#ARE THEY PLAYING POKER OR ARE THEY REVEALING SECRETS

[tropes-and-tales]

Fall from Grace

(Captain John Price x F!Reader)

CW:  Slight angst. Inexperienced (but not virgin) reader. Smut (oral, f!receiving; PiV, unprotected). 18+ only.

Word Count:  7324

AN:  This was requested by an anonymous person!

It’s part of Captain Price’s job to know his soldiers.  He has their dossiers memorized, of course, but he also learns them intimately through their work together.  How could he not?  War reveals the true core of a person, their real character, but the mundane moments add color.  The long helicopter rides, the long plane rides.  The long stretches of time sitting, waiting for intel, waiting for orders.

It's boring.  His soldiers talk to fill the quiet and pass the time.  They joke and tease each other, discuss football matches and rugby scores.  Sometimes, when it’s dark outside, in the quiet hours before dawn, they talk in low voices and share secrets, fears, worries. 

Captain Price overhears much of it.

He overhears Gaz talk about his girl back in London, how terrified he is to lose her.  How he worries that he’ll never be good enough for her.

He overhears Ghost’s low rumble as he talks about his family and the loss of them.  How losing his brother Tommy and his nephew Joseph broke some part of him that will never heal.

He overhears Soap—convivial Soap—talk about his passel of siblings and how they’ve all married and found careers and started to have children.  How he feels left behind, out of sync with his own family.  How he doesn’t want to go home on leave, sometimes, because he feels so out of step with where he came from.

What Captain Price overhears from you is less deep for a long while.  You’re a cipher.  He has the bare facts of your dossier, but when it’s the small hours of the night and everyone is restless, you don’t open up the way the men do.  You rarely let your guard down.

It shouldn’t affect Price, but it does.  Is it a benign sort of misogyny that makes him want to protect you more than he does Gaz or Ghost or Soap?  Or is it the fact that he sees how hard you try, how you keep your walls up even when everyone else is sharing their darkest secrets?  Is it because he worries that you think he’s judging you, that when you catch him watching you, you see judgement there?

So for a long while, Price overhears little from you.  He hears inconsequential things.  Music you like, your favorite brand of beer.  A memory from your childhood that makes the guys laugh.

But there is a night where it changes.

The 141 is on a plane back to base.  The latest mission was a success, a new terrorist group quashed before it could get off the ground.  Price sits in the back of the plane and gets a head start on his paperwork while you and the guys sit around a four-seat table and play a no-stakes game of poker for little chits of torn notebook paper.

Everyone has leave coming up, so the evening’s talk is brighter.  There’s more laughter, more gentle shoving and ribbing as Gaz throws down winning cards and sweeps the pile of chits in front of him.

And when the chatter turns to sex, Captain Price bites the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling.  He’s reminded that these soldiers, his men, are little more than boys sometimes.

It starts with Gaz waxing poetic about his girl, and Soap makes it bawdy by saying Gaz will spend his leave horizontal and return to base dehydrated and exhausted.  Gaz chucks him on the shoulder but Price can see the pleased grin on the man’s face:  of course he’s going to spend a lot of his leave in bed with his girl.

Then it shifts to Soap and his handful of reliable hook-ups.  He says he has a bevy of women, all Scottish and feisty, and that earns him a chuck from you, a hard little punch to his bicep and you tell him to behave himself.

“Ach, don’t be jealous, hen,” Soap whines, rubbing his arm.  “I could clear some room in the schedule for ye if ye want to join me in Inverness.”

“That’s a lot of travel for, what?  Two minutes of disappointment?”

Soap lays his palm over his heart, mimes being wounded, and he says something in reply but Price misses it because Gaz and Ghost are laughing too loudly.

And that’s how Price learns about you.  The flight turns into rapid-fire questions, talk, and rejoinders about sex.  You mostly stay silent, but you take little zings—mostly at Soap—but each time Price glances over at you, your face has a taut quality that he’s only seen on the battlefield.

Interesting.

If he thought it’d be something for him to mull over later, he’s wrong.  Halfway through the flight, Gaz brings up the topic of favorite positions, and when Soap asks you what your favorite position is, you snort and say, “on my right side, curled up with my pillow, alone.  Asleep.  White noise machine set on ‘rainstorm.’”

That makes Price laugh, but he covers it smoothly with a cough, keeps his head bent over his paperwork.

But the guys are like sharks, and your sarcastic non-answer is like chum in the water.  And you’re good—smart, resilient—but you’re also their captive audience, and they wear you down.

An hour into their three-on-one interrogation, the truth comes out:  you are fairly inexperienced at sex.

“Virgin?” asks Gaz.

“No.”

“How many times—” starts Soap, but you cut him with a glare that even he won’t challenge.

“Were you assaulted?” Ghost asks in his soft rumble, and that makes you go soft too, your glare shifting from Soap to gazing at the hulking man in his skull mask.

“No, Si.”  Your voice is low, and Price watches as  you lay a gentle hand on Ghost’s forearm.  “I’m lucky.  Never that.”

Ghost pats your hand with his own.  “Just saying, love.  If you were, and you knew the guy’s name, I’d make him a grease stain before the week is out.”

(And this is part of why being a captain is such a burden:  the quiet little exchange between you and Ghost makes a hot flare of love burn in his chest, how the two of you are like a brother and sister to each other.  The purest form of found family.)

But then Soap breaks the moment.  “Just not into it then?”

You shrug.  “Guess not.”

“Why?”  Gaz asks it, and he sounds genuinely curious.

Another shrug.  “It’s hard to have a relationship in our line of work.”

“Ah,” Soap says.  He leans back in his seat, crosses his arms over his chest.  “Makes sense now.  You need to be in love with someone before you’ll sleep with ‘em.”

“Not necessarily.”  You reach out and gather the playing cards, the poker game long abandoned.  Price watches from under the brim of his hat as you fiddle with the cards, stacking them up, squaring the edges, shuffling them idly.

“Then what?” Soap prods, and you sigh.

“I dunno.  It’s just…a lot of work, you know?  You gotta vet a guy even if he’s a one-night stand, and you have to play it cool but not too cool, and you have to be friendly but not too friendly. You have to shower and shave and smell nice but not put on too much perfume, and you have to dress just right and wear uncomfortable lingerie and pinching shoes.  I did all that shit when I was in my twenties, and the handful of times I finally got a guy on the line and reeled him in?  It wasn’t worth the effort.  All that work and stress for what?  A few minutes of nothing.  A few minutes of bad kissing where the guy slobbers on me worse than a Saint Bernard, awful beer breath too.  And while he’s jamming his tongue down my throat, he’s groping me like someone drowning and grabbing at a life preserver.  Then what?  Then the main event, and all that effort is a waste because he doesn’t notice the nice lingerie at all, he doesn’t notice that I smell nice and shaved and moisturized because he’s lying on top of me like some paradoxical corpse slash jackhammer because he’s weirdly positioned and barely touching me, not looking at me, just dead eyes fixed off into space, but he’s also, what, thrusting for half a minute before he’s done?  And then it’s ‘thanks, love, great shag,’ and he’s rolling off of me, getting dressed again and out the door, and the entire affair took less time than it takes to bake a frozen pizza.  I mean, what’s the point?”

A deadly silence falls over the group.  The only sound is the thrum of the plane’s engines, and you look up from where you’re fiddling with the cards to find everyone staring at you.  Your eyes dart over to where Price is staring at you too, and you make a face and duck your head.

“Jesus, hen,” Soap breathes out.

“I’m sorry,” Gaz adds. 

You chuckle weakly.  “For what?”

“On behalf of men, I guess?”

Ghost, at least…sweet Ghost and his brotherly love for you…he pats your hand and says quietly, “well, you always smell nice, love, and I always notice.”

-----

Price doesn’t do anything. 

Leave starts and you disappear, off to someplace on your list of places to visit.  Who knows with you?  You love the world, all parts of it, so it’s just as likely that you’re in a jungle in Costa Rica as you would be in Tokyo.

Leave ends and the team reassembles.  There’s a mission in the mountains of a country teetering into civil war.  There’s a mission for intel.  There’s an extraction mission.  There’s a mission to take down a warlord in a lithium-rich country, and there’s a close call there.  A bullet grazes you, cuts a burning line along your hip, and seeing you bloodstained and limping pulls Price up short.

He shouldn’t care the way he does.  He cares about all of his soldiers, loves everyone, but he’d be lying if you weren’t different.  The love he holds for the men is paternal:  Soap and Ghost and Gaz are the sons he never had.

You?  His love for you is more complicated.  There’s a whiff of paternalism, a protectiveness that he knows you’d chafe at if you knew.  There’s admiration, of course.  But there’s also a deep vein of romantic love that threads between you and Price, and if you don’t know it, it’s only because Price has a good poker face and hides his feelings so well.

By the time you’re shot, everyone has earned another leave.  Ghost, Gaz, and Soap all disappear for a month.  Price could go to his empty house in the countryside, but he usually just stays on base anyway.

You?

The night before leave starts, there’s a knock on his office door, and when he calls out, you poke your head in.

“Have a moment, sir?”

He nods, gestures at the chair in front of his desk, and he winces internally at how you limp a bit, your stitches obviously pulling.  You settle in your seat and he nods at you to start.

“I thought I might stay here for leave,” you say.  “I’m not really in any shape to travel, and I’d be close to medical if anything goes bad with my wound.”

He says nothing, so you add, with less certainty, “would that be alright, sir?”

Price clears his throat.  “Of course.”

Of course it’s okay that you stay on base for leave.  With him.  With few other people around.

-----

But he does nothing during your month together.  How could he?  He’s your superior.  It would be wildly inappropriate to knock on your door some evening and confess his feelings for you.

One small concession:  he orders you to call him ‘John’ while you’re on leave.  No Captain, no ‘sir.’  He wants you at ease, relaxed, healing.  You still wake up early, he notices.  You train on a modified program as you heal.  You keep your room painfully neat, hospital corners on your bed, boots polished and tucked in your foot locker.

But you do relax.  You go off base and have a pint alone in a pub, come back slightly looser with your smiles.  His name rolls easier off your tongue when you have some alcohol in you.

You lie on the couch in the rec room and read giant novels.  You doze off to tennis on the television, and Price aches as he watches you sleep.  You look so young this way; the years and stress slough off of you in slumber.

There is one night he cajoles you into joining him out for dinner off base.  There’s a steakhouse nearby, and Price is craving a steak and a whiskey and a good cigar, and he’s craving your company.  You agree, and the weeks on leave have softened you towards him.  Maybe you see him as John now and not just Captain Price, and the conversation over steak flows so evenly that any casual observer might think it a date between an established couple.

But he does nothing more.  Not this time.

-----

Leave ends.  Another mission.  Another.  Intel-gathering, coup-ending.  They intercept a dirty bomb for sale in a Morocco marketplace.  They break up a human trafficking ring.  They support Kor-tac in a mission.

Another leave.  You’re healed now, but when Gaz asks where you’re going, you shrug and say nowhere.

“I didn’t plan anything,” you admit, and Price watches you on the sly.  You explain that New York City was next on your list of places, but you are tired of cities, tired of the crush of people and always wondering where the next threat was.  You tell Gaz, as Price eavesdrops, that you really just wanted a quiet month in the country but hadn’t the time to research anywhere or book anything—

He has to wait for Gaz to leave, which gives him a moment to despair that it’s a bad idea.  It’s a terrible idea, the worst idea, but even with a moment to stop himself, Price can’t stop himself.  He pulls you aside once you’re alone and the words tumble out of his mouth before he can stop them.

“I have a place in the Lake District,” he says.  “Quiet, in Rosgill.  I’m going myself, but it’s a big place for just me.  Too big, really.  You could join, if you want.”

It’s a terrible idea, the worst idea, but it must mean something that you only think on it for a beat before you smile at him and accept his offer with your genuine thanks.

-----

On the trip to his home, he explains it to you, and he hates how he sounds like an estate agent selling you on the charms of the place.

“It’s an old seventeenth century blacksmith forge that’s been converted into a home.  Quiet.  One side overlooks the eastern fells.” 

He explains how he bought it when he was young with the windfall of his father’s modest estate when the old man died from a heart attack. 

He doesn’t explain that it had been his dream as a young man to share it with someone, and as that dream had steadily died off, so too has the planned renovations.  The place is half-restored—mostly the house proper—but his plans for the outbuildings and grounds have been abandoned.  He had planned a copse of trees, a raised garden bed for vegetables and herbs, a small greenhouse.  What was the point of sinking money into a place that never saw any use?

You laugh quietly, then say that you don’t even have a home, that you have a small storage unit in Reading for the handful of things you can’t bear to give up.

“I appreciate your hospitality, Captain,” you say.

He tuts, reminds you to call him by his first name.  “There’s no Captain Price in Rosgill.  Just John.”

-----

It takes less than a week to fall into a comfortable domestic rhythm with you.  John wonders at it:  he had a girlfriend in his late twenties who had moved in for a year, and the two of them never reached even a fraction of the ease you and he reach within days.

It doesn’t mean it’s not torture.  The house has two bathrooms and a WC, but you end up sharing a bathroom because it’s the only one on the second floor, situated between both of your bedrooms.  It’s torture to shower after you, when everything is damp and faintly scented with your soap.  It’s torture to see your toiletry bag sitting on the edge of the sink, and of course he snoops.  Takes in the tube of lip balm, your brand of toothpaste, a bottle of paracetamol.  He sees a little ornate glass bottle of perfume, and he uncaps it, smells it.  It makes him remember the conversation on the plane, your rant about your disappointing experiences with sex, all the effort you put in to look nice and smell nice.

Which makes the rest torture too.  You calling him John.  You stretched out on a chaise in the conservatory that overlooks the fells.  You making him a simple, hearty dinner—who knew you could cook?—then calling him to table, your name in his mouth, your hands passing him a plate with chicken and roasted vegetables, your smile as he pours you another glass of wine.  You passing him in the hallway at night in your sleepwear, the soft-looking pajama pants and oversized t-shirt that strains around your breasts.  You meeting his eye, smiling at him, saying “g’night, John.”

Then the torture of your bedroom door clicking shut behind you, with John on the other side of it.

-----

It’s the meteor shower that changes it.  The Perseids, and John’s home has a big conservatory with a wall of windows that overlooks the night sky.  He mentions them to you that morning, suggests it might be nice to stay up and watch them together, maybe open a bottle of Lagavulin to mark the occasion.

It’s also Soap that changes it.  You and John make dinner together—just a spag bol—and your phone chimes as you’re sitting to eat.  You swipe at the lock screen, read the message, and snort.

“Soap,” you say, and you hold up the screen to John even though he can’t read the tiny print.  “Says he had a cancellation with one of his standby ladies and can work me into his rotation if I can get to Inverness in an hour.”

John chuckles, shakes his head.  “Want me to put him on KP duty when we get back?”

“A few extra laps on his runs wouldn’t hurt.  Wearing full kit, for the weight.”

The thread of conversation could die off, but it’s an opening, and John takes it.  He clears his throat, spins a forkful of spaghetti on his plate, then offers, “I’m sorry you’ve had such a rough go of it.  Romantically, I mean.”

You shrug.  “It’s fine.”

“For what it’s worth, I’ve not had the easiest time of it lately.”

It earns him another snort, and you cock an eyebrow at him, pull an incredulous face.  “I don’t buy it.”

He’s not lying.  His twenties, he was a wolf on the prowl.  Broke plenty of hearts, had his own broken in turn.  He had a few girlfriends, one who moved in for a bit, then moved out after a terrific row, never to return.  He always had the fixed idea that he’d meet someone by his mid-thirties, take an early retirement by his mid-forties, and have a family waiting for him by then. 

But as his mid-thirties receded, he found the prospect of dating a bleak affair.  Some women were too young, too immature.  The generational differences in sex and love were too steep to overcome.  Some wanted a sugar daddy.  Some wanted to be taken care of with no care extending back in his direction.  Other women were older, closer to his age, but saddled with ex-husbands, children bitter from divorce, a cynicism that John couldn’t overcome.

He doesn’t tell you any of that.  Instead, he volleys it back at you, retorts with a gentle smile that he doesn’t buy that you hadn’t had a single satisfying experience in your life. 

You sigh, shrug again.  “Ah, well.  I guess I can’t blame the men entirely.  Who’s to say I wasn’t the problem?  Maybe I’m a terrible kisser.”

“Doubtful.”

“Just outrageous amounts of tongue.”

John laughs, and you grin at him, add, “garlic breath, too.  Got too bitey halfway through a make-out session.  Made the guy bleed.  Now he has a scar on his lip and he tells all the blokes down at the pub about the crazy girl he took out once who bit him.”

John puts down his fork and takes a drink of wine.  He smiles around the rim of his glass.  “None of that can be true.”

“Didn’t know how to move during sex, so I elbowed him hard and broke his nose.  Touched him in a weird spot in an attempt to be sexy and creeped him out.”

He laughs again.  “What’s considered a weird spot?”

“Maybe I, I dunno…rubbed his elbows in a seductive way.  Touched him between his toes in the hopes of turning him on.  Maybe no one ever told me that that there’s no erogenous zone in the space between toes.”

His laughter grows at the mental image you’re painting; tears creep out of the corners of his eyes.  “That’s how I know you’re lying,” he manages to reply.  “Because most men would find any type of touch from a woman sexy.”

You cock an eyebrow at that and take a sip of your own wine.  “Duly noted, John.  If I ever make a move on you, I’m coming for your toes.”

“Prepare to be awestruck then, sweetness:  I have feet like a fucking hobbit.”

Your first response is to laugh at him, but he notes the way you take in the pet name, the little shine you get in your eyes.  The conversation dies off, shifts to other topics, but the rest of dinner holds a charge in the air, and both of you can feel it.

-----

After you share clean-up duties in the kitchen, you make your way to the conservatory.  It’s just a fancy word for ‘living room,’ but it holds no television:  just a bookcase, a fireplace, and a few chaise lounges and couches for taking in the view.  John used to envision lazy weekends in here with a family:  a wife and kids, maybe, settled around a board game.  A dog curled up by the fire. 

He also used to envision something like this:  sharing an intimate moment with a woman here.  His ex hated the house, hated how remote it was.  She liked London and the bustle of cities, but you are a better fit.  You settle on the chaise, curl up on your side like a cat, and you sip at the cut-glass tumbler of whiskey when he hands it to you.  John settles on the floor right near you, and the two of you chat while you wait for the meteor shower to start.

You don’t talk about much of consequence.  It’s a rambling conversation, tinged by the alcohol but not impaired by it.  The evening holds a dreamy quality, like it’s not quite real, like if John raises his voice above a low rumble he might pop the ambiance like a soap bubble.

When the first streak of white shoots across the sky, you both fall silent.  John turns away from you and faces the windows, and you both watch quietly.  Once in a while you sigh, a pleased little exhale, and the spell deepens.  Weaves of magic seem to tighten around the two of you with each brilliant falling star.

John leans his head back and rests it against the chaise, but he bumps into some part of you.  He mutters a sorry, and you whisper back no worries, but a beat later he feels your hand on the top of his head.  Tentative.  Shy.  A question in the touch, and he answers it by leaning into you more.  You push your fingers into his hair, and he honest-to-god has to bite his fucking tongue at the moan that threatens to tear out of his throat at the feeling of you touching him.

He turns his head and finds you watching him, not the meteor shower.  He knows he cannot go a single step further without putting it all out in the open, addressing it immediately.

“You know I’m your commanding officer,” he says softly.  “Not here, but when we get back. And I’m not stupid.  I know some part of you still thinks of me as your captain even here, just like some part of me still thinks of you as my charge.”

You nod.  Say nothing.  Look at him expectantly.

“What I mean is, this leave will end and we’ll have to go back.  We have to be able to compartmentalize it.  And I need to know that you want this completely free and clear.  That there’s no part of you that feels you have to do this, because I know there’s a power imbalance, but…”  He trails off, doesn’t want to admit it out loud.

“But what, John?” you prod, and he takes a breath, finally says it.

“I know there’s a power imbalance here, and I know I should be strong enough—should be your captain, I mean—and stop this before it starts.  But I can’t.  I don’t want to.”

You don’t laugh at him, and you don’t pout at his words.  You nod seriously.  You say you understand, that it’s complicated.  You promise that you will try to compartmentalize it.

“It’s just me and you right now,” you say, softly.  “Just two people.  Not boss and employee or captain and soldier.  I don’t feel pressured or feel any power imbalance.  And John?  I don’t want you to stop it before it starts.  Truly.”

This must be what falling from grace feels like.  Some small part of John despairs at this breach of trust, even if you assure him it isn’t so:  he’s your captain, he’s worked so hard to always keep clear lines between him and his soldiers.  He needs to be able to send people he cares about, people he loves, into situations where death is more likely than staying alive.  He needs to be able to leaf through your dossier and not blink at the section where you’ve listed out your final wishes in the event of death.  He needs to be able to leave you behind if it threatens the mission or the 141, and he’s always been able to do that before but the moment you lean forward and kiss him—your hand cupping the curve of his face, drawing him to you eagerly—he knows he’ll never be able to do any of that again.

He's failed as a commander, and a small part of him despairs, but the larger part rejoices at the feeling of your lips on his, your hands on him.  His eyes shut, and you both completely forget the meteor shower as you fall from grace together.

-----

You make out in stages:  the eagerness cedes to a near-shyness, then melts into a level of comfort as you get used to each other.  John knows now that you oversold your inability to kiss—you’re eager, then you’re shy, but you’re pretty damned good at it after all, and if those other assholes you’ve slept with didn’t think so, then that’s on them. 

He eventually makes his way up to the chaise to sit beside you, and then he guides you into his lap.  He has you straddle him, and when his palm gently grasps your cheek to lead you back to kiss him, he feels how flushed you are under his hand. 

“You okay?”

You nod against his hold.  “Yes,” you reply, but you perch yourself back in his lap, closer to his knees, and he can feel how you’re holding your weight off of him.

“We can take this slow.  There’s no rush.  We can stop here.”

“I know.”  A beat, and you add, “I’m good, John, really.”

“Then c’mere, love.  Settle in.”

When you don’t move, he puts his hands on your hips and draws you down and in, pulls the delicious weight of you right where he wants you most.  Right on top of him.  His growing erection presses against your clothed core, and your breasts brush against his chest.  He slides one hand around to your ass and grips the swell of you, kneads at your flesh, but the other hand slides up to cup the nape of your neck.  To hold you steady as he kisses you more forcefully.

John tries to strike the perfect balance between gentle and still leading you.  He presses his tongue against the seam of your mouth, urges you to open yourself to him, and you obey.  He licks against your mouth, tastes the smoky peat of the whiskey on you, and the sensation of his tongue against yours makes you rock in his lap.  He feels the pressure of you brushing against his cock, and it draws dual moans from each of you.

He breaks the kiss, catches his breath.  “Sweetness, what do you want?  What do you like?”  He wants to make you moan like that again and again, wants you to breathe out his name  or scream it or both.  He wants your eyes to shine up at him like they did at dinner when he used that sweet nickname on you the first time. 

You shake your head.  “I don’t know.”

He knows what it must take for you to admit that.  He remembers your rant on the plane, the disappointment in your past dealings with lovers.  It makes his chest ache at how lonely you must have been, how separate you must have felt from others.

He loosens his hold on your neck.  He slides his palm around to cup your face, and he brushes his thumb over the curve of your cheek. 

“Then how about we find out together?”

You answer him by turning your head into his palm and kissing him there, a sweet gesture, and that ache in his chest blooms stronger.

-----

It’s awkward at first, and John can’t figure out why.

He manages to get you out of your shirt and shorts, manages to unhook your bra and strip himself until you’re both nearly naked and stretched out together over the chaise.  You let him lead, but you aren’t exactly eager.  You are passive to an almost uncomfortable degree, and there’s something off—

“Is this okay?” he murmurs against your skin.  You’re so warm under his lips, soft, and he is going so slowly, but you’re hardly moving and you’re saying even less.  Your earlier touches—your hand in his hair, cupping his face—have disappeared entirely. 

Yet when he asks his question, you whisper back that it’s wonderful.

It takes another moment before he realizes part of what’s wrong:  you’re holding your breath.  You’re barely breathing, and once he locks in on that, everything else falls into place.  You’re not precisely rigid underneath him, but you’re tense, your muscles taut to the point of trembling.  And your hands lie by your side.  Not touching him at all.

He pauses, then makes his way back up to where your face is.  In the faint light from the windows, he can make out a tension in your expression too.  Something else too.  Not dread, maybe, but maybe a lighter version of that.  Trepidation. 

John kisses you lightly on your mouth.  “How are you doing, sweetness?” 

“Good.”  You smile at him, but it doesn’t reach your eyes.  “Great, really.”

“You sure?”

You nod.

He brushes his lips over your cheekbone, to the edge of your jaw near your ear.  “Not nervous at all?”

“Maybe a little.”

You’re hedging.  Lightly lying to him.  Your nervousness fills the room like the incoming tide, and John susses it out gently, teases it from you bit by bit.  It’s not difficult to guess the source of your nerves.

“Thinking about past encounters, maybe?”

You huff softly near his ear.  “Hard not to.”  You hesitate, then add, “it was always so bad.”

“And you think you were the reason it was so bad?”

Another huff, and your voice is tinged with embarrassment.  “I’m the constant factor each time, John.”

It occurs to him that you’ve likely missed all of the experimenting that many people get when they are younger.  All the goofy, awkward moments in sex, when a person figures out what they like or don’t like, what they love and what they hate.  You’ve probably been left with a handful of one night stands where you got no feedback, never had a chance to understand what felt good to you, and now are paralyzed to the point of doing nothing. 

John resets the moment.  He strokes the side of your face, then leans down and kisses you.  Slow, gentle.  No rushing.  The barest brush of his tongue against yours, just enough until he feels you relax a bit underneath him.

As much as he wants to compartmentalize it, John knows from working with you that you’re eager for feedback.  You’re eager to learn, and you never take constructive criticism badly. 

“Let me help you,” he says now.  “Okay?”

You gaze up at him, and if your body is tense as a strung wire, your eyes are full of trust.  “Okay.”

“First thing, sweetness.  You have to breathe for me.  You’re holding your breath, and it’s making you tense.”

Sure enough, your tight, shallow breathing evens out and deepens.  And sure enough, he feels your body relax a bit more.  He kisses you as a reward, then gives you more advice that you take readily.

“You can move your body.  Make yourself comfortable.”

“I want to feel your hands on me.  I want you to touch me too.  I’m yours.”

“You need to talk to me.  Tell me what feels good.  Tell me if anything doesn’t feel good.”

As he instructs you, he eases back into it.  Kisses your mouth, kisses his way over your face and neck, spends long moments at your bared breasts.  It’s the first test, but you breathe as he mouths at your tender skin, as he suckles against your hardened peaks.  And you move underneath him, arching your chest to give him better access.

A beat later, he feels your hands—still tentative, but warm, soft—touching him.  Stroking his shoulders, his arms.  Running your fingertips through his hair.

He’ll find out later, days later, that you had only been working off of previous feedback from those terrible one night stands.  The guy who told you that you were breathing too loudly, the guy who told you to lie still.  One baffling guy who told you not to touch him, to keep your hands to yourself as he fucked you.

But now?  This is a good start to finally getting to what you like.  To finding out together.

What you don’t like:  anything remotely like tickling.  He skates his fingertips too lightly over your sides, down the curve of your waist, and you jerk away from him like you’ve been burned.  You apologize a second later, but John laughs, which makes you laugh too.  It dispels some more of your nervousness, and when he tries the move against with more pressure—down your sides, over your waist—you like that far better.

You also don’t like it when he pauses at the scar on your hip.  It’s still a lurid red, and it pulls him up short for a moment.  Dampens his own mood.  It reminds him at how close you were to really being hurt, even killed.  You don’t like it when he bends his head to kiss the ridge of scar tissue, and he doesn’t push it.  Instead, he shifts his head and kisses your stomach where the edge of your panties is, and you like that a whole lot more.

What you like:  everything else.  Every other thing he gives you, everything he does to you.  You like it when he eases your panties off you.  You groan when he buries his face between your thighs, and you gasp when he kisses you there, when he drags his tongue over the slick seam of your cunt.  You like it very much when he laps at your arousal, when he lays plush kisses to your swollen clit, when he slides a finger inside you and a second finger and when he slides them along your inner wall until he finds the spot that makes you jerk underneath him, whine out his name, reach down and tug at his hair.

You like it when he makes you come with his mouth, and you like it when he makes his way back up your trembling body, when he spreads your legs wider to fit him.  When he pushes into you in a slow, steady thrust, so soon after your orgasm that he feels the tiny aftershocks as he seats himself inside you for the first time.  You gasp at the sensation, you breathe out a “god, John,” but when he opens his mouth to ask if you’re okay, you grab his head and kiss him so hard you steal his breath from him.

And you especially like it when he coaxes another orgasm from you, his thrusts strong and steady, deep.  When you bend one leg alongside him, he reaches down and hikes it higher over his hip.  It allows him to push deeper inside you, that extra fraction making you cock-dumb, because you’re so far gone you forget to be nervous.  You forget to lie still, to keep your hands to yourself, to hold your breath. 

You arch up and meet him thrust for thrust.  You wrap one arm around his broad shoulders but the other hand reaches down and grips the meat of his ass, urges him on.  You breathe; you pant in his ear, and sometimes it’s just your hot breath, but just as often it’s you talking, babbling, begging him to fuck you, to please don’t stop, to keep going, to never stop fucking you.

And you like it when he does as you say.  He doesn’t stop, and you come again, but then you whine out that it’s too much.  It probably is:  you’ve gone from disappointing interludes with absolute bell-ends, and now you’re an overstimulated mess underneath him.  You’re not openly crying but tears leak out of the corners of your eyes and streak down your face.  Your lips are slightly chapped and swollen, and you look stunned. 

“Want me to stop?” he asks.  He kisses one damp cheek, then the other, and he can taste the salt from your tears.  “Too much?”

“Uh-huh.”  It comes out slurred.

“Need you to use your words, sweetness.”

“I don’t think…”  You blink, and you lose a bit of your stunned quality.  “I don’t think I can again.”

“Oh, I think you could.”  Another kiss, this one open-mouthed on your pulse point.  He presses his teeth there, sucks lightly against your skin.  “I think you have one more.”

“John—”

“Gotta make up for lost time.”

“I can’t.”  You whine, but it ends in a moan as he bites you harder at where your shoulder meets your neck.  “Too much.  It’s too much.”

“You’re doing so well, though.  You don’t have one more?  Not even for me?”  He laves the flat of his tongue over where his teeth have left dimpled marks, then he blows over the wet line, makes you shudder underneath him. 

“John,” you reply, but it holds less of a warning than before.  There’s surrender in your tone.

“Love feeling this sweet pussy coming around me,” he growls in your ear.  “Fucking soaking my cock, sweetness.”

The dirty talk makes you clench down on him, and he smiles to himself.  He draws back, sinks back into you.  He goes slow, and you whine that it’s too much, but you like this too because you hold him tighter.  You press back against him each time he seats himself in you, his hips settled against yours.  He goes slow, so slow, sinks into you as deep as he can, barely pulls out before he’s pushing back inside.  You’re swollen, fevered where he’s joined to you.  You’re so fucking wet that he feels your arousal soaking the coarse hair at the base of him, dripping down your thighs, likely soaking the chaise. 

He's proud that he’s been able to forestall his own pleasure, but his restraint has frayed.  How could it not?  The whole moment had been sold as for you, to make you feel good, to make sex not the scary specter it has been for most of your adult life, but John can’t remember the last time he had sex where he felt so connected to his partner. 

Maybe he never has.  He can’t conjure up a moment from his past when he felt so flayed alive, his heart visible and beating as he joined with another person.  He can’t remember ever reveling so deeply in his partner’s pleasure.  He can’t remember anyone else’s touch or voice in his ear or breath panting underneath him making him feel so whole.

But you like it when he finally comes too.  He pulls another orgasm from you, less intense but longer—you tremble for longer, and your cunt twitches against him—and it sets him over the edge.  He groans in your ear that he’s close too, asks where he should…but your hand on his ass pulls him deeper into you, and if the gesture wasn’t clear, you whisper that you want him to come inside you, you want to feel him, and he does.  His pleasure breaks around him, shatters him, and he growls your name as he fills you, and you answer by whispering his name back, over and over.

-----

If you never had a satisfying sexual experience before, John can guess that you never had the post-sex moments either.  The come-down, the cuddling, the falling asleep together.

He gives that to you now too, but it’s not altruistic at all:  he wants it too.  He selfishly wants it.  He leaves you on the chaise to get a washcloth, a glass of water, and he helps you clean up.  He helps you recover, but then he leads you to the deep couch on the other side of the room and has you lie down.  He lies down beside you—it’s a tight fit, but he holds you safe between the broad planes of his body and the back of the couch, and he covers you both with a light blanket.

“Thank you,” you tell him, and it’s plaintive.  It makes that ache in his chest flare back, so he kisses you gently, replies, “don’t ever thank for me this.”

It doesn’t take long for you both to fall asleep:  you go first, the slack weight of you pleasant against his body, the deep and even breathing, the little grumble as you shift.  He’s not far behind you, but he has a moment or two where the earlier thread of despair pushes to the forefront of his mind. 

He might just be John right now, and you’re just you, but soon enough you’ll be soldier and captain again.  How will it ever work, now that you’ve fallen from grace together?

[whereforarthur]

Poker Night Never Felt So Right

Pairing: ArthurTv x Reader x George Clarke x Chrismd

Summary: A game of strip poker with your friends, goes a little further than anyone expected...

Category: Mature (SMUT)

Word Count: 5k

*****

Let’s play strip poker

And they removed all their doubts

And their insecurities,

And finally made out,

They lay all naked with not a single secret left,

They were happy and kissed their fate for they meet. -Tiara

"Alright, lads and lady," Chris announced, glancing at the group and y/n, slapping a fresh deck of cards onto the worn-out kitchen table, "Poker night is in full swing."

The aroma of George's burnt lasagna filled the flat, a constant reminder of his culinary disasters that had become a tradition in their weekly gatherings. Arthur's eyes lit up as he pulled out his favorite chair, the one with the slightly wonky leg that made everyone else wobble but somehow suited him perfectly.

Y/n, the sole female in this sea of testosterone, rolled her eyes at their juvenile antics but couldn't help the smirk that tugged at the corner of her lips. She'd known these three since starting YouTube, and their friendship had endured through the chaos of their YouTube fame.

Chris shuffled the cards with a dexterity that suggested he'd had a bit too much practice, while George attempted to mimic his skill, earning a chuckle from Arthur. Y/n took a sip of her beer, the cool liquid cutting through the tension of the room.

"I've got an idea," George said, a mischievous glint in his eye. "Since it's just us tonight, how about we spice things up a bit?"

Chris paused mid-shuffle, raising an eyebrow. "Spice it up how?"

George leaned in, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, "Strip poker. You know, like they do in the movies."

The room went quiet for a beat before Arthur let out a hearty laugh, slapping his hand on the table. "You're joking, right?"

Y/n took another sip of her beer, eyeing George over the rim. "As if I'd agree to that."

Chris grinned, playing along. "Aw, come on, it'll be fun! Plus, you've got nothing to worry about, you're a pro at poker."

Y/n set her beer down, her expression unreadable. "Fine, but only if we all agree to keep it friendly. No funny business, got it?"

Chris and Arthur exchanged a look, the unspoken challenge hanging in the air. "Friendly, got it," Arthur said with a nod.

The game began, the shuffling of the cards and the clinking of beer bottles punctuating the occasional bursts of laughter. Y/n focused on her hand, trying to ignore the electric current of excitement that buzzed through her. The guys were her closest friends, but the thought of playing strip poker with them sent a thrill down her spine that she couldn't quite shake.

Arthur's luck, however, didn't seem to be in his favor tonight. His hand trembled slightly as he placed his bet, and when the cards were revealed, his face fell. "Bugger," he muttered, glancing at the table as he realized he'd lost the first round.

With a dramatic sigh, he stood up, his chair scraping against the floor. "Alright, alright," he said, playing it cool as he pulled his shirt over his head. The room was a mix of cheers and good-natured laughter as he tossed it aside, revealing his bare chest. He sat back down, his cheeks flushing slightly as he tried to cover his modesty with his arms. "Remember, this is all in good fun," he said, his voice a bit shakier than he'd intended.

Y/n couldn't help but blush as she took in Arthur's abs. They were surprisingly defined, a testament to his gym routine, and boxing history. She quickly averted her gaze to her cards, hoping the flush on her cheeks would be attributed to the heat of the kitchen rather than her newfound appreciation for Arthur's physique.

The game continued, the tension ramping up with each new hand. Despite her initial confidence, y/n felt her heart racing as she tried to read the guys' faces for tells. Chris remained stoic, his poker face unwavering, while George's was as transparent as always, his eyes widening with every good card. Arthur, on the other hand, had become a closed book since his shirt came off, his focus solely on the game.

Y/n's luck took a nosedive, and she found herself holding a pathetic hand of cards. She bit her lip, contemplating her next move. The pot grew larger, and the stakes grew higher. She could feel the heat from the oven and the anticipation from her friends. With a deep breath, she called George's bet, hoping for a miracle. The cards flipped over, and George's smug grin told her everything she needed to know. She'd lost this round.

The room grew silent as she slowly stood up, her heart racing. She unzipped her hoodie, letting it fall to the floor. Underneath, she wore a simple black tank top that clung to her curves. She caught Arthur's eyes lingering on her for a moment too long, and she couldn't help but feel a thrill of excitement. She took a seat, trying to regain her composure.

"Looks like the tides are turning," Chris said with a smirk, his eyes never leaving her.

The boys' laughter filled the room as they joked about her losing streak. Y/n felt her cheeks heat up, but she shrugged it off, playing along with their banter. "Just a bad hand, that's all," she said, trying to sound nonchalant.

The next few rounds were a blur of cards and clinking bottle caps. Y/n managed to win a few hands, but her losses outweighed her victories. Her stack of clothes grew smaller, and she found herself down to her bra and jeans. She gulped, trying to ignore the way Arthur's gaze lingered on her when he thought she wasn't looking.

Chris's hand won again, and George's smug look was wiped clean as he had to remove his trousers, revealing his colorful boxers with cartoon characters on them. The room erupted in laughter, and George shot a playful glare at y/n. "You're enjoying this too much," he teased, but his cheeks were flushed, and she could see the excitement in his eyes.

The other boys were staring too, but not just at George. They couldn't help but sneak glances at y/n, their gazes lingering on her in a way that made her acutely aware of her dwindling clothing. She felt their eyes on her, and the air grew thicker, charged with a tension that was no longer just about the game. It was about the thrill of the reveal, the anticipation of what would come next.

Chris dealt the next hand, his eyes flicking up to meet y/n's. She couldn't read his expression, but she knew he was enjoying the game more than he let on. They all were. The stakes had changed, and the atmosphere in the room had shifted from friendly competition to something else entirely.

Y/n studied her cards, her heart racing. A full house stared back at her, and she couldn't help the smug smile that spread across her face. This was it, her chance to get back in the game. She raised the bet, watching as the boys' expressions grew serious. They had to know she had something good.

The bets went around the table, and the moment of truth arrived. Y/n laid her cards down with a flourish, her heart pounding in her chest. The room was silent as the boys revealed their hands. George had a pair of twos, and Arthur had a straight. But it was Chris who had the nerve to call her bluff. He laid down his cards with a wink, revealing a royal flush. The air whooshed out of her lungs, and she felt the blood drain from her face.

"Looks like it's your turn, love," Chris said, his voice thick with victory.

Y/n felt a bead of sweat trickle down her spine as she reached behind her back, fumbling with the clasp of her bra. She took a deep breath and let it fall away, feeling the cool air of the flat kiss her skin. She kept her eyes on the table, focusing on the cards as the fabric hit the floor. The room was so quiet she could almost hear her own heartbeat echoing off the walls.

The silence was palpable, thick and heavy, as if the very air in the room had turned to jelly. The boys didn't dare to look up, their eyes glued to their own cards or the beer bottles in their hands. They were her friends, her colleagues, but in this moment, they were also men, and she was very aware of it. The game had taken a turn she hadn't anticipated, and she felt vulnerable in a way she hadn't felt in a very long time.

Finally, she looked up, her gaze meeting Chris's. He held her stare for a beat too long, and she saw something in his eyes that made her pulse quicken. It wasn't just the thrill of the game anymore; it was something deeper, something she hadn't expected to find in a casual poker night.

"Good game," Arthur murmured, his voice a low rumble that seemed to resonate through the room. His eyes flicked over her exposed skin before darting back to his cards, and she couldn't help but feel a flutter in her stomach.

Y/n cleared her throat, trying to ignore the sudden self-consciousness that had crept over her. "Alright, let's keep playing," she said, her voice a little too high.

George, ever the opportunist, leaned back in his chair, his eyes gleaming. "Someone's getting a bit flustered, aren't they?"

The room grew tense as George's comment hung in the air, unspoken feelings now laid bare. Y/n felt a blush creep up her neck, her hands clinching into fists at her sides. "It's just a game, George," she said through gritted teeth, trying to keep her cool.

"Fine, fine," he chuckled, raising his hands in mock surrender. "Let's keep it friendly, yeah?"

The game resumed, but the dynamics had shifted. The banter was less playful, the glances more intense. Y/n could feel the energy in the room pulsing with every card drawn, every piece of clothing removed. Her hands were trembling slightly as she dealt the next hand, her eyes avoiding the hungry stares of the boys. She focused on the game, trying to ignore the heat of their gazes on her bare skin.

*****

George's luck had run out, and he was just left in his boxers. His cheeks flushed a deeper shade of red as he realized loosing this hand, meant losing them. He met y/n's eyes, and she could see the nervous excitement in his gaze. She felt a strange sense of power, a thrill that was as intoxicating as it was alarming. She called his bet, her heart racing.

And of course that’s what happened George lost the hand, and lost his boxers. They were ridiculous, covered in cartoon characters that clashed with the seriousness of the moment. But as he stood up, the room's focus shifted from the ridiculousness of the situation to the very real and very attractive man in front of them. Y/n couldn't help but feel a flicker of attraction she'd never noticed before, not like this.

Chris cleared his throat, his eyes lingering on George's newly exposed skin before flicking back to his own cards. The air in the flat was charged, and the smell of George's aftershave filled the room, a scent that was at once familiar and entirely new in this context. Arthur's poker face remained unchanged, but his knuckles were white as he gripped his beer bottle, his eyes darting from George to y/n.

The next few rounds were a battle of wills, each player trying to maintain their composure as the clothes piled up on the floor. Y/n's jeans were the next to go, and she felt a shiver run down her spine as she stepped out of them, leaving her in just her panties. The guys' eyes darted up to meet hers, and she could see the struggle in their expressions as they tried to keep the game friendly.

But the game had taken on a life of its own, and the line between friendship and desire was blurring. The stakes were no longer just about winning; they were about power, attraction, and the thrill of the unknown. The tension grew with every card dealt, every article of clothing removed. It was no longer just a game of poker; it had become a dance of seduction, a silent negotiation of boundaries.

Chris's eyes never left y/n's, his gaze dark and intense. The air between them crackled with an energy that was impossible to ignore. As the rounds went on, the smiles and laughter grew forced, the room thick with the scent of pheromones and anticipation. Y/n felt a strange thrill at the thought of pushing the boundaries, of seeing how far they'd all go.

The next hand was dealt, and the tension grew palpable. Y/n studied her cards, feeling the heat of the guys' gazes on her bare legs. She knew that she had a good hand, but the game had become less about winning and more about the thrill of the risk. She raised the bet, watching as the other two exchanged glances. The silence stretched out, the only sound the crackling of the cards and the occasional clink of bottle caps.

Chris called her bluff, laying down his hand with a smug smile. George fully nude now. Both Chris and Arthur in their underwear, the fabric clinging to their growing arousal. Y/n felt a strange mix of nervousness and excitement, her heart racing as she took in the sight of her friends in such a vulnerable state. The room felt like it was closing in on her, the heat from the oven now a stark contrast to the coolness of her bare skin.

The next round began, and the stakes were higher than ever. Y/n's hand trembled as she placed her bet, watching as Chris and Arthur followed suit. She had nothing to lose now but her pride and the last shred of their friendship's innocence. The cards were flipped over, and she felt a jolt of victory as she revealed a full house. Arthur's face fell, and she knew she had him beat.

"Alright, Arthur," she said, her voice steady despite the racing of her heart. "Looks like it's your turn."

Arthur swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat. He reached down to remove his underwear, and Y/n couldn't help but watch, her eyes widening slightly as he revealed himself. He was more than she'd ever allowed herself to imagine, and she felt a rush of warmth flood her cheeks. The room was a cacophony of shuffling papers and shallow breaths, the only sound louder than her pounding heart.

Chris took a sip of his beer, his eyes never leaving hers. He leaned back in his chair, his own arousal evident, and she realized with a start that he was enjoying this game more than he'd ever let on. "Looks like we're all in this together now," he said, his voice low and gruff.

*****

The game had become about more than just poker; it was a silent dare, a push and pull of power and desire that none of them could ignore.

Chris collected the cards, shuffling them with a deliberate slowness that had y/n's stomach flipping. "Alright, lads," he said, his voice a low rumble, "whoever wins the next hand gets to ask y/n to do something for them."

Her heart skipped a beat, and she took a sip of her beer, trying to play it cool. "What do you mean?" she asked, her voice betraying the slight tremble in her chest.

Chris leaned in, his eyes gleaming with excitement. "Whatever we want, within reason. Just a little extra... entertainment."

Y/n felt a thrill of anticipation mixed with nerves. "As long as it's not too embarrassing," she said, trying to keep her voice steady.

Chris grinned, his eyes flicking over her body. "Oh, I think we're past the point of embarrassment."

The room was thick with tension as the final hand was dealt. Y/n picked up her cards, trying to focus on the game, but her mind was racing with the possibilities of what could happen next. She had a decent hand, but she knew that Chris was playing to win.

The bets were placed, and the air was electric as the cards were revealed. Y/n felt a surge of victory as she saw she had a full house again, beating Arthur's two pairs.

Y/n felt a mix of excitement and nerves, her eyes flicking to Chris, who was watching her with an intense gaze. She knew he'd won the round, but the real prize was in the daring request he was about to make.

Chris leaned in closer, his eyes dark with desire. "Alright, love," he said, his voice a low rumble, "it's time for your forfeit."

Y/n's heart raced as she took in the sight of Arthur and George, both fully exposed and equally as nervous. She had no idea what Chris had in mind, but she knew it would be something she'd never forget. She took a deep breath, bracing herself for his words.

Chris leaned back in his chair, his eyes never leaving hers. "I want you to kiss me," he said, his voice low and commanding.

The room froze, the only sound the erratic beating of her heart. She felt the color drain from her cheeks as she met his gaze, his eyes dark and hungry. For a moment, she couldn't breathe, the weight of his words sinking in. Then, with a slow nod, she leaned in, her heart racing.

The kiss was soft at first, tentative, as if both of them were testing the waters. But as their lips met, something ignited between them, a spark that grew into a flame. Her hands found their way to his shoulders, gripping him tightly as the kiss deepened. Arthur and George watched, their own tension palpable, their eyes flickering between y/n and Chris, their friendship and their desires colliding in a way none of them had anticipated.

Chris's hands slid up her arms, pulling her closer, his tongue tracing the seam of her lips. Y/n's body responded, arching into him as the kiss grew more urgent. The room was a blur of heat and need, the air thick with the scent of arousal and the faint scent of George's burnt lasagna.

When they finally broke apart, they were both panting, their eyes locked. The room was silent, the only sound the crackling of the oven and the thudding of their hearts. Arthur and George watched, their expressions a mix of shock and arousal. Y/n's cheeks were flushed, and she couldn't believe what had just happened.

"Fuck me," George murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. "That was..."

"Hot," Arthur finished for him, his eyes glued to the sight of Chris and y/n tangled in a passionate kiss. The atmosphere in the room had shifted so dramatically, it was as if someone had flipped a switch, turning the innocent game of poker into an intense, erotic battleground.

Chris's hand slid down y/n's back, cupping her ass as he deepened the kiss. She gasped into his mouth, the heat of his touch sending a bolt of pleasure through her. The air was thick with the scent of their desire, and she could feel the warmth of Arthur and George's gazes on her exposed skin. The game had evolved into something she'd never expected, but the thrill of it was undeniable.

Breaking away from Chris, she turned to face Arthur, her eyes flicking to his evident arousal. "Looks like you're up," she said, her voice husky with desire. Arthur's cheeks reddened, but he met her gaze, his eyes smoldering.

"What's the forfeit?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

Y/n leaned in, her breasts brushing against his bare chest. "You get to kiss me too," she murmured, her breath hot against his ear.

Arthur's eyes widened, and for a moment, she thought he might refuse. But then, with a nod, he leaned in, capturing her mouth in a kiss that was just as fiery as Chris's. His hands found her waist, pulling her closer as their tongues danced together. The room spun around her, the lines between friendship and desire blurring into a haze of passion.

George, not to be left out, approached her from behind, his naked body pressing against her back. She could feel his erection against her, and she shivered with anticipation. "I guess it's only fair," he murmured, his hands sliding around her waist.

The kiss with Arthur grew more urgent, his hands exploring her body as George's lips found the sensitive skin of her neck. She moaned, the sensations overwhelming her. The three of them were entangled in a dance of lust, their friendship forever changed by this night.

As Arthur pulled away, George took his place, his lips brushing against hers. His kiss was gentle at first, but soon grew in intensity, his hands caressing her breasts. She felt a hand slide down her stomach, and she gasped as it reached the apex of her thighs. It was Chris, his fingers teasing her through her damp panties.

The room was a whirlwind of sensations, and y/n was lost in the moment. She couldn't tell where one kiss ended and another began, only knew that she was the center of their attention, the object of their desire. It was thrilling and terrifying all at once.

"Take them off," George murmured, his voice thick with lust.

Y/n's hands trembled as she slid her panties down her legs, stepping out of them. The cold floor sent a shiver through her body, and she felt more exposed than she ever had in her life. But the way the boys were looking at her, with a mix of awe and hunger, made her feel anything but vulnerable.

Chris's hand found her again, his fingers delving into her slick folds. She moaned into George's mouth, the pleasure building within her. Arthur watched, his eyes dark with need. The air was charged with a current of desire that had them all in its grip.

The poker game was forgotten, the kitchen a mess of cards and discarded clothing. The only thing that mattered was the heat between them, the unspoken promises in their eyes. The night had taken a wild turn, and as the three of them moved closer, y/n knew there was no going back. This was a new chapter in their friendship, one filled with passion and the thrill of the unknown.

And she was ready to play her hand.

*****

Chris's fingers worked their magic, sending waves of pleasure through her body. She moaned into George's mouth, her hips bucking against Chris's hand. The sensation was too much, and she felt her orgasm building. Arthur's hand joined the fray, his calloused fingers teasing her nipples, sending jolts of electricity straight to her core.

They were all in this together now, their friendship forever changed by this night of strip poker turned passionate frenzy. Y/n had never felt so desired, so wanted. The kisses grew deeper, more intense, as the three of them explored each other's bodies with an urgency that could no longer be contained.

George's hands roamed her body, his touch setting her skin on fire, while Arthur's kisses grew more demanding. She felt a hand slide down her back, reaching around to cup her ass, and she knew it was Arthur. The thrill of having both of them touch her at once was almost too much to bear.

Chris's touch grew more insistent, and she felt herself climbing towards the edge. She broke away from George's kiss, panting, her eyes meeting Arthur's. "Fuck me," she breathed, the words barely a whisper.

They didn't need any further encouragement. Arthur and George shared a look, and she could see the understanding in their eyes. They knew what she wanted, what they all needed. This was no longer a game; it was a declaration of desire that could no longer be ignored.

With a growl, Arthur picked her up, setting her on the edge of the kitchen table. She spread her legs, her heart racing as she watched him stroke his length. She felt a thrill of desire that made her knees wobble. George stepped aside, his own arousal evident, making room for Arthur to claim her.

Chris stepped back, watching with a hunger that made her insides quiver. "Take her," he said, his voice low and urgent. "Make her scream."

Arthur positioned himself between her thighs, his cock hard and ready. He leaned in, kissing her again, and she felt the tip of him at her entrance. With a gentle push, he slid inside, filling her completely. She gasped, her nails digging into the table as he began to move.

The sensation was exquisite, and she felt the room spin as the pleasure built. George's hands were on her breasts again, his mouth finding her neck, his teeth grazing her skin. The three of them moved together, a symphony of passion that she never wanted to end.

Chris stepped closer, his hand wrapping around his own erection as he watched the scene unfold. "So beautiful," he murmured, his voice thick with desire. "So fucking beautiful."

Their eyes met, and she knew he was next. The thought of all three of them together was too much, and she felt her orgasm crest, her body tightening around Arthur. He groaned, his thrusts growing more urgent, and she knew he was close too.

With a final, deep kiss, Arthur pulled out, his hand guiding George to take his place. She moaned as George filled her, his grip on her hips tight. Arthur stepped back, watching with dark eyes as George began to move, his own hand stroking his shaft.

The room was a blur of sensation, the only sounds their panting breaths and the slap of skin against skin. Y/n felt like she was floating, lost in a sea of pleasure that she never wanted to escape from. This was a night that would change everything, a night that would be etched into their memories forever.

And as George's rhythm grew more frantic, as she felt him getting closer, she knew that she was ready for whatever came next. The world outside their flat had ceased to exist, and all that mattered was the heat between them, the passion that had been unleashed by a simple game of poker.

The climax hit her like a tidal wave, crashing over her body and leaving her trembling. She cried out, her nails digging into George's shoulders as she came, her body shaking with the force of it. And as George followed suit, filling her with his release, she couldn't help but feel a sense of power and belonging she'd never experienced before.

Chris stepped closer, his eyes never leaving hers as he stroked himself. "Your turn," she managed to gasp, her voice hoarse with need. He grinned, a wicked glint in his eye, and she felt a thrill of excitement as George pulled out, making way for Chris to take his place.

Their kiss was explosive, a culmination of all the tension that had been building through the night. She felt Chris's cock nudge against her, and she wrapped her legs around him, pulling him closer. He entered her with a groan, his movements more deliberate, more intense than the others. The sensation was almost too much, and she arched her back, her breasts pressing against his chest.

Their bodies moved in sync, the table rocking beneath them with every thrust. Arthur and George watched, their own desires reflected in their eyes as they stroked themselves, their gazes never leaving the erotic sight of their friend taking charge. It was a moment of pure, unadulterated passion, a moment that would forever change the dynamics of their friendship.

Chris's hands were everywhere, exploring every inch of her exposed skin, sending shivers down her spine. She could feel his need, his desire, and it only served to fuel her own. The room was a cacophony of gasps and moans, the air thick with the scent of sex.

And then, with a final, deep kiss, Chris reached his peak, his body tensing as he came inside her. They held each other for a moment, their breathing ragged, their hearts pounding in unison. It was a silent acknowledgment of the shift in their relationship, a moment of pure, unbridled connection.

As they pulled apart, the room was bathed in the soft glow of the kitchen lights, their bodies slick with sweat and desire. The poker night had turned into something none of them could have anticipated, a night that would be remembered for far more than just the game.

They stood there, panting, their eyes locked. The silence was deafening, filled only with the sound of their heavy breaths and the distant hum of London outside. They'd crossed a line, stepped into a new chapter of their friendship.

Y/n looked around the room, her eyes taking in the sight of her friends, naked and aroused, their friendship forever altered by this night of passion. But as she saw the hunger in their eyes, she knew it was a change she didn't regret. In fact, she was eager to see where this newfound intimacy would lead them.

The game had ended, but the night was far from over. They had each other, and as they moved closer, the whispers of desire grew louder, the kisses deeper. They were no longer just friends playing a game; they were lovers, ready to explore the depths of their desires

*****

Taglist~

@gvf23 @xxkatxgracexx @amz824

[see-arcane]

Cards with the Count

Thinking about how Jonathan is trying to pass the time during Vampire Hell Staycation with all the books in the library (a guaranteed Dracula Zone), no stationery (bastard), and a finite amount of secret pen ink and secret diary pages left at his disposal (shit). Reading and writing and art are all out. What’s left?

I like to think, in this order:

1)    He remembers that he has a pack of playing cards in the general luggage Dracula didn’t snatch. A gift Lucy had bestowed on him and Mina, a pack apiece, as she insisted that it was the best way to pass an hour in dreary company that wasn’t to do with gossip or politics.

2)    He doesn’t normally play, if only because he doesn’t have the coin to meet any real gambling stranger at a table. Just a ‘for fun’ thing.

3)    Fuck it. Solitaire. Card towers. It’s something to keep his mind off the…everything.

4)    He gets exactly one (1) day/evening of peace with this. Then:

5)    “Whatever are you up to, my friend?” 

(He didn’t even use the door to give Jonathan time to hide the pack. Misted in. No shadow to give him away. Fantastic.) Jonathan staples his smile back in place and rattles off something apologetic, so sorry, was he keeping the Count waiting? Let him just put this away, he wouldn’t be interested—

6)    Smash cut to the library. The cards are now unofficially confiscated/a staple of the Dracula Zone, alongside the fancy crystal chessboard the Count loves to crush him with on a semi-regular basis. Jonathan is walking him through the rules of sundry card games. Unsurprisingly, he latches onto the concept of American poker readily. The game is a soup of similar European predecessors that light up his eyes with recognition—primero, poque, brelan—sewn together with England’s game of brag into a medley of the initial rules, both written and unwritten.

7)    “A game of skill, then?”

“Skill, acting, and luck.”

Dracula grins as he produces a ransom of gold coins to use as chips. Jonathan deals. 

(What are the extra rules here? Does he throw every hand? Does he play in earnest and inevitably lose anyway? Does it even matter? It isn’t chess, after all. Not a proper strategy game. Cards happen. Guesswork happens. A winner and loser every turn. What does it matter?)

8)    Jonathan realizes two dozen hands later that what matters is, apparently, his face. One that, likewise apparently, cannot be read by the Count in this game. Out of those two dozen hands, Jonathan has won eighteen. Of those eighteen, his hand was the clear dud for nine. Through it all, Dracula’s eyes keep jumping from his own hand to Jonathan’s tired gaze. When Jonathan wins the twenty-fifth hand and the mountain of gold on his side of the table risks toppling off the edge, Dracula bites out a word Jonathan is sure is too caustic to have a spot in the lost polyglot dictionary.

9)    “You have a gift for schooling your face, my friend.” Every word is an icicle; each as sharp as the canines jutting out of the rictus grin.

“I don’t,” Jonathan says. 

And it’s true. Now he’s schooling his face—first lesson of anyone destined for the realm of serving others—but in the game, he’s barely thinking of anything else beyond the ticking of the clock. To punctuate this, he slides the heap of gold back to Dracula’s side of the table. 

“This is only a game for the fun of it. In a game with stakes, there would be something worth playing and worrying for. When you get to England,” his face is very, very schooled as he says this, “you’ll find a much more varied competition at gambling tables. The players who really train their expressions can do so with fortunes at stake, while novices reveal every victory or loss plainly on their face.”

10) Dracula considers this. And smiles.

11) “Ah, then there must be stakes before we can play the game properly. Still, you have won the bulk of these rounds, my friend—” his hand seems like it wants to be strangling something when it drums atop the gold heap, “—and done me the charity of not taking your rightful winnings.” He throws down his cards. Ace and deuce of spades. “I shall have to speak with the kitchen about producing a stand-in prize.” 

He leaves. Jonathan doesn’t blink when he hears the door lock behind him. A card pyramid is erected.

12) Paprika hendl for supper. As excellent as he remembers. Huzzah.

13) The next time he’s herded into the library, he sees what looks suspiciously like his travel paraphernalia flimsily hidden behind a bit of drapery. Dracula is shuffling the deck.

14) “A true prize on the table this time, my friend. I know you are one to appreciate the splendor of our beautiful country, just as I know it is, for your own safety, quite impossible to go exploring alone in the wild. Too many wolves about. But if you win the majority tonight, I shall see to it that my driver takes a leave from his own many errands to escort you beyond the castle for a time, if you so wish.”

“…And if I lose the majority?” He can’t help it: “I’m sure there’s little from me you’d be interested in.”

Dracula grins.

“We shall think of something, I’m certain. Here. Deal.”

15) As expected, Jonathan’s face isn’t effortlessly unreadable in its misery anymore. He has something to play for, even if his trust in Dracula’s dangling carrot on the stick is nigh nonexistent. He loses more. He struggles more. He worries more…

16) …But the wins and losses remain surprisingly even. On into the dawn they play, matching victory for victory. Even the Count seems puzzled. Jonathan is just tired. He was never going to win. The ‘driver’ will fall to some mysterious ailment, his possessions will disappear the moment he’s sent out of the room ahead of the Count. To Hell with it.

17) “I forfeit. We remain tied, so neither has to lose.” A sour smile curls. “Besides, I have kept you up too late again.”

“One more.”

“We can say you won—,”

Dracula gives him a Look.

Jonathan sits again. Plays again.

Wins again.

Dracula hisses several words the polyglot dictionary would be scandalized to translate. Jonathan feels the first genuine smile he’s wanted to make in a month and a half try to creep up on his lips, and stifles it.

18) Dracula turns over his cards and thumbs though the deck as if looking for a conspirator. He even scowls at Jonathan’s forearms, both bare through the whole game as he’d rolled up his sleeves. Still grumbling, his thumbnail finally hooks a card that makes a cloud pass over his face.

19) “What. Is this?”

Jonathan looks.

“Oh, that’s just a Joker.”

“Joker?”

“Yes, I thought I’d taken him out. He’s not a usable card in this game, but he’s sometimes used as a trump or wild card in others. That is, he’s there to turn the tide for whoever gets to play him.”

Jonathan reaches for the card to tuck it back in the box. Dracula pulls it out of reach, walks to the fireplace, and flicks it into the flames.

“Say what you will, but I recognize a symbol of sabotage when I see it. It should not be in the deck at all!” Still watching the little harlequin turn to cinders, he flaps his other hand at Jonathan. “Go rest, my friend. Take that infernal game with you. It is not a respectable pastime for men of our like.”

20) Jonathan gathers up the deck, gives his travel kit a last mournful look, and leaves for his bedroom, knowing not to ask after the walk in the forest as he goes. In his bed, he empties the deck into his hand again and thinks on four things.

Skill.

Acting.

Luck.

And…

21) He turns the deck’s neglected second Joker over in his fingers, the impish face seeming to hold a secret in its grin.

22) When he wakes next, he isn’t surprised to find the deck has been stolen. It doesn’t trouble him. Somehow, it even produces a tired grin on his face. It nearly matches the painted thing hidden, wild and powerful, in the pages of his journal.

[everythingblackblack]

Hakuba should propose to Kaito then the white imagery would fit his civilian identity too via giving him his surname. Plus Kaito keeping people in the dark and operating in the shadows (black) and Hakuba recognising the good in him and being determined to bring everything about Kid into the light (white), also the Kuroba or clover on the black hat accessory reference in Kaitou 1412's original costume as well as the black feathers (translation of Kaito's family name) being used by Corbeau while he traumatised Kaito with his father's appearance. It just has lots of satisfying symbolism of Kaito finally being able to part of with the weight of his family's tragedy and his father's legacy. Because Kuroba-kun and Kid are just means of getting to know Kaito, Hakuba has no investment in Kid or the Kurobas beyond Kaito himself. Kaito isn't a generic civilian identity that's just another fabrication to hide the criminal secrets or the punniest name for a Japanese phantom thief (because he was literally born and raised for this purpose even with his parents' absences they, including Jii, only enter Kaito's life to help him be Kid for his mother and father's mistakes or lie/escape into another life via Vegas or Poker Face) it's the name of the person Saguru loves and he's his and no matter what name he goes by or what he lies about and hides Saguru will love him, figure it out and find the truth. He'll always ask Kaito for his honest answers and give him Real options to be Himself in it's realest form.

A funny thing happened to me while I was reading your question, I happened to have my playlist on shuffle and "Good Luck, Babe!" started playing, so if you see me rambling a lot, attribute it to that funny coincidence.

You made me think of an arranged/convenient marriage. Not exactly though.

Kaito, who feels hurt and lost after finding out his father was alive and mom knew about it, doesn't want to talk to Jii at all because he can't stand the thought of him taking his father's side (he's not sure if he will or not, so he just chooses not to deal with it), can't ask Aoko or her father for help, doesn't feel worthy of their help.

So he desperately and insecurely chooses Hakuba. He wants something that feels close.

Hakuba is probably having a cup of tea while enjoying a book, hears knocking on the window in his room, and is surprised to meet Kaito.

"You still want to know my reason?" Kaito doesn't mention KID, he doesn't need to, Hakuba has a bad feeling, something very serious must have happened for someone like KID to even consider revealing his reasons for stealing, he rushes to let him in, offers him tea, but Kaito rejects it.

They both sit in silence.

"I don't know how to start, it's a mess, actually, my life is a mess."

After a couple of minutes, Kaito begins to tell Saguru about his love for magic and his father, the history of KID, and everything else.

The word that Saguru thinks fits well in this situation is “Sad,” and of course, he is so upset.

“Marry me.” The words are out of his mouth before he can process them, it’s not an unfounded request, but it was a proposal made by his emotions.

“What?”

“I’m sorry if I was so abrupt, still, I mean what I said, I definitely need to think it over better, but I can’t just leave you like this.”

"But how would getting married help?"

"First, because you could adopt a Western name if you wanted, and because it seems very cruel to me that they named you like that… as if your destiny was sealed from the day you were born and you couldn't change it."

"But we're not in love."

"I am."

"Oh."

"You can think about it, meditate on it if you want, I would never force you to do something you don't want, even if you don't accept me that way, I will watch over you, and I won't let you get hurt again. Take my name, my contacts, and whatever you need to get back on your feet."

Kaito thinks Hakuba is being kind, he doesn't want him to be a second choice or receive a half-hearted love. He has nothing to gain by accepting, instead, Kaito would be the only one to benefit.

[princessjojo-x]

Scorpio Mars

💝 his pluto & mars influence shapes him into an unpredictable, vindictive, sadistic, secretive & stubborn man. he may struggle keeping friends & partners due to how intense he can be. when he’s triggered he can be very cut throat with his words which causes others to distance themselves from him.

💝 he has a strong sense of self-preservation which leads him to be overly secretive & distrusting.

💝 he hates not knowing what's happening around him; this isn’t necessarily bc he’s suspicious & paranoid but bc he’s controlling asf. however, you wouldn’t suspect this as he comes across as very chill & care free. he won't bluntly violate your privacy but will still find ways to always know what you're up to, keep tabs on you & remember random things abt you, even when he knows for sure that you’re trustworthy & you’re doing nothing wrong.

💝 he never reveals his true intentions & feelings. even if he’s boiling inside, he excels at retaining a poker face. he keeps his emotions bottled up & releases them in intense outbursts. he conceals his fierce anger & mars energy until he needs to use it. if he’s provoked enough he wont hesitate to respond very intensely, maliciously & emotionally.

💝 he’s a lot more cunning & manipulative than he lets on. he can be very cold in regards to success, rxships & feuds. he has a tendency of going to extreme lengths to get his avenges, throwing people under the bus to get what he wants & ghosting lovers with no remorse.

💝 he gets off on the reactions of others. he knows exactly what strings to pull to trigger & affect them. his super power is catching you off guard & poking at you psychologically. hopefully he uses this power in a teasing & humorous way, instead of a toxic & cruel way.

💝 he has immense psychological strength & he can use his mind to manage or separate pain. he may even have the ability to enter a trance-state or cocoon in states of agony or when he is pushing himself to achieve better (such as run that extra kilometre).

💝 his private nature means his battles go completely unseen by anybody else. his enemies are his history, trauma, betrayals & victimisations. the best way to piss him off is to bring up his past wrongs & mistakes.

💝 he feels the most angry when he’s embarrassed. he gets embarrassed by being lied to by others or himself being caught in a lie.

💝 he’s rarely neutral abt anything, he’s strongly opinionated & either loves something or hates it.

💝 he has this risqué factor abt him which feels like you shouldn’t deal with him for some reason you’re still drawn to the idea. he is just naturally sexy & consequently he tends to have a player/promiscuous image projected onto him.

💝 he is intense in both daily life & in bed. he has the highest sex drive & his nether regions are extremely sensitive. he’ll likely want to sleep with you on the first meet & he’s always willing to take intimate risks. he’ll fuck anywhere & anyone, including someone he hates. ensure to never shame him for his sexuality. additionally, he has a tendency to talk abt his pee-pee in high praise, especially when he’s romancing someone!

💝 sexually, he’s more dominant than aries mars; he’s not here to win, he’s here to possess. he wants to be in control & call the shots. it’s his way or the high way. he tend to equate s3x with power & control, with his partner playing the role of a obliging slave.

💝 sleeping with him is like listening to a good song & waiting for the beat to drop but it never does. this explains why scorpio energy can be so intoxicating - it always leaves you on the verge of full satisfaction meaning you keep going back for more. in my opinion, this placement is overrated for its sexual performance. it’s more his energy & anticipation that makes him exciting & alluring. but once he gets to the deed, he’s completely driven by his lust & desire, which makes his performance animalistic & reckless. he tends to go straight to the crotch area with little foreplay or stimulation. it’s like sleeping with a very horny person who’s having sex for the very first time in their lives. it can feel quite predatory & domineering. also, he’s not as freaky as you’d expect & there’s something abt him that’s a bit closed off. in my experience, when it comes to performance those with domicile or exalted mars overpromise & underdeliver whilst those with debilitated mars underpromise and overdeliver.

💝 he doesn’t kiss & tell which makes him a worthy sneaky link.

Turn On’s & Off’s:

💝 he’s not pleased by the typical sweet nothings (words of affection, gentle caresses) & an intimate rxship too peaceful bores him. he’s turned on by mystery, passion, intensity, vulnerability, trust & anything that’s hard to understand. in the shadows & spaces where others might shy away, he is ever hungering for an intensity that matches his own. he likes revealing each others deepest secrets, desires & fears. he enjoys breaking sexual taboos & a hint of danger (love-hate rxships, age gaps, etc).

💝 he’s easily aroused by perceived anticipation & stimulation (a moment turning into something more). if you intrigue him enough & give him the impression that the moment could turn into something more & that something sexual could occur (via glances & movements) you’ve got him. for him, s3x is all abt control & how many ways either of you can lose said control. he likes a shared glance that holds an intense promise (eye contact). he likes the thrill of a teasing game that involves mutual seduction & mind games, which make the heart race faster (blindfolding).

💝 he likes talking abt s3x, sexual attention from others, seducing others & being around physically attractive people as he loves s3xy environments.

💝 he’s turned on by the concept of ownership. he enjoys getting marked by/marking his partner (bruises & love bites).

💝 he has the highest pain tolerance so enjoys aggression from his partner (bitten/scratched).

💝 he likes doing the deed in the dark, physically ripping his partners clothes off, laying down with his head close to his partners genitals, body hair, body odour, latex, leather, sex toys, begging, jealousy, teasing, tickling, torture, bdsm & prolonged sex.

💝 he likes a challenge & proving himself so ensure to let him chase.

💝 he likes being held really close during s3x & water mars in general love positions where they can see their partners face

💝 he craves a deep emotional bond & being utterly lost in his partner. he wants someone who will understand/appreciate his protective nature & sensitive side

💝 he’s attracted to blonde, innocent women with big boobs

[hotreadingwitch]

Daemon x Reader - Good Luck Charm

A/N - this chapter is quite a bit longer than usual btw! enjoy <3

Content Warnings/Kinks: alcohol consumption, dominance, praise kink, degradation, hickeys, bruising, choking, face slapping, light spanking, hair pulling, crying, cum swallowing, oral sex (reciprocal), finger sucking, riding, penetrative vaginal sex 

Good Luck Charm

Knock, knock, knock. 

Y/n tapped her knuckles against the wooden door of one of the council’s many chambers. This particular one was typically used for their group activities, such as small parties or gatherings, tonight however, it was being used for gambling. 

“Your Highness?” she called, raising her voice to be heard over the rowdy sounds of men coming from inside.

A second later she could hear footsteps padding towards the door. A tall man with white-blonde hair appeared, candlelight illuminating his head from behind like an ironic halo. 

“Daemon” she breathed in awe before immediately stuttering, “I—I mean My Prince, apologies” 

“What is your business?” he asked, cocking his head at her, a playful smile tugging at his lips and the scent of wine light on his breath. 

“I’ve been sent by the Hand, My Prince” she blushed, “may we speak privately?” 

“Let her in Dameon” rumbled a cheerful voice from inside. 

Daemon opened the door wider, revealing an ample, domed space, filled with lavish furnishings that looked so comfortable Y/n almost sighed out loud. There was a large round table in the centre of the room as well as secret dark corners, hidden by glittering fabric curtains. King Viserys and some of the other council members sat at the wooden table, all turning to look at her. 

“In you come love” Daemon gestured. 

Y/n hesitated for a second before stepping into the glamorous space and curtsying, 

“Your Highness” 

Viserys nodded at her, a kind smile on his slightly red face. In fact, almost all of the council members were looking like the wines were getting to them. All except, Corlys Velaryon, who seemed to be able to handle his liquor better than the rest. 

“Welcome,” Viserys greeted, “Pour yourself a glass Lady…” 

His words petered off, 

“Y/n” she responded with another curtsy, “Lady Y/n L/n” 

Feeling a pair of eyes on her, Y/n turned to see Daemon leaning up against a wall, his gaze trailing up and down her body with a small smirk threatening the edges of his lips. He turned to the bottles of wines and liquors that were spread out beside him on another smaller table. Y/n went over to him, her eyes scouring the same selection of beverages, looking for anything familiar. As she reached for a smaller bottle of clear liquor she recognized from the brothel, Daemon’s hand gripped hers suddenly. Her gaze snapped to his in an instant. 

“I’d recommend this,” he said, guiding her hand to a jug full of a deep burgundy wine. 

She nodded obediently and with his help she poured herself a chalice of the fine wine, tenderly taking a sip, never once breaking eye contact. The heated exchange somehow left Y/n feeling more ruffled than she had felt in a long time. 

“Come, come” came Viserys’ cheery voice again, “Come sit, let us play” 

As Y/n approached the table she realized that each intricately carved wooden chair was already taken. Daemon sat in his, looking both regal and dominant, his thighs spread apart slightly. Y/n’s mouth went dry as she realized her predicament. 

“My lady” Daemon commanded softly, gesturing to his lap. 

She obeyed, perching herself on his thigh, feeling the heat of his breath on the back of her neck, making her shiver. He placed a gentle hand on her upper thigh before addressing the group. 

“Fine, let's play” 

~

“Oh ho ho” a council member chortled as more cards were dealt, he was clearly not good at keeping a poker face. 

Daemon leaned forward until his mouth was close to her earlobe, making her breath hitch. 

“Shall I fold my lady?” he questioned. 

“No” she answered calmly, used to the illegal activities of the area in King’s Landing that she typically frequented, “Play on My Prince” 

He chuckled, amused, before stating his position to the group. 

They continued like this, Daemon consulting her, and winning, for multiple rounds. The wines flowed as they played and soon Y/n found herself feeling more comfortable in Daemon’s lap, leaning back against his taut chest, even laughing at the lewd jokes of the council members. His veiny hand, caressed her hip gently, an action which threatened to lull her to sleep. 

“Ahh” Viserys grunted angrily, glaring at Daemon somewhat childishly “I fold! You two have completely drained my coffers!” 

Y/n couldn’t help but smile. 

“It seems like you’ve found your good luck charm Daemon” Corlys added, chuckling with a knowing glint in his eye. 

She blushed, getting up as the other council members did the same, but a warm hand wrapped around her own, pulling her back downward. The other men exited quickly, rumbling laughs and breathy wheezes accompanying them out the door. She attempted to get up again, this time simply to turn to face him. 

“Did I say you could leave?” Daemon’s gruff voice asked in a hungry tone she hadn’t heard from him before. 

She turned backward, looking over her shoulder to meet his stormy gaze. 

“No, My Prince” 

In the newfound silence of the room, all Y/n could hear was the sound of her own breathing mixing with his. 

“You came here earlier tonight with business my lady…” he stated, putting his fingers together in a peak, “My apologies for distracting you…though I did not think you minded” 

“I’ve been sent by the Hand—” 

Y/n gulped. 

“Go on…”

“I was sent by the Hand” she continued, squaring her shoulders, annoyed by her uncharacteristic shyness, “As a gift for My Prince” 

That certainly got Daemon’s attention. She could see him swallowing thickly as his eyes clouded with desire. 

“And why did the Hand send you My Lady?” Daemon teased, smirking, “With all due respect, there are a million whores to choose from in King’s Landing” 

Y/n’s eyes widened at his crude commentary and yet she could feel a pleasurable warmth spreading instantly through her body. There was something about Daemon’s presence that was unlike that of any man she’d ever been sent to please.

“I believe he thought I would be a good fit for you Your Highness” she then smiled coyly, “And likely because I am more skilled than the ‘million whores’ in this rotting city that you speak of” 

Daemon cocked an eyebrow, his grip on her hips subconsciously getting tighter. 

“Please allow me to use my talents” she hesitated, “…Daemon” 

He breathed a small “yes”, consenting in an instant, a desperation in his gruff voice. 

Y/n stood causing Daemon’s hands that were pressing into her hips to go slack as she turned and slunk down onto her knees before him, tucking herself between his spread legs. She looked up at him, running a gentle hand down his chest until she reached the band of his linen trousers which were straining against his erection. He adjusted himself so that she could pull the fabric down, revealing his cock, hardened by desire. 

One hand choked her neck, making the sensitive skin hurt slightly against his palm, while the other gripped her hair, pulling her scalp back so that she was forced to stay in the same position. She gazed down at his rock-hard shaft with lust-filled eyes. 

Allowing him to guide her, she teased the tip with small, gentle flicks, the honed skill coming easily to her after years of practice. She transitioned quickly, flattening her tongue and using it to lick up from the middle of his length and up over the tip. Y/n did this all while never once breaking eye contact with Daemon. He groaned, his grip on her loosening, allowing her to do with him as she pleased. 

“That’s it, good girl” he praised, his voice already tight.

She then sucked upward, her mouth covering each side of his cock, first the left then the right, before taking the majority of his shaft into her mouth. She gagged but soon opened her throat wider, taking in a single inch more and bobbing, taking it until her throat protested and tears began to stream out of the corners of her eyes. Y/n continued doing this, pushing her mouth to its limit again and again as Daemon watched with fierce admiration, his sharp focus practically boring holes into her y/s/c flesh. 

“Let me take control love? Yeah? Please—” He groaned, sounding altogether desperate and much too improper for a prince. 

She nodded, grinning at his anguish, staring down at his glistening cock before it penetrated her mouth once more. Daemon sat up, grunting, thrusting his hips up into her mouth from where he was positioned. 

“Fuck me” he growled, his voice low and lusty as he found a satisfying rhythm slamming in and out of her mouth, “Yes, take it—take it” 

Daemon released a low whine, as her throat gagged and gagged on his pounding cock. She moaned, the vibrations making him shiver. As they continued, Y/n struggled to breathe with both Daemon’s rough thrusts threatening her air supply and her nose running. He wiped her tears away before they fell, thumbing at her cheek with his fingers which were calloused from endless swordplay. He came quickly then, his body convulsing forward and his hands supporting her face, one on either side. 

She swallowed him as he came unhinged, the white liquid squirting into her mouth and down her open throat. Y/n hollowed her cheeks, sucking up his shaft until she detached from him with a satisfying popping sound. Daemon stared at her with reverence, his fingers still holding her cheeks in place, caressing the soft skin distractedly. She smiled, noting the string of saliva that connected her bottom lip to his tip. She licked it sensually, making him groan and grip her face tighter. 

“I think that’s enough love…” he chuckled darkly before leaning down and capturing her attention with a quick brush of his lips against hers, “Besides I’d rather put you on the edge of this table and show you just how good you made me feel…would you like that Y/n?”

She nodded quickly, whimpering a small “please”

Daemon had somehow turned her, a seasoned professional, into a wet, needy mess. And after sucking him off and actually enjoying it for once, she was so hugely turned on that she stood and sat on the table’s edge in an instant. He pressed forward, kissing a lazy trail from her now puffy lips to the sensitive crook of her neck. 

“That’s the spot, huh?” He teased, laughing lightly, his warm breath hitting the cool mark on her skin, making her tremble.

Daemon’s hands made their way further down her body before he followed, slinking until he was the one on his knees before her. 

“Spread those legs open for me love,” he asked calmly, applying light pressure to her thighs, and when she obeyed, “that’s it, good girl”

She waited, the sheer anticipation of the pleasure Daemon was about to bring to her making her shiver. 

“I doubt that the men who come to you at the brothel are pleasing you the way you deserve my lady…” he stated boldly, stroking his rough hands up and down her thighs, “Would you allow me to?” 

“Daemon please” she begged, “I want you to, I do” 

“You do?” He questioned sweetly before adding, his voice suddenly darkening at the edges, “You’re sure you don’t want to beg a little more for me?” 

Her eyes flicked down to his cock which was clearly hard again. 

“Please” Y/n conceded, groaning as an annoying flush of embarrassment tinted her cheeks, “I—I need your tongue…”

“Look at me” he then commanded as he lowered himself before her already sopping cunt. 

She stared into the silvery blue-grey of his eyes, suddenly intimidated by the sheer power she saw reflected in there. She moaned, crying out at the sensitivity as he ran a single teasing finger up her slit. 

“You’re gonna follow my orders Y/n and right now I’m telling you that you’re gonna sit here and let me lick you until you’re shaking like the good little slut that you are. Can you do that love?” 

She nodded and he responded in a second with a crushing slap across the face that caused her eyes to well up immediately with more tears. 

“Shh shh” he crooned as she bit back a cry, “I’m going to need you to use your words for me”

“Yes, My Prince” she murmured quietly, another wave of heat rising between her legs. 

He caressed her face, pain tingling the spot where he had just hit her. 

“Are you ready to be good for me?” He questioned, no malice in his voice. 

“Yes” she repeated, “Please My Prince…”

And with that, Daemon got to work. He lowered his face until all she could see was his blonde hairline peeking out from between her thighs. She gasped as he made contact with her cunt, flicking at it so softly that the tears in her eyes threatened to fall. Her legs quivered in response to each gentle movement. 

“Daemon please…more” she whimpered. 

He hooked his strong hands under her thighs before throwing them over his shoulders, her legs caging him then like a criminal in a cell. He licked at her with the flat of his tongue, using the width to please more and more and more. 

“Mmm” he groaned onto her, his tongue desperately tasting every inch of her cunt, “You taste so good love, so good”

Her back arched up off of the wooden table. She shivered, and groaned aloud, not caring who could possibly hear her within the castle’s walls. Daemon was eating her like she was his last-ever meal and who was she to resist, especially when he had commanded her to enjoy herself? 

Y/n’s body burned to the touch and she felt utterly overwhelmed by the slow-building feeling in the lowest part of her stomach. Soon, she was rocking her hips back and forth with each flick of his tongue, desperate for the release that she clearly craved. 

“Daemon I’m—ugh—gonna mmm” she mumbled incoherently as he pleased her like she’d never been pleased before. 

His hands gripped her hips from underneath, holding her in place as she approached her orgasm, his fingers no doubt bruising the skin of her thighs. He kissed at her clit roughly, the lewd noises filling the chamber, creating a loud echo she thought must be heard out of the castle across the fucking Seven Kingdoms. 

“Wait” 

He paused, rising up to look at her, the sight of his chin covered in her sticky substance making her throb. 

“I need you in me” she begged, not breaking eye contact as she sat up, “Let me ride you please” 

Daemon sat back onto the chair, his legs spread as he beckoned her with a curled finger, curiosity in his eyes. She maneuvered herself so that she straddled him on the tall-backed chair. Gripping the wood behind his head, she ground her wet clit across his exposed length, causing her to gasp and him to groan. 

She looked right at him then, “I’m gonna cum on your cock…” 

“Yes” he agreed breathily, grabbing onto her hips then, “Yes love, make yourself cum for me” 

She slid onto him, his erect shaft sliding into her easily due to her slickness. 

“Gods” he groaned, one hand moving up to her neck, curling around her throat. 

Daemon thrust upward, his slowly snapping cock meeting the downward grinding of her hips, creating satisfaction for them both. 

“You’re so—you’re, fuck” he mumbled through strained growls. 

“I know” she chuckled, now as cocky as him, “I know”

Y/n ground down onto him, meeting his movements with ease that came only from years of practice. She rubbed her clit against his abdomen, making her moan breathily with each roll of her hips. Daemon’s eyes glazed over as he watched with fascination the place where they connected. But something flashed in his eyes when she reached her hand up toward his face, first tucking a strand of his blond hair behind his ear but then taking two fingers and placing them on his soft bottom lip. 

He opened, taking them into his mouth as she rode him, mesmerizing her with his small act of trust and submission. 

“Please” she mewled then, not too ashamed to beg, “Harder Daemon, harder” 

“Yeah? You really want it?” He teased, his gaze sharpening. 

“Yes, yes” she pleaded. 

Daemon grabbed her chin with his meaty palm as he sped up his pace, thrusting aggressively in and out of her dripping cunt, making the chair creak. She threw her head back as much as she could while his hand restrained her, moaning loudly. 

“You’re even more of a slut than I thought you’d be love” he smirked. 

She tensed then, the feeling that had been building and building finally releasing within her. 

“Oh fuck” she cried out, her hips moving in time with Daemon’s punching thrusts, “Fuck, fuck, fuck” 

“That’s it my love” he groaned, spanking her ass roughly with his calloused hands, “Keep cumming, keep taking my cock like a good girl” 

She whined as her orgasm continued to overwhelm her with Daemon pleasing her exactly how she needed. 

“Mmm,” she whimpered, the feelings finally subsiding. 

Daemon held her up, one hand brushing her waist and the other on her neck. 

“Gods” she mumbled, “That was good…” 

“Yeah?” Daemon teased, a wild smirk on his pink lips. 

“Yes Daemon it was good” she rolled her eyes. 

“You know we’re not done yet…”

She stared at him intensely, her eyes flitting down to his still-hard, red cock, causing her to whimper. 

He leaned in to whisper in her ear, “I know a stupid slut like you needs more, needs to cum more…harder, faster” 

A small moan escaped her lips at the thought and in an instant Daemon picked her up and was carrying her across the room. He laid her down on one of the couches that were shrouded by fine silks and fabrics that hung from the ceiling and the posts. When they were settled, he positioned himself behind her, placing a gentle kiss on her puffy lips before focusing on her wet cunt.

As he slid in Y/n moaned loudly, her hands flying back to grip onto him. She tightened around him, clenching as if her life depended on it, her body shuddering. Daemon waited until she adjusted to him before beginning to really thrust, to really fuck her as he had promised. Her neck snapped back as she cried out, consumed completely by the pleasure.

“You wanted it bad huh?” Daemon teased with a cocky voice that meant he was smirking like crazy behind her. 

“Mmm…” she mumbled in response, too blissed out on the feeling to form a proper sentence, let alone a snarky comeback. 

Daemon pulled her hair back off of her face with one hand, allowing him access to her bare shoulders and neck. He kissed a line of wet kisses down from her ear to her upper arm, leaving marks in his wake. But nothing turned her on more than how the sounds of him continuing to thrust in and out of her were lewd and hot as Dragon Fire. 

“Gods you look perfect with my cock filling you like that…” Daemon groaned, then repeated his words, “Perfect—so perfect Y/n” 

He reached over her side then, rubbing roughly at her clit, causing her back to arch and her insides to tense. 

“I can’t—I can’t…” she mumbled, lost to the pleasure.

“You can take it love” he breathed as he thrust his cock in and out of her, “I know you can take it". 

He stopped briefly, allowing her to say no if she needed to. Daemon chuckled then as she grabbed quickly at his hand pulling it back down to her clit with a small whimper of “please”. His veiny forearm was tensed and engaged as he flicked at her throbbing clit. Her chest became warmer and warmer to the touch the more he continued to please her. 

“D—Daemon—fuck” she groaned, her voice practically hoarse from moaning. 

“I know love, I know” he groaned, rubbing at her clit until she was ready to burst. 

Y/n cried out, cursing the very Gods that gave her life as she came. Her orgasm felt like a storm, like a war waging within her. She was tense and boneless at the same time. Daemon ground into her as he pulled in and out, making her clench around him, her cunt desperate for all his length. 

“Fuck” he grunted in her ear, flicking and thrusting through the waves of pleasure, her tightness making him explode within her. 

“Yes—mmm—yes, yes” she moaned, her voice breathy as her cunt began to calm, dripping now with both their cum. 

Daemon turned her onto her back. He had fucked her senseless and now was understandably spent. She curled her leg over him, their naked bodies intertwining. Daemon caressed her arm absentmindedly as she placed playful, light kisses on his neck and cheek. 

“Can we stay here?” She questioned, her voice a gentle whisper.

“We can stay here forever if it’s what you’d like Y/n” 

She tilted her head upward, looking up into his eyes…she could’ve sworn that there were stars in them.  

[orphicreveries]

Murder on The Thorne Estate (Sherlock Holmes x reader)

I’ve never posted before, so im sorry if this is bad, buutttt, if this does okays, I wanted to maybe continue this and evolve their relationship into a lil romance. (Also, ik I said it was “x reader” but there is no mention of y/n bc I kind of gave the reader a name)

Warnings: mention of blood, cannibalism, smut later? If continued?

In the heart of Victorian England, Isadora Thorne stood by the window of her grand yet cold home, watching the world pass by with a growing sense of dread. Married to Gregory Thorne, an older man of wealth and social standing, her life should have been the envy of many. Yet, beneath the gilded surface, there lay a dark and chilling secret, one she had only just uncovered.

It had been a quiet afternoon when Isadora stumbled upon the horror that would change everything. Gregory had left for his office, and while wandering the house, Isadora ventured into her husbands study, a rotten stench filling the room, she inched closer…

Closer…

And to her absolute horror, hidden beneath a loose floorboard were the ghastly remains of a mutilated body, half-consumed, gnawed at with ferocity. The realization struck her like a physical blow: she was living with a cannibal, and the very man she shared a bed with was a murderer.

Her heart raced, her mind struggled to make sense of the nightmare unfolding before her. Isadora had to act normal—Gregory would return soon, and if he suspected she knew his secret, her life could be next. She buried the terror deep within her, carrying on with their daily routine, but inside, she was unraveling, quickly, yet so torturously slowly.

As days passed, the tension between them became unbearable. Gregory was a perceptive man, and it wasn’t long before he grew suspicious of Isadora’s nervous glances and stiff responses. One evening, during a quiet dinner, his glowering eyes staring at her. Her nervous fidgeting seemed to be adding to his pleasure.

"You know, don’t you?" he whispered, a wicked grin on his face.

Isadora’s breath hitched. She nervously steps out of her seat and slowly backs away, whilst attempting to think of an answer. But before she could respond, Gregory lunged at her with murderous intent. In the ensuing struggle, Isadora managed to grab a fireplace poker. With a desperate swing, she struck him in his thigh, slicing through his femoral artery, sending him crashing into the nearby bookcase, blood spurting all over the carpets, as well as her nightgown and face. The impact and blood loss was fatal, Isadora stood frozen, horrified by what she had done—yet relieved it was over.

The next morning, Isadora awoke in a cold sweat, apprehensive of what might happen. When had she even pulled herself to bed? The bloodstained nightdress clung to her damp skin as she replayed the previous night’s events, what had she done? She sprung out of bed with the decision that she will not be locked up for this. The authorities would not believe her if she revealed Gregory’s cannibalistic tendencies, as far as they’re concerned, cannibalism is a myth. They’ll think she’s crazy and have her sent to an asylum.

Simple minded men.

She gets to work, devising a plan, she would have to play the part of a shaken wife who had awoken to the murder of her husband.

She begins with crime scene, she meticulously wipes the fingerprints from the fireplace poker, and carefully ruffles the house around, gathering dirt from the garden, making it appear tracked in, flipping chaises and dropping books around the shelf. Spreading his blood around the floor where his body lay. Next she takes the dress she adorned at supper and some of the houses belongings and burns them. She burns her dress because Gregory’s blood is all over it, she burns the belongings in order to stage a violent burglary.

She begins to practice her part, practicing her tone of voice, her story, her alibi, when to cry and when to choke off sentences with her sobs.

She was ready.

She dresses herself, ensuring her cheeks look tear streaked, her eyes slightly red, her whole character seemingly less put together than usual. She catches a carriage to the police station and tells her story. She’s sent home, the detective will show up and question her, she needs to be faultless in her performance.

She is pacing through her home, waiting for the authorities to show up, they do, 5 police men and…no detective? “He’ll be here shortly” one of the policemen assures her, Airheads, she thinks.

She’ll have to gain their trust, be on their side, she needs to sell her sweet, distressed recently widowed young lady act.

“Would you like some tea” she quietly sniffles to the police officers. “Oh no, you poor thing, been through so much already, you just relax and calm down for when Holmes comes to look through the scene, he’ll probably want to ask some questions”

Holmes? Why are they putting Sherlock Holmes on this case, she thought. Her thoughts were racing at a million per second, he’ll be sure to see right through me, he’s like a human lie detector, im completely screwed, she feels herself internally crumbling.

“N-no I insist, have some tea, please I need something to get my mind off of…the incident.” she nervously utters.

Just as she begins making the tea, Sherlock Holmes strides in, all serious face, cane in hand, and broad shoulders, he would be quite handsome, had his personality been less sour and entitled. “Let’s get started shall we” he says in his earnest baritone. He scans the room and begins prodding things with his cane “where’s the wife?“ he questions. “In the kitchen”, a police officer known as James answers. Sherlock walks with intent toward the kitchen where Isadora is nervously trying to get herself together.

“Sherlock Holmes” he holds his not even surprisingly large hand out to her, “Isadora, Thorne- Blackwood is my maiden name because, well he’s dead now I suppose”

oh good god I’ve already fucked it up, that did in no way sound like I was mourning my dead husband, what the hell Isadora?

Sherlock eyes her suspiciously. Which is when she realises his hand is still there in mid air, she awkwardly takes his hand. “Nice to meet you Mr Holmes”

“I’ve got some questions for you” Sherlock says.

“So I’ve heard” Isadora deadpans, “well I’m sort of occupied in this moment” she says, gesturing to the tea she was making.

“Well I’ve things I must attend to, so I’m almost certain you’ll be able to brew your tea on a different occasion.”

The nerve of this man, who does he think he is, walking into my house all high and mighty, telling me what I should do and when to do it, thought Isadora.

Isadora sighs deeply and gives Sherlock a strained smile, “How about we come to a concurrence, Mr Holmes, I’ll answer your questions…after I brew my tea, you can investigate the house whilst I do so, because frankly, I will not allow the tragedy of my husbands death to disrupt my morning activities” His putrid temperament is making it exceedingly difficult to stay in character, thought Isadora.

Sherlock looked almost sour, he loathed being told what to do, “very well, Ms Blackwood.”

He began poking through things, scanning over areas, calculating, it seemed.

Isadora on the other end stood over her stovetop, anxiously brewing her tea. When she glanced at him going upstairs into Mr Thornes study,

Oh Jesus Christ Lord above, there are blood soaked, gnawed at, butchered bodies under that man’s floorboards, and if Sherlock is as good as they say he is, he is absolutely going to find the defiled remnants of what was once a human being. Why didn’t I dispose of it? I should have, but I was too busy moulding the crime scene. Fuck.

Isadoras thoughts began to race, trying to think of what she might say to him, should he find the grotesque scene.

“Have you concluded your daily activities” Sherlocks bored voice cut through her turmoil,

when did he get back?

“well obviously not, I haven’t drank the tea yet, have I?”

“Drink it whilst I question you, it cannot wait”

“Fine.” she sighs

“Fine.” He counters, not really certain what he was countering

Isadora leads Sherlock to the drawing room, “I’d prefer it if we could continue this discussion in the study” isadora stiffens. “Why? these sorts of conversations are meant to be had in the drawing room.” “So you often have to answer questions about your husband’s murders?” Sherlock inquired with a small smile.

“Humorous” she lets out a dry laugh. “Let us proceed to Gregory’s study then”

The walk to the study was excruciating, Isadora was slowly unraveling, what would she say if he brought up the cannibalised bodies?

They sit in opposite chairs infront of the desk. Sherlock watches her intently, as though he were dissecting her every twitch. “Remarkably poised, aren’t you? Some would be quite undone after such an ordeal.”

Isadora holds his gaze “Not all of us choose to crumble in the face of misfortune. I’ve learned resilience is often a woman’s only armour.”

“Resilience, yes, in all situations I suppose” Sherlock nods slowly , not breaking eye contact “Though you must have heard something, a scuffle, a struggle, a scream of pain before inevitable death” he pokes half humorously, half serious.

Isadoras eyebrows raised in surprise “are you accusing me? Because as you’ve seen, our home is rather large, I was asleep. On the third floor, he was down there. On the first floor. Being speared by some deranged madman.” She holds eye contact, only breaking for a second at the mention of her husband being speared.

“But still, no footprints, broken windows or signs of forced entry” Sherlock pressed

“Maybe had you stopped and thought that the culprit may have followed him through the front door-“ isadora started “I had thought of that, but as previously stated, no footprints” Sherlock interrupted.

Wait, no footprints? Isadora couldve sworn she had crafted fake footprints…the policemen must have tracked over them.

“Criminals are evolving, Jack the Ripper is out there and you’re here, were you not apart of that case?, if you were really that brilliant, shouldn’t you have caught him by now, instead of being his pen pal and allowing him to write you love letters about the prostitutes he murdered that inevitably end up in the newspaper-“

“You’re deflecting”

“I am doing no such thing, I am merely questioning your expertise” Isadora countered.

“The truth always has a way of revealing itself, you’d do well to remember that” Sherlock says solemnly, his gaze narrowing slightly

I’d do well to remember- who does this man think he is? Thought Isadora.

“And I do hope you find it, Mr Holmes, for his sake” Isadora nods at him, feigning innocence, with a soft, sad smile.

“I shall see you Mr Holmes. Please, do not hesitate to write to me, should you need anything with regard to your case”

“Farewell, Ms Blackwood” Sherlock says whilst nodding at Isadora, before leaving

What an odd man, thought Isadora.

What a peculiar female, thought Sherlock, as he walked through the gates of the manor.

She would be quite attractive, had she not been a possible murder and cannibal suspect.

[hoosbandewan]

THE Billy Taylor Post

I have a love/hate relationship with The Halcyon as a show overall. I don't feel like all of it is written well, but the area in which it definitely excels is Billy Taylor's story. You know, the cutie pie bellboy that Ewan plays and who is always bugging out in all of the gifs we make of him. He's young, he's sweet, and he's insanely adorable.

And his story is also the best in the entire show. In my opinion!!

I also cry whenever I think about Billy for too long but we'll get into that later, hehe.

Spoilers for The Halcyon, btw!

If you haven't seen it, The Halcyon is set at a fancy hotel in London just as WWII has come to Britain. Also, fair warning that this post is a little bit all over the place because I have SO MANY BILLY TAYLOR FEELS

At the start of the show, Billy is seventeen and working at The Halcyon as a bellboy. He's portrayed by Ewan as someone who's maybe a little bit... no thoughts, head empty. I jokingly refer to Billy as having big NPC energy when he's in the background of scenes because it looks like he has radio static going through his head whenever he's not being interacted with. And like to think that it's not because it was Ewan's first gig as an actor. I think Billy genuinely is a little bit daft. He's the baby himbo. He's the golden retriever puppy who isn't the smartest in the room but he makes up for it with hard work and dedication and pure sweetness.

I mean, he's only seventeen and he appears to be one of the higher ranking bellboys at the hotel. He's given important tasks like welcoming ~secret guests to the hotel, showing new hires where to go, and personally taking care of high ranking guests' belongings. He's clearly trusted by the management and is, more importantly, very good at his job.

But, bless his heart... Billy can be kind of a mess. He's forgetful and sometimes just plain thick. He loses the family dog of the lord and lady who own the hotel while taking it out for a walk. (Literally how does that happen. Billy.) He bungles the staff poker game by revealing his hand without realizing. He's also a silly little dumbass when he and a couple of the other hotel staff are at the movie theater and see the lady who owns the hotel (who's there on a !secret date) and he straight up points at her from several aisles back with his eyes all bugging out. Be more obvious, Billy!

Billy is young and naive and maybe not the smartest guy around, but you know what? He's good at what he does (most of the time, lol) and he's a damn hard worker.

He's also someone who knows that people are reluctant to believe in him and he clearly doesn't like that. Billy signs up to join the army the moment he turns eighteen and, although we don't see it, his mum Peggy (who works at the hotel as the telephonist aka switchboard operator) mentions to the hotel general manager that there was a bit of an argument between them over it.

“Do you know why he was so upset that I didn’t want him signing up? He thought I was saying he wasn’t good enough.”

He also gets angry with his mum when his call-up papers do arrive. I know I called him daft before, so I'm giving him credit where credit is due - he actually very cleverly notices that the letter should have gone to his family's house, but it showed up at the hotel instead. And, upon learning that he's been assigned to the Royal Artillery instead of what he wanted - the engineers - he knows it was his mum (with the help of the hotel general manager, but he doesn't know that part) who moved things around so that Billy could stay close to home.

He angrily tells her, "I ain't a child no more," and storms out of the room. Billy wants to prove himself. He wants to be a grown up with responsibilities and he wants to be believed in.

You feel for him, but you also feel for his mum, who is watching her only son grow up and enlist in the war effort. At one point, Peggy mentions that she was only 19 or 20 by the time she'd had Billy, so she was a young mother (and still is!). Her worrying and fretting over him clearly annoys him because he's a teenager, but, god you feel for her. We also learn that Billy's dad, Jim, was drafted to fight in the war so she must be out of her mind with worry. I'll get more into my Billy feels as related to his mum in a bit. But I mean... just look at this line of Peggy's after Billy's joined the army:

“I pray. I fuss. I hold him a little tighter each time I see him."

Before I move on, GOSH, Billy is such a teenager when it comes to his interactions with his mum, lol. He doesn't want her fussing over him or being affectionate. He shrugs her off when she tries to fix his collar. He's reluctant to let her kiss his cheek... but he lets her do it anyway, of course.

Speaking of his family, Billy's relationship with his little sister, Dora, is also so cute and I love them. She tells another character that she doesn't miss him once he's moved out to join the army because she thinks he's "annoying" but she really does love him, lbr. And he's clearly very close with her, too.

At one point, their family home is destroyed in the Blitz so Peggy and Dora move into The Halcyon for a while. Billy watches his sister on mornings that he can get away from his army duties. He carries her around piggyback style. He lets her wear his army hat. He calls her "squirt." They're freaking adorable.

There's also a cute little moment during one of the Blitz raids where Billy's mum and sister are in the hotel shelter and Dora is frightened. Her mum tells her to listen for the sounds of the artillery and says, “That’s our Billy. He’s protecting us.”

And he is. Billy is a protector. He's always looking out for the people he cares about. When Kate, the maid he has a crush on, is SA'd by the Count, Billy angrily confronts him and even points the Count's own fucking gun at him. AND HE PULLS THE TRIGGER. He was about to fucking murder this man for doing what he did to Kate!

Billy is a fucking real one. God, he's the best character.

I don't have anywhere specific to put this, but I wanted to mention how much I love the little detail the writers added in about Billy's handiness and interest in machinery:

He is seen chatting with one of the waiters about the guns they use in the war and is later able to correctly identify the type of German plane flying over the hotel.

Later on in the season, The Halcyon's general manager and head concierge are trying to fix the hotel generator and lamenting that Billy was the one who always maintained it before he left to join the army. (I will come back to this later because omg)

Billy himself mentions to his mum at one point that he's planning on helping a neighbor with some things she needs done in her shelter and that he expects it to be a quick job.

When he joins the army, he's put in charge of operating one of the anti-aircraft guns - directing his fellow soldiers and being the one to manually operate the machine itself.

Now that I think I've covered every other Billy feel, I have to talk about... the worst one. The saddest one. His death. /:

I don't know how to say this without sounding like a complete [Michael Gavey voice] loooser, but I can't really think about Billy and his story in this show for too long without... crying? Oof.

I think that's a testament to just how well written his storyline was in this show. They make you care so fucking much about this sweet, innocent, pure-hearted, good to a fault, daft, brave young man so much that, when he dies in the Blitz, it really fucking hurts.

I swear, thinking about Billy Taylor deals psychic damage to me every time.

And I think that, part of the reason that Billy's death hurts so much is because of how it's shown to us. We all know the famous orange scene between Billy and Kate so I'm sorry for ruining it by making it sad, lol. But that scene ends with Kate telling Billy that she'll meet him the next morning to share the orange with him. So when morning comes and the hotel staff are arriving and see Kate waiting impatiently for "someone" who hasn't arrived, your heart fucking sinks immediately.

They don't even tell us about Billy's death by showing Peggy learning of the news. We're told through Kate's POV. He doesn't show up to their meeting in the morning and, when she arrives for her shift, the staff has been gathered around by the general manager. Only then do we learn that Billy was killed by a parachute mine the night before. And we follow Kate to the same closet where Billy gave her the orange, where she's sobbing and cradling the fruit in her hands.

But what's even sadder is that Billy remains a presence throughout the rest of the show. You, as the viewer, grieve him alongside not only his family, but also the people who knew him and worked with him.

When the hotel loses power during a bombing one night and the general manager and head concierge are trying to fix the generator, they're lost for what to do and even lost for words because Billy was the one who always handled the generator. They end up fixing the thing by taking a wrench and banging the side of it because "That's what Billy used to do." And it works. The generator turns back on thanks to Billy. Thanks to the memory of him. And the concierge look up and says, "Clever lad," as though Billy can hear him.

Of course, Peggy spends the rest of the season grappling with the loss of Billy, too. The other characters mention more than once that she's "talking about Billy as though he's still here" and that it's worrying them. Eventually, the general manager sits down with her and she says that she does know he's gone but that it's so hard to believe because she wants to think that he could just walk through the door at any moment.

But, oh my god, the saddest moment of the show for me... is the moment when Peggy is walking through the hallway in the staff area of the hotel and she sees one of the bellboys walking towards her. He has his head down so his face is in shadow but he's about the same height as Billy... and you can see in Peggy's face that she's allowing herself - just for that one moment - to imagine that it's Billy. To let herself think that he's still alive. You're watching her process the scene before her and seeing her think, "Could it be him?" for those few seconds... until she sees the bellboy's face. And, oh my god, it absolutely wrecks me every single time.

Billy's death is the reason that Peggy gives up the one thing she has left - Dora - and sends her away to the countryside along with the other children who are being evacuated from London. Because she can't bear the thought of losing her last living child.

Billy is the character who shows the audience how cruel and unforgiving the war is. That it can take anyone, no matter how sweet and kind and young and good the person is.

And it illustrates the enormity of the chasm they leave behind.

Billy's loss is felt in everyone, from his family to the people he worked with to the girl he had a crush on. AND IT'S FELT IN ME, TOO, GODDAMN

This was so long and I may not have even touched upon all of my feels but thanks for coming to my Billy Taylor TED Talk. I fucking love him. The writers did an amazing job writing him. 10/10, no notes whatsoever. I cry every single time.

He's such an underrated Ewan character and, I know I haven't mentioned it much, but Ewan's portrayal of him is flawless. He's perfect at capturing all the silliness, daftness, and earnestness that makes up our sweet little Billy!

Tl;dr - Everyone should love Billy Taylor!

Aaaand here's another gif of our sweet boy to end this massive post:

[mousy-nona]

Um hi random question for a possible prompt, are you okay with male pregnancy? Cause the prompt is Lucifer finding out that he on a drunken night had a one night stand with Alastor and that has resulted in a secret child that Lucifer never knew about until one day Alastor brings the young boy to the Hotel rather than leaving him with "Aunt Rosie"

TWO PARTS FOLKS! Skip this part if you don't like PWP

SMUT WARNING. LAST CHANCE TO TURN BACK. Also this may or may not be my experiment into smut – let’s see if it’s any good lol

The night of

Later, Lucifer would blame it all on the drink. 

(The devil’s brew, indeed.)

Three mistakes were made that night: the first was letting Husk bring that poison into the hotel in the first place. The second was allowing the grumpy cat and his slutty spider friend to pull him into an innocent drinking game that turned not innocent right quick. 

Note to self: never, ever agree to play strip poker with an ex-gambling Overlord. What the Hell was he thinking? 

Third mistake: allowing Alastor to exist. 

He only had vague flashes of the rest of the night, but for some reason he remembered Alastor as clear as daybreak: Alastor’s sharp claws as he scraped him off the bar, the slight rise and fall of his chest as he carried him up to his room, the soft brush of his hair as he dropped him in his bed. 

And he remembered grabbing his wrist. 

“Don’t go,” he’d whispered. 

And Alastor had stopped, a shadow inside of a shadow in the darkness of his room. “Sleep it off, boozehound.” 

Lord in Heaven, his voice. The static electrified his blood, combined with the heat that was always simmering at a low boil whenever Alastor was around.

He’d thought it was hatred. Maybe it was. It didn’t matter – hate and lust felt the same when it was soaked in whiskey and rum. 

“Why? Too scared to stay?”

He tried to throw the words out as a taunt. They came out like an invitation.

Alastor stilled. For a moment, Lucifer was convinced he would melt into the shadows, but he whirled around in one smooth pounce, clutching both of his wrists in one large hand. His claws dug into Lucifer’s skin, and the little pinpricks of pain sent shocks of electricity straight to his cock. 

“Scared?” Alastor snarled. “If either one of us should be scared…” He took one sharp claw and ripped through the thin t-shirt Husk had let him keep. The cotton fell apart like it was made of paper, revealing the smooth, white skin underneath. Alastor ran his hand down his chest, leaving five thin lines of gold behind. Lucifer sucked in a breath, feeling his dick jump and strain in his pants. Oh, the pain was glorious. “It should be you, your Majesty.” 

“We’ll see about that,” Lucifer batted back breathlessly.

Alastor hmmed, his red eyes glowing in the dark. Slowly, so slowly Lucifer felt like an eternity and a second had passed, Alastor loosened his grip on his wrists…and immediately plunged down on his neck. 

“Wha–” was all Lucifer could get out before a vise-like grip was throttling him. His brain screamed for air, his adrenaline going haywire, and all his nerves went into overdrive. Oversensitized like this, every one of Alastor’s touches made him twist and moan like an untried virgin. No matter what ungodly sounds squeaked through his tortured throat, Alastor kept going, running his sharp claws against the side of his neck, the lines of his back, the deep Vs of his hips. 

When he thought he might explode from the lack of oxygen, Alastor let go – and promptly tore the button off his pants. Lucifer’s mouth went dry as his traitor clothes slipped off, and he was laid bare in front of the wicked devil. 

“What do we have here?” His grin would make a lesser man’s skin crawl. 

Lucifer was not a lesser man. He was the king of Hell. And was he really just going to lie here and let Alastor strip him bare without even trying to fight back? 

Moving quickly, he entwined his legs with Alastor’s and flipped them over so Alastor was lying flat on his back and Lucifer was back on top. Alastor hissed, his eyes narrowing, but Lucifer ignored him. Seeing the normally buttoned up and pristine demon like this, his hair mussed, his coat half-open sent a surge of lust so powerful what little breath he had left whooshed out of his lungs. 

More, his fevered, whiskey-washed brain whispered. I want him ruined. I want him ravaged.

As if in a dream, he took hold of Alastor’s collar and ripped. The silk flew obediently off his body, revealing his toned muscles, the mouthwatering scars that dipped in and out of sight, tales of violence written in flesh and blood. Alastor was built lean but powerful, his chest as broad as his waist was narrow. Lucifer drank him in, gently touching each one of those scars with a veneration he hadn’t felt since the Fall.

I wonder if you’ll tell me these stories one day, he thought. 

Alastor shivered each time Lucifer’s fingers met his overheated skin. A small sound escaped the back of his throat, half growl, half groan. 

“Is that the best you can do?” He panted, his teeth gritted into a grin. A challenge. 

It was painful to avoid his own straining cock for so long, but Lucifer couldn’t let Alastor’s jabs pass unnoticed. He surged forward and captured Alastor’s mouth with his – all the better to shut you up with, my dear. Alastor’s tongue was as flexible and tantalizing as his shadow tentacles. They battled for dominance, Lucifer’s hands going straight for Alastor’s pants – and letting out a sigh of relief when he felt the unmistakable stiffness pressed against the fabric. A quick slide of his finger, and he was able to grab Alastor’s cock in one hand, winding his other into the astonishing softness of Alastor’s hair. 

Alastor snarled and broke the kiss. Lucifer had one glimpse of his face – eyes wild, his edges glitching, a step away from utterly undone – before Alastor sent him flying.

He landed with an oomph on his stomach, the softness of the blanket beneath bunched under his hips as he felt the ominous aura of Alastor crowd behind him. A hand fisted into his hair and yanked up, so rough he felt his scalp ache. Alastor leaned in, his breath hot and sweet against the crook of his neck. He jumped as an unmistakable pressure near his ass.

“One.” 

Alastor pushed. Lucifer let out a long, keening cry as he felt a claw enter him. There was nothing soft or gentle about it, but he found himself pushing back, panting violently as a rush of electric lightning arc up and down his body. 

It had never felt like this. 

“So hungry for it,” Alastor murmured, his grin sharp against his cheek. Lucifer moaned, his dick so hard it bobbed against his stomach. 

“Two.” 

Another finger. Another rush of pleasure-pain. Another shock of lightning as sparks flew across his vision. 

Alastor hummed, as if considering something. The last sane part of Lucifer’s brain trembled with fear…and anticipation. He spat into his palm, readying himself for something.

“What if I do this?” 

Lucifer had been right to be afraid. 

Alastor scissored his two fingers while grabbing his leaking cock and pumping hard. His mind went blank. His back arched as his mouth widened with a silent scream, feeling the crash of pleasure so mindnumbing, so overwhelming, that he lost all control. Alastor bit at his collarbone at the same time, and the wires of pleasure and pain and everything in between nearly short-circuited his brain for good. 

Lucifer found his voice. He screamed as he felt the most violent orgasm he – or frankly anyone in this world – had ever known rip through his body. When he finally came back down to Earth, he realized he was on his back – and Alastor was between his legs.

“What? Did you think you were the only one who got to have fun, your Highness?”

Alastor pushed in. Lucifer’s ass burned as he struggled to take in his massive length. He closed his eyes, as if in pain, and the most delicious, static-burred groan tore from the back of his throat. It was the sexiest thing Lucifer had ever heard. His limp body, already exhausted from the pleasure Alastor had so savagely pulled from him, started stirring again. 

Then Alastor hit that spot inside of him, and Lucifer’s head fell back, a strangled scream forced from the very depths of his soul. Alastor, true to form, was not gentle. He dug his claws into Lucifer’s waist as he snapped his hips, going as deep as he possibly could with every stroke. He growled as he moved, the static moving in and out of focus in time with each of his thrusts. 

In the ghostly voices of the static, Lucifer could have sworn he heard his name. 

There was a screech, and Alastor shuddered, his muscles rippling as Lucifer felt his cock swell inside of him. 

“Let go, Alastor,” he panted. “Let go. It’s just us here.” 

With a roar, Alastor did as he asked. A raging heat filled his insides as Alastor collapsed on top of him, his hair damp with sweat and an almost-peace crossing over his face. 

Lucifer marvelled at it for a minute – before flipping Alastor back over and straddling his hips so that Alastor had a front-row view of his fully erect cock.

“What?” Lucifer grinned, his eyes glowing gold in the dark of the room. “Did you think you were the only one who got to have fun, Overlord?”

[arc852]

23. Gamble

Definition: play games of chance for money; bet.

Summary: While in a casino, Grian catches sight of a borrower trapped in a cage. Scar uses his skills to save him.

G/t: Scar is normal-sized, Grian and Joel are borrowers

Word Count: 1884

AO3 Link

I do not know poker very well and I definietly don't know how to cheat at it, so sorry if this isn't accurate lol. It was fun to write though! I hope you guys enjoy!

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 “Scar. Scar!” Grian tried getting Scar’s attention. He was currently in his pocket and banging against the man’s chest. He still kept his voice low because despite his wish for Scar to hear him, he really didn’t want to be heard by anyone else.

 He felt more than heard Scar hum and Grian took that as a sign that he was heard. He was right, when a few minutes later, he felt Scar stop walking and a hand suddenly descended upon him from above.

 Grian braced himself as fingers as long as he was wrapped around his frame. No matter how many times this had happened, he wasn’t sure he would ever get used to it. The grip solidified and he was lifted up and out of the pocket. Thankfully, he wasn’t kept in the pinched grip for long. He was quickly and carefully placed onto another hand.

 Grian looked up to see Scar looking at him in concern. “What’s up, G? Is everything okay?”

 Grian shook his head and glanced around to see where they were. It looked like Scar had ducked around a dead-end corner, out of sight of any of the other patrons. Good, no one should be bothering them over here.

 Grian recounted what he had seen. It had just been a quick glance out of the pocket, just to see where they were at. That had been enough time to see something…or, rather, someone.

 “Someone in here has a borrower with them.” Grian revealed and Scar’s eyes went wide.

 “Are you sure?” At Grian’s nod, Scar bit his lip. “Well, maybe they're like us?” Scar tried, wanting to give the benefit of the doubt. But his already uneasy smile dropped when Grian shook his head.

 “He was in a cage.” Grian said, his voice cracking a little. 

 Scar winced. “Oh. Yeah, that’s not good.”

 “That’s not the only thing though.” Grian continued, fidgeting with his sweater.

 “What do you mean?” Scar asked, wondering what else there could be. Grian looked him in the eyes, his expression pained. It sent Scar’s heart plummeting.

 “I think…I think I know him.” Grian admitted. He hadn’t gotten much of a good look at the borrower himself but…well, Grian would recognize that green streak anywhere.

 “You…know him? Like, he’s a friend of yours?” At Scar’s question, Grian simply nodded. A friend of Grian’s…Grian had never mentioned any friends before. He was very secretive like that. So for one of them to be here…

 “What did the human who has him look like? Where were they?” Scar asked, expression serious. 

 Grian blinked and tried to think about the brief moment he saw. “The human was wearing a black suit…and had slicked black hair…and he was over in the far corner, in a section that wasn’t very crowded.” Scar nodded along to Grian’s description. He then brought Grian close to himself, hiding him while Scar looked around the corner, trying to see where Grian described.

 …There. Grian had been right. In the back corner, in the VIP section, sat a man wearing a fancy black suit and a smug smile. On his right, in plain view, was a cage with a borrower trapped inside. The thought made Scar’s blood boil. Borrowers were people too, he couldn’t imagine ever putting Grian in a cage like that.

 Scar needed a plan.

 He backed back into the corner and looked down at Grian. “Do you trust me?”

 Grian was taken by surprise. “Wha- I mean, I…” Grian took a deep breath and sat straight up, looking Scar in the eyes, determined. “Of course I do.” He didn’t think he trusted anyone more.

 Scar smiled at that, touched. Hopefully, his plan didn’t ruin that. “Then follow my lead.”

***

 A quick bribe to the bouncer let him into the VIP section of the casino easily. He played the part of walking around, checking out the games, trying to look like he belonged.

 It wasn’t very hard, honestly.

 He casually passed by the man with the borrower, his eyes honing in on the little guy naturally. He stopped, gaining the man’s attention. “Pardon me, but I’ve got to say that is quite the catch you’ve got there.” Scar said, voice as smooth as honey.

 The man huffed but Scar could see the ghost of a vicious grin on his face. “Move along buddy, I don’t think you can afford a game with me.” He laid a hand on top of the cage and he saw the borrower inside flinch. “Especially not with this as the prize.”

 “Hey!” A voice suddenly shouted, startling Scar briefly out of his act. He looked down to see it was the borrower who had spoken. “I’m not some prize to be won!”

 “Shut it!” The man hisses, banging his hand against the cage and making the borrower inside fall over. Scar contained his own flinch, remaining stoic. But he almost broke seeing the borrower cowering after all that.

 “Actually,” Scar started, mentally preparing himself for what he was about to do. “I think I can. Afford it, that is.” Scar reached into his pocket, his hand wrapping around Grian, firm but gentle. He felt Grian squirm against his fingers, tiny hands trying to push at them. He bit the inside of his cheek, carefully letting one of his fingers run along his back, trying to settle him. Thankfully, Grian seemed to get the message and he was still by the time Scar pulled him out.

 At the sight of another borrower, the man’s eyes went wide.

 “So, you’ve managed to catch one yourself.” The man said, leaning back in his seat and crossing his arms. 

 “Yep. And I would love to add that little one to my collection.” He pointed at the other borrower, who glared at him. “Of course, if you end up winning, I suppose you’d be adding another tiny to your prize pool.”

 Scar could see the other man thinking it over. Looking between the borrower he had trapped and Grian. Finally, he motioned for Scar to have a seat across from him. Scar grinned and took it.

 “We’re playing this the right way though, so prizes in the center.” The man said, tapping on the cage. Scar frowned at that but not enough to put the other man off. He was loath to let Grian out of his grasp but he didn’t want to push his luck.

 “Alright by me.” Scar said with a fake but convincing smile. He glanced down at Grian, who glanced back up at him. He gave a tiny, subtle nod and Scar let out a breath.

 The cage was pushed to the center of the table and the man opened the cage, making sure the borrower still inside couldn’t escape. Scar reached in and placed Grian inside as well and the cage was shut and locked once more. Immediately both borrowers huddled together and Scar could just make out faint whispers. Hopefully Grian was explaining everything to him.

 The cards were passed out by the dealer and Scar took a peek at his hand. Not bad, all things considered. But definitely on the lower end of his chance to win. No matter, he wasn’t a scammer at heart for nothing. With quick hands, as Scar saw no one looking at him, he slipped one of the cards into his sleeve and replaced it in less than a second.

 It had taken him a lot of practice but it had all been worth it when Scar took note that no one had noticed. Perfect.

 The cards were revealed and the dealer announced Scar as the winner.

 The man sneered at him as Scar stood from his seat and reached for the cage in the center. “Well, my good man, it seems I’m adding this little one to my collection after all. Sorry about that, but all's fair in love and war and all that.” Scar said with a wink, grabbing the handle of the cage.

 Unfortunately, they weren’t out of the woods yet as the man’s hand went over his own to keep him from taking his prize. “Double or nothing.” The man growled out, practically spitting in Scar’s face. Scar used his free hand to wipe it away, glaring at the man. He tried to reign in his anger to a normal amount but it was starting to get difficult. 

 “Sorry but no. I’d like to just take my prize and go now.” With that said, Scar slapped the other man’s hand away and brought the cage close to himself. 

 The other man looked like he wanted to jump him but thankfully, security had already been called. Scar sent a thankful look to the dealer, who nodded and went back to work. Scar watched in glee as the man was taken away and escorted out of the building for making a scene and not abiding by the rules.

 “And that’s how it’s done.” Scar said to himself, proud his plan had worked.

 Scar slipped out of the VIP section into a secluded back corner of the casino, trying very hard to hide what was inside the cage. He didn’t need anymore people seeing the borrowers, after all. He found an empty table and took a seat.

 Once he was sure no one was around, he placed the cage onto the table and unlocked the door. “I swear Scar, you’re going to give me a heart attack one of these days.” Grian said as he walked out of the cage, the other borrower not far behind but a lot more hesitant.

 “It worked though! And you never had anything to worry about.” He pulled up an ace from his sleeve, showing it off with a wink. “I always come prepared.”

 Grian rolled his eyes and then seemed to remember they weren’t alone. He moved out of the way, giving Scar a better view of his friend. The other borrower seemed to be a bit shorter than Grian, which he hadn’t thought was possible. He also had a distinct green streak in his hair and Scar wondered if he had dyed it or not. And if so, how?

 “Scar, this is Joel. Joel, Scar.” Grian introduced and Scar did his best to bow from a seated position. 

 “Nice to meet you, Mr. Joel.” Scar said with what he hoped was a reassuring smile.

 Joel still seemed unsure but he gave a little wave before quickly putting his hand back down. “Grian said you were trustworthy so…I believe him. And you did save me so…” He looked at Grian.

 “I told him as much as I could when I got into the cage.” He smiled at Joel. “Don’t worry, Scar would never hurt us or keep us trapped.”

 Scar nodded in total agreement. “Yeah, we’ll get you back home…or wherever it is you need to go.”

 Joel nodded. “...Thanks.”

 Scar grinned. He knew it would take a while for Joel to warm up to him and to the idea that Scar, despite being a human, wasn’t planning on keeping or harming them. After all, it had taken Grian a bit of time to get to that point too. But either way, Scar was more than willing to help. After all…

 “Of course! A friend of Grian’s is a friend of mine!”

[mushrubes]

Secret santa

Masterlist | Resident Evil masterlist |

Requested : no

Based on character ai { Leon Kennedy by @/moolvn}

Pairing : rookie!Leon Kennedy x reader

Pronouns : you/yours

Type :  fluff

Word count : 1.8k

Content: Swear words, mutual pinning, slightly ooc :)

Have a great day !! <3

——————————–-

Leon was decorating a Christmas tree in the lobby of the police station when he noticed you walk in. The partner who he has a secret crush on and has to buy a gift for during the RPD's Secret Santa event. He smiled and waved you over, handing you a few ornaments so you could decorate together. “Hey, uh, I was talking to the who is assigned to you for Secret Santa. They wanted me to ask what you want for Christmas.” He’s terrible at keeping secrets, so you’re bound to find out it’s him. "Oh! uh…let me think." you smiled softly as you put a few ornaments on. "I don't have anything in particular but I could tell you my interests?"

Leon blushed. He definitely shouldn’t have signed up for this event. "Go ahead, I don’t mind." He looked at you with puppy dog eyes, waiting for you to tell him more. "Well...I like music, video games…" you listed off, picking up a few more ornaments and helping to decorate. "What kind of music?" Leon leaned a little closer. His cheeks were turning red. "What type of games do you like?" He smirked, his puppy dog eyes full of hope, wondering whether or not you would talk about any that he has played before. "For music, pretty much anything - as long as it's not country." you laughed gently, seeing him agree.

"I completely agree." Leon nodded and felt relieved that he was on the same page about country music. "What about games?" He glanced over at the clock, wondering how much longer he could put off making the big reveal that he's your Santa. "As for games…I really like the story games. Some of my favourites are Red Dead and the last of Us." you responded, eyes sparkling at the thought of the games. "Those are my favourites, too!" Leon perked up. It’s like you two can read each other's minds. He smiled and continued helping you decorate the tree, trying to maintain a poker face while he felt every ounce of his feelings for you building up inside. "No way!" You laughed, face lighting up.

Leon couldn’t contain himself anymore. The blush spread on his cheeks. His heart was pounding so hard it sounded like thunder. He hoped you didn’t see just how much he was starting to fall in love with you. “Yeah, way! You have such good taste in games!” Leon tried, but he could not keep from glancing at you. "We should play together sometime," you suggested, cheeks lightly red as you looked at him. Leon couldn’t believe his ears. It was like all of his Christmas wishes came true at once. He was so excited. Was that an invitation for us to…actually play together? Leon wanted this so badly. It would be like some sort of romantic movie dreamdate. Just sitting on the couch playing games with the person of your dreams. He was already sweating just thinking about it. “I would love to play with you!”

"What about you? what do you hope to get for secret Santa? what do you like?" you asked, wanting to get to know him a bit better. “Hmmm.” Leon had never even thought about that question. He couldn’t care less about the gift he would receive. In fact, he was more excited about what gift he was giving to you. He couldn’t wait to see the look on your face when you realized it was from him… He didn’t mention any of that, of course. “Just something that I would be able to use for work. Maybe like, a new handgun or something?” You nodded, humming as you finished putting the lights on the tree. "That would be a good present." Leon chuckled to himself. He didn't really care about receiving a new gun at all. He just wanted to come across as manly and tough. That was all. He looked up when he heard you hum. That was quite pretty. I’m pretty sure I’m in love with them right now. "What are you humming?"

"oh, just a song by my favourite band, Sleep Token." you smiled at him, continuing to hum. Leon was stunned. It felt like you read his mind again. Sleep Token? He loved Sleep Token. He didn’t think there were many other people out there who listened to them “You like Sleep Token?” Is this person too perfect? You nodded, eyes widening slightly as you realised. "yeah. do you listen to them too?" Leon was shocked. How was this happening? What are the odds that the Secret Santa that would be giving you a gift is obsessed with some of your favourite bands? "They're my favourite band. What songs are your favourite? Mine are Jaws and Hypnosis, they're like one long song. I can't listen to one without the other."

"No way! Mine are Granite and the love you want!" You grinned, eyes lingering on him slightly too long before continuing to finish the lights on the tree. "We're pretty alike, huh?" Leon was in awe of how perfectly you seemed to align with all of his interests. "We have excellent taste in music, that's for sure." Leon couldn’t stop glancing at you, smiling from ear to ear. This felt like a dream. "I don't think I know anyone who loves Sleep Token as much as I do. It really is my favourite band, and I listen to them pretty much all the time."

"I was hoping to get tickets to their concert but they're all sold out." You sighed softly, chuckling gently. "that would be the best present ever." A lightbulb went off inside Leon’s head. Is this what I think it is?? “You wanted to see them in concert? But you couldn’t get tickets?” Leon thought about the tickets he got from a friend just a few days ago. Tickets to…Sleep Token. The greatest present he could give. You gasped softly as you noticed the time on the clock "I should go get ready for the party. I'll see you later?" you smiled softly at him.

Leon smiled. He couldn’t believe he got so lucky to end up as your partner this year. He couldn’t wait for the secret to be revealed so he could finally tell you how much he loves you. “Yeah, I'll see you later.” Leon leaned in, trying to keep it subtle, but he couldn’t resist a quick kiss on your cheek before watching you leave.

--------

Leon anxiously scanned the crowd trying to find you. He was holding an oddly shaped present covered in Christmas wrap and ribbon. As the room filled with more and more people, Leon began sweating from how anxious he was to find you. What if someone took your present before you got there? Or even worse, somebody else already gave you a gift, before he even got a chance to. "Leon!" You called, waving as you made your way over to him, a present in your hand. Leon’s eyes lit up when he saw it was you. His heart beat quickly. He was trying to hide a nervous sweat. “There you are! I’ve been looking for you!” Leon noticed you had already found a present. Oh no…did someone get to you first?

"Merry Christmas." you grinned, handing it to him "I'm your secret Santa." Leon’s eyes lit up. He cannot believe his ears. This is really happening? “I’m yours as well? No way! This is so crazy.” Leon cannot contain himself. The blush on his cheeks is spreading across his entire face. It’s just so crazy how much we have in common with each other. He takes the present and quickly unwraps it, wanting to see what you got for him. Leon’s eyes went wide. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing. Not only was it the exact handgun he would’ve asked for, but it had all of his favourite elements engraved on it, and the lyrics from his favourite Sleep Token song. This wasn’t just his favourite gun, this was his dream gun. “You actually got me…I…I cannot believe how much you paid attention to what I said.”

"I'm yours as well? Are you my secret Santa too?" you giggled softly, cupping his cheek. "I'm glad you like it." The blush on Leon’s cheeks continued to grow as you touched his cheek. He felt like he was in a dream. The person who he was completely in love with had a secret Santa gift for him that was even better than the one he was going to give them. He couldn’t believe how lucky he was to end up with such a beautiful person as you as his secret Santa partner. “Yeah, haha. I am yours as well. Here, let me give it to you.” He smiled at you nervously as he pulled the present he had in his other hand out of his coat. your eyebrows furrowed softly as you opened the wrapping paper and the envelope, eyes widening and a gasp escaping as you saw the tickets. "you didn't."

“But I did!” Leon couldn’t believe how much he’d fallen for this person. How much he was willing to spoil them. How much he valued them. If only they knew how much I really loved them, then we’d be a happy couple instead of just partners. The tickets were two, and they were front row for Sleep Token. Not just any tickets, but the ones most people would kill to get their hands on. "But they were sold out, how did you-" Your face was lit up, eyes welled out of excitement. Leon laughed. There was no way he was ever going to let you know how he’d gotten them, but he was having too much fun playing with you. “I worked my magic to get them.” He smirked.

He couldn’t wait to spend time with you at the concert. “Are you excited?” You laughed softly, nodding as your happy tears escaped, hugging him tightly. "Very. Thank you, le. they're the best present ever." Leon's heart pounded like a drum. This was it. they were in his arms. They were hugging. He could smell their perfume. He couldn't wait to spend the evening with them, watching their eyes shine as Sleep Token performed on stage. Leon smiled as he couldn't help but hug them back. "You're welcome. I wanted to make sure you could finally go see them in concert." "

Hey…" You paused for a second, cheeks tinting as you looked up at him. "Maybe…maybe we could make it a date?" You asked nervously, a cheeky grin on your face. Leon’s heart skipped multiple beats. A date? Do you mean a romantic date? He wasn’t quite sure he had heard you correctly, but he was now even more surer than ever how much he’d fallen for you. A date would be like living the dream. It would be like the best Christmas present he could ever get. It would be…perfect. He smiled, nodding his head and letting out a giddy laugh.

“I would love that.”

[atarathegreat]

I really liked the secret romance with a rival leader one, so if you don't mind can you do another part for that but with baji, kazutora (specifically a valhalla member if you can) and draken? Of course if you want to. Thank you! :D

I liked it, too, I just couldn't think of who else to do ;-; thank you

Baji was just out on the town looking for trouble as he always did. He was used to the attention that his Tokyo Manji jacket got him, reveled in it even. But whoever this guy was that kept popping up in his peripheral, Baji was going to find out. So he whirled around and grabbed the guy by his collar, "Why the fuck are you following me?" The kid laughed, "It is you! Man, your sibling keeps telling me to avoid you!" This dudes cheery attitude and what he said caught Baji a little under the belt, the true gut punch being when you walked out with a grocery bag in hand calling this loser "babe."

He didn't know what to do about what he'd just stumbled across. Sharing a cramped room with your brother, it was bound to happen that you both would see things of the others that were...not supposed to see the light of day. Draken could count on one hand the times he's purposefully snooped in your stuff, and this wasn't one of them. This was gross neglect on your part, it was borderline stupid. No, it was stupid. "What's this?" He leaned in the doorway, the polaroid in his fingers as he watched you playing poker with the girls. Draken didn't have time to move as you barreled into him, yanking the picture free and hiding it in your hands, "It's nothing! Why did you go through my stuff?" He threw you off him and sat up against the wall, "You left it in the open, dumbass, don't blame this one me. You realize who that is, right? We have to tell Mikey." You hung your head, sighing before returning to your game with the ladies, "Can we do it tomorrow? I just wanna relax tonight." Draken nodded, "Just be sure to get to bed on time, I don't want to carry you to bed again." But he would if he had to.

Kazutora wasn't thrilled about who you'd gotten with. In fact, he was dragging you around the house by your shirt. "Tora! Let me go! You're hurting me!" You screamed, thrashing against him. He slammed your face into your closet door, blood quickly splattering across the dingy painted wood, "What's in the shoebox under your bed." It wasn't a question, he never asked questions. You stared at him, wide eyes and upturned brows, "Tora, it's not-" But Kazutora wouldn't have your excuses and kicked the shoebox over to reveal all the stupid letters, the letter "i" dotted with hearts and "y" with swoopy tails. "What the fuck is going through your head?" Kazutora threw you into the pile of memories, "The one time I let you join me and you go behind my back like this?" You protested, professing that your partner knew nothing about Valhalla, wasn't even aware of your involvement, "Read them! Read the letters!" He scowled as you slammed letters and pictures into his hands, and it grew deeper as he looked through. Images of you hanging onto a taller kid, letters saying that you were fragile and needed protecting. Kazutora laughed, "They really don't know you, huh?"

[writers-in-moominvalley]

Sometimes I think about Mrs. Fillyjonk's character and my mind always wanders back to these series of panels and I always go a little insane over them.

What does it MEAN for her character, exactly?

Moomin Winter is a story about a family and some strangers coming together for the winter and having a small child stick his nose up everybody's business until the beans are spilled and everyone realizes just how silly their secrets actually are. At least 2 of the new strangers, Miss Fluffins and Mr. Gromf (who are not related to eachother in any way, I think I should clarify), have secrets they don't want getting out because it breaks their facade of gender performativity.

Fluffins has a facade of a demure and overly polite vaguely old woman who wears frills and "totally would" help Moominmamma, but she doesn't want to get in the way of her business. Fluffins' secret is that she loves playing war with tin toy soldiers, and loves smoking cigars and drinking hard whiskey.

Gromf holds himself as a very picky and strong-willed man, when in actuality he's just very sensitive and his secret is that he loves making doilies.

These two secrets are very much based on subversion of gendered expectations, even if it isn't gawked at outright because of their genders.

Miss Fluffins pretends she doesn't want to intrude on Moominmamma's housework, when in actuality she literally doesn't know how to do housework, which is a very unwomanly thing for her to do. And Mr. Gromf masks his nature as a very picky eater by having a gruff attitude about it.

In Moominmamma's search for someone to take care of the very inconvenient Nibling in her stead, she first visits Mrs. Fillyjonk because of her status as a proper mother — but before we get to that, we must fully contextualize this encounter by talking about the second encounter; that of the Inspector.

Moominmamma's second choice for a caretaker for the Nibling is the Inspector, who she probably thinks is a fine choice because he has prison cells for Nibling to sleep in and he probably has experience watching over people in prison, I guess...? The problem here however is that the Inspector highly dislikes children, or atleast taking care of children because they might ruin his roses. Inspector's secret that Nibling sniffs out here is that he keeps candy in his pocket and hides holes in his socks by doing the old "coloring the feet where the holes are" trick.

What's interesting about this is that this scene gets paralleled shortly after Moominmamma comes back home by having the Nibling pickpocket Gromf in a similar way and Gromf denying his ownership of the doily in his pocket just like Inspector does with the candy.

Plus, Inspector returns later in the story by playing poker with Moominpappa and being part of the crowd who gets their beans spilled and everyone is wondering why they were hiding those secrets in the first place, because they seem silly to hide in retrospect. You know who isn't part of that crowd despite having a similar screentime to Inspector? Mrs. Fillyjonk.

She doesn't come back to have her secret revealed.

Now, why is that? Well, we must further contextualize this contextualization of the scene by looking at Inspector's character compared to Mrs. Fillyjonk.

Despite his rough and nearly unrecognizable start in Moomin and the Martians, once he obtains his scarf in Club Life in Moomin Valley we see glimpses of what will evolve into the policeman with effeminate sensibilities that Lars apparently really really liked, which I explained in more detail in this post. The short of it is that Inspector is a more candidly queer character, a subversion of gender norms and the idea of a bumbling police character in general.

But in spite of his general honesty (and something I didn't really touch upon in my post), he still doesn't like people knowing that he likes eating candy for whatever reason, like in Moomin Christmas where Snorkmaiden admires his big box of chocolates but he dismisses it as a doctor's prescription for his blood pressure. I suppose his obsession with flora is fine for people to know and offering candy to his prisoners is great but he draws the line at people knowing he likes eating it himself, I guess. There's some ordinary embarrassment to be had in his mind about it.

So with all that outside context, let's bring the conversation back to Mrs. Fillyjonk, and add context to her character to see why this feels significant to me.

Mrs. Fillyjonk was first introduced in Moominmamma's Maid as the mother equivalent to that new jock neighbor who moved into town and is making your dad feel bad about his own withering masculinity. Mrs. Fillyjonk is the proper Woman's Woman, the trad mom without a husband, she is quite canonically one of those mothers who post pictures of their overly tidy and neutral grey-colored children's room on Instagram and Pinterest. She isn't necessarily a feminist but she is heavily involved in organizations involving women, like the Women's Committee, or the sewing circle, or the Moomin Valley S.P.C.A. (Society to Prevent Cruelty to Animals) which is "coincidentally" only made up of women. She also organizes social events like bazaars and parties for painters, and takes invitations to games of bridge very seriously because, quote, "In society, invitations are sacred".

And yet, despite her credentials as a Woman among Women, she apparently doesn't know how women work (according to her maid, Mabel, in Mymble's Diamond), nor do any of her friendships have any sense of sincerity outside of amicable business-like rapport with her fellow women in gathering events like tea parties, and she could barely keep any of her painter guests happy in the party she threw just for them. She is a sad imitation of a socialite, caught up in the glamor of being a perfect housewife in spite of her husband's absence (according to an alleged response by Tove to a fan letter he was an explorer who went missing in Borneo) and yet totally incapable of bearing any actual charisma. The only thread of sincerity for her is with her own maid and ironically the Moomins, who invite her to things like colonizing an island or bridge despite Moominmamma's general distaste for Mrs. Fillyjonk.

I can't even say much about her relationship with her kids because their characterization amounts to Huey, Dewey and Louie pre-2017 reboot if they didn't have names, color coding, or that boyish rebellious streak. They're just vaguely well-educated, ambiguously gendered and boring children who follow their mom around and call to her when something happens and have a pretty okay relationship with her. Any expression of boredom or sense of rebellion and interactions with the main kids in a playful environment the adaptations gave them are just additions to their characters that give them even the vaguest hint of interest.

Mrs. Fillyjonk... Is a really big weirdo who hates weirdos. And the fact that she owns a pair of pants that she's embarrassed of is a revelation about her character that I believe is just too glossed over, but also the fact that it's glossed over speaks to the emotional tragedy of her character.

The funny-looking trousers bring up many questions; Did those belong to her husband? Why are they stuffed away in a drawer in what seems to be a living room? Is she embarrassed because they look weird/ugly or because she doesn't want people knowing she owns pants at all? Does she wear them? Why do her kids seem angry at Nibling to finding them? Do they know? Do they know that their mom is a cross-dresser who likes dancing in her little trousers while nobody is looking because she feels desperate in the confines of her gender expression?

Okay, maybe that last one is a stretch, but it's not a farfetched conclusion because we know so little about her. She apparently owns a rifle and atleast 12 different ashtrays and a smoking jacket, why does she have those? Why so many ashtrays in particular? Does she smoke? We never see her smoke even under the influence of Spring Fever where she loses all her inhibitions, what gives? Did any of that belong to her husband or does she just have those lying around for enigmatic reasons?

The fact that the pants were revealed after she makes a comment on Snorkmaiden being too fat "for a girl" is also very telling. It's like a response to her, it's the narrative saying "If you're really so concerned about what's proper for a girl, then why do you have this?", she's so shocked from Nibling finding them she drops her cup and goes up to stuff it back in the drawer where it belongs, and she's never seen in the comic again despite her words reaching Snorkmaiden through Nibling and influencing her facet of the plot. Moominmamma just excuses herself after such a breach in privacy and it's never acknowledged again, even indirectly.

What is this? It's so... It makes me feel so confused about her character but at the same time it makes her social awkwardness feel more complete. She's so superficial in her social circle not just because she's a superficial person herself but also because she doesn't want anyone to know some things about her, she's so ashamed of herself and stubborn about that shame that the narrative doesn't give her a chance to redeem herself in the end of the story like the Inspector. There's something so compelling about the idea that her relationship with gender or even just men is so thoroughly tangled that it's hard to make out for even herself.

Are the pants a representation of the grief for her husband she stuffs down under the surface or are they a representation of that shameful side of her gender expression she doesn't want anyone to find out because it ruins her image as a Proper Woman? It feels so.... I can't even conceive of this as something to be taken at face value because her entire character is in opposition to Moominmamma's impropriety, yet here we are! She's ashamed of having pants! What does this mean, Tove and/or Lars!!!

And don't get me started on her and her children's fear of loud fireworks because that's another rabbit hole I-

[kandisheek]

FIC REC WEEK 10 – FOUND FAMILY

The (Not Really) Secret Origins of Movie Night by nightwalker

Pairing: Steve/Tony Rating: T Words: 11,287 Tags: Team Bonding, Cuddling & Snuggling, First Kiss

Summary: Somewhere along the line the Avengers have become a pretty good team. But Tony's still the odd man out, and Steve's determined to change that.

Reasons why I love it: This fic gives me all the warm fuzzies. It's fluffy and sweet, and the team slowly but surely growing closer is lovely to see. Plus, Steve expressing his feelings through his art always gives me a special thrill. I love this fic so much, and I bet you will too, so please go and check it out!

subject to change by eleadore

Pairing: Steve/Tony Rating: T Words: 3,287 Tags: Artist Steve, Team Bonding, Character Study

Summary: Steve draws everyone but Tony. It’s nothing personal, really.

Reasons why I love it: The team feels are strong with this one. I love how everyone is so down to model for Steve, and Clint especially always puts a smile on my face. Plus, the whole subplot with Tony is adorable, and their first kiss makes me swoon. This fic is wonderful, and I hope you read it for yourself!

Lesson Two: Penalties of Cheating by 27dragons, sara_holmes

Pairing: Steve/Tony, hints of Sam/Natasha and Bucky/Clint Rating: T Words: 6,198 Tags: Poker Night, Bucky Feels, Avengers Family

Summary: The first rule of Avengers Poker Night is: don’t talk about poker night. (Actually, it’s not. The first rule of poker night is to never let Natasha play.) Bucky thinks he might regret accepting Clint's invitation to join the game, because he's pretty sure there aren’t any other rules. He thought things couldn’t get much crazier than mealtimes with the Avengers. He was wrong.

Reasons why I love it: This fic is equal parts hilarious and sweet. The surprise addition of Johnny Storm made me unreasonably happy, and Bucky's inner monologue is incredible. Also love how his friendship with Steve is portrayed here, and the outside PoV of Stony action is both funny and cute. Also-also, Thor being the one to deliver a zinging one-liner made me laugh out loud, and the WinterHawk action fills my heart with joy. I love this fic, and I bet you will too, so I hope you give it a shot!

Never Be Alone by thepartyresponsible

Pairing: Steve/Tony Rating: M Words: 6,701 Tags: Idiots in Love, Protective Avengers, Getting Together

Summary: Steve comes jogging up the path in a pair of offensively small bright blue jogging shorts. He’s shirtless and windswept and glistening – actually glistening – in the warm sunset glow. “Sweet abs of liberty,” Tony says, hooking his sunglasses down his nose to get a better look. “Of thee I sing,” Clint intones, reverently.

Reasons why I love it: There are so many things to love about this fic. Steve being a worry-wart, Clint and Tony salivating over Steve while Bruce despairs at them, Tony finally catching a clue at the end and immediately moving in for the kill. The bit about the assassination attempt that led to all this is just beautiful - seeing how much the team cares for Tony just warms my heart. This fic is incredible, and I bet you'll love it just as much as I did!

The Reasons That Lie Beneath by itsallAvengers

Pairing: Steve/Tony Rating: T Words: 10,424 Tags: Cuddle Curse, Suicidal Thoughts, Depression

Summary: When Loki decides to be a little shit and curse Steve Rogers with a cuddling spell- the Avengers are suddenly the victims of crushing hugs and constant hand-holdings. And weirdly- Steve has a strange attachment to Tony in particular. But Loki's trick reveals more to Tony than he had ever expected, and now it's time to face some terrifying realisations that come with the curse. Tony needs more fucking coffee to deal with all this.

Reasons why I love it: You'd think a fic about a cuddling-curse would be fluffy as hell, but this one digs deep into the weeds of angst. And the way it does is fantastic. Steve's pain really tugged at my heartstrings in this one, and I love seeing how the team – especially Tony – reacts once they figure out what's wrong. This fic is amazing, and I hope you give it a shot!

[thehorrorvacui]

“ I stayed up all night playing poker with tarot cards. I got a full house and four people died. ” ― Steven Wright

Day by day, Willow’s C a b i n e t o f C u r i o s i t i e s draws in wanderers, those fascinated by the obscure and eerie and those in search of answers. Captivated by the eerie atmosphere that fills the petite cabinet, they enter a confined, dust-filled room brimming with secrets. Here, Willow houses an eerie collection of occult relics, rumored to be imbued with arcane magic, all resembling a Vanitas still life. Compelled by the desire for answers, many surrender to the prophecies of this grim seraphim. However, not everyone who has cards dealt to them is prepared for the truth they reveal. Willow is well aware that her gift is both a blessing and a curse and when the Death card appears, it signifies a sealed and inevitable fate from which her customers cannot escape. Those who have experienced her services whisper about the accuracy of her predictions, while those who fear her dark gift speak of a cold touch and a hint of decay that befalls them the moment they meet her eyes.

ooc: semi-selective, minors dni, mutuals only ⋙ currently o p e n for plotting ⋘

[mimbotomy]

I am high on weed and NyQuil and yet am still awake because a bad cough and a fever and for some reason decided it was a good idea to read the AC Odyssey Novelization! Here are some random things that stuck out that I think you should know:

Kassandra’s hears Nikolaos’ lessons in her head throughout the book.

She also loves Phoibe so much but tries so hard to pretend she doesn’t because her mother told her that love is weakness when she was a kid.

Kassandra finds Ikaros as a hatchling taking shelter among the bones at the bottom of Mount Taygetos.

It’s mostly from Kassandra’s POV but there’s some other brief POVs too. The Cult POVs seem to exist pretty much make sure that the reader knows they’re like super fucking evil and Stentor’s few POVs are mostly to bitch about Kassandra.

In one of his less bitchy POVs it’s revealed that a Spartan soldier in Megaris tried to grab Kassandra and kiss her and she either full on broke or just badly bruised his jaw

Building off that sorta, the only person Kassandra even kisses is Alkibiades at the symposium, and mostly to get information.

Nikolaos’ fate is left ambiguous for a long time.

Someone mocks Barnabas’ storytelling in line to see the Oracle and Herodotos later sets the guards on him to provide a distraction so Kassandra can sneak back and talk with the Oracle more.

The Cultists are way less protective of their identities in Delphi and way more obvious with their plans to get rid of Deimos. Also, Kassandra kills a lot of them on accident.

Aspasia keeps Kassandra from drinking poisoned wine, courtesy of Hermippos, at the symposium and helps her escape Athens

Chrysis is killed by her own biological son, the priest Dolpos who helped Myrrine, in revenge for both taking his tongue and killing countless children over the years.

Kassandra and Brasidas’ super badass warehouse fight doesn’t happen. Instead they are discovered by the Monger and taken captive and rescued by two heterae prisoners after the Monger burns Kassandra’s legs with an iron poker.

Phoibe dies playing hide and seek with Kassandra as they escort Perikles to see the Parthenon one last time and Kassandra first realizes something is wrong because she can’t hear Phoibe’s giggles anymore 😭

The first time Kassandra cries after that night on Taygetos is when Phoibe dies.

Aspasia only fully decides to leave the cult after Perikles’ death.

Pausanias’ super secret cult nickname is the Red Eyed Lion and he is uncovered because of a wine stained map or letter or something and a ring seal of a lion and some other super circumstantial evidence.

When they return to Sparta, Barnabas and the crew somehow temporarily sink the Adrestia in a cove to keep from being spotted by Spartan scouts.

The Kos and Arkadia storylines don’t happen at all and the Olympics happen after Kassandra and Myrrine already got their house.

At one point, Kassandra refers to her new family as Myrrine, Barnabas, Herotodos, and Brasidas, which made my shipper heart happy. Then in that same paragraph she refers to Herodotos and Brasidas as something like proud uncles, so we’re pretending that doesn’t exist

Kassandra is imprisoned in Athens for months and like in the game, is “rescued” by Barnabas and Sokrates. Barnabas still has his shovel but Sokrates has a broom instead of a pitchfork.

Also, there’s a small subplot about the woman Barnabas has a fling with on Naxos and her husband who Herodotos met that visited Thera. He’s being tortured by the Cult when Kassandra is imprisoned in Athens and is brutally murdered when he refuses to tell them anything.

Kleon was 100% planing to kill Deimos at Amphipolis.

Brasidas basically dies telling Kassandra how happy he is to see her what the fuck???

A lot of the confrontation on Taygetos is the same as the good ending of the game, where Deimos tells Kassandra that he’s done terrible things. But he also tells her that he can’t change no matter how much he wants to while preparing to throw a knife at Myrrine so she kills him.

Nikolaos and Stentor watch Alexios’ funeral at a distance until Kassandra and Myrrine invite them to join them for dinner.

Kassandra doesn’t fight the Minotaur and Co. but is just given the staff by Pythagoras, who talks to her after his death through the pyramid.

Aspasia’s fate is somewhat left ambiguous in the end because Kassandra’s focused too much on the vision from the pyramid.

Overall, it read a little bit like a weird fanfic! I saw glimpses of the characters we love from the game but since the author cut out such big pieces of the plot and every side quest - which makes sense since it was a very short book - we didn’t get to see too much of them either. Except for Kassandra, who is a lot more no nonsense than I imagine her as. There’s no flirting or and very little joking, but I really liked her resourcefulness and unique fighting style. And her love for Phoibe and her family that shines like a beacon throughout the entire book, from the very beginner where her mother tells her it is unspartan to love. Of course, our lovely Kassandra is a lover and a fighter and that does not change no matter what ❤️

Hope this list helps some of my fellow lovely wonderful odyssey fic writers I love you all so much you beautiful souls 😘😘😘