#thread : parade of the lady | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

k-hotchoisan · 2 months ago

Note

Hear me out... yeosang greek mythology-esque AU where every few decades a maiden is sent as a sacrifice to the one they believe is the god of love and fertility. A very confused deity yeosang usually just rolls with it and puts these young ladies to sleep for a night ot two before returning them to their people (cuz that one time he just sent someone back the entire village panicked and blamed her for not being a "good enough offering" and he felt bad for a century). But this time... for some reason... he just can't take his eyes off the sleeping girl before him (there can be backstory here like he's met her before while parading as a mortal or sumin idk) and decides... maybe this time he'll keep her...

alrighty aphrodite

every eleven years, a young maiden is chosen as sacrifice for the god of love and fertility, at least they think they do, only for Yeosang to put the sacrificed maiden to sleep because he doesn't want to deal with them.

but when it’s you being chosen to be the next maiden, Yeosang decides, maybe this time, he’s gonna keep you for himself instead.

Genre/warnings: smut with plot, (kinda) Greek god au deity yeosang x maiden!reader, mentioned elements of sacrifice (though not too heavy nor gory), unprotected sex, breeding kink, dirty talk, masturbation (m), obsessive softdom! Yeosang, he’s actually fucking whipped for you, praise kink, mentions of virginity (where reader is NOT but it’s not elaborated further), yearning!yeosang

wc: 6k

a/n: I’m sorry this took SO long to develop. Truth to be told, this prompt has been stuck at the back of my mind and boy, I really wanted to make this beauty work. Also a special thanks to @bro-atz for helping me develop (this is for you as well hehe) Enjoy! 🩷

Walking through the cold and pale marble temple, you watch the way the vines curl around the pillars, creeping its way up to get some sun. The temple is insanely huge, standing tall thanks to blocky pillars, with intricate carvings, which you identify as white marble being slowly overtaken by soft moss and stubborn vines.

You know, despite the gorgeous temple, its practices to serve Aphrodite were but.

Despite the anxiety you feel, you know you could do not much to fight against the elders and their ridiculous traditions. For centuries, chosen maidens by the fertility deity have been offered to appease the gods for the blessings of fertility of the town’s land and women every 11 years. No one knew how the gods looked like, but it seemed that every time a maiden was sent, the fields would bloom and flourish, couples would be blessed with a pregnancy.

Of course, why wouldn’t they continue this ridiculous tradition?

And this year, you were chosen.

You remember the last conversation you had with your mother before you had stepped foot into the temple.

“I’ll come back mother. Weren’t there rumours that one of the maidens managed to come back?”

Your mother’s index finger flew to her lips. “Be careful of what you utter, my daughter. They don’t like the reminder that their choice was rejected.”

You blinked at her, recalling the incident where one of the maidens got “returned” right after the ceremony and from what you could remember, led the elders to grow furious on top of anxious, then demanding that another sacrifice to be made, since the maiden was now considered “rejected” by the deity. The poor girl. Surely this deity couldn’t be that picky, right?

You continue to thread the path before you, the soles of your feet getting used to the coldness of the marble floor by now.

You enter the fountain room, and as its title, sits a large marble fountain, a statue lady draped over with a long piece of fabric looking down onto three cupids that spit out water, while she, herself pours water out of a vase.

The sound of flowing water could honestly put you to sleep, if it wasn’t a curt reminder that you’re meant to drown here. Rose petals decorate and almost fully cover the surface of the bottomless fountain. Maybe it was a ploy to at least relax the previous maidens. There are a handful of people, all dressed in white robes that hide their faces, while the elders are dressed in ivory.

“There she is. Beautiful y/n”, the elder woman smiles, the emotion not reaching her eyes. You force a smile back. “Come, the water’s not cold.”

You dip your toes in.

The water is fucking cold.

“Think of it as a blessing to us, that you’re doing a gracious service to the village”, another elder curtly reminds you while she tosses more rose petals into the fountain.

Two other women lie you down onto the water and more petals are strewn across the surface. Your hair is wet by now and so is your dress. You cringe at how cold the water is biting against your skin but you bear with it.

The older woman turns around.

“We are gathered here today to witness the blessing Aphrodite will be giving us. We pray that the maiden reaches the goddess safely and may she stay in good hands”, she announces with clasped hands.

“May Aphrodite bless us all.” She yells, her hands raised to the heavens, before the two hooded elders beside her shove your body into the fountain, sinking you to the depths, the last thing you’re hearing are loud chants that gradually become muted as you slowly accept your fate.

A familiar hymn plays, and it catches Yeosang’s attention.

“The maiden offering is here”, his Cupid announces.

Yeosang only sighs in defeat, annoyed that his rose gardening has been interrupted, muttering how these mortals were being ridiculous, while still walking over to his marble foundation, careful not the crush the roses that had fallen onto the grass.

“I genuinely have no idea how to stop these people from sending women down the fountain”, he complains to nobody in particular.

“Why not just appear in front of them and tell them you’re the deity?” The little Cupid suggests as he floats beside Yeosang.

He turns to his minion with folded arms. “No way. These people would pelt me with stones before they even decide to give me a chance to prove that I am. I’ll just do the usual.”

“Put them to sleep and then tie a red string on their ankles?”

“-to make sure they don’t get hurt or freak out or something. Then send them back up when enough time has passed.”, he continues with a small pout. “I’m still shocked at the way they freaked out when I sent the previous one back four decades ago.”

The Cupid purses his lips, listening to Yeosang rant about this for the nth time ever since he took over the temple and the rituals started every 11 decades as they near the fountain.

He continues his rant up till he reaches the fountain. “Besides, none of them they send are ever my cup of tea. I’m sure this one’s not any-“

Then Yeosang immediately quietens down when his eyes land on the sleeping maiden before him. His Cupid casts him a confused glance, then back to the maiden on the fountain, wondering what suddenly silenced Yeosang.

It’s just another maiden, his Cupid thinks.

On the contrary, Yeosang can’t seem to keep his eyes off the maiden who’s unconscious, covered in rose petals like the previous maidens. What made her so different? He doesn’t know, but there’s a strange tinge of familiarity when he rests his eyes on your sleeping figure.

The cupid’s eyes widen when Yeosang personally picks you up from the water with his bare hands. He never did that to the previous maidens, for he would complain about getting his robes wet.

He sets you down on the cloud bed, watching how you’re breathing softly while he waits for the cupids to hand him a spare robe for you to change into.

“Yeosang, aren’t you gonna change out?” His Cupid asks as he hands Yeosang the fresh set of robes.

You stir from your slumber, feeling softness against your skin. You slowly open your eyes, before you remember what happened, and you shoot up, soaking in the unfamiliar environment surrounding you. It’s a beautiful, spacious, and airy room. Your eyes land on a male who’s fitting stalks of roses into a glass vase.

“In a bit”, Yeosang replies, his eyes not lifting from you.

He turns to you just in time, and you freeze.

Oh gods, he’s stunning. His eyes are a shade of gray that makes him look all the more dreamy, and his lashes are long. His hair is a soft platinum blonde, contrasted by the bright red roses that rest on his hair. He looks like a statue himself.

“You’re awake”, he greets with a curt nod.

“You’re-“

“—Aphrodite‘s descendant, Deity Kang Yeosang”, the flying child announces.

“Oh! Pardon my rudeness, Deity”, you squeak, going on your knees, your hands on the cold, marble ground.

But Yeosang has his hands around you, lifting you up. “You don’t need to-“

“Oh but I should. You’ve been blessing our village with bountiful fields and beautiful children. It’s only right that I bow on their behalf”, you insist. Yeosang is speechless, mostly because it’s the first time that he has allowed a maiden to be conscious around his quarters, and that he’s speaking to one. He doesn’t really know what to do, let alone why he even did that in the first place.

Yeosang looks away sheepishly. “It’s part of my job. Please, you may rise.” Despite his seemingly soft demeanour, you realise how chiseled his arms are, his muscles lifting you up together with him. When you’re finally facing him, you can’t help but wonder if this was the view that every maiden had—and that maybe it’s not so bad after all.

Yeosang practically gave you the living quarters you woke up in, in which you were obviously thankful, offering for any help in exchange for it. Yeosang declined but you insisted, telling him you should repay him, so he decides to let you tend to one of his rose gardens around the temple.

It had been a few days since.

By then, you had warmed up to the deity, spending time with him in the gardens, exchanging stories. Through these interactions, you realise how mellow and soft Yeosang is—usually stories of gods warn of them being picky, petty and sometimes, even wrathful. Yeosang didn’t seem to tick all of these boxes. It seemed like he would rather tend to his myriad rose gardens and caring for his cupids.

“Has anyone told you you’re absolutely beautiful, Yeosang?” You say, missing the way his ears are turning as pink like the roses that lie on his head. The both of you are cutting off the fresh buds that bloomed to collect the petals that afternoon.

Yeosang’s cheeks flushes, rubbing the nape of his neck with a smile. It’s no different from what he always hears, especially as Aphrodite’s descendant, but to hear it from you makes him feel flustered for some reason.

“I mean not just how you look, but the way you treat the things around you.”

“I’m not following”, a confused Yeosang replies, and it makes you giggle.

“I’m saying, you’re gentle and kind too.”

Gentle and kind. Of course he is, considering that has been something he’s been his whole life. It’s well known how much of a temperamental and petty his ascendant had been known to be, and he knows he’s not like that.

Distracted by his thoughts, he feels a sharp pain shoot in his finger. He flinches and pulls his hand away, realising his finger has been cut by a rose thorn.

This has never happened before.

"Are you okay? Let me see-" you interject, taking his hand to inspect if the cut was deep, and you instinctually place his finger against your lips to suck on his skin.

Yeosang's heartbeat is climbing at an exponential rate right now, wondering why do your lips feel so soft. Would it feel as soft if it wasn't just on his fingers? How would you taste against him?

"Are you okay, Yeosang?" your voice snaps him out of his rapidly growing crooked thoughts. His eyes meet yours and he forces a smile, letting himself enjoy the way you're gently stroking his fingers. He thinks it feels nice.

"It doesn't hurt. Don't worry", his voice lowers a pitch, his gaze softening as he watches the way your hands go from stroking his injured finger to playing around with the rest of his fingers, thinking it would help ease the sting.

Yeosang places his hand on your cheek, gently stroking against your skin and his smile spreads to you.

“Thank you. I’ll go and wash the wound. Don’t worry about it, really. It’s just a small cut”, he assures, almost reluctant to leave your side when you let him go, and he walks back to his chambers.

As he rinses his hands, Yeosang's cupid floats to his side, watching the way his deity has his eyes locked onto the maiden.

“You haven't sent her back up, Yeosang. I’ve never seen you do that.”

Yeosang doesn’t answer. He doesn’t know what to reply.

There is silence for a while, as the Cupid watches Yeosang bloom the roses.

“How long will you keep her?”

Yeosang watches the way you smell the roses from his bedroom window. His heart flutters.

“For a little longer.”

You watch the rain fall and hit the leaves from the window of your room. The room is spacious, much too spacious for your liking. It wasn't you that you didn't hate being in the temple, having Yeosang and his little Cupids around were comforting, but during some days, the thorns of being home sick would prick you.

Something is starting to bubble in Yeosang when his thoughts drift to you as night falls. Unfortunately, he seems to have realised it too late.

Undoubtedly, the incident of Yeosang getting pricked by his rose bushes closed the distance between the both you. And that night, you realise you didn’t want to sleep alone.

That night, Yeosang is still up, his concentration on finishing a book he had bought from the mortal realm. Then he hears a soft knock on his open door.

His gazes flies to his door, his heart speeding up when he sees that it’s you standing at his doorway.

“Is it okay for me to intrude?” You ask. “I feel lonely in such a big room.”

Yeosang blinks before remembering to respond.

“Sure. There’s plenty of space on the bed”, he offers, shifting uselessly on the large bed to make space for you. You break into a smile, crawling into his shared space, the comfort of having Yeosang by your side already easing your worries.

“What are you reading?” You ask, peeking over to his book trapped in his long fingers.

He tips the book to show you the cover.

“I got it at the marketplace.”

Your eyes brighten.

“Right! You can travel to the mortal realm”, you remember him briefly mentioning it to you.

He nods. “I can bring you back to the village from time to time to get stuff if you want.”

“You can bring me back?”

“I try to, discreetly, I guess. The mortals in the village for some reason didn’t like it when I brought back one of the maidens back directly once.”

Suddenly, the pieces start to fall into place. It’s all starting to make sense.

Yeosang doesn’t realise he’s frowning. “You…yearn to go back there?” The words taste bitter in his mouth while he waits for your answer.

“Well, I’ve grown rather attached to this place actually. But I guess it wouldn’t hurt to go back from time to time. You can send me back whenever you’re ready to, Yeosang”, you reply.

Oh gods. Yeosang was internally preparing for the worst but for now, he’s satisfied with whatever arrangement he has with you. He’s never had a maiden stay longer than this, and he’s getting very comfortable with your companionship.

You stifle a yawn, eyelids growing heavy. Your fingers brush against his playfully, and it gets his attention even though his eyes are empty on the pages of his book.

“You’re my favourite thing about this temple”, you mutter, shutting your eyes. Yeosang freezes in his spot, his heart hammering in his chest.

“I think you’re my favourite thing about being a deity”, is his delayed reply. When he turns to gaze upon you, you’re asleep—comfortable and calm—just a hair’s breadth away from him.

That night, he had the most comfortable night of sleep since the past few decades.

Since then, your own bed in your quarters grew cold, and Yeosang’s bed only grew warmer as you continued to seek comfort with the deity.

Yeosang wouldn’t lay his hands on you, even though he was fine with your small touches. He’d grown accustomed to it.

Nonetheless, it doesn’t change the fact that his heartbeat accelerates when he feels you shift closer to him and lean your head against his arm or shoulder—whichever you felt like it—while you join him in reading whatever novel he has his nose buried into.

Your hair brushes gently against his skin again, and it’s making him more jumpy than usual for some reason. Is it the way that he’s conscious of how physically close you are to him? Is it the way that your scent surrounds him like a veil recently? Is it the way your laughter sounds more beautiful than the hymns the harps could play?

He glances down at you, realising you’ve fallen into slumber, your breathing light. Yeosang smiles, his gaze landing on your face.

Then the scent of you hits—sweet and intense—it makes Yeosang’s mind cloud. He feels his body warm up, and his eyes trail down from your face to your bare shoulders—where the strap of your nightgown had slipped past your shoulder—the lace trimming of your nightwear had lowered down your chest, revealing your soft breasts just shy of your nipples—

Fuck. Yeosang’s mind is on its road to being a goner. The discomfort that’s starting to bulge against his robes being the biggest indicator.

He seeps deeper into his twisted fantasies, letting his hand slip down to palm his thickness, groans leaving his lips soft and controlled enough so that he doesn’t wake you up. His suppressed fantasies start to bubble to the surface—flashes of you in between his legs, your tongue lapping his nectar from his base to the tip, then struggling to take his cock full into your pretty mouth. Shit. It’s driving him to the edge. Yeosang swallows hard. He knows that everything about this is so wrong, but he can’t help it. The pleasure trickling into his veins and the risk of getting caught if he’s too loud—it only adds onto the rush that his cock is feeling, and he’s fucking loving it.

The robe is slowly shed off his chiseled body, the speed of his hand fucking his cock increasing when his fantasies start turning to you above him, settling onto his cock, eyes so glazed out and pretty for him while he spilts you open. He dreams of melting into your velvet heat and it only makes more precum leak out of his cockhead while he struggles to keep his breathing slow.

He eyes flutter shut, a strained moan slipping past his lips. He doesn’t know how you’re not being awoken by now, but frankly, he doesn’t care.

And when you shift in your sleep slightly, accompanying your movements with a sleepy groan, it only makes Yeosang’s predicament worse. He watches the way your top has completely slipped down, your nipple growing perky and hard from the cool air. Oh, what he’d do get a taste of it between his lips.

The sounds of his hand fucking grow louder when his thoughts grow wilder when he wonders how you’d taste between your legs—sweet like the nectar of the roses you grow for him maybe.

The precum seeping only grows white and thicker, the sensitivity burning through his body, making Yeosang press his head deeper against his pillows, his hand movements more desperate.

When his fantasies reach to one of you cumming and fluttering with tears in your eyes on his cock, Yeosang bursts with a broken cry of your name, his white and thick cum making a mess of his body and undone robe. His breathing is shaky, staring at the thick cum that stained his hand under the silver moonlight.

It was then the realisation looms over him--there's no way it's possible to send you back up. Not when the need to hear you scream and cry his name is creeping into his veins like the thorny vines of his rose bush.

“With all these roses around, doesn’t Yeosang get sick of the smell?” You ask the Cupid while your hands are busy snipping off the buds.

He shrugs. “I guess he’s used to it.”

The Cupid casts another glance to the rose bush, furrowing his eyebrows, seemingly reflecting his confusion.

“Although, you’re not wrong—the roses recently seem to smell stronger, and I’ve never seen buds this dark before.”

“Something wrong with the roses?” You hear the soft deep voice echo through your ears.

“Yeosang!”, you exclaim, realising the subtle change in him—the roses that sit around his pale hair like flower crown are now as dark as the roses on the rose bush.

You absentmindedly reach out to touch the roses on his hair, amazed by the deep crimson hue. “No, Cupid and I were just mesmerised at how pretty the dark roses are, actually.”

His smile fills your stomach with butterflies.

“Were you? I’m glad you and Cupid seem to like them.”

Yeosang lets his hands linger on your cheek for a moment longer, his warm spreading through your skin.

“I’ll see you tonight as usual, y/n?”

You nod, but for some reason, the expression Yeosang casts you sets a whole cage of butterflies into your stomach.

He’s satisfied with your answer and he doesn’t hesitate to press his lips to your temple, the smell of roses floating around you, before he strolls back to his quarters, humming to himself.

For some reason, something feels a little different that night.

You walk into Yeosang’s chambers as usual, as you always do. He has his novel in his hands, but his eyes glance at you at his doorway the moment he feels your presence.

You slide into his bed, like you always have done, noticing the comforting warmth that the deity radiated seemed slightly a little hotter than usual. But you attribute it to the fact that it had been pouring quite a bit lately, including tonight.

The moment you crawled into Yeosang's space, he has his palm spread over your exposed thigh, his warmth spreading across your skin.

“Isn't someone eager today”, you tease, absentmindedly returning his touch, much to Yeosang's surprise.

“It's been cold lately, and your warmth is the only thing I've grown used to”, Yeosang replies with a gentle smile, and it makes your stomach burst with butterflies.

“As with you”, you giggle, inching closer to the male.

Yeosang reflects your bloom with a soft smile, before his attention returns to his book. You rest yourself against his arm, as you always do.

This night, Yeosang realises he can't concentrate on reading, not when he's hyper aware of the floral shampoo that's emitting off you. You've always been using the same floral shampoo, so why does the smell seem to come off stronger this time?

His thoughts are then interrupted when he hears you soft sigh as you shift your weight against his arm, his eyes locked at the way the strap of your nightgown slips past your shoulder once more, the gown dropping slightly lower, barely revealing your soft and perky nipples.

Yeosang doesn't realise his fingers are clamping onto the pages, hard.

He averts his gaze back to the book that he knows it's pointless to get back to, so he shuts it.

Your eyes rake over his bothered expression, and your mind swims with worry.

“Are you okay, Yeosang?”

Yeosang turns his attention to you, forcing a smile. His words come out uncertain, “of course. I just need a breather. Give me a second, y/n.” He drops the book onto his nightstand before he leaves the bed to the balcony. You decide it's best to leave him be, while you keep yourself busy with the pile of books Yeosang bought for you on his nightstand.

Yeosang is barely confident that he's finally composed himself, but he decides to enter his room once he feels his heart gradually slow. He brushes off the crimson rose petals that had landed on his shoulder.

Since when have his petals gotten this red?

He returns back to his room, and all of that self preservation immediately falls apart when the view before him on his bed is you–relaxed, with the sheets off you, your bare legs in full view for him to take in, your sheer nightgown bunched up to your thighs as your nose is deep into your novel.

Yeosang remains silent as he inches towards to your side of the bed, and his movements definitely catch your attention. You look up and your eyes meet his, trailing him as he slowly settles down right in front of you.

“Can I help you?” You tease, shutting the book. Yeosang doesn't answer, but rather, he lets his fingers dance along your leg, and up until he pauses at your knee.

You watch the way his eyes glimmer against the moonlight, then how it highlights his features like a marble statue.

He's leaning closer.

His eyes are downcast for a second before they find the resolve to meet yours.

“Could I…?” he mutters, shyness reflected in his gaze.

His palm is flat against your knee now, and he's warm to the touch.

You're suddenly feeling curious yet shy. You lower your gaze when you feel his palm press against your cheek, then lean in. His hands feel like comfort. Your eyes flutter open and you meet Yeosang’s stare.

His mind is going haywire when you look at him like that.

There is tension in the air, silence so loud you could hear two hearts fluttering if you listened hard enough.

“Please”, you reply softly, loud enough for him to hear.

Before you could process it, Yeosang leans in for a deep kiss, determined to steal your breath and heart away as his lips collide against yours. He traps you against the bed, and your hands are around his neck, slowly lingering on his soft locks of hair.

Red petals are slowly filling up the white spaces on the white sheets as Yeosang grows greedy–he’s pulled away from your lips, now he's messing with your cheek, then your jawline, then down your neck. His hands are going down. You gasp when you feel him cup your breasts. There's no way he doesn't feel your nipples grow harder through the thin fabric, and he makes full use of it to pinch and roll in between his fingertips, the sparks going right to your soaked pussy.

Yeosang lets you off momentarily, and the strange glint in his eyes don't go unnoticed by you. Too caught up in the moment though, you let him continue with whatever he wants to do. He continues kissing down south, teasing you with the fact that he's not letting his lips touch your skin directly. Every soft gasp and sigh he hears from you is his reward.

Then, he stops right at the wet patch of fabric in between your legs.

You swear his eyes form hearts.

“You're already so wet for me?” He asks, which doesn't come off much as a question. His finger grazes along the damp fabric, and the wetness spreads even more. It’s driving Yeosang off the edge. You're driving Yeosang off the edge.

All Yeosang is thinking is that you're such a perfect gift. He wouldn't have asked for more.

The perfect offering.

Perfect for him to ruin.

A thought crosses Yeosang’s mind–how far can he get your thin and useless panties soaked? He nuzzles against the warm and sticky fabric, trying his best to ignore the way his cock is just painfully throbbing to be let out.

“Yeosang–!” You cry out, accidentally flattening some of the roses in his hair when the sensitivity bursts dully in your pussy.

You're suddenly feeling self-conscious even though your mind is slowly sinking into the sins Yeosang is gravitating you into.

Your cunt is getting soaked by the second, to the point your panties have pretty much grown transparent, so sticky and wet from your cream.

It doesn't change the fact that worries still flicker in and out of your mind.

You're not a virgin. Would Yeosang approve of that? Would he be disgusted that you aren't?

You feel his fingers slither up your thighs, his thump hooking onto the waistband of your panties before he completely pulls your panties off, your pulsing wet pussy blooming like the most gorgeous flower Yeosang's ever seen.

Before Yeosang’s ready to reward himself, you squeeze your thighs, stopping him.

He looks up at you, his eyes slowly glazed over, waiting for you to let him.

How is he so patient?

“I’m not a virgin—“

“It doesn't matter, darling”, Yeosang cuts you off while he presses his nose against your supple thighs, taking in a sharp inhale, letting your scent turn him dizzy. “I’ve always dreamed of hearing you scream my name when I’m fucking you.”

You struggle to keep your breathing in check, dazed and taking in this newfound side of Yeosang that seemingly bloomed from nowhere.

“I'll make you feel so good, darling”, he promises, a teasing lick just to the side of your pussy, and your rationale completely dissolves.

Yeosang pulls your legs apart, smiling against your skin when you don't offer resistance, then he presses his tongue against your wet cunt.

You taste like heaven, is what is repeating in Yeosang’s head, over and over. He wants to make sure he sucks you dry. You squirm against him, the pleasure building recklessly whenever Yeosang drives his tongue against your clit, your moans turning into a mix of cries. Your wetness isn't drying up anytime soon, that's for sure.

“So fucking good. Y-Yeosang…”, your lashes are wet, and with every flick of his tongue on your clit, it builds so fucking good that your legs have completely spread open for Yeosang, your cunt shamelessly leaking more creamy nectar for Yeosang to indulge in. He brings his tongue up to your clit once more, dragging the soft muscle against it.

“You're so close, aren't you? Your sweetness is just getting better”, Yeosang hums.

Your fingers clutch against the soft pillows under you, your mind slowly starts to blank and break. It feels so fucking good that Yeosang has to hold your hips down so he can tongue fuck you better.

“Be a good girl for me–cum as hard as you want.”

A choked sob echoes in his chambers while you go completely undone–shaking and pulsing against his tongue, your vision washed out by white as the pleasure seeps into each nerve and crevice of your brain.

Yeosang is still lapping your cream up, dizzy from how you cummed all over his face. He really wants to make you do that over and over again until you break.

The remnants of your orgasm and the overstimulation has you twitching in the best ways possible. You halt Yeosang–stealing his attention with your fingers under his chin. Yeosang looks up at you, burying his cheek against your palm while his tongue peeks out past his lips to lick the off the remainder of your cream on his face. Your thumb caresses his soft cheek and Yeosang appeases you for a moment before he climbs over you, his palm covering your wrist, guiding you down to the knot of his robe. Your fingers grab onto the loose end and you tug–his robe completely loosens. He leans in closer, letting your hands wander his body, flicking the robe away until Yeosang is fully naked before you.

He's nothing short of a marble statue–everything about him is completely ethereal. As much as you’re admiring his bare body, your eyes can't help but wander to his thick cock. Even his cock is so pretty especially when it's glistening and hard, in a sheen of precum.

His voice is deeper now and it tickles your ears.

“I don't think I can go slow on you, my love”, Yeosang mutters, before he presses his lips onto the back of your hand. His crimson eyes meet yours, and your heart skips a beat.

“I don't wanna.”

He fits a pillow under your hips, and his cock is easily resting right at your pulsing, wet hole.

“Wanna feel you all the way, Yeosang. You can go as deep as you want”, you whisper, just craving to be fucked now.

Yeosang smiles in reply, before he lines himself to your cunt and pushes himself in an inch or two.

A curt “fuck” slips past your lips, and your abdomen tenses once Yeosang starts fitting more of himself into your tight hole.

“Gods, you feel so fucking amazing. So fucking warm for me”, Yeosang curses, his fingertips pressing onto your hips to keep any remainder of his sanity intact.

When he finally has his dick fully fit in you, you look like you're about to cry.

His fingers brush your cheek.

“Are you okay there?”

You nod. “You just feel so full in me.” Yeosang laughs, then groans when you squeeze him again.

“I'm gonna start moving.”

The lewd sounds of skin slapping start filling up the room once more, one wetter than the other.

His thrusts have you clawing the sheets once more, eyes rolled back and pussy clamping him down for more.

He grunts at the way you're squeezing him.

“I'll fill you up so good, my love. Make you so swollen–full of my pretty little offspring just for you to bear”, he mutters in your ear.

Your head is spinning as the pleasure builds up in your abdomen once more every time his cock hits your g-spot. The thought of Yeosang making sure you're leaking full of his seed, that he wants to breed you so badly throws out any rational thought out of your head. You want it so fucking bad too.

“You feel so better than heaven, you know?” He manages, the thread of his rationale thinning the more he's fucking into you. “I really want you all to myself.”

His thrusts are getting heavier and every time his cockhead presses onto your g-spot, it sends you into an orbit. You're seeing fucking stars or flowers–they’re starting to look the fucking same at this rate.

“Yeosang!”, you cry out, your toes curling from the pleasure hitting you over and over again. You leave light marks down his pale skin. Your cunt has him tight in you, and it makes him dazed. His moans are filling up your ears while his cum fills up your pussy.

The high slowly descends, leaving both of you catching your breaths, his face in your hands, eyes locked onto each other. You watch the dark red in his eyes slowly lighten but still remain red.

Had he always donned such deep red eyes?

“How are you feeling?” He asks, letting his fingers travel down the curves of your body.

You giggle tiredly, “a little sleepy.”

He covers your eyes with his slender fingers. “Then rest

Yeosang stares at the way you slowly sink into your slumber, huddled close to him.

He brushes away the blood red rose petals that fall on your shoulders.

I can’t help it if I adore you this much. I’m keeping you for a little longer. I’m sure you wouldn’t mind, right?

💘bonus epilogue💘

Yeosang knew he was about to be chided for always escaping his duties by hiding in the mortal world. Not that Eros would care anyway.

No human comes around here, and that’s another reason why Yeosang loves this specific spot. If he’s feeling slightly more daring, he might hide himself amongst the mortals while he window shops at the marketplace, but for today, relaxing is on itinerary instead.

He walks over to his usual tree, humming to himself.

Then he stops himself in his tracks, his eyebrows knitted together in disbelief. Someone is already occupying his tree. He watches the maiden hum to herself, her hands busy with picking flowers and she sits the stalks on her lap.

Unfortunately, Yeosang is the last deity to be confrontational, and he’s ready to just turn and leave—

“Oh gods! You’re breathtaking.”

He stops in his tracks, and turns back slowly.

His finger points to himself accompanied with a confused expression he wears.

“Me?”

He’s only met with laughter that sounded like sun rays when dawn first breaks.

“I’m sorry. I probably scared you. It’s just, I’ve seen you a couple of times here, and I’ve always wanted ask—has anyone told you that you’re beautiful?”

Plenty.

You laugh again. It tickles Yeosang’s ears.

“You’ve probably heard it many times. But I still want to say it—you’re beautiful.”

That day Yeosang hums a wonderful tune that even Cupid has never heard before. His attention goes back to tending his rose garden, his slender fingers getting busy, brushing against the bud of the roses, blooming them full.

He notices Cupid's surprised gaze, before he plucks a rose bud out to hand it to him.

“What's wrong, Cupid? Never seen a red rose before?”

Cupid furrows his eyebrows, his gaze reflecting confusion on top of curiosity before he shakes his head in reply.

“Yeosang…this is the first time I'm seeing you bloom red roses.”

taglist: @bro-atz @diamond-3@mcarebearsstuff. @choisansplushie @pre1ttyies @hwallazia @yeosangiess @softwsan @yourlocaljonghoe @itza-meee @ywtf @skteezcursed

@jeon-ify @miss-fallon @bunnyluvr25 @eggyboy5 @hourswithoutyou @iwishiwasthemoontonight @yunhogrippers @watermelon2319 @kibs-and-bits @s-h-y-a @luvt0kki @httpseungmxn @vic0921 @sanhwajoong @bitejoongie @no1likevie @jwnghyuns @everythingboutkpop @skz1-4-3 @minalizasworld @seomisaho @tunafishyfishylike @songmingisthighs

#ateez #ateez scenarios #ateez fanfic #ateez x reader #ateez imagines #ateez smut #smut #ateez fic #kpop smut #yeosang #ateez yeosang #yeosang smut #yeosang x reader #kang yeosang #yeosang ateez

690 notes · View notes

too-much-tma-stuff · 10 months ago

Text

This idea sort of burst out of me like Alien so it's unedited. There will probably be more.

In short, Cas picks up on the fact that Danny is pregnant at a Wayne Gala and have the right idea but the wrong context.

Masterpost

------

Danny was barely holding it together and really he had been for a long time. It had sort of been fun and games at first when he became a hero. Sure his accident had hurt like hell but he'd sort of repressed that and for real? Lunch Lady? Box Ghost? Even Skulker was sort of a joke and he hasn't actually felt threatened. Sneaking around behind his parents backs and sneaking out with his friends had been fun. It had all felt like a game at first, and then somewhere in there things had gotten very real.

He'd known he couldn't count on his family to protect him but they couldn't even see Vlad was a threat. And he felt like he had lost the last of his innocence when he saw the clone Vlad had made of him melt. He hasn't been in time, he had panicked and he had only managed to save a couple by taking them into his own body to shield their still forming cores. Ellie and... should Danny name the other one or would he name himself when he was ready?

He kept touching his stomach over where he could feel the little balls of his mirror children hovering just below his own core. He was so tired all the time as they relied on his energy, he was eating more then ever and he knew his family was worried. He didn't think he could hide this and he couldn't predict when they would emerge. What if they did in front of his parents? They definitely wouldn't react well. And Vlad kept trying to use this against Danny. Promising to look after him and the babies if he was really insisting on carrying them, as if Danny could rip those tiny 'lives' out of himself now.

And no matter how many times he tried to tell his parents that Vlad was bad news, that he creeped Danny out and made him feel unsafe they wouldn't listen! Dad didn't even hear him and mom made sympathetic noises and then told him to bear with it for Jack's sake because he didn't have many friends.

So of course when Vlad had asked if 'Daniel' could accompany him to a gala in Gotham his father had agreed! Even his mother had agreed when Vlad promised it would be educational and safe! And here Danny was, hanging on by a fucking thread in a suit that felt uncomfortably tight around his middle, having just escaped being paraded around as Vlad heir like a particularly expensive watch. He was behind the snack table having piled a plate as high as he could and scarfing it down before Vlad could find him again and scold him for being rude. He hadn't noticed yet that a family of dark haired socialites kept giving him worried looks. A young woman with dark eyes signing frantically to a man with blue eyes and a dimpled frown.

It was the man who slid up carefully next to Danny trying not to startle since he seemed to have genuine food aggression.

"Yeesh kid you seem like you're starving! All those fancy Hors d'oeuvres are fun but not very cooling and I feel like I'd be a poor host if I didn't offer you something more filling! If you'll come me to the kitchen I'm sure our family butler would be happy to whip something up for you?" The man said with an inviting some that did nothing to sooth the way Danny's hackles raised instinctively.

He was about to say no on reflex when he spotted Vlad heading towards them with an expression like a thunder cloud. Danny's back went ridged and the other man followed his gaze with a frown. "You know what ya that sounds great let's go now!" Danny said dropping his half full plate on a nearby tray and dragged the stranger away with him as Vlad shouted after him.

"Daniel come back this instant! Unhand mister Wayne! Daniel this is unacceptable!"

'Mr. Wayne' took over leading them and spirited Danny through a back door as a bubbly blonde intercepted Vlad and a small woman slid in behind them like a shadow.

"So, Danial I assume?" The man asked, amusement crinkling around his eyes as Danny grimaced.

"Mr. Wayne I assume?" Danny returned, unaware of the way one arm was protectively wrapped around his stomach, but the girl noticed. It was Dicks turn to grimace.

"Okay ya, I go by Dick. What about you?"

"Danny," he said not reacting to the name, he'd heard far stranger. "And what about you?" He asked Cas, startling Dick a little because she was doing her 'shadow thing' and not many people would have noticed her.

"That's Cas, she has a hard time talking sometimes," Dick explained as Cas materialized and gave Danny a reassuring smile and wave.

The teen harrumphed but he did follow them down to the kitchen where Alfred was drinking a cup of tea, staying well clear of the foolishness upstairs. "Ah, hello young masters," Alfred he said, glancing between the three with a raised brow. Though the two who knew him could see the way his expression softened when Danny shrunk in on himself. "What can I do for you?"

"Hey Alfred do we have any leftovers from dinner or something filling we can whip up fast? Danny here is too hungry for just the fancy font for upstairs." Dick asked cheerfully.

Alfred raised his eyebrows again and looked at Cas who was standing behind Danny. Glancing at Danny to make sure he wasn't looking she grimaced then touched her stomach and mimed holding an infant.

Alfred's expression turned stormy for just a moment then smoothed. "Of course we do, Why don't you make our guest comfortable and I'll see what I can do. Do you have any allergies young man?" Alfred asked and Danny shook his head mutely.

"You're the best Alfie!" Dick said, hovering a hand over Danny's shoulder rather then actually touching him as he leas him towards the comfortable breakfast nook.

The boy seemed tight lipped and gaunt, his eyes flicking around them as if he expected a threat to pop up at any time. Dick slipped into the booth across from him. Trying to think of the best way to ask this kid how... why, and who hurt him.

Cas has stayed in the kitchen, but not for long. She came to them with a tray of mugs moments later and slipped into the booth next to Danny. Gently she took his hands and pressed the warm mug unto them. He blinked and focused of it, as if on autopilot he lifted it to his lips, Cas keeping a hand on his elbow to steady him as he drank.

The warm comforting drink, and hand on his arm, presence by his side as Cas slid imperceptibly closet and closer till she was pressed against Danny's shoulder, felt like they were taking him apart from the inside. Thawing out the cold numbness he shielded himself behind. Half way through his tea he glanced up, at the worried blue eyes so like Jazz, so worried and warm.

He put down the mug suddenly as a sob shook his body. Cas wrapped her arms around him and pulled him close, cooing comforting wordless little sounds as she let him bury his face into her chest and just sob heaving, exhausting outbursts of repressed emotion.

"Are the babies okay?" She asked and he froze, his breath catching in his throat. She clicked her tongue and rocked him gently. "Okay, okay, not in trouble," she promised.

"They- I don't know, they were so weak, I’m trying, but I don't know if I can keep them alive." Danny sobbed lifting his hands to cover his face.

"The stress can't be helping," Dick pointed out, climbing across the table like it was nothing to sit next to them and rub Danny's back. Danny gave a little hiccupping hysterical laugh. "Do you have support, or like, do you know your options?" He asked awkwardly.

"I'm not getting rid of my babies! I don't care if the man who made them is an obsessive creep who drugged me! I love them they're MINE!" The feral protectiveness seemed to startle Dick even as Cas continued to make soothing sounds.

"Your choice, only yours," she promised. "Have help?"

Danny sniffled and shook his head. "Safe?" Another shake of the head.

"The man who... did this?" Dick asked as delicately as he could. Another hysterical laugh.

"I've tried! I've tried to tell my parents he's a creep, he's dangerous but they don't listen! My dad thinks he hung the fucking stars, mom says he's harmless. They don't believe me! I-I can't tell them about the babies. They'd make me get rid of them or worse! I can't." Danny sobbed and Cas soothed.

"Okay, okay, you don't have to." She promised. "You stay with us, you and babies safe, never have to see him again."

"Ya right. Wait, your serious? What" Danny asked, pulling back and looking at her with wide bloodshot eyes.

"She's very serious young master," Alfred said as he approached making Danny jump. there was a hard set to the old man's jaw and steal in his eyes that left no room for questions as he set a plate of eggs, sausage, and fruit in front of Danny. "Master Bruce has a foster license and is a mandatory reporter. I'm sure once he hears even a fraction of this he will insist you stay. I will prepare a room for you. Am I to assume the man who's shouting demanding your return upstairs is the source of this distress?"

Danny swallowed and nodded, Alfred nodded back and paused to rest a gloved hand gently on Danny's hair before walking away briskly.

"Eat," Cas said, nudging him gently to let go of her. "As much as you want. Still hungry? We raid Tim's secret cereal stash."

"Gasp! You know where it is? You've been holding out on me?!" Dick demanded with exaggerated betrayal and as the two started to banter Danny ate. He was glad of the distraction, of not having the attention on him as he devoured the healthy, and nutritious meal the butler had made for him. It had been a while since he'd had a good home cooked meal, it made his core feel warm and he could feel the two little echoes as his hummed.

The babies were happy too, he didn't believe these people could keep him safe from Vlad really, but this was nice. Maybe he would let them try, get a few more good meals, a respite, and maybe... maybe his parents would finally notice that something was wrong and actually stand up for him?

That was probably wishful thinking but he could hope right? there was no harm in that.

Part 2

#fanfiction #danny phantom #dc x dp #angst #misunderstanding #the bats think Danny is normal pregnant not incubating cores #Vlad is a creep #stalker Vlad #vlad plasmius #dick grayson #cassandra cain #feedback and comments welcome #for some reason it won't let me add a title #I wouldn't really know what to call it anyway

3K notes · View notes

dukemeropide · 1 month ago

Text

This floor hasn’t seen power for centuries, so it would seem, and yet it still groans and sighs like the belly of some great, iron beast. Far above and far below, one can make out the signs of life from the rest of the sunken Fortress - steam from hissing valves, the rhythmic hammering of a plate press, and the rattle of water through knots of pipes - but carried here through the echoing chambers of abandoned tunnels and rusted air vents, the ordinary becomes otherworldly. The long-dried and defunct metal veins snaking the corridor overhead sing softly as if with the voices of some very far away, ghostly choir.

The Duke has explored this floor once or twice on his own before. He has plumbed the Fortress’ secrets so doggedly that investigation might as well be his true job and administration simply something he does on the side, and so he has a rough idea of where they are and where to go. Concentrating on an imperfect map he’s stitched together in his mind from his previous visits, he doesn’t immediately notice when the quick, resolute heels clicking alongside the steady thump of his rubber soles die away until he’s already gone nearly to the end of the hall. He stops there and turns with a curiosity deliberate enough to stamp out the undercurrent of panic. If he lost the former Archon here, he knows the only thing the court could do to him at this point is stand him across the ring from one legendary duelist. It was a fate as good as death.

But Furina has merely stopped by the wall some feet back, examining something high above her.

Ousia nodes, she says, and Wriothesley crosses his arms.

”A few things, I’d imagine,” he says as he makes his way back to her to see what’s so special about them. They couldn’t look nearly as out of place here as she does, all but shining in the gloom in her clean white and bright blue, and in fact he’s impressed by her eye when he comes up alongside her. Three dim bulbs in a line, hardly unusual in a place like this except for the faint glow of residual energy around them. Wriothesley stares up at them with a hand stroking his chin. Had someone been here recently…?

“Looks like one of them might lead to—“ He starts to look around, following the narrow piping zigzagging away from the leftmost bulb. There’s a filthy rag draped over some irregular shape hidden in the shadows against the wall and his eyes light up. “—Aha, there’s a console under here.”

He pulls it off to reveal a rusty old machine with rows of dust-caked keys along its front. A large gear sits inert behind it, connecting to the piping from the Ousia node. Wriothesley runs his fingers along the letters, then wipes his thumb across the little square screen at the top - lifeless and blank now.

”This probably operates a few cameras on the floor. Too bad I don’t have the means to make it run. I doubt there are any Pneuma blocks sitting around down here either. Those things are too valuable to be locked up and abandoned.”

　PARADE OF THE LADY ｡

#fanfaire #thread : parade of the lady #// cue wriothesley learning that furina's got all the fontaine puzzles in the bag #// we're making up our own lore for how these overworld mechanics actually work hahaha #// pneumaousia blocks might regenerate for the sake of the traveler but the wiki says they're artificially created and this is a factory #// that makes its money from creating things that run on pneumaousia so blocks are likely not just lying around

21 notes · View notes

hallowpen · 21 days ago

Text

Anil remains of the perspective that Pin's "choice" was made with the intention to hurt her instead of protect her. Their status within their own relationship forced very different reactionary measures that Anil fails to understand from her place of privilege. Anil was ready and willing to sacrifice everything in order to be with Pin, while Pin was willing to sacrifice her own happiness to prevent Anil from being disgraced. Anil has been taught by experience that should she want something, she has the power to make it happen. Pin has lived to serve the royal family and to take responsibility for any wrongdoing that may cause them potential harm.

It was lovely to see Lady Uangfah sympathizing with Pin, especially when it's compared to Princess Patt's harsher approach. Uangfah is in the best position to understand wanting something you simply cannot have... and, thus, succumbing to her own marital fate within society.

สไบ (pronounced 'sa-bai') is a shawl breast cloth that is typically worn for any culturally significant traditions... like a wedding ceremony. Often hand-embroidered, Sbai are made from long pieces of silk that can be draped diagonally around the chest by covering one shoulder and hanging behind the wearer's back. The quality (and color) of its silk and threads were determined by one's status in society. Vibrant and more expensive silks were worn by royalty, with embroideries of gold or silver threads.

Reputational hearsay is disallowed in royal society, as both involved parties typically tend to suffer as a result. Making an accusation against a person of rank requires evidentiary support, otherwise it could look like the intentional spreading of a false rumor. As Pin, Patt, and Anan all point out, should they publicly reveal the truth about Kuea without any proof, his denial could endanger the reputation of the Savettavarit name... which is what this whole insisted-upon marriage is supposed to protect in the first place.

The idea of karmic penance is nothing new in this series (or in Thai Buddhist tradition)... and it is something that has been ingrained into Pin from Patt's influence (re: episode 12). Pin, herself, has described her actions as sinful: that she would "force" Anil to step below her revered standing is considered to be 'immoral'. It can be said that Pin sees herself as a stain against Anil's otherwise pure character. In order to repent for her actions, she must make amends... no matter how much suffering she might endure as a result. And while she may not understand it, Anil can only wish that Pin can endure and find some form of happiness in her pursuit of redemption.

There are several key steps involved in a traditional Thai wedding ceremony...

ขันหมาก (pronounced 'khan maak') is a procession where the groom and his relatives march to the bride's home. The parade will often feature drummers and traditional folk dancers in a lively celebration that announces the groom's arrival. Relatives are often seen carrying monetary gifts to be used as part of the bride's dowry and offerings that represent important aspects of the marriage... such as health, prosperity, fertility and longevity.

พิธีกั้นประตู (pronounced 'phi-thi gan pra-tuu') is the symbolic barring of the groom from approaching the bride. The groom must successfully pass through a number of obstacles that are put in the groom’s way by the bride’s family. These symbolic "doors" can only be entered once the groom has proven his worth to the keepers of the "locks". Gold and silver gates are represented by gold or silver belts, which are held by two female members of the bride’s family and friends. The groom's passage through to the next door will only be granted once a "toll" has been negotiated with the keeper of the lock. The entire process is symbolic of the challenges the groom must overcome in order to be worthy of his bride's love and her family's approval. Upon completion, the dowry (สินสอด or 'sin sod') is then formally presented to the bride's family.

พิธีหลั่งน้ำพระพุทธมนต์ (pronounced 'phi-thi lang naam phra-phuut-ta-mon') is known as the water pouring ceremony. The water pouring is the most important part of a Thai wedding ceremony as it is when a couple can officially be seen as husband and wife.

Before the water pouring can take place, the couple is seated at a traditional water pouring table known as ตั่งรดน้ำ (pronounced 'dtang rot-naam')... with the bride to the left of the groom. They each receive a ceremonial headdress known as มงคล (pronounced 'mong-khol'). The headdress is made from one continuous piece of cotton that forms a circle around each of the bride's and groom's heads... to signify the joining of the two as a couple. Their foreheads are anointed with three dots of white powder to represent the shape of a pyramid, which is symbolic of enlightenment and harmony.

The รดน้ำสังข์ (pronounced 'roht naam sang') is performed by elders pouring blessed water over the couple's hands using a conch shell. The conch shell holds auspicious value through its connection to the Hindu god Vishnu. A trickle of water is poured from the base of the thumb to the fingertips, over first the groom’s and then the bride's, to symbolize the passing of blessings from one generation to the next.

#the loyal pin #thai culture #anilpin #koda watches gl #talk thai to me #koda's royal records #i can't wait for the next epi #😈😈😈

112 notes · View notes

thirtysomethingloser92 · 3 months ago

Text

1. And If I Get Burned, At Least We Were Electrified.

Prequel to The Last Great American Dynasty.

Warnings: Smut, Violence, Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Swearing, 18+.

Summary: In the shadowy underworld of New Orleans, where power is currency and loyalty is a fragile thread, you find yourself entangled with Remy LeBeau, a charismatic and dangerous mob boss. What begins as a chance encounter soon evolves into a complex, intense relationship that neither of you saw coming.

A deep yawn slipped from your lips as you descended the creaky wooden stairs, each step bringing you closer to the dimly lit bar area below. The comforting warmth of the takeaway coffee in your hand did little to fully shake the lingering sleep that clung to you. With your crossbody bag pressed tightly against your chest and your phone occupying your other hand, you navigated the sudden shift from the bright, sunlit morning outside to the bar’s shadowy interior. The contrast was jarring, momentarily disorienting, and you found yourself squinting, blinking a few times as your eyes adjusted to the low light.

The faint smell of stale beer and cleaning products hit your senses, and you paused briefly, the familiar atmosphere slowly wrapping itself around you. Just another day, you thought, taking a slow sip of your coffee to wake up a little more. Your footsteps echoed softly on the wooden floor as you made your way further inside.

“You’re late,” came a voice from behind the bar, breaking the silence. You glanced up to see James, your friend, leaning casually against the counter. His signature smirk was plastered across his face, his arms crossed in front of him. A white cloth was carelessly slung over his shoulder, a familiar sight after years of friendship and shared shifts.

Without missing a beat, you held up your coffee cup as if it were a shield against his teasing, “There was a line,” you replied defensively, trying to suppress the urge to roll your eyes. You could already tell this was going to be one of those days. You slipped your phone into your bag and moved to the side office, the small room barely big enough to hold the essentials. The bag hit the floor with a soft thud, a sigh escaping your lips.

As you stepped back into the bar area, you noticed one of your colleagues struggling to maneuver a trolley full of alcohol bottles into the storage area. You made a mental note to help them later, but for now, your attention was fixed on James, who was watching you with an amused expression, his arms still crossed.

He leaned forward slightly, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial tone. “Well, in the spirit of full disclosure,” he began, “we just had Remy Lebeau’s crew here.”

You froze mid-sip, the coffee catching in your throat as you swallowed too quickly. You coughed, eyes widening as his words sank in. “Why?” you rasped, narrowing your eyes suspiciously as you glanced around the bar. “Who owes him here?”

James straightened up, unfolding his arms but keeping that smirk on his lips. “No one, apparently. They’re looking for a—quote��neutral spot for a meeting—unquote.” He paused for emphasis, eyeing you as if to gauge your reaction. “So they gave the boss lady a shit ton of money to close the bar down for the night. They’ll be here for some kind of meeting.”

You blinked, the implications hitting you immediately. “Thank fuck I wasn’t here,” you muttered under your breath, relief washing over you. “And thank fuck I won’t be here! It’s Friday, I’m off at 3.”

James’ laugh was genuine this time, the deep, rumbling sound filling the quiet bar. But there was something in that laugh that made you wary. He leaned back on his heels, arms once again crossing over his chest in that way that told you bad news was coming.

“And that’s where I rain on your little parade.” His grin widened, almost gleeful now. “Kate called in sick.”

Your heart sank, the coffee now feeling like a lead weight in your stomach. “No...”

“You’re replacing her, 10 to 10,” he said, the words like a hammer to your carefully laid plans.

Your face fell as the reality of your situation settled in. “I had plans,” you mumbled, the words barely audible even to yourself. Visions of a quiet evening at home, maybe catching up on that show or finally finishing that book, all crumbled before you like a house of cards.

“Not anymore, you don’t.” James’ laughter followed you as you stared at him in disbelief. He didn’t even have the decency to look apologetic. Instead, he turned back to the dishwasher that had just beeped, signaling the end of a cycle. He reached in to pull out the dozens of hot, steaming glasses crammed inside with the same casual ease, while your mood plummeted further.

You stood there in the middle of the bar, still holding your now lukewarm coffee, mentally kicking yourself for not calling in sick yourself this morning.

As you and James cleaned up the bar, the sound of heels echoed from around the corner, sharp and deliberate, cutting through the silence like a knife. Abigail emerged, a folder in her hands, her expression as unreadable as ever. She came to a stop in front of you, her gaze flicking briefly to the takeaway coffee cup still in your hand. Abigail Norman was not a woman you forgot easily. Even before she spoke, her presence commanded attention with a force that could quiet a room. She was older, though you could never quite pinpoint her age—somewhere in her mid-fifties, perhaps—but the years had done nothing to soften her sharp edges. Her dark brown hair, carefully styled into loose curls, framed her face in a way that might have made someone else look approachable, even warm. But for Abigail, it only sharpened her already severe appearance. Her features were angular and precise: high cheekbones, a strong jawline, and hooded eyes that always seemed to be calculating something just out of your reach.

Her makeup was meticulously applied, but not overdone. The crimson lipstick she wore was a signature of hers—bold, unapologetic, and a signal that she was not to be trifled with. A soft brown eyeshadow and a thin line of eyeliner emphasized her dark eyes, which, despite their cosmetic enhancement, remained cold and distant, like two polished stones. They were the eyes of someone who had seen too much and trusted too little.

She dressed in business attire that was both elegant and intimidating. Today, it was a tailored gray suit, the pants perfectly hemmed to reveal the iconic red soles of her Louboutin heels. The suit accentuated her slim frame, adding to the impression that she was not just a businesswoman, but a force of nature. Every step she took echoed through the bar, the sound of her heels against the floor an almost ominous reminder of the authority she wielded.

Abigail was not known for small talk or pleasantries, and she had little patience for anything she deemed frivolous. You’d once cracked a joke about money laundering, given the sheer number of businesses she owned—bars, restaurants, and even a high-end boutique or two. But one sharp glance from those cold, steely eyes had shut that down fast. It wasn’t just that she didn’t find it funny; it was as though the mere suggestion that she could be anything but above board was an insult she wouldn’t tolerate.

“Nice of you to grace us with your presence,” she commented, her tone clipped, not bothering to hide her irritation.

You forced a smile, already bracing for the lecture. “Traffic. You know how it is in New Orleans,” you lied smoothly, though you knew it wouldn’t land.

Her eyes shifted to the cup in your hand, and a small, knowing smirk tugged at her lips. “I’m sure it was.”

Abigail’s gaze lingered for just a moment before she moved on, her sharp eyes scanning the bar. As usual, she missed nothing. Her presence alone was enough to make you and James fall into line, though you both tried to keep things light with your usual banter.

“I suppose you’ve heard about tonight then?” she asked, not really waiting for an answer.

You nodded. “I have.”

“And that you’re working 10-10 now. Kate’s called out,” she said, barely looking up from the checklist in her hands.

Feigning concern, you put on your best sympathetic face. “Oh, that’s a shame. Is she okay?” you asked, handing your cup to James, who silently tossed it into the bin behind you.

Abigail didn’t bother with pleasantries. “You know what Kate’s like. She cries about wanting the shifts, so I give them to her, and she never shows up.”

Her eyes flicked up from the checklist, pinning you with that steely gaze. “I know how much you two enjoy making running commentary about our guests,” she said, motioning to you and James, who was now trying to suppress a grin. “So for tonight, I suggest you both shut the hell up. Make Mr. Lebeau and his friends comfortable, or I’ll make sure neither of you work in this city again.”

You and James both nodded, the threat as real as the woman standing before you. It wasn’t the first time Abigail had reminded you of the precarious position you held, and it wouldn’t be the last.

As she turned to leave, she paused, looking back over her shoulder. “Also, neither one of you are very subtle,” she added, her eyes sparkling with a hint of amusement, though her face remained perfectly neutral.

Once she was out of earshot, you and James exchanged a grin, the tension lifting slightly. You both knew better than to push too far, but that didn’t mean you couldn’t have a little fun in the meantime.

“Think she’s planning on making herself the queen of New Orleans?” you asked, grabbing a bottle of cleaner and spraying down the benches.

“Oof,” James scoffed. “If she is, she’ll be making the mad dash to her hairdresser in about thirty minutes.”

You chuckled, as if this was a conversation you’d had before. “Maybe we should be protecting Remy Lebeau from her,” you commented lightly, reaching for a bottle of top-shelf whiskey and pouring three shots in quick succession.

“Here’s to 11 a.m. shots and Remy Lebeau possibly becoming our new boss daddy,” you laughed, raising your glass. James and your other colleague snorted in response as they grabbed their own glasses.

You all knocked back the shots, the burn of the alcohol barely registering, before a voice called out from the back room.

“You’re paying for those.”

You winced, but couldn’t help the grin that spread across your face. <><><><><><><><><>

The clock on the wall ticked over to 8 PM, and the bar was eerily quiet. You and James had been killing time for the past hour, throwing crumpled paper into a small recycling bin behind the bar. It was a poor substitute for the bustling Friday night crowd that should’ve been filling the place with noise, laughter, and chaos. Normally at this time, the bar would be packed, with bodies pressed shoulder to shoulder, the hum of conversation and clinking of glasses filling the space. But tonight, it was dead. The absence of life felt unnatural, and after a while, the silence started to crawl under your skin.

“So, what were your plans for tonight?” you asked James, taking another shot at the bin and missing by a mile.

He lazily handed you another crumpled paper ball, shrugging as he took a long sip from his water bottle. “I was gonna take Nat out to that new Italian place by the river, but, well... as you can see, that all went to shit.”

You winced slightly, knowing how hard it was to get a reservation at that place. “Is she at least understanding about it?”

James chuckled, retrieving the paper you’d missed and making the shot himself in one smooth motion. “Yeah, when I told her the reason, she said it was fine. She’ll just hang with her sister tonight.”

You nodded thoughtfully. “It helps when you’ve got someone understanding.”

James raised an eyebrow at you, a playful smirk tugging at his lips. “What about you? Any hot date I need to know about?”

You scoffed, rolling your eyes as you tossed another paper ball. “Not even close. Honestly, I think I’m done with dating until the men of New Orleans decide to pick up their game.”

James laughed, a low, amused chuckle. “Ouch. That’s rough.”

You grinned, pointing at him. “Oh, you’re definitely included in that Barnes.”

Before he could respond, both of you froze at the sound of Abigail’s voice echoing from the hallway. You exchanged quick glances, panic flashing in your eyes, and immediately scrambled to clean up the mess of paper and empty cups you’d left behind. It was a mad dash to make the bar look like a professional establishment again, both of you trying to act like you hadn’t just spent the last few hours goofing off.

Abigail entered the bar, her heels clicking sharply against the floor, followed by a man in a white suit and four others trailing behind him. The man in the white suit was large, with a thick neck and broad shoulders, clearly someone used to commanding respect. Abigail stopped in front of you and James, her cold eyes flicking over you both with an air of disapproval.

“And this is our bar staff,” she said, her voice dripping with an almost forced politeness. “If you need anything, feel free to ask them, and they will be happy to provide it.”

You and James forced smiles, but yours felt more like a grimace, especially when Abigail shot you a brief but pointed glare. The men nodded silently, then moved toward the large circular table for twelve that had been set up in the far corner of the bar. The man in the white suit took his seat at the head of the table, while the others flanked him, standing like silent sentinels.

Abigail leaned in close to you, her voice a low, icy whisper. “Try to be a bit more pleasant when Mr. Lebeau arrives.” Her tone left no room for argument—it was a warning, and a familiar one at that.

You exchanged a quick glance with James, both of you tensing slightly. The red-haired waitress was already at the table, nodding furiously as the man in white pointed to various items on the menu. You could tell by her expression that she was nervous, her hands trembling slightly as she tried to keep up with his rapid questions.

And then, as if on cue, you heard it—the loud, fake laugh that Abigail reserved for only the most important guests. It echoed through the quiet bar, signaling the arrival of the man you’d been nervously anticipating all night. You were midway through complaining to James about how hungry you were when the door swung open, and your head automatically turned.

Remy Lebeau walked in, and the atmosphere in the room shifted instantly. It was as if all the air had been sucked out, leaving only the weight of his presence. He was the kind of man who didn’t need to announce himself—his mere existence did that for him. He wore a dark blue suit, perfectly tailored to his lean, muscular frame, with the top button of his white shirt left undone, giving him an air of casual confidence. His hair was dark and not overly styled, it fell slightly on his forehead. His face was sharp, angular, with a jawline that could probably cut glass. Five men walked in after him, each dressed in a type of calm and casual neatness that if you didn’t know any better, you would say it was a group of friends having dinner after a day in the office. But of course you knew better.

If New Orleans had a king, his name was Remy Lebeau. In the underworld, he was a legend, a figure whispered about in dark corners and back alleys, where people knew better than to speak his name too loudly. He was the kind of man that everyone respected—whether that respect was born out of admiration or fear depended entirely on which side of his temper you’d found yourself. Few dared to cross him, and those who did rarely lived to tell the tale.

Lebeau wasn’t just any mobster. He had clawed his way to the top with a combination of sheer cunning, brute strength, and a ruthless disregard for anyone who stood in his way. His nickname, "The King of New Orleans," wasn’t just a title; it was a statement of fact. Every racket, every scheme, every underhanded deal that went down in the Crescent City had his fingerprints on it. And if it didn’t, it wouldn’t be long before it did.

Behind his suave, charming exterior—and he was charming, that much was undeniable—was a man with an iron will and a heart as cold as the Mississippi in winter. His reputation for cruelty was well-earned. A hard hand and an unforgiving nature defined him. If you owed him money, you paid. If you crossed him, you disappeared. And if you made the mistake of underestimating him, well, you didn’t get the chance to make that mistake again.

Lebeau was a master of contradiction. He was known for his impeccable manners, his smooth Cajun drawl, and his love of fine things—tailored suits, expensive bourbon, and even finer women. But beneath that polished exterior was a man capable of terrifying violence. He could be laughing with you over cigars one minute and have you dragged to the bayou the next, never to be seen again. His crew was fiercely loyal, but not because they loved him—because they feared him. And in Remy Lebeau’s world, fear was the currency that bought loyalty.

He was also a man who understood the value of appearances. He kept his hands clean, at least on the surface. His legitimate businesses—clubs, restaurants, even a few high-end hotels—were fronts, a way to launder the dirty money that flowed through his empire. But everyone knew the truth. No one got that rich, that powerful, in New Orleans without getting blood on their hands. And Lebeau’s hands were soaked.

In moments of generosity, he could be magnanimous, even charming. He’d be the first to buy a round of drinks for the house, to shake hands with the mayor, to slip a generous donation to the church. But that charm was as much a weapon as the gun tucked beneath his tailored jacket. It disarmed people, lulled them into a false sense of security, right before he made his move.

But it wasn’t his appearance that struck you the most—it was the way he carried himself. There was an undeniable magnetism about him, an aura of control and danger that radiated from every step he took. His movements were smooth, deliberate, like a predator who knew exactly where he stood in the food chain. His smile was charming, almost disarming, but his eyes told a different story. They were dark, calculating, like he was constantly sizing up everyone around him, deciding who was useful and who was expendable. He had the kind of eyes that could flip from warmth to ice in an instant.

When those eyes finally met yours, you felt a chill run down your spine. Though he was smiling, you could see the darkness beneath it—this was a man who didn’t get where he was by being nice. He was dangerous, and you knew it. Every instinct in your body told you to be cautious around him. This wasn’t someone you wanted to cross; this was someone who could ruin you with a single word, and you wouldn’t even know it was coming until it was too late.

As Remy walked further into the room, the men at the table all stood, their posture stiffening as if his presence alone demanded respect. He gave them a nod, his smile never faltering, but you noticed the way his eyes flicked back to you and James for just a second longer than necessary. It was a glance that made your stomach tighten.

Abigail greeted him with her usual over-the-top enthusiasm, her laugh grating on your nerves even more than usual, but you were too focused on Remy to pay much attention. The way he commanded the room without even trying was unsettling, to say the least. You’d heard the stories about him—the King of New Orleans, the mobster with the iron grip on the city’s underworld—but seeing him in person was something else entirely. He was more than just a rumor, more than just a name whispered in hushed tones. He was real, and he was right in front of you.

James nudged you lightly, pulling you out of your thoughts. You quickly tore your gaze away from Remy and focused on the task at hand, your heart still pounding in your chest. The night had just begun, and already it felt like it was going to be a long one.

As you moved behind the bar, you couldn’t help but glance back at Remy one more time. He was talking to Abigail now, his voice low and smooth, though you couldn’t make out the words. The way he stood, the way he moved—it all screamed power. And for the first time in a long while, you felt completely out of your depth. This wasn’t just another high roller or VIP. This was someone far more dangerous.

And tonight, you were in his world. <><><><><><><><><> Laughter rippled through the large table, catching your attention as you and James busied yourselves tidying up the bar. Remy clapped one of his men on the shoulder, saying something that sent the whole table into another round of chuckles. So far, the evening had remained friendly, the mood around the room still light. But beneath the surface, you could feel something else—something tense, something electric.

You’d been working overtime all evening, and the exhaustion was starting to creep into your limbs. The idea of the weekend, of not having to come back here for two full days, was practically the only thing keeping you going. You’d lost count of how many times Abigail had swanned in, fluttering her lashes at Remy, each time asking with exaggerated sweetness if he and his entourage were enjoying themselves. You and James had exchanged plenty of glances, barely holding back your amusement every time she left the room.

You kept your voices low, but it didn’t seem to matter. Every time the two of you snorted in laughter or made a quick quip at Abigail’s expense, Remy would glance up from the table. His eyes would lock onto yours, that ever-present smirk playing at the corner of his lips, like he could hear every word you were saying. His gaze pierced through the dim lighting of the bar, and each time, it felt like he was looking right into you, like he could read your thoughts. The intensity of his attention was unnerving, and yet… there was something magnetic about it. You couldn’t help but feel drawn in, as if some invisible current connected the two of you across the room.

“We’re so getting fired by the end of the night,” James muttered, crouching down to grab a few bottles from the drink cupboard. His voice was light, but there was an edge of real anxiety behind it. “Might need to learn how to make our feet look real pretty, ‘cause that’s the only way we’ll be paying rent this month.”

You laughed, but the tension in your gut didn’t dissipate. “Speak for yourself. I’m more worried about getting killed before the night’s over. If not by the guys in here, then by Abigail herself. She looks like she hasn’t slept in days.”

James stood up, wiping his hands on his pants. “You think Abigail sleeps?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

You didn’t notice the subtle shift in the atmosphere as you continued stocking the shelves. “Yeah, upside down on the rafters, like a bat,” you joked, letting out a laugh just as you felt a slight nudge at the back of your feet.

The laugh died in your throat as you turned and locked eyes with Remy Lebeau, leaning casually against the bar. That smirk—the one that had been haunting you all night—was wider now, more pronounced. His presence sent a jolt through you, and you immediately looked down at the floor, your heart racing. You knew you were in trouble. A man like Remy didn’t sneak up on people without a reason.

“Abigail’s y’ boss, right?” Remy’s voice was smooth, with that thick drawl that rolled off his tongue like honeyed whiskey. He wasn’t even acknowledging James, his eyes fixed solely on you, that grin never leaving his face. There was a playfulness in his tone, but underneath it, you could sense the weight of his power—a reminder that playful or not, he was not a man to be taken lightly.

You swallowed hard, trying to salvage the situation. “She’s a great boss,” you managed to say, though your voice sounded a little too high-pitched for your liking. “Really,” you added, though the word trailed off awkwardly as Remy raised an eyebrow, his amusement deepening.

He didn’t say anything for a moment, just let the silence stretch between you, making you feel more and more like a deer caught in headlights. Then, with a casual flick of his wrist, he handed James a large bill, his eyes still locked on you. “Grab me ‘nother bottle of wha’ we been drinkin’,” he said, though it was less of a request and more of a command.

James took the money, but you were already moving, grabbing the bottle from the shelf with shaky hands. As you passed it to James, Remy gave you a small wink. “Keep th’ change,” he said, his voice smooth as silk. Then, without another word, he pushed off the bar and strode back to the table, leaving you standing there, breathless.

You let out the breath you hadn’t realized you were holding, your heart still pounding in your chest. James, who had been watching the entire exchange with barely concealed amusement, finally let out a snort of laughter. “Well, that was something. Should I start looking for job openings now, or wait until morning?”

You shot him a look, though the humor in his eyes made it hard to stay irritated. “Oh, we’re definitely screwed. I’ll let you know if I find a job that’ll take us both.”

Before you could say anything else, the red-haired waitress wandered over, her eyes following Remy as he walked back to the table. She glanced between the two of you, curiosity written all over her face. “What was that all about?” she asked, leaning against the counter.

You shook your head, trying to shake the lingering tension that clung to you like a second skin. “I’m pretty sure I’ll be spending my weekend job hunting after tonight,” you muttered, finally tearing your gaze away from Remy and focusing on the waitress. “What about you? What brings you into the lion’s den?”

She glanced toward the kitchen, then back at you, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “Abigail wants me to cover you while you take your break. Vis has made something for dinner in the back.”

“Oh, thank god,” James groaned, handing over the white cloth he’d been using to clean the bar. “I was starting to think I’d have to start nibbling on the bar snacks.”

The waitress listened as he gave her a small list of tasks that needed handling, but you were only half-listening. You couldn’t shake the feeling of Remy’s eyes still on you, even from across the room. Every time you let your guard down, every time you let yourself slip into the rhythm of the evening, there he was—watching. Observing. Every smile he flashed at his men, every laugh he shared at the table, felt like it was tinged with something else. You couldn’t put your finger on it, but there was a dangerous edge to his presence, something that made your skin prickle with nervous energy.

As you and James made your way toward the kitchen, you cast one last glance over your shoulder. Remy was leaned back in his chair, his arm draped casually over the backrest, and his eyes were still locked on you. That smirk was back, curling at the corner of his mouth like he knew something you didn’t. For a moment, it felt like the rest of the room disappeared—just you and him, caught in that charged silence, where everything seemed to hang on the edge of a knife. His gaze was intense, like he could see right through the bravado you wore like armor, right down to the nerves fraying underneath.

You turned away quickly, your pulse kicking up as you tried to steady your breathing. Vis, the older cook, handed you a large burger with fries on the side. The comforting smell of sizzling food and the clatter of pans usually made the kitchen feel like a safe haven, but right now, it was a sanctuary from the tension simmering in the bar.

“How’s it going out there?” He asked, his voice low and gruff, as if he knew exactly who was still on your mind.

James grabbed his food and shook some salt over the fries, leaning casually against the counter. “Well, in the space of several hours, we’ve watched Abigail try and find herself husband number—what is it again?” He glanced at you with a knowing grin.

“Four,” you mumbled around a mouthful of fries.

“Four,” James repeated, drawing out the word with exaggerated exasperation. “We’ve been dying of hunger all night, and our lovely head barmaid here has been making bedroom eyes with a certain mobster.”

You choked, spluttering and coughing as you struggled to catch your breath. “I’ve been what now?”

James waited patiently as you recovered, his expression not unlike that of a cat who caught a canary. He turned back to Vis, who watched the scene unfold with quiet amusement. “Anyway, Remy overheard us talking smack about Abigail, and now we’re pretty sure we’ll be fired by tomorrow. He’s definitely gonna tell her.”

You nodded, your expression grim as you took another bite. “He’s absolutely gonna tell her,” you agreed, though the thought of Remy tattling on you seemed oddly out of character, “Anyway, I’m going to go eat this out the back. Its getting a bit too stuffy in here for my liking.” “It’s cold out there,” Vis pointed out, “Don’t forget a jacket.”

You gave the chef a warm smile as you told him you’ll be fine, you just need a bit of a breather. But all you could feel was the weight of the evening pressing down on you. The kitchen was too warm, too stifling, and the thought of Remy’s lingering gaze still made your skin tingle uncomfortably. Grabbing your plate, you pushed the door open and stepped into the cool night, the clamor of the bar fading as you settled onto an old crate against the wall. The night air was a welcome relief, crisp and biting against your heated skin.

You were midway through your burger when the door creaked open again, and Remy stepped out, his presence as effortless as ever. He gave you a nod of acknowledgment before fishing a cigarette from his pocket. With a flick of his wrist, he lit it, the glow briefly illuminating his face in the dark. He took a long drag, then held the pack out to you.

You shook your head, feeling awkward now that the bustling bar was behind you. Out here in the cool night air, the streetlights casting long shadows, there was nowhere to hide from Remy’s sharp, knowing eyes. The way they seemed to take in everything about you—every nervous glance, every fidget—it made you feel exposed. Vulnerable, even. You were used to fading into the background when things got too intense, blending into the noise and activity of the bar. But now, with just the two of you standing outside, there was no escaping his attention.

Remy shrugged casually, slipping his cigarette pack back into his jacket pocket and leaning against the brick wall beside you. He exhaled a plume of smoke, the scent of tobacco mixing with the crisp night air. “Should really quit, I know,” he said, his voice carrying that lazy, Southern drawl that somehow made everything sound like a suggestion rather than a command. “These things gonna kill me ‘fore I even see my next birthday.”

You smirked despite the tension crawling up your spine, popping another fry into your mouth as you tried to keep things light. “Wouldn’t want that, would we?”

He chuckled softly, the sound low and rich, and when you glanced over, his eyes were still on you, unwavering. “So, it’s no’ jus’ reserved fo’ the staff, huh?” he teased, his voice warm but edged with something you couldn’t quite name. “This is jus’ who y’ are.”

You felt heat rise to your cheeks, your heart picking up pace. His gaze had that effect on you—like he could see past the words you were saying, right into the truth of you. Unsettled, you looked away, pretending to be absorbed in the few remaining fries. “I’m sorry,” you mumbled, feeling suddenly self-conscious. “I’m overtired and not really thinking straight.”

Remy tilted his head slightly, studying you in that quiet, intense way of his, like he was weighing your words carefully. “Then why y’s till here, if y’ wasn’t suppos’ t’ be?”

You shrugged, your fingers nervously picking at the edges of your half-eaten burger bun. The question hit a little too close to home. “One of the other bartenders called in sick, and…well, rent’s due.” The words came out casually, but there was a weight behind them, a kind of resignation you hadn’t meant to let slip. You quickly looked down, embarrassed by how vulnerable that admission felt.

There was a beat of silence, and when you dared to glance up, Remy was nodding slowly, his expression thoughtful, as if he understood more than you had said. He took another drag from his cigarette, exhaling smoke through his nose. “That’s fair. Gotta keep the lights on somehow.” His eyes flicked back to you, assessing, but not unkind. “You like workin’ here?”

You hesitated, caught off guard by the question. No one ever really asked you things like that. You paused, really thinking about it for the first time in a while. “Yeah, I do. It’s not so bad, you know? Except for the occasional rowdy customer or—”

“—or Abigail,” Remy finished for you, a wry smile tugging at the corner of his lips. His laugh was soft, but it caught you off guard, and despite yourself, you found your own lips curling into a smile.

You rolled your eyes with a half-laugh, the tension beginning to ease from your shoulders. “She’s not always that bad. Just… selectively intolerable.”

Remy’s smirk deepened as he flicked the ash from his cigarette onto the pavement, his eyes gleaming with amusement. “Selective’s one way t’ put i’,” he said with a chuckle, his tone light but carrying that ever-present edge of danger. “Y’ got some guts talkin’ about her like that when she’s just inside, though.”

You laughed, but it was a nervous sound, the kind of laugh you let out when you’re caught off guard but still trying to play it cool. “Yeah, well… I’m learning to live dangerously,” you teased, though the irony wasn’t lost on you. You were standing next to the most dangerous man in the city, and yet somehow you felt more at ease with him than you did with your own boss.

Remy’s eyes softened, just a fraction, but enough for you to notice. “Danger, huh? Don’t seem like th’ type t’ go lookin’ fo’ it.”

You shrugged, your fingers still toying with the edge of the burger wrapper, trying to keep your hands busy so you wouldn’t betray just how on edge you felt. “I’m not, usually. But tonight’s been…not my normal clientele.”

He didn’t ask what you meant by that, but the way his gaze lingered told you that he understood more than you were saying. There was something magnetic about him, something that pulled you in even though every rational part of your brain was screaming at you to keep your distance. He was dangerous, yes, but there was something else there—something that made you want to know more.

Remy took a final drag of his cigarette before tossing it to the ground and crushing it beneath his heel. “Different ain’t always a bad thing,” he said, his voice quieter now, more thoughtful. He pushed off the wall, standing a little closer to you now, the space between you growing smaller, more intimate.

You swallowed, feeling the weight of his presence. The way he looked at you—like you were the only thing in the world worth noticing in that moment—made your skin tingle with a mix of anticipation and anxiety. You weren’t sure if you should say something, or if the silence between you was enough. The air felt charged, thick with unspoken words and possibilities you weren’t sure you wanted to explore.

But Remy didn’t push, didn’t rush. He simply stood there, the smirk on his lips fading into something softer, something more genuine. “Y’ got more goin’ on than people give ya credit for, don’tcha?” he asked, his voice low, almost conspiratorial.

You blinked, caught off guard by the sudden shift in his tone. “What makes you say that?”

He shrugged, but his eyes never left yours. “I can tell. Not jus’ anyone can handle a place like this. Or people like me.” His words hung in the air between you, heavy with meaning.

You felt your heart skip a beat. The way he said it—so casually, so matter-of-factly—made you realize that he wasn’t just talking about the bar, or the job, or even Abigail. He was talking about you. About what he saw in you. James poked his head out, eyes flicking between you and Remy, noting the flushed cheeks and the lingering grins. “Duty calls,” he said, his tone casual but his gaze curious.

You nodded quickly, grateful for the excuse to escape the intensity of the moment. But as you turned to head inside, you felt Remy’s gaze on you once again, and when you glanced back, he gave you a slow, knowing smile.

“See ya ‘round, chérie,” he murmured, his voice just loud enough for you to hear. And as you walked back into the bar, your heart still pounding in your chest, you couldn’t help but wonder what exactly that smile meant—and what it might mean for you.

As you walked back into the bar, the door swinging shut behind you, your heart was still racing. The cool night air clung to your skin, but inside, you felt flushed, like you were carrying the heat from that encounter with you. You could feel the remnants of adrenaline, the way your pulse hadn’t quite settled, the way your mind kept replaying his words, his smile, the way his eyes had looked at you like he saw more than just a bartender.

You slid behind the bar, grateful for the familiar rhythm of your work, hoping it would ground you. But even as you wiped down the counter, as your hands moved through the motions of stocking bottles and refilling glasses, your mind kept drifting back to him. To the way his presence had a gravity all its own, pulling you in despite every logical part of your brain telling you to be careful.

James sidled up next to you, his posture relaxed but his eyes still sharp. He wasn’t going to let this slide, not without at least poking at it a bit. “What was that about?” he asked, a smirk tugging at his lips, his voice light but his curiosity palpable.

You shrugged, trying to play it off like it was nothing, even though you felt like you were still vibrating with the leftover tension from that moment. “Just talking to the customer,” you said, feigning indifference as you wiped down the already clean counter. Your heart was still beating a little too fast, and you weren’t sure if it was from the adrenaline or something else. “Same as any other night.”

But it wasn’t the same as any other night, and you both knew it. This felt different—charged, dangerous in a way that had nothing to do with the usual rowdy patrons who came in and out. This wasn’t just about serving a drink, or even dealing with a VIP customer. This was about you and Remy, the way he looked at you, the way his words seemed to carry more weight than they should have.

James raised an eyebrow, clearly not buying your attempt at nonchalance. He didn’t say anything, though, just gave you that knowing look, the one that said he had seen plenty and understood more than you were letting on. But to your relief, he didn’t push. He just turned his attention back to the bar, though you could tell his ears were still perked, waiting for whatever was going to unfold next.

You tried to shake it off, to focus on the task at hand—anything to distract yourself from the way your mind kept circling back to Remy. But it was hard to push it away. Every time you closed your eyes, you could still see his smirk, could still hear that low, teasing tone in his voice. You couldn’t help but wonder what that smile meant—what he had seen in you that had made him linger, that had made him stay out there with you just a little longer than necessary.

And what did it mean for you?

This wasn’t just a flirtation, a passing glance with a handsome stranger. This was Remy Lebeau—the man who held the city in his hands, the man whose name alone made people straighten up and walk a little faster when they heard it whispered in the streets. He wasn’t someone you could afford to get involved with, not in any way. But the way he had looked at you, the way he had spoken to you, made it feel like maybe you already were involved, whether you liked it or not.

The truth was, you had felt something in that moment. Something more than just the usual anxiety that came from dealing with someone dangerous. There had been a spark there, something electric, something that made you want to know more, even though every instinct in your body told you to be careful.

And that terrified you.

Because Remy wasn’t just a man. He was a force. He was the kind of person who could change your life in an instant, for better or worse. And right now, you didn’t know which way that scale was going to tip.

You glanced back toward the table where Remy had returned, his posture relaxed, his attention seemingly back on his men. But even from across the room, you could feel that pull—the magnetic tension that seemed to hum between you, even when you weren’t speaking, even when you weren’t looking at each other.

James was saying something, probably making a joke to lighten the mood, but you barely heard him. Your mind was still on Remy, on that smile, on the way he had said your name like he knew you, like he was already planning the next time you’d cross paths.

And deep down, you knew that wouldn’t be the last time.

“Hey,” James nudged you lightly with his elbow, bringing you back to the present. “You okay? You’re zoning out.”

You blinked, forcing a smile as you nodded. “Yeah, I’m good. Just… tired.”

But you weren’t good. Not really. Because now that you had felt that spark, you weren’t sure you’d be able to ignore it. And as you glanced back at Remy once more, you couldn’t help but wonder what would happen the next time you found yourself standing alone with him.

And whether you’d be able to walk away as easily.

The steady hum of conversation and bursts of laughter from the table in front of you kept pulling your attention. You glanced up again, eyes instinctively seeking Remy in the crowd. But this time, he wasn’t looking at you. Instead, his head was turned slightly, focused on the man beside him. They sat close, their postures loose and comfortable, like old friends sharing stories over drinks.

Remy’s mouth curled into a small, easy smile as the man spoke, his hand moving to gesture lazily at something across the room. Whatever it was, Remy let out a low chuckle, a deep, gravelly sound that sent a ripple of warmth through the air. His usually sharp, predatory gaze had softened—just for a moment—as if he had let his guard down in this pocket of calm.

It was almost unsettling, seeing him like that. You had grown used to the intensity that clung to Remy like a shadow, the way his presence always demanded attention. Even when he wasn’t looking directly at you, you could feel him, like a storm brewing on the horizon. But now, in this moment, it was like watching a different man altogether. He seemed... normal. Like he could be anyone sitting at that table, sharing an inside joke with an old friend, without the weight of everything else he carried.

Your fingers drummed lightly on the bar as you watched them, an unexpected knot forming in your stomach. It was easier when he kept his distance, when there was that invisible line between you—barmaid and mobster. Simple. Clear. But the way he laughed now, the way he seemed so at ease, chipped away at that separation. It made him feel closer. More real.

James nudged you with his elbow, snapping you out of your thoughts. “You staring again?”

You blinked, heat rising to your face. “I’m not staring,” you muttered, shifting your focus back to the glass in your hand, though you couldn’t resist sneaking one more glance.

“He’s off duty,” James teased, his voice laced with amusement. “You don’t have to be so on edge. You know, the guy probably eats breakfast just like the rest of us. Maybe reads the paper in the morning. Hell, I bet he even feeds the pigeons.”

You snorted, the mental image of Remy LeBeau sitting on a park bench, casually tossing breadcrumbs to pigeons, almost making you laugh out loud. “Yeah, sure. Right after he settles some ‘business’ with those same pigeons.”

James shrugged, grinning. “I’m just saying. Maybe he’s not as dangerous as he looks.”

You didn’t respond, but your thoughts lingered on what James said. There was truth to it, as much as you didn’t want to admit it. Remy had a way of shifting between worlds—one minute he was the dangerous, unflinching mobster who could snap a man’s neck without blinking, and the next he was... this. Calm. Collected. Human.

A sudden bout of laughter from Remy’s table broke your train of thought. You glanced up again, almost instinctively, and this time, your gaze collided with his. It was brief, but unmistakable—his eyes locking onto yours for just a heartbeat before he turned back to the conversation at his table. It sent a spark of electricity down your spine, and you quickly looked away, feeling foolish for even thinking it meant anything. But then, like a needle scratching across a record, a low comment from one of the men at Remy’s table cut through the noise. The words were muffled, too quiet for you to catch, but the effect was immediate and unmistakable.

The entire table went silent.

The tension in the room thickened, settling like a storm cloud about to break. You could feel it in the air—everyone could. It was the kind of silence that pulled everyone’s attention, even the staff at the far end of the bar who hadn’t heard the comment. All eyes flicked to Remy.

He sat perfectly still, his body unnaturally calm. But his jaw tightened, the muscles in his neck flexing as he stared up at the ceiling, his eyes narrowing as though he was silently counting down, trying to rein in whatever fire had been lit inside him. For a moment, you dared to believe he might let it pass.

But you were wrong.

In slow-motion clarity, you watched as Remy stood up, the chair scraping against the floor in a sound that made your skin crawl. His calm was terrifying—more menacing than any shout or slam of fists could have been. His movements were smooth, deliberate, as if every action had been calculated long before the man had even opened his mouth.

Without a word, Remy reached across the table, his hand moving with deadly precision. In one swift motion, he grabbed the man by the collar of his shirt and yanked him out of his seat like he weighed nothing. The man barely had time to react before Remy slammed him against the wall, the sound of the impact echoing through the bar with a sickening thud. The force was so great that even the picture frames on the wall rattled, one of them dropping to the floor with a sharp crack . Your heart pounded in your chest, and you could feel the heat rising to your face as you tried to process what you were seeing.

Beside you, James shifted nervously, his voice barely above a whisper. “Should we… step in or something?”

But you both knew better. This wasn’t a situation where stepping in would make any difference. This wasn’t a bar fight you could break up with a few words or a polite request to “take it outside” like you usually did. No, this was something else entirely. This was a warning. A lesson. A reminder of who had the power in the room.

Remy held the man pinned against the wall with one hand, his grip firm and unyielding. The man tried to muster some semblance of defiance, but his bravado crumbled under the weight of Remy’s gaze. You could see it—the transition from anger to fear, from cocky to desperate. His eyes widened, darting around the room as if searching for someone to save him, but there was no escape.

You couldn’t hear what Remy was saying, but you could see his lips moving, his face inches from the man’s. His words were quiet, almost a whisper, but they carried the weight of a death sentence. Whatever Remy was telling him, it was enough to drain the color from the man’s face. Sweat beaded on his brow, his breath coming in short, panicked gasps as he tried to stammer out an apology or explanation, but the words sounded hollow, useless against the force that was Remy’s quiet fury.

For a moment, it looked like Remy might go further—that he might actually snap the man in two, right there in front of everyone. His knuckles were white, his muscles tense, and you could feel the room collectively hold its breath, waiting for what would come next. But then, just as suddenly as it had begun, Remy released him.

The man stumbled, his feet awkwardly finding the ground as Remy let go. He nearly collapsed, his legs shaky, his breathing ragged. But before anyone could fully process the shift, Remy’s demeanor changed—like flipping a switch. His cold, calculated anger melted away, replaced by a smile that sent a chill down your spine. It wasn’t a kind smile. It was the smile of a predator toying with its prey.

Remy wrapped an arm around the man’s shoulders, pulling him close in what would have looked like a friendly gesture to anyone who hadn’t just witnessed the violence a moment earlier. The man flinched at the contact, but he didn’t dare pull away.

“After this, mes amis,” Remy announced to the table, his voice loud enough for the entire bar to hear, “we’re gonna take a little drive.” His tone was light, almost jovial, but the menace was still there, just beneath the surface. The kind of menace that didn’t need to be shouted to be understood. He guided the man back to his seat with a firm, almost fatherly pat on the back, forcing him to sit beside him like nothing had happened—like he hadn’t just slammed him into the wall with the force of a hurricane.

The other men at the table nodded stiffly, their expressions tense, eyes flicking between each other but not daring to meet Remy’s. They knew better. They understood. Whatever unspoken rule had just been broken, Remy had laid it down again, and none of them were going to challenge it.

You exhaled a breath you didn’t realize you had been holding, your hands trembling slightly as you grasped the edge of the bar for support. Your mind was racing, trying to make sense of what had just happened. Part of you wanted to look away, to pretend you hadn’t seen it, to go back to the safety of serving drinks and keeping your head down. But another part of you—some darker, more curious part—couldn’t stop watching.

Remy’s control was absolute. He didn’t need to raise his voice or make a scene to remind everyone who he was and what he was capable of. He had made his point in a way that was far more effective than any outburst could have been.

Beside you, James let out a shaky breath, his voice barely a whisper. “What the hell just happened?”

You shook your head, still trying to process it yourself. But deep down, you knew exactly what had happened. Remy had sent a message—a reminder that he wasn’t someone to be crossed. And the man he had just tossed around like a rag doll had been lucky, if you could even call it that. Because whatever was waiting for him on that “drive” Remy had promised, it wasn’t going to be pleasant.

You glanced over at the table again, your eyes catching Remy’s for a brief moment. He was seated now, his posture relaxed, his arm draped casually over the back of his chair. But his eyes were still sharp, still watchful. He caught your gaze, and for a split second, that smirk returned, the one that made you feel like he knew exactly what you were thinking.

And in that moment, you realized Remy hadn’t just sent a message to his men.

He had sent it to everyone in the bar—even you.

From your vantage point behind the bar, you watched the scene unfold, your heart pounding as you tried to process what you’d just seen. Remy’s easy laughter and casual arm draped around the man were a stark contrast to the tension that still clung to the air. It was a performance, you realized—a carefully crafted show of dominance that ensured everyone in the bar knew exactly who was in control.

James nudged you again, his voice a nervous whisper. “What do you think he said to him?”

You shook your head, unable to tear your eyes away from the table. “I don’t know. But whatever it was…it wasn’t good.” You could see it in the way the man sat rigid, his eyes staring straight ahead as if afraid to move, afraid to breathe wrong in Remy’s presence. Remy, meanwhile, carried on like nothing had happened, taking a swig of his drink and engaging in light conversation with the others.

But the atmosphere was different now, the easy camaraderie that had existed before was replaced by something darker, something that hinted at the dangerous undercurrents that ran just beneath the surface. You watched Remy, the way he settled back into his chair, his arm once again draped casually over the backrest, that same smirk playing at his lips as he caught your eye from across the room.

It was a reminder, you realized—a stark, unmissable reminder of who he was and the world he navigated with such ease. And as you returned to your work, you couldn’t help but feel a mix of intrigue and caution pull at you. Because for all the light-hearted banter and stolen moments, Remy LeBeau was still a mobster, and the line between charm and danger was thinner than you’d ever imagined. <><><><> As the night drew to a close, the clock ticked past 1 a.m., and the once-boisterous group began to quiet down. Abigail, her smile as wide as ever, finally made her way over to Remy. They exchanged words in hushed tones, their conversation a murmur that contrasted sharply with the occasional clinking of glasses and the fading laughter of the last few patrons. Abigail’s eyes kept darting toward you and James, her gaze narrowing slightly as if she was calculating something behind that carefully maintained facade.

You shook your head slowly, dreading the inevitable fallout. You could feel the tension in the air like a charged current, waiting to discharge. The bar had mostly emptied, with only a few lingering stragglers remaining—those who seemed to follow Remy wherever he went. The man Remy had thrown against the wall was still around, standing with one of the stragglers, but you knew better than to think Remy would let him leave just yet with the rest of them.

You let out a loud yawn, the exhaustion of the night weighing down on your shoulders like a heavy cloak. It had been a long shift—longer than usual, or at least it felt that way. The hum of the bar had finally quieted, and the last few patrons had trickled out, leaving behind the faint smell of spilled drinks and cigarette smoke. You placed the final glasses into the washer, the repetitive clink of glass on metal soothing in its predictability.

But then, out of the corner of your eye, you caught a familiar figure moving toward you with that easy, confident stride. Remy.

You straightened instinctively, your muscles tensing in a way that had nothing to do with fear and everything to do with the strange, magnetic pull that seemed to exist between the two of you. His presence had a way of making the air around you feel heavier, charged with a kind of energy that made your skin tingle. It was a subtle thing, but undeniable. You could feel it in the way your pulse quickened whenever he was near, in the way you were hyper-aware of his every movement.

He noticed Abigail’s hawk-like gaze following the two of you, her suspicion palpable even from across the room. Remy, ever perceptive, gave you a reassuring nod, a silent message that said more than words could. His demeanor had shifted again—gone was the edge, the danger that had simmered beneath the surface earlier in the night. Now, his voice was softer, almost kind, as he stopped in front of you.

“Ge’ some sleep, chérie,” he said, his accent curling around the words in that warm, lazy way that made them sound like a personal invitation. “Migh’ come back ‘nother day.”

Your lips curved into a tired smile, though it didn’t quite reach your eyes. The exhaustion was hard to mask now, and you could feel the weight of the night settling into your bones. “It was lovely meeting you,” you replied, your voice polite but lacking the energy to match his charm. The words felt mechanical, like something you were supposed to say in a situation like this, but they didn’t quite capture the knot of emotions tangled inside you.

Remy’s smirk widened just slightly, the kind of smile that made you feel like he could see right through the veneer of formality you were clinging to. There was something almost predatory in the way his eyes lingered on you, but not in a way that made you feel unsafe. No, it was different. It was like he was waiting, biding his time, knowing that whatever tension simmered between you hadn’t been fully explored yet. And maybe, just maybe, he was as curious as you were about where it might lead.

He slapped the top of the bar twice in a casual farewell, the sound sharp in the silence of the now-empty room. It was a gesture that felt oddly intimate, like a private joke shared between the two of you, even though nothing had been said. Then, with one final glance, he turned and walked away, his movements unhurried, as if he knew he’d be back.

As he strolled toward the door, you felt the strange pull of chemistry hanging in the air—an invisible thread connecting you, even as he put distance between you. There was something unspoken between you, something that hummed quietly beneath the surface. It wasn’t just attraction, though that was certainly part of it. It was more than that—a kind of recognition, maybe. Like he saw something in you that you hadn’t fully acknowledged in yourself yet.

Abigail’s eyes followed Remy until he disappeared out the door, her expression unreadable. You braced yourself for whatever sharp remark she was about to throw your way, her usual cutting tone still echoing in the back of your mind. But instead, she surprised you.

“Go home,” she said curtly, her voice devoid of the malice you had come to expect from her. It wasn’t exactly friendly, but it wasn’t cruel either. More like… resigned. “Have the weekend off. I’ll see you Tuesday.”

You blinked, taken aback. That was unexpected. You exchanged a quick glance with James, both of you waiting for the other shoe to drop, for Abigail to say something that would tear the moment apart. But she didn’t. She just turned and walked away, her silhouette disappearing into the night with the same cold efficiency she always carried. Her departure left a strange silence in the bar, like the calm after a storm.

James let out a low whistle, his eyes wide with disbelief. “Looks like your flirting saved our asses tonight,” he said, though his words were more playful than accusatory.

You turned to face him, arching an eyebrow, though you couldn’t help but smile at his ridiculous conclusion. “How does Nat put up with you?” you asked, grabbing your bag and slinging it over your shoulder. The sarcastic remark was half-hearted, more reflex than anything, but it was enough to cut through the lingering tension that had wrapped itself around the night.

James chuckled, shaking his head as he grabbed his own things. “You know, I ask myself that question every day,” he replied with a grin that softened the mood.

But even as James’s lighthearted banter faded into the background, your mind kept drifting back to Remy. The way he had looked at you, the way his presence seemed to linger in the space long after he had left. There had been something between you tonight—something more than just polite conversation or casual flirtation. It was like a spark had been struck, and now you couldn’t help but wonder if it would catch fire the next time you crossed paths.

And deep down, you knew this wouldn’t be the last time.

As you and James locked up the bar and headed out into the cool night air, you felt a strange mix of relief and anticipation swirling in your chest. The night was over, but it didn’t feel like the end. Not really. There was something unfinished, something unresolved between you and Remy.

You could still hear his voice in your head, soft and teasing: “Migh’ come back ‘nother day.”

The question wasn’t if he would come back—it was when.

And when he did, you weren’t sure if you’d be ready for whatever was going to happen next.

But you couldn’t deny it anymore. There was chemistry between you, that much was obvious. And the more you thought about it, the more you realized how much you wanted to see where it would lead. <><><><><><>

The morning light filtered through the curtains of your small apartment, a sharp contrast to the dim, muted atmosphere of the bar from the night before. Your home was modest—cozy, even—with mismatched furniture that you’d accumulated over the years. A secondhand couch, a coffee table you’d found at a flea market, and a few pictures on the walls that gave the space a touch of warmth. It wasn’t much, but it was yours, and after nights like last night, it was a refuge.

You barely had time to adjust to the daylight before your phone buzzed on the nightstand, the sound cutting through the quiet like a knife. Squinting, you glanced at the screen. Abigail. The clock read exactly 11 a.m., and you groaned, rubbing the sleep from your eyes as you answered.

“Get your ass to the bar now,” Abigail’s voice was sharp, no prelude or explanation.

Still groggy, you sat up, the weight of the previous night settling in your chest. The encounter with Remy had left you rattled, though you hadn’t fully processed why. There had been a strange tension between the two of you, something unspoken but potent. And now, with Abigail calling so early, you couldn’t help but wonder if you were about to find out exactly what that something was.

You fumbled out of bed, grabbing the nearest comfortable clothes you could find—a well-worn hoodie and sweatpants. It wasn’t the kind of outfit you’d be proud of in public, but right now, you were barely awake enough to care. After a quick rinse of your face, a splash of coffee into a travel mug, and a hasty brush of your teeth, you grabbed your keys and headed out the door.

The drive to the bar felt like a strange déjà vu of the night before. The streets were quieter now, the sun casting long shadows as you passed by familiar landmarks. When you arrived, the bar looked different in the daylight—less of a shadowy haven and more of a place that had seen its fair share of stories. The kind of place where, if the walls could talk, you might not want to hear what they had to say.

You pushed through the door, the familiar ding of the bell echoing through the empty space. The bar was eerily quiet, devoid of the usual clatter and hum of conversation. You made your way upstairs to Abigail’s office, your unease growing with each step.

Her office was a stark contrast to the dim and worn bar below. Sleek, modern, and cold. The minimalist artwork lining the walls and the polished chrome furniture gave it the feel of a high-end corporate boardroom rather than a place where bar brawls were settled on a nightly basis. Abigail sat behind a large, imposing desk, her posture perfectly composed as always, her gaze assessing you from the moment you walked in.

“Sit,” she commanded, gesturing to the chair opposite her. You obeyed, sinking into the chair, though its stiff, uncomfortable leather only added to the tension coiling in your gut.

Abigail wasted no time. She reached into a locked drawer, pulling out a large envelope and sliding it across the desk toward you. “I don’t know what the fuck you did last night with Remy LeBeau,” she began, her tone clipped, “but one of his men dropped this off for you early this morning. Of course, you weren’t here, so I said I’d make sure you got it. They called it a ‘tip.’ Just for you.”

Your eyes flicked down to the envelope. It was bulky, the edges slightly crumpled, and your name was scrawled across the front in messy handwriting. You hesitated, the weight of Abigail’s gaze heavy on you, before gingerly opening it. The soft crinkle of paper filled the silence as you pulled out its contents.

Bundles of hundred-dollar bills all wrapped with a security seal.

Your heart raced as you counted the bundles—four of them. Four thousand dollars. More money than you had ever seen in one place, let alone held in your hands. But it wasn’t just the money that left you reeling. Tucked between the bills was a hastily scrawled note, the handwriting jagged and hurried: Now you won’t need the hours for a while.

Your stomach twisted. The note was simple, but the implications were anything but. Why had Remy given you this? What exactly had you done to deserve such a generous “tip”? And more importantly, what did he want in return?

You looked up at Abigail, who was watching you with an expression that was equal parts amusement and something else—something darker, more knowing. She tapped her pen rhythmically against the desk, a small, satisfied smirk playing at the corners of her lips.

“He’s even booked a table for him and some friends for lunch next Wednesday,” she said, her voice light but tinged with sarcasm. “So call us even for your constant shit-talking about me.”

Your eyes narrowed at her, but the knot of anxiety in your chest tightened. “So, he told you?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper, unsure of what you were even asking. Did Remy say something about what you said about her?

Abigail’s smirk widened. “No, he didn’t have to. But when I spoke with him after you left, he had nothing but good things to say about you. And James, too, though,” she paused, her eyes flicking to yours with a hint of something like approval, “especially you.”

You swallowed hard, your mind racing. The way she said it, the way Remy had apparently spoken about you—it left you feeling off-balance. What exactly had he said? And why did it feel like there was something more behind his compliments?

“He really enjoyed your company,” Abigail continued, leaning back in her chair, her tone almost casual now. “He said you handled yourself well—better than most. And that’s not something he says lightly.”

You bit your bottom lip, your mind swirling with questions. Was this all just a game to him? Some kind of test that you didn’t even know you were taking? And what did it mean for you that you had somehow passed it?

Abigail’s voice broke through your thoughts. “Have a good weekend,” she said, her tone signaling that the conversation was over. She leaned forward, turning her attention to the paperwork on her desk as if you were already dismissed.

You stood, the envelope clutched tightly in your hand, the weight of the money feeling both like a gift and a burden. As you walked out of her office, the door closing with a soft click behind you, the sense of foreboding that had settled in your chest deepened.

The drive home was a blur. By the time you unlocked the door to your apartment, your hands were trembling. You tossed your bag onto the couch and sank down next to it, the envelope still in your lap, staring at it like it might explode. Four thousand dollars. It was a lifeline, no doubt about it. That money could cover rent for months, give you breathing room you hadn’t had in years. But it was also a tether. A thread that tied you to Remy in a way that you hadn’t asked for, but now couldn’t escape.

You looked around your apartment—the small kitchen with its chipped countertops, the worn rug that had seen better days, the cozy couch that you’d collapsed onto after countless late shifts. This place had always been your sanctuary, your escape from the chaos of the bar. But now, even here, the weight of last night lingered.

As you sat there, the events of the previous night played over and over in your mind. The way Remy had looked at you—like he saw something beneath your surface, something deeper. The chemistry between you had been undeniable, even though you’d tried to ignore it. And now, with this money in your lap and his voice still echoing in your head, you couldn’t shake the feeling that last night had set something in motion. Something that you weren’t sure you were ready for.

The envelope felt heavy in your hands, but not as heavy as the unspoken question that hung in the air:

What would Remy want from you next?

121 notes · View notes

shitswiftiessay · 6 months ago

Text

Jesus fucking christ the unhinged lunacy of it all.

I don’t even know where to begin with this but LOL at the complaining about Taylor being called a bitch while they constantly refer to other women as “bitches.” That is so typical of swifties, isn’t it?

Also, no one was there for her when she was SA’d?? She was literally put on the cover of TIME magazine as one of the “silence breakers.” She made herself put to be an advocate for SA victims, that is, until she decided to work with David O’Russell and hang out with Jackson and Brittany Mahomes. Taylor is only a “girl’s girl” when there’s something in it for her.

And nobody was there for Taylor after kanye interrupted her on stage?? This person is either very young or very stupid, because Katy Perry, P!nk (she called Kanye a piece of shit) and even Obama chimed in to call Kanye a jackass after that incident. Lady Gaga cancelled her tour with Kanye and Beyoncé invited her onstage to let her finish her speech. “No one was there for her” my ASS.

And maybe more people would have been there for her in 2016 if she hadn’t been such a mean girl, parading her fake squad around and using it to dunk on another woman (Katy Perry) while pretending to be all about women supporting each other. She literally mean girled Katy for a good 2 1/2 years but swifties love to forget about that as they praise Taylor for being a “girl’s girl.”

Also HOW THE FUCK DO YOU KNOW that Taylor has been nothing but respectful to Billie?? You have no idea what goes on behind the scenes, and I think Olivia might have a different opinion about Taylor being the “sweetest kindest person” to everyone she meets. 🙄

The thing is I actually agree that Taylor doesn’t owe Billie anything. But by the same token, Billie doesn’t owe Taylor shit either. These swifties are so fucking ridiculous literally making threads about why Billie is evil because she collabed with Justin Bieber despite Taylor having drama with him.

They expect Billie to kiss Taylor’s ass and worship the ground Taylor walks on. Well, Olivia did exactly that and she still ended up getting burned.

#anti taylor swift #shit swifties say #billie eilish #toxic swifties #parasocial relationships

128 notes · View notes

lavellenchanted · 8 months ago

Note

begin again (edwina's version) is so 💖💖💖

Obviously you know exactly what this is! My currently very meandering attempt at a post S2 Edwina-centric fic as she navigates her return to society with a damaged reputation, learns that suppressing her hurt and anger out of guilt is not the same thing as actually working through it and letting it go, and struggles to trust her growing feelings for Prince Fredrich.

Here's a bit more of the scene between her and Eloise I posted not long ago.

“It’s just so . . . inane. And degrading,” Eloise says acerbically, staring at the glittering whirl in front of them with an expression of undisguised disdain. “Letting themselves be paraded around like bejewelled livestock to be weighed and measured.” When she doesn’t get an immediate reply she looks over and lifts an eyebrow. “Can you honestly say I’m wrong?” Edwina takes a long sip of her lemonade - not particularly tasteful, but still appropriately sour - as she considers her answer. Last year she would have made some vague, conciliatory remark intended to smooth Eloise’s ruffled feathers and keep the peace, that revealed nothing of her true thoughts. Perhaps last year she would not have known what her true thoughts really were. Today she lowers her glass, and looks Eloise in the eye as she says, “No, I do not think you are wrong, per se, but I think you don’t recognise your own privilege in being able to say so.” Eloise snorts. “My privilege? You mean the privilege of having a brain?” A flash of irritation gives bite to Edwina’s reply, “No, I mean the privilege of having a wealthy, powerful and loving family that can support you.” The bemused frown on Eloise’s face makes it clear that she doesn’t understand. Swallowing a sigh, Edwina takes her elbow and steers her to a quieter corner of the ballroom and points to a blonde girl in a glittering pink dress, dancing with Lord Fife. “You see her? Miss Grace Campbell. Her father gambled away their family’s fortune. She has no brothers, so if she does not marry well, she and her mother will be destitute.” Turning slightly, she gestures to another, dark-haired young lady laughing prettily at something Benedict Bridgerton is saying. “Or her? Lady Veronica Ryswell. Her uncle is the Earl of Staffordshire, and has plenty of wealth, but there are rumours that he has quite a temper.” She pauses, letting that sink in and out of the corner of her eye sees Eloise start to shift uncomfortably as she realises what Edwina is implying. “Or take me.” “You?” “What money my father left us when he died is all but gone. My grandparents have disowned us. My reputation is hanging by a thread and I have no dowry.” “Anthony would never let you –” Eloise starts but Edwina cuts across her. “My options are to marry, or to be dependent on the man who humiliated me in front of the ton and is the reason my reputation has been damaged in the first place.” There’s a pause, and this time it’s Edwina’s turn to raise an eyebrow - almost daring Eloise to contradict her assessment of her situation, for she can tell the other girl is struggling with the desire to come to her brother’s defence. But, in the end, she can’t, and her shoulders slump a bit at the realisation. Edwina nods and continues. “I would not for a minute try to argue that society is fair to women. I know very well it isn’t. And I don’t think you’re wrong to want more - I would have liked the chance to go to university if I could. But I also don’t think you realise that you have more freedom than almost any other woman in this room. You will never have to worry about money or how you are to live. Your brother will never force you to marry someone you don’t want. Your family’s powerful enough that any scandal that touches you will last days at the most - how long was it after that Whistledown piece about you that you started getting invited to things again?” A strange expression crossed Eloise’s face at the mention of her brief brush with notoriety, but Edwina’s too caught up in her own thoughts to pay it much attention. “It’s been a year and there are some who still cut me in public, you know. And any eligible bachelor who comes near me is warned that I’ll likely jilt him. If there’s something you want to study, I would bet that Anthony would find you a tutor. You might not be able to do as much as your brothers, Eloise, but you could do so much more than so many of us if you tried.”

#wip titles game #edwina sharma

38 notes · View notes

saleintothe90s · 4 days ago

Text

504. The Macys Thanksgiving Day Parade, 1981, part 2

(part 1)

A sleepy Superman.

I love Regis saying "Hi, Mr. Hooper, you look great!" to the Sesame Street float.

FINALLY. Something interesting happens. Two actors from Hill Street Blues got out of their cop car and sang a song about NYC and dance with Ed. This is what I'm talking about. This is why I watch these old parades. This is my favorite part of that parade.

Ed says gruffly "Who are YOU?!" to Strawberry Shortcake. He shows her a parade from the past in super fast motion. Because? I don't know why. She said the parades where she lives are short?

Aw, its Stephen Nedoroscik.

Wait, I think I need this little girl toy that shows you where to put what eyeshadow where.

Here we go, flying too close to the sun with the microwave. Are those persimmons in with that chicken?

I am just not feeling the vibes of this parade yet, I had to climb in bed and take a two hour TikTok break about thirty minutes in. They're giving Regis nothing to do, he's just standing on the other side of town going "oh, there's smokey the bear. Across the street is the natural museum of history where I went a lot as a boy".

"Hey Reege, can't you see that I'm on my coffee break?" Nah, it's just the cast of the off broadway musical Pump Boys and Dinettes. They made it to Broadway the following year! There was also a TV pilot filmed but it didn't go past that. Aw, they only sang their theme song.

I found a screw up! Susan and Bill Hayes from the soap Days of Our Lives was supposed to sing a song about the parade, well they either missed their queue, or the music messed up, something. They had to restart their performance! I've never seen that happen with the parade. Susan is wearing Strawberry Shortcake's hat.

I love that Gregory Hines is having fun and singing directly AT the camera. This is almost a Quik Bunny "Try to Remember" situation from 1990. Seriously though, Sophisticated Ladies might me my 2nd favorite part.

Ed sings again! I think this is the same song he sang last year, but this time he sings it with Kaleena Kliff from Love, Sidney.

D0nny Osmond (he was only 24!) was the star on the turkey that year.

I don't understand why NBC is making their TV starts sing SO.MUCH. Even Kim Fields and Nancy McKeon from Facts of Life had to sing. Tootie had to sit in a kangaroo! Dave Winfield the baseball player sang too?!

Ann Miller sang to a teddy bear while on a dollhouse float that was leaning a lil. DonMcClean's float was shaking pretty wildly too.

Kermit made it! He looks good!

and then Kermit and Fozzie nearly committed car terrorism.

Underdog almost knocked some people out too.

There was an Opera rendition of Hansel & Gretel, which wasn't too great, but we got this witch!

Kool and the Gang came in on a giant butterfly!

Ok, so the good copy from New Orleans runs out at 2 hours, so if you wan to see the rest of the parade you have to watch the meh copy from Richmond, VA. You guys are welcome to watch the rest of the parade, but the video quality and sound quality is really bad. I can't even enjoy the old commercials they're so fuzzy. If anybody can find me a full copy that is in ... viewing condition? put it in the comments. If its before Thanksgiving, I'll watch it.

#1980s #1981 #Macys thanksgiving day parade #thanksgiving

16 notes · View notes

hopeforkitten · 1 year ago

Text

Haarlep is sitting far behind Raphael, so that Corilla and Tav can see him, discussing work issues with the owner. suddenly, the incubus lowers his legs from the armrest to the floor and begins to parade Raphael's movements hypertrophied. he arches his back too much, lifts his head, spreads his arms and clearly says blah-blah-blah soundlessly with the movements of his mouth and palms.

Corilla learned not to notice him, but Tav could not ignore such an active red spot on the background. she didn't even want to smile, she just opened her mouth and raised her eyebrows, finally losing the thread of the dialogue with Raphael.

He noticed this, sighed and rolled his eyes, leaned back in his chair, turning his gaze more to the wall than back to his external copy.

- Haarlep, am I so awkward for you?

- You are perfect, darling, but you know I want to see you clearly not at work, even in the company of two such lovely ladies.

Tav previously could not imagine such imposing behavior in front of the owner of the house, much less his approval.

- Is he always like this?,- Tav whispered to Corilla

- Usually worse, and now he has more reasons for jokes - she answered just as quietly, hinting at the recent acquaintance of the incubus and the girl.

Tav straightened up and continued to look warily at the demons, waiting for Raphael's answer.

#raphael bg3 #raphael x tav #haarlep

53 notes · View notes

cavegirl66 · 4 hours ago

Text

In Sardinia there is only one female mask, “Sa Filonzana”, a woman with a scary appearance. The processions of Ottana are always accompanied by this disturbing figure who continuously weaves wool, and during the event she orders the Boes (another Ottanese figure that represents the animal) to die, they fall to the ground, and get up again symbolizing the cycle of life. The Sardinian legend has it that the old woman (who is actually a man in disguise since women could not participate in the ritual) continuously weaves the thread of life, but is ready to cut it with scissors at any time to anyone who does not respect her.

Dressed in mourning, wearing a black sweater and skirt and a large shawl that highlights her hump, this wooden mask, black and with a frightening expression, depicts an old lady who wanders slowly, with a crooked and awkward gait, through the streets of the village holding a spindle in one hand and a distaff in the other, constantly intent on spinning wool.

During the parades she can threaten to cut the thread with scissors, thus invoking misfortune and death for those who do not respect her. That thread is nothing other than the metaphor of the life cycle of each person and that Filonzana holds in her hands, able to decide their fate. The fact that she appears in the final part of the parade is almost a warning after the fun that characterizes the festival. Everyone, in fact, respects and fears her.

#sa filonzana #traditional #mask #Ottana #Sardegna #sardinia

10 notes · View notes

briarglenrp · 3 months ago

Text

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐐𝐔𝐄𝐄𝐍'𝐒 𝐃𝐈𝐀𝐌𝐎𝐍𝐃 𝐁𝐀𝐋𝐋

❝ 𝘈 𝘥𝘪𝘢𝘮𝘰𝘯𝘥 𝘪𝘴 𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘤𝘪𝘰𝘶𝘴 𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘤𝘪𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘺 𝘣𝘦𝘤𝘢𝘶𝘴𝘦 𝘪𝘵 𝘪𝘴 𝘳𝘢𝘳𝘦. 𝘐 𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘰𝘸 𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘥𝘪𝘢𝘮𝘰𝘯𝘥 𝘣𝘢𝘭𝘭, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘢𝘯𝘹𝘪𝘰𝘶𝘴 𝘮𝘢𝘮𝘢𝘴 𝘦𝘹𝘱𝘦𝘤𝘵 𝘢 𝘥𝘪𝘢𝘮𝘰𝘯𝘥 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺 𝘺𝘦𝘢𝘳. 𝘐 𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘦𝘸 𝘢 ��𝘦𝘣𝘳𝘢 𝘣𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘰𝘯𝘤𝘦. 𝘋𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘦𝘹𝘱𝘦𝘤𝘵 𝘢 𝘯𝘦𝘸 𝘻𝘦𝘣𝘳𝘢 𝘦𝘢𝘤𝘩 𝘺𝘦𝘢𝘳? ❞

Ah, the sound of hoofbeats dances upon the cobblestones, as delivery lads tirelessly assault the grandest of thresholds with the vigor of hopeful romantics! With deft hands, they present elegantly scripted missives to the unsuspecting souls who dare to draw back the door’s ornate façade. It is now 1813, and lo! A new season unfurls before us, heralded by none other than the Queen's illustrious Diamond Ball. A most opulent affair to unveil the charming debutantes before the reigning sovereign and parade eligible daughters for the matrimonial melee. Thus, the season's grand tableau is set. As the lovely maidens curtsy in the presence of royalty, a gallery of eager suitors, attentive mothers, distinguished gentlemen, and those fortunate or unfortunate enough to have secured their prospects, scrutinize every charming visage. Yet, it is solely the discerning gaze of the Queen that reigns supreme. A mere glance of disdain can send a young lady’s worth spiraling into the depths of obscurity. Conversely, should she capture the queen’s favor, her fortunes may ascend to dizzying heights, though, as we are all too aware, the brighter the light, the swifter the flame extinguishes. So, welcome to the inaugural soirée of the season! Are you ready to twirl amidst the whispers? A gentle reminder, darlings — the Queen is not the only keen observer; for Lady Whistledown, with her watchful eyes and ears, remains ever vigilant.

𝐎𝐎𝐂 𝐈𝐍𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐌𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 𝐅𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐃 𝐁𝐄𝐋𝐎𝐖 :

𝐖𝐄𝐋𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐄 𝐓𝐎 𝐁𝐑𝐈𝐀𝐑𝐆𝐋𝐄𝐍𝐑𝐏'𝐒 𝐅𝐈𝐑𝐒𝐓 𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐍𝐓 : 𝘢 𝘮𝘢𝘨𝘯𝘪𝘧𝘪𝘤𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘣𝘢𝘭𝘭, 𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘰𝘸𝘯 𝘣𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘳𝘰𝘺𝘢𝘭 𝘧𝘢𝘮𝘪𝘭𝘺 ( 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘧 ).

𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐝𝐚𝐭𝐞 ; August 30th, 2024 @ 8:00PM EST.

𝐞𝐧𝐝 𝐝𝐚𝐭𝐞 ; September 06th, 2024 @ 12:00PM EST. ( may end sooner/later upon group discussion )

𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐭𝐲𝐩𝐞 ; dash event.

𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞 𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐨𝐝 𝐢𝐧-𝐠𝐚𝐦𝐞 ; one night.

𝐥𝐨𝐜𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 ; the illustrious English palace, shall unveil its grand ballroom for our revelries, whilst the enchanting garden will shimmer with twinkling candles and delightful decorations, enticing all who dare to wander!

𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐠 ; briarglen:event01. briarglen:start.

𝐢𝐦𝐩𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐭 ; a notice will be posted when the event begins, please refreign from posting starters / threads before this. however, please feel free to post outfits and such ( if you would like ) before and use the 'briarglen:event01' tag.

𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄𝐒 :

the diamond of the season for this season will be a non-playable character to make things fair across the board. at some point, we'll discuss together when this season ends and the next begins and we'll chat about doing a little poll maybe or randomized selection for the diamond - or if you all prefer having it as an npc.

if your character is not participating in the season / not being presented, they are still invited to attend the party as a guest. the event will start at the ball after the ladies have been presented to The Queen.

as The Queen herself loves to show her magnificent Diamond Ball off - all classes of society are invited.

a thread for this event will be added to the ‘summaries’ channel for individuals to post summaries / the important points of the event for each of their characters.

#briarglen:event #briarglen:event01 #period rp #appless rp #bridgerton rp

9 notes · View notes

separatist-apologist · 1 year ago

Text

Love Is A Lie

Summary: After her mothers death, Arina goes from the well-loved daughter of a nobleman to a servant in his home. She dreams of escaping to the coast and making her own way, and when she learns of a ball the King of Avalon is hosting to pick a wife, Arina sees her chance. With a little help from a fairy godmother, Arina agrees to exchange a favor for one night with the King.

But Eris Vanserra has other plans when they meet, and Arina isn't sure she's ready for the consequences of one night dancing at a ball.

Part Two of OUAT series

Read on AO3

Every morning started with a bell ringing. It was the one modification to Arina’s bedroom she loathed more than any other. Attached to a wire in the wall, her stepmother could ring for her anywhere in the house rather than call for her. Why treat Arina like a person when she could treat her like an animal?

Groaning, Arina pushed herself out of bed. Still exhausted from a night spent up way too late sewing another dress so when she met the King of Avalon a second time, she didn’t look so terrible. His sneering countenance was burned in her mind, his clipped words as he acknowledged her branded like an iron just behind her eyes. He’d been…well…he’d been everything, though she didn’t dare admit that. Even if her father hadn’t given in to her step-mothers ugliest impulses and Arina could have met him on even ground, he wouldn’t have treated her any better.

Why was she thinking about him at all? Maybe because his court was warm and open and the new king was making a name for himself as someone who took in those that had nowhere to go. Arina doubted she’d be welcomed into his home, but perhaps she could beg him for sanctuary so when her father came looking, he couldn’t just drag her right back.

All the girls she’d grown up with were married now, and her family kept her indoors to work off debts Arina had never seen. The dress was necessary to prove she was more than the flea bitten dog her father had paraded her around as. If the king could see her humanity, surely he’d shield her, right?

There was no reprieve for Arina in the mornings. Her step-mother ran her ragged, inventing chores when there was nothing left until night had fallen and Arina ought to sleep. Working by candle light for the last month, she’d begun stitching an intricate pink and gold dress for the upcoming ball. They said the king intended to pick his wife that night, which made it the perfect place for Arina to slip in, convince him or someone close to him to intervene on her behalf before she took off for a coastal city.

She’d take up work—ideally in a library if she could convince someone of her merit. She’d had to give up schooling almost ten years ago when her father remarried, and Arina, who’d once been a promising scholar, was likely lagging so far behind that no one would want her. She could always try sewing, she reminded herself.

In truth, Arina would do anything if it meant she never had to step foot in the musty attic she now lived in. No longer a lady, no longer a person. Arina was given no time to think about herself, braiding her thick, blonde hair quickly as she made her way down the stairs in old slippers so worn there were holes where her toes ought to have been, and a dress that desperately needed to be washed.

It would be another midnight bath in the river just behind the house, quickly washing her skin and hair before carefully soaping her dress so it didn’t unspool into thread. Arina shuddered at the thought of the cold, spring water. It was safer out there than in the house, where someone might report back that she’d been wasting water, which was another mark in her impossible ledger.

Food, too, though that couldn’t be helped. There had been a time where she attempted to forage in the woods for food and all she’d gotten for her trouble was miserably sick—a doctor cost money, too.

Besides, Arina never wanted to hear her step-mother breathlessly praying to the gods that Arina would die. All over Arina’s face—too pretty, too young. As if Arina could help any of those things. She had her fathers blonde hair and his green eyes, but everything else belonged to her mother. Unblemished, golden brown skin, and features arranged so pleasantly that even covered in soot, men still made marriage offers in the street when they saw her.

Arina knew the truth of it all, though.

Love is a lie, her mother had whispered on her deathbed, clutching Arina’s hand as fever ravaged her frail body. Her parents had been a famous love match according to the society papers—but behind closed doors, her father was cold and cruel. Indifferent at the best of times, vicious at the worst.

Marriage had done her mother no favors and Arina didn’t believe it would do her any, either. She could have escaped had she taken any of those men up on what they were offering, only to end up exactly as she was. A maid in someone's household, slaving away until she turned to dust.

No. Her plan was far better. She just needed one dance with the king. Surely she could manage that—it was rumored he would dance with every single lady who attended, and Arina had managed to secure an invitation on her way out of the palace, courtesy of the princess of Ellesmere. That piece of embossed paper was Arina’s most prized possession—if she lost it, her future was ruined.

“Good morning, mother,” Arina said, stepping into her mothers bed chamber with a silver tray filled with breakfast foods. None of which she’d eat, of course—the woman was constantly worrying about her appearance and fitting into her laced up gowns. It was all for show, a massive, monumental waste that made Arina sick to her stomach.

“You’re late. Lazing in bed again?” she demanded, pushing strands of brunette hair off a still pretty, yet aging face. There was no joy in those brown eyes, no light or warmth that could elevate her into the incandescent beauty she hoped for. Arina didn’t react, hoping to keep bruised from her face this week. Eyes down, Arina murmured a soft apology.

“Make sure you scrub the back flagstones well today. The king is sending one of his most trusted advisors to meet with your father and I will not be embarrassed by your incompetence.”

“Of course,” Arina agreed, heart thudding in her chest. The king wanted to work with her father? That didn’t bode well. Arina betrayed none of her fears, bowing out after breakfast was declared pitiful and unfit for consumption. The day was spent much as it always was. Arina did her regular chores before hauling soapy water outside to scrub the back patio. There was no chance the kings diplomat came out here, and yet Arina didn’t finish until the sun began setting.

Only then did she race to the kitchen to scarf down dinner while the rest of the gossiping staff fell silent. She couldn’t be one of them—she’d been born high above their station, even if now she was made to work among them.

And her father punished them if they tried to help her in any way. She was a liability, and she couldn’t even be angry about it. Arina merely ate over the sink before dashing out the door to bathe herself.

Just as she’d predicted, the water was frigidly cold. Her hair was half frozen by the time she trudged back to the house, draped in a thin sheet for a towel, her dress hung over her arm.

She needed a new one and didn’t want to ask. It would be more money she owed for something just as poor. It also meant she’d have to go to the local dressmaker who looked at her with such pity it made Arina’s stomach burn with humiliation. Once, her mother had taken there to be fitted for fine things.

Now Arina merely asked for the cheapest material possible and sewed it herself. She’d have to sleep by the fire, negating the bath and earning her nickname—Cinders. She smelled like ashes and was too often covered in them, too. She didn’t care. Carefully combing the knots from her hair, Arina dried it the best she could by the fire before turning to her dress. It was so nearly finished—Arina was merely sewing beads she’d been given by a rather nice boy hoping to earn her affection onto her bodice. She wanted to seem presentable, and wanted the dress to look expensive.

Nice enough to catch the king's eye and make him think she was a nobleman's daughter. Which she was, technically. She’d have four minutes to convince him of her plight before he moved on, and that was the part that held Arina up. She didn’t know what to say to him because part of her—the part that wasn’t so struck by how young and good looking he was—wanted to hit him across the face and ask him how he could let something like this happen in his own kingdom.

Afterall, Arina had heard the rumors about his own abusive, cruel father. Surely he must know how it felt.

But by the time Arina fell asleep, needle in hand, she wasn’t even sure that was true, either.

And her plan seemed more foolish than ever.

Days passed much in the same vein. Arina kept her head down and worked without complaint right up until the diplomat arrived. She’d been instructed not to be seen, to stay out of the common areas and generally not be a nuisance which suited Arina perfectly fine. She had a few coins, and was hoping to haggle a decent deal on a new pair of slippers for her gown. Her dress was long enough to hide her current pair, and something about it seemed wrong. A bad omen, to come in destroyed shoes and nothing to offer the king when she begged him for his assistance.

“Hello, lady Arina.”

Arina choked down her laugh when the butcher's son stepped onto the cobblestone street. He was filthy, too—bloody, rather than sooty, but the effect was remarkably similar. As far as men went, he wasn’t awful to look at, and he could be terribly kind. He always offered her something to eat when he saw her, and had never made a demand of her.

Though Arina knew what he hoped.

She smiled at him, heart fluttering when he blinked in response. He really was terribly good looking beneath the grime, with eyes so brown they were nearly black, and the curliest flop of chocolate brown hair.

He had a reputation for being kind, too—she’d heard others talk of how he fed the village beggar, and had once helped a widow and her children obtain room and board for a few nights. There weren’t many people in the world so kind. But Cyrus was.

“Hi, Cyrus,” she replied, pleased when he fell into step beside her. His hands were in his leather apron, likely trying to hide how messy they were, but Arina didn’t mind. The square was bustling, filled with people buying and selling or just milling about and enjoying the first cool day of Autumn.

“Are you busy? There’s a new shop just a few blocks up. We could get lunch?”

Arina’s stomach growled before she could say no, and judging from the warm smile on Cyrus’s face, he’d heard it. She ate once a day to minimize what she owed, but Arina was starving—and desperate enough to agree, knowing she was giving him the wrong idea.

He paid, like he always did, offering her a chair just out of the bright sunlight. “I heard the king sent one of his advisors out to meet with your father,” Cyrus began, watching Arina shovel rice in her mouth as quickly as she could. She still needed shoes, and if she was gone too long, someone would tell, and she’d get caught and her shoes taken from her.

Arina nodded. “Good for business, I suppose.”

Cyrus considered that, eating slower. “My own father is getting sick. He means to give me his business.”

Oh, no. Arina looked up at him, heart thudding for an entirely different reason.

“I ah…I know you probably expect better offers, but…but I was thinking that when my father gives it to me, I might like a wife. You wouldn’t…you wouldn’t need to work so hard. And I have money, so you could run the household. It wouldn’t be anything grand, but there would be food. And you would be safe.”

It was such a generous offer. The sort her mother had wanted her to consider when she died. Love is a lie. Cyrus wasn’t offering love, but security and safety, and it was tempting.

“Cyrus—”

“It’s probably a year off, so there’s time for you to think about it,” he added hastily, clearly not wanting to hear her reject him like she’d done so many others. “We could get to know each other? I don’t expect you to agree, but I think you could like me if you got to know me.”

What did it hurt to tell him yes, she rationalized? Of every offer of marriage Arina had ever been offered, this was certainly the best. Cyrus did have money, and he treated people well. There was no reason to think that wouldn’t extend to his wife, and whatever children they might produce. And sure, she’d be in the same town her father lived in, but she wouldn’t be subjected to his cruelty.

“I think I could agree to that,” she murmured, swallowing the rest of her food. After all—if the king told her no, having a backup plan still ensured her survival. Arina was likely to drown herself if she had to face an uncertain future in her fathers household.

Cyrus’s expression lit up, his smile brilliant. “I’m so glad to hear you say that. I…I’m not well versed in courting, but I will do my best by you.”

“I believe that,” she said, offering him her own smile. It was nice, and perhaps that had to be enough. There was no knight in shining armor coming to save her, after all. No prince to sweep her off her feet, no fairy godmother that was going to rescue her. If Arina wanted out, she’d need to do it herself.

Which meant leaving Cyrus to get her shoes—a soft pair of silver slippers with little beaded flowers on the toes—and rushing back home.

Just in time to find the diplomat on a shining, black horse with a glossy mane. He paused when he saw her, swinging his leg over the saddle to hop in front of her.

Auburn hair, russet brown eyes—he was part of the royal family, she realized. His fine clothes cut of white and red fabric, with that distinctive cape hanging casually over one shoulder betrayed him as such, even if he didn’t wear a crown.

“Lady Arina?” he asked, a smile touching his face.

What was a Prince of Avalon doing in her home? And how did he know her name?”

“Just Arina,” she blurted, offering a deep curtsey. There was no way her step-mother wasn’t seeing this. Arina’s stomach dropped. She was going to lose her shoes.

“I’m Connal, Prince of this territory,” he said, offering her his own bow before reaching with a gold ringed finger into his jacket to procure a stunning invitation she’d seen before. “This is for you. The king has instructed all eligible ladies receive an invitation to the ball in two days' time.”

“Oh…I don’t think—”

“That includes you,” Connall said firmly, pushing the invitation into her hands. Arina didn’t dare admit she already had one. “I’ve told your father, but he had no idea where you were.”

“I was…out…” she admitted lamely. Connall smiled, handsome in an elegant kind of way. Almost as good looking as his older brother, even.

“I expect to see you there,” he said, pressing a kiss to her hand like she was some great lady. Arina’s heart banged against her ribs as he straddled his steed. Connall offered her one last look, winking even, before he took off down the road.

Arina watched, dumbstruck for a moment. He’d just…openly defied her father and was going to get away with it because he was a prince. Arina scurried around the house, hiding her shoes in a tree to keep them from being snatched before she made her way up the back lawn and into the home.

And as predicted, she was immediately accosted by her step-mother, who ripped the invitation from her hands. “This is ridiculous,” he breathed, hands all but trembling as she stared at the heavy, embossed paper. “You! At a ball! What will you do, serve the king drinks?”

“The prince said my presence was expected,” Arina replied defensively, fisting her dress in her hands to keep from trying to grab the invitation back.

“And what, pray tell, will you wear? That dress isn’t fit for the kitchens, let alone the great Forest Palace.”

“I could find a dress,” Arina said, jutting her chin in the air. “And if I did, would you let me go?”

“And if you finish all your chores,” her step-mother conceded, thrusting the invitation back into her hands. It was slightly rumpled, but good enough.

“I will,” Arina said, determined she would, all the while knowing her parents were going to try and make it utterly impossible. But she would, and she’d wear her dress and her shoes and march up to King Eris Vanserra and convince him that it made more sense to free her of her parents than it did to work with her father. Surely, their family name was old, but there was little money left to back it up.

All her family really had was tradition.

Arina worked harder those next two days than she’d ever worked in her life. Every waking minute was plagued by that awful bell and the most absurd chores—Arina was made to wash gutters and windows, to get on the roof and into the crawl space. She dusted and mopped and scrubbed until her nails bled.

And at night, she put the finishing touches on her dress, staying awake until she was so exhausted she passed out with a needle in her hand. Arina even risked owing more by bathing in the house so she wouldn’t have to worry about mud beneath her toes or smelling like river water. She was practically vibrating when everything was done and she could dress herself with a mere twenty minutes to spare. She wouldn’t be the most elegant woman, of course, nor the most fashionable but she was passably decent and most importantly, pretty.

Too pretty, she realized when she made her way down the stairs. Her father paused, eyes wide when he took her in. “You look like your mother,” he blurted out.

It was the wrong thing to say. Her step-mother, clad in rather pretty yellow, strode forward and ripped at Arina’s sleeve. “Where did you get these beads? Are these mine?”

“Don’t—no!” Arina cried, but the damage was done. Her sleeve hung pathetically and the shimmering, clay beads clattered to the stone floor loudly, bouncing in every direction. It would take her forever to find them.

“You’re a little thief,” her step mother continued, ripping the fabric of her skirt again. The sound of tearing sliced through the air, filling Arina with dread. She jerked back, but another rip saw the rest of the pretty satin shred to the floor like an awful train. Too late, she realized, that she was never going to be permitted to go.

Her step-mother smiled. “You’re a disgrace. Clean yourself up…and clean up this mess.”

Arina looked at her father foolishly, wishing he’d say something. His expression was hard and unforgiving and when he turned his back to her, boots crunching her beads into the grout, Arina couldn’t take it.

This was misery. A sob escaped her throat as she turned and fled out of the house, ignoring her step-mothers peal of laughter or the looks of pity on their faces. Arina couldn’t stop, racing over the grounds into the cool air, though half the time she stepped on the tatters of her dress which only served to ruin it more.

Months of work, ruined. And for what? Jealousy?

“It’s not fair!” she sobbed into the night, falling to her knees in the little wooded area that separated her home from the river. “I did everything she asked me to…it’s not fair.”

Pulling her knees to her chin, Arina buried her face to sob. She was never going to escape. The king probably would have said no anyway, but maybe something else would have opened up for her. Or maybe he would have said no, but he would have been kind and she would have found strength in that. She could have gone home and waited for Cyrus—another thing her family was sure to ruin.

And she’d die here, because Arina couldn’t take it.

“I’ll do anything–”

“Anything?” A melodic voice murmured. Arina looked up, surprised to see a rather lovely, older woman standing in front of her. Her blue dress skimmed the ground while beetle black eyes watched her gulp down air in a pathetic attempt to catch her breath. She crouched, grazing sharp, blood-red nails over Arina’s cheek. “You’re a beautiful little thing, aren’t you, sweetheart? Why are you crying?”

Sniffling, and feeling quite pathetic, Arina said, “I was supposed to go to a ball.”

“Of course you were,” this stranger replied, picking up one of the pink, tattered pieces of Arina’s dress. “Where else would a girl like you be headed?”

“I can’t anymore,” Arina whispered, swallowing hard. “Not like this.”

“No,” the stranger agreed, dropping her dress distastefully. “How about a deal, sweet girl? In exchange for my assistance…you’d owe me a favor.”

Arina blinked, wiping her eyes on her elbow. “A favor? What kind of favor?”

The woman waved her hand. “Oh, nothing of consequence. Something small and easily accomplished…perhaps I’ll ask you to help me cross the street one day…or maybe I’ll need a bed to sleep in.”

That seemed reasonable enough. Swallowing, her heart racing, Arina asked, “And…and you’d help me get to the palace?”

She smiled. “I would do so much more than that. Stand up, sweetheart. Let me take a look at you.”

Rising to her feet, Arina let this woman circle her. She touched Arina’s shoulder, her hair, and her dress before standing before her again. “Do we have a deal? One night at the palace, where you’ll dance your heart out in exchange for a favor of my choosing in the future?”

What did Arina have to lose? This was her only shot out. Arina accepted the strangers hand, thinking she would feel something binding them together. Some string, some touch of magic. There was nothing but a rather sharp breeze, rustling the treetops over head and cooling her overheated skin.

The woman smiled. “Excellent.”

That was the only warning Arina was given before the woman snapped her fingers. She felt it, though, that time. Something warm touching her skin, drying the mud and salt from her face and transforming her once ruined dress into something beautiful. Arina could see, even in the dark, the gown was a soft, silvery blue color, beaded through the bodice and over the full skirts so it sparkled like stars. Cape sleeves fluttered in the breeze while her hair pulled itself off her face of its own accord. When she went to touch the heavy weight sitting atop her head, she found herself touching a jeweled headband. Her ruined, muddied shoes had been replaced, too, and when Arina lifted her skirts, she found pure, glass slippers conforming against her feet.

Arina looked at the woman, head cocked as she examined her handiwork. Another snap saw a choker at her throat and earring dangling from her lobes.

“Perfect,” she murmured, smiling broadly. “One night—that ends at midnight. That’s all you get.”

“What happens at midnight?” Arina asked, her heart thundering in her chest.

“You go back to the girl you were when I found you. What you do after that is up to you. But magic can’t last forever, beautiful as it looks on you. Be mindful of the time.”

“I will,” Arina promised. She only needed five minutes of the king's time.

Arina intended to be long gone by the time midnight struck.

ERIS:

Drumming his fingers against the table, Eris considered for the millionth time calling the whole absurd ball off. Beside him, Elain Archeron watched with narrowed eyes, waiting to pounce. This whole ball had been borne in her overactive imagination.

I want to see you settled, Eris. Happy.

Power made him happy. His father, six feet in the ground, made him happy. Hell, having her and his brother around made him happy. A wife wasn’t going to give him anything he didn’t have except for an heir. Which, he supposed, would be a useful thing to secure. One son from one of the many society women hardly seemed like a big ask. And it wasn’t as if there wasn’t interest. Every lady Elain had sent invitations to had responded yes.

Well—all but one.

“You’re going,” Elain interrupted, unaware of the slant of his thoughts. “You’re going to dance and you’ll be charming and then at the end of the week you’ll announce your new wife…assuming, of course, you don’t pick one on the spot.”

“Do I look like Lucien?” he snapped. He’d heard the tale of Elain and Lucien—and how his ridiculous, overly romantic brother had fallen in love with Elain on the spot. Rather than carve out her heart, he’d protected her and was rewarded in the end with the only good wife in the world.

“No, you certainly don’t,” Elain replied crisply. She put a hand on her stomach, an obnoxious gesture meant to remind him that she was doing what was expected of a royal woman married to a prince. Even if that bump was so tiny it was easily concealed in her skirts, it was still there. Mocking him for not doing the same. “If you wait too long, perhaps I might begin harassing

Lucien into challenging you for the throne.”

Eris sighed, exasperated. “I’m dressed, aren’t I? Why don’t you select my wife, since you’re so determined to have a friend at court.”

Elain’s eyes gleamed. “Don’t tease me, Eris. You know I would love nothing more.”

A servant slipped into the little alcove Elain and Eris were hiding in to inform him guests had begun to arrive. Eris still had time. He wasn’t expected for another forty five minutes, which meant he could sulk privately in his absurd white get up Elain had foisted upon him, insisting he looked like the prince of every ladies dreams. His red cape hung lazily over one shoulder, threaded by a gold chain across his chest while his medals of valor were pinned so everyone knew he could slay whoever crossed him with ease.

It was all ridiculous. How was he supposed to pick a wife in the five minutes it took to dance? With each passing second, Eris felt his anxiety spike until his temper threatened to spill all over himself and Elain. It was only her, reaching across the table for his hand, that settled Eris.

“If you hate every lady at the ball, you don’t need to force yourself to choose one. We can reach out to other kingdoms, even across the sea. There is someone who will interest you, this I promise.”

“Yes, true love, I have heard this all before,” he grumbled, but still Eris squeezed back. “Let's get this over with, shall we?”

“Let's find you a wife,” Elain agreed.

Only, Elain didn’t stick around to help him. Eris was announced to ridiculous applause in a room filled with women and their mothers and fathers, all hoping to secure a match for their children. Eris couldn’t recall the last time the ballroom had been so filled. A quartet played while hanging chandeliers threw twinkling lights over the white and black checkered floors. Everyone looked more lovely, and somehow exactly the same. Had they all conspired to order the exact same style of dress in varying colors? The same hairstyle piled atop their heads, and lips rouged to death.

The first dance was a misery. “Sire,” the girl breathed, lowering her eyes and thrusting her breasts forward. A passing servant was handing out champagne and Eris was tempted to down a crystal flute before continuing any further.

He took her hand, unable to care about her nice breasts or her mostly pleasing face. In his head, he could hear Elain urging him to at least feign interest. Ask her about her interests.

“Tell me, lady. How do you occupy yourself?” he asked, sweeping into the first steps of the evening. The woman in question, who had probably told her his name though Eris wasn’t listening, immediately began rattling off a list of the most boring hobbies he’d ever heard. Strolling through gardens? Was that an actual hobby?

As it turned out, it was the hobby of every woman he danced with in that first hour. Along with needle point and piano playing, which was also highly popular. Every woman who brought it up offered to play something for him privately. Eris wasn’t tempted, though he knew if he took them up on it, he was likely to at least get his cock wet.

Sullying a lords daughter seemed the surest way to get stuck in a marriage he didn’t want with a lady he didn’t even get to choose.

Elain was polite enough to at least rescue him after his eighth dance. “You look like you’re at a funeral, Eris.”

“Forgive me for being bored. How come you don’t play piano?”

Elain snorted. “Oh, I do, Eris. All well-bred ladies do.”

“And do you play for my brother?” he demanded.

A wicked smile spread over her beautiful face. “Don’t ask questions you don’t want to know the answer to. What if we…”

Eris turned his head to see what had caught Elain’s attention. The room itself was hushing to whispers, all looking toward the steps leading down to the ballroom. A last minute arrival stood at the very top, surveying the room like a queen.

“It’s her,” he murmured, drinking in the pale, blue dress cut against her body and all that thick, blonde hair half pulled off her face while the rest was left to cascade down her shoulders. She didn’t look like the other women, in their comfortable, safe gowns and their matching hairstyles. She looked like an individual person—though, in truth, it wouldn’t have mattered if she had come looking exactly like everyone else.

Connall’s invitation had arrived, then.

Ignoring everyone else, Eris strode across the room to wait for her to make her way down the stairs. Eris extended one gloved hand which she accepted with a blink of hesitation. But she was here—and just as beautiful as he remembered.

It was those green eyes, he decided. Still gazing upon him with familiar derision, as though she found him and everything about his ball, beneath her.

“Lady,” Eris murmured, bowing ever so slightly. “You made it.”

She curtseyed. “I—were you expecting me?”

“Hoping,” he admitted, leading her toward the dance floor. “You never sent word that you would come.”

“I…wasn’t sure I would,” she said, eyes darting around the room. Was she looking for her father? He had been chatting with other lords while his wife flitted about, gossiping over this and that while speculating who the prince might choose. Eris didn’t understand them—their daughter was beautiful and Eris had requested her attendance personally. Any other parents would have leapt at that kind of attention.

But what did he expect from a man who’d made his daughter little more than his personal servant?

“You’re here now…”

“Arina,” she said, finally looking up at him.

Arina. Eris could practically feel Elain’s smug gaze burning the back of his neck and he couldn’t bring himself to care. So what if Elain was right? Stupidly, Eris replied, “I’m Eris.”

A smile tugged at her lips. “I know. Everyone knows that.”

Right. Eris’s feet moved of their own accord, forgetting he had an audience. She swallowed, fingers digging against his shoulder as though she needed strength. “I came to ask you for a favor.”

Eris’s heart leapt into his throat. “A favor?” he asked, careful to keep his voice neutral. Was it wrong he half hoped her favor was marriage? That she’d come to ask for his hand, of which he might very well give her on the spot? That was insane—Elain had said he had a week to decide. He could spend the night dancing with her and perhaps in the morning try and lure her into his bed and see if they were compatible in the way that mattered most to him. Maybe give her a tour of the fucking garden everyone was so desperate to stroll around.

Hell, he’d even listen to her play piano if she offered.

“My father,” she began with a heavy breath, dashing all his hops just as quickly as they’d emerged. “I…I still live with him.”

“Most unmarried ladies do, to my knowledge,” Eris replied. Arina bit her bottom lip while Eris fought the urge to trace it with his tongue. Instead, he pulled her a little closer, the hand on her waist too tight to be considered polite.

“I don’t want to anymore. I’ve come to beg for your permission to leave his household.” Her eyes held such defiance in them, as if to dare him to say no.

“You’d ask me to defy one of the nobles in my court so you can…?” Eris prayed it wasn’t to marry another man. He’d have to kill him, which was unlikely to engender the sort of warm, romantic feelings he was hoping for.

“Live freely,” she all but whispered, eyes glazing over. “On my own terms.”

There was absolutely no way Eris intended to grant her this. At least, not how she imagined. He was decided, in that moment, that he’d make her his wife. Arina could have his whole country to roam as she pleased, his household to boss around, and maybe even expel her father from court, if it pleased her.

“And here I was, thinking you came for a husband.”

Arina’s eyes widened. “I wouldn’t—I mean—I don’t presume to think—”

“Why not?” he murmured, lowering his mouth so his lips brushed her ear. “Everyone else does.”

The song was ending, which meant his time with her was, too. Already she was pulling back, eyes pleading for him to make a choice.

“Walk with me,” he said, reluctantly releasing his hold on her body to offer her his arm. “Tell me more about this plan of yours so I can make an informed decision.” It was a flimsy excuse to spend more time with her. Eris ignored the sounds of someone shrieking loudly from somewhere in the room, hushed into silence by another guest he didn’t care about. Arina watched, though, trying to pull away.

“You should—”

“Walk with me,” he said again, this time with more authority. She couldn’t deny him, though her spine straightened ever so slightly.

“Of course, my lord.”

Gods, he wanted her. Eris didn’t bother to hide his smile, leading her back through the crowd toward the open veranda that led into the garden. He’d have privacy here, thanks to Elain and her green thumb and determination to remake the palace in her own image. Paved pathways were illuminated by pretty string lights hung overhead, making it easy to see Arina even in the dark. Eris couldn’t drag his eyes off her—she was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. Arina's gown sparkled like stars, making it seem as though her warm, golden skin was glowing. Maybe it was. Eris would have believed there was some kind of magic clinging to her, creating some kind of spell between them.

And she was trying to leave him.

“What would it take to convince you?” she asked just as soon as the music from the ballroom faded and only the sound of noisy crickets remained.

“A great deal, I’m afraid,” Eris replied, surprised that she didn’t immediately understand what he was after.

“I’ll do anything,” she said, desperation coating her words.

“A dangerous thing to offer a man you don’t know. We’re alone,” he reminded her. Arina didn’t flinch back, nor did she seem surprised.

“Surely you can have that anytime you like. Snap your fingers and half the ladies in that ballroom would unlace their underthings for you.”

“Would you?”

“If you snapped your fingers? No, I don’t think I would. But I will if that’s what you want in exchange for freedom,” she said, that pretty defiance returning to her features. The sight made Eris feel breathless, made him practically mad with desire. He wanted to kiss her and see what she tasted like.

He wanted to feel her fingers dig against his shoulder as he moved against her, chest to chest, burning with pleasure.

“If you’re going to disrobe for me, I’d prefer you did it of your own accord,” he admitted.

Arina sighed. “Do you mean to tease me, then? Tell me what you want—”

“I want a wife,” he lied. He didn’t, not truly. But he wanted her, and with the clock ticking in his head, he knew he’d either secure her or she’d slip through his fingers and he’d never see her again. “What if I promised you freedom, in exchange—”

“For a crown?” Arina asked, halting just in front of Elain’s swaying sunflowers. They were at least as tall as Arina, though not half as beautiful. It was tempting to push past the pretty rock border and take her in the grass where no one would see them. Eris resisted the urge to adjust his cock, half hard at the mere thought.

“That sounds like a shackle, to me.”

Eris blinked. “It is, sometimes.”

“Why would I want that?”

“Everyone wants it,” he replied, genuinely unsure what else to say.

“Then pick someone else,” she said, stepping toward him. She didn’t hesitate to press her palm against his chest, eyes pleading as she added, “Let me leave. Tonight.”

“Kiss me.” Eris curled his fingers around her wrist, pulling her closer. “Kiss me, first. I just…I need to know.”

“And you’ll let me go?” she asked. Eris shook his head no, even as he began lowering his face toward hers.

“I’m not promising that,” he replied. “I could give you anything you asked for.”

Arina was staring at his mouth. “I don’t want it. Please, your majesty—”

“Eris,” he interrupted, lips ghosting her own. “Call me Eris.”

“Eris,” she whispered. That was enough. He kissed her, one hand on her waist, the other holding her jaw. The soft, sweetness of her skin slammed into him, filling his senses with the scent of vanilla and lime. Her hand on his jacket fisted against her lapel, drawing him closer still so Eris could deepen the kiss.

He was greedy, tongue sliding against the seam of her mouth. Gasping, Arina yielded and Eris swept inside with a groan. He was decided, right then and there. Nothing else mattered, nor did he care about what she’d come for. Eris was going to make her his wife and would prove she could have the freedom she craved while he got the woman he wanted.

“Arina,” he whispered, arm snaking around her body. “Trust me.”

“I—” The chiming of the clock nearby drew a frightened cry from Arina’s lips. Ashen with fear, she slipped from his grasp. “Say you’ll help me,” she demanded, gathering her skirts in her hands. “Say it.” “I’m not letting you go,” he replied, taking a step toward him. Behind them, the bell tolled again.

Arina let out a quiet scream of frustration. “Take what I’m offering.” “I—” A third ring saw her bolt, running from the garden so quickly one of her slippers came off her foot. She didn’t stop, leaving Eris to snatch it from the ground. Still warm, and made of glass.

“Wait!” he yelled, chasing after her. “Stop her!”

His guards were too slow, letting Arina slip back into the ballroom before she could be apprehended. If he lost her here, Eris knew he’d never see her again. She wouldn’t risk going home, and though he could scour his kingdom in search of her, it was vast, and he couldn’t risk his seat by picking through every nook and cranny.

She’d made it up the steps and through the doors by the time Eris caught sight of her again. “Stop that woman!” he yelled a second time, his voice cutting through the chatter and music. Everyone went quiet as Eris added, “That’s my wife.”

He didn’t stop, though some part of him thought he was making a rather big fool of himself. Of course he’d want the only woman in the world who didn’t want him back. Elain was going to have such a laugh when he explained all this later.

Eris caught Arina in the drive, her pretty dress gone—replaced, strangely, with a ripped pink gown that likely had been beautiful once. Tears streamed down that pretty face of hers, her hair tumbling like a halo of gold. He'd worry about the strangeness of her appearance later. All that mattered was she was still here.

“Please,” she whispered, whipping around when his fingers curled around her arm. Eris didn’t respond, bending on one knee not so he could propose, but to put her shoe back on her foot. Arina shuddered when he pushed the hem of her dress up over her ankle, noting she’d cut her sole and was bleeding.

He stood, sweeping her into his arms with ease.

“I’m sorry, princess,” he murmured as she wept miserably against his chest.

But Eris wasn’t sorry at all.

Only relieved he still had her.

#just a little bridge between snow elucien and feypunzel #i think ill try and put vassa between feysand and nessian too #because i dont have enough shit going on #anyway #eris vanserra

102 notes · View notes

echoweaver · 11 months ago

Text

Like a bunch of others have said, I have been nervous about making a simblr gratitude post because I'll almost certainly leave someone out, and that hurts. I guess I'll start with the disclaimer:

I read everyone I follow. I can't read every post, but I don't keep anyone on my dash who I haven't made a conscious decision to put there. If you've seen a like or a comment from me, I'm reading you, and I'm doing it because I like what you post.

And I appreciate a lot of simblrs I don't follow too. I've had to choose not to follow several who I'd like to follow, simply because of the above -- I read the folks I follow, and I can't let my follow list get too big for me to handle.

I also have a long list of story tags I follow specifically for stories that have a chronology that matters. I use XKit Rewritten on my browser to keep a list of unread posts by tag so that I don't miss posts from long-running stories.

OK, that said, and in no particular order...

@anamoon63 I have enjoyed the heck out of Alan Wilson's wild life. You're one of the reasons I'm poking at TS4 now. I also have gotten attached to Dale Cho and Kelly. They have so much personality.

@treason-and-plot I was intimidated by the complexity of your story for quite a while before I really started to dig in, but I couldn't stay away. You have so many characters! And so many plot threads! And they all weave together into a tangle of personalities that feel all too real.

@kimmiessimmies I'm still just getting to know your characters, but they're so vivid. As I've said in the comments, I really appreciate that Sadie and her entourage are mostly emotionally mature people who are working through their problems in reasonable ways. Characters don't have to be shallow or dumb to find themselves in drama, but it's a challenge to write mature ones.

@bearphase I got sucked in by Clem. Orange has got to be one of, if not the most challenging NSB generation, and you aced it. I've been invested ever since.

@rebouks You sucked a character all the way to rock bottom, and then he climbed out with hope and integrity and took everyone nearby out with him. I'm still not sure how you made such a dark story so warm and friendly.

@zosa95 I always smile when your characters show up on my dash. You're a warm presence in the community and a good storyteller. And your screenshots somehow manage to be extra endearing.

@greenplumbboblover I've never seen someone try to tell a soap opera of all of Sunset Valley. I'm getting a fresh look at characters who almost never get the spotlight. It's so much fun.

@mosneakers What can I say? I'd snatch Coraleye away from her boy if I had a chance.

@danjaley I can only imagine the kind of work that goes into the McCarrics. Reading their story makes me feel like a fly on the wall of real moments of a Scottish landed farmer's life. I've also snatched up a lot of your cc for my own projects.

@declaration-of-dramas You have such a beautifully staged historical setting, and your characters are so wild. I miss Lady Prilly, but this new story you're telling in San Pineda has already caught me.

@natolesims Your NSB has so much personality. Grey is a lot of fun. I hope we'll see Tiana soon. Ella's story really gripped me, and Tiana's was shaping up to be just as intense. Plus, your Disney simalikes are spot on.

@oasislandingresident You're a big reason why I discovered I like longer lifespans! I fell into the all-to-common trap of assuming everything had to be generational. You can discover very different stories when you give sims more space to live.

@pudding-parade You make some of the prettiest sims I have ever seen. I've downloaded about half a dozen worlds from your world reviews, and I'm not even sure what I'm going to do with them.

@queeniecook I can't wait to meet Vera and Caleb's baby. You've got us all in suspense. Your story is such a fun combination of adventure, intrigue, and domesticity. Also, so many pregnancy photo shoots. 😆

@nocturnalazure Last on this list but not least, I think your story is the first one I found on tumblr that I became a passionate fan of. I honestly think in another universe it would be a great TV adventure drama. I jump whenever I see something new on the tteot tag. Thanks for the story.

Thanks to everyone, and to the folks I've forgotten and will feel guilty about later. 😅

#echoweaver #sims #simblr gratitude day

41 notes · View notes

catsafarithewriter · 4 months ago

Text

Day 5: Bodyguard

A/N: This is the second (and final) half of the red thread au that I originally posted as Day 1: Red Thread of Fate's prompt. Due to the length, and realising it also related well to today's prompt, I decided to split it. (I'm also running a day late, so I'm using today's 'free day' (usually used for a ficlet of my own choice) to catch up!

Muta has watched over Lady Haru Yoshioka ever since he was appointed her bodyguard.

Longer, in fact.

Over the years, he has seen parades of princes present themselves before her. He has seen hordes of heroes make hopeful promises of breaking her curse. He has seen herds of knights riding in, and then riding out when all their bluster came to naught.

He has learnt that, deep down, they're all the same. All men, seeking money or power or glory, and seeing Haru as nothing more than a stepping stone to their success. And he should know: it was an encounter with one such monster that set him on the path of bodyguard.

The difference is, this time around Haru seems to have forgotten that.

This Humbert - not Baron, Muta knows the man is not a baron, for no titled lord would travel with so little, without even the whisper of an entourage - is no better than the rest. He has seen too many of Humbert's ilk to believe otherwise.

"He's a liar, Chicky," Muta warns Haru while she takes a constitutional walk around the gardens. "He's not even a baron."

Haru's stride doesn't break. "You seem awfully sure of this, Muta."

"Well, he can't be. What kind of noble travels with only a talking cane for company?"

"A cursed one, perhaps?"

"A disowned one, Chicky."

"And how do you know that?"

"I heard yer father talking about it."

She looks back then, raising an eyebrow she has perfected from him. "And my father is always right, huh?"

"The source was sound." When she doesn't look convinced, he adds, "He's been here long enough that even your father is gonna look into things. He sent a messenger to Humbert's family. Turns out, he's been disowned."

"And?"

"And, if he's happy to lie about that, what else is he gonna fib over? Yer can't be sure he isn't just like the rest. Saying whatever he needs to get him where he wants to be."

"You cannot be sure of that."

"Nah, but when have any of the wannabe heroes been decent? And he's cursed."

"So am I."

Muta shakes his head roughly. "That's different, Chicky, and we both know it. Men like him, curses like his, they come from a certain kind of action, a certain kind of karma. Beasts, they don't get like that because of some family curse, but because they did something. What do you think he did?"

"I don't know, Muta," Haru says.

"Yer do. Yer know what kind of people get cursed."

"Yes, but he's not-"

"Not what? Cruel? Selfish? With a face like that, he's probably gotten pretty good at hiding it, 'cause it's already on the surface. Yer can't trust him, Chicky."

Haru does pause now. The roses she stands beside are in full bloom, blood-red and clustered with thorns. Despite all this, she rolls a blossom between her fingers. "No one else has bothered to make an effort, Muta." She doesn't look at him. "We both know all the wannabe heroes only try to break my curse because of the gold or the chance to marry into my family. And they've all given up the moment their plans came to nothing. But Baron... he's stayed."

"He's stubborn. It doesn't mean he's honest."

"It means something, Muta. At least to me."

Warning bells ring in Muta's ears, even louder than when he realised Baron had his eyes set on Haru. He realises Humbert has given Haru something more dangerous than proclamations of love or vows of curse-breaking.

He's given her hope.

When they rejoin Baron, he's buried up to his elbows in paperwork. An ocean of files and documents floods the desk, and it's only by some nifty elbow-pinning and sheer luck that it hasn't cascaded to the floor yet.

Muta raises an eyebrow. "Natori's gonna have yer head when he sees the mess you've made of his records."

"I have a system," Humbert insists. "I think." He pauses, and glances up. "Which one's Natori? Is he the..." and Humbert gives a wild grin, "one?"

"Nah, he's the," and Muta mimed readjusting imaginary glasses, "one."

"Ah. Duly noted."

Haru approaches the table and inspects the chaos. "Dare I ask what you're doing?"

"The logic, I think, is sound," Humbert says. "There may not be records of the identity of the peasant girl, but there are records of everyone who officially attended."

"And?" Muta prompted.

"And, that means that every eligible lady who officially attended the ball can be ruled out."

Haru perches on a stack of books remaining from a previous spat of research. "So you're trying to identify a single peasant girl out of... how many?"

"Many," Toto says with a tired sigh. "I have try to tell him that the chances of singling her out are next to impossible, but..."

"Next to impossible is not quite the same as actually impossible," Humbert says cheerfully. "Between the two lives a little island of fated serendipity."

"And have you landed on this little island?" Haru asks.

"...No." Humbert retrieves a list that is on the seabed of the paperwork. It's long and every inch is inked with names. "So far, these are the individuals I have identified as being present and eligible in the area at the time of the balls, but who did not attend."

Haru doubtfully takes the list. "And you're going to... what? Contact every single woman here - assuming they're still alive - and ask if they happened to attend a ball several decades back while wearing glass slippers?"

"...Yes." Humbert begins to say something, and then pauses. The magnitude of his task begins to dawn on him. "I didn't say it would work but it's an idea. And a novel one at that."

"What are you going to tell my father? You can't admit you're looking for this woman."

"I shall be sure to give some other clever reason for my search," Humbert says. "I shall disguise the important questions among the rest, so no one realises my true intent." He holds out a hand for the list. "I've just found another possible candidate. May I have this back?"

Haru hesitates. "No one's ever gone to such lengths for this."

"Then I shall be the first. Or possibly the most optimistic." Humbert smiles. "If it can help you, it must be worth a try."

Muta doesn't miss Haru's smitten grin as she returns the list.

The search turns up nothing. Of course it does. Muta could have told them that - but then again, Muta could tell a whole lot of things, and none of them will do anyone any good. For instance, what good will it do to tell them that peasant girls become peasant women, who marry travelling merchants and go on to see the world? None at all, and it would only add more questions to the mix.

Still, Humbert searches. It lasts for a good few weeks, nearly a month and to the end of Lord Yoshioka's patience, before he admits defeat. For weeks, Muta watches as Humbert travels out into the city and countryside, disappearing from Haru's side to question woman after woman after woman, all to no avail.

There must, Muta thinks, be easier ways for a cursed noble to earn some gold.

"I must admit, there is one thing that has been bothering me for a while," Humbert says, another week into dead ends and wild goose chases. They're in the library, as they so often are, and even Muta has begun to begrudgingly relax. This has become routine. Safe.

(He still doesn't trust Humbert. Not officially.)

"Only the one?" Haru teases.

"Well, one novel thing," he amends. "It's taken me until now to put my finger on it... no pun intended, but when you originally told me of previous attempts to remove the thread, you said that you already knew you couldn't cut it off."

"Yes. And?"

"Your exact comment was that you've known since you were a child."

"Yes. And?"

Humbert doesn't reply immediately, but instead seems to consider his next words with care. "It's merely that... from the official records, it seems as though your father only turned his attention to breaking the curse when you were some years into adulthood."

Haru says nothing and, after a hesitation, Humbert seems to take this as confirmation to continue.

"It only occurs to me now that it seems... odd, chronologically-speaking, that you should know such a thing long before your father sought to break it."

Haru looks away from him, and only Muta catches the bittersweet smile that flitters across her face. "I guess I could tell you that it was merely an accident of youth, that my hand slipped while eating and that my knife should have cleaved straight through it, but..." She shrugs. "Well, would you believe me?"

"Do you want me to?"

She looks to him then, and Muta can read the softening of her shoulders, the guard dropping. "Would you? If I asked?"

"Yes."

She dances her hand over her gloved fingers, brushing past the littlest one and its unseen thread. It's a nervous tic, Muta knows, but one that helps steel her. "When I was a child," she said softly, "I hated what it represented. I hated the choice it took away from me and the stranger it tied me to, but most of all I hated how only I seemed to see it as a curse. For my whole childhood, everyone around me acted as though the fairy had misjudged, that I'd been given a blessing in disguise..." Her little finger curls into her palm. "The funny thing is, once everyone started to treat it as a curse, then it felt like a blessing."

"How?"

"I realised that had I not been cursed, my father would have already had me betrothed, regardless of my own interest." Her hands flit across her finger again. "This curse gave me a little breathing space, the ability to be more than just a bride or wife." She chuckles weakly. "Of course, I became relegated to prize instead, but given that no one seems able to win said prize..."

Humbert lets her trail off. For several moments, there's only the ticking of the library clock and the sound of birdsong from the windows.

"Haru... do you want the curse broken?"

She smiles wanly. "Well, I don't think I get much say in that, either way."

"I could leave."

"What?"

"I am here to break the curse," he reminds her gently. "And if that's what you want, I will stay here until I find a way. But if you don't want it broken, then I should go."

"Do you have to?" Haru asks. "Couldn't you just, you know, pretend to be working on it?"

"Haru, your father is already wary enough of how much time I've spent here. He's only tolerated my presence this far because all reports show I am working to break it." He glances to Muta, as if wondering whether the guard is one of the lord's informants. Muta could put him out of his misery, assure Humbert he reports to no one, not least of all the lord, but he doesn't. "And, if I continue to find novel ways to try to undo the spell, then one day I might just succeed."

Haru is quiet for a long moment. "What did you do?" she asks softly.

"Do?" Humbert echoes.

She nods to his face. "To, you know, get your curse."

He doesn't quite stare, but he does still. His posture doesn't alter, and yet Muta gets the impression that's only hiding the whirring of his mind as the cursed noble tries to make sense of the sudden topic change. "Is that really the question you want to ask?"

"Yes."

His smile is soft. Sad. "Then I'm afraid it's not a flattering portrayal of the person I once was. But, then again, you've probably already guessed that."

"Curses like yours," Haru says quietly, "they come from a certain kind of action. A certain kind of karma."

"An act of selfishness," Humbert translates.

"I didn't say that."

"You didn't need to." Now, Humbert finally shifts, leaning forward to the desk. It looks like a steadying action. A bracing action. "On the estate where I was raised, my father would throw winter feasts – large, extravagant affairs catering to the comfortably moneyed – and when I came of an age, I was charged with greeting our guests. As the youngest of three brothers, I was excited to finally be able to play a part, a role I took to with a good deal of earnestness."

He hesitates.

"An old beggar-woman came to the door that bitter winter night. She was cold and suffering and far from the kind of person my family would look kindly on, and I..."

"You refused her entry," Haru finishes.

"I refused her entry." He doesn't meet Haru's gaze, and Muta wonders if he's still seeing echoes of that night. "I knew my father would be angry if she was seen by our guests on that most auspicious of nights, so I refused on the first time she asked, and the second, and on the third she revealed herself to be a fairy. I prided my family reputation over the life of another, and for that I was transformed into the beast you see today."

Humbert passes one hand over the other, in almost the same way Muta has seen Haru do so many times before - but in Humbert's case, his fingers brush over the gap between sleeve and glove. A sliver of ginger fur is just visible; a fragmented reminder of Humbert's curse, while the rest of the evidence - save his tail and face - is so carefully hidden away.

"How old were you?" Haru asks.

"Old enough to have known better, that's all that matters."

"Such curses can be broken-"

"Not this one, Haru. Not anymore; too much time has passed."

"No, but... at first." Haru's nose wrinkles into a grimace. "If you had met someone, fallen in love..."

"To do such a thing, I would have to meet people," Humbert says. "And my family were mortified by my transformation."

"You're not hideous-"

"Not by the details of my apparance," he clarifies, "but by what it represented. Like you said, a curse like mine come from a certain kind of action." He glances to Muta. "Not incorrectly, but to have acknowledged my enchantment would be to admit one of their own was capable of such selfishness, so I was hidden away. When I eventually decided I had had enough of being a secret, I left, but not before the curse had become permanent and my family disowned me."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be. It was my own doing that left me like this."

"For your family, I mean," Haru says. "They shouldn't have abandoned you like that, they should have tried to help..."

"Yes, well, families are complicated things. Their help can come in all kinds of forms, even the kind you don't want." Humbert pauses, and then adds, "Sometimes, I think the fairy did me a kind of mercy."

"Howso?"

"Well, if life had continued, uninterrupted, I would probably still be there, echoing the kind of heartlessness I was raised in. By forcing me to become an outsider in my own home, I saw their callousness for what it really was. It made me want to be everything they weren't - to help without self-interest, to be kind merely for the sake of it - and it brought me here."

He looks to Haru then.

"I am glad I met you, Lady Haru. But I think we both know it is time I left."

"I don't," Haru says stubbornly. "You don't have to go, we can find a way, a reason for you to stay, even if it's not to break the curse-"

Humbert gently takes Haru's left hand and lifts it to his lips. She stills, cheeks flushed in a way no other do-gooder has prompted before. Humbert sees this, and smiles sadly. "We both know that my continued presence here will only make things... messy. Someday, Haru, this curse will be broken or you will find your soulmate, and in either scenario I can be nothing more than a bystander."

"I can refuse," Haru says hoarsely.

"Your soulmate? The suitors your father has ready?"

"Both. Either. All." She clasps her hands around his. "I want to choose you."

"You don't-"

"I do."

"Even after everything I've just told you-"

"I do," she repeats, this time with heightened fervour. "I want to choose the man who, despite knowing it might make me hate him, told me the truth. I want to choose the man who took a curse and used it to make himself kinder, who grew from it in a way my own father never has." She leans forward, speaking quicker now, as if afraid she is going to lose the moment or her nerve, or possibly both. "I want to choose the man who has spent months trying to break an impossible curse, who picked through decades-old records looking for clues, who saw me as a human, not a prize. I want to choose you, Baron Humbert von Gikkingen."

"Chicky..." Muta starts gently.

"Not now, Muta! I know, I know it's impossible, but I-"

Muta drops a hand onto her shoulder, and the rest of her argument is gone as she looks to him.

Muta has watched over Lady Haru Yoshioka ever since he was appointed her bodyguard.

Longer, in fact.

To some, taking on as a secret godchild the daughter of the man who had broken the heart of the previous godchild would be mere folly. But Muta has always been stubborn. And a bit petty. Admittedly, perhaps a lot petty. Other fairies would have washed their hands of the whole family, but Muta had suspected that the daughter of a man like Lord Yoshioka would need more help than most.

After all, a man who married for riches would surely ensure his daughter did the same.

So what better revenge than giving his daughter the kindness to find love on her own terms?

Because he's discovered that sometimes blessings like golden carriages and glass slippers can be a curse, and sometimes you have to make a curse into a blessing to save someone. Sometimes, the best blessing you can give someone is the abliity to choose for themselves.

"Choose," he says.

A heartbeat passes. He thinks she's not going to understand, or not follow through, but then she's tugging her gloves loose and then Humbert's. Her own she shakes off at the end, struggling against the sudden adrenaline-fuelled trembling, and then she holds Humbert's hands - one cursed palm in another.

She twists the red thread of fate around her fingers and somehow - impossibly - finds an end.

"You," she says to Humbert, and she ties it around his thumb. "I choose you."

#red thread au #cat writes #tcr fanfic #tcr birthday bash #the cat returns #tcr birthday bash 2024 #day 5 bodyguard #i would have loved to put more foreshadowing for the muta reveal #buuuut somedays the clues just don't line up #this duo i think i will add to ao3 in time #also was the 'nearly impossible' line a mangled misremembered princess brde reference? youll never know

16 notes · View notes