#the third year was leather and crystal/glass

[amadaans]

anyway every year me and elliot choose a traditional or modern wedding gift to get each other, and this year the traditional is flowers/fruit (in the us) and the fucking modern one is appliances. appliances. thank god the fourth year has both a us and a uk traditional gift, so i'm getting him flowers/fruit (me, an american) and he's getting me silk/linen (him, a brit).

[thap1nkblog]

[★] ᵈᵒʷⁿˡᵒᵃᵈ ᶠⁱⁿⁱˢʰᵉᵈ!

FILE PATH ↬ THAP1NKBL0G ↬ MASTERLIST ↬ [＃] P1NKYSH0TS

ᵐᵉᵗᵃᵈᵃᵗᵃ: keith powers [male!oc] x saweetie [female!oc], 18+, third person ᵈᵃᵗᵉ ᵐᵒᵈⁱᶠⁱᵉᵈ: 8/18/22 ʷᵒʳᵈ ᶜᵒᵘⁿᵗ: 10,937 ᵖ¹ⁿᵏʸ'ˢ ᶜᵒᵐᵐᵉⁿᵗˢ: i had an idea of a spinoff/au for one of the books i was writing at the time. i wrote this in 2022, practicing writing in third person. originally posted on wattpad, lol.

❝𝐰𝐞𝐥𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐫𝐲𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐥 𝐛𝐚𝐥𝐥, 𝐦𝐫. 𝐛𝐚𝐫𝐨𝐧.❞

❝𝐢 𝐡𝐨𝐩𝐞 𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐣𝐞𝐰𝐞𝐥𝐬 𝐟𝐮𝐞𝐥 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲 𝐝𝐞𝐬𝐢𝐫𝐞.❞

The energy tonight was potent, thick with the seductive, sensual energy that filled the club. Blue and silver confetti, and green dollar bills rained from the sky, covering the floor while lights flashed across the club, bathing everybody in hues of blue, while the crowd swayed unpredictably like a tsunami wave. It was fierce, tugging at you as you entered, beckoning to rope you into the cesspool of sexual tension and lust that was only fueled by constantly flowing drinks, given to patrons by scantily clad bottle girls who rushed from table to table with big bottles of various alcohols, while dancers dressed in next to nothing, and even nothing at all, spun about the poles on the main stage, luring men in just like a siren’s song. 

This kind of activity wasn’t unusual for Club Crystal - but tonight was different. To those tucked away in the comfort of their homes, eyes shut peacefully away from Atlanta’s fast-paced nightlife, it was any regular Friday.  It was the end of a long work week, and the start of a shorter weekend filled with relaxing and running errands. But depending on who you asked, tonight as a special occasion, one for the history books, a complete blowout. 

Tonight was 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐂𝐫𝐲𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐥 𝐁𝐚𝐥𝐥. 

Not to be confused with any fairytale, it was the fifth anniversary of the day Club Crystal officially opened its doors to the public. The Crystal Ball wasn’t just any regular Atlanta event - each year, it got bigger and better, and each year, the theatrics doubled, tripled in size. Beyond the double doors of Atlanta’s newest strip club, right on the old soil where Follies once stood, cars were doing burnouts in the parking lot, and if you paid a pretty penny, you could get what they called “A Crystal Flush” - where you and your car could come out squeaky clean - if you held onto your morals and dignity once you made it out on the other side. If you made it out on the other side. 

And in the middle of it all, surrounded by the smoke, reverberated, bass boosted music and buzzing, energizing sensation that seemed to drip and ooze from the four walls of the club was 𝐓𝐲𝐫𝐞𝐞 𝐁𝐚𝐫𝐨𝐧. 

And the friends that had dragged him along tonight. 

“Ooh, I love this shit!”

Sipping - or in his brother’s words - babysitting the Don Julio reposado that filled his glass, he slouched back against the couch, the black leather supporting his back, giving way for his shoulders to sink in. Terrell was like a kid in a candy store, flinging money over the balcony, the crisp, thin sheets of blue faced, hundred dollar bills slipping through his fingers, raining money down on the people below them. With the force and speed that he kept throwing, Tyree would’ve figured his arm would’ve popped out of socket by now. 

Tyree sighed, checking his phone, looking for any signs of life from his fiancee. It was probably the tenth time he had checked his phone already, and he had nothing to show for the hour that had passed aside from the picture on his lock screen that stared back at him, and wasted time. His battery was dying - his phone and his social battery, but the party around him continued on, his friends blowing through stacks of money without a care in the world. 

From where he was sitting, he could see the hosts for tonight’s event - Future and 21 Savage -  throwing racks of their own, surrounded by an entourage of security guards, who enclosed them like a human cage - dressed in all black and ready to go if something unsavory was to happen. Bottle girls dressed in black glitter leotards slid in between the security guards, bringing over bottle after bottle for Atlanta’s own royalty. 

“Oh my god, nigga she’s not gonna text you back, she’s doing her own shit.” 

RC plopped down next to him, tucking a stack of ones into the front pocket of his olive green Chrome Hearts hoodie. He peeked over Tyree’s shoulder, kissing his teeth at the blank lock screen that illuminated their faces. He attempted to pull the phone from Tyree’s hands, but Tyree tilted his wrist just out of reach from RC’s hands. 

“I’m just checking on her.”

“You in a club full of bad bitches, sitting mere feet from Future, and you worried about Michelle? Damn, Terrell was right.” 

“The fuck you mean Terrell was right, Julius?” 

Tyre scrunched his face up, which only made RC grin, practically from ear to ear. RC leaned in close so Tyree could hear him, the sounds of Future’s Freak Hoe thumping from the speakers, making it hard to hear the person next to you - let alone hear yourself think.  

“That you one pussy whipped motherfucker. You changed, nigga.” 

“I’m not listening to a nigga who’s still out here chasing hoes.” 

“At least I’m having fun. You over here checking your phone like you waiting for some STD results or some shit.” 

“You the last nigga I’m finna let talk to me like that. Didn’t you have the clap? Twice?”

“It was once! And fuck you, I told you that shit because I trusted you, you Ronnie DeVoe looking bitch.”

RC’s not-so subtle British accent rolled off his tongue, his words like daggers, piercing the surface of Tyree’s emotions. Any other time, Tyree would’ve been able to ignore it. But this time was different. He felt different. 

Tonight was supposed to be a night of celebrations, yet Tyree was stuck. Trapped. He was supposed to be happy, yet all he could think about was how time was ticking down for him. He was venturing into unknown territory - the hours counting down, leading up to the inevitable moment where he was no longer a boyfriend, a fiance. He was going to be someone’s husband. Tonight was supposed to be his last hurrah before he had to buckle down and get his mind on straight. Yet, his mind was completely elsewhere. And RC’s playful teasing wasn’t making it any better. RC didn’t know, or maybe he did, but all it did was make Tyree think about what he was walking into. 

Like he wasn’t thinking about it enough, already. 

The hours were counting down, leading up until the moment where he was going to be walking down the aisle, but the more he thought about it, the more the nagging voice in the back of his head picked at him. The more the nerves set in, the more his stomach twisted in knots, and the knot in his chest only grew larger. He didn’t know exactly why he felt like that - I mean it was natural to feel nervous right? To feel like you’d fall to pieces? 

But for some reason, Tyree couldn’t shake that it was a symptom of something bigger. Way bigger than just nerves. Bigger than just “cold feet”. Shit, he was feeling frigid. Like a sheet of ice floating in the Antarctic Ocean. Ice fucking cold. 

And he didn’t want to think about that. 

“Nigga, you still got that damn glass in your hand?” 

Leaving his spot at the balcony, Terrell sat down next to Tyree, the expensive, yet popular scent of Dior’s Sauvage cologne following behind him. Dressed to impress in a white and navy blue designer polo shirt, his brother’s heavily tattooed arms were exposed, his brother’s flashy style only amplified by the gigantic, diamond, two-tone cuban link chain around his neck, and the diamond Rolex watch that reflected the lights that flashed above them. From the moment they walked in, Terrell had all eyes on him, gathering attention from everybody they walked past, his personality and demeanor attracting them like moths to a flame. As bottled girls flooded their section with what seemed like endless rounds of drinks, they made sure to be extra nice to Terrell, his charismatic personality and the money he flashed making them swoon. 

“No, this is my-”

“Oh cut the cap nigga, you been sitting there like one of them bronze ass statues for the past hour.” 

Reaching for a drink glass of his own, Terrell poured himself a drink from the slender, tall bottle of 1942, clinking it against Tyree’s glass. 

“For a nigga who’s getting married, you sure acting like you going to a funeral instead.”

“This just isn’t my kind of scene, and you know that.” 

“So? Michelle ain’t here - the fuck is she finna do? Besides, this is your last blowout, man. You already know Michelle’s gonna keep you locked down once you tie the knot.”

Tyree watched as Terrell brought the glass to his lips, tossing back the liquid in the glass without even a second thought. He didn’t even wince as he placed the cup back down on the round, glass table, amongst all the other bottles of liquor and empty cups and glasses that took up space on the small surface, surrounding an ice bucket that sat in the middle of the table. 

But even though Terrell was putting on a larger than life, excited persona for everybody else, Tyree could see straight through it. It was in the way he was looking at him - worried, confused. Apprehensive. 

But that wasn’t new, especially from Terrell. He had been against Tyree marrying Michelle from the moment he saw the forty-thousand dollar engagement ring on her finger. 

 “I can’t believe you’re getting fucking married.”

And in all honesty - Tyree couldn’t believe he was getting married, either. It wasn’t that he had anything against getting married, no, never. He wasn’t afraid of commitment, shit, he wanted to settle down. He already did all the late night hookups, spending thousands of dollars on women he knew it wouldn’t work out with. He had been the boyfriend, the ex boyfriend, the side nigga, friends with benefits - and he was tired of the drama and mess that had came with it. And in his line of work, you needed a partner to keep your secrets. Someone that you could trust. 

But even with all of that, he never saw himself getting married so soon. It sounded good on paper. Perfect, actually. Something that would be the final puzzle pieces to his life. 

But he was only getting older, and his hand was practically forced due to the revelation that Michelle thought she was pregnant. The two of them had been talking about having kids lately, but he didn’t think she was completely serious. And with the way things were going, a better time for things didn’t seem to be stretching over the horizon for him. This was as good as it was going to get. 

But if you asked Terrell - it was a bunch of bullshit to him. He had always been critical of Michelle, even more so now that she was going to become part of the family. The two of them never really got along in the first place, so it wasn’t surprising to Tyree that Terrell was overly critical of their relationship. Michelle thought Terrell was an asshole, and she wasn’t afraid to tell him what she thought about him - which never failed to start all their arguments. And since Terrell wasn’t one to back down, he’d come in quick with telling her how she was a “stuck up, judgemental, spoon fed -” which by then Tyree would usually step in and break them up. 

“Well believe it, cause it’s happening.” 

Terrell rolled his eyes, nudging Tyree’s arm. 

“Well if you’re gonna leave me by myself, the least you could do is drink. You know how expensive all this shit was?”

“Again, I ain’t ask you to do this.”

“Fuck you. It’s a celebration for you. The least your stone cold ass could do is try to enjoy yourself.”

“I’m sick and tired of hearing y’all niggas’ mouths. Fine, whatever.” 

And with a little extra peer pressure from his brother, Tyree finished the drink in his glass, and gulped down the next shot Terrell had poured for him. He downed the next round of shots they all had prepared when Dominic rejoined the group, covered in glitter and lipgloss. And while Tyree decided against asking what mess he had gotten himself into, RC made a toast. 

 “To Tyree, that nigga is all grown up!”

And as the the dark liquor coursed through his veins, Tyree couldn’t help but find himself sucked into the enticing, sexual ambiance that radiated throughout the club, slowly tugging, perminating on his mental. His friends were right - this was his last night before he had to buckle down and fly straight. They were celebrating him, and who was he to refuse? His brother didn’t do all of this for it to go to waste, and it was all in the name of “celebration”. 

That’s what he was supposed to be doing, right? 

All of his worries and the barrage of thoughts about his upcoming wedding, and the pressure he was feeling seemed to fade away with a few drinks, beautiful bottle girls flooding their section with overpriced bottles of liquor, topped off with sparklers while strippers dressed in hues of pastel blues and white danced against them, money beginning to litter the floor beneath their feet. He could feel the booming, fast paced beats in his chest, the melodic tune of Lil Baby and Gunna’s Never Recover echoing throughout the club as the DJ and patrons below them recited the lyrics on time and without missing a beat. 

“Throw that fucking money! We know y’all got it!”

Turning his attention from the conversation he was having with Dominic, the DJ’s loud voice in his ears announced the next set of dancers on the stage, only catching one of their names before the horns and explosion sounds gave way to the next song in the queue.

“Shit..these bitches ain’t no fucking joke!”

As Dominic threw fistfuls of money with no rhyme or reason, Tyree found his eyes glued to the girls that twirled around the pole, the duo dressed in matching, soft blue monokinis. The strappy, barely there outfits stretched over their curves, the rhinestones that adorned the straps twinkling as the light as they spun around, their bodies gliding around the pole. His eyes followed their movements, bouncing between the two of them as they put him in a trance. Mimi, a beautiful girl with long, blonde hair in layers that framed her face, garnered his attention initially, his eyes catching the vibrant colored floral tattoo on her thigh. 

Money burned a hole in his pocket, the intensity of the flames only getting hotter as the other girl on stage caught his attention, his eyes and head following her movements as she climbed up the top of the pole.  The other girl, with caramel skin and curly, black hair that flowed over her shoulder ascended the pole with ease, the platforms of her heels flickering with white light as she contorted her body around the sleek, silver metal pole. Her hair slightly obstructed her face as she spun around upside down, approaching the bottom of the stage quickly, but stopping short before she hit the floor, dangling upside down. Her precise, but graceful movements were hypnotizing, complemented by the money flying in her direction, and hands reaching out from her from around the stage. 

“Go on, throw it. You know you want to. I know you see something you like.” 

Like a devil on his shoulder, Terrell egged him on, squeezing his shoulders as the two of them watched the mystery girl captivate her audience below. Terrell tossed his own stacks of money towards her, and soon Tyree followed suit, the bills slipping from his fingers, raining down on the people below. First went one thousand, then another, and another, free falling throughout the sky, the four men’s bankrolls blanketing the club like a flurry of rain. It just kept coming, and the more Tyree drank, the more money left his pocket - and he didn’t give a fuck where it was going. 

As far as he was concerned, he had already spent a shitload of money on a wedding - funding six college tuitions wasn’t going to put a dent in his pocket. 

“Aye, Tyree!”

Getting Tyree’s attention was Terrell and RC, who dropped a heavy hand on his shoulder. The two of them were well past drunk - well at least RC was anyway, who swayed from side to side like a pendulum, slurring his words. Julius stumbled over his feet as he walked past them, bumping into Tyree on his way to the couch, where he dove face first into the cushions. One of the dancers, who he recognized as Mimi, sat down next to him, propping his face into her lap as she handed him a cup of water. 

“That nigga is done for.”

“You think? Anyways, I got someone I want you to meet.” 

He watched as Terrell waved over a beautiful dark skin girl, dressed in a similar outfit to all the other dancers Tyree had seen running around tonight. Terrell wrapped his arm around her shoulders, and the woman introduced herself as Fancy, whose voice was smooth, and sultry, with a pretty smile to match. Her burgundy red hair complimented her skin tone, and she looked him up and down, her eyes lingering on the Audemars Piguet watch that adorned Tyree’s wrist. It was almost like she was analyzing him, and even though he stood taller than her, she kept consistent eye contact with him. 

“You ready for your dance?”

“Uh, I didn’t order a dance.”

Tyree’s face twisted up in confusion, his eyebrows knitting together. Fancy kissed her teeth, rolling her eyes as she looked between the set of twins, raising an eyebrow. 

“Yeah you did, remember?”

“I-”

“Well someone paid five stacks for a dance - either of yall finna let that go to waste?” 

Tyree already knew that this was Terrell’s doing, judging by the stupid, slick grin across his face, and the laugh that came from him. It was just like Terrell to set him up like this - he was always getting the two of them in trouble, and this was just another one of the tricks Terrell kept up his sleeves at all times.

“Five?”

“Pocket change, really.”

Terrell shrugged, unbothered that he just spent someone’s down payment on a car in record breaking time. 

Before Tyree had time to object, Terrell was already pushing in the direction of the stairs, Fancy grabbing the front of his white Heron Preston shirt, the fabric pinched between her well manicured index finger and thumb. With Terrell following behind them, Fancy grabbed his hand, leading them through the stuffed crowd of people, packed in together like sardines, nearly taking up all the space and breathing room available. Tyree couldn’t even run if he wanted to - there was nowhere for him to go, and with the firm grip Fancy had on his hand, she definitely wasn’t going to let him get away. Not a chance.

They finally came out on the other side of the crowd at the private rooms, which was a long hallway with a set of doors fixed into the walls on either side. An LED sign hung overhead, reading “The Jewelry Store”, in bright blue, cursive letters, and underneath stood two security guards that blocked the entrance. Dressed in all black, they both stood tall, with their chests puffed out, and stoic, frigid expressions across their faces as their eyes scanned everybody that walked past them. 

One was dressed in a black shirt and vest, with a gun holstered to his hip, while the other had a well detailed scorpion tattooed on his neck, white light that briefly swept over their side of the club allowing Tyree to see the intricate shading and linework of the ink. They looked Tyree, Fancy, and Terrell up and down, giving their sole attention to Fancy who leaned up on her tip-toes to speak to them. 

While they talked, Tyree looked around, feeling a wave of uneasiness wash over him. Sure, he had been in strip clubs before, dragged along because of Terrell, but never had he done anything like this. This spelled out trouble, big trouble, and he knew that if Michelle knew what he was doing, he'd never hear the end of it. 

But deep down, way deep down inside, part of him was curious. Where this curiosity came from, he didn’t know, but it kept him from walking away, keeping his feet firmly planted in place. 

With one last, analyzing, throughout stare before unhooking the gate, the guards gave their approval to the group, one of them joining the walk as Fancy led the way down the hallway, which seemed to stretch on forever to Tyree. The music was much quieter, and subdued in this part of the club, and Tyree could hear their footsteps as Fancy brought them to their destination, her heels clacking against the concrete floor, the shimmery silver tassels on her heels shaking back and forth as she walked. 

“Here you go.”

“What?”

Pushing him towards the door, Tyree went bursting through the door, nearly sent flying into the room by Terrell. 

“Have fun. She won’t tell if you don’t.”

“Terrell-”

Tyree could feel the wind from the door closing against his face as he stood there in complete confusion, reaching for the door before it swung back into the door frame, leaving him alone in the room - or so he thought. 

“First time?” 

Caught off guard from the sudden voice as he stepped further into the room, he spun around, his eyes settling on the large mirror that was fixed to the wall. Standing in front of the mirror was the mystery woman he recognized from the stage, who fluffed out her hair, making eye contact with his reflection in the mirror. She smiled softly at Tyree, unfazed by the baffled expression that had washed over his face, trying to process what had just happened. 

“Yes? Wait - no, no!” 

Tyree shook his head, tossing his hands in front of him, unsure of why he was reassuring her, and what he was even reassuring her of in the first place. A soft laugh came from the woman, who gestured for Tyree to take a seat on the couch. Not wanting to be rude, he obliged, slinking into the soft, fabric couch beneath him, watching her step up onto the small stage in front of him. 

Michelle was going to absolutely kill him. 

The thought of Michelle finding out was sobering. How would she find out? He didn’t know, but the mere thought of that kind of confrontation sent his mind reeling. He might be able to get away with going to a strip club - you know, stretch the truth a bit about what he did for his bachelor party when she asked - but there was no way he was going to be able to spin getting a lap dance. She was going to be able to smell the club on him, he just knew it. It was practically undeniable. 

“What’s your name?”

Pulling him from his obsessive thoughts was the mystery woman, who stood leaning against the pole in front of him, her arm wrapped around the metal. He tried his hardest not to look at her, wanting to avoid the reality of his situation. He looked all over the room, grasping for anything, something but the woman standing in the middle of the room to grasp his attention. The plush, gray couch spread out across the wall, simple, black paint covering all four walls. The light above bathed the room in a soft shade of blue, while along the floor was lined with white light strips. 

And no matter where he looked, he could see her out of the corner of his eye, slowly twirling around the pole, her attention locked on him. 

“Tyree.”

Wiping his sweaty hands on the denim fabric of his khaki, Jacquemus jeans, he accepted his fate, looking at her. She smiled at him again, Tyree subconsciously taking note of her warm, inviting smile, and her sweet, calming voice. 

He didn’t know why he gave her his name, but then again, he didn’t know why he was in this room. He didn’t know why he was here, period. As the alcohol began to catch up to him, his brain was practically screaming at him to get up, to leave, to be anywhere but here, that this situation screamed trouble - yet his feet stayed firmly planted. 

He could feel his nerves peaking, rushing to the top as the room filled with an uncomfortable, awkward tension. The subtle scent of weed and perfume hung heavy in the air, while silence overtook them, neither one of them opting to say anything further. Or rather, Tyree didn’t say anything further. 

Yet, the mystery girl didn’t seem to mind. In fact, she acted like the tension didn’t even exist.  

“So Tyree, how old are you?”

Was this what all the dancers did? Ask for your personal information? What’s next, she would ask what for the last four of his social security number?

“Twenty-seven. You?”

Yet, he still surrendered an answer to her question - Tyree unable to not notice how pretty she was, or rather, a voice in the back of his head acknowledged her it. He tried to ignore the new series of thoughts springing to life in his brain, breaking eye contact with her to reel his focus back in. 

“Twenty-four, but my birthday is in two weeks. I’m a Cancer. What about you?” 

“You believe in that zodiac stuff?”

“Yeah. When’s your birthday?”

She waited patiently for his answer as she twirled about the pole, the flashing white lights in her shoes beckoning for his attention. Even with his back pressed firmly against the couch, he could see the details of her outfit as she moved, giving him a full 360 view of how her outfit clung to her curves, stretching out over his hips, the thong seemingly swallowed between her ass cheeks. He wasn’t supposed to be noticing these details, and he swallowed hard, feeling his throat go dry. 

Just keep talking, Tyree. It’ll be over in no time. 

“August twenty-second.”

As if they weren’t already close enough, stifled by the stuffy, thick, tensioned air between them, she stepped down from the stage, standing in front of him. His heart thumped with each movement she made, his pace quickening as she leaned over, placing his hands on his knees, bringing her face close to his. He felt the smallest of shocks by her unexpected movements, glancing down at her hands. 

He didn’t know how, but her nails were the exact same shade of her outfit, adorned with gems and jewels, twinkling in the overhead light. Her long, manicured nails stretched over her fingers, gently grazing his knees. 

“Of course you’re a Virgo. I bet you’re a real critical person, huh? Always think you know better than everybody else?”

She spoke softly, almost whispering, ending her sentence with the same, nerve inducing smile she kept giving him. He rolled his eyes, knowing that she was right - but he wasn’t going to give her the satisfaction of knowing that. 

“But isn’t that everyone?”

“I don’t know, is it?”

The two of them fell silent, but the tension before them had seemed to disappear, melting away in the matter of a few questions. In their silence, Tyree was finally able to get a good look at her, his eyes dropping to her lips, which were covered in a pink, glittery shade of lipgloss that made her plump lips stand out. Body glitter decorated her exposed, honey colored skin, and he noticed the beauty mark on her shoulder. Thoughts about how soft she looked slowly took over his mind, his eyes wandering down to her cleavage, before he realized what he was doing. 

A lurking, ruminating thought in the back of his head kept questioning if she was as soft as she looked, tempting, beckoning him to make the move. He couldn’t shake it loose, the thought holding on for dear life, taunting him as she invaded his personal space - not that he was complaining. That’s all he had to do, right? She wouldn’t mind, right? They were already this close - 

But what about Michelle? 

Michelle - his beautiful fiancee. The one he was about to get married to. The girl of his dreams. His best friend. 

He kept trying to jog his memory of her - visualize her face in his head, yet that all became a distant memory as the woman before him climbed into his lap. His common sense begged him to get up and go - take him as far as his legs could take go, but yet again, his feet stayed firmly planted, another side of Tyree taking over, one that was fully falling into the trance that seemed to be taking hold of him. 

Taking his larger hands in her delicate ones, she placed them on her waist, the voice in the back of his head finally getting its answer. 

She was soft. Real soft. 

And she smells good. Real good. 

But pushing to the forefront of his mind was his fiance, Tyree unable to control the word salad that spilled out of his mouth. 

“I’m getting married in two days.”

He licked his lips nervously, his eyes searching her face for a response. He was sure she had her fair share of men that came through that were in his position. “Celebrating” their marriages by spending their last few moments gawking over other women, as if a ring and some vows were supposed to prevent a wandering eye. Tyree couldn’t help but wonder if that made her think about him differently. He wasn’t sure why he was so concerned about her opinion in the first place, but maybe it wasn’t really about her opinion, as much as it was about his. He couldn’t shake the lingering, overwhelming feeling that he was a bad person. He knew that he didn’t belong here, that this wasn’t his scene, that situations like this only invited drama, like his relationship wasn’t already rocky enough. 

His engagement ring catches his eye, the black, titanium band wrapped around his left ring finger, inset with matching black diamonds. It felt like only yesterday when Michelle and him were picking out rings, yet here he was, with his hand resting against a stranger’s asscheek. One that he only exchanged names with moments ago. 

But if she did have any ill feelings to what Tyree had admitted, he couldn’t tell, judging by her blank, unbothered expression. He half expected her to scold him, to get up and tell him to get his ass out of here, to ask him what the hell he was doing here. But she did none of that.

She just..continued their conversation, not missing a beat, breezing past his announcement like he had just told her that the sky was blue. 

“Marriage is a big commitment,”

She told him as she guided his hands along her body, the pads of his fingers sliding along the curve of her waist as she moved her body to the beat of the music. She maintained eye contact with him, Tyree opting to focus on her almond shaped, dark brown eyes, instead of how smooth her skin felt against his hands. Fuck. 

“You ready for that?” 

“I don’t know, it seems like the right thing to do.”

That was a loaded question - yet it wasn’t one that he hadn’t asked himself a thousand times before. In fact, it was all he thought about recently. In between planning an elaborate wedding, picking out cakes and decorations and finalizing guests lists, the deep seated feeling of reluctance continued to set in. He thought that by now he’d be over it, able to push past it. But as the hours ticked on - the worse he felt. He wasn’t able to shake it off. 

“But is that what you wanna do?” 

But that’s because the feeling wasn’t going anywhere. No matter how bad he wanted it to. No matter how many times he forced himself to smile through fittings for his tuxedo, or the countless times he had looked through venues and talked to planners, and put down all these deposits. The feeling in his chest only continued to grow, threatening to consume him if he didn’t do anything about it. 

And her innocent, well meaning question only answered his worst fears. Planted the seeds of feelings he had buried deep down, had convinced himself that he didn’t mean it. That it was just a phase. 

Dropping his hands to his sides, he sighed, leaning his head back against the couch. He couldn’t hide from the truth anymore, and the fact that he was in this situation confirmed everything. He was drunk, unhappy, and lonely, feeling more connected to the pretty girl sitting in his lap than the girl he had known since they were teenagers. And he was beating himself up for feeling that way. 

Michelle and him were the perfect love story. They were supposed to work out. They were supposed to be together forever, and live happily ever after. 

But he couldn’t fake it any more. Even though he really wanted to. 

But he couldn’t break things off. Not now. It was too late. For fuck’s sake, they were about to get married in less than seventy-two hours! It wouldn’t be the right thing to do. 

But what about how he felt?

That was something he hadn’t given much thought to until she had asked. 

“You know, you’re the first guy I’ve seen who feels bad about it.”

He leaned his head back up, meeting the sad expression on her face. 

“About what?”

His words slurred together, the syllables falling against each other due to the alcohol that washed over him, along with his feelings. It was like a wave crashing against the shore, the feelings he had pushed away, compartmentalized in the depths of his brain were rushing in with full force, ready to wipe out everything in its wake. It oozed out of him, out of his thoughts, dripping from his words. 

“About not being in love with a girl who loves them. Most guys don’t care.” 

“Or does that mean I’m an even worse piece of shit?”

He tilted his head back, feeling tears sting the back of his eyes. Tyree wasn’t one for crying, and he wasn’t about to cry now. Not here. Not now. And damn sure not in front of a stranger - regardless of how sweet she seemed to be. He wasn’t going to be one of those cliche niggas who poured their heart out to a stripper, when they really needed a therapist. Not that he needed a therapist, either.

He felt a gentle hand reach at his face, her fingers caressing the side of his face, gingerly tilting his head back down to make him look at her. 

“You’re not a bad guy, but sometimes you gotta live for yourself. Not for what someone else wants you to do.”

She spoke as if she had been in a position like that before - but the pessimist in Tyree made him wonder if she was being genuine, telling him that her wisdom had only come from the amount of guys who had probably told her the same thing before. She had no real reason to be nice to him - aside for money, yet something was telling him that she meant that for real, and was only trying to empathize with him. But then again, she was getting paid five grand for this “dance”. 

She was getting paid to be nice. 

But he didn’t want to think about that. What was he thinking? He didn’t mean any of that. Of course he loved Michelle. He wouldn’t stick around if he didn’t. If the feelings between them weren’t genuine. If their relationship didn’t mean anything to him. Michelle was the only woman he felt close to, that he could trust with anything. It was just cold feet. Everybody felt that way before they got married, right? 

And to avoid answering that, he did what he knew best.

Deflect. 

“Why are you here? You don’t seem like the kind of girl who would be in a place with this.”

She grinned, like she knew he was only asking about her so that it would take the heat off of himself. She didn’t call him out on it, and he was grateful. He was desperate to talk about anything else. 

“And what kind of girl do you think I am?”

He wasn’t expecting her to flip it back on him, though. 

“I don’t know, I’m just talking-” 

He stammed over her his words, falling flat on his attempt to get out the hot seat.

“I don’t know, you’re just being nicer than you have to be to me.” 

“You must think I’m paying for school or something. That’s what all you guys think, right?”

Tyree shook his head, squirming underneath her, which clearly amused her. She took her teasing a step further, continuing to playfully pick at him.

“You got a fantasy about saving a girl from the club? That turns you on?”

“N-No, I was just-”

She burst into laughter, interrupting his messy explanation, tossing her head back. She swept her hair over her shoulder, almost doubling over with laughter, the sound of her laugh just barely echoing in the room. She was laughing so hard she almost fell out of his lap, Tyree’s hands instinctively pulling her against him before she fell to the floor. The quick motion caused her to grind against the seat of his pants, a jolt of electricity running from his fingertips throughout his body. 

Her laughter stopped almost instantly, a heavy blanket of tension falling over the both of them. It lingered in the air, almost stifling the breaths Tyree took. Did she feel it too?

There was no denying it - he was definitely attracted to her. 

If Tyree wasn’t already in the middle of it - he was definitely approaching the danger zone. And the alarm bells that were firing off in his head were telling him that. Unfortunately, the sound of them was only subdued by the alcohol in his system, the same alcohol that was filling his mind with inappropriate thoughts. Thoughts about the pretty girl in his lap, when he should’ve been thinking about his future wife. 

But the thought of Michelle is so far away with this girl in his face. 

“I’m just a regular stripper,”

She leaned in close, her breath tickling his neck. She spoke in a soft whisper, pressing her body against his, the scent of her vanilla and brown sugar perfume filling his nose, her hand caressing the back of his neck, her fingers dragging along the chain around his neck.  

“But I do think you’re kinda cute.”

Her soft voice against his skin made him twitch in his pants, something deep, deep down within him stirring awake. She guided his hands over her hips and ass, his hands lingering in that position as she wrapped her arms around his neck, leaning in close to him. 

The inappropriate thoughts only continued in his mind, this time stepping to the very front, ruminating over the endless possibilities that seemed to race through his mind. She smelled so good, and her skin felt so good, he couldn’t help but hopelessly wonder what if she felt even better. His mind poked and prodded him with suggestive thoughts, fantasies forming in the back of his mind - wondering what she looked like without the outfit. What she sounded like. Even better - what she sounded like saying his name. 

It was just the two of them in this room - they could do anything. They had enough time to do whatever they wanted, and nobody would ever know. Not Terrell, not the security guard, and damn sure not Michelle. It could be their little secret. That wasn’t so bad, right?

Their faces inched closer to one another, Tyree’s breath catching in his chest, while the sexual tension between them bubbled over, approaching a crescendo. Could she feel it too? Or was he just crazy? 

But he’d never get the answer to that question. 

Loud, forceful knocking on the door cut straight through their moment, and she pulled away, Tyree exhaling sharply. 

“Time’s up.”

Tyree felt like a weight had been lifted from his shoulders when she stood up. His breathing returned to normal, the pressure that was building in his chest seeming to disappear as he snapped out of her trance. When he stood up, he swayed slightly from side to side, trying to gain his bearings. The room was spinning, his head was spinning, and so was his stomach. Why’d he drink so much?

As if she noticed, she took his hand, guiding him out of the room and back down the lengthy hallway. With each wobbly, drunken step he took, he tried to match her decisive, smaller steps. The music was pounding, reverberating through his body, almost like a breath of fresh air from whatever situation he had gotten - or almost got himself into in that room. 

He wandered over to the bar, not noticing that the mystery woman had left his side until his brother appeared in his face, sliding a cup of water in his direction. 

Any other time he might’ve been relieved to see Terrell, but after the shit he pulled, he didn’t even want to look at him. It was like looking into a mirror - a mirror that reflected his fuck ups and bad decisions right back at him, and reflected his own stupidity. Fortunately, it wasn’t like Tyree could see his face clearly, anyways - his head was swirling. Swirling with alcohol induced confusion, beating him up about his even more confused perceptions about Michelle, and his attraction to a scantily clad stranger - who represented temptation thinly veiled behind invasive questions and well intentioned advice. 

He couldn’t believe he actually considered cheating on Michelle. His future wife. The woman he had been with and pined over on and off since he was eighteen. His family. The future mother of his kids. 

Even if it was just a kiss - how far could it have really gone? He wanted to lie to himself, tell himself that he was stronger than that, better than that. He wasn’t a cheater. He didn’t want to throw away his relationship for just a moment of weakness. A moment of pleasure. If he was so strong, why couldn’t he stop replaying that blimp in time? Why couldn’t he ignore that feeling of her breath on his neck, the way her fingers lightly danced across the back of his neck? The way her voice sounded like a melody in his ears? 

What was he doing? What was wrong with him? He was going to marry Michelle and that was it. He was going to fix things. Fly straight and erase this night, and her, from his mind. He loved Michelle. He wanted to be with her - he wanted to spend the rest of his life with her - even though that seemed like a long, fucking time. Then what was the issue? Why was he so hung up on some girl he didn’t even know? He didn’t even know her name!

Because - he didn’t really want to get married. 

Hell, he didn’t want to have kids now. Not where he was at in his life. Not with what he did with his life. He didn’t want to bring a child into this world with the dirt he did. It would be putting too much at risk. 

More importantly, he wasn’t happy. 

“You alright man?”

Terrell shook his shoulders, his face flushing with worry, while the array of lights overhead bathed his face in hues of blue and purple. Tyree weaseled out of his grasp, putting some distance between them, nodding his head. 

“I’m good, I just need some fresh air.”

He doubted Terrell could hear him over the music, but he assumed Terrell got the hint when he didn’t follow him outside. 

Greeting him as he pushed through the set of black, double doors at the entrance was the muggy, humid air of Atlanta’s nightlife. Planes flew overhead in the sky, the stars obstructed from the bright, white and yellow toned lights that decorated nearly every building and street corner around the club. The line outside was still long - people still packing in, hoping to get a taste of the party inside, itching to cross the threshold into endless fantasy. The parking lot was full, folks posted up near their cars, some of them taking pictures while others played dice games or shared liquor from bottles they knew they couldn’t bring inside. 

Overhead was the sign for Club Crystal, the striking bright blue sticking out like an eyesore among the other buildings surrounding them. 

Tyree exhaled, leaning against the wall, pulling out his phone.

It was three fifteen exactly, and the club was scheduled to close in about forty minutes. He was surprised his phone was even still on - the battery on five percent, hanging on by a thread, much like how he was feeling himself at this moment. 

Even fresh air couldn’t shake the feeling Tyree harbored in his chest, his heart beating rhythmically to his breaths as he contemplated his next move.

There was only one move to do, honestly. 

And he was dreading taking the first step. 

In the back of his mind, way deep down - which was inching closer to the front little by little, taking giant leaps - he knew that the dancer was right. You can’t live your life for others. You can’t go along with someone else’s plans just because they love you. It would be selfish of him to continue a life with Michelle that he wasn’t happy with, just because it made her happy. Her happiness meant a lot to him, so why didn’t it make him happy?

But he didn’t want to hurt Michelle. 

And even though she would hate him, he knew she’d hate him even more if he followed through and couldn’t keep up the facade. It would absolutely crush her, and the thought of having to “fake it to make it” was going to crush him too. It was too late to get his deposits back and refunds for everything he had paid for already, but he had the money to not have to worry about that. And even though he’d never get that back, it was never too late to get peace of mind for his decisions and needs. 

Staring down at the text message thread between him and Michelle, his fingers hovered over the keyboard. The last time they had talked was hours ago, right before they went their separate ways for their parties. Cutesy, sugary-sweet exchanges of “I love yous” flooded in between their regular conversations, with Michelle’s last message telling him to have fun, but not too much fun. 

Tyree wasn’t one to be dumbfounded, or just draw blank - but for the first time in a while, he didn’t know what to say. For once, the overworking, clanking and crashing together gears that symbolized his brain were paralyzed, like someone threw a wrench dead center in the middle of it all. 

“You think that wing place will be open?” 

“It’s Friday, it might be.”

“I’d rather have Waffle House - they got them big ass chicken wings at that spot! It be making me feel like I’m really eating an animal.” 

“That’s cause it's..really a chicken, Mimi.” 

“I know, but baby chicks are so cute..I feel so bad for eating their parents.” 

Tyree looked up briefly from his phone as the three women exited through the doors next to him, engrossed in their conversation about what they were looking to eat. Dressed in sweatsuits and carrying stuffed, duffle bags on their shoulders, a security guard came out trailing behind them, escorting them through the parking lot. Tyree recognized two of them as Fancy and Mimi, watching them as the security guard pushed past drunk party-goers who stood outside, hoping to make a move on them, hollering a variety of obscenities. 

Although their faces were relatively familiar, the third woman was who he recognized the most. 

And here she was, approaching him from across the parking lot. 

Separating from her group, she dragged her feet beneath her, adjusting the pink bag on her shoulder. She walked slowly, walking through the line of cars that were trying to get out of the parking lot, and he noticed she kept constantly looking back and forth with almost each step. Almost like she was looking for someone, something. 

Tyree could feel his heart quicken in his chest, and by the time they were face to face, he felt like it was about to jump out of his chest and fall flat onto the ground between them. His hands were clammy, sweating, and he tightened his grip on his phone, finding himself anticipating her words, feeling himself slowly falling into that trance. The temptation. 

“You okay?”

Was all she said, keeping the distance between the two of them. Her demeanor had shifted, and he noticed she looked withdrawn, shrunken into herself, completely different from the woman who seemed to be in control of the situation between them not too long ago. Dressed casually, the black, cropped tank top and brown flared sweatpants were a stark contrast from her previous outfit, having exchanged her tall, platform heels for plain, black Crocs. Her hair framed the soft, beautiful features of her face, her arms and chest sparkling with shimmery, body glitter. 

“I don’t know,” 

He sighed, trying to shake loose the knot forming in his chest. 

He just had to take the first step.

Nothing major, right?

But the first step was always the hardest step. 

“But shit, I will be.”

Sending off a quick message to Michelle, telling her that they needed to talk, he locked his phone and pushed it back into the front pocket of his jeans. He gave his full attention to the woman before him, who tilted his head at him, her eyes analyzing him, seeing the slightest hint of a pitying, sympathetic look tugging at her features. They were quiet, taking each other in, an uneasy, weighted tension inching in between their lack of conversation. 

It was clear she didn’t know what to say, and neither did he, but it seemed like she understood what he meant without him having to explain it further.

She looked over her shoulder, at the black, Dodge Durango where her friends were waiting, hanging out of the window. They had been watching their exchange for the past few minutes, and the driver flashed their lights, signaling for her to hurry things up. She looked back at him, something lingering in her eyes, like she had something to say, but was unable to piece it together. 

“I’ll be fine. Don’t worry about me.” 

She sighed, adjusting the bag on her shoulder again, looking him over, like she was savoring the moment between them.

“Well good night, Tyree.” 

“Yeah, good night-”

“Yaya.”

He nodded, finally able to put a face to the name. He didn’t know what he was expecting, but he didn’t expect it to be so simple. So easy, slipping from her lips smoothly. He found himself repeating it in his mind, bouncing back and forth between the two syllables like a metronome. 

“Good night, Yaya.”

Smiling at him, she spun on her heel, and with a slight bounce in her step and a subtle switch of her hips, she headed back to her friends. 

But something in Tyree wasn’t just going to let her walk away so easily. 

And Yaya only made it halfway across the parking lot before Tyree’s own footsteps trailed behind her, the last bit of liquid courage flushing through his bloodstream. 

“Yaya!”

“Hm?”

She stopped in place, watching as he closed the distance between them. He towered over her smaller frame, and she looked up at him, a ready listener for whatever he decided to say next.

“Can I get your number?”

“Ain’t you finna get married?”

Yaya knitted her eyebrows together, her face scrunching up in disbelief. She crossed her arms over her chest, cocking her head sideways, the stern, stiff look she gave Tyree leaving him to pick up the pieces of the waning courage he once had. He could feel himself sobering up by the second - kicking himself for his forwardness. 

“I uh..”

Rolling her eyes at him, she turned back around, starting to walk away from him. Yet, Tyree followed, calling her name again. 

“It’s Amaiyah.”

“Huh?”

She shook her head, her arms still crossed over her chest. They stood a few feet away from each other, and Tyree could see the security guard that stood at the hood of the car, eyeing him. It was the same security guard from earlier, with the scorpion tattoo. Time was ticking, and if Tyree was going to make a move, he needed to do so sooner rather than later. And judging from the expression written across her face, Tyree’s time was about to run out at any moment. 

“My name. I’m not a stripper twenty-four seven. Call me Amaiyah.”

Uh-mai-yuh. His brain savored it, just like it did with her dancer name. Pretty name for a pretty girl. It suited her. 

“It suits you.”

Come on, Tyree. You got to have something way better than that. 

“Why should I give you my number?”

Amaiyah stepped towards him, Tyree trying to figure out what to say before he was staring down at her face again. 

And he couldn’t come up with shit.

She snickered, knowing she had caught him off guard, staring up into his eyes again. She stared long and hard too, like she was trying to get a clear read on him, debating if he was well worth the risk. And for the first time in a long time, Tyree felt like a high schooler, the look in her eyes reminding him of how a parent would over analyze someone coming over to take their daughter on a date. 

But then her eyes softened, and a wave of relief flushed over him. He passed her checklist. Good. 

She held her hand out, and he didn’t hesitate to slip his unlocked phone into her hand. He watched patiently as typed her number in, adding herself to his short list of contacts. The bright light from his phone reflected in her face, and she locked it back before she handed it to him, pushing it into his hand. 

“Figure your shit out and then come see me again.”

“How am I supposed to know the next time you work?”

The cynic in him told him that it was just a ploy to get him back in the club, back in that cesspool of sexual tension and lust, clouded with free flowing alcoholic drinks. She thought he was a sucker - that she’d get him to spend every last dollar he had on her-

“I work every Wednesday through Saturday,”

She broke his rapid train of thought, bursting the bubble of negative thoughts that tried to balloon up. 

“Don’t text me if you change your mind. I’m not a homewrecker.”

He nodded, listening intently as her subtle accent popped at the end of her words. She sounded like she was from out of town, her accent covered by a thin blanket of that familiar, southern, Atlanta twang. Her face was serious, and her words told him she meant business. 

And Tyree was all about his business. 

With an unspoken understanding between them, and a feminine wave, she turned on her heel, heading back towards her ride. Fancy and Mimi eyed him as Amaiyah climbed into the SUV, and he could hear them teasing her, their voices being drowned out by the low rumble of the engine, the car’s headlights shining against his legs.  

With her number in his phone, and a confident pep in his step, he headed back in the direction of the club. People spilled out from the doors as people filtered in, stumbling over their own feet as they walked. One woman nearly fell to her knees, but caught herself just as a fountain of throw up spilled out from her. Gross.

As people avoided the woman - who had to throw up again - Tyree scanned the crowd for his friends, meeting them halfway as he saw them split off from the people wandering out to their cars. Leading the group was Terrell, with RC and Dominic following close behind, Dominic practically being dragged out by RC, who was holding him up. 

“I was wondering where you went.”

Terrell wrapped his arms around Tyree’s shoulders, the two of them watching RC struggle to help Dominic stand on his own two feet. RC had since sobered up - but Tyree could tell he was still pretty drunk, judging by the way he staggered back and forth. If a relatively strong gust of wind came through, Dominic would’ve ended up right on the ground.

 It wasn’t a surprise to Tyree that Dominic was wasted - that was typically his thing whenever they all went out. Dominic was the only grown ass man he knew that would purposely go past his limit and end up blackout drunk. This was no exception, in fact, the fact that tonight was so special only gave Dominic even more of a reason to get that drunk. 

“Who’s that?”

RC pointed past Tyree, which made Terrell turn his head to look behind his brother. He knew RC was referring to Amaiyah and her friends in the car behind them, and he could still hear the rumble of the car, and see the headlights that shined straight in their direction. Tyree shook his head, waving his question off, keeping the events of tonight close to his chest. It was already tossed in the metaphorical lockbox in his head, wiped clean from the rest of his brain. He played into the facade, however, glancing over his shoulder briefly. 

“I don’t know. Nice car though.”

“Can we get food? I’m fucking starving.” 

Domonic spoke through his slurred speech, the words coming out all at once, sounding like his mouth was filled with water. He groaned as RC shifted his weight, Julius rolling his eyes as he dragged Domonic in the direction of the car. They joined the crowd of people, walking to Terrell’s forest green Lamborghini Urus at the far end of the parking lot. 

Behind them, the Durango eased around them, cutting into the flow of cars that were formed in a line to leave. It rolled to a stop in front of the twins, the Toyota and several other cars behind them beginning to honk as the line halted. Tyree and Terrell exchanged glances, the limousine style window tints reflecting their image right back at them. The driver side window rolled down slowly, revealing the driver to be a brown skin man with face tattoos, an ankh tattooed under his right eye. He looked them up and down before leaning back, Tyree realizing that Fancy was in the passenger seat. She leaned forward across her seat, her eyes locked on Terrell, a smirk stretched across her face. 

“Bye Terrell.” 

A goofy smile danced across Terrell’s face, a smile Tyree had seen one too many times. He didn’t even have to ask to understand the picture being painted in front of him, and he shook his head at his brother’s antics. 

“Bye Fancy..”

With their goodbyes exchanged, the driver rolled the window back up, giving the two of them an acknowledging nod. He sped forward, disregarding the people honking behind him, swerving around a group of people walking across the parking lot. The Durango cut to the front of the line, Tyree watching as it pulled out onto the street, heading in the opposite direction of the club, the crackle of the car’s engine fading out into the distance.

“So,”

Terrell turned to him, a sly grin replacing the smile on his face. He could already tell what he was thinking, and Tyree refused to give into the excited, expectant look in his brother’s eyes. Tyree wasn’t saying a word. What happened tonight was between him, Amaiayah, and what happened in the private room inside Club Crystal. And that’s exactly how he wanted to keep it - private. 

Too bad Terrell was already one step ahead of him. 

“You get her number? Don’t lie to me, nigga.”

Tyree couldn’t fight the smile he had, and Terrell grinned, shaking him back and forth, laughing. And knowing he was caught, Tyree unlocked his phone to show him proof. The screen opened right back up to Amaiyah’s contact information, where she left her name with a pink heart next to it.

“Yeah, I did-”

With newfound confidence and all the cockiness in the world, he handed the phone to Terrell, only for his face to fall flat when Terrell burst out in laughter, practically doubling over onto the ground. 

“What? The fuck are you-”

Snatching the phone back, Tyree looked over the screen, trying to figure out what was so damn funny all of a sudden. Terrell was still laughing, wrapping his arms around his stomach as deep laughs escaped from his chest, ones that left him gasping for air and unable to form a clear sentence. 

Then he saw it - right there - staring back at him, were the nine digits of Amaiyah’s phone number. Not the normal, required ten. 

“Looks like she got you-”

“You got makeup on your shirt.”

Stopping Terrell’s laughter in his tracks, Tyree pointed at the big makeup stain on the front of his shirt. Terrell’s face dropped, pulling at the hem of his shirt, getting a clear look at the well defined makeup stain. He kissed his teeth, sighing harshly, and threw his hands up into the air, Tyree half expecting him to start throwing a tantrum. 

“Fuck, this shirt was Prada!” 

“And now it’s nada.”

“Nigga, fuck you!”

[bijouxcarys]

𝑷𝒆𝒂𝒄𝒆 𝑳𝒐𝒗𝒊𝒏' 𝑮𝒖𝒚 - 𝑪𝑯𝑨𝑷𝑻𝑬𝑹 𝑶𝑵𝑬

Masterlist

𝐎𝐜𝐭𝐨𝐛𝐞𝐫, 𝟏𝟗𝟕𝟐

“𝐈𝐭 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐛𝐞 𝐬𝐨 𝐧𝐢𝐜𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐢𝐟 𝐈 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐚 𝐭𝐞𝐞𝐧𝐬𝐲 𝐬𝐢𝐩 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭, 𝐡𝐮𝐧.”

I looked across at Emma, who was already into her third glass of Rosé. Her cheeks were flushed from the wine and from the excitement in the air. She swirled the liquid around her glass, lifting it to catch the light as she did so. The rim was wet from where she had licked it earlier, and she ran her tongue over it again, but there was no moisture to lick up this time. I knew I would be slipping on excess liquid at some point the next day, my kitchen tiles sprawled with wine glaze like a Jackson Pollock painting.

It wasn’t exactly a huge flat, but it was what we could afford at the time. I had to hop across the floor to avoid stumbling over random items just to get to my Converse without twisting my ankle. Emma was dancing and singing to our favourite song at the time: Immigrant Song by the ever-amazing Led Zeppelin.

“I swear there is nobody… nobody… better than Zed Leppelin,” Emma slurred slightly, one Doc Marten short.

My best friend.

“Yes, I love Zed Leppelin…” I answered bluntly, but inevitably laughed at her. I propped myself up onto the kitchen counter, face to face with the mirror on the wall ahead of me, applying the rest of my make up on with attempted precision. It looked the best it could do at that point.

I was able to get a sip of Emma’s drink at one point, but not nearly enough to be as wankered as she was.

“Maria! This is my favourite bit! Ahhhh!” Emma whined, her voice flat and unsteady.

As I hopped off the counter, she started to belt out the lyrics, her voice rising and falling in all the wrong places. I could hear muffled conflict through the floorboards beneath me from my downstairs neighbours. They were once again arguing about money or sex or something else that would make them both miserable for an evening. Next time they would have to find something new to argue about because we had heard it all before.

Emma was oblivious when she got like this; slowly going down with a ship full of happy people who did not appreciate life nor each other.

It was difficult to lead her in the right direction as we made our way to the local pub. She was such a mess when she was drunk. I had no idea what I would do if I got that drunk. With it being student night, it was only 60p a pint. So, I wasn’t laying any bets on me not getting somewhat drunk.

It didn’t help that Emma insisted that her leather jacket was indeed a weather bucket. Seeing her this drunk diverted my desire to be on that level. A level that already had her eye makeup smudged, making her look like an escapee from a rave rather than someone going to get cheap drinks on a Friday night.

But that’s what we were hoping for. Cheap drinks and good company that made you feel like you’d rocked yourself hard in a discotheque the morning after, just so we did not have to be alone with our thoughts of university.

The good thing was that as soon as we got to the pub, we’d be away from any roads, so I no longer had to be responsible for Emma’s destructive actions. I wasn’t used to being the one to look after the other. Emma had always acted as a mother figure to me, even throughout our couple of years at college.

The bright lights of the local pub beckoned to Emma and me through the cold London night sky. The scent of hops and wheat beer was a familiar comfort during late nights like these, when you needed something to calm your nerves before you went home to study or work on an assignment. I kept my hands in my pockets as we walked towards the doors, feeling the crisp air burning my nose and condensing into ice crystals.

It was warmer inside than I had anticipated. The wooden ceiling tiles let through a yellow light, warming the room. People talked at low tones, some played pool at one of the tables while others stood around chatting in clusters. It was always a popular way to forget the stress of your studies, especially since it was so hard to make a living in London.

We sat down at the bar, where Emma immediately ordered two shots of tequila from the bartender, who gave us a curious smile.

To many, events management wasn’t even a real thing to study. I admit, it is a weird thing to get a degree in, but it was interesting to say the least. It had its moments. I was just glad I could break up those moments with a night of sitting with Emma drinking cheap beer.

I sighed and shook my head as she instinctively made moves on the bartender. She needed it, the poor thing. She needed a good shag, to be honest, there’s no other way to put it.

I, on the other hand, now felt very awkward. I’d never been left alone in a pub before. But I didn’t want to risk ruining things for Emma and the bartender, so I walked over to the other bar that was stood directly next to that one.

A few drinks, and I should be fine.

After ordering my pint, I turned around and leaned on the bar so that I could get a good look at my surroundings. I noticed the stage was cleared of tables. Another student band, it seemed. A lot of the bands formed at Imperial weren’t exactly original, in all honesty. It wasn’t necessarily bad music; it just wasn’t anything worth buying in to.

After 3 and a half pints, my nerves had soothed out and I was confident enough to move myself over to an empty table. I did look around briefly for Emma, but I noticed she was now sat with another guy, at the other side of the pub.

That girl, I swear to God.

I would have ventured for someone else that I knew, had the student band not made their entrance. So, I just stayed where I was, finally being able to occupy myself with listening to music rather than sitting alone and drinking.

“We’re extremely thrilled to be here tonight!” The frontman, evidently tipsy, announced to everyone. Some people had intentionally stopped what they were doing in order to get a better view. A group of girls giggled as they pointed at their favourite band member. Some people had pulled up chairs and were sitting side by side while they drank and chatted together. It had me wondering, were they anything special?

“I’m Freddie, I’m the important one who makes sure you all have a beautiful night, you beautiful people.” He chuckled into the microphone, which was attached to a dissected stand. “John Deacon on bass,” he pointed over a meeker looking male, stood towards the back. “Of course, we have blondie on the drums!” Freddie hissed, as the blonde at the back stood up. His arms drummed out a rhythm from behind his drumset and made it sound like he was giving instructions to follow him into battle.

“What a tart, Roger.” Freddie teased, before excessively gesturing towards the last person to come on stage.

He was much taller than the rest of them and his hair was voluminous to say the least. He was also extremely thin, but he made up for it when he held his guitar in front of him.

“And this is Brian May on the gee-tar!”

“Tequila shots?? Only 50p each!” A bartender held out a circular tray with shot glasses scattered out amongst it.

I really shouldn’t, I thought, remembering I had a meeting with my professor the next day. But alas, I have never been good at self-control – especially when it came to alcohol. I bought two shots and downed them almost instantly. My throat almost closed at the strong taste; mimosas are more pleasant in comparison. I was not used to it at all.

I coughed and stifled my outburst with my hand, eyes riveted on the band onstage. The four of them were all attractive in their own intriguing ways. The sound of the drums was punctuated by the enthusiastic beat of Roger’s drumsticks. He had a certain kind of charm about him that made him almost larger-than-life. But it was the guitarist who truly stole my heart away with his displays of raw passion as he strummed chords that resonated perfectly with each other. He had intense dark eyes that seemed to bore into the fretboard of his guitar as he played with furious intensity, each riff powerful and precise. I must admit, they gave other bands a run for their money.

The song they performed seemed familiar—like it could have been an old classic that I couldn’t quite remember the name of. All I knew was that it filled me with an intense nostalgia and joy all at once. As soon as it ended, I felt a pang of regret settle within me. Alas, the song that I did not know the name of stayed in my head for the rest of the night. Whatever it was, it was a real banger.

“Maria!”

Startled, my head snapped towards the voice, spotting Emma walking towards me with a deep flush to her face.

“Where have you been?” I asked her, a slight slur to my voice as she took the seat beside me. But before she could answer, I rushed over her response. “And why is your face red?! Are you bleeding?!” My screeching voice echoed around us; I stood up hastily, knocking over my chair with my clumsiness, trying desperately to inspect Emma’s face for any signs of wounds.

“No! Oh… No…” Emma shook her head with a dopey smile. “It’s the lipstick… Got a bit smudged.”

“But you don’t wear—” Hiccup. “You don’t wear stiplick… Uh, lipstick.” I would have laughed at my own cock-up if it weren’t for the fact that I was a hair off of vomiting a bit of alcohol back up. Two drinks and I had hit rock bottom.

Drinking alcohol had always been something fun to do with friends in the past – a happy social experience without any undertones of depression or jealousy or whatever other emotions you could get when you drank alone.

I looked around and saw that people in surrounding groups were cheering loudly when the leader singer threw a towel at a specific group of girls stood at the side of the stage at the climax of his performance.

“We should probably go home… unless you want to meet the guys who were just up on that stage thing,” Emma waved roughly in the same relative directed as the stage. “Oh my God, that blonde drummer was so pretty!”

“No, we should go home. I have a meeting with Professor Ross tomorrow, remember?” I sighed sadly with a pout, guiding myself carefully towards the door.

“You know,” I heard Emma coming up behind me as we stepped out into the cold air. “Sometimes I think you should just shag the professor… That’s the closest you’ll get to a boyfriend, Maria…”

That was one thing about Emma: she said what was on her mind without pity or malice, but she really couldn’t control herself when she got drunk, which made for comedic situations that reminded me why I loved her so much.

“You always take yourself so seriously, Maria… Like your life is super hard and everything… on planet Earth right now is soooo bad! It’s not… you should just let loose every once in a while. Maybe, like, try some different makeup or something. Or shag someone—you could be having proper sex instead of snogging lampposts!”

I rolled my eyes as we made our way down the gravelly street.

“That band didn’t seem so bad… I’d shag all of them!”

I practically screamed at Emma’s words, as we both stumbled in the direction of our flat.

“Emma, I think I have a thing for guitarists now. I—” I would have finished my thought, only I hurled over into a bush, vomiting aggressively some of the alcohol back up. My mouth puckered from the taste of undigested alcohol and saliva; it was horrible. The sharp smell of vomit stung my nose, but I didn’t care about anything but getting as far away from this bush as possible. Emma held me under one arm, supporting me with her softness and absolute lightness. She helped me walk out of the bush and to the path toward home.

She tried her best to get my hair out of the way of my mouth, but it was already infused with my vomit. What a lovely sight I was.

Emma chuckled, squeezing me with her arm.

“Hey, maybe guitarists are into lightweights.”

I scoffed and groaned, already feeling the hangover approaching.

“What a wonderful world that would be.”

My head felt like it was being crushed by a giant hammer. Overwhelming pain and fatigue mixed with the sound of fizzing that rumbled in my brain. An agonising groan flew from my mouth, as I stirred from my unconsciousness to find Emma placing an aspirin on the coffee table.

“Maria, hun, it’s 10:30.” Her voice echoed through the fog of my hangover. Even the slightest ray of light felt like needles piercing my eyes.

“I need some sunglasses,” I muttered painfully as I pulled myself up from the sofa. My actions had been carefree last night, but I never intended to get so drunk. If only I could take back the control that slipped away too easily.

“What time did you say it was?” My voice was hoarse from the night before, and my limbs were stiff from sleeping on the sofa. I stumbled to grab the glass of aspirin, steadying it as best as I could with my trembling hands as Emma plopped down next to me, handing me a plate with a slice of toast on it.

“Half 10. What time is your meeting?” Emma said through her own morning grogginess. I looked at her, my eyes growing by the second.

Shit! The meeting!

I quickly swallowed the aspirin and took a bite out of the toast, leaping to my feet. Unfortunately, all of the sudden movement made me feel dizzy, and my vision became blurred for a moment.

No, no… Steady yourself!

“I won’t be too long, um,” I scrambled for my converse as I tried to tame my dishevelled hair. “There’s some pasta from the other night in the fridge, I gotta go, love you.” With that, I left Emma alone.

The walk from my flat to Imperial’s main campus felt like an eternity, despite how close it was. If only I had a car. Or at least knew someone who did.

It was one of those walks where your calves burn, really burn. When you know just how long you have left to walk, but your feet can’t seem to take you there fast enough. When your brain is just filled of nothing but determination to get to where you’re headed – even if it isn’t even that important. Yeah, walks like that stressed me out big time.

With only a few minutes to spare, I walked through the double doors of the college atrium, heading straight for the lift. There’s no way I’m walking up 5 flights of stairs feeling like pure death.

Much to my dismay, when I held out my finger to press the button, there was a piece of paper, with ‘out of order’ written on it.

Great, I thought.

As I made my way up the steps of the third flight of stairs, I had to resist the urge to burst into tears. My legs ached, I was so hot that it felt unbearable, and I felt like I could faint at any moment. My intoxication from the previous night had only made the situation worse.

I managed to make it to my professor’s office, which doubled as our lecture hall. It was decorated with images and accomplishments of some of the most successful music managers and publishers. My studies for the year focused on John Reid and his collaborations with Elton John. He was an incredibly important figure in the record industry, with him being so young, and coming from a humble background. Those simple facts made his accomplishments seem all the more remarkable.

As I predicted, I spotted my professor seated at his desk, absorbed in stacks of papers before him.

“Ah, Maria. You’re late.” The scolding tone I had been expecting was enough to let me know that my tardiness was a mistake, arriving to our meeting some twenty minutes after the scheduled time.

“Yes, Sir, I apologise. I must have overslept,” I replied meekly, making an attempt to smother my strained panting.

“Take a seat.”

Grateful for the reprieve from standing, I placed my bag on the ground and perched myself on the edge of the chair.

“Maria, I have to be straightforward and let you know that I’m an incredibly busy man,” my professor began. My initial dear was that he would go on a lecture about how I should be looking for a job and stop relying on student funds. Instead, he went on, “Since I’m based in London, there are too many opportunities available but too few people to fill them. And when I’m not running twenty minutes late because of certain students…” My cheeks burned. “I am often being offered job postings.”

I shifted forwards, massaging my throbbing knees. “Really?”

“Indeed,” he responded. “What you may not know is that you’re one of our top students in the course at Imperial. Which is why I have a proposition for you.”

A swirl of questions rushed into my mind: Was I finally receiving a job offer? Would I be able to repay all of my debts? Could I now proudly inform my parents I had landed a job?

Instantly, my posture was held upright in anticipation as I leaned forward in the chair, eager to listen to what my professor had to say.

“It’s been a challenging process lately with a lot of people in our area trying to make it big in the music business, becoming the next rockstar.”

In response, I injected a hint of light-heartedness to our discussion, remarking, “Yes, Sir, that’s certainly a good way to make a lot of money.”

“It could be,” he continued. “There’s a group here that I want you to look after and get the most out of their experience. You can earn some of it back, but there won’t be much money coming your way. It’s just the way of getting some valuable experience in the music business.”

My already sinking spirits were doused further when he added this tid-bit, for I could not hope to survive off of the meagre sum. Sinking back into my seat, I could not help but be overcome by my heavy fatigue from my recent hangover.

Free work? Absolutely not, Sir.

“This isn’t exactly the next Rolling Stones here,” he clarified, attempting to alleviate the sour atmosphere in the room. “These musicians aren’t even from the music department. All I need you to do is mentor them a bit and book them some local gigs if possible.”

Reluctantly, I came to the realisation that I had nothing to lose by accepting this opportunity. With nothing to risk and potentially something to gain, it was certainly worth the try.

I had been expecting a little time to contemplate my decision, however, due to arriving late, I was only given two minutes to make my choice. It wasn’t as if I had much of a choice, besides, this was an opportunity to aid me in getting a degree.

Every single second seemed to be stretched out into an eternity, leaving me feeling weary and nauseous, my tiredness deciding to abruptly fail me in the worst possible time. The moment I heard voices approaching from the outside, coming closer, I knew I was in for a ride.

“What do you mean, it’s my fault the lift isn’t working?” A shrill voice sounded, sounding slightly out of breath, at the same time the door opened to reveal the blonde-haired drummer boy from the pub, looking just as arrogant as I remembered. I couldn’t believe my eyes when Freddie and Brian, the singer and guitarist from the night before, followed shortly after, sending my already weakened state into further disarray.

My professor stood up, pointing to me and saying, “This is Maria, she’ll be making sure you book the correct gigs and gain enough publicity.” After shaking away the effects of my hangover just enough to properly introduce myself, I couldn’t help but feel comforted by locking eyes with Freddie. Roger however, seemed quite excitable, an observation which had me instantly pondering how he would get on with Emma.

Lastly, Brian, with his hair looking like a poodle's, was standing in the corner with his hands shoved into his pockets, giving me a slightly unsure look. It was then that I noticed my throat was becoming drier by the second and that I was struggling to breathe properly.

The guitarist’s eventual smile was enough to send my stomach into an uproar, although I couldn’t quite tell if it was due to my anxiety or hangover. My mind felt blank for a second as Brian waited for me to introduce myself.

“Erm, sorry. I’m…” My voice got caught in my throat, somewhat unable to finish my sentence.

I heard Freddie’s mischievous chuckle fill the room, his voice laced with playful amusement. “Have you forgotten your name already, darling?” he teased, his eyes dancing with mirth. Meanwhile, Roger, his blonde locks framing his face, couldn’t help but join in, a soft giggle escaping his lips as he adjusted his hat.

A wave of nausea washed over me, compelling me to rush towards the bin tucked away in the corner of my professor’s room. With each heave, I found myself yearning for Emma’s presence, someone to hold my hair back and offer comfort. Yet, to my dismay, they all stood there, mere spectators to my torment, their gazes fixed upon me without offering any aid.

When the ordeal finally subsided, I gingerly wiped my mouth with my sleeve, attempting to compose myself as best I could. Despite the undeniable evidence of my body’s revolt, I fought to maintain an appearance of normalcy, as if I hadn’t just expelled the contents of my stomach.

Roger, taken aback by the insinuation that they were the cause of my sickness, voices his offence, “Jesus, we’re not that bad, are we?” Brian, sensing the need to defuse the situation, swiftly nudged him, effectively silencing his protest.

Feeling a pang of guilt, I conjured up a lie, unwilling to reveal the truth about my indulgence in excessive drinking the previous night. “S-sorry… I guess I’m not well,” I stammered, my words cloaked in falsehood, fearing the judgement that would accompany any glimpse of my perceived irresponsibility.

Brian’s voice, quiet and reassuring, offered solace amidst the turmoil, but his words were eclipsed by the deep sigh emanating from my professor. Expressing concern for my recent behaviour, he advised, “Maria, I think you should go home and come back tomorrow with a stronger mindset. I don’t know what’s gotten into you lately.”

Burdened by shame, I hastily gathered my belongings, my footsteps hurried as I attempted to escape the situation. However, my escape was interrupted as Freddie’s hand clasped around my arm, a sympathetic smile gracing his lips. “It’s alright, darling, we all get pissed sometimes,” he consoled me, a touch of laughter colouring his words. With a gentle release of his grip, he allowed me to continue on my way.

As I made my retreat, a lingering sense of embarrassment enveloped me, casting a shadow over the encounter that would remain etched in my memory.

Brian

I observed Maria’s departure from the room, her face filled with embarrassment. It was evident that the professor’s attitude had done little to make her feel welcomed. What a prick, I thought, casting a disdainful glance at him. Sensing Maria’s unease, I turned my attention back to the professor.

“Are you sure she’s going to be able to handle us?” I inquired, picking up on her anxious exit.

Roger chimed in, his voice tinged with a hint of arrogance. “Yeah, we’re not exactly easy to be around. We want a lot from this experience, you know.”

Rolling my eyes, I interjected, not impressed with Roger’s comment. “I’m sure you do, Rog,” I retorted, well aware of his intentions when it came to meeting a new girl.

“Ladies, please, we can fight in our own time,” Freddie scolded us, his tone laced with exasperation. “Deacy doesn’t like the fighting, darling. How could you possibly be this childish?”

“It’s a good thing he’s not here then, isn’t it?” Roger shot back, revealing his immaturity.

The professor interrupted our verbal clash, clearing his throat. “That’s a point. Aren’t there four of you? Where’s the other one?”

“The other one, my dear, is our bassist, and he’s more than ‘the other one’. Furthermore, he doesn’t come here,” Freddie retorted sharply, striding toward the professor, and clasping his hands behind his back. It was evident that someone had irked Freddie with such a response. “He doesn’t mix with scum, darling.”

“Fred, chill,” I interjected, attempting to diffuse the tension as I offered a warm smile to the professor.

Freddie took a step back, relenting. “So, we’ll take the girl’s number and say no more about it, yes?”

“Of course,” the professor replied dryly, jotting down Maria’s number on a small piece of paper. Before the professor could even pick it up, Freddie snatched it from him, turning around and heading for the door.

“Remember she’s an unpaid student. Don’t be too ambitious, and don’t stress her out too much, boys,” the professor cautioned.

Roger smiled, shrugging his shoulders. “Don’t worry, we only need a little push, and we’ll be on Top of the Pops in five years.”

“Five years, darling? Try two years!” Freddie proclaimed with confidence, opening the door for us all to exit. As we left, I could have sworn I heard the professor mutter, “You wish.”

“You can’t keep your mouth shut, you two,” I snapped at Freddie and Roger as we made our way down the stairs.

“What are you complaining about?” Roger countered. “One girl is going to be spending a lot of time around us, four guys. This is the best opportunity of our lives, Bri!”

I scoffed, shaking my head. “The only opportunity you think you’re getting is to get in her pants, which will not happen, by the way. You can’t mix up business with lust, Rog.”

Roger stopped in his tracks, raising an eyebrow mischievously. “Let’s hope she has a hot friend, then!” With that, he skilfully slid himself down the banister of the staircase.

“You wish, Blondie,” I murmured under my breath, trailing behind Roger down the stairs.

[uncannychange]

Haunt or Hoax: The Investigation Chronicles

As boys, Benjamin Payne, Henry Beaufort, and Gill West watched and laughed together at all the old “ghost hunter” programs on the Travel Channel.

Now, years later, they had gotten into their heads the idea of doing a latter-day version of that sort of thing on Patreon, only they would play it all as the foolishness it all was.

The series title was to be Haunt or Hoax: The Investigation Chronicles, with Benjamin and Henry as the stars and Gill as the cameraman, sound guy, and editor.

For their first episode, they found out about a huge, creepy old house in the North East that had been unsaleable for almost one hundred years because its original owner had been the head of some kook cult in the 1920s. They and his followers would get together and with the use of “essential salts” and some jibber jabber called up the spirits of people from the far past.

“It's just the kind of crapola that people eat up with a fork!” said Henry. Let's go!” said Benjamin and Gill, and they did.

After making arrangements and paying a fee, they were let in the indeed very creepy but still surprisingly sturdy old house, where they would be let to record for three full days and nights, especially nights.

The three entered what turned out to be a picturesquely decayed but otherwise dull empty old house.

They knocked about on the first two floors with Ben and Henry vamping and mugging for the camera as hard as they could, but knowing none of it would be impressive.

“It's a Good thing I dug up all those pictures and things from back in the 20s about the kooks that used to hang out here. I’ll just use them to spice up the footage,” said Gill. Yeah, we’re going to need something,” said Henry. This is getting rank.

Then they came to the single heavy door leading to the third floor, which the person renting them their short stay said was sealed with no key, so forget about it.

Benjamin knew how to pick locks, and so did.

There, the three found enough to be sure they had just saved Haunt or Hoax: The Investigation Chronicles.

Weird, creepy old furniture, drawings filled with symbols on the walls, and leather-bound books, along with a shelf lined with glass jars with a handwritten note saying “essential salts” and the big prize, a table on which sat a cloudy crystal ball in the middle of the room!

“Jackpot!” said Gill as Benjamin and Henry busied themselves, checking everything in the main third-floor room.

It didn’t take long for Benjamin to find a dusty old book open to a passage reading “On invoking the Salts.” while Henry found the last three jars that still had something looking like salt in them.

“How about you guys do the ritual in the book while I record? Then, when it’s over, and you give a long pause as if something might happen, you both look up and say, “We should have brought some pepper!”

“Or something,” said Benjamin. "Yeah, we’re the talent; we’ll improvise something funny,” added Henry

“Whatever,” said Gill after the light, mikes, and camera were set up. They did follow the ritual found in a book called Redeunt de Cineribus, Corpore et Anima, at the end of which the pair looked up, ready to deliver their agreed-upon punchline, only to be interrupted by the darn crystal ball lighting up, and the three little piles of salt puffing out into thick clouds of smoke and engulfed all three of them.

When the smoke cleared, Henry and Benjamin’s punchline was quickly changed to all three of them, even Gill, who was supposed to stay quiet behind the camera, shouting, “Who the hell are you?”

The “who” they were referring to were three beautiful young women dressed head to toe in what looked like authentic flapper fashion from a century before, from rolled-down silk hosiery to the latest, for 1924, bobbed hairstyles.

After the first panic, the three could establish that, yes, each of the women was, in fact, themselves: Benjamin, Henry, and Gill.

This transformation inspired them to actually read and pay attention to what was in the dusty old book they had used.

In the end, they discovered that the ritual they had performed was supposed to return the mind, body, and spirit of three party girl flappers who had died in a speakeasy fire that had happened in 1922. but because they didn’t have enough of the poor dears' essential salts, they had only been able to bring back their bodies and clothing.

“It says here that after a day and an hour, the invocation will run out, and the departed will return to the past, and the volunteers will regain their true selves.”

“Well, that’s a relief,” said Henry, who, of the three, found walking in heels and being almost a foot shorter the most difficult to deal with as her new self.

Twenty-five hours later the three found the promised “returning of their true selves” Not taking place.

Even enchanted essential salts, it seemed, had a sell-by date as they looked in a mirror and saw they were stuck.

“Well, now, what will you be improvising, talents?” Asked Gill.

The woman who had been Benjamin shrugged and said

“I don’t know, but we are pretty hot, so let's change our names to Betty Payne, Harlow Beaufort, and Gigi West and switch from Patreon to Only Fans."

And they did.

[bee-barnes-author]

DYING ON THE FIRST DATE EXCERPT

Chapter 1

A shark is���latched onto my throat. Sucking my life right out of me. No. I blink twice in an unsuccessful attempt to clear my vision. Not a shark. My date for the New Year’s party. He’s got his teeth clamped down around my throat and he’s moaning obscenely as my blood flows into his maw.

How did this-?

He pets my face and I fall backwards into myself. Into my soul. For a moment I'm suspended between consciousness and not, and I can feel it all. My blood rushing towards the wound vacuum sealed by his mouth. His pronged tongue flicking greedily over the holes in my flesh. I shudder, cold, disgusted to my core.

And then I’m free falling into blackness.

***

I’m in the arms of a man I don’t know. Our feet glide gracefully over smooth hardwood floors. Rock music blares from the speakers, but we’re stepping an elegant waltz across the empty room full of other couples just like us. I feel like I’m floating.

It takes effort, but I strain and engage the muscles in my neck. I’m only successful in turning my head an inch or so. It hurts to pull any further, like I’m…tearing myself apart. I want to look at my handsome dance partner. When I picture his face, his features blur, like there’s a thick film of vaseline over him. I cry out in pain hear a noise and it’s so close that I feel the vibration of it in my ears.

The hosts of the dance party have wrapped yellow twinkle lights along the rafters on the ceiling. I stare until my eyes burn and I’m forced to blink. “Who are you?” I ask my handsome date in a dazed, high, girlish voice.

His lips make a wet squelching noise when he breaks the seal his mouth made against my neck. He’s breathless, and I feel him panting on my cheek. I want to gag at the stinking copper moisture of his mouth. “Why, I’m your handsome date.” He says, and I smile because he’s right. Of course, how could I have forgotten? “And we’re dancing the night away.” He finishes speaking and fixes his mouth right back at my throat.

We don’t dance.

We sway out of sync with the music. Just the two of us lovers caught up in our own little world. He spins me and a laugh like crystal echoes in my head. He’s killing me. My handsome date works his jaw to bite deeper into my flesh. My left arm twitches violently and I knock over a wine glass. It crashes to the floor. Shatters into a puddle of shards and red wine.

I blink and time moves backward in a flash of light. I’m watching a past version of myself through a stranger's eyes. Me from before breaks off with her friend group. I cry out wordlessly, trying to warn us against splitting from the safety of numbers for even a moment.It’s useless. I am nothing more than a wisp in this memory, and I cannot hear myself scream. Past me totters off to the bar. I remember it seemed like I was a sole salmon trying to swim upstream.

Then a bear’s paw cut through the river and caught me by my gills.

My handsome date is indeed very handsome now that I can recall him clearly. His crow-black hair makes his skin seem so pale it appears translucent. In fact, I can see his veins in his neck and face if I look carefully. He’s wearing black jeans, a white t-shirt, black leather boots, and a black leather jacket. “There you are.” He says, and his voice is like silk. He speaks to me like he’s known me forever. Impatiently, too, like he’s been looking for me all night.

“Who are you?” Déjà vu throbs through me.

“Why, I’m your handsome date.” He finishes, and I watch him from a third person perspective. He crowds against past-me, pressing my bare back against the brick wall of the club. The brick vibrates from the volume of the music. I remember it made tingles trickle up my spine to my skull and made me feel dizzy. “Come with me.” He says and I obey mindlessly.

I’m just a lucky gal on a date with a swell guy. I know this because he tells me so. The ghostly apparition that I am, I can now see my friends calling to me. Demanding to know where I was going. “Who is that guy?” Tessa has to shout to be heard over the thumping bass. I don’t even turn my head. Past-me is deaf to it all.

I feel a mental shove, and then suddenly my mind is back in my own body. “Sneaking around in my brain won’t save you.”

My head flops forward, and I’m forced to look him in the face. The lower half is glittering and wet with my blood. He has to hold my head still. I’m limp like an infant, reliant on my captor to prop me up. I’m drifting, floating while a single word swirls around my brain.

Vampire.

[terrence-silver]

what about 80s Terry with a university beloved so like 21, and they live with their father but its a clueless situation where their dad is a really rich lawyer and beloved is this really spoiled but sweet person and Terry works with their dad?

---

The great thing about these attorneys is that you could always strike a deal with them.

They were persuasive as they were ready to be persuaded.

From Terry Silver's personal experience, legal practitioners were, in effect, businessmen on the downlow, always finding a hole in the law or in their own pockets that could use some filling from the right man with cash, which made all the difference from being trialed guilty, left free on parole on deemed entirely innocent ranging on anything from crimes against humanity on the basis of polluting ecosystems in Micronesia or some other Third World Hellhole on the map, or simply not stopping for a red traffic light during a particularly jam-packed rush hour day on Sunset Boulevard. Lawyers had this uncanny ability to make anything possible, swindle any outcome into any other outcome with enough verbal tenacity; a sort of alchemy with briefcases and suits involved --- which is perhaps why Terry found them such a valuable assessory, and he felt, every well-to-do man in his right mind ought to. Hell, in any other reality, if he wasn't what he was, and if he didn't inherit what he inherited, if Dynatox didn't exist, Terry could've imagined himself taking up law too, finding the Machiavellian dance of it all rather tempting, but as things were, he was the represented party rather than doing the representing himself. In Willie Cole's absence on an impromptu vacation to the Bahamas for a court case well done; a trip Terry rewarded him with himself, another took his place, one of the younger lawyers that he kept on the backburner, a man his own age, give or take --- in his early forties. Someone with assets he found he rather admired, other than his professional wit, of course.

A daughter.

Age 21.

A student.

A ripe cherry Terry Silver wanted to bob on his tongue.

-"When Mr. Cole returns from his time in the sun, he might find his place usurped."- Terry quips, smiling into his own chin, cutting the tip of his Cuban cigar and offering the box to his man, seated opposite of him on the leather studded brown recliner, out on the elaborate stone veranda, riddled with colossal carved stone pots and the decor of swinging miniature palm trees. Terry wanted the setting for this chat picturesque, the liquor strong, the appetizer brought out sweet, the staff polite. He was out hunting for a bride. -"I can make you my, as they say, number one guy."- Terry smiles, lighting his tobacco and letting it hang loose between his lips as he spoke, pointing a bejeweled finger at the guy, trying for nonchalance. Throwing him a bone, knowing he would swallow it. The man looked intrigued, fidgety, curious, speculative; all at once. He would yield. Terry knew. They always yielded. -"Bigger salary. Benefits. A better car. Suits. More exclusive clientele your way. What's not to like?"- He lists off all the perks, none of them a lie. These things, they were all an assurance of simply working for him. Something that went with the territory of being in his employ. Terry was, in effect, asking his backburner attorney to take over Willie Cole, a few years before Will's retirement, it was time for the new guard to come in. Terry might've come to that decision for purely selfish motivations, though. Put his long-term lawyer into premature, forcible pension and promote the competent new guy with the beautiful morsel of a daughter. The ends justified the means. -"He had his moment! I rewarded him for it well! But, you've proven yourself and I never forget loyalty, Lindon."-

Terry coos once the server brings over the crystal glasses on a silver platter.

Terry pouring the an ounce of Scotch each, the oldest he had.

Was he flaunting his money in particular today of all days? Maybe. This was, after all, his father-in-law who didn't yet realize he was really to be a father-in-law.

-"How does that sound to you?"- Terry tilts his head with a smile, offering him his drink, watching him fidget in his seat. His body language gave away the airs of temptation. Like he wanted to say yes very eagerly, but at the same time realizing that the moral conundrum of all of this was more complicated than it seemed. This wasn't just a promotion. This was matchmaking. A proposal. An arranged marriage. A Shidduch, as his father would call it. -"Why, gee, Mr. Silver, I don't know what to say; Willie has been on your board for over a decade and..."- Lindon Curtis Anderson, Senior Associate and Criminal Defense Lawyer Extraordinaire hesitates, and Terry immediately cuts him off. He wouldn't take 'no' or 'maybe' as an answer. -"Say yes, my man! Don't throw away a good opportunity when I'm offering it to you. It's 1984! It's the year of prosper!"- Terry gets up in a bout of artificial friendliness, standing up to sit beside his lawyer, hip to hip, practically smacking him on the back, like old pals do and sneaking his arms around him, not about to let him go. -"And while you're at it. Remember that special agreement we had?"- Terry purrs, and if there was ever an appropriate time to amp up the temperature of the proverbial frog being cooked in the pot, it would be right about now. Terry visible sees his lawyer swallow hard, his Adam's Apple practically bobbing in his mouth as he croaks out a nervous: -"Yes."- His voice practically shaking. Wow. Pa' over here was behaving like he would be marrying his daughter off to the devil and not to someone with a networth with several zeroes and growing.

-"I want to meet her. Officially."-

Is all Terry utters, and those words fall like an order.

[tertiaryapocalypse]

[id: character sheets of lukah, victor, jaime, cameron, and mel. each sheet contains a front and back view, a bag with detailed contents, a hand view, basic information on name, age, pronouns, and identities, and a color palette. extended description under the read more.]

moving these to my main !

[extended id:

the first sheet shows lukah hofwegen, a short, thin mixed chinese white american boy. he is 15. he is autistic, bisexual, and trans, using he/him pronouns. he stands with his hands in his pockets and his tongue sticking out. he has tan skin, brown eyes and round glasses. he has dark brown hair that is dyed blue, and a scar on his knee. lukah wears a trucker jacket with patches for nasa and aliens on the sleeves and a first robotics comp patch on the back. his shirt is black with the homestuck logo on it and he wears black basketball shorts with blue, white, and orange sports shoes. he has painted black nails, small nicks on his right hand and wears a variety of bracelets on his left wrist. lukah's backpack is black with pins and patches. contents are a red ds, spiderman wallet, walkie-talkie, comic book, adjustable wrench, a few text books, and a flash light. his phone case has a ufo on it.

the second is of victor holt, a tall, thin, white american boy. he is 16. he is gay & uses the vincian flag. he uses he/him. he has chin length blonde hair in a pony tail and blue eyes. he has acne and wears thick purple rimmed glasses. he wears a black hoodie with 'anti social social club' on the back of it, a heathers shirt, light blue skinny jeans and purple converse high tops. he has a scar on his chin. he has a black jansport backpack with bones embroidered around the logo. in victor's bag is a blue tomadachi, mini sewing kit, play script, purple pencil case, first aid kit and a variety of textbooks. he has a bandaid on his hand. his phone case is lavender with a skateboarding skeleton on it.

the third is of jaime perrault, a thin freckled white person. he is 15, gay, and genderqueer. she uses he/she. she has short wavy brown hair and green eyes. he wears a reddish beanie, a yellow flannel hoodie, a black shirt, light blue jeans and black doc martens. her backpack is dark grey with sunflowers on it. her phonecase is checker patterned with a yellow flower charm. in his bag is a spell jar for happiness, flower seeds, a pocket knife, a leather wallet, a black hydroflask with daisies painted on it and various textbooks, including one about flora of the west coast. she has three bracelets: one with the genderqueer flag, one with beaded flowers, and one that is red with white hearts. jaime stands with his hands in her pockets.

the fourth sheet is of cameron seong, a 16 year old chubby filipino kid. they use they/she and are aromantic and nonbinary. they have medium toned skin, braces, and short dark hair. they wear a green shirt over a black skeleton hoodie and dark grey patchwork jeans. she has brown leather boots. their shirt reads 'i eat children' and has a balloon image on it. their bag is a black hiking backpack, and contains comic books, textbooks, a sketchbook, stim toy, foldable knife, walkie talkie, protection spell jar and water bottle. they have a worm on a string designed to look like a bee and their phone case is black with a green lightning pattern card holder. their hands are scraped and scarred and they have a skull bead bracelet.

the fifth is of florence seong, a tall, thin japanese person with freckles. he is achillean and uses he/it pronouns. it has long dark hair in a low pony tail that's bleached blond at the tips. he wears a white collared shirt under a red knit sweater with white hearts on it, blue jeans, and black doc martens. it has clear glittery nail polish. his bag is a light brown messenger bag. it contains cat treats, a compass, crystals, a big sketchbook and a novel. his phone case is clear with a flattened fern in it. he wears a charm bracelet, a yellow friendship bracelet. it has heart shaped dangly earrings.

the last sheet is of mel franz, a thin mixed thai german jewish boy. he uses he/they and is aroace. they have a curly dark mullet and medium toned skin with beauty marks. he wears a black green day shirt, dark jeans, and sky blue converse. they have pink and blue hair clips, earrings, a necklace with the star of david on it, and a pink and blue friendship bracelet. their bag is a black jansport backpack. they have a clear phonecase. their bag has a walkie talkie, a pack of gum, a rubik's cube, an old camera, a scrapbook with hello kitty stickers on it, uno, textbooks, and a pencil case in it. he has pink nail polish. his full name is written as melvin franz with the 'vin' crossed out.

end id.]

[laketaj24]

Serotonin

Author’s Note: I finally finished something in my drafts after two months. I feel semi accomplished today! Taglist is open, as are requests!!!! Send them… I want them.

Pairing: Colson Baker x Reader

Warning: Smut, public sex, drinking, language

Inspo Song: Why are you here?

 The eyes searing into you from across the club belonged to Meg Styer; you knew of her well, based on Colson’s Instagram, she was the new arm piece. The well-known model had a reputation of making herself known to the exes, even if that meant starting confrontations when they were not needed. She crossed her long russet brown legs; they shimmered in gold, as did her entire outfit. You felt immediately outdone, thinking of the minimal effort you’d put into the outfit or your makeup today. Tonight's outing was not supposed to be about Colson or this new woman; it was about falling out of this fucking slump you'd found yourself in for the past month.

"It’s lively here.” Eric grinned. Straight edge, Eric.

You cringed inside; if your mother could have created someone on an app, Eric would have been him. Without a doubt, he was handsome, with dark hair, delicate features, and not a tattoo or piercing in sight. The club had been his idea, but parts of you believed he’d gotten the idea from your sister, who knew that there was no way in hell you’d sit at a restaurant and eat. You liked the action; your job called for you to sit in silence and awkward conversations; you didn't want your life to be a damper as well.

“It is,” you looked around, taking everything in, including the abrasive eyes that still remained on you, but it didn’t matter once he entered the room. The black shirt revealed his entire tattoo-riddled chest, even the one of your name he’d gotten a few years back. He looked like he might be up to trying you tonight, so you had to disappear and do so quickly. “We should go to the booth you got.”

“Yeah, sounds like a good idea.”

It wasn’t a good idea; you sat uncomfortably across from the pair watching their every move while trying to suppress the need to end the date abruptly and slap the fuck out of him. Irritating you always was the one thing he did exceedingly well. Meg sat in his lap, draping her arms over his body, throwing her ass on him like she had no shame!  Did he know it was you across the room from him? Did he care? You watched as the waiter brought your third glass of tequila to the table and leaned into Eric, noticing the earthy cologne mixed with the whiskey. He smelled nice, or perhaps you were elusive to the bullshit because being near to him dulled the ache of the scene across from you.

The room to be secluded offered no privacy, so even when you felt alone, you were smothered in the thoughts of what if he saw you kiss or touch this guy- what the fuck was his name again? You uncrossed your legs, clumsily kicking the round glass table in front of you and spilling his drink but thank god not yours.

“I need some air; I’m gonna go get some.” You paused and took your glass. “I’ll be back.” The words scrambled out, and you did too, pushing up from the leather couch and not looking back to see Eric’s reaction to the awkward movements.

Too many people surrounded you, and at the moment, all you truly wanted was to hear nothing and feel nothing, even if it meant you had to get shit-faced. The stairwell didn’t have many people in it; only two women consumed in one another and Colson.

Your heart sunk once you realized it was him, from fear, dread – fucking embarrassment, maybe? He shook his head; you took notice of the three earrings in one ear while the other garnished a seat of crosses that dangled. Colson’s hair was slightly disheveled atop his head; the dark roots peeked out of the platinum blonde tapered cut. He looked great as usual. “I thought you were in for the night?” Colson’s voice carried over the music because he refused not to be heard, especially by you. He looked down at you, nursing the glass of chilled tequila. You’d acquired a taste for it over the years of being with him, Colson drinking tequila like water had rubbed off on you. “This doesn’t look like your place.”

“Did you want something?”

“Why are you here with that broke down,” He paused dramatically, raising his hand as he thought of more insults. “Tom and Jerry looking motherfucker?”

“That’s the best you can do?”

Colson drug his teeth over his lip, “Where you meet him?”

“Where’s that instamodel chick? You know the one with the plastic ass and tits? You leave her in the car just so you can go check on your other hoes, or is she in here with them?”

“Man, stop.”

“I saw her looking at me, don’t tell them about me. I’m not your concern, and I am damn sure not theirs.”

“How’d you catch her looking at you if you weren’t looking at me?” Colson’s cocky smirk sent a rush of anger coursing through your body; even when he lost, he found a sure way to find a confident victory in it.

“Bye, Colson.” Your eyes met his, remembering how blue they were. Even when he was dead drunk, they found a way to still hold onto the Colson you knew was in there somewhere. The sweet one that danced in the rain and stayed in bed with you every free night he could give -- you shook it off. Breaking eye contact with him to look anywhere but the blue crystal stare. You cut down to the ground, admiring your pumps before he turned away from you and left.

The drink was no longer cold, and the tequila didn’t even burn as you chugged down the remnants of the clear liquid. You pinched the bridge of your nose, taking a deep breath, and then leaned against the stairwell.

“Long night?” Eric cleared his throat.

“Already, I’m so sorry. Could we leave here?”

Eric shook his head yes and placed his hand on your shoulder, “Is everything okay?”

“Perfectly, fine. It’s fine.” You swallowed. The hazed state of your mind needed to be cleared, especially before you left with him. “Can I meet you upfront? I’m going to freshen.”

“It’s fine; take your time.”

 You wouldn’t take your time; the quicker you were out of this place, the better. Whenever you were in his element, your mind refused to do the right thing. You moved through the crowded dance floor, carefully avoiding familiar faces. And finally, you were at the restrooms splashing the cool water on your face. You looked yourself over, grateful you hadn’t worn makeup—the trickles of water run down your rich ochre brown skin.  Too many thoughts raced through your mind out there but not in here. It was silence, and your mind was in a stupor. For a second, everything stilled, your heart and breathing were relaxed, and everything was back to normal, that moment as everything else was short-lived.

Colson’s reflection appeared in the mirror before you. “I cannot believe you lied to me?” The door clicked behind him.

“I didn’t lie to you.” The way he casually entered the women’s bathroom to start an argument pissed you off. “And get the fuck outta here.”

“We talked earlier today, and you said you were in for the night.”

“You said you were going out by yourself, and you got a whole entourage. So, same shit, we both just single now.”

“Come here.”

“No, you don’t get to tell me to come here. You don’t get to follow me in the bathroom and talk to me about fucking lying when you-.”

Words ended when his lips met yours, he towered over you, but he didn’t mind the effort it took to get to your lips. He walked you against the wall- steadying your steps to his until he picked you up, and as if your body knew the routine, you wrapped your legs around him. Your lips eagerly kissed him back, tugging on his bottom lip before returning to take more kisses. How were you this hungry for him? You wanted nothing more than him to fuck you, rip this dress and ruin you in this unlocked bathroom. “Y/N.”

“Fuck me.” You pleaded.

He only needed the confirmation to move towards his belt buckle unsheathe his dick. There were two ways you fucked, frantic and as if you would never see one another again and then slow – ironically, they both had the same outcome. Your heartbeat matched his, strumming against your chest, and his matched yours. You loved it. There was no foreplay needed; you wanted to feel every inch of the pain he had to offer. He pushed the black dress up to your thighs, bunching the fabric enough that it revealed your pussy for him. He swiped his tongue over the pads over his fingers and swiped your lips. You were wet for him. You had been the whole night, no matter how much you wanted to deny it. He pushed the long finger into you, curling it to press the soft pad that made you squirm and throw your head back in pleasure.

He moved from the wall to the counters, not giving a fuck if someone walked in or not; he spread your legs wider for him and gripped your curls. Exposed to the world, but all you could see was him. You reveled as he slammed into your hilt deep, muted your sequel with his lips, and paused. “You missed me, didn’t you?” He whispered. “Y/N?”

“Shut up,” Your pussy answered for you, squeezing to pull him deeper as he fucked into you. He wasn’t even deep enough for you; your fingers tug on the black shirt as you thrust to meet him each time. Your skin clapped against his every time, his cock expertly hitting that spot inside of you that made you want to cum right then and there. You held it, panting as it began to build up all over your body. He knew the signals, the way your hands rapt against him, legs quivered, and your pussy throbbed.

“Up.” He said, listening to the door open behind him.

Decency had left when he started fucking you, there was no way in hell you’d stop now, and Colson possessed no fucks when it came to sex. They could watch whoever the fuck it was. He positioned you in front of the mirror, bent over for him. Colson’s heavy hand came down on your ass, and then he pushed into you arching your back before wrapping a hand around your hair and fucking into you wildly.

Your ass bounced back on him, and his moans made you wetter. Your fists clenched as you tried to steady yourself – there was no controlling the orgasm that flowed through you. Your breath quickened, your toes curled, and your eyes snapped closed as his name rolled from your tongue.

“Open them eyes.” He gave an arrogant laugh before leaning over you, pushing himself deeper and flicking his tongue over the lobe of your ear.,

Your eyes opened, and you saw yourself flushed with sweat, mouth open, and him fucking the shit out of you. The scene erotic, beautiful, and shit you wanted it again and again. “Oh shit.” You mumbled.

“You think that fucking clown ass suit gone give you this?” He laughed as he slapped your ass again. “I thought not.” He guided you back on him, taking your hips in his hands, making sure you took every inch. He was greedy himself, watching your breast bounce in the reflection of the mirror, all while hearing you echo throughout the entire bathroom. It was music to his ears. Colson slowed his stroke momentarily, peppering, kissing down your shoulder blade before increased his pace once again, and your body jolted. You ground against him, urging him to cum and the pressure built. He panted against your back for a moment and then kissed your exposed skin. “Don’t go home with him.” He whispered, retrieving your panties from his pocket. Colson lowered himself to his knees and turned you around.

“You can’t tell me that.” You whispered.

“I’m asking.”

“Are you taking her home?”

“I can drop her ass off at her place right now.” He smiled, pointing. “Shit, you can ride shotgun.”

Good memories flooded of his snarky ass sense of humor and late nights. “You’re silly.”

Colson adjusted your dress and then stood in front of you, making sure your hair and lipstick was not smudged everywhere. “Drop Chandler off and come home.”

“Fucking hell mate,” Dom’s voice did not seem shocked. “This other chick is trying to kill me out here. Y/N?”

“Dude, will you get the fuck out of here… like now.”

“Fine. I’m leaving.”

“This was-,” You step away. “Uhm, I don’t know. I’ll call you okay?”

“Tonight?”

“Tomorrow.” You clarified. “Or the next day, just give me a damn minute to breathe?”

“Bet.” He sighed. “Should I go first… so it won’t seem suspect?”

“You’re a 6’4” guy leaving the women’s restroom, you’re busted.” You chuckled.

 A/N: I through Dom (Yungblud) in there because I kinda love him just as much lol might right him too! Hope you enjoyed! Thank you! Please let me know what you think!

Taglist: @taytayize123 @supernaturalvikingwhore @jae-writes-fanfiction @bigsisbria @placeoffreedom @kyla-queen @missdforever @gottatoxicattitude @bang-kim-bap @msreshel @blowmymbackout @titty-teetee​

[rumbelleshowdown]

Author: Seiren

Group: Final

Prompts: Forbidden. Shared custody. Light in her eyes.

-

Changes

It was quarter past three in the morning when Lacey awoke in her and Gold’s shared bed, alone.  A questing hand to his side of the bed revealed a complete lack of leftover body heat.  Wherever he’d gone, he’d been there a while.

Slipping naked out of bed, she padded over to the dresser to fetch a pair of panties.  Once she slipped them on, along with the burgundy button-down Gold had worn earlier that day, she headed out of the room and down the stairs.   The shirt stirred in the breeze of her passing, falling open to reveal just how little she wore underneath.  She wasn’t worried about it; the house was empty apart from her and Gold, and it was nothing he hadn’t seen before.  Nothing he wouldn’t be seeing again, either.

Once she reached the downstairs landing, Lacey headed over to the door of what had once been Gold’s study.  He still called it that, but Lacey couldn’t agree with that name.  There weren’t many studies out there with a pool table and a jukebox, after all.  

She opened the door and stepped inside.  Sure enough, Gold was at his desk, wearing his black silk bathrobe and black leather slippers.  A mostly empty glass of scotch rested in one hand.

Climbing into his ludicrously enormous leather chair to straddle his lap, she snagged the drink from his hand and downed it in one gulp, relishing the mild, smooth burn as the booze slid down her throat.  The chair was another accommodation he’d made for Lacey, when he discovered just how much she fancied climbing into his lap at every opportunity.  Shortly after she’d moved in a year ago, his smaller chair had been replaced with this larger one.

When she finished the drink, Gold took the empty glass from her hand, set it on the desk, and refilled it from the crystal decanter.

She snatched the glass up before he could and took the first sip.  “Can’t sleep?” she guessed.  He nodded.  His warm brown eyes, the same color as the whisky in the glass, looked unfocused.  “How many of these have you had?”

“You finished my third,” he admitted, his rough hands coming up to cup her hips under her borrowed shirt.  When she lifted the glass to his lips, he let his head fall back with a tired sigh, trusting her to pour no more than a sip in his mouth.  “Neal gets here tomorrow,” he said once he’d swallowed.

Lacey nodded.  Normally, Gold shared custody of their son with his ex-wife, Milah.  Since she lived on the other side of the country with her husband, that meant that Gold only got to see his son during the summer and occasional holidays.  He spent the rest of the year with his mother.

All of that changed as of tomorrow.

“You’re nervous about having Neal live with us full-time?” she asked.  Down below, she could feel Gold toying with the waistband of her panties, worrying the fabric between his thumb and forefinger like he always did when he was anxious.  “He got along fine with me last summer, didn’t he?  I thought he took the whole ‘my dad’s dating a chick only twelve years older than me’ thing pretty well, all things considered.”

“I know.  It’s… not that.  It’s not you,” he emphasized.

Lacey released a breath she hadn’t even realized she’d been holding.  She’d been a nervous wreck last summer in the weeks before Neal’s summer stay.  It was hard enough to take the stepmum role when you had no memories of your own mother to model yourself after.  Even harder when the kid was already a teen, and you still felt like an idiot kid stumbling through life more days than not.  Worse still when you only had twelve years on the kid.

She knew what the town thought of her and Gold’s age difference, and she didn’t give a damn about it.  But Neal was different.  Neal’s opinion mattered to Gold, which meant it mattered to Lacey.  So it’d been a huge relief when the teen had slowly taken a lukewarm liking to her last year.

“So what’s the problem?” she asked, offering him another sip of booze before taking one for herself.

“It’s Milah,” he sighed.  “It’s this whole mess.  Nearly a decade of bitter custody battles, with her living on the other side of the country so we couldn’t split custody.  And now, just when I think there’s a chance to reach a proper compromise, she goes and pulls this stunt.  Just gives Neal up, just like that.”  He snapped his fingers for emphasis.

Lacey shook her head in confusion.  “I don’t get it.  I mean… this is what you’ve been fighting for, for all this time.  This is what you wanted, isn’t it?  Neal living here?”

“There’s nothing I want more.”  

He shot her an apologetic glance.  Lacey shrugged it off.  She knew that, if push came to shove, Gold would choose Neal over her.  But she also knew that nothing in this world would hurt him more than being forced to choose between the two people he loved most.  If there was a difference between how much Gold loved Neal and how much he loved Lacey, it amounted to a drop or two in an entire ocean.

If she felt any envy, it wasn’t that of a jilted lover, but that of a child who had never known such pure devotion from her own parent.  But that was her baggage, not Gold’s.

“So what’s the problem?” she prodded.

“I didn’t want it like this,” Gold confessed.  “I didn’t want any of this.  If Milah had just stayed on the east coast like we agreed, we could have split custody.  There was no need to drag Neal through courtroom battles.”  Sighing, he rubbed tiredly at his eyes.  Putting the glass down, Lacey ran her fingers through his hair, scratching soothing patterns in his scalp.  “And now, she’s abandoning him altogether.  I never wanted Neal to go through that.  Having a parent who doesn’t want you… it changes you.”

“You don’t have to tell me,” she muttered.  It was something she and Gold had in common: fathers who didn’t give a shit about their kids.  They’d had long talks about it, about how their upbringings caused him to cling too tightly while she pulled away.  “But we’re gonna do everything we can to make sure Neal’s okay.  You already set up an appointment for him with Archie, remember?”

“Aye.  You’re right.”

Some of the tension leeched out of his frame.  Still cradling his head in her hands, Lacey rose up on her knees so he could bury his face in her chest.  His nose pressed into her sternum as he took a slow, calming breath, just as he did with his cup of tea every morning while Lacey slammed back her black coffee.

Still, she could feel his fingers toying with the waistband of her underwear.  Not in the teasing, tantalizing way he did when he was putting the moves on her.  He was fidgeting, which meant he was still worried.

“Baird,” she said, using his first name as she only did when she was worried about him, “what else?  I can tell there’s something else bothering you.”  She pulled his head back so she could look him in the eyes.

He stared up at her longingly for a few seconds.  Then he winced, like he’d been looking at the sun for too long, and looked away.

“Baird,” she repeated, tugging on his shaggy locks until he was looking at her again.  “Tell me.  No pulling that evasive crap on me.”

He scoffed.  “And how’s that fair, sweetheart?  It wasn’t so long ago that you pulled that evasive crap on me on a weekly basis.”

“Yeah, but that’s different.  I’m a hypocrite.  I’m allowed to have double standards.  You’re not.  So spill.”

They shared a chuckle before lapsing into companionable silence.  Lacey waited patiently for him to talk.  Patience wasn’t a virtue that came to her naturally, and early on in the relationship she’d learned that the harder she pushed, the more Gold would clam up.  But if she waited, she’d be rewarded.

Sure enough, he eventually broke.  “I’m scared,” he whispered.  Rising back onto her knees, Lacey held him close, trying to convey her presence, her concern, her love through touch alone.  “All my life it feels like any time happiness was within my grasp, fate would swoop in and take something else away.”  He tugged her closer until she was wrapped all around him like a particularly clingy octopus.  Which was just where she wanted to be.  “Now I’ve got you and Neal… everything I’ve ever wanted.  I suppose I’m just waiting for the other shoe to drop.  For life to exact its toll.”

“Hey,” she said, pressing her forehead to his.  “I’m not going anywhere.  You hear me?  Not when you’ve got the nicest pool table in all of Storybrooke, and I finally got your hard-as-a-rock mattress broken in just right.”  When he didn’t look reassured, she gave him a long, slow kiss, pouring every bit of her love and affection into it.  When she pulled back, his eyes were glassy and red-rimmed.  “I love you,” she said firmly.  “Neal loves you.  And since I somehow managed to weasel myself into both of you putting up with me, I guess we’re all stuck with each other.”  He opened his mouth to argue, but she cut him off with a kiss.  “If something happens, we’ll handle it together.  Cuz you and me?  We’re a team.”

“A team,” he agreed, pulling her in for a searing kiss that she wholeheartedly returned.  His hands wandered under her borrowed shirt to her soft curves underneath.  Not to be undone, Lacey got to work undoing the tie of his robe.  “You know,” he mumbled against her lips when they both came up for air, “I can think of one thing I’ll have to give up.”

“What’s that?”

“You, my love, won’t be able to walk around the house half-naked anymore.”

She scrunched her nose at me.  “Fine, spoil all my fun.”  Slipping off of his lap, she let his shirt drop to the floor.  With a mischievous light in her eyes, she glanced significantly over to her favorite article of furniture in the room.  “I guess nailing me to the pool table with your cock is forbidden, too?”

With a low growl, he shucked his robe and stood up to join her.  “Not ‘til tomorrow, it’s not,” he said, his low burr sending a pulse of excitement skittering down her spine.

With a giggle, Lacey hopped up to perch her ass on the edge of the pool table.  “Better get to it, then, Gold.  This one’s gonna have to last us a while.”

-

[writer-ish]

grace (Mason x f!Detective)

Some of you may know my new co-obsession (along with @playchoices) is @seraphinitegames‘ The Wayhaven Chronicles and one (1) grumpy Greek vampire in particular.

Anyway, this little drabble was in my head after completing the Book 3 Demo for the millionth time and now you all need to be subjected to it as well. Enjoy? (Takes place sometime after Book 2, but before “that scene” in Book 3)

tags: @utterlyinevitable , @ethansramsey , @otherworldlypresents , @aworldoffandoms , @raleighcarrera , @ejunkiet , @starrystarrytrouble , @terrm9 (reply or dm for add/removal!)

grace

Pairing: Mason x f!Detective (Grace Bennett) Length: 3.2k words | Rating: T (Language) Summary: A detective and a vampire try not to catch feelings for one another OR denial is not just a river in Egypt. 

“It only ever works if one of you cares more than the other.”

It was something Tina had said once, in a rare, cynical moment, fresh off a break up.

The two of them had gone out for drinks post-patrol one night and, as the evening wore on, Tina’s mood had descended in direct correlation with the growing number of empty glasses around them. Still, it hadn’t been until the cigarettes came out that Grace had really known they were in trouble.

“Trust me, Gracie.” Her friend had punctuated her words with haphazard gestures, cigarette wobbling precariously between two fingers, a fine dusting of ash drifting down to the table. Taking a drag, she’d released a thick plume of smoke from her mouth and nostrils before continuing.

“There’s no such thing as equal when it comes to love. There is always the giver and the receiver. The one who cares more. Who loves more. And—”

At this, she’d pointed the glowing ember at the end of her cigarette right in Constable Grace Bennett’s face.

“—You better hope it’s them and not you.”

Former Constable, now Detective Grace Bennett hadn’t thought about those words much in the subsequent years. Relationships weren’t really her forte, after all. There had been the disastrous two years in college with Bobby — in hindsight, one could hardly attribute “love” to anything that had happened between them — and, more recently, a few first dates that sometimes turned into second dates before fizzling out completely.

Hardly the stuff of romance novels.

So it was unfortunate that Tina’s old advice had chosen to rear its ugly head in her mind now, of all times, when Grace had found herself in a—situation where love was the absolute last thing she wanted to consider.

It wasn’t that she didn’t care about Mason. Of course she did.

What else would you call almost incurring the wrath of an entire civilization of ancient Estonian mirror creatures at the expense of saving his miserable life?

It was just that things were...

Complicated.

Leaning against her beat-up silver hatchback, she willed the pounding of her heart to settle as the night spring air enveloped her in its cool breeze. She took deep and even breaths in and out of her nostrils, contemplating just how complicated things were, exactly.

First of all, wasn’t dating a colleague generally frowned upon?

Grace had never broken that rule in all her years on the force and she hadn’t had any intention of doing it as a detective, either, never mind as part of her mother’s top secret supernatural government agency.

Not only that, but what if said colleague had also made it abundantly clear, in more ways than one, that they weren’t looking for anything exclusive or serious in any capacity?

Had, in fact, made it a point to preface almost every sexual encounter with some variation of those very words?

And to even further complicate matters, what if said commitment-phobe colleague also happened to be supernatural themselves? More specifically, a vampire who was a few years shy of his centennial?

What then?

And yet — bear with her, here — let’s say, said commitment-phobe centenarian vampire colleague also looked at her as though she were the only human on this planet that he gave a damn about, the only one who could make his smile curl up on both sides, the only one who warmed those steel-grey eyes into molten embers, the one who—

Her train of thought cut off abruptly as she heard the doors open to the police station. There was a thick fog cutting the night air, the warmth of the day lazily giving way to the coolness of the night, imparting an almost dream-like quality onto an otherwise ordinary parking lot.

Grace waited, peering through the haze, until the object of her musings appeared. His unruly dark waves swung around his cheeks, just barely brushing his collarbone as he stalked towards her, hands buried deep in his pockets. His shoulders were hunched up close to his ears, which she knew was scant protection from the cold he must be feeling.

Her heart inadvertently gave a little pang at the thought and she could’ve sworn she saw his gaze narrow slightly as it happened.

She continued to take him in while she could, eyes lingering on the crystal around his neck that seemed to glow from within, a warm cerulean pulsation, before drifting over his leather jacket, burgundy henley, and worn-in jeans, half-tucked into his partially laced boots.

“Thanks for waiting,” was the first thing he said once he was in ear-shot.

Any passer-by might have thought he was sincere: Thanks for waiting for me by the car. For not leaving when you could have. Thanks for offering me a ride.

Grace, however, understood the sarcastic undercurrent of his words. Thanks for leaving me in there to deal with your mother and the rest of the agents. Nate’s disapproving glances and Felix’s gleeful ones. Thanks for ditching me.

There was never any true bite to his words, though, not anymore—even the borderline derisive ones. Instead, he stopped about a foot in front of her and straightened, his full lips quirked slightly, an unlit cigarette dangling between them. She had to crane her neck to look up at him and his grin grew wider.

“Ready to go, sweetheart?” he murmured, taking the cigarette out of his mouth.

She cleared her throat, unable to stop the blush from creeping up her neck. 

Even after all they’d been through — all they’d done — she still couldn’t prevent the slow crawl of heat that always seemed to accompany his presence.

“Yeah,” she said gruffly, turning to open her door and hoping maybe this time he hadn’t noticed.

One glance at the way he rolled his lips, hiding an ever-growing smirk as he rounded the back bumper of her car to go to the passenger side, told her that there was no chance she had been that lucky.

They got in quietly and she started the ignition — on the third try, ignoring his snort and slow headshake — before they were off.

“You know,” she said after a beat, even though she kicked herself for always being the one to break the silence, “I don’t think I need a babysitter anymore. Things seem quiet now.”

Mason scoffed.

“Things are never quiet,” he replied bluntly. “There’s just the hurricane or the eye of the storm.”

She felt his eyes on her after a moment and she held her breath, waiting for him to continue.

“Why? Getting sick of my company, sweetheart?”

“No!” she blurted out quickly—too quickly. “It’s not that, it’s just—I mean, I feel bad for you, to be honest. I’m sure there’s other things you’d rather be doing—”

“There’s nothing — and no one — else I’d rather be doing right now.” He’d said the words casually enough, as though completely unaware of the tumult they would cause within her system, his head still tilted languidly against the headrest of her passenger seat as he watched her.

“Well—” She fumbled for words. “That’s—I’m glad.” Nice one.

He chuckled low in his throat. “What is it about you being flustered that just gets me going?” He shook his head. “I’ll never know.” 

She couldn’t help the little laugh that escaped her. “I hate it,” she admitted. “You make me feel like my brain is constantly short-circuiting.”

“I’ll take that compliment.”

She took her eyes off the road briefly to look over at him. Sure enough, he was still staring right at her with a little smile quirking the side of his mouth up. She couldn’t help the return smile that she felt crinkling up the corners of her eyes.

His face changed slightly, smile dropping.

“Jesus, sweetheart, keep smiling at me like that and you might need to pull over.” He fiddled with a fresh cigarette before popping it in his mouth. She waited a beat, but the lighter never came out.

“We’re here anyway,” she said, pulling into her apartment complex and finding a spot easily. “You’ve officially completed your chaperone duty.” She hazarded a glance over at him. “Did you…” She cleared her throat. Be bold, Gracie.

He’d already turned his whole body in his seat, one hand braced on the dash, the other elbow digging in beside his headrest. He watched her carefully, amusement dancing in his eyes.

“Did I?” He pretended to mull over the incomplete question. “The answer is most likely yes, I have.”

He leaned closer until she could feel the warmth of his breath swirling in the space between them. No longer imbued with the scent of burning tobacco, instead it had a sweetness to it, a freshness that reminded her of an unopened pack of cigarettes before they had been tainted by a flame.

“I have, I would have, and I certainly will again,” he continued, leaning forward even closer.

Grace bit her bottom lip and his eyes shot down to it immediately, seemingly transfixed by her tooth caught in the flushed redness of her mouth.

“Finish the sentence, detective,” he murmured, eyes still fixed on her, the cool grey seeming to emanate with a glow all its own.

“Did you want to come in?” she breathed, her own eyes darting down to his mouth in return.

His hand cupped the back of her neck, fingers tangling in her dark hair as he pulled her towards him.

“Always,” he said against her lips before capturing them with his.

Grace felt herself drowning in the moment, the same rushing vortex of emotion she felt every time they kissed. She’d thought it would get easier — that it had to — that it wouldn’t feel so all-consuming, so vital each time.

But as his lips slid over hers, tongue stroking and tasting and always drawing more and more from her, as she carded her fingers through the tempting obsidian waves of his hair and tugged him closer still, the desire to devour him too persistent to ignore—

She knew she was in deep. Too deep. She cared—too much. And there would be no getting out this time — at least not with all her vital parts attached.

* * *

Mason never thought he would like anything more than fucking.

It was intrinsic to his very being, the combustive need for release at all times — not just sexually, but entwined within his very existence. A need to be released from the hold of his senses, from the overpowering strain of existence—the sounds, the smells, the sights. All of it.

His desire to remove himself from the harshness of reality was a constant endeavour — and sex just happened to be the easiest and most pleasurable way to do it.

But he had to hand it to his little detective.

The sex was good, that was for sure. No doubt about it.

But the kissing—

In his almost one hundred years on this planet — at least the ones he could recall — he couldn’t remember ever being this affected by goddamn kissing of all things.

It had to be the little noises she made. Murmurs and moans against his mouth that he wasn’t even sure she was fully aware she was doing.

Or the way she pulled at him, drawing him closer each time so she could press her body against his, feel the length of her torso flush with the entirety of his.

She reminded him of a little burrowing creature, nuzzling at his jaw and neck, gripping the collar of his shirt, squirming to get under, over, inside him.

He squeezed her tightly — moderating the full extent of his strength, obviously, but still forcing her to emit a small breathless gasp at the feeling — and pulled her across the console towards him.

“Settle,” he murmured against her ear, dragging her fully into his lap. It was an effort — her legs kicked the dashboard, the radio, and the glove box before she could tuck them under herself as she buried a giggle into his shoulder.

“This car is not made for that sort of lateral movement,” she informed him, shifting to try and get comfortable.

“Oof,” he grunted as her knee hit his midsection. “God, you’re heavy.” It was patently untrue, but he knew he’d get some sass back for a comment like that and he found himself eagerly anticipating it.

She didn’t disappoint. Leaning back, she braced her hands on his shoulders, a lock of dark hair obscuring half of one of her hazel eyes. A street lamp illuminated her cheeky, exasperated grin as she tilted her head and regarded him.

“Is that so?” She wiggled around purposefully and he groaned in unspent desire as her perfectly round bottom found all the right places in his lap. “Would you care to file a complaint?”

“Christ, no,” he muttered, pulling her towards him once more. “Let’s get out of this aluminum death trap and go upstairs.”

Kicking his door open despite her protests to be careful, he tightened his hold on her and lifted them both out of the car, bracing his legs on the pavement as he stood.

He knew she was anticipating that he would release her, drop her to her feet and continue forwards to her apartment, likely with her trailing behind — his long strides swallowing up the pavement much easier than her shorter ones — but he found himself enjoying the steady, rapid beat of her heart against his shoulder, the comforting heft of her in his arms. He found himself hardpressed to let her go.

So he didn’t.

“Mason!”

She let out a gasp that dissolved into a laugh as he hefted her higher up and over his shoulder, unable to stop himself from giving her ass a playful slap as he carried her to her door. She kicked her legs ineffectually, thumped his back lightly with her palms as she squirmed. He only held her tighter against him.

“Stop moving, detective,” he ground out, the cigarette dropping out of his mouth as he turned his head to bite whatever part of her was closest to his cheek.

She yelped as his teeth made contact with the side of her upper thigh, hard enough that she’d be able to feel it through her jeans.

“Keep it up and it’ll be harder next time,” he promised, carrying her effortlessly up her steps. He paused at her front door. “Keys?”

“They’re in my pocket,” she grumbled and he made a big show of patting her bottom — both sides, thoroughly — before pulling them out of the pocket with the obvious protrusion and unlocking her door.

He let them in and kicked the door shut behind him, then took two strides into the small space and deposited her unceremoniously on the couch.

“Geez,” she spluttered, moving her hair out of her face. “What are my neighbours going to think?”

“Sweetheart, I hate to break it to you, but with the noises you’ve been making lately, they’ve already drawn their own conclusions,” he drawled, crossing his arms and regarding her with a half smirk.

She just shook her head at him, her eyes glittering with mirth—and something else, something less easy to discern or define. 

Before he could decipher it further, she threw him off with another question:

“What’s gotten into you tonight?” 

Her tone could have been accusatory in nature, but instead there was only a mild sense of awe and a greater sense of amusement. Regardless, it still took him aback.

What, exactly, did she mean by that?

He admitted to himself that there had been a certain feeling of—levity, about him tonight. An air of calmness, of — dare he say — happiness, at the thought of walking out of that station and seeing her waiting for him. Of knowing that he got to go home with her. To hold her. To taste her. To fuck her.

And then to leave her.

“Into me?” He regarded her warily, before moderating his reaction and his tone. “I’m more concerned with getting into you tonight, detective.”

“I have a name,” she retorted, sitting up and smoothing her shirt out. “You haven’t used it once since we left the station.”

Yeah, she had a name. He knew she had a fucking name. Grace. How ironic.

“Call me Gracie,” she’d said to them once and he’d almost puked.

What in the everloving fuck was someone like him doing with someone called Grace? “Grace” meant kindness. Charity. Good will. “Grace” meant mercy.

Mason had never had, nor had he ever wanted, anything to do with mercy.

And this girl—woman in front of him tonight, was the embodiment of her name. Everything kind. Everything compassionate. Everything merciful.

He crossed his hands behind his back so he wouldn’t have to look at them.

“Are we doing introductions again?” he snapped and then immediately regretted it when he saw the stricken look on her face.

All of a sudden, everything felt too overwhelming, his senses in overdrive as he lost his grip on her presence, her heartbeat. Instead, he felt a tidal wave of unwelcome sensations: the smell of the toast she’d made that morning, some flowers she had in a vase that were on the cusp of dying, the light he’d turned on when they walked in shining right in his eyes, the conversation and heavy footsteps of the people in the apartment above them— 

Compulsively, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a cigarette, placing it between his lips, ready to light it.

Her eyes followed him, watching him closely. He didn’t know if she realized that something had changed in his demeanour or not, but her gaze on him made him itchy, too, in a different way.

Shaking his head to clear his thoughts, he bit down hard on the cigarette, crushing the filter.

“Should I leave?” he muttered, feeling his shoulders hunch. Knowing he looked and sounded petulant and hating himself for it, but being unable to moderate his emotions enough to lift up the necessary shields.

She continued to regard him silently, those all-knowing hazel eyes, wise beyond their years, stripping him down to his scars — external and internal.

He suppressed a shudder.

“I’m going to shower,” she said eventually, “and wash off the grime of the day.” She gestured around the apartment. “Feel free to stay and get comfortable.” Then, she swallowed hard and met his eyes briefly, before looking away and shrugging. “Or go. It’s up to you.” She walked towards the bathroom, tossing her jacket on a chair as she went. “I’ll be a few minutes.”

The bathroom door closed — and locked, decisively.

It would be so easy to just bounce. Two steps to the door and then minutes before he could make it back to the warehouse. To his own bed. To the rest of his unit. Where things were easy and no one would ask questions. He could even go to a bar. Find another warm and willing body to lie with. One with a sensible and meaningless name, like Michael or Jennifer, whose eyes would be as empty as their head and who would smell all wrong and who he’d leave behind without looking back even once, because he didn’t give a shit about them.

It would be so easy.

So fucking easy.

Mason heard the shower turn on.

He thought about how she’d feel when she came out of that shower — thought, too, about her skin flushed and damp, only a towel wrapped around her, just because he couldn’t help himself — knowing that she’d given him an opportunity to stay and he’d chosen to go. 

He found himself caring, for the first time, about how his actions might affect another person’s feelings. 

He looked at the front door. Then he looked at the couch.

And he sat down.

* 

Thanks for reading! I have a smutty part two planned, let me know if that’s something you’d be interested in. 😅

[impossible-rat-babies]

tuesday, two in the afternoon

fallen hero / 2.1k words / chargestep (nb!sidestep + m!ortega) / cw: smoking

mostly below the cut!

--

“Why did you bring me down to the beach? It smells awful down here...”

Pollux kicks a rock across the barren sand, watching it roll into the lackadaisical waves lapping at the meager shoreline. The sand squishes beneath his shoes, water leaking through the crappy canvas.

It rained not long ago—almost caught the both of them in the downpour.

His head is still damp from the few fat drops that landed from between the slats in the boardwalk they used to take cover. He runs his hand across the fresh buzzcut, forgetting for a second there’s no curls to tuck behind his ears.

“I thought you liked the beach.” Ortega comes up beside him, keeping pace as they wander through sand and rock, passing by tiny tide pools refreshed by the rain. The sun will dry what the waves can reach soon, but for now they thrive under the cloudy grey sky.

“I don’t mind the beach, but it always stinks like garbage and wet dog down here after it rains.”

“At least it keeps the place private.”

“If you don’t count the seagulls.”

“They’re worse than the tourists.” 

Ortega smiles and Pollux turns to walk backwards, cocking a brow over his sunglasses. Of course Ortega is overdressed to be taking a walk on what passes for a beach these days—a fancy shirt and slacks and the watch he’s got on costs more than four months of rent on Pollux’s shitty apartment.

(Disregarding the sunglasses he’s toting around that are without a doubt the third most expensive thing he owns and even then they were a gift. From Ortega, obviously. He disregards the invading thought that the most expensive thing Ortega has won’t ever be his clothing or a watch, but his spine. Pollux thinks *if*—not *when*—he dies if they’ll pry it out and stick it inside someone else; a replacement for an accident of their own.)

Ortega is always dressed to impress, the silly man. Pollux it’s a habit, or he doesn’t have anything else to wear that isn’t something higher class or luxury, or if he genuinely enjoys silk shirts. The tailored slacks with fancy watches and Italian leather shoes. There’s no one to impress but Pollux and he hasn’t fallen for that trick in years.

“Worried about your shoes?”

“They’re...squishy.”

“You’re gonna ruin them.”

Ortega kicks another rock off towards the waves, stuffing his hands in his pocket as an answer. Pollux snorts, rolling his eyes, and he turns back around, falling into step beside him. He’s always been a fast walker--a faster runner.

Silence stretches out between them and apprehension feels like just another word for awkward, this gap between them. The few pointed inches—enough for static electricity to jump between them, for Pollux to anticipate Ortega’s touch and deftly pull away, leaving air beside his fingertips.

It’s still so hard to let him close.

“Why did you want to meet up here?” Pollux asks just to have something to say, anything to avoid Ortega looking like he’s going to throw his arm over his shoulder and pull him in to mumble something fond, or a terrible joke.

“Just to go on a walk?” Ortega tries and oh he tries so hard. More than he used to.

“Since when did you start walking for fun?”

“When you decide to come along with me. It’s fun, Lux.”

Pollux frowns—he knows this game. Ortega’s got this little tell of looking away just the right way.

“You just wanted to get me out of the house then.”

Ortega shrugs—he’s avoiding, nor is he saying no...

“Okay so I lied. I don’t have anything to talk about. But, if I just wanted to spend time with you then you would’ve said no.”

“True...” Pollux hates how he’s right more often than not. Asshole. “So you picked the beach?”

“I didn’t plan on it raining.”

Pollux sighs, tired of the sand and he wanders away--further out of reach--towards the rocks near the pillars holding up the promenade. 

It’s deserted right now, the rain and the fact that it’s two in the afternoon on a Tuesday keeping the crowds away. Give it a Saturday on a cool summer’s evening and it’d be packed to the gills; people screaming on the small roller coasters, the stink of fresh fried food and the lights--the dizzying array of red, blue and yellow. All the people and all the thoughts buzzing through his head; there were so many bombarding him--all of them, just as aggressive as the lights. He’s braved that terrible crowd--all because Ortega asked. 

He used to do that, do things because Ortega asked nicely. Because they were fun--he had fun. Does he still remember what that felt like? Being on that promenade, breathless and young, laughing like he knew how to laugh? 

They walked down to the very end once, away from the bright lights where it was just the ocean stretching out in front of them like a black abyss. All alone. Ortega asking him, pleading for one ride on the ferris wheel. “Come on Lux just one little ride.” Pollux calling his bluff, shoving his face away because it was all just a ploy for a kiss. Like this is some snapshot romance movie still.

It’s stupid to think about bygones.

There’s no temptation to jump into old times down here, just the water swelling against the rocks and the concrete walls. Trash hiding in the crevices, old green beer bottles that will break and turn to sea glass; left to wash up on the shores of Hawaii.

The beaches there are still nice--worthy of memories. Not this smog stained grey sand.It’s just a hop skip and a jump up onto the slick brown rocks smeared with algae and something that shines like oil. It stinks like it.

Pollux stops, shaking a cigarette out of the package and he cups his hand to protect the fragile flame, watching Ortega clamber up onto the rock beside him. He flops down on a relatively dry spot, free of the worst of the gross.

“What are you doing?” Pollux asks with a faint laugh and a cocked brow, letting his cigarette go unlit. It droops between his lips.

“What does it look like? I’m sitting down.” Ortega replies, smoothing a strand of hair back into the salt and pepper waves at his temples.

“Mr. Ralph Lauren is gonna be pissed you ruined your pants?” A raise of the brow and Ortega looks up at him with a look in those brown eyes.

“My shoes are wet, Lux.” Ortega whines and Pollux is *this close* to kicking him off their rock.

“I think you’re getting old.”

Pollux squats beside him, arms draping over top of his knees.

“Now you’re just being cruel...”

Ortega adjusts, grimacing when he inevitably puts his hand on a wet spot. He untucks his shirt, and he’s rather reminiscent of those “aged like fine wine” men on old magazine covers he found in shitty motel lobbies. He’d fit right on a sandy beach in Florida. These aren’t the right beaches for any of that anymore, still mostly rock. Their original glory immortalized in photographs on the fronts of travel brochures.

But they are healing—slowly. The sand creeps up the shoreline more and more each year.

“I’m not cruel. You just an oversized sun hat and a lounge chair. Maybe a nice hot beer.” Pollux teases and Ortega grimaces.

“It’s January.”

“That doesn’t stop people in Florida or Hawaii.”

“Have you even been to Florida?”

Ortega asks so harmlessly and Pollux pauses.

He’s been there half a dozen times before—fuzzy memories from over a decade ago. Rooftop gardens on top of high rise builds off the coast of Miami, galas with thousand dollar dresses and caked on makeup in the low light from crystal chandeliers. It was all for work, watching and scanning, nimble mental fingers coaxing and teasing truth from the mind’s eyes. He would watch, take in the sights and the sounds through other people’s minds. Take the truth and puzzle over the rest. Ask the dangerous questions: why and how?

He still believes the biggest mistake they made was allowing him to learn.

“I’ve watched movies.” He says instead of lying and he knows he isn’t getting away with it. “Besides, have you ever been to Florida? Or Hawaii even?”

“No, but I’ve watched movies before.”

Ortega grins and Pollux groans, resisting the urge to yet again so shove him off his rock and into one of the tide pools below.

“You’re an asshole.”

Pollux fishes around in his pocket and grabs out a matchbook, flipping it open and fuck he grabbed the wrong one. There’s nothing but the empty packaging in this one, uneven lines from tearing out matches without much grace. He flips it over onto the back and nothing--even the striker strip is shot to hell. Fuck. 

“Are you out?” Ortega peers over and he grumbles.

“Grabbed the wrong matchbook” Pollux huffs, about to grab his carton back out and stuff the poor cigarette back in.

“Wait, I still got--here.” Ortega pulls a small matchbox out of his shirt pocket, holding it out to him. It’s much nicer than his ten cent books he frequently gets for free from the gas station because the cashier thinks he’s cute. 

“You...still carry them around?”

His voice stalls in his chest: it’s meant to be more of questioning incredulity, but it comes out much softer. Forlorn and sticky at the front of his mouth.

Ortega sheepishly looks down at the matchbox, flipping it between his index and forefingers.

“Old habits die hard.”

He ran out of matches a lot, even the crappy little packages where the matches broke more often than actually struck. Ortega started carrying them around, little inch and a half boxes of matches tucked in his coat or shirt pocket. He doesn’t remember when the habit started. But it evolved into a habit of stealing them, seeing how easily he could sneak one away without him noticing.

Ortega protested whenever he caught him and the two of them scrambling for the box until Pollux tucked it away like magic, or Ortega tried tickling him enough times to get an elbow to the nose.

He got him back: a sufficient enough shock and Pollux complained about having a numb hand for the next week.

Pollux had a little stacked collection of them all lined up against the baseboard next to his mattress. He kept the fun ones, the brightly colored and eclectically designed ones--neon blue and mustard yellow. Held onto them until they were falling apart and he painstakingly cut them apart and glued or taped them in the pages of notebooks.

Even now, seven years later Ortega still carries them around and that tugs sharp in the back of his throat and deep in his belly—a sort of nausea that stings his eyes.

He blinks several times and fuck there’s the logo of the cigarette shop Ortega dragged him to once in a blue moon. The floor was some cheap old green motel carpeting--the windows covered in layers of advertisements and wood paneling everywhere else. But god it smelled fantastic--like a humidor stuffed to the brim with anything from cheap cigarettes to fancy and illegal cigars in glass cases. 

(Fuck, it was the best place to buy cigarettes--they still had the little machines with the tokens he’d pay five bucks for at the counter.)

“Yeah...” Pollux mumbles, tearing his eyes away. “Kinda literally, you know. Dying.” He chuckles bone dry and Ortega cringes.

“You still recognized the matchbox. I can’t call you a lost cause yet.” 

He looks over at him, salt and pepper black hair blowing in the breeze, the little white spots where the scars cut through his beard. The soft smile on chapped lips. Even with all the anger in the world rushing under his skin, he can’t be mad.

There’s just that wistful empty ache and he blinks, looking away. The distant shoreline etched on the horizon of a dark ocean and the patchy grey sky above. He lights the cigarette with a single match, the sharpness of the sulfur and the sweet menthol cloud of smoke the breeze dissolves into nothing. 

“Here...” Pollux offers the matchbox back to him.

“Keep it. You need it more than me.” Ortega says, pushing his hand back towards him and he pulls his hand away.

Pollux fixes him with a with a long look before he heaves a sigh and looks back out towards the coast and the ocean further beyond. Smoking the cigarette, filling his lungs on the menthol and tobacco until it burns out at the filter. Ortega sitting beside him, bouncing a leg but he’s quiet. And he doesn’t look over at Pollux.

The sun barely peeks in through the clouds and it looks like this is all the rain they’ll be getting.

[lifeinsillypictures]

Playlists for my wine parties

I love wine and I love parties so these two things always interconnect with each other, that’s why these playlists show my boring personality perfectly

What can be better than to make the tumblr wine party together! Choose your preference and let’s go! Who wants to be invited?

slutty party, which includes the bottle of semi-dry red wine, chocolate truffles and grapes :

wearing nothing but big white shirt; messy hair; smudged red lipstick; dancing alone in the dark room; the full moon; the smell of expensive perfume; phone off; pretending you're dancing near the pylon; the cold floor; moving your hips to the beat of the song;candles everywhere; drinking from fine crystal glass;  enjoying your own company:

After Dark - Tito&Tarantula

Wicked Game - Chris Isaak

I Want You (She’s So Heavy) - The Beatles

She - Harry Styles

Do I Wanna Know? - Arctic Monkeys

Diet Mountain Dew - Lana Del Rey

Vanishing Point - Alexandra Savior

heartbroken party, which includes the bottle of dry white wine only:

unwillingness to go out with your friends; high-waisted dark jeans and oversized denim jacket; pale skin; the speeding heartbeat at the sight of your crush; feeling lonely in the company; the fake smile; watching your crush dancing with somebody else; eyes filled with tears; drunken talks with the stranger about your emotions while sitting on the windowsill in the bathroom; the desire to lay under the blanket and dreaming about unfeasible:

No. 1 Party Anthem - Arctic Monkeys

Mystery Girl - Alexandra Savior

But You - Alexandra Savior

Cherry - Lana Del Rey

Somebody Else - the 1975

Gods & Monsters - Lana Del Rey

I Wanna Be Yours - Arctic Monkeys

sleepover party, which includes the bottle of rose wine, cotton candies and pop-porn:

staying at your best friend’s home; wearing cute comfortable pyjamas; no makeup; paint each other's toenails; the loud music; singing in the combs; wild dances in front of the mirror; laughing at each other's movements; jumping on the bed; ordering pizza for the third time; lying on the floor and telling secrets; stupid internal jokes; being silly 20th years old kids:

Welcome to Burlesque - Cher

Hush Hush, Hush Hush - The Pussycat Dolls

Strong Enough - Cher

Toxic - Britney Spears

Raining Men - Geri Halliwell

Oops I Did It Again - Britney Spears

Bad Romance - Lady Gaga

that “mean girl” party, which includes the bottle of commandaria wine and bar of dark chocolate:

wearing leather jacket and mini-skirt; standing in front of the mirror and drawing arrows; mint cigarettes; singing along to guitar riffs; lots of unread messages; drinking wine from the bottle; making mirror selfies; laughing while listening to your best friend’s voice message; city lights; sunglasses in the night; being single and enjoying it:

Used To Be My Girl - The Last Shadow Puppets

R U Mine? - Arctic Monkeys

You’re So Dark - Arctic Monkeys

Dracula Teeth - The Last Shadow Puppets

I Feel You - Depeche Mode

Lana Del Rey - Lolita

Arabella - Arctic Monkeys

p.s. a little party never killed nobody! enjoy!

[scapegrace74-blog]

Ginger Snap, Chapter 3

A/N  And just like that, here’s another chapter of Ginger Snap.  This one has no Chef!Jamie (at least not in person, but he is the invisible third presence in the room) but read it anyway!  He’ll be back in the next chapter, I promise.

Previous chapters are best enjoyed on my Ao3 page, because I have a bad habit of going back and editing them after they’ve been posted.

I appraised my reflection in a plate glass window.  Today was my thirtieth birthday.  I’d spent most of the day at a fancy salon having assorted hairs waxed, plucked and uncoiled.   Twenty minutes in the capricious October wind, and my sleek hairstyle was on the verge mutiny.  I smoothed it down as best I could with my palms, mentally shrugged my shoulders, then entered the upscale restaurant.

“Happy birthday, darling.”  Frank left a dry kiss on my cheek, careful to not mar my make-up, as he greeted me.  “You look very beautiful with your hair straight like that.”

It was clear why Frank had chosen the Witchery for my birthday celebration.  Nestled against Edinburgh Castle, it radiated history with its dark woods, tapestry-covered walls, burgundy banquettes and faux Tudor painted ceiling.  Everywhere crystal and silverware reflected the bountiful candlelight.  I pictured Jamie’s thick-soled work boots striding across the antique Persian carpets towards the kitchen and had to suppress a giggle.

Frank stood respectfully while the maître d’ pulled out my chair.  He played the part of the genteel academic to a tee.  Ten years’ my senior, he sported thick-framed glasses, a full head of dark hair and a trim figure that spoke more to abstemious habits than vigorous exercise.  Still, he was wearing his best tailored suit and the tie I’d bought him for Christmas.  I reminded myself that I was lucky to be in a relationship with a decent, courteous and dependable man who offered me the stability my tumultuous childhood had been sadly lacking.

We conversed quietly as we each perused the leather-bound menus, the noise of other diners a discrete background hum.  Frank told me all about the history of the sixteenth century oak panels that lined the room, and I listened politely.

“It’s so refreshing to see an establishment buck the trend of those horrendous open-style kitchens,” he pronounced with a dramatic shudder.

“Oh, I don’t know.  I rather enjoy watching the orchestrated chaos that goes into making my meal.  It’s like dinner theatre,” I contradicted.

“Some things are better appreciated unseen, darling.  It’s like that gaudy museum we visited in Paris.  Ductwork and elevator shafts on display along with the art.  It’s tremendously distracting, and not at all the point.”

He was referring to our visit to the Pompidou Centre the previous summer.  I had found the juxtaposition of modern art and naked architecture fascinating.   Frank much preferred the Louvre.

I was saved from having to defend my opinion by the arrival of our waiter.  Using a well-manicured fingernail to indicate his choices, Frank ordered for us both.

“The lady will have your Grand Cru Mambourg.  I’ll start with a Lagavullin 16, and proceed to the Chambolle-Musigny with my main course,” he said with conviction.

“Very good, sir.”  The waiter collected the enormous wine menu and decamped, having failed to even look me in the eye.  A little ember of resentment glowed in my belly.

“How did you know what wine to order when I haven’t told you what I’ve chosen as my main course?” I challenged once the waiter was out of earshot.

Frank looked perplexed, as though we were acting in a play and I’d suddenly said the wrong lines after countless perfect dress rehearsals.

“It’s your birthday, darling.  You always get lobster for your birthday.”

I thought about this.  He wasn’t wrong.   I liked lobster.  The first time we celebrated together in Boston, on my twenty-fifth birthday, it had felt like a sophisticated, grown-up choice.  But I never intended for it to become my only option.

The rest of the meal passed without event.  Frank was more animated than usual, reaching across the table to caress my hand twice and joking that his Angus steak tartare appetizer made him feel like a veritable red-blooded carnivore.

Once our plates were cleared Frank cleared his throat and squared his shoulders in a way that reminded me of the day he announced that we would be moving to Edinburgh.  Now what? I wondered.

“Claire.  Darling.  I think you know how happy you make me, and how delighted I am that we’re building this new life together back in the UK.  Your thirtieth birthday is such a special occasion, and I think it’s fitting that we mark it with something momentous.”

He reached across the table and took my left hand in his right.  His skin was cool and dry against my oddly numb palm.  I considered whether I might be going into cardiac arrest.  My heart felt untethered in my chest, leaping towards my throat and then plunging into my gut.  I concentrated on taking short, sipping breaths so that I didn’t regurgitate lobster all over the pristine white table linens.

Frank continued, unaware of my turmoil.  “I’d like us to be married within the year.  That way, our children will be born before you enter the high-risk years.  A late-spring wedding sounds lovely, don’t you think?”

He looked at me expectantly, so it must be my turn to speak.  The problem was I couldn’t think of a single thing to say.

“I’m sorry, are you asking me to marry you?” I managed to ask around my stomach, which had joined my heart in my throat.

Frank chuckled.  “Of course I am, darling.  Isn’t this what we always planned?”

Strictly speaking, it was what Frank had always planned.  He’d certainly never made any secret of the fact that matrimony and a family were what he saw in our future.  So why was I blind-sided?  It felt as though I had been driving a practical four-door sedan with an excellent crash test rating at highway speed, only to suddenly realize that nothing happened when I pumped the brakes.

I said the next thing that came into my malfunctioning brain.

“What about my licensing exams?”

“There really won’t be time, darling.  Planning a wedding is a full-time job in itself, from what I hear.   We need to get moving if we’re to have two children.  You aren’t getting any younger, you know.”

I nodded weakly as though this made some kind of sense.  Frank took the gesture as silent acceptance of his hyper-practical proposal, clapping his hands together in delight in a way that made me jump.

“Marvelous.  Now, I know that you’re very particular about jewelry, so I thought it best that we shop for a ring together.  But I wouldn’t dream of celebrating your special day without giving you something tangible.  Happy birthday, Claire.”

He pulled an envelope from his inside jacket pocket and slid it across the table.  My fingers trembled and twitched as I tried to open the seal.  Inside was a certificate printed with a familiar logo.   I looked at Frank in shock.  How did he know?

“I know how much you want to learn to cook.  This place has an excellent reputation, despite their ridiculous name.  They offer group lessons, but only at their location in Leith.  I suppose the rent is cheaper there, but clearly that was out of the question.  Fortunately, I was able to arrange something more suitable with the owner, so you’ll be learning at home from a private chef!”

At that moment our waiter reappeared carrying a bowl of dark, rich-looking pudding.  As he placed it on the table in front of me, the spicy vapours of whisky assaulted my nose.  With a flourish, the waiter extracted a long-handled lighter and ignited the liquor.  Through the ensuing burst of purple flame, Frank’s familiar features transformed into something far more sinister.

[tatooedlaura-blog]

Little Gems

Hi all ... it’s been awhile ... but i just can’t leave Mulder and Scully alone for long ...

Sorry about that ... the kid has a new baking business she’s running out of our kitchen (she’s 16, btw) ... we COVID-quarantine finished our basement ... I rewrote my entire third novel ... I’ve had things to do :)

Love and hug and enjoy ...

@today-in-fic

&&&&&&&&&&

Little Gems

It was the look that made her stumble on her words, stutter through two syllables, hesitate on the third before rallying to pull herself back to the courtroom. Face flaming hot in an instant, she hid her clenched fists below the wooden barrier and carried on, trooper that she was.

His look.

In the middle of her sentence, she’d looked at him, the quickest of glances to see his encouraging lip twitch or the barest of nods … instead, she’d gotten popping jaw muscle, flaring nostril, and furrowed brow. She’d done her stumble because, without thought to present day for half a second, she’d rewound the past two minutes in her head. What the hell had she done to deserve that pointedly angry look?

For the next 43 minutes, she steamed slowly while her demeanor revealed nothing, back to calm, cool, collected, cadence smooth, sentence structure sound. Finally free, she moved past Mulder, dodging the crowd in the hall and slipping through his fingers as he reached for her arm, elbow, to turn her, yell at her for not saying some theory or other of his that would have gotten the case thrown out but allowed Mulder the righteous indignation of his truth.

“Hang on.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow.”

&&&&&&&&

Continuing through the crowd at a pace not meant for five o’clock on a Thursday afternoon near a Metro station, she didn’t care that he’d driven her there. She didn’t care that her ring of keys was in his pocket. She didn’t care that her stomach needed food, her brain needed a drink, her sweet tooth needed several dozen peanut M&Ms. She did care that she had approximately $10 in her pocket, which was more than enough to get her home and she had no room for anymore cares at the moment.

She always knew that house key tucked and forgotten behind her badge would come in handy.

She would be seeing his ass tomorrow and not a moment sooner.

Mulder, on the other hand, stood there watching her storm away. Not quite sure why she was so angry with herself over a few misspoken words but the set of her shoulders and the way she threw out the ‘see you tomorrow’ told him if he did indeed see or talk to her before tomorrow, he’d possibly and probably walk away with one less appendage, be it finger or more important things.

Watching her until she disappeared into the Metro Station, he noted it contained a Blue Line so, knowing she’d get home via either Foggy Bottom or Rosslyn station, he let her go, knowing she had a key behind her badge and her emergency cash behind that.

His mind wouldn’t let it go, however. She’d been good. Damn good. Until her stumble, which, for reasons unknown to him, had made her angry. She had hesitated on two words, taken a quarter second deeper inhale than usual before she gathered and continued. He highly doubted anyone but himself had noticed but given it was Scully, she probably imagined she’d screwed everything up completely.

He chewed on this as he returned to his car, unhurried because, regardless of if he ran or crawled, he’d still be stuck in some kind of traffic between here and there.

&&&&&&&&

Scully, for her part, hated the crowds in the Metro, disliked strangers pressed this close to her, shuffled together with the unwashed masses of society, tourist and native alike, all collectively tired from their day and frustrated same as she with the swaying train and the endless wait to put on comfortable clothing and take a deep breath.

And it afforded her time to analyze Mulder’s look.

Which is exactly what she did not need at this point in time.

&&&&&&&&&&

Both moved several times during the evening to pick up the phone, find out what the other was thinking but in the end, Mulder fell asleep on his couch, worried about her, and Scully fell asleep on hers, angry at him.

&&&&&&&&&&

He honestly thought the next day would be okay. She would have spent the evening picking apart her testimony and should have, logically, arrived at the conclusion that she’d done nothing to hinder anything. He would be telling her that today when she walked in, deciding at 5:42am, while shaving, that a little reassurance would be an appropriate thing.

She walked in still irritated but hiding it … not so very well ... but well enough to return his greeting and nod when he told her she’d done fine the day before and not to sweat the stumble.

Her mug got set no so gently down on the edge of the desk , tea splashing out the sides.

All right.

Plan B.

Waiting until she’d wiped up the carnage of her very own personal DC Tea Party, he handed her her keys from the day before, “come on. We’re taking the day off.”

With a sigh, “we can’t.”

“After your stellar week with Kersh and Skinner, you deserve diamonds and ice cream. Come on.”

Fuck it. It was Friday. Why not follow? God know, she could just as easily be irritated with him outside as she could be in the confines of the basement.

&&&&&&&&&

“Are you kidding?”

“When is the last time you touristed DC? I mean, like, looked around and went to stuff and stared at it and read the little signs and learned something from what you read on those little signs?”

Another sigh, “it’s been awhile.”

“Then come on.” They walked over to the Mall, then Mulder tuned them to the Museum of Natural History.

Seeing the building and the crowd, “Mulder, it’s going to be packed in there.”

“Not where we’re going.” Up the steps, weaving through throngs in shorts and gym shoes, flipflops and sunglasses, they stood out like a tandem sore thumb, leather heels and barely there hose, Trinity tie knot and tartan pattern socks.

They drew more than a few stares. Thank God he’d left his suit jack behind.

Once they’d dropped the donation fee and flashed badges for guns, he led her past the dinosaur bones and then up to the second floor. Even though she wasn’t exactly happy, she had to ask, “um, you realize you passed the T-Rex, right?”

“He’s not going anywhere, Scully. I’ll see him on the way out.”

She hadn’t been to the second floor since, well, she wasn’t even sure what was on the second floor or if she’d ever been there at all, to be honest. Mulder turned her when they got out of the elevator and before she knew it, she was in a quiet area, glass cases surround her, a few people milling but the majority still downstairs with the bones and fossils.

“There’s nothing like the gem room in the morning.”

She fell in love as she took her first good look around. Minerals and elements and crystals along the walls, lights dimmed in spots, a sign for the Hope Diamond beckoning. Looking up at him, “how long has this been here?”

He laughed, quietly of course, because the area felt akin to a church or other place where silence and low murmurs were preferred over screaming children and echoing chaos, “the building, since around 1910, but the contents,” pretending to do some heavy math, using all his fingers and some of hers just for fun, “longer than that.”

Her crank meter dropped like a rock but some remained, “one day I’ll find you funny.”

Taking her elbow and feeling happy she didn’t jerk away from him, he led her towards the wall, “first, I’m going to take you on a tour of the blue section.”

“Are we dispensing with scientific names today? Will it be the green shiny ones and the square yellow ones and the ones that look like table salt but will kill you instantly if you ever tried to put them on a piece of corn on the cob?”

“One day, I’ll find you funny as well.”

They wandered in somewhat comfortable silence, sharing the oft-comment of ‘this one’s pretty’, ‘this one’s three trillion years old’ …

“Three billion, Mulder.”

“Once you get above a couple million, it’s all just really damn old and doesn’t matter anymore.”

“Are you sure you passed your science classes in high school?”

“Cute girls helped me cheat.”

She didn’t doubt it.

&&&&&&&&

Round about an hour later, while looking intently at the diamonds, Scully finally had to ask, her anger drained away, an empty hole left behind waiting to be filled with some kind of explanation. Standing beside him, hand resting lightly on the edge of the case, she asked in a soft voice, “why did you get angry at me yesterday while I was on the stand?”

What?!

“What?!”

“Right before I humiliated myself by not being able to say the word ‘epiglotal’, I looked at you and you were pissed at me.”

What?!

“God, Scully, no. No. I wasn’t mad at you at all. You were doing great.” He was leaning into her at this point, the intensity radiating off him enough to send world leaders to their knees in fear and her cheeks to warm at his proximity, “I wasn’t mad at you at all, I swear.”

Still quiet, “then what were you mad about?”

Talking at the glass but catching her reflection beside him, he felt like an idiot but didn’t think this was the time to attempt a lie, “um, the little shit paralegal behind me was whispering to his buddy about things he could imagine doing to you if he could get you alone in the closet in the hall for a few minutes.” She stayed silent as he stood there, feeling his stupidity growing in leaps and bounds, until he had to do something. Moving his hand closer, he reached out until he found her pinkie, hooking it with his momentarily, “I didn’t mean for you to see that. I’m sorry I messed things up.”

Sliding her hand out from him a second later, she moved it to his back, running fingers along the indent of his spine, up and down, down and up, stopping to palm his side before letting her arm dangle between them, “it’s okay. I’m just glad you weren’t irritated with me. I should have asked you sooner, I guess, instead of letting things fester in my head.”

Her touch sent his skin buzzing, his hand always on her back, but hers rarely on his, and he knew she felt his quick breath in but both ignored that for now, “just to let you know, I’d have throttled him had we not been sitting in front of that many lawyers and the judge.”

She finally smiled, the left side of her mouth turning up, “I’d have liked to have seen that.”

Going for broke, he moved his hand to her elbow, then slid it down, working his fingers into hers, as he leaned in a second time, a little bit closer, a little bit quieter, “jealousy is an ugly thing, Scully, let me tell you.”

“I wouldn’t worry too much about it.” Finally, finally, finally meeting his reflection, “I’m here with you, aren’t I?”

Now warm from head to toe, “since I’ve already showed you the diamonds, how about I go get you that ice cream now?”

“In a few minutes.” Wrapping her free arm around the one holding her hand, she whispered over to him, “I kind of like it here.”

[bad-bitch-beauchamp]

Songs About Me: Chapter Six

Yay! Thanks for your patience while I was away! Without further ado, the first (official) date!

READ ON AO3

Louisburg Square, Beacon Hill, Boston

“How’d you do that?” Claire was fumbling with her keys, trying to get the lock to work on her black front door while Jamie waited just below on the sidewalk.

“Do what?”

“How did you get here so fast? Because one minute, you said you were leaving your place and the next, you were on my front porch. The way I see it is you’re either Superman or you’re a stalker.”

He chuckled. “Just another twist of fate for us, lass.” Claire turned to face him. He stood for a moment watching her and if it had been any longer, she might’ve started to feel self-conscious from his gaze. He shook his head and looked up at her through long, red lashes. His hand stretched upward and outward toward her, and her soft smile made his heart soar. Claire took a deep breath, took his large hand in hers, and descended the brick stairs toward the night’s adventure.

There were only three things Jamie confirmed with Claire before their date that night: her address, what time he should pick her up, and if she liked Italian food. Claire was never one to turn down a bowl of noodles and, with a glance up at her rather large walking partner, ventured Jamie was never one to say no to carbs. He had declined to tell her exactly where they were to have dinner that night over text, and Claire’s curiosity was kicking in as they strolled through Boston Commons.

‘Ye said ye enjoyed Italian food, so just trust me that ye’ll like where we’re headed.”

“That’s hardly an answer.”

“It’s a good enough answer. Patience isn’t really a virtue of yer’s, is it?”

The pair continued to walk down through the Commons, wandering along pathways and strolling past monuments. Their conversation flowed easily and Claire found herself wondering how she could have only met this man, this kind and funny and compassionate and loving and enthralling man, mere hours before. Claire had grabbed a cashmere wrap before she ran down the stairs in case of chilly fall weather, and was glad for it. She started out her walk with Jamie by holding her wrap around her upper arms, secured by her hands held at her chest. As their walk continued, she caught herself letting go to touch Jamie’s arm, to lead him around a pond by the hand, to swat at him when he made a joke. She was comfortable. Their banter and laughter and talks were natural and easy.

“You have to tell me where we’re going! First, you show up at my home with a very thin explanation, and now you’re leading me through the city with no direction! I happen to think my stalker theory is holding more traction with every moment, Mr. Fraser.”

“Alright, a few things, Sassenach,” he said. Their arms were linked together as they made their way over the intersection of Charles and Beacon streets. “First off, my explanation was solid. It was fate I got to yer place so quickly.” He ushered her across the busy street and onto a smaller side street lined with trees and old facades. “Second, I’m no’ a stalker. If I was, I would have found as soon I could have after last night. Yer all I thought about today. Had I known how to find ye, I would have,” he said. He moved his hand to her lower back as he moved them down the sidewalk. Claire simply smiled down at the ground at his honest admission. “Third,” he slowed their pace, “did ye consider I jes’ wanted to spend a little extra time with ye?” He paused to open the door to the restaurant. A whisper brushed along her ear as she slid past him in the entrance, bushing against his chest. “The time I get doesna seem to be enough.” She turned to face him then. He only smiled softly, urging her forward through the doors.

Jamie pulled out a worn leather chair for her before seating himself across the small square table draped with a crisp white tablecloth and topped with two brass candlestick holders and a myriad of glassware. Claire smirked at the fanciness of it all -- they’d met in a dark bar in the middle of the night and talked over dusty bookshelves and now, she was pretending she belonged in a place like this. When Jamie had asked if she liked Italian, she figured they’d end up at a mom and pop place eating spaghetti and drinking too much wine, not acting on their best behavior at one of the finest restaurants in Beacon Hill.

“Are ye alright, Claire?”

Her head popped up to find Jamie studying her. His head cocked like a puppy who watches something new with a mix of awe and confusion in his eyes. He leaned forward as if to reach for her hand, and drew back.

“Oh, yeah, I’m fine. Sorry about that, I must’ve zoned out a bit there,” she fibbed. She fidgeted with her napkin on her lap, folding and unfolding it.

“Ye know, I--” Jamie was interrupted by the waiter. He sighed and requested two bottles of wine, a red and a white, and two whiskeys. Claire stifled a giggle at the waiter’s outfit while Jamie was acting the role of adult: the teen wore clean black slacks, a pressed white shirt, a black vest, and a white cloth on his forearm completed the look. The waiter looked at her with confusion.

“Sorry, just thinking about something that happened earlier,” she muttered. The waiter walked away, with a parting glance at Jamie.

“Care tae share what’s so funny, lass?” She expected a look of disdain. The same look Frank would’ve given her, she realized, if she acted this way at a dinner with him. There was never to be any fun, never any giggles, never any banter. She straightened in her chair and attempted to put her feelings about the absurdity of the night behind her.

“Oh, it’s nothing!” Quickly shifting the subject, she moved on. “Did I hear you order four separate alcohol drinks?”

“I wasna sure what ye liked, besides the whisky, so I thought I’d get one of everything to be safe.” It was Jamie’s turn to shift in his seat now. “Shit,” he muttered. “I forgot to ask for ice water.” Motioning back toward the waiter’s station he stopped to add, “Wait, did ye even want ice water? Mebbe ice tea? A coffee? I should’ve asked what ye wanted instead of assuming, Claire, and I’m sorry for it…”

“Jamie. It’s fine.” It was Claire’s turn to reach across the table and take his hand. His eyes moved from the waiter across the room instantly down to their hands. He marveled in the way her fingers intertwined with his, how she traced the bones and knuckles, drawing maps to nowhere in particular. He thumbed over the soft skin of her palms and looked up at her through long lashes. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Ye can ask me anything ye want,” he answered quickly.

“What are we doing here?”

That got his attention. His gaze hardened, his spine stiffened. “What do ye mean?” She didn’t immediately answer, so he continued on. “I asked ye here tonight, because I couldn’t stop thinking about ye all night. And then today, to see ye, to be healed by ye… Christ, I couldn’t wait to see ye or talk to ye or to hold yer hand or merely to be near ye again. If ye’d rather not see me after tonight, I understand and I respect yer wishes. If that’s the case though, I think I’d rather ye let me know that now instead of having me sit here knowing I can’t have ye. I have enough alcohol to get me through the night, I think…” A giggle erupted from the opposite side of the small square table.

“You certainly do have enough alcohol, but I’d rather like to enjoy it with you, if you don’t mind.” One hand held his, and the other held her chin in her palm, elbow propped up on the table.

“Ye’d let me see ye again?”

“Without a doubt.”

Tension flowed out of his muscles and his eyes shimmered in the candlelight. “Why’d ye ask what we were doing here then?”

“I just mean that you don’t have to go through so much trouble for us to spend time together. I know we just met but I’d wager that fancy restaurants with wine lists bigger than the menu aren’t your usual hangout. I’m a simple woman who enjoys simple pleasures, Jamie. Please don’t make this anything more than the perfect night it could be if you just relax.”

He studied her. The curls flowing down around her face, curling at her collarbones. The eyes the same color of his favorite whisky sitting in the crystal decanter on the sideboard back home. Her delicate features that reminded him of the stories of the faeries from back home. She wiggled in her seat under his gaze. He sighed. “I just wanted to honor ye, Sassenach. Do ye right,” she smirked at that. “Och, ye know what I mean,” he said and playfully squeezed her hand in his. “I wanted to treat ye the way I think ye should be treated.”

Would he ever cease to stop being so honest and vulnerable? She hoped not. This confession, his honest assessment of her, made her eyes shimmer with a thin line of unshed tears.

“Did I say something wrong? I’m sorry if I overstepped…”

“You didn’t.” She looked up from her hand in his and marveled at the way she cared for him already, so soon. “Just… thank you, Jamie.”

The waiter reappeared to take their dinner orders and the two were left to talk under their meals arrived. He talked about his favorite book, Song of Myself by Walt Whitman (“Failing to fetch me at first, keep encouraged. Missing me one place, search another. I stop somewhere waiting for you.” he brought her knuckles to her lips. She shivered. He blushed.) ; she told him about the tropical plant she’d grown from a start for the last five years, the pride and joy radiating from her words and beaming smile (“I couldna ever grow something that took that much work,” “It just takes the right touch,” “Aye, that ye have.”) . The waiter arrived back at their table with plates and bowls galore. Soon, the small tabletop was brimming with large flat bowls of pasta and salad plates layered with leafy greens; all four glasses in front of Claire were full, wine and whisky and water warming her core.

Claire didn’t immediately reach for her food, and Jamie smirked. “Tell me what yer thinkin’ about, right now. Don’t think, just answer!”

“I’m thinking that I don’t know which of these fancy forks to kill myself with.” Silence, then roarous laughter.

“I’m no’ sure what I expected ye to say, but for what it’s worth, I did consider the same the question. This is a hell of a spread!”

Vaguely, Claire thought she should eat a little more food and drink a little less liquids, but the notion rolled passed her with another twirl of whisky in her mouth. Dinner continued to pass with much less fanfare and much more excitement and laughter and banter and all the things Claire thought a date should be. It wasn’t until she went to take another sip of her whisky that she noticed it was entirely empty. About to call for another, Jamie shushed her and brought a finger to his lips to stay quiet. She giggled, then remembering to stay quiet, brought her hands up to cover her mouth. Jamie looked around them conspiratorily and pulled a hip flask from his pocket. He poured a generous amount of what she presumed to be whisky back into her glass, and topped off his own. They continued this way, with mouthfuls of noodles and laugher and soft touches that grew more bold with each sip.

“You know, the drunker you get, the more obvious you’re becoming with your thermos.” The waiter was standing before them, hands on his hips.

“ Thermose? Thermasse? I'm sorry, I don't understand. What's a thermousse?” Jamie was trying his best to put on a serious front, but Claire’s giggles made his mouth spread from a smirk all the way to an honest to God grin.

“That one. Right there in your hand.”

“Oh, the thermas-eh?” Jamie patted the spot where the now-empty flask sat in his pocket. “For yer information, it’s a hipflask and it’s actually quite stylish.”

“Sir, I can’t have you in here, drinking liquor you bought from home.”

“Och well if yer selection wasna grossly overpriced, that wouldna be an issue. But alas, I suppose it’s time for me to take my most lovely date and be on our way. To the next adventure!” The waiter looked as if he wanted to throw Jamie out of the restaurant himself but since they were apparently ready to be off into the night, he asked for his payment politely and returned in record time to usher them out the door. Jamie lent out a hand to Claire and twirled her into his side when she stood, her laughter filling the cozy space.

“Sassenach, they’re all watchin’ us. Let’s get out of here, aye?” He whispered into her hair and he focused on not bumping into tables on their way out. The other patrons watched half in annoyance and half in good-natured smiles cast their way.

“Ayeeeee!” Claire rolled her r’s as best she could and Jamie laughed so hard she could feel his chest reverberate against her back as she led him outside.

Back in the park, Claire led him down brick paths and through lines of tall trees, and he followed her every move. She knew they were only minutes from her townhouse but reveled in the magic of the gardens at night alone with him. With Jamie.

“I wrote it for you, you know,” she said quietly as she walked along the low brick wall lining the gardens. Jamie, down on the sidewalk, looked up confused.

“Ye wrote what, lass?”

“The french song you heard today. I wrote that, last night. I couldn’t sleep.”

Jamie stopped walking. When he turned to face Claire head-on, she came up a few inches above his head from standing on the low wall but felt incredibly small under his gaze. She fumbled with her dress and tried to take a step forward along the wall, but two strong hands held in place by the waist.”

“Will ye tell me what ye wrote? What the words mean?”

“I thought you said you spoke french.”

“Aye, I did. But I was so entranced by ye when I saw ye in the shop, so surprised, that I forgot to actually listen and translate,” he smirked. “Please tell me?”

She watched him for a moment. Not yet. It’s too soon for that. She leaned in close, close enough to smell his cologne and see peak of ruddy stubble on his cheeks. He closed his eyes and his mouth fell open just a bit, and she whispered, “Not a chance.”

She jumped down from the wall past his grasp, strolling back down the brick path. Jamie stood stunned, shook his head, brushed back a few rogue curls, and jogged to catch up with her pace.

---

They arrived back at Louisburg Square not more than ten minutes later. The night was getting late. Claire fidgeted with the hem of her dress, Jamie kept shrugging his shoulders in the black leather jacket, and they walked slower with each step. When it couldn’t be delayed any longer, they arrived at the brick steps to Claire’s porch.

“So, this is me.” She turns to face him, to prolong this moment, this night.

He smirked. “Aye, Sassenach. I remember.”

“Why do you call me that?” He cocked his head at her. “A sassenach, I mean.”

“Och, I mean no offense by it and can stop if ye’d like. It just means outlander, someone not from here.”

“Here? It seems that here is Boston, and you’re not from here either!” She crossed her arms in mock admonishment.

“That mebbe so, but I can’t help that being with you makes me feel like home,” he said as he took a step toward her. Her arms fell to her sides then, and Jamie reached for them in his.

“Was that jus’ the most foolish thing to say? Shit, I jus’ keep making a right fool of myself around ye it seems. First the voicemails and now…”

“I understand… exactly, how you feel.” She couldn’t look at him. It should be too soon to feel this way. He was a practically a stranger, and yet, she couldn’t shake the feeling something was different. As if he could read her mind, he replied with questions of his own.

“Is it usual? What it is between us?” He watched her with such intensity, such revere, such awe. She met his eyes, and softened.

“It’s often something like this, I think.” He nodded in agreement. “But no. This isn’t usual. It’s different.” He nodded again, seeming to memorize the pattern of the bricks on the sidewalk under their feet. “I guess that’s my queue… Thank you for a truly wonderful night, Jamie,” she dropped his hands and began to walk up the steps to her door when a strong arm pulled her back into a familiar warm embrace.

“Claire, I--” he swallowed and took a step back from her. She noticed that in the distance he created, his hand still held onto her waist. His fingertips pressed into her flesh and goosebumps erupted under the fabric. She met his eyes and sank into their ocean depths.

“I’d very much like to kiss ye. May I?”

---

It's HAPPENING!!! These sweet babies went on their first date! I figured based on what we know about them, they're both too down to earth for some fancy restaurant acting formal. The flask/thermos scene is based on Jess and Nick's date in New Girl where they get absolutely trashed in a very similar situation. Plus, it just seems like Jamie would be the kind of guy to have a flask on him, right? How are we feeling about these two? About the date? I'm so excited to get to the angsty part of this! I promise it's coming up soon. (Like, next chapter, soon). Thanks for being so patient with me while I was away enjoying post-deployment bliss with my husband! Writing wasn't on the top of my list, but it's good to be back! As always, thanks for reading. Your comments and kudos here and interactions on Tumblr really do mean so much to me and I really appreciate your support for this story and for me. Stay safe and healthy out there! <3

[bellafarallones2]

a stranger in a strange land

Hollis recognized Indrid Cold like a traveler might recognize another from their home country. Indrid was studying the display of new nonfiction in the Kepler Community Library, arms folded across his chest. He was wearing jeans and a white tank-top.

Hollis moved confidently, black combat boots on gray library carpet. Indrid looked up a moment before they reached his side, and nodded to acknowledge them.

Hollis looked into their own face, reflected in his red sunglasses. Those sunglasses were familiar. They’d met someone, a few years back, when coolness was something they aspired to rather than claimed as easily as the double-black-diamond ski jumps, who wore sunglasses with a third lens in the center of their forehead. Indrid’s were mundane by comparison.

“Hey, I’m Hollis. They/them.”

Indrid waited a beat after they’d finished to start speaking. “Indrid. He/him. Pleasure to meet you.”

“You, uh, new in town?”

“One might say.”

Hollis laughed. “C’mon, man, not exactly a riddle.”

“Yeah, I am new in town.”

“Well, if you wanna meet people. There’s a bar called the Little Dipper. Cool spot.”

Indrid nodded. “Thank you for the recommendation.”

They didn’t see each other again until after the end of the world.

Indrid was sitting on the curb outside of the all-night diner. Mosquitos buzzed around his bare shoulders but did not bite. He’d been walking home along the dark highway, and the blend of neon and fluorescent lights leaking out of the big windows had been irresistible.

He heard the roar of a motorcycle before the headlight appeared around the bend. Someone in a yellow leather jacket and torn-up black jeans. They pulled into the parking lot of the diner and came to a stop right in front of Indrid. He saw his own face - sallow cheeks, round sunglasses - reflected in the opaque visor of their helmet, and wondered idly whether this was how other people felt looking at him.

Hollis pulled off their helmet and ran a hand through their hair, arranging it into their preferred state of dishevelment.

“Hello, Hollis,” said Indrid. Two futures stretched in front of him. Hollis might want to talk, or they might not.

“Long time no see.”

Indrid waited a beat before replying. It was still a conscious effort not to finish people’s sentences for them. “Yeah.”

During the apocalypse, Hollis was always the point of a V of motorcycles, but tonight they were alone.

“Where’s your…” Indrid could say gang, and Hollis would look sharply at him. Indrid could also say friends, and Hollis would laugh and say we’re a gang, old man. “Where are the rest of the Hornets?”

“Keith’s grandparents are in town, so he’s at home.” Hollis shrugged. “I don’t need an escort. You coming in, or what?”

Indrid pushed himself to his feet and followed Hollis into the brightly lit diner. The waitress sat them at a table near the window. The darkness beyond the dim parking lot was complete. It was like Indrid was a passenger on an ocean liner looking out into the Pacific at night, or rather that a bioluminescent sea had nothing on the darkness of thick pines.

Indrid flipped straight to the drinks section of the laminated menu and ordered an iced tea. Hollis seemed to know the waitress, joked with her, and there were a few futures where she flirted back, but it didn’t happen. Hollis asked for bacon and eggs and French toast and Mountain Dew.

They each had a paper napkin wrapped around a fork and knife and secured with a paper band. Hollis unwrapped theirs and laid the fork on the left side of their place setting, the knife on their right. The knife was thick and blunt, barely serrated, the kind of thing that could cut through eggs and pancakes but not anything sturdier without a fight.

Indrid’s compound eyes twitched. There were many possible futures, most of them benign, but in one Hollis gripped that knife white-knuckle hard and lunged across the table.

“Are you upset with me because I’m from Silvaine?” said Indrid quietly.

“What? No..” Hollis edged their hand away from the blunt dinner knife. “Why do you think I’m upset with you?”

“You’re thinking about attacking me.”

The waitress arrived with their drinks. Indrid dumped four sugar packets into his iced tea and stirred, watching the sugar swirl like flakes of snow. The futures shuffled.

Now he saw Hollis slashing at their own wrists, now holding the knife straight-up on the table and bringing their head down, forcing the metal through their own eye. The kind of violence Indrid hadn’t seen since the abominations.

“You can read my mind!?” said Hollis, angry but still speaking quietly enough that the waitress wouldn’t hear.

“No. I can see the future, or rather, all the possible futures, which means I can see what courses of actions you’re considering.”

“Considering is a strong word. I don’t want to do anything to you. It just… occurred to me that I could.”

Indrid sucked on his straw. Sugar crunched between his teeth. Now, teeth, that was something it’d taken him a long time to get used to.

“My therapist calls them intrusive thoughts,” Hollis continued. “I hate it.”

Indrid nodded. “Good to know you don’t want to kill me. It’d take more than a dinner knife, anyway.”

Hollis pressed their hands palm-down on the table, fingers splayed. “Am I going to hurt someone?”

“Well, just because I can see the possibility doesn’t mean it’ll ever become reality. The choice is always yours.”

The waitress came back with Hollis’ food. “Are you sure I can’t get you anything to eat?” she said to Indrid. “More iced tea?”

“More tea, please,” he said, and passed her his glass, which was now empty except for ice and undissolved sugar.

“So you’re telling me,” said Hollis, loading their fork with egg, “that you can see the future, and you’re still living in Kepler, West Virginia? You could be in a penthouse in Vegas, drinking iced tea out of a crystal wine glass. You could be absolutely drowning in pussy. Or dick. Whatever.”

“I won my Winnebago playing poker.”

“And you didn’t aim higher?”

“Nobody in Kepler will play me anymore.” Now Indrid was getting irritated. Who was Hollis to chastise him for lack of ambition? He'd moved all the way to another planet. He was the red light between the trees, the sound of wingbeats in the summer night, the silhouette on the trembling bridge. “Why are you still here?”

Hollis waved their hand dismissively. “I’ve been to New York, and I think I’m more suited to the big fish in a small pond lifestyle. I’m not interested in not being the best-looking, coolest person in town.”

“I have to exert conscious effort every second of every day not to be unacceptably strange. I can’t take my sunglasses off in public, ever, and my bedroom walls have dents from times they’ve fallen off when I’m asleep. I cannot afford to attract human attention.”

“Have you ever been to a big casino?”

“No.”

“What if you had a spotter? I could go with you, or Keith and I, or whoever you’re comfortable with. You wouldn’t have to do all the talking, and we could split the profits.”

Indrid saw plush carpet and hotel Jacuzzis big enough for his other body, bartenders serving Shirley Temples twenty-four hours a day. “Get me a Hornets jacket and I’m in.”