#floating brothel

[ltwilliammowett]

Chinese Flower Boats

Flower boats had already existed for centuries, perhaps since the 14th century, but earlier is also possible. They were initially only available to the noble elite. They were luxury brothels with noble courtesans on board and they resembled luxurious pleasure boats with a sun deck with a private chamber and a pavilion at the stern. Not much can be said about the early designs and appearance, as records only began around 1700.

At this time the boats began to change, the stern became more and more drawn upwards so that it looked very much like a beak. There was a special reason for this, but more about that in a moment.

Flower Boat at Shanghai" wood engraved print with recent hand colour, published in All Around the World, about 1880 (x)

From then on, the boats were available in different sizes and even in different price categories. There were small ones with only one or two girls, or large ones with up to 10 or more, all of different ages, even little girls were included, although they were still learning until they were 12 before they received their first customers. Moste of these women were no longer noble courtesans but rather women from poor families who were sold to the ship owners. With the emergence of the European trading companies, they also got access to the flower boats, albeit illegally, but this could be regulated with a small bribe to the officials. Unfortunately, these meetings also further encouraged the exchange of exotic sexually transmitted diseases.

Ivory Flower boat model, late 18th century (x)

What was to be expected on such boats depended on the price of the respective ladies, with the high-priced ladies there was already entertainment and culture included, the middle price ranges offered some additional types of games and the cheap ones were, and I'm sorry to say this, for the quick number.

A model from the late or early 20th century (x)

These boats were to be found at all harbours and rivers, there were even whole streets of them. But let's move on to the very high stern, which from the 18th century onwards could take on very bizarre proportions. The ships did not always stay in the harbour to save space and prevent epidemics. The ships were be towed or sailed by their own, up and down the rivers and because they were so high at the stern they started to bob faster, which was supposed to increase the fun of the customers even more.

A Canton Flower Boat on the Pearl River, late 19th century (x)

Surprisingly, they continued to exist into WWII, although from the 19th century onwards these trips became increasingly rare and then ceased altogether. And many boats were also abandoned and became floating restaurants.

[s3thwrit3sstuff]

❝ You better lock your door and look at me a little more (we both know I'm worth waitin' for) ❞

Vander x ftm!reader | fluffy, NSFW, slight angst | there's some plot at the end | reader has had top-surgery & bottom growth | versatile. bottom. reader | NOT PROOFREAD | wc: 5k

warnings: r! is a prostitute, brothel mentioned, mentions of addiction, spanking, fingering, anal sex, unprotected sex, AFAB terminology (clit referred to as dick/cock, terms like boypussy, pussy, boycunt, cunt are used)

masterlist;

authors note: you guys have @strayjester to thank for this because of the thirst we had for this fine-ass single dad...

*song on repeat: Billie Boss Nova by Billie Eilish *YN is described as being shorter than Vander in this fic.

He’s getting that itch under his skin again. Muscles aching and throat begging for the soothing burn of addictive smoke. Vander tosses a rag on his shoulder, scratching at his beard as he fixes his posture. His skin feels stretched thin, aching for a salve to fill the crevices and drought; his ears muffle the bar, and the song playing floats into his ears.

The playful percussions, the whispering tone of the singer, and the sighs of the adlibs remind him of the fairytales of fairies, sirens, and boys in masks in nothing but a see-through robe.

Vander straightens up, briefly glancing over at the doors of the bar. The underground doesn’t get sunlight, but like a dog, he knows when people are starting to head back home. The crowd in here was mostly gone, some were passed out in the booths and some intently eating sunflower seeds in their corner. He’d have to clean it up and make sure the tables weren’t sticky, and the floor needed a good sweep too.

Impatientness grows in him. Vander sighs, pouring himself a shot of something to reinvigorate him, and slams the glass down. It startles the man at the bar enough to have him reach for his coins, the rest get the same hint.

“You look like you need a nightcap," Spider mutters. Vander thinks it’s ridiculous for people to call the seamstress such an intimidating name when she vehemently despises the arachnids, but it stuck and she has no choice but to embrace it. She has the courtesy of bringing her bowl of opened sunflower seeds and an empty glass to him instead of just stumbling off.

But Vander knows it isn’t exactly out of the kindness of her heart.

It flatters him that she finds him attractive. Really, it does. She was a beautiful woman and a capable one too. But Vander is tired and truly, he doesn’t want his rendezvous to be chattered on about everywhere. His kids didn’t need to hear about any of it.

“Aye’, that I do. Thankfully, I own a bar,” she chuckles and reaches forward to swat at his shoulder. Vander just smiles, taking her dishes and placing them elsewhere so his back is turned to her. “It’s not good practice to drink your own stock,” Spider places her elbows on the table and Vander doesn’t need to spare a glance to know her breasts are on display too. This isn’t the first time she’s done this, and most likely won’t be the last.

The song ends with a soothing croon from the singer and Vander’s cock twitches in his pants as he spots the business card stuck between the frame of the mirror.

“Ya’ sober enough to make your way back safe?” Spider’s brows pinch and she mutters, gluing her gaze on Vander’s face as he pulls the rag down to wipe the table. “Yeah, yeah, I’m fine.”

Vander nodded, bidding her a good night she simply replied with a wave. She was the last to leave through the front door and Vander manages to not groan in relief at the click he hears.

‘ Hurry! ��� A voice tells him. It’s early in the morning now, the window is closing but he can’t possibly leave the bar in this state. He’ll be the one regretting it when he opens tonight. Vander imagines he must’ve looked a bit dumb as he stares at the state of the bar when Vi appears at the top of the stairs.

“What?” Vi tilts her head at him but gestures loosely to the tables and chairs. “I said I can clean it, you look...tired.”

He sighs, squeezing the back of his neck. “What’re you doing up so early, Vi?” she shrugs which is a non-answer but pushes through the doorway and meanders behind the bar. Her head pops out and she places the iron bucket of cleaning supplies. Vander walks to her, handing her the rag as he reaches for a broom.

“Vander, I can clean the place just fine,” she huffs. “All by yer’self? S’gonna take ya’ forever,” he’s jesting but she finds no humor in it. The girl crosses her arms as she glares up at him. A part of him wants nothing more than to dash out of here, to find that salve he desperately is aching for, but there was no way he could leave his daughter to clean up by herself just because he wanted to get his dick wet.

“Dude, just go,” Vi grabs the bucket and rag and marches to the tables. He frowns a bit, crossing his arms as he contemplates it.

“Ya’ couldn’t sleep?” Vi shakes her head. “Nope! Milo was snoring and Claggor kept moving in his sleep. Powder must be tired because she’s sleeping through it with no problem.” Vi’s always been a light sleeper. Most of the people in the underground were. But Vander just needs to ask; “Ya’ sure it wasn’t the nightmares?” Vi pauses in her wiping and Vander watches her face as she sends him a pouty expression.

“Yes, I’m sure. I haven’t had one of those in forever anyway — just go rest, old man. I can wipe down tables and sweep floors by myself.”

“Are you sure — “

“Dude!”

The path he takes is always quiet. Hidden between tight alleyways and old wires hung too low — he rarely saw characters here other than the occasional cat or shady hooded figure but that was a normal sight anywhere.

The back of the building is less glamorous than the front but not out of neglect. It was purposefully made that way — fewer lights, fewer signs, and fewer girls spilling from the door. But he peeks up from the hood of his jacket and he sees the voyeuristicly lit windows. The shadows of bodies behind the thin curtains, the seductive glow and thrum of the others. The back door is not locked, it's just made to look that way so people feel dirtier pushing the heavy door open.

He hears a whistle and his cock honestly to god jumps at the sight of your naked shoulders. Your mask was askew, your hair messed up, and smears of lipstick on your lips, and your skin; Vander is envious of the cigarette holder you have in your grip.

When your lips wrap around it he feels the exhaustion melt away. Plumes of purple smoke pour out from your mouth; “Had a feeling you’d be comin’ over."

Vander laughs, moving to the door with his eyes still on you. “Yeah? Just knew, did ya’?”

You nod, placing your chin in your palm as he opens the door.

“Yeah. My ass has been wanting a good stretch the whole day, only gets that way when you’re comin’ over.”

' Coming over ', you make it sound like he’s a teenage boy sneaking through your window. Vander says nothing as he walks in and you grin at it. His silence was good — it meant he was going to give it to you just how you wanted. You finish the cigarette and slip the curtains close.

Vander liked his privacy after all.

The hallways are familiar, but he still thinks the wallpaper is a bit too busy and the creak in the floorboards should have been fixed. Saying it out loud feels a bit shameful. After all, how often would he have to come over to recognize these things?

He passes by a doorway guarded with beaded curtains and he ignores the moans of the woman who is being devoured by another. The doorway next to it has the sounds of leather rubbing against leather so he peeks as he passes by to see it shines under the low lights.

Reaching the stairs, Vander is greeted by Sevika lip-locked with another woman. He lowered his head, hoping she was too busy fingering her to notice. At the landing, there’s a wall of hooks, and on each of them held a mask of an animal. They differed in all sorts of sizes, and materials, each handcrafted by different artists. Customers wear them if they’d like but it was a must for employees.

The allure, the secrecy, the seductive notion of masked strangers sucking your cock, blah blah blah.

He grabs the wolf mask, slipping it on with ease, as he climbs the rest of the stairs. He misses Sevika staring at his back with squinted eyes.

“D’you know him?” she asks. The girl in the doe mask pants but eyes Vander’s frame through the wooden bars of the stairs. “Him? Oh, he’s a regular. Secretive, and never lets anyone else see his face other than the Fantastic Mr. Fox.”

That makes Sevika snort. “(Y/N)? He only comes here for him?” She can’t exactly blame the man. You were a talented little beast. Hands, mouth, feet, cunt, ass — every part of you was made with pleasure in mind. She enjoys having you in a headlock as she pounds into your asshole, enjoys your tongue inside of her and your filthy little words.

But just for you? This pleasure house had a gaggle of beasts for him to lay with. Hairy beasts with cocks just as big as their arms who enjoy plowing and being plowed. Demure little nymphs with a talent to make people beg for their cocks to be stepped on or to cry in pleasure. Tall beasts, short beasts, catering to every need and fetish a man could have.

“There’s a betting pool,” the Doe says. Sevika turns to face her as the masked man enters the hallway leading to your room. “About?” Sevika pulls her fingers out to pull away the negligee and kneads at her small breast. She shudders, arching her back into her but continues; “The Wolf and The Fox. That he’s smitten, maybe even a bit obsessed.” Sevika scoffs, rolling her eyes as she pinches Doe's perk nipple between her fingers,

"Poor bastard."

"I think it's — ah — cute," Doe retorts as she squeezes Sevika's biceps. "To you maybe, a smitten customer gets you more coin," Sevika grunts out, her tone light despite it.

"Falling in love with a whore is just stupid."

"You saying you don't love me, Daddy?" Doe pouts her lips. Sevika chuckles as she lowers her head to nibble on it. "I'll love you tonight, baby. Think that'll be enough?"

The door has the symbol of your mask, painted in gold. It's ajar, a sliver of light lighting the carpeted floors and Vander rolls his shoulders as he pushes the door open.

Your room is heavy with the smell of incense. There's thudding against the walls, moans of pleasure echoing despite it being muffled. Vander's shoes make no noise. The carpets on the floor provide more than just comfort. Discretion. This room and the others on this floor are all for high-paying customers.

He closes and locks the door behind him. He reaches for his mask but your voice stops him.

"Keep it on," you push yourself off the door frame, the beads clattering softly, and Vander tits his head at your sashay. Your mask was left on the bed, leaving your face bare, and Vander cocks a brow as he looks down at you.

"One of those nights?" His hands settle on your waist. The size of them, the roughness that's felt through the silk of your robe, it makes your grin stretch wider. "You got other ideas, Vander?" you muse. "Was hopin' to kiss ya'," he huffs.

The grip on your ass lurches you forward further into his broad chest. Vander's eyes are heavy, the shadows attempt to hide the desire but it's futile. He's kneading, hitching you up higher until you're barely on your toes.

Head tilting, he leans in. Your head floats away, hands still gripped onto his shirt as he chases and you don't give in.

"(Y/N)," his tone suggests a warning. But it's amusing. Here you are, in his arms. His strength keeps you in place and in the air; the mask is akin to a muzzle. Except he's fully capable of taking it off if he wishes.

The fact that you asked for him to keep it on is not lost to you. Your words alone held so much power over him. You place his neck between the gap of your thumb and pointer finger, barely there pressure keeping him still despite the yearning in his eyes.

"You're exhausted, big guy. Long day, yeah?" Vander nods at your words.

"Lay down on the bed. I'll make you feel good."

He hesitates for a moment. But your feet find the floor again and he begrudgingly parts. When he walks past you, you follow behind him. He pauses when you reach for the front of his pants, looking at you from over his shoulder.

"Take off your clothes for me, baby."

Your bed is shaped in a semi-circle. The curtain around it was drawn all the way back. There's a mountain of pillows and bolsters that welcome Vander's naked frame as he settles on it.

The trail of his clothes on the floor has your silk robes accompanying you as you stand at the end of the bed.

Vander tilts his head, widening his legs and stroking his hairy thighs. Leading your eyes to the thick dick that's already at full mast.

"Damn," you whistle. The bed dipped under the weight of your knee. "I know I'm good looking but you can't be that hard from just 5 seconds of laying your eyes on me."

He can't tear his gaze from you. From the marks on your face to the state of your hair; the bare skin that he loves to bruise and mark up — despite being told by you it's not exactly encouraged — Vander is convinced you're not real sometimes.

The arcane has been long gone now. Yet, here you are. Living, breathing, proof that its remnants linger in pumping hearts and honey-sweet skin. With just your voice, you make his knees buckle and his cock strain through the material of his pants.

Just the whisper of your name has his entire day derailed as he thinks and thinks and thinks of you.

Oh, (Y/N).

You're his undoing.

Gooseflesh spread at your touch and Vander groans as you settle yourself between his legs. That haunting touch makes its way to his crotch, ghosting along his aching rod, up his soft stomach, and towards his chest. It rests there and his heart threatens to escape his ribcage. The heat from your cunt has him sighing and settling his hands on the arch of your back. It makes you chuckle.

"Please, darlin'," he begs, "I been needing you so badly. All day."

There's no way you can deny him. Not when your cock jumps at the airy tone he has, that gravelly husk that comes with it. It peeks up, just as hard as his. He can feel it drag along his own and he tightens his grip on you.

"Yeah?" You nose at his neck, trailing your painted lips down. The hairs on his chest tickle your cheek when you place your face there, breathing against his perk nipples.

"Shit, yeah. Can't you feel me?" He grows a bit bolder in his next move. Urging your hips forward so he can feel your wet folds, forcing your stiff cock to rub up. The motion makes your eyes flutter close, sighing against his pebbling nub.

"For such a big man, you're such a teddy bear," you lift your hips, lining his thick head with your needy cunt. He laughs, his masked face tilting downwards as his blue-grey eyes all but glow in excitement.

"I've been told I am a bear," his words end a moan when you slip him inside. The bowl of condoms littered just about everywhere outside this room wasn’t there for decoration. They were there for the John’s and Jane’s who needed them.

But you know Vander. You’ve been the only thing he’s been hitting and you make sure the rest of your clients are always wrapped up.

Everything about him is thick so it’s no surprise you feel the twinge of discomfort as you accommodate to his size. It lingers briefly but once the mushroom tip of his dick is inside pleasure runs up your spine.

“Oh fuck yes,” you wrap your arms around his neck and press your chest together. He instantly embraces you, adjusting his grip to your ass again so he can help you straddle his legs.

“Fuck, baby. Your dick is so big,” and for once you’re not lying about it.

Vander’s a big boy. His thick arms, square jaw, the delicious shape of his nose; his wide chest and sturdy shoulders, and his soft but firm stomach. Fuck, everything about Vander makes your head fill warm.

His dick twitches inside you as you slide down. The snout of the wooden mask bumps into your forehead and you laugh as he leans in.

“S’fuckin’ needy,” he has no protests. You reach for the bottom of the mask and push it up, blinding him but rewarding him with your lips. His beard is soft. As you feel through it, you cup his jaw and he groans into the kiss.

More of him inches inside of you and halfway down, you’re pulling away to breathe. His fingers are going to leave handprints with how roughly he holds you; flesh spilling from the gaps of his greedy digits.

“Fuck, (Y/N).”

“Yeah, say my name, baby.”

Vander grunts when you fix the mask into place. When you lean back, he takes in the sight of the bump on your stomach.

“Perv.” His dick twitches again. So you laugh.

“Absolutely rotten.”

Your eyes slip close as you let gravity take over. Fuck, the way your hips buck up and twitch as he fills you up has his toes curling. You’re dripping wet, the thick and clear liquid travelling down his balls.

“You’re so fuckin’ hard,” he thumbs at your cock. When he uses his knuckles to stroke it, his mouth goes dry at the way it twitches and righteously stands tall.

“All ‘cus of you,” you purr. Vander groans, now idly touching the bump of his dick and you sigh as he presses down on it.

“Ooooh fuck, Vander.”

He rolls your hips, moving to ground his heels into the bed but you beat him to it. Your hands brace his knees and you lift up and up and up — his tip bumping into yours in the brief time it’s out of you — then slipping him all the way inside again.

Vander curses, his accent thickening as you throw his head back.

You chew on your bottom lips, savouring the explosion of pleasure behind your eyelids. As you look at his heaving chest, you cannot stop the sharp grin that crawls onto your face.

Placing one hand on his shoulder, you put your thighs to work. Vander is at your mercy. Panting and moaning behind the mask as he watches your work on his cock. Riding him, grinding down on him, using his thick dick for your pleasure.

Your other hand leads his own to a surprise.

Between your ass that he adores so much, he bucks up when he feels the base of a plug inside of your ass.

“Oh, you liked that,” you moan. All high and airy as you slow down into grinding, thighs burning. Vander is tugging onto the plug and your rim stretches as he teases it in and out.

“You’re gonna kill me one day,” he growls out.

“You’ll die happy, don’t — mngh — duh-don’t...Shit, Vander. Baby. Oh fuuuck.”

The exhaustion of the day has seeped out from him it seems. He’s leaning forward, caging you between his raised knees and firm front.

In one smooth movement, your back bounces on the bed and he’s on top of you. The acoustic of the wooden mask makes him sound like an animal as he growls above you, he huffs and pants like a proper wolf.

You share a long look, even as he rocks in and out of you and you feel your heavy eyelids threaten to squeeze shut. He braces onto his elbows, his weight on you making you whine and keen.

He takes the reigns and smiles when you reach to take his mask off. It thuds onto the carpet, mere inches away from your own mask.

“Hey, handsome.” You stroke over his cheekbones, gasping into his mouth as he kisses you. A particularly deep thrust makes you arch off the bed and it distracts you from his deft hands pulling out your plug.

“Your cunts got me all nice and wet,” he growls into your ear. “Perfect for fucking your ass then,” you whisper back.

“You always know what to say, don’t you?” He slips out and you whimper at the loss. You’re not empty for long. He taps his tip onto your winking hole and you chew on the insides of your cheeks in anticipation.

“C’mon, baby. Fuck me.”

“Yes, sir,” he purrs with a devillishly handsome smile.

He rights his posture, holding your ankles in one grip and folding your legs so your knees are nearly at your chest.

The stretch makes you toss your head to the side, cunt gaping as he fixates on the sight of your greedy holes.

Vander spits onto your hole and pushes in deeper. It makes you sing like a proper whore. Clutching onto the sheets while your chest heaves.

God, when he takes over like this — it makes you fantasize about how good it’d feel to wake up in his bed for once — but fantasies like that are dangerous. Vander is smarter than that, he’d know better than to bring a whore back home. Especially a whore like you.

His heavy balls slap against your ass. It knocks the breath out of you. You cry out, tears pricking your eyes when he strokes your dick. Vander splits your thighs and he holds your face with so much care you feel your heart pound our of your chest.

“(Y/N),” when he moans your name you want nothing more than to keep him here with you forever.

When he fucks up into your ass, you inch forward with every strong thrust. So he holds you down, keeping you in place as he stretches out your ass. The friction on your dick makes you even wetter. But you still hiss in discomfort as your rim clenches around him. Vander pants above you, slowing to a stop.

��Lube, darlin’?”

You nod, gesturing to the nightstand. Vander kisses you, pulling out as he turns and grabs the strawberry-scented bottle. You lay out on the bed, breathing heavily as you recompose yourself.

Vander lubes his dick up, eyeing your cunt a little too hungrily for your liking. So you knock your knees together, staring at him pointedly when he blinks innocently at you. “No double dipping,” you warn. Vander scoffs, grinning loosely.

“I know that, boy.” “D’you?”

Your expression makes him snort. He parts your legs again, smearing some lube on your hole before he presses his heavy cock inside of you again.

“‘Course I do. Your cunt’s just so sexy, can’t help but stare.”

“Yeah? Should I call another client and make him fuck my pussy while you fuck my ass?” You’re goading him. He realizes that. But the flash of jealousy that comes across his face is not something he can control.

Vander doesn’t respond. Merely grunting as he fucks into you. You yelp at the strength he’s using, cursing as you’re dragged onto his dick. Helpless as he uses you.

“Yuh - You pissed?” he glares at you but shakes his head.

“No.”

“Yer' a shitty liar.” You moan out his name as he turns you over onto your stomach, barely having time to process his movements as he pulls you onto your knees. He’s bruising you with his grip and when he spanks your ass, you know it’ll be sore till the next day. Every spank makes you tighten up around him. He presses between your shoulder blades and you are keen as he reaches deeper than before.

“M’just joking, Vander,” you pant out. “It’s all yours, all of it — all of me.“

Vander vengeance is in his hips. An unrelenting force that turns your body into nothing but a conduit of pleasure. Your gummy walls are torn between pushing him out and keeping him in — it doesn't matter, in the end, the one with power over you was him. There's bliss in relinquishing control. It's a whisper of voices, serenading you to a high that even the strongest drugs could barely scratch.

Or maybe you were just an addict for sex — or just Vander.

No seasoned whore lets their guard down with a client. There's a degree of trust needed. It's surface level. The bond between you and Vander — there's something oddly binding about it. You've heard of the religions scattered around the world. Of monks who abstain from worldly pleasures, those who worship an entire militia of gods, and those who only believed in one Maker; they spoke with such certainty of their beliefs. The punishment and euphoria waiting for them at the end of the line.

Fucking Vander feels like religion. When he makes your body burn from the inside out with a lust only he can quench — you're doomed and there's no one to blame but yourself.

That's a lie, you bite down on the bedsheets as you feel his balls slap against your cunt and dick. There's someone to blame for putting Vander in your way, (Y/N).

"Shit, sweetheart. I'm close," Vander groans. You moan, forcing yourself to reach back so you can kiss him. Vander feels his heart hammering, reaching to pinch your cock between his fingers to distract himself from these bubbling emotions.

Loving you was a freedom he had long forgotten about. Hearing you moan out his name, digging your nails into his skin and kissing him so deeply. He aches for you — his veins burn when he even thinks he sees you in the crowd.

He loves you.

Vander murmurs something on your lips that you don't catch. But you're too far gone to acknowledge your senses. You're so close to unraveling. Teetering on that edge of bliss as Vander holds you like he wants your bodies to become moulded together like clay.

"Vander, Vander — "

He slips his fingers inside your cunt. You gasp, feeling yourself clench around him like a vice as you squirt onto his fingers and cum around his dick. Vander is close behind, growling out your name as he thrusts in balls deep and floods your ass with his thick ropes of cum.

The both of you ride off the orgasm. His hips still fucking in and out of you in shallow motions that have your breath hitching with every drag and poke. Vander slips his fingers out and brings it to your lips — you chuckle softly, letting them inside as you clean his talented digits.

"How much did you pay the madame?" You nuzzle into his neck, relying on him to hold you up. He kisses your shoulders, his beard tickling your skin as his hands roam your front.

"Long enough. You sick of me already, darling?"

Don't think that's possible, you thought with a loose grin. Vander groans into your mouth as you grab his chin and kiss him.

"Don't flatter yourself, baby."

Vander looks younger when he rests. Not like a boy again, just younger. The lines on his face were less prominent and the softness of his body was more inviting. You're tracing mindless shapes into his chest, chastising the city of Zaun for beginning its morning cycle. The noises from beyond the window are beginning to shift from the noisy nightlife of hookers calling for Johns and booming music from clubs to the food stalls opening and wagons being pulled along the worn-down roads.

You can hear the thudding of Vander's heart under your ear. It squeezes your own so you lift your head and gaze down at him, just taking him in from a new angle. The door clicks and Vander's brows pinch but he does not stir. He trusts you enough to rest. For you to keep vigil over him.

"Did you enjoy yourself?" his voice drawls like a thick caramel. A seductive purr with a certain husk that tingles your senses. The tall, lanky, man enters the room and he is shameless as he takes the both of you in.

"He paid for the whole night, not the day." Silco comments. "He gets a pass on good behavior. What do you need?" Vander's hand is carefully guided to hold one of the pillows and you carefully move to stand.

Silco takes in the sight of you. Moving forward, he grasps your chin in his hand and tilts your head back; "He's always been such a possessive man."

"Yeah? He marked you up like this too?" He regards you with a tepid glance. "Sir," you add smoothly. Giving him a half-hearted grin.

It works. Silco's eyes soften, just slightly but it's a crutch you're leaning on. He likes you more than he'd like to admit and you're beginning to feel guilty for all these emotions brewing inside of you for these two brothers-in-arms.

"Did you learn anything from tonight, (Y/N)?" Silco looks past you to Vander. Turning his voice into a whispering tone that feels more romantic than he probably intended it to.

You contemplate telling him. Pursing your lips for a second before you lean in and embrace Silco, pressing your lips up his jaw and whispering in his ear.

"He's friends with the Sheriff. Grayson. But he worries." "About?" Silco's hands wrap around your waist, shadowing Vander's marks with his own. "He worries about the fresh meat she has on her team. Piltover's steady now but one incident and he doubts he'll be able to keep the peace, no matter how hard Grayson tries. The children," you pause and he turns his head to look at you. You gulp thickly, then continue: "The eldest daughter, Vi, she's getting restless. Dangle bait and she'll bite."

Silco stares for a moment. You take him in, unable to stop the grin that crawls on your face as he presses a long kiss to your lips.

"Well done, (Y/N)." His praise had once been something akin to a drug to you, a high you desperately needed to keep your doubts at bay. A soothing coolness that'll keep this rage inside of you to a lukewarm temperature; the promise that Piltover will soon fall to its knees to Zaun had been your motivation to live for years now.

Yet, your chest tightens and your stomach twists as his words wash over you.

"Of course, sir."

[19burstraat]

Random SOC Trivia I Gathered On My Reread

I'll be using this for fics, but it's fun just to read!

Jesper does not hold alcohol well (though this is according to Kaz, who is not exactly impartial)

Wijnstraat, Nemstraat, Havenstraat, Ammberstraat are all street names if you want em

Van Eck has been involved in trying to clean up the Barrel; pious. (Allegedly pious, I doubt he really is)

1/5 Van Eck (or general Kerch trading?) vessels are lost at sea

Kaz arrested three times at ten, twice at eleven, once at fourteen. Does stints in jail but it does not say prison (ppl assume he's been to Hellgate / another prison but I don't think so. He'd never have shut the fuck up about it if he had; I assume the Stadhall Jail)

Kaz's cane is lead-lined. I wasn't sure if this was canon or fanon

Kaz runs book on prize fights, horses, and chance games. Floor boss at crow club since fifteen-ish. Youngest to run a betting shop and has doubled the profits.

Gambling halls: Treasure Chest, Golden Bend, Weddell's Riverboat, Silver Garter

West Stave brothels: The Blue Iris, The Forge, The Obscura, the Willow Switch, the House of Snow

Van Aakster is the widow mercher who sees Nina to ease his grief

Inej likes orange cakes in white paper

Black Tips tattoo is a hand with first and second fingers cut at the knuckle, Razorgulls is 5 birds in wedge formation

Nina Jesper and Kaz definitely all have the crow and cup; the others don't

Jordie seems to like books

ridderspel and spijker are arcade games

Bilge, clams, and wet stone smell in the Barrel (per Retvenko)

Kaz definitely is partial to dogs; Smeet's hounds and the grey dog the Hertzoon household had, the windup dogs, the metaphors. He loves a dog metaphor sorry ur not real babycakes you'd have loved thematic web weaving posts

Geldspin is the cotton mill in Zierfoort, Firma Allerbest is a cannery. Both in Alys' name

Wylan was 8 when Marya 'died'

the black veil tomb is carved like an ancient cargo ship

3 flying fish on a grave: government. Palm trees and snakes: spices.

Inej's mother braids her hair with orange ribbons (colour of persimmons)

University a series of buildings built around the Boekcanal and joined by Speaker's Bridge (where people debate and/or drink). Boeksplein four libraries built around a central courtyard and the Scholar's Fountain

Shipping container at third harbour is a Liddie hideout; Jam Tart House is an old hotel near the slat that the Razorgulls use

Long scar across Kaz's right knuckle

Violating contracts and interfering with the market can get you hanged in Kerch; same sentences as for murder (this is. Insane)

Haskell holds court with his mates at the Fair Weather Inn every week

Belendt is the second oldest Kerch city and sits on the Droombeld River

Jesper was 7 when Aditi died

Inej has an uncle (who seems to have some sort of ringmaster role) and cousins; Hanzi and Asha

Kaz convinced a locksmith in Klokstraat that he was the son of a wealthy merchant who highly valued his collection of priceless snuffboxes, and that's how he knows what locks the rich are using

Hubrecht Mohren, Master Thief of Pijl, who Kaz doesn't appear to think much of; one of Haskell's old cronies

Martin Van Eck, Wylan's great great grandfather, was a ship's captain, brought back a big shipment of spices from Eames Chin and started the Van Eck fortune

Kaz and Jesper (+ other Dregs boys) taught Inej to fight

Kaz and Jordie are from a town near Lij, as per the 'Johannus Rietveld' exposition, but Lij is seemingly the closest major city/county so it's easier to just say they're from Lij lol

The last time the Council of Tides appeared in public was 25 years prior to CK

Kaz found Filip running a monte game on Kelstraat; he also got the clerks who turned over fake info, the fake attorney, the man who gave them free hot chocolate

The spelling of Zentzbridge lapses to Zentsbridge, not sure which is right or if they're actually separate bridges or if there's a lot of wrong quotes floating around lol

Dryden house symbol is the golden wheat sheaf bound with a blue ribbon; Van Eck is the red laurel but we knew that

Kaz taught himself finance and gambling hall rules

Church of Barter roof is copper and long has turned green

Church of Barter built around the First Forge / The Mortar, which is a flat lump of rock that's supposedly Ghezen's altar

Ghezendaal Hospital is. Idk. a hospital. Just thought ppl might want the name

[mythicmanuscripts]

Crybaby Aegon has to be one of the canon hc there is. Maybe something like Aegon thinking his wife or a brothel worker he’s been taken with is being distant and he panics and thinks he did something wrong. When in truth they probably have just had a lot to think about lately or just didn’t notice. Following up with a lot of attention and reassuring?

In NSFW form I feel like reader would probably tell Aegon to let her show him how much she cherishes him, gives him a bunch of kisses during love making and soft praises

God I love crybaby!aegon. I ended up doing this with wife!reader but I'd be happy to discuss a similar topic with a brothel worker if you guys would want that, so just let me know!

There's nothing too explicit in this but there's definitely some implied sexual content and also is definitely sub!aegon so I'll hide it behind a cut just in case

I think this is something that could happen very easily once your marriage with Aegon starts to become more of a proper relationship?? Once Aegon starts to submit to you, it's like a switch flips in his head and he has absolutely zero interest in anyone else ever. Of course he's also very needy.

The biggest problem is that once Aegon starts subbing, you really have to make sure to keep a close eye on him because he so desperately wants to please you. Especially in the start when he's still feeling like he'll never be good enough for anything and certainly not good enough to keep someone like you in love.

Aegon feeds off your energy and praise, his entire face lighting up every time you give him attention. You're the only person whose guidance doesn't feel patronising or insulting, and you just make him feel so safe.

He hates being away from you and that's especially try the day after he's done something intense with you. So maybe this happens after the first thing really intense kink thing you did? Like maybe you use pain play for the first time or bondage or very intense overstimulation. Whatever it is, it leaves Aegon floating in subspace and feeling absolutely incredible.

But then the next day he wakes up to an empty bed. You had told him the night before that there was a breakfast you had to attend with some other nobles, but of course this slips his mind completely because he's still groggy and he thought he'd get to spend the morning cuddling.

Aegon has never experienced anything as intense and hardcore as what you did the night before and while of course he absolutely loved it, he now suddenly doesn't feel so good because you weren't there when he woke. If this were later on in the relationship then he would have no problem ordering a guard to track you down and bring you back on the king's orders.

But this is only the start, where Aegon just starting submitting properly but he's still not sure how much he can ask for outside of the bedroom. So the poor thing little thing just hugs your pillow and tries not to cry until eventually a servant arrives inform him that it is time to get dressed and start the day. He does this of course, mostly because he knows you don't want him avoiding his duties.

Throughout the morning he keeps on glancing around, trying to see where you are because surely you would come find him? Right? You wouldn't just leave him alone all day? Would you?

Your day ends being one chaotic mess after another, and you don't get to see Aegon at all.

Aegon, meanwhile, is now starting to think he did something wrong or disappointed you in some way. He starts to think back to the night before, of how he clung to you afterwards and how you had to hold him tight and wipe away his tears. At the time, he felt safe and good and the right side of overwhelmed. He felt like you really cared and would take good care of him, but now that he hasn't seen you all day he begins to wonder if maybe he was wrong about that? Maybe you weren't pleased.

You dont know any of this is ongoing because you're far too busy putting out fires left right and centre.

Eventually when the day comes to an end and you sit down for dinner, aegon isnt there? You ask Aemond and Alicent and they both say they haven't seen him. A guards steps in then and says the king has requested to have dinner in his chambers. That immediately sets off alarm bells in your head and you tell the guard to ensure your dinner is also served in your chambers and then quickly run up to him.

You find him on the bed sitting crossed legged and hugging your pillow. He looks so small like that, like you could break him in half with one finger.

He looks up when you enter and he's apologising before you can even close the door. You have no idea what he's on about, but he's clearly upset and far too worked up to explain right then so you just grab him and pull him into a hug until he can form coherent sentences again.

Once this ability returns to him, he mumbles his apologies again and promises to be less needy. You still have no idea what he's going on about and when you say this, he eventually manages to get out that he thought you were avoiding him because he did something bad last night.

It breaks you heart to realise your darling sub went the whole day thinking he had upset you when that wouldnt be further from the truth. You explain that to him and he starts crying again, but this time it's relief.

The next morning you have a talk with him about it and he explains how bad he felt after waking up alone. You suggest a new rule that you always spend at least the morning with him if you've done somehow particularly hardcore the night before and while aegon tries to say this isnt necessary at first, he can't deny how much that would help him.

I think in the end you end up having to tell him that he's your good boy, and so you have to look after your good boy. If he needs you to stay with him the next morning, then that is exactly what he will get because he's your darling.

[itsjinkibitch]

I remember shaking and throwing up when we got the first glimpse of Aemond at the brothel thinking I'd hate it. Turns out it delivered to me the greatest Lucemond meal since last season. Butt ass naked in a whorehouse and Luke's name floats from his mouth. My soul sings in victory.

[divorceblogger]

I think the most difficult thing that armand struggles to come to terms with (re: his feelings about marius) is very much that marius seemingly steps into his life and performs actions that are, at a superficial glance, meant to be liberatory or empowering but are unequivocally very predatory if you start to dig into the meat of their relationship.

Marius rescues armand from starvation and sexual slavery at a point in his life when armand is actively entertaining thoughts of suicide. marius sweeps in, purchases him, and transfers him from abhorrent conditions of existence to a life of material comfort, although it’s not really a safe one, but at this point armand doesn’t necessarily have the ability to have a critical dialogue about safety with himself because he’s so glad to be rescued from slavery that he ascribes divinity to marius. he also receives an allowance and he’s taught swordplay. he’s taught swordplay. but what kind of harm could a child ever cause to a 1500 year old vampire?

And the material reality is that marius is not really interested in empowering armand at all. he actively fosters an unhealthy codependency between them, he withholds information about his nature, he performs sexual acts on him even when armand doesn’t necessarily comprehend that these acts are sexual in nature. he also strategises methods that he reasons are supposed to sexually liberate armand but these instances just contribute to the overall conversation on how he grooms him. armand is 15 years old when marius sends him out to brothels “to learn how to couple properly”. do you remember that he was supposed to be forced into prostitution. marius now offers him the illusion of sexual power by allowing him to experience sexual pleasure instead of offering it to predatory customers instead. but armand also says that he doesn’t enjoy the experiences at the brothels because he craves sexual relations with marius solely, to a point where he feels resentful about being asked to participate in these acts even when he derives sexual pleasure from them. he endures the experiences because his master gives him no other choice, but it’s also in these brothels that he discovers that sex doesn’t have to be associated with pain as it often tends to be with marius.

When he returns ‘home’ from the brothels he’s perceptive enough to understand that marius really sent him to receive a sexual education on marius’s behalf and attempts to replicate these acts on him. he unconsciously takes up the role of a sex worker, but again he’s a child, and it’s horrifying that he thinks he’s harassing marius by initiating sexual relations with him. it’s also not very surprising that when he does display sexual interest in other people marius emotionally shuts him off (because these experiences were never instituted with armand’s interest in mind) and these moments shape up to be very harrowing experiences for armand - he’s been taught to crave marius’s affection and never do anything that might displease him. armand often has to beg his way back into marius’s good graces and allow himself to be subjected to corporal punishment to achieve this. it’s terrifying that one of the first ideas the boys in the villa convey to armand despite the language barrier is that their master will never hurt him.

And the alarming fact about armand’s transformation is that vampirism serves to just further reinforce this abuse, even though, once again, it might seem like an empowering act. his newly acquired powers don’t change his reality - he’s still under marius’s control the whole time. he’s also further isolated from boys his age who share his interests, and his nights with marius are insular and suffocating. the corporal punishments continue. they’re now adjusted to account for his vampirism. “usual brain jarring blow” is a term floated in the book. marius calls armand’s coffin a “crib”. he very seriously asks armand if he’s ever been cruel to him soon after he transforms him. armand’s codependency with marius is in fact further reinforced by the vampiric transformation that marius carries out. so much of armand’s initiation into vampirsm is once again rooted in sexual instruction, once again evoking patterns of behaviour that are associated with grooming. it’s very in-character for marius to teach him the fundamental principles of seducing his victims before killing them. he also advices him to develop emotionally frigid relationships and never reveal his true self to the people he cares for, further establishing marius as the most significant figure in his life, as the person he constructs his entire identity around. how was he ever supposed to turn out well-adjusted?

[dm-tainthairs-collection]

Orlyltar, Underdark City of Sin

|| @heartthrobxhook - closed starter ||

ᒥ🌌ᒧ—        Days prior had been spent planning this trip, a trip to Orlyltar. The city was known as the underbelly of the Drow Matriarchy. All were welcomed as long as they had gold to spend and a decent lack of morals. Orlyltar, as Xeniarth explained to Killian, was a place of fun. A pirate would thrive in the environment, as it was similar to any pirate port. Endless taverns and brothels, a handful of casinos with plenty of gambling and a lack of care for card counting.

The beast was delighted when his precious human agreed to go on a trip with him to Orlyltar. Xeniarth, in his true form, floats alongside the Jolly Roger waiting for Killian to come out with his gear. That night they would fly to the entrance to the Underdark Xeniarth knew led to Orlyltar's particular cavern.

The last month they had spent at sea, and while the first week had been a bit taxing on the Ancient Dragon, he adjusted finally. The rocking of the ship became soothing, the noise of a busy crew during the day he learned to drown out, and the intital weariness of raids became enjoyment. However, a break from it all was needed. Hence his plan to take a small and hopefully enjoyable holiday together had come to mind.

A large head rises from the water and rests gently on the railing of the Jolly, violet eyes scanning the deck for Killian.

[somanyratsinthewalls]

A Queen for a King (+18)

Pairing: DonQuijote Doflamingo x Female Reader

WC: 1800

Summary: You were promoted to manage the only brothel in town, but Doflamingo has other plans for you... and who are you to deny a king?

TW: KINDA DUBIOUS CONSENT HERE! Doflamingo is a huge jerk, p in v sex, oral sex f receiving, doggy style, breeding kink, cream pies, unprotected sex, dirty talk, TELL LAW I AM SORRY BUT I HAD TO WRITE THIS TO GET IT OUT OF MY HEAD!

— — 

You pushed through the double wooden doors to the palace without paying any mind to the guards trying to stop you.

“If you care about your life, you’ll leave me be.” You casually remark as you quickly climb the spiral staircase to the young master’s quarters. 

“This asshole…” You mutter to yourself as you approach the top of the stairs you were ascending. You knock and sigh. 

The large door at the top of the tower creaks open. 

You brush past the door and into the throne room in annoyance. 

“Young Master you promised that my girls would receive equitable treatment.” You remark as your long red velvet robe flutters behind you. 

“The girls you’ve sent don’t know what they’re doing.” You hear a low, sinister voice respond. 

“You’ve promoted me to the overseer of The Nest and I’ve sent you my best girls, I don’t know why you’re sending these poor women back to me with unfathomable injuries and insults.” You say as you flop yourself down on the pink loveseat in the throne room and light a cigarette. 

“I know what I’ve done… but I still want you to service me. Is that so difficult for you to understand?” You take a drag of your cigarette as Doflamingo rose from this throne to look at you. 

“You’ve sent 7 of my girls home in tears and 2 of them in body bags… How am I supposed to trust you with them now?” You lean back on the sofa. 

“I don’t want your girls.” Doflamingo approaches his bar cart and pours two heavy glasses of liquor. “I want you.” 

“I am no longer for sale since my promotion. You said it yourself.” You receive the cocktail from the much larger, pink coat clad man and sat back in your chair. 

“I said you no longer have to service clients… I am not a client, I am your king.” Doflamingo smirked as he took a sip of his drink. “You are mine, and I will accept nothing less.” The man strides away from you and takes a seat on his throne.

“I control The Nest now. I can provide you with any women or any desire that floats your interest. All you have to do is-“

“No. I will not have the other girls. I will have you.” Doflamingo smiles wickedly. 

You sigh. 

You glide across the room towards the Young Master.

“You may be the king of Dressrosa and the king of getting whatever you want, but I was assigned to oversee The Nest and I have done my job, Young Master. You cannot malign me for doing my duty.” You say as you square your shoulders. You tried too hard not to let your fear seep through, this man could end your life in a second but you were here in his throne room trying to make him squirm. 

“You’ve done your job, y/n… but unfortunately for you I’ve taken a liking to you and you will belong to me… mind, body and soul…”

You take a drag of your cigarette and sigh. 

“So I’m suck here?” You ask 

“Stuck? Love, it’s so much nicer than that. You don’t miss taking me?” Doflamingo says as he brushes off his coat and shirt. He swoops down to his knees and meets you at your level, lounging on the pink loveseat. You chuckle as he reaches your face level. 

“I can find someone to appease you, Young Master.” You put your hand on his massive wrist. 

“No.” 

You look up and look into your captor’s sunglasses covered eyes. 

“No one will ever touch you again. Only me. Or they’ll die. Not instantly, but in the worst way anyone could ever imagine.” Doflamingo grabs your cheek and forces you to face him. 

“I must insist that my girls-“

“NO!” He bellows. 

You tremble in fear. 

“Doffy….” You try to calm him and stroke his bicep. 

“No one touches you again… you’re mine…” Doflamingo pulls you against him and grinds your body onto his pelvis. 

“Doffy I can’t do this anymore…” You huff out quietly as you try not to enjoy the feeling of his massive hard on grinding against your sensitive sex. 

“You can…. You can, my love….. just let me show you…” Doffy picks you up and throws you against his chair and unties your robe, then pushes your panties down past your ankles. 

“Doffyyy…” You cry out and buck your hips up into the air as he pulls back. “If I agree to this arrangement… you have to leave my girls alone…” You choke out.

“Agree? Haha oh sweetheart you have no choice. I am your king and you’ll do as I say. I don’t want anything to do with those whores anyway. They don’t deserve to even be in my presence.” Doffy pulls your thighs apart forcefully, exposing your naked sex to him. 

“Those girls are nothing compared to you…” He continues. “Their filthy holes could never satisfy me the way yours do.” He strokes his huge hands up and down your thighs as he gets to his knees between your legs. He notices your pussy involuntarily clench at his words. “Now, I’m going to have my fill of this wet little cunt and you’re going to take it like a good slut. My good slut.”

“Yes, Young Master…” You give in. 

Doflamingo immediately dives in and bullies that damned long tongue deep into your waiting hole. You cry out and throw you head back. 

Lewd slurping noises echo off the stone walls of the throne room while you grip your king’s blonde hair for dear life. He pulls his tongue out of you to flick it harshly across your clit, making you whine. 

“Such a perfect pussy, so sweet… always so sweet for me…” He lowers his head again and continues bringing you closer and closer to the precipice of pleasure. You hated how good he was at this, being such an evil man, but your body was betraying you. With each deep probe of his tongue inside your walls and nudge of his nose on your clit, the coil in your lower tummy threatened to snap. 

“Shit, Doffy! I’m gonna cum, fuck!” You cry out. 

He pulls away. 

“Ask properly, you know how.” He demands. 

“Fuck fuck fuck, please let me cum I’m so close! Please!” You plead as you look down at him between your messy thighs, his lips were shiny with your copious amounts of slick. He smirks. 

“Cum then, my love.” He takes your clit between his lips and sucks harshly. 

“Ah!” You scream and release all over your sadistic lover’s face. He was being kind so far, clearly thrilled that you’ve agreed to his new terms. 

Doflamingo rises to his feet and grips your jaw in his massive palm and forces you to look up at him. 

“What do you say?” He says as he looms over you. 

“Thank you…” You breath out, still coming down from your high. 

“Good pet. Now get up, and bend that tight little ass over the arm here for me.” Doflamingo lets go of your jaw and waits for you to rise to your feet, undoing his pants in the process. You shakily stand and do as you're told, shedding your robe off your arms and taking your place bent over the arm of his throne, presenting yourself to him. 

You gasp as you feel the huge head of his cock tease your soaked opening. 

“Ready, darling?” You could hear the smirk in his voice. 

“Yes- AH!” You yelp loudly as he pushes into you forcefully and quickly. His cock was bigger than anything else you’ve ever had by far, but he’s taken you so many times now that you knew how to bear the stretch. 

“Shit!” Your eyes roll in the back of your head. 

“See this is why you’re my favorite…” Doffy begins to thrust into you harshly, not giving you any time to adjust. “Didn’t even need to open you up… this pussy was made for me… taking me so well…” His hands were so big they almost wrapped completely around your waist as he pulled you back and forth onto his cock. 

“Do! Ffy! S-slow! Down!” You try to plead with him. You were being bounced forward with each powerful slam of his hips hitting your ass and thighs. 

“No I don’t think I will!” Your king cackles from behind you as he delivers a hard spank to your right cheek. You scream in both pain and pleasure. He slaps your ass a few more times and continues his brutal assault on your sex. Your head was swimming and you could barely even hear the filthy, disgusting things that Doflamingo was spewing from behind you. 

“Oh, Doffy!” You cry out his name as he angles your hips to further access your G-spot with every stroke. His name felt like poison on your tongue but you were so lost in pleasure that it didn’t matter to you anymore. The world melted around you and the only thing you could feel was his hot breath on your back and the battering of his giant cock inside you. 

Suddenly you’re pulled up by your hair and your back was against Doflamingo’s huge exposed chest. 

“Going to cum again, little slut? Beg for it. Beg your king to make you cum.” He growls into your ear while gripping your scalp tightly. You whine. 

“Please! Please Doffy! Wanna cum so bad! Please!” Sweat drips from your neck down the valley of your breasts as you pant and beg to finish. 

“Cum. Do it now.” He reaches down and pinches your clit without faltering in his thrusts. 

You unravel immediately and squirt all over the throne beneath you. Your cunt spasms and you moan out with each wave of your orgasm wracking your body. Doflamingo releases your hair and you fall forward. 

“So fucking messy, just the way I like it!” Doffy laughs and grips your hips tightly, approaching his own climax. “I’m going to breed this cunt and keep you here with me forever, my sweet love.” 

“Doffy, wait! Shit!” You try to protest but it was no use. He was already groaning loudly and shooting rope after rope of thick cum into your womb, spilling out around his cock stretching your hole. With a final smack to your ass, Doflamingo pulls out of you and picks you up. He sits on his throne and pulls you onto his lap, still leaking his cum onto his thigh. 

“I-I have to get back to work, Young Master…” You try to wiggle out of his grip. 

“No, I don’t think you do. Not anymore.” He tightens his hold on you and smirks. 

“But… the arrangement… you said…” You look up at him. 

“Fuck what I said. You’ll be my queen.” 

xx

[bonezone44]

'Doesn't Nothing Ever Last Forever?' (18+)

Raider!Joel x afab!Reader

Word Count: 5,4k

(FYI: woman in moodboard is a side character.)

Summary: You worked in a brothel outside of a quarantine zone. Every once in a while, you got a visit from Joel and his men. This was your first time being around for one of those visits. (Reader is severely depressed and bisexual [relatable, amiright?]. Reader is not popular at the brothel.)

tags: DEAD DOVE, DO NOT EAT (tagging this to be safe!) Kidnapping, sexual slavery, group sex, overstimulation, rough oral (m). POV switching, canon-typical violence. -- Sex between Reader and Joel is non-con. Reader enjoys it, but the larger context doesn't allow for consent. Fingering, unprotected p-in-v. Degradation. Finger-sucking. Spanking. Orgasm control/denial. Joel is turned on by Reader's history w/ women. Reader is called slut, good girl, bad girl. Reader calls Joel "sir."

A/N: Written for @iamasaddie's writing challenge. ✏ I was so excited by their moodboards, I had to participate. Also, read @toxicanonymity for the original Raider!Joel which heavily inspired this one. 🙏 And special thanks to @milla-frenchy for helping me choose a story line. 😘

story masterlist - main masterlist

+++++

The days bled together, one right after the other. No matter how clear the skies were, a permanent fog had taken over your mind. 

The only reason you woke up that evening was all the commotion. You heard the roar of diesel engines and loud men laughing and yelling. The slamming of car doors. Then those voices got louder and closer. Obviously, they had made their way inside your building. You knew you should rise and shine. Get to work. But you stayed curled up on your bed cushion in the shared room as long as possible. Even after your boss had been calling for you.

It wasn’t the kind of job you punched in and out of. You lived in a brothel. You were paid by the client–and even then sometimes all you got was a spare coin or two. A ration slip, if you were really lucky. But those could only be spent at the nearby Quarantine Zone. And the four hour trek there and back was hell on your feet and knees.

Your boss, Larry, finally opened the door to your room, but didn’t say anything. Instead, he allowed the noise and chaos to do the job of waking you up.

You unfurled from the floor and wandered to the bathrooms, bare fit sticking to the tile floors. You had hoped no one would catch you and make you work. You hadn’t had it in you to do anything that day. What you really wanted to do was float away, fly with the clouds on the wind to somewhere far, far over the rainbow.

You found Trisha at the sinks, under the sickly green lights, already washing cum from her hands. 

“Joel and his crew are here again,” she mumbled. There was a tremor in her voice.

You nodded blankly. Tired.

She turned around and stared at you with wide eyes. “Joel,” she emphasized.

“Okay?” You shrugged. Your eyes bored into a growing mold stain in the corner.  

She scoffed. “Joel is the guy who bought Carrie.”

“What?” … ‘Bought Carrie?’ That didn’t sound right to you. “I just thought… she left.”

Trisha stared at you, aghast. The room was cold, but steam began to fog the mirror. “Are you fucking kidding me? You were there!” She shouted. “You were there when Larry told us he sold her for the fucking water heater!” She pointed at the filling sink.

You blinked. “...Oh.” You wiped your eyes with your hands. “I don’t… really remember.” Her words didn’t quite click it into place for you, but a dull memory played in the back of your mind. You remembered a ‘house meeting’ and hearing Carrie’s name a lot. You remembered getting the water heater. You remembered everyone being upset and yelling at Larry. You remembered curling in the corner, your brain checking out and wandering through the static of your own mind rather than feeling something–anything–in your own body.

That explained all the weird looks you had gotten later when you expressed excitement over the hot water. You had been happy about something for once and everyone responded by staring at you like you were a freak. 

But everyone you had ever met always felt so far away. Like you were so deep in the depths of your own mind that the world around you was a movie you were watching. All the people in your life were characters playing out their roles. So you did, too. You went through the daily motions, following some imaginary script in your mind. Playing a part. Doing whatever you thought you were supposed to.

Trisha started telling you more stories about Joel and his crew. About their violence. But none of it sounded real. It sounded like another movie to you. You stood, unmoving, wishing you had some bleach to clean the mold in the corner. You wanted to scrub the grout until it was pure again. Wipe away the layer of filmy mildew from the ceramic tiles. Disinfect every inch of porcelain in this piece of shit building. 

Another woman entered the bathroom, fully nude. “Well, look who decided to show up!” she spat at you. “Go out there and do your job. I need a fucking break.”

You sighed and resigned yourself to your fate. “Okay,” you muttered without meeting her eyes. You didn’t bother looking in the mirror or worrying about your clothes. You knew that in your line of work, they didn’t make a difference either way.

-

You walked out to the main room and saw about a dozen men scattered around the couches, women in their laps or on their knees. 

One woman was sitting naked in a guy’s lap while another guy roughly rubbed and slapped her clit. His laughter grossed you out. The woman was crying.  

Another woman was getting facefucked and choking. She pulled back to cough and breathe. The man she was sucking on held himself in a tight grip. He pushed the hair from her face and whispered softly to her, wiping away her tears, before shoving his cock right back in.

You nodded at the scene unaffected… well, mostly unaffected. You stared into the middle distance and focused on no one person in particular. The women’s moans were mostly performative–it was obvious. But the men didn’t seem to mind. Their moans were hungry and horny, enjoying whatever stimulation they seemed to be receiving. So that was what you focused on. Their blatant sexual desire. It fueled your own heat. A fire expanding in your chest and between your legs. Your mouth began to water. You sucked in your bottom lip, eager to feel flesh inside you. 

You weren’t sure how long you were standing there, watching. It merely occurred to you at some point that one of the men was walking up to you, blocking your view of the scene. He wore a dark brown leather jacket over a v-neck shirt.  A small, shiny gold cross hung around his neck and against his sunburned skin. He wore blue jeans and work boots.

Your boss, Larry, yammered in one of your ears at him.

“Joel,” he pleaded with clasped hands. “I’m sure you’d prefer someone like Trisha or-or-or Cameron. I’m sure, she’ll be right back out any minute!”

“No,” Joel says gruffly. “Her,” he pointed to you with his chin. 

“I’m sure. I’m sure.” Your boss chuckled uncomfortably and surrendered with empty palms. “Of course!” He grabbed you by the arm and tugged you toward the back of the building. He snarled in your ear. “Don’t fuck this up for me.” 

You wanted to shrug him off, but his grip was bruising. What could you ‘fuck up’ exactly? You had been working there for over a year. You weren’t popular, but you got the job done. You didn’t get along with any of the other women there, but what did that have to do with this guy, Joel?

Larry took you and Joel to one of the farthest rooms. It was the nice one with a real bed instead of a mattress or cushion on the floor. You had never been in it before. Not even to clean it. You looked around appraising the paint on the walls. There was a window, but it was dark out. The noise from the main room was barely audible. You liked being somewhere quiet again. 

#######

Joel and his crew pulled up around dinnertime in two pick-up trucks. The sun had set and the truck’s headlights bathed the front of the old office building in a warm, dull yellow.

The crickets were louder than hell that night. Joel remembered that much.

Not five seconds after his boys hopped out the trucks did the brothel owner come skittering out the front door with a nervous grin on his face.

Joel liked that. Piece o’ shit like that should be nervous. 

Joel hated Larry. The man was fucking pathetic. Weasel-y. So needy and desperate to please. Joel hated that Larry sold him a woman for a water heater. What kinda man would do something like that? This was supposed to be a brothel. The women were supposed to be his employees. He didn’t have the right to sell anybody.

But Joel had wanted her. And taking her outright would have caused more problems than it would have solved. So he figured a water heater would help keep things peaceful between them. Because his boys liked the brothel. Each little trip helped ease their minds. Gave them something to talk about and look forward to–something other than survival.

Joel’s needs were more permanent. He needed something more full-time rather than once every few months.

His boys started hooting and hollering as soon as the payment of supplies were unloaded and they got to hang out inside. The women weren’t even around yet, but they were more than ready for some physical entertainment. Joel remained standing while the rest of them spread out along the decaying leather couches lining the walls. A shitty little cd player sat in the corner playing old R&B music. He heard his brother, Tommy, singing along to it. 

Joel sighed and wiped his face with his hands.

Once Larry brought out a few women, the men started roaring. They were shouting and cheering, pulling their cocks out in excitement. Joel groaned. These boys didn’t know a goddamn thing about seducing a woman and their sad little dicks weren’t gonna get them anywhere neither.

Two of the guys grabbed one of the women, causing her to shout, but Joel was on them not a second later. He gripped their skulls, one in each of his giant hands, and knocked them together like coconut shells. 

“Ouch! What the hell, man?” asked one of them, rubbing the sore spot on his head. 

Joel shook his head with his eyes wide, boring into the depths of their souls. “Not until I say,” he spat.

They both tucked their heads under, murmuring. “Yes, Joel.” “Whatever you say, Joel.”

The woman got back in line while the boys sat down on the couch.

“I’m sure I’ve got a couple more on the way,” said Larry with a forced smile. “They’re just getting themselves cleaned up, I’m sure, after uh…  after finishing dinner.”

Joel grunted. He knew what he wanted–knew what kind of woman he was looking for. And he was quick to realize that none of the women in the room were it. So he waved his hand and his men let loose.

Joel stood with his arms crossed and his back against the front door. He kept his eye on the two troublemakers. Kept his ear on Tommy. Tommy was a talker. He loved to chat up the working women as if he was in a bar back home in Texas and looking to find himself a girlfriend. Joel thought Tommy was being ridiculous—acting like the women could say ‘no’ and walk away. Like he had to put real effort in. It annoyed the hell out of Joel. He wanted his crew to have their fun and be done with it. Why did Tommy have to make it so complicated?

Joel was getting bored and antsy the longer he waited. He was feeling needy, too, with the rough sounds of sex filling the air around him. But he was hopeful, preferring to be patient. And if, in the end, there was no woman he wanted, he would pick one at random and blow off some steam. He would find a replacement some other time or start looking around at the nearest Quarantine Zone.

  Then you walked in. 

And at first, Joel was ready to shrug you off, too. Sure, you were attractive. But looks weren't everything. That's what got him in trouble with the last woman. 

But something in your eyes changed as you scanned the room, taking in the sexual depravity. You didn't shrink in and shut down. You were turned on. He saw the way your chest rose and fell as your breaths shallowed and shortened. The way you chewed your bottom lip. The way you squirmed. That's what Joel needed. Someone as needy as him. 

The brothel owner tried to dissuade him. Huh, Joel wanted to laugh. As if that asshole knew a goddamn thing about what Joel wanted–about what Joel needed.

-

“Take your clothes off ‘n get on the bed,” he ordered after slamming the door shut behind him. He liked how quickly you complied. He didn’t understand why you were so calm, though. He unbuckled his belt, releasing the pressure from his stomach and allowing himself some room to breathe. He let the buckle hang and it jingled as he stepped closer to the bed. 

“All fours.”

Again, you complied swiftly and smoothly, facing the back wall.

He eyed you for any sores. Then he slipped his bare hand around the smooth curve of your ass and his fingertips prodded around your lips and entrance. You were already wet, he realized.  He slid the edge of his fingers forward against your clit. 

You moaned. Something fake and bland. 

He pulled his hand away and slapped you on the ass. “Hey.”  He grabbed you by the cheeks when you didn't immediately face him. Your eyes never met his. “Don't fuckin showboat me,” he warned. 

“Okay,” you said flatly. 

He didn’t like how detached you were. How unafraid. But he willed himself to be patient–the amount of wetness coating his fingers eased his anxiety. He continued to play with your folds as he asked questions.

He cleared his throat. “You like workin here?”

You shrugged. “It’s a job.”

“How long you been here?”

“About a year.”

Joel hummed. “I don’t remember you from last time.”

“Probably had the flu.” 

“You got over it okay?”

“Mm-hmm,” you nodded, closing your eyes. You seemed to like it when he moved his thick fingers around you real slow. He liked that.

“You got anything else? Any diseases?”

You shook your head. “I don’t get a lot of men.”

Joel paused. “Why not?”

You shrugged. “I dunno. They like the other girls better.”

“Why’s that?”

You shrugged again. “They’re better at fakin it.”

Joel didn’t know how to feel about that answer. He continued to rub your clit, feeling you get slicker. “So what? You do handjobs, blowjobs?”

“Mostly.”

He noticed an uptick in the tone of your voice. “You like doin those?”

“If the guy is cute.”

He slid his fingers from your clit to your entrance to your other hole. He didn’t push in, only pressed against it, and you sighed. “What about this?” he asked, biting his lip. “You like gettin your ass played with?”

You hung your head and nodded. “If they do it right,” you said with another uptick in your tone. 

Joel liked that. “Ever have a train run on ya?” He slid his fingers back to your clit.

“Yeah,” you answered with a whimper. 

“You like it?”

Your breath hitched as Joel’s fingers sped up. “Been through worse.”

“Worse? Here?” Joel asked, wondering what could happen at a brothel that was worse than a gang-bang.

“No just… you know…” you sighed with pleasure. “--in general.” 

Joel furrowed his brows. You were being honest with him. Too honest, in his opinion. But you were rolling your hips into his hand. And he didn’t want to make the same mistake twice.

He shoved two fingers inside of you without warning. Your body twitched and you moaned–and it was different this time. Quieter. Realer. Joel liked that. He didn’t mind taking his time to get you ready if he knew you would enjoy it. 

“You like fuckin, huh?”

“Who doesn’t?” You snickered, pushing back into his thrusting hand.

Joel took a deep breath, maintaining his composure. But he knew then that he wanted you. That you were just what he needed and more.

#######

You liked this Joel guy. He took his time. He was asking you questions, trying to get to know you. You don’t remember the last time anyone had done that. …Well, maybe when you first started working there. Trisha and Carrie and a couple of the other women tried, but this felt different for some reason. Like it was leading somewhere. Like there was a promise at the end of it. Like maybe he really wanted to make you come and he wasn’t just there for himself. 

And you liked his voice. It was smoky and deep. He had an accent like a cowboy. It was comforting, in a way.

And his fingers felt nice. He knew what he was doing. You couldn't remember the last time a guy got you that wet with just his hand.

Part of you felt a little hopeful. You thought you might finally get to have some fun like the other girls did. Most of the guys you got were ugly or just plain ol’ depressing. Another part of you couldn’t stop thinking about Carrie for some reason. You’re not sure why she kept coming up in your mind. You two never worked together. You barely knew her at all.

-

“You ever fuck the other women here?” Joel asked. 

“Mm-hmm,” you hummed in proud affirmation. It even pulled a smile from you. 

“What's that mean?”

You weren’t sure how you expected him to react. You weren’t sure why you answered that way. “It means… yeah,” you replied while embarrassment burned your cheeks. You had barely looked at him before, but now you really didn’t want to see his face.

“Yeah, you like fuckin women?” His voice turned breathy. You heard his buckle jingle and the slide of the zipper of his jeans. 

 It turned you on to know that he liked that. Some men hated it. Made you feel like shit for it. But man, this Joel guy was something else. It made you want more of him. More of his fingers. His voice. His skin. “Yeah,” you moaned and shoved yourself harder into his hands, thrusting his fingers deeper.

“So what? You lick their pussies? Rub your little cunts together?”

Your mouth hung open from his words. “yeah,” you said with a hot breath. He pulled his fingers from inside of you and drew circles on your clit. You started whimpering. You nodded your head as fire burned in your core and across your skin. 

“That’s why you work here, huh? You got a needy little cunt?”

His fingers were moving so fast, the muscles in your legs were jumping and your toes were curling. “Uh-huh,” you moaned loud enough for your voice to echo around the bare room.

“That why you left the Q-Z? This slutty hole wasn’t get fucked enough?” His fingers slid back inside your entrance. You’re not sure how many he stuffed in, but it was more than before. 

You nodded with a desperate moan, your right leg slapping the mattress beneath you in frustration. You needed more. His fingers, his words–they weren’t enough. Your body was hot and sparking and you needed-needed-needed. “Joel, please,” you begged, turning to face him, finally opening your eyes again. He was stroking himself and the sight of his cock made you drool. 

“Whatchu need, sweetheart?” He asked and you could almost kill him for it.  

“Please, please fuck me, Joel. Please.”

“Need it that bad, huh?” He kicked off his boots and shoved his pants all the way down to the floor. 

You got out of the way as he crawled into the bed and sat up against the headboard. 

“Come and get this cock, you fuckin slut,” he growled. One hand held his length while the other pulled you by the arm. 

You were too hungry to notice how tightly he gripped you. You hovered over his lap as he lined himself up with your entrance. You stared at the curve of his lips on the way down, the mix of gray and brown hairs in his mustache. But there was white on his cheeks and chin. You briefly wondered how old he was. But you couldn’t bring yourself to get a good look at his face. Too busy melting from the pressure of his cock stretching your walls. Fuck, it felt good. You braced yourself on his firm, wide shoulders and brought your hips back up a few inches before sinking down on his length even further. You groaned and tucked your head into his neck.

#######

You started sucking on his neck and his hips began to thrust up into you.

“It ain’t enough that I’m stuffin your cunt?” he grunted. “You need me in your mouth, too?”

You moaned against his throat, sending goosebumps all over his skin. “Yeah,” you said through panting breaths, before latching back on, teeth and tongue digging into his muscle. 

Joel liked you. He really liked you. You were wet and riding him just right. You weren’t mechanical about it, neither–like Joel was just another job to you. There was a sadness to you, sure. It was probably why you didn’t get a lot of men. Men wanted to forget their troubles at the brothel. Have some fun. They wanted the world outside to disappear with their cock inside a woman.

But Joel had tried that. And it hadn’t worked out so good.

So this time, he looked for someone different. Someone who would understand. Someone who would get why he needed to fuck and when and how he needed to fuck, too. 

And you were telling him everything he needed to know. He was learning what you wanted and what you liked and what he could use to threaten you into compliance. 

He pulled you away from his neck, not sure how he felt about being covered in hickeys. “Here,” Joel prodded your lips with his middle and ring finger. “Suck on this, you greedy little slut.”

And you did, moaning desperately as you rolled your hips in his lap. You gagged as he slid his fingers back and forth on your tongue, saliva spilling from the edges of your lips and down your chin. Your eyes were closed and he knew there was nothing going on in your mind. He knew you were focused on nothing but how good he was making you feel.

You started bouncing on his cock and he slapped your ass with his free hand. He gripped your hip hard enough to bruise, forcing you to stop.

“Did I say you could do that?”

Your eyes popped open–meeting his directly. You tried to pull your head away to answer, but Joel shoved his fingers in even further.

He repeated himself. “You tryin to come right now? Did I say you could?”

You let out a pathetic whine and shook your head.

He slapped your ass again and this time he noticed your pussy clench around him. He heard a small moan grow and die in your throat. “You come when I fuckin say you can come,” he snarled with his teeth clenched. He smacked your asscheek again and thrust up into you. 

You whimpered and squeezed your eyes shut. 

“That turn you on?” He gripped your ass in his hand. “You like takin’ your medicine, bad girl?”

You tried to turn your head, but Joel still had his fingers in your mouth and he held you in place. You looked at him with the most pathetic, pleading look.

“I asked you a question,” Joel growled with wide eyes. His cock twitched inside of you. “You like takin’ your medicine? You like bein told what to do?”

You squeezed your eyes shut again and quietly nodded.

Joel liked that. He liked that a lot. He took his fingers from your mouth and gripped your cheeks. Your eyes popped open again. He licked his lips. “You be a good girl and make me come first, then we’ll see what you get, okay?”

You nodded.

“Now what do you say?”

Your brows furrowed. 

“When I tell you what to do, what do you say?”

Your face softened. You blinked slowly before answering. “Yes, sir.”

“That’s right.” Joel grunted and thrusted his hips. “Now, make me come, you little slut.” His fingers dug into your own hips to guide your rhythm to what he wanted. “Make me come and we’ll see what you get.”

“Yes, sir. Yes, sir,” you murmured again and again.

Your warm, wet cunt sucked him in and stroked him. He could hear it, too, how drippy and turned on you were. It wasn’t long before he tossed you off him with a grunt, throwing you onto your back on the bed. He only fisted his cock twice before shooting his spend on your spread open pussy, on the hair on your mound. He wiped his cum down and around on your clit. “Come on, girl. You can come now. Come on,” he chanted. He rubbed your clit back and forth with the flat of his four fingers. “Give that greedy little cunt what it needs. Come on.”

Your body curled in as you orgasmed and you moaned loudly into your arm. Joel didn’t see the need for you to be quiet, but it was too late to do anything about it now. He rubbed you with his thumb until your legs clasped shut and you squirmed away.

He wiped his hands on the sheets and got up from the bed. He pulled his jeans back on, but waited to buckle his belt. He sat back down and put his shoes on.

You were still lying where he left you. Curled up in the fetal position. It almost looked like you were falling asleep. He figured you might as well rest up now. The drive back home was a bumpy one.

He sighed when he stood up. He figured he should get the liquor bottles out of the truck sooner than later. He huffed. Larry was a real piece of shit for trading a woman for liquor. But Joel wanted you. And he was gonna have you.

#######

You were reeling. Sexually, you were satisfied, but every other emotion bursted and channeled itself through your muscles and across your skin. You felt so vulnerable. This man had seen you–seen you! Like you were a real person or something! Like you weren’t just a ghost or a character in a movie! Everything felt wrong and you couldn’t figure out why. And you couldn’t stop thinking about Carrie for some reason.

You stayed as still as possible until you heard Joel’s booted footsteps leave the room. You were grateful he didn’t say anything or try to touch you again. Your body trembled as you got out of the bed. You walked on shaky legs to the bathrooms to clean yourself. The world around you was so close and too clear. You could hear and differentiate everyone’s voices in the main room. The air was humid and you could taste it–actually taste it like it was a wet, moldy cloud in your mouth. 

Your hands tremored. You tried to exert control over them, but you were barely able to turn on the sink. You mostly swatted at the faucets until water came out. And there was no comfort to be had in the warm, rushing water. You noticed tension in your cheeks and thought you wanted to cry, but couldn’t make any tears come out.

The woman in the mirror scared you. It was you. You knew it was you. But she felt unfamiliar. Three dimensional. You wanted to run. Run away to the Quarantine Zone or—or anywhere but here.

Then you heard screaming, shrill screams from what had to be one of the other women. Suddenly you were being dragged out of the bathroom. Trisha’s hands were on you. Her fingers were small and thin and her skin was smooth and cold. You had never noticed before.

The lights in the main room were so bright that you could see everything. Every small piece of leather that had flaked off each of the couches and landed on the dirty, carpeted floor. The carpet itself was covered in dust and dirt and leaves. Where did the leaves come from? you wondered. How did they get tracked inside? Weren’t people wiping their shoes like they were supposed to?

There were people moving around. Naked. Half-naked. Clothed. All talking over each other. And blood. Bright red blood. One of the women, with long gold hair, was covered in it, shrieking in pain with both her hands on her hip. Two others guided her past you towards the back. One of Joel’s men was apologizing to Larry. He had black curly hair and a thick mustache. Larry was screaming in his face.

You saw Joel from the back as he pushed himself up from the couch. His shoulder rose and fell with deep, heaving breaths. There was blood dripping from his fist and there was someone beneath him. Once he stepped away, you saw an oblong fleshy ball of bright red where a face should have been. The body beneath the ball didn’t move. 

You folded in half and started heaving. Trisha shrieked in your ear. 

“I’m so sick of you assholes coming here and-and-and-and–” Larry was caught in a loop as he pulled his gun from his pocket. It was a small revolver. You watched his gray-skinned thumb pull back the hammer. “I’m sure! I’m sure!” he yelled over the shouting.

The man with the black curly hair lunged at Larry with a curse. 

The gun-shot stilled everyone in the room. It was loud enough that for a moment, you thought you had been shot. The vibrations pierced you to the very center of your being. But then… Larry was on the floor. Sprinkled with dust from the ceiling tile. And then there was more blood. Bright red blood spilling out from his body. 

You breathed in relief. Not only that you were still alive, but that it was Larry that was dead. For a few beautiful seconds, you felt free. Free from his bullshit and free from the brothel. Free to go back to the quarantine zone and start over again.

Trisha’s smooth fingers pulled one of your arms, but something warm and calloused pulled your other. You looked up, confused. It was Joel. Joel’s hand, which had been on you only minutes previous, felt so strange and unfamiliar. You had just shared a bed with him but–that had been a different man. Certainly different than the one that stood before you now with blood-splattered on his clothes and sweat beading around his temples. 

“You can’t take her!” Trisha cried, tears pouring out her eyes. “You can’t take her!”

“Sorry, darlin’,” he said. Joel’s eyes looked sad. “She’s mine now.”

Terror fell over you like a cold, biting wind. He was talking about you.

Your body started trembling again. You tried and failed to pull your arm away from his grip. “NO!” You shouted. Your vision went blurry as you sobbed. “Don’t take me! Please!” That was why you couldn’t stop thinking about Carrie. Joel had bought Carrie. Trisha had told you that Joel had bought Carrie. But the information hadn’t clicked into place. You had spent so long avoiding your body, avoiding feeling any emotion at all that when it spent all night trying to warn you, you couldn’t hear it. You couldn’t feel the siren in your gut telling you to stay away from Joel. And now that siren was loud and clear. But it was far too late for you to do anything about it. “Don’t take me! Pleasepleaseplease!”

Joel didn’t budge. He leaned in real close to you. “Now you told me you like bein told what to do.” Your face went fiery hot with shame. He yanked your arm, pulling you from Tasha’s grip. “And right now, I’m tellin you that you’re comin with me.” He continued to pull you out the front door, towards his truck.

“No! Nonono!” You cried. You tried one more time to shake him off, but it was pointless. He was too strong. You were too weak. And you started to wonder if you could have prevented this or if it was simply your fate. Your own boss hadn’t been able to say ‘no’ to these men. What could someone like you have done?

You sobbed into your hands as you sat in the truck. The man with the black curly hair got in the driver’s seat. Joel sat on the other side of you and rubbed your back in some sick attempt at comfort. “You be good for me–” he said, adjusting himself. “--then we’ll see what you get.” 

+++++

a/n: Please let me know if I missed a tag. Also, idk if it's really a DDDNE story or not. ??

story title taken from the song "Mary the Ice Cube" by Primus.

[mamaclownhunter]

Adding to the Empress Shen Quingqui agenda-

But also Peak Lord Shen Quingqui

This got away from me

All of these are headcanons (mixed on canon information but I feel more comfortable calling it all headcanon)

Bc here is the thing- he absolutely is now filling the favored teacher role most anime’s cling to.

One he is a badass- he rolls into his new life and is already fucking nailing it, finding loopholes, playing the part- learning his powers with proficiency.

He has the lower half of his face hidden, he is grace and elegance. The chilled demeanor of someone who is unbothered and brilliant. All the while having fun while being untouchable in a fight.

He is a closet weirdo. The type of weirdo that kids will see and cling to. The relatable weirdo of someone who just does strange things- and flails to maintain the image he has. I am adding a gossip hoarder (can you blame him??? He loves this world with all his fucking heart and the gossip is fucking awesome everything from Scandals to murders to monsters) - oh! How can I forget Fauna and flora obsessed fan boy???

Actually a good teacher though. In strange ways but the kids actually learn and respect him (I am obsessed with mother goose Shizun- you don’t understand this man has children flocking him and he is a goose. Elegant, long and will fucking murder you for his brood of disciples sorry Binghe you are special but not that that special. You can adopt them too.)

Lastly he absolutely still reads trashy books but instead of being a pervert he is just criticizing them. How dare this- how dare that. Peerless cucumber extraordinare- but also the brothal streak OG SQQ did but I thought it was clever for SY to make it seem like he went to brothels for information.

But we have to look at these traits as an outsider.

Empress Shen Quingqui being this soft bamboo green figure next to the black and red Emperor. He has a fan over his face but is elegant and beautiful.

Most demons know to not let this fool you. Here is the major issue- this man is not always hard to capture but the Gamble is Luo Binghe has to be relatively nearby (because Wife plot!) but! If he sees you touch his precious Shizun you are dead. That is the gamble. Because alone? It is a fucking fight for your life. This is a competent Peak Lord after all- he kills people with leaves. He has fun- not sadistic fun mind you- but like a human playful fun. Like it is a game. If you try to capture him near his peak- the War God will come down on you.

Do not let the Empress fool you. He is a demon. A human demon. He is a bastard and sharp tongued, he will happily talk to you about your family and your culture, he will happily accommodate demons, he playfully floats around monsters bc and quote “I just think they are neat” (Queen Shang Qinghua always laughs), he! Scolds! The! Emperor!, he is strange and bossy but also so friendly and open- the demons have whiplash

Meanwhile Peak Lords- knew who Shen Quingqui was before his Qi Deviation. He was a caustic, envious cruel son of a bitch whose energy sat like a rock next to Yue Qingyuan- oppressive air sank around him, you always got a chill looking at him. Then one day he is sitting there gentle smiles and feeling refreshing to be near. He is engaging and still quick and sharp- but now it feels less like a climber looking for a foot hold- it feels more precise with just enough air of teasing.

He is strange now too- rambling on about plants and animals. He is more serene. That fan of his a deft weapon and skill.

Students look at him in fucking awe after the switch, he is gentler- firmer- but I am so obsessed with SQH calling the disciples a gaggle of ADHD children. How much do you want to bet SQQ (SY is soooo neurodivergent it hurts his life is his hyperfixation and his crops are thriving), he is that one anime scene in action anime where you have monsters or enemies closing in on SQQ and he is just serenely in the middle eyes closed fanning himself.

Barely have to lift his pretty hand to dispatch them.

(Internally you have chronically on line loser SY boasting and arrogantly praising himself absolutely imaging it in an anime- I love him I am obsessed-)

The rest of the cultivation world learns his actual perverted Vice is reading trashy porn- and not for pleasure- no he gets his pleasure by hating it (but he is reading it bc he found his demon husband with it and there is a horrified fascination to it)- he is actually rather easily flustered! But also extremely obtuse! What a strange man!

I love ourwardly well earned badass SQQ, I love that he gets caught up in wife plots, I love that there is a proximity to Binghe that sends him into a wife plot or battle couple. I love how he is human in a way that I want more outsider pov, SQQ with the badass mother goose with a monster problem.

I want to see Demons and Cultivators horrified as this man delicately flutters like a leaf getting swatted by a cat around very deadly monsters, I want him to be hiding how he is absolutely devouring gossip. This is the OP Protagonists HUSBAND- an adhd literature nerd who is just faking it until he makes it.

[kc-writes-sometimes]

Crown and Kin | Chapter Three

Ao3 Account | Masterlist

Chapter Three: The Red Keep

Word Count: 4,146

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x Original Female Character

Summary: Daella faces the true dangers of the city, and a terrifying encounter leaves her questioning everything she once knew about her safety. As danger closes in, a familiar figure comes to her rescue, but their appearance only deepens the mysteries surrounding her past.

Themes & Warnings: 18+, Character Death, Rape/Non Con, Future Smut, Canon Typical Violence, Canon Typical Incest, Angst, Dad Daemon Targaryen, Bastards and Brothels, Fluff, Friends to Enemies to Lovers, Canon Divergence, Dysfunctional Family, Team Black Centric, Slow Burn, Eventual Romance

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Daella of King's Landing

Daella froze as the men inched closer, her feet sinking into the muddy ground as if the earth itself conspired to hold her captive. There was nowhere to go. Their leering gazes crawled over her trembling form, and she finally understood the true dangers of King’s Landing. She had walked these streets before, stepping over pools of blood and freshly cut bodies, never once caring because it hadn’t been her blood, her body. Trouble had always kept its distance—after all, who would care about a bastard like her? But now, as these men closed in, she realized that there were those who simply didn’t care. To them, she wasn’t a person, just a young girl ripe for the taking.

She screamed as she hit the ground, the impact softened by the mud, but sharp pain flared as her head snapped back. The world swam before her eyes, fogging her vision. She kicked out desperately, but their laughter only grew louder, taunting her.

“Looks like we’ve got ourselves a fighter, lads,” one of them jeered, kneeling over her, his weight pinning her down. His rough hands tore at her nightdress, pulling it apart. Daella squeezed her eyes shut and screamed, praying someone—anyone—would hear her. Her voice grew raw with terror, tears streaming down her face, but his laugh cut through her cries. “Keep going, I like it when they scream.”

Suddenly, silence. The only sound was her own heartbeat pounding in her ears, and her ragged breathing. A heavy weight collapsed on top of her, and she felt something wet and warm soak through the remains of her dress. She opened her eyes and stared into the lifeless, terror-stricken face of the man who had just been on top of her—his head severed from his body. She scrambled out from beneath the decapitated corpse, her limbs trembling as she stood and stared at the growing pool of blood.

A choked gurgle drew her attention further down the road. Daemon stood over another man, wrenching his sword from the man’s gut. Daella’s gaze swept over the scene, taking in the five bodies now littering the path between her and the man who claimed to be her father. Five men dead. Their evil wiped from the world. A strange, cold satisfaction welled up inside her. She couldn’t help but feel relieved, even happy.

She stepped over the bodies, moving slowly toward Daemon. Hearing her approach, he whirled around, sword poised, the blade slicing through the air above her head. Confusion clouded his features for a moment before he realized there was nothing left to fight. His gaze softened as he lowered his sword and dropped to his knees before her, his hands gently cradling her tear-stained face. “Are you hurt?” he asked, his voice thick with panicked concern.

Daella shook her head slowly, the motion numb. She rubbed at her wet cheeks before launching herself at him, wrapping her arms around his neck and burying her face in the crook of his shoulder. Her tears soaked his collar as he lifted her off the ground. “Shh, little one,” he murmured, stroking her back in comfort. “Let’s get you to Mellos.”

The guards watched them closely as they ascended the steps of the Red Keep, their faces drawn with apprehension, but none dared stop them. Laughter and music floated from the hall ahead, a stark contrast to the horror Daella had just escaped. They moved deeper into the keep, down a long corridor where two knights in polished silver armour stood on either side of large wooden doors, their pristine white cloaks a stark contrast to the blood still streaking Daemon’s hair.

Daemon exhaled sharply as they approached the doors and the knights guarding them. One of them was young, with slightly tanned skin and wavy brown hair, his eyes burning with barely concealed rage as they settled on Daemon. The other was older, tall and broad, his bald head gleaming in the torchlight, a greying beard adding to his severe appearance. The older knight stepped forward, his voice formal. “We were not aware of your arrival, My Prince. The King is currently indisposed.”

“I have no desire to see my brother yet, Lord Commander,” Daemon replied, his tone dry and impatient. “I only wish to borrow his maester.”

“The maester is also occupied,” the younger guard snapped, his words edged with disdain.

Daemon’s eyes narrowed as he turned his gaze on the young knight. “Well, Crispin, be a good little dog and un-occupy him.”

The young knight shot a glance at the older man, who nodded curtly. He spun on his heel and pushed through the heavy doors, leaving them slightly ajar. Through the gap, Daella caught a glimpse of a grand hall bathed in golden light. At the far end, a man stood at a raised table, cup in the air as if to make a speech. A stout man leaned in to whisper in his ear. The man with the cup suddenly looked toward them, his brow furrowing in displeasure.

The knight returned, glaring at Daemon as he addressed him. “The King wishes to see you.”

Daemon rolled his eyes, scoffing. “Now? In there?” He sighed, pulling Daella tighter against him as he headed up the steps and into the hall.

As they passed, Daella glanced back at the two knights. Ser Criston sneered at her, but the older knight stepped forward, blocking her view with a finality that sent a shiver down her spine.

The hall was breathtaking, with dragon silhouettes and red ribbons hanging from the ceiling, swaying gently in the breeze. Two long tables were laden with food—more than Daella had ever seen in her life. A roasted pig, platters of fruit, and golden loaves of bread. To the right, a group of musicians stood with instruments poised, their lively tune faltering as the room fell into a stunned silence.

No one spoke as Daemon strode down the central aisle, his boots echoing on the stone floor. All eyes were on them, the whispers quieting as they took in the blood-streaked man and the girl in his arms, her once-white nightdress now torn and stained red.

As they neared the raised table, Daella took in the features of the man with the cup. His sharp nose and silver hair mirrored Daemon’s, though his was pinned back beneath a heavy crown. Her breath caught in her throat as she realized who he was. This was Daemon’s brother. This was the King.

“My King,” Daemon said softly, bowing his head.

Daella scanned the people seated beside the King. To his left was a beautiful young girl with long silver hair flowing down her back, the shade only slightly darker than Daemon’s. Her dress was off the shoulder and black, silver stitching ran throughout it, creating the illusion of scales.

On the King’s right sat a slightly older woman, no less beautiful, her long auburn curls framing a face of stern beauty. She wore a dark green dress, embellished with gold detailing, and a small seven-pointed star sat in the divot of her throat. She was deep in conversation with a young man beside her, her face pinched in frustration. The boy, with silver hair grazing his shoulders, looked like he’d rather be anywhere else.

The King studied Daella, his face lined with confusion and concern. His eyes flicked back to Daemon, hardening. “Why have you returned, Daemon?” The displeasure in his voice was unmistakable.

“Mellos was the closest maester,” Daemon replied, his voice stiff. “I have only come to have our wounds seen to and beg an audience with my brother.”

Ser Harwin appeared, and Daella’s gaze snapped toward him as he approached the older, stout man sitting a few spaces down from the king. As he turned, his gaze locked with hers, and her heart skipped. “Daella,” he whispered, confusion flashing in his eyes as he hurried around the table, his expression quickly turning to concern.

Daemon turned to face him, his gaze hardening to steel as Ser Harwin approached.

The King’s eyes narrowed as he watched. “Do you know this child, Harwin?” he asked, his voice sharp with confusion.

“I do, Your Grace,” Ser Harwin replied, his eyes never leaving Daella. “Give her here,” he demanded, arms outstretched.

Daella shrank further into Daemon’s embrace, clinging to him.

Daemon’s voice was low and deadly as he glared at Ser Harwin. “I like you, Ser Harwin, but touch her, and you’ll lose a hand.”

“What in the seven hells is going on?” the King barked in confusion, slamming his cup onto the table.

The red-haired woman’s gaze landed on Daella, taking in her torn dress and the fresh bruises on her legs. “Dear gods, what has happened to that child?” she exclaimed, her voice trembling with concern.

Daella turned to her, her voice barely a whisper. “Bad men.”

The woman’s face pales, her eyes wide with horror. “Lord Commander Westerling,” the red-haired woman commands, her voice firm with authority, “escort Daemon and the child to a guest chamber. Send for Grand Maester Mellos immediately. Have the servants draw a bath and find her something to wear. Burn that dress afterwards.”

The Lord Commander bows. “At once, My Queen.”

Daemon’s gaze met the Queen’s, his voice low and controlled as he quietly said, “Thank you.” Though his words were formal and polite, an undercurrent of tension simmered beneath them. He turned to follow the knight, but his eyes found the silver-haired woman standing beside the King for a fleeting moment. Her violet eyes lingered on him, almost imperceptibly, as though drawn to him against her will. A silent moment stretched between them, so subtle that it might have gone unnoticed by others, but it felt heavy with something unsaid. She hesitated, her breath catching before her gaze shifted, reluctantly, to Daella.

“Niece,” Daemon said, the soft smile tugging at his lips feeling both familiar and distant, as though there was more behind the word than he dared to reveal.

“Uncle,” she replied, her voice quiet, as if afraid to speak any louder. Daella shifted in Daemon’s arms, glancing over his shoulder. The woman’s gaze followed him, her composure barely concealing the warmth in her eyes. A faint blush touched her cheeks, fleeting but noticeable, before her eyes flickered forward, as if she was suddenly aware of being watched. Yet, in that brief exchange, something lingered—something unspoken but undeniably present—slipping away as quickly as it had come.

As they were led away, Daella, peering over Daemon’s shoulder, caught sight of two children. A beautiful silver-haired girl, engrossed in a glass case, muttered softly to herself. But it was another boy, close to Daella's age, with silver hair like Daemon’s, who captured her attention. His gaze met hers, piercing and unreadable, holding a curiosity or silent question that she was too exhausted to understand.

The King’s voice boomed behind them, cutting through the thick silence. “Alicent, what is the meaning of—” His words were abruptly silenced as the heavy doors closed behind them, shutting out the noise of the hall and the festivities within.

Once inside the private chamber, the atmosphere shifted, becoming heavy with the scent of burning wood and the muted crackle of the fire. An old man in a cream-colored robe knelt at Daella's feet, carefully bandaging her wounds as she stared at the charred remains of her nightgown crumbling into the flames. The heat from the fire seemed distant, almost unreal, as though the pain and fear had dulled her senses to everything but the steady, rhythmic motion of the maester’s hands.

“How bad are her injuries?” Daemon’s voice broke the silence, low and measured, though the tension in his posture revealed the depth of his concern. He watched the maester from his seat at the table, his chin resting on clasped hands, his eyes never leaving Daella’s bandaged feet.

“Her injuries are minor, My Prince,” the maester replied, his voice steady with the authority of experience. “Other than the bump on her head and the cuts on her feet, she appears to be in good health. However, she must try to stay off her feet so they may heal properly.” The old man groaned slightly as he rose from his kneeling position, his movements slow and deliberate.

“And what of the bruising?” Daemon’s voice sharpened, his violet eyes narrowing as they fixed on the maester.

“The bruising does not extend past the knees, so I do not believe it necessary to examine the girl further at this time. Should anything change, have her brought to me immediately,” the maester advised, his chains clinking softly as he gathered his things and moved toward the door.

“Thank you, Maester,” Daemon said with a curt nod, his attention already shifting back to Daella as the old man exited the room.

Daemon approached her slowly, his presence filling the space as he sat down beside her on the settee. His eyes softened as they met hers, the intensity from moments ago replaced with a gentleness that felt almost foreign. “How are you feeling?” he asked, his voice tender as if afraid that speaking too loudly might shatter the fragile calm.

“Scared... and sleepy,” Daella whispered, her voice small and tired as she curled her feet beneath her, seeking comfort in the warmth of the blankets.

“Let’s get you to bed, sweet girl,” Daemon murmured, his tone a soothing balm to the lingering terror in her chest. He lifted her effortlessly, cradling her against his chest as he carried her to the large bed in the centre of the room.

The mattress was soft and warm, as though someone had prepared it just for her. Daemon tucked the covers around her with the same care one might use for a fragile piece of glass, his touch light but reassuring. He stroked her hair gently, sitting beside her as she settled into the bed.

“Can you tell me a story?” Daella asked, her voice barely more than a breath as she curled into a ball, seeking the comfort of his presence.

“Of course, I can, my sweet,” Daemon replied, his hand continuing its soothing motion through her hair. “Aegon the Conqueror and his sisters, Visenya and Rhaenys—” His voice, low and steady, became a lullaby that pulled her into the welcoming arms of sleep. As she drifted off, the horrors of the night faded, replaced by the safety and warmth of Daemon’s presence. For the first time since the terror began, Daella felt truly safe.

The soft morning light trickled through the windows, bathing the room in a warm, golden glow. A quiet creak followed by a gust of air pulled Daella from sleep. As she opened her eyes, she took in the unfamiliar surroundings: soft green wallpaper covered the walls, statues of the seven-pointed star were purposefully placed around the room, and even the books on the shelves bore the same star on their spines. The blankets that covered her were green as well, completing the theme. Her gaze drifted toward the adjoining room, where the boy she had seen the night before stood in the doorway, staring at her, his chest rising and falling rapidly as though he had been running.

She pushed the covers aside and slipped out of bed, walking toward him. Her eyes raked over his form, taking in his dishevelled appearance. His long hair was a mess, sticking up in every direction, and his fancy clothing was smeared with black soot. The smell of smoke clung to him, sharp and undeniable.

“Why do you look like that?” Daella asked, gesturing to his blackened tunic with a questioning tilt of her head.

“Dragons,” he answered breathlessly, leaning against the wall as though to steady himself.

Daella gasped, her eyes widening in awe. “You have a dragon? Can I see it?” She rushed toward him, her excitement bubbling over as she grabbed his hand eagerly. “Please, please, can I see your dragon?”

“No!” he snapped, yanking his hand away from hers with such force that it stung. His glare was sharp, his expression hardening as he stepped back, his eyes flickering with something like shame or frustration.

“Why not?” Daella huffed, crossing her arms over her chest, a pout forming on her lips. She felt the weight of her disappointment pressing down on her.

“Because I don’t have a dragon!” he shouted, his face flushing with embarrassment as his gaze dropped to the floor.

“Oh.” The disappointment vanished as quickly as it had come, replaced with an understanding nod. “That’s okay. I don’t have a dragon either.” She patted his shoulder gently, offering him a small, reassuring smile. “How did you get in here?”

“Come,” he said, his voice quieter now as he took her hand again, leading her to the far side of the room. He pressed hard against the wall, and to her amazement, a hidden passageway opened, revealing a dark, musty corridor. “These can take you anywhere in the keep, and no one can see you. As long as you don’t mind rats,” he added with a mischievous grin.

Daella's eyes widened with wonder. The thought of sneaking through the keep, unseen, sent a thrill through her. Rats didn’t bother her—she’d seen plenty in Flea Bottom. As long as you left them alone, they tended to leave you alone too.

“Daella!” Ser Harwin’s voice boomed from the other room, followed by a heavy knock on the door. “Why is this door locked? Daella!”

Daella glanced back toward the relentless banging of the door, her heart skipping a beat. “Coming!” she called out, turning to the boy, who was already stepping into the hidden passage. “Go, before he breaks through the door,” she whispered with a smile.

The boy’s violet eyes met hers one last time before he disappeared into the darkness of the corridor.

Quickly, Daella unlocked the door and opened it wide for Ser Harwin. He strode in, worry etched across his face, and without a moment’s hesitation, he knelt down and pulled her into a tight hug. His embrace was warm, grounding her in its familiarity.

“What happened, Daella? Why are you here?” he asked, his voice thick with concern as he pulled away to examine her face.

“Daemon found me in the market,” Daella began, the words tumbling out as tears welled up in her eyes. “He wasn’t happy that I was alone again, so he took me home. He was arguing with Rose, and I—I ran. I tried to find you, but I couldn’t. There were men... they tried to hurt me.” She sniffled, wiping the tears from her cheeks. “Daemon killed them. He brought me here and made sure I was okay.”

“I’m sorry I wasn’t there, sweet girl,” Ser Harwin murmured, pulling her into another hug. His voice was heavy with guilt. “I’m sorry I couldn’t protect you.”

Daella pressed her face into his chest, finding comfort in the familiar scent of him. “Is Prince Daemon really my father?” she asked, her voice muffled by his tunic.

Ser Harwin gently pulled her away, his eyes softening as he looked at her tear-streaked face. “Your mother always said he was,” he admitted quietly. “It’s why Rose and I tried so hard to keep you safe. We didn’t know how Prince Daemon or the King would react, but it seems that the Prince cares for you.”

His words sank in, but there was still so much she didn’t understand. “What are you doing in the keep, Harwin?” she asked, furrowing her brow. “I thought you’d be with the City Watch.”

“My father is the King's Hand, Daella. I’m expected to maintain a presence at court, which means attending feasts and announcements whenever needed.” He chuckled softly, stroking her hair. “Like the one you and Prince Daemon interrupted last night when you walked in covered in blood.”

Daella smiled sheepishly at the memory, but before she could say more, Harwin’s tone shifted back to concern. “Enough about me. Are you alright? What did the Maester say?”

“I think I’m fine,” Daella replied, her brow furrowing in confusion. “The Maester told Daemon that I was in good health apart from the bump on my head and the cuts on my feet. He said the bruises didn’t go past my knees.” She paused, trying to make sense of the cryptic statement. “I don’t know what that means, but I feel alright. Just a little scared.”

Harwin’s eyes softened further, and he nodded in understanding. “Ah, I see,” he said, though he didn’t elaborate. The silence that followed was thick, hanging in the air like a question left unanswered.

“Do you think the King will let me stay?” Daella asked suddenly, breaking the stillness. “I like it here... well, apart from all the green,” she added with a small laugh, glancing at the verdant surroundings.

Harwin chuckled and ruffled her hair. “That’s up to the King, little flame. But if you’re family, I’m sure things will work out the way they are supposed to.” His smile was warm, but beneath it, Daella sensed the weight of what was to come. Harwin’s smile lingered, but there was a heaviness in his eyes. “The King is a hard man to read, but you belong here more than you know, Daella.”

His words brought Daella a sense of relief, though her thoughts were still a jumble. She leaned into his side as he stood, and they walked toward the door together, her mind still racing with unanswered questions.

As Harwin opened the door, sunlight flooded in from the hall, and for a moment, Daella was blinded by its brightness. She stopped and turned to him, her voice barely above a whisper. “Harwin… if Daemon really is my father, will he want me to stay? Or does he just feel like he has to?”

Harwin knelt down to face her again, his expression thoughtful. “Daemon may be many things, Daella. He’s fierce, unpredictable, and often more driven by duty than emotion. But what I’ve seen… the way he looks at you… there’s something there. Maybe he’s just beginning to realize it, but he cares for you. I believe he wants you here.”

The weight of his words made Daella’s heart swell with hope, but also uncertainty. She nodded slowly, trying to make sense of it all, but before she could respond, the sound of distant footsteps echoed down the hall. Harwin straightened up, glancing over his shoulder. “I’ll have to go soon, but if you ever need me, you know where to find me. Stay close to the Prince for now, alright?”

“I will,” Daella promised, gripping his arm for a moment before letting go.

As Harwin left, the room suddenly felt too big, too empty. Daella stood there, staring at the door for a long moment, unsure of what to do next. A part of her wanted to explore those hidden passages, to run through the castle unseen and discover its secrets. But another part of her felt the weight of the past few days settling over her, the exhaustion of everything that had happened.

She glanced back toward the passage the boy had shown her, curiosity pulling her toward the unknown. But the memory of his violet eyes watching her before he disappeared lingered in her mind, and she decided to wait. There would be time for that later.

For now, she headed back to the bed and sat on its edge, staring at the green blankets that surrounded her. This place felt foreign, but at the same time, there was a strange comfort in it. Maybe this was where she belonged after all. Maybe she had a place here, with Daemon, with Harwin… with her family.

She didn’t know what the King would decide, or what Daemon would want in the end. But for now, she had the chance to find out. And that was more than she had ever thought she would have.

As the day moved forward and the castle stirred to life outside the door, Daella lay back on the bed, letting the soft green light wash over her. There was so much ahead—uncertainties, dangers, and decisions to be made—but for now, in this quiet moment, she allowed herself to hope.

↞ Previous Chapter | Next Chapter ↠

[littlestpersimmon]

Here we go.

A quarter of a quarter of a quarter.

A wip from a spinoff in my other wip.

Opulent rebellious and hedonistic prince and how he met his manipulative adviser and saved him from a brothel. Southeast Asian inspired fantasy world. There is a scene where more than kissing is done!!!!!

M/M (trans / cis )

I was gonna delete this from my twitter but it seems I can't! So posting this here.

This is not proofread / raw and unedited- many mistakes, many confusing bits that I hope to sort out soon. If you like it hehe maybe you can let me know.. I turned on anon for this

[theladyofbloodshed]

Chapter 2 (this is a fluff fic - and Ruhn is babysitting Nesta in chapter 3)

The thrill of a day off with no commitments fell flat when Hunt spent most of his night worrying that he’d find a blonde female floating in the Istros – if the sobeks hadn’t eaten her first. When it was socially acceptable to be out, he was already flying the short distance to the hotel that Ruhn Danaan had paid for to check on her.

His knuckles felt too heavy on the door as he knocked.

After the day Nesta had, he’d not blame her if she was still asleep.

The door was pulled back and she stood perfectly put together with no traces of sleep remaining. Her gorgeous burnished-gold hair was pinned up, hiding her ears. Hunt looked twice at her clothes – his clothes. They hung loose on her frame, but there was no missing the generous breasts that the material clung to. Midgard suited her.

‘Oh, good. You’re here.’

Well, it made a change for somebody to look forward to the Umbra Mortis arriving at their door even if her tone didn’t imply that.

‘I’ve made a list of things I don’t understand. This for instance,’ she said, switching the light on and off. ‘How have you harnessed faelights into that glass orb?’

‘A lightbulb. It’s firstlight.’

Her mouth twisted. ‘Another thing for the list.’

‘When you make the Drop, you give part of your firstlight to the city. That’s how we power everything,’ he explained. ‘You don’t make the Drop?’

‘The only drop I know is a short drop from the gallows, so no, Hunt.’

A piece of paper with neatly-written notes covering it was thrust into his face while she beckoned him into the room. Nesta had cracked open the windows, pulled the sheets tight over the bed and her leathers were folded onto the chair.

‘I didn’t think to bring you fresh clothes today.’

Nesta shrugged a shoulder. ‘I’ve only just put these on.’

‘Did you sleep naked?’ The question shot out of his mouth before he could trap it.

She scowled, cheeks going pink. ‘I’m not answering that.’

That would be a yes.

When Nesta turned through the room, giving it a once-over, Hunt glimpsed a flash of black on her back through the slits of his top. A tattoo maybe. As she moved, it became evident to him that Nesta wore no bra. Hunt’s traitorous eyes kept gravitating towards the bounce of her breasts until he forced himself to give his undivided attention to the list.

‘Hey, let’s get you some clothes for the next few days plus breakfast and I’ll answer these questions.’

‘Fine,’ she replied.

‘And you have to answer some of my questions.’

‘Some of them.’

Lunathion began to wake with the commuters filling the paths. Those with wings flitted overhead to avoid the rush. Nesta had no concept of road safety; Hunt may as well have been walking alongside a toddler. Twice, she’d stepped into the road to clear space on the path without even looking. He’d had to haul her against him before a scooter mowed her down.

‘I can’t tell if people are staring at me or you,’ she said as a leopard shifted gasped and pulled out their cell to snap a photo of him.

‘Me,’ he replied flatly. ‘I’m the Um-’

Hunt cut himself off. Nesta did not know who he was. What he’d done. What he still did. For once, he could just be Hunt.

‘The Um?’ She teased. ‘Did you forget your name?’

‘I’m known in Lunathion for my work in the 33rd.’ He lay a hand on her shoulder, guiding Nesta across the road at a crossing towards a lingerie boutique – the kind of place the Umbra Mortis had never been caught dead in.

Everything was red. And velvet. With posters of females in push-up bras with the tagline “something extra special” or “for him”.

Nesta was just as bemused as he was. ‘Is this some kind of pleasure hall?’

‘Like a brothel? You have those in your world?’

Colour rose in her cheeks again – and damn if it wasn’t the prettiest thing.

‘I don’t frequent them.’

One of the workers, a deer shifter by the scent, offered a polite smile. ‘Do you need help?’

‘Uh,’ said Hunt, jerking his thumb towards Nesta. ‘She needs a bra.’

‘What’s a bra?’

Luna, help him.

The worker smiled again. ‘Do you know what size you are?’

‘All my clothes are tailormade,’ she replied.

‘I can do a fitting. This way.’

Nesta stared at him over her shoulder as she followed the female towards the fitting rooms. He tried not to pay much attention to the abundance of lace and satin and tassels. And definitely tried to steer his thoughts away from imagining that drop-dead gorgeous female wearing them.

After a while, the worker returned to the counter. Nesta popped her head out of the curtain.

‘Hunt,’ she hissed. ‘Hunt Athalar.’

Hunt shrugged at her.

‘Help me.’

Her bare back was offered at the gap in the heavy, velvet curtains. An eight-pointed star was tattooed in black ink across her spine. Did she have more?

‘How am I supposed to put this contraption on?’

Hunt reached for each end to pull them together. ‘My experience is usually in taking them off, not doing them up.’

‘I don’t wish to know about your conquests.’

The moment it was clasped, Nesta leapt away, drawing the curtain closed too – then her face emerged once more. ‘I presume you are paying to clothe me?’

‘I guess so,’ he grumbled.

He could always bill Ruhn Danaan and the bank of daddy.

‘Hunt?’

‘Nesta.’

‘I need underwear.’

For the blush that came again, Hunt would buy her whatever underwear she wanted. He held up a few across the store, her face growing redder each time. When he asked her if she was commando beneath his sweat pants, a confused look crossed her face.

‘Bareback,’ he clarified.

Nesta snatched the underwear – a black, lacy thong – from his hand and muttered something about males in every world being insufferable.

***

This city was vibrant and diverse in a way that Velaris wasn’t. Even if Hunt grew fed up of her pausing to admire their technology, he still let her grow roots on the spot so she could wonder how something worked before inevitably explaining it in a way she could understand. Every citizen was required to donate a portion of their magic to the city to ensure it continued working. It was a tithe of sorts.

It was difficult not to stare at the Vanir, as Hunt had called them, as they walked through the sunlit streets. Velaris had high fae. Other places she had visited had lesser fae. Here, Nesta saw people who could change at will into a variety of animals. Some, Hunt explained, were wolves and she was warned to steer clear of a Sabine and a Danika who patrolled the streets. Hunt’s species enforced the law set by the Asteri.

‘Supreme rulers whose word is law,’ he said.

Nesta snorted at that. ‘I’ve got one in my world. His name is Rhysand.’

‘He’s your king?’

‘Oh, he wishes. No. My sister’s mate. And a pain in my ass.’ Since this malakh had been so helpful in finding her underwear that constantly needed plucking from her backside, Nesta explained, ‘We have no kings. The land in which I live is divided into seven courts and each is ruled by a High Lord. Rhysand is the High Lord of the Night Court. Feyre is the High Lady.’

‘So, you’re fae royalty?’

‘Ha ha ha,’ she said, the sarcasm thick in her voice. ‘No. I am a problem. Nothing more.’

They took their drinks – black coffee for him and camomile tea for her – to a bench beside a park where children were running freely across the grass, throwing balls or playing games. There was such a freedom to Lunathion with species mixing readily.  

‘How did you wind up here – off the record?’

‘We have a Prison for foul creatures from nightmares. I was searching for an object and found the Harp. It trapped me. The damn thing promised to let me out if I plucked a string then I was falling.’ Nesta ran a finger around the rim of the cup. ‘They have no idea what happened to me.’

And she doubted that they’d care either. The loss of the Harp would be their biggest gripe.

‘Ruhn Danaan has paid for that hotel for a week, so once Vik’s ran her tests, you can drift back off into the stars.’

Nesta smiled at that. ‘I could end up somewhere completely different.’

‘Like Hel.’

The angel explained that they knew of another world – one named Hel – where cruel princes ruled and demons leaked through into Midgard. It was his responsibility to identify them and track them down.

‘Which came first, the name or the profession?’

Hunt gave a wry grin. ‘Everybody calls me it. My mother named me Orion.’

‘Orion,’ she repeated. ‘I like it. Does your mother live in the city?’

His face fractured slightly then he extended a hand to her, signalling that they were to walk. ‘No. She’s not alive anymore.’

‘Oh. I’m sorry.’

‘Do you have other family or just a high lady sister?’

‘Two sisters. My mother died when I was young and my father died in the war.’

‘The war,’ he repeated. ‘When was it?’

It felt like an eternity and no time at all.

‘Just over a year ago.’

Hunt’s brows rose. ‘You fought in it?’

Not by choice, Nesta thought. Because the Cauldon cursed me with magic that made me into a weapon.

‘Yes. The king of Hybern used my father as a shield then killed him. My sister, Elain, stabbed the king.’

‘She killed him?’

‘No.’ But if it hadn’t been for Elain subduing him, Nesta and Cassian would both be dead. ‘I decapitated him.’

At that, Hunt grinned. ‘Bloodthirsty. What does your tattoo mean?’

Nesta blew out a long breath. She’d only seen snippets of it in the mirror at odd angles with her chin tucked onto her shoulder. ‘I wasn’t in a good place so my sister staged an intervention. Cassian – a friend – made a deal that if I trained then he’d give me a favour.’

‘That tattoo is magic?’

‘Yes,’ she confirmed. ‘Is yours?’

The urge to brush her fingers across the halo on his forehead was difficult to suppress. At the mention of it, Hunt touched it and winced.

‘It’s a slave brand. Witch ink.’ He lifted his hand to show her the letters stamped on his wrist. ‘The Asteri’s mark. I belong to them and Micah – an archangel.’

The words hung in the air between them turning the summer’s day cold. Hunt Athalar was a slave which explained why he spent his day off with her rather than friends or family. He had nobody else.

They walked alongside the river, the Istros, in silence.

‘If you want to be free, pluck the Harp. Come to Velaris.’

It was half an offer. From the bulk of his arms, Hunt could fight. Amren would rub her hands together at the sight of another weapon to be added to the Night Court’s arsenal. But maybe it offered a better life than slavery. Nesta didn’t know.

‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘No coffee there though.’

A furry creature wearing a yellow jacket scurried in front of them then leapt into the river. Its head bobbed above the current before the whole animal swooped below. Before Nesta could even ask, Hunt paused from his walking to point out another that was scrambling up the bank on the other side.

‘Messenger otters. They deliver letters to the mer.’

***

How long had it been since Hunt viewed the world with anything more than cynicism? It was hard not to fall into the same wonder as Nesta when she found delight in every little thing. Often, Hunt struggled to explain how things worked in a way that Nesta would understand because he’d never questioned it himself. It was a given that it worked. If there was time during the week, he’d take her to the library – and likely lose her in there.

After a day spent exploring every single avenue of Lunathion – except the Meat Market – they retreated back to her hotel room when a drizzle rolled in with the grey clouds. Even that didn’t stop her enthusiasm. Nesta made him coffee using the kettle in the room. She flipped the switches, waited in front of it as it began to boil then made a noise of triumph when the switch clicked itself off. She’d poured in three sachets of the crappy instant coffee that the hotel provided, but Hunt drank it because he couldn’t bear to take that joy from her expression.

Nesta had given him a lot to think about. For every eighteen questions he answered, Nesta would give up one of her own answers about her world. It sounded rudimentary in ways – their technology lacking massively – but their magic seemed more powerful. She remained coy about her own, claiming she had no magic. Nesta was hunting magical objects from a trove. If she was like him and could detect such things the way he could detect demons, Nesta Archeron was far from powerless.

His cell phone held all of her attention now.

While sprawled out on the firm hotel bed, he’d switched on the television. A crap chick-flick was on but it required no brain power to follow the plot. He’d surrendered his cell to her because there was nothing incriminating on it. Nesta lay beside him with the pillows wedged under her head. Her white tee rose up slightly exposing a strip of her stomach. The complaints about her tight jeans ebbed when she realised it was the fashion in Lunathion – but Hunt had no complaints whatsoever. The plain, dressed-down look suited her although none would dare call her plain.

‘You have no portraits,’ she commented.

‘Photos,’ he corrected.

‘Will you teach me how?’

Hunt leaned in towards her. ‘It’s tricky. See that button? Press it.’

The click of the capture button sounded and then she was off. Nesta strode around the room documenting everything, including him.

‘We must sit for hours in my world to have a portrait painted. How lovely that you can make a memory so easily.’

‘You sound ancient, Nesta.’

She knelt on the edge of the bed to take a close up of his face. ‘I’m twenty-five.’

Hunt groaned. ‘I’m older than you by a good two hundred years.’

‘Cassian is over five hundred years old.’

‘That’s twice you’ve mentioned that name.’

‘Keeping count?’

Hunt inclined his head, waiting for more. Nesta came to sit beside him again on her pile of pillows. She wiggled her toes which were in fluffy rabbit socks. ‘Cassian is… a somebody. We’re involved. Sometimes. I don’t know.’

‘Like a fae mate?’

Her nose wrinkled up. ‘No.’

‘A husband?’

‘Definitely not.’

‘A fuck buddy?’

Nesta raised her brows. ‘I don’t know what that is nor do I wish to know.’

‘You’re a smart girl, I think you can figure out.’

Nesta ignored him in favour of the phone. If she had a fae male waiting for her then Hunt probably shouldn’t be so close to her on the bed. Those fae pricks could be territorial when it came to females.

‘Hunt, it says there are busty fauns in my area who want to meet me.’

‘Don’t click!’ Hunt plucked the cell from her hands. In some ways, Nesta was like a toddler – in others, she was like a two-thousand-year-old enigma, especially when it came to technology.

The rain grew heavier, lashing against the window as they both watched the film. He’d asked her earlier what she did for fun in the Night Court and he’d received a sniped answer that her sort of fun had been taken from her then she’d amended her answer to reading and training. She definitely seemed to enjoy this – and he’d teased her about making heart-eyes at the male lead.

‘Ruhn will keep an eye on you tomorrow,’ he said. ‘The fae prince.’

‘The prince of pricks?’

Hunt couldn’t help but laugh. ‘Don’t call him that or Micah will have my balls. I have to work but I can try and swing by at the end of my shift.’

‘I’ll have another list of questions for you to answer.’

‘I’d be disappointed if you didn’t,’ he replied. Hunt glanced at his phone. ‘Get ready for some real magic.’

Nesta’s lips parted, about to ask a question then the door knocked. He gave an encouraging nod to her to open it.

A male in a Food Drop uniform held out a bag of takeout for her. Hesitantly, Nesta took the bag then turned towards him.

‘What is it?’

‘Magic,’ he said, grinning. ‘Open it.’

Slowly, she moved towards the bed whilst plucking open the bag. ‘I don’t know what this is. We don’t have this in Velaris.’

‘Nesta Archeron, your life is about to change.’

They finished the film then found a re-run of Fangs and Bangs while Nesta lay on the bed practically moaning at the food. He’d gone simple but classic; hot cookie dough with vanilla ice cream. From the sheer delight on her face, Nesta had won the lottery.

‘You use that device and food appears?’

‘I order it,’ he clarified. ‘There are tons of places to choose from. You choose what you want, pay for it, and it arrives at your door.’

‘If I wanted cake, I could use that cell phone and a cake would come here?’

‘Modern technology.’

Nesta finished her cookie dough then Hunt gave her the rest of his.

‘Hunt Athalar, I am never going home.’  

[mademoiselle-red]

Some subtly romantic and erotic moments from “the moon is brighter tonight” scene in the novel:

(with screenshots + my summaries and rough translations)

Lianhua and Di Feisheng sneak into Jiao Liqiao’s bedroom, which contains a hot tub and bookshelves. Lianhua throws (yes, the verb used here is “throw/toss”) Di Feisheng into the hot tub and then jumps in with him. He washes himself off, and then goes over to the bookshelf to look through her documents.

Di Feisheng continues to relax in the hot tub and listens to the sound of Lianhua rummaging through the scrolls behind him. Although he can’t see him, Di Feisheng knows his every move from sound alone. The warmth of the hot tub suddenly triggers in him a distant memory: that of Xiangyi playing a game of chess with a top courtesan in a famous brothel in Yangzhou city. He vaguely remembers that the loser of every match had to compose one verse. Xiangyi lost 36 matches against the courtesan and thus used her lipstick as ink to compose a 36-verse poem called “a destined marriage tied in eternity” (note that the final scene in the novel ends with Di Feisheng losing his 136th game of chess to Lianhua 👀; also, why does the warmth of the hot tub and the sound of Lianhua rummaging through scrolls trigger Ah Fei’s memory of watching Xiangyi play a flirtatious game with a prostitute??? Isn’t he supposed to be disinterested in everything outside martial arts???)

In the present moment, Lianhua yawns and asks Di Feisheng if he is hungry. Di Feisheng ignores the question and asks him if he still holds a sword nowadays. Lianhua replies hazily (the word use here is 朦胧, which means hazy, but it has some romantic/suggestive connotations in Chinese that hazy does not fully convey): “don’t you know that when someone asks you if you are hungry, they are actually trying to say ‘I am hungry, do you want to eat together?’” He then takes out some dishes he stole from the kitchen and asks again, with a faint smile, “are you hungry?” (Note: Lianhua is a flirt! ❤️)

Di Feisheng does feel hungry.

He leaps out of the hot tub and sits cross-legged next to Lianhua, splashing water everywhere in the process. Lianhua hurriedly moves the dishes out of the way so they don’t get wet. He says to Di Feisheng: “you’re too clumsy and wild…”

The two of them sit facing each other, drinking wine. The light has dimmed outside, the moon has risen above the mountains, casting a snow white glow into the room.

“Today…”

“That year…”

The two of them spoke at the same time and stopped. Di Feisheng’s face softens and smiles: “What about today?”

Lianhua replies, “After today, what do you plan on doing?”

Di Feisheng continues to drink wine, smiles again, and says, “killing you.”

Lianhua smiles bitterly, unconsciously takes another sip of wine, and asks, “what about that year?”

“That year…” Di Feisheng paused a bit, “the moon was not as bright as today.”

Lianhua begins to laugh, raised his wine cup to the moon, and said, “that year…the moon that year was just as bright as today.”

And then Lianhua proceeds to ask Di Feisheng if he wants to marry a wife after this. Di Feisheng asks him why he’d want a wife and Lianhua replies that every man should have a wife. Di Feisheng then asks Lianhua , “what about you?” Lianhua says “my wife ran off with someone else”, and then starts to ramble about how happy he is that Wanmian got married and found happiness, and then Di Feisheng says, “it’s just a woman.”

Lianhua starts looking through Jiao Liqiao’s letters but seems to struggle. Di Feisheng asks him “what are you doing?”

Lianhua replies “I just want to read what’s in the letter.”

Di Feisheng looks at his eyes and asks: “you can’t see? What happened to your eyes?”

Lianhua explains how his sight is failing, and mutters, “sometimes I can’t see your face clearly either, it floats around, sometimes it is there sometimes it isn’t, so you don’t need to worry about…the fact that you are not wearing clothes….in front of me”

Di Feisheng cuts him off mid-sentence and starts reading the letters out loud for him. (Note: without Lianhua asking! 😍)

[silverinkbottle]

Catch and Release pt. 1

Summary: It's been five years since you first met Dracule Mihawk. Things haven't changed, until one night, they do.

Word Count: 8.8K

Warnings: Explicit references of prostitution, violence, foul language. Sexual Content= fingering, clit stimulation, the wonderful female orgasm. Just slapping on an 18+ warning here now.

F!Reader is a Madam of a ship brothel.

Author Notes: My first ever Tumblr fic! I hope everyone enjoys, I do have more coming down the pipeline! I know my writing style may be a bit different than the usual, so if you have any kind tips please drop an inbox!

Chapter 2 ->

There were times you regretted entering into your agreement with Dracule Mihawk. It was supposed to be a simple exchange of commerce. Your esteemed company on occasion and a consistent exchange of information at the notorious Warlord’s leisure. Mihawk’s favor kept overly enthusiastic pirates and marine alike from harrying the floating brothel.  Profits have never been higher,‘Unexpected’ expenses were almost nil aside from the occasional over indulgent client.

It all worked out. Practically.

A hiss escaped your lips as the leather strings of the corset around your bosom cinched a fraction tighter. Manicured nails dug into the strong wooden bedpost in front of you as you bit down a retort as a telltale ‘tsk’ came from Bathory behind you. 

“Must it be so tight?”

“If you want to show your appreciation properly, yes. It’s a beautiful piece, Madam. It has to be shown properly,” Bathory retorted as the corset’s tug cut off your retort. Thankfully it was the last set of laces as the red-haired woman stepped back with a directed thumb in the direction of the mirror behind her. 

“You are right. For once ” You reluctantly admitted as your fingertips smoothed down one of the many frilled layers of the corset’s bottom half. It was like the delicate flourish of a rose’s crimson petals layering upon each other as the wave of petals crashed into one another, leading to black silk. Small brass buckles no larger than the tip of a knife clicked into place over your bare collar bone to allow the flowing sleeves of fabric to drape down to your wrists.  Tinted lips quirked as a familiar necklace settled over your throat, a delicate little piece of jewelry. One that both infuriated you initially and softened your heart as time went on. A silver dove with its outstretched wings speckled with shattered rubies. The accessory was no larger than the center of your palm, but it felt all the heavier against the top of your sternum.

“Seems almost a shame. Gets you finery to wear and the like but hasn’t done anything with-” Bathory’s snide comment was cut off as the nosey prostitute hastily ducked from an errant steel-backed hairbrush thrown in her direction. The dove’s weight caught your breath as you spun on your stocking covered heel as sharp nails caught Bathory’s blush tinted cheeks. Dark eyes were wide in fear as you fought the urge to sink your nails into her.

“We don’t discuss the arrangements with private clients, Bathory. Ever. If we ever find you smothered in your sleep, we will know it’s because you mouthed off about the wrong client in bed. It will be YOUR fault. So let’s use this past mistake as a lesson,” You hissed before releasing your grip on the woman’s delicate features. Cool anger brushed through your veins as you knew the woman’s snide remark had some truth in it. Your company had been requested frequently, more than several times in the past few months. An unusual uptick. However, it wasn’t for ‘that’, no, the pirate was restless. Bored. As he put it, what better way to pass the time than wind you up before leaving come dawn.

“Bored. I’ll show him. Bored.” You snarled under your breath as you forced yourself to not fidget as Bathory hurriedly finished your dressings. A trademark of your ship, all crew members clad themselves in modified skirts. Their lengths reach down to the feet, but cut window-like at the thigh, bearing stockings and the like. The cut fabric is held up by garter belts and straps at the waist, easily allowing the wearer to sweep aside excess fabric in a curtain-like fashion to be pinned back with a few quick ties. 

“Not my place but-” Bathory’s words were stifled by a whirl of skirts. Your eyes narrowed further as a clear sign that further commentary from her wouldn't be tolerated. Besides, it was all too easy to pick up her next questions. Were you restricted from other clients? No. Why not take a dedicated lover amongst the crew if your needs were so insatiable? 

Because. Boring. Your nails dug into your palm as the mere word floated through mind in that exact infuriating inflection and tone of his. Mihawk made even the mere thought of someone else in your bed, a boring prospect. 

“He’s ruined me, Bathory,” You moaned pitifully as the woman rolled her eyes at your theatrics. It wasn’t something as childish as love. You weren’t that naive. No, it was the rush of excitement that came from being with one of the Warlords of the Sea. The mere sight of the sanctioned pirate made weaker men piss their boots.

“Shall I bring you last month’s berry stash for you to wipe your tears with?” Bathory deadpanned before marching over to your quarter’s door, opening it at the expected knock. 

“You’re up, Hepa. Now quickly before we have to get the salts out for the dramatic Madam Captain’s vapors. We have reached Baratie, right?” Bathory asked as the young man in front of her flashed a bright smile. A wordless confirmation that the docks of the famed restaurant were within eyesight.

“Shall I bring you the salts anyway, Madam Captain?” Hepa snickered as he mockingly offered you his arm to be escorted from the privacy of your quarters through the dimly lit underbelly of the ship. All about you was a flurry of activity as prostitutes and sailors alike moved in a coordinated dance. Gulls cried out their welcome as the flag of the Victoria waved boldly in the bright sunshine. Her Jolly Rodger was that of a blooming white rose, its stem wrapped around by golden chains.

“Madam Captain, afraid we might have some problems with a few select patrons of the Baratie if my memory of the crews are correct. I’ve already spread the word to others about potential issues.”  A hoarse voice addressed you from above as an agile form landed gracefully on the deck, swiping long black bangs from her features. A harsh jagged scar across the woman’s features did little to dim the natural beauty of pale green eyes. However, there were a few that had been deterred by Joan’s prickly nature. The woman wasn’t cowed by anything, not for any amount of money. 

“Does that include yourself, Joan? Wasn’t there that one poor fellow from the 65th Marine regiment that walked off our decks with a few missing digits? I believe your threats to  his wee -” 

Hepa’s recollection was cut off by your hand over his mouth. The crew didn’t need to be reminded of that particular incident. Nor the bribes that to be paid to that Marine’s commanding officer to keep the grievance quiet. It was the first time you heard Mihawk laugh after you complained about the incident. Scoring Joan a few points of respect with the temperamental Warlord upon their next encounter. She was the perfect 1st Mate after all, and had been for the last five years.

Adjusting the center of the small black flat bonnet, the crimson ribbons delicately flowed from the headpiece as you forced a practiced smile on your lips. The games had begun as soon as the heavy thud of the gangplank hit the docks, announcing your arrival. It was a practiced mockery of polite society with all the bows from the fishman host, expressing their delight to be hosting your company once again. On such unexpected notice too. Once again it was a simple exchange of commerce. Lusty clients would cajole company with food and drink, heedlessly ignoring the cries of their money purse as it flowed into the infamous pirate turned head chef’s pockets. You had earned the moody chef’s ire exactly once, after a dispute had broken out between clients over a favored whore. Breaking a few dishes in the process, no, the worst expenses came in the blood that would have been scrubbed relentlessly from the pressed tablecloths.

Even a mere shrug of “We are pirates, you know.” didn’t stop Zeff from charging you for that mistake. For months on end, News Coos would be commissioned to harass you at the break of dawn until you finally paid up. 

“A pleasure to see you again, Madam.”  The warm but glassy tone stirred you from your thoughts as a pair of wine glasses were set in front of yourself and Joan. A genuine hint of a smile brushed over your features as your cheeky waiter winked at your surprised reaction.

“Causing trouble again for Zeff, Sanji?” You mused as Sanji muttered something under his breath. So, the pair were bickering again, the men fought over the culinary aspects of life like dogs over a meaty bone. 

“It is to my great fortune, as I get to see your beautiful face once more. Yours and Miss Joan’s-” Sanji’s words slurred with the edge of a rasp as the flirtatious blonde’s attention slid over to Joan. Her face had hardened like stone as she snorted before idly waving away Sanji’s words like an unpleasant smell. Even that harsh rejection didn’t seem to dampen Sanji’s attentive nature as the man was all but offering to sit in your lap if it pleased you.

“Such a good boy.” You purred as Sanji recalled your specific request for wine from a previous visit. Delicate, full-bodied crimson wine flowed into the crystalline glass as you took an apprehensive sip of the vintage. It was perfect. Dry, but hints of oak and cherry lingered on the edge of your taste buds. 

“I live to serve,” Sanji simpered before his good-natured smile slid off his face as if someone had slapped him with fish as a far coarser voice demanded his attention. 

“I pity that man’s kidneys if he asks Sanji another question.” Joan muttered wickedly as Sanji’s charming demeanor had turned into a threatening storm cloud as the unruly guest jabbed a thumb into the waiter’s chest. 

“Let’s just pray for all his internal organs, hm?” You retorted with another sip of the glass. Sanji could be as short tempered as his mentor if someone pushed the wrong buttons. Your veins sung with an elevated flood of adrenaline as you watched the visible muscle in Sanji’s defined cheek jump. Oh he was becoming livid. You were about to find out about what soon enough.

The man was all but sweating whiskey as he placed an unsteady hand on the table next to your  placed wine glass. You could smell the sour notes of alcohol as he gave his best ‘winning’ smile before clearing his throat loudly. 

“It is a great honor that the Steel Madam grace us with her presence, on this fine evening. Your crew’s charm and beauty is well-known even in the youngest cadets barracks. Some would say it is their goal not to catch the most notorious pirate, but to lay eyes on your very form.” 

It was too easy to read the man. Marine. Boldly displaying his rank as a lieutenant with his few paltry stripes on his coat. The tops of his knuckles free from painful rope burn or the small cuts of errant swings during sword drills. Beyond all that, it was sheer arrogance in his smile when his other hand brushed over your thigh.

A burst of giggles spilled from your lips as you brushed off the advance with little interest. Confusion, anger and surprise flinted over the Marines face as Joan snorted into her wine glass from across the table. As your laughter subsided, you forced a polite smile on your face before allowing the cruel but practiced rejection to begin.

“You honor me with your words, Marine. Afraid you won’t be able to enjoy my company tonight, you see it isn’t because I am occupied at this very moment. No, it’s because you would bore me to tears with your little bravado and tales. Past experience has made me realize men with such pretty little lines and false sincerity have far more 'inadequacies’ in my manner of expertise. Perhaps, you should try your luck with my companion here. She does like teaching stupid puppies little tricks..” 

Joan’s sharp kick to your knee stilled your words as you winked across at the stoic woman. It was far more likely that Joan would leave the man with more than bruises and healthier respect for the world’s oldest profession.  You and your crew clad yourself as people first and then a commodity, sometimes others saw the second first.

Like now as ringed fingers harshly gripped your face, pulling your attention from Joan to the infuriated Marine. Oh, he wasn’t used to rejection as your eyes narrowed when his grip didn’t loosen. Now he was playing a dangerous game. The few quiet conversations around you stifled as onlookers waited to see what would happen next.

“You think you can reject me? You’re just a fucking whore. Aren’t even worth the trash namesake of pirate, since all the fighting you and your fucking slags do is on your back. You should be on your knees sucking my co-”

 You quickly removed the three inch long hair pin from your hat. Fluidly driving it through skin and muscle alike into the man’s other hand, placed ever so perfectly on the pristine table cloth. The sharp point driven with such finesse that not a single droplet leaked from the impaled flesh.  A pained gasp slipped from the Marine’s lips as you easily ripped out the tinted needle from flesh before neatly wiping it off with a folded napkin.

“You may not want to bleed too much on that floor. I am surprised someone as ‘well-traveled’ as you wouldn’t recognize a pirate. After all, prostitutes are one of the most profitable pirates alive. I could just as easily strip you naked, take your coin with a gentle smile, and decide to dump your broken corpse into the ocean after bombarding your stationed vessel because you failed to please me. All of those troubles are because of someone stupid letting slip about the changing of the guard and where exactly your treasurer keeps ‘stolen’ goods. All these little simple things that you can’t see potentially unfolding in front of you. All because you can’t see beyond your little shriveled worm of a thing I am sure you boast off as a cock. So, do kindly, go fuck off somewhere else.”

If it were possible for the Marine’s ruddied face to turn any harsher, you would have been surprised. Except, the little bout of entertainment was drawn to a close by the sickening noise of human teeth crashing against the floorboards from Sanji’s foot plowing downward into the man’s spine. Your head tilted inquisitively to the side as you were sure that some of the spinal column in the moaning man’s lower back had tilted a little to the right. Too far right if your guess was correct.

“Excellent choice in wine, Sanji” You hummed as the waiter stepped over the groaning lump with a well-practiced movement. Tipping in the precious liquid into your half empty glass with a slight glint of amusement.  The waiter wasn’t meant to be a waiter, no, Sanji had proven once again about the reputation of the fighting chefs of the Baratie. Sanji bent at the waist in an elegant bow before offering you his hand to assist you from the table.

“That won’t be necessary, Sanji. Thank you. If I require anything else, I will know who to ask for.” You said softly as the man’s bright smile shrunk a mere centimeter. Still, he allowed you to collect the opened bottle with little question as you passed by him with a cheeky wink. 

“I have seen kicked dogs that looked less put out than him.” Joan whispered conspicuously from behind as you both ascended the gilded staircase, the pair of empty wine glasses clinking merrily together.

“Please, Joan, not now. We have far bigger issues than him if-”

Your words froze on your lips as you reached the landing of the bar space. It was near impossible to miss Mihawk’s signature blade, coat and hat. Anyone who was anyone knew of the Warlord as several patrons gave him ample space with exchanging silent worried glances as the faintest hint of a sigh caused Mihawk’s posture to go from languid to stiff. Even from behind, you could tell he was focusing on something by the slightest tilt of his head, provoking his feathered hat to tremble from the movement. 

“He’s…listening for something” You whispered in Joan’s ear conspicuously dragging her toward the edge of the bar by her wrist. Thankfully, there were a pair of open seats across the way as few seemed to be willing to subject themselves to the loudmouth drunk at the bar. Boldly boasting about a victory over the Marines. Was this the apparent target from Mihawk’s letter? Your hand didn’t leave Joan’s wrist as a quiet command for her to wait. However, it didn’t stop her from hissing under her breath as your grip involuntarily tightened when Mihawk’s gaze met yours for the first time.

Gods, he had beautiful eyes. To targets, their orangish hue struck fear into their hearts as a bird of prey rips a mere sparrow out of the sky. Yet, you knew better. The gentle flicker of warmth as you recount stories of some long ago memory, a curious tilt of head when you lose track of the conversation. The cool resolve and defiance as you begin to bicker over something petty, followed by mischief as he begins to try to crumple your resolve. Except, now all that you could read was an air of ignorance bellied by prickling irritation as you could see a nail run over the bottom of his wine glass.

Your eyes flicked to the loud drunk in a silent question “This can’t be him. No pirate is this-”

A twitch of his pointer finger was all the answer you needed “No. But wait.”

It would be difficult to miss as the loud drunk proclaimed himself as Captain of some mighty crew. Bold and brave enough to disable a marine ship. For the warrior of the sea was the great Captain Ussopp, it would have almost been an impressive tale if the man clearly wasn’t so deep in his cups.  Even lies had a hint of truth to them. Why else would Mihawk be bothering to eavesdrop like this?

“A little push may be needed, Joan. If you don’t mind.” You muttered as you sent off the woman with a small tap on her butt towards Ussop. It was like watching an octopus camouflage itself within a new reef as the disgruntled woman’s cool expression turned into a warm, bright smile. Giggling loudly under her breath as Joan leaned forward on the bar counter, startling Usopp into almost dropping his drink. Did the man just enjoy hearing himself tell lies unaware that he could be attracting attention?

“You don’t mean you fought off all those Marines by yourself. A whole ship against a pirate crew? How frightening.” Joan whispered in a lower tone as Usopp grinned roguishly before raising his hand to his mouth in a mock stage whisper.

“Well no. You see, there is this guy..kinda our captain, Luffy, bounced it right back at the-”

Mihawk blinked slowly at this reveal as you took a few steps closer to the enraptured Joan, a far more demure expression on your face in comparison to Joan’s look of adoration. It was turning into a pincer movement as Mihawk joined with a mere request to meet this strange Luffy. Akin to a sheep amongst wolves, Usopp agreed as he slung a loose arm over Joan’s shoulder with little regard to her flicker of irritation. Guiding his ‘date’ and new ‘friend’ towards a far quieter table. Unfortunately, his associates  were far less dim-witted as the swordsman called Mihawk out by title and demands for a duel.

Fuck.

As the game was revealed, Joan shoved away a nervous Usopp with a look of disgust.The young man was looking paler and paler by the second, threatening to spew all he had drunk over the bar floor. Or was it from the escalating air of violence that whispered between the swordsmen as Mihawk indulged the whimsical, but potentially fatal request of the young upstart. All, while the orange haired woman’s emotions were as plain as day on her face; all the fear and anger, brief for a moment as it was composed into a mask of calm.

“ You look somewhat familiar to me. Makes me wonder if you kept even stranger company than this-” Joan retorted as eyeing Nami.. Only leaning away when Zoro’s booted feet slammed against the table, a clear warning for the woman to back off.

Astute dark eyes slid over to your seated form at the bar as you gave a flicker of your fingers in greeting. Even drunk, you could see him rip through the facade of silks and make-up. To the weaponry hidden underneath the elaborate skirts. The heavier weight of the leather sheath brushing against your knee was all the more comforting now. Ronoro Zoro was dangerous, even you weren’t stupid to deny that.

However, you had far more pressing issues as your brain short-circuited as the mouth-watering scent of Mihawk surrounded you like the ocean itself. Close. He was far too close as you saw the tell-tale tick of his mouth flicker. Enjoying your stunned reaction far too much as he stood in front of your seat, blocking you from view. The delicate wine glass in your other hand shattered into fragments on the bar countertop when the swordsman’s right hand brushed over your left hip bone, strong fingers possessively curling around you. A quiet demand for your attention instead of fretting over the green-haired duelist.

Not once in five years had Mihawk been this public with his touch. The world rushed around your ears as you could see but not hear his sigh as Mihawk glared over his shoulder at Joan. Peering around Mihawk, you could see that she was getting far too comfortable with baiting the challenger. However, any thoughts beyond the pressure against your hip were rendered mute.

Why now? Why was he doing this to you? Thousands of questions burned through your mind as you blinked blankly at Mihawk as prickles of irritation danced over his words as he addressed Joan.

“Leave the boy alone, Joan. I prefer opponents with their kneecaps still attached.” 

Oh. When did the woman’s mace come out as its heavy head in the glass table with a screech. Zoro’s fingers drifted towards his swords as you could feel your heart pick up from the escalating tension. Or was it from Mihawk’s tighter grip as Joan gave her potential opponent a leering smile. She didn’t work for the Warlord, she worked for you.

“Joan. Go find someone else to toy with.” Your tone sounded remarkably hollow to your own ears. Like you still weren’t present even as you could feel the faint stinging sensation of splintered glass piercing your palm. Followed by the faint glare of the bartender dutifully cleaning up the mess you caused. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered at this point as your brain tried to connect unseen dots of Mihawk’s display.

It was like floating in a dream, half-awake but knowing it wasn’t real. That it could all shatter within a blink of the eye as Mihawk escorted you back down the dining floor. An infuriating barely there smile on his face from your reaction. What was he playing at? Even the screech of the opposite chair and its sturdy back did little to make you speak those words.

The world came rushing back as the stinging of glass was pinched and prodded by calloused but gentle fingers as you tried to make a fist. Mihawk quickly pressed a thumb to your wrist, preventing the action with a cool stare from across the table. The dining area of the restaurant felt all the louder now as several conversations mingled around your table, some doubtlessly about you. All you could focus on was the tinted red fragments of glass piled up on the table, pulled from your hand. The bloodied fragments were almost as red as the wine in Mihawk’s glass that he took a drink from as he tapped a finger impatiently against the table. 

“Please do stop staring at me like I am Donquixote Doflamingo acquiring you for my personal household. It was merely a bit of glass in your hand, not a mortal flesh wound.”

“It’s not that.”

“Isn’t it?”

Mihawk’s nonchalant attitude stoked your temper as he hadn’t ever publicly acknowledged the entire affair ever. Not once. Yet, now here he was acting as if it was a daily occurrence to show some sort of affection. 

“Are you dying? Are you worried about losing tomorrow? Did you piss off the World-”

Mihawk’s quiet chuckle stilled your hissed questions as your eyes narrowed suspiciously. The man was hiding something from you. He was truly dying? No. It had to be something far deeper. There was a reason behind the madness.

The light brush of his hand atop your knee underneath the table made you flinch in surprise.

“Because I felt like it, little dove. Is that reason enough?”

“Arrogant bastard.” Your voice dropped to a low hiss as you could feel goosebumps prickle over your legs as his hand reached further up to your thigh. Teasing at the silken window of fabric of your skirts in short taps. 

“I am not in the mood for games, Mihawk.” You spat as you took a deep drink from your own wine glass. Trying to keep a blank mask even as a hint of want brushed over your mind as Mihawk’s hand curled through your thigh. 

“Then tell me to stop.” Mihawk challenged as his amber gaze glinted with amusement. It was a look you had seen time and time again in bed. Wanting you to ‘run’ so that he could ‘catch’ you until you were at his mercy. Like a feline batting around a mouse for fun instead of substance. A soft ‘hm’ slipped from the quiet man’s lips as you daringly spread your legs further apart. Daring him with a move of your own.

“So. The boy interests you? That’s quite a change.” You muttered in a casual tone that pitched up an octave as agile fingers tugged at the unseen knot of your skirt’s strings. Cool air caressed your now bare thighs as the skirts now gathered to one side in a layer of fabric. Frustration and desire mingled longingly as calloused fingertips skirted against your skin. Tracing unseen patterns as you swallowed tightly as the fingers brushed near your inner thigh before retreating. 

“He has guts. A change, indeed” Mihawk retorted as his head tipped to the side eyeing your form. Quietly watching the subtle changes of your body as arousal trickled into your mind, clouding far more rational pride and decorum. The smallest increase in your breathing patterns, the start of dilation in your eyes. The keen observation made the pit in your stomach grow all the larger as the slightest deviation from the normal was scrutinized. A maddening talent when Mihawk felt like drawing out your pleasure in bed, edging you until you dangled on the tip of euphoria but pulling you back with ease.

“Ask.” Mihawk teased as fingers brushed over the edge of your hip. All it would take was a single pull of the ribbon holding up your underthings. Then you would be truly bare to the world. In public. Heat sank into your form as you could feel yourself begin to relax. It had been some time since your last coupling, and self-pleasure could only get you so far in dousing your needs.

“Mihawk.” Your voice was a mere breath that edged on a whine as your eyes dilated with the first gentle brush over your core. That little bundle of nerves would be your downfall even as the fabric of your lingerie covered it, it was almost as good as bare as soon as his pointer finger trailed over it. Slowly manipulating the digit at a snail’s pace with practiced brushes as you shifted closer in your seat.

It was almost infuriating as Mihawk was looking like the picture of elegance across the table. Draining the last bit of wine from his glass as he put it back on the table. Tracing the crystalline stem contemplating even as his other occupied hand did the same. The same slow, almost painful pace as you bit the inside of your cheek. You weren’t going to break that easily. Not yet, as you swallowed a whine as he brushed over the edge of your cunt’s lips, smearing fluid over your wanting clit. Further increasing the pleasure of the next brush as your hands tightened around the edge of the table cloth.

“Don’t give up the game so easily, dove.” Mihawk mused as you didn’t dare open your mouth to retort. It was impossible to know in the haze of lust if actual words or a mere pitiful whine would slip from you. Or if the man’s agile fingers would decide to go from teasing to dangerous. The rational idea that he wouldn’t make you orgasm in the very crowded restaurant was becoming illogical as you knew that look in his eyes.

It was all a game for him. Playing with your desires, bringing you to his desired peak before letting you go. Waiting for you to explode from a white-out blinding pleasure. It was inexplicably cruel and unexpected during your first entanglement, but now it was exciting. Dracule Mihawk was an exceptional lover when he wanted to be. Perhaps one of the man’s biggest secrets known only to you. 

He was patient. You were not.

The little game of two turned into an unwelcome three as Sanji’s gentle voice broke through your focus. A fresh bottle of wine in the waiter’s arms as Mihawk gestured for him to set the bottle down. Watching the cork of the wine bottle opener was maddening as with rotation, Mihawk’s fingers swept over your throbbing clit as you bit down on your lip as you could feel your thighs begin to tense. Your breath pitched for the briefest second as cheeks burned with embarrassment when Sanji’s concerned gaze turned from the bottle to you. 

“Are you alright, Madam?” 

A hiss of pain escaped your lips as you forced your knees upward into the table. Bucking Mihawk’s meddlesome fingers away from you for a moment as you forced a watery smile on your face.

“Yes, fine. Sanji- thank-”

Your words edged from collected to a whine as Mihawk retorted with actions of his own. Within a span of seconds, shifting your lingerie aside as cruel digits brushed over your now bare clit. Want and desire purred in your veins as you swallowed tightly, rolling your neck as if that would stop the wave of lust shorting any rational thought from your mind.

“Are you sure? You are looking a bit red?” Sanji asked gently, touching your shoulder as Mihawk’s gaze flickered from your crumbling face to the waiter’s hand. Now the swordsman’s digits drifted from your clit to your soaked pussy, brushing over the hot velvet walls as your gaze went wide at him.

Don’t you dare.

Then pay attention to me.

Jealous. He was jealous. A completely foreign idea to you that the swordsman could become so prickly over Sanji’s familiarity. Then again, he was full of surprises tonight as you forced a strained smile on your burning cheeks

“I’m fine, Sanji. Don’t worry.” It was a poor performance as your words caught on your breath as the waiter's gaze slid from you to Mihawk. The utter disdain and irritation from the swordsman rolled off him in waves now. Go. Away .Now. It was a message made loud and clear as your eyes narrowed at Mihawk as Sanji’s steps retreated.

Too far.

A scoff at the minor scolding sent anger chipping at the edge of lust and want. The reality of the situation was the absurdity of this entire dinner. Mihawk’s strange affection and daring had turned you upside down as you struggled to put yourself into a rational mindset. Repercussions could be severe if you were caught in such a vulnerable position, much less the creeping shame of the blatant display of sexuality. The realization hit you like a cold wave of water, private, you wanted this to be between Mihawk and yourself only. Selfish, greedy, all these things hissed in your head as your hand caught his wrist, lightly pushing it away. 

Why?

A curious tilt of his head as you hastily rearranged your skirts into their proper display as you rose from the table on teetering legs. Nails digging into the tablecloth to steady yourself as you took a deep breath before muttering under your breath for him to meet you outside in ten minutes.

The request was a mistake as your heels clicked restlessly against the fragmented dock. Even the gentle roar of the sea around you did little to quiet the restless thoughts that rampaged now. What was that about? Why did you stop it? What was Mihawk playing at? Did you even want that? All questions turned into aggression as someone grabbed your wrist forcibly halting your pacing. Violence and lust paired together so deliciously as you easily twisted ,while pulling a knife from your skirts, all too happily ready to slit someone’s throat. Anger singed the thought as you registered who it was.

There was a quiet screech of the blade of your knife embedding itself into the crate next to Mihawk’s head. His gentle sigh as the anger in your gaze flickered to hesitation as he released his grip on your wrist.

“We should work on your aim, darling.”

“Stop. That.” You snarled as your nails curled around the collar of his overcoat. Pulling your faces a mere inch apart as you could feel yourself being peeled back layer by layer within his eyes. It was like watching a precious gem shatter into pieces as you could see flickers of his own emotions. Want, confusion, amusement, a speckle of irritation when your grip didn’t loosen after a few seconds. 

“What?”

Your retort went to ashes in your mouth as the question was one even you couldn’t answer. Not now. It wasn’t from the pet names, no, it wasn’t the first time for that. Your heart thumped a little faster as you recalled the first time you addressed a dove. A lazy, but affectionate drawl as the heat of sex cooled around you. The critique of your ability to defend yourself? A mere speck of irritation when it came from the world’s greatest swordsman.

Then what was it?

A soft sigh escaped your lips as gentle fingertips brushed over your cheek, trying to pull you back from your labyrinth of thoughts. Followed by the skitter of goosebumps over your throat as Mihawk traced a familiar path downward. A hint of a smirk on his mustached face as he brushed over the gifted pendant nestled above your corseted chest. The involuntary scoff from you when his fingers brushed over the swell of fabric instead of the skin that lurked underneath it. 

“Now don’t pout, pet.” Mihawk muttered as your positions easily flipped with a light tug. Now the damp wood of crates brushed over your back as you all too willingly spread your legs apart to allow the swordsman's frame between them. This you could do. Could focus on as you shifted impatiently as Mihawk’s hands settled on your hips, teasing the knots of your skirt with slow contemplation.

“Do you want this?” A mere puff of words against your throat.

“Mihawk, don’t make me-” Your hand was quick to smother the bastard child of a moan and yelp as the cool sea air hit your lower half followed by delicious waves of pleasure. Your head tipped back against the crates as you tried to keep your panting softer, well-aware of Mihawk’s burning your expression. It would be over all too soon if you looked him in the eyes, he could read your body with a mere blink. Who knew when you would get this again.

“Should I stop?” Mihawk rasped as your legs quivered at the thought. While your foggy brain all but screeched in protest as the pleasurable rhythm over your clit paused. A hiss escaped your lips as Mihawk was quick to pin you back against the crate. Unable to twitch a single muscle, but feel the agonizing brush of leather against your soaked cunt. Even the scent of your own juices sent want further down your core as Mihawk lighted gripped your face with viscous fingertips.

“All I need is a yes or no..” Mihawk muttered as his eyes went wide in surprise with your next movement. Rutting, you were all but rutting against the man’s thigh, desperate to get some sort of friction against your cunt. Your panting came in short, harsh bursts as your nails desperately curled into the back of silken black hair. Pressing the swordsman against your throat to feel your thudding pulse as your whimpers pitched with relief when Mihawk’s thigh went an inch further between your legs. This was what you needed, wanted, hungered for after a long month.

Maddeningly your euphoric burst of pleasure didn’t come within minutes as expected. No, it is like standing on the edge of a cliff in your gut, never quite falling. Tears of frustration prickled the corners of your eyes as one daringly fell against Mihawk’s buried face. Shifting darkened lust to concern as he gently tipped your flushed face upward. Casually brushing away your traitorous tear as his head tipped in that silent question.

What’s wrong?

“I..tonight..was..alot. Just things on my mind.” You admitted sheepishly as your words sounded beyond clumsy. This entire affair wasn’t between fumbling teenagers or strangers. He knew your body as well as you did at this point. It was an infuriating talent of Mihawk’s to track the time it took for you to cum. With or without his assistance, he had astonishing accuracy. 

“So. Stop. Thinking.” Mihawk chidded with a note of amusement. As if your personal confession had been a mere quip instead of something as serious as this. His eyes rolled dramatically as you stared back blank-faced, you didn’t find it funny in the slightest. A hum slipped from him as you wiggled in protest as once more he trapped you with his own body. 

“I can help with that. Then you can happily prattle your worries off.” Mihawk teased as he pressed an open kiss to your thudding pulse.

“You fucker..” You hissed as he chuckled quietly against your throat. It was a dangerous start as you could slowly feel yourself starting to slip. Gods, you weren’t that needy were you? The entire evening could have been over and done without all the theatrics if Mihawk had just led with this. The telltale pricks of pain and pleasure as his teeth nipped at your sensitive throat. While his left hand gripped at your corseted right breast, feeling your frantic heartbeat beneath the cumbersome attire. Yet, the true joy came when you arched your hips supported by his thigh, as his right hand palmed at your clit. Tracing the small bundle of nerves in a slow circle as you could your breathing pitch. An immediate shift in pattern to up and down.

“Please, don’t stop..” Your voice edged on begging as you could feel your thighs begin to tighten. Closer and closer to that one thing you desperately sought as your nails sank into Mihawk’s overcoat. A selfish whisper of wanting for it to be warm bare skin instead of slicked cloth. 

“I’m sorry, that doesn’t sound like you are cumming all over my trousers, dove.” Mihawk purred as you hadn’t a chance to even think of a response. Fuck, you didn’t even think you could speak in the common tongue as your clit throbbed as the pace turned from casual to harsh. Wanting to drive every single thought from your worried head to piercing bliss.

“Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.” The vulgar swears came off your lips like a blasphemous prey as your core burst from the hot heat. Your nails had to have sunk deep through fabric as you could feel Mihawk’s breath pitch into a hiss from your hands dragging over his shoulders.  Yet, you couldn’t bring yourself to care as all you could feel was the slow ooze of hormones and the gentle throbbing of your cunt. You even managed a half hearted apology in your hazed smile, as a new jolt of excitement hit your cooling guts. 

Mihawk had that look in his eyes. One that was both terrifying and exciting at the same time. That this little brief moment of bliss wasn’t enough to satisfy the swordsman. No. He wanted you utterly fucked out.

“Mihawk.” Your voice was a mixture of a whimper and begging as he all too easily turned you around to face the crates. Your manicured nails bit into the sodden wood with reckless abandon as he slid on hand over the cusp of your soaked cunt. You couldn’t help but shudder as calloused fingertips made a v-shape around your inflamed clit. Even having the slightest pressure near the shocked bundle of nerves made you want to whimper. Too much it was going to be too much as you shifted away from the testing digits. 

“Stay still, dove.” Mihawk ordered as he nipped at one of your earrings. Humming gentle praise as your legs spread a bit further at his gentle urging with his free hand, caressing against your inner thigh. A choked moan slipped from your lips at the first gentle touch of your pulsing cunt. It wasn’t going to be frantic or rushed like your earlier failure, no, he was going to draw you out like a taut string.  Or at least that was his usual choice of play as you couldn’t help but sag in relief at his next words.

“Let’s get you out of this rain before you catch a cold..”

“Mihawk!” Your voice turned from gentle grace to a harsh pitch as pleasure arched into your spent body. That treacherous spot in your cunt would be your undoing as tears stung your eyes as you were bombarded by waves of pleasure. Splattered by the delicious pain of your overstimulated clit, it was all too easy to sink into the blissful black once more. A snarl slipped from you as far different pain sank into the side of your throat. Even then there was a tender moment as his lips met yours in a gentle kiss. Never pushing for more as you tried to resurface from the haze. The cool reality is sinking in from the heat.

“You are never biting me. Again. Ever.” You hissed in short breaths as you struggled to catch your frazzled brain up with your current irritation. An extremely pleased Mihawk’s full body weight pressing you against the crate from behind with one hand measuring your pulse with two digits. While the other tightly gripped your waist to prevent any sort of unwanted movement. Like the silent demands on an overgrown house cat or perhaps a panther would be more accurate, Mihawk would move when he wished regardless of your grumblings. Wanting to feel your hormone addled heartrate’s erratic thumping settle into a gentle lull in the aftermath of pleasure. A quiet reminder of life since death was done at the swordsman’s so often.

Or he found it amusing that you weren’t one for much cuddling after the fact.

Eventually you settled on the answer of it being a combination of both. Your strained patience could only take so much from tonight. Between the light drizzle of rain, disheveled clothes and the pressing weight of Mihawk languid stance, it was making the little floating feelings of pleasure circle the drain. A sharp hiss slipped from your lips as you gingerly brushed over the broken skin on the side of your neck. He had bit you far too hard this time. In such a public area, marking you for all the world to see. Breaking one of the few rules of your agreement.

“You’re going to pay for this. Aren’t you?” You growled as your manicured nails tapped against the swordsman’s buried face to pull his attention from your shoulder to your throat. Flippant pain radiated from the reddish skin as Mihawk’s lips pressed over the mark gently. Your nails threatened to leave moon-shape marks as your request wasn’t something to be toyed with. No, it was demand.

Fix this. Now.

“Shall I buy you a collar then? Something frilly and obnoxious that draws even more stares to you.” Mihawk muttered against your throat, you could feel the faint twitch of his smile as your nails gripped a fraction tighter. 

“This isn’t a game. I have a reputation to uphold. I can’t exactly maintain it if I walk around looking like I had been marked like some feral cat in heat..” You hissed as captains, wealthier clientele all held out for the miniscule chance you would take them to bed. An illusion that Mihawk took great pleasure in shattering by leaving marks on your body. No one liked to be reminded that their chosen company was shared afterall. 

“So uphold your reputation. The steel-spined Madam of the Basileia Pirates, Madam Captain of the Victoria. Speculated by rumors that she has turned into a frigid bi-”

“Mihawk, this isn’t-”

“A game. I know, dove. So stop trying to play it.” Mihawk rasped as he turned you around to face him properly. There was an undeniable seriousness in his gaze as he lightly tilted your face upward, forcing you to meet him head on. Any further retorts or biting sarcasm vanished from your mind as the reality of the situation slunk in like a scavenger. Five years, this arrangement had suited you both perfectly well. Never entertaining girlish thoughts of romance except on your worst days, practical and level-headed. Now Mihawk was in the flesh, proposing an alternative.

“So, speak plainly then.” You whispered as a flicker of embarrassment edged your words at the faint tremble in your voice. Was it fear for the future? Rejection? Excitement? You couldn’t explain the confusing tangle of emotion.

“Become my Paramour.”

The word sank like a stone in the vastness of the ocean. It had an echoing quality to it as your mind burst into frantic activity. Mihawk wasn’t joking, he wasn’t baiting you into another game. He meant it. ‘It’, you didn’t even dare name the proposal in your own head. Fuck, how were you supposed to accept it outloud.

“Please tell me these long periods of silence won’t become the norm with you.” Mihawk teased as your lips went into a flat expression of irritation. As if he hadn’t just proposed something that would monumentally shift the trajectory of your reputation. To him, such a change would be a mere splattering of ink on some documentation, in comparison to the news of sinking entire fleets. Yet for you. You could already imagine the new files that would have to be drawn up on you.

“You are serious. Aren’t you.This isn’t just a whim.” 

“Have I ever been one for whimsy?” Mihawk retorted with a roll of his eyes as your hands fisted around the lapel of his overcoat. A Paramour wasn’t a mere name lauded on some favored bed warmer. It had implicit marking of partnership, your name would forever be linked to the Warlord for better or worse. Seeing you at his side wouldn’t be a random chance, but expected. Spreading out of your life from bed to crew. What would their reactions be?

“I’ll give you my answer, tomorrow. Just don’t die to some upstart. I would blame this whole proposal as a sign of bad luck” You muttered

“Such little faith, little dove.” Mihawk teased as his lips met yours in a gentle kiss. The pair of you remained like that for some time. Even as the drizzling rain turned into a true display, it didn’t matter. Only tomorrow did.

Series Masterlist Here

[drconstellation]

Taking Things At Face Value

This post is dedicated to all those Ninas out there, who are "just enjoying the show."

I have been pondering an problem that had come up for a second time in another meta I'm writing (I left it out of an earlier one for clarity) regarding acknowledgement of identity and faces in S2, but when you keep running into the same road-block, you have to tackle it head on. Then I ran into the exact same problem a third time here, and the beginnings of this meta has sat in my drafts file staring at me for several weeks while I've been doing other things. But finally, finally, the answer has come to me, while being kept awake by a passing thunderstorm at 1.30am.

MRS SANDWICH: You're a good lad. CROWLEY: I'm not actually, either. But thank you.

Let's start with this exchange between Crowley and Mrs Sandwich, after Crowley has led all the Whickber St shopkeepers out of the ball to apparent safety. She calls him a "good lad," and he denies it, but thanks her anyway, and gives her a charming smile. We all know Crowley hates being called 'nice' and the last time he did something 'good' he got dragged down to Hell for punishment, so it seems like an odd thing to happen.

But the thing is, while Mrs Sandwich is complimenting his actions, he is responding about his appearance - that is neither 'good' (i.e. he is a demon) or a male human (i.e. he is an supernatural non-gendered entity.)

At this point you might be going "yeah, yeah, we know, we get that! Move along op..." but this matters, as you soon will see. We should also note that neither Crowley or Aziraphale judge Mrs Sandwich for being a brothel madame (how Aziraphale does not know this when her shop is just over the road from his I will never fathom, but there you go) and Crowley is actually quite charming all-round to his parallel character (prostitution and demons going hand-in-hand - er, not literally. But they went out the door as the vanguard arm-in-arm, though.)

The Metatron turning up at the bookshop in person is the next scene on the cards. Firstly, archangel Michael doesn't recognize him, but Saraqael obviously does.

Now, I know I'm guilty of saying that Michael may have had their memory adjusted at some time, but I'm going to suggest something else at this point. Saraqael knows who this is, because they have just had a fresh reminder from watching the recordings of Gabriel with Crowley and Muriel. And Saraqael is a pretty smart angel, so lets give them some leeway on this one. But for Michael, well, they are in the same situation as Aziraphale. They have only seen the Metatron as giant floating head without a body, so don't associate him with this appearance before them, and also because he has a beard.

Just before you jump on me and say "But he had one in the recordings!" yes, yes, I know. Two things, though, I want to bring to your attention: angels are not supposed to have facial hair,* and he doesn't have any in S1 (I checked!) and he also makes the comment "This calls for much less attention, though." Yeah, well a giant head floating through the streets of Soho would be quite a sight, wouldn't it, even though they had already been treated to the view of Gabriel's royal rear-end. Aziraphale had only met him once before, as a giant floating head in S1E4 who had had to introduce himself, so we could surmise this is Michael's problem as well, even though they were at Gabriel's trial. This is backed up by a tumblr ask/answer from NG as well, where he said "I think because they normally see him as a giant floating head, and not as a little man in a raincoat."

MICHAEL: Um, and who are you? METATRON: For Heaven's sake. And I mean that most literally. You don't know me? Well, uh, what about you? Demon? Do you know me?

Demon. That is what the Metatron chooses to call Crowley in that company, and we know in hindsight that he knows Crowley's name - as does Uriel, and Gabriel. Even Muriel learns it. But they don't use it, at least not in S2.

Even more notable is that the archangels don't deign to him give the respect of using his chosen name at all. He's not not even their enemy at this point - he's beneath their notice altogether, even though they are in the same room. Only Aziraphale seems to acknowledge his existence, instinctively trying to reach out to him as he passes by.

To Nina, people are coffee preferences.

To Mrs Sandwich, they are desires that need servicing.

So then question I had, and that stopped me, was why did both Crowley and Gabriel question Beelzebub about their new face?

It stood out to me because you don't normally make an obvious comment about the change of actor for a character, and to do it twice - !! You can't ignore that. No meta writer should ignore that. There is a trope term for this, actually, called "lampshading," which means to intentionally call attention to an incongruent situation within a story before moving on, but in a show where nothing is an accident, this seems a bit trite to me. Eventually I realized that this was the whole crux of the problem to me - that while we all too readily take things at face value, its not the faces that really influence us, its our internal values.

In the case of Beelzebub, Crowley recognizes the demon, their power, and their identity via the flies without any doubt; he merely comments on the change of exterior appearance. In terms of value, he knows straight away he's dealing with someone dangerous, no matter what they look like. Gabriel, on the other hand, is judging the book by its cover, and because he doesn't recognize the new cover, he needs proof of which demon he's dealing with, or maybe if they are even a demon at all.

"Bravo," says Nina, "Just enjoying the show." She's already seen a few that week, not to mention just in the general flow of life as a shop owner involved with customer service. If you've had any sort of life in a customer service role I'm sure you've got a few stories you could tell of things you've seen or experienced as well! I know I can.

The conversation between Nina and Crowley after Aziraphale walks away is amusing for all the assumptions Nina makes about them based on what she's observed that week, but also because Crowley tells the truth every in every reply to Nina, and yet she still has no idea what he's really saying. But her judgements, based on her experience and values, still manage to drop the proverbial ton of bricks on his head so badly he slinks off to sooth himself with some alcohol while he thinks about it instead of catching up with Aziraphale to continue being the angel's nameless shadow.

This problem with judging people on previous experience and not on who they actually are is everywhere in S2.

It's Ennon treating Aziraphale, an angel he's never met before, as a slut.

It's Elspeth judging Aziraphale on his accent.

It's Mrs H. giving a powerful demon a blistering tongue-lashing because she thinks he's a just simple human black marketeer.

It's Crowley refusing to call Gabriel "Jim" because he believes Gabriel is faking it.

...and so on. These are just a few examples. I'm sure you can spot a few more.

Which brings us back around to the meeting of the supernatural Councils in the bookshop in S2E6 and Crowley's "invisibility" to the other angels and demons gathered there. A demon to the archangels, an arch-traitor to the demons, why would they want to acknowledge him? Once he restores Gabriel, he becomes rank-less and faceless to them because they don't need him any more - its basically an act of celestial racism.

Nina and Maggie don't really know any better, they still think Mr Crowley and Mr Fell are just, well, "partners." OK, so maybe they've been doing some weird shit the last few days manipulating things in the neighbourhood but they're still obviously a couple a group of the two of them in their human eyes - and neither do they seem to care that they seem to be mlm, either. No judgement there.

A number of times I've seen ops say they've been watching GO with family members who are seeing it for the first time, and the family member thinks they are just "close friends." Why? Because they haven't seen S2 and the kiss? Because they haven't verbally said "I love you" to each other? Do they really need to say that to prove their feelings for each other? Is that just your values creeping to the fore?

And where did you get your values from?

Sometimes you need to stop and question why you think what you think. I'm not just talking about religious indoctrination. Some expectations put on us by by society at large can be insidious. Expectations around how gender should act, the life purpose of a gender, your worth to society if you don't meet certain unspoken standards, age-related behaviour, social norms around alcohol consumption, the way they dress, what someone eats, the way they eat it, that you must be seen to be productive, or busy...take your pick for whatever is prevalent around you at the moment and for your culture. Just start by noticing, and being aware.

Yes, it is pointless, because demons and angels all come from the same angelic stock. There was a bit of a disagreement at one point and they split into two groups, and judgemental labels got applied to them. They are both still bureaucratic horrors. Which ever side wins the final battle, humans still lose.

Mortal humans all look the same inside, too, if you take their face and skin away and take the societal labels off them. We forget that about ourselves all the time.

There doesn't have to be any wibbly-wobbly timeline stuff going on to explain things. What ever happened to the concept of Occam's Razor? The simplest answer is usually the correct one. And that was what I realized in the middle of the night - the cliche I had used to title this was the answer. It's about being aware of those ingrained, instinctive, judgmental values that you don't realize you've learnt, and looking past the faces that you meet.

*oh lawdy, I'm giving strength to all of you who want to believe he is a demon then, aren't I? But do demons have facial hair either?