#the tip is from the closing bartender so. i forgive her. and the other (old) bartender never tips and is the most messiest so whatever

[deklo]

cleaned the bar and it was an absolute mess but because of the bartenders not even the patrons. i am so tired and sweaty…and i got a tip! trying to stay positive

[moondustis]

on the way (m)

pairing: seo johnny + reader genre: angst, smut | word count: 10k summary:  “There’s a few ways you could tell this story. The tale of how you met one Seo Johnny, and how it all went down. But maybe there's no better way to do it than from the beginning.” or A love story told in 5 acts.

a/n: hello! yes, finally a new fic and yes it is college!au with a hint of fwb. i have been writing this for around 4 months now and i haven’t read some parts in awhile so it’s probably all around the place. if something doesn’t make a lot of sense, well... it is what it is lol. but yeah, hope you guys enjoy it! 

act 1: messy affairs 

See, there’s a few ways you could tell this story. The tale of how you met one Seo Johnny, and how it all went down. But maybe there's no better way to do it than from the beginning.

It’s a friday night, just like any other that happens after a mixture of weekly stress and the weird need to let it all out. It’s common, routine even, how you apply your makeup, pick your best outfit and scroll mindlessly through tinder in wait for your friends to arrive for a pre-game. It's common but not that usual, at least not until recently. 

Your last year of college had brought a lot of feelings that you didn't think you were ready to deal with yet. A nostalgia that arrived too soon, when you would catch yourself thinking that a moment shared with roommates would be the last one. An uncertainty of the future and a constant stress between writing a thesis that somehow is supposed to summarize the entirety of the knowledge you had gotten in the last year. 

And lastly, the reason why you're doing this: the unwavering fear that your life is just about to start. The same feeling you got when college just started, of freedom and new beginnings. But now, instead of the excitement and thrill, it's replaced by anxiety and the heavy weight of adulthood about to start.  That's why you look into the mirror, again, applying your lip gloss with the screen of your phone still illuminated by a picture of a person just waiting to be swiped left or right. You just need to have fun, like you never will again. 

It's that a too harsh way to start this? Well, back to Seo Johnny. 

It's a friday night and your friends arrive, flavored vodka in hand, the cheap kind that tastes like it's not alcoholic at all. A shot for each and then you are all laughing and joking to pass time. 

"Why do we have to pre game? I'm sure there will be plenty to drink." Sarah, a blonde girl with friendly cheeks asks. She tips the shot on her hand back anyway, despite the question. 

"Hell no I'm not going to drink frat booze again, they are cheap." Ela, tall and smart and majoring is Social Politics, says. 

You hum and Sarah asks "And we are not?"

"No, we have our dear friend making us drinks." Ela gestures wildly at Nicole, the bartender of the night who's wearing a dress that only battles your own in the matters of shortness. "We are fancy."

"She's mixing vodka with sprite." These statements make you laugh loudly. 

Tinder is just a distraction as you all sit on the couch, a good way to find an easy date for the night and when the he in question shows up, a black and white picture on the illuminated screen of your phone, it earns a shriek from your friends that go on and on about how hot he looks. 

"You should swipe right." Ela says, eyebrows dancing but you don't see it because you're busy rolling your eyes at your phone. Johnny stares at you. 

"He's my friend." You say as if it's obvious but it's really not. The word friend feels a little weird in your mouth but how else could you describe it? College was good for you in the social aspect, you have a lot of friends, people you talk to in class, or that you meet at parties because you ran in the same circles. It usually doesn't go deeper than that, than a blunt shared or a joke about a teacher, but that's friendship anyway you conclude.

And Johnny , well, he was someone you knew, not well, but sometimes he would text you a joke that made you laugh, ask for help with an assignment, talk to you about anything during a party. He was fun, a friend, and an acquaintance. Whatever, that didn't matter and honestly neither did the way you met, through a mutual friend at a kickback. It was that and nothing more. 

"Please, he flirts with you every chance he gets." Ela rolls her eyes right back at you. 

"He flirts with anyone, I think." You argue, because it's true. Johnny is one of those people that just have this aura to them, that can make anyone interested with just a few words. He's naturally flirty, that's something easy to point out. 

"Well he's hot." That too. 

"True." Nicole says and it earns a deep sigh from you.

Acting on impulse or peer pressure, you don't know exactly, but you swipe right and then nothing happens. So you shrug and throw your phone away to down another shot. 

✿

When you get to the party, it's already absolutely trashed, with freshmen spilling their drinks on the floor as some annoying EDM song blasts loud enough that you’re not very sure the thin windows of this house can handle. Frat parties were always the same, mildly boring and filled with people that didn't know how to act. It often escaped you the reasons why you continued to attend them. 

You and your friends dance a little, laughing when the songs change to one that is even worse than the first one. Ela, despite her words from earlier, finds a bottle of vodka and proclaims loudly that a night can never end badly when it starts with shots, a statement you strongly disagree with but you down it anyway when she offers it and then another one just for good measure. Because it’s a friday, you deserve a little fun, right? Right.

Too tired of dancing you had found a place on a couch that was probably too old. Johnny finds you there when the shots just start to hit and you feel bubbly, like you're on a cloud. 

"Hey there." He says with a blinding smile and if you weren't out of it you'd probably find it weird that he came to you, because most of the time you talked at parties was because you somehow ended up bumping into each other. 

"Hi." You reply, elongating the word more than necessary and it seems to amuse him. 

"Why are you sitting here by yourself?" He asks.

"Don't feel like dancing anymore." You say shrugging. "And what are you doing here sitting with me?" 

You watch as he laughs slowly and fishes for his phone in his pocket. "See, I wanted to show you something." 

It’s endearing, really, even more when his hand starts to wander, fingers barely ghosting your skin as he keeps his gaze glued to your face. 

He kisses you deeply, head tilted to the side as he holds you close with both hands on your cheeks and you can’t do anything but let him take control. Is when he sucks on your bottom lip that you have to let out the moan you had been holding, embarrassingly too soon and only urging him on even more as he licks at your lips, asking for entrance that you so gladly give, letting his tongue slide against yours slowly. The feeling of his hands moving to your leg makes your head spin and want for more.

He kisses the breath out of you, quite literally, and you both have to part to catch it back with silly smiles, gasps of air and pecks still being pressed on your lips. 

In your drunken haze, you smile when he rests his palm on your naked thigh, squeezing just slightly to test your interest. And you’re crazy, absolutely out of your mind because you show it by parting your legs just a little, just to tease, the smile never leaving your face as he mimics it with a subtle raise of his eyebrow. 

And god forgive you for being such a stupid horny girl that just falls gives in so easily, taking Johnny’s wandering hand in yours and dragging him to the closest place you can find, which happens to be someone's bedroom. How nice and polite of you. 

There’s not much beating around the bush. He pushes you into the bed, hovering over you and finally kisses you again, with hunger, hands on your neck and tongue sliding against yours in movements that are not shy from being desperate. And you love it, enough to have your mind swimming with the need to have him touch you anywhere that will make you feel good. 

When you grip at his hair a little too harshly, he lets out a moan that goes straight to the bubble of arousal on the pit of your stomach. He’s a sight, with puffy lips and hair a mess as he drops to his knees in front of you, something you weren’t exactly expecting but will definitely not complain about. 

He looks up at you, hands moving to rest at your thighs and oh, so gently parting them so he can fit in between. “Can I?” You almost die at the voice he asks for your consent in. 

You nod, head spinning a little when you move to help him get yours panties off, the offending cotton fabric being thrown somewhere inside this poor person's bedroom.

A couple of things happen afterwards. Johnny parts your legs further, placing a misplaced kiss on your inner thigh. Then he goes for it with a tentative lick, as if testing the waters and just slightly as if he’s a little unsure of himself. You blink slowly in expectation. 

“How do you like it?” The question makes you confused until you realize that he’s teasing you, a grin splattered across his face when you groan and try to move your hips but he keeps a grip on your legs. 

“Asshole.” You mutter in what sounds more like a whine. 

Which is a complete lie, because you’re already shivering in your skin and he knows that by the raise of his eyebrow in defiance. But still, your words spark something and he finally goes for it. 

The first press of his tongue flat against you has your hands moving to grip at the bed sheets. He works in a pace that clearly shows that he knows what he’s doing, swirling his tongue a little to tease and then licking a stripe from your entrance to your clit to gather the wetness there. 

He kisses your cunt the exact same way he did your lips, messily and desperate with the squelchy noises filling the room and setting your cheeks in heat from embarrassment. You don’t even need the long fingers he adds, slowly and then matching the pace of his sucks. 

It’s a very quick orgasm, in the sense that it doesn’t take you half the time you thought it would to happen. He does a little thing with his tongue, flicking your clit and you’re crying out with your body arching from the bed as he continues to eat you out as your body trembles. 

“Was I good?” He asks afterwards, words muffled because he’s still pressed against your bare center. He’s grinning, you can see it as well as the wetness that drips on his chin. 

You don't reply, instead you push him upwards and kiss him again, tasting yourself on his tongue. You can feel his erection press against your hip when he brings you closer and it makes you want more. 

He breaks the kiss then, palm comes to rest on your cheek, thumb on the other side of your face as he keeps you looking at him. He likes being in control, you have realized that even in this short interaction, and you apparently liked giving it to him. 

You shiver when he brushes his thumb on your lips, getting them to part for him. “There you go, open your mouth.” He whispers, eyes glued to it. “Be good." 

Parting your lips, you lick at his thumb before you’re sucking it, earning a grunt from him that almost makes you smirk. You put on a show, trying to get him as worked up as you are, your eyes not leaving his face.

“Fuck. You’re so hot.” He mutters, pressing his thumb on your tongue and you moan a little over it. “You want my cock on your mouth?”

You nod, smiling as he removes his wet finger from your mouth. “Yes.” Your voice is breathless, eyes glassy as you stare at him.

That earns you a smile and you feel a little pride in your chest. “That’s a good girl.” He taps your face. “Get on your knees then, baby. If you want it so bad.”

You do, positioning yourself in the middle of his parted thighs when he sits down on the bed and your mouth almost waters from anticipation.

Lifting his shirt a bit, you start by pressing kisses to his navel and he lets out a deep breath. Reaching down to unbutton his pants, you help him pull them down alongside his boxers and the sight of him hard for you is what really makes your mouth water. He's big in a way that you're sure you won't be able to fit it all inside without putting in some work. 

You tease him just a little bit, placing just the small kiss at the tip before licking it slowly. He’s far less patient then you are, hand immediately moving to grip your hair. “Put it in, baby, don’t be bad for me now.”

Parting your lips, you put him in your mouth, going as far as you can go, wrapping your hand on what you can’t reach. He moans lowly, curses falling from his lips.

He lets his head fall back when you swirl your tongue around, bobbing your head slowly the way he likes. “That’s it, baby. Takin’ me so well.” You hum around him, earning yourself another moan.

You try to get him as far as you can, swallowing when you reach your limit and he grips your hair tighter. You can feel him pulsing inside your mouth and it makes you squeeze your thighs together.

He comes on your face, painting your cheeks and making you gasp a little in shock. "Fuck, I'm sorry." He mumbles, quick to search for something to clean you up with. 

"It 's okay." You say, throat feeling sore and you try not to think about how that was the first time that ever happened for too long. "I liked it." 

That makes him give you a look, and then he's saying with a laugh "You'll be the death of me." 

act 2: ungodly hour

Maybe the fact that nothing really changes should be a sign by itself. 

Johnny still nods to you when you pass by him around campus, and still asks you to ‘help a guy out’ by sending him pictures of your notes like you guys are nothing but good almost-friends. Because, well, that’s what you are and that’s good enough for you. 

His face stays there on your tinder matches, no acknowledgement of it beyond his stupid joke back at the party happens and the only reminder you have of that night is the insatiable thoughts that cross your mind in the middle of a boring lecture. Because why would you pay attention to whatever your teacher is saying when you could remind bit by bit of how Johnny fucked you on his tiny dorm room, while maintaining a resting face.

Weirdly those memories don't hit you the next time you see him, because you’re too busy thinking about strawberry milkshake. 

The line behind you is not even that big, considering it’s 3am and most drunk college kids prefer to go to the burger king, but the cashier has an annoyed look on his face as your friend slowly reads the menu as if there’s plenty to choose from at a place like Mcdonalds. “Hmm, we’ll have two large fries, a coke and...” 

“A strawberry milkshake!” You try to go for whispering but it comes out louder and the cashier just hums. 

There's just something about being slightly shit faced at this hour and at this place, that makes it all seem like it's not actually happening. Like you are in a dream that only gets better when the server calls your number and you are sipping on the milkshake you kept on talking about since leaving the club you went on.  

Funnily enough, if this was in fact in a dream, it wouldn't be the first time Johnny showed up on one of yours.

He's sitting in a booth by himself, scrolling at his phone. His hair is pushed back by a snapback and your mind twirls for a second with the thought that he looks too good for someone who's here in an hour like this. 

Maybe it's the remnants of alcohol still buzzing on your system. Or maybe it is the fact that you seem to have been losing your self consciousness more and more these days. Whatever it is, it leads you to the stand in front of Johnny with a smile on your face and your hand freezing from holding the milkshake.

It doesn't take long for him to notice you, a smile that makes you feel warm inside ready on his lips as you take a place right across from him like it was meant for you all this time. 

"Hey there." He says, voice playful and you wonder if he had a few drinks himself before coming here. He must have had. "What's up?" 

You shrug, a smile painting your own lips. "Nothing much." You say and for some reason you feel silly, in a way that makes you want to scream a little from excitement. Like a teenage girl with a crush.  "Strawberry milkshake. You want some?"

Johnny laughs a little when you offer him the cup with the slightly bitten straw. "No, thank you. But it looks good."

"It is." You smile with lips closed around it. 

For a moment, but not an uncomfortable one, you two just stare at each other. The sweet taste of your drinks fills your mind and makes you feel a little less dizzier. 

"Had fun night?" 

"Hmm, not really. Sorority parties suck." He nods in agreement. Most parties sucked anyway, that's why everyone had to get so wasted to be able to enjoy it while the high lasted. You liked feeling pretty after getting ready more than the whole rest of it.  "What were you up to?"

"Got to DJ at this party with Mark, it was nice." He says it like it was no big deal, like it was something he did every other day. You had never actually seen Johnny play before, but from the way his instagram page was filled with posts about it and links to soundcloud songs, anyone could figure out it was at least a bit important to him. 

You found it weird, that you didn't know much about this or anything else about Johnny besides what he would let you know. And vice versa. But at the same time it's nice getting to know it bit by bit, without a rush.  

"That's really cool." Your voice is a little more excited than you expected it to be. "I really wanna see you play someday." 

"Sure." He smiles sideways. Bashfulness doesn't really suit him. "I'll let you know the next time."

You nod, then you share a look. Someone screams at their friend about something you don't really care about because you're too busy watching Johnny as he watches you finish your milkshake. Is it chemistry that people call this? Because there is nothing very appealing about the drink you're having, or about the white light at this place, but there's tension in the way you can't really look away. 

He looks like he wants to laugh but is too scared to break whatever is happening. You finish your milkshake with one last swallow of artificial sweetener and lick your lips. He finally breaks. 

"Stop looking at me like that." He says it in a way that suggests something that it's already as clear as water. 

You bat your eyelashes. "Like what exactly?"

He laughs, sweet and deep, then raises one eyebrow in challenge. "Like you want me to fuck you in the middle of this mcdonalds."

The scandalousness of the statement makes you laugh too, your words sounding half joke half true between smiles. "Well, maybe I want to."

"You don't really strike me as the type." He says it like he's unsure of it, like in the back of his mind he could actually believe you would do something as shocking as that. Truth be told, you don't even know it yourself. There's not a lot you have done when it comes to this and sometimes you even think back to him coming on your face, like it is the wildest thing that has ever happened. 

"I could be." He raises his eyebrow again, this time not as a challenge but as genuine curiosity. You would like to know whether that is true or false as well. 

Deep down you know that there are not many things you wouldn't let a guy like Johnny do to you. 

He laughs, then pauses for a second and taps his fingers on the table as if looking for something to say. "You should let me take you out someday." Is what he decides on. 

For some reason you don't think much of that at the moment. "You gotta take someone out before fucking them in public place?" You continue the joke, earning a low laugh and a head shake. 

"I'm being serious." 

How serious can someone really be at 4am with some alcohol on their system. This time you are the one raising your eyebrows, in pure doubt. He doesn't seem like the type who dates girls they fucked at a party once, or the type who dates girls like you. But thinking about it you don't really know what type of person Johnny is. Or what kind of girl you really are. 

You click your teeth before smiling. "We'll see about that."

act 2: la petit mort 

It’s not a text you get but instead a facebook invitation. It makes you laugh because men are truly all the same. Liking an old instagram picture, reacting with an emoji to something you post on stories. Never a message being straightforward, it’s like they are all physically incapable of that. You wonder if it’s because of fearing rejection. 

See, dating it's not really your thing, never has been and the proof can be found in your few failed attempts. It just made you nervous, constantly on edge because it always involved a lot of confusing moments, of not knowing where it's going or what the other person is thinking. People are usually bad at the most important thing when it comes to this, communication. And you hated to be either on the side of conflict or of creating expectations too early. 

But Johnny, well, he has got you interested. In a way that’s dangerous because it doesn’t happen very often, at least not with someone who seems interested as well or even the slightest bit possible.

And danger is not your area of expertise, not as of lately, but still you click on the green button and when saturday comes you’re walking inside a very underground party outside of campus. 

You know it's the right place because there's some people outside smoking and the door is slightly open. You walk inside the two floor flat, the small bottle of wine you had brought shaking a little in your bag while you pass some people.

There's music playing but the sound of conversations is louder than that. The scent filling the room is undeniably familiar and it makes you wonder if there's a least one sober person in the room at the moment. You had been to parties like this before, not nearly as loud as the ones that happened on campus and  with a lot less people. An amount that by the end of the night will have shrunk and the ones left will gather around the very old looking couch, share one last blunt and say unnecessary deep things and profess their deep affections for each other.

They were fun parties.

You don't talk to anyone because no one really attempts to talk to you first. That's just how you worked, social interactions never came as easy as it seemed to other people. You usually waited for people to approach and if they were nice you would cling to them. Sometimes you even practiced smiling in the foggy mirror after you showered. You practiced saying an icebreaker, smiling fakely after it, but you never really put it in practice.

You see Johnny before he sees you, surrounded by two boys that look particularly close. He looks effortlessly good, like he always does, with a black sweatshirt and light blue jeans. It makes you want to go there and hold his hand, lean against his chest, feel him loom above you and then kiss him in front of everyone as if it was normal, as if it meant nothing. You got this feeling a lot.

When he sees you he smiles big and makes his way to you with long and quick steps that don't take longer than three blinks from you.

"I thought you were going to DJ tonight." You say when he reaches you holding a bottle of beer. 

He shrugs, standing very close to you now. "Nah, this is not that kind of party." 

His eyes stay glued to you and you fight the urge to fix your hair. You wonder if he thinks you look good on the dress you chose. 

"Hmm, it's not the kind of party I thought I would ever see you on." You point out, looking around as someone screams asking for them to play some song by an artist you don't know. 

"To be honest this is much more my scene." He explains and this small piece of information he gives you about what he's really like makes you feel giddy for some reason. "The only reason I go to frat parties is because of Jaehyun."  

Jaehyun was a dude that played on the football team and looked too good for his own good. Him and Johnny were always together, like they would break if someone separated them. "So that's who you got this weird frat boy aura you got from." 

He laughs loudly. "Sure. But what about you? What's your scene?" 

You pretend to think for a while. "I don't really know. I like very specific things that I only know I'm actually enjoying at the moment." It's a pretentious reply that you hope he finds funny. 

He seems amused by it. "So, a moment type of girl." 

He takes a sip of his beer and you take that moment to get the bottle of wine out of your bag. He laughs at it, as if the thought of you carrying wine around is very funny to him. 

"Sure." You take a sip of your own.  "You seem very keen on figuring out what kind of girl I am."

You enhance your question by raising your eyebrows as he starts leading you to a small empty couch.  "Well, you're mysterious so I got to work with what I get." He says while sitting down and you follow, laughing because the last thing you would consider yourself is mysterious in any way.

"Trust me, you would get a lot more information if you just asked."

He nods, doing a whole scene of thinking of something to ask.  "Ok then, why psychology?" 

You almost laugh at the question because does anyone actually know why they chose their major? "I guess I like that the mind is the only thing that can understand itself." You say it in a pompous way so he knows you are not really that serious about that.  "What about you? Why did you choose business?" 

He looks forwards and moves as if to get more comfortable on the couch. It makes him get closer to you and your legs touch. "I don't know. Money, status, easier to get a job later on." 

That makes you snort. "I don't think right now getting a job is easy in any area." You pause to drink some and then say,  "You don't seem like someone who cares about those things, anyway."

He laughs just a little. "My parents do."  

By his voice you can tell he doesn't really want to talk about that. Not right now at least. 

"Well, at least when you are a famous dj the gossip magazines will be able to mention that you got a business degree you never used." 

He leans into you when he laughs.

✿

The rest of the party is fun. You meet some of Johnny's friends that are too high to keep an actual conversation but are fun enough that you have a good time. 

Johnny makes you laugh a lot and by the time you finish your wine you feel more drunk in his presence than on the alcohol itself. 

There’s just something about Johnny’s presence that makes your legs go a little weak and your heart beat just a little faster, like you have a silly crush. He’s just funny, in a way that comes natural to him, and he makes you feel special, seeming interested in the things you say in a way that has your heart swoon. And on top of all that, like he couldn’t get any more perfect, he’s a whole 6’0 of man, all broad shoulders and always looking down at you with cute smiles.

It doesn't take you two long to reach his dorm, or for you to get on his bed. And when it’s like this, with him hovering over you, thrusting into you in a pace that has you seeing stars, the effect he has on you becomes painfully obvious.

It’s kind of embarrassing, really, how having him on top of you makes you feel so small and safe. How him hitting so deep inside when he gives you a sharp movement of his hips turns your inside into jelly. And all you can do in return is look up at him with glossy eyes and parted lips.

“God, I dreamed of fucking you.” He knows what he’s doing. Even worse, knows how to get to you with just a few words. “Do you like it, baby?” He asks, voice hoarse and lips turning into a barely not there smirk.

“Huh?” Is what you can reply with because you’re way out of it to make sense of his words. It just makes his smirk grow wider, hands moving to grip at your thighs so he can get your legs to open wider.

When he fucks into you faster, his cock hitting the spot that has you absolutely and completely losing your mind, he tries again. “Do you like how — Fuck— How big I feel?” His words are barely a groan from being just affected as you are. He sounds cocky but in a way that makes your eyes cross.

And you nod, enthusiastically so, because you do. It makes you shy, saying it out loud, but he seems well aware how much you love having him inside of you, the feeling of being full, the only thing that swims around your mind.

“Hmm, can you feel me here?” This time the question is accompanied by his palm on your lower belly, where a hint of a bulge forms when he gives you a deep thrust.

“Y-Yes.” You practically wail, body tingling from being so close. “You feel so —- Ughnnn.”

His chuckle is a mix of laughter and a moan, his lips coming down on yours in a kiss that’s as messy as it is desperate. “Are you shy, hmm? C-Can’t even say you like my cock inside of you.”

Your eyes roll to the back of your head. “Ah. I like it. I like it so much.”

He groans deep in his chest, hips still working. “You’ll drive me crazy one day, know that?"

What he doesn’t say but you know it’s true, it’s that he likes it as much as you do.

✿

What it becomes, is something you don't know exactly how to describe. All you know is that you spend a lot of time in Johnny's dorm these days. So much that you decorated every detail from it, from the fancy music equipment to the posters on the wall.

He fucks you in every way possible and it's weird that someone could know exactly how to please you, how to get you screaming. And then the two of you talk for hours, something putting on something to watch on his notebook while sharing ice cream, other times just laying down in silence until you fall asleep. 

It's something you're not quite sure to navigate. How easy it feels when you are with him, and how right it feels. You two navigate this uncertain thing very smoothly and the need to put a name to it, asking the 'what are we' question escapes you often. 

Right now you two lay down on his small bed, bare legs touching and the thin sheet on top of you barely covers anything. It was a rare thing to feel this comfortable with someone. 

He's talking about something his mother said to him on the phone, about drinking green tea and you just listen, enjoying the sound of his voice until he stops and looks down at you with a small smile. 

"Every time I talk about my parents you get this look." He says and you make a weird face at him. 

"No I don't." You defend yourself and he chuckles. 

"You do." He accuses. "Are you analyzing my parental relationship?"

You scoff, turning around to face him better. "No. I'm just friendly, feeling sorrow because of the fact you didn't get to choose what to study." 

He looks back at you, looking soft with the late afternoon peeking in from his half closed window. "It's fine, really. I can study engine sound later on, there's no expiration. Besides, they did so much for me this is the least I can do." 

You fight the urge to point out that he doesn't really owe them anything. It was hard sometimes to make sense of the way other people navigated their parental relationships. So all you say is a small "Yeah…"

"What about your parents? What are they like?"

"I don't know. They are divorced, so I haven't really talked to my father in a while." You hope he doesn't see this as weird. Every time he talks about his family they seem so normal, that it makes you envy him a bit. You always think that if you talk about your parents, people will think you're somehow messed up because of it, so you always keep it short. Johnny doesn't seem to mind it. "My mom is cool, I guess. She's funny."

He hums "I would like to meet her someday." It sounds like a bold statement. Something that means something, but he says with an ease that makes the thought of it seem pleasant. You realize you would like that to happen as well. 

"She would like you." Is what you say with as much ease as he did. 

A comfortable silence feels the room then, with only the low sound of the fan turning filling your ears. You don't think about how the room smells like sex, or about how summer is approaching and you'll probably not be able to see each other for a while.

"Are you going home for the summer?" You decide to ask. 

 He turns to look at you again. "Yeah, what about you?"

"I'm gonna start my internship. Work on my thesis." You had talked about both these things before, how important they were for you and the mention of it makes him smile. 

"That's really nice." He says and you give him a tiny smile. 

You swallow a lump in your throat then, the 2 months you'll stay apart hitting you and you just let the words escape your mouth. "I'm gonna miss you. Really."

He says it back by kissing you, softly and then with meaning. It happens naturally after that, like there wasn't anything else that made more sense than being as close to each other as possible right now. 

When he enters you, you look up at him in what you think is awe. Your eyes hazy, barely able to keep open and lips parting in yet another moan. 

It’s a nice view, in your defense, of Johnny hovering over you, looking so big  as he fucks you so well you’re sure your second orgasm of the night is already approaching. You’re not embarrassed to say that most of the times this happens you go a little dumb in the head, your mind swimming in the gooey feeling of pleasure and all you can think about is him. Johnny, Johnny, Johnny. 

“Oh, oh… oh my god.” You sigh dreamily yet broken enough that it makes him smile when a sharp thrust makes your hips raise a little. He’s always proud of being able to get you like this, to be the only one who does so.

He hums as if agreeing with a very thorough statement, moving his arms so he can press his chest to yours as he fucks into you with calculated thrusts . You can barely move with his weight on top of you, with how he seems to lock you in place with his hips and it’s enough for another broken sob to fall from your lips.

“Good?” He asks in a groan and with a nice slide of his cock inside of you to punctuate the question. You nod frantically because he’s as deep as he can get, knows this very well, and the feeling is something that makes you flutter around him in the desperate need to come. 

He kisses your cheek then, two sweet but filthy enough with his heavy exhales against it. His pace never gets too fast, just hinting at it but he maintains a speed that leaves you on the brink of your release. But, you only reach it when he pinches your clit with his fingers, circling it until your lips part in a silent scream and you’re coming again.  

And the sounds he makes when your walls squeeze just a little more than he can handle are something else. A deep groan and a pained little sob that you find extremely endearing and hot at the same time, his face contorting as he quickened his pace just enough to push him over the edge, finally coming inside of the condom. 

“You look so pretty like this.” He’ll say afterwards when he’s still inside of you, too lazy to move as you brush the hair out of his face. 

And you’ll smile, in the way he seems to like so much, and say “You look pretty all the time” just to get him to smile at you.

 act 3: yellow light  (hit the brakes) 

The rain was predictable. It had been raining every other day the entire month, on your way to work early in the morning you always ended up stepping on a pool and ruining your entire day because of your wet socks.

Not a lot of the people you knew had a car, or would willing to go out of their way to give you a lift. Your finger had hovered on top of Johnny’s contact for a while, not out of confidence that he would help you because you knew he would. But you hadn't really talked since summer started. There were random interactions, like replying to one of his instagram stories commenting on how intelectual posting pictures at The Louvre made him look and him making a joke about it or sharing a trivia about french people. 

Besides, bothering people made you uncomfortable, as if that somehow put you in debt and in a state of vulnerability with the person.

But Johnny doesn’t look like he’s going to hold a grudge against you over a lift. Instead, when you apologize for making him come all the way there, he says “I was in the area anyway.”

Which you doubt, but you don’t say anything so you just smile and thank him again.

It's somehow weird that you don't even expect him to mention what happened last term. You fight the urge to say it out loud, mention a small detail about the whole thing  just for him to laugh and somehow confirm to you that it really happened. It scared you sometimes how things were so momentary, as if life was supposed to be just a collection of things you would remember about and feel sad about. 

But it’s easy with Johnny, had been from the start. In a way that makes you think that some people are really meant to meet if only for a moment.

You had expected the casual friendship you had with the other friends you had met at college to fade slowly, which had happened. Without the bond of parties and fun there wasn’t much left there, and that was fine, you were never really lonely because you didn’t have a lot of time to be. Your mind was also set in a routine and state of tiredness that anything out of that seemed to set it in a frenzy and it would just shut down, making it hard to make conversation naturally.

Work was usually quiet, but sometimes the girl that was also accepted for the internship would try to strike conversation about her thesis and while she was talking your gaze would be focused forward while your mind went somewhere else. She never pointed that out, probably because she just wanted to talk and not really listen. You were fine with that.

But with Johnny the silence is not the kind that makes you wonder if you should say something. You think that if you were to get in a daze right now he would try to pull you out, ask what you were daydreaming about, or maybe that’s you building your other life, the one you think about before going to sleep.

You watch the window wipe, swiping away the raindrops as Johnny picks a song. It’s just a little past 6 but the clouds make it look much later.

“How is the internship going?” Johnny asks after he sets on a song you don’t really know.

You shrug. Not long ago you had told him how excited you were for this, as if you thought your life would start with this idealized career you had created in your mind. At the time having to watch people your age sign forms about how depressed they are didn’t seem that bad. “It’s fine, not that busy at night so I get to work on my thesis when they give me those shifts.”

That involves a lot of reading multiple times the same page of articles written by pretentious men that think using difficult sentences makes them smarter. You think your advisor expects the same from you, fancy nomenclature but the human mind is already complicated enough by itself.

“And how is that going?” Johnny has no idea what you’re writing about, no one actually does. Sometimes you even doubt yourself, does it really matter to talk about something that feels so specific to your reality? Because it does seem like everyone else is doing a good job at living and not feeling like they are disconnected from reality.

You scoff and shake your head missing the way his lips corners lift just a little. “The best way it can, I suppose.”

“Good enough.” He says in his cheerful voice. “When are you going to become that kind of person that can't stop talking about what they are studying?"

That makes you laugh a little. If there was something you were familiar with, it was people who loved to talk about their thesis as if they would come up with the solution to all of the world's problems. "I don't think that really suits me." Just mentioning it made you actually a little sick.

"Yeah, because you are mysterious and all."

And there it is. Just this small reference to a past conversation you had with him, alone in your small dorm room, makes you feel giddy. You could even blush if you thought hard enough about it. 

"Exactly, a box of surprises." You say, in a funny voice and his laugh makes you smile. 

Outside the rain is still going strong and you can see students running around trying to find shelter while laughing and using their backpacks as improvised umbrellas. The sky is completely dark now and it makes you want to be in bed, safe and sound. 

You go to ask Johnny about his summer in France, but he beats you to it. He had always been better at conversations, anyway.

"I saw that friend of yours, Ela I think." He mentions casually.  "She's dating a friend of mine."

You knew that because of the numerous pictures on your instagram feed, but for some reason you pretend to be mildly surprised "Oh really? I haven't really talked to her in awhile." A shrug. "We don't have much in common, turns out." 

He hums sympathetically. "Yeah that makes sense. But they both seem happy."

"Yeah." The topic doesn't really interest you. You can't barely remember a time where your past friends' love lives had any affect on you, now it's just a piece of information you'll forget about in a few hours. 

"What about you, seeing anyone at the moment?" The question makes you raise both your eyebrows as you let out a laugh that sounds suspicious. It's a weird thing for him to ask but at the same time not really. 

You sigh and he looks at you with a funny face, as if he's amused. I don't think I have the energy for that. What about you?" 

He shrugs, turning his face to the front again. "Not really."

Months ago you think you would have made a flirty commentary about that. Something along the lines of 'That's good, I get jealous easily.' and it would have made him laugh. But now you just hum, not out of interest but because you are not sure how you would react to the potential outcome. 

It should've felt obvious that he would somehow mention your relationship. You always thought that when you two talked about it, it would be bringing up the months you would see each other every day, and how you spend more time at his place than at your own. But what he says is, "Remember when you refused me?" 

He says it in a funny voice, like old friends reminiscing on the past. You get confused with the pace of the conversations and ask "What?" 

"At McDonalds. I asked you out and you said 'We'll see about it.'" He says it laughing, which means he's not hurt by that. 

"I didn't think you remembered that." You mutter, because you really didn't. "And please, I wasn't rejecting you." 

The last part is a lie. At the time you didn't think he was serious about it. Now, you don't know exactly what you think.

"Right, right. When you put me down nicely."

That makes you roll your eyes, laughing alongside him. "Yeah, right." 

When the laugh dies down you watch as he taps his fingers on the steering wheel. You feel a weird sensation in your chest. 

"Why did you?" He asks, voice not much more serious but the question has weight that his past sentences didn't have. 

You could tell him the truth, of what kind of person you thought he was and how that changed. You definitely couldn't open up about what kind of person you were. So you settle for this: "I don't know, I think.. I mean, I'm not sure we would have worked out back then." 

He hums loudly, then clicks his tongue.  "Yeah. I don't know either." His voice is soft then, mixing perfectly with the muted rain sound and the song still playing. "You can never know."

You turn your face to look at him. There's no way to do it without him noticing that you are staring, but you do it without a hint of shame.

If you thought about it hard enough, about everything that happened, you would still not be able to point out exactly what would have happened if something more serious took place. And that's a weird thing to think about, because there was never a point in your relationship where neither of you decided it was meant to be casual, that's just how it turned out to be. 

Later at night you will think about how there's nothing really casual about the way you can perfectly picture Johnny when you close your eyes, laying on your bed shirtless, hair a mess and face illuminated by the sun peaking out your window. How there's nothing casual at all about the fact that it has never felt like it did with anyone else.

But now, you just look at him with your heart ready to burst and you say. " We should watch a movie together someday."  

He laughs, looks at you for a second and says "Yeah, we should."

act 4: what’s going on? 

You didn’t feel particularly fond of mondays. Having to let go of the leisureliness of the weekend behind and welcome another week ahead never felt like a good idea when your phone alarm would start ringing at 7am.

It's not that the weekend was much better than that. All you ever did was read books that made your head ache for hours and then write never ending paragraphs that you hoped would make sense for anyone besides yourself. It was easy to become some sort of alienated when you stayed focused inside your room for so long, and having to remember that there was a whole life outside was a little painful. 

When you walk inside the clinic the sound of the coffee machine being turned on reaches your ears and you mutter a small good morning to the psychiatrist that usually took the morning shifts. She was tall and always looked put together with a blazer jacket and red lipstick. Her friendly face made you suspicious for some reason. 

"Good weekend?" She asks as you place your things on the front desk and you spare a smile to make her think you are interested in talking about your weekend. 

"Yeah, sure." You turn on the old computer they got for you to use. A blue screen greets your eyes, then it glitches for a second like it always does. "What about you?"

It might sound like you're not a very nice person if you say you don't really care how her weekend went. Or that you would wish the conversation would have stopped at the greeting. But you really don't. These days talking to people takes a lot of effort and most of the time you wish you'd be just swallowed by silence and left alone. 

"It was great, thank you." She says while adding sugar to her coffee. You are sitting down now and she turns to look at you with a sympathetic face. "Listen, I have a free spot this morning, if you'd like to talk a little." 

You blink slowly, taking a moment to process the words she said, but it really doesn't take a genius to understand she's offering you counseling. Most likely because she thinks you need it. 

And you're not about to argue that you don't, because you more than anything else know that you do, but you feel like you're not ready for it yet. As if you have things to figure out first. "Oh, that's very nice of you to offer." You say, uncertain how exactly to handle this. "But I have some things to get done."

The lie is accepted easily but she still raises her eyebrow a little. Still, she says. "Alright, then. Just remember I'm one door away."

You thank her, smiling politely until she finally leaves to her office. The computer is still loading and you let out another deep sigh, considering drinking a cup of coffee but deciding against it to not trouble your anxiety any more.

What happens next couldn't possibly be predicted. You take your phone out of your bag and open instagram out of habit, to pass some time. Johnny's profile is still the first one that shows up on the stories board, probably from all the time you spent messaging each other in the past. 

It had been a while since you two talked to each other, but you kept up with his whereabouts from looking at the pictures he posted with friends and of random things. More often than not you fought the urge to reply to them, as if you didn't really know each other anymore. 

You don't expect to see him with a girl when you click on his photo. But there he is, with arms around her and a single heart. You tap on to the next one and it's a repost from someone else's instagram, of a picture of him and the girl kissing while laughing. 

There's a few words you can use to describe how you feel. Your heart drops and you go cold, blinking very slowly as the pictures change to another person's stories and for a second it's like it didn't happen. Like it was just a trick of the eye. 

Would it be silly to cry over this? You think it would so you take a deep breath and try to not think about it anymore. 

✿

It wouldn't take a genius to figure out that you probably loved him. Or at least felt a deep kind of infatuation. Sometimes at night you lay in bed and wonder what exactly went wrong and you can't really find an answer to that. It just naturally happened. 

Maybe you should have said something, maybe if you did things would've stayed the same. You wish that at the time you knew what to say but now it was a little too late. 

You stare at your blank ceiling, your skin tingling where it touches you sheets. Looking at couples always made you feel weird, with jealousy maybe because you never thought that was something for you. Being in love has always been something that other people got to experience, and you got to watch it but never try it for yourself. 

Maybe there was something wrong with how you worked, how you viewed this whole thing. You wish you knew what so you could fix it.

Sometimes when you close your eyes you imagine someone wrapping arms around you, with a familiar cologne that makes you feel at home. the person doesn’t complain when you hug them tighter, probably knows this is what you need.

You think of all the men you had dated, the ones who disappeared out of nowhere and the ones who treated you like shit because you allowed it. You didn't really know how it really had to work until you met Johnny.

It had never felt like that. Gentle and soft and easy. 

How to separate true loneliness from the mere need to feel something, to have someone want you? That’s a trick question and you think about it until you fall asleep.  

✿

For you last month in college, you don’t do much. 

The internship ends with the old lady that was in charge of the clinic telling you what an amazing job you did, and how she knows for sure you will exceed in the area. She writes a beautiful recommendation letter, mentions a few professional names and then sends you away. 

A week before its deadline you send out your finished thesis to your advisor, after spending half an hour staring at your email until you can press send. You got a reply two hours later with pleasantries and a date for your final presentation. 

As you wait for it there's nothing a lot to do. Some days you walk around campus without a real destination in mind, stopping by the cafeteria and the library on your way. There's not many people around this time of the year, most have gone already and the ones that stayed spend time rehearsing for presentations or hanging out with friends.

You get texts from people you haven't talked to in months, wishing you good luck and inviting you to parties that you attend once or twice just to get one last taste of it. 

It’s weird that you don’t feel the deep sense of realization you thought you would. You lay down on the small bed you slept on for two years, stare at the empty walls of your dorm now that you’ve put all your things away, and you feel almost normal. Sure there’s a little ball of emptiness and excitement on your stomach alongside pride for finishing this and for having grown up so much since freshman year. But besides that you just feel normal. 

Maybe this is what being alive is, experiencing life changing moments and not feeling like they mean much. Maybe some moments are just meant to be remembered as special, and not lived as such. 

Your presentation goes well, you don’t trip over your words and your teachers compliment your great work afterwards. You cry, in front of a bunch of people you don’t know, and let out a deep breath of relief. 

Ten days later you graduate, wearing the usual attire and walking on stage with a smile on your face when your name is called. No one screams your name or cheers loudly because plane tickets were too expensive for your parents to attend. The claps from your classmates are still nice. 

You don’t expect to see Johnny there, but he shows up wearing a suit that looks alien compared to the clothes he wears daily. He looks good, familiar and it makes a lump form on your throat.

You hadn’t really talked to each other in a while. It had been a natural thing to happen, for the two of you to fall a little apart. But still, when he waves at you, you make your way to him easily. 

“Finally got your ticket out of this place, huh?” He jokes with a smile on his lips that you can’t help but mimic. 

“Yeah, I’m finally free.” You joke back. 

You inhale softly when he hugs you, so close that you can hear his heartbeat. He surrounds you with him and you think you would drown right now if he allowed you to. “Congratulations, ____.” He says quietly, almost whispering your name.

You’re both smiling when you part. “Soon it’ll be you.” 

Before he can reply a familiar face makes her way to where you two are. Johnny circles her waist when she gets close enough and you fight as to not let your smile fall. He introduces her as his girlfriend, a biomedicine student that smiles big when she congratulates you on graduating and expresses how she can’t wait for her turn to come. 

She’s very pretty is what you keep thinking about as you make small talk that feels a little painful. 

After some time Johnny says “Well, we should leave you to go talk to your family. It was really nice to see you, ____.”

His words sound genuine and you smile when he hugs you again. 

You don’t tell them there’s not really anyone you know for you to talk to. Instead, you walk to your dorm with your heels clicking on the asphalt. 

act 5: old friend / late spring

Your feet hurt a little from standing too much and not even the coldness of the beer you’re having can make you ignore it. 

The truth is that you really wanted to be home right now, eating leftovers while you watched a movie. But instead, you’re in the bar your colleagues always attended after work to share a laugh and complain about mundane things while enjoying the 2 for 1 deal they had on friday for happy hour. 

Working in an office with people wearing suits hadn’t been what you had envisioned  yourself doing two years after graduating. You had always dreamt of having your own clinic, becoming a therapist or even working at a hospital. But times were hard and the human relations department of a marketing company had been what you had to go for. 

It’s not as boring as it sounds, and you get to know about every gossip firsthand so you settle for it very easily. But having to be at a bar after a whole tiring week was not on your favorites list.

You excuse yourself from the group when they start talking about something you were tired of hearing. A gossip about the boss sleeping with someone from the finance department that you knew about months ago. 

You walk to the bar, cursing your heels until you finally sit on a stool, ordering another beer that you know is gonna be your last before you decide to escape. There’s loud conversation happening all around you and a song playing over it. Your back hurts a bit and you wonder when life has become so mundane. 

Lost in your thoughts, you don’t notice the man that sits right next to you until he’s ordering a beer and the voice seems familiar. 

Your heart jumps out of your chest when you look at him and Johnny stands there in all his glory, with blonde hair and a very fancy suit. “Oh my fucking god.” Is the only thing you manage to mumble.

For a second you think you might be dreaming, but when he turns and looks at you his face contorts in the most amusing expression of surprise. 

Maybe this is what being alive is, experiencing life changing moments and not feeling like they mean much. Maybe some moments are just meant to be remembered as special, and not lived as such. 

The two of you hug while laughing and he keeps muttering something that sounds like a ‘no way.’

“I can’t believe this! What are you doing here?” You ask excitedly and he laughs. 

“I’m working on a office a few blocks from here.” He explains. “Just started a few days ago.” 

“I work around here too.” You exclaim and it’s like you could buzz from how excited you feel about this. 

You talk about things easily, both sharing what you have been doing for the past years. 

“This is crazy. I haven’t heard from you since college.” He says and it makes you freeze, blinking slowly but it doesn’t last long until you are covering your surprise by chuckling. Suddenly you’re hit with memories from those years and everything that happened between the two of you. Your eyes meet his and it strikes you that he’s probably thinking the same thing as you are. 

You shake your thoughts away, leaning on the counter with one elbow and then resting your face on your palm. “Who would’ve thought we would reunite after those years in a sketchy bar.” You joke, in a playful tone to keep the conversation going. 

He chuckles, bringing his hand to his face before he replies. “I would have never guessed this was your kind of scene.” 

The way he says it makes you snort. “It’s definitely not.” 

“Yeah.” He nods while laughing, “Still a moment kind of girl then?”

You nod then, making an amused sound while you take a sip of your beer. “Seems to me like you still got me all figured out.” 

“Do I? I used to think that I did but after all it happened I wasn’t so sure anymore.” He says avoiding your eyes a little and a lump forms on your throat. “To be honest I don’t really understand what happened.” 

You nod, turning to face him. “I think it wasn’t the right time.” It’s what you decide to say and he hums. 

“When is ever the right time for anything?” He asks and it makes you laugh loudly. 

You share a look then, one that says more than you could ever do with words. He smiles and then you smile back, like old friends would. “Maybe we met again for a reason.” 

Deep down, you know this is one of those moments happening. One that you’ll look back on the future and remember that it is where it all began. Again.

[heli0s-writes]

Eat the Rich*

Summary: You’re just a girl in a bar way above your tax bracket and Ransom  really doesn’t care for what you’re wearing.

A/N: There are no spoilers for the movie. But, there IS... Smut. Dirty talk. Class warfare in the form of hate-fucking. 2.9k words of FILTH. I need to be exorcised for this. Thank you @evanstarff​ and @tropicalcap​ for sending me straight to hell.

The entire lounge seems to turn when you enter. Eyes slide back and forth your way, mid-conversation mouths dipping into low frowns. Amidst the old-money frat boys from Cambridge, Beacon Hill Barbie socialites, and Downtown business young bloods, you’re a flagrant contrast in ripped jeans and an old hoodie.

A favorite hoodie. An incendiary hoodie.

The kind of hoodie that is worn with pride around these West End parts. Even the group you arrive with tried to hackle you out of it— bachelorette party decorum, they cried, will you please take that thing off?

Your cousin might be marrying Silverspoon Asswipe and stringing herself up pretty next to all his call-girl friends, but you are a Jamaica Plain girl through and through and you will not stuff yourself into a glitzy cocktail dress before this hoodie.

She waves her hand at the hostess to distract her from your outfit, rustling the satin sash over her glossy sweetheart neckline, “Reservation under Prentiss; it was booked this morning?” And then a sharp look at you as if to say, you made the reservations, right?!

Duh. Your eyes respond when the hostess begins to lead your party back. You follow the tail end of the throng, veering off towards the bar; the miasma of Chanel perfume is enough to gag, and the cigar smoke is only a tiny bit better. Not like they’d care or even notice.

“Do you have PBR?”

The bartender stutters and before you can make him any more uncomfortable, a deep voice from beside you nips it in the bud.

Broad shoulders turn until you see his face. Amused, with a single raised eyebrow, mouth just barely tilting up at one corner. Mid-thirties and extremely well-groomed. Slicked back brown hair and classic Ray Bans hang from the collar of his sweater. Too handsome for his own good with the unmistakable swagger of someone grown up filthy rich.

“She’ll have the Glenfiddich. Neat.”

Certainly smug enough to butt in like you’re old friends.

“Will she?” You ponder defiantly at the pursed lips nestled over a strong jaw.

His own thick crystal glass is easily tipped into his mouth when he takes a too-large swig. Signet rings on two left fingers glimmer, and with a low exhale bordering a growl, he hisses through his teeth, “Yeah. I think you will.”

Bold blue eyes roam over your top and the statement printed there for a second before he scrutinizes your face. Then, purposefully—and knowing that your eyes are on him-- he looks back down to the swell of your chest.

A hum of approval before he faces forward again, only giving you his side profile.

“Wow,” you scoff, “Dick.”

The grin that splits his mouth for a second looks angelic if angels could be full-grown men with full-grown egos to match. “Close. It’s Ransom.”

Amber sloshes when the bartender returns, and you chance a sip because even your pride isn’t stupid enough to pass on a free glass of Glenfiddich.

The whiskey bites for a second before rolling smoothly down your throat. There’s an inherently superior taste to these luxury drinks, but you pull a face all the same, unwilling to give him the satisfaction. Ransom chuckles, head turning just a tad as he looks to you from the corner of his eye.

“You making a statement with that thing on, or what?”

“You’re the one making a statement with that ladies wool scarf from Drake’s.”

Ransom jerks to you fully now, attention snatched by your wit as he leans in, “Where’d you come from, little girl? Not everyone walks into Carver’s dressed in rags.”

He really is a piece of work. When you tell him your neighborhood, as expected, he snorts with disdain, but his eyes fall back on you again, highly intrigued. “There’s more to you, isn’t there? My scarf, that attitude. Someone taught you a thing or two, didn’t they?”

The single-malt mouthful is singing in your veins and if your confidence was thinking about simmering down for a second, it’s forgotten itself inside the furious swirl. The hand around your empty glass clutches just a tiny bit tighter.

“Oh, come on,” Ransom waggles two fingers for another round, “Let’s see, I’m thinking… blue-collar parents, siblings, maybe with shared rooms in your dilapidated Jamaica Plain home?” A tap of his finger to that pink bottom lip too damn pretty to be on his wretched face, he pretends to mull a thought over.

He looks you up and down, taking just enough time to where you feel violated under his gaze, “I know: Public college. Two-year community. Working a day job in Back Bay made you bitter, didn’t it? Hence, statement piece.”

“Asshole,” you snap, unraveling at the seams with rage, and the bartender quickly flits away again, “Full ride to Northeastern, four years with honors. Back Bay can’t fucking afford me.”

You don’t know how he does it, but his derisive silence incenses you even more. He couples it with a slow flick of his tongue over teeth, flagrant staring, and the piercing blue of his eyes spotlight a trail—across your shoulders, down your arm, jumping from your fingertip to your thigh, and then it dips between.

Every inch of your body prickles alive with reaction, so naturally, you spit, “Fuck you.”

Ransom’s smile grows until it nearly looks genuine, but then the sharp points of his canines sink right into your gut.

“When?”

There is something ugly and incredible simmering behind his thick curtain eyelashes. A clear ocean grows stormy, sizzling like a cruel tempest rushing to life. The yellow gaussian blur from dim scone lights suddenly cast shadows over his sharp nose.

He slaps too many bills on the polished ebony and the swish of his scarf flicks over your knee when he stands. Ransom towers over you, light pink flush of inebriation and excitement growing hotter on his sculpted cheeks. He leans in, the open flaps of his overcoat falling around your shoulder, threatening to swallow you inside all his dark.

Low timbre and dusky spice goads, “Put your money where your mouth is, scholarship; that sweater’s not all talk, is it?”

Dick!

-

Big hands yank the hem up over your head for a second before something changes his mind. The heavy steel door is latched twice over and he’s pushing you into it with his imposing frame. Your skull hits the metal as his knee parts your thigh, leg shoving itself up in-between until you’re on your tip-toes, with nothing to do but land on him. The heat of it rushes all the way up to the top of your head, pouring from your mouth in a choked mewl.

Ransom rucks the top over your breasts until the words scrunch up at your collarbones and you think it must bring him some masochistic satisfaction to know their unforgiving glare:

Eat the Rich

His warning chills your spine.

“I’m gonna fuck that line from your brain. Fuck it right out.”

He yanks everything south of your waist to your ankles and pulls himself free from his pants, effortlessly tearing a condom from inside his leather wallet and slipping it on. Between the time he gets your bare ass on the counter and the sound of the rubber snap, he’s already branded a purple streak onto the side of your neck and you’re embarrassingly wet.

Your breath hitches in your throat when you see his length rising from beneath his cable-knit. Bright pink and angry, and so goddamn thick it makes you whimper. Ransom smothers it with his demanding and hungry mouth, impatient at being empty, stinging with whiskey and force. He’s probably never waited on anything in his life and within a short fifteen minutes of meeting him, you know that to be true.

Not a care in the world is given as goosebumps break out all over your arms.

He spins you into the sink countertop and then the two of you are staring at each other in the mirror’s reflection. His hands return to your hips with a bruising clutch and those thick fingers begin to rub the slick between your folds all over your thighs. Fucking A-- It’s good. Idiot rich boy does have the Midas Touch.

One long leg kicks your jeans completely off, sole of his shoes stomping all over them. He’s unforgivingly large and he knows it because everything about Ransom Drysdale is a statement: his clothes, his attitude, his dick. There’s a joke in here somewhere about him being the very epitome of it, but he’s glaring at you with that pretty bottom lip stretched between perfect white teeth and maybe you can forgive the fact that he’s leaving boot marks all over your jeans and bruises in the shape of fingerprints on your back.

“Tell me,” he teases, slipping one finger in, the metal of his ring pressing up against your clit, “Tell me you’ve had it like this before.”

A slow roll of his hips against your ass, letting the weight of his cock pressed hot and tight between his body and yours. You find yourself inching higher, micro-movements attuned to his, staring but unseeing at his face, buzzing with the raw need to be clenching around more than one finger.

“Not like this, not off Glenfiddich, in Jamaica Plain…”

And without thinking, because there isn’t much to think about, you hiss, “Oh, fuck you!”

Ransom chuckles into your ear because your voice breaks just a tad and he’s going to win this fight. Claws and teeth out sharper than knives, he bites down on your shoulder and slips in another finger. The distinct sensations—soft, slippery, strokes and the sting of his teeth—are scrambling your brain.  

He grips himself tight, pushes in with uncharacteristic restraint, and you’re so desperate and aching for it all you can do is push back and pray the sound you might be making isn’t loud enough for everyone in the damn place to hear.

You stifle a grunt with his next languid stroke and Ransom raises an eyebrow, “What? You suddenly shy now?”

It might be just a restroom, but it’s one of the nicest places you’ve ever been inside. Carver’s cigar room’s private single occupancy nook and he’s usurped it to screw you senseless. As if reading your thoughts, he rolls his eyes and continues, glaring at your half-lidded reflection.

“Who gives a shit?” Then, another smirk, “If you’re gonna scream, get my name right.”

Your belly is quivering from the pressure, holding yourself together as best you can before he takes you to pieces. The grooves in his rings cut into your skin. His hand squeezes your neck, fingers crawling up your chin to shove inside your mouth.

Like everything else he’s ever wanted in his life, he’ll own this, too.

And then it’s only punishment. Ransom twists your hair around one fist, other forearm pressing like an anchor on your sternum, wrist shoved through the neckline, hand splayed open and clutching your throat and it goes nearly all the way around. The reflection of your panting mouth and bouncing breasts matching his every thrust is lewd and vile and so goddamn good.

“I bet you fuck on top, don’t you, scholarship?” He releases your throat to pinch your cheeks together, tipping your head derisively, making you nod yourself stupid—awful and humiliating but it unexpectedly thrills.

“Bet you’re too proud to ask.” He makes you nod again, “Bet you want someone to fuck you open just like this—all filthy and sloppy—“

And he doesn’t have to make you agree that time, you’re already limp in expectation and your reflection, damn her, she nods.

He’s still fully dressed, coat swaying to cocoon the both of you in what is probably a hundred thousand dollars. His watch, his rings, his fucking boxers. That stupid cable knit sweater.

A yelp leaks out with your orgasm- unexpected and high and quick, like a wounded animal as you tip your head back onto his shoulder. He doesn’t stop, even for a second. Ransom thrusts deeper, and on the cusp of your second undoing, he licks an errant bead of sweat down the back of your neck.

“You got one more. Yeah, that’s right— one more— God, your pussy loves it. Squeezing me fucking good.” He’s sick. He’s sick and Jesus Christ, aren’t you, too? “Yeah. Push back on my cock. Fuck yourself with it…”

He guides your fingers to your clit with his free hand and begins to rub in motions. Your eyes flutter when he breathes into your ear, “There you go, scholarship, you’ll never get dick this good again—so go ahead and be selfish. I wanna see you all fucked out, fucked stupid, coming all over my dick.”

With two fingers sluiced with your spit, Ransom crams them up next to his cock and you can’t believe how he did it so easily but maybe you can. Yes, filthy and sloppy and never like you’ve had before. Your hands grip the counter top so tightly the tips look white and bloodless and the strained coil inside snaps clean in two.

“Fuck! Oh fuck! God!”

You slump backwards, fingertips to toes shocked tingly numb, boneless and empty of all thought, but he holds you up with ease. Ransom shushes your gasps, paws your breasts and fluttering sternum, runs his hand over your face and throat. The pinch of his fingers returns to your cheeks and he drags his other hand from inside your pussy up into to your mouth. Slick and dripping, a little rubbery from the condom, but otherwise just like yourself.

“Well, look at that. Aren’t you just…”

He pauses to view your blissful face, covered in a sheen layer of sweat, head resting on his shoulder, slanted just enough so that the tip of your nose brushes his jaw. A quick laugh, strangely knowing and a bit sweet or maybe you’re imagining it in your delirium, before he turns cold again.

“Make good on your slogan. Get on your fucking knees.”

His hand looks ridiculous, big and strong and wrapped around the best part of him, completely filthy with you smeared over his fist and you slide to your knees, forehead resting briefly on his knee. His pants have fallen around his ankles, boxers still midway, and you’re so exhausted you can hardly do much more than give him a light kiss to his inner thigh—God knows why—before you peel the rubber off.

It lands into the toilet and you obediently stick out your tongue, still panting to catch your breath as Ransom aims toward your open throat. “There you go,” he groans, fisting himself, “That’s it. Don’t let a single drop go to waste.”

And you don’t.

-

“So,” your old mentor asks, familiar low drawl of his voice crackling with the tone of a lifelong smoker, “What do you think?”

A hum passes through from your end as you think about all the ways Ransom Drysdale Thrombey pulled you apart and in all the ways you’ll probably think about for at least a couple of months.

“He’s exactly who you think he is.” You rock back and forth on your feet near the curb, “Disrespectful…” Scholarship, Ransom’s voice sneers, “Selfish…” Who gives a shit? “Manipulative.”

Well look at that��� aren’t you just… And the glimmer of those big blue eyes half-crazed with lust and control, drinking in your reflection in the mirror, makes you clench up right there in the parking lot.

“You think he’s a killer?” Blanc asks quietly.

“I don’t know,” You reply, “Depends. He takes what he wants when he wants it… Could care less if he burns the world down with him. You divine the rest.”

Benoit Blanc’s frustrated sigh is all the response you expect him to give. This case with the Thrombeys really has gotten him all twisted up. He wouldn’t have called you for a favor if it didn’t. Of course, when he asked you to check Ransom Drysdale Thrombey out, he’ll be at Carver’s tomorrow around ten, he probably had other scenarios in mind…

“Well,” he mumbles, “Thanks again. These people sure are hell to be around. Give the new Prentisses my best, won’t you?”

You say your goodbyes and tuck your phone back into your pocket, shifting with a wince when the soreness between your legs throbs again. With a sigh into the dark autumn night, you shove your hands inside the center pouch of your hoodie, keeping your head low but still wary enough to find your Uber.

Ransom left you in the restroom about ten minutes ago, sitting on your haunches, still trying to remember how your lungs work. Right before the door shut, he had turned around and gave you one last smirk, pointing right at your top with glee. “How’d I taste, baby?”

Blanc needs to be careful, not that he isn’t— because he always is, as nutty as his brain works, he is. But Ransom is the only Thrombey you’ve met and if there are ten more of them… Blanc would do good to watch his ass and maybe get some extra help.

A jangle disrupts the quiet when you begin to play with what you’ve taken. Jagged metal edges. Heavy iconic insignia laying benignly in your palm before you tug it out.

Idiot. Good dick or not, an idiot is an idiot is an idiot— especially his kind. Didn’t even notice you slipped these right out of his coat pocket. You swing the ring around your flexed pointer in swift, angry circles, keys clanging together before your hand shuts it up.

With a hard wind of your arm back, you fling the set long into the night, satisfied when it lands behind a building some distance away.

Ransom Drysdale, you think, enthusiastic smile growing on your face as your ride pulls around the corner, have fun looking for those tonight.

Dick!

-

Ransom tags: @mermaidxatxheart @dumbubblegum @sapphirescrolls @gothambrat @southerncross47 @bubblegumpeeeach @fiercephantasmagoria @saliarheva @amberakawolfie

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[luci-in-trenchcoats]

Out Of The Way (Part 2)

Summary: When the reader’s boyfriend ditches her on the side of the road, she ends up at an out of the way bar and roadhouse where the man behind the counter makes her an interesting offer…

Part 1

Pairing: Bartender!Dean x au!reader

Word Count: 2,800ish

Warnings: language, slight angst

_______

“Your new bartender makes a mean manhattan,” said some guy at the bar. You were wiping down a table after a few guys had left, Dean chuckling from behind the counter.

“You just think she’s got a cuter face than mine, Jim,” said Dean. 

“It’s good you got some help. You could use another pair of hands,” said Jim. You felt his gaze on you as you bent down to pick up a coaster.

“Hey,” said Dean. “This ain’t Hollow’s Point. You want that kind of service-”

“I’m just looking,” he said.

“Keep it at just looking or she’ll kick you ass,” said Dean. You smirked as you carried back the empty bottles to the kitchen area and washed them out, setting them in the recycle bin. You hummed as you walked back out front with a bottle of Jack, Dean just setting the empty one in his hand down on the bottom shelf. “Reading my mind there.”

“You worked in bars before, sweetheart?” asked Jim.

“Done a lot of things, sweetheart,” you said, spotting a hand wave from a corner table. “Excuse me.”

“I should have hired you sooner,” chuckled Dean from his office after closing as you set the cleaning supplies back in the closet there. “We got a lot more tips this week. A lot.”

“Drunk men like to look at women. Some things never change,” you said. Dean nodded and took an envelope out from a drawer in his desk. He held it out and you grabbed it. You peeked inside and looked up. “This is more than we agreed to.”

“Well it ain’t like you’re paying taxes on it. You’re good. Clean, serve, keep everyone happy. You keep tabs on inventory. You earned it,” he said. “And here is your half of the tips.”

“I can’t take half,” you said as he set half the wad of cash down in front of you.

“We pool tips here and once again, these boys aren’t tipping to look at my pretty face all night long,” he said. You grabbed the money and shoved it in the envelope, tucking it in your back pocket. “I’m heading into Southbend in the morning if you want to stop into town and pick anything up.”

“I’m okay,” you said, turning out of his office. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Y/N.”

“Morning,” said Dean as he carried in a few grocery bags.

“Morning,” you said, eating some toast at the bartop.

“You ever eat anything aside from toast and eggs?” he asked, setting the bags down.

“It’s cheap,” you said, taking another bite.

“Yeah well, happy birthday,” he said, pulling out a pink box and setting it on the bartop. You flipped it open and saw a cupcake inside. “It is your birthday today, isn’t it?”

“I haven’t celebrated my birthday in years,” you said, staring at the thing.

“Well, celebrate it. Feel free to store some actual food in the kitchen too,” he said, grabbing his bags. 

“Hey, Dean?” you said when he got to the stairs to go up to his apartment. “Thank you.”

“Happy birthday, Y/N,” he said with a smile.

Fifteen minutes later he was downstairs, watching you sweep up the floor. He popped behind the bar and sat up on the counter, giving you a smile.

“It’s Sunday. Let’s do something fun,” he said. 

“Fun?” you said, tucking the broom back in the corner.

“We aren’t allowed to sell alcohol on Sunday’s around here. It’s our day off. Either we can hang around here and make this place even cleaner than it already is, or we can go have some fun,” he said.

“I prefer to keep a low profile,” you said.

“Come on. I got a perfect idea.”

“You like fishing?” he asked as you sat on the end of a quiet dock.

“I haven’t been since I was little,” you said. “You?”

“Yeah. I like fishing,” he said. It was quiet a few minutes aside from him reeling every so often. “I used to go a lot with my dad and brother.”

“How long have you been pretending?” you asked.

“Five years, like you,” he said. “Too late to say I’m innocent now.”

“Yeah. I get that,” you said.

“The guy, he was your boyfriend right?” asked Dean.

“Yeah. He cheated on me with this married woman. It was her husband that did it. I know it was. But she vouched for him and gave him an alibi,” you said.

“You didn’t have one so you got the short end of it,” he said.

“My DNA was all over the apartment. It was our kitchen knife so my fingerprints were on it. I was fucked,” you said.

“Did you forgive him?” he asked.

“For the cheating, no. I didn’t wish him dead though. He didn’t deserve that,” you said.

“You’re a good person,” said Dean. You reeled in your line and set it beside you, Dean giving you a smile. “For a fugitive.”

“What about you? No alibi either?” you asked.

“I was set up by a crooked cop,” he said. “He killed a guy he was having a problem with and tried to pin it on me. This cop was selling confiscated drugs. He put the blame on me for the whole deal.”

“Why?”

“Because I was his rookie partner,” he said. You swallowed, Dean staring at you. “I ain’t been a cop in a long time. Good guys, bad guys. They’re both on both sides of the line. It don’t matter.”

“So you ran,” you said.

“Yup. Ran when my brother told me they had an airtight case. I was away for life in a shithole and as an ex-cop I’d be lucky to survive a week in a place like that. So we called our family friend and I ran to one of his hunting cabins. I hid there for awhile until he told me about a roadhouse bar he’d purchased, out in nowhere. I dyed my hair black and moved here. It’s a safe place,” he said.

“Life sucks sometimes,” you said.

“Yup,” he said. “I haven’t had an honest conversation in years. I had to cut off all ties to everyone. I’m sure you get that.”

“Yeah, I do,” you said. “If you were still a cop, would you have believed me?”

“I think so,” he said. “Gut feeling.”

“Thanks for the cupcake,” you said.

“You get me one for my birthday and we’re even,” he said. “January 24th.”

“Alright. Deal.”

Three Months Later

“Curly fries and whiskey straight,” you said, setting the items down in front of the older man at the bar, turning to the man with him. “Roadhouse nachos and tequila. You boys enjoy.”

“Thanks, Y/N,” said the first man, staring at you. You tilted your head, the other man standing up and pushing back his jacket, letting you see the Marshall’s badge on his hip. “We ain’t even working your case. Just heading home from another one when we see one of the runners serving us our drink.”

“Is there a problem here, fellas?” asked Dean as he walked over, throwing his arm over your shoulder.

“You regularly employee fugitives?” asked the one who was standing. Dean stared at him and burst out laughing. “Something funny about that boy?”

“Hallie? A criminal?” asked Dean. He looked at you and started to giggle. “This girl couldn’t even disect a frog in high school.”

“That ain’t no Hallie. It’s-”

“Uh, I think I know my best friend from school, buddy,” said Dean, narrowing his eyes. “The better question is what the hell are two cops doing trying to scare my girlfriend into leaving with them.”

“Hey. We weren’t-”

“Any fellas that try to force my girl to go with them ain’t welcome here,” said Dean.

“Listen kid-”

“Her name is Hallie,” said Dean. “I don’t know who the fuck Y/N is but I hope you two sickos don’t find her.”

“Where’s her liquor license to be serving?” asked the first one. Dean went to the wall behind the bar and grabbed a little picture frame off the shelf, shoving it on the counter.

There was a picture of you, Hallie Stormer, with a Tennessee certification.

The men looked at one another as you stood behind Dean.

“Well?” said Dean.

“Apologies. Ms. Stormer here looks an awful lot like one of our fugitives is all,” said the man. He pulled out his phone and showed over an old picture of you, Dean raising an eyebrow at it.

“Uh, not to tell you how to do your job but that don’t look like Hallie. At all. She ain’t even got the same color eyes,” said Dean. The men quickly looked at the picture and then you.

“He’s right about the eyes,” mumbled the one.

“Shit,” said the other one. 

“Now you two can apologize to my girlfriend and get out,” said Dean.

“Sorry miss,” they said before they slapped some money and left. You sighed and tucked the food back behind the counter, Jim watching from down the bar.

“We got a problem, Jim?” asked Dean.

“Nope,” he said. Dean gave him the free food and drinks, Jim watching as you leaned back against the counter. 

“You thought the colored contacts were dumb,” mumbled Dean.

“Is Jim gonna be a problem? He knows I’m Y/N,” you said.

“Take my car and head up to one of those hunting cabins for a few days. Lay low for awhile,” he said.

“Be careful,” you said, getting a kiss from him.

“You too, sweetheart.”

Three Days Later

“Morning,” said the minimart owner as he rang up your items. “On vacation?”

“Yeah, taking a few days to enjoy nature, get away from city life,” you said with a smile.

“That’s good. We don’t get too many young folks up here doing that sort of thing anymore,” he said. You hummed and looked at the TV in the corner, doing your best to hide your surprise when you saw Dean’s face on the screen. “Oh, you haven’t heard about that yet? Not surprising, not much cell reception up here. That boy is that killer cop they never caught from a few years back.”

“How’d they catch him?” you asked.

“Some bar or something. Some guy caught him lying or something,” he said as he handed over your change. 

“Thanks,” you said, taking your things and rushing out of there. You tossed them in the passenger seat and drove until even you didn’t know where you were. Until an idea crossed your mind that was.

“Y/N?” said Dean the next day. You smiled as he was led out of the police station, giving you a hug. “How...they said my charges were dropped.”

“The other cop confessed,” you said, a pair of officers nearby standing up. “I can be convincing...also I pointed the police in the way of his bank account and it was pretty obvious from there.”

“What about you?” he asked.

“Yeah,” you said, the officers flanking either side of you. “No such luck.”

“Y/N-”

“Hey. It was my fault they found you. I’m paying it forward. You can go home, be normal now,” you said.

“She didn’t do it,” said Dean to the officers.

“It’s alright,” you said as one put a hand on your arm to lead you in the back. “I’ll be okay, Dean.”

“Y/L/N,” said a guard a few hours later. You stood up from your bench, the door sliding open. You walked out and followed the officer, spotting a guy you didn’t recognize standing in the hall.

“You must be, Y/N. Sam Winchester,” he said. He held out his hand and you shook it.

“I thought your brother was tall,” you said, Sam smiling. “Let me guess. He put you up to this.”

“Ever hear of something called the Innocence Project?” he asked.

“Yeah. It’s where lawyers work pro bono for people that were wrongly convicted,” you said.

“Well, I called up a friend of mine in the DA’s office and presented my case file from college. There’s a glaring bit of lack of DNA testing on samples that does not look good for that local department. He’s willing to let you out on bond in the meantime, with supervision,” he said. 

“What’s that mean?” you asked as he waved you to follow.

“It means you’re sharing my guest room with my brother for the foreseeable future but something tells me you won’t have a problem with that.”

“This thing itches,” you said, scratching at your ankle that night as Dean set down a box of pizza in front of you. “Thanks for busting me out.”

“Anytime,” he said, Sam walking in through the front door looking very tired. “How’s it going?”

“The wife and husband from Y/N’s case are going through a nasty divorce right now. I’m going to call tomorrow, see if she’ll flip on him for immunity. That along with DNA evidence should get you in the clear. You might even get a small settlement,” said Sam.

“I really hope so. I don’t think I’ll do well in prison,” you said.

“It’ll be alright,” said Dean as he took a seat and rubbed your arm. “We’ll get through it. We always do.”

One Month Later

“Alright,” said Marshall Bradshaw. “Your 100 hours of community service are up kid.”

“I didn’t even break a law,” you said, peeling off your orange vest and chucking it in the back of his truck.

“You kind of did with the whole evading the police thing,” he chuckled. “You’re lucky that judge liked you. He could have sentenced you for running off.”

“I don’t get a record for all this?” you asked.

“Still no record. Come on, I’m sure you want to get back to that boyfriend of yours,” he said.

Two hours later you were dropped off and gave the Marshall a wave, popping into the roadhouse bar to have Dean come over and give you a hug.

“All done,” you said. “I can come home now.”

“You know, now that I actually have access to my bank account again, that family friend offered to sell me this place if I wanted to run it,” he said.

“I have one condition,” you said. 

“Anything. It’s our bar,” he said.

“I want to hire a chef, have it be a restaurant too. Trust me, this is the only joint for miles and we could make a killing serving something besides bar food,” you said.

“You really want to run a bar with me?” he asked.

“Us criminals have to stick together,” you giggled.

“Yes, we do,” said Dean, watching a pair of Marshall’s walk in the door. “Gentlemen.”

“Hallie,” said one with a smirk. “We get those drinks this time around?”

“On the house,” said Dean as he took off.

“Hey,” said the other one as he waved you over. “The eyes thing, how’d you pull that off?”

“Colored contact lenses,” you said. “Not cheap but effective.”

“We’re gonna have to remember that one,” he said.

“I’ll get you guys some food too,” you said. You headed back for the kitchen, Dean whistling as he was pulling a fresh tray of ice from the freezer. “Think we could make something of this place?”

“I’m game if you are,” he said. “We could always runaway again.”

“Nah. I’m done running. This was the first place that felt like home in a long time. I want to stay.”

“Me too, sweetheart. Me too.”

______

[vulturhythm]

let us waltz for the dead - one

They say not to linger at the Black Dog.

The woods around it are dark and deep, and the beasts in the shadows are always aching.

They say never to drink from the hand of a stranger when the moon is high.

Even the finest of spirits is far from worth a soul.

They say not to stop and stay a while.

A night's sleep becomes eternal rest with a single breath.

- - -

The moon is high overhead when the shape of a building comes into view ahead on the trail. It's tucked away within the woods, and Geralt spares a moment to question just what the wisdom of situating a home or business, whatever it may be, so many miles away from the nearest town. He blinks to clear the drowsy fog from his vision, murmuring softly to Roach. Even the gentle sway of her stride does little to keep him from dozing off.

It's just as Geralt is wondering at the lack of illumination that lights go on inside, and he starts in surprise, glancing from window to window. Even the lanterns hanging outside the door have gone on instantaneously, and now, in their warm rays, he can give the building a closer look.

It's two stories high, and it looks as though it came from a century past, with old wood and older latticework upon the windows. As Roach ambles slowly onward, a sign comes into view, hanging from an iron pole that sticks out from above the door - the image of a black hound is painted there, teeth bared and eyes red, "tavern and inn" written in script just beneath.

It's these words in particular that catch Geralt's eye.

He clucks to Roach, turning her for the tavern; her ears flick back, but she offers no protest, stopping at the hitching post without instruction and bobbing her head when Geralt dismounts. "Wait out here, girl," he tells her softly, patting her flank. "You might get some fresh hay tonight."

Pausing long enough to loop the reins about the wooden post, Geralt heads for the door. It opens with a quiet creak, and he slips inside, hit immediately with the warmth from a large fireplace situated directly across the large and open room. He pauses to adjust in the new rush of light, pulling the door shut behind him and sparing a glance around.

The tavern looks as though it were a hunting lodge, once, for there are animal heads stuffed and displayed on nearly every wall, gazes proud and distant on the beasts hung across from them. Above the fireplace is a massive elk's head, rack nearly spanning the entire length of the mantle - a truly impressive kill, Geralt admits to himself.

With some difficulty, he drags his gaze away from that of the dead thing, only to meet the eyes of yet another - a bearskin rug is laid out upon the hearth, around which four armchairs are arranged, creating an altogether pleasant tableau. Geralt grimaces when he takes in the massive head and equally intimidating fangs, grateful that he had not been the one to slay the thing. On either side of the fireplace is a doorway; a closer glance shows that one leads to a staircase, whereas the other seems merely to be a hallway, dark and empty.

Between him and the hearth are a multitude of tables, set up here and there throughout the room, although Geralt can't help but notice they're entirely empty. Not the most surprising thing, considering this tavern is located in the absolute depths of nothingness, but a little strange regardless; he's used to taverns being full of talk and drunken laughter.

"You plan on starin' all night?" comes a gruff voice, and Geralt looks to his left, where a bar stretches nearly the length of the wall. Leaning on the countertop is a heavyset man, his hair and thick beard both a deep and curly brown. There's a point to his ears, Geralt notices, but thinks little of it. "Or you here for something?"

"Forgive me," Geralt replies, approaching the bar. He rests his elbows on the counter, nodding toward the door. "I'm after a room for the night, and a stall for my horse, if it's possible. Maybe a drink, too."

The man heaves a sigh, but straightens regardless, moving toward the moneybox resting at the other end of the counter. "Fifty for it all."

Geralt's brows go up, and he pauses. "How much is each?"

"Twenty-five for the room, twenty for the stall, five for a round. Are you paying or not?"

He resists the urge to sigh, reaching into his pocket for the bunch of notes he'd been meaning to save for Cintra. "I'm paying," he says, rather uselessly, as he counts out fifty and hands it to the barkeep. "Stable at the back, I take it?"

The bartender nods, unlocking the money box with a key from the ring at his hip and shoving the notes inside unceremoniously. "Don't fuck with the stallion, he's a biter."

Geralt nods, turning for the door again, but he pauses with his hand on the knob, asking, "I didn't catch your name...?"

"Nivellen," he grunts, waving Geralt on as he turns to grab a set of glasses from the shelf. "Go on, I don't intend to be up serving you all night."

"... Geralt," he says belatedly, deciding he might as well, and steps outside.

- - -

A half hour later finds Geralt reclining in one of the armchairs at the hearth, nursing his third glass of madeira for the evening. Nivellen had retreated down the hallway by the hearth, leaving Geralt with a brass key, instructions to "go upstairs, third on the left," and very little else. Empty now, the tavern floor is strangely eerie; Geralt feels as though he's doing something wrong, sitting here and drinking in the absence of anyone else.

The elk above the mantle has captured his attention once again, and the more he drinks, the harder he finds himself staring, trying to pinpoint just what it is that seems strange now. Perhaps it's the slight angle to its head - he's nearly certain it was staring straight on earlier.

Likely the madeira.

"Drinking alone, are we?"

Geralt's ashamed of the way he jumps, looking up in a hurry. There's a young man slipping through the gaps between the armchairs, perching himself - not in a chair - on the bearskin rug, his back to the flames. "I'm sorry?" Geralt asks, a few seconds too late.

"Drinking alone, are we?" repeats the man, and there's a glint in his eye, a smile on his lips. Geralt feels his stomach lurch as he takes in that smile. "Surely a man so handsome as you could find a partner. No fun in sipping spirits alone."

Geralt can't quite resist the urge to look back over his shoulder at the rest of the tavern, wondering just where this little thing came from, and when. "I travel alone," he replies, at last turning his gaze back to the young man. He's wearing a simple white chemise and equally simple trousers, and his feet are bare, Geralt notices. Strange.

The man cocks his head to the side, glancing Geralt over, and he can't help but feel as though he's being scrutinized more closely than ever before in his life. "A shame," he says, and he laughs then, sudden and bright.

It may be the best sound Geralt has ever heard.

"'A shame?'" he repeats, frowning. "I'm sorry, are you - were you in here earlier?"

He waves him off. "I've been around," he says, and the vagueness of that reply doesn't escape Geralt, though he sees little point in commenting. "What's your name?"

"... Geralt," he says at length. "And yours?"

"Jaskier," he says.

Dandelion.

"A good name."

Jaskier smiles then, cocks his head to the side, and Geralt feels as though he's been punched in the throat. "Thank you," he says, leaning forward, his weight on both palms in front of his folded legs. "Tell me, Geralt, what's your poison tonight?"

Geralt must look confused, for Jaskier nods to the glass in his hand. "Oh," he says, ashamed. "Madeira."

Jaskier hums with that, and there's a strange little light in his eye. "Mind if I try a sip? I tend to stick with brandy, myself."

Geralt is certain that confusion is his permanent expression now; regardless, he nods, leaning forward in his chair to offer up the glass, but -

- Jaskier is in motion, crawling toward him on hands and knees in a hurry, and Geralt chokes when the young little thing settles right against his legs, arms folded across his lap, head tipped back and lips open expectantly.

Surely he's tipsy, he thinks, struggling for a hint of reason when the rest of his mind and body is enthralled by the little display. Nonetheless, Geralt clears his throat; his touch is cautious when he steadies Jaskier's chin with a hand, tipping the glass to those pink and open lips.

He knows he doesn't imagine the way Jaskier's eyes go dark, fluttering halfway shut, or the way his tongue pokes out to swipe across his lower lip after he swallows and Geralt's pulled the glass away. "Not half-bad," he remarks, as casually as if he'd merely gotten a taste in the normal way. "Brandy has more of a kick, though."

Geralt shrugs, rigid in his chair now. "I suppose," he says faintly. "I'm not after a night of proper drunkenness, though."

Jaskier laughs in response; he makes no move to return to his previous position, in fact settling more comfortably where he is, his chin laid upon his folded hands so he's looking up at Geralt through long, dark lashes. "And why is that?" he asks. "Surely you're not against a bit of... harmless fun?"

The brush of fingertips along his thigh makes Geralt startle, and he breathes in a little too sharply, grip on his glass bordering on too firm. "I doubt this is entirely appropriate," he mutters, glancing about the room once again. Empty. "Besides, I meant to turn in early - "

"Oh, come on, now," Jaskier breaks in, and his voice is a low croon now, one that's entirely discordant with the youthful softness of his face and frame. "Surely you can spare an evening..."

Geralt hesitates, and his pause must be just too long for Jaskier, because before he can muster a response, the boy is kneeling up high enough to press a tender kiss to his lips - tender but firm, a kiss that leaves little room for disagreement.

Suddenly, Geralt is far from inclined to disagree.

- - -

"Upstairs, third on the left" is a room of decent size, one with a window that overlooks the forest all around - a window that allows a bright white swath of moonlight to spread across every surface in the room. There's a four-poster bed, one with a canopy over it, curtains about the sides; at its foot is a large chest, and across, on the opposite wall, is a dresser with a mirror atop, one that glints in the glow of the moon.

This is all Geralt spares the time to observe, for Jaskier is flush against his chest again already, drawing him down into another kiss that's far deeper than before, far more urgent. Geralt fights a groan at the hunger he can feel in the little thing's frame, holding him steady with both hands on his waist and drawing him in close. He tastes of brandy and madeira alike, and there's a hint of blood on his tongue, but Geralt pays it no mind.

Likely just a stray glance of teeth.

Jaskier is pressing closer, closer, his open lips begging for Geralt to ravish them, and, just as before, he sees no point in resistance. Besides, the little thing purrs so prettily when he slots a thigh in between his own, when he presses up just so against the subtle bulge of his cock through his trousers.

It's the younger man that breaks the kiss first, and Geralt shudders as he takes him in, those deep blue eyes bright in the moonlight. "To the bed," Jaskier breathes, but even as he speaks, he's rocking his hips down, grinding along the length of Geralt's thigh in a way that has his mouth watering. Fuck, he can only imagine how good those skillful hips would feel around his cock...

"Have to stop moving if you want to lie down," Geralt points out softly, but when he tries to draw his leg back, Jaskier whines, his hips bucking a little harder. "Fuck, come on, darling, stop - "

"Don't call me that," Jaskier spits suddenly, and Geralt feels as though he might as well have whiplash, but he doesn't argue, just nods, squeezes his waist in quick apology and uses his firmer grip to hold Jaskier in place so he can actually pull away. "Fuck, fuck, come back - "

"I'm right here," he says, backing toward the bed, and only when Jaskier seems to realize that he is, in fact, moving in that direction, does he relax. "I'm right here, it's okay, Jaskier, come on..."

He's more than a little taken aback when Jaskier all but pounces, pushing Geralt back and down - decides against protesting when the little thing is perched upon his lap in the next instant, sitting there on the edge of the bed. His hands find Jaskier's lithe hips once more, and he breathes out a groan into the kiss Jaskier draws him into, shuddering with the sheer intensity of it. Fuck, he's so eager, so demanding -

"Lie down," Jaskier says against him, but now it's Geralt's turn to hesitate, grip tightening when the young man circles his hips just right to push down onto his cock. "Fuck, come on, l - lie down, I need you..."

Geralt murmurs a quick reassurance, forcing himself to let go; Jaskier stands again, just long enough for Geralt to lie back properly in bed. He's grateful for the translucence of the curtains about the bed, more due to the fact that the moonlight coming through casts Jaskier in a subtle glow when he crawls in to settle atop him than anything else.

"Don't guess you've got oil, do you?" Geralt asks, low and breathless, his eyes fixed on Jaskier's as the other man straddles his hips, hands braced on his chest. "We'll - fuck - we'll need it - "

Jaskier shakes his head, those pretty pink lips open and kiss-swollen, his hips rolling steadily now. Geralt bites back another groan, grabbing for him again, holding him firm even as he bucks up in return, suddenly aching to be inside him. "Don't have any," he replies, and Geralt is an instant away from cursing out the gods, but he falters when Jaskier rises enough to undo the laces of his trousers, pulling back and kneeling up to get them off. He's naked beneath, his cock hard and dripping. "I don't need it, I stretched myself before, it's okay."

Geralt's eyes widen, and he shudders with the imagery, his head falling back onto the pillows. "Only if you're sure," he says, but already, Jaskier is undoing the laces of his own trousers, his fingertips brushing slow and firm along the bulge of his cock; he bites his lip, keeps quiet, even when Jaskier reaches inside to wrap a hand around him, even when Jaskier's thumb swipes across the head. "I don't want to hurt you - "

There's something almost harsh in Jaskier's eyes when he glances back to Geralt, but he shakes his head, letting go all too soon and kneeling up again to pull his pants down and off. Geralt's hands go automatically to the hem of his chemise, but Jaskier catches his wrist, murmuring a quick, "No."

Once again, he offers up no question.

Jaskier's grip is firm when he holds Geralt's shaft in place for him to sink down, and Geralt gasps out a groan when the little thing's heat is clenching tight about his cock. "F - fuck, be careful - " he manages to say, but Jaskier doesn't seem to care; he takes him to the base without an instant's faltering, and the high little keen he gives when Geralt is filling him sends a rush of need down Geralt's spine. "You're so - so tight, fuck - "

"Quiet," Jaskier hisses, his voice broken with his little whimpers and moans. "Be quiet, Geralt, k - kiss me again..."

He's quick to obey, weaving a hand into Jaskier's dark hair to draw him down; distracted by the sharp bite of his teeth, by the quick and maddening motion of his hips, he almost doesn't notice the hot and sticky warmth at the back of the little thing's head. Geralt falters when his fingers brush over the patch of matted hair, readjusts his grip, tries to find it again - but Jaskier is pushing deeper, deeper, whimpering and begging for more, and when his fingers pass against his scalp, he feels nothing odd.

Just the madeira, he tells himself, and then, because Jaskier's hips are the most torturous fucking thing, circling so filthily on his cock, he quits thinking altogether.

- - -

Afterward, when Jaskier is laying atop his chest, spent and panting and still dripping wet, Geralt breathes out a sigh, his eyes on the top of the canopy overhead. "You're a strange one, you know," he remarks softly, rubbing a gentle pattern onto Jaskier's back.

The younger man hums in reply, settling in more comfortably with his head on Geralt's chest, one thigh draped over his own. He's marked with bruises now, his hips and thighs purple and red, his hole still slowly leaking. There's some marks on his throat, too, where Geralt had bitten down, had drawn out high and keening cries from this feisty little thing. "People say that often," he replies at last.

"Oh, do you often fall into bed with strangers here?" Geralt says, and he means it entirely in jest, truly, but -

Jaskier goes rigid, and he pushes himself up onto an elbow, frowning at Geralt with something almost akin to anger in his eyes. "Whatever accusation you're making, you're wrong."

Geralt is quick to soothe him, brushing the back of his hand along his flushed cheek and taking private pride in the way Jaskier seems almost immediately to calm. "I meant nothing by it," he says, tone carefully steady. "It was a joke, albeit in poor taste. I just wondered if you've spent much time at this inn."

There's still suspicion in Jaskier's gaze, but he's no longer bristling. "I have," he replies shortly, laying his head back down. He gives a quiet groan of content when he readjusts his hips, his eyes falling shut. "That's all you need know for now."

Truly a strange one.

Geralt heaves a sigh, laying his head back and closing his eyes. "Alright," he replies. "Rest now. I'll try not to wake you when I leave in the morning."

Jaskier gives little more than a nod to indicate he's even heard.

Geralt falls asleep to the sound of a storm rolling in across the trees, and to the warmth of Jaskier on his chest.

- - -

There's blood on Geralt's undershirt when he wakes, and a crack in the mirror he doubts was there before.

Jaskier is nowhere to be seen.

He stands in front of the broken glass for nigh on twenty minutes, staring at his crooked reflection.

The blood is not his own, this he knows for sure.

At last, Geralt turns away with a sigh, putting his tunic back over the top.

He spares the mirror another glance just before he locks the door, heading downstairs.

He hopes the storm won't have washed out the roads.

- - - - -

part two

[lupy22]

Primitive Instincts

Summary: Another long walk home after a long night of bartending seemed normal for the Reader. Until she has her identity mistaken for someone who has a target on their back. Once the hitman realizes he has the wrong woman he keeps her locked away in his home and she soon realizes that Ubbe is not just a hitman. He's a savage that runs on his primitive instincts. Series Warnings: Kidnapping, violence, sexual tension, smut, nsfw, drinking and drug use, dark!fic, Savage!Ubbe, 

Something seemed wrong to you. Although you were walking by yourself in the dark, it never bothered you before. But for some reason you felt more alert than usual. You always walked home after a late shift at the bar, and you never felt paranoid. So, you stopped and glanced around. Home wasn't far. You just had a few minutes left and you would be home. But as you continued forward, you noticed a car stopped on the side of the road right next to the liquor store that was obviously closed. There was a man leaning up against it. It didn't scare you, he was just another person who was proabably lost. "Excuse me, Miss. Do you know where the closest hotel is?" The man asked. You couldn't see his face that good. But you could tell he was tall. Before you could even think of a reply a strong force rammed you right into the car. You fell on the concrete and groaned as the world around you began to spin. "Get the rope." You heard a man's voice. Shit. Shit. Shit! Of course you would get kidnapped. The town you lived in was like a fucking ghost town. Everything was spaced out. Closest neighbor was probably 2 miles away. And everyone else from the bar was already too far gone to hear you, even if you could scream. You could feel a pair of hands grab you but you couldn't fight back. Your vision was slowly fading and you knew right then and there, you were fucked. 

*** Everything came back to you when you heard a car door slam shut. Darkness engulfed you and when you shuffled around you felt the rug material rub against you. That bastard locked you in the trunk. Suddenly the trunk popped open and a bright light was beaming down in your face. “Now, don’t make this harder than it has to be.” The stranger from the liquor store spoke in his gravelly voice. “Fuck you.” You spat. “Would, if I could. Trust me.” He shot back. You felt his hands run to your backside and you turned to grip his wrists. “Easy, Princess, just need to see your wallet first. You see, I work for this big secret agency that hires people like me to kill people, no questions asked, just the good old -” He clicked his tongue, “and making them disappear. But the problem is they don’t pay unless I prove to them that you were the right person.” The moment you processed his words you felt tears begin to grow in your eyes. He was going to kill you? No, this had to be a mistake. “There’s a mistake somewhere. I never do anything wrong!” You cried out. You saw him move the flashlight down to your ID. He brought the light back to your face. “Oh, fuck!” He cursed. “What’s wrong, Ubbe?” The other man asked. “It’s not her! We got the wrong woman!” The man you assumed was Ubbe growled and threw your wallet at his chest. “Well, jig is up, let’s just kill her!” The other man pulled out a gun. You crunched up and covered your head with your arm. “No! As tempting as that is, I don’t feel like killing unless there’s money involved.” Ubbe replied. “Well then, Brother, what do you want to do?” Ubbe didn’t answer. Or at least you didn’t get to hear it because he slammed the tip of his flashlight right into your forehead and your vision became nothing but a pit of darkness. *** The next time you woke up you weren’t in the trunk of a car. You woke up on a tiled floor next to a… Toilet? You tried to move but you were handcuffed to the toilet. “What the fuck?” You whispered. Then you heard a loud slam. And another coming from… Somewhere but you were obviously alone in the bathroom and the door was shut. “Oh! Oh!” The sound of another girl crying made you look around. “Oh Ubbe! Yess! Right there!” She moaned. “Yeah, baby girl, just like that.” Ubbe groaned. “Oh, you have got to be shitting me.” You started tugging on the handcuffs. “Ubbe! I-I-I” The girl let out a loud wail and you cringed at the sound. Did she even know that you were handcuffed in the bathroom, being held against your will? Would she still have been moaning and wanting him if she really knew? “Hey! Somebody! Let me out!” You screamed. The door opened behind you and peaked over your shoulder to see Ubbe pulling down a white shirt. He was in a pair of loose grey sweatpants that hung low on his hips. You quickly averted your eyes. “I said Im coming! Fucking take a chill pill.” Ubbe stepped over you and sat on the edge of the tub. “Can you let me out of these cuffs now?” You asked. Ubbe pulled out a cigarette and slid it between his lips. “Not until we have a talk about your attitude and how it needs to change.” You waved your hands so the metal chains would clank against the pipes. “Im chained up in the most uncomfortable position so forgive me for not feeling like a ray of sunshine!” Ubbe lit his cigarette and looked down at you through the cloud of smoke. His eyes were an intense blue and his hair was a dirty blonde. Almost red. And he was… Gorgeous. “So I saved your life do you know what that means?” Ubbe asked as he ashed his cigarette. “That your an idiot for kidnapping the wrong girl?” You replied. Ubbe chuckled. “I’m a lot smarter than you because if I was in your position I would be showing more respect to the man that I owed my life to.” You swallowed the lump that was starting to grow in your throat. “You were the one that fucked up. How is any of that my problem? Besides if you let me go I won’t say a damn thing. I have better things to do than try to have you arrested.” You tried to reason with him. “Im sure you do, but me keeping you here is not because I can. . Well it sort of is but more because you owe me your life.” You scowled. Ubbe took a drag of his cigarette before he flicked it in the sink and crouched down beside you. He suddenly seemed more intimidating up close in your personal space. “I won’t take any of your disrespect. Like it or not, I fucking own you now. And in my home you will behave how I want or there will be consequences.” He threatened. You forced yourself to look at the toilet instead of at those intense blue eyes. His words were making your heart race. But Ubbe wasn’t having it. He reached out and grabbed your chin to make you look back at him. You glared at the handsome criminal. “Im curious, just what kind of consequences would it be? Please say its whips and chains because that just excites me.” You sneered. Ubbe smiled and brushed the pad of his thumb against your bottom lip. “Something you should know, Y/N. I have an older brother who likes to go in some very dark places. He’s taught me quite a few things. For instance, have you ever heard of a spider gag?” You felt whatever sarcastic smirk you had fade quickly. You didn’t know what a spider gag was but from the feral look in is eyes you could tell it wouldn’t be fun for you. Ubbe kept his smile as he focused his eyes on your mouth. “Its a gag that you tie around a woman’s face and instead of having some ball or cloth it has a metal circle that forces the woman’s mouth open. Imagine what could happen to a woman like that? She’d be stuck on her knees for hours.” Your heart pounded with each word that was spoken. Any smart remark you kept at the back of your head was suddenly gone. He wouldn’t… Would he? Ubbe patted your cheek in a condescending kind of way. “Now that’s the look to give off.” "So, what? I'm supposed to just lay here like this?" You questioned. He moved to stand up and even stepped over you. You thought he was going to sit on you or. . . Or something! But what you didn't expect was to watch him lift the toilet seat up. "Oh, you gotta be fucking kidding me!" You growled as you tried to move back and closed your eyes. "What? You scared of my dick or something?" He questioned. You cringed at the sound of him pissing in the toilet. "You better not fucking piss on me!" He chuckled. "Well, if that was your thing. . . " You could feel your face burn. He was one hell of an egotistical pyscho. He flushed the toilet and started washing his hands. "It's a shame, you missed my party. Don't worry there will be others. But until then. . . I'm gonna need you to keep those." He pointed at the handcuffs. "Or you can take these and shove one cuff up your ass while using the other to squish your balls, you fucking pyscho!" You snapped. It got quiet. Deadly quiet. "Okay, your sass is as cute as your ass, but I'm getting tired of it." He reached behind him and pulled out a gun. "You got 3 options here. One, You stop the attitude and keep the handcuffs on like a good girl. Two, you don't and I shoot you and end up having to hide the body (which I really don't want to do). Or Three, I can bend you over and fuck that attitude out of you!" Well then. . . You quickly turned your head and bit your tongue. He chuckled and pulled out a small key. "Now, don't try anything stupid." He warned. The moment you felt one of the handcuffs loosen, you pulled your hand out and quickly rolled over. You barely made it to your feet and you felt his hand pull your wrist back. He didn't tug you back towards him. Oh, no. That would have been too nice! Instead he twisted your arm behind your back and forced you face first into the closest wall. You turned your head to the side as he grabbed your other hand and held them both behind your back. If he wasn't right behind you, you would have kicked yourself away from the wall. But his chest was literally pressing into your back. And from the feeling on your backside, his chest wasn't the only thing pressed against you. "So, are you saying you choose option 3? You want me to bend you over and fuck that attitude out of you?" He grinded his erection into your backside. Your whole body burned and hot tingles flooded between your thighs. Normally you would shot out some witty comeback, most likely one about his size. But from what you felt. . . His cock was nothing to joke about. And he was in sweatpants you practically felt every inch of him between your thighs and. . . And. . . Ohhhh. He positioned himself even closer and you could feel the tips of his erection rub between your legs. Your heart was ready to leap out of your chest. It felt so good. And with every thrust, he made you forget where you were. Your eyes were too busy rolling to the back of your head as the tip of his cock brushed against your clit. "But, now that I think if it. . . If I fuck you, that would be giving you what you want." He pulled away and cuffed your hands behind your arms. You nearly choked on your spit as you felt the cool breeze rush between your thighs. That fucking asshole!!! "Come on, since you wanna try playing Miss Sneaky." He grabbed you by the arm and finally let you out of the bathroom. You forced your eyes around the place. It could be a life saver to know every inch of your surroundings. First thing you noticed was a big wooden door about 10 feet away. There was a railing beside you and thats when you realized that you weren't on the first floor. You walked down 12 steps and came to a landing. If you walked straight you would be in a hallway with 3 more doors. But Ubbe didn't take you straight, he turned and went down 10 more steps. "So, Ubbe. . . You do this often?" You quipped. Ubbe rolled his eyes and walked you into a den area. Red solo cups were everywhere. Everything was trashed. There were all sorts of marijuana paraphernalia all over the tables. Bongs, bowls, and joints in the ashtrays. Fuck, it was like he was a college student or something. "Clean this place up. And don't try to run." He uncuffed your hands and shoved the barrel of his gun in your face. "Do I look like some kind of maid to you? You can't do this!" You argued. Ubbe began pushing miscellaneous objects off the table. The sound of glass shattering made you freeze. He slapped his hand down on the wooden table and looked at you. You didn't move, completely confused as to what he wanted. He lifted his hand up and waved his fingers in a come-here motion. Again. You didn't move. He waved his gun a you pointed at the table. "Come on, Princess. I'm not gonna hurt you." He tapped his hand on the table. You sighed and walked over to the table. He grabbed you by the hips and placed you on the table with little effort. He yanked your legs open and pushed his fingers against your jeans and began rubbing them. You gasped and opened your mouth to spit out some hurtful words but your voice died and the only thing that came out was a moan. Ubbe smiled and dug his teeth in his bottom lip. "I see what the problem is now, you just need a little attitude adjustment." Your hips rolled at his touch. It was as if your body had a mind of its own. Why you were letting him touch you was a something beyond your comprehension. All you could understand was that it felt good. His eyes locked onto yours and he started moving his fingers in fast circles. Please. Don't. Stop. You bucked your hips up and moaned. He leaned down and you thought he was going to kiss you. But his face steered off to the side by your ear. "You look like you're enjoying this. I knew I made you wet the moment I rubbed my dick against you." You didn't pay much attention to his words as you were too busy focusing on the feeling of his fingers rub against you. Your clit was throbbing and with every stroke of his fingers, you could feel your orgasm building up. But this wasn't like you at all. The last guy that tried to touch you without your permission ended up with a broken nose from the cue ball you had used to smash in his face. The only reason you were gonna let this slide was because. . . Because. . . All the muscles in your body began to tighten as he moved his fingers in fast little circles. Your legs trembled and the bottom of your stomach filled with a warm tingling sensation. As you continued rubbing against Ubbe's fingers, the warm tingles traveled down to your trembling thighs and your body clenched tight. You could feel the wet heat flood your panties as your orgasm rippled waves of pleasure. Ubbe moved his fingers away from your sensitive core. "See? I bet you feel much better now." He commented. You scowled and sent him your meanest glare. "Now, you see this mess? Clean it up." He ordered as he stepped away from you. @rekdreams247 @synnersaint @ivars-heathen @kamcrazy123​ @sw-eat-ing @cracraforfandoms​ @rrwilson66 @danicalifornia25​ @bugalouie​ @sconniebelle​ @oddsnendsfanfics​ @romanchronicles @awesome-as-i-wanna-be​ @titty-teetee​ @sodanova​ @manuugxlvis @thelittlefoxxh @girlwhoisfearless​ @demonhunter1616 @laketaj24 @kenzieam @kirah34 @alyhavoc @unicorn-glitter-princess @come-with-me-and-imagine​ @happys-crazy-queen22​ @radi0active-thoughts​ @fuckyou-and-fuckthis @pandainfinitely​ @tomarisela @sebatrash @readsalot73​ @lol-haha-joke​ @wolfyparty​ @2loveeverything2 @missbrightlyred @redheadedtrollop​ @imagine-this-motherfucker​ @thatonepuremoment @readallday24-7 @tonguepopper @pebblesz892​ @allyn-alice @igetcarriedawaywithyou​ @hells-helvig @wish-i-was-a-mermaid​ @dangerous-like-a-loaded-pistol​ @claryfray1698 @lunarbear93​ @heksesang @tothetardissterek​ @diehardspnfan​ @67chevycamaro​ @lovelynerdytraveler @lisinfleur​ @sydneyforester @amour-quinn @turner-cris​ @keya168 @bookswillfindyouaway​ @funmadonahoghbadassvikings @ivarthefuckboy @breathlesssouls @vikingsmania​ @nyxveracity​ @ivarsrideordie​ @singingunderthestars @sugasosh @awesomerextyphoon​ @earthsmightiestasses @hoeghfabulous @shadowpriestess6​ @lynn-nolastname @taylor-douglas97 @ginger-rae1991 @bappo-no-yeet @in-spades-031 @cutiebubbleboo​ @attorneyl​ @tgrrose​ @dehydrated-and-depressed​ @squirrelacornglitterfarts @captstefanbrant @tephi101​ @observing-unicorns​ @ahhhhkeya​ @djisfantastic​ @morganeiter @neeadinghugs​ @maudjhexx​ @naaladareia @daughterofthenight117​ @mythi-quill @fairies-tell-tales​ @gold-dragon-slayer​ @therealcalicali​ @queenbbarnes​ @two-unbeatable-beaters​ @tootie-fruity​ @mamabearlovr​ @vicmackeybullshxt​ @zoetrope1997​ @plentyoffandoms​ @omarsiglia​ @lisinfleur

[thespian-wallflower]

Just One Drink (Hazbin Hotel Fanfic)

(Hi! It’s been literally forever since I’ve posted a fic to my Tumblr account, but I wrote this one just for fun about a week ago. Yay, distancing.

Angel Dust x Husk, one-shot, takes place the same night as the pilot. Angel and Husk share some bonding time at the bar, and they talk about serious subjects. Alastor makes an appearance. Abuse mention. Rated M mostly for language and sexual references, normal for Hazbin. Threw a couple of personal headcanons in here, but I tried my best to be accurate to the characters. Enjoy!)

“Oh, bartender!” a familiar voice sang in a thick New York accent. Don’t look at him.

“Huskie?” No acknowledgement, and he’ll go away. “HUSK!” Silence.

“Ay, I’m talkin’ to you, pussycat!” Husk whirled around, slamming his paws on the bar counter and baring his teeth aggressively at the spider demon who taunted him. “What?? What the fuck do you want?” Angel Dust blinked in surprise at the cat demon’s outburst, but his shocked expression was quickly replaced by a coy smile. “Um, a drink, obviously. This is a bar, remember.” It wasn’t a question. He hoisted himself up on the counter, sprawling out into a relaxed position before speaking up again. “You’re gonna need a test subject for your first drink, right?” Husk rolled his eyes. “Look, I just got here. And I’m really not in the mood for your shit. Now get your ass off the counter.” Angel shrugged, ignoring the request. “It’s been a few hours. You had dinner with us and everything. Can’t you settle in, for me?” Angel batted his eyelashes in a flirtatious manner, which made Husk snort in disgust. “Why should I? I’m already being forced to work here against my fuckin’ will.” He glared across the room at Alastor, who was wandering around, sizing the place up. The Radio Demon caught Husk’s eye and grinned wider before wiggling his fingers in a condescending wave. Husk replied by flipping the bird.

Angel sighed. “Look, let me finish one drink, and I’m outta your hair for the night. Demon’s honor.” He raised two sets of right hands. With a bitter laugh, Husk stated plainly, “Demons have no honor.” “Hey, I’m tryin’ to reform here. Give a guy the benefit of the doubt, babe.”

Husk glared at Angel Dust for a moment, arms folded, then asked, “What’ll it be?”

“Sex on the Beach, thank ya much. I’m feelin’ something fruity tonight.”

Husk gathered the ingredients and started to make the drink. “Yeah, well, that’s fitting, because you look fruity, too.”

Angel chuckled lightly. “Clever. But if that was meant to insult me, you’re gonna have to try harder. I’ve heard ‘em all, doll.” He folded his arms and smirked at the bartender. Nodding in acknowledgement, Husk replied, “Yeah, I know. You’re a sex worker. Biggest porn star in all of hell.”

Angel pushed up his chest fluff and grinned, his gold fang gleaming in the bar’s lighting. “Ah, a man of taste. Familiar with my work?”

“No comment.” Husk poured the drink into a glass, and garnished it with a maraschino cherry. “Order up.” He held the drink out to Angel, and grabbed a bottle of cheap booze for himself.

“Thanks!” Angel swung his legs around to Husk’s side of the counter and took the drink from his paw. “Hey, you can be honest with me. I don’t judge. I mean, my early work was a little rough, but if that’s how you li-”

“Enough sex jokes!” Husk snarled. “I made your drink! Now fuck off!”

Angel blew air out of the side of his mouth and rolled his eyes, not intimidated in the slightest. “Ya can’t get rid of me that easily. I said I’d leave after I finished my drink, remember? A deal’s a deal.” He took a sip and winked at Husk over the rim of the glass. Husk just shook his head in defeat. “I’m not in the mood to argue with you, so stay if you want to. I don’t really give two shits anymore.” He sighed and sipped more of his booze. “Why do you wanna talk to me, anyway?” “Aside from the fact that you’re hot as fuck, you fascinate me, Huskie.” Angel paused to sip his cocktail, then threw Husk a curveball. “You’ve been through a lot, haven’t you?”

Husk hopped up on the counter beside Angel, keeping a safe distance away. “Today? Yeah, I’ll say. I love being fucked with by that antlered asshole.”

“Nah, not with Alastor. I mean, like, entirely. When you get around like I do, ya get pretty good at reading other demons. You’re a drinker. And when you’re a drinker, there’s usually a reason behind it.”

Husk didn’t reply.

“Listen, I didn’t have the best life, and my afterlife ain’t so hot, either. I mean, look at me. I came from an abusive family, died, and I’m still gettin’ abused.” He paused again to take a sip of his drink. “It gets exhausting, never being good enough. Y’know?” Angel inched just the tiniest bit closer to Husk, who couldn’t tell whether or not it was intentional.

“Sure.” Husk scooted away and took another swig of his drink. God, when is this asshole going to leave me alone for the night?

Angel smoothed back his fluffy white hair. “Anyway, that’s partly why I’m here. I’ve been through a lotta shit, like you, and I feel like helpin’ Charlie is a step in the right direction. Just cuz my afterlife sucks doesn’t mean hers should, too. Guess I’m a people-pleaser.” 

“With a job like yours, you have to be.”

“No shit.” He plucked a cherry from his glass and started munching on it. “I’m doing a crappy job of it, though. Got into a huge turf war today with my best friend. It was a blast. Literally! I blasted so many of those little egg fuckers!” He chuckled, then popped the cherry stem into his mouth, rolling it around with his tongue.

“Yeah, I saw it on the news. That whole thing was a fiasco. At least Pentious got fucked sideways today, thanks to Alastor.” He cringed as soon as the words came out of his mouth. “Never thought I’d thank him for anything.”

Angel halted his stem-tying to state loudly, “I wanna thank him for being a sexy motherfucker!” He raised his glass in a make-believe toast to the Radio Demon, who was currently nowhere to be found.

“Speak for yourself!”

“Mmmmhm!” Angel hummed in agreement, then stuck his tongue out, the expertly-tied cherry stem resting near the tip. “Ta-Da! A perfectly tied thhhtem! Imprethhhhed yet, Huthhhhker?” Spit flew with every “S” he attempted to enunciate. Husk wiped the spit from his face and growled at the spider demon. “I’ll be more impressed if you stop spitting all over me, slut!”

“Okay, buthhhhkill.” Angel carefully removed the stem from his tongue, chuckling at the fact that he’d gotten one final word in. “Just think! With a tongue like this, imagine what I can do to your dick, old timer!” He held the stem out to Husk, as if presenting a valuable gift. “For you!”

Husk smacked it out of his hands. “Get that shit away from me! And wipe your mouth, you’ve got drool all over your lips.”

“You’re zero fun!” Angel grabbed a cocktail napkin and wiped his mouth, then took another sip of his drink. 

The pair shared another silent moment before Angel asked, “So what do you think of this place? And rehabilitation and all?”

Husk shrugged. “Too early to say.”

“Eh, fair enough. Who knows, though? This hotel just may be our ticket outta this shithole!” Angel flopped on his back and tipped his head backwards over the side of the counter, giving him an upside-down view of the lobby. He was closer to Husk than ever, but the cat demon didn’t bother to scoot away from him this time. “And wouldn’t that be somethin’?”

“Don’t push your luck.” Husk placed his empty bottle on the counter. 

“Hey, you’re a gamblin’ man! You know all about luck-pushing!” Angel looked up at him and smiled. “Don’t ya?”

“I have my moments.” The hint of tenderness between the two demons came to an abrupt end when Husk snapped, “Finish your fucking drink so I can close this place up.”

“With pleasure!” Angel responded, sitting in an upright position, picking up his glass, and downing the rest of the cocktail in one swift gulp. “Ahhh. Not bad. Ever bartend before?”

“None of your concern!”

“Yeesh, so aggressive. And mysterious. Sexy, if you ask me,” Angel purred seductively, walking two fingers toward the cat demon’s crotch. Without a moment’s hesitation, Husk grabbed Angel’s hand and twisted his arm around, causing him to nearly fall off the counter.

“OW! OW! OW! Alright, alright!” Husk let go, and Angel’s arm throbbed painfully. “Damn, who pissed in your cereal?” he asked with a smirk. Aggressive or not, he was still intrigued by the new bartender.

“You, currently. Now get lost, will ya?”

“Fine!” Angel pouted for a moment, then hopped off the counter and glanced over his shoulder cheekily. “So, same time tomorrow?” He blew Husk a kiss, reminiscent of the one he had blown him earlier after Pentious’s defeat.

Husk growled playfully, hopped off the counter, grabbed his empty bottle, and chased after Angel with his arm raised, threatening to throw it at him. 

Angel yelped and ran back to his room, laughing. “G’night, hot stuff!”

“Yeah, get fucked!” Husk yelled after him, then chuckled lightly to himself. He had to admit, if Angel hadn’t stopped by for a drink, the night wouldn’t have been nearly as interesting. He turned to walk back to the bar, only to see Alastor standing there, grinning at him. Husk’s faint smile quickly turned into a scowl. “And what the hell do you want?”

Alastor’s voice crackled to life in its usual static, showy and flamboyant. “My little Husker is already making friends, on his first evening on the job!” Al mocked, faux tears pooling in his eyes, his trademark smile staying put. “Ohh, they grow up so fast!” He whipped out a red pinstriped handkerchief and blew his nose with a trumpet-esque blare.

Husk wrinkled his nose in disgust. “For your information, I’m not making friends. And even if I were, why the fuck do you care?” “Forgive me for expressing interest in the well-being of one of my favorite demons in this godforsaken cesspool,” Alastor replied snarkily, tucking away the handkerchief and wrapping up the act. 

Husk scoffed, not buying it in the slightest, and went back behind the bar to work. He bent to pick up Angel’s abandoned cherry stem, staring at it for a moment before making the decision to throw it in the trash.

The Radio Demon manifested his cane and casually leaned against it for support, looking Husk up and down as the cat demon made the bar area look more presentable. “So, my friend, you seem to be adjusting well, despite your initial refusal to help.” Husk mopped the counter off with a rag, not making eye contact. “Not that it’s your business.” Alastor’s ever-present smile widened and he replied with, “I suppose not. But as an official employee, your business is now the business of the business! Ahahaha!”

“Ah, shove it up your ass.”

Al chuckled, unfazed. “I’d rather not! Ah, I missed that charming, friendly voice. It’s wonderful that you decided to join the Princess’s little passion project. The more the merrier, I always say.” He reached a hand over the counter and teasingly pinched one of Husk’s fuzzy, white cheeks. Husk swatted Al’s hand away and raised one of his long eyebrows. “That reminds me… why the hell are YOU here? You never-”

A long finger was delicately placed against the cat’s lips, interrupting him mid-sentence. “Ah-ah-ah, Husker,” Al replied, his voice dropping to a charming-yet-threatening lower pitch. “You know better than to question my motives.” He turned to walk away, hands behind his back, his cheerful tone returning. “Besides, you know that I would never turn down an opportunity to be entertained.” Husk flicked his tail in annoyance. “I have better things to do than run a bar for a bunch of namby-pamby demons who would rather be up in heaven, sucking up.” Alastor was silent for a moment, then he glanced over his shoulder and asked in an eerie voice, “Do you, though?”

Husk found himself pondering this unexpected question as Alastor said brightly, “Well, sleep well, treasured bartender!” and snapped himself away for the night.

Suddenly finding himself alone at the hotel bar, Husk decided it was bedtime for him, too. Working at the Happy Hotel would be a change, for better or worse. And one thing was certain: Angel Dust was here to stay.     (Thanks for reading! ^_^ Okay to reblog or comment)

[wonderrdies]

fine line

summary: Boy and girl meet. Boy and girl fall in love. Boy and girl live happily ever after. Except boy is Harry Styles and even when love comes easy, it doesn’t come simple.

disclaimer: this is my first harry fic ever so... how terrifying. also, it is pure self-indulgent garbage and I Frankenstein-ed the shit out of it a dozen times so y’all are gonna have to forgive me. let’s do this. (btw thank you to @hsogolden​ for this challenge; there’s nothing quite like a goal that makes you force yourself to write)

warnings: some fluff, some angst, a tiny bit of smut and a whole lotta nonsense. 

word-count: about 6,000 words

“Come on,” She yells up the stairs. “Daddy’s here!”

“Coming!” the four-year-old yells back, sock-clad feet hitting the stairs with a muffled thud. 

“Jamie,” Harry calls, not as loud as they are. He knows his son can’t see him, but surely he can hear his voice; it’s not the biggest of houses. “Don’t run down the stairs. It’s dangerous.”

A quiet and frustrated okay, Daddy is heard in the background, and both the adults smile softly. Jamie’s a cute kid. 

“I’m dropping him off at my mum’s and I’ll be back in a couple of hours, okay?”

She raises an eyebrow. “It’s Tuesday night. Don’t you have a song to write or whatever?”

“Can’t really miss my girl’s birthday, can I?”

She laughs, surprised, and the sound of it reminds Harry of the shy girl he met at a bar all those years ago. “It’s not my birthday yet, H.”

“Still,” Harry takes a second to look behind her and check on their son, who’s putting on his shoes while his backpack and a few toys are scattered around him. “Need any help, mate?”

Jamie mutters an agreement so She shifts in the door to let Harry in, and his own face stares back at him from a bunch of family pictures all over the shelves. He kneels beside his child and starts mindlessly tying his shoelaces, turning his attention back to her.

“You should dress up.”

“Harry,” she scoffs. “Is that an insult?”

“Nope,” he pops the p just as he finishes with Jamie’s shoes. “Get your stuff, Jamie. Let’s go see Nana.”

“Can we get milkshakes?” 

“Sure, mate,” but She’s glaring at him. “Tomorrow, when it’s not so late, though.”

“But Daddy—”

“Tomorrow, baby.” She interrupts. With a kiss on their son’s brown curls, she says: “Go wait for Daddy in the car. And behave at your Nana’s. I love you.”

Jamie walks away with a “Love you, Mommy”, stuffed kitten under one of his arms and his half-closed backpack hanging on the other. Harry bends over to pick up his other toys but She stops him with a gesture. “Don’t bother, H. I’ll clean it up once you’re gone.”

“I was gonna take them with us.”

“It’s just one night, he won’t miss them,” She pauses. “Too much.”

“Guess mum will just have to entertain him, then,” he drops the toys on the couch and smiles at her. “Be ready, huh? I’ll text you when I’m near.”

“Okay. Where are we going?”

“Let’s get a drink. For old time’s sake.”

She nods, looking suspicious. Then his fingertips brush her cheek and her eyes soften.

“Let’s just not get wasted on a school-night, okay?”

“We’ll be alright, love,” he says, kissing the soft cheek he just touched. It feels like home against Harry’s lips. 

                                    ------------------------------------------

7 years earlier…

Harry doesn’t notice her for a while. They’re both sitting at the bar counter, only one empty stool between the two of them, but the lighting is dim and the girl looks as closed off as one can get; stiff posture and hair hanging over her face while she stares straight ahead into the liquor shelf behind the bartender. Up until that point, she could be furniture for all he cares. 

Tonight, up until that point, he had been reveling in his loneliness. Harry wasn’t one to enjoy being alone much, but after months of touring, family holidays, and being surrounded by more people than he can even imagine at any given time, he got the appeal of listening to his own thoughts for a while. Even if it made him a little restless after a few weeks of it. Even if he caught himself with his mouth open, about to make a random remark on the cute bartender or the questionable music at least twice. Even if he bounced his leg nonstop and grabbed his phone every five minutes, pondering on who to call for company. 

So maybe he wasn’t reveling in the loneliness anymore. But he had dressed as ordinarily as humanly possible without wearing jeans (there were no pearls or high-heeled boots in sight) and was drinking beer instead of a Cosmo, blending in. He had to make the most of it. What could he tell himself that he didn’t already know? Maybe, Harry thought, I’m just not that interesting. If he couldn’t stand to spend half an hour hanging out with himself, had people been lying to him? He could feel the spiraling begin. 

And then his song starts playing.

At the sound of his voice coming from the speakers, she turns her head. Her hair moves away with the movement, the corner of her lips twitching as if she’s about to smile. She doesn’t, but that’s when Harry notices her. The girl’s mouth moves and he’s pretty sure that if he were just a little bit closer, there’d be a faint whisper of stop your crying, baby, it’s a sign of the times. He wishes he could hear it. 

He continues to shoot sideway glances, not wanting to make her uncomfortable by staring. He’s not sure he wants to be noticed, either. She’s a pretty girl singing along to one of his songs; there are many of those. He doesn’t really want to make a scene. But then again, what’s the chance that this woman won’t turn her head at all for however long they’re there?

Before he can worry about that answer, it happens. The bartender is cleaning the end of the counter to Harry’s right, and she shifts to order another drink. As soon as she does, their eyes meet. It doesn’t matter that he’s wearing a baseball hat or a beige knitted sweater and black slacks, she knows he’s Harry Styles. The more the thinks about it, the more self-conscious he becomes. Of course he’s hiding something; who wears that kind of outfit to a bar?

“Hey,” he softly says. He’s not sure how this will go, but so far it feels better than trying to entertain himself. Better than wondering.

Her hand shakes around the glass, empty except for the lime and melting ice, but her voice doesn’t quiver. “Hello.”

“Can I get your drink for you?”

“You don’t have to.”

“It’s fine,” he calls over the bartender. “Can we get another of what she’s having? And a Cosmo.”

What the hell, he figures. It’s not like any of the few middle-aged people in tables around them will see a pink cocktail and suddenly wonder “Isn’t that…?”. Either they recognize him or don’t. When the bartender nods, he turns back to her.

“You’re not from here, are you?”

She shakes her head no. 

“America?”

“Not the United States, no.”

He’s about to guess Canada, even if her accent doesn’t sound like that at all, and make a fool out of himself when she says: “I’m not a native English speaker. I teach English back home.”

“Really!” his excitement is the first thing to get a smile out of her. It kinda throws him off for a second; it comes and goes quickly, but her whole face changes around it. Looking away for a second, he notices that their drinks are about to be ready. “Can I —” Harry gestures to the stool between them.

The girl nods, and he comes closer. Their knees touch when he sits. 

“Are you here for work?”

“No,” the side of her mouth twitches again. “What about you?”

“I’m home. Just taking some time off.”

“At this time of the year? Sounds like a cool job.”

It’s a bad joke, but he plays into it anyway. “Meh,” Harry shrugs. “It pays the bills.”

“Good for you,” she laughs quietly. “I got this trip for my birthday.”

“Well, happy birthday!”

“It’s not today.”

The bartender places their drinks on the counter, the liquid sloshing around a bit, and a little bit of her gin and tonic spills over her hand. “God,” the bartender says. “Sorry, I’ll get—”

“Don’t worry,” she smiles as if to say it’s okay. Then she licks the back of her hand and then her lips. Harry moves uncomfortably in his seat.

“So,” he says once the bartender leaves, taking a sip of his Cosmopolitan. Way better than that shitty beer. “Am I the first or last person to wish you a happy birthday?”

“First. I’ll turn twenty-two in two days.”

“It was an honor to get it wrong, then.”

“Not very subtle, are you?”

He blushes. Actually blushes. 

There’s a silent beat where she seems torn between laughing awkwardly or just straight up bolting out of the room, but the girl settles on chugging her cocktail while Harry stutters. 

“I’m —” they start at the same time. 

“I’m sorry. I didn’t —” he stops himself from saying he didn’t mean to flirt. He did mean to flirt. Harry just didn’t mean to be so shit at it. So he settles for: “I just noticed you singing along.”

She brings her drink back to her lips, as if asking for some time to think of what to say, but half a cocktail isn’t enough to hide her smile. He’s staring so intently that she tips the glass towards him and genuinely asks “Do you want a sip?”

Harry just shakes his head no.

“Um, yeah,” the girl starts. “I’m a big fan of yours— your work, I guess.”

“Did you go to any of the shows last year?”

“I couldn’t,” she admits. “But I’ve seen some videos. You looked like you were having fun.”

The comment makes him smile. “I really was. Where are you from? Didn’t I go to your country?”

He realizes then that he sounds pretentious. Maybe she just didn’t want to go to the fucking concert; why is he questioning this stranger as if she’s missed his sweet sixteen? Maybe she’s not even a fan and just heard his single on the radio once. God, what a disaster.

The girl looks embarrassed, like she can’t believe she’s telling him this but won’t shy away from speaking. She tells him the name of her country and explains that she doesn’t live anywhere near the big cities where he played, so she couldn’t afford the trip.

“But if you’re ever passing by again…”

“I’ll let you know,” he says. She laughs quietly, but Harry isn’t really joking. He can see himself texting a nice girl and asking her to come and watch him sing. He’s certainly more impressive up on the stage than here, doing whatever it is that he’s doing right now. “Are you traveling by yourself?”

She hesitates to answer and it makes him cringe. “I sounded like a creep, didn’t I? Jesus. I don’t know what’s wrong with me today.”

“Don’t worry about it,” and there it is again, the wide smile that changes her face. Out of all the things Harry Styles could do to charm a woman, acting socially inept isn’t the one he figured would win over a foreign English teacher that hangs out at random London bars for middle-aged couples on awkward dates. But here they are and the more he fucks up, the more she looks relaxed. 

Harry decides to take what he can get. “I guess I haven’t been getting enough practice talking to strangers lately.”

She’s still smiling, not as wide but just as bright. “I’d probably want a break from people too if I were you. I got here yesterday and I’m already done talking to strangers. I knew it’d be hard to get around in another continent but this is a whole other level; I can’t walk two meters without asking someone for directions.”

He raises an eyebrow, teasing. “Is Google Maps not doing it for you?”

“Shut up,” she chuckles. “Data is expensive abroad, y’know? But to be honest, I’m so fucking obtuse when it comes to maps. The thing is pointing one way and the next I know, I walked miles in the opposite direction. It’s much easier to have an actual person telling me where to go.”

“Yeah,” he agrees, licking his lips after finishing his drink. He sees her eyes flicker down to his mouth for a second, just like his did a few minutes ago. “You have a point.”

“I do?”

“Not really. I just didn’t want you to feel bad about being a confused old lady.”

That makes her laugh, and Harry feels his heart skip a beat. It’s nice to know she thinks he’s funny.

“But you can’t really be a confused old lady, right? Being a teacher and all.”

Like she said, not subtle at all. But he wants to know more about her.

“Bold of you to assume that most teachers are not confused old ladies, but,” she too finishes her second cocktail, pushing her empty glass away from her and closer to the one Harry just left on the counter. “I’m just a confused masters-student trying to look less confused so my students won’t give me shit about it.”

“Do you like it? The whole academic thing and teaching.”

Her smile is soft around the edges, and he can see the drinks catching up to her. “They have their moments, both working hard to understand the things I’m interested in and helping people learn another language. It’s all hard but worth it,” she’s quiet for a second. “Like most things in life, I guess. What about you?”

“Do I like being an academic?”

She rolls her eyes. “Your job, silly. Is it hard but worth it?”

“I guess it’s like yours in the sense that it helps me understand the thing I’m interested in, too.”

“Music?”

“Me,” he answers, and there is that laugh again.

“God,” she says, voice dripping with good-humored sarcasm. “I hate rockstars so much.”

“Don’t we all?” he sees her staring at their empty glasses, so he offers to buy her another drink even though she looks sleepy. Harry figures he’ll drop her off wherever she’s staying so she doesn't have to walk around alone and drunk. 

“I don’t think I can do another one,” she says. “But maybe we could share it? I can definitely deal with half a drink. And I’ll pay for it.”

Before he can say anything, she calls the bartender over and orders another Cosmo on her tab.

“You didn’t have to,” he says, referring both to paying and asking for a cocktail she knows he likes.

“Don’t worry about it,” he thinks it’s probably the fifth time she’s said that in not even an hour. Huh. “God, isn’t it stuffy in here?”

He doesn't think so, so it’s probably the alcohol, but he agrees while she shakes off her coat. When the girl turns so she can hang the fabric over her bar stool, Harry can see, among other quotes and drawings on her arm, the words sweet creature above her right elbow.

“Nice tattoo,” he comments, feeling weirdly proud. It’s not like he doesn’t know hundreds of people get the words he sings on their bodies, but this is different. It’s like trying to know more about someone and realizing, somehow, you already do.

“Which one?” she asks. He reaches out and brushes his fingers over it. It gives her goosebumps. “Oh. It’s a nice song.”

“Why did you get it?”

It makes him feel like an annoying interviewer, trying to get a meaningful answer that isn’t necessarily there. But he’d still like to hear what she has to say.

“I’ve heard I’m not one of those,” is her answer. His hand drops from her elbow.

He frowns. “What do you mean?”

“I’ve been told I’m not the sweetest creature,” the smile is gone. She shifts in her seat as if just realizing an old bruise is still tender to the touch. 

Before he can decide between asking more about it and risk her thinking he’s a nosy asshole or just give his uninformed opinion and claim that’s bullshit, a Cosmopolitan is put on the bar between them. 

“Thank you,” she says to the bartender. He’d thank them too, but he’s staring at that suddenly serious face, wondering what else is there to know about that tattoo. About her.

“Doesn’t it become a reminder, though?” Harry asks, and she looks back at him, not understanding the question. “The tattoo. Doesn’t it remind you that someone feels that way about you?”

“Yeah, I guess” she takes a sip of the drink and slides it over to him, their fingers touching in the process; it’s only for a second, and her hand is gone before Harry can understand why he wishes it wasn’t. “But I got it so, when I think of how he saw me, I would know I’m the one who gets to say what I am or am not.”

Harry is curious but doesn’t really know what to say to that, and it shows. She cringes.

“I always do this, you know? I drink and start getting all sad and telling people about all sorts of stuff no one wants to know. I’m sorry, Harry.”

It’s the first time he’s heard say his name. It sounds good on her accent.

“Don’t worry about it,” he says, and it makes her smile because she realizes he’s been paying attention. 

They share one more drink, and Harry pays for the third Cosmo of the night. By the time they’re finished with it, both of them are giggling and he has one of his hands on her bare knee. After the slightly-awkward oversharing, she proceeded to point out how a couple on the dark corner of the bar seemed, judging by their uncomfortable silence and resentful faces, to be on the brink of divorce. Harry asked her, mostly joking, if she had been around a lot of divorcing couples; she chuckled and then commented on how a dude sitting by the restrooms was probably fingering his girlfriend under the table. She never said no or proved to know about his family by asking him the same thing back. 

But now the whole divorce thing was long forgotten. She and Harry had spent the last hour making up the most obnoxious stories about other customers and whispering them to each other, bodies getting closer and closer every minute.

“You know what I want?” she mutters. Between being shorter than Harry and slouching on her seat, her lips don’t reach his ear, so he can feel her breath on the side of his neck. He shivers.

“What?” he asks in the same low tone, eyes glittering with mischief and tipsiness. 

Her left hand grips his bicep while she practically purrs: “I really want a milkshake.”

From the way his drunken-self gasps and moans God, yes, she might as well have said that she really wanted to suck his dick.

They pay for their drinks, shared or otherwise, and leave the bar. There aren’t many people out on the street at 1 a.m, but Harry still pulls his hat down a little. 

“So,” she says. “Should I get us an uber? Where do British people get milkshakes? Is it far?” 

“I’ll just call a driver.” 

She looks taken aback. “Like a private one?”

Harry nods. “He’ll be here in a minute.”

And he is. She stumbles into the car along with Harry, sluggishly laying her head on his shoulder after closing the door.

“You didn’t tell me your name,” he murmurs against her hair.

So she does.

                                   ------------------------------------------

Between dinner, a few drinks and all the talking, they had already broken the not-staying-out-too-late rule. Turns out that rehashing a few days’ worth of parenting, teaching and music producing is time consuming even when you’re not having this much fun.

“One more?” Harry asks, pointing to her empty gin and tonic glass, the shadow of laughter still on his lips after a solid fifteen minutes of her getting progressively more aggravated about a student that “couldn’t, to save his own life, make anyone believe he read The Color Purple”. 

“Yeah,” she says. “Share it with me?”

“Sure, love.”

He orders another cocktail, and She smiles at him even while thanking the waitress. 

“What’s that look for?”

“Nothing,” She replies, still staring shamelessly. It’s easy after all these years. “You just look really good.”

“So do you.”

She shrugs, and before he can say that she really does look beautiful and that he wishes he could prove to her just how much he thinks so (which is a cheap but sure way of making her blush), the waitress places the new cocktail between them.

“God, that was fast,” She mumbles, impressed.

After She takes the first sip, they both start at the same time. “So—”

They giggle, but since She begins sipping again, Harry speaks.

“We’ll both have a couple of months off during the summer, so I was thinking… You could go home.”

“Yeah, I should start planning once the semester ends, I’m just so—” She sighs, and Harry understands. 

“I figured you could go and spend the first few weeks, or even the first month, back home while Jamie and I do our thing.” She looks like she’s about to interrupt him, so he holds up a hand as if asking her to wait. “Hear me out. You go home, spend time with your family or your old friends or, y’know, yourself, because — and don’t even fight me on this — I know you need your alone time. And after you’ve had your break, we’ll meet you there and hang out until you need to get back to prepare for next semester and I need to sort things out for the tour. You can even go somewhere else by yourself before going home or we could do a family thing before coming back to the UK if you and Jamie want to. How does that sound?”

She doesn’t say a thing, doesn’t even smile. She just keeps looking at him while sliding the gin and tonic glass across the table so he can have his share. Harry takes two big gulps and waits for her to speak.

“I don’t—” She stops herself. “You thought of it all, didn’t you?”

“I tried,” he laces his fingers through hers. “So you wouldn’t have to. But, y’know, it’s just an idea. And I thought it’d be better if I brought it up early so we could plan everything properly and, in case you didn’t want help paying for them, the plane tickets wouldn’t cost you an arm and a leg.”

Still silent, She looks down at their joint hands.

“Thank you, H.”

“I didn’t do anything, love.”

He touches her chin so that She’ll look him in the eyes.

“I love you,” Harry whispers. 

She doesn’t have to say it too. He knows. 

                                   ------------------------------------------

6 years earlier…

“Hey, love,” Harry whispers from the other side of the phone call. “How are things?”

She smiles a tired smile up at her dark ceiling at the sound of his voice. “Things are…” The smile fades, replaced by a shaky sigh. “Things are fine, H.”

She means things are like they have been for as long as she can remember. Difficult. A shit-paying job where she feels like a failure most of the time, too much school work, family drama and all sorts of friendship insecurities. There are good days of course, but today just isn’t one of them. She didn’t want to ruin his call, the only silver lining of the night, by complaining. So things are fine. 

“What about you? Is everything good over there?”

“Everything’s great. Had some really good wine earlier today, reminded me of you. You would’ve loved it.”

“Bet you were in a villa, feeling the breeze on your hair, staring at a gorgeous canal or some fancy shit like that,” she jokes.

Harry laughs. “Yeah,” is his answer. 

Oh.

“I kinda wanted to talk to you about that, actually.”

“About what?”

She sits up on the bed, her room quiet except for the shifting of her body over the clothes she took off but didn’t bother to fold before laying down after work.

“You should come,” he answers on the phone. 

“What?”

“To Italy.”

“Baby—”

“Come on, love. You always wanted to travel here. Come meet me.”

“Harry,” she sighs. “You’re insane.”

She can picture his face falling just by the sound of his voice. “Why?”

“It’s the middle of September; I’m working, I’m studying. I can’t even afford it. Do you need any more reasons?”

Harry sounds frustrated when he answers, and it brings tears to her eyes. So much for a silver lining. “You can take a day or two off, right? Or just stay the weekend. You know I’ll pay for your flight.”

“Baby,” she takes a deep breath, trying to not let her annoyance show. “I’m almost finished with my master’s; I won’t get it done by missing classes. And yes, you’ll pay for my flight, but that’s not the only expense that goes into traveling and I won’t depend on your money. You know this. We can go when there’s a holiday here. Or mid-December, when the semester is over. I’ll have saved some money by then. I love you for thinking of me but… I can’t, H. Not now.”

He mumbles something under his breath.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“I didn’t hear you,” but she knows he did it on purpose. “Can you say that again, please?”

“I said you’re making up excuses.”

‘You can’t be serious.”

“Of course I’m serious! You won’t even try.”

“How am I supposed to try? Either I can or can’t go. And I can’t.”

“You won’t even consider it,” his voice is filled with disappointment. It makes her blood boil.

“Harry, you sound like a child. Listen to me. Even if I went only for the weekend, I’d waste almost an entire day flying back and forth. We wouldn’t even have twenty-four hours together.”

“Don’t you think that sounds better than not being together at all?”

“I bet it does sound better for you, sitting your ass in a gondola, eating your rich-people cheese with your snobby friends, thinking of lyrics about fucking a girl that second-guesses putting you before herself while said girl is out there, flying to you so she can have a hug and a kiss and pretend that everything is fine.”

She’s crying by the time she stops talking, and she knows he can hear it. While she sobs, mostly angry but also starting to regret saying anything at all, he doesn’t say a thing. He could have stopped breathing altogether, considering how quiet the other end of the line is.

“Harry?” she half-pleads, half-scolds. “Talk to me!”

“I’m sorry,” his voice is uncertain, like he can’t quite figure out what to say and how to say it. “I guess I— I miss you. I’m being a prick.”

The weigh on her chest doesn’t go away with the apology, because she doesn’t know if he understands. And she just called his friends snobby and said she pretends to be happy. God. But she can’t say she’s sorry too because she won’t stop crying. She’s just so tired.

“Love,” Harry says, firmly this time. “Don’t cry, it’s okay. Have some sleep. Drink some water. We’ll talk properly tomorrow.”

“No,” she hiccups into the phone. “Wait. I’m—”

“We’ll talk, I promise,” she thinks he’ll hang up then when he hesitates, but he speaks again. “I’m sorry. I love you.”

The line goes dead. She cries herself to sleep.

                                   ------------------------------------------

"God," he pants against her bruised neck.

“What?” She teases. “Are you getting too old for this?”

“Shut up,” Harry laughs, still breathless. “I’m barely in my mid-thirties.” He pushes the sheets away and gets up, looking down at her naked body sprawled across the bed; if he wasn’t so tired, he’d be horny again. “Want some water?”

“Yeah. Thanks, baby.”

He walks out of the bedroom wearing absolutely nothing, which is one of the perks of a child-free house. By the time he’s back with their water, She’s wearing his teal button-up and brushing her teeth, messy natural hair framing her face.

“H,” she calls from the suite’s bathroom, speech slurred because of the toothbrush. She spits before continuing, “Can you sing me a song?”

Harry chugs his water and lays back on the bed, waiting for her without saying a word. 

“Can you?” She asks again, climbing on the bed in all fours, hovering over him. “Can you?” A whisper against his mouth. But when he leans over for a kiss, she falls to the bed, suddenly grinning, and hugs his side. “Come on.”

“Such a tease,” he mumbles, already hugging her back and tangling his legs with hers.

Harry starts singing quietly, voice still a little rough even after the water, and he can feel her smiling lips against his chest.

Wise men say only fools rush in

But I can't help falling in love with you…

“How romantic,” she says quietly once he’s done.

“That’s me, only doing the best for my girl” he says smugly, which makes her laugh, but then he turns serious. “I love you, you know?”

“Love you too, H.”

Harry takes a deep breath. “Can I ask you a question?”

                                   ------------------------------------------

5 years earlier…

The paparazzi call her name on screen. There are not many of them, but it disturbs Harry nonetheless; three or four photographers outside a restaurant, just waiting for her and yelling at her once she walks out the door. She looks nervous in a way Harry can imagine other people not noticing, fidgeting hands and a fast walk. But her face is serious and dismissive while she walks straight ahead.

“Are you Harry Styles’ new girlfriend?” one of them asks from behind the camera.

Harry pauses the video, telling himself he needs to ask someone on his team how the hell they found out who she is just by a blurry picture taken through his car window a few days ago when she’s not even on social media, which is true. But he’s also not sure he wants to hear her answer. He checks the time under the video; it was posted less than an hour ago. He should call her and ask if everything’s okay, but he just presses play again.

“No,” she answers right away. Harry feels like he’s sinking.

Why the fuck did they not discuss this before she moved to England? What was he thinking when he resisted PR’s involvement? They should’ve planned for this, coordinated answers, made up their minds so he wouldn’t feel sucker-punched and she wouldn’t be thrusted into the spotlight with no warning.

“You were in his car last Monday!” someone says, as if telling her she’s a liar.

She doesn’t bother responding to that. They keep calling her name.

“What are you and Harry, then?”

She’s almost down the subway’s stairs and there’s not many seconds left in the video, so he’s not too worried about what happens next. Harry looks at his phone, expecting her to disappear from the frame so he can text her and ask her to come over so they can talk, so he can hold her and make sure she’s not freaking out. But she slows down, considering the person’s question. She turns her head to a camera somewhere to the right of the video he’s watching, curls falling down the side of her face. 

Matter-of-factly, with amused eyes but no smile, she says: “Soulmates.” And then she’s down the stairs and the video ends.

Harry stays very still. Text notifications appear over and over, more than one person saying the same thing: apparently they found her on her university’s website, where she’s listed as a doctoral student. He doesn’t open the messages, though; doesn’t even breathe until there’s a knock at the door.

Everyone else just rings the bell or asks to be buzzed in. It’s her.

Harry walks to the door, bare feet sliding on the wooden floors, and opens it. She’s standing in front of him dressed in the same black skirt and pink sweater from the video, hair messy around her serious face.

“H,” she starts. The sound of her voice relieves most of the pressure in his chest. “I—”

He doesn’t let her finish; just kisses her like he would kiss a soulmate. She steps forward, dropping her bag and closing the door with one hand while the other busies itself holding onto the soft cotton of Harry’s worn T-shirt, the feeling of his tongue against hers making her dizzy. 

They stumble into the couch, her hips sitting on top of his, breathing heavily against each other’s lips. Harry takes longer than necessary stripping her of her sweater, gripping every inch of exposed skin as if he could keep it to himself. “Harry,” She whispers, asking him to hurry. The pink fabric falls to the floor and his right hand instantly pulls at her hair, her back arching so he can get one of her nipples on his mouth. “Harry,” She breathes out again, tortured, and a careless move of her hips makes them both gasp. The hand that’s not tangled in her hair squeezes her tight so hard they’re both sure it’ll bruise.

“Lay back,” he says before sucking on her other nipple, teeth grazing her skin and making her grind into him with more purpose. Despite his words, Harry doesn’t move so she can do what he’s telling her to. “I want to—” he bites her shoulder, hard, “see if—” sucks a mark into the side of her breast, “you can move like that on my face.”

She moans at his words, his mouth, his hand on her hair, tightening by the second.

“No,” she licks her lips, but never finishes the thought. Her hand drops to the one he has on her tight and squeezes it. “Can you—”

“Yeah,” he mumbles, letting go of her thigh. His hand disappears beneath her skirt, and she can feel him pushing her panties out of the way. He swipes a finger against her so lightly she can barely feel it. “Is that what you want?”

“More.”

She lifts her hips, trying to get more friction on his hand. “Come on.”

Harry slides one finger into her, then another. Her mouth falls open in a silent gasp, and she feels like she’s stopped breathing altogether once he fucks into her fast and hard, thumb brushing against her clit.

“Kiss me,” she whimpers, riding his fingers frantically, the sweat dripping down her torso sticking to Harry’s T-shirt.

Their mouths meet at the same time he squeezes a third finger into her. She moans against his lips and holds his waist under his clothes, seemingly undecided between tugging at his shirt or his belt.

“H, let me,” she murmurs the words into his lips, still pulling at his clothes. 

“No,” he sounds as wrecked as she does, which is saying a lot. “Cum for me first.”

Harry stops moving his hand, tries to tease her, but she barely seems to notice, moving so desperately that he hits all the right places without even trying. With a sob, she squeezes tight around his fingers and rides out her high while clinging to Harry for dear life.

Her head falls to his shoulder, face hiding behind her hair and in his neck.

“Good?” he asks, voice raspy, wiping his soaked fingers on the side of his pants. 

She doesn’t say anything for a second, just breathing hard into his skin, then sobs again. Not with pleasure. 

“Love?” Harry questions in worry. “What’s wrong?”

Her body starts to shake in his arms, tears mixing with the sweat on his T-shirt’s collar. He calls her name, scared out of his mind with what this could mean. Did she come here to say she couldn’t do this anymore? He didn’t let her say a thing before kissing her. He should’ve listened, should’ve waited, should’ve asked her what ‘soulmate’ meant when it couldn’t mean ‘girlfriend’.

“I’m sorry,” she hiccups, hugging him closer even though there’s not any space between their bodies. 

“What are you sorry for?” he asks quietly.

“I know this is freaking you out. I just—” and then she’s sobbing again.

“Talk to me,” Harry begs.

“I love you so much, H,” he could feel the but at the end of the sentence.

“I love you too…” he swallows before asking, “Is this about the photographers? Are you upset they were around? ‘Cause we can fix that.”

She looks up at him, the tip of their noses touching. With furrowed brows and swollen eyes, she mumbles, “You gonna have them killed or somethin’?”

He’d laugh if he could. “Not really. I’ll do something, though. Whatever it is you need me to do.”

She rests her chin on his shoulder so he can’t look her in the eyes. In a whisper, she asks: “Can you freeze us in time?”

“What?”

“I’m scared we’ll lose this,” She confesses. “I’m so in love with you, Harry and I— I don’t want us to be boyfriend and girlfriend the way I’ve learned it, owing each other and the world explanations and parts of ourselves. I want us to choose to love each other every day because we can’t help but do so — a forever that looks like the way you offered me a drink, the way you flew out to meet me after our fight and promised we’d do better, the way you kissed me today; like it’s not simple but it’s easy. ”

Harry stays silent for a while.

“I’m sorry if it makes no sense,” her voice shakes. “I think I’m just desperate not to lose myself in you while getting to keep you and— I don’t know, it doesn’t sound as reasonable as I thought it would.”

He whispers her name.

“Yeah?”

“Being with you forever, one day at a time, sounds reasonable to me.”

                                   ------------------------------------------

“Do you want to marry me?”

“What?”

“Marry me, love,” he laughs softly. “Do you want to?”

She’s silent, tear-filled eyes staring up at him.

“You know how I knew it was time?” Harry asks, still in a low voice like they’re somewhere sacred. Home. “We built a family out of a promise we didn’t even have to make. A while ago, even before Jamie, you told me we shouldn't owe each other, and it’s true. I won’t ever ask you for anything you haven’t already given me, because that’s how you love me too. But I’ll ask for this because it’s ours and I know it’ll stay this way.”

They’re both crying, and her shaking hands try to wipe away his tears.

“I want to,” She says. 

That sudden bright smile takes over her face like it did both years and minutes ago. It doesn’t take him by surprise anymore. 

[copias-thrall]

When Mary Met Sally … err, Suey

Timestamp How do two walking disasters meet? Well, one of them walks into a bar …

(Start at the beginning)

*public sex*

It’s not the worst dive bar you’ve ever been to, but any place that can double as a venue usually makes a bit more effort. Maybe there are some coding regulations or whatever. Your friend swears by it for cheap drinks and chaotic atmosphere, which is why you made the effort to put on a dress—a short, black thing with diaphanous tails that forgives your belly rolls—and did your doll eyes.

But the bitch isn’t even here yet. You’re on your second beer—and a band growling into mics and shredding is playing on the paltry performance area that the bar boasts—when you get another text. The first one—that you had received upon arrival yourself—had said she was on her way. This one says she’s leaving work now.

You sigh and tap your foot along to the bass. The majority of the patrons in the place are crowded into the venue room, bopping and screaming along. There are a handful, like you, who are loitering by the bar—an old drunk; two finance types with loose ties; a gaggle of scene girls waiting for their drink order; and a group of college kids at a bar top with a half-full pitcher surrounded by empty shot glasses.

The bartender—a crusty-looking dude with long, greying hair and the kind of tattoos you’d expect were done in the kitchen of a friend’s house by a biker—leans on the bar into your space and sets down a shot.

“Boyfriend stand you up, doll?”

You give the shot a little toast to him and shoot it, only coughing a little and the whiskey’s afterburn.

“Something like that” you say.

“He’s a fool to leave a face as pretty as yours up for grabs.” He pushes away from the bar to service the next customer as you stammer, “Um, thanks.”

One-third through your third beer is when you get the text that she just got home and is exhausted and can’t possibly change to come back out and meet you now. You roll your eyes, even if this was exactly what you were expecting. You’re annoyed since she picked this bar because it was near her work and therefore a quick jaunt for her on her way home—whereas you took the bus for 27min and then walked 3 blocks. But, ok.

You definitely have to pee, and—after debating  whether you can wait until you finish this beer—ultimately decide that peeing is actually an imperative. Since your friend’s not here, you’ll have to take your beer with you. It seems the band must have just finished because it looks like every women in the bar is now waiting to use the two-stall women’s room. Your eyes flick over to the men’s room where there’s—you guessed it—no one.

“Fuck it,” you say out loud. “I’m crossing enemy lines.”

Occasionally you can get a flock to come with you, but tonight it seems like the other women are content with their lot, and not one follows in your wake. You kick open the door and yell, Female coming aboard! as you stomp into the bathroom. You’re prepared to cover your eyes, because men get real shy, but there actually doesn’t seem to be anyone even in here. You don’t question your luck, just make a beeline for the small stall.

Once in the stall, you debate the logistics of what to do with your beer glass—you don’t usually mind putting it on the floor, but for some reason this time you get a bad feeling, which is when you remember that you have tits. Using your cleavage, bra panel, and neckline, the glass fits quite snuggly—and you only have to be somewhat careful as you perform the intricate process of doing your business without spilling the liquid or getting your dress in the toilet.

When you wander out there’s a dude in the stall next to yours and a tall, skinny, punk guy at the bathroom sinks. He’s leaning into the cracked mirror and either putting on makeup or touching it up. Actually, upon closer inspection he’s in white face paint with black, corpse-like accents and … blood?

Whatever.

His eyes meet yours in the mirror as you sway over to the sink next to his.

“What?” he says with a sneer.

You turn to face him, leaning your hip on the sink; you point to your own mug saying, “You got something on your face,” and do a few sweeping circles with your hand. “Hereabouts.”

He looks at you and furrows his brow as you turn to wash your hands, remembering at the last minute to not lean over. In the mirror you watch as his eyes glance down to your beer cleavage. 

Beerage. 

Hah.

“Pfft. You wish, dude.”

He doesn’t say anything further, but you feel his eyes heavy on you as you finish up and saunter out. You make your way back to the bar, sighing in relief when you can safely deposit your pint glass back on the counter. The stage area is now dimmed and you notice the crowd has thinned somewhat while the bar has gained new pods of people.

You fiddle a bit with your phone—checking social media, playing a round on your game app, and texting out memes—until a fresh glass of beer is set down in front of you. One you didn’t order. When you follow the perspiring glass up you meet the black-rimmed eyes of the guy from the men’s room. He’s resting on his crossed arms and smirking you.

“I do wish, actually,” he says.

“What?”

He gives you an exaggerated once over.

You squint at him. “Weren’t you in that band?”

“Wow. ‘That band.’ Yeah, I am.”

“So why’re you behind the bar?”

He leans back, licking his lips and looking down at you with hooded eyes.

“I’m multitalented,” he says, and then makes a vulgar motion with his tongue.

You’re about to respond with something very clever, you’re sure, when the older bartender barks, “Mary!—a little help?”

He makes a shrugging motion at you as you before he turns to help with a gaggle of girls who all giggle and bat their eyelashes at him. You hadn’t intended to stay past your third beer, but after you assess the lines of “Mary’s” body and the swell of his ass in his ripped jeans, you slide the proffered beer closer to you. Maybe the night won’t be a bust after all.

You’ve just started on the gift beer when “Mary” saunters back over. He pours a shot and shoots it himself before leaning on the edge with his hip and considering you.

“Is your name really ‘Mary’?”

He lifts his chin at you in challenge. “What of it?”

You giggle. “It’s just—”

“A girl’s name? Yes, I’m qu—”

“It’s my name,” you say as you slap your hands on the bar.

He squints at you. “It’s not.”

You fish a credit card out of your phone wallet and offer it to him. He takes it, looks at it, looks at you, looks at it again, lets out a Huh , then hands it back to you.

“Well, I’m not calling you Mary. I’m calling dibs on it.”

You rest your tits on the bar as you lean toward him conspiratorially.

“You’ll have to scream something later.”

He raises his eyebrows at you.

“That’s presumptuous,” he says as he straightens and crosses his arms.

Well, ok. It’s possible you misread him. Maybe he was just angling for a good tip. You think of the other girls straining for his attention.

You shrug. “You caught me in a mood to grant wishes. But whatever.”

He gives you an unreadable look before he’s being called away again, and then he’s pouring drinks across the bar—and your face burns.

You’re suddenly irritated. It just feels like it’s been a day of teases—first your friend inviting you out then blowing you off, and now this guy who implied he’d like to fuck you only to back off once you called him on it. You could be home watching Netflix, not alone at a bar with only your phone for company. You dig into the bustle at your hip that’s really a bag and fish out a $20 and a $5—which may be a little over, but worth it in terms of expediency.

You slip off the bar stool and remove your coat from it, intending to shrug it on. It’s going to be a bitch to get home—the bus only coming every 90min at this point, so you may be in for a long walk if you don’t want to wait or splurge on a cab.

“Christ, you’re impatient,” comes a voice from behind you, and you startle.

When you turn, the Mary guy is behind you. You narrow your eyes at him.

“Dude, I’m not playing your games.” You jab your finger into his chest. “If you’re pulling some PUA shit on me, I’m not into it.”

He takes your elbow and guides back onto the stool.

“Since when is a free brooze a game? Just hang and enjoy the fucking beer I bought you, k?”

“I wouldn’t want to be presumptuous ,” you snipe, but allow him to help you back on the stool.

“And here I thought women liked a little flirtation.”

“Is that what you thought you were doing?”

He slaps his hand to his chest and makes a pained face.

“Mary get your dick back in here!” yells the other guy.

“Coming, Mickey!” he yells, his eyes still on you. He licks his lips and gives you another once over. “I have a break coming up,” he says as he backs away. “Stay.”

“MARY!”

You watch as he scrambles back behind the bar to close tabs and sling more beers. When he catches you looking at him, he winks. You just scowl at him. Some of the girls at the bar look at you with a mixture of curiosity, interest, and envy.

Whatever. Can’t shut this down.

You sip at the beer, growing increasingly more amused as Mary’s attention keeps drifting back to you. You raise your now half-full beer at him, eyebrow raised. The older dude—Mickey—wanders over to you.

“Well now, darlin’—I’m not surprised you caught our Mary’s eye, pretty thing like you. Be careful of that one though.”

You grin at him, showing teeth.

“He should be careful of me.”

Mickey blinks at you for a second, then bursts out laughing and throws his hands up. Mary is looking over at the two of you worriedly.

Time ticks on, and the beer that you’re purposely nursing goes down. Mary swings by every now and then, but never for more than a quip or two before he’s back doing Bar Things. It’s been hours , and honestly you’re pretty bored with just sitting at the bar waiting . And you’re definitely going to need a cab home because in these heels? No. 

You decide, fuck it . It’s not like this guy was going to be amazing. You drain the rest of the beer, and decide to hit the head before heading out. It’s nearly midnight, so there’s no line or issue with the women’s room, and you’re basically in and out. When you leave the restroom, you’re startled again by Mary—who’s leaning against the wall, hands in his pockets.

“Hey,” he says. “Leaving so soon?”

You level a look at him. “I’ve been here for 6 hours.”

He scrunches his brow at you.

“Really?”

“So unless you’re going to fuck me soon …”

He pulls at you. “How ‘bout you take me home when I get cut, and I’ll fuck you into the mattress?”

You press your tits into him. “And will that be soon?” you ask sweetly.

“I’m here until 2, but—”

“Yeah, no,” you say, extracting yourself.

He bites his lip. “Well … I’m on my break,” he looks down the hall towards the bar, “but there’s probably only 10min left.”

You cross your arms at him. “So you’ll have 7min to spare.”

Mary straightens. “You’ve got a mouth on you.”

You lick your lips exaggeratedly and smirk. “I know.”

He grabs you by your wrist, and yanks you into his body, leering into your face. “Well, if you want me to pound you into tomorrow right now, I have no problem with that.” 

He drags you into the men’s room, not even stopping to assess for casualties. There’s a guy at a urinal, but he doesn’t even look up as Mary ushers you into the stall. He runs a hand into your hair and grips you by the roots. You go with it, allowing him to tilt your head back.

He leans into your space to growl, “You better be fucking quiet.”

“I doubt it’ll be an issue,” you taunt, biting at him.

Mary pushes you back and shoves his fingers into your mouth.

“I told you to be fucking quiet.”

He crams his fingers further down your throat. When you don’t gag, his interest piques, and he spends about 30 seconds thrusting his fingers in and out of your mouth.

“Shame we can’t explore that,” he says as he extracts his fingers and wipes them on his jeans. Your eyes are drawn to the decent bulge at his crotch. When he tracks your gaze, he gives his dick a vulgar squeeze. “Is this what you’re here for?”

“It sure ain’t the conversation.”

“I’m tempted to shut you up with it.”

“ Promises ,” you purr.

You press into him, then reach under your dress to yank down your panties. You use the solid presence of his body for balance as you slide them down and then off one leg, wobbling a little as the loop catches on your heel. His arm reaches up to steady your elbow as you shake your boot free. He watches you, and you wink at him exaggeratedly as you stuff the excess fabric into the other boot.

“Been a while since I fucked a smart girl,” he quips.

You hook your hand around the back of his neck. 

“What about me? Am I about to fuck a smart boy?” You grab his hand to lead to your pussy. “Make me wet for you.”

He’s quick to get with the program, and he cups you with his whole hand before his fingers explore between your folds. You pull his head down to engage him in a sloppy kiss, sucking at his tongue and biting at his lips. A finger presses shallowly into your hole, then smears your slick up to your clit. You moan into Mary’s mouth as the pad of his finger circles you a few times.

He repeats the process until you’re sloppy, spreading your wetness out and over your lips. He breaks the suction of your mouth to whisper into your ear. “If we had all night, I’d play your pussy like my guitar and make you scream until you were horse—and that would be before I fucked the shit out of you.”

Then Mary retracts his hand—wiping his fingers on his jeans again—so he can work at his studded belt and zipper.

“But I’m really looking forward to burying my cock in you before my break is over.”

He advances on you, but you stop him with a hand to his chest.

“Condom?”

He pauses to pat at his jeans before pulling out his wallet from his back pocket and extracting a condom packet. He hands the foil to you so he can shove his jeans and boxers down. His hard cock juts out from his pelvis, and you lick your lips. You open the packet, make sure the condom is correct side up, and then roll it down his cock as he grips at your arms. Then you turn around so you can brace your hands against the back wall and perch your foot on the toilet.

“Not your first rodeo, I take it?”

You glare at him over your shoulder.

“If you slut shame me I will punch you in the nuts and walk out of here.”

He shuffles closer. “No, it’s hot. You fuck a lot of dick in bathrooms?” 

“A lady doesn’t kiss and tell.”

His hands run up your sides and then start to fiddle with the tails of your dress.

“So you should have no problem answering me.”

“You’re awfully glib for a guy who wants to get his dick wet.”

He’s still fiddling with your dress.

“I’m not the one who needed to fuck right now —christ what are these?”

“Just tie it in a bow!”

You feel the tails tug and tighten, then Mary crowds into your space. He rubs his cockhead through your slit a few times, and every time he hits your clit, you let out an Mmm . Then he presses at your hole and begins to slowly push in as you push back. You moan and he grunts as he sinks into you, a steadying hand at your hip.

He presses closer, his one hand bracing next to yours on the wall.

“This ok?”

“Oh god,” you moan as you clench around him.

“ Shit . I’m going to fuck you now.”

He gives a few experimental thrusts until he finds a good angle and rhythm—and then you’re in trouble. He curls an arm around your waist and begins to pound into you as much as the position and angle allows—which is more than enough to have you moaning out.

“Fuck, you’re tight. You feel so good around my cock.” He bites into your shoulder. “Fucking tell me you like my cock.”

“Fills me up so good!”

His cock does feel good—enough that you’re still wet—but definitely not enough for you to come. You try to take a hand off the wall so you can finger yourself, but a well-placed jolt from Mary has you sliding dangerously before you catch yourself. You try your other hand with similar results.

“What are you doing?” Mary pants.

“Need … my clit …” you whine.

The arm around your waist loosens, and Mary’s hand wanders down your stomach and begins to search around for access. He’s just about to dip down, when your trembling leg gives out and shoots across the toilet. You’re sure it’s about to go into the bowl, but then Mary’s hand is there, gripping your thigh hard to steady you.

“Fuck, careful.”

It becomes clear that Mary’s supporting arm around your waist is all that’s keeping your boot from sliding away, so he doesn’t attempt to finger you again. He’s panting into your ear with the effort of fucking into you and holding you up, and you feel him start to flag. He slows his pace to long thrusts, and you can hear the squelch every time he bottoms out.

“Are you at all close?” he wheezes.

“Not really.” All you can think about is the strain in your arms and the tremor in your leg.

He blows out a breath.

“I don’t know how much longer I can—”

“Just cum,” you say.

“Are you sure?”

“It’s fine.”

He grips you tighter as he speeds up, forehead pressing into your shoulder blades, and then he’s giving a hard thrust into you gasping, “Oh god, oh fuck.” He gives another couple of jolting thrusts into you, grunting, before the tension bleeds out of him and he leans into you. It’s too much strain on your arms, and you squirm with an annoyed Ok . He back ups, and his softening cock slips out of you. You shakily bring down your leg and push off the wall. When you turn around, you see that Mary has already tied off the condom and is pulling up his pants. You grab some toilet paper to swipe at yourself as Mary just stands there.

Frankly he looks a little embarrassed.

“I am actually better at doing that.”

You nod at him. “I’m sure.”

“I could—”

“I’m going to pee now,” you say, and make a shooing motion.

He blinks at you a few times, then back ups and slips out of the stall. You have to get your whole situation in order, so when you leave the stall, Mary’s no longer in the restroom. A drunk guy does a double take.

“Emeye the right place?” he slurs as he turns and misses the urinal.

You give him jazz hands. “ This is all a dream .”

When you get back to the bar, there are only the truly drunk left still standing—metaphorically speaking. Mary’s at the other end fussing with the cash register as the Mickey dude gestures at him. You grab your coat back up to put on—you already left the cash for the drinks and tip so there’s nothing left for you to settle up.

As you push open the door to the outside, you hear an exasperated Mary behind you, so you’re not surprised when—3 steps out of the bar—Mary grabs your arm.

“Wait!” he says.

You sigh, but stop. “I have to get up for work tomorrow and I’ve already spent my entire night waiting. It’s, like. Super late. What ?”

“Well I—don’t you think you deserve the full Mary experience?” He makes a sweeping motion up and down his body.

“Not tonight I don’t. Tonight I deserve a hot shower and my warm bed.”

“I will literally come by whenever and eat you out for hours. I owe you at least one phenomenal orgasm, but I’ll call the other nine interest.”

You consider him.

“C’mon,” he says swaying closer. “Give me your number, and I’ll show you what I can really do. Don’t you want this warm, wiggly tongue making you sing the high notes?” He goes to run his fingers through your hair, but you dodge and he drops his hand, his face falling.

He looks like a little boy who just got his favorite ball taken away. 

You sigh.

“Tell you what: Uber me a ride home, and you can give me your number.”

“What?” he says, squinting at you.

“Consider it asshole tax.”

He stares at you, then he takes out his wallet and rifles through it. “I don’t have Uber—you know they’re anti-union, right? But here—” He pulls out $40 and extends the bills to you. “This is all I have. For a cab.”

You stare at the bills for a moment, then pluck a twenty from him.

“This is fine.”

You take out your phone and poke at it until you’re in your contacts.

“Here.”

He takes the device into his long fingers. He does the hunt and peck until his number is in your phone. When he gives it back to you, you see his number is under “Best Sex You’ll Ever Have”.

You snort. “Subtle.”

He sneers. “Can’t have you confusing me with your other conquests.”

You waggle your phone at home. “I’ll call you. And you better rock my fucking world.”

Once you get home, you basically collapse, and the next morning is hell in getting yourself up and alert—but once the day wears on, you find yourself opening and closing Mary’s number. It actually takes you two more days before you decide: Why not have fun with a booty call?

Me [4:37pm]: My pussy’s not going to eat itself.

⬅️Previous | Next ➡️

[cordytriestowrite]

When I'm Miserable

Loki x Reader

Chapter One - All Other Chapters

Summary: Loki abandons his attempt to rebuild his relationship with Thor after realizing his brother will never fully trust or understand him. He finds himself drawn to a girl, now guardian of her little sister after their mother's sudden death, and tries to teach her the lessons of love, forgiveness, and acceptance before their differences tear them apart.

Salem, Indiana. When you first moved away from the small city and its six thousand residents you hated telling people where you were from.

"Oh, Massachusetts." They would say.

"No, Indiana." You would correct.

"I didnt know there was a Salem in Indiana." They would finish with a confused look on their face before going back to their more interesting California lives.

Now you were back and those conversations ceased to be a staple of introduction, but so many things had also ceased to be discussed. Food, art, culture, current events, all subjects thrown aside in the face of everyone's new favorite topic: what are you going to do?

"How are you going to handle raising your little sister?" They would ask.

"Did your mom leave you anything?" Inquired the snoopers.

"Are you okay?"

And were you okay? What a dumb question. Who would be okay being torn from the beginnings of a life they were building for themselves and coming back to a home without a mother? Who would be ready and to accept guardianship over their little sister and step into a parenting role no one had ever prepared them for?

You took a large sip of your beer, letting the carbonation tickle the roof of your mouth before swallowing around the bitter lump in your throat. It was 4pm on a Monday and you were on your second drink. Your bleary eyes glanced around the room, practically empty save for two older men further down the bar.

You hadn't been old enough to even enter a bar when you last lived in Salem. It felt odd to sit on the rickety wooden stool and think back to a time you desired this, the ability to legally drink in the O'Haimes Tavern and enjoy a Friday night with friends while listing to the live band. Had you been able to tell your teenage self you would end up here on a Monday afternoon to drown your sorrows all alone...

"Thanks for covering for me Rach." A frazzled looking women strolled quickly to your side of the bar, from the back room still trying up her long blonde hair. The other bartender, Rachel, you assumed, nodded sympathetically as she poured a set of double whiskeys for the men down the bar.

"No problem, I know how hard it is to adjust to Jason going back to school."

Your glass had only been a few centimeters off the bar top, which was lucky for you as your grip loosened and it wobbled dangerously before settling in its upright position. The noise brought the two bartenders' attention to you but you couldn't be bothered to care. You fumbled through your buzzed, sluggish movements into the purse thrown haphazardly into the seat next to you. You grasped your phone tightly and brought it to your face, throat seizing up fully as your sedated mind took in the unread texts and missed phone calls.

Where are you?

Did you forget about me?

Are you okay?!

You tried to keep an air of calm about you as you paid your bill and exited O'Haimes but you could tell by your slight imbalance that you probably didn't fool anyone. You hurried along the sidewalk as fast as your wobbly ankles would carry you, the edge of Salem High School's property revealing itself a few blocks later. You couldn't help but mumble to yourself as you made your way around the wide chain-link fence to the school entrance.

"Please be there. Please be there. Please be there."

And there she was, looking put out and pouty sitting on the blue bench just to the left of the front doors. She was on her phone and hadn't yet noticed you so you slowed down and straightened your spine. The walk had sobered you enough to put on that mask of calm you couldn't conjure at the bar.

As you got closer she still didnt notice you, too absorbed in her phone to look up. You shook your head and smiled. Her generation was so lucky to have cell phones to entertain them while they wait, all you had was-

Your thoughts stuttered to a stop as a tall man appeared from around the corner and sat next to your sister. He was close to her, his head bent towards her, and she looked up at him and smiled. He smiled back and you could feel a wave of protective instinct wash over you like a cold shower. Your pace quickened until you were in a full on sprint.

"Amanda." You said so loudly and forcefully you practically barked your sister's name like an order. Both your sister and the man next to her looked up in surprise. You raced up the steps, your once unreliable equilibrium steadied by an alert, on-edge version of soberness.

"Finally!" She exhaled dramatically, like your tardiness was exhausting. She tucked her phone into her back pocket as she rose from the bench.

The man next to her stood as well. He looked impossibly tall next to your little sister, all short and fragile looking. You took a step closer to the man and squared your shoulders. While you still had to tilt your chin to look him in the eye you were not at the same height disadvantage as your sister.

"Hello there-" he began before you cut him off with a solid, clear tone.

"Stay away from her."

"I beg your pardon?" He asked. His accent startled you for a moment, so unlike all the midwestern accents wriggling in your ears since coming home last month. You blinked twice to regain your focus and your resolve.

"Stay away from my sister. She's under age. Did you know that, pervert?"

"I'm well aware-" he started, adjusting his glasses, but this time his words were interrupted by Amanda's profuse apologies, her hand on your arm pulling you back down the stairs and away from the well dressed, bespectacled threat before you. You maintained eye contact, harsh and defiant, until you reached the first step down and were forced to turn or risk falling down the four concrete steps and make a fool of yourself.

"What were you thinking?!" Amanda shrieked as she continued to pull you by the arm. You turned back to catch a glimpse of the man as you turned the corner but he was gone.

"A grown man should not be hanging around a high school preying on teenage girls." You stumbled slightly but caught your footing. Looking back you found the block of sidewalk slightly raised. It had snagged the tip of your shoe as you took a step. You sent your glare down, ready to take a larger step upon arrival of the next uneven slab.

"He's the librarian. Hanging around the school is kind of his job. You would have known that if you weren't drunk."

You stumbled despite the level ground beneath you at your sister's words. She slowed down and finally let go of your arm, only to fold hers across her chest and glare at you with a disgusting amount of judgement.

"Is that why you were late? You were drinking in the middle of the day again?" She wasn't expecting an answer because she already knew what she was saying was true. You knew what would come next as well, it was the same argument as last time and the time before that.

"You're going to die on me too if you don't cut it out. You'll get in an accident or drown in your own vomit or destroy your liver and-"

"I know Amanda," you sigh heavily and pinch the bridge of your nose, eyes closed so you didn't have to see her face. "I know."

"And now you're ruining my life. Mr Loki is really nice and now he's going to look at me like everyone else does." While her voice began loudly and passionately it trailed off into quiet uncertainty. Your ears pricked up and your vision sharpened, a different kind of safeguard mindset than the one you had earlier against this Mr Loki. You had to protect her from herself now, those thought of self doubt that consume and devour from the inside.

"How does everyone look at you?"

"They look at me like my mom just died. Like I'm helpless. They all pity me." A sob bubbled out like a punctuation at end her statement. You reached for your sister, so young and fragile and in no way undeserving of the looks and the glances she must be catching, and pulled her into a tight hug. You rocked her back and forth so severely her feet had to lift and fall in time to your swings to keep you both from toppling to the ground.

"I'm sorry." You murmured into her hair, "I'm sorry for a lot of things."

She said nothing but held on to the back of your shirt like her life depended on it. You pulled her back by her shoulders so she could see your face with its reassuring smile and kind eyes.

"Tomorrow I will come pick you up on time and apologize to Mr Loki."

"Sober?"

"As sober as a judge." You promised. She reached her fist between your chests and extended her pinky. You wrapped your own around it and kissed your thumb. She did the same. Your journey home continued after that, side by side you strode leisurely and your mind wandered back to the front steps of Salem High School and its librarian.

"Amanda?" You started. She hummed in response to show she was listening.

"What kind of name is Mr Loki?"

She laughed loudly and it reminded you of your mom's laugh when she found something surprisingly amusing. Your stomach flipped at the similarity and at the fact that you would never hear them laugh at the same time like that ever again.

"Apparently he was named after some Norse god or something. It's a weird name right?"

You both giggled and ducked your heads against a gust of wind then walked the rest of the way home in companionable silence.

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[nyanevil]

/Okay, Tumblr ate the ask about Mccree mind-reading werewolf.

Self-indulgent bar-AU, idea a little changed, the key is in the end. Critique and comments appreciated!/

It all started with pomegranate.

Mccree felt it on his tongue, as two entered his bar - one of them being Genji Shimada, owner of a kitchen utensil shop right across the road.

Mccree smiled. Friendly faces of others business owners (especially werewolves too) were always welcome in "Peacekeeper".

The other face, however, remained a mystery.

"Hey, Jesse!" Genji beamed, leaning for a hug across the counter and Mccree indulged him, inhaling banana-sweet wave of friendly affection and tinge of pomegranate - a worry of someone else.

Sombra politely turned away to other customer, providing him an angle of privacy, as much as possible in a crowded establishment.

"Hey. New faces in town?", Jesse raised his eyebrows and extented a hand, turning to a stranger.

"Jesse Mccree, nice to meet ya."

"That's--"

"Hanzo Shimada", said mysterious man, shaking his hand in response and allowing himself a modest smile. Confident and strong fingers - Mccree almost grinned. "My brother told me much about you, but seeing you in person is... another experience."

Across the pomegranate sour he felt a burst of red hot chili pepper, burning in his throat - he nearly coughed at the sudden taste, when looked into Hanzo's dark eyes.

Things were getting interesting.

"You told me you need a chef", dropped Genji innocently, interrupting improvised staring contest. Jesse shaked the stun off and nodded with quiet grunt. The drinks at "Peacekeeper" were top notch, but the clients prefered a little bite _with_ their liquors. The previous chef, Mako, went to the teleshow and surprisingly won a place in a much more respectable restaurant just a month ago - Jesse even had half a mind to call Ashe, the "Deadlock Confectionery" owner, and ask for a hand despite their previous conflicts. She would've helped, but not without her vinegar-bitter sarcasm and just a touch of marshmallow fondness. A little sickening mix.

"And you, I presume, have a candidate?"

Genji beamed again and did a jazz hands move towards Hanzo - the last one folded hands behind his back and a little shyly looked away.

"Five years ago I swore to never wield a kitchen blade again, but Genji has a way with words, when he wants to", explained he, while the youngest Shimada proudly straightened. "I actually send you my resume tonight."

Oh. Jesse didn't log in a corporative email in days.

As if remembering something, Hanzo rotated his shoulder.

"I also happened to have a Michelin Guide Star."

Half of the bar went completely quiet, including Sombra, Mei and even Hana, who was on a cleaning duty, poked her head into the hall.

Jesse never striked a deal so fast in his life.

And he never tasted so much pepper from one person.

***

Bar "Peacekeeper" was by all means a decent establishment: bright cocktails, nice music, attentive bartenders and surprisingly strict rules of "no brawls, no harassment, no shady business". That's why a good part of clients were not the usual bar people: barely-legal girls as much as women of near-climax age, and all sorts of members of LGBT+ community - no one was afraid for their security. Once you break the rules - you are banned from "Peacekeeper" forever.

And no decent human being would've wanted to be a person non-grata - to be in a High Noon list.

However, after a visit from brothers Shimada several months ago, things changed. Crowd became bigger, menu - prettier, and nice music was joined by a gorgeous scent of professional cooking, bringing saliva in hungry mounts and hefty numbers to the budget.

Pomegranate and spice were now Jesse's personal curse. Mooncycle was nearing new moon, so tastes were becoming stronger. When Hanzo was around (and it was pretty fair amount of time, Hanzo was a good listener and even better storyteller, and he smelled nice and had sharpest humor ever) Mccree could feel tight seeds bursting on his tongue, filling the heated void of his mouth. Wolf inside him wanted to taste it fully, to sink sharp teeth into burning flesh, to mark, to scent it onto himself, to reach the peak of sweetness.

Human was holding him down, but the wish to drink this affection up never fully vanished.

This night was not very crowded, so in the kitchen Hanzo was alone.

"So... five years?"

Hanzo turned away from the stove and looked at Mccree without fear, knowing his true nature - Genji has a way with words - quiet steps scaring him none.

"Yes, five years", Shimada turned to the counter, mistrust a mere glint in his eyes, and began to chop spinach. Mccree suddenly catched another note, almost non-existent. "It was... an incident between me and my brother. It was around one culinary award and... I turned his chef career down to shambles."

Jesse picked up that note: a dark chocolate, sweet just a little, refined treat for the dearest of people.

"After I reached a peak of my career, I saw my own loneliness", Hanzo a little abruptly shoved the spinach into a bowl and placed an onion on the desk. "As all of my accomplishments were turning to dust - I realised that without his support I was not the person I wanted to be."

The chocolate was melting, mixing with feathery light whipped egg whites - fondness and trembling worry in glinting eyes.

"I traveled all across the world, considering myself not ready to ask for forgiveness", whispered Hanzo under his breath, gaze dead on a desk, knife forgotten. "And he found me himself, offering it just like that. Just for a little help."

Jesse saw that defeat in slumped shoulders, heard that edging tremble in his voice and reacted immediately - pulled this mess of a feelings (mousse of a feelings) in a tight hug, allowing Hanzo Shimada, this proud warrior, to hide his face in a soft welcoming shoulder.

"I thought I lost him..."

"I know the feeling", whispered back Jesse, inhaling calming sweetness. Chocolate now was for him too - a precious gift for opportunity to talk, for opportunity to change his own fate.

After a few minutes Hanzo nodded and stepped out, hastily making himself presentable. Eyeliner was a little smudged, but the pomegranate was back, as well as the pepper. Notes of chocolate were surprisingly nice fitten into this wicked mix.

"Sorry--"

"It's nothin'."

"And thank you."

Jesse smiled and tipped an invisible hat. That was the nature of werewolves - all emotions on the palate and all the secrets after a single question.

Hanzo licked his lips. Jesse was suddenly and shamefully hot under the collar.

"You are always welcome."

***

At the new moon Jesse often took a day off. He almost never repressed his transformation - he did that a lot when he was younger. It was not healthy, to forbid his wolf a hunt in a nearby forest, to disallow a surge of restless energy to find a way out.

Today, however, was Valentine's Day.

The bar was full.

"We need more ice!"

"Coming!"

"Beer!"

"Blushing Bride for me and Bullet for my husband, please."

"White Russian!"

"Beer!"

"Did you bring me Old Fashioned?"

"El Diablo for me and Rusty Nail for my husband, punk."

"Beer!"

"Yo Jesse!"

Genji grinned from ear to ear, catching Jesse's attention. He passed the ice to Mei and turned to his guest.

"Business is booming, huh?" asked he, the little shit as he is. Jesse calmed his accelerated breath with a few gulps of fully stocked with tastes air.

"Yeah, much obliged", Mccree tipped his invisible hat again. The stetson was proudly hanged above the counter. "Did you really forgive your brother just because of me?"

Genji laughed and Jesse picked up these chocolate notes again - this time much sweeter, with a dash of bright matcha.

"Sorry, but you were just an excuse, really! I wanted to bring him back long ago! Well, it's not like he killed me or something!"

Jesse just shook his head, but smirked none the less. Brothers were brothers - they still not lost warm feelings towards each other.

"Anyway, I owe you one."

"Heh, that's simple", answered Genji cryptically, before flashing his eyes bright red. "Break his heart and I will chop you in half!"

Sometimes Jesse forgot, that Shimada is a werewolf too.

Wait.

"Is Hanzo--"

"Yeah! Sorry for not telling you earlier, I was hoping you will guess this yourself. Hey-y, can I have a Jack Sparrow while you are at it?"

***

"So... werewolves?"

Hanzo neatly folded his uniform on a kitchen counter and looked at the clock. Four at the morning. Nobody's in the building.

"I thought I was obvious enough", shrugged he, straightening himself. Jesse inhaled all the pepper, just to keep his wolf at bay. Restless energy surged through his muscles, intoxicating and wicked. "I am Shimada too, after all."

"So", Mccree waved his hand near his face. "The, the pomegranate and spice..."

"The chocolate too", nodded Hanzo, stepping closer and with absolute calm unsealing the buttons on Mccree's shirt. Jesse after a second of hesitation allowed that, placing both hands on a counter, trapping Hanzo between his body and a cold granite.

"This manipulation..."

"I didn't want it to be like that", whispered Hanzo, fingers restlessly petting and cupping Mccree gorgeous chest, soothing the beast under his skin. "But we both wanted it. I was, you... This--"

"Promise me one thing", interrupted Jesse, nose touching another. Shimada blinked from sudden gesture. "This is not one night stand, is it?"

A slap across the face was not the answer Jesse anticipated.

"Do I look like a common furry, lusting over every werewolf it sees?" hissed Hanzo in disgust. "Would I wait a few months just to jump on you? Would I talk my soul out if I did not trust you enough? I've seen enough of you, Jesse, to fall way past simple lust. And you?"

The next thing Jesse knew was taste of Hanzo's lips, warm and responsive; their bodies were tightly flushed together, hands wandering.

They were making a mess - tearing clothes away, roaring at each other, biting skin to the stars under eyelids, sharply inhaling, when their fingers closed around each other, tugging, tightening oh so sweetly; they kissed in a cloud of their own breath, swallowing each others noises, grunts and moans.

They ended up on a kitchen counter, panting hotly, basking in an afterglow of orgasm supernova - Jesse above, kissing pale bitten shoulder, Hanzo below, close-eyed, enjoying cool granite against his spine. The absense of response made him worry just before he picked the tastes again and calmed down.

Sour of green apples, coated in a tender sweet crust, with just a tinge of spicy cinnamon - taste that Hanzo would gladly drink and bask in.

After so many years of searching.

A water of love.

/Key: sweet - love, fondness, all things good enough; sour - worry for loved ones, for dear things in life, for true intentions; bitter - betrayal, sarcasm, grief; spice - deep desire, lust./

[feliicityrampant]

here’s the first part of a mchanzo fantasy/witch au. it’s ~2800 words. i have a lot of ideas about it so i hope i finish it. it’s not edited much tho. consider it an interest inquiry?

(untitled as of now)

“Do you believe in true love?” Old Mina says, her stout figure blocking out the sun.

Jesse is ten years old, crouched in the bed of her garden with dirt trapped deep under his finger nails. Everyone in the village says Old Mina is a nasty hag who can’t be trusted. Jesse doesn’t understand why he’s being punished this way, why he’s been sent up to weed her garden over a little fist fight.

The adults don’t think the kids in the village hear the stuff they say about Old Mina. They think they’re all scared of her just because she’s mean. But Jesse’s not stupid and neither are the others and they all know. Old Mina is powerful. She’s the strongest witch in the valley, even stronger than the coven leader. Worse than that, though, she’s selfish, and she likes to play games. Nobody wants to be unlucky enough to catch her attention.

So Jesse squints up at Old Mina, her features barely visible when she’s back-lit so heavily by the lowering sun, and he does his best to squash the urge to run. He’s not a coward. And, even if he was, he wouldn’t want her smelling his fear.

“Of course I don’t,” Jesse says mulishly. “That’s girl stuff.” He reaches up and pulls his hat snugger on his head, seeking comfort in the familiar feel of the rough leather.

Old Mina laughs. “Let me see that hand of yours, boy,” she says, and snatches it quick as lightning off the brim of his hat.

She hunches even further, her long nails digging into his palm as she examines it roughly. Jesse is thankful he’s been out working in the sun for the last hour. It’s a convenient excuse for the sweat gathering under her critical gaze. He doesn’t dare move, even to wipe his brow or ease his aching knees.

“You should believe in true love,” Old Mina concludes after what seems like forever. She drops his hand and smiles nastily down at him. “Yours is going to kill you.”

Jesse goes home trembling that evening. When his mother asks him what’s wrong he just shakes his head and goes to bed without dinner. He sleeps fitfully that night and his dreams are disturbed.

It’s a long time before Jesse works up the nerve to talk to Old Mina, not just about what she said, but about other things as well. He’s twelve when he’s brave enough and really has the desire. But by that time, he’s been banished, exiled from the valley, and it’s already too late.

--

Jesse has stopped for a drink in a small nothing of a town out in the foothills of the Black Tip Mountains when he hears about the Shimada.

The mountains are half a day’s journey south and the nearest town on the other side is another day’s journey from the highest part of the pass. It’d be easier and faster with a horse or a mule, but beasts don’t like him much. So he’s having a drink and contemplating his options, staring out through the bar windows at the peaks, dark like ink stains against the blue afternoon sky. He’ll stay in town the night, he thinks, and take off in the morning. Make it through the worst of the trip tomorrow and camp out at the bottom of the pass on the other side. The weather’s been good so far, but at this time of April it’s hard to know what’s coming unless you’ve Seen it.

“…heard about Paulina,” Jesse overhears, mostly by mistake. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

“We weren’t very close, but I appreciate it,” another voice says. “I’m just glad we found her in the end. It would’ve been worse for my aunt and uncle, the not knowing.”

“She went missing up on the pass, right?” the first voice asks. “That’s difficult terrain to search. How was she found, if you don’t mind me asking?”

Jesse slides his eyes away from the window and tracks the conversation to its source – two middle aged men at a table in the corner. Their hands are calloused and their clothes are rough. His best guess is that they work at one of the mills along the river. Lumber is the town’s primary economy.

“One of the Shimada found her,” one of them is saying. “Seems like there was a block on the pass and she tried to bushwhack around it. She got lost off the path and there was a mudslide. It carried her halfway down the Prince, into the shadow of the King.”

The three mountains that make up the Black Tips are the Black Prince, the Black King, and the Black Queen. The Prince is the smallest and the only one safe enough to traverse for most of the year. But there’s always bad luck. The man’s companion hums, sympathetic.

“Still,” Paulina’s cousin continues, “the Shimada said she didn’t suffer much. She probably died within the first few moments of the mudslide.” He pauses to take a drink. “He didn’t charge. It was good of him.”

Jesse turns back to his own drink. He should probably reevaluate his plans to cross the pass, anyway, if there’s been mudslides and blocked roads. Normally that would annoy him, but it seems like there are things of interest out here in the middle of nowhere after all. He catches the attention of the bartender who’s wiping down the counter not far from Jesse and motions him over.

“The Shimada,” he says, “they a coven?”

“A coven?” the bartender repeats. “Not really. There’s only the two of them and they don’t have ancestral roots. They’re witches though, and they Keep like a coven does.”

“Hm,” Jesse says, and scratches at his stubble.

Covens are land-bound. It’s important for them to stay as families, tied to the earth where they’ve spilled ritual blood for generations. It’s part of why Jesse’s banishment hurt so much. He’s heard here and there of covens who weren’t land-bound – even been part of one for a short time – but they tend to be migratory, binding to other things, like rivers, or otherwise just going where and doing as they please. It’s weird to hear of one without ancestral roots doing something like Keeping.

Covens that live in or near towns and villages have a bond with the people who live there because those people in turn have a bond with the land. They Keep them, do magic for them, heal their sick and tend their crops, usually in exchange for payment of some kind. Jesse’s coven had been modest and the village it Kept even more so. They worked for food and livestock for the most part. But there were covens in cities and mining towns who were wealthy beyond description.

“Where can I find them?” Jesse asks.

The bartender eyes him a little doubtfully but nods his head toward the river. “Upstream about ten miles or so,” he says. “They have a place right on the river. It’s probably not worth your time, though. Plenty of folks like you have come through here in the past looking for them but they turn ‘em all away. Don’t like big magic, or so I’ve heard.”

Folks like me? Jesse thinks. Big magic?

“Well I won’t bother them none,” Jesse says with a smile, the kind that makes most people trust him, never mind his rough appearances. “I’m just curious, ‘sall.”

Unless they’re as good at tracking as that little conversation has led him to believe. But he keeps that thought to himself.

Jesse cracks his back as he stands and grabs his hat off the counter. He places it on his head, tips it gratefully to the bartender, and leaves a bit more than he owes next to his empty glass.

--

The Shimada residence is certainly upstream about ten miles or so, emphasis on the “or so”, but there’s no clear path and the forest grows thicker and thicker the further from town he gets. He tries to imagine the townspeople making this trip for anything less than a dire emergency but finds it difficult. (Then again, it sounds like they make a habit of crossing the pass, so maybe they’re hardier than they seem.) By the time Jesse emerges out of the woods into the clearing where the small house sits, the sun is getting low and the golden light of dusk is spilling through the trees in intervals, like shards of warm glass.

The building itself is sturdy and old fashioned, with a woven grass roof and dark cedar paneled walls. The whole building is raised slightly, surrounded by an open porch, and the door – made of paper and that same cedar – appears to slide open. Jesse steps up onto the porch and puzzles at the door slightly before deciding to rap lightly on the wood frame. The door jostles a little but the sound isn’t very loud.

When no response comes, Jesse carefully slides his head into the entrance hall. “Excuse me,” he calls. “Is anyone home?”

For a moment, there’s nothing, and then a door slides open down the hall and a man steps out. He’s tall and dark skinned, with no hair and a series of nine dots on his forehead. He’s wearing a yukata and it’s only because the sleeves are rolled and tied up past his elbows that Jesse can tell that he’s not a human at all. There, barely noticeable, are the thin seams along the joints that indicate that this is a construct.

Jesse blinks, caught off guard. It’s been a long time since he’s seen an animated construct in working condition, let alone one in the shape of a human. They’re difficult to make and almost universally disliked. It’s off putting to see one, especially out here, and especially with folks who claim not to like “big magic.”

“Hello,” the construct says. “Forgive me for not coming sooner – we just sat down to dinner.”

“Oh, no, I didn’t mean to intrude,” Jesse says, eyeing the construct a bit at his phrasing. Constructs can’t eat. “I can come back another time.”

“Ah,” the construct says. “That won’t be necessary. Have you eaten? There’s plenty of food.”

“That’s mighty kind of you,” Jesse grins, not bothering to try to conceal his growling stomach. “Food sounds great. You folks are hard to find.”

He kicks off his shoes in the concrete entrance hall and steps up onto the straw mats of the main hallway. He feels a bit self-conscious – his socks have holes in them and he’s been travelling in them for a long time. They’re probably not much of a step up from his shoes.

The construct leads him back down the hallway to the open doorway and gestures for Jesse to enter. It’s a large, airy room, with more sliding doors that have been pushed open to reveal the porch and, beyond it, the river, which it seems like the house juts out over by a little bit. In the center of the room is a low table surrounded by cushions. Two men are sitting there, eating what looks like a hot pot of some kind.

The man on the left is lounging back, looking at Jesse with open curiosity. He has bright green hair and an open expression – though Jesse knows better than most that looks can be deceiving. He’s wearing a yukata nearly as blindingly bright as his hair, blue and covered in green foliage, hanging open at the chest and thighs probably a bit further than propriety dictates, though Jesse doesn’t have enough familiarity with the garment to say one way or the other. His only point of comparison is the construct and the man on the right.

The man on the right is distinctly more subdued. He sits upright with his legs crossed and a look of displeasure on his face. His black hair is held up in a tight ponytail and his dark yukata is immaculate. Only one thing sets him apart as extraordinary – two coils of bright blue that encircled his neck.

At first Jesse thinks they’re tattoos of some kind, but then they begin to shift, slithering silently across the man’s skin with a kind of languid grace. Two heads appear out of the man’s yukata and begin hissing quietly in his ear. Snakes, Jesse realizes. Familiars, by the looks of them. The man glances at them for a moment, and then back at Jesse. His expression of displeasure does not change.

Although Jesse had eagerly followed the construct at the promise of food, he now again feels as though he’s intruding, and can’t bring himself to sit down at the small table and join what is clearly a modest family dinner. He instead removes his hat and presses it over his heart.

“My apologies for coming at such a late hour,” he says. “Jesse McCree, at your service.”

“Don’t worry about it,” the man on the left says with a grin. “Visitors are always welcome when there’s nothing happening. I can’t even eat when I’m bored.”

The man on the right snorts in an inelegant way apropos to his appearances and the construct hums as though it wants to voice an opinion. Which is impossible. Constructs don’t have opinions.

“I’m Genji,” the man on the left continues, ignoring them. “This is my brother Hanzo. And this is Zenyatta.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, McCree,” the construct, Zenyatta, says.

“Jesse’s fine,” Jesse says. “And the pleasure is mine.”

“Sit down, sit down,” Genji says, patting a free cushion. “Where are you from, Jesse?”

“Uh, here and there,” Jesse says, sinking down onto the cushion as directed. His knees and back ache a bit at sitting on the floor like this. He doesn’t see how the two men who look to be about his age can manage it so casually. Particularly Hanzo, who has a distinguished swath of grey behind his ears. “I’m more interested in y’all, if I’m being honest. Haven’t heard of a coven Keeping without ancestral roots before.”

“That’s none of your business,” Hanzo says peevishly. He sets down his bowl and chopsticks with a click and focuses a glare on Jesse. “If you intend to interrupt our supper, Mr. McCree, you could at least do us the favor of being forthright. What do you want?”

Jesse definitely feels like he can’t eat now, no matter how hungry he is, but the construct – Zenyatta, he reminds himself – has already knelt across from him and is passing him a bowl filled with broth and noodles and mushrooms and beef.

“Don’t be such a buzzkill, Hanzo,” Genji whines. “Can’t you see something interesting when it’s sitting in front of you? How’d you lose your eye, Jesse?”

Jesse reaches up to touch his eyepatch, startled at having it so directly called out. He’s saved the discomfort of having to answer, however.

“Genji,” Zenyatta admonishes in a sharp tone.

“Oops,” Genji says, looking cowed. “Sorry. But it is interesting.”

“Nothing good ever came of interesting,” Hanzo says. “Mr. McCree, please don’t waste my time.”

“It’s just Jesse, if you don’t mind,” Jesse says, although it’s painfully clear that Hanzo does, in fact, mind. “But I heard in town that y’all were good at finding people and I was hoping you could help me track down a comrade of mine.”

“Is she pretty?” Genji asks.

Jesse laughs. “He’s, uh, old, and kind of scruffy, and…doesn’t really want to be found. I’ve been looking for him for about a year now. Heard he might be down near the coast but that’s all I know and it’s just a rumor.”

“That’s far,” Genji says, but his eyes slide over to Hanzo almost at once.

Hanzo can do it, Jesse thinks with a jolt of sudden hope. It’s just a matter of whether or not he wants to.

“I really would appreciate any kind of help y’all can give me,” Jesse appeals. “He’s something like a father to me, y’see, and he’s not exactly. He’s sick. He needs me and he won’t admit it.”

Hanzo sighs and looks out at the river. One of his snakes raises its head and begins hissing again.

“What’s his name?” Hanzo asks.

“Gabriel Reyes.”

If the name means anything to them, they don’t show it.

Hanzo considers a little more. The snakes hiss a little more. It’s eerie. Jesse wishes he could understand what they’re saying.

“What will you pay me?” Hanzo asks.

“Well I don’t have much…”

“That much is obvious.”

“…but we can do an exchange, if you like,” Jesse finishes, unperturbed. “I’m no good at scrying or anything, but I’m a witch in my own right.”

“Oh?” Genji says, leaning forward. “What can you do?”

Jesse eyes them warily and drums his fingers nervously against his thigh. He can feel Hanzo’s eyes burning into the side of his face. He clears his throat.

“I can talk to the dead.”

[royal-writer]

you’re the perfect harmony, bring out the best part of me

Woof I still got more of these yet to write holy shit!!! Have them feels and squeals my dudes. <3

Approaching the reception hall for the second time that day, some small groups of people bid their good wishes and compliments outside the french doors. A fine gush of words and delicate shaking of hands; mostly to those calling for an early evening. Half-circles of people surrounded them with gasping breath, watery eyes, and hearty laughter. The ever-present arm tucked behind Essätha’s back, with fingers gently looked against the bend of her side and warm breath fanning to her cheek as the soft pressure of lips met her there, between softened words of love and murmured replies to their guests.

Life couldn’t possibly be more gratifyingly splendid. There was joy and smiles around every corner, and the merry sound of voices and giggles. It was a day she could wish to go on eternally as Amon aided her inside; letting go of her side to help lift the volumes of the dress so not to be stepped on as they ascended the few steps inside.

“There’s the beautiful spouses now! Lord Amon and Lady Essätha!”

Whoever announced them rose their voice above the crowd that began to clamor anew with excitement as they entered. The frills of her gown left to flow low to the floor once more as her husband (what an exceptional word) took hold of her hand in a steady grip. A hold that promised not to let go. A gentle, confident grasp that clutched more than to just her fingers, but that cupped the awaiting longing of her heart so tenderly.

Proudly standing; her heart overflowing with the bounty of joy, Essie leaned in close to press a delicate kiss against her beloved Amon’s cheek, to the squeals and muted ‘aww’s of the onlookers.

He pulled her hand to his lips in response, a twinkle in his gaze as he placed a kiss in the space where skin met scales. A teasing smirk played out against his mouth as he rested her hand; his fingers entwined, against his heart. The most careful slip of his free hand as he moved closer ran against the contours of her cheek as her eyelashes slid low. All the carefree lightness blooming in her chest; the best kind of happiness and love where nothing could dampen upon the sun inside of her, as Amon fixed the edges of the flower held between her ear and circlet so the petals were not obscuring her outermost vision.

“Alright you two, alright,” a masculine voice broke in; moving closer to them as they went on, “Break it up for just a moment. You can’t go all night simply staring into each other’s eyes.”

“I thought that was the point of weddings,” Amon baited teasingly, his eyes sliding away from hers to slyly look over at the man.

Essie giggled as Barnabus clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. Like scolding a child, he shook his head with slow disapproval to her beloved’s grinning expression. His fine tailored suit and carefully combed hair made him look quite dashing. It was no wonder he had such an enchanting wife, and such delightfully beautiful daughters. It was easy to bypass his looks when he was behind the bar, somewhat hidden, wearing the same styles of work clothing most every day.

“You two have every day to look forward to staring at each other,” the Harthstrom bartender disagreed with an equally charming smile. “I think you could spare an old friend a few moments of your time.”

“Oh, don’t pull my fragile heartstrings around in such a way Sir Barnabus,” Essätha cut in with a sharp breath. “M’lord would never turn down time spent with friends.”

Barnabus chuckled, reaching out to grasp Amon’s shoulder in a firm grip. His other hand waved gently in front of Essie, much to her embarrassed reddening face.

“I knew I liked her from the start. You did a fine job courting such a thoughtful woman, Amon.”

Inclining his head, Amon spoke gently as he moved closer into her side: “Thank you, Barnabus. I have certainly been very fortunate.”

“You certainly have,” he agreed. “But I was wondering if, perhaps, I could part unto you newlyweds a few words of advise, if you’d be willing to hear them. Don’t worry- it’s not the only weeding present I’ve brought.”

A bashful giggle escaped Essie. She reached over so that she could place her hand encouragingly against the older gentleman's arm. His eyes lit up as he searched her gaze. All layers of warmth and kindness in his gaze. A trusting friendship.

“I’d be happy to hear what you have to say Sir Barnabus. There’s always room to learn, grow, and listen to others, right my love?”

The broad smile on her sweetheart’s face was so endearing and bright, that it shaped his eyes into crescent moons and raised the angle of his cheekbones. He gave a silent nod of agreement, with fingertips grazing her hand where it rested protectively against his heart.

For a moment, Barnabus was thoughtfully quiet. The bustle of the room around still in motion, with some whispering spectators passing by. A few looked as though they, too, wanted to speak with them but moved on after noticing the way they stood anchored, patiently awaiting the words from brooding man.

“Keep your promises,” Barnabus began slowly. “Don’t say things in the heat of the moment that you don’t mean. Know that not everything will go perfectly; that you are both likely to hurt each other at some point, but it is how you deal with those moments that count. Happiness is not guaranteed to all of us, all of the time; being being faithful, honest, and considerate of each other will make it all turn out in the end and worth the journey.”

“Be kind to each other. Forgive each other when you’re not at your best. Strengthen and support each other. Be there when they’re willing, and give space when they’re not. It’s okay to have time for yourself as much as for each other. Always put your spouse above yourself. Don’t be selfish. Be Compassionate. Stay romantic; don’t forget to say you love each other and show your respect and admiration. Support each other, even when the world feels like it’s falling apart, and don’t be afraid to lean on one another. Never forget your vows, and never forget the reasons you fell in love.”

With a pausing breath, Barnabus gave a sagely nod. He patted her arm as Essie smiled, acutely aware of the mist that now danced in her sights.

“That was very beautiful, Sir Barnabus, thank you.”

“We’ll keep the words close to heart, my friend,” Amon assured him. “Thank you.”

He let go of her hand as he spoke; tugging her in closer to his side as he planted a kiss against her hairline. His throat moved as he swallowed loudly; a rough clearing of his throat to steady his emotions.

Pleased, the barkeep gave a courteous bow as he removed his hand from Amon’s shoulder.

“And of course, never forget to tip your bartender for being a listening ear and council voice.”

A sudden burst of merry laughter rose up in Essätha as it did Amon. She turned to lean into him; sweetly held close to his chest, where the shelter of his arms and drum of his heartbeat whispered to her of home.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

There was only a few yards between them, but it felt like miles. The Briarton’s heir couldn’t help himself from staring; sometimes not entirely hearing everything that was being said to him.

His beautiful Essätha.

Her smile was everything he ever wanted; what he dreamed about. Here and there, he could hear her conversation with Solace between the voices echoing through the wide room. She was teasing how her cheeks ached from grinning so much, and how she thought for sure she’d never be able to unfreeze the expression from her face.

He hoped so. Pelor, he hoped so. He’d do anything to keep that joyous smile on her flawless face.

A finger jabbed into his waist. Lord Amon jumped, whipping his head around and tilting it slightly down at the sight of wild curls at what would normally be eye-level. He fiddled with his black and gold dress vest so it lay flat of wrinkles, and turned his gaze down upon the elf.

“Can I do something for you, Ravamora?”

“Yes you can,” the high-pitched chirp of the child pronounced. “You can start by telling me where you got that elven silver. I’ve not seen such pure mined and crafted pieces in all my life. They’re glowing-”

Ah. He should have known one of the elves in the room was going to hone in on such a prized possession like a hawk.

“It’s an heirloom,” he gently cut in, trying to soothe the young lady before she grew too boisterous and overzealous.

Her lower lip pouted out. Leaning around his frame, Rava stared with hungry envy at the dangling fine necklace draped over Essie’s throat. She slowly settled back on her short pumps, crossing her arms in front of the pale gold dress she wore.

“Do you know how rare and priceless something like that is?”

For but a moment, he stood baffled. Mouth hanging open. Staring.

Then a deep, quiet chuckle rumbled in his throat. He followed after Rava’s gaze, to the enormous glistening white ballgown that kept a berth of space between his bride and much of their visitors. Many too shy to dare stepping forward, and chance catching some of the dainty thin layers of fabric on their shoes.

“Yes, I’m well aware,” he murmured; watching with a softened glaze over as his wife walked; no, more like glided across the floor to greet another with a handshake and overlapping hug.

“Oh ew, you’re doing one of those sappy ‘I mean Essätha not the jewelry’ things aren’t you, gross,” Rava intruded; causing him to scowl in her direction.

“All I’m saying is, if you have any more pieces laying around, or if you wanted to you know, treat your good friends…”

“You’re not getting the necklace, Rava.”

“Fuck.”

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

“Lady Essätha Illiad?”

She looked up at the sound of her name. Her name; now a conjoined piece of Amon there always to remind her where she wanted to be, where she felt she belonged.

One of the hired entertainers gave her a proper bow as she turned towards them. It was humiliating; and she quickly tried to correct them in a hushed voice. Just because she took the name Illiad, did not change her. She was of commoner blood; not a noble, or class of aristocrat, or even the child of some politician or council member. She was only Essätha; herself and her wonderful Amon’s wife. And, Lady of the estate and territory or otherwise, she wanted no one to feel obligated to treat her any differently then they would have before.

“My apologies for interrupting your conversations, M’lady,” the host responded; ignoring her quiet, feverish pleads, “If we are to stay on schedule, it is time to slice the cake. Lord Amon stated that if you’re ready, we could get started.”

The cake! Oh how silly, of course they needed to cut the cake still, before too many other guests departed for the evening. Already some groups, those with young children or farther travels had decided to be on their way. It would be a shame if it ended up spoiling.

Her eyes sought the crowd, and like magnets drawn through polar forces, she met her spouse’s guiding eyes. Dark as midnight, but bright like beacons calling to her.

And his face lit up with happiness all over as they caught sight. People melted in and out of her vision; cutting him out here and there, but his smile stayed. His wide eyes burning with affection, they stayed in place; and rooted themselves to her alone.

It made her pulse jump wildly and air catch in her lungs; melting her insides.

“That sounds like a marvelous idea,” she voiced in a waver; darting her gaze away and back to Amon to occasionally meet the planner’s eyes. “Thank you so much for your assistance.”

Snickering, the suited man leaned forward a little as he whispered, “It’s part of the job, ma’am. I wouldn’t be paid otherwise. Though I’m happy to be of assistance to such a renown family and exceptional bride. Shall we?”

A flicker of awkwardness made Essie’s posture stiffen. She slipped her arm through the loop of the man’s arm, delicately holding to his elbow as he politely guided her through the throng. A few ‘excuse me’s and ‘pardon me’s later, and she was delivered with enormous relief into her beloved’s awaiting arms.

Amon nestled his face into the bend of her shoulder, sighing with completion. It made her wonder if ever felt as lonely as she did, when they were sometimes even in the same room but the distance of not being able to touch him if she reached out made her very soul ache with the yearning to do so.

“You look astonishing,” he sighed close to ear. “I’m blessed to call you my wife. My darling Essätha.”

“I’m just as lucky to call you my husband, M’lord Amon,” she voiced faintly, kissing his cheek. “You are a wonderful man, and you bring out the best in me.”

A slight smile enveloped her as he reached up to cup her face. His mouth sought out hers in hooded eyes; passionate and warming all the way down to her core.

The gentleman by their side waited for a bit, before finally giving a clearing of his throat to halt their process from turning the middle of the room into a makeout spot.

“The cake is this way, Lord and Lady Illiad.”

The pink in Essie’ face; both from kissing as much as embarrassment, grew deeper as Amon released her. His eyes darted over her features in the same manner hers did. Almost disbelief. Which was to say, even now it amazed her to no end that this is where her life had lead. That this brilliant, handsome man was the person she was going to be spending her life with. She didn’t doubt the fact; or feel any ounce of guilt or fear, but it still made her breathless all the same to have him. Her Amon; someone to hold and cherish and love all her life.

She leaned in to rub her nose against his; holding close to heart the adorable way his quiet chuckles radiated against her corset pressed so close and fell over her like a dreamy cloud. The texture of his rough hand finding hers to hold as he kissed the bridge between her eyes and steered her around the boisterous groups of chatting people towards the towering tiers of their wedding cake.

It was massive. Partly draped in a traditional look; piped flowers, edible pearls, gold and white and cream lacing and designs, and yet personal. The Illiad crest in its luster and color front and center, with the snake coiling around it. Wonderful piping of different items were hidden in the corners of the icing; the appearance of weapons and tiny teases of bear claws and pops of dark violet bursts of magic near violet and pale pink flowers. Intimate, personal love notes were painted on with careful hands to mimic their handwriting and an array of sugar life-sized butterflies hung carefully.

The cake looked delicate as glass. The amount of work that had to be placed into making ever bit look realistic had to take countless hours, yet every bit of it was pastry, cake, sugar and buttercream.

A hostess stepped beside the cake as the kindly organizer handed them a large knife. They tapped a piece of genuine silverware to a glass goblet they held; drawing the attention of the reception hall slowly back to them as people hushed one another.

“If the bride and groom could have your attention, please. Lord Amon and Lady Essätha will now forgo the honor of being the first to cut a slice of the cake. It is their first duty as husband and wife, shared before and with all of you, their honored guests.”

Giving a polite gesture, the woman stepped aside; presenting them with a delicate motion of her hand.

The eyes of the entire room rested upon them. Essie turned her eyes to Amon’s; which lingered upon her with a slight curve of his mouth.

It felt a shame to destroy something so gorgeous. But then again, no amount of money spent didn’t make it what it wasn’t. It was a treat after all, for them as well as their attendees.

Standing beside her, Amon held the grip of the large kitchen knife; his palms resting on top of hers. It nearly crushed her heart to pierce through the velvety soft surface. Angling the knife down, and then doing the other side, they served out a small slice on a nice piece of china left in front of them.

The inside was a soft, rosy color. Pink champagne with a strawberry filing, white chocolate ganache drizzled between layers and a light vanilla buttercream fluff. It smelled faintly of rosewater, too.

A few people clapped with delight as they sat the blade carefully down. Amon reached for the same fork she did, causing some sniggers from a few people as Essätha whispered an apology the same moment her beloved did. A tinge of pink warmed over his features as he grabbed for the other one, taking a forkful of the delicate cake.

She didn’t even get to lift the fork when Amon suddenly dropped his own. The hand that had been resting like a ghost against her side seized her and she yelped; falling into his chest just as Adela narrowly missed shoving cake in the side of her face. Instead she tilted forward, splattering what was between her fingertips on the table.

Illamin’s shadow and purple complexion blurred beside them. Essie pushed Amon away; leaning back as the Aasimar launched forward. His waist connected with the table and he wheezed, retreating with swiftness and icing-dripped hands, having been thwarted by a swift dodge.

Two equally stern, pointed glares landed on the troublesome duo. A few people in the crowd gasped; or stood stone-faced with horror.

“… Adela made me do it!” Illamin cried out, holding up his hands in surrender.

The Tiefling grinned smugly, a shrug of her shoulders as her tail waved behind her like a leisurely cat.

“It’s tradition to smash cake in the bride and groom’s face.”

Essätha sniffed; her nose wrinkled. That was one custom she could live without. Any chance ruining her garments? Heavens above, what an appalling concept.

“Saved your dress,” Amon murmured, picking up the fork off the plate with a playful smile.

“Saved their asses, is more like it,” she chimed in, beaming from ear to ear as she picked up the other.

Her beloved laughed quietly. He accepted the forkful of cake as she did; leaning in and linking their arms around each other’s.

She was placing the fork downwhen Amon took gentle grasp of her chin. A soft, light kiss pressed to her perplexed lips as her heartbeat fluttered.

“Mmm… Delicious. Almost as sweet as you are.”

It took her mind a moment to connect two-and-two. That he had kissed the smear of icing off her lips. Her face returned a deepened carmine as she threw her arms around his neck, and held him there longer; smiling all the while against the shape of his perfect mouth.

“This is all mushy and great,” someone cried out, “But can the rest of us have a slice now?”

The statement was enough to break their union in a fit of giggles, where they stepped back to allow staff the room to continue cutting and serving pieces of the delectable desert. One server reached back, handing them the plate with their slice on it before continuing.

“Are you going to use that line with every bite I take?” Essie inquired, already poking another spongy bite off the cake.

“Maybe,” Amon admitted with a crafty grin, leaning in close as she finished another bite, allowing for another lingering and all too perfect kiss.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

With a love-struck sigh both cliché and fanciful, Lord Amon dotted heart-felt kisses against his stunning wife’s cheek and temple as he held her to his side. Little ringlets of black that smelled of floral notes teased his face much the same as his beard tickled the rounded curves of her cheeks and supple skin. He could stare into the sun on autumn leaves color of her eyes all day; the way different emotions played through them and shaped them differently with each passing second.

He found himself lost in and out of topics; found himself more and more looking back in the reflection of her eyes. The way she stared; never doubting and always tender, Pelor it was fascinating. Marvelous how someone could love him so fully; how he could love another with so much of himself. His Essie made him feel as though he could accomplish anything. Nothing was out of reach; no goals or dreams too large or wide. He was a stronger man; a better man, and every day with her was a little brighter.

Her hands were a nurturing touch. Caressing against scars on his hands used to far more brutal vices. With all the dedication, loyalty and consideration she always showed she reached up to slide longer strands away from his eyes and tug the top of his embroidered vest so that the buttons aligned better over his chest.

Amon nearly scoffed. For such a perfectionist as he was; used to the law and order of the world and the proper ways of his lineage and youth, it had not even caught his eye. Too busy was he watching the way the many layers of her dress moved and the cut of the corset that showed him just how petite; nearly frail, she appeared (though it would be a false assumption of only fools to think her weak). The purest white of clouds or freshly fallen snow; glistening with jewels like a winter’s full moon.

Essätha’s joy seemed to fall away gradually erode from her face as her searching eyes moved over the wedding party. It gave the Illiad heir a color of distress as he regarded the ethereal beauty that shaped and molded this woman so splendidly.

“Are you having a good time, my heart?” he ushered with notes in his tone that spoke of his devotion. His mouth lightly brushed to her forehead, then to the space between her eyes and finally, over her eyelids as she turned towards him. The smile he loved so reappearing on her face, but only until he stopped. There, it was lost again as she glimpsed back into the mass, nibbling her lower lip.

He followed her ogling with a dawning sense of apprehension. Trying to pinpoint where her worries were; what he could do to fix them.

She gave a nervous exhale, twiddling fingers against his.

“Do you think she likes me?”

There was no obvious expression on the face she looked to. Fine aged lines on a regal face, and the posture of that of royalty. Born and bred to the same understanding he’d had: that to be an Illiad by blood was to know discipline above all else.

Lady Josephine’s view held in their direction for a few seconds, before she turned back to conversation with some of the location’s townsfolks still present.

His darling Essätha’s appearance did not change. She still appeared tormented with unease.

“Hurmph,” Amon grunted in the back of his throat. “Do I think Josie likes you? I think that she loves you.”

A nudge elbowed into his side despite the gentle way his fingers held to hers. Calming her nervous fidgets; smoothing out the claw-like gesture of her hands while he held them with care.

“Don’t teasssse me,” she gently scolded, inclining her head to look directly up into his eyes.

“I vow to you my love, I am not,” he concluded fiercely. “There’s no way my sister doesn’t like you. You are family; now and forever, and nothing matters more to Josie than family.”

Pelor’s favorable light exuded from Essie’s vision once more. Her face lit up in a light blush and she breathed out slowly to calm her nerves as she relaxed. The pressure of her palms melded nicely to his own; squeezing her fingertips against his with appreciation as she aimed a radiant smile upon him. It shot clean through him like an arrow; mesmerizing his every thought with her unearthly beauty.

Comforted by her own, Amon kissed her forehead once more before receiving one in return upon his chin, followed by sentimental little ones peppering all over his face as she reached for him. Pulling him lower; closer to her heavenly sweetness as he warmly and quietly laughed. Her toes perched on very tips until he grasped her around the waist and pinned her into the broad shape of his chest, tasting nirvana’s ambrosia nectar on her lips.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Her nerves were coiled like a livewire serpent. She wished the warmth of her husband was near, and not across the banquet speaking to others. Even just the simple contact of his dark eyes would be a comfort now, but it would be rude to break eye contact from the equally abyssal eyes of the woman before her.

“Young Lady Amelie,” Essätha gushed, extending her hand to the fair young heiress. “You look enchanting; bestowed as if by celestial blessings.”

“As do you, Lady Essätha,” Amelie responded with a gentle grasp; extending herself into a curtsy.

“Oh- dear you- d-don’t-”

“Should we be using Lady Essätha, or aunt?” the young Master Korey murmured almost nervously beside his sister; a lopsided grin. His hair appeared somewhat disheveled, as if he had been running his fingers through the blond locks.

They both looked much aged since the moment Essie first saw them. Korey appeared more buff and less lean; and had a small shape of a goatee forming now on his chin. His darling sister’s hair had been trimmed shorter only recently, but she still glowed with the enthusiasm of almost childlike glee. What a beautiful thing, to be so blissfully happy and young.

Yet the word still hung in the air: aunt. By the Gods, she hadn’t really thought about that at all. Even since the proposal, her thoughts had been a string of excitement and anxiety that all would fall into place and there’d be no hiccups, but aunt. She was an aunt now to these young upcoming Lords and Ladies by the Heavens above, all she could think about was if their mother thought well of her. Amon held the word family close to heart; even if he pretended to be aloof about it before others but aunt.

“I uhm, whatever the young Miss and Master prefer,” she fretted with a hitch in her voice, straining her smile. Oh dear, what would their mother think of them using such a term?

When the pair both stood there; tight-lipped and stiff as herself, she finally inclined to the young Master appropriately and stated, “You look quite dashing as well, young Master Korey. Enjoy a good bit of a hunt yourself, perhaps?”

“Whenever father allows it,” he agreed with a sudden rushing wave of relaxed air expelling from his lungs. “I have many studies as next in line in the White Moors.”

“Delightful! I’m sure your sister has just as much learning to do. Your parents should be very proud to have such bright and eloquent children.”

Amelie gaped slightly at the compliment. Her brother remarkably went flush at the unexpected praise.

“Have you enjoyed it?” Amelie quietly asked. “The studying, I mean.”

Essie shifted her weight, a hip curving outward as she answered in a thoughtful draw, “It’s a learning curve for someone who has not had to handle so much finances, but I’m growing more comfortable. Your uncle is a clever man; and an excellent tutor. I think I’ll get the hang of it. And should I have questions, I’m sure the young heir and heiress would have the benefit of showing me a thing or two- which I would be very grateful for.”

“You’ve faced down villains and monsters,” the younger lady laughed gently, “I’m sure there is little in the ways of record-keeping that can stop you.”

“You would be surprised to know how much I loathe balancing checkbooks.”

They all had a little laugh at that, to which Korey managed to quiet himself eventually enough to say, “I agree with my sister. If you are as legendary as the stories say, then you should have no difficulty.”

“Yes well, don’t believe every fable you hear,” Essätha reminded them gently. “I’m no more special than anyone else in this room.”

“You’re special to our uncle,” Amelie was quick to disagree with a smile. “And that’s enough for me.”

The remark left Essie silent. She stared with freckles of adoration like stars in her eyes to the young siblings. They were not little babes to carry, but they were still young. Full of life’s curiosities; the world still new to them even if they’d thought to have seen it all. She may not be able to pick them up and cradle them; or raise them in the ways only parent could or that were best done when minds were but seedlings and not sprouts, but she would do her best to be good for them. Bloodless kin that she was, she still had plenty of heart to share.

“Thank you for that, young Lady Amelie. That means a great deal to be.”

An accepting, tentative smile was added to the fair misses features. Her posture seemed to ease up, as she shyly tucked hair behind her ear.

Korey gave an amused chuckle to his sister’s shy composure. He changed positions, offering out his hand with a sweeping gesture and elegant bow of his hip.

“Its been a while since anyone has used the floor for more than just passing through one area of the room to the next. Would it be too bold to be honored with a dance, Lady Essätha?”

“Not at all, Master Korey,” Essie giggled, taking his extended hand. “What an absolute gentleman. Not trying to impress any lady’s in the room with your dance skills now, are you?”

Amelie’s laughter was loud but muffled beside her; trapped behind a hand as Korey’s face grew a beat red.

Such darling young adults, Essätha mused with a snigger of her own. It was going to be extraordinary to see what sort of people they came to be the more they matured and grew over the years ahead.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

“Excuse me,” a feminine voice curtly cut through the others; cool and refined.

“Pardon me,” Amon grunted politely, tipping his head to the individual whose constant chatter had held his attention for the past few minutes. The man expressed an ‘of course’ in a few deep syllables as Amon turned from him, carefully maneuvering himself around a few people to get the woman parting her way through the crowd in his direction.

“Amon.”

“Josie.”

They met in a kindred embrace, briefly.

“My, look at you,” Josephine stated, accepting a fluted glass offered to her from a nearby serving lad. “You’re glowing.”

A sharp clearing filled his throat. He reached for a glass too, before the man could escape back into the crowd with his platter of drinks.

Holding the fine crystal in the air, Josie grinned as she jabbed him with a further teasing: “Marriage suites you.”

He refused the tempt at baiting. Instead the quiet ‘clank’ of their glasses rang in the air as he grinned in response, taking a healthy swig of the liquor. It was refreshing and bubbly. He’d much preferred something harder; or at least less tangy and with more bite, but this was more fitting and seasonal to the occasion.

They stood in silence. Eyes drifting through the swarm. Eventually, as his sister’s eyes fell upon Essätha, so Amon allowed himself to look, too. From her, to the almost-black gaze of his sister, and back. Her face unreadable; nay, impassable. She held a calm in the room like no other. Some thought a brewing storm; a hurricane, but there was precision in her glances. Observing with the intellect of her namesake; with the drilled concept of her life.

Silence spoke. It also listened. Catching phrases; noticing the unnoticeable.

“She’s quite pretty,” Josephine finally observed aloud.

The comment left him smiling. A jagged nature in his spine and shoulders sagged with some relief. Tension he hadn’t realized he’d been holding when she’d arrived.

When he did not respond, the countess went on in a crisp voice of authority laced with tendrils of love and softness: “When you two return, we should have a family dinner. Essätha can stay with Amelie and I for brunch and some lady’s alone time, and you gentleman can enjoy a nice hunt to bring home dinner.”

A shift of shock washed over Amon. He held the look mostly off from his face, but felt certain his sister had seen it. She eyed him; briefly, out of the side of her eye.

“You didn’t think you’d be keeping her all to yourself, did you?”

The playful taunt finally caused him to take a breath he’d been holding.

“You wish I’d married someone father would have approved of?”

“Why would I want that? I apologize if I sound crude Amon, but some of those women you dated were quite shallow. Ahh- put that look away I did say some,” Josie scolded.

“The fact remains: you were never truly yourself with any of them,” she continued. “And both you, and those women deserved more than that. They were not happy, you were not happy, and you could not make each other happy.”

Wordlessly, the Briarton Lord looked down into his glass. All these things were true.

It wasn’t that he feared his sister. He was positive that whatever thoughts she held of Essätha, they were not hateful or negative. She stared sometimes still as though calculating however, and that left him concerned. What she was analyzing for; why there was a piece of her that seemed refrained. Though memories of his mother were a bit fragmented with age; one could not be certain how much was real or dreams at some point, he saw a lot of that look in the way their mother had once held.

The look came from love. Never wanting to see a hair on the head of your family bent out of place. Never wanting another hand to harm them. Never daring to think another could shatter them, for the vengeance would be brutal and swift from an Illiad woman.

Actually, the thought itself made him love Essie somehow all the more. Perhaps she was more an Illiad than she even knew, already.

“She doesn’t think you like her,” Amon hedged; his voice thick and low.

The silence crept back in. They stood still amount the motion of the gathered. People talking, nibbling, drinking, moving around. Never still. Going about their conversations and circling the room.

Josephine’s eyes; which had only left but a time or two to look at him, still focused on Essätha. Watching as Amon did now, as she laughed. Her hands gripped for young Amelie, speaking feverishly so she laughed harder. Young Korey, a beacon of red in his face, encouraging Essie out towards the open space of the lowered dance floor with Amelie following close at their heels.

A smile tugged the corners of Josie’s mouth up slowly. It lifted into her eyes; thawing over from the veil that had been hiding the deepest nature of her feelings.

“I like her quite a lot, actually,” she admitted.

Overwhelming joy brimmed inside Amon’s soul. Her first approval had been polite customary. This felt… final. Different. Deeper and more meaningful; something he hadn’t realized he needed to hear.

Part of him wanted to share this with his sweetheart, but he knew better. There was only so much convincing he could offer her through words. She would have to see it with her own eyes, as he had. And he had a feeling, she’d be coming to that same understanding sooner rather than later.

Josephine gave a tisk as she glimpsed back up at him, wiping the pad of a thumb beneath his eye as he grumbled.

“Mind your tears, Amon,” she reprimanded him lightheartedly. “You’re going to worry your wife.”

His wife, he thought with a fresh wave of euphoria in his heart. His gaze moved sideways to see her spinning artfully around the dance floor with a few hands clapping to a fast swinging waltz of the band; Korey guiding her easily along the steps.

Essätha Medüza Illiad, his wife.

There were no better words to be had, than that.

[miss-noo-na]

“Vos Anima Mea” (Kihyun Vampire AU)  Part 1

* See Masterlist for additional chapters

Title: Vos Anima Mea

Featuring: Kihyun (Monsta X) x Reader

POV: 2nd

Summary: You’ve always been attracted to the dark side of life, but even you aren’t sure what you’ve gotten yourself into, painting the portrait of a vampire prince.

Requested by anon! I really didn’t mean for this to turn into a chaptered thing BUT HERE WE ARE. Hope you enjoy :)

Your boots thumped against the pavement, echoing into each alley you passed. Steam rose from street grates and rooftops, curling into a starless black sky. You hugged your arms close to your body, eyes darting to every corner, just in case. You always had to be aware here.

You reached aninconspicuous staircase on the side of an old building that led to an even more unremarkable black door. You knocked three times and a slat opened to a small window. The person on the other side simply breathed.

“Hemoglobin” You uttered, and the slat slammed closed before the door swung open.

You came to a long corridor with a flickering fluorescent light, off-putting the first time you came here but you were used to it now, you knew what it led to.

You pushed open a door at the end of the hall into a dimly lit room, floor to ceiling black with a tinted window booth to one side. You approached and slid a black and silver keycard underneath the window, and after a moment it was returned to you with a red silk wristband.

You put away the card and slid the silk over your hand before heading to the other door, where a burly man examined your wrist and let you through.

Immediately the thumping bass of loud music hit you in a wave as you entered a large room that looked like a windowless nightclub.  Red satin draped from the ceilings and over black couches, bodies swayed hypnotically on a central dance floor with shiny black floors. People wore masks of leather, lace, or animal likeness, their bodies in elaborate costuming or very little fabric at all.

Amongst your friends, family, and co-workers you were mild-mannered, a little quiet, known for your sometimes off-kilter interests but that was about it. None of them had any idea about this side of you.

You started seeking in your late teens, places where the unusual, odd, and passionate convened. You had a few missteps along the way, finding yourself in places you didn’t quite like. Fetish clubs weren’t your thing, dungeons were too intense, and some places boasted about being truly unique but were just typical nightclubs; you didn’t seek cheap sexual thrills or debauchery, you looked for beauty and art that came wrapped up in a darker package.

Out of all the bizarre places you ventured, this was your favorite, known only as “The Corridor” to that privy to that information. It was never advertised, nor talked about openly; it was all word of mouth and invite only. Someone had to vouch for you, and an intense screening process kept out undesirables.

You’d been coming regularly for 2 months, and had made a fair share of new friends, ones you only saw in the clubs and nowhere else.

You moved to a long cherry-wood bar and waved to a bartender, Samantha, who grinned at you . She had black hair cut into a straight bob and bangs cut into a triangle.

“What can I get for you, Little Dove?” She asked, leaning on the bar, and you blushed. You had somehow acquired a nickname in your time here, given to you by Samantha and used by everyone who knew of you.  You didn’t really participate in all of the shenanigans like others did, instead you liked to take a seat on the balcony and watch, entranced at all you saw around you, and use it later as inspiration for your paintings. Samantha noticed you right away, and told you that you reminded her of a small white bird, perched upon a rooftop watching the world go by.

“The usual, please.” You said, sliding your money, and a generous tip, across the bar. Samantha snatched it up with a wink in your direction and went off to make your drink.

You turned around and leaned on the bar, taking in the scenery. It was fairly crowded for a weeknight, which was your favorite time to come by. Sure, the weekends got crazy, but there was plenty to see on a Wednesday night, too.

Samantha returned with your cocktail, making sure to add an extra cherry to the little black sword.

“Keep them coming?” She asked, and you nodded, thanking her as you went to your usual table on the balcony.

You had a great view from here, it was right over the dance floor and the stage, which was the real bread and butter. The club always had elaborate acts full of sparking metal, ambient music, costumes, fake blood, you name it.  Sometimes the acts were so convincing you forgot where you were, and had trouble separating reality from fiction in the most enticing way. It was the ultimate form of escapism.

The music faded out and a spotlight hit the stage. All of the revelers turned at once to watch, cheering as they did so. A woman lay on the ground in intricate period costuming, a white dress with a gold bodice and impossibly large skirt with lace hems and pearls covering her from neck to chest.  She sobbed audibly into a frilly handkerchief, lamenting about her lost love.

A man entered, in a 3-piece Victorian suit with ruffled collar and long black hair, face chiseled by the Gods. The woman gasped and sat up, clutching her handkerchief to her face.

“It can’t be” She wailed, shielding her eyes. Even from here, you could see that as the man smiled, sharp fangs glinted in his mouth.

“I have returned, my dear.”

He descended upon her, sinking his teeth into her neck. The woman screamed, at first, but then fell into his embrace willingly with a sigh. Blood began to run a gushing river down the front of her neck, coating her white pearls and white dress, soaking through the fabric and creating a bright red splatter across an otherwise stark white design.

“You’ve come home.” She said, elated, and the two kissed, blood smearing over their mouths. The stage went dark. The music came back on.

You sipped your drink as you thought about how realistic the blood looked, and wondered if there was some kind of complicated tubing hidden in the folds of her gown. Nevertheless, it created a beautiful image you could see yourself recreating in paint.

“You should really show some of your work.”

Samantha’s voice brought you out of your thoughts as she sat another cocktail down. You had almost finished the first, her timing was always uncanny.

“What? Me?” You asked, looked surprised, even if that wasn’t the first time she’d asked. You got a little too drunk one night and showed Samantha a bunch of your paintings on your phone, and she’d been bugging you ever since to bring one in, or have it displayed somewhere other than your studio.

“Of course, you! Your stuff would look great in here.” She said with an honest smile, and you shook your head.

“Ah, maybe someday.”

She tsk’d you, lovingly, and then waved as she headed back to the bar. Not long after that, you were approached by someone else. Someone unfamiliar.

“Miss? Would you mind coming with me?”

You blinked up at him. “Is there a problem?”

“Not at all.” He flashed a quick smile, and you swore you saw fangs, but maybe that was just your eyes playing tricks on you, still enamored from the performance. “There’s someone that would like to speak with you.”

You stood from the table, finishing your cocktail and following the man. He took you toward the back of the club, down another strange corridor to an elevator. The man didn’t speak as you rode up several floors.

The door opened to what looked like a pent house, something you didn’t think this old stone building would have. It was lavishly decorated, with intricate wallpaper, lush carpet, and elegant red furnishings. A couple people slinked around the room as music played softly somewhere in the distance.  They were all immaculately dressed and gorgeous. You didn’t know what to think or feel.

You came into a room where guests were seated throughout, sipping cocktails and talking low; at the center of the room, in a large armchair sat a young man.

His dark hair was pushed up, styled, with the under part shaved short. He wore one long silver earring and a black sweater that hung off his lithe frame. His eyes met yours immediately and you felt a strange rush of adrenaline, swearing for a moment that there was hint of red that flashed through the otherwise nearly black iris.

Your escort brought you to stand before him and he sat up straight.

“Are you the one they call ‘Little Dove’?” He inquired, and you tried not to blush again. Every time someone uttered that nickname you felt something, pleasurable yet bashful all at once.

“I suppose I am.” You said coyly, averting your eyes a moment.

“I was hoping to meet you tonight.” He said, and you were starting to wonder if he had the right person.

“Come, sit.” He gestured to the chair nearest him, and then made a motion with his hand. At once, everyone else in the room left.

He leaned over toward a low table where a crystal bottle sat, pulling the top off and pouring some brown liquid into two small glasses. He offered you one and you took it, bringing it to smell first, then to taste. It was dry and sweet, like an old wine.

“I’ve been hearing a lot about you, mostly from Samantha.” He started, and you should have known she was the one behind this.

“Forgive me, where are my manners. My name is Kihyun.” He said, and despite how youthful he appeared, he spoke eloquently and moved with grace as he extended his hand. You reached out thinking to shake his, but instead he held your fingertips and kissed the top. You swallowed hard.

“Is that a good thing or a bad thing, Samantha mentioning me?” You asked, laughing awkwardly as you pulled your hand back.

He gave a slight smile. “In this case, it’s good.”

You watched as he took a moment to savor a taste of his drink before speaking again.

“You paint.” He said as a statement, and all you could do was nod.

“The ones she showed me, those were yours?”

You wondered how Samantha had gotten a copy of the pictures you took, and then remembered you’d emailed some to her. Now you were actually blushing.

“Yes, they were….I mean are.” You fumbled, staring down into the brownish liquid.

“They’re beautiful; detailed, ambitious, yet something emotional and dark about them.” He explained, and you were touched.

“Thank you.” You said honestly, finally looking up to meet his eyes once more.

“Would you mind painting something for me?” He asked suddenly, and you were taken aback once more. He brought you up here for a commission?

“It’s a portrait, of myself. “ He continued and you watched him for a moment, realizing he was completely serious.

“You want me to…paint you?” You asked, making sure you’d heard him right.

“Yes. I’ve been looking for the right artist for ages, and I’ve had a couple portraits done but I’m never satisfied with the outcome. I think you may have exactly what I’m looking for.”

You were thrilled, truly, but you didn’t typically do portraits, nor did you even know who this Kihyun really was.

“I’m flattered, however,” You swallowed another dry drink. “I don’t really paint portraits, and I don’t think I can do justice to someone I don’t really know.”

“So it would be a challenge then, no?” He posed, smirking as he did so. He did have a point; you were feeling a bit stale lately constantly having to come up with things from your imagination.  This might be an interesting departure.

“You will be paid, of course. How does $6,000 to start and another $6,000 once you’re finished sound?”

You choked on your drink, eyes widening.

“You’re going to pay me $12,000 to paint you?” You repeated, and he laughed.

“If you finish, of course. If for some reason you don’t, the $6,000 is yours, no strings attached.”

How could you say no to an offer like that? Even if he was a complete stranger, you’d consider this worth the risk.

“To start, I’ll tell you a bit about me. I own this club, and a few more in this city. I’m a purveyor and lover of all art, music, expression, and that’s why I pour all my time and money into these establishments. To have a great artist such as yourself capture my essence would be an honor.”

You liked the sound of all that, and gave a firm nod, reaching out a hand.

“Deal.”

He chuckled, standing from his seat. “Ah, that’s not quite how we do deals around here, Little Dove.”

His sweet voice repeating that name made you shiver and you stood to follow him as he left the room. You came to an office with a large desk and walls covered in bookshelves. He took a rolled up piece of parchment paper from a drawer and unraveled it, already inked with the agreements. He handed it to you, and then leaned against his desk with his arms crossed and watched as you read over it. It all seemed fairly innocuous to you.

“Where do I sign?” You asked, raising your hand to take a pen from him. He produced a silver tipped fountain pen, but instead of handing it over, grabbed your hand and turned it palm up.

“Do you mind?” He asked, pressing the nib into your fingertip, not yet hard enough to poke through the skin, but you knew that’s what he intended to do. You felt a brief moment of panic, before realizing who and what you were dealing with. Of course these kinds of people wanted things signed in blood.

“Go on.” You said softly, and Kihyun poked your finger quickly. You winced only a little bit.

As the blood rose into a perfect dot on your finger, you carefully turned it over and signed your name as best you could.  When you finished, you looked up to find Kihyun staring intently at your hand, breathing a little harder, and that same flash of color in his eyes. He quickly collected himself and smiled at you, rolling up the parchment and putting it away.

“Lovely. I’ll see you next week, same time. Instead of your usual password, tell the doorman “anima mea””

You agreed, giving your goodbye and being escorted back downstairs.  You decided you’d had enough excitement for one night and walked yourself home.

In all the times you’d traveled these streets alone, you never felt as if you were being watched, but tonight you did, and you wondered why it comforted you more than frightened you.

[house-of-galathynius]

22 Nessian

Two miserable people meeting at a wedding: Nesta is dragged to a wedding by Feyre. Cassian is a groomsman and is spending the evening trying to avoid an ex. 

Nesta could have thought of a million other things she would have rather been doing than being here at this wedding. She didn’t even like the bride, or the groom for that matter. But for the sake of mending her relationship with Feyre, she had agreed to come, only on the basis that there was going to be an open bar. 

She’d patiently sat through the ceremony, and smiled when people said hello, but as soon as she could, she’d b-lined for the bar and remained there ever since. 

The bartender had been flirting, or rather, attempting to flirt with her for the past hour, but she’d not even given him a second glance- mostly because he still looked like he’d barely finished high school. But still, she sat there nursing what was probably her fourth drink of the evening. Occasionally Feyre and her boyfriend Rhys would come over and try to convince her to dance but she would politely decline and let them have their time together. 

Nesta had just about had enough, when a man, probably her age stopped beside her and ordered a whiskey on the rocks. He looked just as miserable as she did, which gave her a sense of comfort, to know she wasn’t the only one. Her starting didn’t go unnoticed, the man turned to her and she cursed under her breath for not being more subtle.

The stranger smiled at her, and lifted his glass in her direction between downing it in one. 

“I’m going to need another whiskey.” He smirked at her and Nesta should have known he would be trouble.

~ 

Cassian had been nothing but the model groomsman. He’d greeted guests, he’d been polite to all the old women who had come up to him and he’d managed to not cause any scenes with his ex. That was mostly because he’d avoided her like the plague- until ten minutes ago when she’d cornered him, begging for forgiveness. He had to admit, for a second he was tempted to say yes, just to shut her up; but then remembered how much of a pain in the ass she had been, and thought better of it. Instead he had left her in the corner sulking, whilst he made his way over to the bar. 

He ordered a whiskey on the rocks, the staring from the girl next to him did not go unnoticed, so he turned to her, smiled, and knocked it back in one. 

He motioned to the bartender, “I’m going to need another whiskey.” 

The girl beside him made a noise of disgust and it would be a lie to say he tried not to look her way. She was stood, clutching her drink, trying not to look at him, but she failed when Cassian stepped slightly closer to her, their arms almost brushing. 

“You have the whole bar, and yet you choose to stand that close? Really?” 

“But you see, if I was the other side of the bar then I wouldn’t have any excuse to tell you my name,” He grinned, “it’s Cassian, by the way.” 

“That’s fantastic. Now that you’ve told me your name- which I didn’t ask for- you can go to the other side.” 

“Not a fan of weddings?” 

“I’m not a fan of men thinking it’s okay to hit on someone just because they’re stood alone.” She furrowed her brow and glanced around the room. 

“Who said I was hitting on you? Maybe I’m just friendly.” 

“There was a reason I was alone, I’d like to keep it that way.” She tipped her drink back and finished it, before slamming it on the bar and start to walk away. Cassian quickly followed suit, he put his glass back on the bar and followed her onto the dance floor. 

“Dance with me.” Cassian held out a hand, she merely looked down at it and shook her head. 

“I don’t want to dance.” 

“You’re at a wedding, you have to dance! Come on, just one. I promise I’ll stop bothering you.” 

Nesta hesitated, she looked around once more, Feyre and Rhys were wrapped up in each other, swaying to the music. Elain was sat with the flower girls, braiding flowers into their hair, she could either go back to the bar, where the bartender was likely to hit on her again, or she could just have one dance and then make an excuse and leave.

“One dance. That’s it.” 

“One dance, I promise.” Cassian smiled, and she took his hand. 

~

Nesta wanted to hate the feel of his hands on her waist, she wanted the tingly feeling to stop, and she sure wanted her heart to stop beating so fast every time his grip tightened. 

“I never got your name,” Nesta looked up and wished she hadn’t, his eyes were beautiful. 

“Nesta.” 

“So Nesta, why did you look so miserable?” 

“I could ask you the same question.” Cassian let out a small laugh and his grip once again tightened on her waist. 

“My ex is here and we didn’t end on amicable terms. I tried to avoid her to no avail. I can’t say she’s made this night that easy,” Nesta smiled up at him, it was the first proper smile he’d seen from her, and he wished she’d do it more. “So; what about you? Why do you look so gloomy?” 

“I guess I just don’t like weddings. Especially when one sister is off with her boyfriend the whole time, and the other seems to prefer children or elderly people.” Cassian barked a laugh and Nesta couldn’t help but join in. 

“Nesta, you are breathtaking. Thank you.” 

“For what?” 

“For making this evening slightly more bearable.” 

They beamed at each other, and danced, not noticing when the song changed, over and over again. 

[alexiela73]

Can you please do mccree/sombra having to look after an s/o with an alcohol problem?

McCree:

Sitting five stools away from you, McCree had his head in one hand and the other clenched on the bar table. Teeth grit, slowly the night had gotten worse watching you sit there at the bar, laughing with strangers and drinking more and more alcohol by the minute.

This had become a nightly endeavour, he thought in anguish, as he watched you drunkenly as for another shot. So much had changed in the last four months, and seeing where it was taking you was breaking his heart. Even though you were smiling, you were struggling to drown out your pain with an endless supply of liquor and in turn, you were destroying yourself and your relationship.

You used to be the light of the party, cheerful and always eager to be around others. Alcohol had made you crinkle your nose in disdain, and you were always the one to know when enough was enough.

Except everything had changed when Jesse’s and your son fell ill with pneumonia, and ended up passing away shortly after in the hospital.

Jesse understood the need to drown it out. God knows he had done it once or twice already, but in the end, it never stopped the pain and he knew that. The only thing that could help was you and…and you weren’t there. No, you had slowly brushed off your sons death and instead of looking for familial comfort, you’d started finding relief in a hour or two drunk off alcohol.

It hurt him, all of it, and you were never there…

“Gimme a drink, damn it!” you slurred angrily when the bartender would give you no more.

Jesse swiveled on his chair and got up. “That’s enough, y/n,” he said angrily. “No more. We’re going home.” At the sight of him, your face seemed to move between happiness, misery, pain, longing and anger.

Walking over before you could speak, he swung you up over his shoulder and put a tip down on the bar. “Sorry, sir. This here lady’s my wife and a drunken wife at that. We’re going to mosey on home,” he said, the bartender a friend of his.

You scowled, face flushed and you pounded with your fists on his back. “You-You put me down-” hiccup, “right now, Jesse McCree!” you yelled as he headed down the bar. 

“You can’t keep doing this, y/n,” he said, his firm grip and unwavering on you as you struggled. What you didn’t know what that Jesse was struggling to hold back unshed tears.

Hitting him again, you screamed once in frustration. “Put me down! You can’t rule my life! Your a terrible husband and a terrible man and a terrible-” your voice cut out, your brain just quick enough to catch what you were going to say.

Jesse slowed to a stop. “A terrible father,” he whispered. “I know.”

For a moment no one said anything, and you covered your mouth in horror. How could you have almost said that? How could you have even suggest…Jesse had been one of the most dedicated fathers you’d ever seen. He’d been Jacob’s idol. He’d taught his seven year old son how to play ball, how to paint, how to help you bake cookies…he’d spent almost all his free time with Jacob.

Being drunk didn’t matter, because it was inexcusable. Even you knew that, in your state.

“I’m…I’m sorry,” you whispered, and you realized that you were crying. How horrible were you to do such a thing? “You weren’t a terrible father, Jesse. You…you were an amazing father.”

Taking a deep breath, Jesse whispered, “Doing all of this, y/n, isn’t going to bring him back. Taking your feelings out on me and drowning them in liquor is not…not going to bring our Jacob back.”

Your heart throbbed painfully in your chest and a sob escaped your lips. Stifling it behind your hand, you felt him carefully put you down and you could see Jesse was crying too. How different he looked, you thought vaguely, as you took in his gaunt face, the dark bags under his eyes and the gray threading through his beard. How tired he looked.

“I know,” you whisper through your tears, voice cracking, “Your right. I just…I’m sorry, Jesse. I don’t…I don’t know what else to do.”

Wrapping your arms around him, you buried your face into his chest and tried to breathe. Slowly his arms came around you, holding you tight and for the first time in almost four months the two of you held each other.

“Help me,” you whispered, “Please…

Jesse held you tight, cheek against your hair, his eyes closed. “Of course,” he whispered. “We can do this, baby. We can make it through this together.”

He hoped.

Sombra

“Y/n, where are you right now?” Sombra asked you over the phone, feeling a dark tingling in her chest. Right now she was on her computer, checking the camera’s of the bar. There you were, sitting in the bar. After scanning through the footage, she had determined you had had way more then two drinks.

There was music in the background and cheers from many people. You were sitting alone at the table, sipping another drink and trying very hard not to allow your words to slur.

“Sorry, sweetie. I’m at work right now. Will probably be here a bit late. You should probably go to bed without me,“ you managed, and for a moment you thought that you were home free, it sounded so natural.

Except Sombra felt hurt, and her lips pressed together in a thin line on her end of the phone. “I hoped I would never find you a liar, y/n, but obviously that was a false dream,” she said flatly, staring at the stunned look on your face on the screen.

Then you scowled and glanced up, seeing a camera. “What was the point of asking if you already knew?” you asked in irritation.

Pinching the bridge of her nose, Sombra’s hand shook slightly but she managed to keep her voice even. “Because I hoped you would be honest. You’ve been going there too frequently, y/n.”

“A drink or two once in awhile is fine. But you’ve gone there eight times in the last two weeks, and you literally spend almost fifty dollars in alcohol,” Sombra said seriously. “This is becoming more then even a habit. Your not being careful.”

“I don’t need a lecture from you, Sombra. I can damn well do what I want. Just bug off, would you,” you snapped, before hanging up on her.

For a moment, Sombra could only stare in shock at the screen and her phone. When had you gotten even a little aggressive toward her, or told her off? What was happening to you, she thought for a moment and it was like a hand was squeezing her chest.

She loved you so much. You meant so much to her and she knows you’ve been stressed lately but…But this was turning into something else. It isn’t healthy, she knew, and it hurt to see you like this.

After a moment Sombra turned off her laptop and went to crawl into bed, figuring there was no point in waiting up for you. After all, you obviously didn’t want her bothering you.

~~~~~~~~Probably seven hours later, she woke up to the sound of a door being shoved open, and seconds later the clicking of the toilet seat being shoved up. It was moments later before she carefully got out of bed, sliding on her purple bear slippers before slowly treading to the bathroom.

The light was on, and when she pushed open the door, you were kneeling over the toilet. Your hair was a bit greasy, and you looked pale as your hands clutched the toilet bowl. 

Leaning over, you puked once more into the toilet, and Sombra winced. “I…Hey. You want me to grab you some gravol and water?” she asked softly, unable to help herself from offering. You really didn’t look good and even though she was upset, that didn’t mean she didn’t love you.

Looking up at her, your eyes filled with misery and relief, all in one. “Sombra!” you whimpered. “I’m-I’m so sorry-” Clutching the bowl, you bent over it again and emptied the contents of your stomach into it.

Sighing softly, Sombra walked over and leaned down to rub your back. You were shaking so badly….

Wiping your mouth with tissues, you looked up at her with teary eyes. “P-P-Please f-forgive me…I s-shouldn’t have t-told you o-o-off…your just…concerned…” you could see her struggling to keep her insides…well, inside.

“It doesn’t matter right now,” Sombra started. “Right now-”

“No. I m-mean it,” you insisted, hugging her waist tight as she stood up straight. “Baby, I was so rude. And your right. I…I think…I have a problem. An alcohol problem. And it just…its so comforting…”

Shaking her head, Sombra gently pet your hair. “But baby, you feel like shit after for hours and your going to be broke soon,” she said gently, pushing the hair away from your face before wetting a cloth in the sink to wipe your face with.

“I’m sorry,” you mumbled over and over again, clutching her briefly before letting go to puke once more in the toilet.

Sympathy filled Sombra and she chews her lip. “Why don’t we go see a doctor tomorrow, okay baby? See if we can find a bit of help, or the right direction to help you…” she didn’t want to force you but for now, it was the best option for you both.

After a moment you sniffled and nodded, and after another ten minutes in the bathroom she helps you into bed and gives you some water and gravol. It takes a bit but after twenty minutes you finally fall asleep, and Sombra makes sure a bucket is on the bedside table.

“I have you baby,” Sombra murmurs, watching you sleep for a bit before she goes to sleep, uneasy for the future but determined all the same.