#posting with the patron's permission

[parasiticsun]

It was hard to make this tier reward but I'm happy with how it turned out! Consider joining my Patreon!

[giantkillerjack]

Today my therapist introduced me to a concept surrounding disability that she called "hLep".

Which is when you - in this case, you are a disabled person - ask someone for help ("I can't drink almond milk so can you get me some whole milk?", or "Please call Donna and ask her to pick up the car for me."), and they say yes, and then they do something that is not what you asked for but is what they think you should have asked for ("I know you said you wanted whole, but I got you skim milk because it's better for you!", "I didn't want to ruin Donna's day by asking her that, so I spent your money on an expensive towing service!") And then if you get annoyed at them for ignoring what you actually asked for - and often it has already happened repeatedly - they get angry because they "were just helping you! You should be grateful!!"

And my therapist pointed out that this is not "help", it's "hLep".

Sure, it looks like help; it kind of sounds like help too; and if it was adjusted just a little bit, it could be help. But it's not help. It's hLep.

At its best, it is patronizing and makes a person feel unvalued and un-listened-to. Always, it reinforces the false idea that disabled people can't be trusted with our own care. And at its worst, it results in disabled people losing our freedom and control over our lives, and also being unable to actually access what we need to survive.

So please, when a disabled person asks you for help on something, don't be a hLeper, be a helper! In other words: they know better than you what they need, and the best way you can honor the trust they've put in you is to believe that!

Also, I want to be very clear that the "getting angry at a disabled person's attempts to point out harmful behavior" part of this makes the whole thing WAY worse. Like it'd be one thing if my roommate bought me some passive-aggressive skim milk, but then they heard what I had to say, and they apologized and did better in the future - our relationship could bounce back from that. But it is very much another thing to have a crying shouting match with someone who is furious at you for saying something they did was ableist. Like, Christ, Jessica, remind me to never ask for your support ever again! You make me feel like if I asked you to call 911, you'd order a pizza because you know I'll feel better once I eat something!!

Edit: crediting my therapist by name with her permission - this term was coined by Nahime Aguirre Mtanous!

Edit again: I made an optional follow-up to this post after seeing the responses. Might help somebody. CW for me frankly talking about how dangerous hLep really is.

[goosita]

professor xavier who treats you like a gentleman should. he holds doors for you, he walks with his hand politely at your lower back, but never quite touches you without permission. he tells you how lovely you look, gives you kind smiles in the halls and always makes sure to say “hello” in the mornings.

professor xavier who likes to drop off books at your door that he thinks you might enjoy, always leaving a little post it on them that says “from charles xx”. he loves to feed your imagination and your mind in general, endeared by the way your eyes light up when he watches you read a particularly interesting passage.

professor xavier who knows exactly how you like your tea or coffee, always kind enough to make a cup for you whenever he’s in the kitchen. he fills his own tea full of sugar, so much so that you’re certain you could stand a spoon up in it. you wonder if that’s what keeps him so sweet.

and then there’s charles.

charles who pins you to the door in his office, his hands holding yours on either side of your head. his palms are pressed to your own, fingers threaded through yours as he kisses you slow and deep. you can taste the sugar from his tea on his tongue, making your head swim.

charles who presses his firm thigh between your own, smirking against your mouth at the way you gasp into his kiss. he doesn’t need to tap into your mind to know that you want this; he can feel you grinding down on his leg, your hips rocking back and forth slightly.

charles who gets a little mouthy, a little patronizing as he watches you squirm. “pretty little thing,” he coos, lips pressing against your throat. “i think you’re getting close.” he knows, of course, that you are. you’ve been desperately grinding against his leg, your own thighs trembling now. when you fall over the edge and gasp out his name, he hums low in his chest. “so gorgeous, darling. look so gorgeous coming like this,” he murmurs.

professor charles xavier knows exactly how to treat you every time, it seems.

[ninii-winchester]

One of The Girls

Pairing : Dean Winchester X Reader

Word count : 1.5k

Warnings : sexual content, age gap, implied smut. MDNI

I DO NOT GIVE PERMISSION TO COPY MY WORK, TRANSLATE IT OR POST IT TO ANY OTHER PLATFORM. REBLOGS ARE APPRECIATED.

Hunting is fun, sometimes it gets overwhelming but Y/n liked hunting with the Winchesters. Mostly because she a has the hots for the older Winchester. He, however, never made a move, even though his eyes seem to follow her body everywhere she went, hinting he felt the same. She knew he feels he's too old for her. For her, being twenty seven and him being thirty six was not a big deal. He was only nine years older than her yet he made it seem like he was old enough to be her father.

It was a gruesome ghoul hunt but they weren't as tired. After getting cleaned up, the trio decided to hit the bar. Dean had his classic rock music blasting from the speakers of the Impala and she rolled her eyes at his old man antics. She plugged in her earphones to listen to her pop music. She had only been on her second song when the car came to a halt and the bar came into view. The three of them made their way into the bar and ordered three beers to ease into the night.

"Man I hate ghouls." Dean rasped gripping his bottle. Her gaze lingered on his fingers that wrapped around the bottle, oh what could those fingers do to me. Her eyes flickered to his lips as he took a swig from it. I wonder how they would feel wrapped around my nipples.

"Me too, They’re gross." Sam commented pulling her out her lewd thoughts.

Y/n chose not to add a comment letting her eyes wander around the bar. She noticed a small set up for karaoke where a guy was slurring the words of a song she didn't recognise. She watched the lot of women present around the place knowing one of them would be lucky enough to end up in Dean's bed tonight. A soft sigh left her lips at the thought.

"You okay there, sweetheart?" Dean asked and she felt as if his green eyes were piercing her soul.

"Peachy." She replied. She motioned the bartender over and ordered three shots of whiskey for herself. She downed them as soon as they were poured.

"Woah slow down." Sam said watching her gulp down the amber liquid.

"Loosen up Sammy." She felt buzzed, the alcohol in her allowed her to let loose. The taller man just shook his head and watched in amusement as she made her way towards the karaoke set up.

"You think she'll regret this in the morning?" Sam asked his older brother. Dean smirked at his little brother before answering.

"Depends on how bad of a singer she is." His eyes never leaving her figure. He watched as she selected a song the she was going to sing and an unfamiliar tune began to play through the speakers. He watched as she sang and swayed to the beat of the song. She was good. If he didn't know better he'd think she's a pop-star.

"She's good." Sam commented and his brother nodded in acknowledgment. One song rolled into four and the patrons were thankful that she replaced the tone deaf drunk.

She was having the time of her life dancing and singing, she could feel Dean's eyes on her and she got an idea. She knew she might come to regret it but she couldn't care less at the moment and made her way towards the boys.

"Aren't you on a roll today." Sam teased looking at her with a grin.

"It's called having fun." She pouted at her tall friend which made him laugh.

"So..." Dean drawled, poking his lips with his tongue that she wanted at places she couldn't say out loud. "Are you done having fun?" He asked to which she shook her head.

"Nope, I'm just getting started." She took Dean's glass from his hold and made her way back to the makeshift stage. He watched as she downed whatever it was that he was drinking, looking him straight in the eyes. He sucked in a sharp breath at the action. The music began and started singing,

Lock me up and throw away the key

He knows how to get the best out of me

I'm no force for the world to see

Trade my whole life just to be

She sways her hips sensually to the beat and misses the next few lyrics as she's too engrossed in the music but then she continued,

Give me tough love

Leave me with nothin' when I come down

My kinda love

Push me and choke me 'til I pass out

She looks directly at Dean, as if she's telling him to do it to her. At that moment she thanked herself that decided to forego her usual T-shirts and settling on a crop top.

We don't gotta be in love, no

I don't gotta be the one, no

I just wanna be one of your girls

Tonight (tonight)

She closed her eyes and let her hands wander all over her body. Dean looked around the bar and noticed he's not the only one enjoying the show. His fists clenched on the table and his glare darkened at her on the stage.

We don't gotta be in love, no

I don't gotta be the one, no

I just wanna be one of your girls

Tonight (tonight), oh

She watched his green eyes turn dark. She knew he had him exactly where she wanted him. She smirked playfully before continuing her ministrations.

Push me down, hold me down

Spit in my mouth while you turn me on

I wanna take your light inside

Dim me down, snuff me out

Hands on my neck while you push it out

And I'm screamin' out

Just the thought of manhandling her, pushing her around, choking her while thrusting into her sweet little cunt. Imagining her moans and screams when he brings closer to edge and deny her release. Stuffing her tight pussy with his seed. Dean felt himself shudder the mere thought. She's playing with fire here. He always kept telling himself she's too young for him, that he'd corrupt her if he ever got his hands on her. But by the looks of it, it seems she wants to be corrupted.

Top of the world but I'm still not free

It's such a secret that I keep

Until it's gone, I can never find peace

Brace my whole life just to be

We don't gotta be in love, no

I don't gotta be the one, no

I just wanna be one of your girls

Tonight (tonight)

As the song came to an end Y/n felt like her skin was on fire, her body felt too hot after watching Dean's reaction to her. This one of her best and worst ideas. She got down from the stage and it clicked that she basically seduced Dean in a bar full of strangers with his brother sitting beside him. But can she go back? No. She's going to be a big girl and deal with the consequences of her actions.

Her thoughts were broken by a blond man blocking her way. She looked at his face, he had blue eyes and wasn't bad looking but he wasn't Dean.

"That was quite a performance, sweetheart." He said, the nickname didn't have the same effect on her the way it did when Dean called her 'sweetheart'.

"Thanks I guess?..." it came out more like a question.

"So, would you like to be one of my girls tonight?" He asked his hand trailing down her arm.

"I'll give you ten seconds to get your hand off MY girl and get lost." A deep voice said from behind the stranger. The stranger turned around and Y/n saw Dean standing there with a killer look on his face.

"Surely you can have a turn, man. But after I'm done." The stranger replied smugly. Dean rolled his eyes and scoffed before throwing a punch to his jaw. The man fell to the ground and was knocked out cold.

Dean eyes trained on her with a glare, his jaw tensed. He grabbed her by the arm and dragged her out of the bar. He slammed her against the wall, she let out a gasp at the impact. The sound made Dean's blood rush to all the right places.

"Dean." She whimpered as he gripped her hips tightly.

"Shh, not a word sweetheart. You've been a bad girl." Dean slammed his hips against hers making her choke out a moan. "Aren't you a desperate one, baby." He cooed tauntingly, lips hovering above hers but not touching. She nodded her head in agreement.

"Look at you, trying to be a good girl now huh?" She nodded again. "Speak, baby. Tell me what you want."

"I want you to do all those things to me."

"Oh I'll do much worse." He chuckled darkly. He turned her around, her chest against the wall, his chest pressed against her back. He leaned over her to whisper in her ear. "I'll make you my only girl tonight."

Y/n shuddered at his words knowing it was going to be a long night.

[the-french-belphegor]

I don't know if the timing is exceptionally bad or good or somewhere in the middle considering what we just learned of the reason for Sam's long absence from the CR table, but. It just so happens that I was commissioned a while ago by @agangofsquirrels who wanted a stained glass art version of Vax hugging Scanlan from my 9th level Counterspell post (which... blew up, holy cow) to base a tattoo on. Holy crap. And I just finished the drawing.

@agangofsquirrels got the commission art, liked it, and gave me permission to post it here (I always leave it to the patron's choice). It's my first time doing anything like this; I used a mix of Inkscape and GIMP. The original is one of the favourite things I made, and I wanted to do right by agangofsquirrels and do it justice.

I rarely cry when I watch things; I thought nothing in CR would make me cry harder than the 9th level Counterspell did, but rewatching episode 91 of Bell's Hells today proved me wrong. So here's some more heartbreak - but also a lot of love 💜

[marzipanandminutiae]

I keep seeing posts about boycotting Starbucks that make it abundantly clear that some people have no clue what's going on with that situation

Starbucks is not on the official BDS list of companies to boycott

Starbucks is not "funding a genocide." They don't have material ties to the Israeli government that I'm aware of- they don't even have franchises in Israel. Some people chose to boycott them because they sued their union for using their logo in a pro-Palestine post on October 9th, 2023, on the grounds that the logo was being applied to a political message without their permission. That's the whole reason, as far as I can tell. (source)

if that's a reason for you to not want to give them money, totally fair. people have to make their own calls on such things. but in the sense of "consumer action to pressure a company to do or stop doing a specific thing," there is no reason to boycott Starbucks re: the situation in Palestine

now, I'm not here to weep for Starbucks- they're a multibillion-dollar company that I only patronize when I'm not near any of my favorite local cafes. and they have a history of unsavory business practices. what does worry me is the number of people who are apparently just...not looking any further into political issues or calls to action than a snappy post they see online

misinformation spreads fast. please, please fact-check- before it's something with more potential to cause harm than a pointless Starbucks boycott

[lunastrophe]

Drow Lore 🕷️ Noble House Hierarchy

Typical hierarchy of a noble Lolth-sworn drow house (based mainly on Menzoberranzan: City of Intrigue, 4e):

🕷️ Matron mother - the senior female of the family and the dictatorial ruling head of the house. Her rule is absolute, enforced by the females beneath her (usually her daughters). All lesser roles are decreed by, and can be changed at the whim of, the matron mother. Her reign ends only with her death, which often comes at the hands of her eldest daughter.

🕷️ First daughter - who usually claims the title of first priestess of the house. She serves as her mother's advisor and supervises day-to-day operations of the house. She is also typically groomed to replace her mother at some point.

🕷️ Other daughters, in order of age - also priestesses. They wield little true authority until they complete their training at the Academy. A daughter who is not in direct line to rule due to having older sisters sometimes separates from her matron’s house (with permission, of course) and forms a house of her own, with nominal loyalty to the “parent” house. In this way, drow houses spread their influence, but also often create their own eventual rivals.

🕷️ Other female relatives of matron mother - sisters (if they are still alive, since they are often seen as potential rivals), cousins, granddaughters and so on.

🕷️ House wizard - the leader of the house’s arcane spellcasters. It is one of the three most important house positions that are available for a male, and sometimes also considered the most prestigious one (priestesses usually treat their house wizards with at least modicum of respect).

🕷️ House weapon master - the best warrior of the house responsible for training and leading the house troops. Another important male-only position.

🕷️ House patron - matron mother's favored consort. Prestigious, but often precarious position, since some matron mothers like to replace their patrons quite often.

🕷️ First son - usually trained to fill the position of the house wizard or weapon master at some point.

🕷️ Other sons, in order of age - often trained as "backup" house wizards or leaders of warriors. Male heirs of noble drow houses are ranked by age: elderboy, secondboy, thirdboy, and so on. The thirdboy is customarily sacrificed to Lolth shortly after being born. Only one such sacrifice is required of each matron mother, as a one-time test of her loyalty to the goddess.

🕷️ Other male relatives of matron mother.

For more of my drow lore ramblings, feel free to check my pinned post 🕷️

[thelov3lybookworm]

Weeping heart (Part 3)

Part 1 Part 2

Summary: She's so over today.

•○●⛦●○•

A/n: i like this how this chapter ended up lol, ill try my best to post the next part sooner my loves mwah 😘

anyways, enjoyyyy!!

•○🌑○•

She could feel his eyes on the back of her neck as she discarded her blanket on the cot in the middle of the tent, trying to prolong the reprieve before she inevitably had to address the other presence in the tent.

Y/n was going to kill someone, hopefully Herb.

Rolling her neck, she walked towards the small table that sat a few feet away from the bed and bent to pick all the remaining weapons that sat on the table.

"Are you trying to ignore me?" Cardan questioned, his tone so genuinely confused that Y/n felt bad for trying to avoid him, but she could no say she regretted it.

After all, she was just trying to protect herself.

"What makes you think that?" She mumbled, her focus fixed on the weapons she strapped to herself.

She could hear him moving around, shuffling. From how close she'd been to him, she knew he was under pressure and was starting to get protective.

"You have been gone for months now, and you didn't even smile at me when you saw me and now you are not talking to me at all-"

"I've just been stressed, Cardan." Finally, after she finished checking her body to make sure she had all her weapons, she turned to find him frowning at her.

She wanted to smile at him, but she didn't have energy to even blink.

"I'm sorry, but I have to leave. It might be night time when I return, so don't wait up."

His frown deepened, and he opened his mouth to speak, but Y/n swiftly turned on her heel and made her exit, not bothering to even pretend she really was getting late.

She was just too tired now, and all she wanted to do was run away, live in a mountain home and maybe terrorize children by pretending to be a witch, but alas, that was not possible.

Yet.

•○🌑○•

The late afternoon sun was glaring down at Y/n and Herb, and despite the snow still blanketing the ground, the weather was hot. Too hot to be comfortable in an armor.

The thick silence was also not helping as Y/n and Herb made their way to the bar in the middle of town, having just finished the job they had come to get done.

That meant they could've returned to the camp, but Y/n had insisted on getting something to drink, not yet ready to face Cardan again after the shit show that had been her morning.

Y/n could tell Herb had questions he wanted to ask, but he knew that opening his mouth would probably end up with her scolding him, so he kept quiet as he stalked along next to her.

Y/n tried to relax as the bar came into view, rolling her shoulders.

It only got her more tensed up.

The bell jingled behind the pair as they walked in, a soft breeze cooling the back of Y/n's neck as the door swung shut behind her.

The car- tavern, really- was mostly empty, an hour or two left before it started filling with patrons wishing to wind down from their day's work.

A couple sat in a corner, leaning close together as they giggled and chugged their drinks, and Y/n eyed them before turning and following Herb to a table near the far wall.

As she settled down, she eyed the male standing right in front of the counter, laughing at something the owner said. Y/n's eyes narrowed as she realised it was not any male. It was one of her soldiers.

What is he doing here?

Sure, the soldiers were free to roam and explore the towns the group visited when not on duty, but they never came to taverns in the middle of the day, lest they have to fight later. It was only when they were certain that nothing would happen or if they got permission from Y/n that they would visit these places.

Blinking, Y/n turned to find Herb studying her, his arms folded on the table as he leaned forward.

"What?"

His eyes did not waver at her sharp tone. "I'm sorry."

Y/n grunted. "It's okay."

Y/n did not like the way he stared at her, his eyes seeming to read her like an open book. "Is it really?"

Y/n rose a brow. "What is that supposed to mean?"

He shook his head, his eyes so serious Y/n was concerned for a moment. "Nothing."

"It does not sound like nothing."

He sighed. "Look, I know there's something going on with you. I've known you for years now and you were never the one to just up and leave for a mission. You always took up missions that at the very least gave you the time of a week before leaving. So there's definitely something you're hiding."

Y/n straightened, looking away.

Herb was not the type of person to be serious. In the twenty years she had known him, since that first day when she had walked into class and befriended Cardan, and sat next to Herb, the male had never spoken a word if it was not meant to make someone laugh.

He was like that, Herb. He cared for people around him, and because he never seemed sad or serious, y/n had just assumed he was a little dumb.

She realised now how foolish it was.

"What are you trying to say Herb?"

"Just that I figured it has something to do with the High king, and if you ever need someone to talk to, I'll be there."

There was something indecipherable in his eyes as he spoke, the way he refused to break eye contact and the way he spoke so confidently, no traces of humour to be found in his soft, deep voice that sent chills down Y/n's back.

Y/n gave a curt nod, turning her eyes to stare a hole into the cheap wood of the table they had settled at.

Y/n could tell Herb still studied her, and it was another moment of heavy silence before he spoke up, his normal self back.

"So, have you heard of the toad that ate the horse?"

•○🌑○•

Y/n knew her suspicions were right when she stumbled into a raging revel in the camp after a day of wasting her time, everyone gathered around the huge fire in the middle, singing bawdy songs as Cardan looked over them like a pleased cat.

She had not wanted to return to the camp after her visiting the tavern, so she had told Herb to go by himself. He, of course, had decided to stay with her and laze about the small town.

"What is going on here?"

Cardan's eyes flew to where Y/n stood, glaring at them all as Herb stood at her back.

Cardan grinned, the smile Y/n had been in love with.

"We are celebrating!" One of the soldiers- clearly drunk- called out, giggling.

Y/n glared at him, then at Cardan.

His smile faltered, then slowly fell off when Y/n did not smile back.

Y/n stared at him a moment longer, letting him know that she was not pleased, then turned, heading into her tent.

She was so over today.

Tired, sleep claimed her the moment her head hit the hard mattress, and she slept deeper than she ever had, nothing able to wake her.

Not the sound of the night birds, not the sound of the soldiers screaming their hearts out outside, not the loud crash when one of them fell into her tent as he tried to navigate his way to his tent.

Nothing woke her up, except for the sudden hand that covered her mouth in the dark of the middle of the night.

•○🌑○•

Cardan Greenbriar Taglist: @kennedy-brooke @hnyclover @minnieoo @sidrapotter @123345566 @mp-littlebit @tele86 @riddlesb1tch @bubybubsters

Taglist: @dreamsarenicer @kennedy-brooke @123345566

[omens-for-ophelia]

My husband is an absolutely amazing artist who does not use tumblr, so he gave me permission to post the Crowley painting he has been working on!

(He provided the art and the caption :) I am just providing the tumblr)

St.Anthony, Patron Saint of Lost Things

“Then the Lord God brought the three of them to judgement, and said unto the serpent, “Because you have done this, cursed are you above all cattle, and above all beasts of the field. Upon your belly you shall go about, and your limbs shall be cut off, and you shall cast off your skin once every seven years, and the poison of death shall be in your mouth.”

[hellfirexwhore]

Forget What You've Heard E.M.

Line cook!Eddie Munson x Bartender!Reader

Sorry it took so long between posts! I've been working all day every day so it's busy over here. I hope you enjoy! 

I do not give permission for my work to be copied / posted as original work on any platform.

Your favorite co-worker's flirty nature is your favorite part of the workday, but is it genuine? Someone is feeding you lies just as your patrons are being fed mozzarella sticks and Eddie is determined to convince you he's not just playing games with your heart.

Misunderstanding, hurt/comfort, fluff, cursing, an asshole named Dylan (We all know one), use of Y/N

Wordcount 4.7k

You smile to yourself as you count up the tips you've made so far. Bartending has done wonders for your wallet, and it's totally worth it if you can look over the long hours on your feet, creeps trying to get into your pants, and going home smelling like sour mix and sweat. You just moved to Hawkins 6 months ago and since living on your own is expensive, you serve beers and shake cocktails at the karaoke bar downtown to make a living. It's easy work and you're good at it, but there's just one issue; your favorite co-worker is a huge distraction. Eddie is the cutest damn line cook you've ever seen with his curly hair always tied into a low bun and his smile that you're sure could cure a number of diseases, but those things don't make it easy to do your job efficiently. It's nearly impossible to grab a platter of nachos from the window without him throwing out a wink and calling you sweetheart, telling you you're doing a good job, or even sliding a basket of fries to you with a finger to his lips as a way of saying "Don't tell on me, honey." 

Tonight is no different. Eddie has been a total menace all night, flashing you that flirty smile, keeping you from your work with his corny pick-up lines that he insists will get him a date with you one day, making conversation, and giving you extra sides of ranch without making you ring them in first like the kitchen manager does. The second you walked into the back to set your bag down after arriving, he told you your hair looked absolutely ravishing even though it's just thrown into a clip like always, making you blush like crazy. It took nearly 20 minutes to get the scarlet red tint to leave your cheeks, and though you tried your hardest to hide it, Eddie sure as hell noticed, leaving a smile on his face throughout the busy evening.

"Hey sweetheart, I've got those wings for the bar top ready for you." You hear from behind you, snapping you out of your thoughts. You smile to yourself at the nickname and put the glass you've just finished washing upside down on the drying mat. 

You turn around to an always grinning Eddie leaning his elbows on the stainless steel of the mini counter under the window to the back of house and holding the ticket in between his index and middle digits. You take the slip of paper out of his hand slowly, letting your fingers touch for a moment before stabbing it through the small metal spike to your right. Every once in a while, you like to indulge in his flirtatiousness, though it makes you nervous. Eddie's fun, he's nice, and dishing back what he gives to you every day isn't hurting anyone. "Thank you, Eddie."

"Any time, sugar." He replies, winking and turning to grab a new ticket and drop an order of potato skins in the fryer. You shake your head, smiling from ear to ear, turning to serve the hot plate to one of your regulars. 

The rest of the shift goes great. Your tips are higher than you had planned, nobody had to be thrown out for fighting, and you got to hear a wonderful rendition of "My Heart Will Go On" sang by a very intoxicated older gentleman during the karaoke session. As you clean up the bar for the night, as always, you can't stop thinking about Eddie. You think tonight might actually be the night you ask him to hang out with you outside of work, though he's invited you to go get some late night pizza before, playfully pouting when you have to decline, telling him that you're exhausted and have to go back to the bar to open the next day. You've wanted to say yes, but Eddie makes you nervous. You're feeling bold tonight though, and you're optimistic. 

Unbeknownst to you, Eddie is in the kitchen cleaning the fryers, taking out the trash, and scrubbing the floors absentmindedly, almost like he's in auto-pilot because he can't get you out of his head. He wants so badly to ask you out, but he's tried that and you don't seem interested. He realizes you probably just flirt with him for fun, a harmless workplace friendship with some winks and pet names sprinkled in, but over the past four months, he's developed a serious crush on you. 

There's just something about you that makes you so different from everyone he's ever dated or been interested in. He doesn't feel like he has to change who he is for you. There's nothing better for Eddie's ego than how easy it is to make you smile, and goddammit what a beautiful smile it is. Every time you look at him through your lashes, blushing at something stupid he's said, Eddie feels like he could lift the entire building up with one hand and not even break a sweat. He fears he's in too deep at this point, the innocent flirting leading to him finding himself thinking about you even once he's gone home for the night. 

"Hey Eddie boy, I think you missed a spot." Eddie rolls his eyes at the irritating voice coming at him from his left. Dylan is one of the most insufferable people he's ever met and of course, he has the honor of working beside him at least 3 nights out of the week. 

Eddie doesn't turn his attention to Dylan, just continues wiping down the steel counter top. "Bite me, jackass." 

"Wow, someone's sassy today, huh? What, you didn't get enough attention from your little bartender tonight?" He smarmily replies, a disgustingly annoying grin on his face. Dylan, to Eddie's dismay, has picked up on the little "situation" between you two, making a joke of it every chance he can in an attempt to piss him off. 

Eddie laughs humorlessly, throwing his rag down and turning to the bane of his existence, crossing his arms over his chest. "Dude shut the fuck up."

"Hey look man, I get it! I'm just saying it's embarrassing watching you stare at her like a fucking creep all day. She does look pretty smokin' in those jeans though, so I don't blame you. Hey maybe I'll ask her out tonight, see if I can get some tail. Think she'll give up the goods?" He's smirking while Eddie's blood is raising in temperature. He can practically feel smoke coming out of his ears hearing this sorry excuse for a man speaking about you like you're just a piece of ass and not the sweet, funny, beautiful person you are. 

"I swear to God, I'll bust your teeth in." Eddie seethes, trying to keep his cool, at least while you're in the building. You're blissfully unaware of their hatred for one another and the last thing he needs is for you to see him throwing his fist into Dylan's face for talking about you. That wouldn't be very "innocent flirtationship" of him. 

"Guys! Come on, finish cleaning and knock it off. I don't have the energy for your cat fights tonight." The kitchen manager huffs, stepping between the two of them with a severely annoyed look on his face. Wordlessly, Eddie takes one more look at Dylan, picks his rag back up, and continues his task of degreasing all of the surfaces. He wants to get it over with and be able to clock in time to catch you before you leave and walk you to your car.

Dylan, the vindictive man he is, takes the opportunity to make his way through the swinging kitchen door and into the main bar area while Eddie isn't paying attention. You look up, expecting to find Eddie standing there, but confused when it's the guy you barely speak to heading in your direction.

"Hey Y/N, you do good tonight?" He asks, leaning against the bar. You smile politely, still wrist deep in soapy water from washing the bar glasses and beer mugs. 

"Yeah, better than I expected actually. Did you need something?" You ask, not rudely, but assuming he came for something specific seeing as he's never made small talk with you before.

Dylan takes a breath and rests his elbows on the hard wood of the bar top, shaking his head like he's trying to think of how to tell you what he sauntered up to you for. You begin to dry your hands, getting a little nervous thinking that maybe the manager had sent him up here to tell you something you've done wrong. You're still relatively new and you've never gotten in trouble here before, but you can't think of anything else he would need to say to you. "Look, I know you and Munson are friends, and I see the way you look at him. You like him, and before you deny it, just listen to me." 

Your heart starts to race. Did he tell Eddie? Did Eddie say something to him? How are you going to face him when apparently other people are picking up on this? Are you this obvious? You can't take it anymore so you nod, waiting for more information as you toy with your hands. 

"You seem sweet, okay and I don't want to see someone like you hurt by someone like him. Eddie and I are cool, but this is what he does. he flirts with the new ones, takes them home, and never speaks to them again. When another newbie comes in, he starts it all over again. I just thought you should know since I'm sure you're a genuinely nice person and I'm certain Eddie is taking advantage of that." Your heart drops at his words. You feared you were being played with, but you didn't want to believe it. You fell for Eddie's charms, and now it's time to face the harsh reality that you had completely misunderstood this whole situation and made yourself look like an idiot in front of everyone. 

"Um, wow. Well thanks for telling me, I appreciate it. I'm gonna finish up here and head out. Have a good rest of your night." You say, rushing through so you don't tear up mid-sentence. Dylan nods, not saying another word but offering a sympathetic smile before turning on his heel and going back through the door he came. You pull the plug to the dish sink, gather your signed receipts to shove into the drawer, and give the glazed wood one last wipe down. You hear Eddie say your name through the window but you act like you can't hear him. 

This whole thing could have been avoided if you wouldn't have fallen for the good looks and quirks of the fuzzy-headed, wild-eyed line cook. You never should have caught feelings in the workplace; that's like rule number 001 in the service industry. Never, under any circumstances, canoodle with your co-workers. You thought maybe this was an exception but now here you are, proven wrong. 

Heading through the swinging door to the kitchen, you avoid eye contact with everyone, especially Eddie, as you walk straight to the back to gather your things. You feel humiliated and giving Eddie the satisfaction of seeing you upset is out of the question so the sooner you can get out of the building, the better. You give quiet goodbyes to the managers and make a quick escape, or you at least try to before a hand reaches out to hold your forearm. 

"Hey, wait for me. I'll walk you to your car." Eddie says softly, giving you a soft smile. You can't bear to look him in the eyes, so you gently pull away, shaking your head. 

"It's fine Eddie, thanks though." You reply, turning to finally leave. Eddie watches as you throw your bag strap onto your shoulder and hurriedly make your way to the exit. Hurt washes over him and he's more confused than when he learned what a tampon is in middle school. He furrows his brow and slumps his shoulders, going back to his final task before he can leave for the night. He doubts you're still going to be in the parking lot by the time he can get out there, but his heart is racing like he might have a shot at catching you before you leave. 

Did he say something? Did his flirting finally make you uncomfortable tonight? He racks his brain trying to come up with some sort of reason why you would be upset with him. Normally, he would suggest that maybe you're just tired but even when you're on the verge of falling asleep where you stand, you can still manage to give him a sleepy smile and a breathy laugh at another one of his terrible jokes. Maybe he took it too far. Maybe he weirded you out or gave you the wrong idea. It wouldn't be the first time he's scared someone off.

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

You continue to go to work as normal, doing your best to not entertain anything Eddie had to say. The more distance you can create between the two of you, the less likely you'll get hurt. The time for stepping away from him to protect your feelings ended long ago but now it's time to do some damage control before you get worse. You get attached to people, and unfortunately that includes the bad people too. 

You thought long and hard about whether or not you actually believed Dylan. I mean it's his first time actually talking to you and he breaks the news to you that Eddie just wanted to get into your pants? Why would he care? After going back and forth with yourself over it for your entire day off, you don't know what to think but what you do know is that if they really are friends and if Dylan actually does care, then the safe bet is to just stay away. If he's telling the truth and you ignore that to continue growing your feelings for Eddie, you're in for a world of hurt and that's just not something you can deal with right now. 

You're not mean to Eddie when you work now; you just treat him like everyone else. You say "please" and "thank you", you ring in your extra sauces when you need them, you greet him just like you greet every other cook, and you don't flirt or bat your lashes at him anymore. Eventually, he is going to ask why but until he does, you can't bring yourself to ask him about it. It's humiliating and if he does have bad intentions, he's not going to be honest about it anyway so what's the point in starting that conversation? 

Eddie is trying everything. These past few days have been hell for him and he's grasping at straws. He offers to make you fries, you tell him, "Thank you, but I'm not hungry." He tries to ask you about your day, you apologize and say you're busy. He tries to catch you before you leave at night, but you practically sprint for the door the second you're finished with your side work. 

He watches through the window as you smile at your last patron of the night, desperately wishing that smile was for him. You haven't paid him any mind in 3 days and it's driving him crazy. It might be a little better if he actually knew what he did, but he's completely clueless. The awkward interactions are eating away at Eddie, and he knows if he doesn't say something soon, he'll explode. He starts his cleaning and breaking down the line as quickly as possible in an attempt to finish before you do so you don't run away from him again like you have been. If he doesn't get this straightened out, he doesn't know what he'll do. 

Your last tab is cashed out and you begin your cleaning, causing Eddie to pick up his pace. He knows it'll take you 20 minutes max now that you and him aren't chatting throughout to slow you down. As long as nobody gets in his way, he's determined to finally be able to talk to you tonight. Not playful banter, no pick up lines, just a real conversation. The sooner he gets back into your good graces, the better. 

"Trouble in paradise?" Eddie turns to see Dylan smirking with his arms across his chest. So much for nobody getting in his way. 

Eddie laughs humorlessly and goes back to his work. "Fuck off, dude." 

"Look man I'm just saying it seems like there's a little riff between the lovebirds lately. I wonder what happened, hm?" Dylan replies, his tone condescending as ever, doing his best to get a rise out of Eddie. To his dismay, it's working. 

"You don't know shit." Eddie mumbles, wringing out a sanitizer rag, his fingers already becoming little prunes extended from his hands from the extensive cleaning. 

"I don't know about that one, Ed. We had a really riveting conversation, seriously it was interesting, and I'm sure I know a little more than you think." This stops Eddie in his tracks. He breathes hard through his nose and turns on his heel, grabbing Dylan by his shirt and shoving him against the wall. 

"What the fuck did you say to her? Huh? Are you the reason she won't fucking talk to me? What the hell is wrong with you, you jealous son of a bitch?!" Eddie shouts. The manager on duty is already trying to break the two of them up and you hear the commotion from the front, peering your head into the window to see what the hell is going on. 

"Ooh Munson is mad! I just told her exactly what you're up to, that's all." Dylan says, calm as ever, a disgusting smile on his face. "Punching me won't undo it, so go ahead." 

"Enough! I swear to god, I will kick you both out." Eddie reluctantly loosens his grip on the boy's clothing, only pulling away completely when he's certain the risk of getting fired isn't worth hitting Dylan, even though the want to is overwhelming. 

 Eddie looks to you, his heart breaking at the disappointed look on your face. He decides this ends now. He has no idea what filth and lies have been planted in your head, but he needs to fix it and fast. He gives one last scowl to the man he was just threatening, and backs up, walking out of the kitchen door. 

He approaches the bar and you freeze. You don't know what you're supposed to say or do, so you do and say nothing. He has a soft look on his face, one very different than the one he was wearing in the kitchen just a minute prior. It's almost as if his rock hard persona turns to cotton candy when he's in your presence, and if you ask Eddie, that's exactly how that works. 

"Look, I know you don't want to talk to me and I'm still not entirely sure why, but please wait for me. Please talk to me, let me figure out what the hell happened, and let me fix it." He pleads. You think it over quickly, trying to figure out of this is something you even want to get into right now. You question his motives, still confused as ever. Helpless, you nod and see the relief wash over his entire body, giving you the same feeling as when you're in the middle of a horrific thunderstorm, and in an instant, the sun comes out of the dark clouds. Whether this conversation leaves you feeling like a sunny summer day or it leads to another crack of thunder, you're unsure but you have half an hour before you find out. 

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

You sit there at the bar having finished your closing work, waiting for Eddie to finish his. Against your better judgement, you're happy to talk to him again but nothing can stop the knot in your stomach from growing tighter. All you wanted to do today was make some money, go home, cook dinner, take a bath, and watch a movie in bed but now, you're sitting here, anxiety building up in your body like a tower of mix-matched Lego pieces. 

You're taken out of your thoughts when Eddie exits the kitchen and walks toward you, not looking any less nervous than he did earlier in the evening. "Hey, sorry I took so long." 

"It's okay." You say quietly, standing up from the bar stool and pulling the strap of your backpack up onto your shoulder. "Do you want to talk outside?" 

Eddie nods, giving you a tight smile. He leads you out of the front door and around to the side of the building to the employee parking lot, not saying a word just yet. the silence is broken by the flick of your lighter, illuminating the tip of a cigarette freshly placed in your mouth, inhaling the smoke and feeling the tiniest amount of tension wash away. 

You lean against your car waiting for him to speak, still not really sure what you're supposed to say. He's the one that needed to defend himself, he's the one who wanted this conversation to happen. 

"Look, I don't know what Dylan told you but I can assure you it was a lie." He starts. He's fidgeting with his fingers, avoiding eye contact. He's lost every ounce of confidence he once had when he's on the other side of the wall passing you a basket of chicken tenders. 

"If you don't know what he said, then how would you know that?" You reply, taking another drag of your cigarette. You're hoping he's being genuine and not just defensive right off the bat, but if someone is lying about you, you'd feel defensive too. Everything is still fuzzy and figuring out this mess is like putting the pieces of a clear puzzle together.

"Because he fucking hates me. He does shit just to piss me off." Eddie shakes his head, pulling his own pack of cigarettes out of his pocket, lighting one between his lush lips. 

"Why would he hate you, Eddie? What did you do?" You don't mean to point blame at him but he had to have done something to make someone hate him to the point of making up a lie to make you ignore him for days.

"When I first started, he thought I was flirting with this girl he had a thing for, and she got a crush on me. She didn't want to hang out with him anymore and he thought I just swooped in and stole her. I didn't even like her like that but since then, he's made it his job to make my life a living hell when he's here. That includes fucking this-" Eddie gestures his hand between the both of you, "-up for me." 

"He told me you're fucking with me." You say, suddenly fixing your eyes on your sneakers. You almost shudder thinking back at the way your heart dropped to your stomach when Dylan first spoke to you. "Said you flirt with the new ones to get into their pants and then move on to the next one." 

Eddie's eyes widen, looking like he's a child being told Santa isn't real. The genuine look of shock is very convincing, and you're close to dropping every allegation from that expression alone. "Jesus Christ. Y/N, I promise that's not what's going on here." 

"How can I know that for sure? I felt like an idiot after he told me that. I was humiliated thinking I fell for some sleazy game you were playing." You're trying not to tear up. You can feel the thickness in your throat as you speak, hoping Eddie doesn't pick up on it. Six months of growing feelings for someone isn't something to fuck around about, and you might have taken this more seriously than it was intended, but when you're in that close of proximity with someone for that long, itching for the other to make a move, it's hard to not be heartbroken when something happens to it. 

"Sweetheart, I flirt with you because I like you. At first, it was just fun and I thought you were cute, but now I have a big, fat, stupid crush on you and I think about you all the time. I don't ask you to hang out with me after work so I can take you to my van and get your clothes off. I ask you to hang out with me because I like the way you make me feel." Eddie responds, making eye contact with you finally, searching your eyes for any trace of doubt. He wants you to know how serious he is. This isn't just a fling for him, much like it never was for you. You had a feeling this could turn into something special, though it goes against everything people tell you about workplace relationships. 

"And what would that feeling be?" You inquire, not breaking the contact between his chocolate pools and your own, finding a boldness in yourself that you didn't know existed. 

"You make me feel like I'm the coolest guy in the world. You laugh at my stupid jokes, you compliment me, you're interested in what I have to say.." He trails off with a fond smile on his face. There's a softness about him that balances out the roughness of his edges, endearing you even further. He reaches out to grab your soft hand with his rough one. "I really fucking like you." 

"I really like you too. I was going to ask you out the night Dylan dropped a bomb on me." You admit, rubbing your thumb over the skin of his hand. 

"That motherfucker." Eddie shakes his head, getting angry all over again at the fact that he finally had his chance and it got ruined for him in an instant. "I'm going to kick his ass." 

You pull your hand out of his and smack him lightly on the chest. "No, you can't get fired! Who will I talk to all day?"

"You've been doing just fine not talking to anyone." Eddie jokes, raising his eyebrows and bringing his cigarette to his lips, inhaling the smoke that seems to make this whole thing easier. After having a sick stomach for hours, he skipped his smoke breaks, partially leading to his angry outburst.

"Yeah and it was miserable! Do you know how much I hated having to go through my shift without hearing you call me sweetheart?" You laugh, a sound Eddie missed, even for just three days. 

He smiles down at you, dazzling as always. You missing him as much as he missed you is actively washing away his worries one by one like a salty body of water washing away a structurally questionable sandcastle. "I won't deprive you anymore." 

"I appreciate that." You grin, taking his hand back into yours. 

"Does that mean you believe me? You can ask anyone, I'm serious. I talk about you all the time. The guys make fun of me for my "heart eyes" the entire time you're here. Ask Adam, Levi, Grant, Brandon-" 

"Okay, okay." You cut off his adorable rambling. "Yes, I believe you."

Eddie breathes a sigh of relief. You can see his shoulders relax, his jaw loosen, and his posture seems straighter. "Good because I mean it. I'm sorry this was such a mess for you. Hopefully I can make up for it?"

"And how do you plan to do that, Munson?" You tease, giving him the flirty look he had been wishing to see from you again. He can't take his eyes off of the way you look at him through your thick lashes. 

He moves closer to you subtly, moving slowly so he can relish in the moment. "Can I start with that date?" 

"You sure can." You say just above a whisper. You're lost in his eyes once again, but this time, it's not just playful. There's a brand new feeling getting introduced here and it blows your mind that it was first kindled in a greasy kitchen. 

As long as Eddie is here, things are easy. You have your flirty boy back and being at work is a little easier again. With Eddie right behind you serving up winks and pet names just as often as he serves up appetizers, going home smelling like beer and deep fried cheese is worth it. 

[manicrouge]

Episode Five: Bear the Burden

[𝙹𝚘𝚑𝚗 𝙿𝚛𝚒𝚌𝚎 𝚡 𝚁𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛] || [𝙰𝚄: 𝙿𝚎𝚊𝚔𝚢 𝙱𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚜] || 𝙿𝚕𝚊𝚢𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚝

[𝙳𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝙿𝚘𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚍]: 10/09/24

[𝙰𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝]: Blake faces the consequences of his actions whilst you face the consequences of your association with John Price.

[𝙲𝚠]: violence, non-con touching (nothing sexual), blood/ gore (nothing too bad).

[𝚆𝚘𝚛𝚍 𝙲𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚝]: 8.4k

[𝙰/𝙽]: I am so sorry this took so long... I hope this makes up for my absence !! Also please let me know if I've missed and warnings.

SERIES MASTERLIST

Please don't post my work anywhere else without my permission !!

He lurks like a virus, you find.

One you can’t quite shake. His annoying tendencies and loud mouth make him a villain – you can’t perceive him as anything other; whatever your mind attempts to conjure up always leads you in circles until you eventually find yourself back at your original assessment.

You're staring at a pretty woman sitting on a throne, although you cannot take your eyes off her eyes. They're haunting – primal. And despite her well-kept golden hair and the richness of the clothing surrounding her, none of the jewels she is adorned in can distract you from the rubies in her eyes.

Despite your assessment of the piece, you cannot help but sense his grin as it radiates like a toxin, infecting the area surrounding the pair. 

It’s early and the general hubbub of the city is left behind you. And strangely, you find that the gallery's silence leaves you with a profound emptiness.

The Hindsight’s loudness as proclaimed by your old boss, was the one thing that was supposed to deter you from working there, and yet, you miss the calamity and feel the urge to rush out the doors all to hear the drunken babbles of the patrons you’ve become so accustomed to during the time you’ve spent there. 

‘It’s quiet today,’ Graves says, turning his head slightly to glance at you, ‘you’re quiet too. Somethin' wrong?’

‘You’re not talking,’ you remark, looking down at the small purse in your hands, ‘there's been no mention of the guns. I haven’t heard a thing… I- I don’t think they took them.’

He scoffs. ‘That’s what they want you to think.’ 

You shake your head, your hands tightening around the handles of your small bag. ‘You told me that Ky– that Garrick said that–’

‘Oh,' he begins, 'we’re on a first-name basis with them now, ay?’ Graves chuckles, ‘I hope you’re not growing a soft spot for them, ‘need I remind you that they’re criminals?’ 

‘I know they are,’ you say, although your voice is unsteady as you profess their sins. ‘But I don’t think they have the guns.’ 

‘Then who has them?’ 

‘I don’t know,’ you shrug, ‘I’ve heard that the communists are planning on having a protest at the train station this afternoon. They’re demanding fairer pay and treatment… they think the government has abandoned them after the war.’ 

‘They made it home,’ Graves said, ‘they should be happy with that. The world isn't gonna fall to its knees for them; everyone’s lost something or someone. They’re being greedy.’ 

His words leave you thinking of Blake. The man is much too big for his personality, although you suppose he needs the extra space to fit the heart inside his chest. Greed isn’t how you’d describe a man like him and the war took more from him than most people; you can see it in his eyes. 

‘The capital keeps this place running, same as the States. We lose that, we lose order – fall into whatever Russia has landed itself in. It’s unruly, unjust, and, quite frankly, a mess.’ 

You hold your tongue, fearing you’ll be guilty of speaking as your heart compels you to say, settling in the spot you’ve been standing in as you shift your feet, swallowing your heart.

‘Yes,’ you mumble.

‘I’ll look into it, have some police on the lookout. Speaking of which, I heard the owner of the pharmacy was attacked. Does that have something to do with Price?’ 

‘I don’t know,’ you speak truthfully, biting down on your lip, ‘I have to go.’ 

‘Your shift doesn’t start for another hour,’ he says, looking down at his watch. 

‘I have nothing else to say to you,’ you answer, turning on your heel, and heading towards the exit. 

You’re stopped as his hand clasps your upper arm. ‘If I find out you have been lying, Mr Churchill won’t be pleased.’ 

‘I’m not,’ you answer, ‘now let go of me.’ 

‘Promise me,’ he says. 

‘Promise you?’ you scoff.

He takes offence to that clearly as he scrunches his nose up, and as he speaks again, you note that he is gritting his teeth – addressing you as though you have become the next target on his list. ‘That you’re not lying to me. You’re a good girl, it’d kill me to know you’re falling for their trap.’ 

Whatever he's talking about you're convinced is the byproduct of paranoia. No sane man ponders that hard and comes to such a demented conclusion.

Your stomach twists and you yank your arm out of his. ‘I’m being honest with you,’ you say, 'not giving him any more of your time as you rush towards the museum's exit. 'I don't appreciate your tone with me, I advise you fix it.'

'I don't appreciate your secrecy.'

'It's not secrecy,' you breathe, 'rather doubt.'

He sticks up his nose at your confession, turning his back to you as though to resume looking at the painting the pair of you were looking at but a moment before the outburst.

'He has the guns.'

'And what proof do you have of that?' He falls silent. 'You have no right to blame me for having reasonable doubt. Garrick had no idea what you were talking about.'

'People can lie,' he says firmly.

'I know,' you insist, 'I'm not a child, I understand how the world works. Stop treating me as though I know nothing.'

He grumbles something under his breath, shaking his head. 'So what do you want me to do? Pack up shop and tell ol' Churchy boy that his guns are gone because you think Garrick is telling the truth?'

His condescending tone is enough to have your heartbeat ringing in your ears. You ball your fists and chew so hard on the inside of your cheek that you almost bite through it.

'You keep doing your job, I'll have the boys raid the house of a few known commies, and see if they know anything about it. But if I find nothing, I'm meeting John Price and asking him in person.'

You know whether or not you're okay with what he is saying to you is pointless and you struggle to contend with what you acknowledge to be your personal bias against the man who has invited you to the races with him. If you speak now, you fear it will simply be word vomit – an attempt to justify a man beyond redemption (supposedly).

—

A profound concept is what you are to him and as he spies you, he’s unable to shake the thought that, for the first time in his life, he is doing something truly wrong.

His eyes feel too dirty to look at you and the occasional line in his peripheral vision acts like a clump of muck on you. He blinks quickly to chase it away, of course, he does, he wouldn’t leave you with the burden of his truth for longer than a few seconds. 

You’re grinning at the man you’re talking to – he’s much too drunk, wobbling a little as you converse with him. The conversation is not secret either; he has a gob that could replace a foghorn and a laugh that could give a gunshot a run for its money. Your responses, however, remain a mystery as you sit; you’re much too gentle to return his drunken enthusiasm.

You eventually lift your head and your eyes lock for the first time since you poured his drink. You offer the man a smile before heading away from him and approaching Price. 

‘You want a refill?’ you chirp. 

A voice as sweet as the song of a bird, he thinks, nodding his head as he holds his glass up. ‘Fill me up, love.’ 

The cork in the top of the bottle squeals as you open it, pouring more drink into his cup. ‘You look tired, is everything okay?’ 

Your question is one he wishes he could answer, only, he doesn’t want to bear you with the burden of what his morning will entail. The request he had been provided with the day prior has been weighing on him monstrously and he’s left offering you a lopsided smile as he shakes his head, downing the drink you have just poured him in the blink of an eye.

‘Had a bad night's sleep. Nothing a drink an’ smoke won’t sort.’ Your skepticism at his claim is charming and he smiles. ‘Really, love, I’m fine. Don't worry about me.’ 

‘Do you get much sleep?’ you ask. ‘It’s just… I’ve heard a lot of people – especially men who were in the war struggle to sleep.’ 

‘I sleep fine,’ he says abruptly, nearly choking on his tongue, ‘just excited about the races.’ Your face lights up with the mention of the races. ‘You found a dress yet?’ 

‘You only asked me last night,’ you exclaim, ‘I haven’t had the time yet.’ 

‘Well that’s no good, is it?’ he says, ‘you can have a day off later this week – go get yourself something nice.’ 

‘Who will run the pub?’ 

‘Sure Johnny will do just fine until you get back.’ 

‘All the liquor’ll be gone by the time I get back,’ you laugh. 

‘Don’t worry about it,’ he says, glancing at his watch.

Despite a peculiar force keeping him seated in his chair, he pushes against it, forcing himself up and away from you. He catches the furrowing of your brows as he gets up to leave and a part of him wishes to stay all to engage in an empty conversation with you.

‘Keep this place safe whilst I’m gone, ay? Any issues, tell one of the boys about it.’ 

You grin. 'I can take care of myself, John, don't you worry about me.'

As though taking a page out of his book, you speak with a mocking gruffness in your tone. If you were anyone else, he very well would have taken insult to the words you're speaking to him. Only, he can't help but let out a small chuckle.

'Heard you loud and clear, sweetheart,' he says, not missing the bruising scarlet on your cheeks as he offers you one more smile before turning on his heel and heading towards the exit of the pub.

—

‘Simon Riley,’ Graves addresses the man as he slowly stalks the shadows in the hopes of catching a glimpse of the brooding man’s face. Only, his disappointment is measurable in the curve of his mouth as he catches the mask covering his face. ‘I’ve heard a lot about you,’ he confesses with a smile, tucking his hands into the pockets of his pants, and shifting on his feet. 

Simon simply stares at him, not bothering to even muster up the strength to blink. Graves hums, filling the void of the silence. The man’s trying to intimidate him; he’s seen that old tired tactic one too many times to fall for it. Especially from a man like Simon. 

‘I’ve been trying to get a hold of that boss of yours. Slippery man, ain’t he?’

Simon keeps his mouth shut. 

Graves lets out a short laugh. ‘Not the talkative type, are ya?’

‘If you were tryin’ to get a hold of him, you wouldn’t have beat Kyle,’ he firmly says, crossing his arms across himself, rolling his neck seemingly in an attempt to cling to composure. 

Still, Graves has never really been one to threat in the face of evil, rather, he compromises – plays their game. That’s how you get through to them; he’s done it throughout his career and he’s sure it wouldn’t keep him from succeeding now, even if he is in a foreign land- nothing has stopped him before and he doesn’t intend for anything to stop him now. 

‘I wanted to scope the area out before addressing the boss,’ Graves answers. 

‘Y’ scared of Price,’ he says, ‘cause, if you weren’t then you woulda just went straight to him instead of spying on one of his workers.’

‘Kyle is one of his closest workers, is he not?’ he responds, narrowing his eyes, ‘don’t tell me how to do my fuckin’ job, kid. I imagine I could teach you a thing or two about it.’

‘No,’ Simon says, shifting as he moves slightly closer to him, ‘you took one look at whatever files you got from the government and decided that he was the easiest out of all of us to go for,’ he corrects strictly, narrowing his eyes. ‘I’m not a fuckin’ idiot, and neither are any of the lads, so don’t try an’ play me as one.’ 

‘Anyone in the right mind would believe that you are threatening me right now.’ 

‘I am,’ he states blatantly, uncaring for the consequences. ‘You gonna beat me like you beat Kyle, hey?’ 

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ he says with a grin, all to burst into a fit of laughter, ‘I know I’m not fooling you, Simon. And, if you want my honest answer, I would say that you would just have to wait and see.’ 

The man hums, his unhappiness as prevalent as a gigantic pimple on someone's chin. ‘You’re here for the guns. Not for us. Keep it that way.’ 

‘And why would I do that?’ 

He’s silent for a while, his eyes dragging up and down Phillip’s face before he eventually relents, his eyes narrowing to form crescents. ‘Cause, otherwise, you’ll be goin’ back home in a box.’ 

‘I didn’t think men like you would have the decency to even send me home,’ he says with a laugh, raising his hand and bringing it against his chest, ‘I’m touched, Simon, truly touched.’ 

‘Don’t want the blood of someone like you spoiling the dirt around here.'

He leaves without another word, not stopping even after Graves calls his name. So, the man stands and observes his pathing, finding that he is walking right towards The Hindsight. Rolling his eyes, he crosses his arms over himself.

Wonder if he speaks to her like that.

—

Simon Riley is a peculiar case, one that cannot quite be answered. Every time you take a glance at the man, you're left more confused than the last time as questions swirl around in your head.

'You wanna ask me something?' he asks, startling you.

Slowly, you turn to see him staring at you, the glass of whiskey he's nursing being engulfed by his hands. Never had you ever seen a man so big in stature. He's similar to Blake in a way, only, quieter. Whatever troubles he's having are reserved for his mind.

'Sorry,' you mumble out.

Much to your surprise, he shakes his head, beckoning you to approach him. You're cautious at first, acting as though he is a stray dog who appears as though he's going to snap at any moment.

'John told me about the chain around the door last night. You okay?'

There's something in his tone which makes the darker inflexions soften as he addresses you and you're unable to hide the smile that forms on your face as you swallow down any prior doubts you had about the man.

'I'm fine,' you say with a smile, 'nothing out of the ordinary for places like this, I'm sure.'

He shakes his head. 'Yeah,' he breathes, 'Johnny's gone round to ask people if anyone's seen the fella who had something to do with it today. We know it's Fisher's group — just don't know who's in charge now.'

'I saw John this morning,' you say, 'he seemed like he was in a rush when he realised the time.'

'Don't worry about him,' Simon says, pulling his mask up to expose his mouth, taking a sip of his whiskey. 'Still acts like a Captain even though we're outta the war,' he snorts.

'Old habits die hard, I guess,' you say, grabbing the whiskey bottle, 'you want a refill?'

—

The pair walk side by side as though there is not a fault in the world, and for a while, Price allows himself to believe that. It’s kind to let the mind rest for a while, he remembers remarking that during their time in the trenches. It’s just a shame that Blake's mind never seems to stop. He’s walking with his hat in his hand, scrunched up in his hands as he stares at the ground, his head occasionally bobbing as he listens to John.

Life is greedy. But the business is bloodthirsty.

And it’s something he has come to terms with, at least in his execution. Admittedly, the difference between being a soldier and a businessman – in terms of the business he is in – is very little. His fingers are so used to wielding a weapon that he wonders if his hands would still close similarly if he had never been exposed to violence. But he’s a violent man and always has been one. And everyone sees him for what he is. 

‘I was talkin’ to my lady this morning,’ Blake says, the rocks below them crunching as they tread closer to the water. ‘She’s real worried about me. A- And I’m sorry.’ 

His eyes steer clear of the man beside him as he spies two figures obscured by the fog of the early morning. Despite such, the pointed brim of their hats is blatant and even causes the outline of their figures to appear slightly rough around the edges. He spies danger in their exterior and he wonders if Blake sees it too. 

‘You see those men,’ he asks, motioning towards the evasive figures. 

‘Yes, Cap’n.’ 

He answers like a child answers a parent.

‘You killed an important man, Blake,’ he says, ‘their brother.’

‘I didn’t mean to, you know that, Cap'n.’ 

‘You think they care why you did it?’ Price asks, furrowing his brow, ‘scrambled mind or well one, it doesn’t matter. You killed one of theirs.’ 

‘I- I know I did and am sorry–’

‘You upset the wrong people, Blake,’ Price says, looking across the water at the two old men perched on the edge of old discarded crates. 

The closer they get to the men, the more he can see of them.

One of them takes a puff from the cigar between their lips, the grey smoke whipping to the left with a harsh breeze. There’s the stench of the rotten water below them, reeking of sewage and whatever else has been dumped in there (John might have an idea, but he would never tell).

The world is a state, he knows that as his hand firmly grasps the gun sitting at his waist. Blake stands with his back to him, keeping his eyes trained on the billowing smoke from the factory, a short breath escaping him as he hears his Captain cock the gun. 

‘I- I didn’t mean to, Cap’n,’ Blake says, glancing over his shoulder briefly, just long enough to capture John’s eyes. 'You know I didn't mean to... it's just me mind. There's something wrong with me.'

‘I know you didn’t,’ he said, rubbing his mouth with his free hand, ‘I know you didn’t, but you’re causing’ more and more trouble all because you can’t get your shit together, ey? And how does that look for me?’ he asks, ‘I’m your boss and I’m supposed to have all the power in the world and I still can’t control you, an’ look where that’s got us now.’

‘Cap’n, please, I- I’m sorry, I’ll never do it again, please.’

His pleading leaves him dizzy as he addresses the two men standing on the opposite side of the dock awaiting what he has promised. The business is terrible, he concludes.

Even the war was easier than this.

‘I- I don’t wanna die, I got a little girl at home an’… I wanna see her grow, I wanna be there for her when she needs me.’ Blake sobs, reduced to an infant himself. ‘She can’t sleep if am not there, Cap’n. A girl needs her daddy to read her a bedtime story – she needs me to chase away whatever monsters are in the shadows. And if am not there, how am I supposed to do that? She needs me.’ 

‘Are they her monsters or yours, Blake?’ 

The sobs escaping him calm for a moment and he feels his heart breaking in the silence. ‘You’re a good man. But they don’t know that and they don’t want to know that. I can't force them to listen cause you killed one of theirs.’ 

He bows his head, not caring to look John in the eye. He’s quite sure he can hear his heart pounding from where he is standing and the gun in his hand feels heavy. Too heavy. 

His big hands are balled into fists hanging on either side of him and in a small voice, Blake mumbles, ‘look after me girls f’r me, yeah, Cap’n?’ 

It’s so weak, something he expected to leave the mouth of a child – not a grown man. He manages out a grunt as he readies his finger on the trigger, sucking in a breath. To offer him a response seems unjust, there’s nothing he can say as of that moment as he’s all too aware of the eyes watching him. 

He lands with a thud as the sound of his pistol rings out around the yard, his body falling onto a boat passing by. His pistol smokes as he moves his hand to station it back to his side. The men sitting across the window offer him a half-assed nod as they push themselves up off the crates. They offer him nothing else: no condolences, no ‘thank you’ for what he’s just done.

No.

Instead, they head on their merry way, leaving Price to watch as the boat drifts down the canal, red splayed across the back of Blake's head. 

The sight leaves him feeling empty, like a de-gloved puppet. He has no purpose, simply sworn to a haphazard purgatory until the next time his violence is needed.

—

He's tired and he knows it.

Truthfully, he doesn't understand why he has even entertained your suggestion and the rudeness you exerted in the gallery has left him with a bruised conscience as he stands outside of the home, listening to the littered curses of the residents as they are pulled outside.

Tapping his foot against the ground, his mind is taken hostage by a woman across the street. Her blonde hair is tied neatly into a bun against her head and she seems much too disturbed by the fabric of her skirt. She walks with a sneer — uncommon for a woman as, typically, they know anything other than a smile is sure to make them an outcast.

And still, he's intrigued by her.

He's sure he knows her from somewhere.

And then he sees him. John Price, in person. He's walking with his typical arrogance: head held high, hands behind his back walking as though he's still in the position he favoured. The entirety of the man is a waste, he concluded. Nothing is redeeming about him and his desire to revisit the life he lost is simply pitiful to observe.

The woman he approaches looks at him and they share a few words before Graves notes that her eyes catch his own for a split second before turning back to Price. It's that that ultimately provides him with the go-ahead to approach the pair of them, uncaring for the commotion he's caused in the household behind him.

So, he crosses the street, putting on the brightest grin he can muster as he proceeds towards the pair of them. He doesn't need to be beside Price for the man to turn around and address him. Immediately, he's greeted by a casual coolness.

'Mr—'

'Detective Graves,' Price cuts off, narrowing his eyes. 'I've heard you've been looking for me.'

'That I have,' he nods, a smile plastered on his face.

'And to get my attention... you beat one of my men?'

'He wasn't cooperating.'

The woman beside Price pipes up. 'That's not what I heard.'

Her tone is thick and professional, and she seems to be just as much of a cynic as he is. 'Your men left him bloody and half-conscious in an alleyway. The barmaid had to help him inside,' Price says, 'I wouldn't call that not cooperating. If you wanted to speak to me, you could have asked me. But you didn't.'

'Forgive me,' he says through a huff, 'for not wanting to trust a criminal,' he adds, 'but I have reason to believe that you're the man who took a shipment of guns.'

'I don't know what you're talking about,' he says, 'an' Gaz told us about that. You wanna work with us.'

'That I do. If you're not a guilty man then it should be no problem.'

'No,' he says, 'not after how you treated him. You can take your deal and shove it right up your arse,' he says in an all too polite manner. 'I want no part in whatever it is you're doing.'

'But you'll gladly get your hands dirty for Blake, eh?' Graves asks.

The woman standing next to Price shoots him a confused look, her thin eyebrows bunching together in the centre of her forehead as her mouth hangs open ever so slightly. Rather than answer, Price places his hands on the woman's shoulder and begins to usher her away.

Graves watches as he does so, resting his hands on his lips with a grin. 'I look forward to our proper meeting, John!'

—

The coldness of the night seeps between the cracks of the pub as you ready yourself for your walk home in the dark. You give it little thought as you get ready to leave; it’s no different to any other night, aside from the one where John walked you home, of course.

You can’t seem to escape the thought of last night, and even though it was a measly day ago, you find yourself grinning at the idea of the pair of you walking side by side. Neither of you said anything, only offering a quiet ‘thank you,’ and ‘good night,’ when you reached your doorstep and left him.

And, as you’re turning off the lights inside the pub, you find there’s an ache in your chest that the pair of you didn’t fill the void with some form of conversation, although, you’re charmed that the pair of you could walk in silence and not feel the need to speak. 

Not even Graves can give you that. And he isn't the criminal.

It’s odd and you feel like a schoolgirl again, bumbling and stuttering over yourself while daydreaming about the bad boy in school. It’s corny, you know it is (that’s the worst part, really), and it certainly isn’t what you’re here to do. You’re here to find the guns and nothing else. The weasel your way into the mind of John Price and crack the code of what exactly has happened to the weaponry. Yet, you’d be a fool to deny the thudding of your heart within your chest every time you heard his voice. 

The pub is submerged in darkness as you shuffle towards the doors with a sigh, your bag slung across your shoulder containing the coins John offered you earlier today. There’s so much you could buy with the money he’s given you and you’re embarrassingly excited about the dress you’re going to get, even though you’re unsure as to what you’re going to purchase at this very moment. All you know is you’re dressing to impress, especially, if you’re going to be the woman who he has on his arm for the entire event. 

As you pull the first door open, you close it firmly behind you, locking the latch at the top of the doors, and pushing them to ensure they’re both securely shut. You nod to yourself when the door doesn’t budge, proceeding to head out of the door stationed in front of you.

As you push the door open, you are still at the sound of footsteps to the left of you, slowly craning your head in the direction in which you hear them. Still, you keep a tight hold of the bar on the inside of the door as you do so. There’s a shadow which covers your frame and as you slowly start to pull the door to a close, you jump as a hand plunges from out of the darkness, taking hold of your forearm. 

You’re pulled away from the door, a short breath escaping you as your forearms are grabbed. You stare the shadow right in the eyes, wincing as their hold on you grows tighter. You open your mouth with the intent of screaming to catch someone's attention, as, quite frankly, the sudden altercation has left your chest rattling and all your strength after a long day in the Hindsight has been sucked out of you. Only, the man standing before you quickly lets go of your arm, placing his hand over your mouth to keep you from crying out. 

As he cranes his neck towards you, you feel his hot breath on your face as he forces your head backwards against the door, keeping you completely pinned. There’s the faint smell of booze and smoke on his breath and he offers you a grin, showing off his yellow teeth.

Your mouth runs dry as you look at him in the eyes, unable to even move in his hold. The flesh in his hold feels as though it is rotting, and the horrific grimness of this situation dawns upon you.

You’ve never been one to be played as a fool, however, as you look at the grotesque man standing before you, you feel as though you’re about to burst into a fit of tears. You’re exhausted, you’ve had a long shift and all you long for is your bed. Yet, even the universe cannot grant you that one simple pleasure. 

‘I was hopin’ to catch you,’ confesses the man, his leg bouncing as he twitched with a peculiar excitement. ‘You’ve been the talk of the town, y’know? The barmaid. Everyone has been sayin’ how pretty you are and I wanted to see for meself… and they weren’t wrong.’

All you can do is stare as he addresses you as though you’re an apparition. 

‘They’ve said that John Price is real fond of you,’ he says, ‘and you know what’s the best way to get to a man?’ he asks, leaning closer as he lets go of your forearm, still keeping a secure grip on your face.

He beckons his head as you watch his hand disappear into the night. So, in an attempt to keep yourself alive, you slowly shake your head, hoping he’ll leave you be. 

‘Dumb girl – you got the looks but not the wit about you, ain’t that right?’ he laughs, moving closer and closer to you until his forehead is pressed against yours and you have no choice but to look him in the eyes. 

You feel him shift against you, a worrying action as he’s obscuring your view so all you can see are his sharp features and his bloodshot eyes. Your breath is caught in your throat as your mouth runs dry, there’s no sense of security in the eyes of a criminal like him, you know it, and during your fit of panic, you feel your body begin to tremble. He pushes his hand against your mouth harder, forcing your head to press against the glass on the door to the Hindsight.

‘Lemme tell you a little somethin’ about this business,’ he sighs, ‘us men like three things, you take one of them away and… well, you might as well shoot us there and then, yeah?’ 

You feel something blunt press against your throat.

‘Money, power, and our women,’ he claims boldly, ‘take that away from any man and he has nothing. And I don’t intend on keeping you around just cause you’re giving me puppy dog eyes cause you’re a mutt who's in with the wrong crowd.’

If he knew the truth, you’re unsure whether or not he would have changed his tune or if he would remain the same cruel man he is right now. 

'Does it feel good, hm? To work for a fuckin’ scamming lowlife?’ he asks, pulling away from you slightly, ‘bet it feels pretty fuckin’ good, ey? Since you’re choosing to stick around for him, anyway.’ 

An immediacy hits you as you note that you are going to die if you do not do something – anything: your mission would be all for nothing. Your spirit would haunt The Hindsight and an eternity roaming the ale-soaked halls of that pub leaves your blood cold and throat dry. You hear the gun beneath your chin cock.

‘Please,’ you whisper, and he pulls his hand from your mouth, allowing you to catch your breath. ‘Please just let me go; I- I won’t tell anyone anything.’ 

He chuckles, ‘The dead can’t speak, but the living can lie.’ 

A tear rolls down your face as you come to terms with what you’re going to have to do in order to escape him. You’re no killer, you don’t take yourself for one, anyway. Morality always comes first, however, when it’s between the choice of your life and someone else’s, should you really be calculating just how long of a stay you’re going to have in hell? 

You wince at the feeling of the cool metal being pressed under your chin, a burst of adrenaline shooting through you as you lift your leg, driving it right into his crotch. The pressure from around your face is relieved as he staggers backwards whilst you sink your hand into your bag, holding the handle of a blade in your hand before driving it into his stomach. The man grunts, his skin suctioning around the blade – almost pleading to keep the hole you’ve just created plugged up to avoid his immediate death.

However you show little mercy in the eyes of the man you perceive to be the devil, and if you have sinned, you shall address that in the afterlife. 

He falls to the ground, gripping his side and you stand over him, your hand falling from out of your bag as you hold your arms in front of you, teary-eyed. 

‘I- I- I…’ your words waver as you stand,  dropping your hand out of your bag. The gun he held to your throat lays on the ground beside him and you can’t take your eyes off of it. Truthfully, there was no innocence in what the man tried to do to you and you know that justifying his actions will only make you the villain. 

You are not a monster, but you are a murderer. 

The thought hits you like the first lick of light at dawn and you’re blinded by the sight of blood staining your hands. A voice rings from down the road behind you and you take that as your sign to leave. You have little time to rationalize where exactly you’re running to as you find your legs are carrying you before your brain fully processes the fact that you’re moving, resulting in a few clumsy steps as you rush up the road. 

You’re winded by the time you make it to the top of the road, and instead of taking the turn to your house just a few streets away, you stop in front of one of the doors at the top of the street. You intend to knock lightly, knowing the people in the house will not take lightly to such a rude wake-up call, but your trembling fist simulates that of the pound of a bailiff. You knock three times, your fist hovering as you go to do it again, all for the lock on the other side of the door to click. 

Much to your relief, you spy John Price standing at the door. He’s still in his typical business attire, only the top few buttons of his white shirt have been undone. Your eyes well with tears at the sight of him and you fight off the urge to throw yourself into the arms of a criminal as you stare at him with wild eyes.

You’re aware he can see your bloody hand, but he ignores it as he cautiously reaches his hand out to you, acting as though you’re a feral cat. You don’t move, only lightly flinching when you feel his coarse fingertips brush against your chin as he gently moves your head up to get a good view of your neck. 

His face settles from concern to anger as his eyebrows furrow. A tear falls from your eye. ‘I- I’m sorry,’ you croak, ‘I know it’s late a- and–’

‘Don’t be stupid, love,’ he said, wiping away the tear with the pad of his thumb. 

You wait no longer, throwing your arms around him as a sob rips through you. Your rationality tells you one thing: you’re not better than he is now, although, you’re unsure whether or not that is such a bad thing. He may be a criminal in the eyes of the law, but with how he holds you, you wonder what else he is beyond the label. He’s respectful with the way his hands wrap around you, one in your hair, pressing your head into his chest lightly, the smell of a discarded cigar haunting the fabric, whilst his other hand captures the wrist of your bloody hand. 

‘H- He was gonna kill me,’ you weep, your words muffled by his chest. ‘I didn’t know what to do, I- I wanted him away from me but I didn’t want to kill him.’ 

Your confession comes with silence, and you push your face away from his chest, looking up at him as though he is God, awaiting a punishment: eternal damnation.

‘Where is he?’ 

His tone is one of anger, one which desires retribution, a potent hunger which diminishes all signs of humanity.

‘Outside the pub,’ you mumble, holding his shoulders, ‘I- I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to–’

‘You’ve done nothing wrong,’ he refutes quickly, not giving you a chance to change his mind. 

Leading you inside of the house, he closes the door behind the pair of you, motioning for you to take a seat on the sofa. You do as he says and take a seat, your blood hand staining the fabric of your cream skirt. He pours you a glass of whiskey, holding it out to you. You take it and bring the glass to your lips, taking a small sip. The burning in the back of your throat causes you to wince as the sensation works to tell you that you’re alive: you survived. 

‘I- I was locking up and he grabbed me and… and pushed me up against the door,’ you say dully, ‘he put a gun under my chin, said he was gonna kill me b- because I was associated with you.’ 

John’s face falls at your confession. 

‘I didn’t know what to do. I- I couldn’t think straight and I panicked. I didn’t mean it, I didn’t want to kill him,’ you say, your voice cracking as you bring the glass back up to your mouth. ‘I- I promise I didn’t mean it. I didn’t want to kill him, but it was him… or me.’ He remains silent causing you to look up at him, your eyes creasing as you snivel, ‘I’m a murderer… a monster.’ 

The whiskey sloshes in the cup as it settles on your knee, more tears pouring down your cheeks. You're heaving for your breath, unable to keep your panic at bay. Strings of saliva cling to your lips as they part once more as your conscience seeks to defend itself further. Only, you close your mouth as John pushes himself off of the sofa, kneeling before you as he takes your blood hand in both of his, looking up at you. 

‘You’re not a monster, love,’ he breathes, ‘far from it,’ he adds, letting go of your hand as he reaches into his pocket and retrieves a handkerchief, gently holding your wrist as he begins to clean your hand of blood. ‘I’ve met monsters. You’re nothing of the sort.’

You seek sorrow in his eyes as he wipes the blood away, the tenderness of his action momentarily deceiving you into thinking the pair of you are in your fifteenth year of marriage. In reality, the pair of you are barely friends – strangers.

‘I’m sorry I wasn’t there.’ 

The word strangers seems cruel.

You let out a small laugh. ‘You weren’t to know.’

He chews on the inside of his mouth like he’s chewing on a stick of gum. ‘Shouldn’t have left you to walk home alone,’ he refutes, shaking his head as he turns your hand over, continuing to wipe away the blood. ‘Especially not after findin’ that on the handle of the pub. That was stupid of me. I’m sorry love.’ 

‘It’s okay,’ you say quietly. 

There’s silence for a while and you have no desire to break it. 

‘Stay here for the night,’ he says, ‘you can have my cot.’ 

It’s as though he's offering you his life. You sense something – it’s exuding from his pores in the dim candlelight, the fire to the right of the pair of you leaving half his face illuminated with orange, specks of white meeting your eye as you stare at him. He seems afraid, whether it is for you or something else, you’re unsure. 

‘Okay,’ you whisper, placing your hand over his with a smile. You close your hand around his, uncaring of any consequence. 

‘Good,’ he says. 

You feel compelled to answer him instead of falling back into silence, mustering up a quaint but firm, ‘It’s not your fault, John.’ 

You spy a brief moment of resentment on his face before it settles as he looks at you with thin lips and glistening eyes. All he can offer you is a curt nod, and you suspect that if he does open his mouth, the likelihood of him becoming reduced to a puddle of tears is startlingly high. There’s a peculiarity about the situation you’ve found yourself in, knowing the details of the man and the words that authorities have chosen to describe him as, criminal, murderer, failure.

If you possessed the paper right now, it would fuel the fire burning beside the pair of you. 

‘I won’t let anythin’ like that happen to you ever again,’ he says, clearing his throat. In spite of his best efforts, the congestion of his tone is blatant and you know better than to blame his smoking habits on the sound. 

‘It’s not your fault.’ 

‘It is,’ he insists, ‘you shouldn’t have blood on your hands. You don’t deserve the burden of it,’ he says, closing his hand around your bloody one, ‘it changes the way your brain works and… well, I don’t want that for you.’ 

‘This isn’t your burden to carry,’ you say, ‘I held the knife, I pierced his flesh. His blood is on my hands.’ 

‘Whose name did he say?’ You bow your head, unable to shake the feeling of guilt. ‘It’s my name that’s deadly, not your actions, love. He wouldn’t have done that to you if you weren’t associated with me.’ 

‘It’s unfair.’ 

‘It’s the truth,’ he says, the tips of his fingers lifting your head so your eyes meet again. ‘I’m used to it, love. Don’t lose sleep over someone like me, yeah?’ 

You ponder your exchange while he leaves you to sit alone with your thoughts for a while. Expressing concern for your safety was one thing, you’re grateful for his words of course you are, however, when you hear the voices of two other men and busy footsteps down the stairs, you choose to nurse your dry mouth with the glass of whiskey he poured you a while ago.

Kyle appears first. Had it not been for the sound of his pounding steps you would have taken the smile he’s giving you at face value – but you know better than to do that. Whilst his anger is not on his face, there’s a potency in his eyes appearing in the form of a minuscule shadow. 

‘Don’t worry, lovie,’ he says firmly, pulling the front door open, looking behind his shoulder as more footsteps fill the room. ‘You’re safe with us.’ 

Disappearing into the darkness of the night, you wonder what sort of sin he is going to commit because of your clumsy hand and desperation to live. Simon Riley is next down the stairs, paying you no mind as he walks through the door frame, nearly having to duck to keep his head from hitting the top of it. The door closes with a slam and you stifle a gasp, the whiskey soaking your upper lip as you bang your teeth against the rim of the glass.

Wincing, you pull your lips off the glass staring teary eyed at the closed door. You’ve never been so emotional in your life, an urgency striking you like a knife to the chest to flee from your vulnerability; to be a damsel in distress is to be everything you have desperately been trying to avoid. And still, when Price appears with a head of ruffled hair, you finish the last of the whiskey in your glass. It outstays its welcome, dragging its feet as it slides down your throat. 

‘Where are they going?’ 

‘Don’t worry,’ Price says, holding his hand out to you. ‘Let’s get you up to bed.’

You choose not to fight his words and follow him up the steps. He stands guard as though there’s an enemy in the house waiting to strike as you wash your hands in the water basin in the bathroom, your reflection split into fragmented pieces due to the shattered mirror on the wall. Your cheeks are stained with the tears you have cried throughout the night, your bloodshot eyes challenging the redness of violence in the remnants of the mirror. You spy your soul in pieces and your chest aches. 

Who am I? 

The blood is officially off of your hands after a generous amount of scrubbing and when you turn around, you’re greeted by the sight of one of John’s shirts sitting atop the closed toilet seat. You take it into your clean hands, staring at it. His kindness is striking and you feel little remorse as the straps of your ruined navy dress fall from off of your shoulders, permitting the white fabric of his shirt to wrap around you. 

Pulling open the door, you step out onto the landing with your dress balled up in your arms. ‘I’ll have Kate fix it,’ he says, taking it from your hands. 

‘No, it’s fine.’ 

‘Blood’s difficult to wash out, love,’ he says gently, ‘rather you keep your hands clean.’  The dress slips from your grip and he rests it on the banister. His statement is a reminder of who exactly you’re in the presence of – that the reports aren’t rumours but facts. 

But you don’t care.

Not when you slip into his bed, and not when he sits in a chair beside you, refusing to take the space you possess. Any other bad man would have been between the sheets with you in a heartbeat, and despite your attempts to protest, he insists on leaving you alone in the bed he sleeps in. So you settle with your head against his pillow, his hand resting just above your  head, mindlessly brushing his crooked fingers through your hair. 

‘You thought any more about what dress you're gonna get for the races?’ 

A smile forms on your face, ‘no.’ 

‘I’ll give you some coins, get you a pretty dress.’ 

Your mouth forms a frown. ‘Because you want to or because you think you have to because of what happened?’ 

‘Because I want to, love,’ he says, the chair creaking as he shifts. ‘I was thinkin’ red.’ 

‘Red?’ You ask. 

‘Looks good on you.’ 

Your cheeks are stained with scarlet and you lean further into the pillow. ‘You think?’

‘I know,’ he hums, the tips of his fingers resting atop your head. ‘But it’s your choice.’

‘Red it is,’ you say. 

The pair of you sit in silence as you grow tired, and when you feel his hand begin to pull away, you move your hand from under the sheets, grabbing his wrist. He understands and, without a word, he continues to brush his hands through your hair, sweeping stray strands from out of your face as you slowly succumb to slumber. 

John doesn’t sleep, however. 

Instead, he spends his time watching you. Every sharp breath from you is reminiscent of the gunshots in the trenches. How brutal the mind could be to one. He supposes it is simply his punishment for being unable to save Blake from his own. The destitution of the mind leaves the body with too little to spend. He wishes he knew that without bearing the burden of his actions and faults – without getting you involved. It’s a difficult life, but he’s a difficult person. 

The sight of you quells the beating in his chest, and as you sleep you pull your hand from out of the sheets. Sitting idly, he taps his foot against the ground while staring at your hand. The red under your nails, while subtle, sounded the scratching in his mind and he fell queasy at the sight. Reaching out his hand, he took yours in his, leaning forward as he did so and resting his head upon his free hand.

To bear burdens is his job: to hear the scratching in the walls before bed, to brutalize his men, to keep secrets. And now you’re here, he fears all his efforts for money and reprimand have been nothing but a waste of his time. 

𝙼𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚝

TAGS: (If you would like to be added to the tag list let me know!) @forever-twenty-two-years-old @iizx7y @phantomreadsandreblogs @talooolaaloolla @guiltgoreglory @corpsebasil @ferns-fics @racheldoyle

Btw I appreciate it's been a while so if you would like me to remove you from the tag list let me know!

(Once again I apologise)

[dawnfelagund]

At the Tolkien at UVM Conference this year, I presented a paper on Grief, Grieving, and Permission to Mourn in the Quenta Silmarillion. The paper is now posted on my website and the Silmarillion Writers' Guild. Here are some highlights:

The Quenta Silmarillion is a dangerous time to be alive! Eighty-eight named characters die ninety deaths in its pages. While some demographics are slightly better off than others, the key word there is slightly. No one is safe.

War is the number one cause of death in the Quenta Silmarillion.

There is a surprising lack of grief and mourning, and what exists reflects the bias of the narrator Pengolodh.

Characters disfavored by Pengolodh (or his patrons) don't receive grief and mourning, which draws attention away from their humanity and toward their deeds as explanations of the history of the First Age. (The Fëanorians, Aredhel, and Maeglin are prime examples here.)

Those who receive the most grief and mourning are those not just favored by Pengolodh and his patrons but often those whose deaths raise moral and ethical questions that threaten their legacy. In particular, Pengolodh likes to attribute some power beyond the grave to kings who make choices that threaten their people's safety but who, politically, are not subjects for his condemnation: Fingolfin, Finrod Felagund, and Elu Thingol. This piling on of grief shows that these kings' people regard their legacy as positive, and the posthumous after-effects negate the argument that they endangered their people with their choices. Instead, they are permitted to protect and restore from beyond the grave.

The complete paper has the full details!

[blueskyportrait]

I want to give a huge thank you to Sonya at @cyan-orange-studio for these wonderful pieces of art! This is vampire huntress Winter and vampire count Qrow set in the same AU as Sonya's Rosebird patron comic Blood and Roses.

These two commissions are a few months apart, with the second one being the most recent. I asked for permission to post them because I want to start making fanart of these two :3

Thank you again Sonya!

[deathbydyingpod]

$10 and up tiers on our Patreon will begin receiving mini Bonus Obituaries next month!

During our 2021 Indiegogo Campaign for Season 2 of Death by Dying, we rewarded our most generous donators with their own personalized obituaries, fully produced as though they were characters in Crestfall. They have all kindly given us their permission to share their stories with our patrons!

Each month we will post a new little taste of death. We hope you enjoy! And as always, our condolences.

Support Us on Patreon Today:

[musamora]

Hi, could I request some hc nsfw from Sigma if possible please?

𝖓𝖘𝖋𝖜 𝖍𝖈'𝖘 「𝔰𝔦𝔤𝔪𝔞」 ༉‧₊˚

content. f!reader. not-safe for work (mdni 18+), quickies, p –> v, semi-public sex, switch!sigma, praise kink, body worship, cockwarming. not proofread.

author's note. here ya go! hope you enjoy it (ღゝ◡╹)ノ♡

would you like to see more? join the taglist or comment under this post!

At the beginning of your relationship, you would definitely have to go slow and show him the ropes. Your first time as a couple will also be his first time ever, so you’ll have to take the reins and show him what to do.

For your first time—and many times after that—you’ll be having sex in the seclusion of your shared bedroom. Sigma is incredibly nervous about being caught by a staff member or patron, so you’ll be limited to the bedroom for a while.

However, once he is comfortable and able to properly lock (and soundproof) his office, you’ll have the occasional quickie in there. He is a busy man, but sometimes he can’t resist the urge to bend you over the desk and take you right then and there.

Sigma is a switch without a lean towards either side. It completely depends on his mood. Sometimes he’s had a difficult day and wants to be taken care of, and other times he wants to pamper you instead. 

The one major takeaway from every sexual encounter is that he wants you both to equally enjoy it. He is going to make sure that you orgasm at least once, regardless if he’s the dominant or submissive one. He revels in your pleasure as much as his own.

He will almost (regularly) cry a bit at praise and body worship, and he is absolutely touch-starved—skin-to-skin contact makes him quiver. He loves the feeling of your lips against his skin, praises leaving your lips. He needs constant reassurance that you’re feeling good, so each affirmation helps.

“F-Fuck, Sigma—feels good,” you moaned, rocking your hips upward as he held your hips tight. You cried out as he thrusted his cock into your sopping pussy. “Keep going, sweetheart,” he grunted, fisting the sheets as he bit back a groan.

Usually, whenever Sigma leans towards a dominant role, he is a soft dom. However, there is one exception. When he is stressed, this man will use you like a fleshlight. This is when the rough sex comes out, hickies and bruises scattered across your skin.

This man would love cockwarming. It’s simultaneously a relieving experience but such an intimate moment. He would cockwarm during his breaks in his office, and he would also enjoy it at night. He just loves feeling so close to you, skin-to-skin while you both enjoy your rare moments of peace.

He is such a sweetheart with aftercare. You will be pampered to the brim with the most luxurious bath salts, a personal massage, and something soft and warm to wear (he’d secretly enjoy it if you wore some of his clothes). You bring him so much love and comfort, and he wants to do the same for you.

taglist: @imhandicapableofmath @seisitive @solandiss @ruru-kiss @sillyspookycat

© 𝐆𝐔𝐀𝐂𝐀𝐌𝐎𝐋𝐄𝐑𝐎𝐋𝐋 2023 — do not repost or modify my works for any reason. do not steal graphics w/o explicit permission. reblogs are appreciated.

[dhampling]

For domestic/smutty ideas, how about post-game sleepy morning sex with Astarion? 👀👀

hello anon! i loved this idea. bliss. got carried away and wrote 1.2k words. thank you for trusting me with the VISION. c/w: 18+, smut, feeding, x afab reader, p in v

Muddling some rosemary and freshly-squeezed bergamot with sugar in an ornate short glass, topping with a lick of aged brandy.

The sun rises outside. Your heavy-lidded lover watches from the bed.

Eight months since the fall of the Absolute - the first six of which spent on the road, the latter two in your newly purchased Upper City townhouse - and every single hour by Astarion’s side has been a magic of the kind you once only imagined being on this mortal coil.

Your days consist of a hazy mingling of both light and dark; no set schedule. A hedonistic respite following the journey of a lifetime - well earned, as assured by the chamber of city councillors, who gave you a fat stipend from grateful patrons and access to Astarion’s long-forgotten bank account (which had been sitting accruing interest on his decent magistrate’s salary for two hundred years) so there’s no need for urgency in your plans. Just a desire to make up for lost years you didn’t know you were ever possibly missing.

Sheets half-ruffled over one leg, the other atop the crisp linens; he perches coquettishly on an elbow, impatient head resting on closed fist. The expanse of his body just as devastating as it has always been. Planes of shapely chalkened muscle, lithe in porcelain.

In your bed he looks phenomenal. Cattish. Lazy and swimming in the mindless bliss of inaction. 

You traipse back to bed and climb over him to your side, placing the aromatic on the nightstand. 

“Hungry?” You ask as you wriggle in and half-under the sheets to rest a hand on your abdomen, shifting your robe so it covers your own form a little better.

“Famished.”

His smile is pure syrup. Dopey and fanged. You reach for a sip of the brandy and angle your head for him.

“Feed, lover.” You grin. 

Ever-so-slowly his eyes fall from the hold of your own to the plane of your bare throat.

It’s a clean canvas, minus two blooming pricks enclosed in raised flesh, tender and flush; aching with his frequent feeding and your own neglect to heal in the aftermath. 

He flattens his tongue at the nape of your neck.

The gasping hitch of a soft groan. 

Cruises over the flesh from collarbone to jaw, wet as sin and winter-cool with his breath of frost; a reverent slow-dance, a chaste kiss in a cathedral hall. Late night on his lap by the docks. The only lovers left alive. 

The thin layer of lick fast becomes a shallow clear pool over your current wounds and it becomes apparent that Astarion is salivating.

Drooling. Plush lips; lust-bitten, meeting the thin skin in slow sodden kisses. 

Astarion lifts his head and your eyes meet once more as he lies just below you on his side. Reaches for your hand with his own, captures it in a twisting lock of his fingers. A sedate blink. 

Asking permission.

In response you simply bring your body closer to his, and cradle his head with the inside of your upper arm. Slotting your leg at an angle between both of his in anticipation of his familiar need for friction. 

You nod.

The initial blunt sting of his bite is as grossly nauseating as ever. 

A small gouge of the flesh, a tug of the skin, and his incisors rock the torn skin back-and-forth; little-by-little, to open you wide and consume. 

Blood intermingles with a coat of his own spittle and spurts pulse-rhythm from the holes into his wanting mouth; wet lips closing over your open wounds and suckling fervently. Your thick iron nectar paints the underside of his tongue.

Strings of expletives.

Praise.

The tips of his ears twitching violently in desire in the way you know that his cock will too. 

He whines in ragged yearning between messy swallows. 

You choose to feed him. To nurture, to please him. Tired and starving, you bring him to life. His want for you, his urgent need to consume you; his unending agony at the bestial nature of his condition turned innate lust by the fact that you choose him to bestow your lifeblood upon. 

Eyes still heavy in post-trance tire as he feeds. The rut of his hips, a sounding board he offers into your thigh mindlessly. You feel it and look to his waist.

His newly-ruddy cock head leaks a familiar pearlescent sheen as he cants his hips back and forth in a primal hump, christening your upper leg and his tummy alike with the balm of his sticky preseed; slit brushing open with each blunt thrust and gushing something ungodsly. 

You picture his euphoria as your own begins to bloom.

Feeding from you, weeping onto you; holding your warm form as if an extension of himself as he swallows, choking back praises as he feels you at the back of his throat, wracked with carnal fever.

Then he tears away from your neck with a hurried precision just as you feel the fuzz of bloodloss begin to settle. Sits above you and hooks a leg over.

When you dream, you dream of him like this. Laughing astride you on haunches, head thrown back; jawline firm with the hearty laughter of the morning gods and cascading ripples of amber through whitish curls. Swatting your curious hands from his divine face as you prod and poke, cock bobbing with his weighty tip bouncing against his abdomen while he reaches a hand to the apex of your thighs; and despite being so recently sated - he looks starving.

“What’s this, little one?’

His voice is pure butter. Palm, warmed by the heat of your blood; rests on the crux of your pubic bone with one finger settling atop your slit. Daring you to tell him to stop. You groan.

Then he dips just a little between them. A deep-satisfied laugh.

You’re completely soaked. Throbbing. Keening at his touch already, and he’s barely touched you; curling your hips to meet his friction and feeling the absolute shock of how wet you are in both warm cunt and dripping from the crimson drips of your neck. 

He slaps your ass and flops back to lie on his side.

‘Lie into me, dove.’

You shudder at the crack in his voice, shifting quickly to curl into him and feeling his cock hot against your ass. Hard. Your hole aches. 

‘Lift this leg for me now. Open up and bring it just -’

He brings your tense leg over his hip, giving his cock just the access it needs to penetrate the well of your desire. 

The space between you feels colossal. You try to shift back onto him and he allows it, the fat head you seek rubbing gently along your spill.

‘- there. Now.”

Astarion burrows his arm under your lying side and cants his hips back fully one last time, huffing forward and burying his throbbing cock between your legs with a brutal thrust, inch by inch, until he has settled at the hilt and you’re on the verge of euphoria-dazed tears.

He’s a man on his deathbed, a man seeing the pantheon of the gods for the first time as each movement displaces a ridiculous amount of your own arousal onto his milky skin. 

Panting, eyes lascivious and aflame.

You think you could spend eternity like this with him. 

It doesn’t take long for you both to reach your peak.

The white heat is incredible. Spasming together, coaxing every last bit of pleasure from the cores of your bodies; aching, whining, groaning.

In the aftermath you wonder if he feels the sun the moment you cum together the way you do.