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eloves-writes · 5 months

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so it goes…

[coriolanus snow x reader]

desc: part 2 here! as dr gaul’s assistant, you find yourself alone in her laboratory bearing an unpleasant task with her other mentee, coriolanus snow, who you strongly despise. or so it goes … warnings: smut, oral sex (f receiving), slightly public sex, reader is wearing a skirt, think that's it but please lmk if i need to add anything! a/n: thank you so much for all the love on my last fic! and thank you anon for this request, i love and appreciate requests more than you know!!! enjoy this. will for sure write a second chapter if one singlular person expresses interest. mwah mwah mwah ily this work contains mature themes, minors dni

dr gaul’s lab was filled with weird and wonderful (but mostly weird) things. you sat, bored, on your side of the gamemaker’s desk staring at shelves and shelves of creatures of all shapes and sizes with various muttations. according to the clock beside you, it had been 30 minutes since gaul herself had left the room to ‘see to something’. it was often best not to ask questions when things like that happened, but you really wished she would come back soon as your work day technically ended in a few minutes and gaul’s second-favourite mentee came to visit her after hours almost every day. coriolanus snow was not necessarily an unpleasant person, not to you at least, but he was certainly unbearable. he was so up his own ass thinking he was better than everybody else that he failed to realise how much of a pompous twat he was. ‘snow lands on top’. god, those four words were practically all you heard come out of his mouth when he wasn’t sucking up to dr gaul or spewing fake niceties to any authoritative figure who would listen.

as you were thinking about how annoying he is and how pretentious his stupid hairstyle was, the door to the lab was hauled open by the peacekeepers who stood guard outside. thank god gaul was back, you couldn’t wait to get out of here. not that you weren’t grateful for this assistant’s position, because it was a highly coveted role for university students each year and you’d beat them all out for it. even snow. ha. even suck-up snow. fuck. snow.

the tall blond had entered the lab and was walking up to your desk with his usual self-assured smile and red uniform.

“y/n, good evening.”

“snow.”

his pleasant facade dropped for just a moment at your monotonous response.

“where’s dr gaul?”

you passive aggressively put down the pen you had been tapping on the desk.

“i don’t know,” you replied blandly, studying his face like you trying to read his mind. “she left like a half hour ago to ‘see to something’, but she’s not been back. i’d suggest you leave and speak to her tomorrow instead.”

coriolanus pulled a face as if thoroughly surprised that anyone could be anything less than cordial to him. it was a subtle change in expression, but you figured that’s what he was thinking.

“that’s quite alright, y/n,” he smiled mockingly, “i’ll sit right here and wait. nowhere to be tonight.”

“shocker,” you murmured, watching as snow sat in the empty chair opposite you.

the two of you stayed sat at gaul’s desk for almost 10 minutes before either of you said anything else.

“how is the apprenticeship going?” snow asked, trying to fill the awkward silence by feigning interest.

“it’s great. thanks. thrilling, actually. i’m having the time of my life. this is so much fun,” you retorted.

coriolanus raised an eyebrow and shifted in his seat. “you know, every one of gaul’s students wanted this apprenticeship. if you’re not enjoying it, i am more than certain that you could find somebody to fill the role.”

you huffed sarcastically. “oh good try, snow. i’m not giving it up that easily.”

“so i’ve heard,” he muttered.

before you could respond to that, the laboratory doors hauled open again and dr gaul finally returned.

“ah, coriolanus, good,” she welcomed, entering with purpose in her stride. “i have a small ask of the pair of you.”

there was no way in the whole of panem that this would be a ‘small’ ask, coming from her. coriolanus’ eyes widened in apprehension.

“don’t make that face at me, coriolanus snow.”

“sorry.”

“good. i must continue to deal with a situation that has arisen, i need you two to feed chupa before he gets too hungry. that’s all, then you both may leave and i shall see you," you watched her search for a rhyme, "before tomorrow’s eve.”

then she turned to leave, with you and coriolanus pulling faces of horror. ‘chupa’ was a particularly hideous and dangerous looking creature that gaul had advised you, on multiple occasions, to keep your distance from. and now she was asking you to feed him? sometimes it was like she wanted you dead.

“wait a minute,” you said hesitantly. gaul moved only her head to look at you and you regretted opening your mouth immediately. “sorry, dr gaul, you want us,” you motioned to yourself and snow, “to feed that,” you pointed at the cage where the beast appeared to be smirking.

“yes,” she replied plainly. “he will eat anything, but he most likes the small green snakes.”

with that, she left the lab again.

coriolanus looked at you, looked at chupa, then looked back at you. “what the fuck is that?”

you snorted, enjoying seeing him uncomfortable. “do you want to get the snakes, or shall i?”

“you get them,” he spoke quickly. “i don’t like snakes.”

you were suspicious at this apparently strong aversion to the slithering reptiles. perhaps they’d scared him when he was younger, and never shook it off. or perhaps one had bitten him. you imagined him flailing his arms and screaming and it made you chuckle to yourself as you took a jar half-filled with thin, forest green snakes. they weren’t venomous, in fact they were quite amiable and undeserving of being fed to the ugly brute in the cage beside you. regardless, you removed two snakes from the jar and placed it back on the shelf.

coriolanus was keeping his distance, making you do all the work. lazy asshole.

“can you open the cage?” you directed snarkily. he tentatively unfastened the top of the cage, standing closer to you than he ever had before. up close, he looked like a real person. a real person who was just as real as everybody else in the capitol, not any better. he smelt better than a lot of them though. like cologne and fresh roses. you mentally chastised yourself for noticing and tried to focus on the task at hand.

your snake-holding hand slid towards chupa’s mouth, which opened to reveal a large set of sharp fangs that seemed to be moving upwards

“be careful of the fangs,” snow warned from behind you.

“thank you coriolanus, i’m so glad you told me that. i was truly about to stick my fingers into his mouth,” you retorted sarcastically, starting to feed the snakes to the disgusting creature.

he mumbled something incoherent that sounded something like “i wish you would.”

“sorry what was that, snow? did you say something,” you asked, becoming more irritated by his unhelpful presence.

as chupa finished the tail of the second snake, he bit the air above him in an attempt to get your hand for dessert, making you rapidly withdraw your hand from the cage and leap backwards. coriolanus dropped the lid in shock and it thankfully fastened itself.

when you had leapt backwards, you had leapt backwards straight into snow’s arms that he had instinctively wrapped around you in protection. his arms were stronger than they looked through his uniform jacket, and his chest much more toned. it felt beyond strange to be this close to him. but something deep inside of you suddenly yearned to be closer, and you slowly rotated yourself in his arms to face him, hands pressed against his chest.

coriolanus was looking into your eyes like nothing else was in the room. like he had never seen a person’s eyes this close before. he was looking at you like you were most incredibly fascinating thing he had ever seen.

and maybe you were; he had grown used to the capitol women throwing themselves at him. he didn’t struggle to take them home, had no issues finding a date to all the various events he attended. then there you were- snapping at him and poking fun at him, and not even waiting until his back was turned to roll your eyes or pull faces. in what he deemed a cruel twist of fate, you were the only girl in the capitol who didn’t look at him like he was god, and you were the only girl in the capitol he truly felt something deeper than momentary lust for.

his lust for you was not momentary. it was perpetual. and having you this close to him, safe and protected in his arms, confirmed for him that you needed to be his. the world bent to the will of coriolanus snow. and so would you.

in an instant where your body no longer obeyed your better judgment, you pressed your lips to coriolanus’.

he kissed you back like you were a source of oxygen, using his advantageous hold of you to force you to walk backwards towards the rows of bookshelves behind gaul’s desk without separating your lips. he swiftly checked the door to make sure nobody had snuck in before your bodies were eclipsed by the cover of the well-stocked shelves and you were roughly pushed up against them. snow continued to kiss you, moving down to your neck to leave marks sure to raise questions the next morning, then down to your collarbone, unbuttoning your blouse as he went so that his path was clear to mark you with his mouth all the way down to the waistband of your skirt. his kneeled down before you and pushed up your skirt, looking up at you for approval. you nodded, still caught up in the moment. this was fine. this felt good. it really felt good when snow removed your panties and placed your legs over his shoulders, holding you up at the waist and running his tongue along your folds, earning a loud moan from you. he withdrew his head from you skirt to shush you, before returning his tongue to your centre and flicking it against your clit. you bit onto your knuckle to absorb the sound of the whimpers escaping you. where the fuck had he learned to do this? it felt heavenly, his mouth drawing you ever closer to release with his large hands digging into your hips to keep you in position.

“coryo,” you whispered. “coryo, i’m close.”

he began to hum in acknowledgement, sending you right over the edge. a moan slipped from your mouth as you came, feeling your slick drip onto his face. he continued to lap at your juices as you rode out your orgasm, a blissful haze washing over you. if these were the skills making snow so cocky, you couldn’t fault him for that particular trait any longer. he lifted his head and smiled at you like a man who was very aware you’d just cum on his face by his manipulation. he helped you take your legs from his shoulders with a satisfied smirk when they wobbled under the weight of your body, then he kissed you again, softer this time, to force you to taste yourself on his tongue. you reached your hand forward to his crotch, palming him through his constricting pants. he indulged you for a minute, then removed your hand and lifted it to his lips like a true gentlemen.

you felt a little disappointed to not repay the favour, finally feeling content with your formerly repressed lust for the man.

but then he leaned down to your ear and whispered in a low tone, “you can owe me one,” before giving you one last lewd kiss and leaving you stood behind the bookshelves in the head gamemaker’s office with messed up hair and a realisation that you really wanted coriolanus snow to come and visit after hours again tomorrow.

#coriolanus snow #corio snow x reader #coriolanus fanfiction #coriolanus imagine #coriolanus snow smut #coryo snow #coryo x reader #hunger games fanfiction #tbosas fic #tbosas #coryo smut #coryolanus snow #coriolanus x y/n #coriolanus x you #corio snow #corio snow smut #president snow #president snow smut

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am-i-the-asshole-official · 6 months

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AITA for leaving paper notes in my neighbors mailbox asking them to quiet their loud dog?

First things first I (24f) have extreme anxiety, I just started therapy and have taken medication in the past. Confrontations are very hard for me. I cry very easy lol.

Lately our neighbors (behind our house) have been keeping their dog outside. He is very large, I think a St Bernard, and has a bark that can cut through walls. My room faces the backyard, and gets the full blunt of his barking. Only a broken wooden fence separates our yards. Nothing can be done about this.

Earlier this and last month, they have been leaving him out more, and he doesn't seem to like it. He'll bark at their back door endlessly until they let him in. His bad spews go from 30 minutes of barking to almost over an hour at times, sometimes several times a day, usually midday right when I'm home from work, and unfortunately at night, around 9:30pm.

(He does not bark inside much, he is so loud I can hear him from inside their house with my window closed, but he is usually quiet inside.)

Its gotten so bad if he barks once, I get anxious right away and tend to shut down, the sound has become a "trigger" of sorts for my anxiety. Mostly due to the unknown factor of how long he'll bark...

I was terrified to introduce myself to them, so at the support of my friends, I left a very VERY kind note in their mailbox, asking if they could shorten how long he barks. (Note almost sounded like I was a pushover lol, I didn't wanna be a Karen...but 30min to an hour is excessive for sound...)

After the first note, I do think the times he went on long barking spiels shortened, but it wasn't totally gone, as on and off he'd go off again for long periods of time. About a week or so later, I left another note thanking them for understanding, but also subtly saying he's still barking a lot...

It was then great for almost two weeks! Hardly barked at all! But last week he started up again, nearly 2 hours total straight on Saturday, over 40 min on Sunday...

I am thinking of leaving a final note with a contact email to try and talk...

But I'm scared I was TA for leaving notes at all, I have no idea what kind of people they are, or if the notes annoyed them or not...I don't want enemies and my parents know nothing about this, as they don't think its a problem. But it is illegal here to have a barking dog for that long, I checked...AITA for leaving these notes?

I can handle small amounts of barking from him! I know dogs gotta dog, but for 30min to over an hour, to maybe even 2+ hours a day...its too much to handle...and trust me when I say, he's loud...

I may still leave my email for them to try and talk, but I've been so worried what I have been doing was wrong...gotta love anxiety huh?

What are these acronyms?

#aita #am i the asshole

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shewhohangsoutincemeteries · 4 months

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to ashes, conflicted

Clint Barton x F!Reader

To Ashes, Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Summary: your patience runs thin with clint and your latest mission comes with complications.

Warnings: angst, canon-typical violence

Word Count: 2,010

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CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Days Since the Decimation: Three Years, Sixty-Three Days

“Hungry?” you asked without looking up from the fridge. You pulled a plastic bag of leftover takeout off the shelf, fishing out a plastic container of curry. When Clint didn’t reply, or even acknowledge you at all, you dropped it onto the kitchen counter with more force than was strictly necessary. The lid wasn’t completely in place, and sauce splattered the countertop. You cursed to yourself, irritated further. You spoke under your breath, reaching for a towel. “Or I could just go fuck myself, I guess.”

It was catty, you supposed, but Clint had been oscillating between his usual self and frustratingly cold and dismissive over the last two months, and it was driving you insane. One day he’d be fine – for Clint, anyway – and the next, you’d be on the business end of the silent treatment. The normal days had gotten fewer and far between since the anniversary, and what triggered the silence, you still had no idea, but it was very quickly beginning to grind on the very last of your nerves.

Tossing the container into the microwave, you hit a couple of buttons and leaned against the countertop as the turntable began to rotate. You let yourself stew as it warmed, arm folding across your chest as you watched the archer head for the shower. He continued to avoid eye contact as though you weren’t there at all, even as the microwave beeped to announce its completion.

You sighed irritably and leaned your elbows on the counter as you picked petulantly at the curry. When Clint finally reemerged, he was dressed in most of his mission gear, and you tossed your fork in the sink. He didn’t even glance up as it clattered against the metal.

“You ready?” he asked gruffly from the couch, tugging on one of his boots.

“Oh, I’m sorry. Are you talking to me?” It slipped out before you could stop it, annoyance dripping from every word.

Clint looked up; an eyebrow raised. “What’s the matter with you?”

You probably should have just shut up, should have just gotten changed and followed him out the door. But instead, you wiped your hands on a tea towel and tossed it on the counter in front of you. The words kept spewing out bitterly. “I just didn’t realize today was one of the days you actually speak to me like I’m a human being.”

“…What are you talking about?”

Shut up, Y/N.

“What am I—” you scoffed, shaking your head as you rounded the counter towards him. “Clint, this is the first time you’ve spoken to me in three days, and its to ask if I’m ready to go on a mission we haven’t even talked about.”

“We—”

“No, we haven’t!” you snapped, brandishing a finger at him as you closed the distance between you. “Honestly, most days you treat me like I’m furniture around here and I am fucking sick of it! You disappear for months; you come back and tell me you ‘need me’ and, fine, I roll with that, but then you act like I’m not even here—”

Clint’s tone turned a shade of defensive, his jaw tightening and releasing. “I’m not—”

You stabbed him in the chest with your finger. “You act like I’m not even here, and you know what, that would be fine too, except when you finally do talk to me, I actually believe for a moment that things could be going back to normal between the two of us.”

“Everything is—”

“No, it’s not!” you shouted, your face inches from his. “Clint, I get emotional whiplash every time you decide to talk to me!”

“Would you just let me—”

“And I sit here and I pretend everything is fine, and meanwhile you’re pretending I don’t exist and you’ve got me yelling like some kind of sitcom reject and if you could just man up and stop being such a—”

Your words caught in your throat as Clint’s hand suddenly closed around it. He pushed you back against the wall, his thumb pressed hard against the corner of your jaw. In your anger you hadn’t realized just how close you’d been to him, and now even that limited space was gone, Clint’s body so close that you could feel his chest brush against yours with each of his breaths.

His fingers were tight, unforgiving, against your throat. And still you felt a thrill shoot through you, and your lips parted without breath. Clint’s eyes were dark. Anger and something else that sent a shiver straight to the small of your back burned in his gaze.

Your fists clenched and unclenched by your sides; a shield could force him away from you, release you, and maybe you should have been scared of this side of Clint, but his eyes fell for a moment to your parted lips and you couldn’t move.

Do it.

Clint released you, stepping away as though he’d suddenly woken up. He cleared his throat and you inhaled, still leaning back against the wall. Your breath shook as you caught it, your palms pressed against the wall by your thighs. Clint ran a hand through his hair, turning his back to you, and you exhaled as that tightness that had bloomed in the pit of your belly began to ease.

“Get changed,” he said finally, and you swore his voice was unsteady. “We’ve… we’ve got a window closing. We’ll talk about this later.”

***

The ‘window’ had turned out to be a weapons deal in the middle of Holland Park – even three years after the Snap and with society beginning to rebuild its law enforcement within the populated areas, criminals seemed to have no problem with committing grand scale felonies in what were still considered major landmarks. Still, the park was very much deserted at this hour, and you found yourself using the silence around you to continue stewing over your… conversation with Clint as you made your way towards the Kyoto Gardens fountain.

You should have just ignored your feelings and followed after him obediently as usual. The helpful little sidekick just doing what she’s told. But no, you had to go postal on him, and now…

You sighed as you clambered up to the top of the fountain’s rock formation, carefully avoiding the water running between the stones. The foliage would mostly block you from view, and the darkness would do the rest. Clint would be nearby, waiting for his opportunity to strike.

Clint…

God, he was going to withdraw even more, wasn’t he? He was going to pretend everything was fine for a few days and then get even more monosyllabic. He might even disappear again.

You’d made a big show of telling him you didn’t care about him sleeping with you and taking off – you didn’t – and then you’d gone and acted like a frickin’ insane girlfriend.

Settling in a crouch on the outcrop, you continued to mull petulantly as you waited for the targets to show. It was almost an hour before anyone turned up, and an ache was starting to settle into both your head and your thighs. A furrow appeared between your brows as the man approaching the fountain arrived empty handed. You recognized his face – he was supposed to be doing the dealing here.

You reached up activate the comms device in your ear. “Hey, something’s off here, I—”

Your head jerked automatically as you heard a pebble skitter down the stones behind you. Hand flying automatically to your belt and you barely managed to roll out of the way as a baseball bat suddenly swung down toward you. Without your skull to stop it, it cracked against the stone you’d just been kneeling on.

Landing on your back on the uneven stones left you in just as bad a position and with a sharp pain in your shoulder, but going any further would have had you rolling right off the edge of the outcrop. The limited light now worked against you, and you stopped fumbling for your gun as the bat came arching down out of the darkness again.

You rocked back onto your shoulders and kicked upward with both feet. The grunt of your assailant told you you’d caught him in the stomach, and you scrambled back into a crouch long enough to pull the blade from the holster on your boot. The sound of voices below and the agonized cry of someone meeting Clint’s blade suggested the man on the ground’s back up had arrived at the same time as your attackers.

Straightening, you held the blade tightly in your fist. The metal shone as it briefly caught the light of the nearest lamppost.

“I told you the boss was on to something.” a gruff, eastern European voice said in the dark, and you raised the blade warningly. “There’s more than one Ronin.”

Oh, shit.

“Yeah, yeah.” came the cockney reply, the man still winded from his meeting with your boots. “Ronin’s got himself a girlfriend. Just get on with it.”

Oh, SHIT.

You swung wide with the knife as the first man approached, ducking under a swing from another baseball bat. The European caught you in the shoulder and you grunted, the blow hard enough that you dropped the knife. You heard it clatter against the rocks below. The cockney guy shoved past him and swung, and you dodged to the left, the move sloppy on uneven ground.

The urge to force them away with a shield was growing along with your nerves as they forced you back closer to the edge of the outcropping, and you swallowed it back. They were already far too informed, and you couldn’t risk them actually unpuzzling your identities. The cockney man rushed you, sensing your hesitation, and you dropped just as quickly. You used his momentum to throw him over your shoulder and send him crashing into the water below.

“Hülye kurva!” the European spat, and you stood quickly, slugging him in the jaw. He grunted, spat, and swung the bat again. You cursed as you moved too slow and the bat glanced off your side. Your fingers twitched in an automatic gesture; forcing the bat out of his hands would be so easy, but—

You jumped, grabbing hold of a tree branch above you. You swung forward, both feet meeting his chest. He fell and you landed in front of him, kicking the bat out of his hand. Removing your gun from its holster, you leveled it with his stomach, finger curling around the trigger.

And then your body suddenly seized as an excruciating pain exploded between your shoulders and set your whole body on fire. Fifty thousand volts coursed through you from the taser bolt in your back and you felt your limbs tense uncontrollably. Your eyes rolled back and you collapsed backward, off of the ledge. A sick, rushing sensation overcame you before you felt your back hit the water and the back of your head cracked against stone.

Then everything went black.

***

“Come on, Y/N. Come on, baby, breathe…”

An almost painful pressure on your chest forced you back into consciousness, the same feeling repeating four more times before you finally coughed the water from your lungs. You rolled onto your side and threw the rest of it up, your chest heaving and your hair dripping in your eyes as you tried to force them open again.

You’d been dragged from the water, a pool of it spreading from your clothes onto the stone beneath you. Your throat burned as you tried to gulp down air, and you coughed again. “Wh—?”

You felt yourself pulled upward, arms banding around your shoulders. Clint’s hand curled in your damp, tangled hair, your face tucked against the curve of his neck. “You gotta stop scaring me like this, Y/N.”

You coughed a laugh, wrapping an arm around his neck as tears burned your eyes. “I’m working on it.”

tags:@trekkingaroundasgard@lovely-dreamer19@wittyforachange@wefracturedmotivation@january-echoes@glossyloner@capitalnineteen@youclickedthislink@s0ftness@castieltrash1@drakelover78@queenoftheunderdark@lol-you-thought@akumune@xxboesefrauxx@enna-core@hearmyharmony@katsies@youralphawolf72@maenji@rhymesmenagerie@gwianasky@melaclintbartoncorner@loki-is-loved@whovianayesha@bradfordbantams@alice-the-nerd@fanofallthefics@ace-fandom-dumbass@kaelyn-lobrutto24@twsssmlmaa@earth-pig-fish@meeksmusic83@hallothankmas@justanothermagicalsara@janineb86@darsynia@rhymesmenagerie @thatwelshbi @lauraashley93

AN: this chapter was short and took far too long to write, but I promise the next one will come much quicker!

AN2: The language we're seeing here is Hungarian - and that's because I'm going to be using a particular fictional Marvel country in a few chapters and it's canonically right next to Hungary, so I figured there would/could be an overlap in the language. No spoilers though!

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i-literally-cant-with-this · 8 months

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A/N = I saw this picture on pinterest and knew I wanted to write something about someone having a petty/hot af gym experience with Toji. I read and edited as much as my eyes would allow. And as always, any grammatical/otherwise errors, lemme know.

T/W = Oral (M->F), brief masturbation, y/n calls Toji "Daddy", lots of unnecessary language, spanking, man in women's locker room (shower), 1 pussy slap, name calling (bitch). And others.

Bastard!Toji hones in on one woman at the gym. They do petty shit to one another, especially at the end.

"Don't call me a bitch.

Bitch"

Most of my dividers were made by @cafekitsune Go. Look. At. Them. They're amaze-balls.

MDNI/NSFW/🔞 -> under the cut.

You stood in your apartment buildings gym and filled your water bottle. Silently working yourself up as this asshole had been on one of your favorite weight machines for well past the 10-minute allotment.

"Tch, motherfucker. He's always doing that! I should turn him in to ... to ... someone." Toji looks up at you, smiles and winks. He motions and mouths the words "You want it?" And waves you over.

Ok, so maybe I was wrong about him, you thought. You put the lid back on your water bottle and walk over to him.

"Hey, sweetheart." Your eyebrows flew up at the cheese he was spewing from his scarred mouth. "You want this after me? I have 30 more reps to do on this arm and 50 on the other. Why don'cha give me your number and I'll call you when it's free. Yeah? My phone is in my front pocket. Go ahead and dig around until you feel something hard and grab it. Play with that for a bit, and then find my phone." He was so foul.

"Don't. Dont call me that." You noticed right away that it was not a question. He'd told you to grab his cock, give him your number, and he'd give you a ring when the machine was free.

"Hard pass, thanksanywaythough." Your words ran together as you denied his ... offer? Was it an offer? No. He was a bastard who saw you as nothing but his next meal. His next conquest.

"There's plenty of other equipment I can use and get the same result. But I s'pose you'd know that if you actually knew what you were doing." You turned on your heels and went across the room. Away from him and his stupid fucking pants that left very little to the imagination.

You started work on another machine, and you didn't take your eyes off of him from the waist down until you'd finished.

⑉⑉⑉⑉⑉⑉⑉⑉ 2 weeks later⑉⑉⑉⑉⑉⑉⑉⑉

You'd just gotten home from a terrible day at work. All you wanted was to eat a pint of Icing on the Cake and then rage-exercise your feelings away. But something gnawed at the back of your mind. It was a Friday and still relatively early in the afternoon.

You twisted your hair around your finger and wondered if he was down there. "The fuck ... am I thinking! I don't CARE. I DON'T CARE if he's there or not. But ... Fuck this." You threw your smallest workout clothes on, the ones that covered the least amount of skin, grabbed a clean water bottle and headed out the door.

The elevator door slid open, and your eyes nearly popped out of your head. "Are you ... fffuck. Of course, you'd be on right now." He was the last person you wanted to deal with. "Look, I had a seriously shit day. I want the machine first. Ok? You can have it all you want over the weekend." You decided for him. An offer he surely couldn't refuse. Right?

"Oh, darlin'. That's absolute shit that you had such a bad day. I'll tell you what, I get it first, and then you can have it after me for the foreseeable future. Mm?"

Your head tipped down so low your chin met the skin of your upper chest. A twisted laugh fell from your lips. "No. That's not what I said. The first thing I said to you was I wanted the fucking thing. Ok! Why are you acting like a toddler that can't have a toy he wants? Jesus. Just, don't talk to me anymore. I really don't like you."

"Oh. Come now, sweetheart. You know you don't mean that." He rubbed the scar on his mouth and purposely licked his lips.

The elevator stopped on the gym floor, and you stepped in front of him to block him from leaving first. Well, that was stupid.

He was over 6' tall. His muscles alone weighed more than you and your 5'3 frame. He lifted you with one arm and held you to the front of his hard body. Each carved muscle crevice sticking into your back made you want to stop struggling against him. But if you did that, you'd ultimately just be giving him what he wants: submission. And you'd sooner eat dirt than let him get anything from you.

"Put me down, you overgrown weed! What the fuck, man?!" You squirmed and fought his hold on you to no avail. "Ok, ok, oh-kayyy. Truce. Mercy. Uncle. Whatever but put me down! Please."

Your meager attempt at calming yourself made him laugh. The sound seeped into your ears. You weren't hating it. Laughter always held a certain spot in your heart. It didn't change the fact that you still hated him, though.

He dropped you to the floor, and you almost fell. "Nice, asshole." You hissed. "I. Am. Getting. That. Machine!" You scrambled to your feet and ran toward your goal.

You made it, too. But something was missing. You looked around you for your bottle of water but it wasn't anywhere to be found.

Until.

You looked around to find Toji. The son of a bitch was drinking from it. From your water. He finished a few giant gulps and dumped the rest over his body. Not only was the fucker getting to you with his obscenely palatable looks, but now his wet pants clung to his crotch even tighter than before. You'd be damned if your eyes didn't trail down his chest and rest on his bulging cock.

He watched you lose every ounce of fight you had left and he flexed his long cock. Solely for you.

Oh no. You thought. Oh, no no no. Look away, y/n. Look. Away.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing! Oh my god! Stop it! That's mine!! The wa– the water bottle is mine!" He polished off the bottle and threw it in the garbage. "Oh, you motherfff–"

"It's right here. Jesus. Why don't you grab a tampon and plug your hole before you stroke out. Now move. I'm first. I always go first."

"Fuck ... off. If you think that was my only water bottle then you must be dumber than you look. I'm not going anywhere. I think I'll work on my arms the whole time I'm here. Yep! Right here. On my favorite equipment. Mm-hmm. Here I go! Oh, oh yeah. That burn is ... oh shit. It's orgasmic!"

"You. Bitch." He said with no tone. And at that moment you swear a light bulb exploded over his head. "You really wanna start this shit with me? You're sure? You will be begging for me to stop by the end of the day. So help me." He promised.

He walked to the main office and you heard him say something to the manager. Then they both came out and walked toward you.

"Miss Y/L/n? Um, this is awkward. You've never caused any trouble here. And I don't know why you'd decide to start now. Over a weight machine, nonetheless. But I'm afraid I'm going to have to give you a warning about your aggressive behavior."

You leaned into the manager's small frame. Probably not the best idea since you were accused of being 'aggressive'.

"You're, you're what? You're giving me a warning for WHAT!?" You glared at where Toji was standing; like a victim. But you saw it: the subtle uptick of the corners of his mouth. Slimy bastard.

"Mr. Fushiguro told me what happened between you with ... with the weight machine." They shook their head, disappointed in your alleged behavior. "There are signs posted all over the gym, Y/L/n. And another thing? It's immature of you to throw his water bottle away."

"I didn't ... wait ... he's the one ..." It was useless. The manager was already walking back to their dark little room. You glared incredulously at Toji.

"You're the bitch here." Your words did not affect the man. You stomped away, so pissed you don't want to do anything at all now. "I'll remember this, and you owe me a water bottle. Bitch."

Toji just took his place on the machine and began to press the weights like a working mule.

⑉⑉⑉⑉⑉⑉⑉ 1 week later⑉⑉⑉⑉⑉⑉⑉⑉

Today was the day. You were going to get a full arm workout. Your new outfit was so cute. It showed just enough of your skin to draw his attention, but not so much he'd assume you were trying to gain his gaze.

You got into the cropped sports bra and the pants that matched it and made sure everything was pointing in the right direction. But before you went to the elevator, you smacked on a thermal lip balm. It warmed at the heat from your lips and turned a cute, natural shade of bright pink.

You didn't understand why you wanted his attention. It was fun to keep his flexing junk on a constant loop in your head, though. It was becoming a pretty big distraction. No matter how many times you took matters into your own hands and tried to relieve the ever-present want between your legs, nothing you did brought you any relief.

You decided to exercise the lust right out of you.

As you locked your door behind you, Toji showed up and stood right in front of the elevator doors. He nearly blocked your way in. "Oh god. Why? Why are you always here when I am? It's a 24-hour gym. You can go another time? Why every night at 5:30?"

He turned to you and raised an eyebrow. "First, my name isn't 'Oh god.' It's Toji. Remember that. There's a good chance you'll be sittin' on my face screaming it out." He looked down at you with a playfulness in his eyes. "My face or somethin' else. And, unfortunately, you only feel like you own 5:30 rights to the apartment's gym. I'll go whenever I fuckin' wanna go." The elevator doors opened. "You comin', sweetheart?"

There it was again. The familiar pull of your throbbing cunt toward this beast of a man. He was so big. His body was hard everywhere. Even his cock seemed to be half hard all of the time. You hoped your new workout clothes would make him sorry for ever being a shit to you.

But so far, just standing next to him, he treated you like it were any other day that you both braced at the other's presence. But he didn't change when he was near you. Only you seemed to shift.

"You can have it first, ok? Just wipe it down for fucks sake. You sweat rivers when you do that." He smiled at your concession. But that was it. He didn't say thank you or look at you.

You stepped off into the gym after he did, and you went right for the leg machines.

He looked around the space and then at you settling in to do some leg presses. "What are you doin', baby? You want to go first today, that's fine."

"No, I said you can go first. I don't care anymore."

"No, really. Go first." He sat down on the bench. "Here, I'll watch ya."

"Why the hell would I do that?! You're just gonna watch me, and then, you're gonna sit there and judge my form or some shit. You're the worst person I've ever met."

"Ok, how about we both judge each other?"

"That's stupid, Toji." You sighed. It was exhausting having to have a conversation with him. "You just want to see me bend over."

"You know me so well, sweetheart."

"Don't call me that."

"Alright, alright. Jesus. Now, get over here, you're goin' first. And don't give me any lip ... about this, anyway. You can give me any other kinda l–"

You whacked him on the chest. "Stop there. I'll kick your ass if you finish that sentence. Got it, sweetheart?" You puffed your chest out and tried your best to be intimidating. But try as you might, Toji could squash you if he wanted to.

And oh, how you wanted him to fold you up, but you'd already decided you'd rather eat dirt than let this man within 6 inches of your dripping cunt. Wait ... did you just say dripping?

Fuh-uh-uck y/n! You're wet and it's because of him. Way to keep your eye on the balls – BALL.

Your face pinked up. And you hated yourself a little bit more for letting him get under your skin. There was something about him. His to-hell-with-it approach. You were drawn to him.

You stood with one leg crossed over the other, giving it your all to come across as though you were doing an exotic stretch.

"Hey, sweetheart, you look like you're, uh, trying not to cum. You doin' all right?" He let out a loud laugh.

You gasped at his observance. "I ... wh–. I told you not to call me that. Shut the fuck up. Take the machine. I never want to see it again." You skittered across the floor. Your hips swaying from one side to the other, and back again. For him. This guy. Such an asshole. Saying that to me. Absolutely no tact.

You got into the last shower in the women's locker room as soon as your clothes were off. The heat between your legs reaching a whole new level. And now that you think about it, you haven't felt this horny in a long time.

He was so crude and almost dirty ... and ... oh ... How you want him to fuck you.

The hot water eased some of the tension in your muscles. You washed your hair and conditioned it. When it came time to wash your body, everything was going smoothly until you started to soap up your breasts, stomach, thighs, and beyond. Turning down the water temperature, you hoped it would cool you somehow. But all it did was make you painfully aware of how badly you wanted Toji in there with you. To take the brunt of the icy spray hitting your half washed body.

It was impossible to ignore the urge to finger yourself.

You lowered your hand and your fingers ran circles around the soft flesh of your clit. It didn't take much for your walls to start contracting.

"Oh, god, mmhm."

There was a noise out in the dressing room. "Hello? I ... I h–hello? Goddamn it. I was getting close. Ok, ok." You sunk back against the opaque tiled wall and began running your fingers through your tender folds, approaching your orgasm, once again, almost too quickly.

You called out Toji's name as you came all over your hand. "Toj'– oh god, you're s'big! Yes, fuck me, Toji!" You moaned a little too loudly. Would anyone hear you? No one else was in there and the gym itself was pretty quiet for a Friday evening. Good. This was all good.

Just as you were about to turn the water off, the curtain was pulled back and your eyes popped wide open. "Oh my god! What are you doing?"

"Oh, darlin' ... I'm not the one who just blew her load while saying my name. That's just sad, sweetheart."

"Stop calling me that!! Oh, I can't believe this! How dare you come in here! All ... all fucking naked and ... and ... big! Just go away. What the fuck are you doing anyway?"

"I came in here to shower and ... wait. Did you say big? Well, darlin', that's not even the tip of the iceberg. I'll show you if you stop covering yourself."

You realized what you were doing. Your hands were covering your breasts and pussy. The cold water from the shower head was still pouring over you. You were nearly shivering.

"Fuck you, Toji. I'm not moving. You can go to a different shower. How about one in the nens locker room!"

"Now, sweetheart, why ya gotta go and be like this? You finished showerin' and fuckin'." He laughed, "Thoroughly, from what I heard." He grabbed his fat cock and pumped it in his fist a few times, slowly. "And these showers are nicer. Better water pressure. You're cold. Here, let me warm ya."

He pulled your arms down to fully expose you. "W-wait, what are you doing? Oh... god. D-don't... come closer."

"I'm not coming closer. You're the one getting closer."

You hadn't realized that it was you making your way toward him. You could feel his body pressing up against yours. "Toji, why are you ... I, please, don't. This isn't the time or place ... You need to ... to ..." You tried to sound stern but it was hard. His scent was getting stronger. His body is more intoxicating. Your words lost momentum the more you tried to convince yourself that he should stop.

He smelled like sweat and man. Not that gross, musty body odor that certain men carry after a heavy workout. This smelled like pure sex. You wanted to bottle it and save it for a rainy day.

"What's the matter, sweetheart? Cat got your tongue?"

"What the hell does that even mean? And I told you to stop ... y'know, whatever. Whatever."

"You've got no sense of adventure, do ya, sweetheart. You're too afraid to admit you're not as good at hiding your desire for me than you thought. You're afraid I'll be better at pleasuring you than anyone else has been." Toji squeezed the head of his cock and threw his head back, letting out a growl.

He was standing in the shower with you now. His cock was dragging across your belly with each twist of his hips. You were quickly losing the composure you always try to maintain around Toji. He can sense the heavy shift in your energy, and he cages you in against the shower wall with his toned body.

You stood there like a baby deer in the headlights. Nothing you did would lessen your fixation on how you felt as he stood so tall over you.

It took all your reserved efforts to lift your hands and grab his biceps. He saw you struggling with this. You two had been dancing around each other for weeks. When you'd declare your hatred for him, it gave him life. He thrives on the frustration you give to him and what he gives to you.

His large palms slid down the length of your sides until he was holding your hips. He was waiting for you to either push him away or pull him closer. You chose the latter.

You brought his wet body to your face and digging your nails into him, you licked his pecs.

"Mm, there's a good girl. Now, why don't you tell Daddy what you want, hm?" You almost came when he said that.

He lifted you like you were nothing but a child's plaything. So malleable. The transparency of your newfound intention made his cock leak.

"Please, Toji."

"Daddy, sweet–sweetheart."

"P–please, Daddy. Please, fuck me. Make me cum, Daddy."

"Yeah? Well let's, mmm, see what we can – ah fuck – do about ... that ..." He had lined himself up with your hole, teasing you, making you beg. You couldn't even look at him. Not only were you embarrassed, but he was just too intimidating. "Come on, baby. Tell me, how much ya want it."

"M'Toj', s‐someone might come in."

He kissed your wet breasts and assured you, "The only ones comin' in here will be me and you. I sent everyone home. Told'm I'd lock up when we were done."

"Wh– how? How can you just kick out a bunch of people?" Just who had you gotten yourself mixed up with.

"You don't know, sweetheart? Heh, well, shit. I own this apartment building. Yep. S'all mine."

"What?" You were trying to process what he said and not be so distracted by his dick rubbing all over you.

"You heard me. Now, let me taste that sweet, tight pussy."

Jesus fuck he's so hot. You tried everything to wiggle down a little lower so you could sit yourself down on his cock, but he wouldn't let you. "No, baby. Lemme taste."

He pushed your back against the wall and spread your legs around his neck. His mouth was hot. You felt him moan and grumble against your mound as he ate your pussy like it was his first and last time. His excitement was contagious.

He was careless with his movements but precise in his direction. Sloppy wasn't the word that came to mind. Nothing came to mind because you couldn't concentrate on anything but how his tongue darted in and out of your body.

Your eyes rolled to the back of your head. The sensation was so much more than you'd expected. This wasn't the kind of sex you'd had before. It wasn't the kind of sex you'd heard others speak about. You'd never, even in your dirtiest dreams and fantasies, thought this existed.

And yet, here you are. Your ass resting in Toji's hands, back steadying against the somewhat warmed tile. Your legs tightly wrapped around his neck while he sucks on your clit. How did you get so lucky.

He was taking his time, savoring the way you tasted. His lips pressed and sucked every bit of your skin and nibbled on your inner thighs.

"Mmmm ... T–Daddy. "

"Good girl. Y'gonna cum for Daddy, sweetheart?"

"Hahhh, yes, Daddy! Please, don't ... don't stop. I'm s'close, Toji."

"Fuck, sweetheart. Say that again, baby."

"Say ... say wha–"

"My name." He put his mouth back on you so gently. Lulling you into a false sense of security.

"Toji, oh god, fuck!"

He stopped for a moment and eased you down the front of his body. Your pussy nearly swallowing his entire length.

He felt the exquisite brush of your tight hole against his head. "Ohh shit, darlin'. But not yet."

"Toji, what ..."

"Hold on." He left the steamy enclosure of the walls and opened a cupboard in the locker room area.

"Ok, sit on this so you don't get cold." He laid out a plush towel for you over the wide bench in the large shower.

You sat as he got down on his knees in front of you. "Hmm. Now ... where was I ..." Toji buried his whole face between your folds. Licking and sucking at your soft flesh. The bridge of his nose hitting your clit just so. Quietly daring you to rub yourself on him and driving you further down.

Your head fell back as he got you right back to where you were before the change of position. His hands found their way up under your thighs and he pulled you forward with such force you had to stand or you'd fall.

And so, you stood over Toji now as he played in your cunt with his greedy mouth. You ran your hands through his black hair, tugging hard on it when he hit just the right spot and just the right speed.

He spread and smacked your ass cheeks. Ultimately sliding two rough fingers in between your lower lips to tease your sopping wet entrance.

"Fuck you taste so good, sweetheart. I could do this all day. I could do this all night. Let's do that. Yeah, darlin'? Wanna fuck all night?"

"Yeah, yes. M'close, Toji. So ... close ... Da–Daddy!"

"Cum for me, baby. Cum on Daddy's tongue. Let it go. Come on, sweetheart. I want it."

Your eyes squeezed shut, your head thrown back, and the muscles in your lower abdomen pulled tight. He held you still by the backs of your thighs and forced you to stay upright. "Mmmm, fuck, yes. Right there. Keep ... oh god ... yes! Yesyesyes! Oh FUCK! TOJIII!"

Your world was spinning as you came on his face and chest. He didn't care. He kept eating you out until you pushed him away. Your pussy was beyond overstimulated. So you pulled away and sat down slowly, trying to get your jellied legs to cooperate.

You were both breathing heavily, but Toji's breathing was different. It was deeper, almost raspier. You looked up at him and found him stroking his leaky reddened cock.

"Toji, let me ... I wanna–"

"Mmm. No." He said as his head fell down to watch as his hand wrapped around the tip.

"But ..."

"No."

"I ... I ... ok."

"What the hell kinda response is that? 'Ok?' Jesus, sweetheart. Get on the fuckin' floor."

"I didn't mean it like tha–"

"Sweetheart, do I gotta spank ya? 'Cuz I'll do it."

"Oh. You're just ... uhm. You're kinda ... I like ... I'd like that."

"Yeah? I thought so. Get down here."

You lowered yourself onto his legs, positioning your belly just over his thighs. His full length is so close to you. "Wait, wait. Hold on. You can't ... can't spank me. I need ..."

"What? What do you need?"

"You can't spank me unless you're inside me." You stuck your tongue out at him.

"Well well well. Look whose bratty little self is back." He crossed his arms over his large chest.

"I'm not a brat."

"Oh yeah? Prove it." He slipped his hand between your thighs and spread your legs, giving your cunt a little smack.

"AH! How?"

"By being a good little girl and letting Daddy spank you." He said sharply.

"What if I'm not Daddy's good girl? Will you spank me even harder?"

"Maybe."

"Well, in that case, make me. Fucker."

He smacked you, not too hard, and rubbed his large palm over your blushing ass cheek. "Again."

*Smack. Smack. Smack.* He bit into the red skin and ran his fingers teasingly around your entrance. Pulling away when he felt you trying to suck him in.

"Tojii ..."

"What is it, sweetheart?"

"Will you ..."

"... I'm waiting," he said, impatiently.

"Will you fuck me, Daddy? Please?" You batted your lashes. "I want you so bad."

He smiled. "You sound so cute when you beg. But no. I don't think so. Here's $25 for a new water bottle though. See ya 'round, bitch." He stood up, washed his body off and walked out of the shower. Leaving you with a wink, a shit-eating grin, and crumpled cash.

#toji fushiguro #jjk toji fushiguro #jjk toji #toji jjk #jjk fushiguro toji #toji smut #toji fushiguro smut #jjk toji smut #jjk toji fushiguro smut #jjk #jujutsu kaisen #jjk smut

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babstheyaga · 4 months

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SPOILERS FOR FMOD

i am trying ANYTHING to try and sleep and I can NOT get this off my mind oml -

like, i'm nonstop thinking of the ending of FMOD, and oml... I've changed my mind on the ending like one too many times and if I don't get this off my chest RIGHT. THIS. VERY. SECOND. i will pull my hair out and explode.

so like - the first ending I scrapped was reader gets shot blah blah blah surprise she's not dead (in the next book) but that gave me heavy like - really cringy 365 Days movie ending, and when I thought of that I just was like yeahhhh no thanks. so that was thrown in the bin...

then i was like what if she unknowingly gets pregnant and then finds out and then BOOM ending, continue to next book... blah blah blah. nah, thrown in the bin.

I have an idea. it's a good one. trust me. no spoilers outright for that. but. like. ya know. like. ya know.

So I've been fighting tooth and nail to figure out how the series was gonna go, and I had set a whole plan that each character was going to get their own book, ya know? Like one dedicated to Bee, Mirage, OP, Cee, all of them.

Only problem with this idea was I would either have to start all of the books at once, which would be freaking 7 books at once, and I talked to my mom about it and she was like "no, not a good idea, way too much stress" but this was my idea for a good 3-4 months and then one conversation with my mother changed all of it because I didn't think it would be that bad, but looking at it, it would be a terrible idea because I wouldn't be able to finish a single book for like the next like 20 years... FMOD is coming up on it's 2 year anniversary and It's taken me that long to get to chapter 30.

FMOD is not done. In the slightest. I have... So much I need to get to.

But with some people telling me that I need to space out the books, instead of making one gigantic story with like 60 chapters with what it's looking like it's going to be, then I need to like- space things out, ya know? Instead of one giant book, I can make multiple different ones.

It would make sense, considering I still have 5 people that I need to get to their sex scenes for. UGH this is so stressful and I'm going to rip my hair out and scratch my skin off like a cocaine addict trying to figure this out.

The biggest thing that's on my mind is deciding if I should either 1. make multiple books and do it one by one, or 2. do multiple books just continuing how it's going right now. Instead of focusing on one pure love interest like the original idea I had, it could just be a continuation of regular FMOD with all of the love interests.

GRRRR THIS IS SO AGGRAVATING I'M LOSING MY MIND

if I did the stories one by one, then SO many people would be disappointed that their favorite wasn't picked first for the second book, and if I did everyone separately then I would go absolutely bonkers insane crazy rabid dog oo oo ah ah monkey madness.

I think I am EXTREMELY manic and probably spewing absolute NONSENSE right now but oml I can NOT SLEEP I haven't been able to sleep for like a week straight, I get like 4 hours each night and the second I wake up the first thing I think about is drinking 5 energy drinks and daydreaming about basically NOTHING oml I'm going to EXPLODE

i wrote 3k words in 50 minutes today and I'm on the urge of spontaneously combusting, I need to get this energy out and if I don't then I'm going to LOSE IT

i haven't eaten anything but a good 30 crackers as of the past 3 days, and yet I am ANYTHING but hungry AHHHH

okay that is all.

#shut up tyler #related to fmod #long post #might delete later #i need a Ativan or something because my anxiety is going bonkers #lord kill the pain #i'm literally shaking right now from how much energy I have #it is freaking TWO THIRTY AT NIGHT #i woke up at SEVEN this morning #my mood stabilizers aren't doing SHIT #might need to go to the hospital to get my meds reset #or SOMETHING #because I am actually fucking going bonkers

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threadandlace · 11 months

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Pirate Smile (Jake POV)- Seamstress for the Band series, part eight (4.0k)

Masterlist- to start from the beginning

“You okay?” you asked Josh as he came back into the room, clearly flustered as he paced for a moment before digging into his suitcase. He was quiet, which was abnormal when he was drunk. “Josh,” you repeated, a little louder this time. He stilled and slowly turned to face you. “What?” he replied, his eyes blank. “Are you okay?” you repeated, searching his face for a hint at whatever was clearly bothering him. “Yeah. I’m fine. Just drank a bit too much,” he said with a chuckle as he turned back to rummage through his suitcase for his toiletries. Something is up. Josh disappeared into the bathroom, and you heard the shower start.

Reaching into your sweatpants pocket for your phone, you checked the time. Almost 2:30 am. Tomorrow morning is going to be a struggle. You checked through your socials, scrolling through pictures and videos from the night before. You laughed at some edits the fans had made of Josh making a face while hitting a high note. The thirst traps were your absolute favorite things to look over- it stroked your ego just enough, but also made you laugh at how enthralled some people were. You watched the TikTok Olivia had posted of the group’s trip to the distillery and winery, reflecting on the day. You noticed a few frames that had everyone included in them and grimaced, knowing people would immediately notice the gorgeous girl hanging in the background with Josh.

She really was pretty, but you liked her for more than just her looks- she was skilled beyond compare and hilarious. She fit right in with the group, her presence enhancing the group dynamic. Taking a deep breath, you opened the comments. Sure enough, the hateful side of the fanbase had sprung into action.

Who the fuck is this girl we keep seeing??? Hello?!

Does Josh have a gf?! Sleeping on the highway tonight fr…

Girlie wants to be a groupie so bad, fuck off

You were the most concerned about the ones speculating that she and Josh were a couple, mostly because you felt like there was some weight behind the speculation. It was only an inkling you had, but you saw the way he looked at her- it was a look you’d hardly ever seen from your twin, but one you knew it held weight.

Scrolling over to twitter, you saw the same speculation and hatred. You noticed that one of the girls that had thrown the beer in West Virginia had taken a video, which you clicked on. The video was shaky, but it clearly showed the cans of beer being shaken up before making impact. It broke your heart to see her freeze, holding the damn box of shoes that left her completely defenseless. Josh ran into the frame and you heard him yell something at the idiots with the cameras as he grabbed her and pulled her through the door. Oh they’re definitely going to run with this.

And, true to your fear, the fanbase did run with it. Screenshots of the video had been blown up, made into a meme, and shared all over Twitter and Instagram. “Fuck,” you whispered as you continued to wade through the cesspool of disgusting comments and jokes. “What?” Josh asked as he walked back into the room, towel around his waist and wet curls clinging to his face. “Uh, nothing,” you tried to cover. Josh turned to face you, giving you a serious look. As serious as he could give being a little drunk and slightly resembling a wet poodle.

Josh pointed to your phone. “Tell me. Now,” he ordered. You sighed before giving him the breakdown from the night. He stood still as he listened, slightly leaned back against the wardrobe at the front of the room. Once you’d finished, he rubbed his face before turning to fish his clothes out of the suitcase. “That’s all you got?” you asked. He pulled on a pair of underwear before turning to face you. “I’m too fucked up to comprehend everything. All I know is that I’m angry. And that I hope she’s asleep and not seeing the fucking vile filth people are spewing onto all these damn platforms.” You nodded as you listened, noting his passion as being slightly more than the normal amount. “Nothing we can do tonight. It’s a tomorrow issue for sure,” you commented as you rose and walked into the bathroom to brush your teeth.

Josh joined you in the bathroom and you both stood at the sink as you brushed your teeth. He looked tired- his skin was more pale than usual, purple shadows more prominent under his eyes. You knew that at the end of the day, he did this for you. This band, music, touring, all of it was your dream, he just happened to have the incredible voice and stage presence you had needed to be complete. The sacrifices he made never left the forefront of your mind, although your dream had slowly started to become his too. He loved performing and traveling and, of course, making you happy. Therefore, he was happy to join you on the rollercoaster that was Greta Van Fleet, although you knew that a hiatus was coming. You were ready for it, and you were sure Sam and Danny were too. The income you all were making off the tours was nice, but you were all able to be quite comfortable off the revenue generated from streams, merch and other endorsements.

You and Josh crawled into your own beds, turning to face each other and talk for a few minutes before you fell asleep. You’d always done this, for as long as you could remember. Typically, Josh would talk the most and you’d listen as he recounted various parts of the day, rambling about whatever crossed his mind. Tonight though, he was quiet. You figured he was just tired and irritated over the social media situation, so you discussed a time for your alarm before you shut off the light. A few minutes later you heard his breathing deepen, a sure sign he was asleep. His breathing lulled you to sleep soon after.

As soon as the alarm went off, you groaned. Josh was still out when you rolled out of bed and headed into the bathroom. It was 9:30 am, meaning you only had about 30 minutes to get down and grab breakfast before it closed for the day. You quickly got ready for the day, Josh not stirring at all as you moved around the room. You sat on the edge of his bed as you pulled on your shoes, turning to shake him lightly. He mumbled something and swatted at you. “As long as there’s signs of life, I’ll leave you be for a bit. I’ll get you something for breakfast, what do you want?” you asked quietly. Josh’s answer consisted of a grunt as he rolled over. “Okay, well, if you don’t like what I bring you, you’re out of luck front man,” you said as you headed out the door.

Danny was sitting at a table and drinking a coffee when you entered the dining room. “Morning,” he said with a smile as you walked over to him. “You want to sit?” he asked but you shook your head. “I need to take stuff up to Josh. He’s pretty hungover,” you said. Danny nodded. “Sam too. I told him I’d bring him a waffle. He asked for bacon for some reason, but I will not be fulfilling that request,” Danny said with a laugh. You leaned, quieting your voice as you glanced around the room. “Did you see Twitter?” you asked quietly. Danny nodded, giving you a look of sadness. “I really love our fans but… some of them really make me question humanity.” You nodded, “I couldn’t agree more.” You gave Danny’s shoulder a pat before heading to the breakfast bar.

You were boxes of food for you and Josh, as well as an orange juice for him and a coffee for yourself. The elevator doors opened, and you were greeted by a familiar face. “Good morning,” she said quietly, giving you a soft smile. “Good morning! You headed down?” you asked as you stepped out of the elevator, noting her luggage next to her and she nodded. “See you on the bus in a bit,” she said as the doors closed between you.

Josh was still half-asleep when you got back in the room. “Dude, you have to get up. For real this time,” you pressed as you put his food down in front of him. He slowly sat up, reaching for the cup of orange juice on the nightstand. You sat at the table in the corner to eat your breakfast and watched as Josh ate slowly, chewing thoughtfully on the bacon you’d brought him. “Why a bagel?” he asked, gesturing to the plain bagel you’d brought him, a light layer of peanut butter between the halves. “You always wanted a bagel and peanut butter when we were sick. Mom always made you a peanut butter bagel and brought me what?” you quizzed, knowing he knew the answer. Josh rolled his eyes, “crackers. So boring.”

You both were able to make it onto the bus by 10:15, only a little behind schedule. “Always late,” Danny tutted as you took your seats at the booth in the middle of the bus. You had all chosen to get onto your bus versus the wardrobe bus today, giving her space to work on finishing whatever she needed to. “Where’s Sam?” Josh asked as he made a cup of tea at the kitchenette. “Bunks,” Danny replied, pointing behind him as he flipped through one of the magazines Emily had left on your bus for some reason. Josh walked over and moved the magazine in Danny’s hands to get a better look at the cover. “People? Really? Of all things, Emily doesn’t get enough drama on the road?” Josh joked. “And you too, for that matter Danny boy,” Josh added, poking at Danny. Danny chuckled but shrugged, “something to pass the time. At least this isn’t about us or our friends.” Josh took a seat and gestured to the cover “actually, Oprah is my friend, so thanks for that.” You all laughed as the bus headed towards the venue.

The ride to the venue was quick and you were all immediately ushered to sound check. “We need to get it done quickly because they’re letting the general admission group come in early due to the weather,” Emily had explained. Sure enough, when you stepped off the bus you were greeted by a downpour, the rain starting to puddle in the parking lot. Everyone made their way to the stage and went through the usual lineup to check your equipment. Everything sounded pretty good after a few minor adjustments, although you could tell Josh was exhausted as he struggled to hit different notes. You went to stand closer to him and noted how he relaxed, although he still was strained. As you exited the stage you all were ushered to the green room, a large open area that split into the various dressing rooms.

Josh immediately went to his room and closed the door, likely getting ready to take a nap. You and Danny went to check in with your seamstress extraordinaire, who looked quite tired. “How’d it go?” she asked in her normal, cheerful manner. Danny talked about how great things sounded and how excited he was for tonight, but all you could think of was the sea of hateful comments you’d read last night.

Did she know? Had she seen what you had? She smiled at you uneasily. “You okay, Jake?” she asked gently. You nodded and took a seat in a chair to the side of the area of where she was working. “Yeah, I’m great. Tired, but good. You?” She nodded and expressed the same- tired, but good. Sam took a seat on the floor next to you and stretched on the floor, eventually laying back and closing his eyes. “Sam, the floor is probably disgusting, do you want the couch?” she had asked him, but he shook his head, lifting a finger up to silence her, which she had laughed at.

Emily came back, carrying her usual clipboard and frazzled look. “Emily, what’s for lunch?” Sam asked, noticing her presence before she’d even spoken, his eyes still closed. She completely ignored him and looked past all of you, finding comfort in one of the few other women on the tour. “We are having some weather issues,” was all Emily said before bursting into tears.

Instantly, she was up and taking Emily by the hands and leading her down the hall, whispering to her as Emily sobbed. Something was clearly very wrong, but you and Danny stayed put, giving each other wide-eyed looks of confusion. Sam propped himself up on his elbows before looking around. “Where’d she go? Did I make her upset?” he asked and you shook your head. “Something’s going on, but we have no idea what. It’s fine,” Danny replied, sitting back in his chair as he eased his head back and closed his eyes.

The women came back a short while later, Emily taking off down the hall quickly. “Everything okay?” you asked as she returned to her work. She nodded, not giving you an explanation. “Do you know what we are having for lunch?” Sam asked and she chuckled. “The venue is doing catering. I think it’s Mexican,” was all she said before the room returned to silence.

She had been right- lunch was Mexican. “Should we wake Josh up?” Danny had asked and you nodded. You left your plate and went into his dressing room, taking a moment to adjust to the pitch black. You fumbled through the room, eventually finding his body curled up on the couch on the side of the room. “Hey. It’s almost 1:30, I figured you would want to come get lunch. They have these quesadillas that I think you’ll really like,” you said after gently jostling him awake. “I’m coming,” Josh had answered, still half-asleep. You helped pull him up off the couch and you flipped on the light on your way out, Josh wincing at the brightness as he followed behind you.

The vibe in the green room immediately changed when Josh stepped into the room. He ignored it as he went to make himself a plate and you returned to yours. Josh returned to the group and sat in a chair at the edge of the group, eating quietly. He didn’t so much as look her way, a shift from the day before when they had been side-by-side, eating and joking together. The air was tense, and Danny clearly felt it too from the looks he was giving you. Sam, however, was oblivious as he discussed the set list. Sam argued with Josh for a moment over the opener, eventually getting his way when Josh gave in.

Emily came back into the room as everyone was finishing up lunch, looking even more anxious and frazzled. “So we have a real problem,” Emily started, flipping her clipboard back and forth between her hands. You all waited for her to continue. “So… the arena is flooding.”

“What does that mean? Like, flooding how?” you asked as you searched her face for a clue to just how bad this was. “Like… there’s a leak in the roof. Multiple leaks. And the floor is covered in water. This storm is getting really bad,” Emily said quietly. “Wait…” Danny started, “didn’t you tell us that all the GA people were going to go into the arena early? Because of the storm? Are they in there right now?” Emily nodded slowly, all of you falling silent. “Well, they’re all being taken out into the halls now, because there’s now a hurricane warning. And, you know, because the arena has turned into a swimming pool.” Josh stood, “I want to see.” Everyone nodded in agreement and Emily excused herself to have a quick chat with the security team to facilitate a way to view the damage.

A few moments later, everyone was being escorted by security up through the levels of the arena until you made it out to finally see the damage. Everything Emily had said was true- rain was falling from a few spots in the ceiling, cascading down and splattering onto the concrete floor. There was now a few inches of standing water in the middle of the arena. Workers were milling about as they tried to clean things up, an impossible task as the water continued to fall from the ceiling, much quicker than they could clean. Everyone stood in awe, taking in just how bad the situation was. A few fans were still being ushered out from the area around the stage, all of them passing through the standing water that was collecting as they made their way to the halls surrounding the main area.

As you all headed back to the green room, the severity of the situation started to sink in. “So,” Emily had said after everyone was seated once again, “we are going to have to reschedule, obviously. The leaks won’t be able to be repaired in this storm, and I don’t think they’d be able to clean the water up quick enough anyways.”

Everyone was silent- having to cancel or reschedule was the absolute worst thing, all of you hating it for so many reasons. The logistics of rescheduling were a nightmare, but the disappointment you all felt from the fan base was worse by far. Everyone’s minds shifted to the fans- people that had likely slept on the concrete outside the venue for hours, if not days, for a chance to get a good spot in the pit. “Obviously we will go break the news, although I don’t think it’ll be a surprise. Some people have left already because they’re piecing things together, but I think most of them will stay put. The storm is really getting bad. I know that we won’t be able to leave for a few hours,” Emily continued.

“Can we get them food? Waters?” Danny asked, Josh agreeing. “The venue is going to provide food and water for everyone stuck here. Obviously, this is a huge liability, so everyone is being taken care of very well,” Emily clarified.

“Well… I guess we get another day off,” Danny noted, trying to stay positive. “We are just going to have to come back and make it up,” Sam commented, and you agreed. “How does that work?” she asked as she worked on applying beading to a pair of pants.

She was always working, no matter where she was- always present, but still far off as she hunched over her latest project. Danny explained the rescheduling process to her as she listened and asked occasional questions as she worked. “Well, at least your outfits will be ready when you come back,” she added with a chuckle. “I was really excited about this wardrobe set too,” Josh said quietly, speaking to her for the first time of the day. “I know. They’ll still get their use when you guys come back,” she said, reaching out to squeeze Josh’s knee. He gave her a reserved smile, both trading their usually giggly exchanges for quieter glances back and forth.

The lights flickered as the storm continued to ramp up. You pulled out your phone to check the radar. “Looks like we are about to get the worst of it,” you noted, showing the radar to the group. Everyone had leaned forward to see the screen when the power finally cut out completely. It was pitch black save for the exit signs and the group’s terrified faces reflecting the colorful light from the radar on your phone.

“Shit,” Sam hissed. You could feel Emily’s presence before you heard her, barely able to make out her shape from the red glow of the emergency exit signs as your eyes adjusted to the dark. “Everyone okay?” Emily shouted and everyone sounded off. “Do they not have generators for this kinda thing?” you heard Danny ask. Nobody had an answer, so you all sat in silence for a few minutes as you waited for something to happen. “I’m thinking we are going to be stuck here for a bit,” you said quietly, everyone groaning in response.

Editing credits to the lovely @joshs-jonch who I’m so grateful to have had on this journey with me!

taglist: @eyelinerjake @radmads-gvf @gretavansara @everyglowinthetwilightknows @fwzco

#seamstressfortheband #greta van fleet #greta van fic #gvf

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bratshaws · 2 years

Text

goodness gracious 82. brb x oc

a/n: AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

check out the fic's playlist made by the sweet @wiipes !!

pairing: plus size!oc x rooster

warnings: FLUFF, slightly suggestive content but nothing full on SMUT BECAUSE SMUT HAS TO BE STRATEGICIALLY PLANNED FOR THESE FUTURE CHAPTERS

chapters:

1/2/3/4/5/6/7/8/9/10/11/12/13/14/15/16/17/18/19/20/21/22/23/24/25/26/27/28/29/30/31/32/33/34/35/36/37/38/39/40/41/42/43/44

45/46/47/48/49/50/51/52/53/54/55/56/57/58/59/60/61/62/63/64

65/66/67/68/69/70/71/72/73/74/75/76/77/78/79/80/81

(pls let me know if you want to be added to the taglist!!)

taglist: @mirandastuckinthe80s @roosterschanelslut @wiipes @lcahwriter @shrimping-for-all @gretagerwigsmuse @frenchtoastix

@lizzie-rdj @fanboyluvr @atarmychick007 @comebacktoearthpls

@peachiicherries @mak-32 @lizziespidiepridie @roosterswifey @ollyoxenfrees @piceous21 @sqrlgrl22 @hofficoffi @lexhalstead3 @lorilane33 @legendarydreamersharkparty @luckyladycreator2 @emilybradshaw @j-6o @louisahale @leobabbyyy @kulicny @winter-run @ktjmac @graciereads

The feeling of an ice bag on her skin brought plenty of memories of when she sprained her ankle, even hissing a bit at the chilling pressure over her knuckles and fingers, “Thank you Penny.” she whispered, holding the ice pack against her hand and leaning back on the empty booths of the Hard Deck.

“Don’t mention it, let’s hope you didn’t sprain anything in that punch.” Penny jokes, sharing a comforting look with Rooster who stood to the side with his hands on his hips, looking like the worried boyfriend he usually was. After a few seconds standing close by he finally slid to sit down next to Bea, a quiet ‘let me see’ going past his lips as he carefully lifted the ice pack to see the damage.

It was red and purplish, but it wasn’t as bad as he thought it’d be, “I never punched anyone.” he heard her say, while gently brushing the pad of his thumb over the abrasion, “I think it was fitting he was the very first one.”

“Bea you scared the shit out of me.” Bradley confesses, furrowing his eyebrows, brown eyes meeting her green ones, “Not that I’m not proud of you, because I am, but holy shit babe. You just lunged at him like a fucking wild cat.” Rooster puts the ice pack back down on her knuckles, leaning up to kiss the side of her head, “I thought I wouldn’t be able to hold you back.”

Beatrice makes a quiet noise in her throat, looking down at her bruised hand with a little smile, “I know,I’m sorry.” she whispers, pushing herself closer to him as she recalled everything that happened hours before, her own gaze hardening into a glare, “He just…there was a lot he brought back and when he talked about you I just–I couldn’t really do much after that.”

Bradley frowns, hugging her close to himself and rubbing her arm up and down. She wasn’t upset by what Eric said about her? She was more upset about the accusations he spewed out? “I thought you’d be angrier about him saying those things about you.”

The brunette just shrugs the best she could with his arm around her shoulders, “I don’t really care much about what Eric says about me Roos. I know that he’s just saying it out of anger and trying to get to me…it just pissed me off when he said those things. When he spoke as if you–” she couldn’t even finish the sentence, narrowing her gaze onto the table where she placed her bag and phone, biting her lower lip, “I just don’t like when people say things about you, is all.”

God, he didn’t know how to reply. The fact this wasn’t the first time she defended him was making his heart flutter even more than normal. He closed his eyes, burying his nose in her brown hair, inhaling the sweet lavender scent in her scalp. His whole body was warm, he didn’t know how to even elaborate what he was feeling, all he knew was that Beatrice was more than he ever deserved.

First Chloe, then Eric. Both of them talked about her but she only reacted when his name was thrown in the mist. While he still despised Eric, while he still wanted to be the one who’d beat the shit out of him instead, he was so proud of her. It was one clean punch, straight to the nose, “Did Michael or Guillermo ever taught you some boxing moves? I know you said they were boxers for a while.”

Beatrice thinks on it for a second, looking down at her bruised hand, “Oh.” realization hits her alongside the memories, “They did. I completely…forgot about that.”

“Maybe that’s why it was powerful enough to knock him down.” Rooster comments with his lips still pressed on her hair, “You have the boxer dna within you.” Beatrice laughs softly, her cheeks reddening brighter in the areas the tears wiped down her makeup, thanking him for the compliment with her arm tucked to his side, “At least you did it after your birthday. It wouldn’t be nice to end it like that.”

“Yeah…” but he felt she wouldn’t be too bothered if it did happen before, just by the way she said that, “I guess it’s another thing I’ve dealt with.”

Pete approached the two after he and Penny decided to give them some space,his hands on his hips with a small smile, “So, how are we feeling kiddo? How’s your hand?”

“It’s not so bad.” Bea says, flexing her fingers just a bit for emphasis, wincing quietly “It hurt a lot more before.”

Mav nodded in response, sliding to sit down in front of them with his hands clasped together, smiling at how Bradley still hasn’t taken his arm from around her, keeping himself close at all times, “You did really good back there,” she smiles shyly at the compliment, “Honestly, the guy had no chance. You pack a strong punch in that small hand of yours,huh?” He could see his nephew was still tense by what happened, undoubtedly wanting to be the one that knocked Eric down.

But knowing Bradley’s size, especially his hands’ size, it was possible he’d do more damage than a broken nose. Add that to seeing your girlfriend’s abusive ex and he didn’t think Rooster would be able to see anything but red when dealing with Eric. Besides, this was something for Beatrice to deal with, it was her demons that she had to fight even if Bradley was protective about her and didn’t want her getting hurt.

Pete sent his nephew a knowing look, which in turn makes Rooster’s glare relax and his head pull back from Beatrice’s hair, leaning back on the seat while rubbing a hand down his face, rubbing his fingers over his mustache the same way Goose did when he was really upset. “You did good, but let’s hope it never happens again.” Mav smiles, making Beatrice beam up right back, her cheeks flexing in a little proud grin, “Are you two going home now?”

Rooster checks his watch, after a few more times running his index and thumb on the mustache, pursing his lips, “It’s nearing one in the morning.” he announces, looking down at Beatrice, “Do you want to go?”

His girlfriend looks to the side in thought, but then nods with a little tired smile, “Yeah,I think it’s best if we do.” Both Maverick and Bradley stood up at the same time, the younger pilot giving space for Beatrice to step out but never standing too far from her, a tall presence looming nearby so she could feel safe.

Both of them thanked Penny and Mav, waving them goodbye before marching to the Bronco. Beatrice stood to the side waiting for Rooster to unlock the doors, giving him a little grin that made one of his eyebrows go up, “What?” he questions, his own mouth curling into a confused smile, “What are you smiling at me for, gorgeous?”

Beatrice smiles even more, stepping closer to lean her head up and kiss his lips in a sweet lip lock, one he hummed happily once their lips touched, “I just love you.” she whispered, pecking him one more time for emphasis. Bradley just watched her step into the passenger side, looking away with his lower lip between his teeth, trying to fight back the smile without much success.

His anger is gone, completely, because of her. He had no idea how she did it, how she managed to melt the glaciers he kept around his heart before or how she could break past the anger walls but she did. “I forgot to say I love you too.” he announces once he’s inside the car as well, swallowing her soft giggle when he kisses her, pulling back with a wet smack as he turns the car on.

While he was calmer, he couldn’t help but look at the mirrors to check if there was anyone following them. That electric blue Corvette was glued on his mind now, he couldn’t just forget about it when it was so fresh in his mind. One of his hands landed on Beatrice’s thigh out of habit and out of protectiveness, squeezing the supple flesh as his girlfriend was busy looking outside the windows with a peaceful smile.

She looked really happy, besides what happened. Maybe she was right on getting rid of her demons, Eric was probably one of the worst ones. He hopes he never shows up again, if he does he is going to be the one dealing with that piece of shit, he hopes that he leaves Beatrice be. He was sure he was the one following Beatrice in the blank accounts, he was the one that asked Damon to ‘follow’ them after all why wouldn’t he do the same online? And the night they were at the beach, with Jolene, he had a feeling it was him hiding in the shadows.

He had to admit that the thought of Eric creeping by bothered him greatly. Even if Bea proved that she could handle him on her own if needed, he didn’t like it. He just had to pay extra attention now, whenever they went out, and check if they were alone there or not…he hoped Eric would stay on his corner, alone and wallowing in pain because Beatrice broke his nose.

Rooster also had to admit that the whole situation was…quite attractive. Beatrice wasn’t one to get into fights, avoided conflicts like the plague if she could, so to see her leap up and punch her ex - with the reason behind it being because he was talking horrible things about Rooster himself - was very...nice. Very nice. No, not nice, hot. It was kind of sexy seeing her so angry like that, hair a mess, lips curled into a snarl.

Oh God did he just discover a new kink?

Women that could possibly beat his ass? Not women, woman, Beatrice?

He blinked when the realization hit, then he rolled his lips into his mouth, nodding to himself. Yeah, he just found out a new kink. Maybe because he really liked when Beatrice was bolder or when she was more assertive…honestly he was starting to wonder if Bea herself wasn’t just his kink because anything she did he found incredibly appealing.

Once he rolled right next to her brand new red Jeep, that thing was almost the size of his own car but he loved how happy Beatrice was when she got it, he opened the passenger door for her to step out, “Careful with your hand,” he says, closing the door behind her, “Let me open the door for you.”

“I can open with my other hand,Roos.” but he grabs the keys from her unbruised hand after pecking her lips, making Beatrice’s lips curl into a smile as she watches him unlock her front door, greeting Jolene whose nails clicked on the wooden floors excitedly as she bounced around. Beatrice followed soon after, her intonation going higher as she looked down at Jolene who was still shaking wildly with happiness upon seeing them again, leaning down to pet her dog after pushing the door closed.

She wandered into the kitchen, not surprised to see him already placing some ice cubes inside a plastic bag then covering it with a towel, making it a little baggie that she could put on her bruised hand, “I’ll put the cake in the fridge, you keep this on your hand,” he traded the ice baggie for the styrofoam box she was holding - making a face when he saw it was being held by her hurt hand - and put it into the fridge.

Beatrice’s smile only got wider, gently lowering the ice bag on her hand with a quiet hiss of pain, clenching her eyes as the coldness spread from her knuckles to the tips of her fingers, leaning her butt on the sink’s counter as Rooster busied himself. She heard a very quiet ‘crunch’ coming from where he was, which immediately made Beatrice smile, “Did you just get a piece of chocolate?”

His cheek was stuffed when he closes the fridge’s door, “No.” but it sounded like a ‘mnfno’ since he did have a big chunk of chocolate between his teeth, “It’s not my fault it’s so good.” he explains once he’s done chewing it, licking his lips to get rid of any chocolate stains on the pink plush flesh.

“I’m not going to get mad at you for sneaking a bite, Roos.” she says gently, tilting her head at him, “I know how much you like chocolate.”

“I do like it a little bit.” he chose to ignore her ‘a little bit?’ with a smile on his face, stepping closer to place his hands on her wide hips, rubbing the area soothingly, “How are you feeling?”

Beatrice inhales, tilting her head to meet his eyes with her smile still present, “Honestly?” he nods for her to go on, “I feel really good. I really do feel good, Roos. Even if some stuff happened,” she holds her bruised hand for him to see, “I don’t think I could’ve had a better birthday celebration.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, absolutely.” she nods for emphasis, “There was nothing I’d’ve changed, you know? I…I had so much fun and there were people that I cared about there and you and Evelyn organized it for me. And honestly it was the nicest thing someone ever did for me, probably ever.”

Bradley’s gaze softened, his fingers pinching the bottom of her blouse, running the pads on the seam “You deserve something like that more often. You deserve to be celebrated.” Beatrice’s cheeks immediately turn bright red over his words, but she keeps her eyes on him. She’s been taking compliments a lot better now, not moving her gaze away shyly when being told so.

“Thank you, Roos.” she whispers softly, meeting his lips halfway in a soft kiss, smiling with her eyes closed when he pressed several butterfly kisses on her lips, wrapping his arms around her waist.

“I had something else planned, another gift for you.” he murmured, “I know you said you didn’t want any but…” Beatrice peeks one eye open, pulling her head back enough to tilt it in confusion, “I couldn’t help myself.” he steps back to offer his hand, which she grabs immediately, letting him guide her up the staircase onto the loft area, guiding her to sit on the bed, “Close your eyes.”

Beatrice hesitates with a little smirk, but eventually does, fluttering her eyes shut as she hears his feet thudding back downstairs, the obvious latch of the doggy gate being set up and closed - her cheeks already reddening just by that - before he rushes back. Beatrice waits for him to say something, but he doesn’t, she knows he’s there, she feels his presence and smells his cologne. There’s something with weight being placed on her lap, “Okay, open them.”

She blinks her eyes open, trying to regain her vision, seeing the mid size red gift box there, “You didn’t have to get me anything, Roos.” she says while pulling the golden bow apart to lift the lid. She didn’t know what he got for her, she didn’t say anything about it. She however, widens her eyes when she sees what it is, “Oh…my God.” she places a hand over her mouth, her cheeks flexing up in a smile.

Rooster watched her pick the object up with a grin, sitting down next to her so he could admire it further. It may not seem much, but he knew that for Beatrice it meant the world: a statue of Ripley with Newt, just like the Aliens poster, in so much detail she could even see the texture in Ripley’s pants, “Did you like it?”

“Rooster, this–” she gingerly picks it up, the bag of ice falling by her feet with a wet sound, completely ignoring her bruised hand to hold it close to her eyes, gently brushing the pad of her index on Ripley’s face, Newt’s hair and the xenomorph creeping behind the two, “This is heavy…Rooster, I–”

“You can put it in your office/art room when we move.” He mentioned it to her when they saw the house, since it had several rooms that could be used, that she should keep one for her to paint and do everything art related. She didn’t agree with it then, but he had a feeling she would now, “I figured you’d like it.”

“Rooster, this is a Japanese figurine.” she whispers in pure amazement, “These are extremely rare to get here.” she wasn’t being ungrateful, absolutely not, he knew, especially how she was holding the statue so close to her chest, “How did you–”

“It was a bit hard since this one was one of the three last in stock, but you just have to be quick about it.” he shrugs, the corner of his mouth lifting in a smirk, “And so I got it.”

Beatrice looked from Rooster to the figurine, then back to her boyfriend, holding it close to her chest in a hug, “Thank you….I…” she looked back down at Ripley’s face, smiling, “For everything, Roos. Really, not only because of this, but you know…what I mean.” he smiles more, scooting closer to kiss her cheek, watching as she places the figurine back inside the box, “I’ll keep this one safe until we move.” She got the tingles saying it outloud, standing up to place the box inside her armoire, pushing it to the corner so it wouldn’t occupy too much space.

When she turns back around he’s still on the bed, leaning on his arms with his legs spread…looking so good, he should be illegal. Beatrice bites her lower lip, walking closer to him and meeting his low lid gaze, his body already adjusting to give her space so she could straddle his lap. Once she sat down and his arms immediately went to hold her waist, he pressed a kiss under her jaw, humming deep in his throat, “There was something else I had planned…but with your hand like that…”

“Will I need my hand for this thing you are planning?”

He thinks on it for a second, pausing his lips, “Well…no.” Finally he replies, pulling his head back to prop his chin on her cleavage, the soft tissue cushioning his head, “But I wouldn’t want you to get hurt even more.”

Beatrice smiles, lifting her good hand to cup the side of his face, then leaning down to kiss his lips, rubbing her thumb on his cheekbone, “I’m not going to get hurt, Roos…you aren’t going to hurt me.” Those words held a lot more weight than just the physical aspect, she meant it emotionally too. It was…crazy this connection they had, that happened so quickly and yet so naturally. He knew that this type of trust she wasn’t able to get with…that person…so to hear that from her, especially considering everything he’s been through himself was more than special to him.

Bradley smiled, with his chin still on her breasts, lowering enough for him to kiss the upper part of her cleavage, “Okay.” he places his hands under her thighs, so he could pick her up and they switch places on the bed, her brown hair spilling over the sheets as he hovers above her body, “If you insist.”

“You did grab the dog gate.” she murmurs, lifting her arms to hug his neck, “So I don’t think I’m the one who insisted, Rooster.”

He didn’t reply, he just smirked and lowered his face to her neck.

–

Beatrice hummed happily, snuggling closer to Bradley’s body as she felt his fingers running up and down her spine, her smile only widening when he lowered the hand just enough to touch the dimples above her butt then go back up, “I liked this gift too.”

His chest jolts with a laugh, “You know, so did I. It’s so good to have gifts that we both can enjoy.” he jokes, dropping a kiss to the top of her head and then pulling back to look down at her face, “How’s your hand?”

“It’s fine. I barely feel anything now.” her body was just so deliciously spent and tingly she couldn’t care less if her hand was hurting anymore, “You are pretty good at distracting me.”

“I do my best, pretty girl.” he replies with a grin, kissing her hair once more, “Anything to have you relaxed.”

“Hm…you know what I noticed?”

“What?”

Beatrice lifts her head from his chest to meet his eyes, “We are going to move into the house next week.” she says, “And we packed…literally nothing.” she looks around her still furnished room, biting her lower lip, “We might work on getting everything done now, you know?”

Shit he completely forgot about that, “...damn you are right.” He couldn't help the ‘I’m not nervous but I kind of am’ laugh that goes past his lips, running his fingers through the sandy brown strands and arching his eyebrows to his hairline, “We better start it tomorrow,I can help you.”

“And I can help you.” she adds quickly, “You won’t have time during the week, Brad…so the more help you get the better,right?” his eyes swiftly move to her bruised hand, but Beatrice just gives him another look, “I’m fine. Nothing I can’t handle.”

His worried glance softened, a proud smile spreading over his lips as his hand came up to rub her cheek, “Of course, pretty girl. Just don’t force yourself too much.” she nodded, leaning into his palm as he kept his eyes on her. Damn they were going to move in together…next week it happened so fast, it didn’t even seem possible how quickly time went by. But he was excited, he was happy, he was going to live with Beatrice and then…well, then they could work on the very next step.

He was still organizing everything, he hoped that by the end of the week - at best the end of next week- he’d be able to write everything down. “We are still going to christen every room in that house.”

Beatrice laughs quietly, leaning on a hand the same way he was, her hair tumbling to the side, “Maybe not every room, right? The guest rooms can escape.” her boyfriend just arches his eyebrow at her, almost like a challenge, “Bradley Nicholas, you are terrible.”

“God I love when you say my full name like that,” he says with a smile, “But yes,I am and I plan to keep that in mind until we actually do it.” Beatrice giggles with her cheeks red, an endearing sight he could never get tired of, “Are you excited?”

“I’m super excited.” she smiles, her eyes shining when she answers him, “I can’t wait really. I…I’m happy. I’m very happy.”

“Me too.” he says once he adjusts himself on the bed, eventually falling back down on the mattress with a sigh, “But we have to sleep it’s…” he lifts his phone, squinting at the brightness and then blinking once his eyes get used to it, “Two fifteen in the morning. We have a lot of things to do tomorrow.”

Beatrice nods, but her smile just gets bigger as she leans closer to his face and kisses his lips over and over, “Okay.” she says against his mouth, biting his lower lip just enough to make him groan a ‘don’t do that’ under his breath, “See you tomorrow.”

“You are evil.” she hears once she falls back on the bed with her back to him, her bare, naked back. Beatrice looks over her shoulder with a grin, one that he just couldn’t stand anymore, “You are so evil.” his arms immediately wrap around her waist, tugging her closer to his chest, making a squeak break out of her mouth and his lips immediately land on the curve of her jaw.

“Sleep, Roos.” she tries to say between soft laughing, lifting her good hand to run her fingers through the strands while his head is still pressed to her neck, “You just said so didn’t you?” he groans in agreement, not letting her go. Eventually she hears his breathing go even, he always fell asleep first no matter the time, looking back just enough to see those long lashes dusting over his cheekbones and his mouth partially open, eyelids moving as he dreamed.

Beatrice just smiled softly, craning her neck enough to press a kiss to his cheek, then dropped her head back down onto the pillow, rubbing his hand that was right on top of her stomach. The thin hairs on the back of his fingers and hand tickled the pads as she brushed the limb slowly, almost as if she wanted him to sleep even harder than normal. Beatrice inhales deeply, closing her eyes with a smile, once again thanking whoever made it possible for all of this to happen.

It seemed like she was turning a page, a fresh new beginning with the man she loved and who loved her just as much. She almost felt like crying, having to bite her lower lip to prevent any sounds from leaving her mouth, but she smiled wider, hearing his soft snoring from behind her and thinking how she couldn’t wait for whatever it was coming their way.

She was sure they’d be ready.

#bradley rooster bradshaw #rooster bradshaw #bradley bradshaw x oc #top gun maverick #bradley bradshaw x reader

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slikbedding · 2 years

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the pale moonlight #2

pairing: Eddie Munson x Harrington fem reader

warning: smut, 18+ no minors ( I will come for all your left shoes), slight rough sex, fear of getting caught, fluff ending.

part 1

3 months, 2weeks, 4 days, 7 hours, 17 minutes, and 9 seconds. That's how much time has passed since that night at the park. Eddie and you had grown closer, you quit working at the arcade and started work down the road at the record shop with Eddie and Gareth. “No, shut up black Sabbath has the better covers.” Eddie argued with Gareth. “You guys have this argument at least twice A DAY.” you spoke, putting an exaggerated emphasis on the last two words. “Darling, we always do this. We've done this since, what middle school?” Gareth asked, turning towards Eddie, who nodded in response. You went back behind the register leaving the two male on the floor by the heavy metal records. The bell of the front door brought you out of your trance to see who entered. “Hi, welcome in let us know if you need any help-” you were soon cut off by an all too familiar and dreadful voice. “Hey love, heard you started working here so I came to see my girl-” Ryan started to speak till you had cut him off. “I'm not your love, girlfriend, or anything anymore so please do us both a favor and get your fucking head out of your own ass. And leave me the fuck alone, plus I am kind of seeing someone now.” you said partially lying with the whole seeing someone, not entirely, you had developed a massive crush on Eddie. “Really? Now, who would that be?” Ryan asked, but he knew how bad of a flirt you were. “Hey babe, where are the dio records again?” Eddie asked leaning across the counter where you were. “Oh its in the back by the, um, fuck i can’t remember i can go get them if you want?” you smiled at Eddie with thankful eyes. “Wait, the guy you're seeing is Eddie Munson. Your brother's best friend?” Ryan asked purely out of shock, disbelief, and anger. “Oh, hey Ryan didn’t see you there, but yeah we’re together. We have been since I took her home from the party from oh so long ago.” Eddie was slightly joking, but Ryan was completely oblivious to it. “Well, I was just, I'm gonna go now.” Ryan said leaving in a huff. “Thanks, i know for a fact that if you didn't show up or help me in any way he wouldn’t have left, i owe you one eds’.” you smiled finally letting out the breath you didn’t realize you were holding in. Eddie smiled at you and walked around the counter to stand next to you behind the register. “Any time Harrington, plus we’ve known each other since the whole vecna thing. So, think of this as my way of thanking you for saving my life from the demobats.” he said leaning on the counter. You looked over at him and smiled. “I just wish I had the balls to actually speak to you last year, when that was going on, ya know?" you couldn’t help the blush forming on your face when he laughed.

5 months, 3 weeks, 1 day, and 12 hours. your parents were out of town, once again, leaving you and your brother alone in the house. Which is how you both ended up inviting friends over for two sleepovers. Steve was in his room with Eddie and Jonathan, you were in yours with robin and Nancy. “No way, the breakfast club is the better molly ringwald movie.” it was around 11:30 pm and Nancy and robin were arguing over molly ringwald movies. “y/n back me up.” Nancy asked you, nicely, but you could tell she was slightly angry and her Sapphic friend. “She's not going to be much help nanc, she doesn’t like miss molly.” Robin said, rolling her eyes. Nancy gasped at the new fact spewed out by Robin's big mouth. “I've known you since our freshman year of high school, how did I not know this?” Nancy asked you to laugh at her as did robin. It was now 2 am everyone was asleep, at least you thought, and you were downstairs watching jaws for like the 50,000th time at this point. “Steve said this was your favorite movie.” a male voice said from behind the couch. You turned your head to see Eddie standing there, shirtless and in black sweatpants, you laughed a little. “Awe, I knew he talked about me. But him talking about me to you, that's confusing.” you had said with a laugh, Eddie chuckled before jumping over the back of the couch to sit next to you. “Yeah, he really cares about you. As a matter of fact he said if one of his guy friends wanted to date you, depending on who it is, he most likely wouldn’t mind.” Eddie looked at the TV the whole time he spoke. “Oh, really? Who would he allow to date me?” you asked, looking from him to the TV. “Me.” was all Eddie said, peeling his eyes away from the TV to look at you. Making eye contact with him awoke something inside you, what it was, you had no idea. And that led to you under him in just your panties, with him in his boxers, in the guest room, which was right next to Steve's room. “Eddie.” you moaned quietly while he kissed from your neck down to your core. “God, y/n, you make it hard not to fuck you anywhere and everywhere.” he chuckled slightly kissing just above your pantie line. “Eddie, I'm extremely impatient right now and i haven’t had sex in like, 6 months, so please just skip all the teasing and foreplay.” you almost whined, that egged Eddie on. “Fine only this one time. But you have to be very quiet, while yes your broth said it was fine if we dated, i don’t want him to know that i fucked you after 20 minutes of us being together.” Eddie was quick to remove the only two pieces of clothing that separated you both. You could see in his eyes he was thinking about protection. You pulled him down by the back of his neck into a desperate hot kiss. When you parted ways , both of you were breathing heavily. “I'm on the pill.” was all it took for him to place the tip of his cock into your hole. He looked at you once, but seeing the pleasure in your eyes just from the tip he couldn’t wait. Eddie pushed the whole mass of him into your hot cunt. “Fuck.” you whined feeling him fill you up was like a dream and if that's what this was then you didn’t want to wake up. He pushed and pulled his thick cock in and out of you moaning at the feeling of your heat swallowing him. “Shit, y/n are you always this, fuck, tight.” Eddie moaned leaning down towards your ear, keeping his full weight off of you as he rutted his hips into yours. “Like i said, 6 months of no sex, so.” you smirked and choked out a nearly loud moan before Eddie had covered your mouth. I said be quiet I'm not trying to get fucking caught.” Eddie whispered in your ear, with a husky deep growl. “Harder.” you moaned into Eddie's hand. He complied and started thrusting both faster and harder. He could see the moonlight shining down on your face, neck and body. Eddie loved the way the light looked on your skin, which only made him trust faster into you There was an all too familiar feeling in your stomach, you started reaching your hand down and started messing with your clit. Eddie caught sight of it fairly quickly. “Fuck doll, you that desperate?” he growled, pushing into faster. In response you wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, causing you both to choke back loud moans. Soon his movements became rough and needy. The knot you felt got tight enough to where it was going to snap. “I'm… fuck, I'm clo,” you were cut off by your own hand covering your mouth as you came. Eddie continued to slam his hips into yours, which caused you to cry almost. Finally he came, inside you nonetheless, he pushed his hips in and out of you slowly. He pulled out and helped you both get dressed. After you were dressed he picked you up and brought you to your room, stepping over a robin starfish on your bedroom floor, and placed you down on your bed under the covers. He turned to leave when you grabbed his arm, and mouthed a sleepy stay. He climbed into your bed knowing he’ll have to explain what happened to everyone in the morning, but that was a problem for future Eddie. Once again this was another memories the pair of you shared under the pale moonlight.

#eddie munson smut #eddie munson x reader #stranger things #joseph quinn #x reader #fanfic #smut

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saintmeghanmarkle · 1 month

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Lady C Tea - A YouTube Triple Header (Three Days of nuggets paraphrased by me)

Saturday, March 30, 2024

Greetings from Castle Goring,

Lady C, I am from the United States and I want to comment to you that since Princess Catherine’s cancer announcement, there has been an outpouring of love and sympathy for her. I think a lot of people are faulting Harry and Meghan for they way they have treated Catherine and the Royal Family so abominably. This reminds me of when Diana died, people blamed Charles and Camilla. It took them years to recover from the bad press. I can tell you from the US, Harry and Meghan never hit the news cycle and I think people are disgusted by them. I do not think Harry and Meghan can recover anytime soon. They are viewed as mean, spiteful and out of touch. I agree with you. They are indulging in a huge fightback and that dreadful creature, Bouzy guppy is helping them. He is spewing hate and misinformation. When we see that a person is evil and deliberately destructive through their actions, that they are jealous, nasty and always have to be right, that they will do anything and hurt anyone to gain attention, it behooves us to pay attention. You are dealing with people who will never change. I think Meghan and Harry have finished off themselves. I think their followers have hastened this also.

Lady C, I don’t know how but Bouzy is now in my X feed. He is really nasty saying terrible things about the Royal Family and even Catherine after she announced she has cancer. Bouzy’s constant attacks against the Royal Family show how trashy the Harkles are vs Catherine and The Royal Family’s true elegance. They are connected to Bouzy because he was on their Netflix show. He must have their seal of approval. Absolutely correct. By their actions, they have revealed who they are. The guppy is disgusting. If you read some of his nasty comments, including how old William and Catherine are vs Harry and Meghan being so young. He even called William ugly. I am convinced there is no looking glass in the guppy’s house. I would be amazed that if he passed by a looking glass, he would not recoil in horror! I do not blame the guppy for being born ugly. I blame him for what he is saying and doing. Most people are decent and understand what is happening here. I would not waste my time following anything the guppy says or does. He is a spreader of misinformation and is a self-styled bot expert.

Lady C, Harry and Meghan are going to do whatever they want regardless of what anybody thinks. They don’t care what the British Public thinks and I don’t think they care what the American public thinks. Yes. They don’t care about the British Public. They think the American side of the Atlantic will make them money. But the lack of talent and lack of attractiveness is showing. People thought they were paying for a Royal dream and got a Royal nightmare.

Lady C, obviously Harry is too ensnared to see what is happening, but I want to know when will Meghan finally be booted out of the family and when will she get her comeuppance? Well as long as Harry finds benefit in being with Meghan, and Meghan finds benefit in being with Harry, she will remain in the family. Harry and HIS two children are part of the family. As for her comeuppance, she is getting it now. Look at what is happening to her. Nothing is working for her. Meghan has created nothing but problems since she entered the Royal Family. I believe Meghan is a malignant narcissist who displays sociopathic and Machiavellian tendencies. Based on her conduct. People like her create havoc. This is their driving force. She kept her true self concealed to keep her role on Suits (less than 2 minutes per episode). Harry is ensnared but he has a choice. Harry has always had a choice. People like Meghan destroy.

Lady C, I cannot recall the Royal Family being so slandered until Meghan came onto the scene. Yes. It is being orchestrated by a creature of supreme malevolence. And she has an equally collusive partner. We need to remember that evil occurs in our life on a daily basis. The family has been dealing with this onslaught since they allowed this viper into their life. I give Harry some benefit of the doubt because he thought this was a real love match, but he is now on a match straight to perdition.

A reader commented on Prince William continuing to fly with Prince George in helicopters, despite the concern that they should fly separately to avoid a constitutional tragedy. Lady C wonders if William loves his family so much it would be better if they all went together if a helicopter crash happened. Lady C reminds everyone that William is Diana’s son and just as stubborn as Diana and Harry.

Lady C does not think that WME specifically created a campaign to bully Catherine but thinks that there is an unspoken rule where clients help each other and perhaps these WME clients, Sheryl Crow, Blake Lively, Stephen Cobert, and Kim Kardashian all thought they should help Meghan.

Tuesday, April 2, 2024

Greetings from Castle Goring,

Lady C will do various interviews on YouTube to promote her book release on April 4th. The book is an update of, Meghan and Harry: The Real Story which took her 10 months to do.

Lady C, Harry and Meghan had all sparkle at the wedding but it sure did not take long for them to tarnish. Absolutely right. The reality of a person eventually surfaces. All you need to do is spend some length of time with a public figure in an unscripted manner. We have seen Harry’s change of personality before and after Meghan’s influence. At the wedding I would say they were sparkling. I confess I bought the lie and believed them at face value. The act was convincing, and I was duped. But then after the wedding, didn’t they both shine a huge spotlight on what their true characters actually are? When I first saw Meghan Markle, I thought she was attractive. Now I feel repelled by her. I cannot stand to look at her. This is her gift to me. Because I now know her true character, I cannot stand the sight of her no matter how well presented she is (flying tendrils notwithstanding).

Lady C, people didn’t turn on them. Most people didn’t give a flip about them until they did Oprah and released Spare. Remember both Meghan and Harry said Meghan had been welcomed into the family. It wasn’t until later when they did Oprah, they started to reveal more and more about themselves that made people question them. I will do more interviews this week that will address this and my book covers this. Harry and Meghan have presented themselves as victims when in fact they are self-motivated perpetrators and persecutors.

Lady C spoke of Edward VIII first love who died in a plane crash, Milicent Sutherland.

Thursday, April 4, 2024 – Publication Date! – Lady C asks you all to please buy and read her updated book, Meghan and Harry: The Real Story. Sinners, you can get the Kindle Version on April 16****th (USA also). Lady C says the book is massively updated and takes a firmer line than the original based on the new evidence and conduct of Meghan and Harry.

Greetings from Castle Goring,

Lady C, I read that you made the comment that had she stayed Meghan could have been the most popular member of the Royal Family. Can you elaborate on this? Meghan is a supreme example of Heraclitus saying, “Character is Destiny.” Had Meghan been cooperative, not arrogant, and not had her head up her you know what she would have been doing what she did on Suits. She faked it for 7 years with the producers of Suits. When Meghan married Harry, the position and power went to her head and she dropped the, “I’m nice” act. It started with her bullying staff and she became uncooperative. On Suits, she was cooperative and was constantly seeking to increase her role and she did well enough to stay on the show. I hear she was very capable of slapping on the charm. She did not apply this technique to the Royal Family. Had Meghan followed the rules of the well-oiled Royal machine. Had Meghan worn suitable clothes. Had Meghan just worked a little bit (because she was work shy) she would have been hugely popular. Meghan’s flaunting of the dress code was a problem. It had been created for various reasons. Had Meghan treated people well. With the barest of effort, because of her mixed race, being American and overall attractive appearance, she could have been extremely popular as a Royal. I mean goodness if you are supposed to wear a hat, then wear a hat. We don’t want to see the hair of Turkish virgins flying all over the place. Goodness her lack of basic taste is something else. She would always push people out of her way to go first. She lacked the most basic of manners. She only needed to adhere to basic rules, basic manners, and she would have been the most popular person on Earth.

Lady C says Harry and Meghan have the mainstream media terrified of litigation which is why she will not do interviews for her book on main news channels.

Lady C, please explain why the media is freaking out over Catherine stepping way while she is in treatment, but nobody wonders about the invisible children and their welfare and why hasn’t anybody tried to verify the state of their health and emotional stability? How do we know if the kids are ok? It is not just the kids. Catherine asked for privacy and the media treated her like meat. Why hasn’t the media questioned the extraordinary gestational period of Archie and the delivery of the child? Even down to the unusual and unheard of way the birth was announced? Why is there no explanation why the birth certificate was amended? Archie is in the line of succession, and nobody is asking questions yet the media is begging for Catherine’s blood? As for the children’s welfare, I think we need to back off parents who are making decisions for children who are LEGALLY theirs. These children are not being prepared for Royal roles for many reasons and none of the reasons I will talk about on this channel. However, I will make the point that Harry and Meghan have the right to keep them out of the public domain. The children are beyond being royal, let me put it that way. They will have no future in Royal life. I have made the point in the book that people have no affection for the children because Harry and Meghan have given no access. If Meghan thinks she can drop them into the public later on, it won’t work. I mean, Prince Archie and Princess Lilibet???? The kids don’t have proper names. They have nicknames. Harry and Meghan have utilized the color card and the press is terrified of being accused of being racist so they are never asked any questions about the kids.

Lady C, so many people are terrified that with Princess Catherine ill right now, those two misfits will weasel their way back into top positions. My understanding is nobody wants them around. Nobody. I think there is hysteria because Catherine’s absence has created a vacuum and we have been flooded with disinformation about “potentialities,” but these stories came from California. This is really a credit to Catherine because people genuinely care for her. If Meghan had taken a page from Catherine’s book, she would have been adored also.

Lady C, we keep hearing the Harkles are running out of money but I just read they are worth $48 million. I have explained this before. Harry and Meghan’s current lifestyle requires a capital sum of $500,000,000 (half a billion dollars). They don’t have it. If they have $48 million, they need to live annually on $3 million. They live way beyond that. They have no income. I do not know if $48 million if accurate but that will not get them very far. They live on a hefty mortgage. She goes everywhere with trinkets that she thinks are klassy. And don’t get me started on the clothes she buys.

Lady C, Meghan pushed for no gender in schools. Why did she give her children and Prince and Princess title? I cannot condemn a parent for giving their child the best thing they can. But, this is typical of Meghan’s inconsistencies. Why didn’t she give her children unisex names?

Lady C says it is a testament to William and Catherine that they can shop in their local community, and everyone leaves them alone. Contrast with Harry and Meghan who give instructions ahead of time that people can’t look at them, talk to them, talk to their dogs, etc

Toodles Sinners!

This Redditor's Note: Thanks for your patience while I was away on Easter Break.

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author: daisybeach23

submitted: April 05, 2024 at 11:35AM via SaintMeghanMarkle on Reddit

disclaimer: all views + opinions expressed by the author of this post, as well as any comments and reblogs, are solely the author's own; they do not necessarily reflect the views of the administrator of this Tumblr blog. For entertainment only.

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guhhhhhhhhhhh · 2 months

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Thought my shitty week was getting better and then last night my body let me know I had the same stomach bug my roommate had and I have been spewing straight fire since 2:30 am

#tw vomit #I've literally hurt my back from vomming #I can't sit comfortably at all. but also can't take any meds because my stomach is still iffy #and what's worse is that I was going to ask my roommate to pick me up some sick people food from the store but he :/ is driving up #to his parents house and has to leave soon 😭😭😭#personal shite

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zisurru · 7 months

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vomshit anon again yeah… and ANCESTRAL HOME in the cotswalds oh i’m sure. also yes so many uhh uncharitable comparisons between louis and david, even if it’s not explicit atm…so something interesting with david in chapter five (shock!) -

‘That’s what sends us Englishmen into the tropics. We have to get away from all this propriety, this tradition — and immerse ourselves in some seemingly savage culture which we can never tame or really understand.’

‘I only left Rio finally, because I knew if I didn’t, I never would. David Talbot the Englishman would have been no more.’

so obviously ties between male homosexuality and anthropology, but also european imperialism and homosexuality. (accompanied here by the usual about ‘going native’ lmao) like the ways the colonies were viewed as a site of relative freedom for white / european male homosexuals….forgoing married life for complete immersion in a foreign culture and homosocial (+ sexual) relations with foreign men, the desire 2 leave bourgeois or aristocrat life and envisioning escaping to these places and living as like a gay primitivist.

ofc through these actions they were mostly just upholding british imperial rule and further entrenching the systems they felt they were rebelling against or escaping from.

but then this falls kind of flat with david anyway as he seems completely unaffected by any real feelings of alienation, his travelling is framed as an escape for him but just from ‘propriety’ and ‘tradition’ lol. no fear no alienation, nothing internalised. he was a young man in the 30s and 40s! homosexuality and ‘homosexual acts’ were illegal here until 1967! also no real tangible connection another person lol. like he mentions an affair with a brazilian boy but it seems unimportant to him in comparison with his occult experiences that follow. but i am soo curious abt his ‘sophisticated gentlemen’ friends…idk im just spewing.

also while i do love mojo the dog i was referring 2 was louis. forgivable misunderstanding skdjddf. infamous waitress scene! noted

“also no real tangible connection another person lol. like he mentions an affair with a brazilian boy but it seems unimportant to him in comparison with his occult experiences that follow” yeah fr, this whole storyline mostly seems to focus on valorizing david as this swashbuckling raconteur, and in a way that invokes some really ugly colonialist imagery and implications. like, the mother of the boy david has an affair with in brazil is completely correct to be upset that david, an older man, wants to pull her son out of school and put him in danger. but she’s the one who ends up eating humble pie with david being a natural talent as a candomblé priest 🤨

i should have realized what you meant when you specified his little shack…also because louis is a snarly little purse dog while mojo is a big beautiful beast…

#i hadn’t thought about the connection to homosexuality though!#asks #vomshit anon #the waitress scene is like top 5 most polarizing lestat charcterization moments #if not just the top one

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lullabyes22-blog · 1 year

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Summary: Zaun is free—and must grow into its unfamiliar new dimensions. So must Silco and Jinx. A what-if that diverges midway through the events of episode 8. Found family and fluff, politics and power, smut and slice-of-life, villainy and vengeance.

AO3 - Forward, But Never Forget/XOXO

FFnet - Forward, But Never Forget (XOXO)

Playlist on Youtube

Chapters: 1| 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 |8 | 9 | 10 |11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24 | 25 | 26 | 27 | 28 | 29 | 30 | 31 | 32 | 33 | 34 | 35 | 36 | 37 | 38 | 39 | 40 | 41 | 42 | 43 | 44 | 45 | 46 | 47 | 48 | 49 | 50 | 51 | 52 | 53 | 54

CH 13: Silco and Mel Medarda renegotiate the Peace Treaty. A blood bargain is struck.

Mirror, mirror you're so vain Would you sell yourself for fame? Are you the vulture or are you the dove?

~ "Dirty Pretty" – In This Moment

The night drains from the edges of a paling sky.

Piltover's yacht is anchored at the edge of the riverside shipping district. Against the surreal landscape of pipes and twirling smoke, it gleams with the shellacking of cold currency. Massive intramodal cranes bisect the skyline. They haul cargo from a docked procession of vessels. The river stretches out in cascading shades of pure cobalt enveloped by putrid browns.

The demarcations where Piltover ends and Zaun begins.

The shipping district is the oldest part of the Undercity. Known formally as the Ironworks—and more slangily as the Black Minge—it is a gigantic orifice hidden beneath veils of smoke. Its womb is Factorywood, ensconced deep in the fundament of the Fissures.

From its fount issue marvels of manufacture: textiles, brassworks, crockery, canned goods. They are hauled, day and night, by freight vehicles: steampunk behemoths adorned with spiked hubcaps and canted headlights. They trundle along rough tracks laid out like railway lines across the steep ravines. At this hour, five thousand logs of Ionian teak from the Ironworks are being hauled belowground to be cut into furniture at Factorywood. In exchange, a yearly export supply of thousands of metric tons of Zaunite steel is being carted from the bowels of the chem-seams to fill the cargo hulls of Ionian tanker ships.

A constant flow of trade keeps the wheels of business turning, and legions of Zaunites gainfully employed. In turn, their social shadows in the criminal underbelly—fences, procurers, forgers, smugglers—keep the channels open for Silco's private network to do business beyond the red line. The web of dark and light is at once impenetrable and vital to the city's survival.

From the smokestacks, red effluvium spews. The whiff of coal hits Silco's nostrils.

The perfume of progress.

He stands at the yacht's bow pulpit, arms laced behind his back. Six blackguards are behind him, wielding chem-fueled crossbows. They are mirrored by six Enforcers, each at an angle from Silco's security team, a hexagonal target with himself as the bullseye.

Over his shoulder, Silco tips them a half-smile. One Enforcer's shoulders flex; a muscle in another one's jaw twitches. They seem poised to fire—or flee.

A gilded voice says:

"Busy night, Chancellor?"

"For both of us," Silco replies, and turns on his heel.

Mel Madarda ascends the stairs from the cabin belowdeck. Her hair is upswept with a heavy golden pin, its curling enamel petals inlaid with glittering rubies. Her dress is a brocaded black-and-white two-piece with matching fingerless gloves, and a sarong-like skirt slitted along the sides so her shapely legs flash out of the swirling fabric.

Shanks like hers are best described in equine terms, especially if one plays the horses, and Silco does. But the question remains: is she a show pony or a mudder?

He keeps his eyes—mock-respectfully—on her face.

"You chose a good time," he says. "Get a late start, and the harbor fills up."

"Indeed." Almost within arm's reach, Medarda bestows a smile. "How fortunate that I am an early riser."

"And I, a late sleeper."

They shake hands, black and red gloves interlocking.

A place is laid for them at the canopied outdoor bar. It is a monochrome oasis: pearl countertop, ivory swivel seats, alabaster fittings. It offers a view of the riverside stretching beneath the green-gray dawn. Silco and Medarda sit side-by-side. Their entourages remain at a distance. No need for a show of force; they both have already been stripped of the smallest accoutrements, from smoking-cases to switchblades.

More's the pity.

Even empty-handed, neither one is unarmed.

The table is laid out with an array of canapés ranging from sweet to savory. The smoky breeze flows over an ice bucket filled with gleaming bottles of beverages.

"Care for a drink, Chancellor?" Medarda asks.

"At six in the morning? Best time for a tipple."

And the remainder of the twenty-three bells, but who is counting? Not Silco. Gods, he'd like a smoke to go with the drink. A smoke, and three-quarters of narcotic mixed with one quarter of Shimmer, to deal with the throb in his ribcage, where Vi's blow has blossomed into a blue spiderwebbing bruise.

It hurts like hell. Yet he almost admires the girl. The odds were stacked against her, but she'd taken the gamble and attacked him anyway. A futile attempt, but that's no fault of hers. It shows perseverance. And stubbornness. He thinks of the punch she threw. The blow resonating through his ribcage. A strong will; as strong as Vander's.

Silco will use that strength for his own ends.

And when the time comes—devour it.

Meanwhile, there are satisfactions to savor. Like checkmating the Council by snapping a collar of leverage around their necks. Like making them comply with his demand to collect Vi within a two-bell span. Like Medarda's private yacht sailing to his waters rather than him traveling to their borders with Vi in tow.

The haste is one more sign of the old superseded by the new. A playful havoc as the status quo tips in his favor.

What we need here, as Jinx sings, is a little bit of panic.

Not that it's all fun and games.

He hadn't lied to Violet. Not about the sham Peace Treaty, nor Piltover's setup. The dead blackguard? A few details embellished there. The man hadn't died in the throes of violence. More because he hadn't received timely medical care.

A deliberate delay on Silco's part? On the contrary. His first priority was to order the injured men sent to a medick. The news of the blackguard's death was shocking, moreso because it was an outcome Silco hadn't planned. There are always mishaps in battle. But that doesn't mean Silco revels in the casualties. Zaun has suffered enough bloodshed.

Zaun has suffered enough—period.

The death was a setback, but Silco has people looking to him for leadership. One of the necessities of leadership is prioritizing the issue itself, rather than one's feelings about it. One dead blackguard is workable if it maintains his upper-hand over the Council. There is business, and there is business. Silco has always enjoyed dishing out a nasty seeing-to for those who get in his way. Likewise, he's lost men in the bargain and understands that the loss, like his own gain, is part of the mission.

Zaun's safety is paramount.

(Like yours, Jinx.)

(Always.)

A liveried barman emerges from the cabin, ready to serve drinks. "What would you prefer, Chancellor?" Medarda asks, "Champagne?"

"Champagne is for celebrations."

"I gather you're not in celebratory spirits?"

"Far from it."

"My, my." A coquettish pout. "Perhaps we can remedy that. What are you in the mood for?"

"A robust red. Hits like a punch to the ribs. Yourself?"

"A dirty martini. Burns at first sip. Then it mellows into intrigue."

Silco quirks a brow. "A tall order, that."

The barman serves their drinks—a slim stemware of Syrah and a frosted V of martini—then withdraws. Medarda tips her glass up and back in a languid swallow. Silco settles back with his own drink, one leg folded over the other, wineglass balanced between spread fingers to warm it up. Sunrays cut through the low-lying clouds. They hold no warmth, but he has always found the sinewaves beautiful as they ripple across the gasoline rainbows at the harbor.

Fit for a painting.

In the glow, Medarda could be a painting herself: all flawless harmony of Art Deco to Silco's sharp-cut irregularity of Art Noveau. The combination is no centerpiece, except as an unconventional slap to épater la bourgeoisie. But in the tug-of-war for balance, Silco has witnessed stranger unions and shakier bargains.

Idly, he asks, "How is Peacekeeper Violet?"

Medarda doesn't glare. But something shifts beneath the silken surface of her poise. "The medics are tending to her. The gash on her cheek needed stitches."

"Unfortunate to hear."

"Then perhaps you should not have cut her."

Silco turns the winegless in his hand, slowly, sunlight striking off the vibrant reds. "What makes you think I did that?"

"She told me."

"And you believe her?" He feigns a sigh. "I'm not allowed the benefit of the doubt?"

"As you pointed out, Chancellor, my family hail from Noxus. I've known my share of hard men. Men who will act without mercy if they are threatened." Medarda's gold-edged eyes lock on his. "Although I hoped you wouldn't so thoroughly be the type."

Silco takes a musing sip of his wine. "The same way I'd hoped your Peacekeeper wouldn't be a Shuriman Horse."

"I assure you—"

"Too late." He sets the wineglass down. "You see, that's the problem with dealing with foxes. So many lures to sidestep."

"I am not sure what you mean."

"Aren't you? That girl you trained is no Peacekeeper. She is a rabid dog who'll bite anyone in range. As you planned, she went rogue. Except she's bitten off more than Topside can chew. She attacked me. She spied on my headquarters. She killed one of my blackguards. Now she's persona non grata in Zaun, and a bureaucratic headache for the Council—unless we keep the news quiet between us." His smile gleams like an unsheathed razor. "Tell me, Councilor. How do such overtures bode for mercy?"

Medarda is too well-seasoned to flinch. She already senses how coiled he is. Silco wants her to. He wants to see what tricks she'll use to calm him down. That's why she's here. Since their first meeting, she's been trying to manage him, if not manipulate him, into a chess sequence of her choosing.

Keep him close; keep Zaun in line.

"I can't help but notice…" she says.

"What?"

She rests her chin on her locked hands, the pose of an angelic Cupid firing off a devilish arrow.

"You describe Violet almost like a jinx."

Silco doesn't miss her emphasis on the last syllable. His notched lip curls. So that's how she wants to play it, hm?

"Jinx," he says, "has nothing in common with Violet."

"Are they so different?"

"As different as the doleful shades from the fiery deluge."

Medarda crosses her elegant legs, the martini balanced in her fingers, "...Such place Eternal Justice has prepared/For those rebellious," she quotes. "Here their prison ordained/In utter darkness…."

"…As far removed from God and light of Heaven," Silco finishes.

Medarda blinks. Perhaps she's under the impression that Trenchers are unlettered. Or that Silco is. Or perhaps she's unaccustomed to quotes from her favorite poets being delivered with the deadpan of a rally slogan.

But that's a former unionist for you. They even hurl poetry like bricks.

She begrudges a smile. "You've cracked open your share of classics, Chancellor."

"Only the pornographic tomes."

"They must be literary giants."

"You're too kind."

"What I am is curious. Especially about Jinx." She sobers. "For instance, I hear she's prone to bouts of violence—"

"Teenaged moodiness."

"Her hobbies include arson, thievery and torture—"

"She also knits."

"She kills in the blink of an eye—"

"And steals hearts in half the time."

Medarda's eyes go vivid. "And that she is your lover."

Silco's temper flattens to icewater. Lover. The gall of these people. To spend a lifetime courting corruption, then to dole out judgement like alms. Except he understands Medarda's game. It's the same she'd played during their first meeting. How better to bypass a supercilious persona than to root out, through deft probing or shock-tactics, the secrets it stubbornly conceals?

Except the reverse is also true. If Medarda pushes hard enough, he'll learn more by opening his jaws rather than snapping them shut.

Let's see what she reveals once she's off-balance.

"Your source is a fool," he says, "and you another to believe her."

"Then enlighten me."

He affects distaste. "Tsk, Councilor. We barely know each other. Familia Supra Omnia, as the Shurimans say. Do oblige my reticence."

"Your reticence? Yes." Medarda's serenity squares into steel. "Your obfuscation? No."

"Whatever do you mean?"

She drums her nails along the stem of her glass, a series of chiding clinks. "Officium praecedit familiam, as the Shurimans also say. Your family matter threatens to catalyze regional instability. As such, I must know about the relationship between you and your charge."

"My adoptee, rather."

"You've acknowledged her as yours?"

"Four months into Zaun's independence."

Medarda falls silent. It is clear she hadn't anticipated this turn of events. Wresting Jinx away would've been easier if she was a foot-soldier on his street, or a concubine in his bed. Progeny is different. She is now Silco's sole issue; political royalty. Spiriting her off in the dead of the night could spark a cross-border catastrophe.

Medarda's expression goes inward. Silco recognizes the look. Reassessing the chessboard with a cool eye, before strategizing the next course of action.

"I confess," she says, "you did not strike me as the type."

"To safeguard what's mine?"

"To ascribe it value in plain sight."

Value.

Somehow, that's as insulting as Lover. As if Jinx has a price tag attached. In truth, her value goes beyond any generic noun. She is his. His child, his confidant, his continuity. He'll not see her trounced under Vi's fists, nor imprisoned for Piltover's politics. He'll keep her safe, until she pushes through the burnt-over field of tragedy, a blue sapling reaching exuberantly towards the future.

Like Zaun.

Medarda's expression shutters. "It seems we are at an impasse."

"Is that so?"

"Like you, Violet also values Jinx."

"Her actions suggest otherwise."

"She only seeks proof of her sister's safety."

"Become a solicitor since we last met, Councilor? Since when are you the mouthpiece for sump-strays?"

"Perhaps I feel a measure of sympathy. An émigré cast off by her homeland…”

“She chose her own path.”

“A path in direct opposition of yours." Her eyelashes dip. She regards Silco through them with a beguiling sincerity that conceals the elicitation at its heart. "To hear Violet, you are a shark from the stygian depths."

"Do you believe it too?"

"It's in the cards. Mostly, I believe she sees something in you. Something dangerous. It's the same thing you see in her. Why else go to such lengths to play the monster?"

"Even monsters guard their legacies."

"And Jinx is yours?"

Silco tips a wry smile. "Jinx is a virtuoso. She shines on her own merits."

"A virtuoso? She has music in her blood?"

"And magic in her bones. In another life, she would be an alchemist from the Shuriman epics. As it is, she's an artist." His mouth twists, rueful. "Turns rot into rainbows."

Monochrome verbiage wrapped around a multicolored riot. But with Jinx, Silco can never find the right words. His reactions are instinctive; his impulses tactile. Everything real sits underneath.

Medarda's scrutiny deepens. "I'd scarcely imagined you partial to rainbows."

"I am partial to anything she does. And I will do anything to ensure her safety." The doting expression recedes from Silco's face. Something else splits through. Dark and bladelike as a shark's fin. "So stop this fishing expedition for my weaknesses. Whatever your Peacekeeper insists—Jinx doesn't rank among them."

Caught out, she demurs, "I meant no offense—"

"Your line of inquiry suggests otherwise." The smokestacks spray fire. The glitter refracts in his bad eye. "Fortunately, I am willing to keep this debacle quiet. Provided Vi never re-enters our borders."

"Let's not be so hasty..."

"Then our press goes public with the attack. The Peace Treaty is forfeit. As is Zaun's willingness to play ball."

"Now Chancellor," she cautions, "There are better ways to mitigate this situation."

"How so?"

“'Peacekeepers are a new division. They have yet to hone their diplomatic acumen. Unlike ourselves." She smiles, a smile to make even a blind man stumble in its radiance. "We could, between us, deflect the blame elsewhere. An inquest with a foregone conclusion, perhaps? Meanwhile, your blackguard's family would receive compensation from Piltover. We would also work behind the scenes to address our Peacekeeper's misconduct. Suspension, followed by rigorous retraining."

"That seems more bribe than mitigation."

"Are you so ardent for a pound of flesh?"

"My appetite is fobbed off by little else."

Her lip curls at the corner. "I daresay you enjoy making double-entendres."

"On the contrary. I prefer explicitness."

Under the table, Medarda's gloved palm drops to his knee. The gesture comes off as effortlessly natural. Her smile is eye-to-eye; an enticement.

"Shall we be explicit now?" she purrs.

Silco says nothing. On Zaun's streets, the overture would earn her a slit throat. In the brothels, she'd be put through her paces, and put in her place. Here, she gets no reaction at all.

This isn't a seduction. This is gamesmanship.

To her, he is no different from the scores of fools she's finessed in the Council. She knows exactly how to wield her wiles, to leave a man witless, and herself victorious. That's how they are, these Topsiders. All lesser beings are public domain to be exploited for personal gain.

And the Medardas lead the pack. In Noxus, their wealth is as legendary as their greed. A dynasty built upon bloodshed; a family name synonymous with warfare. All of the Council's holdings in total would likely not be worth a jewel on General Medarda's dagger.

Her daughter is no different. She is steeped in her family's heritage of ruthlessness, even as she envelops herself in the diaphanous costume of goodwill. In Piltover's gilded halls, she plans her conquests like military strategies, cloaking them in the sublanguage of alluring glances and elusive promises, followed by the tactical precision of bold decrees.

Going against Topside's ethos of never instrumentalizing magic, she'd finessed the Council into funding Talis' Hex-tech research. In the span of six years, thanks to the Hex-Gates, she had transformed Piltover from a charming city-state into a technological juggernaut, rivaling empires like Demacia.

And the price of the progress was paid by the Undercity.

What was once an independent industrial zone whose technology, raw material, and labor were centered on local means, had already been systematically desecrated by Topside through taxation, legislation and outright coercion. The Fissures had lost their autonomy piecemeal: first the mines, then the smelteries, and finally the refineries. Their auto-dynamic industrial system was diametrically opposed to Piltover's aims for monopolizing those resources for itself.

The Hex-Gates worsened the decay. Year after year, they brought forth trade delegations, each bearing waves of change. New goods flooded Topside's markets in exchange for those the Undercity held dear: stone, iron, copper. And bodies. With each delegation, the cost rose higher. From a few hundred workers per annum, to thousands. From one million tons of raw materials every five years, to triple that amount within one. Every time there was a fresh influx of goods, the prices rose hand-in-hand with the death toll.

The Undercity's crippled development, and the creation of a dependent, one-legged economy, led to stagnation in legitimate growth and a spike in organized crime. By the time Silco became the luminary kingpin of the Lanes, the Undercity threatened to collapse into bedlam.

But who sees bedlam beneath the feet of Piltover's rising towers?

At the surface, the Gates glowed as bastions of progress. Belowground, Silco's forces took to the streets. His men ran roughshod over both the criminal underworld and the self-ordained overlords. Through the profits of Shimmer, he bought off the Enforcers. Through subterfuge and violence, he asserted control over the gangs. At his zenith, almost all of the Undercity was his domain, gripped not by an iron fist, but strings pulled from the shadows.

In the end, none of it mattered.

There were a million luxuries his domain would never experience, no matter how much power Silco accrued. He was a faceless king, his crown forged with Fissure-bled steel—but his kingdom was a slag-heap compared to Piltover's blue skies. Even the chem-barons, perched high above the ugly rookeries of the Sumps, were like birds in wrought-iron cages; their lives devoted to money, sex, drugs, and depravity. All to distract from the putrefaction of the smog, the poison in the waters, the corruption in the air.

All to avoid contemplating what came after.

The Hex-Gates stole more than just the Undercity's livelihood. They swallowed its soul. Talis, by building the Hex-Gates, was the architect of their downfall. But Medarda was the one who signed the decree—and sealed their fate.

Now here she sits, hand on Silco's knee, smiling.

He seizes her wrist.

Medarda jerks: shock, resistance. But Silco's grip is inexorable. With a sharp tug, he drags her closer. Their faces are inches apart. Her hyacinth aroma suffuses his lungs. Her hand knots into a fist. Silco imagines real knots biting into her wrist. Imagines the husked music of her voice debauched into shrieks.

Lechery is the wrong word for his ideations. He wants to devour her as he wants to destroy Piltover. Wants to strip the skin from her bones with his teeth.

For months of doublespeak. For a lifetime of unfairness.

For Jinx.

Silco meets Medarda's eyes. Lets her see past their inky blight into the abyss at the center.

"Are you familiar, Councilor, with the etymology of seductress?" he says. "It stems from the old Shuriman seducere. To coax someone astray, so they desert their allegiance, and lose an integral piece of themselves."

Medarda's body-language betrays no anxiety. But Silco feels the thrum of her racing pulse. Her smile comes easily, too easily. "Is that so? Then are you aware, Chancellor, that the word rake comes from the word rakehell. It alludes to a man who rakes hell's coals as recompense for his devilry."

"Indeed? How curious."

Silco loosens his grip. Medarda yanks her hand free.

Wariness scrubs the sheen off her composure. Her pupils are expansive in the sunlight. She'd expected him to bite the lure. Instead he's bitten her. Silco takes in her discomfort with a voyeur's relish. It's like thumbing the colorful lipstick off a woman's mouth to find it more succulent bared of camouflage.

He straightens from his slouch, body rousing itself to indolent attention. His voice is pitched to a slither.

"You asked for explicitness. So here's an earful. You'd run screaming from my devilry—and I'm too far gone to be led astray. So let's put the games aside. We're not here for fancy drinks or flirtation. We might, however, be able to salvage the Peace Treaty. But not if you keep attempting to play me like the needy old roues dangling from your string at the Council."

Medarda volleys a halfhearted tease. "You think I am playing you, Chancellor?"

"You do try. It's what you're good at. Making of your sweetness a mirror that you hold up to each dupe, so he sees his cleverest and most accomplished self reflected in your lovely eyes." Silco beholds her over the rim of his glass. "Impressive. Truly."

An arch glance from Medarda. "Your method is much the same. Only your mirror aims to overwhelm and intimidate, infecting others with a sense of weakness, then bypassing their instinct to resist."

"You're not so easily bypassed, my dear."

"Nor you so easily duped."

Silence falls. A strata of smoke boils off the Ironworks.

Medarda says, "It seems we're in mirror-image positions. Perhaps we can help each other."

"Two mirrors facing each other are a void. I'd suggest we angle ourselves sideways." Taking his glass, Silco knocks back the rest of the drink. "Your turning the Peace Treaty into a chokehold makes it difficult for Zaun to achieve its goals. My stubbornness in cooperating with Piltover makes it difficult to accomplish yours." He wipes his lip with a row of red-gloved knuckles. "We ought to give each other leeway."

"How much leeway?"

"A few inches worth."

“I can’t decide if that’s too little or too much.”

“An inch is all it takes.”

She chides, "I thought we weren't playing games."

Silco irons his expression innocently smooth. "Did that come off as a double entendre?"

"You are incorrigible."

"And intractable. Mustn't forget that."

She stifles a smile. Fleeting, but he catches it. A good sign. She's ready to stop playing seductress to his snake charmer.

Now is the time for business.

"Well," Medarda says. "How do you propose we stop tripping over each other to achieve our goals?"

"Explain why you used Violet to sabotage the Peace Treaty."

He says: You. He means: You, not the Council.

Talis isn't sly enough to turn a wildcard like Violet into a winning hand. The rest of the Council aren't bold enough. That leaves only one person who has the guts and the guile to pull it off. Except her gambit goes beyond undermining Zaun, or making a bid for political power. In each tactic, there is significant long-term strategy.

Silco is ready to know her end-game.

Stiltedly, Medarda says, "Sabotage was not my aim."

"What then?"

For the first time, her poise slips. She sets her glass down. The flower-pin sparkles at the side of her updo like a signal. "Vi's recklessness was a contingency I'd prepared for. But I failed to anticipate how rapidly the situation would escalate. My intention wasn't to see her harmed. Nor to cause violence in Zaun. Rather, it was to steer matters in a certain direction."

"Turn the Peace Treaty into a gridlock."

She nods.

"Against Noxus."

Medard's silence takes on an uncharacteristic depth.

"Your mother has crossed swords with a prominent enemy," Silco goes on, "You believe that if Zaun achieves official independence, our nation will ally with him. And move against Piltover."

"You hold an indisputable grudge against us."

"Indisputably justified."

The creeping daylight traces Medarda's profile. Gone is her seductive languor. Her gaze is haunted.

Silco senses he is seeing another side of her, a part kept painstakingly concealed. He prefers it. Her Councilor's persona holds no allure. It is too affected; her coyness redolent of a courtesan. Beneath that is woman who has aestheticized her old wounds into an art form. She carries them in her embellishments the way Silco carries them in his scars.

Except Silco earned his wounds as an idealist in a hopeless hellscape. He wonders what could inspire the look in Piltover's most privileged at three and thirty. Wonders, too, what damage awaits her in double the time.

Perhaps at his own hand.

Medarda says, "A house divided protects no one in a storm."

"We are not a house. We are two separate nations."

"Our nations are sisters." Her dulcet do-re-mi hardens. "It would behoove us to be allies."

So that's her game, Silco thinks.

Since their first meeting, she's worked to secure his cooperation, wheels within wheels. Checkmating him as he's checkmating Vi. Safeguarding her agenda as he safeguards Zaun. But if she hopes to outplay him with the age-old pitch of My-Enemy's-Enemy, then she's got her work cut out for her.

Her talent lays in setting traps, not starting fires. Silco's expertise lies in both.

"Sisters," he says, "are not bound by subterfuge."

"Agreed. They are bound by trust."

"Lobbing Violet like a grenade between us isn't trust. It's duress."

"I understand you might be reconsidering the Peace Treaty—"

"I am not."

She stops mid-sentence. "What?"

"I am not," he repeats, laying out each word precisely. "It's why I'm here. With your Peacekeeper in tow—instead of facedown in the Pilt. But first I must know something. Why this elaborate stratagem? Why not use your influence with the Council to help your mother."

Medarda's eyes, fringed with thick lashes, hold a foxlike gleam. "It is precisely because she is my mother."

"Care to elaborate?"

"It's a family matter. Please indulge my reserve."

"Your reserve? Yes." Silco's scarred features chisel themselves in steel. "Your obtuseness? No."

Medarda's eyes dip down to the clasped hands in her lap. A golden ring glints on the dark interweaving of her fingers. Her family crest. She twists it, and says, "War means different things to different nations. To Zaun, it is defiance. To Piltover, it is a blow to our pride. To my mother's homeland, it is a way of life."

My mother's homeland.

A distancing. A house divided.

"Now," Medarda continues, "she seeks to turn Piltover into her private armory."

"With Hex-tech as the bullet."

She nods. "As a daughter, I am duty-bound to safeguard my kin. But as a Piltovan, I can see the writing on the wall. If we engage in conflict with Noxian warlords, the outcome is destruction. Ours—and Zaun's." Her see-no-evil expression wavers. "Tell me. Have any of Noxian parties approached you for a partnership?"

"That would be telling."

"Not to mention unfortunate."

"I trust that isn't a threat?"

"It's a reminder of what we have in common. The threat—"

"The threat beyond our walls," Silco finishes.

Talis' words in her mouth. He understands that they spill from the same bleeding-heart fount. If there is one thing to be said about Talis, he is chockful with good intention. But so was Vander. So was Silco, once.

The road to hell is paved with good intentions.

"I see your dilemma," he says. "But we are neither of us naïve. You posit Zaun and Piltover's relations as a sisterly dispute. But sisterhood suggests equals. Our relationship is the opposite."

"Chancellor—"

"Let me finish. Because it seems you've neglected your history lessons. Else you'd remember that Piltover's progress was carried on the backs of Zaunite labor. You exploited our mines for your factories. You devoured our children for your scutwork. You shrank our enterprises with your taxes." His expression slices from civility to a sharp-eyed contempt. "You've fucked us balls-deep, as the Undercity saying goes. Now you expect us to fight alongside you against a 'common threat'?"

Medarda stiffens. "There is no reason for crudeness."

"You bled us dry for decades. But it upsets you when I say fuck?" He pronounces it with a devious glide, so the F is like a blade cutting effortlessly across satin, and the K ends with a switchblade-soft click. "What a coy lot you are. I'll have to teach you to say what you mean. Topside's rotten legacy can no longer hide behind pretense."

"Rottenness can be remedied."

"And blood unspilled?"

"Or shared." Her eyes implore him to see reason. "Zaun's legacy hangs heavy on Piltover, too. Not only because the Fissures accounted for one-third of our mineral resources. Zaun's loss has dealt a blow to Piltover's foundational myth: that we are a city of equality."

"A blow Zaun was privileged to deliver."

"Blows are a short-term solution. Consider the long-game." She takes a breath. "Very well. I will be explicit. Cooperation between Zaun and Piltover would not only fortify our defenses. It would encourage commercial partnerships between our businessmen. It would foster dialogue among our academics. Dialogue that leads to financial packages—and atonement for Zaun's stolen dignity."

"Are you speaking of trade? Or reparations?"

"Do the semantics matter?"

"Semantics always matter. Piltover's wealth was bolstered by Zaun's resources. Reparations mean forfeiting that wealth in its entirety. Tallying billions of hours into the currency of blood. Not to mention compensating for countless lives ruined by maltreatment, disease and starvation." Uncrossing his legs, Silco reclines into a more comfortable spot. "High stakes. The Council would never take the gamble."

"Would you settle for mercy?"

"Mercy lacks teeth. What Zaun needs is payback."

Medarda doesn't flinch. "Payback has limits. Moving forward does not." Her voice drops to a solemn hush, "Do you know of the legendary blacksmith, Ornn? The Freljordian spirit of the forge?"

Silco nods. "He crafted the talisman known as Salvation."

"An enchanted weapon to safeguard nations. Paired with a second talisman known as Redemption, they could summon a lance and shield of pure energy to defend cities." She leans closer, her warm breath playing across his face. "We could, between us, be the same. Redemption and Salvation. We could set a precedent. Show our people how to evolve beyond their differences. Act as a unifying force against foreign incursion."

Silco doesn't care for her premature use of We. His expression reveals little beyond a jaded amusement. "Better the devil you know, eh?"

"Mirror images."

Dawn creeps in a surreal glow. The air between Medarda and Silco warms. A tantalization of intimacy, with its kissing knees and nearly kissing lips…

Silco yawns, exposing a row of sharpened teeth. Medarda blinks, the yawn catching, a gloved hand demurely covering her mouth.

Their eyes meet. The tension is offset by humor.

"My word, Councilor," Silco says, "you've a talent for putting a man to sleep."

With tart sweetness, she replies, "I hoped you'd have more stamina."

"Coffee is in order."

"I'll call for two cups prepared."

"No need."

The salt-and-pepper strands are slipping from Silco's pomade. He smooths them back, and stretches past Medarda, grabbing a bottle from the ice bucket. A coal-black coffee liqueur.

Silco's good eye idles over the label. "Zhyunian brew, hm? Bitter as death."

"Bitter is not my preferred fare."

"Then let me make it yours."

"Would that be part of our deal?"

"Let's not be hasty." His smile is no more than a sharkish contraction around his eyes. "We've not even undressed down to our terms."

Into two glasses, he pours three fingers' worth of liqueur. A dollop of cream; a clinking of ice cubes. He nudges one glass toward Medarda. She accepts it with a mute distaste. He doubts she favors such concoctions. But she'll have to accustom herself to such unsavories—and worse.

Especially if this alliance is to be.

Not bothering with a toast, Silco drains his glass in half at a go. Medarda does the same—and grimaces. In Va-Nox, she breathes, "Er schmeckt schrecklich."

"Man gewöhnt sich daran." Silco nudges the sugar pot toward her. "In Zhyun, they hold the cubes in the mouth between sips."

"That seems a choking hazard."

"Only if one's tongue lacks dexterity."

Her features twist, a scowl reined in. Or is it a smirk? After a moment, she plucks out a cube, tips her head back, and opens her mouth. Her tongue is pink as a sea-anemone. Silco watches it curl delicately around the cube. She takes another sip, and swallows.

"Mmm. Better."

"A little goes a long way." Silco sets down his own glass. "In some trades, sharing a cube is like sharing a handshake. It cleanses deception from the palate. Or so Noxian warmasons claim."

"Warmasons?"

"Zaun has been contacted by one. He and his cadre represent the man your mother antagonized. General Jericho Swain."

The tiny hitch in Medarda's breath is the only sign of alarm.

"They've made Zaun an offer. Five years' unlimited trade through the Ironspike Mountains. Grain, textile, weapons. In exchange, help them infiltrate Piltover's borders, and stage an attack somewhere in Mainsping Crescent. Plenty of fire and blood. In the disorder, our agents will abduct a dignitary. Engage him in a man-to-man tête-à-tête—with alligator clips to his bollocks. All to ensure his cooperation, so General Swain's life is made easier."

"Who, precisely, is this dignitary?"

Silco's chuckle rolls hollow as a smoke ring. "Jayce Talis."

Medarda falls still. Silco traces the distress creeping below her poised surface. A cold gleam rises in his eyes, a smile gone inward. He does enjoy that iron will of hers. It strikes a match in counterpoint to that sadist's spirit inside him.

It strikes a match below the belt line, too.

"Swain," he says, "would be a profitable ally for Zaun."

Her eyes narrow. "I imagine so."

"However I turned down his deal."

"You—what?"

Silco smooths out the perfect white knot of his cravat. "Short-term gains should never eclipse one’s end-goals."

"Which are?"

"Zaun's survival."

"As your private enterprise?"

The thin line of Silco's upper lip suddenly peels away from his teeth, an inchoate snarl. "As my home, Councilor. Warlords have no place here. Soon, they become landlords. We've terminated our lease with one. I'll never bargain with another."

A vein throbs along Medarda's neck. "But you will bargain with me?"

"You are not a warlord. You are a businessperson. So am I." His good eye slits. "But I am also father to a nation—and to a child."

The message is implicit: A threat to either will be met in kind.

Medarda sits haloed in toxic green sunlight. The glittering pin is working its way out of place; she untwists and repositions it. Her expression holds a dark-eyed ambiguity, as if her opinion of Silco has taken an unexpected trajectory.

Reaching for the liqueur, she refills their glasses.

"Rakehell," she says.

"Excuse me?"

"There is devilry in your devotion, Chancellor." She extinguishes her smile in her drink. "But I applaud it. It stems from a worthy cause."

Silco tips his own glass in ironic salute. "One I am determined to rise to."

They click glasses together. The liqueur goes down as if coldly aflame. Silco savors the burn in his gut. Medarda drains her own gamely. Silco notes the softening slope of her shoulders. A good sign. Preliminaries are done; the rest is a matter of haggling.

"Well," Medarda says. "We've had our toast."

"Indeed. Let's state our terms."

"Go first, Chancellor." A playful flirt of lashes. "I shan't consider you ungallant."

Silco doesn't hesitate. "A reworking of the Peace Treaty. Henceforth, a Treaty of Mutual Cooperation, Trade and Security. It will entail economic exchange on the private-sector. The establishment of mutual wings of government dedicated to political engagement and commercial partnership. Quota-free trade volume in goods and services."

Medarda stifles a smile. "I daresay you came prepared."

"I'm not finished."

Her smile fades into a coaxing lift of eyebrows.

"The Council will balk at reparations. Instead, Zaun will settle for reformation. We will agree to a press blackout for your Peacekeeper's crimes. We will allow Topside to conduct an inquest—with a foregone conclusion. In exchange, a real committee consisting of Piltovan and Zaunite activists will be formed to investigate Enforcer brutalities in the past decade. They will undertake a thorough public consultation process. Look into organizational malpractice, oversight and accountability. Emphasis on accountability. We've not forgotten the atrocities on Bloody Sunday and the Day of Ash. Now our dead demand just desserts."

Medarda challenges, "Did the dead request this?"

"Dead is dead. But the survivors will have restitution. And names."

They lock gazes. Silence stretches.

Evenly, Medarda says, "I will see what can be done."

"Do."

"Is there more?"

"With me? Interminably." He folds his hands together and brings his fingertips to his lips. "All former undercity prisoners at Stillwater will be handed over to Zaun. Your courts will cooperate with ours to ensure they undergo re-trial and resentencing. Those found guilty will be transferred to Dredge prison. Those deemed innocent will be freed."

"Chancellor, I hardly think—"

"Do keep up." Without giving her a chance to interrupt again: "Piltovan journalists will participate in a public relations strategy to promote Zaunite interests. Diplomatic incentives for Piltover's foreign allies to invest here. Particularly in sectors of education, health and housing. We aren't looking for mercy. Our citizens are hard workers. What they need are the opportunities thus denied."

"By your criminal empire."

"By your collective negligence."

Again, they stare at each other, challenge contained in subtle lines.

"I shall need time," Medarda says, "to persuade the Council."

"I've great faith in your persuasive abilities."

"Let's not overreach, Chancellor. Your proposal is—" A headshake, "—novel. And you've yet to mention the Security aspect of the Treaty."

"Simple. I propose an independent body to monitor the Treaty's implementation. It will be composed of Piltover's agents and ours. High on mutual disarmament. Low on non-proliferation." He rests his chin on his steepled fingers like he does in the war-room. "Given the Noxian threat, it will prove useful. Zaun's agents can move unimpeded within Piltover. Often and at short notice."

"Are you mad?" she asks, as if inquiring whether he prefers veal or venison.

Silco pops a sugar cube into his mouth. His tongue is a playful roll along the sharp row of teeth. Medarda's eyes follow it, before she snaps them back front and center. Her stare gives off a discomfited heat.

As it stands, the conversation is risky. Well beyond the bounds of political propriety. Medarda is the one who chummed the waters. But she may have second thoughts. She may reclaim her scruples, scramble ashore, terminate the Treaty altogether.

Conflicted allies, allies with ideals, are cowards. Silco must play this with precision.

"If Swain is attempting to undermine Piltover," he says, "Then Zaun's refusal won't deter him. He'll try again. This time through a different source. Sooner or later, his warmasons will breach your territory. They will enact worse crimes. A coup. A string of terror attacks. A bloodier reprise of the Piltover-Zaun war." The cube shatters between his teeth with a brittle crunch. "Whatever it takes to destabilize Piltover—while simultaneously smoking out your General-Mother."

Medarda's scowl is querulous. She says nothing. He has a point.

"It would—what was your word? behoove—our interests if my network kept a weather eye on the horizon," he concludes. "My men can slip through gaps yours never even knew existed. While the warmasons are in Zaun, my network will shadow them. Should they make moves on Piltover, I'll supply a contingent of talented agents to liaise with yours."

"On the record?"

"Off the books."

Medarda's lashes dip. He senses her thoughts ticking over.

"I assume," she enunciates with care, "your network will keep their hands clean?"

"Clean?"

"Curb bloodshed at Piltover's expense."

"We cannot succeed by playing contradictory scales."

"Contradictory?"

Silco's hands make a languid pattern in the air, describing the time signature in an opera. "My dear, if you play a major mode with your left hand and a minor with your right, you've massacred the symphony beyond salvaging."

"Must it come to massacres?"

"If you've cold feet, we can terminate the deal."

"I didn't say that."

"You needn't." He shoulders back in his chair. His bruised ribs twinge. But in the game of wordplay, and its inverse of bloodplay, he is in his element. "You Topsiders have no stomach for massacres, do you? Not unless they're kept out of sight."

Medarda's glossy mouth purses. "May I ask you a question, Chancellor?"

"Of course."

"How often a month do you kill someone?"

Silco's lip quirks, alerting Medarda that this is a risky rhetorical game.

She shakes her head. "Do you fail to see the wrongness? How many men are even posed such a question?"

"I can't say," he retorts. "But I imagine those who pose it have the luxury of never dirtying their hands. Their lives are a joyride, while an engine of drudges break their backs to keep it so. When they die, more drudges take their place. On and on ad infinitum—right until the wheels come off, tossing its pampered passengers arse over teakettle into the filth of their own making."

Medarda glowers.

Good, Silco thinks.

Hypocrisy has its uses. Denial does not. Especially from a woman as complicit in murder as the Shimmer in his factories. Moreso—because the Shimmer was a cheat-code against Piltover's rigged game of progress.

A progress patronized by Medarda's ambition.

"Councilor," he says. "If we're to coexist, then any shared threat to Piltover and Zaun must be struck down with decisive action."

"The rationale of zealotry."

"Piltover is complicit in tenfold worse."

"You can't blame us for all the evil you practice."

"Blame has no bearing in a war," Silco snaps, a flash-point of temper in seething slow-motion. "All that matters is survival. You forget that, you lose your head. Remember, it was not through ideals that your forbearers forged the Immortal Bastion. It was through trickery and bloodshed. They had the minds of foxes and the hearts of wolves. Unless you want to return to the days when Piltover was a pauper's backwater, you'd best remember their lessons."

The statement sinks in, casting tiny ripples across Medarda's face. Her stare hardens.

"Grim words," she says, "for a potential partnership."

"Life can be grim—with angels of mercy in short supply."

"Is that what you believe I am? An angel of mercy?"

Silco's malice thaws into mockery. "Oh, I know better."

This time, it is he who leans closer. Medarda's hands make reflexive fists in her lap. Another time, he'd heed the gesture, respect her territoriality. Abide by the rules of sovereign conduct. But they've left behind the safety of those shores.

The waters now are an encircling darkness.

Silco doesn't touch her. But his thumb circles the stem of her glass, as if entitled. A high thin note vibrates through the air. "Angels of mercy seldom condescend to visit Zaun,” he muses. “Nor do Councilors bargain with cutthroats. Which, I wonder, are you?"

Her scowl is leashed but fierce. "Not a cutthroat. But—"

"Strange times bode strange bedfellows?"

"When you phrase it that way, it sounds—"

"Crude? Clandestine? Adulterous?"

Her anger isn't quite so leashed now. "—dangerous."

"But profitable." Silco's voice drops from raw silk to rough stone. "And what is profit without a taste of danger? I must warn you, though. This isn't a deal you can back out of. Nor one you want to lose. It's one thing to sanction fires from one's tower. It's another to be locked in a burning room with no way out. Every order you issue could bring you closer to the flames. Consider carefully if you wish to be partners."

Disquiet flickers across Medarda's features. But she is too shrewd to be dragged under.

"If we're to be partners," she retorts, "then we must abide by the same rules? Yes?"

"Absolutely."

"In the case, I'll begin first. Our future correspondence shall be conducted through my personal pneumatic courier. If I'm unavailable, my secretary, Elora, will be assigned to receive messages."

"Understood."

"Next: does Zaun have a speaking telegraph system?"

"Not at present."

"Allow me to recommend a Demacian communications firm. They specialize in inter-and-intra city communications. With a direct line in place, you may contact me at any hour of the day. Or night." Through her lashes, she imparts the warning: Hold the double-entendre.

Silco does—narrowly. "Suppose one uses the channel for unsavory purposes?"

"Our bargain is predicated on trust, Chancellor. After all, our interests align, don't they?"

Slyness curls around Silco's words. "As mirror images."

The sky has lightened into ashen fullness. The Ironworks, limned by the glow, power full-steam ahead. The monstrous edifice begins bleeding bodies. Works scurry everywhere. Foremen, dockhands, runners. None can afford to dawdle. The day has begun, and every minute is a coin lost. But those with a few minutes to spare gawk at the yacht in the deep dock: a pristine pearl in Zaun's filthy waters.

Silco gazes back.

Once, he was like these men and women: a cog in the wheel of progress. Shivering with Vander in the grey chill of the mining barracks at dawn; smeared in soot and sagging with exhaustion at night. A brute vestige of his nature is their nature, such that he knows why that girl is dawdling by the alleyside with a red rag on her arm (a floor sweeper making extra coin with a knee-trembler); why that man is filling a pail with water from a pump (a scrubber preparing to debride the docks of scum); why that boy is running up the stairwell with a bag slung over his shoulder (the tea boy late for his shift).

Silco's expression downshifts. Coveting Zaun in all its potential—not blighted but beautiful. To live in this city is to know its sorrows and joys. And to be the Eye is to have an intimate peek into its cruelest vices—but also its most cherished dreams.

And think also: only a few miles to the southwest, under the same brightening sky, still asleep, is his own dream.

His child.

It stirs him with a solemn sense of wonder. The old feelings he used to try to pen down in pamphlets, yet made brand-new. The connectivity of the city, the intimacy of the streets and its people, their sufferings and triumphs, all unbreakably linked.

When he glances back, Medarda is watching him.

"Hail, infernal world!" she says, quoting Paradise Lost again, "and thou, profoundest Hell, receive thy new possessor!"

"The mind is its own place," Silco retorts, "and in itself can make a Heaven of Hell/a Hell of Heaven."

"This is your Paradise, then?"

"There are better places than Paradise."

Curious, she tips her chin, "Perhaps someday you'll give me a tour?"

“Is that a tease, or a dare?”

Their stares catch and hold. No need for pretense. He's on her hook. She's in his jaws. Almost literally.

Silco takes a triple-shot of the liqueur straight from the bottle, then blows idly across the lip, a melody like a signaling ship. "I've one last question."

"By all means."

"You posit yourself as representing the Council. But is the Council privy to our meeting?"

"Would you refuse if they were?"

Silco's good eyelid curves half-shut. "Councils are dangerous to work with. Each member has their own off-the-books way of getting things done. The outcome crosses wires and causes muddles."

"May I ask what you're driving at?"

She already knows his answer. She is merely testing how many moves ahead he is thinking. Same as her.

Mirror-images, indeed.

"If you expect my cooperation," Silco says. "I expect a full disclosure on silent partners."

"There are none."

"Not even Councilor Talis?"

Her expression doesn't change. But her spine straightens as if pinched. "It's complicated."

"That is neither a yes, or a no."

"Should it matter?"

"In point of fact? It does. You've a reputation for a level head. The Golden Boy? Not so much."

Especially after the attack he and Vi pulled at Silco's factory. It hadn't been so disastrous as to get under Silco's skin. But it had drawn blood. Casualties on the frontline; casualties behind the scenes.

He'd rather avoid a byplay.

"Councilor Talis trusts my intentions,” Medarda says delicately. “He understands that a good deal of the Council's policies are… outmoded. He believes there must be change. The conflict between Zaun and Piltover has proven as much. In that vein, he needn't be privy to every decision I make. Just as long as we're both doing the right thing."

We're both doing the right thing.

The phraseology of a couple, not of colleagues. Yet the discord in her body-language is plain. As if her feelings for Talis, and her strategies against her mother, are creating an inner-rift. Tempting to pry deeper. Turn the rift into a crack, and discover what secrets it disgorges.

Now isn't the time.

"I have a question of my own." Medarda says.

"Of course."

"Peacekeeper Violet. Will you deny her reentry into Zaun?"

Silco feels a chill touch his spine and seep into his balls. By Kindred, he thinks, and tastes the old premonition like blood. "I'd be well within my rights."

Her Sphynx-eyes glimmer. "I hope you reconsider."

"This is a family matter, Councilor. It will be settled accordingly."

"By Janna's grace, I hope not."

"Excuse me?"

She leans closer, in a dizzying waft of perfume. "Peace is a fragile thing. So is sisterhood. We may end up locked together in a burning room. But we must be careful to burn no more bridges. All the better to move forward, yes?"

Through her lashes, she imparts her message. Let Vi live.

Silco stares.

Gods, she's a devious hellcat. She's trapped him with his own checkmate. Again. Offering him in equal measure the promise of perfect simpatico between Zaun and Piltover, or the threat of the worst possible outcome. All contingent on his choice to keep Vi onside.

To show mercy.

He wonders how many times she replayed variations of this game in her head, with the different prices she can afford to pay. He imagines her calculating his reaction, and knows she is right in every set-up: he has no choice but to accept the bargain.

For now.

"No need to sell past the close," Silco says flatly. "We are in accord."

Medarda proffers her hand. Silco shakes his head.

"Not that way."

"What?"

Silco unsnaps the glittering pin from her updo. Her glossy locs tumble around her face, with a bracing whiff of her body's perfume.

Medarda jerks. In the periphery, the Enforcers spring, weapons ready.

Silco ignores them. His fingers turn the pin over, inspecting its stiletto point. "Tsk. So much for playing by the same rules."

Medarda's features go rigid. "How dare you—?"

"You dared first."

She snatches for the pin. Evading, he wields it blade-first. The exchange sets off a chain-reaction: the Enforcers flex their firearms, and the blackguards uncoil to strike. One false step, and a massacre shimmers on the horizon.

Medarda makes a soothing motion. "Hold."

The closest Enforcer falters, "Councilor—"

"I'm sure Zaun's Chancellor was only admiring my bauble, Jaden." Her hands form into fists in her lap, then relax. "That's all you were doing, yes?"

"A memento of our partnership."

Silco makes a pirouetting flick with his finger. As one, the blackguards melt away. Medarda inclines her head at the Enforcers. Likewise, they retreat. The furor ebbs into silence.

Medarda says, "Respect would not be remiss, Chancellor."

"Give to get."

"The pin was a precaution."

"Now it's a prop." His stare orients on hers. "If you'd lend me your hand?"

"My hand?"

"We'll square the deal the proper way. Blood for blood."

Her expression darkens. "A blood bargain signifies life or death."

A shadow-smile touches Silco’s lips. "What in hell do you think this is?"

Medarda glowers. Her temper is real—and damnably attractive. The breeze stirring off the Pilt carries the motes of her perfume: hyacinths musked with body-heat. She's a tough one, all right. Toughest so far. But that makes the payoff all the more promising.

Silco extends his hand. After a moment, she lays hers inside it. He takes her wrist and tugs her glove off, baring silken flesh to harsh sunlight. Her palm is small and exquisitely shaped. The lines hold an interesting pattern of notches.

The palmists at Janna's Temple would call it an unlucky hand. A childhood of suffering; an adulthood of complications.

Silco smooths a thumb over her life-line. Her breath hitches. He meets her eyes, and mock-soothes, "It only hurts a moment."

"I'm not afraid of pain," she says evenly.

"Just the scars, hm?"

Letting go, he starts to remove his own glove. She beats him to it. Finger-by-finger, she strips off the suede. Unsheathed, his palm feels chilled in both her own, then warms. Curiously, Medarda traces his fingertips, as if manifestly disinterested in anything but the state of his callused flesh.

He traps her fingertips in his own. She doesn't balk. Her eyes glint with defiance.

"Not all scars are obvious," she says.

Wielding the pin, Silco takes her wrist. The point slices into her palm. Medarda's brow tightens. The cut oozes blood. Silco repeats the action on his own palm—a deep red notch. Then he extends his hand to Medarda.

"Now our deal is done."

Medarda's mouth firms. She takes Silco's hand. Her grip is unlike their previous handshakes. No politeness, but a fierce squeeze with a hint of fingernails. There is determination, even wildness in it. A fox who submits to no traps. And yet trapped she is, by the undertow of imperatives between them. He will try to drag her down to his level; she will try to lift him to hers.

Whatever it takes to safeguard their sovereignty, and their secret prizes.

Jinx; Talis.

They sit eye-to-eye. And the Ironworks spray fire, a cascade of red sparks like blood.

FLASH MESSAGE

SUBJECT: ?

You are alive.

Lookouts confirmed it.

END OF MESSAGE.

FLASH MESSAGE

RE: SUBJECT - ?

UNDELIVERABLE - RECIPIENT NOT FOUND.

Also: fuck off.

END OF MESSAGE

(Correspondence recovered from Entresol Zone C)

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