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Tethered Bonds

✽ Poly 141 x f!reader (Omegaverse AU)

A lucky stroke of fate led you right into the arms of your alpha soulmates. But is it everything you dreamed it would be or just the continuation of a nightmare?

Main Masterlist ✽ Ao3

°•. ✿ .•°.•° ✿ °•.°•. ✿ .•°.•° ✿ °•.°•. ✿ .•°

✽ Part Three - Deja vu

Remember when I said this was supposed to be the easy side project made of easy to consume chapters that was supposed to be easy on my brain? Oh the way life throws a wrench in things.

Apologies for the wait but thank you for the patience! A bit longer of a chapter this time (almost double the length) because if you also read my other fic you'll know I have a moderation problem :)

Trigger warnings: angst, depression

Time converted its seconds into a slow-motion camera, capturing the hectic moment as a series of shutter clicks in your mind. Rich earthy elixirs trapped like icicles in a frozen pour from heated spouts. Spare precious change suspended in mid-air spilled from jittery hands. A systolic heartbeat waiting to finish its rhythm. An overplayed Christmas jingle with the record player set to the lowest speed. 

How did you not pick up on the telltale signs sooner? It wasn’t as if this was a first occurrence for you anymore. Precious moments of escape wasted daydreaming of warm comfort when it could’ve been spent backpedaling to the safety of your vehicle. Even more insulting when you considered how perceptive you’d been not ten minutes prior, untrusting of your nose to keep you from trouble in the supermarket bakery, head on a dizzying swivel for any more unwanted surprises.

Yet here you were again, betrayed by the very caffeine that was supposed to be your savior, too slow to duck back out the shop before your scent had a chance to reach his nostrils. 

Now you were pinned in place by a complete stranger who had no business smelling that edible.

Pupils blown wide mirrored your own. Blue irises framed by full lashes contrasted against a faded tan that spoke of time spent abroad in warmer climates. Dark brown hair shorn close on the sides peaked into a mussed up mohawk, slightly damp from melted snow and tousled by the wind. Your eyes unfocused to take in the body belonging to the man - shifting lower, past slightly parted lips greedily inhaling your scent and a craggy chin scar encircled by a dusting of dark stubble. 

A deep brown leather bomber jacket stretched tight across broad shoulders only a few shades darker than his hair, upturned against the elements and protecting a tree trunk neck, accented along the trim by matching tufts of a lighter insulating sherpa. A hint of medium wash jeans caught in your periphery, unable to glance further at the lower portion of his body, too encapsulated by the cosmic force that kept you snared within his gaze.

The back of your neck prickled with the knowledge that whatever was passing between you in the charged space across the checkerboard tiles was a transient mirage at best and a dangerous amalgam of broken aspirations at most. That grim lesson had been embedded into your retinas the hard way– 

No matter how potent the connection, this man was not yours. 

You shouldn’t be here. You should not be here.

The alpha didn’t miss the way you transferred your weight onto your back leg. Predatory focus latched onto the subtle way you shifted, instincts preparing behind barely contained canines. You’d accidentally triggered something; a millennia’s worth of ingrained primality overriding the structured norms of good societal behaviour. Like an old timey saloon, it was an overstrung standoff to see whose will would break first.

Your need to run outweighing his need to possess. 

Eyes narrowed slightly, he pointed right at you with a warning look. In a rough brogue, “Don't…”

You didn't listen.

“Hey hey hey–!” 

It was all too familiar now - this choreographed dance of avoiding uncomfortable affairs instead of facing them head on, ignoring the startled clamor of bewildered customers as you darted past a group of unsuspecting teenagers through the narrowing gap of the cafe door.

Nearly bowling an elderly couple over in your haste to escape, you fumbled out a half-hearted apology as you skidded around the next corner with a high pitched squeak, losing traction on the glassy ice in your well-worn snow boots and catching yourself on a vintage lamp post that you used like a springboard to gain a few precious milliseconds of a head start. 

This was twice in two days now that you’d undergone a fateful encounter the majority of the population could only dare dream of. And here you were bolting from destiny like a frazzled rabbit scurrying helplessly through the underbrush from what should have been your savior.

What the hell kinda luck was this?! And why did it have to choose now of all times?!

The door flung open only moments after, the previously innocent bell chime now a harbinger of doom. Heavy footfalls slapped through the condensed slush of snowfall. Something feral rose up in the presence of a hunter in pursuit of his quarry. 

There was something on your tail, and it felt far more intimidating than a starving wolf leering at his lunch.

Your pulse was bellowing in your ears, weaving through the conglomerated foot traffic as best you could with a body not prepared for a long winded chase. A hot poker stitched your side and hobbled your gait. Frost coated your lungs with every ragged inhale, sapping what little breath capacity you had and crippling until you were little more than a wounded mammal, panicky and acting on pure foolish adrenaline. The rational part of your brain spoke of the futility against someone his size, the brief glimpse afforded to you of his stocky frame earlier proof that your alpha was capable; well fed, sculpted for survival, muscles made of endurance and stamina. 

Everything desired in a good mate, the back of your mind unhelpfully supplied.

Long strides ate up the distance, navigating the pavement far more sure footed than you.

“Bleedin’ Christ!” growled out the voice. “Will ye jus’– wait!”

The firm grip on your bicep rather than his frustrated words was what halted you in your tracks. The slippery slush beneath your feet gave way to an involuntary squeak as another hand snapped out to steady your skidding, keeping you from tucking ass over tea kettle. Heavy breaths turned visible in the frigid winter air as you panted from exertion, sucking in a heady mixture of espresso and chilled vapors that fogged up your mind and muddled your senses. 

Fuck, he smelled good.

A gloved hand shuffled you further out of the way from the crowds of passersby, huddling beneath a shopkeeper's veranda, muffled conversation from the building’s interior a muted buzzing compared to the ringing in your ears. He shifted so as to take the brunt of the whipping winds on his back, sheltering you from the worst of it and allowing you to blink clear the stinging snowflakes from your eyes.

Although you never really stood any substantial chance of escape, there was still something surreal to be said about standing toe to toe with an alpha outside your family circle. He beheld you with the same wide eyed stare you gawked at him with, pupils stuck in a constant state of dilation as he huffed in your shared air, just as drunk off his scent match as you were. At this proximity, even the outside breeze wasn’t enough to dampen the waves of pheromones spiking like heated tesla coils between you. Unlike you, he found it in him to scrounge together just enough self control to soften his stance and manage a relaxed smile your way.

“There now, lass.” His words weren’t winded in the slightest, something that petulantly annoyed you in your weakened state - even if the accented baritone of his vibrato was soothing the consternation from your veins. “See? No need fer misbehavin’.”

There was an obvious gentling to his tone; something placating with an edge of sternness that felt at odds with his choice of haircut. Blue orbs roamed your face as if he half expected you to collapse on him, no longer holding on to you but keeping a readied hand hovering in case your shaky legs gave way. Truthfully - with how you were still sucking in breaths - you weren’t quite sure his assistance wouldn't be needed.

“Christ, LT was right about ye. Got a scent that can skelp a man flat on his arse.”

Even in your current state he must’ve judged you steady enough to maintain balance, despite still keeping the rigid preparedness in his shoulders as his hands sought a place in denim pockets. “Got a habit fer runnin’, dontcha?”

The capability of speech was all but lost to you, tongue cemented to the roof of your mouth and dry as a wilted prune abandoned on the vineyard soil. You’d at least managed the bare minimum of appearing less like a beached guppy by snapping your jaw shut, but the snicker from his lips at whatever he found while searching your face revealed your inadequacy to mask as a functioning human.

Azure eyes sparkled with mirth. “I ken I’m a looker, hen, but I ‘ave tae say it’s been a while since I’ve left a bonnie lass like yerself truly speechless. Strokin’ my ego a bit, ye are.”

“Your coffee…”

The first words you say to the man of your dreams and all you can think of is his wasted cup left unoccupied on the counter.

“Eh, it’s only a drink.” His shoulder’s finally loosened with a shrug. “More concerned about yers. Not tae make ye feel bad, lass, but ye’re lookin’ a wee bit peckish if I can say.”

So your mirror liked reminding you every morning. 

You waved him off on instinct, not needing the alpha to start concerning himself with your health. Not like there was much either of you could do about it. “It’s fine. Shouldn't be spending the money anyways.”

He wasn’t satisfied with that answer, raising an eyebrow at your justifiably frazzled appearance, but choosing not to question it just the same.

“Gonna be honest, lass. Wasn't exactly expectin’ ta bump into ya.”

You could tell by the bite marks on another woman’s neck.

No. Stop it girl. That’s not fair to him.

You shoved back the bitter taste of jealousy, forcing a smile you both knew was awkward. “Yea… what are the odds…”

“Mind ye, when the others mentioned their wee run-in with ye at the shop the other night I ken’d there was a chance– Christ, when Cap’n finds out the…” His words carried on, but you stopped processing them beyond a certain point in his ramblings, focusing more on the melody as it slowly faded to the background. There was a lilt to his speech that didn’t quite fit the occasion - at least to you. A restrained awe; measured happiness so as not to overwhelm you right off the bat with unbridled emotion. 

Part of you was thankful for his careful insight considering the delicate nature of the situation. But even so, the squiggly edges of his personality felt forcefully crammed into an elaborate puzzle rather than fitting naturally into a predetermined space.

You should be thrilled to be having this conversation. Things should be clicking and the world should make sense and his voice should be songbirds twittering in your ear on a beautiful summer’s day without a cloud in the sky and…

All you can hear is the man in a blue camry honking at the lady jaywalking in front of his car, the squeal of halted tires and shouted insults from hot spilled coffee across his lap. The poor woman on the corner shaking a can of loose pennies in hopes of a two dollar meal from the shop down on 7th Ave. Dogs barking at strangers and high heels clacking on wet slushy pavement. 

Overstimulation hits you hard, leaving you incapable of making out anything but the shapes of his mouth without any of the feedback. His voice muffles despite only the foot distance between you, and try as you might you have no idea what’s causing that smile on his face. For all you know he could be just as easily discussing the week's snowy forecast or reciting Chaucer like those lunatics on the steps outside the performing arts college. 

The nagging presence makes itself known in the back of your mind, adding to the chaos plugging your senses and making the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end in a way that has nothing to do with the chill. The disgruntled alpha half a country away calls to your fraying nerves, taking advantage of your weakened mentality and twisting like a gnarled root around your windpipe. You disguise the full body trembles with a forced shiver, the restlessness of your fingers giving in to the urge to claw at your mating mark, hiding the motion by readjusting your scarf more securely and clearing your throat. A cold sweat breaks out underneath the insulating layers of warmth, adding to the already miserable conditions of the snowy bluster. There’s only so much more you can take before you split apart at the threads and reveal to the stranger just how rotted your insides were.

You needed to end the interaction.

“Look–” you interrupt his languid tirade, voice barely holding steady and as timid as a field mouse, mittened palm up to keep him from going any further and stunning him into silence. “You don’t have to do this. This kinda thing just… doesn’t happen to normal people. I’m not gonna hold anything against you when it was a one in a billion chance of us ever crossing paths. You have your life and I have mine.”

Something hard caught in your throat and gummed up your words, threatening to crawl into your lungs and make a permanent home if you focused on it for too long - gave it too much power. You hoped he didn’t see the way you forced yourself to push through. “Let’s just… be adults, acknowledge that it happened, and go about our day as if we were two strangers passing by on the street. No expectations, no mess. ‘Kay?”

Clearly not envisioning that reaction now that he’d finally gotten his paws on you, something in his look tightened at being told ‘no’. “Hardly seems fair.”

Who was he to know ‘fair’?

“And what about us?” he continued with an unexpected bite. “Ye think we can jus’ ignore the fact that our scent match is wanderin’ about somewhere in the city unguarded and at risk of bein’ hurt or– or taken?”

You could almost taste the self satisfaction flaring across the tainted bond, fighting back a wave of nausea and bristling at the emotional wound he unknowingly gut punched.

“And your omega?” You watched him flinch at the obvious retort, both hating and relishing in his discomfort at having reality thrown back in his face. At least you both knew there was an element of betrayal lingering beneath the surface. “You really want her to have to come home every day with you smelling like another woman? Your fated woman? Do you realize the damage that’ll cause not just to her but to your mating bonds?”

In a perfect world, this whole encounter would be different. He’d say hi, you’d give him your most winning smile. The two of you would go back to the cafe and he’d pay for your coffee. You'd sit across from each other with stars in your eyes, getting to know the ins and outs of their soul for however much time your schedules allowed, blowing off prior commitments in favor of lyrical words dancing sugar plums around your head. Numbers would be exchanged and you’d both part ways feeling lighter and hopeful and impatiently waiting for the start of the next exciting chapter.

God, you hated fairy tales. 

The alpha was clearly frustrated at how the conversation was playing out, scratching a rough hand through his mohawk with a groaned out hiss, eyes darting around empty space as a grimaced mouth searched for the right words. “Look, lass. The four of us–” 

Four. There were four of them. Four mates. 

“–aren’t gonna stop worryin’, not now that we ken ye’re within reach and without a pack of yer own.” Blue eyes skimmed downwards trying to peer beyond the veil of your scarf, flicking back up to your face when he failed, searching for a sign that you remain unmated as he suspects by your reactions thus far. 

Glancing off to the side, you avoid his gaze and focus on the piles of brown snow gathered along the curb, not trusting yourself to keep a straight face under his careful scrutiny. He must take your avoidance as confirmation, returning to the conversation at hand.

“Alright, yea. We’ve already bonded another. Nothin’ tae be done about it now and there’s no use bawlin’ o’er what might ‘ave been. But if ye think that's gonna stop us from tryin’ tae be a part of yer life then yer sorely mistaken.” 

There’s an endearing quality to his convictions - as misguided as you believe them to be. So sure of himself, reflected in the take-no-objections posture and firm set of his brows. All confident alpha bravado. 

A small part of you keens at his certitude, recognizing it on a primal level and wanting to bask in the commanding presence your– the alpha provides. But those same instincts that scream at you to welcome his protective nature also serve as a reminder of why that could never work.

There’s a reason packs only keep one omega. While alphas are stereotyped as being the possessive pigheaded brutes who covet your kind like unstable beasts, everyone knows there is none so fierce as a territorial omega, baring her teeth to encroaching females without a moment’s hesitation to defend. It’s not like you’re the worst sorts of overly attached pack mates though. Society wouldn't be able to function if an omega snapped every time they all came within three feet of each other. 

But to have the two coexisting within the same ecosystem fighting over the affections of the same alphas…

If the heartbreak wouldn’t kill them, the blood on their teeth will.

The fact that he’s trying to send all that flying out the window is both impressive and infuriating in its stubbornness. 

Your own voice is far more subdued as you fidget with the hem of your coat. “That’s not how this is supposed to work…”

“Oh aye? Turnin’ down gaggles of soulmates jus’ a light Saturday mornin’ fer ya then?”

Despite the dour mood, you huffed in something akin to levity at his words, feeling some of that tension unreel from your bones in the face of the small upward curve of his lips that accompanied them. “If I say yes will that convince you to throw in the towel?”

Enchanting eyes sparked with determination and something playful. “Hate to break it tae ya, lass, but we’re a right stubborn bunch o’ blokes.”

“And her?” 

Cerulean eyes hardened again. “We’ll sort that out between us.” 

A leather covered arm reaches out to guard your left side, a firm body stepping into your space to block you from a passing beta encroaching too close on your private conversation. You don’t miss the slight rumble in his chest given as a warning to the traipsing man, the subtle growl claiming this spot and two of you in it, an intimidating scowl berating him for nearly knocking into you because of it. It catches you off guard, unconsciously leaning into the alpha's safety from the unaware intruder, the heady scent of freshly ground coffee beans permeating his clothes and coating you in a fresh pot to ease your delicate nerves.

It takes the two of you a moment to separate despite both of you knowing the ‘threat’ is gone; and even then the amount of space between is kept minimal at best. It’s hard to deny the pull molecularly chaining you to this man whose pheromones are carving out spaces in the cracks between the marrow like rapids, filling the pock marked gaps and branding your existence as something completely different than it was before. 

The structural fibers in your body are being split in half like colliding atoms in a particle accelerator. It’s a molecular tug of war between listening to ancestral instincts imploring you to stay with the protective alpha and past emotional trauma begging you not to give in to complicated matters of the heart. You’ve been hurt once before by someone of his kind and the last thing you needed was to punt yourself all the way back to square one when it had taken you so long to reach this part of your healing journey. 

You know where that path leads. There’s nothing waiting for you but despair.

Unknowing or lacking regard for your internal struggle, the alpha surprises you by shifting his arm to sprawl across your shoulder, a gentle but unrelenting force ushering you back in the direction you’d originally come running from, the deceptively casual grip brokering no room for argument. “Now, what’s say we make up fer scarin’ ye earlier with that cup of caffeine ye were gantin’ after, eh?” 

Maybe if you’d possessed a stronger will you might’ve opened your mouth to protest his commanding treatment over you. Instead, nestled close to his body and tucked in tight against his shoulder, he was gentleman enough not to comment on the small whiff you snuck on your way back to the cafe.

The soft instrumentals playing festive tunes over the cafe speakers were an appreciated break from the harsh monotony of whirring kitchen equipment. Depictions of snowmen and candy canes painted artistically on the inside glass celebrated the joyous season. Evergreens and mistletoe; frozen fractals falling from white fluffy clouds. A veritable winter wonderscape - the natural frost accumulated on the outside only adding to the weathering effect. 

Red and green twinkle lights hung strewn across overhead support beams. Garlands with small plastic ornament bobbles snaked around the insides of display cases. An electric votive nestled cozily in miniature wreaths and placed at every table flickered warmly for an added ambience to the already welcoming interior.

The holiday decorations had been up since Thanksgiving, but you’d never taken a moment to really notice them, too focused on the transactional exchange and the time on your phone to give it more than a passing glance of acknowledgement. Fidgeting in your seat, it was a welcome distraction.

You’d been ushered towards one of the secluded tables upon returning to the cozy cafe, your companion either ignorant or uncaring of the odd glances tossed your way by those still inside who witnessed your previous outburst. You kept your head ducked from the initial embarrassment, blood heating your face as he helped you out of your coat and slung it over the back of your chair, making sure you were settled before sauntering off towards the register to place the drink order you’d rattled off. 

While he stood distracted at the counter amongst a sea of waiting customers, one of the older baristas with a candy cane apron discreetly tried to flag down your attention, meticulously cleaning one of the espresso machines with a soiled napkin purposefully tilted away from his view. 

The words in scribbled sharpie pointed your way: ‘You ok?’

Touched by her concern, you gave her a surprisingly genuine smile despite your jittery insides, easing her enough to pass along a thumbs up as she goes back to working on whatever festive drink concoction the lady at the drive thru has deigned to torture her with. It was kind of her to look after you given the strangeness of the day. But against what should be all rational thought you trusted the man who was for all intents a complete stranger.

Here’s to hoping life didn’t pair you with a serial killer.

Shaking your head of such nonsense (hopefully), it took you a moment to recall the last time you gave yourself permission to linger somewhere. With the exception of the hour spent every week in Dr. Miranda’s office, you avoided congregating in public spaces for more than the few minutes it took to get in, get out, and return to the safety of your abode. Crowds made you skittish; the abused animal inside burrowed deep within your rib cage voicing its objections and reflecting its displeasure in the way it made you outwardly twitch. Once upon a time even stepping foot in a place like this - enclosed, swirling with clashing aromas, a singular point of escape - seemed like such an unattainable goal. Even now the awareness of the situation caused your agoraphobia to writhe under your skin, poisoning like fire ant venom and tempting your lungs into anaphylactic shock. 

Deep breaths, girl. In… out… in… out… let it wash over you… inhale… exhale… 

You are safe. You are safe. You are– 

Like nails on a chalkboard, the scratching of wood against ceramic jostled you from your meditative process, an involuntary yelp met with a small grin of apology as the imposing alpha placed your own drink in front of you before taking up residence in the open seat across. Something about the setting exacerbated his already potent smell, mixing with the sweetness of the beverages and leaving you with a deep gnawing ache to lean across the table and drink it straight from the source.

The tide of anxiety receded back to the depths of your mind, your inner omega settling in the presence of your scent match. Even if you couldn’t escape the dark presence prowling like a half-starved panther on the other end of the bond, the natural relief that came with sitting three feet away from your opposite designation had you breathing steadier than you had since leaving therapy a short while ago. You may not be entirely comfortable with this predicament, but at least the attention came with a few built in perks. 

The fake candle in the center highlighted the limited edition designs on your respective drinks, but it’s the name scrawled in sparkly black sharpie that catches your attention on his disposable cup. “MacTavish?”

“John,” he confirms, “pleasure ta meet ya, lass. Though I s’pose tha’s how I should’ve started things out in the first place. With, ya know… manners.”

“Not like I made introductions easy for us…” you mumbled with a wince, tracing over the cafe’s symbol on your cup as a small distraction from having to make eye contact at the admission.

“Aye, ye didn’t. But I cannae fault ye fer havin’ a sense of self preservation starin’ down a big burly Scotsman, now can I?” 

It had been moreso about running from your problems than being outright intimidated by the man, but you weren’t about to question his assumption and open up a whole new can of worms in the process. “Right...”

There was a brief pause as he stared at you expectantly, hoping you’d return the favor now that he’d taken that first step with an official greeting. Something about offering up even that little part of yourself scared you though. It felt like handing over power to the fae folk; like once he knew your name he could strip the autonomy from your spirit and ensnare you forever in his enchanted domain.

Instead, you took a sip from the hot liquid in your hands, soothed by the syrupy blend like a steady palm rubbing lines down your back. Not nearly as good as the earthy bouquet your nose had been sampling with every inhale. Maybe if you’d added a pump of caramel…

You fought desperately to ignore the part of your brain that whispered comparisons to the rich espresso-y figure across the way, stopping any and all sidetracking towards scandalous thoughts of a more private taste testing. 

This was not the time for slick inducing fantasies.

Once he realized he wouldn’t receive an echoing answer, he mirrored you with his own brew, humming in approval at whatever pleasant taste he found and dropping the subject temporarily. Thankful he didn’t push, you read further down on his own drink, unable to help the small scoff of surprise after reading the incriminating label.

“A sugar cookie latte? Not the most masculine of drinks, is it?” You’re not sure where you found the courage to softly tease him over his beverage of choice. Clearly his heavy alpha pheromones were messing with your logic receptors. “Thought your kind liked to keep things dark and bitter.” 

“I'm an alpha, lass. Chasin’ after sweet smellin’ omegas is what we do fer fun.” There was a sparkle there that hinted towards your earlier predicament, a not so subtle implication combined with his cheeky grin that reassured you it was all good natured. You at least had the decency to duck your head abashedly, face heating up from more than just the warming drink. “Kinda gives us a wee proclivity fer honeyed tastes.”

Honestly, he had a point. Can’t say you’d ever thought of it that way before. I mean, seriously. Whoever said alphas needed to be gritty when they came naturally ingrained with a sweet tooth?

“Guess that’s why she smells like chocolate.”

Your lips formed the words without thought, something mean tugging at you the same time he did. Nails bite into the recycled coffee sleeve like sharpened teeth, taking out the urge to scratch on the poor item rather than call attention to the scarf still secured around your neck. Couldn’t even get through a normal outing without him adding his two cents to the mix.

A hard tap on the tabletop called your attention back to John. You’d maybe expected an affirming response, but what you don't expect is to find him staring at you from across the table with a suddenly serious expression, speaking to you in an almost chiding manner. “I'd rather ye didn’t bring up sore spots to intentionally cause yerself pain.”

He didn’t allow you to hide, his face moving in tandem with yours as you attempted to duck his gaze, the blunt observation leaving you sheepish as you worried your bottom lip. 

“...can't avoid the conversation forever.”

“Aye. But the least we can do is get ta know each other first.”

That genuinely puzzled you. “Why?”

Even through the bulk of his winter coat you could see the way the material stretched to make way for his biceps as he crossed them over his chest, leaning back in his seat as he regarded you with easy going eyes. “Yer my scent match, lass. Ye think I'm not o’er ‘ere stewin’ in a fruity cocktail wishin’ I’d ‘ave taken ye tae a juice bar instead?”

Your face heated again at the implication. Seems his own thought pattern wasn’t too terribly dissimilar to the wiley suggestions pawing at your psyche with scintillating ideas of debauchery. “Wouldn't go that far...”

“Got no shame in admittin’ yer drivin’ me up the wall.”

He really didn’t, did he? 

“Not sure you should be saying things like that.”

“Probably.” He shrugged nonchalantly. “Ne’er been one fer followin’ rules though. Doesnae make sense when we're both wantin’ the same thing.”

You examined him over the rim of your cup, forearm resting on the sticky laminate as you leaned in closer, almost imploring in your tone. “Isn't that just further proof we shouldn't even be talking right now?”

Taking a sip of his own, he brushed off your concerns like a piece of lint from his sleeve. “Ye really think ye can jus’ wipe yer hands and forget about us?”

Silence laid thick in the air between you. There was no point denying when he felt every bit the earth-rattling gravity well that had the two of you touching toes beneath the table. 

He didn’t even bother trying to hide the smugness from his expression. “Exactly. I may not be takin’ ye ta my bed, lass, but yer mine nonetheless.”

You shouldn't have liked the way that sounded. For the past four years of your life you’ve been unwilling property to a man holding you confined in a secret realm of bleak oblivion. You’ve begged and pleaded through every starless sky to go back to being the woman you were before fate intervened, desperate for peace in an internal war. All you ever wanted was freedom; to bound over mountains and soar across fields. To scrape off the layers belonging to him and build castles in the clouds far beyond his reach.

Yet here you were thanking the maker of scent wicking panties that your match couldn’t detect the perfume wafting up between your legs at the thought of him staking his claim over you.

“So,” he went on, “we figure out a way tha’ we can be in yer life that doesnae cross any boundaries and ye gain four brutes that'll gladly shank a man fer ya.”

You raise an eyebrow at his choice of wording before taking a sip from your cup. “Sounds a tad extreme if you ask me.”

Canines gleaming, the look he sends you is downright carnivorous. “Oh, yer in fer a spell, lass.”

Chatter turns to small talk in an effort to distract you from the discomfort of previous conversation. Turns out he’d drawn the short straw when he and his pack mates realized over piles of paperwork and exhaustive meetings that certain individuals who would not be named - but he’d been more than happy to throw under the bus - hadn’t checked some things off their list while out doing a routine grocery run the other night. Seems like the previous two you’d met were left nearly as shaken as you after the encounter, forgoing the last few needed aisles in favor of ending things early to process tough decisions behind closed doors.

That’s all the information he offers; no further details exchanged on the matter. The internal workings of your personal lives kept private. It didn’t take a mathematician to understand why you prefer to remain guarded, but you assume on his end it had a fair bit to do with the obnoxious purple elephant in the room, trumpeting and stampeding all over the future you could’ve built had it just stayed locked in a zoo. There’s still some moments along the line where he lays a trail of tiny bread crumbs, challenging you with hungry eyes to follow the path through winding woodland and glittering caves towards whatever lay beyond. You’re tempted a few times to chance a couple steps, toeing the line of curiosity but always pulling back to the safety of the unknown. 

The less you know about their lives the better. You never even inquire as to the missing three names.

Eventually you settle on the topic of just how exactly he proposed this hairbrained… relationship?... was going to work. Fuck, there really had to be a better word for it. Not friends, not lovers. Not a situationship. Not total strangers anymore.

Companions? Counterparts? Symbiotes?

Either way, you’d both been spouting suggestions for the better part of five minutes and you weren’t any closer to a solution that would leave both parties feeling satisfied. Granted the only thing that could work for you would be as little interaction as humanly possible, but he was firm in his convictions.

“We can keep it ta texts fer right now if ye like.”

“But then she'll feel bad if she sees you writing them.”

“Then we'll jus’ ‘ave tae come visit.”

“But then I'll feel like some sleazy homewrecking call girl.”

“Now yer jus’ bein’ a numpty.”

“I’m being realistic.”

“Yea, ye should stop tha’.”

“John!”

“Lass.”

Oh, how you wanted to wipe that flippant laughter off his face and pry it from his mouth with dental tools. The damn thing was unfairly infectious in the way it warmly beckoned a smile to your lips. Here you were trying to be sensible about the situation he created and so far all attempts to come to some sort of compromise were met with off handed ribbing and facetiousness.

You wouldn’t admit that some of the holdup was partially your fault - looking for desperate excuses to keep this from happening - but it hung suspended in the quiet between your words. And what’s more he knew it too.

“What about the occasional email?” you threw out for the hell of it.

John outright guffawed at the ridiculous suggestion, drawing the attention of some of the surrounding tables without a care towards who heard, brawny arms tossed upward in fond exasperation. “This ain’t a business transaction, hen! Saints, what a notion…”

“Well…” you sputtered, “then it seems like we’ve reached an impasse.” 

Please just drop it.

He just looked at you with further amusement, swirling circles on the table with the bottom edge of his now empty coffee cup. “Ye always a neurotically charged mess or is this jus’ my lucky day?”

Oh god. In your desperation to undo the upheaval he’s already causing in your life you really weren’t painting a pretty picture of yourself were you? 

You cringed backwards at the realization. “Pretty sure you’re the reason I’m making myself look like one.”

“Aye, but a bonnie one,” he agrees.

“And you’re not worried about the mental stability of the person which life has comedically deemed yours and is making a complete fool of herself?”

“Just tryin’ tae make ye smile. It's been workin’.” A fact he looked quite proud of.

And it was. You couldn't deny that. For how much havoc this was wreaking on the parts of yourself that had become so ill equipped to handle basic human interactions outside your minuscule inner circle, there was a part of you that was glad to find you still possessed the capability of laughing with a stranger.

The conversation paused as his brow knit in confusion, the faint buzzing of a cell phone rattling in his pocket barely audible over the din as he drew it from the interior lining of his coat. The way he held the device and flicked through it with his thumb implied a text message as opposed to a phone call, huffing as he read over the contents before palming it in his meaty hand.

“Och, the louses are houndin’ me fer their caffeine fix. Hang on a tic, lass.” Flashing a quick smile, his chair slid back with a sharp squeak as he stood, strolling back towards the counter and flagging down an unoccupied barista. It was impossible not to follow him with your eyes, ogling his stocky frame as he rattled off coffee orders from the conversation pulled up on his phone. Even the sweet beta girl behind the register wasn’t impervious to his roguish charms; just a little more subtle in the way she admired the casual arrogance in which he leaned against the marble. 

How long had it been since you last let your eyes wander over the shape of a man and thought of something other than a rancid dumpster and abrasive brick scraping morse code across your exposed back?

There was something uniquely disarming about the alpha. In many ways his ability to break past your bullshit reminded you of Dr. Miranda. Both refused to let you spiral to darker thoughts, spinning the world into one of muted colors rather than shades of desolate gray. But where she spent years undoubtedly locked in a study hall pouring over dissertations and cramming decades of designation theory over red bulls and ramen, John had accomplished that same level of trust in a matter of–

You checked the time on your phone. The pair of you had been sitting in this cafe for roughly fifteen minutes now. That’s all it took for this whirlwind of a man to blow away the cobwebs accumulating in your chest and deliver a shot of adrenaline to your synapses.

Too bad the monster in your veins would make sure it didn’t last.

John came back from the counter holding a cardboard coffee carrier by the handle, looking down at you expectantly from his position towering over you. “Right, lass. Need tae be droppin’ these,” he raised his arm a smidge, gesturing to the drinks, “off tae the lads. So hows about we quit the stallin’ and skip tae the part where ye stop overthinkin’ things and lemme have yer number?”

He didn’t even let you open your mouth in feeble defense of that (true) statement before serving you a warning look that dissolved the syllables from the tip of your tongue. From what little you’d gathered during your brief stint together, you didn’t doubt his potential gumption to wrangle you to the cold tile floor - even in the presence of all these people - just to fish the device out of your pocket himself if need be.

Personally, you didn’t feel up to testing his bluff. 

Working off pure muscle memory, you handed over your phone and watched as he pulled up your messaging app, inputting his name amongst the scant others on the list and shooting off a fruit emoji. If he noticed the sparse amount of contacts in your phone he didn't comment on it. Not like it was hard to miss a grand total of four separate text chains.

His phone buzzed again from the text he sent himself, handing back your device with a smile that erred on the side of slightly devious contentment. The bastard knew he won and was being unfairly smug about it. “There now. See how easy that was, lass? Perfectly painless.”

That’s when it hit you.

“What if she says no?” The sheer panic gripping your chest catches you off guard as much as the blurted out words. Trepidation crushes like a hydraulic press, the thought of this precious fleeting moment being all you ever get seizing your body like a hundred electrified shocks. The rickety tower of emotional stability you’d been working so hard to keep steady seemed to crumble beneath your feet now that there was a chance he wouldn't be around to keep it from falling. “What if this is all just some big mistake and we never should have met and I end up ruining your pack–”

Gods, this was so fucked up. A minute ago you wanted nothing more than to never hear from John again and now your inner omega was giving you whiplash trying to cling to an alpha that wasn’t hers by the skin of her blunted teeth. 

This was exactly why you didn’t want to have anything to do with them in the first place! It was a no win scenario that was only going to make things worse by confusing your already emotionally precarious omega. Delaying the inevitable. Dragging things out. Torturing her wounded soul trying to wring water from stone.

But you couldn’t give him up anymore - not now. Maybe once you’re home safe in your nest and can breathe clean air not tainted with his fragrance. When you’ve forgotten the oceanic hues that gleam at you with such open eagerness. When his brogue and his candor are replaced with flashes of doe eyed brown and thick flowing locks and the taste of chocolatey truth cuts too deep to heal. Maybe distance will make this ache inside easier to bear. 

But at this moment, despite your earlier hesitations, you weren’t ready for the clock to strike midnight on the impossible.

If he couldn’t read the distress on your face then he certainly was made aware of it by the sour smell of overripe fruit cascading off of you, bitter and tart and pungent as you began to spiral, getting lost in a torrent of what ifs and worst case scenarios. 

You never got to finish your verbal stream of consciousness. Alpha instincts snapped into action before you could begin blowing fumes, disregarding his coffee as he hoisted you up from your seat with immediate alertness. Strong arms encased your vulnerable form, one hand cradling the back of your neck with gentle pressure, engaging the bundle of nerves located there with a direct line to the body’s limbic system. An omega’s weak spot; it overrides all internal circuitry and sends calming signals to the brain, disengaging stress receptors, activating the amygdala, bringing you to a headspace of obedience and security. It was highly taboo to touch an omega there without their explicit permission; a right reserved only for close family members and chosen pack mates. 

You should be angry– you should be furious. How dare he assume that just because he was your scent match that it gave him any right to manhandle you! Robbing your ability to retake control and leaving you just as helpless as that fateful night in the alley.

But he was. And you just didn’t care. Call it biology working against you, but all you felt in that moment was a deep rooted need to sink into his grounding embrace and let your mind go blissfully blank. Trusting in fate to send you an alpha with morals and integrity. Handing over the keys to a man who knew how to drive.

Releasing more of his smooth creamy scent into the air around you, body and designation worked in tandem to soothe every aspect of your overwhelmed being. Outside influences floated away with all the cares of the world, revolving around a fixed point in space exactly where you stood. Nothing else existed in this fraction of the universe. Just two souls destined to be together by forces beyond comprehension.

This was what you were made for. This felt right.

And, god– he was purring for you.

“Hey hey– shhh shhh. Settle, omega, settle... easy now. Jus’ like tha’... There’s a good lass.”

Slowly but surely, the acrid odor of anxiety faded back into the sweet juicy scent of a fresh crisp pear. A small whine escaped your lips as he sapped your body of strength, held aloft only by the taut muscles in his forearms. Glazed over eyes reflected the haze fogging your senses, melting you down into something gooey and malleable that dripped like corn syrup, sticky and coating every inch of your skin in a clear varnish. Breathing became easier. The heavy thumping in your ears faded back to white noise. Bones turned rubbery and tendons fell limp until you could no longer remember what upset you in the first place.

No longer needing the subduing effects of gentling, his hand moved from its spot at the back of your neck to the base of your skull, thumb tenderly stroking where skin met hair, shushing soft assurances against your temple.

“Ye needn’t worry a strand on tha’ bonnie wee head of yers. Ye dunnae ken her like we do. Jus’ leave everythin’ tae me. I’ll sort things right as rain, yea?”

The rational part of your brain knew better than to believe honeyed lies, but in the cloudy serotonin you simply nodded into the dark leather of his coat, spellbound under his tranquilizing touch.

“Atta girl. C’mon, let’s get ye tae yer car.”

Helping you back into your coat, he made sure you were bundled up nice and snug before shuffling you outside into the frosty air, a hand resting over the small of your back in a way you didn’t object to in your current slothful state. The chime felt a little less abrasive this time around as you exited the cafe, moving in the direction of your car parked in its spot alongside the bustling rush hour traffic.

You knew the elderly thing was a spectacle to behold; all chipped paint and rusted metal, duct tape holding the bumper together, a dent in the passenger door from where your neighbor’s kids had kicked a ball into it last spring. There was a crack across the windshield from where a bird made friendly with it earlier in the year that sliced through your vision but didn’t impede you from driving. 

‘Character’ was the word you used to describe it, but it certainly wasn’t what everyone else usually chose. John obviously fell into the latter camp.

“Ye sure tha’ thing’s operable, lass?” He scrutinized every banged-up, well-worn inch of it, pulling a face at what he found lacking and raising an eyebrow in disbelief. “Not sure I trust it ta get ya to point b without a few bumps and scrapes.”

You sighed at the familiar criticism, having heard much the same from your fathers. “It gets the job done. Still safer than walking around by myself anyways. I promise I wouldn’t drive it if I thought it’d get me killed one day.” Only a partial lie at least.

He was clearly unconvinced, but blessedly didn’t say anything further besides whatever mumbled remark he kept under his breath. Watching quietly while still keeping an eye on the surrounding area, he stayed near your side as you fumbled with the keys, grabbing the handle to hold it open as you tossed your bag on the passenger seat. “Right. In ya go then.”

You thought that would be the end of it as he closed the door behind you, buckling your fraying seat belt and hoping he was far enough away that you could safely attempt to start your car without any more judgment from him if this ended up being the one time it didn’t turn over.

You jumped slightly as his gloved hand tapped on the glass, turning your head to watch him motion for you to lower the window. Rolling the old school contraption down, you were again hit with a velvety shot of espresso as he half leaned in towards you, forearm resting against the top of your car.

“If ye think fer one minute tha’ I’m gonna jus’ up and forget about ye now tha’ we’re partin’ ways ye’ll be sorely disappointed lass. Tha’ there thing in yer purse’ll be ringin’ before ye ken it and I’m not afraid to come lookin’ if I dunnae get an answer.” 

The promise in his tone felt suspiciously like a threat, but one without any real intended consequence. His relaxed posture and sparkling irises assured you that while he’d probably still be cross if you ignored his attempts to reach out, you wouldn’t be awoken in the middle of the night to someone taking a battering ram to your flimsy front door.

At least, you hoped they wouldn’t.

Flashing you a playful wink, John took a step back from the vehicle. “Take care, omega. Be seein’ ya real soon.”

You’re shouting your name at him before you even realize what you’ve done, the small part of you that longs for a deeper connection clawing free from the part that fears having her heart shattered. From a few feet away you could still see the fireworks bursting in his eyes, the way he stands a little taller and puffs out his already broad chest with euphoria at your proffered olive branch. You can’t bring yourself to regret it when his unabashed smile conjures images you never dared hope for.

He waited until you rolled up your window and heard the telltale click of the locks on your doors engaging before finally taking off, crossing to the other side of the slippery street and walking with a hand tucked into his coat pocket until a line of cars finally blocked his retreating form from view. 

You sat there for a moment with your hands on the steering wheel, the silence in the vehicle more deafening than the wind howling outside. The past twenty minutes played like rewind on a VCR, speeding through the chain of events leading to the present to be watched again and again and again. 

After the fifth or sixth replay, all you could think of was rushing back to your apartment before fate could intervene once more and you accidentally run over your fourth scent match’s pekingese with your fucking car. 

°•. ✿ .•°.•° ✿ °•.°•. ✿ .•°.•° ✿ °•.°•. ✿ .•°

<< ✿ Previous ✿ <<

[aziraphales-library]

Hello! Do you have any fics of Aziriphale and Bildad the Shuite?

Thanks

Hi! Here are some Bildad fics...

You here for shoes, or babies? by nightbloomingcereus (T)

Aziraphale needs someone to repair his vintage brogues. The new cobbler (and midwife?) who's opened up shop in Soho might be just who he's looking for.

Just Dandy by SassAsAFreeAction (T)

Aziraphale is no longer a stranger to food. He regularly goes to taverns and restaurants. One night though he finds that his server has accidently given him a glass of wine to go with his meal. One sip couldn't possibly hurt though.

Bildad and the Ox Rib by agrajag (E)

"Are you trying to tempt me?" Aziraphale asked, and Crowley had to fight the urge to laugh. Oh, he'd been trying to temp the angel for? Oh, a thousand or so years? Give or take? But he had learned his lesson. Aziraphale was too pure of heart to consort with a demon -- or he actually was not interested in Crowley the way that Crowley was interested in him. Crowley had to hope, but he wasn't going to wait around forever. (Even if they technically had forever.) His patience was wearing thin like butter being scraped uselessly over toast, not that Aziraphale would understand the comparison. While Crowley might not have been what Aziraphale desired, Crowley still cared for him far too much to watch the angel lead such a drab, joyless existence. Hence the ox ribs.

An Angel with Questions, a Demon with Answers by LemonTart (E)

After a night spent devouring ox ribs, Aziraphale experiences strange new sensations in his body. He puts himself into Crowley’s demonic hands to help decipher these alarming new tingles and twitches.

Drunken Revelation by parabasis (M)

“Crawley, I think I will accept that drink now,” Aziraphale said with a smile on his face that didn't quite reach his eyes. “Isn't that what humans do? Drink when they're feeling sad?” Aziraphale and Crawley get drunk, things get a bit out of hand, and they come to some realisations about the nature of their partnership.

The Demon Midwife by Mensa_Chickens (T)

Bildad the Shuhite pretended to be an obstetrician so hard that she actually became one. Or Crowley decides to take on a job as a midwife. The repercussions of this decision will be much greater than she ever anticipated.

- Mod D

[3liza]

saw a youtube sponsorship for a brand that markets itself as "masculine shoes in small sizes, for trans men" and if the entire idea wasn't already preposterous (this is part of a large scale marketing push to convince trans people that clothing that has been available on the normal heterosexual market for generations is "hard to find" so they can charge you hundreds of dollars for it), it's also ugly, and they have chosen to call their company "Tomboy Toes". if you said those two words to my face in a shoe store i would slap you

$120 for a black or brown version of the standard school uniform brogue which has been available all the way down to toddler sizes since uhhhhhhh approximately 1820.

just to double check my sense of reality i went to the largest single online shoe market on earth besides Amazon (zappos) and typed in "women's brogues" and selected size 5 which would be pushing the lower limit on the larger part of the bell curve of adult AFAB people on earth, or at least the northern hemisphere, and there are many options in approximately the same price range depending on brand name, with sales regularly down to much less, on similar or identical styles. ebay also. Tomboy Toes carries down to size EU33 which is around 3.5 US Women's and again, that's just in the children's section if you need Picture Day/uniform (children)/ Office Whatever (adult) Shoes and they are on eBay lightly used in great numbers because kids grow out of them in 6-10 months.

is it annoying to be shopping in "women's section" or "kids section" for these things when you are an adult man. yes. so i dont understand the marketing impetus to replicate that exact scenario by naming your company for adult trans men something i would assume was a sassy yet misguided terf brand if i found it on a label in a generic wingtip at Goodwill. cis men who are very small also have to shop in the small sections for their small clothes. i am wearing a t-shirt meant for a 7 year old right now, it says so on the label. it fits me better than any of the shirts i own that are made for the standard american adult. i literally have bigger things to worry about

naturally their "vegan leather" selection is much larger but again, it's ugly Trendy Booties that will fall apart in a year and are, i cant emphasize this enough, made of plastic, nothing special, and in standard women and children's sizes which are already plentiful at every shoe retailer. why are we letting these "trans brands" charge us a $100 tax to pretend to take us seriously (while at the same time calling us "tomboys")? does anyone know

i do, its actually because of the learned helplessness issue again. the accepted wisdom at the tumblr layer of transness is 'its so hard to find [item of clothing that is suitable for trans people]" because the knowledge of how to shop for these items in the actual market has completely evaporated within the last ten years, i watched it happen right in front of me. but it's a complete fallacy, you can find this stuff easily. you can find large women's shoes, small men's shoes, women's clothing with wide shoulders or long torsos, there are entire stores for this already and measurements and sectiions within "department stores" (such as they are) and then after that there are one million billion foam inserts and seams and button placements and belts and scarves and gloves and hem lengths and blah blah blah that trans people and also cis people who are not standard-shaped or who just want their shoes or bras or shirts to fit have already been using for thousands of years so ive been mad about this all day. TOMBOY TOES. they are having us for absolute fools. just call me a slur at this point

i already know some nincompoop is going to match me paragraph for paragraph in a heated defense of the hundred dollar jingle keys boring shoes so i just want them to know in advance: we are not the same. i have so many cool shoes it is unbelievable. in every gender imaginable. and i didn't pay more than like $50 for any of them. also no theres no cheat sheet to learning to buy clothing for your body, i do not say this with any rancor either, its just hard, it takes a long time, and i dont have a cheatsheet for it because there isnt one. except rule #1: dont buy $120 boring ugly shoes from someone jingling their keys in front of your face and calling it Queer Fashion when you can get them for a lot less basically anywhere $120 isnt even a lot for a GOOD pair for mid-range, non-designer leather dress shoes. if you know they will last for ten years and stand up to resoling, it's completely fine. but not for thooooooose

[cheapieclassic]

🐤🐦 yellow and blue 🐦🐤

Please enjoy this unintentional madeline cosplay featuring my newest make 🐤

I found 3m of golden yellow linen in a charity shop and decided luck was smiling on me, so I patterned out this ruched bodice with cap sleeves. This dress makes me feel like sunshine :) I finished it early so I can wear it on my birthday!

Handmade yellow linen dress styled with thrifted items - vintage straw hat, second hand blue leather satchel, and second hand blue brogues.

[writing--whore]

Holding Out for a Hero

Pairing: Tangerine x (mafia daughter) Reader

Summary: After your bodyguard dies, Tangerine is assigned to protect you. He's not too happy about it and neither are you. But you get date raped while at a club and Tangerine comes to your rescue.

Word count: 6.6k

Warnings: Canon typical violence, date rape, sexual assault, the aftermath of that

Contains: Enemies to lovers, hurt/comfort, angst, fluff, slight blood kink??, fighting kink??

“My job is to kill people, yeah? I’m not a fucking babysitter. Find someone else.”

Tangerine’s voice filtered up towards the balcony that overlooked the foyer. The ridiculously large angel statue kept you hidden as you crouched down to eavesdrop on that strange Englishman and your father. 

Brogues squeaked furiously on the marble floor and you peaked around the statue to see Tangerine pacing. Your father, Louie, wore a blank, serene expression as he watched Tangerine, hands clasped behind his back. It was never possible to tell what your father was feeling. 

“Al is dead.” Louie stated.

The pacing halted. 

“Yeah… I heard. I’m sorry. He seemed like a great guy.” The last sentiment seemed forced. 

Even you wouldn’t have labelled Al as a ‘great’ guy. Al had been decent. In all his years of service to you, you’d never grown attached to him. There was nothing to become attached to, his personality had been blander than plain porridge. 

Louie spoke, “It will only be temporary. While I find a more suitable replacement, you are the only person I trust to protect my daughter.”

Tangerine’s mouth opened to protest. He wanted to say that his skills lied in impossible missions, in executing too many people to count when the stakes were piled against him. He was not a bodyguard. But as he looked into Louie’s eyes - usually a dark, impenetrable slate - he spied a faint glimmer of vulnerability, a crack in his stone. That man had a weak spot. You were his whole reason for living. And Tangerine knew he would have to protect it.

“Oh for bollocks sake, fine.” Tangerine accepted the job.

~~~

You couldn’t say you were much more excited about the prospect than he was. Al faded into the background and most of the time, you forgot he was even there. You’d grown comfortable with that, with knowing what to expect. But you didn’t know anything about Tangerine, you’d never even spoken to him before. All you knew about him was his loudmouth that sent foul exclamations echoing around your house. You were very sceptical of his ability to fade into the background as well as Al had. 

Today more than ever, you hoped he wouldn’t be a problem. You’d been planning on going shopping for a dress as you’d been invited to go clubbing with your friends later. You’d been looking forward to it for a while and hoped that Tangerine wouldn’t mess this up for you. 

The man in question was waiting for you outside your door, arms folded across his chest in visible distaste. 

He spoke no words as he fell into step besides you, following you down the staircase to the entrance way. On instinct, you waited for your bodyguard to open the door for you, as Al had always done.

Tangerine looked between you and the ornate double doors, his brows drawing down in incredulity. He pulled open the heavy door for himself and walked through, allowing it close behind himself. A draft shot through, ruffling up your hair, and you let loose an agitated groan.

You shoved the door open and kept your shoulders straight as you strode over to the car. 

“Good day, madam.” Your chauffeur, Rodger, greeted you.

“I wish I could say that it was.” You retorted as you and Tangerine climbed into the car.

“Don’t get your knickers in a twist, love.” Tangerine commented, strapping his seatbelt in.

“Look I’m just as unhappy about the situation as you are, and-”

“Oh I’m not sure about that.”

“And there’s no need to be a dick.” 

You stared pointedly at him as the car rumbled to life. 

Tangerine shifted in his seat to face you. He was about to make a retort but you spoke before he could.

“I’m aware that you would much rather be out there busting kneecaps or making a knife disappear into someone’s chest, or…” An image of Tangerine forced its way into your mind. You pictured him looming over a pile of dead bodies, blood splattered across his entirety. “Or… whatever else it is that you do.” You swallowed thickly, “But it seems like we’re stuck together for now, so we might as well try to be civil.”

“Me? I’m perfectly civil. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

You rolled your eyes and found your arms crossing over your chest - a mirror of his own. 

Well having him around was certainly going to be fun… 

He said nothing further and the silence allowed a chance for your shoulders to unwind. Towering buildings flowed past the window and into the centre of your attention. In front of the tall windows, people strolled by, carrying coffees, or walking their dogs - providing you with a welcome distraction (which lasted you the sum of a few short minutes). 

For as much as you hadn’t cared for Al, it was difficult to not think about his death. A heart attack, supposedly. But from the way Louie had hardly let you out of his sight recently, and the way the housekeeper, who had found Al’s body, seemed to stutter every time she spoke, you questioned whether that was true. 

Your hairs stood on end when you realised your father’s choice in hiring a psychopath might have been deliberate. Had someone killed Al? And was that killer now after you?

The mechanical drone of the car window switch drew you away from your thoughts. Cool air wafted through the window, dancing across your skin and sifting through your hair. An earthy smell, like cinnamon and citrus, carried on the breeze. You took a deep breath to inhale more of that smell, it brought you comfort like the warmth of sunlight reaching through the gaps in between tree branches. You stopped breathing entirely once you realised it was Tangerine you were inhaling. 

You dared a panicked side eye glance at Tangerine to see if he’d noticed but he was too busy looking out the window to have any idea. 

You jumped when the car rolled to a stop. 

“We have arrived, madam.” Your chauffeur announced.

You forced a smile, “Thank you, Rodger.” 

He turned to smile back at you. 

Danger or not, you kind of wished you had someone like Rodger as your bodyguard instead of this murder machine. At least Roger was nice. 

As you joined Tangerine on the pavement, you knew you were lying to yourself. A part of you was scared and that part of you found comfort in this stocky man who’s suit jacket was unable to hide the thick biceps that lay beneath. If you were going to be safe with anyone, it was (begrudgingly) Tangerine. 

Although, that fact alone was unable to stop you from letting the shop door go to close on his face.

Twisting your head over your shoulder, your smirk faded upon seeing his hand stop the quickly-swinging glass door before it could close on him. 

His glacial eyes stared daggers as he pushed through into the shop, they pinned you to the spot and made you realise how damned blue his eyes were. 

“I thought we were being civil?” 

“I am being civil.” You repeated his previous words with an easy smile and turned your back to him.

The store seemed to welcome you with its vast familiarity. And you had the whole place to yourself, besides the old woman who stood behind the checkout desk. They always closed the shop down for their number one customer. And this was your number one store. The most stunning designer dresses were stocked here; it wasn’t rare that you found pieces straight off the runway.

This shop was your safe space, you thought as your fingers trailed across the varying soft fabrics hanging from the rails. You took a deep breath. No looming danger nor Tangerine could ruin this for you. 

Your fingers paused at a velvet dress. Humming in concentration, you assessed its suitability. It was a midnight black dress with a high leg slit. That could very well be the dress. 

“Hold this for me, wouldya?” You tossed the garment at Tangerine.

Acting on reflex, he caught the dress mid-air, and then scoffed at being treated like your servant. He stared incredulously at the shop keeper, with a gaze that said: can you believe this chick? 

The shopkeeper returned a beady glare that said: don’t you dare drop that dress. 

Shaking his head, Tangerine turned his back to the both of them. This was hell. He couldn’t believe he was being forced to do this, to stand around playing obedient to some young girl. His experience of being tortured in Siberia after a failed mission was honestly preferable to this. 

Tangerine’s foot started to tap impatiently like a bouncy ball let loose on a drum. You purposefully chose to ignore him, leafing through garments at your leisure. A short dress in two different colours caught your eye and you held them both out. Head cocking to one side, you tried to determine which would best suit you. 

“They’re the same fucking colour, love. Get on with it.” 

Your head whipped over your shoulder to deliver your scowl to Tangerine. 

You snapped back, “Says the man wearing a suit in the perfect shade of blue to match his eyes.”

Tangerine was too taken aback by the fact you’d noticed that detail to come up with a reply. 

Fuschia pink began to flush your cheeks after having exposed how much attention you’d paid towards his eyes. You held your breath, waiting to get bullied. But Tangerine said nothing. Your blush faded before it could become noticeable. 

“Just don’t take all day, yeah?” He finally said. 

You rolled your eyes and put the maroon dress back. You couldn’t figure this guy out. Did he ever stop being a dick? The urge to be a dick back overcame you. Giving into your desires, you flung the burgundy dress at Tangerine’s head. It hit him square in the head and the back of it flopped over his face. 

You stifled a laugh.

For a good few seconds, he was too frozen to even rip the dress away from his face. He just stood there, vibrating with rage.

He tore himself free as you returned to looking through the clothes. Out of the corner of your eye, you could see him staring the sharpest daggers you’d ever seen at you. 

Not looking up from the clothes rail, you commented, “You know, you should really look into getting some anger management classes?”

“YoU ShOulD rEalLy gEt AnGeR manAgEMenT clAsSeS.” He retorted in a mocking accent 

He stared at you in such an exaggerated display of disbelief and anger. It was somehow comical. He would make for a great cartoon character, you realised.

“Case in point.”

“Unbelievable.” He replied.

As you continued your hunt for the perfect dress, he paced around the store like an agitated zoo animal. Each dress that you liked, you threw at Tangerine. You even sent some dresses his way that you didn’t like, just to weigh his arms down.

When you didn’t think he could possibly take anymore, you slid the changing room curtain open. 

“Fucking finally.” 

He hastily dumped the clothes onto the diamante wall hooks. 

He shook his head again as he brushed past you out of the changing room.

“Fucking princess.” He exclaimed under his breath, not caring that you might be able to hear it. 

Hearing Tangerine call you ‘princess’ did things to you that you were not ready to admit. You tugged the curtain closed with a swoosh, and you decided that you were not going to analyse your feelings. Not today at least. 

Tangerine slumped into a leather chair next to the changing room. God, he needed to smoke. But Louie would kill him if he found out that he’d left his little girl alone for even a second. He was tempted to light one up in the store, tell that wrinkly sultana behind the counter to shove it. But he eyed the fuckton of water sprinklers lining the ceiling, and he decided it wasn’t worth it. 

The shop must be haunted and a ghost must have possessed you. There is no other explanation for why you swung the curtain open to show Tangerine how you looked in the first dress, the black velvet dress you’d picked out earlier. 

Your heart definitely didn’t sink when Tangerine looked you over dismissively. 

“What do you think?” You prompted.

“It looks alright.”

Your face flushed for an entirely different reason; his anger was infectious. You tried not to slam the curtain closed, you didn’t want it to be obvious how much that pissed you off. God, you craved his approval. You hated that, and you hated how your hands now flicked through the clothes in an attempt to find a dress that impressed him. 

You pulled on the next dress that was among your favourites. A silver dress with a plunging neckline. Again, you were met with a bored glance over. 

Fewer and fewer clothes were left to try on and you were beginning to think that Tangerine was saying ‘no’ to every dress purely out of spite. There was only one dress left that was among your favourite picks, the burgundy dress. It was short and silky, from the Fall Dolce and Gabbana collection. You’d left it as one of the last dresses to try on because it looked difficult to get into, with the corset detailing at the back. It would be a struggle to get into it yourself. 

Tangerine.” You called. “Can you help me?”

You heard a sigh and then footsteps that faltered just before the curtain. 

“You’re decent right?”

You replied, not entirely sure if wearing a half-done up dress was considered ‘decent’. “Yeah?” 

At the sight of your exposed back, he exclaimed “Oh for christ sake.”

He caught a glimpse of your dark underwear from where the corset hadn’t been tied tight enough. 

If Louie found out he was seeing his daughter like this… He would be shot. No, his fingers would be chopped off one by one, along with his teeth, along other ‘appendages’. And then he would be shot. 

“I’m not doing this.” 

He backed away to get the shopkeeper to help but you grabbed his arm and pulled him back.

“She gives me the creeps.” You whispered under your breath.

In fairness, that old woman creeped him out a bit too. 

He craned his head outside of the changing room and stared through the glass door just to calm his paranoia that no one was watching. When he was fairly certain he wasn’t being followed, he drew the curtain closed. 

He focused solely on the black ribbon as his fingers tugged each strand tight, careful not to touch your skin. His cautiousness made him slow and it was your turn to grow impatient, but in an entirely different way. The warmth of his fingers danced so close to your skin and you wished he would slip up and actually fucking touch you. But he had perfect precision. Of course he did.

“How tight do you want it?” He asked.

“Tight.��� You replied.

You steadied your hands against the mirror as he gathered the ends of the ribbons. In the reflection, you could see his great hulking frame leaning over you. You started to imagine doing an entirely different activity that involved Tangerine behind you and a mirror in front of you. The corset suddenly pulled tight, constricting your movements and your breathing. You never knew a corset could feel this kinky. 

Oh God. You wanted to tear your brain out of your head, give it a little bath and pop it back in again. You couldn’t believe you were having these thoughts about Tangerine of all people. Nope. You would analyse this another day. For now, you would pretend that a wetness wasn’t starting to gather in your pants imagining Tangerine tying a bow made of rope instead of ribbon.

“Too tight?” He asked, snapping you from your thoughts.

“No, No, it’s perfect.” You smiled as if you had a full lung capacity. You didn’t want to wound your pride by admitting he had overestimated the strength of your ribcage. 

Your eyes flashes nervously across the dress once you remembered your goal to impress Tangerine. Ruched lines ran along the dress, emphasising your breasts, your waists, your hips. It moulded to your body perfectly, making you feel like the million dollars that you are. 

When you realised Tangerine hadn’t said a single thing, you spun around to face him. 

“Well?” 

His eyes grazed along your body, betraying absolutely no emotion. But you noticed that his eyes struggled to meet your own, they shifted to the carpet before finally finding the courage to look you in the eyes.

“You look…” He faltered. “It’s a nice dress.”

You made no attempt to hide the small smile that tugged at the corners of your lips. 

[A/N: This is what I based the dress on but if the corset bit was at the back hehe]

~~~

When you met up with your friends, they glanced Tangerine up and down and then gave you a glance that said: well isn’t he attractive? 

Very surprisingly, he actually did disappear into the background. He was just a blue-jacket blur in your periphery, albeit a slightly agitated blur. Blessedly, as you began to forget he was there, as too did you start to forget about your feelings towards him.

Finally, you made it to the club and the hours sped by in a drunken haze. You enjoyed seeing your friends and being able to forget about everything for a moment. To just let loose and dance. 

Tangerine was starting to get extremely done with this night. He pulled his tie loose. Being surrounded by drunken idiots in a hot, dark and smelly room was beyond unpleasant. He itched for a drink or a cigarette so he didn’t have to cope with being sober for this bullshit. But, begrudgingly, he needed to stay sharp to keep an eye on you. Something he was growing extremely bored of. His head was leaned against his hand on the armrest of a sticky sofa, suit jacket draped over his arm. 

He’d been there for hours. And as your friends started to drop like flies, going home one after the other, he really thought you’d want to go home soon. But no. You continued to dance, with a seemingly endless well of drunken energy. It was just you and two other friends now. 

He had to admit your dancing had been shockingly good to begin with. But your movements had become sloppy and you even stumbled over your feet a few times, which you laughed off with your friends. Tangerine rolled his eyes. You were incredibly fucked. And he didn’t even see you drink that much. Lightweight. 

His head slumped further against his hand as he watched you twirl and giggle. He didn’t want to admit that part of the reason he felt so miserable right now was because he longed to be over there dancing with you, even if he thought the music was shit. 

He checked his watch. Right, he couldn’t take it anymore. It was 3 fucking am and he needed a cigarette. 

He strode over to you and placed a hand on your shoulder.

Shouting over the music, he spoke, “I’m going out for a smoke, alright?”

“Okay, have fun!” You beamed at him. 

He turned to your friends. They seemed a lot more sober than you. He looked between the two of them with a grave stare. “I’m going out for a few minutes. Make sure she’s okay, yeah?”

They looked between each other awkwardly, unused to your bodyguard approaching them, but nodded.

Breathing a sigh of relief, he picked up his pace as he headed for the alleyway. 

~~~

Something didn't feel right. Not as your vision started to swim. The outline of those around you started to fade and pulse, colours bled into each other. You squinted, trying to force your eyes into focus. Unfamiliar faces turned to look at you. Where had your friends gone? 

You forced a smile and carried on dancing to the best of your ability. This was fine. You were fine. Your friends would be around here somewhere, they’d find you soon. You just focused on dancing to the music and on keeping your breathing even. 

Your heart felt strange. You thought it would be racing with the panic rising in your chest. But it seemed to be slowing, which was somehow even more terrifying. 

Your eyes covertly scanned the club, desperately seeking out a friendly face. The lights flashed in your eyes, dazzling you with an overwhelming blur of colour. It hurt your head. Your eyebrows knitted together and you clenched your eyes shut. Everything was spinning. It was hard to think. It was hard to stand. 

A hand snaked around your waist, holding you upright. 

"Mmmm, thank you." You said, relieved by this sudden support. 

You twisted around to face this stranger and were met with a pang of terror that you couldn't place the source of.

The man’s face was a dark blot. As the overhead lights flashed in changing colours, you struggled to put a single label to his face. Attractive? Kind? He was a mess of blue, fading into green, flashing into red. You didn't recognise him. Had you expected to? 

It was too much for your drowning brain to process. You felt like a tiny insect beneath the claws of a predator. You tried to back away but your legs started to disappear from your grasp. You couldn’t feel them anymore, couldn’t control them. One of your heels gave out from under you and you stumbled backwards.

The man's grip followed you. "Don't worry, I've got you."

Your back hit something. The wall? Pain spread throughout your skull and you realise you must have whacked it on the plasterboard. Dizziness pounded in your brain. Folding forwards, you groaned and tried to hold your head. But the stranger grabbed your hands and placed them on his shoulders. 

"You're alright." He reassured, placing a hand on either side of your face. 

His thumbs stroked your skin and his eyes, whose colour you couldn't place, roamed across your face like he was devouring you. When he was finished using his eyes, his mouth delved towards your own. No. This couldn’t be happening. This isn’t what you wanted. You don’t think so at least? It was hard to tell what was going on. Had you made the first move? 

The stench of cheap booze closes in around you and you feel vomit rise in your throat but not far enough to spew. His lips finally hit and an unknown terror surges through you, which only intensifies when you try to push him away but your hand slides down his shirt. He catches your wrist and places it back uselessly on his shoulder. 

You try to will your muscles into action but they melt away from your grasp. So much so that it takes no effort for his tongue to slide between your lips, like a knife sliding into butter. You can’t believe your body would betray you, to allow this man access to all that he wants. 

Stop, stop. You need it to stop. His hands roam your body, fondling your waist, groping your breasts. It feels like his fingers are leaving dirt and grime in their wake. You fear you will never be able to feel clean again. Tears prick at your eyes. 

"Stop. Please." You mumble against his mouth, barely coherent.

He didn’t care enough to make sense of your murmurs. No, even in your delirious state, you were able to figure out that this man was scum. You were able to realise that you were trapped within every woman’s worst nightmare. You had become another statistic, another victim, with no means to fight back against whatever he wished to do to you. 

A tight string of despair wrapped around your heart at the thought of what else he might be planning to do with you. 

~~~

Tangerine stamped out the embers of his cigarette butt.

A rancid wall of heat smacked him in the face once he reentered the club and he cringed. Wiping some sweat from his forehead, he scanned the club. The crowd was starting to die out. Not many people were left on the outskirts, and only the very front of the dance floor was still crowded. On a quick glance, he couldn’t seem to see you. Or your friends. Panic started to settle in his chest. 

He shoved through the remaining sweaty bodies. The panic wound tighter when you weren’t at the same spot he’d left you. You weren’t at the front of the dance floor. Some guy was knocked off balance and fell to the floor as Tangerine bulldozed his way back out of the crowd. 

“What the hell, dickhead?” The guy exclaimed.

His words disappeared into the music as Tangerine found you in the middle of an intense makeout session. Great, he’d gotten worked up over nothing. He collapsed back down on a nearby sofa, somehow even more agitated than before.

His eyes roamed the crowd and he was still unable to find your friends. Did they really leave you on your own? He shook his head. You needed better friends. 

His eyes kept snagging on you and that random dude but he tore them away, not wanting to invade your privacy. A peculiar feeling of jealousy and disgust washed over him. Someone as grubby as that shouldn't be kissing you. You were much too good for him. He couldn’t stop watching. He wasn’t sure why. At first he thought it was some masochistic desire to hurt himself after a very long day. But it wasn’t masochism that buzzed at the back of his mind. It was a hunter’s instinct. His eyes narrowed. 

You tried to turn your head away from the man but his hand brought you back to him. 

A coil snapped inside of Tangerine. His vision darkened at the edges. Everything faded away until there was nothing but him and that vile piece of shit. 

~~~ 

[A/N: I recommend listening to Holding Out for a Hero here. Original version; Bullet Train version]

In one moment, your world was a whirl of panic and disgust. In the next, a cool breeze rushed over you as the stranger was ripped away from you. 

You blinked away your confusion to see Tangerine. How had you forgotten about Tangerine? 

You sagged against the wall, relief flooding your body as you braced your palms against the cold surface. 

"You disgusting fucking cunt." Tangerine spat.

His hands were clenched in the front of the man's shirt, keeping him in place as he reeled his other fist back and cracked it against his nose. 

Your world fell into a sharp focus. You could actually see the guy's nose dislodge from where it was supposed to be, and could hear the sickening snap reverberate in your ears. 

Tangerine immediately followed through with another punch. A powerful bundle of muscles tensed beneath Tangerine's shirt as he threw the full force of his weight into the next punch. It hit the nose square on again, breaking it in a second direction. It would take a very expensive and very painful surgery to get that nose looking anything like it used to. 

"Shit man I wasn't going to do anything." He defended, putting his hands up to protect his face. 

"Bloody bollocks, mate."

Tangerine sent a powerful knee into the man's stomach. Doubling over, the man let out a pained wheeze. 

Tangerine allowed him no respite. He sent an uppercut to the man's jaw, sending him stumbling backwards. The man threw a wild punch to protect himself but Tangerine dodged it with ease. 

Tangerine's hand curled in the man's hair and kept him still to deliver punch after punch. He showed no sign of letting up, not as the man’s face transformed into a bruised pulp, not as blood streamed from his nose and mouth, coating Tangerine’s knuckles vermillion. No, he was frenzied. His pupils shook within their glacial irises. His slicked back hair had become an unruly mess of curls. Raw power rippled off his every muscle, it emanated from his very being. 

His fist froze mid-air, breaking from his murderous trance, as he remembered that you were watching. He whipped his head to look at you, breath catching in his throat at the thought that he would find fear in your wide eyes. Fear of him. 

You swallowed hard under his scrutinising gaze. You were discovering so many new things about yourself today when you found yourself completely enamoured with the way Tangerine’s face looked with blood splattered across it. His visage unsteadied you, causing you to sway against the wall ever so slightly. 

Tangerine's fingers released from the man’s hair. He thudded to the floor as Tangerine rushed over to you, placing a hand on either shoulder to steady you. 

"Are you okay?" His eyes darted across your face.

You weren’t sure how to answer that question but found your head slowly shaking from side to side. 

There was something so comforting about the way Tangerine looked at you. It felt like you were being held. Tears welled in your eyes. 

Another wave of rage overcame him at the sight of your tears. 

"You despicable bastard." He exclaimed, unable to stop himself from turning to deliver a barrage of kicks to the man’s stomach. 

His foot disappeared again and again into him. The man was too focused on trying to breathe through the pool of blood surrounding the lower half of his face to fight back. 

In-between spluttered breaths, he cried out. “Stop! I’m sorry! Please stop.”

You could hear his trembling lips in the way he spoke. The pure terror in his voice made you feel a little sympathetic. But not enough to ask Tangerine to stop. 

His pathetic grovelling inspired another surge of rage through him. With a quick swipe of his foot, he twisted the man face down onto the floor. Not missing a beat, his foot cracked down onto the square of his back. You heard crunch after crunch of Tangerine’s foot coming down hard. You wondered if he’d ever be able to walk again. 

Once he was sure he’d covered the entirety of the guy’s spine, Tangerine pulled away. Releasing a shaky breath, he wiped his bloody hands on his shirt and then tried to set his hair back to some semblance of collectedness. 

When he was done, he held his hand out to you. Butterflies burst in your abdomen to be offered the hand of someone capable of such precise yet barbarous acts of violence. You took his hand gladly, fingers curling around his warm, calloused skin. 

He pulled you away from the wall and you threw yourself at his chest. As you breathed in his scent, there was no stopping the tears from streaming down your cheeks, dampening his shirt. 

Ignoring the traumatised stares of the patrons around him, he wrapped his arms around you and held you tight. He wondered how on earth anyone would want to hurt someone as small and as fragile as you. 

With a gentle hand, he stroked your hair and spoke, "Let's get you home." 

~~~

Objects faded in and out of your world, all of them jarring, and none of them providing you with enough to hold onto before you were slipping away again. The glare of a streetlight rushed over you, and then another. You were lying down in the back of a car. Roger’s car. Your mind went suddenly blank and your heavy eyelids started to shutter. The sound of the rumbling engine curled around you like a blanket. The roar of a motorbike cut through you and you twitched hard, startling yourself awake. 

“Shhh, you’re alright.” Tangerine stroked your hair and you realised you were lying down in his lap. 

It was so hard to process anything. Your body felt weird like you weren’t really there. At the same time, everything was still spinning, twisting and turning around you, making you feel like you were going to fall away from the carseat and disappear into nothingness. You wrapped your arms around Tangerine’s waist and pressed your face tight against the warmth of his body. 

You focused on the rhythm of his fingers carding through his hair. It gave you something to focus on. Your fear of falling into the void slipped away. There was nothing but Tangerine’s expert fingers soothing you. 

~~~

You must have fallen asleep because the next time you opened your eyes, you found that you were tucked into bed. You still felt like shit. Your limbs felt floppy, your head pounded, and it was still an effort to form a coherent thought. 

In the muted amber light of your bedside lamp, you spotted Tangerine slumped in a chair he’d pulled closer to your bed. You smiled when you noticed that he was a quarter of the way through one of your favourite books. He must have stolen it from your shelf. 

Your smile widened when you realised Tangerine must have carried you here from the car. You wished you’d been conscious during that experience, to feel fully supported by those strong arms. 

“You’re awake.” He noticed. 

His anxious eyes combed over to see if you were okay and one of his brows quirked upwards upon noticing your smile.

“Did you have a good dream?” He asked.

Averting your gaze, you replied, “I guess you could say that.”

“How are you feeling apart from that? Can I get you anything?”

Propping some pillows behind your back, you sat up in bed. You immediately regretted it when your head started to pound. 

“Maybe some water.” You replied.

“I got you a glass already.” He pointed towards the bedside table 

“Oh, thank you.” You said, reaching over to take a sip. 

You tried not to gush over how sweet it was he’d already thought to get you water. Instead, you concentrated on trying to come up with an answer to his question about how you were feeling. Memories of what happened came rushing back and the smile died on your face.  

“I’m- erm- I’m not feeling great.”

“Do you… want to talk about it?”

You didn’t think you could handle processing what happened right now. 

You replied, “maybe later.” 

He nodded. 

An uncomfortable silence settled over the two of you, both unsure of what to say in this situation. You drank some more water.

“I’m so sorry.” He said. “I can’t believe I fucking left you.”

He didn’t meet your eyes when he spoke. His gaze was fixed on a spot of carpet in the distance. Memories of what happened replayed in his head. He had been trusted to be your bodyguard and on his very first day, he’d let something horrific happen to you. 

“Fuck!” He exclaimed, despising himself. 

“You couldn’t have known what was going to happen.” You wished he was closer so you could offer some physical comfort, touch his shoulder or something, anything. 

“Nah, you’re too nice, love. I fucked up.”

The amber lamplight cast a soft shadow across one half of his face. In the gentle light, he seemed like an entirely different person. He seemed softer. 

He continued, “I promise it won’t happen again.” 

His eyes finally met your own. Sincerity turned his eyes a pale, watery blue. You wanted to swim in them.

“Oh and one more thing.” He interjected, his eyes darting away from you again. “I’m sorry if I freaked you out at the club. I know I went a little overboard with the-”

“No.” You interrupted. “No, not at all. Honestly I think he deserved worse than that.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Do you mean that? Because I can have that arranged.”

People had joked about hurting people for you before, like when your friends offered to kill your shitty ex boyfriend. It was jarring to realise that Tangerine wasn’t joking. Picturing Tangerine hurt that man in such slow and sadistic ways stirred something within you. 

“Honestly… Yes.”

“Consider it done.” A frown dawned upon him. “I never pegged you as the murderous type.”

“There’s a lot you don’t know about me. A lot of people in this house see me as nothing more than a spoiled mafia brat.”

Tangerine looked down at his hands. He may or may not have assumed that of you. 

You continued, “and I’m willing to bet you’re more than just a mafia thug.”

All people ever saw in him was a killer. Letting people believe that kept people at a distance from him. Distance was safe. 

Distance was lonely.

He met your eyes, truly met your eyes. While you were beginning to see this other side to him, he too was truly seeing you for the first time. You felt so thoroughly seen by him too. 

An agonising throb of pain spread throughout your skull. With a small groan of pain, you reached up to soothe your headache. 

“Y/N.” He exclaimed. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll be fine. I just need to sleep.”

“Oh, erm, yeah. I should leave and let you rest.”

He lifted from the chair and panic stung your nerves. 

“Actually” you stammered, “can you stay?”

“Of course.”

He settled back in his chair as you got comfy in bed. Now that you were left in silence, your feelings started to seep into you. It was an indescribable feeling, some Frankenstein’s monster made of the body parts from dread, loathing and grief. Your heart somehow physically hurt. 

“Tan…” You found yourself mumbling before you’d even thought about it.

“Hmmm?”

“Can you… come here.”

He crouched at the side of your bed. “What do you need?”

“I erm… I know it's a lot to ask. But could you lie in bed with me? Sorry, I just, erm…” 

You didn’t know how to explain your sadness and how you didn’t think you could face it alone. 

“I understand.” He gave a small smile of reassurance. “Of course I can lie next to you.”

You released the breath you realised you’d been holding. “Thank you.”

You shuffled over and he climbed awkwardly into bed next to you. The last thing he wanted to do was make you feel uncomfortable so he lay down as close to the edge as possible. 

You craved his warmth and silently begged that he was closer. But you didn’t want to make him uncomfortable. So you turned your back to him, in the hopes that he would feel more at ease without your face turned his way with the potential to watch him, to see him. 

A slight warmth tickled your back. At least you could still feel that he was there, that you had someone watching over you. It was enough to quiet the pain. It was enough to sleep. 

“Goodnight.” You spoke.

“Goodnight.” He replied, straining to turn out the light.

~~~

You found yourself waking up again a few hours later. Only this time your head was on Tangerine’s chest and his arm was wrapped around you. You lifted your head and found him sound asleep, mouth slightly ajar, releasing breaths that ruffled the ends of his moustache hair. A smile warmed your lips at the sight of him. 

You knew you would have to process what happened at the club soon. That a seemingly unbearable amount of pain lay in wait for you. But for now, you chose to close your eyes and listen to Tangerine’s steady heartbeat. And finally, you fell into a deep and restful sleep.

Those who may be interested: @tangerinesgf @poetic-fiasco @earth-elemental18 @addie0ffset @peachyspaceslvt @amyg1509 @whiskykisses

[pearlwithgirl]

Rendezvous

Kyle 'Gaz' Garrick - f!reader

Fluffy smut (smutty fluff?) - 1163 words

TW: Alcohol

~

Here's a second "first meeting" with husband!Gaz and a delicious hint of public play.

Days like these roll by so pleasantly, languid tranquility washing over you like frothy waves. Fresh, briny air tickles your nose and mingles with the hushed cacophony of the boardwalk one street over. There’s a buzzing drone of excitement in the air. 

The sun’s kiss is so gentle on your skin as it recedes toward the horizon, lofting the waxing moon into a cotton candy kaleidoscope. The tawny sparrows carry a particularly melodious tune that flutters softly on the mellow breeze.

Pearl chiffon flutters around your upper thighs, revealing a swath of smooth skin - a midnight snack for a certain lucky someone. This dainty little number is saved for special occasions, pulled from the longest shadow of your wardrobe when you want to really turn his pretty head.

It’s shaping up to be a perfect evening, but maybe everything just tastes sweeter when you’re expecting such a ravishing nightcap. Somehow, you already feel heady, floating on a foretold fantasy. You’re already dewy at the apex of your thighs - you know you’ll be left quivering and satisfied before you nod off against a broad chest. 

Your shoes clack along the bluestone as you pass fragrant window boxes and darling storefronts. A wine shop, a pâtisserie, a florist, a gelato bar. Your eyes flutter shut for a moment - it smells like raspberries and cream with an undertone of caramel and lilac. 

You stop in front of a green building, smooth viridian cedar framing a large window. Peering through the gleaming glass as you reach for the brass handle, your eyes wander over cozy booths and varnished portraits. It’s sultry and comfortable.

A tinkling little bell announces your arrival, but that dashing patron near the back wall already saw you the second you came into view. He’s been waiting patiently.

It doesn’t matter how long ago you declared your shared forever, how deeply familiar you’ve become - you still get butterflies every time he comes into view.

The quiet murmur of conversation is obscured by a velvety jazz tune, soft crooning and lightly syncopated trombone. Your feet move in time with the strum of a double bass, carrying you closer to the familiar stranger at the bar. You feel weightless. 

He appraises you, the corner of his mouth quirking up before he takes a long sip of his drink. He looks effortlessly put-together, top two buttons undone, just a hint of his well-muscled chest peeking out from behind the deep emerald cotton. 

Behind the smooth mahogany bar top, he wears those fine Italian brogues you got him two Christmases ago. He strains against the confines of his slate grey slacks, hard from the moment he sat down and let his mind drift to back you. 

It always comes back to you.

His tasteful jewelry is washed bronze in the orangey glow of the pendant light. It clinks against his tumbler as he sets it down, licking an amber drop from his bottom lip and raising his fingers in a cheeky little wave. 

‘Come hither.’ 

Gladly.

You approach him, his eyes dragging a swooping line up your bare legs - you could get lost in those pools of cloying honey. They burn with a sinful fire already, but all you can feel is a simmering glow deep in your belly. 

You raise onto tiptoes and slide onto the plush stool, crossing your legs at the ankles and spinning to face him. He orders you a drink, something blush-pink and effervescent.

For the other patrons, the bar obscures everything below your ribs. His eyes stay just above that line, lingering on your chest before flickering up to the strand of freshwater pearls around your neck. 

He flashes a crooked smile, unashamed. He knows those pearls, and he knows what you’re here for. He’s well aware of this little game you find yourselves playing. 

He can see the minx beneath your coquettish façade. He’s perceptive, measured, with a gentle but firm confidence - that’s what originally drew you to him. The earnest charm, the devotion and witty humour - that’s what made you stick around, what firmly secured you to him with matrimonial silk.

It only took him 8 months to wrap a golden band around your ring finger, pale green moissanite and delicate filigree. The ring sits safe back home, right beside his own atop the vanity in your shared ensuite. 

“Lovely to finally meet you. It’s about time we ran into each other again. All those glimpses through the crowd - you look even better up close.”  He holds out a well-manicured hand, cool rings brushing your palm. “I’m Kyle.”

The fun begins. 

You introduce yourself in return, playing along, acting like you don’t know each other inside-and-out already. Every inch, every last dip and swell.

Conversation flows smoothly. “How’ve you been?”, “How long are you in town?”, “Have you been here before?” - standard fare. The real conversation lies between the lines. It plays out as batting lashes, shared sensual glances, and eventually, a hand creeping up past your knee. 

Long digits skate up your naked thigh, pausing just as he brushes against your soaked centre. Pearly canines emerge as he smiles, and his expression warms up as he dips two slender fingers into you.

Your breath is caught in your throat, the moment hanging hot and heavy. He pulls them out, glistening, and raises them up to his lips, sucking them clean with a pop. The bartender catches the noise, and he turns his attention to Kyle just as he pops a maraschino cherry into his mouth. 

He chews, swallows, and gives his compliments to the bartender before asking for the joint bill. 

“Absolutely delicious.” He raves, one hand still gripping your thigh. The dapper man behind the counter is none the wiser.

Kyle stands up and sneakily adjusts his growing bulge, peering down at you, wordless. He grabs your hand and raises it to kiss the silky skin right above the naked area that’s usually sheltered in gold. Leisurely, he pulls the same hand down to his side pocket, and you reach in. 

Your fingertips brush the crinkly foil packet of a condom, and just beyond it, the polished plastic of a room key. His stare locks onto you, cat-like, and those sly eyes trace a path to the picture window behind two oblivious revelers.  You follow the line, half-lidded gaze landing on the ritzy hotel across the plaza. You pluck out the smooth key and he tips his head to you, a brief farewell. 

He struts around the bar and out the door with a ringing chime, and you watch him stride across cobblestones and around the glittering fountain, coming to a stop just before the threshold. He swings his head around slowly and instantly finds you through the pane, now transparent with the withdrawn sun. 

Just close enough to perceive, you catch a wink before he turns back around and pushes through the oak double doors, disappearing around a corner and up to his suite to await your arrival.

[sgiandubh]

A matter of optics

Hi, I am Sgian-Dubh, a newly appointed Political Section Attachée at the Gilead Embassy to the Kingdom of Freedonia.

Three months after my arrival, a new friend, the Chargée d'affaires of the Genovian Embassy, spots me having lunch on a Saturday with the Mordovian Trade Counsellor at a French bistro, in the posh downtown area of the capital of Freedonia, Jerkville. Unrelated to the fact that we met to trade tips on the impending general elections in Freedonia, the Mordovian Trade Counsellor had just bought three Italian ties, four Burberry shirts and two pairs of Church's brogues from the fancy boutique across the road. The shopping bags are scattered nonchalantly all around the diminutive table. The Genovian Chargée d'affaires proceeds then to tell everybody that I am probably shagging the Mordovian Trade Counsellor.

Two weeks later, my grumpy boss sends me to represent him at a rugby tournament. There I meet and greet the Lilliputian Defense Attaché, with whom I have been seen laughing and flirting at the Wakandan, Zubrowkan and Genovian National Days' Receptions and whom I know from a prior overseas mission. We just sit side by side, trade a couple inane jokes and globally think we had a good time.

The very next day, all of Jerkville has it on good authority that Sgian-Dubh is a whore.

"This is a work of fiction. Any similarities to persons living or actual events is purely coincidental."

[drakeanddice]

Mausritter this week was light on adventuresome hijinks, truth be told. The Waywatchers have been away from their home in Fox Cross for a full week (rigorous timekeeping being a key pillar of Old School play, y’know) and the dangers and treasures of the world had them bending their feet back to their beginnings.

Dragging all the treasure their little mouse backs could carry, they spent the first hour of game night hiking from the southern extremity of The Patch to the very north, reminiscing about the things they missed most about home. Birch, being not just Team Dad but a consummate family mouse, told stories about his wife and nine children. Fennel reminisced about Grampus, the de facto lynchpin of Fox Cross’ Guild of Messengers, a gruff and vaguely put-upon iconoclast of the Patch’s erstwhile postal system. Bindi, thinking always with her stomach, wondered about the first marzipan of the season (made by Marni, Birch’s wife in their family shop) and how Chester, the retired sewer-guide who runs the Waystone Tavern was getting on.

And they all were excited to get their weekly stipend from Horatio, the town Aldermouse. Granted they were carrying more treasure than they could strictly carry, but it would be nice to have some pips in their pocket that they hadn’t had to drag out of the danger and darkness of the world beyond Fox Cross’ walls. Plus, they had plans for the spoils of their adventuring, already.

Mausritter leans into the old adventure game mechanic of treasure being experience; 1 Pip (the coin of the realm) equals 1 XP. But it does a neat thing where every 10 Pips invested in a community or spent charitably grants an additional XP. This cleverly encourages the PCs to—if you’ll excuse the terrible pun—buy in to the characters and factions that exist back in civilization, far away from the dangerous wilds. And so, financing improvements and business expansions and defenses and helping to fund the further goals of their communities is a way to advance their characters and overall shape the ongoing narrative of the world.

That’s good tech.

Anyhow, this episode was all about building a supporting cast that the players are excited to come and check in on again and again. So, Birch’s enormous family got screen time. Grampus the angry retired mail mouse got some screen time. Chester the anvuncular innkeeper got some screen time. Horatio, the harried bureaucrat Aldermouse got a little screen time.

But we also got:

-Thorne, the warhawk of a smith who was in the Regiments lo those many years ago and thinks that direct action against the problems brewing in the south is the only way to get things sorted, damned be the costs.

-Sweetgum, the local representative of the Dairybell Company who believes anything can be solved with careful application of Pips. Also, as long as problems are far away, they aren’t her problems.

-Berthold, the head of the Almondiers, the mice who tend the almond grove just north of town on the edge of the spooky Estate. He’s made of ghost stories and local legends.

-Lucretia, a caravan leader built more like a hamster than a mouse. She wears an enormous ruff and travels with a small band of adventurer mercenary-mice. She desperately wants to add the Waywatchers to her retinue.

-The Papas, five unconvincingly-disguised least weasels who run the Foxcross Ferry. They sneak in a low-country brogue and hide themselves under oilskin cloaks and nor’easters, but the fact that they were once part of a gang and are in hiding until they deem it safe to retrieve their ill-gotten gold is an open secret. One is on duty at all times. The others are engaged in a game of cards that has been going on for years. They are Tall Papa, Kind Papa, One-Eye Papa, Split Papa, and Wet Papa.

All in all, a cozy session with a goldmine of characterization and hinting at plots that could be coming down the pipeline. Next week, we’re taking the first pigeon out of town and back down to Swamp Farm to consult with the Speaker-for-Ghosts. Hopefully we’ll meet Tam down there and we’ll be back to adventure.

Sometimes a breather and a little bit of downtime is exactly what you need to get the pot back to boiling.

[mistresskayla-blog1]

Awkward & Sweet

A John Standring Fic

Lyn's Writing Event Day 9 - Week 2

May 9th: Week 2: Pluto

Characters: (“Modern day” Alt) John Standring x OC Felicity Boies (scottish)

Fandom: Richard Armitage – John Standring – Sparkhouse

Sparkhouse character, John Standring was created by Sally Wainwright (adaptation of Emily Bronte’s Wuthering Heights) 

***Just proof that there’s a fan girl in all of us. Never forget that writing allows you to inspire others to write ***

Location: Date at the Planetarium – West Yorkshire / Leeds area UK

Word count: 2.1k

Timeline Prompt: What if John had met someone before Carol’s father had died, and she came back?

Warnings: angst, pining, awkwardness, first date stuff, kissing, shy male, social masking.

              John walked up the street to the grocer, as he did every Friday morning after working at the factory. He got his bread, and some veg and a few other things, nothing much varied in his routine. But he kept going every Friday because of one other thing, to see Felicity. She was tall, lean and sweet natured, her hair kept in a ponytail for work, and John wondered idly as he stood in queue what it looked like down her back, long and blowing in the Northern winds.

Her playful Scottish brogue, warmed his heart on this cold fall morning, as she said, “Morning John, how do you fair?”

John stuttered a bit, smiling, “Good, ya? And you?”

Felicity looked at the backed-up queue behind him, “Just fine. I’ll be off soon, got to go to the doctors”.  John shifted to a look of concern, “Oh? Is anything the matter?” Felicity rung through his choices and clicked the register for a total. John thrust a hand full of notes into her hand, with come coins. Felicity answered briskly, “No, just my regulars, you know,”

John responded in kind, “Yeah, sure of course. Well, have a good day then, Cheers”. John grabbed his bags and started towards the door, turning back a second, the next women in line looking at him slightly annoyed. “Look, if you have some time, I’d like to take you out, maybe tomorrow?” The women in queue looked down realizing John’s advance on Felicity.

Felicity paused, but not unflatteringly as she smiled at John, “Yeah. Sure. Come back around, I’ll give you my number”. John smiled broadly and nodded, “Yeah, sure. Of course”. And went back into the line. The line of patrons now smiling at him. John tried his best to look inconspicuous, but it wasn’t going to work that morning. Felicity kept smiling towards him, as his turn in queue inched forward for the next few minutes. When he finally was in front of her again, she scribbled her name and number on a scrap of receipt paper and placed it in his hand.

John asked plaintively, “Where do you fancy going?” Felicity winked, “how about the Planetarium, there’s a show on this weekend”. John nodded, “Right. Yeah, of course”.

Felicity touched his hand again, “ring me tonight?” John nodded, smiled and walked out of the grocer. Felicity smiled too, as he stroud out of the store.

John was a nice man, she always thought so. He had been coming to the store on Fridays since, she started working there, she thought, but probably longer. He’s a creature of habit, she imagined, and Felicity needed more consistency in her life. She had her own apartment, and she lived in the city, she wasn’t sure if John did too. She only saw him at the shops on Fridays, and hardly any other time around town. Felicity finished her shift and headed for the doctor’s office on foot.

John returned to his house in town, put away his groceries and sat at his kitchen table, having some cold muesli with milk. The crunching and chewing sounds filled his ears in the quiet of the flat. That chewing was hypnotic as his mind carried back to Felicity’s smile and his future engagement with her, “engagement,” he scoffed outloud, “I sure hope I can manage to not make a fool of myself at the Planetarium”. John found the pages and looked up the phone number for the Planetarium. A women answered and he asked about the schedule for the event.

“It starts at 7 pm, its about 20 pounds per person, at the door, day of the show”. The registrar said. John thanked her and hung up. John was a traditional sort, and figured offering to pay for her ticket, even in this day and age was still appropriate. John made arrangements to buy them online with his mobile phone, a ratty little Nokia that he didn’t do much with. Who was he going to call, he didn’t have many friends, he just kept himself, kept his head down and worked nearly everyday.

---

At around half 6, John rang Felicity, sitting in his living room, still surrounded by knick knacks from his grandparents. It had that quaint lady’s touch, but it was far from modern. The phone rang out twice before she answered, “Felicity?” John asked.

“Yes?” her Scottish lilt made him smile.

“Its John from the shops”, he looked down at the floor a second, catching his courage.

“Oh, yes, John. How are you?” Felicity replied.

“Good, good, ya. Just wanted to let you know about the planetarium, um date you asked about”.

“Yeah, sure. So how much is it? I just wanted to make sure I could cover it”, he could hear her smile over the phone.

“Oh, no worries, I can cover it, if that’s ok with you?” John offered.

“Oh?” Felicity paused,

“You wouldn’t, you know be owing me anything. I wanted to do this right and take you out, proper”.

Felicity visibly relaxed, “That sounds nice, John. Thank you”.  

Smiled, “Great! Well the show starts at 7, can I pick you up at half past, or do you want to grab a bite before at the pub?”

Felicity wavered, “You can pick me up here, that’s fine,” she looked around her flat then, trying to figure out how to straighten up in time, “you can pick me up John, I’ll text you the address”.

John smiled, “Great, that’s great. Ok, well I’ll see you tomorrow, then, and Felicity,”

“yeah?”  Felicity responded.

“Thanks”. John grinned eagerly as he hung up the phone. He went to his closet and tried to find something intelligent to wear. After about 30 minutes most of his wardrobe was strung over his bed and he just stood in front of his mirror looking dumbfounded.

---

Felicity started to clean up her apartment and set out an outfit for tomorrow night. What would she wear, she wondered. John is a nice, stand up guy, not like some of the scrubs she dated before. She had to try harder to look nicer. Her auburn hair and blue eyes were striking as she picked up a cobalt blue blouse, it buttoned up to a high collar, “Maybe a little too high?” she spoke to her mirror, she tried it on, and left a button undone, feeling a bit more certain. She found a skirt, with pockets, and some leggings. Heeled boots finished off the ensemble, she looked herself over in the full-length mirror hanging on the back of her bedroom door.

“Yeah, that should do it”. She put everything on her desk, next to her bed, the boots on the floor, in front of it.

---

John was standing in front of his mirror at the same moment. He had picked out a decent dress shirt, and lean trousers, sensible boots. John looked confident in that moment, and removed the clothes, slowly, folding them neatly for tomorrow, and setting them on his bedside chair. He re-dressed on his pajamas and started his dinner for the night and watched some telly. A program was speaking about the incident of declassifying Pluto, John sat up a little bit, wanting to learn more, maybe this was the clue to impress Felicity. He didn’t know anything about planets otherwise. John watched it until he fell asleep on his grandfather’s old chair.

---

(I will add to this, just ran out of time. Comment if you want more. thanks)

@evenstaredits @legolasbadass @sweetestgbye @middleearthpixie @lathalea @riepu10

If you want to be added to tag list, pleaae PM Me.

Lyn's Writing Event 2024!!!

[aldenarmy]

[bakersluxury-ig]

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[selfproclaimedunicorn]

Fusion Dance: Send me a possible fusion (coffeeshop, Hogwarts, zombie apocalpyse, etc.) and I’ll translate at least one scene of [that fic] into such a ‘verse - Modern!AU Aldreda/Alicent with coffee shop vibes

Alicent was not sure what she had expected when Aegon finally told her he had a real head of security and would stop “bumming Criston off of Tower PR's security desk,” but it wasn't this. He'd gone through legitimate channels this time, astounding given his fame was half “king's son who abdicated” and half “social media,” and still he managed to find someone who barely looked like a fit for the job.

The table where she sat overlooked the couch where Aegon had situated himself, sprawled out and taking up the whole thing as he typed away on his phone, far enough to give him some privacy but still close enough to get to him quickly if needed. That was one point in her favor, at the very least; but her even being a woman almost immediately negated the singular point. Her oldest son had found a steady girlfriend, had been dating her for years without incident, but Alicent could not forget how he'd been before the relationship.

She took a deep breath as her thumb gently picked at the spot where the paper for the coffee cup's sleeve was glued together, and finally walked to the table. It was nothing. Aegon was better now, he had agreed to let her vet this new security–and it wasn't like this woman was his type anyway.

“Miss Farwynd.”

She sat up straight at that, no longer leaning almost completely over the table. An easy smile, so charming that it made Alicent inhale a bit harder than necessary, pulled up the corners of her lips as her eyes lazily trailed up to her face. They were big and black, and Alicent dug her thumb nail into the seam of the paper sleeve.

“You can just call me Aldreda”, her island brogue was unexpectedly lilting, “no need to be formal when I'm the employee.”

“That is precisely the need for it.” She sat down before the other woman even had a chance to respond.

“Oh, come on now, not even Aegon calls me that.” Miss Farwynd's eyes darted briefly over her head to look at her son. It was all at once another point in her favor, a relief, and frustratingly disheartening. Alicent pressed her lips together, finally tearing the corner of the seam from the strip of glue to keep from humming in annoyance. The only thing she needed to concern herself with was seeing if Miss Farwynd was a good fit for the entourage her son surrounded himself with, if she seemed like she could keep him safe when he wasn't under her own or Yorick’s watchful eyes, not how being the focus of her attention felt. Even if this brief interaction did make it easy to understand what Aegon said she did to his comment section. She'd apparently drowned out the death threats and assorted vitriol from his “antis” by “summoning a flock of lesbians with her presence in the background.”

Alicent swallowed before she continued. “Aegon is Aegon, and I am not where he got that from.”

“Still though, I prefer it.”

“Miss Farwynd–” Alicent cut herself off as the other woman stretched in her seat, shoulders rolling as her back slightly arched and her large eyes squinted shut. She dug her nail into the already partially pried apart seam and started pushing, neatly tearing apart the sleeve so it stayed in one long piece. If she focused on that, she wouldn't focus on how attractive her son's security detail was.

“I get it, Lady Alicent, I do. Mainland customs and titles and formality and decorum-I don't give a shit. You were married to the king, you're not stupid. There's as much weight to my name as yours, especially back home. I come to the mainland though, I get to be…just some guy they let work security for an obnoxious influencer half the country doesn't like,” she gestured vaguely towards the couch where Aegon was sprawled with his coffee and his phone, “call me Aldreda.”

“If you're just using this job to run from something, I don't know how comfortable I am with you protecting my son. Aegon needs to be your priority.”

“Aegon being my priority helps run from things,” she leaned back in her seat now, one arm resting on the back of her chair as she took her coffee and brought it closer to her face, “that's all you need to know on that though. Can't go revealing tragic backstories to people I just met, especially when you don't get the fuckin’ Kracken Daily on the mainland spilling the worst versions of it.”

She stifled a laugh into her fist. It wasn't funny, or at least that's what she told herself. When Aldreda lowered her coffee from her lips, the easy, charming smile was back and it radiated as much self-satisfaction as Rhaenyra's smile ever had. The edge of the coffee cup sleeve was now fully free from the glue, the sheet awkwardly trying to unfurl while Alicent still held the cup. She did not have a type, and it was not this specific.

Silently, Aldreda got up from the table and walked back over to the counter. She was at least as tall as Criston, and the black slacks her pullover was tucked into hugged her ass a nearly infuriating amount. Heat flooded Alicent’s cheeks as she forced herself to look back down at her coffee and her hands. She didn't know what she had expected, except maybe better of herself. There wasn't any time for this in her life, she was a mother and a public figure and she was trying to get her ex-husband to update the will he hadn't touched since Helaena was born because the cancer was getting worse; further, this was her son's employee. Checking her out was nearly as unethical as the king doing as much to the daughter of the royal family's PR manager.

A second paper sleeve dropped in front of her, and Alicent looked up to see Aldreda leaned casually against the table. Her expression seemed even more self-satisfied than before, her lips parted in the smile this time and her black eyes lidded.

“Try not to destroy this one.” It was gentle, almost teasing, but the air of commandingness in her tone was still there. Alicent felt herself flush again, and she once more looked down at her coffee as she busied herself with replacing the sleeve she'd carefully deconstructed with this new one.

“Thank you, Miss Far–um, Aldreda.”

“That's much better,” she sat back down as she spoke, “we're familiar already.”

Alicent watched as she leaned forward again, propping her elbows on the table instead of draping her arms across the whole surface and lacing her fingers together to rest her chin atop them. The same expression from when she'd come back from the counter never left Aldreda's face. It was almost overwhelming being the sole recipient of that black gaze, but if she looked away Alicent would probably be disappointed.

“So, what did you want to talk to me about, Lady Alicent?”

“Just Alicent will do. All things being equal.” She tacked the second part on quickly, and in lieu of picking at the glued seam of the sleeve, she simply started drinking her coffee a little faster than was usual. She could control that at least.

[queenofthedisneyverse]

Palia tailoring job ideas but more in depth

I've been thinking long and hard about this idea and, with other research, think this skill could work without harming the buyable cosmetics.

So, I think the level should start out with us asking to be Jel's apprentice because we're interested in making clothes. Of course, Jel being the sweetheart he is, would say yes. BUT, before he accepts us, he would like to see if we made anything and show it to him to see where/ what area we need help in.

Of course, to start the level off, our answer would be no, so then Jel would open the guild store and give us the recipes needed to make a few outfits.

A sewing machine, mannequin, dye bowl/bucket, and a few scraps of fabric with new pattern recipes should be free. Once we have the items, we can we add the color combinations and patterns of our choice to the outfit.

The first outfit we should have access to is the simply stitched/roughhewn set.

Level 1:

Fabric rack (like from Jel’s shop) - free. We can make other types of fabric and store it there for future projects.

Sewing machine recipe - free

Mannequin recipe - free

Cotton/wool recipe - free

Leather (already can make that with the loom)

A recipe to the simply stitched and/or roughhewn set - free

Simply classic set - free

And summer short set - free

This is a level we should also level up quick in. Right after we finish making the pants we should almost be on level 2 kind of fast. Once we're done, we take the outfits to Jel and after that he unlocks level 2 and the items that come with it.

And no, we wouldn't have to choose both sets, just pick one and decorate.

Level 2: Other fabrics, tops, and bottoms

Fabric rack update - free

Sewing machine update - free

Mannequin recipe update - free

Linen - 800 gold

Flax - 700 gold

Jute - 600 gold

Cashmere - 500 gold

Sisal - 400 gold

Bamboo (maybe we could possibly make fabric out of flow branches/bark?) - 300 gold

Abaca (some plant in Palia could be a substitute for that) - 200 gold

There’s fabric called “camel hair”, so the substitute for that should be chapaa, Ormuu, or muujin fur - 100 gold

Village vibes set - free?

Village summer set

And village sweater set

Level 3: Necklaces and a few more outfits

Fabric rack update - free

Sewing machine update - free

Mannequin recipe update - free

Pearl necklace recipe - 5 gold

Festoon necklace recipe- 10 gold

Beaded necklace recipe - 15 gold

Initial necklace recipe- 20 gold

Sautoir recipe - 25 gold

Torque recipe- 30 gold

Lariat recipe - 35 gold

Graduated necklace recipe- 40 gold

collar/choker recipe- 45 - gold

Pendant recipe - 50 gold

Track suit, sunlight,

Level 4:

Bracelets - 5 gold

Waist beads recipe - 10 gold

Huggie earring - 15 gold

Chandelier earring - gold 20

C-hoop earring - 25 gold

Bajoran earrings - 30 gold

Tassel earrings - 35 gold

Shoulder duster earrings - 45 gold

rider, laced up, and Classic tunic should be 50 gold each.

Level 5:

Both of these two outfits should cost 50 gold.

Seeing as it's the end of the line for the free clothes this level can introduce new clothing items. As well as future levels.

Accordion skirt - 1 gold

Asymmetrical skirt - 2 gold

box pleated skirt - 3 gold

bubble skirt - 4 gold

circle skirt - 5 gold

Cooking apron recipe (Like Reth's) - 10 gold

Apron recipe like Tish's - 15 gold

Chapaa hat recipe - free

Mushroom hat recipe - 20 gold

Frog hat recipe - 25 gold

Sunhat w/ flowers recipe - 30 gold

Pheonix hat- 35 gold

Dragon hat - 40 gold

Chef hat - 45 gold

Head mannequin recipe- 50 gold

Level 6: Introduced to new clothing such as dresses, vests, and shoes. These will have recipes attached of course, but hopefully the items needed will be in your inventory.

“Peasant” dress

Bouffant dress

Empire dress

A-line dress

Sun dress

Wrap dress

Basic vest

Asymmetric vest

U-neck vest

Four pocket vest

Double breasted vest

Chelsea boots

Desert boots

Level 7: These will have recipes attached of course, but hopefully the items needed will be in your inventory.

Brogues shoes - 1 gold

Oxford shoes - 2 gold

Derby shoes - 3 gold

Ankle boots - 4 gold

Cowboy boots - 5 gold

Knee boots - 6 gold

Chukka boots - 7 gold

Espadrilles  - 8 gold

draped skirt - 9 gold

godet skirt - 10 gold

Gypsy skirt - 12 gold

Layered skirt - 13 gold

Paneled skirt - 14 gold

ruffled skirt - 15 gold

Yoke-waist skirt - 16 gold

Level 8: Really fancy stuff (There should be some sort of way for you to choose different necklines as well.)

Tea-length ball gown

Classic ball gown

A-line ball gown

Mermaid ball gown

Empire waist ball gown

Trumpet ball gown

Barrette

Aigrette

Comb

Ferronnièr

Drop earrings

Threader earrings

Silk gloves

Level 9: (I know the suits are oddly specific but bear with me here.)

Mismatched earrings

Cuff earrings

Teardrop earrings

Dangle earrings

Cluster earrings

Barbell earrings

Crawler earrings

Circular barbell earrings

Fingerless gloves

Wire hook earrings

Single breasted - one button peak lapel suit

Single breasted - one button notch lapel suit

Single breasted - two button notch lapel suit

Single breasted - one button shawl lapel suit

Single breasted - three button notch lapel suit

Single breasted - five button notch lapel suit

Single breasted - four buttons bal collar suit

Single breasted - five button jewel neckline

Side note: The way you could level up faster with these is by gifting the outfits to other players. A cute idea would be a player selecting someone under the tailoring skill jurisdiction and sending an outfit idea they had in mind that they would like to wear in game. A small way for players to help each other out.

This commenter gave me that idea, I also love the story line option.

To add to my other ideas, once you're done with the outfit you can store it in your closet. Did I mention you can mix and match the outfits? Yeah, you should be able to do that to

Maybe in the closet you can keep a file ranging from pants, skirts, dresses, and tops. That way you can easily pick a file for an item, put it on, and go to the next file.

Level 10 should be the last level (Because there is literally nothing else, I can think to add for further levels.)

If you have any ideas for what I could add (or a better way to arrange this to not make the levels look messy) let me know because I feel like there are things I'm missing.

Also, the reason I priced everything so low is because things in palia are expensive. Even with in-game currency.

[assortedseaglass]

The Seamstress & The Sailor - Chapter Two

[Masterlist]

Warnings: Teeny bit of language

Word Count: 2.1K

Note: Hi everyone! Thank you for the love on the last chapter. This fic is quite special to my heart; my maternal grandparents lived around Manchester during WWII, and began their relationship at that time. We have some beautiful letters that my grandad wrote to my grandma while he was stationed abroad. She was also a seamstress, when war breaks out in the story I’m going to give Bess the same job that she had in the war, and the other Vaughn girls the job that my paternal grandmother, a factory girl, did.

I also kept writing Ida instead of Bess. Still in Come Back To Me mode.

“Damn.” The needle between Bess’ fingers snapped. She didn’t realise how tightly she had been holding it, and the stiff fabric of Mrs Chase’s suit was one task too many for it. She rummaged in her sewing box for a spare but dropped it immediately between the floorboards of the kitchen. Bess didn’t have the energy to swear again, and for a moment stared at the spot where the needle had disappeared. She’d been absentminded all day.

“Your feet are freezing,” Dot had grumbled that morning, from her spot in the bed that the two shared. Bess didn’t bother putting on her woollen socks. A moment later, Cora burst threw the door. Bess saw that her single bed in the corner was already made.

“Get up you two.” She left, leaving the door open behind her. Bess looked at the clock. 7am. The five Vaughns barely spoke over breakfast. Cora slammed a plate of eggs and bacon on the table, but didn’t touch a morsel herself. Fergal and Albie ate it in a rush before heading to the docks in silence. Between fiery outbursts and tears, Dot had hurried to the factory to begin her shift, leaving Cora behind to clear up.

“I’ll do it,” Bess said sullenly, watching her sister fret about being late for her own shift. It would be different tomorrow, but for today, the Vaughns let themselves wallow.  

Bess pulled on her brogues, tucked her purse into her trouser pocket and made her way to the shop on the corner. The sun was warm against her face. She knew that the rest of the day was to be spent indoors and so she took her time. Hands tucked into her pockets, she strolled relaxedly on the cobbles of the street. Up ahead, a few young men were heading home from their shift at the dockyard; Bess knew it from the symbol stitched into their jumpers, the same as her father’s. They fell silent as they watched her approach.

“Afternoon,” she said to them lowly.

“Afternoon, Bess.” One of the men, Frank she thought it was, said.

“You going to the dancehall tonight, Bess?” asked Walter.

“Not tonight,”

“What about tomorrow?” Frank said as Bess passed them.

“We’ll see,” she replied, not bothering to turn her head. Frank Smith and Walter Watson were in Cora’s class at school. One day, when Cora had been ill and Bess had not long started, they followed her home and poured a carton of soured milk over her. That had been the beginning of Bess’ tumultuous time at school. Girls never included her in their games. The boys used to lift up her skirt and tell her she was disgusting. Cora would shout at them until she was blue in the face, but it never made any difference. Creep, ugly, Paddy, witch. Bess was quiet yes, and kept to herself, but she had never understood why the children at school hated her so. That was the great work of the Vaughn girls’ mother; instilling in them a quiet, gentle confidence. The bullying eventually stopped when their mother had turned up at the school gates to see one of the girls cut out a chunk of Bess’ hair. No sooner had the offender giggled maliciously was Etta Vaughn storming across the playground with her nail scissors to do the very same.

It wasn’t until Bess came back from her summer in central Manchester that she noticed the real shift. One of the new mothers at the hospital where Etta worked as a nurse had seen Bess meet her mother after work. Commenting on the spring dress she wore, the lady discovered that the teenage Bess had made it herself. Impressed with her work, she invited her to train at her aunt’s dressmaking business in Manchester for the summer. There, Bess met other independent young women. She read Vogue. Handled fabrics from all over the world and attended some of the richest women in that part of the country. Her quiet confidence appealed to the women that came to the atelier’s; this was a young woman who clearly knew what she was doing. Over that summer, Bess became a woman. When she returned to Longsight, everyone else noticed too. She walked a little slower with her head held higher. She wore trousers. She often left her down and didn’t wear makeup, “like one of those Bohemian French women”. When she did, her curls and red lipstick were polished to perfection. Still she didn’t speak unless she had something to say and this, combined with her assuredness, only made her more appealing. Girls wanted to be friends with her, and boys wanted to be with her, Frank Smith and Walter Watson included. Bess, of course, remained uninterested in them all. All, expect her family, a few family friends and her gang of girls. Roberta, Hattie and Jude.

The only boy who never gawped at her when she grew up, or bullied her as a child, was Tom Bennett. By the time she reached the corner shop, bought a new packet of needles and begun the journey home, she had thought of nothing but Tom. She was just remembering the time he gave her blue chiffon for her birthday (she didn’t ask how he got it), when she walked into the postman.

“God, sorry Postie,” Bess picked up the letters she had caused him to drop. Dennis Warley adjusted his hat and gave Bess a sharp look.

“Got a few for you lot,” he said tersely, rooting threw his bag. He handed a bundle to Bess. There were two letters for Fergal, one for Cora and a packet of larger envelopes for Bess. “Those dress patterns?” He asked. Bess nodded, not looking up from the bundle.

“Thank you,” she murmured, walking the few steps to the front door.

“Perhaps you could make yourself a dress next time.”

Bess slowly turned and fixed Dennis Warley with a hard stare. She watched as his eyes ran over her jumper, the wide trousers, the brogues, the scarf keeping her uncurled hair back. He sneered and resumed his deliveries. Bess slammed the door behind her and continued her work. For an hour, she worked furiously on the sleeves of the red tweed suit that Mrs Chase had ordered before giving up for the day and collapsing in her dad’s armchair. The sun through the net curtain cast a hazy hue across the room and, glancing at her mother’s portrait on the mantelpiece, Bess drifted into sleep.

Two hands slammed on the kitchen table and Bess near fell out of the chair. “You know this fabric has an iron mark on it?” Tom Bennett leant against the table, cigarette hanging jauntily from his lips.

“You’re lying,” Bess said groggily. Tom winked. “Don’t normally see you in the afternoon.”

“Just collected those car parts. Dropped ‘em off at home but dad’s off flogging his paper and Lois is at work. I’m bored.”

“Dadda said there’s shifts going at the dockyard, if you fancy working properly.”

“No ladies down the dockyard.”

Bess rolled her eyes and indicated to his cigarette. “Give us one.” Tom lit another and handed it to her while he sat at the kitchen table. The sun was streaming into the room, and he leant back into the light. Bess did the same, curling into the armchair. They were silent for a long while.

“You coming to the dancehall tonight? Lois is singing,” Tom enquired, eyes still closed.

“Can’t tonight,” Bess opened her own to look at her mother’s portrait once more. “It’s mam’s birthday.”

“Shit, I’m sorry Bess, I should’ve remembered.”

“Don’t be silly.” Their silenced resumed. Tom watched her gazing at her mother, and Bess could feel his eyes on her. She stood abruptly from the armchair and sat opposite Tom at the table. She didn’t look at him when she spoke quietly. “I miss her so much.”

“I know,” Tom coughed awkwardly and shifted in his seat. “It gets easier, I promise. You never stop missing her, but it gets easier.” Bess took his hand across the table. Tom had five years grief on Bess’. Where the other’s grief was loud and all consuming, Tom and Bess’ was silent and simmering. Tom could count on one hand the number of times they had spoken about their mothers’ deaths. They finished their cigarettes.

“Do you mind if I get back to sewing?” Tom shook his head and watched her at her work. He often thought about why he was so drawn to Bess. They weren’t friends as children, Tom spent his time mucking around with Albie and teasing their sisters. He wasn’t entirely sure if they were friends now. But he had always found her calming, unusual. Like Lois, she was one of the few people that could settle him, deal with his antics and, on the most part, accepted him for it. When Etta Vaughn died three years ago, Tom found Bess crying in one of the ginnels at the back of the houses, crouched on the floor, body wracked with violent sobs. Since then, he had been sneaking into the Vaughn house regularly. Bess had a spare key cut when he and Douglas were going through a particularly fraught period. “So you can stop climbing through the window. Dadda’d kill you if he found you in a bedroom with his three daughters.” He continued to study her while she worked. Her dark, copper hair was frizzy, kept off her face by a silk scarf. One trousered leg was leant against the chair opposite her, and her tongue stuck out between her lips. He stared at it a moment.

“I’m off,” he announced, jumping up. “Any birthday cake left?”

“In the tin by the stove.”

“I hope it goes well tonight,”

Bess paused her sewing. “Thanks, Tom.”

*

Bess helped Cora make dinner that evening, vegetable stew and a fresh loaf. Fergal sat in the rocking chair by the fire as soon as he arrived home, sipping whiskey and uttering not a word. Albie sat at the table with Dot, playing a lacklustre game of snap. Before their dinner, Cora took Fergal’s hand and led them in a prayer. Dot reached for Etta’s photograph and propped it on the table. They spoke about their days in turn. When Fergal had finished, he refilled his glass of whiskey.

“Careful, dadda.” Cora said gently.

“Careful what?” His voiced slurred between the words.

“That’s your fourth glass.”

“I shall drink to my wife’s memory as much as I please,” he downed the drink.

“But mam didn’t like drink, dadda,” added Albie.

“Oh hush with you!” Fergal shouted at the pair of them, standing up. Dot started to dry. “BE QUIET!”

“Leave her alone, dadda.” Bess said firmly.

“Oh, so you’ve found your voice!?”

Bess rolled her eyes. “And you yours.”

Fergal swiped his arm over the table and sent his bowl of stew flying across the room, bits of vegetable sticking to the wall. He grabbed his coat from its hook and made for the door.

“Where are you going?” Cora called after him, wrapping her arm around the still sobbing Dot.

“The one place I can drink in peace. THE PUB!” He staggered into the street, the door hitting the wall behind him and letting in the cool air.

“Dry your eyes, Dot.” Albie said.

“I wish mam was here,” she sniffed. Bess sighed and gazed out of the open door towards the Bennett’s house. Through the window she could see the family of three at the table, laughing together, Lois already in her finery for her night of singing. God, she wished she could go dancing.

Notes: One more chapter and then we’ll be joining the tv’s timeline. Thanks for all the positive words on the last chapter – I’m starting to get into the flow of this fic. The next chapter will pick up the pace, we’re going to the dancehall!

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