#owen sleater x female reader

[farfromstrange]

Austin: Chapter 1 [Owen Sleater x F!Reader]

Chapter 1: Welcome to Atlantic City!

Main Masterlist | Series Masterlist | Read Me on AO3

Chapter Summary: You make your way to Atlantic City, and things do not go as planned from the moment you step off the train to meeting a very handsome but also very cheeky Irishman at Nucky Thompson's estate.

Chapter Warnings: foul language, mentions of murder, illegal activity, plot, Owen being a cheeky bastard, Season 2 spoilers, foreshadowing, slight angst (?), kind of a "I hate him" situation (enemies to lovers *cough*), mentions of misogyny

Word Count: 7.2K

A/n: This chapter is longer than the first, which was not planned, but the juices were flowing. The meeting was originally planned for Chapter 3, but then I realized that Nucky Thompson was no longer at the Ritz at this point in the show, so I had to improvise, so yeah. Anyway, first meeting, and it even made ME blush. But then again, I had to add a little bit of angst for the slow burn. (I'm always so scared of inaccuracies because the 1920s were very complex, so if you find any, just ignore them.)

Set from Season 2 episode 9 onward!

This series is rated E for explicit! 18+ only!

The train ride from Austin to Atlantic City takes you two days. You’re no stranger to long-distance traveling, but being stuck in a carriage with strangers for hours on end would never be your first choice for an adventure.

You’ve been to Canada and Mexico; you have made a deal with the Italians on the West Coast, and you have conspired with the Russians in Coney Island. You hold friends in high places all over the world, but not once have you been to Atlantic City. 

It’s not that you don’t love the beach—you have quite the affinity for the ocean, actually—but you told yourself that you were better off not messing with the powerful forces that have owned the Boardwalk ever since liquor first became an object of illegal trade. As feared as you are in Texas and all neighboring States that profit from your work, Nucky Thompson is—well, used to be—equally as feared in his part of the criminal underworld. 

The times you have shown your face in the past, the people present have not lived to tell the tale. If someone shouted from the rooftops that Mr. Austin is, in truth, a woman, it would cause quite an uproar. Your spite is not the only factor in this equation because you’re not the only person who has something to lose. You’re not like those you despise; you care about what happens to those who work for you, knowing that they are risking just as much in this business as you are every day.

If someone told your name and spread the news that you did not die in the fire you set that night eighteen months ago, the connection could bring on a myriad of consequences. You would have nowhere to run but to prison. You killed a man, and justice has a way of kicking criminals in the ass. You know that very well. When you disappeared though, you swore to do whatever it would take to keep the walls around you stable enough to survive, and you have been doing well so far.

Nucky Thompson’s letter was the Trojan Horse that has now forced you out of your shell. You are far too exposed—far too vulnerable here, even though no one knows who the woman with the red cowboy boots sitting on the back of the train is or where she’s from, and they don’t seem to care at all either. 

You care though. And you know the truth. You care too much about what other people think. If you want to be able to stand your own against them, you have to be more confident, but you always find yourself held at gunpoint by your insecurities.

You won’t know what more could happen until you confront the man who chose to throw very lively bait at your feet that you couldn’t help but dig your teeth into. Now, you’re being pulled toward Enoch Thompson and Atlantic City instead of away from the chaos that has erupted around him.

If you had sent your right-hand man—if you had sent Anthony, out of all people—you fear that he might have come back to you in a box, but he has a hard time acknowledging the fact that you are far more dangerous than you let on.

“I can’t believe you left!” his voice is so loud you have to take a look around the small phone booth to see if anyone on the outside can hear you.

“I had no choice,” you snap back into the receiver. “You read what he wrote. If there is even the slightest chance he knows who I am, we’re in a lot of trouble.”

Anthony sneers. “You really want to believe a guy who’s on trial for several crimes and is about to lose everything he worked so hard for just because he sent you a letter out of desperation?” 

You imagine his green eyes glaring holes into the atmosphere. His bottom lip must be swollen from how many times he gnawed on it, and his dark hair is probably disheveled because as he told you once before, you make him want to rip his hair out. One by one. He tends to be quite dramatic.

“You’re smarter than this,” he says. He utters your name, and his voice takes on a softer touch. 

A train horn blares in the distance, but your focus remains on the man on the other end of the phone line.

You sigh. “Because I’m smarter, I had to go,” you try explaining. “You can’t deny that a man who has everything to lose is almost as dangerous as one who has nothing to lose. And if Nucky has everything to lose, so do I,” you say. “He has the power to take everything away from me, and I have to make sure he doesn’t know the truth. And if he does, I have to find a solution. Me. Because he wants to see me, not you.”

“He wants to see Mr. Austin,” Anthony corrects you. 

“Exactly. And who’s he?”

“A name on paper. A myth.”

“No, Anthony. Who is Mr. Austin?” you ask.

The pause is filled with a heavy silence. Then, he opens his mouth, and he murmurs into the telephone, “You are.” He acts as though it hurts him to admit it. 

It hasn’t always been like this.

You nod, but his reaction doesn’t sit right with you. It may not be audible through the phone, but he knows you well enough by now to read your body language even from miles away. 

“That’s right,” you say. Your voice remains calm, though your words do not. “I’m your boss. I own this fucking business, and I know what I’m doing. I know you always attend these kinds of meetings for me, but this is an emergency, and I had to leave without dragging you or anyone else into it until I’ve found a solution.”

“You’re insane.” It is less of an accusation than it is a statement. 

“No, I have to make sure that a man my father once considered a friend doesn’t burn his legacy to the ground. He already had one shitty friend try it, and we both know how that turned out. I saved his legacy from certain downfall. I killed for it. And I intend to protect it with my life, no matter what it takes.”

In the background, music overlaps with the distinctive sound of voices and the clinking of glasses. 

Anthony sucks in a sharp breath through his nose. “No matter what it takes, huh?” he asks, and it leaves a bitter aftertaste in your mouth. “Even if it means revealing your face, your identity, even your name to a stranger? No matter what it takes?”

“Don’t patronize me!”

The fury tugs at your heartstrings, tearing a hole into your soul. What started as a bout of frustration is starting to turn into an inferno of anger. It consumes you, threatening to set you on fire. The beast inside of you begs to be set free.

“You do realize that if you go there and he doesn’t know who you are, he may as well connect the dots and then screw you over anyway, right?” He doesn’t stop. “You’re serving him the gun on a silver platter, Jesus fucking Christ!”

When he yells at you, you see red. “He already has it!” your voice bounces off the glass around you. “He already has the gun, I’m sure of it,” you tell him. “I don’t know why, but I have a bad feeling about this, and I have to burn this son of a bitch out before it’s too late. Before—before he can burn me. Us,” you emphasize. “He is in an impossible situation, and that makes him a million times more dangerous. But that also makes him valuable, and if I can talk with him—figure out what he meant and talk some sense into him—I can come home and we can forget this ever happened. But for that, I have to give him what he wants first.”

Again, Anthony seethes, “Nucky Thompson is not a man you can trust.”

“I don’t trust him, but that doesn’t mean I can’t do business with him.”

“Is that what you think?”

“The better question is, do you think I’m less capable than you because you’re such a strong, invincible man?” By saying it out loud, you have found a way to spit him in the face.

His hand grips the receiver so tightly that the line crackles. He exhales a growl. “I think that you should have thought this through and discussed it with me,” he says. “You should have called a meeting with the rest of the team, and we could have talked about this.”

“I discussed it with you in great detail, but you wouldn’t listen,” you counter. “Now, I’m here, and I won’t stop until I get what I want.”

“And what’s that?”

“Control.”

He calls your name. “That’s it. I’m taking the next train to Atlantic City.”

“No!” you stop him. “I need you to keep things going in Austin. Make sure everything runs smoothly. I’ll call you when I find out something new.”

“Not happening. That man is too dangerous for you to deal with alone. Even with half his empire gone, he still holds too much power. I’m coming. End of discussion.”

You chuckle, but it lacks amusement. It’s a dry, empty, and entirely emotionless chuckle that matches the look in your eyes. “You underestimate me, Anthony,” you say. “May I remind you that I’m in control here? You are not in charge. I am. I won’t hesitate to put a bullet in Nucky Thompson’s head if he decides to stab me in the back. And I won’t hesitate to do the same with you or anyone else who dares to cross me. So don’t ever fucking underestimate me again. Your responsibilities are back home, so that is where you are going to stay or I swear to God I’m going to make you regret it. Are we clear?”

“I’m not undermining you, I’m just concerned—”

“No, fuck you!” This time, one of the women passing by the telephone booth, stares at you, and she seems utterly appalled at your language. You tilt your head. Her eyes widen, but before you can yell at her to turn around and walk the other way, her husband pulls her away. 

“I’m not listening to this—” You place your lips close to the speaker, “Stay where you are. Do as I tell you to, and wait for further instructions. Do not come to Atlantic City, and don’t ever fucking doubt me again,” you spit. “That’s an order!”

The line clicks, and the entire booth vibrates at the force with which you hang up the phone. 

You take a deep breath to calm the erratic drumming of your heart against your ribcage. You need to slow the adrenaline in your veins before it melts you from the inside out. Your knuckles crack when you stretch your fingers, smoothing out the fabric of your dress. You take another deep breath in, then exhale. 

The clock strikes noon. You reach for the suitcase you managed to cram into the small telephone booth. The sturdy leather feels slippery on your sweaty palms. You always travel light; you don’t plan to stay for much longer than a week, anyway. One suitcase of clothing should suffice plenty. At least that was your train of thought before you arrived at the bustling train station of Atlantic City. 

A soft, salty breeze brushes your cheeks when you step outside. You can hear the rushing of the ocean in the distance. Children run along the pavement, followed by their parents. Everyone is dressed so much differently from the fashion you see every day. 

The South isn’t New Jersey though, and you should have figured that styles may vary over thousands of miles apart. You receive a few curious glances; is it that obvious that you don’t belong here? A group of women passes by you, and you swear you can hear them giggle when they are a few steps further away. You wonder if it’s the red boots that are made for farming rather than a city close to the coast, or maybe it’s the way you carry yourself, wearing your uniqueness on your sleeve like an elegant piece of jewelry. 

You came here with one suitcase and a clear mission; you won’t let anyone ruin that for you. Not Anthony, and surely not a group of strangers who are probably more prone to gossip than you ever were in your lifetime—and probably ever will be. 

When you left early that morning, you tasked Beth with calling Nucky Thompson. She is responsible for all of your appointments, but when she heard his name, she was rightfully hesitant. You didn’t have the heart to tell her the truth, so you left her with an excuse and a pile of guilt in the pit of your stomach.

At three o’clock, you will face him, and you will pray to a God you don’t believe in that it will all be over after that. One night of rest, and you will be on the same train back home. That is what you are hoping for.

You heard that Nucky lost his suite at the Ritz-Carlton after the charges were filed against him, and he retreated to the comfort of his home. You can’t say that you have a lot of empathy; you would prefer a room at the Ritz over one at the Marlborough any day anyway. 

Hopefully, the small glimpse of the Boardwalk you get as the cab pulls up to the hotel will be the last you see of Atlantic City for a very long time.

The car comes to a halt, and the driver curtly tells you, “We’re here, Miss.”

You nod, then reach into your coat. “What’s your name?” you ask him. 

He frowns at you through the rearview mirror. “Carter, Miss,” he stutters. “Ben Carter.”

“Ben. Carter.” You retrieve a stack of money. “I like you. I could use your help.”

His entire body stiffens. “M-my help?”

“Mhm.” You lean forward. “I need someone to drive me around the city today.”

“I’m a cab driver. I—”

“I’m aware, but tell me, is there anything you wouldn’t do for money?” The bills rustle next to his ear as you hold them up.

“How much is that?” Ben asks breathlessly. 

“500,” you answer. “Although I’m open to giving you more if that’s what it takes.”

“For a day?”

“Yes.”

“Is there a–a catch?”

You chuckle, placing the money in his shaky hand. “All I ask is for your driving skills and your discretion. Can you do that for me, Ben?”

The wheels turn in his head. He’s considering your offer. That much money isn’t so easy to come by, especially not for a cab driver. You’ve learned over the years that if you play your cards right, you can get just about anything.

Ben stares at the dollar bills for a few more seconds before he meets your eyes. Sweat drips down his temple. “Where do you need me to take you?” he asks. 

Your lips curl into a smirk. This poor man doesn’t know a thing and yet you are playing him like a fiddle. But he doesn’t need to know the truth. To you, he is only a means to an end. You will pay him, and he will give you what you need in return for a reward. After your stay in Atlantic City, he will never have to see you again.

The small piece of paper is tucked safely into your shirt. You retrieve it, still neatly folded, and hand it to him. “I need to be at this address,” you tell him. “Three o’clock.”

He glimpses down at the note. “Nucky Thompson,” he reads aloud. “Isn’t he–”

“I’d prefer it if you didn’t ask questions. Discretion, remember?”

“Yes, Miss. I’m sorry. I was just wondering—”

You cut him off once again. “Why don’t you wonder in silence while you help me carry my bag inside? Answers are earned, and it is my choice whether to answer or not.” You smile. It appears as sweet as sugar, but even the deadliest poisons smell deliciously of almonds. “You can still opt out, but I’d be taking the money back,” you add. “I would tip you nicely for the ride, of course, and I would let you leave without a word, but you wouldn’t get more than that.”

The man considers your words for a moment. You’re giving him a choice, but he isn’t quite sure which one would be the right one.

“Tick tock, Ben,” you purr.

He clenches his fist around the money. “I can be discreet,” he says.

You chuckle. “That’s what I thought. Now, about my bag–” You hand him another bill, not paying much attention to the amount. “It’s rather heavy, so I would appreciate it if you could carry it to my suite for me.”

The look in your eyes is destined to turn him into stone if he were to make the wrong move. As Ben looks at you, he swears you resemble Medusa, an ancient goddess in the back of his cab who is as dangerous as she is powerful. He has no other choice but to cater to your every need. 

When you get to your suite, you notice instantly that the windows open toward the ocean. Beth was gracious enough to book you a room with a beach view, and while you appreciate her thoughtfulness when it comes to your comfort, you don’t plan on extending your stay, no matter how nice the view may be.

Yet again, you find yourself staring at the Boardwalk, watching the people pass by. They all have a story of their own to tell. They all have their own set of opinions and values, some of which no one will ever know about. You could be an expert at reading human behavior and still be wrong in your interpretation. In the end, most people are experts at shapeshifting to fit into whatever category they want you to think they fit into, and trustworthiness isn’t just black and white; you have to be prepared to get disappointed.

Elegant houses with high walls, porches, and front yards pass you by as Ben drives you to Nucky Thompson’s home. Children are playing by the side of the road. You would consider this neighborhood one of the wealthiest you have seen today. And probably one of the safest, too. 

“We’re here,” Ben says.

You look up from your fidgeting fingers. “Thank you, Ben,” you reply.

Time to walk into the lion’s den. The only thing you have on you is your wit and what little research Leo conducted for you. That has to be enough. You just have to be smarter than the smartest man in Atlantic City. How hard can that be?

You knock on the door. You expect his secretary to answer. Maybe a maid or a butler, but when you look up, your shoulders straightened and your face blank of emotions, you are met with the face of a beautiful woman. Her hair is tied up, her dress flows effortlessly down her frame, and she’s wearing a delicate pair of heels that add a few inches to her height. 

Your brain takes a moment to reload. Nucky could have at least created a professional atmosphere, but this woman does not seem like she works for him. Every person in Nucky Thompson’s life could become a threat to you. Every person you meet that you have not intended to meet brings you one step closer to irreparable damage. But perhaps that has been his plan all along. 

“Hello,” the woman greets you. Her eyes are wide with bewilderment. 

You stutter. The blood rushes to your head. “Um, good afternoon–”

“May I help you?” The Irish accent starts to come out, and you put one and two together. 

Leo told you about Mrs. Schroeder. Margaret. You were right to assume that she isn’t one of Nucky Thompson’s goons. Far from it.

Inhaling a deep breath, you gather your thoughts to form an appropriate answer that won’t give you away entirely. “I’m here because I have a meeting with Mr. Enoch Thompson. I’m sorry, am I at the right address?” you ask.

“Oh!” Her face lights up with realization. “No, yes, of course. You are at the right address. Mr. Thompson just isn’t home yet.”

“I am a few minutes early, I’m afraid.”

Five minutes. It isn’t all that much. You try to be nice, but inside, you’re fuming. Not at this poor woman, not at all, but rather at Nucky. You haven’t even met him yet, but you already feel a deep disdain for this human being. How your father managed to consider him a friend is beyond you. Perhaps he was different back then—it has been a few years—but you highly doubt that. 

You clear your throat. “I take it you’re the lady of the house?” 

Margaret blinks, then smiles. “Yes, I believe that would be me. I’m Margaret Schroeder,” she says.

“Pleasure to make your acquaintance Miss Schroeder. Or is it Mrs.?”

“It’s Mrs., actually.”

“Apologies, Mrs. Schroeder.”

“No apologies needed.” She curtsies, which is endearing, in a way. Her eyes roam your body from head to toe. She’s trying to figure you out; you can’t blame her. “And who might you be?” Margaret asks. There is a hidden pressure to know the nature of your appearance hidden behind the niceties.

You can’t blame her for not wanting to let a stranger into her house, but the question leaves you grappling with the possible answers that could keep her off your back while still sounding truthful enough for her to believe you.

“Austin,” you blurt out. It wasn’t well-considered, but you couldn’t think of anything else.

“Austin?” she questions.

“Yes, ma’am. My parents didn’t know what to name me, so they considered all cities in the State of Texas before settling on Austin. I’m aware it isn’t very conventional, but they liked to pride themselves on being free spirits,” the lie flows past your lips effortlessly.

Using your alias while at the same time branding yourself as another character entirely is risky. You shouldn’t rely on your gut feeling. Margaret may seem innocent, but there is always a certain risk. You can only hope that she will buy it. If not, you have yet another bridge to burn.

Margaret gasps softly. “You came all this way from Texas?” 

Thank God it is the only thing she took away from your explanation. 

“I represent Mr. Austin in his business,” you state. “Mr. Thompson will know what that means.”

Her reaction tells you she doesn’t know what you mean, at least, and it takes an ounce of the weight off your shoulders.

“Well, Austin,” Margaret says, still suspicious of a stranger in her home but less tense, as it seems, “Would you like to come inside? I’m sure my—Mr. Thompson will be back any minute. He probably just got caught up in some business.”

You nod. “I would appreciate that. Thank you.”

She steps aside. You take in the spacious entrance hall. It is bathed in soft sunlight, filling the entire house with life. A set of stairs leads upstairs. The property is nothing short of extravagant, and you wonder how far the walls reach. 

Your eyes meet those of a brunette standing in the doorway to what you assume must be the living room. Her hands are crossed before her, fingers tangled in the white fabric of her apron. You suppose she must be a maid, or at the very least a housekeeper. 

Margaret nods toward her. “Katy, would you please take Miss Austin’s jacket?” she asks. 

The woman—Katy—steps toward you with a curt smile. She opens her arms. “May I?” she says. 

You take a moment to process the clear power dynamic, then quickly slip out of your coat. It’s not too cold outside—you wouldn’t even consider it hot, just comfortably warm—but you hardly ever wear jackets out of practicality. You wonder if any woman does. Your sleeves are short, barely covering your shoulders. The first time you wore what you wanted without care was simultaneously the last.

Showing your shoulders is considered preposterous, but only if you’re a woman. That isn’t different in Atlantic City. You could get fined for wearing a skirt that is a few inches too short in a public setting, but only if you’re a woman. You can’t wear your hair down if you have long hair or you will get scrutinized, but only if you’re a woman. What doesn’t get scrutinized is the fact that men can’t keep their disgusting fingers to themselves. They don’t respect the word ‘no’ as a full sentence. They wouldn’t even let women vote until they started fighting back. 

Men have the right to make rules about how you, as a woman, are supposed to present yourself as an individual. If you don’t follow the rules, you are immodest and impure. You’re not a woman if you don’t bow down to a man. Perhaps it was the way you were raised but it has always felt so wrong to you to allow the supposed superior sex to play with you as if you were a toy and set rules for all women just because they are secretly afraid of the power they hold. 

As infuriating as it is though, you wouldn’t want to be thrown in jail. You were threatened once with it, and you decided that you can’t fight back if you’re constrained. Instead, you conform, and you bottle up the rage that has consumed you and your ancestors since the beginning of time. You pour it into fragile glass bottles and place it on a shelf, but that very shelf is about to break under the weight, and God knows what may happen then. 

One day it will be different, you wish. But that day is not today, and perhaps it won’t be for centuries. 

You want to tell Katy that you can take care of your coat yourself, but this isn’t your home, nor is it your family. The last thing you want is to come off as rude. You don’t want to overstep or appear in a negative light. 

“Thank you,” you say, and her smile becomes more genuine. 

You turn back to Margaret. “I hope I’m not intruding, Mrs. Schroeder.”

She shakes her head. “Nonsense,” she says. “Punctuality can be quite the curse when you’re meetin’ with an unpunctual person.”

“Yes, I suppose that is true.”

Children’s laughter sounds from somewhere to your left, and you peek around the corner to see a little boy and a little girl sitting on the floor. 

“Are they yours?” you dare to ask. 

“Yes. That’s Emily, my youngest,” — she points to the girl — “And her brother, Teddy.”

“They’re adorable.”

“Thank you. I’m quite proud of them.”

You watch the two kids play under the watchful eye of another maid. They’re still so carefree; safe and sound under their mother’s wing. Things were easier when you were their age. When you still had hope. You enjoyed sitting on the floor of your childhood home and playing with your toys just as Emily and Teddy are doing now. Sometimes, you miss being a child who only knew what she wanted to know; a child living in her fantasy world, far from any kind of illicit affairs. 

Then again, rumor has it that Margaret lost the father of her children to Nucky Thompson, and even though he was a bad man, it was a huge cut in their lives that affected everyone in the family. It will get easier to deal with, maybe, but they won’t forget.

She utters the name you gave her, and you instantly tear your eyes away from the little humans in the living room. “You can settle down in the conservatory,” she tells you. “It’s a lot more quiet there.” 

“Of course,” you answer. Margaret guides you down the hall and through another doorway. You try not to stare too much as you pass the lavish decor. 

The sunlight hits your face as you come closer to the well-lit conservatory that stretches out longer than you expected. “Would you like some tea?” she asks. 

You wave her off. “Oh no, I couldn’t possibly accept that.”

“I’m sure Katy wouldn’t mind.”

“I’m good, honestly, but thank you.”

“Very well then.” She smiles, but the more she does so, the more you start to believe she is forcing her reaction. The tension in her shoulders is palpable. You wonder if it’s because of you, but it couldn’t possibly be; you don’t pose a threat. Maybe it’s the connection to her partner that concerns her, and you can’t blame her for that. 

The conservatory is filled with green plants and colorful flowers. They seem to shimmer under the natural lighting. It’s cozy, you have to admit, and certainly a lot more comfortable than waiting outside the door on the front porch in a neighborhood you don’t belong to.

“Feel free to, uh, take a seat,” Margaret says, pointing toward the table. “I will be taking the children to the beach in a few minutes, but I’ll make sure someone fetches you once Mr. Thompson is back. And if you need anything, don’t hesitate to let the maids know. They’re at your service.” 

You offer her a disarming smile. “I appreciate it.”

She bids her goodbyes, wishing you a good day, before she turns on her heel and leaves you to your own devices. 

The big windows are calling for you. You inhale the oxygen that has been purified by the greenery. For the first time since your train rolled into Atlantic City, you feel a little lighter. You don’t feel like the reality of the situation is pressing down on you and drowning you in misery. You can breathe again. 

You dare to step closer to the flowers. The red of the petals offers a stark contrast to the green. You play with the sunlight on your fingers, then gently move the tip over one of the delicate blossoms. Your heart jumps with the sudden realization that you could easily break or injure it. 

The floral scent fills your nose, but it isn’t too overwhelming. Unlike roses, while looking beautiful with an intense shade of maroon, this flower is rather shy. It may look like it would smell like a thousand gardens all at once, but it’s treacherous. 

“I didn’t realize Mr. Thompson hired a new gardener,” the Irish accent makes your head whip to the doorway. 

“Excuse me?” you blurt.

Gelled-back dark hair and hazel eyes that rival the plants in the conservatory. The man is clutching his hat to his chest. A gray jacket covers his stoic frame, but it’s the way he carries himself that catches your attention the most. He exceeds the kind of confidence that he hides behind a shy smile.

“My apologies, ma’am,” he says, “I was only joking.”

You scoff. “I’ll have you know, I was merely admiring the flowers, not tending to them.”

Who does he think he is, you ask yourself, that he believes he has the right to look the way he does—act the way he does—and talk to you like that? It’s outrageous.

His plump lips part and the only words he seems capable of uttering are sickeningly cheeky. Whoever he is, you want nothing more than to turn around and leave. Because this man is too young to be Nucky Thompson, but he has more than enough audacity to pass as someone in his position. Or someone working for him. 

When Margaret said she would have someone fetch you, this is not what you expected. Young, tall, and handsome as hell. Your stomach curls into a tight coil. No, you don’t like him. You can’t like him. You swore yourself you would never stoop this low, but one look into his eyes, and the blood pools in your cheeks like scarlet mountains.

The stranger chuckles as he approaches you. “Of course. A lady of refined taste, I take it?” The glint in his eyes doesn’t go unnoticed.

With every ounce of blood your heart pumps through your body, heat fills you from the inside out, threatening to melt you into a puddle—an annoyed puddle. 

“And just what would you know about my taste?” you challenge him. 

He shrugs. “Only that a woman as lovely as yourself must appreciate the finer things in life.”

You want to burst like the ticking time bomb people have told you that you are. 

You clear your throat. There is a slight edge of flustered uneasiness to your voice. You try to swallow it, but the smirk on his lips tells you that he must have heard it loud and clear. “Flattery will get you nowhere, Mister…” 

“Sleater, ma’am,” he interjects. “Owen Sleater. I work for Mr. Thompson.”

He’s smooth, and God, he knows he is smooth. It’s written all over his face, those defined cheekbones, and his sharp jawline. It’s like he has been painted by a Greek God. Or he is the Greek God. Either way, this Irish—your first instinct was to call him a fucker when you first laid eyes on him—is getting on your last nerve. 

He’s clean-shaven, but the shadow of a once-there beard is visible. He’s a beautiful man, stunning even, and that annoys you even more. With his fake innocence and his desperate attempts to come across as a pure gentleman while he is teasing a total stranger into oblivion for a probably very sadistic purpose. You should not allow your mind to even go in that direction. Not when he makes you so nauseous. 

“Well, Mister Sleater,” you find your voice again, “I have to disappoint you,” you say. “I’m not easily swayed by a smooth talker.”

Owen—his name suits him, you have to admit—raises his eyebrows. His forehead wrinkles a little as he does so. “What are you swayed by then?” he inquires. 

“Not you, that’s for sure.”

You can see your reflection in his eyes; his color blends with yours, drawing you in. Owen chuckles, probably to save some time to gather himself. 

He stutters. “You have quite the sharp tongue, Miss…” he trails off, waiting for you to fill in the gap.

Once again, you stare into the face of a very big problem. You shouldn’t be here. You consider the possibility that Anthony may have been right, just for a moment; maybe you should not have come on your own, and maybe you should have taken him with you because everything suddenly feels like it’s falling apart.

You push the thoughts away. “You may call me Austin,” you say. 

“Miss Austin, ma’am.” A flicker of recognition crosses his face. “Are you, by any chance, related to one Mister Austin?” Owen asks. 

You bite the inside of your cheek. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

“I do, ma’am.”

“That doesn’t mean you are entitled to an answer.”

“Trust me,” he chuckles, “I’m well aware of that.”

He exposes you with his gaze. You’re standing in the eye of the storm with nothing to protect you. Even in your best dress, you are naked and vulnerable. You cave when you meet his eyes. You try to be strong, but it’s useless. 

Self-awareness is a virtue not many possess; Owen is aware, but he chooses not to care. There is a difference that exceeds worlds in distance.

The only way for you out of this is to change the subject. “Would you happen to know your way around botany?” you ask. The subject isn’t entirely different; it was Owen who started the conversation with a similar context.

“I know a thing or two, yes,” he answers.

“Can you tell me what kind of flower this is?” You trace your fingertips over the red petals of the flower before you. “The color’s lovely.”

“I believe these are Alstroemerias, ma’am.”

His way of saying it melts like butter on your tongue. “Alstroemerias,” you repeat. “Quite a beautiful shade of red, isn’t it?”

You don’t care about his opinion, at least you don’t think you do, but the conversation is flowing and you can’t possibly stop it. 

“Very much so,” Owen says. His lips break into another smile. “And they suit the color of your eyes.”

The addition makes your head spin. You swallow, and you brush off his words with a scoff. “Are you always this cheeky, Mr. Sleater?”

“Only sometimes, but it’s been known to get me into trouble.”

“I’ll have you know that confusing me with the gardener does not help your case.”

There it is again, that glint. The mischief. “Not appreciative of my jokes, I see,” he muses.

Your jaw clenches. “I can appreciate a joke when it’s good. Have you seen me laugh since we met?” The words come out a little harsher than planned, but he takes them with the same lightness he seems to take everything with. 

Owen chuckles. The sound rumbles in his chest. “I, uh… No, I haven’t.”

Your body reacts to the sound of his voice in a way that makes you angry at yourself. “Checkmate,” you say. You beat him, and that’s all that is supposed to matter.

Owen though? He just won’t stop.

“Consider me beat,” he retorts. 

“And yet you’re still talking.”

The distance between you shrinks with each passing moment. Owen takes a step closer. You can feel his breath on your skin. He smells of Whiskey and gum. 

“Perhaps I just can’t resist a challenge,” he says.

“Is that so?” you ask. 

He brushes lightly against the back of your hand, reaching for the flower. The touch sends a jolt of electricity through you, and you pull away instantly at the shiver that rolls through you. It’s a tidal wave. 

He chuckles as if he knows that he is overstepping, but once again, he doesn’t care. Owen wraps his hand around the stem. The other slides into the pocket of his slacks to retrieve what seems to be a pocket knife. He drags it just a few inches below the flower’s petals, and it falls into his palm. He’s so gentle one wouldn’t think his fingers are calloused and his knuckles are cracked until they have felt them on their skin.

You tilt your chin up defiantly. “Now look at what you did—” You point at the broken stem, “You violated the poor flower. Don’t you have any regard for Mother Nature, Mr. Sleater?”

Owen leans in, his chuckle only another breath on his lips as he slides the flower behind your ear. The smell is a lot more dominant now that it is touching you.

“It’ll heal,” he states. He says it as though he knows exactly what he’s talking about, and he is probably not wrong. You wish he were, but he isn’t. 

Flowers and plants heal. They grow back. They bleed—sometimes they even make human beings bleed—but they often grow back. Nature is a lot more resilient than humans could ever be.

You should pull away and put an end to this dangerous game before it goes any further, but at that moment, with this stranger placing a flower he has claimed goes beautifully with the color of your eyes behind your ear, all rational thought flees from your mind because you can’t quite comprehend what is happening. What has this day turned into? He’s rendered you speechless, shaking in your cowboy boots, and the blood in your veins freezes even as it is boiling.

You’re too close to losing your composure.

The floorboards creak. You turn to the doorway for what seems like the millionth time. Katy looks between you and Owen, and something static crackles in the air. Her kindness from before has disappeared behind an iron wall. 

“I’m sorry,” she says curtly.

You look between her and Owen. 

Oh. 

Oh. 

“Miss, Mr. Thompson wanted me to tell you that he is ready to receive visitors now.”

Finally. This is what you came here for. You touch the flower behind your ear, and when you look at Owen who looks almost guilty, his affection that has melted like butter before is starting to grow over with toxic mold. 

“Thank you,” you tell Katy. Reaching for the flower, you remove it. 

“He said he is supposed to have an appointment with a Mr. Austin right now,” Katy adds. “I’m not sure if that is important.”

She is avoiding Owen’s eyes like the plague. You can’t blame her. Now that you have made the connection that this Irish fucker flirted with you even though he had a thing or two with his employer’s maid… You grab his hand and place the Alstroemeria in his hand rather roughly, closing his fingers around it.

“Mr. Austin,” he murmurs. 

You should panic, but there is nothing but emptiness in your dead expression.

“He couldn’t make it,” you state. 

“Could he now?” Owen is slowly but steadily connecting the dots. 

“Yes, I’m afraid so. Unfortunate, isn’t it?”

He scoffs. You turn away from him, the flower now squished in his hand. Katy looks like someone just kicked her, and you wish you could put that smile back on her face. Of course, Owen Sleater has to be a player. You should have figured as much. He can’t possibly keep his hands to himself.

On your way out, he calls out to you, “Mr. Thompson doesn’t like it when people waste his time.”

You stop on your way to the stairs, following behind Katy who is showing you the way even though she has no obligation to. A smirk grows on your lips. You have the upper hand now, and he has no idea. 

“I’m not wasting his time,” you say. 

“Are you certain?”

“Yes.” You look over your shoulder. “Because I’m his appointment, and Mr. Austin doesn’t like to be kept waiting, especially not by inappropriate flattery,” you tell him. “Have a wonderful day, Mr. Sleater.”

His fallen face is the last thing you see before you turn around and make your way upstairs to the office, hoping that it will all have been worth it once this day is over, and you can finally forget it ever happened. 

tagging: @ebathory997 @kal-0n (if you want to be added, let me know)

[yarrystyleeza]

𝐘𝐮𝐧𝐚'𝐬 𝟐𝟐𝐧𝐝 𝐁𝐢𝐫𝐭𝐡𝐝𝐚𝐲 𝐒𝐥𝐞𝐞𝐩𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫!

Well, as the title suggests, I am turning 22 on January 30th (yes I can't believe it either), and it's a very very special number to me, I was obsessed with it since I was a kid—because of Taylor Swift's 22 of course (you have no idea how happy my inner child is now!).

However, I thought I should celebrate this very important event with you by hosting my second sleepover! (honestly I was planning to make this a double sleepover if I hit 300 followers before my birthday, but since I didn't, I really had to host a sleepover)

As usual, my sleepover will host games, questions, asks, and definitely, requests!!! <3

The sleepover will be a week long, from January 30th till February 6th, where you can submit asks and requests!

Note on prohibited things that I won't be doing or answering:

No nsfw/dirty asks, writing requests or questions, it's uncomfortable for me sometimes, and this is an all-ages-friendly celebration. No further elaboration, please respect this. <3

𝐆𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐬:

Here's a list of the games we can play:

Kiss/Marry/Kill: you give me three characters and I will sort each one in one of these categories! (make it hard for me)

Would you rather: you give me two things/characters and I get to choose one that suits me better! (for example: night owl or early bird?)

Make an assumption: you literally make an assumption about me and I either prove it or deny it!

Never have I ever: you ask me about things I did or didn't do!

Exchanged Ships: basically, you give me a character that you find as my significant other, and I will give you a character in exchange and why I think it's the perfect character for you!

Random Q&A: you can ask me about anything, whether it's my favorite food or even what fabrics do I prefer to wear, ask whatever you want!

Girly Talks: just talk to me about any girly topic you want and we'll establish a good conversation! Let's talk about books or authors, favorite poetry pieces, maybe movies we loved in our childhood, or even your favorite outfits back when you were a 10 year old! Literally anything!

Rate My Music Taste: give me a song/artist and I will rate it from 1 (absolute flop) to 10 (total banger)! — (this is absolutely done just for fun).

I Wanna Write You A Song: start with a phrase and we will make a totally original song together in the reblogs!

Doodles: give me something simple to draw!

𝐑𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐬:

As for writing requests, I will be taking fluff/angst/violence (blood and gore—due to the nature of the characters I write for) x female!reader requests only. But of course you can request the prompt you desire. <3

As for the characters, here's a list of the fictional men that I would be writing for:

Matt Murdock/Daredevil

Foggy Nelson

Tristan Thorn

Michael Kinsella

Henry (from Eat Locals)

Daryl Dixon

(might consider writing for other Charlie Cox/Norman Reedus characters. example: Ian Hamilton, Owen Sleater, Scud, Murphy MacManus, etc.)

You can ask for prompt included in this list or ones you come up with yourself:

intimate moments / gestures that make me feel love / romantic rainy day prompts / gentle things that make me fall harder in love / fluffy comforting/sick dialogue prompts / lighthearted first kiss prompts / sparring prompts / forced proximity prompts / date prompts masterpost /

Note that I will be tagging the fic requests with #yuna's 22 birthday sleepover so they're easy to find, but they will be sorted in my main masterlist as regular requests! <3

tagging my moots to spread the word sorry for being a little too annoying hehe (and I tried to tag as much as possible but my memory is messing around with me I'm sorry if I forgot anyone): @v4leoftears @remonemo @fizanotfeeza @bunmurdock @bellaxgiornata @kal-0n @1988-fiend @mattmurdocks6thscaleapartment @floral-charlie-cat @farfromstrange @babygirlmurdock @mattmurdocksscars @itwasthereaminuteago @c-mrdck @xxeycisxx @loveroftoomanyfandoms @mindidjarin @little-miss-dilf-lover @shiorimakibawrites @tongueofcat @marytheweefrenchie @chvoswxtch @devilsmurdock @galaxies-and-moons-and-cox @acharliecoxedfan @folkloreandfall @murdocklorian @munsonownsmyass @abbyhaslongshorts @murc0ck @lazyxsquirrel @theradioactivespidergwen @xxdrixx @saintmurd0ck @softasawhisper @she-likesorchids @peterman-spideyparker @mattmurdocksstarlight @amberlynnmurdock @courtforshort15 @saltedlays @importantnightwerewolf @lene-loki

That's basically everything I have for my birthday sleepover, feel free to submit requests and games! Thank you for coming to my sleepover tonight! <3

[commander-vas-normandy]

What are you waiting for? || Owen Sleater x Reader

18+ for Sexual Content. Minors Do NOT Interact

Pairing: Owen Sleater x female reader (no y/n)

Wordcount: 3k

Warnings: Language, drinking, unprotected sex, gendered pet names (good girl, ma'am, etc), minor degradation (use of 'slut')

A/N: This is just pure smut at the request of @kayxvii. This request kiiinda got away from me. My first time writing smut and writing for Owen so take it easy on me and enjoy~

Tagging: @catholicdaredevil @someplace-darker @murrdxcks @carters-things

Music filtered through the hall, just barely overpowering the cacophony of drunken voices of people having a good time. The air was thick with sweat, smoke, and the overwhelming scent of too many expensive perfumes. It might have been too much were it not for the amount of whiskey in your own system dulling your senses enough to make the bustling party enjoyable. What really had you buzzing, however, were the fleeting but electric touches of one Mr. Owen Sleater.

It had started as looks across the table from one another as you ignored the conversation around you. Under the table, the toe of your shoe just lightly grazed his calf and you could see the barely contained smirk that tugged at his lips. Those soft, plump lips you found yourself staring at on more than one occasion as the night progressed.

When you got up to find yourself another drink it didn’t take long for Owen to follow you up to the bar. He settled in beside you, a hand on your lower back to alert you to his presence. Even as he looked at you with a charming grin, his hand stayed put.

“You certainly know how to hold your whiskey,” he let out a breathy chuckle. He motioned to the bartender for two more drinks while his other hand shifted to skim your hip. The touch was light enough to send a shiver up your spine.

“I live in Atlantic City. It means I have practice.” You lifted your chin slightly, trying to avoid letting him in on how much he was affecting you already. Though by the way he leaned into you, nearly caging you against the bar, it was safe to assume he was already well aware.

“That the only thing you have practice with?” He asked, voice low enough that only you heard it amongst the buzz around you. You side-eyed him as you lifted your refreshed drink to your lips, taking in the boyish grin that hid something a little more devilish.

“That’s mighty bold of you, Mr. Sleater.”

Owen leaned in closer, no longer disguising the game between the two of you from prying eyes. His breath fanned down your neck, the scent of whiskey and his cologne drowning out everything else. You lazily took another sip from your glass before sitting it down and turning toward him, your chest pressed to his. You looked up at him expectantly, watching the way his tongue darted out to wet his lips.

“So is toying with me under the table in front of all these people. At least I’m much more subtle.” A slight shift of his hips and you could feel the press of his erection against your side. You swallowed down a smirk of your own, tilting your face down to look up at him through your lashes.

“I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about.” You trailed a finger down his chest further and further down until you snagged a finger in the belt loop of his pants. Owen reached a hand up, using a single finger under your chin to guide your gaze back to him. You leaned in just enough that he could taste the liquor on your breath before pulling away completely to turn back to your drink.

Owen choked down a groan of frustration, rubbing a hand across his lower face as he looked back out to the crowded room surrounding the two of you. Not a soul had been watching the little dance the two of you were engaged in, but he knew he had to get you alone if he really wanted anything from you. Nucky was otherwise preoccupied at home for the evening, so Owen had a rare free night to take his time with you. Though that was the last thing he wanted. Right now he would have even dared taking you against the bar if he could, but that wasn’t quite his style. Especially not with you. Owen wanted you all to himself.

“Is that so?” He turned back to the bar to finally reach for his untouched drink, throwing it back in one swift motion while his other hand found the small of your back again. He barely flinched at the burn, more than used to it by now.

“I’m simply out here trying to enjoy a few drinks with friends.” You smiled coyly, shaking your drink at him just enough for the ice to clink against the glass.

“You’re bein’ a right tease is what you’re doin’.” He ducked himself back into your line of sight, raising a challenging brow at you. You giggled, watching him tap almost impatiently against the wood of the bar.

“Oh yeah? And what exactly are you going to do about that, Mr. Sleater?” You taunted, knowing full well what you might invoke from him.

The way Owen stood straighter, shoulders back in an imposing stance made your heart race. He towered over you, once again fitting himself into your personal bubble though you certainly didn’t mind. The hand that had previously rested on your lower back now held you with intent as he guided you closer to him as if that were even possible with the breath of space between you. His body heat and the electricity of his commanding touch had you sweating, your breaths coming out a little more shallow. When he leaned in to whisper in your ear, lips grazing your earlobe, you thought you might melt at the hard edge of his usually soft lilt.

“I’m gonna fuck you until you beg me to stop.” His words sent a visible shudder through your body, a small gasp escaped your lips. The bluntness of his words thrilled you. The thought of his hand, currently so warm and firm on your lower back, traveling over your chest and between your thighs made you bite back a moan. There was no hiding his smirk as he watched you shift in an attempt to hide the uncomfortable wetness settling in your core.

“Then what are you waiting for?” You leaned in enough to purr against his lips. One of your hands subtly reached to palm him through his slacks and he let out a growl before grabbing your wrist with a stern grip. He gave you a look before his grip became more gentle and he lifted your hand to his lips to kiss your knuckles.

“Just you,” he said with a lopsided grin, lips brushing your skin.

Owen wasted no time at all getting you back to his flat. It was everything in you both just to get the door open and no sooner than it shut behind you, he had you pinned against it. His lips were as soft as you imagined, even through the rough eagerness of the kiss itself. His tongue darted in your mouth and he groaned at the taste of you. The taste of liquor that still clung to your tongue was far sweeter than it ever had been from the bottle and he was sure he would never get enough. He cupped your jaw as he deepened the kiss as best he could, trying to get as much of you as he could.

You moaned into his mouth, making quick work of his vest. He handled his collar and tie himself as you hurried to unbutton his shirt. The moment his bare chest was exposed to you, your nails raked lightly across his skin before coming back up to rest on his shoulders while he rucked up your skirt. He trailed his fingers along the inside of your thigh and stopped, chuckling as he pulled away just enough to get a good look at your face.

“Not a single thing under your skirts tonight, hm?” He moved his hand a little higher, teasing a finger through your wet folds and pulling a needy whimper from your lips. “Almost like you were plannin’ for the night to go this way, love.”

“Almost like it,” you taunted back, desperately grinding against his hand for any friction you could get from him. Owen grinned and dipped back in to kiss you with the same hunger. His hand between your thighs gathered up your wetness before circling your clit in lazy circles, drawing out a whiny moan from you. Your head tipped back and he trailed sloppy kisses across your jaw and down your neck. He sucked and nipped at the skin in a way that you knew meant you would be covering your neck with more makeup than your face for the next week or so.

Owen finally slipped two fingers in your soaked cunt and you moaned his name as he crooked his fingers just so. He dragged his fingers over a spot that had you seeing stars. He built you up just enough you have whining loud enough for the neighbors to hear before pulling away; this time making you whine from the lack of sensation. When you looked at him in desperate confusion he just dove back in to kiss you while his hands reached for the backs of your thighs to lift you up. Your legs wrapped around him, hips bucking against his as the rough material of his slacks teased your exposed clit.

You barely paid attention as he carried you toward his room, stopping a couple of times just to pin you back against the wall and grind his hips against yours for some relief of his own. Deft fingers undid the buttons at the side of your dress and let the material fall loose behind you. His kisses traveled lower as he nipped at the skin of your chest before taking a nipple in his mouth, swirling his tongue around it just enough to tease. You arched into his with a quiet gasp, fingers finding his hair once more.

Eventually the two of you made it to his room and he tossed you on the bed. Before he could do anything else you reached out to undo his belt and pants before pulling them down with his briefs. His cock sprung free of their restraints and Owen groaned at the relief. You bit your lip, taking in the sight of him before looking up to meet his gaze. He reached out to cup your cheek before you pulled him to sit on the bed. You slid to your knees before him, looking up at him through your lashes. You leaned in to place light kisses across his thighs, teasing him just the slightest before licking a stripe up the length of him. His fingers knotted in your hair, not yet guiding you. You took him in your hand, your thumb tracing over the tip to spread the precum forming there. His eyes fluttered shut, quiet groans escaping him. That wasn’t enough for you though. You wanted to hear him.

You gave the tip a couple of kitten licks before taking it in your mouth and swirling your tongue around the tip. You watched his face scrunch up and jaw drop in a silent groan and you might have pouted at his lack of reaction were his cock not preventing you from doing so. You tapped his thigh, hoping to gain his attention. When his eyes opened to glance at you curiously, you took a deep breath through your nose and took him in as deep as you possibly could. He let out a loud moan and jolted, accidentally bucking into your throat as the sensation of your full mouth caught him off guard.

“Fuckin’- Christ that mouth of yours is gonna be the death of me,” Owen groaned and you gave a content hum around him that sent a shiver up his spine. “If that pretty little cunt of yours feels anything like your throat I am in for a very long night.”

The feel of him on your tongue as you started bobbing your head and his crude language had your walls fluttering around nothing. You moaned around him as he gave your hair a light tug, helping to guide your pace. He let you do most of the work, however, mostly just spurring you on with his grunts and groans. The sounds went straight to your core and you couldn’t help but to dip your hand between your thighs, rubbing desperate circles around your aching clit.

“Look at you, such a slut you can’t even- ah, suck my cock without touchin’ yourself. D’you always get this needy or am I just special?” He groaned, eyes screwing shut again as you hollowed out your cheeks around him and moaned in response. His hips jerked up again, this time much more intentional. You tried not to choke at the sudden sensation of him hitting the back of your throat. Both of his hands were knotted in your hair now and you relaxed your jaw, letting him get his use out of you. Your own hips bucked slightly as you continued to toy with your clit.

His pace started to falter and you knew he was close. You weren’t about to let him be done yet, so you pressed a hand to his abdomen to gently push him away. He let his hands fall away from your hair and watched you, panting as you pulled away with a loud pop. Saliva trailed from your abused lips to his tip and his cock twitched at the sight.

“Everything all right?” He asked, cupping your cheek as you straightened up on your knees. You raked your nails lightly across his thighs, up his chest, then settled with your arms around his neck.

“Can’t be letting you have all the fun now, Mr. Sleater,” you giggled and he huffed out a laugh before dipping in to kiss you again.

“And what would you like from me then, love?” He gave a lopsided grin against your lips.

“I want you to fuck me like you threatened.” You nipped his bottom lip before standing, gently guiding him to lay back. He adjusted himself toward the head of the bed before you straddled him.

“And who am I to deny you that then, ma’am?” His hands rubbed up and down your arms before settling on your hips. You reached between the two of you, lining him up with your entrance before sinking down on him. He groaned low in his throat compared to your high gasp as you tried to adjust to the feel of him. It took a moment, but you finally rolled your hips against his. He was almost overwhelmed by the feel of you. While your hands were planted firmly on his chest, his hands were roaming and grasping at everything he could. Your hips, the soft skin of your thighs, your throat, your hair. He just needed to feel you.

His hands finally settled on your hips as he adjusted his position to fuck up into you. You cried out at the first thrust. He hit so deep it had you seeing stars immediately. You could feel that knot tightening deep in your gut and your moans turned into something more like pathetic whines.

“Fuck- Feel so good. Takin’ me so well, love. Your cunt was made for me,” he rambled, gripping you bruisingly tight. As he could feel himself inching ever closer to release he sat up, holding you tight against him as you continued to bounce in his lap albeit far more sloppy.

His lips latched onto your neck once more, nipping at a mark still sensitive from earlier. The combination of his lips on your neck and his hands gripping you for dear life had his name pouring from your lips like a mantra. Your arms were around his neck, one hand locked into the hair at the nape of his neck. That knot continued to grow tighter and you knew you wouldn’t last much longer.

“O-Owen, please! I can’t-'' you panted, voice strained as you continued to climb towards pure bliss. Owen’s lips found yours again, kissing you with a hunger you’d never felt from anyone else before.

“Yes you can, love. Go ahead, cum for me. You’ve been so good. Such a good girl for me,” his own voice was strained as well, but his praise was the last thing you needed to send you over the edge. You held onto him as if he would disappear at any second, crying out for him as blinding pleasure took over your whole being. The way your walls squeezed him sent Owen cresting over his own peak soon after. He stilled your movements with a firm arm around your waist and spilled into you with a groan of your name.

Owen collapsed back on the bed, gently pulling you down with him. You adjusted yourself to allow his softening cock to slip out of you and rested your head on his chest. He was struggling to catch his breath just as much as you were, heart racing under you. His fingers carded through your hair gently as you both tried to compose yourselves.

Eventually you propped yourself up to look at him, leaning in to kiss him much more tame this time. You pulled away and giggled, earning a raised brow from Owen.

“Something the matter, ma’am?” He questioned and you shrugged with a coy smirk.

“Oh nothing. I just don’t quite remember begging you to stop is all.” You batted your lashes at him, tracing shapes across his chest absentmindedly. You adored the cocky grin he gave you in return.

“And who said I was done with you?” He challenged. Before you could quip back he had you flipped and pinned to the mattress, a surprised yelp escaping you that quickly turned into a giggle fit as he attacked your neck with kisses again. You had a feeling he was going to make good on that promise after all.

[psychedelic-ink]

— Painkillers.

pairing: owen sleater x fem!reader

genre: smut, pwp

word count: 400

a/n: I'm on my period, tired from working and horny-- Hence this drabble was born, enjoy! I honestly have no clue how this turned out it’s very late fjfjfjkd

warnings: dirty talking, reader gets slapped in the face once (consensual), the use of good girl, sub!reader, dom!owen, minors dni, rough sex, bd.sm dynamics

"You enjoy this don't ya?"

You can barely hear him from the sound of how loudly he's fucking you. His cock gliding in and out of you with ease, your slick dripping down from his balls and onto the white sheets. Owen has you laying on your stomach, your ass raised and his hand pressing down against the small of your back. It hurts, it hurts but it feels so good. It feels so good to be owned by him. Feels good to be owned by him. Owen leans into your hear, his breath fanning over your damp skin. A shudder runs up your spine.

"Answer me or I swear I'll stop and leave you to clean your own mess,"

His words comes in harsh pants. Every syllable spat into your ear. You manage to part your lips but only ragged breaths come out of your throat. You hear him sigh and suddenly you're flipped over, Owen's face now an inch away from your own.

You can't help but stare at him-- Stare at his lips, his eyes, his face. After all this time you're still stunned by his beauty.

But your train of thought is cut short by his hand slicing through the air, a loud slap echoes against the walls and only then you realize he hit you. Your cheek throbbing with pain as your eyes begin to fill with tears. You see remorse in his eyes but it doesn't last long, his authorial tone replacing it in an instant.

"Answer. Me."

"Yes," you blurt out. "I enjoy it-- I enjoy every part of it-- Please don't stop,"

A smile spreads across his face and he leans down, nuzzling the spot he slapped not moments ago. You hiss at the way it stings.

"Good girl," he purrs, lips tracing the frame of your face. "Good fucking girl,"

You visibly tremble at his words, his hips drilling in to you like they never had before. Your cunt throbs, aches at the way his cock fills you up again and again. The tip reaches your deepest parts, his pubic bone bruising your sensitive clit as he fucks his anger, love, desperation and tiredness into you. His name falls from your lips, you have no awareness of what you're doing, you can only think of him. Owen Sleater. The man who owns you mind, body and soul.

You hope it stays like this forever.

[farfromstrange]

Here’s a little preview of the dialogue I wrote for the next chapter of Austin. It isn’t finished yet, and I might still make some adjustments, but the idea I had for this first meeting is making me squeal every time I sit back down to work on it, so I thought, why not let you guys in on a little glimpse as well?

[…]

You: “Would you happen to know your way around botany?”

Owen: “I know a thing or two, yes.”

You: “Can you tell me what kind of flower this is? The color’s lovely.”

Owen: “I believe these are Alstroemerias, ma’am.”

You: “Alstroemerias. Quite a beautiful shade of red, isn’t it?”

Owen: “Very much so. And they suit the colour of your eyes.”

You: “Are you always this cheeky, Mr. Sleater?”

Owen: “Only sometimes, but it’s been known to get me into trouble.”

You: “I’ll have you know that confusing me with the gardener does not help your case.”

Owen: “Not appreciative of my jokes, I see.”

You: “I can appreciate a joke when it’s good. Have you seen me laugh since we met?”

Owen: “I, uh… No, I haven’t.”

You: “Checkmate.”

Owen: “Consider me beat.”

You: “And yet you’re still talking.”

[…]

[farfromstrange]

Owen Sleater || Masterlist

Find Me On AO3

⤹ NAVIGATION.

🫀 -> comfort for the aching hearts

🔥 -> Smut/explicit sexual content (18+ MINORS DNI)

🌻 -> Fluff

💧 -> Angst

⤹ ON-GOING SERIES

☽ Austin [owen sleater x f!reader]

✑ You’re a bootlegger everyone in the South knows as Mr. Austin, but after Nucky Thompson sends you a rather ominous letter, you find yourself trapped in Atlantic City with everything to lose, and when you meet Owen Sleater, it’s not just business that’s on the line anymore—it’s your heart as well.

[farfromstrange]

Austin [Owen Sleater x F!Reader]

PREVIEW

Pairing: Owen Sleater (Boardwalk Empire) x F!Reader

Warnings: (Sort of) slow burn, smut (18+), alcohol consumption, bootlegging, drugs, canon typical violence, murder, blood, misogyny (this is the 1920s, after all), foul language, illegal activities, organized crime, plot, Additional Tags Added Before Each Chapter

Summary:

As your father’s only daughter, his distillery business was always destined to be passed down to one of his male business associates after his death. For your own protection. But he did teach you a thing or two about liquor, making sure you could always fend for yourself. Then, after the prohibition act was passed, the government shut down the factory. You lost your job working for a prestigious family, and upon your return, you had to find out that the man in charge of your father’s legacy went underground with the company secrets.

That night, you ended up making a mistake that forced you to burn all bridges to your old life. That night, you packed your bags and moved from your small hometown in Texas to the City of Austin where, in only a few months, you built a business out of producing and distributing whiskey and rum in the way your father would have wanted you to. In a world ruled by men, the only way for you to survive was to make the world believe that you’d died, and you gave life to someone else—Mister Austin. A man, and now one of the most powerful players in the bootlegging game.

A year later, Nucky Thompson, an old friend of your father’s finds a way to contact you. He asks for a meeting, but you’re wary. Considering your family’s history with him and the message he sent you, you don’t have much of a choice but to go to him yourself instead of sending your right-hand man, but at what cost?

As it turns out, Atlantic City is nothing like you expected it to be, and when you meet Owen Sleater, the walls you’ve built around yourself start to crumble, and you find yourself at risk of losing not only everything you worked so hard for but your heart as well.

A/n: This man drove me mad the second he opened his mouth. I instantly folded, and then I randomly got this idea. I thought it would pass, but apparently not. I guess I have to get used to this. Charlie Cox puts his whole soul into every character he plays. How can you NOT fall for him?

-> First chapter coming in March!

“A sea of rum couldn’t intoxicate me as much as a drop of you.” — unknown

Playlist:

1. the last great american dynasty (Taylor Swift)

2. exile (Taylor Swift ft. Bon Iver)

3. I Don’t Want To Live Forever (Taylor Swift ft. Zayn)

4. illicit affairs (Taylor Swift)

5. King (Florence + The Machine)

6. Burned (Grace VanderWaal)

7. Dream Girl Evil (Florence + The Machine)

8. as good a reason (Paris Paloma)

9. Eat Your Young (Hozier)

10. Angel Of Small Death & The Codeine Scene (Hozier)

11. Girl With One Eye (Florence + The Machine)

12. Snow Angel (Renneé Rapp)

13. the fruits (Paris Paloma)

14. Graceland Too (Phoebe Bridgers)

15. The End Of Love (Florence + The Machine)

16. the lakes (Taylor Swift)

17. Me and the Devil (Soap&Skin)

18. Hot Gum (Sofia Isella)

If you want to be tagged for this series, let me know!

[farfromstrange]

Austin: Prologue [Owen Sleater x F!Reader]

Main Masterlist | Series Masterlist | Read Me on AO3

Chapter Summary: You receive an ominous letter from Enoch Thompson. It brings back memories of your past, memories you would much rather forget because they could get you into a lot of trouble, and you find yourself backed into a corner that you have to find a way out of.

Chapter Warnings: Murder, blood, canon typical violence, assault (not sexual), alcohol consumption, organized crime, flashback

Word Count: 6.4K

A/n: About damn time I started writing for Owen. I fell in love with him from the moment he first appeared on screen. This idea was a lot more complex than a simple One Shot in my head, even though I thought about writing one first, so now you're getting a series. Because I just can’t help myself. The Boardwalk Empire fandom seems fairly small, but I hope my fellow Charlie-obsessed people on here appreciate this story regardless.

Set from Season 2 episode 9 onward!

This series is rated E for explicit! 18+ only!

The evening sun relentlessly burns down on the cemented sidewalks from the magenta skies above. Not a cloud is to be seen. Cars roll over the paved asphalt roads leading through the city, past the many pedestrians peeking through the many storefronts, always looking for something new to buy. 

Every once in a while, a swarm of birds breaks free from the trees and wanders to the next. It’s a small glimpse of nature that lies behind the city center of Austin, Texas, but a small glimpse is better than none. 

Each dollar bill that slips through your fingers feels like paper gold. In a patriarchal society, all everyone ever sees are men sitting in their ivory towers and spitting at those who dare to threaten their position. They can’t imagine themselves to fall lower than the rest. 

You are far beyond any of that. You’re not insecure in your power. You don’t need to show it off to know that you have succeeded. Your anger may burn brighter than the force of a thousand suns, and you may be far more powerful than any man could ever fathom to be, but you would never see yourself above anyone else. 

One thing almost all men seem to have in common, you have come to realize, is that they underestimate the power of a woman scorned. And that is a very dangerous thing to do.

The windows in your office are open, allowing a gentle breeze to cool down the summer heat that has stuck itself to the walls. As you count the money in your hands, you can’t help but watch the sun slowly set over Austin.

You take another sip of Whiskey. The label on the back of the bottle reads Mr. Austin’s Finest. Only about a quarter left. 

You trace the condensation with a finger along the crystal of the glass. The brown liquid shimmers in the fading sunlight. You will have to supply your own office with another shipment soon enough, but for now, you have enough to enjoy the flavor just a little longer—the one flavor that will always remind you of being a little girl in a small town in the middle of nowhere, who made it to the city of Austin against all odds. It tastes like home, in a way. 

To you, Austin is more than a city. It’s more than your mother’s hometown, more than the capital of the State you were born in and have never left for more than one week at a time, and it’s more than the home of the most valuable business you could ever run. It’s who you are. It may have been a name of convenience, and not even a very creative one at that, but it saved your life. 

Your eyes scan the books spread out before you. Production. Distribution. Expenses. Profit. Names. Two notebooks, three tables, five columns. You count each dollar bill with precision, fold the stacks into neat packages, and wrap them up with porous rubber bands from the first drawer in your desk. The rest, you place into an envelope. 

The floorboards creak, and you divert your attention from your work to the doorway. “Beth,” you say.

She offers you an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry to disturb you, Miss, but I just received a letter from you that wasn’t with the earlier correspondence,” she says.

Elizabeth Brown. She was the only person in all of Austin who, when you first got there, showed you that she understood the real meaning of discretion. Now, you would trust her with your life, and you value her opinion more than that of your associates. There is something about a good heart worth so much more than ruthlessness, even in a business that requires your heart to be made out of ice so you won’t get hurt. 

But even Beth has her secrets. 

You exhale audibly, swallowing the last sip of your drink before setting the glass down on the deep brown Mahogany. 

“That’s unusual,” you state. “Where’s it from?”

Beth takes another step into your office, her heels transitioning from the wooden floorboards to the soft carpet. “Um,” she holds out the envelope in front of her, “It’s from Atlantic City. I haven’t opened it yet, so I don’t know if it’s important. I can still put it with the others if you’d like.”

You carefully observe her body language. She isn’t lying, merely confused. 

“No.” You pat your desk. “Leave it here.”

She crosses the threshold and places the envelope next to your hand. “Is there anything else you need, Miss?”

Looking up at her, you shake your head with a smile. “I want you to finish up and take an early evening. Go home, see your children,” you tell her. “You shouldn’t waste your time in this office when you could be with your family.”

Something about the way her face lights up with the gratitude that wraps her fragile heart in a warm hug makes you feel a little better about yourself. 

“Thank you so much,” she says. “You really are incredibly generous.”

“Ah, it’s nothing. You’ve been working so hard, you’ve earned yourself a reward.”

She sighs happily. With a gentle, “Have a good night. And thank you again,” she turns on her heel and makes her way out of your office to gather her things in the foyer. 

You are well aware that her job—working with you and getting caught up in whatever criminal chaos you engage in—puts her future at risk every day, and yet every day, she comes back to work. 

Not that she has much of a choice, anyway. You loathe yourself for being incapable of offering her one. Beth stays because she believes that she owes you, and that alone adds another hundred tons of weight to the bricks that are already weighing heavily on your heart. 

You reach for the envelope. The paper feels expensive underneath your fingertips. You turn it around to see who sent it, and the name strikes a chord before it has even been fully processed. Your body knows that something isn’t quite right. The sense of doom that fills you hangs over your head like the blade of a guillotine, ready to separate your head from your body. 

Enoch Thompson.

“Fuck,” you curse.

He is a man whose reputation precedes him. County treasurer. Bootlegger. The man who used to run the city. And definitely, a man who knows how to make a dime or two in ways that leave even the actions you had to take in the past year shaking in their boots. You may be a quiet contender, but you always have your eyes and ears everywhere. 

The letter itself feels just as fancy as the envelope. You put down the blade you used to open it. Never before had someone rubbed their wealth in your face quite like Enoch Thompson just did.  

With a heavy heart, you begin to read his delicate handwriting. It seems shaky, in a way, as though his dominant hand was injured when he wrote it.

Dear Mr. Austin,

I hope this letter finds you in good health. You may not know me because so far, we haven’t had the pleasure to make each other’s acquaintance. From what I’ve heard, your reputation precedes you, and I went to great lengths to find a way to contact you. 

Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Enoch Thompson, and I have reasons to believe that we were both once acquainted with the same man. 

Seeing your late father’s name on paper, your blood runs cold. The oxygen escapes your lungs and refuses to return. You skim over the letters over and over again until your head is spinning.

I was deeply saddened to hear about his passing. And I was even more saddened to hear that his only living relative—a daughter, for all I know—passed away suddenly a year later. That family left a great legacy behind.   

Your vision blurs. With every line, with every statement, and with every well-concealed jab, you feel like you are being led to the slaughterhouse. 

I remember him well, though it has been many years. He came to me in Atlantic City with a dream, and I couldn’t help but invest in him. Needless to say, I was pleasantly surprised when I saw his name on the back of a bottle of Austin’s finest rum. A fine spirit, I must say. 

I am glad to see that his legacy has found a way to live on in a great mind such as yourself. 

In your father’s journal, he always portrayed Nucky as a trustworthy ally. A friend. After moving to Austin, you studied every word he wrote, and the few times he mentioned Atlantic City, he never lost a bad word about Enoch Thompson, which, considering his reputation, always surprised you, but you had never felt the need to doubt your father’s judgment of his friends.

Now though, you are slowly coming to realize that you may have underestimated the secrets he took with him to the grave—that his judgment may not have been as infallible as you thought it was—and your veins flood with pure, unbridled fear. 

Fearlessness is a myth, but you usually have better control over your emotions than this. 

I understand that you are a man of influence in the southern regions, and your business ventures have not gone unnoticed. In light of recent events here in Atlantic City, I believe there may be an opportunity for us to help each other. You see, due to recent events, I have chosen to step down from my position as treasurer. The landscape of this city is changing rapidly, and I could use a man of your resources and capabilities to help me rebuild.

I know you prefer to keep a low profile, and I am aware of the risk involved in such endeavors, but I assure you, a meeting would be of great benefit to both of us. Besides, I would love to finally meet you in person, Mr. Austin. 

One hand washes the other. It’s a concept as old as time, but it is also incredibly fragile. In a case such as this, a chance of leaving even a speck of dirt behind remains, and then one person is bound to lose. You have seen it happen more times than you can count.

You ought to be careful, playing with fire; Enoch Thompson could bring on an inferno that you may not be able to counter with your own. 

I encourage you to think about my offer, and I hope I will see you soon in Atlantic City. 

Yours sincerely,

Enoch Thompson.

The force with which you rise from your chair causes it to slide a good few inches back against the wall.

“Beth?” you call out into the silence. Into the darkness. 

For a moment, it seems like she has already left, but not even half a minute later, she pokes her head into your office.

“Miss?” she answers. 

You let out a sigh of relief. “I know I said you can leave early, but I need you to call Leo and tell him to find out as much about Enoch Thompson as he can and bring it to me,” you say. “Tonight. I don’t care what he has to do to get the information, I need it in the next five hours.”

“Of course. Right away. Do you want me to ring Mr. Johnson as well? It sounds rather urgent.”

“No, I’ll take care of Anthony. Right now, I just need Leo. Can you do that for me?”

The desperation in your voice leaves no space for arguments. Beth nods, and she quickly turns away to tend to her new responsibilities with careful urgency. When the storm in your eyes becomes visible, she knows that no one in your vicinity is safe. 

Another silent curse passes your lips. You reach for the bottle of Mr. Austin’s Finest again. It was your father’s recipe; you merely adjusted it to fit the needs of the general public. This particular brand was his idea, his legacy, as much as the rum was. 

If someone hadn’t tried to steal all your family stood for, you wouldn’t be standing here, but right now, you are not so sure if it is something you should be happy about. You made mistakes, and if there is even the slightest chance that he know, you are beyond fucked.

The desk almost splinters underneath your fist when you land it on the tabletop. 

You touch your neck. Most physical bruises don’t last for longer than three months, but as you place your hand against your throat, you can feel the blood pulsing underneath your fingertips. You can still feel the indentation of his fingers that faded a long time ago. And you can still feel his hands around your throat, applying an inhuman amount of pressure to your fragile windpipe. 

Every breath you take burns like a thousand wildfires, rivaling the adrenaline that is threatening to burst your veins.

You can see him clearly when you close your eyes. It’s not liquor. You are not drunk. The letter on the desk before you triggered a chain reaction of memories, and you are not strong enough to tune them out. 

You remember that his blood stuck to your skin like corn syrup, running through your fingers and onto your dress, painting the wooden floorboards a deep maroon. You could have sworn you could even smell the faintest hint of copper in the air. But your senses weren’t that powerful.

He was just lying there—a man you’d known since you were a child in a pool of his blood with a golden pocket knife buried deep in his chest while you were cowering in the corner as if the knife had never been in your shaky hand in the first place.

Your father raised you to be an independent woman in a world where women have always been seen as property. You made peace with the fact that you would never be able to take over the family business because at least you knew that your father believed in your ability to fight your own battles. Still, he died, and a few months later, the Prohibition Act took what little you had left at that point away from you.

You had never planned to come back to your little Texas hometown. You’d had a good job working for a good family, saving up to leave the country behind for good; you had always wanted to go to Paris. 

The only thing your father had left you was your childhood home, and you cherished it with all you had. Until the father of the family you worked for lost his job, and they had to let you go. You were no longer able to pay the expenses of the house, so you had to let it go. It took only a few days for your entire life to crumble. You had been miserable, but the thought of killing a man had never crossed your mind until it happened. 

You had come back to your hometown to say goodbye. To clean out your childhood home and start anew somewhere with what little money the house would have brought you. But Henry Boyd had other plans that night.

One moment, you were on your way to the only speakeasy in town, wanting to check out what it was all about, and the next you found yourself at home with bruises around your neck and blood on your hands.

“I want to thank you all for being so patient with me,” he had said as he stood high on one of the tables in the golden establishment. “It is an honor to be here today, with you all, and announce that your favorite brand of whiskey and rum is officially back in business!”

As blurry as the night is in your mind, you still vividly remember watching him lift the bottle with the emblem that had become so eerily familiar to you because you grew up seeing it on every bottle on your father’s shelf. But the bottle in front of you had someone else’s name on it—someone who promised you that he would keep what he knew in confidence after the government shut down the business your father left him—and it dawned on you like a gray cloud threatening to break down on you in strikes of lightning. 

The crowd around you erupted in applause. And from that moment on, your entire world started to blur. The anger that consumed you was new, unbridled, and before you knew it, you were storming out of the building into the crisp night air.

How much can a person possibly bleed after having their throat slashed? You had never asked yourself that question up until that point. To be fair, six pints in a human body don’t sound like a lot until all six pints are right in front of you.

Six pints of blood on your living room floor, and in it, the corpse of Henry Boyd.

He came to your house. He threatened you. You had known this man for over two decades before that, and he still disappointed you because once it benefitted him the most, he turned his back on you and your late father’s legacy as if it had never meant anything to him other than means to make money. 

You had no choice. Your father gave you his favorite pocket knife with the golden handle when you were sixteen, telling you to always carry it with you in case you would ever need to protect yourself.

“You never know when you need to stab a man, kid,” he told you. “You should be able to defend yourself. I won’t always be around, and you shouldn’t have to rely on anyone other than yourself.”

You had to do it. You had to kill Henry. If you hadn’t, he would have killed you. 

When the realization settled over the fog, it was like someone slapped you across the face and injected you with cocaine.

You remember rising to your feet. Every step you took squelched with the blood stuck to your soles. It is a well-known fact that blood doesn’t easily wash out of clothes. You never thought it would be the same for skin.

You scrubbed your hands wildly, but the water kept turning redder and redder. It has settled underneath your fingernails and the depths of your cracked knuckles. 

A sob broke out of your throat when you caught a glimpse of Henry’s body in the living room, and it hit you again, stronger this time. Like a jolt of electricity. 

He had promised you to keep your father’s legacy safe after they shut down the factory. He had promised he would tell the truth, always because you were your father’s daughter, after all. He had promised, then turned his back on you and betrayed you anyway. 

You couldn’t let them arrest you. You couldn’t allow them to put you in prison. And you couldn’t disappoint your father like that, not after all that happened and the things you had to do. 

In a split second, you made a decision that would haunt you for the rest of your life, but it was the only right one at the time. You had to burn your bridges if you wanted to make it out of this. You already knew back then that you were going to hell one day; you could confess your sins another time. 

Reading books and educating yourself all of your childhood taught you a thing or two about how to deal with a seemingly impossible situation.

Your dress landed together with your undergarments next to the body. In the bath, you scrubbed yourself down until not a trace of Henry’s blood was left on you. By the time you were done, your skin was red and breaking out into hives, but at least you were clean. 

There was nothing left holding you there. Everything you once held dear had gone with the wind. Died. Passed on. 

You were never destined for this kind of life. Always the only child despised by everyone but her own father because she never acted appropriately enough. Because she had never been girl enough. Because she refused to conform to what was expected of her. Because her father had not cared about anything other than raising a smart young person who could fend for herself. 

You cleaned out the hidden compartment in your father’s bedroom that held all the journals he kept on the business. You were the only one he ever told about it. And you took the bottle of Whiskey you hid underneath the mattress together with all the money Henry had on him when he came to you.

You felt like you had somehow violated his corpse by stealing from him—you remember the feeling as clear as day—but you just followed mere instinct that night. You had to do whatever it took to survive. 

You tipped the bottle of liquor and poured it over Henry’s lifeless frame. It mixed with the blood, liquifying it again. You could barely feel it, even as it stained your fingers for the millionth time that night. You were going to scrub it off again, and then you were going to burn this last bridge for good.

You didn’t want to have another choice. That was the terrifying part. Part of you liked what you did. You truly believed, for the longest time, that the devil had possessed you that night. You could not stand idly by and watch your castle crumble down at the hands of a man who had never dared to think about anyone but his miserable self.

The lighter in your hand clicked. Your nose filled with the scent of gasoline. One advantage of living in the countryside was the visible distance between the houses. If there had been a fire in the neighborhood, it would have taken hours until someone reported it, and by then it would already have been too late. You used that to your advantage.

For Henry, it had been too late ever since you slit his throat, but he wasn’t the only bridge you had to burn.

“Forgive me, Father,” you remember whispering, but not to God or a priest; you were saying it to your father’s lost soul, in the hopes he would be listening.

The lighter slipped from your fingers with a little push, and the liquor on the floor reacted instantly with the spark of flames. As your childhood home burned to the ground, you turned your back on the past. You turned your back on your sins and all you had ever loved, and you built a wall around your heart that you swore no one would ever be able to get through again.

“I’d like to purchase a ticket, please,” you told the man behind the counter at the train station the same night. Well, it was early morning by then. 

“Where to?” he asked.

The postcard in your coat pocket had a very distinctive postmark on it. You still keep it locked in your desk. It was the first letter your mother ever sent to your father. 

“Austin,” you said, looking up from underneath the hat you were wearing. “I’m going to Austin, sir.”

“Really? You have business there?”

“You could say that.”

But, looking at the letter Enoch Thompson sent you, now, eighteen months later, the small flicker of hope that reignited when your train rolled into Austin that night burns out in front of your weary eyes.

“Boo!”

Your head snaps toward the doorway again. “Jesus, Leo!” You press a hand against your chest. “You just scared the living daylights out of me.” 

The fourteen-year-old boy smirks at your reaction. “Since when are you this jumpy?” he asks.

“I’m not jumpy,” you retort. “How about you learn how to fucking knock?”

He raises his arms in mock surrender. “I’m sorry, ma’am. I just thought that, since you asked me here, you would be expecting me.” 

“I gave you five hours. And don’t call me ma’am.”

You don’t usually smoke, but when your pulse is racing and you feel sick to your stomach like you do know, it is all you can do to get your mind back in order. You grab the pack from a drawer in your desk, instantly overwhelmed by the stench of tobacco, but you light it anyway. 

Leo approaches you. He’s a lot more confident than Beth is. She always acts as though she were stepping into a lion’s den, and maybe in a way, that’s true. Leo sees himself as part of the pack. A cub. He’s a teenager with too big of an openness to getting in trouble. You would call him a rebel, but even that would be an understatement. He’s much more than that, with a good head on his shoulders. 

“It only took me two. Not that it matters,” he says. “As it turns out, a lot of people have opinions about Nucky Thompson that they have just been waiting to share with someone willing to listen.”

You frown, looking down at the watch on your wrist. “It’s already been two hours? How?”

“I don’t know. I don’t study the way time works. I haven’t even finished school yet.”

“Did I ask for a smartass answer?” you snap, blowing a cloud of smoke into the air. 

“No?” Leo pouts. “At least I don’t think you did.”

“Then don’t give me one. Jesus! How long have we known each other now?”

“Long enough to know that you only get mad like that when you’ve had a rough day.”

You scoff. “Rough is an understatement.” Another breath of nicotine fills your lungs. The words you’ve said repeat in your mind, and your heart cracks a little. “I’m sorry,” you say. “I didn’t mean to snap at you, kid. You’re just here to do your job.”

The cigarette lands in the ashtray on the top right corner of your desk, your tongue still filled with the bitterness it tainted your body with. Walking over to your mini bar to replace the empty bottle of Whiskey with some rum in your glass, you clear your throat and decide to change the subject to what concerns you.

“So, Enoch Thompson. Nucky.” You open the fresh bottle of rum. “What did you find out about him?”

“Well, he’s one of the leading powers of the liquor trade down there, but you probably already knew that. Or well, he was. That’s the important part. Apparently, the people he used to work with have turned against him, and he had to step down as County Treasurer.”

“I’ve heard as much through the grapevine. What would interest me is why he did that.” 

You finish pouring your glass. 

“May I have one of those?” Leo asks and points at your drink.

“When you’re older,” you answer.

“So your employees don’t even get to taste the, uh, merchandise anymore?”

You roll your eyes. “They do when they’re older than fourteen. Now, answer my question.” You turn back toward your desk and take a sip. “Why did Nucky Thompson step down as treasurer? Surely there is a reason his…empire started turning against him.”

As you sit back down, Leo steps in front of you. He isn’t very tall, but what he lacks in height he makes up in attitude. 

He reaches out and takes the glass from you, completely ignoring your previous words. You’re so taken aback, you can’t even be mad. You’re not his mother, after all.

His features contort at the taste, but he still swallows it. “Ugh,” he grunts. “The, uh, District Attorney’s office filed charges against him. And not just for bootlegging.”

You take your glass back, straightening up with a sudden spike of curiosity. “Do tell,” you press on.

“Violation of the Eighteenth Amendment under the Volstead Act, voter fraud, solicitation, and—hold onto your seat!—murder. They think he killed his current…let’s say lady friend’s husband–” he looks down at his little notebook, “His name was Hans Schroeder or something. The lady’s name is Margaret. Two kids. Irish.”

“So, he went for the woman whose husband he killed or had killed. Wow.”

Leo’s eyes switch between you and his notes. “Well,” he says, turning back to the subject at hand, “US Attorney Esther Randolf is looking to prosecute Nucky Thompson, and it seems she has very compelling evidence that might put him in prison for the rest of his life.”

The realization settles over you like a dark cloud, and lightning strikes you as the only pillar in an empty field. “That bastard,” you mutter under your breath. 

“I know, right?” Leo scoffs. “Can’t even do his job right. Thank God he ain’t our problem.”

He’s about to sit down, but you raise your hand with a warning look. “Don’t push it.”

He stops in his tracks, nodding. “Right, sorry.”

“You’re my informant. Your job is to inform me. And everyone who’s connected to what we do in any way can become our problem, don’t ever forget that.”

“There is something else,” he says.

“Oh yeah? What’s that?” you ask, and it sounds a bit more sarcastic than you intended. 

He doesn’t take your attitude to heart. Leo knows you well enough by now to know that you are not an irrational person.

Connecting the unveiled truth to the letter you received, it all makes a lot more sense now, and you almost want to applaud the man for his audacity to pull all possible strings to get out of whatever hellhole he dug for himself. Almost. Right now though, you’re fuming, and you’re scared, and for the first time since coming here, you are not quite sure what to do or what choice to make. 

Enoch Thompson can rot in hell for all you care, but your father’s words won’t leave your head and the looming sense of doom that is threatening to rain down on you like a guillotine continues to consume you. 

Who knows; if you were in his shoes, maybe you would have done the same with the people you know who might be able to wash your hands in return for something else. The world of trading liquor for profit has become a dangerous game in America ever since Congress passed the Volstead Act. 

There is a reason that legally, you don’t exist anymore. Legally, you’re dead. You burned alive in your childhood home, the one you set on fire. No one believed that you could have been cruel enough to orchestrate such a thing, and you are glad it ended that way. The town mourned you. It was sad. But you found a way to salvage all of what Henry ruined. 

You may have killed a man in self-defense—you may have committed murder, stolen from his corpse, and burned your life to the ground to fake your death and start anew somewhere else like a criminal and as a criminal—but at least you didn’t stand idly by and let a man far worse than you ruin everything you had left. You know you’re not innocent, and you’re no angel either, but the ice that surrounds your heart makes it easier not to let it break you.

Mister Austin was born out of spite, but spite is as good a reason to claim the power of an undeserving man. 

The things that need to be done are not always something you can be proud of, but your options are zero to none. To make money, you have to bend the rules a little. And sometimes, you have to break them clean through. You learned that the hard way. 

You stop tapping the brim of your glass when Leo calls your name. Looking up, you meet his eyes. “I’m sorry, what?” you ask. 

He clears his throat. “I said that his brother is in protective custody,” he says. Again, Leo checks his notes. “Eli, that’s his name. And I heard that James Damody has taken Nucky’s place. He used to be his protégée or something. I don’t know.”

“Hm.” You empty what little rum that’s left from the portion you poured yourself.

The sticky liquid is eerily similar to the consistency of fresh blood. You rub it between your middle and index finger, and for just a second, your eyes make it look like it’s scarlet.  

In your peripheral vision, you can see Leo moving his hat back onto his head. “Well, that’s all I have. Not everyone hates Nucky Thompson, and not everyone loves gossip as much as old ladies peeking out of windows in Atlantic City.”

“Thank you,” you murmur, reaching for the envelope with the leftover dollar bills from earlier. “That helped a lot.”

“Hey,” he shrugs, “that’s my job.”

“You’re right, but I’m still giving you an additional fifty to buy something nice for your mother.” You count the bills that fit his rate, sliding them over to his side.

The boy takes them with a smug grin on his face. “So you’re giving my mother a raise but not me, the one who’s actually doing the dirty work for you?” 

Rolling your eyes, you add another twenty. “Don’t waste it on something useless,” you warn him. “Our last deal may have been a financial miracle, but I can’t go around giving bonuses to everyone every week.”

Leo counts the money you gave him, and he seems rather satisfied with the fruits of his labor. “I’ll take it,” he says.

As he makes his way to the door, your eyes flick between the envelope, Nucky Thompson’s letter, and the telephone. You’re going to get yourself into a lot of trouble, but you have reached a dead end. He forced you into a corner that you could only get out if you faced him. All the scenarios in your head end with a disaster. The only point of escape is the one Nucky forced you through. 

You should think this through, but every second you spend thinking is another second closer to losing it all. 

“Wait,” you stop Leo in his tracks. “How much would it take for you to look after the farm for…let’s say a week?” 

He raises his eyebrows. “A week?”

“Yeah. Feed the cattle, take the horses out, make sure the chickens don’t starve, that sort of thing.”

“Twenty bucks an hour,” he says.

“Fifteen,” you counter, “and you get to take all the eggs.”

“Nineteen.”

“I’m not negotiating with a child.”

“Eighteen and the eggs.”

“Fine. Seventeen. Last offer.”

Leo’s lips curl up. “I guess your animals won’t have to starve after all.”

“I’ll tell Beth to make sure you get your money on time,” you state. “And I’ll let you know if my plans change.”

You pick up the receiver of your telephone, pressing the button to connect you with the operator. 

“Where are you going, anyway?” he inquires. 

The line rings into your ear with every breath you take. You know it’s a decision you shouldn’t make. You shouldn’t run toward danger without knowing what you’re getting yourself into, but there is nothing you wouldn’t do to assure the safety of the life you’ve built for yourself. 

“Atlantic City,” you finally answer, and it dawns on Leo at the same time the weight becomes a reality on your shoulders. 

The operator asks to know who you are calling for, and you repeat the number that is more than familiar to you back to her. Again, the line rings as it starts to connect. 

“You’re going to Atlantic City to meet with Nucky Thompson, aren’t you?” Leo asks again.

He’s too curious of a child for his own good. Sometimes, you want to curse him for it. 

The lump in your throat feels significantly bigger than it did five minutes ago. You nod, but that’s all you can do.

“Do you know what you’re doing?”

With a bitter chuckle, you shake your head. “I wish I did, but no,” you say. “I have no fucking clue.”

Leo flips his hat back onto his head. “Well, at least try to stay safe out there,” he tells you.

“I will. Thank you.” But you know that it’s a lie.

The line finally stops ringing and clicks when the door has fallen shut behind him. 

You tear your eyes away from the empty spot before you and focus on the piece of paper on your desk. Enoch Thompson’s name sticks out to you like a million candles on a pitch-black midnight. 

“Andrew,” you greet him. Your fingers fiddle with the envelope. “It’s me. Listen, I have to tell you something, and I hereby ask you not to murder me.”

You’re going to Atlantic City to meet with Nucky Thompson, that much you have decided, and there is nothing in this world anyone could do that would stop you from doing what you believe is right.

Tag List: Let me know if you want to be tagged for this series! Starting after this chapter!

[farfromstrange]

Austin: Masterlist

Read Me on AO3!

Pairing: Owen Sleater x F!Reader

Warnings: (Sort of) slow burn, smut (18+), alcohol consumption, bootlegging, drugs, canon typical violence, murder, blood, misogyny (this is the 1920s, after all), foul language, illegal activities, organized crime, plot, Additional Tags Added Before Each Chapter

Summary:

As your father's only daughter, his distillery business was always destined to be passed down to one of his male business associates after his death. In the wake of the Prohibition Act, the government shut down the factory. You lost your job and your home, and upon your return, you had to find out that the man who used to be in charge of your father's legacy had gone underground with the company's secrets. That night, you made a mistake that forced you to pack your bags, burn all bridges to your old life, and move from your small hometown in Texas to Austin. In a world ruled by men, the only way for you to survive was to make the world believe that you'd died. In your stead, you gave life to someone else; Mister Austin—a man, and now one of the most powerful players in the bootlegging game. A year later, Nucky Thompson, an old friend of your father's finds a way to send you a rather ominous letter. Considering your history, you don't have much choice but to meet him yourself. The question is just, at what cost? As it turns out, Atlantic City is nothing like you expected it to be, and when you meet Owen Sleater, the walls you've built around you start to crumble, and you find yourself on the edge of losing not only everything you worked so hard for but your heart as well.

INSTALLMENTS:

ZERO: Prologue

ONE: Welcome To Atlantic City!

[psychedelic-ink]

the goldfish problem 🐟 - send me a drabble request (all genres are acceptable if you don't specify i'll default to writing fluff)

What about being kinda shy and overwhelmed at a party and Owen takes you outside to dance just the two of you

Owen is the best at calming people down, he's a charming devil

fashion drunk.

pairing: owen sleater x fem!reader

word count: 414

✨click here to join the 3k escapade ✨

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

In and out. 

That’s usually how it goes right? You breathe in and out then you’re feeling better just like that. But not this time, a glass of red wine in hand, you hide in the corner, your stomach wrenching terribly as it feels like the crowd is gaining on you. In retrospect, no one actually cares about you, or even notices you, but you can’t help but feel like the air is suddenly thicker– Harder to breathe. You begin to play with the pearl necklace around your neck, it feels tighter, suffocating. You take in another breath, your lungs filling with oxygen and cigarette smoke, why aren’t you feeling better? 

“Are ya feeling alright?” 

You flinch at first but the sense of relief immediately washes over you when you realize who the sultry voice belongs to; Owen Sleater. Nucky’s bodyguard of somesort. At least that’s what you heard, you never actually asked him what he did before. The corner of your lips curl up in a smile, but despite your bettered mood, you’re still anxious when you see the crowd behind him. 

“Yeah, I’m alright. Thank you for your concern,” you nod, but he follows your gaze. Owen raises an eyebrow when he notices nothing out of the ordinary, he only sees the crowd. 

“Not much of a people person I see,” 

“Let’s just say I’m not a crowd person, it’s just…too much,” 

Your chest heaves and he notices. Silence befalls the both of you but it only lasts for a minute. Owen quickly grabs your wrist, and parts the crows as the two of you pass the many guests of the manor. Even with Owen acting as a wall, you can’t help your stomach churning at the sight of so many people. You close your eyes and only open them when you feel the cool, night air against your skin. 

Owen is looking at you, smiling as he places a hand on your hip and pulls you close. A faint melody that’s coming from inside surrounds you both, you’re speechless. He takes your other hand and begins to sway you along with the music, you feel as if you’re on top of a delicate wave. Your eyes are slightly wide, eyebrows raised all the way to your hairline as you watch him. His beautiful smile, his kind eyes– You’re embarrassed when you notice that your heart skips a beat. 

“Feeling better?” he asks. 

“Much,” you can’t help but smile as well. “Thank you.”