Warning: allusions to stalking and possible abuse.
Prompt: “But it feels real to me now, it felt real to me then.”
I know it’s short but please let me know your thoughts and reblog. Also, would love to discuss any ideas these little snippets inspire!
Love you! 💞
Your footsteps echo through the parking garage. You hurry as you glance behind you, the shadow dipping behind another pillar. You reach into your purse, searching without looking as you come in sight of your car.
You latch onto your keys as you pick up your pace, you swear there’s another set of steps with yours. You drop the keys as a figure steps in front of the boot of your car. You stop short and sway.
James stands in front of your escape. You don’t reach for your keys as you stare at him.
“James, it’s over.”
“It’s not. You know it’s not,” he argues.
You shake your head and bite down on your resolve. “I told you, I can’t… it’s not…”
“But it feels real to me now, it felt real to me then.” He pleads as he steps forward. Your wrists aches where he gripped you before. The last time he blocked you from leaving.
“It was never real,” you insist as he closes in.
“It is,” he snatches up your keys. “Let me show you how real it is.”
Summary: Your life takes an unexpected turn as the leader of the biker gang that took over your town sets his eyes on you.
Warnings: unwanted touching, power imbalance, abusive undertones, more to be added as the series progresses.
Characters: Dark!Biker!James Conrad x F!Reader, Michael from Legion and Billy Lee from Bad Times at the El Royale (biker au)
A/N: I have taken a dive into newer territory and it’s such a thrilling experience. It’s a first I’m writing for James Conrad so please be gentle. I do dedicate this piece to one of my babies, @michelleleewise 💙 Belated Happy Birthday, dear. Also a belated happy birthday to @coldnique!!
As always, your feedback is highly appreciated and reblogs would be amazing. And of course, I hope you guys enjoy! 💙
Against the Tide Masterlist
You turn your head to face the back of the bar when you hear the commotion coming from the kitchen, the din of Melody’s angry voice mixing in with the clack of the pool balls from the other side of the bar and the music playing from the speakers. Luis, the new hire, must have messed up another customer’s order, probably burning the burger patties like he did last night.
You feel your phone buzz from your back pocket and pull off the simple black apron tied around your waist. Turning off your alarm, you peek from the kitchen window and tap your hand against the metal surface, a chuckle leaving your lips as you see Melody’s fuming face.
“What?!” She snarls and you only roll your eyes playfully at her rage.
“I’m taking my break.” You tell her, holding out your hand after. “Cigs.”
She pulls a pack from the back of her pocket and slaps it on your hand, giving her a playful wave with your fingers before looking at Luis and laughing at the way he frowns when Melody goes back to scolding him.
The summer night breeze is a welcome sensation when you step out of the bar and walk over to the side of the building where the cars and motorcycles of the patrons are parked. Tapping the pack against your palm you take the nicotine stick that slides free and tuck it between your lips.
Shaking the lighter, you flick your thumb against the small metal gear, watching the flame come to life and lighting the tip of the cigarette. You take a long drag, watching the embers eat at the roll of tobacco before huffing the smoke up into the air. A small sigh leaves your lips as you can’t help but contemplate what your life has become while watching the smoke form clouds around the full moon that shines in contrast to the dark sky.
All your life you’ve only been in Westmoor, never once venturing away from the small town, even if it’s just to visit the next one over. You once had plans of leaving the place you call home when you were a teenager, to abandon the miserable and abusive life you’ve come to know since you were born—your alcoholic father seeing you as a burden and your mother too afraid to fight back once he cracks his hand against your cheek.
You were free once your mother died from illness, running away from home and finding solace at Ol’ Sammy’s place. The old man treated you like you were his own, his wife, Eleanor, showering you with the love and affection you’ve never known. They’d even ward off your deadbeat father when he would storm up to their porch, demanding money you owed him for raising you.
You felt like you had a family in their presence but even so, your desire to leave just drew stronger. For there was truly nothing but hardship in this town. Yet no matter how hard you tried, saving every penny you can from years of working at Nick’s, leaving just seemed impossible.
Especially now with the gang of bikers that have seemingly taken over just about a year ago. Coming into town and claiming it as their own, with every resident scared for their lives as they shamelessly flaunt their power. They made it their job to make their presence known, terrorizing businesses and taking money for protection that isn’t needed. For no one comes to Westmoor to cause havoc, the only visitors being passersby and hunters during the fall.
The roar of a motorcycle pulls you from your thoughts and you stand rigid against the wall when you see the gang parking their bikes in front of you. You feel a chill run up your spine at their sudden appearance. It’s Wednesday and you know they’re not supposed to be here, Nick telling everyone at the bar when they’re scheduled to collect.
“Hey there, sugar,” Billy calls as soon as their engines die, the burly man getting off his bike and casually striding over to where you stand.
You do your best to keep your guard up, you know better than to face them alone. Rolling your eyes at Billy’s greeting, you drop your cigarette to the ground and stomp your foot on it to kill the embers before walking away. But a yelp of surprise leaves your lips when your pulled back, the air punching out of your lungs when your back hits the wall, eyes growing wide as Billy presses his hand against the concrete surface, trapping you.
“Leaving so soon?” He teases, the hair sitting over his lip moving in waves as he juts out his lips. “We just got here.”
“I’m done my break.” You say in annoyance, pressing your fists against his chest, trying to push him away. “Melody will be furious if I’m late.”
“I’m sure she wouldn’t mind you taking a couple more minutes if she knew you were with me.” His breath already reeks of alcohol, making your stomach turn as he leans closer to your face.
“That’s enough, Billy.”
Your spine tingles in fear when you hear James’ voice, Billy giving you another smirk, turning your head away when his fingers rub against your cheek when he pulls away from the wall.
Out of all the bikers, James is the one people fear the most. His calm demeanor is nothing but a front to his hidden rage. You’ve witnessed first hand when Richard, one of the bar patrons, beat him in a game of pool, the man never coming back to Nick’s after he was bedridden for almost a month.
He’s stopped drinking, his wife, Ingrid, said when you went over to their place to drop off a pie Eleanor made. But the brace around his neck and the bruises you saw decorating his face when Ingrid opened the door a little too wide said otherwise.
“You got a light?” James asks as he stands in front of you. You reach into your pocket and hold out the lighter, keeping your expression stoic when he cups your hand with both his, flicking the flame to life before lighting his nicotine stick.
You pull your hand back when he finishes, tucking the lighter back in your pocket and standing still as he takes a drag and huffs out the smoke, his blue eyes never leaving you.
“What are you doing out here all alone, dove?” He asks, his gaze lingering down your body before he meets your eyes again.
“I was on break.” You respond in a monotone voice. “Was just about to head back.”
“Is Nick in?”
“He called out. Said his wife is sick.”
“Is that so?” He chuckles, taking another puff of the cigarette, cringing when he blows the smoke at your chest. “I guess we came here for nothing, boys. Unless you can make it worth my while?” He asks and you quickly slip away when he leans in closer, your heart pounding hard against your chest when he grabs you all of a sudden. “And who gave you permission to leave?” You shiver at his tone, hushed yet menacing.
“I have to go back to work.” You reason, wincing as he tightens his hold on your wrist when you try to pull away. “You guys come in and have a drink, so your trip isn’t wasted.” You say in a rush, your voice shaking as you speak. “On the house, as much as you want. I’m sure Nick won’t mind.”
“C’mon, boss.” Billy interjects, his voice sounding like an excited little kid about to get a ice cream from the shop. “I also want to challenge Mikey to a game of pool.”
A grunt echoes at the side and you see James’ right hand man, Michael, standing and watching you impassively at the side. His tattoo-covered arms are crossed over his chest, his finger leisurely rubbing the base of the gun that hangs on his holster as if waiting for the opportunity to use it.
“Very well.” James groans and drops the half finished cigarette on the ground, releasing your hand all the same. “But you’ll be the one to serve us. No one else. Understood?” He demands.
You nod and quickly scurry away from him, your annoyance instantly flaring when Billy slaps his hand against your ass when you pass him.
The stuffy atmosphere is a welcome distraction as you walk back into the building. Melody stands behind the bar, the anger from earlier replaced with a smile. But as soon as she sees you, her lips slant and you know that she knows something isn’t right.
“What’s wrong?” She asks.
“Conrad and his minions are here.” You quickly tell Melody as you make your way at the back of the bar, the smile on her face quickly fading at your announcement.
“What are they doing here?” She whispers, turning her back when the boys enter the bar, helping you grab their drinks from the fridge.
“They’re looking for Nick.”
“Did you tell them he isn’t here?”
“I did but they won’t leave me alone.” You bite back, popping the caps of the bottles before setting them atop a round tray. “I told them they can have drinks, on the house.”
“What?! Are you stupid? Nick will be—”
“He’ll be happy that we kept them happy. You know how Conrad is.” You hiss, taking the tray. “And the last thing we need is for him to burn down the bar.”
“Fine.” She says in defeat. “I’ll try to call Nick, maybe he can make them go away.”
You don’t say anything. You already know as well as she and the whole town of Westmoor that it’s impossible to get rid of James and his men.
Warnings: non/dubcon, age gap, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.
My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.
Character: James Conrad
Summary: you sign up for the university newspaper and find yourself in controversy. (Professor AU)
As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging ❤️
A crush of bodies moves you like tides. You barely keep from going under as you sidle against the wall, seeking shelter from the crowd as they swirl madly with furor of the first week on campus. Your eyes are pinned to the banner hung from the railing of the overlook, right across the bustling foyer; Student Journalists Needed!
Your heart flips over at the thought. You're a novice at best. You wrote some poetry for a few contests in high school and helped with the yearbook the last two years. Nothing very noteworthy. Still, it's intriguing.
You should do something. Especially after orientation went over like a burnt pancake. A real flop.
You recede into the crowd and let it carry you to the dining hall. You sit at a table as students mill in and out of the cafeteria turnstiles. Your foot wiggles as you contemplate the year ahead. Your eyes wander and take in the haze of strange faces.
You don't know anyone. Not yet. Your efforts at introducing yourself the day before were of little result. Mandy, a pretty tall brunette with glowing auburn skin laughed in your face and Astrid, the artsy one with her sides shaved, rolled her eyes. You didn't try again.
A new city, a new home, a new school. You're terribly lost in it all. You're starting to question why you didn't just settle for the community college in the small town you grew up. At least you know where you stand with the people back home. They don't like you either.
You take out your phone and search for the social events and clubs page in your email. The depth of information sent to you about housing, sports openings, and frosh week is tantamount to spam. You find a link at the bottom of an email and click.
Scrolling and flicking through gets you to the school paper page. A digital banner similar to the one hung in the foyer headlines the page. Below, the mandate of the publication, then a subheading above pictures of the current co-editors and secretary.
Scrolling further to the new section, you stop the page under your thumb.
'Are you a writer? Bring your portfolio to the Stellan Building, room 28a....' Tomorrow. So soon?
You cradle your phone between your hands and sigh. What are the odds you get in? You shake your head. You'll go, embarrass yourself, and next month, it will be just another forgotten calamity.
📰
To your surprise, there is no line up ahead of you as you hurry down the hall. Maybe the unrenovated basement has eluded or even deterred your fellow aspiring journalists. It wasn't exactly hard to find and you're not so sure you're on the right path.
You can't help but be relieved. You're already burnt out from the sheer number of people around you; in class, in the halls, even in your dorm. There's a reason you're interested in writing and not the cheer squad.
You slow as you read the plaque beside them only open door. The rest appear to be storage. 28a. This is it.
You lean forward to peek around the frame. You don't hear anything.
There's a solitary figure in the room. An older man sat in a chair behind one of the tables. The furniture is outdated unlike those in your lecture halls. The surface of the tables is scratched and a few chairs are missing bolts on the back.
The man has a chair pushed back at an angle, his feet set wide as he reads from a faded paperback. His posture is both staunch yet casual.
Hm. Did you read the time right? You pull back and weigh your options.
"Come in. If you like," the deep voice lilts through and sends a shiver up your spine. How did he see you?
You poke your head around again then move into the door frame. You clutch the folder in your hands and look around. You know you're not early. You didn't want to seem too eager.
"Erm, hi. I... Saw a thing about a journalist club..." You begin.
He marks his page and sets the book down. The cover curls up from the pages. He drags his chair closer to the table and folds his hands.
"You are indeed in the right place," he assures you.
"Oh, cool. Right." You exhale.
"Come in. Let's have a look." He gestured to the folder in your hands.
"Sure," you nearly trip over the threshold.
"James Conrad." He stands to introduce himself, extending his hand across the table. "Professor. Writer. There's some other letters they say I should tack on but I've not much concern."
You shake his hand awkwardly. His grip is firm and his long fingers easily wrap up your whole hand. He's taller the closer you get.
"And your name? Best to start there." He drawls and lets you go.
You stutter before you can choke out your name. You can smell his cologne, a soft citrus underlined with something richer.
"Please, sit," he prompts. He waits until you sit before he does the same. "Now then, why are you here?"
"Um... To apply to the paper?"
"Mm, that's all?"
"Oh, uh, well... I want to write. I enjoy it and I thought... I wanted to make some friends and... I don't have much experience." You bite your lip and cringe. You shrug, "I'm sorry."
"No need for sorry," he says and flutters his fingers. "Might I have a look?"
You flinch and look down. You slide the portfolio across the table. You lean forward anxiously
"I don't have much. Poetry mostly but I want to learn." You explain.
He opens the folder, his blue eyes flitting over the first page. Your stomach mulches violently. You class your hands tight and bounce your knee.
"What are you studying?" He asks without looking up.
You look down. "Statistics."
"Why?" He asks.
You shake your head. "Um. Oh. I... My guidance counselor said there were jobs. Or I could apply it to a Master's."
"Sounds practical. Statistics major, writes poetry." He peers up at you, his long nose lending him an intimidating air.
"Yeah, I guess maybe I should join the math club or something." You murmur.
"Practicality is a virtue. You won't make much of a writing degree in this day and age." He leans the folder on the table as he refocuses on you. "Military man myself. Reckless youth. Climbed through the ranks, meandered around in some high level work but I hated the politicking of it all. Spent my last few years of service as a correspondent." He explains lightly. "Suppose this is my retirement. Or penance."
He puts his attention back to the folder. '...wilted and weeping....'" he reads aloud. "Provocative. You have a way with words. It needn't all be dry."
He closes the folder and sets it before you. He keeps his fingers on the edge. He leans forward.
"The editors prefer digital. Might you forward this to my email and I will put in a good word for you." He asks.
You blink. "The editors."
"Oh yes. Students like yourselves. High and above this little meet and greet. I suppose there is some event down along the Greek side of campus." He scoffs.
"I can email," you promise. "Thank you."
"Don't get lost in those numbers, dear," he stands and offers his hand again. "It would be truly tragic for this world not to hear your words. Read them, rather."
"I.. thank you." You shake his hand again. He squeezes before letting go.
"No, thank you. You're the only soul brave enough to show. I fear this paper's time is washing to the wayside." He sighs. "We need a spark. Perhaps you are more a firebrand than you seem."
You smile sheepishly. You don't have the heart to tell him otherwise. You are more the type to stick between the lines.
"I look forward to hearing back from the editors." You say.
"From me likely. These editors are not so good at follow up. You'll find I'm more here as a figurehead." He explains. "It is up to you lot to figure out all that writing."
"Okay, um, got it." You stand and reach for the folder. "Thanks again. Have a good day."
"Actually, do you mind if I borrow this? I'd like some time to read the rest."
"Uh, sure," you rescind your reach. "Er, enjoy."
"How could I not?" He grins as he sits back down. He ignores the paperback and instead takes the folder. "Oh and if you see any lost souls looking for my cave, do try to point them in the right direction."
No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.
Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as dubcon/noncon, and other possible triggers. 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: On a night out at the bar, you're promoted from wing woman to main star.
Characters: James Conrad, short!reader
Note: it’s hump dayyyy.
As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me <3
Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Asking for more or putting ‘part 2?’ is not feedback.
Love you all. You are appreciated and your are worthy. Treat yourself with care. 💖
"Go grab us a pool table," Martyna demands as she leans on the bar.
"Oh, sure," you turn to search the bar. There's only one table and it's taken. You frown. "Someone's already on it."
"So what? Go put a stack of quarters on it," she says, "I can't. I gotta get my drink."
"Right, er," you teeter on your feet and look back at the table, one man lining up his shot as the other watches, his thick hands around his cue.
The shooter snaps the stick and the clack of balls is sharp and strong. You near nervously, pulling out change as you keep just outside their perimeter as the second man considers his turn with a suck of his teeth. Where he's burly, with a shaggy dark beard, and faded ball cap, the other man has blonde hair and is lithe. They are both tall, though the slimmer man has at least an inch on the other.
You step forward as the man aims from the other corner. You set down four quarters in a stack, just enough to feed the table for another round. The thicker man pauses as he pulls back the cue and narrows his eyes.
"Eh, you're gonna mess me up," he barks.
"Oh, sorry," you recoil and fold your hands over your chest, "I was only..."
You quiet as he grumbles and shakes his head, eyes pinpointing on the felt. You shake your head and back up as the other man tisks.
"Syverson, don't have to be so rude, the lady is merely claiming her turn," the slender man intones, just a foot from you as he twirls the cue, it's butt set to the floor. "Don't fret over my companion," he girds in his peculiar accent, "he's a sore loser."
"Heh, what's that about..." the other man hits the cue ball and sends a striped one into the pocket, "losing?"
You're quiet, nodding as you try to think of the proper response. No one's ever called you a lady. Most people don't notice you. It's why Martyna prefers you as her wing woman, you keep her company until she finds someone fun.
"Rather, you set me up finely," the first man retorts.
You cross your arms protectively and back up, making sure you're out of the broader man as he stalks around to place his next shot. His friend watches calmly, unbothered as he knocks another ball in, then lines up for the third. That one's a miss.
"Shit," the man in the ball cap stands straight and sends you a look. You're not even close to the trim.
"Oh, don't even try to blame her," the blond reprimands, "that's not very valiant, is it?"
"Whatever," the other grumbles as he plants his feet and watches the other.
The slimmer man puts his first shot easily in the corner, the next he sends two balls into opposite pockets, and the next sees him with only the eight ball left to sink. His opponent huffs and shakes his head. You rock back and forth, you hope he wins if only to clear the table.
"Finally," Martyna nudges you as she comes up beside you, "they didn't have Corona, you believe that?"
"Oh, that's crummy," you say, watching the mam measure his shot.
"Mmph, I know you don't give a crap," she scoffs, "why didn't you grab a ginger ale?"
"I'm fine, just had that iced coffee," you shrug.
She hums again. She knows you don't drink, that this isn't your scene, that you're not exactly a social butterfly, so why does she act so disappointed. She invited you. It's always her idea, never yours. You just go along, otherwise you'd have nothing to do and no friends.
"Kinda cute," she leans over to whisper, "look at his shoulders..."
You lower your brow as your cheeks burn. You hadn't really thought of that. Then, you wonder, which one she's talking about. They both have nice shoulders and muscular arms.
They're strangers! You shouldn't think of that. You uncross your arms and once more clasp your hands together.
The man finally shoots, calling left pocket. He calls it true. The ball rolls in and his buddy sighs and swears.
"Nice," Martyna pops her lips off her bottle of flavoured vodka, "our turn."
She steps and grabs the quarters. The bearded man tilts his head at her and fixes his camouflage cap. His cheek dimples as the other man rounds the table and pats his shoulder, "better luck next time, chap."
"Isn't luck," the burly one utters and rolls his eyes, "hustler..."
"And yet you keep falling for it," the other snickers, "come on, I'll buy you a celebratory pint, eh?" The blond turns and strides toward you. "Miss, you're up."
He offers the cue and your lashes flick. You couldn't see his eyes before. They're so blue. You gulp and accept the wooden stick.
"Thank you," you squeak.
Martyna chuckles and grabs the triangle frame from the slot and sets it out. The blond leads away his second, the man with the beard sending a glance at Martyna as she loads the quarters to release the balls. You wait for her to set up, standing back with the cue in hand. You can still feel the warmth of its previous holder's grip.
Martyna swigs from her bottle and sets it back on the trim. She fluffs her black curls and makes a pouty face. She's not doing that for you.
You glance behind her, those men are watching. The blond nods cordially and returns his attention to the bar. The beard one continues to leer in Martyna's direction. You spin back.
"You wanna break?" You ask.
"Sure, whatevs," she turns to the table.
You wait patiently as she scatters the balls. She sinks two solids. She's always been better at this than you. You don't mind losing. It doesn't make much of a difference.
She sinks two more before your turn comes. You regret not grabbing a soda as you mouth grows dry. Martyna is sure to loudly tell you about this guy she works with and how much he wants her. You just humour her with smiles and mhmms. It isn't you she wants to hear her. You know her tricks.
You sink a stripe, then a solid. Back to Martyna. You aren't very good at the game. Your arm's are too short. Maybe if you could get on the table you'd have a chance but that's not proper.
She narrows the solids down to two plus the eight ball. You try your hand again. Scratch. But she misses her shot and you get another go. You sink two before you're done. Still, you're behind.
She empties her bottle, a dramatic gulp that extends her whole body. She outshines you in all aspects; her hair, her looks, her height, her clothes...
She wiggles her but as she bends to clean up. One ball, then two, then she lines up for the final blow. The eight. She calls the corner. She bounces it easily into the pocket and squees and hops, her shirt doing little to contain her amped up excitement.
You lean the cue against your arm and give a clap, "good job, Mart," you say. Genuinely. It was fun enough.
"Aw, you did good," she preens, "how about a rematch? Got any more change?"
"Ahem," a voice interrupts as you grab your purse. The jangle of change comes from behind you and a shadow steps forward, "perhaps you might want to make it interesting? Fancy a round of pairs?"
You glance over at the man with blond hair and lilted accent. Well, you look at his sleeve and follow it up. His profile is well-forged. If you had a type, he might be it. You never considered many men, they never considered you either.
"Pairs?" Martyna toys with proposal coyly and eyes the bearded man as he comes up beside his friend, "I guess it makes sense. But girls vs boys?"
"No fun," the blond agrees, "we might mix it up, eh?" He grins, "James," he touches his chest, "this is--"
"Sy," the other man, who you called Syverson, speaks up, "ladies."
"Martyna," your friend rolls out.
You offer your name in a pitchy stammer. You already feel like the odd one out. The tension is thick enough to choke you.
"Sy, fetch us some cues," James demands, "I'll claim a partner," he looks over at you, "do you mind?"
"Oh, er, yeah, but um, I'm not very good," you say, certain he must have been able to see as much from across the room.
"I'm certain we'll work fabulously together," he assures.
"Here," Sy returns with two sticks, nearly jabbing the James with the spare.
You cling to your cue and fidget. You have no idea what to do now. Someone has to begin.
"I'll break," Sy insists.
"Of course, loser's first," James quips.
He gets an arch of the thick brow in return before Sy bends to aim between two fingers. You dig your nail into the wood of the cue in your hand. James sidles closer, crowding you as you catch a hint of something citrus.
Sy bends and pulls back the cue. He hits the ball and sends it zooming fast enough to crack the triangle on the other end. The stripes and solids scatter, bouncing all around. James chuckles and leans towards you.
“You’ll see he’s about strength, he doesn’t realise the significance of precision,” he intones, “I can show you. It isn’t about how hard you hit but the exact angle,” he tilts his hand to demonstrate as the balls still but non fall into the pockets. “Ladies first.”
You don’t move right away. At first, you don’t get his meaning. You lift the cue and approach the table. You look around. It’s your choice; stripes or solids. Whatever you can get, as usual.
That number four is hovering right at the side pocket. It’s an easy score. You’ll take it.
You position yourself, overly aware of your audience. It feels like the whole bare is watching. You blow out your breath and set your sights. You pull back and snap forward. The cue ball wobbles in its path but hits true, knocking the four into the hole.
It isn’t exactly precise. You stand straight and let out and oomph as your back meets an unexpected wall. James brings his arms up and puts his hands around yours. His proximity is suffocating.
“You’ve got an easy in on the five,” he advises, guiding you to bend with him as he directs your stick. “Loose,” he wiggles your front hand and squeezes your back hand. “Keep it like this, not too high.”
He holds you like that for a moment then draws back. He steps to the side and crosses his arms. You focus on the ball, your skin speckling with heat. His scent lingers, perhaps a touch of orange in his cologne. You keep your hold loose and grip tight the butt of the cue. You shoot and the white ball clacks off the red solid, sending it neatly into the corner.
Martyna giggles and you look up. She’s not laughing at you. Sy is muttering something to her. You blink and stands straight, glancing over at James. You understand what this is but you’re the placeholder, the wing woman, you just keep the friend busy while she has her fun. You know how this ends.
“You’ve got another go,” James says.
You nod dumbly and face the table again. You search for your best hope and shift around to the other side. You nearly cross your eyes in your efforts to bounce the ball from one wall into the opposite pocket. You just miss. You cringe and back away.
Your gaze meets James’ as you find him watching you still. Martyna moves to line up her shot, giggling over her shoulder as she does. As you edge away from her, that man’s eyes follow you. They’re so blue. So, intense.
You look at the tip of the cue and tap your thumb to the side. You’re in your head. He’s not really staring. When you peek up again, he hasn’t looked away. Not even as you hear the balls hit. He winks and your chest pounds in disbelief.
No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.
Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, age gap, arranged marriage, 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: the day has come to do your duty as a noble daughter.
This is part of the Three Sisters for Three Misters AU (this reader is know as Wren)
Characters: James Conrad
Note: We've rounded out the trifecta.
As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.
Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.
I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖
You stare at the empty stable and growl. White hot rage ripples through then subsides as you let out a long breath. The days of letting your mother rile you are behind you. You rescinded her power over you at your sweet sixteen when she made you wear that ridiculous clown suit. No longer will her victories needle deeper than the twitch of a cheek.
You flick your lashes up and twist on your heel. Suzanna gives you a guilty look as you pass. It isn’t the groomer’s fault. Your mother does as she wishes, so much so that she can’t help make others align with whatever those wishes may be. Well, you’ve agreed to do your duty, she’ll have nothing else out of you.
The furrow in your brow eases and you put on a smile. The one you’ve trained since you were a girl. It’s rather convincing. Even she buys it sometimes. Though, since you’ve grown into adulthood, your mother does seem rather wary of you. Good.
You roll your shoulders to free yourself of the last of the tension and breeze inside. The furor of the evening’s preparations greets you in a cacophony. You see Nancy frantically pulling lacy table mats from the closet and Annalise thunders demands in the kitchen.
Before you can reach the stairs, your mother appears like a witch in one of those childhood movies she forbade you to watch. Well, all your friends had them and no matter what she thinks, she cannot command all. You keep your lips curved and bat your eyes innocently.
“There you are,” she proclaims and gives a sniff, “and you don’t smell like a barn.”
“Mother,” you retort, “I am on my best behaviour. Do you need to rub the salt in?”
“I am only making sure you are on schedule. Tonight is very important.”
“Oh, wow, I had no idea it was,” you say dryly.
“Get it out now,” she snaps. “Our guest will not appreciate that lip, nor will I stand to be embarrassed.”
“Motherrrr,” you draw out the word, “you needn’t worry for me. I gave my word and despite my lineage, I do know how to keep it.” You tilt your head wryly, “but you will have Lottie back in the stable tomorrow or you might question my integrity.”
She frowns, “I only sent her out to be shoed. Don’t be so paranoid.”
“I know what you’ve done, mother. She’s my horse.”
“You are not a girl anymore,” she girds.
“Don’t I know it,” you sidestep her and proceed upstairs.
To describe your mother cannot be done in a single word. You have more than a dictionary’s worth for her; overbearing, conniving, heartless, soulless... Yes, well, you have faith that whoever she’d bartered you to cannot be worse. You don’t know that there’s any in existence who could even match her.
“Wait,” she calls after you, “have you seen your sister?”
You don’t ask which one. Either of them are prone to disappearing. Better they do than you. You would be certain not to be found.
As you come down the hall, your name wrenches you back like a leash. Your father keeps his voice low as he waves you closer. You turn and stride toward his office door. He can be as stubborn as your mother but he has his moments of softness. At least, for you. You think it’s only his natural obliviousness that makes him seem unkind.
“Eh, how’s the Queen of Darkness then? Has she sacrificed a maid yet?” He whispers.
“Father, really? Even if she heard you, she can’t be bothered,” you shake your head. “She has horse-napped Lottie so that I can have no joy on this special day.”
“Oh, lovie, don’t be so pessimistic. It is about time. You need a husband. Eh, I need you to have a husband. You and the others. I count myself a lucky man that I’ve found you such fine suitors and you should measure your own fortune the same,” he tuts. “There aren’t many true gentlemen left.”
You hold back a sigh. He can be amiable but he still rules over you all with the same iron. As you are to your mother, you are still merely a title bearer. Your duty comes before anything else. Yes, well, your husband will have his duty too, won’t he?
“Right, well, I don’t need another lecture. So if you want me to thank you on my knees for a stranger, I will not do so. I am already marrying him, that should be enough gratitude,” you insist.
“Oh, daughter, don’t be so hard. Sometimes...” he hesitates, “yes, sometimes you do remind me of your mother.”
“Rude,” you snip back. “Father, I shall see you at supper.”
You turn and storm down the hall. You slam your door. You’re already over today. But you can’t be. This isn’t just about you, it’s about your sisters. Chicky, your youngest, will be fine. She has her way of just getting by, but Wren... she’s another matter. You’re more nervous about them than yourself.
You get out of your riding clothes. It’s as if your mother is setting you up. As if she wants you to act out. She does love drama. Even when you’re going along with her machinations, she does her best to ruin them.
You pull on your red robe and go to your en suite bathroom to start your routine. Cleanse, moisturise, tone, makeup, hair... You leave your lips bare, not trusting yourself not to lick it off. At least your mother can be thankful that you enjoy getting all prettied up. As you set away your makeup, you hear a door in the hallway.
It’s safe to assume it’s your missing sister. It’s closer than Wren’s door, it must be Chicky. You peek out before you emerge and go to knock on her door. You enter and give her wry look. She has paint behind her ear. You won’t mention it.
“There you are. Mother’s been squawking all day.” You intone.
She glances at you in the mirror and shrugs. You give her a pointed look. Playful, not serious. You laugh and frame your hips with your hands.
“Please, let me do your hair so she doesn’t tear it out.” You insist. It’s as much a favour to her as yourself. You need to keep busy.
“If you want to,” she gives another shrug. She’s not as particular as you about her hair.
You near her and eye the dress hanging from the vanity drawer. Pink, short, and fluttery. “Oh, that dress is so you.”
You touch the neckline and play with one of the facsimile petals. She takes her blush stick and blots her cheeks.
“What about Wren? She’s usually much more elusive than me,” Chicky asks.
“Oh, yes. She took her nose out of her book for five seconds to get the witch off her back.” You recall your other sister’s dull stare as she faced your mother at her bedroom door. You take a comb and start at the ends of Chicky’s hair. “Even after a lifetime, she can’t really accept that this is what we were born for. I worry for her but she locked her door.”
“And probably climbed out the window,” your sister chortles. She’s probably right.
“Always the most clever of us.” You agree and focus on your task before you find your voice again, “are you nervous?”
She looks at you in the mirror. Her shoulders rise once more. She tries to act like she doesn’t care but you know she does. You do too.
“Strangers, aren’t they? But mother and father were too,” she says.
“Mm, and look how well that turned out. I don’t think they’ve been alone together since right before you were born,” you hiss.
“Likely not... but mother says the men are well-bred. Polite.”
“Frigid,” you smirk. You know exactly how gentlemen are. And you’ve gathered that these men are older and established. Will they even have the energy? They are looking for status, not lovers. “You must read between the lines. That is how society talks. They never say the truth, the toe around it until it kicks you in the teeth.” You slide a pin into her hair, “I’ve asked around but people never talk about interesting things, do they?”
“No, not really,” she pouts then stretches her lips in a goofy smile. “Am I pretty, sister? Will mother approve of me?”
You laugh and shake your head, “oh, it will be quite the night, won’t it?”
“Don’t act as if I will be the only menace. And I’m not so worried about mother, as she shouldn’t be of us. We have to impress these men, not her, right?” She argues.
“Impress? Well, I shouldn’t need to try for that. He can win me over. Tradition and all,” you retort. You aren’t looking to endear a husband, he’s already been snared. You will be what he needs. A wife in title, not in your heart. You won’t delude yourself to think society has any room for love.
You give a start as the door clicks. You look back as Wren enters and pushes herself to the door. Her eyes are wide and her hair is just as manic. She never has been able to rein in her strands. Her mane seems to reflect the stubbornness she carries so quietly.
“I saw one,” she says.
“Saw one?” Chicky drones.
Wren hushes you and scurries closer. There’s a leaf in her hair and you can smell the oak on her. She’s been in her tree again. He glasses stick of her tresses crookedly and her book threatens to slip from under her elbow.
“He’s tall. Blond. Look!” She gestures to the window.
You look to your other sister and she stands. You both approach the window and peer through. Wren hovers behind.
“Oh, wow, isn’t that typical? Aan antique car. Well, Wren, you should hope he’s yours then. By the looks of it, he’ll spend more time with that beast than you.” You scoffs dryly.
Wren whimpers as you hear her fussing. You can’t imagine tonight will be easy for her. She doesn’t do well with strangers. And by her expression, they might assume she’s annoyed rather than anxious. If only they knew how lovely your sister truly is.
“Mm, he has manners. He is chatting rather intently with Reginald.” You remark.
“Yes, Reginald can be rather chatty,” Wren grumbles. Well, she may be a bit grumpy.
“Well, Kes,” Chicky faces you, “you said you asked around. What did you hear?”
“Like I said, gossip is rarely useful,” you sigh. Marcianna offered you crumbs and you don’t have the patience for all those other gabbers. “Mine, Conrad... he’s not much history in ‘society’,” you nearly spit the last word. “From what I’ve gathered, he comes from a well to do family. I heard more of his brother than him. Frustratingly mysterious.”
You cross your arms and sit, “then there’s Laufeyson, Wren’s match. He does have quite the reputation. A tricky man. I’m not entirely sure why mother and father chose him but no offense, Wrenny, you are a middle child.”
You don’t mention all that you heard of him. To think your mother chose him for her. Well, it isn’t a match you would have made but if need be, you can set more than your own betrothed straight.
“Mm, I’d say better than no one but no one sounds rather nice,” Wren bemoans.
Chicky laughs, amused by the comment. You can’t help by empathise. Wren is right; no one does sound lovely.
“And me?” Chicky asks.
“Pine. Proper gentleman by my measure. Never a toe out of line. No mystery, no scandal. He sounds like he was created in a factory.”
“Boring?” She sniffs.
“I wouldn’t expect any of them to be more than,” you check your nails. “But we should try to pretend they are interesting.”
“Forever,” Chicky adds.
“Forever...” You echo. “So is our lot, yes? We must make the best of it. Get through tonight, then the wedding, and when all is said and done, we can still be us.” You hook one leg over the other and lean on your hands. “I’ll take Lottie with me. She’s a loyal stead and I’ll need something fun to ride.”
You wink and Chicky giggles as your implication. Wren whines and sways at the very thought. Oh, how will she ever face her wedding night?
“Wren, you can take all your books and add a thousand more to your shelves. You could build yourself a castle and lock yourself away to read forever,” you try to comfort her, “and Chicky,” you turn to your other sister, “you can just be you. Go out shooting or dancing or shopping. As long as our duty is met, we will be free. Truly. No more mother, no more father. We will laugh in their faces and say ‘no’.”
“I hope you’re right,” Chicky refocuses through the window. You haven’t the heart to tell her that the man below is hers. She’ll find out in due course.
“I do too,” You say. “Think of it this way, we want out of this house. This is how we get out. Then we have our own titles, our own rights, and our husbands, well, they can have their own hobbies.”
Chicky turns back completely and nods. She returns to the vanity. She’s in a rare state of apprehension. You don’t dare mention it.
You put your attention to your other sister and lighten your tone, “So, Wren, you look ready to meet your beloved.”
She winces and you almost feel bad for the joke. No, you have to be strong. For both of them. And you will get through this together. Husbands be damned.
Warnings: power imbalance, blood, and some untagged dark elements.
Summary: James is unhappy about the last mission.
Note: please leave some feedback and reblog. It's just a short drabble but I do enjoy chatting it up with y'all. Love yas.
James Conrad is a complicated man, but so easy to read. When he's unhappy, everyone knows it. His silence isn't unusual but it's different, and that tick in his cheek is assurance of pending consequence.
"Dismissed." He declares. The first word he's spoken in the last hour.
You don't blame him. There's holes in his shirt where bullets glanced by him. Friendly fire in the frantic scene of defense.
Gaston doesn't look at his boss, the man he almost ended with his own misfire, and the others are deathly quiet as they back away from the table and shuffle out. You follow but not quick enough. Conrad calls you back.
You stop in the doorway and glance over your shoulder. You just want to be alone in your cot. You're no less culpable than the rest for the chaos.
Conrad found you huddled behind a tree.
"Where's your sidearm?" He asked as he wrenched you up by your elbow.
Sure, you know how to aim and fire, but you're a medic, not a mercenary. Your pistol was lost in the mud along with your courage.
"Sir," you face him.
"Close the door," he orders you.
You obey. You push until the mechanism catches. He leans forward and winces, a small his escaping through his teeth. He reaches over his head and tugs at the back of his collar. He strips away his tattered shirt and throws it on the metal table.
He doesn't need to give his next command. You have a job so you do it. You rest your hand on the kit that rests against your hip. You lift the thick strap over your head as you approach the table.
You put the kit down and unzip it. He's silent. Still. He pushes back the chair, anglong towards you. Along with the small nicks of bullet grazes are black streaks of gun powder.
You take a sterilizing wipe and bend to clean away the dry blood and dirt. He doesn't even flinch. His inaction, his silence, is throttling.
You clear your throat as you unwrap an adhesive bandage. The large patch is big enough to cover the breadth of one side of his rib cage. He won't need stitches thankfully.
As you press it into place, he sighs.
"You panicked," he says.
You're too ashamed to look him in the face.
"Panic gets people killed."
You weren't the only one, yet you're the only one he kept behind.
"Yes, sir." You utter.
"A squeamish medic, what use is that to me?" He says.
"Not much," you resign and you stand straight, keeping your chin down. "Sorry, sir."
"Sorry won't unfuck what just happened," he growls.
You're quiet as you think. You nod. "Should I pack up?"
"I didn't say so," he tuts and crosses his arms, leaning back on the metal chair as his chest bulges.
You’re confused, scared even. The anger roils off of him.
“What use are you to me dead?” He asks pointedly.
You shrug. He huffs again.
“Look at me,” he insists.
Your eyes flick up and meet his, steely and blue. He slowly unfolds his arms and sits up. You watch him, uncertain, and he reaches to flutter his fingers against yours.
“You are much to pretty to be bleeding in the muck,” he drawls. “From here are on out, you are suspended from field duties.”
His long fingers trace yours more firmly and he encases your hand in his. You twitch, paralysed by his unexpected gesture. He raises your hand as he leans forward. He nuzzles between your knuckles as your eyes round. What is he doing?
“I’ve use of you elsewhere.” He presses his lips against the back of your hand, heat spattering across your flesh.
“Sir.”
“Say ‘yes, Captain’ and go warm my cot,” he grits as he lets you go. “I will find you once I’ve finished my cognac.”
“Yes...Captain,” your voice piques sharply as you drag your soles back stiffly. You blink and turn away from him, staggering in the haze of disbelief. James Conrad is truly a complicated man. Much more than you could ever predict.
No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.
Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as dubcon/noncon, and other possible triggers. 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: On a night out at the bar, you’re promoted from wing woman to main star.
Characters: James Conrad, short!reader
Note: I'm Canadian so I get a three day weekend.
As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me <3
Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Asking for more or putting ‘part 2?’ is not feedback.
Love you all. You are appreciated and your are worthy. Treat yourself with care. 💖
“I defer to you,” James says as Sy grumbles over a near miss. “Call it.”
You look at the table. Oh, right. Only the eight ball left. You examine the felt and consider every angle. It’s well out of your skill range.
“I can’t...”
“Certainly, you can,” he insists blithely, “I’ve no doubt.”
You frown with tight lips, “don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
You walk around the table, one way, then the other, and back again. Sy lets out a deep sigh of irritation as Martyna giggles into her glass. How many drinks has she had? You resign yourself to failure and approach the trim.
“Right corner,” you declare, though it is more murmur.
You shift back and forth, trying to get the angle right. You squeeze the cue tight until your knuckles hurt. You loosen up as you glance away from the felt and your eyes meet James’. He shows no sign of anxiety. He simply watches. Patient.
You open your dry lips and blow out between them. You narrow your sights on the ball and pull back. You bring your back hand forward and the tip sends the cue ball spinning. You look away before it can bounce the eight ball off the edge.
You back up with your cue and cling to it, the butt to the floor.
“Aha,” James exclaims as Sy groans, “victory.”
“Huh?” You blink and look at the table as the white ball rolls away from the corner pocket, the black ball gone.
“Whatever,” Sy growls, “need a girl to fight your battles.”
“Don’t be a poor sport,” James chides playfully. He gets only a growl in response. “What say you all to another match?”
“Mm,” Martyna hums as the ice clinks in her glass, “I need a drink.”
“Me too,” Sy agrees as he puts his cue in the wall rack, “what’re you drinking?”
He takes her cue and places it away with his own. She grins and gives her order before following him away. She leaves you alone at the table with the other man. Barely more than a stranger, even if you know his name.
You sway awkwardly and look around. Maybe you could distract him by losing to him. You glance at the table and try to piece together the suggestion.
“And you? Would you like a drink?” He offers before you can summon your voice.
“Oh, uh,” your lashes flick. “I don’t really... drink.”
“Perhaps a sparkling water?” He suggests and offers wordlessly to take your cue, “we should let some others have a go. I’d hate to live on the felt.”
“Uh, yeah, sure.”
You hand over your cue and watch him take both to the rack. He secures them then turns back, strutting over to you. The coned glass shade casts a glint in his eyes and nicely limns his features. You’re all too aware of how mismatched you are. Where he is confident and handsome, you’re reticent and plain. Boring, if you do say yourself.
“Come,” he beckons you toward the bar as he trails behind you.
You lead the way ahead of him, through the bodies waiting for their own drinks, and you stop before a tall stool. He gestures over your head and calls the bartender by name, “Curt.”
The man finishes up the order and takes a bill in return before he nears your side of the bar. He greets the other man with a subtle nod, “pint?”
“Yes, and whatever the lady prefers,” James says.
The bartender only notices you then, tilting his chin down to see you. You give a sheepish grin. You don’t often order more than water.
“Ginger ale, please?” You request.
“All I got is organic ginger beer. It’s spicy,” he replies.
“Sure, thanks,” you agree easily. You hate to trouble him or the man who’s kindly offered to buy you a drink.
You’ve done this before. You bear through the awkwardness of the courtesy until you see Martyna has her catch of the night. Then you find a way to excuse yourself and the men never seem to mind. They're already scoping out someone else.
The bartender uncaps the dark green bottle of ginger beer and places it on the bar. Then he fills a tall pint of golden beer and sets it next to the non-alcoholic beverage. James takes both and bids you to ‘come’. You do as he says. You’re not sure what else to do.
He leads you to a table and you peer around. You see Sy and Martyna. He has her penned in by the wall as they speak closely and nurse their drinks. You sit as James puts your drink before you. You face him and wonder for a moment how he got his fare for free. He never paid. He probably has a tab, he seems to know this place well.
“You don’t come here often,” he states, not asks.
You nod, “I’m not much for... bars, but Martyna likes them.”
You put your hand on the bottle and turn it slowly. His eyes follow the movement of your fingers for a moment before they return to your face. You save yourself from talking and take a sip of the ginger beer. It is rather spicy.
“I wouldn’t figure you the type. In the best way possible,” he chuckles softly, “this isn’t the place for nice girls.”
Nice girls. Boring girls. You know what he means.
“Yeah...” you agree flatly.
“You from the city or visiting?” He asks.
It’s small talk. He’s filling the air. He’s playing his part. Keep the other one distracted while his buddy seals the deal. You get it. It’s torturous.
“From here. Live here,” you shrug.
“Right,” he nods, “in this neighbourhood?”
“South east,” you say.
“Ah, not very far,” he muses and tastes his beer. You stare at the table. You’re tired and slightly embarrassed. You appreciate him being so nice but you know it’s not genuine.
“You know,” you examine the label on the bottle, “you don’t have to sit with me. I can just go,” you glance over at Sy and Martyna as they lock lips, “looks like they’re getting along so--”
“Pardon?” He cranes to see over his shoulder, hooking his arm behind the chair so his bicep bulges and his bluish grey tee strains across his chest, “no,” he turns back, “I... that isn’t-- unless you want me to go away.”
You swallow. You drink again, just to wet your dry tongue.
“Sorry, I just thought... usually...” you cringe and snap your mouth shut. You shake your head.
“I’m intrigued, it has nothing to do with anyone else,” he brings both elbows to the table and leans forward. “I see a lot of types come through here but you... you’re different.”
You crinkle your brow and look down. Your slate gray pants with the barely discernible plaid pattern sewn into them and your stuffy turtleneck under the crocheted vest don’t really fit. You’re all too aware of how you stick out. You let go of the bottle and drag your hands down to your lap, picking at the tip of your thumbnail.
“Like I said, I’m not really a drinker. It’s Mart,” you sniff.
“I don’t mean it in a bad way. Truly,” he keeps his attention on you, “did you make the vest yourself? I like the roses.”
“N-no, my grandma...” you once more scald in humiliation. With each word, you just stamp in his first impression.
“You’re close with her?” He intones.
You look at him. His eyes make you want to melt into the chair. He isn’t like the other men you’ve sat in purgatory with. He isn’t looking around at anyone else. In fact, his intent stare makes you squirm.
“Yeah, I try to visit,” you clear your throat and shift in the chair, nervously running your fingernails in a ridge of the ribbed sleeve of your turtleneck, “I’m boring. What do you do?”
He chuckles, “talk about boring. Trust me, I’m not very exciting. I want to know about you.”
His intensity makes you want to fan yourself.
“Just a bookkeeper,” you answer.
“Ah, a very useful occupation.” he praises.
Boring, you want to say again. Just like everything about your life. You look at the ginger beer and frown.
“You don’t like your drink?” He suggests. He’s attentive to the point of discomfort.
“It’s fine, I just... different,” you utter.
“Who do you bookkeep for?” He asks.
You give pause. He asks a lot of questions. Maybe you’re just not used to that much interest, but it feels like a bit much. How would you know? You see Martyna and the men she associates with. They look at her the same way. It could just be that he really is into you.
“A publisher. There’s a few of us.”
“Hm, yes, there would be,” he hums, “think I might know the book house.”
“Uh, yeah,” you give half a smile. Everyone knows the publishing company; it’s the core of the city’s economy.
“I’m rather a fan of their mysteries,” he says. “Have you read--”
“Conrad,” a drunken slur interrupts him and James sits back to look up at the other man. Sy’s eyes are half-glazed as Martyna clings to his arm, “we’re headed out.”
“Ah, yes,” James checks his watch, “it is rather late.” He turns his attention to you, “shall we?”
You look between them. Martyna bats her lashes at you drunken and tweaks her brow. You’re all leaving. Together?
“I’m afraid he’s crashing at my place, he had some issue with his pipes,” James explains, “so I’m afraid I’ll need to let him in like a stray cat.”
“Hmph,” Sy growls but is quickly distracted by Martyna’s hand rubbing his chest.
This is strange. It’s never been like this before. Maybe it’s better that you stay close to Martyna to make sure she’s okay. Usually, she tells you to go. She calls you a cock block. She isn’t wrong. You don’t exactly inspire lust.
“Right, yeah,” you stand and hit the table as the chair is heavier than you expect and traps you.
The ginger beer wobbles and clatters onto its side, sending a foamy wash across your middle. You quickly pick it up and set it right but it’s too late. You’re mortified.
“Ah, pity,” James remarks, “Sy,” he looks at the other man, “fetch us a cab, I’ll get something to clean up from the barkeep.”
“Don’t drag your ass,” Sy warns.
James doesn’t acknowledge the warning, striding over to the bar and speaking briefly with the man behind it. You stand in the damp mess as Martyna purrs at the other man before he leads her out. James returns and offers a dish cloth.
“How unfortunate,” he remarks as you accept the cloth.
“Yeah, I... it’s my fault. I wasn’t paying attention.”
“I hope it doesn’t stain your vest,” he says.
You shrug, “it’s fine.”
“Yes, but your grandmother put such hard work into it.”
You dab at the moisture and look up at him. You can’t tell if he’s mocking you. Your lips slant and you focus on sopping up the ginger beer.
“I wasn’t... wasn’t making fun,” he says, “if it came across--”
“No, no, I didn’t think so,” you lie. You do what you can and ball up the cloth, “I’ll bring this back. Maybe I should just meet you outside.”
“I will wait,” he assures, “I am a gentleman after all.”
Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as violence, blood, mentions of cheating, 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 suspicions lead to a discovery you'll never forget. (Part of the Illuminate AU)
Characters: James Conrad
Note: This is our last installment for October. I had a lot of fun with this and I hope you did too. Let me know what you think about me possibly opening drabble reqs/imagines as little continuations of these fics.
As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me <3
Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!)
I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖
“Be careful,” you gird as James grabs his suitcase, his black wool coat buttoned up under his grey scarf, “the roads are awful. Are you sure you can’t delay?”
You cross your arms and shiver as the frigid winter seeps in around the front door behind him. He gives a mournful shake of his head. He looks gaunt and ashen, a feat for someone with his bone structure. He makes himself smile and steps towards you, cradling the back of your head as he draws you close to kiss your forehead.
You close your eyes and tilt your head up, claiming a kiss on the mouth too. He pulls you close, embracing you tightly. You feel him tense before he lets you go. Your anxiety heightens as you retract and look him up and down.
It isn’t unusual for him to travel for work, you knew that when accepted the job, and you can’t complain for the profit of his efforts. Yet, the last few times, you’ve had this uneasy feeling. A little voice that keeps whispering to you that something is amiss. There’s something you’re not being told.
“I will,” he avows, “love you.”
“Love you too,” you echo on impulse. You mean it but that doubt nips inside of you.
“I’ll call…” he says, “please, don’t worry too much about me.”
“I always worry,” now that is true.
“Stay in tonight,” he says as he tucks his gloves into his pocket and hooks his finger through his keys, “it’s cold.”
“Trust me, I won’t be out,” you scoff, “bye babe.”
“Bye,” he says reticently, unable to restrain a twiddle in his fingers.
He faces the door and lets himself out. You follow behind him as he pulls the door shut and you push on it to make sure it catches. You hover your hand on the lock and watch him through the slender pane of glass set into the door. He looks back as he gets to the car, raising his hand in a half-hearted wave.
He could cancel, couldn’t he? Say the weather was too much, the roads icy. He should be able to and he hardly seems eager to go. Or perhaps, only guilty…
You can’t wait another month for your answer. You back away from the door without locking it and take out your phone. You pull up the app and see the little dot in your driveway, backing out slowly. You shouldn’t have done it, you shouldn’t have slipped the tag in his bag, but you know you won’t sleep either way.
You’ll wait ten minutes before you leave. You slide open the closet and pull out your jacket and boots. You’ll have to keep your distance, try not to catch up. If he gets to the interstate, you’ll turn back. You’ll know then if he’s lying or not.
🌕
The sky darkens quickly. With your headlights off, it's even more umbrous. A full moon is expected and would help illuminate the road if it even deigns to emerge from behind the clouds.
You follow the dot on your phone, driving slowly to keep a safe distance, to not be seen. Your husband's care turns away from the interstate and your dread mounts. He doesn't head for the country roads either.
It's only as you take the next turn and hit gravel that you realise exactly where you are. You're headed into the industrial district. What a choice for a hookup. You're convinced now.
You dim the screen of your phone as the dot of the airtag blinks closer and closer in the app. You steer slowly over the stony lot past one of the block factories and past an inactive smokestack. You stop just as you spot the idling tail lights of James’ car.
You shut off your engine and watch as he does the same. You watch him through the darkness, the pillow clouds of the winter’s night casting him in ominous shadows. He gets out, his tall silhouette slightly hunched as he nearly staggers forward. He shakes his head as if he’s dizzy.
He nears the large building before him, soft light radiating around the crack of the large metal door. You note that he doesn’t bring his bag from the back seat. You already know this isn’t business, but that’s all the proof you need to sink into your despair.
You watch as the tall metal door slides back from within and he dips his head as he’s greeted by another figure within. You see only her outline. Her. You shudder and tear your gaze away, staring at the stone on your finger. You hear the heavy shift of the door as it rolls shut, clanging as it’s locked from the other side.
Fuck. What now? You know what he’s been up to but you don’t have a plan beyond that. Do you drive home and cry into a glass of wine? Do you get out and confront him? Tell him not to come back.
Suddenly, the world brightens around you as the layers of clouds recede and reveal the full face of the moon. The silver light beams down and shines on James’ car and the front of the dingy white industrial building.
Your eyes sting as you find yourself paralysed. Go back or forward. You don’t know what way to go.
A starling growl rips through the whistling wind and jars you. You look around, horrified by the noise, something eerie you can’t place. A wolf? Around here? You grip the wheel tight as your eyes return to the dented facade of the abandoned factory.
Your inaction, your indecision holds you there. Deep down, you didn’t want to believe. You couldn’t. You love James so much that maybe you can get through this.
Your hopeless thoughts are interrupted by the sudden shatter of glass. Shocked, you look up to the rain of shards as they fall from the second story of the building. A dark shape plummets from the height and heaps onto the ground, twitching. Oh god, it can’t be!
You lean forward, trying to see if the figure is still moving. Is it a person? Is it him? That fear submerges you and cuts through your hurt and anger. You get out without another doubt, leaving the car door open and you race towards the puffing body on the ground.
As you near, you slow, stopping just a few feet away as you realise it can’t possibly be your husband. It isn’t even human. The… creature raises its head, sniffing with its long snout as it bears its teeth with a ravenous snarl. Its silver eyes meet yours as you stumble back in terror.
What is that?
You shriek as it plants its feet and rises. You step backwards, twisting on your heel as you hurl yourself back towards your car. You run without looking back, hearing that thing pursuing you with its gritty breaths and crashing paws. No, no, no!
You pant as your shoulder hits the door of your car. You barely keep it from closing full and pull it back. As you do, you feel a fiery rip through your flesh, right down the back of your leg, ripping through your muscle. You kick back and launch yourself into the front seat.
You turn and pull the door shut, catching the wolfish monster’s head between it and the metal frame. You cling to the door as it snaps its jaw at you, growling and slobbering your leg throbs hotly. You shift the door and inch and pull it shut, slamming it against the beast's neck. It yelps and as it recoils and you let up enough for it to reel back in the dirt.
You quickly lock the doors and the windows and face the wheel. Your leg is almost impossible to control as it shakes, slick with blood as it seeps through your jeans. You’re dizzy as you feel your strength draining fast.
You won’t make it far if you don’t stem the flow. Fast! The beast hops onto your hood, its claws denting it as it hammers on the metal. You take your scarf from around your neck and tie it above your knee, tight, then tear away the dangling patch of your jeans to wrap the gash down your calf.
You shake as you sit back and turn the keys in the slot. You feel the fire radiating up your thigh, like your veins are filling with acid. The creature bends back the corner of your hood and the rumble of your engine dies as it buries its dagger-like claws into it. Fuck!
The monster turns its silver irises back on you, breath puffing as it watches you through the windshield. It spins and raises its paws, bringing them down on the glass, sending a spider web of cracks through it. It rears back again but before it can bring down the shattering hit, a blur swipes it off the front of the car.
You hear snarling and snapping. You squint as the edges of your vision blur. You’re losing too much blood. You can feel the world fading from you.
You glance over as another lupine creature tangles with the first. They’re fighting, rolling in the dirt and snow, thrashing and biting. Your head lolls back against the seat and your gaze wanders over to the building as you resign yourself to the weakness dragging your eyelids down.
In your final moments, worry bubbles over and pangs in your chest. That beast. James was inside, had it hurt him too? Is he still alive?
🌕
The world pulses around you, just on the other side of your unconscious. Blustering gales pound against metal, sweeping through and glossing over your raw cheeks. The rest of you is enshrined in ice, the dull hum of hot air blowing from something electric.
Your nose is dry and your lips are crackly, your body bound in achy knots. Your leg is emblazoned in fire as you quake, the frigid cold invading your very person. You cling to the blanket cocooned around you, groaning as your eyelids slowly lift.
There’s something musty in the air, a smell that makes your stomach churn. And your dry tongue is stained with the residue of something vile, metallic and visceral. You swallow and cough, rattling as you’re certain the pungent scent of blood is your own.
Visions of your wolfish attacker return to you and have you whining. Is this death? Purgatory perhaps. The high ceilings and iron rafters watching over you, a moon wrought in similar material hanging at one end of large space, with hands that tick like a clock, the words waxing and waning twisted on each side of the frame.
You cough again, a hoarse deep crackle that catches in your throat. You hear something, the soft clang of metal under rubber, soles nearing you as a shadow looms along your peripheral. A hush that hisses before a stolid heat spreads across your forehead.
“Shhhhh, honey,” James’ voice comforts you as it drawls like syrup, “don’t move, alright?”
He comes around the other side of the couch you lay on, his features narrowing in and out of focus. He drags close a chair and sits near you, taking your hand in his, doting on it as he kisses your knuckles. He tilts his head to press his brow to your fingers, as if praying.
“I’m sorry,” he utters, “I tried…”
“James,” you croak, “what…”
“I think… I don't think I was too late,” he doesn’t raise his head, “but I don’t know if it was the right thing.”
“Please,” you rasp.
“The moon wasn’t gone yet, it wasn’t…” He murmurs, “I wasn’t too late…”
You don’t understand his ramblings. He rocks as he clings to your hands, raising his head as his eyes glisten. He watches you, terrified and ashen. He leans in and stands slightly to place a kiss on your forehead.
“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” he cradles your cheek, “this is what I never wanted…”
“You…” you close your eyes and remember, “lied?”
“I had to,” he says, “to protect you. To try– if you knew what I am–” he stops himself. He shifts, the chair legs scraping, and you feel the blanket tug up your legs. You shiver as he moves your legs. He unwraps it from the fabric rolled around it. He lets his thumb trace up the scabbed skin and lets out another shaky breath, “it worked…”
“What is going on?” You hiss and snap your eyes open, whimpering as you try to rip your leg away from his touch.
“Oh, no,” he pulls back and puts his head in his hands, “oh, sweetheart, I don’t know… I never wanted you to hate me–”
You wince as metal rumbles, clattering loudly behind him, revealing a grey winter morning and letting in a virulent gust. James stands, nearly toppling the chair, and faces the new arrival. He squares his shoulder, a formidable man even without his posturing.
“You!” He snarls, “shut the damn door!”
“Huh?” The female responds with a grunt, “good morning to you too–”
“You fucking idiot!” He storms towards her just as she slides the door shut, the echo of it hitting the frame rattles you. And his timbre. You've never heard him so angry, or even speak like that. “You— You—”
You see the woman, a blond much shorter than him, but unintimidated by his advance. Her blonde hair is tinged scarlet at the ends, something red caked down her chest, shamelessly peeking out from beneath her shredded attire. She puts her hands on her hips as she faces him boldly.
“What?” She challenges, eyes wandering to you, “oh… who’s this, Conrad?”
He sneers and steps into her line of sight, “my wife. Who you scratched–”
“I… I did?” She scoffs.
“Fuck off, Yelena,” he shoves her, “don’t play fucking stupid with me.”
“Oh, you want to be a bitch?” She retorts, “what happened to pack rules. We don’t touch each other.”
“You were going to kill her–” Your head spins at their conversation. What are they talking about?
“She shouldn’t have been here!”
You hug the blanket as your teeth chatter. Kill you? Flashes of dark fur, the grind of bending metal, the hiss of the engine as it dies, and the beastly silver eyes. No, it can’t be.
“What are you?” You whisper.
Their argument quiets and the both turn to you, faces shadowed with guilt. The woman, Yelena, he called her, glances at him from the corner of her eyes. His shoulders drop and he hangs his head.
“She is still alive,” she comments. “Maybe I didn’t cut very deep.”
“Deep enough,” he shakes his head, “I had to…” he can’t finish the sentence. She frowns and pats his back, “you saved her life. You did what you had to and…” she smirks, “it isn’t so bad.”
“Speak for yourself,” he growls and shrugs her off.
He crosses to you again and resumes his seat. You watch him, speechless with confusing. You put your hands to the stiff cushion under you and push yourself up. You grunt at the effort it takes and your eyes find the ripple gash along the back of your leg. You stare at the crackly brown scabbing.
“How long…” you wonder.
“Ten hours. Look, I’ll explain but–”
Ten hours. A cute that serious couldn't heal that quickly. That's impossible.
The large door rolls open again. He cringes and his forehead lines with frustration at the interruption. You strain to see past him as a couple enters, the man striding nonchalantly, buck naked as a woman follows wrapped in a plaid blanket. She’s disheveled as he brazenly taps her ass, urging her ahead of him before he slides the door shut with an effortless nudge.
“Of course, Jesus,” James looks back over his shoulder, “Kraven, put something on. The fuck. What happened to not drawing attention?”
“Mm, it’s nice out,” the other man, Kraven grins, curling his arm around the woman who seems less than comforted by his embrace. She looks exhausted. “Oh, and who is this? So worried for me bringing back stragglers?”
James rolls his eyes and looks back to you. He’s quiet as he gives you a helpless expression. He stands and leans over you, keeping his voice low, “I’ll explain when it’s not chaos.”
He tries to press a kiss to your forehead but you turn your head so he can only peck your temple. Explain what? Who are these people? Where is she? The woman who must’ve drawn him into all this.
James crosses the room and snatches up another blanket, throwing it at the naked man. “A bit of decency.”
“Hey, this is my home,” Kraven snips.
The woman grabs the blanket as it drapes from his shoulder and she puts it around his waist, knotting it at the top. He lets her, unbothered entirely. He bends his head side to side, cracking the tension from it.
“Where’s the fucking coffee?”
“Language,” James warns as he looms before you.
“Kettle’s boiling,” an unfamiliar voice squeaks and another woman appears from the edge of the room. You have no idea where she came from.
Your head is pounding from the building wall of sounds around you. You hear the kettles now, heating up slowly, and the blasting blow of the electric heater, the wailing winds, the pulsing of heartbeats all around you. You cover your ears and cry out, “be quiet!”
“Ah, I see, a new friend,” Kraven muses.
“His wife,” Yelena explains.
“Another?” The quiet woman who drifts like a ghost adds.
“What happened to not shitting where you eat?” Yelena snips, “am I the only one who doesn’t bring their scraps home?”
“What scraps?” A voice comes from above and you peer up at a dark-haired man watching from the second level.
“Ah, don’t start, thrall-fucker,” Yelena sneers up at the man. The woman who stands near the shaking kettle looks away guiltily as the couple wrapped in blankets peek at her. Yelena chuckles, “oh, you didn’t know?”
“Quietttttttt,” another voice adds to the chaos as a tall blonde man appears at the top of the stairs, “she is sleeping.”
“Mm, and his precious little doll,” Yelena mumbles as she blows a raspberry. “When did you all get so goddamn cheesy?”
The kettle suddenly whistles, carving a cavern in your skull. You cover your ears and writhes, screaming again. Everything needs to stop!
“Enough!” James hollers, “Belova, Kemp, Kraven, Warlock, here. The rest, go!”
The room stills. The exchanges of looks, some amused, others skeptical, a few frightened. The woman in the blanket moves first as the man taps her arm, then the woman near the kettle follows her up the stairs as the tall blond descends past them and the dark-haired man above makes his way down without urgency.
Several doors above close as you look at those who remain. Yelena, that man Kraven, and the two other men. James turns to you, “Yelena, make my wife a coffee as I sort this out.”
“Is she dying?” The dark-haired man in wooly sweater asks. The other smells the air and his narrow eyes focus on you.
“She’s turning,” the blond declares.
“She is my wife,” James puts his hand up, “alright, so let me goddamn explain this to her.”
A few shrugs but no real response. Yelena pours the water that sounds like a tidal wave to you. James stands behind the armchair as he watches you.
“Look, this isn’t easy so I will be entirely clear. That… wolf you saw last night was Yelena, that woman there. And the other, if you recall, that…” his throat bobs, “was me. And these others, Kraven,” he gestures to the bare-chested man, “Adam,” the tall blond, “and Steve,” the man with the dark swoop of hair, “are the same. All cursed. Like me and now, you.”
“What–”
“I had to… you would die if I didn’t–”
You look at the ceiling, searching as your heart flutters. You don’t understand. It’s somehow not as bad yet worse than what you feared. He’s not cheating but he lied to you all the same. And now… if he had just told you, you wouldn’t have come. But would you have believed him?
Your eyes fall upon the metal-moon hung on the wall, the long arms marking the phases of the moon. Last night was a full moon…
“You’re…”
“A monster,” James confirms, “I’m very sorry. I couldn’t tell you. Maybe I should’ve tried…” he sighs and sits again, taking your hand, “I won’t ask forgiveness, it is entirely selfish to put this on you, but you will not be alone. Or judged. We only do what we must to survive.”
“What you must… you…”
“There are simple rules. When the moon is full, you’ll change. You can’t stop it but you must heed it. If you do not feed by sunrise,” he pauses and takes a breath. Yelena approaches with a mug and you take it dumbly, unsure what else to do, “then you die. It’s us or them.”
Your eyes gloss and you shake your head. What does that mean? You know, but…
“Last night…” you eke out.
“It wasn’t much,” he squeezes your free hand, “enough to keep you alive. With me.”
He has the sense to look mortified. You wiggle your hand free and turn your head. You can’t look at him. It’s not just what he’s done to you, but the thought of what he’s done to others, and what he’ll continue to do. What he wants you to do. What you have to do.
You swallow and stare at the black depths of your coffee. You feel your audience watching you. These beasts.
“I want to go home,” you murmur.
“Alright, I’ll take you…” he agrees softly.
“Now,” you demand, “away from these monsters.”
“Ha, you’re one of us–” Kraven begins.
“Shut up,” Adam barks at him, “James, we understand. Take her home. You are always welcome for the moon.”
“Wow, dinner and a show,” Steve snickers, “pretty good night if you ask me.”
Their casual attitudes are callous in your ears. Is this what you’ll become? Apathetic? Inhuman?
Last night, you were ready to do anything to keep your husband. You were even going to forgive him for straying from your marriage. But this, you don’t know if you can ever get past this.
