#oh i also couldn't stop laughing at the “woman in stem�� one

[cidandy]

i fear the general public may not deserve her...but you get to see girl cider as a treat because i like her & i can't stop drawing her.

[musedblues]

A Taste Of Honey (Part 2)

summary: A 1920's Deacy au! In which the reader, who comes from a family heavily involved in the American temperance movement, meets John, a bootlegger from overseas.

a/n: Well here it is. I'm fully aware interest may be completely lost in this fic but I'm very proud to have finished it. Im not sure where my writing journey will go from here. All I know is that this has been a very long time comin'... enjoy if you dare!

part 1 - 2

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"If anything happens, Deacy, I'll have your head!"

Ivan shook his fist from the front porch, illuminated by the light flooding from the opened front door. 

"I'll be fine!" You dismissed, skipping toward the car, still getting used to the sway of the heavy golden dress you borrowed from Alice. 

"I'm talking about my car!" Ivan shouted, correcting you. John let out a laugh at the remark, and gave your brother a nod, while he opened the passenger door, nudging you toward it.

Your brother and his wife had loaned the essentials to send you and John away for the party a man you never met was throwing. It was a small thrill, the prospect of such fun to be had, in comparison to the sickening exhilaration that coursed through you at the thought of spending any kind of evening at John's side. And the fact he'd asked you to. 

The ride was quiet and short, but dragged on with each new glance you dared to steal at the man driving. Both of John's hands relaxed on the wheel. A hint of that deadly smile on his lips. 

By the time you got to where you were going, you'd been so preoccupied with thoughts of the man by your side, that you'd nearly forgotten your plans for the evening.

If you had any expectations, they were blown clear away. Before you was an estate made up of too many windows to count, draped in vines and hanging lights. 

Even the crunch of the gravel that decorated the winding path you entered into sounded oddly elegant.

Inside was a fever dream of all the things you'd imagined on your short journey into the threshold. Across a giant winding staircase and below the shimmering chandelier were people from all walks of life, crammed together to have one grand time. Different music came from different corners and wild laughter filled the gaps, if there were any. 

And before you, John led the way. You couldn't recall the moment your hand found the bend of his arm, or if he cared that you'd reached out to him as he weaved through the crowd. But the grin on his face when he turned back to catch your eye had to be a good sign; despite the way your heart nearly burst at his look. 

John led you past hoards of people and trays of half full glasses. There was only one way to go, further inside the home, but John seemed to move as if he had an idea of where he was headed. Sure enough when the pair of you met the landing of the staircase, the host of the party was there to greet you. 

The host's initial booming hello was focused mostly on John. And without more than a glance your way, the party thrower shuffled John away from your side, insistent on sharing a chat with him on the top landing of the stairs.

You were left to linger, stalling at the base of the stairs and studying the crowd around you. Girls in beaded skirts and men with slicked back hair passed you by flashing well meaning but entirely distracted smiles. 

You'd felt mesmerized enough by the scene to slowly start to drift into it yourself. Reaching to brush your finger across meticulously carved bookcases and daring to take a glass from the extended hand of the first person to smile directly at you. 

You reached for the stem of the blue stained flute, and managed to make your talk small enough for the interested lad to wander far off. But offers kept coming. Glasses of this and that shoved in your face. You accepted the offers more out of respectful politeness than any eagerness to lose your wits. 

By the time you lost track of everyone's kind gestures, and a man was leading you closer to a table decorated with cards and chips, another hand intervened.

John was back, letting his fingers curl around your shoulder and nudging you in another direction of his choosing. Thrilling as it was for you, to have been handled just so by him, you were a little taken aback. 

Funny how after the sips of this and that, you felt steady as ever. But one look from John and your knees threatened to give out and all your cares too.

In the middle of the packed house, with John looking at you that way, you felt like the only person alive. And somehow this all added up to equal your new found courage to speak a little bolder than usual.

"Are you on strict orders from Ivan to steer me clear of any strange attention or do you maybe fancy me a little, John?" You dared wonder. You almost didn't care of the answer. So long as he kept guiding you through this evening with a strong steady hand.

"Both." John seemed to decide, continuing to guide you along. The pair of you had reached the patio doors by now, and the cool night breeze rushed through in perfect time to ease the heat that had rushed to your cheeks at John's response. 

"Let's go see the gardens!" You decided at first glance of the sprawling greenery that surrounded the estate. 

John let you tug him along, darting between couples and groups who'd come to ruin the fresh air with all their smoke.

He followed along, a very good sport, smiling as you pointed out flowers and trees you didn't realize could bloom in this part of the country. As you turned from marveling over a certain rose's colour, John seemed almost enraptured. Maybe not by your subject but certainly by some part of you. His gaze was fixed, and he seemed to bite back a wider grin. And your already lightened spirits seemed all the more weightless as your eye's met his. 

"If you keep looking at me like that, John, I'm going to have to kiss you." You let a small laugh escape, as the foreigners' expressions remained steadfast. 

He'd kissed you only the night before, on your brother's staircase. It was the only reason you felt free of regret enough to lean in and brush your lips against his again. John reciprocated fondly, letting one of his hands creep around the bend of your waist. You never realized it was possible to feel so happy. 

"Did you do that because you've been drinking? Or do you perhaps fancy me a little?"  John mocked your earlier statement, when the kiss died and your eyes locked. 

"Both." You smiled, charmed enough to try it a second time. But this kiss was broken much sooner than you reckoned any kiss ought to be.

"You know I'll be leaving soon. Just a week's more time." John killed the mood with a few words. You glanced to your feet and muttered understanding, noticing his hand still clutched your waist. 

"I just don't want to see you disappointed." John spoke up after a beat of heavy silence, and the words seemed hard for him to piece together, but he spoke them all the while. 

"Then don't disappoint me." You shrugged, glancing back up to the perfectly handsome man, who's smile seemed sad now.

"Come on, then." John said, moving his hand to find your own. "Not even I get to enjoy parties like this too often."

And you let him guide you back inside. You let the sun set on all the pretty flowers. And you let yourself feel grateful for the rest of the evening at John's side. 

///

He rode the train home with you the next day, sitting across the bench from you, and not saying very much. 

You felt the need to chatter at the pass of every few minutes. You got John to ramble a little about the other places he was due to visit in the states. The guy only one more stop at some.fancy hotel after your town, in the big city, next week. Then he'd head home. 

After explaining as much, the man went quiet again. But you couldn't let the silence last. It was as if you didn't work to hold his attention, it would be lost the next time you looked up. Maybe that wasn't true. But you couldn't risk letting John slip away so easily. Not when your heart practically lept from your chest each time his eyes met yours. If it wasn't meant to be, then so be it. But you were going to fight for the chance that you had, while it was still within reach. 

So when the train pulled into your neighborhood, and John stepped onto the platform, you stopped him waving goodbye. 

"Will you be back? To our shop, I mean?" 

John took a step closer toward you with a very serious expression that softened just before he spoke. 

"I wouldn't dare leave before telling you goodbye." He promised, in a low, sweet manner. 

John pressed his lips to your temple for one brief heavenly moment. And then he turned away to hail a cab. 

At least now, in your terrible mix of emotions, something very bright and warm burned within you. And you got to believe, for a moment, that the same reigned true for John.

///

But all was not well at home. How could it ever be? 

Your mother was horrified that you'd up and left for the night without so much as a word about it to her, and to your brother's home no less. 

Her disdain for her first born left you sick to your stomach more and more each day. 

But this was nothing new. You knew to give the woman a showy apology and to stay silent as she confined you to the kitchen table as she lectured about morality. Tomorrow things would be back to her regular sort of unhappiness. 

What really stopped you cold in your tracks that night, though, was the sight of your father stood in the doorway of your room with his arms crossed.

To bring a frown to his face was your greatest fear. For he'd loved you and shown it. And you dreamed of doing good by him every chance you got. As you stalled in the hall and waited for him to speak his mind, you hoped this would only be a reprimand for causing your mother unnecessary grief, for her madness made you all ten fold more miserable. 

"I know you've been with your brother..." Your father nodded with understanding, not looking right at you as he spoke calmly. "But that also means you've been with John. And I don't like that."

Oh. Ivan had warned you this might be your fathers mood. But you'd ignored his warning in hopes it wouldn't have been true. 

"You know John!" You countered, "You work with him! You're telling me you get to work with a man you don't like but I can't see him?"

"He's a fine man. But all wrong for you." 

"You're supposed to be the one who lets me find these things out on my own." You reminded. Your mother did plenty of directing you from day to day. Your father knew of what you spoke and nodded reluctantly, uncrossing his arms and looking you square in the eye. 

"Well not this time. Stay away from John, you hear me? He'll be gone before you know it anyhow." 

Your father rested a hand on your shoulder, giving you a reassuring squeeze as if to ease the blow of his demands. But as he walked back down the hall, the uncertainty that had stormed within you since John left you at the train station, raged wilder than before. 

What a jam... 

///

There was nothing stopping you from returning back to the depths of the coffee shop, the next time Ivan started up his business. 

Your mother was sound asleep, and your father was already there, serving the last of the coffee up top. Once you arrived you knew he'd be cross but unable to march you away. 

So you slipped on your finest dress and twirled down the rickety staircase that led to the party your brother charged for. 

There were already a good deal of friends jam packed into the small basement; dancing to swells coming from the gramophone and lining up to grab a glass from Ivan's makeshift bar. Your brother flashed a grin when he saw you sauntering in, but his smile turned somewhat more into a worried grimace when he saw you march up the man near the end of those overturned book shelves.

So was everyone concerned over your connection with John? Even the man who'd held your interest sort of frowned at the sight of you demanding his attention. 

John had his fingers curled around a glass. You took it from his grasp and the action made the bootlegger grin oh so slightly. But his frown returned after you slammed back the swallow of liquor in his glass- unsure yourself by what had come over you.

"Hey, come on, don't be that girl." Ivan called to you from behind the bar. You couldn't be sure if he was commenting on the way you'd claimed Deacy's drink for your own, or on the way you seemed too eager to get the stuff in your system. 

Before you could snap back at your brother's comment, though, John spoke up.

"Don't worry about it," He insisted in the charming draw of his. "Just pour me another." And as the man who you adored stepped past you to hold your brothers attention, John sort of let his hand brush across your waist. And he left his fingers to linger along your sides as Ivan, disgruntled, poured another for John. 

"Is that all you cut in line for?" Ivan sighed, nodding toward the few people, impatiently waiting to fill their glasses, stood in a row behind John. 

And you hadn't really considered this before your brothers prompting. But at his asking, you were moved to pull out a twenty dollar bill from your coin purse, and demand he give you your money's worth.

Ivan was reluctant, going on for a bit how once your father spotted you here, like this, that he'd surely be disappointed. And you didn't want that, did you? But little did Ivan know, you'd already disappointed your father. And you were determined to get something you wanted tonight, one way or another.

So with a sigh, Ivan poured you a tall drink and informed you were good to come back for a few more, to match your payment. 

So began your evening of ignoring John's worried remarks about slowing down. And as you kept the drinks coming you weren't even sure why. Perhaps it was to test your very own limits. To somehow prove you were more in control of your path than all the others who seemed to have something to say about the direction of your life. 

And damn John, for the way he kept his eyes locked on yours between the distance he silently kept insisting upon. And damn him for helping you find your balance, despite the steps he kept taking away from you. For letting his hands stay secure around your waist, long after you'd straightened up from stumbling.

And damn your father. He had to have been behind John's change in attitude. From the moment you'd met, John had been a flirt. And steadily, his quips kept getting bolder, until the last party you attended. Ivan's rambling about your fathers dislike of your fondness of John had to be what caused him to step back.

And damn your father, for finding you all dizzy in John's well meaning clutch, now. Your dad pointed to the door and demanded you find your way out of this scene. 

"I know you're not taking her back to your hole in the wall you've been staying at, in the state she's in." You father grumbled in a low curse, his eyes searing into John's. You tightened your hold on the fellow, shooting your father a glare all the same. He couldn't tell you where to go or with who. 

"Take her upstairs if ya like. But don't step foot past the alley. I'll be up in a minute."

After a shared look, John moved, pulling you alongside him. You moved,  happily leaning into him, disgruntled by the course of the evening all the while. Even Ivan seemed to shoot you a sorry grin when he noticed you being marched away, from across the room.

The alley was a little cold. But John's figure was warm. And as you followed his lead pausing just beyond the backdoor, you could feel this chance waiting to slip away. 

"You like me, don't you?" You wondered, turning to face the man you'd been so taken with since the moment he showed up at your door.

"Of course." John nodded, and answered so softly and with such care truly felt as though it were melting. 

"Then kiss me, John." 

"You're drunk."

"But we may never get the chance again. One or both of us are about to be beheaded. Either way, that'll make kissing hard to do from now on." You implored, letting your head fall to rest precariously on his shoulder as you finished your plea. You heard John let out a somber little chuckle as he dared to tighten his arm around you. 

And then you heard a shuffle beyond the backdoor, and let out a sigh at the timing of your father coming to ruin everything. 

But instead, the door bursts open to reveal Rita in a fluster. Her usually perfect makeup streaking down her cheeks. At the sight of the girl you'd always admired, a pang shot through your chest. But not immediately for her upset, whatever it was, but because you realized you'd failed to see your friend here all night, until now.

Before you could apologize, or ask what the matter was, Rita sucked in a breath and let out a string of words for you. 

"He was a snitch. He-he told my parents everything." She stammered, wild eye'd. 

"Who?" You begged to know, having turned away from John, but not having totally turned your attention away from his hand still rested on the small of your back. 

"The pastor's son. Cole. He- he said he was alright with this whole thing. But he... He told your mother. She's on her way here, she's-" 

Sound of a car roared closer, and the engine died away, drowning out the last of Rita's warning. For a second, you thought of making a break for it. But then the click of heels on the pavement seemed to count down your fate.

And then she stood there before you. Your mother, dressed to the nines, complete with her usual scowl.

You couldn't let go of John. Your nails seemed to dig into his side on their own accord. The pair of you stared ahead to the woman who gave you life, and kept you from living it all the same. She stood and stared too, almost like she was giving you a chance. And that was the scariest bit of it all. 

As time seemed to pause, John let your name escape him in a nervous breath, like a warning. Trying to alert you that your hanging off him wouldn't help. But there was no way you were gonna let him go now. 

It was then your mother decidedly sauntered up to the two of you, letting her eyes search your from the top of your head to the tips of your toes and back up again. 

When she let out a scof, you realized you'd been holding your own breath. And when you opened your mouth, willing oxygen in, or words of mitigation out, your mother decided what was next. 

Before you could blink, one of her strong hands was digging into your arm, and she was tearing you away from John's gentle hold.

And despite his caution earlier, you could feel John's hand still trying to keep hold of you, as you were yanked away. The sensation of being taken from the man's clutch was horrid, but what was more painful was the feeling of his fingers trying and failing to keep hold.

So when your mother tossed you aside, toward the brick of the coffee house wall, you were hardly affected; not like you'd only just been.

And when you looked up, after steadying yourself and dusting your stone imprinted hands of dust, John was stepping closer toward your mother. He shouted something at her, about how she didn't have the right to treat you just so. But before he could finish defending you, he was shut down.

Your mothers hand flew across his cheek, and the sound of the slap and John's shocked hiss echoed through the alley and caused something vile to rise in your gut. 

You pushed yourself from the wall then, indifferent to the dizziness you felt, desperate to reach out to the man you'd been so fond of; calling his name.

But your mother was there, more sober and more angry. And she halted your mission to make it to your man, digging her nails into your sides and forcing you in the other direction. 

"John I'm sorry, John..." You called past the lump in your throat. That was when Ivan came upon the scene. He darted from the doorway and did his damnedest to block your mothers storming off. 

"You're a monster. Let her go!" Your brother fummed, as your mother managed to storm around her first born, pushing you along. 

"I'm her mother. And I'll do as I see fit to keep my child out of harm's way." Your mother stated, almost calmly.

"You're no mother. You're a walking nightmare. She's not your plaything-"

"Word's won't fix this, Ivan." You said, reminding him that his defying of the woman only ever made her ten times more evil.

"I'll pray for your children, son." Your mother nodded, opening the passenger door of her car, and flinging you toward the bench. "They're going to need it."

You didn't look to Ivan, as your mother drove off. You didn't dare look to John. You only hung your head and cried silent tears while your mother peeled down the road. And the whole way home, she spat vile things about you and Ivan. Her own children. About your father, her beloved husband. And aout John, a man who, since his arrival, had only tried to help out.

You let your tears dry when the car pulled up to the house you'd never really felt at home in. And went willingly from the ride to the door, knowing you would get very far in the countryside if you dashed away now. You'd need a wiser plan. Still, your mother dug her claws into your arm and marched you up the staircase to your room, like you were a girl no oler to know better. 

"Stay here." She demanded after pushing your further into your bedroom, her fist around the doorknob, establishing total control. 

You expected to be banished here. What you didn't expect, however, was the return of your mother with boards to nail against your windows. You might've laughed if you weren't the one being all locked up. Wasn't this sort of thing only supposed to happen in twisted fairy tales? You're life was twisted enough, you supposed.

She left you there, trapped in the space that was meant to be your own, meant to be safe. As you sulked in silence, the memory of your mothers assault on John haunted you. The horrid sound her action resulted in. His gut wrenching reaction, the small hiss, his stalling in the place she put him in. 

And the way he watched you being dragged off, helpless and sorry for you. It was pathetic, the situation you found yourself in. So you let your tears bubble up again and you cried and cried; until exhaustion set in. Tomorrow was a new day....

///

There was a pounding at your door, loud enough to jolt you from slumber.

"Open up!" The sound of your father calling from beyond the hall stirred you fully conscious. In one swift dash you were stood before your door, jiggling the handle, feeling silly for hoping that would work. 

"She's locked it." You groaned. "Do you have a key?" Your wonder was nearly frantic, and so were you- trying still to twist the knob. At the sound of your fathers grumbled cursing, you began to bustle about for some hair pins, but quickly realized you wouldn'tve had a clue to how to finess the tools into working like another. 

Then you heard your mother. She  shouted down the hall, telling your father to get out of her sight, to leave you be. Shouting that you were better off confined. That you'd be locked away until she found the right reformatory to ship you off to. You knew she meant it. You knew she'd send you away without a care of your consent. 

"She's not a child anymore. You can't just treat her like a bad pet who needs training."

"I'm her mother. And I'll be damned if I don't do what's best for my child. I failed the first time. God knows you never cared about either of them like I care." Your mother spat, breaking your heart and your fathers too no doubt. 

Their bickering lasted a while longer, and you spun away from listening in to force yourself to think. There had to be a way out of here, out of this life. There had to be a way to a better world. 

And the best you could do was wait.  Until dinner. Wait until your mother brought you a tray of soup and bread, trading a few put downs before she twirled from your room. And then you checked the time, and counted down the hours to her always predictable nightly routine.

And you waited still, until your bedside clock ticked well passed after midnight.

And then you used a lamp to pry the nails away from windows. You could tell her bedroom light was out by leaning against the sill.

With no time to spare, you tossed a change of clothes in your purse, and the envelope stashed with tips you'd been saving for over a year. 

It wasn't a very long way down. With the help of a lattice panel and the dark of night, you found grassy freedom in no time. Your heart beat heavy as you crept toward the road. It wouldn't be safe, not until the city lights were in view. But your shoes were flat and your hopes were high.

Miraculously, no one stopped you. Not the truck who zoomed by somewhere still deep along the dark country road. Not the school kids on the edge of town, tossing bottles off the bridge. And not the sleepy clerk at the desk of the hotel you raced into. 

"Be here, be here, be here..." You prayed under your breath, hurrying to the room you remembered John booking. And right as you rounded the hall, the door of the room you'd been in search of opened. 

But the squeak of wheels gave away the presence of a maid, pushing her cart of cleaning supplies out into the hall.

"He's gone?" You sighed, stopping at the end of the hall, your feet aching after moving so ceaselessly through the night. 

"Whoever was here left a while ago." The maid stopped for a moment, looking to you with a sorry expression. "Around dinner time."

"Right. Is there a phone at the desk?" 

The maid nodded and wished you luck, and you thanked her for it. You'd need as much as you could get. 

The clerk who was still kicked back, sleeping, startled at your ringing the bell on the desk. And though they didn't seem pleased at your begging to use the phone, they let you.

It only rang twice. 

"Hello?" Your fathers voice was a pleasant surprise. Of course he'd gone to stay with Ivan, in the midst of all this chaos. 

"Dad, Im-"

"Where are you? Does she know you've gone? I'll come fetch you."

"No." You implored, holding up a hand as if he could have seen your insistence.  "No I've phoned to let you know I'm taking the train to the city. I've got to find John before he leaves. And I'm sure of where he is. I've got to try." 

John had told you where he was headed next, on your last train ride together. And you'd felt silly for keeping the details at the front of your memory... until now.

The other line went quiet for a beat. And you'd fully prepared yourself for your fathers disapproval. But then he just said,

"Okay." Your father seemed to realize the weight of your feelings, you thought, by his tone of voice. "I knew you'd get out of there, eventually." And once more, you could tell by his tone he wasn't just referring to the room you'd been locked in for the last couple nights. "Phone us again, when you're safe and sound. I know you will be."

At his blessing, tears sprung in your eyes. You were going to go no matter what. But to have your father on your side made you even more determined to fly out of this hotel, and to the next one you knew John was meant to be staying at. 

///

Booking a train ticket was nearly impossible. And if you had spent much longer pleading with the station, you would have missed the bus pulling up down the block, offering rides in the right direction. 

The couple hour journey was maddening, and thrilling, and terrifying all at once. You were on your way to change your life. No matter what John said, or how he greeted you; no matter if he fell into your embrace or left you in the hotel lobby, you'd never go back the way you'd come from. 

And luckily, you managed to find the hotel John had briefly spoken of, without much trouble. It was the grandest of the business booming on this side of the city. Folks flooded in and out of the revolving doors, as you considered the past set of days that had led you to standing before here with such an erratic heartbeat.

But you only stayed paused for a moment. Your feet were darting inside before your mind caught up with how close you were to the mission at hand. 

The lobby was just as full of people as the revolving doors had been, lines forming near the desk, groups fighting to fit their luggage into golden elevators. 

And though you hated to be the person you'd decided to be, you dashed to the end of the front desk, hoping the clerk would spare you a minute at most. 

"I just need to know if someone's booked a room." You begged to know, shooting sorry looks to the people you'd cut in front of. The clerk seemed to have no patients for you, but miraculously, another set of hands swooped in to help. Some nice older woman flipped through the bookings to find John's name, after you gave it, and came up short.

"What about Deacy?" You hoped all of a sudden, quickly beginning to lose your ambition the longer she shook her head.

You'd done what you could, rudely so. And scurried away so your unwelcome presence would no longer be in the way of things.

And as you sauntered away, giving one last pathetic glance about the crowded lobby, you reminded yourself that it was all alright. You might not have found John. But you were finally free.

And then you pushed through the revolving door. And past your ghostly reflection, you spotted a familiar set of grey eyes. 

John seemed to wait until your gaze registered his own, before spinning around to make it indoors. You ignored the chilly night air and pushed on until you were right back where you'd just started to leave from. 

There he was, before you as real and sure as the sun and moon.

"You never gave me a proper goodbye." You reprimanded through a growing smile. He'd promised to give you a farewell, once. 

"How about a rain check? I've got lot's more important things to tell you, as a matter of fact." The man you'd come to adore smiled then, and offered his arm. You held on without hesitation and managed to follow his lead through the crowd, to the room he'd been staying in.

It was a humble little space, his suitcase opened on the coffee table and a yellow lamp left on by the window. John shut the door behind you with a soft click, loosening the pale blue tie round his neck, as you glanced about the room.

"I came by. Your place, I mean." John admitted, leaning against the closed door, as you turned from admiring the wall art to face him.

"You did?"

And then John said your father had dragged the Brit along, that night he'd knocked at your door. John was outside with high hopes. But your mother had caught your father before you'd even known there was a plan. 

"So you did try to come and tell me goodbye." You laughed a little, kind of glad he wasn't able to. This reality where you'd run to him was much more befitting to the situation, you thought. 

"Well, no." John pointed, not laughing along with you. "I never really wanted to say goodbye."

You stood there, taking in the sight of him. Watching John's brows oh so slightly furrow upward, hope pouring from his expression. You considered the gleam in his eye and the way he slowly seemed to shift his posture a little closer to you. 

"So we haven't got to part ways in a hurry then?" You wondered. Asking more than if you could linger a while longer in his rented room.

John seemed to know what you were asking. He seemed relieved, too. His shoulders loosened as the man crossed the space between you, in no big hurry. It seemed the two of you had all the time in the world at your disposal, now. John took his time, reaching out to tuck away some loose hairs near your ear. And his smile grew steadily too. By the time the guy pressed a kiss to your lips, you'd been wondering if the dawn would be breaking any time soon.

But the longer John went on kissing you, the less you thought of the sunrise. As John enclosed you in his arms, all your thoughts were of the man you'd come to adore. 

And as laid next to him and closed your eyes to the rising sun, you couldn't recall ever having experienced such a bright morning. 

"So you're not too eager to head back home, yeah?" John asked, once you'd both stirred from a restful slumber.

"I think I found a much more suitable place to be." You smiled, referring to the spot you'd settled under John's arm. 

And it didn't take much convincing on his end for you to agree on catching the next boat across the pond. 

///

The other line rang so long you'd almost decided to hang up. Then your brother answered. 

"Helllooooo!" He sang in a chipper timbre, making you wonder if he'd been expecting you at exactly this time, or if he answered everyone that way.

"Well I was going to ask how you were but it seems you're so well I don't have to wonder." You laughed into the receiver. 

The morning was early, and a breeze blew back a sheer curtain, obscuring your view of the grey English morning. 

Ivan spent the next few minutes yaking about how glad he was to hear from you. And you were glad to listen. On your rather spontaneous journey overseas, you were bogged down for a brief moment, at the thought of being so far from your dear brother. But as he rambled in your ear now, you'd never felt closer to him.

Ivan asked how things were. He asked after John, and that mattered so much more to you than his concerns for your well being. And when you had had your fill of the attention being on you, you begged your brother to give you all the details of what happened after you ditched home.

He said your mother was as furious as expected. Said she tried to blame your brother and her husband for your running off. Said she tried to get the police to shut down the coffee house for hosting such an undignified business after hours.

"You should'a seen her face when she found out officer Willard was our most loyal customer." Ivan chuckled. 

"We did have to pay a fine, in the end, so she'd quit her raving. It was almost everything we'd saved away for the baby." 

Your brother sighed. And you cooed his name in commiseration. 

"But my friend who owns that estate, the one who threw that party John took you to," Ivan explained. "He was good enough to loan us a bit of cash to stash away." Your brother said the man tried to give the money away outright, as a thank you to Ivan for helping start up his own speakeasy of sorts. But Ivan was dead set on paying him back, one day.

"Now we can't decide to name the babe after him, or John." Ivan chuckled. 

"And what if it's a girl?" You mused. 

"That'll just have to be a surprise." Ivan said, and just then the line went dead. You called your brother's name with a little hope he'd come back to tell you more. 

But you didn't worry when the line went on buzzing. You'd see him and his darling wife and his child to be, one day. You'd see your father too, if he was still hiding out at your brothers place. Hell, maybe they'd all come over here. 

Maybe you'd build a life with John, in his humble little English flat. You certain felt at home, watching the guy of your fancy stay dreaming as the sun rose. 

John had been kind to you. He'd been your friend when he didn't have to be. He'd let you lean into him, and he laughed at your jokes. He invited you into his world and smiled wide the closer your ship rolled toward London. 

And he'd treated your shoes as if they'd always been stored in the middle of the welcome mat. John opened his space up to you, and asked every night for the first few weeks, if you were happy, if you needed anything more. Your answers were always yes and no. 

And he didn't need to ask for honey in his coffee anymore. You just knew to add a little in the warm cup you'd have ready near the place he liked to sit in the morning. 

It was familiar and it was sweet, and so was John. Maybe he liked honey in his tea, too. And dear God, how you prayed every year from here on out; got to be spent guessing at life alongside the man who'd thrilled you by wondering all your answers all along.

[adamantiumdragonfly]

Part Two

Chicago, Illinois ~ June 6th 1920

The Federal Bureau of Investigation, the organization designed to monitor the borders and the cities of America, was an intimidating group to say the least. To be sure, they commanded a presence but Miriam didn't know how fruitful their investigations were.

Now, it was common knowledge that gangsters and bootleg liquor had taken the country by storm in the midst of their dry sobriety. The FBI should have been handling that. The FBI should have been stopping it.

The war had left many hearts thirsting for a numbing drink and there was always a demand. Though the city was dry, she could almost smell the liquor that oozed from the cracks and shadows of the alleys.

[But Miriam wasn't sure if she was imagining things. She wasn't really sure of anything. Like how she had managed to find her way in the busy Chicago streets to the FBI offices or why she was here at all.

London wasn't her home anymore, that much had been made clear. Neither was the wasteland of mass graves and trenches that had once been Europe. Miriam gripped the letter tighter in her palm, the ink smudging against her sweating palm, the only sign she was nervous.

There had been one person she had known in the war who still spoke to her or had life in their chest. Lawrence White. First hand witness to her path of blood and destruction and now special agent in Chicago. He had sent her a letter, promising a job, a purpose and orders to follow.

"You don't look like a spy,"

Miriam could have stayed in Britain. She could have carved out a new life for herself, built a new family, like the thousands of others who had managed to crawl their way out of the trenches. But that meant being alone. Alone with the ghost of that little girl, little Melinoe, who would have been alive, if Miriam hadn't failed.

Miriam needed an occupation, a purpose. She needed orders to follow. So she had replied to the letter, bought a ticket on the next boat and left.

God, this was a mistake.

The offices were neat but busy. She wasn't sure if anyone had been alerted of her arrival. If Lawson, (as they had nicknamed him), had told the rest of the offices that a British-German would be walking across their doorstep and taking up residence beside them in a desk. That would have been jarring enough. Miriam wasn't sure that if anyone knew of her arrival, they would be aware that she was a woman.

That would have been two strikes against her.

As it turned out, neither seemed to be the problem. There were three other women in the office and a man who's accent betrayed him as Russian. Being a woman and being a foreigner wasn't the problem. It was her age.

"I've had to explain to Washington that your age will not affect your work." Lawson said, after settling Miriam in his office, the stares of the agents nearly burning through the window.

His first words after seeing her in Belgium rang in her ears. "You look different."

"Why should it?" Miriam said. It hadn't to the British government. They had sent her to Cairo, alone, when she was seventeen. Thanks to Ezriel, that is.

"I know of your work and of your ability. These men," Lawson waved a hand at the glass windows that offered a view of the office. Agents were still watching. "They know nothing. You are young, Goldschmidt. That makes you seem inexperienced."

They both knew that wasn't the case. She had fought harder than most, killed more than anyone she had worked with. Enyo wasn't gone, like the rest of the war. She was still present, pushing anything prior to her creation into ghostly memoriam.

"I will endeavor to prove myself to these high standards." Miriam said. She smoothed her new suit, a more stylish cut than she was accustomed to but in a familiar glossy black. like a crow's wing. It was an alteration to her usual ensemble but provided the much needed encompassment. Her accent was more obvious now, here in this country. She had sounded to German in Britain but too British here. Perhaps she would have to alter that part of herself too. "Anything else I need to know before you turn me to the wolves?"

It had been like this during the war. Lawson gave orders and Miriam followed them. The only difference, they were now in America and Miriam wasn't Enyo. She was a field agent and now, she would be released into an unknown country.

"You aren't being thrown to the wolves," Lawson shook his head as he stood, gesturing for Miriam to do the same. They exited the office, the agents who had been spectating hurriedly returning to their work. He led her, shoes tapping against the marble floor to a desk where a woman sat, sorting through papers.

Office work. She would be doing office work. Lawson had seen her fight and seen her losses and would only give her office work. Miriam's hands balled up into fists, her short nails digging like daggers into her skin.

"Agent Davidson," The woman looked up at the sound of Lawson's voice. She was older than Miriam, much older. Her hair was graying and her lined face. She looked around Sarah's age. Miriam's fists tightened. "This is Miriam Goldschmidt, our new special agent. She'll be working with you."

"Goldschmidt?" Davidson's eyes sparked angrily. Like Ezriel's. Like Sarah's. She wasn't angry because Miriam had failed them. Her fury stemmed from something Miriam couldn't control: her name. "You German?"

"I'm British." Miriam said. Leipzig was a long time ago. London, though she had run away, was the last time she had been free of ghosts. London was her home.

The fire died in Davidson's eyes and she extended a hand. The British and the Americans had fought together. This could be their olive branch, it seemed. "Alaska Davidson."

"A pleasure," Miriam said. "I admit, I was surprised to see another woman."

Alaska nodded. "There are only a few of us and they seem to want us spread out. You and I will be alone in the sea of men." She glanced at Lawson, who had been silent as introductions and allegiances were made. He looked pleased that they were getting along. "Alright, Lawson, you can leave us alone. We won't kill each other."

"Tell me," Miriam said, as he retreated back to his office with only a wink and a smile to say goodbye. "Were you born there?"

"Born where?" Davidson's already lined face wrinkled in confusion.

"Alaska?"

"Oh no." Alaska shook her head, though her face relaxed. "I am from Ohio."

"Are all American women named after states?" Miriam asked. "Should I change my name? To fit in?"

"Lawson failed to mention you were such a wisecrack," Alaska said. She didn't seem upset or annoyed. It was an observation, maybe even a playful joke. Miriam's lips twitched. "You are getting the desk beside me. So I can keep an eye on you." She gestured to the empty table, free of the clutter that was the pattern on every other agent's desk. "You brought anything for your desk?"

Miriam looked down at her empty hands, trying to ignore the weight of the little book against her chest, and shook her head.

"Don't worry, it'll be full soon enough."

"What kind of work will we be doing, Agent Davidson?" Miriam asked. She could feel a gun's smooth metal beneath her palm and the weight of a knife in her grip. Miriam wasn't opposed to a little blood staining her hands. Enyo craved it. She had been sober, like the rest of America, for quite some timee, though her tonic had been a tad more violent.

She needed something she could fight. Something she could put to death. Especially now when Miriam's mind was full of undead memories. Ghostly little girls. Blood that had long since dried, sticking to her fingers.

"Do you know much about the eighteenth amendment?" Alaska asked.

She knew enough. Alcohol was prohibited, not to be sold or served.

"It is the devil's drink, is it not?" She said, something inside her smiling at the look on Alaska's face. Surprise and calculation. Miriam liked being a mystery. While they were trying to figure her out, she had time to fire the defenses.

"You aren't a girl of morals, are you?"

Blood staining her hands. Enyo, laughing.

It was safe for Miriam to say, "No, no one could ever say that."

"So, lying is acceptable?"

" I enjoy it."

Alaska laughed, mistaking her words as another witty crack but there was no shift in Miriam's expression. She hadn't been joking.

"You'll do fine," Alaska decided, though the curiousity didn't leave her gaze. While Miriam sat at her desk and removed her hat, she could feel the watchful eyes on her, trying to solve the puzzle of Miriam Goldschmidt. She wished Agent Davidson would solve it for her. She hadn't yet.

Taglist: 

@rinadoesstuff​ @vintagelavenderskies​ @julianneday1701​ @immrsronaldspeirs​ @wexhappyxfew​ @junojelli​ @jamie506101​ @trashgoddess600​ @pilindieltheelf​ @sunnyshifty​ @teenmagazines​ @thegirlwithoutaname87​

Historical Notes: 

he FBI wasn't actually known as the Federal Bureau of Investigation until the 1930s. It was known simply as the Bureau of Investigation, going through several adjustments until 1935, the name was settled as we know it today: FBI.

Now, there are a few reasons why I chose to keep the name FBI in this story, however inaccurate. One being familiarity. When I say, FBI, you know exactly what I am talking about. Secondly, comprehension. It is easy to understand what being an FBI agent involves, whether it is 2020 or the 1920s.

So, FBI it remains in the world of Lady Blood.

(also, the acronym BOI has been ruined by meme culture and I couldn't take myself seriously while writing it.)

There were three female agents in the Bureau of Investigation in the 1920s, though their time was short-lived. Alaska P. Davidson, (1922 to 1924), Miss Lenore Houston (1924 to 1928), and Mrs. Jessie B. Duckstein (1923 to 1924).

I chose Alaska Davidson for no particular reason, other than to crack a few jokes about her name and I liked the dynamic and power play that her and Miriam had. That's all.

[wellknownwolf]

I want to move into a new phase in my relationship with fandom, as I mature with new experiences. I'm not sure what exactly that looks like though. What is your take on the parasocial affection inherent in an RPF like Rhett & Link? Or even the deep attachments that can form with fictional characters? Or a desire to emulate fantasy worlds? I'm sorry if I've made you uncomfortable with all this, it's just that it's been a long time coming, and once I got started I couldn't stop. - Natasha (5)

First, let me post the full question, since it came in 5 parts:

Hey, it's me again. Your 'mystery inquirer', as you so adorably dubbed me. You're right, I had forgotten I'd sent in that ask. Just now, I couldn't help but think about a scene from Life After, as I am wont to on a frightfully regular basis, which is what got me back here. When you said you pondered over my seemingly simple, banal question for a good while, and wrote out a beautifully thoughtful answer like you always do, it made me happy.

Your narrative voice is similar to my own, and it made my chest ache in a certain way to have gotten such a response to what felt like a random shout out into the abyss (though it obviously wasn't, I sent it directly to you, I guess it's more what it felt like taking a chance on a conversation with a random stranger online). And now I'm cringing a bit at how melodramatic all sounds. But I'm committing to it, anyway. That's the beauty of anon, eh?

Wolfie (is it presumptuous to call you that? Please do forgive me the liberty I'm taking), I must admit. I'm quite envious of this community you have with @missingparentheses, @lunar-winterlude, and other wonderful people. Since childhood, I've been head over heels in love with fandom. Not a specific fandom, I've been a traveller through dozens, but fandom in general. I've read probably thousands of fanfics, spent countless hours daydreaming about beloved characters and their stories.

To the point where, in my most recent and worst depressive episode, it may have been for the worse, if I'm honest. Escapism and yearning to the point of impairment, engendering a sense of constant bereavement. But it's taught me so much about life and its wonders, I can't write it off as just some damaging habit. It's such an integral part of who I am, a deeply curious soul (shout out to my Enneagram Type 5-ers out there!). But I don't anyone to share it with, and it can get quite lonely.

I want to move into a new phase in my relationship with fandom, as I mature with new experiences. I'm not sure what exactly that looks like though. What is your take on the parasocial affection inherent in an RPF like Rhett & Link? Or even the deep attachments that can form with fictional characters? Or a desire to emulate fantasy worlds? I'm sorry if I've made you uncomfortable with all this, it's just that it's been a long time coming, and once I got started I couldn't stop. - Natasha

.....................................................................

Thank you for giving me so much to respond to, Natasha.  Thank you for continuing to reach out.   I accidentally wrote something like a paper in response to your thoughtful question.  I even conducted a little research and cited a source.  ENGLISH TEACHER, ACTIVATE!

Also, for what it’s worth, I feel at times that I communicate exclusively through shouts into the abyss, so it’s a language with which I am at home.  In fact, it is this very technique, this experiment with intense vulnerability at the hands of a virtual stranger, that earned me one of my absolutely most-treasured friends: @missingparentheses.  I have poured out a great deal of my own melodrama to her, and she has received it and reciprocated it in a way that, three years later, continues to teach me how to be a better friend.  In short, I’m a firm believer in diving straight in when it comes to new friends.  Cringe not; I’m on board.

So let’s dive.

R&L is really only the second “fandom” with which I’ve been involved.  Third, if we count my preteen obsession with ‘N Sync (and considering how much wall space I dedicated to their posters and self-printed photos, we probably should).  My point is, while I don’t have much experience with the community facet of fandom, I do relate to your feeling of near-obsession.  Or clear obsession.  

I know the feeling of escapism you’re describing, and I know the yearning and melancholy that can come on our worst days, where we feel like “real life” will never measure up to the color and brilliance of the worlds we spend so much time considering. These worlds, these characters and their relationships, their challenges, victories, and defeats all seem so purposeful: they’re the plot points we use to craft the stories in our heads (regardless of whether we’re writers at all).  It can be much harder to view ourselves as protagonists worth analyzing, viewing and reviewing through new lenses, perhaps because we’re warned against navel-gazing, perhaps because our self-perception just won’t allow for it.  Maybe a little of both.

But yes!  It teaches us!  We DO learn about life, other people, love, risk, all kinds of things through what we consume in these fandoms, so I would never classify it as a “bad” thing.  We hone our imaginations and learn to pay attention to our own emotions as we recognize feelings from our favorite shows, games, books, and characters arising in ourselves.  

I used to be a little afraid of the fact that I was always telling myself stories, internally imagining myself as someone else, a player in the worlds I often loved more than my own.  I suspected that someday, somehow, I would be caught playing pretend all the time in my own little ways.  I was a bright and ambitious young woman, so why would I give so much of my mental energy to such frivolous pursuits?

In my first semester of graduate school, though, I learned from a Lit. Theory professor who intimidated the hell out of me that we all do this.  We’re all telling ourselves stories all the time, some of which are true and close to objective reality, some of which are more subjective to whatever fantastical (or fandom) material we last consumed.  I’ve whispered my own dialogue in the shower, but so have you whispered yours in your head (if not also out loud in your shower!).  And through this act, however it is performed, I have made those worlds part of my own.  So have you.  In this way, they are real, and I no longer feel fearful of being “found out.”  

When we have those moments of doubt, though, when we wonder whether we’re going too far, it probably stems, at least partially, from the “us v. them” divide between fandom and mainstream society.  We love our little worlds, but we also feel that twinge of anxiety that we might be bordering on obsession, that our guilty pleasure might be discovered and we will be socially punished for it, namely, as Joli Jensen writes in “Fandom as Pathology: The Consequences of Characterization,” because “the fan is characterized as (at least potentially) an obsessed loner, suffering from a disease of isolation, or a frenzied crowd member, suffering from a disease of contagion. In either case, the fan is seen as being irrational, out of control, and prey to a number of external forces” (13). According the consistent covert (and overt, at times) messages of the mainstream, “[f]andom is conceived of as a chronic attempt to compensate for a perceived personal lack of autonomy, absence of community, incomplete identity, lack of power and lack of recognition” (Jensen 17).  Yikes.  That doesn’t feel good to admit about ourselves, does it?  

Luckily, it’s bullshit.

Treating “fans” as others (outsiders, people who can’t form relationships or find fulfillment in the “real world”) “risks denigrating them in ways that are insulting and absurd” (Jensen 25).  Those who take this stance, who see fans as victims of hysteria or desperate loners, do so in order to “develop and defend a self-serving moral landscape.  That terrain cultivates in us a dishonorable moral stance of superiority, because it makes other into examples of extrinsic forces, while implying that we [members solely of the mainstream] somehow remain pure, autonomous, ad unafflicted” (Jensen 25).  In short, that us/them thinking just makes people feel better about themselves by pointing out an easily-identifiable “other.”

 I have also grappled with the concept of parasocial affection, particularly with R&L.  I was well into writing my first Rhink fic when the thought crossed my mind, “Oh my god, what if I actually met these people someday?  How would I look them in the eye?  I’d feel like a crazy person (again)!”  From the safety of the Midwest, I laughed off the thought.  And then a year or so later, they were announcing their first tour. And I was still writing, here and there, still deep in my affection for them, sometimes wrestling with the thought that I’ve devoted so much energy to people who would never know I exist.  

It doesn’t matter that the attachment was in the most obvious, tangible ways only one-sided.  As an adult who is ever-learning how to navigate the worlds of her own creation and the ones over which she has far less control, I view my intense attachment to characters both real and fictional with deep fondness.   And while I may not receive affection or attention directly from the sources (R&L, fictional characters, sports teams, who/whatever we build fandoms around), I am still earning some very real rewards for my involvement: Because of them, I found my way to a participatory culture in which I was supported and encouraged to express my creativity.  This gave me the push and interest that I needed to hone skills that have not only made me a better writer, but also a better teacher and mentor.  With fandom comes the ability to immediately strike up a conversation over shared interests. With fandom comes a sense of belonging in what we have proven is an awfully divisive world.  

Right now, I’m consuming far less fandom-related material than I did a few years ago.  I don’t really watch GMM anymore and I’m on a break from Ear Biscuits (though I still love it), Gotham ended over a year ago and I’m not in the habit of reading fics right now, and I can’t yet play the remade Final Fantasy 7, so that’s out for me, too (though I know I will fall deep into that well once the game is in my hot little hands).  This all happened by itself.  I never consciously moved away from these sources; I just floated on to other interests and other levels of interest, knowing that if and when I wanted to dig back in, I could always come back.  

I used to feel quite sad at the thought of someday “moving on” from these intense interests.  I couldn’t fathom somehow falling out of love with those bands, actors, or video games.  But for me, the transition into wherever I am now has not been painful in the least.  I’m glad I knew the intensity that I did, and I’m happy with the distance I have now. And there’s a good chance I’ll be fanatic about something else someday.  I’m looking forward to it!

 Here are some responses that I couldn’t organically fit into my essay:

Yes, you can call me Wolfie if you’d like.  That name started with @missingparentheses (her second appearance in this answer!), and quickly became a reminder to not take myself too seriously.  

Second, I don’t think I know any other Type 5s!  I’m a type 8. 

Also, here’s my MLA formatted citation for the Jensen source:

Jensen, Joli. “Fandom as Pathology: The Consequences of Characterization.”   The Adoring Audience: Fan Culture and Popular Media, Routledge, 1992, pp. 9-29.

[lovemecharlie]

Secret Admirer

Hennessy × Erik. Happy Valentine's Day.

"Someoneee has a secretttt admirerrrr," Raven sang grinning mischievously as she carried a handful of flowers into the greenhouse where Hennessy sat at her desk, jotting down notes. Hennessy looked up noticing her assistant and her eyes dropped to the colorful bunch. She sat up in her seat as Raven sat the bouquet of yellow, purple, and pink flowers mixed with baby's breath onto the desk.

"Whose are these, are they mine?" She stared at the flowers confused. They were nice, but Erik had done way better in the past. Raven's fingers began to drum curiously on Hennessy's desk, edging toward the small card attached. As Hennessy's assistant, she was naturally nosey and interested in anything involving Dr. Chiron.

"To the The Beautiful Hennessy.. Happy Valentine's Day," she read aloud, "There's no other name attached, only the words 'From a nigga who be watching.' Oooh," she grinned, "I wonder who it is that's been watching and do they know you're a married doctor? I smell drama."

"Oh there's no drama. Anyone who knows me knows I'm married and my man is crazy about me and in general. It's probably why they chose to keep their identity a secret," Hennessy flipped her hair before feeling the petals of a pink flower. Her eyes cut at Raven, dismissing her. In Hennessy's mind, they weren't that close for the young woman to be in her business like that. Besides, didn't she have work to do? Taking the hint, Raven sighed and returned to the store front.

Alone, Hennessy's radiant smile couldn't be tamed as she took pictures of her Valentine's Day flowers, making sure to get every single detail including the card. She was pressed and all kinds of gassed, rereading the card over and over and looking at the sloppy handwriting. Erik's handwriting was nice for the most part, so this definitely wasn't his work. Who was bold enough to attempt to woo her, knowing Erik was not the one to play? She had no clue. Trigga Trey was dead, who else was there?! Excited energy bubbled through her and she giggled, her feet dancing. She could imagine Erik's response to the flowers. If he were to find out she really had a secret admirer.. One this bold.. She shivered. It made her feel sneaky.

With her tongue out, she decided to be messy. She put the pictures up on her Instagram and even posed holding the flowers with a peace sign and a sweet grin. She had butterflies, feeling giddy.. Erik would be perturbed! All there was to do now was wait.

And wait.

And wait.

She was bored, her feet on her desk as she smoked a joint with no side effects, one of her favorite and most lucrative creations. Why wasn't Erik blowing her up right now?! Did he not see it? She checked the post again. She'd posted four pictures that she swiped through. 132 likes and not one of them Erik. Comments from Charlie, Bastion, Aly'Sha, and Angel highlighted, but none from Erik. His was the only response she cared about at the moment. She was so annoyed. She'd even posted a short live in her impatience, dancing with the flowers in her grasp and blowing kisses to her secret admirer, whoever it was. When the footage ended, she sat the phone down, returning to her pouting, her arms crossed over her chest. Checking her phone again, he'd clicked on it! No DM. No text. No nothing!

"Ughhhh!" She kicked at the air under her chair before dropping her head on her desk with an irritated whine.

"Dr. Chiron?" Raven spoke and Hennessy straightened herself immediately, smoothing her clothes and putting her professional shield back up. "You have another delivery.. this one's pretty big. Should I let them bring it in here?"

Hennessy stared, confused and interested, nodding her head. Raven waved to someone unseen and when they appeared, there was a large arrangement of white long stem roses. It looked like four dozen combined. Hennessy's jaw dropped as she rose from her seat reaching out to take them from the delivery man. "Toss them weak ass flowers," she read aloud, her chest contracting with a silent laugh. This one was from her husband, there was no question. As her face split in a grin, another three men appeared with equally large displays. One all red, one all pink. "These are almost bigger than mee," Hennessy squealed, bouncing with glee, her cheeks heating and turning rosy. She had the bouquets set up on her desk and they swallowed the flowers from her secret admirer. Those pathetic flowers were no longer visible, an afterthought. Three more mega bouquets came and she thought she'd drown in roses. They smelled fragrant and fresh and they were everywhere!

"Last bunch," Raven waved the men in and the last one stood in place, not moving to lay down the roses. Hennessy waited, wondering if he needed a minute before saying fuck his minute. She wanted her damn flowers! Walking to him, she pulled them from his hand with attitude.

"UM. THANK YOU, SIR- AHHHH!!!" She dropped the roses jumping into his arms excitedly, her lips pressing into his over and over as her legs wrapped around his waist.

"Yeahhh," his eyebrow raised smugly, "You was.. in here.. going crazy.. wasn't you.. I know," Erik mused between kisses as Hennessy attacked his mouth. "Nigga had to make a trip. Don't nobody outdo daddy." Hennessy snickered between her barrage of kisses and Erik gripped her ass tighter, squeezing it. "Why is your assistant in our faces right now," he whispered loudly, his eyes darting to Raven. "Get," he whispered and she flinched as if electrocuted, taking off. Hennessy and Erik were finally alone. "Who's this secret admirer," he murmured facing her, eyes low. Her lips were still attacking him.

"I don't know, they're secret," she replied not letting up. She sucked his neck as he carried her to her desk that was so full of roses, he couldn't sit her down. That was fine by her.

"What you do with that weak excuse for flowers?" He looked around. They weren't in the trashcan.

"Y'all buried them under all of my roses," she chuckled watching him burrow under hundreds of roses for the frail, in comparison, flowers.

"Hold onto me," he said letting go briefly to aggressively rip the multicolored flowers apart. Her snicker stuttered on his neck as he dropped the peices into the trash can before gripping her again to steady her. He picked up her phone handing it to her. "Put THAT on ya Instagram," he pointed to the trash and she did, also photographing the ridiculous amount of roses crowding her desk. Another quick live on IG showed her grinning, still flushed with joy in Erik's arms. "Send my wife flowers again and that's gone be ya ass," he grinned threateningly to the camera, his platinum fangs glinting beautifully. Hennessy kissed him on his cheek ending the video. "I don't like niggas sending you shit," he pouted.

"Awww, fathead," she pinched his cheek and he leaned into her hand, throwing her over the roses. "Geez," she wheezed, giggling as he kissed down her neck, pushing up her dress and pulling her panties to the side. She was in heaven, his tongue rolling and licking, doing tricks. His locks were braided back neatly so she gripped his shoulders and then the back of his head in ecstasy. "That feels good daddy, don't stop," she moaned watching his head move, the sounds of his tongue flicking loud in the air. She spread her legs further and Erik settled in between, diving with his tongue before sucking on her inner thighs and returning to suck her clit. He wanted her to cum and she gave him what he wanted.

By the time he left, she was on cloud nine. She sighed, her face still flushed with the dopiest grin that she could not control. It was totally worth sending herself those tacky cheap flowers.

@poosypoosy @bastioncarterstevens-udaku @hennessystevens-udaku @itsangeludaku @alyshastevens-udaku @itskimorafireudaku @allhailnjadaka @bidibidibombaclaat @blackpinup22 @destinio1 @hold-me-like-a-heart-beat @leahnicole1219 @vikkidc @thehomierobbstark @trevantesbrat

Based on this post:

*I didn't use a fruit arrangement so someone else can write it with one!