Here for Brio, Gendrya, Jonsa, Ethanessa, and Romy. Dearie. Trichster; #BaldIsBeautiful. Lover of Star Wars and Game of Thrones. Still bitter about Neal's death...
If you could instantly be granted fluency in 5 languages—not taking away your existing language proficiency in any way, solely a gain—what 5 would you choose?
Somewhere along the line I lost most of my followers which is a-okay seeing as the purpose of my blog is to be a lawless hellscape of mental illness and mania
1) the famous trope “Tattoo Parlor & Flower Shop” 🌸🖊️ When a new florist shop opens up next door, Eddie thinks it’ll be just another uninteresting business that will go under quickly - until he sees her face - a face he thought he’d never see again…
2) + 3) two pieces for the spooky season (AU) : on the night of Halloween, modern!witch Chrissy tries an unknown spell to give a human to her familiar bat!Eddie… and things turn ot exactly how she planned but she is not complaining. Oh this night of Halloween will be fun
4) no need of explanation 🔥👅 he just love her taste and delights in having it over his face/fingers/rings…
Margaret, my dear, you’re not obliged to answer this question, but… do you have any reason for thinking that Mr. Thornton cared for you? Father, I’m sorry.
Just 56, anon! Hope that's okay! This was a very fun one to write. It's a post-s4 fic, and could loosely be considered a missing scene from the post-s4 monster fic I haven't even started posting yet, haha.
56 Poking at a Bruise
Thing is, there’s no way he can actually see it.
No raise to the skin, or flush of red uncovered by the thickly blended layer of colour corrector, foundation, concealer – god, even the lip of her blouse, but still. He looks at her across her desk, and his eyes linger on her neck.
Beth crosses her legs.
“They’re asking for 45%.”
“Yeah, we only go up to 30.”
The way he says it – drawls it – is enough to make Beth roll her eyes, finger tapping a little quicker on the folder spread in front of her. The papers there aren’t even related to the deal – no, they’re the details of a new sensory garden to be built behind the specialist school on Fourth Avenue – but she’s made a habit of not stopping her legitimate work when Rio pops in unannounced. Because sure, he might have started knocking, but actually setting up a meeting when she’s not swimming in council grant applications is apparently out of the question.
Rolling her shoulders, Beth leans back in her seat, the chair wheezing a little as she does it, and she watches Rio watch her, watches him clock the line of her body, gaze dip to where the movement has tugged a little at the chest of her blouse, left a button straining. She wets her lips, and resists the urge to fix it.
Tries not to think about the way his gaze catches that too.
“They said they’re taking more than 30% of the risk, so they deserve more than 30% of the cut.”
Rio nods at that, a slow, languid motion that reminds Beth of the hula dancing figurine Annie planted on her dashboard last week when they got her out of prison (an impulse gas station purchase that had seemed to ease the tension in her sister’s shoulders so much that Beth hadn’t questioned it. She'd even left it where Annie had put it after she’d taken her home too, instead of dropping the thing into the girls’ toybox like she normally would), and when he speaks again, it’s with the faintest hint of an accusation in his tone.
“And how they figure that?”
“Guess they did the math.”
And god, what sort of math? Crime math? A council-approved risk assessment for washing cash through your commercial laundry service? It’s weak even to her, and maybe she’d be able to think about something better if Rio wasn’t just - - looking at her like that. She squeezes her thighs together, ignores the dip of heat, tries to focus on the phones outside her closed door, the lilt of JT’s voice as he takes calls, the whir of her tired ceiling fan, spinning circles above her head, the righteousness still sparking in her belly.
It’s like he can feel that too though, because suddenly Rio lurches to his feet, the motion leonine – quick and graceful. Beth inhales, nerves firing, watching him round the desk towards her, the rubber on his converse catching lint as she turns her chair on the slick chair mat to face him. She doesn’t get up though, won’t, and she can see it already – his hands dropping to the arms of her chair, caging her in, face dipping, until she can feel the heat of his breath disrupting her hair, and - -
And he doesn’t.
Beth blinks, watching as he rests his ass against the edge of her desk instead – facing out the window behind Beth’s desk, his hands in the pockets of his bomber jacket, his plush lips sucked in, and - -
Right.
A seed of dread plants in her gut, and she swallows, the bitter taste of the bad coffee she’d been drinking when he came in thick in the back of her mouth.
“See, you know what I think?” he asks, gaze dipping from the window to the floor, lips a little swollen from the way he’d sucked on them, and Beth needs to not look at them, needs to see how dark his eyes are, needs to read whatever she can on the lines of his carefully neutral face, and it’s got to be why he’s sitting like this, because she can’t get a thing out of his profile alone. “I think they’re takin’ 30, and you skimmin’ yourself a 15% commission off the top, because you what? Found the place?”
The seed of dread sprouts.
Busted.
Beth inhales an annoyed breath, tries to swallow down the pill of embarrassment at being caught out, says:
“Finders fees are considered pretty standard in - - “
But before she can finish it, Rio’s grabbed the arm of her chair, and tugged sideways, wheeling it across the plastic chair mat and off onto the carpet until it’s directly in front of him. Beth gasps, feels the wheels of the seat stick in the wool, and she scrambles a little, blinks up to find Rio staring directly down at her now, and he’s not caging her in by his arms but by his legs, by his gaze, by - -
God.
Just - -
This. Them.
Outside, she can hear some of the Michigan Avenue traffic leak in beneath the window, the tinkling sound of an ice cream truck, the smell of a hot dog cart, and she looks up to see Rio staring down at her, his nose long and his mouth red, his lashes left to cast shadows beneath the thin light of her office. And maybe she expects it, when he moves a hand to gently push her hair back (she wonders if he expects her response yet – the way she’s started leaning into it).
“Thought we were partners.”
Beth exhales a shaky breath, eyes fluttering shut.
“Annie’s legal fees - - ”
“Mmmm, you know you only gotta ask.”
His voice is softer than it should be, and she knows that he means it these days. Knows that he wants her to know that he means it, but they both know she won’t take him up on the offer. That she can’t. That she can’t trust Annie’s future in anyone’s hands but her own. That there’s no one she trusts to get her sister out of this mess but her. Not after Ruby left, even if she came back, not after - -
Not after all of it.
She blinks her eyes back open to look up at Rio, and there’s something on her face that makes him exhale a laugh. Makes him adjust against her desk and lean forwards, dragging his hand from her hairline to her cheek, enough to cup it, thumb just teasing at the base of her lip, and it’s instinct more than anything, the way she darts her tongue out in invitation. An apology maybe, or not. Maybe just something easy, because at least this feels good, at least it makes sense.
The familiar heat dips low in her as Rio’s lips part, his thumb pressing a little harder against her lower lip, tugging it down, and it’s no time at all before he’s slipping it between her lips. He tastes like salt and skin and a little like soap, and Beth uncrosses her legs to slot them between his knees instead, her hand raising to grip at the hem of his bomber jacket as she sucks on his thumb, and it’s a surprise maybe. When he grabs a handful of her hair with his free hand, and tugs her head sideways. When he pulls his thumb out of her mouth only to drag it wet through the make-up on her neck.
Beth gasps, eyes slamming shut and she can’t help it, not with the pressure of his touch against the bruise, not with the way she knows he’s using her spit to pull away the concealer, exposing the hickey he left there last night. She hears him hum above her, feels his thumb soften, caressing her flushed skin, the throb of it reminding her of his mouth when he made it as he’d fucked her, and she shivers, squeezes her thighs together again.
“They get 30,” he says suddenly, and Beth blinks, a spark of annoyance igniting in her belly as she looks up at him, only - - only his face isn’t blank or punishing, like she’d expected, and her breath catches, because if she didn’t know any better, she’d say he almost looked affectionate. “You don’t rob me anymore, yeah?”
And okay, that makes her swallow, something a little like guilt blossoming beside the dread, and maybe it crosses her face, because Rio’s grip loosens in her hair. He wets his lips, then adds:
“Heard security ain’t up to scratch at the drug store on South Talbot.”
Which - -
Beth’s pulse jumps – a stuttering rhythm – and she knows Rio feels it too, his hand still on her neck, and he smiles – dart fast and too warm – before he shrugs. Pushes her chair roughly back against the carpet, and grabs her chin.
He presses a short, sharp kiss to her mouth that has Beth seeing stars.
2087
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