#whiskey thieves and bastards

[books-in-a-storm]

Currently Reading 💛

Sentinels Of Oz & Whiskey, Thieves, And Bastards

[roseghoul26]

Javier Escuella x gn!Reader

Synopsis: For the last few nights, Javier’s guitar has been disappearing at night, returning back to its spot in the morning. No one in camp seems to know where it's going, and he’s getting real tired of his belongings getting taken. Tags: Not Beta Read, I Wrote This In Like Two Hours, Developing Relationship, Crushes, Fluff, You Steal Javier’s Guitar, Turns Out I Can Write Something Short(er), Arthur Morgan is a Nosy Bastard, But We Love Him Author's Note: i wanted to try writing from a different pov, and i needed a break from writing smut so here’s this little drabble <3

For the life of him, Javier could not figure out where his guitar was disappearing to each night. 

He prided himself on being a very observant man, someone with eyes on the back of his head, as the saying went. He was quick to notice when someone was attempting to swindle him, pickpocket him, deceive him in any way. It’s how he’d survived so many years on his own, and how he excelled in the gang. 

Even when it came to his belongings in camp, he kept a close eye on them. If he saw someone approaching his tent, even if he trusted them, he’d always keep an eye on their hands, not too keen on having someone steal his hard-earned belongings. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust his campmates, but he lived with a group of professional thieves; he could never be too cautious.  

When it came to his guitar, his most treasured belonging, he watched it like a hawk whenever he was lingering around camp. If it wasn’t in his hands currently being played, then it was propped up on a barrel or stool, always in line of sight. So you’d think he’d notice when someone took it, right?

You’d think so, but the currently empty spot where it should be said otherwise. Every night for the last couple days, without fail, it had been snatched, only to be returned an hour later. The first time it happened, he nearly lost his mind, practically tearing apart the camp to find it. His relief was immeasurable when he saw it returned an hour later, with not a single scratch on it. He had then chalked it up to having too many drinks that night and forgetting where he had set it.

When the second night came around and it disappeared again, he was less worried than before, but he still began to ask around camp, keeping an eye out for the wooden instrument. Charles had just shrugged when he asked where it was, but even in the dim light he could see a slight grin on his face. He refused to elaborate further when Javier asked, and after a few moments of getting only silence to his question, he moved on to the next person.

Arthur was even less of a help, saying he saw someone take it, but didn’t say who or to where. He had cursed at Arthur then, and the other man just laughed in response. 

Hosea hadn’t seen anything, apparently, and Sean was too drunk to even make out the whiskey bottle in his hand. Pearson was too preoccupied with making the camp dinner, and Mary-Beth claimed she was too busy reading to see anything, but the lack of a book near her made her lie very clear. 

It was like the whole camp was conspiring against him, making him look like a fool. Every person he asked either feigned ignorance, or just straight up refused to tell him. It was when he asked Tilly that he got any sort of clue. She had pointed him in your direction, saying that he should ask you if you’d seen it. 

Javier wasn’t sure what to make of you. The newcomer of the Van Der Linde gang, you’d been with them for about a month, and Javier had had very little opportunities to speak to you, always on different jobs for the camp. When he did speak to you, it was quick conversations, or around the campfire with the others. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to talk to you; it was quite the opposite. There was something intriguing about you, something that he couldn’t quite put a label on. You were talented, that was undeniable, and he’d heard nothing but praise about you from Dutch, which made you good his book. 

But as he glanced over to where Tilly was pointing, any plan of speaking to you went right out the window. He quite literally stumbled over his words as he talked to Tilly, a small chuckle leaving her that he missed as he continued to watch you. You were sitting around the fire, in the middle of talking with Bill, Hosea, and Dutch. The light from the fire illuminated your face, and you felt his heart begin to race as he watched a beautiful smile appear on your face.

Another thing that Javier prided himself on was his confidence. He was suave, a charmer, and could talk his way out of anything. Yet as he watched you, all that confidence seemed to be sucked away, and the thought of talking to you became a daunting, impossible task; it was almost pathetic.

So, instead of following Tilly’s suggestions, he had just wished her a good night, heading back to his tent. He had to do a double take when he saw his guitar propped up in his usual spot, still in the same condition as it was prior. He felt like he was going insane. 

Instead of playing like he normally did, he just went straight to bed, much to everyone’s confusion. He was confused, and not just about his guitar. He was confused on why he had reacted the way he did when he saw you. He’d never really thought of you in that way before, but now that he did, he couldn’t stop. Has he always found you that… beautiful? Was the reason why he didn’t talk to you not because of conflicting schedules, but because of his cowardice?

He didn’t sleep well that night.

He expected the next night to be the same thing, but was almost disappointed to find his guitar untouched the entire day. He even made a point not to play it, but there were no takers, and he went to bed even more confused.

It disappeared that night, and he somehow managed to not see who did it. It was like they were a phantom, invisible only to him. He practically stared holes into the empty spot as he awaited for the person to return to it, but when an hour passed and no one showed up, he got up, legs aching from sitting still for so long. A disbelieving sigh, followed by a string of curses in Spanish spilled from his mouth when there, behind him at one of the other campfires, the guitar sat. Arthur just smiled at him when Javier raised a brow in question, and it took every ounce of willpower in his body to not throttle the other man.

The rest of the week went like that. No matter how hard he tried, or how many “traps” he set up, he couldn’t catch the little thief. It was almost funny, the entire situation, but he was far too frustrated to find any amusement with it. 

He had tried multiple times during that week to approach you, but it was like the universe hated him. One time, he nearly tripped over his own feet while making his way towards you, and you luckily didn’t see. When he successfully was able to walk, you were called away by Dutch, an apologetic look on your face as you walked away. 

But most days, he just couldn’t bring himself to approach you. The others, Charles and Arthur especially, had picked up on his predicament, one of the kind enough to not tease him for it. The other, more specifically Arthur, found great pleasure in tormenting him about it. Charles had to stop him from attacking the other man, and that’s how he currently found himself alone in the woods, calming himself down with a cigarette. Normally, he would use his guitar as an outlet, but to his not-surprise, it was missing. 

It had been a while since he was this far away from camp as Horseshoe Overlook at night. It was almost eerily peaceful, the sound of crickets and nocturnal animals the only thing he could hear. It was even colder, and he was grateful that he had slipped on a jacket earlier in the night. 

Grass and branches crunched beneath his feet as he walked further into the woods, no intent behind his motions except for exploring. That was until he heard something in the distance, so light that he thought he was imagining it for a moment. It was music, a lone guitar, to be exact. Tales of hearing music in the woods from his childhood flooded his mind, yet he didn’t feel scared. Weirdly enough, he felt at ease, and he found himself walking closer to the sound. 

It got louder as he went down the hill, and as he got closer he heard a voice accompanying the guitar. It was soft, uncertain almost, yet it was quite beautiful. It pulled at him, almost like a siren’s song, and he continued to make his way toward it, an excited energy buzzing in his body. 

To say he was shocked to see you sitting against a rock, guitar in hand, singing those stunning melodies, would be an understatement. You had your back to him, and you doubt you could hear him approaching, and he glanced at the guitar in your hands. His new suspicions were confirmed when he was the familiar faded oak instrument in your hand; you were the one taking his guitar each night. If it were any other person, he would be pissed off. Yet he couldn’t find it in himself to be upset at you. Instead, he was amused, the hilarity of the situation finally revealing itself to him, and for once he didn't feel the need to run the other way instead of talking to you.

He stomped out the cigarette, still going unnoticed by you. Not wanting to startle you too badly, he cleared his throat, jumping himself a bit when you immediately stopped. There was now a gun in your hand, aimed directly at him, and he held his hands up. When you were able to make out it was just him in the darkness, you relaxed, holstering your gun. “Javier,” you breathed out, and he felt his heart jump at the way you said his name. “I’m so sorry…”

He waved it off. “I startled you. No need to apologize. I’d be a bit more concerned if you hadn’t done that.”

You huffed out a laugh. “So it’s good to be jumpy, then. Noted.”

“Being ‘jumpy’ keeps you alive. Heard way too many stories of people being a little too slow on the draw, and end up dead because of it.” 

You just hummed thoughtfully, before a look of concern crept on your face. “I wasn’t disturbing you, was I?” You gestured to the guitar. “I thought I was far enough away from camp, but if you need me to move…”

“You’re fine,” he reassured. “And besides, even if I could hear you all the way from camp, you wouldn’t have disturbed me. You play wonderfully, and your voice is, well, beautiful.”

He swore you blushed at the praise, ducking your head in embarrassment. He watched as your fingers danced over the frets, almost like you were doing it out of nervous habit. “You’re too kind, Javier.”

“How long have you been playing?” He asked, taking a few steps toward you.

“Since I was a child.” You let out a breath, your head resting against the rock behind you. “Here,” you patted the ground beside you, “come sit.”

Praying that he wouldn’t make a fool of himself, he complied, your shoulders brushing as he sat. You didn’t seem to mind, not pulling away. In fact, you almost seemed to relax even more, but he quickly banished that train of thought. He was reading too much into it. 

You continued. “I’m admittedly a bit rusty; I stopped playin’ a few years back. But then I saw the guitar in camp, and Arthur said it didn’t belong to anyone and I, dunno, just got the urge to start playin’ again.” 

He had to bite back the laughter and the threat towards Arthur’s wellbeing that almost spilled from him. Of course Arthur was behind all this, the nosy bastard. He couldn’t tell if he was grateful or not, though. 

“You should start playing in camp. They’re probably tired of hearing me play all the time.”

He couldn’t help the small smile that grew on his lips at the excited look on your face. “You play too?”

He nodded. “I do. I realize now you probably haven’t heard me yet.” And so you don’t realize who’s guitar that actually is.

You shook your head, the motion causing your arms to continuously brush against him. “Well, then how long have you played?” You shot his question back at him.

“Only during the past couple of years. Picked it up because I needed something to occupy my time, and I found I rather enjoyed it. Let’s just say, though, you’re much better than me.”

“Well, I don’t know ‘bout that,” you laughed. “I haven’t even heard you play yet.” You tried to hand him the guitar, but he just held his hand up, shaking his head lightly. It was adorable, the way you almost pouted. 

“I promise, you’ll hear me soon enough. For now that guitar’s better off in your hands.” 

You sighed, barely conceding. “Fine. But don’t get annoyed if I nag you ‘bout it.”

“You couldn’t annoy me if you tried,” Javier admitted, almost a bit too honestly. He wasn’t sure where this was coming from; it was like the filter on his mouth just shut off, scared off by your proximity. You cocked your head, confused, and Javier elaborated a bit further. “If it was any other person that was taking my guitar each night, then we’d have issues. But I don’t mind if it’s you.”

Shock then mortification washed over your face, and Javier regretted telling you for a moment, missing that soft smile. “This… this is yours?” You asked, voice rising in volume as you gestured to the instrument. You groaned when he nodded, head slumping against the rock, defeated. “And I’ve just been takin’ it each night. Javier, I am so sorry-”

Javier chuckled a bit. “Like I said, I don’t mind. You’ve treated it well, which is more than I can say for the others when it comes to my stuff.”

His words seemed to just go in one ear and straight out the other. Your cheeks had darkened from embarrassment, and he would’ve found it cute if you weren’t so upset. “But it’s not alright! I should’ve asked, I… I should’ve known Arthur was lyin’ when he said it didn’t belong to anyone. Oh, I’m gonna kill him,” you snarled, getting up quickly, not before gently setting the guitar in Javier’s lap.

He didn’t let you get too far, his hand instinctively reaching up to grab your wrist, halting you immediately. You were both equally shocked, both pairs of eyes glancing to where he was currently touching you. His heart hammered in his chest, but he didn’t let go, gently pulling you back towards him. “Stay. Please.”

You continued to stare at him, moth agape, and for a moment Javier thought he misread everything. But his worries about disgusting or upsetting you were quickly discarded when a bright grin adorned your face, a pleasant light in the darkness of night. With a gentle tug, Javier brought you back down to where you had just been sitting, his hand never leaving your wrist. It was weird, how quickly his body had missed the heat of you, and he unconsciously felt himself pressing close to your side. 

Or maybe you were the one pressing into him. He couldn’t tell. 

“I’m sorry.” He heard you apologize yet again, and he let out a lighthearted scoff.

“How many times do I have to say that it’s alright? I’m not lying, I swear!”

“And that’s what Arthur said, but here we are.” Even though your words were accusatory, he still heard a slight laugh behind them. “He was ‘bout to face my anger if he had just ruined anythin’ with you.”

“What do you mean?” He tried to not sound too hopeful.

“Well, I’ve been wantin’ to talk to you, to get to know you,” you admitted, no longer looking him in the eye. “But I thought by doin’ all this,” you pointed at the guitar in his lap,” that I ruined any chance of creatin’ any sort of… friendship with you.”

“Only a friendship, cariño?” There was that confidence he was known for, back now that he realized that his desire to know you wasn’t so one-sided. 

Your head snapped to him when he said that, eyes going wide. “I… well…” you were extremely flustered, and Javier found great joy in the fact that he had done that to you. “We’ll just have to see, won’t we?”

“Yes, we will.” He murmured. He finally let go of your wrist, smiling a bit at the way you seemed to sadden, but his touch wasn’t gone for long. Running his fingers across the back of your hands, he then interlocked them, resting them on your thighs. 

Another beautiful smile from you dazzled him, and he sighed in contentment when you tentatively rested your head on his shoulder. In no world did he imagine that this was how his night would end, but he was certainly not complaining, especially when you moved impossibly closer to him. 

When the two of you returned back to camp hours later, hand in hand, guitar in your own, laughter making you breathless, he barely noticed the looks from the others, too caught up in you to even bother to look elsewhere. Something new flickered in his chest, something he hadn’t felt in a while, and it took until he tried to fall asleep to put a name to it. 

For a moment, he thought it was just love, but even it was overshadowed by the other thing he was feeling: hope. For the first time in a long time, Javier Escuella went to bed with hope for the next day, and he had you to thank.

[thefamilyeldritchabomination]

Chapter Seventeen: Eve of the War Pt. 4

 The clattering of plates and the rumble of chatter could be heard upon entering the restaurant, the aroma of the stocks intermingling with the atmosphere. In general, just a very jovial setting save for the group of rather tense diners that would ultimately decide the fate of Amestris in general. It didn’t take them too long to be seated and situated at a table to have this conversation. They were silently checking the boxes for their hot pot meats and veggies, Envy holding back their urge to try slamming Edward’s face into the boiling stock once it arrived. The only one keeping Envy from ruining everything was Dolly who was keeping an eye on them as she picked out a variety of meat to try out. As soon as the forms were handed in for the order, Lust carefully removed the profane rock of human soup from her pocket and placed it in front of the Elrics.

 “...That’s the Philosopher’s stone..” Edward gasped as his young eyes laid upon the fabled stone of misery.

 “Ed, is that you!?” Tim Markoh cried out from within the stone, already hopeful the Elrics will rescue him and the others from inside of the awful rock.

 “I guess Ernest was correct on that one..” Greed said, taken aback that the stone could in fact speak. “Wait, Ernest? That little monster that derailed everything? You assholes had that bastard with you this whole time?” Envy snapped out of the tension upon hearing the awful creature’s name being mentioned.

 “Envy I think the better question is how exactly did Ernest know about Tim.” Lust was now concerned about how that information leaked. “Oh, Ernest said he was still linked up to his brother.”  Alphonse innocently answered as he opened his chest to reveal Ernest just chilling out inside and eating donuts like a beast. “....That explains a lot of the silence then from Dorian at times.” Dolly quietly said, surprised to finally meet the infamous Ernest in person.

 “Oh good…that’s great, you brought the living WMD back to the capital with a rampaging Fuhrer on the loose looking for him. Thanks kid, thanks a lot for that.” Envy glared a bit at Ernest who simply flipped them the bird in return.

 “Believe it or not, he’s gotten a bit better with the murder impulses a bit. Besides, Granny wasn’t going to let Ernest stay with them after he stole her whiskey.” Edward decided to ease the tension just a little bit after Ernest’s stunt.

 “....Okay that redeems Ernest just a little bit for me..” Envy straightened up a bit upon hearing that Ernest was a thieving little shit.

 “We should probably get back on the topic about Tim.” Dolly said as she pointed to Dr. Tim Markoh, rock leader extraordinaire. 

 “Right, Tiny Timmy, look, Tim made it very clear that he won’t do shit for us. We’re going to, however, use him as bait to lure Dante out of her Villa Mansion. All we need to do is pick out a good location to lure her to before exterminating the hag.” Envy said, getting everything off their chest about the plan.

 “Wait, we wanted to throw Dante in Jail for all the horrible things she’s done so far. Plus, Dr. Markoh has been through enough horrible things.” Edward protested, now knowing for sure that really is Dr. Markoh inside.

 “Thank you Edward for speaking up for me, now please get me away from them, I cannot bear another night listening to the person called ‘Face Fur’ whine anymore.” Markoh pleaded, needing to get away from this disaster group.

 “Now, now Tiny Timmy, if we have to live with the Face Fur, you’re going to endure it with us too. That’s how this ‘family’ unit works I think..” Envy exited reality for a moment after the word ‘Family’ escaped their bitter lips. “Envy, you actually called us family, that’s great!” Dolly looked very hopeful at Envy finally acknowledging their found family.

 “Brother…what did we get ourselves into?” Alphonse whispered to Edward, growing a bit weirded out by the interaction.

 “I don’t know Al, I don’t know..” Edward couldn’t make heads or tails if Envy had brain worms of some kind or if they’ve genuinely turned a new leaf.

 “I’m going to answer your question about why we’re wanting to kill Dante since Envy here is on leave at the moment. Dante is already actively dying from her own decaying body, it’s driving her to make incredibly rash decisions that have had dire consequences for us. It recently became apparent to us that in Dante’s desperation to keep on living for eternity, she may turn her eyes on one of our own. This is us drawing a line with how far Dante has gone and would be for the best to just exterminate her as soon as possible.” Lust carefully explained to the Elrics, watching their expression after opening up rather delicate information.

 “So that lady with you, I take it that’s Dolly, right?” Edward asked as he turned his attention to Dolly after piecing some things together. “Ernest told you?” Lust was becoming unsurprised at this point that Ernest was a little gossip to boot. “Ernest told us, yes, but also told us her blood made him and his brother.” Edward explained, taking Lust by surprise as Ed pointed out to Dolly would nearly spat out her water upon hearing that.

 “Oh..I knew I was forgetting to tell Lust that..” Envy blankly said as the cat was obviously out of the bag.

 “How could you forget to tell me something so important as that Envy!?” Lust looked at Envy in disbelief.

 “I had monster making blood on the mind at the time, that one outweighs the other news at the time.” Envy huffed, looking annoyed they were being scolded over something so trivial.

 “Wait…her blood can make monsters too?” Alphonse asked, getting nervous at the horror known as Dolly who was sitting there stunned by everything.

 “Well yeah, it’s name is Snickerdoodle.” Envy sneered to frighten their youngest half brother in little shit sibling fashion.

 “Envy don’t drag this Snickerdoodle creature into this conversation. Look, we didn’t come together to talk about Dolly and her apparent mutagenic blood, we came to talk about Dante. Now let’s kindly get back to that topic and figure out a good way to do away with her.” Lust had enough and decided to steer the topic back on track, giving Envy a disapproving look.

 “Thank you Lust for getting things to be simple again!” Greed let out a sigh of relief of not dealing with the worst clay based family reunion imaginable.

 “Mister Greed, your manners, don’t sigh so heavily at the table.” Bido gently scolded his boss as he waited for the tea to arrive.

 “Right, breathing more calmly and not like a dog, thanks Bido.” Greed said with a sharp toothed smile, earning a bit of a disappointed look from Dolcetto.

 “Right, Dante, look Greed, as much as I hate you and the Elric brats you brought along, I hate Dante a whole lot more right now. I’m willing to work with you and your sideshow gang provided that Lust, Gluttony, and Dolly are kept out of the operation. I would’ve brought New Pride with us, but he’s still an infant and currently dealing with a creepy kid at the moment.” Envy started out earning an offended look from Lust at being ordered to stay right out of this conflict.

 “Envy, have you gone out of your mind here?! You need us to help out, Dante is a horrifying woman with no moral compass whatsoever.” Lust spat out, ready to fight Envy on this decision. “Lust, no offense, but you wouldn’t be able to handle Dante. Not because she’s all powerful, but because Dante is excellent at mind games. I don’t want you or Gluttony to have to face Dante when she goes into that mindset. Let me and Greed handle that portion, we’re both very used to Dante using that when things aren’t going her way.” Envy explained to Lust as they once did for Dolly about the whole scenario.

 “Fine, I’ll stay out of this now that you opened up about your concerns. However, I will have to request that someone else handle Freddy, he’s absolutely intolerable.” Lust looked thankful that the tea finally arrived to give some relief.

 “You still haven’t killed Freddy yet? Seriously?” Greed remarked out of shock that Envy of all people hadn’t gone in for the kill yet on Freddy.

 “Yeah, yeah, I know, the Face Fur is the damned albatross I wear around my neck.” Envy bitterly remarked at their inability to murder the annoying Alchemist.

 “Okay, besides being impressed that you read good literature, this is rounding about again to why Dolly is involved in all this.” Edward said, proving that stubbornness was a part of the long proud bloodline of Hohenheim.

[pepperf]

Ah, full article:

AN Abergavenny man who went on an illegal wild boar hunt with pals in the Forest of Dean, claims that there is a ‘necromancer’ living in the woods.

Semi-professional long-distance runner Johnny Turnip explained, “We stumbled across the necromancer’s lair after a white deer caused Big Tony to crash his Bedford Rascal.

“The ugly albino creature just appeared out of nowhere and stood in the middle of the road staring at us like we were the ones naked and running through the woods without any purpose.

“Now while Big Tony has got the blood of a lot of furry things on his hands and has no aversion to killing innocent animals, he’s very particular when it comes to his vehicle. The last thing he wanted was Bambi’s brains all over his windscreen and so he swerved to avoid the dumb animal.”

Turnip explained that they missed the deer but left the road and clipped a tree stump which caused the van to crash.

“It was a bit A-Team!” Recalled Turnip. “The band went flying about 20 feet in the air and flipped a full 360. Luckily it landed on its wheels, in a sort of clearing. However, whether in panic or instinct, Big Tony pressed down on the accelerator and we we went flying along this forest trail for about 30 feet before I heard him scream, ‘Gertcha! Brakes knackered! Jump boys, jump!’ We opened the doors and bailed just before the Bedford Rascal smacked headfirst into one of the biggest oak trees I’ve ever seen.

“Fair play the way we jumped from the van and rolled effortlessly on the ground must have looked pretty spectacular. It’s not something any of us have had to do since our early twenties but we’ve still got the old magic. Any bystanders would have probably thought we were the S.A.S on manoeuvres rather than just former car thieves.”

Turnip added, “Me and Puerto Rico Paul were a bit dazed from the ordeal at first and just laid on our backs looking at the darkening sky as if to say, ‘What next you bastard?’ However, we’re not millennials and don’t do self-pity. We were soon pulling one another to their feet and wondering if Big Tony had packed plenty of beer when we heard the wailing.”

Turnip recalled, “It still gives me goosebumps to think about it even now. It was a primal cry of absolute grief that could turn a man’s bowels to water. Worse! It was coming from Big Tony. He was on his knees next to his van with his head in his hands. He just looked at us with tears in his days and said, “She’s gone boys. It’s the end of the road for Saucy Lil.

“Now while it was news to us that Big Tony had given his van a name and a female one at that, we both knew the affection he had for his motor. It was slightly perverted to my mind but Tone’s always been a bit on the spectrum when it comes to his relationship with anything with wheels. He was the same with his first BMX. Anyhow, we may have made fun of his weird obsessions, but we respected Tone’s grief, and when Puerto Rico Paul whispered in my ear, ‘Perhaps we should do the right thing and cremate the old bitch?’ I ignored his dark sarcasm. It didn’t come from a good place and right now Tone needed time to mourn his loss.”

Turnip explained that after a few hours of being left alone with Saucy Lil, Big Tony rejoined his friends who were using the last of the power on their phones to play Wordle. He simply announced, “Long may she ride! Let’s unload the old bird one last time and butcher us some boar!”

Turnip said, “They were his last words on his lost love and we didn’t pry. It was sad for us all to see the old van bust up and mangled, but the Forest of Dean was as good a place as any for a vehicle to rust in eternity. Hopefully, it would one day become home to a family of ferrets.”

=Turnip told the Chronicle that after unloading the two crates of lager, four bottles of whiskey, six pouches of tobacco, and ten cans of beans from the van. He was a bit concerned about how they would survive a few nights in the forest.

“I said to Tone, ‘Is this going to be enough?’ He just looked at me funny and said, ‘How much do you plan on drinking JT?’ ’No!’ I said. ‘I’m thinking more of what we’re going to eat?’ ‘We’re going to chow down on some hog, boss,’ he said in a weird American accent. To which I replied, ‘And how the hell are we going to hunt it?’ Paul tapped me on the shoulder and as I turned he pointed a shotgun at me and smiled like a child on Christmas morning. The game was on and the whiskey was in the jar!”

Turnip added, “We had the booze, the smokes, and the gun needed for a successful pig hunt! Admittedly, we didn’t have any water, but there was bound to be a stream nearby. The lack of a tent, sleeping bags, and complete ignorance of exactly where we were could present a few problems further down the line but we were masters of our destiny, born to woman but belonging to the wilderness. We were like a pack of coyotes and no tame dogs were stealing our bone. We decided to set up camp for the night and get drunk. Killing pigs could wait until dawn!

“Big Tony siphoned some petrol from the van and we made a fire. It nearly got out of hand but after a few whiskies, we were joking about accidentally burning the entire forest down. We carried on drinking to the early hours and arguing about who would win in a fight between a crocodile and a bear when the old man of the woods turned up and warned us all about the necromancer.”

To be continued…..

[It's from here, The Abergavenny Chronicle, and seems to be a regular bit.]

big things happening in england

[thatapostateboy]

when the sun came up I was looking at you

Pairing: Garrett Hawke x Sebastian Vael

Word Count: 1688

Synopsis: Sebastian receives a rude awakening, and Garrett finds what he truly needs.

Prompt: Day One: Dawn from the Veilbound challenge by @/nympthi and @/citadrells on Twitter

Crossposted: Here on AO3

Sebastian awoke sharply to darkness, and the sound of many objects clattering to the ground, followed by a very unsubtle shushing sound. He did not reach for his bow, but instead for the hunting knife; a treasured gift from a friend, keeping it close to himself as he slid out of bed, creeping out of his chambers into the Chantry proper to seek the source of the disturbance.

If there were thieves fool enough to break into the Maker’s house, he would send them on their way, but he would not be naïve enough to go unarmed.

Very few of the candles were still lit in the main hall; no one wanted a burned down Chantry after all, but enough that there would be light in the darkness if needed. At the base of the dais, a figure was knelt, in prayer Sebastian believed at first, until he realised that they were scrambling around to pick up the candlestick that had been knocked over, a bottle of whiskey that was rolling away, and a mage staff.

His grip on the knife loosened, setting it aside as he headed down the stairs.

“Garrett, what are you…?” he began to ask, trailing off as he drew closer, the scent of booze potent on the air, “Maker, are you drunk?”

Hawke looked up at him with a wide, unreserved beam on his face, “Seb!”

“Okay, yes, you are definitely drunk,” he sighed, though he couldn’t help but relent a very slight smile as he did every time Garrett called him Seb, refusing to call him Sebastian and certainly never a title. “What are you doing here? It’s the wee hours of the morning.”

“I had to…” Garrett slurred a little as he reached across and grabbed the whiskey bottle, pulling out the cork with his teeth and bringing it to his mouth to swig, “I had to see you. Thought we could share a drink.”

The archer reached forward and took the bottle from his hands, earning a noise of disappointment from the mage, “We can share some water, and you can tell me why you’re really here.”

Garrett met his eyes, and Sebastian watched the mirth go out of him, realising that he would not play his game. He drew his knees up to his chest, held tilted up to look at the statue of Andraste that towered over them. He was silent for a while, though from the gentle swaying of his body, Sebastian could tell that his drunken state hadn’t abated much. He joined his friend, sitting at his side, the warmth of his body palpable through his thin sleep shirt.

He glanced across at him, and where there had once been a jovial front, he could see the truth behind it. The dark circles beneath his eyes, the unkempt nature of his hair and beard, the clothes he’d been wearing for at least two days, if not longer.

“Garrett, when did you last go home?” he asked.

“Can’t,” Hawke said softly, “Don’t need to,” he corrected, sniffing back tears, “Can get everything I need at the Hanged Man.”

“Perhaps, but when was the last time you slept or ate?”

“You sound like Varric,” he griped, “If I wanted judgement, I’d have come here in the day.”

It was no secret that Garrett Hawke had little time for the Chantry or the Maker. He was born a mage, had lived his life on the run at the word of Chantry teaching, he had no respect for the institution that had torn his family apart. At least Marian, for her own dislike of the Chantry, was open to discussion and debate, no matter how many times the debate ended in her saying that the whole system needed to be dismantled, it was still an improvement on Garrett’s blatant disregard.

“Why did you come here?” Sebastian prompted again.

“Varric said I would find what I was looking for in the bottom of a bottle… turns out the bastard was right,” he admitted, his eyes still not turned away from Andraste, “Seb, will you… will you pray for my mother? I don’t think the Maker will listen to me in this state.”

The priest lowered his head a little, a cruel, familiar pain twisting in his gut. He knew Hawke’s loss, had felt it himself. But what had happened to dear Leandra, the darling woman who had always been so kind to him whenever he visited, who would talk to him at Chantry services and thank him for looking after her children.

He reached across, thinking to lay a hand on his friend’s arm, but instead took his hand, holding it tight in his own.

“Whatever state you’re in, he will hear you, my friend,” he assured him, “But I will pray for her.”

Garrett held his hand back even tighter, the larger man’s grip strong despite his intoxication, “Thank you… you’re a good friend.”

They sat for a long while together on the cold Chantry floor as Sebastian prayed, his voice quiet enough so that Garrett could hear his words, but not that he felt preached to, speaking rites for the passing of souls, bringing peace to one called to the Maker’s side, asking safety and guidance for those left behind. And through every word, Garrett clung to him like a lifeline, silent tears slipping down his cheeks.

When his prayers drew to a close, Garrett looked to him, eyes damp and bloodshot, the true tiredness of the last few days set into his frame.

“I should… I should go home.”

“You may stay, if you wish,” Sebastian offered, “No one will be awake at the estate now. And I do not like the thought of you alone.”

Hawke merely nodded, following Sebastian as he guided him to his feet and up the stairs to his chambers. He had never been in his personal quarters before, barely setting foot inside the main Chantry doors if he ever swung by to say hello or insist on bringing him along for some adventure or other. It was sparse but cosy, as was the life of one sworn to the Maker; armour displayed neatly in one corner, bow hung by the door, the knife that Garrett had gotten him for his last birthday now placed on the bedside table.

The bed was significantly smaller than his one in the estate, but he had spent their first year in Kirkwall sharing a single bunk with Carver and the bloody dog most nights, so it was still more than fit for purpose. Besides, there had been nights before when they had camped out on the Wounded Coast chasing down bandits and slavers, and they had huddled close for warmth, though this was slightly more intimate with Marian on the other side of him trying not to obviously cuddle with Anders, Isabela and the bloody dog both making themselves comfortable wherever they pleased and Fenris glaring at them all until he too would get cold and sleep back to back with Sebastian.

Sebastian gave him some spare sleepwear to change into and couldn’t help but stare a little as the mage stripped off without little thought, wrapping himself in the archer’s softer clothes. He offered to get him something to eat, but Garrett nigh on fell into his bed, which answered his question. The pair fitted themselves around each other, arms and legs initially at awkward angles until the need for comfort took over and they found themselves nigh on intertwined.

If the Grand Cleric were to find him like this, tangled up in bed with one of the city’s noblemen…

Yet, as he watched his dear friend finally find rest, he found that he could not care on whit about who saw them. He rested his head on the pillow just slightly above Garrett’s, tucking him under his chin, and found sleep of his own.

~*~*~

Sebastian awoke to the light of dawn filtering in through his thin curtains. The warmth of the spackling of sunlight hit his skin matched only by the warmth of the body beside him, Garrett still peacefully sleeping. The mage himself was dappled with early morning sunlight, catching on the dark hair on his face and atop his head, even hinting at a few freckles that Sebastian could see now that he was this close with no distraction other than the one currently tucked into his arms.

He knew that none of this was wise. He had done his duty as a friend, he should have walked him home, woken Marian if he had to, sent him off to his own bed. But he had given in to his own selfish impulses, had wanted an excuse to hold him, even if just for this one night, to be there for him in the only way that he could.

It was no secret that Garrett had an interest in him. He flirted with him shamelessly, much like he would have done right back in another lifetime, before he was given to the Chantry. And much like his past self, he flirted with everyone, nobles at parties, Isabela, even a convincing coat rack once. But then there were these quiet moments between them, when they would be completely honest with one another, about everything bar their feelings for each other, and Sebastian knew that whatever it was between them, was real.

And yet, it could never be more than this. He would live by his vows, his solemn word, even if it meant that there could never be anything more than friendship with the one man that had truly made his soul sing.

It would be time to move soon, to be seen in the Chantry, to make sure that Garrett was not seen leaving his chambers. But as Hawke shifted in his arms, cuddling closer, seeking the warmth of his body, face buried in the crook of his neck, he knew they could have a few minutes longer. He could allow them that. He wrapped his arms tighter around him, and just held him, both of them bathed in the Maker’s light.

[ravenspeakrp]

Welcome to Raven’s Peak, Gray, we’re excited to have you! Fionn Ó Gallchóir (Fae, Ewan Mitchell) has been accepted. Please be sure to stop by the CHECKLIST for the follow list, tags to track, and other reminders.

OUT OF CHARACTER NAME: Gray PRONOUNS: they AGE: 33 TIMEZONE: PST

IN CHARACTER FULL NAME: Fionn Ó Gallchóir SPECIES: fae AGE: ???? DATE OF BIRTH: ???? GENDER IDENTITY: demi-masc; he/they NEIGHBORHOOD: none yet! OCCUPATION: “hunter,” “curator” of rare fae and human goods WORKPLACE: self-employed POSITIVE TRAITS: curious, perceptive, adaptable NEGATIVE TRAITS: arrogant, vicious, fickle LENGTH OF TIME IN RAVEN’S PEAK: just arrived, but not like the other fae… FACE CLAIM: Ewan Mitchell

BIOGRAPHY

TRIGGER WARNING: eye injury

Perhaps he was just born a few centuries too late. That’s what Fionn figures. Back in the day, when the human world was young and fae things were properly fae, he’d have done just fine - carousing and thieving, making merry, managing all sorts of mischief, waging fantastical wars against giants and great serpents and human hosts alike. By the time he came along, though, there were just too many hidebound, complacent traditionalists around the otherlands. Fussy old bastards. That’s what he tells himself. Fionn, cut adrift by ancient, royal parents with precious interest in the runt of their litter, chased after by older siblings who had better things to do, understood that he was something of an upstart, a burden, an heir unsuited to their times. Had he asked to be born? No. Wasn’t his fault.

But he was here, now, and he wasn’t about to let a moment pass where he wasn’t drinking life’s splendor dry. Those elder fae seemed to think he drank too deeply, though. Young and cocksure, Fionn scoffed at his centuries-older siblings, all dedicated to their fine, decorous court; they were so very brilliant, so terribly talented, noble bureaucrats and elegant artisans. No matter what he managed, Fionn always, always came up short. Who was he trying to please, anyway? Those jaded parents? His beleaguered siblings? The court he was eons from ruling, if he ever even got the chance?In time, he stopped trying altogether and shook off the stately affairs and protocols his clan had become so enmeshed in, running through the hills and dales with stranger, wilder faeries - learning stranger, wilder lessons.

A few duels, a couple scandalous affairs, several spectacularly destructive incidents, and some insidious rumors of dark magics began to turn Fionn’s homeland against him, as he grew. But, if anything, all that fear and jealousy only seemed to spur him on to further misadventure. Immortal though they are, fae are only possessed of so much patience - and Fionn, quite simply, wore it out. He was judged harshly, in the abrupt, tempestuous sort of trial his people favored. Let a few ages in the human world beat some sense into him, the old ones said; good riddance, his brothers, sisters, and so on sighed. Exile, pending review, was the sentence. Fionn was too indignant to feel terribly bereft. Or even awfully responsible. He’d make his amends when called, scrape and bow and make florid apologies and return to the fold. Eventually. In the meantime, the human world was a simply splendid place for his like to run amok. Even if, eventually, they wound up having enough of his nonsense too. That was alright, though. He’d move on to someplace new. There was so much to see, and so many people to share himself with. So much for them to share with him, too - their revels and whiskey, ugly violence and breathtaking creativity. Study in contradictions, humans were. For once, Fionn found himself fond of research. And his mortal company, fleeting as mortal things always are.

Fleeting, yes, and treacherous as any fae, he soon realized. Such liars, these humans! So easily cowed by his kind - he’s sure it was his kind, who, unsatisfied with his apparently enjoyable sentence, enlisted some human help to take a measure more of vengeance. It was an iron knife that carved his eye from his head, poppy-poison stalling his powers as he was robbed and mauled. The horror of it wasn’t simply the pain; “imperfect” by the standards of his brutal kingdom, Fionn could no longer return home, nevermind reclaim his princely birthright. His exile would be as eternal as he was. Fionn was furious - and, for the first time in his long life, frightened. He couldn’t forget the terrifying, utterly unfamiliar sensation of being at someone’s mercy. Back in that cutthroat otherworld, he’d fought hard to be nigh-untouchable. How weak had his time among humanity left him, already? How could he reclaim his strength? And his eye. Obsessed, Fionn began to scour the globe for relics of his people, their ruins, their sacred trees and stones and pools - anyplace or thing that would help him guard and grow his magic, so he’d never have to fear again.

Every time he found even a glimmer, he seized it. Why shouldn’t he, if he was able? Any fae thing in human care would never be properly understood, anyway. It wasn’t long before his quest set him in the path of other exiles, though. Then - well, the same principle applied, didn’t it? They were morose, vainglorious creatures, disdainful, apathetic, always pining for the splendor of the realms they’d been cast out from, shut away in this “lesser” place they’d been cursed to wander. And what were they even doing with the magic left to them? Frittering it away on the trifles of human-ish comforts and cowardly concealment. It was a kindness, really, when he relieved them of their stale, miserable existence. Magic was to be felt, loved, exulted in; there was so very little of it left, after all. Fionn, at least, wasn’t about to let it go to waste. How serendipitous, then, that so much should appear in Raven’s Peak? He could feel it from afar, a storm of power gathering and breaking open, the sudden nearness of fae presence. Now that he’s found his way to town, he’ll do what he always does - take what he can, while he can, and have some terrible, lovely fun along the way.

EXTRAS FILLING CONNECTION: nope! INSPIRATIONS: The Gruagach from the Hellboy comics, Prince Nuada from the Guillermo del Toro Hellboy movies, the brollachan, each-uisce, and púca of folklore… https://ca.pinterest.com/jraphicpark/that-goodfellow/ ! For those puckish vibes! https://ca.pinterest.com/jraphicpark/the-fair-folk/ ! General spooky fae energy!

[ruinedbycatastrophe]

🎶 Noct/Gladio + Noct/Cor

music playlist // accepting // @chosenbythecrystal

'kill a man by james and the shame' "But that bastard will rise with the mornin' sun I'll be waitin' at that shallow grave I'll pick him up and we'll be on our way." 'honey whiskey by nothing but thieves' "But if you wanna free your body tonight It's our secret, it's our secret I think I better go before I try something I might regret." 'shameless by camila cabello' "There is tension in between us I just wanna give in And I don't care if I'm forgiven." 'we gotta get out of this place ( re:imagined ) by denmark + winter' "We gotta get out of this place Cause there's a better life For me and you." 'ocean eyes by american avenue' "I'm scared I've never fallen from quite this high Falling into your ocean eyes."

'are you with me by nilu' "But the wars of our fathers Are not ours to bear Don't give up, no not yet." 'tomorrow by daughter' "Cause I already know I'll lose you." 'fire on fire by sam smith' "I don't say a word But still, you take my breath and steal the things I know There you go, saving me from out of the cold." 'already gone by sleeping at last' "Remember all the things we wanted Now all our memories, they're haunted We were always meant to say goodbye." 'half light by banners' "When you're in the half light Oh, it is not you I see And you live a half life You only show half to me."

[prolix-yuy]

Request for your celebration:

🤗💞 Congrats againnnn!! 💞🎉😘

Ok so I have two, I'm not asking for both whatsoever.. I just wanted to throw them out there cause they came to me when I was reading through the stuff to choose from.. 😆🤗

Immortality: I was thinking Max Phillips. Since ya know he's a vampire and such.. I figured I'd suggest him since you haven't done anything for him yet, unless you got something planned.. If so completely ignore me asking for him.. 😆

The idea: I don't really know.. Only reason is, is because you do so so amazing with everyone and I've loved your iron Chef lil stories.. And I think you'd do awesome with him. A loose idea that just came to me, lol- he moves into a new town and stumbles into reader/oc and they click right away. And he is cute but cocky as always about wanting to change her cause he's already so in love with her.. Idk, you don't have to use that idea or Max, lol. 💞

Reunion: maybe Whiskey or ooo the thief from the wine commercial.. 🤔 ( don't mind the ooo part, it just came to me as I was thinking.. 😆🙈 )

With Jack, he has a childhood friend or love that they loose touch because he has to move away to go to training for statesmen. Then he comes back and sees how amazing she looks and falls in love and all that cuteness.

With the thief, he's had a partner in crime for the first few years of his thieving career, then one of them has to move or is forced to go away.. And they come back all these years later, and see how great the other is doing.. Wants to reconnect and they do, then fall in love & such.

You can use whatever you want from this. Can change around whatever or whoever goes with what idea. This is just some idea crumbs I'm gifting you, lol. 💞😆 I trust you completely, lol. 💞

Lotus these are fantastic asks! I went back and forth on what to do, but then I got a little inkling of an interesting story. Maybe not exactly what you asked for, but something I thought you'd enjoy. Plus I just watched Bloodsucking Bastards (which was SO MUCH FUN I had a blast!) and the inspiration vampire bit hard.

Negotiations

Pairing: Max Phillips x F!Reader

Summary: Max Phillips never found marketing to be all that helpful. Hell, running an ad on Facebook was easy enough. But then you walked in the door and he knew he had to have you, in all the ways he could.

Word Count: 3.3k

Warnings: T, descriptions of male and female bodies, some fantasizing and suggestive themes. While this story is not explicit, my blog and the content shared on it is 18+ MINORS DNI.

Notes: I got a crazy idea thinking about Max in an office setting that set off a chain reaction and now we're here. Thank you to the Discord besties for helping me flesh out some of the details. Enjoy!

He’s due for a drink when he first meets you, and that’s why, he tells himself, he smiled so widely, shook your hand a little longer than he meant to, and shamelessly let his eyes roam your blazer and matching skirt.

Because you smell absolutely delicious.

The HR rep droning next to him is talking, something something “marketing” something else “strategist,” he couldn’t care less but he nods like he’s listening. You smile, eyes darting between them, and he can almost feel your pulse hammering away next to your sensible neckline. He excuses himself to his office to get a quick sip in, blanching at turning the mailroom clerk who always smells faintly of onions when your hot blood is so close, so tantalizing.

Max Phillips has to have you, even just the tiniest taste. He isn’t sure what it is - do you have a rare blood type? Some exotic heritage? The perfect cocktail of supplements that makes you mouthwatering? He doesn’t know, but definitely intends to find out.

At first that's all it is, inter-office flirtations that never go further than a comment or a carefully worded question. He’ll catch you in the hall - “Marketing,” he’ll say with a nod and overly-serious voice, to which you'll roll your eyes and answer, “Sales,” in much the same way - and try to get you to stop for a moment. Most times you have places to go, strategy meetings and the like, but he's planting the seeds. As enjoyable as getting high off your scent is, he basks in the hunt just as much.

He syncs up your lunch breaks to catch you off guard, encroaching on the safe zone of the break room. The first few times people tried to come in and interrupt his careful courtship he glared at them so hard they almost swallowed their own tongues. Lunches had been uninterrupted since then.

You most likely suspect his intentions to woo you, keeping your distance for a time, but the lunch breaks are an innocent way for him to creep closer. Like a panther stalking through the underbrush, Max compliments your outfits, asks you about your work, and tries his damnedest to make you feel like the only person he sees when you walk in a room.

“Of course you’d think we’re just a cost center, your heads are so inflated I’m surprised they haven’t widened the doors,” you say over your eighth (ninth?) lunch break together while Max pretends to pick at a salad. Neither of you ever seem to eat much, preferring the pace of conversation you set - fast, ricocheting, frenetic. Plus Max has tastier things on his mind, like the soft swell of your breast peeking through the button of your blouse. He normally prefers the quick and easy method of the neck, but if he could sample you from there…well, he’d have other problems to take care of in that case.

“Well once you can tie any of your little ‘campaigns’ to some real dollars I’ll admit marketing is worth keeping around.” His tone is playful but Max studies your reaction. You smile ruefully, lacquered fingernails scraping along the shiny red skin of your apple, otherwise untouched.

“If I ever got the Max Phillips to admit marketing is useful, I’d faint.” Max tries to slide his eyes to you coyly but they dart up instead, a smile widening on his face.

“Oh yeah? Let’s up the stakes then. If you make us a sale, any amount of money, with one of your tactics in the next month, I will admit marketing is useful. But if you fail, I get to take you out to Dorne’s for dinner. And you’ll accept.” He knows he’s showing his hand too soon, rookie mistake, you gotta bring the catch in slowly, drag it out longer, tease it…

“Okay Max, that’s a deal. Shake on it?” you say, holding out your hand. Max notices a tiny tremor in it, a sparkle of excitement in your eyes. He takes your hand into his larger one, your grip firm, grounding.

It doesn’t matter to Max whether or not you win, just that he's all the closer to getting his mouth, and teeth, on you. 

He pays more attention to what’s going on in your department that month. Between the lunch visits where he tries to ascertain how it’s going (you’re tight-lipped) and his casual check-ins with sales leads (they don’t get why he cares about marketing and not sales numbers), he’s driving himself insane. He gets a few bites in before the end of the month to even out his mood, but none of them spark in his belly the way you do.

As the deadline nears, Max notices you staying a little later, blue light illuminating your face in the darkness of your office. He watches in shadow, the office empty except for the two of you. Your chin in your hand as your eyes skim the screen. The way the light spills between your breasts and dances along your collarbone. The attractive curve of your arms and legs, twisted or tapping against something as he sees the fatigue setting in. Only a thin pane of glass and darkness separates you, and the overwhelming urge to take and feed and breed surges through Max’s body. He palms his cock and finds it achingly hard, a thin choked gasp escaping his mouth.

At that moment your eyes flick up, and Max swears they land on him. It’s not possible, he’s shrouded in darkness deeper than a human eye can perceive, yet you hold your gaze and it’s eerily close. Your lips quirk up into a smile, and mouth, “Hello Max.”

He flees.

He’s not proud of it, but even the notion that you, a mortal, insignificant in any way could catch him even when he’s employed his very unique skills casts doubt over him. Has he lost his touch? Is this strange obsession making him careless? When he’s out of the building he chastises himself. You couldn’t have seen him, must have been a lucky (or unlucky) coincidence that you mouthed his name.

The tightness in his pants worsens thinking of your lips parting over the short syllables.

The next day Max walks in with a bounce in his step, however feigned it might be, and is met with an abundance of excitement. Cocking his brow and sauntering into the break room, the noise seems to be centered around you.

“I don’t think that's happened since we started!”

“Just some targeted ads, plus Marketo gathering some good leads, and of course our partnership with sales.” Max hears your voice, light and happy, as he works his way into the gaggle of warm-bloods.

“What are we celebrating?” he asks innocently, half the room shrinking away and shushing at his presence. You’re seated at the break table, a folder open in front of you. When Max makes his way closer you tap your manicured finger against the printout.

“Paid social ad with a link to a free trial led to an unsolicited call and, wouldn’t you know it, they made a decision on the spot. First marketing-led sale in company history,” you reply smugly. There on the page is a dollar amount, and it’s not insignificant. One look into your eyes, bright with accomplishment, makes everyone else fade around him. In that moment he wants nothing more than to tell you he’s impressed, proud even. Then he wants to capture your lips, smear your lipstick against his greedy mouth, and spread you out on the table. To feast or to fuck, he’s not sure which, but if his blood could still pump it would be roaring in his ears.

“Boss? We were going to go out for a drink after work to celebrate, you’re…more than welcome,” a timid voice says behind Max, but he’s still trying to pull himself back and away from the triumph in your eyes. He finally does one of those little coughs and straightens back up.

“No, that’s all right, I’ve got other plans,” he says, a knowing look cast in your direction. Your smirk softens, a slight nod sent in his direction. “Good work Marketing, I’ll have to admit…you’ve proven yourself useful.”

As the words leave his lips a strange sort of shiver runs up his back, a tickle along his tongue reminiscent of spice lingering. His head lightens for a moment before coming back to himself, blinking quickly and checking to see if anyone noticed. They’re all filing out or preoccupied with chatting. Only you are still watching him, and with a flutter of your lashes you take in a deep breath.

And Max watches you change.

It’s subtle, nothing the warm-bloods notice, but the glow in your cheeks heightens, your hair gaining additional luster and something flashes in your eyes triumphant. It’s gone in a breath, you standing and gathering your folder and passing Max with a nod and a wink.

“Feels nice to get a big win,” you murmur as you pass, and Max is left contemplating who won what here, because it seems like you gained a much greater prize. 

Max tries to occupy himself during the day, but his eyes keep sliding to the clock, waiting for the 5pm bailout as everyone heads to the bar. He counts five extra minutes and exits, and it’s no surprise that you’re still at your desk while everyone else is celebrating. A few strides have him at your office door, pushing through and shutting it behind him as you look up from your work.

“Yes?” you ask, maybe a little too innocently as Max scrutinizes your office. You put down your pen and lean back in your chair, waiting patiently until he meets your gaze.

“Are you going to be a sore loser about this? A deal’s a deal. And I’ve already cashed in.” You smile at him, a fondness he didn’t expect crinkling the corners of your eyes. But Max studied more than just business management in Romania, and he has a suspicion of what he’s looking at now. And why he’s been so drawn to you for weeks. 

“You took something I didn’t know I was giving up,” he says calmly, smoothly. Hot-headedness doesn’t benefit him here. Not when he understands his opponent now. Your face is schooled into careful contemplation, twisting in your swivel chair to regard him. 

“Doesn’t violate our deal, and I didn’t think you’d miss it. You have plenty, after all,” you chuckle, and the band in Max’s chest snaps as his assumption is confirmed. 

“I didn’t know I was making a deal with a Fae, which some could argue is a rather large omission,” Max shoots back. He expects some anger, or surprise, but instead you laugh. You goddamn laugh and Max bunches his hands into fists at his side.

“Oh Max, don’t pretend. This has nothing to do with the deal and everything to do with being deceived,” you purr, standing to stalk over to him. “After all, I was already operating at less than a full hand. Marketing can be a challenge, but I do like the glamor of it.” 

As you sweep your hand at the word glamor the facade shimmers for a brief moment. The shine of your eyes is now iridescent like the surface of a soap bubble, pupiless and radiant. Shiny translucent wings flutter so quickly in the corner of his eye that Max can barely see them, the low buzz of their vibration now reaching his ears. You reach up to smooth his lapel and the overwhelming scent of forest rot, new growth, decay and rebirth assault his senses. Shaking his head, he attempts to step back but his legs lock up. He knows before he sees the ring of mushrooms, hidden from a mortal's view, surrounding your desk.

Fairy circle.

He’s so fucked.

“I don’t suppose we can part ways and let each other be? You go forth creating your little army of vamp sales reps and I continue charming customers through the door? It seems like a perfect partnership, Max, one I hoped for from the first day.” The fresh scent of spring permeates the room, your face turned up to him. He shakes his head to clear it.

“Thought the Fae liked contracts,” he shoots back, struggling for even footing in your home turf. You shrug, leaning back against the edge of your desk.

“Some do. I have lots of family in legal, a few in sales like you. Me, I found that all boring. A quick and dirty deal over a handshake - now that's my kind of magic. Plus pride is such an intoxicating emotion, and oh so many deals are won and lost over it.” The stimulation of being in your presence causes Max to lash out, fangs baring as he reaches to capture your wrists. One hand held up to his chest stops him cold. The fairy circle is working against him.

“Now there’s no need to get rude, I thought we were having a nice time? All of our talks, our lunches together. I could tell you wanted me,” you tease, dragging a finger down the solid line of his broad chest, fingers dipping over the shirt buttons. “I imagine my glamored form smells delicious. Something about the secret always makes it sweeter.” You trail your fingers back up his chest and lightly stroke along his jawline. The muscles bulge and twist below. 

“Thought about ripping your throat out and gorging myself,” Max spits out, fighting against your restraints. He wants to run, he’s been outmatched and outplayed, but his inability to think beyond his bottom line made him miss yours, and now he’s paying for it. 

“Well we won’t be doing any of that. But I know you want me in other ways. Could practically smell your arousal last night, when you were watching me.” Max’s face heats up - you did see him, of course you did - as you guide his head down to meet yours. You brush your nose against his beautifully curved on. “Let’s put this little outburst aside and taste each other in a different way.” Your lips graze his earlobe, a light drag against his cheek. But his pride, what’s left of it since you fed, can’t let him have this.

“And what’s the deal for that, Fae? What do you need to take on while you deprive me? While you deceive me.” 

You step back, your face falling visibly. Max’s win is short lived, and nowhere near triumphant. 

“Is that what you think this is about?” you murmur. Then anger, hot as sun-baked stone glows beneath your glamor. “Did I ask for your memories? For a promise of fealty, or an impossible task? My brethren would not have been so kind. I took a sip from an overflowing cup, your limitless pride, and you call it deception.” Max feels his invisible bonds loosen as you move to the side of the desk, leaning against it and massaging your temples. As fast as the anger came it dissipates, and all Max can smell is the electricity of a storm before the first strike. 

“You fooled me,” he admits, as much as it tears into his chest to say it. “I don’t like being the last to know when a deal's rigged.”

Your smile is rueful, and a physical push against his chest. Max stumbles out of the fairy ring, strength and agency returning to him. He waits for the fury to build again, but your profile is lined with aching exhaustion, and sadness. It sucks the wind from his sails.

“You were the first one to know, Max, not the last. I had no machinations in place after the deal we made.” You pause, a hitch in your breath. “I thought…” Another breath, steadier now. “It doesn’t matter. I don’t think this was the right fit for me after all.” You turn your head to look at Max, and that desire to be close to you, to make you his, the need for you that existed behind the feeding pulls to the front.

“Wait, let’s just…” Max starts to say, but the regretful look you give him is the last thing he sees before a crackle of static and light sweeps you from your office.

The freak lightning storm fades into the background of Max’s employees’ minds, as well as their memory of you. HR sends a memo that you had to leave suddenly for a family emergency, but Max knows he drove you away. 

He tries not to dwell on it, on you. You, with the smile that makes his heart flutter. You, who challenged him with your quips and banter. You, who were so much more than he anticipated and now…he misses. 

He shouldn’t. He should chalk himself up as lucky that he didn’t make a more dangerous deal, that you only took something small and that he had plenty of. All he’d ever been told about the Fae was how cunning they were, that their mouth always spoke two languages at once and what you should never say or do.

Never make a deal.

Never desire to hold one, especially not against its wishes.

Never call upon one, even in your darkest times.

And never let one see what you desire most of all. 

It takes three weeks for Max to pull down the blue dish from his top shelf. He slowly drizzles honey into opaque milk, setting it on an open windowsill in his apartment. He then lays on his couch, back to the plate, and thinks of you.

It takes less time than he thought. That makes him smile.

“I didn’t expect you for several hours.”

The slow sip of the milk and honey lasts a moment before he hears the dish placed back on the sill. 

“Maybe I was thinking of you.”

The tightening in his chest elicits a cough, a return to composure, but he was always going to be at a disadvantage with you.

“Nice to know I still have that effect even on non-humans,” he tries to chuckle. Silence meets him.

“What do you want, Max? Your pride back? It’s practically overflowing again, you’re like a never-ending buffet of self-confidence.” He does laugh at that, letting his head thump against the couch armrest. Your shadow slinks across his floor, shimmering ever so slightly.

“I’m sorry. I was angry. Not just about the deal, but that I didn’t win.” Max shifts uncomfortably on the couch, feeling your eyes on him. This is a level of vulnerability he gives no one, and he’s showing you his belly in the most humiliating way. “I was planning to taste you, I’m not gonna lie about that, but I was also looking forward to…ah, well, to taking you out to Dorne’s. I thought you’d look nice in candlelight. And they have a killer tres leches cake. And…maybe if I played my cards right, you’d let me kiss you.” Max’s mouth finally stops. And waits. When you don’t say anything he closes his eyes and scrubs his hand over his forehead. 

“Yeah, I’ve fucked this up, you can just…” he starts to say, then two cool hands wrap around his wrists, pressing them down beside his head. His eyes fly open to find you sliding down to straddle his waist, eyes locked onto his mouth as his lips part. You're in something lighter, a flowing dress that drapes over his lap and slides over your curves as you settle on him.

“You called me and I came to hear you out,” you say, leaning down to brush your lips over his softly. “Now, you did piss me off something fierce, but I’m willing to let it go in return for something you can offer me.” The warmth of your body against his and the loosening of your fingers lets him envelope you in his arms. 

“Are you looking to make another deal?” he whispers against your skin.

“More like a challenge. I do know how much you like those.” 

He surges up to devour your lips, palming your lower back and crushing you against him. The delightful moan you plant in his mouth has him rocking against your heat recklessly.

 “What is it then?”

“Make it up to me.”

END

[tropes-and-tales]

Tropes and Tales Masterlist

Den of Thieves

• Benny “Borracho” Magalon

• Ray Merrimen

Law and Order:  SVU

• Nick Amaro

• Mike Duarte

Mayans MC

• Obispo “Bishop” Losa

• Angel Reyes

The (Extended) Star Wars Universe

• Poe Dameron

• Din Djarin / The Mandalorian

Top Gun:  Maverick

• Lieutenant Robert “Bob” Floyd

• Vice Admiral Beau “Cyclone” Simpson

Triple Frontier

• Santiago “Pope” Garcia

• Frankie “Catfish” Morales

Others

• Rhett Abbott (”Outer Range”)

• James “Bucky” Barnes (”Marvel Cinematic Universe”)

• Call of Duty:  Modern Warfare (Ghost, König, Soap, et. al)

• Colonel Horacio Carrillo (”Narcos”)

• Adrian Chase / Vigilante (”Peacemaker”)

• Jack Daniels / Agent Whiskey (”The Kingsmen”)

• Sheriff Hassan (”Midnight Mass”)

• Richie Jerimovich (”The Bear”)

• Max Lord (”Wonder Woman 1984″)

• Oberyn Martell (”Game of Thrones”)

• Joel Miller (”The Last of Us”)

• Marcus Moreno (”We Can Be Heroes”)

• Richard Muñoz (”The Letter Room”)

• Max Phillips (”Bloodsucking Bastards”)

• Marcus Pike (”The Mentalist”)

• Predator/Yautja (”The Predator” franchise)

• Pero Tovar (”The Great Wall”)

• Dave York (”The Equalizer 2″)

Writing Events

• Kinktober 2024 (Clearing the Inbox)

• Winter Prompts 2023

• Kinktober 2023

• Winter Writing Prompts 2022

• Kinktober 2022

• December Writing Challenge 2021

• Kinktober 2021

• Candy Heart Bingo 2021

Archived Stories

(For Rafael Barba, Sonny Carisi, Bryan Kneef, Nevada Ramirez, and Frederick Chilton)

• Tropes and Tales Archives

[grizzledyoungimpact]

Pairing: Chuck Taylor/Trent Baretta Quote: It wasn’t a dream, father. I really did meet her. Verse: Mafia This one is a continuation of this

Chuck Taylor was a fighter. He always had been.

Growing up in Kentucky, he had always had to fight. Chuck fought for a place at the table, both for food and for the respect of the rest of his large family. As soon as it was evident that he’d never get that respect, he had taken himself away from the norm and familiarity of his home state for the excitement of New York City. In New York, it had been a fight that introduced him to Trent Baretta. It had started with the two men arguing and fighting with each other as competing thieves before setting everything aside and fighting for each other in the trenches of war.

Once they returned home, Chuck and Trent had begun to fight the law.

It had started small, petty theft as they had done before. That had simply gotten the two in trouble with a bigger entity, a mob boss named Benjamin Slatterly, a man the streets referred to as The Bastard. They had attempted to pick his pocket and, when caught, were compelled to make a deal to save their hides. Chuck had offered his family whiskey recipe, offering to still and deliver it with Trent and new friend Jamie Cassidy, who they referred to as Orange. Slatterly had accepted that seeing as his wife Raemona ran a speakeasy of her own.

That would have been easy enough had Chuck steered clear of his main vice: his own love for the drink. The vice was small enough in the beginning, but after the war, it had only gotten worse. In the end, it was what had led to his current situation. Chuck had cost Slatterly too much money and Slatterly had laid a hit out on the man. Had it not been for the love of Slatterly’s daughter, Cherry, and her help with getting out of town, the boys knew that they would have been dead sooner rather than later.

And still, Chuck had ended up in this situation.

Chuck had trusted an old friend from the war, Bryan Danielson, enough to go out to meet the man. He was unaware of Bryan’s allegiance to Slatterly’s father, William Regal, until it was too late. He had gotten sicker and sicker over the course of their dinner, Bryan poisoning the other man over time. Bryan had finally dropped Chuck off with Trent and Orange as a warning to the trio not to get too comfortable.

 But Chuck Taylor was a fighter.

With a wheezing breath, the Kentucky gentleman opened his eyes, only barely, to look around the room. His bedroom, its safety, was more well kept than he remembered. A vase of brightly colored flowers sat on his bedside table. His normally shut bedroom window was open, allowing a breeze of fresh air. But his eyes were drawn to the man who sat at the bedside, hunched over with his head in his hands.

There was no mistaking his Trent.

Chuck had always loved the fashionable man. His suits were always well pressed, his tie always the brightest colors and tied proudly around his neck. Everything seemed to hug his muscles in a way that Chuck Taylor couldn’t ignore. But now? The suit was disheveled and his tie was loose, almost as if it weren’t tied at all around his neck. Trent must have been worried and Chuck could only just hear his voice. He was praying. “Never been a man of faith, but…please don’t take him. I…I couldn’t dream of a world without him, a world where I never met him…”

“It ain’t a dream, father. Ya really did meet me,” Chuck teased, his voice hoarse from lack of use. A soft smirk took the young man’s lips as he watched Trent’s head pop up from his hands. His eyes were red, tears streaming down his cheeks bearing a scruffy beard. Trent let out a surprised gasp, jumping to his feet.

“Chuck…Ch…” Trent stammered, before practically running to the bedroom door. He tossed it open quickly, shouting down the hall, “He’s awake! Chuck’s awake!”

“Hey, hey not too loud,” Chuck chuckled, wincing in pain. His head still pounded and his chest felt tight, painfully so. “How long have I been out?”

Trent sat on the edge of the bed, his hand placed over the top of Chuck’s, “Too long, Chuckie. Don’t you ever scare me like this again, capiche?”

“Trent, you know I don’t make promises I can’t keep.”

[blackacre13]

kinda specific so bare with lol.

protective!lou defending debbie ends up in physical fight after breaking free of the people trying to hold her back, maybe a few girls from the team or some of dannys guys.

This is such a random response to your prompt, but I feel like Debbie’s pent up sadness, confusion and rage at not knowing if Danny is dead or alive and finally finding out would be something that Lou is actually the one holding onto more and reacts like this and becomes angry/Protective!Lou. So hopefully that seems in character as weird as this may seem😂

“Oh, Lou is not going to like this,” Amita sighed, closing her eyes as she pinched the bridge of her nose.

“I thought you were dead, you bastard,” Debbie hissed. She was absolutely fuming. She and Danny were circling each other in the living room like sharks. And there was plenty of chum in the water riling them up, a frenzy not too far off.

“I mean a hug would be nice, Deb,” Danny laughed. “I was a ghost to you a few hours ago.”

“You missed my wedding,” Debbie seethed. “You know how badly I wanted you there for me. For Lou.”

“Where is your wife, actually?” Danny asked, scanning the room. “I don’t see that traitor anywhere.”

“This is not gonna be good,” Linus whispered, ducking lower on the couch. Constance passed him her Mountain Dew he threw back like a glass of whiskey.

“Traitor?” Daphne mouthed, looking at Tammy in confusion.

“Danny—I may have skewed the truth a bit while I was locked up,” Debbie admitted sheepishly. “I needed you to be on my side and well, in reality…I may have been the one who walked out on Lou.”

“You. WHAT?” Danny yelled. “Tell me you did not leave her high and dry and go running into the arms of that bastard who sent you to prison.”

“Danny,” Debbie sighed. “Can we just—“

“Why don’t you tell him how you used Yen to carry out the most important part of your plan?” Frank tossed him.

“You didn’t,” Basher balked, his mouth hanging open.

"Most important?" Daphne scoffed. "Please."

“You stole someone from my crew for your job and didn’t tell me!” Danny yelled. “You didn’t even fucking ask me.”

“You were dead, Danny! What was I supposed to do? Nail a note into the marble of the mausoleum and hope you saw it?”

Danny raised a fist, his face turning red.

“Hey, hey, hey!” Nine yelled. “You gonna hit a lady? Seriously?”

“Danny, that’s your sister,” Livingston mumbled.

“Blood or not, she knows the rules. You don’t cross an Ocean,” Danny hissed.

“You. Were. Dead. Danny. What the hell was I supposed to do?” Debbie yelled, throwing her hands up.

“You don’t con a con, Debbie,” Danny groaned. “Especially one you used to run with. Thick as thieves, come on. This is elementary school shit."

“Then what the fuck do you call conning your sister, your ex wife, your parents, your team and your sister-in-law into thinking you’re dead, hm? Sounds like conning a con to me,” Debbie tossed back, getting right up in his face.

“Now might be the time to remind you both that you both follow the cardinal rule that you don’t hurt innocent bystanders?” Tammy suggested.

“God, where is Lou?” Linus breathed, closing his eyes.

As if on cue, the blonde stormed into the loft, the door swinging wildly as boots stomped across the floor in angry clicks and a bike helmet was tossed haphazardly towards the zone of the couches, Constance catching it above her head, with worried eyes.

“You wanna tell me what the fuck is going on here?” Lou asked, her eyes narrowing in on Rusty.

“And there’s the lovely bride, now,” Danny smirked. “Groom? Partner? Not sure what you all are using these days. Forgive me if I'm a little behind the transition from non-dating dating partners for thirty years turned wives.”

“Oh,” Lou laughed maniacally. “So, you’re alive. Didn’t find that important to share with Deb?”

“Baby, don’t,” Debbie murmured, taking Lou’s hand.

Lou shook her head, protective mode already on as she glared at Danny. ��As for what you can call me? I’m gonna be a real fucking problem for you if you’re planning to do something to hurt Debbie.”

“You know,” Danny sighed to the room. “At least Rust gave me a welcome back before he punched me.”

“Don’t even get me started on him,” Lou breathed. “I’m sure he knew all about this. Didn’t you?”

“Lou, I swear—“ Rusty muttered, holding his hands up in defense.

“Don’t. Speak.”

“Come on, Louise,” Danny laughed. “So I played dead for a bit and I missed your little party. It’s not that big a—“

But Lou’s fist met with Danny’s face, blood gushing from his nose, bruises already starting to bloom between his nose and eyes and he was unable to finish his sentence.

“Debbie, go!” Lou demanded, shielding her with her body. Tammy scurried over to move Debbie away from the scene, but Nine and Constance were up and walking trying to pull Lou back herself.

“I’m not gonna hit you, Lou,” Danny sighed, shaking his face and grunting as he sprinkled blood on the floor, but Rusty and Frank moved forward, rolling up their sleeves before moving Nine Ball and Constance out of the way too easily to hold back Lou.

“I’ll fucking kill you, Ocean!” Lou yelled, kicking her booted feet at him, her abs sliding out of her shirt and leather jacket, as Rusty and Frank tried to hoist her up and back, losing their grip on her as she tried to kick and fight her way from their grasp.

“Is now a bad time to remind Lou that her last name is also Ocean, now?” Constance whispered.

“Don’t think she gonna care much, Con,” Nine sighed.

The blonde managed to wriggle free from Frank’s hold, ignoring Rusty’s hands that switched to grab both arms behind her back like he was about to cuff her, opting to knee Danny in the balls instead as he let out a “Fucking hell, Miller!”

“It’s Ocean now, actually, brother dearest,” Lou smiled sickeningly sweet, swinging her head to the left to get the now sweaty bangs out of her eyes. “You can let go of me now, Rusty. I think I’ve welcomed Danny back the proper way for me and Debs both.”

“Dude,” Virgil laughed, speaking up for the first time. “Danny, how’d you let this one walk from our team and go off with Deb? Could use a feisty chick like her.”

“Virgil, I will cut your balls clean off,” Lou hissed as Rusty released her hands and pat her on the back with a sigh.

“It would be an honor,” Virgil grinned.

[cagestark]

The Rest it Kills

About this: ballerina!peter and mobster!tony. Starker. Physical and emotional between established quentin beck/peter parker. 

THIS IS UNFINISHED. Anyone is welcome to continue it. 

-

“FRIDAY, baby? Do you have the shot?”

-

It’s a celebration, which does nothing to explain why the room gets quiet as soon as Tony enters it. Around the table are four of his best and brightest, the handful of underlings that were instrumental in helping Tony execute his vision of how to repay Adrian Toomes for encroaching upon his weapons market. For a job well done, he’d invited them up to the penthouse to have at his expensive collection of spirits. 

He’d left them alone for only a half hour to make a few calls, but now upon his return they were shifty eyed and babbling about something inconsequential, a sure sign that they had hastily changed the subject. 

“Alright,” Tony says, pouring himself a glass of scotch. “Out with it. I’m a paranoid bastard at best. At worst?—well. Ask Toomes.” 

“It’s nothing bad, Tony,” Rogers says. If the fact that Rogers hadn’t told a lie his entire life didn’t put Tony at ease, then his clear eyes and voice did. Rogers was his number two, and they got on thick as thieves. He’s about as likely to lie to Tony as the sun is not to rise.

“Then I’m not angry,” Tony says, taking the empty seat. “But now I’m curious. Which is worse?” 

“Angry,” Wilson says in that deadpan way that Tony just adores. 

“Come on, don’t leave me in suspense,” Tony says, finishing his scotch with a single gulp. He pours himself another. 

It’s Romanov who—doesn’t break, per say. Tony isn’t convinced that there’s anything that could break Natasha, though if they were on opposite sides, he might have a few places he’d be willing to start. She must weigh the pros and cons and decide that letting Tony in on their little secret is the best move. Whether it’s best for her, for them, or for someone else, Tony can’t say. 

She shifts and pulls out a piece of paper folded in half and tosses it across the table. Barnes and Rogers groan. 

“Nat, you rat,” Barnes says. 

“Wow,” she says, eyes glittering. “That rhymed, Bucky. It was beautiful.” 

“What the fuck is this?” Tony wonders out loud as he unfolds the paper. It turns out to be nothing extraordinary. It’s a program for the New York City Ballet. The ballet is something new by Ratmansky, with principal dancers MAXIMOFF/PARKER. “Ballet? Taking up a new hobby, Barnes?” 

“I thought I’d look great in the tights,” is all Barnes says. A deflection if Tony’s ever heard one. 

“Their boy toy is the lead,” Romanov admits (to fresh groaning from around the table). 

Tony’s eyebrows raise. “Boy toy? All three of you?” 

“We are in the process of wooing him, so to speak,” Wilson admits, taking a swig from the bottle in front of him. “Barnes and Rogers might be willing to tag team him, but I want him all for myself.” 

Rogers’s eyes flash, cold steel in the overhead lights. “Watch the way you’re talking about Peter. He’s not a piece of meat to be shared.” 

“This is a goddamn episode of the Bachelor,” Tony laughs. “Which one is Peter: Maximoff or Parker?” 

“Parker,” all four chime together. 

“I feel like a father whose kids are going out on their first date. Are you buying him flowers? Are you opening the car door for him? Are you being safe?” Tony jests. He leans back in his chair feeling the warm thrum of the scotch in his stomach, glancing from one besotted man to the next.

“All that and more,” Barnes says. Then, with more than a little bitterness: “It’s the way he deserves to be treated.” 

Tony lifts his brows. Natasha slides him the deck of cards so that he can shuffle. He’ll lose, especially once he’s as drunk as he hopes to be, but there’s no amount of money he could lose to them that wouldn’t amount to pocket change in his book. Consider it their bonus. As he deals, he asks, “Trouble in paradise?”

“You could say that,” Wilson mutters. “He’s not exactly on the market.”

“Never took you for a homewrecker, Rogers. Barnes maybe—“

“Hardly a home to wreck,” Barnes admits. “Not a happy one, at least. Pete’s boyfriend is a perverted, abusive low life.”

Tony goes stiff. The buzzing in his gut transfers to his brain, raw as the sizzle of electricity. In his mind, he sees himself as a young boy sitting cross-legged by the vanity in his mother’s room watching her apply creams and powders to disguise Howard’s abuse. All the heinous crimes Tony commits, that one is not among them. He doesn’t prey on the weak. It’s the only promise to his mother that he’s never broken. 

“So, take care of him,” Tony says lowly. “Do you or do you not have certain skills and the balls to use them? You could kill this boyfriend and have it look like a hundred different accidents. What’s the problem here? Do you need daddy’s permission or something? Well, here, I’m giving it.”

Rogers scowls darkly at his hand. “You wouldn’t understand.”

“Wouldn’t I? Regale me, then! Because it sounds to me like I’m sitting around the table with a bunch of pussies.”

“Peter asked us not to,” Barnes says. 

Tony blinks. “Is—is that it? Good God. Definitely a bunch of pussies. Kill the bastard anyway. If you can’t stomach it; if you don’t want your boy toy mad at you, give me a name and I’ll do it. It can be done before we’re four rounds into poker, for fuck’s sake.”

“It’s not like we don’t have the stomach for it,” Wilson says. He’s the newest of their crew, but Tony appreciates his fearlessness, the open, unabashed expression he gives Tony when calling him out on perceived bullshit. “It’s about respect, man. We respect Peter’s wishes, and he trusts us because of it.”

The form of respect Tony is most acquainted with is fear. This softness he sees in his men right now translates to nothing short of weakness. Tony has never lived in a fairytale: the world is hard, and it makes hard people. 

The rest, it kills. 

“It’s complicated,” Rogers says to soothe Tony’s hackles. “If you knew the kid, you’d understand I think.”

“Now you’ve gone and done it,” Barnes mutters. There’s movement underneath the table: one person kicking another, everyone jolting to get their legs out of the way. Barnes looks like he’s sucked on a lemon, or taken a shot of Nat’s imported whiskey. “Now he’s gonna go see Pete for himself and none of us will have a chance.” 

-

As it is, Tony doesn’t have to lift a finger to meet Peter because Peter comes to him. 

-

Tony knows the benefit of giving his men a nice long leash. 

He doesn’t have to. With them living in the Tower, it’s within his rights to keep surveillance on all of them; except he knows that distrust breeds distrust. Wilson, Romanov, Rogers, and Barnes have earned his trust. For that reason alone, he removed the wiretaps and cameras in their rooms upon their arrivals. 

But it’s still his home, and he watches it. Closely. Tony has just poured his third glass of scotch when FRIDAY alerts him that there’s an unauthorized presence in the Tower.

“Unescorted?” Tony asks. His blood thrums—this is the most exciting thing to happen all day. 

“Mr. Rogers and Mr. Barnes are the ones who granted him entrance using Mr. Roger’s passcode, and they appear to be returning to Mr. Rogers apartment, judging by the floor number selected in the private elevator.” 

Tony rolls his eyes, relaxing back in his chair. “A fuck, baby?” 

Tony has asked them not to entertain guests at the Tower without his authorization, but Tony was young once. He knew the thrill of breaking rules, how good forbidden, casual sex could feel. He wouldn’t put it past Rogers and Barnes to have grown bored, considering they’ve been dicking each other down since they were teens. Just thinking about twenty years of monogamy has his cock shriveling. If they’re just bringing home someone to bend between them and spitroast, Tony’s not going to bother abandoning his scotch. 

“Judging by the young man’s level of inebriation, I would hope not.” 

Groaning, Tony sets his scotch aside. He gives it a mournful glance while he steps into a pair of jeans and straps up. “I’m coming back for you, baby,” he whispers. “Wait for me. Take no other lover. Fuck, I hate wasting my humor on an empty room.” 

“I’m here, boss,” FRI offers. 

Tony rolls his eyes.

-

When he knocks on Steve’s (Steve and Bucky’s apartment, considering how much time Bucky spends there) at fifteen minutes ‘til midnight on a Thursday, he would usually expect a bleary-eyed blonde to crack the door open, a dark apartment the backdrop behind him. Instead, the door opens and light floods out into the hallway. Steve is dressed in his pajamas, that is to say that he’s wearing only a pair of pajama pants that cling to his hipbones for dear fucking life. 

“FRI said there’s someone in my building and they’re drunker than I am. Don’t you know that’s a crime?” Tony asks, leaning against the doorframe. The cock of his hip emphasizes where his gun rests, but Steve’s eyes don’t even flicker to it. 

Nonplussed, Steve just steps aside to give Tony room to enter. 

Slumped on the sofa, bundled underneath a large blanket is a young man. Handsome, his face is a testament to masculinity: cut jaw, straight nose, flat brows and thin lips. The only hint of estrogen is the clear, smooth skin that looks like he’s never grown facial hair in his life. Right away, Tony places his bets that he knows who this kid is.

Peter Parker is resplendent, large brown eyes that blink sluggishly, dragging all over Tony’s figure like his eyes can’t decide where to rest. Sitting up, the blanket falls away and reveals his naked chest which Tony eyes with appreciation. He has the optimal figure for a ballerino, obvious strength that is lean and not bulky. 

One of the thin lips is split, bruise blooming like the most tender flower beside his mouth. The wound opens when the kid’s mouth falls open. 

“Ohmygod,” he slurs, elbows shaking from lack of strength. He collapses back onto the comfortable couch. “Tony Stark is here.”

Were he not so sobered by the kid’s appearance, the bruises and blood and the red-rimmed eyes and raw mouth, he might be charmed. Bucky appears dressed no more than Steve and Tony, a glass of water in his hand. He helps Peter sit up and coaxes him to drink from the glass. Every other sip, Peter gets distracted, gaping from naked chest to naked chest. At one point, he falls asleep propped up on Bucky’s shoulder. 

“He’s not drunk,” Tony says, standing back with Steve while they watch Bucky try to coax the kid into consciousness. “Drugged?” 

Steve hums. A muscle in his jaw jumps from how he’s grinding it. “It’s not the first time. Beck and Peter have different tastes in the bedroom. Peter has mentioned before that sometimes after their date nights, he wakes up sore.”

“Jesus fucking Christ. And you haven’t killed this guy, yet?” 

Steve looks downright tortured. He does it well; Tony’s always thought of him as a bit of a melodramatic. “Peter would never see us again if we did. We have to decide between being around to support and protect him or not being around at all.” 

“If Beck was dead,” Tony says coldly. “There’d be nothing to protect him from.” 

“James,” Peter groans, losing and finding purpose again during the middle of the word. “Tony Stark is here!” 

“In the flesh, kid,” Tony says, stepping forward. Peter’s eyes trace down Tony’s chest, tracing the matting of scars over his sternum before dipping over his abs (nowhere near as pronounced as Barnes or Rogers’s, but Tony does alright). The kid licks his lips. He can’t help but preen a little, winking at Bucky who is rolling his eyes. “

The curiosity has been planted like a seed deep inside Tony’s mind. It sprouts, soaking up thoughts until it’s the only thing he can think about, Peter Parker, principal dancer, owner of three of his best-men’s hearts. 

It leads Tony here, to the best seats money can’t even buy at the Lincoln Center in Manhattan, dressed in his best tuxedo, dark eyes focused on the curtain that glows gold. His heart pounds when it withdraws on a dark, empty stage, though he hardly knows why. 

By the end, he has a better idea. 

There’s no hiding a single sharp line or sensual curve in the outfits they wear onstage, the pale tights and leotards. There is nothing soft about him save for his curls, but still he leaps and lands silent on his canvas-clad feet. The dance is obviously based around Maximoff’s character with Peter there as her supporting love interest, but even when the red-head bewitches the audience with her fouettés, Tony can’t take his eyes off of Peter’s figure, bowed at the edge of the stage and watching her with the sweetest supplication. When it is time for his own variation, he leaps and bows with a boneless grace that does more than take Tony’s breath away. It makes him hard. It makes him think about those long, strong legs wrapped around his waist while he gives the boy his cock. It makes him think about peeling those tights off and wrapping them around the dainty, pale wrists. It’s a good thing no one can see his erection behind the wall of his box seat when they all stand to give their ovation. 

Peter bows and flushes, hand in hand with Maximoff before standing behind her sweetly while the entire place howls for her. 

Tony thinks that maybe he’s starting to understand. 

-

No one bothers him where he leans against the wall beside Peter’s dressing room door. Whether it is his reputation or his thunderous expression, he knows not, but he’s grateful for the lack of distractions while he eavesdrops on the conversation taking place inside the dressing room between Peter and a man Peter calls Quent. 

—work harder in the gym. Have you been tracking your calories on the app we downloaded together? 

Yes, Quent, Peter mumbles, barely audible through the walls. 

All of them? 

I said yes.

Don’t get defensive, babe. I had three different audience members come to talk to me about your figure tonight. It pisses me off too! If you’re ready to leave the industry—

You know I’m not.

Quentin sighs, the long-suffering sigh of an argument that has been often visited. I know. This is your dream. Poor baby. It must be so tough, loving a job that hurts you so much. But I’m so proud of you for pushing through, Peter, you know that, right? I just wish you were a little more grateful to me for trying to keep you on the right track. You treat me like the bad guy.

Peter doesn’t respond. 

Is there anything you need before I go? How’s your back feeling? Your lifts looked a little strained towards the end.

Feels okay. I’ve got everything I need back at my apartment. I’ll go home and put my feet up. 

You deserve it. Just don’t forget to use that app okay? There’s a rustle, a struggle, maybe Peter trying to pull away. But Tony’s always had an overactive imagination. Hey. Don’t be like that. I love you. 

You too.

Peter. Say it right. 

Tony slips away from the door before Quentin can come out. From his place around the corner, Tony still has decent vantage to put eyes on this man for himself. Average height, average weight. Fit enough—for a civilian. Tony’s hands positively ache for a gun. Though he’s carrying, he’s no fool. Now isn’t the time, nor the place.

Once he’s sure the man is gone and not returning, Tony makes his way back to the door. It’s time to meet this young talent from Queens (yeah, Tony read the brochure) for himself. But when Tony goes to lift his hand to knock, the door swings open.

Peter blinks in surprise. He’s dressed in gray leggings that look soft as cashmere, a NYDC hoodie on, sneakers on his feet. Spilling from the sneakers’ tops are black fuzzy socks, meant to keep his toes warm from the cold New York weather. 

He’s limping. 

And gaping. It never gets old, seeing the way his reputation precedes him. He loves the way the crowds part for him on the street, loves the way waiters and waitresses stammer and struggle to serve him, the way eyes grow wide like Tony is a god in the flesh. 

Tony extends a hand. “I’m Tony Stark. It’s a pleasure to meet you; you’re a very talented dancer.” 

“Hi,” Peter breathes, taking Tony’s hand. Tony grips gently, feeling like he’s liable to break bones, the kid’s so fucking delicate. And cold. But Tony knows the saying: cold hands, warm heart. He wonders what that makes him. Peter works to regain himself, saying, “Trust me, I know who you are. It’s so nice to meet you. Thank you—they didn’t tell me that anyone important was going to be in the audience.” 

“They who?” Tony asks. “Your managers, or my men?” 

Peter swallows, face draining of blood. As much as Tony likes these games, they aren’t as enjoyable when the worm on his hook is as pretty and polite as Peter is. He puts on his most charming (softest) smile and makes sure to ask, gesturing to the messy dressing room behind him, may I come in?

Nodding, Peter opens the door wider. They both ignore how he was clearly on his way out, a backpack in his hands. He sits it down carefully by the vanity where he applied his stage makeup and seats himself on the chair, nudging his shoes off. When he stretches the arches of his feet, he winces. Tony gives him a moment to settle, stepping around the tiny room and taking in the smells and sights. On one wall is a picture of Peter and Quentin, arms around each other, beaming. 

“Mr. Stark?” Peter asks, voice quiet. Tony glances over at him. “Are your—men in trouble?” 

“No,” Tony admits. “If they were, I certainly wouldn’t be here watching ballet; I’d be...busy.” 

Peter sags in relief. The way his shoulders hunch throw his collar bones into sharp prominence where they peek out from the neck of his sweatshirt. “Oh thank God. They’re so nice, Mr. Stark, and I promise they don’t tell me anything about their—your work. James still insists that he works for some guy named Potts in New Jersey. Who’s Tony Stank, he asked me when I brought you up.” 

Tony lets his lips twitch. “James’s middle name is Buchanan. Some call him Bucky. Tell him I said: now we’re even.” 

Peter grins and it’s radiant. Tony feels an unsteadiness in his gut, like missing a step on the stairs or hearing a gunshot go off when he’s not been the one to pull the trigger. There’s just the gentlest stirring of jealousy when Peter mouths the name, Bucky, testing the way it tastes and wrinkling his nose in laughter. 

“I can’t wait to see the look on his face,” Peter says. “Thank you, Mr. Stark.” 

Now might be the time to offer to let the kid use his given name but—Tony’s kind of into it. A few more instances of Mr. Stark rolling off that polished tongue might have Tony hardening in his tux. “Take a picture for me,” Tony suggests, sitting down on the cozy loveseat that is opposite of Peter’s vanity. 

“You said—you enjoyed the show?” Peter asks, demure. The sleeves of his sweatshirt pass his wrists and most of his palms, turning his hands into adorable little sweater-paws. When he reaches up to bite at a nail, the sleeve slips down past his tiny wrist. Tony could surely wrap an entire hand around that wrist and have more to spare. 

“It was incredible,” Tony admits. “I don’t usually have the attention span to sit through longer shows, but I was hooked from curtain rise to curtain fall, kid.” 

Peter flushes, not so much in embarrassment as he does from the pleasure of being complimented. The flush of the drunk, though it seems Peter’s poison of choice is praise. Tony can’t help but want to spread him out on the sheets in his bedroom and say the sweetest, filthiest things to see if he can get the kid hard with just his voice. “I’m so glad. There hasn’t been as much press; new shows are always a little slow to take off. Wanda really is something special, though. She spent a season overseas and came back with so much more grace and growth—” 

“Did she do well tonight?” Tony asks, unbuttoning the top button on his jacket to reveal the trim waist and vest beneath. He realizes what he’s doing just as the words are coming out of his mouth. Tony is flirting with Peter, and his flirtation is a force of nature. “I barely noticed her. Couldn’t take my eyes off of you, kid. How the hell you manage to dance that way, I can’t fathom.” 

Now the flush hints at being flustered. He soaks in the way Peter’s face darkens, the way he hides behind one of his hands as the praise makes his posture go soft and waxy. His voice is remarkably even when he says, “Lots and lots of practice.” 

“Your hard work pays off. I was captivated. I could tell that my men were the same.” 

That topic sobers Peter, who sits up straighter. His pretty face twists, the question mark clear, the confusion too genuine for Tony to take it disrespectfully. On the contrary, Tony finds his forthrightness attractive when he asks, “Why did you come tonight, Mr. Stark?” 

“I came to see what it was about you that has my men so enthralled,” Tony admits. With the kind of power he has comes the freedom to be honest, even painfully, brutally  honest, because repercussions are either minimal or nonexistent. 

“Did you figure it out?” Peter asks. Tony can’t help but feel like the kid is asking him for the both of them: what is it so special about me? Yes, this boy is fragile. That can’t be overlooked. But inside of him there’s still a spark of spirit ready to alight at any moment, grateful for any tinder that it’s given. He’s not Maria Stark. Not yet. 

“Yes,” Tony says, standing. He rebuttons his jacket. “And I’d like very much to get to know you better, if you’re agreeable.” 

“Me?” Peter’s head cocks, squinting up at Tony like he’s trying to see through him, to see what is really being said. “Why?”

Tony is used to letting his baser instincts guide him. He fucks who he wants, goes where he wants, says what he wants, and he owes no one alive an explanation for it. Many people have stopped asking Tony questions like why? Certainly none of Toomes’s men asked Tony why when he was torturing them forty-eight hours ago. 

“Because I want to,” Tony says. He reaches down and picks up Peter’s backpack, putting it over his shoulder, the canvas bag downright gauche against his Givenchy tuxedo. “So what do you say, kid? You look dead on your feet, but would you like to be dead on your feet somewhere more private?” 

Peter takes a long moment to think about it before tucking his toes into his shoes. 

-

He belongs there amongst the backdrop of Tony’s penthouse. Peter glances around with all the coltish wonder of a newborn, running his fingers across the genuine leather of the sofa, leaning forward to look at the smart-glass table that Tony likes to prop his feet up on at night. Upon entering, Tony removes his tuxedo jacket and takes Peter’s hastily-removed sweatshirt. He appreciates the four inches of skin that appear when his shirt rides up, sticking to his outerwear. 

He doesn’t appreciate the yellowing bruises dotting the kid’s biceps. Fingertips, he knows. His mother wore them round her neck like pearls. 

“Is it okay if I take my shoes off?” Peter asks. He limped from the theater to the car, from the car to the elevator, and from the elevator to the couch where he collapsed with a sigh of relief. When Tony encourages him to, Peter nudges off his comfortable shoes and brings one foot up into his lap where he firmly presses his knuckles into the sole. 

Peter asks for a drink. Tony gives him access to his wine, and the kid chooses for himself: a red, Chateau Margaux that smells of rose petals and hints at citrus and turns Peter’s cheeks pink. He doesn’t ask for a second glass, and Tony doesn’t offer it; the last thing he wants is the kid to think that Tony invited him here to take advantage of him.

“Tell me,” Tony asks, watching with rapt attention the faces Peter makes, like he’s dancing on the knife’s edge between pleasure and pain. “Tell me how you met my men. They aren’t exactly patrons of the arts.” 

Peter’s face smoothes and he smiles. “It was Natalie, actually. She comes to shows every so often; I think her and one of the instructors know each other. Sometimes, she sponsors promising dancers.” 

Romanov. Her and this instructor must truly know each other for her to be using a cover name around them. He files all this away in the darkest parts of his mind, should she ever become a problem someday. Tony has places reserved in his brain for all of his closest allies; already, he is making one for Peter too. Trust is earned but ever ephemeral. 

“So Nat introduced you?” 

“Yes. She sponsored me for a while, so we got to know each other pretty well. Once I mixed up my days and showed up at her condo when I wasn’t supposed to, and I met the others. Sometimes they would come to shows or send me gifts backstage.” Peter frowns. “I asked them to stop though because—Quent would just throw them all away.” 

“Quentin Beck.” 

“How’d you know?” 

Tony just smiles and changes the subject. “You must know that the three of my men are half in love with you.” 

Peter groans, pressing both his palms flat to his heated cheeks. “I had a feeling they were...interested. I hope they don’t feel that I’ve led them on, Mr. Stark. Nothing untoward happens at all when we’re together; sometimes I, I meet Steve and James for dinner, or other times Sam comes over to my apartment and we just talk, I promise. They’re so kind and it’s—it’s nice to have people to talk to.” 

Peter stops talking abruptly, mouth open. He lets it fall closed with a click. When Tony prods him gently, he admits, “The attention is nice, too. It feels good, feeling wanted. Does that make me bad?” 

Tony wonders what kind of miserable asshole would have Peter in his bed at night and not show the kid attention. It takes a special fuck-up to come home to a lover like Peter and not make him feel wanted. “Wanting attention? Not at all, kid. It’s the least of what you deserve.” 

“You sound like them,” Peter says, smiling. “James and Steve and Sam. They’re always doing and saying nice things and telling me that I deserve them.” 

“Good,” says Tony, one side of his mouth curling upwards. “I feel like a proud father; I’ve taught them well. Should you have those elevated?” 

“Sorry?” 

“Your feet. Elevation will keep down the swelling.” Tony places one of the expensive throw pillows on his lap and pats it invitingly. Peter stretches out without anymore prompting, toes flexing as his joints pop before curling in. The kid makes for an indecent picture, all long lines, absolutely nothing hidden by the leggings he wears. 

“I asked them if I could meet you, you know,” Peter admits. He’s red from far more than the wine, now, judging by the way he has one hand pressed over his eyes to shield him from Tony’s gaze. As if it’s possible to. Peter peaks through his fingers. “Don’t take this the wrong way, Mr. Stark, but I’ve had a crush on you for ages.”

A crush. God. Tony doesn’t know what’s more hilarious, the sweet naivete of this boy or how it makes his cold heart flutter. Tony’s eyebrows raise. “Is that so? I’m not exactly crush material for the mentally stable.” 

Peter hums. “When I was a kid, I had a lot of bullies. I started dancing when I was four years old, and not a lot of other boys understood. Sometimes, I used to daydream about you coming to protect me from them. To put them all in their place and then whisk me off to that house you gave a tour of on TV once, the one in Malibu.” 

“Good taste,” Tony says. “You know, I used to do the same thing when I was young. I dreamed about someone coming to protect me and my mother, to take us both away somewhere where no one could ever hurt us.” 

Sitting up on his elbows, Peter fixes Tony with a serious, solemn stare. “Really?” 

“Really.” 

“Is that what happened?” 

“No. I became that someone. What happened to you?” 

“I guess I gave up on the idea,” says Peter.

“Look. Maybe you don’t have your crush on me anymore, but I’m not the kind of man who can look away from innocent human suffering. My men told me about your boyfriend.” Peter sags back onto the couch and puts his face in his hands. He shakes his head from side to side, though no words come out. “This is my offer, kid. Let me take care of the problem. Let me be that knight in shining armor you wanted when you were younger. 

[xdepthsofwinterx]

The Decorum of Thieves:

Closed RP w/t @fenny58; set after HotU, includes both sets of our muses.

Campaign generator: https://www.kassoon.com/dnd/dungeon-crawl-thief-guild-ransom/ - Town, plot, characters and battle inspiration taken from here. Follow along as we go! Be wary though, there be spoilers there! ~

Dawn crept over the battlements of Lady Fort, the small town bathed in pastel hues. Winds blew through cobbled streets, rippling flags atop dark brick buildings, glistening from last night’s rain. The roads where quiet, only a few of the garrison emerged to switch posts or patrol the lightening streets. A chill lingered despite the new sun, biting at exposed skin and brightening noses and ears to a rosy red.

Leather clad feet padded against the stone, two figures emerging from the western gate. They walked with purpose, despite the shadows under their eyes. The carriage had made for a restless sleep, having asked the driver to push on throughout the night. An interesting sight the pair made, the few guards they passed glancing suspiciously at their presence. Thankfully, the shorter of the two could function this early and placated them with a polite smile and nod of his head.

“Snooty bastards,” Dhana muttered, brows snapped tight. The mage glowered down another set of prying eyes, this time a farmer on his way to the fields. She must have made a fearsome sight, painted face, dark penetrative eyes and donned in heavy furs. The twisted, bladed staff holstered upon her back completing the picture.

A quiet chuckle to her left caused her grumpy face to twitch.

“Can you blame them? You hold Tempus Himself in your eyes, ready to fry them should they dare blink.”

Dhana shot a reproachful look at her elven companion but softened somewhat at his infectious good mood. Leather armour creaked as he moved, green cloak swathed across his shoulders. Striding seemingly unfazed, Kymiel focused his ochre gaze upon the winding path before them. Given his heritage, he had meditated just fine – despite being elbowed and kicked by a restless mage – and wore his signature smile with ease.

“Ever the smart arse, master elf,” the temptation to zap the shaven sides of Kymiel’s head was almost too much, but the blackette refrained. After all, he had been the one to invite her here, the promise of gold and adventure too tempting.

One side of the ranger’s lip hooked up ever so slightly, though he was mindful to keep it to himself. She was so easy to wind up in the morning, particularly before breakfast.

They walked a little further, before reaching a fork in the street. By now, the distance cockerels call had woken more from their slumber, a number of doors opening and a few more townsfolk emerging to greet the day. The pair halted.

“Where to?” Sharp eyes glanced from the nearby signpost, Elven and common etched into the wood. The Jewelled Songbird, attention flickered up the slope to a dual chimneyed, two-storey building set back into the hill. Their destination.

“Up ahead, thankfully both accommodation and food.”

Dhana sighed gratefully, “Lady be praised! Well, what are we waiting for, tea awaits!”

Kymiel could only watch as the woman exhibited a sudden burst of speed and marched off up the incline. The brunette couldn’t help but chuckle aloud, adjust his quiver before quickening his pace to match hers.

Approaching the inn, they found it far larger than they’d first expected. A cheerful tune emanated from inside – some flute from the sounds of it – despite the time. A few patrons sat outside, lounging across the benches that lined a plant heavy area. Kymiel noted two halflings, male, deep into their cups, hanging onto last night’s party atmosphere for as long as they could. Further back, a tall, cloaked humanoid sat with a heavy tome between their hands, deep in thought.

‘Interesting,’ he thought, ‘Seems the nightlife is omnipresent here.’

Dhana latched onto the ornate door handle and wrenched the heavy oak door open. Stepping back, she motioned for her friend to take the lead.

“Age before beauty, as they say,” Kymiel rolled his eyes, thought was pleased to see a roguish grin adorning his companion’s features. Crossing the threshold, the elf was met with a wave of heat, and relished in it. The smoky aroma of bacon, sausage and eggs filled the air, though not enough to mask the unmistakeable musk of beer and…whiskey?

The door clattered behind them as Dhana stepped in after him, eyes scanning the tavern. Likely locating the bar. As if on cue the woman made a satisfied ‘ah-hah’ under her breath, and Kymiel slipped in behind her power-walking wake. He took this opportunity to sweep the downstairs, taking note of the number of patrons, their races, postures, attentiveness on them – or the lack of it. Again, it was surprisingly busy for 6 o’clock.

“Now, there’s a lass that knows what she wants!”

A broad half-orc bellowed from behind the bar, braided silver hair twisted up into a knot atop her head. She regarded the pair with a crooked grin, showing a chipped pair of tusks, “What can Bella getcha?”

Dhana wasted no time, hopping up onto a stool, staff clattering against the wine rack above. Unabashed she ordered her usual with a flourish, kettle of Assam with a half loaf and butter. Cranking her head across her shoulder, dark mane of braids spilling about her face she asked, “You having?”

Kymiel shook his head politely, “No drinks for me, though some toasted bread or scones wouldn’t go amiss.”

Bella beamed, barking their order through the hatch behind her, steam billowing out from what they guessed was the kitchen. As she returned and began assembling Dhana’s tea, Kymiel caught her attention once more.

“Pardon me, but we have a reservation? Lady Horineth said she had arranged our accommodation,” at the name drop Bella faltered for a moment. Dark eyes lifted and regarded the pair with renewed curiosity.

“You here on behest of her Ladyship then?” At the confirmation, the half orc turned and pulled out a ledger from below the counter. Flicking through it, Bella found whatever she had been looking for.

“Two beds, seven nights. Paid in full, no meals thought,” Kymiel nodded despite Dhana’s sound of exasperation, “Excellent, I’ll have one of the lasses set them up. Your key will be ready after breakfast, alright?”

“Thanking you kindly. Another question if you please?”

Bella huffed another sharp laugh, a twinkle in her onyx eyes, “My, I’m not use to such charmin’ manners, lad. C’mon now, out with it?”

“Do you have a noticeboard? I am interested in any extra information on the current circumstance.”

With a knobbly finger, Bella directed the elf to a large wooden framed board, mounted opposite the armchairs and fireplace. It was littered with parchment, hastily scrawled notes and a few inked maps.

With an incline of his head, Kymiel departed the bar and weaved his way over to the board, eyes fully trained on its contents. He plucked his journal out from within his robes, charcoal in hand as he began jotting down notes.

Dhana blinked in his direction, semi-curious as to this ‘circumstance’ he had mentioned. She hadn’t been in the mood for in-depth conversation during their ride here. All she knew was that an influential friend of Kymiel’s required their aid and was willing to pay well for it. Very well.

Tempted to ask the half-orc more on the topic, the mage turned, only to find her kettle and teacup steaming, ready. Bella winked at her, attention taken away by another set of travellers that had just arrived. Dark eyes keen, the mage set about prepping her tea.

‘Finally, something good to drink!’ she thought gleefully.

[neon-junkie]

Lovesick - Chpt.1&2

Summary: The last thing Micah Bell ever expected to happen in his storm of a life is for him to get soft on a woman, but that's exactly what's happened. And now, Micah has to figure out if he wants to keep suppressing those feelings or finally act on them.

Pairing: Micah Bell x f!Reader 

Word Count: 4414

Rating: SFW

Tags: Pining, Secret admirer, Feelings denial/realisation, Comfort, Fluff, Angst, Mental breakdowns, Crying, Slow burn, Friends to lovers, Falling in love, Mostly Micahs POV.

Notes: I really really really really really enjoy the idea of Micah getting super-duper soft on someone and struggling with those mushy feelings, so why not write a multi-chapter fic about it?? This was heavily inspired by the song 'Whiskey - Tejon Street Corner Thieves'. I can totally picture Micah being the kinda guy to suppress his mushy feeling with alcohol. I was gonna make this a short fic where a very drunk Micah confronts the reader like "ahh I'm drunk and i hate you because you make me feel like this," and then I got carried away because I'm a sucker for super slow burn >:)

He hates you. He despises you. Even just the thought of you makes him sick to his stomach, sick to the point where he can barely stand up straight. And whenever he sees you? Whenever you come over to him with that soft smile on your face and talk to him as if he's a normal human being? God. That makes him so much worse. He hates the way you make him feel, the way no woman should make him feel. He'll happily point and laugh at any man that allows a woman to tell him what to do, to make a man soft and worship the ground she walks on. But Micah's found himself in the last predicament that he thought he'd ever end up in; he was expecting to finally have a noose stay around his neck and steal him from this world, but instead, he finds himself here. Micah looks up from his knife, sharpening it over and over whilst he leans against a tree on the outskirts of camp. It's gentle out here, calming, with a pretty view of the red sand that welcomes the lake as the waves rock back and forth. But no picturesque setting can at least settle the flames that burn inside of him. Micah's always been a loose cannon, a devil walking amongst the earth. He never really questions his actions, he just does them, especially when the bastards on the other end of his gun deserve it. But that fire inside of him is slowly turning into a sickness, a dizzy and sweaty sickness that makes him question his actions simply because he worries about what you'd think. 

He was so disappointed in himself the first time it happened. He'd trailed across to Valentine saloon with yourself and a few other camp members, only because you'd invited him. The other men didn't pay much attention to him, but you did. You stuck beside him all night, practically pouring liquor down his throat as he tried to calm that feeling he gets whenever he's within ten meters of you. A stranger had tried to grab you on your way back over to the table, and Micah was straight to his feet, storming over and landing a punch perfectly on that poor fuckers nose. At first, you were glad that Micah had your back. But the more punches Micah landed, the more that stranger's face turned blue. You only had to bark Micah's name once to catch his attention; his head perked up, the stranger's blood splattered across his face, but his wild eyes had calmed the second he locked onto you. He dropped that man to the floor and left him to the elements, following you out the Saloon and apologizing over and over for getting so carried away. "He shouldn't have touched you," Micah had told you. "I know, and I appreciate you sticking up for me, but you got so carried away. He's probably gonna die from those injuries. You've gotta stop being so bloodthirsty," you told him as he helped you up onto your mount, climbing on top of Baylock shortly after. "Bloodthirsty?" Micah questioned. The word echoed throughout his brain, settling in his stomach as his nerves were turned to a different kind of mush. He felt cold and isolated, like he had disappointed you and ruined any chance of you ever falling for him, not that there probably was a chance to begin with. "Yeah, bloodthirsty," you repeated, nodding at the same time. He apologized to you again and told you he'd sort himself out, that he'd stop acting on impulse and anger. You tried to laugh it off with him; "Of course you will, and I'll grow wings and fly." Micah laughed along with you but the fact that you doubted him so much kept him awake for days, not that he sleeps much anyway. How dare you. How dare you have such power over him, despite not even being his, or being aware of it. Sure, you're kind and polite to him, but you have no ties to him. You've barely flirted with him, and surprisingly, he hasn't tried flirting with you either. Whenever you're around he can't put on that cheesy act, he can't throw a few pick up lines your way and hope for the best. Micah finds himself actually wanting to impress you, to show you his best side in hopes of winning you over. It's sickening. Micah scowls and sharpens his blade a little harsher. He's not frustrated at you, not one bit, but he definitely is frustrated at himself. He can't believe he's fallen for a woman; he's not just fallen, he's tripped over and fell face-first into a ten feet deep grave, and he wouldn't be surprised if you decided to leave him down there, or bury him alive. Amos once used a specific word when he first started feeling like this when he met his wife - lovesick. Micah hates that word, he despises it, but only because he can feel it right now. It fits so perfectly, so snug. To be in love with someone so much that they physically make you sick. It's amazing how one person can do that to another and not even be aware of it. Micah's surprisingly acted like his usual self when he's around you, though the odd stutter has slipped out, along with his hands that are now almost always clammy. He hopes you haven't noticed it, especially when he put a wad of cash in your hands after a robbery you'd assisted him with. He has slipped up once though, and he knows he slipped up because you approached him the next day to check if he was alright, to which he excused himself again and ran off. It was hard not to notice the mess Micahs knuckles were in the day after that saloon fight; they were swollen, an array of purple and red blotches, some parts of his skin had even torn. "That looks nasty," you said as you caught Micah's attention. He brushed it off, saying it was nothing, but you continued to push at it. "I've got something that might help, let me go fetch it," you said. Before Micah could protest, you'd already ran off. He took a seat at the campfire with you and on command, held his hand out. Micah watched you as you dabbed the ointment onto a cloth and then oh god, you're holding his hand. Oh fuck. Oh shit. Your fingertips are pressed against his palm, your skin against his, as your other hand holds the damp cloth onto his knuckles. Was this it? Was this the day that Micah was going to embarrass himself in front of you? Was he going to throw up? Maybe pass out? You're being so kind and gentle, helping heal his wounds, something that nobody has ever done before. "She's just a friend, she's just being kind to you," Micah tells himself over and over, trying to remind himself that you'd never fall for a devil like him. "How longs this gonna take?" Micah asks, trying to mentally prepare himself for however long he's going to feel sick for. "Oh? You got places to be, Micah?" you ask with a laugh, eyes briefly meeting his before focusing on his hand again. "I'm a busy man, sweetheart. Someones gotta bring in the money," he tells you. Oops. The pet name didn't mean to slip out, but you don't cast a scowl or begin to hurdle abuse at him, you seem to barely notice it. "Of course you are, Micah. The busiest man in the camp, always sharpening his knife or cleaning his guns," you say with a laugh. "I mean it. I've got a robbery that needs attending to," Micah lies, though you seem to be falling for it. "Fine, fine," you sigh, moving your hands off Micahs. You look up at Micah, expecting him to thank you and leave, but he sits there blankly. "Well? Ain't you gotta go rob some folk?" you ask. "Yeah, sure. I'll see you around, thanks again," Micah quickly mutters before jumping to his feet and running off. He managed to rob a few folk on his ride around the area, the ride that was meant to settle his nerves and clear his mind. It worked, and Micah felt like his normal self once he began robbing folk, but all his progress crashed and burned when he trailed back into camp that night and accidentally locked eyes with you. What a fool this man is. The sound of your laughter catches Micahs attention. He's been stood leaning against this tree for god knows how long, thinking about you, not that his mind isn't always occupied with thoughts of you. But that's a different kind of laugh you're letting out, one that Micah's only heard when it surprisingly been directed at him. He peers over his shoulder and gazes into camp to find you talking to Arthur. He's babbling away about whatever, talking to a few of the girls though you're sat amongst them. They're all laughing along with him, and Micah isn't sure if you're laughing louder than the others, or if he's just more focused on you. But either way, it hurts. Micah hates feeling jealous, just as much as he hates feeling lovesick. But Arthur? Why does Arthur have to be the one to make you laugh like that? Why can't he just fuck off and leave at least one of the women available? He's a big, dumb idiot, but he knows how to make the women swoon, especially all the camp ones. Micah holsters his knife and throws the whetstone to the floor in anger. As the stone hits the ground, he instantly regrets his outburst, knowing that if you saw that, you'd be disappointed in him for acting out in anger. He checks over his shoulder but you've thankfully not noticed, still fixated on that big dummy. Micah rubs his face, trying to brush away that feeling inside of him but it's no use. He hears your laughter again and begins walking away. He needs to get away from that situation. He doesn't want to hear nor see other men flirting with you, not only because he gets jealous, but because it reminds him that you'd never go for a man like him. Maybe Micah should avoid you for a while? Maybe he should give himself some space in hopes of killing off all those feelings he has for you? ------- Micah's not been seen around camp for a week now. He left in the night without telling anybody where he's going, not even Dutch. He's occupied his time well, doing all his favourite things and visiting two close friends of his. His thoughts of you become less and less, and eventually, he feels settled enough to return to camp, ready to suppress those feelings and push you away. He returns during the evening, trotting back into Clemens Point to overhear Pearson shouting that dinner was ready. Baylock is hitched and his saddle is removed, swung over the hitching post so his mount can relax. Micah spends the evening lounging about, speaking to a few camp members, half-eating his food, the usual stuff, but there's been no sign of you. Good. He doesn't need to see you right now. The night is spent drinking with Bill before he goes off on guard duty, leaving Micah to have another glass of whiskey on his own. Nature eventually calls, and Micah forces himself to his feet so he can wander off into the forest and empty his bladder. He hums to himself as he does so, his feet stumbling ever so slightly but he only considers himself tipsy. If a stranger were to waltz into camp with their guns blazing, Micah knows he's somewhat sober enough to take them on, and that's the only reason why he doesn't consider himself to be drunk. He takes his time wandering back into camp but a noise in the distance perks his ears up. Micah stands still, his feet coming to the halt so he can focus on the sound rather than the crunching earth beneath his feet. It's a whimper, as if a baby deer has been left by itself nearby, no momma to be found. Micah follows the sound, curious to know what's crying out nearby. He'd normally ignore it, but his gut is telling him to follow, even though he told himself that he'd stop listening to his gut so much as it always got him caught up in some kind of trouble, usually feelings related. Micah wanders well into the outskirts of camp, trailing down along the shoreline and coming to a halt when he finds the source of the sound. It's you, your knees up to your chin with your arms wrapped around them. You're sobbing into your lap, your knees muffling most of your cries though some had seemed to slip out. Micah finds himself in a predicament and curses whoever is in the sky for pulling him into this one. Should he sneak away and let the guilt of knowing he left you alone to cry settle on his shoulders for however long it chooses to stay? Or should he go over and comfort you, knowing that sickness inside of him will spark up again? Although, it's already begun to return. He sighs as he rests his hands on his hips. There's no getting rid of these feelings, is there? This isn't a somewhat simple matter where he can pull his revolvers out and shoot at the thing that's eating him up. This is something new, something that he can't just run away from, though this isn't the first time he's run away from his feelings. Micah knows that if the situations were reversed, that you'd come running over to let him cry into your arms. And as much as he wants to, he doesn't want those feeling to begin controlling him again. Before Micah can make a decision, his feet are already pacing over to you. It seems he was set on his decision the second he saw you like this, and he was only stalling to try and prepare himself for those feelings to return. Micah clears his throat, catching your attention. "You alright?" he asks with that drawl, though he knows what your answer is. A pair of glossy eyes look up to meet his, and Micah feels his heart beginning to melt at the sight. "Sweetheart," Micah sighs without realising, settling down beside you. "I'm fine, Micah. Really," you tell him as you wipe your eyes, letting your legs settle and no longer be bunched up against your chest. "Now, I know that ain't true," he shakes his head. "What's a matter?" he asks. You give your eyes another rub as you clear your throat. "Y-you ever think you're alone in this world? Like, I know I ain't technically alone, but I sure do feel it," you tell him without hesitation, knowing that Micah is the kind of person who can relate. The other camp members would begin to tell you how many people are here for you, trying to reassure you, and although that's a kind gesture, it's not the one you're looking for. Micah, on the other hand, knows what true loneliness is like - to have nobody but yourself, and to be like that for years on end. Maybe you were two sides of the same coin. His ears perk up at your words, surprised that you felt such a way. It tugs on his heartstrings, an organ that everybody doubts Micah has, but you're the only person who seems to remind him that he does have a heart after all. "I know what that feels like," Micah says with a laugh. "I'm surprised you feel like that, 'specially with being the camp's favourite," he continues, his eyes flicking out at the water before returning back to you. "I wouldn't call myself that, I'm no Arthur. I know I fit in just fine, but there's only so much a group of friends can do, you know?" "Oh, I don't exactly know how that feels, sweetheart. But I understand what you're feeling. You're lonely-lonely, ain'tcha?" Micah asks, and doesn't seem surprised when you nod in agreement. "Mhmm," he hums, "I know how that feels." "Ain't you ever had someone be sweet on you before, Micah?" you ask him. Micah can't help but laugh a little at your question, assuring himself that you know what his answers going to be. "Course not," he replies somewhat confidently, though he doesn't seem proud with his reply. "I'm surprised," you tell him. Micahs eyes flick over to you like a spooked owl, uncertain if he heard exactly what he thought you said. "You're what?" Micah questions, his face relaxing as he tries not to look a wide range of negative emotions, ones that he'd rather not show. "I'm surprised. I know the camp doesn't exactly like you, but you've always been so kind to me. You've helped me out on more than one occasion without me asking for it, you'll carry my ass during a gunfight, and you always seem to give to me but never take. Hell, you're here comforting me now when I'm certain some folk would have pretended not to notice me," you tell him. Micah has to dip his head a little as you speak, covering his eyes with the brim of his hat. You can tell that nobody has ever said such words to him, though he's doing a good job of suppressing that sickness inside of him, preventing it from coming up to the surface to show you just how soft he is on you. He's meant to be a rugged outlaw, a man that kills and robs for fun, when really he feels like a child at Christmas whenever he's near you. "Guess that's what friends are for, huh?" Micah replies, trying to keep his gaze hidden and his eyes forward. "Yeah," you nod, moving your eyes over to the scenery. You can't help that a lone tear escapes from the corner of your eyes, a leftover from earlier, but Micah looks at you from under the brim of his hat at just the right time to see it escape. You've done a good job at suppressing the loneliness inside of you for so long, but every now and again, your emotions get the better of you and you just need to let it all out. "Hey," Micah says as he sits upright, reaching out to wipe the lone tear from your cheek without thinking about it. "You still got some left inside of ya?" he questions, to which you nod in agreement. "You need a shoulder to cry on?" Micah asks, his stomach turning at the thought of you finding comfort in him. He's expecting you to brush it off, to say you're fine, but instead, you're nodding again and shuffling closer to him. At first, you simply lean against his shoulder, your cheek and temple pressed against his red shirt. You cling onto his arm like a nervous child, letting your tears flow once again. Micah's trying his best not to feel sick; he's never had somebody find comfort in him before, even though you're only clinging onto his arm, but it's enough to soften his heart and cloud his mind. A choked sob escapes your lips and Micah finally snaps at the sound of you in pain. Without thinking, he scoops you up, pulling you onto his lap and holding you tightly against his chest. There's a brief pause from you and Micah's certain that he's finally done it - he's finally stuck his foot into a door that should be closed, but his mind eases out as your arms wrap around him and your head buries deeper into his chest. The feeling of your tears against his skin makes Micah hold his breath, eventually letting it out slowly as he rests his chin on the top of your head. He's not quite sure what to do with his hands; one rests on your waist, whilst the other begins to trail up and down your back, comforting you in an uncertain way as he's never done this before, but he seems to be a natural as you find peace in this storm of a man. Micah hears you let out another choked sob and he holds onto you a little tighter. "Let it all out," he coos in a voice so soft that it could send a lamb to sleep. He's taken aback, not knowing he had such softness inside of him. Micah has to hear that tone again, to remind himself that he has that ability to be so gentle. "I'm here for ya," he says, the words slipping out of his mouth. The faint sound of a "thank you," from your lips finally melts Micahs ice-cold heart. And to think, this time yesterday he was pacing around his camp, telling himself over and over that he wasn't going to let 'any damn woman' turn him into such a mess. Maybe he could make an exception? Well, he knows he can because he already has. You take your time, letting out all the tears you have left. It feels nice to have somebody comforting you, especially as it's someone you weren't expecting. Everybody needs to cry sometimes, and you're sure Micah knows that far too well. Within time, you feel yourself calming down. Your lungs and muscles begin to relax, your breaths becoming longer and deeper, and your eyes are no longer glossy. You continue to take comfort in the man wrapped around you, holding onto him a little tighter as you move your head from his loosely buttoned shirt, up to the curve of his neck. His beard brushes over your forehead, but his cheek eventually rests against it as his body relaxes. This is a feeling that Micah could definitely get used to - the feeling of you snuggled up to him, your body fitting perfectly against his like a two-piece puzzle, even though he's struggled to put the pieces together for so long. That sickly feeling in his stomach is slowly settling, moving up his body and burning in his chest, though he prefers the burning over the sickness. "How're you feelin'?" Micah asks you, giving your back another gentle rub. "I'm getting there," you tell him. "Got a headache now though," you say with a slight laugh. "Must be dehydrated, though it's good you let them tears out," he replies. "You want me to go fetch you a drink?" Micah offers. He'd rather sit here with you in his arms, but he'd put your needs over his wants any day. "You've done enough for me, lettin' me cry all over you and soak your shirt," you say with a laugh. "I should probably get to bed anyway," you sigh, not wanting to move though you assume Micah is sick of you crying all over him by now. You're definitely mistaken. "C'mon then. Let's get you to bed," he says, his voice still as soft as earlier. That softness is intoxicating, a gentleness that you've never seen before; it urges you to hold onto him and never let go, but you force yourself off him, shuffling away so Micah can slowly get up onto his feet. You give your eyes another rub and as you open them, Micahs hand is out waiting for you. He helps you up and almost seems reluctant to move his hand away, but he forces himself to, not wanting to cross any boundaries. He walks you back to camp. It's silent for once, surprisingly peaceful as nobody is up drinking, singing, telling stories around the campfire. Micah urges you to get to bed whilst he fetches you a drink and you do so, scooting into your enclosed tent. "Here," Micah says as he crouches down in the entrance and hands you a cup of water. You gulp it down before thanking him, filling your body with the water you'd lost during your breakdown. "Now get some sleep. You must be exhausted," Micah coos. He's about to stand up and leave you to it, but you call out his name. Micah turns his attention back to you, a pair of sad eyes in the darkness of your tent. All he wants is to crawl in and settle down beside you, sleeping peacefully for once, but only because he doesn't feel like he needs to keep his guard up around you. "Thank you," you tell him again, a lot clearer than your sobbed manners from earlier. "S'alright, darlin'," Micah replies with a small nod. He flashes you a smile before finally getting up and leaving, letting you enjoy a well-needed rest. Micah trails over to his usual spot by the campfire. That feeling of whiskey in his blood is long gone by now; the shock of seeing you in such a state must have sobered him up, and he doesn't feel the need to pick up another bottle and begin wrestling those emotions again. He's somewhat content, though he fears that this was just a chance encounter, that tomorrow you'll be back to being the camp's favourite member to flirt with, and he'll have to stand on the sidelines and watch but be too scared to take any action. However, Micah feels calm enough to get some rest, even if it is just letting his head dip and having a snooze on this uncomfortable chair. It's better than nothing, and he knows he'll be awake before anybody else, preventing them from seeing him in his most vulnerable state. If only you had asked him to stay. Micahs mind becomes clouded with the thought of curling up beside you. He'd rest however you want, cuddling or not; he'd even be happy if you turned away from him or just used his body for some extra warmth. Micah wants to tell himself off, to slap himself around the face for being so desperate for your affection, but he'll allow himself to dream about such things just for tonight. The thought of settling down beside you sends him to sleep, with his hands resting on his stomach and one ankle crossed over the other.

[hoodies-n-cola]

∞ ∞ ∞ from tom's playlist (i forgot to put the character kjdsfnj)

When I'm Drinkin' Whiskey by Rusty Cage

When I'm drinkin whiskey, I know nothin can go wrong, / When I'm drinkin whiskey, only time my mind is strong, / When I got my bottle is when I'm standin tall,

Sad! by Kid Travis

Yeah / I don't really care if you cry / On the real, you shoulda never lied / Shoulda saw the way she looked me in my eyes / She said, "baby, I am not afraid to die" (yeah)

A Moment of Silence by Dan P

(the majority of this song is my favorie so it s gonna be long)

A moment of silence, please, for those who never get the chance / They show up to the party, but they're never asked to dance / The losers, the liars, the bastards, the thieves The cynicists, the pessimists, and those that don't believe in nothing / I never met a loser that I didn't see eye-to-eye with, I declare / I stare into your eyes / But you look right past me into the air / What's it like to stand in your shoes? / To have never felt the belt of somebody's abuse? / I take the bottle and I tip it for all my heroes that have passed / Alas, you have left us, but your stories they will last / Uninspired by the recruiting call / Independent we stand / Independent we fall

[raccoon-is-my-spirit-animal]

Finn, Alfie and the Eggs

A/N:  I love writing for Alfie because it gives me an excuse to watch ‘Alfie Solomons Best Moments’ video’s on repeat for ‘research’

Summary:  The Home Alone Peaky Blinders Series Featuring 10 y/o Finn Shelby part 2. The three daftest Shelby brothers forget their little Finn in London. Luckily for Finn, Alfie is there to save him.

part 1, part 3, part 4, part 5, part 6

Warnings: none

---

It was supposed to be a boy’s day out. Finn had looked forward to it all week. The whole day, he and his brothers would go to London, do some sightseeing, drink some whiskey (or lemon water in Finn’s case) and talk about whatever brothers talked about. In truth, Finn didn’t really know what brothers talked about. His brothers only ever talked about business, horses and alcohol. So Finn should have known better; he should have known that the moment the Shelby’s ran into a business acquaintance, his little day out would be ruined. Finn watched as his three brothers talked and talked about some race. He sat on the curb, face in hands and was deadly bored. And hungry. The moment he thought about how hungry he actually was, he smelled something delicious. Something sweet. In an instant he knew what it was: scones. He looked around and saw a bit further down the street a market. And on the right side was a little bakery. He watched as an old lady placed the golden cakes in a basket and Finn heard his tummy rumble. That’s it, he thought, if I can’t have a boy’s day out, then I can certainly have a scone. He stood up and walked to Tommy, who was still talking to the business associate. Finn grabbed his brother’s coat and softly pulled to grab Tommy’s attention. “Tommy, can I get a scone?” he whispered. Tommy tried not to notice his little brother and continued talking. Finn changes tactics. He moved to get in front of Tommy and put his arms on his hips as he had seen Aunt Polly do. “Tommy, I am going to get a scone,” he stated. Now, Tommy had to acknowledge him. “Yes, yes, fine, go ahead,” he said absently and Finn grinned. He walked around the circle to Arthur, stuck his hand in the pocket of Arthur’s coat and pulled out three coins. Finn, being a practised pickpocket, was in and out in a jiffy and Arthur would never have noticed. Happy to finally be released from the boring impromptu meeting, Finn ran across the street to the old lady and her scones. She was kind and chatty, so Finn stayed to talk while he ate his sweet. He told the lady about his day and she listened and smiled at his jokes. After half an hour and an extra free scone, Finn realised that he should be getting back. He said goodbye to the lady and ran back to Tommy, Arthur and John. But when he saw nothing but an empty street, he stopped dead in his tracks.

“Uh-oh,” he said softly. His brothers were gone. Had left without him. And had probably already gone home. As the realisation dawned on him, Finn hung his head. It was nothing new; they had forgotten him more often in the past. At the Garrison, at the church, at Uncle Charlie’s, the Garrison again, but that had all been in Birmingham and he had found his way home. But this, this was London. Finn felt giddy when he thought of the vastness of the city and he felt tears burn in his eyes. But no, he told himself, I am a Shelby, and I am not going to cry. Not even if I won’t find my way back. Not even if I have to beg for scraps and not even if I have to sleep under bridges and eat with the rats. But no matter how often he told himself not to cry, he felt a tear trickle down his cheek, and he became scared. He ran back to the market, the safest place he could think of right now. He still had two coins left, maybe he should buy something to eat now before the market would be closed. Finn nodded to himself and felt a little better having solved the problem of food for now. I need something nutritious, he thought, and his eye fell on a carton of eggs. But he had nothing to cook them with and started to walk on.

“’Ello, lad!” it suddenly sounded from behind him. Finn turned around and his breath caught in his throat. Before him stood a real-life boogieman. The man -or monster, Finn thought, - was wearing a long black coat and a white scarf. He had a wild beard and wore a big black hat and held a cane in his hand that went tap, tap, tap as the man came closer. And if Finn wasn’t frightened of the man himself, he was of the dog, which was obviously here to eat Finn alive. “Yes, you. Are ya here all by yourself, mate?” Finn’s eyes widened. He means to trick me into leaving with him so he can gobble me up in a dark corner, he thought, and he moved. His arms felt behind him and the only thing they reached was the carton of eggs. In a fight for your life, even eggs were better than nothing. “You won’t eat me!” Finn screamed and threw an egg at the monster. It flew with a perfect arc through the air and Finn followed it with his eyes. Then the egg hit the black coat of the man and cracked open. The egg yolk slowly dripped down and left a yellow stain. The man was absolutely stupefied and stared with big eyes at his coat. Then he lifted his head and narrowed his eyes. “Fucking ‘ell, you are certainly a Shelby,” he said. In Finn’s head all the alarms bells went off. He knows my name, he thought and panicked. “Get away!” he yelled and threw one, two, three more eggs at the stranger. The first one missed, the second hit the monster’s boot and the third one knocked the hat right off the man’s head. The man ducked under the rain of eggs and yelled: “Get him, Cyril!” and let go of the dog leash. The dog ran and leapt towards Finn, who was paralysed with fear. He closed his eyes; this is it, he thought and prepared for the worst. But instead, he only felt a soft, wet tongue on his face. He opened his eyes and noticed the dog was wagging his tail and pushing his muzzle in Finn’s hand, eager to get a rub behind the ears. Finn, bewildered, obeyed and stroked the dog. “You, laddie, got one ‘ell of an aim, that’s for sure.” Finn looked up and saw the man stand next to his dog. “You Shelby’s certainly know how to put up a show, hmm? You’re just like that brother of yours.” “Tommy?” Finn said surprised. “Oh yeah, I’m a—well, let’s call it a friend, I am a friend of Tommy’s and you must be Finn.” Finn nodded. The man seemed to be friendly enough and he knew Finn’s brother. Moreover, Finn had heard Tommy speak about one Alfie Solomons in London, who spoke with a funny accent and owned a dog. It all seemed to work out and Finn decided to trust the man in front of him. “Yeah, I’m Finn,” he admitted, “I was in London with my brothers but they forgot me and left here.” Alfie raised his eyebrows. “They forgot you, eh?” he asked in disbelief, “some brothers you’ve got.” Finn merely shrugged. “All I wanted was a scone,” he said softly. Alfie stood up and patted him on the shoulder “Right, then. Scones you say? Well, you’re in luck, mate. You see, I own a bakery.”

 After a short walk, Alfie and Finn arrived at said ‘bakery’. Finn had let go of all suspicions and had talked about all sorts of things on the way. He told Alfie about the time he had collected all the King’s pictures, which they had burned, and of the time he had nicked John’s gun, although he left out the part where he got a beating from Aunt Polly because of it. In Alfie, Finn found a patient and willing audience. Alfie let Finn hold Cyril’s leash and the boy and the dog had become best friends by the time they entered Alfie’s workshop. Alfie quickly told Ollie to ring ‘this boys fucking no-good brothers’ to tell them ‘they could collect their fucking stray’. When Alfie returned to Finn, the boy pointed to a handyman who was busy with the lock on the door. “What happened?” the boy asked. “Oh yeah, we had a fucking break-in last weekend. Some bastard thought he could just barge in and steal all our—” he stopped and glanced sideways at the boy. “—bread,” he finished. Finn nodded as if he understood. Then he asked, “don’t you have booby traps here for the thieves?” Alfie tilted his head, “Booby traps? What the ‘ell would we need booby traps here for?”

Finn’s face split open in a smile. “Well, some time ago, me and a friend were alone in the shop when two woppers came in, right.” Alfie raised his one eyebrow at the word ‘woppers’ but didn’t say anything. Finn continued speaking and told Alfie all about his episode with the Italians, the maple syrup and the feathers. “—and now if anybody sees them woppers walking in the streets they all laugh and point and say: ‘there are those ugly birds again!’.” “Well,” Alfie said after Finn had finished, “that is just bloody brilliant. Very effective indeed.” The man stroked his beard and made a decision. “Right then, lad, show me where we can plant these booby traps.” And for the next two hours, the workers in the shop saw how a 10-year-old boy pointed to doorposts, talked about tripwires, alarm bells, buckets filled with jelly that would fall on the thief’s head and saw how their ruthless boss and gang leader absorbed all the booby-trap-information like a sponge. Alfie even ordered for Ollie to grab a paper and pen and mark this all down, because ‘this bloody stuff might actually work, hmm?”

By the time Tommy burst into the shop to get his brother, Finn had fallen asleep on the sofa in Alfie’s office. Tommy exhaled in relief when he saw the curled-up shape of his little brother sleeping and he walked over to the couch. Gently, he brushed Finn’s hair out of his face. “Sorry, Finn,” Tommy whispered and bend over to pick him up. Finn woke up for a moment. “You owe me a hundred scones, Tom,” he mumbled before he continued to sleep on his big brother’s shoulder. “That I do,” Tommy answered, and he turned to Alfie. “Thank you for looking after him,” he simply said. Alfie nodded, “Of course, mate.” But then he added something. “But don’t you fucking lose him again in London. Because next time, I’ll keep him.”

Taglist: @caelys :D