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[thetriumphantpanda]

Delicate - Chapter Two: Maroon

3.7k / pairing: joel miller x f!reader

Series Masterlist | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

summary: despite some last minute reservations about meeting Joel, you throw yourself into the date, but it doesn't go according to plan.

A/N: Ahhhhh oh my God - @hellishjoel and I are so excited to bring you the second chapter of Delicate! We're having the best time with this little pairing already and we hope they manage to worm their way into your hearts just like they have with us! We're taking turns in posting the chapters of this - so please make sure you're following both of us to keep up to date!

warnings: mentions of being a single parents, rom-com vibes, foul language, a bestie who is nothing but trouble, Joel being terrible at dating in general, a lil smattering of angst, mentions of food & alcohol consumption.

There’s a flow of peace that settles across you when the door to Noah’s room clicks shut. You love him, he’s the best thing that ever happened to you, and he keeps you afloat every day, but these moments, when he’s finally asleep and you can stop thinking for a minute, are the moments you crave each day. 

You settle down on the couch, mug of tea in hand, with the TV playing quietly, just for background noise more than anything, as you pick up your phone for the first time that evening. There’s a few emails, mainly about shopping sales and holidays that you think you should book but never do - those are quickly deleted to stop any temptation of spending money on something that isn’t essential. There are a few messages from your mom, just confirming that she’ll pick Noah up from school tomorrow, what she’s planned for them to do and what she’ll feed him. You shoot a message off in reply that it all sounds good and that he’s excited for some quality time with his grandparents, because it’s true, and then you set your phone down on the coffee table and try to ignore it for a while. 

You finish your tea and queue up a few episodes of a show you’ve been meaning to catch up on - something mindless that people at work always seem to talk about. So mindless that it actually sends you to sleep. You wake with a jolt a few hours later. The house is still quiet, which means Noah hasn’t decided he’s still got too much energy and needs to burn it off by jumping on the bed or pulling some of his toys out. You sigh, checking the time to see it’s almost midnight. 

You gather your stuff, put the mug in the sink to deal with in the morning before trudging up to bed. There’s a moment at the top of the stairs, where you think it would be so easy to flop down on the bed and forgo the rest of your responsibilities, but you’ve got your mother’s voice in the back of your mind, something about wrinkles and pores and how bad it is to sleep in your makeup, so you turn left into the bathroom, cover your skin in serums and creams and then finally, just after midnight, you fall into bed. 

Knowing it’s bad to look at your phone this late at night, once you’ve set your alarm, you click open the godforsaken Hinge app that Dixie had insisted on setting you up on. So far, after six months, you’d been on a fair few first dates, three second dates and had a God awful one night stand, but nothing had been sticking, no-one seemed to be exactly what you were looking for. You’d promised her that you’d try though, so as had become a nightly ritual for you, you set about giving away your daily likes, not really paying a huge amount of attention until he pops up for you. Joel. 45. From his first profile picture, the exact kind of man you’d been searching for. Rugged, handsome, 

Of the few photos he had on his profile, he was often donning a flannel or a simple short-sleeved shirt that curved around his biceps and broad shoulders. He always wore the same tilted smile, with dazzling eyes and dark hair with licks of silver. He was a handsome lumberjack of sorts. 

He looked to be an outdoorsman, at least two of Joel’s pictures were of him hiking a trail accompanied by a young girl, surrounded by greenery and tall rocks with the sunshine peeking through the branches. His face was glowing and tan from the light, his handsomeness so natural. Beautiful, even. 

Joel’s “Typical Sunday” consisted of a black coffee in the morning, followed by making burgers on the grill for him and his family before settling down to watch a Dallas Cowboys football game. That was a typical Sunday for a man, but it showed how he liked to unwind and that he was a family man. 

First, the mention of a family, plus that beautiful young woman in almost all of Joel’s pictures - a daughter, perhaps? Older than your own boy by quite a few years. He must have been on the younger side of having children if any of these assumptions were even correct. But there was something about knowing he also had a baby to be thinking of felt familiar, comforting, as they would always come first. 

 And it turns out that talking to him is pretty easy too. He’s charming, a slight insomniac like you, and from what you can tell from the slight back and forth you managed to have before you go to sleep, able to flirt a little with you too. It’s why when he asks to take you out you say yes without hesitation, it could be fun, he could be the one, who knows? 

Mornings are always chaos. Half-eaten bowls of cereal on the table, a mug of coffee made with the best of intentions but sat to go cold, a rush of getting Noah dressed and in the car with everything he needed for school and then the annoyance of getting stuck in traffic on the way to drop him off, all coalesce to make you stressed as you help Noah out of the backseat. 

“Remember granny is picking you up this afternoon okay?” You ask, bending down to kiss his cheek as he fiddles with the straps of his backpack. 

“I know, mom.” He groans, using the back of his hand to wipe the kiss off his cheek. 

You smile, ruffle his hair a bit, because no matter how much he might protest, he will always be your baby, “Behave for her, okay?” You warn lightly with a smile, “She’ll bring you back home tomorrow.” 

Noah spots some of his friends across the playground and steps around you to make his way into school. You turn, hold your hand up in a wave and shout at him to have a good day. Noah turns, walking backwards to look at you, waving right back. 

“Have a good day, mom!” 

Underneath the way he’s growing up, he’s still the sweet little boy you knew you could raise on your own. You sit back in your car, picking your phone up to make sure you’ve got enough time to go to the store and stock up on some groceries, when you notice a notification from Hinge. It’s Joel. 

Just checking you’re still okay for tonight? 

For some reason, you sit and stare at it for a few minutes, fingers itching to type something, to confirm, but there’s that usual seed of doubt that appears after all this time that makes you want to tell him something’s come up, you’ll have to reschedule. After months and months of trying to find someone, to failed first date after failed first date, you wonder if it really is worth it, no matter how good of a match Joel Miller seems on paper. Is he really going to be worth getting dressed up for? You sigh, type out your usual message of I’m sorry, I think I might have to reschedule, when the screen is filled with the face of your best friend, trying to call you. 

“Hello?” 

“Hello sexy mama!” Dixie’s voice immediately soothes you, “How are you this fine morning?” 

“I’m okay,” You speak softly, plugging the phone into the car so you can speak to her as you drive, “Just dropped Noah off at school.” 

“How is my favourite man?” She asks. 

“Yeah, he’s good, he’s staying with my mom tonight so I think he’s just pleased to be away from me for a while.” 

“It’s like the universe read my mind!” Dixie exclaims on the other end of the phone, “Do you want to go out and get wine drunk tonight?” 

You stutter for a second, because you could, you could cancel with Joel, go out and drink cheap wine and dance with your friend, but before you can say anything, Dixie picks up on your hesitation. 

“OH MY GOD!” She all but screeches, “Do you have a hot date tonight?!” 

You grumble a little, because how is she always so attuned to you like this? 

“Yeah, although I don’t know if I’m gonna go.” 

“Why not?” 

You sigh again, “I don’t know if it’s worth it anymore?” You offer. 

“Girl, get outta here with that attitude!” She chastises, “Is he hot?” 

You grumble a little again, but you can’t deny it, Joel is hot, “Yes.” 

“Well then,” You can hear her clap her hands in the background, clearly having you on speaker so she can go about her business, “If he’s hot, then there’s no harm in it, forget me and my wine, go out, drink wine with your hot mystery stranger and get fucked, girl!” 

“Dixie!” You screech, “I’m not fucking him.” 

“Whatever you say, girl!” She shouts down the phone, “If you cancel, I’m kicking your ass, okay?” You sigh, once again, something you’re getting more and more used to these days, “Have fun and be safe!” 

And then all you can hear is the dial tone from where she’s hung up on you. You think about it all the way around the grocery store, she wouldn’t know if you did cancel, would she? But you’ve known her long enough to know she’d sniff a lie out of you in seconds. So, when you settle down at your desk, you pull out your phone and send Joel a reply to confirm the plans you made last night, and then spend the rest of the work day trying not to work yourself up about the whole thing. 

You don’t think that the anxiety of waiting for a date to show up will ever get easier. Stood just inside the doorway of the restaurant Joel had chosen, you’re chewing at the skin around your thumbnail. Did you dress right? Do you look okay? When he turns up will he look like his pictures or not? Will he lean in for a kiss on the cheek? Do you give him a hug? You’d like to think of yourself as a seasoned pro at this now, but those first few awkward moments always made you anxious - there was no second chance at first impressions. 

You needn’t have worried about Joel though. When the door opens and he stands in front of you, he is exactly the man you’d studied on that app. Taller than you, broad and big. Scruff, peppered with gray across his face, though it’s neatly kept, just like this hair, although more unruly, it’s still peppered with grays and it suits him. He’s wearing dark jeans, and a flannel that you think must be saved for best. You step closer, open your arms. Joel leans down, and does indeed press a kiss to your cheek, one of his wide palms pressed lightly on your lower back as he hugs you back a little. 

“Nice to meet you, Joel.” You smile when he pulls away. 

“You too, ma’am.” He smiles back at you, and you can tell he’s nervous. 

“What have I told you about that?” You tease as you step towards the hostess, Joel giving her his name, you hope the slight teasing will put him at ease, you remember just what it was like when you started dating for the first time, and as much as you want to have a good time, you want to make sure Joel is having a good time too. 

She picks up two menus, leads the two of you to a table at the edge of the restaurant. Joel pulls your chair out for you, pushing it gently under you as you sit down. The light is low, and there’s a thrum of chatter across the whole restaurant as you open the menu, glancing your eyes over the choices. 

“Do you want to share a bottle of wine?” You ask, finger skimming the list of wines available. 

Joel nods, “Sure thing, darlin’.” 

You smile, looking down at the menu, deciding you much prefer darling to ma’am, especially in that sweet southern drawl of his. When the waitress returns, you both order food and a bottle of wine, which is quickly brought to the table, uncorked, with the dark red liquid poured into two glasses. The waitress leaves the bottle on the table as you raise your glass, Joel following suit, clinking them together before you take a sip. 

You’re watching as he does the same, a smaller sip than you, and then watch as his nose crinkles and he coughs a little. It makes you laugh, putting your glass down to cover your mouth a little. 

“Dunno why I said yes,” He shakes his head, “Fuckin’ hate wine.” 

You can’t help but properly laugh now, hoping that it puts him a little at ease. You reach over the table, lay your hand on his wrist just a touch, “What would you prefer to drink?” 

You don’t miss the way he subtly drags his wrist back from your touch, covering it by scratching at the skin on the side of his hand, but you don’t let it bother you. You’re a touchy person, it’s what makes you feel at ease mostly, but that doesn’t mean it works for Joel, so you fold your hands back in your lap. 

“Usually beer,” He mumbles, flagging down the waitress as she walks past to ask for just that, “Or whiskey.” 

“I don’t mind a beer,” You offer, trying to make light conversation, “But whiskey makes my throat burn.” 

He doesn’t offer much of a reply apart from a short hum from his mouth, his attention moving from you to the room around you, letting the table fall into silence. You look down at your lap, trying to think of things to say whilst you wait for your food. 

“So, Sarah, right?” You ask after his daughter, it’s something the two of you have in common at least, “You must be super proud of her, medical school is incredible.” 

“Yeah,” He says simply, “She’s a very smart girl.” 

You expect him to ask after Noah, ask him a little about what he’s like, maybe what his favourite subjects are at school or whether he’s in any sports clubs or anything, but he doesn’t offer anything else to you, doesn’t ask any questions. 

There’s a lull in the conversation, saved by the waitress dropping your meals in front of you, fresh tomato pasta with chicken for you and steak and mashed potatoes with asparagus for Joel. You swirl your fork through the pasta, scooping some into your mouth as Joel cuts into his steak. Your eyes are trained on him, watching how he eats - it’s one of your big tests, table manners, and to be fair to him, he passes with flying colours - sure he eats a bit fast, but it’s nothing off-putting, and he seems to be able to use a knife and fork properly and chew with his mouth closed, which is a far cry from the last person you’d been out with. 

“You look really good tonight,” You offer, setting your fork down for a moment, “The flannel is very Texas.” 

You think in the dim light you can see him flush a little, and you’ve not said anything that isn’t true, he does look good. Fucking great actually. Joel finishes swallowing, takes a swig of his beer. 

“Thank you,” He tips his head towards you, “You look nice too,” He brings his hand up to his face to motion, “Rosy cheeks.” 

You try not to let your disappointment show, it is a compliment after all, so you put all your focus back down into your meal, the two of you finishing your food in a rather awkward silence - you willing Joel to ask you something, to start a conversation, anything really. You watch as Joel pushes the asparagus around his plate after eating two of the spears, finishing off his steak and potatoes but leaving the rest of the greens. 

When the waitress comes back to clear your plates, she asks if you’d like the dessert menu. You look to Joel, who tips his head in a way to say it’s up to you, but this has quite possibly been the most excruciating few hours of your life, so you drain your glass of wine, tip the last of the bottle into the glass and sit to wait for the bill. 

“Listen,” Joel starts, dragging your attention from the bottom of your glass to him, a look of slight regret on his face, “I ain’t too good at all this,” He tries to explain, “It’s been a long time and I’m a little rusty.” 

You kind of want to wring his ass for it a little, but underneath his apparent disinterest, you can still see the nerves of the guy who first walked through the door, and you get it, you think you’d been similar when you first started dating again, but you don’t think you’d completely lost the ability to think of a single question. 

Joel insists on paying the bill and you don’t fight him for the privilege of splitting it - you think it might upset some of that southern chivalry he has and for someone else they’ll love that. It’s a silent affair as you both stand up, gather your things. 

“How are you getting home?” Joel asks, holding the front door open for you. 

“I can just grab a cab,” You smile, “How about you?” 

He points to a truck, “Only had one so I can drive home,” He explains, “Do you mind if I wait with you for your cab?” He asks, “I’d feel better knowing you get in one safe.” 

“Of course,” You smile, “The hostess called one for me, so it shouldn’t be long.” 

There’s another lull in conversation, thankfully your cab arrives quickly, saving the silence from falling into awkwardness again. Joel beats you to the door, opening it for you. 

“I would say it’s been nice meeting you,” He speaks, “But I feel like I made this real difficult, and I’m sorry for that.” 

Going to step into the cab, you stop, leaning down to put your bag in the back seat, pausing a little before you turn back around to him, meeting his eyes. They’re striking, dark brown and beautiful, and trying to tell you just how much he knows he’s messed up. It makes your heart sink because you feel that sadness too, knowing he had so much promise, that he understood you in a way you thought other people didn’t, without even needing to talk to you, he’s a single parent, he gets it, like other people don’t. It frustrates you, makes your breath catch in your throat and your eyes glass over. 

You bring a comforting hand to his shoulder, “It’s okay,” You add a smile at the end, “It takes some time to get used to this all again, I was the same,” You look down at your shoes,  “It’ll get easier each time you do it, I promise.” 

His head dips, regret flashed across his face, like he wishes he could go back and do it all over but better this time. 

“M’sorry, again,” His tone is low, morose even, then he dips, presses a soft kiss to your cheek, “Get home safe.” 

You flop down on your bed, hand running over your face, wondering at what point it had gone wrong. He’d had so much potential, had seemed like he could be so right for you, so what went wrong? 

No sooner have you sent the ‘home safe’ message to Dixie, do you feel the soft vibrating of your phone. You answer, put the phone on loudspeaker and set it by your head. 

“So, how did it go?” 

You groan, “He had so much potential Dix,” You let out a pained noise, “I don’t know where it went wrong?!” 

“Oh honey,” She coos down the phone, aware more than anyone how much you wanted to be done with dating and finally have someone you could spend time with, “What happened?” 

“I don’t even know!” You exclaim, “Like, I could tell he was nervous, and this was his first date in years, but it was like he’d never spoken to a woman in his life, it was so hard!” 

You can hear her sucking on her teeth on the other end of the phone, “Are you being too hard on him?” She asks, “You always say the cocky men are no good because they’re rehearsed, maybe he just needs time to warm up?” 

“Dixie, I’d need a flamethrower to warm him up!” 

That gets a giggle out of her, “Mama, listen to me,” She goes into serious mode now, “Not everyone is as seasoned as you at this, and if this was his first date in years and he comes face to face with you? Of course he’s going to be nervous, you can’t write him off just for that honey.” 

That’s when your truth really hits out, “But what if I spend all that time warming him up and it’s a waste of time? He could turn out to be no good for me and then I’ve wasted so much time instead of trying to find the right person.” 

“Honey, respectfully, you’re forty, not at the end of your life, I promise that maybe spending some time trying to unravel someone a little instead of writing them off immediately might actually be worth it.” 

“I don’t know, Dix…” You trail off. 

“Just sleep on it, okay?” She offers, “See how you feel when you wake up before you send him the ‘thanks but no thanks’ message.” 

“Okay, I promise.” 

The two of your say goodbye to each other, you stay led on the bed for a while before you push yourself up, plug your phone into the charger, noticing the notification from Hinge when your screen lights up. You can see it’s Joel’s name that sits on the front screen. You sigh, sitting on the edge of the bed, weighing up whether to read it or not. Deciding that if you do read it, you’re likely to make a decision against what Dixie told you, so you leave the notification sitting there, get yourself ready for bed and then will yourself to sleep without going over every second of the date wondering what you could have done differently.

[sugawhaaa]

I had to hop in here straight away when I saw that your requests were open bcs istg I am SUCH a horny mess for Kwak Jiseok.

Aight so hear me out, something that personally really turns me on is taking photos of myself in revealing clothing or lingerie, not necessarily for sexting… just like the actual taking of the pictures is really hot for me yk?

So what I’m requesting here is something that has been taking up so much of my headspace that it’s honestly obsessive… and that’s a sexual photoshoot with Jiseok.

He’s the photographer, and he has a bunch of outfits that he wants the reader to wear… and even more poses in mind. Plus, if reader is a well behaved model and gets him the pictures he wants, he might reward her.

hope that makes sense!!

•°~★JISEOK X READER★~°•

High fashion

୭🧷✧˚.ᵎᵎ🎀୭🧷✧˚.୭🧷✧˚.ᵎᵎ🎀୭🧷✧˚.ᵎᵎ🎀୭✧˚.ᵎᵎ

Warnings::SMUT! VULGAR LANGUAGE!

Genre:: oral (f/m rec) fingering, cowgirl, hair pulling, PRAISE, pet names cream pie (don't try this at home) cum-shot, idk if this is relevant but it's mentioned a lot that he has a big cock 💀

Pairing:: dom!Jiseok x sub!fem!reader

A//N:: honestly I've never gotten a request like this before I was quite shocked 😭 I'm not complaining though, I'm happy to step out of my comfort zone and expirement a little bit. I was kinda torn on how I wanted to write this but I'll try my best 💪 also dw as a Gaon biased I can confirm that pretty much anyone who biases him is a down bad whore for him 💀

Songs that inspired this fanfic::

There is a business for everything. You were very well aware of that as a model for specifically...suggestive things. You modeled for all sorts of things. Bathing suits, bras, underwear, lingerie, and even certain sex toys. You had your fair share of acting as well. You were in a very select few porn videos, mainly because the pay was really, really, high. You definitely didn't hate your job. It made you feel good about yourself and comfortable in your own skin. You were heavily praised by fans for being "so brave" but in reality it made you feel good and you wouldn't have it any other way.

One day you were hanging out in your house, like one does, when you received an email from a designer. It was very professional and full of detail but to sum it up, this designer asked you to model their newest lingerie sets for them. You thought about it for a moment and looked at their website. It was full of beautifully designed lingerie and robs. The website itself was very professional with lots of details. It seemed trustworthy and you agreed to work with them.

A few days later you located the shop and went inside. You took a look around at the shop. It was small but filled with lots of items, but it wasn't crowded either. There was plenty of room to move around and look through everything. You noticed a woman at the front desk when she suddenly came up to you.

"Sorry we just closed we'll be open again tomorrow at 10 am if you'd like to come back," she smiled. She clearly didn't know that you were here to model so she mustn't be the designer. You took off your sunglasses and looked at her warmly.

"I'm actually a model. This is my first time modeling for this shop," you explained and the woman smiled.

"Oh, my apologies! Let me call him in," she smiled and went back to the desk. Call him over? Him?? You thought to yourself as you walked over to her desk. She pressed a button and spoke into a small mic. "There's a model waiting to see you," she said and the doors behind her opened moments after. A young man came rushing out. He had dark red hair and seemed like he was in his early to mid-twenties. He had a measuring tape around his neck and a pencil tucked above his ear.

"Ah, you must be Y/N~!" He smiled and came over to you, extending his hand. You shook his hand as your heart jumped out of your chest. "So I have a lot to go over with you. If you don't mind why don't we go into my workshop?" He gestured to the doors and you blushed.

"S-Sure, that sounds good," you smiled and followed him to his workshop.

"Sorry for the mess I hardly ever have time to clean around here with so many requests," he chuckles as you look around the room. Shelves filled with all kinds of fabrics and lace. Sketches of designs were tacked to a Bristol board near his main desk area. "I have quite a few different sets if you'd want to choose which ones to wear or anything," he said as he pulled out a large tablet and starting going through photos he took of all the sets.

"Don't worry about it. I'm comfortable wearing whatever you want me to," you smiled and he looked up at you with curious eyes.

"As long as you're sure..." he looked at you one last time before confirming that's truly what you wanted. "Okay then, I'll pick them out for you," he went over to a clothing rack he had and picked out a few for you. He held them up and eyed them to your body portions. "Do you know what size you are?" He said as he continued to sort through his designs.

"Yeah I'm about a Y/S, (your/size)" You shrugged. He nodded and swapped out a few of the designs for smaller or bigger ones.

After getting all the outfits chosen and the sets he wanted for you he let you try on your first outfit. You went into the fitting room while he adjusted the set. You looked at the lingerie he presented to you. Of course it was red and you looked at yourself in the mirror for a while adjusting it and admiring yourself. Jiseok then knocked on the door.

"Hey, are you dressed?" He asked softly. You got drawn back to reality from your day dreaming.

"Oh yes," you chuckled before opening the door. Jiseok had his professional camera around his neck as he held it with one hand. He looked you up and down and his face turned a soft pink.

"So I was thinking," he said before clearing his throat. "This bathroom is really nice," he smiled and you looked confused.

"Yes...it is," you said awkwardly.

"I think it'd be good to take a few photos in here!" He smiled and closed the door behind himself as he walked in. You nodded and waited for him to tell you what to do. "Could you lean back against the counter and kind of drop your head back to let your hair flow down," he asked as he gestured to the counter. You did as he suggested. He crouched down and held up his camera. He leaned forward and adjusted your leg slightly.

The brief second of contact was oddly exhilarating. You continued to pose as you heard the sound of the camera click. He moved to a different angle and took two more photos. "Okay now can you stand up straight and put your left hand across your upper chest," he said as he moved around to the front of you. You did as he said. "Tilt your head a bit to the left, like away from me," he said as he kept his eyes on your body. You did as he said and he smiled. "Perfect, just like that," he said as he snapped a few photos before squatting again to get some lower ones. "Okay now look over at the wall," he pointed to the left as he kept looking at you through the camera. "Perfect~" he prolonged the "per" in his words.

This process continued a few times in various locations with various outfits. You were in the washroom changing outfits again when you looked out the window to see it was dark. You continue to change into a beautiful white set. There was a little robe that went over top of it and you just fell in love with the design. You walk out confidently and Jiseok smiles.

"This one's absolutely gorgeous," you said as you looked at the silky fabric flowing off your body.

"Thank you," he smiled with red cheeks. "I just finished that design yesterday I believe," he looked you up and down before biting his lip slightly. "Alright, ahem, for this one we're gonna use the bed,"

You nodded and sat down on the bed. "Okay, can you go on your knees and sit down, putting your legs in a W shape?" He asked as he adjusted the camera lens. You nodded and did as he said. "Now lean back and spread your legs a bit more," you followed his instructions and watched him stay focused on his work. You bit your lip as you watched him. "Good girl," he said in a low voice and your heart skipped a beat.

Was that meant to be sensual or not?

You asked yourself. You remained focused and continued to hold your pose. "Okay now look to your right just a little bit," he moved his finger to the right as he looked into the camera. "Perfect. Stay just like that," he smiled and took a few photos. "Alright very good. Now lay back a bit more and cross your right leg over your left thigh," he said as he stood up.

You followed his directions and posed accordingly. He approached you and moved the robe a bit to expose more of your ass. You had to hold in your cheeky smile. "Relax," he said softly.

"R-Right," you blushed and composed yourself. He brushed back some of your hair to expose more of your skin and you felt your heart skip a beat.

"Perfect," he smiled and took a photo. "Now take a nice, slow deep breath for me," he said softly and you did as he asked. You took a deep breath in and heard the sound of the camera clicking. Then you let your breath out, and he took a few more photos. "Thank you, that was excellent," he smiled as he stood up and let his camera hang. He sat on the edge of the bed and you sat up.

"Your designs are beautiful, it was truly an honor to model for you," you smiled and leaned in closer to him. You looked down at his veiny hands and you blushed before instantly looking back up at him. He followed your gaze with a sly grin.

"You seemed to be looking at my hands a lot," he smiled as he leaned closer to you as well.

"Y-Yeah, I just have a thing for hands," you say before thinking. You pause and realize how out of pocket you must sound. He chuckled slightly. "No, no, that's not what I mean, I mean like..." you blushed and he smiled.

"If you haven't noticed, I have a thing for lingerie," Jiseok smirked and you looked at him attentively. "And elegant women, women that know they're worth yet sometimes still shy, women who model. Or you could say I have a thing for you," he smiled cheekily as he leaned closer. He twirled your hair around his finger as you looked at him with a flushed face. "Tell me, do you just have a thing for my hands or is there more?" He leaned in for a kiss but waited for you to give in. You leaned in and kissed him, he put his hands in your hair. You put your hands around the back of his neck and leaned back. You fell to the bed and he pinned you to it.

"I have a thing for guys with the name Kwak Jiseok," you smiled and he chuckled. He slid one of his hands up your body, tracing the stitch bands around your thighs and hips. He kissed between your collarbones softly. You leaned your head back to give him more access to your neck and chest.

"I'm so addicted to you," he grinned before kissing your neck and sucking on the skin. You inch your hips up to hit Jiseoks. His body jerks slightly from the sudden contact against his erection straining against his pants. He lets go of your skin from his lips and his head falls down. The roots of his hair being the only thing you can see. His hands continue to roam around your body as he kisses down your chest and stomach, just to the waistband of your panties. He looks up at you with hooded eyes.

You extend your hand down to run your fingers through his dark hair. He pressed the flat of his tongue against your clothed clit. You jumped and your legs inched closer to each other. Jiseok smirked and brought his hands down to your hips. He pulled off your panties, leaving them on the corner of the bed as he indulged in your pussy. He dived his head down in between your folds and slurped all your slickness.

The lewd sounds echoed in the empty studio. Your chest heaved at the pleasure coursing through your body.

"Yes," you moaned softly as you grab his head to steady yourself. His tongue flicks your clit as his hands claw at the outside of your thighs. He buries his face in your pussy. You arch your back, bucking your hips into his jaw. You can feel him smirk against your aching core. He pulls back to breathe for a minute.

"You taste so fucking good," he says before licking his lips. His plump lips wet from your juices. The tip of his nose and chin glistening. He leans back down to continue his meal. He takes another long lick up your folds and you can't keep your loud moans in. He begins to circle his tongue around the lips of your pussy as his fingers tease your entrance. His nose presses against your clit, creating an insane amount of stimulation. It's no doubt that this isn't his first rodeo. His techniques were sending sparks throughout your entire body.

The sounds of him slurping up your juices ring in your ears as you feel your climax approaching you quickly. "J-Jiseok, I'm close," you manage to whimper out between loud moans and intense gasps for air. Jiseok just continued to eat you out like you were his last meal. You grabbed his hair in a tight fist as your legs shake, threatening to close and lock around his head. "Jiseok!" You call out his name as flicks your clit mercilessly. You come undone beneath him. Your legs locking around his head as he licks up all of your cum.

Once you come down from your high you open your legs. "I'm sorry! I didn't mean to, it was like a reflex," you apologize but Jiseok cuts you off.

"Shh, shh," he shakes his head. You pause and watch him attentively. He sticks his tongue out and runs his index and middle finger down the outside of his tongue. His fingers glistening from your cum. You blush and feel your walls tighten around nothing from the excitement of his flirtatious action. You bite your lip. "You were such a good little girl," he cooes as he leans over top of you. You see his shirt covered in miscellaneous liquids. He starts unbuttoning his shirt as he sits on his knees.

He throws his shirt aside and you admire his toned body. You extend a hand out to run along his abdomen. His skin is so soft and smooth. You look up at him to see a playful grin on his lips. You travel your hand down to his waistband tugging on it lightly.

"You want a turn now?" He says in a creamy low voice that makes the butterflies in your stomach fly south. You nod softly and he lets out a little sigh. He unbuttons his dress pants and takes them off along with his boxers, finally freeing his member.

He lays back on the bed and you instantly crawl beside him, eager to play with his cock. You can't help but admire the way it stands against his stomach. You grab him from the base and take one long lick up his length. A soft moan escapes his lips as his body jerks lightly. "Good girl," he says as he brushes back your [H/L] hair. You look at his erection worriedly. You hesitantly open your mouth and approach his tip. "If you don't want to baby you don't have to," he says softly, misenturpitating your hesitation.

"No, no I want to. I'm just not sure if I can't fit it all in my mouth," you chuckle with an embarrassed smile.

"Don't worry about fitting it all, that's what your hands are for doll," he smiles as he plays with your hair. You nod and put your lips around him. He groans loudly, seething between his teeth. "Fuck, baby," he grunts as he holds your hair in a messy ponytail. You hold the bottom of his length, rotating your hand from extra stimulation. "Good girl, just like that," he praises, knowing you're trying your best. You Bob your head slowly adjusting to his size.

You roll your tongue around as you stuff him in your mouth. He grunts lowly and you can see him trying to keep his hips from bucking into your mouth. He's trying not to push you past your comfort zone but he's also losing it. "You're doing so good," he continues to praise as he plays with your hair. His praise encourages you to take a little bit more of him in your mouth. You begin to Bob your head faster from the encouragement.

"Yes!" He moans loudly his hips ever so slightly bucking up. "Fuck, I'm trying so hard baby but you're making me go crazy," he admits as he holds your head. You rub the tip of his cock on the inside of your cheek as you continue to suck him off. You feel his cock twitch in your mouth and both of you know he's just about to go over the edge. "I'm gonna cum!" He moans and you slip him off of your lips, his cum squirting up into your face.

His cum drips down from your eyebrows to your chin. He lets go of your hair as he pants heavily. You lick up his length to taste every drop of his sweetness.

"You're so hot," he says in a low raspy voice. He suddenly picks you up by your hips and holds you just above his tip. "Are you ready for this?" Jiseok asks in a soft voice.

You nod "Yes," you bite your lip eagerly.

"Are you sure?" He asks one more time to be sure. You nod vigorously and he finally lets go of your hips. You slowly sink onto him, his cock stretching you perfectly. You throw your head back as you let out a loud moan. "You're s-so tight," he groans as he holds your hips again. You fully sit down on his length and take a moment to adjust to him.

You slowly start to roll your hips on him. You feel his tip hit so deep inside you. You clench around him as your body jolts forward in pleasure, your semen-covered hand over your mouth. Jiseok reaches up to you with shaking hands. "I want to hear you," he grunts and you put your hand down. You start to get used to his size and start to slowly rise up and down on his cock. He swears he can see stars from the way you move on him.

He grips your hips harshly before you start bouncing on him. The sound of your skin colliding rings in your ears. You watch as his chest heaves. He extends a hand up to your tits which are currently bouncing with your pace. He slides his fingertips under the fabric he used only a week ago. He never could've guessed he'd be here now.

He runs his fingertips over your nipple adding to the sensations coursing through you. "I'm close," you moan as you bounce faster, your walls clenching around him.

"Good baby," he chuckles. "Keep using me until you're satisfied," he smirks as he feels his climax approaching as well. The feeling of your pussy hugging every vein in his cock so tightly drives him insane. He feels like you're just milking him into nothing. "I'm gonna cum, where do you want it?" He says through deep, raspy, breaths.

"Inside," you moan out loudly as you orgasm, your legs shaking as you claw at his chest. He grabs your hips and thrusts into you a few more times causing you to let out a hoarse moan. You were already sensitive from just orgasming so intensely that this could just break you.

You felt his hot semen fill you up. His body glistens in sweat beneath you as the two of you pant in unison. You look down and slowly slide off his cock. A mixture of your pleasure pours from your pussy. Jiseok quickly presses his thumb against your entrance. You look at him surprised as cum drips from his thumb.

He pants as he looks up at you, strands of his hair stuck to his forehead.

"So, you wanna model for me again next week? Same time?" He chuckles before licking his lips.

A/N:: not to toot my own horn or anything but omg I love this fanfic *lip bite emoji* literally (s)creamed while proofreading it

[januaryembrs]

LAST KNIGHT IN SOHO | Steven Grant/Marc Spector x Reader [7]

description: Marc, his ex-wife and his supposed mistress head to Mogart’s to find Senfu’s sarcophagus, whatever could go wrong when the god of Chaos wants to be involved?

word count: 14.4k

trigger warnings: blood, gore, violence. Knives, stabbing. Small description of a drug overdose (accidental) and it doesn’t happen to reader. Themes of domestic abuse/grooming/prostitution. minors dni. [Based on Last Night in Soho dir. Edgar Wright]

main masterlist | series masterlist

Sipping her carton of juice, Dove’s eyes scanned the busy bazaar for any signs of recognition in the shoppers eyes as they bustled past her loudly. This exact square that had been a blood bath, a hunting ground, for her yesterday seemed to barely blink an eye at the primped and preened woman, thick sunglasses resting on top of her head.

“Anything?” She asked, the sweet taste exploding in her mouth as Marc returned from questioning one of his leads on Senfu’s whereabouts. It was surprising to her just how many people seemed to know something about the black market, then again it didn’t cross her mind that she knew how deceiving looks could be. She knew that the average person on the street likely had a dark secret, so twisted and vile they searched for their equal in maleficent places like the backstreets of Soho, or a normal town square in Cairo.

Marc shook his head, handing her a new cup of something saccharine for her to try.

“I hope you like attention,” The woman nearly choked on the liquid as a chirpy voice snuck up behind them. She spun, wiping the back of her spluttering lips with the cuff of her cardigan, to meet two honey eyes peering down at her amused.

“Right guy, right place, but you’re not Egyptian,” Layla teased, sipping on her own cool drink.

Marc huffed, his ex-wife’s eyes looking at him in smirking satisfaction. Dove couldn’t deny the sun clearly agreed with the older woman, her skin bursting with sweet freckles that were hidden in England’s cold grey, her hair just that bit more luscious. Her stomach twisted with a mix of jealousy and captivation as she watched the woman who made being beautiful look so easy.

“Layla, what the hell are you doing here? You shouldn’t be here,” Marc clipped, making the woman roll her eyes and Dove turn away from their catfight, chewing her cheeks nervously.

“Why? Because my name pisses off a few people in Cairo? Who cares?” She snapped, only just then taking in where the other woman bit the end of her straw.

“It’s not the locals I’m worried about,” Marc muttered, his eyes catching sight of Khonshu and his hauntingly smug partner that stared down at the three of them, watching the chaos unfold.

Dove followed his eye line, her blood running cold at the way he vultured around her, waiting for another chance to slip up, to take her body as his. Would he even need to? Now she realised she could conjure the suit herself, would he even need to puppeteer her anymore or would he simply put some sick whims in her head and let her have at it?

Would she be able to fight back? Would she be able to say ‘no’ and have it mean ‘no’ to him?

“Come on. I’ll help you find what it is you need,” Layla sighed, taking a hand to the top of the woman’s back to direct her away from the crowd. “And for the love of gods, girl, you need sunscreen on, you’re burning up,”

The three of them, smothered in cream, had spent the best part of the afternoon in the hotel room while Layla worked her magic and contacted her own informants. She knew the black market perhaps even better than Marc did, and it took her no more than a couple of hours to find Senfu’s sarcophagus from a source she said she trusted with her life, though Dove caught the split second of fear in her eyes when she’d said it.

It was fair to say she was not filled with confidence as they sat on the small boat taking them to the place the informant said they’d find it. Layla seemed ever more stunning in her make up, loose hair and with the purple tinged string lights the boat had weaved over its canopy. Dove felt selfishly glad she could barely look at Marc without gritting her teeth, she had no idea how she would feel if their marriage stood a chance at rekindling, then she really would be the other woman. Except not at all. It wasn’t like Marc looked at her in any way other than a nuisance, a thing he had to take care of for Steven’s sake. A stray to feel bad for, to have a vet euthanize out of duty, not out of care.

It wasn’t like Marc liked her any more than he disliked her, she was sure he felt near enough indifferent to her.

His kiss still burned a hole in her temple, his hands still phantoms at her cheeks, holding her gently, cleaning her, sewing her hurt back together. He had no idea the way his touch seemed to mend the tiniest parts of her together yet shatter her all the same. So desperate to be touched by him, so disgusted with herself she wanted to curl into a ball of solitude and never recover.

“So what exactly are we gonna do here? What’s the plan?” Marc asked in a hush, avoiding the ears of the few other passengers. A group of older women chatted animatedly on the other end of the boat, laughing to themselves wildly. The entire opposite of what she felt between the feuding exes, the salt river lapping behind her, knocking her to and fro in her seat.

“Oh,” Layla bit, her face twisting into a grim smile, “It’s not pleasant being left in the dark is it?”

It had been like this all day, Dove staying silent as they hashed it out. Well, moreso Layla ripped into Marc who simply laid there and took it willingly, knowing he had immorally screwed her over by disappearing into thin air. His feelings for her may have dwindled over the past year he had been away from his wife, but he at least owed it to her to suffer the consequences. It seemed to be all he was doing now, taking on the repercussions of his actions, ever since she lay dying in his bloodied hands begging for Steven to save her.

She tuned them out, much too occupied by her own dilemma; the water. The tiniest movement of the boat, the slightest of rock in the waves, had her twitching to grab his arm out of nerves, settling on gripping the wooden seat beneath her instead. Her leg jumped, eyes darting to where the moonlight reflected off the dark ripples under them, visualising how it would feel if she were to go tipping off the edge, head plunging under the surface, sinking, thrashing, succumbing.

“Would you please just cut that out?” Layla snapped, and Dove’s head whirled from checking over her shoulder to meet the woman’s fired gaze. It had been all of four hours and whatever civility the two had the evening with Harrow’s men was gone. Following her orders, Dove forced her leg to relax, picking at her thumbnail almost instantly only to have Layla roll her eyes, “For fuck sake,” She cussed in Arabic, “Is something the matter?”

“Sorry, I’m sorry,” She responded, releasing her fingernail despite the itching feeling to pick at it once more, “It’s just the uh, water’s a bit choppy,”

Layla nearly glared at her, “Well, we were a little short on time, princess. This was the only option we had,”

“No-no not like that, it’s fine, this is perfect,” She stopped, feeling her face heat in embarrassment as the woman seemed only more annoyed at her skittishness. Plastering a smile that was clearly tinted with a veil of fear, whether it was of the woman who looked like she could wring her neck or the water itself she wasn’t so sure anymore, “This is fine. I’m fine,”

“Are you fine?” Layla asked, annoyance leaking in her tone though Marc, who had known the woman the best part of five years, heard the amusement behind it.

“Yep, I’m fine,” She nodded, clutching for dear life onto the seat. Flashing the pair an unconvincing smile, she stilled herself, waiting for them to continue their quarrel.

“So this Mogart guy, he’s really gonna have the sarcophagus?” Marc asked, wishing he could grab her shredded fingers in his, if only to comfort her in the slightest. He caught the way they twitched even after her scolding, how her eyes flicked every time water licked up the side of the wood.

“Yes, I asked around,” Layla said, relaxing against the side, her chocolate ringlets kissing her cheeks tenderly. “Mogart’s collection is prime gossip for those of us who deal in antiquities,”

“So like Indiana Jones?” Dove asked, the naivety in her eyes brightening as she looked to Layla for approval. The woman held back the scoff from passing her lips, knowing she was trying her best to win her over, and couldn’t help but stop herself from rebuking the otherwise dumb statement.

Layla was more like Marc than she gave herself credit for, burying kindness in a cold expression.

“Abit like that, yes,” Layla murmured, tugging her hair up into a low ponytail to keep it out of her face, better yet to busy herself from the guilt of snapping at the innocent girl.

The girl who had no clue how Marc looked at her, the way Layla caught onto immediately. She’d thought maybe it was just Steven besotted with her, but it took one glance at the man she knew like the back of her hand to see straight through whatever bullshit front he put up against her. And it wasn’t like he’d acted on it either, it was always whenever she wasn’t looking, always secret, always hidden.

It was what Marc did best, Layla thought bitterly. Hide his feelings when it mattered most.

The sour taste in her mouth hadn’t come from an open wound, no. Their relationship had since scarred over, healed, bled dry for Layla El-Faouly. It was the doe like girl that he strung behind him, that got entangled in the mess he left behind in his wake that angered her. It was the way she couldn’t help care for the girl and what would come of her when hurricane Marc blew over her, cattle flying, houses crumbling on his way the way he always did.

“Need one?” Layla held out a hair tie to the girl, her own hair messy from where she’d let it dry naturally. With no product, Marc’s fingers as a hairbrush and a need for a hair drier, it was obvious the girl had tried her best to fix it on the way, attempted to look her best for the evening.

Dove felt the lump grow in her throat.

“Sit still,” Grace hissed, running the wide toothed comb through her hair, her companion squished between her legs, squirming in pain.

“It feels like you’re trying to suck my brains through my hair follicles,” Dove murmured, face wincing in pain as the brush scraped its way through her locks once more.

“Brains? You’re giving yourself way too much credit there, baby,” Grace teased, only to receive a firm smack on her calf for the comment.

“Bitch,” She cursed back, her head being yanked back one final time by the honey haired girl and her damned brush, Dove grimacing and yelling “BITCH,”

“Quit your whining, now how do you want it?” Dove pouted, crossing her arms over her tummy, only to be toed in the ribs by Grace’s blossom pink socks, “Don’t take a stand of silence with me, how do you want it? Dutch braids?”

Dove nodded quietly, only for a rogue piece of hair to be tickled under her nostrils. Quickly realising the culprit being a small, pale hand holding the split ends and her an amused face leaning over her shoulder to see her reaction, she scrunched her nose batting away the hand with a growl, though she couldn’t help the way her mouth tugged into a giggle.

“Grow up, will you?” The girl scolded through a laugh, her head resting back onto Grace’s lap, eyes closing in bliss as the girl ran her fingers over her scalp, parting the hair into two sections.

“Why on earth would I do that?” Grace mused, giving her nose a quick peck as she split the right side of her tresses off with a claw clip, “You’re gonna be the prettiest princess by the time I’m done,”

—

“Thanks,” Dove replied forlornly, Layla’s skin burning as the woman dropped the tie into her palm. She was never good at braiding her own hair, it was always Grace who liked to do it for her. Anything fancier than her normal, low maintenance styles and she’d go to a cheap stylist. She’d loved doing Billie’s hair too, but for whatever reason her sore fingers had no perception awareness when they were behind her own head.

Settling for a low bun, she rubbed her hands on her thighs to calm her nerves, not missing the way the two of them seemed to watch her meticulously.

“What?” She asked, looking between them with the same nervous smile as before, “I’m fine,”

Layla huffed, shaking her head at the girl who looked between the two expectantly. She reminded her of a docile mouse searching for a cracker, fidgeting with her hands, so trusting yet meek, ready to be squished under Marc’s clumsy boot.

She couldn’t stand to watch this Greek tragedy anymore.

“Come on,” Layla hauled herself up, the movement rocking the boat the smallest amount, enough to make Dove latch onto Marc’s arm with wide eyes, “We’re almost there,”

The younger woman felt her face blaze with embarrassment, meeting her companions umber eyes that looked down at her with a cocktail of amusement and worry.

“You’re alright,” Marc whispered, Layla going to stand with the driver to confirm they were almost at Mogart’s. The two of them spoke calmly, the Arabic being foreign to Dove’s ears despite having spoken it clearly when Seth had control, though she noticed when Layla slipped him a few notes for his intel.

“I know, I’m just not a huge fan of boats,” She stopped, looking guiltily at the floor, “I didn’t mean to piss her off though, I just can’t stop thinking about what would happen if I fell in-”

“Then I’d be coming in right behind you and dragging you out,” Marc stopped her with a gentle hand atop her own, feeling her shake under his touch.

Her head whipped up to his, eyes staring up at him with the sugary glaze of trust in them, the same way she’d seen him the first night he’d met her. Perhaps that was why he felt so responsible, like she was his to take care of. While he’d loved Layla, loved her enough to marry her, loved her enough to let her go, she had always been fine on her own. She was independent, never let him forget it. The selfish part of him revelled in the way Dove needed him. Needed him of all people.

They shared a little smile between the two of them, heads shooting up as the boat stopped and the captain hopped off to dock the boat properly. Layla stepped up onto the planks, turning to hold her hand out to Dove who rose to her feet steadily.

“There we go, back on dry land, princess. You can put your big girl undies back on now,” Layla snarked, though Dove caught the way her almond eyes washed over the younger girl, checking she was okay, not too roughed around by the journey.

“I think I forgot to pack those,” Dove responded quickly, wiping her clammy palms on her tummy, looking around her at the estate. This was not what she’d pictured at all when Layla had said they were going to have to be stealthy. The place was filled with people chatting, enjoying themselves, as if they’d just docked in the middle of a party scene, interrupting the entertainment for the evening.

“This guy’s got a lot of friends,” Marc said cautiously, Dove feeling his presence at her back closer than her own shadow, as if he was watching over her shoulder for any signs of trouble despite only just showing up to the place.

“With a lot of guns,” Dove murmured, catching where the string lights glinted against the noir black of an assault rifle. Feeling her stomach churn with fear, she stuck herself in between the two of the more seasoned adventurers, not wanting to stray too far from their sides.

Layla shoved the bags with their own weapons under a step in the dock, avoiding where the waves lapped at the wood. Dove’s eyes trailed over the inky froth, the briny smell in the air still lingering around her nose, taking in the starry specks of Alexandria that reflected over the shore. She could almost appreciate it from here, on land, where there was no danger of sinking; that is until her eyes fell on the dinghy that lurked around the dock, three men aboard that stared her down with a predatory gaze.

She suddenly felt just as scrutinised now as she had in the pyramid.

“What is it?” Marc asked, sensing the way he body had stilled like a deer in headlights. He followed her line of sight to the men, his jaw feathering as he bit back a curse. “Harrow’s men keeping tabs?”

“Probably,” She replied, Layla watching the men with a cautionary gaze, her lush eyebrows turning down into a frown.

“Let’s go,” The woman said, tugging at Dove’s wrist gently to ward her away from the men’s smarmy smiles. The trios faces lit up with a warm glow under the lamp’s beams cutting through the night air, small stalls like a market flanking either side of the pasture they walked across. “Remember, your name is Rufino Estrada.”

“Right,” Marc said, the three of them taking off in between the partiers towards where the stately home, likely belonging to this Mogart guy, was. “And yours is-”

“Nadia Estrada. We just got back from our honeymoon in the Maldives,” Layla replied, her eyes wandering over the various stalls, intrigued as to what had brought the elated guests here. There was only little food, very few cups of alcohol like she’d expect from a party, so what were these people buying? “Figured we may as well use our old code names, save the confusion,”

Her eyes zeroed in on a fossilised tablet, an ancient painting etched into the slab. Relics. He was selling relics; ancient, irreplaceable pieces of history and he was just casually selling them out of his yard like they were friendship bracelets, or a pitcher of lemonade.

“You guys had code names, that’s so cool,” Dove piped up, leaning up on the tips of her toes to peek at the merchandise also. “What’s mine?”

Layla stayed quiet for a second, “Truthfully, I had only accounted for it being the two of us. I assumed Marc would have left you at home to keep you out of harm’s way,”

Dove’s energy wilted, slammed with the feeling of taking up too much space in their world of adventures, “Oh, okay,”

“I guess it just means you get to choose your own name and alibi, then,” Layla cut in, trying to save the moment. She’d never intended on causing the girl upset despite the short fuse she’d had with her the moment they’d met. If anything, she’d prefer her to be back in the hotel, not to make any moves on fixing her marriage but for her own peace of mind that the girl was safe. Seeing the interest spark in her eyes again as she peered at Layla, the woman pointed in a warning way at her, “But make it believable enough that you can lie on command,”

“Right, gotcha,” She replied, her eyes falling in front of her where they were heading towards, trailing after Layla’s assertive footsteps. “So what role will I be playing then? Your assistant? A distant relative?”

“No and no,” Marc protested with a wince, his stomach turning at the idea of pretending to be her cousin, no matter how fake it was, “You can just be our friend,”

“Friend that comes on our honeymoon? That’s not a friend, that’s a third,” Layla interjected, a doubtful look on her face as they neared the manor. From what she could see, Dove caught sight of a wide sand pit, spotlights lighting up the square as a dozen men on horseback circled one another in some kind of sport. Some of the partiers, not seemingly interested in buying the goods, walked over to spectate, surrounded by a lot of security guards donned in all black, matched only by the guns cradled readily in their arms.

Dove was already feeling the panic rising in her gut.

Steven’s voice blared clear in her head, yet another of one of his stories he loved to entertain her with when they had a long night of inventory ahead of them. Or on the underground, or even when he would walk her to her door and stay for a hot cuppa on the cold Winter evenings.

“Did your father tell you about Horus and Seth’s challenge for the throne?” She asked, turning to Layla and taking a shot in the dark at the woman who hated her guts.

She rolled her eyes, “Which one?”

“When Seth had killed Osiris and taken Isis and Nephthys as his wives and attempted to take the throne over Horus by claiming it was his blood right,” Dove explained under her breath as not to draw attention to them.

Layla was intrigued now, her eyes flicking to the woman, Marc doing the same with an identical lost expression.

“What’s your point?”

“Well, when Nephthys and Isis escaped Seth’s imprisonment together, Isis led rebellion against Seth by turning herself into a beautiful, young woman to trick Seth into admitting he was not the rightful king, outwitting him because he couldn’t hold himself back from some batting eyelashes and a pretty face,” She went on to say, looking between the pair. Marc seemed to catch on quickly, raising his hands in protest to cut her off.

“Absolutely no-”

“Perfect, that’s perfect. That’s just the distraction we need. He’d never believe I’d go for him right in front of my own husband, that’s brilliant,” Layla babbled, giving a supportive nudge to the young girl’s shoulder.

Marc just rolled his eyes in defeat, fists already clenched by his side as the women smiled between one another in pride.

“Did Horus win at least?” He asked, a semi sneer on his face at the idea of her making herself a pawn in their game of facades. Dove’s head shot up to meet his bitter gaze, feeling a twinge of guilt at the way she’d so readily put herself forward for the task of bait. But why? She was no more his than he was hers.

She tried to lie to herself and pretend the idea of him alluring a woman in front of her wouldn’t stab at her chest, just thinking how she’d almost jumped for Hathor’s throat when she’d so much as spoken to him. It wasn’t so strange, she had been smitten for Steven since the moment she’d met him, falling hard and fast for his gentle hands and even gentler words. It wasn’t far of a stretch to say some of it had transferred to Marc, even with his cloudy attitude and stormy expression that never seemed to weather.

It was probably the doppelganger effect and all that, she reasoned with herself. Probably just her idle brain confusing care with love, grasping at straws for any reason to be wanted.

She smirked at his question, shrugging her shoulders, “Well, supposedly, the Gods involved couldn’t come to a decision as to who the throne went to as both Seth and Horus were part of Osiris’s bloodline. So, in order to show superiority and a challenge of manhood, Horus, uh-”

Layla chortled, obviously having heard this story from her father.

“What? What did he do?” Marc asked with a huff, though he beat down the smile that threatened to tweak at his lips when he saw the two women chuckling together.

“The story goes that Seth, uh, ejaculated over Horus to show dominance, but Isis figured out his plan to make Horus seem unworthy for the throne, and sprinkled Horus’ semen over Seth’s garden so when he came to eat from the crops he was impregnated.” Dove said, her eyes turning away bashfully at the explicit nature of the story, though he heard her giggle on her final few words.

Marc’s jaw hung open in a mixture of disgust and horror, “That did not- Wow,” He spluttered, head shaking with disbelief, “Remind me never to take Horus’ throne,”

“Do you think Gods get morning sickness?” Layla asked, Dove smirking at her statement. Figuring since the god that trailed after her had remained so quiet after the meeting with the Ennead, she felt the opportunity too good to pass up to throw punches back at the one that had caused so much havoc.

“I can see it now, the horror that is the God of Chaos with swollen ankles and a midnight craving for pickles,” The younger of the trio snarked, and for the first time since she met the El-Faouly woman, she heard a real cackle of laughter out of her.

“He definitely got trapped wind and acne when he was carrying,” She added, making Dove crease into herself with suppressed giggles.

“Alright, that’s enough,” Marc tried to quell their hysterics, yet found himself joining in quietly, secretly, because he would never let her know how contagious her laugh was to him.

“Do you reckon his breasts got sensitive?” She asked, feeling Layla nudge her with a snigger.

Their little jokes all came barreling down around her as she felt a large, cold presence linger over her shoulder, swallowing the street light completely. Any and all laughter died in her throat within a hair's width of a second, her mouth going dry almost immediately when she realised just what was behind her.

Seth. Seth, the beast she was poking with a stick. Seth, who she would bend in any which way for were he to so much as snap his fingers, if even that. Seth, whose rage she could feel blowing out of him like steam out of a train flute as his snout breathed over her spine.

“You dare mock me, insolent mortal,” He growled, a clap of thunder running through her bones, shaking them beneath her flesh.

Marc grabbed her shoulder, attempting to pull her away from the creature, knowing her words had practically waved red at a charging bull. Turning to see the terrifying creature, leering just that bit closer, snarling just that bit louder, his breath pungent with wrath.

“I- We were- I didn’t mean-” Dove’s voice was small, childlike. A kid caught with their hand in the candy jar, caught smearing lipstick over the mirror. Tiny. Guilty. Punishable.

“You wish to behave as their little seductress that you so taunt me of bedding, then that is what you will become, mutt,” Seth snarled, his upper lip twisting to reveal his sharp canines that dripped with anger. He waved his staff, the hieroglyphs rippling with dark hum, singing with glee that they were being helpful to their master.

Before she could so much as gasp, so much as apologise, fall to her knees and beg him to see she was simply fooling with the woman she had been so deeply loathed by, she felt her clothes fall away into embers around her feet, the cold night air ravaging her skin despite the heat that rose to her chest.

What was left of the cloth robbed every single speck of her dignity; made her look like some prized mare, the same kind those men rode, the same kind she used to be. A body. A doll. A whore.

Her top half was nearly entirely exposed, save for a black wrap top that just about covered her tits, though they teased enough to turn heads nearly instantly as if they’d sounded an alarm of look at me, stare at me! Gawk all you like! I am nothing but whatever you see me as!

Her arms, neck and head was wrapped in spindling pieces of gold jewellery, the headdress, as she could have guessed, bowing down her brow and to her nose like a metallic pointed snout, only making her look more like Seth himself. Egotistical bastard.

The long, onyx skirt was the only part that gave her any sort of privacy, yet that didn’t help much since there were two enormous splits in the side, a slim gold chain resting over her curved hips, the material dragging over her crotch and buttocks. A single breeze could have her exposing herself, and she realised with a blazing face that the bastard had taken away her underwear in the process.

This was the first, last and only time she was going to make fun of the God of Chaos. Chaos indeed.

“SETH, Oh holy fuck-” She hissed, hands reaching to tuck the fabric inbetween her legs frantically, covering her breasts with the other.

“Woah, what did you do?” Layla asked, eyes wide as she scanned the girl’s, womanly, body from head to toe, “I thought he was the God of Chaos not God of Leia in Jabba’s palace-”

“Give me my clothes back, NOW,” She hissed, seething with a heat that could challenge the sun god Ra, “This is not funny, I will have you turned into fossils I swear-”

She heard a dark chuckle, malicious and vengeful as he was, and felt instantly a wave of stupidity had washed over her. Of course he would punish her, what a fool she was to think he wasn’t watching at all times. What an imbecile to have thought she would be able to live a single moment as a normal woman, a normal girl laughing with a friend, her mother always warned her of men and their damaged egos. She knew this lesson well enough. She knew this story. Why was she so stupid? So naive? Marc nor Steven would ever want such an ignorant girl, not when they had women as brilliant as Layla willing to marry them. Willing to re-marry them even.

She felt like a gullible child. Always falling into the wrong hands, into the snares laid out for her, a lame doe traipsing through a hunters meadow. Wandering down the garden path as a lamb led to slaughter.

The heat caught to her cheeks, burning her ears with embarrassment at her predicament.

“What the fuck do I do?” She spun to Marc’s eyes, though she seemed to catch his coffee gaze staring right at her. Flicking over her chest, flitting down to where the chain hugged her waist, her soft, supple waist he wanted to bury his fingertips in, and her thighs, her thighs-

His gaze snapped back to her after a second of weakness, seeing the fear waiting for him there slapping him out of his reverie. How disgusting he felt to have taken such a cheap look at her, art is supposed to be enjoyed not glanced at he chided himself, though the sick feeling in his stomach that she were such a divinity beneath her everyday wear, that she wasn’t just a pure soul but an angel woman outside as well.

She made every breath for him difficult.

“Huh?” He asked with a scratchy voice after a beat of silence. Blinking as if to drag himself from a daze, he looked away from her altogether to give her some privacy, though his chest never faltered from battering away at his ribcage, “I-”

“Bek,” Layla cut him off, and god he could have thanked her. Words seemed lost on him, stuck in a purgatory between enjoying the view and hating himself and everyone around him for besmirching her body with his worthless eyes.

A man had approached in the time it had taken for Marc to have his crisis; tall, broad, handsome the two strangers noticed quickly. Sticking out her hand for a friendly handshake, ‘Bek’ pulled the slender woman in gently, raising an eyebrow as he saw the woman to her right.

“Nadia, it’s been a while,” He said cooly, shaking her hand firmly, clasping her fingers in his familiarly in a way that told Dove they were friends. Not trusted enough to know their real identities but enough to not kill them on sight. It was what they had to work with, the younger woman told herself as she clasped her hands under her armpits to hide her exposed gooseflesh, “And who is this bewitching creature?”

Dove’s face tightened as his attention was entirely on her then. She saw it immediately, the lust in his eyes; the way they hooded with want, as if they saw through her whilst simultaneously seeing too much of her.

Just like those men, the horrid part of her brain whispered, Just like those who paid for you, just like those ones that would come in the night. The ones that used you, saw you as a thing to have, to conquer. Just like the one man who put you there.

If this was a dance she’d have to perform again, then that she would. She knew every step, every turn. She knew how to puppeteer these stupid men just as easily as Seth controlled her. Perhaps that was why they were such a clean match.

“Sandie,” She said coolly, a hint of a smile twitching at her lips. Enough to make him want more, enough to make him think he could be the one to give it to her. Men and their saviour complexes, “Me and Nadia are old friends,”

Holding out her hand for him to take, she tilted her head in discontent, watching as he took her own fingers as he had Layla’s, pressing a tender kiss to her knuckles, a Cheshire cat grin on his face when she seemed to watch him boredly.

They liked it when she was mean to them. She wished they would just see a therapist instead of seeking her body as a deposit.

“Right this way,” His voice was smooth in the buzzing atmosphere, the lamps suddenly too bright, the chatter too loud as they neared the ring. “After Madripoor, I’m sure you two have a lot to talk about, and perhaps something new to add,” His satin timbre stuck deep in her skin as he peered over his shoulder, trailing his eyes down her exposed legs.

Taking Layla’s hand in his own, if only to keep up appearances while they were supposedly married, Marc and Layla were but a step behind where Dove took the lead, her false confidence surprisingly convincing for a woman usually so quiet.

“Excuse me one moment, Mr. Mogart will be with you shortly,” Bek said, leaving the trio at the edge of the huge sand pit, the riders slowing their mounts at the approach of the burly man entering their training ring.

Leaning against the rail, Marc and Layla stood either side of Dove, the three of them watching as one man dismounted to talk to Bek, his shirtless body toned and lightly sweaty from what Dove could tell in the spotlights surrounding the place.

From what the girl understood, they were playing some sort of fencing sport, something similar to jousting she supposed only with less charging and more arm strength. The long wooden poles in each of their arms smacked against one another loudly, a whip like crack echoing around the open space. The sand sprayed out under the horses hooves, flicking towards where they stood in amazed silence.

“So what? This joker just puts on El-Mermah games in his backyard for fun?” Marc snarked, glaring down at every single one of the vain motherfuckers that seemed to all leer in their direction once they caught a sight of her. Yet, he simply let it happen, let her run her mouth with the new attitude she’d assumed, her new alias not at all his anymore.

“No, he gets private lessons by the best in his backyard for fun,” Layla replied, her eyes trained on the man that Bek had approached, a fine silk robe being slipped on over his arms as if he were too delicate to do it himself despite the size of his hulking arm muscles.

“I would love to get me one of those bad boys,” The youngest woman blurted, looking around the enclosure at where the rest of the men, equally as toned and attractive slid off their saddles, strutting around in their glory alongside their well groomed geldings.

The ‘married couple’ flicked a look at her, both their eyebrows raised at her statement, shock evident by their slackened jaws.

“Didn’t know you had it in you, princess,” Layla commented, eyes scanning each of the men that seemed to be waking up to the godly woman watching them ride, “I’m sure you could get any man you wanted looking like that,”

“I meant the horses…” Dove trailed off, her voice a song of innocence, perhaps even more embarrassed.

Marc was warm inside then, the four words alone reminding him she was still the same girl with the change of clothes, with the added seduction. It was still the girl sweeter than a honey pot that had trapped him like a fly and had yet to let go.

The man Bek had garnered attention from looked over at the three of them, his easy smile spreading when he saw the familiar face accompanied by two new ones. He, ofcourse, was quick to note the bare flesh the woman to her right flashed, the intricate gold spidering over her skin like a lovers touch.

“Nadia. Come in,” The man, who Dove guessed was Mogart from the way the staff scurried around him obediently. He gestured them forward, his eyes flitting over Marc who looked about as cheerful as a headache. “Such a delight to see you.”

But he was barely looking at ‘Nadia’, his dark eyes venturing over from Marc’s tight lipped smile to Dove’s exposed collarbones, flicking over her soft stomach, down over the curves of her bare thighs, even her calves got his attention. He was enraptured, taking the bait easier than she would have ever thought.

“You too,” Layla responded, shooting a glance in Marc’s direction, only to see his brow twitching. Gods had she seen that expression many times, normally before he would have stormed out of the house after one of their fights or gone to sleep on the couch. He was close to losing it already.

“How have you been?” He asked, finally ripping his eyes away from where Dove batted her lashes up at him shyly, a slight smirk to her lips that teased as he couldn’t help but glance at her face once more. Men were all the same in every country, it seemed.

“Good. Thankyou for having us over on such short notice,” Layla thanked gently, her own expression somewhere between wary and polite.

“Oh, please. I hope you realise you need no excuse to drop by,” Mogart said with his playboy smile twitching, looking cheekily at Layla, “So who are your friends?”

Layla nodded, reaching out an arm to gesture to Marc, “This is my husband, Rufino."

The women felt him tense up, holding his arm out much too forcefully for a handshake, “Nice to meet you,” Marc said, though nothing in his tone was nice by any means. Dove would have elbowed him in the side hard had Mogart and his men been watching them closely.

Dove couldn’t lie, the man was attractive. Not nearly as easy on the eyes as Marc and Steven, but he was attractive in the rich, bad boy kind of way. His scruff of a beard was dark, yet brushed neatly, not a single hair looking out of place. His nose was broad, making his face all the more masculine, bringing her attention to his mysterious dark eyes.

“Pleasure,” The millionaire looked down at Marc through disinterest, barely acknowledging his outstretched arm until he had taken a long look at ‘Rufino’. Seeming to brush Marc away almost instantly after they had shared a stiff handshake, he turned his mesmerising eyes back to Dove who leaned into his gaze, “And who is this?”

“Sandie,” She smiled at him, her eyes sparkling under the spotlights, holding out a jewelled hand for him to take. As predictable as they come, Mogart took her fingers gently and kissed them, just as Bek had, just as any other man being stared at with such allurance would want to, “Do you not get scared playing those games without a helmet on?”

The purity was clear in her voice, and it had Mogart’s eyes latching onto her mouth that seemed to call to him like a siren song.

“You are too sweet,” He said, yet to let go of her fingertips as she stepped towards him, his chiselled body turning to lead the trio towards his private collection, “You see, these horses are some of the finest Arabian thoroughbreds, mine has yet to throw me even once-”

The two of them took the lead, Dove making sure her shoulder brushed against his just enough for him to understand she wanted to invade his space, let him see her as closely as possible. She looked at him with the right amount of naivety, the rest seduction. Tilted her body towards his so he could see the way her hips curved, her breasts rounded.

“She’s good,” Layla whispered to Marc, seeing Anton’s face take her in for her entirety. It was as though she had him under a spell, even she as a woman mostly interested in men couldn’t help but appreciate the way the shadowy night seemed to preen under her glow. She wondered if it was Seth’s doing, yet he didn’t seem the type to deploy love potions. “I see why you like her,”

Marc’s chest froze. In the midst of glaring down the man’s hand that lingered at her lower back, guiding her towards his mansion of a house, he had barely even registered that Layla had been speaking until he’d heard that.

“I don’t- What the hell are you talking about, I can barely stand her,” He snapped, Layla’s short snort making his ears turn red. “I’m only keeping her around because she’d important to Steven,”

“Riiiight, for Steven’s sake, yep?” She drawled, the knowing look in her eye at how he squirmed under her gaze, “You know, we weren’t strangers once. I know what that look means,”

“What look?” Marc glanced back at his ex-wife, his eyes softening with the familiarity he found in her. He had loved her, he had loved her at one point with everything he’d had. But with her it was like trying to make two puzzle pieces go together when they were from opposite ends of the picture. They just wouldn’t fit. He’d loved her, she’d love him, but not enough to show her all of him; show her the full artwork.

She grinned at him smugly, reaching out to grab his hand as if to keep up the pretence they were still married, “Try not to ruin this one, will you? I’m starting to tolerate her,”

Marc scoffed to himself, “No, you like her. You just don’t want her to see past your big, cold independent badass thing you’ve got going on,”

“If that isn’t the pot calling the kettle black, Spector,” She nudged him, her eyes trailing back to where the girl now had Anton pointing out his horses by name, hanging onto his every word as if she gave a shit. Then again, Layla didn’t doubt she was planning on talking the wealthy man into giving her one at this rate. Sighing, she leaned away from Marc, looking at the outfit that showed her off just as well as one of his livestock. “Just promise me something?”

Marc looked at her troubled expression but said nothing. He had learnt from Khonshu quickly not to promise anything before he knew what he was getting himself into.

“Get her away from Seth as soon as this is over,” Layla pleaded, quickly seeing the guilt that washed over his face as she’d said it, “Now he has a body weak enough for him to control at his whim, he won’t want to let go so quickly. Who knows what he would make her do? She’s not cut out for this life, Marc,”

How would you know, you’ve barely said two normal words to her, Marc wanted to snap, You don’t know her, she is so much stronger than I ever gave her credit for, she could do anything if you just gave her a chance.

But he knew that was selfish. He knew that was his own mind wanting to keep her needing him, the twisted part of him that craved to be needed wanted her for as long as he could. Yes he kept her safe for Steven, for her own sake, but the bitter part of him that hated the world loved every second of the euphoria that came with her desperation for him. He craved that high like the hardest drug off the Madripoor market, like he had forgotten what living and not just surviving this awful life felt like until that day she’d brought him the dead bird. She was good, she was the best thing he’d ever seen in his miserable life. She was a beacon in his dark mind.

But Layla was right, she wasn’t cut out for his life. She didn’t deserve a wretched man like him, she deserved Steven. He couldn’t get too attached, he knew he’d have to leave her as soon as they’d figured out how to get rid of Khonshu and Seth from their lives.

Maybe that's why he pushed Layla away with a bitter frown, dropping her hand. Sometimes the truth pill hurts to swallow, and Layla had just served him up an overdose.

“I hope you understand this is more than a collection to me,” Anton said, peeking over his shoulder at the couple that seemed to be all eyes on the younger woman. “Preserving history is a responsibility I take very seriously,”

“That’s a lot of responsibility for one man, surely you must get lonely,” ‘Sandie’ dared a sweet smile at the man who was on her like a moth to a street lamp.

He gave her a boyish smirk back, but she could still tell he held his walls high, kept his cards close after seeing Marc’s gloomy attitude. Trust it to be the masculinity competition the two had going on to ruin her bait.

“I prefer to see it as a philanthropic effort at preservation.” He replied, leading the way to a quieter courtyard where a few of the larger items seemed to be held under glass mimics of the pyramids, not a single fingerprint or speck of dust on the clear surfaces. The first one held what seemed to be a collection of effigies of the gods, similar to the one she had been thrown into that night at the museum only much smaller, most likely found in temples or the homes of wealthy members of Ancient Egyptian society.

Yet Anton led them to a halt outside the second one, opposite the statues, where thin pillars held up a collection of golden masks she recognised from Dylan’s tours as funerary masks, used to preserve the dignity of the deceased. They circled an even wider stand in the middle, a sarcophagus propped wide open for viewing pleasure in the centre, highly detailed from what she could see under the beaming lamps being stood so far away.

“Now, if I may ask, why such an interest in Senfu in particular?” Mogart questioned and the trio felt the air tighten around them, the silent accusation lingering close. Anton’s face was not amused, interested in the woman to his right as he may be, he was still smart and kept his wits about anyone attempting to pull wool over his dark eyes. Dove opened her mouth to pipe up with an entirely innocent excuse, something along the lines of Layla had told her all about Medjay and their burial practices and wanted to see what the fuss was about. But before she had so much as began her fabricated tale, Mogart flashed her a dimmed smile and held up his hand, “I’m sorry, I’d like to hear from the husband if you don’t mind, sweetling,”

Dove felt her breath hitch, covering it with a pleasant nod, turning to watch Marc meticulously, the pressing look of ‘don’t fuck this up’ in her eyes.

Marc seemed to get stuck on his words for just a second too long as he looked between Anton's unimpressed glare and Dove’s masked panic, feeling his mouth go dry as he had not prepared himself for improv.

Laughing humorlessly through his nose, he turned to look past the group and at the sarcophagus, gesturing with his open hand to fill time, “I think that- But I just think that we’d love to take a look,” He choked out, and a deadly silence befell the group.

That was perhaps the least convincing lie Dove had ever heard. They were so fucked.

Layla and Marc seemed to jump as she let out a loud laugh, her hand coming to clap on the man’s shoulder. “Ah, Rufino, you’re so funny,” She said, squeezing his muscles, turning to him with a bright grin. Shaking her head ditsily, she looked to Layla as if to warn her to play along before returning to Anton’s suspicious look, “This was all my idea. Nadia and Rufino were kind enough to let me crash their holiday so I could see some artefacts- a silly hobby of mine I rarely indulge in. They spoil me too much, I think,” She giggled, turning towards the glass pyramid with a hopeful look on her younger face, “You won’t mind if they look first?”

Anton seemed to bite his cheek, calculating the girl’s motives, yet even Layla would admit the words were smooth, believable. Had she not known the actual plan herself, she’d think she was crashing a couples post honeymoon glow with her mollycoddled, airhead act.

“By all means,” Mogart seemed in slightly better terms, though still slightly bitter as Layla and Marc headed straight towards the casket with a slight flash of relief on their faces. “So, sweetling, what is it about our history that intrigues you so?”

She leaned in towards him, her face smoothing out into young innocence, watching his reaction carefully. This job was like a mechanic tuning an old car, watching for every tiny movement in their body, waiting for that hum of enamourance where she knew she had them wrapped around her finger.

Men were the same in every country, in every part of history, in every facet of life. Every one of them except Steven. And Marc, she’d now realised.

“I don’t know,” She said, playing with her rings absently, head cocked like a placid dog waiting for a pet, “Perhaps I like the idea that people one day could be holding my things up in museums or paying hundreds to see what my life looked like. I like the idea that they were all once the same as me, you know? All just humans doing human things,” She hadn’t meant to be so honest, had never expected to speak from her heart, but her airy voice seemed to conceal her raw emotion well enough. Mogart seemed to warm under her answer, no doubt finding her cute, a little woman with a little brain having such big thoughts about life.

She knew Steven would have taken her answer as gospel.

“So about these Arabian Thoroughbreds, how much would one of those set a sweet girl back?” She asked, trailing her golden fingertips over his shoulder when Anton’s eyes cut over her shoulder, straightening a touch when he saw Layla there. She met the woman’s eyes, trying not to seem so thrown off by her appearance, her interruption in the plan.

“Rufino would like to show you something before we consider making any purchases,” Layla said, the push in her voice for her to not ask questions and to just head inside the pyramid telling her everything she needed. Their plan was not going so smoothly after all.

“Ofcourse,” Dove smiled back, beaming at Anton with a cheeky glint in her eyes. “I’ll be just a moment,” She promised, watching his eyes dilate as she ran her finger down his arm. Take the bait, take the bait and don’t ask questions.

“Don’t take too long,” He replied, meeting her eyes over her shoulder as she slinked into the glass structure, feeling his eyes dropping over her hips, over her bare thighs.

She entered the faux tomb, feeling hot under the blazing sets of eyes on her back as she came to a stop at Marc’s side.

“I’m starting to think I would make a great super-spy,” She whispered, leaning into him to keep up the pretence of two old friends on a relaxing holiday, “Maybe I should be Bond and you can be the sexy femme fatale I can save,”

Marc rolled his eyes, frowning and nudging her back, “Concentrate. These guys won’t hesitate to drop you no matter how pretty you look, princess,” It was a sneer, it was a bark of an order for her to quit messing around, that their lives were very much on the line here, and yet she couldn’t help look at him bashfully for his choice of words. He caught the girlish grin and the slight softness in her eyes, realising what he’d said to make her so coy. Fighting the heat that threatened to meet the apples of his cheeks, he turned away from her, staring hard down at the scrawl of writing inscribed in the stone, “Just read the damn sarcophagus, would you? Layla couldn’t get anything from it,”

Fighting the urge to snicker, she scanned over the funerary rites, her mind unravelling the translations she’d spent three years studying.

“It’s Hieratics,” She whispered, skimming the cursive writing, “Different to Hieroglyphics, it's known as the priestly script, the kind usually found on respected members of royalty, their blessings to carry them to the afterlife.” Marc gawked at her, the words sounding gibberish to him despite Layla drilling this stuff into him for years. He was sure if it were Steven in his place he would have been teetering on an orgasm by now, seeing her brows furrowed in concentration as she spurted knowledge about the writing styles. Taking a moment to skim the texts, the words became tales and spells, guidance for the deceased, wishes of good health in his next journey. But nothing about Ammit or his allegiance to her. Her brows furrowed as she flickered over the symbols, wondering if there was anything she was missing.

“What? What does it say?” Marc asked, chancing a glance over his shoulder to where Anton and Layla seemed to be watching them with hawk eyes now, though his ex-wife looked more nervous than anything.

“It speaks of how to cross through the gates at the Hall of Double Justice once you get to the other side of the Duat. It warns him of traps the gods may have set up; nets that will swallow him whole.” She leaning a little closer, some of the lettering worn away by its age, “There’s spells for repelling apshai-beetles-”

“Huh?”

“Apshai was the God of insects, said to be able to summon a horde of them that could block out the sun and devour men,” She brushed him off, searching further in the coffin for anything else, “It speaks of how to deflect them in the duat- all I’m seeing is how to guide the dead, no location indicated anywhere.”

She huffed leaning away from the relic with a defeated look on her face, giving the whole thing another read over.

“That’s because the information needs to be unlocked,” Marc’s head whipped up to the ceiling, where his reflection glared clearly back at him in front of the night sky. “It’s coded,”

Marc sighed, grabbing the girl’s attention. “What is it?” She asked, her eyes wide, worried their plan was entirely fucked.

“It’s Steven,” He said grumpily, watching her eyes light up in hope.

“Does he know the answer? Just let me talk to him, I’m sure we could figure it out,” She interrupted, flashing a quick and casual smile to Anton who had seemed to tense up at their rushed whispering, despite the fact her stomach was in knots.

“No, he’s not ready for- He said it’s coded, it needs to be deciphered,” He murmured back, watching her face smooth out into realisation.

“Ofcourse, priests did this all the time. Grave robbing was so common they had to hide their valuables, or in this case their information,” Dove smiled up at him, the accomplishment clear on her face, “So? Let Steven out, he’s great at puzzles and stuff like this-”

“Absolutely not, he won’t last two seconds if this starts getting ugly,” Marc snapped, gesturing to the sarcophagus despite the way her face fell, “Can’t you just do it? You guys solve stuff like this for fun,”

It was true, another of their weekly routines to pull out a board game of some sort and have a crack at it together. Or race to see who could put together a jigsaw the fastest. Ofcourse, they always wrote each other new rules for the games in other languages to add to the fun, she’d once thrown him completely off by writing out her best sanskrit. He’d been lost the entire hour. Yet even when they’d done an escape room together, Steven had been ten steps ahead of her at all times while she just stared after him, finding his intelligence dreamy.

“Yeah, and he almost always wins because he’s like the cleverest person I know,” She cut back, frowning at his stubbornness, “And incase you hadn’t noticed, Marc, this is an ancient encrypted casket not fucking UNO,”

Steven snorted, the sound only pissing Marc off even more as his gaze snapped to the ceiling, confronting his alter head on.

“Do you want a blood bath? Do you want her hurt? Because that’s the way it’s heading if you don’t start talking,” Marc cursed bitterly, throwing his hands out to the woman who glared at the sarcophagus like it owed her money. Soft eyes flicking to where Marc’s forehead creased, the worry was evident behind his mask of anger. He wasn’t worried about Harrow right now, or about the tomb, he was worried about her.

“Alright, have it your way,” Steven conceded, his own brown hues dropping to watch her from his place in the glass, a sad longing on his reflected face, “But this isn’t for you, I hope you know that,”

“Loud and clear,” Marc nodded, callused hands resting over the remains that sat inside the coffin, “Alright, what do I do?

“Check the cartonage,” Steven instructed, “Now, take that first piece and fold it over the middle piece,”

“This one?” Marc pointed to the smaller piece of fabric on the right, Dove’s eyes watching his military smooth expression carefully.

“Yes, that one,” Steven replied, exasperated as Marc did what he said. Dove followed his movements, the pattern quickly forming in front of them. Jumping at the chance to help, she grabbed the middle piece of the map folding it in half in order to create the correct shape, handing it to Marc so he could tuck it into place-

“Hey, what are you doing?” A hand grabbed Dove’s shoulder, yanking her away from the sarcophagus with a gasp, her own fingers reactively reaching to grab onto Marc. For Marc it was like clockwork, him snatching the gun from Bek’s hands, him taking a step in front of Dove, her hands gripping the tail of his jacket tightly, peaking over his shoulder with guilty eyes.

“Marc!” The pair of them turned their attention to Layla, her hands raised in surrender, two of Anton’s men pointing pistols at her closely. Even if they were to miraculously get one of them away from the El-Faouly woman, the second would pull the trigger without thinking, “Don’t,”

They were caught.

A breath passed between the trio, defeat written in bold ink on the two women’s faces, before Marc’s nose scrunched in annoyance. “Shit!”

He shoved the gun back at Bek, who grabbed it before they had any chance to get out of his grasp, his lip curling into a sneer at the pair in front of him, the barrel of his weapon staring straight at them. His flirty nature was long gone as he glared at the woman who wished for the ground to swallow them up.

Anton stepped past his guards, entering the glass room with a grave look on his handsome face, dark eyes looking between Marc and the woman that shadowed him, afraid to move so much as an inch were she to get Marc or Layla hurt.

“Do you really think I’m an idiot?” Anton scoffed, Marc’s jaw flickered with tension as he watched Anton’s eyes slide past him to the woman who looked back at him meekly, “And you? I won’t deny I would have enjoyed a night spent with you, sweetling. But you have been a sly creature,”

He reached out to pinch her chin gently, eyes roaming her lips that parted with a held breath, Marc tensing at her side. He envisioned himself breaking every one of the man’s fingers, of blinding him for daring to look at her so longingly, so perversely, as if seeing her was an enrichment he wanted to keep all to himself.

Then, as if to dial Marc’s already hot temper to a thousand, Anton smirked at her.

“Ofcourse, you could always just tell me what it was your little friends wanted, and I can let the three of you go unharmed?” He proposed, his umber gaze meeting hers with a flick of fervour, “For an added expense, of course,”

“You piece of-” Marc began, the heat of Ra in his glare, his veins running hot under his sepia skin. She cut him off, without a second of hesitation, without so much as a glance at him or his ex-wife.

“Anything,” She practically heard Layla’s laboured breath, the way every heart in the room seemed to stop at her word. Anton’s grin grew on his boyish face, this brows raising in surprise, “You let them both go, and you can have anything you want,”

Marc’s jaw slackened as he looked at her incredulously. What was she doing? How could she throw herself to the wolves like that?

“And if I wanted you? If I wanted to keep you?” Anton asked, his white teeth a glint behind his full lips that seemed to purse at the sight of her. She nodded, ignoring the feeling of Marc’s vicious glare burning a crater in the side of her skull. How could she do this to Steven, how could she stoop so low?

If they got out of here alive, if she got Layla out safe, she would go as low as it took. Layla who hated her, Layla who wished her hung, drawn and quartered, Layla who was human and had no god to save her, to repair her wounds.

“Anything,” She confirmed, a distant look glazing over her eyes as she signed her name on the invisible dotted line, threw herself in with the dogs once more.

Just as Anton’s grin was about to spread just that bit wider, victory ringing clear in his chocolate gaze that swept over her fact. He’d always had an eye for the valuable things in life, and he felt as if he’d just hit the jackpot. Bek leaned in towards his boss, speaking in hushed tones that even Dove struggled to hear until she realised it was because he was speaking French.

Anton’s head whipped towards his manor, where three figures stalked forward towards them, the armed men nudging the trio to exit the glass sculpture and follow the millionaire to meet the newcomers.

But Dove already had a pit in her stomach that told her exactly who it was waiting for them.

“It appears we have a concerned third party here,” The handsome man said, traipsing over to where Harrow and two of his followers approached, not batting a single eyelash to the shit show they’d stumbled upon, his telltale walking stick thumping against the sand pathway.

She felt her blood simultaneously freeze and boil in her capillaries, terrified of just how well he seemed to know her as if he understood anything about the things she’d seen, the things that had led her to here, yet angered from it all the same. Of what he’d called her the last time they’d met. Of how he’d spoken about Marc.

This time there were no gods to save his throat if she were to rip it out.

“Whatever they’ve proposed, I’m sure I can offer you something much more tangible,” Harrow declared, unveiling his hand from his pocket to show off the scarab. The scarab they had lost, the same one that seemed to levitate in the palm of his weathered hand and point in the direction of the tomb. A compass, a navigator, she realised, “Why settle for anything less when you could have a god's share of treasure?” The little bug hummed in his hands, its golden wings glinting in the moonlight.

“Anton, don’t listen to this man, he’s trying to stop us-” Layla started, her hands waving between surrender and gesturing wildly, watching Anton become enamoured with a new valuable, something better than a woman for the night.

“Please, stop,” Anton brushed her off, scowling at her with disinterest.

“She’s telling the truth. He’s planning to kill millions, trust me,” Dove jumped in, her eyes avoiding Harrow’s all knowing gaze, the wealthy man’s frown diverting to her.

“Are the two of you seriously talking about trust?” Anton snapped, his eyes finding their way back to the solid gold figure Harrow held out to him with the promise of more. If there was one thing men wanted more than women, Dove had learned quickly, learned the hard way, it was money.

“Anything! I told you I’d give you anything, get you anything if you just listen to us, please Anton,” Dove begged, feeling the but of the gun pressing into her skull as she took a step towards him. Tossing her a look over his shoulder, Anton seemed to boredly take her in, as if his reverie of having her to himself had worn off, the promise of more wealth than he could dream of, an inheritance for a goddess herself, outweighing any sort of sexual or physical favour she could give him. “He’s planning to slaughter children,”

“Please, there’s no need to descend into violent accusations,” Harrow started, his calm voice only making her seem all the more hysterical as she finally braved a look at him. Just as she suspected, his cold blue hues were already staring through her body in amusement, as if her worry and wildness was all but a game to him. A tally on his leaderboard. Harrow: 2 - Dove: Nil. “Each one of you has so much more in common than you know,”

His gaze shifted to the woman next to her, his eyes filling with false pity, the smirk on his lips telling her otherwise, “Layla, you keep thinking that distance will prevent the wounds from your father’s murder from reopening, but something stands in your way. You know that Marc never told you the truth, you know he hid things from you, maybe that’s why you can’t bring yourself to love him anymore, because he could never be honest,”

Tears glinted in the woman’s lash line as she looked at Marc, every word of his conviction true. She could never love Marc as she had once, never love him anything past nostalgia, an old memory she was learning to shake. But she’d had her suspicions, that he knew more about what had happened to her father than he’d told her, she saw it in the way he tensed every time she brought Abdallah up, he was a worse liar than he thought, or perhaps she had just known him that well.

“And Marc, you never told her because you knew that if you did, she’d see you exactly as you see yourself, as unworthy of the love she could have given you,” Marc’s glare could have melted Harrow to the bone as the older man approached, the glass in his shoes clinking wetly with his every footstep, seeming to enjoy this game of cat and mice he had with the trio already at odds with one another. It was like he was setting a fox into the hen house just to see them scramble.

“You piece of shit,” Marc hissed, his lip curled in anger as Harrow set his gaze slowly back to where Dove stood frozen in place, all too aware of how much he knew, of what he’d seen in her.

“Which brings us to the little pup,” He smiled, a chill running over her spine the moment it grew on his features, a lump balling in her throat, “She cowers in guilt every waking moment knowing if the two of you, if Steven heavens forbid, saw the real her, if you knew what she’d done before she was the meek little bird that worked at a gift shop, you’d be truly horrified. Dare I say, you’d hate her,”

She felt their eyes on her in an instant. Yet she couldn’t drag her horrified stare away from Harrow, who only watched her victoriously. She felt her legs shaking under her weight, weak and numbed from his revelation. There would be questions, there would be answers she couldn’t give. People she only ever visited in her sleep, others she ran from every second of the day.

“You have no idea what you’re talking about,” She croaked, her face tightening with the lump in her throat, eyes hot, lip trembling. Harrow just scoffed.

“Don’t I?” He leered closer to her, slipping the scarab back into his pocket, “Why don’t you tell your new beau what you did to the last man who had you?” He gestured to Anton who seemed to look her up and down, not with lust anymore. No, with caution. Wariness. Worry. He was scared of her. Disgusted. Her eyes chanced a glance at Marc and Layla who looked equally as perplexed, watching for her reaction. They couldn’t see, they weren’t allowed to see. They saw too much, saw right through her. They would hate her, they would leave her for dead.

She’d have to tell them what she’d done to him, to the man who’d put her there. How she’d made him pay for what he’d done to Grace, for taking her away from her family. How he was unrecognisable by the time she was finished with him.

She was back in that room, the window empty, the curtains shut. Grace was… she couldn’t even stomach the thought of it. Of her lying in that room alone, choking on air because of the white pills he’d given her as a reward, as if they were in need of a reward for their good behaviour. In need of anything to satiate them, keep them quiet long enough he would be able to keep them just a little longer.

She wished she’d never taken his number that first night, wished she’d stayed balancing her three jobs to make rent money instead of running after him ‘down the yellow brick road’ as he’d said. She had been in love at first, then she had been scared, terrified when she realised the monsters that lay in wait for her chomping at the bit, empty when she found out Grace had…

But now, now all she felt was anger.

The letters, the damn letters she asked Oz to send to her brothers, the ones where she poured her heart out with apologies, ‘I love you’s and ‘I want to come home’. The ones where she sent the money back to them, the money she’d earned, the whole reason she’d left them, went with Oz on blind faith, the money she stuck around for knowing she was keeping them afloat back home. The same damn letters she’d found stuffed into a duffel bag at the bottom of his wardrobe.

She had been looking for Grace’s things, he’d had her room cleaned by his men who seemed to know exactly what they were doing when moving a body out. She’d wanted just her cardigan, the lilac ones that made Grace’s eyes look like a bed of bluebells, that brought out the buttermilk tones of her blonde hair. She’d missed her more than usual this week.

Yet all she found was the letters, each one addressed to her brothers, money still inside the envelopes, never sent, never opened like he’d promised.

She was angrier than she even knew was possible to feel.

The past two years had meant nothing. She had let those men, those bastards do whatever they liked to her. Had crawled into Grace’s arms when they’d left, when the nights were longer. Had been his dog, his mutt, his puppet for two years; left her brothers, left Billie, with no explanation hoping the letters and the money would be enough to see them through, enough to keep the house and have their bellies filled, their feet warm. She had watched Grace get drained just as she was, had cried every tear, laughed every laugh, danced every step with her just to see her wither under his cruel hand, just to see her take a bad cocktail of painkillers and see herself out of the savage life they lived.

Grace, her sweet saving grace, gone. And it was because of him.

She remembered him coming home, remembered hearing his footsteps beating against the wooden stairs, hearing the second one from the top that squeaked under anyone's weight. She’d learned quickly how to get around this house where no one could hear her the way a doe steers clear from a hunting ground. It was nature, survival of the fittest.

She heard him huff, scratch his thick black hair as if the weight of the world was on his shoulders. Oz, as known by his friends. Frank Osbourne, as known by his government. A dead man walking, as known by Dove.

He stepped into her room, the biggest bunch of flowers in his hands she’d ever seen. Red roses, cliche, the kind every man assumes his girlfriend wants. Oz plastered on a wide smile, too forced for her to appreciate, the coldness still in his eyes. She saw through his mask, his act. She saw how he seemed bored every second he pretended to care.

“Hey there, doll,” He leaned down to kiss her brow, shoving the roses into her lap as if he wanted rid of them already, “I got you these, you know just to cheer you up a bit after all this mess the past few weeks,”

“Mess?” She croaked, her dead eyes watching as he paced around her bed to open the curtains onto the night air. The abandoned hotel opposite had still yet to realise their Welcome sign was still blaring its neon red light after ten years of disuse. The ‘C’ and the final ‘E’ flickered every now and then, but other than that, the red poured into her dark room as if it were sat on her own bedside table.

Mess. As if Grace hadn’t been ripped from her arms whilst she screamed and wept and begged for her to stay. Don’t leave me, don’t leave me alone, you’re all I have left.

But now it was just the two of them.

Oz scoffed, her eyes following his figure that slumped on the bed, leaning down to undo his shoe laces. “Well, I was thinking,” He continued, “Since I let you have a few weeks off to pick yourself back up, I was thinking I could start taking you dancing again the way we did before? Find a new club? Get you another VIP lounge like at the Emerald so you could earn your keep,”

Before this house, when she’d met him. When he’d offered her a job as a barmaid. Given her his number on a little yellow slip, the red words “Follow the yellow brick road,” glittering back at her from his lapel pocket. True to his name, his club had been something out of a wonderland. The “Over the Rainbow” Gentleman’s club was tucked away below the streets of the town, away from prying eyes that would see through the glamour of the girls sold in red slippers. The VIP lounge, a room called The Emerald City, where the most expensive girls were expected to live up to their prices, where she’d served the parties alcohol, tidied when the girls were done, made sure they were all ready for their next show. That was how it had started.

Then his plans changed. Then he’d forced her into the ruby red heels, put her to work for him. Sold her to the highest bidder of the night. And worst of all, he’d convinced her it was a good idea, made her think it was all her own purpose.

She smiled emptily at him, reaching under the bed to grab the straps on the duffel bag. In one swift movement, she chucked the bag onto the duvet in front of him, the weight of her letters, her words that carried her every apology she’d uttered in the last two years, the weight of a girl missing home.

“Earn my keep?” She sneered, watching his handsome face stare down at the bag with a calculating coldness. “Why have you not sent these? That money was for my brothers- you said-”

“Now let’s not get hysterical, doll.” He held his hands up to stop her in her angered state, “I didn’t send those letters because I knew people would come after you. And I couldn’t risk losing my most prized possession because of some high school dropouts and that pill popping little brother of yours-”

That was when she had lost it. Her brothers had been through shit and back, and Mikey had picked up the same awful habit their mother had, but he was her brother. She would let him do what he liked with her, but she drew a line in the sand at her littlest boy.

Before she’d even known she had it in her, she’d thrown a fist at his face, hit him square across his cheekbone. Sammy always told her to aim for the nose or the chin, that boy was always getting into scraps, but she didn’t care. She felt the adrenaline coursing through her veins as she grunted with the effort.

“I would choose all of them a million times over if it meant being away from you,” She yelled, her breaths coming out in rattled gasps, “I don’t care about the money, I don’t care about you, everything I ever loved is gone and it’s because of you-”

She wished she’d been more prepared for the retaliation, but she still felt the vitriol wave of shock as his hand came across her face in a loud slapping sound.

“Because of you, my girl,” Oz spat, launching himself to grab her by her top, dragging her towards him as if she was a ragdoll, “I have only ever been good to you. You were nothing when I found you, remember?” She felt the tears brewing as his voice roared in her face, her brows furrowed in vicious anger, “Nothing, you were a street rat. You could barely afford to eat with that lot dog piling on you for your wages,”

“You say that like you’re any better, Oz,” She spat back. There was a single second where she saw the expressionless face turn, turn into something dark, something hateful.

It was all a blur from then, a harder hit striking her face, shoving her into the huge vanity mirror, her temple colliding with the glass. It smashed on its impact, shards spraying around her, littering her messy desk with tiny glints that looked like red stars in the light of the hotel sign.

She felt the dribble of blood from her hairline, the thickness of it rolling down her cheek like a cardinal honey, though the bitter metallic smell hit her faster than the pain. She was sure she was in shock, she felt numb to the prickling pain of the gash, though she doubted she’d ever feel anything deeper than the torment of knowing her life was gone. Knowing Grace was never coming back, that she could never go back home. It was gone, irreplaceably gone. No amount of rough hands or vile words could cut so deep as the aloneness she felt.

They stared at one another for a moment, her slumped over her desk, just about able to lean herself on her hands, meeting his abhorrent gaze in the mirror.

“I suggest you quit acting up, girl, or next time I won’t be so forgiving,” He spat, turning his back to her to begin unbuttoning his jacket, a huff passing his lips as if she had worn his patience thin, “Take of your clothes and make yourself useful, why don’t you?”

Her lip curled in anger, her reflection looking back at her as she tore her gaze away from his muscled back, ignoring the way he worked on unbuckling his belt, knowing what he wanted.

He wanted her to forget, to pretend as though she wasn’t torturing herself every moment of the day thinking about what she had lost. Looking at herself then in the mirror of the vanity, truly seeing what she’d become, the glass that seemed about as broken as her spirit distorting her view. It was no longer just Grace or her brothers or her job or her life that was gone. She had lost herself. She was not a person anymore but a shell, a phantom. A dead girl walking. She and Grace had always been two sides of the same coin.

She was nothing. He was right. She was nothing.

Her eyes were sunken, cold, dead. She wondered if it had been her who had overdosed in the next room with how ill she looked, smaller than normal. Weaker. Stony. Her skin was lifeless, her hair thinning. Her lips were dry, her eyes glassy. She looked like a corpse. A doll. A mannequin.

She was nothing.

She watched the blood trickle down to her jaw, tinier cuts from the glass shrapnel beginning to pucker and weep their own fresh redness, looking like crimson freckles.

She was nothing.

He lay back on the bed, his trousers slid down to his ankles to reveal a plain pair of grey boxers, his manhood barely concealed as he reached into her bedside cabinet and grabbed himself a cigarette and a lighter.

She was nothing.

“Well then?” He prompted, the white stick waggling between his pink lips as he spoke, “You gonna do as you’re told, my girl, or do you need another smack of the face to knock sense into ya’?”

And then she thought of every one of Grace’s laughs. She thought of the girl's heartbeat against her own whenever they hugged. She thought of the way she was so kind, so sweet on her. She thought of how Grace always had a way of fixing her bruises inside and out. She thought of every one of her freckles, how her eyes always seemed to be watching her with adoration. And then it was taking her brothers to school, the nights she stayed up with Joey to do homework, even though he was the smartest kid she’d ever known. It was Christmas, oh how she loved Christmas once, when they’d each scrimp to get each other something decent, it was the way her brothers pitched in to get her a bike she didn’t have the heart to tell them she couldn’t ride. It was the socks Mikey tried to knit her, that her pinky toe stuck out of on both sides. It was cooking them all breakfast before she went to work at her cleaning job, making sure not a child left her house on an empty stomach like she had when she was their age. It was her and Sammy dragging Dad in from the porch chair when he’d had one too many. It was Matty bringing home Billie the first time, the feeling of holding the tiniest little girl with the thickest hair. A child bringing her a child. It was dancing with the toddler in the kitchen, her soft feet stood on her own as she hummed Billy Joel’s Vienna. It was Mum and Dad when they were young and happy, when the boys had been small and Mum had been to rehab and seemed to stick to her promises for a few years at least. It was the day they went on their first and last family holiday, the day her and the boys had played on the beach until their little legs were sore and their tummies aching from laughing. The ice cream that stuck to their face, the salt that dried on their skin.

She was nothing anymore.

She was nothing but angry.

Vengeful.

She was a savage let loose.

Reaching over her desk, her dead eyes looking back at themselves, her fingers wrapped around a long shard of glass that had split off, toppling onto the wooden surface with a delicate clink, ignoring the way it cut into her own skin painfully.

She was nothing but chaos.

–

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Hanging By A Thread

Rating: M Characters/Pairings: Astarion/Tav(Sabine)

Genre: Romance, Fluff Word Count: 9k Summary: Enjoying his new life as an accomplished, highly-sought after tailor, Astarion loses himself in his work as Liar's Night dawns, and with it, sees him his busiest yet. In effort to garner the forgiveness that she neither expects, nor demands, he presents Sabine with a gift - as well as the opportunity for proper closeness. The first they've had in well over a week. Post game.

Writing for post-game events before I've even started act 3 is really giving major; "she doesn't even go here." but here I am all the same! I've been seeing a lot of tailor!astarion art and man oh man did it inspire. As a woman who grew up with two other women, but whose father was the one who acted as household tailor, this side of Astarion is one I'm particularly endeared to. This was so inevitable. Pretty please channel some of that suspension of disbelief over the fact that, for the sake of this story, some of spawn Astarion's vampire side-effects have been inexplicably curved. The man deserves to see himself in a mirror alright he's pretty. What started as a pretty simple, cut and dry idea was very quick to grow very out of hand. I did my best to keep up! So without further ado, please enjoy!

There's also a little throw back in the beginning to my oneshot, very mild, blink and you'll miss it. Shameless plug here.

Posted to both FF & AO3

Tagged: @chaoticbardlady99 as per request!

~

Caught in a pocket of dewy, early morning light, his fair skin seemed to glow with shimmering translucence at the suns behest. A celebration of his ethereality. The cerise of his eyes glinted in kind beneath the rays, endless as they were intent.

They fixed to her with sanguine scintillation that communicated just how great his anticipation. A stark contrast to the assured brows that hooded them, and the confident set to his lax jaw.

Astarion kept his gaze on Sabine steady, while hers was occupied by the long, flat box he had just presented to her. Splayed in her lap, the lid was held in place by a fine lace bow.

Her suspicion piqued, it was now aimed at the gift, as opposed to the gifter, who openly delighted in the girlish furrow of her brow, and how her dainty fingers unraveled the ribbon with the utmost care.

Taking the time to discard the length of it in a neat pile beside her hip, it was almost comical how large in comparison the package was to her petite stature. One side propped against her crossed leg, while the far end had nowhere else to rest, but in the vacant space of the Méridienne chaise beside where she nestled.

The half-elf had been summoned to the study early that morning, which had been a cause for confusion in it's own right.

His study, that had been outfitted as a work-space. And one that had already been booked solid straight through until early evening.

That detail alone clued her into the nature of the gift, having called her in and sat her down in the very chaise that usually saw his patrons. An ornate piece of plush velvet, cream upholstery, and polished mahogany stained so dark it presented black in the absence of light. A crane was carved out along the backing, it's slender neck stretched backward, and a single of its wings unfurled to full span.

Astarion was quick to amass a steady, loyal clientele of the affluent and respectable, of which regularly filed in and out of the very room she now joined him in. Most were the young sons and daughters, or nieces and nephews of aristocrats that kept him busy with a never-ending parade of gowns and suits alike. Scheduling their fittings for the next even quicker than the last, not a second thought nor semblance of hesitancy towards monopolizing his time and attention.

Young and pretty things that Sabine did her level best not to fall jealous of. His glib drawing their squeaks of laughter, flitting and muffled through the shut door. The cloying aroma of their perfume suffocating the presence of his own, as it clung to his body with a possessive claim of which they had no right to stake.

A festering negligence, as their needs kept him preoccupied from her own.

Measured with more patience even still, she pried the edges of the lid up, only to halt with a startled gasp as she finally laid eyes on what awaited her inside. All previous intrusions of the brazenly flirtatious youth, and unjustified jealousy scattered like roaches exposed to sudden, brilliant light.

"Astarion," she stole his name with a breath she didn't have - a breath he had succeeded in taking - and he chuckled in triumph. Her tone suggested an astonishment corroborated by her wide eyes, ripping them away with great effort to settle on his frame as it lounged in the doorway. His little half-elf wasn't often at a loss for words, and he preened at the achievement. "I don't... I don't know what to say."

Her humble beginnings and modest upbringing made her easy to spoil. An opportunity he indulged whenever it presented.

"A simple 'thank you' will do." Drawled with exaggerated femininity in effort to mimic her own, Sabine rolled her eyes in spite of the grin she failed to bite back.

"And a simple 'thank you' would be an immense disservice to the proper appreciation you're owed."

"Perhaps alone it might. Who's suggesting your gratitude's to end there?" The doorway continuing to prop him up, his smile widened as he watched her.

Careful fingers stroked the fabric, as if seeking to assure herself with the proof of physical contact. With an almost guilty curl of her lips, the deep ruby gown inlaid with coordinating crystal refused to surrender her attention.

She yielded to it, her murmur thoughtful while she continued to bask in it's material decadence. "Not you, of course."

Pushing off the beam that he shouldered, he joined her, situating himself on the sloped arm to peer from over the top of her head. Setting down the lid to her other side, both hands then ventured inside the box, though not without hesitation. Tracing along the pattern of flowered embellishment, she couldn't see the smug set to his jaw behind her, but it could be heard within his explanation.

"I understand that green is the color that best suits you, but when this caught my eye - well, I could hardly resist."

He watched her in the taut silence that followed, while his little half-elf handled it with obvious unease. As if unfit to be in the presence of such finery, let alone its possession.

Astarion reached forward to corral a loose, cinnamon curl behind her ear, and the contact seemed to snap her from the trance brought upon by the blood-red, beaded organza.

"It's... beautiful." She dared to whisper, bending forward to gently set the box down at her feet, she lifted the dress up to a fuller height for more thorough admiration.

A sheer, illusion bodice with a sweetheart neck, a veritable garden of floral appliqué blossomed against the mesh panels between the corset boning.

Coaxing her eye further down to follow it's sinuous trail, it spilled over the waist, curling midway down the full skirts in a few budding tendrils. All which were adorned with the same intricate bead work. "And to what do I attribute such thoughtfulness?"

He had been able to steal away between appointments the previous afternoon, though his free time had already been consigned to picking up a few bolts of satin he had on order.

The dress was on display in the window. He decided on its purchase before he so much as reached the door.

"Need there be a reason for a man to spoil his beloved?"

She ignored the garment in her hands long enough to toss her chin over her shoulder, batting the veil of curled lashes up at him in playful skepticism.

Sabine saw right through him with those mismatched eyes of hers. She often did.

They sifted through his very depths, and never flinched at what they saw.

A look that cast away his darkness and loathing. Leaving room for truth alone, in the presence of her light that refused to be shirked.

It was a look he had found himself on the receiving end of from their very beginning.

One he was so endeared to, he couldn't imagine now having to be without.

With a sigh of surrender he reached for her, capturing her chin in a pinch of his thumb, and curled index finger. "Surely you don't suspect all my gestures are plagued by ulterior motive." His head cocked in punctuation.

"Just the grand and the romantic." She melted in his hold, her gentle accusation teasing her lips apart in a flourishing simper that would put a freshly bloomed tulip to shame.

He bridged the gap to place a kiss to her hairline. With their closeness, he breathed her in deep, finding comfort in the reliability of her smell. A heady bouquet of jasmine, violet, lily that trailed through the halls, and stained their bed linens.

"Darling, you insult me." He was able to keep his rumbling croon even despite the constricting in his chest. "Though truth be told, I had thought it might serve you well tomorrow evening."

The evening in question none other than a lavish Liar's Night celebration, hosted by one of his associates.

Sabine had more or less decided on her attire for the occasion. He had already gifted her a lovely velvet gown, pigmented such a deep phthalo it almost shimmered midnight if the lighting was generous. Paired with a delicate mask for around her eyes, she assumed that adequate, if not wanting for creativity. Astarion, it seemed, had something more specific in mind.

With the dawning holiday, he had seen a larger influx of demand for his skill than he was accustomed. This took him away from his little sorceress. His afternoons and evenings blurred past distinction, one day bleeding into the next, once he had lost track.

Some nights he'd glimpse her just before she turned in. Sabine hated to disturb him more than he hated to be disturbed. Yet if the hour was late enough, and he wasn't in the company of a client, she'd slip into his study with hot tea, and a kiss goodnight. Like ships passing in the night, she was there and gone again. Having left behind only the tea, and a cloud of violet to know where she once had been.

He appreciated her attentiveness, but above all he longed for her companionship.

Companionship he craved more and more the longer he was made to go without. Her nearness. And for it to linger for longer than it took her to bring him the occasional treat.

He caught himself daydreaming often of nuzzling into her bosom, leeching her body-heat, and stilling himself to the mesmeric beat of her heart. To lean into the gentle scrap of her nails against his scalp like a hound shamelessly chasing the itch his owner scratched.

He was still only a man, after all.

He meant it when he confessed his hopes that she'd wear the gown to accompany him, hanging off his arm and adorned in his colors. But more than that, it was to be recompense for her neglect.

Neglect, to her credit, that she bore with patience, and grace.

The same could not be said for him. He missed her terribly.

The previous evening he wanted nothing more than to be able to slip into bed alongside her, pull her close, and indulge. A possibility that would have been feasible, had he been tangled with any other client than the one that concluded his night.

A young elven baron he had only serviced once before. An appointment, he perhaps, had been a little too accommodating during. If the haste of his repeat business and persistence was any indication. His flamboyant ingratiating rivaled only by his forwardness, he disregarded Astarion's every rebuff. Whittling his strained tact away with his diminished nerve.

After all but physically hoisting him up and tossing him out the door, he was at last free to retire. Retreating to their bedroom, however, had confirmed his fear that it had come too late. Sabine had long since been received by sleep, just as he had found her every night prior for that whole agonizing tenday.

But the look that lit up the whole of her face upon glimpsing his offering made his exhaustive agenda, and having to fend off pesky, entitled nobility, well worth it.

Her smile coy, she had drawn the gown in towards her chest, clutching it as if it were most precious. "What shall I be in this, then?"

"Oh, let me think," he waved his hand in a return to theatrics, "something like the ravishing consort of an enigmatic vampire lord?" His inflection then chest deep, he leaned back in, the tip of his nose not an inch from her own with a single, arrogant brow arched. "How does that grab you?"

A lazy, haughty grin teased her with a peek of fang. Quickening the flutter of her heart, her next breath shakier for it. Reeling from the picture he painted, and it's implication.

"Exactly as you hoped, I'm sure." She couldn't help but blush.

"Alterations will need to be made, of course, and my schedule is quite full." He sighed as he studied his nails. "But I believe I can squeeze you in."

"I'm honored to receive such preferential treatment from you." She continued to cradle the gown in her lap, mindful not to crease the tulle. "Mr. Ancunín."

The playful formality in which she addressed him, emulating the fawning aristos he had fitted in that very room, bubbled a rueful growl from the pit of his chest.

He was still acclimating to his reclaimed desire. The ache in his loins and the flare in his chest for the physicality of a lover that was entirely his own.

To touch, and to want to touch again. After all that time.

The sensation of honest, unmitigated, genuine yearning, returned to him like an old friend. A face remembered, but the haze of estrangement cast uncertainty over the reunion.

For having reintroduced him to just that alone, he owed her the moon.

Most times he could take her in his arms and conduct himself as a patient, meticulous lover. Experience at his disposal, rather than a byproduct to be loathed. Other times, he was as jittery and needy as a hormonal adolescent, and laying with her felt like it was the first time for him all over again.

His body roiled in agreement of the latter. If he reached for her again, it would only end one way.

Drawing his ankle to rest atop his knee, he opted instead to clasp his hands in his lap with much restraint. Slipping into the old, familiar territory of playing the sardonic, as opposed to reducing her to naked flesh and obscene moans of his name. The memories of which tormenting him with increasing cruelty.

"A treat to be certain, and one I mind you not to presume. My services are in high demand, as I'm sure you're aware." Head tilted in arrogance, he cast a glance down the bridge of his nose at her, as wicked with mischief as his smile. "So do be gracious, and try it on for me?"

He watched as she rose to her feet, the gown cradled in her arms, finagling the length to keep it from hitting the floor.

"Don't forget your shoes." Almost patronizing, he was then all business. "Whichever pair you intend to wear, that will ultimately determine the length."

Before leaving him to change, she pushed up to her bare toes to capture his gaunt cheek in kiss. He could feel the curve of her lips as she smiled into his skin.

That small, sneaky intimacy made him snort; "schmooze." with a shake of his head. When she spun on her heel to retreat, he responded with a ludic clap of his hand to her bottom, grumbling an; "off with you now." and relished the squeak he earned.

His gaze remained fixed to her as she pranced out of his study before disappearing from sight, unable to wipe the fond smile from his mug the whole while. A willing captive to the same, self-indulgent notion she had teased out of him many times before.

If he had a working heart, every beat taken would surely belong to her.

His little half-elf didn't leave him waiting long.

Disrobing in record time, she reappeared in his studio a vision in red.

His back to her, a drawer at his desk distracted him from her return, affording her the chance to admire him from the doorway without interruption.

A white chalk pencil slotted behind his elongated ear, the sight of him so professional never failed to goad her heart to flutter like a hummingbird.

Charcoal slacks clung in accentuation of his lithe frame, his collared shirt tucked in at the waist, the buttons pulled free at his chest as per usual. Feet slipped into soft leather loafers, simplistic as they were expensive.

Always impeccable with his dress, the added details of his trade made him look all the more distinguished.

The skirts of the gown were quite long, too long for her short frame, forcing her to gather the excess into the crook of her arm as she entered to keep from tripping.

The bodice, only loosely tied at her back and not a single clasp hooked, hung limp and ill-fitting from her thin torso. Thick twin bands of matching, intricate detail looped around her biceps. Though they lacked structural practicality, they added to the gown's overall romantic appeal.

"I'm ready when you are." She announced, warring with a victorious grin of her own at his subtle double-take.

Regardless of the less than favorable way it draped her body, not yet tailored to accommodate her waifish size, Astarion halted. Pincushion in hand, the length of his measuring tape coiled around his forearm. Though the act of breathing was merely reflexive, he couldn't have even so much as mimicked it. The only hint of movement came from the sharp protrusion of his Adams apple, bobbing with a hard swallow.

The smile she angled up at him was sheepish, her chin dropping to shy away from the severity of his silent appraisal.

Two pairs of heels dangled from the ankle-straps from her other hand that she lifted up for him to see. One satin black, and the other a soft gold, her tone held a decided timid lilt.

"Which goes best, would you say?"

He smirked at how earnest she desired his input. "The black." The emphasis dripped from the tip of his tongue like liquid smoke. "As if there was any real question."

He beckoned her to join him at the chaise lounge, his smirk growing at the soft patter of her bare-feet crossing the hardwood, and the whisper of the organza shifting against the silk slip beneath.

Carefully perching on the edge of the cushion and arranging the skirts to lay modestly about her thighs, she regarded him through a half lidded gaze while he collected the preferred heels from her hold, and sank down to one knee before her.

With no more than an easy smile, and his palm outstretched for instruction, Sabine recognized his cues, and drew up one leg to slot her ankle against his waiting hand.

Astarion could feel himself swallowed by her honeyed gaze above him as he slide her foot inside the heel, her ankle pinched in his fingers like the stem of a rose. He made short work of the buckle around her ankle, the graze of his finger-tips deliciously cool and feather-light against her sun-kissed flesh. Then he was on to the other foot, leaving the first to buzz with the lingering of his phantom touches.

Though the contact to her warm flesh was incidental at best, she leaned into it all the same. Smooth, brisk, and ever attentive, each one dizzying with addiction.

Raising to his full height, he held out his hand to help her to her feet. Continuing to hold it, as he lead her the sort distance to a raised platform before an inordinately large mirror. Newly reunited and shamelessly besotted with his own reflection, that superfluity was for his benefit alone.

Guiding her up to the center, he closed in behind her, sweeping the length off her waves over her left shoulder and out of the way. She sucked in a breath as he gathered the silk laces at her back, his deft hand cinching it as tight to her body as he was able.

An additional layer of clasps remained to join the edges flush together, tucking the lacework to lay neatly underneath and out of sight. Working with just as much expert efficiency, his knuckles grazed along her erectors as he fastened the row of hook and eyes from bottom to top.

Sabine regarded her reflection in the mirror as he tied her up. Though she knew it wasn't the finished product, the cups gaped around her breasts, making her feel like a child playing dress up with an elder sisters gown.

Her chest was the antithesis of ample, and was one physical characteristic of many that caught her disapproval. She pressed it flat against herself in a more accurate representation of how the end result might look, forgetting to wipe away her frown as she did.

"There will be none of that." Having read her thoughts with the quirk of her lips, and downcast eyes, his admonishment was loving, however firm. "This neckline will flatter your bust. A compliment only made possible by an already favorable trait. And one that's proportionate to your physique, I might add."

"You're too kind." Pursing her lips against the clouding of doubt, the utterance was as soft as it was sincere.

"I'm not kind." His correction warning, the following elaboration was no less stern. "I expect you to trust my eye. I know how to dress you, my pet."

He left her to retrieve his pin cushion, before then returning to conduct his assessment of what begged his attention. Propping his elbow on the forearm he wrapped around his chest, Astarion pinched the cut of his chin. Brow furrowed in contemplation, his narrowed gaze raking over her.

His new profession was a seamless transition, one with which his acquired finesse allured her. In that moment, propped up on the dais in a pair of heels of his choosing, she felt like one of his clients. The ones she all too recently harbored ugly, infantile jealousy over.

It was her turn to embody that role, and the thrill of that proffered mystique was such she couldn't deny.

After a moment, he discarded the cushion to the ground by her feet, but not before plucking a handful of pins he stashed between his clenched teeth. Long and slender, the heads were bulbous so as to not get lost in the appliqué, and sculpted to resemble peacock feathers.

Unbuttoning his cuffs, he folded his sleeves twice to bare impressive forearms, before he set to work.

Bending at the waist, he manipulated the fabric around her body with a small scowl of focus that made her heart swell to see. A gentle pressure behind his trained hands, he was all sweeping palms and gliding finger tips. A flurry of teasing, professional touch.

Sabine couldn't help but react as his expert fingers danced across her middle, an area of her body that was riddled with sensitivity to his ministrations. If he enjoyed the way she quivered under his attention, he didn't let it show. Beholden to the duty of his work, a willing captive to concentration.

Astarion slid a cupped palm between her waist and the interior of her elbow, guiding it outward as gentle as his murmured instruction. "Hold it right here, for me. Just as you are."

He began to gather the loose mesh at her side. Palpating for her ribs before pinching off about two inches along the seam line, his other hand retrieved one of the pins from his mouth. Inserting the needle perpendicular to the fabric as he went along, and repeating the process all the way down to her waist.

Her right side completely pinned, and his mouth now vacant, he was standing back in front of her, cocking his head to the side as he surveyed his progress.

"The sides will need to be taken in a fair bit, though I expected as much." His hands snaked around her waist, finger-tips nearly joined together with her in the middle for emphasis. "Typically, the effort necessitated by the complexity of a corset is such that fashioning a new one altogether is the more practical course, but we are quite pressed for time." He then added, in afterthought. "And I do enjoy a challenge now and again."

She returned the smile weakly. "Being this small seems to be nothing but an inconvenience."

"Nonsense. I am the one who purchased this dress, after all. And I did so because I could think of none more befitting than you." Circling behind her, he gathered where the waistline was loose, and pinned it in place.

His chin fell to rest on her right shoulder. Finding her stare across from them through their mirrored image, his eye contact ruthless as he crooned to her reflection. "That aside, I like how small you are."

Her heart pounded against it's cage when he pulled away, and strode in a circle around her. Gathering her skirts as he did, he flicked his wrists in a practiced motion to fan it out to its full diameter. A salacious, full-length slit split the skirt on her right side, and allowed cool air to rush her bare legs with every whip.

Beginning behind her with a fresh set of pins fanned from his teeth, he lowered to his haunches before settling on the ground with a grunt. Astarion widened his thighs to stretch long, slender legs out to either side of her, caging her between his bent knees.

Tweaking at the skirt so that it's weight dropped to the ground, he first checked with the tips of his fingers for the points of contact where it fell level with the floor. Only then would he slot a pin in, before repeating the process all over again. Each new one approximately six inches apart from the last.

She watched first his reflection, as he gradually worked his way back in front of her, shifting his weight across the floor by his palms and heels. His regal profile angled towards the hem, his fingers darted between the top layer of tulle to ensure it was still even with the slip underneath.

On occasion, he'd un-spool the measuring tape from the crook of his elbow to reaffirm his measurements, keeping a mental tally of the spacing.

It surprised her how weak she was to the sight of him so mundane and domestic, and the tenderness rooted at the center of it all.

She hadn't realized her gaze had fallen to stare down at him crouched before her until the heady rumble of his tone sheared through their collective silence.

"First time, darling?" He teased, his eye fixed to the pin he was in the middle of inserting. A furious blush crept upwards from her neck.

She decided to play along, hushing, "What gave me away, Mr. Ancunín?"

"Your fidgeting." He tsked with impatience, despite a wry smirk. "And how you insist on looking down. I know I'm a sight to behold, but I'm going to need you to stand up straight, and keep your eyes forward."

Running out of pins from his mouth, he paused to inspect his work. Taking the hem into his hands, he chuckled to himself in observation of the sheer amount that was in need of shortening.

"My, you're a just a little slip of thing. You're like an honest doll." Unmistakable adoration lurked within his remark, despite how offhand his delivery, "though a doll would stay still while I pinned, I'm sure." He chided up at her as he gathered the next set of pins. "Shoulders back and head level, my dear, unless you want a crooked hem."

"I can't help it." She sighed. "I do enjoy you like this."

A side of you I'm rarely able to experience. Added in lamentation by the vestiges of her jealousy.

A wicked grin curled around the pins clenched between his teeth, his voice muffled. "On my knees?"

She slit her eyes at his reflection, a smirk threatening to surface. "I meant professional."

"Semantics, my darling girl." He tittered, waving the measuring tape with a flippant flick of his wrist. "This work often sees me on my knees."

"I'm sure I'll grow to regret inflating your ego further still, but I like your look of focus. It's handsome." She stared straight ahead as instructed, while he knelt before her once more to resume his work. "Dashing, even."

"Is that so?" He soaked up her flattery like a fresh spring to a man in a drought. Before shifting forward on his knees, he prompted, "well, go on."

"And I...," she stopped herself, suddenly flaring with a bashfulness neither were used to seeing on her. Attracting his curiosity.

Brow cocked in wait, he wore an all too serious look as he pressed her. "Yes?"

"I like you... touching me in this way. It's not meant to be seductive, or coy. Your contact is out of necessity to your craft, but that just seems to make it all the more..." She trailed off, struggling to articulate.

Though by the tortured look on his face, she surmised she didn't have to. He stalled in thought.

"I see..." Expelled from him in a breath so heavy it was as if he had been holding it, a knowing grin then worked his lips apart, bearing his fangs in full. "Well I assure you, it was not my intention to get you hot and bothered. Yet, I wonder..."

He kept his musings internal, as he pushed his hand through the slit in her skirt, and wrapped his hand around the back of her knee.

The initiation, while frank, was most welcome. The hitch of her breath was all the sound she could make, as his curled fingers stroked up the back her thigh, before coming down to cradle her joint once more. Lifting her leg for her, Astarion fished it out through the separation in the fabric, guiding it up to drape over his shoulder.

Without breaking eye contact, he pushed up the skirts with his opposite hand to bunch at the crook of her hip, and out of his way.

Immediately, he was confronted by the bare sight of her, pinched rosy and glistening. Smooth as silk and exposed to him from a fresh shave. A haggard groan escaped him.

"Ohh look at you." The observation wound tight in the seat of his chest, it huffed from him as if just those few words held too great a weight for his tongue to form. His furrowed brow connected with her naval, as he brought his head to rest against her abdomen. Feigning surprise, he sighed. "Is all of this for me?"

Her fingers found his soft curls to knot in, shyness overpowering her limited capability to answer. His breath misting against her most intimate, her ears then perked to his low, agonized mutter in a foreign tongue.

She tsked with frustration of her own.

"Elvish does sound so especially pretty on your tongue, but it makes for poor bedroom talk when you speak it to a lover that does not understand it."

The wily high-elf pressed a conciliatory kiss in turn to her mons, smiling into her firm flesh at the sound of her breathless sigh spilled out into the open.

"Sincerest apologies, my love," his coo was sickeningly sweet as he placed another kiss, this one lower than the last. "You make me forget myself. Would you like a translation?"

"If it's not too much trouble." The quaver of her tone only spread his pompous grin wider.

He abandoned her core to begin trailing open-mouthed kisses to the smattering of freckles on her inner thigh. The impatience of her whimper went straight to his stiffening groin in aggravation.

"It was something to the effect of how desperate I am to devour that pretty little cunt of yours, until I'm unable to rid the taste from my mouth." Spoken with the infuriating nonchalance of one remarking on the weather.

No matter how venomous or vulgar, the liquid velvet of his voice was able to gild all that he spoke, even his filth.

His sinful divulgence made her see starts, until the elegant bridge his nose pressed against her bud in a way that erupted her vision in white. Alabaster mane curling around her fingers like rings, she tugged, her knee buckling as he rumbled into her with approval.

Limber velvet flattened against her throbbing slit as he dragged his tongue up the length of it, and then again, starting back at the bottom and swiping up to the top.

His path slow and deliberate, he coaxed her honey to soak against his maw, ushering the excess down his throat with a desperately voracious hum that she felt as clearly as she heard. So was so wet, impossibly wet, and all for him. A distinct, mild headiness that swelled his cock and ego alike.

Teasing her entrance with the flick of his tip, it clenched in vain against her own hollowness as he continued to play with her. Lapping and huffing, peeling her slick petals apart with slithering tenderness.

His hand slipped up the underside of the the thigh hooked over his shoulder, kneading the quivering hamstrings with the heel of his palm as it swept upward to grab a handful of her rear. The swell of it settling in his hold nicely, Astarion groped with steady, massaging pressure.

Kitten-like whimpers and mewls tumbled listless from her pout, wrenched open by his ceaseless onslaught. Her fingers buried in his mane, she both pushed and pulled him; unable to handle his direct assault, while at the same time longing to have his tongue wriggle its way inside her molten core.

Astarion discovered very early on in their trysts, much to his bemusement, how quick she was to writhe in over-stimulation from even the barest contact of his tongue to her womanhood. A weakness he was always relieved to discover persisted, even after all their time together.

Unburdened by the pressures of romance and consideration, he locked her against his mouth with greed, messy and crass. He swirled his tongue around her swollen nub before latching his lips around to suckle at it. Hard.

A shrill cry ripped from her throat as she thrashed in his hold. His lips and chin slippery with her arousal, her petite frame jerked and stuttered like a woman possessed. Though he was on his knees before her, he still overwhelmed her, gravity coming to his aid as she lacked the footing to ease away from him. Having no where to escape, she twisted and arched, and only ground herself down further against his mouth for her efforts.

His claws tightened their hold on the flesh of her ass, and yanked at her dress, expressing through action what his tongue was too preoccupied to speak. He wouldn't soon let her go.

Satisfied with her distraction, he took advantage to plunge the muscle as far inside her weeping channel as he could manage. Be it by fang or finger, the sensation of her spasming around his intrusion never failed to send his eyes rolling back into his skull. He almost forgot how tight she was. Her throbbing heat that drooled all over itself by but a few well-placed caresses, even just in passing. His fingers twitched against her toned, supple flesh. He would have loved nothing more than to hilt two digits to the knuckle inside of her, but he was all that was keeping her upright, and he knew that she would sooner crumble to the devastation of his tongue.

Drilling within her plush walls, he withdrew with a languid moan at how her cream coated his tongue, and smeared his cheeks, his eyes falling shut in a moment to ground himself. When he fed from his little half-elf, getting messy with her was a horrid habit, he'd have to concede. It was all too easy to get lost in her. An at times forgone conclusion, that damned his genteel manner, and decorum. This was no different. Be it her blood or her honey, the difference now seemed inconsequential.

He was feeding from her. Dropped to his knees before her, with his ravenous appetite turned on her slick, fluttering cunt instead of her pulse. Astarion fed from her like he had been starved until that moment. Nuzzling his face into the mess he made of them both.

With the taste of her at the back of his throat, and her melodic cries invading the air, he didn't think he could get any harder than he was that very moment. A realization as painful as it was startling, the itch at his groin refused to be ignored. In their absence from one another, he was quick to dismiss his own neglect, an oversight his body was quicker to confront him with.

It wasn't enough to keep him away from her for long. Her pitch spiked with a gasp that shattered him from the suffocating haze of untended lust, as he reattached himself to her clit. Swollen and sore by his doing, her little pearl twitched against his laving muscle as he sought to soothe it.

"There you are, that's my girl." His encouragement strangled in his growls. "Don't you dare hold back from me, not now. Not after how long I've waited for this"

Had he a free hand, it would have been kneading his bulge already in firm, downward strokes with the heel of his palm. He was afforded no additional selfishness. Her tremors strengthened, as did the tell-tale twice of her thigh slung over his shoulder.

Even as her climax began to tear through her from the inside, her manicured finger-tips managed to find the pointed, blushed tip of his left ear. Gathering the tine between the pads of her thumb and forefinger, she began to rub him with purposeful pressure.

He gasped into her folds, his hips bucking forward into empty space of their own accord.

"You little she-devil," drenched in affectionate pride, he groaned through lips he curled against hers. "You fight dirty."

Astarion doubled down his efforts. Sealing his lips over her bud, her worked the tip of his tongue in quick, tight flicks in a back and forth motion. Easing up only a little, just enough, knowing the barely-there, teasing licks would unravel her more powerfully than brute force ever could.

Mercifully, more so for him if he had to venture, she ceased her torment as her pleasure overtook her in a searing jolt of white lightning. A current that funneled through her being as she twisted in his iron grip, it burned from the soles of her feet to the crown of her head. A blistering filament that strung itself through her little body like a marionette string, manipulating her through her submission. Tossing her head back. Forcing her pelvis to tilt, and held it in place until the muscles numbed.

The piercing of his gaze was dulled by glassiness, and heavy-lids. He stared up at her in awe, as her soul sank back down to her body, still shivering above him. Once stable enough on her own foot, he untangled his fist from the crinkled tulle to wipe his mouth.

"My poor darling, I have neglected you something awful, haven't I?" He gathered the mess of her heat from around the corners of his mouth before sucking it clean from his fingers.

Dropping that hand to splay against the floor behind him, he turned his head into the heat of her blushed thigh. Pecking at her freckled skin gingerly, the hand that had been holding her up by her bottom slid to hook under her knee. He lifted it up to place an open-mouthed kiss to the inside of the joint.

"You have." She agreed, drawing back unsteadily on one leg as she raised the other away from his mouth. Pressing her toe against his shoulder, she nudged at him to recline backward.

The motion had his bleary eyes molten in the early morning haze that poured in from the windows. Astarion allowed his little sorceress to push him to his back, catching himself on his elbows with the spike of her heel dug into his chest. She nodded as she spoke, in agreement with her own instruction. "And you are far from done with me."

He nodded right along with her, swathes of his once kempt coif hanging limp against his damp forehead.

Dropping to her knees above his waist, she scrambled to push the dress out of her way, while he wasted not a moment more in popping the buttons of his trousers.

Hissing to his own fingers grazing the engorged flesh of his shaft, he grabbed ahold with a rough grasp and pulled himself free. The two were erratic in trying to align themselves, his bruised head to the heat of her sex, by touch alone. Their view obstructed from the many layers of silk and gauze neither cared to take the time to push away.

Once her found her, he was greeted by a lewd amount of slick drizzling from her kiss swollen lips. A delicious tension having wound itself in the pit of his groin, the moment her wet folds slid across his cockhead had it spread throughout the entirety of his lower half. A rippling scorch as contagious as wild fire.

A smart remark lodged in his throat at the ready, Sabine stole it from him as she sank down the length of his shaft in one fluid, impatient motion.

His head dropped back with a thud. The sound drowned out completely by the fierce, guttural howl that erupted from him at sheathing inside her to the hilt.

She was in no way immune to the brunt of him, to the pinching stretch of her walls as they rushed to accommodate his every rigid inch. Fluttering pulses yanked him in deeper, his girth still stinging despite her generous lubrication. Her walls tender and aching, the sensation of being deliciously too-full of him coaxed a small cry to break from her tongue against his ear. As restless and visceral as cold waves to the shoreline before a storm.

"All is forgiven." Her announcement was rooted so deeply in abandon he couldn't help but laugh, as wheezing and strangled as it was.

Time was of the essence. Wasting not a second more to indulge in how lovely the sensation of their joining, she began to bounce on top of him. The first few, somehow, had taken him by surprise. As if he too was squandering a moment neither of them could afford, just to bask in how she struggled to fit him. A few grunts slipped through his lips, rubbed raw and smeared with traces of her. The same genuine, monotonous grunts he uttered as he maneuvered along the ground while he hemmed her dress.

The parallel saw her core squeeze him hard and fast, catching him up to speed.

"Really? Just like that?" He croaked through a lopsided grin, brows furrowing as he gathered her about the waist to aid her stilted, hurried gyrations. His voice continued to crack with his speech, as rushed as the climax they both raced towards with baffling inelegance. "You're quite easy to please, my dear."

She whined as he bottomed out again and again, one strike more driving and furious then the next. The resounding snap of wet flesh meeting hard knotted her stomach, and pulled it inward. "That's not a complaint, I trust."

"Darling, when have you ever known me to complain?" He gasped as if for breath, the pressure coiling low in his pelvis, threatening to spend him if they continued at their pace. If she continued with those breathy, drawn out squeaks that made him want to sink his teeth into her neck. Not to feed, but to bite. Unable to get enough of her, even now. Even as he buried himself inside of her. "But to think of all the trouble I went through to get this dress - it cost a small fortune, I'll have you know."

"Of that I've no doubt, you never settle for anything less than the very finest-!" A shrill yelp cleaved her statement in two, as he bucked up into her with desperation. "I-I've never known you to let an opportunity to boast your immaculate taste pass you by-!"

Sabine was echoed by his cackling before she even finished getting the words out, broken and panting. She clung to him for dear life against his uneven rutting.

"I'll not let it be said I don't measure up to my reputation." His banter equaled hers with how disjointed. He anchored himself by the bruising hold he kept around her waist, using that leverage to pump into, while simultaneously forcing her down around his spearing.

It caused her body to seize around his cock with a strength that proved to her; when it came to Astarion, her body was more his than her own.

"Astarion!"

His name sounded hymnal on her strangled breath. The single, vague plea would have brought him to his knees, had he not already been on his back.

Pitching forward and catching herself by sinking her claws into his exposed chest, she tilted her pelvis to chase the friction of her bud caught against him. The new position offered him more depth to exploit, as well access to the tender patch inside her that had her vice-grip tightening with every nudge of his tip.

She was close again. He knew by the way she went rigid on top of him, her joints locking as moisture welled within her squinted eyes. Her fingers trembled with weak spasms against his pectorals, the opaline flesh streaked with angry red from her nails.

"Let go," he urged with a frantic gasp. Not asking, not demanding. But begging. "Let go."

All of his charm, needless and shallow, failed him. She stripped him of his suaveness and provocation, and the front of his dominance without mercy. He yelped the last of his restraint away as she ground down on him with particular fervor.

His heavy length throbbed with insistence that matched the dilation of his pupils. So overtaken by beady black, the once shimmering Cabernet was blotted out, as if by spilled ink. Snorts and growls snagged through his twisted lips. That low, dull pressure pulled taut behind the root of his cock.

"S-sabine, love - darling-," he pleaded with the frenetic urgency of one whose lifeline was slipping through their very fingers. "I'm-,"

His use of her name was as dire as the situation felt. She recognized it's significance. Referring to her in such a deliberate way, as if calling on a Goddess for deliverance.

His little half-elf was first to come apart, and she did so all for him. Clenching tight around him, as if in ownership. She moaned and mumbled unintelligibly, her blushed body shuddering in all the extravagant, bejeweled layers of silk and tulle. Her shoulders bowed to drop her head forward as she slumped on top of him, her tousled waves a curtain that hid her tear-stained face.

Astarion didn't stop. He couldn't stop. He rode her through her glorious unraveling, thrusting into her without prowess or rhythm. Driven purely by base instinct, and their mutual desperation for their awaited reunion to be consummated.

A sound tickled the shell of his ear. Innocuous, and far from their debauched clatter. It couldn't have come from them.

He didn't have the time, nor energy to spare for discernment. Just as the blinding of her climax began to recede, he tumbled headlong into the throes of his own.

Astarion came with a shout. His tendency to slip into a mangled litany of Elvish and English stalled, his tongue offered instead something that not even her unacquainted ear would struggle to decipher.

"Fuck-!"

He emptied himself inside her, warm and thick and so much. Too much. Crammed up against her battered womb, and painting it white. Giving her more than even he thought he had to give, as he felt the excess begin to leak back out against where they meshed, trickling down over the twitching stitch of his scrotum. Sweat beaded along his hairline and dripped down his temple. The creases that webbed from the corner of his eyes deepened, as he squeezed them shut against the intensity of relief.

His feral expletive was echoed by that soft, familiar sound in the distance again. One her fritzed mind was unable to spare attention to, as the sensation of liquid heat spurting into her instigative depths preoccupied the lion share of it.

For a long while, the only sound between them were their exchange of gasping breaths. The ferocity suggesting they had just ran for their lives. Not even the aftermath of a battle had rung them out as they were after that union.

Unsurprising, Sabine was the first to break the silence. Pushing the veil of mussed hair out of her foggy eyes with hands that still trembled.

"Oh my." Her whisper hoarse, her hot flesh stained as deep a crimson as her gown. A gown that, miraculously, stood the test of their sloppy fervor, and held to his pinning. "Do you treat all of your clients with such attentiveness?"

"No." His breathing ragged, a laugh rippled through him regardless, deep and hearty. She could feel it's vibration where they were still joined. "That, my love, was more of that preferential treatment I just got through warning you not to expect."

She beamed down at him with a heaving chest, as she fought to calm her breaths. "I'll not strike that against your professionalism, then."

He reached up to slip a palm around her flushed cheek. He looked lazy and contented beneath her, and it was only in the presence of relief did she then realize how high-strung he had been. Heavy, spent throbs of his softened cock still pulsed within her in absolute bliss.

"Good thing, too." He rasped. "It would be a pity to lose your patronage."

A sated smile spreading her lips, she leaned in slowly, hoping for the deep kiss she had been robbed of. "You'd like to see me again, would you?"

Lowering to place her chest flush with his own, she slunk further up his body to yet capture his lips.

"Oh yes. As your luck would have it, I've quite the fondness for you mutts, one I can't seem to find it within myself to resist." The way he rolled the phrase around the tip of his tongue, his favor for the taste plain, had her tighten around him.

A quick burst of exultant laughter erupted from him at the feeling, huffed against her expectant pout. As if her cheeks could turn rosier.

"I'm very happy to hea-"

"Ehem - !"

Their heads snapped in unison to the source of throat clearing, coming from a yet unidentified third party.

Third, and fourth party, to Sabine's mortification.

Two young elven women. Eleven sisters, judging by their uncanny resemblance. Tall as they were slender, the one in front, who demanded their presence be acknowledged, looked more than a little discomposed. Olive skin tinged roseate at her high cheeks.

The woman behind her had a blush to match, yet was unsuccessful in hiding the scandalous grin behind her fingers.

It took a moment for him to register who they were, and why they were huddled in his doorway, through his long overdue post-coitus haze. He wasn't left to grapple with his stubborn memory for long. Where disorientation ebbed, the shadow of clarity was sure to lurk; and it swept in to sober him.

They were the daughters of the very associate who requested his presence the following evening.

A pair of mermaid gowns commissioned for a pair of sisters. Minuscule, pearlescent beads were to be sewn on to the flared hems in the pattern of siren scales. A painstaking endeavor, as the amount of that hand-stitched ornamentation doubled.

Suitable costumes, as in his recall of their previous fittings, they very much resembled a sirens squawking with their fits of laughter. One sister only feeding the others.

Their names still eluded him, not that it mattered much. Pet names made for exceptional placeholders.

"Good morning, girls! I must beg your pardon, and a moment more of your time." Drawled with chipper insouciance, donning the mask of sycophant once more. As if their much revered, and highly coveted tailor wasn't sprawled out on the floor, straddled by a tiny half-elf who very much looked like she had just been railed within an inch of her life. The reek of sex unmistakable.

His audacity didn't stop there. He winked at them, the nimble fingers of his free hand absently twisting the tulle with a lazy pace. "If you'll be so kind as to wait for me in the foyer? My hands are full with a demanding client just now."

They scurried away from the lurid scene. The flushed little half-elf in red swatting at his chest, her roar of astounded fury was only amplified by his perverse, silvery cackle.

[multi-fandom-lunatic]

All's Fair in Love and War - Keefitz (Angst)

It was dark but it wasn't yet night. Smoke clogged the air and my throat, and fires erupted a few miles away. The once-green grass was a dead brown, sucked from its home in the soil.

Burly creatures with muscles and vengeance in their veins charged with spears and swords. They were monstrous, a sight that would find itself in a nightmare, but now they were here. They were here for me.

It was an accident, how the world went from colossal castles to the crumbling debris before me. The remnants of the buildings mocked me, glinting in the fire, sparkling like they were the same tall, beautiful structures they were before. But they weren't.

I stood up, my limbs aching and my head pounding. It was hard to breathe, hard to see in all the smoke. It enveloped me like an insult and hung over me. I stared down into the expanse, searching for a pair of ice-blue eyes, bright like the eye of a storm. All I could see was fighting, and bones in a heap on the ground.

I don't know how they hadn't caught me yet. I was in a suit, well ironed with a red tie, with blood now spilt over me. My sunglasses had fallen to the ground somewhere. It was too dark, too smoky so that I couldn't see.

Blue eyes caught with my teal ones. But it wasn't the regular Keefe blue that I loved so much. No, this was the ugliest blue ever, the most piercing kind that I felt a million knives stabbing me as I looked into them. It belonged to an ogre.

The crazed creature charged at me, spear in hand and murder in their eyes. I yelled, ducking out of the way, the spear missing me by mere inches. I shivered. I picked up a broken stick from the ground, holding it high as a weapon. That sounds pretty lame, but it was a cool stick, and I was out of options.

The ogre howled, angry that I was still alive, and threw their spear at me. I didn't dodge it this time. No, instead I hit it back with my stick. The ogre looked like they were ready to pounce. But instead, they turned away and ran at something else. I was relieved, my blood finally returning to my cheeks, but then all signs of hope disappeared.

Keefe Sencen, writhing on the ground, surrounded by fire, and a bloodthirsty ogre after his guts. I screamed so loudly my vocal cords could've passed away. I ran to him, summoning my love for him to carry me forward. I landed right in front of him, but it was a moment too late. The spear had pierced his skin.

Blood drenched the dead grass, sinking into the soil. Keefe screeched, breathing hard now that his guts were spilling out. The colour was fading from his cheeks, and his ice-blue eyes were losing their life. I ripped the suit coat off my back and tried to dab away the blood, but more just kept coming. I wanted to take out the spear, in case he got infected, but I did, he'd bleed to death, and there is nothing more terrifying to me than losing Keefe Sencen.

"Just hold on, okay?" I whispered, tears blurring my vision. "Things will work out. Somehow, they always work out."

"Fitz," Keefe croaked out, and it was terrifying, hearing his voice leave him, "I think this time, we're out of luck."

"No!" I yelled. "How can you say that? What about everything we've been through? What about us?" I choked out the last words because the thought of Keefe leaving me alone here was enough for me to throw myself into the fires. The best moments of my life flashed in my head. Keefe and I trying ice cream. Keefe and I cuddling. Keefe and I crying. Keefe and I. That's what it has always been.

And now Keefe's bloody form threatened to strip away the last sliver of sanity I had. I thought I had it so nice because when everything fell apart, they fell back together. That's what Keefe and I were. Falling apart, and falling back together.

But that magnetic reassurance was gone now. All that was there was the cold, harsh reality and warm blood spilling onto me.

"Fitz," Keefe said, tearing up. He reached and grabbed my hand, a gesture too much for him in his state. "I know things don't look too good right now, but please, Fitz, I'm not going to be alive tomorrow, let alone for the next fifteen minutes." I choked at that. He continued. "You have a life, Fitz. You had one before me and you'll have one after. It won't be the same, but please, please, please don't throw it away."

"What don't you understand, Keefe? You are my life!" I screamed. Keefe's eyes widened at that, and a soft smile settled on his face.

"Thank you," Keefe whispered. "Thank you, thank you, thank you. I'm going to miss you so much."

Keefe's breaths were no longer shallow. They were no longer there. The pain left his body, carrying his life force with him. Keefe Sencen was dead.

I screamed so loudly all of the Forbidden Cities must have heard me. Not that there was any of it left. Keefe's blood was on my shirt, his corpse in my hands, and my heart in the grave.

The fires licked at the ground close to me, brightening my path to my inevitable death. I shivered, crawling so I was lying next to Keefe, and I placed a tentative kiss on his cold lips. The fires came close, but I did not resist them. I didn't even ask for help.

It was bright, though it was now night. I stared at the cruel stars, and the cruel world and pondered my cruel fate. I whispered, voice hushed. "We're in this together." As I allowed the flames to swallow Keefe and I whole.

***

aodsufhui;hfsd that's the Keefitz oneshot haha. Here at last. I kinda like actually which is strange because I wrote it in such a rush.

@thesfromhms this one's for you

[waffuruoi]

Hunter X 𝘣𝘪𝘳𝘥 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳

❝ʏᴏᴜ ʀᴇᴍɪɴᴅ me ᴏꜰ ꜱᴏᴍᴇᴏɴᴇ ɪ ᴜꜱᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ᴋɴᴏᴡ.❞

❝ᴄʜɪʀᴘ ᴄʜʀɪᴘ!❞

𝗜𝗡 𝗪𝗛𝗜𝗖𝗛; ― you stumble across an ordinary looking boy that was crying. As a bird you decide to comfort the sad boy. But what you don’t know is that he is insisting on keeping you by his side forever and never letting you leave.

𝐀𝐔: After Belos left Hunter's body he went through the portal and the portal closed before Luz and the others could go after Belos. So they need to find more titan blood in the human world

✩ ＬＩＴＴＬＥ ＲＯＢＢＩＮ ✩

As you fly around, you land in a small tree with newly emerging leaves, and because it’s such a small tree, the branch you land on is about three feet above ground level.

Resting on the branch, you are already fluffing in excitement about meeting your old friends since you just returned from miles away for the winter.

You were suddenly distracted from your feathery thoughts and something had caught your attention. You hear muffled sounds that could be mistaken for human, but again, what kind of person would lurk around this part of the area. Shouldn’t they be sitting on the public bench nearby?

You flew down into the green grass mix with slightly old leaves that had fallen last year, gaining ever so closer to the noises that the bush was making inches ahead.

Even though you knew your kindness might get the best of you, you didn’t care because you were worried that someone might be in pain.

Reaching the fluffy dark green bush, you peek out your half-top head with crimson feathers covering your whole top, blue eyes focusing on the ground ahead.

Seeing a human boy but with pointed ears, fair complexion with his nose carving into a slight hook. With a huge scar mark going across his hooked nose that was brighter than his skin tone, Huge bags under his closed eyes. You slightly looked down and you could see him clenching his right hand near his heart.

You couldn't hear exactly what he was saying now, but the only thing you could gather was something you couldn't even comprehend or understand. Because you don't speak human sadly.

Done repeating the same words over again he finally tightly clenched his jaw, which finally showed he had a gap between his teeth. You could see his thick black eyebrows were downward, like he was sad from something or someone. His eyes were also still very forcefully closed together like he didn't want to look around at his surroundings.

Then seeing huge tears slide down his narrow face, you heard loud deep pitched cries come out his mouth. You could hear gulping or hiccuping seeping out, like he was trying to grasp for air but couldn't. 

Stepping out of the bush, you wanted to comfort the pointy-ear human that didn't look too good. 

The boy’s back was pushed against a large brown tree, and you could see some dark stringy grass and grainy dirt around his path, a branch had fallen from a tree and your tiny pale cream colored bird feet stepped on it. You heard a loud snap as the branch snapped.

You looked up at the blond boy, he was staring straight at you, looking at you with dark ember eyes, tears leaking from his eyes. At first the pointy-ear human looked very tense, but then relaxed, realizing that you were not a threat.

"Oh. Ya scared me there…"

Hearing him sniffing his nose, the pointy-eared human lowers his right hand that was once over his heart down to the ground beneath him. His soft gaze was on you and was still trying to analyze what type of bird you were.

He stood up with his left hand holding the tree bark, so he wouldn't fall straight to his face, he slowly let go of the tree and carefully made his way to you. Feeling your bird chest beating rapidly you felt your instincts telling you to fly away, but instead you stood your ground.

As he was moving closer, you could tell he had a huge blonde hair string in the upper middle of his forehead, dangling across his curved nose. He had a black short sleeved shirt with some sort of creature in the middle. With trousers that match his yellow jacket around his waist line. But what stood out the most was how many scars he had all over his body.

The pointy-ear human stopped a few inches away from you, bent his knees down to your level, and lifted up his right hand to pet you, but you flinched instantly away.

The human boy stopped his right hand from touching you, seeing the look across his face. His thick black eyebrows were downward and his chestnut eyes were curved up in a hurtful expression.

He used his right hand to lift himself back up to the ground and slightly turned his body away from you. 

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to-"

A stammer was heard in his own words, he furrowed his eyebrows and closed his eyes tightly, as if he was upset at himself for making you afraid of him. Both arms covered his upper body, trying to comfort himself.

Realizing that he was sad again, you flapped your wings and flew right close to his face and chirped at him, trying to make him feel better or tell him that he didn't do anything wrong. You had to continually flap your red wings in the air to stay close to where his head was at.

He looked towards you with his eyes that quickly went huge or simply surprised that you went by him. Before he could have another reaction you quickly went on top of his ash blonde hair. Finally realized that you were on top of his hair, he was shocked once again.

Both of his arms were slowly raising up and carefully grab both of your sides and pull you softly away from his head. 

You felt he was holding you comfortably by your sides, you were only inches away from his face. Seeing that his lips were curved in a smile and his thick black eyebrows were upward relaxed in a way. You started happily chirping at him once again.

His thin lips let out a soft chuckle, after hearing you chirp once again.

"Ya know, you remind me of flapjack in a way…"

The human started looking sad once again, with this pained expression that you didn't want to see on his face once again. You flew out of his now weakened grasp and slowly started cuddling your cheek with his, to make him feel a bit better. 

He effortlessly smiled at you.

"Thanks for making me feel a lot better."

In response to his reply, you chirped gleefully that you had finally made him smile again.

[onsunnyside]

Here it is !! Flamingo King snippet for part 7, originally from part 6 but moved to the epilogue/bonus chapter 🦩❤️‍🔥 I’ve never loved a fic this much and am so thankful for all of your support !! I hope you all enjoy 🥰🫶

“Hey, sugar, you know you don’t gotta knock.”

“I just thought it would only be fair for tonight.” You shyly hold out a bouquet of flowers, vibrant red and yellow tulips from the best florist in the city. “These are for you. I was thinkin’ we could stop by the bakery after dinner? They brought back your favourite pie and I told them to save us a good one.”

Ari stands there for a moment, looking between you and the flowers. Then, he slaps the door, “awh shit, that was today? I thought—” he groans, “I thought it was tomorrow, Friday right?”

“Today is Friday.”

“Shit.” He curses, “The Den has been a fuckin’ zoo with all the college kids being back in town, my brain is fried and my eyes fuckin’ hurt from staring at a screen all day. Aside from bartending, Curtis has us doing all this paperwork and—” he shoulders sag, “nevermind. No need to be standing out there, come in, baby.”

The light flickers on and you can finally see him properly.

Eyeglasses are on the tip of his nose, his hair is messy and pulled out of his face with a small clip, one you recognize from your small vanity at home. His normally glowy skin is dull and tired, and dark bags make his eyes appear sunken into his face.

You’ve seen him dishevelled, but nothing this exhausted.

He’s still as pretty as ever, but just so terribly tired.

“Give me a few minutes, I’ll get ready quickly.” Then he’s off to his bedroom, abandoning his laptop and coffee table cluttered with dirty dishes, and plenty of papers.

A blanket and pillow that used to occupy his big, comfy bed are on the couch, along with a spare t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants. His record player is off, no slow rock song filling his trailer like usually.

You hear several slams and bangs before peeking into his bedroom and it’s a mess, far worse than the living room. Clothes skewed over his bed, the laundry bin overflowing and more stacks of empty dishes on his nightstands, although outnumbered by takeout containers.

Ever since you met Ari, he took pride in his spotless home and kept his things organized. He was diligent with weekly cleans, and often reminded you of laundry day so you could do your chores together.

It’s been quite wild for you too from sports season and the rush of people coming in after school or work. Even Andy had to hire new staff just to keep up with the hoard of customers.

Despite being busy, you’ve still made time for each other, going out for late night ice cream, or hanging out in your trailer watching movies on the laptop that you got for a massive discount (from a particular blond cutie with a goatee). But you haven’t been over in a few days, a week at most, and you didn’t know it was this bad.

“Ari.”

“Hold on!” he calls out, digging through his dressers as clothes fall to the floor.

“Ari.”

“Where the fuck are my jeans?” He sweeps through the hangers again, squinting behind his glasses, “Why do I have so many flannels?”

You step behind him, wrapping your arms around his torso. Pressing your cheek against his bare back, you can feel his rigid muscles under his skin. Poor baby, he’s so overworked and drained, yet he was still trying to put you first.

“We don’t have to go tonight.”

“We do. You got all dolled up and bought me flowers. You were gonna wine and dine me, and you can’t do that if we’re stuck in this pigsty.”

You squeeze him tighter, refusing to let go. You know he could easily overpower you, throw you on the bed and continue getting ready. But instead, he just sinks into your touch, slumping over and bracing himself on the dresser.

“I’m so fuckin’ sorry, sugar.”

“Don’t be.”

He always took care of you. Making sure you ate during the day, stayed hydrated and out of the harsh sun. He wouldn’t eat until you took a first bite, and always put snacks and water in your bag before you went to work. Sometimes on his days off, he’d get into your trailer by using the key you gave him and tidy up, wanting you to come home and be able to relax.

Ari has done so much for you.

It takes a few more kisses, some affectionate squeezing and running your hands up and down his chest for him to turn around.

His eyebrows are knotted tight, and a deep solemn frown plays on his lips. You notice his beard is thicker too, a smidge longer than his usual trim.

“I’m so tired—I don’t know what the hell is happening.” He sags forward, slinging his arms over your shoulders and tugging you closer.

You turn your head, kissing his bicep. “Wanna talk about it?”

He shrugs. “It’s work, work and work. That’s all I fuckin’ do now. I love The Den and working with my friends, and it always gets busy this time of year but shit…” he huffs, squeezing his eyes shut. “It was fine before because I had nothin’ else to do but now I have you.” He leans down, pressing his forehead to yours, “You're my girl—how the hell can I give you the attention, time and love that you deserve if I can’t even remember what day it is?”

Your heart aches as you stare into his disappointed blue eyes. Framed by thick lashes, they blink so slowly and sleepily.

“I don’t—I refuse to lose you because of something stupid like this.”

“You’re not going to lose me over one missed date.” You promise, meaning every word.

He chuckles dryly and turns back around to search through the closet again. “It starts like that. Then it’s another and another, and soon we aren’t even seeing each other for days at a time and resort to texts and five minute calls.” He rambles, “And then we’re just two strangers who had something great and you’re gonna get swept off your feet by some douchebag who can’t even remember your favourite colour. While you’re off with him in a big and bright city, I’m gonna be an old man still at The Den, talking about how I lost the girl of my dreams to drunk guys who have a million better things to do—”

“—would you be quiet!”

He looks over his shoulder with wide eyes.

“We aren’t going, so put down those jeans and sit on your bed.” You cross your arms.

Ari doesn’t move, his long fingers still clutching the denim. “Uh—”

“Shush.” You snatch the jeans from his hands and toss it on the dresser, and point to the unmade bed. “Go. Now.”

“Yes ma’am.” He mutters under his breath, cautiously walking around you to his bedroom. With a heavy breath, he plops on the mattress, leaning back with his legs spread wide.

His thin shorts ride up his thick thighs, displaying the built muscle and coarse hair. Quickly glancing over his shameless bulge, you admire his cute tummy and the chain dangling between his pecs.

You step towards him, cupping his bearded face in your hands and squishing his cheeks, making his lips pucker. “You have to take a break or else you’re gonna burn out.”

His eyes close peacefully, your touch silencing all of those pesky worries and looming fears. He was normally very reflective about his thoughts, and kept those stupid, useless, noisy ones to himself.

One of your hands moves to his hair, taking out the clip and running your fingers through the dark strands. “You always take care of me. You’re always so sweet and attentive, the best daddy I could’ve ever asked for.” You say softly and lean down, gently pulling his head back to kiss his cheek, trailing closer to his pink, plump lips. “Now I wanna take care of you.”

A low groan rumbles from his chest, “yeah, baby? You gonna take care of daddy tonight?”

“Mhm.” You hum with a chaste kiss. “Work out all those knots in your back, clear your head…” Your hands fall to his shoulders, tenderly pressing into the tense muscles. “Tonight is all about you, daddy. You deserve it.”

It’s about time we get back to the hot and steamy Flamingo Trailer Park !! The posting date would be earlier but your girl has exams 🥸 I hope you’re all as excited as me 🤩 pls feel free to share your thoughts !!

[doodle-pops]

Hold Me Tight, I'm Fine

Gwindor x reader

A/N: My first Gwindor fic and it's angsty. I really am the worse. This is a fic which is based on these Gwindor headcanons I wrote a while ago.

Warnings: touch starved Gwindor, descriptions of his scars and brandings, hair cutting, mild angst/comfort

Words: 1.8k

Synopsis: No longer able to bear the shame of the floating memories from his traumatic days, Gwindor makes one request that only you can do for him. An act that defines your bond.

You could feel the air shifting deliberately the faster your feet paced to approach his room. The air was foul and musky, thick and foggy. It was nearly impossible to cut through and weave your way to his chambers. What was habitual became a burden…to him. You understood that he wished for no assistance, however, when he chose to stay out of the moving world, time was of the essence.

A simple gesture that held no animosity but rather sympathy, to him, all he saw was pity and felt helplessness. Pushing everyone away was the best intention to avoid the sorrowful eyes of the court and everyone else singing their heart at him. It wasn’t difficult to see that he wished to be left alone and wallow in shame; there was nothing left for him to achieve.

The last person he chose to push away was always the first person he humbled himself to reach out to. His eyes never met yours, wanting nothing more than to hide the ugly scars he attained and his no-longer beautiful eyes you once adored, as he requested your help. You offered to be at his side, but his response was silence. Now, here you were chasing towards his chambers after he reluctantly summoned you.

After three raps to his door, you were greeted with the sight of Gwindor hunched before his vanity. His grey hair scattered around his body like a snowy waterfall of silvery ice, and all he wore was his trousers. To the left of him was a discarded cream shirt and his robes and tunic thrown haphazardly across his bed. As much as his hair covered his back, it did little to hide the disfigured scars and brandings on his skin. All the marks of the Iron Fortress were etched into his fair skin and left him unpleasant. No amount of elvish medicine was able to remove all his scars, leaving the brandings tattooed.

Facing the vanity with his face buried in his hands, he was heaving laboriously. You weren’t sure if he acknowledged your presence since his senses were fluctuating, one minute he was aware and the other, he was unconscious to be alerted of anything.

Sliding across the thick carpeted floor, you made quick observation of the fireplace being out and the curtains down, blocking out all ounces of Anor’s rays. Ever since he returned with the loss of his sight, the glare had always been an issue, but this idea of coping with the strain was only making matters worse. It didn’t matter how many times you broke it to him; he would ignore it and continue.

“Gwindor? I’m here,” you called softly, standing no more than a foot apart.

His body froze and his breathing ceased. Lifting his head out of his hands, you noticed in the faintness of what little light invaded the room, he gave you a side eye before turning afront to stare at the mirror. This was the first time you saw him lock eyes with his reflection for more than five seconds without flinching in sheer and utter abhorrence. His right hand reached out to knock about the vanity and cause a series of clatters with different objects knocking into each other until he found his item. The glint of silver along the blades showed the tiniest reflection of his silvery murky eye and the revulsion he was feeling. Holding the pair of metal blades above his head while it hung, his broken voice echoed louder in the shrouded darkness.

“Cut it…please. I can’t stand it anymore.”

Exhaling silently, your eyes became saucers at his unforeseen request. There were so many things you had prepared yourself to hear from him, but this was an icebreaker. You weren’t sure if he was silently asking you to talk him out of his suggestion or go through and commit to his demand. Nonetheless, you approached and inaudibly removed the scissors from his hands and held them to your chest. Standing behind him and staring at his silvery strands that appeared brittle, even in the faintest of the light, tears were eyes prickling the corners of your eyes the more you gaped.

“Gwindor, are you s—”

“Yes, I’m sure. Please, just cut,” he begged. His voice choked on the last syllable, fearful of the newfound change he was about the make. While everyone else who suffered like him came out of most of their traumatised state, he had no one. Doomed to be alone and his heart clenched.

Reassuring yourself that this wasn’t drastic or life-changing, with shaky hands you lifted the first portion beside his chin and brought the scissors down to clip away at the long strands. The dryness of his hair felt as though the scissors would have broken. All the life had been sucked out his fёa and it reflected with the physical. The buzz in the room grew substantially as you hovered like a bee to a flower. The loud snips of the pair of metal blades against his dull hair sounded like nails on a board. You assumed halfway through the process; he would shoot out of his seat and halt your actions. At least snatch the scissors out of your hand and awake from his maddened nightmare, but he sat like an obedient child sparing no glances at you in the mirror.

The more you cut, the more his skin revealed and the angry fading red zig-zag lines across his skin became pronounced. The brandings of Angband on his left shoulder and the centre of his back became visible. It glowed red with its black hue; one was grotesquely carved and the other was stamped. You still remembered the first time you saw them; you spent weeks crying over them whenever you needed to dress his wounds.

“Is this suitable for you?” you asked sorrowfully. It was impossible to hide the tears in your voice and he heard them.

Still standing behind him with the blades in hand, you noticed his eyes slithering like the curtains were being peeled off his eyes to reveal the task he assigned you. You saw the winces when his eyes fell on his reflection before they opened wider. His nerves riddled his entire body shaking like a leaf endlessly as he raised a hand to touch the shoulder-length hair. “…It…looks better,” he confirmed.

“Gwindor, why did you want me to cut your hair?” the question never left your tongue when the corners of his lips raised. Instead, you smiled with him in return and placed the delicate instrument down to brush his hair out of the way. The serenity he experienced at that moment as your fingers tenderly curled into his hair and massaged his scalp, he visibly sagged deeper into the seat. Lips parted and soft groans escaped.

“Do you want to skip the meeting today and stay indoors? I’ll keep you company,” you suggested with the slight hope that you weren’t overstepping your boundary. It was a hot and cold game with him where his mood was concerned.

For the entire week and more, Gwindor was slipping in and out of his tranquil display and you had reason to believe that it was due to the approaching anniversary of his captivity. Missing a few meetings this week was irrelevant when his health was on the line; you only hoped that he saw the situation the same way you did.

Turning his body away from the vanity and sitting perpendicularly to it, he stared at your longingly at your flowing robes; the small gold embellishments on the teal-coloured material. While his vision fell on the fabric, his line of focus shifted and his mind glided past space and time until he ended up in the void. He buffered before your eyes and it wasn’t the first time, you knew and understood that it was done with overwhelming volumes of emotions attempting to be displayed but was too much for him to handle. While they occurred frequently, they were short-lived.

“Gwindor,” you called and fumbled to place your hand upon his naked skin, knowing the ickiness he suffered.

Snapping his head upwards, his mismatching eyes fell on your concerned face. “You…You would neglect your duties to care for me?”

It did not matter how many times he repeatedly threw the question; you would answer it with the same vigour and genuine affection would always feel towards him. An unconditional love that journeyed beyond the heavens and the earth. Love that could fill the void and melt its coldness enriching it with life and warmth. Continuously providing eternal peace and being his serendipity; fulfilling the undying and unspoken promise of a lifetime. “I will do my very best to always care for you Gwindor…my love.”

You saw it. The world saw it. The heavens and all above and beyond saw it.

The shivers.

Forcing himself to stand from his seat, he easily stood at a height comfortable to prevent the craning of your vertebrate. Actions that were foreign upon his return and filled without warmth were reciprocated. Perhaps it was too forced and hurried, lacking care and gentleness but its symbolisation was the important factor. A squeeze that ignored his strength and your fragility but encompassed you with contentment and the unspoken ‘thank you’, prompted you to return the said action. Your hands fumbled, any touch could shock him out of his tranquil state and send him into trepidation. But you were reassured when he liquefied against your body. 

“My love…I haven’t heard you call me that in a long time. Felt nice.”

Resting his chin in the crook of your neck, you fragilely lifted your hands to stroke his hair and cooed into his ear, “I’ll always call you my love, my dear sweet Gwindor. I’ll always be here for you, please don’t push me away.”

“I’m sorry Y/N, but you don’t deserve me like…this,” he breathed, “you should love someone else.”

You felt anger and ache as he spilt his words. They were his contemplative thoughts, but it was agonising to hear them. “W-…Would you be happy if I loved another?”

There was a pending silence as he fought falsehood but caved into his honesty. “No. I’ll be heartbroken if you left me, but—”

“Then I’m not departing Gwindor. I’m here to stay at your side. Before, after and until the end.”

The buzzing increased once silence fell between you both. His breathing evened out so did his grip around your waist, yet his body did not disjoint from yours. This was the most physical contact aside from healers probing his body. This was the first time he experienced physical contact from the one who loved him the most since his return. He forgot what it felt like to be physically loved and cherished. The touch-starvation was clawing from within to never let you go, to bask and relish in the affection.

“…Yes, my love.”

Masterlist | Underrated Character Event Masterlist |

Taglist: @eunoiaastralwings @noldorinpainter @ranhanabi777 @lilmelily @mysticmoomin @aconstructofamind @singleteapot @rain-on-my-umbrella @asianbutnotjapanese @justellie17 @justjane @stormchaser819 @wisheduponastar @floragardeniahope @batsyforyou

[lilly-onthevalley]

Guide to Basics: My Current

I mentioned that I got rid of atleast 60% of my clothes a year and a half ago and it's been the best thing I've ever done for my wardrobe. My choices are easier and I can't remember the last time I've ever sat and cracked my head about an outfit. That's the way I like it. My life has a million other stresses and I mainly care about 2 things. Consistency and Presentabiltity.

Over consumption has been normalised, and honestly, no one needs to be doing allat (😂). If you try and follow every trend and phase, you'll find yourself disappointed and having a fair amount of confusion and dread whenever you open your closet.

Me

Let me start off by saying that my environment has influenced me A LOT when it comes to how I dress and put myself forward. I navigate certain countries that have a very stereotypical style for certain groups. It's made things easy for me. I love my squads, and I love how I can maintain who I am by the way I dress and have been shown to dress by the girlies around me.

It works, it's trusted and that's what I care about.

Jeans. I only wear white or cream jeans made of mostly denim. It's just what works for me and my location. I physically cannot get a taste for blue jeans, I'm trying so hard, but they just don't suit me or brighten me the way a pair of flared whites would. The same goes for shorts. I wear white shorts of every cut because you'll need a different type of short for the beach vs. the court. My golf skirts follow the same law. Linen pants are also some of my favourites for casual days, I implore everyone to give them a try! I love how they flow when the wind blows and they are the pants I've gotten the most compliments on.

I'm still going through my crop top phase and will continue to do so till I cannot. I love a solid coloured cropped top, deep blues are my favourite because they enhance my skin in such a beautiful way. I'm someone who is lollypop shaped, so slightly cropped tops break the illusion from my pants and accentuate the top. I love to keep the colours plain and cool toned as that is what suits me best.

I also wear full shirts a lot in white, black, blue and green. When it comes to these, I make sure they fit like a dream and are preferably purely cotton without any unnecessarily thick stitches at the neckline. A neckline can make or break a silhouette. Find which one works for you, I can not work a deep V cut and like softer and rounder necklines. I like a bit of room for my silver/white gold jewellery to sparkle against the dark of my skin before being consumed by the shirt.

I go crazy when it comes to dresses and skirts. That's what I love and what those around me love too. Stripes, florals, swirls, beading, crotchet, anything. I love a Zimmerman look, it's very feminine and fun for lunches and events where moods are high and hands are going even higher.

For shoes I'm basic. Birkinstocks, gold sandals, nude, black and white pumps, and any platform white sneaker. I'm fairly short, I need the height on a normal day. For adventures, I go for the Birkinstocks. For a lunch, I go for my gold sandals, sometimes heeled sometimes not. For formals, I fold and take the pumps for a spin. And for everyday I keep my assortment of white platforms. It's a simple, trustable rotation. Of course, there will be rainy or cold days where you need to get the Wellingtons out or some old Timberlands/Uggs, but that's not most of the time.

When it comes to jewellery, I adore pearls and everything they stand for. For my 15th, I got my first pair of real pearls, and I haven't gone back since. Whenever I go to a port city, I always snake my way through the local pop-ups to find a jeweller who uses fresh water pearls on silver chain. I wear either pearl earrings or a hanging gem stone. I have multiple piercings on each ear. First hole is for a basic tiny gold stud. Middle for a dangle gemstone or pearl. Last for a diamond or zirconia of sorts. It looks almost religious how beautiful they are. I always thought pearls were for old ladies. My mother wore black pearls with shiny stone bottoms, and it always peaked my interest. I think of Venus coming out of the clam every single time I pop them in, and it makes me feel divine.

Shades are optional for most people, but where I am, you NEED to have them. I am a RayBan girl. My first pair was thick with a blackish purple polarisation. Second, where polarised green for my society ( incredibly iconic time when I think of it 🤣.) Now I have a pair of black ones that make sense for my face and everyday wear. I'm moving onto chunky Pradas. They're yet to come in since I wanted a specific type of lense on the frame. As I get older, I get more chunky, but right now I'm loving my thin black. I love the privacy, I love how others love them too. We exchange sometimes for different occasions.

I am a big fan of community, and having one is very important to me. Likewise, I wear logos from schools, societies, bands, productions, and companies I've been a part of. Don't do this if you're a crash out, you'd be putting the brand in disrepute, but if you're new in a place maybe some community gear for a certain cause you're interested in would be a good conversation starter. I have been privileged to be a part of many big communities that connect as far as from the dips of South Africa to the Ivy Leagues and big banks. I wear them with pride as I have earned them, fought tooth and nail to be rewarded them, and done my time. I worked for a lot of my branded gear, and it's recognised. Most of my jackets, hoodies, gym shirts, suit accessories, and stationery come from little things like that. It's my number one favourite thing to wear.

I love fashion, I love looks and can't wait to see what future me will have a taste for.

⭐️

[inamindfarfaraway]

My Wreck-It Ralph Sugar Rush OCs

Name

Bicky Chocrisp.

Gender

Female.

Appearance

She has brown skin and dark brown eyes. Her kinky hair is black with light brown streaks, in box braids and woven into a shoulder-length ponytail with a red band that imitates a plaited pastry. She wears a glossy chocolate-brown leather jacket with a gold zip over a white T-shirt with a red heart symbol in the middle. She also has fawn leggings and dark brown shoes with red laces. Her white helmet is modelled after a chocolate-drizzled meringue.

Theme

Biscuits, sandwich biscuits in particular, pastries and meringues.

Kart

The Tartful Dodger. It has an eclair body, Oreo-esque wheels, a chocolate tart steering wheel, and the seat is two halves of a chocolate sandwich biscuit with cream cushions.

Fans

Chocolate wafers.

Catchphrase

"It's crunch time!"

Bio

Bicky Chocrisp: Smart cookie.

What Bicky Chocrisp lacks in raw power, she makes up for in control and cunning. She’s a master of timing, boosts, powerups, and all the other racing tricks that technically aren’t cheating - even if they may feel like it to those she overtakes. She’s clever, creative and sweet. But she can put up brittle walls of bravado to hide her soft, gooey centre and sometimes worries about being good enough. She likes to watch and analyse races and conversations as much as participate in them.

***

Name

Roxy Fizzlepop.

Gender

Female.

Appearance

She has fair skin, cyan eyes and dusty purple hair in a choppy, spiky pixie cut dotted with sparkly cyan crystals. She wears a sleeveless dark blue puffer jacket over a purple top with short, spiky ripped sleeves, a shiny cyan foil skirt, and dark blue boots with silver laces and cyan crystalline studs. Her helmet is dark blue, smooth and has a purple fuse on the top.

Theme

Popping candy and fizzy sweets and drinks.

Kart

The Tangnado. Its body is a soft drink bottle of purple glass containing tubes of cyan sherbet, its wheels are cyan fizzy tablet sweets with purple jelly ring tyres, its seat is dark blue and its steering wheel is a silver bottle cap.

Fans

Gummy bears.

Catchphrase

“Shake it up!”

Bio

Roxy Fizzlepop: Lift your spirits.

Roxy Fizzlepop is bubbly, buoyant and bold. She loves the thrill of the race. Win or lose, no outcome will deflate her overflowing cheer as long as she’s done her best, and she always does. Her strategy in everything is charging hard and fast ahead. She’s eccentric, easily distracted but tending to notice details others don’t. She feels all her feelings very intensely. If you manage to set her off by being mean, you’ll find that her temper can be explosive.

***

Name

Juicica Tutti-Frutti.

Gender

Female.

Appearance

She has tan skin, silky jet-black hair in pigtails with bands that imitate pineapple rings and green eyes. She wears a yellow T-shirt with brown seed prints, a translucent pink sweet wrapper skirt, yellow and green striped knee-length shorts and pink shoes. Her helmet resembles a raspberry and matches her shoes.

Theme

Snacks and desserts containing fruit.

Kart

The Boltberry. Its body is a slice of fruitcake. It has pineapple rings wheels, a steering wheel made of a caramelised apple slice and an orange segment spoiler. Green markings of star fruit cross sections decorate the bonnet and sides.

Fans

Toffee apples.

Catchphrase

“Zest wishes!”

Bio

Juicica Tuttifrutti: Fruits of labour.

An apple a day keeps the rivals away in Juicica Tuttifrutti’s book. This athletic health nut can be slightly overbearing, but she has her friends’ best interests at heart and dedicated diligence is how she shows she cares. Her spirit is patient and resilient, full of positive energy. She holds herself to high standards and would never grab the low-hanging fruit. She believes that practice makes perfect. It certainly makes her a great racer!

***

Name

Scoffia Confectionaire.

Gender

Female.

Appearance

She has fair skin and blue eyes. Her wavy white hair is styled in a chin-length bob that alludes to a popcorn flake. She wears a boxy jacket and trousers with thick vertical red and white stripes like a popcorn carton and gold buttons shaped like pretzels, and a golden shirt underneath. She also wears black patent leather shoes with gold buckles. Her helmet is gold and encrusted with glittering salt crystals.

Theme

Salty snacks like popcorn, nuts and pretzels that are often found at public venues and eaten while watching movies.

Kart

The Crackerjack. Its body is a normal kart shape, mostly red with white stripes. It has salted nut cluster tyres supported by straight pretzel spokes and popcorn flake hubs, a pretzel steering wheel and a seat made of golden-brown crackers with white cheese cushions. An exhaust pipe and rocket booster at the back are fitted into popcorn flakes.

Fans

Breadsticks.

Catchphrase

"It’s showtime!”

Bio

Scoffia Confectionaire: Worth her salt.

Scoffia Confectionaire claims that she isn’t here to make friends, and the only challenge more intimidating than overtaking her seems to be winning her over. She’s proud, sharp-tongued and loves to be the star of the show. But her integrity will always outweigh her ego. She would never lie or play dirty and doesn’t mean any real harm; she just thinks a compelling racing story needs a little drama. Earn her respect and you’ll find that her grit really enhances her subtle sweetness.

[unicornjoking1111]

Hey if It's not bothering to you, i want to ask you a question about how did you manifested lighter skin, i mean my story is same like you but around that i also have desire to have lighter tone, cz i Don't look gd in THIS tone also i Don't have a good features also I'm fat, so i really desire to be lighter and skinny and beautiful, actually when i used some fairness cream i became little lighter and i looked so beautiful cz this colour actually suited me, can you plz give you manifestation method,

Hi dear! I didn’t manifest it actually I would say I used products to change it..

I changed it because I felt good in this skin tone too I really liked the golden skin (not pale) it matched my features.. I am so glad people don’t change their skin tone just because others are forcing them too since I have faced a lot of racism because I was a black girl.. I used sandalwood soap since kid and it changed my skin tone and also recently I started using koijic acid soap orange one which is really famous these two really helped me with my skin and also gave even skin tone (which I was so insecure of)

I would best recommend these two I always use them and also it takes years I would say for sandalwood but koijic acid soap takes like two years maybe cause I am still using this for 3 months now and it worked wonders for dark spots

These two are enough and also use brightening lotion after using it cause the koijic one can dry out (also research about it before using please)

I also use tumeric (find one which doesn’t stain too much) plus yogurt combined every time which is good for skin and helps to reduce skin cancer and all and it also has brightening effects

(I just hope this doesn’t reach the wrong audience cause I am fine with talking about skin tone and all cause after all it’s just body at the end of the day and we are all just consciousness so why bother and just live the way u want to live and be happy about my body and I am so happy now that I look so beautiful.. it’s all our perception.. as long as you don’t change yourself for others and you change it for yourself then it’s all good)

And I have been skinny since childhood dear so I didn’t really think about fat except I have a little belly so idk about much about that so I would suggest you have an alter ego like that would help?

[persephinae]

I'm not normally a huge makeup person but i saw this recc'd on twitter, and this is the best makeup I've ever used?

I usually have a hard time finding a base that kinda matches my skintone, since I'm pinkish white. I'm pale, but not ghost white ivory

So I got "light cool" iT BYE Bye Dark Spots concealer & brightening serum for under eyes

And Fair Light (ivory pink) iT You Skin But Better CC cream (full foundation, serum, & SPF 50+ sunscreen) <- (should have worn this yesterday actually when I went to the amusement park)

But anyway, I really recommend this too 👍

[chiquititaosita]

♡˗ˏ☁️໒ brown is beautiful, Steve Harrington x latina reader (meeting)

♡˗ˏ☁️໒ post type: fic series

♡˗ˏ☁️໒ tbh i can’t believe I’m doing stranger things on this shit smh 🤦🏽‍♀️but im a sucker for this white boy. (And many more on my account on this app) please forgive me for my anime mutuals.

♡˗ˏ☁️໒ context: headcanons for Steve with a Latina s/o (female reader) takes place during and/or after season 4. HINTS OF INTERNALIZED RACISM (because we need to be aware of this shit) a little bit of angst, to fluff. Hispanic humor and slang en español, food descriptions, car terms

it’s another shift at family video. There steve is on the counter with his chocolate brown hair, fair skin wearing his vest and a black tshirt, a little silver or gold chain that was small but it was hidden a little bit under his shirt. Steve will be tired, exhausted, Annoyed. Done Just absolutely given up. because he wouldn’t know on what to do, trying to get over Nancy. literally robin is sick and tired of this shit. “You dingus, you realize why you haven’t been able to get over her right?” Robin crossed her arms wearing a black sweater with her eyes rolled up. And looking at her cell phone, it’s from her home girl y/n l/n name appeared to call.

“What do you mean?” Steve was already on the counter restocking some DVDs in the front, where the movie sale of La Bamba was being in stock almost selling out, since Keith wanted them to sell out soon.

“You go for only one type. Steve.” Steve listened carefully and had those two words “one type” replay in his mind that got him all dumb and stupid. Yes Steve in high school was a ladies man. Yet however all the girls noticed him going for the white girls. Thats when not many poc girls thought it was a joke for him to ask any girl who was poc. Steves widened and was at agape. Covering his mouth. Realizing that he’s been a huge douche bag to girls that are poc. Especially the Hispanics. “Hold that thought.” Robin was on the phone Answering to you.

“Hey home girl I’m coming by, i got your order ready.” You spoke with a smile on your face driving in a 1978 Chevy impala, modded to your liking, with hydraulics, and a v8 engine. Wearing a white tank top cropped, black zip up jacket, your hair all natural curls coming through, Nike Cortezes in white, big hoop earrings, black dickies pants, dark brown lip liner with a red lip mac lipstick on Russian red, just like the iconic Selena Quintanilla. Blasting some Spanish music of your choice.

“Oh great! Now you get to meet the suavecito i told you about.” Robin smiled through the phone, and Steve could hear you cackle, doing a bit of a loud laugh hearing some girl speak Spanish since his best friend put the girl on speaker.

“No mames Chingona!!! En serio? Eres un flaquito? Or what? Also pues, im five minutes away” Y/n was speaking Spanish. Robin was actually fluent in Spanish, surprisingly, when she had to order some food for breakfast, for the kids.

“Ah okay, claro see you chica” robin hung up and sighed. Chuckling lightly watching Steves moments of processing.

“what’s up with you?”robin looked over

“I just had an ephiphany….” Steve was walking to the register leaning against the counter facepalming, making that face of oh shit i fucked up.

“That is?” Steve was about to answer robins questions “well basically it’s that-“ until some loud music apparently the song te aprovechas was blasting outside. Parked into a near parking spot. Then not even a few seconds later, y/n was walking in with a beautiful smile that had lightened up the room immediately.

“Hola Chingona!!!” Y/n kicked the door open of the store walking to Robin giving a side hug, a little bit.

“Y/n wow you weren’t kidding that you’d be quick let me get these.” Robin smiled at her as she grabbed the box of pan dulce, and some carne asada tacos, brought that immediately smelled amazing with lettuce cheese ground beef, sour cream, cilantro, tomatoes, and grilled onions. “Aye no mama no I got you let me.” Y/n looked so happy and cheerful and gave in finally seeing the la bamba movie in stock!

“No mames! Cabrona! Yall have la bamba! Bro i love this movie!!!” She chuckled and smiled, picking it up, and putting it at the check out. Steve had what he originally was gonna say in the back of his head, then hearing that laugh of yours made him jolt and look at you every now and then.

“She maybe a challenge…, i think I can win her over.’

“Ahh so you’re suavecito! Eh!? You weren’t kidding Robin he el pelon es muy guapo.” Y/n giggled a bit as she was a sweetheart but a tóxica in disguise. “uhh yeah whatever that means but that yeah that’s me!” steve replied sheepishly as he’s trying to keep his composure well. “i’ll see you around, Steve!”

you say walking out and robin comes back looking at him. “okay you were saying about this epiphany.”

steve looked at robin, who steve has clearly rarely ever seen a latina before in hawkins. looking at her. “i think i might like latinas.” he’s got him in a look of smitten on his face. turns out he’ll won’t be the one thinking of you or in this case being steve dreaming of you.

[ajgrey9647]

"look, i made pancakes! i even made a smiley face out of the whipped cream, see?" "oh, that's what it's supposed to be? you're so cute.." + Jason/Tommy/Red/Drakkon

Best Intentions

Follow up to ‘To Save That Power” by CampionSayn

Jason did not need to see Drakkon’s face to confirm that he was sliding into rather deep shit the longer he wrestled with the stubborn buckle shackling the tyrant to his younger, Prime counterpart. Red continued to lap at his partner’s parted lips behind the sheer, silky scarf, all the while groaning in a lascivious manner that made it next to impossible for Tommy to keep his sex-obsessed ass still long enough for the Omega to work the first strap free.

The first of several to be more precise.

Jason couldn’t remember exactly who had the bright idea to truss these two normally dominant, aggressive men together like helpless damsels tied to a railroad trestle in an old spaghetti Western. That was typically a role (or roles) that he and Red acted out for their ‘masters’ pleasure, feigning fearful, obedient supplication before them.

‘Goddammit! Who bought this shit anyway?’

It hadn’t come from he and Tommy’s collection of ‘toys’, of that he was sure. This contraption was way more ‘advanced’ than what they’d dared to do together thus far. They’d experimented with light bondage, simple gags and blindfolds…

‘Not…this…’

Sweat collected at Jason’s temples, slicking his already flushed, post-orgasmic skin, dark tufts of hair clinging to his furrowed brow.

‘This is what I get for being so insecure. Red told me over and over to not try to keep up with him.’

The list of sexual kink and erotic acts that the older man had experience with was mind-boggling, filling more than one page front and back as he’d listed them out so that the two of them could compare and decide what they were each comfortable participating in.

A soft, feral growl came from just over Tommy’s shoulder, the sound not one of arousal but of growing annoyance. The White Ranger was unable to manage any noise at all with the thick, phallic gag tickling his tonsils. Though he often twitched in his overwhelming desire to free himself and put Red against the nearest wall.

For a moment, Jason had a moment of fear that Drakkon would easily break free from the adult novelty collar and then promptly snap his neck in irritation at his ineptitude. Red caught his eye as the former pet trailed his full lips over the tyrant’s jawline and neck. He raised a brow in curiosity at what the hold up could be.

Jason pretended not to notice, his fingers scrabbling at the buckle now, frustrated that what should be a simple matter in the process of removing the elaborate muzzle/blindfold/gag was not working out in his favor and not boding well for the rest of the straps.

“Come on, you bitch!” he hissed finally, alerting the two older men that something was definitely amiss.

For his part, Tommy continued to be fixated on whatever it was that Red was doing just behind him that caused Drakkon to sound like some large jungle cat in the middle of mating season, eliciting a cacophony of catcalls, snorts, huffs, growls, and snarls.

It was noticeable the exact moment that the White Ranger realized that the feline at his back was not purring in delighted contentedness and his blind gaze tried to turn back to where he could feel Jason touching him.

‘Why the fuck isn’t this thing releasing?’

From his position in Drakkon’s lap, Red tried but failed to keep his one-time characteristic canine grin from creeping across his face. A small, sadistic part of him, the part that was, unbeknownst to him, a vengeful facet of CJ was gleefully enjoying this asshole’s predicament. A sort of ‘turn-abouts-fair-play’ attitude…

He was wise enough in Drakkon’s mannerisms and body language to know things were going to start heading south, though he wasn’t fearful that the tyrant was going to physically harm Jason. Maybe give him a good tongue lashing or chewing out.

‘Or fucking him to the mattress so hard he can’t walk afterwards…’

He booped his lover’s nose.

“Be nice,” he playfully scolded, the comment an unconscious throw-back to something Drakkon would have said when taunting a traumatized Coinless Jason Scott. “This is supposed to be a learning experience. This just means next time either you get to wear the muzzle…or we don’t use quite so many layers.”

In their palace days, this particular style of muzzle was relatively vanilla when compared to some of the wild shit they frequently indulged in. Hell, they’d embraced Shibari, which was to his way of thinking, much more complex than this thing. Their restraints came in many varieties: ropes, chains, silk ribbons, razor wire, electrically charged wire, basic duct tape, leather straps, handcuffs, spreader bars, zip ties…

Of course, Drakkon was never the one on the receiving end of things.

Red had spent a good chunk of time ‘researching’ various types of play in an attempt to ensure his own safety (as much as was possible given the circumstances) and to maximize the pleasure that he could give.

And receive, though he refused to admit it at the time…not until the confrontation with Kimberly Hart in the containment room when his frustration and resentment bubbled forth like a pot of water left on the stove.

Jason’s hands manipulated Tommy’s head about as he studied the buckle in better lighting. He groaned.

“Or we get a different gag altogether. I think the prong is broken and I’ll have to cut the strap off the mouthpiece.”

He didn’t want to do it; he was sure of one thing when it came to this device.

‘No way this was cheap even if its basically a piece of shit…’

Drakkon’s muffle voice flitted ominously from behind the flimsy gag over his patrician lips.

“Duckling… I’m not a man who’s ever been known for his patience… I’m going to suggest you QUICKLY find a way out of this goddamn claustrophobic face cage…”

The diminished quality of the threat made it no less scary.

Red rolled his eyes and favored the Omega with a smirk.

‘He’s scared,’ he mouthed.

“Alright, alright! I’m cutting it!”

The gray-haired man slid off Drakkon’s lap to inspect the binding.

“Get my garden shears from the back deck. This is pretty thick.”

Jason mutely handed the gardening implement to Red, his expression chastened.

“You should probably do it. I don’t want to accidentally cut him.”

At that sentence, the White Ranger started to squirm in alarm before the older man’s lips were at the entrance of his ear, swiftly stilling his struggling.

“Sit tight, kiddo. I’ll have you both free in no time. Just…don’t…move…” he murmured.

Deftly, Red sliced into the leather strap and quickly worked his way about the contraption with an ease that came from years of experience. Jason watched from over his shoulder, feeling small and stupid and ashamed.

‘Of all things to fuck up…’ he lamented.

When the two dominants were finally loosed, Red studied the remains of the restraint dangling in his grasp. He sighed sadly before winking flirtatiously at Tommy.

“Damn. That one looked so pretty on you…”

The younger man licked his lips hungrily, his cock amazingly primed for round two despite the short-lived scare.

“I can think of a few things that you very pretty in,” he snarled. “Like those silky red ribbons in the trunk at the foot of your bed. A few of those around your throat would be gorgeous…and your thighs…”

The rabid growl from Drakkon echoed Tommy’s sentiments.

“And his cock,” the tyrant suggested, circling to Red’s back like a lion creeping through the grass. “You interested in getting strung up like a pinata too, duckling? Get smacked around with a ‘stick’?”

But Jason’s mood was effectively dead at this point. He still felt the sting of embarrassment and insecurity flooding his heart.

“Nah, I’m gonna pass this time. You guys have fun… Be safe…” he sighed. “My ass could probably use a break too. It feels like a bruised piece of fruit.”

He gently kissed Red’s forehead in solidarity before scooping up his clothing and moving to the door. His doppelganger was more than capable of entertaining two throbbing cocks at the same time.

“Take care of you,” Jason whispered to the former pet.

It wasn’t because he doubted that Tommy and Drakkon would reign things in if Red had a change of heart or that they wouldn’t ensure his safety and comfort….

The Omega wasn’t satisfied that Red would VERBALIZE his wishes; much like the White Ranger, he had concerns that he might revert to his old beliefs that he had no bodily autonomy and go along with whatever game the other two wanted whether he really wanted to do so or not.

Red hummed softly as he brushed Jason’s cheek.

“Cross my heart,” he promised.

As he sat in the kitchen, Jason could easily hear the wildness going on in Drakkon’s room just down the way. His dark eyes widened at the litany of noises a human could make while in the throes of ecstasy. A few times, he thought they must have broken the tyrant’s bedframe, the walls almost shaking at times.

He wasn’t jealous in the slightest or worried that Tommy favored Red over him. Drakkon had pointed out earlier that his partner had a little ‘daddy kink’ going on when it came to the older man, in addition to being the living embodiment of all his dark fantasies while carrying the tainted Green Dragon coin.

Right now, he felt about as useful as tits on a bull as his dad often joked, winking at him like a naughty schoolboy when he uttered the crude term.

‘My ass IS pretty torn up. We’ve been going hard at each other this weekend. Must be a full moon or something…”

That was the understatement of the year.

The four of them had been as bad as rabbits, tackling one or more of the others as they merely went about their mundane tasks until they reached a point that they stopped bothering to put on clothes, strutting about the cabin as naked as jaybirds.

When Jason cracked the fridge door, he immediately noted that the supply of sports drinks had rapidly dwindled to a measly two bottles of the orange flavor, the one Drakkon claimed tasted like ass. The tyrant was sure to start bitching when he became aware of this…as well as the fact that a lot of other foodstuffs were in short supply.

A low rumble came from the Omega’s abdomen.

When was the last time he’d eaten? Or when had any of them eaten? He could hear Drakkon’s voice in his mind, juvenilely noting that at least Jason and Red had eaten SOMETHING, all while wriggling his eyebrows.

‘And it’s loaded with protein too,’ he’d snark.

Jason brushed the lewd whispers away, reaching in to grab the few remaining eggs, whipped cream, and milk.

There was at least one way he could make himself useful this morning…

Unfortunately, once more things were not going as expected…or rather, as Jason had hoped. This wasn’t like trying to make Tommy’s favorite meal…this was a simple batch of fucking pancakes for crying out loud. It wasn’t rocket science… It wasn’t something replicated from a five-star restaurant.

The damn things were stubbornly sticking to the bottom of the pan, nearly falling apart when Jason attempted to flip them, the entire bottoms peeling away as they continued to burn on the overheated stove. They weren’t going to be pretty necessarily…edible was the best he could hope for at this point.

And he planned to doll them up a little bit.

Jason refused to surrender a second time this day!

It might have been the smoke or perhaps the odor of something starting to catch fire that brought the other three men from the bedroom, rushing out worriedly to see what the hell was going on.

“Jesus Christ! What in the fuck are you doing this time, duckling? I’m sure we agreed that you wouldn’t cook unsupervised again,” Drakkon grumbled, gazing about the soiled kitchen, with eggs shells littering the counter, dusty trails of flour snaking off the edge to the floor, and a charred, blackened ‘something’ sitting in the pan on the stovetop.

He stood with his hands on his hips, completely nude and still at half mast somehow, his chest glistening with sweat and baby oil.

Tommy looked completely muzzy and merely looked about the room in confusion and exhaustion. He too wore no clothing; however, his erection had finally given up the fight.

Red stood in the doorway, bracing his lithe physique upright by the door frame, utterly blissed out and on the verge of going unconscious. Scarlet ribbon encircled his neck, his wrists, biceps, waist, thighs, and balls. Dusky hickeys were starting to stand out on the flesh of his throat, chest, and abdomen. He even sported a lightly bleeding bite mark on his right hip.

Smiling brightly, Jason briskly retrieved the large plate containing the mutated pancakes, topped by a cockeyed configuration of white fluff.

“Look, I made pancakes! I even made a smiley face out of the whipped cream! See?” he chirped, so excitedly and innocently that it was almost too precious to be angry with him.

Drakkon stared at the plate in his hands, shuddering on the inside yet fixing his face in one of pleasantness.

“Oh, that’s what that’s supposed to be,” he purred. “I must be too fucked out to think straight.”

Red was panting slightly, his head continuing to loll about on his neck as if drugged while his eyes fluttered nearly to the back of his head. He could understand only marginally what was going on, could see Jason’s smiling face staring at him expectantly.

“You’re so cute…” Red slurred. “Wanna pinch your cheeks…”

With that pronouncement, he finally slid down the smooth wooden frame to the floor, landing with a surprised grunt.

Jason was at his side in an instant, alarmed at his counterpart’s condition.

“Alright, I’m calling time out on the grab-ass Olympics,” he ordered. “You guys eat. I’m taking him to go cool off and clean up.”

Tenderly, he helped Red back to his feet, curling an arm around the older man’s waist and tucking a limp arm around his youthful shoulders. Together the pair ambled down the hall towards the bathroom.

Drakkon looked at the plate on the counter, then over to where Tommy stood, silent and brooding as if he had his thumb up in his ass fishing for a plum in the tyrant’s opinion.

“Jason’s lucky he’s so adorable,” he huffed. “I’ve cracked skulls for less than this… Wasting food… disobeying orders…”

“Fuck you,” the White Ranger suddenly grunted, falling back into a chair. “Its not wasting it if we…you know…eat it.”

Drakkon plopped the plate in front of him.

“Dig in, Thomas. You can even have mine too. I’d prefer not to spend the day shitting my brains out.”

In the end, Tommy donned a discarded pair of sweatpants and jogged their ‘breakfast’ out to the trash bins at the curb. As predicted, they were completely toxic and neither man had the heart to say as much to the Omega.

“When those two come back, the pancakes were so good, we pigged out and forgot to save any for Red,” Drakkon advised. “He wouldn’t have handled pancakes very well anyways. We’d be shitting. He’d be puking. So, its for the best. And we don’t crush the darling duckling’s feelings…”

And when Jason and Red finally returned, both were none the wiser of their partners’ trickery.