Rohypnol has an INCREDIBLY salty taste to it. It’s disgusting. And it also isn’t a drug that acts immediately! The minute you notice the salty taste, you have about 5-10 minutes to get somewhere safe or call an ambulance, and it CAN be fought if you’re aware of it. It will make you woozy, it will make you so dizzy you can’t stand upright, it will certainly make you unable to walk properly, but if you struggle to remain conscious you can get about 20 extra minutes of consciousness from the drug before it will knock you out completely. If you’re in a public place, and the person who drugged you is trying to take you somewhere private, start. a. fight. Insist as LOUDLY and as VIOLENTLY as you can that you refuse to go anywhere with them. Odds are they’re trying to make as little of a scene as possible as they drag you away, and if you’re putting up a fight and very clearly ‘drunk’, eyes will turn on them and they’ll either need to let you go, or cause a serious scene, which they don’t want. Don’t just act like you’re just protesting being taken home, though. Fight like your life depends on it even if they aren’t assaulting you. Cause. A. Scene. That’s the last thing they want.
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Warning: power imbalance, dark content, obsession, age gap and all around sexiness.
Summary: You’re used to difficult clients but not in the same way as Peter Park. (actor Peter Parker, older reader)
Hi! Please please please reblog and leave some feedback if you read! I love you 💕
“Venice?” You chew your thumb as you stare at the phone, numbers counting down the call time.
“I know it’s a long trip.” Peter’s assistant says from the other side. You retie the belt on your robe. “I could find a stylist in Venice, I guess. I have a few contacts from my previous job…”
“No, I can find my passport.” You stifle a yawn. “I can’t really turn down the contract. Works been tight.”
“Really? I appreciate. And I think Peter really liked you.” She says. “I don’t know if you can tell but he’s a bit all over the place.”
“Oh, like his hair,” you kid. “Give me the date and time. I’ll be there.”
“Sure. Uh, it’s paid for, of course. I’ll forward the ticket.” She says as you hear something chime. “Sorry, I gotta another call and– shit! Um, thanks again. Bye!”
The line clicks. Well, it sounds like she can use all the help she can get. Besides, you hear Italy is nice. If this goes well, you might get something more steady. You wouldn’t mind that at all. Peter’s young, up-and-coming, this could be your in. And after so many years of hustling from set to set.
Your phone vibrates again. You carry it into the kitchen and start on your daily smoothie. It’s a paltry replacement for your previous morning addiction. You miss your caffeine but you don’t need it. Not at your age.
It’s the plane ticket. Frantic but effective. Well, you guess you’ll be missing girls’ night. This time with a real excuse.
You’re an overpacking. An overpreparer. Your clients wonder why you have twenty different brushes and at least a dozen brands of face wipes. You can never be too ready but you’ll sacrifice some clothing to get your whole kit in the overhead.
You take your cherry smoothie to the table and sit. You scroll until your phone buzzes through the table. You don’t recognise the number.
‘Hi! Are you coming to Venice?’
You frown and flip over to the conversation. There’s no previous dialogue. It’s been ages since you got a new phone or number. You flip through your backlog of contacts.
‘Sorry. Who is this?’
‘Peter. Is this–’ the response blips up.
Peter?
‘Yes. I’m packing. I’ll be there.’ You reply.
‘Sorry. Stole your number from my assistant. She’s so busy all the time.’
‘It’s okay. Excited for the trip.’ You send back.
You put the phone down and slurp the somewhat bland sugarless blend. You’re trying to be healthier without diving into the deep end of ‘cleanses’ and ‘fasts’. You don’t need to be a Victoria Secret’s model, just comfortable.
‘What about today? Will you come by today?’
You chuckle.
‘Is something going on?’
‘I need to pack but I don’t know what to wear 🥺’
You almost laugh at the emoji. You look at the time.
‘Might take me a while.’
‘Awesome! See you soon!’ His response doesn’t show an ounce of disappointment.
You stare at the glass before you muster the energy to get up. You put saran wrap over the top and shove it in the fridge. You’ll try not to forget about it. You probably will though.
💗
You pull up to Peter’s building. You hate LA traffic but you’re grateful for the distraction. When you have travel ahead of you, you tend to fixate and agonise over every little thing that could go wrong. What if you get searched? What if you lose something? What if you miss your flight?
You buzz at the front door. Peter doesn’t answer. You try again. Huh.
You pull out your phone to text him. He could be out on the balcony. Before you can find the chat, your name comes from behind you. It’s Peter.
“Hey! Great timing!”
He wears a backwards hat, a muscle shirt, and dark shorts. He’s carrying a tray with two big icy drinks, whipped cream and sprinkles on top.
“They’re having a big promotion down at the shake place! Iced coffee.” He beams over the straws. “Like a Simpsons donut, see?”
You stare at the cups. There’s cream and chocolate layered with the coffee. You hold back a sigh. So much for giving up your vices.
“For me?” You ask.
“Sure! I felt selfish just getting one for me. And you drove all the way down here.” He chimes. “Wait– you haven’t been down here long, have you?”
“No, just got here. All good.”
“Great. I’d feel bad if you were waiting.” He says. “Um, ergh… I’ll let you in.”
He gets closer and you fumble to get out of the way. You brush against him and catch a whiff of his fresh deodorant mingling with his sweat. It’s a warm smell, comforting despite the heat. He scans his fob and the door clicks. You grab the handle before he can.
“Oh no! I got it! You’re a lady. I’m supposed to–”
“Your hands are full,” you say softly. “It’s alright.”
“So are yours.” He says.
“Shoulder strap.” You let go of your bag and it hangs on your shoulder. “Come on.”
He goes ahead of you and looks over his shoulder. “You don’t mind if we take the elevator? I’ve been doing these workouts for the shoot. The stunt coordinator has been kicking my– butt.”
“That’s fine with me.” You assure him with a smile.
He stops and waves you into the elevator first. He gets on and you sense him staring at you. You glance over.
“I don’t have something on my face, do I?”
“No! I’m sorry. I just… I like your hair.” He makes a face then looks away.
“Oh, thank you. It’s kind of… stubborn. Hence the scarf.” You reach up to pinch the knot in the bandana tied to keep your hair under control.
“No, it’s cool. It gives you a real chill vibe.” He says.
“Ha, never thought of it that way.”
The elevator stops. You get off and head for his door. He lets you inside and you look around at the tidy space. His assistant has been working hard you see.
“You have to try it! I waited to try it with you.” He insists as he puts the tray down and grabs the cups out of the cardboard.
“Oh, uh… sure.” You try not to show your dread at the sheer amount of cream. “Thanks again. It was sweet of you to think of me.”
“No, it’s cool.” He holds out a cup.
You take it and eye it. “Wow, that’s a lot…”
“Cheers!” He knocks his cup against yours. He spills cream through the top hole and it drips on his fingers. He prompts sucks on his knuckles as he angles the cup around, dripping even more.
“Alright, hold on.” You look around and quickly find the roll of paper towels in the kitchen. “Let me help.”
You hand him the paper towel and he accepts it with a goofy look. He wipes his hands then picks up his cup again. He looks at you and delicately sips through the straw. You taste the sugary concoction. Oof. You are not twenty anymore.
“Mmm,” you hum.
“Yummy.” He licks his lips. “Oh! Ha.”
He reaches for you and you wince. He runs his thumb over your lip. “That cream gets everywhere.” He looks at his thumb then twitches, turning to wipe it on the crumpled paper towel. “Anyway…” He coughs. “I was hoping you could help me with my press outfits. I have a bunch of interviews. And… Bucky Barnes is gonna be at some. He always looks so cool.”
“Oh, I’ve worked with him before. Briefly.” You say. “At some show. He wouldn’t remember me.”
“Really? You don’t think?”
“Nah, he probably deals with a dozen stylists all the time.” You shrug.
“That’s so weird. My assistant used to work for him too.”
“Oh really? That must be why she’s so good at her job.”
“Right? I really am a mess.” He frowns.
“No, I don’t think so.” You assure him softly. “Here, I’m going to put this down.” You set the cup on a table nearby. “Don’t wanna get it on your clothes. We’ll go pick some stuff for the trip. Do you have an itinerary?”
“Yes, my assistant sent it. Somewhere…” He fishes his phone out of his pocket. He opens his messages, all you see is the contact name. “Dream Girl🥰” before he swipes back. You turn your eyes away. That’s cute. “Alright, I’ll just find it…”
He turns and walks into the back of the couch as he searches his phone. You catch his arm and pull him around it.
“Oops.” He gives a sheepish smile. “I just… got a million things on my mind.”
Warning: power imbalance, dark content, obsession, and all around sexiness.
Summary: your boss is a hard man to please. (actor!bucky, assistant reader)
I always see this gif and wanna write something so here we go.
Hi! Please please please reblog and leave some feedback if you read! I love you 💕
You return with a smoothie dripping condensation down one chilled hand, and a coffee burning in the other. You slow in disappointment as you find Peter’s chair empty but the other smugly filled by your former employer. Bucky leans forward as tilts his head back and forth.
“I smell a light roast,” he sits backs and props his elbow on the arm rest.
You sniff and step into his sight of his reflection. He watches you in the mirror as you set down Peter’s smoothie on the long vanity then turn to put down the steaming cup of coffee. Bucky reaches for it, leaning forward again. He doesn’t grip the cup but your hand.
“Look at me.” He snips.
You wince as the cup bobbles onto the vanity. You tug on his grasp and look him in the face. His blue eyes storm at you as the lines of his face deepen.
“These girls don’t know what the fuck they’re doing. Look.” He gestures with his other hand. “No brightening under my eyes. Didn’t even bother to shave my neck.” He growls. “It wouldn’t be this way if someone wasn’t playing scaredy cat.”
“Let go of me,” you say calmly. His grip tightens before you can wrench away.
“Why are you playing this game?” He lowers his voice.
“You got no problem speaking up for yourself, so why don’t you tell them to redo it?” You challenge and put your other hand on his knuckles, trying to push him off.
“Because it’s not my job.” He snarls. “Girl, that boy is an idiot. I’m sure he’s a lot more work than I ever was. Come on. Come back. I’ll give you a raise.”
“I have a job.”
“Fuck off.” He growls and stands up. “It was one drunken night–”
You whine as his hold on you grows unbearable. Your bones feel ready to snap. You fidget and slap his hand.
“Let go.” You plead.
“Don’t you get it.” He backs you up until you nearly trip on Peter’s empty chair. “I can’t let go. I won’t.”
You grimace and jerk your arm helplessly. “Why?”
He takes a deep breath through his nose and lets it out slow. His tongue pokes out and wets his lips. His eyes darken as he leans in, looming over you.
“Because you’re goddamn mine.” He grits.
“No–”
“Ugh, I hate screen tests.” Peter cheeps as he comes around the corner.
All at once, the crushing weight relents. Bucky lets you go and quickly turns to pick up his coffee. You watch the tension cord in his neck and your gaze trails down the bulging muscles in his arm, the memory of his strength still thrumming in your tendons.
“‘Specially with Fowler. Man’s a tight ass.” Bucky says above his coffee.
“Oh sweet! My smoothie.” Peter exults cluelessly. “Choco banana?”
You back up slowly and turn to look between the men, “That’s it.” You confirm. “Uh, Peter, I’m just going to confirm a few things with the hotel. Make sure everything’s in order.”
“Right, uh… makes sense. Oh. When was that interview with Vogue Ital- tal– i–a-no?” He struggles to enunciate with a very Mario-like accent.
“It’s in your itinerary but I’ll make sure you get there.”
“And the stylist? She has an outfit for me?” He asks hopefully as he plays with his straw.
“Sure, Peter. That’s why she’s here.”
“Ah, she’s great, isn’t she?” Bucky steps forward and puts his arm over your shoulders. “Efficient.”
“A life-saver!” Peter agrees. “Uh. where’s your assistant? Or do you have seven like Mr. Fowler?”
Bucky laughs and squeezes you closer. You chafe in his embrace. “She’s a hard act to follow. I had a few replacements but not of them could make it here so… I’m raw dogging this one. Getting my own coffee, booking my own flights…”
“Oh jeez! I could never.” Peter pouts. “Well, if you need anything, I’m sure she can help you too. We’ll mostly be at the same places, right?”
“Presser, tonight.” Bucky points and snaps his fingers. “Don’t know why they book this shit on the first day but it’s why we’re paid the big time.” His hand grazes down your arm. “Why we can pay others to look after us, right?”
“Ha, sure.” Peter slurps his smoothie and pulls out his phone. He chews on the tip. “Um… are you sure she got off her flight, okay?”
The stylist. Again.
“I’m sure she’s sleeping it off.” You reassure him. For the fifth time. “Anyway, I should go. I’m sure Fowler will need you up front soon.”
🎥
“Did she answer you?” Peter asks as you nudge him off the elevator.
“She’ll be waiting for us there. She said she labeled the outfit before you packed.” You point him down the hallway. “Really, we don’t have a lot of time.”
“I know but… my hair–”
“She can do it there.” You insist as you check your phone. “Look, you need to wash off the stuff from set anyway.”
“I know but…” He huffs. “I’m sorry, I’m just so nervous! This is like a real movie.”
“And you’re a real movie star, Peter. You’re good at what you do so just let me do my part and get you where you need to be.”
He drops his shoulders and tips his head back. “I know. I’m sorry. It’s just… Everything feels so official now with you around.”
“You miss your aunt?”
“Kinda,” he sniffs.
“Ah, I think that’s your room.” You point ahead. “Got he key?”
“What? Key?” He babbles.
“Peter.”
He chuckles and digs in his pocket. “I’m kidding.” He steps ahead of you and flicks his hair out of his face. “Venice is not nice to my hair.”
“Humid, yeah,” you agree.
As the card elicits a green flash from the lock, another door clicks and startles you. A whistle draws your attention from Peter’s back. He spins around and leans on the door to open it an inch.
“Pete! What are the odds?” Bucky pokes his head out of a nearby suite. He’s shirtless and his hair is damp. You sidle closer to Peter.
“Hey, Buck. Uh Bucky. Sorry.” Peter cringes. “Yeah, uh… I thought you’d have a full villa.”
“Nah, too big for just me.” He shrugs. “Plus, I had to do this all last minute.”
You frown. Before you quit, you’d booked his trip and rooms. It wasn’t here… You try not to show your concern as you look at your phone.
“Peter, we should get ready–”
“Hey,” Bucky snaps his fingers. “We’re headed to the same place. How about we share a ride?”
“Gee, really? That’d be awesome!” Peter chimes.
You bite down and stare at the wall. You know what Bucky is doing. You just want him to stop. Give up. Whatever chip you took out of his ego, you wish he’d just find another way to fill it.
“Sure. I mean, no cars in Venice right? We’ll probably end up on the same tram anyway.” Bucky shrugs. “And it’s easy to get lost in a city like this…”
Bucky glances at you and your eyes catch for just a minute. Your brows twitch and his lips slightly curve. You look at Peter as his eyes round in admiration. Christ.
“Well, it seems you’re already well ahead of him so better get cleaned up, huh, Peter?” You prompt.
“Hmm,” Bucky hums. “She help you shower too? Never did that for me.”
“Wh-at?” Peter’s voice cracks. “N-no!”
“Kidding, kid,” Bucky winks as he lets his door open to expose more of his body, only a towel around his waist. “I know her better than anyone, she runs a strict ship.”
“Erm, yeah, sure,” Peter chuckles. “She’s right though. I can’t be late… again.”
I think I'll take my whiskey neat, my coffee black and my bed at 3
Warning: implied violence or roughness, fear, dark content, and all around sexiness.
I only wrote this as a teaser for @honeybee-reads
I always see this gif and wanna write something so here we go.
Hi! Please please please reblog and leave some feedback if you read! I love you 💕
You walk on your tip toes, breath bated, fingertips hot, and lip tender from anxious nibbling. Ahead, you see the set of broad shoulders straining the ribbed fabric, the chafe of newspaper pages turning, the low and long exhale of a sigh. Frank’s dark head of hair doesn’t move as he keeps his head tilted to his diligent perusal of the weeklies.
You carefully let the air out of your clogged chest as you near him. His head moves slightly and a growl rolls in his throat. The steam rising from the mug scents the air.
“Good woman.” He drawls.
His voice startles you, quiet as he is, and the porcelain slips from your fingers before you can angle it over the table. You gasp and watch the catastrophe in slow motion. The coffee splashes before the cup hits the floor and turns to shards. You gasp and touch your neck with your warmed fingers, the flesh tender still.
“Oh! I’m sorry!” You squeak. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, sir. I wasn’t meaning…”
He hushes you as your tills spill without a thought and bubble in your apologies. He sets the newspaper flat and smoothes it under his coarse hands. The roughened fingers that you can feel still crawling against your soft skin.
You suck in a wet breath and pout, looking at the mess at your feet. Frank turns in his chair and stands, another silty exhale puffed from deep in his gut. He reaches for you. You quiver and he shushes you again.
He pushes through the puddled coffee and fragments of the mug with his slipper and bends to scoop you up. He backs up and sits with you in his lap. You wriggle but still as another growl climbs up his throat.
“You hurt? Any cuts?” He bends against you as he holds you sideways in his lap and examines your feet. You curl your wet toes and shake your head.
“‘At’s good,” his grit doesn’t catch the fist consonant. “It’s alright, honey. Don’t you shake like that. I ain’t mad.”
He takes your hand and unlatches it from the other. He lifts it and looks it over. He tuts and brings it to his lips. He drags his mouth along the hot spot just above your knuckle.
“What’s ‘at?” He growls as his hot breath sears the burn.
“I… I was boilin’ the water, sir, and—”
“Now I asked if you were hurt, sugar pie,” He rubs his wide thumb above the burn.
“It’s only a small one.” You mope. “I’m sorry, sir.”
“Mm, now, you don’t be sorry, honey.” He guides your hand up to his cheek and has you pet his thick beard. He leans into your touch. “Now, honey,” he lets go of your hand and cradles your chin. He draws you close and pecks your lips. “You go on and try again. Coffee smells real good.” He stands, still holding you in his arms. “And I’ll clean this up.”
He puts you down away from the broken mug. You bite your lip and he snarls. You stop yourself from the nervous habit.
“But sir, I can clean it–”
“Nah, sugar. You go on. Be a good girl and get me a fresh cup. I’m gonna need it.”
Warning: power imbalance, dark content, and all around sexiness.
Summary: your new job includes duties you don’t expect. (actor!Steve Rogers, actress reader)
I always see this gif and wanna write something so here we go.
Hi! Please please please reblog and leave some feedback if you read! I love you 💕
You poke at your plate of fruit, plucked from the tray at the food services table. It’s a brief break at the interlude of the script. You chew on a chunk of pineapple, taking the whole piece off the toothpick awkward as it refuses to split. As you gnash the mouthful, a figure approaches.
“Hm, you’re the first actress I’ve seen eat at one of these things.” Steve stops in front of you.
“Um,” you hum and swallow. “Well, it’s a long day.”
“Just be mindful of your costars, you know? No garlic, no onion.” He intones.
“Huh, yeah, I guess that makes sense,” you nod. “Think it’s going well.”
“You think,” he drawls.
“Um, well, so far, I like the script.” You shrug.
“Nick’s got a good eye for these things. Very selective,” Steve says. “It’s our third film together. Would’ve been my fourth with Sharon. Too bad she’s dipped out.”
You fidget. The mention of your predecessor is slightly edged. He isn’t saying so but you can’t help but feel he’s telling you you don’t belong. That imposter syndrome creeps up your neck.
“She’s a great actress.”
“She’s pretty.” His lips curve slightly. “She sells but she’s not winning a statue any time soon.”
“Oh, well… one can only dream,” you say.
“Yeah? Do you think you will?” He asks.
You stare at him, stabbing the toothpick into a bleeding strawberry. “I try not to fixate. I work hard and… I’m just starting out. I’ve mostly done independent, you know?”
“I know,” he assures you tersely. “I got my Oscar at 29. Six nominations since. It’s like the lottery except you have to actually be good.”
You nod. “That’s impressive.”
“It’s a good idea in this business to know your stuff.” He tuts. “So, can you guess which movie I won for? You might get lucky.”
You try not to let your face show your confusion. It’s like he’s testing you, but why?
“Can I get a hint? Year?” You ask.
He scoffs. He makes a face and says the year. He watches and waits, lifting his chin slightly.
“Oh, I’m sorry. I think I was like 11 when that came out.” You say. “But I’d love to go back and watch it.” You twist the toothpick in the flesh of the berry. “I saw your last release though. It was good.”
“Good?” He echoes darkly.
“Uh huh,” you force a smile.
His lips draw straight. “You have a seed in your teeth.”
He turns and struts away. You furrow your brow and swipe your tongue over your teeth. You stare at him as he saunters off.
Hopefully, he’s just having an off day.
📽️
You get your own trailer. That's nice. Sometimes the luxuries that can come with this job are overwhelming, even if you don't miss sharing a crowded space with two dozen other actors and stylists.
Xio, the woman who introduced herself as your stylist for the project, sits you down to start on your face. Today will be makeup tests and screen tests. The tedious little things that come before the big scenes are shot.
“Do you prefer cream or powder?” Xio asks.
“Huh, no one's ever asked before.” You respond.
She giggles. “Oh, well, I use a blend. You can't have things to shiny on camera but it helps to know your clients too. Then I know not to go too hard on one or the other.”
“Of course. Makes sense.” You nod.
“Some can be real picky. Not to mention names but they might even be your costar.” She smirks and searches her brushes.
You pick up on the hint easily. There is no shortage of opinions on set. The table read more than cemented that. It's nothing you haven't seen before. It's the nature of the city and the business. Egos always collide.
Xio starts on your face. The click and clack of brushes and lids fill the void between her chatter. She tells you that on the last set she worked, there was a big argument between artists over a hairbrush and who it belonged too.
“Label all my stuff.” She says as she leans in to brush your lashes with a wand. “Learned that early on. Worked with an older artist. Well known. Very Miranda from Devil Wears Prada. She has exhibitions and all. She claimed a particularly rare palette for herself.” She huffs. “It helps if you have a lock on your kit too.”
“Oh, wow, that's awful.” You try not to move too much. “I was on set once and we'll the hanger with my name on it was empty by the time I got down to my bra and panties. I put my clothes back on and went out. They kept it in the final cut but you know, I had two lines.”
“Really? I think Fowler would have an aneurysm if that happened on his project.” She snickers.
“You work with him a lot?”
“Sure do. I don't say a damn word to him and get the work done.” She stands up and considers you with a tilt of her head. “You have gorgeous eyes.”
There's a rattle behind you and the trailer door swings open. You lurch forward in surprise and crane to see the intruder. Steve struts in with sunglasses. Maybe he went to the wrong trailer.
“Oh, hey,” you say.
He doesn't say a word as his lips stay straight and tight. He approaches and swipes off his sunglasses. He steps around next to Xio and stares at you. You turn to look back, confused. He clucks and walks around you and peers at you in the mirror.
“Can you make her nose look smaller?”
“Excuse me?” You blurt out in surprise and a bit of offense.
“Someone's gonna point it out.” He says blithely.
Xio gives you a look then stares at Steve. You can't expect her to defend you. With all the makeup thieves, she has enough problems.
“Do you need help find your trailer?” You interject.
“Do you need help finding your manners?” He retorts. “A thank you would do you well. I'm giving you good advice.”
Your brows furrow.
“Oh, don't do that, sweetheart. The worst thing you can do is make yourself look older than you are.”
You blink. “Well, thank you for your helpful advice but I think maybe you need to get to your trailer and get your own makeup done.”
“Won't take long,” he pops his sunglasses back on. “My looks are built in.”
He slaps your shoulder and spins away. He saunters to the door and swings the door out. He stomps down the stairs as the door snaps behind him. You shake your head at Xio.
“You have a really pretty nose,” she says. “Really, it's very… Victorian.”
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
Warning: power imbalance, dark content, and all around sexiness.
Summary: your new job includes duties you don’t expect. (actor!Steve Rogers, actress reader)
I always see this gif and wanna write something so here we go.
Hi! Please please please reblog and leave some feedback if you read! I love you 💕
“It’s so nice to finally meet in person,” you shake Mr. Fowler’s hand. The vaunted director does so casually, signalling over your head to one of his assistants. You heard he has three. Or five. The number is never consistent.
“I enjoyed your audition tape. And your previous work.” He drawls.
“Oh, thanks–” he’s already walking away before you can finish.
You don’t take it personally. It’s not uncommon to be dismissed so bluntly in this industry. There’s always something or someone more important than you. As it is, you’re still in disbelief that you’re actually here. It’s a far jump from your typical indie set. A real mainstream production with big names behind it.
You smile and look around. You’ve done your laps; introduced yourself to the crew and your co-stars. Well, almost all. It’s a much easier task on a smaller production.
You walk along the table and find the seat with your name taped to the back of it. You pull it out and set down your bag next to the chair. You sit and pull the script waiting for you closer. Others are finding their place as Fowler quietly berates his assistant against the wall.
You pretend not to notice. You feel bad for the woman but you know better than to get involved. This could be your big break and you don’t want to blow. Even if it makes you selfish and a bit cowardly.
Fowler turns and claps his hands. “Alright, then, everyone. No time to waste.” He goes to the head of the table. “Done enough of that.”
He sits and another assistant brings him an espresso. He doesn’t acknowledge her as she puts it down. He scoops it up and sits. He signals. His assistant director, Glen, clears his throat then leans over to speak behind his hand. Fowler frowns.
“Where the hell is Rogers?” He snarls and drains his coffee, holding up the cup until it's snatched away by a frantic body.
“Here,” the star of the movie strides in: Steve Rogers. “I had a call.”
He's tall, blonde, and blue-eyed. He's Hollywood golden boy. The main character. Even in a plain henly shirt and jeans, he takes your breath away.
“Sure. It’s more important than this, I’m sure,” Fowler snipes.
“Possibly,” Steve counters and comes around the table. He approaches the empty seat next to you and drags it out. He’s not just the star of the movie, he’s your co-star. You’ve been promised billing right next to him.
“Hi,” you greet softly as a murmur goes around the table. You offer your hand. “I don’t know if you remember me. We met at the Portland awards last year.”
“I know who you are,” he ignores your hands as he grabs his script. “I know who everyone is.”
“Right, uh. Sorry.” You utter. “I’m excited to work together.”
“Sure, me too,” he says.
“We ready?” Fowler growls.
“Always ready, Nick,” Steve retorts as he opens his script.
You do the same as the entire table flips their cover. Nick rolls his eyes and doesn’t move. He signals to Glen. The assistant director begins by reading out the intro of the script, going to the shots and actions in brackets. He pauses as the dialogue begins. The table waits.
Steve begins. Effortlessly. You’re impressed at how easily he slips into his dialogue. You don’t come in until the next scene. Your stomach flutters as you follow along intently as a secondary actor reads out their first line.
“Hm,” Steve raises his hand. “Can we redo that?”
You look around. Everyone else shifts.
“Why?” Fowler sighs as he pinches his nose.
“I don’t like that. It’s not natural. How can I do the next line when it’s not meshing?”
Fowler closes his eyes and signals. They restart. They get halfway down the page and Steve has his hand up once more.
“Just get through it,” Fowler snaps. “We can work out the kinks on set.”
“The point of this is to figure out rewrites,” Steve argues.
“Are you a writer? No. Let’s go.”
“Wow, I can’t guess why Sharon walked off,” Steve scoffs.
“Rogers,” Fowler points across the table. “Keep going.”
You can’t tell whether he means keep reading or keep pushing him. You don’t want to guess. You gobsmacked by the interaction. You’ve witnessed your share of creative differences but there’s a tension between them that makes it hard to breathe.
Steve clucks and goes on. He doesn’t look at his script. He knows it by rote. He stares across at the secondary actor. His brows twitch.
The scene plays out. You can hear the nerves in the actor opposite Steve. Then comes your turn. You get through it alright. Glen takes adamant notes. Fowler stops you.
“Sweetheart,” he drawls. “Loosen up a bit.”
You nod and swallow. “Oh, sure.”
“It’s the big time. We’re not waiting on you.” He warns.
You take a breath and redo your last line.
“Better,” Fowler mutters and signals for you to keep on.
The scent shifts and it’s Steve’s turn. It’s the first meeting. You try not to think too much as he recites his line. You hit yours perfect, particularly proud of your intonation. Your ears are on fire. He is just as smooth, looking at you as he speaks.
You turn to meet his gaze as you have the line pressed into your mind. His eyes flicker and his cheek dimples. He leans over slightly. The repartee is unbroken as the dialogue bounces off seamlessly between you.
“End scene two.” Glen announces.
The table claps. You smile and join in. Your heart isn’t thrumming so hard anymore. It’s still racing but in a way that makes you feel light.
“Bravo,” Nick says dryly. “They did their fucking jobs. Let’s keep it rolling.
You turn to the next page as the assistant director announces the beginning of scene three. Steve reaches over under the table and pats your thigh. You flinch in surprise. He leans over as his arm presses to yours.
“Good job, kid.” He intones. “Try to keep up.”
“Thanks,” you whisper back, brushing your fingertips up your neck as you rest your elbow on the table. You’re not sure how genuine his words are but you won’t let them derail you.
Warning: power imbalance, size kink, dark content, and all around sexiness.
Summary: you work in the background until you're dragged front and centre. (actor!Napoleon Solo, short reader)
Hi! Please please please reblog and leave some feedback if you read! I love you 💕
Everyone has to start somewhere. Thing is, not everyone makes it further than that. You’re just trying to see how far you can go.
Two years of background work and you’re not seeing the light just yet. But this is what you wanted. This is the only thing you could ever think of doing, and yet, you’ve done more than you could ever imagine.
You’ve never been the most social creature. You thought technical work would keep you in the background. That you would simply get your orders, the specs, and do setup. Unfortunately for you, life doesn’t always match expectations.1
You’re used to it, not comfortable with it. Talking to strangers, trying not to step on toes. Thankfully, the people you deal with are so much more important than you, they barely acknowledge your existence.
“Stage 3.” The call comes through your earpiece.
You hike up your kit on your shoulder and tap the button on the radio clipped to your belt. “On it. Gear in hand.”
You pause as you get to the curtain. Lights dim and brighten on the other side, voices drift through, one deeper than the rest. You chest the roster before you enter. Got it.
You push through and cross the set. Penelope is late. You think she could be on time for her very important work, especially given her boasting. All the stars want to talk to me!
Your eyes fall on the interviewee of the day. You recite his name in your head as you approach. The chair makes him look larger, though he is a naturally big man. As big as he looks on those posters you see at the theatre in passing.
“Excuse me, hi, Mr. Solo,” you say.
His attention turns to you, his eyes bold and bright. You’re surprised at the intensity of them as they don’t immediately roll away in dismissal. You rest your hand on your bag.
“I’m just here to mic you up. Do you mind?” You go through your usual rapport. Most times, you get a wave of the hand to get it over with.
“Of course.” He sits up straight and puffs his chest. “Jacket or shirt?”
“Um… probably just on your collar.” You look down and flip open your kit.
You’re used to feeling small, not just physically, but this man makes you feel miniscule.
“Sure.” He agrees.
You take out the mic clip and step closer to him. You hesitate. You can’t exactly reach without getting too close.
He slides forward in the chair and rests his hands on his thick thighs. He hunches his shoulder.”Better?” He asks.
“Oh, thank you.”
He leans in as you grab his collar. You can smell his cologne. It’s not too strong, a soft scent, like jasmine and something earthy. A piece of hair falls forward on his forehead as you secure the mic and his arm brushes yours as he flicks it back.
“You don’t happen to have some pomade on you?” He chuckles. “Can’t get this to behave.”
“Um, no… mic only.” You say awkwardly as you pull away.
“Ah, well, then, if I have any issue being heard, I’ll ask for you?”
Your eyes skitter back and forth. “Sure, or Ollie. He’s our floor manager.”
He laughs again. “And if I wanted to ask for you, what name would I use?”
You blink then answer stiffly. You can’t remember the last person who cared. It’s why you stopped introducing yourself.
He repeats it with a lilt on his tongue and hums. “Wonderful.” He sits back and taps his head. “I never forget a name or a face.”
“We need to do a test,” you unplug your ear piece from the radio and pull out the console. You port the cord into the output. “Can you say something?”
“Something,” he slithers.
“Got it. Alright. Should be good.”
You turn without looking back. As you do, you hear a squeal. Penelope strides in, an iced coffee in hand, her big sunglasses hiding her hangover, hair freshly blown out. You see the wince in her forehead.
“Nap! Leon! What can I call you?” She chimes despite the grate in her voice.
“Napoleon,” He enunciates as he stands offers his hand to her.
She pauses and looks him up and down, pulling her sunglasses down her nose. “Wow, you’re taller in person!”
She shakes his hand daintily as she fans herself. He’s unaffected by her fawning. He lets her go and checks his expensive watch, the silver catching the set lights.
“I think we’re running behind.” He says.
“Oh, well, it isn’t live.” She flicks her fingers derisively. “You’re important enough for them to wait on.”
His jaw ticks but he maintains his easy expression. He backs up and sits down again. Penelope calls for Prisha and shoves her iced coffee at her. “Darling, I need more powder. Get that makeup girl in here, now.”
You keep out of the way, waiting for your opportunity. A flurry of assistants horde around Penelope and tug at her hair and her clothing, one even waving a silk fan at her. It’s always a show.
You twist your heel into the floor as your eyes wander. You catch Napoleon watching you, his head tilted slightly in impatience. He flicks his eyebrows as if to say, ‘can you believe this?’ You’ve seen it so many times, you’re numb to the ridiculousness of it all. It’s worse when the guest is just as pretentious.
Prisha steps around Penelope’s chair and you take your in. You quickly approach, clip the mic, and back off before you can even be noticed. You think of the star interview like a cat; clip their claws when they’re sleeping or distracted. Don’t make it too obvious.
You test her mic and listen to her catty demands through your ear piece. Now you just need to go up to the sound booth and get JJ to sort out the levels. Your job isn’t done. No, now you get to listen to a whole PR-scripted interview and be ready for any technical issues.
Ugh, maybe one day you’ll find something better. Something less chaotic. You just want to be able to plug in and do your work. You don’t need to be screeched at or shooed away like a stray dog.
Warnings: This will include dark elements such as noncon and power imbalance. Please do not read if these elements or any dark elements make you uncomfortable.
Character: John Walker, single mom reader
Summary: a break-in becomes more than that.
Please reblog if you enjoy and leave some feedback! Muah 💋
Tristan's in one arm. He's getting restless as you push the bacon around the pan with the spatula. You rock him gently, twisting at your waist to comfort him. You hush him as he starts to babble.
"Tris," you cool and put down the spatula to pull up the bottom of your tea shirt. It bunches against his head as you get him latched. "That's it, sweetie."
"Hm, sweetie, I like that." John startles you as he struts in. He wears only his boxers. You don't correct him that you were'nt speaking to him.
"Bacon and eggs." You announce. "Coffee, too?"
He sits at the table and smirks. "Sounds perfect, honey..." His eyes skim down to Tristan as he slurps loudly and you grunt at the tug in your chest. "Maybe some of what he's having." He winks.
You hide your discomfort. You're still not used to him or this place. Even with it all unpacked, it's still not welcoming.
"Why don't you wear that dress I got you?" He asks. "It'd look hot."
You focus on your son. "I don't want to get food all over it. It's too nice to wear just at home."
"Huh." He scoffs. "Are you asking for something?"
"What? No. I just... Wouldn't want to ruin it." You wipe a dribble down Tristan's cheek.
"Fucking look at me and ask then." He snaps.
You wince and lift your head. "Ask? Sir."
"Captain ..." He grits.
"Captain," you quaver and Tristan starts to fuss. "I don't..."
"You want me to take you out? For dinner? Some kinda date?"
You stare at him, dumbfounded. You never even thought of it. Tristan unlatches and you move him onto your shoulder to burp him.
"You don't have to--"
"Just ask, goddamn it." He slaps the table.
You gasp and gulp. Your lashes flutter in fear. "Okay. C-Captain, please, will you, uh, take me out?" Your lip trembles. "Please?"
His lips slant. "Are you gonna be a good girl?"
"Yes," you answer as you repress the wave of shame and disgust. You're as repulsed by yourself as him.
"Well, not like I haven't given you everything else. I guess dinner isn't too much." He sneers.
"Thank you, Captain." You say it because it's what he wants to hear, not what you feel.
You think you've fully accepted now that it's not about you. Whatever he wants, whatever Tristan needs, that's what you're good for now. If you were ever good for anything.
🍼
"This is Fran." John says as an older woman waves from beside him. "She's gonna watch Tristan."
"Fran?" You say.
"Babysitter. Highly recommended. Not cheap, either, so let's go, honey." He says.
"Um, yes, sure." You look into the basinette and touch your son's cheek. You draw away reluctantly. "I... I pumped. The bottles are labelled in the fridge. He should sleep a while. And the diapers are just under the cabinet." You explain.
"She's done this before. Shell'l figure it out." John clucks.
"Sorry, sorry. It's just... I've never really... Left him." You look back but not for long before John grabs your arm.
"New moms. You know how they get." He chortles curtly. "Now, honey, you need some time for yourself. You been doing too much."
"Aw, dear, it'll be okay," Fran coaxes. "I've taken care of collicy twins and feverish toddlers. This one seems rather peaceful."
"But... He'll wake up without me." You chew your lip.
"Honey," John drones and slides his hand down to yours, gripping right. "Come on. You need this."
You get it. His strength says more than his words. Even Fran won't stop him.
"That's a good one,“ the elder babysitter chirps. "Let him take ya out."
You relent and let John drag you out. You stop at the door to get your shoes on. You're still in jeans and a tee.
"Where..." You begin.
"Well, babe, if we're going to have a date, you need something sexy to show off when we get home..." He pulls you forward and let's go, only to wrap his arm around your waist. "Something spicy I can't take off with my teeth. Or grab onto when I'm..." He stops himself and snarls.
You nod. You can't speak. It's almost flattering, if entirely degrading.
He ushers you out the door. You glance back one last time. You feel empty, alone, without your son near. Your fingers twitch and your stomach swims. Sometimes all you wanted was a break but not really. Not like this.
You get in the car and watch out the window. You feel like you haven't been anywhere in ages. Like you've been locked up in a cage. Haven't you?
He pulls into a boutique. You stare dumbly as your cheeks burn hotly. You remember wearing a lacy pink bra like that one on the mannequin under your uniform, giddily showing Pete in the back office... Ugh, just a stupid girl.
John gets out and goes around to open your door. He as good as hauls you out as your body and mind lock up. He herds you towards the lingerie store as you prey to disappear into nothing.
Inside, it smells like vanilla body spray and the top 20 plays over the speakers. Blues, lilacs, and black decorate the space, laces, satins, and sheer mesh hanging from racks. John puts his hand on the small of your back and urges you further in.
"Hello, you doing okay today?" The associate greets from behind the counter as they put clearance sticks on body glitter.
"All good. Just looking for a thong or two," John throws back dryly.
His hand brushes over and he curls his fingers around your love handle, further emphasizing the extra cushion that makes you chafe among the slender mannequins and posters of beautiful women. You sigh softly as you search for anything to cover both cheeks or that can contain your swollen chest. John leans against you as he reaches for a one piece which isn't much more than a cross cross of strings.
"You'd look hot in this." He growls. "I could get all tangled up."
You shift. "John. I... How about that?" You point to a teddy that might just hide your stomach.
"Why? I seen all of you. You shouldn't be tryna cover up." He lets go of the stringy piece.
"I'm not trying too... I'll... I'll wear whatever you like." You say.
"Uh huh. Damn right you will." He drags his hand across your ass as he pulls away. He picks up a leather dress with no chest. "And what do you say?"
"Thank you, Captain." You murmur
"No, no," he holds up the dress and measures it against you. "What you called me earlier. Sweetie."
Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as power imbalance, violence, criminal activity, noncon/dubcon, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.
This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.
Summary: Your husband starts working for Tommy Shelby but when he goes missing, you find yourself drawn into the shady business of Birmingham’s most dangerous.
Characters: Tommy Shelby
Note: I think this will be a short series. Or I keep saying so.
I welcome and appreciate all feedback. This means replies, reblogs, and asks. I do prefer if you can reblog and share my work along with your thoughts. <3
Please check my pinned post for more information on my blog, stories, and asks!
Do one kind thing for yourself today and take care.💖
“Sausage rolls. Table of… three. No, four.” Ruth reads the ticket off before she leaves it on the counter.
“It’ll be a while. I just put another pan in, dear,” you say.
“It’s all they want.” She chuckles. “Think you’ve found gold.”
“Eh,” the door swings open behind her. Arthur Shelby skids to a stop and smirks at Ruth. “Oi, lass, anymore of ‘em rolls?”
“In the oven, Art,” she playful swings a hand towel at him. “Don’t be gettin’ in the way.”
“And who says you’re the boss.” He retorts.
“Out!” Ruth barks.
You glance over at them. Arthur catches your eyes. “Not meanin’ to be in the way,” he shows his palm and backs out of the door. “Don’t tell Tommy, eh.”
Ruth follows him out. You go back to your pastry. You didn’t prep enough. Diedre comes in with empty trays, Benjamin lets her dump the dishes in the deep sink, and sprays them with the hose. His sleeves are rolled up as he scours away the grease and crumbs.
You switch between the rolls and the pan of eggs. You scoop out the poached whites delicately clouded around yolk onto the toasted biscuits and ring the bell. Deirdre and Ruth come to load up their trays and go out.
You lose yourself in the hectic flurry of orders, tearing up tickets as you make your way through them. You turn and elbow a wall you don’t expect. It isn’t a spontaneously appearing bit of plaster but rather Mr. Shelby.
“What can I help with, love?” He asks.
“Mr. Shelby? Oh, I think I’ve got it in hand.” You assure him as you turn put more biscuits in to toast. He takes the rack from you.
“Tell me. I have two hands.” He insists.
“Mr. Shelby, this is my job–”
“It seems it might be more than I pay you for.” He nods to the oven. “Think I’ll need to invest in more help.”
“Thank you, Mr. Shelby.” You open the left stove and let him slide in the rack of biscuits.
“I’ve heard lovely things about the sausage roll,” he backs up and takes off his jacket. He folds it over the stool at the end of the counter and places his cap on top.
“Still baking,” you say as you grab some brown eggs and crack them into the boiling water.
You double-check the ticket. Porridge. Right, you’ve got a pot warmed and ready to go.
You scoop up oats into the bowl and add cinnamon and milk. Two bowls up. Ruth sweeps them away.
As Mr. Shelby approaches, he rolls up his sleeve.
“Boss lady, tell me what to do.”
You scoff. “Sir.”
“Eh, you almost smiled,” he says.
“You can help with the rolls. Seems everyone wants one.”
You beckon him along the counter. “I’ve rolled out the pastry. It’ll need to be cut up.” You take a knife. “As such.” You point to the dish of sausage. “Then line it as thus.” You use a spoon to scoop onto the pastry. “Roll. Baste with egg.” You work as you explain. “Then a few slices in the top.”
“Ah, Stuart is a lucky man,” Shelby japes. You flinch and look at him. His brows draw together. “Apologies, ma’am, I only–”
“Nothing?” You ask. He shakes his head. You nod and set the roll onto the waiting pan. “No, I never had the fixings at home for this. Mincemeat, stew, beans. That’s most of it.”
“And even that must’ve been delicious.”
“Mm,” you hum dully.
“I didn’t mean–”
“No, no, it’s… I’m only… two weeks.” You sigh and take out the biscuits.
“I’ve got all my people watchin’ for him,” Shelby assures.
“I know. You’ve done more than you should.” You scoop the eggs out of the water.
He’s silent, you are too. He watches you then turns away. “I’ll wash up first and get started on this.”
“Thank you, Mr. Shelby…” you murmur. “For everything.”
🖤
You untie your apron and fold it up over your arm. You wipe your forehead with your sleeve. You need to stop at the bank and be sure to deposit your cheque.
“On your way out?” Mr. Shelby surprises you as he enters from the back door. He picks up his cap and jacket. You can smell the tobacco wafting in with him.
“I think I’ve everything cleaned up. I set aside some leftovers for Charlie.” You bend to take your handbag from under the counter. Mr. Shelby nears as you head for the door. You stop as you meet him there. “Unless… I’m forgetting something.”
“No, I’ve a question.” He pulls on his jacket. “More a favour to ask. Though you will be compensated.”
“Oh?”
“I’ve some guests coming over. Very important ones. I thought you might be able to offer your skills this evening. For supper.” He says.
You’re taken aback by the suggestion. It’s not as though you have anyone waiting for you. Or any sort of responsibility outside of this.
“I suppose I could.” You say.
“Very well. I would need a list, you see. Ingredients, to be sure you’re equipped.”
“Right, er…”
“If you don’t mind. I’ll fetch you a pen and paper before you’re off.” He says.
“Certainly. I can do that.” You say. It’ll be a good distraction. You notice Stuart’s absence most at night.
He nods and sets off. You linger in the kitchen. You put your bag on the counter and slide out the cookbook you bought with your first pay. Shelby returns and hands you a ledger and pen.
You flutter through the pages. “Was there a set number of courses? It must be a fancy dinner?”
He taps his fingers as he stands close. His gaze weighs on you.
“What’s this, then?” He taps the corner of the page.
“Study.” You say. “Recipe book. I’m afraid I’ve only experience cooking for one man.”
“Ah, clever woman.” He praises.
You shrug. “I always wanted a proper one. I’d cut the ones out of the paper and keep them in the drawer. Never had all I needed to try them.”
You pause and read the dish description. “A salad to start, I think?”
“Mm. I leave it within your judgement.” He drags his hand away from the book. “I’ll send a car.”
“Oh, no, I could take the tram.”
“I live quite a ways off the route.” He sniffs. “And I’ll not have you wanderin’ in the dark. Benny will pick you up.”
You don’t argue. You take the pen and jot in the ledger. His eyes follow your hand.
“Anything you don’t prefer, sir?” You ask.
You don’t get an answer. You peek up and find him staring. Your brow lowers and you touch your chin then cheek. “I’ve got some flour on me?”
He blinks and clears his throat. “No, no.” He lifts his chin and looks away. “No, I was only thinking.” He leans on the counter. “I’m easy to please. I’ll eat it all just the same.” He looks at the ledger. “You know, you have one taste of field rations and even rancid rat meat’ll have you slavering.”
You don’t say anything to that. Most men these days are veterans. Stuart was called up but never went beyond the channel. He was kept at home in a mine.
“Dessert… chocolate? Citrus? Preferences?” You prompt.
“Chocolate. Ah, that was a wonder over in France.” He purrs. “Well, I’ll leave you to it. I’ll get that, just put it on the bar.” He backs up. “I’ll have Benny wait out front for you.”
“Sir–”
“No arguments.” He turns and points over his shoulder. “You worked a hard day. You earned it.”
🖤
Benjamin gets you to Mr. Shelby’s around four. You thank him and step out, hiding your awe at the immense mansion before you. Of course, you assumed it would be a nice home, but you could not have imagined anything so ornate and daunting.
It’s clearer to you now how out of your element you truly are. Something else tugs in your mind. There’s more to Mr. Shelby than you’ve seen. Not just money, something more. It’s not a secret who he is; he has men at his disposal in their notable caps, he was concerned with back alley gambling, he never truly asks but tells. Details are better left unsaid.
You go to the front door and lift the heavy brass knocker, a falcon’s head above it. It thunders through the dark oak. You wait but not long. A maid in black and white answers. Of course he has ‘help’. Well, isn’t that what you are?
Her name is Margeret. She leads you inside. Mr. Shelby told her you were coming instead of someone called Louise. She takes you to a large kitchen and tells you to ring a bell in case you need anything.
You walk around the large kitchen. The counters are dark wood, the furnishings in a coppery brass, and the stove and fridge look right out of the shop. You stop as you see the folded note with your name on it.
‘All is in order. If you need anything, ring the bell and ask for me. Thomas.’
It’s kind. You think you might figure it out. Margaret reappears.
“These are Ellie and Mildred. They’ll be helping you.” She explains. The girls are young and skinny; one has string black hair trailing out in a braid from under her cap, the other shows straw-coloured roots but much of it is tucked under the white linen.
“Ellie, Mildred, I’m…” you introduce yourself. “Nice to meet you.”
“You too, ma’am.” They say in unison.
“I think it’ll be rather easy. Shall we start?”
They nod. “What do we do?” Ellie, the black-haired girl asks.
You hesitate then reach into your bag. You take out the notes you made at home from the cook book. You go to the girls and show them.
“Alright, we’ll start with the main. It’ll take the longest to cook and the salad will be simple enough.” You explain. “If you have any questions, I’ll be happy to help. If I’m honest, I’m still learning myself, yeah?”
The girls look at each other and back to you. “Yes, ma’am,” they say in unison.
“And you promise, if I need help, you’ll do the same?”
The tension drains from their posture. They nod again, less stiffly. “Good, good. I think we’ll make a rather good team, ladies.”
Once you start, the task isn’t so intimidating. You work between Ellie and Mildred, then set them to chop potatoes together. You go down your list and organise everything so you can move from step to step.
You stand at the stove, melting the dark chocolate for the cake. The girls titter as they peel and pare. Then all at once, they’re silent.
“Mr. Shelby,” Mildred utters.
You glance over. Your employer barely looks at the girls before he nears you. You stir the chocolate away from the sides to keep it from burning.
“Evenin’, ma’am.” He greets. He’s wearing a nicer suit; with a bow tie and silk vest. “Things are well?”
“Yes, sir. I think we’ve figured it all out.” You say. “The ladies are a great help.”
“Mm. Anything you need?” He asks.
“No, sir. You?”
His brow arches. “Mm, no. Margaret is putting Charlie down. Guests will be here shortly.”
“Ah, well then, don’t let us keep you.”
He stares for a moment. “Rather, don’t let me keep you.”
He turns halfway, raises his finger as his lip twitches, then thinks better of it. He leaves you as the girls sigh in unison. You take the chocolate off the burner and look at them.
“You girls need a break?”
“No, ma’am.” Ellie says. “Potatoes are almost done.”
The night goes by with the mixing of batter, the boil of pots, and the dusting of seasoning over poultry, fish, and beef. Ellie and Mildred are diligent and polite. They leave you now and again to help clear away the previous course.
You send out dessert and tell Ellie and Mildred you’ll clean up. They argue but you convince them to call it a night. They’ve worked hard.
As you move a stack of plates to the sink, you hear a footstep behind you. “I told you, you’re done for the night.”
Your name comes in a higher pitch than you expect. You look over at Charlie as he stares at you bright-eyed, a stuffed rabbit in his hands as he wears a pair of linen pajamas. You pull your hands from the sink and dry them on your apron.
“Charles,” you say. “What on earth? Aren’t you supposed to be sleeping?”
“I can’t.” He pouts. “I told papa I wanted to come down but he said no. He won’t even let me help you!”
“You should be getting your sleep,” you chide.
“But I don’t wanna.” He whines.
You harrumph and grip your hips. “Alright, Charles, you want to help?”
“Yes, ma’am!” He says.
You hush him. “Not so loud. You’ll bother the guests.”
He sticks out his tongue. You laugh at him. You wave him over and lift him up onto the counter. You pull a bowl over and scoop in some flour and put a cup of water next to it. You hate to waste it but it’ll keep him busy.
“Take this.” You gently move his stuffed rabbit against the wall then hand him the cup. “Only add a little at a time, alright?” You show him a whisk. “Stir with this.” You motion over the flour. “Remember, little bit at a time.” You put your hand around his and show him how to pour. “Stir.” You stir in the moisture. “More.”
You let go and he pours. You hand him the whisk and he puts the cup down. He uses both hands to stir.
You wash the dishes as he goes about his task. As you dry off a saucer, he says your name. “Is that good?”
You look in the bowl. “No, no, you want it smooth.” You gird.
“Oh…” he frowns and adds more water.
“Good job, Charles.” You praise.
“Yes, Charles,” a deeper voice gives you a start. “Good job.”
“Papa,” Charles drops the whisk and claps.
“What are you doing out of bed?” Shelby asks.
“He’s only helping,” you defend the boy.
“Helping?”
“Certainly. Keeping me company.”
“The maids are supposed to help.” He insists.
“I let them off. I can do it.” You assure.
“I didn’t pay you to clean.”
“Mr. Shelby, I messed the plates, I’ll tidy them,” you counter calmly. “Charles, more water.”
Charlie bounces and picks up the cup. He pours water in then stirs. Shelby approaches and watches him then peers over at you. You put another saucer in the cupboard.
“You know, I can never make him sit still.” He drawls.
“Children, so full of energy.” You say.
He leans a hand on the counter. “You never had any?”
“No. It… never happened.” You answer. “Sometimes, it doesn’t.”
He’s quiet. “Ah, I suppose it’s up to chance.”
“I’ve never had much good fortune,” you say. “But I do what I can with what I’ve got.”
“You do much and more than many. Hard work’s far more valuable than fortune.” He girds.
“Suppose.” You agree.
Unfortunately, Stuart never had either. Perhaps that’s what got him into trouble. When he comes back, you’re going to tell him to get a real job. Back to the mines or factory. No more of those back streets and shady men.
When he’s back, you don’t know he’ll let you keep working yourself.
Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as power imbalance, violence, criminal activity, noncon/dubcon, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.
This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.
Summary: Your husband starts working for Tommy Shelby but when he goes missing, you find yourself drawn into the shady business of Birmingham’s most dangerous.
Characters: Tommy Shelby
Note: I think this will be a short series. Or I keep saying so.
I welcome and appreciate all feedback. This means replies, reblogs, and asks. I do prefer if you can reblog and share my work along with your thoughts. <3
Please check my pinned post for more information on my blog, stories, and asks!
Do one kind thing for yourself today and take care.💖
Another day, another dream. They have stopped since the night Stuart didn't return. Dark wings around a swinging pendulum. Your father's old pocket watch ticking and ticking, thunderous as a summer storm.
The shadows of your restless nights nestle under your eyes. You mostly ignore your reflection, focusing only on specific parts as you put yourself together. Some cream scraped from the bottom of a pot across your cheeks and forehead; a chafe of dried lipstick on your lips.
You put the last pin in your hair as a knock comes at the front door. Mr. Shelby mentioned a car despite your insistence on the tram. He won't hear of it, he said. Stuart never much worried when you went out unless you weren't back to his expectations.
The man announces what you already know. He's come on behalf of Mr. Shelby. You introduce yourself. The man seems surprised by the courtesy but does the same. His name is Joseph and he's younger than you. You can tell. Likely no more than twenty two or three.
He shows you to a car. You like the leather trim and you tell him so. He says it's the boss' car but he might have one like it some day. The boss. Thomas Shelby.
You cradle your purse above your knees. You notice how Mary Lynn and old man Robert watch the car pass. It's much too polished for the council housing. Have they noticed your errant husband as well? And Mr. Shelby's visit?
The Garrison waits, not so desolate as the first day you went. You thank Joseph as he directs you inside and remains without. The bulbs are lit and there are no stragglers at the bar. But the place is still empty.
You slowly walk between the bar and the tables and take it all in. You're not sure this will be a bustling breakfast salon, not that you've ever had the luxury of eating in one. You simply think of those illustrated Parisians on the front of magazines with their pastries and coffee.
There's a clamour. You look for the source but cannot find it. Your turn as it gets closer. You nearly stumble as you avoid stepping on the little boy. A child with dark hair and suspenders. Perhaps three or four.
"Missus, can I have some tea?" He asks politely.
You stare down at him. How on earth did he get into this place? You smile as kindly as you can.
"Certainly, I'd love to make you some, though I've not any idea where to find a kettle, little sir." You reply.
"Sir? My name is Charlie." The 'ar' is more of an 'aw'. "Charlie Shelby!"
The sense clicks in your head. You nod and bend, offering your band. "Lovely to meet you, Mr. Shelby. I know your father."
"Everyone knows Papa. He's a mean man." He pipes up. He shakes your hand with his small one, taking only two of your fingers.
You blink in surprise at the remark. "Well, Mr. Shelby. I should like to find you that tea. Perhaps your mother could point me to the pot?"
"Mama is dead. She can't help no one." He says brightly. You're taken aback by the child's matter-of-fact tone.
"Apologies, and my condolences," you stand straight.
"There's a kitchen behind there!" He points at the bar. "Papa bought some new pans and knives. He took one away from me."
"Ah, thank you, Mr. Shelby." You clasp your hands. "Shall we find the tea then?"
"I'm not Mr. Shelby." He pouts.
"Sorry. Charles. Charlie." You correct yourself. He is head strong like his father. At least by your measure.
He spins and stomps ahead. “This way, missus.”
You follow, concerned about the unattended child. Especially in this bar. At least by his name, you know he’s not very lost.
He takes you into the kitchen and throws up his arms.
“Nice ‘n shiny. Papa had them all scrubbing and cleaning.” He proclaims.
“Ah,” you look around at the shining metal and polished wood. There’s large fridges at the very end of the kitchen and hanging utensils along the shelves. “I think I see a kettle.”
You go along the counter to the stove. You take the silver kettle and fill it with water. You put it on the burner and light the flame. Charlie is close by as he toys with a cupboard door.
“Papa was on the phone. He talks a lot.” He says. “Nanny told me go away.”
“Oh, that’s not very nice.” You say as you search for a pot or a cup. “Breakfast tea, sir?”
“But you’re nice. I’m happy I found you.”
You nod. You find a pot. Now for the leaves. You turn and wearily search the shelves of a doorless cupboard. There’s all sorts of seasoning in tins and jars.
“Well, it’s an honour to meet you too, Charles.” You say as gently nudge aside a box.
“Charlie!” A holler shakes you and you nearly drop the round tin of tea leaves. “Charlie!”
Heavy soles march through the bar. You look at the child. He grins.
“In here!” You call out.
You hear a huff and Mr. Shelby, the elder, appears in the doorway. He exhales and puts his hands on his hips, pushing back his jacket. “Charlie, you’ve gone and given the nanny a fright.”
“She didn’t want nun’ to do with me,” the boy harrumphs.
“We’re having tea, sir. Would you like some?”
Thomas looks at you then his son. “I wouldn’t mind tea.”
He crosses the kitchen and picks up the errant toddler. He holds him in one arm. “Did he demand it?”
“He asked nicely.” You assure Shelby as you measure by eye. “Didn’t you, Charles? When you’re done, I could even show you how to read the leaves.”
Mr. Shelby tilts his head and brow. You hesitate.
“Unless… you’d rather I not. Sorry. I forget…”
“You know how?” he wonders as Charlie bends up the front of his cap. He gently waves him away.
“My Aunt Genevieve showed me. She loved her tea. Had no bed but at least a hundred tea cups. She claimed one belonged to Queen Charlotte herself though I don’t know it’d survive so long.” You explain. “Forgive my rambling, sir.”
“It’s far more interesting than most of my men,” he says. “If I’m being honest, I wasn’t sure you’d come. I thought you were rather reticent yesterday at the suggestion.”
“Intimidated, I think. I’ve cooked for one man for fifteen years. His mother on occasion and she never liked it much.” You take the shaking kettle off the stove and pour it into the pot.
“Well, it’s your menu, ma’am. Your dishes. You make the rules.” He says.
“Papa,” Charlie pokes at Thomas’ cheek. “Who’s the pretty lady?”
“She’s the new cook.” He pulls Charlie’s hand away, a pink spot left on his cheek.
“She’s the one you bought all the pretty dishes for.” Charlie says.
Shelby’s dark brows draw close. “Yes. She made that pie you gorged yourself on th’other night.”
“Mince is my favourite!” Charlie beams at you. “Are you going to make some more, missus?”
You smile. “Perhaps we might have some left over.”
“Do you make biscuits? I like biscuits and tea.” Charlie exclaims.
Thomas gives you a look. “Please…”
“Yes. Please can you make some biscuits, missus?” Charlie says.
“I can try… if I’ve the time?” You look at Mr. Shelby.
“I’m sure the customers wouldn’t mind some as well. We’ll set aside a few for you, Charlie.”
🖤
Mr. Shelby takes the boy away with his cup of tea. He leaves you to ‘sort the kitchen’; ‘your’ kitchen as he emphasized. You’re not sure where to begin.
You cautiously take stock of ingredients. Sausage, bacon, eggs, even blood pudding. Enough for a full breakfast. Bread enough, beans too. You can’t recall the last time you had enough for an English breakfast. Stuart often bemoaned the lack of bacon.
Shelby returns alone as you set out stations.
“Barmaids are here. They can help if you need.” He says as he nears and takes his half-emptied teacup. He swigs and looks into the bottom.
“How long until you expect customers?”
“Oh, we’ve a few waiting without. Do you think you can get started?” He prompts.
“Oh, yes. I’m sorry. I didn’t realise.”
“Nothing wrong with making them wait. It’ll be worth it.” He nears. “You said you read leaves?”
He puts his cup down. You grin.
“I’m probably not very good. Aunt Genevieve was… a character.” You shrug.
“Humour me.” He drawls.
You put a skillet on the burner and leave it there. You lean over the cup. You focus on it.
“A… pear.” You make the shape with your finger over the brim. Wealth… prosperity. Good business or a good union. Possibly a business partner?” You guess. “Though you might have quite a few already.”
He squints. He glances past you. “And yours?”
You peek behind you. Your cup is right beside the tin of leaves.
“Mr. Shelby, I should start cooking.”
“I’m curious,” he insists.
You relent and drink the last mouthful. You let the leaves settle. You see a kettle; death. You hesitate.
“Well, what do you see?” He asks.
You clear your throat. “It looks like a square? Contentment?” You lie. “Perhaps then I will find Stuart soon.”
He’s quiet. You don’t look at him. You put the cup aside and reach for his.
“I’ll be sure to rinse these.” You say.
“I will get Ruth to come help.” He assures, tapping his fingers. “That’s all you saw?”
“Yes. But… it’s just… leaves.”
“Mm. You have traveller in you?” He asks.
“Hm?” You look at him.
“Your aunt? Reading leaves? A collector? No bed.”
“I… people called her a witch, I think. I never believed them.” You shrug and turn back to the skillet.
“No, not a witch. A prophet,” he says.
You focus on the pan and all the food before you. He lingers, dragging his fingers along the edge of the counter.
“Right then. S’pose it’s time,” he says.
-
You get lost in the thick of it. Oiled pans, spitting slabs of bacon, steaming beans. You send out plate after plate as the barmaids call for more and sweep in and out to help clear plates. A few of Shelby’s men have taken off their jackets and joined the effort.
The last order goes out. There’s nothing left. You’re about gone yourself. Worn down to the bone.
You gather the dirty pots and pans. Joseph, the same man who drove you, is at the sink scrubbing. He tells you not to help and calls over his cohort, Zachariah. They argue over who gets to scour the iron.
You’re tired but restless. You need to help. You go out into the bar room and help gather up empty plates with the barmaids, Ruth and Dierdre.
On your way back to the kitchen, your name comes from across the room. The stacks in your hands bobble.
“Eh, you don’t need to be doin’ all that,” Mr. Shelby crosses to you. “You’ve done enough.”
“Sir, I… I made the mess–”
“You made a wonderful meal for all these people,” he insists as he takes the plates. “You sit down and let yourself a break.”
He nods to the kitchen door. You push through and hold it open for him. He brings in the plates and puts them at the sink, warning Joseph not to spray his reluctant companion with the hose. They both straighten up and quiet down.
“Ma’am,” Shelby turns and grabs the stool from the back of the kitchen. “Go on, sit.”
He slaps the seat. You walk along the counter. “Mr. Shelby, I should help–”
“You’ve done what I’ve brought ye for.” He argues. He offers his hand. “Sit.”
You accept his help and climb up onto the stool. He squeezes your hand as you settle on the seat. He doesn’t let go right away, his fingertips grazing over your knuckles.
“I’ve secreted a few biscuits for Charlie,” he pats his jacket and whispers.
You scrunch your nose in amusement. “How nice of you. I could’ve made an extra batch.”
“Eh, a few might find their way to me,” he says.
You smile and nod, folding your hands together. You look around the kitchen as the men clean the dishes and the barmaids come in and out. You really should be helping.
Sitting there isn’t helping anyone. Not you or Mr. Shelby. Or… Stuart. You frown. You’d almost forgotten him.
“Ma’am?” Mr. Shelby intones.
You look at him, almost startled. “Sorry, I only… you’ve not heard anything?”
His lips part and he pauses before he answers. “Stuart? No. Not yet.” He hooks his fingers in his pockets. “Sorry, ma’am.”
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Warning: power imbalance, dark content, obsession, and all around sexiness.
Summary: Powerful director Nick takes interest in a new project; you. (director!Nick Fowler, plus!reader)
I always see this gif and wanna write something so here we go.
Hi! Please please please reblog and leave some feedback if you read! I love you 💕
Nick reaches back to catch your hand before you can outpace him. He pulls you down a walkway of stone inlaid with intricate designs. You almost don’t want to step on them as you can see and almost feel the history carved into them.
He brings you past to wide pools of crystal water alongside trimmed hedges and greenery. He approaches a set of arched double doors and grabs the lock box hooked around the handles. He punches in a code to open it and a key falls out. He catches it in his palm and turns to jingle it at you.
“Benvenuta,” he purrs in Italian.
“Is this… a hotel?” You wonder.
“It’ll be our hideout for the next little while.” He opens your hand and presses the key into your palm. “Go on.”
“I…” you look down at the key. “No, no. It’s yours. I couldn’t.”
“Ours!” He corrects as he runs his hand up your forearm to just above your elbow. He turns you to face the doors and sidles behind you. He puts his hands on your shoulders and crowds you. “Come on. It’s exciting, isn’t it?”
“Sure, very. It’s just… I don’t know. You do it.” You turn to him and his hands barely miss your chest as they fall. He inhales and his brows twitch. “Please,” you shove the keys against his chest. “Just… it doesn’t feel right if I do it.”
“Alright, sweetheart, no problem.” He wraps his hand around yours and slides the keys free. “Don’t wanna do anything that doesn’t feel right.”
His eyes flick down then up and his jaw squares. He takes another deep breath. He moves around you subtly and unlocks the door with a single hand. His other hovers by your lower back.
“Come on, you gotta at least be curious.” He pulls the key free and gestures you inside.
“It’s… okay! Okay! I just… I don’t want to overstep.” You clasp your hands together.
“Never,” his fingertips graze your shorts as he drops his hand completely to his side.
You poke your head in as he stays close. He reaches over casually to flip on the light switch; the sort you have to twist. Above, a chandelier of tear drop bulbs bloom to light. You bat your lashes as you look around.
A marble staircase trimmed in iron railings winds up to another level in the foyer and a rounded archway looks into a sunny front room, pulsing with the refracted light from the ripples outside the wall of glass panes. You look to the other side, another archway, a dining area with wooden chairs and a clear glass table.
“Which way to our room?” You ask.
Nick chuckles.
“This is it.”
“What?”
“All of this. This is where we’re staying.”
“Huh?” You sway. “But this is like a whole house.”
“All ours.” He assures.
“Hmm,” you hum and lean forward, too wary to take a step.
“You don’t like it?” He wonders.
“I love it but… I don’t want to break anything or… I don’t know. It’s so much! This is bigger than my apartment. Bigger than the house I grew up in.”
“Really, you haven’t even seen the whole thing.” He chides.
“This alone,” you peer between the archways.
He grins. “There’s a real pool in the back…”
“Oh, shut up!” You smack his arm playfully. “You’re not serious.”
He laughs again. “I am,” he looks down at his bicep where you hit him.
You gulp. “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to– I was only joking–”
“Sweetheart, you do whatever you want to me.” He looks up at you. “I don’t mind.”
“Err, you’re too nice, Nick.” You sigh. “Well, maybe I shouldn’t stay too long. I’m sure you have lots of work to do… when am I going back?”
“Trying to get away already?” His voice sinks.
“No, no. I just… I keep seeing all this stuff about the movie. I saw a whole ET thing on the new actor they hired.”
“Young kid. He’s got a good reference,” Nick’s tone goes dull. “I don’t want think about work right now.”
“I’m sorry,” you tug on your ear lobes nervously. He narrows his eyes and touches your elbows.
“Hey, it’s okay. I’m not upset.” He brushes along your forearms. “Do I really scare you that much?”
“Scare me? Not exactly. It’s just… this is the furthest I ever went from home and you’re like famous and I’m… no one.” You giggle meekly. “Oh, I didn’t mean to say all that out loud.”
“No, I like your honestly.” He insists. “Sweetheart, people lie to me every day. They say what they think I want to hear. They pretend to be who they think I want to know. Thing is, I don’t want to know anyone but you.”
“You’re too sweet.” You rock and fold your hands in front of your stomach. “Well… is Leon here? Maybe I could help out while you’re working–”
“What’d I say about work talk?” He grits.
You make an O with your lips. His eyes dart down to your mouth. “Oops! I’m not meaning to… I guess… I don’t know what to do or say!”
“Well, I mentioned the pool…” He suggests.
You smile but it falls just as quickly. You slap your forehead. “Gee, I think I forgot a suit.”
“Forgot your bikini?” He tuts.
“Bikini? No…” you blush hotly. “I… I had a whole list and I forgot to put that on it.”
“That’s alright. I’m down for skinny dipping if you are.” Your eyes go wide. He tilts his head then snickers. “Kidding… obviously.”
“Oh. Hahaha. Of course. That would be… ha.” You cough. “Well, I could put on shorts and I think I have like a tee shirt–”
“On it, sweetheart,” he pulls out his phone. “The girls are coming with our luggage. I’m sure they can find you something on the way.”
“No, I couldn’t–”
“You can. It’s done.” He taps the screen with his thumb and lowers the phone. “It’s too hot in this city not to swim.” He leans on one foot as he watches you. “And you’re not gonna let me hang out all by myself, are you?”
You stare at him and chew your cheek. You came this far and he’s done so much. You can’t be ungrateful. Besides, it’s just a swimsuit. It’s all your fault for being so dang forgetful.
“Of course not.” You relent. “I… thank you, Nick. You’re so…” you search for the end of the sentence as his brows tweak. “Nice to me. Really. You’re like the nicest person I’ve met in LA.”
“Hmph,” his cheek dimples. “Nice. Yeah…” He looks past you. “I can be pretty damn nice.”
Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon and coercion and possible untagged elements such as noncon. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.
This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.
You voted, I wrote it. This is June 2nd’s fic!
Lee Bodecker + “Just relax and it will be so much easier."
I welcome and appreciate all feedback. This means replies, reblogs, and asks. I do prefer if you can reblog and share my work along with your thoughts. <3
Please check my pinned post for more information on my blog, stories, and asks!
Do one kind thing for yourself today and take care.💖
Hopper gives you lift across town. You barely hear him chattering about his jumpy engine or the no good youngins as they stand on the corner. You're too fraught over what's behind you and what awaits you.
You thank him as you get out, promising him some eggs from the hen the next time she lays. He says it's no worry. You head down the street as dread scales up your spine.
You sigh and stare at the metal star hammered onto the wood sign. The sheriff's office is one of the few buildings that isn't ramshackle and leaning. And it is unfortunately not so unfamiliar to you.
You hitch your hand bag from your elbow to your shoulder and scurry forward. Your hands shake as you balance the baking dish, the smell of cinnamon and blueberry wafting up. All it does is curdle your stomach.
As you enter, you greet Carrington, a junior officer sitting by a metal fan and sweating. You know him from the days he used to play with your son, Dale. It's too bad they didn't stick together.
"Cary," you greet him out of habit, then correct yourself. "Private."
"Ma'am," he dabs his pale forehead wothia handkerchief.
You give soft smile, nerves tied up in your cheeks.
"How much this time?" You ask as you clutch the dish tighter.
"Ain't got no bond yet." Carrington explains as his eyes dip down to ridged white porcelain.
You nod and your lips straighten. "What was it this time?"
"Ah, Mrs...." A drawl answers your question.
The sheriff appears behind the private, sauntering up with a coffee in hand. He stops by Carrington and pats his shoulder. "Ain't I tell ya to let me know when she got here?"
"Sir, she just--"
"Ain't no thing." Sheriff Bodecker tuts and slurps from his cup. "What we got today?"
You look down at the baking dish. "Blueberry crumble with a buttered crust, Sheriff."
"Always so sweet," he purrs and tosses the empty paper cup on the bin under the front desk. "Ya come back. There's talkin' to be done.”
“Alright, Sheriff.”
Carrington gets up to lift the door between the front and back of the sheriff’s office. He lets you through with a ‘nice ta see ya ‘gain, ma’am.’ Sheriff Bodecker waves you on with his arm and leads you from the side, walking so close his sleeve brushes yours and your wide hip presses against him briefly.
“You sure do know how to soften a man,” he reaches over to peek under the cloth over the dessert in your hands. “Too bad the mister up and ran like that on ya.”
“You know, I barely remember what his voice sounds like at this point.” You scoff.
“Mm, yeah. You’re a good mother. Specially to a boy like the one you got.” He stops to open his door. You hesitate. “Missus,” he leans in. “I figure this conversation is best done privately.”
“Oh,” you blink in alarm. “Is Dale okay? Is he hurt?”
“Now let’s talk. Just you and me,” he nudges you gently.
You nod and swallow. You step into his office and he follows, closing the door behind you. He twists the small plastic rod to close the blinds then turns to you.
“Please, make yourself comfortable.” He insists.
You set the pie dish on his desk and rub your palms together. You shift on your low heels then make yourself sit. He paces as you stare at the files stacked on his desk.
“I know how hard you been tryin’ with the boy and for so long.” He intones.
“Oh, Sheriff, what did he do this time? Is it bad? Is anyone hurt?”
“Ah, ya see. You’re such a sweet woman. Minding everyone but yerself.” He rounds his desk and faces you. He leans on hand on the edge and reaches to slide the crumble across. “Your boy’s well past grown by now.” He tugs the cloth off the dish and sucks his teeth. “He needs to take care of himself. Ya know, one day someone’s gonna get him that don’t like home baking so much as me.”
“I’m sorry, Sheriff. I’m trying. I really am. I got him that job down at the hospital. I check in on him on my shifts, ‘tween folding sheets but… I don’t know.” You lean forward, clutching your handbag in your lap.
“How long we known each other, huh? You call me Lee.” He says.
“Sir, I… Lee,” you snivel. “I promise, it won’t happen again.”
“How many times have you said that to me?” He challenges with a tilt of his head. His thick fingers trace the edge of the dish.
“Too many,” you mope and sit back and defeat. “How long do ya think he’ll get?”
“Mm, now, we ain’t beyond bargaining,” he looks down at the pie. “Thing is…” He pushes his fingers through the crumbled top and down into the berry filling. “Pies and tarts and gonna pay his bond no more.” He moves his fingers up and down, coating them in the blue juice and jam. “Man gets hungry for more’n that.”
He pulls his fingers out completely and lifts them. He watches you as raises them in front of his mouth and sticks out his wide tongue. He licks the berry off slowly and pushes his fingers into his mouth, sucking them clean. The whole time, his eyes are on you.
You squirm and hug your purse tighter.
“I don’t got much from workin’ down the laundries, but Edwina said I could help in the field–”
“Mm mm,” he hums and licks his lips. “Money ain’t do much. I got ‘nough. You know, Howard Hewitt pays me ‘nough not to go in his shed.”
He chuckles and stands straight. He puts his hands on his hips and looks down. You follow his gaze down his stomach to the front of his khaki pants. The tenting is obvious as he wiggles his pelvis. You gasp.
“Sheriff.”
“Lee,” he insists as he grabs the back of his chair and rolls it out. He lowers himself down and sits with a sigh. He drapes his arms over the wooden rests. “Even with your hips, you can fit underneath.” He taps his toe under the desk.
“You can’t…”
“How long since you touched a man?” He asks.
You look down, lip trembling. “You can’t mean it, sir.”
“Why? Ya still a woman. Still got a pretty face, a pretty mouth.”
You wince and peek up at him. He runs his hand down his tie and smirks. “You love your son, don’t ya?”
You bat your lashes and nod, “of course.”
“And you’ll do anything for him?”
“I would,” you whisper.
“Then do it.” He demands.
You flinch. You sniff and look down. You grip the purse tight and slowly lift it. You shake as you stand and turn to put it on the empty seat.
The sheriff hums again. “That’s a nice skirt on ya.”
You close your eyes as your body goes rigid. “Thank you, sir.”
He clears his throat.
“Lee,” you correct yourself.
“Mmm, good girl.” He praises.
You shudder. You don’t think even in your youth anyone called you that. You keep your head down and turn with stiff shoulders. You near him cautiously. He rolls his chair back slightly and swivels to you.
He stops you with his hands on your waist. You quiver. He squeezes your soft sides and his thumbs press into the pillow of your stomach.
“You got a lot to offer a man,” he drags his hands up to your chest. “A lot…” he gropes you. “Unbutton your shirt.”
You keep your eyes down as tears tingle along the brims. You start at the top and pick free each button. You reveal the faded silk bra underneath. Your nipples poke at the seams.
“Woah, now… you do got a nice set on ya.”
He bounces your tits in his large hands. You close your eyes and shiver. His thumbs hook around the edges and pull the cups under your chest. He hooks his hand around your back and guides you to bend. He takes a nipple in his mouth and you gasp. He teases with his tongue and sucks. He pops his lips off.
“Tastes as good as your baking.” He growls and teeths your flesh.
Your body locks up as you swallow down your fear and shame. You open your eyes as you hear the chair creak. He sits back and purrs.
“Alright, you don’t touch a thing. You leave yourself just as you is and you get to work.” He reclines and puts his hands behind his head. “I know it’s been a long time but you don’t forget how.”
You brace the desk to keep yourself steady. You get down, one knee at a time. You stare at the khaki along his calves. He pushes his legs wide.
“Undo me. I’m startin’ to hurt real bad.” He commands.
You get closer and reach for his belt. His large stomach rises and falls with a gritty breath. You unbuckle his belt, fumbling to get it apart.
“Just relax and it will be so much easier.” He drawls as he reaches to pet your head.
You don’t look up. You can’t. You’re burning up in a pool of humiliation. You open his fly and stop to shake the tremble from your hands. It has been a very long time and your husband when he was around was never patient.
He lifts himself and helps you get his pants down. Then you roll down the elastic of his briefs and his dick springs free. You let go as he lowers himself back to the seat and you gasp. He chuckles as your eyes round. He’s a lot thicker than your husband. Longer too.
His length is lined with veins and twitching as you stare dumbly. He moves it with just a flex of his muscles and your lashes flutter. You lick your dry lips.
“All these times you brought me something sweet to eat and I never offered to feed ya, huh?” He leans forward and takes your head between his large hands. “Well, I got more’n enough to fill ya up, honey.”
Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon and coercion and possible untagged elements such as noncon. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.
This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.
You voted, I wrote it. This is June 2nd’s fic!
Lee Bodecker + “Just relax and it will be so much easier."
I welcome and appreciate all feedback. This means replies, reblogs, and asks. I do prefer if you can reblog and share my work along with your thoughts. <3
Please check my pinned post for more information on my blog, stories, and asks!
Do one kind thing for yourself today and take care.💖
Hopper gives you lift across town. You barely hear him chattering about his jumpy engine or the no good youngins as they stand on the corner. You're too fraught over what's behind you and what awaits you.
You thank him as you get out, promising him some eggs from the hen the next time she lays. He says it's no worry. You head down the street as dread scales up your spine.
You sigh and stare at the metal star hammered onto the wood sign. The sheriff's office is one of the few buildings that isn't ramshackle and leaning. And it is unfortunately not so unfamiliar to you.
You hitch your hand bag from your elbow to your shoulder and scurry forward. Your hands shake as you balance the baking dish, the smell of cinnamon and blueberry wafting up. All it does is curdle your stomach.
As you enter, you greet Carrington, a junior officer sitting by a metal fan and sweating. You know him from the days he used to play with your son, Dale. It's too bad they didn't stick together.
"Cary," you greet him out of habit, then correct yourself. "Private."
"Ma'am," he dabs his pale forehead wothia handkerchief.
You give soft smile, nerves tied up in your cheeks.
"How much this time?" You ask as you clutch the dish tighter.
"Ain't got no bond yet." Carrington explains as his eyes dip down to ridged white porcelain.
You nod and your lips straighten. "What was it this time?"
"Ah, Mrs...." A drawl answers your question.
The sheriff appears behind the private, sauntering up with a coffee in hand. He stops by Carrington and pats his shoulder. "Ain't I tell ya to let me know when she got here?"
"Sir, she just--"
"Ain't no thing." Sheriff Bodecker tuts and slurps from his cup. "What we got today?"
You look down at the baking dish. "Blueberry crumble with a buttered crust, Sheriff."
"Always so sweet," he purrs and tosses the empty paper cup on the bin under the front desk. "Ya come back. There's talkin' to be done.”
“Alright, Sheriff.”
Carrington gets up to lift the door between the front and back of the sheriff’s office. He lets you through with a ‘nice ta see ya ‘gain, ma’am.’ Sheriff Bodecker waves you on with his arm and leads you from the side, walking so close his sleeve brushes yours and your wide hip presses against him briefly.
“You sure do know how to soften a man,” he reaches over to peek under the cloth over the dessert in your hands. “Too bad the mister up and ran like that on ya.”
“You know, I barely remember what his voice sounds like at this point.” You scoff.
“Mm, yeah. You’re a good mother. Specially to a boy like the one you got.” He stops to open his door. You hesitate. “Missus,” he leans in. “I figure this conversation is best done privately.”
“Oh,” you blink in alarm. “Is Dale okay? Is he hurt?”
“Now let’s talk. Just you and me,” he nudges you gently.
You nod and swallow. You step into his office and he follows, closing the door behind you. He twists the small plastic rod to close the blinds then turns to you.
“Please, make yourself comfortable.” He insists.
You set the pie dish on his desk and rub your palms together. You shift on your low heels then make yourself sit. He paces as you stare at the files stacked on his desk.
“I know how hard you been tryin’ with the boy and for so long.” He intones.
“Oh, Sheriff, what did he do this time? Is it bad? Is anyone hurt?”
“Ah, ya see. You’re such a sweet woman. Minding everyone but yerself.” He rounds his desk and faces you. He leans on hand on the edge and reaches to slide the crumble across. “Your boy’s well past grown by now.” He tugs the cloth off the dish and sucks his teeth. “He needs to take care of himself. Ya know, one day someone’s gonna get him that don’t like home baking so much as me.”
“I’m sorry, Sheriff. I’m trying. I really am. I got him that job down at the hospital. I check in on him on my shifts, ‘tween folding sheets but… I don’t know.” You lean forward, clutching your handbag in your lap.
“How long we known each other, huh? You call me Lee.” He says.
“Sir, I… Lee,” you snivel. “I promise, it won’t happen again.”
“How many times have you said that to me?” He challenges with a tilt of his head. His thick fingers trace the edge of the dish.
“Too many,” you mope and sit back and defeat. “How long do ya think he’ll get?”
“Mm, now, we ain’t beyond bargaining,” he looks down at the pie. “Thing is…” He pushes his fingers through the crumbled top and down into the berry filling. “Pies and tarts and gonna pay his bond no more.” He moves his fingers up and down, coating them in the blue juice and jam. “Man gets hungry for more’n that.”
He pulls his fingers out completely and lifts them. He watches you as raises them in front of his mouth and sticks out his wide tongue. He licks the berry off slowly and pushes his fingers into his mouth, sucking them clean. The whole time, his eyes are on you.
You squirm and hug your purse tighter.
“I don’t got much from workin’ down the laundries, but Edwina said I could help in the field–”
“Mm mm,” he hums and licks his lips. “Money ain’t do much. I got ‘nough. You know, Howard Hewitt pays me ‘nough not to go in his shed.”
He chuckles and stands straight. He puts his hands on his hips and looks down. You follow his gaze down his stomach to the front of his khaki pants. The tenting is obvious as he wiggles his pelvis. You gasp.
“Sheriff.”
“Lee,” he insists as he grabs the back of his chair and rolls it out. He lowers himself down and sits with a sigh. He drapes his arms over the wooden rests. “Even with your hips, you can fit underneath.” He taps his toe under the desk.
“You can’t…”
“How long since you touched a man?” He asks.
You look down, lip trembling. “You can’t mean it, sir.”
“Why? Ya still a woman. Still got a pretty face, a pretty mouth.”
You wince and peek up at him. He runs his hand down his tie and smirks. “You love your son, don’t ya?”
You bat your lashes and nod, “of course.”
“And you’ll do anything for him?”
“I would,” you whisper.
“Then do it.” He demands.
You flinch. You sniff and look down. You grip the purse tight and slowly lift it. You shake as you stand and turn to put it on the empty seat.
The sheriff hums again. “That’s a nice skirt on ya.”
You close your eyes as your body goes rigid. “Thank you, sir.”
He clears his throat.
“Lee,” you correct yourself.
“Mmm, good girl.” He praises.
You shudder. You don’t think even in your youth anyone called you that. You keep your head down and turn with stiff shoulders. You near him cautiously. He rolls his chair back slightly and swivels to you.
He stops you with his hands on your waist. You quiver. He squeezes your soft sides and his thumbs press into the pillow of your stomach.
“You got a lot to offer a man,” he drags his hands up to your chest. “A lot…” he gropes you. “Unbutton your shirt.”
You keep your eyes down as tears tingle along the brims. You start at the top and pick free each button. You reveal the faded silk bra underneath. Your nipples poke at the seams.
“Woah, now… you do got a nice set on ya.”
He bounces your tits in his large hands. You close your eyes and shiver. His thumbs hook around the edges and pull the cups under your chest. He hooks his hand around your back and guides you to bend. He takes a nipple in his mouth and you gasp. He teases with his tongue and sucks. He pops his lips off.
“Tastes as good as your baking.” He growls and teeths your flesh.
Your body locks up as you swallow down your fear and shame. You open your eyes as you hear the chair creak. He sits back and purrs.
“Alright, you don’t touch a thing. You leave yourself just as you is and you get to work.” He reclines and puts his hands behind his head. “I know it’s been a long time but you don’t forget how.”
You brace the desk to keep yourself steady. You get down, one knee at a time. You stare at the khaki along his calves. He pushes his legs wide.
“Undo me. I’m startin’ to hurt real bad.” He commands.
You get closer and reach for his belt. His large stomach rises and falls with a gritty breath. You unbuckle his belt, fumbling to get it apart.
“Just relax and it will be so much easier.” He drawls as he reaches to pet your head.
You don’t look up. You can’t. You’re burning up in a pool of humiliation. You open his fly and stop to shake the tremble from your hands. It has been a very long time and your husband when he was around was never patient.
He lifts himself and helps you get his pants down. Then you roll down the elastic of his briefs and his dick springs free. You let go as he lowers himself back to the seat and you gasp. He chuckles as your eyes round. He’s a lot thicker than your husband. Longer too.
His length is lined with veins and twitching as you stare dumbly. He moves it with just a flex of his muscles and your lashes flutter. You lick your dry lips.
“All these times you brought me something sweet to eat and I never offered to feed ya, huh?” He leans forward and takes your head between his large hands. “Well, I got more’n enough to fill ya up, honey.”
Warnings: this fic will include dark content and possible untagged elements such as noncon. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.
This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.
You voted, I wrote it. This is June 4th’s fic!
Charles Blackwood + “Don’t you realise how much I want you?” (Regency AU)
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Please check my pinned post for more information on my blog, stories, and asks!
Do one kind thing for yourself today and take care.💖
Countess Drayfort, nee Locke, now Blackwood, reclines against her pillows as you enter with a tray. You bring the porcelain tea set right to her bedside as she soothes herself with a painted fan. Her once rosy cheeks are pallid. You wonder if at least age has broken through or if this is a summer ague come to fester.
"Kathleen put some African ginger in the tea. She says it will help, my lady." You pour a cup and add some sugar as she prefers.
"She thinks of everything," Lady Drayfort preens softly. She accepts the cup but you notice the tremor as she struggles to balance even that weight on her own.
"And some berries and whey. It shouldn't be too heavy on your stomach, lady."
"Mm, I am not of body to eat," her lips downturn and the lines around her mouth and eyes deepen. Despite the decades behind her, she never truly looked or acted as though she knew them.
"You should try, lady. You need your strength."
"I've got it still. Never fret for me, dear. You are too kind to me." She thinks of reaching dorfyou but thinks better of it as the cup teeters. "Hm, have you seen my husband?"
"He was off early this morning, my lady."
"As ever he is. Busy of mind and body. In many ways." She smiles and leans back on the pillows. "When he returns, please let him know I am not fit to receive him." She goes quiet and peers into the depths of the porcelain cup. "I should hate for him to see me as such.”
“Yes, my lady.” You acquiesce with a gentle nod. “Would you like a cold cloth?”
“Please, go and tend your duties. I should hate to keep you.” She says.
“I will be back to look in on you,” you promise as you back away.
“You are always so sweet, ma petite.” She hums, the little name she’s called you since you were brought onto service as a girl.
“Lady,” you smile and curtsey.
You leave her with worry in your heart. You will call for the physician and bear her chagrin. She is ever stubborn but you’ve never seen her in this state, not even when her first husband died. She was ever lively, riding a saddle with ease and laughing over cards as she told bawdy jokes that would make men in their clubs blush.
You send Lionel in his cart to bring back Doctor Reginault. You go down to help the cook, Kathleen, but she waves you off as she does any gnat or rodent in her kitchen. You resign yourself to dusting shelves already touched with feather.
The physician arrives and you bring him up to Lady Drayfort. You leave him in the corridor as you go to warn her but find her unconscious with tea staining the high collar of her sleeping gown. She is breathing but pale.
You retrieve Dr. Reginault and he bends over her to feel her neck and forehead. He tuts as he opens his bag and searches out a vial.
“It is a summer sickness, I believe. Two centuries ago the like ran rampant in the cities. Not often out in the greenlands.” He advises. “Have her take these drops with her tea when she wakes. Sleep is most important. Rouse her in an hour or so. If you have citrus, have her eat some.”
“Yes, doctor.” You clasp your hands anxiously.
“Do not worry for the lady. The countess is a strong one.” He assures as he packs up his bag. “Be here with her.”
“Yes, doctor.” You repeat.
He goes and you sigh. You have a dreadful feeling for your mistress. You watch through the window as Lionel drives the physician out and you stare off into the sinking horizon. Some time later, hooves approach.
Lord Blackwood returns on his sable mount. He sits proudly upon her as he canters through the gate. His page meets him and takes away the beast as the master of the estate dusts off his trousers.
Though the countess bid you not to say it, you cannot keep a secret from her own husband. You go down to the kitchens and request a fresh tray of tea with lemon, and any citrus that might be in the stores. As Kathleen works on the task, you hear Lord Blackwood enter.
You go out to see him pull off his riding gloves. His eyes gleam at you. You bend your knees and neck reverently.
“My lord, Percy is around. Shall I fetch him–”
“I sent Percy off on an errand already,” Blackwood interrupts. “Come, you will tend to my jacket.”
You hesitate then go to him. He turns his back to you and extends his arms. You help him shrug off his embroidered jacket. It was one of the many gifts the countess rained on him.
“I will have claret in my office,” he commands as he hands you his gloves and hat.
You step aside as he strides past you. You wait until he is up the stairs before you scurry to store his things away. You return to the kitchen. The water is still boiling. You fill a decanter with claret and set it on a tray with a crystal glass.
You climb to the second floor and approach the lord’s office. The door is ajar in expectation. You stand at the threshold.
“My lord, you claret.” You announce.
“In, shut the door.” He demands as he pulls free his ascot.
You obey, setting the tray on his desk and going to the door. As you go to close it from the outside, he stops you.
“You must pour it.” He says.
“Yes, my lord. Apologies.”
You enter once more and close the door. You cross to him and pour a glass of the clear liquor. You set the decanter down and replace the gold cap.
“My lord. The doctor came to see the countess today.” You say.
He looks at you with a crinkle around his eyes. “Oh? Well, she is rather ahead in years. I suppose they are good acquaintances.”
“She is not well, my lord.”
“Surely, the doctor did more for her than I could.” He takes the glass and sips from it, watching you over the brim.
“Yes, my lord. Forgive me if I was overbearing.” You back away. “I must tend to her tea–”
“You tend to me.” He insists and drinks deeper. “And I’ve not dismissed you.”
You pause and dip your head. “Forgive me. I was not meaning–”
“You are shy.” He remarks.
“My lord, I only mean to attend my duty–”
“Evasive, I sense it. When I am around, you elude me.” He intones.
“No, my lord. I serve the countess.”
“You serve the household, of which I am master now.” He retorts. “You serve my wife but you also serve me.”
“Yes, my lord, you are true. I was not being defiant–”
“No, only… cautious.” He stands and rounds the desk. “For you sense it too.”
You chafe and clasp your wrist tight, unsure. “My lord?”
He crowds you, looming over you, his hand creeping up your sleeve. You lean away and he grips your arm to keep you from retreat. You gasp and look him in the face. His blue eyes twinkle as his cheeks dimple around his smirk.
“Don’t you realise how much I want you?” He whispers and leans in. “You don’t truly believe I want the decrepit widow?”
“My lord,” you gulp.
He grabs your other arm.
“Let her sleep. She will be better tomorrow when the serum has fled her veins.” He purrs, his lips brushing your hairline. “And tonight, it will only be us.”
Warnings: this fic has an age gap. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.
18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.
You voted, I wrote it. This is June 6th’s fic! (Sorry it's lates)
Hal Carter + “I was happier when it was just you and me. Can’t it be that way again?”
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Please check my pinned post for more information on my blog, stories, and asks!
Do one kind thing for yourself today and take care.💖
Your walkie goes off again. As you hit the button to reply to the call to confirm the job site, Hal's face falls. As he approaches his usually cheery demeanour turns grim. You tell Cole to send the estimate through and clip the radio back on your belt.
"So, how was the site down in Heath?" You ask as you open a folder on the desk and delve back into the cluster of crumpled receipts.
“Another shit show.” He crosses his arms. His toolbelt hangs crooked and low over his jeans and his usual white tea is streaked with sweat and dust.
“I figured it would be. Thanks for taking that on. You know how some of those macho guys can get with me.” You sit slowly and smooth out a bill for caulk and tile. “Got a call from Colorada… bit far. Ranch house.”
“Sure,” he says as he looms on the other side of your desk. His tone is crisp.
Your radio scratches again and Sy reports back that there’s a water leak. Great.
You grab your radio again. “Call Morton. Closest plumber I know.”
“Morton?” Sy growls from the other side.
You look at Hal and shake your head. “Don’t touch that pipe. I don’t need that coming out of our invoice.”
“Yes, ma’am.” You get in return.
You go to put the radio down and another beep sounds. You listen to Cole as he lets you know he’s sending for a different grade of wood to match what’s there.
“Sometimes I wonder how we break even,” You tut as you set the radio down and key the totals on the receipts into the computer.
“Mm,” Hal hums flatly.
You look up and lower the stapled bills. You tilt your head. “Something going on? Something in Heath?”
His eyes drift and his brows draw together. “No, work’s good. You know I can handle it.”
“You’re my best guy, Carter.”
“Carter,” he echoes.
You sit up all the way. “What is going on?”
“Do you remember when we started this?” He drops his hands to his hips.
You remember it. The young carpenter you found on some online job board, who showed up just as lost as you. You didn’t have a single idea how to keep your dead husband’s business alive, only that you had to.
“I remember the bent nails and bruised fingers.” You chuckle.
He’s quiet. Your neck bristles. You sit straighter.
“Something’s… up?”
“You always were a smart lady.” He says.
“I’m also a lady that appreciates when people say what they need to say,” you fold your hands together and lean your arms on the desk. “Carter.”
“You used to call me Hal.”
You shake your head.
He hesitates and shifts in his shoes. He shrugs and drops his hands. “I was happier when it was just you and me.” He steps closer to your desk. “Can’t it be that way again?”
You stare at him. “Cart– Hal. We need all the help we can get–”
“That’s not what I mean and you know it.”
You sit back and lower your gaze. “Don’t. I told you then–”
“I’m older now.”
“So am I. And that’s always going to be the case.”
“Do you think I care?” He strides around the desk. He grabs the back of your chair and swivels you to face him. He grips above your shoulders as he bends over you. His nose is almost touching yours. “I’ve waited this long, haven’t I?”
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Warnings: this fic is set in a dystopian world with suggestions of dubcon and noncon, as well as adultery. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.
18+ only, explicit. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.
You voted, I wrote it. This is June 7th’s fic! (Sorry it's lates)
Steve Kemp + “My name tastes so good on your tongue, doesn’t it?”
I welcome and appreciate all feedback. This means replies, reblogs, and asks. I do prefer if you can reblog and share my work along with your thoughts. <3
Please check my pinned post for more information on my blog, stories, and asks!
Do one kind thing for yourself today and take care.💖
"Don't embarrass me." Your husband warns as he fixes his dark red jacket in the mirror.
You peek over your shoulder as his derision radiates from the reflection of his light blue eyes. You dip your chin and resume fussing with belt of the velvet dress. You can't quite make the bow look anything but droopy and depressed.
You focus on that small struggle, one battle you might prevail in. You can never win with your husband. Without reason to fear it, he's paranoid about your every breath and word. You've only ever done what you're supposed to... Including marrying him.
"Turn around," Hugh demands.
You obey without hesitation. He clucks as he approaches you. He snarls under his breath as he loses the pathetic bow you've looped at the side of your waste and reties it effortlessly. It's perfectly straight and set.
"This is important. The magistrates' dinner could determine everything for me." He pauses, fingers lingering along your belt and slowly creeping up the front of the dress. "Don't forget your charms.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Magistrate,” he chides. “Remember who you married.”
“I’m sorry–”
He presses a thick finger to your lips. “Don’t be sorry, be silent.”
He taps your chin then turns away. You put your shoes on and grab your stole. You do as he bid and don’t say a word.
When he’s ready, you depart. You sit in the back of the car, the driver blocked out by the tinted divider, as your husband taps his leg and his lips move in rehearsal of the night to come. You sit stiff and still, staring ahead, just as you’ve trained yourself.
You arrive to the usual reception. The deference of others does little to nurse the powerlessness of your own position. You hand over your stole as the staff take Hugh’s jacket. Not Hugh, Magistrate Drysdale.
You let him lead, as always. You’re just another emblem of his status. Just like the medal on his ceremony jacket and that signet on his pinky ring.
“Our seats should be better than last year,” he mutters as he keeps his arm through yours. “Don’t expect we’ll be sitting at the end with Brenner and his gaudy side piece.”
Sure enough, you’re led to the head of the table, right there at the corner. Your husband takes the first seat and as always, you take the secondary. You sit and thank the staff as they push in your chair. Hugh sends you a sharp glance for that courtesy.
The other guests straggle in to join those already arrived. There aren’t many empty chairs left at your arrival as your husband is rarely in a hurry. You wait patiently, staring ahead at nothing in particular. You’ve disciplined yourself to exist in that void. The less you know, the less you feel, the safer you are.
Finally, the table is full. There is but one seat left. That at the very head, to the left of Magistrate Drysdale and Magistrate Fowler across from him.
The host enters. All go silent as they watch the Magistrate Primus approach. You turn your head without seeing, only mimicking those around you. You see only a hazy shadow step up to the chair.
“Welcome all,” Magistrate Kemp preens. “Firstly, I must thank you all for attending. It’s not often we get all of us in one place. Better for it, likely.” He pauses for effect and a hearty chuckle rolls over the table. “Secondly, I need to apologise on the behalf of my other half. She remains ill and continues her treatments.”
There’s a low drone of manufactured empathy. You let your face form the expected mask but make no noise.
“Let’s not dwell on the latter. We should enjoy this rare occasion. Enjoy the calm amid the storm. Our work never ends, does it?” There’s a rabble of agreement and Magistrate Kemp claps his hands. “Alright, without further delay, I’m starving.”
He sits, the scrape of his chair breaking your trance. As Kemp sits, your eyes meet. His cheeks dimple in his perfectly practiced grin. His blue eyes swirl like a stormy ocean. You bend your neck humbly and focus on the table setting before you.
“Drysdale, already into the scotch?” Kemp leans into your husband.
“I have to make up for being sober for so long,” your husband retorts.
“Ah, are there not better ways to unwind? You’ve a lovely wife.”
“Mm, she goes well with scotch,” Hugh scoffs.
You don’t react. You keep your hands folded in your lap and stare at the table. The voices around you rise to a steady buzz.
“Goodwife Drysdale, you look wonderful in that colour. Much better than your husband.” Kemp snags your attention.
You must appease him. You simper in his direction. “Thank you, Magistrate.”
Your husband is obtuse to the compliment as he leans back and orders a servant to fill his plate with mini quiche and crab cakes. Kemp runs his fingers up and down the stem of his glass and watches you. You nod again and look down.
“I must admire her manners, Drysdale.”
“Hm?” Hugh grunts.
“Your wife. She’s well trained.”
“She does what she’s told.” Your husband shrugs.
“Oh, I’m sure your demands are endless,” Kemp chuckles.
“Speak for yourself,” Hugh counters playfully.
“You,” Kemp points to a servant, “this lady needs a drink. Champagne with frozen strawberries.” He flicks his finger. “Now.”
The servant rushes away. You chafe in your dress and make yourself look at the magistrate. Hugh reaches to pinch you under the table. You’re drawing too much attention. He is trying to get in with the most powerful man in the republic.
“Thank you, Magistrate Kemp. That sounds delicious.”
“Oh,” Kemp arches a brow. “I do have a taste for the delectable.”
👄
“Let us speak somewhere less… well, less.” Kemp insists as he sneers at the drunken guffawing of Magistrate Bodecker.
“Let’s,” Hugh agrees triumphantly. “I have some thoughts on the Western Territory.”
“I’m sure you do. I however have my own proposal in mind.” Kemp intones.
“Goodwife,” Hugh squeezes your forearm. “I won’t be long–”
“Bring the Goodwife. Don’t leave her to these wolves.” Kemp insists.
You sense your husband bristle. He doesn’t need you getting in the way. This is his chance to get himself above all the others.
“Sure. I suppose it wouldn’t be a good look for a Goodwife to be wandering alone.”
“Not one as lovely as her,” Kemp steps closer and offers his hand. “You’ve never seen my reading room, Goodwife.”
You resist the urge to look at your husband. You can feel his discontent. The Primus Magistrate leads you across the room as your husband strides at your other side. Your heartbeat picks up. That well-honed numbness slowly dissembles.
Kemp takes you from the large front room and up the east ascent of the curling staircase set against the wall of the foyer. You take your steps cautiously, intent on the movement of your body over the fragility of your predicament.
Down the corridor and to the right, three doors down, and he leads you through double doors. He sweeps you inside as he gestures widely with his other arm. “I come here and read by the windows.” He brings you across to the large arched window that opens to the immaculately curated gardens. “Or I simply watch the world outside.”
“I’ve always admired your taste,” Hugh praises. “Is this a first edition?”
Kemp doesn’t look back. “They are all original prints.” He shifts closer as he lets go of your hand and runs his fingertips up your sleeve. “Do you see how the fountain reflects the moonlight? It’s like the sky looking up at itself.”
“Very pretty, Magistrate.” You murmur.
“About the West Bridge…” Hugh begins.
“Ran,” Kemp addresses your husband by his informal pseudonym. “No work tonight. I didn’t put this whole thing on to sit through another council.” Kemp huffs and plays with the bow at your waist. He turns to face you, standing close. You feel his gaze on you. “You require a break as well. All that fretting over the West…”
Hugh exhales. “I… guess you’re right.”
“Drysdale,” Kemp drawls. “How can you be so uptight when you have this creature attached to you?”
“What?” Your husband scoffs. “Primus?”
“You have a beautiful wife. So soft, so pliant. She would do anything for you and you can hardly look at her.” Kemp brings his hand up to pet your cheek. “Do you even fuck her?”
Hugh snorts. “Kemp.”
“It’s a simple question.”
“She’s my wife–”
“Fine. She is honest. Let her tell me.” He strokes your hair. “Goodwife, when’s the last time your husband made you cum?”
You shift and shiver. You stare out the window. You’re choked in horror. You can’t not answer the Primus Magistrate, but you also can’t shame your own husband.
“I am happy with my goodhusband–”
“That is not what I asked.” Kemp trails his fingers down your spine. You quiver. “I can feel it in the way you shake that it’s been a while. If he’s ever made you cum.”
Hugh growls and you hear his knuckles crack. Silence roils around you as Kemp continues to feel you up, brushing his hand across your ass as he presses himself to your side. You bite down as your vision blurs.
“Primus,” Hugh utters quietly. He struggles to continue. “You can have her for the night… if you give me the West.”
Kemp snickers and runs his hand up your side. He takes your arm and turns you to him. He grabs your hand and toys with it admiringly. He places it on his shoulder.
“I don’t need your permission to fuck her. But I’ll let you choose; stay and watch or go cower with the rest of those dogs.”
Silence, stillness. Kemp’s hand comes up under your chin and he forces your head up. “Look at me, goodwife.”
Hugh harrumphs and shadows shift in the edge of your sight. Something clatters and he stomps off, the doors slamming after him. You tremble as your hand slips down to the magistrate’s chest.
“Don’t be scared,” he coaxes.
“Magistrate, my husband–”
“Tut, tut,” he swipes his finger across your lips. “Firstly, don’t speak of him. Second, you will call me by my name.”
You bat your eyes. “Yes, Magist– Um… Steven?”
“Steve…” he traces the shape of your lips.
You stare up into his eyes, layers of azure and cyan dancing around his growing pupils. You gulp. “Steve,” you whisper.
He licks his lips and pushes his finger inside your mouth. “My name tastes so good on your tongue, doesn’t it?”
Your eyes widen. He pushes down on your tongue. You seal your lips around his fingers and instinctively suck. He purrs as his other hand tugs free the bow on your dress.
“I want you to scream it every time I make you cum.”
Warnings: this fic contains arranged marriage and suggestions of dubcon and noncon, as well as adultery. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.
18+ only, explicit. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.
You voted, I wrote it. This is June 8th’s fic!
Andy Barber + “I'm tired of repeating myself.”
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Andrew takes his jacket off. Andy. That’s what he told you to call him. The metal on your finger presses into your flesh and you look down. You pinch the white stone through the lace glove and quickly pull your hands apart.
You exhale and look up as you sense movement. He puts his jacket over a hanger then tugs at his bowtie. Your eyes wander around the room. Dark hardwood and ivory curtains. The bed has canopies draped from the tall posts and the edges of the pillow cases are scalloped. From what you’ve seen of the massive house, it’s all intricately decorated. Nothing is out of place… but you.
He slings the bowtie over the bottom of the hanger and unbuttons his vest. Petals from the corsage still on his jacket flutter down to the carpet. He strips off the vest and you watch how his shoulders strain his white shirt.
He hangs the vest too as you stare at his thick neck and the neat trim of his beard. Your ankle bends. As you fix your stance, your heel clunks and draws his attention. He looks at you and you wince.
“Relax,” he says as he pulls free the tails of his shirt from trousers.
You nod. He nears as his shirt hangs slack. He stops in front of you and takes your hand. He peels off the lace gloves, tugging each finger delicately. He strips them both away and sets them aside. You tremble.
“Honey, please… relax.” He says again.
You’re trying but you can’t even say so. Your chest is so tight. This is the man you’ll spend the rest of your life with and you just met him five hours ago.
He takes your hands again. He kisses each knuckle, each time looking at you. Your hands are heavy like stone. He squeezes them, rubbing his thumbs along the back.
“Re-lax.” He insists.
You curl your fingers and straighten them. You just can’t get the tension out. He lets your hands fall and gets even closer. He traces the off-the-shoulder neckline down to your body and trails down to the skirt. He pinches the fabric and purrs.
He drags his hand around your hip as he circles you. He stands behind you. You shiver. He undoes the top button of the dress. You gasp.
He continues down the buttons, plucking each one free of the loop. He stops halfway and grips the fabric. He jerks you.
“I’m tired of repeating myself.” He growls. He yanks and the rest of the buttons scatter as the dress slackens entirely. “I said relax.” He pushes the bodice down to your waist. You pull your arms free of the sleeves and squirm. “I’m being nice.”
“I’m sorry,” you eke out and clasp your hands in front of your lacy strapless bra.
He shoves the dress until the skirts heap around your ankles and calves. You look down as you twist, the lacy thong high on your hips and exposing your ass and most of your pelvis. He touches your bare back and drags his touch up your sides. He squeezes and growls.
“You said it. You made the vow.” He drawls into your hair. He reaches to touch the gem-covered clip. “You said you’re mine.” He strokes down your cheek and opens his hand to frame your chin. He nuzzles the rim of your ear. “So why are you acting so scared?”
You shake as he presses himself to your back.
“It’ll only hurt more if you don’t relax.” He enunciates the last word harshly, his other hand slipping down along the front of your panties.
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