#rowrogue

[evermoremorgan]

//  @rowrogue​  //

     Friday nights became some of the hardest nights of the week for Debra Morgan nearly six years ago. It was almost six years ago that she had been working massive overtime within vice, trying and repeatedly failing to secure sufficient evidence to convict several key players of the Stilwater Saints to life in prison, and found herself in over her head. Six years since a massive explosion at a local marina had shaken half the coastline of Florida state, late one Friday night. After that, Deb’s entire operation had been suspended indefinitely, and a handful of months later, she had learned to her surprise -- and horror -- that she was pregnant, and already a week into her second trimester.

     Since then, Deb has more or less had to re-invent herself. Having never seen herself as a mother, and certainly not a single mother at that, she had some tough choices to make. She had to step away from her career, briefly, but more than she’d ever wanted to. It was only with the close personal support of brother, and professional support from current head of the police department Captain Matthews, that she’d eventually realized she would keep her kid. Adoption was simply out of the question, and abortion seemed... unthinkable, given the circumstances.

     Elijah Kent Morgan was later born at 3:13 in the morning on a Friday in June. It was true, she had fallen in love with him harder and faster than she’d ever loved anyone, including his father. But every single morning that she woke up to his crying, and every night that she came home from work to see him just a little bit bigger, she would never admit it, but part of her resented what her life had become because of him. Jumping at the smallest bump in the night. Double and triple checking the locks on her doors. Watching the news nearly every night, while wringing her hands and wondering just when and how they had let this city get so fucked up? 

     Her now 5-year-old son is asleep this Friday, only recently having been tucked into bed, whilst Deb sits out in the living room with the TV’s volume on low, watching some mind-numbing reality show and trying to forget about the craziness that has consumed her the last few weeks. All over town, crime sprees seem to have quadrupled, and like most other nights, Debra will need half a bottle of wine and some stupid, horrible show to help lull her to sleep. 

     Suddenly though, a firm and somehow familiar knock at her door sends a chill down her spine, and she is suddenly wide awake again. It’s late, she’s not expecting anyone, and half of the criminal scum in the city must know her as Detective Debra Morgan, the bitch-cop who had put their friends and family away. Debra rises from her couch, and instinctively grabs her fully loaded, police issued handgun from the coffee table in front of her. She crosses the floor of her apartment tentatively, unlocks the bolt and chain keeping it shut, and puts her finger lightly against the trigger hidden behind her thigh as she pulls open the door. Once she does, and her eyes fall onto the man just outside, her mouth falls open and she almost lets her weapon clatter to the ground. The blood in her veins runs cold, and she’s certain she must be seeing a ghost. Shakily, the only words she can manage are,

     “W-What the fuck?”

[whichmorgan]

small psa that probably won’t do anything but just might:

so i’ve been thinking about doing this for a while and i’m just gonna say fuck it:

if anyone is in contact with/knows what happened to sunny (vallaslined, amprettee, rowrogue, puckiish, a few deactivated others) a really beautiful british girl with a talent for prose, please tell her to message me. we abruptly lost contact over a year and a half ago and i miss her. i’ve thought about her really often. if she’s still on this hellsite writing, i just want to talk and write with her one more time. if she’s not, i really just hope she’s doing well in life. 

i know that this is dumb and desperate and all y’all reading this are probably like ??? yeah ok lol but... she’s one of the people on this website i really felt i connected with, and it was just bad life timing that we never actually got to do more.

sunny, if you see this, i was lucky to get to know you as i did and i’m sorry things ended the way they did. if you see this and want to message me, please do. if you see this and never want to bother, i hope you have a nice life <3

[whichmorgan-archive]

          though some would probably say that it was surprising (dexter, mostly) debra had never once, in years of knowing and being with michael, suspected him of cheating on her. not once had she felt the uneasy suspicion of dishonesty or disloyalty on his part. this was even knowing that they had never really, truly agreed to any sort of monogamous relationship, had never really agreed to a relationship at all... but nonetheless, she felt comfortable in the belief that michael chose, and had always chosen, to remain physically and emotionally exclusive with her and her alone, and was fortunate for debra that this belief hadn’t been challenged in all this time.           she supposes that she had to have her doubts sooner or later.            kinzie, as far as debra could tell, wasn’t particularly special in any way. she was no more beautiful than the girls that michael often surrounded himself with for ‘work.’ she didn’t seem to be particularly funny, or charming. smart, maybe, but altogether a bit.. strange. she simply wasn’t the type of woman that debra ever imagined she’d feel jealous of. but then again, deb would feel probably feel jealous of a traffic cone, if michael talked half as kindly to it as he did with kinzie. it was uncomfortable for her, seeing him so.. gentle, with another human being. the first time she’d heard him call her ‘sweetheart,’ she’d nearly choked on her breakfast and then finished a pack of cigarettes to quell the growing anxiety.          he’d managed to chase away her concerns quite easily, when she’d first felt them. but since then, her concern had only grown bigger and bigger, making her heart sink deeper and deeper in to the pit of her stomach every time she thought about it. she’d caught herself spacing out at work more than a handful of times, worrying herself sick over this woman, and the obvious soft spot that the man she loved seemed to have for her. thinking about kinzie was driving her insane. she couldn’t work, couldn’t sleep, and worst of all, couldn’t think about or even be alone with michael without imagining him with her.            she isn’t particularly sure how she wound up outside this door, and doesn’t have the slightest idea of what she’s going to tell him. all she knows, as she takes a breath and lets herself inside the penthouse, is that she has to tell him something. her eyes find him instantly across the open space, and it doesn’t help calm her nerves that he’s on his phone when they do (she’d never seen him use his cell phone as much as he did since kinzie). despite this, her voice comes out.. braver, and more firm than she had anticipated it would.             ❛ hey, ❜ she calls out, without moving from her spot by the door, ❛ we need to talk about something. ❜ // @rowrogue

[evermoremorgan]

Debra, not very surprisingly, enjoys every moment of the so called fling, for more reasons than you might expect. Most of her encounters were only passably decent. She tended to be picky with her clientele, and was pretty and clean enough to have some agency in her choices, but rich, long married assholes are rarely good lovers, and Deb hadn’t felt genuinely attracted to anyone she ‘serviced’ in quite a while. He was handsome, built, well endowed, passionate, AND rich and dangerous on top of it all? Well, needless to say Deb almost felt like paying him by the end of that romp.

Still, she feels like she’s done her job and earned her pay. Laying lazily on her stomach, face nuzzled in a clean, ruffled pillow and only half draped by the thin white sheet, she hums with closed eyes in response to his question. Eventually she peeks up at him with just one eye, appearing blissful, tired, satisfied, and secretly tingling down her spine and between her thighs. She smiles sweetly up at him, and holds up a hand, first two fingers parted to accept a cigarette between them. “Fuck yes. Love one.” Just what the doctor ordered. 

evermoremorgan.

    She doesn’t view it as romantic, so much as skillfully passionate. Knowing your audience and being able to control them, so to speak. Debra does not need to be guided to his lips, so firm and deeply encompassing of her own, but is more than accepting of the direction, and returns his kiss warmly and in kind while her slender hands finally remove the belt at his waist. Tenderly, her right hand slips between the crotch of his pants and his underwear to stroke rather expertly at his length. She hums a little into their closed-eye kiss as she does it, while bringing her fingers up again from base to tip, a not-very-subtle sign of blissful satisfaction.

          HE CONSIDERED TIMES LIKE THESE TO BE A RARE TREAT, an indulgence the Leader of the Saints couldn’t afford too often. While money was no object, there was a matter of personal safety; it wasn’t smart to bring different girls back, let too many faces become unfamiliar. Michael had to keep a distance, to a certain degree, and he’d become quite good at it.

But even without knowing her name, this was one face he wouldn’t soon forget. He drank her in from every angle, found himself, at times, simply watching her as his tongue and hands made Debra writhe and moan beneath him. Even after the fact, once nothing but a sheet covered them both and he sat upright in bed, cigarette in hand, Michael couldn’t stop himself from tracing over her delicate features out of the corner of his eye.

“ Wanna fag? ”

[evermoremorgan]

     Vice. It’s not one of the most well known, widely popularized police task forces out there for no reason. Vice work is dangerous, usually heavily involved work that not all officers are cut out for. Narcotics, gambling, prostitution -- all things that many view as victimless crimes, if they consider them crimes at all -- run rampant throughout the biggest cities in the world, and it’s girls like Deb who see much of it firsthand.

   Or rather, girls like Mandy see it. Tonight, ‘Mandy’ stands, mostly alone, on a street corner, leant against the light pole. It’s shortly before midnight on a quiet Thursday night, and believe it or not, she has already made 2 easy arrests. You’d be hard pressed to guess that this tall, skinny, curly-haired and skimpily-dressed woman is actually a born and bred police officer. She holds a hard to place power about her that other prostitutes don’t have... but in a way, that helps her more than it hurts. Most men seem to like a little bit of a challenge, and she is more than happy to oblige. 

     Scrolling lazily through her smart phone, Deb feels safe knowing that only a few, discrete blocks away reside two equally young male officers in a squad car, waiting for back her up. Despite every moment of her facade being ‘work,’ she feels mind-numbingly bored, and thinks about how this waiting around part is rarely what gets put on TV. When a black Cadillac, or Lincoln, or some other luxury car rolls quietly up towards the curb, Mandy doesn’t acknowledge it until it doesn’t move for several seconds. Her brown eyes then slip upwards, and she smiles.

     “Hi, sugar,” her voice as sweet as honey, or as sweet as a girl looking to get paid. “How can I help you?” // @rowrogue​

[evermoremorgan]

     Anyone who was anyone in the great, sunshine state of Florida had been to a hurricane party. Harry Morgan had, long before his death some five years ago, thrown a few of them at his family home in the cul-de-sac when Debra was rather young. She remembers very little of them. She and Dexter usually had their own quiet space, in the basement, where they drank hot cider and listened to the wind and rain pounding the outside of their home, away from the party of law enforcement. Her pseudo-brother usually ignored her, reading a book or getting ahead on his homework for most of the night and only sometimes assuring her that the house was ‘very structurally sound’. She usually ‘ignored’ him too, headphones in but with nothing playing. She would usually wait for him to look at her, notice her. Something. 

     Some things never change though, and Dexter never really paid her any attention. Neither did Harry, or his pals at the precinct. When her father died of cancer, and her brother went off to his prestigious, full-ride scholarship college, Debra was left with a newly sold childhood home, four suitcases full of a lifetime of items, and a boyfriend who took a lot more than he could give. Fast forward to now, she’s in her mid-twenties, has done what she’s had to to survive, and finds herself here, where the ongoing hurricane party is unlike one she’d ever been to. The space is huge, the music louder than the storm outside, and more drugs and alcohol being shared than frozen foods and water bottles. She has been invited as a ‘guest’, but she knows this is another kind of working. Sourcing for clientele and broadening her experience, so to speak. 

     Hard, brown eyes explore the perimeter of the room. Everywhere you look there’s dancers entertaining, men in suits playing cards and sniffing keys, ‘security’ guards who break up fights before they start with massive towering frames, prison-given tattoos and frightening stares. Debra and a girl, only recently 18 and even less dressed than herself, stand with their lower backs against a bar while a bartender prepares their third round of drinks. She remembers the newscast she heard earlier saying it’ll be dangerous to venture outside for the next 17 hours, at least. As a man approaches the small space of bar directly next to her, she stares out ahead and steels herself for a long night. // @rowrogue

[evermoremorgan]

      “What makes you think I’d do anything for you?” // @rowrogue​

[evermoremorgan]

     “...Dexter is a serial killer.” // @rowrogue​

[evermoremorgan]

     ...Okay, so, safe to say that that doing this may have just been one of the absolute worst ideas she has ever had, ever.

     She’d been in a lot of fights, ever since her mom had died, her adopted brother had been hauled off to juvie, and her father had killed himself, but not one of them had been quite like this one. Ten others, nearly all of them male and bigger than she was, had taken their turns to beat on her (though it was much less like ‘turns,’ and more like an ambush). She hadn’t taken a moment of it lying down, of course (Deb could take a hit almost as good as she could give one); and fortunately, a lifetime of rage and resentment, on top of the eight weeks of intensive police training she’d endured before eventually dropping out had given her a few skills that the Saints didn’t have. Nonetheless, when all is said and done, Debra has hauled herself to her feet for the third and final time, and is one of only four who remains... well, conscious. Not a bad ratio.

     Her heart beats at what feels like a thousand miles an hour, and she has to wipe her own blood from her upper lip every several seconds to keep it from pouring down her chest. She’s certain that she will be black and blue from nearly head to toe, but she feels very much alive, enthralled by the adrenaline that forced her to fight back until there was no one left to fight. It may not be the perfect score they’re looking for, but she doesn’t care. Everything hurts, and yet, she feels fucking great. They can tell her to get lost, for all she cares. Nothing lost, nothing gained. 

     “Okay,” she breathes heavily, after a moment of catching her breath. The woman slowly looks around the room at the men and women around her, some of them impressed, some not so much... then her gaze returns to the man in charge. “So what now?” // @rowrogue​

[evermoremorgan]

     “...”

     “I know there is something between us, Michael. And I know that you feel it, too.” // @rowrogue​

[whichmorgan]

          working vice was like working any other job on earth, in that it took a little getting used to before you could be any good at it. when she’d first started a little over nine months ago, she’d been a stranger in a strange land and everyone around her had known it. every single girl she’d met that night had laughed at her, asked if she was ‘new around here, or just new?’ even dexter had laughed when she told him, then patted her on the shoulder and said, ‘don’t worry, sister. you’ll get the hang of it.’           and get the hang of it, she had. only six months in, with dozens upon dozens of arrests and citations given out to the men of miami’s nightlife, debra had earned her place in a high-profile, ongoing operation that had so far yielded next to no results from their field agents that were already undercover. not only that, but she’d learned how to dress for the job, too. the girls debra -- or, brandy, rather -- worked with didn’t seem to do much laughing at her anymore, or at least not at her clothes. a silly thing to be proud of, but she was proud all the same.            truthfully, she still didn’t care for some of the aspects of the job. flirting with johns through an open passenger side window, making up lies about her life to share with the girls she worked with. more recently, she learned to dislike going to the saint’s parties, listening to their music and pretending to be part of the ‘entertainment.’ she’d gotten lucky, however, in the fact that the boss had, for reasons beyond debra’s comprehension or control, taken an interest in her, one that was apparently enough to keep the other saints at least an arms length away from debra at all times. no one wanted or needed to upset michael, and that sat just fine with her. and, like anything and everything else, she’d managed to get used to the parties, too, though they were always more tolerable when michael was around. just seemed almost silly for her to be there anytime he wasn’t.           sometimes she has to remind herself what this case is all about. it’s easy to forget.           after what must be going on twenty minutes of watching two saints arm wrestle, debra glances around for probably the fifteenth time, and sighs out of her nostrils when the one man she wants is the one man she can’t find. gently nudging the girl beside her -- a prostitute who called herself ‘daisy’ -- debra softly tells her that she’s going outside for a smoke, and to come outside and check on her if she’s not back in less than ten (hey, she’d been kidnapped by brotherhood goons once before, and she’d be damned if it was going to happen again) before slipping away, through the crowd and out one of the doors into the cool, miami air.           she no more than gets a single cigarette out of an almost-finished pack and sticks it between her lips before she pauses, noticing a figure headed up the long walkway to the crib. her first instinct is to move away, put her head down and smoke her cigarette in peace.. but before she can follow through with getting out of the way, she suddenly recognizes him. almost instantly, deb feels her throat go slightly dry and her heart beat slightly faster. she doesn’t even think. just speaks.           ❛ hey, ❜ she greets softly, thumb flicking absently at her unlit cigarette. then, a little bit louder, ❛ some of your guys didn’t think you weren’t coming. ❜ a pause. it’s been three months that they’d been sleeping together, but michael was one thing she hadn’t quite gotten used to yet, no matter how hard she tried. she shifts in place a little, tongue running out and wetting her lips before she tries again. ❛ i was starting to think we weren’t gonna’ get to see you. ❜ and no, she doesn’t care if anyone else gets to see him or not. what she means to say is, ‘i was starting to think i wouldn’t get to see you.’ @rowrogue

[whichmorgan]

Character Flaws meme

tagged by: @rowrogue tagging: @whatwatson, @sickassjigsaw, @defenestratio, @clownpolicy, @untilmiidnight, @afewmistakes, @inomniscience + if you wanna do it, just do it and say I tagged you. B)

Bold indicates traits she pretty much always exhibits, italicized are traits she had or ‘will have’ in later seasons of the show. 

absent-minded  |  abusive  |  addict  |  aggressive |  aimless  |  alcoholic  |  anxious  |  arrogant |  audacious  |  bad liar  |  bigmouth  |  bigot  |  blindly obedient  |  blunt  |  callous |  childish  |  chronic heroism  |  clingy  | clumsy  |  cocky  |  competitive  |  corrupt  |  cowardly |  cruel  |  cynical  |  delinquent  |  delusional  |  dependent  |  depressed  |  deranged  |  disloyal  |  ditzy  |  egotistical  |  envious  |  erratic  |  fickle  |  finicky  |  flaky  | frail  |  fraudulent  |  guilt complex  |  gloomy  |  gluttonous  |  gossiper  | gruff |  gullible  |  hedonistic |  humorless  |  hypochondriac  |  hypocritical | idealist |  idiotic  |  ignorant  |  immature  |  impatient  |  incompetent  |  indecisive  |  insecure  |  insensitive  |  lazy  |  lewd |  liar  |  lustful  |  manipulative  |  masochistic  |  meddlesome  |  melodramatic  | money-loving |  moody  |  naive  |  nervous |  nosy  | ornery |   overprotective  |  overly sensitive  |  paranoid |  passive-aggressive |  perfectionist |  pessmist  |  petty  |  power-hungry  |  proud |  pushover  |  reckless  |  reclusive  |  remorseless |  rigorous  |  sadistic  | sarcastic |  senile  |  selfish  |  self-martyr  |  shallow  |  sociopathic  |  sore loser  |  spineless  |  spiteful |  spoiled |  stubborn  |  tactless  |  temperamental |  timid  | tone-deaf  |  traitorous  |  unathletic  |  ungracious  |  unlucky  |  unsophisticated  |  untrustworthy  |  vain  |  withdrawn |  workaholic

[whichmorgan]

          it didn’t exactly go as planned. the restaurant he’d chosen was closed for the season (which seemed awfully strange to deb, at least in florida) but it was apparently popular enough in this area that it had chased away most of the competition in the area. soon enough, debra realizes she was hungrier than she originally thought, and eventually the two of them finally agree on a burger place that debra suggests, across the street from which sits a small playground and empty park.           debra doesn’t waste much time. it’s been a long, long time since she’d been embarrassed to eat in front of others, let alone michael, and once they sit down on that park bench she’s immediately tearing into the paper and digging in. if he’s as hungry as her, or just too considerate to interrupt, she doesn’t care to notice or mind. for a few minutes, they simply don’t speak, and just the sound of wrinkling paper, and deb’s appreciative and delighted hums as her appetite is finally sated, are to be heard.           after she finishes, deb crumples up the wrapping paper and tosses it into the garbage can nearby. then, never one to be very dainty, deb wipes the crumbs off one hand against her pant leg, then gently runs her knuckle across the corner of her lip before finally glancing over at him with a growing smile spreading across and lighting up her face. good food had a way of doing that to the morgan children. true to form, she heaves a contented sigh.           ❛ okay, maybe i was just really hungry, but i think that was the best fucking burger i’ve ever had, ❜ she tells him, practically beaming now. ❛ i don’t want to say that my idea was better than yours, but i did come up with mine on the spot. and mine was probably cheaper. ❜ so it didn’t go according to plan, but plans had never really seemed to work out all that well for them, anyway.   @rowrogue           

[evermoremorgan]

She beams at the acceptance of her offer, pads of her fingers tracing slowly down along the expensive fabric of his suit with muted glee. Whilst he unbuttons his shirt, she undoes the button at his center of his stomach and then drops her hands to a belt that probably costs the same as the rent in her one bedroom apartment. Brown, doe eyes fall and examine his newly revealed skin, but if she is taken aback at all then she does not show it. Humming thoughtfully, Deb considers her answer.

“Why? What do you like?” She wonders, slowly but surely pulling his pants undone, dragging her bedroom eyes back up onto him and answering truthfully. “I don’t fuck with piss, shit, or blood,” she advises plainly, almost like telling the doctor about your allergies. “I don’t like to be hit in the face, I won’t cry for you.” Some Saints, she’s been told, only like their girls when they’re crying. “I won’t do films, voyeurism or groups,” and, perhaps speaking too soon, “And I won’t fall in love with you like I know all the other girls do. Sound okay to you, daddy?”

evermoremorgan.

     Debra feels a strange sense of power as she heads up those stairs, turning to look out at the seemingly endless sea of bodies below. She noticed a few seemingly envious glares, but nearly everyone else is busy dancing, kissing, stumbling… Careless and free despite the storm that rages just outside. The music grows softer and less dizzying with every step up they take, though the bass still pounds through her chest alongside a rabbit heart beating rapidly away inside a stone cage. She eyes Michael with mixed feelings of fear and lust, each emotion being enhanced by the other.

     She enters the room before him, examining the decor with muted surprise. It’s nicer than just about any place she’s ever been in despite the quaint size, and she finds herself wondering how nice the Saints’ homes are if their “love nests” look like this. She wonders what it’s like to sleep on silk sheets every night, safe and comfortable in a space designed by the rich and powerful, for the rich and powerful, but the wonder disappates as quick as it appeared. Once she’s further into the room, maybe two feet from the bed, she turns in place to watch him put away his weapon. A frighteningly big magnum, enough to blow a horse’s head off. She notes its placement in the drawer silently, and then moves on, returning her full attention to him with a sweet, sly smile.

     “I never said anything about money,” she says, though they both know what kind of girl she is and he no doubt knows the trickery her peers like to use when they can. He’s too smart to be swindled though, and she figures she can appeal to his nature. “Tell you what,” Deb purrs, approaching him again and gently catching the lapels of his suit. “As a rule, I normally take it upfront. But I’m feeling… adventurous,” a flirty smile, her half lidded eyes trailing slowly across his handsome features, seeking some kind of reaction. “Let’s see if we’re a good fit first, hm? If you think I’m worth it at the end, then I’ll take your money.” And oh, does she plan to be worth it.

         THERE WAS NOTHING SAFE ABOUT BEING A SAINT, the illusion of security often stemming from over-inflated egos and grandeur, lies men told themselves so they might sleep at night. Michael had lived this way for too many years to allow it to affect him, all semblance of fear and insecurity having been beaten out of him when he was still new to the life, when he was silent and obedient, a psychotic little puppet.

Those thoughts aside, the Saint allowed himself to clutched gently by delicate fingers, blue eyes blinking slowly, patiently, as Debra filled the space between them with sweet little promises. Her suggestion, however, momentarily caused him to frown, but not angrily, or because he disapproved, but because Michael had never known a girl like her to offer her services for free. Building trust, he assumed; she was looking for repeat custom. Smart girl.

“ If tha’s what you wanna do, swee’heart. ” Hands reached up to unbutton his shirt, slow yet decisive, as he seemed to be about everything. The scars of burns and bullet holes had consumed the majority of his visible flesh, and Michael figured to was fortunate, really, that the situation at hand was relying on money, rather than lust or attraction. “ Anythin’ you won’ do? ”

[evermoremorgan]

Debra feels a strange sense of power as she heads up those stairs, turning to look out at the seemingly endless sea of bodies below. She noticed a few seemingly envious glares, but nearly everyone else is busy dancing, kissing, stumbling... Careless and free despite the storm that rages just outside. The music grows softer and less dizzying with every step up they take, though the bass still pounds through her chest alongside a rabbit heart beating rapidly away inside a stone cage. She eyes Michael with mixed feelings of fear and lust, each emotion being enhanced by the other.

She enters the room before him, examining the decor with muted surprise. It’s nicer than just about any place she’s ever been in despite the quant size, and she finds herself wondering how nice the Saints’ homes are if their “love nests” look like this. She wonders what it’s like to sleep on silk sheets every night, safe and comfortable in a space designed by the rich and powerful, for the rich and powerful, but the wonder disappates as quick as it appeared. Once she’s further into the room, maybe two feet from the bed, she turns in place to watch him put away his weapon. A frighteningly big magnum, enough to blow a horse’s head off. She notes its placement in the drawer silently, and then moves on, returning her full attention to him with a sweet, sly smile.

“I never said anything about money,” she says, though they both know what kind of girl she is and he no doubt knows the trickery her peers like to use when they can. He’s too smart to be swindled though, and she figures she can appeal to his nature. “Tell you what,” Deb purrs, approaching him again and gently catching the lapels of his suit. “As a rule, I normally take it upfront. But I’m feeling... adventurous,” a flirty smile, her half lidded eyes trailing slowly across his handsome features, seeking some kind of reaction. “Let’s see if we’re a good fit first, hm? If you think I’m worth it at the end, then I’ll take your money.” And oh, does she plan to be worth it.

evermoremorgan.

    Well, that turned out to be a lot easier than she’d anticipated. She drags her eyes from his face for just long enough to look at the people around her, as if checking to make sure that no one has been eavesdropping this whole time (as if it would change her mind). Of course, no one had paid them any heed, no one she can notice, anyway, and she turns back to him trying to conceal her deep pleasure. She had a feeling he had a bottomless wallet and a tendency to pick favorites, so she nods.

    “You don’t have to drag me, baby,” She assures him, getting up from her barstool with ease and keeping their two figures close all the while. “I’ll go wherever you want me to.” With this, her lithe fingers travel away from his torso and down to his sleeve, where her hooked index finger ensnares his own and gently pulls him away from the bar, encourages his hand to explore her body like she had done to him. On a final whim, she releases him and snatches her mostly untouched drink from the bar top, sipping leisurely at it as she points herself in the direction of the only set of grand stairs labeled “DO NOT ENTER” and “VIP ONLY”, guarded by a good half dozen men.

    Effortlessly, Deb glides between the partygoers and leads the way, feeling rather proud of herself all the while until they reach the stairs, where she dials down her confidence in exchange for reserved awe, and allows the unnamed man to guide her wherever he likes.

          THOSE STOOD GUARD MADE NO REMARK, EXCHANGED NO LOOKS, gave nothing more than a simple nod as Michael walked past with Debra following closely behind. He put little effort into keeping hold of her hand, soon allowing it to fall from his grasp in favour of putting his hand to her lower back in an attempt to guide her upstairs, noting the girl’s slight sheepishness. Intimacy wasn’t a priority of his, as was evident by the way the Saint allowed Debra to take the lead on how close the two of them became, allowing her gentle touches and tugs but doing nothing to reciprocate. It didn’t occur to him, didn’t come naturally; still, it was enjoyable, all the same.

The bedroom was immaculate, untouched, but relatively small in comparison to the rest of the building. While its purpose was clearly functional, it was pleasant enough– perhaps not to spend the night in, but a couple of hours certainly wouldn’t hurt.

“ So, ” a gun was taken from his belt, the door closed behind them, and Michael removed the magazine before placing both in a nearby drawer. Certain enough that Debra had nowhere to hide a weapon, he felt quite at ease being unarmed. “ you wan’ money now or la’er? ”