#gorgeous bastard man on the loose

[dinosus]

John Price is a domestic menace who is so in love with you it’s borderline ridiculous.

Price is up at the crack of dawn, even when he’s home. Military habits die hard. But instead of rushing off to train, he takes his time watching you sleep. He adores how peaceful you look, face buried in the pillow, hair messy.

“Too bloody gorgeous for your own good, love.”

He always makes coffee first thing in the morning. Your coffee is made with care, perfect sugar-to-milk ratio. His? Jet fuel. The man drinks pure black coffee like a lunatic.

If you wake up early, he pulls you into his lap, letting you sit between his legs as he rests his chin on your shoulder, sipping coffee together in comfortable silence. This man cannot cook for shit. You let him try once, and the kitchen almost caught fire. His ‘specialty’? Scrambled eggs that somehow taste like regret.

If you’re cooking, he’s always hovering. Arms wrapped around your waist, chin on your shoulder, murmuring- “What’s on the menu today, sweetheart?”

You have to swat him away because he steals food off the pan.

“John, I swear—STOP PICKING AT IT.”

“I’m just taste-testing, love.” (No, he’s eating half of it.) Price is a touch-starved bastard. He constantly has a hand on you—your thigh, your back, your waist. He hates sleeping alone. If he’s home, you are glued to him.

Post-mission cuddles? He holds onto you like you’re his lifeline.

Comes home, sighs deeply, collapses onto you. He buries his face into your neck, muttering “Missed you so damn much.”

He physically cannot sleep unless you’re in his arms. If he has nightmares? You always wake up to comfort him. He tries to brush it off, but you cup his face, run your fingers through his hair.

“You’re home, John. You’re safe.”

And just like that, the tension leaves his body. This man walks on the side of the road closest to traffic. Always. Hand on your lower back when walking through crowds. If anyone even looks at you wrong? That stern Captain Price glare™ is activated.

One time, some guy at the grocery store got too close to you— Price instantly went into overprotective husband mode.

“The fuck you lookin’ at, mate?”

You had to drag him away before he decked the poor man. Don't let this man near laundry. “John, you can’t just throw your combat gear in with our clothes.” “...They all get clean, don’t they?” Absolutely not. One time, you found a grenade pin in the washing machine.

“JOHN WHAT THE HELL IS THIS?!”

“…Souvenir?”

You ban him from doing laundry after that.

When he gets rare days off, he’s the laziest bastard alive. He’s in sweatpants and a loose t-shirt, sprawled on the couch. If you try to get up? Nope. He pulls you back down.

“Where d’you think you’re goin’, sweetheart? You’re stayin’ right here.”

Movie nights? You lay on his chest, and he rubs lazy circles into your back. He snores. Loudly. But if you ever tease him about it, he denies it. “I don’t snore, love.” “John, I have video evidence.” “…Fabricated.”

[ninelieswithme]

⛧°。 ⋆༺♱༻⋆。 °⛧ ⛧°。 ⋆༺♱༻⋆。 °⛧ ⛧°。

𝙱𝚕𝚞𝚗𝚝 𝙱𝚕𝚊𝚍𝚎

ʏᴀɴᴅᴇʀᴇ sᴛᴀʟᴋᴇʀ ʟᴇᴏɴ ᴋᴇɴɴᴇᴅʏ x ꜰᴇᴍ ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

★ ᴛᴡ = sᴍᴜᴛ, ᴄʀᴇᴀᴍᴘɪᴇ, ᴘ ɪɴ ᴠ sᴇx, ʙᴏᴅʏᴡᴏʀsʜɪᴘ.

✰ sᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ - ʏᴏᴜ ᴡᴏʀᴋ ᴀs ᴀ ʙᴀʀɪsᴛᴀ ɪɴ ʀᴀᴄᴄᴏᴏɴ ᴄɪᴛʏ, ᴏɴᴇ ᴄᴏʟᴅ ʀᴀɪɴʏ ɴɪɢʜᴛ ᴡʜɪʟᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ᴡᴇʀᴇ ᴏɴ ᴛʜᴇ sʜɪꜰᴛ ʏᴏᴜ ᴍᴇᴇᴛ Lᴇᴏɴ!! ᴡᴇʟʟ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ꜰʀɪᴇɴᴅʟʏ ɪɴᴛᴇʀᴀᴄᴛɪᴏɴ ᴛᴜʀɴs ᴏʙsᴇssɪᴏɴ,

✫ ᴀᴜᴛʜᴏʀ ɴᴏᴛᴇ - ʜᴀʏʏ sᴏʀʀʏ ⵊ ᴡᴀs sᴏ ᴛɪʀᴇᴅ ᴍᴀᴋɪɴɢ ᴛʜɪs 😭😭

✪ sᴛᴀʟᴋᴇʀ x sᴛᴀʟᴋᴇᴅ ᴀᴜ - 2k ᴡᴏʀᴅ’s

✯ ᴋɪɴᴋ’s - ᴄʀᴇᴀᴍᴘɪᴇ, ʙᴏᴅʏᴡᴏʀsʜɪᴘ.

ᴋɪɴᴋᴛᴏʙᴇʀ ᴅᴀʏ ᴛᴡᴏ, ʟɪɴᴋ ꜰᴏʀ ᴋɪɴᴋᴛᴏʙᴇʀ ʟɪsᴛ - ʜᴇʀᴇ

༉‧₊˚🕯️🖤❀༉‧₊˚. ༉‧₊˚🕯️🖤❀༉‧₊˚. ༉‧₊˚🕯️🖤❀༉‧₊˚. ༉

I swear this song played when leon saw you at the café

He had just graduated from the police academy, assigned to a precinct in a city that felt more like a labyrinth of shadows than a thriving metropolis that raccoon city was known for.

Surrounded by flickering neon lights, echoing footsteps, blinding lights of the city shining in his blue eyes.

His coat drenched, blondette hair wet and slicked back from the attack of rain.

Eyes locking to a lively cafè

A quaint little café nested between two towering buildings that seemed to loom down on it, watching the world with grim attention.

Milo’s Brew, huh cute name..

He smirked, blue eyes turning more vibrant, though only a moment

He sought refuge from the chaos of the city, his boots tapping behind him, stepping into a cozy store.

Eyes a haze, from the loneliness of the night, in a busy city.

The rain tapped softly against the café windows, the smell of coffee beans invading his senses.

Where the scent of fresh pastries were thick in the cold contrast of the city.

The homily sounds of music playing in the back, the warmth clinging to his wet form.

Treading into the café, head down, his locks sticking to his forehead.

Joining the short line of the sweet store.

Looking up lightly to the neon menu, the line slowly dwindling.

His head aching, eyes stinging, god he missed being in the academy..

He’s finally a cop but that void.. it’s still not filled..

His face soured, foot tapping, waiting for his turn to order a late night coffee..

The music like a hum to his sense, eyes growing slightly heavy, legs buckling every so often.

Head nodding back and forth.

Thoughts wandering on his obvious pay check and chores he’ll have to do when he gets home.

Groaning at the thought.

Until the back of the customer in front moved out of his dazed sight, his eyes laying on yours.

God were you glowing or was it just him.

You were stunning- No, Gorgeous.

And you’re not even in a normal outfit?!

Eyes wide open, mouth slightly parted as if he stopped breathing.

While stood behind the counter, your hands deftly maneuvering the espresso machine.

Eyes sparkling with warmth despite the gray skies outside.

He practically jumped for joy when you turned to him, placing the newly brewed coffee on the counter.

The customer smiling while you did the same..

“Lucky bastard..”

He said coldly looking at the man smile at him, feeling jealousy boil over, his eyes staring daggers into the customer.

Soon you broke conversation walking to the counter eyes beaming.

God your eyes..

So delicate.

So lively

So pretty.

If he could he would arrest you right here, have you at the station you and him only :D.

Like a cute permanent sleepover.

“What can I get started for you today?”

You chirped, voice a honeyed melody that disrupted Leon’s thoughts.

Eyes a lot more lively than usual, Leon speaking softly.

“just a black coffee, please- oh no sugar.”

“Y-Your the only sugar I need”

Leon stuttered great dumbass, just embarrassed yourself..

“Uhhhh huh!, Coming right up!”

You buzzed, stepping from the counter, expertly grinding beans and steaming milk.

Not even a smile.. wow.. no blush, he really needs to work on his pick up lines.

He sighed ears red at the tips leaving the line.

Great.. you’re fucking pathetic..

He thought sliding into one of the side booths of the café.

Hands in hair, eyes growing dull loosing their shine..

She’ll never love you, no one does..

He thought, while you prepared his drink.

The sweet atmosphere long forgotten by Leon.

Time slipped away as his mind absorbed every detail.

Your hair, the way your eyes sparkled as you interacted with those.. ungrateful customers, the carefree way you danced to the music.

“Here you go, one black coffee!”

You yelled out, placing the cup on the counter with a radiant smile.

Leon got up, head down fingers quickly brushing yours for a moment.

Leon feeling a current of electricity rush through him.

He was mesmerized.

“Thanks,”

he muttered, barely able to muster the courage to look at her.

He will be yours.

You waved him by, as he lightly smiled leaving the warm embrace of the store.

Getting bombarded by the cool breeze, the coffee warm in his hand.

Leon stood outside the shop for a moment, heart racing, clutching the coffee like it was a talisman.

He couldn’t shake the feeling that he needed to know more about her.

As twilight descended, he found himself lingering, watching through the glass as she finished her shift.

Hand only the glass, making sure to avoid your gaze every so often.

You laughed with her coworkers, her laughter resonating like music, drawing him in deeper.

God you were so pretty.

The way you clothes hugged your frame.

Or the way your breasts foddled forward when you leaned down.

Or the way he wanted you plump lips around his cock.

God he shivered, blood rushing to his face, cock throbbing.

Get yourself together

He thought turning away from you leaning his back onto the cold glass.

Finally you stepped out, Leon’s heart hammered in his chest, quickly he turned his head, your eyes making contact with the RPD embroidered on the back.

You smile kindly unaware, only hastily treading away from the cafe your heels tapping against the concrete.

Your hair swaying past your face, beanie snug on your head.

Your only aim to get to your apartment at a reasonable time. 

His icy eyes locking onto the small of your back.

god so cute..

He blushed feverishly, his body involuntarily stepping towards your direction.

“M’Gotta follow you”

He said under his breath, his breath freezing into a fog.

The world around him faded as he became consumed by the desire, legs moving on their own.

Stalking you like pray.

Each night, a memorised routine.

Every time you left for your shift or returned to your cramped apartment.

He was there just a few paces behind, watching, learning more about stunning you who had captivated him so completely.

He’s been getting more brave, placing small letters with sweets, or a occasional 200 dollars

Discreetly placed in the shadows, for your eyes only.

The notes reading letters of total devolution.

Some saying “hope you like it dear!!”

More hearts than words on the letter.. but you have be been picking up on the more frequent gifts.

You had noticed the strange items but shrugged them off as a long overdue prank.

You we’re a busy women, the last thing you needed was to focus on an a anonymous admirer.

But today it was different.

After work, the bing of the elevator ringing in your ears, the old metal door screeching lightly.

Eyes in a daze seeking solace from today’s work at the café.

Heels tapping on the tiles, till your eyes meet yet again another gift.. this one was different.

A box?

You cocked an eye brow leaning down, picking up the box a letter as always strapped on it.

Different..

A quiet hum leaving you, unlocking your apartment.

Quiet taps entering the tiles of your home.

Dropping your bag, throwing the box onto the kitchen counter.

Undoing the expensive box…

Wait..

Is that..

Your eyes widen at what lied in the box.

It was a beautiful, 9 carat gold ring, with a single centre white diamond, it didn’t look like a lab one either..

You gasped dropping the small box back down to the counter, hands cupping your agape mouth.

This was to far.. a ring like this.. it had to cost a fortune..

You felt guilty, quickly closing the box.

For the whole night, you kept away from the ring.

Leaving it abandoned at your counter, rarely even touching the majestic ring.

The words “Let’s get married!!” Under the soft material holding the ring..

It finally clicked in your mind.. this wasn’t a joke..

It never was.. and you’ve been encouraging this behaviour.

You sighed leaning next to the ring, yawning.

What am I going to do with you..

You thought sighing, you know what the fuck it is.

Your going to bed

Slowly making way to your cozy room, changing mid walk, letting the dirty clothes litter the house.

Heels knocked off.

You’re too tired for this.

While you went into deep thought.

first, it was small.

A bouquet of daisies on your doorstep, a book of poetry you once mentioned to a friend.

And sweet notes with words that dripped with admiration.

To full blown marriage..

You groaned finally plummeting to your bed, eyes droopy.

Finally dozing off to a restless sleep, dreams haunted by shadows and whispers.

Maybe it was just a prank.

You reassure finally shuffling into a good position.

Heart rate dropping, eyes and body relaxing.

“Night stalker”

You lolled out..

Head plumenting into the pillow.

wait.. did you hear a chuckle.

You stirred awake, body still heavy from the lack of sleep.

But something felt different this night like morning.

You couldn’t move your legs nor your wrists..

What the?!

Eyes fluttered open quickly, taking in the dark scenery, nothing..

Wait.

You felt an aching pain between your thighs, like something was in the way??

Finally you heard it..

More like him.

You were greeted by a sight that made her heart race.

Who’s this?!

Eyes lidded still, feeling his cock twitch deep inside your tight walls..

Light whimpers were heard from Leon, hips frantically thrusting deep into you.

Tongue lolled out..

Your own accompanying his.

You tried moving feeling you still can’t move..

H-Handcuffs?

You thought tugging on them, Legs flailing, legs trying to come into your body.

A rough hand grabbing onto your thigh pushing your pussy wide open again.

His cock slamming in and out aggressively.

“Ah, ah, ah”

Leon whined thrusting more aggressively earning a whine.

Gently caressing the area he grabbed.

“Don’t be a bad girl~”

His diamond blue eyes intense with desire.

His hands were gently caressing your tied form.

As if you were the most precious treasure he had ever laid his eyes on.

His cock still thrusting deep inside your heat.

Earning a moan.

His cock even bulging out of you of you a little.

"Good morning well l-late, my princess.”

He cooed, leaning his head down to your belly button kissing you tenderly.

Leaving you very shocked yet very needy..

Blue eyes shimerinh into yours.

You heved and gasped, pussy clenching around him.

Only moaning back gently grinding your Clit on his base, quickly fucking your hole more aggressively.

If that’s what his baby wants then you’ll get it.

Arching your back slightly, offering your body to him.

Breasts, full and heavy, rose with your nimble movement, the nipples hardening in the cool nighttime air.

“M’love being all the way inside of you, baby”

He smiled still thrusting deep into your tight cunt, spilling his pre deep into your greedy thing.

You moaned, hands tangling in anything you could grab, head leaning back into the head board.

"You taste so sweet,"

He murmured against you, his breath hot on your sensitive flesh.

A slight nodding coming from you begging, Leon to ravage your cute cunt.

Like a dog on heat his thrusts growing faster till he stopped, still kissing at your skin.

His eyes lidded, blush nearly blood red.

“M’need to worship you pretty thing, gonna be carrying my babies”

He smile so smitten with you, you eyes going hazed.

As he changed plans, fucking you with slow, deliberate strokes.

Your moans filled the room, each thrust of his cock sending waves of pleasure through your aching body.

Leon showed no signs of stopping.

Feverishly kissing up and down his lips could reach.

He continued to worship your glistening pussy, his cock thrusting in and out, a few needy thrusts slipping out of him.

His fingers joined in, sliding inside you, filling you up as he kissed at your skin, thumb on your clit.

You cocked out a moan, with light pleas to how good he felt.

You cunt lubing up his cock, and fingers.

“N’gonna go feral..”

He said lightly, his blue eyes piercing yours searching for an answer.

You nodded lightly blush and drool covering your face.

Leon didn’t need anything else, reefing his fingers out of your greedy thing.

Speeding up like before, while he whined and whimpered.

“Saw ya not wearing your ring”

He said sadly, making you feel.. guilty?

I-It’s okay you’ll get used to it

He thought thrusting deeper, making your back arch.

“M’wherin mine”

He cooed Blue eyes looking at yours.

You looked, eyes squinted searching, finally seeing his larger fingers around your thigh, the ring was there.. huh..

Wait..

He’s the stalker..

Shit

B-but I locked- wait..

You sighed remembering you didn’t lock the door.

Ending up with you being dicked down by this lovesick psycho.

You could practically see his tail wagging while he plunged his cock into your heat.

“You like It don’t you??”

He asked happily going in auto pilot, fucking your fast and raw.

God you loved this, you pussy twitching around his aching length..

You nodded not giving a shit, while leon was left in la la land, fucking your pussy dry.

Cock hitting your g spot.

Pussy wrapping around him so good.

Cunt fluttering every so often.

Tip touching your cervix.

You felt your walls tighten around Leon,

“G-Gonna- ahh~ cum p-pretty thing”

He moaned thrusts stuttering every so often.

Till you felt it..

The feeling of his ropes cover your womb, filling your tight cunt, his constant caressing and affirmations.

While your cunt drinked him up for all his cock had to offer, his cock sliding out of your delicate cum filled folds still erect.

His smile growing, watching it ooz out just like his pre did when he saw you splayed out on your soft bed.

Fingers coming down to the escaping cum scooping it back into your greedy thing.

“Where you belong”

He cooed shoving to fingers into your pussy.

You whines coming from you.

Eyes lidded, lips plump, looks like this pussy needs a another round.

Soon enough Leon fixed himself back into his cop uniform.. wait him..

Great..

You huffed Leon only smiling, leaving the room bare.

Is he in my kitchen??

You thought your chest heaving still trying to listen for leon.

Then he shouted.

“Now let’s get that ring on”

[ghostsstolemymoxie]

A request here for smut! enemies to lovers hot hate sex on a mission then people over the intercom back at the mansion here oops 🤭

AHHH OK I love this ideaaaa, just hoping I did it justice <3

【You're so gorgeous - then you start talkin'!】

Logan x F! Reader - Enemies to lovers: Hatefuck edition Divider credit @cafekitsune Tags: No use of Y/n, explicit content (18+, MDNI), unprotected p in v (be smarter than Logan and reader folks), rough sex, spitting, unintentional voyeurism, accidental exhibitionism Please don't click read more unless you're over 18 and willing to see 18+ content and the above tagged content. WC: 3k words

"He's the most arrogant, boorish, misogynistic, vile bastard I have ever met in my life!" You hissed down the comms, trying very hard to hide the scowl etched into your features. "Yes, but he's also your partner on this mission," Ororo replied, calmly, her voice crackling somewhat as it travelled into your ear through the wireless bud for your communications.

All around you, all you could hear was chatter, laughter and bawdy noises.

Serves you right, really. After all, you'd been so desperate to get back into the swing of things and get onto the missions since your injury, you had begged Charles to assign you the next mission, not even caring what it was.

Lo and behold, it leads to you and Logan being sent out on an intel-gathering mission at a casino just by the Canadian border. All you needed to do was listen out for some plan to do with Sentinels being built. Charles had been stingy with the details, though you weren't quite sure why. You supposed he'd given the brief more to Logan - the experienced X-man.

As though summoned by your distasteful thoughts, Logan soon joined you in the casino, already holding a glass in his hand. Whiskey, no doubt, with plenty of ice. He stepped up alongside you, glancing you up and down and taking in your black-tie attire with a smirk on his face. "You scrub up nice. Makes sense. You're only here as arm candy." He grumbled, taking a sip of his whiskey. In truth, it was a wonder that his muscles didn't burst free from the white suit he was wearing, but this was no time for gawking at the wonderful body attached to this awful man. "Has anyone ever told you that you're the worst person they've ever met?" You mock, even as you follow him to one of the tables. "Has anyone told you that you've got a smart mouth? That's not an attractive quality in a lady, y'know." Logan's retort was fast and icy, barbed in a way that only Logan's tone could be.

"Both of you, you need to focus on gathering intel, not on bickering." It was Scott's turn this time, shrill down the comms as he made sure that both of you heard. From the scowl on Logan's face, he heard perfectly.

A friend of Bolivar Trask was on the roulette table tonight - and apparently, he got loose lips after enough scotch. So, Logan took his seat at the same table, keeping his head down and focusing on looking inconspicuous, whilst you lingered at his side, playing the part of the pretty girlfriend attending alongside her man. Logan chugged the rest of his whiskey, holding out the glass to you. "Get me another one, won't you sweetheart?"

Sweetheart. God, that was the worst word he could use for you. It only made you angry. He had that stupid smirk on his face, too, that said he only knew how mad it made you. Despite his mockery though, you kept your composure, putting a smile on your pretty, painted lips. "Sure thing, hun." You said, leaning in, feigning a kiss on his cheek as you whispered: "Call me sweetheart again, and I'll cut your dick off."

He replied only with a scoff, as you headed to the bar, a scowl plastered on your face. The only way you knew it was because you glimpsed it in the mirror whilst waiting to be served. Once seen, it was schooled quickly, though that didn't stop a passerby from noticing.

Whilst you waited for the bartender, idly listening over your comms to hear whatever was being said at the roulette table, you barely noticed his presence, until he sided up right alongside you. He was a handsome guy, though regrettably not as handsome as your begrudging date for the evening, who remained at the table, unaware.

"Now, what could possibly make such a pretty face look so grumpy?" He asked, cooing the words so condescendingly. "I'm not grumpy." You reply, sourly, before forgetting that whilst you can always hear on comms, they can always hear you. A creak across the room sounds as Logan turns to look at you, and a look of something spreads across his face at the sight of the younger man quite obviously coming onto you. You didn't know what that something was, but it lit a strange, desperate spark in your stomach for just a brief moment.

Still, you needed to deal with the interloper first, so you turned back to him. "I'm kind of in a rush. I'm just here to get my partner a drink." "Partner, huh?" He chuckled. "I get it. Long-term relationship but no ring… has he convinced you that being partners is just as good as being married?"

He had clearly gotten the wrong end of the stick, though it was probably more your fault for saying partner rather than boyfriend. "It's not like that." You reply, trying to think of the best phrasing to get him to just leave you alone. "Then what's it like, gorgeous?"

The moron was grinning, missing the point as if he was a professional. All you could do was just roll your eyes and try to catch the bartender's attention. Sooner rather than later.

As you turned to speak to the bartender, the guy spoke up again, this time laying a hand on your arm as he did so. "Come on, Honey, you can tell me. I've been told I'm a wonderful listener. I've had my shoulders wet once or twice. I've got something else I'd love for you to get wet too."

The crudeness wasn't lost on you, and the thought of doing anything with this guy made your nose crinkle in disgust. But before you could reply with anything, you felt the guy's grip get snatched off of you as another, larger hand slid its way around your waist.

"Somethin' I can help you with, bub?" Logan's voice rumbled from behind you, and it clearly rattled the other guy to be challenged by him. After all, Logan was 300 lbs of muscle and adamantium and had the mug of a mean bastard to go with it. Even if that mean bastard was ruggedly handsome and carved from the finest Canadian oak.

You could have defended yourself. You knew this easily, and you were certain Logan did too, though the intensity of his gaze whilst he stared down the other guy forced a needy sensation in your core, betraying any lingering sense of feminism you had.

"No, just talking to the lady here." The guy replied, as politely as he could muster up, despite the fact he was no doubt shitting his pants. "Botherin' her, more like." Logan scoffed. "That cologne of yours is vile, by the way. You should probably try and wear something that doesn't smell like shit next time you try and flirt with a lady. Especially one who's spoken for."

The guy stammered, tripping over himself in trying to respond, his eyes running from you, then back to Logan, lips flapping comically but with no sound coming out.

Logan took this opportunity to tug you away from the bar instead. "C'mon, Sweetheart. Let's go have a talk." He snarled. "Logan, what are you doing? You need to focus on the meeting! Now is not the time for it!" Scott's voice down the communicator was cut off when Logan tore his out of his ear and yours as well (though he was uncharacteristically gentle as he plucked it from your ear).

He stuffed them both in his pocket, dragging you past the roulette table and the blackjack and into the men's bathroom. A single cubicle, with a lock on it that he immediately clicked shut the second that you were both in.

"What the Hell are you thinking?" You snap up at him, tearing your arm from his grip. Logan didn't reply instantly. His nostrils were flared, his beautiful mouth twisted in a vicious sneer and his whole body vibrating with the kind of energy that was more animal than human. His arms were tense, you could see the seams of his jacket nearly fraying at the effort, whilst those Hazel eyes of his burned into yours.

"I'm thinkin' about how furious I am." He snarled in reply, after a moment to think. "I'm thinkin' about how idiotic you are for even strikin' up a conversation with that guy in the damn first place. I'm thinkin'…" One tantalising step forward, and all of a sudden you were braced against the tiled wall. Thankfully the casino was clean, or at least looked it. Logan loomed over you, his breath heavy and stuttering, and for a moment you wondered if he had finally snapped and was going to drive those claws of his into your chest and finally be done with it. "I'm thinkin'… Dammit, that dress is good on you."

You blink, a few times as you look up at him, trying to confirm that you'd heard him correctly, that his eyes truly were raking down your body like that and not that you'd just dreamed it.

"Logan-" "Shut up." He snapped, cutting you off. "Just… shut up. Stop talking. God, you're so gorgeous and then you start talkin'!"

Despite your indignation, you didn't get a chance to reply. In moments he had gripped at your ass, squeezing full handfuls and lifting you from the ground, only to move you, seating you along the counter where the sink was, his eyes burning into yours all the while. He dropped you onto the counter with a thud, and in moments he was ruching up the fabric of your dress, the fabric slipping upwards from your ankles up to your mid-thigh. Hastily, you tried to tug it back down but he was far stronger, and it was a better option to have the dress lifted than torn, especially considering you'd both need to head back out to the floor. Now that there was a little give, he burrowed his strong thigh between your own, until his body was firmly planted between your knees.

"God, what am I doing?" He groaned, hanging his head, his hands planted on either side of your hips, trapping you in place. "You don't want this. You hate me as much as I can't stand you. But… I can't take this anymore. The… the tension, the burning, the need. The ache." His voice trembled as he spoke, his shoulders jerking with his difficult breaths.

As if all at once, you seemed to realise his intention here. He wanted you. Needed you. In a way almost primal and carnal, that seemed completely separate to the mission, or their usual distaste of one another.

A searing hot coil tightened in your gut, pulsating with desperation you didn't know you had in you. It had been a while, that much was for certain. 6 months? A year? Longer? Too long, by all measures. Too long since you'd shared your body with someone so vulnerably, so intimately.

And God, how you longed to share it with Logan.

"Shove me away." He demanded. "Shove me away. Smack me. Tell me I'm a brute and a bastard and you don't wanna fuck me. Do it. Because if you don't, I'm not stopping, mission be damned."

Instead, disobedient to his pleading, you slid your hands up his chest, feeling every ridge and valley even through his tuxedo. There were no words shared, no refusals or acceptances. Only a gentle touch between the fiercest of enemies.

His eyes flared, bright and incensed, and in moments he had shrugged off his jacket, tossing it haphazardly backwards, not caring where it landed, before dropping to his knees.

His hands planted themselves defiantly on your inner thighs, holding them open as he brought his face towards your core, whilst your needy fingers kept your skirt bunched up and out of his way. Logan didn't even bother to pull your panties aside, at first. He pressed chaste kisses at first to the seam of your womanhood, feeling how it slicked at his attention, enjoying the way you reacted to his attention, the way the scent of your desire seemed to permeate the air around him from every angle. He hummed into his kisses as well, the vibration only making that coil in your gut tighter. At the attempts to close your thighs, he only snarled, his grip getting firmer as he held them apart, shooting a glare up at you as if to warn you that if you didn't stop, he wouldn't keep going.

You relaxed your thighs, and he quickly crooked a finger around the gusset of your panties, tugging them to the side, taking in the sight of you with a cocked, eager eyebrow.

"You got a pretty pussy, sweetheart. She's a needy thing, huh?" He teased, before toying with his thumb, running along the seam a moment before holding you open, just in time for him to dive in again.

He kissed you as if he wanted to devour you like a hound starved for days on end would lap at the sweetest, most delicious meal. Quickly, he shrugged your thighs onto his shoulders, holding you against his face, as he slung one arm around you, holding your thigh in place on him and sliding his hand over the plane of your hip before he began to rub at your swollen clit, whilst his tongue diverted his focus to your weeping honeypot.

There couldn't be a finer sight anywhere in the world. You didn't care you were in a casino bathroom, or that you were meant to be working tonight on an important mission. Life or death meant jack shit compared to the sight of Logan kneeling between your legs and devouring you. He even seemed to hum in delight as your hand tangled in his hair, tugging him closer, nearly drowning him in your need.

He pulled back a moment later, strings of your desire still connecting you to his lips, before he swiped them away, licking them from his fingers.

At your whine, he only scoffed. "You don't finish anywhere but on my cock. You understand me?" He grumbled, standing up again, and unfastening his trousers, letting them and his boxers fall in a puddle on the floor in one swift, easy movement. When you glanced down, you could see he was already at full mast. Larger, thicker, veinier than any you had ever had before. It throbbed in his hand, with 3 beads of precum already leaking down his shaft. He palmed himself a moment, letting out a groan, holding his head in line with your clit as he rocked back and forth, gently. Just enough to soak himself in you.

"Mmm… I don't think you're wet enough." He grumbled, a smirk on his face. You were dripping on the counter, you could feel that already, so you knew he was lying, leading up to something. "So what are you gonna do about it?" You ask, locking your gaze with his own.

He pumps his fist along his cock still as he grins back at you, not averting his gaze as he spat, a thick glob of saliva landing right where his cock met your cunt. He smeared it on himself, on you - on where you both would soon become one - and he chuckled. "I always wanted to spit on you. Never thought you'd get so red from it." "I'm not red from tha-" You went to protest, but before you could finish, he had bucked, his entirety sheathed inside of you in one agonisingly ecstatic movement. All of him was buried in your warmth, and your walls shuddered around him. You didn't know which one of you had let out that moan - but you had a sneaky feeling it was both of you.

Your hand gripped his shirt, holding onto the fabric tightly, seeking to anchor yourself however you could, feeling how your body pulsated around him, acclimatising to his invasion. "Fuck," He cursed, resting his forehead on your shoulder, forcing himself to remain in place, not moving until you'd gotten used to him. "What, has it been so long since you've had a dick you re-virginised? You're so tight…" He ground his hips against your own, not yet pulling out, but making sure to give you that friction that brought another moan from your lips. "This pretty pussy's been needing a stretch. Don't worry, Princess, I'll give her a workout."

With that, he pulled back, each inch that he rescinded leaving you clenching down on nothing, feeling desperate without him. Against your will, you whined, tangling your fist further in the fabric of his shirt, urging him back again. Even after pulling out so slowly, he bucked in fast, torturous and barbaric in his speed. He bucked so hard that your entire body jolted with the collision between you, but he pulled back as if he wanted to watch you crying at the loss of him.

"What's the matter, Princess? You look about ready to sob." He mocked, before grunting as he thrust back in, just as hard, and you cried out in your mixed delight and pleasure. "You're the worst," You retort, through gritted teeth, trying to maintain your brain function even as every slight movement of his cock penetrating you seemed to make you want to melt into him, drooling and moaning like a moron who knew nothing other than taking Logan's cock. "Am I?" He purred in return, grinding his teeth as he let out three sharp thrusts in succession, robbing you of your breath as you forced your nails into his chest, drawing a groan of animalistic delight from him.

"Sounds to me like you're 'boutta cum, Princess. If I'm the worst… maybe I'll just stop." "No!" God, your voice sounded so breathy as it echoed back around the room, and Logan lit up at the sound. "No?" He parrotted, lips pursed and eyes amused, before he tutted. "No what? Use your words." "No, don't stop." "You don't want me to stop. 'cause I'm not the worst, right?" "N-not the worst…" You repeated. "Not the worst. Good girl, Princess. I'm the man who's 'boutta make you cum all over my cock, ain't I? I'm the best I am at what I do. And what I do is fucking girls like you 'til you're stupid. Right?"

By now your tongue had gone numb. You couldn't form a word in your mind, let alone in your throat or mouth. Instead, all that passed your lips were gasps and mewls and needy moans, as you forced yourself to nod, trying to get your point across.

It seemed Logan was too far gone as well, as he grinned down at you, feral and angry and delighted.

He leaned in, pressing heated, feverish kisses all over your neck, up and along the column of your throat before his forehead rested on yours.

"Fuck, Princess. I'm not gonna last much longer…" He panted out, his thrusts becoming faster and faster, no longer taunting you, and instead chasing his peak. His free hand reached down as well, his fingers splayed over your womb whilst his thumb played with your red, sensitive clit, eliciting another loud moan from you.

"Where'd you want it?" Logan snarled. "Tell me, and fast before I… ngh." He bucked, his movements sloppy and desperate. You longed for his warmth inside of you. To feel him spill and buck and ride out his afterglow whilst still nestled in your perfect pussy. To watch the look on his face as he pulled out and saw his own seed oozing from you. "Inside," You demand, the only full word you've managed in a long while. "P…please… inside. Inside." "Wish is my command, darlin'." He grunted out.

His lips crashed against your own, tasking of whiskey and pine and your own sweet nectar, the sensation of receiving a kiss from Logan so tender and desperate finally being enough to tip you over that final cliff.

Your legs wrapped around his middle, tugging him closer, as your pussy fluttered all around him, milking him for all he was worth, as a wave of white-hot euphoria rolled over your mind. Your moans were swallowed by Logan's mouth, as he kept kissing you, letting his own moans and grunts escape as well, the shared sounds of your pleasure rumbling in the caverns of your mouths. "Just like that." He rumbled, between open mouth kisses, murmuring into the plush flesh of your lips. "Cum all over me baby. Make my fuckin' day."

You barely even felt the sensation you'd so longed for as Logan buried himself as deep as he could inside of you, spilling every drop of his cum inside of you, whilst you squeezed every ounce he was worth, the pair of you riding out your orgasms at once.

It took a few seconds for you to catch your breath. Both of you had heaving chests and red faces. Logan pulled free from your lips, though not before offering one teasing, apologetic lip to the seam of your mouth, as though to apologise for kissing so hard and leaving you swollen.

You slid an arm around his shoulders, a silent plea not to pull away, as you pulled him in for one more kiss.

But he froze halfway, and glanced down at his trousers, his eyes growing wide and his jaw tensing.

"Logan? What's the matter?" You ask, leaning forward and glancing down as well, brow furrowed. "I didn't mute the comms." He replied, bluntly.

Didn't mute the comms. The comms that had been in his pocket, and would have picked up their activities.

"Get back to the blackbird, you two. Now. Before you're kicked out of the casino." Scott's voice, tinny and furious, escaped the two comms, even from where they were buried in Logan's discarded trousers. "And don't think for a moment you're not going to be punished for this."

Logan chuckled, reaching down to fasten his trousers back on, returning his gaze to you. "I dunno about you, Princess… but I don't care if I get punished. We're doing that again on the way back. C'mon."

You slid your panties and your dress back into place, stood from the counter and took his hand, heading out of the casino with him, already brimming with excitement for round two - this time with muted comms.

I hope you enjoyed and hope I did this justice - I've not really written enemies to lovers before so this was super fun <3 Feedback is super appreciated so please let me know if you enjoyed!! If you're interested, my requests are open so please feel free to send me any questions, ideas or headcanons you'd like me to explore (please just make sure you've read my pinned post first) TYSM for reading and hope you enjoy <3

[with-my-calamitous-love]

JAMES DEAN DAYDREAM LOOK IN YOUR EYES ♫

rockstar! chuuya x popstar! reader

part 2/3

smut! you are responsible for what you read 💿

at an award show, the press make many speculations about your rising fame and your relationship with the infamous rockstar, chuuya nakahara.

inspired by style

midnight.

if there was an award show, chuuya was going. he was one of the youngest, most awarded rockstars ever. he's charming and handsome, with hands that play his guitar like a god. not to mention his sanguine voice coupled with his broody, meaningful lyrics. he was the subject of every teenage girl's heart.

he was a man that reveled in the fame, charming fans and interviewers alike. but for the most part, he insisted on letting the world watch him act. he knows damn well what the music industry can do to a star, and he's determined to rise above that.

still, every now and then theres a question that makes his gorgeous smirk falter.

"chuuya nakahara! can you tell us who you've been dating?"

"mr. nakahara! what do you have to say about moving on too fast?"

"chuuya! is it true you've started a relationship with Y/N L/N?"

he takes a deep breath. just dissassociate, and smile for the press. its what he does best. "i think some things are best left unsaid. right now, i'm focusing on my album, out november 1st."

the news of his new music is enough to distract adoring fans from his love life, instead heading the questions towards what he does best. all eyes are on him, orange hair slicked back and a loose, white classic shirt. his ability to look stunning despite the pressure brought upon by prying eyes is nothing short of remarkable.

he hears a lot about his newest music video, smiling every time he hears your name come up. the video you two had released sky-rocketed your name, and chuuya's just happy he could help. this time, he can genuinely smile- only when his mind flickers back to the acted, fake, and nothing more than a staged kiss. right?

funny how a fabricated kiss scene made his heart swell for weeks after.

its the first time he's felt that since his last relationship.

even though he's escaped, theres still people who speak on his past relationship, and evidently his past wrongdoings. for a moment there, it seems everyone believed he was a cheating bastard. that he was an unfaithful player who wanted woman like they were trophies. and for a minute, he was.

the fame had gotten to him. singing for thousands of fans, wining trophies and having his name on headlines made the rockstar believe he was invincible. but he wasn't. turns out too many shots of tequila and almost kissing a blonde girl he thought was his girlfriend can really mess up a rockstar. and it did.

the constant speculations on his relationship status made him sweat with anxiety. he fucked up and he knew it. he wasn't happy in his relationship, and found himself wishing for different in the end, but thats never an excuse to cheat. though he never did the deed, that almost was enough. there were reports and witnesses, enough for the media to take it and run. for months, his pr team worked day and night to keep the story at a minimum. and their efforts were surprisingly valiant, with higuchi choosing to stay quiet about the whole situation. chuuya never figured out why, even after their inevitable breakup, but he was thankful none the less.

somehow, you managed not to hear of the entire situation. maybe thats why chuuya was so eager to rope you into his life.

soon, he was no longer on fire. after a long waiting period, he was free to be adored again, leading him to make his music video with you, the same video that brought him back to this very award show, and the video that made him wish he could be next to you right now.

his anxiety is flaring up. he's still worried his career could go down in flames, that he'll never escape his monumental fuck up. that everything he's worked for won't be worth it if his guilt and regrets aren't monetized.

after a few short kisses and hugs, chuuya escapes to a private room, designated for singers and celebrities attending the show. the room is empty, with everyone already out there and dazzling the fans. everyone except you.

he blinks when he sees you touching up your bangs in the mirror. he knows that nervous shake in your hands all too well. this could end in burning flames or paradise.

he approaches, clearing his throat.

you immediately turn around, seeing him. his blue eyes are immediately drawn into your red lips- just what he likes

"you look nice." he utters, coming up next to you and adjusting his own appearance in the mirror. you had been in here for quite some time, bracing you and your pop-princess persona to get out there. somehow, chuuya senses this.

"this your first event?" he asks, blue eyes flickering to you. you nervously chuckle, almost wanting to lie but immediately knowing he'd call your bluff. "yeah... something like that."

he finds this endearing. and maybe he just wants to be close to you, to help you or because he's a god damn gentlemen, he silently wraps his arm around your waist and leads you out of the room.

the fact that this is your first time being so close to the paparazzi is not lost on chuuya. he studies your face, the way you answer questions so genuienely and so excitedly. he knows they wanna ruin your pretty face, and he prays your strong enough to overcome it.

he's so mesmerized by you he doesn't even notice the way photographers and interviewers are freaking out at the fact that chuuya nakahara and Y/N L/N just walked out on the carpet at the exact same time, fueling the already circulating rumors. he knows that they'll have a field day with tonight, but for once, he doesn't seem to mind. maybe because it's with you.

the two of you walk off, enjoying a few drinks and chatting. you've known chuuya nakahara: the rockstar. but now, you've been getting to know chuuya. the guy who loves small dogs, fancy hats and taylor swift. the guy who has the most embarrassing real laugh that he hides from the media. the guy who likes to stalk his own fanpages, and who can't say no to a signature.

and after a few more drinks and some soft arm touching, the two of you clammer into his limousine and speed off to his penthouse.

✧.* ⋆.˚ ☾ .⭒˚ ✧.* ✧.* ⋆.˚ ☾ .⭒˚ ✧.* ✧.* ⋆.˚ ☾ .⭒˚ ✧.* ✧.* ⋆.˚

the media likes to believe they know everything about you and chuuya.

they’re convinced you two dating, that you’re using him for fame and that he’s moving on too fast from his relationship. that you’re not pretty or talented enough for him, or that he’s just a passing thought for you.

what they don’t know is that his head is between you thighs, eating you out like a god damn dessert.

your shaky hands fly to his hair, tugging at him while his lips work their magic. he’s fluid and elegant, yet rough while we works you through yet another orgasm.

every now and then he’ll spit on you, mesmerized by the way it drips down your already gushing pussy. he reaches and maddeningly trails his fingers in a sloppy pattern, letting his essence coat you before diving back in. he’ll start with one long stripe going up the length of your pussy, savouring your cries before diving in.

he’s relentless, determined to make your toes curl and back arch. he’ll let the tip of his tongue trace circles around your clit, watching how it throbs. his thumbs move to part you even further, giving him better access to this meal.

he absolutely ravages you, leaving no part untouched as he tongue-fucks you. his grip tightens on your thighs as you finally cum again, letting him lap it all up like its second nature.

your body and mind are buzzing as chuuya makes his way back up with a trail of kisses, a shit eating grin plastered on his face. “told you i only needed 5 minutes.”

despite your flushed out face and spent, trembling thighs, you utter: “s-shut up.”

he laughs, sitting up and getting you some water. his bedsheets are luxurious, as you wrap your naked body in them. when he returns, he sets it down on the beside and lazily lays next to you, lying on his stomach. his back looks great like this, all his muscles on display.

but you can’t shake something you overheard.

“did you really cheat on her?”

he blinks. of course you’d bring that up after having sex.

he sighs, knowing this was only a matter of time. he shouldn’t feel so guilty. he didn’t actually cheat, though he was close to it. some would argue the intent is betrayal enough.

you’re not sure how to feel. rumours are just rumours, especially in the celebrity world. but you want to know if the man you’ve been falling for has a history of unfaithfulness.

he runs his hands through his air, barely being able to look you in the eye. “i.. came close to it.”

he wants to vomit, having to talk about it again.

you simply nod, seeing on your phone the already sparkling headlines about yours and chuuya’s love lives again. if you doom scroll long enough, they’re already reigniting the flame of his past relationship and how it ended.

you really hope this doesn’t end badly. for his sake and yours.

“are you mad?” he asks, thinking he already knows the answer. you pause for a moment. you’re angry, albeit only a little. most of that anger is towards yourself for not finding out sooner. you’re mostly just confused, if anything.

instead, you resolve to shake your head. “no, i’m not.”

and really, for a moment, you werent. the media was feasting off of something new. those that chose to rehash the past were less popular. the people wanted to see whats new, whats flashy and whats dazzling. right now, its you and chuuya together.

“what does this mean for us?” you hesitantly whisper, sliding down into the bedsheets to see him better. truthfully, neither of you know. the only thing thats clear are the feelings you share for one another.

he simply shrugs. “i’m gonna drag you down, doll. you’re a star. don’t let me do that to you.”

what hurts the most is that he’s right, even if its only a little. but you’re either an idiot, or in love. maybe both.

“..thats okay.” you smile, resolving to put love first, music second.

oh, how you’d come to regret that.

but you don’t relent when he pulls you into his arms, covering you two with the bedsheets. phones are tossed somewhere on the bed, and the penthouse keeping the two of you private. right now, you two could be together in secret. let them call it what they want.

[cheollipop]

move

navi | taglist

pairing: pole dancer!choi san x club owner!reader (fem)

w.c.: 3.3k

tags: smut, ft. pimp!woo

song rec: 'move' by taemin

with his toned thighs wrapped around the pole, sweat glistening under the changing lights, you felt the urge to wipe the cocky smirk off the new hire's lips. but little did you know, choi san loved performing for a crowd.

warnings: this —in white— is san's outfit for reference (except tighter, cheaper-looking and with a different chain), mentioned mxm, reader has one drink but everything is consensual, switch!san (shorty give me whip-whiplash), mean!reader, she's a badass though, public sex, unprotected sex (👎), san has a nipple piercing, some nipple play (m), multiple orgasms (m), multiple creampies, some edging, overstimulation, a hint of breeding/impreg kink, voyeurism/exhibitionism, degradation, so much dirty talk, nicknames (sannie, pretty boy; miss, darling), I think that's all (?)

A/N: this is for my lovely, pretty, gorgeous, insanely kind, amazing, genius, and beautiful alyssa (@kitten4sannie) <3 I'm sorry this took over a month to get to ;; I really hope the wait was worth it though!! happy reading~ ^^

nsfw under the cut—minors dni!! 🔞

Scrunching your nose at the rancid odour of sewage, your heeled boots clacked against the pavement leading to the guarded club entrance, digging into your coat pocket and fishing out a stack of bills to lay gently in front of the homeless man’s sleeping bag. You passed by him every night, his yellow grin a stark contrast to his surroundings—fetid air driving everyone in the area to hold their breath, disease-ridden rodents and pretentious high school dropouts with one too many stacks of their daddy’s money crawling around in the vicinity.

You walked past the burly guard at the front, watching his ninety-degree bow from the corner of your eye as you stepped into the club. It wasn’t the best area to run such business, but you got enough loyal customers—mostly rich men lying to their wives—to pay the bills. You supposed you should be thankful to your father for that, the wretched bastard leaving his only daughter to run this shithole.

You walked down the short hallway and into wide room, blues and purples illuminating the shiny tile and peeling walls as you carried yourself to the bar near the entrance. The rusted stool creaked as you rested your body weight down on it, ignoring the young bartender as she scrambled to make your usual drink, drops of expensive liquor flying over the bench before she dropped a decorated glass in front of you. Giving her a tight-lipped smile, you wrapped your fingers around the cup and allowed the bitterness to sink into your taste buds.

Sitting sideways at the bar, forearm flat on the surface with the drink loosely held in your hand, you focused your eyes on the man to your left, moving his body around the pole anchored in the middle of the room. Cheap, glittery fabric pressed into the skin of his toned chest, stretching around his biceps until a peak of his warm skin tone shone through the white. His thighs wrapped around the pole, the muscles bulging as he held himself up and rolled his body around the metal rod, a dainty belly chain loose around his narrow waist, head rolled backwards to stretch out the column of his freckled throat. You could tell he was trying to show off his rounded backside, but his movements carried a certain stiffness that made you scoff. The customers spread out on the seats surrounding the stage—a mix of older, unhappily married men, and younger, broke college students who couldn’t afford a fancier club—didn’t seem to mind as much, taking in his lousy attempt of an arch and the prominent bulge pressing against the thin material of his shimmering bottoms, ogling eyes zeroing in on the metal bar piercing his nipple as it occasionally brushed against the pole.

He lowered himself down onto the LED flooring on his tiptoes, maintaining the graceful stance as the song came to an end, feline eyes flitting upwards to bore into yours. He oozed confidence, the air around him almost unbreachable, and for a reason you couldn’t place your finger on, the cocky curl of his lips irked you, your eyebrow twitching in irritation at the shameless show of brashness.

Veiny arms circled your shoulders, a familiar rasp in your ear, “that’s the new hire I was telling you about. Pretty neat, don’t you think?” His dark brown locks tickled your temple, curved nose nuzzling into your hair.

You hummed in agreement, “Mm, good job, Woo. He’s pretty.”

“And tight, ‘tried him out myself,” you could hear the smirk in his voice, proud of his take on a job interview.

You reached back to smack his shoulder, a faint smile on your lips. “He’s a little too confident for someone who can’t even arch properly, though,” you critiqued, narrowing your eyes at the man now bent over in front of the small crowd, thick fingers wrapped around the pole while he attempted to move his stiff muscles.

“He’s not that bad,” Wooyoung rolled his eyes, tracing over the man’s plump ass with his eyes as he played back the events from the previous night in his mind, the throaty moans and whimpers still fresh in his ears.

“Even you can do a better job than him, and that’s saying a lot.”

Two fingers pinched your upper arm through the blazer covering it, Wooyoung’s unamused huff blowing over the shell of your ear. “If you’re so displeased by his performance, why don’t you teach him how to do it yourself?” He pushed back the image of the man’s narrow waist and puckered hole, replacing it with the memory of the private show you’d put on for him the week before.

While Wooyoung was too busy fighting off the sudden tightness in his pants, you contemplated his words—despite knowing he’d spoken them humorously. Tightening your hand around your drink, you brought it up to your lips and gulped down the rest of it, pushing Wooyoung off you and standing up. He scrambled to find his footing, caught off guard by your brassy stride towards the center of the room, aiming towards the occupied chair right across the stage.

With a hand on the college freshman’s shoulder, you pulled him off the worn-down leather, sitting down in his place and watching him scurry away with a hand halfway down his pants. Redirecting your attention towards the handsome man in front of you, his gaze instantly locked with yours, and something in his eyes gave away that he knew who you were. His hips swayed with more finesse—still not up to your standards—and his expression contorted to mimic a state of ecstasy. He was trying to impress you.

You watched for a few seconds, until he bent down lower, the pathetic arch of his spine pushing the words off your tongue, “Choi San, was it?” your voice cut through the music. “It seems like Wooyoung may have spoken too highly of you. I’m a little disappointed,” you took pleasure in the slow erasure of his cocky smirk, his movements faltering as he took in your words, hints of discontent evident in your tone. “Stand up straight, pretty boy.” You leaned forward in your seat, resting your elbows over your thighs as you watched him hesitantly part from the pole to straighten up.  A smirk—a sign of power, perhaps—found its way onto your lips, “why don’t you grind on that pole for me? Since you seem so confident in yourself.”

Red tinted the shell of his ears, and you wondered how a few words could have affected a man like him so easily, as though he wasn’t standing in a room full of people ogling at his body, two pieces of glimmering fabric hiding him from their deviant gaze.

You could almost see the thoughts churning in his pretty head, dubiously reaching for the pole once again, standing behind it and beginning his decent into a full squat. Firm muscle bulged out of his thighs, oiled, tan skin reflecting the moving lights shining over his figure, his clothed bulge trapped between the metal and his abdomen. His hands remained above his head as he sunk lower, the cropped material of his shirt riding up to reveal more of his flushed chest. You watched him wordlessly, eying the deliberate brush of his nipple piercing over the pole, a muted ‘clink’ drowned under the music. Your eyes moved back to his face, his bottom lip trapped between his teeth and his eyebrows drawn in, and when you trailed down his body, your lips only curled further: his half-hard length pressing against the scratchy fabric, a wet patch spreading through the material and shimmering alongside the glitter. You may be starting to understand Wooyoung’s strange infatuation with the man.

You pushed off the creaky leather, smoothing down your suit before taking a few steps onto the round LED flooring, standing next to the crouched man and watching him twist his head to look up at you.

It was known rule everywhere that the dancers were not to be touched, and you figured your next move would probably be setting a bad example in front of your customers, but your clientele consisted mostly of regulars, people who knew you to be the boss. People who knew you made the rules.

You reached down to grab his face, fingers digging into his jaw and angling it further upwards, “you’re too stiff.” Your lips curved at his attempt at pushing away, nose scrunched up in defiance.

“’m not stiff,” he retorted weakly, words muffled through the tight squeeze of your fingers around his face.

“What’s the matter, Sannie, did Youngie fuck you too hard last night? Can’t even arch your back properly?” You gave his head a firm shake with every rhetorical question, pouting your lips in faux sympathy. His cheeks heated up under your touch, the pretty pink bleeding down his neck and chest as your aired out his nightly endeavors.

“I can arch my back-”

“My club is gonna run out of business if you keep running your mouth instead of doing your job properly, pretty boy. My old man would be rolling in his grave if that ever happened. We don’t want that now, do we?” You watched panic seep into his features when you spoke your next words, “how will you pay off your debt then, hm?”

“I-I’ll learn how to do it, please just-” his fingers release around the pole and wrap around your calves instead, his knees falling to the floor by your feet while he pleaded. “I’ll be good, I promise.”

His touch wasn’t unpleasant, rough fingertips brushing over your clothed skin, squeezing gently while he squirmed under you. Your fingers eased around his jaw but didn’t let go, pleased to have a man of his stature in the palm of your hand, yours to maneuver and handle however you wished. “And what will you do until then? Learning takes time, and we’re short-staffed, you know.”

A dangerous glimmer lit up San’s dark eyes, a sense of danger churning in your gut. Skilled hands slid up your legs, past your knees and thighs to settle on the curve of your hips, nuzzling his face into your palm before speaking. For a reason you couldn’t exactly pinpoint, you allowed him to do as he pleased, as though you suddenly had your own personal, human-sized cat, brimming with affection it didn’t know how to express. Siren eyes blinked up at you, a smile loaded with playfulness and mischief directed at you.

“I’ll just make sure to put on a performance they’ll never forget.”

--

Antsy hands pushed open your unbuttoned blouse to slide over the heated skin, your dress pants tossed and abandoned over the chair you’d been sitting in, lace panties dangling off the ankle resting on San’s shoulder. His glitzy top scratched against your skin, forming a blister you were too busy to care about as San’s body pressed against yours with his belly chain forming indents into your navel, his cock pounding into you to the steady beat of the music blasting through the decrepit speakers, a distant whirring disrupting the audio.

You slapped his hand off your chest, a warning look in your eyes and a pathetically despondent one in his, reaching for your hand and guiding it to his own chest, a silent ‘touch me instead.’ It was fascinating how quickly San’s cocky persona vanished once he got his dick wet, his face contorting—eyebrows furrowed and his eyes lidded—while you pulled on his piercing, rolling his nipple under your thumb and reveling in the tight moans rolling off his tongue.

“Fuck, ‘m close,” he mumbled, readjusting on his knees, the tight material of his bottoms low on his thighs restricting the movement.

“Already?” you teased, sucking in a sudden breath at the new angle, his cock curving into your g-spot through his relentless thrusts, his previous rhythm lost in his overflowing lust. “What a waste of a pretty cock, can’t even last long enough to make me cum.”

You noted the rose bleeding into his ears once again, his hips stuttering and a throaty moan leaving his lips as he emptied inside you, his hot seed spreading warmth through your lower belly. You laughed as he lowered himself onto you, hovering over your torso while he rolled his hips into your cunt, riding out his orgasm with airy moans and tightly-shut eyes. Paper bills fluttered in the air, some sticking to the sweat beaded on San’s back while the majority landed around your tangled bodies.

You were about to get up, words of beration forming on your tongue, but San took a few breaths and drove his cock further into you, grinding his length between your dripping walls until it chubbed up once again. It caught you off guard, his eagerness to perform, to prove himself to you, to fuck you dumb in front of all your customers.

The slow pace he adopted wasn’t enough, but the deliberate drag of his cock over your g-spot nearly sent you spiraling, the leg perched up on his shoulder shaking with every thrust. “Ngh, do you like being watched, pretty boy?”

San’s bashfulness was nowhere to be found, replaced with a pleased smile and a quick nod to his head, “Mm, I do,” his fingers kneaded the flesh of your thigh, his other hand pushing down your right leg to further open you up for him, driving his cock into you twice before leaning down to whisper in your ear, “what about you, Miss? You’re the same, aren’t you? I can feel your cunt squeezing around me every time you look at the perverts watching us.”

Your limbs felt heavy, something in your stomach convulsing at his words. “Watch your mouth-”

Calloused fingers slipped under you to tangle in the hair at your nape, tugging sharply until your neck craned at the force, your next words dying on your tongue as he began pistoning his cock into your needy cunt, a broken cry ripping through your chest as his cockhead pressed into your sweet spot repeatedly.

“You want them to watch how I’m gonna fuck you full? I’ll give you all I have, Miss, every last drop, until you’re all swollen with my cum,” he rambled, soft lips pressed against your temple while he hammered into you, sending you barreling towards the edge.

A tingle spread through your limbs, the edges of your vision darkening, and you prepared to freefall into a numbing orgasm, but San’s hips suddenly slowed to a languid grind, his lips stretching menacingly against your skin.

“No- fuck, I was so close-”

San interrupted your complaints, “tell me you want it.”

Your eyebrow twitched in annoyance. It was as though he was holding your orgasm for ransom. “Don’t be a fucking asshole, I’m still your boss-”

“-and I’m the one fucking you stupid,” he retorted, that vexing smirk on his face once again, and you wanted to punch it away. You’d assume abusing an employee would bring bad rep to your club, though, and you couldn’t afford to lose any customers. So you settled on glaring at him, attempting to roll your hips but huffing when San’s hands anchored you down to the floor.

“C’mon, just say you want it. I’ll give you whatever you want, Miss.” He lowered his voice down to a whisper, “all of it, just for you.”

The deep baritone of his voice, the words flowing smoothly off his tongue, warm hands splayed over your hips, occasionally squeezing at the flesh at the end of every sentence, his musky perfume mixed in with the tangy scent of his sweat engulfing your senses. Your walls pulsed around his cock, sitting  thick and heavy inside you while you squirmed under him, the skin of your cheeks heated under his gaze as he awaited the words he wanted to hear. After a few minutes of his relentless stare-down, cat-like eyes boring into yours with incessant demand, you gave in, muttering the words under your breath and breaking eye contact.

Just when you thought you could breathe again, his deep chuckle echoed in your ear, the pleasant sound preferable over the music playing in the background, but his words sent a wave of cold sweat seeping out of your pores, “No, no. Say it louder for me, darling.”

You huffed in exasperation, the smell of alcohol swimming in the air between you. Shutting your eyes to relieve yourself of the sight of San's sharp jawline and arched eyebrow, you missed the way his gaze flitted upwards to meet with Wooyoung’s—the man now sat in the chair to the left of the stage, palming at the obvious tent in his pants.

San gave a harsh thrust to egg you on, the shot of pleasure shooting up your spine at the gesture enough to push the words off your tongue, “just fucking give me your cum already, ‘want it all inside,” you slurred, voice breathy with hints of desperation.

San didn’t waste any time before picking up his pace, pounding into your heat with urgent want, as though he was a starved man at a banquet. It was as though he’d lit your nerves on fire, the pleasure so intense your mind went numb, nails digging into San’s biceps as he pulled moan after moan out of you. “Hnnngh! L-like that, yeah-”

There was no build-up to your orgasm, and you found yourself tumbling down a steep cliff into a valley of ecstasy, lips forming an ‘o’ while San guided you through it. With your back arched off the ground, your blouse damp and stuck to your slick back, you clung to the fluid drag of San’s throbbing cock between your fluttering walls, the sound of skin-on-skin following the beat vibrating through the speakers.

San’s fingers dented your skin with enough force to promise blossoming bruises, his breath laboured as he began to chase his own high after you’d ridden out yours, fucking into you like a madman, “’m almost there, Miss, ‘gonna make sure you’re nice and full of me,” He groaned near your ear, the sound melting away the tinges of overstimulation jolting you away from him, his tight grip keeping you in place to buck his hips into your used hole. “So full you might get pregnant- ngh!”

Driven to completion by his own words, San’s throaty moans drowned out the melody strumming in the background, spurts of hot cum adding to the white painting your walls as he milked himself of every last drop. It seemed like you were the one who had fucked him stupid, barely-coherent, babbled praise flowing into your ear as he tucked his head into the crook of your neck.

Your knee dug into your chest, and you stared at the lace still hanging off your ankle where it sat on San’s shoulder, pins and needles pricking at your muscles from the prolonged position. But you didn’t complain, simply basking in the afterglow while San’s chest rose and fell into yours. You could see the flutter of paper bills in your peripherals—more than you’d ever seen before on a slow, Thursday night—barely any of them reaching you as the men tossing them had their dominant hands preoccupied. Your eyes moved sideways, meeting Wooyoung’s, already staring back at you with a knowing smirk on his pouty lips.

Through the thick haze of the orgasm still clouding your mind, your muscles twitching with its remnants as San’s cock spasmed pathetically between your flooded walls, two loads streaming out of your stretched cunt, you realised just how much Choi San enjoyed performing for a crowd.

And just how much you could profit off that.

reblogs/feedback are greatly appreciated!! ^^ apply for my tag list here (´｡• ᵕ •｡`) ♡

[hikarry]

Spencer, dear, I'm so sorry, but "I Will Survive" is not a Crowley song. Seriously? Disappointed

Bro-

Do I-

*waves frenetically towards the picture below*

Portraying Crowley as this suave, cool and mysterious guy that breathes rock is such a surface level analysis of this dork. That's what HE wants you to think of him. Gorgeous redhead fellaw with slinky hips and rockstar style, yes, BUT

He had his silly goose phase and his silly goose phase was Disco Tony and everyone in my household is going to respect Disco Tony

Look me in my bloody eyes and tell me this lil queer fella and his buddy Freddie Fucking Mercury didn't go down to the Golden Lion back in old Soho and drink their weights in beer as "I Will Survive" played and they kissed some guys here and there?

("Why the Golden Lion again, sweetheart? Why not that Harpoon Louis place everyone is talking about back in Earls Court Road?"

"Ngk, no reason. Absolutely not because I'm very desperately trying to bump into this very very annoying guy whom's I've only seen from a far since we last talked in the 60's after he gave me something we had had a fight over some years before and now we are kinda weird with each other and I dunnot know what he expects of me, but, fucking Heaven's, why does the bloody angel have to be so bloody complicated anyway? You should have seen the way he looked at me. The bloody idiot sitting in my Bentley saying I "go too fast". Go too fast?! What does that even mean?!"

"Ah. Right. Bookshop darling."

"Ngk. No. More like. Pain in my arse. The idiot. The way he looked at me made me feel like...agh....like I was falling apart. Is it really so hard for him to stop being a posh little shite and talk to me straight? Stop- Don't look at me like that. Pull that bloody eyebrow back down, you noisance. You know exactly what I mean. I just...ngk, it feels so lonely sometimes and-"

"Lonely, you say, darling?"

"Don't. Don't you even, Mr. Big Shot Rock Star. Azi-...The angel and I go back a long long time. I'm just used to have him around, that's all, but he's so...so..."

"Extremely queer and quite dishy? I don't see the problem here, really, Tony dear. Just walk up to the bloke and grab his arse. Worked for me and Jim just fine."

"You got bloody lucky, is what you got. Absolutely high out of your own arse, you bastard. I don't do that."

"Oh, but you do-"

"Ngk. No. Not to him...Bloody Heavens, stop-"

"I didn't say anything."

"I can feel you judging all the way from here, Melina."

"My sincere apologies if my sunglasses cannot hide how much I think you're a bloody cream puff, Anthonia Jennifer Crowley. The man is unmistakably almost as bent as the two of us combined. How much do you want to bet with me, right here, right now, that man is dying to have you turn him into an artiste until he is absolutely knackered?"

"Satan, you're fucking impossible sometimes...It's not that bloody simple, alright? Just. There's so much left unspoken between us still and-"

"God, that's a load of tosh, Anthony. You're arse over tits in love with the bloke and instead of getting a move on and a possibly great shag..."

"...Fred...?"

"Hold up one second, darling. Let me just-"

"Fred-What the-Fred-What-Is that-Where the fuck did you take that notebook from? We are on out way to the pub! What-! Stop bloody writing-!"

BAAM Freddie Mercury writes "One Year Of Love" on his way to the Golden Lion in Soho in the company of his mate Anthony J. Crowley, once again sucking on the man's pinning for the mysterious bookshop bloke he has the hots for.)

Anyway- (Adhd brain. It's 5 am on a saturday. What do you want from me?)

I rest my case

Snake boy absolutely asks Alexa to play that song when he is alone in his flat and he wants to feel a lil nostalgic and let loose

[markpellegrinoimagines]

Soulmate V.2

Request: Could you do a soulmate with lucifer, He kidnaps her and she can see his wings.

Tw: Wing!kink, Smut, Kidnapping, Rough!Foreplay

-

Sam and Dean were always telling her that she was too bold. Unafraid of the consequences as she stared down adversaries wether they were demons, Or Angel's. It's most likely why she'd ended up in her current situation. Y/n had been trailing a demon for days now, the black eyed bastard was the best lead she had for tracking down an important artifact. She'd been stopped for the night, taking a much needed rest after days of stalking her prey.

That's when the dammed thing struck. She was fresh from a shower with a towel wrapped tightly around her form when pain exploded across the back of her head and the sight of her meager room went black, with her body hitting the floor with a loud thump.

Y/n felt feeling returning to her limbs, and her senses slowly slipped back into awareness. The first thing to hit her was the smell. It was musty, like old mildew and dust. The next was sound. Aged creaking of settling rafters and the squeak of old springs when she shifts against the uncomfortable surface she was laid upon.

Slowly and very carefully, Y/n pushed herself up until she could look around through hazy vision at what appeared to be an abandoned studio apartment. She was laid out in a dust covered bed and could feel the grit of it scraping across her skin. Not far from the bed was a living area with worn down couches and a coffee table with several layers of dust across its surface.

A chill sent shivers racing up and down her spine, and she snapped her gaze down. The damp towel shed been wrapped in after her shower was slipping loose, revealing bare skin, and she hurriedly pulled it tight, covering her extremities.

She slipped her legs over the edge of the bed and slowly ended up into her feet. The back of her skull throbbed with each movement, and the floor boards creaked under her feet. Couldn't the demon have waited until she at least had some clothes on?

There wasn't a single article of fabric she could use to cover herself. The place was picked clean, and she wasn't willing to come in contact with those bed sheets any longer than she'd already had.

"Oh fuck me.."

A dark chuckle and a freezing cold filled the room, making her whip around until she was facing the new threat. "Was that an invitation? I'm flattered, Little Human..." Glaciap blue eyes slid up and down her form, lingering on the lower hem of the towel. "Did you dress this way just for me~?"

Lucifer waited for her response. This was his first time meeting the little hunter that was often seen around the Winchester boys. She was quite the sight. He'd been expecting more flannel and crass remarks. Not this sweet little human with wide e/c eyes. In fact... it was as if she wasn't even looking at him. Her gaze was locked up and over his shoulder and her pupils were trembling with what he could only assume was awe.

Y/n had paused in what she'd been planning to say as she watched the large shimmering mass shift behind the form of the tall blue-eyed blonde. The more she focused on the ethereal mass, the more detailed it became. Six large arching wings hung from the man's back, They were a smokey silver tipped in burnt Pink and veins of glittering gold through every quill. Each shift sent a wave of ash to the floor.

They were gorgeous. Their unique and tragic beauty had her completely captured by awe. The urge to run her fings through the mass of feathers was strong. She completely zoned out the Blondes words.

Lucifer was feeling his patience wain. He'd wanted long enough, and the human hadn't even met his gaze for a mere second. Did she believe she was better than him? He slowly stalked forward, an angry frown beginning to pull at the edge of his lips before it lifted into a cruel grin. She still wasn't meeting his eyes.

His fingers closed around the weak column of her neck. She was so vulnerable and frail.. He ignored the small thrill that ran through him as he examined the way his vessels hand looked around her throat.

He could feel her pulse hammering away beneath the pads of his fingers. The beat, a salacious dance, tempted him in closer as he eyed her with glowing red eyes.

"I'll not be ignored by a sniveling little Mud-"

"Your wings are so beautiful...~"

Lucifers jaw shut with a clack of teeth and a crack of the joint. Her words echoed in his skull, buzzing around his grace. What did she just say?

His fingers tightened further and was soon joined by his other hand, caging in her cheeks.

"Repeat that, Now!?"

Y/n swallowed as an embered heat warmed her lower belly. A small hint of concern ebbed its way through the back of her mind. All logic was seeping out of her ears in the presence of this angel. It was just her luck she somehow managed to capture the interest of Lucifer, and now she couldn't even keep her head on straight. His hands squeezing her vulnerable throat should not be making her nearly as hot bother as it is.

"I said, You're wings are beautiful... I.."

Lucifers thoughts were moving a mile a second, A mate.. A soulmate..

Out of all the things his father could have done.. A human soulmate..

A humorless chuckle slipped past his lips. Was this his punishment? His eyes once again trailed down her toweled form, and the cleavage he could see wrapped loosely in its soft hold. His smirk grew as something settled over him..

Or maybe it wasnt..~

"You know little human~ I had you grabbed because of your relation to the winchesters. But it's seems," His slowly slid up one of his hands to run his fingers through h/l h/c locks, "I've found a different reason to keep you around..."

He watched her brows furrow in confusion, only to lift in alarm when chilled lips descend om her own. Capturing them in a demanding and devouring press. Two prodding tips slowly pride her lips open until he was able to twirl his split tongue around her warm muscle.

Y/n was lost the second his lips brushed hers. The low embers in her gut flared to life in an explosion of desire and need as she raised trembling hands to press almost uncertainly into the soft mass of feathers. That one touch unlocked the flood works as lucifer trembled against her and a dark needy groan was growled into her open mouth.

Freezing palms hooked underneath her bare thighs, and she barely recognized the twisting feeling of the world warping around her in a flurry of feathers and wind. Her back connected with silky smooth fabric as she was roughly pinned down against a soft bouncy surface.

Y/n cracked open her eyes and pulled her lips from the angels, scanning their new surroundings. The room was dark with an arched ceiling. The bed she'd been pressed down into had a large canopy hung above with deep red curtains closing them inside.

Soon, her attention was being drawn back to lucifer. Unable to stray away for long. E/c eyes widened considerably as she takes in the swath of bared skin. When had he...?

"When.."

"Shhh..." A chilled finger pressed against her lips quieting her thoughts as he used his free hand to arrange her legs around his waist and situate his hardened length between slick folds.

Y/n whined low in her throat when those first few rolls of his hips had his tip knocking against her sensitive clit. When it catches against her dripping entrance before slipping up to bounce against that nub, she lets out a loud whimper.

"That's it, Just like that little Human~ let me hear your pleasure."

As soon as his finger slipped free from her lips, a loud moan of his name filled the space, "Lucifer!~"

It tapered off into a gasping and breathy mewl as the chilled flesh of his length began to stretch her open, inch by inch. Heels dug into his back, urging her forward until his hips were flush with her own, and he was growling possessive obscenities into the shell of her ear.

"Made just for me, my own little human.. to keep.. to claim and Fill~ All mine!" His hips snapped harshly into the Crease of her thighs, carving her dripping walls open with every body jolting lunge of hips. The obscene smack of thighs was accompanied with gasping mewls from his little souldmates lips.

"Lu-Lucifer!! Ah~ Harder..please~!"

His response was a growl and glowing red eyes. Blunt chilled nails dug divots into her waist, holding her in place, giving him more leverage with every thrust. She could already feel the coil tightening up in her gut, threatening to snap at any second. It seemed even the Archangel rutting her into the sheets was needing the edge of pleasure.

A tsunami of ecstasy threatening to drown them both within the coiling Abyss of need sinking its claws into them both. Lucifers hands slipped up her waist until his palms were caging her cheeks and pulling her melting lips to meet his own in a possessive kiss. Her owns fingers slunk up and around his shoulders to trail teasingly along the muscled ridge of his wings.

They shuttered against her touch, and then she sank her hands into the feathers. It was all Lucifer needed to be sent crashing over the edge, his teeth scraping teasingly against her bottom lip.

Y/ns legs tightened around his hips as a warmth spread through her lower gut, Lucifer rolled his hips, pressing his release deeper into her core with every grunt and meeting of flesh. Her little whimpers were music to his ears as he nipped his teeth against her shoulder.

"You won't be leaving this bed, I'll have you begging me for my touch, Mewling and crying for more~"

He watched her cheeks flush, and he could barely restrain himself as he felt those little human fingers once again tease through ashen feathers.

"Please, Lucifer~ Don't stop.."

-

[shelby-fangirl00]

Hunting You-part one

•A successful assassin from London named Penny is hired to travel to Small Heath and kill Thomas Shelby. (Don’t want to give too much away tehe)

•WARNINGS(18+, minors DNI): Enemies to lovers, Dual POV, Smut (in future chapters), Lots of angst, Strong language, Lots of violence

•Authors note: hey y’all! This story has been brewing in my mind for some time.This part is kind of an introduction to my story. Reblog if you enjoy:) Next part will be in Tommy’s POV.

Penny

I checked my watch every few minutes for what seemed like an eternity. Plopping my elbows on the wooden table top, I huffed loudly. According to the dick who hired me, Shelby should’ve been here hours ago. Honestly, I didn’t mind waiting, since I was paid in advance, but my fingers still twitched in anticipation, eager to finally get my hands dirty again.

This was an ordinary night for me, except for the part where I had to travel into this piss poor town. Under any other circumstance, I would have told the man who hired me to fuck off. But how could I refuse such a hefty wage? Anyways, doing this out of town work only makes my job easier. At least that’s what I’m trying to tell myself. Nobody here seems sober enough to remember gossip about a hitman. Let alone talk of a random woman in a pub.

Killing Thomas Shelby will definitely make waves Small Heath, but thats not my problem. I’d be gone before sun rise. Talks of a female assassin surely hadn’t traveled to this poor drunken town anyways. It’ll be as if I was never here.

I nurse my glass of whiskey. Just as the rim of the glass touches my lips, I pull out the very dated photograph of Mr.Shelby I was given. I imagine he was just a boy in the photo. He appears to be in uniform and my chest tightens at the thought. I can only imagine the horrors he’s seen since this was taken. It wouldn’t surprise me if the man today doesn’t resemble this photograph at all.

The doors open for the first time in an hour and I hear the booming laughter before I see the lot of them. A large group of nicely dressed men in caps waltz in and I assume this to be the notorious Peaky Blinders. Of course I did some research before coming here. They were feared throughout this place. Known to be unforgiving and ruthless. This Shelby man I’m sure is a sick and twisted bastard. All the best men I know are. I myself am a bit sick and twisted.

Hiring a female hitman, like myself, had different perks. It’s far easier for a woman to get close to a man they don’t know. They don’t see us in the same light. We come off as less of a threat. In my experience, no man is immune to the powers a beautiful woman can possess over a man, in the right circumstances. Thomas Shelby couldn’t be any different from the rest of them.

I straightened my back and fell into the role I’d been assigned. My long black dress hugs my waist and my thigh is bare under the slit of my gown.

My eyes search for someone loosely similar to the photograph, maybe with a beard and some extra weight, but there’s so many men now crowding my view. Eventually, I hear a loud voice yell for a “Tommy.”

Gotcha.

The men seem to part perfectly and I have a clear view of him. I see the not-so-young-boy who grew into this apparently fearsome man.

My blood runs cold and I curse under my breath. To put it plainly, the man is fucking gorgeous. His stature radiates confidence while his presence demands respect.

He’s aged nicely, his cheekbones even more pronounced now. Even from my small booth in the corner, I notice his dazzling blue eyes. Out of all the men here, why did it have to be this one? Most of the men I’m hired to kill are assholes who don’t deserve to see the sun again. I hope he’s the same.

I beeline to a nearby group of drunk and smelly men. I pretend to walk past them and “trip,” over one of the chairs, spilling my whiskey out onto an old man’s shoulder.

“Stupid bitch!” The man attempts to stand up and almost falls on his ass. I try to muffle my laughter. I wish I could kill this one too, it would be too easy.

“I’m so sorry, sir!” I plead with him and he finally steps closer to me, trapping my body against another table. His stench is repulsive and it takes every bit of willpower inside of me not to put a bullet through this fuckers head. I momentarily get lost in the thought, his greasy face would downturn and the life would drain from his angry expression before he dropped dead.

My hands press down into the table as he spits at me. He grabs my wrist tightly before speaking again.

“You’ll fuckin pay for that, girl. Why don’t you join me and-

A hand covers the man’s shoulder, squeezing harshly before speaking. As if the man has eyes in the back of his head, he freezes and turns slowly, like he knows exactly who the hand on his shoulder belongs to.

“Alright, Tim?” A low but smooth voice asks. My breath hitches in my throat and I don’t really need to pretend how scared I am anymore.

“Of course, Mr.Shelby. Just teaching this one a lesson in manners.” The big oaf states confidently.

For the first time, Mr.Shelby’s eyes lock with mine and I suddenly forgot how to breath or blink or function at all. He’s even more stunning this closeup. He examines me for an uncomfortable amount of time before speaking again.

“I don’t think that’ll be nessacary Timmy. Why don’t you go back to your table and let me handle it?” This Tim man peaks at Tommy from behind his shoulder and I can tell this is an order. Tim finally releases my wrist and grunts, giving me one last look that makes me feel dirty, and stumbles off.

I exhale loudly, pretending to finally relax.

“Thank you, sir. I was worried I wouldn’t get out of that one.” I stated, chuckling lightly under my breath.

“No trouble, Tim’s an angry drunk. He won’t remember ya tomorrow.” His words sit in the air between us awkwardly before I decide to speak again.

“I’m Nora.” I lie.

I stick my hand out and smile stupidly. This takes him back but he recovers quickly, smirking and pressing his hand in mine firmly.

“Tommy. You aren’t from here…don’t tell me you actually moved to Small Heath on your own free will.” He chuckles darkly, placing his half empty glass between his lips and searching my eyes for an answer. He looks similar to the picture, more dead in the eyes now. No less mesmerizing.

I laugh. “Thankfully, no. I’m just here visiting an old friend. How’d you know?” I place my own glass to my lips now, scanning the room behind him.

He smirks, finally letting his eyes drop for a split second to my chest.

Shrugging his shoulders plainly, he states, “It’s a small town and I’ve lived here me whole life. I would’ve known if someone like you lived here.”

My eyebrows arch in question. “Someone like me, yeh?”

He smiles slowly, but it’s dark, almost like a warning. I don’t understand why I’m suddenly so clammy?

I need to get this over with. My body is betraying me, because all I can think about are his lips and how they would feel on mine and what his chest looks like underneath all those damn layers.

Giving in only slightly to my body’s demands, I take one big step into him, putting my chest inches from his own. I look up at him with a dazzling smile, and he just smirks. Does he always have that smug fucking look on?

“Well thank you for saving me, Tommy.” His eyebrows shoot up in what I’m assuming is surprise?

“Another whiskey?” He asks, stepping past me towards the bar and nodding to the barman.

I take in his stature beside me, leaning his forearms against the long bar. As much as I would love to entertain this handsome stranger, I had a job to do.

I squeeze his shoulder, leaning into him so my lips barely touch his ear.

“Excuse my forwardness, but I’d rather take you back to my flat, Tommy.” I squeeze his shoulder one last time before stepping back.

He cranes his neck to look behind him at I don’t know what before returning back to me.

“I like forward. Lead the way, love.” Finally, this can end.

“Of course…” I say sheepishly and he doesn’t hesitate to follow closely behind, his hand resting on my lower back. The sensation sends a shiver up my spine.

As we trot outside, he moves his hand from my back to behind his own and i do the same. I silently acknowledge the few daggers I have hidden in my stockings along with the gun in my purse….aaaaaand maybe a few razor blades underneath my pinned updo. It’s just a precaution, really. I can never be too safe. Plus, it’s fun to switch it up every once and a while.

“Where ya staying?” He asks smoothly as we round the dark corner.

“Just across the p- the air is quickly swept from my lungs as Thomas grabs me from behind and slams my body against a brick wall. I gasp as both of his hands wrap around my throat and he never stops squeezing.

Fuck. He knows.

Panic sets in and I’m clawing at his arms desperately. I try to maneuver my legs in order to knee him, but his body is flush against my own.

“thought it be that easy to kill me? You’re at the back of a long line, love.”

I muster up enough rage in my throat to spit out a “fuck you.”

My hands could only reach his side, so I wail on him. As soon as my punch lands, I feel another pair of hands on me, pinning my arms over my head. Thomas bends for only a few seconds before spitting and regaining hold over me.

I look over to see the other man pinning me against the wall. He’s younger than Thomas, but sporting a similar smirk.

If I don’t finish this job, Tommy will kill me. And if he doesn’t, the man who hired me would. Especially after being paid in advance.

I felt myself slipping from the lack of oxygen. But just as I closed my eyes, Tommy released me but the other man stays put to my side, his hands tighten around my wrists and his chest is pressing into my arm.

Tommy turns back around, adjusting his coat and lighting a cigarette before examining my flesh, the way my dress had fallen open at my chest during our scuffle.

“Who hired you?” He asked plainly.

My chest was heaving and I swear his eyes followed the movement for a split second.

“How should I fucking know? A man overpays me in advance for a hit and I don’t ask questions.”

The man holding my body hostage against the brick wall, bellows out an annoying laugh but Tommy doesn’t so much as smirk.

He sighs before reaching inside of his coat and pointing the barrel of his gun at me.

I giggle, cocking my head and studying him now. “You ever killed a woman, Mr.Shelby?”

“Enough. Tell me his name or I’ll put a bullet between those pretty eyes.” He says, almost softly, like he’s seducing me instead of trying to kill me. I hate how my thighs clench together and my nipples harden under my dress. All this foreplay tonight between the gun, the two angry men holding me against a wall and a touch of breath play.

“Promise?” I don’t know how, but I knew he wouldn’t shoot.

He sticks his gun back into his holster from underneath his coat before speaking again.

“John, put her to sleep and tie her up.” And before I could even protest, the man’s hands move from my wrists to around my skull, slamming it into the brick wall. Everything goes black. I never stood a chance.

Part two coming soon in Tommy’s POV!

Taglist:

@lyarr24

@forgottenpeakywriter

@casa-boiardi

@tigernach575

@crabat-the-queen

@adaydreamaway08

@everysage

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@delusionalxoxo

@trixie23

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[midnightemy35]

~Letting Loose~

Genre: Light Angst (?) Characters: Kayden Break, Kartein (Curtin) Fandom: Eleceed Warnings: Alcohol mention, swearing

For once in his life, Kartein isn’t composed and refined as he often paints himself to be, laughing and yelling at the top of his lungs without a single care in the world. For once in his life, Kartein isn’t prim and proper, his dress shirt that is usually void of a single crease now looking like it had been crumpled into a ball just before he put it on. 

          “You’re fucking kidding me! T-that bastard actually thought *hic* that he could go up against you and walk away unscathed?! *hic* What a fucking dumbass!” Kartein continues laughing, the wine in his glass nearly spilling over the edge and onto his brand new couch. Sitting right next to him was none other than the notorious Kayden Break himself. The fighting maniac of the awakened world, challenging anyone he deemed strong enough to fight him even if they are obviously stronger than him. But why was Kartein doing with the very same man that he calls a “brainless fighting machine that has no self-preservation”? Why is Kartein allowing this man to keep him company when he doesn’t like getting involved with reckless idiots in the first place? 

          “You should really get drunk more often, you’re less of a bitch this way.” “Oh shut up. You’re *hic* you’re the one staring at me like I just birthed your first child.” “Is that really the only way you can describe it? What’s wrong with me looking at you like that, huh? Can’t I appreciate the work of art in front of me in peace?” Maybe we will never know why these two world rankers that are known to dislike each other decided to come together for a drink, at Kartein’s place no less. Kartein himself has a rather mysterious personality, I suppose we will never truly find out what is going on inside his head. As for Kayden… maybe he just wanted a free drink, maybe he was willing to tolerate the one he often labelled as a “obnoxious prick” for a couple free drinks, after all, he can’t deny the fact that the blonde had a great taste in alcohol beverages.

         Slowly, the laughter from the blonde dies down and he starts berating the other for his reckless tendencies. “I… I hate how you *hic* how you always get into fights y’know. I hate how worried I am that one day *hic* you will pick a fight with the wrong person and… and end up dead and that I won’t be able to bring you back…” Soon, tears flow down the gorgeous man’s face and Kayden wordlessly wraps his hands around Kartein’s waist, bringing him closer, consoling him silently. The two sit quietly on the couch with only the sobs of the blonde filling the air. The night ends when these two powerful men fall asleep in each other’s arms, on the luxurious couch that they spent most of their night on, talking about everything under the sun, from awakened world politics to Kayden’s recent fights. Dawn breaks and by noon, the two will wake up to bottles of alcoholic beverages covering almost every surface of the small table in front of them, a very unkempt Kartein and hopefully no memories of their previous night. 

          They could not afford growing close and falling in love, no, not in this world where there are greedy people at every turn, waiting for the moment you slip up, dragging you away to help grow their own power. These selfish bastards are not above threatening the lives and safety of other’s loved ones bring the powerful to their knees, forcing them to work as slaves, benefitting only themselves. In this cruel world, no matter how much their hearts desire, they can never be together but maybe they could come together once again and spend the night letting loose in each other’s arms, chatting and gossiping like teenage girls at a sleepover, forgetting all their worries. That night, their enemies no longer existed, the people begging them to join their organisations no longer existed, the only two people in the world, in their world, were each other. 

[foxyanon]

The Vampiress and the Dane: Part 1

Summary: Her presence plagued him for 30 years, but will he admit to both her and himself that he craves her? Or will his prejudice push her away for good?

Pairing: Sihtric Kjartansson x Corvina

Word Count: 4,500

Rating: 18+, Minors DNI

TW: Sexual themes, blood, violence, older woman/younger man dynamic

Part 2

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters from The Last Kingdom nor do I own any of the images used. I only own my OC, Corvina and her AI image.

Dividers by @arcielee and @saradika-graphics

He hated her. Absolutely despised her. Couldn’t stand the very sight of her. At least, that’s what he told himself every night when those irritating thoughts of her found their way to the forefront of his mind, his hand sliding beneath the waistband of his breeches to fist his cock, her name falling from his lips as he pictured her writhing in pleasure beneath him when he spilled himself in his hand.

The woman he both hated and craved for nearly three decades. No, not a woman. A vampire, a very old and powerful one at that. Corvina.

He hated her pale skin, as soft and beautiful as the snow of the lands of Norway where she was born. He couldn’t stand her perfect ruby red lips, so kissable but hiding those sharp pearly, white fangs of hers. He despised that long dark brown hair, the way it fell in soft waves down her back when she wore it loose and how it contrasted with her skin, making her look even more unnaturally stunning. The worst was her eyes. Those damn gorgeous and absolutely mesmerizing blood red eyes. He swore just one look was enough to cause any sane man to fall under her spell, the result of her vampiric compulsion.

But he’d be lying because he knew that wasn’t it. After thirty years of knowing Corvina, Sihtric knew it wasn’t magic she used to charm men like him. It was her gentle and caring nature, so unlike the others of her kind. It was the way she was always there for him and his friends, never with a harsh word or judgement. He was so used to being talked down to by Saxons and Danes alike, be it for his paganism or his status as Kjartan’s bastard. But not with her, never with her. No, her sweet voice and kind words always caused his cheeks to flush red and he hated it. She should be spiteful and cruel, like he had been taught all vampires are, but no. She had to go and be different, so caring and thoughtful and gentle. Sihtric had wanted to scream to the gods themselves that they were truly cruel to curse such an amazing woman to be an immortal beast, destined to live her life in the shadows.

He remembers the first time Uhtred had told Finan, Osferth and him about her. He was barely 20, a fresh faced warrior in his lord's service. It was 886 at the Battle of Beamfleot when Uhtred decided to attack the fortress in an attempt to free Aethelflaed from the clutches of Erik and Sigefrid. There wasn’t enough men to successfully storm the fortress and Uhtred knew it, so he said he called in a favor and everyone was thrilled for the aid. How was Sihtric supposed to know it would be the very being who would haunt his every waking thought and even dreams? He remembers seeing her walking into the camp the first night, how she seemed to appear from the shadows beyond the light of the campfire. He was startled by her sudden appearance, so speechless as she gave him that little knowing grin that he almost didn’t notice the predatory gleam in her unusual eyes. Uhtred had introduced Corvina to the others and Sihtric could only stutter out a half-assed greeting to her beautiful face, before she turned and started discussing how many men she brought and plans to get Uhtred to Aethelfaed. He remembers how stunning she looked in the heat of battle, cutting down her enemies with ruthless efficiency in that damned black armor looking every inch a warrior queen that he knew she was. His breeches felt tighter when he saw her covered in blood, her eyes glowing fiercely and fangs on full display when she dragged Sigefrid in front of Uhtred, tossing his body to the ground like he weighed nothing. The siege was a success, Aethelflaed and Erik eloping and leaving East Anglia behind to start their new life, thanks to the financial contributions of none other than Corvina. Finan and Osferth gave Sihtric a hard time afterwards, saying that he was acting like a fool in love. He vehemently denied their claims, saying he was just surprised a creature like her would help them and he worried for the price she would ask. She never asked for anything.

Then of course there was that whole situation with Skade and Bloodhair, the way that damned witch cursed his lord and friend. Uhtred’s health had been failing fast and they weren’t going to make it to Dunholm, so he made the choice to seek out Corvina for her help. Of course, she opened the doors to her castle and removed the curse, never once asking for payment for her aid. Sihtric had tried to offer her one of his armrings (after Uhtred told him to give it to her) and she simply smiled, saying she wouldn’t take anything and that she was happy to help a friend. That was the first time Sihtric snarled at her, deciding then and there that she must be a manipulative creature, because no one is that nice for no reason. He hated her and he hated that hurt look in her eyes after he yelled at her even more, but his pride wouldn’t let him apologize for his outburst. No, in his youthful ignorance and arrogance, he doubled down and simply glared at her. She was a vampire, a creature of the night. A beautiful monster. He went back to his wife later on, but Sidgeflaed was only a sorry reminder of who he really wanted. He remembers taking his wife from behind that first night back, the sight of her brown hair reminding him of Corvina. It’s no surprise when he said another woman’s name in his marriage bed that his wife would be angry, leaving him and taking the children with her. He truly loathed Corvina then, blaming her for his failed marriage because he refused to accept that he was well and truly in love with her.

When Uhtred failed to regain Bebbanburg from his estranged cousin, Wihtger in 910, the men fled to the safety of Corvina’s castle and Sihtric was practically seething in frustration. He hated that they came knocking on her door looking like kicked dogs and she just let them in with a sympathetic smile, telling them they were welcome to stay as long as they needed to. Uhtred had firmly told Sihtric to mind his manners, because they couldn’t afford to get tossed out now and if he snapped on Corvina again, they would really make the square. Sihtric had bit his tongue for most of their stay, seeing her move about the castle like a damned angel amongst men. She dressed in the varying styles of the world, but he remembers that Grecian gown the most of all. The fabric was a beautiful shade of purple, something he’s never seen even the wealthiest kings of this land wear. The fabric flowed over her soft curves, her hair pulled back and pinned with golden laurel leaves. She looked like a goddess and his mouth watered at the sight of her, sitting atop the throne as she held court for her undead minions. He hated her, he told himself as he hid inside an alcove and jerked himself off, imagining burying his face between her thighs and devouring her on that very throne in front of everyone. He imagined she tasted like that ambrosia she spoke of from her time in Greece, all sweet and addicting. He felt burning shame when he came and made a mess of the wall and floor, knowing it was wrong to crave her but he couldn’t help himself. He couldn’t stand the way her very existence seemed to bring about powerful emotions, and he hated not feeling in control of himself. He snapped at Finan and Osferth when he had returned to them, their mocking smiles grating on his nerves. As per usual, Corvina just had to glide up to them at that moment with her signature alluring smile on her face, asking what was wrong. Sihtric sneered at her and made some snarky remark before storming off, never seeing the knowing look on her face.

That was nearly 8 years ago now. Today, they stand in the war camp just outside Bebbanburg planning an attack. Uhtred intends to win this time and of course, he just had to ask Corvina for help. Sihtric had been avoiding her like the plague he convinced himself she was, but he couldn’t dodge her forever. She walked into the command tent, carrying herself with an authority that took the breath right out of his lungs. She was wearing her usual black armor, her dark hair braided back and not a hair out of place. She cut Sihtric a look, her red eyes piercing into his soul for a moment before she smiled brightly at Uhtred, hugging him with a laugh and a joke about how old he had gotten. Even Finan and Osferth, his own battle brothers, had hugged this despicable creature like an old friend, even though that was exactly what she was. He thought she looked just as beautiful as the first time he saw her nearly 30 years ago, before bitterly remembering that she doesn’t age due to her vampirism. His lips pressed into a thin line and he simply nodded at her, determined not to piss both her and Uhtred off if his mouth got away from him. Plans were made for an attack the next morning, her men joining the shield wall alongside Uhtred’s forces. Even if he couldn’t stand the sight of her, Sihtric knew she was a formidable ally and warrior, commanding respect from her people and instilling fear in the hearts of her enemies.

Sihtric found her later that night, standing on the edge of the field beside the coastal fortress and staring out over the moonlight grass. He knew her eyes were better suited to the darkness and she always studied the battlefield before the fight, something she claimed she learned from her time with the Roman Legion. She stood there with her hands clasped loosely behind her back, her back straight and head held high.

“If you are here to sass me, Sihtric, you will find I am not in the mood,” Corvina spoke in a calm voice, looking over her shoulder at the warrior. She couldn’t deny he had grown into a handsome man, the top half of his dark hair braided and the rest hanging in curls that would make anyone jealous. He was sporting a goatee, and she wondered what it feel like against her cold skin. He looked damned good, the muscles of his arms flexing as he crossed his arms and stood next to her. She wanted to bite him and those arms, wondered if his blood tasted as good as he smelled. She saw his jaw tense before he took a breath, looking at her with a serious expression.

“No, I am not here to sass you Corvina. I wanted to make sure you understood the gravity of what is happening tomorrow. We aren’t just reclaiming Bebbanburg for Uhtred, we are fighting for the fate of Northumbria itself,” he said firmly, already aggravated with himself for his thoughts running wild.

Corvina sighed, turning to face Sihtric with an exasperated expression. “I know what we fight for and we will not lose. You have fought on the shield wall with me before, you have seen me fight and you know I am not in the habit of losing. But I can tell from your tense stance that is not the real reason you are here, is it?”

Sihtric nodded, his eyes finding Corvinas. He always found them captivating, the red hue switching from a bright red to a deep burgundy depending on her mood. “No, I came because I wanted to make sure you will keep your end of the bargain. No feeding on the soldiers before or after the battle, your men stay in control and don’t succumb to bloodlust in the middle of the fighting, and all those other promises you’ve made,’ he replied in a tense tone, grinding his teeth together as he looked away from the pretty little vampire that had haunted him for his entire life.

She rolled her eyes and looked away, placing her hands on her hips as she looked down and shook her head, her words coming out with a defeated tone as she spoke. “You already know I will uphold my word, Sihtric. We have this conversation every time I agree to fight with you lot. By the gods, I am tired of this.”

Corvina turned to look at Sihtric, licking her red lips and staring into his eyes with an intensity the Dane didn’t quite like. “What have I ever done to you to make you hate me so? I have been nothing but a good and kind friend to you all, never betraying any of you like so many others have, and yet you treat me with the same level of animosity you did when you were 20. By the Aesir, you are 51 years old now. What in the hell have I done to you for you to hold a grudge after all these years?”

He remained silent for a moment, considering her words carefully. He knew had been harsh towards her in the past, his youthful ignorance causing him to be suspicious of the supernatural. He was older now and he knew better. He knew she was a powerful and loyal ally, but he also knew she could be ruthless and unforgiving. Admittedly, he had taken her for granted without fully appreciating the nuances of her character. After a moment he spoke, avoiding her searching gaze. “I know that you have never betrayed us and I know that you have been a good ally. But the fact remains that you are a vampire, and for most people that is enough to inspire fear and loathing.” It was a cop out, and they both knew it. He couldn’t admit to her that he just wanted to be in her presence, finding it to be both soothing and resolute, like an anchor in the eye of the hurricane.

Corvina shook her head, looking up to the stars and taking a deep breath before responding. “That might be most people, but you are not most people. I asked why you specifically hate me. It’s been 30 gods damned years, Sihtric. I have fought for you, taken hits for you and still it's not enough. I am owed an explanation at the least,” her words were firm, her tone indicating she wanted answers and she wanted them now.

Sihtric looked at her, his expression hardening as all his repressed emotions boiled over in the worst way possible. “Because you are a fucking vampire!” He exclaimed, his voice ringing out in the quiet of the night. “You drink blood for Thor’s sake! How can I trust someone like you?” He shook his head, trying to reign in his temper before spitting out. “You are a monster and I will never trust a creature like you.”

Hurt crossed Corvinas face for a split second before her own face hardened, her lips pressed into a thin line. He knew calling her monster was the one thing she hated, and he suddenly wished he could snatch the word back if it meant she wouldn’t look at him with such disdain.

“Goodnight, Sihtric,” she said in a harsh tone before suddenly turning on her heel and walking away with a stiff stride, determined not to let him see her cry. She may have been undead, but that didn’t mean she was completely heartless.

Sihtric watched Corvina retreat, feeling guilt and anger surge through him. He hadn’t wanted to hurt her, but his emotions got the best of him and he started running at the mouth before he could stop himself. He started pacing, muttering under his breath trying to calm himself down. “Dammit. I need to apologize to her…but first, we have a battle to win.” He went back to his tent after several minutes of cursing himself for his actions, trying and failing to get some sleep before the battle tomorrow.

He woke early the next morning, preparing for the battle and checking on his men, making sure everything was in order. He didn’t see Corvina around the camp, but he forced himself to stay focused on the fight ahead. He needed to keep his head on right if he wanted to survive the day, but he thought to himself that Valhalla would be a preferable end after the way he acted last night.

By the time the sun starts rising over the horizon, everyone is in position on the battlefield. The two opposing forces face each other, shields up and swords in hand, the deep breath before the fighting breaks out seeming to slow time. The early morning rays shone across the field, a low fog hanging between Wihtger’s men and Uhtred’s. Corvina stands next to Sihtric, their shields locked tightly in formation as they wait with bated breath for Uhtred’s command. Despite the events of the previous night, they both have grim and determined expressions on their faces, stone cold focused on the enemy.

Once the signal was given, all hell broke loose. Wihtger’s men clashed hard with the wall, but the joint forces of Uhtred’s and Corvina’s armies were not so easily broken. The sounds of clashing metal and wood, along with the battle cries of the warriors filled the otherwise calm morning air. Once the wall finally broke, Sihtric and Corvina fought back to back, slicing through their foes with brutal efficiency. He smirked when he saw Corvina hit her stride, her supernatural speed and agility unmatched by the Scots and the rest of Wihtger’s men. He saw the moment they realized what she was, the fear in their eyes for the split second before she cut them down. He tried not to stare at her, his axe swinging through the air as he managed a fatal blow on his own enemy.

After a couple hours of fighting, Uhtred’s side had cut a swath through the usurpers' forces and Wihtger was engaged in a one on one battle with Uhtred. Sihtric and Corvina pick off a few stragglers, the rest scattering to the winds at the decisive loss only to be run down by Corvina’s vampire spawn before they reach the edge of the battlefield. She turned her back for just a second, slashing the throat of a still twitching man when a monster hunter snuck up behind Corvina. She realized what was happening just as the hunter brought a silver dagger up, driving it deep into her side. She cried out in agonizing pain, dropping her shield and bringing her sword down across the man's neck, his blood spraying across her face. She collapsed to the ground with the dagger protruding from her side, another hunter running up with an elder wood stake in his hands. Corvina hissed menacingly at him, her fangs elongated and eyes glowing dangerously as she struggled against the man.

The moment Sihtric heard Corvina cry out, he turned and his heart nearly stopped. He didn’t hesitate to charge forward, swinging his axe with precision and decapitating the hunter, pushing his body off Corvina before dropping his weapon and kneeling by her side. He quickly pulled the blade out of her side, knowing that her natural healing abilities will kick in now that the silver is removed. He tossed the blade off to the side before reaching down and scooping Corvina up into his strong arms, quickly carrying her out of harm's way. Her head lolled back as she lay in his arms, Sihtric only half aware that Uhtred stood victorious over his cousin's body as he half ran back to the camp. He heard her mumble his name and he pulled her closer, looking down at her quickly with a soft expression before turning towards where her tent was. Where she was normally so strong and independent, she now looked so vulnerable in his hold. He felt a whirlwind of emotions within him, but he pushed them aside and focused on getting her back to her tent.

“Shh, It’s okay. I’ve got you, Vina,” he whispered, ignoring anyone who tried to stop him. Once inside her tent, he moved to lay her on her bed and began removing her armor and clothes, wanting to get a good look at the wound.

She hissed in pain, feeling Sihtric remove her leather cuirass and pulling her ruined tunic up enough to expose the wound to his focused gaze. She tightly gripped the furs beneath her, her breathing heavy as Sihtric grabbed a bucket of water and clean rag to begin cleaning the blood away from the gash in her side.

“I need to feed, it’s the only way I will heal. I know you hate me for being a vampire, as you so kindly put it last night, but this is who I am, Sihtric,” she said through gritted teeth, her fangs glinting in the low light of the tent as she looked into his mismatched eyes. The hurt from him calling her the one thing she hated was still fresh in her mind, but she refused to stoop to his level even if she wanted to.

He looked at her, his expression softening when he saw how much pain she was in. He hated seeing her hurt and hated even more that she was right, she needed to drink blood if this wound was going to heal properly. That thought caused him to remember exactly what she was and his usual sneer found it’s way back to his face. “Fine, but don’t think for a second that I’m doing this because I like being your snack. You’re a dangerous creature and I hate having anything to do with vampires,” he growled, his jaw clenching as the image of her feeding from him sent his mind racing with less than innocent thoughts.

Corvina sighs exasperatedly and shakes her head, sitting up with a groan and a wince as she clutches her side. She gives Sihtric an expectant look, her tone questioning. “Oh, so you go from despising me for being a vampire to offering yourself up to be my breakfast? How generous of you, Sihtric. You told me last night that you didn’t trust me, so what the hell changed for you between then and now?”

He glared at her, his face flush with embarrassment and anger as she called him out. He knew he was being hypocritical, but he didn’t need Corvina telling him that. His frustration at the whole situation came out first, and he naturally lashed out at her. “Oh just shut up and feed from me already! You should just be acting like a predator, a monster like any other supernatural entity but you just have to talk to damn much.”

There it was again, that derogatory term. Corvina took a breath and stood up from her bed, speaking in a harsh voice that belayed her hurt. “Fuck you, Sihtric Kjartansson.” She slowly made her way to the entrance of her tent, determined to flag down one of her own people if it meant getting away from the most infuriating and oblivious asshole in all of Northumbria.

“Don’t you dare leave! You are injured and need to rest,” Sihtric shouted as he jumped to his feet, running up and grabbing Corvina’s arm by surprise, pulling her back towards him. His grip was firm, intended to keep her close to him and not to harm her. Not that he could anyway, seeing as how she had an impressive threshold for pain. His breath was hot on her ear as he whispered menacingly, the thought of her soft lips on another person causing jealousy to rear its ugly head within him. “If you think you can just go out there and find someone else to feed from…think again.”

Corvina growled back, turning and shoving Sihtric off her. Even injured, she was still stronger than a human and he stumbled backwards with the force she used against him. “Do not presume to touch me or give me any commands. I have put up with your unjust treatment of me for long enough. Your stubbornness and pride has cost you a friend this day. Enjoy your victory, Sihtric, and be gone from my tent when I return,” she snarled at him for the first time in their long friendship, letting the startled man see her righteous fury painted across her face. She knew she looked every inch of the ancient vampire she was, her fangs elongated and eyes glowing the brightest red Sihtric had ever seen. She closed her eyes and shook her head, muttering something under her breath about stubborn men and how they are the same in every age and land. She then turned on her heel and left her tent, leaving Sihtric behind with his scattered thoughts. He stood there staring as the flap of the tent blew in the soft early morning breeze and the sounds of people returning to camp filled his ears.

After the initial shock of seeing her lash out at him in that manner wore off, all Sihtric could think about was how his breeches suddenly felt a lot tighter and he hated everything about it. He groaned and ran a hand down his face, feeling both frustrated and aroused at the way everything went down. Frustrated at his own stubbornness and prejudice against vampires despite her best efforts to prove otherwise, and aroused at getting to see her in all her glory and have it directed at him. Despite himself, he thought she looked beyond magnificent and he finally understood what it was that had made her the vampire queen in that moment. After a few moments, he left her tent and walked out into the busy camp as the high from their win filled the air. He couldn’t help but envy the lucky person who she would feed on, wanting nothing more than to be in their shoes before the shame of thinking such thoughts came back to the forefront of his mind. As he made his way through the war camp and back to Uhtred’s side, his first thought was how he hoped he hadn’t pushed her completely away. His second? He wondered if he groveled enough at her feet if she would take pity on him and let him fall into her bed rather than someone else after the celebrations tonight.

Gods help him not muck this up, because he wasn’t sure he could handle another night of just him and his hand.

Taglist: for the Sihtric girlies @sihtricfedaraaahvicius @mrsarnasdelicious @bouncehousedemons @gemini-mama @whitedarkmoonflower @synindoodles

[magdelanesingerin]

I yam so lucky to have you

It’s the kind of brilliant, cloudlessly cold day in early winter that makes Jaskier want to cuddle up in a sweater with a mug of spiked cider. Sipping wine and cooking a big dinner in an oven-warmed kitchen with Geralt is even better. The scent of fresh baked bread and sweet potatoes lingers in the air of their little kitchen. 

He sweeps chopped pecans into a bowl and makes a distressed little noise as he notices a scattering of tiny green threads lingering in the mix, and Geralt hums a little inquisitive sound from his spot at the sink where he’s diligently washing dishes. 

Anyone who had just met the two of them might be forgiven for assuming that Geralt would be the one with a talent for cooking. The man is frighteningly competent at so many things, and it would make absolute sense for that competency to extend to the kitchen. Just like one might assume that Jaskier, flighty and forgetful with a fondness for processed cheese snacks would be totally hopeless and likely to burn a pot of boiling water. 

They’d be wrong. It’s not that Geralt can’t cook. He can! And the five dishes that he rotates between are all…solidly good. Exciting? Complex? Adventurous? Flavorful? Not at all. But reliably edible, hearty, nutritious, efficient things that will feed the two of them for days. Jaskier has grown to hate them and if he ever spends a week eating Geralt’s totally okay fried rice again he might scream. 

So, anyway, Jaskier is the one who cooks most of the time, while Geralt helps by cleaning as they go and fetching ingredients as his boyfriend asks for them. They love cooking together like this, though, and a big holiday meal like this is a labor of love for both of them. 

Jaskier purses his lips and lets out a blustery sigh as he swipes at the sneaky little specks of green that are cling to his sliced apples.

“Well, I guess there’s just going to be a little bit of dill in everything until I stop and wash this fucking cutting board,” he mutters in exasperation. Every time he thinks he’s gotten rid of all the fluttery little bits, there’s one more. It’s fine, it’s not enough to add flavor, just enough to be obnoxious.

Geralt hums again before he speaks up, eyes on the sink and the pot that he’s diligently scrubbing. “We’ll dill with it.” 

It takes a moment for the awful pun to land. When it does, Jaskier’s eyes widen in dismay at the apples under his knife, and his mouth opens wordlessly for a moment before it clicks shut again.

“After all, you didn’t do it dill-iberately,” Geralt continues after a long beat of silence. 

Jaskier sucks his lips between his teeth tightly and shakes his head, refusing to look at the smirk he’s sure is on his boyfriend’s face.

“It’ll still be dill-icioous,” Geralt says, completely deadpan. 

Jaskier snorts and drops the knife with a clatter before he spins on his heel to leave the kitchen laughing in delighted horror. This is the man he loves, who he has chosen to spend his life with. By the time he circles the livingroom and returns, his eyes are streaming.

Geralt is standing by the sink in his sock feet, looking sinfully gorgeous in his tight henley with a dish towel thrown over one shoulder, his hair twisted back in a messy, loose bun, and grinning with pride at his horrible puns. Jaskier loves him so much it makes him stupid. He’s still shaking his head helplessly when he steps close to loop his arms around Geralt’s waist and buries his face in the man’s ridiculous chest. 

“You’re really proud of yourself, aren’t you,” he mumbles into the firm muscle under him. He even smells amazing, the bastard. 

“Mmhm.” Geralt gently pats him on the back with one huge hand. 

“I hate you so much.” 

“No you dont. You love me,” he teases. 

Jaskier sighs and steps back over to his apples. “Yeah, you’re right. I really, really do.” 

He can’t imagine a better way to spend a long weekend than this.

on AO3 here

[fromtheboundlesssea]

HotD Season 2 Episode 5 Live Watch Thoughts

I feel like if we find out parts of this season was written by AI, I would not be surprised.

Lannister soldiers I can use for edits later. ✌🏻

Ooooo LIONS

Are those men from Tarth?

The actor does a decent job of mimicking season 1 Jaime’s slight tone.

Love how we have Aegon actively seeking and even listening to Alicent’s advice while Aegon instantly silences and ignores her.

“Your father knew this” the man IGNORED them until YOU asked him to, Alicent.

“As you well know.” Yeah, Aemond, why didn’t you stop that.

Aemond, Criston is the only person there to have actually fought Daemon, and actually win.

I like that her children still refer to her as “mother” even in public.

I like that we are blocked from Aemond’s emotion when he is in side profile with the eyepatch.

I wish we had Aemond actually feeling bad about Jaehaerys, because we got nothing of that in the show.

I personally feel they have been avenged and he still does not feel like he has enough to the point where he does not mourn his trueborn nephew.

Are we going to have Corlys call Rhaenyra out like he does in the book? Apparently not he put on the pin.

Did the actor who played Corlys loose weight or are his clothes less bulky?

Here is Lord Commander Westerling? Wouldn’t it have made more sense to have Rhaenyra lean on him rather than this random Kingsguard that has only really shown up as a major-ish character this season.

Are they making up Targaryen offspring? Making up a Targaryen princess? Would this man’s grandmother’s grandmother have even been a princess? They weren’t crowned, what, six generations ago?

Honestly, the Dragonseed stuff was risky anyway, but they are making it sound truly stupid.

Onto Daemon’s A24 movie? Will we see Rhea? Anyone want to bet?

Oh? He’s going to see Viserys?

“You can’t possibly still be angry about this.” HIS SON DIED AND HE HAD MURDERED HIS WIFE! MY DUDE?!?!?!?

Vague Rhea mention at least?

And don’t what? Name Rhaenyra heir or send you away?

Saving Hodor flashbacks tbh

Daemon is truly losing it.

And why is he not blaming Alys? Who is arguably the weirdest person in the keep besides him?

And Simon Strong is so freaking chill.

Is Daemon leaving? Oh? Oh?

Ah. The weirwood tree.

Alys is the most consistently written character and it is so ridiculous.

“She never even wanted it.” She didn’t care to learn either.

“Viserys never wanted it himself” really? He could have thrown his lot with Rhaenys then and not set his claim forward.

Also, not gonna lie, I have never pronounced Alys as *Alice* in my head.

So dragon singing or something is a thing? Why can’t we hear Tom sing in the show? He has a band doesn’t he?

Also, we never knew why Daemon was doing what he was doing last season when he was singing?

Are they going to make up Dragonseed like they did Targaryen family members?

Also, why isn’t the woman dragonkeeper bald too? Wouldn’t bring bald be wise or did Ryan & Co also not like the idea of bald women.

Seasmoke is gorgeous btw.

Ah, so she lost a very loyal Kingsguard for this. Great. I would have ended the search for Dragonseed there tbh. It’s not wise to lose allies.

Corlys, did you ever think that perhaps your bastard kid you have ignored for years would be happy to serve beside you? Wow. You’re as bad as Viserys when it comes to thinking your kids you’ve ignored would be happy to follow your orders.

Addam is so freaking fine.

And Dyanna. Someone theorized that’s where we get Gaemon Palehair with the brothel woman.

Feasts? Ah. It’s the stupid rumors. Love that the woman turned so quickly on Aemond.

“Never while our smallfolk went without.” Ummmmm. He had a whole hunt when there was the possibility of invasion.

Oh? So you want to be feared Rhaenyra? Where was this after your son died? Where was this when you had a chance to take Alicent?

The characterization is so slow.

MEN? Did more happen?

Is the riot when Rhaenyra has King’s Landing? Or was that Green propaganda?

“This becomes you.”

Darksister was a woman’s sword and would work better for a woman.

Why are we getting more Hugh and his family getting all this characterization when you can have Nettles or even give Addam more characterization. You know, someone who was actually loyal to their precious Rhaenyra even when SHE turned on them.

And who cares about the Gullet? Have the Lannisters bring in food from the Reach? Do Ryan & Co not realize the Hightowers are in the Reach?

AEGON WAKES!

I love how relieved Orwyl is about Aegon.

UGH. I DON’T LIKE BODY HORROR STUFF.

Tom still good looking despite the scars.

Wouldn’t it be nice to have Helaena or Alicent to step in?

And F you Aemond. His characterization is becoming so cartoonish and 1-dimensional.

RHAENA

*sigh* so they will replace nettles. Can’t they just have it be Morning instead?

And that baby dragon’s CGI blending into the real background is not great.

And Rhaena holding a dragon toy 😭

That shot of Rhaena is beautiful.

Is Jeyne Arryn actually going to have more to do? Can’t she teach Rhaena about being a lady of a grand keep?

Will they have Rhaena be at fault for Aegon and Viserys being lost?

And so Alyn dies/cuts his hair?

How ironic that Alyn will become lord eventually.

I really do wish Addam had silver hair.

Also, couldn’t people assume they are another Velaryon’s bastards?

Only half-way done and I am still bored.

“I am tired of being protected.” And what about your protection of your son?

*sigh* are they going to allow Helaena to fight too?

Will Rhaenyra still be sorry that Alicent and Helaena were caught in the crosshairs this time when she is the one to do it or no?

Oh, so they are going to have Rhaenyra sending aide to King’s Landing 🙄 Will they turn on her faster when she can’t give them food anymore and SHE is the one to throw lavish parties, or is that going to be Green propaganda as well. Meaning it will be propaganda the Blacks used on the Greens as an uno reverse?

And Alicent sitting beside Aegon. 🥲

“What will he be if he lives?” Alive?

So they do remember the Reach.

Maester Orwyle is the VIP.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” 🥲

Love the hair up look!

Lol Gwayne clocks it. Lol

“You were always his favorite.” Interesting.

Daeron mentioned!

I love the mix of joy and sadness in Alicent’s eyes when she hears about Daeron 😭

Gwayne telling Alicent she did her best! 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭 Not denying her faults, but not blaming her entirely. 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭

And Criston waiting to leave until she acknowledges him.

Helaena!!!!

The stupid dog 🙄

Also???? I thought the gates would have been closed to the water? Why couldn’t people have left through the water then?

HOW ARE WE STILL AT 26 MINUTES LEFT?!?!?

“The Queens” 🥲

You just got food. And now you’re flinging it.

Oh? Alicent had a cut like Rhaenyra now?

And Larys denying Aegon his pain meds.

I really do wish that Larys wasn’t so obviously a bad guy because this conversation could be viewed as more genuine.

So was Alys blamed for Larys?

Goodwill version of the Tyrion/Jon conversation in season 1 of GoT 😒

So they could get Aemma’s actress back for this?

Honestly, this whole thing feels like an Anime arc where Daemon gets a redemption. Or Daemon going through the Bad Place to get to the Good Place.

Did Alys kill Glover?

I guess so.

Again, instead of Hugh and the other Dragonseed, I would have preferred to spend time focusing on Alyn.

Also hate they didn’t just kill Laenor in season 1. It would have added to Rhaenyra’s character tbh and would have given her an interesting dynamic between herself and her elder 3 children.

He questions them because Daemon is the only one seemingly doing anything after HIS BROTHER WAS MURDERED.

I heard rumors that Mysaria and Rhaenyra would have a romantic plot line and I hope the heck not. Because imagine getting together with the girl whose lookalikes you gave to Daemon to bed.

I think Mysaria is being honest or deceitful to gain Rhaenyra’s favor, which does not do well for the writers because she truly is not a well written character. She is just there and does not actually have any impact unless the story needs it.

My eyes are ROLLING in the back of my head.

Rhaenyra, a woman just told you about her sexual trauma and you start making it sexual.

This is because fans were pissed about Missandei not taking over the bedfellow role of D I am sure of it. And I absolutely hate it. It makes it seem like Rhaenyra is incapable of having adult relationships unless they are parental or sexual/romantic. 🙄

This was, once more a bad episode.

Promo Thoughts

So Jace is changing his opinion now?

Again. The show is just… bad.

[titleknown]

PD DAY CHARACTER: MISSHROOM!

So, how’d I get my start you didn’t ask? I died! Mostly!

Details are fuzzy on before, dying will do that. I think I was an actress? I think?

Well, whatever I think some guys musta taken issue with some of those details and it ended up they thought I’d look better in some gasoline lingerie after taking some of my skin out of the game. And I admit, I was pretty hot for a few minutes before things cooled down when I jumped off that bridge into the bay!

I admit, I probably was due for a final starring role on a milk carton, but as an unwise man said, trust the fungus! 

So, anyhoo, there was some kinda think-y space shrooms down there, and boy if that isn’t a cup o’ Red Bull and adderall after you wake up from the night terrors, eh? Eh? I think I remember those back from before. Doesn’t really work on me anymore, but anyway...

So, after I got back up, screamed at my cursed half-life, yadda-yadda horror of I-am-a-monster Ben Grimm shenanigans, I had a time figuring out what to do. But I saw I could do all this neat fungus stuff, acid spores, “acid” spores, shroom-turrets that could shoot the acid(s), heal back from from getting burned with things that are sometimes acid, buncha other stuff that’d run up the word count, the works!

So, I figured if I kept beating up goons, creeps, super-bastards, the works, I’d eventually stumble on the yoyos who tried to take the final cut to send me down some streets of fire into a dirtnap. I even had a costume, death + spores equals easy wardrobe department in the glitzy outfit-that-is also-mostly-dead! But there’s a lot to work through, you know this town. Not a nice place. I’d say at least it’s not Detroit, but honestly I think it takes the title for American nightmare away from there. It’s gotta need at least 10 Robocops to clean that mess up.

But it’s got me, and I think I’m a pretty good me at it! But, when you start pushing back against creeps, you get to other stuff. Fighting systemamatical probalas, seein bigger picture bastards you need a whole lotta shrooms to sautee, meeting other folks who wanna be the Mr Rogers helpers, you know the drill. Good way to meet girls I tells ya.

And that’s how I found the team! I named it by the way! Nobody else liked it, but nobody else had a better idea, so hey, a win’s a lose that’s a win! And we always stay winning here, right? Right?!

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

SO, as I promised, here's my design, a fungal superheroine, entirely under a CC0 Public Domain License! 

For a bit of trivia, I'm imagining she was some variety of gorgeous dignified starlet who was miserable being all those things before she died, death's just kinda gotten her to let loose. Also, I imagine that fungus to be the same kind that got Space Oddity, albeit from its own continuity, and less... warped by the factors that lead to the latter's nightmarish existence.

But, what's this about a team? Why, that's because she was designed as a part of a team! But, I realized a bit late that I probably couldn't tell a good epistolary story within the limitations I'd set for myself wordcount-wise for a whole team, so I decided to go bigger.

Because this is not just for Public Domain Day, but for Public Domain Month! 

I'll be filling out the super-team that is the Freak Legionnaires this whole month, along with another surprise guest, so you'll be seeing a lot of 'em! Hope you dig what's coming, cause I sure do!

[commiegoth]

Fun writeup on the goth subculture of the 1990s from FringeWare Review #6(66), published in 1995

Full text under cut

Subcultbabble 101: Magdalen on Things Gothic

So who ’zactly are these legendary Goth creatures? As with any subculture, it’s hard to pin ’em down. Let’s start with an image nearly all our dear readers will have seen at some point: kids with flowing black clothes, white faces, and lots of black eyeliner. You have perhaps wondered WTF is up with them, and with people who try to look like vampyres, and pouty twentysomethings in black T-shirts who seem too pointedly haughty to be generic Gen-Xers, and gorgeous fetish babes who sorta look like they’re dressed for the grave rather than for the dungeon.

Writers like yers truly just fuck it all up when they try to explicate subcultures, but somebody’s gotta do it. My own experiences have brought me in contact with the so-called goth scene intermittently over the last decade, though I should warn you that mine is a fundamentally West Coast point of view. YMMV. Like many others who end up returning to goth clubs and music every few years, I seem to have a fixation with Death which finds itself soothed and fulfilled by Things Gothic. Despite my propensity for slovenly attire and no-bullshit communication, I’m also addicted to the sense of ritual and aesthetic which differentiate the goths from most other American cultures.

I Wear Black On The Outside… ’cos black is how i feel on the inside

The two most prominent subcultures I’ve run into are punk and the hippie trip. In them, participants usually adhere to a loose cluster of aesthetic parameters, but everyone involved pretends that exteriors mean little to them. (Let’s bypass the hypocrisy involved, when they like the rest of society typically wear certain signifiers to identify themselves with the group.) Hardcore punks and hippies don’ t necessarily bathe very often, or wear makeup. Punk and its bastardized commercial offspring, the media-titled Grunge movement, aspire to externalize their rejection of conventional society by substituting fucked up, comfortable clothing for the clean, rigid, and perky duds yer stuck-in-the-fifties parents always wanted you to wear. The aesthetic relies upon potentially-violent sloppiness (or a carefully-reconstructed pretense thereof) and the attitude that you honestly don’t give a fuck what people think of you. Mortified though many latter-day punks might be to think of it, a similar motivation lay behind the original hippie anti-aesthetic, where organic materials and shapes sought to externalize the flowing qualities of nature where Cold War man had instituted three-piece suits and all they represented. Pardon the irony, but both mohawks and stringy long hair try to signify the rejection of a shallow society intent on keeping up with the Joneses and little else.

The goths fled in the opposite direction: past conventional fashion, whose crime isn’t its rigidity but its sheer dullness and tendency to follow embarrassing trends, and onward to a hyperstylised self-presentation reminiscent of the Courts of centuries past. Goths are renowned for their vanity and apparent shallowness; I believe the goth aesthetic is actually quite honest, embracing the notion that externalizations such as clothing and gesture form an intricate interpersonal art form, a dance of communication. It’s refreshing compared to the equally intricate games played by those who present a studiedly “casual” facade, hoping their Gap shirts will help them blend in with the wallpaper. Practitioners of theatre understand very well the subconscious semiotic games being played in the guise of supposedly “normal”, casual conversation: how the body moves, what it is draped in, the choice of words, tone of voice or the flick of an eyelash can determine the outcome. In the theatre, these external elements are mastered to create ritual and entertainment.

Walk into a goth club, and you see this same cunning, playful manipulation of details taken from the stage and thrown into what might be a costume ball. Black is everywhere: hair, clothing, eyes, lips. Perfectly blood-crimson lips and hair extensions materialize next, along with deep purple dresses and tresses. Proper white collared shirts glow in the dim light, while the occasional off-white Victorian wedding-gown or ivory ’30s dress will float by as well. The goths, who go out of their way to be a sensual set, get off on the tactile beauty of their gear as much as its visual effect: velvets, satins, leathers, brocades, sheers, laces (though lace has fallen by the wayside since the ’80s) — anything lush and sumptuous. For a group of people rumoured to be exceptionally dictatorial in their tastes, they can be most creative and eclectic. Cheesy classic deathrock bits like torn fishnet sleeves, and Robert Smith hairdos straight out of the early ’80s, nuzzle up against the hippest new fetish gear. Goths manage to dig up gorgeous period pieces, mostly evocative of the ’20s or of Victorian fashion, and many can even wear the things properly, playing the appropriate body language to the hilt.

You should be able to kick around a few Byron quotes here and there, and recount Shelley's death with heartfelt accuracy (didn't he like die on a boat or something?)

As you nervously approach the crowded bar for a dollar-drink special, you’ll notice some other things. Makeup ranging from pale to deathly white on many faces, both male and female, accompanied by exotically-applied eyeliner and severe lipstick. Lots of curious if pretentious objects: fluttering fans, scarves, silver cigarette cases, lunchbox handbags, crucifixes, hats, and miles of silver jewelry. A man bending at the waist to kiss a woman's hand. Angelic, dour boys in long skirts and pointy boots. Expansive, melodramatic dancers flailing and swirling, refusing to acknowledge each other even when they collide. Impeccably-dressed, attractive women sitting all alone yet not being harassed. Frankly, you may find them all ridiculously snotty poseurs, what with their wannabe-regal airs and seemingly unbreakable attitudes. Stay long enough, though, and the drugs and alcohol will kick in thoroughly, revealing kids with fake IDs and eyeliner drooling drunkenly down their cheeks, stoned speedfreaks giggling, drunk speedfreaks dancing and fighting, bedraggled gentlemen hiking up their skirts to take down the lights. Though it may appear otherwise, people have dressed up and come out to have a good time, and to do so in the most decadent of ways.

If you asked them, the majority of these people would not admit to being goths. Most of those who would are the sort of irritating obsessives you find in any cultural group, like the self-proclaimed hippie that buys every new Dead shirt as soon as it hits the market or the poet who wears a beret and turtleneck. These are the folks who desperately needed an identity to cling to, a pre-existing aesthetic to buy and adopt rather than create; they’re invariably the people who uphold and propagate the codes and cliches of a subculture. So what’s the stereotypical goth of this sort like? Where hippies have hyper-friendliness and Luv, these goths have a comical level of snobbery, cattiness, and a calculated air of impenetrable mystery. Where punks often pretend to be less cultured and articulate than they are, yer local cliche-goth will likely present hirself as well-read and emotionally intellectual, with a vocabulary of words and gestures gleaned from faerie tales, Victorian literature, and heroic ballads. The correct political stance is apolitical, and while the proper drags change over the years and according to geography, speed’s the classic drug of choice. The face will be pale and powdered, the eyebrows painted in black points which shadow the inner eyelids in an immaculate line; the clothing will most definitely come in black.

As The Millennium Turns: the emergence of a NeoGoth scene

What’s interesting about this culture isn’t the surprisingly small group of people who wear full costuming and whiteface 24/7, but the way that its recent resurrection integrate a variety of musical and aesthetic tastes. Odd as it may sound, my theory is that the increased popularity of Things Gothic owes much to the Rave trend at the turn of the decade. As, that pushed repetitive techno music into regular discos and radio formats, people started delving into darker technology-driven music such techno-industrialists Skinny Puppy. Much to chagrin of oldschool industrial types, a new “industrial” movement started gaining momentum, showcasing Ministry’s industrial deathmetal crossover and the Top 40 success of Nine Inch Nails. The explosion of general indie and "alternative" music as a popular phenomenon helped out, too: all these newly-mainstreamed bands had common influences from the days when frat boys would beat you up for having a leather jacket and funny hair, instead of jumpin' into the pit with ya at a Dickies show (Dude!).

People new to these genres of music and the subcultures they spawned started digging up those influences and giving 'em a spin, and pretty soon there was a fresh crop o' youngsters gazing at Blixa's made-up face on old Einsturzende Neubauten videotapes, discovering Bauhaus for the first time, finding Al Jourgenson's cheesy '80s dance tunes, and praying that the entire 4AD catalogue might be released domestically on compact disc. Some small group of goth types had endured through the '80s in most large cities and hipster towns, and found their ranks swelling as the population at large gained exposure to music and fashion previously confined to the underground and to independent music labels. For several years now, the goth capital cities (London, New York, San Francisco) have boomed with golf clubs, local bands, and 'zines. The resounding success of House of Usher, the East (SF) Bay club the proved you really could rejuvenate this tired old scene enough to make serious money off it, owed much to its owners' creation of two separate dancefloors in a single club: one industrial, one gothic.

But wait, there’s more! In addition to marrying the black-leather-wearing New Industrial scene to the extant retro-gothic scene, the neo-goth resurgence has cross-pollinated nicely with the fetish scene, the cyberpunks (yes, I hate that word as much as you do) the exponential growth of the Internet, the underground comic and ’zine network, and a rising interest in the arts of self-decoration (piercing, tattoos, etc.). As always, other marginal groups with proclivities for theatricality — SCA members, RPG fanatics, | drama geeks, Renaissance Faire guildmembers, wiccans, and the terminally suicidal — are still attracted to the goth set. It all makes for quite the tasty brew once it has fermented long enough.

Weeping, Wailing, and the Gnashing of Teeth

Music acts as the cornerstone of most popcults, and can’t possibly be treated thoroughly in this space. If you’re into the idea, get ahold of the fanzines listed under SOURCES. Suffice to say the music wafting out of gothish clubs ranges from historical deathrock (Bauhaus, Siouxsie and the Banshees, Joy Division) to second-wave gothic (Fields of the Nephilim, Christian Death, Sisters of Mercy) to new indie-goth hybrids. Some of the most distinctive music associated with Things Gothic can only be described as mood music, whether it’s ethereal, ominous, or sparse. Dead Can Dance and Cocteau Twins have popularized the ethereal sound, usually featuring lush arrangements, swooning female vocals, and often incorporating elements of Irish folk, medieval, classical, and middle eastern music. From the cruncher sounds of My Bloody Valentine and lovesliescrushing, and the symphonic chaos of Cranes or the recent Miranda Sex Garden releases, a whole new generation of post-ethereal bands continues to evolve.

Ominous mood music ranges from the Wagneresque horror of In Slaughter Natives to the soundscapes of Caul; again, subcultural crossbreeding has birthed a wide range of techno-industrial-cybergothic soundtracks. On the sparse end of the scale, the Death In June/Current 93/Sol Invictus formula combines morbid lyrics, hypnotic acoustic guitars, and experimental sounds: for a heightened experience, be sure to keep razorblades poised at your wrists while listening. And you’re bound to find old farts who still keep some guilty pleasures around — ’80s English popsters like early Cure, Smiths, and Tears for Fears, the deathpunk of 45 Grave and pre-glam TSOL, or the moody disco of New Order and Tones On Tail.

Face it, kids, you live in a society whose obsession with Death is matched only by its insistence that one continually maintain a mask of cheerfulness or neutrality. Colonial-style religion, which used to provide a ritual release for feelings of fear and deah has largely been exposed as a patriarchal scam. You will watch Cops, you will run to see Natural Born Killers, but you will still toddle into work and smile after your best friend commits suicide. The hippies tried to make you too uniformly joyful and mellow; your foray into punk let out some anger but did nothing for the lingering melancholia. The poets gave you deep verbiage but they didn’t know how to dress, and the sullen slackers sneered at anything remotely dramatic. And while the Protestant preacher gave you lots of Death, and Mass gave you ritual satisfaction to breathe in like incense, they expected you to believe in GM, fer Chrissakes!

I can’t stomach being around it too much, but sometimes it’s a relief to sip Chartreuse with an entire room full of people who’ve given up and welcomed death. A good goth club or party feels like a Christian funeral smashing into a raucous wake: some are there to mourn, others to celebrate the dead with wine, song, and incoherent rambling. No one is going to stare at the scars on your wrists in such an environment, nor try to stop you from driving 120mph on the bridge after you’ve snorted up a quarter and chased it with a litre of bad red wine. No one’s gonna care whether your sour, aching mood arises out of severe pain or out of the need to make an impression. Nor does it matter whether you've actually punctured human flesh with those ridiculous fangs you had custom-made.

The house, club, or cemetery you’re partying in is likely decked out in Things Gothic. Among all the dead flowers, skulls, and candles, who’s gonna look askance at the crucifix around your neck? The props of Death attract people for different reasons. Some have a heartfelt reaction to religious iconography, often rooted in childhood experiences with the church; others are attracted to the mystery of the post-corporeal life represented in objects which evoke thoughts of mortality. Some just want a solid talisman to grasp while they mourn life itself, while many are drawn to the classical aesthetic often employed in rendering icons. And there will always be those who don’t really care to think about art, Death, or afterlives, but who want to look cool. Regardless of the motive, people who want to play with the props of Death aren’t given much of an opportunity to do so in conventional society.

Except in religious subcultures, of course. Is the goth scene religious? While a fair percentage of its members are ex-Christians or current pagans, goth has nothing to do with religion. The closest thing to a Deity it offers would have to be Peter Murphy or Andrew Eldritch — mere mortals who happen to be the subject of much fawning, rather like Elvis. Laughing at the corniness of Deathprops and quasi-religious elements is probably more common than revering them. Goth appropriates from religion, using its imagery in decadent stylization. It has no interest in either approximating religion or fostering it.

Deadly, theatrical, and a bit over-the-top, Things Gothic definitely hold a selective appeal. I for one will be thoroughly amazed if the goth subculture ever gets adopted by the mainstream, but then again in 8th grade I wouldn't have imagined punk ever crossing over. Times change, and if folks stop dismissing the goths as absurdly pretentious we just may see Rozz on the cover of Rolling Stone in a couple of years. Stranger things have happened.

[literatehiss]

Split Stage

The musings of one Thomas Zane on those that keep him company, their differences and what unites them, in the endless night of the Dark Place. Mature. Blood & Violence Read on AO3 here

A swirl of the glass, the muffled clink of an ice cube, the refreshing smell of oranges. 

Zane took a sip, watching the lights in his room reflect off the crimson drink. It had been a while since his usual visitors had stopped by and if it wasn't for how recent getting any visitors was, he would likely be getting pretty lonely by now. After so many years however,  with only himself and the creature pretending to be his beloved, loneliness was an old, familiar friend. It wouldn’t be long, he supposed, between his writer and his scientist, he was sure his room wouldn’t be empty for much longer.

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

Alan was the more frequent of the two, more able to actually control when he showed up. Up to a point of course, Zane shuddered to think what Wake would be capable of if he actually fully mastered his abilities. 

Generally, Alan entered the apartment with little warning, a few knocks if he was feeling generous, but mostly the writer just swung the door open as soon as he arrived. Alan rarely entered room 665 in the same mood as the time before, whatever horrors he had experienced on the way affecting his mood wildly. 

Mostly, he seemed confused, lacking memories of previous encounters or concussed from wounds he had sustained on the journey. Easily overwhelmed, that was how Zane would describe Alan, whether he was already soft and confused, angry or sad, violent or searching, it was never too hard for Tom to wind his words and power around the other man and get him how he wanted him.

 Tom definitely preferred the writer pliable, often inebriated. Like everything with the stubborn man, getting Alan to let loose, have a few drinks and indulge in all the other things Alan pretended he didn't want, was an endless, thankless task. The handsome bastard was lucky Zane had gained inhuman patience in his time in the Dark Place. He certainly needed it.

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

Casper, on the other hand, always waited at the door, waited for Zane to let him in. Always ever so excited to see him again, never sure where he would end up next and glad to find a safe haven. Tom loved to compare him to a puppy, affectionate, excitable, deceptively destructive and dangerous. 

Like Alan he was often confused, but that beautiful scientific mind of his buoyed Darling from the darkness around him. His curiosity and wonder at the incomprehensible world around him was gorgeous to behold, after so long down here any curiosity Zane had once had in this world was long dead. 

Zane didn’t need any pretty words to get Darling to relax in his presence, and honestly rarely used his powers on the other man. Well… at least not without Casper’s enthusiastic approval. Dangerous in its own way, Tom had planned many an enjoyable evening only for it to get sidetracked because Darling wanted to experiment with his abilities. 

Not that the experiments couldnt be enjoyable in their own way. 

Zane always offered the other a drink, but unlike the writer, his scientist was much more fun when he was still mostly sensible. Their post-sex talks, sipping on whatever cocktail Tom was making that week, were the highlight of his day as he learnt so much about the world in the decades he had been trapped down here. Zane hid his affectionate grin behind his glass as the other man giggled over his own dumb jokes.

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

With a flicker of film Zane was looking out of one of the tall windows that took up the back wall of his apartment. Curtain fluttering slightly in the breeze of the open window. It was dark out. It was always dark out. 

An unending expanse of writhing shadow, the only light coming from the few streetlights in the immediate vicinity of the Oceanview Hotel. Sometimes, if he was lucky, he would see a tiny form jog across the pavement below. 

Most of the time it was Alan, sometimes he wasn’t even coming to see him, just passing by, but every so often someone else had reason to visit the hotel. He could count the number of people who had come to his room on one hand and despite his craving for company, he just would not risk leaving the relative safety of his room, his domain. 

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

Alan, given enough time and effort, was more of a sweetheart than most who knew him would expect.

Zane loved to push him to the floor, to the couch, to the bed and occasionally to the cold glass of one of the windows. Anywhere that would let Zane look at all of Alan, those nervous blue eyes and trembling legs, so similar to his own. Once the writer had been calmed down, tamed and compliant, he was lovely in Zane's opinion. Wake was all grasping hands and stuttered moans, not passive exactly, but glad enough to lie back and let Tom have his fun.

Art and Artist combined in Zane’s bed, booze-soaked and pleasure-drunk, Wake bucking under kiss and bite in equal measure.

And how beautifully Alan showed the marks Zane gave him. The director, the poet, loved to make the other man into yet another work of art, little bites and bruises turning Alan into an ever-shifting, writhing canvas.

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

Darling gave as good as he got.

Just as likely to shove Zane down to the bed as he was to let the artist press him down to those same sheets. Wrapping his arms around Zane’s waist, reeling him in. Casper was always enthusiastic, always as keen to get his hands on Tom as he was to be held in turn. Firm and solid against Tom, the scientist was often a whirlwind of manic energy that was hard to handle, even for Zane

Sometimes Tom found it difficult to reign the other man in, struggled to pull him down to earth, down into his own orbit and make him stay put. Whims of curiosity only sated for a moment before Darling was up and away yet again, crying out his latest theory in the same voice he cried out in Zane's bed. Reams of incomprehensible babble, understandable to Casper and Casper alone. 

Zane loved him all the more for it. 

Casper made him feel like a god, like a monster, like an experiment. 

Powerful.

Dangerous.

Fascinating.

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

Gazing around his room, the ‘House of Zane' as he liked to call it - mostly to annoy both his visitors, he recognized the mess that had been left after his last bender.

He really should tidy up.

Zane managed to gather a couple of empty bottles and place them to the side before boredom overtook him and he fling himself into his bed with an over dramatic sigh. The lights dimmed with his wish for sleep, but he knew it was as futile for him as it was for Wake. Casper managed it on occasion, but only after he had been thoroughly exhausted, the lucky bastard. 

Pressing a hand to his side, he groaned as his fingers sunk into half-healed bruises. His memories as they were and time in the Dark Place as it was, he couldn't quite remember who or what had given them to him. 

Film glitched and spluttered and Zane found himself holding another glass of liquor. 

A sip.

A sigh.

It wouldn’t be long now.

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

Sometimes the Alan that appears at his door, is not the writer he knows. Hair styled differently, clothes switched out and an unfamiliar grin, a confidence that suits the other but does not belong upon his face. 

This Alan does not spiral in despondent misery as he fails to write, simply types and types and Scratches out what doesn’t fit, what doesn’t work, what doesn’t set them free. 

This Not-Alan, this devil hiding in his writer's skin, this Mr Scratch that growls and bites and spits it's hate. Venomous in it's possession over their shared author.

Scratch pulls and snarls and fucks with no regard to the poet's pain or pleasure. Blood staining the scattered bedsheets, dripped from stinging cuts and a broken nose. Gushing from an open wound, the knife still standing proud from his twitching thigh. Crimson pooling between his lips and running like a trickling stream that threatened with each gasping breath to turn into a raging torrent down his heaving throat.

Face pressed to overfilled pillows, muffling Zane’s unwanted voice, not the voice the monster craves. Hands worn by violence oh so similar to those same hands stained by ink and rough from the press of typewriter keys. 

And still Zane let him in.

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

Sometimes after a night together, or when they are still tumbling in the sheets, Zane watches as his Darling drifts away, his touches meant for another. 

Casper never talks about before he entered this looping hell. Brief mentions sure, he worked for the FBC, he was a scientist. But that was it. 

Zane, given half a chance, would tell Darling his whole life story, his homeland - before he moved to America, his Barbara, the films he had made and the things he had seen.

But given silence in return. 

Zane could feel the shadow of another, never made present but their absence obvious in what the other did not say and did not do. A name half-cried before silence once again reigned. A name that was not Zane's. A widening of his eyes, a stuttered breath when the poet lit a cigarette. He’d asked once, Zane sure he would receive no answer, not sure if he was scared of truth or of another secret kept. 

A man. Casper's boss, his friend once, his lover once, lost to paranatural paranoia. Missed but gone from Darling’s life long before he’d shot himself. 

No closure.

Zane could understand that. 

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

Flicking through piles of paper, theories and manuscripts left abandoned on the carpet floor, stained with spilled drinks. Tom amused himself with reading both side by side and wondering if he could build a film through the lens of these opposing scripts. 

They were so different, his beloved visitors, both so focused and confused they barely paid attention to his manipulations of their worlds and of their memories. A scientist and an artist both so handsome in their different forms. Tom thought that he must be so lucky despite his horrific circumstance to share his time with two such bright stars in this endless night. 

But they were not so different once he pressed them into his sheets. They moaned the same, begged the same, chanted his name like a god the same. 

Looked at him like he had answers, the same. 

He never did. Not that it mattered after all…

They always ate up his lies, the same.

Muffled sounds from beyond his door, footsteps approaching.

A knock.

Was it hesitant or impatient? Hard to tell.

A flicker of burning film and he stood before the door in all his glory. An unnecessary brush off of dust on the leather of his trousers, swiping away unnoticeable creases from his jacket. The door swung slowly open, moving on his command. A grin upon his face masking all other thoughts. Once more he was nothing but a part to play upon a darkened stage.

One day Tom Zane would leave this place, with the help of these two men he hoped, and in his place Thomas Seine would step out into the world once more, no more characters. 

Just him.

[terrifyingdream]

Brother - aka the 7th Chapter

read on ao3

No TWs for this one! Yay!

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I had a younger brother. Had, because I do not see him as family anymore.

Why?

Jealousy probably.

You see, my brother is beautiful. Objectively speaking. Smooth, light skin, gorgeous brown eyes, wonderful lashes, pretty pink— sometimes red— lips, even teeth, beautiful dark-blond hair, which somehow doesn’t look dirty, and two moles— dots under his eyes, one on each side.

I despise him deeply.

Of course I was the only one in my family without natural beauty.

Instead of gorgeous, silky blonde hair, like everyone in my family, I had a brown something that could be mistaken for a bird-nest. Even when I grew it out, not a single day passed where I didn’t have to brush for half an hour, only for it all to get tangled after the lightest breeze. On top of that, I would never stop loosing hair like some useless dog— one slight pull brought out countless of hairs. Balls of hair would litter my room.

Instead of smooth and perfect skin, I had bumps everywhere, my face full of pimples and zits, and I had dark eye-bags, like a zombie.

What an ugly little zombie I was.

Not the best thing to call an insecure teenage girl.

Needless to say, that was when I started romanticizing my death or the violation of others.

What a freakish girl, they’d say.

What a vile excuse of a man, they say now.

Anyway, back to where we started, my brother.

….

…..

……

…..

……

…..

….

Haha, looks like there’s nothing more to say about that arrogant, disgusting, infuriating and obnoxious little bastard.

Either way, I hope he finds this.

I hope he reads this and knows my hatred for him.