights” and “Lover” each with five. “Folklore” is next with four, and finally “1989” with only The 1.

We’ll be sure to update this list with any new alcohol references that appear on “The Tortured Poets Department” or vault tracks on the remaining two “Taylor’s Version” albums.

Until then, Dear Reader. 

Join the Whiskey Raiders Bottle of the Month Club, where you will receive hard-to-find bottles curated by Whiskey Raiders staff with a 90+ rating on whiskeyraiders.com plus live virtual tastings. Sign up here!

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[newmiriamsmysteries]

[ Blurb - "Poor Johnny's"]

The familiar twang of Colter Wall’s voice from the jukebox, mingled with the atmosphere of Poor Johnny’s bar.  Quiet conversation and drunken laughter always made my older brother’s tavern feel like home.  Cigarette smoke hung like a fog beneath the stained glass “Coors Light” lamp that illuminated the green felt of the pool table beneath.  I took a drag of my own cigarette and tapped the ash into a small glass tray nearby.

“You know I hate that you do that,”  My older brother, Jack, said as he walked toward me.  Fit and muscular, his former occupation as a bouncer had been good to him.  Until he decided to trade that lifestyle in for one of his own making.  Wavy blond hair framed his bearded face.  In his hand, he held a glass of Southern Comfort mixed with Pepsi.  

“I only smoke when I drink…and I happen to be drinking.”  I replied,  plucking the glass from his hand.  I took a swig and closed my eyes real tight.  I shook my head a bit as the familiar burn of the whiskey filled my chest.

“You were never good at that, either.”  Jack chuckled as he pulled his pool cue from the rack against the wall.  “Talk to me, Miriam.  What spook or specter has you all twitchy this time?”

I leaned forward, glancing over the scattered billiard balls.  I zoned in on an orange solid one lined up for a corner pocket.  I pulled my arm back then forward, sending the tip of my cue into the cue ball.  The white orb rolled toward the orange one, knocking it into the pocket I was aiming for.  I could feel Jack’s blue eyes on me while he waited for my answer.  

“I got a case today,”  I started.  “A rough one.  A kid and his mother.  They got caught in a real bad house fire.  Nathan said it could have been arson or premeditated murder, he doesn’t know yet.”  

“Jesus…”  Jack breathed and crossed himself.  Quite a religious man, my brother.  “Max find anything yet?”  He lined up his shot and took it, sending the purple striped ball into the side pocket in front of me.  

“He hasn’t finished the autopsies yet,”  I said, leaning a bit on my pool cue.  I ran a hand through my wavy, dark red hair.  “I’ve been seeing the mother.  She was burned real bad, Jack.  She can’t figure out how to communicate.  Even Willie can’t get through to her.”  Instinctively, my hand went to the vintage locket resting at my throat.  A keepsake from my favorite ghostly informant.  

“I couldn’t do what you do.”  Jack said, shaking his head.  “Seeing ghosts.  Being friendly with Vampires.  It’s terrifying.  I also kind’a feel bad since it was me and Lily that made you this way.”

I sighed and chuckled.  “You were two kids playing with a Ouija board.  My abilities would have woken up on their own eventually.”  I shook my head.  “I don’t care for the shaky truce with the vampires.  But sometimes they have information that I need and can’t get anywhere else.  As far as the ghosts go?  Well… what’s the point of being psychic if you can’t do something with it?”

“They can’t help how they died just about as much as you can help losing this game.”  Jack teased.  “Oh so… if you didn’t have enough stress, I have more for you.”

“Jaaack…”  I whined.

“I’m sorry!  But if I don’t tell you, you might find out another way.”  He began.

I took another swig of my drink, steeling myself.  “Alright, what is it?”

“Jason Dunnigan is back in town.”  

I leaned back against the tall bar table behind me, all air having left my lungs.  

“He was in here this afternoon asking about you.”  He finished.

“Dammit..”  I hissed, though butterflies kicked up in my stomach.  Jason Dunnigan, my “one that got away”.  I could never find anyone to replace him and honestly; I don’t think I wanted to.  I had been a messed up girl when he met me.  But he had the patience and took the time to let me know that I’m worth caring about.  

“What did you tell him?”  I asked.

“The truth.”  Jack replied, moving around the pool table toward me.  “I said you were a private investigator on retainer by the city cops.  I also said that there was a good chance you’d be in here tonight.”

I stood up straight and faced him, though he was a whole head and shoulders taller than me.  “Why did you do that?!”  I asked, setting my pool cue down on that table.  I drained what was left of my drink and put out my cigarette.  My leather jacket hung on the back of a nearby chair, I grabbed it and slipped it on over my shoulders.

“Miriam, you can’t run from him forever.  He was a good guy, we all liked him.”  

“Sure.  He’s a good guy.  Okay.”  I said sarcastically.  “Such a good guy that he broke my heart and ran off.”  I pulled my hair out from beneath the jacket’s collar.  

“Miriam…”  Jack sighed.

“Maybe I can get out of here and get home before he shows up.  Maybe he doesn’t know where my office is and won’t find me for a while.  That’ll give me time to think of something…”

I moved to leave — 

— just as the door to Poor Johnny’s opened…. 

[tommysparker]

What Pride and Dignity Forbid

Tommy Shelby x Fem!Reader 

A/N: hey look I made you some content :D daddy made you your favourite open wide. here comes the content. all jokes aisde this is my first Tommy Shelby fic, and I do plan on writing more for stay tuned for that! for now, enjoy! :)

Warnings: smut, choking, light slapping, penetrative sex (wrap your willy before you get down and silly), tommy is a bratty sub you cannot change my mind

Thomas Shelby did not like to wait. Tardiness was something people in his line of work were shot dead for. 

Yet here he was, standing by the door, glancing at his watch every few minutes. Waiting. 

A knock on the door. 

He froze, hand hovering over the gun he kept at his side at all times. 

Another knock. And another. 

He let out a breath and opened the door. 

There you stood in all your glory, of which he couldn’t help but admire. 

Your blouse was already undone by a single button, your jacket folded neatly and laid over your arm. Your long skirt flowed as the wind blew gently. He head immediately filled with dirty thoughts about lifting that skirt and bending you over his desk—

“Are you going to make me stand here all day or you gonna let me in?” Your voice cut through his thoughts. 

Tommy cleared his throat and stepped aside.

The moment you heard the door close behind you, you found yourself against the wall with the mouth of Thomas Shelby moulding with yours. Amusedly, you kissed back for a few seconds before gripping his throat and guiding his head backwards. “Manners, Mr. Shelby. Haven’t even offered me a drink yet.” 

Tommy stared into your eyes, trying to decipher what was going on behind them. “Pardon me. Whiskey?” 

“No.” 

Your grip around his neck tightened as you forced his mouth back onto yours. 

It was messy and intense. Fools would go as far as to say it was passionate. They are called fools for a reason. 

You both stumbled through the small house before falling into the bedroom, clothes already half off and slightly torn. 

Tommy was the first to pull away, gasping as his lungs greedily demanded air. 

You immediately began taking apart your blouse, letting the fabric material fall to the ground quickly followed by your skirt. “Come on now, Mr. Shelby. I have business to attend to after this.” 

He let out a light-toned huff. “Business, eh?” He turned to close the door, silently swearing to God above that the person to interrupt this…whatever this was, will be sent six feet under. 

“American business. I’ve made contact with my friends across seas. They’ve agreed to take me in under certain ter–”

Tommy grabs your waist and pulls you into his chest, covering your lips with his. He mumbles, “Later.” 

That’s how it was between you two. Business everywhere outside of the bedroom, but the second you two are alone behind closed doors there was a sudden switch, something both dignity and pride would never allow to be acknowledged. There was a mutual understanding from the beginning. That fateful day you had him bagged and dragged off the street into an empty warehouse just to propose a deal. 

You didn’t respond, you didn’t have to. There was that mutual understanding again, being able to read one another’s next move based on a glimmer or shadow in their eye. 

And Tommy’s eyes, those eyes that showed a clear blue sky taken over by electric storm clouds waiting to strike down on the earth. 

A single spark zapped when his gaze bore into yours, and the lighting struck. 

Without any time to react, Tommy felt his back hit the mattress and his wrists in your hands, pinned above his head. 

You straddled his waist, grinding roughly against the growing bulge beneath your aching core. The soft moans Tommy breathed echoed in your ears, fueling your body to go faster like a car needs oil to run, or a horse and some Gypsy spell. 

He gripped your hips hard, no doubt with the intent for bruises to form later. His mark on you. 

His. 

Tommy’s head spun at the thought. You weren’t his. You never would be. As soon as your business is finished you’ll fuck off to America and marry a rich man who has no ties to a razor blade gang. A man who isn’t himself. 

His grip tightened.

A grip you knew all too well and what it meant.  

You pushed his hands off, pinning them above his head briefly before he managed to rip them out of your grasp. 

Respectfully, he took hold of the bedsheets this time.

Your hand moved down to his throat, pressing your thumb and fingers into sides while your palm lay flesh down. You stared into his eyes, watching his mind switch between panic and pleasure. Squeezing a bit harder, you say “Don’t you dare try that again. Understood?” 

Tommy felt lightheaded, staring back up at you with blurred vision. He couldn’t breathe, but he could. There was oxygen in his lungs and nothing crushing his windpipe. Just your hand marking him as he did to you. 

A sudden sharp sting on his cheek brought him out of his haze. 

Your own palm tingled from the impact, but god was it satisfying to see his shocked expression. You gripped his chin, forcing his head back to face you. “I asked you a question, soldier.” 

And just like that, something in Tommy snapped. 

“Understood. Now turn around.” 

It was a surprise to the both of you when you listened without any back talk. Neither of you mentioned it. 

You knelt down, chest dropped to the bed and ass in front of Tommy’s face. He didn’t bother to even take off your panties. As soon as he discarded his underwear, he pulled the wet fabric hiding your pussy aside and pushed inside with a single thrust. 

And another. 

And another. 

He set the pace rough, pounding into you like he would with any woman he’s taken before. The sounds of his grunts and your moans mixed in the air.

You kept your gaze forward, focusing on your own pleasure. Sex with Thomas Shelby was like none other, which is why you kept coming back to him. He let you dominate him, whether he was aware of it or not, and you became drunk on the power it gave you. 

Such as now, when his fingers shifted from rubbing your clit vigorously to digging into the soft of your hip. 

You reacted almost instantly, pushing him away only to flip the table. 

Tommy could barely utter a whimper of desperation, being so close just for his cock to be met with the cold air, only to suddenly return to the warmth of your walls wrapped around him. 

“You don’t listen, do you?” 

He looks up at you and can’t help but smirk lazily. Maybe this is what he wanted. 

No more words are said. The only sounds heard are the bedframe hitting the wall and the bouncing of the mattress springs. 

You don’t stop until you finish, forcing Thomas to hold it in despite listening to his quiet pleas. If he doesn’t listen to you, why should you listen to him? 

Once you do lift off of him, Tommy wastes no time painting your thighs in white stripes. You mumble something that goes unregistered in his brain, who's still reeling from probably the best fuck he’s ever had. Not that he would admit it ever. 

You clean yourself off and get dressed quickly. He wishes he could read your mind like he does everyone else. You’re unpredictable and he’s addicted to the challenge. 

He can’t say that though, nor can he show it. To him, you have to be just another girl. 

“You think of me as some whore, do you?” 

Thomas didn’t answer. He didn’t want to. 

You smiled, picking up your bag. “Next time, think about who calls first.” 

Thomas stood still, staring out the window. He heard the door close, and watched you walk into the streets of London. No matter how much you tried to blend into the crowd, it was clear you shined in the dirty city. 

He sighed, picking up his jacket. A small clink caused him to look down. 

A single coin had fallen out of his pocket.

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

Sorry if the ending is weird. To be 100% honest I had it planned from the beginning and worked backwards ahahah. thank you so much for reading :)

All: @greenorangevioletgrass @soraitmnt @worldoftom @farfromparker @angel-spidey @parkerpeter24  @spideyspeaches @alinastarkrovs  @ididntseeurbag @serendipitous-amor

Tommy Shelby: lemme know if you wanna be tagged in Tommy fics!

[sweater-daddiesdumbdork]

Purr For Me

Summary- 1.8k Ransom x Kitten. Ransom comes home in a foul mood due to his family using Blood Like Wine resources for Joni's new venture, which also happens to ruin weekend plans he had with you. You though are all about cheering Ransom up.

Warnings- Oral (female receiving) Squirting, Use of pet name.

A/N- Written for @pagesoflauren I Love Y'all 3000 Challenge. I am EXTREMELY late, so thank you Lauren for being so understanding. Prompts will be italicized. Likes are appreciated, Reblogs and Comments are gold. Thank you for reading.

Masterlist

You had just kicked off your heels in your closet and headed right for the kitchen to pour yourself a rather large glass of red wine.

An extra large glass. Friday had not come soon enough and you were thoroughly ready for the weekend. Work had been endless meetings for an upcoming case. Johanna Klein had kept you at her side the entire time, taking notes and discussing in depth what she expected from the research team.

You deserved this glass. That first sip turned graced past your lips and you felt yourself starting to unwind. This weekend stretched ahead of you and Ransom had already promised you earlier this week that he was unplugging from Blood Like Wine as well, that perhaps you two would take a drive to Hampton, knowing that a weekend in your favorite hotel would benefit the both of you.

About to head into the living room to put your feet up, the front door slammed hard enough to make you jump. “What the-” You muttered, a bit shaken at the sudden intrusion of your post Friday wine. You set your glass down to go find what caused Ransom to shut the front door like he was trying to break it off the hinges when he stalked past the kitchen, his scarf rippling behind him till he reached up to rip it off, muttering the whole time to himself. His face was stuck in what seemed like a permanent scowl from what you saw.

“Ransom?” You called after him, peeking around the entrance to the kitchen to see the large oak doors half open in his study. “Babe?” You tried again as you approached the door. Pausing at them, you pushed against one to make it swing open, seeing your man behind his desk, searching in one of his drawers.

“Where the fuck did I put it? I know it’s in here somewhere.” He practically snarled out while you went to the liquor trolley you had set up across the room. Pouring a double shot of whiskey, you brought it over to his desk, twirling the glass gently in front of him to catch his attention which made his head shoot up and cold crystalline blues honing in on the aromatic liquor.

“You didn’t hide it, it’s on the liquor trolley Ran.” You reminded him as he took the glass and shot most of it back at once. Your brows arched in surprise when he didn't savor it. “So…” You moved around the desk, carefully moving his laptop to the side and perching on the edge in front of him. “What happened, Ransom?” You let a foot run up and inside of his calf and he simmered silently for a few more seconds. You were patient, you knew that he would eventually spill what was bothering him.

“Joni, that fucking hippie cunt roped Walt into her newest bullshit venture, so by extension me as well.” He finished his drink and set the glass aside. “Walt took some of Blood Like Wine profits and used them to invest in her newest bullshit line which now we have the books going into print for ‘The Cleanse Of The Goddess.’ What the fucking bullshit is she even on with this? Walt booked an interview that I need to attend to make sure it isn’t a complete shit show. He sprung it on me today that fucker.” He pinched the bridge of his nose.

“So we are not taking off this weekend?” You asked cautiously and he shook his head.

“Thanks to that prick, no.” He sighed, his hand dropping to grasp the back of your ankle and pull your foot in his lap, his hand massaging it gently. “How about you and some of your girlfriends go to the spa instead? Just not Joni's. I refuse to sink more money into that bitches bullshit. You girls can do the cucumbers on the eyes, mud smeared all over and compare whose man has the biggest dick.”

You snorted hearing him, busting into a laugh and shaking your head. “No need, I already won that conversation a long time ago, Ransom. I got all my girlfriends jealous.” You winked at him while hooking your foot in the arm of the office chair and pulling it closer to you. “And I’m fine with staying home this weekend Ransom. Saturday you do your thing with Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum.” You gripped his chin and leaned in to press a kiss to his mouth. “And then Sunday we can do whatever you want, you know… stress reliever.” A slight nip to his bottom lip made him smirk as his hands slipped up the back of your calves to grasp the back of your knees and pull you to the edge of the desk, each one of your feet bracing on the arm of the office chairs arms.

“You must allow me to tell how ardently I admire and love you, Kitten.”

You let your legs part further, catching the interested gleam in his eyes. “Tell me more.”

“Trust me, I will. But why are we waiting till Sunday? I have all night with you before I have to leave.” He slid up your skirt up your lap, kissing against your knee. You let your hand fall to his perfectly coiffed hair and brushed your fingers through it to brush it back from his forehead, purring at him. More kisses along the inside of your thigh made you quiver with anticipation while his fingers rubbed at your cunt through your panties.

“Whatever was I thinking Ransom?” You lifted your hips to let him hook a finger into your panties and tug them down your legs while he sucked a kiss into your inner thigh. The harshness of it blossomed into arousal that made you whine sharply. Ransom promptly balled up your panties and stuffed them in his pants pocket.

“Save them for tomorrow, something to remind me what I’m coming home to.” Large hands slid up your thighs and pressed them wide open. You fell back to lean on your elbows while watching him between your thighs, he abandoned kissing your inner thighs and instead he spread you open. A drag of his thumb pad slid through you, making you bite your lip as he sucked on his finger pad. His tone dropped dangerously. “Already soaked, you're such a whore for this cock aren't you Kitten? Come on… purr for me.”

You felt another wave of arousal escape while nodding with encouragement, your toes curling in anticipation. Ransom could have dragged it out, making you wait. But you smelled so good, would taste even better and he just wanted to forget this clusterfuck of a day by making you cry out his name. He lapped at your cunt, digging his fingers into your thighs to keep you from closing around his head just yet. Your hand instinctively buried in his dark hair, rolling your hip upwards to meet him as he sucked on sensitive flesh and circled through your folds in just the way that would make you roll your eyes upwards for a moment at the sensation. “Fuck Ransom, fuck- I love your mouth so much.”

He would have responded, some snarky remark but he was busy lapping and sucking on your clit, teasing that little nerve to have your thighs pushing to enclose around his ears, bordering on almost too much even though you gushed again. Ransom easily spread your thighs once more with ease that made you whine in disbelief.

Ransom pulled back to watch you clench before he ran his tongue around your hole. “I love how fucking messy you get.” He spread your slick, making your folds glisten. Filling you with a finger, your velvet walls clamped around him, your hips rocking all on their own.

“Don’t stop-” He sucked on your clit again, making your legs shake while he fingered you open with the addition of another. Scissoring you open, he continued dragging you to the edge, now your hand shot to fist in his hair and you pressed his face into your cunt while you gyrated into his almost to perfect face.

It was mindless now, the way you chased after his tongue, the praises he continued muttering whenever he would lift his gaze through his lashes to see you start to fall apart. His chin came away smeared in you. “Come on Kitten, you're not gonna give me anymore?” His fingertips struck just right, dragging against that sweet spot that snapped your legs closed against his head and locking in place. Ransom kept going, sucking your clit again while stroking you, tapping, teasing, anything to bring you over.

It was overwhelming, the sensation that flooded you was so sudden that you ended up screaming his name in surprise when your body just felt so fucking good, your hips arching off the desk and you slammed your hand against the wood with a loud slap. The rush of wetness flooded, squirting all over Ransom. “Fuck” You half sobbed out as your muscles just seemed to let go, your thighs falling back open and your body releases to sag against the desk. Ransom smirked as he took one last drag of tongue through your quivering cunt before lifting himself to a stand, leaning over the desk to see you looking so good all wrenched out and fucked from just his mouth.

“I ever tell you how much I fucking love you, Kitten?” You mewled lightly with a nod, Ransom gripped your chin to tilt your head to face him. “What was that?”

“I think you were going too earlier? But got distracted?” You countered and your gaze dropped from his face to his shirt, his expensive shirt that was darkened from your release. “You are a mess, Ransom.”

“Thanks to you Kitten.” He wriggled his brows with pride. His lips were a bright swollen red and you couldn't resist tilting up enough to kiss him, slowly letting your taste flood your mouth, clutching at his shirt to pull him further down.

“Anytime Ransom, but can you fuck me stupid now? I feel like we could both benefit from another release.”

“As if you had a choice, Kitten.” He wrapped his arms around you, and you matched the gesture with your own hold. Your arms went around his neck and your legs circled his waist so he could lift you in his arms. Now his erection was pressing right against you, straining the front of his pinstriped slacks. “Bedroom?”

“Mmhh, the couch is closer. But can you stop at the kitchen? I left my wine on the counter.” You nuzzled against the shell of his ear while sucking on his ear lobe, as well as rubbing yourself against his cock, making him groan while his hands grasped your ass, pressing you down harder.

“Might just bend you over the kitchen counter if you keep this up.”

You licked over the shell of his ear, purposely purring in his ear. “Please do.”

[peakyblindersxx]

come home with me - finn shelby x reader

a/n: you have @michaelgreys to thank for this one (& the gif!!! check her out she's amazing). s5 finn cause god damn!!1 i honestly dont have much to say about this one other than it's definitely self indulgent and not even god can help me at this point. i'm working on p4 to whiskey buisness rn as well as some requests, thank you for all the sweet comments!!

love, abi xxx

my masterlist

prompt: finn hates you so much he might want to fuck you.

warnings: nsfw!! smut, pretty fluffy cause he's baby 🥺

Working for the Shelby Company wasn’t difficult, except for one thing: Finn Shelby. You were one of the many secretaries, in charge of conveying messages, filing papers, and many other important things, such as making sure the glass decanter of whiskey sitting on the bar cart in Tommy’s office was never empty. It wasn’t a very taxing job, but Finn went out of his way to get under your skin in every way he could. Maybe it was the fact that you wouldn’t back down, having a quick retort to anything close to disrespectful that he said to you. The other brothers never said a thing to intervene, Arthur even telling you he was glad you had a backbone.

“Finn’s a cocky thing, eh? Too cocky for his own good. A girl like you’ll put ‘im in his place,” he had slurred, while you collected the letters he’d asked you to mail.

“Dunno, Mr. Shelby,” you’d mused. “Seems like he’s got some sort of problem with me.”

“Don’t even bother with that, he’s just an arrogant fuck. Probably got some sort of crush on you an’ is too shy to do shit about it. You know, first time he fucked a whore, he said sorry,” Arthur grunted. You’d chalked up his admissions to the half empty bottle of whiskey that he was clutching and the light dusting of snow on his right nostril. Still, you couldn’t help but wonder if the looks Finn shot your way, though seemingly out of irritation, meant something more. You couldn’t lie, you’d thought about what it’d be like to feel the youngest Shelby brother’s bow-shaped lips on your neck, his hands on your waist. It couldn’t be true, you resolved; Arthur was just wasted and you were delusional.

Monday came, and Tommy had asked you to work in the betting shop for the next few weeks. “Make sure Finn’s not fucking up,” he had grunted, taking a long drag of his cigarette, clear blue eyes barely leaving the stacks of paper that littered his massive desk. Of course you’d agreed, but you were nervous. Something about it made your heart beat faster in your chest. You took a shot of whiskey before you left, hoping the dark liquor would help calm your nerves. Isaiah insisted on accompanying you, telling you there were too many people that didn’t like them around there and to make sure someone was always with you for the next few weeks. You were grateful for his presence, the jokes he cracked easing your mind as the two of you walked briskly along the cobblestone streets. It didn’t take long to get there, Isaiah holding the door open for you as the warm air inside the betting office washed over you. Finn turned to see who it was, a scowl tugging at the edges of his mouth once he saw you.

“Why the fuck is she here,” he drawled, sitting at his desk with his feet up, a half-finished cigarette dangling from his fingertips. As much as you hated to admit it, he looked fucking good, hair neatly combed back, smelling of expensive cologne in a pressed navy blue suit. He was tall, legs stretching across the desk as he sent a glare in your direction, you rolling your eyes in response.

“Tommy said,” Isaiah interjected, sensing the tension in the air. “He said you said you needed more help, or somethin’.”

“Fuckin’ christ,” Finn mumbled, taking a drag from his cigarette before putting it out on the crystal ashtray that sat on his desk, standing to grab a stack of books from one of the shelves behind him.

“Jesus, it’s like I’m the fucking plauge or something,” you retorted, Isaiah stifling his chuckle as he looked anywhere but at the two of you. Finn ignored you, instead setting the pile of books on his desk.

“Come look at this, before I change my mind,” he said, instead. You obliged, walking behind his desk to see what he was gesturing to as Isaiah excused himself, something about “gettin’ fucking plastered, mate!” Finn was easily a head taller than you, so he practically towered over you, engulfing you in a cloud of his intoxicating cologne as you stood so close to him that you could practically feel the heat emanating from his body.

“So, these are the bets, and those are the outcomes,” he explained, arm brushing against your body slightly as he pointed to the different columns written out in the log. To your chagrin, your skin prickled in response, your body unable to control itself. Yet, you pushed it down, not wanting to give Finn the satisfaction of knowing that you wanted him. God knows he’d hold it against you forever. What he was explaining was simple enough, and you were able to grasp it fairly quickly. He was all business, handing you the logs he needed you to double check, as you sank into the desk adjacent to his, pouring over the books and coming to him to confirm small corrections.

However, after a couple of drinks of whiskey (some of which you admittedly consumed), Finn started talking. Small things, like how irritating Tommy was or how much they’d made off a certain horse. He’d never opened up to you like this; it was always a snide remark that usually set off an argument, since the two of you were fairly hot-headed. This time, it was different. Finn was still looking at you, but with slightly rosy cheeks and a smile threatening to spread across his face every time you made a witty remark. This time, you liked the way he was looking at you.

***

Two thirds of a bottle later, you were both on the floor in front of the fire, laughing at something Finn had said. Admittedly, he had said it just to see you laugh. He liked when you laughed, he realized. It was much better than the irritated look on your face that he usually saw. In all honesty, it was probably his fault, he thought to himself. Maybe it was the whiskey talking, but he really wanted to see you smile for the rest of his life. You sat next to him, shoulders brushing as the two of you talked, your jacket long abandoned, revealing the flimsy straps of the black lace dress. You looked so fucking pretty, he couldn’t help himself.

“You’re fucking beautiful, you know that, right? Always wondered why you hung ‘round us lot, bunch of mean fuckers.” The words fell out of his mouth, hovering in the air between the two of you. You stared at him, slightly taken aback, but the liquor was doing the talking for both of you, it seemed.

“Look who’s fucking talking. Half the girls in Brum would gladly fuck you, even just for a night.”

Finn paused, lighting a cigarette and offering you a drag.“What about you?”

You accepted, taking a puff before passing it back. “What about me?”

He cracked a grin. “Would you fuck me?”

His bluntness took you aback, but you were too far gone to think properly. “Maybe,” you admitted, a coy smile playing at your lips. Finn’s eyes darkened, closing the distance between the two of you until his body was almost touching yours, the tension between you crackling like the fire just a few feet away.

“What about now?” he muttered, lips brushing ever so slightly against your neck, causing you to shiver. He noticed, his hands finding the curve of your hips, searing through your dress. You couldn’t help but tilt your neck back slightly, a gasp leaving your lips as Finn pressed an open-mouthed kiss to your skin.

“Finn,” you moaned quietly, the smile on his lips growing wider as his hands fiddled with the hem of your dress, fingertips sliding underneath to grip lightly at the soft skin of your thighs. “Fuckin’ do something already, christ.”

Finn grinned. “Always got a fuckin’ mouth on you, eh? You’re lucky I find that attractive,” he teased. You opened your mouth to retort, but before you could, his fingers found your silk panties, pushing them to the side to rub lightly against your clit, causing you to jolt in pleasure. You were already wet, to Finn’s satisfaction, and he had no trouble pushing a finger inside of you. The moans that were leaving your mouth were sinful, and he savored each one, watching the way you squirmed when he added another, curling them inside of you.

“Look so goddamn pretty, stuffed full of my fingers,” he crooned, sending your eyes rolling back in your head, eyelashes fluttering.

“Finn, please,” you whined, his nimble fingers deftly unzipping your dress and sliding it off, leaving you in your black silk bra and panties. Finn paused, taking a second to drink you in before pressing his lips to yours. They were softer than you could have imagined, hands gripping at your waist as he tugged at your bottom lip for access. You let him in, melting at his touch like butter.

“Want you inside me,” you mumbled against his lips, causing his muscles to stiffen as he sprang into action, pulling you on top of him, lining his already hard cock up with you. He was big, and if you weren’t already so ready for him, you might have been a little nervous. He slowly pushed inside of you, helping you sink down on top of him with one hand as he swore under his breath, using his other hand to unhook your bra, throwing it to the side and exposing your breasts to the cool air, nipples hardening at his touch.

“Fuckin’ gorgeous,” Finn growled, unable to resist from taking one of them into his mouth, rolling it between his teeth. The sound you made in response was pathetic, but fuck if it wasn’t fueling his appetite for you. He couldn’t help but push up into you, a tight grip on your hipbones, holding you up as he rammed into you, cock pressing up against your g-spot, sending your vision spinning.

“Fuck, Finn, m’gonna cum,” you cried, eyes sqeezed shut, overwhelmed by the sheer amount of pleasure he was giving you. Finn grunted, somehow increasing his pace, pressing kisses to wherever he could.

“Go ahead darlin’, want you to cum all over my cock,” he cajoled, the words sending waves of pleasure through you. You couldn’t help but follow his orders, colors flickering across your eyesight. The image of you cumming just for him sent Finn over the edge, groaning your name as he finished inside of you, dripping down the inside of your thighs. You looked so fucking angelic in the firelight, he had the sudden urge to take care of you.

“Y’alright?” He asked, reaching for a rag to clean you up. You nodded, smiling softly down at him as he couldn’t help but press a kiss to your hipbone. He looked up at you, eyes full of adoration.

“Come home with me?” Finn murmured, hands fidgeting.

“Yeah,” you replied, a glow tinging your cheeks as you looked at him the same. “Let’s go home.”

[punemy-spotted]

The Price You Pay

Pairing: Mob!Steve Rogers x Reader

Warnings: Non-con/Dub-con, mentions of murder, unclear timeline, blackmail, unprotected sex, fingering (F!receiving), smut, esoteric references to past abuse, manipulation, Dark!Fic

Words: 5.2k (holy fuck?)

Summary: You need his help. He names his price.

Notes: This is for @stargazingfangirl18 and her incredible 5K Soft!Dark Challenge and I can't believe I wrote over 5k words for a oneshot, making this the longest piece I've ever written. I took a blend of prompts: Mob!AU; “When I woke up this morning, I certainly didn’t think my day would end like this;” and “That’s a big favor you’re asking for, I think you need to make it worth my while.”

And this was intended to be a oneshot but now I can't stop thinking about it so thanks Siri, I think this is now a part of my WIPs too! Your work is amazing and I had a blast being able to take part in this!

As usual, my work is 18+ ONLY, Minors DO NOT INTERACT

You went to him first.

You went to him, handed them your business card and I want to speak to Steve Rogers.

Honestly they almost threw you out with an extra hole in your head but then the man of the hour walked right in.

So now you’re here. Now you’re here, sitting across a gorgeous dining table with a ten-course meal laid out and honestly you’re surprised they didn’t tie your wrists to the arms of the chair while you watch him eat and take in the look of those baby blue eyes scanning you over.

He even brought you non-alcoholic rosé, when you said you didn’t drink.

So.

So.

You wanted to talk to me?

Yeah, I do. Thought you’d just sit me in your office, have a consultation.

I like breaking bread with new friends. Have a nice dinner, get the wine flowing — of course, that’s not gonna loosen your tongue, but we’ll forgive it.

Oh. Cool, I like being forgiven.

He laughs at that one and the room, strumming with tension, snaps into amusement. So do you, cracking a half smile on dark red lips, before swallowing down the lump of anxiety threatening to break through and destroy everything. You need this. You need this and you can’t let anything — not your nervousness, not your morals, not him — stop you. You need this and it needs to be done and if this is what justice is in this fucking city then so be it.

Well, sweetness, you’ve got my attention. You want to talk business or pleasure?

That one makes you laugh, a little sharp and a little cruel, and the curling smirk on his face gets a little furrowed because he hears it too — pain.

It could be both, you say finally, picking up the glass of rosé-that-wasn’t, if your reputation is as real as they say it is.

He lifts a bite of cheesecake into his mouth and lets it melt on his tongue while he watches you, somewhere between impressed and incensed. You know the look — you saw it the last time he met you in court, but you weren’t there as allies then. Never thought you’d come to me, he admits finally, sounding halfway bemused at the idea, but you’re full of surprises, aren’t you, Counsel?

You wince, or maybe smirk, eyes on the man before you.

It’s a game, a dance, a ruse, and the woman you thought you were thirteen months ago when you put four of Steve Rogers’s best men in jail for fifteen years — fifteen years longer than any District Attorney had ever managed to do before you, and you were just the rookie they handed a shit case to — is leagues different from the woman you are now, seated prim and proper in the lion’s den.

You’re not innocent. That’s not been your game for years — this life doesn’t leave room for innocence, it tears at you, leaves you tired and broken and ill.

Your colleagues learned to fear him a long time ago, the man before you. Captain America, leading the city, the country, the world into a new era of high tech crime all under his thumb. It’s a pretty shiny shield, the one that sits behind him, but mirrors are black on the other side and his soul is dark as coal.

You’re not an angel yourself, and this deal with the Devil isn’t for anyone but you.

I need someone taken care of.

So you come to me? I thought you were a lady of morals, Counsel.

Certain kinds of morals.

You can see him smile, see the way he raises his glass, the glimmer of malice and amusement in his eyes. So tell me. What’s the name?

You give it.

He’s not in the city, your target, but he will be. A Judge, an activist, real tough-on-crime-sweet-on-justice type of shit. You don’t tell him the reasons why, because those are yours, but you tell him the name. You tell him he’s a problem, you tell him he’s dangerous, you tell him you’ll pay to have him taken care of, you tell him you don’t want to practice in front of that black, black robe.

And he smiles like the Devil he is, watches you with a grin and drinks his whiskey in one last shot before slamming it down, Real woman of the law, aren’t you?

You said that when we met the first time.

He’s a hunter, you can see it in his eyes. That lion’s mane might be tamed right now but it won’t be for long and you’re playing with wild animals. The eyes on you are ice and daggers, daring you to do the one thing everyone in the office has been begging you not to do.

(Drop the charges, Rookie, the case is just to get your face in front of the judge.)

You upped the charges.

(Rookie, you don’t know what you’re dealing with, there’s other cases.)

You subpoenaed his phone records.

(Rookie, don’t make me drag you off this case!)

You won.

You had no witnesses and a jury you had to drag in from god-knows-where after you proved, over and over again, that he’d paid off the cohort in the courtroom. Finding people with nothing to lose and a desire to do their civic duty wasn’t harder than you thought — it was exactly as impossible as you expected.

But you did it.

That’s what you do, isn’t it? Push and push and fight, claw your fingers at the ledge and pull yourself up, you pay for your crimes in your blood, sweat and tears you pay for the things you could have done then and didn’tdo.

You pay.

And sometimes, that payment bounces back.

And when it was all said and done, when the closing statements were delivered, when the Jury came back out and the Judge — hands shaking, mouth agape, eyes wide — read out the verdict no one expected, you… didn’t feel any better, did you? There was no justice for you in that room, just the searing glare of ice-blue eyes and the burning of your steel spine.

Real woman of the law, aren’t you?

First words he said to you, while the courtroom emptied out and you stood there, facing the man you’d just made an enemy of with your briefcase in your hand and your eyes aflame.

I did my job.

Did you? Is that what you think your job is?

My job is justice, unflinching and blind, Mr. Rogers. I don’t care how much power you have or how afraid you leave this city, I’m going to do my job.

You could always let justice turn a blind eye.

Yeah. I could, but that wouldn’t make this any fun, would it? Thank you for the win, Mr. Rogers — I’m sure I won’t get many more.

You leave him with a smile on his face and the scent of your perfume in his memories.

He leaves you with the pride of victory in your bones and a reminder that your strife could be worth it.

One day.

How do you plan to fill that pit, the one you tossed the corpses of your old self into? The one you let them claw up out of, to haunt you? Remind you?

You’re digging your own grave and you know it, but you won’t let Steven Grant Rogers be the first one to toss a handful of dirt over your corpse.

But now here you are.

In his dining room, enjoying dessert and some sort of after-meal coffee. In need of him…

This might almost have been a date, if not for the topic of conversation.

So. You want a Judge taken out. What if he’s already on my payroll?

Why would you keep a dead man in your pocket?

You like the sound of his laugh, and you don’t even have the excuse of wine to fall back on when it warms your core. Don’t admit it though, don’t say it aloud, don’t let him get an in. Be smart, cross your legs tighter, keep your eyes on the prize.

You’re so close to the finish line.

That’s a big favor you’re asking for, Counsel, I think you need to make it worth my while.

Worth your while?

I’m not a charity. And since you put the guy I usually use to handle these things behind bars for a few years—

You know I can get him out too.

That’s not payment, that’s putting things right.

You take a drink. Steady on, girl.

I’m leaving the DA’s office.

That stops him.

Oh that stops him good, and he looks fascinated. Interested. You’ve said something he can use as leverage and it’s not just about a job. That smirk on his face is smug and his eyes are darker and he has to know the impact that look has.

Can’t falter, don’t falter, don’t give in.

Am I allowed to ask why?

No.

You’ve done your research. You just don’t know why you’re thinking about it now. Steven Grant Rogers, “Captain America,” leader of a crime family that had too many names to stamp out, bolstered by a mad scientist, a military man through-and-through who turned New York into his own private base against whatever stood against his way.

Get in his good graces and you’re set for life. Get in his good graces and you’re safe, you’re protected, you’re good.

Get on his bad side and you only make that mistake once.

There are no second chances in this game, and here you are, asking for one.

So what? You leave the DA’s office, you leave yourself open to me — you think leaving New York is going to be the thing that stops me, Counsel?

No.

Then what?

Breathe. Steady.

I know you gave me that win on purpose — you could have taken out my last jury cohort. This isn’t about the four men… and you know I’ll get them out. This is something else, but I’m not here to ask about what or why.

He falters just briefly, like he’s surprised you knew, but the crack in his mask smooths itself over as soon as it forms and he’s back to watching you, nodding along in silence while you breathe and watch him and keep talking.

But even then. I got four of your guys in prison. And I know how your organization works — I subpoenaed the documents, remember? Your lawyers are good, but they’re not used to people asking the right questions. You want someone to seal up the cracks you need someone who actually knows what to look for.

You have more than his attention, you have his interest, and now he’s leaning in a little. Imperceptibly, but enough. Scanning over you from across the table, like he’s thinking how you managed to get so impertinent in the face of the likes of him but that’s the thing — when the only thing you have left to lose is your life, you’ll risk everything.

So what are you offering?

Breathe. Don’t. Stammer.

Myself.

The chair scrapes and suddenly there’s the clicking of guns, aimed and ready until his hand rises up and he stops them and he’s stalking towards you.

This is the lion’s den, sweetness.

The stakes are higher and you ought to be braver and he’s got your chin in his hand before you have a chance to react, dragging you to your feet. Do you know what you’re offering me, Counsel? Low and hissed and hungry, like those perfect teeth might be sinking into your throat in the next moment.

Oh, you have no idea.

You get me. On your payroll — you know. The offer you sent me a year ago.

You think it’s still open?

If it wasn’t, you wouldn’t have met with me.

The chuckle in your face makes your cheeks warm and you’re looking more flushed than you would like, the open shoulders of your dress suddenly feeling a lot more like a mistake the more you realize just what kind of meal he might make out of you tonight.

We might need to have a discussion about your workplace duties, Counsel.

You don’t notice the hand near your thigh until it’s too late, sliding up the soft fabric of your skirt until it’s squeezing your ass, until it’s jerking you towards him, until you’re pressed against his chest and the hand on your chin is now hooked around the back of your neck, thumb pushing your jaw until you’re forced to look at him. Won’t lie, when I woke up this morning, I certainly didn’t think my day would end like this, having your pretty little body in my arms,and you can look as indignant as you want but he’s got the upper hand and you only thought you were two steps ahead of him.

You think I haven’t thought about what it’d be like to put you in your place, Counsel? You’ve got a smart mouth — I wanna know what else it can do.

He doesn’t give you a chance to use that mouth to lash at him, lips sliding over yours, swallowing that indignant yelp with a punishing kiss. Nipping at the plushness of your lower lip until you open your mouth and yield to him with a sigh of reluctant surrender, let his tongue slide past that barrier for him to explore. He’s got his fingers wound through your hair, just a little too tight and whether the whimper in your chest is because of the pain or because of the want, he doesn’t care.

Knew you’d be sweet, Counsel… softly, when he pulls back to look at you, take a look at those love-swollen lips and your ruined lipstick, the pretty way you pant at him already, the heat burning your cheeks. Pay no attention to the slick warmth between your thighs, pay no attention to the way he makes you burn already, pay no attention to how your fingers have curled into the lapel of his coat to hold yourself steady, pay no attention to how you suddenly miss the pressure of his lips.

All that smart-talk and now you’re quiet, Counsel? F’I knew it just took a kiss to get you to shut up, I would’ve done that at trial, he’s purring in your ear, soft and sweet and you should push at his chest, so uncurl your fingers girl and push.

I didn’t say I was selling my body, there’s your harshness, and there he is, laughing at you again, the grip on your hair jerking your head back until you’re looking into those dagger-cold eyes again.

You don’t make the rules here, Counsel, I do, and you need me more than I need you. So if you want to make sure your Judge can’t start wreaking havoc on your career… you might want to get used to readjusting it for me. I promise I’ll make you feel nice, if you let me…

And if I don’t?

Then I take what I want and I don’t feel bad for not holding up my end of the bargain. Your choice, Counsel, you cum willingly and I’ll give you everything you want. Don’t, and it’ll hurt you more than it hurts me.

That’s not a threat, that’s a promise, and suddenly you’re more scared than you ever thought you’d be, wondering if you’ll need to sell another part of your soul to take him down after. How much of yourself will you put up as collateral to get justice for the wrongs you were never able to correct?

You’re afraid.

Oh sweetness, you’re afraid.

Here? Now?

No, Counsel, we’re gonna do this right, aren’t we? You wanna be in bed with me, I’ll take you to bed with me. Come on, say it. Say the word.

Say no. Say no, rail and fight, stamp your heels into the expensive leather of his shoes, jam your knee into the sensitive between his legs, scream and yell and tell him you will never let another man take advantage of you again to help you reach your goals. Do it. Do the thing you swore you would do the next time a man like him — men who think they can take anything from anyone, men who think they own the world and the women in it, men who think you aren’t strong enough to fight back — propositioned you just like this.

You’re selling your soul to get rid of a man just like this.

But that’s coiling heat in your core that wasn’t there the last time, was it? That’s want. That’s the realization that you like the way this predatory smile feels, that you like the way this one wants you. You’re not her, not scared and alone and helpless. You could fight back and run and maybe escape if you were lucky.

You could choose.

He’s let go of your hair to stroke your cheek with the backs of his fingers, soft and sweet, You gonna give me an answer, Counsel, or am I gonna have to take it?

Say something. Say no. Scream. Say no say no say no say— Yes.

It’s a whisper. A desperate, soft whisper. A helpless, lonely whisper. It’s enough.

He sweeps you around until you’re pressed with your back against his unyielding chest, feeling him flex with every movement, broad arm wrapped around your shoulders from the front. All of you are dismissed, and that’s when you remember there were others in the room with you. Others who just watched you concede to becoming Captain America’s newest plaything and the burn on your cheeks is more shame than lust. You pull at his arm briefly, futilely, earning a tighter hold for your efforts and a whispered don’t make me choke you, before you are half-walked, half-dragged out of the dining room.

The walk to his room is slow and agonizing as you’re pulled along, barely struggling but barely helping at the same time, tears sliding down your cheeks as you come to terms with what’s going to happen next — no one is going to save you tonight, no one’s going to interrupt and drag you out, this is your job and this is your place and here you are.

No one speaks. There’s no sound but the steady tap of your heels and his shoes on fine marble. Even your sobs are silent, even your breathing is muffled, until the stairs are traversed and the faintest click of a lock turning opens the door to the rest of your life.

You made a deal.

Time to pay.

Sit on the bed.

You move as if in a trance, and he watches your face, the hint of waterproof mascara failing to do its job, the smudged ruby red of your lipstick. Don’t give me that look, you knew what you were signing up for when you walked into this house, Counsel.

His hands are gentler than you’d expect, when he wipes away the streaks your tears leave down your pretty cheeks, coaxing you to look up at him, We’ll set ground rules later. Tonight? I wanna see if I can get that mouth of yours to beg for me.

It won’t, you snap without thinking, knifeblade sharp and cruel, ready for a fight again. He promised you that once, in a hiss you thought you’d misheard but no, you heard him just fine and now if he thinks he can quench your fire and have you pleading just because you sold your body for the prospect of revenge then he’s wrong.

Thing is, he laughs like that’s a challenge, and the hand holding your chin so gently is wrapped around your throat before you know it, silencing your voice with just the right application of pressure. I can do this all night, Counsel. Do you think you can last that long?

Fear. Anger. Indignation. You are fury made flesh and he is manipulating you with just the barest press of his palm and sliding over you, until you’re laid out there on soft sheets and he’s looming over you, splaying that big hand out and sliding it down your throat, over your chest, feeling the ruching of the fabric under his palm. You wrapped yourself up like a present for me, didn’t you sweetness?

The change in nickname isn’t lost on you but here you are, glaring up at him while he smiles so beatifically it leaves your blood boiling and your skin steadily warming. The rise and fall of your chest is hypnotic, every angry breath a swear you don’t utter, every inhale your protests dying in your throat. What can you say, what would you say, right now? There’s nothing that can change the way he looks at you, or the way his eyes flicker from ice to blue fire the more he takes stock of the pretty little thing he’s about to start sharing his bed with.

Fuck, you’re beautiful, that one shocks you, but not as much as the sudden rush of cold air when he tears the emerald green fabric of your dress down and reveals the soft swells of your breasts, nipples peaked from the sudden cold.

You don’t get much time to gasp, just something soft and strangled before he turns your voice to whimpers, wrapping lips around that pebbled tip and laving his tongue over sensitive flesh. Where are your words now, Counsel, while he threatens the softness of your chest with the scrape of his teeth, when he slides his hands over the round curve of your thighs and parts your legs so he can press himself between them, so he can press himselfagainst you? Where is the knife-dagger of your wit to protest each soft, suckling kiss to your skin, each press of his fingers like he could just squeeze his ownership of you into the plushness of your hips, into the sweet swell of your ass? What do you say to the dirty little thrust of his hips as he bucks with his own burning need, reminding you just how much this is for hispleasure as he will make it for yours.

You would, could, should push him off and instead what are you doing? Curling your fingers into the silk-smooth of his comforter, desperate to writhe out of your own skin away from the burning pressure between your thighs, the foreign, unfamiliar heat you suddenly feel like you might be craving.

Anyone ever touch you like this before me, Counsel?Warm breath splays across your skin when he questions you, eyes fixed on yours and he waits. Answer him, answer him, tell him he’s nothing, tell him you’ve had better, lie and destroy that ego, lie lie lie lie—

Nnnh—no.

He looks like you’ve just told him the best news of his life, eyes wide and blown with lust, Oh is that right? You’re saying no one’s ever touched you this good? Or just no one’s ever touched you at all?

You don’t have to answer. The furious blush on your cheeks? The way your eyes slide away from his? The way you writhe, trying to press your thighs together to relieve the pressure and finding the effort futile? If the man’s grin could get any wider, it would, right now. Oh sweetness, we’re going to have so much fun exploring your body together…

He pulls back just enough to take a look at you, already flushed and writhing and overwhelmed and if he could take a picture of this right now he would. He’ll save that for later though. Tonight? Tonight is just the two of you, and his hands are back to your skirt, pushing the tight fabric up over your round hips and revealing the lace of your panties… just before he rips them off, to the sound of your indignant yelp Steve!

You’re going to call me Captain, sweetness, we’re not close enough to use my name just yet.

No. No you’re not, and he’s not sure you’ll ever be — he rather likes the idea of hearing you whimper out his title when he gets you desperate and wanting.

He touches, slow and steady, watching you try to jerk away and tutting at you when you do, fingers at your delicate nerves like an assault on your pleasure. Bite your lip, bite back the moans, whine at him like he’s wounded you, You’re so wet, sweetness, you’re so desperate for me aren’t you, as he palms his cock to relieve the pressure on himself. You’re going to beg before he does and he’s patient, he’ll last the night.

St-stop it, it’s too— he shushes you ahtahtaht and rests his free hand on your mound, holding you down so his probing, inspecting fingers can take stock of the velveteen plushness of your delicate cunt. It’s too much, too much and you want to scream the moment he presses one finger into you, already overwhelmed, already so tightly wound the barest touches are unraveling you steadily.

You’re such a pretty thing, all desperate and needy, sweetness. You wanna cum already, don’t you? So busy, never gave anyone the chance to fuck that stuck-up bitch right out of you, did they? It’s almost pitying, isn’t it, the way he talks, hums at you while you’re reduced to a whining, whimpering mess so soon, so desperate for the release he’s on the edge of denying you, feeling you flexing around his finger and then the second leaping jolt of your body when another joins the inspection. Taking careful stock of the pretty cunt he owns now, and he’s careful to curl his fingers just right as he seeks the spot to hammer just to get you to scream.

You don’t, not yet, but that’s okay too, because he sees the way you take desperate hold of the sheets, the way your eyes roll backwards just slightly, the way you strain against his heavy hand to arch your back. Gotta tell you, sweetness, I imagined you under me a thousand and one ways but this one, right now? Tops the list. You ready to beg for me?

Do it. Do it and end your pleasurable torment. Do it and be released from the pressure, the coiling want. Surrender to him. Let him have you.

The white hot rush of your orgasm is not unexpected to him, his curling, cruel fingers having found the sweetness of your g-spot, but — you, too busy climbing the ranks to think of your own pleasure, too busy demanding your due from an unjust world explore your own warmth beyond that of a memory of a college hookup you would rather forget — you left breathless and wanton in the heat of the explosion he draws out of you, mewling something desperate and pleading against your own will and the song of it fills his ears like it’s all he’s ever wanted. There it is, and I thought we’d be here all night. A thumb flickers over the nerves at your entrance and you practically jump, something between a yelp and a moan escaping your lips.

First one’s just a treat, sweetness. Now on, you cum when I say you do, understand?

You nod.

Oh you nod, and you are lost, here and now. Sensitive and broken and there is so little of that steel spine here, writhing in his sheets and ohyou don’t know the things you do to him.

Think you can go again, sweetness? He’s purring, smug, twisting fingers stretching you slowly, muttering under his breath about how fucking tight you are around his fingers, how good you’re going to feel for him, and the smugness on his face is slowly fading into a dark consternation, brows furrowed like he’s somehow angry at you for being plush and delicate and fuckable.

You’re almost begging him to stop, and yet the pressure is building again, the twisting, coiling heat that leaves you breathless and mewling and he looks like he might be trying to immortalize this moment forever. Say it, sweetness. Say you need me. Beg me for my cock.

That’s it.

That’s what you need to, you need to beg, you need to give in. No more fighting, no more arguing no more —

Please…

Please what, sweetness, come on now. You got a way with words. The snarl is so barely contained.

Please, Captain, please just…

What do you need, sweetness? The fingers are relentless, the buzz in your nerves is overwhelming, you can barely even hear yourself talk, much less him.

Please just fuck me, Captain, I need your cock! It’s hurried and it’s crude and it’s desperate and it’s exactly what he wants as just another wall crumbles and you fall off your pedestal right into his arms.

He’s barely able to resist the buck of his hips, the need to be inside you, the knowledge that you are soft and velvet and you could be all over his senses just like this.

When did he free his cock? You don’t know, you just know it’s practically salvation when he sinks into you, when he fills you like you’ve been desperate for and Oh sweetness…pours from his lips just as you hiss out something like praise right back at him.

You’re so full and he’s so gentle, at first, like you’re made of crystal in his arms, like the slow shifting of his hips might have you shattering underneath him if he’s not careful. Cradling you, even, sliding your legs around his narrow hips as he leans in and takes a hungry kiss from your wanting, whimpering mouth.

Love this look on you, all wrapped around me, whispered low and slow into your ear, sweetness you have no idea how good you look…

Melt into those compliments, melt into him, because the way he’s holding you is divine and you can feel him so deep in you it’s making your head spin. When did your arms end up around him? When did you start clinging to him like an anchor, start winding your fingers through his hair, start leaving the marks of your nails on his back to the sound of his own needy groaning?

He noses your cheek and leaves a mark of ownership on your neck with hungry lips, knowing you’ll bruise a beautiful flower right over your pulsebeat and continuing the steady assault on your nerves, cunt-first.

Harder. Faster. More.

And oh, sweetness, you do shatter.

You shatter all around him, you shatter into something divine and rapturous, full of him and filled with him and he cums so deep inside you as you do, still fucking you through your joined climax, hips rutting and breath hitching and nearly furious at you for the way his vision whites out too, the way he feels like he can Never get enough and so he hisses that at you like an accusation while his thoughts reorient back to reality, back to smugness, back to the control you took from him while he tried to strip you of yours.

In the end, as he pulls away from you and sinks to the side of you, watching your sweet expression as you return to the reality of your new situation, he is satisfied… thoroughly.

Oh yeah, I think we can make this a working relationship, Counsel.