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queenshelby · 9 months

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Forbidden Desire (Part 13)

Pairing: Thomas Shelby x Reader (Female/Incestuous)

Warnings: Incest (at this stage accidental), Age Gap, PTSD, Domestic Abuse, Self-Harm, Fluff, Smut

Please comment and engage xx 😘

Late at night, after the sun had dipped below the horizon, casting an eerie glow across the sky, you slipped out of the townhouse you now shared with your mother in Birmingham, which your father had bought for you. Your heart raced as you navigated through the dark streets, headed towards Liam's secret hideout.

Echoes of laughter and music drifted through the air, drawing you closer to the source. The sounds of revelry made your pulse quicken as you neared the entrance of a dimly lit pub.

Its wooden door swung open with a creak, revealing a dimly lit interior where patrons clad in colourful garb danced and sang to the lively melodies of traditional Irish tunes. Liam greeted you with a broad smile, his armoured vest and sleek trousers accentuating his muscular build. As you entered the establishment, your eyes met his, and the intensity of your attraction grew stronger.

Liam's gaze bore into yours, conveying a mix of hunger and longing that sent shivers down your spine. The scent of whiskey and sweat mingled with the rich odour of cigarette smoke permeated the air, creating an atmosphere that seemed to envelop you in its thick embrace. You found yourself drawn to Liam as if under a spell, compelled to follow him deeper into the labyrinth of the pub.

Each step you took echoed against the wooden floorboards, causing you to feel increasingly disoriented.

Despite your growing unease, you could not tear your eyes away from Liam's mesmerising figure. He led you through the crowd, weaving effortlessly through the press of bodies as they swayed to the rhythm of the live music.

The room gradually transformed, becoming more private and intimate as you progressed. The smell of alcohol, leather, and humanity intensified, leaving your senses reeling with excitement.

As you continued to follow Liam, his arm brushing against yours ever so subtly, sending shockwaves of desire coursing through your body.

In the depths of the pub, Liam guided you toward a small, secluded corner. Surrounded by velvet drapes, this area exuded an air of exclusivity, allowing you to feel sheltered from the chaos of the crowded room. Liam's hand grazed your shoulder, his touch sending shivers down your spine.

"We need to be careful, Liam," you reminded him, wanting to keep the fact that you were dating a secret from your family.

The last thing you needed was rumours spreading about your romantic interests, getting to either your father or Tommy.

"Don't worry, love," Liam replied confidently, drawing you closer with his powerful arms.

"Our time together will remain our little secret. Nobody needs to know about us except for you and me." His tender kisses along your neck heightened your arousal, causing you to lose control of your breathing.

His lips trailed down your neck, slowly working their way back up, eventually reaching your own.

His touch sent electric currents surging through your body, making you feel weak and yearning for more. Your heart raced, pounding fiercely in your chest, as his tongue lightly grazed your lips, seeking entry.

As you opened your mouth to grant him access, you felt a wave of apprehension wash over you, and you, again, remembered the intimacy you had shared with Tommy.

Kissing Liam was not quite the same and even though you had been dating for almost three weeks now, you still had not slept with each other.

The thought of doing so terrified you. You did not know what he would do when he got to the point of having sex. It was all new territory for you, and you were still learning how to navigate it since the only man you ever slept with was your very own uncle.

"Slow down," you thus said to Liam, hoping he would understand your hesitation. His face hardened, and you saw his determination rise.

"Just give me a chance," he pleaded, his hands now cupping your face gently.

"If you trust me, let me prove myself worthy of your trust," he begged, but you felt somewhat uncomfortable still.

It was as if you could not fully surrender yourself to him. There was something holding you back, and you were not sure whether it was fear or just plain resistance.

"I am sorry Liam; I am not good with this. Intimacy scares me and I am just not ready yet," you admitted honestly as your heart ached at the thought of disappointing him, yet you could not bring yourself to push past your boundaries.

"Who would have thought that a member of the Shelby Family can be so prude, huh?" Liam sighed disappointedly, looking away from you. "You don't know what you're missing out on," he added, trying to tempt you further.

But you held firm, standing your ground, determined not to let him pressure you into doing something you were not comfortable with.

"You should focus on proving yourself worthy of my trust in other ways," you suggested, attempting to ease the tension since you were aware that Liam knew that you did not fully trust him just yet. "Besides, we don't need to rush things," you explained.

Liam's eyes narrowed in frustration, clearly unhappy with your decision.

"Alright, alright," he finally relented, seemingly resigned to respecting your wishes. "We'll take it slow. Just remember, this does not mean we're not exclusive. If anyone else tries to pursue you, I will not stand for it," he said as his tone conveyed a sense of possessiveness.

Awkward silence settled between you two as you navigated the aftermath of your disagreement.

Liam's expression remained tense, his jaw tightening as he fought against the urge to argue further. Recognizing his displeasure, you decided to attempt a change of subject but, before you could do so, Polly came walking into the room.

Her eyes immediately widened upon seeing the two of you, and her demeaner shifted from relaxed to alert in an instant.

"What's going on here?" she demanded, her voice edged with concern.

Feeling cornered, you glanced at Liam, who responded by stepping protectively between you both.

"Nothing's happening," he lied smoothly, his tone suggesting otherwise. "We were just catching up."

Polly eyed both of you suspiciously, but the moment passed without incident.

"Well, whatever it is, just remember Y/N, you are a Shelby now," she admonished before turning towards Liam.

"As for Liam O'Connor, you should know your place," Polly lectured him harshly, drawing disapproving looks from you.

"Polly, please. That is not necessary. We were just talking," you told her, knowing full well that her interference was not helping matters.

Polly's brow furrowed, her expression filled with scepticism. Her eyes flickered between you and Liam, weighing the honesty of your words. After a moment of deliberation, she appeared to accept your explanation, nodding curtly before turning to leave.

***

Unbeknownst to you, the following day, at the offices of Shelby Company Limited, Polly brought what she had witnessed to Tommy's attention.

"Tommy," she began as she barged into his office. "We need to talk," she stated bluntly, her tone serious. Tommy looked up from his desk, instantly recognising the urgency in Polly's tone.

"What is it?" he asked, setting aside his work as he rose from his chair. Polly hesitated for a moment, gathering her thoughts before continuing.

"You will not like this, Tommy," Polly said, choosing her words carefully. "But, last night, I caught Y/N in the middle of a conversation with Liam O'Connor. They appeared close, too close for my liking," Polly pointed out, causing Tommy to sigh.

Tommy's face contorted into a mask of anger, his eyes darkening with jealousy.

"Are you saying that one of my men is involved with my fucking niece?" he snapped, his eyes blazing with rage. Polly nodded grimly, confirming his worst fears. "How long?" Tommy asked sharply, his jaw clenching in anger.

"Since her birthday, I think. They must have met that night at your house," Polly answered, struggling to find the right words to explain the situation.

Tommy's grip on the edge of his desk tightened, his knuckles whitening as his grip intensified.

"Do you think they're sleeping together?" he questioned, his voice hoarse with barely contained fury. "Because if he does as much as lay a fucking hand on her, I will kill him, eh" Tommy warned, his face flushed with rage.

"Oh god, Tommy, enough with the jealousy already," Polly said, trying to calm him down but Tommy was beyond reason now. All he could see was the image of his beloved niece wrapped around another man, his mind racing with jealous thoughts.

"Don't you dare talk to me about jealousy, Pol," Tommy retorted angrily, his eyes flashing with a mixture of hurt and anger. "I am not fucking jealous," Tommy argued defensively, trying to convince himself more than Polly. "But I am cautious, eh? She is family after all," he added under his breath, unable to suppress his rage.

"Look, Tommy," Polly began, trying to reason with him. "I did not come here to tell on her. For all I care, she is a grown woman who can do whatever she wants...," Polly then began to say, trying to get to the point, but Tommy interrupted her again.

"That bastard, he doesn't deserve her, Pol!" Tommy said, the heat in his eyes betraying his jealousy, making it clear to Polly that she had struck a nerve.

"That's not the point, Thomas," Polly retorted calmly, trying to reason with him despite his temperament. "Now, would you please let me finish talking?" she asked, seeing that he had interrupted her several times by now, unable to deal with his growing jealousy.

"Yes," Tommy muttered darkly, his fingers fidgeting. "Speak," he commanded, his voice cold and detached.

"The reason I came here to even tell you about this is because I have a bad feeling about Liam. I always did, but usually, I would not interfere in your affairs, and I know that you put him in charge of fixing your races," Polly explained. "I cannot shake this nagging sensation that there is something wrong with him. He is hiding something," she warned, and Tommy, his face unreadable, remained silent, taking in Polly's words.

It was clear that he was weighing her concerns, considering them seriously.

Finally, he spoke, his voice low and controlled. "So, you believe that Liam might be trouble, eh? And why exactly would you think that?" he asked, genuinely curious.

Polly hesitated, collecting her thoughts once more.

"I may not have concrete evidence, but I have a feeling that Liam isn't who he seems to be. He has been seen with a few unsavoury characters recently, and some whispers suggest that he might be involved in some activities that could interfere with your own," she revealed slowly, her eyes locked with Tommy's intense gaze.

Tommy's eyes narrowed slightly, a frown marring his features. His brain raced through various scenarios, analysing the potential consequences of Polly's claims. The fact that Liam had connections to unsavoury characters did not necessarily mean he was involved in activities that go against the interest of Shelby Company Limited, but it certainly raised suspicion.

"So, I should keep an eye on him, eh?" Tommy mused, deep in thought. His expression hardened; his eyes gleaming with determination.

Polly nodded in agreement, grateful that Tommy was willing to listen to her concerns. "Yes, you should keep an eye on him, and you should also keep an eye on Y/N. She could be in danger," she affirmed, her voice strong and confident.

"Trust me Pol, I will put an end to their interactions right fucking now," Tommy spat, calling for Arthur, but Polly intervened.

"Do you think that, telling Arthur about this, is the wise thing to do?" Polly asked, her voice low and cautious.

"You are right. I need to handle this myself," Tommy acknowledged, but Polly pointed out that if he were to intervene directly, disallowing you to see Liam again, this would likely backfire on them all.

"So, you want me to watch on and do nothing while this fucker makes a move on my fucking niece?" Tommy questioned with a dangerous glint in his eyes.

"Yes, but get your trusted men to watch them both. You should also act cautiously around Liam and give him some space to find out what it is that he wants, Tommy," Polly advised, her eyes earnest and determined. "Let us not jump to conclusions yet. It is better to know our enemy first,” she said, and Tommy considered her advice, his eyes narrowing in thought.

"Alright, Pol, I will sit back and observe," he promised solemnly, his resolve evident in his eyes.

Polly nodded understandingly, knowing how deeply Tommy cared for you.

"Good," she told him, her voice gentle and reassuring before bringing up some other matters, including Lizzie's pregnancy and the upcoming elections where Tommy was in the run for the Labour Party.

Polly pointed out to Tommy that, by now, Lizzie was showing. Most people knew that Tommy was the father of the child, and, as such, Polly considered it to be wise if Tommy was to marry her.

Polly understood that Tommy cared deeply for you, but she also knew that he needed a wife - someone to solidify his position for the upcoming elections.

Tommy's brow furrowed at Polly's suggestion, his mind spinning with the implications of what Polly had told him to do. While he was aware of the political benefits of marrying Lizzie, he could not help but feel uneasy about the idea. His feelings for you were complicated, to say the least, and marrying Lizzie would only complicate his personal life further.

But as he mulled over Polly's suggestion, he realised that the stakes were high. With the upcoming elections, it was crucial for him to secure his position and gain public support. Marrying Lizzie could accomplish both goals while simultaneously shielding you from his desires for you. It would make things clear. It seemed like a strategic move, albeit an emotionally painful one.

His heart ached at the thought of losing you completely, of no longer having you in his life, though he knew that, ultimately, it was for the best.

"I will think about Pol," he said finally, a slight quiver in his voice betraying his conflicted emotions. Polly looked at him with concern, understanding the weight of his decision the depth of his feelings for you.

"Just remember, Tommy, you cannot have the woman you are in love with. She is your niece," Polly reminded him, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder. Tommy's eyes met hers gratefully, and he sighed.

"You're right," he acknowledged before telling Polly that he had other business matters to attend to.

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going-to-ikea-for-the-fries · 1 month

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I Got You. - OC Backstory

pairing: COD OC!Victoria "Whiskey" Callahan x MootOC!Rosie (platonic) words: 3.3k~ cw: canon-typical violence/talk, attempt at military accuracy, espionage, government conspiracies, paranoia, mental breakdown/issues, physical/health neglect, flashbacks.

August 6th, 2023. 2139 hours. Comrie, Scotland.

Whiskey's splayed out on the bed. She snaps a picture that catches only her tired eyes, knit eyebrows and poofy brown hair in the darkness of the room, before typing some random caption and shooting it off to Meabh.

It was typical for them to text through Snap. It was the only social app Whiskey kept after she left home 5 years ago. Her phone was void of other apps other than food delivery, youtube, her e-mail and Snapchat.

At the top of the screen, a pop-up appears, announcing the arrival of a new e-mail on her inbox. A Facebook one, from an account she long abandoned, along with her abandoning all other social medias. And yet, the name 'Holly Willi-' cut off by the character limit had her raising a brow.

Tapping at the notification, her e-mail client opened with an automated e-mail from Facebook alerting her that Holly Williams had sent her a direct message. Now that's new.

Holly Williams... That was one of dad's cousins. From Grandpa Willie's side of the family, if her memory served her. She remembers family dinners and barbecues spent together, her big Irish-American family getting together for the 4th of July, and Thanksgiving, and Christmas.

She hasn't seen her 'Aunt Holly' (even though the woman was really her first cousin once removed) since before she went to university nearly 13 years ago. What could the woman want now?

Clicking on the link, she's taken to the Facebook client page on her browser and after trying, failing, and reseting the password of her account, she clicks the DM tab and opens the message:

Hi Vicky dear, it's your auntie Holly. Hope you're doing well. I heard about your papa, my condolences. I hope it's not a bother but I reached out to your mama to talk to your daddy about some military things and she sent me your way because she said you're in the navy. I see you haven't uploaded anything in a few years so this might not even reach you but I could use your help very urgently and I'm frankly desperate. If you see this, is there anyway you could call me at this number? It's very important!!! Thanks. Aunt Holly x

Her brow scrunches. Since when does Aunt Holly need to talk about the military? Isn't she a professor? Whiskey clicks on her profile and checks her job listing. Right, she's a History professor in NYU. So what's this? Is this for some research study of hers?

But then again, she said it herself that she's desperate... And the tone of her message isn't the most uplifting one... She sounds like she's really in need of her help... And Whiskey has never been good at being heartless. Sighing and scratching her head, Whiskey sits up in bed.

She copies the number from the DM and calls it, hearing the repeated beeping of the call attempting to connect as Simon comes up the stairs and into the bedroom, sweatpants close to falling off his hip and wrapped in a warm sweater.

He raises a brow at her as she's holding the phone to her ear, signaling vaguely to indicate it's an important call, so he takes a spot beside her, with an arm around her waist.

"Holly Williams." The older woman greets on the other side, her voice professional, like she was waiting for a work call.

"Hey, Aunt Holly, it's Victoria." Whiskey murmurs, her southern accent suddenly triggering full-force, like it hasn't in over three years.

August 20th, 2023.

1321 hours.

Yonkers, New York.

"When you get there, please, you need to understand, she's... she's not herself."

Victoria climbed out of the Uber and popped open the trunk, pulling out her black suitcase, and thanking the driver with a nod and a wave before he drove off.

Then, she stood in front of the brownstone townhouse, eyeing it up and down, with inquisitive eyes, before taking a deep breath and climbing the front steps to the stoop.

"She hasn't been the same, not after Alex passed away."

The doorbell rings inside the house for a few moments, before the door opens and a pale face regards her from the other side, strawberry blonde curls disheveled, eyes heavy with dark circles.

"Hey, Rosie..." Victoria greets gently. The woman knew she was coming, Aunt Holly having warned her. "It's me, Victoria... Vicky, remember?" She asks in a soft tone, hoping she's not too far gone yet.

"Vicky..." Rosie says softly as she regards the slightly shorter brunette with wild, crazied eyes but eventually nods and unlocks the door all the way, letting Victoria inside.

"When you see her, please... be kind to her. She's really struggling..."

Victoria remembers the last time she saw Rosemary. Victoria had to have been 16. Rosie had just graduated from college, and it was the summer. At the time, she always dressed in bright colors, a hippy style, with Birkenstocks galore... She was very put together, healthy, pretty. They weren't the closest cousins in the world, but they spent time together during the holidays; Rosie taught Vicky how to do her hair to keep her curls healthy; they spoke about boys...

Before coming here, Victoria had even checked her cousin's Facebook page, finding an old album of photos from family gatherings that included the two of them, when they were much, much younger (and happier). It had been so long since they last saw each other... She needed a refresher on her cousin's appearance...

But now, as she's getting let into the house, she realizes Rosemary looks like shit. Somehow, worse than Victoria had expected when her mother had reached out and told her all about the state she is in. Paranoid, manic, depressive and reclusive, Aunt Holly worrying her only daughter was schizophrenic. Her hair looks greasy and matted, and she seems like she's lived in the same outfit for multiple days, maybe weeks. The house reeks. She reeks.

"Nobody can get her out of the house... And she's not taking care of herself..."

The house is dirty and messy, take out containers and paper bags of food delivery strewn about, the trashbag in the kitchen overflowing, the laundry basket in the laundry room too. Every picture frame in the house has blue, yellow, or pink post-its over it, the mirrors as well. Victoria follows her cousin across the house, each step she takes crushing some trash, or nearly tripping over a clothes pile. She's dangerously close to becoming a hoarder, it looks like...

Victoria has to force herself to take a few deep breaths through her mouth and not her nose, so that she doesn't get sick. She knows it would not be helpful in her cousin's state.

Rosie's able to push some trash off the couch to make space for the two of them to sit, though she keeps a large gap between herself and Victoria, probably ashamed of her smell, or appearance, or doubting that she can trust her...

"Every time I try to talk to her... It's like I'm talking to a crazy person... She's my daughter, I love her, but she needs help..."

"Your mom told me some of what's been going on." Victoria begins as she sets her hands on her lap and looks at Rosie with her best attempt at showing empathy and kindness.

"What'd she tell you? That I'm going crazy? I'm not, you know?" Rosie says defensively. "She thinks I'm losing it, and that I need to be committed, but I don't." She assures the brunette.

"Well, no, that's not what she said." Victoria lied. Yes, it had been 100% what Aunt Holly had said when they met up the day before, after she picked Victoria up at the airport, having bawled her eyes out behind the wheel.

"Then what did she say?" Rosie asks directly, her brows knitting together in anxious worry, her hands already trembling on her lap.

"To be honest," Victoria continues, choosing her words carefully, "I didn't understand most of it... I think it'd be best if I heard it from you. Can you tell me what's been going on?" She asked in earnest.

And tell her, Rosie did.

For the next three hours, Victoria heard her ramble and ramble, more and more and more.

About Alex, about his missions, about how Rosie always worried he'd die in the field, how they pronounced him dead in 2019 but she never got to see a body, only his dogtags, and his grave is empty... Victoria thought that was pretty normal, average even... it was the normal treatment for soldiers who died in ways that made it so their body couldn't be recovered... Like during an explosion.

But then Rosie went on and on about how she feels like she's being watched, stalked, surveilled, how she gets stopped by cops too much, and keeps seeing the same faces around the places she usually goes to like Target or Walmart, how there's a van parked outside 24/7, how she's sure that there's cameras and microphones around the house... And it was all being too much.

"She thinks she's being stalked, watched by the govenment, and like they're out to get her."

"Rosie... why would the government be doing such a thing?" Victoria asked her in earnest once she paused in her rants.

"You're not LISTENING!" Rosie complained, her body already having started to shake in distress as she retold everything to her cousin.

"No, no, I am listening. I'm just trying to understand." Victoria replied in an attempt to soothe her and gently took her hands in hers, which caused Rosie to tear up.

"It's NOT the government, it's the CIA!" The blonde shrieked and sniffled, trembling beside Victoria. "Alex was an agent... he..." She trailed off and shook her head. "Nobody tells me anything, I tried calling, nobody tells me!"

Victoria sighed and carefully scooted closer, taking a breath and daring to wrap an arm around Rosemary's form, in the gentlest of ways. "That tends to happen a lot, you know? They... well... when a soldier dies a gruesome death. They close the cases and put high clearances in place so that it doesn't shock the family." The brunette said.

"She's in complete denial, Vicky. She's living in her paranoia and delusion..."

"No!" Rosemary argued. "He's not dead, Vicky, he's not! Whatever... Whatever happened, they're covering it all up! They- he's not dead! They didn't even tell me how he died! Not even if it was heroic or anything!" She wailed as a hiccuping sob rattled her and shook her form against Victoria's side.

Victoria sighed and looked around the room. She was not equipped to deal with this. She half wished that Simon was here. He had dealt with people in altered states of mind, his brother, especially...

"You need to help me, Vicky... You're my only hope! You have to find out what happened. You know people, right? My mom said your mom said you're in the Special Forces! You know things?!" Rosie whined in a pitiful tone, her big blue eyes glued to Victoria's, and making her own hazel ones soften.

"I'll try, Rosie... But even I don't have that high of clearance..." Victoria replied in a soothing tone. "But I promise I'll try."

Victoria meant it. Her cousin might be mental and delusional, but, at least, Victoria could poke around a little bit and see if she could at least find what happened to the body...

"Where did you say he was sent to?" The soldier asked with a cocked brow, her hand gently rubbing Rosie's arm and shoulder in her best attempt at being comforting.

"In the Middle East... Urzikstan, I think..." Rosemary replied and looked up at Victoria. "You're going to look into it, right?" She pleaded.

Victoria nodded. "Of course I will." She replied and smiled at her, trying not to let the feeling of instant dread that was growing in the back of her mind from showing on her face.

Urzikstan... Price and Kyle were just there last year... Working alongside the militia there.

"Now... how about I help you give this place a tidying up... and you go take a shower, and try to relax, hm?" She offered.

Rosie's face began to flush a bit, with the sudden reminder that she had been neglecting herself and probably smelled so bad... And here was Victoria hugging her. "I probably should..." She trailed off and began pulling away from the other woman.

The brunette let her go and nodded. "Call me up when you're done, I'll help do your hair, how's that?" She offered and smiled kindly at Rosie.

Rosemary gulped and nodded. "Yeah..." She got up, beginning to shuffle out of the living room. She stopped by the door and turned back to look at her cousin. "Thank you for this... for everything..." She said gratefully.

Victoria shook her head. "Don't thank me. That's what *family*'s for, right?" She asked, though the word family, one she hadn't used in a while, left a bitter taste in her mouth. Rosie nodded and then disappeared back upstairs.

Once Victoria heard the bathroom door upstairs shutting with a loud thud, she bounced up off the couch.

Whiskey mode activated and she began looking around the room, pulling out her cellphone and turning on the flashlight to shine it off any hidden nook and cranny, like behind the TV, and inside the A/C vents.

1. 2. 3. 4. 5.

Five fucking cameras, just in the living room and entryway alone. She doesn't want to imagine how many more are hidden throughout the house.

It seems that Rosie isn't as delusional and crazy as Aunt Holly thought...

Approaching the window, Whiskey pulls the blinds aside and pears out through the gap, pushing her back against the wall, looking up and down the street. She notices the white van parked a couple hundred feet away, advertising a dry-cleaning service. She knows immediately that that's where they operate from.

She almost wants to go over, with her pistol in hand, and scare them off. But she knows better than to fuck with the Agency... And, even more so, when she's not here as Whiskey, but as Victoria. As a civilian, with no armor, just a red halter top and jeans and boots, coming to visit her cousin.

Huffing, she shakes her head and closes the blinds again. "God damn it..." She murmurs, already feeling her own paranoia rising and her hackles rising. She's going to need to pull some strings to find out what in the hell went so wrong in Urzikstan 4 years ago that now an innocent civilian is being surveilled.

With another sigh, Victoria turns and looks around the room, noticing all the trash and, with a deep breath, she sets down her belongings on the cleared couch and enters the kitchen to seek out a pair of gloves and a trash bag.

This is going to be a long fucking day.

August 20th, 2021.

0209 hours.

Victoria lies sprawled on the bed next to Rosie, the two girls staring at the ceiling.

It had been hours upon hours of tidying up and cleaning, but the house was finally clean, the trash taken out, and Rosemary much less disheveled.

They lay together, side by side, holding each other's hands, more for Rosie's comfort, which Victoria has acquiesced to. Victoria has a handle of bourbon in her hand which both her and Rosie occasionally take sips from.

"So you got married...?" Rosie murmurs and rolls her head toward Victoria. She's groggy, a mix of the alcohol, a full belly, a warm shower, a couple of melatonin gummies and the whiskey.

"Mhm." Victoria replies as she glances at Rosemary. "I didn't expect you to still be with dick boy." She quips.

The comment is funnier than Rosemary expected it to be, probably because of the state she's in, but she starts cackling aloud, snorting delightfully at it.

"Oh my God, I forgot he damn near showed his dick to grandma Patty while coming out of the pool." Rosie groans and shakes her head. "God, Alex was so embarrassed, he never wanted to go back!"

"That's what he was embarrassed of? Not that stupid fuckin' pube-looking mustache of his?" Victoria's comments, absolutely roasting the man, the alcohol having loosened her lips. "Did he still have that when he left for Urzikstan?"

Rosie once again has lost her mind belly laughing at the scathing comments her cousin made about Alex. Oh, how she needed the laughter.

"Noooo! It filled out. He had a nice thick mustache by then..." She replies and shakes her head, a soft smile on her lips.

"Well, at least there's that. I guess he outgrew his bad fashion choices." Victoria comments before she leans her head up to take another gulp of the bourbon on her bottle.

"Oh no he didn't!" Rosemary complains and suddenly seems to get a burst of energy, leaning forward to look at Victoria right in the eye. "He has the American flag tattooed on him!"

It's Victoria's turn to laugh, nearly choking on the drink, and causing the sweet, smooth alcohol to slide down her chin as she laughs. "Fuck off, no he doesn't?!"

"He DOES!" Rosemary insists. "And a bald eagle too!!!" She adds, which causes them both to laugh more, cackling at the ridiculousness. "I'm serious! Looked the eagle in the eyes once while he was balls deep in me.... You've ever tried getting a dick out of a dry pussy?"

This causes both girls to giggle again, nearly rolling around on the bed, tears forming in their eyes.

"God, and you married that man? He's been a fucking dork for decades now, Rosie!" Victoria complains.

"In my defense, we were drunk and in Vegas, okay?"

"YOU GOT MARRIED IN VEGAS?!"

"You know what?!" Rosie protests and points at Victoria. "We're talking too much about my marriage. What about you?" She asks in an accusatory tone.

Victoria rolls her eyes. "Don't change the subject just because you can't admit you have bad taste."

"Oh shut it!" Rosie nudges her. "You're avoiding the topic too!"

"Am not!" Victoria retorts. "I'm also married to a dork. But, unlike you, I have taste."

"How much of a dork are we talkin'?"

"Has a half-sleeve that's just straight up war motifs. Atom bombs, skulls, bullets..." She trails off. "And he wears a skull mask when he's out shooting terrorists."

"He WEARS what?"

Victoria shakes her head. "Don't make me say it again." She scrunches her nose, mock cringing.

"And you want to talk shit about me marrying Alex? You married, what, an emo?" Rosie quips as she tosses herself back on the bed, laughing again.

Victoria joins her, covering her eyes with her arm and giggling away, properly so, for the first time in three years. "God, we have bad taste, don't we?" She murmurs.

"You think it runs in the family?" Rosie asks with a playful tone and giggles again.

But this time, however, Victoria doesn't laugh. Instead, her eyes squint in suspicion and she suddenly sits up in bed, looking off into the distance.

How much of a coincidence would that be? Her husband, who is legally dead, who faked his own death and operates under an alias...

And her cousin's husband... who Lord knows what happened to him... But the CIA has their eyes on her, even though he's dead, so there's no reason to...

What if it really is a cover-up? What if he's only legally dead, just like Simon?

"What?" The blonde beside her asks in a gentle tone, eyebrows knit together. "Vicky, what's wrong?" She prompts, worried.

"...Nothing." Victoria replies as she lays down again after a long moment of silence. "Just realized I have to call Simon and ask him something..." She replies dismissively.

for @lyralein - told you she'd get more than that.

and also @crashtestbunny , @superhero-landing , and @loveandplanet bc you love Whiskey and Ghost

#ikea writes 💚#cod oc #oc: victoria “whiskey” callahan #moots oc #oc: rosemary williams

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blueshistorysims · 6 months

Text

Late November 1918, Edinburgh, Scotland

It made Byron very glad to see his sister. He hadn’t seen her since Alexander’s funeral, and it was nice to see her in a joyful context. The war was over!

“Oh, you’ll love Edinburgh, Byron,” Edeline said the moment they stopped hugging. “It’s so beautiful and full of history. And I think it would fit perfectly with your obsession with languages and dialects.”

“It’s not an obsession.”

“You wrote one of your master’s thesis on how forced social isolation affects languages and accents. And how many languages can you speak again?”

“Seventeen.”

Elspeth looked shocked. “Really?”

“I’m a polyglot. I can speak English, Welsh, Gaelic, French, German, Spanish, Portuguese, Italian, Latin, Greek, Hungarian, Russian, Mandarin, Cantonese, Arabic, Old English, and Hebrew in varying degrees of fluency. I also can read and translate Aramaic and Akkadian, but my speaking isn’t wonderful. Currently learning Irish and Common Britontic.”

“...Why?”

“I’m a linguist and philologist. My specialties are language histories of the British Isles and Babylonia. Eventually, I’d like to learn the early forms of Irish.”

“My brother has always been a genius when it comes to languages."

Although Mr. and Mrs. MacGregor were his sister’s in-laws, he didn’t really know them, and the fact they had invited him to stay before returning home was touching. The cottage was small but homely, and he understood why Edeline and and Montgomery had sold their London townhouse for Scotland. Beginning in the spring, she would finish her medical degree at the University of Edinburgh while Montgomery was going to set up a clinic for the poorer people of the city with some of his friends from school.

He was happy for his sister, of course he was. But he felt lost. Most of his adult life was spent in school or at war. He didn’t know what he wanted with his life. Sure, returning to university to obtain his doctorate had been in the back of his mind, but what after that?

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freetobeeyouandme · 7 months

Text

Like My Mirror Years Ago

Tags: Rated M, No Archive Warnings Apply, Bylerween 2023, Will Byers/Mike Wheeler, Supernatural Creatures, CW Blood, Vampire!Mike, Aged-Up Character(s)

Words: 5.2k

Summary:

It’s the man’s colors, that haunt him. The pale skin, so white it’s almost translucent, combined with the soft darkness of his hair, falling long past his face in such an antiquated manner. The delicate nose, the cheekbones…Will is an artist, he should know beauty, has set it down in charcoals, watercolors and oils over and over for the history of the future to admire, and yet he has never come across a face so delicate, so attractive. He could paint it a hundred times and never tire of it. He could only paint this man for the rest of eternity and his soul would know no greater joy. Even he, never skilled with the hammer and the chisel, wants to carve marble replica after marble replica, wants to be the Pgymalion to this Galatea. He is Helen and Will is all the suitors, already at war with himself at just the slightest glance. - Or, Bylerween Day 6: Supernatural Creatures

read on Ao3 or below; see whole collection

A/N:

Happy Halloween and to celebrate this most holy day, here's probably actually my favorite fic I've written for Bylerween 2023. Vampires are my favorite type of creature and so this was insanely fun. It was also cool to try out a more flowery writing style as I tried to channel gay irish fin de siècle writer with this. And accordingly it ended up being as horny as I dared to go considering the event limitations. Also a big shout out to this amazing art by @ekza-art, which basically inspired this entire thing. CW: Blood

-------

Will thinks, before he even enters the dining room, that this has been a mistake. He could have hired someone to bring the picture across town or insisted that Mr. Wheeler send someone to fetch it for him since it was so valuable to him. It meant nothing to Will. He hadn’t even meant to sell it, but then the man had insisted, and well, Will could use the money. He needs paints that haven’t already dried on a canvas decades before he was even born, and if Murray was still here he would have surely done the same thing. He is sure of it.

But here he is, having caught a handsome to personally deliver the painting to the nice townhouse on the other side of London, obligated, now, to have supper with this man he barely knows because he seems to cave like a house of cards whenever the man insists on anything.

He is Helen and Will is all the suitors, already at war with himself at just the slightest glance.

The face waits for him at the head of the table, a glass of red wine before it and nothing else. Mr. Wheeler smiles, brilliant white teeth flashing sharply at Will as he stretches out a hand to gesture to the chair at his right. “Mr. Byers. Please, sit. James will be out with your supper in but a minute.” Will inclines his head and takes the seat offered to him. He’s noticed this particularity of the man before. Your supper, your peers, you English, as if he is exempt from it all. A foreigner in looks and manners, except one would never know from his speech, his English, although at times old-fashioned, is free from even a hint of an accent. And his name, too, hints more that his family has been in this country for centuries, and if the house and his clothes are any indication has even done rather well for itself.

True to his words, the butler is out with Will’s supper just a minute after he has taken his seat. It’s just a simple plate of soup with a side of still warm bread, but Will hadn’t realized how famished he is until the smell of the onion and carrot hits his nose. He takes up his cutlery, then looks to his host, lost because James had only brought out one set of plates and Mr. Wheeler seems not in a hurry to correct his servants mistake.

“Will you not be eating?” Will dares to ask.

Mr. Wheeler smiles, long white fingers playing with the stem of his glass. “My apologies for this rather bare display of hospitality. I am not a man of…much appetite. I never sup, but I felt it would be prudent not to offer such comforts as I could to my guest, so please do start before your soup cools and do not worry yourself about me.”

Will nods and, feeling a little awkward at it anyway, starts to eat, glad at it after the first bite warms his stomach and gives him something to do while he figures out a polite way to start a conversation.

Luckily his host has a greater appetite for talking than he has for food, and so before Will can make a fool of himself, he says: “I don’t believe I ever properly extended my condolences to you for the passing of your mentor. My father only briefly met the man and I never, but one hears things and I have seen some of Mr. Bauman’s work. It is a shame he has gone from us already.”

“Thank you,” Will says warmly. “It truly is a tragedy that his heart gave out so relatively early in life, and this after he had just begun settling down a little. I am very grateful for all that he has done for me, from apprenticing me to now, even in death, looking out for me by making me his sole heir.”

“He had no family then?”

Will gives a quiet laugh at the idea of Murray with a wife and children, as if anyone could have dragged him from his studio or the gentleman’s club he frequented – or from the bottle he so admired. “No, nor do I think Mr. Bauman ever planned on marrying. He had a rather...strong character, and being an artists wife is no easy feat on top of that.”

Mr. Wheeler nods as if he can imagine that, then turns his wineglass as he ponders something. Eventually he says: “You speak from experience then? Has Ophelia complained?”

Will pauses with his spoon to his mouth, taken aback by the question and the implication, needing to take a moment to even figure out what outlandish conclusion Mr. Wheeler had come to. “No,” he says quietly. “Oh, no, not at all. I thought you would have recognized her, but perhaps Mr. Sinclair had no time to introduce you to her, after all Miss Mayfield has been rather preoccupied since the beginning of her mother’s illness. But, no, Ophelia is but a dear friend of mine, and will soon be Mrs. Lucas Sinclair.”

“So there is no family for you, either?” Mr. Wheeler shifts in his seat, leaning forward just a little, as if Will’s answer is important somehow even though Will cannot fathom why. He hopes it is not because he has heard some lady or other make a comment which he is eager to share with Will or because Mr. Wheeler has some lady friend he would like to introduce to Will at his convenience.

“My mother and brother live in London, not so far away from me, but I have no family of my own, no,” Will says, preparing to fend any advances off with his usual arguments about the plight of poor artists and the unwillingness to subject any wife to his ungrateful life.

But Mr. Wheeler says nothing. He blinks a few times and then averts his eyes from Will to stare at his glass with the same intense furrow between his eyes with which he had regarded Will.

When Mr. Wheeler says nothing else, clearly not just contemplating something but having finished with the subject, Will clears his throat and broaches the only polite topic he can think of: “The portrait of your great grandfather’s must have meant a great deal to you, to go to such lengths to acquire it.”

Mr. Wheeler smiles, shaken from his reverie. “He was a man that did a lot of traveling, but he left a lot of things in a lot of places, none of which were wise and none of which benefit his family, now.”

Will nods. “So the painting is to fill up an ancestral family gallery that he desperately tried to avoid in life.”

Mr. Wheeler chuckles. “Ancestral is perhaps too grand a word. But yes, it is meant to come with me to Silverlake Manor, which has been in the family’s possession since my great grandfather’s time and where it will likely find a place in the gallery.”

“And you’ll be returning there shortly?”

Mr. Wheeler blinks. “Have signs of my packing already made it into the parlor?”

Will ducks his head sheepishly as he places the cutlery back next to his now empty plate. “No, not in the slightest. My apologies, I did not mean to insinuate such unprofessional conduct of your staff. No, I simply inferred it by the fact that most people rarely come to London in the summer and you probably only planned to stay as long as it took you to conclude your business. After all, what use is a country house if one does not spend their time there in the summer, when there is lots of fresh air to be had, and sunshine.”

Mr. Wheeler laughs, loud and sudden, as if he had not meant to make a noise at all but could not contain himself. It’s a musical sound, altogether pleasant to the ear, and it seems precious, to Will, so that having evoked it sends his heart fluttering.

When he has composed himself again, his host says: “My apologies. It just reminded me of something a dear friend of mine once said to me.”

“No apologies necessary,” Will assures him. He moves his chair back to indicate that he is done and takes a long look at the darkness visible outside of the window just behind Mr. Wheeler.

His host is quick on the uptake. “I hope supper was to your liking. Should I ring for James to fetch you some more?”

“It was, thank you very much. But no, I think I have had enough. And I believe I should be off soon, too.”

Something flickers in Mr. Wheeler’s eyes, and his jaw clenches, barely perceptible. Before Will has time to wonder how he managed to offend the man, it is gone, replaced, again, by that unnerving smile. “Of course. You probably have a lot of appointments to take care of tomorrow? I heard all of London is abuzz about the prodigal apprentice of the late Mr. Bauman.”

“Thank you, but no, not that I know of, no. It’s possible that I will arrive to a number of calling cards having been left with my housekeeper and there will probably be inquiries enough tomorrow morning. But at the moment I have no clients and my only work is finishing my Ophelias.”

Mr Wheeler is quiet longer than Will would assume it would take to form a response to that statement, but considering how intently Mr. Wheeler stares at his glass of wine Will also feels apprehensive of simply continuing talking. When he finally speaks, the amused aloofness seems to have fled the man completely: “Please do not take my saying so the wrong way, but I believe that should be considered a blessing. Talent like yours should not be squandered on portraits and miniatures.”

Will laughs, surprised: “That is kind of you to say. The Ophelias have let me transition from my old workshop to Murray’s without hurry and with relative ease, but ever artist must earn his keep, I am afraid.”

“What would you draw if you did not have to?”

The question takes Will aback. He bites his tongue to keep that first, instinctual reply inside of his mouth: You. But Mr. Wheeler does not need to know of the pages of Will’s sketchbook that his countenance already fills, and he must even less know of the way Will will render this evening in sharp contrasts until his fingers are stained as black as the bags under his eyes from drawing all night.

He pretends to consider his glass of wine, then answers slowly: “I would perhaps compliment the Ophelia series. There are a...few scenes from Hamlet that I would still like to render, set her warmth apart from the prince with cold tones and deep contrasts. I might also- I think I would render more tragic ladies. If I am to find myself a Clytemnestra, a Desdemona , an Antigone one day. But I have no plans.”

“Mr. Sinclair as Hamlet, perhaps?”

Will laughs. “I have sketched him as Othello, once, but perhaps a Hamlet, sure. Although I think a paler model would work better with the cold tones I envision. But I have no time as it stands, so I do not think this is a serious consideration.”

Again Mr. Wheeler is quiet for a long moment, again Will stills, unwilling to interrupt him. It gives him time to study him, to commit to memory the features he is sure he will not see again for a long time. Perhaps he will need no model for Hamlet. Perhaps, also, he will keep Hamlet to himself, to worship in private.

When Mr. Wheeler speaks next, Will is ill prepared for his suggestion. Leaning forward, his host begins: “William – may I call you that? May we be William and Michael to one another?” He smiles, a small, much more delicate thing than the ones before, when Will nods his agreement. “William,” he says, seeming to find joy in the name. “What would you say about accompanying me to Silverlake Manor? You’d have plenty of time to draw then, and the quiet to do excellent work – I promise, I myself will not be taking up your time and neither will there be many visitors aside from Miss Hopper, who I can also vouch for will not bother you too much, although she might ask you to teach her a thing or two. She renders an excellent still life, but her people are still rather abstract creatures.”

Will swallows, again, and averts his eyes, playing with his glass of wine. The idea is spontaneous but not unwelcome: At Silverlake he would be free to do as he pleases without having many expenses, living at the cost of Mr. Wheeler’s hospitality. He sure that whatever companionship he would have to offer in return for such would not detract too greatly from his time, at the very least less so than commissions for portraits would. And perhaps he might convince Mr. Wheeler to play his Hamlet, at least for one work, even if it will never leave Silverlake – the sudden need to paint him like this, to put to canvas the vision his earlier question had inspired, has his fingertips itching. He already knows which blues he wants to use, what scene he wants to paint.

He’ll need to finish one of his Ophelias, leave it for Dustin to sell, and take the others with him to make sure there will be enough income to keep the atelier and the apartment above it. But he should be able to make this work.

And he wants to make it work. It’s a dangerous desire but he wants more chances to study this face, wants to get to know this strange man better, thinks that with time perhaps they could become friends, and while Will’s heart warns him of becoming friends with such a man, lest his infatuations turn to worse and he leaves Silverlake with shattered hopes and worse prospects than he had arrived, he cannot help but want.

“That would-” he starts, then clears his throat to buy himself a moment to find more appropriate phrasing. “I would be honored to be your guest and meet Miss Hopper – and to teach her, if she so desires. I believe if she is anything like you, her friend, she would make wonderful company and Silverlake should make for an excellent environment to work in.”

Mr. Wheeler – Michael – rises with a small, happy smile, but pauses with his hand already on the bell on the table behind him, some thought, some reservation, perhaps, making him delay with a frown. “You never commented on it. You have a keen eye, and people with less talent or tact certainly have noticed, and they will not shut up about what a gift inheriting my great-grandfather’s features must be for me.”

“I did not see the need to repeat merely what everyone else has already said. The resemblance is close and it certainly must be a gift, but I did not get the impression you required such shallow flattery.”

Michael laughs again, happily, and Will’s heart issues another warning at the way he feels his cheeks heat at the joy of having given the right answer, at being the cause for such happiness: Already he teeters on the edge of infatuation and something else, a boundary he should not cross. But Michael rings the bell, summoning his servant, and Will forgets caution as a summer in the country beckons.

“James, Mr. Byers has just agreed to accompany me to Silverlake. He’ll be leaving with me in the morning, ask his housekeeper to pack for him and then make sure you have his paints and paintings sent after us. We don’t want to separate the artist from his tools, after all.” Will freezes at the quickness of these plans and the predatory precision with which Michael steps away from the bell, back towards the table, back to where Will is sitting, without even so much as glancing at him. “Also send word to Jane that we will have company. And prepare a bed for Mr. Byers, upstairs, please. I have decided to take a little supper after all.”

James’s mouth twitches darkly, but he bows and takes his leave to do as he is bidden.

Will swallows hard as Michael reaches him, and extending his long white fingers, traces the line from his temple down across his cheek and to the point of his chin. Up until then the two of them had never touched beyond shaking hands, and Will feels a shiver run down his spine, settling coldly at the base of it, at the cool touch. His heart screams out a loud warning, but his body, treacherous and needy, is torn on whether to obey.

“Your heartbeat is racing,” Michael observes, tone matter of fact.

Will tries to wet his tongue to answer, finding his mouth dry out as his heart jumps up to start beating in his throat, and wonders how loud it must be that the man standing next to him can hear it.

Michael smiles apologetically. “If I have overwhelmed you, I apologize. I know this is…quite spontaneous, but I am afraid I cannot delay my return much longer and there is a certain…procedure for things.”

Will opens his mouth to start formulating the objection: He could have simply followed behind a day or two, gotten his affairs in order on his own and not interfere with whatever particularities Michael is so intent on. But then Michael’s hand finds his shoulder, settling on it heavy and as if they have done this a million times before, and all Will can do is keep breathing.

“Are you scared?” Michael asks, letting go of him only to pull his chair around the table to take a seat right next to Will and then encircling his wrist with icy fingers. With his other hand he begins rolling up Will’s sleeve.

For a moment Will can’t move, neither to nod or shake his head, too preoccupied with the way his stomach tenses at Michael’s advances and his body decides to smother his heart’s final warnings: He had not been aware that this would be part of the deal, that the invitation to join him at Silverlake must have been as much Michael reflecting Will’s own infatuation and desire as it had been his idealism about Will’s art, and suddenly the situation is much more delicate. He can say no, of course, but if he nods now, says that he is scared, even if it would be the truth, the retreat will be final and complete; There will be no Silverlake for Will, nor will he see Michael again.

So, he shakes his head.

When Michael smiles it’s an open mouthed, wide thing, showing off his teeth – baring his teeth, especially the set of long and sharp canines that Will swears had not been there before. Michael pulls Will’s empty plate in front of him and then holds Will’s bared arm above it.

The last objection Will might have had, that James is sure to return with Micheal’s supper any second and they should perhaps take care not to let his servant see, dies in his throat as he realizes what Michael had meant with supper.

“You’re lying,” Michael says and then presses his cold lips to the inside of Will’s arm. His teeth graze the skin that feels suddenly delicate and precious, only more so when his hand finds Will’s and folds it into a fist.

He pulls back a little, eyes meeting Will’s intensely, wordlessly conveying all that will happen unless Will objects now, his last chance to retreat. But Will doesn’t want to object, cannot object, can do nothing but watch, breathless, his stomach tight with apprehension, wondering stupidly how much of a boundary he’d cross if he reached out and petted Michael’s hair as he leans down to press a delicate kiss to Will’s wrist.

And then Michael bites him.

Will understands, then, why it had mattered that he had said nothing about the painting. He understands, too, why his master’s master had been so enamored with it, why it had been displayed so lovingly in his studio without offering it up to the public. Understands the burden of the secret he is swearing, with his blood, to keep: It had never been Michael’s great-grandfather, for such a man had been dead for centuries, if not millennia. No, the portrait had been his own, a picture of a man from that dark species whose existence Will had only believed in as part of that same superstitious belief that people who believed in fortune telling and telepathy peddled; and now here he sat, his arm offered up, voluntarily and reverentially, to a vampire.

Will gasps when Michael bites him, and it’s only on the second deep breath he takes around the pain in his arm that he realizes it’s not all pain. It’s a sweet sensation, relief of the tightness in his stomach, relief of the tension between the two of them. There’s pleasure in the bite, the likes of which Will only knows from a few glasses of wine too many or the cheap whiskey Lucas is fond of bringing with him when he comes to visit. He’s spellbound by the way Michael’s jaw moves as he sucks on Will’s arm, lips ruby with the blood he’s taking, that gift Will is offering up and so he can only think of running his hands through Michael’s hair, encouraging him as he feeds.

He thinks, too, of those poor souls in the East End, caught in fever dreams inside of their opium dens, slaves to an addiction most of them had not started willingly, the rest of their lives given over to the drug, burning out at a rapid pace as their souls are consumed by want, want, want.

And he knows that this is his own personal Whitechapel.

Michael’s teeth settle against Will’s tender skin as he continues to drink from the small wounds they have made. It’s a strange sensation to feel his blood pumping through his veins, to feel every heavy heartbeat as his body tries to account for the life leaving him, tries to balance out the bleeding even as it can’t stop it because Michael keeps drawing it out. Will thinks he likes it.

It’s over too soon, Michael pulling away with a desperate gasp before licking the wound and his arm clean. Blood wells up in the wake of his tongue anyway, circling Will’s wrist like a glittering armband and dripping onto the table, only reluctantly closing up until Michael draws blood from his own thumb with his teeth and paints it over the bite mark. Will’s skin goes cold and numb for a moment, then sensation returns with a sharp heat as the vampire’s superior healing powers mingle for a few seconds with his blood and the puncture wounds close up. Michael uses Will’s napkin to clean his arm, until no trace of the last few minutes remains at all.

Will wants to tell him to stop.

If he had a voice, still, he might have. He’d tell him he wants the marks, wants to have physical proof of tonight, of the bite and the heady feeling that accompanied it. Because inside of him there will be a scar, this memory forever burned into his soul, even as his skin smooths out and what used to be angry red turns pale white.

Michael looks at him from under long dark eyelashes, and Will understands now why he’s wearing red in the painting, understands the thing that had unnerved him in the beginning, the color that had been missing: it’s there in his lips, on his lips, his chin, his teeth. It reflects in the deep brown of his eyes, looking fully now, no longer half lidded, shy, but intense and predatory, no longer needing to hide his intentions.

He will later say that it was the blood loss that has made him careless and lightheaded. It might be a lie, but he knows, that Michael will never ask, that it doesn’t matter. Reaching up with his still healing arm he cups Michael’s face, swipes at the blood on his chin, and then kisses him.

Michael’s lips are no longer as cold as they had been against his wrist, warmed by Will’s blood, and he tastes of it, metallic and a little bitter. Will has tasted his own blood before, suckling on cuts on his fingers to quell the bleeding, but this is different, this is more intense and more intimate. It’s the only taste in his mouth now, no sweat, no skin, just the cold taste of wet copper on his lips, his tongue, and, when he swallows, his throat.

Michael opens his mouth, gasping into this kiss, and then Will is drowning in his own blood, in the heat of hungry lips on his. And still he cannot pull away, cannot stop himself. Michael’s hands are in his hair, tugging him closer, greedy. His canines, still long and sharp, brush against Will’s lip and he half expects him to bite down and ask for more because he’s starving just as much as Will.

Will wants him to bite down, to drink until there’s nothing left, gladly accepting death if it meant satiating a fraction of that bottomless, hungry pit in his stomach that he knows, now, exists in Michael too.

But Michael, unlike him, has been fed, and so he can drag himself away. He presses his forehead against Will’s and breathes him in with sharp, greedy breaths, then uses his grip on Will’s hair to push him down, pressing a kiss to the crown of his head, when Will tries to chase after him.

“Enough, love,” he says, and with that one word he has Will in the palm of his hand, ready to do whatever he asks of him as long as he will hear it again. “I will have you bloodied, yet, but not tonight.”

It’s this promise that keeps Will where he is as Michael pulls back properly, his fingers slowly uncurling from his hair, his breathing still ragged. Dark strands of hair hang in his face and with blood smeared around his mouth, he looks like a wild thing, looks as shaken by the kiss as Will feels, and somehow that steadies him, to know this thing of the night shares his feelings.

He watches Will swallow with wide, wondrous eyes. “Will,” he says softly. “My love, Will.”

“Mike,” Will whispers, finding his voice far more gone than he anticipated but needing to stake his claim with a name as well. “Darling, Mike.”

Michael’s face lights up when Will says his name like that, as if it’s something special, as if Will’s petty human claim means anything at all to someone so ancient. His smile, sharp teethed and bloody as it is, is the warmest, most genuine one he has given Will all evening. And it feels special.

Mike uses his thumb to wipe away the blood around Will’s mouth, the soft pad of it brushing his lips, and Will can only watch him, stilled. The urge to take it into his mouth, to bite down, bite Mike back, settles unacted upon in his jaw: He will have him bloodied, yet, but not tonight.

“Are you alright?” Mike asks, his hand cupping Will’s face lightly, but the fingers pressing against his skin warn him not to turn away, not to lie.

He swallows and replies with still uneven voice: “Yes.”

His heart beats hard in his chest, but Mike doesn’t call him out on being a liar, and Will, too, doesn’t think he did lie: It doesn’t feel wrong, the blood, the man in front of him, the hunger.

He turns his face into the palm holding it and presses his lips to the fingers. Then he runs his tongue along the bloodied digits. Licks himself off them.

Mike gasps, then pulls his fingers away from Will’s hungry mouth. He brushes a shaking hand through Will’s hair, as if tying to undo the damage he had done to it during the kiss, then gives up and sits back in his chair, removing himself from Will’s reach. His eyes never leave Will’s face, though, tracking him with renewed intensity and doing nothing to calm Will’s heart racing in his chest.

Then Mike says: “You should head to bed. Make the most of the night while it still belongs to you. We keep a different schedule at Silverlake.” Will doesn’t want to rise to his feet, but there is something in Mike’s tone that has his body obeying regardless. Those that believed in the undead sometimes believed they had the power to force others to do their bidding, and Will idly wonders if that is true or if he simply rises because of Mike’s natural charms and his own exhaustion. His body knows better than his heart, which now that it had gotten a taste, wants nothing but to bleed out onto the dining room floor.

Still, even as he crosses the room, taking slow steps as the blood loss leaves him lightheaded, he can’t stop himself from looking back, Orpheus losing Eurydice over and over again except if he is Orpheus then rather than leading his muse out of the underworld Will is going to join her in the eternal dark. And with every glance he finds Eurydice looking back, beckoning him to join her.

The last time their eyes meet that evening, Mike runs his finger along the edge of the plate, where some of Will’s blood has fallen. When he sees that he is caught, Mike takes his time licking his finger clean and Will’s stomach tenses in response with only the desperate yearning of his head for a pillow keeping him standing where he is instead of running back for more.

And he’s hit with the sudden, giddy realization that there’s a chance he won’t make it out of this summer alive.

Previous Prompt < View Collection on Ao3 > Next Prompt

written for @bylerween2023

#bylerween2023 #day 6 #Supernatural Creatures #byler #mike wheeler #will byers #cw Blood #Dark Byler #my fic

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evita-shelby · 11 months

Text

National Anthem

Chapter 2

Cw: mentions of injuries, death, sex and scars

Gif by @softavasilva

Taglist: @thegreatdragonfruta @cljordan-imperium @zablife

“I thought you were a nurse during your war.” He said tracing idle circles around a spot on her shoulder where a bullet grazed her and left its mark on her.

They had ended up at his place, tearing each other’s clothes off and fucking again in his magnificent four poster bed.

She’d never been with a man, done things that had him question her uncle’s claim until he learned it for himself.

Eva had wanted him to take her in the confessional, and he had, against the wooden walls that were supposed to be holy.

A religious experience in many ways.

You are the first woman I fuck here; he had said out of breath after.

The only woman you will ever fuck here and there and everywhere, she had corrected, and he agreed only to humor her.

I’m gonna return you to your uncle with a limp, Mrs. Nelson, he had promised as he carried her over the threshold of his house like a bride.

He had no driver, thank God, it had been so long Eva had ridden in the front seat of a car.

They had decided on the flowers, the colors and the name of their first child by the time they got to his place, a lovely townhouse he shared with his sister-in-law who mercifully was visiting family in the country.

Didn’t help he was calling her Mrs. Nelson and introduced her as such to the housekeeper, a middle-aged woman with an Irish accent strong enough to remind her of her grandfather.

“Nurses are in the line of fire too, you know.” She responded, keeping her secrets to herself.

The witch isn’t sure if she trusts him enough to tell her what she really did during the war.

Would he look at her the same way when she tells him she killed Americans by the dozen to avenge her parents, neighbors, and friends?

It is better if we forget it happened, her aunt had said as they wiped her records clean.

But she cannot simply shut the door behind her.

It comes and goes as it pleases, sure her sobriety has helped quiet the screams and the grief that led her to try and take her life several times, but it will never be over.

Jack was lucky that his post as the newly minted General Manager exempted him from military service.

There was a part of him that hated he was seen as less manly for not having fought in France like his brother had, though, but Laurance Nelson had died in his first real battle and left little Gina and her mother in his brother’s care with his kid brother resenting him for leaving them all behind.

Jack had lived and risen to great heights his brother never got to see. Would live to see his children have grandchildren of their own.

Still, Jack has his own set of scars, scars she kissed and caressed as they come to know each other here.

Eva kissed a faded stab wound near his clavicle and kissed every inch of skin down his sternum.

Marked him as hers to the next lady he fucks, then he’ll know she meant what she said that she is the only woman he’ll have from now on.

He had another one in his abdomen, had found him to be ticklish there as she ventured lower until she reached that wondrous thing that made her see God several times that morning.

Jack was an open book, with the right person.

His past he keeps guarded under lock and key and yet she knows it.

Grown up being an errand boy to a gangster and eventually Party Boss of South Boston, who had taken him and his brother under his wing once they were old enough.

His mom had been his whore for a while, needing to keep her children clothed and fed by any means necessary when his father up and left her with four little ones.

By the time Jack and his brother, Laurence, had become men, they’d seen so much death.

After their little brother and sister died, their mother followed shortly after.

Asked PJ Kennedy to watch over them for her on her deathbed and good old Pat had sworn on Saint Patrick himself to honor her last wishes.

The man had done more than that, he’d left him and his brother everything, including the steel factory that Jack eventually became General Manger of in 1914.

She wasn’t supposed to know that. Eva had learned it when she had seen him from her window when he came to meet her uncle on business.

He hadn’t seen her, but she had gotten a good look at the tall American man who came looking for a wife.

Saw his intentions and past laid out bare before her as he came into the house.

“Frank Wallace, Gutin Gang tried to hijack me thinking I’d gone soft when PJ gave me Bethlehem Steel. Last time they every thought of fucking with me.” He says before she asks.

They have been doing this for a while, worshiping each other’s scars and learning the context for them.

“Zacatecas, artillery felt like it was raining from heaven. Didn’t notice I was hit until we got my brother, Alan, to the only hospital left with an operation theater.” The witch supplies feeling more comfortable as she returns her head to his chest. “He died of sepsis a week later.”

“Laurence died in his first battle. Went in ‘because he wanted to die, and God granted him his fucking wish. They gave him a fucking medal for bravery and called him a hero.” Jack says not bothering to hide his bitterness at having his big brother abandon him and his daughter and have only a fucking medal and a folded-up flag to mourn him.

“I’m sorry for your loss, it must have been terrible for you to lose your brother that way.” She says because she understands his pain. “And I’m sorry for making the both of us dredge up the past, Jack.”

Gabriel could have chosen to accept the deal with Carranza and wait out the war in the safety of America with their uncles.

But when he refused to stop fighting, Eva stayed by his side because she didn’t want him to die alone.

In the end he did, everyone dies as alone as they came into the world.

Such a dark turn this wonderful moment took.

“Got to admit for first dates, it sure as hell it’s gonna be one to remember, Mrs. Nelson.” He said, tilting her chin up and kissing her.

“It sure is, Mr. Nelson.”

#eva smith nelson #jack nelson x eva smith #jack nelson x oc #national anthem fic

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spectralsleuth · 1 year

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Can you give us some headcanons for your LSoW au pretty please 🙏 Also what are the Japanese public and government’s view of Yoshi and his turtle kids?

SURE I love talking about headcanons! Japan loves the turtles, both because there are some famous historical Hamato’s (the family is the subject of many conspiracy theories on the internet) and also because they’re turtles!! Especially when they were babies I feel like they would have been insanely popular in Japan. The country loves cute things lol and the boys are VERY cute.

I want to write a fic where they go on a family trip to Japan because I would die from cuteness, but it’s a tall order for someone who’s only traveled a little bit in East Asia, and North America! I’d have to really do some research. But I do imagine everywhere they went in Japan, they were given so many little gifts and trinkets and food that Yoshi was hard pressed to get it all shipped back to the states.

And another fun fact- or more like something I haven’t gotten around to covering yet? Xanders family!

As of A Short Season:

Xander McLoughlin’s (22/M) family:

Mom/Dad: (58/61) Nurse/Firefighter respectively. Mom still works at the hospital, not the same one as Dr. Heo. Dad is retired after a work accident and missing an arm. Does a neat trick where he can swivel his eye freely after the same accident gave him a head injury that had some neurological repercussions. Got decent compensation from the city though and paid off their townhouse. (Still had two kids after though, let's go king.)

-Oldest Sibling: Liam (36/M) Herpetologist/Conservationist works for some small local natural science museum/botanical garden. Married, has 1 kid.

-Second Oldest Sibling: Aisling (32/F) Paramedic, single.

-Third Oldest Sibling: Shannon (30/F) Writer. Lives with parents. Single.

-Xander (22/M) Most trans guy name I could think of his siblings roast the fuck out of him.

-Youngest: Amelia (18/F) Deaf, dogwalker, still living at home and in no rush. She’s the babyyyy.

Last fun fact for right now- I named Xander after… Jacksepticeye… I didn’t think he’d be this popular I just wanted to make a good Irish American lad and needed a good last name…

#rottmnt #tmntau #LSoW #asks open #anon ask #FUN FACTS #XANDER LORE #Little Scraps of Wisdom

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saintmurd0ck · 2 years

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Sleepover time!!! Yay!!! *grabs blankets and pillows* okay, um, let's seeeeeee

Let's go with "you look like you were jealous." With Mikey, please and thank you?

very excited for you to read what i did with this very, very interesting prompt!!! it took me a hot second, but here it is, a mix between a little fluff, angst, and always, (as in my expertise) a bit of a tease 🤭💗

let's have a sleepover at mine!

before your time | michael kinsella x reader

The door to the townhouse shuts with a soft click, frosted glass rattling as Michael tests the lock. He slips his leather jacket off with a sigh, draping it over the banister with a gentleness that loosens your shoulders.

That momentary sliver of peace dissipates as you pace in the living room, hands tightening into fists while your stomach sinks without a second thought. It roils inside you like molten lava; searing and treacherous and utterly thick. It sits so thickly you feel like a fossil trapped in amber, moving so slowly it’s as if the world spins past you, leaving you behind as nothing more than a forgotten memory.

Ouroborous is a better term for how you feel.

“Everythin’ okay, pet?” Michael calls, stalking over to you with featherlight steps.

You nod tersely, pressing your lips together in a half-assed response. Blood thunders in your ears as your fingernails imprint themselves into your palms, nothing but tsunami after tsunami of green-eyed emotion rising from your chest to your head.

Michael’s expression is one you can’t read, but he cocks his head to the side, folding his arms over his chest as his eyes scan your face. It must be the way you suck in your cheeks, or the little flash of teeth in your apathetic smile, but he clocks it right then and there.

He hesitates for a second before clearing his throat. “You look like you were jealous. S’that it?”

Fuck.

You hate that emotion, but here it is, rearing its ugly head.

“No,” you squeak, turning way from him.

He uncrosses his arms to grab at your wrists, to pry open your fists before your nails can do any real damage. He brushes the half-moon indents in your palm with his fingers, the touch delicate; so delicate in contrast to what you feel that it impales you like a hot stake. “I won’ get mad if you were. Promise.”

You don’t see red. In fact, you don’t see anything; the world is a blur of beige and greys and her. Her and her flirty glances, her lilting Irish brogue parting her mouth so, so sensually as she says his name. “Was it Amanda?”

Your silence is answer enough, echoing throughout the house.

It frustrates you, being so tight-lipped and incoherent and fucking jealous like a schoolgirl, but you’re trying to compose yourself, trying to get the words out in a way that doesn’t make you feel shame the way you already do.

Thank God that Michael knows you, that he somehow just knows what wheels are turning in that brain of yours.

“Y’know love,” he begins, words laden with an emotion you can’t quite place, “me an’ her… that was a long time ago. There’s nothin’ there anymore, I promise ‘ya. You’re all I need.”

“God, Michael,” you sigh, exasperated, “did you see the way she was lookin’ at you tonight?” Your voice pitches higher as your face contorts into a mockery of her expression. “Michael, pass me tha’, oh Michael, let me fix youse up with a new car.”

Michael bites his lip to stifle his chuckle, but the daggers in your eyes wipes his smile away entirely. “Look, if ‘ya don’ wan’ to believe me now, s’fine.” His gaze darkens as he steps closer to you, hand coming up to caress your jaw. “How ‘bout I show ‘ya how much I mean it, yeah? You don’ have to do anythin’, just let me make you feel good.”

Finally, the wave of your disdain crests, breaking upon the shore of reassurance that Michael’s reinforced with his words. The corners of his mouth upturn as your hand goes slack in his, as you concede your defeat.

“Go on then, Michael. Show me.”

#michael kinsella #kin amc #michael kinsella x reader #saintmurd0ck let's have a sleepover #rhi responds 💌#rhi's mutuals 💗#rhi writes 💻#x reader

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fairwellersmustache · 2 years

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how many pairs of fingerless gloves do regency au parker and eliot have combined

Like any sailor or soldier worth their salt, Elliot is adept at knitting and darning.

He made countless items for himself and his comrades to survive the elements while at sea or during a campaign, which must include several pairs of what are technically called mitts.

Even now, during London’s harsh winters, Elliot knits any wool he can get his hands on. In his current line of work, mitts are specifically helpful to disguise his knuckles - busted and bruised in his boxing matches (thanks @msmongoose for the suggestion!)

In her day job as a scullery maid, Parker has to traipse through drafty townhouses and light the fires each morning, so I’m sure Elliot is eager to provide any cozy accessory she needs 🥹

BTW if you don’t know what I’m talking about, this is in reference to the post below which is the basis for what I’m now calling Leverage: Regency lol.

@faorism sent me so many great questions which I can’t wait to answer, so stay tuned

#leverage #leverage: regency #Elliot spencer #Parker #leverage au #faorism

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j4m3s-b4k3r · 3 months

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Little Mansion on the Prairie

We have been sketching from TV shows, and a recent fave is Downton Abbey, starring the wonderful Maggie Smith. In my opinion, she steals every almost episode as the dowager Countess, Lady Grantham. Inflecting every line with subtle flaring of nostril, tilt of head or withering stare, that imbue her character with equal part haughty snottiness, dry humour, and wry wisdom as the scene requires. She is so much fun to watch. This sketch here was my attempt at a straight portrait with my left hand, but my cartoon roots betray me. Try as I might to deliver a faithful representation, my version of Maggie Smith ends up looking like a pug dog in a fur coat.

Downton Abbey is a glorified soap opera about the privileged British aristocracy (written by the real-life Baron Fellowes of West Stafford, no less). So, why should an uncouth Australian like me care two hoots about Lady Rose's utterly spiffing debutant Ball at Buckingham palace? Or whether Lady Mary can ever live down the beastly scandal of finding a dead Turk in her plush 4-poster bed?

A big part of the appeal for me is the beautiful recreation of period detail, which British TV shows do so convincingly. Leaving me with a nostalgia for a past that I would have most certainly been shut-out of, had I been there. This fascinated ambivalence is best represented in the show itself by Tom, the lefty Irish Chauffeur, who started out reviling the CrawIeys but is now one of them. Sort of.

I grew-up wondering whether the impoverished Walton family, or the equally desperate Ingals family, could make enough to survive their next winter. Now, for better or worse, I watch each week to see the tribulations of the 1% Crawley family. Will Lord Grantham find enough money to run his 80 room country Mansion and his opulent London Townhouse? Can he keep his pampered family in hot-and-cold running servants, and multiple changes of posh evening wear and diamonds? "I say, frightfully desperate times, what?"

This soap opera about the two communities living side by side in an early 20th century British mansion– upper class aristocrats and their working class servants– may be an obvious choice for a country with a history of an ingrained class structure, such as England. But I think it’s interesting that American shows don’t do this more often.

In an American TV show about a legal firm we only follow the lawyers and never meet the people in the mailroom. If a show is set on a Starship, we will meet only the bridge officers and not the tech support dweebs on lower decks. If it is set in a hospital we only care about the doctors, and not the orderlies or the folks processing the stool samples in the lab. Come on America, where’s your sense of upstairs/downstairs 1%/99% camaraderie? The fantasy here in the USA is that it is a completely egalitarian society, but the not-so-simple reality is rarely examined on TV.

As much as I enjoy the milieu of DOWNTON ABBEY, after several seasons the show is not as interesting to me as it once was. Simply because a status quo is maintained episode to episode and season to season. There’s always something just about to happen. Someone is about be accused of murder. Someone is about to be disgraced by scandal, and someone is about to leave the family. Inevitably, most of these things work out and are back to approximately where we’d started.

The series’ first season, set in 1912, started off strong, with boyfriends dying during covert sex. Their corpses secretly carried through the mansion by candlelight in dead of night. There were revelations about this servant or the next, and mini scandals always a-brewing with the aristocrats upstairs. And we were constantly warned that the modern world was about to change everything.

Then of course there was WW1 to deal with. But in hindsight, the only true drama in the entire series happened when a couple of the real life actors tired of the corsets they had to wear and the scripts they had to read, and decided to leave the show. Which forced the writers’ dramatic hand, and some characters had to actually die to be written out of the series.

DOWNTON ABBEY promised to be a chronicle of a time of great societal change in Britain. Strange then that so little of that real-life drama is in the show. The most recent season is set in 1924, and the only dramatic change in circumstances was the death of the dog in the title sequence.

I could hold on a few more seasons till WW2, just because I know that eventually Hitler can be relied upon to force some drama, the bloody trouble maker. But any time that you see Fascism as a solution to your problems, it’s time to re-examine your priorities.

#downton abbey #maggie smith #illustration #caricature #tv sketching

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queeniesrose · 1 year

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All Daily Life posts will be SFW!

Master Post | AU Information

Modern Haldir: Daily Life

Haldir works as a dog trainer for the police and the government.

Sometimes, he gets asked to travel to help train some dogs.

When he does this, he gets to bring his dogs with him. He has two Irish Wolfhounds and a Doberman.

He is often wearing some form of tactical gear.

Haldir drives a Lincoln Corsair.

Haldir lives in a nice townhouse that's downtown. He has a nice sized backyard and garden.

When he's not working or hanging out at home, he is taking his dogs out on walks, hikes, to the dog park, or somewhere to do some form of training.

In his spare time, he'll make some training videos and upload them to his different social medias to help people train their dogs.

#Haldir x reader #Haldir #Middle Earth Haldir #Reader x Haldir #Haldir Headcanons #Haldir Headcanon #Middle Earth Haldir x Reader #The Hobbit #Lord of the Rings #LOTR #Middle Earth #Middle Earth x Reader #Tolkien Universe #Reader #Reader Insert #X Reader #Queenie’s Modern Middle Earth

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athenamarchmain · 4 months

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[michelle pfeiffer — 63 — she/her] introducing athena marchmain . word on the street is they are a socialite & private art dealer & antiquarian , having been around for thirty years . despite an otherwise clear record, sometimes they are known to engage with the syndicate’s affairs. though they are capricious and decadent , they can also be determined and resourceful . in the chaos of new york city , they’re sure to fit right in.

[ pinterest] [ spotify ]

tw: emotional abuse, murder ↴

basics

• full name: athena sylvestra noailles marchmain

• nicknames: thea (used only by those closest to her)

• gender: cis female

• pronouns: she/her

• age: 63

• date of birth: 4th november 1960

• zodiac sign: scorpio

• sexuality: bisexual (although presents as heterosexual to maintain a certain image)

• place of birth: london, england

• residence: a townhouse in manhattan (primary residence) ; also owns an apartment in london and a villa in tuscany

• occupation: socialite ; art dealer ; antiquarian

• aesthetics: old leather books, silk, red wine, diamonds, expensive perfume, fountain pens, roses, champagne, pearls, red velvet, expensive art, manicured nails, red lipstick, sly smiles

appearance

• faceclaim: michelle pfeiffer

• voice claim: michelle pfeiffer (in ‘stardust’)

• height: 5’ 6”

• build: average ; a little skinny

• eyes: light blue

• hair: blonde

• piercings: earlobes

• tattoos: none

• style:

personality

• positive traits: charming, determined, resourceful, articulate, confident, hardworking, punctual, sophisticated

• negative traits: reserved, manipulative, capricious, decadent, flirtatious, opinionated, blunt, devious, assertive, selfish

• mbti: estj - the executive

• likes: getting her own way, vintage wine, parties, sweet food, going clothes/shoe shopping, dancing, reading, researching,.

• dislikes: winter weather, arrogance, mansplaining, spicy food, heavy metal music, being ignored, jackson pollock’s art

• fears: losing her money & status

• phobias: entomophobia ; ophidiophobia

• hobbies: reading, shopping

• skills: polyglot (speaks fluent english, german, french, italian, and russian) ; ambidextrous (favours her right hand)

• pet peeves: tardiness, sexism, loud chewing, people talking over her

family

• mother: charlotte annaliese marchmain (née kaiser)

• father: alexander phillip marchmain iii

• siblings: none

• ex-husband: konstantin noailles

• daughter: lilia persephone noailles marchmain @noailles

• granddaughter: ophelia ‘oppy’ athena noailles marchmain

favourites

• food: any kind of pasta dish

• drink: red wine

• time of the day: evening

• weather: dry and warm

• colours: red, gold, silver

• songs: anything classical

bio

— born as a disappointment, athena is the only child of an english father and a french-german mother. they wanted a son who would grow up to be the heir of their respective media and pharmaceutical family businesses, to take a strong lead and contribute to the legacy, but they saw their daughter as meek and mild: somebody who would be a better wife and trophy rather than her own person. oh how wrong they were. her parents were more focused on their reputations than they were with their daughter and when we athena craved their praise or attention she’d be shouted at for being too whiny or distracting, kicked out of a room for interrupting, and ignored if she ever tried to ask why or fight back. she learned never to ask for anything, but just to take it and stand her ground.

— athena was raised by a handful of nannies, but one stood out- a firm but fair irish woman named maeve- and athena’s mother had the audacity to be offended when she referred to her nanny as ‘mommy’. maeve was indeed the only maternal figure in athena’s life- the only positive role model she ever had- and taught the young girl all kinds of things: life lessons, art, history, literature, and even the beginnings of learning the irish language, which she unfortunately had to drop when she was sent to boarding school. maeve would also take athena to explore the city with central park being their favourite spot.

— athena was taught german as her second language, then went on the learn french, and italian, and russian. she became fluent in all and have been incredibly useful in her working life. she flourished at boarding school, even if it was a challenge at times and even if she was bitter towards her parents for sending her away as if she meant nothing despite the fact she should be grateful for the opportunity. she saw boarding school as her parents getting rid of her and giving themselves another excuse to make her seem ungrateful or selfish when she retaliated; “we’ve given you everything you could want”, “other people would kill for this opportunity”, and so on.

— at the age of 23, athena met her eventual (ex)husband konstantin noailles at a social function in london where he had come from russia on business. he was handsome, charming, and had taken a shine to athena, who (being young and naive) was taken under his spell. it didn’t occur to her for a while that konstantin was anything other than a legit businessman with intentions of bringing the marchmain and noailles families together for political and financial gain. but when she did she had already agreed to marry him and knew she would be doing it without love in her heart. she tried hard to make konstantin say ‘i love you’ to her, but he always skirted around the subject and her efforts were wasted.

— after their meagre honeymoon, athena moved to new york city with konstantin, settling into an extravagant penthouse apartment with a clear view of the skyscrapers and the empire state building. it was during konstantin’s business trips and after exploring the city some more that athena developed a passion for art and antiques. she learned everything she could on the majority of subjects to enhance her knowledge and with her newfound status was able to talk to some of the most influential people in the modern art world. athena’s favourite movements are art nouveau, impressionism, and the victorian antique period.

— her only child, lilia, was born in moscow, russia, when athena was 28 and accompanying her husband on a business trip. athena thought having a child would bring her and her konstantin closer together, but it jammed the wedge between them even further. very much like her own parents, konstantin longed for a son he could pass down his legacy to, but he ended up with a daughter. her life was beginning to repay itself and because of her youth,fa fear, and naivety, the cycle of emotional distancing unfortunately didn’t end with athena. she was the same way with lilia because this was the only way she knew how to love: from a distance and without evident displays of emotion. athena loves her daughter, though… in her own way. she refers to lilia as sepphy (taken from her middle name persephone) as a sign of affection and would viciously retaliate against anybody who dares to physically or emotionally hurt her daughter.

— when lilia was 16, athena watched as she killed a man for the first time, right there in konstantin’s study. it was an horrific moment to see her child lose all innocence, but athena had to let it happen. she stood behind her husband, gripping the back of his chair so hard her knuckles turned white as lilia made them proud.

— athena eventually divorced konstantin, reverting to her maiden name of marchmain but keeping noailles as a kind of middle name and a sign of her status and connections. konstantin tried to make lilia stay with him, but she chose to stick by her mother and together they moved into the manhattan townhouse that they both still reside in. not long later, and thanks to her ex-husband’s connections, athena became affiliated with the notorious syndicate, who she provides information for based on gossip and facts she’d heard from clients concerning people of interest. she finds great amusement in establishing trust with somebody, getting what she needs from them, and then betraying them for a greater cause. she is loyal to the syndicate. it’s very much a ‘you scratch my back and i’ll scratch yours’ relationship.

— in 2014, athena stayed in london for eighteen months due to the particulars of some new work she’d taken on and bought an apartment there which she still own tho this day. the move coincided with lilia’s choice to attend oxford university. athena gave lilia the independence to live away (and also the money to do so), keeping her daughter close so that she could keep tabs on her whilst also providing her with a first class education. athena also extended her work trip after the eighteen months was up just to be near to lilia and the two returned to new york once she had graduated.

— “like mother like daughter” was a phrase athena heard being whispered quite often. she and her daughter were notorious for being suave, cunning, sexy, assertive, and most noticeably gorgeous. all they had to do was bat their eyelashes, flick their golden hair over their shoulders, and gaze at others with their bright blue eye and they had them wrapped around their little fingers. it was something athena was proud of, that her daughter ended up like her and it having to worry about lilia being taken advantage of. she had her mother’s strength and wit and athena could rest easy with that knowledge.

— today athena still lives the life of luxury and has considerable influence in new york city’s elite social circles. she works as a private art dealer and antiquarian, mainly for celebrities, business owners, investors, and anyone else that can afford the most exquisite and historical of items. she has a gallery and office near tribeca where, when she’s not attending parties and other social gatherings, she can usually be found.

#[ sky – 23 – she/her – gmt – no triggers ]#wb.intro

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