#short summary of the beggar

[esevakendrabot]

The Blind Beggar

#theatre #calisthenics #theshard #thebay #theshield #theclonewars #thenailartstory #theoutfitscrapbook #theuntoldfact #thewoah #theshadowconspiracy #great #their #paulanderson #peaky #томасшелби #ريان_ميران #sajidali #therockworkout #vaginalhygiene

The Blind Beggar Story Long ago, there lived in Jericho a blind beggar named Bartimaeus. One day Jesus and his followers visited the city. They were crossing the road where Bartimaeus was begging when he asked the man what was going on. The man told him that Jesus and his followers were passing by. Bartimaeus heard many good things about Jesus and the miracles he performed. So he shouted…

[punkshort]

The Stranger

Pairing: Dave York x f!reader

Summary: An unexpected visitor barges into your new apartment, turning your whole life upside down, then disappears just as quickly. Or does he?

Warnings: infidelity is mentioned (reader gets cheated on by OC), language, threats of violence, heavy making out and some sexy situations but no smut

WC: 3K

A/N: When I wrote this, I had still yet to see The Equalizer 2 but I wanted to write an assassin fic and Dave was just right there. So, for the sake of this story, Dave doesn't have a family and he has a cover job. K bye.

Written for @undercoverpena April Showers Challenge

Collection Masterlist

Sunday Night

The apartment was small and a little dirty, but it would do. It would have to. The choices were limited on such short notice, and beggars can't be choosers.

The last thing you thought you would be doing the night before you started your new job was unpacking what little belongings you had in the middle of a goddamn thunderstorm. In an ideal world, you would have waited to move in when the weather was expected to clear, but when you walked in on your boyfriend of four years naked in your bed with his ex-girlfriend only a week ago, you would have moved in the middle of a blizzard if you had to.

That was how you found yourself late Sunday night drenched in a mix of your own sweat and rain, unpacking the last of your clothes from wet cardboard boxes. Making your bedroom the priority was a must. The last thing you needed on top of everything else was wrinkled clothes and a bad night's sleep for your first day of work.

If only you knew what your night had in store.

You were just starting to unpack the boxes for your bathroom, cursing under your breath when you noticed the towels at the very top and bottom of said box were soaked in rain water, when you heard a pounding on your door so loud, you almost screamed.

Nobody even had your address yet. Too embarrassed to tell your friends what your boyfriend - ex-boyfriend - did, the only people who knew you were moving were your parents, and they certainly wouldn't be blessing you with a surprise visit on this side of town after dark.

Tip-toeing out of your bedroom, your hair a half-dry and tangled mess, you slowly crept towards your door. Just as you were about to peek through the peephole, you heard the deadbolt unlock and the door swung open, only to be stopped by a laughably weak, eight link chain.

"Alvarez, it's me, open up," a gruff voice said through the crack in the door. He sounded panicked, but at least it wasn't a home invasion. This man just didn't realize Mr. Alvarez was no longer here and he must have had a key.

Combing your hair back from your face, you tentatively stepped into the beam of light that stretched into your living room from the hallway. When you locked eyes with your stranger, all dark and mysterious, your throat constricted. You could only see part of his face, just one eye and half of his soft looking mouth, but your heart still fluttered a bit in your chest.

"Who are you?" he frowned, eyeing you up and down, and suddenly you felt incredibly self-conscious standing in your own apartment only wearing your white tank top and sleep shorts.

"Excuse me? I live here. Who are you?" you countered, crossing your arms defensively. The man scoffed and tried to get a better glimpse of your apartment, as if he were expecting another person to emerge.

"Where's Alvarez?"

At that point, you felt a little bad. If this man knew Mr. Alvarez well enough to have a key, what you were about to tell him would be devastating, so you sighed and motioned for him to step back.

"Let me undo the chain," you explained, and he paused for a moment, his eyes lingering on your chest before taking a step back and allowing you to close the door and slide the chain off. When you reopened it, you finally saw all of your mystery man. He was decked out in black: black ski cap, black leather gloves, black jeans and jacket, and he dripped rainwater from each article of clothing, creating a small puddle in the thin carpet right outside your door.

"I'm so sorry, but Mr. Alvarez passed away a few weeks ago," you said sympathetically, and while, in your experience, men tended to be less emotional, you didn't expect his response.

"Well that's just fucking great," he muttered, and for the first time you realized he was out of breath. Red flags began to pop up everywhere: the dark clothes, the indifferent response to a friend's death, the fucking hand hidden behind his back. How didn't you notice that before?

You went to quickly shut your door but his hand shot out and stopped you.

"I'm sorry, but I'm gonna need to come in," he said, and your eyes went wide. Your parents warned you this side of town was bad, but the very first night?

"No!" you protested, putting all your weight into pushing on your door, but he wedged himself so you couldn't close it.

"I left something in here and I need it," he explained through gritted teeth.

"Nothing was here when I moved in," you said, still pushing on the door, "I have my phone and I'm calling the police!"

It was a lie. You didn't have your phone. It was still charging on your bed, but you had hoped that would make the man leave. Unfortunately, it had the opposite effect.

The door shoved open and you flew backwards, falling onto your back with a yelp, a sharp pain shooting up your spine.

The man entered your apartment and quickly shut the door behind him before glancing around.

"Are we alone?"

You scowled at him, about to lie, but you realized there was no point so you didn't say anything. He sighed and reached out an arm.

"I'm sorry," he said, and for the first time in your brief interaction, you heard some emotion in his voice. You stared hesitantly at his still wet, gloved hand before grabbing it and allowing him to pull you back up as you rubbed the back of your head with a wince. "You okay?" he asked, his brows furrowed and when you realized both his hands were visible, you relaxed a fraction.

"I think so. What the hell? Who are you?"

"I'm-"

He was about to explain when you both heard heavy footsteps running towards your door. In the blink of an eye, he reached forward and slid the chain back into the lock and deadbolted the door. There wasn't a second to spare because two fists began pounding heavily on the door from the other side.

You gasped softly and stepped backwards, eyes wide and filled with fear. That was when your mystery man pulled out the handgun from the back of his pants, silencer already attached, and your mind went blank.

This was how you were going to die.

"Open up!" a man's voice shouted from the other side as he began to kick at the door, making you jump. The intruder turned to you just as a rumble of thunder shook your building.

"You gotta make them leave."

"Me?" you whispered in a panic, "how do you expect me to do that?"

"They want me, and if they know I'm here, they'll kill me. Do you understand?" he asked, matching the volume of your voice while grabbing your shoulders.

Your lower lip began to tremble and he noticed.

"You can do this," he assured you, walking you backwards towards your bedroom as the shouting and pounding got louder. And as you stared into his deep brown eyes, you started to believe him. "I'm gonna hide and then you gotta tell them I'm not here. Can you do that?"

"If they just want you, why don't I just let them have you?" you asked as he continued to walk you backwards.

"Because they'll kill you, too," he said, his gaze never wavering. "These guys don't leave loose ends."

Fear shot through your body like the bolt of lightning outside your window.

Once he got to your bedroom, he released his grip on your shoulders and headed for your closet. He opened the accordion doors and pushed your clothes aside before sliding in against the wall.

"Just convince them I'm not here. You just moved in, you have no idea what they're talking about, okay?" he said, holding your gaze until you slowly nodded. Then he snapped the doors shut and shuffled your clothes around, leaving you all alone.

As you walked back towards your front door, you snagged a towel from the open box of bathroom stuff and wrapped it around your hair. You could do this. You had to.

You took a deep breath, your hand curling around the brass doorknob, and yanked it open, the chain still holding the door in place so you only saw a glimpse of the men in the hall, but you could see at least four.

"Can I help you?" you asked, trying your best to sound annoyed and not scared for your life. "You interrupted my shower," you added, pointing to your wrapped hair.

"Where is he?" the first man asked. His head was bald but you could see some stubble coming through, indicating he must shave his head.

"Who?" you asked innocently, and the man sneered.

"You know who."

"Actually, no I don't," you said, crossing your arms. "This is my apartment and I was enjoying a quiet night in before you arrived."

"Oh, yeah? You wear a men's shoe, size eleven?" the beefy looking guy asked, quirking an eyebrow as he stared down at the floor. Your eyes slowly drifted down and noticed a wet and dirty outline of your stranger's boot pressed firmly into the ancient beige carpet.

"No," you said, meeting his eye again. "But my boyfriend does. And he's out getting us dinner. We just moved in tonight," you told him confidently, squaring your shoulders and fucking praying the chain would hold if push came to shove.

You saw the men behind him exchange glances and shift their weight as they mulled over what you said. It was working. All you could hear was your own heart pounding loudly in your chest, the rain beating heavily against the glass windows of your living room, and in the distance, another soft rumble of thunder.

The bald man shot one more cursory glance into your apartment before meeting your eye.

"Must have the wrong unit."

You smirked.

"Honest mistake," you said, bravely holding his gaze as the group of them slowly ambled back towards the stairs. Once they were out of sight, you shut the door and twisted the lock, letting out a shaky breath. Your arms and legs were weak, head fuzzy from the adrenaline when you remembered a stranger was stuffed inside your closet.

Stumbling back towards your bedroom, you swung open the closet door, breath shallow and fast just to find him leaning up against the wall, a floorboard in your closet removed, revealing a now empty cash box, and holding up a piece of lingerie.

"For your boyfriend?" he questioned, and your fear quickly transformed into anger when you snatched it from his hand and tossed it on the floor next to his feet.

"Get the hell out of here," you told him, voice trembling.

He gave you a cocky smirk and pushed himself off the wall.

Gazing down at you, eyes flicking from your lips to your eyes, he lowly asked "got a towel I could use?"

You swallowed the lump in your throat and forced your feet to move towards the open box in the middle of your room, snatching up a clean towel and tossing it to him before pulling your own towel from your head and dropping it by your feet.

You watched for a moment as he plucked the ski cap off his head, revealing a thicket of dark brown, wet hair and used the towel to help flick away the moisture. Then your eyes landed on his gun, now tucked into the front of his jeans.

His gaze followed yours and smirked, thinking you were looking at something else.

"See something you like?" he asked, making you blush.

You swallowed roughly and took a step back. "Are you going to kill me, now?"

His gaze softened and he dropped his towel next to yours.

"No."

You eyed him wearily, still not believing him until he took the gun from his pants and tossed it on your bed, a good five feet away, leaving you both defenseless.

"Better?" he asked, and you raked your eyes up and down his body.

"How do I know you don't have any other weapons on you?"

He grinned and took another step forward, his eyes darkening. "You wanna frisk me?"

Your cheeks flushed with heat and you looked away, but he pinched your chin, the leather soft against your skin, and tilted your head back in his direction.

"Tell me something," he murmured, his eyes boring into yours, "you really got a boyfriend coming back here?"

He could see your face fall and he instantly felt regret.

"No," you said softly, your eyes now pinned to the floor with shame, "we broke up. It's why I just moved in here."

He frowned as he studied your face. "Why did you break up?" he asked, his fingers still gripping your chin.

"Caught him cheating on me," you told him. Why could you tell this perfect stranger your deepest shame but you couldn't tell your best friends?

He tsked and inched a little closer. "He's a fucking idiot."

Your eyes snapped up to his in surprise, only to find desire and need reflected right back.

Before either of you could overthink it, your mouths crashed together, your arms wrapping around the back of his neck and his hands pulling at your waist, dragging you against him as you devoured one another. Your fingers raked through his still damp hair, his skin smelling like the rain and sweat and gunpowder, the combination intoxicating. His tongue slipped past your lips with a groan, his exhale coming in quick, hot puffs against your cheek as he walked you back toward your bedroom wall. Once your body made contact with the chipped paint, he reached down and snagged the backs of your thighs, wrapping your legs around him while his tongue swirled aggressively around yours.

When he ground his hips into you, his hardening length rubbing against the ache between your legs, you gasped and tipped your head back.

"I don't even know your name," you whispered as his lips traveled down your neck, nipping and biting playfully as he went, the rain sounding like little musical notes against your singular bedroom window. He just moaned against your skin, his teeth dragging lightly over your collarbone while you rolled your hips against him, desperately some seeking relief for the fire he started between your legs.

He yanked you from the wall, a small squeak of surprise slipping past your lips, fingers digging into his broad shoulders as he carried you to your bed and dropped you down next to his gun. His assault on your neck never stopped. You arched your back, wishing he would take off those damn gloves so you could feel him when his phone suddenly trilled in his pocket. His lips stalled and you held your breath, each of you frozen in the moment wondering how you managed to find yourselves in such a compromising position so quickly.

"Shit," he whispered, reaching into his pants pocket, and you knew right then and there it was over.

He glanced at the screen and gave you an apologetic look.

"I'm sorry," he said, pushing himself away from you and snatching up his gun and hat. "I gotta go."

You sat up on your bed and pressed your legs together, hoping your face didn't look as red as it felt.

Before he left, he glanced back at you, his eyes falling to your mouth, watching as your teeth sunk anxiously into your lower lip, chin bright red from the burn of his five o'clock shadow.

"Thank you," he said, his gloved fingers clenching and unclenching at his side. And before you could respond, he disappeared with just a soft click of your door, making you wonder by morning if you had dreamed him up.

Monday

As expected, you hardly slept. Sleeping in a new place all on its own had its challenges, but after almost dying a handful of times within an hour, a good nights sleep was pretty much out of the question.

You don't know why you did it, but as you were getting ready for work, after a lukewarm shower, you foolishly grabbed the piece of lingerie your stranger discovered in your closet and put it on under your clothes. Maybe you wanted a reminder of him, or maybe you just wanted to feel more confident.

Arriving ten minutes early, the rain drying on the sidewalk but the smell still thick and heavy in the air, you strode up to the front doors of the financial consulting firm, hoping that the amount of coffee you poured down your throat that morning would be enough to keep you at your best.

The perky blonde from HR was showing you around the impressive building as she led you back to the department you would be working with. You were longingly eyeing the fresh fruit in the break room when you turned around and nearly ran smack dab into her back, stumbling a bit in the process.

An apology died on your lips when you found yourself looking past her, gaze falling onto an all too familiar looking man inside an office less than ten feet away, his phone cradled between his shoulder and ear as he typed into his computer, a concentrated look painting his impossibly handsome face. His dark, soft hair was neatly combed, his plush lips twitching into the receiver as his muscular shoulders stretched the fabric of his light blue button down, and when he reached for a file, his eye suddenly catching yours.

Neither of you looked away while he continued to give one word answers over the phone and you barely recognized that the HR girl was showing you your new desk. A desk right outside his office. All you could think about was what his hair felt like between your fingers, what his mouth felt like when he left those marks on your neck you had to cover that morning with makeup.

How he left you, needy and aching for more.

Then your eyes flicked to the shiny name plaque next to his door frame: Dave York.

pt. 2

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[iloveaustinelvisandmannymore]

Forever, mine.

Pairing: Astarion x reader

Warning: Dark themes, Smut, Concubine reader, Augst, Yandere Astarion, Possessive Astarion, Arguments, Creampie, Fingering, Bloodsucking, One-side love? (Fanart, not mine)

Summary: don't you know you're his?

You recall the first time you met your master, the white clouds blocked the warm light of the sun. You sat down at the edge of the path of the town where you were confined. Ladies and gentlemen alike walked pasted you, who would pay attention to a beggar? A woman at that who was covered in dirt and grime, hair rattan and tangled, with cloths holed and torn. You sniffled as your vision blurred, barely seeing people walking until tears fell.

That's when you saw him.

It was like the world slowed for his outworldly beauty. A ray of sunlight appeared from the cloudy day and shined upon him, a man of pale skin, white hair that was styled to perfection, eyes an beautiful burgundy, and he was adorned with the finest of fabrics, a smirk full of genuine confidence.

Your breath shorted as the man stopped in front of you once he noticed your glaze, the Heat of embarrassment flushed in your cheeks, and your lap became quite outstanding. Unexpectedly two fingers lifted your chin and your glaze had once again fell on the man. He kneeled on one knee and smiled softly at you to your surprise. Leaning back you surely smelled caused a frown on his lips. "You do not have to fear me pet. I wish you no harm, quite the contrary." his voice was as regal and enchanting as his blessed beauty, "Take my hand." he offered his other hand, you musted of hesitated more than he liked he spoke again "I know how hard this life is. Having to beg for the tiny bit of kindness of cruel people." he looked almost pasted you like he was reminiscing. "I'll take you away. You won't have to worry about your next meal nor surviving another cold, winter anymore.  For I will clothe you, feed you, keep you safe and warm. All your wants and needs will be met." he rubbed some grime from your cheek.

"What do you say?" you took his hand that day and his words rang true. If only you knew what it would come to.

The dancing of the candlelight shined light upon the sinful dance of passion you shared with your master, in the otherwise dark room.

Your mouth dropped open as you let out a strangled moan, Astarion's hold on your hips tightened in response. "My beautiful concubine." Your master growled as he lost himself in pleasure called you, his usual maintained curls, messy from the grip your had them in earlier, and laid over his ruby orbs, He was even more beautiful this way. "You ruin me!" He gasps as you clenched around your poor master, his thrusting stuttered before he began to pound into your squelching, wet cunt. The sent of your arousals and sweat thickens in the air "Harder." You bucked your hips "please, harder." You begged of your master and he surly answered. "As you wish my pet." He chuckled darkly as he throw your legs that rested around his waist onto his shoulders and bend down, driving his already deep cock deeper in your wet cavern. The world seemed to disappeared as your heated glazes locked together, it was just you and him in this moment of passionate, as you both reached your climax, he whispered her name. The name of his beloved runway, Tav, the one you were brought here to just replac. You faked a moan and a shudder, faking your orgasm as your master release his pearly cum deep within you. Filling you with everything he had but his love.

Disappointment and bitterness were a feeling you knew all too well and while he lay beside you it felt like he was miles away, so scared to get close, he saved you and he favored you yet that meant nothing, and it meant nothing as Astarion held you close, your head resting on his chest, snuggling into his side as the moon raised high in the sky. It was nothing and you would always being nothing to him.

As the sun took its place among the clouds of the day, you awoke to his disappearance, likely busy with his duties as the vampire Lord, and a note with your beloved master's beautiful handwriting.

My dearest concubine,

I regret to inform you that I will be occupied for the remainder of the day and night as there is no rest for rulers. I hope you will miss me as much as I miss you.

With love,

Astarion.

You sighed, pushing away the ache in your heart as you sat down on your vanity chair, and began to brush your hair. Despite being only a concubine, you were an extension of your master and you had to look of importance in your master's castle. Once your maid helped you into your gown your duties commenced. You were to make sure things were done to perfection, and that no mistakes were made to give people a slight idea your master reputation was not up to hold.

The kitchen bustled with life as the chefs and the maid prepared for one of the master's many ball events, which would feature various races. Your maid, Lyra, took notes as you checked with the chefs about the dishes. "My lady," she whispered gently, poking your arm to gather your attention away from the head chef's demonstration of the selected dishes. A familiar pale man smiled at you, his teal eyes lighting up as you glanced in his direction. Soren Nightingale, a young man who was clearly infatuated with you, and you felt the same way about him.

Soren took your hand, and you both ran to the garden. Your back hit the tree as his lips met yours. Little did you know, angry ruby eyes were watching from the castle window.

"This how you repay me!" Astarion hissed, slamming the door of his chamber, the moon had raised again shrouding the room in moonlight, "Giving another man love and affection!" He yelled, glaring at you with such rage that you stepped back each time he walked towards you till your back met the wall. "I gave you everything! My love was yours but how would you care!! You still love her? " you yelled back. "You forget yourself. You belong to me! All of you." He grabbed your arm and pulled you into a kiss, his hand tearing away at your gown and underwater, his rough kisses trailing from your lips to your neck, his sinfully hot tongue licking a stripe before his fangs pierced your skin. An unexpected moan forced its way out of you as your master drank from you.

You yepped as his fangs ripped out your neck and you were thrown onto his bed. Your face burned with embarrassment, and frustration as your pussy became wet with your arousal. "oh my pet~" Astarion cooed as he climbed above you, his body bare of clothes, "Your body knows it's mine, why can't you? " he mocked as his cold nimble fingers playfully dips the tip of his finger into your entrance. You glared at him, your lips curled into a snarl "I will never-" your words were cut off as your mouth dropped into a perfect o as his long finger finally pushed it away in. In no time his finger was joined by another as they curled into your sweet spot and they thrusted with practiced ease. Slick coated the silken sheets as well as your master's palm, the coming bliss of your orgasm was taken away as he pulled his fingers from your depths.

"Now we can't have that, you've been a bad pup." Astarion grinned wickedly as he saw the look of anger on your face, he wanted to prove a point and he would, lining up his cock to your core and without waiting slammed in, groaning as he felt your wet walls. You cried out, your body shook from his intense thrusts, his hips snapping, driving his cock deeper and deeper nor did he slow. The bed creaked under you as your bucked your hips to his ponding, and as his cock head hit your cervix, your sweet releasing finally washed upon you. "You belong to me and don't you ever forget it." Astarion growled as he slammed into you, his cock throbbing and twitch as his cum filled you in hot spurts.

You will always be his and he'll never let you forget it. He will make sure to let that little boy know as well.

[snowsinterlude]

˚ ᜔ ࣪ gone girl. 🪽 ͣ ͣ

(coriolanus snow x reader)

summary: coriolanus snow, your dear husband, was the prime suspect ever since you disappeared.

c.w: short, short fic, drama, mentions to cheating, mature content, coriolanus pov, mentions of blood and crime scene.

a/n: i may keep this idea alive if it doesn't flop. this is just the first part of the movie/book and will probably be a looong fic. thank youu

when I think of my wife, I always think of her head. In her shape, first of all. when we first met, it was the back of the head I noticed, and there was something lovely about it, about its angles. like a hard, shiny grain of corn, or a fossil in a riverbed. It was what the victorians would call a beautifully formed head. you could imagine the skull quite easily.

I'd recognize her head anywhere.

and what was inside it. I also think about this: her mind. her brain, all those spirals, and her thoughts darting through those spirals like fast, frantic centipedes. like a child, I imagine myself opening his skull, uncoiling her brain and searching through it, trying to capture and understand her thoughts. what are you thinking, Y/n? the question I asked most often during our marriage, though not out loud, not to the person who could answer. I suppose these questions hang like dark clouds over every marriage: what are you thinking? how are you feeling? who are you? what have we done to each other? what will we do?

standing outside of our home, by the trash cans, i decided to enter our home. asleep, she didn't bother waking up and greeting me, kissing me goodbye. I thanked her for it, for giving me the place to be the caring husband of a tired wife.

making my way to the clothing shop I owned with my cousin, I was forced to move back to the old penthouse in Panem when she called; grandma'am was sick.

“Tigris, I'll come back home. you don't have to take care of everything alone.” I said. she didn't believed me- i could hear her sighing on the other side of the line. “I'm serious, Ti. and why not? there's nothing for me here.

“And Y/N?”

I haven't thought about it. I simply thought that I could wrap my capitol wife with her capitol interests, her capitol pride, push her away from her capitol parents and everything would be fine. it wouldn't. of course it wouldn't. 

but would I admit it? of course no.

“Y/N will be fine. she..” I stopped myself before saying that she loved Grandma'am. she didn't. every encounter they had was a shock to both of them. Y/N would spend days dissecting a single conversation they had. “— and what does she mean with…” as if my Grandmother was a stranger to the Capitol, as if she was a beggar who was begging for something that wasn't offered in the first place.

and yet, with her wanting nothing to do with my family, i still thought it was a great idea to bring her to the other side of where we lived on the capitol.

“well, hello, your majesty.” Tigris said, sprinkling water on my face.

“your majesty doesn't like getting wet.” I said.

“yeah, fine. what's up, snowflake?” she asked. I didn't answer.

“i cheated on her.” i blurted out. 

“on who- on y/n? coriolanus are you crazy?”

“what- no! i'm not. i was tempted and-”

“and nothing. y/n loves you– or so i think. do you know what women do when they discover something like that?” Tigris looked at me angrily, and for the first time i felt fear- true fear. the more i thought about it, the more i felt dumb. my wife would go through heaven and hell if it meant she could have her vengeance on something that hurt her. “you better pray for her not to find out. we both know y/n is not that simple to deal with.”

🪫

it was our fifth year aniversary when i woke up with my breath warming the pillow this morning. i walked barefoot to the edge of the stairs and listened, playing with my toes on the thick wall-to-wall carpet that y/n hated on principle, as i tried to decide if i was ready to join my wife. y/n was in the kitchen, oblivious to my hesitation. she hummed something melancholic and familiar. i struggled to figure out what it was—a folk song? a lullaby? — and then i realized it was the theme song to virgins suicides. suicide is painless. I went down the stairs.

nothing is happy with her.

y/n spied the crepe sizzling in the pan and licked something off her wrist. she looked triumphant, the typical married woman. if i held her in my arms, i would smell red fruits and powdered sugar.

when she saw me looking at me in my old boxer shorts, my hair standing on end, she leaned on the kitchen counter and said:

“hello, handsome.” fear filled my throat. i thought to myself: okay, go ahead.

💋

i was very late for work. my cousin and I had done a foolish thing when we returned to our grandma'am house. we did what we always said we wanted to do. we opened a bar. we borrowed money from y/n for this, eighty thousand dollars, an amount that had once been nothing to her, but was then almost everything. i swore I would return it, with interest. i wasn't going to be a man who borrowed money from his wife — I could feel my father grimacing at the mere mention of the idea. well, there are all kinds of men, was his most damning sentence, the second half unspoken: and you're the wrong kind.

but it was actually a practical decision, a smart business move. y/n and I needed new careers; that would be mine. she would choose one someday, or not, but in the meantime, it would produce an income, made possible by the rest of the nest egg. just like the ridiculous house I had rented, the bar appeared symbolically in my childhood memories — a place where only adults went, to do whatever adults did. maybe that's why I insisted so much on buying it after being deprived of my livelihood. it was a reminder that I was an adult after all, a grown man, a useful human being, even though I had lost the career that had made me all those things. I wouldn't make that mistake again: the once-vigorous herds of magazine journalists would continue to be slaughtered—by the Internet, by the recession, by the Panem public, who preferred to watch TV, play video games, or electronically inform their friends that, like, rain It sucks! But there was no application for a rush of bourbon on a hot day, in a cool, dark bar. the world will always want a drink.

we called the bar The Bar. “people will think we're ironic rather than creatively bankrupt,” my cousin reasoned.

yes, we thought we were smart in a New Panem way—that the name was a joke that no one else would really get, not like us. don't meta-sack. we imagine the locals turning up their noses: why did you call it The Bar? but our first customer, a gray-haired woman in bifocals and a pink tracksuit, said, “I like the name. like in Breakfast at Tiffany’s, where Audrey Hepburn’s cat is called Puss.”

we felt a lot less superior after that, which was good.

I entered the parking lot. I waited for a strike to sound at the bowling alley—thanks, thanks, friends—and then I got out of the car. I admired the surroundings, not yet bored by the sight: the squat, light-brick post office across the street (now closed on Saturdays), the unassuming beige office building just below (now closed, period). the city was not prosperous, not anymore, not by a long shot. I dared myself to dream about the long-lost dream i had when i was young; dreaming that i'd be the president that would make Panem great again. that was something that had always been stuck to me. with me.

but now, watching the blood of my wife on the floor of our house when i arrived on our fifth anniversary, a chill went up and down through all my body as i searched for her, my eyes didn't even blink while i searched for anything that prooved me that she's alive; that she's there. and that it was just a prank; but she wasn't. the more i looked for her through the house, the more i saw her, but not physically. i saw her in the small things she put there and there when decorating our house, even on my office there were small things that reminded me of her.

i would never escape her. loved her too much to escape.

so, when the police arrived and searched through all the house– now, a crime scene– and determined that I was the prime suspect, i threw up.

[strangebutcher]

Exclusive || A Hobie Brown x Reader

[W/C] 1182

summary: You go to see one of Hobie’s shows, things go south at the end. 

content: Hobie Brown x Fem!Goth!Reader, angst, cheating, substance use, smoking, foul language, etc. 

A/N: It had to be done. 

You assumed that you and Hobie had an exclusive relationship, you’d never talked it over nor was there ever even a discussion about the mutual feelings you shared, but you felt like there was some shared understanding the two of you had. You were for one another and nobody else, or that’s what you believed. Tonight was one of those nights where you’d break the rules of the society and travel to his world with no mission at hand. Your cuff was hidden by a long bell sleeved top which you’d paired with a short skirt, I’m talking an inch longer than a micro-mini skirt. Hobie had been going on and on about a show his band was playing tonight, and while he hadn’t invited you you just assumed that he’d be happy to see you. 

Your portal has opened at the roof of his apartment building. He lived down the street from the pub which was serving as the venue for the punk band. From what you’d heard his band was pretty big, but then again he could’ve just been gloating so you weren’t sure what to expect as you ventured to the building. You could hear the music booming down the road which signaled you were growing close. A frown made it’s way onto your face as you spotted the long line of punks that stretched from the door all the way down the road. How the hell were you going to get in there? 

You found your eyes venturing to a window at the top of the building. A faint pulsing light shone from it and you weighed your options. Sure, you could climb through the window, but was it worth the risk for getting caught or even worse you flashing someone below you? Sure, you could try and wait in the line, but by the time you got in the show would be well over, so you take your chances and slip off into the alley. You hadn’t seen anyone looking nor even standing this way, so as you climb you don’t bother checking below you. The faster you get up the better. You narrowly slide through the gap and land in what appeared to be an empty room. You exhaust a soft sigh as you land on your feet, adjusting your skirt so that nothing is showing. 

Your eyes dance around the room, almost as if you’re trying to see if you’re truly alone and you are. You exit the room, the vibrations from the music pulsing throughout your body as you head down the staircase that lead to the floor. It’s at this point where you realize that the show is nearly over, but as long as you get to see him it doesn’t bother you much. There’s no way that you’d be able to squeeze your way to the front, so you lean up against the wall, your eyes locked on Hobie who was aggressively strumming his guitar on stage. It isn’t exactly your type of music, but hey, beggars can’t be choosers, besides you’d get used to it. 

At the end of the set you cheer along with the rest of the crowd. As people start to file out you attempt to push your way to the front, calling our for him, though when you meet this eyes your heart drops. Ahead of you, not more than a few feet, is Hobie and some girl. She was practically all over him, sure their lips weren’t connected, but she was touching him all over…and he wasn’t stopping her. For a moment you’ve got no idea what to do, so you do the first thing that comes to mind and speed walk in the opposite direction, pushing past an assortment of punks, trying to get out of there as fast as possible. You hear him call your name, but that only seems to make you quicken your pace. His voice didn’t seem caring in the slightest, it was like he was the one that was pissed off. Seriously? Who the hell did he think he was? He had no right. 

Maybe the situation was unclear, but it didn’t matter. You slid off into the alley besides the pub where you had entered through the window. You didn’t bother to cry, or even show your upset on your face. If anything you were mad, like you wanted to beat the shit out of him. You dig into your pockets, fumbling around for your pack of cigarettes and a lighter. It’s a miracle that you’re able to fit those in the pockets of your skirt considering how little room there is within them, but you make it work. As you light up you hear a familiar jingle that Hobie carries with him, you just pray that hopefully the sound is from one of the other punks still lingering around the venue. To your disappointment it was Hobie, the second he saw you he turned down the alley. There was no escape, you were completely cornered. 

The scene was much quieter than it was not a half and hour before, the hushed conversations don’t compare to the music that had been blaring prior to now. The air is heavy, though it wasn’t obvious if it was just the weather or if it was you. 

You couldn’t avoid his gaze for any longer as you looked to him, he seemed to be trying to figure out what to say as if he couldn’t begin to explain what you had walked in on. 

“I don’t think this is gonna work out,” You spoke before he could say another word, taking a drag the the cigarette which rested between your index and middle finger. It was like you could see his heart drop when you spoke. You expression was cold,but your heart was aching, that was evident in your eyes. His expression quickly changed to match yours, though he often looked pissed off even without a cause. 

“Honestly that wasn’t even-“ you cut him off, not even getting him a chance to explain. Once you finished your cigarette you were leaving, back to your earth with no intentions of ever coming back here again.“I don’t care, Hobart.” You had never dared call him the name before, not when you first met, not ever…until now. His jaw was clenched as you spoke, he wasn’t going to beg for your forgiveness when he didn’t think he’d even done anything to begin with.

“Whatever, Y/N. If you ain’t gonna listen, ‘m not sayin’ shit.” He was always hardheaded, the worst part was that so were you. You would go days without speaking to one another if it meant neither of you had to admit that they were wrong. With that, he walked away and you didn’t beg him to stay. He didn’t deserve that  and you didn’t owe him that. 

As you finished off your cigarette, flicking it down and crushing it with your heel, you pulled up your sleeve, preparing to go back to your earth. You needed a nap…and probably a joint too.

(Part 2?? Maybe?) 

[happilyfeatherafter]

Happilyfeatherafter's ficrec Fridays

In an effort to actually post on my own blog and not just tag rant I'm going to try and start doing what makes me happy - shouting about the fic I've read and loved recently! ETA: thank you @bloodydeanwinchester for the inspiration and impetus to share recs last week!

So introducing my ficrec Fridays.

5 January 2024 ficrecs

Beggars Would Ride by tiamatv was recommended to me by @ilarual and I am so glad I dived in on their suggestion. Combining two of my great loves, destiel and disney's Aladdin, this AU fic has an absolutely gorgeous depiction of a genie Castiel, in all his trueform splendour! Tia does an incredible job interweaving the two stories, with street rat Dean doing what he must to support his brother and his community, and maybe just maybe finding love and freeing a genie in doing so.

Everlasting by @entropic-saudade (art by @golby-moon) is a recent fic from the stabfest bang, featuring a grieving post-15x18 Dean, and a still adjusting to having Kaia back Claire. It also beautifully examines the parallels between Dean and Claire, and their joint tendency for flirting with people by comparing scars. Achingly romantic, Dean is looking for a way to bring Cas back, and Claire is seeking a momento of Kaia to keep close to her forever...and what's love without a little stabbing?

As A Friend by imogenbynight (@thevioletcaptain) is absolutely best summed up by it's own summary: In which Dean accidentally learns about Castiel's porn preferences, and one thing leads to another. With one last chapter pending, this fic is a smutty delight, in which a newly human Cas in a post-Chuck defeated world and a still adjusting Dean learn a thing or two about each other and decide the best thing to do is lean into it with a secret no strings friends with benefits kink exploration set up...what could possibly go wrong?

doors unlocked and open by sidewinder (@hawkland, art by @fluffsnake) brilliantly combines The Winchesters finale with a post-canon continuation, in which Cas has become the new ruler and embodiment of the Empty whilst Jack is busy restructuring heaven. But Dean is not finding peace, not even in Jack’s improved afterlife, and has instead been traversing the Axis Mundi in the search of his family...in search of Castiel. But there might be a new fate to await them.

tie your wrists with leather by kalmialatifolia is a short but sweet post-canon D/S kinktober fic, in which Cas gets Dean spread eagle in leather cuffs leading to this exchange which captures their voices so perfectly:

“Jesus, Cas,” is all Dean says, and then, as Castiel crawls between his spread legs, “They—they smell good. They smell…” He laughs a little, a soft huff. “Like the Impala? Kind of?”

Castiel snorts, putting his hands on the backs of Dean’s knees and spreading his legs just a little farther apart. Dean goes easy. “Yes,” he says dryly, “I thought you might like that.”

and if that wets your appetite for a longer form wip, then reclusive secret romance novelist Dean and Priest with a past Cas are getting up to all sorts in their fic Benedictions.

[scifrey]

Keepsakes

Status: Ongoing Ficlet collection; unbeta'd

Series: the Hob Adherent series

Fandom: The Sandman (TV 2022) Includes some comics canon, and some cameos from the wider Gaiman-verse (including the Good Omens and Lucifer television shows), but it’s not necessary to know to enjoy the story.

Rating: Mature-ish.

Warnings: Discussions of grief and in-canon character death. Some sexytimes. Some whomp and hurt/comfort.

Relationships:  Morpheus | Dream of the Endless/Hob Gadling, Eleanor | Hob Gadling’s Wife/Hob Gadling (past)

Characters: Dream of the Endless | Morpheus, Hob Gadling, Patrick the Bartender, Harriet Butler, Matthew the Raven

Summary: Short ficlets set in the Hob Adherent world, based on prompts received from readers. Feel free to DM me or leave prompts in the comments, and if it resonates with me, I may write up a ficlet! Thank you for the inspiration in advance.

Set amid the events of Cling Fast and Carpe Diem

READ ON AO3 OR READ BELOW:

Postcards

"So, a sword in Buckingham's army, a bandit, a printer, a shipwright and then a merchant middleman for the dockyards, a knight, a beggar, investment broker--"

"Slaver," Hob interrupts Harriet as she counts off his professions on her fingers one slow, sunny afternoon at The New Inn. "Call the thing what it was."

Hari offers him a sympathetic smile. They're the only ones in the pub proper today, as Patrick is off to tend his ailing mother, Dee doesn't come in Mondays, and Morph is having lunch with his editor.

"After which you were an MP and staunch abolitionist, a soldier again in America for the North, an industrialist and labor rights advocate, a yuppie and silicone valley early adopter--"

"Apple paid for most of this," Hob agrees, selecting a glass and checking it for water spots or lipstick stains.

"--and now a professor and publican. Am I missing any?"

“Oh!” Hob remembers as he pulls a pint for her. "And I was ruler of Hell."

She leans across the bar from her stool, and thwacks his arm. “Fuck off, you were not, you old liar,” Hari laughs.

"Was so!" Hob protests, setting her beer down in front of her. "Ask my husband. He was there. I was ruler of Hell for thirteen minutes and seventeen seconds on my six-hundred and sixty-sixth birthday."

Hari raises a challenging eyebrow at Hob over her pint glass as she takes a sip. "I won't believe a thing the Prince of Stories tells me," she says decisively, when she sets the beer back down. "And I don't believe you."

Hob pulls a postcard from L.A. off the bar back, where it's been pinned to a corkboard among a handful of others, all from the same city. This card depicts a cartoon devil drawn over a photo of the Hills, lounging on the iconic Hollywood sign. It says "Greetings from Sin City!" in bright yellow font.

Hob hands it to Hari to inspect. Her face gets drawn as her eyes flick over the handwritten note on the back.

"To my fellow former ruler of Hell; I did it! I opened a nightclub, just like you suggested. Visit me at LUX any time you'd like, Hobsie. xxx Lucifer Morningstar," Hari reads in a voice that grows increasingly strangled.

She hands the card back to Hob with trembling fingers. Then she shotguns the rest of her pint.

"So hell is real, then," Hari warbles.

Hob shrugs. "Everything is real. Humans create gods, not the other way around. If someone believes in it, it exists."

Hari nods thoughtfully. "I suppose you would know, being married to a god."

Hob chuckles. "Well, former god-ish. And don't worry, only people who believe they deserve to go to Hell actually do. Self-punishment or fulfilling prophecy, or something. I try not to think to much about that Celestial stuff."

Hari nods again, and without asking, Hob refills her pint glass. He has a feeling she's going to need it.

"But it is something I'm going to have to worry about," Hari says softly, accepting the drink with a nod.

"Not any time soon, I hope," Hob says, folding his arms on the bar top and leaning close to offer her a comforting look. "And when it does happen, I can promise you that my sister-in-law is gentle and kind. You have nothing to worry about."

Harriet runs her arthritis gnarled finger up and down the side of the glass, collecting up the condensation. "You know, that is actually a comfort." She looks up at Hob with a wicked little grin. "Especially knowing your husband."

Hob throws his head back and laughs.

[shujohajohaminnie]

Hi so for the smut prompts could you do 8 with lee know please and thank you btw I love your work

Hi of course I could do that, and I'm happy you're enjoying my writing it means a lot

Pairing: Lee Minho x fem!reader

Genre: Smut

Word Count:2054

Summary: How will this year's Christmas party turn out after you leave your husband wanting more than just a kiss?

Afab!reader, Profanity, pet names, Raw Sex (Wrap it before you tap it), Public sex (Kinda?!!), I think that’s it, let me know if I miss anything. 

This wasn’t the time or place, and you would’ve thought your husband would understand that. He didn’t. He warned you that you would pay for not allowing a quick fuck before you left your home. But you were already half an hour late to this party, so as much as you wanted to, you just couldn’t. Your husband wasn’t much of a beggar, you spoiled him whatever he needed you gave to him, Minho did the same thing, whatever you wanted you were gifted. He’d give you the world if you’d ask for it. You should have known not to kiss him before you could make it out of the penthouse. “Come on Jagiya” he begged lifting your dress slowly. He had to attend this year's Christmas party at work, and like all the other parties he requested you to be there. To not only make him feel less lonely but also to show off his gorgeous wife. Not only were you well known as the CEO’s wife but you were also known for always being dressed to impress. Every single time you showed up at the office to have lunch with him, spend time with him, or just distract him in general, you did it in style. This time was no different. You decided to dress festive this year around going with a short dark red velvet dress that sported a high slit on your right thing. Paired with a white faux fur shawl, with plans on wearing white silk gloves, dangly diamond earrings, a gift from none other but your amazing husband.

*Before the party*

He noticed the high slit on the dress, taking into account the lack of fabric you were wearing underneath. “My love?” “Hmm?” you hummed putting on your earrings as you walked into the closet looking for your gloves. “Are you wearing underwear” You shook your head walking past him and into the bathroom looking for your lipstick. “Why not” “I can’t wear any with this dress… not with the slit being this high” He closed his eyes taking a deep breath, you would be the death of him. He knew not to tell you to change. “You can’t see anything” You defended walking back into your shared room. You were right you really couldn’t see anything, you made sure of it. 

“You look so good” He whispered peppering your neck with kisses as he continued to raise your dress higher and higher. “Yes I do baby… but what about you” “What about me?” “This isn’t work hon this is a Christmas party… Your Christmas party” “No this is my Christmas party that you forced me to throw… so technically this is your party” “Even more reason to dress festive at least put on a red tie” “I don’t have a red tie” “Don’t you lie to me… what happened to the red tie I gifted you on our last anniversary” “...” “Please change” “I will not be changing but it’s cute that you tried” “Minho” “Weren’t you the one saying that were late” “Oh now you care” You rolled your eyes following him to the front door. He grabbed your coat helping you put it on, took your hand, and led you into the elevator. He stood behind you groping your body over the dress. You smacked his hand, pointing to the camera that was in the elevator. “You think being filmed will stop me, I’ll buy the building just to get that tape for you… add it to the collection” You shook your head stepping away from his hold as the elevator reached the lobby. “We can’t we’re late” You smirked grabbing his hand and leading him out. 

The party this year wasn’t as much of a drag as last year's. This year’s actually looked like an actual holiday party, with of course your help. You were running the night before making sure the venue Minho rented out for tonight would be perfect, exactly like the vision in your head. It looked like a winter wonderland. “Oh My God” You giggled as you walked into the doors, the snow machine set up by the entrance covering the both of you in glittery faux snow. He smiled down at you his hold on your waist tightening as you walked up the steps to where the actual party was being held at. “This looks amazing Jagiya” he whispered kissing your neck. His employees all turned to look at the both of you immediately in a trance as the long-awaited beautiful couple finally showed up. 

“Let's go” Minho groaned tugging your hand. Different year but the same attitude towards work parties. Always wanting to leave after being there for only twenty minutes. “Min” You laughed putting your hand on his face, your thumb stroking his cheek. “We haven’t been here long enough to leave” “But there's nothing to do” “How about you talk to your employees” “They’re all scared of me” “Yeah, because you won’t have an outside of-work conversation with them, and you don’t smile… let them see that pretty smile”. He forcefully smiled, of course, being a sarcastic smile instead of his usual charming smile. “If you don’t talk to them Lee Minho I will not give you your present tonight” “And tell them what?” “Ask them about their plans this Christmas and New Year’s, bond with them… that's what these parties are for anyways”. He groaned letting go of your hand taking his drink and walking towards the group of people that called him boss. 

Whatever you wanted you were gifted.

He came back with a smile, leaving a crowd of people laughing at what you could only assume was one of his famous stories. “Do you feel better” “Much” he smirked taking your hand and leading you away from the main hall. Towards a door that separated you from the rest. He led you inside, In the middle of the room was a desk the rest of the room was filled with extra decorations for your party. This must’ve been the owner of the venue’s office. He closed the door behind him, leading you to the desk. He took a seat in the leather chair, you stood in front of him, in between the desk and him. “Sit” “Where?” You looked around the wasn’t another chair in sight so where the hell could you possibly sit? “Here” he patted onto the wood of the desk. You smiled following his directions crossing your legs in front of him. “I want my present now pretty” “Min… not here” You giggled resting your hands on his shoulders as he scooted in closer to you. “Yes baby… here” “Min…” “Open your legs for me baby” he whispered placing his cold hands on your knees. Slowly forcing them apart. “I wanna see you” He pouted looking at you. How could you deny him? 

Whatever he needed you gave to him. 

He smiled at the sight in front of him, your bare pussy already glistening with your wetness. “What got you like this baby” he whispered spreading your labia to reveal your needy clit. “You baby only you” And it was the truth not only could Minho get you wet in seconds at the sight of him in a suit but also at the sight of him enjoying himself around the people around him. It sounded weird, but you really loved seeing him happy. Really happy. He lowered his head inches away from where you wanted him. “Please Min… I need you” “Where do you need me Jagiya… here” He kissed the inside of your thighs, slowly sucking the skin. “Or here” he teased moving on to the other thigh” “H-Here”  You moaned pushing his head against your pussy. He didn’t waste time at all, doing figure eights on your sensitive bud while his index finger circled teasingly around your hole. 

You quickly took off your shawl and gloves pulling down your dress to reveal the lack of bra as well. “My dirty dirty girl… you wanted me to do this to you didn’t you” He moaned against your pussy pushing his fingers in and out of you and a steady pace. You nodded throwing your head back as you let out the most pornographic moan the closer and closer he brought you to your orgasm. You didn’t worry about people hearing the two of you, not with how loud the music was playing, but so what if they did? You two wouldn’t be the first one caught fucking at the Christmas parties. “M-min I’m c-close” “Cum for me baby, cum on my face” How could you not listen to his instructions when he talked to you like that. He sounded so dirty, so sexy. You came on his face and fingers, and he didn’t waste one drop of it. Licking you completely clean. 

He smirked coming up to kiss you on the lips, his hand pushing you deeper and deeper into the kiss. You can taste yourself on his lips and tongue. “You taste so good baby” he spoke lowly in between the kiss. Undoing his belt and pants simultaneously. He didn’t warn you, before sticking his tip in between your lips and into your hole completely filling you. You dug your nails into his shoulder, even with his shirt still on you knew he still would have dents. He hissed at the sting it felt so good yet so painful. But he couldn’t complain not when he was doing the same to your hips. “Fuck” he sighed at the feeling of your tightness around his pulsating cock. No matter the amount of times you fuck in a year, month, day, or hour he could never get tired of the way you felt around him. The feeling of him filling you up every single time. It was like every time was the first. “You ready baby” He whispered against the skin of your neck. You nodded slighting tugging at the hair on the nape of his neck. “Fuck me Min” That's all he needed to hear before beginning to slide in and out of you. You may have never asked for the world but he always gifted you heaven when you made love. 

You gripped his back pulling him closer as he continued to thrust in and out of you. Obeying your every command of ‘harder’ and ‘faster’. Both the feeling of him going in and out of you at a fast rate paired with the dirty profanities he muttered, moaned, and groaned into your ear drawing you closer and closer to your peak. “FUCK MIN” You screamed squeezing around him. You didn’t have to say it he knew you well enough to know ‘that’ meant you were ready. He bit his lip, getting closer and closer, his legs growing weak and his thrust turned sloppy. “C-cum” he barely whispered but you heard him, even with the loud music outside that door you heard him. You came around him, Minho filling you up with his cum. 

“Boss… we wanna know if you and the misses wanna make a” The door opened to reveal one of his newfound friends. “Toast” “Shit” His employee closed the door quickly, his head resting against it. “Sorry… I should’ve knocked” “It’s fine Felix we’ll be there in a second” Minho muttered pulling out and picking up his pants tucking in his shirt and putting on his suit jacket once again. He grabbed a hand full of tissues quickly cleaning you up. You both knew with the lack of underwear to hold in his cum, it will no doubtly be leaking down your thighs. But you couldn’t do anything anymore, not with a crowd of people waiting for both of you to make a toast. 

“Merry Christmas Mr. Lee” You whispered taking his hand in your smiling as you both came out of the office. “Merry Christmas Mrs. Lee” He pecked your lips leading you back to the main hall. 

[velvetmel0n]

I Slithered Here From Eden; Prologue

Summary: The Embassy’s newest intern has a run in with everyone’s favorite Colonel

Word count: 1.2k

Warnings: I haven’t written in like two years so enter at your own risk, idk man age gap??? Reader has graduated college and is like midish twenties, neither party wants to pine but oh well, the university girl and the colonel tag is becoming a fic

A/N: Consider this like a teaser trailer for the feature length fic coming soon to a screen near you......I’m putting my clown wig on as we speak

@vladviago @alexxavicry @nessamc @hallothankmas @mamacitapascal @morguleth @venusandromedadjarin @watsonwise @mserynlarsen @brihhhhhh @millllenniawrites @bookshelvesandteacups @littleferal @feelmyroarrrr @maybege @wretchedwisteria @oldstuffnewstuff @miss-me-jack @plexflexico @writefightandflightclub  @visintaes @mapache-lector @goldafterglow @hansoulo @mylifeliterally @adverbedly @spoopyredacted @pikemoreno @perropascal @shadow-assassin-blix @veracruz-miller @flightlessangelwings @themarcusmoreno​

You’re too focused on the files in front of you to notice his entrance, mind too full of manila folders and grainy photographs, trying to divine an organizational system that makes sense to more than just you from redacted words and red ink. Trying to make sense of how things work in this place where the green of the jungle and the humidity are each living, breathing things— so unlike the sleepy college town you’d been imported from, courtesy of the Embassy. Professional internship, they had called it. Your reward for all the sleepless nights over the years, studying into the small hours of the morning to graduate well within the top of your class, several minors and certificates tacked along behind your actual major because you wanted to be good. Wanted to save the world, wanted to weasel your way into international politics and diplomacy and communications because you thought that changing it from within, from the room where it happened, would be the best strategy. 

And you still do, but sometimes you wish saving the world came with better coffee. You don’t bother hiding the grimace as you gulp it down, too bitter and burnt for the cheap, breakroom creamer in the little plastic cups to really touch it but it’s still your second cup of the day and beggars can’t be choosers. In the short weeks since your arrival you had gotten used to the acrid taste, the way it liked to stick to your teeth. It seems to underscore your work in times like these, when it’s barely ten o’clock in the morning and you’re already frustrated, ran fifteen minutes late because you thought you could walk to the Embassy this morning, wanted to enjoy the sights and sounds of the city waking from its fitful sleep. You made three wrong turns before you’d admitted defeat and caught a taxi. 

But you had made it and you’re here now, engrossed in your work, lost to the outside world until a voice sounds from right in front of you, cutting through the din of the office because he’s actually addressing you in a voice you’ve never heard before. You can’t help the way you jump, heart tripping over itself and one of the papers in your hand slicing across the pad of your thumb, right down the middle.

“Colonel Carrillo,” Because you know who he is, had been given a run down on all the important players when your plane had landed so you’d be able to hit the ground running, wouldn’t have to wait for formal introductions that may never come. He looks the same as he did in the photo you were shown, right down to the uniform he’s wearing, but you’re seeing him in the flesh now, can see the true breadth of his shoulders and the way he seems to fill the whole room up. Can see the way the coworkers who’ve noticed keep sneaking glances from the corner of their eye, like they want to look but don’t want the full weight of his attention on them. 

Because it is a weight, thick and heavy and warm as it settles on your eyes, your skin. 

“What can I do for you?” You can feel heat rising up the back of your neck but you rally, proud when there’s no quaver in your voice despite the way you almost jumped out of your skin. This is what you do, after all. Your job. You did not come here just to shake like a leaf at the sight of Escobar’s own personal boogie man, the man you’ve been hearing stories about since you arrived. Mean, they say. Brutal. And you have half a mind to believe them, of course, because this is Colonel Horacio Carrillo. The one person in charge of the Search Bloc, the man leading the war on the ground.  

But his voice is soft as he speaks to you, so at odds with the harsh lines of his face, the set of his jaw. “Get these to Peña and Murphy,” No please, no thank you as he hands the small stack of files over, just the silent expectation that his orders will be fulfilled. 

His fingers are warm and rough as you take the files from him, skin brushing skin and for some reason that small touch, that one small feel of him, makes your breath catch and something dangerous prickle across your skin. You try not to think about it the same way you’re trying not to think about the blood that’s surely blooming on your thumb, the little ache that’s underscoring everything that’s happening, the throb underneath the skin. The same way you’re trying not to think about the heat that’s begun pooling low in your belly, the way the hair on the back of your neck is standing up because he hasn’t looked away from you once. Not once, and the realization makes it a little harder to breathe.

“I’ll make sure they get them,” You hope your smile is easy, if a little bland. Hope he can’t read anything else in the curve of your lips because the last thing you need is him. Older and meaner than you have any right to want. Dark in a way you can’t quite fathom yet, the kind of dark that justifies the means to an end everyone in this building wants to see. An end you want to see. 

He nods once, a simple dip of his chin and what might have been a murmured ‘thank you,’ and you don’t look at his shoulders as he walks away. You don’t look at how he moves, how people get out of his way long before he reaches them. He’s something quiet and seething and it shouldn’t make your mouth water, the latent power that you already know lies just beneath his skin. It shouldn’t make something low in your belly quiver, almost in time with the throbbing of your thumb. 

You swipe the blood way with your tongue, sucking on the cut until it stops its slow drip, taking care not to get any on the paperwork spread around you. It tastes like pennies and the coffee that had spilled over the rim of your cup when you’d walked back to your desk. It tastes like Carrillo’s name. 

You don’t see him for the rest of the week but you can’t keep him out of your head, his voice haunting you when it’s late at night and the air is warm and heavy, when the shadows can keep your secrets. You blame it on the fact that you’d never met someone like him before, never seen someone like him before— so big and solid with that scowl on his face.

 You don’t want to know what it says about you that he’s the one that you can’t stop thinking about, not Peña or even Murphy, or any of the other men at the Embassy you see on a semi-regular basis. You don’t want to know what it says about you that instead of wanting one of them, a good portion nice-enough-seeming and closer to your age bracket, you want the Colonel. 

You don’t know that he’s thinking about you either, so bright and soft he didn’t know what he was looking at, at first. You kept your word though, getting the files to Peña and Murphy as soon as you could, and he tells himself that's why he comes back to you when he needs something else. Why he keeps coming back until he learns your name, until you smile when you see him and start asking how his day is going. 

[fizzyxcustard]

What Is Possible.

Masterlist of fan fiction

Anything is Possible chapters: Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7

Fandom: Robin Hood (BBC TV series)

Pairing: Guy of Gisborne x Fem!Reader

Warnings: Fluff, happy ending, family reunion, slight angst

Summary: Sequel to the fic, "Anything Is Possible." You and Guy are now married and have a one year old daughter, named Ghillie. You all go travelling together to see your parents who you have not seen for 18 months, since your interrupted wedding to Lord Edmund.

Comments: If you would like to be added to or removed from my tag list, please let me know.

I would like to dedicate this fic to two close friends. Firstly, @piggledy-higgledy who is the biggest Guy of Gisborne fan I know, and suggested the name of the baby. Thank you for believing in me. Secondly, @the-fragile-heart-of-a-lady I absolutely love our Guy banter and talking about him being jealous and burning houses down. I love you both. <3

“Ghillie,” you cooed. “Come on, darling.” 

The little girl giggled, her blue eyes focused on you. You reached out, encouraging her to come toward you. Then suddenly she began her unsteady stomps, her arms reaching up. But now her focus had shifted to just behind you. She wanted her father. 

Guy had walked in from out the back of the house, where he had been readying the carriage for all three of you to make the journey to finally see your parents. As soon as he saw his daughter’s chubby hands reaching for him, he couldn’t resist. Ghillie continued chuckling, stomping unsteadily towards Guy. 

You watched on in love as Guy scooped up the laughing one year old. He kissed her red cheek and then her almost-black hair. 

“The carriage is ready,” he said, holding Ghillie in one arm and then wound his other arm around your waist. 

Your mother and father had been in contact via letter now for around eighteen months, and today would be the first time that you all travelled as a family to see them. The town they were now living in was two day’s journey, but with a stopover at a small inn on the main road. 

The journey itself was quite uneventful for the most part. You sat with Ghillie on your lap, singing and talking to her, while Guy remained the steerer of the carriage. Every couple of hours and you would stop for a drink and to nurse Ghillie. The weather was bright, mild and dry, perfect for travelling. 

At the inn and Guy paid for a large suite for you both and Ghillie. There you all shared the large, four poster bed. 

“I wonder if this is the honeymoon suite,” Guy mused. “Not that I’d bring my bride here.”

You laughed. “Beggars can’t be choosers sometimes, Guy. Not everyone has the means to live in luxury.” 

Guy merely smirked and leaned over to you, kissing you. Ghillie was sat between you both, playing with her stuffed pony which Mary had made for her. Since your interrupted wedding to Lord Edmund, Mary the seamstress, had been a close friend. She had become almost a second mother to you, helping you in your questions towards motherhood. She was also Ghillie’s godmother. 

A short while later and you and Guy lay on your sides facing each other, with your sleeping daughter between you both. “I never thought this would be possible,” you said. “I seriously never thought I’d ever be happy like this.” 

Guy reached to you and laced his fingers through yours. He smiled and looked at your joined hands. “You’ve given me everything I ever wanted.” Then his steel blue eyes met your gaze. “I don’t deserve you or Ghillie, I know that…” 

“Guy, please…” 

“I don’t,” he continued. 

“Shh, come here, you stupid man,” you hissed. You kissed him hard, tugging at his thin tunic. 

“I do love it when you take charge,” Guy chuckled. “And when you scold me.” 

***

Finally you made it to your parents’ village. Guy took the carriage slowly through the main muddy track, where small houses were built on either side. There was a tavern, a blacksmiths and a few stalls in a field behind a chapel. 

Then you saw her from the small window of the carriage, your mother standing out the front of their house, waving to you. She was smiling broadly, something that she rarely did when she was in Nottingham. 

“Come on, Ghillie. I’ve got someone very special for you to meet,” you told your daughter. You picked her up and then stepped out of the open door of the carriage, which had been opened for you by Guy. In one arm you propped Ghille, and with your other hand, you held Guy’s. 

Your mother broke down into tears as she saw you, and then looked at her granddaughter. “C…can I hold her?” your mother asked. 

“Of course you can,” you said. 

You watched for a few seconds as your mother smiled at Ghillie, whispering ‘hello’ to her and then kissed her chubby fingers. “Her name is Ghislaine,” you said. “Ghislaine Sarah.” 

Your mother looked at you with wide eyes upon hearing Ghillie’s middle name be the same as her own. 

“Ghislaine was my mother’s name,” Guy said softly. “But we call her Ghillie for short.” 

“I can’t deny it but she looks just like you,” your mother chucked, looking up at Guy. 

You all went into your parents’ house and sat down in the main kitchen area, while your mother began preparing a kettle of tea. “Your father hopes to finish work up in the field a little earlier today. Are you planning on staying with us long?” 

“Umm, well, as long as you’ll have us,” you replied. “We’ve packed enough provisions for a week, and Guy is able to stand down from duty for a fortnight.” 

“We would love to have you permanently,” your mother laughed. “A week sounds perfect.” Ghillie was sat on your mother’s lap, having taken to her immediately, which was quite extraordinary as she normally didn’t like strangers. But your mother was the first person she had met without screaming. 

Your father later entered the house and embraced you tightly. It was the first thing he did. Then he apologised to you for all the heartbreak he had caused. “I was a coward. I know that. Edmund held a lot over me for years; he offered me money so that he could have you. That morning, I just knew what I had to do.” 

Your father hung his head in shame and then looked at Ghillie. “She’s beautiful,” he said softly. Then he looked at Guy. “Thank you for making my daughter happy, Gisborne.”

As dusk began to settle, your father took Guy down to the local tavern for a pint, while you remained at the house with your mother and Ghillie. Your mother was cleaning the pot from the stew she had made for dinner, while you dried the plates. Ghillie was sat on the floor, playing with her pony and a few toys that your mother had collected for your visit. The toys banged against the wooden floor, and with each bang, Ghillie giggled. 

“How are you and father doing?” you asked. 

“He knows I still hold resentment against him for what he did to you, but I pray often with the priest at the chapel. I want to let go of all the hate in my heart. It can be hard to live with him some days. All I can see is the coward that he was for so long.” 

“But he’s not that man now,” you countered. “Look what he did for me; that’s not the action of a coward. He saw what he was doing and he changed.” 

Your mother began to sob. 

You took her into your arms and held her, feeling her shake. “I think I hate myself more.” Her voice was muffled by your shoulder. 

“Mother, please,” you reasoned, pulling from the embrace. “I hold nothing against either of you for this. We know how hard things can be; father wanted to provide for the family. Edmund was a monster and he held sway over father with money. You can’t blame father for that. Money holds a lot of power, we all know that. I wish Guy would consider changing his work, but the money keeps us well provided for. You have to do what is right for your family. 

“Does he take care of you?” 

The instantaneous smile told your mother everything that she needed to know. “He dotes on us. Guy had quite a bad childhood and all he’s ever wanted is love in his life. I’ve never known a man with such an enormous heart. He seems like a walking contradiction in how cruel and callous he’s been known to be, yet with us, he would do anything we ask of him.” 

“As long as he cares for you both, that’s all that matters.” 

***

When your father and Guy arrived back from the tavern, the two of them were laughing. “It’s been a pleasure tonight, Gisborne,” your father said, and extended his hand. The two men shook hands, and it was here that you hoped the two of them would always have a good friendship. 

You retired to bed a while later, with Ghillie between you and Guy. She was already asleep, having been worn out from the day’s events. 

“Mother has said she will take Ghillie for a few hours tomorrow so that we can have time alone together,” you told Guy. You watched his face beam, and then his gaze drifted down to Ghillie. His fingers caressed her dark hair and he felt that all too familiar lump rise in his throat. It was the lump that reminded him of what was possible. 

“Are you alright?” you whispered. 

Guy’s gaze met yours, and it was now full of tears. 

“Do not say again that you feel undeserving,” you sighed. “Life does not deal in who deserves and who doesn’t. I gave my love to you freely, as you did me.” You reached out and cupped your husband’s cheek. “We both love you, Gisborne. We both love you for everything you are.” 

Guy couldn’t help but chuckle, and feel the tears fall down his cheeks. “I can’t even imagine what it would have been like if you had had Ghillie while married to Edmund. To see my child raised by another…”

“Guy, stop!” you exclaimed. “I didn’t marry Edmund. I married you. Ghillie is yours; she’s here with you every day. She carries your name, as do I, you stupid man.”

Guy smiled as you said those words again, playfully insulting him. 

“Give me that smile, Gisborne,” you said softly, and reached closer, kissing him. 

***

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[vulpes-fennec]

Prythian's Fantasia 🎪 (Ch. 3)

Summary: It’s 1889. Desperate to save her ailing mother’s life, Feyre strikes a bargain with ringmaster-witch doctor Amarantha. As the Archeron sisters join Prythian’s Fantasia and head for the World’s Fair in Paris, they begin to realize the circus’s magic runs far deeper than its enchanting nightly performances.

Previously: The Archeron sisters had a magical experience at Prythian's Fantasia. Will Feyre be able to bargain with Amarantha to save her mother's life? WARNINGS: References to past SA in Gwyn's POV

Read: Masterlist | AO3

Tuesday, March 12th, 1889

***Nesta***

Nesta was scritch-scratching her way through the pile of correspondence in the parlor when the front door snicked shut. Blazing irritation ruined Nesta’s train of thought. Where the hell was her damn sister going? 

Sure enough, Feyre’s cloaked form had just turned the corner down the street. Nesta ground her teeth, frustration fueling her quick steps into a light jog. She’d turned a blind eye to Feyre’s excursions long enough. As the eldest child, it was her responsibility to keep her sisters out of trouble. But Nesta hated running. Especially in such a layered skirt and dainty little shoes. 

“You, there. I’ll pay you five shillings if you follow that girl in the black dress down the street.” Nesta announced to a boy who happened to be driving an empty wagon past her. He could not be any older than fourteen, based on his short stature and pimple-covered face. But he nodded, even cowing slightly as Nesta hopped into the grimy wagon. “Be discreet. If she catches us, you’ll only get two.” 

The janky wagon rumbled and squelched over cobblestone and mud. The boy maintained a careful distance as they moved past soot-darkened gray buildings, ramshackle apartments, squalid beggars, and over the Thames River. They followed Feyre for a good half hour before she disappeared into thin air. 

“Where did she go?” The boy stopped, his confusion mirroring Nesta’s. Nesta, who had been keeping a close eye on Feyre the entire time, was at a loss for words. Feyre’s honey-brown hair was easy to spot, even amongst the throng of Londoners. She was even wearing a knitted cream shawl that made her stand out in the gray. But they had traveled far enough that Nesta was certain where Feyre was headed. 

The Prythian’s Fantasia tent rose tall and proud about a half mile away. The lines and colors were sharper in daylight, but the structure still evoked memories of that magical night. Nesta had not been able to stop thinking about how circus dancers pranced and spun across the ring, seductively contorting their bodies mid-air with silken ribbons. She would make the rest of the way by foot; Nesta plunked down the five shillings into the wagon before hopping out.

The circus gate was shut and the grounds were silent, which had Nesta wondering for a moment if she had guessed incorrectly. It seemed dead as a graveyard. But there it was…that faint jingle of music. Lilting notes and clear tones sweetened the air, beckoning her in. Nesta walked along the massive perimeter, following the music. She eventually reached the performers’ camp just behind the main circus. 

Sure enough, her sister was idling at the camp’s edge, wringing her hands and pacing anxiously as if she was working up the nerve to enter. A gold-painted sign propped next to the small entrance read: Prospective performers, seek Amarantha. 

“Feyre,” Nesta called out firmly. 

Feyre jumped, her blue-gray eyes widening in surprise. “Nesta!” Her expression pinched with sudden nervousness. “What are you doing here? Have you been following me?” 

“I should ask the same thing about yourself. Not thinking of running away to the circus, are you?” Nesta replied dryly. 

“I’m not running away…I simply must speak with the ringmaster.” Nesta groaned in frustration when Feyre strode away. Whatever business Feyre had with Amarantha, Nesta was not going to wait around for her sister to come back out. 

During the day, the circus performers were unrecognizable in regular garb, with women in plain linen dresses and men in standard brown pants and shirts. Nesta clearly stuck out, with her pale blue dress and embroidered silk slippers. Even Feyre looked more proper than usual, with her freshly cleaned lilac dress and carefully braided hair. 

Colored caravans were interspersed between medium-sized tents and practice rings. The performers barely paid Nesta and Feyre any attention as they navigated down the crunchy dry grass and towards the large plum tent with the words “ringmaster’s office” scripted on a hanging placard.

A tall, muscular man stood under the tent’s awning, and Nesta gawked at him openly. He was not like the sniveling, pale, weak-boned aristocrats of London society. Nor was he like one of those bumbling country boys who were all brawn but no brain. His golden eyes were like a hawk’s: sharp, intelligent, and…beautiful. Was he a circus performer, or personal protection? Nesta could not recall having seen him in the show, for she would certainly remember a man like him. 

“What’s your business here?” he asked with a half grin, in a deep voice that sounded like a song. Nesta clenched her jaw, trying to keep herself from getting carried away.

“We request an audience with Amarantha,” Feyre responded. The man’s crossed arms stretched and creased his gray shirt along defined muscles. Nesta’s eyes were fixated on the triangle of ruddy brown skin, like that of sailors who spent their days out in the open seas, peeking through the unbuttoned top of his shirt.

“What is the nature of your audience?” 

“I seek her aid for our ailing mother.” Nesta blinked in surprise. Running to a circus ringmaster for healing? Feyre must have lost her mind. 

The man’s hazel eyes snapped towards Nesta’s face, picking her steely facade apart and assessing every hidden, dark thought. She could have sworn his pupils widened with subtle desire. His chiseled face was rugged, as if a sculptor had failed to smooth down a marble statue before presenting their work to an art exhibit. 

“You shouldn’t be here.” His attitude had changed, and it stung, for some reason. 

“I don’t see why not?” Nesta blurted out. “You are not the ringmaster.” The man scoffed at her now, his lip twitching in condescension. 

“What you seek would not benefit you in the slightest.” Normally, Nesta would have wholeheartedly used the barring of entry as an excuse to drag Feyre away. But his self-righteous and dismissive attitude riled her. 

“Cassian,” a strong, female voice called from the interior of the tent. “Do we have guests outside? Do let them in.”  

So that was his name. Cassian. 

“Seems you do not have the final word around here.” Nesta allowed her lips to twitch in a simpering smirk as she walked past Cassian, who had gone rigid with fury, most likely. She could not banish the memory of his intense hazel eyes, which were surely pinned on her back like a target as she slipped into the ringmaster’s tent.  

***Feyre***

It was surprisingly dim inside the tent, and the air clung to Feyre’s cheeks like a damp fog. Ringmaster Amarantha sat in a large velvet chair, reading a book and sipping from a goblet of wine. She’d exchanged her bodice and breeches for a deep purple gown that made her alabaster skin appear bloodless.  

“Good afternoon,” Amarantha purred with a saccharine smile. “What brings such lovely ladies to my domain today?” It seemed the ringmaster’s charisma was not limited to the stage. Feyre took a step forward, dipping her head in a slight bow. 

“Good afternoon, ringmaster. I heard you possess…magic. And I’ve come to humbly request your assistance. My mother has been gravely ill for months.” The Archeron family’s fate hung upon Amarantha’s answer.

“My assistance does not come without a price. Tell me, dear, what is your name?” Amarantha tossed her thick, crimson hair behind a shoulder. 

“Feyre Archeron.” Confidence—keeping her voice steady—was crucial.

“And yours?” Amarantha’s dark gaze swiveled to Nesta, who did not balk at the sheer weight of the ringmaster’s stare. 

“Nesta. Nesta Archeron,” she replied. “I’m Feyre’s older sister.” Amarantha hummed in approval. She closed her eyes, tapping her fingers together in contemplation. 

“Feyre Archeron, I do not desire money or riches as a form of payment. I will provide a healing potion for your mother, as long as you agree to half a year of service with my circus: Prythian’s Fantasia.” 

Yes, yes, a thousand times yes. But Nesta pinched Feyre’s arm hard before she could speak. 

“Please excuse us for a moment,” Nesta said roughly. Amarantha waved her hand flippantly, returning to her book. Nesta dragged Feyre to the side. “Have you lost your mind, Feyre?” she hissed lowly. “Join a circus? For some crackpot potion, when Mother is already on her way out this world?” 

Feyre’s blue eyes flashed angrily. 

“I need to try, Nesta,” she argued back. “I know that you are not fond of Mother. But imagine what Father will endure if she dies. And think about Elain! You may not want to get married, but are you willing to be her chaperone next year? Be my chaperone for another season?” 

“The ringmaster didn’t even inquire about Mother’s condition. How would her ‘potion’ be any useful cure?” Nesta asked, a little more loudly. 

“Magic,” Amarantha called out lazily. “Six months of service seems sufficient in exchange for a potion that acts as a general restorative for any ailment, don’t you think?”

“Magic does not exist. Healing potions do not exist,” Nesta rationalized. “You’re being foolish, Feyre. Save yourself from the embarrassment.”

“Magic does exist. I know it,” Feyre shot back, her voice a harsh whisper. She turned back to Amarantha. “My mother’s condition is too dire to wait six months. What if she passes before my term of service is completed?” 

Amarantha’s mouth curled in a wry grin. “You do drive a hard bargain, my dear. I will award you the potion after two months of service, but you must finish the six months with me before you are free to leave.”  

“This is a traveling circus, is it not? Where do you plan to go?” Feyre asked. 

“We will be making a touring loop around England before heading to Paris in May for the World’s Fair,” Amarantha responded. “Our stops will be in the main cities of Bristol, Birmingham, Manchester, Leeds, Sheffield, Cambridge, and Southend-on-Sea.”

Feyre chewed her lip. Her answer was still ‘yes’ but would two months be soon enough? 

“One month of service,” Nesta declared suddenly. Feyre stared at her older sister in confusion. “I will take part in the bargain, as long as you give us the ‘potion’ after one month of service.” 

Amarantha’s dark eyes gleamed with feral delight. “Very well, then. Come closer, ladies. All I need is a few droplets of your blood.” 

“For what?” Nesta blanched.

“The potion, of course.” Nesta and Feyre stepped closer to Amarantha, who produced a sharp needle. Amarantha grasped Feyre’s hand, her slender fingers icy cold and unusually strong. 

“A bargain: one healing potion, to be given after a month of work, in exchange for six months of Feyre Archeron’s work in Prythian’s Fantasia,” Amarantha intoned. 

Feyre watched with fascination as crimson welled from her index finger and dripped into a small glass vial. A prickling sensation raced from her fingertip to her elbow. Amarantha did the same for Nesta, handing them both linen bandages once she was done. The ringmaster pocketed the glass vial and smiled demurely at them.

“Thank you, ladies. Prythian’s Fantasia departs for Bristol on Friday morning. I shall see both of you here no later than eleven o’clock.”

“What will our roles be?” Feyre blurted out. Amarantha assessed them critically. 

“Feyre, our magician is in need of an assistant, especially for the World’s Fair. You shall work closely with him on his acts. Nesta, I see you have a dancer’s grace. You shall participate in our aerial silks act.” 

“Thank you.” Feyre smiled, feeling incandescent. Everything was lining into place: she would save her mother, go on an adventure, and become closer with the handsome magician. The magician! Perhaps by working with him, she could also find answers about her magic. 

She was so caught up in her joy that she barely noticed a glowering Cassian as they exited Amarantha’s tent. She was going to join the circus! Feyre’s finger throbbed with residual pain, proof that this was truly happening. “You didn’t have to strike a bargain with Amarantha,” she pointed out. “So why did you?” 

Nesta seemed lost in a similar wishful daze. “It’s a ticket to Manchester. The beating heart of the suffragist movement. I also couldn’t let you do such a foolish thing alone.” She gave Feyre a dubious glance.

Feyre froze. “Oh, damn us,” she gasped, glancing at Nesta with wide eyes. “What are we going to say to Elain?” 

***Gwyn***

Tears rolled down Gwyneth Berdara’s cheeks at the memory of her twin sister Catrin’s joyful face and pealing laugh. How many more times could she draw upon her recollections before they faded away? Catrin’s silver wedding ring hung on a chain around Gwyn’s neck, was the only physical part of her sister she had left—and served as a reminder of all that was lost. 

Her heart hurt, but at least she wasn’t in physical pain anymore. Gwyn squeezed her eyes shut and sobbed, pushing away the memories of the cursed brothel. The rank smells, the raucous laughter of drunkards. The clinking of coins before they began. The leering men who did not bother with “making love” to women. 

From what Catrin told her, intercourse was supposed to be a blissful and exciting experience. But Gwyn only knew pain. Pain from the bruises, the pulling of her coppery-brown hair, the chafing of skin between her legs. 

There was also a specific memory of warm, wet blood and the sounds of screams in the dark. And a fast-cooling body. 

Gwyn wiped her teary face and allowed herself one last sniffle before getting up from her cot. At least the bruises on her arms and waist had faded after a week with Prythian’s Fantasia. She’d sought the help of Thesan, the circus physician, who gave her contraceptive tonics without any judgment.

The caravan she shared with Emerie, Nuala, and Cerridwen was packed to the brim. Small windows ventilated the space, a small copper tub was shoved in the corner, and clothes and books were strewn across all available surfaces.

Gwyn was on kitchen duty today. The center of the camp served as the main area for meals and congregating, with food prepared in the open air. Tarquin and Daphne Vanserra were already there, baking bread in the clay oven and handling the wheels of cheese. 

“The vegetables are already washed,” Tarquin said, pointing to the crates of leafy greens, carrots, and potatoes. Tarquin cut a striking figure, with his turquoise eyes and long white hair contrasting with his dark brown skin. She’d only known him for a week, but his gentle smiles and thoughtful nature had put Gwyn at ease with her new surroundings. 

Gwyn picked up a sharp knife and began dicing the vegetables, placing the smaller pieces into large wooden bowls for stew. She was so engrossed with her cutting that when a man silently stepped up next to her, Gwyn jumped with fright. But it was only the dagger-thrower, here to assist with meal preparation. 

He was the same height as her, with a slightly muscled build. Inky black hair curled around the nape of his neck and fell in front of his angular hazel eyes, which softened slightly at her reaction.

“Apologies,” he muttered, his voice low. 

“It’s alright,” Gwyn responded quickly. “My name is Gwyn. Pleased to make your acquaintance.” She smiled broadly at him.

“You’ve been crying, haven’t you?” Gwyn stiffened, her smile slipping away. 

“Azriel, don’t you know it’s rude to say such things to a lady?” Daphne tutted at the dagger-thrower. 

“Apologies,” Azriel said again. He picked up a knife and began expertly fileting the skin and bone off a slab of meat. Gwyn stared: pale scars streaked across his olive-toned hands. They moved with deadly precision. Smears of blood had begun to coat the tips of his fingers…Azriel met her gaze with a sharp look that had Gwyn glancing away with embarrassment. “You’re new, aren’t you?”

“Yes!” Gwyn replied. “I joined the circus right when it arrived in London.” 

“Why?” His words were short, and to the point. 

Catrin’s lifeless face, with sunken-in cheeks and chapped lips flashed before her. That horrible smell…those awful hands grabbing her, hurting her…Gwyn shrugged nonchalantly. 

“I needed to make some money. When did you join the circus?” Azriel’s brows lifted slightly at her returning question. 

“Almost five years,” he replied. The dagger-thrower did not offer any more words of conversation after that. Daphne and Tarquin chatted in the background, but between Azriel and Gwyn, there was only silence. Gwyn’s eyes began watering again when she started on the onions. Before she could reach for a second onion, Azriel wordlessly took the whole crate away. 

“Thank you. I suppose I’ve cried enough for today,” Gwyn murmured. She snuck a glance at the dagger-thrower, and was disappointed to see his face stone-cold at her attempt to jest.

✨

Tags: @velidewrites @reverie-tales @highladysith @shadowsxgwynriel @foxwithagoldeye @sunshinebingo @jealousveronya @corcracrow @fieldofdaisiies @the-lonelybarricade

[hellfirenacht]

Reader ==> Move Into Benny's

START HERE <<-- FIRST CHAPTER HERE

Recommended Previous Chapter: ==> Go Shopping for 80's Clothes

Chapter Summary: You stop squatting in Mike's basement and start squatting somewhere else.

Tags: themes of homelessness, no canon characters appear

A/N: Short filler installment just to give context for future chapters.

Reader ==> Move into Benny’s

There shouldn’t be any power in the old diner and yet the lights and water worked. There was no heating or a/c, but homeless beggars couldn’t be homeless choosers. It would be a good enough temporary stay until you could figure out how to get a job and find another place to live.

The Hopper’s cabin had been the first suggestion offered by Mike, but that was quick to be shot down. There had been a large hole ripped out of the roof and there was no way to comfortably live there. Not that Benny’s was comfortable, but it was better than nothing. There was at least a kitchen, and it was clear that this place was already being used as a place to party by sports teams.

It smelled bad, like stale alcohol, parties, and teenage hangovers. It’d be safe for the weekdays at least, you assumed that any parties here would be on Friday and Saturday nights. So from Sunday afternoon to Friday morning this was going to be your new home for a while.

School started for the kids three days ago, and you had spent those three days cleaning up old beer cans and trash in the diner, cleaning the toilet, and setting up an old futon that you refused to think about what had happened on it during these wild underage parties. You made a mental note to strip the sheets every time you left to squat somewhere else.

The price of rent here was cleaning up after whatever team was going to trash the place over the weekend, which seemed more reasonable than what you had been paying for your own place before you’d shown up here.

The first few nights at Benny’s were rough. It smelled bad, and was too warm, and too creepy. It was the second night that you remembered that Benny was a real person and who had been brutally killed in this very diner.

No one would know how hard you cried that night, or any night after.

But if you were going to be living in a dead man's abandoned diner, you would at least try and treat it with more respect than the Basketball team. The kitchen didn’t really work, but you could at least hide some dry goods away where no one would find them. The party had managed to sneak you some of their families cleaning supplies, but overall you were on your own making the place habitable.

You wish.

The fryers didn’t work, and neither did the shake machine that you had spent an afternoon cleaning out because of the smell. Even if they did work, you weren’t too keen on putting them to the test. That didn’t stop you from craving the comfort food that an old fashioned diner like this would provide.

Some nights, when the stress became too much and you couldn’t sleep, you pretended that Benny’s was still in business. You’d go to one of the booths and look over the menu and just try and keep calm. Sometimes you found yourself having imaginary conversations with an imaginary waitress, or imagining what other patrons would be like sitting here.

Without the distraction of the internet or tv or even books things got boring very quickly.

After the last bag of trash was hauled off to some other business’s dumpster in the middle of the night, you were left with not much else to do.

-----

Tumblr User ==> Leave A Prompt

I'll be posting another installment in the next few days.

RULES

-I’m not writing in a liner way

- Current timeline I’m wanting to write is between August-December 1985. We will get to ‘86 later

-You can suggest reader do anything, there is no guarantee that I will pick your prompt!

-Prompts must be submitted through ask, as “READER => Do something” If you know, you know.

-Reader is a weirdo, a freak, and is not shy or popular. Reader probably has really bad ADHD.

-If I need to add more rules I will, if I change rules that’s allowed because it’s my fic.

-This fic is officially named “That Time I was Transported into a Netflix Show And Joined A D&D Club” but I’ll be tagging it as “Isekai Chronicles” for simplicity

[rosepetalgold]

unexpected melodies (bold and bright around us)

Summary: Logan finds himself facing an unique musical request from an unlikely passerby and can't resist fulfilling it.

Relationships: Familial dad!Janus and kid!Remus and Roman

Warnings: None! Pure fluff!

Word count: 1824

Notes: Me? Writing fluff? And under 2k? I know, I was shocked too. This one's a bit different from what I normally write but it's the first thing I've been able to finish after literal months of writer's block, so I'm not complaining. Thanks to the wonderful @thecrowslullaby for the prompt!

Read on Ao3 Masterpost

-

The public piano is calling Logan’s name.

Not literally, of course, since instruments were hardly capable of speaking, although Logan supposed music could be considered a language unto itself. But the old upright is undeniably tempting him, what with its empty bench and its closed key cover just waiting to be lifted.

Normally he wouldn’t indulge in such a thing, considering he has his own perfectly good piano at home, one that he knows is reasonably in tune and whose keys aren’t covered in who-knew-what kinds of germs, but he’d let his students out of class early today so they could enjoy the mild spring weather before the panic of finals set in, so here he finds himself with a half hour to kill before his bus arrives.

There were worse ways to spend the time than making music, he supposes.

He makes his way across the square to the piano and settles onto the bench, pleased to find that the instrument looks to be in decent shape despite its well-worn appearance. A few investigatory scales reveal the upright is just as out of tune as he’d feared, and the handful of sticking keys he discovers is hardly ideal, but he’s certainly played on more egregious instruments in his time. And metaphorical beggars couldn’t exactly be choosers, he reasons, so he’ll content himself with interpreting the piano’s various flaws as elements that lend it character.

It doesn’t take him long to warm-up enough to get a feel for the weight of the keys, and although several passersby glance his way, no one seems too put out by the sudden noise, so after a few moments he begins to play in earnest.

Brahms. Chopin. Debussy.

One piece after the other until it’s just him and his art, the world around him receding into nothing but a distant afterthought. It’s undeniably liberating, to just play for once without having to worry about performing for an audience or painstakingly practicing passages over and over and over again with nothing short of perfection in mind. He can simply allow himself to revel in the music, to escape into the fullest extent of creative expression, to get lost in the melodies he’s weaving around one another—

“No, Remus—!”

“Excuse me, Mr. Piano Man!”

The sudden exclamations jar Logan back to reality and he pauses mid-phrase, notes fading under his fingers as he glances up to find a child now hovering next to the piano, green eyes wide, hair a wild mess and something that looks to be either dirt or chocolate smeared across one cheek.

“Can you play something cool?”

“Remus,” a slightly out-of-breath voice chides, a man in a yellow button-down and sharp black jacket appearing behind him, towing another child who is the spitting image of the first boy minus the mysterious stain on his face. “Sorry,” he says to Logan with an apologetic smile as he drops to one knee so he’s on the boy’s—Remus’—level. “Remus, love, it’s rude to interrupt people. And rude to insinuate you don’t like what someone is playing.”

“Oh. Sorry,” Remus says, looking contrite for all of half a second before he’s bouncing on the balls of his feet, gaze flicking back to Logan. “But can you play something cool? Pretty please?”

The man makes a sound suspiciously close to a long-suffering sigh, but Logan can’t help but chuckle. Clearly classical music wasn’t for everyone. And he has to admit, it’s refreshing to have someone tell him such so boldly, rather than hiding their dislike of his musical selections behind thinly veiled critiques and passive-aggressive comments.

“It’s alright, I don’t mind,” he assures the boys’ guardian. “What do you think is cool?” he asks Remus, who practically lights up at the question.

“Loud! With lots of this,” he declares, moving his hands elaborately in the air. “And it sounds like this.” He bops his head energetically to some tune only he can hear.

Logan considers the unconventional criteria for a moment, running through his memorized repertoire in his mind. Perhaps some Rachmaninoff? Or a particularly dramatic selection of Beethoven? Neither seem quite right… Ah, yes. This one might work. Bold, lots of character, enshrined enough in popular culture that the child might recognize it.

He sets his fingers back to the keys, the first striking chords ringing out across the square, and Remus’ immediate squeal of delight is enough to have him grinning as the Pirates of the Caribbean theme fills the air.

It’s hardly a long piece, barely more than two minutes long, but it’s always been one of Logan’s secret favorites, a welcome change from the volumes upon volumes of classical works he usually sticks to, and although he’s a bit rusty on the arrangement, it’s a welcome challenge to play the piece as perfectly as he can, to make sure the arpeggios are clean, the multi-octave jumps precise, the harmonies well-voiced.

And if his fingers do occasionally fumble a note, it’s hard to be upset when Remus is nodding along so enthusiastically he’s making it a full-body movement.

The final measures are upon him before he knows it, Remus cheering and the man clapping before the last notes have even faded out, and even the other boy peering shyly around the adult’s legs seems to have had his interest piqued.

“Did you see, Dad?” Remus exclaims. “Did you hear? It was so cool! Bah da bum-bum, bah da bum-bum…”

“I did hear, and it was quite impressive,” the man says, giving Logan a nod and ruffling Remus’ hair affectionately as the boy continues his vocalization of the melody. “As was your previous piece, even if it was regrettably interrupted by this one. You’re quite the talented pianist. I’m Janus, by the way, and these are Remus and Roman.”

“Logan,” he introduces himself, shaking Janus’ offered hand and giving a wave to Roman, who bashfully tucks himself back to the safety of Janus’ side.

“I’d love to stay and hear you play, Logan, but unfortunately we’re already running behind,” Janus says, rummaging through his pockets and mouthing a silent swear when he doesn’t find what he’s apparently searching for. “I’m so sorry, but I don’t have any money on me to tip you—”

“Don’t worry about it,” Logan interrupts him, waving away the apology. “I just had a bit of free time and thought this a worthwhile way to occupy myself. I don’t play for tips.”

“Here, take these at least,” Janus insists, offering him several small cards that he procures from his jacket. “I co-own a cafe a few blocks north of here. Come by and have a free coffee or tea sometime. My treat for entertaining Remus for a while.”

Logan might turn down cash every time, but the allure of caffeine? That was entirely too strong a temptation to pass up.

“Thank you, that’s very generous.” He accepts the vouchers, tucking them into his own pocket and making a mental note to track down the establishment when he has a spare afternoon. “I’ll be sure to stop in.”

“Remus,” Janus calls, and the boy looks up from where he’s curiously poking at notes on the piano, clearly attempting to imitate the melody of what Logan has just played. “Come on, love. We have to go or we’re going to be late, alright?”

Remus hesitates, gaze shifting back to the instrument, clearly reluctant to leave, and Logan represses a smile. He’s all too familiar with pesky things like prior schedules and non-negotiable time commitments daring to get in the way of music. Speaking of…

“I’m afraid I must leave as well,” he admits, glancing at his watch as he lowers the key cover back over the keys, careful to make sure any small fingers are well out of the way of being pinched. “But this piano is open for anyone to play, Remus, so if you and your brother and your dad come by here again, you can try it out, okay?”

Remus perks up at that, hands still fiddling over the smooth wood of the piano like they have to be kept in constant motion.

“I can play the pirate song?”

“You can try your best to play the pirate song, or any other song you want. If you practice hard enough, you’ll be better than me in no time.”

Remus grins, all sparkling eyes and crooked teeth.

“Yeah! Then we can both play pirate music!”

Logan often thought of himself as much too serious an individual to go around labeling people as adorable, but he just might have to make an exception for Remus, even if he’s only known him a grand total of five minutes.

“What do we say to the nice pianist, boys?” Janus prompts.

“Thank you!” they both chorus in unison.

“Thanks again,” Janus says over their heads. “It was nice to meet you, Logan. You really do play beautifully.”

He secures one of the boys’ hands in each of his own, shepherding them away, but they only make it a few steps before Remus is tugging the trio to a halt.

“Can you play it one more time, Mr. Piano Man? As we go? Pretty please with slime on top?”

Logan shouldn’t. He has a bus to catch, and he’s already cutting it close on time—

But one look at Remus’ pleading expression has him lifting the key cover once more. It was only two minutes. Surely the chance to indulge in a few more moments of music was worth having to jog for the bus stop.

And really, who was he to deny the child’s request?

“Come on, Ro, we’re pirates!” he hears Remus declare over the opening strains of the piece echoing again across the square. “Arr! Let’s go find treasure!”

And he’s off, pulling his brother along with him, the pair animatedly falling into whatever seaworthy characters they’ve selected as they bound away. Janus offers Logan a parting wave, mouthing another thank you over his shoulder, and then he’s gone as well, chasing after the two with an over-the-top pirate accent that has both children shrieking with giggles of delight.

Logan can’t help but laugh under his breath at their antics as he watches them go. Playing pirate music on a questionably tuned piano in the middle of a public square was hardly performing Liszt center-stage in a concert hall, but given the look of pure joy that had graced Remus’ face when Logan had started playing, he’s inclined to conclude that perhaps the former is a decidedly more worthwhile use of his time. Music belonged just as much to the bright-eyed, slightly wild children of the world as it did to the upper echelons of society, after all, arguably even more so.

And if he ends up having to sprint to catch his bus, only to find himself humming a swashbuckling melody once he gets his breath back? He can’t say he minds one bit.

-

You can find Jarrod Radnich's Pirates of the Caribbean arrangement here on youtube if you want to give it a listen. It's a challenge, but such a fun piece to play!

Or if classical music is more your style, can I perhaps recommend a few of my favorites from the composers Logan mentions in this fic?

Brahms -- Ballade in G Minor, op. 118, no. 3

Chopin -- Nocturne in B Flat Major, op. 9, no. 1 and Nocturne in E minor, op. 72, no. 1

Debussy -- Arabesque No. 1

Rachmaninoff -- Prelude in G Minor, op. 23, no. 5

Taglist (let me know if you'd like to be added or removed!): @darth-does-stuff

[distinctlywhumpthing]

In League — A Lucky Blunder

Masterlist

Summary: The boys finally caught their rival gang's spy but something about him has their leader intervening in his punishment. Beta read by @alittlewhump!

CW: Late-19th century, explicit language, kidnapping/abduction, nudity (non-sexual), restraints, bruising from implied beating, whipping, scars, torture/interrogation, taunting of prisoner, multiple whumpers, dubious caretaker.

A high-pitched keening wound its way through the house. 

Wyatt paused, pencil hovering over his place in the row of numbers. It was early evening. Sunlight entered the window at a low angle to cast long shadows through yellow-orange light. The boys would be winding down from the day which meant they were winding up for the night.  

“Tommy?” He called for Frankie’s lad, the portrait of his ruddy-haired father in miniature. A child of about ten years who was always close at hand, ever-keen to make a farthing running errands. Especially if he could smugly tell younger boys later that he wasn’t at liberty to divulge the particulars. As though he was the rare child-confidant of the entire gang. He did have a fair pulse on what was going on, if a little slanted by the perspective of his youth.

Another cry, twisting all the way upstairs, most likely from the cellar two floors down. In the house—their house—not a thing could transpire unnoticed, such was the size and layout. Wyatt liked that. All was within reach and what one could hold in the palm of his hand, one could command. 

Although, his appreciation and pride were diminishing by the second as the cries continued and grew more insistent. He leaned back in his chair with a sigh and almost ran his fingers through his hair before he remembered they were smudged with graphite from doing the books. 

“Tommy!”

Finally, a clatter and then short, snappy strides as the child scrambled across the kitchen and up the stairs. “Yessir?” 

“What is that fucking noise?”

Tommy swallowed, trying to catch his breath. “They found that man. The one ‘tipped off Keats.” 

“Is that so?”

About a month ago, a beggar had shown up on their streets. He’d seen the man in question himself—more of a boy really, no more than twenty—huddled outside the door of the pub and shuffling around the streets covered in a ratty blanket. 

Around the same time, a number of plans had been mislaid. At first, it had seemed only as though they’d mismatched their timing. Until one night, when they’d had a raid planned on a warehouse, expecting just a few guards and found its owner—one of their biggest rivals—Keats, had two dozen waiting instead. 

It had nearly cost two boys their lives and one still had a bullet in his shoulder. They had pulled the usual threads, made sure to reassess the loyalties of certain parties. The beggar, on the other hand, was nowhere to be found. No one thought twice about an urchin disappearing. But then, a handful of days later, Jack’s sister had seen the very same accompanying none other than Keats himself. 

A short ten days later, here he was, apparently paying for his trickery in the cellar, having finally been apprehended. 

No one noticed Wyatt coming down the stairs. All backs were turned, including the one getting belted. Their captive was stark naked and covered in grime with patches of bruises darkening along his ribs. His wrists were tied together and hooked over his head so that he was forced onto the balls of his feet. From the looks of it, he’d managed to bear his due reward silently for a not-insignificant length of time. Raised welts crisscrossed from the back of his neck down to his calves. It was plain by the scars on his back that this was not his first beating. Not much of a distinguishing feature around these parts. 

Alfred was winding up for what would no doubt be the first lash that drew blood. The rest of the group surveyed from a loose half-circle, some sitting on overturned crates and others leaning against the soot-blackened walls. Wyatt hadn’t been down here in ages, couldn’t say what was in half of the cobwebbed crates stacked in the corners. The air in the cramped space was beginning to smell pungent, cigarette smoke clinging to the ceiling in spite of the open street-level windows. 

Wyatt put his hands in his pockets and leaned against the wall at the foot of the stairs. He waited until Alfred was about to strike. “What’d you find, lads?” 

At least one of the men jumped, a few others sat up just a fraction straighter. Alfred let the swing fall short. Only the tail end of the belt met its target, who hissed as another welt rose on his pale flesh. 

Wyatt wasn’t the oldest nor was he the longest-standing member. The group operated mostly by consensus but he was indisputably its leader. After all, he had been the one to rescue this house of cards from collapse before they had completely lost control. He’d recast the senior members into roles that didn’t require temperance and recruited younger men to fill the ranks instead. The younger the better, hungry to prove themselves and yet to develop the arrogance and pride that had prevented their predecessors from changing with the times. 

They had swiftly replaced brute force and standoffs in broad daylight in favour of subtler methods, refocusing on activities with higher turnovers that required a fraction of the effort and didn’t put them atop wanted lists. Half the city was still under the impression the gang had in fact collapsed and retreated back to the slums.

Alfred turned, face as red as the skin he’d just been beating raw. Either from the strength he was putting behind his arm or from feeling caught. He wasn’t the type to come up with the first idea himself but was always the first to volunteer to carry another’s. “It’s Keats’ spy.” 

“We finally caught up with him,” someone else chimed in, making a few others chuckle. 

Frankie sauntered over to clap the accused-spy on the shoulder, making him tense. “Just having some fun.” 

That earned a few laughs from the audience and the boy ducked his head as if to hide. 

Wyatt cleared his throat. “Come on, let us have a look.”

As Frankie made the captive turn on his toes, Wyatt was struck by two things. 

The first was the curious wound on the soft side of his hip, looking as though someone had inexplicably carved a piece of meat off him not long ago. 

Secondly, and more notably, Wyatt was struck by the fact that this was altogether a different boy.

Part II

Together/Apart taglist: @painsandconfusion @deluxewhump @no-whump-on-main @whumpy-writings @maracujatangerine @whumptakesthecake @subject-v @susiequaz12 @writer-reader-24 @whumpinthepot @wormwriting

[plutoswritingplanet]

Moon River (Hoyt Volker x Reader)

a/n: listen....that's how romance looks like, okay? don't drink kids

Warnings: it's a Far Cry 3 fanfiction for crying out loud, Canon-Typical Everything. No Smut, just, kinda Soft(?) Hoyt Volker.

Summary: When your boss goes a little too hard on the alcohol, you're about to suffer the consequences. Or so you think.

Anger and alcohol don't mix well with Hoyt Volker. 

And since Jason Bordy has arrived at the Rook Island, Hoyt's anger management has gotten worse and worse every day. Which was unfortunate for you, as his secretary/fucktoy/assistant, because as soon as the man felt anything even vaguely reminiscent of annoyance, he reached for the bottle. That usually ended with your ability to walk being stripped away from you for the next couple of days. The relationship developed between the both of you was a strange one, deffinitely not a usual sight to the habitants of the Island. 

His reasoning for "hiring" you was rather simple. He was running an empire, after all, a unique sort of company. And any respectable businessman needed to have a pretty thing on his arm, to look over more mundane tasks, and bring him coffee. Or, in some cases, to vent his frustrations to, in the only way he knew how to. Your salary has been simple as well. He allowed you to live and keep some sort of a resemblance of human life, which, on this particular island, was more than a woman could ever hope to achieve. And, despite everything that has happened to you, despite this horrid place, that smelled of fear and death, and many bodily fluids, he kept you safe. Obviously, it was a stark contrast from the life you led back home, if you could even remember what it tasted like. But beggars can't be choosers, and as you compiled a list of medical supplies that needed to be ordered for his men, you couldn't help but think of how much could've happened to you, but didn't. 

Of course, you couldn't completely relax into your squeaky chair, because despite this relatively cozy agreement you have been roped into, Hoyt Volker was a dangerous man. Unpredictable and violent, the scars on your body a testament of his short temper. Your arms littered with cigarette burns, one of his favorite ways of showing affection. A long line across your thigh, from when you've spoken out of turn. And of course, the bullet wound on your right arm, when you stepped over an invisible line and asked him a question about his past. 

Still, here you were. Late in the evening, adding bandages to the list, while a cup of cold coffee stared at you from your desk. Thank Heavens for caffeine. He wouldn't let you partake in any other form of substance abuse. his reasoning was simple, he needed his assistant to be always sharp and ready. Really, you suspected it was just another way for him to fuck with you. 

Today's been quiet at least.

He hasn't sauntered down to your "office" with any weird requests. The whole day passed with him locked in his own room, which stayed eerily quiet. You waited, always on edge, for him to yell for you, to drag you wherever he needed you to be. But, as hours passed, and you continued to do your job, no call came. Small blessings, you supposed. 

That is, until midnight has passed, and your thoughts have slowly begun to drag you to bed. You needed sleep, despite your devotion to the "company" and the insane ammounts of coffee you've drank throughout the day, you were still human, and the single cot tucked against the wall of your room called to you every time you dared to rest your eyes. Slowly, you place the papers on the edge of the desk, take a sip from your cup and move to stand, quietly, so the creaking of the chair doesn't alert the dragon locked inside his lair. It was a ritual you've adapted over the weeks, months, years of working for the man. Of living for him, and thanks to him. 

In retrospect, you concluded, that night you did everything right. Your chair moved without a sound, you didn't bang anything on the desk, you didn't even breathe too loud. Which is why, you theorized, that maybe your boss (owner) had developed some sort of super hearing abilities, because just as your bottom lifted from the chair, the door to your room busted open. 

You swallowed a scream of surprise, as none other than the man, the myth, the menace stood in your doorway. His figure slanted forward, a half empty bottle of whiskey in his slender hand. You can feel him watching you, his dark eyes scanning the room, your body, as he sways in place. Finally, after what feels like forever, he turns around without a word, and walks back to his office. 

For a moment you stay where you are, dumbfounded, legs cramping from the uncomfortable, half-seated position he has caught you in. Then, you debate, whether walking after him would be a good idea. He hasn't called after you, and honestly, you didn't see any indignation, that he wanted you to follow. Then again, it wouldn't be the first time he expected you to know his thoughts, wouldn't be the first time you get punished for not reading him like an open book. So, mustering all the courage in your body, you straighten up, knees cracking as you stand. 

He always does this shit when you're exhausted.

 Always finds you, on the verge of passing out. Or maybe, you're just perpetually tired, and the fault is yours. It most likely is. Even if it isn't, it's always your fault. You try not to pry too much on those thoughts. Bitterness hasn't been particularly helpful in your current position. You have to be good, always, otherwise he might think keeping a secretary is boring, or, even worse, troublesome. You can't be troublesome, you can't be a burden. You're not ready to die, yet. 

Your rising panic is interrupted, rather rudely, by the sound of loud shuffling. Something is being dragged across the floor, coming closer and closer. Finally, he walks in, his body barely managing to stay upright. His other hand is clasped tightly onto the backrest of his leather office chair. He drags the furniture into your room, placing it right in the middle. Then, after standing still for a couple of seconds, presumably to regain his footing, he plops himself in the chair, sinking into it immediately, as if his bones were made of cotton. 

You're left there, standing, as the man lifts the bottle of liquor to his lips and takes a long drag. You can see the liquid spilling all over his face, dripping down his chin and neck, just to be greedily soaked up by the red material of his shirt. While he's busy with himself, you wonder absentmindedly, what he would do if you just, walked over and licked all that liquor off his skin. 

Your thoughts surprise you, not only because you're not used fo fantasizing about your keeper in such a way, but mostly because of how bold you appear in your daydreams. You could never do that, not ever. He'd kill you on the spot. If there was anything Hoyt Volker hated with real passion, it was insubordination. There were lines you just wouldn't dare to cross, not after the last attempt left you with a bullet wound dangerously close to your vital organs.

And as it turns out, there would be some lines you'd have to trample over, as the man lets go of his already empty bottle. It clangs to the floor and falls right beside the chair. You fight the urge to gather it up from it's spot and dispose of it into a trashcan. Old habits die hard, and before the pirates took your life away, you'd never be caught with such a mess. 

Then, you nearly jump in your spot, because the man, who you assumed was passed out in his chair, raises his hand. Golden rings reflect the dim light from your desk lamp, as his palm motions for you to come closer. It's not an angry swipe, nor an impatient one, so your bones relax slightly, as you wobble forward on weak knees. 

You sincerely doubt, in his current state, he'd be able to pounce on you, would probably hurt himself more than you. There's a small voice in your head that hopes he'd just die of intoxication, or trip and smash his head on the floor. Those thoughts are squashed quickly with a sudden and damning realization. If he dies, there's no one here that could protect you.  So, you move, until you're just outside of his reach. 

Hoyt's head lulls backwards, as his eyes land on you, hidden under heavy eyelids. In this light, you're not afraid to think he looks like shit. The lines on his face are accentuated, and his cheeks look even more sunken than usual, which is a horrific sight. He hasn't been shaving for quite some time, it would seem. There is a cast of dark hair poking through his skin all around his lips. 

- Do you need anything? - you ask, voice barely above whisper, but still too loud to your ears in this silent room. 

Hoyt watches you, his arm still slightly extended. His tongue darts out to wet his lips, and you take notice of the slight blush that has settled onto his tan skin, making his sunken features a bit more bearable. 

If he wasn't a monster, he'd look handsome. 

- Dance - his voice startles you more than you're comfortable with admitting. 

You can barely understand him, between the slurred tone and the roughness coating his words. Your face must reflect that confusion, because his eyebrows immediately scrunch together. 

- Daaance - he repeats, louder, waving his hand in front of you, his body sliding slightly in the chair. 

You raise your hands in immediate defeat.

- Okay, okay Boss - you mutter, before bracing yourself for impact, because there was a question you had to ask. - There is no music, Boss - you cringe in preparation of an outburst.

It never comes, thankfully. Hoyt seems to be on another plane of existence with the amount of liquor he's been drinking. Your lucky day indeed.  

- Fucking... - his entire face scrunches up, as if saying anything at all is causing him physical pain. - Fucking think...of it. Use that... - his hand dances in the air, as he points to the vague are where your head is - Use it.

If you weren't scared for your life, you'd find that hilarious. Drunk people usually made you laugh, but this? Your big and scary boss, who deals with death and torture on the daily, and likes it... Reduced to a bumbling idiot. And right in front of you, at that. Maybe there was a God.

But, his request still rings true, and your mind tries to focus on some song you remember hearing in a strip club years ago. From another life. Your movements are a little stiff, as you sway your hips, touching your body in a way, you hope, he finds pleasant. A strip tease usually works for him, and it wouldn't be the first time he's ordered you to put on a show for him. Good, you know how to do that.

Immediately, when you start to move, the man in the chair shakes his head. Okay, apparently you've missed. His whole body becomes animated, feet kicking and sliding on the tiled floor like an impatient toddler trapped in a stroller.  

- No no no no - he reaches up to push his sweaty hair back from his forehead, you can see him scratch his skin along the way - Not like - his lips purse - thaaaat...

To your surprise, you can feel a tinge of irritation rising in your gut. Again with the fucking mind reading. Your life would be so much easier if he would just communicate with you. You realize having an expectation such as this, about a murderer, torturer, human trafficker and a lot more, is borderline insane, but still, a woman can dream. 

You surpress the urge to run, as he suddenly shifts his body weight and slumps forwards. He stays like that for a long while, his head down between his legs, and for a second you entertain the thought that maybe, just maybe, the fucker has finally passed out. Your hopes are short-lived however, because as suddenly as he changed his position, his head snaps back up, dark eyes fixated on you.

He swallows thickly, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down under his thin skin. 

His expression is serious, the dark circles around his chocolate eyes give his face an almost ghastly look. But, to your general discomfort, you realize he's trying to form a thought through the alcoholic haze. It's not good if he's thinking. You prefer him boneless and mindless, and preferably far away from you. 

- Dance like... - you catch onto the change of his tone almost immediately, but for the life of you, you can't quite place this new expression.

Dare you say, he looks almost wistful? No, you wouldn't dare call it that. You're not dealing with a lovesick puppy after all, and the worst thing you could ever do, while in the presence of Hoyt Volker, whatever his state may be, is letting your guard down. So you don't. Your arms come up to encircle your waist, as if holding your own body would stop you from shattering on his command. 

- Dance like I'm not here.

A pin drops somewhere in the room, as his words register in your brain. Like he's not there? Can you even remember how to move your body like that, so carelesly, so happy? 

There's an obvious strain in his body, as he pushes himself back against the chair, his head lulling back. His eyes stay trained on you however, and with a sigh, he watches your body sway. It's awkward at first, your movements clumsy and uncertain, but you continue to move in your own rythmn. What was the last song you heard before your life got destroyed? You try to remember, to envision yourself back at home, standing in the kitchen with a wooden spatula in your hand. 

You'd be cooking spaghetti, or some bastardized version of it, the whole kitchen filled with the smell of tomato sauce and spices. God, you missed that smell, and the taste of good, home cooked food. Or, taste of any food, for that matter, because the sorry excuse of meals they've been giving you here could barely pass as edible. What music would be playing, you wonder, as you let yourself slide around the room, twirling in place. You liked old timey tunes, something that would be easy to work to, to dance to. Something, with music that would rise and fall, smooth and light, like your steps on the tiled floor. 

You can almost feel the sun pouring through the window, the buzzing of insects and the sound of birds singing outside. Is this the insanity of Rook Island finally settling in? Have you finally gone mad with the fever, with all the pain and fear? Perhaps. Maybe this is only the first step towards oblivion. 

You sneak a look towards the man. He hasn't moved from his position, head lulling from one side to the other, as his eyes follow you through the room. You can see his hands, tightened around his knees, where his blunt fingernails dig into the thick material of his jeans. Then, as if pushed by something, he slumps forwards. The chair creaks as he does, and in surprise you loose your momentum for a split second, before regaining your rythmn. He says nothing, but you can hear his voice mixing with the buzzing of the electricity all throughout the base. 

He's humming, you realize with a mixture of feelings you can't quite place. 

It takes you a while to recognize the tune, as his voice is broken by the thickness of his drunken state. Then, it hits you like a ton of bricks. Motherfucker is humming Moon River. Has he seen the Breakfast at Tiffany's? In your mind's eye you can almost imagine him, splayed out on a couch, with a glass of burbon in his hand and the face of Aubrey Hepburn on the TV screen. The thought brings a small giggle to your lips, and as you spin in place again, you swear you can see a ghost of a smile on the man's lips. 

Again, you allow yourself to get lost in the fantasy, in the smell of fresh pasta and the low humming coming from the man. You miss your past life, you always will. The comfort of freedom, of being allowed to decide for yourself. You missed going to sleep and not having to worry, if you'll be able to see the sun rise. Of hoping, deep down, that you won't.

The tears pricking at the edges of your eyes are the first thing that startles you. Your dance stops, as your hand migrates up wipe your eyes. Stupid, stupid, so stupid. You can't allow yourself to become sentimental now. You have to survive, as long as it takes to find a way out of here. 

The second thing that startles you, is the sudden hot weight, that hangs around your back. Your bones lock in place, heart thrumming wildly against your chest. 

Hoyt buries his face in the crook of your neck, his slender arms encircling your body in a vice like grip. Your breathing nearly stops, as you feel his chest brush against your back. He smells strongly of cologne, sweat and alcohol, and he's hot, almost unnaturally so. 

Then, he starts to move, and your mind scrambles for any other instance of a behavior such as this. It's no use however. Never in your life on the Island, has Hoyt Volker gotten so close to you without finding some way to hurt you. 

His breath huffs strands of your hair to the front of your face, as he mutters something quickly into your skin, his lips moving across the juncture between your neck and your shoulder. Phrases leave him in hushed whispers, in a language you don't understand but can recognize. Afrikaans. Did all the alcohol and drugs finally scramble his brains? Did he finally go completely insane? 

He might as well, because as you swayed in place, trying to accommodate the sudden weight of his body, Hoyt's hands start to roam your figure. Blunt nails dig into any flesh they can find, raking over your thighs, squeezing your hips, before finally settling on playing with your breasts, weighing them in his hands. Then, with a sigh, which you can only describe as content, his arms fully encircle you, pulling you impossibly close.

- What the fuck? - the question slips from your lips despite your best efforts at stopping it. 

He doesn't say anything, his voice going back to the low hum from before, as he starts to sway in place to the tune of the song, shared between the two of you in a whisper. 

He stays like that for a while. You're not sure how much time has passed but soon, the humming starts to become more and more jagged, his voice rough. And before you know it, his whole body weight pushes you towards the desk, where with an annoyed sigh you realize, he has fallen asleep. 

He always does shit like that, when you're exhausted, you think. The distance between your room and his bed suddenly becoming a dawning problem, one, you'd have to deal with sooner rather than later. 

[mxpseudonym]

Something about you, this apartment, the summer, the wine

Pairing: Luca Changretta x OC (or characterzied reader)

Reader Gender Expression: he/him pronouns

Summary: Luca is embarrassingly, shamelessly, sexily desperate for his satisfaction

Length: 1384

Warnings: Brattiness from all parties; not edited, didn't even read it twice

Ask : Every time i read, the title of, "I can't wait" (it says that right??) the luca fanfiction my mind goes, "He's desperate to have sex but in a, "I need to be taken care of and to be soft and needy" way and needs to just let go and can't wait for sex and love making."

Thats all I just keep thinking about a needy needy luca getting taken care of and being desperate and, "I can't wait" for things and is all needy and wants to be taken care of and clingy because even mob bosses get all baby and needy sometimes and wanna be treated to a nice relaxing day by....their lover(look I'm thinking in VERY GAY sence he has a "Roommate" or a personal "Assistant" or "Butler/Maid" and its a nice guy but its so GAY)

A/N: I hope you enjoy the vibe! I couldn’t quite capture the baby vibes for some reason, but needy is in there. It’s giving Italy, it’s giving boys will be boys, it’s giving luxury linens.

—

Grand shutters opened to the bright Sicilian afternoon, with sounds of the busy street floating seven stories up into the apartment. This particular spot in their kitchen against the counter placed them right between the two windows, but Martin was sure the right angle would give prying eyes exactly what they were hungry for.

Luca had once again slid to his knees with all the grace of a dancer, but none of the class. His intentions were pitiful at best, as desperate as a beggar. Martin’s face burned at the sight of his boss and temporary roommate who was in a near trance.

“Again?” he managed to breathe out, a weak attempt to encourage shame in the man. But the words teetered on the line between exasperation and moaning.

In their shared apartment, bought to house them for the few months they would be working in Italy and nothing more, Martin gripped his caffé cup tightly while Luca placed an open mouthed kiss on the front of Martin’s linen pants.

The fabric’s design to breathe well worked in Luca’s favor, making the heat from his breath translate through linen and cotton shorts to the sensitive skin of Martin’s growing bulge.

“I need it,” Luca whined, hoarse and broken as he treated the tenting linen as if it were the lover.

The way no one would believe that such a voice would come from a Changretta at all, much less Luca, was almost enough to keep Martin quiet all of these weeks. The first time Luca reached out to him, tipsy on wine while palming his shorts, Martin had no words. He wanted to swear, but his all of his mind was trying to decipher if it were real life. Luca was tall, handsome, sexy even. He could have anything he wanted, seduce anyone he wanted. But he decided on a lacky that was 8 years his junior and admittedly a bit fussy about most things. But it was that pathetic, sulky look that drew Martin in to Luca the first time and every time since. Had he known this would happen twice a week, every week, he would have, well…

Martin finished his espresso, savoring it to ensure he enjoyed the two pleasures at once. He placed the cup to the counter and ran his hands through his hair before looking past the logic. He looked past Luca being his boss, and that his pleadings for release are so raw that it makes Martin unable to look him in the eye for a while. He looks past the impressive acoustics of their high ceiling home, and that it’s 2:30pm on a Thursday. He looks past it, and down at the man nipping the outline of his cock. He reaches past it to place his hands on the back of Luca’s head. It doesn’t take much dominance to hold Luca still and press his pelvis forward into the demurely parted lips and hot tongue.

“Do you want to take off my pants, at least?” Martin asks like always, and like always Luca nods yes. “I’ll spoil you this time, go ahead.”

As he strokes Luca’s hair, the tie holding Martin’s pants is loosened until the waist band pools naturally at the low point of his hips, revealing the cotton shorts beneath. If he weren’t already shirtless, Luca would have pushed up Martin’s clothes for more access. Instead, Luca runs his hands up Martin’s legs, presses his thumbs into the hints of a v line that Martin possesses, then around to his ass, digging his fingertips into the fleshy cheeks. Martin wouldn’t call himself something to worship, his body being thicker and softer than others in the gang, though he was quite strong. Yet Luca let out a sound of yearning every time he pulled the linen down to reveal the hairy thighs of his subordinate. He wasted no time tonguing the flesh and even less time finding his way back to the cotton that constrained Martin’s weeping cock.

Hisses and sighs filled the atmosphere, paired with wanton grunts that still made Martin close his eyes. The embarrassment was shared. Hearing Luca’s symphony of need could make Martin cum at any time.

“Fuck, take it out,” Martin pants. “And stand up for fucks sake.”

Luca’s de-robing is less poetic - a flurry of cotton and sometimes flying buttons as they stumble to Luca’s bedroom. The collapse onto his large bed, and Martin adapts quickly to the actions of the starving man. Today their legs are entangled, Luca taking the lead by pressing their pelvises together - leaking cocks sliding against each other which each thrust. It’s more work for Luca, but the sight of his desperation makes Martin’s own hips twitch, stopping him from giving a helping hand.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Luca pants wildly.

His brow sweating until he wipes it and runs a hand through his hair. Martin, always quiet, let’s sharp huffs leave him, though their pitch is rising. Luca gives as a long, grinding thrust, his balls sliding along Martin’s shaft, forcing his tip to press into the softness as the slide back down. Martin sees stars and he’s sure he’s stopped breathing all together.

“I’m gon-,” Martin starts but bites his hand.

He doesn’t want it to be over just yet. He’s not sure if Luca always liked men or where the hell he learned out how to get him like this, but, for all the complaining he did, Martin was a satisfied recipient of these moments in heat. Some days, Luca has him with his chest pressed against the bed, and sliding a lubed up cock between Martin’s cheeks in a way that has never failed to make his back arch and cheeks run hot. Martin whimpers at the memory and his hips sputter. Thick white ropes fly onto his chest, though his eyes cross before he can get a good look at them. Luca’s adjusting speed to not overstimulate him, but for what seems like eternity, Martin feels like he’s cumming nonstop while Luca finishes.

They lay together, sweaty and still riding a high. The first round is always in a rush, so Martin appreciates the weight of Luca and closes his eyes and he gathers himself. It’s Luca who is continuing the skin ship and caresses. The nonstop kisses to Martin’s neck, shoulders, chest, and ears if he can reach. Grabby hands run over every inch of him, brushing his nipples, his collarbone, the curves in his waist. When his cock begins to stir, Martin sighs and flips them over. He sits back on his heels between Luca’s long legs, and Luca sits up in anticipation.

“You make such an ass out of yourself. Can you really not control yourself?” Martin tsked, but he reaches between them to stroke Luca who is already half hard. Luca’s head lulls back and he moans, unashamed.

“It’s something about you, this apartment, the heat, the wine. Half way through my meetings I start getting wound up thinking about you pouting and giving in. Your fucking ass in those pants. And I’m just tense with all of this expansion bullshit. I end up needing something like, fucking hell.”

Martin’s so transfixed on watching Luca talk with his head back, his black hair in need of a cut and flopping around, and the bobbing of his adams apple. So wrapped up in how boyish and open a naked Luca Changretta can look, and how much it adds to his erotic description. Martin forgets to tease or wear him out, he simple stroked Luca right over the edge. He looks down at Luca’s hands fisting the sheets and the cum spilling over his own fist that grips Luca’s cock. Martin pauses but starts stroking again.

“Keep talking. Tell me about the tension.” He scoops the cum with his other hand and travels lower, finding Luca’s puckered opening. The slick teasing makes him shiver.

“You’re gonna kill me,” Luca complains, on the edge of whining once again.

“Hm? Isn’t this what you’ve been begging for?”

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