Tagged by @chiqita, thank you! :D Tagging (no obligations) @alexologyart, @cocoa-night, @baggebythesea, @solcaeruleus, @tallysgreatestfan, and whoever else wants to participate!
Rough Bog sketches anew. I want to draw a proper piece of him in royal Highland garb with a crown at some point. The proportions aren't quite correct yet, think he requires longer legs and/or more midriff. But hey, I'll get it right eventually! 😊
I seem to harbor an odd obsession to Thranduil's crown, so this represents yet another inspirational iteration. 😂 I thought it might've been pieced together from the bones of Bog's vanquished enemies, altered to resemble briar branches.
I’m gonna write a teacher student horror romcom where the teacher is a history teacher ex serial killer now starting fresh trying to regain a normal life, and this stupid little prick. (year 12/13 depending on ur country lol) 18 yr old absolute crazy weird girl loser, who is or has been relentlessly bullied; who falls in love with her teacher.
Essentially some way some how she finds out about her teacher and is like boy if you don’t kill my bullies I’m gonna put ur ass in jail, and he’s like diva I have never killed young adults much less kids wtf, and then she drags him along on a murder relapse.
No he is not happy about this, yes he HAD a wife very recently divorced, is it romantic? Potentially? but probably a lot of one sided. Is she manipulative and really annoying? Perhaps. Is she toying with him like he’s her rag doll? Yes very much. Is anybody escaping this alive? Absolutely not 😭 they are going to die, nose diving to hell.
If Transformers have sex then it stands to reason they would also have sex in their alt-modes. Like, it's infinetely compelling to me how they have two forms that is them, two sides of the same coin. I love when people incorporate their mechanical anatomy into porn but it also stands to reason then it would be just as sensitive in their alt.
Stroke those wings on the plane! Give a handjob to the exhaust pipe! Lick that chevron! I neeeeeeeeeeeeed people to be freakier, imagine the possibilities!
Charge your phone in a car and whoops that was the wrong connection we are doing plug and play now like that moaning phone when it was teased about recharging.
Bumblebee 2018 got me into the fandom and I was SO UPSET to find out Charlie Watson was a new character in the franchise and I would never see her and Bee interact ever again.
Big Sad. Humongous Sad.
Anyway, Robotlover Charlie is canon, trust me.
Alt. Lighting version of their little quiet moment just because~
I know that most of the reinterpretations of Hades and Persephone are quite bad, not to mention quite sexist, but sometimes... sometimes they get it right
summary: despite all the warnings, you feel none of the unease you’re supposed to feel with him. perhaps that was its own brand of foolishness. perhaps thats why you kept watching him—carefully, secretly. or so you thought.
pairing: Silco x Reader (no use of Y/N; she works for him as an assistant)
w/c: 1.8k
notes: 2nd person POV, mentions of violence, romantic and sexual tension, no smut. silco is an emotionally constipated mess. this is my first time writing for silco, pls be kind!!! (read part 2 here)
read on ao3: here
You never planned on working for a man like him.
The job was simple on paper—good pay, minimal interaction, discretion required.
You were what he needed: someone quiet, someone unassuming. And when options were thin, when desperation outweighed preference, you became the best choice, and frankly, you needed the job.
You never asked questions. Not about the deals he made, the people he met, or why his name could silence an entire room. You kept your head down, did what was required. It should have been easy.
Except for one thing. You watched him.
Your gaze strayed when you believed he wouldn’t notice—lingering in stolen seconds, collecting details like secrets you’d never dare to voice. The sharp cut of his jaw, the way his presence commanded a space without effort, the uneven ridges of ruined skin that told stories you’d never ask him to recount. He was danger carved into flesh and steel.
You should have left hours ago. The office above The Last Drop had long steeped into evening dimness, shadows pooling in the corners, stretching long against the floor as the last traces of daylight bled through the round iron-clad window.
The air carries a subtle chill—not biting, but enough to press against your skin, a reminder of the late hour. The room itself—spacious, heavy with dark wood and low lighting—feels even larger with just the two of you here. You have no reason to linger, really. No unfinished work keeping you chained to your desk. Just Silco.
A smart woman—one who values her safety, her wellbeing—wouldn’t still be here.
You’ve heard the warnings. Listened to the stories about him told in whispers. A man like him doesn’t inspire trust. He commands respect, obedience, fear—but not trust.
And yet, despite everything, you feel none of the unease you’re supposed to feel. You trust him. Perhaps that was its own brand of foolishness.
Perhaps that’s why you keep looking at him. You’re careful when doing it—or so you think.
“You like staring, do you?”
Your breath hitches. His voice carries no real curiosity, only the weight of knowing—knowing far too much, seeing far too well everything you had thought was hidden. He leans back slightly, measuring your reaction.
You look away fast, as if retreating will erase the truth he has already unearthed.
“It’s impolite,” he continues, his tone flat, measured. “To gawk.”
“I—I wasn’t gawking,” you manage, still refusing to meet his eyes. The words come out too soft, unconvincing even to yourself.
A quiet scoff. Not amused, not cruel. Just… expectant. His eyes flick over you, assessing, and then he exhales something faintly derisive.
"Lying to your boss? Bad manners." His tone edges toward something haughty and unimpressed. He tilts his head slightly, almost lazy in his scrutiny. "Unwise."
Your fingers curl into fists at your sides. There’s no point denying it—not now, not when he has already unraveled your failed attempts at subtlety.
You swallow, then hesitantly speak. “I like looking at you.”
A beat of silence. His brows twitch, just barely—not a frown, not surprise, but something adjacent. Something shifts in his expression. Not irritation, not exactly—just… something.
You press forward, nerves fraying under the weight of his gaze. “You’re too intimidating to look at directly. But when you’re not… well—that is, when I think you aren’t watching…” You swallow. “You’re… fascinating.”
Silco doesn’t say anything, only holds still in the quiet that follows. And maybe, for a moment, he thinks he has misheard—because ‘fascination’ isn’t a word most people use when looking at him.
You shift slightly, gaze flickering lower. Then softer, shyly, barely above a whisper, you continue— “You’re… well…”
“Say it.” It’s not a command. Not exactly. But it’s firm and expectant.
Your pulse stammers. You look away, as if retreating will make him forget, make him drop it. He doesn't.
"I—" You exhale sharply. "It’s nothing."
He huffs. Not amused, nor cruel. Just waiting.
"You've already started." His tone is impossibly steady. "Might as well finish."
You shouldn’t say it. Shouldn’t give him anything to hold against you. But the silence stretches, pushing into the space between you, forcing the words closer to the surface. You’re suddenly glad for the dim lighting of the room, grateful he can’t see the redness that has flooded your cheeks.
“I—I think you’re… handsome.”
Silco hums. Not in amusement, not surprise—just consideration at the admission. Admittedly, he had expected something else. People often stare at him, but not like this. Not for that reason.
His gaze lingers for a beat longer than it should. Then, the smallest twitch of his lips—something unreadable. At last, he exhales. “Fine.”
You blink.
“You have permission.”
“To…?”
“To look.”
He says it so simply, as if stripping the tension from the act will make it less strange, less heavy. You don’t move at first, half-expecting him to take the words back, to tell you he had only been testing you, seeing how far you would push. But he doesn’t.
He looks back at you. Fully.
It’s not the same as before—not laced with quiet calculation or simmering impatience. He has given you permission, but the weight of it settles between you in a way neither of you expected.
Your gaze lifts, hesitant but steady, and meets his.
You test it, studying him now with purpose instead of stolen glances, waiting to see if it feels different. It does.
Suddenly, you notice everything—the sharp symmetry of the unscarred side of his face; smooth, striking, almost startling compared to the ruined half. The brutal ridges of scar tissue twisting over his cheekbone, down to his jaw, jagged like torn earth, uneven and merciless. You wonder, fleetingly, if they still hurt. If they burn on bad days, a reminder of whatever, or whoever, carved them into him.
But then, there are things you hadn’t noticed before. Like the color of his good eye—seafoam, almost too soft for one so dangerous. It should clash with the severity of him, but it doesn’t. It only makes him more difficult to turn away from.
Your pulse is louder now, thrumming against your skin. And then you notice something else.
The faint smudging at the edge of his temple, the areas where his usual application of makeup has faded throughout the day, revealing his scars in harsher relief. The traces of effort to make them less ugly, less distracting—but now, stripped of their softened edges, they are more bare. More real.
And he hasn’t bothered to fix it. You wonder if he notices. If he even cares.
The way his throat bobs as he swallows, slow and deliberate, makes you think maybe he does. The faint twitch in his corrupted eye, an involuntary flicker, brief but undeniable, makes you think maybe he is too aware of how closely you’re looking.
For a man built on danger, there is something startling about the way he holds himself now—rigid, unreadable, but with something flickering beneath the surface. Almost—nervous.
You hadn’t thought a man like Silco was capable of being nervous. The realization presses against your ribs, warm and uncertain.
But he doesn’t look away, and neither do you. Because he is finally letting you see him—fully, without the shroud of intimidation or authority dampening the edges.
You study him, taking in the details you had only glimpsed at before. In the quiet, a thought curls itself into your ribs—
‘Does he like looking at me, too?’
The possibility is unsettling in a way you hadn’t prepared for.
Maybe it’s the way he holds your gaze, unwavering yet unreadable, like there is something unspoken lingering beneath his quiet allowance.
Maybe it’s the way his gaze hasn’t strayed.
Or maybe it’s the way he hasn’t told you to stop. Not yet. Not at all.
The silence between you changes.
Neither of you are moving—not consciously. And yet, something is happening. The space between you is now charged, yet still delicate.
Your awareness of him sharpens, not just in your mind but in your body—like your very breath is attuned to his. And then—you lean in.
You’re not alone. He moves too. Not intentionally. But he doesn’t stop, and neither do you.
The moment unfolds like gravity itself is tipping you toward him, leaving you breathless in its quiet insistence.
Your gaze flickers lower. His lips—they are closer now, enough for you to see details you hadn’t before. The way the scar at the corner pulls just slightly, disrupting the symmetry. The tension in his jaw—like he isn’t sure if he should let this happen.
Your pulse climbs. Closer. Almost.
And then—a noise. A sharp shuffle of movement outside the office. Reality collides into you.
Silco reacts first. The presence that had been drawing you closer had vanished. The moment is severed, like a thread suddenly snapped.
Before you can process it, before you can even breathe, he moves. Not just shifting back, but leaving entirely.
He abruptly turns away, walking toward the large window behind his desk with precise, controlled steps. His hands clasped behind his back, a practiced movement—one you recognize immediately as he reasserts control.
His silhouette cuts against the greenish hue of the Undercity dusk filtering through the glass. He doesn’t acknowledge what almost happened.
The tension lingers in the air, thick and unresolved, but he makes no move to address it. Instead, when he finally speaks, his voice is even and careful—just firm enough to leave no room for discussion.
"It’s late." He exhales slowly, measured. "You should go home for the day."
Gone is the flickering vulnerability. He turns slightly, shoulders squared, breath leveled. Whatever almost happened—he won’t let it happen again.
You absorb the sharp shift in atmosphere, the careful reconstruction of the barrier he had almost let slip. You straighten too quickly, trying to force your hands to still, masking the way your pulse trembles beneath the surface. You don’t protest. You don’t ask what this meant.
You just move, collecting yourself with too much precision, like if you don’t— if you hesitate—you might shatter what little dignity you have left.
Your fingers feel too rigid when you reach for the door. As you pull it open, you wonder—fleetingly, stupidly—if this is it. If you’ve just walked yourself out of a job, if what nearly happened has ruined whatever fragile balance existed between you.
You are seconds from latching the door shut behind you when his voice cuts through the silence. "Tomorrow."
The word is quiet. Firm. Not weighted with emotion. You turn back to him. "Sir?"
A beat of silence. “I’ll see you tomorrow."
He still doesn’t turn to face you. Still keeps his gaze locked on the window, hands clasped behind him, posture unreadable. You nod, despite knowing he can’t see it.
Then you leave, stepping through the doorway knowing that whatever had almost happened was now locked behind the heavy wooden door.
Until tomorrow, anyway.
if you’ve read this far, thank you from the bottom of my heart!!! please leave a like and reblog. comment any feedback below, if you feel inclined 🖤 read part 2 here
no lube, no protection, all night, all day, from the kitchen floor to the toilet seat, from the dining table to the bedroom, from the bathroom sink to the shower, from the front porch to the balcony, vertically, horizontally, quadratic, exponential, logarithmic, while I gasp for air, scream and see the light, missionary, cowgirl, reverse cowgirl, doggy, backwards, sideways, upside down, on the floor, in the bed, on the couch, on a chair, being carried against the wall, outside, in a train, on a plane, in the car, on a motorcycle, the the bed of a truck, on a trampoline, in a bounce house, in the pool, bent over, in the basement, against the window, have the most toe curling, back arching, leg shaking, dick throbbing, fist clenching, ear ringing, mouth drooling, ass clenching, nose sniffling, eye watering, eye rolling, hip thrusting, earthquaking, sheet gripping, knuckles cracking, jaw dropping, hair pulling, teeth jitterbug, mind blogging, soul snatching, overstimulating, vile, sloppy,moan inducing, heart wrenching, spine tingling, back breaking, atrocious,gushy, creamy, beastly, lip biting, gravity defying, nail biting, sweaty, feet kicking, mind blowing, body shivering, orgasmic, bone breaking, world ending, black hole creating, universe destroying, devious, scrumptious, amazing, delightful, delectable, unbelievable, body numbing, bark worthy, can't walk, head nodding, soul evaporating, volcano erupting, sweat rolling, voice cracking, trembling, sheets soaked, hair drenched, flabbergasting, lip locking, skin peeling, eyelash removing, eye widening, pussy popping, nail scratching, back cuts, spectacular, brain cell desolving, hair ripping, show stopping, magnificent, unique, extraordinary, slendid, phenomenal, mouth foaming, heavenly, awakening, devils tango ever bro could cause a nuclear bomb inside me and I'd still ride.
Don’t get me wrong, he is super sexy, and I would love nothing more than to read a convincing love story about him, but that’s just the thing; everything I have ever read, in my head I’m just like “he would hate that” or “he would never do that”
And like yeah, I could try write my own thing and I kinda already did, but I’m just not feeling it, like I’m never feeling it 😭
Like we know he’s pisces, and he’s probably like INTJ or something adjacent, but he gives massive ace vibes half the time, like if I close my eyes and picture it I genuinely cannot picture his dream man or woman, I just don’t think that shit exists 💀
So yeah if you have literally anything, art head cannons or ideas or whatever plz like repost this or sum idk and TELL MEEE YOUR THOUGHTS, cuz I’m genuinely tweaking out.
Abusive relationship! mild sexual themes, Implied married
This fic is the fucked up abusive romance he deserves, like yes we wanna f him but I'm so SICK of Y'all writing him as some misunderstood sweetheart, OR as this towering dominant evil man, this is my slightly poetic slightly sexual/romantic undertones interpretation of him, and the woman he deserves. (in my opinion obviously)
(1,165 words) here is the AO3 link Enjoy!! :)
The crash of plates, cutlery, drawers slamming, she was furious.
“Darling please”
He said weakly, bothered but unthreatened, as a plate went flying over his head.
The words that poured out of her mouth were screeching, loud incoherent screaming as pots and pans continued to fly, crashing onto the stone walls, all Belos could make out was
“You know you wanted-looked at- her- you- fucking bitch”
This screeching mess of angry words and gritting teeth was something they were both very used to, however the word ‘her’ twisted his attention
“Darling please hey hey hey-”
Attempting to comfort her, albeit forcefully, reaching for her waist and hips; his tone shifted, now deceitfully sultry and smooth.
“Come on Darling, you know you don’t want to hurt me”
She raised her hand,
“And!-… and-” Belos started, frantic, then softening his voice again; the tension in the air remained high, uncomfortable.
“And, you know there's nobody else darling!? hmm? You are just imagining things I’m sure.”
He sways with her hips, she stares at him coldly, the flesh of her cheeks twitching, seconds away from striking his face. He practically holds her hands down to their sides with his index fingers, handfuls of her waist, staying in this sort of forced slow sway, pressing their bodies together.
She was always angry like this, they both were; a nasty rot festered between them, manipulative gaslighting tendencies, they hated each other.
He carefully and gently lifted pressure off her waist; he placed his soft fingers lightly pinching her chin, slowly bringing her into a soft warm and gentle kiss, it only lasted a second before the smoothness of her lips brushed against his face as she carefully pulled away…
SMACK,
Swiftly striking his face hard, her lips land back in front of his face immediately afterwards, resting in closeness; she never breaks eye contact, mentally toying with him in her mind as she watches him recover from the blow, a smirk tugs at the corner of her mouth, not fully forming.
Both of their eyes seethe full of burning hatred, a hatred that stems only from proximity, a hatred that craves loud fights, violence, crashing noises trashing kitchens, angry sex, but gentle kisses, a hatred that is so uniquely personal, a closeness that feels like thin waxed cord on tightly bound wrists. It is something only they themselves can truly understand, any outside perspective would label them almost instantly as terribly and so horribly abusive.
She observes the redness of his cheek as it gradually, slowly burns up from her strike; she smiles at her work while his hands fall back planted on her waist, her hips, their natural position, his face is blank.
When she speaks her words are breathy yet sharp, fighting pursed lips.
“You.. are such a fucking liar-”
He responds cutting her off, his voice low and quiet,
“Really.’
“Mhmm” she nods, her lips curl at his taunt
He chuckles “You know full well I don’t ‘fuck’ other women”
He paraphrases the profanity, he doesn’t like such vulgar language but she responds to it well.
The laugh she lets out falls out of her mouth like music
“Oh baby why should I believe you, why should anyone believe a single word”
She grips the belt of his trousers and speaks in a serrated whisper
“You think you can just speak to me like one of your subjects? Like those idiots burning sigils into their wrists for you, Is that what you want? To burn some shitty picture into my arm”
She laughs again, he protests her claims “no.. no n-” finding it hard not to laugh with her, she starts again, speaking louder
“You miss the chase, is that it?....”
she pauses significantly, placing a hand on his chest playing with his hair like a threat, she never breaks eye contact
“It's not enough to have a witch all to yourself is it.. You want to hunt me down, fucking strip me for parts isn't that right ‘mister witch hunter’”
To him this sounds like an offer, the truth is he honestly forgets she is not human, she knows too much now, a part of him loves her, she is wicked and terrible but she is all his, a touchy woman, surprisingly eager to please. Maybe hate is too strong a word, it is in these moments he adores her, wants her to strike him again; tell him how terrible he is, that casting a drain spell will bring about the end of too many lives to count, to beg him to come to his senses, but he knows that is not true, that wouldn't happen in a million years.
This woman revels in the idea of such mass extinction, she wants him to do it. A gentleman has no business hitting his women; but each week he finds himself being struck by her, as she begs and pleads so desperately for him to hit her back, she does nothing but scold him for his actions, make him feel terrible for his sin, just when he starts to rethink his ways she claims that she is so deeply in love with his wrongdoings, playing with his hair, tugging at his clothes sweetly pleading for him to sleep with her.
She admires the colours she has put on him; purple and blue, pink and red, fondling his hips and waist, practically wet at the sight of the bruises on his face.
She caresses the now swelling red cheek she had previously struck
“Mmm, my bruises”
It is moments like these, as he takes in her complexion, as he thinks back on the months they have spent together; he knows she would die before she left him, the poison is too perfect, he knows he would fall apart without her, that he would search for her addicting familiar cruelty in every woman he met for the rest of his life.
He knows she truly loves Belos, in her own twisted, obsessive, nasty way. It must be true, it just has to be, the soft ways she touches him, the things she asks for, but Phillip knows this must be God’s doing.
He knows that lustful look, those glazed placid eyes, he smirks and lowers his hand, feeling his way down her body and cups her mound, a soft smirk dragging across his face, her soaking wet mound; she doesn't move, a conniving plastered soft smile on her face as she continues to fondle his hips. She stares at him now passive, she gets like this after a fight, asks him to touch her with his battered arms and callused hands, lets him touch anything he wants, much to his chilling discomfort and concern.
As they stand together, Phillip feels….. no, he knows that she is a punishment from God, a sweet beautiful terrible punishment, not a blessing nor a curse, though tied to her in desperation, in painful madness, he knows,
Silco x stripper reader/oc (more romantic than it sounds lol)
basically your a stripper working at the last drop, its kinda romantic kinda flirty spicy, but mostly poetically written and nice to read
link to The a03 version of this (where I originally posted this)
(2,253 words)
there Is only one chapter so far, it's got a satisfying ending for one-shot purposes but I could definitely write more. I refuse to use YN so *** is basically YN lol (this is quite literally my first fic ever lol ok the end bye)
Ripped with confusion in different places she fell apart
Standing on that stage felt like holding all her bones, bending her body, twisting her voice entertaining the sea of hungry eyes. Usually this is exactly what she wants, pouring her soul into the ocean, but he was here.
Contorting his own body so smoothly so effortlessly. The King Cobra. The figure head of it all. She was used to these types, those self proclaimed kings, drawing pawns into their empty promises. They never even looked at girls like her, even up on that stage they still manage to take the attention of the whole room subtlety; she is left there writhing, unable to tell who to cater to.
Stepping off the stage and collapsing into herself in front of the dressing room mirror, feeling a burning at the back of her mind
“They’re bad for business,” she muttered to herself.
Trying to get their attention ends In one of two ways, ignored, given a brief smile or laying dishevelled on their office table with powder in her hair, yeah it’s good pay for one night and occasionally makes for good conversation, but mind and body can only stretch so far apart, a loveless life really gets to you sometimes.
“No more powder” she muttered again.
Sets already coming up and that half an hour break feels like 5 minutes. She can’t cope with the lights today it’s all just too much. She groans and swiftly pushes off the table and claws out her her chair “there’s no ecstasy left to suck out of this fucking club”
The King Cobra was still here annoyingly. Usually he would only be here if it was a detour to a meeting but, he was here for a drink? Sure he drinks here now and then but never when it’s this crowded, never.
He was facing away from the stage on a seat directly in front of the bartender, once again extremely uncharacteristically.
She was already back on stage swirling unconsciously with the Rhythm, occasionally having to forcefully break her eyes off of him, watching the back of his head stare down into his cup. Why do I want to care? She thought, and sunk into herself
Halfway through the set and he was still there, still facing away from the stage some other girls were trying to guess his favorite songs, changing up the set order, trying to gage a reaction, everyone wanted to get their hands on his bag regardless of how fucking dangerous he was. She just kept thinking how annoying it all was, as if he’s gonna have much on him its the fucking king Cobra, he’s probably only carrying a gun, or a knife or something, “that’s bottom shit” she told them, she’d been at the club years longer than most of the girls but still couldn’t deny how exciting it would be getting him to turn around even for a second.
She gave the bartender, chuck a glance, he shrugged his shoulders and signaled to the Cobra. He looked back up with worried eyes, more watery and shimmering than usual with that signature furrowed brow, he turned the flat ice shovel so that it reflected in her face, it blinded her for a second but once he forced his hands to stop shaking she could see the Cobra’s face in its reflection.
Slowing her dancing to pay closer attention……………..he looked really fucking depressed.
She felt a smile creep up onto her face, she might actually have a chance with this! King Cobra was his presence not how he operated, being a show off was just, showing off.
The next day she came in early, she had to see how things were going, there was no way a man with that dark a face was NOT going to be drinking the next morning, his sorrow had just begun.
Working where she did you see every kind of person, you become a fucking empath, she could read every single customer with her eyes closed.
The next morning she just practised an old set on the down low and just watched, like a strippers stake out. Early morning people at the bar are the real sad fucks, even sader thing is it’s usually the same people on rotation.
Sure enough there he was, sipping on that same old whisky like it was water, kind of impressive but surely he had the worst headache ever, now was her chance to get a better look. She walked back behind the bar and gave Chuck this really vague ambiguous look.
“So you need help cleaning up?” It wasn’t a question, she began to check the sink for glasses, chuck gave her a blank look.
“yeah umm..” he began “the ice needs refilling so-“ she cut him off “yeah yeah you go get that I got this”
Chuck got the message too late and was swept out back.
She stood in front of the Cobra wiping a glass. He had this dark aura about him with his head resting on 2 fingers in a sort of woe is me pained way.
She wondered what on earth he had to be so mad about and tilted her head,
I just have to go for it the curiosity is killing me she thought.
“Saw you around here last night, don’t catch you often”
She stayed tilted drying the glass, he gave her no response.
“Right got it..” she said reaching down putting the glass away before grabbing the next one
“Was gonna ask you if you liked my set but,.. ha ha’- You know it’s rude to ignore a girls set like you did last night”
She gave him a slight smile and his eyes darted for a second up at her before he rolled his eyes and his glass
“right,.. well I’ll be sure to take a look next time” his voice was tired, he wanted absolutely nothing to do with her.
Life continued on its dry and predictable route until a couple weeks later on a Friday night.
The Cobra had his coat on this time and was definitely just passing through like usual, strangely enough though he looked her way, forgetting what she had told him.
Caught off guard she sort of froze, and decided to give him a really sincere soft smile before continuing and finishing the song. She knew then and there that she had to have fucking got him, surely now she must have had some impact.
Sure enough, next time she saw him a few nights later he was rushing through the crowd, she was leaning on the bar from the outside blocking his path.
One of his men pushed her out of the way “move bitch”
And like clockwork he defended her just like she wanted.
“No don’t be like that- ugh, excuse me-uh what was your name again- darling? ”
the darling was quick and forced and really uncomfortable
“***”
“excuse me ***”
She gave him an empty sad smile in return as he passed, this was honest.
Something about that bitch cut her
And she knew what this would turn into.
The most she was ever going to get out of the Cobra was a smile and an excuse me and a sort of unspoken friendship, she later found out that he didn’t do the whole ‘private parties’ thing so that ship had sailed and at this point she didn’t want money, love is totally overrated but a friend would be really really fucking nice in this dump.
Maybe she should have been born topside, wrote poetry, her body was her poetry in the under-city, the way she moved and danced across the stage was the only way she could get people to listen.
That same night though it was raining,
Raining and she was walking home.
She stood at the back door of the club undercover, heals in hand wrapped in a large coat.
something miraculous happened
Down the ally a black important looking car pulled up and the Cobra was walking towards it escorted by several men
Standing there dimly lit she caught his eye
He started at her before holding his hand out
“Would you like a lift?”
She was as surprised as his body guards
“Umm yes please”
Sitting in the backseat of the car next to the Cobra he started to ask her questions
“how long have you been working at my club”
“Umm a while now actually, almost 2- umm years I think?”
“Wow how come I’ve never seen you before, uh-until recently that is.”
“I could ask you the same”
He smiled
Behind the back seat they were in was another, 2 men sat behind them with the quarter glass open
“Where did you say you were again, ember street?”
“Yes..”
She began to feel uneasy from such a strange question, she had just told the driver where she lived as they got into the car why was he asking again?
“Say, *** you wouldn’t mind if I asked you a strange question would you?”
She shook her head
“You keep tabs on everyone right?, remember faces?”
She stared at him with sharp eyes
“I see everything.”
She had returned the favor and made him as uneasy as her, he went on
“Right….…You see I’m on the look out for this man”
He reached into his pocket for a crumpled up piece of paper and showed her a tall looking man in a blue beanie.
“ring any bells?”
The picture was dark and taken candid of him on the street, hands in his pockets of a navy blue hoodie with rips on the elbows.
Suddenly she felt a sharp pain up her spine
And the back of her neck was freezing
Any contentment she held on her face fell away, and he watched as her face turned cold and dull, she took a long pause before giving her answer.
“How long have you been looking for him”
“Almost a week, hmm more like a few days or so”
His answer was clearly purposely vague
She sighed,
“I have been working non stop for three days, working nights and cleaning mornings, if he came by here he didn’t come inside”
He tried to reply but she cut him off
“I remember every single face, I smell every drink if he came by I could tell you how long he was here and how many cents he spent, IF he came by he did not come inside”
His face fell grim and tired, any positive persona he was holding up was gone
“You seem very sure of yourself”
She could feel teh anxiety in her chest build up and crawl towards her throat, she couldn’t take it any longer.
“in my line of work you see everything, every excruciating perverted detail of every soul that crosses your path. You start to forget you life ever existed before this job, and when you do it for as long as I have any fragment of enjoyment or fun you ever felt for this is fucking gone, but what’s really a thorn in my side is knowing nobody else in the club feels the same way. My girls aren’t really my girls, we keep to ourselves these days, only thing we share is a dressing room, a schedule, and danger when we see it, I am uncomfortably aware of anything that could possibly be dangerous to me 24/7, so I would really appreciate it if you would tell your guy to stop pressing his gun to the back of my chair, and tell me if I should steer clear of this guy, or let you know if I see him”
a silence fell on the whole car every eye was placed on her including the drivers in the rear view mirror.
The man sitting directly behind her was firmly pressing a pistol into the back of her chair just like she said the minute the Cobra had pulled the crumpled piece paper out of his pocket.
He stared at her completely content with eyes like knifes refusing to show any gawk or surprise on his face.
His lips moved slightly and softly snarled, this was the Cobra everyone talked about, not the, can I humbly offer you a ride home bullshit.
He began to let out a cold chuckle as he waved his hand strangely signaling the man behind her to lower the pistol
“Haha sorry *** just a precaution, you understand, obviously quite clearly”
She began to relax again
“I’m not sure I do actually”
He was getting increasingly annoyed and impatient and was sighing as he spoke
“Look it’s… just business, to answer your question, if you see this man you are to report to me immediately, is that fair?”
She spoke as if verbally rolling her eyes
“sure”
They did not speak for the rest of the car ride.
Only a few minutes passed before they arrived at *** apartment complex one of the men came out to open the door for her and the Cobra peaked through in shock at the complete dump she was living in. She quietly giggled at the look on his face, did he seriously not realise how little he was paying her?
Sort of embarrassed he said
“I-trust your fine from here?”
She barely looked back at him nodding
“Thankyou, I’ll let you know if- …yeah”
She caught a glimpse of him lighting a cigar before one of his men closed the door.
