#elbow-length camel

[unclejezzzy]

The Sweetest Torture One Could Bear | Part 1 of I Despise My Rotten Mind (And How Much It Worships You)

It’s 1990. Steve Harrington and Eddie Munson are forced to confront their shared past and shifting dynamics under the ever changing hues of a gay club in Indianapolis. Eddie, exuding confidence and embracing his sexuality offers a helping hand to Steve who is buckling under the weight of societal pressures.

OR: Steve wants to sleep with a guy for the first time and Eddie reluctantly helps against his better judgement.

Indianapolis, 1990

Eddie leant back on his elbows against the metal topped bar of the club, eyes squinting as he delicately held the rim of his glass between his fingers.

It was a Saturday night which meant that it was nothing short of a a visual feast for the senses.

The music pulsated through his body, situating itself in his spine as he squinted out at the vast expanse of potential conquests through the smoky haze.

The multi-colored lights above bathed the adumbrate dancers in an ever-changing rainbow of hues. The walls were adorned with mirrors, reflecting the dancers and amplifying the feeling of being part of something larger than oneself. Giant video screens played music videos and club scene footage, immersing them all in a world of pure hedonism.

Of course, Eddie couldn't deny that a majority of the time the clientele were just as visually stunning as their surroundings. Dancing bodies adorned in leather, lace, and sequins were all in abundance, as per usual.

But something was different. He didn't have the usual feeling that anything was possible in there tonight.

Something was missing.

"What about that guy?" Robin asked; voice elevated so it could carry over the bass of the music as she leaned across from behind the bar on her tiptoes to point out across the room to a guy with spiky blonde hair in a tank top.

“Nah - had him already. He's boring." Eddie said cavalierly.

"Boring?" She reiterated, busying herself with wiping the rims of highball glasses with a dish towel.

"He sucked dick like he was working a nine to five." He scoffed a laugh, taking a sip of his drink.

"Okay, fine." She shrugged, neck craned as she scoured their surroundings.

"Him?"

"Nah - too - muscly." Eddie grimaced, immediately glancing away without wasting a second.

"I thought you liked that?" She asked, looking up at him beneath furrowed brows.

"I like 'em toned, like a subtle 'yeah I work out but it's not my entire personality.' I don't want someone who looks like they're the face for sports steroids advertisements." Eddie said firmly.

"God you're so picky, you're looking for a hook up not a husband." Robin clarified, rolling her eyes.

"There's just nobody new and exciting. It's the same faces, same music, same routine. It's exhausting." He said, staring out ahead of him as he kissed his lips between his teeth.

"Yeah, I forgot that getting your dick sucked could be so tedious." She said in jest as Eddie chose not to respond.

"You know, maybe you're just not as into it as you used to be. That's fine, you know. To grow up and get a life outside of hooking up with people. Maybe settle down, get a boyfriend or something."

Eddie narrowed his eyes, pretending to be in deep pensive thought.

"Nah, that doesn't sound like something I'd do." He eventually said, lips breaking out into a devilish grin as Robin glared across at him.

He allowed his eyes to glaze back over the crowds of people.

His vision fixated on a lone guy with lightly tousled brown hair leaning against the metal bars of the balcony, facing away from him. It was long, layered. Purposely messy? Eddie couldn't decide. But he loved how it curled around his neck from the length.

He was wearing camel coloured chinos and a navy blue T-shirt. Fingers tapping against his crossed arms as he continued to look out at the vastness ahead of him.

Two go-go boys dressed in nothing but tight fitting, metallic shorts and pairs of cheap angel wings that were most likely bought from a Spirit Halloween store were either side of him.

They were elevated from the floor, encased in metal caging with dollar bills hanging limp from their waistbands.

It was an ethereal sight given the circumstances. If he believed in that kind of la-di-da butterfly effect bullshit he would have assumed that the universe had placed him in his line of sight for a reason.

Eddie's eyes scanned the length of his body.

He couldn't help but admire the curvature of his ass; how it was packed so tightly into the material it almost made them look as though they were painted on with the way they hugged his hips and thighs.

"Him." He said firmly, not breaking his gaze.

"What?" Robin asked.

"Him, over there." Eddie said, clicking his fingers with an outstretched arm to draw her in to his line of sight.

"The guy in the chinos?"

"Yeah. I want him."

"You haven't even seen his face yet." She warranted.

"Don't need to. He's got an ass that goes for miles. He could be the ugliest fucker in the world for all I care. I'll just go behind, don't have to look at him." He clarified, biting down against the flesh of his lower lip.

"Here I was thinking you were shallow." She shot back, voice tainted with sarcasm as she slung the dish towel over her shoulder.

"I'm going over." He affirmed - voice low as he downed the remainder of his drink, reaching around to place the empty glass behind himself on the bar.

"Okay, have fun. Be good." Robin called out after him as he brushed down the front of his black tee.

"Never. Don't miss me too much." He shot back, teasingly as he ran his fingers through his bangs to ensure they were placed in the perfect divide between careless and purposeful.

The thing with Eddie is that he didn't get rejected. In fact, he couldn't even recall the last time he got rejected.

He read an article that stated that statistically speaking, men think about sex on average around 19 times a day. This was one of those times that Eddie was happy to be branded as above average.

Of course, these statistics were based solely on straight men. Go figure.

When Eddie wasn't having sex, he was thinking about having sex. And the second he was finished having sex with the most beautiful man who ever lived, he was thinking about the next beautiful man who ever lived that he'd meet the next night.

And luckily for this guy, he was right on his radar.

He sauntered through the throngs of people, skin prickling in anticipation as he approached him. It was almost exhilarating, reaching the apex of a desired conquest.

"Hey, had a busy night?" Eddie asked, slinking an arm around the guys waist as he whipped round to face him.

He had hoped his gaze would be met with the same inquisitive eagerness. Instead, he was met with brown forlorn eyes and furrowed brows with a sinister familiarity to them.

The chiselled jawline, the mole on the side of his neck beneath the stubble, the irate demeanour.

"Jesus fucking Christ." Eddie announced, retracting his hand with the same speed you would if you caught it on the side of a hot teakettle.

"Oh God." The other breathed out, eyes darting maniacally across his face as Eddie watched the muscles of his neck contract with a deep swallow.

"Steve?" Eddie asked, biting back a laugh as his jaw slacked in awe.

"No." He said hastily, shaking his head as he darted around at his surroundings for a quick escape.

"Oh my God, it is you. Steve Harrington. From Hawkins High." Eddie pressed as he watched him back away, hand gripping the metal of the balcony for stability.

King Steve. Hawkins High maverick, belligerent basketball captain, disciples at his heels. He sounded like a cliche.

He was a cliche.

The man was a planet who carried his own gravity.

Continue reading on AO3:

[milkweedman]

Ok so ! Some experimentation is afoot (pun intended). I've blended several potential fibers with southdown babydoll roving in an attempt to find a good thread to hold alongside the toe of the next sock.

Context for the newcomers--i wear through the toes/ball of the foot of my socks ridiculously quickly, and have been trying on and off to design a sock blend that is kolya-proof for the last several years (mostly to no avail. I do a lot of sock mending 😔). @swords-n-spindles suggested i hold a thread alongside. I want it to add some support to the rest of the yarn, but it also needs to be stretchy enough that it will still conform to the shape of my foot. So, im currently trying to find a good blend to spin into a thin singles (perhaps even a felted singles, in honor of the yarn design spin along since i still havent done february's).

I'm using southdown babydoll because thats what the socks im currently knitting are made of, but i also think it might have been a good choice anyway, since sdb is extremely elastic and fairly durable.

Everything was blended using combs and pulled off without dizzing, bc my elbow already hurts.

So, from top to bottom: plain southdown babydoll roving. Then sdb + firestar (aka nylon). There's a little sample of it so you can see. Then sdb + kid mohair combing waste. I chose waste specifically bc the staple length of the mohair is about double the staple length of the sdb, which does not lead to good top. So the waste was the much shorter bits, which integrate a lot better.

Then we've got sdb + bactrian camel hair. I have a bit of partially dehaired bactrian camel down floating around in my room, and i used my combs to skim the hair off, to reasonable success. The bit on top is just the partially dehaired camel down as i got it, the bottom is partially dehaired camel down that's been de-downed, if you will, so that it's mostly hair. Now, these are much shorter and finer hairs than what youd find if you got a totally intact piece of bactrian camel fleece, but i sadly don't have any. If this sample works out i may need to acquire a piece of intact fleece and see how that goes (i'll need to cut the hair to a suitable staple length, but still). Lastly, we have sdb + karakul fleece. The staple lengths were identical and it blended really nicely.

I plan to spin each sample on my supported spindle, as fine as i can reasonably manage, and see what looks most promising.

My predictions:

FIRESTAR: i'm a little wary of this bc i couldnt blend it effectively. The firestar is very slippery and the sdb is not, so it's not well integrated. I think this sample will end up uneven, with sections of entirely firestar and sections of entirely sdb. I may need to make another sample where i cut the staple of the firestar in half and see if that helps at all, at least when doffing the comb.

MOHAIR: i think it will look and behave almost identically to the 100% sdb. The problem with mohair for these kinds of things is that it is extremely inelastic, so a mohair blend needs to be very sparing with the mohair if you want to retain any elasticity. I could probably have added a little more, though, so if it is identical i will make another sample with more mohair, and see how it is.

BACTRIAN CAMEL HAIR: really excited about this one. Camel hair is very very durable, and of course, quite inelastic. I added as much as i thought i could get away with. I think it will be a little wiry, but very strong.

KARAKUL: also excited about this one. Karakul is extremely durable as well, tyoically used for rugs and such. I added a fair amount to the sdb. I think it will be smoother than the camel hair, but hopefully just as strong. The one caveat is that the micron count is pretty high (30 is average, but i think this might be on the thicker end), which limits how fine i can spin a singles from it. So it may end up a little too thick for this application, but we'll see.

I'm going to spin these either tonight or tomorrow, and perhaps take a stab at felting them. I'll report back when they're spun and all :)

[solarsonicsoda]

Wrestlemania Main Event Reviews - Wrestlemania VII

Hulk Hogan def. Sgt. Slaughter (c) w/ General Adnan for the WWF World Championship in 20:26

Slaughter’s out first with everyone’s favourite, General Adnan! Hogan’s out next with a big American flag and bandana! Mr. America is well-loved! Slaughter is mildly disliked! Macaulay Caulkin in the crowd is the highlight so far! Hogan chases them around the ring but they get in and start the proceedings. They lock up and Hebner can’t keep them apart! Hogan has the power! Slaughter sells a shoulder tackle amazingly and nearly throws himself to the apron! Hogan follows him out, Adnan hits him, no DQ, and Hogan no sells! Slaughter hits him with a chair with a jacket on, no DQ, Hogan no sells! Back inside, Slaughter begs for mercy but it was a ploy and he works over Hogan. Big pendulum knees which looked great. Hogan dodges the elbow drop and runs wild, taking out Adnan on the apron! Regis Philbin is on commentary! Hogan slams Slaughter on every turnbuckle and throws him all over the place! Slaughter sells a corner irish whip very well! Hogan shoves Slaughter whilst beating down Slaughter! Why does everyone hate Hebner? Slaughter’s selling is good but he is just being slowly beat up for ages. Slaughter attacks mid-double axe handle but Hogan no sells. Slaughter is able to throw Hogan off the top after Adnan grabs the leg. Sends him outside and grabs another chair! Hebner is counting but there’s seemingly no DQs? Chokes Hogan with a cable and throws him inside! Works him over and has a fun interaction with Hebner after a 2-count where he thought he won! Deep boston crab from Slaughter but Hogan is LITERALLY UNDER THE ROPES! He eventually grabs it and they break it up, Slaughter thinks he won again. Slaughter heads up top with a big knee drop. He pins Hogan but Adnan is distracting the ref. He grabs a third different chair and hits Hogan over the head while he’s draped in the ropes. 2-count but Hogan is bleeding like mad! Slaughter keeps the fight up and locks in the Camel Clutch. Let’s go to stomp on the back of Hogan and locks in back in. Adnan is loving it! Hogan stands up and Slaughter holds on for dear life and sends Hogan into the corner. He pins him with the Iraq flag but Hogan kicks out, tears it, and Hulks up. No sells, point, big boot, leg drop, 1-2-3! Hogan wins! Finally..He then waves the American flag in celebration (and cleans his face on one a fan throws him…)

Pros: Slaughter sold well, the claret made things intense Cons: Far too long, slow, inconsistent rules, distasteful story, weird pacing, step down in star power (no disrespect to Slaughter)

This match was weird. The inconsistent rules and odd pacing made it strange to analyse and the action was so-so. Mostly run of the mill, and the story in the build up and the match was uncomfortable I thought, especially considering it wasn’t overly effective. Went on so long too, would have been better at half the length. Slaughter gave it his all though and the fans still love Hogan!

1.5 STARS OUT OF 5

[inquisitorcroaker]

I was watching some Youtube videos and came across this...... Genuinely what the fuck is wrong with this person.... Perverse....

Alt text under cut:

Alright here's the skinny. Two days ago, it was 3 in the morning. It had been over a week since my last bowel movement, and I entered a fugue state in the witching hour before the dawn. My girlfriend, blissfully unaware of the situation about to unfold, was resting peacefully, arms secure around my torso like a bear trap, gently squeezing my insides enough to be the allegorical spine-cracking piece of straw that sent my intestinal camel careening towards the ground. I untwisted myself from her, mumbling about how I "had to go to the bathroom", covering my shame by re-dressing myself and unbarricading the door we had so carefully blocked prior to our coitus earlier in the evening. I made my way downstairs, desperately trying to avoid creaking the ancient boards, as her home was built prior to the American Civil War, and I had no intentions of waking her father, who would almost certainly have my head if he knew what I was about to do. Sweating nervously, quaking both internally and externally, I shambled toward the uncomfortably loose door of the lavatory, contemplating the risks I was about to take in the ensuing battle for my life. I drew a deep, solemn breath, and steadied myself on the uncertain, mineral-aged porcelain of the ancient commode. I knew the battlefield well. I had encountered it several times, for lesser engagements, and I knew these pipes below were unreliable and antique in their function. I had to strategize. I laid bare my pasty, glue-colored buttocks onto the cold seat, and began to ponder. I concluded that the only way to prevent the arm-sized missile I was about to drop was to separate it into smaller pieces. At the time, I was unaware of the existence of a plunger in this location, or an otherwise suitable poop knife (ßcheissmesser in German) and had to resort to a desperate gambit for my survival. I began, opening the doors of my bomb bay from my metaphorical anal aircraft. When I had released my spaghetto to a proper length, I clenched my protesting sphincters as hard and as tightly as a French guillotine ending the life of an aristocrat. As the frilly collar separates from the body of a rich Frenchman, so does a length of heavy cordage from my rear, separated forcefully and without tact. I brace myself. I must perform this action again, as my colon contains a cornucopia, and the enemy must feast. I would estimate it was at least as long and as thick as my forearm, from my wrist to my elbow, and I had to pulverize this as a lumberjack would process a log in a sawmill. I cut it, again and again, my poor innocent rectum screaming all the while, sphincters bulging like a manhole cover about to burst from the road. And like a road, my skin began to take on the texture of asphalt, as the goosebumps this raised all across my body threatened me to be mistaken for a freshly plucked ostrich.

I sliced it, in jagged pieces, again and again. The tide of scat seemed to be unending, lengths of fat brown cable continuing to protrude like fetid protuberances from my backside. When it finally concluded, I was left there, panting, grateful to the Lord almighty for my survival of this sacred trial, this test of my faith, but this respite was brief and unfulfilling. I realized, guts churning, stomach dropping and chills running down my spine, that I would have to flush this atrocity. I would have to bury the evidence of the horrendous crime I had just committed against mankind and plumbing, and I gritted my teeth in solemn duty as I assaulted my backside with the thin sheets of paper we Americans poorly substitute for bidets. Satisfied with my hygiene, I stood up, bracing myself for the trials ahead. I flushed. It all coalesced as though a horde of troglodytes was attempting to force their way into a narrow cave all at once. Nothing. It filled like the Indian ocean and slowly drained back down, unflinching in its stalwart defense against my attempts to rout the enemy. I began to panic, beads of sweat forming on my brow. I flushed again. Nothing. Again and again I besieged the brown wall that had so easily conquered my offense. I needed a siege weapon, but none could be found, a trebuchet and ladders to finally best this fecal castle I had wrought and been betrayed by in a matter of less than twenty minutes. Men had died for less, and as a woman of honor, I was not about to lose to such a foe. My tail between my legs, I once more ascended the stairs, waking up my groggy partner and relaying the results of the battle to her as the messenger of Marathon did before his untimely demise from exhaustion. It is a small miracle I did not suffer this fate also, as my anus was beleaguered to say the least. She agreed to form an alliance with me, and directed me downstairs to retrieve a plunger. Slowly but surely, I wielded this weapon as King Arthur wielded Excalibur and his throbbing hog, but the enemy was not vanquished so easily. The more of it I forced down the pipes, the less efficient my flushes became, until it became a race against time to prevent a catastrophic overflow. My arms became like slugs, jelly-like in their protest against the desperate abuse I was putting them through in order to finally slay this coprophagic dragon, but to no avail. It refused to budge. Eventually, I had to surrender. My darling, fair partner, a veritable reincarnation of Venus in her beauty, convinced me in no small feat to let her take over the plunging. Wearily, I retreated to our shared quarters, crawling under the covers and begging desperately for death that would not come. I had dishonored myself, like a samurai destined for seppuku, and considered the option as such. Miraculously, she returned, ostensibly triumphant in her victory against the mud-colored felony I had committed upon her crapper. We held each other close that night, finally resting after such a long and arduous engagement. Upon our waking, we discovered the clog had returned. Her father, unaware of the situation at hand, was doing his best and applying heavy artillery in the form of a thirty-six inch long toilet snake, but the operation was taking time. I sweated bullets. I knew that were I to allude to the situation at all, suspicion would be pointed at me, and I would in fact have to die in dishonor and shame from my failure to conquer a simple wadding of dung that proved to be an inexorable adversary upon my conscience and my tactical acumen. I will carry this secret to my grave, and shall never inform anyone in my bride's family of what truly occurred that night.

[smbhdwalter]

Check out this listing I just added to my Poshmark closet: Juicy Couture Original Vintage Camel Hoodie.

[radikalrags]

Check out this listing I just added to my Poshmark closet: Tuckernuck Emerson Popover Jacket Size Medium NWT.

[mindymaerenee]

Check out this listing I just added to my Poshmark closet: Essex Classics Men's Camel Trey Quarter-Zip Sweater Elbow Patch Tan.

[gogmstuff]

1838 Serena Mayer Franklin by Jacob Eichholtz (location ?). From historicalfashion.tumblr.com/post/462727177/stellar-raven-serena-mayer-franklin-1838-by 774X1008 @72 178kj.

[babbysquid]

Not A Whiskey Drinker Pt. 4

Author’s Note: Okay so I got a bit carried away with this chapter but I couldn’t help myself so it’s about twice as long as previous chapters. This is where things really start to get more plot based so the story will really get moving from here. The way I’ve planned out the plot so far though it’ll be several chapters long so get buckled up!

Warnings: mild cursing, suggestive language, Jack “Whiskey” Daniels needs his own warning

Length: 2,586 words

Not A Whiskey Drinker Masterlist

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

“She almost broke the man’s arm Champ!” said Whiskey, phone to his ear.

“I don’t care. If you’re exaggerating this skill of hers she’ll be a liability.”

“She won’t be a liability!” Whiskey was seething at this point. Yes it had only been a few days, but somehow he had become protective over you. Seeing you twist the man’s arm back at the bar lit a fire somewhere deep inside his stomach. Whiskey heard a sigh through the phone.

“Fine. You’re training her and she’ll be your responsibility. Don’t fuck it up Whiskey.”

With that Champagne hung up. Whiskey was buzzing with excitement. With the combination of your quick wit and your apparent hand to hand combat skill you were definitely capable of becoming an agent with the Statesmen.

The ding of the elevator stirred Whiskey from his thoughts. Strutting out of his office he quickly caught up to you.

“Whiskey.”

“Mornin’ Y/N. How’s my lovely little lady today?” you rolled your eyes and shook your head, continuing towards your office. Along with your normal bag you had also brought a tote bag that contained some office necessities. After setting your bags down you pulled out an electric tea kettle and made your way towards a shelf to find a spot for it.

“Y/N think fast!” came Whiskey’s voice as he threw the mug that sat on your desk. You quickly spun around and caught the mug before it could smash on the floor.

“You’re the absolute worst.”

“Not a coffee drinker either?” Whiskey said, eyeing the variety of teabags you pulled from your tote.

“Nope. Coffee is a slap in the face. Tea feels like a hug.”

Whiskey gave his standard full body laugh.

“You really are somethin’ darlin’.”

“Out.” you said, ushering him out of your space. “Come back if you need me.”

“Ya know if I didn’t know any better I’d say you’re the boss and I’m the assistant.” Whiskey leaned against the door frame as he said this.

“Whiskey…” you said with a grumble, trying to push him from the door, but the man wasn’t budging. Bending down he whispered in your ear,

“I am a mighty fan of switching up the dynamic every once in a while.” he said and you could almost feel his smirk against your skin.

“Out!” and you shut the door on his face.

‘I swear to god this man will be the death of me.’

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

The rest of the day was fairly standard. Random errands Whiskey needed, picking up lunch, sorting through notes, etc. The only difference between today and the previous was the fact that Whiskey kept throwing things at you any chance he got.

“So I organized these files and highlight all the—“ Before you could finish your sentence you looked up as a pen, a baseball, and a full bottle of whiskey were flying at you. Quickly you caught them all and managed to keep the files you were holding in your hands as well.

“Whiskey what the fuck?”

Initially it felt like Whiskey’s standard teasing, but at this point it was ridiculous and was getting on your nerves. If you didn’t catch the whiskey bottle it would’ve made a huge mess and you were most likely the one who would have to clean said mess.

“Wouldn’t have thrown ‘em if I knew you weren’t gonna catch ‘em.” said Whiskey from behind his desk, propping his feet up on the wood and stretching his arms behind his head.

You were too focused on the files when you entered his office that you didn’t realize Whiskey had taken off his blazer and tie. He was wearing his standard white dress shirt and some suspenders. He had the sleeves of his shirt rolled up to his elbows and you couldn’t help but stare at his tanned arms. You didn’t realize how much muscle the man had. You shook your head.

“Why do you keep throwing shit at me?”

“Oh darlin’,” Whiskey stood up and pulled the bottle of whiskey and the baseball out of your hands, set them down on his desk and leaned on the wooden table. “just testing your reflexes and reaction time.”

“Ginger was right.”

“Hmm?” said Whiskey, pulling his suspenders off his shoulders and popping open the bottle of whiskey. You stared as he brought the bottle to his lips. His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down as he took a swig. He licked his lips and you felt a shiver run through your body.

“I’m waiting darlin’.” he said with a smirk. He knew you were staring. He had made sure you were staring.

“She said you were a character.”

“I have been called larger than life.”

“Uh, anyways here are the files.” Reaching out to hand the files to your boss, his hand met yours and once again the two of you froze. The only movement coming from the room was the rise and fall of your chests and Whiskey’s thumb making slow circles on the back of you hand.

“Jack I— oh.”

You immediately moved your hand and Whiskey took the files from you at the sound of Ginger’s voice.

“Sorry.” said Ginger, giving you an apologetic look. “Champ gave me some…” Ginger paused, looking for the right word. “updates — classified updates — that you need to hear Jack.”

“Guess that’s my cue.” you said, making your way out of the office.

“Get home safe Y/N.” said Whiskey giving you a smile. Your heart fluttered in response.

‘Stop. You cannot have feelings for your boss. Especially Whiskey.’

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

It was finally Friday after work and to say you were exhausted was an understatement. The rest of the week had been pretty straightforward minus some odd behavior from Whiskey. He continued to randomly throw things at you or ask seemingly random questions.

‘How quickly can you run a mile?’

‘About 7 and a half minutes.’

‘Ever got in a fist fight?’

‘No, but I’ve prevented some from starting.’

‘How flexible are you?’

That question you decided to ignore. There was one question, however, that kept replaying in your mind over and over again.

‘Have you ever shot a gun?’

When he asked the question you stopped in your tracks. Sure he was from the South so he most definitely had experience with firearms but you? Nope. Frankly, guns scared the shit out of you. Why did he want to know?

‘No. My dad and brother would go to shooting ranges occasionally but never took me. But if they asked I would’ve said no.’

You pondered his reasoning for all these questions as you took a shower. The questions could’ve been an attempt to get to know you better but they were nothing along the lines of ‘where did you grow up?’ ‘do you have any pets?’ or ‘what’s your favorite color?’. You were stirred from your thoughts by a knock at the door.

Parker.

“One second!” you called, stepping out of the shower and pulling a towel around yourself. You rushed to the door leaving a small trail of wet footprints behind you.

“You really had the audacity to knock while I was—“

“Well aren't you a sight for sore eyes.” came a thick accent. Your eyes widened immediately and you swallowed.

“Whiskey?”

“You gonna let me in darlin’?”

You were too shocked to do anything other than follow his request. Stepping aside to allow him to enter you shut the door behind you.

“Nice place. Nice getup too.” he said with a wink.

You were suddenly hyperaware of the current state of your appearance. Your hair was dripping wet and you were naked other than a much too small towel wrapped around yourself. Your boss (your very attractive boss) was in your apartment and you were essentially naked.

“One second.” you said, and ran back to the bathroom to change into the clean clothes you pulled from your closet before. Throwing on your sleep shorts and a large shirt you stormed out of the bathroom to confront Whiskey.

“Firstly, how the hell did you get my address and secondly, why the fuck are you here?”

“Firstly,” said Whiskey, putting his hands on your shoulders attempting to make you calm down. “I told you we did a background check. And secondly,” he guided the two of you over to your small couch and placed a plastic bag on your coffee table. “I brought dinner.” You narrowed your eyes and glared at him.

“What is it?” your voice still tinged with anger.

“Sushi.”

After a minute you responded.

“Okay fine you can stay.”

Whiskey took several boxes of sushi out of the bag and all your favorites were there. Your mind was doing flips to figure out much all this costed. Sushi was not cheap, especially from the restaurant he got it from.

“How’d you know sushi is my favorite?”

“Background checks.”

“Okay now I can’t tell if you’re joking or not.” Whiskey just gave you a smile and dug into the food. The two of you ate in silence. While scarfing down your sushi as politely as possible, it had been a long time since you had your favorite food, you observed the man next to you. He still had his black Stetson and black cowboy boots, but his slacks and blazer had been replaced by some tight fitting jeans and a matching denim jacket. The same camel coat he wore when you first met was hanging on the hook on the back of your door.

“Those gears in your head are turning darlin’.”

“Why’d you actually come here? I doubt it was just to buy me dinner.”

“Straight to business sugar? I do have to admit you’re not wrong about my intentions.” Whiskey pulled off his hat and sat it down on the coffee table. A hand went up to smooth his hair down and he turned to face you directly, a serious look on his face.

“As you’ve probably noticed Statesman Brewery is… different. We are a brewery but we’re also something more. First and foremost we are a secret independent intelligence agency.”

You choked and almost inhaled the gulp of water you were swallowing.

“I know it’s bizarre darlin’ but please don’t hurt yourself,” he said, placing a hand on your knee. “even if I wouldn’t mind doing some CPR on a catch such as yourself.” You gave him the standard look you gave him when he said these types of comments. “I wasn’t just throwing shit at you to scare you and those questions I asked? Bit of a verbal test if you will.”

“Okay now tell me the actual truth.”

“I’m serious Y/N.” his eyes darkened slightly. “You have the makings to be an agent.”

“And you think that because I caught some random crap you threw at me and because I can run a mile slightly faster than the average person?” you leaned against the couch, arms crossed. Whiskey seemed serious about what he was saying, but you weren’t fully convinced yet.

“You were at The Parking Lot on Tuesday.”

“Okay what the fuck are you stalking me now? More ‘background check’ stuff?” you said, making air quotes with your fingers.

“That was pure coincidence. Promise on my late mama’s soul.” Whiskey raised a hand and traced an ‘X’ over his heart. “I saw that ungodly man try to have his way. Was close to stopping things myself before I saw you twist his arm around his back. You were faster than a jackrabbit.”

“You saw that?”

“Sugar, the whole bar saw it. But even if the bar didn’t, I still would’ve. The second I saw you and your friend walk in, well, let’s just say I wasn’t interested in watching the football game anymore.”

Whiskey had been watching you. He saw you act fast and save yourself from that dick at the bar. Subconsciously you pulled your shoulders back and your heart swelled with pride.

“You showed him who’s boss.” Whiskey winked, repeating the phrase that seemed to keep coming up.

“Okay okay so let me get this straight. You’re some sort of secret agent, whose coverup is a business man in the alcohol industry.”

“So far so good sugar.”

“And you’re suggesting that I join this secret intelligence agency?”

“Not so much suggesting as I am insisting but other than that you’re right on the money.”

“Did you hire me as your assistant with the intent of offering me a position as an agent?”

“That, darlin’, was all you. You impressed me that night. Spoke to Champ and Ginger about it and convinced them that you’d be a good agent.”

“Champ and Ginger are agents too?” Your eyes widened. “Is Sara the receptionist one too?” Whiskey laughed at this question and your curiosity.

“No Sara is not an agent. Only a handful of people in the New York and California offices are agents. The rest of them are at the Kentucky branch.”

You paused thinking about your next question and looked down at your hands. You couldn’t help but fidget, anxious about how Whiskey would answer the next question.

“And what if I say no?”

“That’s not really an option.”

You swallowed hard and looked back up to meet Whiskey’s eyes. He had a serious look, but that seriousness slowly melted into something softer. Hope? Encouragement? Something else? He shifted on the couch so his knees touched yours.

“I have seen what you can do. You’ve got reflexes like a cat, almost broke a man’s arm.”

“He deserved it.” you grumbled.

“No arguments there darlin’. You have what it takes. Sure you’re gonna need training and whatnot but you’ll get the best of the best at Statesman. Besides, you’ll have the top teacher we have to offer. Me.” There was that million dollar smile again.

“Okay initially I was on board, but after hearing that I’ll have to spend more time with you? Kill me or dispose of me or whatever the ‘not option’ option is.” You jumped at the intense laugh that came out of the man in front of you.

“Darlin’ you’re breaking my heart.”

“And you’re breaking my sanity.” you rolled your eyes and started to put away leftovers from dinner. When you closed the door to the fridge you heard Whiskey’s voice in your ear.

“You haven’t said no.”

You turned around, practically chest to chest with Whiskey.

“Doesn’t really feel like I have a choice cowboy.” giving him a smirk. Whiskey reached around your waist to grab a pen that was on the kitchen counter. It felt like he was cornering you, but something inside you welcomed it. Whiskey scribbled on the notepad that sat next to the pen, ripped the page off, and pressed the paper into your palm.

“Pack your stuff for a week long trip. Meet me at that location on Monday morning at 6am.”

With that Whiskey turned and grabbed his coat and hat, making his way to the door.

“Sweet dreams darlin’.” he said, tipping his hat and closing the door behind him. You glanced down at the paper. His handwriting was much nicer than you were expecting. All that was on the paper was an address located in a really nice part of the city and a phone number. You could only assume it was Whiskey’s cell phone number. The only other thing on the paper was a small heart with a ‘W’ inside it. You didn’t want to acknowledge it, but seeing that doodle made warmth spread across your chest.

taglist:  @absurdthirst @space-daddy-owns-me @agentwhiskeypussyindulgence @littlemissoblivious @agingerindenial @mack4676 @loveforminato @thats-one-tender-foot @xwingsandohs @purplepascal042 @harami-mami @nova646 @lesbianlena @computeringturtle @cassandras-nest

[amandaleemcd]

May 13, 2005 (The Sun is Up)

I’m 16. On my 15 minute break.

I’m perched on a waxed concrete ledge outside Maritz, legs crossed.

My hair - a chin-length choppy shag-mullet (I cut myself). Eyeliner THICK. There’s an 80% chance I’m wearing neon blue Nars eyeshadow. Worn out Chucks. My ankles blistered.

Some guy (I think his name is) Brian: “You know that guy who always comes to bum cigarettes off you?”

I take a drag of my Camel 99 and side-mouth blow the smoke up into the air. (Respect - the guy doesn’t smoke.) My right arm under my breasts, my left elbow on my right wrist - forming an L. Saucily keeping my cigarette in the air.

Clair (she’s my World) and I ditched school the day before. Drove around in my 83 Toyota Cressida Wagon. Found something self-destructive to do at The Shack on Maury St. I managed to leave just as the sun was starting to come up. I was still really fucked up so, I left my car.

I walked home.

She didn’t. I’m pissed.

I’m wearing dangly Globe earrings. Charlie (he’s 14) gave them to me. They’re made of tin and open up like a little Altoids container. They’re full of Vicodins. Charlie was insistent I take the Globes as a gift before I left.

I take another drag.

Me: “Who?”

Brian?: “Amanda. You talk to him every time you’re here. The asian guy. . .”

Me: ?

Brian: “Tight Jeans. Nike SBs. Band T-Shirt. Always has on that black combat hat.”

I stare blankly.

Brian: “Seriously, Amanda?! You’re always talking to him! He pretends he has no cigarettes just so he has an excuse to talk to you. How do you not know who I’m talking about?! He really likes you. Come on.”

I flip through the Rolodex in my brain.

Me: “Oh! The one who smokes Newports? His brother has the blue Honda CRV everyone hot boxes in the back of the parking lot?”

Brian: “Yes! Thra! That’s him. Come on. They’re going to a B-boy party after Westwood (it’s a trade College). He had to go back to class before he could ask you. Just go out with him tonight.”

Me: “Fine. Sure.”

Later:

I’m in the cargo area of The CRV. The seats are taken in the front.

He’s in the cargo area with me.

We’re on top of a good inch-thick layer of discarded Vice Magazines, OC Weeklys, LA Weeklys, show flyers, crushed cigarette packs and cans of RedBull. We’re gonna stop by Sam Ash Music in Cerritos before the B-boys’ house.

My body feels like shit. My throat feels like it might close in on me. I’m exhausted.

Flooded with anxiety.

I’ve been living off strictly Jamba Juice and Vicodin for no less than four days. I lean back, between his legs, my back against his chest - like a chair. He wraps his arms around me. Interlocks his hands with mine and rests our hands on his knees.

I relax and settle into his arms. He nuzzles his chin on my neck, just below my right ear. His breath is warm.

We make it to Sam Ash. We get out of The CRV. He walks ahead with the other dudes.

I pause at the open hatch of the CRV. Flip open my tiny cell phone. There’s nothing from Clair. She hasn’t tried to call me and hasn’t answered my calls. I went back to Maury to get her and my car this afternoon. Checked her house. The coffee shops. She was nowhere to be found.

Charlie said she was mad at me. He doesn’t know why.

His brother pauses to close the hatch of The CRV.

Gabe (- the brother who’s name I figure out later): “So, what do you think about Thra?”

I look up at him, confused.

Gabe: “Thra”

I’m still blank.

Gabe: “Seriously, you’re on a date with my brother and don’t even know his name?! You guys have been talking for months. Thra. It’s short for Sovatra. At least learn his name!”

He’s annoyed and walks off.

I trail slowly behind.

Thra has stopped in the parking lot. He’s looking back at me. And waits for me to catch up.

I smile at him. He’s sweet.

He holds my hand and we walk together.

[quillsareswords]

Smoke: VIII | Smoke, Silk, and Snow

SUMMARY: After vanishing for four years, you return to the place you once called home, to the people you once called family. We all carry our baggage in different ways, using different techniques to hide it. You just happen to hide it in cigarette smoke.

CHAPTER SUMMARY: At Damian’s request, you done a dress and a pair of heels to attend  Bruce’s Christmas Charity Ball. You don’t get to mingle much, but when  he catches you out on a balcony, the pain in your feet is worth it.

SERIES WARNINGS: cigarette smoking; underage drinking; gang activity; violence; swearing; blood; self-hate

MASTER LISTS in BIO

You duck and weave through patrons, hitching up a floor length skirt with one hand and balancing a stiff drink with the other. Your ears are near ringing, with all the noise and voices and glasses clinking and has the music been this loud the whole time?

You find yourself slipping into old habits, feet plotting a course all their own while you try to keep your mind focused on not having a breakdown with all these people around. Yellow eyes and three inch claws aren't going to look very good with a burgundy dress.

Outside the ballroom, there's less of a crowd. Further down the hall, the masses dwindle. Sliding into a room past the kitchen's back hall—where you pass waiters and a new bartender—you finally find solitude.

One of Bruce's parlors, or lounges—whatever he calls them. There's a leather couch and a pair of matching arm chairs, all facing an oak coffee table despite being paired with end tables. Bookshelves and works of art line three walls, tall windows the other. You breathe deeply. The room is unsurprisingly a little stale, seeing as it's likely unused until there's a party a few doors down the hall.

You steal a sip from your glass before you make for the door to the balcony. The night air stings cold against your skin, but sets a lively burn in your lungs. It's quiet, thankfully, aside from the hum of the ongoing gala in the window-lined room about ten windows to your left. The light spills out from there and illuminates most of the gardens that stretch out toward the woodline. You've always loved the garden.

Alfred's flowers are always so pretty, and the smell is always overpoweringly fresh.

You lean on the thick stone railing. You pull out the paper pack from the pocket of your skirt and stick a cigarette between your teeth. You light it, take a drag, and swipe a moment to reminisce on all the times you've gone running through that garden, for one reason or another. Sometimes it was for fun, sometimes Damian was angrily chasing you with the garden hose because say yeet one more goddamn time, Y/N, one more. Good times.

Damian. The bold man that had asked you three times to come to this event, and yet in the hour and a half you'd been here, you had yet to see. You admit, you're disappointed. Sure, you know he's busy keeping up images by mingling and chatting, but. . . well, you had hoped he'd asked you so much because he wants you here. Usually, that would lead one to believe he wants to spend time with you here. Then again, it is Damian, after all. He's never exactly been so straight forward.

Your mind reels back to last Tuesday. That fleeting hug. The warmth of his hold at the erratic pace of his heart. I’m glad you’re home.

"Thought you'd be here."

You turn over your shoulder.

Damian's hands are tucked into his pockets, and you'd be lying through your teeth to claim he isn't absolutely stunning in a dark green three-piece. You hope he doesn't catch the movement of your eyes before you snap back to reality. You turn halfway as he joins you by the stone, pinching your cigarette in the hand that still rests on the wide ledge. You note a vague limp in his gait.

"You narrowed down one room out of the hundred—minimum—of rooms in this house?" Your eyebrow quirks.

He sets his whisky glass down beside yours. "Well, it's the only empty room close to the ballroom, and it's been two hours since it started to get loud. I figured you'd be looking for a quiet corner about now."

You shrug, trying to play off the fact he was actively thinking of and looking for you in a sea of people. You push daydream thoughts away and remind yourself that he absolutely took the path of least resistance to check in on an old friend.

"What can I say? The doggy hearing has it's downsides." You take another drag. Turn around, and hoist yourself up onto the ledge to sit with your back to the garden, and the halfmoon shining overhead.

He leans one elbow on the ledge, reaches toward you and wiggles his fingers, a hint of shame and revolt sparkling those pretty eyes of his.

You giggle loudly, trying your best not to howl the laughter bubbling up your chest. Damian shushes you, though he's grinning and peering over your shoulder, so it's hard to take him serious. Two glasses in two respective sets of hands, you make sure you aren't followed as you slink off to hole up in an empty sitting room.

He finds one, juggling his drinks as he fiddles with the doorknob. This only makes you want to laugh harder, but you know that doing so would result in one hell of a scolding, so you pipe down until you get into the room.

After that, it's all on the table.

You're practically choking on giggles while Damian grins and laughs as openly as the nightsky, amber liquid sloshing in one of his glasses and clear in the other. You're making for the chairs in the middle of the room, when you hear the floorboards creak in front of the door.

You get quiet, an anxious twist in your belly, staring at the door, waiting for Bruce or your brother to rip the door open and start scolding you for sneaking drinks.

When it doesn't happen, you make a break for the balcony before it does. Laughing again—a little more nervously now—you hop up onto the stone wall. The glasses clink as you set them down beside you, and Damian's join them.

"Best make it last," Damian chuckles. "I don't think we can risk another trip."

You nod. "Well, then it's a good thing I brought back up," you grin, fishing a white and green pack of Camels from a pocket in your coat, and hold them up with a shake.

He scoffs. "I don't smoke," he says proudly.

You cock an eyebrow. "Neither do I."

He snorts, takes one from you anyway. "I hate it when Jason smokes," he sighs, hovering the end over the lighter in your hand. "Smells terrible."

You eye him a little suspiciously. You hand him a stick all the same. "You don't smoke."

"Neither do you." He only comes close enough to light the end of it before he pulls away again.

You take a drag the same time as him, still eyeing him warily. He doesn't cough and sputter like he use to.

He must feel your eyes, or he reads the look on your face like he always does. "I don't really smoke," he sighs, words laced with gray clouds. "Only once every blue moon." The next part is quiet, like he doesn't really want you to hear it. "It's been a long week."

You chuckle. "You’re preaching to the choir."

He shakes his head, eyes wandering the garden. You aren't sure what he's looking for. "At least you’ve been sleeping."

Your eyebrows raise. "Bold assumption. What happened?"

He nods, understanding. "Bruce and I have been arguing since Tuesday, and I haven't spoken to him since then, aside from professionalism and patrol. My apartment building was evacuated Monday night and cost me five hours of sleep—and while I appreciate how seriously they take a bomb threat, I wish they would take efficiency in the same vein."

Dick mentioned he'd moved into a penthouse uptown, not too far from the Wayne Industries tower. Flash thoughts run through your head about what it would have been like to help him move, but you plunge them into the deepest part of your mind before you dive too far down the rabbit hole.

You nod slowly. "Sounds rough."

He blows out a puff of empty air, apparently meant to resemble a laugh. "Yeah."

His grammar is more relaxed than you're used to. He's only this loose when he's very tired—at least, that's how you remember.

"How have your friends been?"

He's changing subjects. You decide to let him. "Good, last I checked. I was over there yesterday morning." You sigh, deeply. You feel the anxieties crawling back up your throat, so you subdue them like bees with a lungful of smoke. "We've been having problems with another pack. I don't remember if I mentioned that before."

"Fleetingly."

You bob your head. Another drag. "They're out for blood. Jumped one of ours a few days ago."

He turns his head toward you. "You sound nervous."

"A little," you laugh nervously. "We've got history with them, ya know? They know where to hit, but we don't. Makes me uneasy."

He straightens his posture and you sense a shift in character. "Are they illegally involved as well?"

You take it for what it is. Curiosity, a warning, an offer. You shrug, leaning back on one hand. "I don't know. I've had eyes on every other street corner since Friday, but nobody is seeing anything."

You look away from him. You really shouldn't be telling him any of this. Maybe it's the buzz from six shots of tequila—all you can hope to get, unfortunately—or maybe it's the nostalgia of this that's loosening your tongue. This used to be your routine for these kinds of events.

"Tell me when you find out. I might be of some assistance."

You blink, eyebrows furrowing. You still aren't looking at him, but you're wondering why he's so eager to help all of a sudden. Maybe last Tuesday changed things more that you thought it had.

"It's my job, Y/N. If they're breaking the law, it's my duty to make a move." He clips the white stick between his teeth again. "Besides, I owe you for Tuesday night."

"You don't owe me," you say quickly. Your eyes his his shoes. Quietly, "I still owe you for leaving."

He's silent for a moment. You both are. The air stills.

"No," he sighs at last, stubbing out the cigarette before he flicks it off into the night, "you don't. I've forgiven you for it."

Your eyes blow wide. "You–"

"I was angry. For two years, I was angry. You never called, never texted, and I thought it was because of something I did. Then I realized it wasn't, and I didn't know who else to blame, so I blamed you. After two years and three months, I realized you were really never coming back, so I moved on." He picks up his glass and downs the whole thing.

"I was alright for two years, and then you turned up again. I was angry again, and then then the whole thing with Erica—I didn't have time to properly process anything. And at the time, I didn't know everything. I didn’t know that you were building a new life for yourself—a good one. I didn't know you'd been chased out, either."

You go rigid. When did you tell him that? How did he know?

He sees your eyebrow twitch. "You didn't tell me. I worked it out myself." He turns to face you fully. "I wish you had, though. I wish you would have told me then. I could have helped."

You advert your gaze again. You squeeze your eyes closed. "You couldn't have," you grumble. "It wasn't that simple."

You jump when your phone rings. You dig it out in a rush. "Tyrone's got the absolutely worse timing," you growl, hopping off the ledge while answering. "I'll just be a minute," you excuse, darting back into the sitting room.

"Tyrone," you hiss, "this had better be something–"

"You're still there?" He sounds surprised.

You make a face. "Well– Yeah?" You pause, running a checklist of all the things you had on the list for today. "Should I not be?"

"I mean . . . No– Yeah, you should be, I just didn't think you'd stay very long. Having a good time? Meet somebody?"

You decide to ignore the suggestive tone he uses. With a glance thrown over your shoulder to the man standing out on the balcony, busing himself with stargazing and probably listening to your end of the conversation, if you know him well enough. "You could say that."

"You're with Damian, aren't you?" You can't help but notice he sounds sort of disappointed.

Your eyebrows slant. "Maybe. Is that a problem?" You feel defensive. Tyrone is like family to you, and you want his approval, but you don't understand what he'd expected. You came to this event specifically at Damian's request.

"No, of course not. I know you went because he asked, but I thought you might, ya know . . . mingle some."

You cross one arm over your waist and rest the opposite elbow on it. "What is that supposed to mean?"

"No, nothing!" There's an edge of embarrassment and panic in his voice. "I don't mean anything, really. Just, you've been in Gotham for a few months now, and it doesn't seem like you see anyone other than him. You're at t complex often, I just mean–"

You close your eyes and pinch the bride of your nose. Right. You should have seen this conversation coming. "Look, Ty, can we talk about this later? I'm in the middle of a pretty important conversation."

He gets strangely quiet. "Right. Sorry, I just wanted to check on you. I'm going to wait up, so call me when you leave and when you get home, okay?"

Your eyes are still closed, but you hear Damian shifting around on the balcony. "I can handle myself." You exhale slowly. "But, yeah. I appreciate it."

"I know, but I don't like the silence on the Rats' end. I'll talk to you later."

"Yeah. Bye."

You hang up and pocket your phone. With another exhale, your heels click as they carry you back out to the balcony.

"Problem?" Damian asks passively. You can't help noticing he seems a little deflated.

You polish off your drink. "No, he just wanted to check on me." You try to meet his eyes again, but he's much more interested in cold blanket of snow whiting out the property.

"That's kind of him," he offers. You see now that his eyes aren't focused and he seems spacey. "Are you close?"

He's changing the subject. He receded into himself. Your moment of vulnerability is gone, and with it your window of opportunity to finally put everything behind you.

You just want a fresh start. You're sick of feeling like there's always something hanging in the air between the two of you, blocking any amends you have a chance to make. Frustration boils in your lungs.

"Very. We grew up together, in the complex. Born into the pack, you know?" The causality of the new conversation eats at you. You get caught up in the pent up irritation and make a leap of faith.

"When I said earlier that you couldn't have helped, I mean it."

He closes his eyes. You can’t tell if it’s disappointment or if he’s bracing himself for a rocky conversation.

“It’s deeper than drug deals, Damian. They’re Werewolves. They want Gotham.”

   He throws you a look you’re familiar with. His should-I-be-concerned-about-that glare hasn’t changed a bit .

   “Not the way you’re thinking. It’s complicated.”

   “Like everything else.”

   You cringe. Should have seen that coming. “I’m sorry.”

   He exhales, closes his eyes, and turns to face you fully before he opens them. “I can’t hold it against you,” he admits. “I know better than anyone how that goes. You can’t fill anyone in ion details, because those details have details, and by the time you’ve said your piece, everyone’s twice as confused as they started.”

   You nod, the tension in your shoulders easing.

   He leans almost all of his weight against he stone half-wall. “I know you can’t tell me everything. But what can you tell me?”

   You maul it over. What can you freely tell him that you haven’t already? “Not much,” you answer honestly. “Mostly just that the Rats are the one’s who killed my parents. They were trying to disband the pack by cutting the head off the snake. They went after Nick and I next. Nick managed to lead a group of them to the Crime Alley area, where some of ours ambushed them. The other group went after me, and that lead to the warehouse fire. Some of the other young members were there, like I’d told you. Some of them didn’t make it out.”

   He soaks it all in. Clarity dawns his face. “You didn’t wait for me because you didn’t want them to target me.”

   You nod. Finally.

   He shakes his head with a ghost of a smile. “Do you know how many years of frustration and weeks of awkward resentment you could have saved us both if you’d just told me that?”

   You laugh. It isn’t boisterous, or loud. It’s a spurt of disbelief and relief. “You’d have found something else to hate me for, I’m sure.”

   He snorts. His tiny smile fades, and then it’s back to openly confused eyes and an odd edge to his voice. “But why didn’t you call?”

   Your eyes hit the stone tiled floor. Hesitance, then honest hurt. Self-inflicted, but hurt all the same. “It was stupid, looking back.” You take a deep breath. “I was embarrassed. And guilty. At the time, I had people on my ass who wanted me dead, I’d been lying to your face and keeping things from you for years, and then I’d literally left you in a burning building. I didn’t think I could ever face you again, after that.”

  His expression is solemn. He considers your wording for a moment, before he slides his hands into his pockets. “I would have forgiven you,” he states quietly.

   Your eyes leap to his, shock jolting through your mind and parting your lips.

   His eyes are soft on yours. His head is tilted just a smidgen to the side. The right edge of his mouth tips up. “You could have started the fire, and I’d have still forgiven you. You were my best friend, (Y/N). I trusted you more than anyone, and that includes myself.”

   Your eyes are watering. “I, um–”

   “I should known you had a good reason to leave so suddenly,” he concedes. “But I was hurt. I couldn’t get past feeling like it was my fault. We thought the fire had been started by someone who was after me, or someone I should have been after. “I’m sorry I didn’t trust you.”

   The apology nearly knocks you over. When was the last time you heard him genuinely apologize to someone like this? Seventh grade? You stand stiffly for a long moment, blinking dumbly at him, mouth agape.

   The next physical thing you’re aware of is his knuckle bumping your arm and the teeth peeking out from his smile. “This is the part where you say, No! It was my fault!”

   You snort, trying to regain some composure. “I mean, it was–”

   “I’m joking,” he chuckles, “it was never your fault. It was the Rats’. Which is why I want to do anything I can to help you bring them down. For good, this time.”

TAGS: @howcanibreathewithnozaire @avis-writeshq @mello-10 @ukuleleatnight @chikorita-stuff @idkmanicantenglish

[pucksnsticksnhockeyboys]

spilled secrets

request(s): 65 .Are you okay? I heard a scream?” with Morgan Rielly Please / 70“I need you.” with Morgan Rielly / Prompt 67 Don’t tell anyone. Please.” with Morgan Rielly Please

prompt(s): “Are you okay? I heard a scream?” & “Don’t tell anyone. Please.” & “I need you.” / numbers 65, 67, & 70 off of this list with Morgan Rielly.

summary: you can’t help but tell Morgan just exactly how you feel one night.

warnings: none

word count: 1.7k

Some nights, you regretted sharing an apartment with a professional hockey player. They’d party on weekends and come home from road trips late at night. But, when you moved to Toronto on your own following your dream job, your childhood friend Morgan Rielly offered you his spare room. It was in a nicer neighborhood than you were looking for apartments in and definitely a nicer building than you would’ve been able to afford. 

It should have been easy for you to agree to move in with him, and if any other person had asked you would’ve jumped on the offer, but it was Morgan. The same Morgan you'd been hopelessly in love with since before he even started his professional hockey career. Still, the idea of reduced rent was too appetizing to pass up, and two weeks later he was helping you carry boxes into your new room. 

Which was how you found yourself in your current situation. You were in your own room searching for sleep, but the wooden door wasn’t doing much to stop the rowdy hockey players in the living room from keeping you up.

So, instead of having Morgan ask his teammates to keep it down a bit, you suffered silently in your room. You were never a confrontational person, and after the successful road trip the boys had just gotten back from the day before, they deserved to celebrate. You put on a movie a friend had recently recommended, not caring in the moment that it was a horror film, considering you were only putting it on in order to block out the laughter on not only your best friend and roommate, but his teammates as well.

Except, the movie was extremely interesting, because you couldn't tear you eyes away from the screen. Half an hour later you tugged the blankets up over your shoulders, hiding underneath when the tension in the movie grew too much for you to handle. 

You were so into the movie, in fact, that you didn’t even realize you screamed until after the jump scare on the screen changed to the next scene. You winced, pausing the movie and hoping that no one heard you, but you had no such luck when only moments later there was a knock on your door.

“Are you okay? I heard a scream?” Morgan asked, poking his head in the room. Once he realized you were fine, a grin grew on his face as shut your door behind him. 

“Just a scary movie.” You brushed him off, watching as he crossed the room to climb onto the empty side of your bed. As far as you could tell, his teammates were still out in the living room, and you figured that as soon as he knew you were fine he would head back out to them. “Aren’t the boys still here?”

“They can let themselves out.” Morgan shrugged, making himself comfortable under your covers. You wanted to question him on why he was in there with you, and not out with his friends, but he wrapped an arm around your shoulders and tugged you into his side, your back on his chest as he propped himself up slightly on your headboard. Any words you had died on your lips as Morgan adjusted the blanket around you, knowing how you liked it pulled up to your chin when watching scary movies. 

You could only hope that he couldn't feel how rapidly your heart was beating in your chest as you pressed play on the movie once more.

Living with Morgan was a constant reminder of what you couldn't have but desperately wanted. You wanted nothing more than to be able to wrap your arms around him from behind and kiss the muscle between his shoulder blades as he washed the dishes in the kitchen, or be able to go to sleep every night in his bed, with very little space between the two of you due to his koala-like tendencies to cling to you whenever you cuddled on the couch. 

But for now, you would settle for getting to come home from work to see him dancing like no one was watching, a pot of boiling water on the stove. The music he was playing was so loud he didn't hear you come in, and he definitely couldn't hear your giggles, because when he spun around and saw you standing in the doorway fo the kitchen his eyes went wide and jaw fell slack. He scrambled to turn off the music and any composure you had left disappeared as you doubled over in laughter.

“Don’t tell anyone. Please.” He begged, the seriousness of his tone not matching the situation at all. You shook your head, unable to catch your breath from coming home to find Morgan dancing in the middle of the kitchen. 

“Oh, absolutely not, Rielly. If you think that I won’t tell Mitch exactly what I saw next time I see him, you don’t know me at all.” You teased, sliding onto one of the barstools sitting at the kitchen island. Morgan just shook his head, a soft smile evident on his face as he turned back to stirring whatever he was cooking on the stove. 

“How was your day?” He asked. You were thankful his back was to you, because you could feel your smile drop from one of amusement to one of longing. It felt too domestic all at once, like living with him had been building to this moment. Him asking that simple question was the proverbial stare that broke the camel’s back. 

You weren’t sure what caused him to turn back around when he did, whether it be because he always seemed to know when you were having an internal crisis or just the fact that you hadn’t responded yet. He called your name softly, the sound seemed to snap you back to reality and you looked up to him with furrowed brows. You shouldn't be the one who looked so confused, but Morgan was simply looking at you with a raised brow, waiting for you to come to your senses.

“Do you need something?” He asked, a hint of amusement in his voice as he tried to gauge your reaction. It was so typical of him to try and make you feel better by cracking a joke, but in this situation it did nothing to stop the words from tumbling past your lips next.

“I need you.” 

Neither of you knew how to react to what you said. Your eyes were wide and so were his, and he had gone stiff as he tried to process. You couldn’t hear the scrape of the stool as you stood up over the pounding of your heart.

“I’m sorry. I’m shouldn't have—sorry. Fuck.” You mumbled, keeping your head down as you left the room. You couldn’t force yourself to stay in the kitchen, feeling embarrassed for having confessed how you felt like that. It wasn't even an actual admission, but you gave a strong enough hint and he wasn't stupid, he knew what you meant.

So you locked yourself in your room, shutting the door not only on the rest of the silent apartment, but also years of close friendship crumbling because you couldn't keep it together. You paced your room for a moment, unable to keep your thoughts in check, until a gentle knock made you freeze in your steps.

“Can I come in?” Morgan asked, and you stayed silent. You didn't want to face him, especially not after what you had just done, but he deserved an explanation. Still not speaking, you open the door for him but instead of waiting for him to answer, you sat on the edge of your bed. “So are we going to talk about what just happened?”

“I’m not in the mood for your teasing, Morgan.” You hissed, dropping your head into your hands as you popped your elbows on your knees. From your position, you couldn’t see Morgan cross your room, until you felt your bed dip beside you. 

“I’m not teasing.” He stated, and you sat up a little straighter. The way the length of his thigh pressed against yours made your heart race and you body feel warm, but then again, he’d been having that effect on you since you were teenagers. “If you meant what I think you did, then I need you too.”

“What do you think I meant?” You danced around the subject, not wanting to read too much into things and make a fool of yourself again. 

“That you’ve had feelings for me, but not as long as I’ve had feelings for you.” Morgan said casually, and when your head snapped towards him in confusion, you saw the grin on his face. Part of you wanted to convinced yourself that he was just messing with you, that he didn't actually mean the things that he was saying. But the other part of you knew better. That was the part you listened to, the one that knew him as well as you did and could tell by the tone of his voice that he was being completely serious. 

“How do you know that you’ve had feelings longer?” You let yourself tease back, the rush of adrenaline fueling your bold statement. 

“Probably because I’ve been in love with you since the moment I saw you.” 

“I was twelve when we met, Morgan. No way you loved me back then, I was a mess.” You deflected his cheesy sentiment, cheeks heating up when you heard him confess his love. He’s told you he's loved you thousand and one times before, but now it held an entirely different meaning. “It took me three years after we met for you to win me over, but I love you too.”

You were snickering at your own joke, but Morgan just cupped your jaw in his hand and connected your lips in a searing kiss. It was one you had been waiting for what seemed like your whole life for, and the sheer intensity made it all worth it. Morgan would always be worth it. 

You pulled away first, needing a break to catch your breath. You didn't separate far though, foreheads rested together and nose pressed into his cheek. He was grinning like the Cheshire Cat, and you were certain that you looked similar to him. 

“Now that we got that out of the way, I’ve got to finish dinner for us.”

[r-a-d-imagines]

No need to fear! I am here!! I’m corny ok sry. I did give you lots to write lmao it won’t happen again. So that same pent up request with Simeon, Diavolo and Lucifer? And one of the other 6 brothers. I’d like you to pick. You’re writing is like phenomenal. 💕🦇— U can call me Alice :3 ghost anon 😭

A.N ; a h!!!! no need to be sorry!!!! thank you for your request in the first place!! ^^ i’m glad you enjoy my writing alice!!! i took some liberties on what exactly pent up means for each simeon’s-if you’d like something different, please feel free to ask for it! also, i hope you’re okay with a bit of a sub!lucifer ^^’‘ couldn’t miss the opportunity to write him like that

Simeon, Diavolo, Lucifer, and Leviathan ; Pent Up Sex (w/ female partner)

SimeonEvidently, this was a side of your boyfriend you... Would never have imagined existing, but, low and behold, here you were. In the back of your mind, you worried about getting chewed out for missing class-it sure seemed like you were skipping right now-but, due to some... Certain circumstances, you found it hard to care all that much.“S-Simeon-this bathroom is very echo-y, please-” His hips snapped against your own at a very particular angle, and you slapped your hand over your mouth mid-sentence to halt the cry that threatened to tear itself out of your throat. Breathlessly, he chuckled from his spot behind you, a contradicting gentle hand smoothing itself along your slightly exposed back-he hadn’t taken your uniform off completely, after all. That was the whole reason you were here, not that you knew that. It was new, since the one you’d been given at first didn’t fit right, and, well... This one fit a little too well.“All the better for me to listen to your sweet sounds, love. I’m sure no one’s around-please be as loud as you’d like.” His casual tone made you want to reach back and elbow him right in the ribs-how could he be so nonchalant while he was fucking you like this! In the school bathroom!“Wh-what’s-what’s gotten into you?” Your words sounded more like restrained whimpers, as Simeon saw no reason to allow you a minute to breathe and speak clearly, and you shuddered at the thoughtful hum that left him as his fingers fiddled with the ends of your uniform skirt, flipping it up a little to watch his cock slip in and out of you.“Mm... I just really admire the way your new uniform fits, is all. Couldn’t help myself.”DiavoloYou couldn’t believe him-you knew he wasn’t shy about fooling around in public, but... God. Here, now, with people so close by? Really?He’d elected to take you and the demon brothers out to dinner to celebrate something or other, making a reservation and getting a special table and all that-but upon arriving, it was found that the table was one chair short of being able to seat all of you. Instead of inconveniencing the staff, Diavolo very happily invited you to use his lap as a seat-you should have said no, in retrospect, so this whole mess was partially your fault.Somewhere along the way, without getting caught, somehow, he’d fished his dick out of his pants and pulled your underwear to the side, slipping himself inside of you-”to make it more comfortable,” he’d said. But comfortable for who, you had no idea. You had to admit, though-it wasn’t the worst. It’d been a while since the two of you got to have sex in general-this was an entirely different kind of thrilling. You guessed that was probably why he was doing this-he must have missed you, too.Just sitting with him inside was enough to have you on the verge of coming undone-after all, he was huge, every slight move you made felt overwhelming. You were at least vaguely sure no one had caught on to what was going on-though the looks Asmodeous was giving you from across the table were a bit... Worrying. How he constantly wiggled his eyebrows at the two of you with an almost knowing smirk.“H-how long is this dinner supposed to last, Diavolo? I-I don’t think I’m feeling very well,” You cleared your throat to try and make your voice sound a bit more normal, and you wanted to cry as Diavolo only laughed behind you, patting your thigh.“We haven’t even gotten our food yet, my love-I’m sure you’ll feel better once you’re full.”LuciferQuite frankly, you were a bit frustrated. Not with Lucifer personally, but... Well, maybe it was a bit personal, actual. You wished he would take a break from all that work he had-even if only for a minute. Your heart broke when you bumped into him in the kitchen earlier, hearing the way his shoulders cracked and popped as he begrudgingly fetched himself something to eat before slinking back into his office-though not without pausing to at least grace his lips against your forehead, almost apologetically.He was sorry-for neglecting you for his work, likely. He’d never actually say so, though-nor would he admit to being tired or stressed, that much you knew all too well.And then, it occurred to you-what was stopping you from helping him yourself, instead of waiting around for him to burn himself out and join you in bed? So that was how you found yourself... Here.With Lucifer on his knees for you in the middle of his office, bare from the waist up, skin stinging and red from being struck with the very same riding crop he so often used on you. He had that stubborn, prideful smile of his on his face as he looked up at you, breathless and panting, barely managing to speak, “... I might be letting you have for fun for right now, my dear, but I really should-”“You go near that desk, and I might just go looking for one of your whips.” You interrupted him coldly, delighting in the way his breath hitched, the way he shivered at your threat.“... Alright then, mistress,” The title rolled off his lips sarcastically, though his face flushed deliciously at the sound of it, “-continue with your punishment.”LeviathanYou weren’t sure how much longer this could go on-one of you was bound to snap sooner or later and escalate the situation, but... Alas. Levi sure did seem keen putting all of his focus into the game he was playing, even if your throat was wrapped snugly around his dick, and had been for the past while.You were trying to get him away from his computer, even if only for a little while-and he knew that, so he was trying extra hard to ignore you, but as you stared up at him from where you were, between his legs under his desk, you were overjoyed to see the slight twitches of his eyebrow, the tiny growls he’d let out every few seconds as he shifted around to, in his words, “get comfortable”. Any minute now, you knew-any minute now, he’d give up.You brought your hands up to his thighs, nails raking down the length of them slowly, pressing down just enough to make his cock twitch in your mouth-and that was the straw that broke the camel’s back.“You’re so unfair-” His hand leafed itself into your hair, “-damn, I was winning, too-” He was starting to all but yank your head up and down, “-you’re goona regret this, ____-”... Were you, though? Not likely.

[hadestownmodern]

Eurydice fakes sick to get out of work

So I saw this picture and nearly fainted-here’s some content

              The night is dark; a frigid cold coming about just at the turn from November into December, a swift and sudden barrage of sharp breezes that has Eurydice bundled twice as much as she would have been just days before. The old coat she crosses her arms over does not belong to her-no, the vintage, nearly knee-length camel colored garment is one she’d taken from Orpheus this morning, unprepared for the dip in temperature and needing to make it to work without stopping at her own now unfamiliar apartment. He’d taken it from the closet, wrapped her in it insistently and kissed her goodbye. He always watched her walk down the hall until she was no longer visible. That morning, she’d turned and come back, stood on her toes and kissed him breathless. There’s a feeling of newness shrouded in familiarity-in wondering exactly when this love wasn’t a part of her life. In Orpheus, Eurydice feels a sense of comfort she’d never felt before.

              Feigning sickness to leave work early was just a piece of that comfort she intended to give back.

              He’d done a few shows since Thanksgiving; he’s a favorite of the bar, the prodigy child that grew up wiping tables and singing fanciful, made-up songs to patrons that still frequent the place to this day. Eurydice had regretfully missed them; working, always working, having to say no when he casually mentioned he was playing another show. This time, when he’d mentioned playing at the bar again, her mind began whirring with a devised plan. She’d held her stomach while folding shirts, put on her best groggy face while ringing up customers. Her feigned illness had even come with a bout of real nausea-brought on by anxiety, she’d been sure as she wiped her mouth and pumped her fist as her boss told her to go home from the outside of the bathroom.

              She’d never rushed out of this retail job faster.

              Eurydice shivers against the cold before opening the door of the bar, making a quick scan of the room. It seems like she’s just on time-from above the heads of the waiting patrons, Eurydice can see Orpheus, bent over and back turned toward her, on the stage. She shuffles quickly to the bar, where Persephone’s eyes light.

              “Well, would you look at that-She finally doesn’t have to work.” Eurydice grins wickedly, shrugging her jacket off and accepting a glass of wine gratefully.

              “I snuck out,” she puts one finger to her lip, laughing to herself. “Don’t tell my boss I’m here, she thinks I have a stomach bug.”

              “Eurydice.”

              Persephone teases, shaking her head at her before tapping her finger lightly on the bar, gesturing to Eurydice and winking. The bartender seems to understand this wordless request, knowing Eurydice’s face from the free time between work and classes she’d spent sitting at the counter pretending to study, keeping Orpheus company on slow days. She’s rewarded with a basket of fries, still steaming, and a shaker of seasoning salt to accompany them. She thanks both the bartender and Persephone before turning her attention back to the stage. Orpheus is still working, presumably setting up whatever small machine is on the floor of the stage. He hums appreciatively as he strums each string of his guitar, with the same tilt in his head she’s seen in each phase of his concentration.

              The spark in his eyes when he finally catches sight of her lights the entire room-she swears she can see it-feel it in the way the crowd smiles at him, some laughing, as he gives her a delighted wave. He brings his hand to the mic and takes a quick breath, stammering, reddened cheeks lifted in a wide grin.

              “I thought you had to work!” He shifts from foot to foot, bursting with anxious excitement. She laughs, waves and raises her glass to him.

              “I pulled a few strings.” It’s all she needs to say now; he fumbles with his guitar for a second, pushes it out of his way for a moment and gesturing to her.

              “Eurydice’s here-I’m going to go on with the show but I just need to say-I just think she’s one of the most brilliant, wonderful people I have ever met. I really-I just think I’m so lucky to have her.”

              She’s still beaming, blushing like a middle school girl with a crush as he dives into his setlist, beginning with an older song of his he’d been practicing a few nights ago, making sure he’d remembered the lyrics. She’s turned completely in her stool, one elbow leaned on the bar, staring dumbfounded as Orpheus plays. He works the crowd, cracking jokes and asking them to sing along with the chorus “I know that you know this-if you came here when I had that stupid little tissue box guitar, you know this song.”

              She laughs along with his quips, sips her wine and rolls her eyes when Persephone teases her for her inability to focus on anything other than him.

              “He’s not going anywhere, you know.”

              “I know.” There’s another meaning there-a solidified feeling of truth as she answers Persephone, watches Orpheus look over at her again and smile his goofy, sideways sort of smile as his entire body plays. When the song is over the audience cheers-Eurydice even hollers, a noise she hadn’t even been sure had come from her own body. He stumbles over his thank-you; humble, soft. He plucks each string of his guitar again, one ear turned to the sound as he shakes his hair from his eyes.

              “This next one, it was kind of long to write but at the same time, it basically wrote itself.” The audience laughs again, Orpheus stopping to sip water and laugh along with them. “Maybe that wasn’t-no, that makes sense. I had this assignment before winter break to write an original piece-the guidelines weren’t anything too strict, honestly, but I really struggled with it for a while. I just couldn’t get out something I was proud of. So then one day I decide to go somewhere new, and I’m in this coffee shop-I don’t even drink coffee, Mr. Hermes always said the caffeine was bad for me and after trying it?” The audience laughs then, turning to Hermes, who sits near the stage shaking his head in teasing disapproval.

              “Anyway-I’m in this coffee shop and there’s this girl sitting in the corner. She has like, twenty books open on this massive table I realize she made herself. She basically made herself a full barricade. And she has three empty mugs, and she’s cross-legged up on this bench just buried in this book. And I can’t even see her eyes but this whole melody pops into my head the second I see her. I’m not kidding-I know it sounds like I’m over exaggerating the situation but I swear to you, it was the whole leading melody. And then I get this drink that’s-it’s not terrible, but it’s not really great- and I sit and write down what I have, and then I’m coming to this stupid coffee shop multiple times a week just waiting to get some form of courage to talk to her. And then, she shows up at Thanksgiving-that’s a long story for another day-and then I have this song written in a night. And long story short, I ended up getting an A on this song after all the stress, and now the girl from the coffee shop is Eurydice, and I’m still wondering how the hell I got this lucky.”

              Eurydice laughs at herself as she wipes tears from her eyes-nods her head at Orpheus and mouths a soft love you; the first she’s ever said. He nearly knocks the mic over, processes the words he’d seen over in his head and says them back, right over the speaker, his voice slightly higher in pitch. It’s a pain for him to move his eyes from hers; he barely does, only to spare occasional glances at the crowd. He could have been playing in his apartment, the way everything else seems to push itself aside for them. She can barely breathe, but it is not a painful sensation. Rather, Eurydice finds her breathing to be more slow, less necessary with his eyes on her and his sweet falsetto singing. She can barely feel the ghost of Persephone’s hand on her shoulder, handing her a napkin to wipe her eyes. He plays with a concentrated passion, with his entire body instead of just his hands. As he sings it’s as if the entire room is invited into this story, this song of soft, sweet love that had come on so soon, had hit so fiercely. If she hadn’t already had these feelings for Orpheus Eurydice is sure she’d have fallen after the first note of this song.

              When he’s finished there is a brief moment of silence-a few seconds Eurydice later turns into a full minute-maybe even two-as she recounts the story. She swears by the power of the song, one she thanks him for profusely. The rest of the show goes off without a hitch, Eurydice entranced and Persephone making jests in her ear about picking her jaw up off of the floor, or having another drink. She can barely wait to see him when he finishes his last song, chats with patrons who surround the stage as he packs up his instruments. Persephone keeps her at the bar, orders another round of fries and tells her this might take a while.

              She’s right.

              Orpheus, her lanky, clumsy Orpheus, sits on the edge of the stage and high fives a group of older men. There’s a circle of people, all of whom seem to hang on his words, fix themselves to their importance. Eurydice watches; his smile, his charisma. He seems to be further in his element here than she’s seen him, relaxed and waving to those that make their way for the door, knowing everyone by name. Eurydice kicks her legs on the stool, waiting impatiently. When he looks her way, catches her waving, he gathers himself from the stage and waves goodbye to his company.

              She’s barely off her stool before Orpheus has her wrapped in his arms, kissing her lips gently. She laughs, touches her forehead to his before Persephone clears her throat. Orpheus pulls away instantly, grinning, and holds Eurydice at arms’ length, staring at her with the same sort of wide-eyed wonder he had since Thanksgiving.

              “You came!”

              “Yeah, I was really sick, so I had to leave work.” His eyebrows crinkle in confusion for a moment, just long enough for Persephone to touch her palm to her face and Eurydice to giggle. “I’m kidding, Orpheus. I faked sick so I could leave early.”

              “You faked sick?”

              “I did.” Eurydice nods, proud, and Orpheus pulls her into another hug. This time it’s tight, satisfying; he doesn’t want to let her go, doesn’t want to feel his arms empty of the feeling of her within them. Persephone gets their attention again, tapping Eurydice’s back and gesturing to her phone. Eurydice pushes her body as close to Orpheus as possible, nearly knocking him over as he holds her. The young couple faces the camera and Persephone lets out an exaggerated, teasing sigh as she looks at them. Eurydice glows, opens her mouth and presses her head against Orpheus’s chest, content. Orpheus, giddy from the feeling of Eurydice’s pride in him and her head on his chest, rests his head against hers.

              “I’m going to send this to your boss!” Persephone jokes as she snaps the picture-then doubles over as she looks at the final frame. Orpheus’s face is contorted in one of forced pity, an attempt to cover the wide smile that had been on his face before. “What the hell is this face?” She laughs.

              “Hey, I was just trying to make her boss believe her.”

              “Yeah, your forced frown isn’t helping anything.” Eurydice pats his cheek, grabs Persephone’s phone and looks lovingly at the still frame before sending it to herself.

              “You know what?” Eurydice grabs hold of his arm, watches Persephone make her way to the door as she leads him to his own apartment. Orpheus looks down at her-warmth, light-and she stops in her tracks to kiss him once more. “I love you.”

[radikalrags]

Check out this listing I just added to my Poshmark closet: Tuckernuck Emerson Popover Jacket Size Medium.

[mindymaerenee]

Check out this listing I just added to my Poshmark closet: Essex Classics Men's Camel Trey Quarter-Zip Sweater Elbow Patch Tan.