#victorian london ass drink

[maeshelix]

I feel like people who play/watch Omori don't talk about Orange Joe (the in-universe drink not the character) as much as they should

[hihigherdi]

Some of my favorite things today.

It was rainy and chilly but I did the hill walk to my appointment today anyway - this is how I felt about it at the beginning, though it was fantastic at the end.

The gardens I walk by that surround the old Victorian homes are stunning. I love how they feed the wild parrots which are one of my most favorite things about the city. 🦜 we love our parrot babies.

After my radiation appointment, I walked around the Fillmore neighborhood and popped into Mollie Stone, the fanciest grocery store. I picked up a few things and then spotted a bottle of delicious looking eggnog, so it looks like I’ll be having morning coffee again, yay! At least with that mixed in. Picked up some Christmas presents for my niece’s girls at a sweet kid’s shop, two fairy capes that I kind of wish I could keep for myself. I decided to just use my savings for Christmas and stop stressing about money so much.

Fixed lunch when I got home, then took a deep, dreamless two hour nap. D came over and we went to the Lighting Ceremony on the Embarcadero where they officially light up all of the holiday lights in the City. London Breed our Mayor spoke - I love her. I bought another couple of Christmas presents and now I’m home. We bought tickets for a big NYE dance party at the W Hotel downtown - I want to get cute, dress up, drink and dance my ass off.

This is a weird thing to say but it’s true - getting cancer was a gift. I’m not the same and I don’t want to “go back to normal”. I don’t ever want to go back to that person who was married to her job, an aggressive isolator, depressed, self-medicating with food and social media. Exhausted and uninterested in everything. I feel excited and hopeful about my life, like I can bet on myself in a big, big way. I’m going to take a couple of classes and I love being with people these days. I don’t want to ever go back to that life again. I won’t.

[nikethestatue]

A Match Baked In Heaven

Summary

Part 1

Lonely Boy

London, England

Present Day

“Promise me that you will be normal.”

“I am always normal.”

“That is demonstratively untrue. You are never normal,”

“Well then what do you want from me? If I am not normal to begin with, how can I be normal in this instance?”

“Fake it. Pretend.”

“Why don’t you just drive? In silence.”

Cassian sighed a dramatic sight, and continued on driving, preferring not to push the issue any further. Lord knew it took him months, actual months to convince his stubborn ass of a brother to actually agree to try this. In all honesty, Cassian was feeling exhausted. Drained. Defeated. And he never felt defeated. But this whole…thing…was akin to that Greek myth, with the guy who kept pushing a huge rock up a mountain, only to reach the top, and for the rock to skid back down and for the climb to resume again. And again. And again. That’s how he felt with his wayward, unruly, scandalous brother Azriel.

Azriel was looking out the car window, a scowl on his face.

Cassian wasn’t going to engage. The last thing he needed for his brother to say ‘turn the car around, I am not going’. He wasn’t going to risk it.

“Where are we even?” Azriel muttered at last, his brow furrowing as he looked at the unfamiliar streets. “Is this bird posh?”

Cassian arched a brow at him and blew out a breath. You can take the boys out of a council estate, but you can’t take the council estate out of the boys. He and Azriel grew up in abject poverty, with their alcoholic father, his cunt of a wife, and their two abhorrent step-brothers. Decades later, sometimes it slipped–Azriel’s plain talk. 

“Who cares if she is posh?” Cassian shrugged instead of answering. “You are Azriel Night. She should be impressed,”

Azriel rubbed the back of his neck and said, “Posh birds don’t care about all that.”

Here he was: the shy, awkward boy that Cassian remembered. Azriel, with his scarred hands, his awful self-esteem, his sense of unworthiness and his head full of doubts. Despite the blustering bravado that he usually carried like a shield, when left stripped and bare, Azriel was a boy who made it big, who got lucky in life, but who thought little of himself. 

Azriel sighed and then pointed at the window.

“Look!  A pub. Let’s stop and have a pint instead.”

Tempting as it was, Cassian shook his head determinedly and said, “No. We have an appointment and we will keep it.”

He glanced at Azriel and added, “And don’t be pouting.”

“I am not pouting!”

“You are definitely pouting.”

A moment later.

“And rolling your eyes.”

“Fuck off.”

“How about,” Cassian chewed the inside of his cheek and then offered, “we’ll get a pint after.”

“After, I’ll need heroin!”

Cassian didn’t bother responding–it was all just bluster anyway. Azriel didn’t even drink because he was training. And considering how badly the training was going, there wasn’t going to be any drinking or any heroin if he wanted to continue playing, and not get benched for the rest of the season.

Azriel was looking out the window with a mixture of disdain and interest. 

They were driving down a busy street, hotels and restaurants on both sides. There was the Fitzroy, its facade indulgently opulent and so overwhelmed with Victorian decorations, it looked ridiculous. Next to it, was an absolutely disastrous looking cement building, which used to be a hotel, but now seemed abandoned. A fucking crematorium would look cheerier than this grey cement monstrosity. 

“What is this?” Azriel asked again.

“Russell Square,” Cassian explained at last, while making a turn alongside the green square.

It was quaint here. Quiet. 

Finally, Azriel recognised the hulking mass of the British Museum. It wasn’t a place where he visited willingly, though he sort of recalled a school trip here. Beyond that, it was a black hole. 

He was mostly a shit student, so it didn’t surprise him that he didn’t remember. He wished that he was better–at everything–but his childhood was so precarious, he never allowed himself to hope or wish for better days. So why bother with education or culture if that could always be snatched away from him at any point? So he didn’t. And now, he regretted it. He regretted not spending more time learning about things, about the world, but wasting entirely too much time on doubting and challenging it.

The SatNav told them that they had arrived and Cassian killed the engine.

“Come on,” he motioned at Azriel firmly, “don’t puss out on me now. Let’s go.”

Clenching his teeth so hard he risked cracking a tooth, Azriel climbed out of the Jaguar. 

The two of them stood in front of a cute - charming even - Georgian row home, with an attached carriage house. The house was mostly white, with a bit of red brick, and covered in red and purple…well, flowering plant. Azriel wasn’t an expert in plants. He knew ivy and wisteria and that’s as far as it went. So whatever this was, it was beautiful, but he has no idea what it was. Marigold Agency was all it said on an old-fashioned hanging sign that swayed gently over the one-story carriage house. Could be anything. At least it saved Azriel more embarrassment and indignity. He was entering, or ducking, to be precise, into a vaguely named business. It could be a flower shop. A cafe. An ice cream shop.

Not a matchmaking agency. Nothing like that.

The weather was blustery, the skies slate grey, not even a hint of sun or light. Sinking deeper into his leather jacket, he finally entered the foyer, followed by Cassian. A bell chimed upon their entry, announcing them.

They stood in a plush, cosy space, with a fancy marble fireplace, and entirely too many flower arrangements. The walls were covered with tastefully framed, but absolutely cheesy inspirational love quotes. As he looked around, Azriel read gems such as:

Darling, you are all I ever wanted love to be…

True love is a journey without an end

I told the stars about you…And they answered

I crave a love that drowns oceans

When we have each other, we have everything

“In the name of Saint George, what the hell is this?” Azriel muttered under his breath, glancing around.

Cassian meanwhile, made himself comfortable in a plush sofa, dwarfing it with his massive size. The fire in the fireplace was roaring and created a nice respite from London’s awful October weather. 

The next moment, a three-legged pug came trotting in, huffing and snorting. He was wearing a spiffy blue bow and stared the two visitors down with his big buggy pug eyes. Azriel squatted low and let the dog sniff him, as he stroked the short fur and the multitude of rolls.

“Piglet!” a melodious voice called out. “How did you get out? Off you go back to the office! Come on!”

The pug snorted in indignation, while Azriel followed the sound of the voice. His eyes skimmed up, finding slender ankles and feet clad in black patent leather pumps–elegant, with one of those ‘kitten heels’. Is that what they were called? And how did he know that?

The owner of the expensive shoes wore a pleated silk skirt of deep cobalt and as he looked up, Azriel noted a tiny waist and a pair of ample tits. The posh bird–and he assumed that’s who this was–had a body to kill for. Definitely a hot little body, though she was dressed like some movie star from the 50s. Totally old fashioned and proper. Those nice soft tits were hidden beneath a black silk blouse, with a huge bow on the side of her neck. Apparently she and her pug liked strutting about wearing large bows. But to add to her old-fashioned attire, she also wore PEARLS. Real, honest to god pearls–a 3-strand pearl necklace, and pearl earrings. 

“Your pug’s name is Piglet?” Azriel asked, perplexed, as he straightened to his considerable height.

“It is indeed,” the girl…woman…confirmed.

She was a stunner to be sure. Early-twenties, he assumed, and it wasn’t just her attire that seemed vintage–she was a throwback to a bygone era. A soft lovely face, reminding him of classic cartoon princesses–huge round eyes, brown and gorgeous, a small pretty nose, pink cheeks and a pair of rosy lips, all framed by waves of light golden-brown hair. 

“Piglet, come,” she ordered again, and the pug finally ambled away from Azriel, energetically hopping on his three legs.

“Mr. Singer-Night?” she asked, boldly extending her hand.

“Mr. Night is fine,” Azriel corrected, and took her hand in his. Hers was soft, with little firm calluses and a nice grip.

He found himself being intrigued by this oddity. Not exactly attracted, though she was incredibly attractive, but more like fascinated. She was so different from every single other woman he’s ever been around, he didn’t know what to make of her. Granted, he didn’t spend much time in high society, but he spent enough to know that even there, girls such as this one were a rarity. 

“Of course,” she nodded once and then looked at Cassian, who got up from the sofa.

“Also Mr. Night,” Cassian smiled, his handsome face splitting into an affable grin. She offered him a little smile too, and for some reason, that made Azriel unhappy. He wasn’t angry exactly, but she barely reacted to him, and here she was, offering sweet smiles to his brother. It wasn’t unexpected–Cassian was fun. Big, burly, handsome, with his black Fabio-long hair and an easy, loose-limbed walk.  

“Are you brothers, gentlemen?” she inquired, motioning for them to follow her. 

“We are,” Cassian confirmed.

“Yes, I can see the resemblance,” she said breezily, to which Cassian responded, “Of course I am the more handsome, well-adjusted brother!”

She smiled a polite smile, and Azriel blandly stretched his lips in a fake smile, wanting to punch Cassian in the bollocks.

Unbelievable that Cassian was starting to flirt with her within two minutes of being in her presence! Unbelievable or predictable?

Anyway, this was going terrible and he just wanted to get out of here.

“Would you like some tea, gentlemen?” she offered.

“Would love some,” Cassian agreed immediately, and Azriel clenched his fist until his nails dug into his fist painfully. Now they were having tea! They’d never fucking get out of this bizarre place in the middle of fucking Holborn or wherever the fuck they were. 

“You seem tense, Mr. Night,” she said quietly, and he was surprised to find her in front of him, her big brown eyes kind and understanding. “Please have a seat and make yourself comfortable.”

Easier said than done, but Azriel followed her advice and plummeted into a comfortable armchair in front of a large, clean desk. Cassian sat in an identical chair next to him. Piglet the pug eased himself between them and sat down on the plush carpet, looking up at his new guests with interest. Cassian immediately attempted to play with the dog, extending his hand and asking to ‘give paw’, which Piglet did. 

The girl, whose name Azriel still didn’t know, returned with a tray laden with tea service. Actual tea pot and nice cups and saucers, platters with biscuits and pastries. She poured them tea, handed them the cups and only then did she sit down behind her impressive, polished walnut desk. 

“I am Elain Archeron,” she introduced herself at last.

“Pleased to meet you, Ms. Archeron,” Cassian grinned, and Azriel nodded. The rain behind the window was getting worse, and Azriel felt that he was here for the long run. “This is a very nice office,” Cassian continued to pile on the compliments. “Business must be going well for you, to be able to afford a place like this. You do come very highly recommended and your services are highly regarded.”

She drummed a manicured finger on the desk and explained, “I inherited the building. The house is mine, and I use this carriage house for my office. My great-great-grandmother, also named Elain, was the lover of the Duke of Velaris,”

At that, Cassian gave her a salacious look, and Azriel sipped his tea in bland silence. It was good. Strong. And of course there is some high society sex story that was going to be attached to this girl–it was a given. She seemed like the type. Lovers, dukes, mistresses, inheritances, estates…Fucking ‘Downton Abbey’ is where he now was. A nightmare.

Elain continued, “She was very active in the suffragette movement at the end of the 19th and the beginning of the 20th century, and was good friends with Emmeline Pankhurst, who lived just down the road, in what is now the Fitzroy.”

Azriel’s brain was working slowly, because he was now warm and sleepy, but he recalled something about all of this from class–the name Emmeline Pankhurst sounded familiar. She was one of the first feminist ladies, if he recalled correctly. 

“The Duke of Velaris gifted the house, this house, to my gran, so that the women could hold their meetings here. It’s been passed down the line, to the females of our family. I am the lucky one who inherited it this time around…This carriage house is quite convenient to house my business,”

“So you are a Duchess?” Azriel interrupted. 

She smiled and said, “Well, not exactly, but enough about me.”

“I told you she was posh,” Azriel glanced at Cassian, nodding in her direction. 

She ignored the comment and asked at last, “So, what brings you to Marigold? And who is in need of my services?”

“My brother here,” Cassian offered easily, “is in need of a wife.”

She exhaled and murmured, “well then”, and clicked her laptop, reading whatever was on the screen. Azriel fumed silently.

“I am assuming you are Azriel?” she asked, without taking her eyes off the screen. 

“I am,” he managed. 

“It says you are a footballer?”

“I am,” he confirmed reluctantly. Usually, his profession was a flex. He played for Arsenal, been a professional footballer since he was 17, and was currently the team’s captain. But somehow, right now, it didn’t seem as impressive as it usually did. Not when he was sitting in front of a damn Duchess!

Was she really a Duchess? Did Granny Elain only shagged the Duke, or did they have children? Because if Granny Elain looked like this Elain, it was no wonder that the Duke dipped his wick into that honey pot. 

“Are these monosyllabic answers how you court the ladies?” Elain asked, a note of tartness on her tongue.

Azriel’s eyes flared and he stared at her. The cheek on her!

“Pardon?” 

She shrugged innocently and continued looking at the screen, reading.

“I am just wondering why you would need my services, Mr. Night? You are a successful sportsman, and a footballer no less, and I assume that you are financially stable. Unless you have a gambling problem of some kind?”

“I don’t have a gambling problem!”

“Well, then, since you are an athlete, I am guessing it’s not drugs or drink. So, what is it then? Personality or sexual dysfunction?”

At that, she looked up and stared straight at him.

Azriel’s eyes bugged out. To be fair, so did Cassian’s.

“Excuse me?!” Azriel thundered. “Who the hell are you to imply that I can’t get my dick hard? Are you even married yourself? And where do you get off treating your potential clients like this? Let’s go, Cassian. I am not sitting here, listening to this shite!”

Elain remain unflappable all through his tirade, and watched him attempt to get up from the armchair, splashing hot tea over his shirt in the process. He cursed, the tea cup clanging and wobbling precariously in his hands.

“Are you very well done?” Elain then asked dryly, rising up and leaving the office.

Cassian sighed deeply and unhappily.

“Well, that went well,” he groaned.

“She was taking the piss!” Azriel retorted angrily, though he was feeling kind of foolish now. He couldn’t believe that he lost his temper like that. He wasn’t even a temperamental man, but somehow, this stuck-up little floozy with her pearls and her judgemental tone set his teeth on edge. “I bet she isn’t even married herself! Who’d marry a cow like that? A bloke would have to be suicidal…She’d nag him to death…”

Suddenly, from behind them, Elain voice said calmly, 

“Glad to know that it’s not sexual issues, but just your horrible personality.”

Azriel felt his face flush. He’d assumed that she stormed out and left them to see themselves out, but apparently, she heard everything that he said to Cassian. He called her a ‘cow’. Shit.

She handed him a hand towel to blot out the tea from his shirt and then went back to her desk.

Piglet was growling angrily at Azriel, back to stand on his three legs, his crooked sharp little teeth bared and ready to sink into any part of Azriel in defence of Elain.

“Piglet, it’s okay,” Elain said softly, while Cassian attempted to pet him and almost lost a finger in the process, when Piglet snapped at him viciously.

“My apologies, Ms. Archeron,” Cassian muttered. “This didn’t go as planned. We won’t be wasting any more of your time and will be on our way.”

She sighed and waved her hand at him,

“I apologise for my shortness. But, you must understand, I also don't want to waste anyone’s time. Not yours, gentlemen, not my own. If Mr. Night isn’t interested in my services, then I understand and we won’t proceed any further.”

“No,” Cassian interrupted. “He is interested. Believe me. He is,” and he threw a murderous look in Azriel’s direction. 

Elain pursed her lips and said, “I find it hard to believe. But if you wish, let’s discuss your situation. I feel like there is more to the story that I am not understanding.”

She was now talking directly to Cassian, pretty much ignoring Azriel altogether, and that made his hackles rise. However, he didn’t feel that it was prudent to continue arguing with her. Let Cassian handle this however he wanted.

Elain refilled Azriel’s cup and handed it back to him. He was surprised at that. The biscuits looked good too, so he picked one up from the tray and bit into it. It was divine. Buttery, crispy, meltingly tender inside. He’d never eaten a biscuit like this before. 

“This is incredible,” he couldn't stop himself from complimenting it.

A small smile touched Elain’s lips and she said, “Well, thank you, Mr. Night. I baked them myself.”

“You bake too?” he blurted out stupidly.

“I do. It was my first passion. That and flowers.”

“Of course,” he snorted. “Don’t worry, Miss, I didn’t think it would’ve been cage fighting. Don’t take this the wrong way, but you are an escapee from the 50s,”

Sarcastically, she retorted, “no, how could I possibly take that the wrong way? Forgive me, sir, if I am well-mannered, and decorous, and like genuine relationships between people, which aren’t based on Instagram likes and follows.”

“I am a little surprised that you know what Instagram is,” Azriel added. “Seeing as you use words such as ‘decorous’...”

“Aright, okay,” Cassian clapped his huge hands together and rubbed them together. “That’s enough. Let’s move on, shall we?”

Elain sighed dramatically and said, “Fine. Tell me then why Mr. Night is in need of a wife then?”

“Gladly,” Cassian cried with fake excitement. “Azriel and I grew up in a…challenging environment,”

Elain didn’t say anything, but Azriel could see that that did not surprise her. 

“Our family situation wasn’t the best,” Cassian continued, “until we were adopted by our distant uncle. You might have heard of him, considering your background–Lord Darling, the construction magnate.”

She nodded, “I am familiar with Lord Darling. He has a son–Rhysand, I believe. You three are related then?”

“We are. Rhys is our cousin. We were adopted when we were teens, Azriel was almost fifteen, I was about thirteen. Az was already showing a lot of promise on the field, his talent raw and genuine,”

Azriel died inwardly from the praise. He was never comfortable with it, even when it was deserved.

“Signed at seventeen to Manchester City,” Elain said casually, like a spy recalling a dossier. “Then, at twenty-three, sold to Arsenal and has been there ever since. Captain for the past three years, if I am not mistaken?”

Cassian just stared at her, as did Azriel, his mouth hanging slightly open.

“He is a forward and his number is 14. Last year, he scored 34 goals, tied only with Haaland. Height–6”5, very tall for a footballer, and weight is 188 lbs.," with that, Elain leaned back, and looked at both of them. 

“I wouldn’t have taken you as a football aficionado,” Cassian confessed after a long pause.

“I am not,” Elain said easily. “And I wouldn’t expect you to. I am an escapee from the 1950s, after all.”

Azriel pushed his tongue into his cheek, but didn’t rise to the taunt.

He wasn’t sure why, but it felt weirdly satisfying to hear her rattle off his stats. To say that he was shocked was an understatement, but also, secretly pleased. Fuck yeah he was as good as Haaland! And Haaland was 5 years younger than him. So there was that.

“As our American cousins would say,” Elain threw a biscuit to Piglet, who lunged at it voraciously, “this isn’t my first rodeo, Cassian.”

Oh, so now Cassian was Cassian. But Azriel was still Mr. Night.

That was fine. It’s not like Azriel cared.

“And that means that I do my research. Very thoroughly,” Elain assured them. “Before I take on any client, be it male or female, I need to know what and who they are. Do I scour news outlets? Social media? Gossip sites? Oh, you bet I do. And then there is a full criminal background check as well once someone becomes a client. 

“Mr. Night is acceptable,”

“Oh, well! Thank goodness for that,” Azriel exclaimed sarcastically.

“There is no need for that, Mr. Night,” Elain stopped him, “your notoriety is known, but it’s at an acceptable level. No long term relationships, no sexual assaults, but penchant for…” she cleared her throat, but ploughed forth, “orgies and group sex. Attempts at discretion, but not always successful.”

Shit, well this was embarrassing.

Azriel wasn’t sure why he should feel embarrassed at all? He was a single man in the prime of his life, but when it came from the lips of this lovely doll-like creature who was draped in pearls, his sexual history sounded…seedy. 

She didn’t pause, but continued, “only one arrest. When Mr. Night was 18–for destruction of property,”

“He spray painted a wall,” Cassian interjected.

Azriel just loved sitting here and being discussed like he wasn’t present.

“Ahh, an artist as well?” Elain commented.

Gah. She really was the most annoying woman he’d ever met. Annoying and condescending and impossible. 

“So, a famous, successful footballer from the Premier League who enjoys orgies and hasn’t had a girlfriend…ever, wants to find a wife? That’s quite a leap. Please explain.”

“Lord Darling is a very wealthy man,” Cassian said, “and he’s been kind to treat us well, even though we aren’t his sons. We are in his will, and it’s not been kept secret from anyone. The will stipulates one condition for all of us: Rhys, Az and myself. In order to receive the inheritance, we have to be married by the age of 30. If we are not, the inheritance is null and void and we receive nothing. Azriel is the eldest–he will be turning 30 in March. I have another year and a half to go and Rhys is the youngest at 26.”

“Aren’t you wealthy in your own right?” Elain challenged, looking directly at Azriel.

“I am,” he said.

Muscling in, Cassian piped in, “You don’t understand, Ms. Archeron. The inheritance is very large,”

Seeing her expression, Cassian added,

“It’s 230 million. Each. It’s a lot of money to just let go.”

It finally dawned on her and she nodded with understanding. 

“It is a rather large sum,” she agreed with an exhale.

“It is,” Cassian nodded, swallowing two biscuits at once. “These are good!” he mumbled, before saying, “and since it is such a huge amount, and this is a serious, lifelong decision, we all got to be thoughtful about it. Can’t leave this to chance anymore. As you’d mentioned, Az doesn’t have a steady girlfriend, so anyone new has to be vetted. We can’t have some slag from “Love Island’ latching on to him.”

Elain’s eyes popped at the word ‘slag’ being casually thrown into the conversation, but she stopped herself from commenting. 

“Also, Az will be moving on sooner rather than later.”

“Not too soon,” Azriel argued, but Cassian ignored him.

“Coaching or broadcasting,” Cassian continued. “Within 3-5 years, Az will retire from playing, but will probably move on to coaching once he passes all his coaching courses and certification. He’ll have a reputation to uphold–he’ll have to be respectable. Married, with children,”

“God Cass, you make it sound like I am being sentenced to life of hard labour,” Azriel moaned.

Elain chuckled. 

“Well, at least now it makes sense.”

Elain got up and went to the window behind her desk. 

Rain lashed violently against the glass, but it was nice here–at least Azriel liked it. The girl was still kind of a bitch, but she smelled nice, of jasmine, with an undertone of honey, and she baked and she was pretty. And her arse was fine, even hidden behind her pleated skirt. All of her was fine, except for her personality and her sharp tongue.

“Mr. Night,” she said quietly, without turning from the window. Azriel knew that she was addressing him, because Cassian busied himself with fixing Piglet’s bow.

“Please confirm that you are the kind of man who’ll accept a woman with high energy and high ambitions,” Elain asked. 

“What?”

“The women that contact me–that’s what they are. They are busy with professional lives, they are usually very well financially off, they are confident and independent. Most either don't have time to look for a partner on their own or want to meet someone who’s been screened and who matches their needs and asks. 

“But I must inquire again–is that the type of woman you desire? Someone who would stand up for herself, and someone who might not give up her own career for yours? Someone who might be complicated, if you know what I mean. Educated, serious, elegant, demanding. Not someone who’d roll over for you or inflate her lips or bleach her hair.”

“I don’t really want anyone with bleached hair,”

“Well that’s good isn’t it? Because I’d present you with matches who will challenge and entice you. But you need to tell me that that’s something you are comfortable with and that’s something you want?”

“He wants it,” Cassian shot immediately, playing with Piglet and cooing at him, muttering ‘you are a pretty boy, aren’t you? Yes you are. Yes you are…”

Elain raised her hand and turned to face them.

“I must insist that Mr. Night answer this question, Cassian. This is the rest of his life we are talking about. I understand that you have his best interests at heart, but that’s not enough. Mr. Night must decide for himself.”

Azriel crossed his arms on his chest and chewed his lips, thinking.

He liked her straightforward manner. Her insistence. If he didn’t know better, he’d almost say that she was describing herself in these women that she’d be setting him up with. Only it wasn’t the case–Elain was delicate and classic. She was a matchmaker, for god’s sake, not some boardroom lioness. She had a pug who wore a satin bow. But she was dogged, and confident, and he didn’t mind it. He didn’t mind her self-assuredness at all. Other things…he kind of minded. 

“Yeah, okay,” he said at last. 

Elain cocked her brow at him, her expression a mixture of disdain and disbelief. 

“Well, ‘yeah, okay’ doesn’t exactly fill me with excitement, but I suppose we’ll go with that,” she concluded at last. 

Cassian chuckled. 

She clicked something on her laptop, and Azriel heard the sound of a printer. 

“This is the contract, gentlemen,” she told them, as she gathered a hefty bundle of pages and stuffed them into a folder. “Take a look at it and if you are going to pursue my services, I’d like for you to return it to me, signed, by tomorrow. Say one o’clock?”

Cassian snatched the folder and nodded, “Yes, we will.”

“I apologise for how quickly we are moving here, but we are under a tight timeline, it seems,” she reminded them. 

Suddenly losing his usual indifferent bravado, Azriel asked, his voice quiet,

“And what happens after? If we sign it,”

“You sign it,” Elain ordered brusquely. 

“Fine. I sign it. What happens after that?”

“We sit down, discuss your mating criteria, and take it from there,”

“I am sorry, what? What is a ‘mating criteria’?” 

“Basically, your requirements for your future mate. Blonde or brunette? Tall or short? Level of education? Hobbies? Interests? All of it.”

“Mating criteria is the least sexy term I’ve ever heard,” Azriel complained. 

“Well, I am sorry, Mr. Night–I'll leave the ‘sexy’ part to you. My job is to find you the woman for all your sexy needs and then some.”

Azriel got up, followed by Cassian.

“I mean, you can just marry me,” Azriel suddenly blurted.

Both Elain and Cassian paused and stared at him with evident shock on their faces.

“I am sorry?” 

Backtracking frantically, he tried to make light of it, internally berating himself and wondering what the hell possessed him to say something so stupid. He’d rather rip his nuts off than be married to her!

“I mean, it would save both of us some time. And in a year, we could be divorced. No harm, no foul. And I won’t even request any conjugal satisfactions from you,”

“Okay, okay,” Cassian muttered, grabbing Azriel’s upper arm and squeezing it until he stopped the blood flow. “I think we’ve said enough. We’ll see you later, Ms. Archeron,”

She, meanwhile, was fuming, her hands on her hips, as she snarled,

“You wouldn’t request conjugal satisfactions? You? Who said I’d ever even let you near me!?”

“I am sure he was just joking,” Cassian murmured through clenched teeth. “Nerves, you know. Nerves. Forgive him, Miss Elain. No conjugal anything between the two of you, of course. Hahaha. That’s funny. Let’s go. Let’s. Go.”

He half dragged Azriel alongside him.

“Consider it!” Azriel called out.

“No. Fucking. Thank. You.” She yelled after them.

“Shit, you said ‘fucking’!” Azriel grinned. “Miss Perfect is not so perfect after all.”

** credit to @deathsweetblossoms for suggesting the title for the story!

[passionesolja]

Dario Brando did not want a kid . Like his failed business owner ass broke as hell in the slums of Victorian London. Mf the water is poison. People throwing all types of toxic waste on the mf streets. The drinking water got lead. You know his ass was a victim of child labor and probably had 5 other siblings, 6 of them didn’t make it to 13 years old. Rich mfs like George Joestar living in the mf countryside, not having to deal with shit. You know Dario was so mf mad when he found out he was having a kid, his wife like “yay my baby. I’m going to make him after God and Ronnie James Dio”. I’m sure Dio Brando wasn’t their first kid, unless because the man died at 53 so he had to have had Dio at 39-40 years old. Statically, it’s possible that Dio had a few older siblings who didn’t make it long or miscarried. Because mfs didn’t have birth control and didn’t have protection. Dio Brando only made it for as long as he did because he’s a hater and his destiny was to be the ultimate menace.

Maybe Dario also lost his own mother to his father’s vices and he was just a less advanced Dio. One thing about Dio is he was a mama’s boy. Dario got a tribute to his moms on his chest, he was a mama’s boy too

Rip to Dario, your grandson Ungalo looks like you

[b4mpyre-k1zz3s]

ur such a good writer i literally love all ur fics ur like a celebrity to me i was just thinking maybe you could write something more about vampire bam with fem reader because I think it’s cute it could be smut if you want but it also doesn’t have to be and it can be all dark and stuff like the m reader one

Eternal Lust

Harboring resentment towards her elite associates in her high level trade, Y/N finds herself in an unlikely romance with an earl who has more than a few skeletons in his closet

Vampire!Bam Margera X Fem!Reader

(Angst, Fluff)

4.2k Words

Warnings: highly suggestive content, drinking, enemies to lovers, stalking, manipulation, scent hint, blood kink, nudity, biting, kissing, toxic relationships

An: thank you so much for this request, and happy Halloween! It’s rather fitting that I post this for the fall season, no? ;D Even though it’s not my most successful series, the whole period piece Victorian vampire!au is definately one of my favorites, and I’m touched you enjoyed it so much! There’s a lot that’s said and even more that goes unsaid in this fic, so keep an eye out for subtext as you read. Anyways, thank you for checking this out, and please keep the requests coming! <3

The space where dark compulsions meet the darkened sky- that’s where you settle in. You felt this evening, not unusual for yourself, a natural compulsion to seek out that same dark side, the forbidden- that is to say, the good stuff. The gala you were forced to attend by your position in the cargo industry was not where you found these things. Stuffy conversation about import taxes and embargos while packed in a ballroom cheek by jowl with decrepit old men wasn’t exactly your idea of a fun night out in London, but here you were- in a gown that clung to your ribs like a cage- a physical manifestation of how you felt. Opulent, gilded chandeliers and marble flooring so clean that you could see yourself in them reflected the buzzing, lively scenery around you, but you couldn’t help yourself from feeling purely dismal. But despite your fantasies, you couldn’t merely ditch this scene and take a waltz down to the east end- you had an impression you needed to make. This gala was being held by one of the titans in your field: Earl Margera, the handsome yet capricious man-child who you really had to suck up to in order to get anywhere. The only issue that came with that was that he was constantly surrounded by a flock of lick-finger supplicants which made it a nightmare to even look in his direction.

Wanting nothing more than a momentary breather away from the prying eyes of the elite, you quietly slipped away to a deserted parlor just off of the main hall- close enough to the action that you could still hear the dull thrum of the party through the walls. Sinking down in a high backed armchair, you scanned the bookshelf lined walls idly until your eyes laid upon something that piqued your interest: a large, ornate decanter filled with high quality whiskey that sparkled amber in the candlelight. Well, you’d always fancied yourself a purveyor of the finer things in life, and stealing an ounce or two or five of the Earl’s fine booze would be a quiet revenge you could exact- a way to justify why you even were here if you resented the man so severely. It would be the same as an enemy of Di Vinci wiping his ass with the Mona Lisa. Sliding out the large, crystal stopper with a pop, you grinned as you forwent a glass. Bringing the rim directly to your lips, you drank straight from the bottle like some street bum. Oh yeah, you were doing it… The delicate, sweet taste of the whiskey consumed your senses, but the satisfaction you felt was only momentary, because just as the burn that felt so good settled in your chest, the sound of leatherbound footsteps made your heart leap into your mouth.

And there, standing in the doorway, silhouetted by the golden light of the ballroom, the devil had come to play- all five feet and six inches of him. Still imposing, however, from the aristocratic manner in which he carried himself, Earl Margera’s every action was that of a predator who had no challenge for prey. Dark curls slightly tousled from whatever misbehavior he was relishing in before he graced you with his presence, he quietly slumped in the seat across from you in the study with that shit eating grin plastered across his face, “You enjoying my whiskey?” All tailored and waistcoated in velvets and silk, there was something about his wolffish arrogance that made you a little bitchy.

Glaring over at him, with his pale complexion and those fucking eyes, you spat, “It’s good. I find it’s best enjoyed straight from the bottle-” Making long, hard eye contact, you stared him down as you took a deep swig.

When he finally spoke up, there was an uncharacteristically calm tone in his voice, “I like your style, but it’s rude to drink a man’s alcohol without asking.” Those icy boy eyes fixated on you the way a hawk would spot a field mouse, you squirmed under your skin under his scrutiny, but that could have very well just have been the velvet of the chair.

One thing led to another and that led to the two of you passing around the whiskey like two urchin children, and aver the course of the evening, you’d gotten to feeling a little empathy for the demon across from you. Still, you felt the bastard oozed entitlement, and that resentment grew more and more apparent the longer you sat there. “You know, I-“ Earl Margera hiccuped, wiping his mouth with the back of his sleeve, “I really hate these fucking parties. It's just this…” he gestured to nothing, squeezing his eyes shut, “this transient shit.”

Cracking a grin at his deceiving bluntness, you took satisfaction in how candid and disheveled he was growing in front of you. In all likelihood, he didn’t even know what that word meant… “Oh, we’re all transient…” Part of you wondered what brought this on from him- why he was here with you instead of mingling with the rest of high society, but I guess that when you own the board, you needn’t play the game. He was just as miserable as you.

“Courtesy of Earl Margera, madame...” The timid postmaster that stood at your door trembled as he handed the heavy box to you with an odd sort of tension held in his every fiber, like he was handing you a bomb that could go off at any moment, which you might as well have been sent given your behavior at that gala last week. You weren't ashamed, but you couldn’t exactly call it pride. Bringing it inside and placing it on your dining table, you carefully pulled the violet silk ribbon that held the package secure and lifted off the lid, examining the contents. You squinted at the artfully penned card stock note that read, “A token for a night of insightful conversation and spirited company.” Underneath the note, nestled in white tissue, was a very expensive looking necklace, no- it was a rosary. A shiver ran down your spine as you examined the expensive thing, sparkling silver affixed with polished garnet and onyx. According to something written on the back of the note, it was once a possession of Anne Boleyn, the irony of it being a necklace not escaping you. Who knew the earl would have such a twisted sense of humor? Running the cold metal through your fingers, you couldn’t help but feel, at the same time, uneasy and intrigued. How could he have acquired this artifact, and why send it to you?

Not wanting to risk damaging the fine jewelry, however suspicious the whole ordeal was, you returned the necklace to its case and stowed it carefully in your armoire before retrieving your shawl from where it was haphazardly tossed on a chair. Given autumn’s creeping grasp upon London, the streets ran with a chill denser than the characteristic fog that never seemed to disappear as you made your way towards the town market, mind still tangled up in the implications of, well- everything. Charming smiles, sharp wit, and frivolous gifts from the earl aside, you had the pressing matter of staving off starvation to deal with. Carriage wheels clattered and people bartered with vendors as you perused the crowded market stalls for fall produce as the thoughts swirling about your mind seemed to fade into much more manageable topics like selecting the best loaves of bread or the freshest squash.

You were so unsuspecting…It really was endearing in a way, how a woman can be so utterly transfixed in mundane little things like tins of tea and looking for a favorite variety of jam, completely unaware of your surroundings. Yes, barely even out of your line of sight- in fact, quite plainly within your vision, the earl stood half under the cover of shadow in an alleyway, studying your every move. Eyes following you from his place standing cloak-clad in that alleyway with the kind of hunger few may know, Earl Margera was practically fantasizing about you at this point. He was barely a breath away, barely an arm’s length away. Close enough that if his inhibitions were a hair lower, he would've given into every dark compulsion he’d kept hidden away for so long and snatch you away from the prying eyes of the townspeople, dragging you into the darkness he so relished. Wrap his arms around your waist and pause for a moment, canines poised to penetrate that tantalizingly thin layer of skin keeping him from getting exactly what he wanted, just to watch the look on your face as realization sunk in- what he was going to do and exactly what he was.

Disappearing back into the shadows, the earl couldn’t help but mull over the way you had struck him that evening you first met. There was something about the fire that burnt just behind your eyes, that distinct spirit you carried with you. But more than that, it was your smell. Unlike the volatile perfumes the women of high society adored, which Bam considered plainly unappetizing, you had a very clean, distinct aroma; It was simple and sensual in a way that struck just the right chords in his mind- this purity unmatched by any of the women he’d fed off of in the past. Your ability to see through the madcarades of the elite aside, which he very much admired despite his social position, he’d been obsessing over that scent as if he were a man possessed. It was the only fantasy that consumed him in those long, lonely evenings in the palace in between feedings. He had to see you again- needed to have you- but he knew a woman of your standing wouldn’t be easy to win over, especially with something as trivial as jewelry. While not unfamiliar with playing the long game, Earl Margera was all too fond of the thrill of the hunt when it came to courting his prey. Patience is a virtue he was well versed in. He would let you feel content under the assurance that you had control over the situation for a little while more, all while the snare was gradually tightening around your neck.

The palace of Earl Margera looked starkly different in the daylight than when it was illuminated by lamplight- the darkness covers up the gritty parts, you noticed. The myriad of shrubbery and meticulously kept flora that made up the front garden had withered in a recent cold snap, leaving branches winding and bare as you trotted up the cobblestone steps. You’d dressed well, while not horrifically extravagant for the occasion, but you hadn’t even knocked at the door before it was answered and you were quickly shuffled inside the front room by one of his male servants, a room which was extravagant as any other given inch of that palace, where the earl had been patiently awaiting your arrival. “Y/N.” He put on his most earnest expression as he bowed in front of you, not giving you the opportunity to remove your glove much less greet him before he peeled it off of your fingers himself with practiced grace before placing a disarmingly gentle kiss to your knuckle while making unshaking eye contact, “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

You’re not sure how you managed it, but after you stole his expensive liquor and insulted him, the earl ended up asking you to return once more, this time for discussion of industry over a meal, but as things have it, you talked about everything except the cargo business. Well, besides you fulfilling your curiosity as to how exactly a man like him got into this industry. He inherited his position from his father, something you, and in all honesty, Earl Margera couldn’t give two shits about shipping.

The dinner was an intimate affair with a dining room table laid with enough food to feed the entirety of the east end; platters upon platters of golden roast pork loin and plump game birds ran alongside crisp roast turnips and carrots with fennel, but most impressive dish besides the massive ornamental coffee custard a la Religieuse was the beautiful arrangement of oranges, apples, blackberries, and plums that were surely imported from Spain given they were out of season.

As you were served by one of the handful of men that were neither his servants nor brothers that hung around his palace like flies, you mused, “I’m impressed. When I received your invitation, I was thinking I’d be dining on something closer to soused hog or crimped fish.”

Chuckling deliciously, Earl Margera eyed you from across the table and brought his glass to his lips, taking a swig of wine before he replied, “I have an impression to make, do I not?” An evil little glint sparkled in his eye as he proposed, half joking, “If you’d like, I could send to the butcher for some fresh slink veal.” The nasty thing is, you weren't exactly sure if he was joking about that, because leave it to the earl to appreciate the feeling of soft, underdeveloped lamb’s bone in his teeth, but you laughed anyway.

Delicately handing your silverware, you tried to break the tension a little, “You know, you are not nearly the man I took you for, my earl.”

As much as the preface of ‘my’ before his title made his heart jump, he waved his hand dismissively, “Who needs those formalities? All my close friends call me Bam.” A curious name, yes, and hardly a name fit for an earl, but you did not question it. You had far more pressing matters at hand. Bathed in the soft candlelight, the man across from you looked strangely soft, maybe even human- a far cry from the image he projected to the public. And as you dined and drank, which you ended up doing a great deal of over the course of the night, you could’ve sworn that those men that served you- members of his council, the ones standing along the walls just in the shadows- were shooting knowing, sidelong glances to one another as Bam regaled you on his worldly adventures, seeming to enjoy the sound of his own voice more than anything.

As the evening grew on and the candles grew shorter, something that had been occupying your mind for a while came up in conversation. Swirling your glass of liquor with half lidded eyes, you mumbled, “You know…I've only seen a fraction of this castle of yours. Why don’t you give me a tour?” This opportunity made Bam’s ears perk up. There was an undeniable romance about the palace, especially in the evening, and much like a cobra silently waiting to strike, Earl Margera had been quietly leading you along with this false sense of security. It seemed that this was the perfect moment.

“Of course.” pulling his chair out from the table with surprising grace for a man who had been drinking his weight in fine booze, Bam waved for you to follow him, “This way, if you don’t mind…” Trailing behind him at his heels, you followed him down grand, echoey hallways with moonlight filtering in through tall, arched windows onto the marble flooring. He led you through a large, heavy door marred with age and into a room that looked more like a museum and less like a home. Every wall was lined with some sort of curiosity that the earl was more than eager to flaunt, whether that be a pyxis dating back to the crusades, or a full collection of canopic jars he acquired from a trip to Egypt, not to mention menagerie of taxidermied animals. It seemed that the second you appeared at all disinterested in what he had to say, Bam hurriedly moved on from one artifact to the next.

But on the off moments you were enraptured with a painting or fine textile, you caught him just…watching you. Running your finger contemplatively along the smooth glass dome encasing a skull you couldn’t identify as human or animal, you felt this odd sensation of being loomed over or observed intently the way a hunter would track prized game, especially odd considering the only people in the room were you and the earl. Slightly unnerved, you shook off those feelings against your better judgment and chuckled, “I’m impressed…Really, wet specimens and medieval weapons are just the thing that draws the favor of women.” However, your fesistines and witty comeback were not enough to deter the earl.

“So, you’re a lady with more artistic tastes? Here-“ his voice a mere purr, Bam directed you over to a grand marble statue at one end of the room, “this is a real Bernini- genuine.” Silhouetted by a window on each side letting light flood in, this alabaster figure stood carved with precision, this beautiful angel standing with poise and elegance, frozen in time and marble. In actuality, Bam only knew who sculpted that statue because his money paid for it, and otherwise he couldn’t care less about that thing. Cocking your head to one side, the thought occurred to you that maybe you were wrong about the earl and perhaps he was less surface than you initially thought. Out of the stillness, he asked you, “Do you believe in angels, Y/N?”

It was a simple question, the kind a curious child may ask, but turning to face him, the room felt so eerily quiet as you gazed at his features bathed in the moonlight, looking almost…innocent- sinister, yet perfectly harmless. Mouth growing dry under his gaze, you replied, “I don’t think they walk among us, if that’s what you’re asking.”

Grasping your hand in his, Bam’s voice no longer had that obnoxious, arrogant edge. Instead, there was this soft, sweet quality to his words as he spoke just above a whisper, “Oh, but I think they do…See, for the longest time, I couldn’t remember a single moment where I was satisfied. I felt good drinking and flirting and carousing, but…that was it. And then you came along, and all of a sudden…” his voice trailed off a moment as he pretended to struggle with articulating his feelings, before he eventually spat out, “You’re an angel…My angel, I’m sure of it.” There was something off about this encounter that you couldn’t place as, eyes bleary from alcohol and emotion, Earl Margera brought your hand up to his lips and placed a reverent kiss to your knuckle for the second time that night and asked, more of a command than a request, “Stay with me tonight?”

You felt charmed yet uncomfortable in this moment- how he had been intensely staring at you as if he were looking straight to the core of your soul. This darkness about him; it was heavy, permeating every fiber of this young man who looked ready to be worshiped or sacrificed. With the way his hair looked disheveled and hung in his eyes, you finally saw what all those women saw in him- in that silent study, Earl Margera looks like temptation personified. “Hold me for tonight. Shelter me from this-“ You couldn’t resist. Cutting him off from what en flourishy tangent he was about to launch into, you leaned in to press a kiss to his lips because, in that moment, it just felt so right. However, instead of the tentative, playful response you expected to receive, there was this hunger in the way Bam smothered you in his kiss, like a wolf burying its muzzle into a fresh kill. Deep and primal, he nearly growled against your lips, unable to contain those starving urges that sat just below the surface.

Stumbling, you tumbled backward onto a chaise lounge and Bam landed on top of you. Black painted nails clawing at the bodice of your dress and clumsily tugging it down to bare your chest, he seemingly ignored the newly exposed expanse of skin glimmering in the moonlight for the succulent meat of your neck. You were shocked, but you couldn’t say that you weren't strangely excited and thrilled by this turn of events. Endlessly repulsed and enchanted, you were powerless against his animalistic urges, sucking and laving at the bulge of your carotid artery as if your flesh itself was this divine thing. Passion hung heavy between your ragged bodies, breath coming out in ragged pants, and Bam couldn’t hold himself back for one moment longer. A throbbing, exquisite shockwave of pure white heat rattled through your bones as he let out this satisfied little moan and sunk his jaws into you the way an animal would clamp their jaws onto its prey- purely predatory. Face smeared with crimson, his eyes flicked up to look at you with something a little less than human behind them.

If the woman you were a week ago could see yourself now, waking up naked in the earl’s bed, you’d tell yourself to knee him between the thighs and make a break for it, but there was something so utterly hypnotizing about his visage in that moment. Falling under his spell, the closest thing you could equate it to was love. You loved him like you would love a sick, stray cat that you found on the side of the road covered in blood and vomit. You loved him like a saint loves a sinner. Head swimming, you were unable to fully comprehend what had happened to you as you tried to orient yourself. Eyes fell upon where Bam sat beside you, naked and half covered by the sheets that pooled at his hips, you couldn’t bring yourself to tear your gaze from his bare form. Chest pale and slightly sunken, his ribs were more prominent than a young man’s should be, but there was still something beautiful about him with the way his soft skin against sharp edges. Slender, almost as if he was malnourished, your eyes trailed down the faint line of hair peeking above where the linens sat at his hips.

Entranced by his strangely ethereal figure, it took him meeting your eyes for you to notice the dark smears on his cheeks and around his mouth. Still, there was that purity about him at war with his fierceness as he cracked a grin, “My angel…” lying down next to you, the words of a saint fell from the mouth of a harlot as he nuzzled his face against your neck and chest, lazily licking at his leftovers. Bam stared at you, lips covered in dried blood and kiss swollen, but even after all of this, he found a way to feign innocence, looking up at you with these big, sweet deer eyes even after he had done these depraved acts. The earl asked tenderly- vulnerably, “Will you be gentle when you scrub me clean? When you purify me?”

His desire for redemption was merely a front. Simultaneously disgusted and aroused, you swallowed down the gnawing uncertainty as to what exactly he’d done to you that left you so bloodied as you uttered, “You think I can fix you? You’re- you’re beyond any redemption…”

Bam’s grin seemed to widen at your meager resistance as he pulled his lips away from where he nursed at your wound to whisper in your ear, his voice a soft whine with faux offense, “Oh, you are so cruel.” light glinted off of a far too sharp canine as he cooed sweetly, speaking to you the way a lover would, “You have no idea what you do to me…”

Sitting up sharply as the realization of exactly what your circumstances entailed, dead moments gave way for memories of the earlier evening to remain. You would’ve thought your sanity was slipping away with the conclusion you came to. Sharp pain shot through your skull like a railroad spike as you fell back to the plush bed, squeezing your eyes shut to quell the ache as you muttered to yourself, “No- no. It’s not. It can’t…”

Unsure if you should blame the trembling of your limbs on blood loss or the sinking realization of your circumstances, you nearly jumped when you felt Bam’s hand on your shoulder as if he were caressing some delicate object as he purred, “I’ve yearned for someone like you for so much longer than you could ever imagine…” The way he was talking about you was like your presence satiated every ounce of his being. Leaning over you in the darkness, the earl murmured, “I couldn’t imagine spending eternity without you, Y/N…”

Fear and restraint melting away, the line between ecstasy and agony irrevocably blurred as the idea slowly grew in appeal as if you were falling under the control of some spell. Parts of his reasoning began to make sense; this rich, devilishly handsome earl was so readily offering you his undying affection. Who cares about the implications of what he may truly be? You had to ponder- was this destiny? Were these the cards that fate had dealt you, and if so, how were you going to play them? Part of you, a sensible part, still wanted to run, but the very core of you desired nothing more but to lay with him in those very sheets for the rest of time.

[daemonhxckergrrl]

I always think of this exchange, ironically from a US show:

Buffy: speak English, not whatever they speak in-

Giles: ...England ??

the UK has its own history tied into how we to to the Americanisation of everything, but that isn't the fault of working class Brits. in US culture the UK is typically seen as interchangable with England, ignoring that Scotland and Wales exist as countries within that Union and that the full name also includes Northern Ireland (which is different from the Republic of Ireland). don't get me started on the way US culture treats anything Irish either.

on the subject of accents, the only ones commonly known in US culture seem to be RP (received pronunciantion, the formal standard accent often coupled with grammar/vocab/syntax of Standard English), best described as that overly posh and clipped accent you may have heard on old British radio, and a modern working class accent around the Greater London area (where the meme phrases "Bri'ish moment", "it's chewsday innit" and "bo'uhl o' wo'er" come from). in reality, every major town and city has its own accent (or accents). just within the Midlands you have vastly different accents between Birmingham, Northampton, Leicester, Telford. these are towns and cities within a couple hours of each other. and yes, many of these places have their own words for the same things and pronounce the same words very differently. there's already a class history of suppressing regional dialects (Northern accents were considered a sign of lower intelligence) and Americanisation will just make that problem worse.

I've seen that Wiggan kebab video circling a few times and while yes a lot of our town-specific foods may look beige or have basic-ass ingredients or be carb-heavy and light on flavour, they're working class foods made cheap with what ingredients people had locally when they needed these meals. I'm talking about Northern mining towns needing to feed their overworked and underpaid miners on what budget families had.

another thing is how US media treats anything alcohol-adjacent with such a fragility and puritan mindset. tbh the US culture around alcohol is one I find both confusing and contradictory (I'm aware of prohibition bc we do learn some US history here). like yes a lot of people drink too much here (football culture is especially bad for this) but the pub as an establishment is an essential part of our communities.

it's a great place to hang out with friends, get to know the locals when you move, to sit an enjoy the sun with your cold beverage of choice (I recommend sitting out with a fresh lemonade just as much as a proper ale).

so far I've talked about US misunderstandings of the UK, but I think another important one is police. in the UK our police were not originally slavecatchers. that's a US thing.

we have a history of Acts of Parliament slowly (over nearly 1000 years) transforming watchmen and night watch models into Victorian-style beat policing and then into modern policing. the end result is absolutely still a force of the state using violence against its citizens and the threat of violence to enforce laws.

one final thing is absolutely how legal and political stuff is US-centric. like yes, there are instances where the outcome of a Bill in Congress will affect people in other countries, but the way with which the US political and legal system is assumed default and assumed that it will always affect people outside the US is so damaging.

a lot of technology laws are important bc I don't want US citizens to suffer at the hands of big corporations any more than I want anyone else to, but here's something important to consider:

Tumblr Live is available in the US (and possibly some other countries that have weak privacy and data protection laws) but not in the EU or in the UK where we have GDPR. let that sink in for a moment.

the treatment of the US as default is damaging to everyone. it hurts people in the US who then expect everyone to be like them and experience huge culture shock, it's damaging to countries close to the US who have their identity eroded by proximity, it's damaging to countries who share English as a native language bc their identity is eroded by the dominance of Americanisms, and it's damaging to countries whose citizens have to both learn (US) English and forcibly Americanise their speech and mannerisms in order to appeal to people in the US.

this is way longer than I intended but hey post be upon ye

DO NOT LET SOCIAL MEDIA TURN YOU INTO AN AMERICAN

[thecaduceusclay]

Hello!! I hope it's not intrusive, but I'd love to hear more about your spooky ocs? They sound absolutely delightful + very up my alley hehehe

It took me a bit to get to this since I'm on a mini vacation rn but I'm more than happy to tell you about them >:3

It's under a read more since I know I'll be longwinded. (Also so Mika doesn't read this if she looks at my blog, there's spoilers here about Wilde)

tl;dr: Daniil is a spiderverse OC. He's a scientist with a special interest in the black plague, he spends his free time being a villain and is usually weird and obsessed with Spider-Man.

Wilde is a Curse of Strahd PC from a Victorian-inspired world. He's a necromancer and heavily inspired by Victor Frankenstein and the Re-Animator films.

This is Wilde! (Currently going by Dr. Wilde Cadaveric). He's one of the three PCs in our Curse of Strahd game. He's an amnesiac reborn who's desperately trying to hide that he's undead and doesn't know who he is. He's autistic in the way where he doesn't always get that he should have tact and grace, but he's somehow still the most socially aware in the party at times...

Before ending up in Barovia he was named Victor Wilde. He was working on a master's degree in Necromancy at a university in London. He and his mentor were working on ways to reverse death, but when the Ethics Board came down hard and quashed their plans things went bad. After a night of drinking his mentor and friend killed him and resurrected him. Wilde woke from the attempted resurrection with very few memories, very confused, and physically changed.

He's in the uncanny valley, he's Scottish, he let someone do experimental top surgery on him, he has a girlfriend and a boyfriend he left behind. What can't he do?

Then there's Daniil Reznik!

Daniil is a little complicated. He was made in the height of the Spider-Sona craze after Across the Spider-Verse. The original Daniil (Spider-Vamp) was the Spider-Man from Earth-888, a world where instead of Covid they got hit with a Vampire Virus (as it's known colloquially, it has a real scientific name and scientists are firmly refusing to call it vampirism). He was a forensic pathologist on the Os-Corp team working on the cure.

Most of his schtick is that he's obsessed with Peter Parker (who is still Spider-Man, I have a whole complex plot for how Daniil ends up in that position).

Me and my husband ended up making a ton of multiverse variants of him though (a straight up villain with radiation powers he sees as a gift from God, his pre-transition self who went full Carrie on everyone, a disturbingly normal guy, etc.) Our favorite is Dr. Plague.

Dr. Plague is a villain from Earth-1610. He went to high school and (totally coincidentally) the same undergrad as RIPeter. He's a plague doctor themed villain in his off-time and has been since he was like 16 (you know how it is with teenage crushes 🤷‍♂️). Up until Peter died he was a kind of intense, cryptid-like, silent villain who maybe fought a little too viciously.

After Peter's death (and a few months being despondent and depressed, you know how it is with maladaptive obsession) he ended up eventually teaming with Miles. He's kind of ended up de-fanged by the overwhelming fact that the new Spider-Man is a literal child holy shit.

I have way too many AUs for this guy, way too much lore, and way too much investment.

If you wanna see occasional in-character ramblings from him @leech-fluincer is Dr. Plague's blog.

Other random fun facts: He's from North Dakota originally, he was emo when he was a teenager, he's devoutly Russian Orthodox (and kinda has religious OCD, oops), his favorite movie is Saw 3d (because the reverse bear trap goes off), and my husband and I have an AU we're very attached to where he and Uncle Aaron end up having to fake date to save Miles' ass from a poorly thought out lie.

[persephoneflouwers]

hey hey angie 💞 please bless us with your fanfic top 5?

Hello! 🌸

I'm sorry if I reply so late, but I wasn't home and didn't have access to my computer. Thank you for asking this question. I've been wanting to write a post about my favourite fics for ages now. There are too many. That's why I can't pic 5 favourites, but I will make a run out of my bookmarks for now, if that's okay 👉👈🥹. This was fun and I have so many more fics that I love. Like all the ABOs and really so many others, but I don’t want to add them all in a post because they will get lost and they deserve ALL the attention. So let’s tag this as a LARRY FIC RECS - PART 1. Please, if you read any of these, let me know and let’s discuss them! <3

I'm very excited! Alright, let's go in no specific order:

Mirror Touch by pinky_heaven19 (59K): synesthesia AU that made me all soft and melting. Easily, one of the first fics I'd recommend.

The Changer and the Changed by homosociallyyours (60K): Hands down the best Girl direction AU for me. Lots of lesbian and feminism talk. Very very good. I saved it on my phone and re-read it every now and then. 

No pressure, no diamonds by karamelised (71K): Another fic I would read in loop. It’s just fun and hot but also angstyyy. Louis is a menace and Harry CAN’T (can he?) have any of it. They got me all in the first scene. The description of Harry got me like “alright yeah, that’s it. that’s the one”. Venice x Larry is always a good idea.

Love After the End of the World by mercurial-madhouse (writing_practice) (162K): This one is the dystopian-soulmate AU you need to read. Louis is such a pain in the ass in this one, I swear. You can't not love it lmao

Sodalite & Aventurine by forreveries (81K): Give me all the pirates fics, because I will drink them up like water in the desert. 

Fading by tothemoonmydear (202K): please read the tags of this one. It's a tough one, I read it long ago, so I don't remember much of the writing style, but I think the ED is depicted in a very thoughtful way.

Time Passed by coffinofachimera (66K): this broke my heart. I rarely cry with fics, but I sobbed at the end. Like the tags say... heavy heavy angst.

Our Lives, Non-Fiction by indiaalphawhiskey (@indiaalphawhiskey) (114K): I will defend this fic til my last breath. It's mature, it's complex, it's metaliterature at some point. Definitely NOT canonical, loved it!

For As Long As I Can Remember (It's Been December) by green_feelings (116K): the amnesia AU that got under my skin because it made me sooooo mad!

And down the long and silent street by whimsicule (86K): This fic just came back in my mind yesterday in chat with @lt2hoe! Victorian London, wherein Louis and Harry are on the opposite ends of the social ladder. More of these please!

Chasing Empty Spaces by Lis (domesticharry) (79K): even though I remember complaining with my sister about the fact that it contains few historical innaccurancies, I loved the story! Very emotional til the very very very end.

Dance to the Distortion by Lis (domesticharry) (97K): speaking of annoying Louis... this author never disappoints, trust me!

Let's Fall in Love in a Place You Want to Stay by embro (134K): this was cute and got me pouting all along cause I didn’t know if I was sad or just emotional. Oh, this is the Tarzan AU!

Take My Breath Away by RealityBetterThanFiction (154K): Top gun AU. One direction as pilots was what I needed. Narry is magical here!

With The Strength To Carry On by lovelarry10, therogueskimo (113K): I read it for my professional bias. Doctor AU. They cute cute cute. 

The school of extraordinary lovers by stylinsoncity (168K): I think I consider this one a classic. It’s simply a beautiful read. 

Maybe down in lonesome town by resurrectdead (45K): I don't quite remember this one, but it's in my bookmarks so I'll trust past me and rec this too. Farm AU are my guilty pleasure.

Let me separate my favourite authors from the rest because I’m on my knees for these two angels: 

The agony and the rapture by @thedevilinmybrain (venomedveins) (79K): you have no idea how much I love this fic. I would dare say I love it as much as I love pistacchios. And I love pistacchios A LOT. 

I want to be just as close as the holy ghost is by devilinmybrain (venomedveins) (35K): As Dj Khaled would say... ANOTHER ONE. This is my love letter for @thedevilinmybrain I’m not sorry. 

Babydoll blues by devilinmybrain (venomedveins) (111K): my comfort fic. I read it when I wanna feel something. Hottest one on AO3. So hot it’s dangerous. They have this great ability to create this fantastic dynamic between Harry and Louis. I can’t get enough. 

And the other fave must be @larrydoinglaundry <3 

Love is a word, you gave it a name by CuckooTrooke (158K): this fic is everything. Smut, fluff, serious talk, gender talk, adventure, mental health. Waiting for the sequel like a kid waits for Christmas morning. 

This chemistry like candy to me by CuckooTrooke (35K): If you have ever asked me for an omega Harry fic rec, this one is the first one I mentioned. 100% recommended by me to literally anyone lmao. it’s the fluffiest, most endearing, I like the way the author explores and navigates some events.

[polysyndetonaddictsupportgroup]

AU where Elias never realises that the Fear rituals don’t work, please?

Ask Game: send me an au and i’ll give you 5+ headcanons about it

hmmmmmmm

1. See, the thing is, I think the apocalypse is still in the works. Because in the end, the Web wanted it to happen, and it was going to make it happen. With or without Elias at its helm.

2. The Web literally waves all of the clues in front of Elias's face and he's a dumb victorian twink who couldn't find his own ass if you handed him a map with directions and a big red x and the Web has a horrible "you can lead the horse to water and shove its head under the surface but sometimes they still won't drink" moment.

3. In her will, Gertrude bequeaths Annabelle Cane a bottle of vodka and a recording of her laughing for twenty unbroken minutes as well as a photograph of her flipping the viewer off. On the back is written the words "good luck." this is now a crack fic.

4. Elias thinks the Web is trying to beat him to its own ritual and spends half of his time trying to thwart the Web so he can be king of his ruined world instead of annabelle girlbossing her way to being queen of her ruined world. Annabelle tells him, out loud, to his face, that she is trying to stick him with that job and if he'll stop being such a dumb little slut they'd already be there by now and he thinks its a clever ruse. she's about to tear out her own hair. He inadvertently fucks both of their rituals in the process and because you only get a chance once every few hundred years they're both stuck sitting on their hands for a good long time.

5. in the chaos, martin files paperwork allowing him and jon and the rest of the archives to work from home indefinitely and it somehow fucking tricks the contract into not killing them. and then they all just sort of. leave. move away. jon and martin go to scotland and jon becomes a primary school teacher as his second job--"what is the first" "im a remote archivist for the magnus institute in london" "dont you have to like. be physically in the archives to do that" "yes. anyway."--and martin lives off his institute paycheck that still comes every fucking two weeks in the mail. with all his spare time, he has been able to write more. he has a book collection of poetry being released soon and is very excited. there are good cows and fabric rustles and smooching.

[parkers-gal]

https://vm.tiktok.com/ZMe5JcUMn/

Imagine doing this with Tom but the boys ask you questions about each other

this tik tok is so cute pls <3 

｡☆✼★━━ requests are closed ━━★✼☆｡

Part of every great relationship is seeing who knows more about each other. You’ve got Tom down pretty well, considering he’s a blabber mouth during interviews and with you. Now, you’re willing to put it to the test. Tom’s competitive like that, so he won’t give up a challenge.

It was a silly tiktok that happened to land on your for-you-page, that sparked the idea, but now it’s unraveled into a true competition. You’ve got a simple pair of sweats on, and an oversized shirt. Tom also has his grey sweats on, and a navy blue tee that accentuates the bulge of his biceps.

Two water bottles are filled with iced water, thanks to Harry and his need to make everything extreme. Harrison places two towels on a chair beside the patio table. Yeah, you’re doing this outside, so not only is the water refreshing during this (rare) London sunshine, but it’s also easier for clean-up duty.

“Get ready to lose, love,” Tom strides out the back door with such cocky confidence that you roll your eyes — playfully, of course.

You scoff roughly to feed into the atmosphere. “As if, Tommy. You’ll be kissing my ass.”

“He does that anyways,” Harrison pipes up, commenting like the little shit that he is.

Harry makes a pained expression, one of disgust, and you laugh at him, Tom joining you. “Ugh, Harrison! Did you really need to say that?”

“Hey,” he raises his hands in surrender, “He’s your brother.”

“Are we ready?” Tom interrupts, picking up one of the water bottles, handing the other to you.

“Thank you,” you say in an accent.

“But of course, darling,” he says back in his best Victorian-English accent. You giggle, and then motion for Sam to begin the recording. Your phone records from its place in the tripod, and Harry reads off the first question on his index card.

“When did Tom first break his nose?”

“Uhm…” you’re bending your knees slightly, ready to squirt Tom with water despite the fact that it’s his turn. “20… 17?” You cower away as Tom giggles while spraying you. “I wasn’t done guessing!”

“You get one guess!” He says back, laughing at your wet face and now splotchy shirt.

You roll your eyes, “Next question!”

Tom chuckles and so does Harry, and Harrison reads out the next question. “Who’s Y/N’s favorite villain?”

Tom’s brows furrow and he freezes for a moment, arms coming out in bewilderment. “I don’t know? Who would know that?!”

“Me!” Harry says while you squirt Tom. Immediately, his curls dampen and then flatten completely, wetted by the cold water.

“Agh!” He shrieks, wiping at his eyes. “I didn’t even guess!”

“Ooh!” Harrison raises his hand like a child. “I have a good one!”

You raise your eyebrows before encouraging him to continue.

“What’s Tom most cocky about?”

You smirk, something that makes Tom raise a suspicious eyebrow. “His bedroom skills.”

Harry gasps in surprise at such a blunt response, and Tom’s mouth hits the floor. “Y/N!” Your mouth opens too and in a matter of seconds, you use a hand to cover your mouth in shock. Harrison gasps in realization too, and Tom looks around at everyone as if you’re all crazy.

“What?”

“You didn’t squirt me!” You yell, pointing a finger at him and cheering.

“Damn, Y/N!” Harrison cheers. “She got it right, mate!”

“Screw you guys,” Tom pouts, and you laugh harder, coming down to your senses to continue the game.

“Aren’t you glad I know you so well?” You tease. Tom doesn’t miss a beat when replying.

“Yeah, and how’d you know about my arrogant bedroom antics?”

“Ewww,” Harry winces. “You two are disgusting.”

“Disgustingly cute,” You smile brightly, so much so that it makes Tom laugh.

“Tom,” Harry says, “How does Y/N like her tea?”

Tom pulls his brows together while he ponders the question. You’re so ready to spray him with the water, because he makes tea every morning yet never seems to pay attention. “She… doesn’t drink tea!”

You let out a loud laugh, squeezing the bottle with all your might and watching it hit Tom’s hair and face in content. “Tom, even you know that’s not true!” you laugh, looking at the boys with a bizarre expression.

“Fuck, I know,” He whines, clearing his eyes of the fresh water.

“Your shirt is literally drenched.”

“Would you rather it be off?”

“I mean…” You match his smirk, but before you go any further, Harrison breaks it up.

“We’re still filming!”

“Last question!” Harry squeals.

“What’s Tom’s zodiac sign?”

You look at them, stifling a laugh. “That’s like asking what his birthday is!”

“Well, what is it?!”

“He’s a gemini!” You squeal, protecting yourself.

“I get an extra point for the shit question,” Tom quickly brings the water bottle over your head, squeezing harshly. The veins that run along his arms and hands pop out while he does this, and you run from your spot, shivering from the cold sensation.

“Hey—!” Tom runs after you, but you splash him in the face. Tom squirts back, accidentally hitting Harry during his attempt to splash you again. Harry gasps, hoodie dampening, and he stands hastily, grabbing one of the spare bottles and getting Tom square in the face.

Tom has to stop chasing you from the shock of the cold liquid running down his face. “Harry!”

“You got me first!”

“Yeah, by accident, you div!” He extends his arms to squirt him again, but Harry steps out of the way and Tom’s water hits Harrison’s chest, shirt drenching in the water.

“Aw, c’mon!” Harrison yells. Hastily, he picks up the remaining water bottle and goes after Tom, who simultaneously outruns both boys and continues chasing you. You run backwards for a bit of time, wetting Tom’s front while Harry get’s Tom’s backside.

“You fuckers!” Sam yells from his seat on the patio, beside Tessa. “The video ended!” None of you bother stopping though, and as Tom makes the distance towards you, you squeal, squeezing the bottle until all the water runs out.

“Catch me! I dare you!”

“Just you wait, love,” Tom steals Harry’s bottle, who then gasps in surprise at the action. “I’m gonna get you.”

want more? my masterlist. taglist tingz :) 🏷️  want to join? fill out this form.

pp + th taglist: @spideyspeaches @mayrapreciado20 @tomhollandlol @supremethunda @sinisterspidey @turtletaylor98 @parkerpeterparker2004 @peterbenjiparker @kelieah @selfcarecap @turtletaylor98 @tomhollyland (-trope) @nellbellzz-blog @tpwkhollandd (-tw) @holl2712 @marlenetough

th franchise: @roseke @wonderfulfluffer @farfromtommy @mamaparker28 (-tw/sf) @pxxerfect (-sf) @seutarose @itssmadelyn @woopwoopwoop222 @spideyssunshine (-tw) @white-wolf1940 @uh-just-ice @butterf1yaurora @hunnybunimdun @mggsluvbug @jetsmorrissey (-sf) @writingrem (-sf/tw) @sunwardsss (-tw) @lowkey-holland @quaksonhehe @nat-zya @bi-lmg @hoodpankow @pxxerfect @itzmiciah @heavenlyholland​ (-sf)

th taglist: @lmaotshollandd

permanent taglist: @lunalovegoodsgirlfriend @just-here-to-escape-from-reality @yourgoldengirls @waxingmoonwrites @multifamdomfan12 @am3l1a-24 @aayaissaa @avarose2854 @avarose2854 @slutforfics @mamaparker28

a strikeout means i could not tag you! pls message me for support <3

[chanluster]

non ducor duco | {m}

oneshot | historical! au | gang! au | 15.2k words 

“The most notorious gang leader in Victorian London can gouge out the eyes of men, steal from the corrupted rich, and terrify an entire city, but cannot figure out a few complicated feelings with you.”

s u m m a r y >> the leader of the sons of seoul, the wanted criminal mastermind, christopher bang, has the courage to commit any deed save for confronting you, his most trusted accomplice, about his feelings. however, when opportunity arises, in the shape of an invitation to a grand seasonal ball, to take down his fated enemy, he takes you to the heart of a lavish estate, both of you unaware of actions that occur inside, and after the mission.

w a r n i n g s >> gonna be using chris instead of chan cause it’s set in 1860s london, chan is a dom of course, jisung and changbin are dumb and dumber, are also massive cockblockers, some cliché scenes cause i’m a sucker for them, sexual! tension!, gore, foul language, making out, dirty talk, aggressiveness, semi-public fingering, unprotected sex (stay safe homies!!), oral (f. receiving), multiple orgasms, chan has a thing for being called his korean name, whack spelling for ‘cum’ as ‘come’ cause technically that word didn’t exist in 1860s, there is a plot so there will be build up

a / n > > so i went way over the 10k originally planned lmfaoooo but i hope y’all enjoy this oneshot! i worked my ass off on it and hopefully y’all can appreciate gang leader chan in 1860s london cause honestly i’m a 100% whore for that concept

back to masterlist

IT WAS A UNIVERSAL LAW THAT ONE MUST NEVER FUCK WITH CHRISTOPHER BANG. EVER.

Whatever charge you may have against him, it must be withdrawn. Whatever he had done to you — robbed you, murdered your son, destroyed your entire existence — it did not matter. There were always limits, and trying to challenge this specific criminal would only result in your undoing.

It seemed the target, cornered before you and the very man himself, did not fully understand this order.

Chris Bang, in all his midnight suited glory, took a step towards the cowering man, the ends of his longcoat trailing him in the air. His gloved hands locked behind his back, a grave curve of his lips as he addressed his next victim. “Mr. Shaw, we know you have the documents.”

This said Mr Shaw hastily shook his head, raising his hands in immediate surrender. “Please, Mr. Bang,” he whimpered. “I have no inkling of what you speak of!”

“Don’t you dare lie!” You interjected, sliding out your knife, pointing it towards him. “We received reports of you. Don’t you dare forget the monthly checks we’ve sent for its safekeeping!”

“I was taking care of it, Miss!” He backed further, until the wall of his office stopped his escape. “They came to the office though.”

“Who did?!” You demanded, but the way Chris’s hand fisted in irritancy answered your question.

The Mayor had taken their shares. Once again, the tyrant had robbed them off their fortune. 

“Mr. Shaw,” the man beside you started. The raw, dark matter in his voice had the owner’s eyes widening in pure fear. “Who was it specifically?”

“A really large man, about seven foot for sure…God, he had cuts all over his face, slight stubble,” he answered, knees slightly shaking. “Please, Mr. Bang, I have a family, children who have not grown—”

“Why is it that whenever man is at his weakest he mentions his loved ones?” A few stray locks escaped from Chris’ raked hair, caressing the ragged scar from his brow down to his cheek. “Why do you think that I’ll suddenly take pity because you have others who will mourn your existence?”

These questions had the man collapsing, leaning completely against the wall for support. You stole a glance at Chris, wondering if he was now capable of extracting the very souls from men. “Do not keep toying with me, Shaw,” he warned, leaning in slightly. “I know you have information.”

A soft, helpless whine escaped from the owner of the building. “Then-they'll kill me,” he mumbled, looking up at the criminal with desperation. It was a shame that never worked on a man with no sympathy.

“I can kill you too,” Chris countered, and in a flash a sleek, pocket knife appeared in his gloved hand, and hovered it right under Shaw’s chin. “So how about you tell me what you know, and I can prolong your imminent end, hmm? Does that seem fair enough?”

You almost felt sorry for the man. “H-his men…” tears formed in his eyes. “His men kept calling him Carter.”

“Brilliant,” you muttered. ‘Scar’ Carter, the Mayor’s link to the crime world, the dirty dealings of London. Carter, the lapdog of the socialites. The most irritating, disgusting son of a bitch you had ever encountered.

“I see.” The knife stayed, caressing the manager’s skin. “Now I know they’re to sell the documents. The bastard is greedy.

“Question is, Shaw, where is the transaction going to take place?”

Dear God, the man looked as if he was about to piss his trousers. “The ball.” He tried to gulp, but felt the curve of the blade. “The Mayor’s brother is holding a masquerade ball in a few days, and Carter already had a client. They’re going to do the dealing there, I swear on my children!”

A harsh scoff emitted from the criminal. “You better hope for the sake of your sons that you aren’t lying.” 

“Did you get the invitations?” You asked, eyes darting around the dirtied room, the messy desks and chairs lopsided from your searching. 

“Yes, yes!” He pointed to a set of drawers. “There are two in there!”

You walked towards the destination, opening the drawers and sure enough, finding the gold-edged enveloped, addressed to Shaw and his wife. “Are your names inside too?”

“No, just the envelope, but that is not important! I promise!”

You pocketed the invitations inside your coat pocket, joining your leader’s side again. Chris, after a minute of heart-wrenching silence, stood up, freeing Shaw’s neck from the knife, sliding it within his belt.

“That wasn’t so hard, now was it?” His eyes were still upon the man when he said, “Let us return.”

The both of you were ready to leave when you heard Shaw’s sudden protests.

“The Sons of Seoul, everybody!” He declared, almost hysterically. “Coming in, fucking everything up, and leaving as if nothing had ever happened!”

Chris paused in his tracks, a quiet stillness passing over his whole figure. 

“What are you going to do now, Mr. Bang?” He hissed, slowly sliding up. “Are you going to infiltrate the biggest ball of the season? Create a bloodbath on the dance floor? It’s what you love to do so ardently, no?”

You heard the harsh spit smack on the office floor. “Stop meddling with the business of the British socialites. Go back to the gutter you crawled out of.” The next words overflowed with hatred. “Go back to where you really came from, you slit-eyed prick.”

Your eyes flashed in shock, swerving around to see the raging expression on Shaw’s beady little face. Fisting your hands, you were ready to knock him out when you felt the man beside you move.

Chris whirled around, eyes promising a horrifying future as he pounced upon the manager.

A yelp was heard as Chris’ fingers dug at the corner of Shaw's eyes, and relished the cries of terror as with a roar of his own, he squeezed with his thumb and forefinger, swelling the balls of vision from their sockets. With a loud pop! the two eyes tore from their origins, gooey residue trailing down his face as Christopher Bang palmed the two organs in his hands.

He observed his victim bellowing in pain as he fell to his knees, hands covering his bloodied sockets. A ghostly smirk accompanied his lips. "Better slit-eyes than none at all."

You had to suppress the severe shivers that threatened to break your stance. 

Shaw broke the universal law. His undoing was inevitable.

He flung the eyes upon the owner, and turned on his heel, eerily cool as he walked out of the office, blood and goo still on his black gloves. Not a hair ruffled upon his pretty head. 

You spared a look at the victim, crying out in infinite pain, hands on his sockets still. “Do not fuck with Christopher Bang,” was all you said, before following the devil out of the building.

The afternoon London heat hit you as you exited the offices, Chris waiting as he examined the filthy streets surrounding you. People of all classes strolled by, beggars on the street asking for two-pence, children selling newspapers down the corners, and carriages riding away on the wide roads. The man still did not clean his gloves from the mess, and you pointed this out as you arrived at his side.

“It does not bother me,” he waved you off, but you brought out your leather skin.

“Bring your hands out,” you ordered. 

Chris scowled. “I said I’m alright,___.” He began walking forwards, towards your humble abode, not far away from your starting point. “Besides, whoever strolls past us, they’ll second guess their evil intentions against us.” You glanced over the strange looking fellows, scattered across the roads. “Shows I am not afraid to get my hands dirty.”

“Whatever,” you mumbled. “Dirty pig.”

You felt daggers glaring into you. “What did you say?”

“You heard me,” you said, turning a corner, already catching sight of the docks. “I expect this behaviour from Jisung. Perhaps even Changbin, but not from you.”

“Enough with this,” the man ordered, irritancy clear in his voice. Grumbling, you walked beside him in silence, the Thames entering your vision. You wished it would have radiated a rich, clear blue body of water, but from the stench which even reached your nose, it would be impossible. The river, a dump for the sewers, the rubbish disposed daily, was a toxic mass of water, and the cause of thousands dying from drinking its contents. When you first joined the Sons you nearly drank from the river, being saved only by Chris’ rough hand slapping the cup away. You remembered you received a harsh scolding from him that day, immediately providing you with clean water after to quench your thirst. 

A small smile curved onto your lips at the memory.

“Hand it over.”

You perked your head up to see his filthy, gloved hands out. “What is it?” You asked. 

“The water.”An irritated sigh escaped him. “I’ll clean the bloody gloves.” 

Your smile grew as you handed him the leather skin. “But only because I don’t ever want to be associated with Jisung and Changbin,” he added, and you only laughed, watching the man rub the mess off his attire as you both arrived at the docks.

The first sounds heard were not of the boats bellowing at port, nor the waves lapping in underneath the stilts. 

No, all you were welcomed with was a string of curses, spat by Seo Changbin.

“You fucking bastard, how dare you—”

“Here we go again,” you caught Chris muttering, who quickened his pace, thundering to where the two of his sidemen fought, caught in a scrap.

Han Jisung’s whines were carried through the river air, burning into your eardrums. “Bin, no, I said I’m sorry—!”

When you caught up to Chris, he opened his mouth, exasperation clear in his voice. “Boys!” He exclaimed.

Immediately the fighting ceased. The boys addressed, Changbin atop Jisung, ready to throw the final punch, turned back to see his leader scowling. Jisung let out a yelp, throwing the former from him and scrambling to his feet. Changbin followed suit, a little more slowly after rubbing his side in agony.

“Why the fuck,” Chris started, pointer finger darting between his two men, “Are you both fighting again?”

Changbin, fixing his ruined locks with his hand, shot his best friend a glare. “He took my fucking scones again.” He groaned, much too loud. “God, I specifically stored them in a place where no one would find them, but this greedy pig still managed to snuff them out!”

Jisung, a slender and more comical figure, crossed his arms, raising his chin in stubbornness. “I did not see a bloody name on them! Tell me Bin,” he matched his opponent’s stare. “Did you write down your name with blood-red ink across the scones? Because I certainly did not see the words Seo Changbin scrawled on the surface!”

“Argh!” The elder of the two turned his raging gaze towards the leader, who was watching his subordinates with slight distaste. “Chris, permission to cut off his tongue for being the bane of my existence?!”

Chris only stepped past them, heading for the big wooden table situated near the gang’s warehouse. The sounds of ships sailing in the dirty waters thrummed to the port, shouting heard all around over new, imported goods. “Another time, Changbin,” he only said, bringing out a chair and sitting down, propping an ankle over a knee. “I have encountered enough organ slicing for the day.”

Jisung’s face twisted in awed curiosity, settling himself down beside Chris. “Without me?” he let out a disappointed whine, turning to you. “I trusted you, at least!”

“I was surprised myself, Ji,” you argued, raising a hand towards the aloof man as you sat opposite your friend. “I didn’t know Chris gouged out Shaw’s eyes until they were in his hand!”

“You truly are a selfish man,” Changbin complained, plopping himself on the last seat. “Alway keeping the fun for yourself and ____.”

You did not really know why your face flushed a little at his charge, but you made sure to whack Changbin in the gut, earning a pained groan from the boy.

Chris locked his hands upon the table. “Well, gentlemen, then it is time for you to join in on the entertainment.”

The two boys exchanged confused glances. On cue, you brought out the pair of invitations within your coat pocket, tossing them to the table. “The Mayor’s brother is holding a ball,” you explained, rolling your eyes at the boys tearing open the envelopes, yanking out the oblong, cartridge paper, details inked with a precise hand. “Since it does not have names, anyone can enter the estate.”

Jisung let out an excited yell, grabbing onto Changbin’s arm. “Binnie, we can actually have some fun!”

“Not so fast, boys,” Chris said, tightening his gloves. “The invitations are not yours.”

Changbin’s face immediately fell. “Are you fucking kidding me—”

The elder held out a finger, silencing the complaints, but not the quiet grumbling of his members. “As I was saying,” he continued, hands interlocking once more, “____ and I will use the invitations to get inside, with the two of you as our bodyguards.”

“Marvellous!” Jisung exclaimed, sarcasm practically dripping on his words. “Absolutely fan-fucking-tastic!”

“Jisung,” Chris warned, “How about you clean the shit off the docks instead?”

“Chan,” you murmured, causing him to glance at you. His sour expression almost softened at the word, the name which only few have ever said to him. You pondered at the time the two boys, sat to your right, tried teasing him with this name, and nearly earned an ass-beating. You, on the other hand, rather liked the way the name sounded on your tongue. 

Perhaps, you wished dearly, he liked the way it sounded on your tongue too.

The man, after a pause, averted his eyes from you, focusing them on his comrades. “You both can still enjoy the festivities, but you have to keep a low profile, because while ____ and I are socialising and distracting the guests, you both need to find Carter.”

“Is he at the party too?” Changbin propped his elbows on the table. “Lord above, I’ve been wanting to kick his arse for a while.”

“So you both just frivol away, then?” Jisung whined. “I want to drink and dance!”

“And you both will,” Chris persisted. “We all will keep a lookout for Carter and his dealings, and if any of us find him first, you report to me. At my signal, you and Changbin will break through their trade. I will be behind you as long as I slip away without anyone discovering our motives.”

You look to your leader. “There’s another problem.”

The three all turned to you. “If we are to go to the most lavish ball of the season, we certainly need to dress for it.” Suddenly, you sounded like a little girl when you pointed out, “I do not have a gown to wear for the evening.”

An eyebrow raised upon Chan’s face, while Changbin and Jisung snickered, puckering their lips. “Aww, poor little ____ has no lace to woo the rich men!”

You made to slap the pair’s arms and narrowly missed, glaring. “As if you animals have any decent attire to wear for the ball! When was the last time you wore a proper tailcoat?”

That was enough for their teasing to cease, but Changbin was adamant. “Don’t throw me in with Jisung! He doesn't even bother to shower!”

“Oi, you bastard!”

The pair were ready to fight once more when Chris cleared his throat.

“You’re right,____.”

A glance at the man who said it. “I have only seen you in stealth gear and rags, the first time I met you.” He leaned back in his creaking chair. “Perhaps it is time to flower you up a little.”

Jisung and Changbin were about to chuckle once again when you shot them a dirty look.

“I will order evening attire tomorrow,” Chris decided. “They will arrive on the day of the ball, which is adequate enough timing. 

“Now,” he declared, standing. “Are we all aware of what we have to do?”

The two boys turned sheepishly to you, who sighed and addressed the leader. “You and I attend the ball with these two fools as our bodyguards—”

“Hey!”

“____!”

“We maintain a believable facade and enjoy ourselves while also looking out for Carter and the documents. Once we find out where he is, Changbin and Jisung take him away, and we slip out of the party unnoticed.”

Chris, after a pause, nodded, a ghost of a smile upon his lips. “Good girl.”

And just like that, he left the table, your eyes a little wide and heart a little raced. 

When Chris retreated into the warehouse, the two boys turned their malicious gazes towards you, smirking much too wide for your liking.

“Do not,” you snapped, cheeks burning deeper, earning a smattering of laughter from the bastards.

“Whatever you say, good girl,” Changbin simpered, Jisung repeating the damned endearment until you hastily stood from your chair.

You rewarded them both with your middle finger before storming back into another warehouse, Chris’ words still engraved in your mind.

Just as Christopher Bang had predicted, the new attire arrived on the day of the ball. 

More planning had been explained, more additions to the grand scheme of the evening which was mere hours away. The gang was ready, but you can never be perfectly anticipated for any ideas gone amiss.

You even taught Jisung and Changbin to dance, ranging from the Polka to the Viennese Waltz, which was popular amongst high society in the growing years of Queen Victoria’s reign. They were terrible at the start, both of them always falling on each other, but with hard effort they learned quickly, almost perfecting the art of leading your partner on the ballroom floor.

You had not bothered asking the other if he wished to learn. There was something about him which made you think that he could do anything. Not once had he ever doubted your theory.

It was as if there was nothing in the world he could not know like the back of his gloved hand.

Thoughts like these were what filled you with such awe for him. Such deep-rooted pride that you worked under this man. Those thoughts did, however, curve into darker corners — when his midnight-lined eyes and raven figure haunted you in restless nights. 

You aggressively shook your head, swinging your legs over the dock. Sitting upon the wood, you watched the sun descend slowly, the stark yellows and whites of the sky beginning to darken. Ships docked and stayed, men with their filthy language and filthier intentions flocked outside, and strange women with too-tight corsets and lips too rosey, smirking at the newcomers, carrying out their own ways of living.

Sometimes, you’d watch this run-down life move on in this exact same spot, thanking the lucky stars for not being one of the boys with the weights on their backs, nor the girls with the untied top corsets. You thanked the same man, who brought you out of that hell, giving you the chance to fight all this wrong embedded in London. 

You also thanked him, especially that day, for calling you that endearment. 

God. The man was a criminal, yet you were the one being imprisoned. 

“____!”

You turned, heaving to your feet when you see Jisung running to you, packages in his hands. “Your gown’s inside!” He exclaimed, gummy smile lighting up his entire face. 

Throwing you the box, you caught it just before it flew into the Thames, shooting the boy a wary glare. “Careful,” you said, looking over the silk ribbon tied into a perfect bow upon the middle. Although there were greater happinesses in life, small ones such as new dresses had you in near giggles.

“I’ve got my very own tailcoat now,” Jisung yelled, ripping open the packaging, about to whip out his new clothing when you waved him to stop.

“Do it inside, Ji, or you’ll ruin your outfit!”

“Trust him to fuck up a perfectly new suit before trying it on,” Changbin’s voice drawled through the dock, who held a box of his own. “Also, the boss is saying to quit dallying and start dressing!”

You obliged, holding onto your box tenderly as you entered a little building beside the main warehouse, consisting of everyone’s rooms and privies. Your eyes glanced to Chris’ bedroom door before pushing open the door to yours, stepping inside to the small, yet decorated space, filled with a board of knives and bows displayed upon one wall and an erratic strokes of paint brushed along the textured surfaces, courtesy of Jisung and Changbin’s lack of motivation to finish your room. An undone bed was tucked into the corner, and a large mirror stood on its curled railing in the other corner, revealing yourself, hands underneath the package.

The sun fell further, sky being painted with dark oranges and purple and pinks, staining your bedroom the colours of soft autumn as you put your package on the bed, untying the ribbon and unboxing the whole treat. 

The first glance of the dress had you smiling in pure incitement.

You brought the dress out of its box, letting it trail free right down to your toes, holding it to arm’s length to examine the details : it was a mysterious, dark red, a colour which instantly attracted attention within the golds of the ballroom. The neck line was low, dipping just enough to tempt until it swelled over for the openings for the arms, black ruffles on the fabric to accentuate off shoulders. The intricate, midnight detail was stitched to perfection, creating a network of swirls upon the bodice before flaring out into the wider skirts. Dear God, you had never seen such an exquisite dress on any noble lady in this damned city.

Your smile grew a little wider. Christopher Bang, once again, has not disappointed. 

You turned it on it’s back, mouth parting in surprise at the silk lacing, undone and trailing down the dress, waiting to be tied and admired. Realising that we’re you to wear this, the entire ball would see your back half-exposed. Even the man you’re to be escorted with.

The thought alone made your insides sing. 

Chris had ordered this dress. He knew what he was acquiring for you, what he asked you to dare. 

Well, you were happy to oblige. Something within you wished to see his eyes blaze at you in the gown.

Closing the curtains of your room, you quickly lit up a metallic lamp, orange light leaking onto your dresser and walls.  Setting the source upon a stool, you began shedding your coat, tossing it on the bed before going to the dresser.

You spent about ten minutes on your hair, lifting locks upward and curling them into a messy bun. You brought out clips of pearls, attaching them at the back of your hair, letting the few stray curls bounce along your ears and neck.

After finishing your hair you began shedding your clothing, excitement rushing in your gut at the thought of wearing the ballgown. When you were adorned in nothing but your underthings, you grabbed onto the arms of the new dress, entering one leg into the opening before sliding the other. You raised the gown, fitting the bodice upon yourself and the short sleeves cuffing just under your shoulders. 

Looking over your shoulder at the back, it was bare before the mirror, saving your rear only with a small dip which was edged with more black lace. The laces for tightening the back still hung uselessly, begging to be entangled with their partners.

And you tried to oblige. You truly did, straining your hands behind your back and trying your hardest to tie the laces with the opposites, of creating a pattern adequate enough for the ball and announce your preparation. Unfortunately for you, your fingers refused to assist you that moment in the evening. 

Letting out an irritated sigh, you called for your friends.

“Jisung!” you shouted, hands endeavouring still. “Changbin!”

Your back still to the door, you waited for the two fools to arrive, but no one came. Again, you called their names, but to no avail, only silence answering you.

“I swear to the Lord,” you muttered, arms now starting to hurt from the stretching. You were about to bring the warehouse down with your roar when you heard the door quietly creak open, the sound of boots emitting against the floor. 

“Ah, finally,” you began as you turned around, hands clutching the bodice of the dress, ready to be irritated by your comrades when all words abandoned your tongue.

There, standing by the door, in all his midnight-tainted glory, was Chris Bang.

You hated how your eyes widened at the sight of him. 

The man always took care of his appearance, but that evening he had truly outdone himself - His infamous woollen longcoat was hung over his arm, exposing his black tailcoat, shining slightly in the flickering lamp light. His waistcoat underneath fit snug, and his white cravat tie peaked just above the lapels, caressing his Adam’s apple. His raven locks were slicked back, a few stray flyaways drooping over his forehead. The gloves were worn still, skin never exposed.

You caught his eyes flicker, something within stirring at seeing you, holding onto your dress in case it fell to the floor. The prolonging silence was shattered when you forced yourself to speak.

“Chris,” you said, because his name was the first thing, the only thing you could comprehend.

He, too, inhaled, slowly. “Jisung and Changbin...they’re outside, so they could not hear.”

“Oh.” 

Another round of silence. God, you wished you could just say something to him, anything which wasn’t a single syllable—

“____.”

You snapped into focus. “Yes?”

“Why did you call them?”

Blinking, you stumbled, “I, I just needed help with…” your hand gestured to your back. “...with the laces.”

There was an indecipherable undertone in his next words. “You could have called me.”

“You’re here now.”

Again. The world-heavy pause upon the both of you. 

A few more seconds ticked by when Chris set his coat upon the dresser chair. His eyes never left yours.

“Turn around.”

You dragged your gaze away from his as you complied, baring your back before him, laces dangling. His footsteps sounded from behind you, and his presence was felt, large and magnetic.

Leather sliding from skin, you sensed his eyes on you, taking in your illuminated skin. You had the greatest urge to shiver, but suppressed it, waiting for his next move.

A small breath hitched in your throat when Chris grabbed onto the first pair of laces and tugged them back, pulling you to him. 

Almost too conveniently, your rear backed against his crotch, and a minute noise escaped you before putting some distance between you two again. You instantly regretted the action, already missing the mere caress of what lay underneath his trousers.

“Stop fidgeting,____,” he ordered, and you immediately stilled, the tug still adamant at your back. Almost disgraceful how quickly you listened to him.

Slowly, he tied the first bow, right to the small of your back. When he started on the second, though, the first touch of his fingers against your back threw you off guard.

You should have expected this. You should have known from the start of his task that his fingers would graze your skin but each caress was like a lick of fire, threatening to singe the skin. Your breath caught in your throat, each time Chris touched you.

Those damned fingers skirted upwards, tying up the laces with such delicacy it nearly softened your stance, if only you didn’t notice his growing warmth. You realised with no small amount of pleasure that he, too, was possibly flustered.

Christopher Bang. Flustered over a girl.

You almost gasped when his hands brought a few stray curls over your shoulder, the dip of your neck exposed as he began the final bow of your gown. The process was excruciatingly slow, each little caress enough for you to turn around and—

And what?

How you desperately wanted to find out. 

Sensing the ribbon curling upon your neck, you understood. 

“It is done,” he whispered, and you shifted at the sigh which kissed your skin. God, he was so close, you were scared that if you turned around his lips—

You did not need to worry when you felt strong hands grip your shoulders, whirling you around in a sudden fashion. Your eyes widened at the close proximity of his face, his beautiful fucking face, and the warm, slender hands on your naked shoulders.

“Chan,” you let yourself say, and you swore the criminal’s eyes darkened. His grip on you tightened.

Perhaps he would have closed the distance, saved you from desperation when someone knocked on the goddamn door.

“___?!”

“Hurry up, the carriage is waiting!”

“Women, honestly—!”

You yelped at the sound of your friends bellowing behind the door. Even Chris looked a little surprised, a slight tick in his jaw as the noise grew louder.

Grabbing onto your skirts, you thundered towards the door, furrowing your brows as you twisted the knob, opening to see the same two idiots, shooting you irritated glares. 

“Is Miss Fancy-Shmancy finally ready?” Changbin drawled, propping a hand upon his hip, tails of his coat dangling behind him.

“Madame certainly took her time,” Jisung went on, sauntering into your bedroom without a care. “Might as well not attend the ball at all—”

His incessant rambling was instantly ceased when he saw Chris standing before you, putting on his gloves. His face was impassive as ever, save for the jaw still tightened.

“Oh, Chris,” he said, and started backing away to the door. “The carriage is outside.”

“Let us go, then,” he only replied as he grabbed his longcoat, strolling out of your bedroom, leaving your skin tingling and heart confused.

Changbin watched Chris exit the building, turning to you with a raised brow. “What was the Mr. Thorns-up-his-arse doing in your room?”

You scoffed at the nickname, picking up the invitations from the dresser. “He was just helping me.”

Jisung’s lips curved into a smirk. “Helping you…?”

“Stop it!” You demanded, but both of the boys could see the blush on your cheeks, even from the dim lamp light. 

“Come on, now,____,” Changbin said, holding out an arm, and hitting Jisung’s arm to do the same. “Let us follow Chris before he shouts at us for keeping you here.”

“Don’t say such things,” you cooed, looping your arms with the two boys. “He will kill you outright instead.”

Laughter emitted from the two, leading you out of the room, down the halls and soon the building.

The carriage was waiting at the entrance of the dock, horses neighing softly at your arrival. Jisung opened the carriage door, letting you climb inside. Chris, inside already, held out a hand, you taking it as he had you sit beside him. His hard figure brushed against your shoulders, reminding you of his fingers on your back not too long ago.

Just like that, you slumped against the seating. That man was truly going to be the death of you.

When the two boys scrambled inside, Chris’ hand thudded against the roof, indicating it to start riding. The carriage obliged to his command. 

The small, interwoven streets widened as the carriage rode upon the main roads, going faster with each signal of Chris’ hand. The inside was alive with Jisung gloating shamelessly over his checkered waistcoat, with Changbin giving reassurances for his “ugly face ruining the clothing.” You laughed at every jab the two threw at each other, but would tense at the erratic touches Chris’ knee would send with every shake of the vehicle. Although the many layers of skirts cushioned these brushes, the blood rushing to your cheeks was evidence enough - everything he did made you so unhinged.

Soon, the big roads led from filthy, back-to-back housing to larger homes, the further the dirty central city strayed from you. A few touches of countryside teased your view when you saw mansions, estates the size of neighbourhoods gracing the surroundings. The carriage began to slow down, as more people adorned in fine attire entered your window view, no doubt going to the same destination as the gang.

The most illuminated estate welcomed you as the carriage stopped right before its vast, colourful gardens, smattering of couples taking intimate walks along the hedges. Chris, noticing the destination, opened the door, Changbin following suit. As the former got out he held out his hand to you. Surprised by his sudden manners, you took his hand, stepping down from the carriage, careful of your skirts as they brushed against the pavement. Jisung and Changbin were right beside you, uttering the driver to come back within a couple of hours.

“Now,” Chris began, bringing your hand to his arm. “You both stay behind me and ____. You wouldn’t need invitations if you both act like our bodyguards.”

“Right behind you, boss,” Jisung chanted, counting his knives inside his coat pockets. Changbin took one of the weapons from him, sliding it up his trouser sleeve, securing it with a leather ankle strap. 

“Right.” the gang all looked at each other, silent understanding passing between all of you.

“Let’s ruffle some rich feathers.”

With your hand still on his arm, the leader of the Sons of Seoul led his gang inside of the massive estate. 

Guards at the entrance shot you grave looks as they stopped you. “Invitations,” they said. You obliged, bringing out the golden paper. They looked over, convinced, and gave them back to you.

You and Chris were about to enter when Jisung and Changbin were stopped behind you. “Protection,” Chris said, but the guards were unconvinced. 

“They need invitations too,” was their answer.

Dread, slight yet present, began to fill your stomach. Has the mission failed before it could even begin?

“I suggest you let them in, too,” Chris only said, black eyes piercing the two men with a glare. “Or my friend hosting this party will hear of this inconvenience.”

That seemed to stir the guards, for they said nothing more, letting your friends enter the estate. Jisung and Changbin made sure to smirk at the men before sauntering inside behind you.

Your eyes, upon stepping inside the main hall, were welcomed with paradise. 

Gold. gold upon gold was painted, lined, moulded everywhere, upon the walls, on the floor, on the painted ceiling, hypnotising you with its kaleidoscopic pattern. Swirls of white and silver journeyed along the walls, and the floor bore solid treasures, sculpted into the ground and shining exquisitely from the chandelier lighting. Hundreds of lords and ladies, businessmen and escorts populated the manor, either being moved by the orchestral band, dancing, helping themselves to food from the lines of dishes or simply mingling among others.

It was the chaos of the rich. A place you didn’t quite fit in.

You stole a glance at the man beside you. Even though he looked contained as ever, you felt his arm tightening all over. Perhaps he knew he did not belong in this world either.

The grim understanding was cut off when Changbin’s shrill gulp sounded from behind you.

“Scones!”

The man immediately dashed towards the food section, earning blatant laughter from his friends as Jisung stepped beside Chris. “Once he’s done stuffing himself, we’ll get into positions.” He skirted his eyes over the buzzing crowd. “I have already spotted some of Carter’s men in different corners of the hall, so we can see where they’re going to go.”

“Any signs of Carter?” you asked, already feeling suggestive eyes on your body, the dark red curves of your figure. 

“He’ll show himself soon,” Chris promised, beginning to take a step forward. “The bastard thrives in attention.” He turned to Jisung. “Make yourself scarce.”

He then saw Changbin making himself much too comfortable with the jam scones rapidly declining in his wake. “And for God’s sake, control Changbin.”

Jisung shook his head, mocking a salute before strolling to his friend. You and him were left to your own activities, and soon you felt the tug of his body, leading you further into the hall.

You looked up to see him scouring the room. His brows furrowed slightly, that stiffness felt underneath your fingertips. “Chris,” you called to him, and were answered with an uncertain stare.

“I’m alright,” he said, walking along the lines of the dance floor, looking away when he gave you the false assurance. 

You did not know what was going on. In other missions his composure would never falter — this was what he was so notorious for, being calm despite the anarchy around him. Never before had you seen him so tense.

“Stop it.”

You blinked back into reality. “What?”

“You’re doing it again,” he hissed, raking his hand through his hair. “Looking at me that way. Like I’m about to snap.”

A pout formed on your lips, looking up at him underneath your lashes. “I can sense you’re distressed.” You squeezed his arm in comfort. “I cannot help if I worry for you, Chris.” 

With small surprise, you found him soften, only slightly. “I just…” he sighed in exasperation. “I hate parties.”

You understood the connotations. Wealthy parties. The men and women who throw them. 

“And I, too,” you agreed, earning a soft snort from the man. Your heart warmed a little at the sound, and thankfully the tension faded between the two of you, not necessarily from each other but from the socialites around you.

Your heart, however, received no such rest, beating much too loud for your liking. 

The two of you took another turn of the room before a low, arrogant drawl paused you both in your tracks.

“Mr Christopher Bang.”

You and your leader both sighed simultaneously. 

Turning, you tilted your head upwards to none other than ‘Scar’ Carter, smirking ridiculously down at the the two of you. He was something out of a children’s book, the grotesque villains with wanned skin and beady looks, ready to pounce and make you disappear without you ever realising. Although young, he looked to be in his mid-forties, unkept locks and curled moustache, being played by his fingers. 

He held out his other hand, extending the smile to the man beside you. “Always a goddamned blessing to see you.”

Chris assessed his hand for a moment before he let go of your grip on his arm, slipping off his gloves. His own olive coloured hands were roughened, no doubt from years of manual labour. He took Carter’s hand, shaking the greeting in place, and the latter turned his enemy’s hold, looking over at the new image inked upon the hand.

“What is this, Chrissy?” He mused, the nickname causing the said-man’s lips to twitch. “Some flowery poetry?”

Your eyes strayed to what he meant; just under his thumb, where the joint began, was a tattoo, inked deeply in a cursive hand. It was a phrase you had never knew the meaning of, nor had you asked, but the Latin was beautiful on his textured skin.

NON DUCOR DUCO.

“Not poetry, Carter,” he only said, tracing his sole tattoo with a finger. “But something I live by.”

Despite Carter towering over the man, Chris Bang pinned him with a piercing glare. His signature phantom smile appeared on his lips. 

“I am not led. I lead.”

The giant’s shit-eating grin faltered. You could not help but let a small chuckle escape at his reaction. 

And maybe you shouldn’t have shown amusement, because when he focused his animalistic gaze upon you, you had the sudden urge to hold onto the man beside you again.

“Ah, Miss ____,” he jeered, mocking a deep bow which you did not return. “Chris’ little...protégée.”

He then held out his hand to you, and you knew it was not to shake the gnarled fingers. “Would you do me the honour of dancing with you?”

You scoffed, anger bubbling within your veins. How dare he even ask you, after all the trouble he had caused for the gang? Smirking as if it was all a little game.

Your mouth parted, ready to reject him outright when a warm hand settled on your back. 

Chris’ fingers stroked the exposed skin, skirting over the lacing, and despite the heavenly feeling, you knew what this signal really meant. 

Distraction. This would be the perfect opportunity to divert Carter’s attention while Chris joined in the other’s search. Listening to the instrumental, you realised that would spare them another five minutes.

Reigning in your fury, you offered the bastard a thin-lipped smile before taking his hand, already missing the mere touch of another seconds before.

Carter led you to the dance floor among the other dancers, you hardly radiating the same enthusiasm as the others accompanying you. The man’s other hand, one still holding yours, snaked around your waist, and you hated how it felt against your back, pure distaste staining your features as he tried to impersonate the idle lace curling that Chris did.

As if it physically hurt, you propped a hand upon his shoulder, and when the music began, the game started.

The giant kept ogling at you as the sly grin appeared on his lips. “I must say, I am very envious of Chris.”

You matched his stare. “Of course you would,” you only said, trying your best to sound like your leader, who was an embodiment of calmness. “You can never be the man Chris is.”

“Oh, I did not mean by what he is, my lady,” he corrected. “I meant by what he has.”

He pulled you to him, much to close, and you hissed as the fingers behind you played on your back. “He is much too lucky to possess a creature like you, Miss ____.”

Good God. If he endeavoured to make you as uncomfortable as possible, then he was doing a splendid job. You regretted ever listening to Chris, but for the plan, you will do what is necessary.

As if on cue, you felt dark, piercing eyes on you. By the little hairs which stood at the back of your neck, there was no doubt who watched over you, murmuring progress with Jisung as he sipped wine on a tightly held flute. 

“Tell me, sweet,” he began once more, making you lose your thoughts, turning about the room as the music went on. “Why do you work for a man like him?”

You sighed at the question. Truly this man did not know how to initiate small talk. “Why is that any of your concern?”

“Because I’ve seen you in action,” he answered, and you could not mistake the awe that threatened to expose in his voice. “You have incredible potential, my lady, and it pains me that Chris does not use you properly. You waste your efforts in a silly gang.”

His condescending speech made you dig his nails in his hand. “Careful, Carter,” you seethed, watching his face crumple in pain from your action. “The silly gang you speak of will not hesitate to obliterate your entire organisation. And neither will I.”

Rage flashed in his eyes as he grinned at your claim. “I doubt the esteemed Christopher Bang would even let you participate,” he drawled, grazing his fingers against your back. “You being his whore is enough for him.”

You parted your mouth in slight shock. The reaction quickly evaporated with pure, unadulterated fury. A lot of people speculate your true relationship with Chris, but your own demeaning always struck deep. How dare people think that you only have the power you have because you slept with the greatest criminal in the city? 

With your head raging, you sent your low heel down upon Carter’s boot, a yelp escaping the man as his dancing faltered, grip on you loosening. Fortunately for you, the orchestra smoothed their music to a close, and small applause rang around the room, you joining as you smiled at Carter’s slight groaning.

When the giant looked at you again, all his arrogance was gone, instead a face of wrath. “You bitch-”

You were sure he was going to strike, despite hundreds in the ballroom. Even your smug demeanour dampened when you saw his bear-like hand raise when its journey was paused.

Ceased completely as Chris’ hand wrapped around Carter’s wrists.

Your leader’s smile was sharp, like a decorated dagger. “Are you already creating a scene, just when you finished the first dance?”

Carter, dumbfounded by his enemy’s sudden presence, waved off the foreign grip on his hand. “You are never going to find the documents,” he crowed, glaring at the two of you.

Chris, the magnificent bastard, only kept his magnetic smirk as he took your hand, enveloping his fingers with yours. “We shall see about that,” he promised, and dipped his head in adieu, turning on his heel and taking you with him. 

You felt your heart flutter when his grip on you stayed, even when Carter stomped off into the crowd. “Bastard,” you hissed. A hum of agreement followed. 

Soon, music began to play a sensual tune, and you looked to the couples joining in the main circle of the floor. You made to leave that area when you felt the man refused to be led. 

You looked back, noticing an uncertain emotion swirling in his eyes. “The dance is about to begin.”

“So?” he merely said, hands still clasping yours. The people around you began to take positions. 

“Chris,” you got out. “You do not dance.”

A small smile enveloped his mouth at the claim. He answered in wrapping a hand around you, making you suck in a breath. You caught sight of the tattoo inked on his skin as he raised his hold on. NON DUCOR DUCO.

I am not led. I lead.

“You’re right,” he admitted. As the first tune of the violin settled in the ballroom, the man took a step. “But I let it slide on special occasions.”

You did not reply, only staring at him as you happily let him turn you about the dance floor.

Your assumptions were correct - Chris Bang was a wonderful dancer. The man already possessed a natural smoothness in his usual movement, but the way he led you across the room gave fluidity another meaning entirely. His hand on your back was an anchor to reality, keeping you from dreaming away in the skies above, and his fingers, interlocked with yours, were a silent promise that he was never letting you go. 

You were so caught up in your fantasies that you did not hear what Chris said until he called your name. 

“____.”

You perked up, raising your brows. “Yes?

“Did Carter say anything to you?” His fingers on your exposed skin began to caress you, and it took a lot within you to stay calm. “You were seething while you both danced.”

Oh, so he was watching you. The information didn’t help your nerves. “He was being his usual, charming self,” you drawled, careful of your feet. 

He paused a bit at your unhelpful answer. “I see,” he got out, index curling with the ribbon of your back. You let out a shuddered breath, not going unnoticed by the man. 

You changed the subject, focusing on the mission. “Are Jisung and Changbin still searching for the documents?”

Chris, on the note, twirled you delicately, and brought you back into his arms. “They have discovered the hideout, and have taken down half the men,” he informed, and you sighed in relief. “They’ll find what we’re looking for soon.”

“I hope so, too,” you murmured, listening to the music ascend in its pitch. 

So much finery radiated in this room. As your eyes drifted to the surroundings once more, you became slightly envious of the family fortunate enough to reside in this estate, and drink in the liquid gold splattered everywhere in the vast hall. Complaints were heard from a rather nasty woman, who screamed at a young servant for spilling wine on her oh so expensive dress, and the jewellery which glittered upon necks and ears. 

This. you hated this. Despised the wealth which accumulated in this ball, this entire neighbourhood. Not months ago you were about to die from the lack of food in your stomach. No doubt these people simply relished another one of these many balls, occurring every season.

It was the only reason the Sons of Seoul existed in the first place. To battle the ranks of the rich, and establish a sense of justice which had long faded from London.

Perhaps Chris sensed your growing disgust at the environment, for he sighed. “I hate these people.”

You nearly smiled at how similar you both think.

His touches still had you nearing closer to him as he continued, “I hate how everyone here can simply enjoy themselves without a care in the world. I hate the Mayor for letting this chaos happen as he sits back on his arse, corruption spiking under his office.”

His anger grew. “I hate that pig-headed prick Carter and all the trouble he’s brought me. I hate that he stole those documents and constantly fucks with me as if we two had not crawled out of the same hellhole.

“And God,” he snapped, pure venom now lacing his tongue, “I hate how he was touching you as if you were no one but his.”

Your eyes widened at the confession.

He groaned out in frustration, fingers tightening on your hand. “I hate how Jisung and Changbin walked in on us this evening. Despise that the moment I was about to close the distance they burst through the door, leaving me helpless. And I hate feeling helpless.”

You did not know what to say, what words to comfort him with. Not when you were thinking the exact same thing, and felt the exact same agitation, particularly at your core.

The man leaned in, eyes heavy lidded. “You know what I hate the most, ____?”

Gulping, you let out a little, “What?” afraid of what he was going to reveal.

His tongue ran along his bottom lip, fingers continuing their teasing.

“I-” he seethed, gripping your back tightly. “Fuck, I hate how ravishing you look in that dress.”

You parted your mouth in shock, blushing the colour of roses. “Why do you hate that?” you only asked, breath almost lost in your lungs as your blood began to thrum beneath your skin.

His eyes lost all dreamy light when a small curve enveloped his lips. “Because, my dear ____,” he muttered hoarsely, each breath ragged, “It makes me think of all the things I want to do to you.”

The strong hand on his back was felt much more, fingers playing with the laces of your dress. You nearly cried out in front of a hundred people over their idle play, and his bold, bold statement.

Chris relished in your whimpering reaction. “Aren’t you going to ask me?” he whispered, leaning in till his mouth hovered near your ear. “Do you not want to know what I wish to do to you?”

“What,” you rasped out, grip tightening over his neck. “What are you going to do?”

His husky chuckling nearly sent you over the edge. “I’ll find a nice little space, away from Carter and all these people,” he began, breath caressing your skin. “Then I’ll kiss you slowly, like so.” he pressed a chaste kiss underneath your ear, sending shivers down your spine. “These hands of mine will roam all over, but they will gladly trail up your legs, ____.

“And God, when my hands stop at your sopping cunt, I’ll make it cry with my fingers.” He drummed his fingers on your back. “One.” Tap. “Two.” Tap. “Three of them.” Tap. “Perhaps you’d like more.”

You whined into his shoulder, feet stumbling as you clung onto him tighter. “M-more,” you pleaded quietly, so careful to keep dancing, move along to the music. 

“Of course you would,” he only cooed in your ear, and you were scared you would collapse over his words. “Luckily for you, I wouldn’t be finished with you either.”

Your hand, clasped in his his, squeezed at his words. “Chris, please—”

“Yes, just like that,” the man mused, whirling you on the dance floor. “Just like that, you’ll beg me to send you over the edge, but I won’t let you be satisfied so easily.” 

On God and all his subjects, if he did not cease his filth you were going to come onto the floor by his mere words. You could tell Chris noticed, almost reading your mind as the ghost of a smirk widened. “Already afraid, love?”

Love. 

Dear, fucking God.

“You see, ____,” he muttered, leading you to the final round of the song, the steps of the dance going faster. “I won’t let you be satiated with just my fingers.”

And as he broke his hold on you, twirling you with his tattooed hand, he pulled you to him, one last time, crushing you against his granite chest. 

His eyes bore into yours when the last string of the violin wailed around the hall. All you could see was pure, unadulterated desire.

“I will have you writhing with my cock.”

Your eyes never left Chris’ as the music finally came to a close, gaze blurring at the dark promise. Applause scattered around the ballroom, yet your hands stayed upon his arm, the other enveloped in his.

You caught the words once more under his thumb. NON DUCOR DUCO.

Indeed you do.

“Chris,” you breathed out, waiting for him to let you go. He did no such thing.

Feeling a few suspicious eyes on you, your feet backed away from the man, hands escaping the feeling he emitted underneath your touch. 

A whine threatened to escape you when you saw his desire had not dampened. His hands shook, only slightly, and your stomach erupted into a million butterflies, journeying lower and lower. 

You wanted him. You wanted him so badly you feared you would faint on the dance floor. 

Excusing yourself, you hastened your footsteps, sending a few smiles to passerbys as you picked up a flute of champagne, hurrying down long hallways, catching a few couples leaning towards each other. When you found a grand wooden cabinet beside another door, no doubt a guest room, you slumped next to it, breathing loud and ragged, too affected by a certain man’s eyes and the hidden intentions underneath. You drank the entire champagne in one gulp, propping the flute on a servant’s tray as he rushed by.

“____!”

Gasping, you turned to the source of the voice. The voice which filled you with such unexplainable hunger you had to clench your thighs as it drew nearer.

Footsteps thudded against the carpet, and you squirmed at the sight of Chris Bang, storming towards you with a ferocity which had your knees near buckling.

“Where,” he began, voice an octave lower as he stood not a foot from you, smacking his hands against the wall, caging you with his presence. “Were you trying to lead me?”

“Somewhere where they cannot see us,” you responded, excitement clear in your voice. The ballroom chatter was still within your range, so technically, anyone could wonder down these halls, look over the cabinet and catch you both. 

The throbbing inside you didn’t particularly care. 

“And what do you want me to do,____,” he murmured, and his voice was glazed with pure lust,  “Which the world cannot see?”

“I…” slight shame tried to course through your body but the overflowing desire was too strong. Not when your tongue was not afraid to voice what was in your heart the moment you first saw him. “I want you to do all those things you said. I want you to ruin me.”

And perhaps that was all he needed, when Christopher Bang pressed his lips against yours and answered your prayers.

He was instantly rewarded with your surprised whine, drowned out by the movement of his mouth as his hands left the wall, holding onto your face. His thumbs caressed your cheeks as he led the fiery kiss, opening your mouth to let the little noises escape.

“Chris,” you tried to rasp out, but his lips refused once more as he tilted your head, gaining full access and truly discovering the sheer pleasure oozing from the swell of your lips. God, he had gone through every experience which gave him a sense of thrill, but the kiss he shared with you brought him a new, foreign high — as if he tried the drugs he had seen on the streets for the first time, and becoming addicted on the first dose. 

You broke the kiss, gasping for air as the two of you shared a carnal gaze, chests rising at an unsteady rhythm. Chris was ruthless, only sparing you for a few seconds before pouncing back in on your mouth, this time tongue playing along, asking to be let inside and slide along the inner workings. You would have been a fool to refuse him.

The moment you opened your lips for him his tongue slithered inside, sliding it along the roof of your mouth, while his hands left your face and instead gripped onto your waist, driving you further against the wall, snuffing out any distance which dared come between you and him.

A slightly moan bubbled within your throat when he began to roughen your lips, capturing your tongue before closing the seam of your mouth within his own, repeating the action until you didn’t know whether you were sane or absolutely fucking crazy.

You were sure straight after when one of his hands began sliding down. Down. He hurriedly broke the kiss, letting out an angry groan at the never ending skirts which met with his fingers. “Fuck this dress,” he cursed as he descended a little, peppering kisses upon the corner of your mouth, your jaw, your neck, trailing until he found the hem of your skirts.

Bunching them up with his one hand, he lifted the fabric, baring your legs to the dimmed chandelier light from the main hall. His hand trailed right up to your core, a single layer hiding it from Chris’ fingers. The poor, soaked fabric could not ever compete, when the criminal, with a single finger as he scattered kisses upon your face, hooked under the lacey underwear, sliding it down your thighs. So much desperation lurked he did not even bother to slide it down to your ankles,  a chuckle rasping out of him as his fingers skimmed your upper thighs to find them dripping with the suppressed arousal.

“My poor, poor, darling,” he whispered in a menacing tone, the other hand caressing your face, “Couldn’t contain yourself for me?”

“Ch-chan,” you heard yourself say, because at this point your soul was not present, probably lurking in seventh heaven where this man was taking you. 

Hearing his name on your slurred mouth only had him plunging the first finger inside you. 

You let out an obscenely loud moan, which was immediately followed by hushing. “Don’t make a sound,” he demanded, smiling slyly at your whimpering, “Or else I stop. Understand?”

You could not nod fast enough, and he huffed out a laugh before sliding the second finger in, rubbing against your slit, drawing circles upon your throbbing skin, testing the rather sticky waters of you and your fucked out state. 

Satisfied, he delved the two fingers in deeper, pulsating against your walls until they hit a certain spot which had you crying out in pleasure. Chris’ heavy lidded warning flashed in his eyes.

You nearly cried when he began to slide his fingers out over your moaning, your hand immediately stopping him from pulling out further. “Ch-Chan,” you pleaded, pleaded like the whores you heard on the docks, but you didn’t care, did not give a single fuck when those fingers needed to be inside you again. “Chan, please, I’m sorry—”

“One more fuck up, ____, and these—” his fingers plunged back into you once more, hitching you upwards with the sheer force, “—will be back out.”

Nodding hastily, you left your hand on his wrist. Chris continued to work so deliciously inside you that it took every ounce of strength left in you not to bring the manor down with your moaning. The whimpering could not be contained, but the criminal let that slide, finding great contentment every time you begged for more.

He curled his slender fingers, acquainting himself with that same bloody spot which had you seeing stars. Your hands gripped onto his neck for stability, nails digging into his shirt. How you wanted it off, along with all the damned layers he adorned.

The way he played with your sweet spot had you feeling heavy, a pleasured ball of pain forming at your lower back. You knew you were being led to an edge, an edge you could not, did not want to escape, and when you pulled away from Chris, looking into his eyes, he instantly understood.

“Oh my, love,” he simpered, his free hand thumbing your cheek. “Does someone want to get fucked against the wall? When I’m not even finished with them yet?”

Tears lined your eyes, cunt throbbing almost painfully around his fingers. “Chan, I’m going to—ah!” you cut off, closing your eyes as you barely held on to your last grips of sanity. “Chan.”

Your weakened, fucked out demeanour had the most dangerous man in London fearing for his own senses. He wished nothing more than you screaming his name for the whole city to hear, and with you, looking at him like that…

Oh, he was definitely going to drive you over the edge.

Christopher Bang nearly carried out his promise when a shrill call interrupted you two. 

“CHRIS! ____!”

“WHERE ARE YOU—?”

Your lust-glazed stare cracked as you blinked. “Chan,” you said his name, but the man let out an enraged roar. You felt the hollow emptiness when those golden fingers were pulled out of you, sticky residue coating his skin. The footsteps grew closer, the volume of the shouting increasing. 

Chris brought out a white handkerchief, cleaning your mess on his fingers rather aggressively. “I’m going to fucking kill them,” he guttered out, making your legs tremble. To your utmost misery you felt the orgasm, so close before, fading from existence, and you made a silent vow to break Jisung and Changbin’s legs the moment all of this was over.

Speaking of the Devil, the two hastened, opening all doors and closing them till the two stumbled upon the both of you, infuriated and worryingly turned on.

Changbin looked at the deflated expression on both of yours faces. “Chris? ____?” His eyes narrowed, trying to work out the reasons for the slight electric atmosphere he suddenly entered in. “Are you both...alright?”

“Perfectly,” the man answered in a ragged hiss, sliding on his gloves again, smoothing over his raven locks. “Now why the fuck are you both here?”

The two boys did not understand their leader’s anger. Choosing to let the snipe slide, Jisung said, “We’ve caught Carter.”

That seemed to send you and Chris back in reality. Well, not really, when your core still throbbed, the pleasure fading with each passing second.

“Where is he?” Chris flattened out his coat. “Where are the documents?”

Changbin brought out a small file from inside his waistcoat, holding it out for the former. “Right here.”

Chris took the file, skimming through the contents. His previously angered expression relaxed, just a fraction, and he held onto it as he set his powerful gaze on you all. 

“Let’s get the fuck out of here.”

The four of you managed to slip away easily, you trying your hardest to fix yourself after the whole fiasco in the hallway. Your heart was still running a mile per minute, refusing to calm as your mind relived the events. The original carriage which you all arrived in was now accompanied with another one, with a dark figure hunched over from the window’s view.

“We threw the giant fucker in another carriage,” Changbin said, laughing as he recalled the takedown with Jisung. “Man could not believe he was failing!”

Chris ignored his story, turning to you all as he stood before Carter’s carriage. “You three, take the free one,” he ordered, his eyes rooted on you. “I will journey home with him.”

“But Chris,” you began, taking a step towards him, “Let me come with you.”

You caught a glimpse of the desire which swirled in his eyes, not long ago, and perhaps that was why he held your arm in his now gloved hand. 

“Go,” he only said. “I have a few things to say to him alone.”

After letting you go, nodding at the boys behind you, Chris Bang stepped inside the first carriage, slamming the door shut. The metal wheels screeched as the whole thing began to move, accelerating away.

You watched the carriage fade from view, Jisung and Changbin stepping beside you.

“What happened, ____?” the former asked, the other trying to comfort you with his gaze. 

Silence was their only answer, as you turned on your heel, climbing inside your designated ride and watched the stars twinkle from the window.

The two members of the gang really tried their best.

As you all journeyed home without your leader, the pair told their tale of how they took down Carter and his men, Jisung adding exaggerated gasps as Changbin demonstrated each kill he thrust upon his victims. You offered them a few laughs, giving them your attention, but really your mind was somewhere else, specifically a midnight-tainted criminal who nearly brought you your undoing.

You were insane. Insane as you thought of him, insane as you remembered how wonderfully he had you writhing over him, just by his fingers. The mindless pondering alone had your cunt pulsating, and you deserved an award for how unaffected you acted with your friends. 

Soon, the carriage slowed to a stop, and you perked up, not realising you had already arrived home. 

You waited for the boys to exit before you stepped out of the carriage, the only light on the docks emitting from lamps and the night sky, reflected on the surface of the river. The first carriage was already there when your feet met the concrete floor, and when you turned to the man who reigned in your mind he had his signature expression, an aloof distaste as he walked over to his gang. 

“Jisung, Changbin,” he called, and the boys responded. “Lock the carriage door,” he ordered, jerking his chin towards his transport. “We will bring him out in the morning.”

“Chris, should we not throw him in the cellar?” Changbin glared at Carter’s direction. “Bastard might escape.”

He only slid his hands in his pockets, you catching the dried blood on his gloves. “Oh, don’t worry about that,” he said, striking a step towards the building. “He’s not going to disturb us tonight. I can promise you that.”

Jisung cursed low along with you, only watching the man walk back to the bedrooms. Bidding goodnight to your friends, you followed Chris’ trail, opening the door and stepping inside the hallway.

You saw him before his bedroom door, bringing out a rusted key. His eyes slid to you as your feet brought you to your entrance. You looked back, waiting as Chris unlocked his room and began to enter.

He turned back, something dark and twisted still lurking in his eyes.

You waited, so patiently at the words you wished to hear, of him finally ruining you.

Instead, you received something else entirely.

“Goodnight, ____.”

And closed the door behind him.

Your heart dropped. 

Fell to the floor, and shattered under the criminal’s bloodied boots. 

The light of the hallway flickered as you stood rooted to the doorway, eyes staring at Chris’ door as if looking at it hard enough would get him to change his mind.

What did you know. The man is not led by exterior forces. Only by his own will.

When you gathered up the strength to the slam the door shut, you slumped against the wood, hating yourself for the tears which threatened to break the lines of your eyes. This was pathetic — utterly disgusting that you were about to cry over his decision.

But you could not help it. You were so enraptured by him. Hell, you were ready to throw yourself in the fires of damnation for him, as he whispered filth all the while rutting against you. Why had that suddenly changed?

“Argh!” You screamed, stomping over to the lamp, light now long extinguished. You relit it’s spark, illuminating the room once more, and set it on the stool before recklessly plucking out the pearls in your hair, a few tears daring to trail down your cheeks. 

Fuck him. Fuck him for making you so rattled. Fuck him for having that effect on you.

You looked into your mirror and cursing yourself for the disheveled appearance. Again, the consequences for letting yourself fall for him.

“To hell with you Bang Chan,” you cursed. 

You were about to untie your dress when your bedroom door was nearly ripped off its hinges. 

Flinching, you grabbed the dagger on your dresser, raised to cut down whoever stupid enough to barge in on an assassin at midnight.

You were met with Christopher Bang. 

And the disorder he brought with him.

Chaos reigned in his figure; his tousled locks, his star-struck expression, his rolled-up sleeves and his pandemonic eyes, all working together and against each other to create the man you had never seen in your life. 

Good God. What had happened to him?

“Chan?” You got out, dagger now brought down. He said not a single word in response as he slammed the door shut, hard enough for the entirety of London to hear. 

Instead, he imprisoned you with his stare, almost giving you his chaos. The chaos you had always shared with him since the moment he picked you off the streets.

No, he said not one word — only took the steps needed to march towards you. You could only watch with widening eyes when he grabbed your face in his rugged hands and collided his lips against yours. 

You did not even hesitate to comply, hands grabbing onto his shirt, pulling him as close as you possibly could, so afraid that he would disappear from your grip if you dared let go. With the way he moved his mouth along yours, however, already opening up the familiar workings, you had a feeling he was not going to abandon you now.

When he broke away, breathing already erratic, his hands slid down to your neck, thumbs caressing the length of your throat. “I couldn’t,” he started, and he was sprinkling kisses all over your face. “I couldn’t leave.”

“I was scared, Chan,” you confessed, fisting the material harder. “I thought you truly did.”

His eyes focused on you. Within the turmoil, there was a promise. “Never,” he whispered, leaning in. “Never again.”

And suddenly his lips were on you, and the desperation was so rooted he nearly stole the very breath from your lungs. The sheer intensity, the longing implied broke your heart to the point you attached yourself to him, wrapping your arms around him and refusing to ever let him go.

The rather soft kiss began to heat up, as Chris broke the seam of your lips, swirling your tongue in his, already receiving incoherent praise from deep down your throat, making the man smile against his lips as he continued. 

His hands slid further down, right to the small of your back, where he began to untie all the little bows he created for you at the dawn of the evening, the little touches of fire singeing you still. It was fascinating how effortlessly he loosened all the laces, fingers sliding through the patterns until one by one they fluttered down, until the dark red dress slackened around your chest. 

A small gasp escaped you as Chris, while creating a trail of kisses down your jaw, right down to your neck, grabs the dress from your sides, hitching it down until it falls to the floor. Leaving you practically naked save for the scraps covering your dangerously soiled underwear. 

Chris paused from his ravishing, taking a much too long look at your skin, glowing from the lamp light, and before he could stare any longer you brought your arms to your chest, suddenly becoming a little too embarassed to let him see you at your most vulnerable. 

The supposedly unfeeling criminal, however, nearly broke into a smile at your flustered nature, and grabbed onto your wrists, opening the lock to your breasts, peaked by his actions, and the thought of what was to come.

The soiled underwear was about to drip at this point.

“You’re exquisite,” was all he said, making you almost burst into tears at the praise. You pressed a long, heart shattering kiss upon his mouth, and he responded perfectly, hands sliding to your naked waist, each drum of his fingers like a tug towards a dangerous edge. 

Things began to take a turn, open mouthed kisses being plastered on the skin of your throat as the man pushed you back, further and further until the back of your knees hit the bed, stopping you in his tracks. His grip on your waist directed downwards, planting you on the mattress as his mouth descended to your collarbone, down and down until he licked your peaked nipple in a way that had you moaning obscenely loud. His husky chuckle resonated along your skin, still not pausing his trail until he hit the end of the dip of your cunt, barricaded by the fabric. 

The moment he looked up at you, that alone made you nearly undo yourself. By the increasing volume of your breathing, Chris seemed to realise so too.

“Tsk, tsk, tsk,” he got out, watching you whimper at each touch caressing your hips. “Already about to come when I haven’t even done anything?”

“Ch-Chan,” you pleaded, wishing for those damned fingers of his to plunge inside of you. The son of a bitch was taking his time, making you wait knowing it pained you to stay like this. “Chan—”

His name on your tongue had him gritting his teeth, hands on each of your side grabbing onto your lace, and sliding your underwear down, all the way till it fell free from your legs and threw it across the room, forgotten when Chris parted his mouth at the moistened treasure between your legs. 

Those roughened hands steeled their grip on your thighs, pulling you closer till you sat right on the edge of the bed, cunt mere inches from his face. You could not even comprehend the insanity of this situation, that the hidden fantasies you dreamed of shamelessly were morphing into reality right before your eyes.

“So, so pretty,” he murmured, blowing a little air on your slick folds, earning himself a sucked in breath from his truly. “So pretty and wet, and all because of me.”

You let out a ragged breath, words of filth sounding so foreign on his tongue. It was not like he didn’t talk like the sailors living near you on the docks, but these dirty words and dirtier intentions, now all directed at you, made you feel so flustered, in a wondrous way you could not possibly describe. All you wanted was for him to keep singing this filth till you blacked out.

Chris, with the force of his hands, spread your thighs a little wider, and without warning broke his tongue from the seam of his lips, planting it upon your slit and moving it slowly over the surface.

That alone made you cry out in ecstasy.

But that was only a test, a taking on of foreign surroundings before truly welcoming himself, and by God, did he welcome himself in as more than a guest, when that tongue slid deeper and performed strokes which had you seeing all the stars in the universe. 

What was first slow teasing then became a starved hunt, tongue relishing in the sweet arousal you emitted, lapping it up brazenly as if he had been wanting to do this for a long, long time. Your blubbering grew louder with every lick, fisting the sheets behind you with such ferocity you were sure they’d tear. 

And if that wasn’t painstakingly enough, the man spread your legs a little wider, his tattooed hand, two fingers out, sliding straight inside you, making you mewl at the way they tightened they walls they journeyed in. Curling, just like they did earlier in the evening, they took their time finding the certain little spot which had you bringing the house down with your cries. 

“Ch-Chan, please, please, I’m going to—AH!” You rasped out, when the said-criminal found the sweet little undoing of yours and stroked your fingers along the sensitive spot, making that bundle of pleasure resonating in your back appear once more, like a low throbbing begging to be released.

His tongue had not given you any breaks, still working ruthlessly along your clit and you cried for him to give you that sweet release, to just let you come but he had not let you be satisfied this easily. No, he wanted you writhing underneath him, wanted the final ruination to be from underneath his trousers, angered as it outlined against his leather.

You craned your head back, screaming out his name because you knew all else had abandoned you. “Chan!” Looking down, his mouth very much occupied with your cunt. Your orgasm was reaching, was on the very edge, and if he kept working on you like this he was on his way to taste the consequences of his actions.

Something about that image made you want it as a reality with a worryingly strong intensity. 

“Chan, I’m going to—” you were about to warn but were interrupted by a squeeze of your thigh, done by yours truly as if he knew. And as if he knew, the two fingers began pumping much faster, harmonising along with his tongue, and the two actions at once, fucking you with that rapidity was so pleasurable that, with the first earth-shattering cry of the night, you were driven over the edge, releasing your orgasm straight into the criminal’s face.

You felt the work of his fingers slow down, along with his tongue, that with one, final lick, he retreated from your cunt, fingers still inside you as they comforted your aching core with slow, soothing strokes. 

When he looked up at you, though, with your residue mostly upon his mouth, scattered on his cheeks, and basically a bit of everywhere, that sight alone nearly caused you to come all over again. 

Perhaps that was his intentions. 

Because when he licked his lips clean of your mess, ever so slowly, as if enjoying your orgasm like a man starved, you instantly saw in his eyes that this night was not over yet. 

“Already so good, so wonderful,” he mused, slipping his fingers out, both hands now resting on your thighs. “Coming so quick even though I had been saving for the last.”

You knew exactly what he meant, but still had the nerve to ask, “The last?”

He raised a groomed brow, and that gesture was so breathtaking, more so when he raised himself slightly, so he knelt eye-level to you. “Don’t act oblivious, love,” he mused, leaving your thighs to your disappointment, but quickly diminishing when his fingers worked on the buttons of his shirt, slowly popping upon, each patch of skin being revealed like a show of your own. “We both know this isn’t how it’s going to end.”

Shivers crawled down your spine, but you only watched as the man finished undoing his shirt, peeling it off of him and throwing it amongst the other clothing. You nearly let spit trail down your chin at the sheer finery of his muscle alone, sharpened at his arms, his chest all the way down to his v-line, which dipped dangerously low. With no small amount of pride, you also noticed the large, angry outline of Chris’ cock, begging to be set free. 

The man caught you blatantly staring, and a shit-eating grin twisted his glistening lips. “You may do the honours if you’re so keen.”

Blushing, you mumbled a shut up, but was captured by Chris’ lips, tasting your own arousal on his tongue, as his grip on you led you further into the bed, while you fumbled on the buttons of his trousers, popping them open one by one when you broke from the kiss, your turn to shower him with more along the veiny expanse of his neck as you pulled his trousers down, tossing them among the pile.

When you saw the slight-stained underwear of his, you felt the familiar throbbing again, so affected by how you affected him. Noticing your apparent pride, he pressed his lips upon you in a searing kiss, peeling off any last scrap of clothing and forgetting that too among the other clothing.

And by God, when Chris Bang’s cock escaped from his underthings your mouth actually watered at the sheer size it bore. Husky laughter resonated in your ears, and you flushed the colour of blood when he caught you staring much too audaciously than he would have imagined. 

“Already fantasising about my cock?” He slurred, the tattooed hand curling stray hairs from your sweat-slick, flushed face. The way you scrunched your nose, clearly flustered by his comment, melted his stone cold heart, as he caressed your cheeks with his fingers. 

You did not answer him, only whispering his name along his skin, waiting and waiting for the man to drive that force home inside you. “Chan,” you murmured, and the name you kept saying like a religious chant, like it was the only word that mattered, was what brought him to grip his cock, directing it against your entrance, the still slick folds which grew more wet every time the tip caressed the sensitive skin. “Chan, please—”

“Please what?” He demanded, demanded because he needed to hear you precisely want you wanted. The words he practically prayed would be on your tongue the moment he kissed you for the first time this evening.

Obliging him was like second nature. “Please fuck me, Chan,” you breathed out, holding onto his shoulders, knowing you were going to need a hell of a good grip for what was about to arrive. “Please, just ruin me with your cock.”

A malicious smile curled upon his lips. “Good, good girl,” he purred, and began the descend which you dreamed of the very first night you realised you were ridiculously attracted to him.

His cock slid inside you, and with a soul-wrenching whine, was perfectly snug as the journey went on, and on, and on, until you were certain you could not take anymore, despite the man retaining a few inches. He was slow at first, making sure you were not going to be pained by this action. Although your nails dug into the granite muscle of his shoulders, you only egged him on. “M-more,” you only said, and he readily obliged, until you felt him all around you in your body, as if he had filled you up to the brim. 

“Ready?” He asked, and when you nodded, he rested his forehead against yours as gently, he began to pull out. 

You nearly whined at the lack of inches filling you up, but then he brought his cock back in, creating this hypnotic rhythm which was so unimaginably ethereal you felt yourself float amongst the clouds. Each thrust out and thrust in was a drive in and out of reality, with Chris Bang holding the tether of your survival, pulling you in and out of his mercy. 

Gradually, he began to fasten, panting as his drove into you with more force, and when the momentum hardened, you felt your soul leave your body. His cock created wonders for you, having you scream in unimaginable pleasure, and driving your nails into his back was not enough, your lewd moaning not enough given to his sheer skill, his pure simplicity in bringing his cock back and front which had you seeing stars. Hell, Christopher Bang showed you undiscovered universes, leading you across galaxies and unfamiliar cosmos, each thrust in a different vision, and when he lifted your leg a little higher for more access, you feared that you would wake the whole docks with your groaning, for this criminal, this heartless criminal provided you with the whole universe with the simple strokes of his cock inside you, and all you could offer him were screams. 

Even your reactions were pure Beethoven to his ears, relishing in your fucked out state as he gave you all he asked, driving you to the edge of the world. You, finally, clashed your lips against his, offering him sloppy, open mouthed kisses all over his face and neck, and that alone had him greeting his teeth, knowing his own release was near. You were going to die if he was not given the same pleasure as you, so you reacted with each of his touches, each of his thrusts, him practically pistoning you upon this bed which very much would break. 

“Ch...Chan…” you grated out, eyes blurring, vision completely fucked, “I’m...I-I—”

“I—fuck,” he too got out, for your last love mark painted onto to the curve of his neck nearly had him ruined. “I’m going to come, too, love—”

“Chan!” You whined, because the throbbing was there, and was so close that if the man did not send that last thrust home then it was all for nothing, everything that had ever happened will all be for nothing.

But he listened. The man who did not listen to anyone or anything listened, and pounded his cock so hard in approval that it had you crying out to the cosmos as you finally let go, orgasm spilling out from whatever space the residue could find between his cock. Your own release had Chris groaning louder than he had even done this entire time, praising you unconditionally, until the filth was cut off by a low curse, with his own release barrelling into you, some joining your spilled mess upon the sheets.

Chris let out a shuddering breath, slowly crossing his movement inside you. Carefully, when you stopped digging your nails into his shoulders, he pulled out, reaching for the blanket untouched and bringing it over you and him before collapsing beside you. Both of you breathed as if you had held your oxygen for a thousand years, chests rising unevenly. 

A silence hung over you two, heavy yet not uncomfortable, lingering in your bedroom. Chris sat up a little, using your pillows behind him as comfort as he raked his hair back, sweat-slick all over, much like you. You held the blanket right up to your chest, hair in disarray, much like your heart. The poor organ threatened to collapse at the events.

Sneakily, you caught a glance at the greatest criminal in London, staring off at the distance, mouth set in a concentrated line. He looked dashing even in his post-sex state, the lines of his chest still stark against his sweat. You truly had never seen a man this beautiful in your life. 

He turned his head to you, catching your staring, and when you tried to look away he captured his chin with his fingers, making you meet his fierce stare. Although dark, the lust had satiated, and instead held passive affection. Well, you hoped it did.

“Why do you still look away?” He demanded in a low, tired voice.

You tried to slide your gaze to the lamp, but was too bewitched by his midnight eyes. “Because you’re beautiful, Chan,” you answered, feeling the blood rush to your face. 

He cocked his head, damp curls sticking to his face. “You say that as if you are not,” he countered. 

You did not say anything then. Even so, he received your answer. 

“____,” he said in a low tone. The grip on your chin loosened, and the hand went to your cheeks, cupping your face. “You are truly flawless. Don’t make me have to make you believe that.”

A small smile hinted at your lips. “And what if I still don’t?”

His answering smirk sent butterflies tumbling once again. After a moment, as if hesitating, he then snaked his arm around you, pulling you closer to him. You were surprised when his one hand fully encircled you, while the other hand, the tattooed hand, rested upon your head, stroking your hair with his slender fingers. You did not pull away, was never going to, only wrapping your arm across his chest. 

It was the first time you had ever seen Christopher Bang hug someone in his life.

“Chan?” You asked.

“Hmm?”

“Why did you get that tattoo?”

He paused for a minute, never ceasing his fingers intertwined in your locks. After a small sigh, which you felt beneath your own fingertips, he said, “It is simply something I live by. 

“Non ducor duco. No one will lead me, love. Only myself.”

You pondered over the roots of this phrase, of the significance for the man you lay with. 

“Good,” you said after a while. “I wouldn’t want anyone leading you either.”

With that, you gave into the soothing movement of Chris’ fingers, working lazily in your hair. And while you dozed off to sleep, the criminal mastermind of the biggest city in the world pondered some more, specifically over his motto.

NON DUCOR DUCO. A phrase which had stayed true for so long no one could ever change it.

But after tonight, as you slowly dozed off under Chris’ caresses, he wondered whether there isn’t one person he wouldn’t mind being led by. 

And as he stole a soft glance at the specific person beside him, he knew. 

He knew that although he will be led by no man, there is one woman who he would, to his own shock, happily be led for. 

So, with that new, and slightly terrifying revelation, Christopher Bang went to sleep, knowing that someone had fucked with him and gotten away. 

And he was willingly going to let it happen. 

[coollyinterferes]

Character Interview || Repost, don't Reblog

NAME  :   Robert Edward Orville Speedwagon

NICKNAME  :  Boss, aniki, “bastard!”/"that son of a bitch!” (usually from rival gang members, so the insult varies sometimes lol), Rob (used by a few friends), derivatives of his last name −Speebs, Speeds, Speeb, Speedy, etc− but these he will only accept them from certain people, otherwise he will do his best not to cringe on the spot or will do it inwardly. Uncle Speedy and etc later on (as in once George and the rest of the children come into his life, more specifically~).

AGE  :   25 in the main verse (may vary depending on the verse)

SPECIES  :  Human/Stand user in the main/time-travel verse | Vampire in the vamp!verse | Werefox in the monster!verse

—— Personal! ♡

MORALITY  :      lawful   /   chaotic /   good   /   neutral   /   evil  /   true .

RELIGION  :   Non-practising catholic (was raised as Catholic, like most other Victorians, believes in God, but that’s pretty much about it)

SINS   :     greed   /   gluttony   /   sloth   /   lust   /   pride  /   envy   /   wrath  .

VIRTUES :     chastity   /   charity   /   diligence   /   humility   /   kindness   /  patience  / justice.

KNOWN LANGUAGES :   English is his first language. Conversational Spanish, Italian, French, Portuguese, German and some more. Some conversational Mandarin Chinese as well (this one thanks to Li −canonly known as Kenpo, his Ogre Street friend−) and bits of Irish (this one thanks to Tattoo, his other Ogre Street friend). He can read and understand some Japanese (kana and some okurigana/kanji) but can’t really speak or write it. Same case for some other languages that he can also recognize and more or less understand bits of them but can’t really speak them. As you probably guessed, he’s learned most of these through his many journeys around the world.

SECRETS  :  All of the stuff in regards to the stone mask and all the events and incidents that came out from that (it was stated that the only ones who know everything about it from start to end are Jonathan and Speedwagon, the others who might know a great deal of it would be Straizo and Master Tonpety). He also tries to keep a low profile in regards to his homosexuality whenever he’s out of the slums to save himself some trouble due to the stigma at the time and the potential legal consequences, going only for the gay codes of the time (long hair, cleanly shaven face, colorful accessories, etc) so I guess that could count? Other than that, and in the verses that it applies, his stand mayhaps?? That’s what allows him to leap through timelines in the time travel verses (it possesses other abilities and skills but, since Robert doesn’t even know about his stand’s existence yet, he hasn’t trained with it and thus he doesn’t know about any of it’s abilities, not even about the time travel oof).

—— Physical! ♡

BUILD :     scrawny   /   bony   /   slender   /   fit   /   athletic   /   curvy   /   herculean   /  pudgy  /   average   .

HEIGHT  :   5’11”, close to the 6’ mark (181 cms)

SCARS   /   BIRTHMARKS  :    The most recognizable one is the scar marring the left side of his face (going from the top of his nose to his jaw), but he has plenty more scattered all over his body, some more visible than others, some larger than others. Most of them come from fights and his general criminal lifestyle, some of them even come from some of the torture sessions he’s endured as part of that (so it isn’t surprising that they were either caused by knives, gunshots, burns, shards of glass and etc). Most of his scars are located on his chest and arms, some more on his hands/wrists and fingers (hands/wrists and fingers mainly from when he was learning to use his buzzsaw hat), though he has a few more on his legs/thighs, lower abdomen, and a couple more on his back. In the main verse (usually set in the late stages of PB), he will have a few more from the events in PB −burn scars on his hands from the fire at the Joestar mansion, one on his shoulder from the attack he received from Jack the Ripper, an ice burn across his abdomen from thawing Zeppeli’s arm, and a couple more and not so visible ones on his arms from minor injuries (cuts) he got while fighting and fending off zombies−. Most of the “PB scars” aren’t too visible thanks to Jonathan (he used his hamon to heal Speedwagon’s injuries shortly after).

ABILITIES   /   POWERS  :  He’s able to tell an evil person from a good one by their smell alone. He’s a resilient man and quite a strong one, too (stronger than the average guy, as he was shown killing zombies using his brute force only and a sledgehammer). He's good at hand to hand combat, he’s also good at using knives and guns, and at wrecking shit with a sledgehammer. I also hc that he's capable of creating veeeeeery small amounts of hamon (this as a result of Zepp's "accidental" slip) if he really puts his mind into it. Due to his current limitations with it, his hamon can’t be used for fighting, but it does enhance his healing process, making it slightly faster than that of an average human (with some proper training, chances are he might be able to do more with it, tho). His stand, in the verses where he has it, can perform time travel, which happens at random at first (he gradually gains control on his stand once he learns about it and starts training with it). Due to stands being a reflection of sorts of their user and their fighting spirit, and as an extension of Robert’s own hamon healing abilities, his stand also possesses healing abilities that can be used both on himself and on others, though this requires some training prior, as the healing relies entirely on Speedwagon’s own life force and can be fatal for him if used carelessly at first (once properly trained, it won’t represent a real danger for him to use). Much like Robert himself, his stand is also capable of packing some punches and causing serious damage on it’s opponent despite his stand being more of a “support” stand rather than a fully combat based one.

RESTRICTIONS  :  He's mostly a regular human in the main verse, so he’s at a great disadvantage against stronger supernatural beings such as vampires and pillarmen, for example. As stated above, the amounts of hamon he can currently create are small and, thus are difficult −almost impossible− to use for combat (again, this can change if he gets some proper training). His lack of knowledge on his stand’s existence can also count as a restriction for the time being, as he doesn’t know about it or it’s abilities and, thus, can’t use it at his will for now (it operates mostly in an “unconscious” level at first, usually after getting triggered). He also tends to wear his heart in his sleeve when it comes to the few people he truly holds dear and considers special to him, so that can be used against him if he’s not careful enough.

—— Likes / Scents! ♡

FOOD  :    He isn’t really picky with food since he grew up in absolute poverty and sometimes went for days without a single bite of food or eating stale (sometimes even moldy) food so like… he’s cool with pretty much anything nowadays. He’s also an adventurous man, so he’s always open to trying new and even “exotic” stuff. Other than that, pastries are one of his top fave things ever (creamy ones mainly but not exclusively).

DRINK  :   Tea −citrusy/fresh types mainly like lemongrass, same with berry teas−. He doesn’t mind sweeter teas but, since he usually has them with the pastries, he prefers something more “sour” to balance things out. He also likes coffee, liking it strong, kind of sweet, and hot (just how he likes his men lol). As for alcoholic drinks, he’s all for beer and gin. He also enjoys some of the sweeter ‘posh’ wines Jonathan normally has at his home.

PIZZA TOPPING  :  As far as I know, pizza toppings weren’t as creative and “crazy” in the 19th century as they have been over the last few decades, so he’s only used to more ‘traditional’ stuff like variants of Pizza Margherita, for example. However, in the time travel verses/modern!AUs he will definitely try all kinds of pizza toppings (yes, this includes pineapple pizza as well as entirely sweet pizza toppings and so on) and actually likes some of them.

COLOUR  :    Purple (shades like those of his waistcoats i.e.), pink, greeeeeeenvert, black.

MUSIC GENRE  :    More than a genre itself, he enjoys and appreciates music that can make him feel something. Toss some pub songs there for obvious reasons lol.

BOOK GENRE  :     General fiction mostly. He also enjoys reading some romance novels every now and then whenever he gets the chance to get his hands on a gay romance one, either featuring two males or two females (he doesn’t find the appeal in “traditional” ones for a variety of reasons).

MOVIE GENRE  :    Non-applicable in the main verse. Time travel verses −if he even gets the chance to watch a movie− and even in a modern!AU, his go to genres would probs be similar to his book genres, lol, just add some comedy there but like, not the ‘cheapest’ and cringey kind of comedy.

SEASON  :     Autumn and Winter (harsh winters are a pain in the ass in Ogre Street, but he can handle them fairly well overall)

CURSE WORD :   Fuck / Shit / Bloody and variants of it (like Bloody Hell) / Arsehole / Wanker / Damnit / Bollocks, Ballocks and all of it’s variants / Bastard / Motherfucker / Zounderkite (victorian for “idiot” but with even harsher and ruder connotations than just using “idiot” lol) / Beardsplitter (one of the victorian words for “penis” xd). There are plenty, plenty, more but those are the ones I can think of rn. He comes from the darkest pits of the slums after all, so yeah... Lots of cussing can be expected.

SCENT ( S )  :    Sweet and masculine musky scent, mainly, with an occasional subtle note of gunpowder and/or tobacco depending on whatever tf he’s been doing. Maybe a vague note of blood if he just got out of a fight. Some vague vanilla too but that one only around the time when he lands a temporary job in a bakery in London.

—— Fun Facts! ♡

BOTTOM OR TOP  :   Top leaning verse. He only bottoms occasionally for serious/long term boyfriends that he genuinely trusts, partly due to how being a bottom was (wrongly) perceived as being submissive by most people, and how dangerous being seen as such can be in a place like Ogre Street if the word gets out (not to mention that there’s been people there who have given him shit just for being gay), and partly because he also prefers to top and likes it better, lol.

SINGS IN THE SHOWER  :   Yeah. He started doing it as a child as a way to keep his mind distracted from how cold as fuck the water he’d wash himself with was (he usually bathed in rivers or washed himself with buckets of water some maid forgot outside of a household and that he managed to steal). He’s become a lot more used to cold baths over the years so a distraction is not necessary anymore, however, he still sings or hums sometimes whenever he has a song stuck in his head or if he’s particularly happy about something (this continues later on in life as well,even after cold baths are no longer part of his life, so it’s a habit that he never actually leaves).

LIKES PUNS  :    He loves them! Lame ones, good ones, cheesy ones, silly ones, witty ones, dirty/vulgar ones, etc. Heck, even dad jokes can be found in his repertoire! Chances are that, if you come to him with a pun or joke, he will give you one or two (maybe even more) in return.

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

Tagged by: @le-princesse-chevalier​​ (( thank you so much for the tag!!! ♡♡ ))

Tagging: @historias-multorum @jojoingjoseph @gazelessmenagerie @usfv @featherchan @kindersturm @iiguess @storiedocs @quirofiliac @rotrioted @breatheflcra @emcraldsxchcrrics @arrhythmiiia @mechahero @voltagecrow @promiseled @joesrparchive (tagged your main but the tag applies to any and all of your muses that you might want to fill this for >:D) @rzrbite​ @mistymiddiana (if you’re up for it) & also tagging anyone and everyone who wants to give this a shot! Just take it and say i tagged you~ Multis and peeps with 2+ muses, feel free to do this for as many of your muses as you wish!

[twelvemonkeyswere]

Tell us more about your dnd character, wen!!!!

OMG THANK YOU FOR ASKING!

So for this campaign my sister said "think Victorian London but it's DnD, the nobles are hoarding all the magic" so I made a halfling fighter who is an ex-naval soldier called Emily Benjamin Moore (like her maternal grandfather and her paternal grandmother). She always wanted to be at sea so she joined the navy to see more of the world and learn how to handle a boat. But seeing what she saw during the wars (they were conquering other places to hoard the magic in those lands) radicalized her and she's on a quest to remove the main lord of her town and kick some ghoul ass.

She is an alcoholic, very sadly, and she drinks to self-medicate for the phantom pain in her right leg (she has a wooden prosthetic, too). She has a boat that she loves that is also her house, and she brings fish to the main town as her dayjob. She also learned in her travels some giant magic, so she can spell a couple of runes for protection, even if she didn't learn well how the magic works and she hopes she can one day understand it better. She is right now organizing a watch among her neighbors to protect themselves against the lord and trying (and failing) at learning magic, but she is succeeding amazingly at making new friends, so she's winning :)

[ludi-ling]

Crazy Eights

Well, here it is, a little treat for my followers - the first chapter of Crazy 8′s, the sequel to 52 Pickup. I’m sharing since it’s Day 7 (AU) of Rogue/Gambit Week 2020. I don’t know if I’ll ever finish this story, even though I got a fair way through it, since I wrote myself into a corner, and I’m not sure I like it very much. But I hope you like it anyway. Enjoy!

Crazy Eights

Chapter 1

               Thieving 101.

               Simplest rule in the book.

               Don’t get caught.

               I can hear pere’s voice in my head, clear as day, literally beatin’ the words into all of us, his snotty-nosed, grass-stain-scuffed li’l Fagin’s gang.

               Don’t. Get. Caught.

               And then his face, leaning in towards mine, grinning, saying:

               Unless, o’ course, you have a reason t’get caught.

               Yeah, that was mon pere, full of good, subtle ideas. He’d usually direct them at me cos he knew I was like the worst kind of sponge. I’d be soakin’ all that shit up, swimmin’ in it like a gator swims in swamp water.  As a kid, I’d always figured he was just picking on me. As an adult, I realise all he was doing was laying down challenges, cos he knew this punk-ass kid would rise to the bait every time, pushing every damn boundary he could along the way.

               You got potential, boy. But you got no discipline. Always halfway t’ bein’ in a rage, t’ ventin’ it out on some poor trash. You play de con, kid, you live de con. No heart-on-your-sleeve shit.  Dat stays inside. Cos y’know what? Folks can read dat crap a mile away.

               “C’mon, pretty boy,” the man to my right grunts, as the alarms I’ve set off still scream all around us. “Getcha arse in gear. The boss don’t take kindly to waitin’.”

               He prods me in the back with the barrel of his gun, a little too sharply than is strictly necessary; but I get it, he has a job to do, and actin’ mean is part of it.

               “Yeah, well, that’s what bosses are like, mon ami,” I answer with a smirk. “Never got time for nothin’. Mebbe you should think about goin’ freelance, neh?  It has its advantages.  No calls at unsociable hours… Don’t gotta do all the dirty work y’self… Get t’ have a couple of pretty femmes hangin’ on your every word… Still. I reckon mebbe you two ain’t smart ’nuff yet t’ graduate from the ol’ ‘Crime Boss 101’ course, am I right?”

               “Hey!” The guy to my left gives me a crack on the back of the head with what I assume is also the barrel of a gun. “Shut the fuck up!”

               See? Boring, predictable, run-of-the-mill flunkies. These couyons ain’t never gon’ make it past mid-tier bodyguard material.

               And those alarms are still screaming.  Ain’t some asshole gon’ shut it off already?  It’s givin’ me a headache.

               Whatever. I do as I’m told and shut the fuck up. Mostly because I’m busy scanning the décor of this corridor we appear to be walking down.  The walls are lined with paintings, a mess of eras and styles that could tell anyone with an ounce of taste that whoever’s collecting this shit has none.  Taste, that is.  All it tells me is that this guy has cash, and he don’t mind throwin’ it ’round.  We walk past a Cezanne, and I grimace.

               Hang on in there, li’l guy, I say to myself as we sweep right by it. One o’these days I’m gonna free you.  Soon.

               Cos let’s face it.

               You think I’m gonna leave a Cezanne to rot in Cain Marko’s fuckin’ playboy mansion when it could be on my wall?

               I think not.

               We get to the end of the corridor and, thankfully, as soon as we do, someone finally finds the off switch to the alarms. My lovely escorts throw open the burnished oak doors that I can only assume lead to Marko’s private hidey-hole; and before I have a chance to admire the woodwork, I’m being pushed inside in yet another unnecessary show of who’s boss.  I stumble a little over the threshold, and there he is.  Cain Marko, kingpin of London town.  A big, ugly, concrete slab of a man with a mat of red hair and a jaw like a foot.  He’s sitting on a burgundy-red velvet sofa that looks to be late Victorian.  Possibly a Chippendale? Something to research later.  True to form, he has a girl on each knee.

               Crimes bosses.  I toldja so.  Predictably borin’.  Boringly predictable.

               “Well, well,” Marko greets me with a menacing grimace and a Cockney rasp. “Robert Lord.  Your reputation precedes you.  Finally, we get to meet face ta face.”

               It’s at that point that Jake decides to kick in, a harassed voice in my earpiece, hissing: “Remy? Remy, where the fuck are you? Is everything okay?”

               I jerk my head to one side and Jake’s panicked questioning cuts out.

               “Yeah,” I address the man on the sofa. “Coulda been under better circumstances, though. Don’t much care for bein’ kicked around and chained up.” I clink the restraints at my wrists and ankles meaningfully. “Unless, o’ course, it’s consensual and there’s a woman involved.”

               An ugly grin crosses Marko’s face.  He shifts a little and pats each girl on the ass; they get the message and get to their feet, tottering out on stilettos that take a certain art to walk in – neither of them have it.

               “Well,” Marko says with mock disappointment as he, too, gets to his feet. “If ya wanted to meet under better circumstances, you coulda made a less shitty attempt to rob me, Mr. Lord.  I’d heard you were supposed to be some thief extraordinaire, but you ask me? You, breakin’ into my safe? That was pretty fuckin’ amateurish.”

               “Hey,” I banter back good-naturedly as I watch him walk over to the bar and pour himself a drink. “I got through most of your li’l traps jes’ fine, mon ami.  You wanna talk amateurish, let’s talk ‘bout your alarms. They’re more fuckin’ painful than Tante Mattie boxin’ me onna ears.  And it takes too long to shut ‘em off.  Either that, or your flunkies are too stupid to figure out how.”

               Marko, who’d looked half-amused up to this point, lets his mouth drop into a disdainful sneer.

               “Y’know somethin’, yank?” he growls at me, turning back from the bar. “You talk too fuckin’ much.”

               I raise a wounded eyebrow at him.

               “Yank? Hey, now you’re just insultin’ me.”

               “Oh really?” He laughs; and I take back the comment about his alarm system. This is worse. “Mr. Lord, insults are gonna be the least of your problems tonight. No one steals from Cain Marko and gets to just walk out again. You picked the wrong house to rob, mate.  This is one job you ain’t walkin’ out of.”

               He lifts his chin slightly and calls out:

               “Klein?!”

               There’s no answer, and he gives an irate little pause, looks over his shoulder and says again:

               “Klein?! Where the fuck are you?”

               “I’m here,” a woman’s voice replies from a darkened corner, her presence so unexpected it even causes me to jump.

               “Fuck me, woman,” Marko rasps at her. “How long you been standin’ there?”

               The woman says nothing, simply stepping out from her corner.  I realise there’s a door there.  It’s impossible to say whether she’d just walked through, or whether she’d been there all along.  Marko ain’t big on lighting.  Which is a shame, ‘cos Klein is a woman to be looked at.  Mile long legs and a figure to get all wrapped up in.  Brunette hair scraped back into a bun that begs to be loosened. A glance like wildfire.

               “Sorry,” she says with a small twist of humour, all delivered in a perfectly delicious and proper English accent.  I feel some sorta expression begin to form on my face; an appreciative little smile begins to shift round my lips.

               Forget pretty girls tottering around in sexy stilettos they can’t walk in.  This is a woman.

               She glances over at me, then back at her boss with an expectant expression.

               “This shit thief stole me old lady’s engagement ring.” He takes a cellphone out his back pocket and stares at it. “Lesse how fast you can find it for me.”

               Klein don’t waste time mincing words.  Unlike the two couyons behind me, she’s calm, quiet, efficient.  She marches on up with a roll of the hips that’s entirely unconscious.  When she’s finally in front of me, I catch a whiff of her perfume – a barely-there scent that’s not quite fruity and not quite flowery.

               I cock my head to one side and hitch her a smile.

               She doesn’t take the bait.  Her expression is composed as she sizes me up, wondering where to start.  It’s as if she hasn’t even noticed my smile at all.

          ��“Be gentle, chere,” I quip.

              That’s when she raises her eyes and gives me a look – part disinterested, part unimpressed. Her facade is almost frosty, but it don’t fool me. Beneath the cargo pants and the bomber jacket and the unadorned face, there’s a something to this woman. It’s in the sway of her hips and the sensuousness of her scent. It’s in a whole lot more besides.

              She frisks me in all the usual places, and, Goddamn, her hands alone are enough to set me on fire. Her movements are precise, clinical... yet as insinuating as the touch of a lover.

              Did I mention yet I haven't had sex in 8 fucking weeks?

              She gets on her knees and runs her palms down my legs, and it’s almost more than I can take.

              “While you’re down there, chere...” I can’t help but say; and she pauses, looks up at me with steely eyes and says... Nothing.

              Her gaze fixes on my fly like it’s the only option left, and now we’re talkin’.

              She holds eye contact as she raises both hands, and thumbs open the button of my pants. Her look is impassive; but there’s an undercurrent there, a something that’s signalling to me loud and clear. She unzips my fly slow as a strip tease, and that’s when the shadow of a smile flickers across her face – a brief split second of something more, something to work with.

              Jesus Christ, I’m holding my breath.

              She knows what I’m thinking. She rises to full height and this time she doesn’t bother to hide the smile. She knows exactly what she’s doing to me.

              “Thought you were s’pposed t’be lookin’ for contraband, p’tite,” I can't help but drawl. The comment wipes the smile from her lips and her gaze drops. She yanks open my fly and within a few short seconds she’s found the fob pocket hidden inside the waistband of my pants. Another split second later and she’s found the ring.

              She turns and flashes it triumphantly at Marko.

              “You made record time, Klein,” he observes approvingly, glancing up from his phone. “Twelve seconds. I’m impressed.”

              Twelve seconds? I swear it coulda been a lifetime...

              She throws the ring to her boss and I watch on, with a wistful sense of loss, as it arcs across the room and into his hand. Oh well. Next time, maybe.

              “If you’re done, chere,” I pipe up behind her, “mebbe you could zip me up again? O’ course, if you ain’t, we can always take dis somewhere a li’l more private... ...”

              I hadn’t exactly been expecting an answer, so I’m doubly taken off guard when she whips round and socks me hard with a fist to the face.

              I totter a bit, tasting blood and seeing stars.

              Damn, this woman packs a punch!

              In the background, Marko’s laughing raucously.

              “Looks like you chose the wrong woman t’ try and charm, yank.”

              Seriously? Enough with the ‘yank’ thing already!

              I grit my teeth and scowl as he continues:

              “Zip ’im up, Klein. I can afford to be charitable to trespassers. I think we can let him leave here with his dignity, if not his life. He has taste after all. Me old ma’s engagement ring,” and he grins sardonically over at me, “is my favourite piece outta my entire collection.”

              Klein obediently turns around and zips me up with more force than necessary. No more smiles and subtle flirtation. She doesn’t even look at me.

              “Sentimental value,” Marko is saying, turning the ring between thumb and forefinger as he approaches me. “That’s what this ring has, Mr. Lord. Me old ma woulda been turnin’ in her grave if I lost it. Specially to some shitty low-feeder like you.”

              I lick the blood from my lip slowly. Low-feeder, huh? This guy is really throwing out them punches tonight.

              “Yeah, I getcha,” I retort with a sarcastic grin. “Momma woulda slapped ya t’ kingdom come if you ever messed wit’ her jewellery. Beat you wit’ a belt, prob’ly, told ya you were a good f’nothin’ piece o’ shit, I’m willin’ t’bet. Sure, I can read a mommy complex a mile away, homme, and you got it bad.”

              I dunno what’s gotten inta me tonight. Or maybe I do. Frustration is a thing and a half. I'm fuckin’ wired, and I can’t stop running my damn mouth off. I ain’t usually this lippy. Honestly.

              Anyways, I’m steeling myself for a beating from my End-of-Level-Boss, but surprisingly he don’t take the bait. Judging from his get-up, he’s ready for a night out, and he don’t want my blood soiling his purple Savile Row suit. Which is good for me, ‘cos the rings on his fingers look like they could double up for some pretty nasty knuckle dusters.

              “I take it back,” he sneers down his nose at me. “This bloody yank don’t deserve jack.”

              He sweeps away and grabs his jacket.

              “You’ve been lookin’ t’prove yerself, ain’t’cha, Klein,” he throws over his shoulder at the woman still standing beside me. “Take care of Mr. Lord for me, and consider yerself one of the gang.” He walks over to a side table, pulls open a draw and takes out a gun. When he throws it to her, she catches it like she doesn’t even have to think about it. “Just make sure you keep some suitably gory keepsake for me to remember ’im by. I’m thinkin’ his teeth. He’s got them pearly whites you can only get in ’Murica. It'll remind me of ’is charmin’ smile.”

              He laughs to himself, throws the ring up in the air, catches it, and deposits it into his pocket.

              “Sorry, Mr. Lord,” he addresses me, “but I have places to go and people to kill.  Don’t worry. Klein’ll entertain you in the playpen.” He waves absently at a door to the right. “I’m sure she’s just itchin’ to get her hands on you.”

              He chuckles and heads for the door, followed by one of his henchmen, leaving with a final, gleeful, “So long!”

              The door bangs shut and now it’s just me, Klein, and Henchman #1.

              Wise strategy on Marko’s part, if Ms. Klein is basically untried and untested.  I might break her little heart, and Henchman #1 might have to put me down instead.

              I suppress a laugh at the thought.

              Klein says nothing. She turns abruptly and sticks the barrel of the gun into the small of my back.

              “Move,” she says.  Her voice is deadpan – nothing to work with.

              “Y’know, chere,” I venture conversationally, as I start shuffling over to the door, “I could speed up some if you’d jes’ untie these chains… Then we could get t’ playtime in the playpen a whole lot faster…”

              “Hey, shut up will ya!” Henchmen #1 barks at me, punctuated by a sharp poke in the back by Klein’s gun. All right, all right, already. I get the message.  They hustle me up to the door and next thing I know, I’m being shoved inside.  Henchman #1 shuts the door behind me and I hear the locks thunk shut.  Now it’s just me, and Klein.

              It turns out the playpen could give H. H. Holmes’ hotel of horrors a run for its money. It’s a pokey little room, and someone’s done gone and painted the walls in a nice shade of red and crusty brown. Blood, gore and brain matter.  The whole place stinks of death.  Merde. The light-hearted mood I’ve managed to maintain so far immediately takes a dive.

              “I take it housekeepin’ don't come round often,” I quip in an undertone – hardly as insolent as it could've been, but it earns me a kick up the ass anyway.  I stagger forward under the momentum, turning to face my would-be executioner as I do so.

              She has the gun pointed at me.

              “Chere, I’d put my hands up if they weren’t tied behind my—”

              The gun fires.

              And the bullet hits the wall over my shoulder.

              The crazy femme don’t give me a moment to recover.

              In a flash she’s lowered the gun and is marching right over to me, grabbing the front of my shirt and jerking me down into a hungry kiss.

              “It’s okay,” she whispers when she sees I’m too shocked to respond. “There aren’t any cameras in here.”

              The words are barely out of her mouth and she’s kissing me again. This time I slip easily out of the chains that I’ve been working on ever since they were clapped on me, and as soon as they hit the ground, I let my palms slide up over her cheeks, pulling her closer, deeper into our kiss. Her fingers wind into my hair, tugging lightly; her body presses against mine, reminding me exactly what I’ve been without the past couple of months. I grab handfuls of her perfect ass and pull her in closer.

              God, I’d fuck her right here, right now, if we weren’t in this shithole and this wasn’t a very important job.

              We kiss until we have no air left to breathe.

              “Lord, I’ve missed ya, Remy,” she murmurs against my lips.

              “Mmm, not as much as I’ve missed you,” I answer sincerely, stealing another kiss before adding heatedly, “Eight whole weeks without you, chere... It’s enough t’ drive a man certifiably insane.”

              She laughs, soft and sexy, her fingers combing lightly through my hair as she backs up a bit and regards me.

              “Darlin’,” she murmurs with a smile, “you were the one who said no contact...”

              “Didn’t wanna risk breakin’ your cover, Anna,” I reply, bridging the slight gap between us and feathering light kisses along her jawline. “Cain Marko’s gang don’t got a real nice reputation, sweet.”

              “Pfft,” she scoffs. “I can handle myself.”

              “For sure,” I agree. “But I’d prefer it if we didn’t tank this mission ‘cos we couldn’t keep our hands offa each other.”

              She hums with vague agreement and runs her thumb across my bottom lip.

              “Sorry about the fist to the face, babe,” she apologises. “Hope I didn’t hurt you too much."

              “Peh.” I wave it off absently – I'd pretty much forgotten it already. “You do what you gotta. Speaking of...”

              But she’s already way ahead of me, rooting around in her utility belt and taking out the small mem-chip case.

              “Nice distraction, by the way,” she congratulates me wryly as she hands me the goods.

              “Didja like it?” I ask her, pocketing the small case.

              “In theory. Thought you had more style, though, Cajun. You managed to set off every alarm in the fucking building.”

              “Heh. Just wanted to make sure you had enough time to pull the heist, cherie.”

              She rolls her eyes expressively.

              “You thought it was funny pissing everyone off, admit it. And what was all that business with the fob pocket?”

              “Chere,” I answer with mock sincerity. “Eight weeks of celibacy and you think I’m gonna pass up the chance to have you feel me up? C’mon.”

              The punch she lands on my bicep is enough to hurt.

              “You are such a troll!” she shoots at me with more affection than ire, I’m happy to say.

              “You love it,” I mutter, grabbing her helplessly and kissing her mouth soundly. We end up wasting a few more precious seconds making out again.

              “So what we gonna do, huh?” I ask her once we break apart. “Henchman #1 is waitin’ outside, and I figure we could both take him out pretty easy...”

              “Nuh-uh,” she cuts me off with a mischievous grin. “That’ll break our cover for sure. You, sweetheart, are taking the back door out.”

              Her gaze slides over my shoulder, and when I look back, I see that the back door is actually a chute in the wall. From the amount of gore it’s covered in, it’s pretty obvious it's a disposal chute – for corpses.

              “You have got to be fuckin’ kiddin’ me, p’tite,” I groan under my breath.

              “Think of it as payback for kicking me down that garbage chute back at the Plaza hotel,” she banters back lightly, clearly enjoying this.

              “Anna, after this, we’re even and then some,” I say dolefully.

              “Yup,” she replies cheerfully. She swoops in for another quick kiss before saying: “I’ll be waiting for you by the East gate in about 30. Got some stuff to finish up here, otherwise they’ll get suspicious.”

              “All right.” My response is half-hearted. I ain’t relishing goin’ down that chute, that’s for sure. Anna, however, is completely indifferent to my plight. She’s almost at the door already when I stop her.

              “Uhh… Anna?”

              She stops, turns.

              “What?”

              I point down at my chained-up ankles.

              “Li’l help, please?”

               She gives a theatrical sigh; but she comes back anyway, dropping to her knees and undoing the chains round my ankles.

              “I’m pretty sure you could do this yourself faster than I ever could, Cajun,” she says pointedly, to which I shrug and reply:

              “Sure. But havin’ you down on your knees in front of me brings back all sorts of happy mem’ries I’ve been denied the past couple of months.”

              The chains clatter to the floor and she quirks an unimpressed look at me.

              “Jesus. You’re puttin’ out more pheromones than a skunk puts out spray.”

              “Chere, I been insulted ’nuff today, bein’ called a ‘yank’ an’ all. You reckon you could find an analogy a little more flatterin’ than a skunk?”

              She gets to her feet and plants her hands on her hips.

              “Swamp boy, there ain’t enough analogies in the world for the dirty things I wanna call you right now,” she declares in her gorgeously titillating and rarely-bestowed native Mississippi accent.

              “Oooh,” I banter back. “Dirty, huh? Beb, when I get you home tonight, you can call me all the dirty things under the sun. I can’t wait.”

              She chooses to ignore the statement, walking over to the chute instead and pulling it open. When she looks back at me, she’s smiling sweetly.

              “Sugar, when we get home tonight, the first thing you’re gonna do is take a shower. Cos once you’ve gone down this here chute, you’re gonna be dirty as hell, and not in a good way.”

              Trust her to kill the mood. I peer down the hole gingerly. The miasma wafting up from down below is worse than any skunk’s.

              “Chere, you wanna rethink this? Only I get the feelin’ one shower ain’t gon’ be enough t’ get the stench out...”

              “Quit being such a baby!” She’s smiling way too hard for my liking at this point. “The sooner you get this over with, the sooner we can wrap up this job.”

              I step reluctantly up to the edge of the hole, and she leans in over my shoulder, murmurs in my ear: “And the sooner I can get my hands on you again.” She lets that suggestion linger. And, Dieu, does it linger.

              “Now buckle up and hold onto the railings,” she warns me.

              “What railings?” I manage to get out, before her boot heel connects with my ass, and I’m suddenly tumbling through the filth and mire down, down into the depths of the Marko mansion.

-oOo-

[Chapter 2 now here!]

[vancilocs]

london trio and uuh reno and adele?

you thought i went to bed but it was me, dio

How did they they meet?

Flint managed to talk down a barfight where Scott would have gotten his ass kicked severely, they’ve been bros since. Rashmi came to London a little while later to join the knights there after her husband’s death

Yoga class

Who developed romantic feelings first?

Scott in a “nobody has ever been nice and patient with me”-way

Adele, Reno kept a little bit of distance because he didn’t want her to feel in any way threatened (my dude she was ready to climb)

Who is their biggest “shipper?”

Even when Scott and Flint were having the worst time in their marriage Rashmi would keep them together and ensure they talked and worked for their relationship, otherwise they all support each other

Probably Zoe, she knew how much Reno likes having someone to squeeze and after his little bi awakening was done really really wanted to be in a relationship

When did they have their first kiss and under what circumstances?

A few drinks down in candlelight Flint egged Scott on enough for him to take initiative. Scott and Rashmi kissed first under less nice circumstances bc he hadn’t talked to Flint about it first (he did forgive).

After like the second or third date, see Adele safely home and she utilized stairs to reach the man

Who confessed their feelings first?

Flint to encourage Scott, and later Scott at Rashmi who let him know she likes both of them

Adele was less restrained

What was their first official date?

They never really like agreed to go out, Flint just suggested they go to a comfortable, safe knight pub to sit down, eat, drink, and get to know each other

A movie and dinner date

How do they feel about double dates/group dates?

Not really their thing, hanging out at home is best

Sure why not, going out as a group with Zoe and Nina was probably pretty regular

What do they do in their down time?

Lay around, pet cats, cuddle, nap, Rashmi reads out loud to Flint, Scott just enjoys the company

Watch TV, cook, do yoga, look after child

What was the first meeting of parents as an official couple like?

Scott was terrified to meet Flint’s parents (not only because they were the former knight commanders in the area), but they got along fantastic. Flint has never met Scott’s parents but knows how shitty they are and he, his siblings and parents have vowed to keep them away (Rashmi also knows and agrees they’re awful). Rashmi gets along well with Flint’s family, the boys have never met hers but she speaks highly of them so they have no problem.

Both of their parents were pretty shocked by the sheer size difference but both also fell in love with their child’s beloved very fast, both Reno and Adele are polite and very loveable and seeing how happy they made each other sealed the deal

What was their first fight over and how did they get past it?

Scott has no self-esteem, is very mistrustful and just couldn’t figure out what Flint could want in him, it’s been a journey of self-acceptance and reassurance but with patience they’ve gotten over it. 

They didn’t really fight? If anything it was Adele being a very tired new mom who needed her husband home a bit more because she couldn’t do it alone (and of course he obliged)

Which one is more easily made jealous?

Scott who again has no self-esteem. They don’t make each other jealous though, nobody has a problem with the two others spending time together

Neither really, they’re solid in their relationship

What is their favourite thing to get to eat?

I respect myself enough to not look up what people in Victorian England ate

Reno is vegan, Adele was mostly vegetarian, so hit up some vegan places to look for something nice to eat

Who’s the cuddly one? What their favourite cuddling position?

Rashmi is the biggest cuddler, prefers to be squished between the men

Adele was cuddlier and could just lay on Reno’s chest he was big enough

Are they hand holders?

Not really, Rashmi might link arms with either one she’s out with

Very much so

How long do they wait before sleeping together for the first time? What’s the circumstances?

Flint gave Scott all the time he ever needed to get intimate so it took a long while, he may have taken a few shots of courage but Flint was very gentle. In general they’ve been very patient and careful getting into each others’ pants.

They waited a while, both had experience but neither wanted to pressure (nor were they in a hurry), just date for a while and do it when it feels right

Who tops?

Rashmi or Flint

Switch it up. Reno gets pegged

What’s the worst fight they’ve ever gotten into?

Flint was (understandably) mad about Scott kissing Rashmi behind his back but he was more sad, and not being able to voice his feelings really didn’t help. Scott was remorseful, Flint was angry and sad, Rashmi did her best helping a mute man talk to a deaf man, wasn’t easy. But it was mainly Flint scared he’d lose his husband and to know he wouldn’t was a relief

Reno might have switched to office work when he knew he’d be a dad but he would still sometimes help on the field and Adele (already hormonal) wasn’t a fan of that

Who does the shopping and the cooking?

Flint and Rashmi do the shopping and Scott and Rashmi do the cooking, Flint doesn’t entirely trust his hands around fire

They share seamlessly

Which one is more organized and prone to tidiness?

Flint can’t read anymore so while he cleans up, he doesn’t know how to sort the papers properly so he leaves that to Rashmi

Reno, Adele is a bit of a scatterbrain and does arts and crafts so she might leave her stuff around sometimes

Who proposes?

Flint proposed to Scott, both boys gave Rashmi symbolic rings

Reno did, very romantic

Do they have joined Bachelor/Bachelorette parties or separate?

Flint’s family focused on making sure Scott won’t puke and faint at the altar, Flint didn’t get rowdy but did share a couple of drinks with his brothers

Separate, nothing too wild but a bit of fun the weekend before the wedding.

Who is the best man/maid of honour? Any other groomsmen or bridesmaids?

Flint picked his good friend Charlie as his best woman, otherwise it was mainly his family in the big roles.

Adele had her friend as a maid of honour, Zoe was Reno’s best woman

Big Ceremony or Small?

Very small. Didn’t want to make it a big thing, it was big enough to get a priest who wouldn’t misgender Scott

Kinda medium, not super formal

Do they have a honeymoon? If so, where?  

None

A week in Samoa and a week wherever Adele’s from, share cultures

Do they have children? How many?

No kids, Scott never ever wanted to be a dad and later with his disability Flint wouldn’t have wanted either. 

They had one son who’s now an adult

[veliseraptor]

artilleryandlace replied to your photo “it is possible that the tea situation has gotten a little out of hand.”

What's the fancy one in the paper package in the front?

there’s two different ones! both bellocq teas - one is pic du midi (mint, ginger, and currant) and one is charleston (Ceylon black tea, chamomile, lavender, blue cornflower petals). I am a fancy-ass bitch when it comes to my tea. (and my yarn.)

dumbledorably replied to your photo “it is possible that the tea situation has gotten a little out of hand.”

can i have some

sure come to brooklyn

dancing-crystals replied to your photo “it is possible that the tea situation has gotten a little out of hand.”

Looks like almost enough. Where did you get the masala chai? I've been looking for a good one.

I mean, I am drinking through it pretty fast and am probably going to order another tin of victorian london fog in a hot minute. 

the masala chai is (unfortunately for you, this is unhelpful probably) a gift from my mother, who went to india last fall and brought it back for me.