#i know she’s a butcher but she would make a mean bartender who takes no shit

[martybaker]

I love dead boy detectives as Hob’s lodgers, but in addition I raise you: Jenny as a bartender at the New Inn

[abyssal-ali]

Yet Forgives the Butcher's Knife

Day 3's prompt: Trifecta of Trouble (Jason, Stephanie, and Damian) [There's not much trouble in this chapter, though]

Disclaimer: This follows Canon events up to a point, but since DC has the inability to stick to one timeline or version of events without retconning it, I'm taking liberties with some plot points. (Canon-complicit to a point)

Rating: T TW: none (if you find any, let me know!)

Prologue Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4

Jason took out Cobblepot, taking over the Iceberg Lounge as HQ for Hood's business. He didn't relish having an address for any enemies, but so far there hadn't been any problems.

Today...today there would be a problem—3 headaches in a trenchcoat were coming to investigate the new proprietor. Damian had found out the Bats would be paying the IL's new owner a visit as civilians, since they couldn't reach the Red Hood at night. Plans were swiftly made and set in motion.

At 8:00 p.m., Bruce Wayne, Dick Grayson, and Tim Drake walked into the Iceberg Lounge. It wasn't very busy yet, and the trio spread out slightly but stayed close enough to reach the others easily in case of trouble. The Bats' prey watched from hidden cameras and mics, the hunted hunting the hunters. At 8:40 the suited up Red Hood, Indigo, and Orphan came into the Lounge the back way. Jason buzzed his lieutenant to bring Bruce to his VIP section at the back. A minute later—just long enough to annoy the Bats—he had Dick and Tim escorted to the booth as well.

“Mr Wayne. To what do I owe the pleasure of your esteemed patronage, gracing my lowly establishment?” Red Hood leaned back against the seat, flanked by Indigo on his right and Orphan on his left. She levelled her penetrating stare on the Bats to unnerve them (not that they could see behind her mask). Jason and Steph enjoyed watching The Batman sweat, not knowing why. Indigo idly inspected the civilian Bats, then tapped her fingers casually on the table, just off-beat enough to put their guests on edge.

“I heard rumours that the Lounge was under new management and thought I'd take a look...it hasn't improved,” Brucie sniffed aristocratically, critically (detective-ly) scanning the red plush curtains blocking off the booth, the navy-painted walls and red faux-leather benches, the heavy oak table concealing Jason's guns and their weapons. Hood stayed still, not reacting to the dismissal.

“So what made you change from kingpin to bartender?” ask Dick conversationally, employing the Grayson CharmTM.

“Oh, I'm still running Gotham,” replied Jason equally as nicely. “I simply expanded my horizons. And I'm not a bartender, Mr Grayson, although I can make a mean Long Island. Would you like one?”

“No, thank you; I've had enough to drink tonight,” demurred Dick.

Liar. You had a shot of tequila. Stop acting so buzzed. Jason leaned forward slightly. “I insist.”

Steph abruptly stopped drumming her fingers, raising the tension another notch.

Dick swallowed. “No, thank you. Some other time, maybe. I've had enough tonight.”

Jason leaned back, spreading his arms—one casually behind Indigo. “Good for you, knowing and sticking to your limits. Trying to lessen the accidents your old man's famous for, huh?”

“Sort of,” Dick agreed.

Steph began her finger tapping again. Cass switched her stare from Dick to Tim, and so did Jason.

“So, the co-CEO of WE. Why are you here, Mr Drake-Wayne? Family outing for the press? I appreciate the business having hosted the Waynes here will produce.”

“Could I have one of those Long Islands, then?”

Jason could feel Dick and Bruce's askance glances. Evidently this wasn't part of the script for tonight...well, Jason's evening just got a lot more interesting.

“Of course!” He pushed a hidden button in the table and Lieutenant #2, Jeff, appeared (yes, this is goon named Jeff from @thisiswhereikeepdcthings, for those who are curious).

“One Long Island, please.” Feeling Steph kick his ankle, he added, “And one of Indy's regulars, while you're at it.”

Steph got her regular, drinking it happily through a special straw-hole in her mask. (Jason wondered at her ginger ale appreciation, but whatever his lady's heart desired.) Tim got his Iced Tea and began drinking it unconcernedly.

Jason watched him, analyzing. You are a typical Gen Z, huh. Don't care if i drugged or poisoned it or not. Death wish?

'Ghoul, add to R's file: Gen Z, borderline suicidal, further research required.' Jason spoke into the 4's comms, but no one could hear past his/their masks.

“Well, it's been a pleasure, come again,” Jason stood, stretching lazily. “I've got work to do, unfortunately, so I must say goodbye here. A couple a human traffickers haven't gotten the memo that I don't like murderers, kidnappers, and rapists, so I've got to go remind them. Don't feel you must leave—I'm sure Indigo and Orphan won't mind entertaining our VIPs.”

“No, I'm afraid we must go as well,” Brucie sounded so regretful. “Tim and I have a board meeting early tomorrow. Thank you for your hospitality, Mr Hood.”

“Just 'Hood' is fine. Mr Hood was my father,” he grinned, and escaped.

~♡~

Batman stepped out of the shadows as Red Hood ran across the roof.

“Red Hood.”

“Batman. Kinda busy.” He attempted to grapple away but Batman grappled beside him. He landed before Bruce and cut his line so that he'd land in the nearby garbage bin. As he continued his patrol he planned his next moves. Once he reached the BOOP, he looked at Orphan.

“Cass, I have a job for you.”

She nodded.

“I need this note to show up in B's suit, okay?”

Dear Batman, please don't interrupt my patrol again. You know where to find me if you get tired of replacing your grapples. Thank you in advance for stopping bothering me overtly. Red Hood.

Cass reported the mission successful the next night.

~♡~

The day after Bruce got the note, Batman showed up in Crime Alley, ironically in the same spot he and Jason had met the first time a dozen years earlier.

Jason sighed and dropped his gun back into his thigh holster. “This wasn't the place I said to meet me, Bats. Is the 'World's Greatest Detective' slipping? You know I meant the Lounge.”

“You're here, not in the Lounge,” growled Batman.

“So it's urgent, then? Come to ask me to take out Professor Pyg for you?”

“No.”

“Then stay out of my territory. I'd like to ask you to leave my city, but I do know my limits.”

“This is not a turf war, Hood.”

“Oh really. Look, you stay away from Crime Alley, the Narrows, the Bowery...the Red Light district, basically what you do anyways except for your biannual drive-throughs when it's quiet before an Arkham breakout. I will leave the Diamond district, the parts you regularly patrol, to you. Capisce?”

“I am not bargaining with you for my city. I was here first.”

Jason snorted. “Seriously? 'I was here first'? What are you, a toddler? You became Batman after I was here. This is my turf, and I'll have you know that for once in its life, Gotham is somewhat settled. I know you have a Rule, but I don't and I'm seeing results. You put mass murderers in jail to break out the next month. Do you know what the definition of insanity is? Doing the same thing over and over and expecting it to work that time. There was no Joker before Batman, no Scarecrow or Mad Hatter. They responded to you.

"At least I haven't had villains come after me because I'm Red Hood. Granted, I already have enemies, but most of them aren't certifiably nuts and I have a lot fewer Rogues because I end them. Even if you don't kill, you don't have to stop someone from doing it when it's deserved.”

With the end of his verbal beat-down, Jason parkoured away and sent Orphan to watch Batman and make sure he left.

~♡~

The quartet curled up on the sofa in their BOOP for movie night.  Steph was the self-proclaimed teacher of pop culture for her 3 uncultured assassins, though Jason knew most of it by now, and Steph'd indoctrinated Damian when she could when she and Jason visited the league. Tonight they were watching season 1 of ATLA. Damian loved Appa and Momo, as expected.

Jason and Steph were very glad they didn't live in the ATLA-verse or he'd have adopted so many animals. So far in their world, he'd adopted a puppy Steph had found homeless on the street; the black-and-white kitten Cass stole from under Selina's nose and named Alfred in honour of the man Jason told so many stories about; the dragon-bat Jason had given Damian when he returned from a League mission; and Jerry the Turkey, found on the outskirts of Star City by Damian. That was plenty.

As Steph snuggled into his left side and Damian on his right, with Cass's legs across him, Jason felt perfectly happy. Who wouldn't? They were a family.

~♡~

Bruce frowned as he fished the paper out of his utility belt—the pocket had been used to hold gummy bears since Jason was Robin, but now Tim ate them. Bruce pushed away the sadness and read the note. How has it gotten in? He'd suspect Dick or Tim, but they were off-world and in San Francisco, respectively, and Alfred would never. That left...

“Red Hood.”

How had he gotten it in? Either on patrol, and Bruce never noticed (impossible) or someone other than his family could get into the Cave and put it in before patrol (also impossible).

Very polite for a man who decapitated his enemies and made a public example of them. Was it someone using his name? Not likely. It seemed personal, so it was probably Hood. But why? Hood's profile so far indicated he liked dramatics and overt, attention-grabbing theatrics (just like every other Rogue) over scheming in the shadows, though Bruce didn't deny the villain's strategising. (That's what they want you to think.)

He tracked Hood down the next night and confirmed the note was from him. Unfortunately, the handwriting analysis was inconclusive (Jason trained for this for a reason.) The Red Hood also revealed that a) he was Gotham born and bred, b) he was from the poorer side of town (so how did he become Hood—someone had to fund him), and c) his beef with Batman seemed personal.  And the knife he cut the grapple with...where did he get it? Only a few knives in the world could cut a Bat-grapple. Hm.

~♡~

A week later Alfred knocked on Bruce's study and came in. “You have visitors, Master Bruce. A Mr and Mrs and Master al Ghul and a Miss Cain—C-A-I-N, not Miss K-A-N-E.”

Bruce blinked.  Why wasn't he aware the League was in Gotham? And why were they so polite? Normally there was at the least more property damage before they confronted him...and coming to him as Bruce Wayne, not Batman, was also very un-League-like...

The quartet walked in. Mr al Ghul was not Ra's al Ghul, with dark hair streaked white at the front, teal eyes, and more muscles and height than Bruce himself. Miss Cain was a petite Chinese young woman with short black hair and piercing hazel eyes that unsettled Bruce. Mrs al Ghul wasn't Talia or Nyssa, either, instead a blonde between Mr al Ghul and Miss Cain's heights who seemed familiar. Master al Ghul was scowly, short and dark with deep green eyes, and also seemed familiar, but even less than Mrs al Ghul. Where had he seen them before? It wasn't in the League...

The visitors sat, uninvited, in the comfy leather chairs in front of his desk, Mr and Mrs in one, and Master on Miss's knee in the other.

“To what do I owe the pleasure of a social call from the League of Assassins?” he asked stiffly, casually reaching for the freshly sharpened batarangs under his desk.

“And what relation are you to the other al Ghuls?”

“Oh, we're not League—not officially anymore, anyways. Damian and I are Talia's sons and Steph is her daughter-in-law. Cass is our sister, unrelated to the others,” answered Mr al Ghul.

Steph.

That's who she reminded him of. Stephanie Brown, Spoiler, Robin...and dead.

“Stephanie?” he asked stupidly, because he couldn't believe it.

“The one and only!” she replied. “Long story short, I didn't die for keeps on Leslie's operating table, but she faked my death and moved us to Africa, where I met...my husband, and later I met Dami and then Cass. Long time no see, B-man.”

“Why...why didn't you come back? Why did...did you really marry an al Ghul?”

Steph stiffened. “I didn't come 'home' because I had no reason to, at first. You fired me, Tim broke up with me, my mom was addicted to drugs and my dad's Cluemaster, I had PTSD from Sionis's torture...and why shouldn't I marry an al Ghul? You nearly did, and it's not like I knew you were rivals, because I was never given even a crash course in Robin and oh yeah, we're a team and we work well together and love each other unconditionally. You have no room and no right to judge my life choices—I mean, you're a furry with a truckload of issues. You beat up bad guys every night for kicks and giggles and from PTSD.”

“How did you figure out I was Batman?”

“I didn't; Jay told me. For all of your paranoia, an awful lot of your enemies know your identity—half the freakin' League of Assassins, Deathstroke, Waller, like half your Rogues know...”

“Jay?”

“Jason al Ghul,” said the man. “We've met before, Mr Wayne.”

Red Hood. Jason al Ghul is Red Hood...but Hood is a native Gothamite. Bruce scrutinized Jason al Ghul, noting the light smatter of freckles across the nose, the sharpened jawline, the set of the eyes...Jason al Ghul is Red Hood is my Jason. He had the same dark wavy hair, freckles, challenging gaze, smirk, attitude of his Jason...But there were differences too—a thin scar on his right eyebrow to match Steph's, the unnoticeable-to-a-Bat scar on his chin from Willis was gone, his eyes were more teal and less ocean blue...

But still...”Jaylad?” Bruce whispered, hoping both for confirmation and denial—if he was his Jason, then he'd failed him yet again, letting him somehow get mixed up with the LoA and become a killer, but if he wasn't, another hope had been raised and shattered—

“Took you long enough, you big boob,” wisecracked Jason as he and Steph exchanged glances and money (that Bruce steadfastly ignored).

“What-how-when-why...”

“Who, where,” finished Jason. “Who: Jason Peter Todd-Wayne. Where: Gotham Cemetery. When: approximately six months after he died, so seven years ago. What: he woke up, dug out of his ridiculously heavy and expensive coffin and six feet of dirt, and was kidnapped by Talia's men a while later. Why: to heal him and get back at you, but plans are a funny thing and change easily. How: I have zero ideas. Maybe I'm a meta, maybe there was a glitch; who knows?

"Anyways, I trained, became the best, met Steph, we hit it off, teamed up, got married, found Cass and got Damian, and came here.”

“But...it's really you?”

“I stole the Batmobile's tires when I was 12 and you adopted me because you're a weirdo who doesn't know how theft and adoption actually work. I replaced Dick and you fought about it, but he finally gave me his blessing to wear the pixie boots. Alfie taught me how to cook a lot, I almost always got A's in school, Pride & Prejudice is my favourite book, you and Alfie and I would always buy each other 1st edition books, and the first book you ever gave me was a 1st edition A Christmas Carol for Hanukkah. My favourite colour is green, but I always wore a red hoodie because it was the last thing my mom gave me. Anything else you want to know, B?”

Bruce came around the desk to hug his son, tears in his eyes. Steph moved so Jason could be better hugged and he shot her a look of betrayal and desperation. When Jason didn't relax after 10 seconds of hug Bruce let go. “I'm so glad you're alive, son. We all missed you so much.”

Jason looked at Steph in a panic. Now what do I do?! And This wasn't supposed to happen! Written across his face so clearly Steph didn't need Cass's skills to read it.

“Look, B, I'm the Red Hood.”

“So?”

“So?! You hate me! I kill, and you don't! I took over half of 'your' city! -which you rarely patrolled, but still- You knew already?!”

“I figured it out when I figured out Jason al Ghul was Jason Todd. You'll always be my son, Jaylad, no matter what you do. You're right, I don't agree with your methods—no one appointed you judge, jury, and executioner. Still, I won't deny that you have improved the city, and I won't lie that I mourned Joker's or Black Mask's deaths...It could be worse...but even if it wasn't, it wouldn't change the fact that you're my son, Jason, and I miss you. Alfred misses you, Dick misses you, Babs misses you, Tim misses you...”

Jason sniffed. “Alfie been coaching you, Pops?”

Bruce shook his head. “You said some things as Hood the last couple times we ran into each other that made me think. Harley and Alfred also forced me to quarterly therapy sessions since Joker died,” he muttered distastefully.

Jason grinned. “All of us have a regular talk with our shrink, too. Mom insisted after she offed Ra's. Healthy emotional relationships—this is why I chose Mom in the divorce,” he said sotto voce to Damian, Cass, and Steph.

Bruce was affronted and a little wierded out by Jason calling Talia Mom but too happy to truly care. “So will you stay for dinner?”

Steph nodded at Jason and the other two silently agreed via body language. Jason sighed. “Sure. I'd better tell Alfred I'm alive.”

“No need, my boy,” said his pseudo-grandfather, entering the study like he hadn't been eavesdropping and silently praying to everything that Bruce wouldn't mess this up. He warmly hugged Jason and Steph. “I am so glad to see you both alive once again,” he choked.

“Thanks, Alfie.  I missed you lots...'specially our book club and your orange turkey.”

“You always loved my food the most, Master Jason. Look how you've grown! And now happily married to Miss Stephanie. My, my. And who are your friends?”

“This is my little brother, Damian. Steph 'n' I are fostering him. And Cass, Steph's BFF and Dami's and my sister.”

Alfred smiled warmly at Cass and Damian. “Delighted to meet you both. Is there anything I should or should not make for dinner?”

“Dami's vegetarian, but the rest of us will eat anything,” contributed Steph.

“Would you like to help me in the kitchen, then, Master Jason? I'm sure you have many stories to tell and there is much you glossed over.”

“Uh...sure. Can the others come? Watch at least? Steph an' I're teaching Cass and Dami to cook and they like to watch.”

Also they're highly trained assassins who will be left alone in an unfamiliar, neutral if not slightly hostile, environment.

“Of course, you are all welcome, any time. Master Bruce, will you be joining us as well?” Alfred turned at the door to stare pointedly.

“Yes, I've just got to let the others know Jason and Stephanie are alive. Dick made me promise...after...Jason's funeral...” he explained awkwardly to his guests. Jason swallowed.

“Is it alright if they come for dinner too?” asked Bruce.

Jason and Steph exchanged glances at Bruce asking and then looked at Cass and Damian, who shrugged. “...just warn Dick to turn off 'Golden Retriever Mode',” grumbled Jason.

“Thank you, son.”

Jason quickly followed Alfred to the kitchen, tracing the path in his memory and noticing the very few alterations from the past 7 years. He'd snuck into the Manor twice since he died—once, when he killed Joker, to get his stash from his hideyhole and his first copy of P&P; twice, a few months ago to check how much security changed from his Robin days. The memorial in the Cave infuriated him, but he talked it over with Steph and their (poor, underpaid) therapist and realized it was just Bruce Bruceing. The kitchen had been slightly updated, but everything was still in the places Jason remembered and he fell into an easy dance with Alfred while the others sat at the peninsula and watched and chatted.

Bruce opened the Bat-GC.

IamJustice: All report to my study at 17:00

IamtheNightWing: Why?

RedRobinYum:^

MasterofKnowledge: Is it good or bad?

IamJustice: Good. 17:00 at the latest. Mandatory family dinner.

Once everybody agreed to meet in Bruce's study at 5:00, he headed to the kitchen, still unbelieving that his son was actually in it. Alive and happy.

Bruce smiled to see Alfred and Jason in matching pink frilly aprons dancing around each other as they talked uninterrupted, a row of smiling spectators happy for Jason-his Jason-their Jason.

“...So then I turned to Steph, because she's always got –oh, hey, B.”

“What are you making? It smells delicious.”

Jason looked a little surprised. “The orange sauce for Alfie's turkey. I was just telling him about the time Steph and I were mugged as 'tourists' on a recon mission in Tokyo. The amateurs were laughable.”

Steph added, “I mean, they picked Jay as a target. I guess 'cause we're white they took us for tourists and not ninja. It took us a minute to knock 'em out—all 4 of them.”

Ace trotted in and Damian lit up when he began licking his hand.

“You like animals?” asked Bruce. Damian nodded.

Steph groaned. “He has a dog, cat, turkey, and dragonbat. Like is an understatement; that's why Dami's vegetarian. We put our foot down on the cow and made sure she went to a good home instead. Damian visits monthly.” “Batcow was going to be slaughtered inhumanely. She did not deserve that,” Damian sniffed.

Cass patted his spiky head. “Good job rescuing, Dami.”

“Batcow?” mouthed Bruce to Jason.

He grinned and nodded. “She's got a mark on her nose that looks kinda like your symbol, hence Bat-cow. I told him Dick named everything by adding the 'bat-' prefix when he was little.”

“You told him about us?”

“As much as I disliked it, you're all his family too. They made better bedtime stories than the League's history, anyways.” Jason looked back to stirring the sauce in the pot and Bruce and Alfred exchanged proud, happy looks.

~♡~

At 5:00 Dick and Tim came up the stairs from the Batcave, through the secret passageway, to Bruce's study. Babs came through the elevator door. “What's up, Bruce?”

Bruce sighed. “I had visitors today, Tim, and...one of them was Stephanie. Leslie faked her death and took her to Africa.”

Once everyone processed that statement, Bruce continued. “She was with a man...who was Jason Todd. Somehow he's alive—none of us know how, but he is.”

Everone stared at Bruce in shock and disbelief.

“Their DNA matches, and so do their memories. I know it's a surprise, but Jason and Stephanie are alive and well.”

“What took so long? Why now? It's been almost eight years! Was-was it recent?”

Bruce shook his head. “That's another thing. The new gang taking over Gotham—Red Hood, and his lieutenants Indigo and Orphan...the Red Hood is Jason and Stephanie is Indigo.”

“Jason Peter Todd, 'I'm-Robin-and-being-Robin-gives-me-magic', is Red Hood,” clarified Babs slowly. “What happened?”

“I was lured by my bio-mom and brutally attacked before I was left for dead in a warehouse rigged to blow.”

Everyone stared as Jason entered the study, comparing the changes to the Jason they knew and mourned.

“Being beaten half to death with a crowbar and waking up in your coffin six feet under sure changes your perspective on things.”

Dick choked and Babs and Tim's eyes widened. They'd never known exactly what happened to Jason since Batman arrived just too late.

“Hello, Big Wing, Barbie. Long time no see...you look good.”

“So do you.” Babs wheeled over and Jason leaned over to hug her.

“Well anything would be better than the last time you saw me, huh?” He turned to Dick. “Stop beating yourself up about missing my funeral. I was mad for a bit- but that was mostly the Pit Madness- you were offworld and didn't know. It's fine. Just come to my next one.”

Dick flew to Jason and wrapped him arms around him in a way even Jason couldn't escape the inevitable octopus hug. “Little Wing! I missed you so much!”

After a couple minutes of tearful Dick Jason pulled away to look Tim over. “You're my Replacement, I see. Well, I was Dick's. You did a good job as Robin, but you're definitely better as Red Robin. No one's quite the OG Robin, huh?”

Tim flushed, pleased at meeting his hero-crush and said hero-crush complimenting him.

Ooh, right, you're Steph's ex...this will be awkward, realized Jason. “And hold off the Inquisition until we're all at supper. I'm only telling doing this once, if I can help it. Speaking of, Alfie sent me up here to say dinner's on in 10.”

While Jason talked with the others, Bruce looked on happily. This was the happiest day he'd had since...before Jason died, he realized with a start.

While everyone washed up and Cass and Damian helped Alfred bring the food over, Jason cornered Steph by the dining room door. “Hey, are you sure you're okay?”

“Yes, Jay. You're more important to them and they knew you longer. I'm not that self-centred, yeesh. It wasn't my place...and seeing you and Tim's first meeting would've been even more awkward if I just popped in and was like, 'hey, it's me, ya ex and your predecessor's wife! Also surprise, I'm not actually dead!'”

“Stephanie,” Bruce walked up.

“Yes?”

He took a deep breath. “I apologize for not training you when you were Robin, and making you an outsider. You reminded me strongly of Jason and...it was quite painful. I am truly sorry...and...I suppose you're my daughter-in-law, now?”

“You're always gonna be stuck with me somehow, B-man!” grinned Steph. “Thanks for the apology, and I already forgave you in therapy. We're good.”

Bruce exhaled a little, relieved, and Jason nodded approvingly. “You're doing better than I thought, B.”

He escaped into the dining room after expressing his weekly emotional range in one afternoon and Jason turned to Steph.

“Thanks for your support, love.”

“No problem—DRC gotta stick together!” Jason snorted and grinned at her humour and kissed her slowly. “You're the best.”

~♡~

Tim halted in the hallway's shadows as Jason and Steph broke apart and walked into the room, hand-in-hand. That was a bit of a shock. Somehow, when Bruce had said Stephanie came in with Jason, he hadn't thought, with with Jason.

Jason was alive. Steph was alive. Jason and Steph had somehow met and were together. He and Steph had only dated for a bit before they broke up and then she “died”, but it was still weird, your ex dating your...brother (was he even his brother since they had literally never interacted except for a couple times at formal Gotham events when they were small)? The emotions were confusing so he shoved them down to deal with later. All that mattered was the dead ex-Robins were with them now. It wasn't like he still had romantic feelings for Steph anyways, it was just...all so confusing. He remembered Steph's random tangents when she was younger and a bittersweet pang jolted through Tim. Steph was always such a chaos gremlin. He couldn't decide if it was better or worse that she hadn't appeared to change much since her “death.”

~♡~

Dick, Babs, and Tim walked into the dining room and halted. “...Who're you?”

Jason looked up from pouring sparkling cider and introduced the strangers. “This is Cass—she's family—and Damian...” He and Steph suddenly looked at each other, slightly panicked.

“Is he yours?” Dick asked.

“No...Steph and I're his guardians.” We didn't tell B yet! Jason screamed internally.

Alfred actually joined the family for dinner, sitting at the foot. Bruce was at the head, the Bats sat along the left, and the guests were on the right. The feast had several delicious vegetarian options for Damian in the mix of bounty. Alfred had been so happy he may have gone slightly overboard on the menu.

“So...you and Jason are together?” Babs asked Steph.

“Yep! Five years since we met.” Steph proudly showed off her diamond-and-amethyst wedding ring.

“How did you...not die? And meet each other?” Babs continued cautiously.

“Well, I did die on the table, but Leslie brought me back,” Steph confessed easily. “We went to Africa, and I finished school online and learned some nursing from Leslie. I saw a group of kids being taken by force so a friend and I jumped in, Jay came by a minute later and finished the fight and walked me home. He asked me out a couple months later, and we got married two years ago.”

“You look...happy,” said Tim.

Steph smiled, love shining at Jason. “I am. I'm sorry about the awkwardness 'cause of...us,” she gestured between her and Tim, and her and Jason, “but I didn't know you were brothers when we started dating...”

“It's okay—I'm not jealous or anything, it's just, um...all quite surprising. Everything.”

Steph nodded at Tim thankfully, then turned to Jason. “Why don't you tell your story, habibi?”

“Ugh, fine. I died, woke up in my coffin about six months later, catatonic. I do remember digging through the wood and dirt with my belt buckle and fingernails...I wandered the streets for a while on muscle memory until I fought off a few of T's guys and she came to see who did that and recognized me. She fixed my catatonia and dialled my anger issues to 11 by dunking me in the Knockoff Mountain Dew and sent me 'round the world to train, where I met Steph. Anything else you want to hear, should I censor for innocent ears?” Jason asked Dick, nodding at Tim, who sqwalked in outrage.

“Shouldn't you censor for Damian's innocent ears?”

“Damian hasn't had the luxury of innocent ears,”Jason said coldly, all joking gone. He hated kids getting touched by the world, marked indelibly before their time, and Damian had not had an easy childhood.

Dick cleared his throat. “So, how'd you meet Cass?”

Steph volunteered to tell the story. “We'd just arrived in Hong Kong, so I went out for groceries. On my way back, I saw Cass fighting...I think it was eight guys. I helped out and dragged her home with me. That was a little over a year ago. Dami showed up on our doorstep, courtesy of Talia, about then, too.”

The rest of the meal continued in the same manner, telling stories on both sides from when they hadn't seen each other. Then Cass looked at Jason and signed rapidly. He nodded and stood. “Thanks for dinner, Alfie; it was delicious. We've got to leave now; see y'all later. Have a safe patrol.” Steph and Damian also stood and followed them to the door. Bruce trailed behind. “Will you come by soon? You're all always welcome here, anytime.”

“Thanks, B. We'll be by later this week to make it up to Alfred by skipping out without doing dishes.” Jason and Damian drove off on a motorbike, side-by-side with Steph and Cass.

Tim followed them aerially by a drone, but only traced them to the Iceberg Lounge before he lost them.

~♡~

Taglist: @jaystephevents @demonandangeltwins @gone-batty-fics

Contact me if you want to be added!

Notes: In this Mashup of Canon, Tim has already struck out on his own and is Red Robin, so there will be no tension between him and Damian. Happy family only.

Also, Bruce is *trying* to be a good dad, at least.

[young-dumb-and-vaccinated]

The Sommelier (Hannigram x Female!Reader) pt. 5

More people said yes to Hannigram, which is good because Will is already involved in the plot and it would be awkward to have him just disappear. Also, I had someone request a Hannigram x reader in my asks. Apologies to the one person who voted no; I promise there will be more solo Hannibal x reader content in the future.

Hannibal decides to that y/n could do with some extra protection, but doesn’t anticipate what she has to tell him.

I have no idea how to make a proper tag list but @deadman-inc-bikeshop and @dovahdokren here you go 

Trigger warnings: discussions of alcohol, victim blaming

“When I saw his face, I immediately knew he had never once experienced the touch of his own hand, let alone that of a woman.” Charissa read out loud to everyone on staff. “Or, that he was buried so deep in the closet he found Narnia, but those two things aren’t mutually exclusive.” 

It was expected to be a slow night, as was normal for an ordinary Tuesday. On nights like those, you could get away with more, like reading a tabloid article out loud for everyone to hear. 

“I can’t believe [F/N] actually went public.” One of the new busboys commented. “What an absolute madlad.”  

“Did you just unironically use reddit terminology in an actual conversation?” You narrowed your eyes at the kid. 

“[F/N], you are making a very dangerous enemy.” An older waitress said, cryptically, from the corner of the room. 

“Who, Jason?” You gestured to the busboy. “What’s he gonna do? Make me cringe myself to death?” 

“You know that’s not who I mean.” She frowned. “I’m talking about Chase Mulvaney.” 

“Don’t be ridiculous.” You shook your head. “He’s not stupid enough to come back here.” 

Charissa made a noise that denoted her doubt. “I dunno, [F/N]. You’d have to be pretty stupid to start stabbing people at a crowded restaurant in broad daylight.” 

“But he was smart enough to get away, right?” Jason asked. “That’s gotta count for something!” 

You and Charissa exchanged glances. Neither of you had the emotional bandwidth to explain white privilege again. Instead, you just humored him. 

“Yeah.” Charissa lied. “He was smart enough to get away, meaning he probably knows better than to come back.”

"You're kidding yourself." A third waitress, who's name you couldn't seem to place, added. "People always say that killers are these galaxy-brained superhumans, but they're not. Mulvaney believes he's divinely ordained, so any thought that pops into his coked-out head is a sign from god."

And so shattered your thin firmament of denial. You made a point to never learn this person's name just out of spite.

“Oh, shit.” You said, trying to hide your genuine fear with a sarcastic voice. “Maybe he is coming back for me.” 

Charissa glared at the two other waitresses, equally pissed at them for scaring you.

"And it'll be your own fault for provoking him with that article." The older waitress said.

"Holy victim-blaming, batman." You mumbled.

“Alright, listen up, y’all.” Matthew announced to the group. “In ten minutes we open for dinner. Remember, if you want to switch shifts with another person, you have to run it by me first. I don’t want to see anybody but [F/N] at the bar tonight, capiche?”

“Yessir.” You saluted him and made your way over to the bar. You’d been doling out your bartending shifts left and right to avoid even the possibility of being cornered by another Freddie Lounds. You were only prolonging the inevitable, though. Eventually, you needed to return to the bar.

You passed the hostess's stand, where Charissa was stationed. Suddenly, you felt someone grab at your arm.

"Fucking hell, dude?!" You flinched violently and your heart rate jumped. "Don't do that!"

"Shit, sorry!" Charissa looked immediately regretful. "But, look!"

You followed her gaze through the window where a fancy car was parked. He leaned against the door, adjusting the cuffs of his dress shirt.

Now your heart was beating fast for a completely different reason. You squeezed Charissa's hand, trying to keep a lid on your nervous excitement.

"I think your luck's starting to turn." She said in a sing-songy voice.

"Yeah, I bet he'll protect me from the Baltimore Butcher." You whispered, trying not to giggle like an elementary school girl.

"Oh, could you imagine those arms around you?" She sighed deeply, her hand firmly against her chest. "I would die."

"Not until he sinks his teeth into your neck." You smirked, gnashing your teeth together.

"I would let him." She rested her chin on her hand.

"Yeah, me too." You agreed.

"I would give anything to trade shifts with you." Charissa groaned.

"Well, you heard the boss." You shrugged, suddenly feeling much better about your assignment. "I gotta stay behind the bar."

"Oh, pobrecita." Charissa rolled her eyes. Underneath the stand, she put up her middle finger in your direction. "Suck a dick, [L/N]."

You walked backwards towards the bar, keeping your eyes on your friend. "That's the plan, baby."

You tried to make yourself look busy. You dared not look at him as he entered the restaurant.

He exchanged pleasantries with Charissa then took his seat at the bar. You pretended not to notice him right away, only to give you an extra second to compose yourself.

"Hi there." You greeted, knowing you'd feel stupid no matter what you said. "Er- good evening."

"[F/N] [L/N], I assume?" He asked.

Fuck, you thought. His voice was dark, low and made your insides tremble. Even though part of you knew he was going to know your name, it still felt so sensual passing his lips.

You realized you had waved to him with your bandaged hand. That's how he was about to identify you so quickly. "Yes, I am she. I mean- her. Me."

Way to go, dumbass. You thought. Now he knows you're nervous and he's going to wonder why.

“God, I need to stop wearing this damn thing.” You said, clearing your throat. “What can I get for you tonight?” 

He was quiet for a moment. "What do you recommend?"

"Well, that depends." You said, pulling your gaze from him and grabbing a few wine glasses down from a high shelf. It was the only way you could maintain your composure.

"On?"

"What you're having for dinner, for one." You said. "And whether or not you're a vulpine tabloid journalist trying to corner me into a dubiously ethical interview. That's also a factor."

"So that's how Miss Lounds wore you down?" He concluded. "With wine?"

You rested your elbows on the bar, filled with an intoxicating confidence. "She tried wine first. Then she tried to get me fired because she asked for chardonnay and I brought her chablis. And when that didn't work, she siphoned my gas."

"I wish I could say that was out of character for her." He looked at you, apologetically.

"I take it you've had your own run-ins with Freddie?" You smiled.

"She's tried to infiltrate my practice multiple times." He sighed. "She's entered my office under a fake name with a recording device in her purse."

"What a sick fuck." You said, before remembering you really weren't supposed to curse in front of customers. You covered your mouth. "Sorry."

The corners of his mouth turned up into an amused smile. "Don't apologize. You're right."

“So you’re a doctor?” You asked, hoping he wasn’t the type to be offended by questions. 

“I’m a psychiatrist.” He nodded. “I used to work as a surgeon, but I find the mind much more compelling.” 

"Seriously, though." You pushed yourself back to your feet. "What can I get for you?"

He eyed the wine menu and then looked back at you. "What is your favorite red?"

"My favorite red?" You placed your hand on your collarbones. "On a night like this, I enjoy a nice, dry Argentinean Malbec."

"In that case," he thumbed through the list once more. "I'll have a bottle of Cobos Chañares from 2016, please."

You smiled. You wouldn't mind taking a sip of that if he offered. "Right away."

You carefully pulled the solid black bottle from its crevice and placed it on the bar. You removed the plastic seal and reached for the corkscrew. The bottle opened with a satisfying pop, filling the air around you with the strong, complex and seemingly contradictory aromas.

You poured a bit of this criminally expensive wine into his glass. He smelled it, then swirled it for a moment before taking a sip.

"Redcurrants and vanilla," he began. "With floral notes that operate with the precision of interlocking gears in a clock. Everything in its place."

"So you're a sommelier and a poet?" You tilted your head and filled his glass. "I'll bet you make women swoon at every corner."

You never had the best grasp on flirting, but even you knew that line was awful.

“Are you flirting with me, Miss [L/N]?” He asked, clearly not too worried about the consequences and enjoying the flattery. “Or are you just trying to get a taste of this Malbec?” 

“Little bit of column A, little bit of column B.” You shrugged. “Though you are as handsome as everyone says, I’ve had my eyes on that wine for slightly longer.” 

You fought the urge to slap your hand over your mouth. You had just broken the cardinal rule of workplace gossip. Panic reverberated through your body as you tried to break down his unreadable expression. 

Once again, he just looked amused. “I’ve seen those lingering glances, the way you all whisper and giggle. It’s flattering.” 

You felt your cheeks growing hot. “...I see.” 

“If you tell me what they say about me, I’ll let you have a taste.” His eyes bored into yours. 

You paused, trying to decipher exactly what he was offering. Then it hit you. 

“Oh!” You interjected. “The wine.” 

“Yes, that’s what I meant.” He said. “Dare I ask where your mind went?” 

Your cheeks stung from all the uncomfortable smiling. “I’d really like to keep my job, thanks.” 

“Have you never heard of bartender-client confidentiality?” His voice lowered and his eyes found your lips. “Nothing we say tonight has to leave these four walls.” 

Your insides turned to jelly. He rested the wine glass in his hand and offered it to you. Your hands shaking, you cradled the glass like an 18th century French village prostitute being offered a mug of hot soup. You brought the glass to your lips, the strong, overwhelming smells assaulting your orifices.

You let the wine grace your tongue. You had taught yourself to overcome the sting of the alcohol and focus on the undertones. Your eyes rolled back in to your head and you let out a little noise of pleasure. 

“Christ on a bike, that’s decadent.” You said, gasping for air a little bit. You quickly passed the glass back to him before Matthew could see you. “Thank you.” 

“Now, indulge me.” He instructed, glancing at the fresh pink lipstick mark on his glass. “What do the lovely women of Terroir whisper while I’m just out of earshot?” 

You rested your elbows on the bar and leaned in close. “They say you’re a vampire.” 

Judging by his unchanging neutral expression, it clearly wasn’t the first time someone had made that connection. “Perhaps they’re on to something.” 

“One of our line cooks used to say you were the devil.” You informed him, hoping that was one he hadn’t heard before.

“Used to?” He raised his eyebrows. 

“Until Chase Mulvaney came around.” You instinctively ran your fingers over your bandages, as if to make sure they were still there. It was a nervous tick you’d developed anytime someone brought up that day. “He’s stopped talking about, like, anything having to do with his religion ever since.” 

“It takes a lot to get an evangelist to stop evangelizing.” He refilled his glass. “Do you think he lost his faith?” 

“I heard someone say in passing that it was because he and Chase Mulvaney went to the same church.” You whispered. “But I can’t verify that.” 

“I’d say it’s more likely than a regular customer being a vampire, wouldn’t you?” 

“I wouldn’t trust their word because they made a regular customer into a vampire.” You corrected, hoping he would overlook the fact that you were one of them. “Secrets may stay within these four walls, but they tend to bounce around. It’s only a matter of time before one escapes, and you’d better hope it’s not one of yours.” 

This man must have been an exceptional therapist, because, there you were, baring your soul to him after fifteen minutes and one sip of wine. Occasionally, you were pulled away from the conversation by another customer who had the audacity to also want a drink. But, very few people came to you with the sole intent of drinking on a Tuesday evening. You and the sommelier talked until closing time. 

“Thank you for a lovely evening, Miss [L/N].” He said pulling out his wallet. “You are as delightful in person as you are on paper.” 

“Thank you, but I never caught-” you said, but stopped yourself. “I mean, you never gave me your name.” 

He signed his name on the paper check, then pulled out a fifty and unceremoniously handed it to you. “Now why would you want to ruin the mystery?” 

“Nothing we say tonight has to leave these four walls, remember?” You grinned and crossed your arms. “Come on, I won’t tell anyone.” 

He took the customer copy of the receipt and scribbled something down on it. He the folded it in half and slid it in your direction as if it contained nuclear launch codes. 

“Join me for dinner someday.” He ordered. “I’ll supply the Malbec.” 

[julyarchives]

Thicker Than Blood || (M) || Ch. 01

Growing up in a tough neighborhood had you learning to deal with hard situations, the occasion leads you to cooperate with the mafia organization that took care of your neighborhood - Pentagon. Looking after yourself and valuing your safety brought you to adapt to the moment, but the line between working for them and protecting yourself is very blurry when you are forced to live under their roof.

→ Pairing: Pentagon OT9 x Reader

→ Genre: Smut; Mafia AU.

→ Words:  2.2K

→ Contains: Mentions of Alcohol; Mentions of Violence.

→ A/n: So this is our Pentagon Mafia AU Series! This story will be multi-chaptered and we will add more tags as the story goes on, we have big plans for it! We hope you guys like it and it is worth the wait!

→ Index: 01 • 02 • 03

Chapter 01 - The Collectors

The cute jeans and red t-shirt you wore barely matched the bar you currently were on behind the counter. The place was quite nice but it was still too rustic for your liking, too brown and dark. Usually, the customers were rustic as well, and had a certain grumpiness to them, just like the place. You shrugged for the nth time while lost in thoughts. Working at a bar on a Tuesday night was the perfect situation for boredom, and bored you were.

Thinking back, you barely understood how you got the job anyway, walking in there one day to kick your friend's ass for drinking while you had a job to do with him and the owner liked your style. He needed someone behind the counter, you needed the money, it was perfect. You were rather young and sweet, you knew that often resolving some complicated shit and arguments in the bar but you also knew how to answer when needed and to take no one's shit home, you still stood up for yourself. Ok so maybe working at a bar was the perfect job for you.

Not wanting to dwell on how you wanted a better paid perfect job, you busied yourself by watching the entrance. It was Tuesday, so you've been kind of anxious the whole day waiting for them to show up. You almost gave your excitement away when two figures entered the bar and sat in front of you on the bar stools.

"Hello, boys. The usual?", you asked them with a bright smile.

"Please, Y/N".

"Right away", you chipped as you turned to get them their cold drinks. It'd be funny to see them drink a sweet cocktail instead of anything stronger if you didn't know them a bit better.

Wooseok and Yuto were young. Sweet and awkward boys that most older people liked and wanted to pamper. That's what you heard anyway whenever you spoke to the neighbors. You also knew they were attached to the hip, always together and always messing with each other. They had a third part to their best friend dynamic and you only saw him a few times at the bar, but you knew they clearly loved each other as brothers.

But that information didn't add up to the other information you had on the boys. The reason you expected them every Tuesday was because of their work. And that was what confused you. As every person in the region knew, there was only one force to respect and listen and that was the Pentagon gang. No, not a gang. It was straight down mafia business and these two cute young boys were their collectors. So every Tuesday they went out to collect the fee from every block and at the end, they'd crash at the bar to chat and drink something.

Seeing them every week made you realize how nice they were and quickly put the whole mafia business behind them. You, better than anyone, understood that you gotta do what you gotta do to survive. Since then, Wooseok and Yuto became more open with you and always brought back gossip when they had a good day. After all, mafia men were still men. Well, boys.

"Here you go, guys", you placed the drinks down and smiled sweetly.

"Thanks, Y/N", Yuto had a deep voice and it always managed to startle you.

"So, any gossip?", you chuckled and the boys followed, lowering their heads as if to share a secret with you.

"Guy from the butcher shop was working alone", Wooseok said, "caught his employee with his girl".

"No way!", you truly were shocked at the irrelevant news.

"Yep", he said while Yuto nodded. "Oh, and someone's trying to get inside our territory. We saw a warning at a wall, directed at us and, well, at all of you".

"What?!", you shouted and they looked at you like you just offended their entire family. You were confused. One, why were they telling you information that may be confidential? Two, how could they speak about something dangerous so casually?

"We have orders to let you know, actually", Yuto said as if he was reading your mind. "We know who these people are but not their faces. We thought maybe they'd start by frequenting a place where they can get more intel on our people".

"Here then".

"Hm, yeah", Wooseok nodded. "The warning only said to be careful who is loyal to us or the community would show us. We guess they want to turn people against us"

"More people, more money. An entire neighborhood against us wouldn't be controlled by usual methods. So, that's when you come in".

"If you're suggesting what I think you're suggesting, then no way". You were bold enough to talk back and they only raised their eyebrows at you.

"We only need you to be on the lookout for someone different", Wooseok clarified, "if there's at least one person asking the wrong questions about the community, you gotta let us know".

"Helps if we can identify a face", Yuto shrugged.

"Do I have a say in this?", you already knew the answer.

"As much as you do about our fee, Y/N".

"Fine. But if they come for me, I won't wait for your boys to come to rescue me. I'll bolt", you said with a sigh in defeat.

"You won't be alone", Wooseok said as Yuto typed away on an old phone. "You'll be getting a visit from tomorrow on, he's our shapeshifter, blends in wherever".

"If you have a guy like that, why put me to watch anyone?"

"Y/N", Yuto sighed and looked straight into your eyes. "We could burst into any safe house right now and do whatever we pleased with whoever was in our way. But we do value our community, that's why we got hold of this business in the first place. The bar is where everyone comes for information and you know that. Don't forget why you're behind this counter, to begin with. We need the bartender to do her job and chat with her customers as she does. The info will come to you".

"I-", you were starstruck and kept glancing from Yuto to Wooseok, hands on the counter. "I- this is the most you have spoken to me since we met". It came out accidentally and you wanted to slap yourself.

Wooseok laughed and Yuto smiled at you. You could feel the heat on your cheeks but only nodded to yourself, still processing everything. They finished their drinks in one big gulp and got up, Yuto nodding at you still with a cute smile on his lips, one that didn't match his previous words. Wooseok watched as Yuto walked out of the bar and chuckled at your expression that slowly was turning grumpy.

"I know you'll do just fine. It's not like us to put people in our business but to protect people, we need you", he was leaning forward, as if to make you see him and only him. "So, congratulations, you got promoted!", he laughed.

"Yeah, I'm the lookout kid", you definitely were grumpy now. "You need me to protect people but who protects me?".

"Me", Wooseok said a bit too fast. "I mean, Pentagon does. And you'll have the right company for that, don't worry. He'll be here tomorrow night".

Wooseok smiled at you again and turned away from you, leaving you to your thoughts. Why the hell was this happening? You got why this way was safer to find out who was behind the threat but you still were unsure. Well, it's not like you could say no without a valid reason. And apparently, your safety wasn't one.

You watched Wooseok leave and sighed. Getting their glasses to clean up, you kept thinking about all the things that could go wrong but also all the things that could go right. Part of you wanted to impress them and come out as a hero, it'd give you something else to do instead of just being the bartender. You laughed at the absurdity of it all and quickly shoved it all in the back of your head, deciding to let the future self deal with the situation and this guy who'd meet you tomorrow, slipping back into the boredom of a Tuesday night at the bar once again.

Laying on your bed, your mind raced nonstop and you couldn't sleep no matter how much you tried. Yuto's words kept coming back and you felt even more deflated each time. "Don't forget why you're behind this counter, to begin with". You knew your upbringing was shitty and you had to fend for yourself a long time but you honestly thought that it didn't matter much until now.

Your parents fled when you were eight. They had some issues with themselves and suddenly having a family became too much of a cage for them and they fled. They left you with your grandmother and never came back. Your grandma was a saint, she was sweet and loving but she was sick enough to not be able to work, so you toughen up and started bringing money home by twelve years old.

You smiled thinking about how she raised you with such care and love that you managed to get that trait from her even if the streets treated you like shit. You discovered soon enough that all the love your grandma had was all the love you could get because no one liked a little girl who put her hands on whatever she could find to sell and get hers. You met a few people while you grew up and managed to turn out just fine even if it bruised you more than you liked to admit.

When you were around seventeen your grandma passed, you thankfully blocked whatever memory you had of her suffering and only focused on her happy memories. Since then you got her small and simple house and got more involved in the community, everyone who respected your grandma finally understanding why you were a kid like you were. Fast forward a few years and you got the job at the bar and things got a bit better.

You got up from the bed and scoffed at how things were mostly shoved on your face enough that you had to go with the flow every time. Fucking Pentagon taking over the neighborhood when you were a kid and now this. You heard more than participated in the whole protecting mafia business when you were younger, but the situation wasn't strange to you. Getting around in the streets you knew things and the most important one was to follow the organization's rules.

When you were twelve and started to hit the streets, you knew very well to not mess with the men from the org. But also soon enough you learned that the best way to earn anything good was to be on their good side. So you started to run a few errands for them and earned a good amount. Of course, you had nothing to do with them but still, it was a good connection. You didn't know much about the members in the hierarchy but you were sure that no one from the time you were a kid was still in their ranks.

You were sure mafia business was very harsh and violent but the boss was too violent once upon a time and things got out of hand. The neighborhood they swore to protect was being targeted and they brought the fight to all people. Fortunately, it ended after a few months of much fear and blood around the streets and you heard they all changed members. Rumor had it that it was their kids that took over when the parents died during the more violent times, at least in the high ranks. But you had stopped tending to them a few months before it went down so you had no idea for sure.

You only knew that Pentagon had a hard time getting people's trust again and started a more gentle approach with the community, hence why Wooseok and Yuto were dear to some people under their wings. They went over to everyone who had helped them directly and formally thanked and apologized for their trouble. Of course, they still terrified people who walked out of line and when the community respected them again, it was clear they were in charge. But now it seemed like they only cared about their own business and getting richer with their schemes instead of getting involved in a bloody gun war.

You realized you were standing in the middle of the corridor getting lost in thought and laughed to yourself before finishing the path to the kitchen to get water. The cold water helped you calm down and soon you were too busy sitting on the couch looking for any silly reality show to get lost into.

Halfway through the episode, you felt the sleep taking over you but being comfortable on the couch made you just pull a cover you kept there over you and stayed there, falling asleep in seconds. It was a very rough and long day, so you welcomed the slumber gratefully. Little did you know that while you succumbed to sleep in the living room, your phone buzzed in your bedroom, a small text that should be completely out of line appearing.

We trust you to do this safely but count on me to help. -WS.

[wtnrscap]

It never stops

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Summary: A lead in the ruins of Sokovia brings a face from the past back.

Ask:

Warnings: Set post-Endgame, swearing, a lil angst.

A/N: I have a bad feeling I’ve butchered your ask @badasseddy​ but I hope you still like it. Feel free to complain if you hate it. Currently writing a request a day, so I will get to everyone’s.

I cannot for the life of me remember who made this divider, so if it’s yours or you know who’s it is, please tell me so I can credit them.

81 years had passed since Bucky had last gone dancing, and he felt as though his eardrums were going to burst. Adrenaline shot through his veins, the alcohol having no affects. Sam nodded his head with the beat and Bucky groaned. Is this really what music passed for nowadays?

It took several punches to the arm for Bucky to realize that Sam was trying to get his attention, and he whipped his head around so fast they almost knocked each other out. Sam yelled and smacked Bucky’s metal arm, before screaming in pain.

 ‘Serves his right for dragging me to this hell’, thought Bucky. He watched as Sam pulled out a photograph and waved it in front of his face, “We’re looking for this girl. She’s undercover. Locate her and contact me on coms.”

 Bucky yanked the photo out of the air and stared at, memorizing the girl’s face. He vaguely remembered her, but he didn’t know why. Her Y/H/C hair was tied in a lose ponytail, with striking Y/E/C eyes and a distinctive smile. Her arms were wrapped out Sam’s shoulder, while Steve’s arm rest on her shoulder. Bucky tried to ignore the youth of his friend and chose to focus on the fact that the girl was pretty. The natural kind of pretty that all the girls wanted but compensated with layers of makeup. Bucky tucked the photo into his jacket with slight reluctance. It was the type of photo where he would have cut the girl out and tucked it into his army uniform, reminding himself what he was fighting for.

 The pair separated, Sam heading towards the dancefloor and Bucky the bar. A beacon of escape, Bucky decided. Sam had said no drinking on the job, but fuck Sam, if he wanted to drink, then he would. Bucky was immune to the addictive buzz anyway.

 The bar was empty aside from a man in a suit at the end, but he seemed a little distracted, a girl on his lap, giggling at something that probably wasn’t very funny. The girls in this club knew how to make their living. Bottles were stacked almost floor high, dirty looking glasses and a few dripping taps. A girl stood at the end, scrubbing a smeared flute with a grubby cloth. Bucky tapped his fingers and she sauntered over, “What can I get ya, pal? Looking a bit lost there…”

 “Well, I don’t really fit in. You see a lot of faces here?”

 “As a bartender? More than I care to count. Need help with something?”

 Bucky pulled the photo out, folded out Sam and Steve, and slid it across the wet bar, “I’m looking for this girl. Have you seen her?”

 The girl lifted it up gingerly, letting it drip. As she analyzed it, Bucky gave himself a chance to look at her, weighing her up. Her hair was black with green highlights, ending on her shoulders. Her eyes were the same as the girl’s in the photo but the smile, it wasn’t the same. This wasn’t who they were looking for.

 The girl slid the photo back, “She’s pretty, but I’ve never seen her. I think I’d remember her if I did.”

Bucky tucked the photo back into his jacket. The girl straightened up, a crease forming across her brow, “Are you sure you don’t want anything? A dry martini?” the girl looked up at him almost expectantly, but Bucky shook his head, “I’m good. I’ll probably be here till closing time, so if you see her, pull me over.”

 -

 “We can sink no lower…” mumbled Bucky, the toilet creaking dangerously below him. Sam hushed him quickly, “The girl is here. We have to stay ’till we find her.”

 “And that means hiding in the toilets?” snapped Bucky, meriting another hush from Sam. Bucky frowned, “Hey, this is your fault! This was your idea! She never turned up, we could have come back another day, but no, we’re here, hiding in this hell hole.”

 A thump from outside silenced him. Carefully, Sam left his cubicle, closely followed by Bucky, and propped open the door, enough for them to see and hear what was happening.

 “Club’s closed boys. You need to leave…” the voice of the bartender echoed around the room. Several guffaws responded, “We weren’t satisfied with our service.”

 “Not my problem. I run the bar, not the brothel.”

 “I don’t think Batroc will be very happy with that. He employs you, does he not?”

 “Yes…” the bartender’s voice trailed off nervously, “What are you going to do to me?”

 “Show you what we do to unwilling workers. Grab her and strap to the table… That one, in the corner…”

 Without hesitation, Bucky grabbed onto Sam’s arm, mouthing, “I can’t listen to this. We have to help her!”

 Sam’s hand flew over Bucky’s mouth, “We’re not here for her… Stay put!”

 Bucky pushed against Sam, trying to free himself from the Falcon’s grip, but Sam held him fast. A brief squabble broke out, Bucky and Sam fighting against each other, until Bucky used his metal hand to break free, rushing through the door to shocking sight.

 The bartender wiped her lip, staring down at three men, “Touch me again, and I will fucking kill you.”

 “Fuck…” thought Bucky, ‘I should not be this turned on…’

 “Hey, pretty boy? Pretty boy? Pay attention to me!” the bartender’s voice snapped Bucky out of his daydream, “Meet me in the alley in 5 minutes. Bring Sam.”

 -

 The dingy alley smelt of piss and sick, but the bartender seemed unperturbed, flinging her arms around Sam’s neck, “Oh, I’ve missed you Birdie!”

 “I’ve missed you too! We’ve been looking for you all night! Where have you been?”

 “At the bar! Your friend approached me, I thought he would recognize me, but no, and when I said the words, he didn’t reply with the code!” the bartender shot Bucky an angry glance. Bucky snapped, “What words? I wasn’t told of any words. And why would I recognize you? I’ve never met you in my life! This is so stupid!”

 The bartender huffed and pulled on her hair until it come off in her hand, revealing Y/H/C underneath. The black hair was a wig. Next, she pulled out the photo from Sam’s pocket and pulled up to her face and copied the smile. Bucky saw the resemble immediately, “It’s you…”

 “My name’s Agent Y/N L/N, I’m undercover here. You probably don’t remember me, we didn’t really meet, but I helped Steve and Sam disappear in 2016. I saw you from a distance, but you were kinda wiped out, no metal arm and longer hair. As for the words, I was told to offer you a dry martini, and you should’ve responded with ‘I don’t like my martini’s dry’.”

 “I hate martini’s altogether! And I gave you a photo of yourself!”

 “I’ve had 4 people give me a photo of myself today alone! The people after you are on your case!” Y/N’s chest heaved with anger and frustration, “Baltroc will be in the old Sokovian church tomorrow at midday. He’s made several attempts to take over the Sokovian people after the country fell with Ultron. We’ve tried to enlist the help of Wanda Maximoff, but we’ve had no response.”

 “She’s gone MIA… No one knows where she is…” responded Sam slowly, “If what you say is true, not that I am doubting you, then we need to get moving now. You are relieved of your duty. Where will you head?”

 “To New York. I’ll go to the compound.”

 “Well, I’m looking forward to seeing you there…” Sam pulled Y/N into a tight hug before turning to Bucky, “We leave in 10.”

 Bucky nodded his head and looked down at Y/N, “I’m sorry I didn’t recognize you.”

 “Not your fault. I’m sorry I lost my temper.”

 “Not your fault…” Bucky shifted awkwardly. Y/N smiled slightly, “Do you miss him?”

 Bucky’s eyes widened almost comically. He hadn’t expected that from her, the mention of Steve. He noticed the way her shoulders slumped at the question, her eyes losing their sparkle slightly. He wondered how the snap had affected her, and, for the first time, wondered what an Agent like her was doing here, in the burned ruins of Sokoiva. He tried to match her smile, “Everyday… It’s hard… I know that he is still alive, but the whole world believes him dead, and I don’t actually see him very often now, so sometimes, it’s like he’s dead to me too. It just never stops, this life. It’s fast and hard.”

 “I understand…” Y/N nodded her head, and Bucky spied a tear, and felt a pang in his heart, “Did… Did you love him?”

 “Oh God no!” gasped Y/N with a chuckle, “Me and Steve were more like siblings or best friends. He helped me and I helped him… I wasn’t snapped away, so spent the last 5 years with him. I trained with Natasha, and when Scott came back, Steve sent me away. To protect me, he said. I don’t doubt him, but I wonder, if I stayed, would’ve I been able to stop him from leaving?”

 “No. He had his mind set on it…”

 “Why’d you ask if I love him?”

 Bucky cheeks reddened, “Well, after I messed this up so bad, I wondered if once I got back to New York, you’d like to go for drinks… or not?”

 “Sargent Barnes, are you asking me on a date?”

 Bucky shivered at the use of the title, but tried to cover it, “Would you be opposed to the idea?”

 “No…”

 Bucky smiled at her as Sam yelled at him to hurry up. There was another moment of awkwardness before Bucky turned on his heel. Y/N stood still for few seconds before gasping, “Bucky! Wait!”

 “What?”

 It was Y/N’s turn to blush as she pecked a kiss on his cheek, “Be safe. Baltroc has a rep for maximum of casualties.”

 “I promise, doll…” Bucky smiled at took her hand in his, “Never thought the night would end like this. And now, I must really go.”

 -

 Sam frowned as they stepped onto the Quinjet, “How do you do it, man? 5 minutes ago, you barely knew the girl, and now you’re going on a date with her?”

 “It’s called charm, Birdbrain, you should try it some time.”

 “I have charm! And a wingman.”

 “Redwing does not count.”

 Sam huffed and sat down in a seat, “He so does. Besides, when she realizes you have a cyber-brain, she’ll be gone.”

 “Nah, I’ll just charm her again.”

 “Not with that grouchy face. If the wind changes, your face will be stuck like that.”

“I hate you…” muttered Bucky. Sam burst out laughing, nudging Bucky’s shoulder, and the man let out a small snort, smiling gently. 

It might never stop, but Bucky couldn’t deny, when it did, it was nice. Steve was gone, but he had Sam and now, Y/N too. Yeah... All was good.

[madsthewordclown]

Dance with Me | Sokka x Reader

Prompt: “Please don’t do this to me.”

I got this prompt from a post by @urmomoness ! I love their prompt lists so much, and I just had to write something with this one because IDEAS. You can thank @nadiblue for convincing me to post this now

summary: a whole lot of fluff of Y/N and Sokka at the Kataang wedding reception, modern au

Warnings: mentions of alcohol. so much fluff. I am sorry

“Please don’t do this to me,” Y/N begged, trying in vain to dig her heels into the ground as Sokka tugged on her arm.

“Come on, Y/N, it’s a special day,” Sokka insisted, smiling. “Plus, I know you just cried at that first dance, and this’ll cheer you up.”

“They were happy tears!” Y/N protested, pulling her arm out of Sokka’s grasp. “Besides, you were crying too!”

“Hey!” Sokka put a hand to his chest. “It’s my little sister’s wedding. I’m allowed to cry manly tears.”

It really was a beautiful wedding. Y/N should have been more emotionally prepared, but there was something about seeing how happy her friends were, and how the world seemed to disappear for them when they took to the dancefloor. Katara had warned her not to cry, too.

“If you cry then I’ll cry,” Katara had said. “I will have to kick you out of the wedding party.”

Luckily, Katara hadn’t followed through on the threat, and Katara hadn’t cried. The smile never left Katara’s face, actually. But Y/N could’ve sworn that Aang was tearing up through the entire ceremony.

“Yeah, manly,” Y/N teased with a laugh. “I’m still not going to dance.”

Sokka groaned. “Don’t be a buzzkill, Y/N. How could you not like dancing?”

“It’s not that I don’t like it,” Y/N insisted. “It’s that I’m bad at it and not interested in embarrassing myself.”

“You sound like Zuko,” Sokka said with a frown, “and even he’s dancing. It’s Katara’s wedding, Y/N, live a little. Besides, everyone is going to be embarrassing themselves later.”

The bartender did seem pretty busy, Y/N had to admit. There was a good chance that some of the guests wouldn’t remember the evening at all.

Suddenly, the music changed to an upbeat song that Y/N didn’t quite recognize. Sokka pouted at her. Y/N sighed.

“Fine,” she relented, letting Sokka gently pull her toward the dance floor. “But only because I like this song.”

Y/N decided to start of simple, swaying to the song and letting Sokka swings his hands in hers. But before they even got all the way through the first chorus of the song, Sokka was letting go of her hands and dancing wildly. They bumped into Zuko, who was reluctantly dragged into dancing by Ty Lee. Mai had not budged from her seat at a table across the room.

Sokka really did dance like no one was watching. Y/N took a moment to just observe him. The guy was an engineering genius, but somehow, this is where he seemed the most in his element. Just letting loose and having fun with his friends by his side. He was waving his arms around now, almost comically. Y/N giggled.

“Told you it would cheer you up!” Sokka called out over the noise of the other guests and the music. Sokka moved closer, grabbing Y/N’s hands again as he noticed her lack of movement. “You need to get more into it!” He insisted with a grin.

“I’m good, thanks,” Y/N replied, giving him a smile. She hoped that he couldn’t tell how warm she felt with her hands in his.

“Y/N!” Katara called. It appeared she had finally been able to get out of small talk with the other guests. Katara glowed in her wedding gown, pulling Aang along behind her. Aang couldn’t seem to look away from his now-wife’s face.

“Y/N,” Katara repeated, “you have to dance with me, I love this song.”

“Katara—”

“Please?” Katara interrupted. “It’s my favorite, and it’s my wedding day.”

“Fine,” Y/N relented with a grin. She caught Sokka shooting her an offended look, his mouth dropped open in mock-shock—oh, now you’ll dance? —it seemed to say.

Y/N followed Katara to a somewhat-open spot on the dancefloor. Ty Lee and Suki joined their little group with bounds of enthusiasm, and even Toph was willing to join in, on Katara’s insistence. Y/N’s bridesmaid dress was the same shade of blue as the other girls’ outfits, other than Katara’s white gown. Toph had somehow been allowed to wear a blazer and sleek pants instead of a dress.

Y/N felt her shyness melt away as she began to dance with the other girls. It was an incredible feeling to let loose and have fun, especially after such a spectacular day. Soon enough they were shouting along the lyrics of every song.

The crowd wasn’t that big to begin with, as Katara and Aang hadn’t had a huge guest list, preferring to include mainly close friends and family. But the people on the dance floor slowly began to clear out, although for Y/N and her friends, the night had not begun to calm down.

Sokka was back, Y/N realized, although he had never left. The music changed again, and Y/N immediately recognized the song.

“This is my favorite!” She cried, already beginning to move to the music. She set her eyes on Sokka, running over to pull him further into the dance floor.

“You seem excited for someone who refused to get up from the table earlier,” Sokka teased. The suit jacket that he had been wearing was gone, leaving him in his white button up along with his blue bow tie. His hair was beginning to fall out of its ponytail. Y/N could hardly feel her heart’s rapid rhythm over the beat of the music.

“It’s my favorite, Sokka.” Y/N held onto Sokka’s hands and danced, swinging her hips and bobbing her head along. Sokka was smiling at her and definitely mouthed the word dork, but then he was bobbing right along with her.

Y/N belted the final chorus to the best of her ability, which admittedly wasn’t that great, but Sokka seemed to appreciate it. He didn’t know the song, but attempted to sing along anyway, completely butchering the words. The song ended, and Y/N was huffing from the effort of singing and jumping around like a maniac.

Y/N gave a sigh of relief as the gentle sound of acoustic guitar filled her ears. After what seemed like an eternity, there was finally a slow song. She leaned in towards Sokka to make sure he could hear.

“I’m going to go take a breather,” she said, already walking away, but was stopped when she realized that Sokka had not let go of her arm.

“Come on, Y/N,” he smiled, warm and bright. “You can’t quit now.”

“I’m really out of breath, Sokka.”

“It’s a slow song, Y/N,” he reasoned. “You don’t even have to do anything.”

“And I don’t want you to sit down and quit for the night,” Sokka joked. “Suki and I have agreed that we’re going to outlast the rest of my family.”

Y/N didn’t say anything but let Sokka slowly pull her towards him. She put her arms around his next and felt his settle on her waist. And then Y/N suddenly realized how close they were, feeling her face warm. She leaned to rest her head on his shoulder to hopefully hide her expression.

It was another song that Y/N didn’t recognize, but Sokka seemed to know it. He was humming along with it lightly, and Y/N could feel it. He wasn’t perfectly on tune, but he had the melody down. They hardly moved, lightly swaying from side to side.

“They had a beautiful ceremony,” Y/N said, lifting her head from Sokka’s shoulder to look at him. “It was almost too perfect.”

“I know,” Sokka agreed. “I’m really happy for them.”

“Me too,” Y/N hummed, looking to where the happy couple was dancing. Katara was leaning heavily onto Aang’s shoulder. Aang’s eyes were closed as he smiled and held his bride closely. It was almost enough to make Y/N tear up all over again, but she turned to see that Sokka was beating her to it, his eyes turning watery.

“Aww,” Y/N giggled, removing her arms from Sokka’s shoulders to cup her hands on his face. “Look at those manly tears.”

“Shut up,” Sokka whined, grabbing Y/N’s wrists to pull her hands away. “You were getting emotional, too.”

“If it makes you feel better,” Y/N giggled, letting her arms fall to her sides. Sokka slid his hands into hers.

“You know,” Sokka changed the subject, looking into Y/N’s eyes with his very, very blue ones. “You’re a pretty good dancer, I don’t know why you didn’t want to.”

“You mean I’m a really dorky dancer,” Y/N corrected.

“I mean, yes, some of it is dorky,” Sokka admitted, “but you seem to have a lot of fun when you stop worrying about it.”

“I don’t like feeling like people are watching me,” Y/N explained. “It’s embarrassing.”

“Well,” Sokka reassured, “I don’t think anyone noticed the poor attempt at moonwalking, so you’re all good.”

“You noticed,” Y/N pointed out. Sokka tugged on her hands in response, pulling her closer. They were very close again, Y/N noticed, and this time the music wasn’t drowning out her nerves. A woman’s voice crooned over the speakers.

“Yeah, but I always notice you.” Sokka laced his fingers with yours. “I just… you’re really special to me, Y/N. You know that, right?” Y/N’s heart skipped a beat at his words.

“You’re special to me, too,” Y/N replied, unable to think of any other response. She had felt her feelings growing towards her friend over the past few months, but she wasn’t prepared for this. Whatever this was.

Sokka bit his lip, looking into Y/N’s eyes tentatively. It was the first time Y/N had seen Sokka—confident, hilarious, intelligent Sokka—look this nervous.

“Can I kiss you?” Sokka whispered. Y/N almost thought she heard his voice shaking, and she had barely begun to nod before his lips were on hers.

The kiss was tentative, gentle, and sweet, and she could taste cherry grenadine on his lips because he’d insisted on overloading a Shirley Temple with sugar. Sokka let go of her hands, resting one of his on her waist while the other came up to cradle her cheek, his touch light. Y/N brought her own hands up to wrap around his shoulders once again.

They pulled apart, Sokka’s eyes wide and his lips tilting into a small smile. “Wow,” Y/N breathed dumbly.

“Wow,” Sokka agreed, not taking his eyes away from Y/N’s face for a single moment. “Do you want to go out sometime?”

“Yeah.” Y/N felt her face break out into a wide smile. “I would.”

“Great,” Sokka breathed, his smile bright. The slow song had ended, the next one already beginning with an upbeat rhythm. Sokka tilted his head to where the rest of their friends were gathering together to dance along. “Want to go join them?”

Y/N nodded, smiling as Sokka held her hand and they went to join their friends.

[sunjaesol]

baby, you ain't being slick

juke | human!au + strangers | title: juice // lizzo 

He didn’t want to be here. Alas, his friends could be persuasive if they wanted to. 

After a shit day in the studio, another rejection letter from agencies all around, contrived lyrics scratched on lined paper and one sugar crash, Alex and Reggie decided to go to a karaoke bar. Of all places they could go to take the edge off, they decide on an establishment that would literally be his cause of death. Luke despised karaoke bars. Why listen to drunk people blabber lyrics they didn’t know (nor cared about) into a shitty mic at two am while sipping on an equally shitty margarita? Why torture himself with music when music itself was kicking his butt as of late? 

But then Alex told him mocking drunk people was fun and Reggie begged for a chance to sing ABBA, so Luke couldn’t refuse. He already acted like a douche enough today. 

So there he sat, on a barstool at Neon Affluenza on a Wednesday night peering into the aforementioned shitty margarita. The place recently opened and has gotten pretty good reviews, Luke quietly admitting that the vibe of the bar was pretty dope. Dark walls and black hardfloor flooring, dimmed lights and purple LED giving everyone a mysterious glow. The stage was small, as usual, with an underpaid DJ on the side playing the tracks. It was packed, loud chatter and clinking glasses overpowering the slurring words of the heavy-lidded, burly man onstage working his way through a Céline Dion track. Luke wondered for a second if the singer thought about how many people butchered her song and brought slander to her name every second of the night in all the karaoke bars all over the world. Oh well. At least she had a record deal and, you know, any significance. 

Alex sat next to him, grinning face illuminated as he texted Willie, as Luke lazily let his gaze drift across the room. The man has stopped and gotten a weak applause, the next person ascending the stage and singing - Jesus fucking Christ, kill him now - “Firework” by Katy Perry. This night truly was the worst. 

It didn’t help that for some reason, three girls have come up to him. Was this an ongoing bet from one friend group or something? To see which one of the girls could crack him? Any other night, he would’ve relished the attention, maybe even chatted one up enough to go home with. Flirting was second nature to Luke. The third girl was his type too! When he rejected her avances, she just shrugged and continued her way to Reggie. Which, he must admit, was a pretty confident move on her part. Regardless - Luke wasn’t in the mood and nothing, or no one, would change that. (Maybe he could sneak back to the studio...)       

“Excuse me-” A female voice called out, tapping his arm. 

He rolled his eyes. “Not interested.”

She scoffed. “You’re sitting on my jacket, asshole.”

Turning to face her, he froze for a beat. His unimpressed glare turned surprised at how pretty she was. Like, “double take on the street”-pretty. If he thought the girl from before was his type, he was mistaken. This was his type. She regarded him with minimal interest, brows raised and arms crossed. 

“So?”

His reply stuttered out slowly. “Uh... huh?” Awesome. He was twenty-three and unable to speak to a pretty girl like some pimply eleven year old playing spin the bottle for the first time. 

She tugged on his stool and - oh. The stool wasn’t leather, it was suede. He was sitting on her leather jacket. Shit. He terribly hoped he didn’t have butt sweat, or else mortification would take him out and not the piercing belt of the drunk singer. Either way, he embarrassed himself. 

“Shit!” He rushed from his chair and held the garment out for her. “Sorry!”  

With a sneer, she grabbed it from his grasp, fingers brushing and letting heat ripple up his arm. Holy shit. Yup. The night took a turn. He had to know who she was. 

She pulled the jacket on. “Thanks, I guess...” Just as she was about to disappear back in the throng of drunkards, he called out for her. 

“Uh, hey! I didn’t get a name!”

The girl turned around, an amused - hella attractive - expression flitting across her face (damn, in what factory did they make her?), and tracked his body with her eyes. Instinctively fixing his slouch, he hoped she was into that punk-rocker aesthetic. That jacket was sort of a clue, right? 

An ironic smile tugged on her lips. “Thought you weren’t interested, loverboy.”

Oh, fuck. His flirting game found their match and it was wrapped around a 5′4 girl with glossy curls and eyes glinting with challenge. Luke recovered as fast as he could from his whiplash and swaggered over to her, a charming smirk falling on his lips - the one he so often pulled to make the front row fawn. The girl didn’t look away, raising her chin to level his intensity. A giddy feeling spread in his chest. This could be fun. 

“That’s before I knew the leather jacket belonged to a pretty face like yours, princess.”

“Trust me,” she laughed, also attractive. Everything about her was fucking enigmatic. “I’m not a princess.”

He tried again. “What’s your name?”

“What’s yours?”, she shot back. 

He licked his lips, grinning, and held his hand out. He’d gladly bridge this animosity if it got him a name and a number. “I’m Luke.”

His hand was met with cold air, the girl laughing again and showcasing the cute, little gap between her teeth. It should be an imperfection, but it kind of made her better. Jeez, he didn’t even know her! Why she was laughing, however, he didn’t know. He’d lie if he said his ego wasn’t slammed. 

“Are you-?”

“Next up: my girl Julie with Lizzo!” The DJ yelled in the mic, a gaggle in the crowd hooting and whistling. His dream girl winked, throwing a thumb at the stage and shrugging like she felt sorry for interrupting the conversation.  

“That’s my cue. Bye!”

“Wait!” Argh! He didn’t pay attention to the DJ! Now he still didn’t now her name! A beat later, though, the latter words processed. Lizzo. This girl was going to sing... Lizzo? The most revered pipes of the 21st century? Yeesh. Maybe she wasn’t so perfect after all. 

The girl jumped on the stage like she owned it, the first notes of “Juice” booming from the amps, her body moving with the beat. Straightening her jacket and mirroring the smirk he just sported himself, Luke’s throat went dry. 

“Oh.” Alex casually came to stand next to him. “That’s Julie.”

“What?!”

But then she opened her mouth and any sensical thought flew out the window. Her voice was fucking magnificent. Clear, kind of raspy, yet loud and strong and an undercurrent that suggested years of rigorous training. This was not just some girl singing - she was singer. 

If I'm shining, everybody gonna shine I was born like this, don't even gotta try

Her eyes searched across the heads and then stuck on him, that damned smirk widening and sending him a look that would bring any man to his knees. And then, to finish him off, teasingly waved at him as she spit the lyrics. 

I'm like Chardonnay, get better over time Heard you say I'm not the baddest bitch, you lie!

Julie zoomed through the lyrics with ease, dancing and singing like it was breathing, and oozing every bit of confidence a person could have. Cocky nods and flirtatious winks and sinking in her knees to direct a lyric to people in the crowd. He corrected his previous thought: she wasn’t a singer, she was a performer; and she had him stammering. 

All of a sudden, she jumped offstage with the mic, the adoring audience parting for her like the Red Sea and the bartenders brightening the LED’s to give everyone a proper look at what she was doing. Luke should’ve known that one verse wasn’t enough - should’ve known that if he was the Flirt King, Julie was the Flirt Queen. He couldn’t keep the grin off his face though. She was incredible and - fuck it - the coolest girl he’s ever met. 

Coming to a halt right in front of him with that smile meaning checkmate, she obnoxiously pointed at him as she sung the bridge to the audience. 

Somebody come get this man I think he got lost in my DMs, what? My DMs, what? You better come get your man I think he wanna be way more than friends, what? More than friends What you want me to say?

Luke was shaking from laughter, flushing red yet buzzing with exhilaration at this girl putting him in his place. Putting on a show! Where has she been all his life?! 

Before he could snatch her waist, she ran back to the stage to belt out the last chorus with all her might, a dazzling smile breaking through. It was the first genuine, earnest one of the night and... wow.  Julie was breathtaking. 

Alex, unfazed, pressed his phone in his face. “She’s a singer from LA. Thought you’d know her.”

Her song ended, applause so deafening the pedestrians probably heard too, Julie making a silly face and bumping fists with the DJ. She must be a regular here. Weaving her way back to the bar, Luke mustered all his bravado into a laid-back stance and nonchalant smile. He couldn’t hide the mischievous spark in his eye though. That checkmate was still up for grabs. 

“A water, please,” she asked the bartender. Catching her eye, she turned towards him. “Hello again.”

“Gotta admit, Julie-” he leaned back, elbows propped on the bar. “-wasn’t too bad.”

From the way her eyes lingered on the movement, triumph flared in his chest. She came closer, cocking a hip and placing her glass next to his arm. “Ha! I can sing circles around you.”

He leaned in with a grin. “You’d be surprised.”

She didn’t back down. “Is that a challenge?”

“Ask me again in the morning.”

Huffing, she uttered: “What makes you think I’d go home with you?”

“Cause I do ‘wanna be way more than friends’ and, well-” He closed the space between them, calloused fingers tugging on a curl and tucking it behind her ear. Her skin was hot from the lights. For a beat, her resolve waned.“You’re still here.”

Those eyes that have been driving him wild flickered to his lips. He held his breath in anticipation. One night with this girl and some snarky lyrics later and he’d be back on the saddle. This was what he needed to get out of his funk. After, everything would just go back to normal. Right?  

Her lips suddenly grazed his, gaze flicking up and giving him a killer grin. Right - maybe not entirely back to normal. He wouldn’t mind Julie giving him a look like that more often. 

“You got yourself a deal... loverboy.”

@blush-and-books @willexx @unsaid-emily @alexjulies

[write-ur-wrongs]

I can’t thank you enough for you kindness and patience with this request! I was nervous to write a HoH reader, but I truly hope I’ve done them justice. Please let me know what you think :) 

Hi could I request a Geralt x hard of hearing (HoH) reader? Could be hcs or maybe reader is nervous that they'll be a burden for geralt & jaskier to travel with? Ty!

The sun was about to set as you reached your destination, and while your feet throbbed angrily, you were glad to have powered on earlier in the day. You weren’t afraid of the woods at night, but you weren’t willing to fight for free. If you were going to kill, you were going to collect.

As you entered the town, you took note of its state. Multiple villagers were milling around the alleys, chatting under lanterns and clearing out their market stalls for the day. You were happy to see that this village was busy; villages with plenty of children and elders often had plenty of jobs needing to be done.

Your optimism was quickly dampened though, when you saw that there were only three signs on the notice board. Letting your bag drop to your feet with a huff, you massaged your shoulder as you scanned the board for anything worthwhile.

“Oh, thank god!” you muttered, upon seeing the first ad. It was posted by the town healer who was looking for an extensive collection of herbs – a collection you already had in your pack. Plus, they lived just off the town square, so you could drop off the herbs on your way to the inn.

The next ad was from someone begging for an exorcism for their child, who had apparently become possessed by a devil. You skipped it quickly, screwing your face up in disgust. You weren’t about to try that again.

The final post was from a local farmer requesting assistance in dealing with a banshee – this caught your attention. You felt like you’d struck gold here; there was no creature better suited to your abilities – or as some might say, lack thereof.

You were a little bitter that half the post had been torn off, so you had no idea who you were looking for, only where to look; the pub.

You hated a lot of things and many places, but if there was one thing you really couldn’t stand, it was small enclosed areas where hoards of people went to get drunk and shout. Between the collective shouting and slurring, you could never make heads or tails of what anyone was saying.

Sighing through your nose, you tore the rest of the ad off the board, picked up your bag and made way for the healer’s house before seeking out the pub.

Fortunately, the healer was beyond grateful for your herbs, and paid you handsomely for them. Weighing your bag of coin roughly in your hand, you contemplated whether or not a visit to the pub would be worth it.

While the healer paid you really well, that was no guarantee of long-term comfort. In the last village, you ended up paying more for a room at the inn than you’d made slaying two of their local terrors. You knew ridding someone of a banshee would pay well, but gods, you hated pubs.

It seemed fate made the decision on your behalf, however, as the pub and the inn were in the same building – you’d have to go into the pub to get yourself a room for the night.

Well, fuck, you thought, hiking your bag up higher on your shoulder, readying yourself for the dull and disorienting drone that awaited you inside. Here goes nothing. 

It was loud; so loud in fact, that you could feel it. You looked around hoping that the person you were looking for would somehow make themselves known, but all you saw were groups of rowdy men shouting and shoving one-another around the crowded space.

But just when you thought things couldn’t get worse, you spotted a bard. And he was really putting it on for the crowd.

Rolling your eyes, you pulled your bag up closer to yourself, conscious of the limited space, and plowed on. Once at the bar, you took a moment to lean up against it and tried to get your bearings. You’ve been living with your condition for most of your life now, having lost the majority of your hearing after an accident, but you didn’t think you’d ever get used to the overwhelming buzz that surrounded you in loud spaces. There was no discernable sound per say, it was all just noise.

You were lost in your discomfort when you felt someone grab at your elbow. You whipped your head around and found yourself face to face with a drunk woman.

“’e’s been askin’ ya a question!” she shouted at you, nodding to the bartender.

“Oh,” you exclaim, “thank you.” You say, pulling your arm out of her grasp and turning to face the bar, and impatient bartender.

“As I’ve been sayin’, ’ow can I ‘elp ya?” he says, leaning towards you to be heard above the noise.

“I need a room,” you said, leaning in yourself, “and I need to find the person who posted this.” You slam the torn ad on the bar and slide it towards him.

“Up the stairs, first door ‘o the left,” he says, sliding you a key, “and no need to worry ‘bout that lass, ‘e’s taken care o’ it, yeah?” As he said this though, he turned his face away from you to gesture towards the man in question.

Unable to read his lips, you looked to where he pointed in frustration, but all you saw was an over-confident bard strut around like a fool. You scoffed and turned back to the bartender to ask him to repeat himself, but he’d already walked off to serve someone else.

Scoffing, you grabbed the key to your room off the bar and stalked off in the direction he had pointed. You really hated pubs.

Seeing a new face, the bard danced his way over to you and blocked your path, clearly trying to make an impression. You pushed past him, rolling your eyes and muttering expletives. Despite his quick recovery, you could tell your dismissiveness stung him by the way his eyes fell, but you had no patience for bards.

With the flamboyant man behind you, you took another look around the space, meaning to head upstairs to your room, but that’s when you spotted it. A wolf-head medallion, glimmering under the low light of the pub.

And the man wearing it? The White Wolf himself.

You knew this is who the bartender was referring to. There was definitely no one else in your line of sight who could handle a banshee and then settle into a pub like it was nothing.

And the most frustrating thing? He looked bored. Bored! This man just robbed you of your livelihood then settled into the local pub like it was nothing?

The whole ‘hero’ narrative that was used when referring to the White Wolf definitely made sense now that you saw him. He was broad and brooding. Like, exceptionally broad. And extraordinarily brooding. Like nothing could phase him; but Gods, you were going to try.

Another slew of expletives left your lips as you charged up to him. The man didn’t even look up when you arrived at his table. It took you slamming the add down on his table for him to put down the tankard and look at you.

“You stole my job”, you said, putting your bag down and sitting across from him.

“Excuse me?” he said, he said in a low, gravely tone, fixing you with his intense stare. You’d never met a witcher before and his eyes caught you off guard.

You tapped your fingers against the torn piece of paper on the table and said, “Maybe next time, take the whole add down so others don’t get their hopes up?” You pushed the paper towards him with emphasis as you punctuated the last word.

He quirked up a brow, leaned back into his seat, and smirked a little as he sized you up.

“Tearing down posts to prevent competition,” he said, “is that your move?”

You tilted your head at him with furrowed brows. While you were relieved to that he spoke slowly and deliberately, so you could read his lips with ease, his devil-may-care air was pissing you off.

“It’s common curtesy,” you said, “if you’re taking care of it. You take it down.”

“Hm.” He said, behind his pint, not that you could hear him. He took a sip of his ale with curious, raised brows. “And if you fail to take care of their problem?”

“Wouldn’t be the end of the world,” you said, crossing your arms. “Besides, I always follow-through.”

“Always, hm?”

“Yes, witcher, always. And would you like to know why that is?”

The corner of his mouth curled up into another smirk as he gestured you to continue.

“I only take jobs,” you tap the piece of paper between the two of, holding his gaze, “I know I can do.”

You saw something in his face change as he considered your words. Slowly, he set his drink down and leaned forward, connecting the dots.

“So, you’ve been the reason every town I’ve passed has had nothing to offer,” he said, “no monsters anywhere for weeks – or so it seemed. I was beginning to think the world had sorted itself out.”

As he spoke, you looked from his mouth to his eyes quickly, following every word. He noticed this but said nothing, and for that you were grateful.

“Now witcher, please,” you said, feeling bold, “don’t tell me you’ve gone your long life having never encountered competition in your line of work?”

“None like you.”

You sat together in silence for a few moments, a strange comfort settling in.

You weren’t used to having such quick banter. Normally you missed half of what people said and got too frustrated to ask them to repeat themselves. It was nice to be fully engaged in the conversation for once. It was such a small thing, but you found yourself fighting back a wave of sadness as you realized how much you missed these moments of connection.

“Well,” you said, breaking the spell and moving to get up, “just, um, take down the posts in the future, alright witcher?”

“Geralt.”

“Yes, Geralt,” you smile, “of Rivia, the White Wolf, the butcher of Blaviken.” You count the names off your fingers one by one as you get up from the table, making Geralt fight back a smile himself.

“Wait – what’s your name?” he says a little too late, you already had you back turned. Hesitantly, he reached his hand out towards you and caught your hand in his, letting go the instant you turned back, looking down on him curiously.

“Sorry – I, hm, what is your name?”

“Y/N” you state simply.

Geralt quirks up a brow, waiting for you to go on. When you didn’t, he cleared his throat.

“Y/N… of?”

“Of nowhere of importance,” you say, “it’s just Y/N.”

“Hm.” He nods at you in an unspoken understanding, holding your gaze as you took a few steps backwards and away from him.

Just as you turn to make your way towards the stairs, you find yourself face to face with the bard. He’s looking from you to Geralt with eyes wide in confusion and curiosity. You smile to yourself as you push past him to the stairs.

You’re about to unlock the door to your room when you feel the floor vibrate beneath your feet. Someone of substantial weight was running up the wooden stairs behind you.

You turn quickly, your hand finding the hilt of your sword. But you release your grip when you see it was Geralt. Behind him you saw the bard craning his neck to stare through the bannisters, now looking positively concerned.

You thought you heard Geralt say something while you were looking down at the troubadour. Quickly, you brought your gaze back to him, looking from his mouth to his eyes. He was looking at you expectantly, so he was probably waiting for a reply. Fuck.

“Sorry,” you say, gesturing to your ear with your free hand, “I can’t, I mean, I didn’t hear you.”

Something seemed to click in his mind, because he took a step closer to you before repeating himself.

“What if there was no competition?” he said, thankfully at the same tone as he spoke to you downstairs. Once you registered his words however, you squinted at him playfully.

“Are you threatening me, Geralt?”

“Hm,” he bit back a smirk and shook his head, “No, Y/N. Travel with us, we will split the coin, double our workloads.”

“Us?” you had never heard of the White Wolf travelling with a group. Thinking you might have heard him wrong, and tired of needing to reply on lip reading; you unlock your door and push your way in, nodding for Geralt to follow you.

“Sorry, I don’t think I heard you right.” You say, dropping your bag on the bed with a thud.

“I’m asking you to join me on my travels, we can work together and split the coin.”

You took in his words slowly, drinking them in. Down in the in the pub, you could see his words, at times, feel them; but hearing them? That was something you truly weren’t expecting. Geralt had what might be the deepest voice you’ve ever heard.

“You said, ‘us’, before,” you said, sitting on the chair in the corner and removing your boots, “isn’t that what you said?”

“Hm,” he hummed, you watched him closely. Oh, the things you missed when you couldn’t hear, you thought sullenly. “You’re right, I did. The bard, Jaskier, he’s with me.”

“The bard?!” you laughed, finding it impossible to picture the broad brooding man before you with the man you saw downstairs. “And you tolerate him?”

“Hm,” he laughed through his nose, “I’ve learned to tune him out.”

“Hm?” you repeat, teasingly, picking up on his verbal tick, “Is that so?”

He squints at you in mock contempt, and makes a scene of standing up from the edge of the bed where he’d settled.

“I take back my offer,” he states, turning his head so you could see him say as well as hear him, as he makes his way for the door.

“Geralt, wait,” you exclaim through what was left of your laughter, “you really want me to join you? Despite my…” you gesture vaguely to your ears.

The witcher stopped in his tracks and looks down at you meaningfully.

“Y/N,” he says, “you said it yourself, you and I are currently fighting for the same work, and you’ve proven yourself to be an extraordinary fighter – villages up and down the continent has benefitted from your work.”

He takes another step closer to you before finishing his thought.

“Despite your…” he mimics your previous gesture with a small smile.

“I really don’t want to be a burden to you,” you say, in a small voice, “or Jaskier, the bard, or anyone.”

“Impossible.” He states firmly, leaving no room for argument, but his eyes betrayed a gentleness.  

You had to admit it was an amazing offer. To no longer be alone. To be with someone who spoke to you with respect, not yelling at you or mocking you for your condition. Working within a team would also allow you a sense of security you haven’t known for, well, far too long.

Geralt must have sensed that you were nearing a decision because he placed his hand on your shoulder and gave it a reassuring squeeze, eyes never leaving yours.

“I was planning on leaving this village tomorrow…” you start, “and if you’re certain –”

“– I am.”

“Well, then I guess we leave tomorrow.” You say, putting your hand over his, and returning the comfort he had given you.

“Perfect.” He says, gentle eyes holding yours for another moment before he cast them downward and pull his hand away.

Once he was well out of your room and you had made your way to bed, you finally began accepting the reality of what you had agreed to.

After years of living in the shadows, ashamed of who you where and what you couldn’t do. You’d be a part of a team. One that would value you and lean on you for support as much as you did them.

You settled into your bed and closed your eyes, letting the welcomed silence wash over you. You supposed you’d have to learn to tune out the bard too. At least you had an advantage.

[acommonloon]

TL;DR

about last night's mperfect ending. After stops at three Louisville venues, each more fun than the last, we decided to get a nightcap in New Albany. We didn't manage to get a drink at any of four stops in that sleepy town but we did witness a police officer chasing a black man down the side of State Street. Still watching for a news report.

Alternately a night for Morgans

_____________________________________________________________

D's niece's husband, J, is a sweet guy. He has almost no family of his own living in the area and his own family unit consists of an unruly teen (not his) a precocious 6 year old and 3 year old twins. It's a lot.

With that in mind, I always wait for him to contact me and he always earns his kitchen passes so when he texted me he had a free night out I was glad to hang with him. I only asked if he had a curfew. No sir. He's nearing 40 and regularly admits he wishes he could more often frequent the places D and I do, meaning bars and restaurants. I remember those days when self came last.

Our 1st stop was World of Beer. With 50+ taps and hundreds of bottles and cans sitting in glass front coolers directly across from the bar, it's one of my go to spots. J immediately set about building a flight of five small pours while I took my time picking one or two low gravity beers to sip since I was driving. They had two bartenders on this Wednesday night, Morgan was ours and our service was prompt and friendly. By the time we finished a plate of tots, loaded with melted cheese and fresh jalapeno slices I had our plan.

I hadn't been to Commonwealth Tap since before 2020. This small wine bar is in a movie set sort of town called Norton Commons. Think "The Truman Show." The houses were all built over a small number of years and though they are comprised of many different styles, with no two near each other being the same, they are on the same size lots and there is no variety in terms of weathering or decoration. Everything to plan. Unreal. Creepy.

I glanced at the wine list on a chalkboard noticing a Turley Zin at $18 and a Cotes de Rhone at $8. When the bartender asked what I wanted, I said, "Talk me out of the Turley and into the Cotes. He hesitated for a second and I said, "I want something minerally, earthy, not fruity." Like a Beaujolais Morgon or an Italian grown on the side of a volcano. Before he could reply, a guy sitting at the bar said we don't have that on tap. The Cotes is your best option and the bartender handed me a generous taste saying, try that.

I took the glass all the while evaluating the man who'd spoken up. He'd said "we" don't have that. He was alone at the bar except for us. I doubted he was just a bold regular, maybe drunk, who felt everyone benefited from his opinion, he wasn't drunk. Then he stood up and walked over the the wine racks. His search was one of familiarity and he pulled a bottle and sat it down on the bar next to me. Was he an employee or maybe a distributor on good terms with the staff? Then he began talking about the wine, about his many trips to France, and I suddenly I knew. "You're an owner here aren't you?"

He laughed and admitted he was. He introduced himself, Neal Morgan and for the next 40 mins or so he told us about himself and the bar. He told us about his wife, a pediatrician who worked for 20 years in Indiana and he went so far as to describe his Scottish heritage along with his general thinking about wines. When he said he was going a friend's house for a pizza party, I thought he was about to leave. Then he said he was going to take a kick ass wine but first he wanted me to taste it. It was a California pinot noir priced at $30 more than the first bottle he'd put down on the bar. It was fantastic! He gave us tasting notes and I admitted I couldn't perceive half of what he reeled off. I said he spoke like a sommelier and he laughed again and said he claimed he had a better palate than Kenny, the sommelier who worked for him. He thanked us for coming in and seemed sincere. When he left, J looked at me and said, "That was amazing." I laughed and said it was a Wednesday at a bar.

Before we left, I asked Rainha to make me a Penicillin and we talked about Scotch. She related how she introduced her brother to Scotch and now that's all he drank. We talked about how things were during the shutdown and I told her about a new place I'd been the previous Saturday. Outside, J exclaimed this was just the best time! He said he'd never be able to talk staff like that, let alone the owner. I said talking to industry people was one of my favorite things. They are so interesting and I think they find it refreshing when someone at the bar wants to hear about them instead of wanting to talk about themselves. Then I said, I know where we'll go next. Maybe Stephen is working.

Our next stop was at Cuvee Wine Table and Stephen greeted me at the door with a huge "Shane!" and a hug. If J was impressed with Commonwealth, I thought he should fasten his seatbelt. Stephen is a trip. Except, Stephen exclaimed I'm on this side of the bar now! To my quizzical look, he said he was the manager now. Amidst introductions, our bartender, Andie came over and introduced herself. She was tall, regally thin, and wore a colorful scarf on her head. She offered an engaging personality I perceived as professional banter but sensed alos she seemed to enjoy her job.

When I described what kind of wine I preferred, she said, "OOh how about a white?" Ooookay??? I thought to myself, this is going to be fun. Stephen came back as Andy set my glass down in front of me and asked, "What are we having?" Andie said, it's the Santorini. Stephen, a newly minted sommelier, immediately launched into an enthusiastic description about this remarkable wine from a Greek Island. He said it was so constantly windy, they braided the vine boughs into bowls to protect the fruit on the inside. I smelled it and it reminded me of a Sav Blanc but when I tasted it, I knew I'd found a new favorite. It had a salty savory aspect with more minerality than any white I'd had previously.

Andie was from Lexington and our other bartender, Heather, was newly arrived from the Nashville area. Heather was training behind the bar but seemed tres calm. At one point she asked us to wish her luck and I realized she was going to take an order. When she came back, I was a little surprised but delighted when J asked her where she was from specifically. It turned out they were from the same area and knew the same high schools and such. Great fun. When Stephen came and asked if we were eating, I said, "What am I having?" The cassoulet he responded immediately and then he tried to add in sweet breads but I insisted I was out on that. J selected a flatbread and when my giant bowl of white beans with pork and a small chicken leg came, I felt I'd got the better order. He admitted sheepishly he just didn't like beans and that was that.

I suggested we finish with a French brandy served in proper snifters and asked for a bottle of the Santorini to go home. It was full dark but comfortably warm walking to the car and J asked if I were up for one more on him. I suggested we go see Emily at Brooklyn and the Butcher. She made me a perfect drink in January and I'd been craving another ever since.

All the way to New Albany, J kept bringing up how much he enjoyed the two wine bars and how he hoped he and his wife could indulge in similar experiences when their children were older. He worried his wife didn't really like anything but sweet wine and was picky about that. I laughed and said D was exactly the same but she was game to hang out and recently started to appreciate ciders and frutied beers, and even some semi-sweet wines.

There were still plenty of cars parked on the street when we arrived at Brooklyn and the Butcher. I noticed there was no one at the hostess stand when we walked in but I breezed past into the bar. There were two women sitting at the bar and I was a bit disappointed when I realized the bartender wasn't Emily. I was even more so when she came over and apologized but said they'd closed already. I laughed and made a joke about the owner being an old man for closing so early then I realized who it was sitting at the bar. I asked, "Is that Emily sitting at the bar?" she said it was and I got up and walked over. We talked for ten minutes about my last visit and I asked her about her trip to Savannah. She kept apologizing for the bar being closed but I assured her I would be back. It was fine, we'd walk down to The Earl.

I got a bad vibe the minute we walked in. The bar was mostly full and there was only one bartender. He was wearing short shorts and took forever to get us a drink menu then never looked our way for the next five minutes. I suggested we go to Recbar nearby. There it was the same. The lone bartender, woman this time, was overwhelmed and though the bar was half empty she never looked our way before I lost patience.

Okay then. We were driving to my final option (so I thought) when I stopped at a light. J said, "Look at that! A cop is chasing that guy!" Sure enough through the sparse traffic I could see a black guy sprinting along the side of the normally busy road. His arms were pistoning up and down, his hands flattened into chopping motions like a track sprinter. Coming behind but steadily losing ground was a hefty police officer. He looked ridiculous and I can only imagine he might be thinking everyone watching thought he looked ridiculous. I wondered if he might pull his gun.

The light turned green then and I moved forward. That's when we spotted a car with the front passenger side crushed in where it had impacted the guardrail, on the opposite side of the road. There was a cop car with its lights flashing parked behind it. I couldn't see any activity around the cars as we drove past. About a half mile up the road we pulled into the parking lot of our 4th attempt to get a last drink. It was closed.

We laughed and decided we'd had enough fun. As we headed back towards the scene of the incident, sirens and flashing lights were suddenly all around us. I guess there was a manhunt. I weaved through parked cruisers while J counted eight more with lights flashing on side streets . Fifteen minutes later I dropped him off. He thanked me profusely but it nothing but what I like to do anyway.

20 mins later I pulled into the garage and for a second my heart did the little flutter it always does when I see D's car parked in its spot. Then I sighed remembering she wasn't home and wouldn't be for another week.

Just a Wednesday.

[ffangirlingsince2001]

End of the Tunnel: II

Description: It’s almost been a year since Freed Weasley was lost to the Battle of Hogwarts, and for George Weasley it might as well be an eternity. He is lost in the dark, no color to be found. Until suddenly there might be a light at the end of the tunnel.

Warnings: (future as well as present) suicidal thoughts, smut, angst, fluff, depression,  attempted SUICIDE, self harm, torture, mentions of torture

A/N: Sorry just a filler chapter.

Masterlist

***

The next morning wasn’t the first time George dreaded having to get out of bed. It had happened every other day, but on that morning, there was a very different reason why. Instead of the feeling of the world crushing him, agony erupting from his lungs as his ribs pierced into tender muscle, the most beautiful girl he had ever met was snuggled into his side, the only weight a small hand resting against his chest.

And he felt like he could soar. His heart beat, slow and soft, in rhythm with hers. He could not remember the last time he had felt this happy. It certainly wasn’t after… Fred’s death. Suddenly, the joy slunk away like a child caught playing with a toy that didn’t belong to them and guilt replaced it with a mighty grin. How could even dare to be happy, to consider a future that contained gladness when Fred was buried six feet under. He threw the covers off his lower half and moved to climb out of bed, his lungs aching once more, but a hand held him close. It wasn’t a strong grip, but as he pulled away it caught his hand. He glanced down at their interlocked fingers, peace mixing with the guilt.

“It’s still early,” she muttered, blinking open sleepy eyes. He wanted to make an excuse, a reason why he couldn’t stay in her arms, but he couldn’t think of one when she was staring at him like that.

“I’m going to make some tea,” he lamely replied, and she groaned but let him go. He stepped into the kitchen; aware she was watching from her place among the sheets. His hands were shaking as he filled the kettle with water and searched for the cannister of tea. He had to get her out of here before he allowed himself to settle back into happiness, but that was going to be difficult because the larger part of himself didn’t want her to leave. While the water boiled, he leaned against the counter and pondered his predicament, forcing his eyes to stay away from his bed. He was successful too, until she spoke.

“What’s wrong?” His eyes snapped to hers and they made him want to fall into her arms. They were soft and empathetic, ready to take anything he had to give, but what they didn’t understand is he didn’t have anything worth giving.

“Nothing,” he lied, and she tilted her head, studying him.

“You know, bartenders are trained in the skill of knowing when someone is upset. It helps us sell drinks. And I know somethings up, and if it’s me I’ll leave.”

“No,” he practically shouted, mentally cursing himself. She had given him an out, a glorious opportunity and he had butchered it like some lovesick fool. “I mean it’s not you.” She smiled and patted the be beside her.

“Want to tell me about it or are you going to make me guess?” He wandered to her side and let her pull him into bed. He sat on the edge, wringing his hands as he tried to decide what to say. He hadn’t told anyone, they either knew already and those who didn’t know didn’t matter. Except her, she mattered more than he could comprehend. It wasn’t until she took his nervous hands in her own and offered him a reassuring smile that he was able to untie his tongue.

“I have a pretty big family, four brothers, one sister, and Fred, my twin.” he began, taking a deep breath. “We all fought in the war, and we all survived, up until the last battle. I wasn’t there when it happened, but Fred, he, he died,” he said the lump in his throat growing as tears welled in his eyes. “God, he was my best friend, we did everything together, until that last moment and I wasn’t there. I didn’t even know until an hour had gone by and I wandered into the infirmary, and there he was, cold and lifeless.” He glanced at Hannah and was surprised to see tears falling down her cheeks as well. “It’s been awful since, everything I’ve ever known has been with Fred and now I’ve got to figure out how to do it alone,” he was choking on sobs now, dissolving into the whimpering mess he had feared he would become, but he couldn’t stop. “And you’re so amazing I never want you to leave, but it feels like a dishonor, like being happy is the greatest betrayal.” He buried his face in his hands, shoulders shaking as he tried to hold in his sobs. He felt her lean into his shoulder, arms wrapping around his shoulders as he cried.

They stayed like that until the kettle whistled and she pulled away. When she returned, she knelt in front of him and pulled his hands into hers. Her eyes were still moist with tears but there was a determined look on her face, a warrior preparing for battle.

“I never met Fred, but if he was your best friend, I can’t imagine he would want you to be sad for the rest of eternity,” she began, tears still streaming down her face, “I can’t imagine he would want you to take the world upon your shoulders and suffer until the exhaustion kills you. He fought for a better, safer world for you and your family, and me, he didn’t even know me, and he fought for me. So, I know I’m biased because I greatly benefit from your happiness, but I can’t imagine he would want you to give up now that you are in the world he helped to create.” George leaned down and captured her face in his hands, pulling her lips to his. She climbed into his lap and he hugged her as tightly as he could. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know what to say,” she whispered when she realized he was crying again.

“No, no, it was good,” he assured her with a laugh, an overwhelming sense of gratitude sending the second wave of tears. She pulled away and smiled, palms pressed to his cheeks. It was strange that telling her about the tragedy had made him feel better, and it was even stranger that she hadn’t left when the tears began. He hadn’t felt this good in days, holding a beautiful woman and a slight reprieve from the weight on his chest must have been the greatest medicine ever discovered.

“Let me make you breakfast,” she whispered against his cheek, fly aways brushing his lips as she spoke. He nodded but continued to hold her tight, unwilling to let her go quite yet. “George, you have to let go,” she giggled, squirming out of his grasp but he rolled over, sandwiching her between him and the bed. “George!”

“Yes?” he asked, burying his face in her hair.

“I have to be able to get up to make your breakfast.”

“You could be the breakfast,” he muttered a little louder than he had intended. He glanced at her nervously, pleased to see blush blossoming over her cheeks. She smiled through the blush and wrapped a leg around him before flipping them both over and pressing a kiss to his nose.

“How about eggs and bacon instead?” he sighed as she wandered away, pulling his button up over her shoulders and switching on the oven before rummaging in through his fridge. He leaned back against the pillows a dopey smile. Long legs poking from behind the fridge door were enough to make any man go wild, but hers, oh god, for some reason hers made his stomach do cartwheels and his lung do flips.

“You don’t have any eggs,” she yelled from behind the door, “Actually, you don’t have anything more than week old ramen, hot sauce, and a case of beer.”

“Do you want to come to work with me?” he asked, and her head popped up and she quirked an eyebrow.

“What?”

“Do you want to come to work with me? I don’t have any food, so we can stop for breakfast and then I’ll take you to work, introduce you to my brother and his girl, I don’t know.”

“Where do you work?”

“The happiest place on earth.”

[fungusry]

MAFIA of MONSTERS?? Tell me more 👀 👀 👀

OHOHOHO YOU JUST OPENED A CAN OF WORMS, BUDDY!

I’m going to put this under a read-more because I’ve got a lot to rattle off!

The Monster Mafia is exactly that: a group of monsters that engage in organized crime! They operate in New Haven, a heavily magically-influenced city that's home to a whole plethora of magical creatures dubbed “Monsters”.

Marx Spinnerrett, who l just answered an ask about, is our lovable protagonist, a country boy with a heart of gold that was accidentally hired by said mafia. The story (which I desperately need to write) follows his misadventures as he comes to term with his new lifestyle.

He’s also technically immortal, but that’s a whole ‘nother story.

I have at least 16 other members designed!

Anna Bychkov-Devereux is a bull-like Monster that was born in Russia. She immigrated to New Haven when she was only a teenager and ended up becoming a pit fighter (which is how she lost her right eye). Joined the Monster Mafia not too long after! She’s a professional boxer now and is married to Sophia Bychkov-Devereux :)

Sophia Bychkov-Devereux is a squid-like Monster that was born in France. She immigrated to New Haven after graduating from college and pursued a profession in law, where she was adopted into the Monster Mafia as a master of finances. She’s married to Anna and is actually her accountant!

Jin Vertebræ is the bartender/owner of the Black Rose, a bar where the Monster Mafia base their operations! No one actually knows much about their background, but some people have spread the rumor that they used to be human, but became a Monster after living in New Haven for too long. Nobody asks, though. Last person that did ended up on the bar’s menu.

Holly Hammerhands is an autistic Monster and talented surgeon! She was recruited by the Monster Mafia sometime in her twenties for her skills and has been an indispensable member ever since. She’s blind and senses the world around her my clacking and grinding her teeth, as well as making different clicking/squeaking noises. Also kicks ass at darts.

Sinclair Hammerhands is Holly’s adopted Monster daughter, who was left on her doorstep as a baby! She isn’t necessarily a member of the Monster Mafia, but happily claims she will be one day. Holly does not like this claim. She’s a big fan of picking locks and getting into places where she shouldn’t be.

George and Lenny Slithera are a pair of conjoined, snake-like Monsters often referred to by the rest of the Monster Mafia as “Snake-Eyes”! They bicker constantly and are pretty unreliable as a result. Pretty good at playing Poker and Craps, but that’s probably because they work ok tandem cheat.

Tobias Thunderhorn is a beetle-like Monster that works with his parents as a butcher. He’s a sweet guy, really, and would actually rather be a baker! Never really tells anybody that, though, since they’d just poke fun at the guy.

Charlie Caine is a worm-like Monster that functions as the Monster Mafia’s primary loanshark! Most of the time she works at a local strip joint as a standup comedian. Her sense of humor is absolutely atrocious and consists mostly of dark/immoral jokes. She’s essentially what happens when you season a tapeworm.

Mortimer Sporestool is a fungus-like Monster that owns a casino! He used to sell used cars and scam people out of their money when he was younger. Smells like cigar smoke and always keeps cards hidden in his sleeves. Do not take bets from this man.

Travis Valentino is a burlesque dancer! He acts as an informant for the Monster Mafia, in a way, since he tends to... get around. Ever since Marx moved to New Haven he’s been all over him, but it’s all been a harmless little game, really. Mostly.

Willow Waxing is a Monster made out of wax that works for New Haven City Hall as a receptionist! She’s smarter than she lets on to be and is incredibly ruthless in the workforce. Snacks on candles like they’re Hershey’s Kisses.

Greta Folter is a goat-like Monster that films “home movies” as a source of income, and by “home movies” I mean snuff films, which is why she’s a part of the Monster Mafia to begin with. Certified MILF hunter. Likes a woman who can kick her ass.

“Tío” Tony Umbraluto is actually the big bad bastard in charge of the Monster Mafia! He’s a slime Monster, with all of that goop kinda wrapped up in a dark, congealed skin. Was groomed into assuming the mantle as a child by his parents and filled that role well. He’s incredibly charming and compassionate in the public eye, since he works in City Hall as the mayor’s aide, but is ruthless and cutthroat behind the scenes. Unsure of whether or not to murder Marx and bury his remains under a construction site.

Thomas Umbraluto is Tony’s twin brother and Marx’s love interest! He works at a joint called the “Sanguine Café” as the vocalist of a jazz band. Defected from his parent’s demands to join the Monster Mafia when he was of age; led to a horrible split between him and the rest of his family. He can’t stand being around Tony anymore, five minutes in a room together and they’ll start throwing hands.

Ennard Blackthorne Copperfield Mirrormask is a marionette-like Monster that owns his own magic shop, called “Ennard’s Enchantments”! He’s more of an affiliate of the Monster Mafia, supplying illegal magical items and things like that. Most of the time, he’s either experimenting with black magic or ripping holes in the fabric of reality. It’s fine.

Borris Crowfoot, last but not least, is a bird-like Monster and the chief of the New Haven Police Department! He’s a dirty cop and often risks his career to aid the Monster Mafia (probably forced into joining the family against his will when he was younger). Has two little girls and is recently divorced since his wife discovered she was a lesbian and it’s funnier than her being dead.

[sp00kworm]

Butterfly

Pairing: Jesse Cromeans / Chromeskull x Female Reader

Warnings: Slasher horror and gore

A/N: This fic is blocked from the tags but please enjoy! Reblogs are always appreciated. Gif is by me.

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His home was lonely. Jesse looked at the clock, his eyes burning with the need to sleep, but his mind racing. It was late. Approaching eleven o’clock. He’d had to work today. His company didn’t run itself, and there was a lot of accounting and management to do outside of his little hobby. Jesse looked away from the clock and stretched his jaw, the bone clicking from where he was cracked around the face with the bat. The bone had healed rather easily, but it hurt from time to time. His face, that was mauled. He wasn’t the stud he used to be. Handsome, a straight jaw and high cheekbones. Cynically, he snorted at the picture on the mantle he had of him and his late wife. Mrs Cromeans clutched at his arm at some high-class party, her red lips spread in a smile to match Jesse’s smirk. The second was him kissing at her cheek as she pushed him away. Sentimental. He was feeling sentimental. He didn’t hate his wife. She was convenient. A life outside of his hobby. Pretty. He didn’t even know she was pregnant. The police informant he had revealed the death report tentatively to him. The unborn child inside her wasn’t old enough to be saved. An accident he never expected to occur. He’d been gone nearly 4 months, and she was pregnant. He didn’t remember a message, but then he tended to let Spann handle such things. He probably ignored it. Jesse stood from his black leather couch and walked to the mantle.

He took the picture in his hand. His face was partially cut off, the camera focused on his wife and her smile. Jesse looked at it before he leaned over and threw it on the fire. The glass shattered with the force of hitting the logs and the frame quickly burst into flames, black paint peeling off the wood as it crackled and snapped. The photos disappeared into curling pieces of charcoal and he watched the frame burn with a certain amount of upset. Sentiment, he reminded himself, as he pushed himself away from the mantlepiece and touched the tattoo on his chest. The shaded skull stared back at him with hollow eyes. It was a reminder of the urges he had. With a sigh, he touched at his arms and traced the patterns of screaming, swirling ghouls all the way down to his wrist before daring to stand up a little bit straighter. He reached for the laptop of his coffee table and opened a chat window with Spann. It took a moment for the secure connection to open properly.

 Spann’s face appeared in the bottom corner, her tired eyes looking at him through the camera. She was still sat in the office, but she gave him a smile, “What can I do for you, Sir?” She asked as she shuffled the paperwork away.

Jesse made sure his face was out of frame, ‘Make sure there is a clean-up crew on standby.’

Spann peered at the text, “Of course, Sir. Where are you heading out to?” She asked curiously as her fingers whipped across the keyboard lightning fast, “You’ve been in Hollywood for a while now, have you finally taken a fancy to someone? You’ve not been as active as you once were.” She smiled, sickly sweet and twisted, just like she always did.

‘Just have the crew ready. I will text if I find something.’

“Of course. Have fun, Sir.” Spann nodded and he closed the chat window before disconnecting from all the rerouting services and opening the internet to have a look for a bar that suited his fancy. Something exclusive so he didn’t have to sit and be gawked at by people that could well lose their eyes. His good eye roved the names of bars before he spotted a club. He recognised the name. A mob boss run thing, he was sure, but it would mean he didn’t get stared at with a knife on his hip underneath his jacket. Perfect. Jesse snapped his laptop closed and headed upstairs for a shower and to get appropriately dressed up.

 The hot water eased his sore back, but it hurt on the sensitive skin of his face. He covered his face with a hand to his forehead as he washed the smell and aches from himself. The soap was sensitive, and he carefully washed his face, making sure to get around his eyes, to avoid any form of gunky infections. Those had been hell when he was laid in the hospital bed recovering. Still, a great deal of more work on his face this past year had made him far more recognisable, but it wasn’t the same. He was still scarred and twisted, his nose looking rather out of place. He ran a finger over the rougher skin, where the scaring was worst, tracing back over his forehead from his eyebrow. They had managed to graft new muscle and replace areas that were damaged. He felt more human now, but nothing would ever replace how he used to appear. Still, Jesse had paid good money for his better face, and he would be damned if he didn’t use it a little. He turned off the shower and dripped in the wet room for a moment before he wrapped a towel around his waist and pulled his razor out to sheer the hair from his head. It was therapeutic. Jesse leaned over the water to catch the hair on the back of his head before he held his jaw and angled the mirror to check his face. Nothing grew anymore, but that didn’t stop him checking.

 He turned the mirror to his face and stroked the newly constructed nose. It had been four months of healing this time around. Plastic surgery galore. He’d had mountains of work since his run in with Princess’ little friend. He almost resembled a person. Still, he was scarred, and his eyebrows no longer grew hair along with his jaw. He was still blind in one eye, the brown eye cloudy. Jesse plucked his eyepatch from the shelf and replaced it before brushing his perfect teeth. He had paid too much money for most of himself to neglect it. He towelled himself off and walked from the bathroom to his room, stark naked, stretching his back before he plucked out his designer black shirt, trousers, and jacket. Once he was dressed, he pulled on his oxfords and pulled his case from underneath the floorboards. Jesse undid the latches and peered inside. The chrome skull stared back at him, along with the polished knives he used to remove pieces of his victims. The box of gloves sat nestled in the top corner but he didn’t put any on for the time being, letting his tattooed hands breathe. He pushed his fists together and looked at the two words. The words ‘FEAR’ and ‘PAIN’ looked back at him. With a final adjustment of his cufflinks, he took his wallet from the nightstand and left his house, activating the alarm and locking the door before he opened his Chrysler 300 and slid into the roomy interior. The engine roared to life before he pulled away from the drive. Jesse rolled down the tinted window before he pushed his middle finger out of it, flagging the neighbours who glared at him from their windows.

 The bar was half of a club with the back for exclusive clients, which ranged from those involved in mob work, to celebrities. Jesse tugged at the breast of his jacket as he let the eager doorman take his car around the back. He stopped him with a finger in the air and he unlocked his phone and typed into the speech app.

‘Open the trunk or my glovebox and I’ll have your fingers, bellboy.’

“Yes, Sir.” He swallowed as he climbed into the Chrysler, pulling it away smoothly into the back of the club. Jesse looked around, his silver mask shining in the gaudy lighting. The mob knew him. He was the one who moved the weapons through his shelter companies. He took care of some of their business, butchering people like pigs for them when they took his fancy, and in, exchange, they let him have his pick of their girls for his games. He stepped through the door and a bouncer waved at him from the curtain separating the areas. The bar went around both sides, but no one could see through the curtains. Jesse walked through the bar, passing a group of women in lingerie as the bouncer let him through the other side.

“Good to see you again.” He grunted, looking up at the man as he drew out his phone.

‘Did you miss me?’ Jesse snarked through the automatic voice.

“You’re hardly any trouble.” He tipped his head towards a booth, “Make yourself at home.”

Jesse walked past him and headed for his table, pulling the curtains back before he placed his briefcase down and slid inside, sighing with the low lighting. He relaxed back against the cushions and reached for the mask over his face. With a hum, he pushed his thumbs into the mild adhesive and plucked the piece of chrome free with a twist underneath his chin in order to apply a new layer.

 It was quiet at this side of the bar, the curtains blocking out a lot of the noise and the people that he didn’t want to look at. Exclusive. Jesse ran his fingers over the leather of the couch and hummed at the quality before he tucked his case beside him. The knife strapped beneath his jacket wasn’t going to cause any problems here. Jesse pulled the case around and listened as the curtains rustled beside him. He was used to this. The silver skull turned to face the red fabric and Jesse lounged back on his seat as it parted to reveal the curious face of the bartender. He smiled behind his mask at the professional wear, a shirt and bowtie on. His eyes roved lower behind the black material over his eyes, looking at the short skirt attached. Perfect. He greedily took in the sight, laid back against the cushioning, and slid his phone from his pocket.

 You nervously parted the curtains of the exclusive booth and poked your head inside. Great, you thought as you slid the notebook from your pocket, holding your pen in your hand as you tried not to stare at the silver mask leering ominously back at you. His head dipped to look at your legs, admiring the view.

“What can I get you, Sir.” You asked, pen poised to write on the paper, “Any food or are you just drinking?”

The man in the mask didn’t respond, but his fingers whizzed across the keyboard of the phone, typing out something across the screen. He turned the screen to show you the words, ‘Drink. A bottle of bourbon. The one at six hundred.’

“Okay. Do you want a glass and ice?” You asked carefully, watching as he tilted his masked face.

His fingers clicked rapidly across the keyboard again, ‘Two ice cubes. Crystal tumbler.’

You had his sort before, “Of course, Sir.” You ducked back out and replaced the curtains before you headed back towards the bar to grab the expensive, six-hundred-dollar bottle of bourbon whiskey.

 Jesse watched you through a small parting in the curtain, eyes following your backside as you returned to your colleague at the bar. He made sure to drop the curtain back into place as you turned from the bar and headed back towards him.

 “Your drink, and your glass.” You placed the bottle and the tumbler down in front of the chrome-faced man and watched his tattooed fingers twitch against the leather as he leaned over to inspect what you had brought him.

Lazily, he took hold of the bottle neck, and peered at the label before he nodded and typed rapidly on the phone again, ‘Thanks. Run along, Piggy.’

You nodded and left his booth alone, catching a glimpse of tattooed hands pouring a drink as the red curtain closed behind you.

“Rude asshole.” You muttered under your breath as you headed back towards the bar, where you were needed on the other side, with the normal clientele of the bar. They were perhaps worse than the questionable celebrities and mobsters of the exclusive side, but you could cope with serving the sex workers and incredibly drunk men.

 Joe gave you a look of concern as you came back through the curtain. He was an old man and had worked at the bar since he was young. He knew the sorts that tended to frequent the establishment. He leaned over towards you as you threw some glasses in the box for cleaning.

“Don’t fuck with that one.” He whispered, “The Boss doesn’t like him here, but he puts up with it. Rumour is he’s a bit of a knife for hire. Tends to get those jobs that required someone gutting for a video.” Joe scowled and rubbed at his moustache, “Stay far away and keep him happy with drinks.”

“Thanks, Joe.” You uttered before you served a beer, “What’s with the mask?”

Joe shook his head, “Best not to ask.” He then left you alone as you pulled pints of beer for a group. It wasn’t long before you swapped again into the back, smiling as you peered at the booths. You frowned as the curtain to the stranger’s flickered and he waved his hand before he curled his finger towards himself and pushed the phone through.

“Come here.” The automated voice called ominously, and you took a deep breath before you opened the bar door and headed towards the booth again, your notepad in hand. You parted the curtain and smiled at the mysterious man.

 What you saw shocked you a little. He’d taken the mask off, revealing his scarred face to you. You tried not to stare, you really did. Awkwardly, you maintained the smile as he stared up at you, brown eyes dark as though he was daring you to say a word. One was covered with an eyepatch.

The phone clicked away before the screen was presented, ‘Entertain me.’ The voice was absent this time.

You read the words and frowned, “I can offer you a food menu or a different drink, Sir.” You replied quietly, dreading the next words that were going to come out of his mouth, “Unfortunately we don’t have any live music…and other options are not in my job description.”

Tattooed fingers curled against the leather before he grinned, exposing, bright, white teeth in a vicious smile. His chest jumped before he gave out a breathy, long chuckle. He curled his finger again for you to properly step into the booth.

He typed on the phone again before holding it up for you to see, ‘I don’t want you to suck my cock. Sit. Talk.’

Suddenly, you felt a little bit stupid, “Talk? What about?” You were still suspicious of the man.

‘Your boss. He owes me something. I want to know more.’ He turned the phone back to himself and typed again, ‘Ever mention ChromeSkull?’

 Suddenly, you realised who he was. The personalised plates out the back of the bar, and the chromed mask in his lap. This was a dangerous man. Still, he was very capable of ending you now, with no one there to see.

“He doesn’t talk about business in the bar.” You swallowed nervously, “He only said he hoped he never saw your face in here again.” Your gut dropped as you realised either way, you might die.

‘Thanks, sweet thing.’ He typed and showed you before continuing, ‘Call me Jesse.’ You watched his face smile again and suddenly you realised that once he was very handsome. It looked like acid or chemical burn scarring. The mob liked to disfigure people as pay back sometimes, but you had an inkling his weren’t inflicted by the mafia.

‘What’s your name?’ He pushed the screen before your eyes as his fingers danced over the leather.

You cleared your throat and told him, “So are you here for payback?”

‘Something like that.’ He replied on screen, ‘Better company this time.’

Flattering but you still wanted out of the conversation. There wasn’t an opportunity to, however, because as you stood up to straighten yourself out, your boss walked into the booth.

 Judgemental eyes roved you up and down, spotting you playing with your skirt. Jesse was quick to turn and replaced his mask, before your boss could see, the medical adhesive painted along the seams and the area of his nose. He turned back to look at Antony, the owner, with the haunting black eyes of the chrome skull mask peering through him.

“Making yourself at home with my staff?” Antony shot as he pulled a cigarette from between his lips, his face twisted with a glare, “Pretty sure you’re not welcome here anymore.” He dragged a hand through his slicked back, brown hair and snarled viciously before he returned the cigarette to his lips for another nervous drag.

Jesse’s mask tilted before he pointed a finger through the curtains and let the automated voice speak for him, “Justin had no issue letting me in, Antony.” He continued, “Plus, you owe me.”

“If this is about that fucking weapons crate again. I swear to God I didn’t know it was rigged to blow.” He dragged on his cigarette again.

“You lost me a factory, Antony.” The automatic voice droned hauntingly, “And I still haven’t had the compensation.”

“You’ll get your money, shit face.” Antony’s hand twitched for his jacket.

 You panicked as Antony took a seat across from Jesse, his fingers steepled under his chin. It was tense, and you began to panic as Jesse loomed over in the man’s personal space. He was a giant, solid wall of power, and you instinctively took a step back.

Antony clicked at you, “Drinks. Pour them. One for our guest here too.” You nodded and dashed for another glass for Antony before shakily taking the bottle in your hand and pouring both of them shots.

Jesse ignored the drink as he took his silver briefcase and slammed it on top of the table. The wood shuddered under the force of the blow and you jumped as he snapped open the clips.

“Put your fucking knives away, Cromeans.” Antony scoffed.

Jesse slid his first, sharp hunting knife free from his hip and you swallowed as he took a camera from the case. The device had a stand that clipped to his shoulder and he snapped the little tripod on before tapping the top. A red light blinked on. Recording.

“Oh, so you’ve come for something to play with?” Antony laughed, “There’s a toy stood right next to you. Be my fucking guest!” He exclaimed.

 You gave a squeak as Jesse’s large hands grappled you by the waist, dragging you into his lap, your legs pinned between his own as he breathed down your neck. He trapped you as he reached for the box of black nitriles in his case. Methodically, he peeled one free at a time and tugged them over the black tattoos covering his hands. The black nitrile traced the edge of one knife before he span it once, twice, and then placed the edge of the blade against your neck. Your breath caught in your throat at the cold press of metal against your soft skin. His other hand trailed over the skin, his hot breath tickling your ear before he swiped the knife up and dragged the sharp side through your hair. You listened to him inhale before, tauntingly, he made a kissing noise next to your ear. The blade was replaced against your throat as he typed on the phone once more.

“I catch my own fish.” The voice droned before Jesse shook the phone teasingly in front of you, showing you the text he had typed out, ‘Though I don’t think I want to play with you, piggy. You’re too much of a deer.’

Antony scowled, “What the fuck does that mean…” He howled in agony as Jesse flicked the blade around again and slammed it through his hand. The fingers twitched before he drew his other knife and sliced the appendages free, pinning you in place with his legs as he watched blood spurt over the wood.

 Shock. You felt your heart burn as you wiggled backwards, closer to the killer’s chest before he peeled you free from his lap and dropped you back into the booth. Gruffly, Jesse slammed his bloodied hand over Antony’s mouth.

‘This piggy should have stayed home.’ His phone droned, again and again as the giant stood up, touching the tip of the hunting knife as he admired the shine of blood over the cold steel. With another flourish, he turned the saw half downwards and wrestled Antony over the wood, pinning him with a slam of his head before he dragged the saw downwards and watched skin and muscle part. He paused when Antony passed out and left the knife embedded in the man’s wrist as he looked back at you.

‘Look away.’ He typed with his clean hand. You did as you were asked, fear making you want to cry. He sawed the hand free and looked at the hand left, pinned to the table before he pealed his gloves free and brushed the bottom of your chin.

 “Look alive, sunshine.” The voice chittered, “Get moving.” It continued.

You opened your eyes and Jesse was quick to turn you away from the mess over the table.

“Up. Walk. Back exit.” The phone said. With a shuddering sigh, you got up. Jesse’s mask tilted before he offered his arm. You hooked your arm through his and almost cried as he shut the curtains and blocked you from the view of the other bar staff with his towering figure. His video was still recording.

“Why did you…” You were cut off by a sharp grip.

Jesse didn’t speak until you were both outside, his keys in one hand, snatched from the storage and  his phone held up to you in the other, “I taught them a lesson. They don’t fuck with me and get away with it.” He offered before he dragged you over to his car. You looked at the custom plates and the expensive brand. He laid his briefcase on the bonnet and sighed as he peeled free the chrome covered mask. Beneath was the same as before, heavily operated on with taught skin. A few scars were deep and heavy. His eye that was previously covered with an eyepatch was open, revealing itself as almost blind, the brown iris milky and covered. Still, he wasn’t a monster, just disfigured and evidently, through all the surgery, unhappy about what had occurred.

 “Staring is rude.” The phone whirred, “Should be staring elsewhere, sugar tits.”

You felt yourself go red, “You just killed a man! You don’t have any right to flirt with me after you just made me an accessory to murder!” You flew off the handle, “And now you’re taking me out back to end me too!”

Jesse grinned, white teeth clenched together dangerously as his knife curled and span idly, looking you up and down. He held up the phone nonchalantly, “No I’m not. I’m taking you home.”

“You…You’re joking.” You took a step backwards only for him to grab you once again, breathing in the smell of your hair as his knife traced down your chest. With a flick of his wrist he popped a button off your shirt.

His phone appeared in front of you again, ‘Home address.’

You swallowed and repeated your address for him quietly. He hummed behind you, the knife disappearing before he turned you to face him. His face dipped down to meet yours as he laid a single kiss over your lips.

‘Let’s go for a ride, baby.’

[ddaenggtan]

black irises in the sunshine | kth

anger is everything. other gods tease you for the short fuse, but it comes with the territory. people have called you stupid, have called you dumb, oafish, useless, incompetent, insolent, rude, arrogant. all of it. insults and mockery flung at you, but even your skin isn’t thick enough to deal with constant abuse. it’s the exact reason you keep going to the underground, knuckles bloody and bruised, fighting anyone that dared enter the cage. it’s the reason you go to the clubs, surround yourself with mortals and their writhing bodies. it’s there that you see him the first time, voice husky as it rolls through the room. it’s there you find someone who treats you differently than the rest. you just never expected him to be one of the muses. | monsters and gods pt 3 (masterlist)

pairing | taehyung x reader

genre/warnings | greek god au, calliope!taehyung, ares!reader, theres a lot of violence and it does get descriptive so be aware of that, none of the main characters other than ares get hurt and its not uncalled for or anything in a narrative sense, so just be aware of that; there are mentions of other idols, but if you can guess them you get a cookie because they are Vague; suuuuper bisexual Ares, Ares Can Step On Me, like I am SO gay for her it isn’t funny; explicit smut ft: cunnilingus, taeHUNG bc hes got MASSIVE SCHLONG,  some body worship kind of and then just....regular worship? like? idk how to explain that? lots of praise and lots or orgasms

word count | 14k | cross posted to ao3

a/n | HOOOOOOO this has been sitting in my google docs for literal months waiting for an ending and i decided to try to get it out for tae's birthday bUT that didn't work because i have a Job and shit so YEET I GUESS HAPPY FUCKIN NEW YEAR??? LIKE??? YEEEEEEEEEEEEE this fic is very near to me because Ares is my sweet sad angry babie and i love her, and i love tae and i love suho and i love the muses and i just........lOVE this fic like i think this is currently my favorite of the mag series so!! i hope yall also enjoy it!!!! yall are welcome to send me messages about this even tho I'm terrible at replying to them in a timely manner!! thanks to everyone who helped me with this, and everyone who has expressed interest in it, and everyone who has ever read anything of mine, because you're genuinely the best people ever, and this is literally a gift to y'all because you deserve it. 

Fuck, that was too hard .

The guy across from you goes flying, hitting the chain link wall of the cage harder than you intended. Every nerve ending in your body is on fire, and even holding back, you've got a better buzz than even the best nectar can give. Your blood sings as the guy gets back up, and you almost wish you could remember his name, because he's put up a hell of a fight. For a mortal, anyway. 

He charges at you again, and time slows as your vision tunnels. You can see the feint as he decides on it, how he hesitates in bringing his left up. You wait, watching him get closer and closer. You start to dart to your left, letting him think he's got you, before you side-step and dart to your right instead. His punch goes wide as you steady your balance and move. The top of your foot connects with his ribcage and the resulting crack of bone is lost amid the cheers and yells of the audience. 

Your opponent steps back and you're proud of the way he doesn't show the pain. He doesn't wince, doesn't move to touch the spot you hit, just tightens his stance and clenches his jaw. It's only you that notices the hitch in his breath, the way he flinches with every inhale. Your eyes narrow at that, zeroing in on the rib. You'd meant to just crack it, had been holding back most of your strength to keep from hurting him too seriously, but as he steps forward, you can see the way he grits his teeth against the pain. 

The fight leaves you immediately, like a bucket of cold water straight to the chest, and you drop your hands. 

"Yield." He just stares at you, bouncing on the balls of his feet. "Yield to me, and then go to the doctor."

"I'm not gonna yield," He says. He spits a mouthful of blood out onto the floor. "I'm not weak."

"Seriously, dude," You insist. "You're not gonna win this, and I don't want to hurt you more." 

His scoff has you seeing red. "As if a princess like you could hurt me."

Your fist connects with his face before either of you registers that you've moved. There's a voice in the back of your head reminding you that he's just mortal, he can't take the same kind of beating you can, but it's lost in the haze of fury. The next thing you know, the ref is dragging you away and slamming you into the cage wall. Your opponent is being dragged out - you still don't know his name - and he looks beaten senseless. Victory rolls through you accompanied by a sick satisfaction at the way his blood looks decorating the canvas beneath your feet. 

It lasts for less than an hour. It's always like this; the thrill of the fight, the burn of success, it's gone faster than you can blink. It's what drives you to keep fighting, to keep going to match after match, just to seek out the under-the-table stuff afterwards. It's never enough, not anymore. Back in the old days, they'd let you fight anything. Bears, bulls, lions, giants, anything they could get a noose around long enough to point it at a colosseum. That was a long time ago, though, before all the rights movements happened. You won't lie: you miss fighting beasts like that. The sheer power and strength they have, the survival instinct that makes them such fierce competitors, it's so much better than the rules and regulations of the mortal world now. Fights have gotten dull, rehearsed, more like a performance or a show than an actual fight. People make more money losing than they do winning and it's made the world boring. 

You flex your hand as you open the door to your favorite bar. Something caught it at some point in the last fight, a cheekbone or a tooth, and it stings a little. Doesn't hurt, not exactly, not for a goddess, but it did enough that you feel it at all, which means it couldn't have been anything but torture for the guy on the other end. The bartender waves at you and gets your usual ready as you sit, and you idly wonder if Busted Rib Guy will be okay. It looked painful, for a human, and you'd tried to hold back, but…

Well, you weren't really responsible for what happened to condescending little fucks, were you?

You sip the bourbon, enjoying the burn as it goes down. The lights are dim, tonight. You're glad. You don't want to deal with people looking at you, men coming over to talk to you, trying to advise you on how to properly bandage your knuckles or how to avoid the bruise on your cheek next time. If you had wanted to avoid it, you would have. You'd intended it to hurt worse, honestly, but that first guy'd had a weaker right hook than you expected. 

You look around, wondering if anyone here would provide a decent distraction for the night. There's a pretty brunette in the corner with carefully crafted braids, and as your eyes travel, you imagine what's hiding beneath the silk and leather. You're pulled from the thought by the sound of music, and you curse under your breath. You forgot that it's an open mic night and you'd meant to go to the bar across town instead. Irritation colors your vision; every open mic night is awful, full of lofty poets talking about their trauma and wannabe Taylor Swifts thinking they're on the same level as Sappho. Ah, now that was a girl with a set of pipes. You miss her, wonder what she would say to the butchering of whatever song you're about to hear.

The voice that comes isn't what you expect. It's smooth and deep. The world turns to velvet around you as the voice wanders from one speaker to another, creating a mesmerizing multi-dimensional effect despite the way the singer doesn't ever leave the stage. You turn, knuckles white around your bourbon glass; he's utterly magnetic, every eye in the room trained on him as he purrs into the vintage mic. Long fingers are wrapped around the scuffed metal, decorated with jewels that glitter in the dim light of the bar. You can smell the lingering cigarette smoke from the guy beside you and the Jäger from the girl two stools down and for once, you don't even care. He's captivating, voice travelling between speakers in the bar and coming from everywhere and nowhere at once. 

Your eyes don't leave him, and you wonder if you can memorize the way the blond waves fall against his forehead if you stare long enough. 

The red seeps away from you, slinking back into the corners of your mind, settling once more into a low thrum under your skin. It fades into the background of this man's voice, the charisma that rolls off him in waves as he pulls the mic in close just to push it to the side with a teasing smirk. It settles something in your chest that hasn't been calm since the fight in Athens so long ago. 

The music fades out sooner than you'd like, and he gives a slight bow before wandering into the crowd. You do your best to follow him, but the gold of his hair disappears almost immediately, lost in the throng of people around the stage waiting to speak to him. You turn back around, downing the next bit of bourbon that Suho pours you. 

"I know," He says with a grin. You cock a brow at him, not having said anything he could agree with. "He's good. That's what you were thinking, right? He's why we're so packed on open mics. Got the audio and lighting guy whipped, so he's got all these special effects, too. Drives people crazy.”

"He's alright," You mutter. You toss a few bills down on the bartop and step back. Suho gives you a courteous nod as you leave. The bouncer gives you a dirty look when he spots the lit cigarette between your lips, but he knows better than to try to tell you otherwise. You've taught him better. 

You lean back against the brick wall of the alley and take a drag. The warm smoke fills your lungs and you close your eyes. It's a different kind of burn than you're used to, a distraction from the crawling sensation that drives you to fight. It's calmer, more controlled. Feels like the smoke from Hestia's fires. Feels like home. 

"Never expected to see you here," A voice calls out. It's deep and startling in the darkness, but you don't jump. You just open your eyes, exhale, and look to where it came from. 

The singer stands before you in the same undone white button up and black tee he performed in. He doesn't have a cig, doesn't seem to have much of any reason to be outside. He moves almost lazily, as if he doesn't even need to, just wants to, and when his gaze flicks up to meet yours, your vision fills just for a breath with every opponent you've ever faced lying at your feet. 

"What the fuck is that supposed to mean?" The words slip from your tongue before you can stop them. It's not his fault, the voice in your head says, he didn't mean it that way, but still, your blood is thrumming now that he's here and you want to know what he's talking about. Want to know why he thinks you wouldn't be here when there's attractive people and good bourbon and you've never seen this man before in your life. Want to know why he already seems to think you aren't civilized enough to be at a bar, why he spoke but all you heard was Zeus' voice in your memories.

"Exactly what I said. Should I be clearer?"

"Yeah, probably," you spit. Yet another person that assumes you're stupid, that you don't understand basic languages, as if you haven't been speaking them since the ancient times. As if you couldn't speak circles around him if you wanted. "Unless you want your teeth on the fucking ground."

"Good to know the stories are true." He tsks and you're filled with a strange sense of disappointment and fury, both at him and yourself. Your vision turns red at the edges and the cigarette between your fingers is crushed in your grip. He pays no mind to it, just saunters past with a lazy, swaying gait that draws your eyes to his hips and then down the long leather-clad legs. "See you around, Ares."

"That's not my fucking name," You yell after him. He doesn't respond when you shout your actual name, the one you chose, on your own, as a middle finger to the Olympians. "Get it right next time, dickwad."

He turns the corner of the alley and the streetlight catches his face just enough for you to see the smirk he wears. For once in your life, you're torn; you want to smash his face in, yes, because how dare this random guy speak to you like that when you could kill him with one finger to the right pressure point. You also find your skin's hotter than usual, stretched too thin over your bones, and you want him to run his hands over you until it feels right again.

Until it feels like it did when he was singing. 

How did he know my title?

The thought comes unbidden, days later, with the desperate hit of a palm against your shoulder. You've got the woman in a headlock, patiently waiting for her to pass out completely so the fight can be called, and your mind is wandering. 

How did the singer know who you are? You hadn't thought anything of it at the time, distracted by fury and frustration, but with time comes a special kind of clarity. You've never seen him before, not that you know anyway, yet he didn't hesitate to call you Ares. The only ones who know of your kind are your kind, but you haven't seen any of your siblings among mortals in a long time. You thought you knew the other gods and goddesses, but maybe not. It has been a while since you stepped foot in the golden city.

The woman in your grip goes slack and you release her. You're still lost in thought as the ref calls the match and leads you out of the makeshift ring. The cheers of the audience are background noise at this point, akin to static or the buzz of electricity, and you pay them no mind as you head to collect your winnings. You didn't even get any kind of buzz from success this time, too immersed in the way the singer walked and talked and looked. The image of his smirk is burned into your retinas. 

"Yeah, you didn't hear? He just got out of the hospital. They had to keep him overnight because they thought he might puncture a lung. I heard that if it had been a little worse, they would've had to wire his jaw shut." You stop, fingers brushing over the stack of bills you don't even remember being handed. You look up, making eye contact with the guy whispering nearby. Your suspicions are confirmed when his friend smacks his arm and juts his chin in your direction before they both disappear into the crowd. 

You shove your way outside, frustration creeping through you and coloring your vision. You manage to keep it contained long enough for you to make it to the alley behind the warehouse, but it explodes from you in a rush of thrown dumpsters and sheet metal. 

Fuck , you never meant to hurt him like that. You told him, you fucking told him to yield, it isn't your fault he didn't listen. It's not your fault that he went and insulted you, acted like he was better than you just by virtue of being a dude, as if you weren't worshipped in the old days for the power you had and the blessings you could give. You'd held back, through all of it, you'd told him to yield, and he insulted you. It wasn't your fault. 

You slide to the ground, running a shaking hand through your hair. It isn't your fault , you repeat. You close your eyes and take deep breaths, the way Hestia taught you, willing the fury to dissipate. It's like a fire in your veins, burning and bubbling your skin until you can't resist anymore. You take another breath. It isn't your fault. You tried. You offered an out. It isn't your fault. Fuck, what was his name? 

With a growl that quickly morphs into a scream, you kick the dumpster once more before stalking off into the darkness. You need a fucking drink and you're gonna find a distraction in someone else if it's the last thing you do. 

The club is packed when you get there; you're not usually a fan of clubs like this, too full of people who are too friendly, but they're perfect for nights like tonight. You don't even need to wait in line, just slip the bouncer a 50 as you pass, and the bartenders are quick to spot you. You're pretty notorious in the city for over-paying, which means you're knocking back bourbon before you have a chance to ask for it. There are people everywhere, pressed up against both sides of you while the bass thrums in your throat, and it takes you longer than you're proud of to realize why. 

There's a band playing, apparently. They're not bad; the vocalist isn't anything like the singer from Suho's, but it doesn't make you want to tear your ears off, so you consider it a success. 

You're dancing before you remember deciding to. Everything's a blur when you get the itch in your bones, the need to make someone bleed. To feel something that isn't rage or condescension. People are even closer here on the dance floor, suffocating in their proximity, but there's a woman grinding her ass into you, and it sparks the dying fire in your gut. The beat of the music drowns your own heart, and it's all flashing lights and heat and a body pressed against yours that is all too willing.

She follows when you go back to the bar for another drink, and giggles when you lick salt from her wrist before downing tequila. Her hands are wrapped in the leather of your jacket as she kisses you, your own resting lightly on her hips. She laughs against your lips and says something you don't hear before ordering another drink. Something makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand up.

You take the brief reprieve to look around the club, searching for whatever it is that has you on alert. You find him on the upper level of the club, leaned over the balcony with a drink in hand. You can't make out his expression, exactly; it's too far away and too guarded. But you'd know him anywhere now. The singer knocks back whatever's in his glass, eyes never leaving yours. You don't know why he's here, if he comes here often or if the Fates are having a laugh at your expense, but you do know you want to make the most of it.

The girl is back, pressing a heated kiss to your lips and drawing your attention from him. You return it, nipping at her lips and getting a small gasp in return. You smirk and bite your way down her neck. She's breathy in your ear, hitched moans lost in the beat of the music, but you barely hear her as you suck bruises into the skin of her neck. He's still watching you. His drink is gone and he's gripping the bannister of the balcony, rings glinting in the light. You wonder if the cool metal could soothe the burn in your bones. You want to know if he can bring that calmness from before back, if he can soothe the frenzy in your mind with his hands the way he can with his voice. Just imagining it has you soaking through to your jeans.

The girl makes a particularly loud noise in your ear and you're brought out of your thoughts. As if he can sense it, the singer straightens. He gives you one last look before disappearing back into the crowd, and you wonder if you're imagining the disdain in it. You draw back from the girl's neck, about to tell her to find her friends when she slides her hands in your hair and tugs.

The burn in your blood is back, now, and you hope this girl is prepared for what awaits her.

"You're here early," Suho says when he spots you in the nearly empty bar the next night. He's not wrong, either; you skipped the fights tonight completely. There was no buzz last time, no relief, and you have no reason to believe there would be tonight. Not with the way the singer captivates your thoughts. 

Besides, you have enough money leftover from the previous few to last a couple days.

"What, did you decide not to kick someone's ass before getting wasted?" Suho doesn't wither at the look you give him, just pours you a couple fingers of bourbon and slides the glass over. "Or did they just stop letting you in completely?"

"I might change my mind if you don't shut up," You tell him. There's no real heat behind it. You've known Suho for years now, been coming to his bar for so long it almost feels like home. You're almost friends at this point. 

It helps that he knows when to bite his tongue so he doesn't get his teeth knocked out.

"Seriously though, I don't think I've ever seen you here this early. Especially not on mic nights." You're very careful in your lack of a reaction to his words. You'd seen the workers setting up for it when you came in, and even if you hadn't, you know when mic night is. You've spent enough time avoiding it.

"Does he sing every time?" You ask in lieu of an explanation. You don't look away from the amber liquid in your glass, letting the silence hang as the bartender does his best to follow your thought process. 

"Taehyung? Most weeks, yeah. It's been a nice change from the usual drunken karaoke. He goes around to some of the other places in town, too. Apparently he just likes to sing." 

"Taehyung," You repeat. The name rolls from your tongue a bit awkwardly. It's more than you expected, somehow, but you can't place exactly how . Just...more. "Is he always that good?"

"Oh, yeah. We have regulars now for mic night because of him. He's got a whole fan club and everything."

"Hm." You drain the rest of your bourbon and Suho refills it. He leaves you in peace then, serving some others that appear at the bar. 

The place fills faster than you can blink. That's what it feels like, anyway. It's like one moment there's you and a handful of other people scattered around, and now you're being jostled between some dude a million feet tall that definitely doesn't look old enough to be here and a girl with her tits up to her throat and surrounded by a cloud of perfume so thick that it starts a migraine behind your eyes almost instantly. She flirts with Suho a little, likely trying to score free drinks, and you roll your eyes. She pouts at him when he gives her the total, batting eyelashes that go on for miles, and for once, you wish Suho would just give in and comp the drinks. 

"I'll pay for them," You say. She was definitely saying something, maybe you should have been paying attention to it, but fuck , this migraine is only getting worse the longer she stands there. "I'll pay for your drinks."

"Oh, thanks," She says. Her smile is hesitant, and quickly turns apologetic as she takes in the boots and the ripped jeans and the leather jacket. "Um, I'm not...I don't, uh…"

"Do I look like I want to fuck you, sweetie?" She looks a little affronted and a laugh escapes you. You lean closer, letting your breath ghost over her cheek as you speak in her ear to be heard better. "If I wanted to fuck you senseless, you'd know it. And I can guarantee you it would be a hell of a lot better than the watered down rat piss this guy's giving you." 

When you lean back, her face is flushed and she's stammering. You smirk and hand her the drinks she'd ordered. 

"Too bad you’re not, you don’t, huh?" You tell her. The patronizing tone isn't lost on her, nor is your mockery of her earlier words, and she shuts her mouth with an audible click before strutting off. Suho glares at you as he pours more bourbon.

"Can you please try not to run off my patrons?" He mutters. "Some of us actually need money to live."

"Some of us would like decently timed refills and to not choke on perfume," You quip. "And better bourbon, for that matter." He hisses something about what he's giving you being top quality but you tune him out, throwing one leg over the stool Perfume Girl vacated. You'd like to keep just a little bit of personal space. 

Across the bar, you catch a brief glimpse of the girl from the night before and you wince. Her neck is thoroughly bruised, and you catch a peek of bruises and scratches on her back as she shrugs her jacket on. You didn’t mean to be so rough with her, even if she had been into it; you’re usually pretty good about remembering that the mortals are just that - mortal - and as such have to be handled delicately. They’re so fragile, it feels like they could break with a strong wind. Guilt settles in your gut and turns the bourbon in your glass to cough syrup. You’ve half a mind to just leave before she sees you, are about to turn and do exactly that, but the speakers screech to life and the deafening feedback from the mic keeps you glued to your seat. 

The crowd quiets even as the excitement ramps up, all talk silencing but for the occasional hushed whispers here and there. The first few notes of the song echo through the speakers, and a spotlight appears on him. 

He looks different this time, his hair dyed a vibrant blue that matches the glinting jewels in his ears and on his hands. He's an absolute vision and you wonder how Aphrodite has allowed him to live so long when he's so beautiful. His voice hangs in the air and calms you, the same settling in your chest as last time, the same freedom from the burn in your veins. It's addictive. 

The song doesn't last nearly as long as you want it to but the stillness inside you lingers long after he's done caressing the microphone. You place a few bills down for Suho and light up a cigarette as you head outside, ignoring the dirty looks from other patrons as you do. You're on a mission, the thrum of bloodlust returning with every second that passes, and you can't even be sure if he's still around or if he's wandered off already. 

You stand in the alley for what feels like hours, turning at every sound and smoking cig after cig just so you have something to do. You've almost decided to say fuck it when footsteps sound from the back of the bar, coming closer to you. 

His blue hair is visible even from the other end of the small alley, a giveaway similar to the light at the end of your cigarette and the smoke you blow into the air. There's no way he hasn't seen you, you think, you're making no effort to hide or be sneaky, and yet he's continuing forward as if he doesn't see you at all, eyes focused on a phone in his hand. You wait until he's just a few steps away before speaking.

"How do you know my title?" You ask him. He stops as if he'd always meant to and doesn't even bother to glance up at you or respond. The edges of your vision turn scarlet at the blatant disregard and you're speaking before you can even process the words. "I asked you a fucking question, pretty boy, you're gonna answer me. Unless you want that precious mouth bloodied up."

"And you wonder how I know who you are," He drawls, still not bothering to spare a glance at you. A scowl grows over your face at his sarcastic tone. "If you're going to hit me just get it over with. Otherwise, I have places to be."

He stands, waiting and expectant, but you don't move. He's humming, quiet and to himself like he doesn't even realize he's doing it, and the red seeps away from your mind until you're left clear-headed once more. You sigh, long and heavy, and crush your cigarette into your denim-covered thigh to put it out. It tickles. 

"I'm not going to hit you," You tell him eventually. "I just wanna know how you know me. And how you do it."

He cocks a brow at that, finally looking up from the phone in his hand to level dark eyes on yours. "Do what? Sing?"

"No." You swallow around the sudden lump in your throat. The words are harder to find than you thought they'd be, lost in the depths of his gaze, in the clarity you're so unaccustomed to, in the way you feel like you can breathe for the first time in days. "I don't care how you sing, that's not important, it's the...fuck, you know what, never mind, it doesn't fucking matter." You push off the wall and step past him to head towards where the streetlight gleams off the bar windows. 

"Tell me." The command has you stopping in your tracks, and you're again flooded with just wanting to know how. How he clears the haze, how he stops you, how he makes you feel real. You turn, hands stuffed into the back pockets of your jeans. "How I do what?"

It takes you several long breaths before you can answer, and you aren't even sure he can hear you over the sounds of people leaving the bar, and you find yourself disappearing into the crowd without waiting for a response. Your own words are reverberating in your skull, getting louder with each step you take, and you wish you could just turn it off . 

"How you make me feel like a person again."

You avoid the bar for a few weeks, going hours away from your usual area to an unfamiliar hole in the wall just to make sure you don’t see him. You’re more deadly than usual in your fights, victories coming quicker, injuries piling up along with the guilt, but you can’t bring yourself to return. It’s unnerving, the way everything goes quiet around him, the way you can think, but the worst is the way you can feel. Everything’s calm and steady and blue, and it only makes it easier for the regret and the guilt and the anxiety to curl around your throat and squeeze until you can’t breathe, to clog in your throat while the laughter of your siblings echoes in your ears, and you...can’t. You can’t do that, you can’t let it win, you can’t let them win, they can’t know that you’re everything they think you are and worse. 

You can’t let yourself drown in that, and yet you find yourself back at Suho’s, lost among the crowd while Taehyung’s voice surrounds you. The ache in your bones fades away, chased by the thrum of the fight that still lingers despite the hours that have passed since you felt your opponent’s femur break under your palm and their screams echoed in your ears. Everything is calm again, and the guilt nearly drowns you.

He hasn’t even finished singing before you’re outside, chest heaving as you gasp against the weight on your chest. You broke someone’s femur , and did you even really need to? The fight itself is a blur even now, snapshots playing through your mind like a montage. The way they’d darted at you first, how their foot felt connecting with the backs of your knees, the determination in their eyes when you went down, the jolt of shock as your hands wrapped around their leg, the dull throb of a barrage of hits against your waist as you pulled them down as well and bloodied their face, the blood-curdling scream as you snapped the bone like a pretzel stick.

Your breath comes faster in your lungs, forced out by the growing guilt that lodges there in its place. Images swirl in your mind, chased by a never-ending stream of thought and regret that you should be used to by now. Fuck, you didn’t need to, and you still did it; you lost control, you fucking hurt them, and for what? A couple hundred? Was it even worth it? Who knew when they’d be back into shape to fight, what if they needed the money? They weren’t even half-bad. They got you down, at least, shouldn’t you have gone easy on them? You don’t even remember their face, can’t remember what the announcer said their name was, words drowned out by the buzz under your skin.

Metal crumples under your grip and you spare a half-second to mourn Suho’s dumpster before you slam your knuckles against it. It tingles, not even real pain, and you don’t hesitate to repeat it. By the time the metal is disfigured completely, a distorted mess of paint and steel and garbage, you still aren’t in pain, but there’s a sheen of gold across your knuckles and you feel less like you’re drowning and more like you’re suffocating. The usual. You can handle that. You think. 

You don’t even realize that you’ve slid down to the ground beside the dumpster until the back door of the bar opens and footsteps echo through the alley. You wish you knew how long you’ve been here, how long you’ve sat among empty bottles and stale beer and broken glass, but you can’t be sure. The brief reprieve brought by Taehyung’s voice is long gone, chased away by the guilt and rage that still sits heavy in your chest. You hope you’re not noticeable here, that whoever’s left will just pass by and leave you to piece yourself back together on your own. 

Voices tell you that it isn’t likely, the deep baritone of one too familiar to ignore. The other is new, but you’re familiar with the tone, the inflection, the intent behind it. You've heard it before, in crowded clubs as a guy pushes too close to some girl who can barely stand, in a coffeeshop when a random customer can't take a fucking hint, at the local campus when some professor insists that there could be maybe one thing her student could do to pass. It makes everything in you curdle, the bourbon from earlier threatening to work its way back up; it screams predator , and you absolutely refuse to let anyone fucking talk to someone like that, like they have some right to whatever it is they want. 

You refuse to let someone talk to him that way. 

"Seriously, Kratos, didn't I tell you to leave me alone? Did Aphrodite not teach you your lesson last time you harassed someone?" Taehyung's voice brings a calm that's an unsettling match to the anger washing over you. You're used to the red at the corners of your vision, the tint to everything you see, but you aren ' t used to the way it all turns purple and focused and clear . 

There's no haze this time, there's no abrupt shift of you moving before you know you've done it. You can feel the glass crunching under your boots with every step you take, can feel the way the air has a chill that creeps down into your lungs with every breath, can almost taste the apprehension that's rolling off of Taehyung despite his relaxed stance. The only thing that gives him away is the tense set of his jaw and the mix of relief and fear when his eyes land on you. 

"I'm pretty sure he said no, Kratos." The god turns at your voice and you watch the realization wash over him as he realizes what - who - you are. 

"Been a while since anyone's seen you, Ares." He scoffs a little, not moving from where he has Taehyung caged against the wall of the bar, one hand pressed firmly into the brick. He's entirely too close, and you have no doubt that the stench of him permeates the very oxygen around them. 

"Been busy. Doesn't change the fact that the man said no. Take the loss, walk away." Kratos' eyes narrow at your words and he steps away, but only to move closer to you. 

"Why do you care so much? You've never been one to care about any of us before." Kratos inches closer and the hyper-focus that Taehyung's voice causes starts to melt away with every twitch of your fingers. You've never liked Kratos, all brute strength with no respect for the challenge, no appreciation of the fight, too focused on sheer power and exhilaration. He is the worst of the worst of the worst of your kind, of all the war-focused gods. Every bit of yourself you hate is every piece that Kratos loves about himself. 

"I care that you don't seem to be able to understand when someone doesn't want to be around you, you absolute piece of filth. Taehyung had a point though, I really thought the whole thing with Aphrodite would've taught you how to back off. Or should I pull the video out, I think I still have it saved for when I need a good laugh." Malice and fury twitch across the other god's face and you absolute revel in it. You can feel his anger prickling across you, like needles in your very pores, and you ache for it. It's been so long since you last had a good fight, a real challenge where you didn't need to hold back at all. 

Too long since you fought a god like yourself.

"You're testing my patience, cousin," Kratos spits. It's a little generous to call the two of you cousins - you're several times removed, at best, and potentially closer than that with your family's warped history - but you let him have it. It might make him feel better. "I'm having a conversation, that's all. And if said conversation means that we end up back at my place, then, well, can anyone really blame me for what might happen to this pretty little m-"

Your fist connects with his jaw immediately and the red floods you for the few seconds it takes to register Taehyung calling your name. The calm struggles for a second, warring with the rage, but it wins out eventually. The singer's talking, but you can't make out any actual words. You're too focused on Kratos, the way he's righting and readying himself for a brawl. There's a fire in his eyes that matches the one in yours and everything in you feels alive for the first time in too long. 

This fight is different than your usual ones. There's no blur, no warped sense of time that usually comes with the adrenaline. You're focused and controlled in a way you haven't had to be for centuries, careful and precise and deliberate with every swing and every kick. The red seeps back in slowly and every time you think you're about to lose it, you hear Taehyung, still pressed against the wall of the bar. 

Kratos lunges at you for what has to be the tenth time, clearly trying his best to knock you to the ground - he succeeded, once; you let yourself get distracted, too caught up in thoughts, but it didn't last long - and you sidestep him just in time for him to ram into the ruined dumpster instead. He looks pissed when he turns back around and something in you sings at the sight. He makes for you again and you dodge again, only to be dragged back towards him by the grip he has on your jacket. Fuck, should've taken that off , whatever, he's too close.

Pain explodes in your side and you're fairly sure he's busted part of your rib, but you just slide your arms out of the sleeves and twist to plant your knee straight into his gut and then slam your heel down onto his much-less-safe toes, and then back up to knee him in the groin. It's nowhere near enough to take him out, but his nose is oozing golden ichor and he groans with every shift of his weight, and you've got him pinned against the wall with your forearm pressing hard into his windpipe. 

"Now, you're gonna listen to me you steaming pile of dog shit," You hiss. "When someone tells you no, it's not a fucking negotiation. It means you fucking leave and find someone with loose enough morals or enough internalized self-hatred that they're willing to subject themselves to your absolutely pitiful fucking excuse of an existence for the thirty-two seconds it'll take for you to get off." 

Kratos doesn't respond, just sneers and spits blood at you. It's a miracle you don't actually try to rip his head from his body, because the thought crosses your mind for a second too long. Instead, you just press harder against his windpipe and enjoy the choked gasp that it draws. 

"You don't stalk people either, the way you did with 'Dite. Don't you know it's better to let them come to you sometimes?" You tsk, ignoring the way he claws uselessly at your arm. Gods may not need to breathe, that's a fact, but they feel pain, and there is no way this isn't absolutely excruciating for him when even you can feel the small bones in his neck cracking and breaking. "And if I hear even a whisper of you pulling shit like this again, then I'm gonna find you, you pigshit. And when I do, I won't hold back even the slightest, and do you know what comes after that?" 

His eyes are full of fear now, and only grow wide with terror as you lean in close enough that he can feel your lips against his ear as you whisper. 

"You are going to wish that you could die." 

When you do release him, he disappears instantly, with a cloud of acrid grey-green smoke curling around your ichor-spattered boots. He's only been gone a second when you slump, the adrenaline fading as quick as Kratos had left. Your side is throbbing now, your knuckles are bruised and broken and gold, there's a pain in your leg that you aren't sure what's causing, your head is screaming even through the high of the fight, your face stings in the crisp-cool air. Every breath makes the pain worse so you stop breathing. The brick wall of the bar is rough against your palms, but it's the only thing around that can keep you upright, so you'll take it. 

"Well," a voice drawls from your left. You'd jump if you had anything left in you, but every ounce of energy is gone, spent teaching Kratos what Aretha Franklin meant when she sang about respect - and really, there was another fantastic singer, you really should visit her sometime soon - so instead your head lolls to the side. You aren't sure what it is that jolts through you when your eyes land on Taehyung, fingers curled carefully around the collar of-

Your jacket. That's your leather jacket. You barely remembers shrugging out of it, but you're glad it's not on the ground, trampled and covered in the gold spatters that decorate the rest of your body. 

"Well?" You echo, wincing at the pain it causes. You've definitely got a busted lip, that's for sure from the way it feels different and swollen, and you're pretty sure there's a head wound, too, because you don't remember there being a golden halo around Taehyung before the fight. 

"Well," He repeats, slinging the jacket - your jacket - over a shoulder. "You should get that looked at." He starts walking, making his way to the entrance of the alleyway. He gets halfway there before he stops and turns and cocks a brow. "Are you coming, or do I get to keep this?" Your jacket waves a little, as if he's wiggling it, and it makes you feel like a stray dog being lured off with treats. 

You're never going to tell anyone that it works.

Taehyung's place is as nondescript as the car he parks outside. It's a plain apartment building on the outside - looks like maybe it was a hotel back in the 1930s, based on the outdated carpeting in the lobby and the grate on the elevator he steps into. Even the hallway is plain and unassuming as he leads you to the end and uses an old, tarnished brass key on an older, more tarnished brass knob. You aren't sure what you expected, you can't even begin to guess what Taehyung is like outside of the dirty alley or the stage where he sings, can't fathom what kind of decor he could possibly have. 

What you step into isn't anything you could have guessed. It looks like he has the entire rest of the floor to himself based on what you can see, but there's also a spiral staircase tucked into a corner, bookshelves built in under each step that are filled to the brim, and a fireman's pole in another corner, so there's at least one more level above this, but something tells you both the staircase and the pole continue past that. There's artwork everywhere, pieces you recognize and pieces you don't, several van Goghs and a couple from Matisse and you think in the corner you spot an actual fucking da Vinci sketch that's supposed to be somewhere in Europe. There's a gramophone beside a top-of-the-line sound system, an entire wall that's just a record collection, books upon books, framed bits of poetry - including an actual hand-written rupi kaur, a signed Maya Angelou print, and a signed cover of ain't i a woman by bell hooks that you would die to know how Taehyung got his hands on. It's a museum's wet dream and yet it retains a lived in atmosphere. There are mugs left on tables, blankets strewn about as if someone just got up from a nap, an easel propped up by a far window with what looks like an impressionist painting of the cityscape, books tossed down half-read with receipts and coupons and candy wrappers and everything but a bookmark tucked between the pages. 

It feels like a home and it makes your heart flutter in your chest at the same time that something in your stomach shrivels up into itself. 

Taehyung walks like he’s meant to be followed, so follow you do. You spy another man - older, you think, but it’s hard to tell, really - sprawled across a couch, blanket splayed across his lap as he watches some kind of dance show on a flatscreen hung above a warm and roaring fireplace, a couple of girls in what looks to be the kitchen, one sitting on the counter while the other stands between her legs and pretends not to notice the former stealing strawberries from her bowl as she taps at her tablet, and there are footsteps creaking above you, hidden behind walls even as Taehyung leads you up the staircase. They all look up when you pass, but only the man gives you a second glance; his eyes are a weight on your back that doesn’t leave until you’re upstairs and following Taehyung into a large, rather nice bathroom. 

It’s vintage as well, but it’s spacious and well-kept, like the rest of the place. Taehyung pats the marble counter by the sink and you bite your tongue against the urge to tell him you aren’t a dog. You don’t move though, instead watching him as he lays your jacket across a brass bar on the wall and then digs around in a cabinet for a minute or two. When he straightens up, he’s got a somewhat dusty off-white box in his hands, and he frowns. 

“Up,” He says. “I need to look at your ankle.” 

You don’t move, but you can tell he doesn’t miss the twitch of your nose at the thought of being commanded like an animal. Like someone who can’t understand. Like-

He sighs. 

“Please, will you sit on the counter, so I can look at your ankle?” You huff, but you do as he says. 

He doesn’t speak as he works, completely silent except for the odd command - “Roll it for me...alright, now flex that...deep breath...stop fidgeting or I’ll only make it worse…” - and the occasional hum under his breath. It seems to be second nature, like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it, and it endears you more than you’d like. His touch is gentle but firm as he lightly squeezes your ankle and wraps it, lifts your pant leg to rub some kind of cream into a somewhat worrisome golden bruise forming on your calf, darts under your shirt to quickly and painlessly set your ribs before wrapping those as well. He doesn’t say anything at all until he’s almost finished with the cuts on your hands, golden ichor long gone and wounds already on their way to healing thanks to some sort of mist he spritzes on them. 

It only stings once, as he’s spraying something over some kind of cut on your thigh where Kratos ripped through the denim there without you noticing. You can’t stop the hiss as the pain hits, though you regret it when he glances up at you. 

“Sorry,” He mumbles under his breath as he dabs lightly at it with his long fingers. 

“It’s fine,” You tell him. “I’m used to it.” Your voice is rough, always, but softer than usual. You don’t know why. You can’t decide if you like it.

The entire time he works, you wait. For him to tell you it wasn’t necessary, that he can fight his own battles, that he’s not surprised a brute like yourself got into a fight, that you’re no more than what the rumours say you are. You’ve got a million different curses and insults ready to spit back at him when he finally speaks.

“Thank you,” is what comes. It shocks the words out of your mouth, and you actually look up from where you’ve been watching him methodically wipe gold away from a scrape on your forearm. His gaze is concentrated on the injury and his lips are pursed and you wish you could figure him out. 

He must take your silence for the confusion it is, because he continues. 

“I mean it,” He says. “I’m usually not someone that lets other people fight for me, but we both know that I couldn’t have taken Kratos. He’s too strong, and he was counting on that. Until you showed up.” You don’t respond. “Is there a reason you left before my set was done? Or why you were sitting in an alley beside what is possibly the most gnarled dumpster I’ve ever seen?”

You don’t answer him, instead focusing on the way his hands feel as they tilt your chin so he can look at the cuts and bruises and scrapes that decorate your face. You focus your gaze just past his shoulder, content to memorize the pattern of his gaudy vintage bathroom wallpaper, and he doesn't press for more. The distracted humming picks up again every time he stops talking, and eases the storm of guilt shame rage pain hurt grief loneliness in your chest. 

"I fight," you eventually say. Your voice is too loud in the quiet of the bathroom, shatters the silence like a sledgehammer, and you hate the way it trembles. Still, Taehyung doesn't look away from where he's carefully wiping gold from your skin, just cocks a brow, and it's as if a dam breaks in your throat. "Like, real fights. Actual competition, with rules and shit, and...sometimes the bad ones, because they tend to fight differently, it's a different kind of fight, y'know, and it's never really fair, because I'm...I'm me, but I hold back, just for fun, y'know, and it's, uh. It's alright usually, I go in, do my thing, I win, I go drink, and it all gets, I dunno, easier, maybe, for a while, like I can think right, but, um.”

You hesitate for a split second and force yourself to focus on the way the alcohol-soaked cotton tickles the cut on your head. 

“Sometimes it's not...sometimes I can't control it as well, the anger, and I kind of just lose it on people, and a while ago this guy, he almost needed his jaw wired shut, but he was kind of a prick anyway, I guess, so whatever, but, uh, today, I...there was this girl and she was doing really well, actually, y'know, managed to get me down to the mat, which is rare and pretty impressive, and I'm pretty proud of her for it now, but then, I just. I just kinda lost it, like, I just kept swinging, I couldn't stop, and then I just...I broke her leg, for no real reason, just because I wanted her to hurt, and I don't...I'm not sure why I even did it, because I'd already won, right, like what was the point of doing any more, it wasn't even helping at that point, y'know, it's not like the buzz kept up any longer because I broke this kid's leg, and I love the fights, they help clear my head for a second, but I never wanted to actually-"

You words stop short, like there are too many of them to say in too short a time, and it's then you realize Taehyung's hands are in his lap and he's looking at you fully. His expression isn't neutral anymore, it's not the carefully crafted mask of a performer, it's real and open and genuine and all you see there is pain . For you. Pain and understanding and compassion you never expected to find anywhere but the deepest corners of your soul. Looking at him looking at you like that makes you feel like you can breathe again.

"You never wanted to hurt anyone." His voice is rough, like maybe there's emotion clogging his throat as well, and you aren't sure what that does to you, but something in you jumps at the thought.

Tears mar your vision as you nod and you curse under your breath before wiping them away. He catches your quivering hand in his and just holds it for a second. His eyes don't leave yours and there are a thousand things you expect him to say but what he says is: 

"I believe you."

And that...it's more than you can take, and you break, right there on his bathroom counter, sobbing into his chest while he just rubs your back and hums and you remember the face of every person you've ever hurt and the look in their eyes as you left some of them for dead. 

You wake up the next morning curled up on the most comfortable chaise lounge in human history, sitting up and shoving the blanket off of you in a rush before you remember where you are, why you're there. A glance around tells you that you aren't alone; there's two guys bent over a table that you think might also be a tablet, conversing quietly and pointing every so often at whatever they're looking at, a girl balanced along the edge of the staircase holding a lyre - which, wow, you haven't seen a lyre in that good condition in a while - and strumming lightly along it before she frowns and shakes her head and restarts whatever melody she's playing, and the same guy sprawled over the couch with a blanket strewn haphazardly over him while he watches a different dance video on the flatscreen. He's the closest and you don't really want to talk to any of these people but you think you might have to because you aren't really sure how Taehyung got you here last night but you know it was quite a drive. You'd just mist over to the bar if you really wanted to, but your ribs hurt like a bitch still thanks to that fucker Kratos. Anything as intense as misting is out of the question for the time being.

The man on the chaise spares you a glance that feels longer than it should, full of a judgement you have no doubt you deserve and yet somehow fires your anger anyway. 

He rolls his eyes before you even say anything and waves a hand towards the kitchen. You snap your mouth closed and shoot him an irritated look, but you storm in that direction anyway. Healing is exhausting, and you want nothing more than some meat to tear into and a cold beer. 

When you get into the kitchen, however, Taehyung is standing there already, as if he’s been expecting you any minute. There’s a plate in front of him, full of food you barely recognize, and he slides it towards you. 

“Eat,” He says. You grit your teeth, unmoving, and he sighs again. “Please sit, and eat. You need the strength to heal properly.” 

You resist for a split second, but there’s a softness to him now. Something you can’t exactly put your finger on, but that you know is different , somehow, and it changes things. It makes you want to listen, to do as he asks, because he is asking . He’s not telling, he’s treating you like an animal. 

It’s a request, not a demand, and that makes all the difference. 

Taehyung is quiet while you eat. He doesn’t look at you, doesn’t watch to make sure you’re doing it, but you have no doubt he’s keeping an eye on you. It’s quiet, but not unbearably so; the air is broken by the sounds of the lyre and the television, as well as the soft chattering of the men at the table. It makes it comfortable, makes it soft in a way you’re unaccustomed to being, like the way people talk about lazy Sunday mornings or that voice they get when they see a cute animal.

It feels like home should be, instead of what yours is. 

“So why’s Pretty Boy giving me the death glare?” You eventually ask past a mouthful of food. Taehyung barely looks up, just glancing past you to the guy laying on the couch. You can feel his eyes boring into your spine, but it’s nothing new. 

“Taemin’s just protective,” Taehyung says softly. “Especially considering the stories.”

“The ones about me, you mean.”

A myriad of emotions passes through his eyes when he nods, and you wish you could more easily decipher them. Maybe in time, you will. 

Maybe.

“Those, yes,” He says softly. “But he’ll learn.” He doesn’t say it, but nonetheless, you hear the words as clear as day. Just like I did.  

Someone hums behind you and you glance over to see a woman - the strawberry thief - making her way into the kitchen. She gives Taehyung a look you don’t care enough to figure out, and they have an entire conversation in the span of five minutes. Something about it irks you, and it only gets worse when they start moving around each other, Taehyung handing her things without her asking. 

It’s ridiculous, and you know it, but the air gets heavy in your lungs and your head starts to swim and suddenly you’re suffocating. It’s too much, there’s too much here, and you can’t take it anymore. 

The force with which you shove away the counter would have slammed it into the wall were it not already attached. There are slight cracks in the granite tops, though, and there’s just enough clarity as Taehyung calls your name for you to feel guilty about it. It’s not enough to stop you though; you have to get out, you need to get out, before you do something worse, and the cracks in the granite are proof of that. 

You’re out the door in an instant, your form coalescing painfully back into solid matter as you reach the hallway. Your ribs ache, screaming with the effort of trying to mist away from this place, this home , and you lean against the wall in the hope that it will help steady you. 

The door opens behind you, the creak of the old hinges deafening in the silence of the hall. There’s a commotion behind it, voices overlapping each other and reverberating in your skull until they’re a twisted mockery of your siblings. 

You stumble down the hall, one hand clutching your ribs to keep them as still as possible despite your movement. It’s not lost on you that there are footsteps following you, but you can’t focus on them now. You’re not moving fast, and you need to be, you should be running , but you can’t. Your vision is already clouding slightly at the edges, the sudden spike of adrenaline waning now that you’re out of the apartment. 

Someone says your name and you swing. 

It’s instinct, the way your fist flies through the air; you can’t control it, not this, not when the red is all you can see even as it seeps away and turns lilac. It doesn’t matter anyway. You don’t make contact with anything but the wall, plaster crumbling around your fist and onto the carpeted floor. 

“That was rude,” Taehyung says softly. He doesn’t sound mad, though he should, considering you almost decked him straight in the nose. “I’ll take you back.”

He drapes your jacket over your arm and walks away, toward emergency stairs tucked into the corner instead of the elevator, and you follow. He hums as he goes, and he lets you lead the way down the stairs, keeping pace with your quick steps until both of you step out a side door into an alleyway. 

Out of habit, more than anything, you light a cigarette and put it between your lips. You don’t miss the disgusted scrunch of Taehyung’s nose, but you do ignore it. The smoke is familiar in lungs, comforting, and he doesn’t understand it, won’t ever understand it, but he doesn’t have to. 

“Sorry, Tae,” You say after a few minutes of silence. Taehyung shrugs one shoulder and moves to lean beside you against the stone of the building. 

“Are you okay now?” You nod, taking a deep breath, remembering how Hestia had taught you, so long ago, how her hand felt against your chest, the warmth and love it held. “Then you’re forgiven. And you can call me Calliope, if you want.”

You’re both quiet after that. He doesn’t make fun of you, he doesn’t judge you, he just silently drives you back to Suho’s bar, which is when you remember that he doesn’t know where you live. You’re fine with it; you don’t want to see him in your run down hovel. It’s not much, especially compared to his own apartment, but that makes sense, too. 

What could ever live up to the home of a Muse? Not even a muse, really. The Muse. The Head of the Nine Muses, the one called on most often by those in need, the one that everyone knew, the one that Hephaestus just put statues of in the gardens of Olympus, according to the rumors that Apollo sent you. 

The calm that he brings lasts until you get back to your apartment, nearly ten full minutes after you disappear into the alley beside Suho’s bar. It’s the longest the calm has ever lasted, and the view of the city tinted lavender is one you think you love. 

If you can love. 

Things get clearer, somehow. The weight on your shoulders lessens, makes you feel less like Atlas and more like you, how you were all those years ago in the now-ancient days when things made sense. When people fought for honor and glory and justice more than they fought for oil and death and greed. 

It could be because open mic nights are frequent around the city, and you’re able to figure out his schedule pretty well. You don’t go every night that he sings, just when it gets to be too much, when the scarlet haze starts to bleed into your irises like a flag in front of a bull. It helps, for a while, lets you settle long enough to pull the pieces of you back into a shape that vaguely resembles yourself. 

It could be because the fights happen every night, and Taehyung is no stranger to where to look to find them. He watches every one that he can, when he isn’t singing, and his presence anchors you. Focuses you, so that you can pull your punches just enough, so that there’s less hurting and more fighting. It doesn’t work every time, you still lose yourself in the rage and do more damage than you ever mean to, but it helps enough. And when it doesn’t, he’s there, to slide a hand across your shoulders in that exact same way that Hestia used to, that Apollo might if you let him close enough to know you’re alive, that Artemis would , were she anywhere but where she is. 

It’s a strange feeling. You’re not used to companionship, you don’t know how to have friends. You still say the wrong things and do the wrong things and he still speaks to you like he expects to be listened to, but you both are learning. You apologize more often, and he corrects himself quicker. It’s a slow, fragile thing, this friendship, but it’s there. 

Until the night when it’s not. 

You aren’t sure how it happens. It’s been weeks since you last saw Taehyung; he mentioned some project he was working on, something or another that would have most of his attention along with that of several of the other Muses. You had brushed it off when he said it, some snide remark about how you don’t need him there to win. 

You would take it back if you could. 

Because you were right, of course, you don’t need him there to win; you can do that on your own. And your control has gotten better, stronger, over the last few months, but complacency is what always leads to disaster. 

The guy deserved it, is what you tell yourself as you’re pulled out of the ring. He was a piece of shit anyway, you remind yourself as you call Apollo with shaking hands. He didn’t deserve your mercy, you tell the golden gold after you’ve begged him to help save the man’s life. Artemis would have done the same, you insist to him, long after he’s hung up the phone and left to follow the ambulance to the hospital. 

You don’t go to Suho’s. You can’t bear it, not when he might be there, not when he would read it on your face in a heartbeat. You don’t want to watch the disappointment crumble into something more familiar, something worse, you can’t watch him look at you with the knowledge that your siblings are right, that they’ve always been right, that you’re nothing better than a crazed animal. 

The club is packed full when you get there. The bartender starts to pour you a drink and you just take the bottle, leaving a too-thick wad of bills in return. The bourbon tickles as it goes down but it warms your stomach and distracts you from the haze in your mind, the repetitive beat of they were right they were right they were right they were-

“Whoops, sorry,” someone says, a second before they knock into your shoulder. You’ve been around long enough to know a fake fall, and you scowl as you glance towards them. 

He’s cute. Taller than you, with skin that would hide the marks you so love to create, and hair that looks like it would be soft in your hands. His clothes fit well, and they look like they were chosen for comfort over style despite the way he walks like a model in them, which you always find attractive. 

The smile that slips onto your face is familiar, as is the way you bring your hand up to rest on his hip in an effort to steady him. 

“Don’t worry about it, sweetheart,” You tell him, not being subtle in the way you eye him. He looks soft; you love them soft. “You headed to get a drink?”

“I might be,” He says teasingly, a coy grin forming on his lips. 

“I’ve got something better, if you’re interested.”

His eyes roam along your body, his breath drawing somewhat quicker when he notices the scrapes on your knuckles. “I might be.”

It takes five minutes to get him to a corner quiet enough to talk. Less than three to get your lips on his. One and a half to start sucking a mark into his neck that makes him moan so pretty you can’t help but want to hear it again. 

One of your hands is up his shirt, playing with the pebbled buds and the metal pierced through them, while the other teasingly massages the skin of his hip when he’s torn away from you roughly. 

“What the fuck?” Your voice growls as you look up. The guy is standing there, looking for all the world like he’s ready to run, but he isn’t watching you. 

No, his eyes are on a familiar sight; Taehyung, his hair now a pretty lavender that makes you think of a home you don’t have, even as he doesn’t look at you. 

“Taken,” He growls, releasing the collar of the guy you had every intent to make cry with pleasure. The guy scurries off before you can stop him, though, and you don’t bother to hide your disdain. 

“What the fuck is your problem?” You demand, already lighting a cigarette as you head outside. Taehyung follows, pulling it from between your lips and crushing it in his hands before you have the chance to get your lighter out.

“Me? You looked like you were about to eat him .” He follows you all the way to the street outside and down the sidewalk, pulling each cigarette out of your hands before you can light it. He waits until you’re a decent distance from the crowd outside the club before he stops you, one hand lightly encircling your wrist. 

Your boots scuff against the ground as you stop, not turning to look at him. You’re too afraid to, too worried he’ll see it all on your face and just know that you’ve fucked up, maybe beyond repair. 

“Apollo called me,” is what he says instead. “Said I might want to find you tonight.”

You should’ve known. That little fuck, of course he would rat you out. 

“I didn’t-” 

The words choke in your throat. You want to say you don’t need him. You don’t need him to come running like you’re some scared little girl who can’t control her strength, you don’t need him to piece you back together because you aren’t broken, you don’t need him because you don’t need anyone, you never have. 

“I know you didn’t,” Taehyung says quietly. “I know he deserved it, I know what he did, and I know you didn’t mean to.”

Something inside of you breaks and you find yourself shaking. 

“He hurt her , Tae, I heard it, I heard her telling her friend about it on the phone, I saw her crying, I saw her clothes, okay, he-”

“I know,” Taehyung says, pulling you into a loose hug. “I know you did, it’s okay. He’s going to be okay. He’s not gonna escape his punishment from that, you didn’t send anyone to Hades today. It’s okay.”

The cloud struggles, for what feels like hours. Guilt settles like lead in your stomach, and you wish you weren’t so used to the feeling. The rage returns every time you remember what that girl looked like, what she sounded like on the phone, how you felt when you realized it was your competitor who had done that to her. 

There’s no honor in that. There’s no justice, no glory, in beating an opponent who was never aware they were in the ring, and it makes your blood boil all over again. Taehyung’s voice soothes you, slightly, makes the edges of your vision turn indigo, but it isn’t enough. 

It’s never enough. 

“I have to go,” You say, pulling yourself away from him. “I need- I have to find-”

“A distraction,” He finishes for you, too aware that you can’t find the words you need. “Some mortal that you can bruise and break and bang until you feel less like a monster?”

That’s exactly what you want to do, what you had been about to do with that guy at the club, and it’s only Taehyung’s voice calling your name in that soft, sweet way of his that makes you wonder if that’s not a good plan. 

“I’ll be a distraction, if you need one.” You whip your head around, staring at him, but he doesn’t flinch. “I’m sturdier than the mortals, I can take more. Let me be your distraction.”

“I…” You hesitate. You don’t know why. You shouldn’t even be entertaining this idea, it’s not a good one, but then...when have any of your ideas been good? “I can’t fuck in a house with eight other people.”

“You have an apartment,” He says easily. “Let’s go there.”

It’s a bad idea. You don’t do that, you don’t fuck people at your apartment, you don’t have people in your apartment, it’s your space. It’s a bad idea, it can only end in disaster. 

“Okay.”

Taehyung’s lips are soft against yours, yielding and pliant just the way you’re used to. His hands are big and warm against your ass, even through your jeans, and the feeling gives you the courage to slide your own under the ridiculously patterned button-down he’s wearing. 

He lets you lead the way through the door, kicking it closed behind you with slightly too much force. Your apartment is small, a studio with a bed tucked in the corner for the rare times that you need it. 

You push Taehyung onto it and slide yourself onto his lap, already grinding down onto the hard length you can feel there. He's not quite as enthusiastic, but his fingers are like steel against you, pulling you down with every rut of your hips. 

This, you can do. This, you're familiar with. 

You push on his shoulders, doing your best to get him on his back so you can have better access to the clasp of his jeans, but he resists. You try again, firmer, using a harsh suck against his skin as a distraction, but he still doesn't go. 

Frustrated, you pull back. 

"Not like this," He says. His voice clears some of the fog, and you frown. 

"Do you want to be on top, then? Because I don't mind, I just need it," You tell him. He sighs a little, but he flips the two of you over so he's kneeling between your open legs and your back is cushioned against the mattress. 

"How long has it been since you spent the night with someone who knows who you are?" He asks, pressing a kiss to your cheek as he sits back on his knees. 

You shift, uncomfortable. "A while. Why does that matter? Just fuck me."

"No," Taehyung says, voice gentle but firm. You cock a brow at him and move to get out from under him, but he stills you with a hand on your thigh. 

"You are a goddess," He tells you, trailing his hands down so he can undo the laces on your steel-toe boots and slide them off. "You have held Victory in your palms and set her free." 

His palms burn through the denim on your thighs, but you welcome it as he slides your jacket over your shoulders to the bed beneath. 

"You are the winner of wars. You are the one who grants battlefield wishes. You are the dead's escort to Hades." He leans down, pressing a soft kiss against your cheek and then down your throat. 

He pulls back as he gets to your collarbone, eyes blown wide with unfamiliar desire, and it makes your breath catch in your throat.

"You," Taehyung tells you, with desire in his eyes and belief in his voice, "Deserve to be treated like the goddess that you are, with the respect you have earned, and the care you deserve." 

As often as you fuck people, it's been a very long time since anyone wanted to fuck you for any reason beyond your appearance and the personality you show them. But this? This look in the muse's eyes as his hands settle on your knees as he waits? 

Taehyung wants to fuck you because you're you. Not despite it, not because he doesn't know . He has seen you at your worst and yet he keeps coming back, keeps showing up as you fall apart. Each time he stays, hands you a basket so you can pick the pieces of yourself up off the ground, holds the tape so you can mash it back together, and is ready to help steady you when you start to crumble again. 

He's here for you , to treat you in a way no one has ever treated you before. He's your friend.

He cares.

You nod, however tentatively, and his lips are on yours in an instant. They're firmer now, less pliable and more controlling, but you don't mind. Not this time. 

Not with Taehyung. 

His hands don't hesitate as he strips you both of your clothes, but you can feel it each time he checks to make sure you're okay. The way that he watches your expression, the tense of your muscles under him, the cadence of your gasps for air between kisses, he reads all of it as clear as if it's a book in front of him. He slows down before you can stop him, his lips drawing back from the kisses he draws across your thighs, and he speeds up as your thoughts start to drift, swiping his tongue and two fingers through your folds to tease and bring your attention back to him. 

His fingers bury themselves in your heat, crooking slightly to brush against that soft part of you that makes the world spin, and it's all too intense. His lips are hardly even touching your skin, just pressing gentle kisses against the skin of your thigh, a gentle complement to the way he glides his fingers in and out of you, slow and steady and delicious, but it's absolutely intoxicating. 

He's talkative, too; he gives you constant praise. He tells you how well you take his fingers, how good you look with his fingers inside you, how absolutely fantastic you taste on his tongue, how he'd live between your thighs if he could. 

It's too much, and you can't be sure why, not when your orgasm is approaching quicker than it ever has, not when your walls clench around him and you soak your sheets, not when he's cleaning your cum off his fingers with his tongue.

"Good," He purrs. "Now you're all warmed up." 

His mouth hits your heat without hesitation or warning, before the aftershocks are even finished, and your hips buck upwards. His arms slide underneath your thighs only to grip them and bring them back down. You can't move much in his grip except to grind your pussy against his mouth, which he seems to enjoy, if the muffled grunts that escape him are any indication.

He doesn't stop until his tongue is buried inside you with one finger drawing lazy circles on your clit and you're cumming again, hands gripping the soft strands of his hair so tight that you would be afraid of pulling it out if you could focus on anything besides the feel of him against you.

He lets you ride the aftershock, this time. Waits until your pants die down slightly, until you're back in your mind. 

"Good?" He asks you. His voice is deeper, rumbles instead of slides, but it breaks through the post-orgasm haze long enough for you to nod. “More?”

“More,” you agree, wrapping your arms around his broad shoulders and pulling him into a heated kiss. You haven’t been this clear-headed in a while. Every sensation is clear and crisp, every sound heightened, everything is simultaneously more while also being exactly what it’s always supposed to have been. 

Taehyung’s cock is everything you could have expected from a muse; thick, long, beautiful, and it fills you in a way that’s indescribable as he slides inside. He groans at the feeling, deep and throaty and beautiful, and begins his thrusts nearly immediately. 

It’s as slow as he was with his fingers; steady and forceful, but unhurried. As if he wants to take his time. As if he wants to savor it. Savor you . 

“Do you have any idea how amazing you are?” He mutters, almost as an afterthought. “What you look like right now, what you look like when you’re fighting, when you’ve won and you’re triumphant? It’s fucking addictive, seeing that confidence in you.”

“Shit, Tae, don’t stop-”

“It’s so fucking intoxicating,” He groans, pace quickening. Your arms wrap around him more fully, nails like claws down his back as you arch your back to get him deeper. “You get this look in your eyes, like you can do anything you fucking want to, and it’s so fucking brilliant, because you can , you can do anything and everything you ever fucking want to do, and no one can stop you.”

A whine you’ll never admit to escapes your throat, and Taehyung drives his cock further into you. 

“Let go, my sweet,” Taehyung purrs in your ear. “Let yourself relax, just this once. For me.”

His hand touches your clit and it’s so much, too much , you’re feeling everything so intensely that it takes a solid minute to realize you’re coming down from an orgasm. Taehyung has stilled inside you, unmoving but groaning as you flutter around him, and you push weakly at his shoulder. 

He slides himself out of you, looking entirely too proud of wet spot underneath you and glistening against his lower stomach. You wobble your way up to rest your elbows underneath you, and it’s like he can sense your words before they come. 

“No,” He says simply. “I don’t you to get me off with your mouth.”

“A hand then? I don’t want you to leave unsatisfied.” 

A frown pulls at the corner of his mouth, and he leans down just enough that your lips are almost touching, a not-there kiss that you can only wish for. 

“In what world is fucking you to the point of Elysium unsatisfying?”

The crowd around you is deafening; some of them are cheering for you, but the majority are rooting for your downfall. Such is the life of a challenging the champion, you suppose. 

You don’t know how Taehyung found this place; maybe Artemis had heard rumors, or maybe he searched for it himself. You can’t bring yourself to care, not when you’ve got someone worth fighting on the other side of the arena. 

The sand crunches beneath your feet. It’s hot, hotter than it should be since you’re still wearing your signature jeans and boots - without the jacket this time. You learned from that mistake. 

Your vision tints pink as you size up your opponent; he’s massive, not one to be easily defeated, and you relish the challenge. It’s been so long since you’ve fought a giant. Excitement thrums under your veins as he turns to you. He scoffs. 

If you had a little less control, you might be flying across the arena already. He clearly has no idea who’s standing across from him. Probably thinks you’re some demigod, come to challenge him for the fleece he isn’t supposed to have. 

He’ll learn. 

Something moves in the distance. It should blend in, considering how dark it is, but instead it draws your eye, and you don’t even question why. You would recognize him anywhere, have recognized him everywhere, and his presence calms you. Makes you remember a few nights ago, falling into bed in a hotel in Rome because the burn was to much and you needed him to help you release it. 

“Try not to be too quick, princess,” The giant across from you huffs. You cock a brow and send a look to your muse, who just rolls his eyes, despite the smile playing across his face. 

Violet rings your vision as you ready your stance. The announcer yells something that’s lost over the noise of the crowd. Taehyung leans forward, elbows on his knees, excitement and pride in his eyes. 

The giant swings. 

[cranetreegang]

Witcher Fanfic with OC Characters: Part 1: I Need Your Help

A/N: So... I've never actually played the Witcher, or read any of the books. I've only seen the tv show and movie and random videos on Youtube. But I know enough about it to make me wanna write this.

Lanas and Nisalla are OC and I don't plan on included any actual characters from the original games/books because I'm kinda doing my own thing here and I don't wanna butcher them by accident. I don't know what time period this is set in either. I'm thinking in the future of where Witcher 3 takes place... maybe. I apologize for any wrongness I may make in regards to Witcher lore, and am very open to corrections. I like writing semi-believe/semi-accurate fanfics. Also, any input is greatly appreciated and welcomed. With that being said, I do hope you enjoy!

Summary: Lanas, a lone witcher just finishing a job in Ivalo, is looking to head to the next contract when a strange woman offers him a job. Will he accept, or will he ignore her request?

Warnings: Mild cursing

Word Count: ~1,600 words

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

Lanas stared into his pale brown ale with more content than he’s felt all month. The tavern was void of lively patrons, save him. Not that he was a lively patron by any means. In fact, far from it as he sipped his mild drink in comfortable silence. He had been in Ivalo for over a week tracking down a Spriggan that was terrorizing the logging crew. Lanas murmured a curse to the greedy lumberjacks that ventured into the forest for their prized wood, and tore down the Spriggan’s home; causing this whole mess.

Lanas took a hearty swig that barely stung his throat. The tavern's thin walls shook from the lumber yard back in business thanks to Lanas’ swift execution of the Spriggan. With only four loggers dead from the Spriggan’s revenge, Lanas was rewarded with enough crowns to get him down the road. And he was ready to get as far away from this shithole as possible. The smell of putrid waste hung in the air everywhere you went in Ivalo. Which was enough to keep him in a constant bad mood.

He stared at his empty drink with thoughts to get more when the door flew open to the tavern. The draft brought in the fresh scent of mud, a mixture of human and animal feces, and a hint of Damiana.

“There you are!” A female voice called out to the empty room. Lanas didn’t bother to turn towards her and he made a silent prayer that she wasn’t talking to him. He heard the wood creak and groan until she plopped down across from him.

The auburn haired woman was unfamiliar to Lanas. Her dark reddish hair framed around her face and just touched her shoulders. The numerous freckles dotting her pale skin only served to make her look younger than she really was. Her lips, a dull shade of vermilion, formed a bright smile that suited her well, and made her appear warm and easy to talk to. Her cheeks were well-defined, but not overly sharp. Her storm gray eyes were soft, and directed right into Lanas’ dark amber ones without a hint of fear. She wore dark brown, nearly black, leather armor that was made specially for her. A black cloak hung off her back that didn’t conceal the silver-tipped bow poking past her head. Overall, her presence didn't give Lanas much concern or second-thoughts.

“You’re a hard person to find, witcher.” She drummed her covered fingers on the worn table that had several slashes and holes from years of misuse. “But, luckily for you, I’m a very determi-, hey! Where’re you going?”

Lanas had stood up from his seat and was slumbering over to the lone fat bartender by the entrance.

“Another.” Lanas gruffly ordered while setting his mug down on the bar. The barkeep looked between him and the woman running up to him with a knowing smirk.

“Ya’ll need a’least three if ya don’t wanna go deaf ‘fore the day’s done.” The bartender laughed at his joke while pouring more ale into the mug. The woman let out a sharp scoff then crossed her arms.

“I’d say that hurt my feelings, but that would imply that I care what you think.” She spat.

“I’ll take those other two now.” Lanas sighed.

The woman leaned on the bar with her full body turned towards the annoyed witcher. She looked over him with interest. Sizing him up, it seemed. He was at least a head taller than her and far more broad than she. His shaggy raven black hair hung past his pierced ears. The two studs in his ears weren’t of any value, from what she could tell, and he didn’t possess any other forms of jewelry besides his silver amulet laying on his décolleté. His face was well-defined like that of a wolf and he had a fine stubble of dark hair on his lower face. Even though he was broad, he was still lean and agile.

The armor he wore was quite heavy just by looking at it. Scratched metal covered parts of his chests, forearms, and legs while thick quilted earthy brown leather protected everything else. Her eyes strayed on his silver bear amulet for a moment too long. Lanas bared his sharp teeth at her and she smiled sheepishly at him.

“I’m sorry. Very rude to stare, I know. I just couldn’t help but notice your bear thing.” She pointed at his medallion, making him promptly shove the necklace underneath his armor.

The barkeep placed Lanas’ three drinks in front of him then turned his attention to the woman. “If ye gonna be botherin’ folks, ya better orda somethin’. Else, git.”

The woman waved her hand at the barkeep to dismiss him. “As I was saying, before you walked away, I’ve been looking for you.”

Lanas chugged the first ale and let out a satisfied sigh. He turned his head slightly towards her and seemed disappointed that she was still there. He began drinking his second mug as she continued speaking.

“I’ve been tracking, what I believe to be, a cyclops.” She said with her eyes wide in enthusiasm. “I know! Exciting, right?”

Lanas finished his second mug, and was working his third.

“This cyclops has been picking off poor travelers on the road from here to Dorian. It’s been hiding out in the forest then swooping in to smash everyone to bits.” Her fist slammed on the wooden bar to emphasize her point.

Lanas also slammed his empty mug down then wiped off the ale slipping down his stubbled chin. He shoved himself away from the bar and began to leave the tavern. He didn’t make it far down the street before the woman was beside him once more.

“You’re seriously still gonna leave. Even though a cyclops is terrorizing people!” She exclaimed over the roaring noise from the lumber mill that vibrated the muddy ground they slogged through.

Lanas rolled his eyes. “Cyclops keep to themselves.” He tried to speed up his pace, but she easily matched him.

“Yes. Yet, it’s still out there causing havoc.”

“Not my problem.” Lanas dismissed with a grunt.

“Oh, you’re one of those witchers. I see. Not your problem until someone pays for it to be your problem.” She reached into her pack to produce a well-sized sack that made a nice clanking noise. She held it out in front of Lanas, who slowed down his stride to better examine the dangling prize.

She grinned at his interest. “Ah, there we go. Should’ve done this sooner. I’ll pay you to help me kill this cyclops.”

Lanas went to grab the pouch when she yanked it out of his reach. His scowl consumed his already harsh features. “I get paid now, woman.”

“It’s Nisalla. Nis for short. And no.” She shoved the pouch back into her pack. “Not until you agree. Can’t have you running off on me.”

Lanas glared down at Nis, but she just smiled back. Lanas let out a low growl and stomped ahead. “I don’t work with others. Especially not humans.”

“If you’re worried about me dying, don’t. I can handle myself.”

“That’s what they all say.” Lanas grumbled under his breath. “And I don’t care if you die. You might get me killed because you do something stupid.”

She let out a sharp gasp while clutching over her heart. “You wound me, witcher. Truly. Especially since I haven’t done anything stupid so far.”

One of his black brows rose as he side-eyed her. “You’re following me around. Testing my patience. I’d say that’s stupid.”

She hummed to herself in thought. “Reckless, maybe. I don’t think it’s stupid though.”

Lanas stopped walking, causing Nis to stop as well. Lanas got right in her face, forcing her to look up at him, and glared at her.

“Whatever it is,” his jaw was clenched so tightly that the words coming out sounded like hisses, “it won’t matter when I slit your throat and feed your entrails to the wolves if you keep bothering me.”

Nis’ brows rose and her stormy eyes widened. Her heart beat a bit quicker as she stared into his glowing amber eyes with slits like a cat ready to pounce on her. Then she let out a nervous giggle as she patted his shoulder. “You almost got me there. Nearly pissed myself, honestly!” She laughed as he stared at where she touched him in furious disgust.

She motioned with an exaggerated arm movement down the muddy path, “Come now. I think if I stay here a moment longer, I’m gonna cut my nose off. This place smells like shit.” She sauntered towards the stables, with a couple of bystanders flipping her off for her blatant comment. Lanas stared after her with his fists balled tightly at his side.

“She didn’t even flinch.” He grumbled under his breath. He chuckled to himself that maybe she wouldn’t faint at the sight of this supposed cyclops. He caught up to her at the stables to find her preparing a sorry looking red roan. She hopped onto the mare and flashed Lanas a pleased smile.

“So, you are coming then?” She asked.

Lanas went over to his tanned stallion and petted the beast’s muzzle. He saw the burning curiosity brimming in the young horse’s eyes.

“We’re off again, Horse.” He patted the side of the horse’s neck before hopping on Horse's back.

“Horse? You named your horse, Horse?” Nis questioned.

Lanas sent Horse trotting ahead and Nis turned her mare to follow. She giggled to herself at the unoriginality before asking, “What’s your name, witcher? Or is that your actual name?”

She tossed the heavy leather pouch to the witcher. He looked inside the bag, and was pleased to see it filled with golden crowns glittering in the sunlight. He stuffed it into his saddle bags then glanced over at Nis awaiting eagerly for his answer.

“Lanas.”

Nis said the name quietly to herself then grinned. “Alright, that was half. You get the other half after you kill the one-eyed beast. Try to keep up, Lanny.” She took off ahead of Lanas, who watched her with an irritated scowl. If this cyclops doesn’t kill her, Lanas was sure he would.

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

Read Part 2 Here

[blackmissfrizzle]

Dance Lessons

Pairing: black!reader x Dean Winchester

Summary: Dean gets an unexpected dance lesson and uses it on his lady.

Request:  Deanx Black!Reader. Basically the reader is teaching Dean about dancing in our culture and offers to show him the dances: (grinding, hip rollin, twerking, dutty wining/whining) after he catches her vibing out to an old school reggae song

A/N:  I’m finally back with another Dean fic! requested by @nervouspetsonanime I changed it a bit, because I didn’t know the full history and didn’t want to butcher it, I hope you like it.

Warnings: Language and mentions of smut.

“Another one,” you asked Dean, noticing his beer getting low.

He licked his bottom lip to catch the remaining alcohol on his lips, set his beer down and started to get up. “Yeah, I can use one.”

Stopping him, you pushed him back down to his seat. “No, I’ll get it. Plus, I have these,” you lowered your shirt down to show off your boobs. “I’ll get our drinks much quicker.”

Dean growled, he wrapped his arm around your waist, tugging you closer to him, his usually bright green eyes darkened before they caught sight of your full lips. Biting your lower lip, he whispered against you, “Please don’t make me fight tonight. I’m too tired after dealing with that nest.”

Chuckling at his protectiveness, you gave Dean a quick peck. “Don’t worry I have all the energy if someone gets out of line, since you took some of my kills tonight.”

“I’m sorry I’m the superior hunter,” Dean joked, knowing you were just as good, probably even better than him.

“Oh really,” you cocked an eyebrow, slipping out of his grasp.

“I’m paying for that later, aren’t I?” Dean yelled, as you made your way towards the crowded bar. You mouthed ‘oh yeah’ and Dean had to shake his head for his stupidity.

Since, Eileen and Sam went back to the motel, Dean kept all his attention on you as you maneuvered through the crowd. He couldn’t help but admire the curve of your hips as you squeezed past people, your cute little smile when you said ‘excuse me’, or how the small of back showed when you had to lift your drink from spilling. Dean didn’t understand how he gotten so lucky with you, but one thing for sure he wasn’t gonna mess it up.

Waiting on the bartender to get to you, the sounds of Turn Me On filled the air and unconsciously you started moving your hips until a group of black girls pulled you into their dance circle and cheered you on. One of the girls flushed herself against you and the both of you were moving your hips in sync. You were having a blast that you forgot that you were supposed to be getting you and Dean’s drinks.

When the song was over, the girl you were dancing against introduced herself and her friends. “Girl, you got some moves! I’m Jade and that’s Sydney, Mika, and Tyler.”

“You too, I had trouble keeping up with you!” you complimented her, “And I’m Y/N.”

“Is that a creep or is he with you?” Jade pointed to a possessive Dean. He was staring you down, trying to communicate to the others that you were off limits.

Rolling your eyes at him, you responded to Jade. “Yeah, that’s my boyfriend Dean.”

She quirked an eyebrow at you and pulled you a little further from her friends. “By any chance is his last name Winchester?”

Eyeing her suspiciously, you pulled away from her a bit, getting ready for a fight if need be. “Yeah, why?”

“Girl, calm down,” she giggled at you. “Me and my boyfriend are hunters too. The combination of Dean and Y/N are famous in our community.”

Letting out a deep breath you hugged her until you forgot that she didn’t know you like that. “Sorry, its just-”

“Not that many black hunters, especially black women. Girl, its all good.” She finished your sentence for you.

***

I calmed down a bit when I saw Y/N hug the girl she was dancing with earlier. When I saw her tense up, I thought somehow a vampire got loose and it was threatening her. But now it seemed like Y/N knew the girl, but that was impossible, since she didn’t have many friends he didn’t know because of the life.

“They probably just figured out that they’re both hunters.” A black guy a couple of inches than me, but much broader interrupted my thoughts. Sticking out his hand for me to shake, he introduced himself, “I’m Lawrence Wheeler.”

“The wendingo hunter? No shit. Dean Winchester.” I introduced myself and shook his hand.

“Pretty much figured that when I saw the Impala outside and the way you kept watching everyone like they were some type of threat.”

Taking a sip of my beer I replied, “Never can be too careful.”

After that, Lawrence and I traded war stories while we waited on the girls get their drinks. He’s a cool guy and I was about to suggest we hunt together when I heard Y/N’s favorite song, Back That Azz Up, which I only knew because it was on her twerk playlist.

She looked for me and crooked her finger to come over and as always, I declined and just stood there and watched. I never knew what to do once Y/N starts twerking, so I always watch until I couldn’t take it anymore and fuck her against the nearest surface.

Lawrence nudged me out of my trance of watching Y/N’s ass work. “You ain’t gon’ dance with ya girl?”

“Nope, not much of a dancer.”

“Oh okayyy, you can’t handle all that ass she’s throwing.”

Quickly, I turned to Lawrence and I must’ve had my bitch face, because he held his hands up in surrender. “Chill out, I wasn’t staring at your lady’s ass. I just made an observation. Obviously, she can dance, and you can’t.”

Calming down a bit, I mumbled a weak yes. Disappointed that it was so obvious.

“Lemme ask you this: can you fuck? I mean like you be having your girl acting like a dope fiend for the dick.”

Smiling to myself, I just thought about how Y/N couldn’t keep her hands off me on our way to the bar and the quickie we had in the back of Baby. Hell, half the time she initiates sex and if I really wanna be picky I could say more than half because she likes to tease me until I snap.

“By that smile, I’m taking that as a yes,” Lawrence concluded and I nodded my head in agreement. “With all respect if you know how to dick her down, then you know how to dance.”

“Man, I don’t know.” I objected taking another sip of beer, watching Y/N make one cheek bounce at a time.

Lawrence moved from the side of me to directly in front and pointed at Y/N. “Look what she’s doing right now is twerking.”

“I know what the hell twerking is!”

“Did you know that twerking is the moving of the ass and whining is the moving of the hips?”

Now I’m completely confused. “Wait a minute, I thought it was all the same.”

“No, grasshopper they ain’t. Lemme teach you a little something.” He said, hitting me in the center of my chest, then wrapped his arm around my shoulders.

“Earlier what your lady was doing was called whining. That’s the moving of the hips, usually in a circular motion and mostly to some reggae or dancehall. When she’s doing that, she takes the lead, a’ight?” He looked to me to see if I understood and I nodded yes. “Good, so then all you gonna do is stand behind her, ass against crotch, and move your hips in sync with hers. Now here’s the easy part, how she’s twerking right now, she’s does all the work. All you gotta do is stand behind her and catch what she’s throwing back.”

Lifting an eyebrow, I asked, “That’s it?”

“Yep, playboy. Do it right and people will yell at you to get a room.”

It seemed easy enough. Follow Y/N’s lead and let her do all the work. Could I really do it? Could I do it without messing up?

“I’m gonna go dance with my girl. I’ll catch you before we leave.” Lawrence clapped my hand before he left to join his girlfriend.

**

Jade’s boyfriend joined us and let her dance against him. You kept on dancing with the rest of her friends, wishing Dean would join you. While you were in your groove, you felt someone grab your hips and pull you against them. Quickly, you broke his hold and turned to face the offender.

It was a drunken frat daddy who never heard of the word no. When you had the nerve to look offended, he had the audacity to grab your hips and continue dancing. Grabbing and twisting his wrist, you pulled away from him.

“Awww, c’mon don’t be like that sweetheart,” he slurred making grabby hands.

Slapping his hands away you pointed at a pissed off Dean and smiled at him. Time for him to pay up for his comment from earlier. “My boyfriend is right there and if you don’t stop he’ll kick your ass.”

“What? That old guy? Pfft, I doubt it.” Frat daddy reached behind you and smacked your ass.

You didn’t have time to react because as soon as Dean saw his hand raise, he pushed his way through the crowd to you. An all-out brawl started when Dean punched frat daddy. His fellow frat daddies didn’t approve, and they all attacked Dean.

The bartender finally finished your drinks, so you grabbed yours and leaned back and enjoyed the show. Most of the time you hated when Dean got into bar fights, but there was also, but there was also this one little caveat: Dean was hot as hell when he fights. It was something about how he moved and also his face was so damn pretty. Sometimes, you pissed him off intentionally, so you could admire him in all his glory. But your favorite part is when his shirt hitches up a couple of inches and you catch a sliver of his stomach. It was something so small but turned you on the most.

“A little help?” Dean called out, watching you enjoy your drink.

“Remember you’re the superior hunter. You can handle this.” You smiled, taking another sip. If Dean was truly needed any help you would jump right in, but the only punches that were landing were Dean’s. He was just mad that he had to get some extra cardio in.

Eventually, Dean knocked them out and they left with their tails tucked between their legs. “Not bad for an old guy.” You whispered, hiding a smirk behind your glass.

Reaching behind you, Dean snatched up his beer from the bar and chugged it. A drop escaped his lips and you reached up to kiss it away.

Dean didn’t say anything as he glared down at you and pulled your tank up to hide some of your cleavage. “Hey, he didn’t get to see these babies, it was all this ass that enticed him.” You jokingly said while twerking on Dean.

Knowing he didn’t like dancing, you were about to stop twerking on him when he pulled you back. “Don’t stop.”

Looking back, you eyed him cautiously asking him if he was sure with your eyes. In response, he tipped his head letting you know he was sure.

The song changed and you’ve never been so grateful for Ginuwine before. You didn’t want to scare Dean off by throwing it back too hard.

Wanting to keep it simple, you rolled your hips against his and as just as you suspected Dean kept up. You always knew he had it in him, Dean just got all in his head and fucked it up for himself.

**

What the fuck? I was actually getting it?! Lawerence was right, all I had to do was let Y/N do the work and everything else was a piece of cake.

I suspected she went a little slower for me, but she felt confident in me she started doing a slow twerk on me. Gripping her hips, I signaled to Y/N she could go a little faster.

She bent over some more, shaking her ass right on my dick. It reminded me of last week when I had Y/N’s purple pulled to the side and I was fucking her from behind.

Great, now I was hard. How in the hell am I gonna last?

I’m guessing Y/N could feel my hard-on because the little devil started grinding against me a little bit harder. There was no way I was lasting another song.

Finally, the song ended, and I grabbed Y/N closer. “We’re leaving.” She looked up at me with those ‘fuck me’ eyes and I knew she needed me as badly as I needed her.

Both of us looked for Lawerence and his girlfriend. They were gathering the things as well, getting ready to leave.

Catching up with them, Y/N spoke with Jade while I said my goodbye to Lawerence. “Hey man, thanks for the tip. Anytime you’re near Lebanon or need some backup give me a call.”

Lawerence shook my hand and looked behind me. “Same for you and no problem, man. It seems like it worked for you.” He noted, Y/N’s antsy look.

**

If Dean Winchester didn’t hurry up, this whole bar was gonna get a show and you were sure he wouldn’t appreciate that.

“Damn, girl he got you revved up, huh?” Jade asked, noticing how agitated you looked.

“Hell yeah! And he needs to come on!” You yelled loud enough for him to hear you.

Your voice made Dean hurry up and finish his conversation. Once he was done, you said your final goodbye to Jade and rushed Dean out the door.

Just like before you got to the bar, you couldn’t keep your hands off Dean. One hand was in his hair, the other rubbing is hard-on, your lips suckling on the skin behind his ear while he’s driving.

For whatever reason, Dean was adamant about your safety while he drives, which was hypocritical because he drove like a madman. So, gently he pushed you back into your seat, ordering you to put on your seatbelt.

“But I wanna make you feel good.” You pouted and crossed your arms like a 2-year-old.

This time Dean ran his fingers through your hair. “I promise you’ll get the chance, just be patient. If you kept on, I’ll probably would’ve driven us off the road.”

“We’re here for a good time, not a long time,” you joked. Dean shook his head at you and held your hand until y’all gotten back to the motel.

Once Dean put Baby in park, you jumped out the car and ran to unlock your room. Dean was close behind, itching to take your clothes off.

Your hands were wrapped in Dean’s shirt, mouth nibbling on his ear. “How about you show me more of those dance moves?”

Dean threw you on the bed and climbed on top of you. “Oh, sweetheart, I’m gonna show you a lot more than that.” He chuckled darkly, glad that you didn’t waste any energy with that bar fight, because he was gonna wear you out tonight.

Tags: @nerd-lovely​ @nervouspetsonanime​ @titty-teetee​ @thefaithfulwriter​

[imaginesbymk]

PINK + WHITE.

—chapter nine ; with heat & wet skin.

summary: teresa’s permanent resignation from the peaky blinders leads her to a whole new chapter of working in an art museum. but little did she know her best life would be butchered some time later when her former lover tommy shelby gives her no choice but to return to the peaky blinders after they make new enemies, with the leader, of all people, being the man teresa fell in love with one night after a wedding reception back in post world war; luca changretta. 

pairing: luca changretta x OC x tommy shelby

tags in this chapter: swearing, implied nsfw, drinking, mentions + drug use

[ chapter index / meet my oc / wattpad link ]

MASON was quick on his feet when he was given the slightly odd request Teresa had asked him to do last minute. It had nothing to do with the gallery or with separation of last minute business meetings to be scheduled in the margins of the diary. It was just that he had to safely track down a dangerous man. Luca Changretta was still in England, hot-headed with a plan.

Teresa loved fur shawls. Though she detested how the cheap ones she could afford wore out from time to time, from the "fur" falling out like leaves from a tree in autumn, or even its colour turning from new to depressed (and even she grew so envious over the women who wore the luxurious, expensive ones at parties). Tommy Shelby never bothered with buying her what she wanted, which she was fine with, but one man with the Italian genes spoiled her with one that she kept in her closet. A grey-ish white. Teresa often takes one look at it, before sliding it over to reach the silky see-through shawl when she is simply relaxing in her home. At parties she debated even thinking of taking it out, but then there was the other shawl that was made of black fur, and it closed together with a silver clip to keep her shoulders warm.

The fur shawl was just like the painting she avoids at her own work. Both were so beautiful and timeless, both sharing personal meaning. But tonight, it finally saw light from staying in the wardrobe closet for too long. Teresa held it out in front of her, then clutched it in her arms.

The bar was built together with grey walls, none sound-proof. On the other side you could hear the jazz band playing music for the party, or footsteps from the owner or a bartender heading out back for more stocking of gin. If you were on that side, you'd hear the giant doors spring open from the doorman that allowed Teresa to enter inside. The man at the counter watched as her dress fell all the way down to her heels, not too long so she wouldn't trip. Her hair was in its curls once more, and wrapped around like comfort was the fur.

She reached a booth and set her purse on the table. "White wine."

"Ma'am-" the server goes.

"A man will be joining me very soon." Teresa made a smile, as the unescorted woman if Luca were to not show up. Had she imagined if Luca burned the invitation letter she mailed to his hotel, or simply tossed it away, in future to be used as scratch paper, or even as a roll up (if Luca is one of the many people that did snow), she may have just wasted her time getting dolled up just to not be served at her booth.

"Last time I met up with a woman at a bar, she proposed a deal, and lied straight to my face."

She shot her head up.

Those eyes.

Looks like her night wasn't going to waste after all. "Are you talking about Polly?" She watches as Luca Changretta helps himself on the other side of the booth, the same server coming over to Teresa with her white wine.

Teresa waited while staring down at Luca's own glass being poured with four fingers of whiskey. Luca glanced at Teresa's outfit, not answering her question. "You're wearing the shawl I got you? I can't believe you still have it."

"What, like I got rid of it? Why would I give it to someone else who would treat it like a rag?"

"Hm." Luca took a sip. "So, why did you summon me here? Actually, I know the answer to that one. You're a businesswoman, as we both know. You invited me here to propose some kind of deal, eh? Like I got the time to spare one more fucking thing before I go do what I came to England to do?"

"I know about the vendetta, Luca." Teresa began. "And I know the deal you made with Polly, which was a lie, by the way. I know about that. What I also know is that you don't just plan on crushing the Peaky Blinders. You have more on your mind. You're so greedy that you would want to overthrow Alfie Solomons as well. If he were to betray Tommy with the deal you made with Mr. Solomons, you know you and your men would come after him as well and take over his business."

Luca nodded. "I had a feeling you knew. I had a feeling Tommy Shelby brought you back to Birmingham, no?"

"I know your patience is wearing thin, and you're done giving people more time. But then there's me."

"Right, forgive me," Luca places a hand on his chest. "Why not talk about the royalty in front of me as well? What could she possibly request for this time?"

"I wanna know why I was never sent a Black Hand."

Luca laughs, trailing his fingers around the rim of his glass. Whatever Teresa said or did, she definitely wasn't laughing. Nothing seemed funny to her on her end. She did, however, miss that laugh of his. It was more of a chuckle, but she loved it like it was honey in hot tea. "Let me tell you something. It's best to stay out of this, right? Since you resigned, messing with us is like throwing stones at the devil."

"I'll play in the snow with the devil to prove you wrong."

Luca scoffs harshly. "So you're one of those people that snorts white lines just to feel good?"

"That was just my own figure of speech, Luca. I don't do Tokyo," Teresa replied. She cringed at the habit Arthur and Michael carelessly picked up on. "It's everyone's thing now, but not mine."

"That makes two of us." He took another sip. "I'm doing you a favour here, Miss Griffith. Stay out of this and do your own thing."

"There's no need for you to call me that," she comments.

"Why the hell not? Formalities are a thing of the past now?"

"You're talking to me as if we just met. We had something together."

"Yeah, had."

Teresa gave a glare, grabbing her wine. Luca smirks. "All right. Whatever you say. Jesus, kid. You're so fuckin' difficult."

"Kid," she scoffs at his remark. "And Ada Thorne is on your list and she doesn't get her hands covered in blood. So why wasn't I included?"

"You feel left out?" Luca snickered.

"I just wanna know why. I know damn well you haven't forgotten about me. Even if what we had to you was just for pleasure, you found out that I was once a Peaky Blinder."

Luca stares. "You wanted out because you felt like it would devour you forever, so I respected your wishes. You told me why you threw in the towel. And I know you're not a Shelby, you don't wanna be a Shelby."

The server comes up to them. "Sir? Ma'am? Would any of you like to hear the specials tonight?"

"No, thank you." Teresa smiles.

"More whiskey," Luca says. "And for the lady, she'll have more wine." Teresa raised her brows. She didn't mind more wine, would she care so much about knowing her limit before it was time to wince at the tab?

"I forgot you love whiskey," Teresa points out.

"Italian whiskey," Luca made a hand gesture. "As I was saying... have you thought long and hard about this, as to why I'm here? As to why I want Tommy Shelby dead, how I now want everyone dead?"

"Your father." There was a pause between the two. The jazz band transitioned their music to a much slower song this time, and it started easing the nerves in both the former couple's systems despite the volume of alcohol consumed. "Arthur Shelby killed your father. John Shelby killed your brother Angel."

"If things didn't happen the way it did, my men and I would be cozying up in New York counting stacks by stacks."

"And I wouldn't be seeing you here," Teresa added. "Almost ever again," Teresa thanks the server for the excess wine refilling in her glass, then Luca's. "Now can we talk about the giant elephant in the room?"

Luca furrows his brows.

"I know why you left, Luca. I know it's been five years, but you really just packed up and left. I've never seen you so frantic until that day when you were running to the train." Not even an eye bat. "I grew miserable ever since."

"Can I say this?" Luca leaned forward, placing the cuffs of his tailored suit that it laid flat on the tablecloth. "Whatever emotion you saw in my eyes on that day, whatever it was, it was for the sake of being alive for my family. Someone's gotta help keep the business up and runnin'. None of it works if I'm not there."

Teresa stares at Luca. This man wasn't wrong. It wasn't like he was running everything in his family all on his own. His father led the family in Birmingham that Angel was a part of, even his mother lived with them, but what makes New York so important and comforting to Luca must have felt like a whole outlet of anything he ever accomplishes, how many Tommy guns he can hold and keep in his home like picture frames, how many men he has to hire from Sicily and America just to help kill one family. All of that was justified when he boarded that train to the Liverpool docks.

"Oh," Teresa straightened her back. "So much for being the big, bad capo."

"Be careful," Luca warned, pointing a finger at her. "Don't question a gangster's honour."

"You know I crack jokes here and there," Teresa's lips curled into a smirk as it reached the rim of her glass.

"So do I," said Luca.

She looked down at his hands that rested on the table. His experienced, non-scrawny hands that had a black hand tattooed on his wrist, one with a crown, and maybe some other new ones Luca got over time. She used to kiss all of them, even the one on his neck that was a cross. His right hand was wrapped with big, gold rings on two fingers, except he only kept his ring finger free of anything, that was something she wanted to bring up. "You got all those rings on your fingers but not a wedding ring.

"Not like you got one on yours, either. Unless you took it off before coming here," Luca jokes.

She shakes her head. "I've been too busy to fall in love with another soul. But you? You didn't tie the knot with Viviana back in New York?"

Luca scowled, knowing Teresa hadn't forgotten about that woman as he did. "No. I still see her occasionally."

"Yet you haven't done anything with her? Never bothered to find anyone to satisfy your mother?"

"My mother says any woman from New York or even from the old country would do."

"What did you say, after?"

"Mamma, you're killin' me.'" Teresa had to chuckle at that, Luca smiled at her. He then looked around the bar, seeing how more of the guests had gotten up to dance with their dates as the jazz music cranked up their higher tunes like a machine. "Don't tell me we're gonna be sitting here all fuckin' night. You wanna dance, Miss Tour Guide?"

The nickname he gave to her the first time. Did he really sit in front of her and tell her he couldn't remember everything they had, then? "I'm a little rusty," Teresa declines.

'We gotta stretch our legs somehow. I ain't even see your whole getup for the night."

Teresa had no problem getting up from the booth. She stepped out so that her heels were shown as well, and she placed the fur shawl down on her seat so her shoulders were out. The dress wasn't purchased by Luca, but by her, and she felt like a Grand Princess, like a little girl playing with their mother's dresses and makeup. She was never too insecure about her looks since it never bothered her, but she felt beautiful, and she wondered if Luca will still ever see her as beautiful whether or not she is clothed in front of him.

Luca kept on staring. "Then perhaps we can head somewhere else," he suggests. "Somewhere we're both quite familiar with."

How and why didn't matter, the young man who looked to be around Arthur Shelby's age paid no second thought to his surroundings as he aggressively snuffed the thick lines of cocaine that formed on the ledge up his nostril. He begins wiping away any excess off his face, exiting the balcony seats just as the Italian mobster escorts Teresa inside the dark theatre to their respected spots.

"You're a lover of theatre," Teresa spoke quietly as the show resumed to its first act.

"If you dress like one, you are one." Luca hooked his leg over the other, folding his hands on his lap.

It was silent, not the awkward or tense silence, but silent to respect and see the performance. Silence or absolute noise, the stage was the latter. The good kind of noise. The skimpy dancers twirled with batons, the man and woman playing the perky main lovers belted the note they must have spent days and nights rehearsing over and over.

Luca knew there would be performances every night back in New York City. There was always something to do and somewhere to go, otherwise you'd be glued to your chairs at home.

The show was about to end, and Luca, for the first time in God's glorious mysterious time, took Teresa by the hand and curled them together on his lap, his eyes were fixated to theatricality in front of the hundreds of people.

Teresa reacts, slowly looking down. It was nearly dark, but she could feel the giant, lumpy rings from his fingers bump into hers. He always held her hand during a show, and would only let go to join the applause when a number came to its big finish, or when the grand finale brought hypnotic joy and bliss in each audience member's senses like himself that he just had to give the standing ovation.

But just as the audience erupted in deafening applause, cheers and whistles, Luca and Teresa remained the only two members seated, their hands still holding.

HIS hotel room was neat and tidy before he left, now the sheets on the giant bed wrinkled like aged skin when Luca held Teresa down to remove her stockings. She missed his touch. The feeling of being pinned on a bed as he dominated over her, practically tearing what she wore for the occasion just to see her underneath as a sight for his sore eyes, it was definitely there, and her heart pounded.

"Luca," she breathed out a moan. He kissed her softly, now only responding with pacing movements, from positioning her to grabbing the protection from the nightstand drawers. Though he was careful with the dress and fur shawl that was set on the office desk he sat in earlier, within seconds her brassiere was tossed on the floor. With the help from Teresa, she managed to undress Luca from head to toe by just sitting up, and he was now unclothed from the fresh tailored suit his uncle made back in Mott Street.

They kissed again, and Luca went in.

+ me writing "smut": 🧿👄🧿 but ooooo shiiiit their “business” meeting was quite a night lol.