#fancy molasses

[necile]

Theda rolled the want to get a tattoo, and who am I to say no? It also turns out that Fancy Molasses is Moonlight Falls' resident tattoo artist.

[basketonthedoorstepofthefbi]

"cold feet (literally)" - spencer reid x fem!reader

you wake up in the middle of the night to get a pair of socks

wc: 1k

cw: reader is described as wearing a bra, sickeningly sweet fluff, two idiots in love

Spencer keeps his apartment climate-controlled at a brisk sixty-eight degrees Fahrenheit. He likes to be cold, he says, and you generally don’t mind. You run hot anyway, so if, on the off chance you do get cold when you’re lounging around on his couch or perusing his bookshelves, you grab one of the throw blankets Garcia’s knitted for him and wrap it around your shoulders. 

Tonight is different, in that you were not planning on sleeping over. Your relationship with Spencer works so well, in your opinion, because you both like to be independent, so rather than be with each other every moment of every day that he’s home, you orbit around each other like planets. You spend many evenings over at his place, and he spends just as many as yours, but eventually, the other person goes home. 

Not that you didn’t like sleeping in the same bed as Spencer, of course, but the relationship was still fresh, and you both liked that you were taking things slow. Tonight, however, you started a movie with him rather late, and by the time it was over, you were bleary-eyed and your bones felt laden. Spencer was more than willing to offer you the empty side of his bed for the night. 

You arrived in sweatpants and a t-shirt, so you just took your bra off and laid down. Spencer splurged on a fancy orthopedic mattress, so you somehow both sunk into it and rested on top of it like a glass on a table. It was insanely comfortable, and both you and Spencer really were wiped out, so you went right to sleep. 

When your eyes flutter open a few hours, you’re laying on your side. The first thing you notice is that the room is not completely dark. No, in fact, there’s a stream of moonlight, or maybe a street lamp outside, creeping in through the curtains, casting a soft, gray-filtered glow over the room. 

You feel Spencer’s hand loosely on your hip, and his knee resting lightly against the back of your thigh. Your immediate reaction is not to move for fear of waking him, but your feet are icicles. The air around you is cold, too, but the blankets remedy that. You just need socks. 

I am molasses, you coach yourself, moving languidly and carefully to rise into a sitting position. However, you lack the FBI stealth training needed to rise out of bed without waking your boyfriend, because when you look over your shoulder, his eyes are very clearly open. 

There’s a tired yet playful little smirk as he sits up, leaning against the headboard. “Sneaking out already?” he asks, his voice still rich and thick with sleep, and you suddenly wish you’re able to see him like this more often. Maybe this whole going home to go to sleep thing is simply for the birds. 

“No, of course not,” you laugh softly. The mattress creaks as you finally stand up, your bare toes spreading against the soft carpet. As you pad over to his dresser, you shoot him a performative smile over your shoulder. “My feet are just freezing.” 

“Do you want me to adjust the thermostat?” Spencer asks immediately, shifting the blankets off of him so he can, presumably, get out of the bed. 

“No, no, it’s okay,” you insist, holding up your hand. He stops in his place. “It’s just my feet, Spence,” you assure him. The cherry wood creaks when you tug the top drawer open, plucking the first pair of socks you see out off the top. 

Spencer’s mismatched socks are meticulously organized in their correct pairs, as it turns out. You smile to yourself when you realize this means he takes the time each day to couple up an incorrect pair of socks before putting them on his feet. 

You select a pair of purple ones with little kiwi fruits printed on them, affection for the ridiculous man in bed behind you bubbling up in your chest, making it feel as if it’s filled with helium. Like you could float up to the ceiling at any moment. 

You’re still smiling stupidly as you perch yourself on the edge of the bed. You slide his socks over your bare feet, wiggling your toes around for a moment. “Why are you smiling, angel?” Spencer’s asking curiously, and you feel his foot nudge your back. 

You lie back down in the bed, shaking your head softly as you lay on your side and place your head against Spencer’s chest. He takes a second to adjust, slinking down so he’s lying flat on his back, then he tugs you a little closer. 

Your cheek rubs against the soft, worn fabric of his t-shirt. You place your palm down against his flat tummy, and consequently feel his chin press into the top of your head. “What is it?” he asks again. 

“I just think you’re the bee’s knees, that’s all,” you say softly, earning a small chirp of a laugh from your boyfriend. 

“The bee’s knees, huh?” he rakes his fingers through your hair slowly. The action is lulling you like straight melatonin, making you even more tired. “Did you know that phrase actually used to mean something small and insignificant? Over time it developed to refer to something or someone that is greatly admired.” 

You close your eyes, your body relaxing against him as he speaks. “Do bees even have knees?” you ask through a yawn. 

“Technically speaking, no,” Spencer brushes his thumb along your temple, then across the top of your ear, as if he is charting all the smooth parts of you. “But they do have a ball-and-socket joint between their leg segments, which allows them the flexibility to move their little legs around. So when they dance to show their hive mates where the good honey is, they move their legs around.” He laughs softly at this notion, and you feel your weight sink into the mattress. 

“You make me want to dance,” you whisper, smiling with closed eyes against his chest. “So, you’re the bee’s knees.” 

Spencer hums fondly in response to this, then kisses your forehead. “That’s kind of a reach, angel,” he says. “But I think you’re the cat’s pajamas, so who am I to judge?”

[hitmewithsomebooks]

@jegulus-microfic Jan 30 - uneven

1012 words (same as the 1st one holy cow this was not on purpose)

Cowboy James

NSFW for suggestive language/contact, not explicit

First part

~

The moment Regulus stood up, he already felt less confident. As though James could sense it, he took Regulus's hand, drawing him in closer.

"Don't worry, darlin', ah won't letcha fall." The cowboy said with a wink, before dragging him out onto the dance floor.

James began swaying easily, his hips smooth and his movements sure. Regulus, however, was uneasy, despite his drunken state. His movements were jagged and uneven, unable to match the beat. James could see this, obviously, a deep chuckle escaping his throat. He stepped closer, still swaying his hips.

"Can ah show you somethin', sweetheart?" James asked, and these nicknames were going to be the death of him. Regulus nodded, and James's hands reached forward to land on his hips.

"This okay?" He murmured, and god, he asked permission too?? Who was this man? Regulus nodded again, meeting the taller man's eyes. The hands on his hips led him, guiding them until the two were moving in sync, Regulus's hips rolling with James's. James grinned at him, and Regulus couldn't help but smile back. Finally, he fell into the rhythm, feeling more natural. Even so, James didn't let go, and Regulus didn't ask him to. Instead, he shuffled closer, wrapping his arms around James's neck, whose eyes darkened.

"Gettin' bolder, are ya?" James teased, and Regulus hit him on the chest. But he was, really; nearly drunk on alcohol and James's body heat, and holding quite a weakness for hot, smooth-talking men who called him fancy and sugar. So, he moved closer, letting his hips roll against James's. The man groaned softly, hips meeting Regulus's,  which were becoming increasingly forceful.

"You're gettin' a little naughty there, fancy." James rumbled into his ear, and Regulus hummed.

"Want me to stop?" He asked, and he felt the man's large hands tighten on his hips.

"Don't you dare."

Regulus chuckled, nosing at the man's neck. He smelled like hay and whiskey and sandalwood, and it was fucking intoxicating. Regulus could live with his nose buried there forever. Or his lips, as he found out when he kissed James's pulse point and the man groaned. Regulus did it again, trailing up to right below his ear, where he flicked his tongue. James pulled Regulus flush against him.

"If you keep that up, sweetheart, this 's gonna escalate real fast." He warned, and his voice was deep and thick as molasses. Regulus felt the vibrations where he was pressed to the man's broad chest.

Regulus's leaned up on his toes, so his lips were right at James's ear.

"That's the idea." He whispered, and the man shuddered.

"Please, let me take you home, so ah can fuck you proper." James growled into his ear. Regulus was so tempted to give in right then and there. But he had to play with him.

"Awful full of yourself, aren't you?" He cooed. "Who said I'd let you fuck me?"

James huffed out a laugh into Regulus's neck.

"I can assure you it'll be the best of your life." The cowboy told him, and Regulus scoffed. "Certainly better than Barty." Regulus pulled back, surprised.

"How do you know his name?"

"Ah might’ve asked your brother." James answered, grinning, not the slightest bit sheepish.

"Jealous, are we?" Regulus teased, but James, of course, didn't act cagey or embarrassed.

"Yes." He growled, placing a hand on Regulus's arse and pulling him impossibly closer. "Any chance this Barty fellow lives in the United States?" He questioned, and Regulus had a good idea of why.

"And why do you want to know?" He asked anyways, unable to keep the mirth out of his voice.

"So ah can knock his lights out, darlin'." James replied, and that was way hotter than it should've been.

"Mmm... why don't you just fuck my lights out instead?" He asked, and it was James's turn to pull back and look him in the eye, a smirk on his lips.

"Thought you didn' want me t' fuck you?"

"Never said that." Regulus replied, brushing his lips against the taller man's. "Just had to see how much you wanted it." James shuddered, eyes closing.

"You've no fucking idea how much, sweetheart." James murmured, opening his eyes again to meet Regulus's. Regulus leaned forward, lips brushing again. And finally, they reached James's breaking point. A finger and a thumb came up to grab Regulus's chin, then James's lip were on his own.

It wasn't a sweet, nice kiss. This was filthy. This was James setting a bruising pace and already licking at Regulus's lips. And when the younger man eagerly opened them, James plunged into his mouth like his life depended on it, like a starving man and Regulus was food.

After at least a full minute, Regulus pulled back, panting into James's mouth.

"You going to take me home, or just fuck me right here?" He murmured, and James shot him a wolfish grin.

"Ah mean, ah wouldn' be opposed, but ah don' think your brother over there would appreciate it much." James pointed out, and Regulus followed his eyes to the bar. Thankfully, Sirius had been too busy to notice their little display, though other people hadn't based on the stares they were getting. James, of course, gave them a cheeky little wave. Regulus leaned forward and gave James another deep kiss, just to piss them off further.

"Speaking of my brother..." Regulus mentioned, running his finger along James's lips, "Are you still going to get that phone back for me?" He prodded, and James huffed out a laugh against him.

“Darlin’, at this point, ah’ll get you wutev’r you want.” The taller man replied, seemingly still catching his breath from the last searing kiss. Regulus smiled, pleased.

“Get me that phone, and then you can take me home, nosy.” Regulus purred into the man’s ear, and James stood up straighter.

“Yeah?” He wondered, mouthing along jaw. “I git that phone, an’ ah get t’ take you home n’ fuck you?” Regulus repressed shiver.

“Yes.” He murmured, voice rough.

“Well that’s a deal, sugar.”

~

Next part

[peachesofteal]

Alone

Chapter 1. Part eight of the Sassy series.

Simon Riley/female reader 2.1k words - AO3 Warnings-tags: 18+ Minors DNI (no smut but this fic has mature themes) PTSD, angst, brief reference to torture, relationship issues, soft dad Simon. You're empty handed and alone.

The sound of the second hand clicks repeatedly in the silence of the room, the tick- tick- tick- filling the dead air as you blink at the woman who sits in an armchair diagonally across from you, leather bound notebook spread open on her knee, fancy pen relaxed in her grip.

“And how have you been sleeping?”

“Fine.” You answer, and she gives you a raised eyebrow in response. You’re still uncomfortable in this room, this chair, this situation, but it’s begun to feel more routine now, although no less invasive. It always feels like she’s got you under a microscope, the pen digging around in your brain, rifling through the images of your nightmares and sweat soaked sheets, the terror from your dreams hard to distinguish from the reality of your memories.  

“How about your son? How old is he again?” The mention of Theo distracts you and makes your heart feel warm, the image of his smiling, giggling face pulling your own lips at the corners.

“He’s a happy, perfect little boy. Just turned four.” The doctor scribbles something down, and you shift in your seat. “Starts primary school next year.”

“Is he in nursery school?” Nursery school. You always forgot they don’t call it pre-k here.

“He is, yes. Loves it. Makes friends easily.”

“Any changes to his mood or behaviors?”

“No. I mean he has his outbursts. Tantrums, but it’s all normal kid stuff.” Silence falls over the office again. The minute hand moves like molasses towards your goal, three in the afternoon, and you casually sneak a glance at your watch, hoping maybe the office clock is slow.

“We still have ten minutes, Mrs. Riley, unless you want to call it here?” Shit. You grimace apologetically, trying to shrug it off.

“Sorry, I just ah… forgot I have to pick something up down the street, before I grab Theo from school.” You lie without a batting an eye and watch as she scribbles something else into her notebook.

“Very well. We can add the extra time on next week, if you’d like?” No. 

“Sure, that’d be great. Thank you.”

You stand with your hands shoved in your pockets, toeing a crack in the sidewalk while you wait for the front doors to burst open with excited faces, when kids will sprint headfirst into the arms of their caregivers, parents, nannies, or whoever.

Step on a crack. 

Your phone buzzes with a text message, the second one from the restricted number to come through in the last hour. You ignore it.

Break your mother’s back. 

“Mum!” Theo’s squeal breaks through the haze of the afternoon, and you look up to see him skipping down the stairs, carefully, before breaking into a run, little red backpack bouncing behind him.

“Bug!” you settle on a knee, arms open to give him a hug. His heart beats like a hummingbird in your embrace before he pulls away, babbling a mile a minute, enthusiasm spilling over about the singing rhyme they learned today.

“head, sh-woulders… knees an’ and toes!” He shrieks, stomping his feet with glee. You curl your hand around his for the walk home, and he chatters up to you, announcing the timeline of his day and casually calling out the colors and sizes of things that you pass. You press him into your hip on the far side, away from the road, casually scanning the street with every glance. Every face, every set of eyes that looks up or over at the two of you has your own narrowing, your fingers itching, your brain calculating. You tally every vehicle, count every body, all while keeping Theo’s little hand firmly in yours and nodding along to the story he’s telling you about his favorite activity from this afternoon. A block over, a man is yelling on the other side of the street into a cellphone, and a car is idling on the right. A woman hurries by the two of you with her head down, and a group of older kids from school are laughing and joking around where they’re huddled on the sidewalk ahead.

The world shudders and shakes around you, your vision vibrating around the edges for a moment before your phone buzzes in your pocket, and you release the breath you’ve been holding through your nose.

“Mum?” Theo tugs. You blink, and then smooth a palm over his head.

“Sorry baby. What do you want for dinner?”

You’re mid dinner cleanup when the doorbell rings, and you press your fingernails into your palms.

“DAD!” Theo screams, and sprints to the door in his socks, feet slipping against the polished wood floor.

“Hey, don’t run in the house!” You yell after him, but it’s no use. There’d need to be an earthquake to keep him from his dad at this point. He stands on his tip toes, trying to reach the door handle, and you lean over him to help, twisting the knob and pulling it wide.

“DADDY!” he screams, again.

“There’s my big lad.” Simon chuckles, and he bends down as he pulls the balaclava off, wrapping a giant arm around your baby’s back and pulling him up into his arms. Simon buries his face against Theo’s, eyes slamming shut as soon as he makes contact. He doesn’t move from the doorway, just stands there, holding his son as tightly as he can without hurting him. When he relaxes a bit, Theo wraps his arms around his dad’s neck, laying his head down onto his shoulder. Sweet, angel boy, you think as you watch the two of them.

“Hey, Sass.” Simon clears his throat, and you give him a nod, fingers tightly interlocked with one another.

“Hey.” You mutter. He closes the door, checking the lock while still holding Theo to his body, strong hand pressed to his back. Theo pushes against his chest, hand coming up to pat his cheek gently, face full of love and wonder as he stares up at his dad. You draw a deep breath and hold it for a long few seconds before releasing. “Theo, it’s going to be bedtime soon but there’s time for a book, if you want?”

“Daddy can read me a story?” Theo asks, eyes wide and hopeful. Simon places the boy on his feet, and you bend to brush some wispy bangs out of his face and give him a kiss on his cheek.

“Yeah baby. Daddy can read to you tonight.”

“Say goodnight to mum.” Simon instructs, and Theo wraps himself around your leg while you press another kiss to his forehead, an extra for good measure.

“Night, baby. I love you.”

“Luh you.” He says, but he’s already pulling away, a hand outstretched towards where Simon stands a few feet away, studying a blank spot on the floor. Theo latches onto him, trying to drag him down the hall and up to his room, stumbling over words trying to fill his dad in on everything he’s been doing. Simon gives him soft replies, the deep gravel of his voice drifting up the stairs as they creak under his feet. You disappear back into the kitchen, lungs burning with the new breath that you’re holding, and your hands find the soapy water of the sink again, dipping beneath the surface for the sponge, scrubbing and scraping the pot that you used earlier clean, over and over until the stainless gleams and your fingers start to prune.

“I want you to talk to me.” Simon pleads, a hand on the edge of the doorframe. 

“I don’t know what you want me to say, Si. I’m tired.” Your voice is low, a whispered attempt to avoid waking Theo. He looks over your shoulder to where the guest bed sits, before he finds your eyes again. 

“Please. Come to bed. Our bed.” You shake your head back and forth violently, and his hand reaches out for you. “Let me hold you, please Sass, I-"

“Stop it.” You hiss.  

You scrub the pot a little harder, the steel wool biting into the skin of your hand.

“You know what happens next, right?” The man smiles in your face, dirty teeth and bad breath nearly making you gag. He holds your head up by your hair, your scalp screaming when he tightens his fist. The blood crusted knife in his left-hand glints underneath the single, dim light that hangs from the ceiling. You close your eyes. 

Your skin is soft from the water in the sink, and the wool digs deeper, metal scraping against metal the only sound outside of your labored breathing. The pot is perfect and shiny now, restored to its former glory, but you don't stop. 

“I don’t want this.” He says, following you down the hall. You laugh bitterly. 

“It’s always about what you want, isn’t it.” You spit in response, and he pulls up short, steps faltering to a stop behind you. He says something softly, something under his breath that you can’t make out before you duck into Theo’s room, emptying the dirty laundry bin into your basket. A sob tries to force itself through your mouth, the pressure in your body nearly erupting when you cover your mouth with your palm and scream. 

The wool grates against your fingers uncomfortably, pulling you out from your own mind. You busy yourself with mindless things, putting the plates away and loading the drying rack, folding the dish towels and wiping down the stove. All meaningless tasks serving as a distraction, anything to take your mind off the fact that Simon is upstairs right now, probably holding Theo in his arms, kissing him goodnight and telling him how much he loves him. Your chest aches, and you force the mental images to disappear.

You’re still in the kitchen when you hear him on the steps nearly an hour later, and your throat goes dry when you feel him on the edge of the room. You don’t have to turn to know he’s there, the electricity in the house shifting across the two of you, an impossible tether that crackles and sparks every time without fail.

“Went down fine.” He says from behind you.

“Thanks.” You swallow.

“You didn’t answer your phone.” Your shoulders immediately tense, muscles stringing taut as you turn to face him, before you force yourself into a relaxed position, palms pressing against where your back leans on the counter.

“I was busy.”

“You need to answer your phone.”

“I’m not a dog. I don’t come when called.” You snap. “I don’t have to do anything.” He takes a half step into the kitchen, eyes dark and pointed, burning down into you.

“Sass.” His voice is low, a warning. You know the tone; you’ve heard it dozens of times before. You scoff and twist back around, mindlessly reaching for a glass, a dishtowel, anything to distract you. “Sass.” He says again. “It’s hard to co parent if you don’t answer the phone.” You bite down into your cheek until pain blooms across your mouth. You want to scream, want to turn around and throw the glass across the room, shatter it next to his head. Instead, you take a very deep breath and count to ten.

“He misses you.” You change the subject. Your voice is hushed, like you’re telling a secret, like you’re saying something the two of you don’t already know. What you don’t say lingers in the air between the two of you, untouched.

“I know.” Is all he gives you in response, and you say nothing, the silence settling over the two of you for what must be hours. He sighs, long and loud, and then turns to leave without another word. Something simmers beneath your ribs, beneath the scar on your side, beneath your heart. A million emotions pinch across your skin, drawing goosebumps to the surface and you shove it all down, packing it away where it doesn’t exist anymore. You whirl and step out of the kitchen, putting yourself just a few steps behind where he makes his retreat, shoulder blades shifting beneath his shirt when he pulls the balaclava over his face. When his hand finds the doorknob, he half turns back to you, the thoughts flickering across his eyes unknown and alien, a concept that once felt like an impossibility.

“Goodnight, Sass.” He says lowly, and you nod.

“Goodnight.” You whisper.

The gleam of his wedding ring mocks you as he shuts the door behind him, the click of a key in the lock echoing inside your empty house, where you stand in your living room, empty handed and alone.

[rreids]

LIKE MOLASSES • D. MORGAN X READER

cowboy derek (please see the vision please i was thinking abt rdr2 and arthur morgan and it happened); flirting; alcohol consumption; teasing; fluff; fem!reader; ~1k words

“Hey, sugar,” 

You look up to a cowboy, strong and tall, dark skin and bright brown eyes with heavy-set eyes. He’s handsome, his smile higher on one side.

“Can I get me a whiskey?”

You smile. “Sure can,” you eye him. “On the rocks? Sure is hot out,”

“Yes, ma’am,” the cowboy settles on a bar stool. “Thank you,”

You get ice into a nice glass and pour a little more whiskey than you’re meant to give for the coins he slides over and pass it to him with a wink.

The cowboy chuckles, confident and alluring. “What’s your name?”

“__,” you tell him, syrupy sweet. “What’s yours, cowboy?”

“Derek,” he tilts his head after taking a sip of the whiskey. “You been working here long?”

“No, just trying to save up to move out of my parent’s sometime soon. Have a little nest egg for when I get me a husband.”

“A girl pretty as you doesn’t have a man wrapped ‘round her finger?”

Your face burns. “No, not even a farmhand.”

He shakes his head. “Well, that ain’t right. You ought to be treated well.”

You smile. “What about you, cowboy? Got a pretty girl at home for you?”

Derek laughs. “Barely even got a home.”

You can’t help the interested and confused “oh?” that slips out.

“Been an outlaw for a while,” Derek sighs. “Trying to get on the right side of the law, live the right way. Paid off some debts and fines, spent a few months here and there in county jails.”

“Girls like men who are a bit of danger, sometimes,” you drawl.

“Sweetheart, it was more than a little,” he finishes the whiskey. “But I’m getting back on the straight and narrow.”

You laugh softly. “Well, ain’t that convenient. I’m looking for guy on the straight and narrow,”

Derek leans back on the stool, eyeing you up and down with a smile. “That sure is something,” he stands, spurs clinking against the chair as he does. “Tell you what, maybe I can take you out somewhere, get to know you.”

“I’m workin,’”

“I can wait,”

You smile and nod. “I get off around seven.”

Derek smiles. “I’ll be here.”

When you exit the bar, you don’t see him at first, squinting against a slowly setting sun and a cloud of dust kicked up by a wagon drawn by four draft horses that’s down by the corner by the time the orange haze settles.

You spot him by a horse, leaning against the stand and he smiles. “Miss __!”

Perking up, you hurry over. “Nice horse. She yours?”

“Sure is. Had her for four years now.”

You stroke her neck gently and peek up at Derek through your lashes. “You said you wanted to take me out somewhere?”

“Depends on how safe you feel ridin’ with an outlaw,” his voice is light and full of humor. “There’s a pretty ridge a few miles out, can get there real quick and have a picnic at sunset. Or dinner in town,”

With a hum, you move to stand next to him. “Well, saddle up, cowboy,”

Derek grins and eases up into the saddle before helping you behind him, pulling you up from the stirrups.

She’s a tall horse, and you don’t ride often.

“Wrap your hands around me, sweetheart,” he tells you, clicking her forward. “We’re gonna speed up.”

You obey, delighting in the warm and solid muscle you feel through his shirt as you wrap your arms around his torso. You do, in fact, speed up, kicking up dust and wind cuts through whatever he’s trying to say, whipping away half his words.

It’s exhilarating and a little terrifying, too.

Turns out he had prepped the ridge — and you don’t know if you should be pleased or offended he assumed you’d prefer this to the diner —, set out a nice blanket and made a basket of food.

He even has a fancy wine in there.

“I thought you said you were getting on the straight and narrow…” you squint at him. “Seem pretty well-off to me,”

“Well, outlaws aren’t exactly poor,” he laughs. “Just a little unwanted. Borrowed money, you see.”

“Borrowed from who?”

“Rich assholes,” Derek shrugs. “Mainly the ones who mistreated their workers and women. Once the men I was running with started going for anyone with money is when I left.”

You sigh. “Won’t they be after you, then? You know their names and faces.”

“Well, sure, but I can hold my own. ‘specially if I got a pretty girl who needs protecting.”

Your face heats up. “Well, you’ll have to work to have me.”

“I’m not one to run from a challenge.”

Derek shifts a little closer to you, studying your eyes and face closely. You shrink away a little, embarrassed by the scrutiny and way he can see every flaw this close.

“Hey, no, no, don’t do that,” he catches you with a gentle hand on your shoulder that you could easily shake off. “You’re gorgeous.”

You smile and melt a little under him.

He kisses your cheek, quickly and soft, a barely there touch. “I’ll take my time with you. And show you I mean everything I’ve been saying.”

You nod. “Well, you better. I think I’d be crushed if a man as sweet as you was a liar.”

“Ex-liar,” Derek supplies with a silly grin. “And thief.”

“Oh, the horror,” you chuckle, sipping some of your wine. “But not anymore?”

“No, ma’am. Not anymore.”

[theunaestheticstudyblr]

Broke college student tip:

Learn to love cooking. Like get into it. Enjoy it. Get excited to cook. Why? When you learn to cook and enjoy it you'll save money. Lots of money. And you'll be eating better, healthier food too.

For example. I'm eating seafood and veggie pasta right now with a white wine cream sauce. In a restaurant, this would be a fancy meal, costing $20 or so for a small portion. Literally cost me like $5 or so in ingredients to make. And like 20 minutes to cook. And I made enough for lunch AND dinner. When you know how to cook you can make cheap foods taste amazing.

Here's some advice how to make this easier:

Buy frozen things. Frozen veggies, frozen fruits, frozen meats, etc. Frozen lasts longer and saves you money and stress.

Have basic herbs and spices on hand. Salt, pepper (red, black, and white), thyme, rosemary, basil, garlic powder, onion powder, turmeric, bay leaf (chopped is best), cinnamon, paprika, cumin, and sage are my most commonly used ones!

Common recipe ingredients to keep on hand: pasta, rice, lemon/lime juice, garlic, onion, white wine, frozen veggies, potatoes, frozen meats, sugar, butter, pasta sauces, tomatoes, eggs, soda/pineapple juice/beer (great for marinades or cooking meat).

Frozen things when stored properly can be stored for a couple months and portioned out making quick meals easy!

Learn flavor profiles. Citrus, basil, rosemary, butter, salt, garlic, and onion are all fairly universal in their uses while things like cumin and turmeric have a stronger, earlier flavor and are great for stews, curries, pastas, soups, and sauces!

Learn to shop. If it's non-perishable and bogo, get it! Bogo (buy one get one) is basically half off and now you have two things for when you need it! Walmart brand pasta is like $0.98 a box. You can also get a bag of frozen extra small shrimp at Walmart for like $5 and there's about 50 in a bag. Shop non-perishable items by weight (price per ounce) and perishables by size.

Pasta sauce can be put in the freezer and if stored well can keep for like 3 months!

Sauté your veggies! They taste so good that way!!! A little butter, garlic, rosemary, and onion. Sprinkle with salt after and viola!

It's easy to fall into a food rut, so treat yourself every now and then with something different or challenge yourself by limiting yourself to 5 ingredients or something to make you exercise your skills.

Make your own barbecue sauce. It's so fun! All you need is molasses, ketchup, brown sugar, and whatever you want to customize it. I usually put honey and bourbon in mine.

Go on pinterest and find easy recipes! The great thing about a recipe is every single one you see is customizable and was made to the cooker's preference. You don't like mushrooms? Don't put them in and add something earthy and unami like turmeric or sumac in its place.

Tofu is easier than you think.

Rice is very filling and goes with most everything.

Keep fresh herbs fresh by putting them in water. You might even root and grow your own!

Frozen fruits are amazing for marinades or more "tropical" tasting recipes. Frozen citrus and pineapple are great for making a citrus chicken and rice! Just defrost in a bowl and then add the chicken to the bowl.

Tortillas are amazing and keep for a while in the fridge.

Print out recipes and keep them in a binder so you make notes and changes directly on the paper!

[wrongbodies]

The Punishment

Kurt thought of himself highly. Being one of the better players on the school’s baseball team, he was well regarded on and off the diamond. Having always been athletically gifted, and with little done to mitigate his ego, he had grown into quite a jerk. It was common for him to outright ignore students and peers who he deemed below his social circle. And with all the adoration he was used to, he was mostly able to surround himself with the people he wanted.

However, there was a side to Kurt not many knew. In fact, the only ones who knew were boys at summer camps or other such short term happenings. Kurt was gay, and loved getting with guys when he was certain there was little chance they could expose him to his precious social scene at home. When he was with these faraway trysts, he was pleasant and tender, but only because he never would face them again.

But all inflated egos pop one day, and usually at one’s own doing. As Kurt was a senior now, 18 years old and already scouted for college, he wasn’t so careful anymore. He figured he was bound for another state at a great school… Why worry about some nerd who was going to a school across the country (opposite where he was going)? 

Enter Ian. The boy was as doomed as far as poor gay boys in unwelcoming states can get. He was the kind of gay who couldn’t shuck the mannerisms or quash his hormones when flights of fancy caught him. Still, he was a good student and tried his best to do right to others as his single mother taught him. And despite the hard times he was bound for a decent enough school, below where his aptitude could get him, but well within their price range.

Kurt found Ian one day checking him out, a not so surreptitious stare giving him away. Normally, Kurt would ignore someone like that. But something about Ian’s lustful eyes and Kurt’s unchecked libido had him look back. He walked by Ian and whispered to meet in the dugout at the school baseball field afterschool. They would begin a secret affair, where Kurt would put Ian through his paces.

Ian, unfortunate romantic that he was, caught feelings. How could he not? Kurt, with his perfect body, unblemished save for the occasional bruises and scrapes from baseball, he was beautiful. And sometimes he handled Ian in their secret hookups so tenderly one could think it was love. But Kurt loved only himself and how he felt when he released inside Ian, and when the stupid nerd begged to be more than secret fuckbuddies… Well, Kurt roared with laughter. They had just finished screwing that fateful day, when he pushed Ian off his dick, who would fall into the reddish-brown dirt. 

Kurt pulled on his clothes, snickering as he turned away and reminded Ian that he was a nobody to him. That he was basically the human equivalent of a cumrag. Ian, outraged, felt his thin fingers claw into the dirty floor. Something inside him broke, a power he didn’t know he had or perhaps an entity beyond our ken took pity. He had little thought other than what he admonished Kurt with as he spoke: “I wish you knew, you jerk. I wish you knew what it was like to be me, and I wish I could be you.”

Kurt chuckled at that, and said, “sure, Ian. When I’m you tomorrow, are we still on to meet up and fuck here? I guess you’d get to top then, huh?”

It was as he was turning away he felt the air change. It wasn’t breezy before, but now it was like molasses. He came to a rest, as a shudder ran all across his body. From his position on the ground, Ian saw Kurt stop moving, just as a similar sensation ran across his form. Kurt turned to look back at Ian again, this time fear in his eyes. Someone always in control, always domineering and powerful, now was in the grip of something he couldn’t comprehend. 

As the shuddering feeling came again, this time the two felt something like a wave start from the top of their heads, sweeping all the way down to their feet. Ian looked at Kurt, and noticed he was shrinking, turning paler by the moment. Kurt saw the opposite, Ian naked on the ground seemed to expand and gain tanner skin by the moment. It became apparent as their faces rippled and changed, the two were switching bodies. Kurt was horrified to see his body before him, his muscles rippling now without clothing to hide under. And Ian became strangely giddy to see Kurt swimming in the clothes he once filled out so perfectly.

“What, why is this happening?” Kurt cried.

“I think this is… your punishment.” Ian smirked. Kurt looked mortified, and started tearing up. Ian started grabbing at the clothes Kurt was wearing. “I need these, you're much too small for them anyways.”

“B-but-” Kurt whimpered. Ian tossed his old clothing at Kurt, garments Kurt would never wear but now were the only hope of hiding his tiny new body.

“Hey Kurt, or Ian I should say…” Ian grinned from his new body, his clothes now in place. “I think I WILL top tomorrow. But also, I think we should go public, don’t you think?”

Kurt felt his stomach drop… this truly was a punishment.

[odyssean-flower]

The Chief Justice and the Worst Painter in Fontaine Chapter 3 Bonus Scenes

Summary: It was supposed to be your time to relax and get in touch with your (extremely) buried creative side...but then your boss showed up. A/N: Here are the promised bonus scenes~~ They are really not very long but i just wanted to write them for fun i wish i could pull for freminet but i have to save everything for neuvi 😭 i hope i somehow get him when i pull on neuvi's banner Now that I think about it I should make a masterpost for this fic

Chapter 1 || Chapter 2 || Chapter 3 (Bonus Scenes) || Chapter 4

Unexpected Run-In

After spending some time underwater, you could now confidently say that this was now your second-favorite place in the world, after your apartment, of course. Everything felt so peaceful and dream-like down here. Time seemed to progress at the pace of molasses.

I could stay down here forever, you thought. Perhaps you could take diving classes or hire a diver to escort you down here, though the idea of being separated from the water by a bulky suit didn't appeal to you very much. If only you had a Vision...

You much preferred this--swimming in the water as lightly and nimbly as a fish, with Neuvillette's strong, reassuring grip on your arm. The idea of asking him to take you on underwater trips was dismissed as quickly as you considered it. It just wouldn't be possible.

Neuvillette seemed to be enjoying himself as well, though he didn't look like it at first glance. He must have liked looking at the sea creatures as much as you did, since his eyes softened whenever you would pull him over to look at a Blubberbeast or an otter.

The same couldn't be said when the two of you ran into schools of those mechanical fish. He didn't seem to care for them very much, and although you thought they looked kind of cool, you couldn't say you didn't understand why Neuvillette felt the way he did. They stuck out like a sore thumb against the gentle blues and greens of the water.

Speaking of sore thumbs...

"Monsieur Neuvillette, what are those?" You pointed at two purple rays a short distance ahead of you. They were a different color from the other rays you'd seen. Was it just your imagination, or did they give off a menacing aura?

"Ah, those two are the Fairy Knight Twins, Angelica and Medoro. They're just as lively as the last time I saw them. How wonderful," Neuvillette said.

"Oh, they have names?" Pretty fancy titles for a couple of fish, you thought.

As if they read your mind, the two rays swam towards you two. You looked up at Neuvillette, but he didn't seem to have any intention of moving away. In fact, he was looking at the two rays, which were now opening their glowing blue mouths, like he was looking at long-missed pets.

You screamed and hid behind Neuvillette as two sharp arcs of light sliced towards you. Neuvillette simply dodged them with ease, not a hair out of place. To your horror, he was swimming closer to those things.

After much pleading and tugging on your part, he agreed to take you somewhere else.

You later decided that you weren't quite ready to go back underwater any time soon.

What Freminet Saw

As usual, Freminet was in his blue sanctuary, spending time with his silent friends, the Tidalga and the Romaritime Flowers. He knew this area like the back of his hand. The observatory here had long been unused. There was no need to worry about running into anyone else here.

That was what he thought...until he saw two figures.

Even the normally expressionless Freminet widened his eyes as he recognized one of the figures.

Is that...the Chief Justice?

His distinctive appearance was unmistakable. He was holding another person by their arm. Freminet didn't recognize them. They were diving without a suit on, but they didn't appear to be a Vision holder. It was probably thanks to the Chief Justice's powers.

Freminet watched as the other person excitedly pulled the Chief Justice along as they gazed at the underwater creatures and plants. Freminet remembered his first time diving and seeing this quiet, serene world. It made him somewhat nostalgic.

But putting that aside, this was a strange sight. The Chief Justice was known to not associate with humans very much, and yet here he was.

Freminet had only seen the Chief Justice a few times. Not in the opera house, but standing silently on the beach. Freminet had found him unreadable during those times, but now...even from here, he could sense a certain warmth and possibly...affection exuding from him in the way he looked at and held the other person.

Hmm...

Freminet wasn't good at reading people, and his only experience with romance was the stories in his fairytale books. But he could tell that this person, whoever they were, was important to the Chief Justice.

He watched as that person cooed in delight at a group of otters, then they seemed to tense up a bit before pulling themselves out of the Chief Justice's grip.

"Ah..." a soft cry slipped out of Freminet's mouth as he watched them fall towards the seabed. But it was the look on the Chief Justice's face that really shocked him. A look of pure panic. It looked so out of place there.

The Chief Justice quickly caught their companion. Freminet could hear them both apologizing to each other.

He decided to swim somewhere else. For some reason, he felt like he was intruding on a couple's private time together.

[yaoileclerc]

i love that any fancy bbq sauce comes with packaging that says shit like Our homemade southern recipe combines thick molasses and original smoke flavor with authentic Mississipi river water to create a sweet, sticky sauce that will fuck you sloooooow and gentle to get you feelin' just right

[necile]

She met Fancy Molasses shortly after, and yet again, was not attracted to her at all. Theda, pls.

[yellowkitkieran]

To Have and to Heal (Part 14)

Masterlist

Read part 1 here

Word Count: 2.8k

Summary: Single working dad Martin Odegaard is navigating the ups and downs of parenthood all on his own, and he’s struggling. That’s not to mention football, life and... love?

Martin should be focused on today's match. In less than two hours, he'll be out on the pitch to captain his side. He needs clarity. He needs precision. He needs to stop thinking about you. 

But everywhere he looks, he's reminded of you. He can't bring himself to delete the dozens of photos on his phone or the messages you've sent him. The note you stuck in his duffle one day still hangs in his cubby, shoved between the shelf and the back wall. Martin aches worse now than being plowed over by a defender. How is he expected to lead when he is a husk of who he's meant to be? 

Martin runs a hand through his hair. At no point did he expect to become this attached, to have his mood so dependent on another person. He doesn’t like it, not at all. 

"Mate, you giving this talk or am I?" Kieran's Scottish accent grates on Martin's ears for no good reason. Kieran has been doing that quite a bit lately; he talks quietly about the woman he’s started seeing, and is careful to avoid doing so in Martin’s presence, but it still stings. At least someone on his squad is happy. 

Though grateful for the offer, Martin shakes his head. Team talks ahead of games are his responsibility, and he'll be damned if he misses it because you dumped him. Heartbreak aside, he needs to be the captain his team needs him to be.

So, Martin clamors to his feet. He forces his shaking legs to work, to remain steady, whilst his mind works through the fog surrounding it. Each step he takes towards the center of the sparsely decorated away dressing room feels like he is wading through waist-high molasses. But Martin has always been a fighter, and today is no different. 

“Facing anyone away from home is tough," Martin starts a minute later. He sounds more confident than he feels, which he is grateful for. "Nothing we haven't won before, though. Their fans are harsh but we are strong. We've faced worse and come away with three points. I'm not saying this will be a cakewalk." Martin observes the faces of his teammates, noting which seem hesitant and which are hungry. There's fewer of the former thankfully, which bodes well for their chances. 

"This will be both a physical and mental game. We haven't been challenged like this in over a month. Our last fixtures have been easy wins. No frills, nothing fancy- go back to your roots, the basics. Let's show our gunners what they traveled all this way for!"

Though far more brief than his usual, Martin's words have the desired effect regardless. The lads all clap and cheer, raring to go. Slipping into his matchday headspace is easier now that his teammates are here to lift him up. 

Not that it matters- ten minutes into the match Martin knows they’re done for. Sevilla batters Martin's side, raking them across the coals. A 3-0 loss away in the Champion's League isn't exactly a morale booster. The changing room is quiet after the final whistle blows. Arteta doesn't bother to give any sort of speech. The gaffer lets the silence speak for his disappointment, which somehow hurts more than if he had screamed at them for hours. Martin himself is too caught up in his head; his loose passing led to the goal that sealed their fate tonight, and that's not something he'll forgive himself for any time soon. 

On the ride from the stadium to the airport, Martin turns his phone over in his hand. In a perfect world, you would be at his house comforting Atla right now. The two of you would be cuddled up on his sofa, Atla probably insisting on being wrapped up in the duvet off Martin’s bed- that’s always her favorite on match day. 

The worst thing about an away loss is knowing that Atla’s nanny, bless her heart, won’t be able to keep Atla from crying. She hates seeing Arsenal lose, especially when it’s in the Champion’s League. Her poor nanny is probably frantically attempting to soothe her, though Martin is certain Atla won't calm down until he is home early tomorrow. 

If Martin is sure of anything, it’s that he needs to get his mind off of his lackluster performance. Because if he fixates on it, he’ll be lost in his head for who knows how long. Martin, as the face of his team, needs to be focused on the bigger picture. Arsenal still tops their group, regardless of tonight’s result; though even that knowledge cannot lift his heart enough. 

Messaging you might possibly be the worst idea he's ever had. He convinces himself to tuck his phone away until he's on the plane. There, crammed between the window and a snoozing Aaron, he can no longer resist temptation. Martin connects to the onboard wifi and pulls up your contact. 

He shouldn't. 

It's a bad idea, right? 

Fuck it. 

I miss you. If I asked if you're free tomorrow night what would you say?

Delivered at 21:53. Martin stares at the screen until his eyes grow heavy. The 'no new messages' in the app hangs over his head. When Martin falls asleep against his will, he dreams of titans tumbling from their mountainous perches, crushed under the weight of unmet expectations. 

*********

Leaving Martin's message unread is an exercise in restraint. Your fingers itch to click on it for multiple reasons, not the least of which is genuine curiosity. You know it starts with 'I miss you' and includes some sort of question, though you have no idea what he'd be asking. Maybe he wants the kit he gave you back, but he's too afraid to ask outright. 

Whatever it is, it doesn't matter. It's Monday, which means your students are your focus, not your personal life. Throwing yourself into work has never been a problem; you find small tasks to keep you busy when your students are working quietly in groups. Things like testing whiteboard markers, sharpening pencils, organizing bookshelves. Anything that keeps you busy and on your feet is acceptable at this point. Motion means distraction, and distraction means you don't think about your phone sitting in your bag. 

Your prep period comes and goes without incident, as you plan your entire week of lessons in the hour-long session. Your best friend is absent today, meaning she thankfully doesn't barge in to bother you about your day with Martin. Thank the stars, because you aren't sure you could have that conversation without a breakdown. At least you only have a few more hours until the final bell rings, and then you only need to get through after school care before you can flop on your sofa with a container of ice cream. 

Your stomach ties itself in knots as you set up the gymnasium like you normally do. Coloring pages are laid out on the plastic picnic table, footballs are scattered around a child-sized goal, and snacks are set out for kids to grab as they come in. You keep yourself as busy as possible whilst they arrive. You recognize Atla’s laugh rising above her friend’s voices and force yourself to remain seated. After successfully avoiding speaking to Atla for nearly an hour, a glance at the clock confirms your fear: her guardian is late for pick up.

"Hey, Atla," you murmur, crouching down to her level and keeping your voice light. You're fully aware of how she bristles when you speak, her little shoulders going rigid. "Is your papa picking you up today?"

"I don't know." Atla turns her head slightly away, a frown tugging at the corners of her mouth. It isn’t her responsibility to know who is meant to pick her up, but if you can avoid calling Martin to clarify…

You sigh through your nose while offering the child a smile, "do you remember him saying anything about pick up today? If someone different was coming by, maybe your uncle Kieran?"

Atla shrugs, continuing to color her cotton candy bunny. She sighs, purposely not offering you a pencil like she normally does. You know why, of course. You can’t exactly blame her for being frosty. 

Rationalizing with children is no simple feat. It isn't your place to sit down and explain to Atla what dating is, and why it isn't a sin for Martin to be dating her teacher. She's a toddler, and in her mind her mum will be coming back. Her mum would be devastated to find Martin with someone else, and that's all that matters to Atla. 

Instead of talking, you communicate in Atla's language. You pick up a purple pencil on your own and leaf through the printouts until you find one of a frog, then set about coloring it in. Atla pauses, clearly curious about your design, and watches you with bright blue eyes. You let her, wanting to repair the relationship you have with her above all else. It doesn't matter that your heart aches when you look at her and see Martin's features in her delicate face; she is a student and you love her the same as the rest.

You draw bright polka dots across the frog, determined to communicate in an easy, stress free way. Atla is an artist and as such, regardless of her age, her mind is soothed by creativity. You allow yourself to relax as Atla shows no signs of rejecting your companionship. You are all too aware of her eyes on you, following each streak of color you lay onto the page. It is an effort to remain quiet, letting the soft music playing from your desk across the room fill the silence. 

Finally, Atla squeaks out a question- "why were you kissing my papa?"

You mull the question over for a minute. You could lie, try and convince her that she had made it up. That would not be fair to anyone, especially Atla. No, the truth is best, especially because she will find out sooner or later. "Because I care about your papa very much. He means a lot to me, and that’s how I wanted to show him."

"You do?" Atla pauses to look up at you. “But I care about my friends a lot. I don’t kiss them! Papa said that’s only for people you love.” You afford her your undivided attention, setting your pencil down and sliding the page aside. Conscious of your body language, you refrain from crossing your arms to avoid closing yourself off. You have to be careful with what you say; the last thing you want is to admit your feelings to Martin’s tiny daughter. 

"Yes, I do. I care about your papa. You know how sometimes in films, when the princess is really sad, the prince comes along and cheers her right up? That's what your papa is for me." 

Atla's brow furrows like she's trying to picture it. She then sorts through the stack of coloring pages and pulls out one of Ariel and Eric, tapping the half-scribbled sheet, "like princess Ariel and her prince?"

You nod, thankful for her understanding. "Exactly. And I care about your papa so much that I'd let a sea witch take my voice," you lean over and pretend to grab at Atla, imitating stealing her voice from her throat like in the film. You continue when a delighted giggle fills the room, "and use it for her own plans. I'd be quiet my whole life if it meant I could be around your papa."

"I like when you talk. I don't want a sea witch to steal your voice." 

"Well then I'll just have to protect it won't I? Can't have you getting upset!" You playfully tap Atla's nose, earning you another giggle. Her wide smile has her dimples on full display, a sight which you admit you’ve missed almost as much as her pa’s.

Martin clears his throat from across the gym. That funny feeling in your stomach reappears with a vengeance. 

“Pa? Pa!” Atla's head turns and she immediately clamors over to him, her knee knocking the table in her haste to get up. Pencils roll to the ground and you bend to pick them up, forcing yourself to keep your eyes on your task and not on Martin. So studious are you that you refuse to look up even when a pair of black trainers edge into your view, followed closely by a pair of tiny white ones. 

“Hello,” Martin murmurs. Your entire body tenses at the sound of his voice. You haven't realized how viscerally you've missed it until you hear it. 

“Hello Mr. Ødegaard.” 

Martin doesn't speak just then. He doesn't need to; the title you've used says more than a thousand words ever could. 

Square one. 

“I apologize for being late. Training ran long,” Martin says with perfect formality. Gone is the hint of flirting you had come to expect. There are no traces of fondness. Instead his words are punctuated by an undercurrent of mourning. 

“It’s not a problem. Don't fret about it. Atla’s bag is on the coat hook- these are hers from today.” When you stand to hand over the drawings, you train your eyes on the crest on Martin's chest. You refuse to glance any higher. If you do, you know you won't be able to control yourself. One glance at his eyes and you'll crumble, and you cannot allow yourself to be so selfish. 

“Atla, grab your things please.” 

“Yes, pa.” Atla's little footsteps ring through the gymnasium, piercing in the silence. You and Martin both remain frozen, as your feet are glued to the polished wood beneath your feet. Your heart is an ocean in your ears. It pounds on your ribcage, begging and pleading to be set loose. Your fingers twitch at your side, joints aching to reach for him. You crave the familiarity of his lips, the burn that washed over you with each tiny kiss you shared. 

“You got my message the other day, right?”

“Oh- yes I saw something from you. I didn't read it though. Just got so busy, I must have forgotten.” Your stomach flips when Martin's posture slumps ever so slightly. You nearly reach out to comfort him but stop yourself at the last moment. 

“Right, of course.” Martin shifts on his feet, glancing at Atla quietly stacking cones. “I was trying to ask if you had some free time this week. Thought maybe we could do something.” 

You think back on the conversation you just had with Atla. Though she is incredibly mature for her age, you still don't feel right about having anything other than a professional relationship with Martin. “Mar I'm sorry, I can't-”

“Of course, I understand. Just thought I'd try one more time.” Martin smiles softly. The gesture does not reach his eyes. Martin looks so unlike himself, so timid and small, that you scarcely recognize him. “Atla, are you ready søta? It's time we get home, uncle Kieran is coming by to steal your chicken nuggets. We have to get there first or there won't be any left for you!”

“I told uncle Key those were mine!” Atla screeches, stomping over to Martin and grabbing his hand. “Come on pa! We have to go!” 

Neither father nor daughter glance at you as they make their way out. You remain rooted to the spot long after Atla's laughter fades. Cleaning up and locking the door upon your exit are the result of simply going through the motions. Muscle memory takes you home, barely remembering snips of the drive. 

The emptiness in your heart remains long after you have sunk yourself in a warm bath, wine glass in hand. Not red, never a red anymore, because you cannot stand the color. Even a deep merlot reminds you of him, of sharing that bottle in front of his fireplace the first night he’d invited you inside to chat. Neither of you had wanted to leave, though you reminded him that you had to be up early in the morning. 

The pinkish washcloth you run over your arms was once a vibrant cherry red. Even that stings more than you care to admit. More wine, another glass, anything to stave off the tears threatening to fall. Why did you have to say yes to that first date? Why did you cross that line, blurring the boundary between professional and personal?

It takes one more glass of wine before you find yourself reaching for your phone, splattering soapy suds across the tile.

Could we talk? 

[copperbadge]

I had a very successful and entertaining day today, as you guys can probably tell from the posts I made. There's a few more queued posts of stuff I didn't get to post in-situ, so enjoy that!

Some anecdotes I did not post about from today:

-- I can't remember the last time I queued for a museum. Mostly because if it's not one of "my" museums, like the Field or the Art Institute where I know the best ways in, I'm attending on a weekday deliberately so that I am not amongst the crowds. The line to get into the British Museum was a full block long, but to be fair it only took me ten minutes from opening to get inside. I was mostly amused by the people who a) didn't understand how museum entry works or b) didn't understand how to stand in a line without also blocking foot traffic on the rest of the sidewalk.

-- Almost got in a fight with someone, a definite first for me in a museum. I got salty with a guy who touched a sculpture when he knew he shouldn't, and he got up in my face, and I think genuinely the fact that I knew what the sculpture was called and he didn't confused him so badly he backed down. So if you're looking to defuse a situation via confusion, the phrase "Hey, don't fucking touch the Lamassu and we won't have a problem" worked for me.

-- The British Museum is great but among other issues (looted objects, weird relics of museum-specific imperialism, etc) it does suffer from poor display design in places. I'm okay with that, I kind of like old museums that are a little fucked up, even as I acknowledge that old fucked-up museums also have old fucked-up messaging. They appear to be trying on that front, but they could use a display placard overhaul. At one point I found an object in a case that appeared to be a carved human leg bone, and while I'm not a Bone Specialist there was also absolutely no placard about the bone at all. (I looked it up in the collection later using other objects in the case as reference, and it's just noted as "bone".)

-- I did have a great time overall; I saw most of the museum and then had a fancy meal, as documented. I was especially pleased to get to sample their coronation chicken since I collect tastings of coronation chicken, and I think they either used molasses in it or the bread had some, and either way it's grist for my mill as I start to develop The Chicken Salad War. After lunch I went on the hunt for a few last things, but I could feel myself getting tired and Becoming Unmedicated so I decided to leave a little early, which was the right choice, and gave me a little time to do some exploring.

-- @neil-gaiman did a post a while ago about stuff to see in London which I saved, and while I mostly planned my own journey, I did stop at Atlantis Books on his recommendation, which was well worth it. The woman working the till left me alone until I was ready to buy my book, then praised my choice (always a good move) and made a few minutes' small talk about my visit from America while she was ringing me up. Also I have never seen such a variety of Tarot decks for sale in my life. It was extremely impressive given the entire shop is roughly the size of my bedroom in Chicago.

All in all an excellent day out in London. Tomorrow I'm traveling to meet up with a friend, so probably fewer photos, but day after tomorrow I'm bound for Amsterdam so expect Rijksmuseum photos! I did not get into the Vermeer exhibit sadly, but I still want to see the museum and I'm on a quest for freshly made stroopwaffels and authentic gjetost, so I'm excited for the journey. I thought this trip might be one small anxiety after another -- would I be okay on the plane, would I get on the right trains, etc -- but I'm feeling more confident now, and I think between my early-bird tendencies and the ADHD meds I kicked the jet lag pretty quickly. I'm off to bed in a few, because tomorrow is an early day, so I guess we'll find out then how much I really kicked it....

[qe-podfic]

Check out the cover illustration for Chapter 2 of Quantum Entangled. Made by the wonderfully talented @commentdismal

So impressive. The rendering took my knees. /pos

Excerpt below cut:

Crowley uneasily drifted into wakefulness with a crick in his neck, a mild hangover making itself apparent via an insistent thumping at the back of his skull. The lingering stench of a headache was drumming inside his head like he was the unfortunate desk assigned to a kid with ADHD. All things considered, it wasn’t the worst way Crowley had ever woken up. It didn’t even make the top ten. That’s why, despite not knowing exactly what reason he had for falling asleep on his own damn couch, he wasn’t all that concerned. Slowly, like a ping-pong ball through molasses, memories of the previous night trickled into his awareness.

Aziraphale was here. Aziraphale was here and in his bed. Aziraphale was here and in his bed and wearing his clothes. At once, Crowley realised he had made a grave tactical error.

Drunk Crowley and sober Crowley were only the same person by virtue of the fact that they unfortunately shared a body. Currently, sober Crowley was cursing—quite creatively, mind you—the very notion of that unavoidable fact. Always trying to make the best out of a bad situation, he decided to approach the morning with an impudent unfuckedness. As the saying went: ‘Not fucked over was the one who was unfucked.’ (-Confucius, probably.)

Crowley checked his watch, surprised to find that it was no later than eleven am. He wanted breakfast, or brunch, or just a nice package for the calories he depended on to… Y’know… Live. And it would be rude, if he was cooking for himself, to not at least offer something to his—rather reluctant, he remembered, mortified—guest.

Each stride rendered as unfucked as he could manage, he made his way to the kitchen. First, he used his hideously expensive coffee machine (a ROCKET MOZZAFIATO—imported from Italy) to make one flash bastard of a latte, with the ultimate goal of kicking his A1 adenosine receptors into a more coherent semblance of order. E.g. not receiving adenosine.

Then, he took a wok from his large and impressive array of pots and pans, like a gallery of hung men above the island bench top, and placed it on his induction stove. The stove itself was seamlessly blended into the counter in such a way that it made people helpless to envision burnt hands and accidental emergency-room phone calls. The sleek black design (because Crowley could be sold on almost anything if you made it sleek and black enough) was self-aggrandising in the same way that many circumspect judges on certain cooking shows were. The kitchen as a whole, really, was a lustrous example of the kind of high-tech cookhouse you’d find in the back of a Michelin star restaurant. 

Grabbing a few eggs from the fridge, Crowley scoured for omelette ingredients that were both generally palatable as to, hopefully, not be offensive to Aziraphale’s tastes—whatever they were—and impressive enough to make Crowley seem like he, at the very least,  knew what he was doing on a culinary level. Sticking to his mantra of unfuckedness, Crowley picked out some bacon, cheese, and spinach, along with various herbs and spices from the pantry. Crowley liked omelettes as a general rule. The ratio of effort to edible nutrition was highly favourable—having spent most of his life as a university student with no spare energy to waste on frivolous flambés, brûlées, or any other such fancy French dish.

Making an omelette wasn’t a difficult process. There were two steps; step one was to put all of your ingredients (chopped or unchopped depending on how groggy you were when preparing it) into the pan. Step two was to wait. Heat and time. They were the universal duo that laid claim to the title of ‘instigator’ in most molecular reactions.

Obedient to this philosophy of unfuckedness, heat and time, Crowley chopped bacon, cracked eggs, tore spinach, and altogether cooked a damn good meal. With the two omelettes cooling on their respective plates (the plates were square shaped and black because Crowley refused to be acquainted with the typical agreement of things) he ventured through his cupboards on a mission for tea. Aziraphale seemed like the tea-drinking kind. Finding an abandoned box of loose-leaf French Earl Grey, the label slightly sun faded, he put the kettle on.

Proud of his domestic accomplishments, he set off to wake Aziraphale. He hoped the comestible peace offering would be a balm for any of the awkwardness left over, lingering, from last night.

“Knock, knock,” he greeted onomatopoeically, tapping on the bedroom door.

“Urmf—Crowley?” came the quiet reply, obvious in how freshly awake it sounded. Crowley opened the door, just a crack—not enough to see into the room but enough to let some light in—before chuckling mildly.

“Morning, Angel. I made breakfast. Tea is available too, if you want some.” There was a muffled sound of agreement, and then the distinct shuffling of someone getting out of bed. Crowley padded his way to the kitchen to give the man some privacy.

He was halfway through his own omelette, near-afternoon sun shining down on him from large windows on the east side of the kitchen, when Aziraphale made his presence known. With a curt clearing of the throat, he stood, unsure of himself, at the edge of the kitchen’s connecting hall.

Crowley was fucked. Oh, he was so utterly fucked. Aziraphale made an innocuous image, in Crowley's home, in Crowley's clothes; but that did not stop the racing ambitions of Crowley's mind. Aziraphale wasn't to know this, though. The Queen shirt hung loose on him, gently draping over one shoulder but leaving the other exposed. Crowley felt like a Victorian—or the man responsible for the dress codes of high school girls—scandalised at the revelation of flesh. He reprimanded himself for his undignified train of thought. Aziraphale deserved more than to be ogled like a piece of meat at the snout of a hungry, hungry hound. He couldn't possibly help that his hair was bed-messy, nor the fact that it did terrible things to Crowley's sense of composure. Nonetheless, Crowley would survive. He wasn't a wanton beast. Humanity afforded him—in theory—some amount of dignity.

“Your plate’s over there. I tried to guess how you take your tea; is ‘two sugars and a splash of milk’ anywhere at all close?” he asked Aziraphale, swallowing a bite to hide the raspy quality of his own voice. The astonishment on Aziraphale's face answered a simple ‘yes’. Although, maybe it was astonishment at the breakfast laid out in front of him. It wasn't really a normal move, Crowley reflected sheepishly, to cook a meal for the guy who had just come over for a drunken movie marathon. But Crowley wasn't normal in most things, so he resolutely didn't think about it.

“Yes,” Aziraphale murmured, gaping a little.

“That's exactly how I take it.” The whisper was draped in the kind of mid-morning confusion that only ever occurred after a late night of considerable drinking. He gently cupped the mug, tendrils of steam rising from it in fragrant arches. Sipping the beverage softly, his eyes fluttered shut, simple pleasure oozing from the drop in his shoulders.

“Thank you, Crowley.” His voice was etched in all-too-raw sincerity. He opened his eyes, gazing at him with the kind of look that forced Crowley to turn away.

“Don't thank me. It's the least I could do,” Crowley mumbled weakly. Undeterred, but still feigning propriety, Aziraphale hummed in absent acquiescence. He took the plate with his omelette, looking suddenly affected.

The gentle graze of porcelain plate against the bench top seemed almost reverent, as Aziraphale sat himself on the barstool next to Crowley’s. One thing that Crowley had learnt about Aziraphale—in the heated revelry of their late evening—was that he liked food. No, he didn't just like food. He loved food. Adored food. Damn near worshipped food. As he slowly raised the fork to his lips, Crowley hoped that the sacrifice was fit for the tabernacle of his idolatry.

Aziraphale’s eyes popped open in wide, slightly hedonism-glazed, surprise. 

“Oh—” He almost keened. And, if Crowley wasn't already red in the face, this would have been the inelegant signal that drove blood to the apple of his cheeks.

“Oh! This is simply scrumptious!” Aziraphale praised, made guileless by the distraction of—rather excellent, in his opinion—cuisine. Crowley ducked his head as if trying to bob under the blow of his words.

Untrusting of his vocal cords, Crowley didn't reply, content to revel in silence while Aziraphale finished his meal. The relative quiet gave him the chance to recalibrate after the unexpected misalignment of his neurological circuitry. It was peaceful. Cosy.

Discord:

AO3:

[tilebytiles]

star treatment - a.t. (part 3)

summary: there’s a strange man named alex that has a strange obsession with you, and he makes the strangest offer of your life. word count: 3.5k warnings: harassment, a bit of violence part 1 / part 2

“Are you even listening?”

Alex’s head snapped up, his gaze quickly finding yours. “Yeah, course I am.”

“What did I say, then?” Your eyebrow quirked up, your head tilting for emphasis.

He looked off at the nearby wall, then down at the table, tapping his index finger against the smooth surface. His lips were pursed ever so slightly, and it was clear he was deep in thought - you knew he hadn’t heard a word that had just come out of your mouth, but he was still determinedly scouring his mental archives, not wanting to seem rude. After what seemed like hours, but had been no more than two minutes, he finally uttered, “Um.”

You sighed, letting your eyebrow relax back down from your forehead. “I was asking how you knew Miles.”

“Ah, right,” he said quickly, acting as if he’d heard you. He straightened up in his chair. “I’ve known him since we were kids. He actually helped me plan out the hotel schematics.”

It had been a couple of days since your lunar landing, and ever since their poolside encounter, the banter between Miles and Alex had become a conversation regular. You’d initially asked Miles about it, but all he did was wink and tell you it was a secret. You figured Alex would at least be a little less mystic about it. “So … he helped with the hotel,” you said slowly, “and now he’s here to write an article about it?” Alex nodded, only adding on to the already-encroaching pile of confusion in your brain. "Wouldn't he already know everything, though, since he's seen your plans? Isn't he, like, technically a co-designer?"

"Technically, yeah," Alex said, drawing out the "yeah" in a way that tickled you, strangely. Perhaps it was just his thick Northern accent. "But he said he didn't wanna be credited."

"How come?"

He gave you a shrug. "Maybe it comes from some sort of humbleness in his heart."

That wasn't exactly the most satisfying answer, although you weren't sure it was your place to inquire any further into the matter. "But then ... why does he need to be here for a week?"

"Well, it would look a bit ... strange," he said, propping up his elbow on the table and resting his chin in his hand, "if he knew all the, uh, machinations, if you will, of the hotel without being publicly involved."

That made sense, now that you were thinking about it. "Oh!" you said suddenly, sitting up. "He told me about, uh ..." You lowered your voice, on the off chance anyone else was nearby. "Mr. Schwartz."

Your words earned an immediate eyeroll from Alex. "That asshole?" he murmured. "What about him?"

His reaction, although entirely justified, surprised you a little. "If you don't like him, why is he here?"

"Y/N, I'm a man capable of many things." He sat back in his chair, letting both of his hands fold neatly in his lap as one leg crossed over the other. He was back in his fancy cream-coloured suit, and as his pant leg rose up, you could make out the dark brown sock that concealed his ankle. "What I'm not capable of, though, is arguing with James Schwartz."

"Well, what would've happened if you'd just told him no?"

"He'd probably launch some smear campaign and tell everyone I'm insane or an uncooperative prick." His eyes widened a little, much as they always did when he spoke, and he ran a hand over his face, letting out an almost inaudible sigh. "Maybe I am a bit mental, but I'm definitely not uncooperative."

"I don't think you're mental," you offered, although the look he gave you indicated he didn't believe a word. You continued anyway. “I think the idea of a hotel on the moon sounds crazy at first, but now that I’m here, I admire you for it.”

He stared at you for a second or two, then looked off at the nearby wall again, nodding slowly, as if his head was stuck in molasses. “Thank you,” he finally said, glancing back at you before his gaze snapped back to the wall. You smiled a little, even if he couldn’t see it.

You two had been sitting in the café for a while, chatting about different things. It was the longest you’d ever spoken to Alex, and it almost felt like a privilege you weren’t supposed to have. Your coffee had run out a while ago, but you’d never bothered to order more. You were enraptured with the man sitting beside you; considering the only times you’d interacted with him were during your shifts, in which you were busy and had no time for proper chats, being able to sit with him and discuss whatever topics your brains conjured up was exciting, in a sense. Beyond the intangible words that you shared, though, you found yourself staring at him every so often. Although that fact greatly embarrassed you, he never seemed to notice - if he did, he never said a word. Perhaps to spare your dignity.

He lifted his arm, pulling his sleeve back with his other hand, and glanced at his watch. “I should get going,” he said. “I have to help with preparations.”

That piqued your interest. “Preparations for what?”

“Party in the main lobby.” He pushed his chair back and stood up, and you did the same; if he was heading off, you didn’t have much reason to stick around in the café. “It’ll be starting at 8pm,” he continued. He paused for a moment, staring down at the table, then looked up at you. “I hope you’ll be there,” he said softly.

You smiled at him. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

That made him smile, too. “I look forward to seeing you.”

•••••

Although Alex hadn’t specified a dress code when he’d informed you of the party, you knew better than to show up in the jumper and joggers you’d been wearing earlier that day. Notes had been slipped under the doors of everyone, including you, at some point later in the day. An end time to the party wasn’t specified, although you didn’t think it would help any; the only way you even knew it was getting close to 8 was the clock on the wall. The view through your window always looked the same.

There were a number of dresses in your closet, momentarily giving you decision paralysis. You’d eventually decided on an off-the-shoulder floor-length midnight blue dress. The skirt had layers of tulle, the top layer being embroidered with gold thread to form the shapes of stars and sparkles. It fit your frame nicely, but despite it having pads in the chest area, you slipped on a strapless bra beneath; you didn’t like the idea of the fabric rubbing against your bare chest the whole night. Deciding to spare your feet any discomfort, you slipped on a pair of black ballerina flats. As you examined yourself in the mirror, you felt … pretty.

A knock on your door snapped you out of your trance. You rushed over and unlocked it, pulling it open to reveal Miles. He was dressed in a crisp black suit, his white dress shirt tucked neatly into his trousers. His dress shoes clicked satisfyingly against the floor as he stepped into your room when you let him inside. “You look good,” you told him.

He grinned at you. “So do you. That blue really suits you.”

You weren’t used to compliments, so your cheeks involuntarily flushed. He didn’t comment on it, though, something you were grateful for. He lifted his arm and checked his watch, then looked back at you. “It’s about 8. We should head to the lobby.”

You nodded and followed him back out of your room, shutting the door and making sure it was locked before stepping away from it. In a playful gesture, he offered you his arm, and you linked yours around it, following him down the hall to the lift. James was already waiting there, tapping away at something on his phone - again, you were amazed you could even get service out here - but when he heard you approaching, he looked up. Registering it was only you two, he quickly looked back down at his phone.

The doors to the lift finally slid open, accompanied by a soft chime, and the three of you stepped inside. The walls of the lift were a soft red, the floor a tiled brown. Music played quietly from somewhere as James pressed the button for the first floor. He was dressed in a suit much like Miles’, except he had a black bow tie to go with it. His blonde hair was neatly combed back, and from the way it sat on his head, you guessed he’d put some kind of gel in it.

The doors opened, revealing the main lobby to you, and your eyes widened. It looked nothing like it had when you’d left it earlier; although the base furniture was the same, decorations were everywhere. Streamers and balloons had been neatly pinned up, and there was even confetti scattered almost artistically on the floor. The lights had been dimmed, music was once again playing from somewhere unidentifiable, and tables had been set up with red cloths, holding drinks and food. A few journalists were already there, but you knew there were a few more that still needed to arrive. Employees you recognised were there, too, and they were dressed as formally as the rest of you; you were glad they got to enjoy their own efforts. Alex, however, was still nowhere to be seen, a fact that didn’t surprise you anymore. He was an enigma in his own right.

Miles' arm slipped from yours as you approached the drinks table, and he reached down to retrieve a glass of red wine. As you picked up your own, you glanced out at the lobby and the sophisticated congregation that stood before you. Displayed on the TV behind the reception desk was what you were 90% sure was a screensaver; bubbles of different colours bounced around in front of a black background. For some reason, the sight made you want to laugh. "Do you know why Alex is hosting this party?" you asked, looking back up at Miles.

He took a sip of his wine and shrugged. "He didn't even tell me," he said. "Maybe as a thank-you for us all comin' out here."

The last of the journalists arrived, and as if he knew he was being talked about, Alex finally sauntered in. He, too, was in a black suit, but instead of wearing a button-up, he donned a tight-fitting black turtleneck. Even his socks were black- if you didn't know any better, you would've thought he was attending a funeral. The only drop of colour in his outfit was his gold chain. His hair looked about as untamed as it always did, and you were almost positive he was the only person who could consistently pull off the "I just rolled out of bed" look.

From across the room, he caught your gaze and briskly walked over, keeping his hands tucked into the pockets of his trousers. When he reached you and Miles, he nodded his head at each of you, allowing a small smile to accompany his movements. "I hope you two are enjoying yourselves."

"You've got free wine," Miles said. "This is already the best party I've ever been to." That earned him a small laugh from you and a breathy chuckle from Alex.

Alex looked back at you, letting his gaze travel down the length of your dress before it snapped back up to meet your own. "You look lovely," he said softly.

Once again, your cheeks flushed, and all you could mutter was a small, "Thanks."

He nodded and was about to open his mouth to say something else when one of the journalists called out for him. He whipped around, looking around for the source, and once he found it, his face broke out into a grin. "Matt! Great to see you, sorry I haven't spoken to you much."

He walked off to go talk to the journalist named Matt, leaving you with Miles again. You didn't mind that he'd left without warning; if Matt was one of the few people on the planet that could make him genuinely smile, they could talk for as long as they wanted to. Beside you, Miles nudged you with his elbow. "D'you mind if I step away for a few minutes? I'll just go talk to a friend of mine."

"Go ahead," you said, "I'll be fine on my own."

He nodded. "Just come get me if anythin' happens, alright?"

"Alright, mum," you joked, "now go." You lightly pushed him, and he laughed before heading off to talk to the friend in question. You stood by the drinks table, finally taking a sip of your own wine; the flavour was pleasant.

You weren't sure how long you'd been standing by yourself, but at some point, the sound of someone clearing their throat snapped you out of the trance you had been in. You quickly looked over to your right and spotted James, who was staring ahead and drinking from his glass. When he realised he'd gotten your attention, he nodded his head in the direction of the others. "Enjoying the party?"

You nodded slowly. "Are you?"

He nodded once in response. An awkward silence fell between you two, and you were about to offer some half-assed excuse to get away from him when he abruptly said, "I know they've said bad things about me."

You knew you should have stepped away, spat out that terrible excuse anyway. But you'd always been curious to a fault, and that wasn't going to change anytime soon. "What do you mean?" you asked cautiously.

"Kane and Turner." Your gaze absentmindedly found each of the men in the crowd, talking to their friends. "They've always hated me. Everyone does. They think I'm some asshole, and I just-" James sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose, squeezing his eyes shut. "I can't control that I'm my dad's son. Yeah, I come from old money, but what the fuck am I supposed to do about that?"

"I don't think that's what they're mad at you for," you said slowly, as if you were dealing with a wounded animal. "I've heard ... questionable things."

Another sigh escaped him. "Those are all baseless rumours," he muttered. "I promise, I'm not that terrible of a person."

“Right.” You didn’t entirely believe him, but you got the feeling he was the exact kind of person you weren’t supposed to admit that to. Deciding it was probably in your best interest to stay on his good side, you attempted to move past the awkward topic and find something else to discuss. “Do you like writing articles?”

You’d scored a hole in one with your guess, for his face lit up at that, and he smiled. “Yeah, I do. My dad had a few typewriters when I was growing up, and when one of them stopped working, he let me play around with it. I wrote a bunch of stories. They were all terrible.” He chuckled, and you laughed quietly with him. “A lot of people, when they’re expected to follow in their parents’ footsteps, get conflicted, I think. My dad’s a great guy, but even he had his strict moments like that. There were a few times where I didn’t know what to do anymore. I loved writing, but did I love it enough to make a career of it? Was I even good enough?” He laughed again, but it was quieter, more distant, and his eyes seemed to grow sadder.

He sighed and ran a hand through his neat hair. “When I decided I would write for the family paper, I was taking a huge risk. I was still so unsure of so many things … but my dad was there to support me. He’s probably the only reason I’m still with the paper and I’m not some deadbeat alcoholic.”

“I’m sure you’re a great writer,” you said softly, offering as genuine a smile as you could manage. He smiled softly in return, a silent indicator of his thanks.

A few more minutes passed, with both of you taking the occasional sip from your glasses. You were almost out of wine by the time he spoke again. “You know, Y/N, I really think …” He swirled around the wine in his glass, staring at the liquid as it sloshed from one side to the other. “I think we’d work well together.”

You blinked in surprise. “I’m only a barista,” you said quickly, “I’ve never-”

“Not what I meant,” he interrupted. He looked back at you, his jaw shifting, as if he was having to test out his next words on his tongue before unveiling them to you. He had the faintest stubble running along his jawline. “When we get back to Earth, do you think I could take you out for dinner sometime?”

Your stomach twisted into an impossible knot. “I’m sorry, James, I’m not … interested.”

His gaze remained unrelenting. “Just one night. We don’t even have to do anything afterwards.”

“Did you think we would do something?”

“If the night went well, yeah.”

The alarms in your head were blaring. “James, I’m not interested,” you repeated. “I’m sorry.”

He nodded and looked down at his glass, then back out at the small crowd of people. “Is it because of Alex?”

Your blood ran cold. “What?”

“I’ve seen the way he looks at you. He always goes out of his way to talk to you, never to anyone else. You get the star treatment.” He scoffed. “You’re not even a journalist, and he invited you here.”

“That doesn’t mean anything,” you said carefully.

His gaze darted over to meet yours. “Don’t be stupid, Y/N,” he said quietly. “I’ve seen the way you look at him, too. You want to be with him, don’t you? Am I just not good enough for you, that you’d rather be with that fucking lunatic?”

“Calm down,” you started to say, but he was quick to cut you off.

“I bet you’re already fucking him, and that’s the only reason you’re here.”

“James-”

There was a thud, followed by the shattering of glass, and the entire group fell silent, turning to stare at you. The only sound that filled the lobby was the music.

In his anger, James had shoved you against the table, sending both it and you toppling over. Most of the glasses were now broken, their contents forming red puddles in the carpet. You’d hit your head on the edge of the table on your way down, and the glasses closest to the edge had fallen in your direction, staining your dress and getting a couple of loose shards into your arm. Blood slowly began to well up and trickle down from the wounds.

Alex approached, followed by a woman you’d never spoken to but recognised as one of the journalists. It was the first time you’d ever seen Alex mad, and although you knew he wasn’t mad at you, you were still a little scared of him. His eyes were wide as he looked between you and James, his gaze flitting back and forth a few times before stopping on the latter. “Alexa,” he said slowly, “take Y/N to my suite. Help her clean up and get changed.”

The woman named Alexa rushed forward, giving you an apologetic look as she bent down and helped you up. You felt a little unsteady on your feet, likely due to the anxiety and embarrassment now coursing through your veins, and she kept an arm wrapped firmly around your shoulders as she guided you to the lift. Miles, despite not being called upon, rushed to catch up with you two, stepping into the lift with you. “Are you alright?” he asked as soon as the doors closed.

“How do you know where his suite is?” was the only thing you could coherently manage, looking over at Alexa.

She smiled warmly at you, and you instantly felt comforted. You’d known her for less than a minute, but you already knew you’d get along well with her. “I’m an old friend,” she explained. “I helped with the hotel.”

“Did all of his friends help with the hotel?”

“Just a select few.” She winked, then her playful demeanour faded as she gently gripped your arm, inspecting the shards lodged into your skin. “I’m gonna fucking kill that prick,” she muttered under her breath.

“What happened?” Miles asked.

“I rejected him,” was all you could manage. Miles and Alexa exchanged knowing glances.

Miles sighed. “I shouldn’t have left you. I’m sorry, Y/N.”

“It’s fine,” you said quietly, although everything suggested it wasn’t. Your ride in the lift was uncomfortably silent, save the music that always came from somewhere.

tags: @elexnorislingtxn / @edandmollydeservebetter / @not-a-big-slay

[kassandras-one-braincell]

Sevika x Fem!Reader - Like Fine Wine

Contains: explicit content and a recurring theme of Sevika being an older woman (love me a childless milf amirite).

Word count: 1949

AO3 link here. Minors DNI.

She’s a menace. Arrogant, unapproachable, yet inexplicably inviting. And she’s mean, too. So fucking mean, but she butters you up with cocktails and pet names that sound like molasses in that deep, gruff voice of hers. A little too old for you, and you both know it. Neither of you care. It’s hot.

One humid, smoggy night was when it all began. You had plans with a woman, who said all the right things to you the day before, to go to the Drop for a couple of drinks and a good time. Wear something pretty, she said. Pretty as those pretty red lips of yours – that left you swooning. So you waded through the blinding kaleidoscope of neon lights, all dolled up for her, struggling not to cough on the smoke from a hundred cigarillos, only to find said woman grinding against a girl in an even skimpier dress, probably telling her the same old shit.

It affected you more than you cared to admit. Maybe that’s what drew Sevika’s gaze to you. A sweet thing in a shimmery little dress, nothing new. But one with a quivering lip, looking sorry at the bar in the middle of a chaotic mess, staring in dismay at two shadows on the dancefloor… Who wouldn’t take pity?

You couldn’t fight the hammering in your chest when she approached you, towering, suave and unbothered by the ruckus of the club. Dressed in a mulberry shirt, tailored to accommodate her daunting mechanical arm, half the buttons undone, giving you a tantalising view of the swell of her cleavage and a peek at a rock hard abdomen. If she wasn’t Silco’s right hand, your eyes would have drifted lower and honed in on the tightness of her trousers.

Her offer to buy you something fruity to take the sting off things didn’t register immediately. You were too captivated by her stern, sculpted face, those steel eyes and powerful nose and frown lines that looked so soft. There were so many little scars, some harsher than others, like the mesmerising web of aquamarine cutting into her beautiful dark sepia skin.

She chuckled at the distracted glaze coating your bleary eyes, gently repeating her offer, snuffing out her smoke on the bar countertop. It wasn’t tobacco; it didn’t smell like utter shit, instead fragrant with the aroma of spices you couldn’t quite place. Something fancy, imported. You could get used to breathing it in.

Your drink took priority over the long queue of patrons, courtesy of her status. Hell, you were still blinking back your surprise at such a woman’s sudden interest in you by the time she was guiding you towards a secluded alcove, sheltered from the thumping of rave music.

Alone in the cushioned nook, you chatted about everything and nothing, sipping on an electric blue beverage that made the tips of your fingers tingle. You were interrupted once, and only once, when Sevika held up her hand, signalling for the bar staff to fetch her a drink. At some point, your legs found their way onto her lap, with her huge calloused hand languidly stroking your exposed skin. Intoxicated by her scent, her attention, the way she shamelessly eyed you up and whatever that boozy syrup in your cocktail was, you couldn’t help but bite your lip when she asked you one simple question:

“You ever been with a woman my age, doll?”

No, was the answer you gave, slightly shaky at the subliminal suggestion woven into her words. She smirked.

Widening her legs, she welcomed you forward onto her lap until you comfortably straddled a bulky thigh, the leathery fabric of her trousers pressing into you snugly. Soft, warm lips that tasted of piquant smoke and ambrosial drink ensnared yours. You expected her kiss to be bruising. Not sensual and hasteless, dizzying, wholly dichotomous to the brute beneath you.

Nursing her whiskey glass in her claw, Sevika cupped your behind with her organic hand, inviting you to grind your heat against her leg as two fingers snaked downwards. They stroked your slit through your underwear, pushing in ever so slightly until the patch of fabric covering your modesty was all slicked through. She didn’t need to ask what made you twitch in wanting – her experience made her near telepathic. Breathy little sighs poured freely from your lips, swallowed by hers.

Her teasing – foreplay – grew unbearable very quickly. You started to push back against her fingers, hoping she’d sense your desperation and indulge you by…fuck, you’d really let her debase you in public, wouldn’t you?

Oh, she knew what filthy thoughts circulated your foggy little mind. She made a promise through smirking lips: you be nice and patient while she finishes her drink, and she’ll take you home, eat your pussy so damn good until you’re sobbing and you’ve forgotten all about the bitch you came here for.

Fuck, did she fulfil that promise. Tenfold. Her tongue had your back arching off the bed, and when your oversensitive squirming got in the way of things, she flipped you onto your front, and had you kneeling face-down so she could continue enjoying her meal while you drooled, moaned, cried into the pillows until your legs gave out.

As she wiped you down gently that night, she contemplated. It had been a long while since she’d fucked someone who wasn’t one of Babette’s whores. Knowing you fell into her bed of your own volition, no gold attached, did something for her psychologically. There was no obligation in spite of her status. Just raw attraction. Desire.

She could get used to that.

Thus began your little relationship, although there’s hesitation in the term. Emotions are hard for Sevika. But, while she never addresses them aloud, you know she cares for you. Otherwise, she wouldn’t hide her metal arm under a pillow at night so you can rest on her without hurting yourself. She wouldn’t keep a box of your favourite tea in her home for when you spent the night. Nor keep that alcove in the Drop where it all began vacant every night, giving you somewhere clean and quiet to relax in during your visits, away from the obnoxious music. She certainly wouldn’t be paying your rent to give you more time to focus on your passions.

While your attraction certainly extends beyond sex, that’s the foundation of things. That’s what she’s most comfortable with. She oozes confidence and dominion between the sheets. Before her, you thought the expression “seeing stars” was purely metaphorical, until she made you come so hard that white spots danced about your eyes.

No two nights are the same with Sevika. There’s always a new pattern, a new position, a new location. Some nights are slower, full of titillation and passion. Others are downright pornographic, but with boundaries in place and your comfort the top priority. It’s exhilarating.

Ruination is almost always her objective. The sex may last the night, the soreness the morning after, but the flashbacks…those last until the next time she fucks you, and then some.

You can still feel the phantom sensation of her from last night.

Wrists cuffed to the bedframe – the inside of the metal was padded with something soft, she isn’t a monster – you lay face-down in the pillows, knelt obediently, presenting your glistening wetness to her. An indent of her teeth sunk into the skin of your thigh from when she feasted upon you against the bedroom wall, insisting she couldn’t make it to the bed without a little taste. Her organic thumb ghosted over the mark as she hummed, your nectar still fresh on her tongue.

“Ain’t that a sight,” she purred, deliciously husky, her metal hand carefully gripping the flesh of your rear, spreading you for a better look. You heard her chuckle darkly from her stance behind you before letting go.

“You know, one of the goons I gambled against tonight had this topsider bimbo on his arm.” Two warm, rough fingers find their way onto your clit, pressing a circle into the nerves. “Helped me bleed his pockets dry even faster, but man, was she gripping that arm tight.” The tips of her claws raked feather-light up your back, sending a shiver down your spine. You felt her breath on your shoulder as she wove the augmented hand through your hair, expertly making a fist that didn’t leave you in any pain, only gasping in delight. “Made me miss how tight that little pussy feels around my fingers,” Sevika smirked.

In one swift, concupiscent motion, the devil of a woman tugged on your hair and sheathed two fingers in your drenched heat to the knuckle. The cuffs rattled as you gripped the bedframe tight, panting at the sudden fullness brought by her long, thick fingers. She adjusted her wrist, curling the fingers down, hooking them and giving a slow, rough thrust, ripping a moan from your lips. There was no need for exploration, no trial and error – she knew exactly where to press them against to have you thoroughly wrecked.

Lewd squelching resonated through the room as she began to drill her fingers into you, impossibly deep, at a steady pace. The position only did a favour for the brute’s stamina; she’d keep you there as long as she pleased. Her claw in your hair forced your back into an arch, letting her hammer your sweet spot freely, and stopping you from muffling your mewls of bliss in the bedding.

“Oh, fu-ck,” you whimpered, legs shaking under the force of her thrusts. Your sensitivity from her earlier ministrations only added to her onslaught. You felt so good, stretched around her relentlessly pounding digits. Pleasure welled up in your core alarmingly fast, a heavenly pressure forming on the verge of bursting, fire consuming your veins. Sevika never altered her tempo, never pulled them out far enough to give you a moment’s reprieve.

Wanton sounds spilled freely from your parted lips as you spiralled towards your precipice. “’Vika, fuck,” you gasped, knuckles turning pale from your clenched grasp on the bedframe. “Please, ‘Vika, please don’t st-op—”

“I know, baby, I know,” she grunted. “We’re not stopping until you’re dripping down my arm, princess.”

Someone had called you “princess” in the past, and you hated it. There was condescendence in the name. The underlying implication that you were spoiled, ungrateful and haughty.

But when she calls you “princess” – usually while she’s buried inside of you, or about to be, or you’re begging for her to be – it’s different. Sure, there are times where she uses the name to be condescending, cooing it when you’re trembling and split open on the thick onyx strap she loves so dearly, but there’s always respect to the title. A sweet undertone that you’re treasured, no matter often you succumb to debauchery in her grasp. Even if she spoils you with pleasure, keeping you dumb and cumming in the bedroom, you’re still important and valued.

And you love it. Whyever would you want to be with someone spritely with commitment issues and financial instability, when instead, you can have the affection of this tall glass of fine wine?

It might not be the healthiest disposition by societal standards, but you couldn’t give a shit. Society doesn’t see the way Sevika holds you at night. Doesn’t hear the way she laughs out a “dumbass” in the morning when you attempt to flip a pancake, only for it to end up decorating the kitchen floor, with an enamoured smile on her face. Doesn’t feel the delicate press of her lips to your temple when she has to leave.

She’s a menace, absolutely. But never to you.

[xlovely-daydreamsx]

Ace Of Hearts (Yandere!Zhongli x Reader x Yandere!Childe) Ch. 1

Summary: You’re an Omega working for an upscale catering company, until one of your customers takes a liking to you.

Warnings: kidnapping, yandere themes, violence/threats, dehumanization, a/b/o

Note: This came to me in a dream and I couldn’t stop thinking about it... slightly inspired by my favorite otome game as a kid (if you can guess it, i’ll give u a kiss)

Your lungs hurt. Maybe it was because you were sorely out of shape, but you'd blame it on the cold breeze for the sake of your ego.

The streetlights are blinding and your cheap flats smack against the concrete- you were late for work, somehow, and you were trying your damndest to be there despite the bad start.

Thankfully, the location for your work tonight was only a few blocks away. You had been working for a catering company since you moved to the city and subsequently dropped out of University. School isn't for everyone, yknow? But you had bills to pay and a family to disappoint, so you happily work your minimum wage job. And hey- maybe someday you'll meet a rich man at one of these events who will sweep you off your feet and you'll never have to work again!

A girl can dream, at least...

You show up at 7 on the dot- right on time, and your boss gives you your position with a small sigh and an eye roll, but no real punishment.

Your job is easy enough, so you like it; and you especially like shmoozing at the fancy events like tonight- business tycoons eating horderves and drinking martinis, getting richer by the minute.

You grab a tray of assorted drinks and make your way out into the ballroom, straightening your apron as you go.

The venue is absolutely gorgeous. Bright lights, glistening shandeliers and floors you could see your reflection in. Spotless white tablecloths adorn every table, and the walls are covered in grecian-style details lined with gold. A beautiful place that you'd never have the pleasure of seeing without this job.

The night went by as slowly as ever, the monotony of it all making the hours move by like molasses, but at least the crowd was interesting. Sometimes you liked to watch the women chat and drink, trying your best to pick up their mannerisms- one day, you swore to yourself, you were gonna be filthy rich just like them; you were gonna live a life full of luxury and lavish. Although, you're almost certain that none of those women are Omegas.

"Hey, waitress!" You turn your head swiftly, your eyes landing on a table of three attractive young men. You put on your best pair of doe eyes and regret not having enough time to put on makeup before work.

"Yes sir, how can I help you?" Your lips upturn into a small smile, aoft and sweet and oh-so innocent. God, what a great day to be running late, yeah? Three of the hottest guys you've ever seen in your life sit in front of you, making your stomach fill with butterflies. The one who had called you over, a dark haired man with fiery eyes- much smaller than the other two but just as beautiful, starts speaking and you're forced to stop oogling the trio.

"A martini, a mojito, and...." the smallest one says, and another man speaks up. His hair is longer than you usually see in these types of groups, darkly colored along with his skin and icey eyes that practically glowed.

"A chardonnay if you can, darling." You imagine him ending that line with a wink if he could, but a black eyepatch covers half of his gaze, making it impossible.

"Of course! One moment," you give a small bow and scurry off towards the bar, picking up an empty tray on the way.

You and the bartender know each other rather well from the few years you'd been working together, so he makes quick work of the drinks you request and your back on your way to the table in minutes.

"You're the quickest service we've had all night," the last of the group speaks up when you approach them once more. He's a lithe young man with ginger hair and eyes as blue as you've ever seen. His head rests in his palm as he looks you up and down, and you realize with a slight twinge of your nose that he's very much an Alpha, and that you very much forgot to put on a scent blocker tonight.

"and certainly the best looking." His smile is best in show, Alpha pheremones dripping off of him and driving the point home.

"You're too sweet," you start the game of tiptoe-ing around the idea he's got in his mind; Omegas are getting scarcer and scarcer every year, "thank you, though- really."

"Do you have time to take a little break, dear? Have a seat, maybe a drink..." The darker man speaks up, and you have to supress the shiver that runs through you as his hand lightly caresses the small of your back, ushering you toward the chair next to him.

"I'm sorry, but I really have to get back to work..." His smile stays, but his eyes are cold as he removes his hand with a sigh.

"Fine, fine... Scurry off then, Omega." As pretty as he is, you wish you could tell him to fuck off for that. But instead, with every ounce of professionalism you can muster, you nod and head on your way without a second glance. Not everyone can afford to sit and do nothing on a Friday evening.

You can feel eyes on you all night, but you get through it with only a little stress (and a secret shot from the bartender).

Your company helps with all of the cleanup, and you volunteer to take out the trash for a second of quiet.

You drag the bags behind you, opening the backdoor to cool night air, taking a deep breath before throwing the black bags into the dumpster with a clang.

"Hey there, pretty thing," you jump at the sound, turning on your heel to face the stranger. However, you're met with the smiling face of the ginger before, surprisingly close to you; you wonder for a moment how he showed up so silently.

"You scared me!" Your hand rests against your chest, willing your heartbeat to slow.

"Sorry, sorry- I was just out for a smoke," he holds up an odd looking cigarette. "And I couldn't pass up the opportunity to talk to you again." He's so... charming. Maybe it's the pheremones, or maybe it's just been way too long since your last fling, but every part of you is screaming to jump on his bones as soon as possible.

"You're really good at flattery, you know that?" He laughs at that, gentle and sweet in a way that makes your tummy churn.

"What can I say? You're just too cute not to compliment." You blush, and he flicks his cigarette on the ground. His arms wraps around your neck and he leans down, pulling you close- he smells like sea salt and rain and a little bit of alcohol.

You feel hot.

"Me and my friends are heading to an after party right about now... how about you join us?"

"Oh, uhm- I don't know... I only have my uniform with me..." You tug at the hem of your little apron, sat atop black dress pants.

"I know at least three girls who keep extra cocktail dresses in their cars- I could get one of those for you. Or better yet- We'll stop somewhere and get you something nice, yeah?"

"I couldn't ask you to do that for me..." you shrink into yourself a bit, but his grip on your shoulder is firm.

"Please- I'm asking you, so don't worry about the niceties. Let's have a fun night together."

You pause.

Ever since you left home, you've worked every long shift, every weekend and evening and early morning- you've spent all your time doing for others, but what have you done for yourself? Don't you deserve a bit of fun? You'll never have a chance like this again! And imagine if he really ends up liking you- he's obviously well off, so you'd be set for life!

"Yeah... yeah, you're right! Let's go have some fun."

He lets go of you, backing up just enough for him to clap his hands together.

"Amazing! You won't regret this," he grabs your hand, tiny in comparison to his, and practically drags you along, "I'm sorry though- I didn't catch your name."

"It's (Y/N)," he smiles, and your heart flutters.

"Nice to meet you, (Y/N)- you can call me Childe."

You chuckle to yourself as he leads you towards a limo parked down the street, the overhead lights illuminating your odd pairing.

You remember how exciting it all was, stepping into a limousine with three gorgeous men, set out for a good time. You savor that feeling, the memory of it, because it's the last thing you can remember before everything goes dark.

"You know I hate these kinds of events," Zhongli straightened his tie in the mirror, moving to adjust his cufflinks as well.

"You have to make an appearance for business's sake, at the very least. It's not like we're asking you to buy something." Baal fixes her lipstick in the mirror next to his, smacking them together. It's a dark shade of purple, clashing with her lavender dress.

"I know that. It's just... barbaric."

"All those people signed contracts one way or another- it's their fault if they didn't read it through. You of all people should know the power of such a document." She hikes up the hem of her dress and heads toward the door, shooting him one last glance over her shoulder.

"You'll be alright."

The ride to the venue was unexciting, Baal and Yae bantering most of the way.

"Would it kill you to lighten up, Morax?"

Yes, it would.

The group finds seats toward the front row of the auction hall, comfy, ornate chairs that probably cost a pretty penny on their own.

Soon enough, the lights dimmed down, and the auctioneer began to speak, spotlight on him atop the wooden stage- just like the opera.

The next time you open your eyes, it's to pitch blackness. Not a single light illuminates the room, and when you try to stumble and find your bearings, all you find is concrete floors and walls.

Okay, take a deep breath... where could you be, and how could you have possibly ended up here? You think as hard as you can, but your memories are foggy and your head is throbbing.

You kick and scream and cry... but nothing happens. So you sit in silence and darkness and try your best not to go crazy. Just keep it together- that can't be that hard, right?

It feels like hours before something changes. A door opens somewhere in the room, and a heavenly ray of golden light lands on you, silhouetting the man who opened the door.

You know him, you realize slowly- dark haired ponytail, black eyepatch, and a cunning smile.

"Hey there, little Omega. You holding up alright in here?" He walks in a bit more and crouches next to where you find yourself balled in the corner.

"Where am I? I'm... confused." He smiles lightheartedly, like you're a little kid asking something stupid.

"The drugs are probably still messing with your head, darling- just try to calm down." He runs a hand through your hair, and you flinch away harshley.

He frowns at that, but retracts the hand.

"What... drugs? What did you do to me?" He sighs.

"You're gonna meet a nice Alpha tonight," he stands, "although I really wish I could've taken you home myself... You have bad taste in men," it's your turn to frown now, "the readhead over me? Really?"

"Are you fucking with me? Take me home." You move to stand up as well, but your legs shake like a newborn deer.

"You'll be alright... just come with me and I'll take care of it, okay?" He holds you up by your elbow, and you feel as if you have no choice but to let him pull you out of the room and down an ornate hallway.

The lights are blinding, making your headache ever more painful, but you still follow obediently.

He ushers you into a room at the end of the hall, full of mirrors and desks and a few women standing around chatting.

"Good evening, ladies," the man greets them all, and you can practically see them swooning, "can you help fix up my girl here?"

"You're late for call, Kaeya!" One of the women, an older and bustier blonde lady, clicks her tongue at him, and he holds his hands up apologetically.

"I know, I'm sorry- but our special guest needed a bit of... adjustment time. She just needs a touch up and an outfit," he smiles at the woman, "and don't forget the dress rental contract."

She winks, and all you're seeing is red flags when it comes to this man.

"No, I'm not playing dress up- I'm going home! Either help me out or I'm calling the police," you threaten, but when you pat your pocket, you find nothing but empty space.

The pit in your stomach grows bigger by the minute, and the women giggle to themselves.

The man, who you've deduced is named Kaeya, wraps his arm around your shoulder and pulls you in close; the gesture makes your feel queasy.

"This might be your best bet, dear- and it's much easier if you just go along with it. All you have to do is play 'Pretty Omega Dress-Up' for an hour or so, and then all this will be done and over with." You feel a little outnumbered at the moment, so you just nod along. The older woman takes your hand now and sets you down as Kaeya waves you a goodbye and sets out the way he came.

"Don't worry, honey- you'll look stunning when I'm done with you." She sets you down in a barber chair and slides a packet of papers in front of you- a pen placed on top.

"For the dress," you send her a side eye, "if you break or stain it, you pay for it. Just be careful and you'll be alright."

You flip through the pages a bit, but the font is so small and your head is so groggy you can barely think straight, so you sign it without a second thought.

She smiles, pats you on the head, and gets to work.

And really, she wasn't lying- you look amazing. A small, pink ballet style dress sticks to your frame, curled hair outlining your face and makeup bringing out your features better than you've ever been able to do at home.

Right on queue, Kaeya comes back in the room.

"Amazing work once again, Lisa. You're a true artist." He bows and blows her a kiss.

"And you, my dear..." he grabs your waist with one hand and your chin with another, "I really wish I could take you home- you look delicious." The flattery might've worked on you an hour ago, but you're confused and tired and just generally fed up, so you simply give him a scowl.

He doesn't seem too deterred by it, just shrugs and takes you back down the hallway.

"Now, I'm going to take you on stage, and I just need you to do a little spin or something... just be cute, okay? Although I know that's not hard for you."

"Stage?" Your head is starting to clear now, and your critical thinking skills are slowing returning as well, making the alarms that should be going off in your head let out metaphorical dings, telling you that something is off, but you can't really tell what.

"You're performing, darling." You scrunch your brow, "Oh, don't worry- you'll be great. I'll be right up there with you, alright?"

You don't know what else you can do but nod and follow along.

After almost two hours of this drawl, Zhongli has had enough. It's late, he's tired, and he has absolutely zero interest in anything the two girls to his left are chatting about.

"I'm leaving," he says inbetween auction items, readying his hands on his knees to push his way up and out of these stupid chairs.

"You're such a party pooper, Morax," Yae whines, sipping a wine he can't remember her ordering, "they're about to do the last item, and Scaramouche said your little buddy picked something special." Little buddy.... he deduced that they must mean Childe, a man he's worked with on a few occasions, more or less begrudgingly.

"We're business acquaintances," Zhongli clarifies, but sits back down- he can handle 10 more minutes.

When the curtains open this time, the auctioneer is joined by another aquaintance of his- Kaeya- and an Omega.

He'd seen far too many Omegas this evening, seeing as that was the prime sale option for the night, but something about this girl caught his eye.

Most Omegas who find themselves on this stage are much more... elegant. Long, flowing gowns and heaps of makeup, and they certainly looked more enthused.

But her small dress and starry-eyed look drew his attention for the first time all night.

"This here folks is a Prime Omega!" She jumps at the sound of the announcer's voice, and he can see that Kaeya holds onto her tightly.

"Prime Omegas have much stronger pheremones and omegal instincts than others in their breed," Kaeya helps her do a small spin, her skirt lifting up just enough to reveal the spandex underneath, "they are often much more submissive, make better mothers, and respond to commands well."

The girl appears to be speaking to Kaeya, and he watches closely as she seemingly tries to pull her arm from his grasp.

He stands firm.

"While this Omega may be untrained, it will be easy to correct mistakes because of it's submissive nature."

She looks frantic now, and a chatter makes its way through the crowd when she drops to the ground, pulling at her companion's arm.

The announcer seems slightly frazzled, but continues on.

"A few behavioral issues, as you can see, but anything can be fixed with a few good training sessions."

Kaeya gets her back on her feet but she doesn't seem to want to give in. She screams, loud and clear and echoing. Kaeya's hand smacks over her mouth but it quickly retreats, blood dripping- she bit him.

You're fighting for your life.

Maybe they didn't give you enough drugs, or maybe they just thought you'd be a lot stupider than you are, but as your mind clears, your reality sets in and you feel nothing but adrenaline.

You kick and you scream and you're only slightly aware of the taste of blood in your mouth as Kaeya tries to calm you down, but there's no way in hell you're going to stop.

You both fall against the wooden stage when you land a well-aimed kick to his shin, and you probably look ridiculous wresting with some guy on the floor, but you can't bring yourself to care at all. A room full of people, a sea of fancy dresses and shining jewelry and nobody makes a move to stop what's happening to you; In fact, they don't seem phased in the slightest.

"A little help here, asshole?" Kaeya whisper shouts to someone else behind the curtain, and the ginger from your work walks out. Childe, you remember his name being, and you notice with a start that he's holding a syringe.

"Now don't worry, ladies and gentlemen; our highly trained handlers are going to give this little Omega a shot to help calm her nerves- big crowds can cause quite a stir for some Omegas! Especially those with such... sensitive senses."

"It's okay (Y/N), just calm down and let me-" Childe can't say much more, because you're foot collides effortlessly with his jaw and the syringe clangs against the floor.

The room gasps.

Childe was well known in the community as a charming, successful man. Zhongli had seen firsthand how women fawn over the younger man, trying their best to say and do anything that might make him pick them. However, he'd stayed solemnly single throughout the many years he'd known him, stating that the women in their social standing are simply "no fun."

Childe spits, blood splattering against the stage as the curtains close.

The room is full of noise, chatter and outrage and Yae laughs delightfully at the chaos.

"Aren't you glad you stayed?"

He can't help but chuckle at that. Perfect Childe getting his face kicked it? He can't say it wasn't at least a bit amusing.

"Are you kidding me?" Childe spits, blood dripping down his chin, and for a moment you almost think that you should be scared of him.

In a moment he's on top of you, your shoulders slamming harshley into the hardwood as he bears his fangs.

"Sit still," he growls, and you hate the way your body reacts to the tone, the smell, everything. Against your best judgement, your body relaxes.

The pair wastes no time pinning you down and reaching for the needle.

"Please, please," tears drip down your face, and if you didn't know any better, you'd say Childe looks... apologetic, "please don't, I promise I won't fight anymore."

Kaeya's warm hand makes its way through your hair again, oddly comforting depsite the situation.

"Just close your eyes, darling; you'll be alright."

"You're lucky this is all you're getting after that stunt." Childe's smile doesn't reach his eyes.

"The only reason you're on this stage instead of chained up in my basement is because you're worth such a pretty penny, do you know that?" All you can do is shake your head and beg him to forgive you.

"And you're worth significantly less because of what you just did. So I'm starting to reconsider my original plan. Wouldn't that be fun, Kaeya? A new little plaything..." Kaeya frowns.

"Take it easy on her- any animal would react that way when they're put in a corner." He continues to pet you.

"Yeah, a fucking animal. Look at my face! I'm surprised I didn't lose a tooth."

Kaeya snickers at that, but you don't get the chance to listen to their banter much longer, because the needle digs into your thigh and your lights go out.

The curtain opens back up a few minutes later, the stage blood-free, and in the middle of it, the Omega sits patiently in a wooden chair similar to Zhongli's own.

Behind her stands Kaeya, holding her shoulders gently.

"Our cincerest apologies for the delay, everyone. Now that our Omega is calmed down, let's start the bidding at $500,000. Anyone for $500,000?" The bidding resumes as usual, and Zhongli find himself compelled to join. Maybe it was the look of you, maybe it was the lonely halls of his home getting to him, or maybe, just maybe, it was the fantastic kick into Childe's face that made him so interested in you.

He grabs Yae's little bidding paddle, and raises it high as the auctioneer searches for an $800,000 bid.

"Are you joking?" Baal leans forward in her seat to face her friend, stunned beyond belief.

"Do you have a thing for... delinquents, Morax?"

"I have a 'thing' for anyone willing to do that to Childe."

"You've gotta be joking," Zhongi raises his paddle for a $1,000,000 bid, "you're not joking."

At this point, it seems to be him and one other person in what Yae would describe as a bidding war, raising their paddles back and forth for whatever number the announcer calls, climbing higher and higher.

"Do we have $5,000,000?" The auctioneer calls, and Zhongli raises his hand without a second thought.

Going once, going twice, and sold to the one and only.

"You're going to be the talk of the town," Yae laughs, "well, you and your bidding rival." She gestures through the crowd at another very well known bachelor- Diluc Ragnvindr.