#tonight's folly friends

[tuiccim]

Wrecked (Part 4)

Pairing: Alpha Frank Castle x Omega Reader, Alpha Billy Russo x Omega Reader

Trigger Warnings: References to infertility, love triangle, smut

Summary: When Frank Castle found his way to your small town bar, you thought you had finally found your Alpha despite being a "wrecked omega" but when his best friend, Billy Russo, blows through town, your world tilts on its axis. You thought you found your happy ending but was it just more wreckage for your life?

A/N: Thank you to my beta reader and hype princess, @whisperlullaby

Wrecked Masterlist

You danced around Billy for the rest of the day. He always seemed to find a way to touch you or at the least, be within reach, and always solicitous. It hadn’t taken you long to realize your folly that morning. He was testing you, making sure you were loyal to his friend. Part of you wondered if Frank had put him up to it. Was he trying to find a reason to break it off with you? Did he regret his commitment to mate you? You hated the thoughts that continuously ran through your head. You jerk your head, trying to make the ugly thoughts go away. Would you ever find any peace from your own self-doubt?

“You okay, gorgeous?” Billy asks as he studies you from across the kitchen counter. 

“Fine,” you say, not making eye contact. 

“What time do you have to be at the bar?” he asks. 

“I’ve got to go get ready now. Are you guys coming by?” You look at Frank for the answer. 

“Nah,” Frank says. 

“Of course,” Billy’s answers simultaneously. 

“Okay, well, either way, I’ll see you guys later,” you retreat to your room to change. You wished you had a moment alone with Frank to ask him what was going on with him, but he seemed content to keep you at arms length. It was as you were driving that another explanation crossed your mind. What if Billy brought back memories of Frank’s mate, Maria? He had known her and Frank’s children. The thought made you sad and you wondered if you had jumped to conclusions about Frank’s remoteness. You resolved to talk to him about it tonight after close.  

Saturday night at any bar is busy and you were glad your other bartender was here. You really needed to find another hand, if only to give you a couple nights off a week. You usually take Mondays off but you'd been called in several times lately. You loved the bar but everyone needs a break sometimes. You hadn't taken a vacation since you bought it. 

You shake yourself out of your thoughts as a group bustles in through the door. Without them even making it across the floor, you get a pitcher going and gather glasses. They were regulars on Saturday nights. The group bought a few pitchers, played pool on one of the three tables, and were decent tippers. The leader of their group, Dane, came by to drop his card for the tab and grabbed the drinks. He was an Alpha and paid little attention to you outside of ordering and paying. Just how you liked them to behave. 

You were surprised when Frank and Billy actually showed. After their awkward exchange earlier, you assumed they wouldn't bother. Billy was all smiles as he approached and you set their drinks at two open spaces at the end of the bar. 

"Thanks," Frank said softly with a gentle look. It warmed your heart and you gave him a genuine smile. He looked in your eyes for what felt like the first time in days, though it had only been hours. 

"How's the night going?" Billy asks. 

"It's been busy but nothing we can't handle," you nod. 

"Can I get another?" A patron calls. 

"I'll check on you guys in a bit," you smile as you get back to work. 

The next hour goes by in a blur as customers come and go. You rarely have a moment to breathe and do little but refill glasses. The music was playing loudly and there was a commotion at one of the tables that calmed down with Jordan's quick work. It was a great night business-wise and everyone was having a good time. You had finally made it back over to the guys when, out of nowhere, the hair on the back of your neck stood up. Your shoulders tensed as you glanced around. 

"What is it?" Billy looked around before looking back at you. 

"I don't know..." your eyes continue to scan. 

"You probably just caught a chill," Frank attempts to reassure you. 

"Um,yeah... probably," you say softly. 

"I don't think so, Frankie," Billy disagrees. "Your face went white, gorgeous. Something set you off."

Frank glances around and shrugs, "Everything's fine. Relax. I'm gonna hit the head."

Taking a deep breath, you pour Billy another drink with a small smile, appreciative of his understanding. You glance up to check on the group at the pool table and see their pitcher getting low. You head that way to ask if they want another or to close out. Halfway there, you stop dead in your tracks when you make eye contact with a late arrival to the group. The Alpha that attacked you gave a sinister smile before lifting his glass. You look towards Jordan but he's dealing with a couple of young looking guys at the door. A hand grips your arm and you gasp, twisting to see Billy. A laugh rings out from your attacker's direction and your gut clenches. 

"It-it's him," you breathe out, frozen in place as your anger builds. 

"Who?" Billy looks and immediately knows. His hackles raise as he locks eyes, a challenge clear in the other Alpha's eyes. 

"He attacked me. Frank stopped him. He can't be here," you set off to face your attacker but Billy catches you.

"Hey, Let me handle it," Billy says. 

"It's my bar. I can handle it,"  you say confidently. 

"But you don't have to. Let me do this for you," Billy argues.

"No, I need to do this. I can stand up on my own," you pull away but, letting go of a little of your pride, you turn back to him, "But you can back me up." As you walk, you catch Jordan's eye and motion for him to join you. You approach the Alpha with them flanking you. "I'm only going to say this once, leave now."

"Brought your posse, huh?  Where's your hero with the crowbar? Couldn't hold on to him? He didn't want the broken Omega?" He says, darkly. 

"He's right behind you," Frank's gruff voice is accompanied by the sound of a pool stick taking out your attacker's knees.

"What the fuck?" Dane yells, seeing his friend being attacked. 

Frank stops him with the pool stick, "You don't want in on this."

"What is going on?" Dane looks at you for an answer.

"Last time he was here, I cut him off. After close, he attacked me by my car. He's not welcome here," you explain plainly. 

"Did he hurt you?" Dane asks.

"Nah, I hurt him," Frank grouses.

"Is that when you were in that 'car wreck', Matt?" Dane looks at his friend. 

"No. Back me up here, man!" Matt yells. 

Dane looks between Frank, Billy, and Jordan and shakes his head, "I'm good. Uh, when you're done here another round would be great."

"Sure, Dane." You look at the guys, "Get him out of my bar. Feel free to remind him why he's not welcome."

"We've got this," Billy stops Jordan from joining them. The dark smiles Frank and Billy exchange are enough to make your insides quell. Matt would be shitting his pants before the night was over. 

You grabbed the pitcher and flounced back to the bar as if nothing had happened, secure in the knowledge that he'd never show his face here again. His audacity was mind boggling. 

You settle back into the swing of things and finish off the night. Just as you were yelling last call, Billy and Frank come in with bruised knuckles. You pour them each a drink with a grateful smile. 

"Thanks for delivering the message," you wink. 

Frank smiles as he raises his glass, "Anytime."

You glance down at Billy's split knuckles, "Need some ice? Or a bandaid?"

"Nah, gorgeous," he licks the wound and takes a drink while staring at you. 

You don't know why but it was hot as fuck. Your mind immediately went to it doing other things and you have to swiftly shift your attention. You pour yourself a hit of whiskey, a rarity for you, but necessary to help you through these strange feelings coursing through you. 

“You okay, babe?” Frank eyes you. 

“Just a little keyed up,” you say, dismissively. 

“Sounds like you need an outlet,” Billy gives you a rakish look. 

Deciding to play his little game, you lean on the bar suggestively, “Any suggestions?”

Billy’s eyes betrayed him in that moment. Want was obvious but a moment of vulnerability flashed. He recovered quickly to send a smirk Frank’s way, “You’ve got a firecracker on your hands, Frankie.”

“She gets in her moods,” Frank cracks.

You raise an eyebrow at the comment but before you can reply, Dane walks up to close out his tab. He leaves a big tip and looks at Frank, “He still alive?”

“He was when we left him,” Billy says with a cagey shrug.

“He’s only in town a couple of times a year but once his dad hears about this, he won’t be back. Sorry for the trouble. Won’t happen again,” Dane nods to you as if sealing a deal. 

“Thanks. See ya next Saturday,” you say to assure his welcome to return. 

“Alright, let’s head out, Bill. Jordan, you’ll make sure she gets to her car?” Frank drains his glass.

“Uh, yeah. Of course,” Jordan says nervously. 

“Don’t worry about it. I’ll stay with her,” Billy states. 

“Wha- No, it’s fine. I’ll be fine,” you retort. 

“I’d feel better if you weren’t alone,” Billy says sternly.

“Jordan will be here,” you argue. 

“She’s good, Bill. Let’s go,” Frank jerks his head toward the door. 

“You go ahead,” Billy says coldly. “I’m staying.”

“You always were a stubborn bastard,” Frank laughs, shaking his head. 

“Always,” Billy says dismissively. 

You clench your jaw in frustration but turn away to finish off the night. It was as if time sped up to leave you alone with Billy. The bar emptied quickly, the staff cleaned in record time, and before you realized it, Billy had told Jordan to head to his apartment. Taking the cash to the back room, you crouch down to lock it in the safe. It was the only way to put some distance between the two of you. His intent to get you alone was obvious to you and you wanted to get into the car quickly to limit it. What you didn’t expect was for him to be right behind you when you stood up from locking the safe. 

Gasping, you growl out, “Damn Marines and their fucking silent steps!”

Billy chuckles as he closes the little distance between you. 

“Don’t,” you put a hand up to stop him. 

“We need to finish our conversation from this morning,” Billy intimates. 

“The one where you tried to seduce your best friend’s Omega?” You raise an eyebrow at him. “Were you testing me? Is this some sick game you play? Or did Frank put you up to it so he has a reason to dump me?” You practically spit the accusations. All of your anxiety and fears come to the surface with them. 

A muscle ticked in Billy’s clenched jaw. His dark eyes bore into yours as he leaned in closer. You stand your ground but you’d be lying if you said your insides didn’t quiver. His scent was suddenly more intense and you knew you had struck a nerve. His hand lashed out to grasp you by the throat and pull your face close to his. You wrap your hands around his wrist as your eyes widen. You should be scared, afraid of what this Alpha may do to you but you find yourself aroused by his reaction. Your thighs clench and heat pools in your belly despite you fighting these feelings. He takes a deep breath, pulling your scent in before speaking, “I don’t play games with other men’s Omegas. I don’t mess with Omegas at all, generally. But, I do go after what I want and from the moment I stepped in this damn bar yesterday, all I can think of doing is marking you as mine,” he growls.

“Why?” You ask, staring at him pleadingly, desperate for an answer. Mainly because you felt the same way. Your mind and body were screaming out for him. It was insanity, a delusion. It had to be. A reaction to agreeing to be mated. A seven month itch, fuck, it had to be something because whatever else it was, it was wrong.

“I don’t know. I can’t explain it but I want you more than I’ve ever wanted anyone,” he whispers. 

“I’m Frank’s,” you reply quietly. 

“Funny,” Billy says, trailing his fingers over the scent gland on your neck and sending a shiver through you, “I don’t see a claiming mark. You’re with Frank, you’re not his. Not yet… He won’t stay. He can’t. Even if he does mate you, he won’t stay.”

Those words broke whatever spell Billy was able to put over you and you felt the anger claw its way into you, “And you will?”

Billy’s lips part but nothing comes out. 

“Exactly,” You push him away. You grab your keys from the desk and flick the lights off as you exit the back room, “Let’s go.” 

You walk away without a backwards glance. Shutting everything down as you go, you make it to your car and slip in without him bothering to say anything more. Frank had told you Billy was known for going through the Omegas but you were kicking yourself for falling for his soulful shit again. Yes, you were attracted to him but he was just passing through town and no matter how much you wanted to give in, it would be stupid to lose Frank for nothing more than a quick fuck. You rode in silence to the cabin. Your anger and frustration were too intense to allow you to speak and Billy was similarly stoic. 

As soon as you were inside, you went to shower, feeling as if all you could smell was Billy on your skin. You ran the water hotter than normal and scrubbed your skin of any smell from him or the bar. When you entered the bedroom, Frank stirred, woken by the light from the bathroom. 

“Everything okay?” Frank asks, squinting. 

“No,” you say as you get on the bed. 

“What’s the matter?” 

You pull the blankets down and straddle his naked body. Kissing him hard, you pull back just long enough to whisper, “I need you.”

His arms go around you immediately and his mouth opens to kiss you more thoroughly. You reach down to pump his cock until it’s hard enough for you to slip it inside. Your walls clench around him. Breaking the kiss, you sit up to work your hips more quickly, allowing him to fill you more. 

“Jesus, babe, what’s gotten into you?” Frank moans as his hands cover your breasts to knead. 

“Fuck, needed this cock in me. Needed it stretching me out like only you can,” you answer, throwing your head back to let out a moan. 

“Quiet, babe. Billy will hear us,” Frank chuckles, sitting up and trying to pull you to him for a kiss. 

You push him back down forcefully and ride him harder, “Then he’ll know just how good you fuck me.” Your anger returns as you ride him. Anger at Billy for his very presence, anger at Frank for making you feel he always had one foot out the door, anger at your family for making you feel less than, anger at society that considered you nothing but a wreck. You rode all those feelings out on Frank’s cock and when that wasn’t enough you dug your nails into his pecs until he grimaced. You drag them down his chest leaving angry red marks, making Frank roar as he grabs you and throws you under him. He thrusts as hard as possible, driving impossibly deep, and forcing a cry from your throat. He doesn’t relent, pounding into you harder than he ever has, enough that you know your thighs will be bruised. You lose yourself in it, allowing your mouth to fall open and release moans and cries with no regard to who hears. When you come, your body bows and you release a full-throated scream. 

You lay like a ragdoll, completely spent and grateful for the release but Frank isn’t finished with you. Pulling out, he grabs your leg and flips you over. He pulls you up onto your knees and slams into you repeatedly from behind, grunting as he uses his hands to pull you back against him. Your skin slaps obscenely and you can do little more than curl your hands into the sheets as he fucks into you. When his hand lands a punishing slap on your ass, you cry out again. 

“Don’t know what the fuck has gotten into you tonight, but don’t worry, babe, I’m gonna fuck it out of you,” Frank growls as he continues his delicious assault on your pussy. 

“Oh, fuck,” you whimper, your eyes rolling back in your head as another orgasm slams through you. 

“That’s right. Let it out, fuck,” Frank pulls out of you and you collapse on the bed. Turning you on your back, Frank pulls one of your legs across the other and enters you again. You're twisted in half, breasts and face where he can see them, but your ass is still displayed as he fucks you. He grasps your thigh as he watches your tits bounce with each thrust. “Play with them. I wanna watch you,” Frank brings your hand up to your breast. 

You pinch your nipples, twisting and flicking as he watches. His hips drive into you steadily and his thumb makes circles around your clit. Your orgasm creeps up on you, your attention on your breast but your body suddenly spasms and you let out a high pitched moan. It comes in waves and you clench down on Frank with each one. 

“Frankie, baby, please. I need you to fill me up,” you whine, exhausted.

“You want me to fill you up, you’re gonna have to work for it,” Frank grunts, pulling you up. He positions you on top of him in reverse cowgirl. “Ride me like you did the other night and maybe I’ll give it to you. Move that ass,” he says as he delivers another punishing smack to your ass cheek. 

“Oh,” you squeal as you begin to move. You’re so tired but you put all of your remaining energy into bouncing on his cock. You stick your ass out, giving him the full view. He licks his lips as he watches your dripping cunt swallow his cock. He grabs handfuls, delivers alternating smacks, and smears slick from your cunt to play around your tight, little asshole. 

“Play with your clit. I want to feel you come around my cock one more time,” Frank demands.

“I… I don’t think I can,” you whimper. 

“I ain’t coming until you come, ‘mega. I suggest you get to work,” he flexes his hips up into you to emphasize his words. 

You circle your clit, searching desperately for that toe curling feeling. You reposition your hips to allow his cock to hit your g spot a little better and begin making shorter strokes. You find it and ride it out, begging your body to give you just one more. When you felt yourself teetering on that precipice, you whined until the spasms hit. Your hips moved in jerky motions as the orgasm made your legs shake uncontrollably. 

Frank’s deep voice groans, “Oh, yeah, fuck. That’s it. Fuck.” 

You feel his knot lock in place and you sob as pleasure rolls through you. Frank rolls you to your side while you’re still connected. His big hand caresses your cheek before resting it on the back of your head. 

“That’s what you needed, huh? Just needed my knot filling you up, huh, ‘mega?” He whispers, exhaustion clear in his voice. 

“Yeah,” you whisper, glad that you were facing away from him so you could hide your tears. You were filled by a man who wanted you, so why did you feel so empty?

Part 5

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FILE PATH ↬ THAP1NKBL0G ↬ MASTERLIST ↬ [＃] P1NKYSH0TS

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

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

❝𝐢 𝐡𝐨𝐩𝐞 𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐣𝐞𝐰𝐞𝐥𝐬 𝐟𝐮𝐞𝐥 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲 𝐝𝐞𝐬𝐢𝐫𝐞.❞

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

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

Tonight was 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐂𝐫𝐲𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐥 𝐁𝐚𝐥𝐥. 

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

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

And the friends that had dragged him along tonight. 

“Ooh, I love this shit!”

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m just checking on her.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And he didn’t want to think about that. 

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

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

“No, this is my-”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Terrell rolled his eyes, nudging Tyree’s arm. 

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

“Again, I ain’t ask you to do this.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Aye, Tyree!”

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

“That nigga is done for.”

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

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

“You ready for your dance?”

“Uh, I didn’t order a dance.”

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

“Yeah you did, remember?”

“I-”

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

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

“Five?”

“Pocket change, really.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Here you go.”

“What?”

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

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

“Terrell-”

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

“First time?” 

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

“Yes? Wait - no, no!” 

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

Michelle was going to absolutely kill him. 

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

“What’s your name?”

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

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

“Tyree.”

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

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

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

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

“So Tyree, how old are you?”

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

“Twenty-seven. You?”

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

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

“You believe in that zodiac stuff?”

“Yeah. When’s your birthday?”

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

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

“August twenty-second.”

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

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

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

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

“But isn’t that everyone?”

“I don’t know, is it?”

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

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

But what about Michelle? 

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

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

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

She was soft. Real soft. 

And she smells good. Real good. 

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

“I’m getting married in two days.”

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

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

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

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

“Marriage is a big commitment,”

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

“You ready for that?” 

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

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

“But is that what you wanna do?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

But what about how he felt?

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

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

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

“About what?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She was getting paid to be nice. 

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

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

Deflect. 

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

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

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

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

“I don’t know, I’m just talking-” 

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

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

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

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

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

“N-No, I was just-”

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m just a regular stripper,”

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

“But I do think you’re kinda cute.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Time’s up.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

More importantly, he wasn’t happy. 

“You alright man?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There was only one move to do, honestly. 

And he was dreading taking the first step. 

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

But he didn’t want to hurt Michelle. 

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

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

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

“You think that wing place will be open?” 

“It’s Friday, it might be.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You okay?”

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

“I don’t know,” 

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

He just had to take the first step.

Nothing major, right?

But the first step was always the hardest step. 

“But shit, I will be.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Well good night, Tyree.” 

“Yeah, good night-”

“Yaya.”

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

“Good night, Yaya.”

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

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

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

“Yaya!”

“Hm?”

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

“Can I get your number?”

“Ain’t you finna get married?”

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

“I uh..”

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

“It’s Amaiyah.”

“Huh?”

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

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

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

“It suits you.”

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

“Why should I give you my number?”

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

And he couldn’t come up with shit.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I work every Wednesday through Saturday,”

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

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

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

And Tyree was all about his business. 

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

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

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

“I was wondering where you went.”

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

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

“Who’s that?”

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

“I don’t know. Nice car though.”

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

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

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

“Bye Terrell.” 

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

“Bye Fancy..”

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

“So,”

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

Too bad Terrell was already one step ahead of him. 

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

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

“Yeah, I did-”

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

“What? The fuck are you-”

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

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

“Looks like she got you-”

“You got makeup on your shirt.”

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

“Fuck, this shirt was Prada!” 

“And now it’s nada.”

“Nigga, fuck you!”

[i-did-not-mean-to]

Kinktober 2024 Making out (Courtesan/Stripper, Rare pair)

Let's go on with a cherished rare pair. And another very milk chocolate ficlet!

Prompts: Making out (Courtesan/Stripper, Rare pair)

Pairing: Eönwë x Gothmog

Words: 555

Warnings: Striptease, nudity, sloppy kissing

Eönwë knew that it was wrong of him to be here—he didn’t even want to imagine what his Lord would say if he knew where his dutiful, reliable herald had slunk off to.

As he slipped into the dark cavern, he couldn’t even fully remember who’d first told him about the morally questionable habits of Melkor’s terrible followers, but he’d known at once that he needed to see these unsavoury happenings with his own two eyes.

After all, scouting out any and all potential danger was part of his duties, was it not?

Moreover, the mere idea of Balrogs dancing sounded so ludicrous that he had to get to the bottom of so potentially destructive a rumour—beings of such girth and power could lay waste to whole stretches of land with their every movement, so Eönwë felt compelled to at least try to prevent a devastating landslide or earthquake.

When he arrived, hoping that his golden hair and the badly concealed wings would not give him away too soon, the spacious cave was oddly hushed.

And then, Gothmog—Lord of Balrogs—appeared on a small, rocky ledge, massive arms outstretched invitingly.

Suddenly, everyone was on their feet, stomping and clapping enthusiastically.

Eönwë swallowed heavily—he knew Gothmog, and was exceedingly confused by his present state.

Indeed, the brave, good-hearted Maia had never seen his dark, dangerous counterpart so…clothed.

“Ah, we have a special guest tonight,” the huge creature of fire and doom purred as he made his way through the throng ruthlessly. Of course, he’d spotted Eönwë immediately! “Have you lost your way, birdie?”

As he advanced slowly through the voguing mass of his brethren’s hot, bare flesh, Gothmog moved his hips alluringly to the rhythm of their unbroken chanting and pounding—by the time he reached Eönwë’s paralysed form, he’d shed every unnecessary stitch of clothing he’d previously donned for that exact purpose.

Mouth dry and hands atremble, the heroic herald braced for the challenge—he would not stand a chance against so many foes, entranced by bloodlust or something similarly nefarious.

“You look beautiful tonight,” Gothmog hummed, leaning forward and brushing his dry, almost unbearably hot lips against Eönwë’s brazenly. “Have you come to see me dance? You know that there’s a price to pay.”

When the other lifted his hands to show that he was unarmed, Gothmog cackled. “Nothing so gruesome, my feathered friend. The dancer is recompensed with gifts—that notion is not new to you, is it?”

Remembering all the times he’d whirled and pranced for this despicable demon, Eönwë ducked his head and produced a handful of shiny gems.

“Very good,” Gothmog laughed and launched into a series of movements so forceful and yet enthralling that the very ground shook beneath Eönwë’s curled toes.

Despite having endeavoured to pass unnoticed, Eönwë now basked in the attention of the assembled scoundrels as Gothmog alternated between complex dance moves and greedy kisses, both of which left his unexpected prisoner shivering with overwhelming need.

If he were to die in this dank place due to his own folly, Eönwë thought hazily, he’d at least have witnessed a marvellous sight that few beyond the fallen Vala’s ranks would ever see.

If the enthralled audience was flabbergasted by the private show, punctuated by open-mouthed kisses, they knew better than to say so.

@tolkienpinupcalendar <3

Thank you so much for reading!

☞ Masterlist

[ignite-stars]

YOU’RE LOSING ME — CASSIAN / ERIS VANSERRA

summary: nesta archeron knew cassian belonged wholly to another.

notes: do i base all of my works off of taylor swift songs? yes. who cares, play the track!!!!! this is a small blurb just to get back into the swing of things, longer writings coming soon!!!!!

From the very beginning, Cassian had never looked at her. Nesta Archeron could sneer down her nose, send the male sharp glares, spit venom his way. The only way she’d know how to show interest her entire life, not pretty words and lingering touches, but ugly truths and cutting insults.

She hated the way it bothered her. The way he could dismiss her so easily.

She hated the way her heart jumped when his hazel eyes snagged in her direction in a rare moment of conversation.

She hated the way that gaining Cassian’s attention had never been difficult for you, rather effortless, in fact.

From the moment Feyre had brought home the people she’d found solace in amidst the immortal lands, Nesta noted the soft tension that lingered between you and the red-siphoned male. The way he relaxed around you, shoulders slackening and wings slumping.

It was an odd sight, the most powerful Illyrian War General in all of Prythian becoming all but a puppy in your presence— even though he towered over you and his bicep was easily the size of your head. And you, a seemingly harmless female with a gorgeous smile and doe eyes, growing protective and wickedly cruel at anyone who all but looked at your male the wrong way.

And yet, Nesta had found that no one but herself batted an eye at the odd pairing.

Feyre’s eyes crinkled with delight when she’d catch a glimpse of Cassian chasing you down the halls of the Townhouse, all but tackling you for affection.

Azriel’s lips quirked when you entered the dining room, sparring his brother throughout the halls of the house despite Rhysand’s rules against it.

Morrigan cooed when Cassian would cocoon you in a wing as you sat side-by-side.

Even Amren raised an amused brow when she’d find you perched on Cassian’s shoulders during Solstice season, hanging decorations around the House of Wind.

Dear Elain sighed dreamily when Cassian would encase your face in his large hands and draw you in for a deep kiss.

Nesta wanted to hate you. Wanted to pick you apart as to why the Illyrian male she longed for should not love you.

But she couldn’t.

You had been a friend to both her and Elain after they’d been reborn. The only one who understood that their death’s were not fairytales and legends to be told for generations to come. You had been the only one who fought for her when the rest of the Inner Circle had pushed for Nesta to tell the story of her death to the other six High Lords of Prythian.

She respected you so deeply that she began to view you as not a foe, but a friend.

Hurt had cleaved it’s way into her heart the moment she’d found out what mates were, that undeniable bond she’d felt snap into place with Cassian long after she’d been turned Fae. The bond she tried to ignore for so long— to claw out of her very soul with every baited breath.

She had been meant for Cassian, and he had been meant for her.

And he knew it, the moment she’d tumbled out of the Cauldron, and he suspected it for longer.

But he hadn’t cared. Because for him, it had only ever been you, only ever would be you.

You belonged to another, too.

Nesta was not folly to the soft glances and pleading stares the Heir of the Autumn Court throne sent you each time the two of you had been holed up in the same room. The way Eris had studied your reaction carefully while he’d offered Nesta his hand in marriage.

But you hadn’t cared. Because for you, it had only ever been Cassian, would only ever be Cassian.

Tonight, Nesta tipped back her head, finishing off her third glass of rather expensive red wine while she avoided the dance floor of the Night Court ballroom at all costs.

You were so beautiful. The dress the Night Court’s seamstresses had crafted for you was so hauntingly gorgeous: a maroon dress so deep that it was nearly black, long skirts that looked around your ankles, diamonds encrusted on the fabric to create the illusion that starlight had exploded on the tail end— that you were that fallen star, the one that had landed right into the General’s hands. Nuala and Cerridwen had twisted up the top half of your hair into horns, letting the rest curl around your shoulders naturally.

And you had Cassian gazing at you as though you’d hung every star and the very radiant moon in the night sky, lighting the endless void of his essence.

You wrapped your arms around the General’s neck as he lifted you off your feet to twirl, dipping your full mouth gently to his ear and whispering something endearing, meant only for him. In response, your male tipped his head back and roared in seductive laughter, his shoulder-length hair ruffling at the movement.

Nesta hadn’t realized the small cracks craving up the sides of her wine glass from the tight grip she held on it. But the voice blooming at her side stole away any thought she gave her jealousy, “You’re gawking.”

As though Nesta’s thoughts had conjured the devil, Eris Vanserra had appeared at her side, his eyebrows drawn tight together as though it took every inch of his being to not attack the Night Court make who twirled his mate around the ballroom.

When Nesta did not indulge in Eris’s presence, he clasped his hands together and spoke lowly. “I once thought the idea of a mating bond was ridiculous, and beneath me.” The red-haired male began, “after my history with Morrigan, I had a hard time seeing why love would be worth the trouble. No man in my life that had been in love ever truly looked happy.“ He settled against the back of his seat, looking deep in thought for a long moment. “She tried to kill me, the first time I ever saw her.” Nesta bit back a smile, and the words that were on the tip of her tongue. Sounds about right. “She was so wholly devoted to Morrigan and the Night Court— to the bastard. She had hated me before I even knew she existed, she had loved him before I even knew she existed.” The silent confession hung heavy in the air.

“She’s your mate,” Nesta breathed, her icy gaze blew wide. The faintest nod from Eris confirmed the senseless admission. “And— and is it?”

Eris quirked a brow at the eldest Archeron sister, and she swallowed deeply, slowly prowling a softened eye around the room at all the pairs of people in love. “You claimed to have a hard time seeing why love was worth the trouble. . . but I assume you know now.”

Eris smiled, not malicious or inviting. Almost, apologetic. “How destructively ironic of me,” he pushed up from his seat, causing Nesta’s hand to dart out in attempt to slow him. “Yes. My answer is yes, Nesta Archeron.”

Her hand slackened from around his wrist, the answer not having been the one she wanted to hear. Eris sensed her dissatisfaction, “People engulfed in the darkness are not meant to see the light. Keep wishing on a fool’s hope, and you’ll find that not even the most willing star will answer your dreams.”

[chickenparm]

Where You Willed The Moon - Part 3/End

happy scara-release-day, here's the ending of this little goofy thing as a celebration. mind the chapter tags for specific warnings :^) can you tell this chapter is just a love letter to scaramouche? is it that obvious?

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AO3 Link Prev Part

Scaramouche/Reader (reader is the traveler) reader in prev parts is F but this part can be read as GN 3,119 Words - NSFW Chapter Tags: Blowjobs, Crying, Confessions, minor Overstimulation Story Tags: Unhealthy Codependence, Enemies to Lovers, P in V, f!Receiving Oral, Thigh Riding, Mentions of m!Losing Virginity, Pining, Bullshit Sereniteapot Magic, sub-ish Scara when it counts :^)

Spoilers for the Sumeru story, disregards anything post-boss-fight.

---

“You could try to be a little civil.”

“And you could find a hole to stuff her in and we could leave her.”

…

“Why do you need her, anyway? You’ve got me now. Surely I’d be a better guide than a flying lavender melon.”

“Well, for starters, Paimon isn’t a wanted criminal.”

“I doubt I’m wanted. The sages are unlikely to admit their folly, and the Fatui aren’t necessarily on anyone’s good side, even on their best days.”

“Paimon is my best friend. I think that’s a good enough reason to not leave her in a ditch somewhere.”

“And I’m your-”

“My what?”

“...I don’t know.”

“Think about it. We’ll talk about it tonight-”

—

Wangshu Inn is deceptively quiet. Such a central location, popular with travelers and merchants alike, should be far more bustling than it currently is. But the weather is balmy and warm, the sky is clear, the roads have been safer, so it’s no wonder if there are more campfires dotted on the horizon than usual. 

It leaves you in blissful quiet, only the occasional conversation drifting from the walkways above and below, too muffled to really eavesdrop on anything of importance. That’s well enough for you - you’re alone, leaning on the window, breathing in of the slightly humid air that’s tinged with the dinner that’s being made in the kitchens below. 

Scaramouche will be back soon - it’s hard to break the habit of calling him that, when you’ve gone so long. You’d never use it to his face, but you’ve given up on trying to push that away for now. It’s not a terrible name, the connotations having been changed in your heart the moment your consciousness touched his own. 

With him comes Paimon - they’ve been arguing again, you can tell with how Paimon takes her food and disappears in a shower of sparks. She’s been doing that more often, her distaste for him well known despite your assurances that he’s not the same man that had been so hostile before. Conflicting personalities, you supposed. Like two pieces of sandpaper. 

“You’re thinking hard.”

“I’m not thinking at all.” Your counter comes over your shoulder, given with a lazy smile and a shrug of your shoulder. The skin of your cheek sticks to your shoulder with how thick the air feels, Liyue’s Summer has been particularly unforgiving this year, so you’ve heard. 

“Oh, so your head is just as empty as I thought it was.”

“You looked into it, remember? Saw my every thought?” Your lower back presses against the window frame as you turn to lean against it, watching as he settles at the low table and portions out food for himself. It’s unnecessary for him - food doesn’t provide him with anything other than an interesting pastime. Yet he participates anyway, and you’re not about to shame him for finding enjoyment in something so trivial.

At your questions, he lifts his gaze, unable to block his expressions with the hat that was thrown haphazardly on the bed you’ll share this evening. Without it, he seems almost vulnerable - like he’s lost a shield that protects him. The answer lingers for a moment, before he nods in an effort to forego something verbal. Your silence in return urges him to backtrack on that. 

“I did. Everything - likely as much as you’ve seen about me, I’d say.” Violet eyes turn to his bowl, filled with only rice for the moment. He takes a second to mix it around aimlessly, steam rolling once his chopsticks break the surface. “I wouldn’t have killed you, you know. In our fight.”

“One hundred and sixty-eight times grows a little fuzzy, but… I believe you.”

The amusement in your tone seems to annoy him, and he fixes you with an unconvincing glare and a sharp exhale. “I mean it. When we connected, I saw your life. Where you’ve been, what you’ve gone through. You aren’t human - you’re immortal. You won’t-”

Leave me. 

He doesn’t need to finish the thought, that mere insinuation making his cheeks color slightly as he looks you in the eye with all the bravery he can muster when he clearly wants to shy away. “I was confused but… a part of me believed you, when you brought up the prospect of losing myself. When you made it seem like you cared.”

“I did care. I do care.”

“I know that now,” he mumbles under his breath before righting himself, “but at the time, my thoughts were in the wrong place. I still wasn’t going to kill you, I wanted to-... to convince you to stay, I think. To convince you that if you joined me, I could help you look for your twin. As the Everlasting Lord of Arcane Wisdom, maybe I could offer enough to keep you.”

The leaves of Wangshu Inn’s tree rustle with the coming wind, filling the space with natural white noise and drowning out the sound of your heart breaking. He avoids you in favor of looking out the window over your shoulder, a stubborn set to his jaw as he cuts off anything further he might say to incriminate himself. 

Unable to allow a declaration like that to rest, you push off the window to cross the room, only a few short steps bringing you to his side where you kneel close enough for your knees to brush his thigh. He flinches when you reach for him, tucking a lock of hair behind his ear, soft as ever. 

“If only you could’ve known that it was what came before that which brought me to you, hm?” Playing with the ends of his hair, you twist them loosely around your fingers before letting that hand slide down his shoulder, then to his arm, then to his elbow where his skin is barely covered between his arm guard and sleeve. “Well you have me now. Everything happens for a reason, I guess. Maybe all of that was just a convoluted way to bring us together.”

Scaramouche’s head turns so quickly that it startles you, his face dangerously close to your own, his nose just barely brushing against yours. His voice wavers, his question is one you can almost taste on your lips if you were to run your tongue out to catch it. 

“What am I to you?”

And the answer is so simple, so obvious that you wonder why he needed to ask it at all. But you’ve felt the need for reassurance more times than you can remember, and perhaps the situation with Paimon earlier had shaken his resolve in your dedication to him. Even after you’d given him everything, he greedily asked for more. As long as it was in your power to give…

“Everything.” A small smile from you, a look of astonishment from him that’s wiped away when you lean forward to kiss him gently. The featherlight touch lingers, leaving your skin tingling as you pull away just enough to watch the way his eyes snap shut to stem the shine of tears beginning to gather at the corners.

Scaramouche’s lip quivers, just before he draws it between his teeth to hide the motion. Giving him a small bit of privacy, you lean in to wrap your arms around his body, pulling him to lean on you. It’s a familiar motion, one that you’ve indulged in with him an innumerable amount of times. It’s as easy as breathing, as familiar as gliding had felt the first time you’d soared over Mondstadt. 

Fingers dig into your back, clutching you as he seeks all the comfort you’re offering him. He nearly bowls you over with how he leans into you, selfishly accepting everything on display until his face is buried into your shoulder and his body shakes with the effort of holding back the emotions that want to run free. 

“Don’t ever doubt how much you mean to me, alright? No one else can occupy the same space in my heart as you.” Gently, you kiss the exposed skin of his shoulder, lingering at your leisure as you watch a shiver raise bumps along his skin. Dragging your lips up to his neck, mouthing at the point of his pulse through the sheer fabric of his undershirt, you relish how he’s gone from limp in your arms to stunned tension. Anticipation colors him, even if you can no longer see his face. 

“Can I tell you something? Something you didn’t get to see in my mind, something you haven’t learned yet?”

As if he would say no, but it’s not often you get to tease him without getting a taste of his barbed responses. Instead of his sharp tongue, you receive a nod that’s deceptively demure, his hair brushing along your cheek smoothly with the motion. Kissing further up his neck, along the soft skin beneath his ear, and finally to his earlobe, you murmur your secret just loud enough that only he could ever hear its first manifestation into reality.

“I love you.”

Everything falls silent. The heartbeat in your ears, the leaves whispering in the tree, the conversations that flutter in from outside. For the briefest time, you’re almost convinced that perhaps you’ve spoken some code words that cease the world from spinning altogether. 

If you did nothing, said nothing further, would you be allowed to stay in this single moment until the end of time? Would that ending even come, so long as you kept so very still, your knees beginning to ache from the hardwood flooring? It’s a simple pain to bear in exchange for holding him like this, the burden on your heart lifted with the proclamation that’s been clawing to release itself from the very moment he’d crashed to the floor in that workshop so far below the city of Sumeru.

It’s not your doing that time begins to slip forward again. It’s his, where his shaking hands grow lax against you, barely hanging on with the friction between his fabric-covered palm and the back of your shirt. “Do you mean that?”

Scaramouche’s doubt hurts. Not because he second-guesses what you’ve said, but the entire reason he feels the need to do so in the first place. He’s been lied to, scorned, pushed away so many times that he can’t help but feel wary. So, you decide perhaps it’s best to show him. To ingrain it in his heart and his mind so thoroughly that he’ll never doubt your conviction ever again.

He doesn’t even fight you when you give him a push, pulling away enough that you can watch as he allows you to lean him back, further and further until he has to shift his legs to cage you in as his back hits the floor. The lanterns in the room set his face alight, showing the rose color of his cheeks and the wetness that begins to well up in his eyes once more. 

One swipe of your thumb isn’t enough to wipe them away, but it leads him to lean into your palm that conforms to his cheek so perfectly. Like he was made for you to hold him in the sweetest ways, some divine form created for you to love as surely as you do in this moment. 

The lithe muscles of his abdomen jump as your hands slide beneath the parted fabric of his kimono, warm palms pressing against his skin as you explore planes you haven’t given yourself nearly enough opportunities to indulge in. Beneath you, a shaking breath leaves him, catching in his throat as you untuck his clothing from his belt, then work at the knot keeping the remainder of his clothing cinched securely. 

“What are you-”

“Showing you. Making sure you don’t forget, that you never question for a single moment ever again what sort of meaning you have to me.” He tenses as you continue to tug at fabric, untucking and parting until he’s just indecent enough for you to wrap your hand around his half-hard arousal. All it takes is that single touch for him to moan low and slow, appreciative enough for his head to roll back to rest on the floor with a dull thud. Any apprehension leaves him with a gentle stroke of your hand. 

Leaning closer, enough that your intentions are obvious even as he can’t look anywhere but the ceiling rafters above, you speak close enough to his cock that your warm breath washes over it. He tenses, hardening in your palm as you hum, “I want to make you feel so good that every time you wonder how I might feel, you’ll remember this moment and your problems will go away.”

And the response in his throat dies as his cock finds a home on your tongue, from base to tip, dipping into the slit and tasting the beginnings of his release with a saltiness on your tongue. It’s far from unpleasant, and you find your lips wrapping around the head in search of more. There’s a scraping sound, grating in its insistence as his nails dig into the hardwood flooring. Both hands are straining, fingers shaking with the effort of keeping still for no real reason. 

Scaramouche resists for only a moment as you use your free hand to reach for his, squeezing it once before guiding him into resting his palm on your head. An open invitation, one that he doesn’t quite grasp yet as your tongue swirls circles that leave his breath ragged and hitching. It takes a single bob of your head, a taste of what he could demand from you, before he puts pressure against your scalp in encouragement. 

“Please…”

As if he would need to beg. All he’d need to do is say the word, make the motion, quietly demand anything from you and it would be his without complaint. It takes nothing more than that little push for you to follow his demands, the flat of your tongue dragging along skin that draws a high-pitched, needy groan from him that feeds the odd hunger you’re feeling. But you want more - need it - and let him set the pace of his cock feeding past your lips and over your tongue. 

Deeper and deeper, until your nose is brushing his pelvis and his fingernails are dangerously close to drawing blood against your scalp. It takes him a moment to gather himself, and when it does it’s with both hands on you - the one on your head, the other curled against your cheek. Craning his head, he looks down his body at you with a startling amount of reverence in his eyes, lips parted with the anticipation of words you’re certain you’ve been waiting your entire life to hear.

“I-I love you. I love you. So much-... ngh-... so much it hurts. I love you. So perfect, so beautiful, e-everything I’ve-” his words cut off sharply as his back arches, hips jerking enough that he buries himself to the hilt before letting you pull away. Every muscle in his body seems to shake with the effort of containing himself, the sensations manifesting as uncontrollable tears in his eyes that trail down his temples into his hair, matting it against itself. 

“Pleasepleaseplease-”

Both hands are what you need to hold him still, pressing down on his hips until he can’t roll himself upwards into the warmth of your mouth, the softness of your cheeks and tongue in search of the pleasure you’re offering him. There’ll be more time for him to be greedy later, to use you in whichever way he pleases. For now, there’s a point to be made, and that’s only done by you holding him still and worshipping him like he demanded be done not so long ago. 

“I-I’m going-... I can’t-”

Scaramouche throbs in your mouth, teetering on the edge physically and verbally. If he were any louder, you’re certain anyone would be able to hear him beyond these four walls. As the thought crosses your mind, so too does it strike him, as the hand on your cheek rips away in favor of slapping over his mouth to muffle the moan that accompanies him falling to pieces. 

Holding your breath and pushing yourself to your own limit, you take him whole and feel his release hit the back of your throat in a handful of steady bursts that come in time with him bucking against your iron-tight hold. Even muffled, the sounds that leave him are akin to some celestial song, ragged in its desperation and beckoning you to suck him further. Moans turn to groans turn to whimpers, hand falling away as he all but begs you to stop. 

You only do so when he grows soft on your tongue, his thighs shaking next to your head as his knees bend to curl in on himself. If you could get away with it, you’d hold him there and do it all over again, but a single glance at his face tells you that he’s spent. Red-cheeked, hair ruined, lashes thick with tears as he blinks toward the middle-distance lazily. 

He barely flinches as you tuck him away, righting his clothes enough that he’s decent. Even as you crawl up his body, settling yourself between his thighs and resting your cheek on his sternum. On anyone else, there’d be a heartbeat thudding in your ears - but all you hear is the remnants of his labored breathing, your head moving with the rise and fall of his chest. 

In a vain hope for the world to stop in its tracks, to give you a little longer in this moment, you murmur those magic words again. “I love you.”

Scaramouche doesn’t answer right away, though his hand does come up to curl around the back of your neck. He holds you there, fingers pressing gently against the muscles there, thumb moving in concentric circles that grow larger, then smaller. There’s no expectation for him to speak it again - once was enough. Once was all you’d need to hold on to for the sake of bringing yourself comfort. 

But despite his greed, Scaramouche can be rather generous when he wants to be. His own proclamation flutters over you like dandelion seeds, like sakura petals, like crystalflies that dance along your skin. 

“I love you. Centuries of life, and I’m convinced it was all meant for you.”

The years you’ve lived have been lost to time, their number far beyond your memory, especially after the tampering that happened while you slept for so long. But as he cranes his neck to press a kiss to the crown of your head, a subtle show of affection that holds immeasurable meaning, you can’t help but share the sentiment wholeheartedly. 

[separatist-apologist]

The New Romantics

Every day is like a battle, but every night with us is like a dream

Summary: Gale Dekarios has come to terms with the end of his life- really, he has. It's only fitting he return to the sight of his folly- to the ruins of Karse, hidden deep within the Dire Wood, where he plans to let the orb overtake him. Still, he can't resist stopping in Baldur's Gate, just to see if there is anything that might help him.

If Gale Dekarios was looking for absolution, Baldur's Gate was the wrong place to go. But if he was hoping for revenge? Well, the city might just answer.

Read on AO3

“Please,” the voice pleaded for all Elara cared. Standing before her, Enver Gortash’s dark eyes were focused not on the bloodied scene before them but her. 

“Do you believe me now?” Elara asked, head cocked to the side. 

Gortash took a step forward, gloved hand stroking her cheek. “Yes,” he breathed. If Elara wanted, they could bathe in the beautiful visage before her. She didn’t, though—not yet. She had other things she needed to do, boxes to check off before she indulged in her lesser urges. Turning, Elain’s dagger sailed through the air, slicing into the tender, unprotected flesh of that last, living victim.

The symphony of bloody death filled Elara’s chest like warm sunlight. Oh, the urges sang, that’s beautiful.

Another, softer part of her balked—guilt tried to claw its way up her spine where it could better sit in her throat. Once, Elara would have sobbed herself hoarse after such a scene, but now…now she didn’t care. Guilt was a useless, soft emotion.

She was the spawn of Bhaal—his favorite daughter, his only Chosen. Standing behind her was the Chosen of Bane. Like her, he was young and he was hungry, desperate to prove himself. Unlike her, he thought this alliance would result in power and tyranny when Elara knew the truth: any union between her Dread Lord father and Bane would end in ruin and death.

Liking him was immaterial, truly. And yet…

“Find me tonight,” Gortash urged, fingers wrapping around his wrist. “Do not keep me waiting.”

It was a game between them. Whatever order he issued, she was to break. Then he’d do his very best to punish her, soliciting power even when they were undressed in the dark together. 

Elara merely nodded, slipping from his grasp to half-vanish into shadow. With a few soft whispers, Elara was invisible to anyone looking, her magic blotting away her feelings. 

Magic had always been there. Before she’d known the truth of her heritage and had merely thought there was something very, very wrong with her, magic had been a friend. There was no morality to it, just the ever present feeling of rightness. No where else did Elara feel that—not even when she gave in to her murderous impulses. 

Tonight, though, Elara could be nothing but the Unholy Assassin. The Slayer. The Spawn. The prodigal daughter who informed her father on things happening before her butler Scelaritas could. Elara made her way through still congested streets, weaving in and out of crowds unaware she was among them. That was how Elara preferred it. The city would rally around itself should they ever learn a Bhaalspawn terrorized their streets.

And she’d had eighteen years worth of experience trying to control her urges. Not everyone needed to be a victim, not every night needed to result in a bloodbath. She’d already killed more than enough, all in Bhaals name, to satisfy Gortash’s desire to know once and for all what she was capable of. His unwillingness to obey his Lord would be his downfall…and she would miss him when he inevitably died.

He was the only real friend she’d had in years. Maybe ever, truly. 

Elara shook the thought from her head, pushing bloodstained, blonde hair from her face. She looked like any other moderately pretty woman roaming the streets. Not so beautiful she stopped and turned heads but not so unattractive she couldn’t charm her way through a door if she needed to. Elara glanced down at her hands, unhidden and cut from slippery blood and her excitement holding her blade—she’d sliced open her own fingers more than once. If she could have seen her face, she’d have caught the trio of slashes marred against the tan skin of her neck.

Life as a Bhaalspawn was a violent one. That encounter had nearly cost her her life—and Elara wore those scars the way fine ladies wore pearls around their necks. 

Sighing, Elara’s boots splashed into fetid water. She recognized cultists toying with a refugee on rotting docks, though she ignored all of it even when they nodded their heads in deference to her. It was as things should be, even if it still made her uneasy.

She’d been just a girl, once. An ordinary person with parents, with a life that belonged only to her. Now…Elara shook her head. She ought to be grateful there was anything greater waiting for her at all. That her murderous urge served a purpose rather than just betrayed someone deeply sick. 

The temple always felt like a welcome reprieve from the world at large and her own thoughts. There was no room for weakness among the Bhaalian horde and Elara knew better than to let them suspect she had doubts or any fears at all.

Especially when Orin was swanning around. Elara could hear her voice echoing from the high stone, mingled among the screams of ecstasy and pain. There was no point seeking Orin out—not unless she wanted a fight—and Elara had other needs, besides. Ignoring those who looked, she made her way down steep, stone steps to a throne she’d spent the last six years seated upon.

If her sister had her way, there would not be another six years. 

It was tempting to demand everyone leave the room so she could be alone, and something delicious about knowing she had a direct line to Bhaal the rest of them wished they did. Let them see her—she didn’t care. With a deep breath, Elara closed her eyes and called upon the urges in her blood.

When she opened her eyes, only bloodstained darkness remained. There, standing in a pool of red liquid, was her god father peering back at her with bright eyes.

“Elara,” he began, his voice rough and jagged. “I trust the Bannite understands our position?” Elara rolled her neck. “I showed him who he was dealing with. Whether he respects that or not, well…”

A dark chuckle filled the silence. “And what of what he told you?”

Elara drummed her fingers on the stone throne. “He claims the Crown of Karsus exists and is being held in a vault in the hells.”

“Do you trust him?”

“No,” she admitted, daring to look her father in the eyes. “With your permission, I would travel to the ruins of Netheril and see for myself.”

There was a pause as the Lord of Murder considered this. Elara dropped her gaze into the abyss beneath her feet, ever deferential to the orders given to her. Whatever he decided, she’d do—just as she always had. 

“Go,” he finally said, steps whispering against a floor she could not see. “Determine the truth of the Bannite’s word. If he’s telling the truth, I want you to lead the raid and it will be you who crowns the brain.”

“Yes, father,” Elara promised, heart thudding in her chest.

“He cannot know we do not intend to share power. Do you understand?”

Elara nodded her head. “I do.”

Electricity charged through the air, betraying something unsaid by her father. Something he was holding back, information that would be helpful if he wanted her to know it. That was the thing about being the Chosen of Bhaal—he loved his little tests. It was all a game, throwing her before murderous lunatics to see how she fared. If she could survive, if she could slaughter in the way he wished for her to. 

Whatever obstacles he knew were waiting, Elara would best them just as she always had. Still, it would have been nice to have a warning, even if he wouldn’t tell her the whens and hows. She knew better than to press, well aware that the only thing he liked more than obedience was punishing her brutally. It mattered not whose blood was made in offering—and if her death was offered up to him, he’d take it greedily, without complaint.

There would always be another spawn, after all. Someone better, someone who wouldn’t disappoint Bhaal the way so many others had. Gorions Ward…Elara shook the thought from her head as the world began to clear, bringing bright candlelight to her vision. She’d heard of Gorion’s Ward, of course—who in Baldur’s Gate hadn’t? They were a hero to everyone but Bhaal, and to her that story wasn’t about personal triumph but tragedy. 

He’d forsaken his own bloodline, burning away the darkness with light. 

Elara stretched out her neck again, wondering how long she’d been sitting there. Surely not more than a few moments? It felt like she’d been there for days. Elara didn’t look at anyone—not even Orin, who stood at the top of the steps, framed by that stone cut face just behind. 

“What was that about?” she demanded, falling into step with Elara the moment she reached the top.

“Ask our Lord yourself,” Elara snapped, reminding Orin of her place. Orin thought being the granddaughter of the failure Sarevok meant something—but it was a stain on her line, on herself. Orin was too obsessed with beauty, besides, to ever be an effective Chosen, and impulsive to a fault. Elara had tried with her—she truly had. Orin was simply unteachable. 

Orin stalked off, shrieking about the unfairness of it all. One day, Elara would have to kill her. Did Orin know it, she wondered? Was she prepared for the inevitable showdown between them? Elara wasn’t. If she was honest with herself, she might have admitted that she’d let Orin live simply so there was someone to carry on if she ever managed to leave. 

A back-up plan she would come to regret, certainly. 

Elara didn’t bother spending the night in her chambers, nor did she spend another moment in the temple. It felt like a dream, descending upward into the city. She could hear the soft sounds of lovers murmuring and drunks stumbling, the sound of music from nearby taverns welcoming folks in for a meal and a drink.

She had an apartment above one of them—a space she kept simply for herself when she needed a reprieve from it all. When the lust for blood overwhelmed her and some of the light came flooding back in. Her father had been a cleric for Lathander before…before. Elara had never felt his divine presence personally and suspected the Morninglord had never had much use for her. And yet…and yet when she was drenched in blood and delighting in the death she’d wrought, she swore she felt his fingertips brush against her brow.

Maybe that was merely the memory of her pretend father. 

She felt it, though, passing by a familiar street of modest homes. Don’t look, don’t look, don’t look—

“All is ash and meat,” she whispered to herself, head turning of its own accord. Among the neat rows of homes lay an empty lot, still untouched all these years later. The grass was neatly kept, with dotting yellow and white flowers swaying in the moonlight. The home had burned to the ground, killing the family inside. Elara still had the paper from that day, noting the three inside and the corpses so badly charred that they’d been otherwise unidentifiable. 

Her heart ached at the memory, one she refused to truly examine. If she did, the guilt might consume her and who knew what she’d do, then? Elara kept walking, turning her eyes back toward the streets in front of her. If she kept walking, she’d end up in the Upper City where Gortash resided—and in his bed, which was where he wanted her.

But tonight Elara wasn’t interested in games of pretend. Turning abruptly, she made her way toward the cemetery and a familiar grave.

“You’re an asshole,” she whispered, picking the lock that would let her into the tomb. She and Gorion’s Ward were related, after all—they had the same sire. She ought to have the right to rob him of his gold whenever she felt like it.

Of course, she could have just plundered the temple, but Elara wanted to look at that carved, attractive face and offer them her middle finger. As if the once Bhaalspawn cared about her at all. It was just… “How did you do it?” she wondered once the heavy door of the tomb slammed shut behind her. 

How did someone defy a god? Why, too? Elara wandered the musty, dark space until she couldn’t stand it. Only then did she snap her fingers, willing the candles to ignite under the command of her magic. 

“I can do better than you,” she told that statue, staring upward like a defiant child. “I can succeed where you failed.”

Then why are you here, child of Bhaal? A voice whispered in her mind, caressing her thoughts.

“I don’t know,” she admitted out loud, sitting on a bench across from the statue. “I wanted you to know that I hated you.”

If you say so, she swore that voice replied, their words laced with humor. I trust you’ll follow the right path.

“Well, you shouldn’t,” she said snappishly, though Elara didn’t bother getting up. She felt peace…and warmth. Looking upward at the ceiling, Elara flashed that middle finger at the watching god. “I don’t belong to you.”

She swore she heard an answering laugh before a softly whispered, we’ll see. 

GALE:

Baldur’s Gate was as foul as any city Gale Dekarios had ever stepped in. It was certainly no Waterdeep, at any rate, with its trash strewn streets and drunks stumbling about. He’d never had any interest in seeing Baldur’s Gate, and yet…

Gale sighed, rubbing at his chest. He intended to sleep for a night and continue his journey deep into the surrounding forest where, ideally, no one would be harmed when he finally let go. It had been months of trying to keep his arcane hunger under control, but he’d only become more ravenous which meant he was more of a danger than he’d ever been.

And Mystra was silent. 

He’d hoped Sorcerer's Sundries would have something that could help him, but that had been a fools errand. There was nothing—no wizard had ever absorbed Netherese magic and therefore hadn’t thought to write down what might come of it. He had left behind a journal, hoping it might be helpful to the next mage who came after him, though for all he knew it would be published among the comedic drawings for all to laugh at. 

Sighing again, Gale intended to continue toward The Elfsong Tavern when something caught his eye. A flash of red in the otherwise inky dark, making its way up a wall. Gale looked, surprised to find a young woman walking along the top of a watchtower, peering down at the streets below. She raised a foot and too late, Gale realized she was going to jump. 

With a quick, whispered spell, Gale leapt from the ground, flying upward just in time to slam his body roughly against her own. A muffled scream of surprise shattered the otherwise peaceful silence as the pair hit the hard ground in a tangle of limbs.

“Don’t jump,” he said, heart pounding in his throat. “You have so much to live for.”

“Get off me!” she demanded, shoving at his chest. Gale rolled over, one hand resting above the now silent orb hidden beneath his wizard's robes. Beside him, the woman he’d seen brushed herself off as she scrambled to her feet. In the torchlight, Gale saw a wicked scar streaked over moonbright green eyes. How had she gotten that, he wondered? 

Behind her, a rather well-made staff loomed over one shoulder, marking her as some kind of user of the weave. Another wizard, he wondered? She didn’t look like a druid…perhaps a Warlock? Gale’s fingertips crackled with magic, drinking in her own connection with the Weave. 

“What is wrong with you, wizard?” she snarled, facing him down. Despite her smaller frame, she looked lethal, her face devoid of any of the warmth he might suspect. 

“You were going to jump,” Gale said as he realized she was merely another arrogant sorceress. 

“Oh, for Ao’s sake,” she muttered, running a hand through messy braided blonde hair. “I was not about to jump. Not to my death, anyway.”

Of course not. She would have used a spell to keep her from splattering to her death and still…and still Gale couldn’t get death out of his thoughts. It was stalking him even now, hovering just behind as he marched toward his own. 

“My apologies,” he replied, offering her a slight bow. “Are you injured?”

She scoffed, running her hands over the tightly made leather wrapped around her body. “I’m fine.”

“Well—no harm done then, I suppose. I’ll take my leave.”

That should have been the end of his encounter. Whoever that woman was clearly had no interest in conversation and truthfully Gale had other places he needed to be. This was merely another embarrassment he could add to a long list as he consoled himself that it would soon be forgotten. No one would remember Gale of Waterdeep. Not fondly or with distaste, either. Perhaps they’d wonder and turn him into a cautionary tale, but that would be the extent of things. And this woman would never know what happened to the bumbling stranger who’d mistaken her for a jumper. 

Gale started to turn as warm, callused fingers reached for his wrist. “Don’t move,” she whispered, pulling him into the shadows. The pair ducked behind a rack of weapons as the sorceress whispered the familiar words to an invisibility spell. Gale turned his attention toward the walkway, where a group of three prowled. Something about them was off, he decided. They were decidedly unwashed and exceptionally pale, and as they got closer they dragged the smell of death with them.

Both he and the strange woman buried their faces in the sleeve of their clothes. He couldn’t make out the words they whispered among them, nor did he recognize the symbol emblazoned on one of their cloaks. 

“C’mon,” she whispered, tugging at his sleeve. “This way.”

Gale followed behind her, making his way toward a wooden door. She all but shoved him through and he expected her to slam the door in his face, leaving him to make his way down the stairs alone.

“Go,” she ordered, the only sign of her the continued touch of her fingers. “Quickly.”

Gale did as he was told, curious as to why she hadn’t just left him there. “Who are they?”

“Disciples of Myrkul,” she replied, her feet silent as death behind him. “Couldn’t you tell by the smell?”

“I don’t make it a habit to cavort among the Death Three,” Gale replied with some indignation. He heard her snort of amusement, which begged the question, “How do you know what the Disciples of Myrkul look like?”

“Well, the insignia’s on their broaches clued me in,” she said, her amusement bright. Once they were back on the street, he waved his hand revealing them both beneath silvery moonlight. “But they always look like living corpses.” 

“Perhaps they are,” Gale suggested as he shook out his hands. 

“Sometimes,” she agreed, eyeing him with suspicion. “Better to avoid them than to end up shambling behind them as a mindless slave.”

“I’m tempted to ask how you know so much,” Gale said, wondering who, exactly, she was. 

“Oh, I’m Myrkul’s most devoted follower,” she replied, eyes bright as though she’d made the funniest joke. “And you’ll make a fine addition to my corpse collection.”

“I wouldn’t recommend it,” Gale told her, thinking of the orb in his chest. “My blood is filled with necrotic magic.”

Interest ignited against her expression. “How did that come about?”

“It's a story for another time and another person,” he informed her. “I apologize for assaulting you, but now I think I ought to be going.”

She waved him off, though none of the interest in her expression faded. “If you say so, wizard.”

“I’m Gale. Gale of Waterdeep,” he replied, unsure why it felt important to say so. She sized him up and he had the sense that if she’d wanted, she could have laid him flat on his back. Perhaps those scars were a warning rather than true injury. And maybe Gale didn’t want to know how she’d gotten them. 

The sorceress offered him a warm hand. “Elara…of Baldur’s Gate, I guess.”

The magic between them met, tangling in shades of blue and red. He swore he saw the faintest spot of violet meet where their fingers touched, though when he looked back at her, she betrayed no recognition she’d seen it at all. 

“Enjoy your time in the city,” she offered, taking her hand back and turning toward the shadows. “Try not to assault any more strangers while you’re here. There are murders stalking our streets, you know.”

A soft chuckle punctuated her words. Was she thinking of the Myrkul-ites they’d nearly strolled right into? It was tempting to chase her down and ask…and to what purpose? He was on a suicide mission now and didn’t need anything or anyone to convince him otherwise. Gale let her go, turning once again for the road that would take him to the Elfsong Tavern and by the time he arrived, she’d been purged from his worried thoughts. 

He slept terribly, his dreams a vision of bright, burning light and the screams of innocents. He had to bathe away the sweat adorning his body, wishing the sunlight would dissipate. The world was altogether too cheerful about his impending death march. Sure, Tara and his mother would miss him…but could the rest of the world pretend like losing his life was a great loss, too? 

At least he’d leave Baldur’s Gate behind him. Gale had the grand idea to take himself to the ruined city of Netheril where all this had begun—that bit of Netherese magic was the cause of all his pain. Why not return it to its birthplace? It was strangely poetic and perhaps a deserving resting place to someone like himself. 

He needed to take a ship back up the Sword Coast and make his way into the High Forest and then just hope he made it to the Dire Wood before the orb got the best of him. Gale felt heavy, plodding toward the docks without observing the world around him. In Waterdeep, he could ignore his surroundings, but in Baldur’s Gate criminals were apparently undeterred by large crowds or sunlight which might easily identify them.

Gale must have been an easy and obvious mark. He felt the dagger against his throat as his body was shoved between two buildings, obscuring the pair of them from the busy populace.

“Turn out your pockets,” the dirty criminal ordered, eyes darting back and forth.

“You really don’t want to do this,” Gale warned, unwilling to give up the gold he’d brought for the journey. He’d be trapped in Baldur’s Gate, unable to even return to his tower where Tara almost certainly would have found his letter. She’d tell his mother and the pair would endeavor to keep Gale within their sight indefinitely, thwarting his careful plans. 

“Turn them—”

Blood sprayed Gale in the face, hitting his tongue before he could close his mouth. The assailant's eyes bugged with fear, his own mouth gaping wordlessly. Gale peered around the man where Elara stood, grinning ear to ear as she wiped her curved, lethal looking blade against the bottom of her boot.

“You make a habit of getting into trouble, wizard?” she questioned, ignoring the would-be attacker falling to his knees as he clawed at his throat. 

“I suppose there’s no harm as long as you’re around to assist me,” Gale replied, a little shaken by how casual she was. 

“Don’t they teach you self defense in those fancy schools of yours?” she asked, stepping back into the sunlight. She was pretty, he decided—not so beautiful it stole his breath, but not so ugly he would have to have lied if she’d asked if he found her attractive. Lovely, he thought, in spite of the blood flecked against her skin like freckles and that vicious scar carved against her eye. He spied a trio of them slashed over her throat, too and once again wondered what happened to her.

It wasn’t his place to ask. 

“Not with weapons,” Gale replied, looking for the dagger she’d hidden. Despite the warmth, she wore a red and silver robe half hidden beneath a onyx cloak collapsed at her throat with a matching, gleaming red gem inlaid in a silver setting. “Where’d you learn that?”

“On the streets,” she replied flippantly, eyes cutting to the now dead body between them. “Magic can’t fix everything.”

“Only a sorcerer would think so,” Gale shot back, strangely at ease with this stranger. 

“Dare I ask where you’re going so early?” she questioned, falling into step beside him. 

“The docks—”

“Well obviously,” she replied, ducking into a seedy looking tavern. Gale followed, realizing only when they were inside she was showing him a bathing room where he could wipe up his face. Outside the wooden door, she added, “Where are you traveling to?”

“The High Forest,” he replied, keeping the finer details to himself. He could be doing a million, magical things—no need to mention the ruined city of Karse to her.

There was a pause, and then, “So am I.”

He didn’t know what made him say it. Why he offered, knowing he was going to die. Perhaps it was his fear that caused him to reach for the one bloodied hand that had been offered to him. Maybe it was something divine guiding him. All Gale knew was he didn’t have full control of his mouth when he blurted out, “We should travel together.”

There was an uneasy pause between them, causing him to add, “For safety, of course.”

She was quiet for so long that Gale assumed she’d left him there and he was merely speaking to the door. He wiped up his face, noting he looked haggard in the dirty mirror. Haggard, even. Like a man who hadn’t had a good night's sleep in months. He wore too much in his expression, his heartbreak obvious even when he wished it wasn’t. 

Gale opened the door, legs heavy, to find her still standing there. She’d pulled her thick, blonde hair into twin plaits that laid neatly against slim shoulders and her face was somehow clean despite him occupying the only bathing space he was aware of.

“I suppose it wouldn’t hurt,” she told him once he stood before her. “But once we reach the forest, we go our separate ways.”

She hadn’t asked what he was doing, and Gale decided to offer her the same courtesy. Maybe he was better off not knowing what this woman was up to, given the ease with which she cut throats. 

Still, her acceptance settled some of the ever-present anxiety weighing him down. He felt lighter, knowing he wouldn’t have to march to his death entirely alone. And who knew—maybe she’d mourn him, when he was gone. Perhaps she’d think back on him fondly.

He’d take it.

[scentofcamellias]

☾

send a ☾ and i will generate a number for what my muse says to yours. / #31

ALCOHOL ONLY THICKENS THE FOOLISHNESS OF A MAN ALREADY RIFE WITH SENTIMENTAL FOLLIES; the moon he so often confesses to is beautiful tonight, bright and bold, and it belies a tender honesty, which he will surely regret come morning. Tonight, Tatsuma is his confessional, but his head hangs low, as if the horizon were too bright for him. As if his shame overwhelms it, as he voices his puerile envy.

"What do they have that I don’t?"

When they were young, he would scold Tatsuma for wearing his heart on his sleeve, always bleeding with emotionality, always sacrificing at his own expense. Yet Takasugi nurses his glass of sake in a way much the same, like he were cradling his own bruised heart. His mouth parts before he can think better of it, hand splayed against the Kaienmaru's solid ground roughly coiling.

"Why can’t I have you?”

He knows, though, that Tatsuma is too bright for him, too——that this charred path is too rotten a thing for a man meant to live amongst the stars. A selfish part of him doesn't care. A greedy part of him wants to blot out that light with his own and keep the man tethered to him like a buoy; but his desperate drowning is an unseemly sight, and too heavy a weight to allow Tatsuma to carry.

Sakamoto Tatsuma had lost enough already, shouldering dead weight. And Takasugi's is a wretched, cursed thing that is sure to make his friend drown with him.

( But knowing Tatsuma, he might not even care. He would take all your rotting weight with a smile, and be happy dying beside a friend. But aren't you just the same, deep down? )

The beast clawing inside of him feels like a dull ache, and Takasugi scoffs, rueful and wry, before peering back up at that blinding moon. It strains his eye, that throbbing thing transposed with yesterday's ghosts, but ridiculously enough, when it lands on his companion, he sees a sight that tempts him: an ember of tomorrow.

Perhaps this is why he sees the man so little, despite their paths colliding so often in space. His path is meant to stay dim, but under Tatsuma's warmth, his resolve always thaws. It's dangerous. Tatsuma and his hedonistic pull are always dangerous. At his side, he might dare to want.

Pressing his glass to his lips, primly speaking along the rim.

"...you made asking Gintoki to come with you look easy, you know." But Tatsuma has always been braver than him; this he knows well. He finishes off the rest of his cup with another huff.

And that's all he says. All he intends to say, cutting the conversation short and leaving space for nothing further. He raises the bottle to fill the both of their glasses again before looking back to the razor-sharp crescent moon, looming over his neck like an executioner.

[matchatales]

A Warm Night

"Now…goodnight," her voice, ever so bold yet soft, echoed in the quiet chamber. His heart, already captivated, sank deeper into the abyss of her gaze. "Thank you, my lady," he murmured, a warm smile gracing his lips, though his eyes betrayed a yearning that words could not contain. With a resolve that belied his racing heart, he ventured further, "But, pray thee, be careful with my heart, for you see, you’re taking it home with you tonight." His voice, though gentle, carried the weight of truth he could not deny.

She paused, her eyes, those windows to a world he wished to dwell in forever, held his for a moment that stretched into eternity. Her smile, radiant as the sun on a cloudless day, illuminated not just the room but the very essence of his being. "Goodnight, your grace," she replied, her voice a melody that would haunt his dreams. "Goodbye, until we meet again."

As she turned and gracefully departed, her presence lingered in the air, a delicate perfume of longing and promise. Though her footsteps faded into the distance, she remained with him, imprinted on his soul. The room, now void of her physical being, still pulsed with the echo of her smile, the warmth of her gaze, and the unspoken vow that their paths would cross once more.

He stood there, rooted in place, his heart still entwined with hers, knowing full well that the night had taken her away, but in truth, she had never left.

He stood there for a moment longer, the silence of the room now wrapping around him like a cloak. The lingering warmth of her presence began to cool, leaving behind a tender ache in his chest. With a sigh, he turned toward the room where a small, gray cat sat perched on a cushion, watching him intently with eyes that gleamed like twin embers, as through it peeked through his soul and saw to the truth.

"Whiskers" he said, moving toward the feline companion, "you felt it too, didn't you?" He lowered himself onto a nearby chair, the weight of the evening pressing down upon him. Whiskers, ever perceptive, leapt from the cushion onto his lap, settling in with a contented purr.

"What a night, old friend," he murmured, stroking the cat's soft fur. "She has gone, yet it feels as though she has left a part of herself behind. My heart, I fear, is not my own anymore."

Whiskers blinked slowly, as if in understanding, his purring a gentle song to his confused soul. "What am I to do, Whiskers?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper. "I have given her my heart, and I know not whether it was folly or fate. How can a man endure such sweetness, such bliss, and still remain whole?"

The cat, wise in the ways of silent companionship, simply curled tighter in his lap, offering comfort in the only way he knew how. The man smiled, the touch of her hands still lingering at the corners of his lips. "Perhaps," he continued, "I am but a fool, speaking to a cat as if you could offer counsel. Yet, there is something in your presence that steadies me."

He paused, his thoughts drifting back to the moments just passed. "She smiled, Whiskers. A smile that could light the darkest of nights. And when she spoke those final words 'Goodbye, until we meet again' it was as if she had woven a spell around my very soul. How do I live in the meantime, knowing she walks this earth, but not by my side?"

Whiskers responded with a soft nuzzle against his hand, a reminder that in this moment, at least, he was not alone. "Aye, perhaps you are right," the man said, his tone lighter now. "Perhaps I must be patient. If the Fates are kind, our paths will cross again. Until then, I shall treasure this night, this memory, as the flame that keeps me warm."

He leaned back in the chair, closing his eyes for a moment, letting the quiet of the room seep into his bones. "Thank you, Whiskers," he whispered, "for listening, for being here. We shall face the days ahead together, you and I."

And with that, he let the fire burn low, blissful, he moved to sit in the stillness, the warmth of his cat and the memory of her smile sustaining him through the long night.

[fatt-twitter-updates]

Friends at the Table @Friends_Table, quote retweeting @mousewifegames' tweet thread:

Tonight we're going to be streaming this #secretsamol Bluff City pokemon hack!

5:30 Eastern twitch.tv/FriendsattheTable

Come join @atebbel @/notquitereal and @KeithJCarberry on a trip back to the Kingfish Pier

11:11 AM PST, 01 February 2023 (Source)

@folly on cohost @mousewifegames:

AMERICA'S PLAYGROUND changed everything, so for #secretsamol this year I couldn't help make a whole dang video game for @Elenor_einhorn!

Come travel with Princeton, the Powdered Sugar Horse and meet all the delightful weirdos bluff city has to offer:

3:57 PM PST, 29 January 2023 (Source)

|

@folly on cohost @mousewifegames:

Did I mention that it's a Pokémon game? The very best in jack de quidt music and 2004-era graphics! Over 40 pokemon! Help your friends get off from work and complete a heist of a lifetime — and maybe find some secrets of your own!

[Img ID: Gen 3 Pokemon graphics with Eloise saying: "But then, I do like spending time with you all, and we might just save the pier!" End ID.]

[Img ID: A Pokemon battle screen with Princeton facing off against a Drifloon (a balloon pokemon). End ID.]

4:13 PM PST, 29 January 2023 (Source)

[droughtofapathy]

The Gilded Age of Broadway Divas: Duets, Trios, and Other Crossovers

While I wait for my matinee show to start, here's our final compilation just six hours before our season finale. If you've been following along with this series, you'll notice how much overlap there is in the theatre. Everyone has been with, or sung with, or played the same role as everyone else. Here is just a taste of the sublime combined talents of our favorite Broadway Divas. And yes, this is my petition to have a musical episode.

#1: "Lily's Eyes," (The Secret Garden) Miscast 2022 - Audra McDonald and Kelli O'Hara

I watched this, and my soul transcended space and time. Performed at MCC's 2022 Miscast gala honoring Christine Baranski (of course), Audra and Kelli have a brief tiff about which soprano is worthy of Soprano Island before joining together to sing the most resplendent duet you will ever experience in your life.

The Secret Garden opened on Broadway in 1991 starring Rebecca Luker as Lily. Kelli and Audra are singing the parts of Lily's husband and brother-in-law respectively. And like Lily, Rebecca Luker has since passed away. Knowing that they are singing not only to honor Christine, but also to Rebecca, their dear friend and fellow soprano, is yet another layer of heartbreak. I love this song.

#2: "Move On," (Sunday in the Park with George) Princetown concert 2022 - Audra McDonald & Michael Cerveris

Former co-stars reunited in Princetown last year to sing this impromptu duet from the Pulitzer-winning Sunday in the Park with George. Sunday is filled with sublime music, and "Move On" is one of the best. In it, Dot appears to George, the grandson of Georges Seurat, and encourages him to move on with his artistry and stop worrying about perfection. The show itself is beautiful and complex, and a proshot is available for your convenience.

Audra and Michael had previously done a three-day, semi-staged production of this show in 2004, also featuring Patti LuPone as Yvonne/Blair Daniels (the role Christine Baranski created in the original pre-Broadway workshop). Interestingly, this trio would move on to take part in the Lincoln Center Broadcast of Passion in 2005 with Audra as Clara (the Marin Mazzie role), and Patti as Fosca (the Donna Murphy role).

Michael Cerveris would play Giorgio multiple times in his career, including the 10th Anniversary concert with Marin and Donna.

#3 Tonight: Quintet (West Side Story) - Lucky to Be Me: The Music of Leonard Bernstein (2010) - Kelli O'Hara, Donna Murphy, Michael Cerveris

Speaking of Michael Cerveris and Donna Murphy, and joined by Kelli O'Hara, this audio comes from a 2010 concert celebrating the music of Leonard Bernstein. The youtube video incorrectly attributes this to a 2012 concert, but it is not.

"Tonight (Quintet)" is, of course, from West Side Story, where Bernstein wrote the music, and Sondheim wrote the lyrics. Because this was a concert, certain singing parts are taken by those who would not sing such parts in a full production...anymore. (Lest we forget Natalie Wood in the movie.)

Donna sings Anita, and Kelli sings Maria, the two young Puerto Rican women in the show. And I think we'll leave that there. Michael Cerveris sings the part of Riff, and they are joined by Cheyenne Jackson as Tony.

Also featured in this concert is the amazing, incredible, beloved soprano Victoria Clark, who has starred opposite all three of our Gilded Age actors at one point or another. As the Margaret to Kelli's Clara (Light in the Piazza), the Sally to Donna's Phyllis (Encores! Follies), and in Titanic with Michael Cerveris. Theatre, it's all connected.

#4: LoveMusik (2007)

A little more on LoveMusik. While I've already detailed a little on my Donna Murphy post, here's some more about Michael Cerveris, two-time Tony winner. As Kurt Weill, Michael was nominated for a Tony, Drama Desk, Outer Critics Circle, and Drama League Award, but did not win any. While the show itself was given mixed reviews, the performances of Donna and Michael were almost universally praised.

The 2007 Tony Award for Best Leading Actress in a Musical included three Gilded Age nominees. Debra Monk (Curtains), Audra McDonald (110 in the Shade) and Donna Murphy (LoveMusik). All three lost to Christine Ebersole of the Grey Gardens variety. Fair. I suppose. However, Audra and Donna tied for the Drama Desk. And there WAS a wonderful clip of their award ceremony online for years, except now that I need it for this, it's been taken down. Of course.

#5: "At the Ballet," (A Chorus Line) - Audra McDonald & Kelli O'Hara

Joined by Megan Hilty, Kelli O'Hara and Audra McDonald performed "At the Ballet" from A Chorus Line at a Lincoln Center Marvin Hamlisch tribute in 2013. Audra showcases a robust lower range I simply adore. Unfortunately the lower key change leaves Kelli's soprano in an awkward place, but I love her anyway.

A Chorus Line is one of the musical theatre greats, and while "At the Ballet" is often overshadowed by "What I Did for Love," it's my personal favorite. The original stage show ran for 6,137 performances, and was nominated for twelve Tonys, winning nine. After Follies, this is the show I most want to see fully staged. A 50th Anniversary revival was rumored back in 2016 for 2025, but I'll believe it when I see it.

#6: The Ladies Who Lunch (Company) - Take Me to the World: A Sondheim 90th Celebration - Christine Baranski & Audra McDonald (ft. Meryl Streep)

Legends. Icons. Divas. What more can I say about "The Ladies Who Lunch," performed by Christine Baranski, Audra McDonald, and Meryl Streep, mother to Louisa Jacobson? As the story goes, they had done so many takes that by this time, they were well and truly on their way to being drunk. And yet, Audra McDonald still sounds more exquisite than anyone on earth.

I watched this when it premiered "live" on YouTube during the early days of the pandemic. Several Broadway stars who would go on to The Gilded Age are featured, including Kelli O'Hara, Laura Benanti, Nathan Lane, and Michael Cerveris.

It has been almost four years, and I have still not recovered from this song's placement in the concert. Picture it: you have just been emotionally wrung out by Donna Murphy's revelatory "Send in the Clowns," sung whilst seated in front of an Al Hirshfeld print of Passion, with her cleavage out in true Mrs. Astor fashion. And then suddenly there's jaunty Company music, and an illustration of the great Elaine Stritch with her martini glass high. And then there is Christine Baranski in a bathrobe and a truly massive glass of red wine. And you think it cannot get any better. And then the second verse hits and there's Meryl Streep with a cocktail mixer. AND THEN Audra Fucking McDonald. They put those two songs back-to-back and expected me to recover one day? As if.

Bonus: "Lips Together, Teeth Apart" (2018) - Nathan Lane & Christine Baranski

While not a musical performance, I would be remiss if I didn't direct your attention to this masterpiece. Did you ever think you'd hear Aunt Agnes gunning to see Ward McAllister's dick? No? Well, here it is. Terrence McNally wrote "Lips Together, Teeth Apart" specifically for his 1991 original cast which included Christine as Chloe and Nathan Lane as her brother Sam. And they are going through marital troubles with their respective spouses. Nathan and Christine reunited in 2018 to perform this scene for McNally's 80th Birthday.

But the Gilded Age connection doesn't stop there:

In 2019, The New York Times Magazine ran a special "America 2024" issue, as a tribute to Terrence McNally. The whole thing is a fantastic read, and I'd recommend it. In it features photoshoots depicting scenes from several of McNally's plays, including "Lips Together, Teeth Apart." And look who's here: Donna Murphy as Chloe (the Christine Baranski role), Broadway's Leading Man Brian Stokes Mitchell, Michael Shannon as Sam (the Nathan Lane role), and Katie Finneran.

And on one of four covers for this issue, Celia Keenan-Bolger.

With that, the conclusion to my little Diva miniseries. I hope you've found this as entertaining as I have. And if you'd like me to go into more detail about anything you've seen throughout this series, let me know, because I have so much more gossip and drama that I had to restrain myself from adding.

LINK TO MASTERPOST

[bracketsoffear]

Guys please please don't let Mr. Eaten lose. He literally has a mass following of life-destroying (on a very personal level) candle cultists. He is as much textbook Desolation as The Substitute is textbook Stranger.

Also, here's some relevant quotes:

"In the wicker of a candle-flame, in the stir of still water, in the soft tick of hours before dawn, there is a voice. Listen, and it will ask. Do as it asks, and you will regret it."

"Why? In God's name, why? What can you possibly hope to gain? Stop now. Before it's too late." --Flavor text for the Seeking Mr. Eaten's Name quality

"Game Instructions: "Seeking Mr Eaten's Name" is a story of misery, obsession and self-destruction. It doesn't play by the same rules as the rest of Fallen London. It is capricious, difficult and very unfair. And there will be no happy ending, unless you abandon the quest. Don't begin the story unless you are prepared to regret it."

"At a later point in SMEN, Seekers may send social actions to betray their friends. Accepting a betrayal will make a fellow Seeker very happy, and it is unlikely that you will need to wait very long to find someone willing to send one to you."--Fallen London Wiki, on how to begin SMEN by being betrayed

"It will place a charge and a burden on you.

Game Instructions: This will begin a storyline that you will later greatly regret. Don't do it.

Hunger, like the distant call of crows

This will burn in you until you find what I was: until you inscribe it on yourself."--"Accept a single crumb of bread," referring to a gift Mr. Eaten can personally give you on Sackmas

"Though you will forget it when you wake. Even the memory of the visit will be erased. Lacre cannot bury the law."--"Accept the name" from Mr. Eaten on Sackmas

"The well gapes This is the last time. The walls of the well are studded with chunks of glass-sharp obsidian. You knew it must be so. But if you bleed to death before you drown, it will be for nothing.

You leap into the mouth of the well. You're halfway down before an obsidian blade tears through your shoulder. Cold black water around you, […] Your body fights you. […] Six times you came back up. Not this time. Seven is the number."

"Tonight the beat of your heart has found a new rhythm. The number. It will be your blood and your breath."

"[Another player] has set St Destin's Candle in your window. Or so they claim. It’s not even real. It’s something imagined in an empty space. But it has hollowed you out like a rotted nut."

"Now we have the wax, which is the streak beneath our skin, and the wick, which is the faith we have skeined, and the tinder, which is the harm we have done to those who loved us, and the flint, which is the name, the Name, the treasure of music stilled. Now. It will hurt, we must render ourselves a little, there will be scars, but one more scar, what is that?"

"What is a secret? Only a truth untested. You've given up so much (and yet so much remains: shhh, we won't speak of it; there are never no secrets). Of the tested truths, a few fragments remain. A knife. A word. An hour. A cup. A candle. A promise. And now, a question."

"You are always and still a moth to folly's candle."

"Do not forget, do not forgive. Do not forget, do not forgive. Do not forget.

A rich red murmuring

When you lift your teeth from their wings, only then, only then."--"No Restitution For the Drowned Man"; "their wings" refers to the Masters of the Bazaar

"The due must be paid. Share a secret, expose the blameless, let their name be burnt.

It is written here, on the betraying papers: dead, the voice from the well, dead as stone, dead as time, dead as between. They want him forgotten. He will not be forgotten. The wax is his flesh. The flame is his eye. The due will be paid."--"Hate"

.

[triflesandparsnips]

Off the back of your RPF post (which I wholeheartedly endorse, support, etc), why do critics totally forget the concept of public personas? We all have them (see any social media account, work!You versus friends!You, etc), so why are people being so precious about RPF being the Nice and Accurate Representation of someone?

note 1) Once upon a time, I [very stupidly, in retrospect, but fuelled entirely by morbid curiosity] dipped into some RPF about two people I had worked with and, naturally, it was in no way like the people involved. Of course it wasn't. Because the people in real life are sometimes pathologically shy or have a really terrible sense of humour or don't give a damn about the character they're playing, but get paid a lot to sound like they do. The exact opposite is also true.

You are 1000% right that the critics who spout awful nonsense about reading/writing RPF totally miss the part where the people in RPF do not exist because we as fans do not know strangers' personalities.

But also...

note 2) there's a reason famous people generally keep stuff like that at arm's length because, really, can you imagine someone shipping you with Jan from Accounts and then reading about it? No? Exactly.

Yikes. Sorry. This wasn't meant to come off as a rant, more a co-sign to what you wrote! Just wanted to reach out and agree. I've no need/desire for you to respond if you don't fancy it :)

(Also, sorry Jan from Accounts, I'm sure you're lovely, I just don't have the spoons for that kind of relationship)

Yes! ABSOLUTELY.

Regarding note 1: Anon, I KNOW THAT FEEL. There are Folks on tumblr here and also In Various Public Spaces that I definitely work with and/or exist alongside in the same work community, and what fans (or, in some cases, just people outside that work community) believe those Folks are like in Real Life is... deeply inaccurate. But what few things they do "know" are "facts" that have been specifically shared as part of the persona! And where there are gaps in the persona (similar to where there are gaps in a piece of media), fans will add their own emotional narrative logic to try and fill in the blanks-- and the folly comes (as anyone who goes ALL IN on a piece of fanon or personal heartcanon) from believing that the shit you made up is somehow actually true.

And regarding note 2: YES ALSO ABSOLUTELY. Like, let people make their own terrible decisions because they are goddamn adults and/or let them curate their experience with the help of their actual friends. We can't know what these Public People want to do! We can't know what they're okay with! STOP SHOWING UP IN THEIR LIVING ROOM, FFS.

John Oliver has a delightful story about reading Daily Show slash RPF that he got from a friend (or so he says, in the middle of a comedy show, which is also a crafted work that could be full of lies for the sake of the narrative). In his comedy narrative, he wasn't into it! But even assuming it's all true, it was his choice to continue reading, and his choice to turn it into a comedy routine. Because he is an adult who gets to make that choice.

2010s bandom, on the other hand, was a cornucopia of RPF because the bands publicly talked about or referenced reading fic about themselves (to the degree that a common fic warning was "Stop googling yourself, Gabe"). They also got to make that decision! Fans got kind of uncomfortable about it! Bandom looked into the void and the void looked back and said "That was hot."

(Meanwhile, if you continue to believe John Oliver's comedy routines, he also discusses the ramifications of googling yourself, but by god, it's still his choice to make.)

(...And because of these choices he and his writing team on Last Week Tonight have been able to do some truly fantastic shenanigans, including, for instance, collecting digital data from Congress using ads for "Ted Cruz erotic fan fiction". So like. Even personal tragedy can lead to Art, so jot that down.)

Finally, Zach Kornfeld from the Try Guys (which hey if we wanna talk about the difference between personas and reality, ahahaha) specifically discusses what it means to be reliant on the parasocial relationship between audience and creator:

You know, look, the parasocial relationship is the only reason I'm here. It's the people who watch me, I owe them everything and I wanna give them everything. But there has to be boundaries you create. It's a really tricky thing. I also don't want to abuse that relationship. I think it's really easy to look at your audience and go, like, "We're friends," and "Come on, you love me, support me." We're not friends. You don't know me. I'm lying to you all the time. I'm curating what I give you. I'm trying to make myself look as good as possible. The job of a creator is to be as broadly likable as possible all the time.

And like... yeah. YEAH.

RPF is fiction. From the top to the bottom, from the beginning to the end. And the moment you think any of it actually touches on the """truth""" of a real person, you are the one making things fucking weird.

[ansawritespyre]

The Beginning

“Celeste…” The Lone Minstrel looked at his other half, wanting. Desperately wishing for things to be different. “Tariq.” She wouldn’t even look his way. It was as was ordained, while the Rites commenced. Their sacrifice was ordained by the stars. That didn’t mean it hurt any less to see her. It was not always thus. Celeste and the Lone Minstrel were once a happy couple. But being involved in the higher ups’ affairs within the Commonwealth, it was not meant to be long before they were entangled into something, and entangled did they become.

***********************************************************

It was a breezy, summery winter day. An odd day, to mark the odd events to transpire. Celeste had gone out for stroll, as she was wont to do. A lovely day in the middle of winter deserved a good breather outside. Tariq was due for another courtly gathering that night, and planned to enjoy more rehearsal with his fellow quartet. Those plans never came to fruition, of course. There were summons to be heeded, sent in the form of a messenger runner. A very important runner, evidenced by the plumage of the sash and the emblem of the wax seal on the message.

Tariq, my dear friend, There have been many a meeting in which you expressed interest in becoming more involved with matters of the state. It is due time for you to join us. Celeste will also be invited with a missive. This is an urgent matter, Silin will beckon you to the correct rooms.

Tariq sighed. He had been looking forward to the dances tonight. Looking over to who he presumed to be Silin, the messenger runner, he saluted him and said, “Lead the way. Do keep in mind I am but a minstrel, and do not have your capacity for speed.” The young man grinned cheekily. “Alrighty, I’ll make sure you can keep up.” Now, he wished he had ignored the note, for all the folly that would have been, and gone to the rehearsal.

******************************************************

Celeste greeted Tariq as he entered through the walled gates. She was accompanied by her own messenger, who stuck out her tongue at Silin. Silin did the same in turn. Tariq suppressed a smile. It was nice to see youths who were carefree instead of stuck in a stuffy concert hall, or a ballroom. All of them started walking into the palace area, where Tariq was musing about what could possibly be transpiring for sudden change in station. “This will be your meeting place!” announced Silin with a flourish. Tariq almost bumped into the young man, lost as he was within his musings. “Well met,” Celeste said, flicking a coin to each messenger. “Appreciation to your services.” The girl caught it with ease, while Silin fumbled his, catching it an inch from the ground. They both nodded in appreciation and ran off. Tariq chuckled slightly as he heard the girl teasing Silin for his clumsiness. “Oh, to be carefree as that again,” he said to Celeste. She nodded, a smile gracing her face as well. “Onward?” she said, placing a hand on the wooden door. “Together,” he answered, placing his hand on top of hers. They pushed the door open as one.

[cherubchoirs]

In the kind of perfect cosmic coincidences universe that allows both V1 x Gabe AND V2 surviving. Do Gabriel and V2 have any interaction?

WE ARE TALKING BEST FRIENDS (???) V2 AND GABRIEL TONIGHT

YES OMG....i mentioned this in some tags yesterday, but it's so true that v2 and gabriel actually have a lot in common as characters. i just started to really think about it while i've been working on this comic taking a small look at gabe's identity and the fight in 3-2 - both v2 and gabriel are beings based in violence, v2 built from the foundations of a war machine and gabriel made in the mold of the perfect soldier. but their main function is peacekeeping, meant to bring order and harmony through their brutality, one they are given yet meant to keep in check so as to only apply as much force as necessary on those they supposedly serve. however, both of their creators are now dead - v2 was meant to uphold the now moot new peace, gabriel meant to preserve the sanctity of god's now abandoned kingdom. their identities buckle under it, and, at least to me, they solve this by continuing to pursue their objective even though it's now meaningless in the world they inhabit. they are both beings left behind, the pride of their creators and now without them and without direction. neither of the them do well in failure, in aimlessness, and so they march forward with the same programming, the same directives given a long time ago, to such a stubborn extreme even they know it's folly but they can't let it go, can't be nothing.

SO i think they would actually have a decent amount to talk about, although it's such a vulnerable part of both of them that i think they'd be pretty abrasive to one another, especially upon first meeting. they see their own failure in the other, they see how pointless they believe themselves to be reflected back at them and they HATE it. a machine upholding human law in hell? an angel who serves nothing and has no god? what's the point of YOU? they both ask. they both see a zombie, something shambling on and slowly falling apart, and they KNOW that's them, that's what they are. so initially i think they're...icy at best. v2 is a little shit, a lot like v1, and so it does like bugging gabe bc he's so reactive, but otherwise they generally refuse to speak much. because in this scenario i think they would both be coming to terms with the death of who they always were and who they should have been into eternity, but it's not. going well for them. and so they would fight, argue and bicker over almost EVERYTHING, until they're forced to face what they didn't ever want to, forced to find a companion to their grief. v1 isn't like them in this regard, it doesn't care that its purpose has no meaning - its worth hasn't lied with its function or its creators for a long time, it didn't struggle with this breakdown. for v1's part, all it says to them is "you're free, do what you want because nothing matters" but that doesn't compute for them, at least not yet. v2 and gabriel would be harsh with each other i think, but feeling a true understanding from something else, from another entity that can genuinely relate to their specific flavor of ruined identity, would mean WAY more than either would be willing to admit lol

[sparrowsarus]

Snippet hours

The setup, brought to you by @doomhamster: Ulder Ravengard is a patriar by birth, and due to insuitability his older brothers are removed from the line of succession;

In his place is Marshal Astele Keene, who joined the Fist instead of the Guild;

And in her place as Guildmaster? Francesca--thief, murderer, liar--Wyll's blood-mother, Ulder's true love, Astele's arch enemy (well, sort of).

But because politics is about compromise, Astele and Ulder get married; and ten years later, blessedly divorced, once they realize they are actually friends. Our story begins the night of the first day of the rest of Ulder Ravengard's life.

Ulder Ravengard--a Duke, a father, and freshly an ex-husband, lying in his bed. Forcing his breathing even, trying to fall asleep--despite the thoughts racing through his mind. What now. Where does he go from here.

The window doesn't creak, but the air changes, slightly. Her step is always light, and she scorns the magic tricks of Blur or Invisibility--not the Guildmaster. Not a thief of her calibre.

There is no knife at his throat tonight, no demands murmured in his ear--but the ghost of her lips against his eyebrow leaves him bleeding, and folly has him silently reaching for her in the dark.

Please.

She stills, and then--the slight sound of her stripping off her leathers, down to her underlayers. A dip in the space of his bed, and she is there, quiet and still, holding him like there wasn't a dozen years and a thousand compromises between them. Like she'd be there in the morning.

Later, maybe, she'll kiss him, gentle and sweet; maybe he'll pull her close, prove to her how much he missed her, how much he loved her, over and over again--nothing between them but the night and the warmth of two bodies in tandem. And the exhaustion, the knowing looks from the Lady's Court, the wry grin from Astele in parliament--it'll be worth it.

But for now: Curled around each other, in the still and quiet dark--his head tucked against her neck, her hand on his hip.

[mononijikayu]

midnight pretenders.

In that moment, my smile dissipated like a droplet lost in the vastness of the ocean. Raven eyes met the hesitant gaze of my basalt orbs. Bathed in the dim light, my skin seemed to gleam, yet as I scrutinized it, an unsettling sensation rippled through me like the ebb of ocean waves. Once again, the harsh reality asserted itself – Nanami Kento existed. My body shifted uncomfortably; my arms remained at my sides. Perched on the stool, the straightened position felt awkward, almost burdensome.

GENRE: tragic lovers, classical musicians au;

WARNING/s: tragic romance, friends to lovers, exes to lovers, hurt, no comfort, mentions of alcohol, mentions of cigarette use, toxic relationship;

masterlist

midnight pretenders by aran tomoko

THE BITTER TASTE BURNED THE BACK OF MY THROAT. Yet, the allure of alcohol never captivated my senses. However, with the passage of time, it metamorphosed into a potion, a refuge, a constant companion. A gentle sigh whispered across my eager, daring crimson lips. My obsidian eyes, reminiscent of a vigilant doe, darted towards the enticing coolness of whiskey. 

How many sips had graced my lips tonight? The count eluded me as I pondered having more drinks one after another. I’ve sinned a lot in this very spot. I commenced the indulgence prematurely and even now, when no more patrons are left but me and the flies overhead. I delicately shook my head, feeling the libation's seductive allure embrace me.

With a lifted brow, I contemplated the pools of pleasure before me, the corners of my lips gracefully curving upwards. Succumbing to the enchantment, I imbibed once more, the vivid tendrils of intoxication weaving through my being.

No matter. As the night unfurled its tapestry, I would return to the sanctuary of solitude. Unable to shed the flamboyant work attire, my ten-inch heels lay abandoned behind the door. An exquisite mask adorned my weary countenance, concealing the echoes of the day's trials. The house resonated with a resounding crack each night the door closed; an emptiness enveloped its silent halls.

The void of the opulent alabaster hue engaged in a silent, protracted contest, stretching for hours on end. Morning had already descended upon me as I returned home, an inconspicuous arrival unnoticed by anyone. In this place untouched by the sun's rays and devoid of its comforting warmth, there was a time when resentment gripped me. Yet, every day found me standing beside the weathered cobblestones at the entrance, returning to this place with unwavering persistence—a folly, perhaps. Today, however, I had no intention of dwelling on such matters.

It was the weekly interlude, a time when I would embark on a tranquil stroll toward the pulsating glow of a vibrant neon sign. The resonant notes of a saxophone reverberated smoothly from the colossal speakers within the corner jukebox. Conversations, both lively and animated, filled the air, intermingling with the occasional seriousness and flamboyance.

Some patrons exhaled plumes of smoke, releasing the pungent aroma of swirling chemicals into the atmosphere. Yet, amidst this cacophony, I remained unperturbed. It was this very escape that endeared this place to me.

At the bar's counter, I found solace, enveloped in the dimly lit ambiance. I could linger there, undisturbed, gazing into a world of my own making. No one intruded upon my thoughts in this sanctuary. Amidst the rhythmic pulse of life within the isolated confines of this quaint establishment, I could savor a moment to truly live again. Life, it seemed, could thrive in the embrace of solitary desolation.

“Looks like you’re breaking Utahime’s record." Ieiri Shoko snickered, the thin white cloth sweeping across the polished counter. “How many have  you had, little doll?”

I laughed dryly in return, raising my cup back at her.  "Hm? Are you sick of me already?I make you really good money, Shoko."

"To be honest, I am. You made me stay open for longer than I should!" She sighs, putting the cloth away. “I don’t mind swindling money off you though. You pay for drinks well.”

“Anything for my favorite lady!”

“Do you say that to everyone?”

“No, no. Just you.” I gave her a goofy smile, raising my glass to drink. “You take care of me well, Shoko.”

She gives a snort, shaking her head. She moves down the counter and towards the telephone line. “I’ll call Nanami for you. You wouldn’t be able to get home like this.”

I raised my head, frowning. “Don’t call him. I don’t want that.”

She puts the phone down, raising a brow. “Why? What’s going on with you?”

“Just…..” My mouth opened and just as quickly did it open, it closed. I wanted to say something. But I stopped myself. I didn’t know if my words would help or it would fail me. “I need another drink.”

“You’ll destroy your lungs like this.”

"She said, as she poured more into my cup and joined me.”

“You know I'm still working, you idiot.”

I laughed as she turned to the other side of the counter and grabbed a small shot glass, starting to pour a drink for herself. Shoko always tries to be someone who can balance the demands of work and play. She was better than anyone else at it.

Yet somehow, she can never truly abandon the need to satisfy the line between both worlds — especially as she seemed to sense the gravity of my burdens. I watched Shoko as she put away the bottle. Her movements were graceful, yet there was a subtle weariness in her eyes that only those who paid attention could discern.

As she clinked her shot glass against mine, she gave me a playful smirk. “Cheers to the relentless pursuit of both productivity and pleasure.”

We both downed our drinks simultaneously, the warmth of the liquid coursing through us. The atmosphere around us seemed to shimmer with camaraderie and shared understanding. Shoko, with her unwavering spirit, had a way of turning ordinary moments into memorable ones. In that small, dimly lit space, amidst the clinking of glasses and laughter, we found solace in each other's company. It was moments like these that made the relentless pace of life bearable, transforming an ordinary evening into a cherished memory.

I welcomed the drink to my lips once more, surrendering to the timeless dance of union. The frigid bitterness of the alcohol flowed down effortlessly, devoid of any discomfort. In bygone years, such a moment seemed inconceivable.

Now, however, the recurrent sensations of anguish and warmth in the recesses of my throat were not only tolerable but embraced. It held a certain enchantment, a necessity I couldn't deny any longer. In the clutches of this vice, the emptiness of the moment dissipated.

Setting the glass down, I found myself conceding to the truth—this ritual was my refuge after each arduous day at work. As the clock struck six, the elixir was bestowed upon me. And for a fleeting while, a smile would return to my lips.

It felt akin to providing electricity to those who had relied on kerosene lamps, filling the moment with a luminosity previously absent. Acknowledging this, I couldn't help but recognize that, in this nightly routine, there was a resurgence of life—an invitation to rediscover the joy of living, akin to an adventure waiting to unfold.

"So, what happened?" Shoko asked, grabbing the bottle again and pouring more for herself. The corner of her eyes crinkled with curiosity and wonder as she placed some more devil’s drink in my cup. “Did  you two fight again? Are we expecting a hiccup in the relationship? What's going on?”

I smiled, looking at the pool of alcohol on my cup. She looked at me as I raised my head to look her in the eye. "Why? Do you think something happened?"

"I can read your eyes." She said to me as she downed her drink, then leaned her arms against the counter to get closer to me.

“Really?” I raised a brow at her, trying to not let the mask fall. “What do you see, oh great Shoko?”

Leaving out a sigh, she gave me a concerned gaze. "It’s pretty obvious with you, when you’re upset. It bleeds through the light that should be there.”

In that moment, my smile dissipated like a droplet lost in the vastness of the ocean. Raven eyes met the hesitant gaze of my basalt orbs. Bathed in the dim light, my skin seemed to gleam, yet as I scrutinized it, an unsettling sensation rippled through me like the ebb of ocean waves.

Once again, the harsh reality asserted itself – Nanami Kento existed. My body shifted uncomfortably; my arms remained at my sides. Perched on the stool, the straightened position felt awkward, almost burdensome.

I released a deep breath, as though preparing to plunge into the depths of the underwater world. Securing my legs around the chair's legs, I wondered if it was permissible to open up to Shoko. The thought lingered, but I refrained from voicing it. She knew I would eventually bare my soul anyway.

Over the weeks, she had greeted me faithfully at the door, the bell announcing my arrival to this small sanctuary. Initial distrust had given way to her quirky one-liners, the kind that made me laugh genuinely after years. 

Her blunt honesty, even in the face of her high school friends Satoru Gojo and Suguru Geto's teasing, endeared her to me. They try to come by often. But with Gojo’s busy schedule at his father’s office and Suguru’s deadlines at his writing job — the meet ups are one and far between. Yet I did not mind.

In fact, I looked forward to them.  In these many years they too had become good friends of mine. As well as Nanami’s. Although Nanami's discomfort with Gojo's playfulness remained palpable. Nanami could handle playfulness. Otherwise, we perhaps would not be together. 

Shoko had always weathered each stormy night that came from my presence without uttering a word, providing silent solace. Always attempting to lift my spirits with conversation, to bring light back in my eyes. Yet, I realized this was the first time she had spoken the truth to my face.

It felt like an open secret, as if I had never been adept at concealing the wreckage of my life in this seesaw game. I never enjoyed delving into the complexities that loomed over my expansive skies. There was an emptiness, a void akin to the vastness of space. 

Yet, with each disclosure, a rift would emerge, revealing the gilded cage where sunlight never reached, my reluctance to escape, and the discontent intertwined with the blond man with brown eyes. It was easier to forget, to let the stone rest undisturbed, allowing moss to reclaim its harsh exterior. Pretense was simpler, a means to act as though certain events had never transpired.

"Do you have a cigarette?" I asked, having taken my shot in one easy stride.

Shoko raised an eyebrow, curious.  "I still have a full pack in my bag. Do you want it?”

A wide smile spread across my lips as I extended my hands into the depths of the deep purse. My fingers traversed the black velvet texture, skillfully rummaging to retrieve the cool metal concealed within. With a flourish, I brought it into view, revealing a beautifully clear surface glistening in silver. Placing it atop the counter with a deliberate thud, I couldn't resist observing the bartender's shocked expression.

Unperturbed by his evident surprise, I gracefully moved to the vacant side, letting my fingers collect the cool remnants within the empty ashtray. Glancing back at the still-recovering figure behind the counter, I offered a playful wink, savoring the moment of intrigue.

"I didn’t know you smoked."

I laughed solemnly at her. “Well, now you know. Go on. Pour more drinks. Pack your things even. We’ll need it for the long haul.”

"Long what?"

A forlorn gaze emanated from the shadows of my eyes, lowering as my fingers fumbled in the grasp of the cold metal lighter. The urge to laugh bubbled within, but the weariness of my soul stifled any such expression. Each time I glanced at that capricious lighter, it summoned a cascade of memories, vivid as the flames I had yet to extinguish.

A subtle frown crept across my face as I released my finger, tapping it rhythmically across the counter. The weight of remembered names and places pressed upon me, each moment lived in a matter of seconds, too many lifetimes compressed into a single heartbeat.

With each passing year, the pain intensified. Whether for better or worse, it was the bitter taste of an awful truth. The equilibrium of the seesaw tipped precariously, with the eyes of the beholder widening in bewildered fear at each end. Terrifying it was, to look up from below, caught in the tumultuous sway of a balance that seemed to defy gravity itself.

I smiled at her, letting the smoke engulf me as I opened my mouth. 

“The story. From the beginning to the end.”