#posh bastards

[sekritjay]

Hades II's rendition of Apollo is hilariously familiar because to me he really does sound like that very specific kind of privately educated but middle-class twink from the south whose school could afford all the better kind of rugby equipment

[forgottenbones]

Non ricordo chi lo disse a proposito, ma io concordo con la tesi che, dopo la Brexit, non c'è più bisogno di partiti estremisti in Gran Bretagna, visto che i loro punti programmatici sono stati riassorbiti dal partito conservatore, che è tornato all'intolleranza che esibiva negli anni settanta.

[rochenn]

there are so many things wrong with him

[miodiodavinci]

the latest in a long line of D&D characters ! ! ! please meet outis, my archaic warforged paladin ! ! ! they were originally built to find patterns in chaos and help guide travelers through hazardous places where rules are few and far between, though a recent expedition gone awry seems to have put an end to its career

even still, they're still on a journey to some place far, far away, though no one seems to know where—least of all outis w

doodle of how we usually end up drawing them in the ms paint session notes below the cut w

[thelikesoffinn]

This sounds suspiciously familiar...

I wonder why.

[yesthefandomfreakblr]

Ripred is not above being a sugar baby but he'd be a really shitty one.

[jimmywilsonschutzpah]

Oh GODDAMMIT Julian Fellows!! Why do you love to kill off a romantic interest and to make your female characters suffer? You better fix this before the end of the season

[movietonight]

Since we're already talking about Charles this evening. One interesting thing I see a lot is people being like "I hated him for x amount of seasons/rewatches until I suddenly realised I didn't anymore" and I remember I definitely also needed to warm up to him. I am not saying this isn't valid or anything. But I am pretty sure this process was much quicker for me.

I think the way they introduced Charles is actually one of the reasons for this. Charles is the one character where we see the precise moment he gets told he's stuck in Korea now. Sure, BJ has this big welcome episode where he has to get used to the reality of Korea, and didn't want to be there either, and he very much didn't like it, but he had the time between being called up and arriving to process at least some of this.

Charles is stationed an entire country away from the war and gets told he only has to spend two days over there. He already has one near-death experience before reaching the camp, then immediately is confronted with the living and working conditions there. Of course he isn't trying to befriend anyone, he is only staying for two days. Yeah sure, he's meaner than he needs to be, I won't deny this, but he very much is operating under the assumption that he just has to get through two days of work before never seeing any of these people or this country ever again.

And then he gets told he's been permanently assigned to the 4077th. We don't see the moment any character gets drafted, but I feel like this is the closest equivalent to it. The entire time before this moment he is clinging to the thought that however unbearable things are, at least they're temporary. And these unbearable things? They better become bearable real quick because he's stuck there now. And does he have time to process this? No, because there's work to do. Apart from the inexcusable things (the racism, classism etc), I can understand why he is being Like That about the whole situation and his attempts to be transferred back to Tokyo. Don't you think Hawkeye probably was a little on the edge when he first learned he was going to Korea and when he first arrived there?

Wouldn't you be mad? Wouldn't you be lashing out? Wouldn't you want to leave again by any means necessary?

Because I was, and I did.

Of course, I was never in a war zone, thank god, but I have the rare and terrible privilege of knowing exactly what it feels like to just be thrown into an unbearable situation and be told to suck it up. Less than 24 hours after one of the most traumatic days in my life I was sitting in a new classroom at a new school being expected to just participate in class. The day it happened, I had to help in the kitchen make dinner for complete strangers. I had no contact to the outside world and for the first day I had none of my belongings except for the clothes I was wearing and the things I had in my school backpack. For the first week or so I considered running away.

All of this happened just before I started watching mash. The fact that they were all stuck in a horrible situation with no escape is one of the main reasons why I imprinted on this show like a lost duckling. And as insufferable as Charles can be, I could relate to at least some of it. Me loving classical music also helped though ngl.

[langsat-lamb]

Hugh Grant in Sirens (1994).

[emeraldbabygirl]

Watching this ‘Over Wyoming’ show or something and Wyoming seems like such a lovely state. The wide open spaces, grassy fields and mountains, the landscape in general just looks so calm and peaceful even the towns do. I would love to live more in the country side the city is not the place for me and rn where I live they are building more stupid housing developments and tearing up fields and such and it’s just not what it used to be and I would love to be in a place with just open sky and a wonderful view of nature and it seems so calm and beautiful. The city is overrated and so chaotic I’d never wanna live in a place like new york yuck, maybe Southern California?? Idk where it’s less busy. Even Montana and Minnesota seems like cute and neat states to live in. But man Wyoming sounds fabulous AND THE NARRATOR MAN WHEN SPEAKING ABOUT DEVIL’S TOWER WAS LIKE LAUGHING HIS ASS OFF WHEN HE SAID VISITORS SEE DEVIL’S TOWER AND FORGET ABOUT MOUNT RUSHMORE AND IT WAS THE JUDGEMENT IN THAT LAUGH THATS EVERYTHING.

Anyway I can just imagine rolling around in giant grassy fields and just looking up at the sky and just breathing in the fresh air I want that so bad. Man the feeling it open lands and just enjoying the feeling to grass and the wind and feeling free and watching the wild animals that sounds amazing 🥺

[yawnderu]

“What's the catch?” Simon asks eventually, tracing every single detail on the sleek band. He allows himself a few seconds to take in the smooth, cool platinum of the case, blown pupils focusing on the way the tiny hour markers catch the light with such an elegant precision.

“No catch, I promise. Just make sure to keep giving me the best steak in Manchester and maybe one day you'll wake up with a proper car outside your house, yeah?” The little wink you shoot his way doesn't go unnoticed, making the corners of his lips tilt up into a small smirk, the suspicion of your generosity fading at the expectant look you shoot his way.

“Y'bought me a bloody Rolex.” Simon's tone isn't questioning in the slightest, simply talking in pure disbelief despite being used to seeing you buy the most expensive, finest meat the store has available, sometimes going as far as to tell him snippets of the reasons you're buying so much meat— always a new case won, ready to celebrate with your friends.

“C'mon, mate, put it on already.” You press, perfectly manicured hands pushing his arm with such gentleness that it takes him an extra second to process. He's no stranger to your lavishness, keeping it to himself how he thought you were a proper posh bastard the first time you arrived to his store, the expensive fabric of your suit making you stand out from everyone else.

“Thank you.” The thought of rejecting your gift crossed his mind for a second, yet the way you're offering it to him with such kindness and sincerity touches his heart. Simon takes the watch out of the royal green box, carefully wrapping it around his tattooed wrist. He admires it with a thankful expression, knowing fully well that he couldn't possibly afford something so expensive if it weren't for you.

“'S'this how you posh bastards ask for free steak?” He teased, flinching away the moment you slap his arm, a sharp laugh escaping his lips when you don't deny his accusation.

[phoneycam]

(((((The brainrot 4))

"Whenever your soulmate says your name, you sneeze."

I think this could be really wholesome.

Like, The first months of war go by in The Negociator without much else happening beside, you know, the war, and some really needed plot bonding moments between General Kenobi and his men, getting them to slowly soften their hearts to this brilliant, altruistic, posh little jedi.

Commander Cody, in a jump of good fate, decides to be the first to entrust his general his most valuable possession, his name. The General, too moved by it, isn't capable of doing anything else than smile sincerely and thank him with all his heart for it. If Cody's heart skips a couple of beats because of it, it's no one's business.

And life goes on like that, between battles and small moments, with the only difference being that from time to time, the commmander would have random sneezes that he had never suffered before. They would be spaced long enough one from the other to not be an urgent thing to think about, so he never mentions it, plus he finds them rather embarrassing.

Then one day they are all rounded in front of a hologram, planning and strategising when Obi-Wan, unconsciuslly and for the first time, calls his commander name and not his title.

And Cody Sneezes.

And you know what? The thing is that, clones aren't really accustomed to sneezing since their superior genetics make colds a really rare thing. So when Cody sneezes, it's impossible to ignore. One, because despite the unconscious need to silence it, it still makes a sound, small and breathy and two, is due to the fact that Cody sneezes with his whole body. His head ducks, his shoulders rise impossibly high and he needs to shake his head afterwards, like if he's trying to restart his system.

Instant silence all around. Everyone to startled to speak and the general looking at him in awe while Cody just wants to be ejected into space and get hitted by a starfighter. Obi-Wan's interior little shit comes to light and he decides that he needs to prove inmediatelly his mental theory, and with some badly hidden excitment for a claimed negociator, he repeats Cody's name.

And Cody sneezes again. And chaos bursts all around.

Obi-Wan being the bastard that he is repeating his commanders name non-stop with delight, The troopers shouting in excitment and "collecting evidence" for later and Cody just looking like those cats sneezing videos.

[natalievoncatte]

Lena didn’t have time for traffic. She looked up from her phone and glared at the back of her driver’s head.

“Frank, why is it taking so long?”

“I’m not Frank, Ma’am. He called out this morning.”

Lena sighed. “And your name?”

“Vincent, ma’am.”

“Vincent, why is this taking so long?”

He signed. “Traffic, ma’am. Sounds like there’s a few blocks downtown closed. Supergirl is fighting some monster or alien or something.”

Lena stopped herself from smiling softly. “Ah, well then. Anyway, might as well see if you can find us a way around. I just don’t like to stand still.”

The driver nodded.

“What do you think about Supergirl, ma’am?”

Lena sighed. “Forgive me, Vincent, but I do have some work to concentrate on, here. I’m not usually one for chitchat. I hope you don’t mind.”

She sank back into her seat and flicked to the next email. There were a lot of fires to put out. Upcoming product launches, grant applications, university partnerships, charity events, plus her own work. She was becoming so strained lately that she was seriously considering stepping down from the direct CEO role so she could spend more time in the lab, where her real passion was.

Sometimes she almost sympathized with Lex; the life of a CEO could easily drive someone insane. Lena would rather spend her days in a labcoat or doing charity work than listening to another entitled silver spoon-

“You’re going the wrong way,” Lena said, sharply.

“I’m finding a way around,” said the driver. “You know, you never answered my question, before. What do you think of Supergirl?”

Lena stuffed her phone in her pocket and thrust her hand in her jacket, freeing the concealed revolver she carried in a shoulder holster under her left arm. The partition was already going up, sealing her in.

“What are you doing?”

“Answer my question,” the driver said, through a speaker.

Lena swallowed hard. “I think she’s a hero but I don’t fully trust her. I work with her when I feel it will help people. That’s all.”

“That’s not what your mother thinks.”

“Isn’t it?” said Lena. “What does she think?”

“Are you fucking her?”

Lena barked out a laugh. “Are you serious? That’s her question?”

“Are you fucking her like you debased yourself with that little tart in boarding school?”

There was silent beat.

“She told me to say that. She made me practice saying ‘tart’.”

He sounded almost bored.

“Fuck you,” Lena snapped. “Whatever you’re going to do, do it.”

“Nothing personal,” said the driver.

Lena sighed, almost annoyed at the hiss as a thin, chemical smelling gas hissed into the car, rising around her. She forced herself to stay calm, stoic, even her pulse raced.

“I’m not afraid of you, or her,” said Lena.

She coughed twice as the world irises shut around her, dragging her down into a cold, dreamless sleep.

When she snapped awake, she was alone. The partition was open, but the gun was gone from her holster. She felt around for it, then decided to clamber into the front seat, rolling over the seats facing her. The driver was gone, of course. Heavy chains were padlocked around the car, pinning the front doors shut.

There was a tape recorder sitting on the front seat. Lena ignored it as she looked around. The car was surrounded by metal walls, and a creep sense of dread rose up Lena’s spine. She fought the panic down, dropping into the driver’s seat.

Placing the tape deck on the dash, she pushed the okay button.

“Hello, Lena,” Lilian said, in her smooth, posh tones. Lena could hear that smarmy smirk forming around her words.

“You’re probably expecting an ultimatum or an offer. There will be none. I’m through trying to bring my husband’s wayward bastard back into the fold. When you betrayed Lex again, you burned your last chance. It’s time to take out the trash, Lena. I wish I could have throttled you in the cradle, but I didn’t know about you and your mother until it was too late. It’s time to correct that. It’s too bad we won’t be there to watch.”

Watch what?

Lena sat and waited. Whoever was sent to murder her had no sense of dramatic timing. She began rifling through the car, trying to take stock of what she had, what she could use to effect an escape. Breaking the-

A sharp shriek of metal cut through her thoughts. The side walls inched forward with a screech of metal, and Lena froze, terror piercing through her like an icy spike.

Oh.

Oh God.

The walls moved slightly more, and the rear view mirrors on both sides of the car exploded. The mechanism pushing the walls strained and groaned, and that was the only mercy she had.

She was in a car crusher. In the car.

The armored structure of her town car was too heavy for the machine to simply crush, but she had minutes at most. Metal groaned in protest, shrieking around her, and the glass quivered in the doors.

Oh God. Oh God.

She wasn’t going to panic. She wasn’t going to panic. She ripped open every single compartment and cubby she could find, but found only monogrammed glassware and a bottle of champagne. There was nothing.

A random, forgotten Lexosuit would be really useful right about now.

With a sudden shriek, the car began to collapse. The bulletproof glass buckled and shattered, pelting the front seat as she rolled into the back, and the doors buckled in, tearing loose from their hinges as the floor and roof began to fold.

A sudden, ringing, frankly stupid thought came into her head, but it was her best play.

Lena Luthor filled her lungs. She took in the biggest, deepest breath of her life, a breath worthy of a championship deep diver, and screamed at the top of her lungs, until it hurt.

“SUPERGIRL!”

She had to scramble into the back seat as the engine began pushing through the dashboard, ripping apart plastic and leather, splintering buried wood. Lena ducked as the roof crumpled and dove in, like the roof of a dragon’s mouth crushing down to pulp her. She closed her eyes and curled in on herself, hoping it would at least be over fast.

A single ringing thought bit through the fear.

Oh God. Kara’s waiting for me at the restaurant.

Around her metal shrieked, and she heard the vast clang of rending machinery. The inexorable crushing stopped, the bucking limousine going still. Lena opened her eyes, peering through her fingers like a terrified child, and watched in awe as one of the crushed plates tore loose from its moorings and went flying off into the afternoon air.

Hands, strangely delicate, punched through armor plating as if it were cobwebs and ripped the broken shell of Lena’s limo apart, spreading it in every direction.

Lena had never seen Supergirl so panicked. Her eyes were too wide with abject terror, and she seized Lena in her arms, winding her cape around her, and rocketed loose from the car.

Lena’s words were lost to the wind. Supergirl was blasting into the air, flying incredibly fast- too fast. Helpless, she clung to the hero for dear life, feeling woozy as the blood drained from her skull.

She thought, oh, come on, as she passed out again.

When her eyes drifted open, Lena was lying on the ground. Groaning, she sat up slowly, feeling every movement, and realized she’d been lying on a spread red blanket with her suit jacket piled up under her head for a pillow, and she was in the woods. The sun had yielded to the sky, and someone had started a roaring fire a few feet away.

Grateful for the warmth, Lena edged closer. As she did, she realized that she was sitting not on a blanket but on Supergirl’s cape.

Blinking, she looked around.

Supergirl had her back to a tree, curled up on herself with her head hanging between her knees, arms wrapped around to cover her face, and she was sobbing quietly. Lena stared, open-mouthed.

“Supergirl?” she breathed.

Supergirl didn’t respond. Lena rose to her feet, wobbling, and discarded her heels before walking across a bed of soft leaves. She crouched in front of the weeping Kryptonian, stunned when the other woman flinched.

“Supergirl?”

“Lena?”

Her voice was small and soft, all the bravado and righteous authority gone. She sounded strangely human.

“Are you okay?” she whispered.

“I think I am,” said Lena. “What about you? Are you hurt?��

“No,” she sniffed. “A Tauraxian hit me in the head with a greyhound bus. Tuesday afternoon at the office.”

Lena laughed softly, and sat down. “I’m sure. What just happened?”

Supergirl swallowed hard as she looked up. “I panicked. I saw what was happening and I lost control. I’m lucky I didn’t hurt you.”

Lena put a tentative hand in on her shoulder. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“More than you realize,” Supergirl sighed.

“I’m here,” said Lena.

She sat down. Supergirl looked away from her, staring I to the fire a few feet away. In starlight, with the firelight caressing her delicate features and sparkling in her blue eyes, it was impossible to miss how hauntingly beautiful she was… and how haunted herself. Supergirl looked older than her years, a deep sorrow in her eyes that Lena had never seen before.

“I’m claustrophobic,” Supergirl explained. “Not the kind of thing that you advertise.”

“We all have our fears. I have some of my own.”

Lena pushed down thoughts of a pale hand sliding beneath churning black water and shuddered.

With teary eyes, Supergirl looked at her.

“I can’t. I can’t have fears. I’m Supergirl. I have to be perfect, set an example, all that crap. I’m the perfect woman who came from the sky to do only good.”

The perfect woman, Lena thought, consuming the firelit beauty before her. No one would debate that.

Well, Lena would, maybe. There was someone more perfect, someone soft and kind with a devastating smile and laughing eyes tinged with strange sorrow. She hoped Kara wasn’t worrying about her.

It was funny how Lena always thought of Kara when Supergirl was around. Guilt, maybe. Foolish guilt; Kara was a far shore that Lena would never reach, even if she’d gladly sink in the attempt.

“Before I came to Earth, I drifted in the phantom zone in my pod. There were things outside. The pod was the size of a coffin, a tiny space to spend all that time. The phantoms would claw and slash at the canopy and the walls. I was awake for days hearing them trying to get in. Sometimes there were bigger things out there, wrapping arms around it and trying to crush their way in.”

Lena nodded. “That sounds beyond terrible. It’s okay for you to be scared after that.”

Supergirl nodded. “I can barely handle elevators sometimes.”

A jolt went through Lena, something familiar, like a word on the tip of her brain.

“I get scared when other people are enclosed, too,” said Supergirl. “When I saw something trying to crush you, I just lost it. It’s different when it’s you.”

Lena swallowed hard, trying to suppress the shiver that coursed through her body and made the small hairs on her arms stand on end.

“Back in high school, the other girls used to bully me,” said Supergirl. Once, they locked me in a closet in the locker room. I screamed and screamed until until someone let me out. Alex was furious, she…”

Supergirl went quiet, trailing off. Her eyes went wide and she jolted back.

Lena sat there for a second, unsure why…

Wait.

Alex?

High school? Supergirl went to high school?

With Alex? Alex Danvers?

Lena choked down a gasp, the wheels whirling in her head. She looked over and met Supergirl’s eyes, studying them. Her. The way the light played across her soft features, her honey hair, the little scar above her eye.

“Hi, Lena.”

“Hi, Kara,” Lena whispered.

Neither of them moved. Lena wondered briefly if Kara had ever planned to tell her, how she might have planned it. Probably not like this. Her throat bobbed.

Lena shifted closer, until they were hip to hip in a seated hug, Kara crying softly on Lena’s shoulder, powerful arms wrapped around her.

“I was scared,” said Lena. “I was afraid I was going to die and you’d be sitting at the table at the restaurant waiting for me.”

“Never,” said Kara. “I’ll always protect you.”

“And I’ll always protect you. Nobody is ever going to shove my Kara in a closet ever again.”

Kara let out a little gasp.

“Can we stay here for a while? Talk? Just you and me?”

Kara nodded. She stood and gathered up her cape as Lena moved close to the fire, and sat down, wrapping it around them both. Lena let her head fall on Kara’s shoulder.

“This makes a nice blanket.”

“It is a blanket. My cousin was swaddled in it when he came to Earth. Don’t worry, I washed it.”

Lena laughed softly, awkwardly trying to decide where to put her hands. She settled on being bold, and put her arm around Kara’s waist. Kara slipped her arms around her shoulder and pulled her in, and Lena hugged her back, tucking herself into Kara’s shoulder.

They sat for a while as the fire burned down low. It was full dark and the fire was nothing but coals.

“I was going to tell you. I wanted to.”

“I’m not mad.”

“Okay,” Kara sighed.

Lena swallowed hard, trying not to feel her blood rushing in her ears.

“You know,” she said. “You could kiss me right now, if you wanted. That seems like the kind of thing the hero does after saving the girl.”

“I could?” said Kara.

“You could.”

“Like this?”

Kara was trying to be smooth, and it made it hard for Lena not to giggle. She tipped Lena’s chin up with soft fingers and guided herself in, bringing their lips together. Kara kissed her softly, tentatively. Lena kissed her back just as softly, afraid this moment would shatter if she pressed too hard.

It was easy to shift herself into Kara’s lap, even before Kara lifted her there. Lena knew she was strong but not Kryptonian strong, and it it sent a thrill through her. She liked it.

She liked touching Kara, too. Liked feeling the bunching muscles flex under under hands, the softness of her hair, the way she gasped when she felt Lena’s lips on her throat.

“Never have I wished so badly for a tent and sleeping bags,” said Lena.

“And marshmallows to toast!” said Kara.

“Do you ever stop thinking about food?” Lena giggled.

Kara looked at her intently, and Lena shivered, not from the cold. She’d longed for Kara to see her like that, look at her like that.

“Sometimes,” Kara whispered. “Sometimes I think about other things.”

“We should probably go back,” said Lena. “We have people who are probably looking for us.”

Kara nodded.

“Do you want this to be… do you want us to be?”

“Kara,” said Lena, “I would have asked you out a year ago if I thought I had a chance. I thought you just wanted to be friends.”

Kara swallowed. “Are you saying you want to be my girlfriend?”

Lena smiled softly. “Yes.”

Kara rose and clasped her cape to her shoulders, then gently brought Lena to her feet and lifted her from the ground, holding her close.

“Not so fast this time, okay?”

“Okay,” said Kara, lifting them back into the sky.

[copper-16]

You Didn't Let Me Finish

Ingrid had a rule that she had held onto ever since she started working as a stripper: she doesn't sleep with clients.

Usually.

Ingrid doesn't usually sleep with clients. Exceptions must be made for most rules anyways though, right?

(a/n: Yes it's a stripper fic. I mean absolutely no disrespect to anyone, this is just a silly little idea I had in my head and decided to write on a whim. Feel free to skip if it's not your thing! Also I didn't proofread it, so ignore any mistake lmao)

Sometimes, Ingrid wasn’t exactly sure how she had ended up here. 

The Norwegian had done a semester abroad in Spain when she was in university, and found that she absolutely loved the city. So when the opportunity to move to Barcelona presented itself after graduation, she jumped at the chance to go. Her study abroad had been in Madrid, but it was still Spain, right? 

And the Norwegian actually preferred Barcelona to Madrid, the longer she lived here. She enjoyed the energy of the city, how posh and lively it was, how wonderfully kind the people were. The job she was offered was modest, and despite the fact that she got by, Ingrid wasn’t all that comfortable with living from paycheck to paycheck if she didn’t have to. 

Which was exactly how she had found herself at Dollhouse. It was the most exclusive strip club in Barcelona, catering only to those clients who could pay for the supreme services, and they only accepted the best when it came to their girls. 

The owner had taken one look at Ingrid, roving his eyes up and down the dark haired woman with interest before he was nodding, clearly pleased with what he was seeing. Her ability to speak both English and some Spanish came in handy, and she became a regular for many of the international clients. 

Ingrid was paid well, only worked three nights a week, and it helped her to nearly double her salary with the tips she was given. She gave lap dances, some pole work, did a few shows on the main stage, served customers when asked. It was an easy gig, and she couldn’t help but feel appreciated given the reaction that she could stir up in most men. It was addicting, really. She felt powerful and in control, her confidence only rising the longer she worked there. 

It wasn’t sex. People often got that mixed up, that being a stripper meant sex. It could mean sex, if that was what the girls wanted, but Ingrid had little interest in the older men who came into her rooms. She was as gay as they came, and it was very rare for them to receive a female client, and Ingrid had never had the pleasure of having one, not personally. 

But she wasn’t entirely opposed to the idea, if the right person came along. 

It’s just, nobody had. 

But perhaps that would change. 

—

It was a Sunday night, which meant that the Dollhouse was relatively calm. Ingrid was in the back room with a few of the other girls, getting ready for her show in around thirty minutes when Miguel came back. 

“Ingrid, Misa!” He called, and both women turned to look at him, one eyebrow raised. They stood, setting their makeup down to walk over to their boss, who was in charge of the scheduling. 

Miguel was gruff but kind, and he always made sure the girls were comfortable and not exploited. He could be a bit rough around the edges but he never failed to make the girls feel cared for as people and not just objects, and in return they did their best to make his life as painless as possible. It was a good gig, they all knew that, compared to the nasty bastards at some of the other places around town. 

“We have two clients in separate private rooms. Footballers, booked after winning something big I think, I want the two of you to take them,” Miguel explained, and he looked between Misa and Ingrid with a critical eye, clearly trying to decide who to send where. 

Despite the fact that Ingrid was Norwegian and Misa was Spanish, the two actually looked quite similar. Ingrid was paler, taller, and less tattooed than Misa was, but in terms of build and physical appearance, they were rather alike. 

“Misa, I want you in Room One and Ingrid in Room Two, Misa your Spanish is better than Ingrid’s. The girls will cover your sets for the night so don’t worry about that. They’ve booked for the rest of the night so make sure to give them their money's worth but you’re free to leave when you are done, alright?” Miguel decided, and Ingrid and Misa both nodded. 

“Oh and–”

“If they do anything creepy we will come find you,” Ingrid and Misa rattled off in perfect unison, and Miguel scowled at his predictability before he shooed them away to go get changed, the two women smiling at the action. 

Ingrid and Misa walked back to the changing room, each of them looking through the different lingerie sets they could wear. 

“What are you thinking?” Misa asked as she pulled out a purple lace set before shaking her head, shoving it back in her closet. 

“Well if they paid for the whole night then clearly they have money, probably want something expensive and distinguished. Footballers can be assholes and handsy, and they think too much with their dicks and not enough with their heads,” Ingrid scoffs lightly, and Misa snorts as she looks over at the dark haired woman’s closet. 

“Hmm…you’re going to wear this,” Misa decides, pulling out a hunter green piece of lace, and Ingrid raises her brow before nodding her agreement, looking over at the Spaniard’s closet. 

“And you’re going to do this, I’ve seen you in it before and your chest looks amazing in it,” Ingrid says with an air of finality, and Misa smirks at the outfit before they both went into their changing rooms to slip their clothes off and put the lace on. They don’t bother with robes, the hallway to the private rooms is secluded from the rest of the club anyways, so the two women make their way back together, chatting lightly about their day jobs, what their weeks look like. 

By the time they make it to Room One and Room Two, the women are both relaxed and ready to do their job. Neither of them really has any idea what lies beyond the door besides a footballer, so with one final goodbye they both enter the passcodes to the room before stepping in. 

Ingrid closes the door behind her before turning around, and she can’t help the way that her eyebrows jump in surprise when she sees who it is sitting at the table. 

The room is set up with a bed, a couch and two loveseats, as well as a table with four dining room chairs. Lap dances are usually given in the chairs at the table or the loveseats, but the rest of the room can be utilized however the girls may choose to. 

The thing that surprises Ingrid though, is the fact that the person sitting at the table is a woman, and not a man. 

The woman stands, the chair rustling against the floor as she pushes it back before she steps forward to examine Ingrid. Her gaze is curious but not sharp, her entire body language relaxed. She’s clearly a footballer, her body muscled and well built.  

She can’t be more than a few years older than Ingrid, and she’s just an inch or two shorter than her with light, sandy blonde hair that is straightened just past her shoulder. Her hazel eyes take Ingrid in, the light lace that covers her body, and she nods appreciatively for a moment before cocking her head. 

“Hello,” she offers, and Ingrid is quick to respond, the woman’s gaze making her feel a little bit hot. 

“Hi,” Ingrid responds, not entirely sure what to say. The woman was speaking to her in English, so clearly she recognized that the Norwegian was a foreigner, though she wasn’t exactly sure how she noticed that before she had even spoken. 

“Why did they send you in here to me?” The woman asked curiously, her hazel eyes still boring into Ingrid. The question is surprising, considering the fact that they were at a strip club. They sent her in here to do her job, but the Norwegian gets the sense that isn’t what this woman means, so she answers with more candor.  

“My coworkers' Spanish is better than mine. Presumably your friend only speaks Spanish, but you clearly can speak English well, so here I am,” Ingrid supposes, and the woman nods slowly before her lips quirk up in a smirk. 

“My friend can speak enough English for tonight, I promise. I think you should switch rooms…I insist actually. I think she’ll be quite charmed by…” the woman looks down at Ingrid once more before her gaze returns to the dark haired woman’s eyes, “...you.”   

Ingrid’s eyebrows raise in surprise before she nods in agreement, never one to say no to a client request unless it really was something she couldn’t do. 

“If that’s what you wish…” Ingrid trails off, still unsure of the woman’s name. 

“Alexia. And my friend's name in the other room is María,” she supplies, and Ingrid regards her for another minute before slipping out of the room, Alexia turning back to sit down in the chair she had been in originally. 

The Norwegian walks over to Room One briskly, rapping on the door three times before she steps back, waiting for Misa to come out. It only takes a few seconds for the Spaniard to slide out of the room, her eyebrows furrowed in clear confusion. 

“We need to switch, the other woman requested it,” Ingrid explains, and Misa nods for a second before she looks back at the room. 

“Can you believe it’s women? And god, if the second one is as hot as this one…” Misa trails off, practically drooling, and Ingrid can’t help but laugh lightly, because really she quite agrees. Misa is the only other gay woman at Dollhouse, and Ingrid finds solace in the fact that she isn’t alone, calmed by the Spaniards presence. 

“I don’t think you’ll be disappointed. Her name is Alexia,” Ingrid adds before the younger woman can leave, and Misa nods before she gestures back at the room next to them. 

“Names Mapi,” Misa supplies, and Ingrid’s eyebrows furrow at the fact she’s now been told two separate names for this woman. But honestly, if she was even half as attractive as the first woman, Ingrid was seriously going to be in trouble. 

The first woman, Alexia, hadn’t exactly been her type per say, but objectively she was very attractive. 

As Misa disappears down the hallway Ingrid takes a deep breath, trying to center herself and remain calm at what is about to occur. She knew what the deal was with men, how to dance and act. 

But women were different, Ingrid knew that even if she had never had a female client. They were more watchful, more appreciative, more in tune. 

And well, if this woman was as attractive as Misa was making her out to be, she might be in a bit of trouble. 

The green eyed woman punched in the code before she stepped into the room, once again shutting the door behind her. 

Ingrid turned around, taking in the room and the woman who was settled on one of the room's two armchairs. 

And god was Misa wrong. 

This woman wasn’t attractive. 

She was mind numbingly, astronomically stunning, and it takes everything in Ingrid not to let her jaw physically drop. 

The woman had her hair down in beach waves, lighter highlights against the brunette of her hair accenting the dark strands, framing dark eyes and supple, light pink lips that are set in a smirk. 

She’s wearing a button down that has far too many buttons undone, but it only serves to show off her cleavage, biceps straining against the tight black fabric. She has on gray dress pants, and she shifts her shirt sleeve up to glance at her watch before she stands, making her way over to Ingrid. 

“Hola princesa,” the woman greets softly, her voice raspy and deliciously low, and if Ingrid wasn’t wet at just the sight of her, she was now. 

If there was anyone who was going to break her rule of not sleeping with someone, it would be this woman. That was assuming she wanted to as well, but if the glint in her eyes was anywhere near as serious as it looked, Ingrid thought her chances might be relatively high. 

She scrambled to gather as much Spanish as she possibly could. It was a little pathetic that she wasn’t more fluent, but between this being her third language and the fact that her work was in English and most of her friends spoke the language, her Spanish could definitely use some work. 

“Hola,” Ingrid rushed to reply, internally cringing at how bad her accent was while understanding washed over the woman’s face, and she switched to a heavily Spanish accented English. 

“Ah, English, no?” The woman suggested, no malice in her tone, and Ingrid let out a small sigh before she nodded. 

“Si,” she acquiesced in a bit of a defeated tone, but the woman simply tipped her head back in a delicious laugh, something light and breathy, her neck on full display. She had a tattoo on it, and Ingrid could see more ink peaking back at her on the woman’s available skin. 

It did absolutely nothing to help the green eyed woman’s aching core, but she ignored it in favor of returning to the problem at hand, to the fact that she needed to get on with the performance for this woman. 

“Sit?” Ingrid asked gently, gesturing to the table and chairs that surrounded it, walking over to pull one of them out. 

The woman made no move to walk over, seemingly not done with the conversation. 

“I’m Mapi,” she said instead, and Ingrid raised her brow at the woman, clearly a little curious. 

“I’ve been told by a confident source that your name is María,” Ingrid sidesteps the introduction to ask the question, watching the way that the woman’s eyes darkened with lust when she says her name. 

“Have you now?” Mapi drawls, the surprise clear in her face. The smirk is back, and she finally begins to walk toward the table, but before she sits she stands in front of Ingrid, still only looking her in the eyes. 

The Norwegian keeps waiting for her to drop her eyes down, to look over the lace that could hardly be described as modest, but the smaller woman seems hell bent on keeping her eyes trained on Ingrid’s. 

“And you are?” She asks lightly, the dark haired woman answering her question quickly and easily. 

“My name is Ingrid,” she murmurs, once again gesturing at the chair, and this time Mapi takes her up on her offer. The Spaniard sits down before she looks up at the Norwegian, who strolls over to turn the music on. 

“Any requests?” Ingrid questioned, looking back at Mapi to find the woman staring at her with hooded eyes and a hungry gaze. She shakes her head, finding no offers. 

“Whatever you prefer,” Mapi decides, and Ingrid observes the woman for a moment before nodding, turning back to the speaker system. She sets up her playlist, playing the song TiO by Zayn, which had been a recent favorite of hers. 

The song is a bit of a quicker pace, which she liked to start out with. It was easy to flash the quick movements before she let things get sensual, and her approach for this woman is absolutely no different. 

She turns back toward the table, walking over in long strides before she comes to rest in front of Mapi, her ass pressed back into the table behind her. 

“Can I touch you?” Ingrid asks in a low voice, tossing her thick, dark hair over one shoulder. Mapi looks up at her with an unreadable expression, holding eye contact before she nodded carefully. 

The Norwegian stood from the table, stepping forward. She turned, rounding the chair that Mapi was currently settled in, just watching. The brunette didn’t look back at her, but did meet her eyes when Ingrid finally circled all the way back to the front of the chair. 

It’s at this point that Ingrid brings her hand up, resting it over the Spaniard’s collarbone carefully. She slides her hand up, coming into contact with bare skin as she pushes her middle finger inside the cuff of the woman’s popped shirt. 

The dark haired woman plays with the collar for a moment before she begins moving once again. She drags her fingers around to Mapi’s back, stopping when she is standing in front of the Spaniard’s back, pressing both of her palms to the brunette’s back, fingers down. She slowly runs her hands down, into the small of the footballers back, before she shifts, moving them to caress her sides gently. 

She’s gone as soon as she arrived, however, continuing around the chair. Her hands travel over the Spaniard’s arm, down her side and around the underside of her chest before she splays it over the top of the brunette's abdomen. 

The muscle beneath her palm is rock hard, and she cannot help but let out a harsh breath at the feeling. She hopes that the footballer doesn’t notice, but when she looks up to see that Mapi is smirking back at her, she considers the effort fruitless. 

Ingrid’s hands retract from the Spaniard’s skin, and she shifts so that she can move her hips down and into the brunette’s lap, her back to Mapi’s front. It’s a bold first move, but she’s quick, in time with the song for just a tease before she’s gone, several steps away. 

Mapi is watching her with eagle eyes as Ingrid runs her hands up her own sides, squeezing at her own chest, letting her eyes flutter shut at the feeling for emphasis. It’s a little pornographic, and perhaps a little bit of a sell out, but she doesn’t care. 

The Norwegian makes sure to spend several moments just watching, teasing herself in whatever way possible, reveling in the way that the Spaniards eyes darken at the sight. Her nipples strain against the lace, hard and begging to be freed, but the dark haired woman ignores them in favor of returning to the footballer. 

The song changes to Lose Control by Teddy Swims, something more slow and sensual. Ingrid stalks back to the brunette, her intent clear when she places her hands on the woman’s knees, sliding them up her thighs before squeezing, lightly. 

The Norwegian moves her hands up the Spaniard’s side as she settles in her lap, her knees spread wide as she presses forward into the brunette’s personal space. She moves her hips slowly in an infinity pattern, sensual and enough to drive any man crazy. 

And yet still, Mapi has yet to touch her. Her arms remain listless at her sides, rather awkwardly. It’s a staunch change from the male clients she has often, who feel that they are allowed to touch, to take as much as they want. They consider the fact that Ingrid has been paid for, that they are allowed to do whatever they want to her, within reason. 

This doesn’t seem to be the case for this woman, however, and it only turns Ingrid on more. She leans forward even further, placing one hand on the woman’s shoulder while the other remains firmly planted on her side. Her lips are on the shell of the woman’s ear as she speaks, her voice low. 

“You can touch…you know,” the Norwegian drawls, her words breathy and filled with lust. She leaned back to look the footballer in the eyes, noting that her gaze was dark, the way her tongue flicked out to wet her lips. 

They held the others' gaze for a moment, neither moving until finally, finally Ingrid felt two hands carefully, respectfully placing themselves on her side, down toward her lower back. 

It was the Norwegian who moved them, removing her hands from the Spaniard to place hers over the brunette’s, sliding them lower, lower, lower, until they were resting firmly on her ass. Only then did Ingrid remove her own hands, planting them on the back of the chair as she rolled her hips down into the brunette. 

Mapi was staring at her intently, and she gently palmed at the Norwegian’s ass to test, rewarded greatly for her efforts when Ingrid arched into her, letting out a breathy noise. 

The dark haired woman’s body could only be described as fluid as she moved above the Spaniard, finally moving her leg to hook over the back of the chair, wrapping around the brunette’s back. 

Mapi slid her hands up, pulling Ingrid’s body more flush with hers. The Norwegian smiled, their faces just centimeters from one another. The Spaniard’s breath on hers was hot and insistent, her eyes roving over Ingrid’s face, finally eyeing the lace that covered the dark haired woman’s body. 

“You like it?” Ingrid purred, a smile evident in her voice as she gripped Mapi’s shoulders. The Spaniard scoffed lightly, looking back up at Ingrid. 

“You could say that,” the brunette hummed, her voice thick and low. It sent a shot of heat straight to the Norwegian’s core, and she arched even further into the smaller woman. 

Ingrid turned her head, brushing her nose against the Spanaird’s temple, her breathing shallow. 

“I don’t sleep with clients,” the Norwegian explained, and felt the shift immediately from the woman beneath her, the instant reaction to move away.

Ingrid had to give the footballer that, she was nothing if not respectful. It only made the Norwegian want her more, only made her flush further at the thought. 

It was her choice. 

Ingrid intercepts her hands, shoving them back down onto her ass before she brought her own to the brunette’s neck, pulling her in. 

“You didn’t let me finish,” the dark haired woman pouted, her lower lip jutting out slightly. Mapi reached forward, running her thumb over Ingrid’s lip slowly, softly. 

“Lo siento, princesa,” Mapi soothed, her expression willing Ingrid to continue. The Norwegian smiled gently, leaning down so that her lips hovered over the Spaniard’s throat. 

“I don’t sleep with clients, not unless I want to,” Ingrid continued, her hot breath leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake. Her fingertips trail up Mapi’s side, running over ridges of muscles and soft skin, dipping under her shirt before they retracted. Never direct, always teasing. 

“And trust me, I want to,” the Norwegian promised as she brought her face back to level with Mapi’s, her eyebrow quirked, almost daring the Spaniard to disagree. 

But the brunette would never do that, especially not when she has the most gorgeous woman she had ever laid eyes on sitting in her lap. 

They are left staring at one another for a few moments, their eyes flickering back and forth between the others eyes and lips, waiting to see who breaks first. A game of wills, a question of who is going to hold the power. 

It’s the Spaniard who snaps first, lunging forward to capture Ingrid’s lips in her own. She’s impatient, unable to resist having Ingrid in front of her looking so delectable, without doing anything about it. 

Mapi’s mouth is hot and insistent on her own, the brunette’s hands coming up to cradle Ingrid’s face as she kisses her senseless. 

It’s only a few moments later that the Spaniard presses her tongue into the Norwegian’s mouth, silently asking for entrance. The dark haired woman allows her access instantly, completely floored at the feeling of Mapi’s mouth on her own. 

The footballer swipes her tongue over the roof of Ingrid’s mouth, smiling into the kiss at the whine that slips past Ingrid’s lips at the feeling. 

The Norwegian’s head is dizzy, completely and utterly overwhelmed with the feeling of the Spaniard, of her hands being everywhere, of the press of her lips to Ingrid’s. It feels as though life is being breathed back into her, transformed into a fire that is sent straight to her core. 

She knows that she’s soaked the lace beneath her completely, but she can’t bring herself to care. Especially not when Mapi leans back, gesturing for her to stand. Ingrid is quick to comply, not bothering to try to make herself seem as cocky as she was pretending earlier. 

It’s been a long time since she’s been fucked properly, and something in this woman’s eyes tells her that the Spaniard is exactly what she needs. 

“Get on the bed,” Mapi instructs, and Ingrid is quick to comply, walking with purpose before laying back on the bed, sitting with her head up near the pillows, still clad only in her lace. 

The Spaniard stands from her spot on the chair, flipping the lock on her watch open as she sets it on the table in front of her. She pulled her shirt up from its spot having been tucked into her pants, looking over at the Norwegian as she undid the last few buttons. 

She laid the shirt down on the table, the picture of control and composure. The loss of the garment leaves her in only a black bra, which contrasts against the tan of her skin. She loses the belt she had on but elects to keep her pants on, instead moving toward the bed. 

Throughout this, the footballer had never let her eyes leave contact with Ingrid, not wanting to let the Norwegian out of her sight, even for a second. 

Ingrid lays back as Mapi joins her on the bed, crawling up the Norwegian’s body until she was positioned over the taller woman’s body, where she had wanted to be from the beginning. 

“You tell me to stop the minute you do not like something, si?” Mapi asked, her voice clear and leaving no room for argument. The Spaniard had no interest in making Ingrid do anything she did not want to. 

“Si,” the Norwegian parroted, squirming just slightly under the Spaniard, desperate for her to do something. 

Once she has confirmed Ingrid’s answer, the Spaniard is quick to begin her descent down the woman’s body. She captures the dark haired woman’s lips in a bruising kiss, applying just the right amount of pressure and tongue to have Ingrid gasping for more. 

She releases the Norwegian’s perfect, plump lips only in favor of working her mouth across Ingrid’s jaw, sucking and nipping lightly at the skin there. When she reaches the dark haired woman’s ear, she works her lips down and over the column of Ingrid’s throat. She pays close attention to the areas that make the taller woman let out a heavier breath, or the ghost of a whine, doubling down on her attention to those spots. 

She kisses over soft, pale skin, and down toward the soft flesh of her chest. Ingrid is arching into her before she even reaches her destination, desperate for more. 

“Can I–” Mapi removes her lips only to start a sentence that is never finished. 

“Yes, please, do anything to me,” Ingrid gasped, her entire body on fire at the thought of Mapi’s mouth over her chest, at the apex of her thighs. A flush is blooming on her chest as the Spaniard pulls the lace down, revealing Ingrid’s chest. 

Her nipples are peaked, aching to be touched and played with. The footballer doesn’t even bother with using her fingers first, simply leaning down to wrap her mouth around one of Ingrid’s nipples, her hand coming to cover the other. 

“Aye, María,” Ingrid hisses at the feeling, her whole back leaving the bed as she arches into Mapi’s mouth. Her hand has flown to the Spaniard’s head, her fingers tangling in the brunette’s hair and tugging lightly. 

Mapi doubles her attention at the feeling, swirling the tip of her nipple around her tongue, teasing her teeth over the sensitive area. Ingrid ate every lap of attention up, basking in it. She couldn’t remember the last time someone had made her feel so much, and it was turning her on in a way that was borderline painful. 

“Please, more,” the Norwegian begged once attention had been laved to both sides of her chest, and Mapi released her other nipple with a lewd pop sound. The footballer raised a brow at her, but Ingrid shook her head, her breaths shallow and desperate. 

The stripper is well aware of the irony, given her profession. She’s the one who is supposed to be pleasuring, not the other way around. But there was something about the way this woman composed herself, something about the reverence with which she touched the Norwegian that made her comfortable.

Mapi considers the request for a moment before she relents, pulling further at the lace, signaling that she wanted it off. The dark haired woman is quick to comply with her request, removing the hunter green fabric before she threw it to the ground, already forgotten. 

Ingrid lay back down on the bed, her hair splaying out against the pillow. The Spaniard watched her with hungry eyes, her lips turning up into a smirk. 

“So beautiful,” she murmured softly, her words filled with clear appreciation. “Espléndida, princesa,” Mapi whispered as she returned to Ingrid, softly holding the Norwegian’s face in her hands. Her lips were gentle against the taller woman this time, leaving the Norwegian with the feeling that she was delicate, and deserved to be treated as such. 

Oh, and what a different feeling it was to be touched by the Spaniard, as opposed to the heavy handed men she usually interacted with. 

To be touched and praised as though she was the most important thing in the world. No drug could compare, not to her anyways. 

Even as she trails down the Norwegian’s body, Mapi stops to press kisses into her skin, imbuing the fire of their interaction with a level of sweetness and ingenuity Ingrid had not been expecting. 

But nothing, absolutely nothing, could have prepared the Norwegian for what the first run of the Spaniard’s tongue through her would feel like. 

She is unsure of where her voice ends and Mapi’s begins, but all she knows is that two moans are filling the room, both equally desperate. Ingrid clutched at the sheets desperately, her hands fisting the pristine white fabric beneath them as Mapi ran her tongue through her again. 

The Spaniard eats her out as though it will save her, with an intent and passion that Ingrid cannot remember ever having in the bedroom. She brings her tongue up to circle the Norwegian’s clit several times, and every time a new wave of pleasure washes over her. 

“You taste perfect,” Mapi mumbles against her heat, and Ingrid flushes completely at the praise, struggling to compose her own pleasure. She attempts to bring her hand up to cover her own mouth, something that Mapi notices instantly. 

“Aye, I want to hear you,” the Spaniard chides softly when she sees what Ingrid is doing, and the dark haired woman lets out a filthy moan as she removes her hand, at the feeling of Mapi’s finger teasing at her entrance. 

“Is this okay?” The footballer confirms, waiting for the fervent head nod that she receives from Ingrid before she finally dips her finger in at a painfully slow rate, before curling gently. 

Ingrid is writhing under her, letting a string of mewls and moans that tumble from her lips of their own accord. She doesn’t care that she had no idea if anyone can hear them, only focused on her own pleasure and the feeling of the brunette’s body near her own. 

“Si, si, si,” Ingrid begs, moaning unabashedly when Mapi adds a second finger, curling with more purpose this time. 

The footballer could admit, her plan had been to tease more than this. She was a playful woman, and enjoyed picking her partners apart before allowing them to come, usually. 

Something about this Norwegian, the flush in her chest and the noises slipping past her lips, has Mapi throwing her entire playbook out the window.

She’s more than happy to continue this, so long as Ingrid continues making those noises. 

“You like that, princesa?” Mapi asks, her voice hoarse with arousal. Ingrid nods tightly, her chest arching up as the Spaniard curls her fingers deep within her. 

The set of her jaw, the way it opened with pleasure left Mapi flooded with the need to please, so the Spaniard lowered her mouth down to Ingrid’s clit, sucking lightly. The dark haired woman cries out, her hips rutting down into Mapi as the footballer continued her brutal pace. 

“Fuck!” Ingrid wailed, her voice dripping with need as she hurtled toward orgasm. Her hips grew erratic, jumping into Mapi’s hand as her whole body squirmed. The brunette could tell that the dark haired woman was close, doubling down on her pace and intensity, intent on getting her there. 

It only took a few more curls of Mapi’s fingers from deep within the Norwegian for the taller woman to let out a sharp cry, her whole body tightening. The Spaniard couldn’t help but smirk against the dark haired woman’s core as her whole body began to shudder, her orgasm working through her like a forest fire. 

Her whole body was arched off the bed, the sheets gripped in her fists as Mapi worked her through her orgasm, her entire body shaking. She collapses against the sheets, her breath coming in quick gasps as waves of pleasure flooded her system, her eyes still screwed shut. 

It took her a few moments, but she forced her eyes open when Mapi removed her fingers from Ingrid. The green eyed woman looked up at the Spaniard, who had sat back on her heels, her own breath short and lustful. 

The brunette reached her finger up to her own face, brushing some of the arousal away from her lips with the pad of her thumb as Ingrid looked up at her. The Norwegian’s dark hair was a sharp contrast to the pillow, the flush of her chest and stomach the complete antithesis to her pale skin. 

Mapi would never see a sight prettier than this under her again, she knew that for certain. Ingrid turned her head, glancing over at the clock and realizing with a rush that they still had several hours before either of them had to go anywhere. 

When the Norwegian looks back up at the Spaniard, it’s with a smirk on her lips, one eyebrow raised, almost as though she was challenging the brunette. 

“Fuck, princesa,” Mapi swore before surging forward to claim Ingrid’s lips once more, pressing her back into the bed. 

Ingrid let herself moan out, half at the feeling of Mapi’s body above her own, and half of the self satisfied feeling of knowing that it was going to be hard to walk tomorrow. 

So yeah…maybe some rules are worth being broken every once in a while. 

[mcumorningstar]

A Rose By Any Other Name || Part Three

part one part two

series pairing: tommy shelby x reader, hints of john shelby x reader, hints of tommy x lizzie

warnings: 18+ minors dni, implied rape (the aftermath so no detail), mild violence, typical peaky blinders content

summary: After a change of plans, you find yourself wondering why Tommy invited you to the Epsom Derby at all.

author’s note: I wanted to include the Shelby’s gypsy roots (however brief) but I do apologise for any inaccuracies. I have started a taglist for this series so let me know if you want to be kept updated :)

Tommy banged on your door late on Friday. At first, you worried you slept in but it was still dark outside. Slightly drunk, he walked through the threshold without an invite and leaned against the wall in the kitchen.

“I’ve got business in London,” Tommy’s deep voice rumbled in the dark of your house, “You’re to get the train to Epsom with Polly tomorrow at 9.”

“Polly?!” Your eyes widened and Tommy whispered, “Easy, ey, she can smell fear.”

An amused scoff escaped your lips. Tommy Shelby just made a joke. The pleasant rumble of his laughter softened your nerves. Tommy may be the devil by reputation but the man stood in your kitchen was... different.

“What’s in London?” It was a risk to ask but he was in a mood you’ve never seen before. There was a playfulness to his usual self.

“Arthur. Arthur is in London. May I smoke?”

You nodded and he lit a cigarette. Eyes trained to his every move, he was a vision in your humble living space as smoke fell from his lips.

“I’ll come find you tomorrow,” He pointed at you with his cigarette between two fingers and licked his lips, “You owe me a drink, remember?”

Failing to conceal a smirk, you raised your eyebrows at him and he turned to go, the shadow of a smile on his lips. You haven’t even fucked him and you were starting to understand Lizzie’s infatuation with him. He was unlike any man you’ve ever met.

The Epsom Derby was a magnificent spectacle; people with more money than sense flocked in the masses to the grand occasion. Everyone was in the best clothes, ready to indulge in a long day of drinking, dancing and gambling.

Alongside you, Polly strutted around the place as if she was King George himself and you meekly followed, taking in the extravagant sites.

“Chin up,” Polly grinned around her cigarette as you walked through the Derby, “Don’t let these bastards think they’re better than you. You’re a Blinder today.”

Lost for words, you accepted that fate and wondered if Tommy told her why you were there. From her statement, he must need you for a business dealing but that still didn’t make sense.

Why would he require your amateur assistance on one of the most important days of his career?

Stopping by a white fence, Polly scoped the area. Racehorses were displayed on the other side of the fence, trotting by with their trainers holding the reins.

Among the crowd, you spotted Tommy as he rushed down a set of steps with a blond woman in white and pink. A risky colour to wear in a field. Was that May Carlton, the posh horse trainer Lizzie told you about?

“Are you going to lay a bet, y/n?” Polly asked cheerfully, although her eyes scanned the crowds in search of something, or someone.

“I’ve never gambled before,” You realised, making Polly laugh, “But why not start at the most prestigious gambling event in England?”

She smirked at that and looked over at you, “I see why he likes you.”

An inaudible sound fell from your mouth as you struggled with what to say. What did she mean by that?

“Oh there’s Lizzie and Jeremiah,” Polly pointed to the pair as they walked through the crowd.

Panic rose in your chest, pulling at your lungs until a sharp gasp fought the taut struggle for air. Polly turned to look at you, sizing you up.

“Lizzie doesn’t know I’m here.”

Polly rose her eyebrows at that, amused by how boringly ridiculous it was.

Sighing you looked over to Lizzie, “She can’t know Tommy invited me. I don’t why he did and I can’t have her thinking there’s something going on. And I could hardly say no to the devil himself.”

“I think this is the most women my nephew has ever juggled at once,” Polly sounded a little impressed, “He has his father’s devilment. Lizzie’s a fool if she hasn’t realised it yet.”

Taking a deep breath, you nodded and listened to her. Tommy looked around fruitlessly before heading up the stairs with Lizzie a few steps behind.

Jeremiah disappeared into the crowd again before Polly called his name. The man approached with a warm smile.

“Jeremiah, this is y/n. I’ve some business to attend to so would you be kind enough to accompany her? You can look away when she lays her bet,” Polly addressed him but kept a comforting hand against your shoulder.

“Right this way,” Jeremiah smiled, gesturing through the crowd. Polly squeezed your arm and disappeared in the opposite direction. Jeremiah was a preacher, a friendly one at that, and so your nerves were at ease as you walked to your seats.

The race started and finished before you saw anybody else. Police officers left their posts and swarmed like flies on shit.

Now things started to make sense. The Blinders were burning other bookies’ gambling licenses, eliminating the competition. More money and business for the Shelby’s.

Bypassing the hysteria of the police and the indifference of the toffs, you made your way to the bar.

The blonde woman in pink and white stood by the bar in a heated conversation with a woman in red. Are these the women Polly joked were being juggled?

Abort, abort!

As the bar was off-limits, you redirected yourself to find John or Arthur. Surely they’ll know where the man who invited you was.

Sitting at a rickety table was the two Shelby brothers and Lizzie. Her glassy eyes caught you before you saw her.

“Y/n?” Her voice was weak and her hair fell in front of her face. A cigarette hung from her fingers, hands shaking as she held it to her lips.

Arthur’s thunderous voice, fuelled by the cocaine he was lining up, overpowered Lizzie’s meekness.

“What you doing here?”

Fuck it. Lizzie’s seen you now.

“Ask your brother,” You took a seat, “Fuck knows why, haven’t seen him all day.”

Lizzie glanced across the table at you, her head hung low but her eyes now fixed on you. A croaky gasp caught in her throat and a wave of sobs spilled from her.

“Lizzie?” You dragged your chair beside her and rubbed her back, “Lizzie, what’s happened?”

Sitting closer, you could see a bruise was forming on her cheek and a bloody scrape stretched across her forehead.

John leaned over your shoulder, the warmth of his chest against your back, “She was working. Caught a nasty toff. We’ll get her home safe.”

His face was so close to yours as your head snapped towards him in shock. Genuine sympathy was in his eyes and a soft smile graced his lips.

“But-“ You began before Lizzie cut you off, her voice thick with tears, “It’s fine.”

Your brows pulled together as you watched her wipe her wet cheeks. Lizzie didn’t whore anymore. Her only exception was Tommy.

“Is he here?” You turned to John, who shrugged with a mouth full of whiskey. Sighing and silently seething, you helped Lizzie to her feet, “Let’s get you home.”

As if she was in a daze, she complied and she didn’t speak another word for the rest of the day.

Once John and Arthur dropped you off at home, Thelma helped you get Lizzie to bed. Her wide eyed stare bore into you, “What happened, y/n?”

But you didn’t have time to explain. Lizzie was in safe hands and you had a man to find. From the limited time you’ve known Thomas Shelby, he was entirely focused on business and, after an event like the Epsom Derby, you knew exactly where he’d be.

Dusk had long settled and the danger of Small Heath loomed over you but it wasn’t long before you stormed into Shelby Company Ltd.

The double doors to Tommy’s office were wide open, as he and Michael toasted a whiskey. In a fit of rage, you marched right towards him.

“Y/n?” Michael asked, his eyebrows pinched together as he looked between you and Tommy. Your eyes didn’t waver from Tommy, grabbing the lapels of his coat and shoving him against his desk. His glass tumbler fell from his hand and hit the wooden floor with a thud.

The open palm of your right hand met his cheek, clipping at his ear too. So swift and firm that his head shot to the side.

Shaking him, you demanded, “What did you do?! She can barely fucking speak!”

You slapped him again and shoved at his chest. It was nothing compared to his past pains, you knew that, but you didn’t care. Tommy grabbed your wrists and you were powerless to stop him. He simply held you there as you struggled in his grip.

Michael put his glass down and approached you with his hands in front of him, like he was trying to calm an angry bear.

“Y/n-“ Michael started but Tommy spoke, keeping his eyes on yours, “Leave us.”

Michael nodded and hesitantly left you alone. You stopped struggling, almost collapsing into Tommy’s chest at the exhaustion of the past few hours.

“Is that why you invited me?”

It was out there now. A question you didn’t know if you wanted to know the answer to.

“It wasn’t supposed to happen like that,” He screwed his eyes shut and met yours again, “The path was blocked off for the King. I got there as soon as I could.”

He was telling the truth. Genuine remorse.

“Is that why you invited me?” You repeated with a sign, resigned to your fate.

Tommy let go of your wrists and wrapped his arms around your waist. As soon as his hands landed on your back, you shoved them off and stepped back.

“You,” You spluttered at his nerve, “You seriously think that’s appropriate for this conversation? I’m not going to be another woman on the roster.”

“Ey?”

“The woman in pink and white? Was that May or was that another woman at your beck and call? Lizzie’s on there too but rule me out,” The finality of your statement crumbled slightly as you caught his eyes.

Tommy cleared his throat and, when you crossed your arms over your chest, he sighed and said, “I dreamt of a deer, walking along Garrison Lane. The next night I met you.”

“I don’t..?”

“Polly says a deer in a dream is a good omen. That gentleness and innocence will cross your path.”

“Are you suggesting the deer meant me?” Your jaw was slack as you tried to grasp what he was saying. Tommy tilted his head to one side in a non-committal display of likelihood.

“But I’m a whore and I slammed a door in your face.”

“Polly is rarely wrong.”

Tommy reached for you and pulled you closer once again. You weren’t touching but you could feel the warmth emanating from him. Calloused hands cupped your face and blue eyes held you hostage in his gaze.

“It wasn’t supposed to happen like that and you were never going to be involved.”

Foolish as it may be, you believed him.

Dried blood spread across his temple caught your attention, “You’re bleeding Tommy.”

He brushed it off as your fingers delicately held his face to inspect the cut. It wasn’t deep but you kept your eyes trained to it as you spoke again.

“Why did you invite me?” Another bold question you were scared of knowing the answer to. A man like Tommy Shelby wasn’t accustomed to being questioned.

“You’re my good omen. We took Epsom,” A soft smile graced his lips, his thumb stroking over your cheekbone, making you meet his dizzying stare.

You were speechless. The Shelby’s are a gypsy family so his superstitions made sense, but is he sweet on you because of the dream or is this rooted entirely in his superstition?

Rendered a fool by his bright eyes and soft touch, you asked, “Who were the other women?”

Tommy pursed his lips, “Nobody worth your time.”

“If I’m gonna be your good omen, I need to know the truth,” You said softly, resting your hands on his stomach. Tommy fought a smile, wrapping his large hands around your biceps.

“May trains my horse. She deserves better than me,” Tommy’s voice rumbled lowly between you, “The woman in white and pink, is Grace. She’s married, sailing back to New York with her rich husband.”

There was resentment behind his words. Interesting that she returned to him now that he’s rich.

“She said she loves me, not him.”

Standing there in his office, between his legs as he sits on the edge of his desk, you wondered how many others had been in this position. How many women were weak to Tommy Shelby?

“So why is she sailing away?” Your fingers idly fiddled with the buttons of his waistcoat.

“Because I told her to,” Tommy was no longer touching you, his hands busy lighting a cigarette.

“You don’t love her?”

Tommy gave a short laugh at that, “She’s of the past. I do not concern myself with matters of the past.”

“Maybe if she’d been in your dreams..” You teased, hoping his guard was lowered around you. Tommy laughed, his blue eyes glistening, and pulled you closer, “You may be my good omen but don’t push it.”

His strong arms wrapped around your waist, securing you in place. A tension lingered in the silence between you and Tommy’s gaze drifted to your lips.

You were here to punish him, to hurt him for hurting Lizzie. Poor Lizzie… and you were here, a devilish smile and a compliment away from letting Tommy Shelby kiss you. What were you thinking?

Breaking you out of your stupor, you blurted, “I should go.”

Like Icarus and the sun, your resolve began to melt away. Tommy rose to his feet, your bodies now pressed against each other.

“I’ll drive you,” Was all he said.

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@sherbitdibdab

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You're not wrong but don't mean it's right ( Billy Butcher x reader)

summary : He didn't know it could happen not since becca died he never thought his heart could beat for another but instead of letting his heart win , he does everything in his power to push the woman away til he goes too far.

warning : billy well a cunt but a cunt with feelings even if he is a dick about it . triggering , angst , feels , pining ,self sabotage .

This wasn’t supposed to happen , it shouldn’t be even in the realm of possibilities of what should happen .  He’d watch as she moved from each one of the group now here he was watching as she crouched in front of Hughie . those gentle hands that cleaned up the kids cuts and scratches from their latest encounter with a some supe cunt . He watched over  the feather light touches , he secretly looked forward to that soft skin of  her  or the soft glances no matter how harsh he would be. Sometimes she  would shoot him a witty retort back made him want to laugh but he held it in .  maybe cliche as bollocks but he couldn’t take her into his life  or more so than she was already . Even when she patted hughie’s arm signaling the man he was done. 

“ fuck off love i’m fine” he gruffed.

 “ nah ya grumpy bastard it’s your turn so nut up and shut up” she crossed her arms.  Both stared down as the rest went to either rest or clean up .

“ I'm  fine cuts here and there nothing to get worked up over”  he gruffed, taking his jacket off watching as her eyes widened even then she made his  heart beat a mile a minute. This was not supposed to happen but he could stop it progressing or so he thought he could . 

Persistent little thing he would give her that as he sat in a chair , she approached carefully something about her seemly set the man off more than usual  which didn’t phase her in the least giving she’s dealt with scarier men than billy butcher all her life one of the ways she met frenchie though so it wasn’t all back that man saved her life and changed it for the better.  She started with the little scratches first  on his hands , then on his face . hum of a song he’d no idea what it was but he kept his face stoic  although he wanted to melt god he felt like some pansy from a hallmark bullshit movie. His eyes searched her for a flaw just one fucking flaw that could stop his feelings growing. He couldn’t have her. 

“ I need you take the shirt off” she said getting the supplies out of the bag watching as he rolled  his eyes .  “ or I could cut it off” she mused. 

“ bossy little cunt aren’t you” he scoffed unbuttoning his shirt only to hiss as  he tugged harshly since the blood congealed into his shirt. The action reopened in as she rushed to stopping it pressing the gause to the now open wound with a scowl on his face. 

“ you stubborn man , i know you don’t like me but i’m here to help so you can keep doing this shit so work with me , you don’t have to like it” she huffed getting the syringe ready . lifting the  gause up and cleaning around it . the moment he felt the pinch his whole body jerked and he shot her a glare again it was nothing compare to what she has dealt with before. “ sorry why don’t you ask me what evers been bothering you least you're distracted and you get answers and i can work” she sighed . 

“ what’s likes of you doing with frenchie” he asked easily, something that did actually cross his mind  a lot giving she was a flower in the garden of weeds .  she stood out the day he walked her into through the door full of smiles and sunshine . the nice clothes on her made her looked so far out of place well to do sort of girl . 

“ Likes me  what’s that supposed to mean” she snorted eyes locked on the gash on his shoulder.  So concentrated on making sure it wasn’t worse that it would be a hospital visit but luckily he only needed stitches so that saved her from another hard job that was for sure. 

“ posh  well to do sort … fucking watch it” he hissed as felt the skin tug letting him know she was getting started. 

“ far from i know frenchie from a bad time back in the day when shit was actually worse then now ” her voice hit his ear making a shiver travel throughout his boy . 

“ what party girl in college get your blow from im” he huffed . 

“ nah just a time i would rather forget look whatever idea you have of me i can assure you it far from it” she laughed making him both light as a feather and yet pissed off all in one go. 

“ let me guess daddy cut you off no more allowance how harsh” he scoffed. 

“ not accurate look, you don’t know me or what i went through you don’t scare me butcher i’ve met scarier and tougher men than you so give it up  and just accept i’m here” she rolled her eyes.

“ what you looking for  a daddy here princess , you ain’t gonna get one” he taunted seeing it was getting to her something that he could use to push her away from the danger that surrounded him , danger that got people like her killed . 

“ lots  like the rest of us so let me just” she bit her tongue not letting him get the best of her , not letting him scare her off.  

“ Daddy, tell you no more money” he taunted. 

“ nah daddy spilt my lip and told me that he’d give me something to cry about, said i was a whining little bitch that needed to be taught a lesson you happy?” she hissed cleaning up almost slamming the trash into the bag . 

“ i see it didn’t work maybe he should of tried harder, i mean he was right ” he smirked as she stood looking at him shocked. Yeah he said some shit but never to this degree or caliber . never have his words hit a nerve until today . she dropped the trash and grabbed her bag running out the door and as guilty as he felt or how he wished he could take those words back it was for the better . it was better she hated him and stayed away it  was safer . so why did it feel like he made a mistake? 

part two