#i can see her painting the walls of the tower so clearly

[ambugutron]

a gwencelot tangled au would actually be so amazing

[sativariddle]

PLAN GONE WRONG ꒰ t.n. ꒱

⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧ navigation. (9.6k+ words)

WARNINGS: insecurity, cheating!george, nipple play, instances of bullying, suffering with body image + struggles, and strong language.

AUTHOR’S NOTE: if you don’t enjoy my content, there’s no need for you to stick around. i’m not responsible for what you choose to engage with.

SUMMARY: after theodore gets into a fake relationship with a ravenclaw to make daphne jealous, he finds himself tangled in something far messier than he anticipated.

theodore nott had it all — the looks, the intelligence, the friends, the money. and when it came to girls, he never faced a challenge. it was always effortless for him. but theodore nott wasn’t seeking heartbreak. i repeat, theodore nott was not looking for heartbreak.

but heartbreak found him anyway.

friday night, just after curfew: he took a walk through the abandoned astronomy tower. he hadn’t been looking for trouble — he wasn’t the type to seek out unnecessary drama.

but as he approached the shadowed figure near the entrance, the unmistakable sound of moans and groans caught his attention.

and then, a voice he knew too well.

daphne greengrass.

something in his chest twisted. it wasn’t like they had sworn undying loyalty to each other — theodore wasn’t naïve. but there had been something there, hadn’t there? some unspoken agreement between them, a mutual understanding that despite their lack of labels, she was his in a way she hadn’t been with anyone else.

apparently, at the obvious looks of it, that was all in his head.

because as he stepped closer, he caught a glimpse of her — pressed up against the stone wall, fingers tangled in the robes of some faceless, nameless guy who sure as hell wasn’t theodore.

for a second, he couldn’t move. couldn’t speak. just stood there, frozen, as something cold and heavy settled in his stomach. before he could stop himself, he cleared his throat.

daphne was startled, her body tensing as she pulled away from her mystery lover. blue eyes going wide with something that looked like guilt — but that couldn’t be right, because daphne greengrass never felt guilty.

"theo -" she started, but he was already turning on his heel, walking away before she could spin some pathetic excuse.

how can he be so clueless? after everything he did for her, you'd think the witch would finally see things clearly and not end up with some random no-life guy.

theodore didn’t go back to the slytherin dorms right away. he ignored all the portraits muttering at him, questioning why he looked so angry. instead, he found himself storming into the common room couches, his jaw clenched so tightly it ached.

he was halfway to the fireplace when a familiar voice drawled from the opposite of theodore. "rough night?"

blaise zabini, the absolute perfect picture of relaxation, was sprawled across the leather couch, watching theo with an infuriating smirk. on the other side of the room, malfoy sat by the chessboard, silver eyes flicking up with mild interest.

"she cheated on him," pansy parkinson supplied from her spot near the fire, where she was busy painting her nails black. she didn’t even look up. "saw the whole thing."

of course she had — pansy thrived on drama like it was her lifeblood. she was so nosy about his business that, at times, he almost wished the blood curse upon her. though, he always knocked on wood immediately after, just in case.

theo exhaled sharply, dropping into an armchair. "who was he?" he shouldn’t care. he shouldn’t care. he doesn’t care.

"does it matter?" draco arched a bushy brow. "the point is, she played you."

theo’s veiny hands curled into fists. "i don’t care." mattheo absentmindedly tossed a stress ball — stolen from one of his many hookups — between his hands, rolling his eyes every time theodore repeated that he didn’t care.

"right," blaise said. "which is why you look like you want to murder someone."

pansy finally looked up, the sway of her bob barely skimmed her shoulders, sharp gaze scanning theo’s expression. "you want revenge."

it wasn’t a question.

theo didn’t answer, but something must have flickered in his expression, because blaise clapped his hands together, looking positively delighted. "perfect. i have a plan."

from the tone of his voice, you’d think zabini had been waiting his entire life for this moment, his handsome smile curling at the edges with satisfaction.

“blaise, i just found out the girl i’ve been speaking to has been seeing other people behind my back minutes ago. how the fuck do you already have a plan?”

draco leaned back in his chair, smirking like he had been waiting for this moment. he had. “put it this way; we never exactly trusted daphne.”

”- could say… we planned for this,” berkshire added smoothly from his spot, finally speaking up as he tossed pieces of chocolate into the air, catching them with his mouth.

theodore stared at his friends blankly, processing their audacity. it should have pissed him off. but, if he was being honest? he was intrigued.

”…hurry the fuck up.”

blaise’s own grin widened. "we find you a new - fake - girlfriend. someone completely unexpected. someone who will make daphne lose her mind."

theo scoffed. "and who the hell would agree to that?"

no one in their right mind would willingly agree to this — if someone had come up to theodore and asked him to fake date them for revenge, he would’ve given them a strange look and walked away without a second thought.

"simple," blaise said. "we pick someone who has nothing to lose."

the process of choosing someone — anyone — wasn’t as easy as they made it sound. it had to be someone who would make waves, someone no one would expect to be tangled up with theodore nott.

so, the next morning at breakfast in the great hall, the group of six hissing slytherins huddled together.

"not a slytherin," draco decided. "too obvious."

"not a gryffindor," pansy added. "they’re too… annoying."

blaise tapped his chin thoughtfully. "we need someone smart. someone who won’t get clingy but also won’t back out at the first sign of trouble."

"that leaves hufflepuff and ravenclaw," theo muttered. "- hufflepuffs are too soft," pansy cut in. "we need someone with a backbone. someone unexpected."

that’s when blaise’s gaze landed on you.

you were sitting at your usual ravenclaw table, nose buried in a book, oblivious to the chaos unfolding in the world outside your pages. dark hair pulled into a high ponytail, lips pressed into a firm line: nothing like daphne.

blaise smirked and leaned toward theo. "trust me. she’s perfect."

the group of slytherins turned, their gaze following blaise’s eyes until they landed on you. like a pack of snakes hunting a lone eagle, as if they could snare you with nothing but a hiss.

theo wasn’t convinced at all. "her?"

"think about it," lorenzo said smoothly. helping blaise’s case. "she’s not involved in house politics. she doesn’t give a damn about us. and best of all? daphne won’t see it coming."

mattheo hummed, watching you. "she’s kind of… lonely, isn’t she?"

"exactly." blaise grinned. "which makes her interesting."

theo studied you for a long moment. he’d seen you in passing before, always tucked away in corners, watching the world with those sharp, observant eyes. you weren’t the type to seek attention. you weren’t the type to need anyone.

you were stunning, of course, lost in your book, completely unaware of the six slytherins staring at you.

you weren’t daphne. but maybe that’s exactly what the plan needed.

you knew something was wrong the moment blaise zabini dropped into the seat across from you, flashing a grin that balanced precariously between charm and devilishness.

blaise zabini did not sit with you. neither did draco malfoy, who slid into the chair beside him effortlessly, nor pansy parkinson, who leaned over your table as if she were about to offer you an illegal dragon egg. lorenzo berkshire opted for the desk itself, perched on the edge, smirking down at you. mattheo riddle dragged over a random wooden chair and flipped it backward, resting his arms on the backrest as he settled in. and then there was theodore nott — standing behind them all, arms crossed, fingers ghosting over his biceps, his expression carved in boredom, like he’d rather be anywhere but here.

you sighed, snapping your book shut. "no."

blaise’s dark eyes closed and opened — blinked. "you don’t even know what we’re going to say."

"i can guess," you replied dully. "and whatever it is, the answer is no."

"hear us out -"

"i’d really rather not."

who could blame you, honestly? the six of them were bullies — bullies. cruel, ruthless, and known for doing horrible things. so when they all sat down, your first instinct was that you were their next target.

draco sighed dramatically. "we’ve been sent here against our will because theodore is apparently incapable of having a simple conversation with a girl."

over draco’s shoulder, theo shot a glare at the back of his platinum head. “nott, i can feel your ugly eyes boring into the back of my head. cut it out,” malfoy said, not bothering to turn around.

“fuck you. people actually love my eyes, especially the blue,” theo retorted.

“they’re lying. it’s the ugliest color i’ve ever seen,” pansy chimed in. theo shot her a look. “we have the same color eyes, dumbass.”

“no,” pansy replied, blinking dramatically. “yours are ugly blue, mine are pretty blue, and they’ve got a little brown in them. yours are just plain ugly blue.”

the slytherins began bickering among themselves, while you stood there, staring at them, before clearing your throat. you seriously did not have time for this.

the bickering came to an abrupt halt as all eyes turned toward you. theo turned back to his friends, rolling his eyes.

“i could have handled this myself.”

"sure you could, sweetheart," pansy sarcastically grinned. "that’s why you stood outside the library like a lost first year for ten minutes before we had to drag you in."

you raised an eyebrow. "should i be concerned?"

theo clenched his jaw and looked away, which was honestly kind of funny. he was clearly uncomfortable, but that wasn’t your problem.

"look," blaise said, leaning in conspiratorially. "daphne cheated on theo -“

“- we never dated,” theodore replied flatly, as if that somehow helped his situation. “then why the fuck are we here right now?” mattheo shot back, tilting his head up to glare at theodore.

“because we were still something, and i thought she knew that,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair in frustration. blaise rolled his eyes, turning in his seat to glare at each and every one of them for cutting him off.

once the group finally shut up, he exhaled sharply and turned back to you, picking up right where he left off. “- we want revenge. and what’s the best way to make an ex lose her mind?”

"i don’t know," you said. "move on with your life?"

theodore made a noise like you had just suggested befriending a dementor. "don’t be stupid." you shot him a glare. if there was one thing a ravenclaw couldn’t stand, it was being called stupid — because that couldn’t be further from the truth. and ravenclaws know the truth — are supposed to know it.

blaise smirked at how easily you were already irritated, but then quickly reminded himself that they had to play nice if they wanted you on board with their plan. forcing a more charming smile, he said, “we want you to pretend to date theo.”

you stared at them.

then laughed. hard. "oh, that’s cute… no."

theo exhaled sharply, pinching the bridge of his nose. “fucking told you,” he muttered before letting out a slow breath through his nose, unfolding his crossed arms. “this is a complete disaster.”

"you’re a disaster," pansy corrected before turning back to you. "we get that this is a little out of nowhere, but think of the opportunities here. you get to hang out with us."

"that’s not the selling point you think it is."

blaise’s grin never wavered. “okay, how about this? you get to make daphne furious, and it’ll piss her off even more since theodore never made things official -“

“- if you weren’t together, then you have no right to be mad -” theodore shot you a scowl, blaise ignored you, continuing to talk. “that’s when he’ll introduce you as his girlfriend, and watching her rage will be objectively fun. plus, you get protection - no one messes with theo’s girlfriend.”

"fake girlfriend."

“so, you’d do it?”

you sighed, rubbing your temples. “definitely - fucking - not.” you could never bring yourself to do something for this group of bullies.

even sitting at the same table had you itching to get up, you had already tried slipping away, your fingers fumbling with your hair in nervous agitation. “and, besides, i’ve been talking to someone…” you continued, your voice softening. “i wouldn’t want to mess it up, especially since i’ve liked him for so long. i don’t want to ruin anything…” you trailed off,.

there was a beat of silence.

"i’m sorry, what?" parkinson screeched.

berkshire’s expression lit up with delight. “oh?” draco curled his lip, clearly irritated by the fact they had been rejected by a ravenclaw. “who?”

you crossed your arms, debating whether to answer. but then you figured, why not?

If they were going to harass you about theodore, you might as well be honest.

"george weasley."

chaos erupted.

“you’re joking.” mattheo looked like he might actually be sick. “ew…” he trailed off, and you shot him a pointed look, catching the sass in his tone.

"a weaslette?" pansy gasped, clutching her chest. "you like a weaslette?"

“weasley.”

“weaslette.”

“weasley.”

theodore spoke. "you have terrible taste."

you shrugged. "he’s funny, he’s kind, and he doesn’t barge into my library time with schemes."

blaise leaned back, shaking his head in amusement. "did not see this plot twist coming."

"you’re all being dramatic," you said. "and the answer is still no." pansy groaned. "come on. we’re offering you the role of a lifetime!"

"i don’t want the role!"

theo looked at you then, sharp, blue eyes scanning your expression like he was trying to figure you out. and then, very quietly, he said, "you really like him?"

“yeah. i do.” for a brief moment, something flickered across his face — his hope fading — and then he turned back to his friends.

"drop it."

draco blinked repeatedly. "excuse me?"

"she said no," theo muttered. "we’re done here."

pansy gaped at him. “are you seriously letting this go?” didn’t he want revenge? didn’t he want to see daphne burning with hate? "it’s a stupid plan anyway," he said, shoving his hands into his pockets. "find another way to piss off daphne."

you weren’t the jealous type. at least, that’s what you always told yourself. but as you stood there in the courtyard, watching george weasley lean in just a little too close to some hufflepuff girl — smiling at her in that way he smiled at you — jealousy hit you like a bludger to the gut.

it was ridiculous. just yesterday, he had his arms wrapped around your waist, kissing you — no, devouring you — and yet, here he was now, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, laughing at something she said.

the sound of it made your fingers curl into fists.

is this how nott felt when he saw daphne? did he feel that same ache? did the jealousy twist into something that hurt so fucking badly? had he been suffering like this?

nope. you weren’t doing this.

you were so, so so mad.

to think you’d been defending his sorry ass to the slytherins. fuck george. fuck him.

eagles and snakes rarely got along, but once the lion steps into the fire, the eagle and the snake have no choice but to unite and fight.

spinning on your heel, you stormed off, your pulse pounding in your ears.

before you even realized where you were headed, you found yourself marching straight into the slytherin common room — grateful that a second year girl had mumbled the house password just in time, allowing you to slip in before the portrait closed.

you walked right toward the biggest assholes in the school.

blaise, draco, mattheo, lorenzo, and pansy were sprawled across the leather couches, looking like they owned the place (they did), while theodore leaned against the fireplace, staring into the flames like some brooding poet lost in thought.

the second they saw you, blaise sat up, smirking. “to what do we owe this unexpected pleasure?”

you exhaled sharply. this meant lowering your guard. this meant keeping your stubbornness in check. this meant swallowing your pride.

“i’ll do it.”

pansy played dumb. “do what?”

“the fake thing.” you crossed your arms. “i’ll pretend to be theodore’s girlfriend.”

for a second, there was silence.

“oh my god,” pansy gasped, clutching her heart. “it finally happened.” she was absolutely certain you’d never agree. completely convinced that this whole ‘getting back at daphne’ scheme was now a forgotten idea they wouldn’t bother with anymore.

blaise spoke. “what happened to not wanting to mess up that little thing you’ve got going with weaslette?”

you glared at him. “shut up.”

berkshire snorted. “fantastic.” something obviously went wrong. it didn’t take a genius to figure out.

theo, on the other hand, looked at you with mild suspicion. he knew that look. how could he not? he’d had the same one when he’d caught daphne pressed up against a wall, some idiot practically sucking the life out of her. “you’re sure about this?”

no. this was stupid. this was reckless. this was exactly the kind of thing that would blow up in your face.

you squared your shoulders. “yes.”

pansy clapped her hands together. “perfect. but if we’re doing this, we’re doing it right.”

you frowned. “what does that mean -”

“makeoverrrrr,” she announced, standing up. her robes swished with the motion, and the excited smirk that played on her pink lips made her look all the more eager.

you took a step back. “absolutely not.”

“oh, absolutely yes,” pansy countered, grabbing your wrist and dragging you toward the girls’ dormitory.

the boys exchanged glances, their interest blossoming at the mention of ‘makeover.’

they leapt to their feet, scrambling to follow the two of you, barely able to contain their amusement as they trailed behind, looking far too entertained.

once everyone had emerged into pansy’s dorm, it was clear it had the chaotic charm of a girl’s haven.

clothes were strewn across the floor, some crumpled, some tossed haphazardly over the furniture. a half open wardrobe displayed a jumble of dresses, skirts, and shiny, sequined tops begging to be worn. on the vanity, papers, makeup, and empty bottles of perfume cluttered the space, and a few framed photos of her and her friends sat crookedly among a mountain of beauty products.

the walls, covered in posters of various dark haired models, all seemed to have a shade of lavender in the lighting.

theo spoke. “is this really necessary?” for the first time, you actually found yourself agreeing with what came out of his mouth.

“shut up, nott. we’re creating a goddess.”

pansy shoved you onto a vanity stool and stood behind you, eyeing your hair with barely concealed horror.

“first things first,” she said, yanking your ponytail out with a single, ruthless tug. you winced as your hair fell over your shoulders.

pansy hummed approvingly. “that’s way better.”

you scowled at her through the mirror. “you could’ve asked nicely.”

“where’s the fun in that?”

blaise, now lounging on her bed, smirked. “i’m enjoying this already.” you wanted to roll your eyes because, of course, he was.

pansy chose to ignore him, rifling through her wardrobe before shoving a pile of clothes into your arms.

“try these on.”

you eyed them. “why do i feel like these have no fabric?” the materials in your hands felt light and flimsy, and panic slowly crept in as you imagined trying them on, only to look absolutely hideous. every time you glanced at yourself in the mirror, it was the same — you hated what you saw. you found yourself angling your body, staring at your stomach, picking apart the parts you so desperately wished you could change.

what if they thought your body wasn’t good enough? what if the clothes made you look awful? you knew you shouldn’t have eaten anything for dinner last night.

“because they don’t.”

fifteen minutes later, you had gone through at least five outfit changes, each one more questionable than the last. the first was a ridiculously short dress that barely covered anything.

you stepped out of the bathroom, arms crossed over your chest. “i feel naked.” the dress was incredibly short, and the neckline was just as revealing, offering no coverage for your chest at all.

draco smirked. “that’s the point.”

theodore had been uncharacteristically quiet, barely glanced at you before muttering, “next.”

the second outfit was a tight leather skirt and a top that required more trust in fabric than you currently possessed.

blaise let out a low whistle. “now we’re talking.”

you dryly responded. “i will strangle you.” theo, again, didn’t react. just gave another, “next.”

the third outfit was… well, you weren’t sure you could even call it an outfit. it was basically a glorified bralette and a pair of shorts that might as well have been underwear.

you stepped out, glaring. “pansy. be. fucking. serious.”

pansy sulked. “fine. we’ll dial it down.”

outfit number four was surprisingly decent — tight jeans, a fitted black top, and a green coat that made you look effortlessly cool.

draco tilted his head. “that’s… not horrible.”

blaise nodded. “it says, ‘i’m hot, i know it, and i don’t need to prove it.’”

theo finally looked at you properly, eyes scanning your outfit. all he said was, “that’ll do.”

you raised an eyebrow. “that’s the best approval i’m going to get?” you had just put on a damn show for these assholes, one outfit after another, parading around in pansy’s clothes.

theo smirked. “obviously.”

pansy clapped her hands. “alright, lesson one of fake dating 101: now that you look the part, it’s time to act the part.”

you slumped in the vanity chair. “what does that even mean?” you knew what it meant but you tried to stall them.

theodore rolled his blue eyes, already seeing right through your act. “it means you need to carry yourself like you actually belong here.”

blaise leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “no more shrinking into the background. no more avoiding eye contact. and for merlin’s sake, no more walking around like a lost library ghost.”

“i do not -“

“you do,” theo interrupted, arms crossed, fingertips ghosting over his biceps.

you narrowed your eyes at him. “well, excuse me for not strutting down the corridors like i own the fucking school.”

“that’s exactly what you need to do,” pansy said, standing up. “confidence is everything. now, let’s start with posture.”

that was the thing — you didn’t have a shred of confidence in you. you’d never had it, not when it came to anything other than studying.

pansy grabbed your shoulders and yanked them back so suddenly you nearly toppled over.

“ow - pansy!”

“straighten your back,” she ordered. “head up. chin slightly tilted, but not too much - you don’t want to look like you’re trying too hard.”

mattheo dabbed in. “think of it like this: you’re not looking at people. you’re looking past them. like they’re beneath you.”

you scoffed. “that sounds like how you look at everyone.”

“exactly,” theodore replied, cutting in for mattheo. “glad we’re on the same page.” you rolled your eyes in his direction.

pansy nudged your chin up with two fingers. “perfect. now, when you walk, you don’t rush. you glide.”

lorenzo let out an exaggerated sigh, propping his chin in his palm. “this is going to take forever.”

theo, who had been watching with an unspoken expression, spoke. “stand up.”

you hesitated but obeyed, standing in front of him as he slowly rose to his feet. “alright,” he said, eyes locked onto yours. “walk toward me.”

you furrowed your brows. “that’s it?”

“that’s it.”

you started walking.

immediately, all six slytherins groaned.

“are you serious?” malfoy scoffed. “what is that? a power walk?”

“you look like you’re late for class,” blaise added.

pansy shook her head disapprovingly. “we are fixing - whatever that was.” she stood beside you. “watch and learn.”

then, with the kind of grace only pansy parkinson could pull off, she strolled forward — shoulders back, hips swaying slightly, every step measured and deliberate.

when she reached theo, she tilted her head and smiled up at him, as if he were the most fascinating person in the world. it was so natural, so effortless, that it made you feel small.

a wave of insecurity hit you like a hurricane, and for a second, you wanted to back out of the whole thing. everyone’s eyes were on you now, waiting to see if you would follow her lead.

“see?” she said, batting her lashes. “effortless.”

you crossed your arms. “yeah, well, i don’t naturally look like a goddess.”

pansy winked. “not yet.”

for the next thirty minutes, they had you pacing back and forth across the common room. every time you thought you had it down, someone would find something to correct.

draco was the first to point out that your shoulders were too stiff, while blaise let out exaggerated sighs whenever you dared to glance at the ground. pansy swatted at your arm whenever you fidgeted, and mattheo would grow more tense each time you didn’t do exactly as they asked. meanwhile, lorenzo started chatting with another slytherin nearby, totally oblivious to the chaos unfolding in front of him.

theo, however, just watched. occasionally, he’d mutter a quiet, “again,” forcing you to restart.

by the end of it, your feet ached, and your patience was running thin.

“how is walking this difficult?” you groaned, flopping onto the couch.

theodore chimed. “because you’ve been walking wrong your whole life.”

before you could throw a pillow at him, pansy clapped her hands. “now that we’ve covered walking, let’s move on to behavior.”

blaise beamed. “my favorite.”

you narrowed your eyes. “why do i feel like i’m not going to enjoy this?”

pansy ignored you and continued. “rule number one: confidence isn’t just about how you move. it’s about how you speak, too. no more snapping immediately. no more second guessing yourself.”

here she goes again with the whole ‘confidence’ thing. you wanted to remind her that every time someone disagrees with you, your first instinct is to defend yourself. it’s why you come across as feisty, snappy, and on edge.

but instead, you just bit your tongue.

mattheo leaned back. “and if someone talks to you? you make them work for your attention.”

you frowned. “that sounds exhausting.”

theodore shrugged. “it’s called being desirable.”

“or insufferable.”

“same thing.”

pansy waved a hand. “we need to work on your interactions with theo.” your stomach twisted slightly. “what do you mean?”

she smiled. “darling, if you’re going to be his girlfriend, you need to know how to act like one.”

theo sighed. “this is unnecessary.”

“it’s necessary,” pansy insisted. “what if daphne doesn’t believe any of this because the chemistry is so bad you wouldn’t even be able to convince a first year?”

silence.

yeah, that’s what she thought.

pansy turned back to you. “alright. let’s say you and theo are walking down the corridor. you see weasley. what do you do?”

you clenched your jaw. “i’ll stick my middle finger at him and yell, ‘fuck you -“

the five slytherins groaned in unison, while lorenzo turned away from the random slytherin he’d been talking to, catching the collective sigh of disbelief.

pansy rubbed her eyes. “no. that’s later. you laugh at something theo said, touch his arm, make it look effortless.”

you glanced at theo, who looked as bored as ever. “and what exactly is he saying that’s so funny?”

theodore’s bored expression flickered for a moment before morphing into a slight smirk. “nothing. that’s the point.”

you exhaled sharply. “great.”

“practice,” pansy ordered. “theo, say something. anything.”

theo arched a dark brow at you. “you walk like a baby deer.”

you blinked. “that’s supposed to make me laugh?”

draco grumbled. you are insufferable, he decided. “it’s not about the joke. it’s about the reaction.”

you rolled your eyes but tried again. forcing out a laugh, you reached out, lightly touching theo’s arm. blaise breathed out. “that was painful.” lorenzo nodded in agreement. “i think i cringed into another dimension.”

you shot them both a glare. “you try fake laughing on command.”

pansy sough dramatically. “it’s fine. we’ll work on it.” she turned to theo. “you, mr. tall, and emotionally unavailable, need to at least pretend to be interested in her.”

theo’s lips twitched. “emotionally unavailable?”

“you know i’m right.”

he shook his head but turned back to you. his sharp eyes met yours.

“okay,” he said, voice softer now, more intentional. “let’s try again. one last time.”

you swallowed.

you never really looked into people’s eyes, not really. you barely made eye contact with anyone — it felt so awkward to you, so you’d always find yourself looking around, trying to avoid it when someone tried to hold your gaze.

but you’d never seen eyes like his.

at first glance, they were just blue — bright, captivating blue. but as you stared deeper, into their beautiful depths, you saw something else.

“green,” you muttered breathlessly before you even realized it.

it was theo’s expression that changed, a flicker of confusion crossing his face. “what?” he asked, the words slipping from his rosy lips.

you remembered when pansy and draco had told him his eyes were an ugly color back in the library, during that conversation where they tried to convince you to take theodore’s offer of being his fake girlfriend to make daphne jealous.

“your eyes,” you murmured softly. “there’s a ring of green around them.” by the way his expression remained unchanged, you could tell he either hadn’t heard or simply chose to ignore it.

instead, he stepped closer, just enough that you had to tilt your head to look up at him properly. “i’m going to say something, and you’re going to react. not like you’re acting. like you mean it.”

you exhaled sharply.

so, he hadn’t heard? “fine.” you were ready to leave anyway.

theodore’s eyes gleamed. then, in the same casual voice, he said -

“your laugh is terrible, sounds like a dying hyena.”

you let out a real laugh — short and surprised — and smacked his arm lightly.

“oh, fuck you, nott.”

he smirked. “see? that was convincing.”

pretending to be theodore’s girlfriend seemed easy in theory — until the stares that had once passed over you without a second thought now fixated on the two of you. hand in hand, you sat at his table, surrounded by his friends, his touch settling effortlessly at your waist.

daphne was seething, her blonde hair falling over her shoulders as she glared from the end of the table. you could feel the heat of her gaze, the subtle flare of her nose.

george, on the other hand, didn’t look at you — not once. but that was fine. it had to be. because you weren’t finished yet. you were still unraveling, still learning, still becoming.

and the group of slytherins were determined. the training stretched on for weeks — anywhere they could catch you, they did. in the common room, the library, even the great hall. pansy would stop you mid bite to correct your posture, blaise had you repeating ‘effortless’ laughter until it started to sound like a dying cat, and draco would dramatically critique your eye contact as if you were his lead actress and he was the most unsatisfied director in history. mattheo was constantly instructing you on what to say — and more importantly, what not to say. and lorenzo made it his mission to steal your bacon from your plate whenever he got the chance.

and then there was theo.

he never gave long winded critiques like the others. he didn’t smirk and throw in unnecessary jabs like blaise (kind of) or roll his eyes like draco. instead, he watched. observed. and when he spoke, it was always something sharp, something that made you think.

like now.

“you’re too self-aware.”

you looked up from your book, grateful for the brief moment of peace. the slytherins had given you a break — pansy and draco had run off to sabotage a gryffindor’s potion, blaise had found something more entertaining (likely something with luna), and mattheo and lorenzo had disappeared to the kitchens.

you thought you had escaped to the library in peace, but clearly, you were mistaken.

theo had found you anyway. he leaned against the opposite side of the table, fingers brushing over his biceps like he always does, watching you like he was solving a puzzle, like he always does.

you raised a brow. “and that’s… bad?”

“yes.” he pulled out the chair across from you, sitting down like he had nowhere else to be. “every move you make, you’re thinking about it too much. the way you laugh, the way you walk, the way you talk to me.”

you scoffed, closing your book. “well, sorry for not being naturally gifted like daphne.”

theo shook his head. “you don’t have to be daphne. you just have to look like you know you’re wanted.”

you stared at him, a sarcastic laugh escaping your lips. “right. because that’s easy.” the truth was, you didn’t know how to look like you were wanted — no one ever had, not for anything, and certainly not for you. it was easier to avoid them, to keep your distance, than to try and be something you weren’t.

“it is,” he said simply. “if you stop caring so much.”

you huffed, leaning back in your chair. “that’s rich coming from you.” his brow arched. “and what’s that supposed to mean?”

“you act like nothing fazes you,” you said, tilting your head slightly, studying him with narrowed eyes. “like you don’t care about anything. but you do, don’t you?”

of course, he did. you could see it now, even if he hid it behind that calm, indestructible facade. why else would he go through all this trouble, dragging you into this mess, playing this game with daphne? it wasn’t just about her. it was about proving something — maybe to her, maybe to himself. he wanted her to pay, to feel the weight of her own mistakes, and that made him care.

and the worst part? it made him feel weak. vulnerable. and you could tell he hated that more than anything.

you knew it. because you were experiencing the same thing.

a flicker of something crossed his face.

gone in an instant.

“this isn’t about me.”

you rolled your eyes. “it’s exactly about you,” you said, voice dripping.

theodore leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on the table. “try something for me.”

“that sounds dangerous.”

he ignored you. “when you walk out of this library, don’t look at the ground. don’t think about your steps. just move like you own the place.”

you jeered. “i can’t just flip a switch and suddenly be -“

theo tilted his head, his gaze dragging over you with an intensity that made your skin prickle. it was as if he was reading something beneath the surface, something you weren’t ready to share. you shifted uneasily, feeling small, like a kid again, hyper aware of every inch of your body, the parts you hated, the parts you tried to hide.

the air felt thick, so fucking—

“you’re beautiful, you know.”

silence.

your breath caught in your throat. the words came out so smoothly, so casually, like he was stating a simple fact. like of course you were.

you searched his face for any sign of teasing, but there was none. just something unknown. something quiet.

your pulse skipped.

fuck, why did it do that.

and then, because you refused to let him see how his words rattled you, you forced a smirk. “that was terrible flirting, nott.” it was perfect, though, you thought. you wanted to tell him that, wanted to admit it was the nicest thing anyone had ever said to you, believe it or not.

but you couldn’t — not when he was looking at you like that.

theodore exhaled a small laugh through his nose. “that wasn’t flirting. that was proving a point.”

of course, it wasn’t flirting — he was just testing you. why would theodore nott, easily one of the most handsome people you’d ever (and unfortunately) laid eyes on, call you beautiful?

as if someone like him, or anyone at all, would actually mean it. even the boy you once believed loved you — george — proved you wrong the moment he went behind your back.

theodore leaned back. “see? you’re thinking about it now. about yourself. the way you look. the way i see you.”

you hated that he was right. but why was he so right? why was he able to read you so easily, so effortlessly, like he knew every hidden thought before you even said it?

theodore stood, sliding his hands into his pockets. “just… try it.”

you exhaled, rolling your shoulders back. “fine. but if i trip and embarrass myself, i’m killing you.”

he smirked. “i’ll take my chances.” as he started to turn on his heels, you almost yelled, but before you could, he muttered, “if you ever need help with anything, i’m free whenever.”

with that said, he turned and walked away, leaving you sitting there — annoyed, intrigued, and just a little bit breathless.

you sat alone in the corner of the ravenclaw common room, the letter in your hands trembling slightly. the parchment felt heavier than it should, and yet you could hardly bear to look at the words printed on it. but you had to. you had to face it, even if you didn’t want to.

the letter was from your parents, and it was a disaster.

we can’t even begin to express how disappointed we are with the way you’ve been handling things at hogwarts. this is beyond the point of disappointment, actually — it’s outright failure. it’s one thing for us to hear about your so called ‘struggles,’ but it’s another thing entirely to see the results: your grades are nothing short of pathetic.

we’ve given you everything: the best tutors, the best resources, and access to opportunities most people could only dream of. yet, here you are, barely scraping by. how are you letting this happen? your teachers have reported that you’re barely passing, if even that. how many times do we have to remind you that this is your future at stake? you have no right to waste it.

your lack of effort is shameful. you used to be our pride and joy, the one who had potential. but now? we can’t even recognize the person you’ve become. you’re giving up on your own future. you’re choosing to throw it all away, and for what? you’ve shown us that all your talk about ambition and success is just - talk.

we don’t know what’s more disappointing: the fact that you can’t seem to manage the most basic of subjects or that you don’t even care. if you had any self respect, any ambition, you would have been putting in the work, not coasting by. instead, you’ve become lazy, unfocused, and frankly, unworthy of the opportunities you’ve been given.

do you realize how many people would give anything to be in your position? and yet, here you are, throwing it all away. you’re failing us. you’re failing yourself. you need to get it together, and you need to do it now.

we’re not sure how we can make it any clearer — this is unacceptable. there’s only so much we can do from here, but don’t think for a second that this will go unnoticed. get your act together. if you don’t, don’t bother coming home. we won’t be waiting for you. we expect to see better results when we hear from you next. consider this your final warning.

disappointed,

mother and father.

you were failing your classes at hogwarts. not just one or two, but most of them. potions, charms, transfiguration.

your parents were more than disappointed. they didn’t even bother to sugarcoat it this time. the harsh words cut deeper than any curse could have. - you’ve always been the clever one, the one with potential, - they wrote. - you’ve been given everything - what are you doing with it? - the pressure suffocated you.

every single one of their expectations wrapped around you like a suffocating coil. their disappointment was so real, it was all you could feel. your throat tightened, and a sting behind your eyes blurred your vision.

the tears were there, just waiting to break through. but you didn’t want to cry. you couldn’t. you weren’t allowed to.

you’re nothing but a failure. you have to keep your grades up. you have to be perfect. you weren’t allowed to disappoint them. you wouldn’t be failing if you hadn’t gotten caught up in this stupid plan.

if you weren’t so hurt by what george did, you wouldn’t have done this at all.

but the damage had been done. you’d let yourself get caught up in something that distracted you, that took you away from the one thing you were meant to focus on — your studies.

and now, every time you looked at the grades on your parchment, you saw their voices on the page. you weren’t just failing your classes — you were failing them.

when you and theodore had pretended to be a couple, you thought it would at least make george feel something, make him jealous. but he never seemed to care. the only one who had been affected was daphne — her jealousy was as obvious as the clenching of her jaw whenever you and theodore were near. and yet, that was it. it had all become nothing more than a farce.

a joke.

still, the slytherins continued their lessons: how to act, how to speak, how to dress. what to say and what not to say. they molded you into something that didn’t feel like you, and you couldn’t stop it.

the pressure was crushing, overwhelming, suffocating. every night, you stared at your homework, knowing you should be doing something — anything — but you just couldn’t bring yourself to start.

you slapped a mental ‘later’ on it, telling yourself you’d get to it soon, but soon never came.

by the time you finally mustered enough energy to focus, your eyelids were already too heavy, weighed down by exhaustion, leaving you to drift into a sleep with the work still undone.

you weren’t supposed to be a part of some stupid drama filled plan. you were supposed to be the one who passed your classes, the one who made your parents proud, who got things right for once.

instead, you were drowning in expectations that weren’t your own, and the worst part was — you didn’t know how to get out.

here you were - failing.

the sobs came before you could stop them. you crumpled the letter in your hands, pressing it to your chest as if the parchment itself could hold you together. it didn’t. the tears spilled freely now, hot and unrelenting, rushing down your cheeks as everything inside you cracked.

you were alone. you always had been. never had siblings. never had anyone to lean on. no one to share your struggles with.

hogwarts was supposed to be your escape, a place where you could make your own mark, but all it had brought was failure and loneliness.

then, like a faint whisper in the chaos of your thoughts, you remembered theodore’s words.

‘if you ever need help with anything, i’m free whenever.’

you had never really let anyone in. you didn’t know how to. you didn’t know how to trust, how to reach out to someone when everything inside of you screamed to stay closed off. but right then, in that moment, everything felt too heavy, too overwhelming.

you didn’t care anymore. you needed someone. you couldn’t be this broken by yourself.

your legs carried you before your mind could catch up, moving on their own.

you barely registered the walk from the ravenclaw common room to the slytherin common room, your mouth mumbling the password the slytherins had given you in week three.

you were there in an instant — standing outside theodore nott’s door. theodore nott’s fucking door, the door of the arrogant slytherin who tossed anyone aside without a second thought unless they showed him respect, a cruel boy.

the thought made you want to turn on your heel and leave right then and there, but your heart pounded in your chest, the frantic thumps reverberating in your ears, urging you to stay, to face whatever this was.

you hadn’t even thought about what you were going to say. how could you? you didn’t know how to explain the chaos in your mind, how to put into words the suffocating weight of expectations, the crushing loneliness.

you knocked softly, almost hesitantly.

three minutes went by before the door opened, and there he was. theodore, looking every bit the usual detached, cold version of himself. but something flickered in his eyes when he saw you.

a question. a hint of concern. without a word, he stepped aside, allowing you to enter.

the room was empty, and you didn’t bother asking where the others were. you didn’t really care, though a part of you felt a strange relief that it was just the two of you.

when he spoke, his voice remained steady, but his eyes searched yours, as if trying to piece you together in real time. the usual sharp edge in his tone was absent — replaced by something almost… soft? “what’s wrong?”

you couldn’t say it. not with words.

instead, you let the sobs come again, louder this time. it wasn’t pretty. you didn’t care. you couldn’t control it anymore.

his hands were at your shoulders in an instant, his touch tentative but comforting. but you pushed him away, too much of a mess to be near anyone.

it’s so fucking strange — one minute, you crave someone’s presence, desperate to stop being alone, and then, when it’s actually there, you push it away.

“i don’t - don’t know how to do this, theo,” you managed to choke out between gasps. “i can’t - i’m failing. i’m not good enough. my parents -” you cut yourself off, too afraid to say the rest. too afraid to admit that you’d always been nothing more than a disappointment to them.

theodore didn’t speak for a moment, his gaze softening as he watched you crumble. he didn’t say anything at first. instead, he just watched you, as if giving you the space to fall apart.

he took both of your hands, guiding you to the edge of his bed to sit and collect yourself. when he finally spoke, his voice was soft, carrying such an uncharacteristic rawness that caught you off guard.

“you’re not the only one who feels like that,” he said softly. “i get it. the pressure… from your parents, from everyone around you. it’s… a lot.” his eyes flickered, a brief moment of vulnerability passing through you both. “you’re not alone in this, you know.”

you didn’t know why, but hearing that — hearing him say that — made something inside you crack open a little more.

he wasn’t perfect. you knew that. but maybe, just maybe, he understood.

“my father,” theodore continued, voice lower now, as if sharing a secret he’d buried for too long. “he always told me i wasn’t enough. that i’d never be good enough. that i was too much like my mother. and when i couldn’t live up to his expectations… he would shut me out. he’d… pretend i didn’t exist.” his eyes met yours, and you could see the pain in them, the hidden scars from years of being told he was worthless. “it’s not easy… feeling like you’re nothing more than a disappointment.”

you swallowed hard, your throat aching as his words wrapped around you like a quiet understanding. he wasn’t offering you pity.

“i’m not going to say it gets better, because it fucking doesn’t. but that doesn’t mean you have to be alone.” he was offering you something else — something rare.

he was offering you the truth.

he understood. he knew exactly what you were going through. you weren’t alone anymore. for the first time, you weren’t alone, and it felt so, so good.

both your eyes were still locked on each other, silent, the only sound being the slow exhale theodore let out through his nose.

“golden,” he said suddenly.

your brows furrowed, confusion spreading across your face. “what?” the words slipped out before you could fully process them.

“your eyes,” he continued, his blue eyes — with a hint of green — looking directly into yours. “there’s gold in them.”

it was the same thing you had said to him weeks ago in the common room, assuming he hadn’t heard — assuming it hadn’t mattered enough to linger in his memory.

he was so close now, so so so close that you could feel his breath mingling with yours. just one more move, and your lips would be touching.

up close, he was even more breathtaking — sharp cheekbones, a bottom lip just a bit fuller than the top, a faint flush warming his skin. and those eyes — unfairly beautiful, impossibly enchanting.

he was deep in thought — you could tell by the way his lips parted, as if he were on the verge of speaking.

a thought came to his fogged up mind: had he ever mentioned that gold had always been his favorite color?

he had inched closer, your lips barely grazing — just a breath away, but not quite touching. when he didn’t pull away, you inched closer, closing the gap between you.

your eyes fluttered shut as your parted lips met his, your bottom lip resting between both of his. his nose brushed lightly against your cheek at the angle.

his lips were slightly chapped, but god, he kissed like no one else.

the warmth of his mouth against yours sent a shiver through you, slow and soft at first, as if testing the waters. when he deepened the kiss, hands cupping your face, thumb gently brushing along your cheek — it felt like everything around you had paused, just for that moment.

he pulled away briefly, pecking the corners of your mouth before coming back once more to the center.

his hands were then on your waist, pulling you closer, his touch burning against your skin as if he, too, needed someone. someone to anchor him, someone to remind him that he wasn’t the only one suffering.

you shifted slightly, lifting your hips and swinging your legs gracefully on either side of his waist.

your movements were slow, conscious, as you straddled him at the edge of his bed, feeling the warmth of his body underneath you. the closeness was overwhelming, and for a moment, you paused, your breath mingling with his as you tried to steady yourself.

you start by grinding against him slowly, your hips moving in a circular motion that makes him groan deeply.

he can feel his arousal growing, pressing against you through the thin fabric of his pyjama pants.

his hands slide up your sides, caressing your curves before returning to your hips, encouraging your movements. your teeth sink lightly into his bottom lip as you continue torturing him with your rhythm, alternating between slow teases and quick grinds.

“fuck.” he lets out a strained whimper, his clothe hips bucking slightly beneath you. you can feel how hard he is getting, how much he wants this.

you kept moving against him, both of you still fully clothed, the friction sending shivers down your spine. one hand tangled in the back of his neck, fingers pressing into his skin, while the other gripped his shoulder for balance.

your hips rolled, chasing the intoxicating pressure, and your lips parted as quiet, breathy sounds of satisfaction spilled from your pretty mouth.

theodore effortlessly lifted you off the bed, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist as he carried you across the room.

with a firm grip of your thighs, he set you down on his desk — the very one he used for homework and late night reading — now repurposed for something entirely different.

your back of your thighs met the chilled wood of his desk, a harsh difference to the warmth of his body pressed in between your thighs. his hands, firm yet obedient, traced their way beneath the fabric of your shirt, pushing it upward with slow thinking, gathering the material just above your chest.

at the sight of no bra, theodore felt his breath catch, his body reacting instinctively.

his lips followed a path of their own, trailing down the column of your throat, lingering at the sensitive dip of your collarbone. each kiss was unhurried, as if he was memorizing you — mapping out every sharp inhale, every shiver, every place his touch set you alight.

and when he finally leaned back, just enough to look at you, his breath heavy against your skin, there was something in the way his eyes roamed — the kind of gaze that made you feel utterly seen, utterly wanted.

is this what it meant to be wanted? to be desired, claimed in a way that left no room for doubt? if so, you were sure you could carry it with you — this feeling, this newfound assurance — walking with the kind of effortless confidence the slytherins held in awe.

because now you knew. now you understood what it meant to be wanted. theodore dipped his head down, his gaze never wavering, locking onto yours with a passion that made your breath hitch.

his lips parted as he took your right breast into his mouth, the heat of his tongue sending a tickling sensation down your spine.

his other hand found your left breast, fingers teasing the hardened nipple — rolling, pinching, tugging just enough to make you arch off the desk, your chest pressing further into his mouth as he hollowed his cheeks, sucking firmly, his tongue flicking over the sensitive bud.

one hand rested at the nape of his neck, fingers lazily threading through his hair, tugging ever so slightly as if grounding yourself in the moment. your other hand clutched the edge of the desk, knuckles paling with the pressure, desperate for something to hold onto.

a quiet whimper slipped past your lips, but he didn’t stop, didn’t ease up — not until his lips finally released you with a soft, wet pop.

without pause, he moved to the other, his mouth just as eager, just as worshipping, like he wanted to memorize every inch of you, like he was starved and you were something he’d been deprived of for far too long.

he looks up at you again, his eyes filled with lust as he switches back and forth between your breasts, his hands and mouth working in team.

he can feel you arching your back further, trying to push more of your flesh into his hands and mouth.

a soft, breathy “mm…” slipped from your parted lips, the sound delicate yet intoxicating. the slow, whiny moans sent a dizzying rush straight to theodore’s already fuzzy head, making his pulse quicken.

he wanted to hear more — needed more. so, with a flicker of curiosity and desire, he decided to try something new.

he pressed himself closer, his hands gripping the backs of your thighs as he spread your legs wider, claiming more space between them. your legs tightened instinctively around his waist, locking him in place.

with a slow touch, his palms skimmed up your torso, cupping your breasts and pushing them together, molding them beneath his fingers as he admired the way they framed against his hold.

his left hand abandoned your creamy skin, bringing his palm up to his mouth, wetting it with his warm saliva.

he releases one of your full breasts, only to push them back together, creating a valley between them. he begins to glide his moist palm slowly up and down your cleavage, creating soft, wet sounds.

he maintains eye contact, watching your reactions - the involuntary shivers, the quickening breaths.

you don’t know why, but you don’t mind the eye contact. normally, it would make you shrink away, but now, it feels like you’re drawn into the depth of his gaze, unable to look away as he toys with you.

“ohh.” breathy whimpers spill from your lips, filling the dorm as theodore quickens the motion of his saliva-slicked palm, gliding over your breast and occasionally rolling his thumb over the sensitive peak.

he watches, entranced, as your nipples grow taut and swollen from the unwavering friction, droplets of his spit clinging to your delicate skin like tiny diamonds.

theodore leans in closely, breathing cool air over your heated nipples, causing them to react with a sharp squeeze.

but then, a wave of overwhelming emotion surged within you — this wasn’t real. this couldn’t possibly be real. he liked daphne, and you liked george.

you had come here thinking it would just be talking — but how could you not want to feel theodore when he looked so godly, so fucking good?

still, that didn’t mean he had to see your body. you hadn’t known theodore as long as you’d known george, and even then, with george, it never went beyond kissing — it never felt right.

but right now? right now, you felt so heated, so dizzy with it.

your parents had just told you to focus, had just screamed through letters for you to do better.

so why were you here?

confusion gnawed at you. why did his mouth resonate with such beauty, making your heart ache with every sound? and how could he look so delicious, cheeks flushed with a delicate rose, lips slightly chapped yet so irresistibly inviting?

it all mashed down on you, suffocating, like a storm you couldn’t outrun.

the closeness, the sudden shift from everything you’d known, the vulnerability that had slipped out — it was too much.

you couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think clearly.

with trembling hands, you pushed away, your heart hammering in your chest, thoughts tumbling over each other like a chaotic wave. “i’m sorry,” you breathed, the words barely escaping your lips, not sure if you were apologizing to him or to yourself. “- i can’t do this.”

it was as if a blanket had been lifted, the haze in your mind dissipating with each blink. clearness crept in, sharp and unrelenting. you swallowed hard.

before theodore could react, you yanked your shirt that had bunched up at your collarbone back down, pushed him away, spun on your heel, and walked out, the door clicking shut behind you.

theodore didn’t shout a protest, nor did he chase after you. instead, he stood there, trying to catch his own breath, his chest rising and falling in a constant rhythm.

you didn’t know where you were thinking. you didn’t know what you were doing. all you knew was that everything felt too much to handle, and you couldn’t stay there with him — not with your head in a mush.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Winter's King 1

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, cheating, violence, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You are a maid to the Duke of Debray, a lord of the Summer Kingdom. That is, until the king of Winter appears with his particular air of coldness. (Medieval AU)

Characters: Geralt of Rivia

Note: this one came out of no where.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

It’s uncharacteristically grim on the plains of Debray. Rains pelt the tall green grasses, flattening them in a slanted downpour that dims the horizon. Clouds blot out the daylight and lend to atmosphere of unease in the warring lands. 

Behind the castle walls, one can forget about the bloodshed staining the counties red, though it is all the dukes and his audience can speak of. The lords that bluster through those gates, sometimes at the toll of morning, some in the black swathes of night. You can’t count them all, you can name even fewer, but they come anon and leave just as brusquely. 

A peel of thunder shakes the land and a dark line limns the curve of the horizon. What appears first as a storm cloud advances quickly through the fields, appearing more clearly to the naked eye, distant nonetheless. Men. Another party fast on the approach. 

The alarm goes up at a man’s holler. Ethred, man at the gate hollers to the other men in mail. Niam peers out from the vantage of the tower and calls back down. A hush falls and bodies scurry all around, metal clinking and boots crunching. There’s something amiss. Something you can’t quite place. 

You turn away from the window, the steam rising from the basin in your hand swirling around your head. You carry on down the corridor, wool skirts around cautious steps as you balance the swaying water in the vessel. You approach the lady’s door and give it a rap with your knee. Merinda, another handmaid, opens it from within. 

You enter without a word and place the basin on the vanity table. The duke’s daughter preens herself with a painted fan, fluttering her lashes at her reflection as her curls spill down her long back. She tilts her head this way and that. She snaps the fan shut and puts it down, touching her soft brown cheeks with a devilish grin. 

“Do you know what father mentioned last eve?” Jazlene asks with a vain flutter of her lashes. 

“What did he mention?” Her mother, Lady Rezlyn prompts lazily as she plucks another cherry from a dish heaped in fruit. 

“A husband,” the daughter grins coyly at herself, “it is well due, isn’t it, mother? Who do you think it might be? Lord Gai, perhaps? He is young still.” 

“Perhaps the Earl of Mesafin,” her mother taunts back to a disgusted gasp. 

“Do not,” Jazlene pouts, “I could never... I am much too pretty for that haggard beast.” 

“Well, then, who might you have, precious?” Rezlyn goads. 

There is a clamour in the hall that keeps the younger of the woman from answering. She rolls her eyes and darkly glare at the door. You peer back behind your shoulder as a wail goes up carrying her father’s name; ‘Lord Dustan!’ 

“What is all that?” Jazlene whines, “as if it isn’t enough with the rain and the winds. It is summer!” 

“It’s always summer in Debray, darling,” Rezlyn scoffs, “otherwise I’d have never married your father. Pray you don’t hook yourself a winter lord.” 

You peek over your shoulder as you stand near the door, in your vigil, awaiting your next order. You face the ladies again as the elder continues to feast and the younger fusses over her thick brows. You scrunch your lips back and forth, a habit that often has your jaw aching. 

Jazlene turns to narrow her eyes at you, “what is it then? What has you making faces?” 

You bow your head, appeasing her ego, “my lady, there were men coming. A party approaching from the north.” 

“There are always men,” she shakes her head, “who was it then? Anyone I should wear silk for?” 

Her mother laughs, “I warn you, daughter, that trite tongue will not endear any husband.” 

“I do not know, lady,” you answer. 

“Ugh, useless, must I work as my own handmaid?” Jazlene tisks, “come, pin my hair. Merinda find me a gown. Mother... wipe the dribble from your chin.” 

“Eh, watch yourself,” Lady Rezlyn rises and wipes her lips with her sleeve. She wears muslin in a dark shade of burgundy, embroidered with little copper finches. “Or hope you marry above me before you lash that tongue at me.” 

Jazlene merely trills with laughter. You take the pins and work at twisting her fine curls into place. Merinda brings to her a dress of teal satin and is promptly shooed away, “something pink. It brings out my bosom.” 

You ignore her bawdy jest as her mother harrumphs. You work in quiet tandem with the other handmaid. You add a touch of paint to the lady’s cheeks and kohl around her eyes. You tint her lips with pigment and she pushes out her lips at the mirror. You help Merinda dress her, pulling the noble daughter’s corset tight enough to leave her lightheaded. 

The pair of ladies, elder and younger, leave the chamber with you at their skirt tails. They sweep through the corridors with chins up. They are queens in their own minds. Their fine dresses and sparkling gems are untouched by the disparity of war. The lives lost are squares on a game board, tawdry talk for men in their studies. 

“Lord Dustan,” Lady Rezlyn mimics the earlier call for the lord of the castle, “my husband. Dear, dear husband!” 

The women go to the banister and look down upon the great hall as the flurry continues below. You and Merinda loom behind, not daring to stand at a level with the pompous nobles. You have never volunteered yourself for their impetuous lashings. 

“Woman!” Dustan booms back up, “do not trouble me now.” 

“Oh, has another lord come? Perhaps a suitor for our lovely daughter--” 

“Cease!” The duke demands hotly, “now is not the time for womanly games.” 

“Tell me it true, husband, she will be an old maid before you find a suiting son-in-law--” 

“Go away to your chambers. Now. The men who come are not to be trifled with and you lot do trifle overly much!” 

“Bah! Oh do not be so uncouth!” Rezlyn decries. 

“Father, please, is it a husband?” 

“Go before I send my guards up to put you away like thieves in a dungeon. Hear me when I warn you that this does not concern you. Not as yet,” Dustan snarls, “you would spoil this war with your puny concerns.” 

“Ugh,” his wife puts her hand to her forehead, “he does tax me. All I ask of him is to take care of us, daughter. As any husband should.” 

“I should have your lips sewn shut!” Dustan rebukes hotly, “be gone before I find a tailor.” 

The women share an aghast look. The turn back to flutter away in their skirts. You and Merinda follow them to the drawing room, closing them in as they fall onto the velvet cushions. Jazlene reclines dramatically on the chaise as her mouth mopes on a sofa. 

“Shall I be alone forever, mother?” Jazlene snivels, “why won’t he let me marry?” 

“He only wants to find the right man, that is all, darling,” Rezlyn coaxes. “He is overprotective and that is good for it means he will find a husband for you with a similar bearing.” 

“Such sweet words cannot convince me. He punishes me. When all my lady friends have wed and borne a whelp or two, I remain with the dust and stone.” 

“Do not be theatrical,” Rezlyn girds, “you are silly.” 

“I am not silly, mother. I am afraid. I am twenty and three and I have no suitor. I have only a war butchering any man who might have my hand. Why must this go on? Why must I suffer for the gripes of stubborn kings.” 

“We cannot fear. This war will be won and you will have a knight for a husband. Isn’t that better? To have a warrior you can be proud of than some bookish lord in his tower?” Rezlyn stands and moves to sit with her daughter, petting her as she cooes, “oh my beautiful, no man can resist you. You will see.” 

⚔️

Some hours pass with the restless women, pacing and chattering, about careless things beyond marriage and war. Like needlework and a banquet that should be had upon the truce. Would that the day would come sooner. 

You and Merinda stifle yawns that pass between you. The act is contagious as you stand in the tedium of the wealthy and wait for a duty to be called upon you. The hours you spend watching the women preen and swoon make you envy the stable boys and the shit shovelers. 

The noise beyond those walls continues. You heard the moat open and the clopping hooves of horses, even the clatter of carts. The voices had since hushed but footfalls carried back and forth. The wordless activity betrays an air of impatience, almost of nervousness. As the ladies within mirror the sentiment. 

Finally, as the windows darken and the candles burn brighter, a knock shakes the door. The ladies snap their heads around. Merinda is asleep on her feet as you move first. You open to a man in grey and black waits on the other side. He is not Lord Dustan’s. 

“The duchess and her daughter,” he garbles through a mouth that sounds full of salt. 

You dip your head and look to the ladies in question. There is a tension, of unease, of unknowing, of excitement turned to dread. This is not as it has been. There is not call to the dinner table. There is no buoyant introduction of a lord Dustan met as a young scamp. There is silence and fear. Has someone died? Has a battle been lost? 

The women emerge and greet the man with niceties and tight-lipped simpers. He does not pay them heed as you and Merinda exchange looks. You trail after the ladies but the man stops. He turns back, a hand on the pommel at his waist, and sneers, a furrow in his brow. 

“One of ya,” he grits. 

Jazlene says your name. She must’ve noticed Merinda swaying on her feet. If she even cares so much about a maid. You keep your head down and follow as they press on. Down the corridor and around the duke’s study, recently deemed his war room. You’ve never been within. It is not the domain of women. 

The grey and black soldier thumps on the door. Mother and daughter clasp hands. Even they can sense the unusual frigidity. The door opens from within. It is Lord Dustan. He wears a serious look on his lined face. The ladies are beckoned in and the soldier nudges you after them as you hesitate. 

Lanterns light the space from the desk at the rear of the chamber. The large table draped in maps, wooden horses, and little wooden pucks stands central on a thick rug. A figure stands behind it, head down as his burly and broad silhouette seems to sop up the shadows. 

The ladies follow the duke to stand across from the man. His head is down as he slides a horse along a road on the map. He stops it and grips it tight. He looks up and the lantern light dances on his features. You suck in a breath, as the rest do, stunned by his appearance. 

His hair is white, his eyes are a goldish yellow, pupils deep pools of black, and his square jaw is just as thick as the rest of him. You have never seen a man like him before, but you have heard of one. Of him. King Geralt of Rivia. 

You stand in similar confusion to the ladies. Their silent confoundment is broken by Duke Dustan as he nears the table. He sniffs and presses his fingers to the table top. 

“Your highness, my wife, Lady Rezlyn, and my daughter, Lady Jazlene,” he introduces. 

The women glance at each other then curtsy to the white king. He watches them dully. You fold your hands, taking it in curiously. It is rather something to witness the scene. You are so unimportant as to not be a part of it. 

“Your highness,” the recite, “it is...” 

“An honour,” Dustan finishes for them, “of course it is. We fondly welcome you and your allyship. We hope that we will be essential in ending this war. In helping you attain the peace you have so valiantly fought for--” 

The king raises his hand to silence the lord. You can’t help but quork your head. Allyship? But King Geralt, he is of Rivia, he is of the hinterland, he is the one who invaded the summer country and bid it his own. He is the foe. That is what they told you. 

“Enough...” the king speaks in a silty tone that scrapes in his throat. His eyes wander over the women and narrow. You wince as your own meet his golden irises and you shy away, putting your chin to your chest. That’s a mistake. “...words.” He slaps his hand down, “you do not win wars with words.” 

“Yes, your highness, you are correct. I know it well. It is why I invited you here. It is the very reason I made my entreaty. You have my men, they will win this war for you.” 

The king is hardly impressed by the fact. He looks back to the table and moves the horse further before turning it back. He knocks it over and stands completely straight. 

“And the daughter of Debray, your highness. To have a wife of summer’s blood, men will bend the knee. If you show them you do not mean to eradicate but to join with them,” Dustan moves to stand closer to his daughter, “isn’t she a fine queen for a fine kingdom?” 

Jazlene swoons and falls against her father. She’s fainted. Rezlyn grabs onto her other shoulder and you peek up at the chaotic scene. You come forward to help, snatching a pillow from the single couch, and you place it under Jazlene’s head as they lay her down on the floor. 

A shadow shifts as Dustan and Rezlyn fuss over their daughter, fanning and calling to her. You look up as darkness clusters over you. You see the king staring down at the scene. No, not them. He staring at you. Before he can reprimand you, you put your head down. 

You must quit that lest you find yourself at the wrong end of a switch. 

[guksvault]

HOUSE OF BALLOONS | JJK

01 - The Party

warnings: party party party yea, jk is a dickhead oops, drug/alcohol use, reader just wants to leave (someone help her pls), shitty parents, min yoongi is a saint <3 nepo baby reader !

w/c: 2.9k

!minorsdni! // masterlist

✩ ₊ ˚. ⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊✧

Seven. That's exactly how many times you have passed the same shitty run down house at the end of a sketchy cul-de-sac.

The bass of the music blares, the thumping so loud you can feel it in your chest from a few streets away. The door opens and closes, people flowing in one after another, all too familiar with this place. Red lights bleed through the windows.

Dressed in a pale purple Hervé Léger, direct from the archive of their 1996 Spring Summer collection. White pumps and a small Chanel handbag to match, tucked under your shoulder.

You stand in the line down the driveway, each person before you dropping a $5 bill into a tin bucket being held by someone who looks like they could have been hired to bodyguard you at premieres. You reach to grab a note out of your handbag, offering a small awkward smile to the broad shouldered man beside the door.

“Nah, it’s a tenner for you,” he says, his eyes locked straight ahead, the smirk on his face shows he’s clearly amused.

Truth is, you only had a hundred-dollar bill to offer, struggling to recall the last time you carried anything less than that.

Your face tightens slightly. You don’t look like the others—those who stumbled in before you, or the ones who will after you.

You drop the bill into the bucket, the crisp note fluttering down to rest atop the crinkled fivers. The man guarding the door watches it fall, letting out a scoff and shaking his head ever so slightly, as if to silently remind you that you’re not quite one of them.

You step inside. The hallway is cramped, leading you into a living room bathed in the harsh glow of cheap LED lights, taped along the ceiling trim. The red tint paints everything—walls, partygoers, the air itself. Black and white balloons litter the floor. The stench of burning cigarettes and pot is so thick, you can taste it. You’re certain you’ve lost at least three years off your life just by stepping inside this shit hole.

Fifteen minutes and two shots of cheap vodka that burn your pride more than your throat is enough time to realise this was a mistake. You need to leave.

You squeeze through the packed crowd of sweaty bodies, the exit finally coming into view. You swear you can almost feel the air getting cleaner with each step.

That is, until someone grabs your wrist, yanking you back so hard it feels like your arm might just rip out of its socket

"The fuck?" you almost squeal.

"No fucking way, the fuck are you doing here?"

Min Yoongi. He rubs his eyes, double-checking as if you’re some sort of hallucination from a bad batch of laced coke.

You don’t look any less shocked than he does. You came to this ‘party’ because of Yoongi. You knew he’d be here. Wanted to see him. That was until you had the very smart, very wise realisation that you do not belong here.

"Fuck kid, what the fuck? Are you like… Lost?" He is almost laughing at you, before he stops. "Don't tell me they sent you here for me?"

It's been 2 years since you last laid eyes on Yoongi in person. 2 years since he realised what you are slowly beginning to realise for yourself about the reality of your life.

Yoongi upped and left his trust-funded, posh, shiny life two years ago. His parents didn’t approve of him pursuing music instead of taking over the family’s oil business. They told him if he even considered it, they’d cut him off. It wasn’t until his dick of a father took a baseball bat to his beloved sampler and sequencer that Yoongi realised it was time to get out.

"Actually came here on my own account" you almost gag out. "Not here to kidnap you back to your tower. Came to see you though, I guess?"

Yoongi's brows are pinched together so harshly in confusion that you think he might earn himself a permanent wrinkle.

"How the fuck did you find me here?"

Truth is, his big mouthed cousin after a bottle or two of red told you Yoongi was having a 'psychotic breakdown' and ran to the slums of Daegu after daddy said no to him for the first time.

Which was a surprise to you, because his parents had told everyone he was in the States taking care of one of their many overseas companies.

Only took you two more glasses for her to tell you exactly where he was and what he had been up to.

You shrug, "People talk. You know how it is."

You try to excuse yourself, but Yoongi isn't really in the departing mood. Can't believe you are here. Isn't going to let you go without getting you a little fucked up, wants to see you down something that he knows you would never look twice at due to the lack of zero's on the price tag.

Yoongi had you down 4 shots of vodka, you had been surprised to see a bottle of Grey Goose calling your name on the table that's filled with red solo cups and cheap alcoholic bottles. Until you downed it and realised it was in fact, not Grey Goose, just a bottle that was refilled with something that tasted like pure fucking burning ass.

Yoongi had almost pissed himself from laughing at you, the look of disgust on your face as you realised.

Two full red soda cups of vodka lemonades later, and Yoongi was leading you toward a corner of the house. Four beaten-up leather couches formed a makeshift VIP area—exclusive, but still near the chaos of the party. Three men were sprawled out on the couches, girls draped beside, behind, and even on top of them.

A small coffee table center of the couches. Covered in red solo cups, packets of cigarettes, rolled bills and tiny ziplock bags filled with coke.

You sit beside Yoongi, your cup resting against your lips as you take in the scene before you. How the fuck was Yoongi living like this? Did he do this every weekend? Every night? Did he even enjoy it?

“I want out, Yoongs.” You glance over your shoulder at him, avoiding the daggers the girls send your way, dancing mostly for the guys on the couch. You stand out like a pair of dog balls.

While you’re dressed in a pale purple, fitted designer dress with white heels to match, they’re in black mini skirts, bras as tops, and fishnet stockings that should’ve been thrown out five holes ago.

“Hm?” Yoongi almost has to force his eyes off one of the way-too-fucked girls to look at you. “Oh, shit, yeah, of course, I’ll walk you out.”

You shake your head, biting the words back like they’re stuck in your throat, harder to get out than Yoongi had to tear his eyes away from the girl shaking ass just an arm’s reach away.

“No. I mean, I’m done. With them. With the rules, the fucking fakeness—all of it. Want out. Need out.” It’s the first time you’ve said it out loud, and it feels stupid now. If Yoongi ended up here, what fucking hope do you have?

“Oh, fuck, Bee, you for real?” Yoongi barely believed you, though there was still a trace of surprise in his voice. He’d always known you to enjoy the lifestyle you both were raised in—boat parties, private jets to islands for weekend getaways, never having a limit on what you wanted.

Bee. The nickname echoed in your head, almost drowning out the DJ in the center of the living room, blasting ‘Baby By Me’ by 50 Cent, constantly yelling for people to “put their fucking hands up or get the fuck out.”

Bee. A nickname you scored when Yoongi gave you your first blunt. He’d found his father’s sneaky stash and dragged you to the river by his parents’ Lake House one summer when you were 16. It felt good—until you got so paranoid that bees were swarming you. That’s when the nickname stuck.

"They want me married, like, married-married." You felt your stomach flip and turn itself inside out at the memory of the conversation.

"Honey, this could be really good for us. For you, too. Taehyung is a lovely boy, and we all know he's been in love with you since you guys were kids." Your mother sat opposite to you in the media room, a martini in hand.

Your father had nodded in agreement, "Think about it, his family owns the most luxurious hotel chain across the globe, you would benefit from it. We all would."

They can't be fucking serious. Surely not. Marriage? Me? Taehyung? Abso-fucking-lutely not.

"Taehyung and I aren't even a thing. He's a friend. I'm not marrying someone just because it would bring motion to your businesses."

A scoff earned from your mother, an eye roll from your father.

"What would Taehyung think? Both our parents putting us in an arranged marriage?" Your eyes dart from your father to your mother.

"He's the one who suggested it. Why do you think he's been visiting so often?" Your father cocks his eyebrow, almost challenging you to question him.

You shake the thought from your head, feel dizzy, might vomit that cheap vodka that should definitely be taken off the shelves if you think about it any longer.

"Who's the newbie, Min?" A voice calls huskily. He's sat on the couch to your left, a girl under his arm fiddling with the buttons of his loose black fitted shirt, sly smirks on both their faces.

He's sports a buzzcut, two lines by his temple just a tad shorter than the rest. A blunt between his fingers and one tucked behind his ear, two dimples peeking out when he talks.

“Didn’t have to hire someone, Min. We got plenty of company around here,” Joon smirks, his voice low and lazy, too faded to bother raising it.

“Fuck off, Joon. Don’t be a cunt,” Yoongi almost warns, lighting a cigarette before exhaling, his voice cutting through the air. “This is Bee, a friend of mine.”

Joon leans back, passing the blunt to the girl beside him, who’s still sizing you up. “You ain’t from these parts, huh, Bee?”

“Nah, do most of my whoring in the city.” You shoot back, your voice dry. “Out of your budget though, sorry.

The words come out a little sharper than intended, defensive maybe—but it’s the first time anyone’s implied that you might be a prostitute.

Yoongi chuckles, as does the pouty blonde on the couch to your right.

“Joon couldn’t afford you even if you gave it up for free,” the blonde says, his eyes barely open from the amount of whatever his substance of choice is. “Can barely afford fuckin’ ramyeon,” he continues, only to have Joon peg a lighter at him.

“Fuck up, both of you. She ain’t a fuckin’ hooker. We grew up together,” Yoongi says, leaning back into the couch but not before nudging your shoulder slightly.

You spend the next hour or so sitting stiffly on the worn, cracked black leather sofa, mostly talking to Yoongi, but every now and then, you throw a few words toward Jimin—the pretty blonde you’ve learned goes by that name.

You watch Yoongi hit the bong, once, twice, thrice. Joon’s tongue is tangled with the girl glued to his side. The party roars on around you, balloons being slapped through the makeshift living room-turned-dancefloor. You finish three more cups of vodka lemonade, the alcohol providing a small buzz that helps ease some of your discomfort.

Yoongi excused himself about ten minutes ago, mentioning something about a runner waiting for him outside. Jimin, who’d taken it upon himself to keep Yoongi’s seat warm, had to clarify it was a dealer, not some jogging partner.

You’ve been meaning to take advantage of the Yoongi-free space to make your escape—head home, and really think about whether you want to leave behind the life so many people would kill for.

But of course, your luck had gone to shit ever since you stepped inside this house. Jimin won’t stop fucking talking, rambling about how you look like you belong in some high-end museum in Paris, not a rundown, seedy weekend hotspot in the slums of Daegu.

Charming, sure. A sight for sore eyes, but honestly, you’d rather he pop a Xanax and pass out than snort another line, just so you can slip out unnoticed.

Yoongi returns, dropping a black plastic bag onto the table, earning a few excited whistles and whispers. And then, just like that, he’s gone again—girl in tow, disappearing upstairs.

That’s your cue. The small group around you all focused the black bag, oblivious to the rest of the world now. You go to stand, ready to slip away before Jimin decides to continue to yap. But just as you move, the one person you’ve barely registered catches your eye.

He’s been there the whole time, opposite you, but always hidden behind the girl on his lap or his head low, in his own little world.

He’s sitting upright now, practically shoving the girl off his lap as soon as Yoongi dropped the black bag onto the table. His eyes lock onto it like it’s the juiciest fucking steak and he’s the lion, ready to devour it.

A slow, deliberate lick of his lips, then his arm—now visible with tattoos that wrap around his skin—extends toward the table. He dumps the bag, and the contents spill out like a treasure chest: dozens of tiny ziplocs filled with coke.

You can't help but fucking stare. Think your mother would have begged him to be a model for her clothing lines. Gorgeous. A shaggy mullet framing his face, which he's now tying up into a small sprout at the back of his head.

He eagerly lowers himself to the floor, grabs a rolled up bill and a card. Carves out equal lines of the coke, you don't know shit about coke other than half the people in the high society you're surrounded by daily need it to keep themselves sane.

As he focuses on the lines, it’s like watching someone in a trance—completely in control, the movement fluid and natural. He brings the rolled bill to his nostril, blocking the other side with his finger, then snorts down the line.

Then, repeats.

You can barely make out the details of his face from where you’re sitting, but the red lights catch the glint of a lip ring on his lower lip, catching your attention for a second. He rubs his face, then slides back into his seat.

This time though, his head isnt hanging low. It's pointed directly at you. Expressionless, zoned out as he stares you down.

Jungkook had noticed you long before you even stepped inside. He saw you lingering outside, pacing back and forth. At first, he thought you were some kind of undercover cop, but when he saw you talk to Yoongi after trying to slip out unnoticed, it all made sense. You were just another pampered, stuck-up rich bitch from Yoongi’s past.

He watched you, though, took note of everything. The way you eyed the cheap alcohol like it was beneath you. The way you stiffened when Joon made his comment, like you were trying to hold yourself together. Thinks if you were a hooker, maybe he’d pick up an extra shift at the restaurant. He noticed you turn down the blunts Jimin kept offering, like you were too good for that too.

You didn’t belong here. People like you never did. Jungkook doesn’t want you here, doesn’t want anyone who’s tied to the life Yoongi left behind. He fucking hates it. Hates the reminders, hates everything about it. Decides he hates you, too.

His stare doesn't falter, eyes locked on you, steady and unblinking. He wants you uncomfortable. Wants you out. Hates the way your dress is too colorful. Hates the gold jewelry, delicate and shiny around your neck and wrist-he prefers silver. Hates the way your legs have made him hard. Out. Get out.

"Want one?" He drawls lazily, that cocky grin tugging at his lips as he tilts his head toward the coke.

You glance at the last line on the table, then back at him. He holds out the rolled-up bill, smirking.

You shake your head, "All good, thanks."

"What? Too good to snort from a fiver?" He laughs, tossing the bill to Jimin without taking his eyes off you.

Jimin cuts his own stack of lines, less organised than Jungkook's were. Snorts one and stands up, fingers rubbing at the bridge of his nose.

Your eyes dart around for Yoongi, if the vibe of this shit box wasn't enough, the man sitting opposite sending you snarky remarks and eye daggers definitely was.

You know you don’t belong here. You didn’t need the overgrown, practically bald one to remind you that you look like an expensive fuck, or the band-tee-wearing asshole who’s probably three lines away from a collapsed septum to tell you the same.

As you lean back into the couch, counting the minutes until you can wish Yoongi a goodbye and a “good fucking luck,” another man stumbles into the closed-off section. He trips over your legs, collapsing down at the coffee table.

“Watch your fuckin’ step, Hobes. We can’t afford to scratch up the girl. Probably has leg insurance or some shit,” Joon snorts, puffing out a cloud of smoke.

He turns to face you, "Sorry darlin', don't sue me, I can only afford to pay in mixtapes" He chirps, giving your leg a once over.

Ah, the DJ. The one who was screaming for everyone to put their fucking hands in the air. Who now has his hands in the air feigning defence.

You roll your eyes, letting out a small laugh at his more positive nature, feeling slightly eased by his lightheartedness.

But what really bothers you now isn’t the trust fund, nepo baby jabs. It’s the pair of narrowed, dark eyes glaring at you from the couch opposite.

Unwavering. Harsh. Piercing.

✩ ₊ ˚. ⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊✧

[hometoursandotherstuff]

Someone in one of my groups submitted this "cheap charmer" fixer/upper that's down the block from her. It has potential and you can live in it while you fix it, little-by-little. I'm going to call it a 19th Century High Style home, b/c the front was clearly altered at some point. This home is in Cincinnati, OH, has 5bds, 6ba, & is priced at $260K. Let's have a look inside and see what needs to be done:

I really don't know what they did here, but they did something. This is not original. You can make it nice, though. This home is in the North Avondale section of Cincinnati.

The entrance hall has a vintage light fixture, curved ceiling and French doors. It's awfully dark. Why would they pick this color?

Thru the French doors, this room is the first one off the hall (enjoy the virtual staging).

Look at this fireplace- Thankfully, no one ruined the gorgeous carving on the surround. It's non-functional. I guess they didn't want to fix it, so they blocked it off. At least they left the firebox.

Across the way, there's this beautiful room in the tower. The fireplace looks wonderful in here, too, under the white paint.

Here it is, virtually staged.

The kitchen is a bit of a disaster. Right now, it has ample, but ugly, cabinetry and modern appliances. I mean, you can cook in here for now.

The cabinets are in rough shape- some are broken. I would at least paint it a livelier color.

Ugly door in the hall. Someone painted the original stairs and the beautifully carved finial. I don't think that the shelves are original, but they're not bad. A few balusters are broken- They're so delicately turned.

This staircase is beautiful.

There are remnants of its beauty- that's an original door on the right.

The primary bedroom is in the tower.

Virtually staged and cleaned up.

This would make a nice walk-in closet. Or, I'd take the wall back down, depending on the layout.

This bath was given a bad reno. The house has been cut up into odd rooms. I would take some of the walls down. You never know if you'll find something original.

The bedrooms are certainly angular. This one has an en-suite. I don't love the closet doors.

This room is just weird. Maybe it was a dressing room, b/c of the mirror?

The basement level is rough. It has lots of room, though.

I don't know why the cement is crumbling.

Is that a bar? If it is, this could be a super cool rec room.

They put this deck on the back. My parents painted their deck with this "redwood" paint and I was so angry- what made you do this? You're supposed to stain the wood.

I don't know if you could call this a patio. This poor house has been thru some ugly DIY renos. It's on a .32 acre lot.

Oh, the deck is on the side. Okay. They've got fire escapes, so that's up to code, I guess. There's a long driveway and potential for patios. So, they added the stone to the facade.

What did they do to this house? Looks like they blocked up a window on the left.

The yard extends back. It's a nice plot of land.

Nice mature tree and a pretty front yard.

This home deserves some love.

https://www.zillow.com/homedetails/997-Burton-Ave-Cincinnati-OH-45229/34227306_zpid/?

[poeticpascal]

Dr. Miller (Doctor!Joel Miller x Reader)

Masterlist | Request here!

Summary: An unexpected visit to the new OB-GYN in town results in a less than professional exam.

Word count: 2.4k

Warnings: SMUT, NSFW, 18+, MDNI, fingering, oral (f!receiving), allusions to infidelity, porn with (some) plot, gynaecological exam, undefined age gap, very unprofessional doctor!Joel lol, pet names, lots of fluff at the end!!

A/n: Thank you to the very lovely anon who requested this! You can find the request here. The idea is from a wonderful Bridgeton fic by @ao3loveisstrong, which you can read here! Thank you so much again for letting me use your idea ☺️❤️ hope everyone enjoys!

There’s nothing particularly warm about the waiting room. Of course, for all the gynaecology offices you’ve visited, that’s pretty par for the course. Just stone-grey walls, the paint chipping in parts, and posters stuck up that may have once added colour but have faded now into barely-legible antenatal support numbers and information on STIs.

The only noise that fills the space is the mechanical click click click of the receptionist’s typing, the only sound she’s made apart from a grumbled “sit over there” when you first walked in. Anytime you tap on your phone she shoots you a death stare from over her desk, so you instead opt for sitting with your hands on your lap and staring at your feet.

“Ma’am? The Doctor’s ready for you now.”

You look up to find the nurse looking right at you, her friendly smile about the only thing brightening up the room. 

You follow her down the corridor, just as dull and drab as the waiting room, to the final door where a sign reads ‘Dr. Miller, OB-GYN’ in scratched letters.

“Just through here,” she gestures, knocking the door and quickly getting a “come in” in reply. You straighten your top, even the waistband on your skirt and give the nurse a quick smile before slipping into the office.

Dr. Miller’s room is brighter, the walls clearly treated to a fresh lick of paint, with ‘thank you’ cards pinned to a corkboard beside the window. You can tell he’s made an effort to make it more welcoming, more comforting, and it works. It’s still clinical, all-white with tools and sanitising solutions dotted around, but his touches of personality make it almost like a home. There’s a picture frame on his desk, a little too far away for you to see the detail on it, but the black-clad, larger frame holding the smaller white-draped one tells you it’s a wedding photo. It’s sweet.

And sat at the desk, of course, is the man himself, his eyes trained on you from the moment you walked in. 

Doctor Miller stands, tugging on the shirt of his white scrubs. “Ah, hello -”

“Y/N,” you interject, and a small grin tilts his lips upwards. He’s cheeky, confident. He’s hot.

“Right, Y/N,” he pauses. “Your appointment was made quite last-minute today.” 

He makes his way to the exam table as he talks, patting where he wants you to lie down.

You let your eyes wander from his hand, trailing up his arm to his jaw, covered in a soft, greying beard that gives him an irresistible ruggedness. He’s tall, with big broad shoulders that overshadow your own, the structure of his face harsh yet perfectly sculpted.

“Well, it was an emergency, Doctor,” you reply, leaving your coat and bag on a nearby chair before hopping onto the table and trying not to let your gaze linger on his frame. He’s just trying to do his job, after all.

You swing your legs onto the table and lay down, legs bent and knees in the air, exposed. Dr. Miller’s already towering figure hangs over you, his eyes on yours, the sleeves of his shirt rolled up past his elbows.

“Comfy?” He asks, something playful underlaying his tone. Like he’s teasing you.

You shrug, “are these things meant to be comfy?” 

The Doctor laughs and shakes his head, landing a hand on your covered knee. “Unfortunately, I don’t think so. But I’ll make things as comfortable as possible for ‘ya.”

His southern drawl is prominent, but for his rough appearance, it’s soft and gentle. Kind to the ears.

You just nod and smile, satisfying him as he takes a seat on the stool before the table and asks, “what’s the problem then, darlin’?”

Darlin’. A name that drips so easily from his lips, so smoothly, and yet it sets your tummy on fire and it’s all you can do not to squeeze your legs back together right there in front of him. 

You swallow. “I think it’s best if you see for yourself, Doc.”

His gaze falls to your crotch, carefully pushing the mesh of your skirt up over your legs to reveal your underwear, the ones you can feel a puddle of arousal forming in. You know he must see your wetness when he sighs out, his eyes stuck on your crotch for a moment longer before he looks back up to you again.

“You’re married,” he observes, having noticed your wedding band.

You’d be hard-pressed not to notice his hands drifting along your thighs as you answer with a soft “mhm”.

“And how’s your sex life?” 

The question is blunt, direct, genuine. Hopeful, perhaps. “It’s… okay. A little slow,” you answer, biting your lip when you see his brows knit together.

“Slow? You don’t have sex often?”

“No, no,” you answer quickly. “He’s just slow in bed. I think it’s ‘cos he’s so old.” There’s a firmer grip on your thighs now, and you try not to giggle, focussing on the ceiling so as not to give yourself away as he stares up at you.

“Right,” is all he replies, before startling you with how quickly he rips off your underwear and throws them onto the floor. Unprofessional, unsanitary, uncaring.

Desperate.

“How’s it look, Dr. Miller?” You tease. He slowly, painfully, brings a finger to your entrance; his thumb if its thickness is anything to go by.

“You’re wet,” he whispers, almost inaudible. “You always get this wet? For your husband?”

Your heart races, and you don’t realise you haven’t answered the Doctor until he pulls his hand away, tracing it back along your inner thigh. “You seem distracted, (Y/N). Maybe we should reschedule our app-”

“No!” You all but yell, an embarrassed flush quickly joining the heat in your cheeks. You can’t see his face, but you know Dr. Miller’s smirking, and you shuffle awkwardly on the table. “Need you to check up on me, Doctor,” you whine.

“Well in that case, ma’am…” he stalls, though you’re acutely aware of his presence at your core, so much so you can almost feel his breath hit your clit. “I need you to lay extra still for me. Can you do that?”

You nod, not saying anything, and he laughs. “Very well then.”

You jolt as Dr. Miller swipes his thumb over your clit, throbbing and sensitive at his touch, desperate for more. He goes lower, using two fingers to spread your folds apart, his voice noticeably deeper as he groans.

“You’re dripping, sweetheart.” The Doctor’s gentle cadence is gone, pure lust soaking his words.

“That a good sign, Doctor?” You ask, willing yourself to stay calm as you feel the tip of his fingers tease your entrance.

His other hand moves to the top of your knee, holding it in place as he pushes two fingers inside you, so big they stretch out your cunt with ease. “Very good,” he breathes, too occupied with watching his fingers push in and out to even register his own words.

The two of you are silent for a few moments then, the only sound in the room that of your laboured breathing and the wet slick of your cunt tensing around Dr. Miller’s fingers. He’s skilled, moving in all the right ways and finding a rhythm that makes your toes curl, straining against the table at his mercy.

“You need another one. ‘Ta make sure everything’s fine,” Dr. Miller mutters. His words are strained, like he’s resisting his own urge to moan out, to go completely feral on you while nurses and receptionists shuffle around on the other side of the door. You wish he would.

“O-okay, Dr. Miller. Whatever you want, sir, please,” you gasp, a wave of pleasure flooding you as he finally reacts to your words, groaning a “fuck” and quickly spreading you even further with a third finger. Your hands go to grab his hair on instinct, but your position on the exam table makes it impossible, so you grip the sides of the metal frame instead and squeeze as he curls his fingers deep inside you and fucks you with them harder, faster.

You bite your lip, desperate to halt the moans that threaten to break out far too loudly, sure to draw attention from anyone passing by. But the coil in your lower tummy tightens, led by the Doctor’s expert movements inside you, and you whimper “I’m cu- cumming, oh my god, I-” before arching your back off the table and - 

He stops. He removes his fingers, the feeling of emptiness immediate, and you cry out as he goes back to caressing your thighs.

“Sh, shh,” he soothes, placing a gentle kiss to your knee. “I need to see how you taste, baby. Can I do that? Can I fuck you with my tongue?”

You don’t, can’t, even speak, just frantically nod and buck your hips into the air for some sense of relief. You hear the Doctor chuckle against your skin, his kisses trailing back down your leg until his nose is nestled in the crook of your pubic bone, not where you need him but just close enough to bring tears to your eyes.

“Please, Dr. Miller, I need it, please-”

He hears you. He hears you, and you know it gets to him when you call him that, and before you can even register his movements he’s driving his tongue inside you and nudging his nose against your cunt. You yelp, hands once again gripping the metal frame of the exam table, heels digging in to the cushioned mat where you’re lay.

The Doctor moans, the vibrations hitting your clit and making you moan back, the fast pace of his movements making it almost too overwhelming. “So good,” he grunts, flicking his tongue against your clit as he takes a moment to breathe. “So fucking good, baby. Such a gorgeous little pussy. So perfect.”

“It’s yours, Dr. Miller. Oh god, it’s yours. Please just - oh, just make me cum, Doctor, please.”

You sound pathetic, you know you do, but you can’t find it within yourself to care. You  know he loves it because he groans again, still breathless but diving back into your cunt and pushing his tongue even deeper inside you, wet and warm and hitting all the right spots.

You’re getting close, and he must sense it because he releases his bruising grasp on your knee to thumb your clit, fast and needy, losing the rhythm he’s built in his own desperation. 

“Come on, sweetheart, cum for me. Cum on my tongue,” he demands, pushing and pushing until you stutter over the edge and finally reach your release. You clasp a hand over your mouth, ignoring the tears that fall down your cheeks and arching up from the table, seeing stars as Dr. Miller coaxes you through your orgasm and finally begins to slowly, gently, bring you down from your high. 

“Alright baby, alright.” His voice is starkly different to how it was just moments ago; calm, gentle, caring. You lay still for a little while longer, the rising and falling of your chest starting to settle, the pattern on the ceiling more visible where it once whirred with your dizziness. 

And then you sit up, Joel’s face already tracking yours,  a grin playing on his lips.

“Too old, huh?” He recalls, less-than-impressed although you know he’s only being playful. “I may be older than you, sweetheart, but I doubt none of them younger boys could make you squirt in my office.”

“I squirted?” You ask, shocked. You didn’t even realise, too caught up in the pleasure and the way he filled your senses.

Your husband just grins further, and you roll your eyes, though you match his smile. 

“You gotta start warnin’ me when you visit the office, sweetheart. You’re wearing me out,” he laughs, finally standing from his little stool to settle between your legs where they dangle off the exam table.

“Shouldn’t be a problem since you’re so not old,” you quip back, making him roll his eyes. He takes your hands in his larger ones, brushing a messy piece of hair from your eyes and kissing the spot just above your brow, whispering “I love you” against your skin.

You adore when he’s like this; so gentle, so sweet. And you know that no matter how much he complains, he loves it when you come to visit him at work. He’s only moved into this office recently, the both of you still getting used to the new area, and you couldn’t be prouder of how far he’s come.

“I love what you’ve done with the place, baby,” you tell him, nuzzling his bearded jaw and resting a hand on his chest. “I’m so proud of you.” 

Joel only hums, modest as ever, holding you closely. He knows you mean it. You’ve been with him from the start, through everything, making the highs higher and the lows easier; every day he wonders how he’s gotten this lucky, even if you do leave him endlessly flustered with your surprise office visits.

You lean up to press a gentle kiss on his lips, grinning as he moans into you, and ots only then that you notice how hard he still is beneath his scrubs. 

“What time are you home?” You ask, your hands playing with his collar and the scruff of his beard.

“Around 5:30, hopefully,” he replies, though he looks in his own world as his eyes flutter closed at your touch and his head tips into your hand.

“Alright,” you press another kiss against his jaw, “well as soon as you’re back, I’ll fix this.” You gently squeeze his throbbing cock over his pants, making him moan and his hips stutter. 

“Baby, you ruin me,” Joel whines as you remove your hands and jump off the table, collecting your bag and coat before turning to face him with a giggle. You cup his jaw again as he rests his hands on your waist and you kiss him, deeper this time, not wanting to let go. “You love me,” you retort, grinning even wider as he cocks a brow but laughs all the same.

“I do, sweetheart. So much.” 

He stares into your eyes, thumbing your hips, his forehead pressed against yours. It’s such a sweet little moment, intimate, and you wonder why you keep on visiting him at work when it means you can’t stay there all day. He wonders the same. 

“I love you too, Dr. Miller” is your final reply as you head for the door, sending your husband a little wave and giggling as he mutters, “stop calling me that. Drives me crazy.”

Of course, you know he loves that, too. “Whatever you say, Dr. Miller,” you laugh, slipping out of his office and already thinking of how you’ll treat him when he gets home.

─── ･ .✧: .☽ . :✧. ･ ───

Tag list: @vickie5446 @skysmiller @none-of-this-makes-any-sense @letmehavemyfictionalmen

[muffinsin]

hey i really liked that feral cass post, i keep rereading it. was wondering if you would ever consider doing a pt 2?

Hell yeah🙌 have a feeling someone else might like a p2 to this!

Part 1: here

Let’s get into it! :)

Masterlists

You’re carried; far, far away, it seems. You couldn’t find your way back to the village even if you wanted to

This creature- this woman..her grip is tight on you, but not bruising. She snarls at all around you

Leaves, trees, little animals scurrying across your path

Then, at last, far in the distance you can see the tip of a tower. As you get closer, you see more and more. Eventually, a castle is revealed

Only when she carries you towards the rusty gates and heavy doors do you notice what castle this is, just where you have found yourself

Castle Dimitrescu

They say, this is where all dies

Men are tortured and killed instantly, made into scarecrows or thrown aside in the dirt out front

Women are imprisoned, made to work, made to serve, only to be taken, tortured and killed or turned into wine at the smallest mistake. Or so they say

You wonder, will this be your fate? Is the woman carrying you to your death?

It doesn’t seem so, though. The woman doesn’t come across as though she has ill intent for you

She is feral, this much you can say. More of an animal than a human even, perhaps

But, it brings you a certain amount of comfort, too. You know at least, she will not attempt to deceive and trick you

You watch silently as heavy doors are opened and the warmth of the castle greets you

Your stomach growls when you pass what must be the kitchens, the sound alerting the feral brunette

She stares down at you, as though unsure what that noise was. Just as you think she will investigate, though, she keeps walking

You notice, all attempt to avoid her. No one glances your way, all make space for her. Clearly, this woman is just as dangerous as she comes across

You’re carried a little longer, through long hallways with red rugs and white-golden walls adorned with paintings and lights, past wide vases and small cabinets

Then, she steps into a room you know must be hers

Weapons are scattered across the floor and walls and while a bed is present in the room, there is a large pile of blankets, pillows, clothing, even some items on the floor. You immediately recognize this as her nest

And, true to this, she sets you down on it gently. You feel the soft cushions below you, the warm and thick blankets

Around you, you see dresses. Some too big to possibly fit her, some a little too slim for her, but matching hers in color and style precisely. You spot lipstick, daggers, necklaces and rings, books, pictures, pencils, and more among the cushions

Then, a picture catches your eye

You look up to find the woman staring at you, and slowly, slow enough for her to react should she want to, you take the painting from underneath a pillow and pick it up

She only continues to stare for a few moments, then busies herself by biting into some of the pillows and readjusting their position

You allow yourself to breathe, albeit shakily, then take in the picture in your hand

Four women, one tall, enormously so, in a white dress and a black hat. You know this woman. Alcina Dimitrescu, one of the lords of the village. You remember seeing her picture in the church

Then, three shorter women, all dressed in the same black dress. Among them, your feral saviour

The other two look nearly the same upon a quick look, but you soon notice differences, such as their hair colour, blonde and auburn, and the shape of their face

You spot writing at the bottom of the painting; Countess Dimitrescu and her three daughters. Bela, Cassandra, Daniela

“Cassandra..”, you say out loud, trying the name on your tongue

You nearly jump when her head snaps up, her eyes scanning you as though she is attempting to figure out what you want

Again, your stomach growls. You can’t remember the last time you ate

This time, the woman moves

You jump when she leans forwards, the tip of her nose nearly touching your stomach

Then, she growls. Did she think your growling stomach was an insult?

You can’t be sure, but feel too petrified to move even as your stomach keeps growling and the woman- Cassandra- keeps growling back at it

You feel your blood run cold, but eventually speak. You fear should you not, she might attack. You don’t want to imagine what risks that might bring to your unborn child

“I’m hungry”, you whisper

“I’m hungry”- Cassandra knows those words. She has heard them before. Hungry. Cold. Good. Bad. You. I. Yes. No

She knows them, but what are the meanings again? She shakes her head, as though trying to clear it

Then, just when she thinks your stomach will demand a fight again, she catches the sweet scent again

She still can’t understand what is so different, so special, about you

As though to make up for her growls though, she gently, or as gentle as she can, nuzzles her cheek against the round stomach. What a curious little creature you are indeed

She freezes when she feels your hand near her. You’re cupping the stomach. Why? She doesn’t understand. Though, she wants to learn

You watch as her hand reaches out, then sets it on your stomach too. She doesn’t seem to understand, merely copies your movements

The moment seems to go on for far longer than it does. It’s not unpleasant, though

Then, in the next few seconds already, it stops. She jumps up, then, to your surprise, she darts out the room, halfway turning into flies in her go

Cassandra races past maids and so, her mind set on a single goal: to retrieve food for you. She remembers now what hunger means. It means, she must fetch you some prey

Too feral to sit back and think, she races past the kitchens and back outside

It’s an easy task to find you something small for the time being, until she can bring you a nice and thick bear

She tracks sounds easily, her head snapping from one direction in the other. She’s drooling slightly

Then, golden eyes find her prey. A deer, in perfect shape it seems, feasting near the castle grounds

Of course, she can take it down in no time

While lacking her older sister’s coordination and younger sister’s speed, Cassandra still manages to catch up in no time at all, her arm wrestling around the creature’s neck and bringing it to the floor

From this on, it’s almost too easy

But she doesn’t kill for her pride, nor for showing off. She feels no such things, only the urge, the duty, the obligation to catch, fetch, and bring you the nutrients you require

And yet, you nearly scream when the door opens again and a deer is tossed to you. Dead, certainly. And fresh. You nearly vomit at the sight and smell

Cassandra doesn’t seem to understand

She nudges its side with her hand like a cat might do with its paw, her golden eyes searching yours

Her lips part, as though she is about to speak, but no words get past them. Instead, only low growls and grunts

You swallow hard to keep from vomiting as you feel the deer’s blood on your hands

Then, you press your eyes shut when she leans down and digs her sharp teeth into its tender flesh

You hear her feast, watch the blood smear her face when you open your eyes back up

But, she doesn’t swallow the bites in her mouth. Instead, part of the animal’s flesh hangs from her mouth, held tight between her teeth

You freeze as she crawls closer. More and more you feel like prey. Will you end up the same as the deer?

No, certainly not

Instead, you watch with wonder and slight disgust as she drops her bite, the tender flesh falling directly into your hands

She nuzzles your stomach again, and again

“I-I can’t eat that”, you whisper

She looks up, her head cocked. You watch as she picks the piece up again and bites a part off. She eats, swallows, then looks back up at you

You understand what she means

“I mean- I- humans, we don’t eat that”, you clarify

She looks puzzled yet again, and you can’t entirely blame her. You’re sure it must be strange to look after a human when she is surrounded by her family, who you’d bet shares her special diet

You close your eyes, your mouth watering at the memory of the smell from earlier. You smelled cake, you smelled grilled vegetables, you smelled cooked meat, you caught the faint scent of toasted bread, even

“The kitchen has human food”, you add when no response comes from her

You yelp when you’re picked up again. Truthfully, you don’t mind in the slightest, as your ankle still aches painfully with every step you attempt to make

Cassandra, as feral as she is in this state, takes good care of you, you notice

Better care of you than the villagers have done

You smile to yourself as you feel her cool skin against you

Perhaps, you can take care of her in return

[emsfallingsky]

Venus & Asmodeus (Chapter 1)

Add yourself to the Venus & Asmodeus Tag list here!

Word count: 7k

Pairings: Jake au x female! reader, Danny au x female! reader

Warnings: 18+ content!!! MINORS DNI!!! Demon/ vampire/ fae sort of/ other worldly being shit...so there's going to be blood...lots of blood, gore, violence, rituals, blood rituals, demonic rituals, blood drinking, blood offerings, death, devil/ demon worship. -Alcohol, smoking, drug use, cursing, adult dancing/ strip club, mentions of prostitution

-Smut Including: M dom & F sub, kissing, making out, touching, unprotected sex, degradation, dirty talk, praise kink, biting, blood, period sex, edging, orgasm denial, choking, threesomes, orgies, hair pulling, fingering, oral (m & f), spanking, impact play, pain kink, knife play, spitting, angst, voyeurism and jealousy

The cold breeze whips around me. It wraps its hands around my skin while its teeth sink into my bare legs, chilling me to the bone. I instinctively grab the thin material of my black silk robe to pull around me, hoping to ward off the frigid air but it did little to suppress the shivers that wracked through my body. 

The alleyway I stand in is dimly lit from the help of one of the streetlamps across the street. It brightens the entrance, leaving the rest of the alley in almost pure darkness. Its light casts an eerie russet brown color along the stone wall, making the shadows that dance upon it appear watery--almost like they’re an illusion to the eye. 

I draw my attention away from the street and cast my gaze above me where I see the moon at its full strength in its cycle. Its light casts a halo around itself, adding its own light to the dark night sky. Distant clouds crowd around it, entangling and smothering its light.

A leaf clicks and tumbles down the street and the breeze moves the branches of the trees making its branches look like long skeletal fingers trying to pluck any sort of life it can grab back into their bare open limbs. 

I lean my head against the cold stone of the wall, which makes me cringe when I feel its bite against my skin. I close my eyes for a moment, in hopes to prepare myself for the night ahead of me. I can hear the subtle bass from inside the club and feel my pulse matching the rhythm. 

Right as I shut my eyes, I instantly opened them upon hearing the sound of the back door opening. The loud music from inside the club pours into the alleyway. I turn my head to the side and see Yesenia (or Senie as I like to call her) but around here, she is otherwise known as her stage name, Jupiter. 

She steps out of the threshold of the building, the door shutting behind her with a small click as it latches back into place, drowning out the music and making it sound muffled. 

Yesenia is dressed in similar attire as me and I watch her hands frantically reaching for the fabric of her own robe– an orange creamsicle color. The robe slides down a bit, exposing her slim shoulders and prominent collar bones that would make any nineties supermodel jealous. 

If it wasn’t for her immaculate bone structure that I always swore were crafted by the gods themselves, then it would surely be the long set of dark legs that seemed to almost glisten in the moonlight. In fact, I’m positive they actually were glistening since she always doused herself in body glitter before going on stage. Even without her heels on, she always seemed to tower above people.  

As she approaches, I catch a glimpse of the creamsicle lingerie she has hidden beneath her robe and a small smirk forms on my lips. I can make out her features more clearly as she walks to the middle of the alleyway where the dim light illuminates her face. I see her long, dark dreadlocks fall to her waist where gold cuffs are threaded into each lock. I take in her prominent, high set cheekbones and her plump lips which are painted with a thin layer of lip gloss. Her golden honey eyes glisten in the moonlight and I see she has on her typical makeup which consists of a honey colored smokey eye, long lashes and pink blush set along the apples of her cheeks. Even after knowing Yesenia for over five years, I sometimes am still struck by her beauty. I often think if I wasn’t a fellow dancer– let alone one of her best friends– I might risk it all just to spend one night with her. 

She walks closer to me; I hear her mutter a faint curse at the harsh weather before she flashes a quick smile which I return. She comes to stand beside me, and I see her hand reach into the pocket of her robe as she fetches out a carton of cigarettes and a metal lighter. She pops the cigarette between her lips and brings the lighter up to its end. I hear the flick of her finger over the lighter as she tries to light it but because of the wind, she seems to struggle. I sigh and playfully roll my eyes before I step to the side of her and cup my hand around the end of the cigarette to block out the wind. The end of the cigarette finally sparks, and I watch the cherry glow as she inhales and then slowly lets the smoke roll out from between her lips.

I come to stand back beside her against the wall and watch as her head falls back against the stone, her eyes darting up to look at the sky. “Full moon tonight huh?” Yesenia asks while passing me the cigarette. I pluck it from her fingers and see the faint stain of her lip gloss around the end before I pop it between my own lips. I inhale the smoke, feeling the calming effects of it enter my body and then slowly exhale while leaning my head back against the wall. “Guess so,” I say, my voice coming out a bit low and gravely from the smoke. I hand the cigarette back to Yesenia and see the soft curve of her mouth stretch up into a small smile as she turns her head to face me. “We’re gonna have a hell of a night then.”

“Don’t get me started,” I groan, clutching the robe closer against my skin as another gust of wind chills me to my very bones and whips my hair around me. 

“Don’t start with that. You know that it brings out the good customers,” she says, giving me a cunning smile, plucking the cigarette from between my fingers. 

“Trueee” I say drawing out the word, “but we also know it can sometimes brings out the bad.”

Yesenia playfully rolls her eyes and chuckles. “Well, we can only hope a rich prince comes in tonight and we can walk away with six months’ rent.”

I arch a brow her way and tilt my head to the side. “Now that would make my night worthwhile.”

“And even if that’s not the case and we do get some…handsy customers, that’s why our security is top notch and that’s why we have Steve working tonight.”

A soft chuckle escapes me, and I nod. “Thank god for Steve.”

“Thank fucking god for Steve,” she replies back. 

The door opens again, and I see Joe poke his head out, the wind blowing his brown hair over his face. “Venus! Jupiter! There you are! Jupiter you’re on in ten and Venus you have a private lap dance in fifteen up in VIP– God damn it's cold out here! Go on now, can’t have our two best dancers out here getting frostbite.”

The side of Yesenia’s face turns up in a smile and she drops the cigarette out of her hand, letting it fall into the gravel before stomping on it with her fluffy orange slipper that matches her robe. A small grin comes across my face at the sight, and I follow after her. 

She walks back towards the door, stopping just before Joe as she flashes him one of her brilliant smiles and places a soft hand atop his shoulder. “Do you really mean it? We’re the best dancers here?” The top of Joe’s cheeks turns red, and he smile softly at her. “Of course I do. You two are our seasoned veterans. There’s a reason why people come in here and ask for the two of you by name.”

Yesenia smiles up at Joe and kisses him on the cheek before turning down the hall to the dressing rooms where the music surrounds us and the familiar bass of it booms into my chest. I follow her down the hall after giving Joe a small nod but notice his gaze cast on Yesenia as she breezes down the hallway. 

Once behind the door of the dressing room, I watch Yesenia settle into her chair and grab her makeup bag. I settle myself beside her on my own chair and cast her a look. “What?” she asks, leaning into the mirror that runs the whole length of the wall as she starts to retouch her makeup. I let out a deep sigh and lean forward in my chair, propping my head on my hand as I continue to look at her. I can sense her getting annoyed but can see her trying to fight the smile that threatens to play on her lips. 

“Oh, I’m just waiting for you to stop teasing him and finally give in– I mean you’ve seen the way he looks at you right?” I say arching a brow. 

Yesenia rolls her eyes and sighs, as she grabs for her mascara and starts to apply it to her long lashes. “Oh, I know V, but it would be wrong.”

“And why’s that?” I ask, sitting back in my chair, crossing a leg over my other. 

“Because we work together.”

“So?” I say with a casual shrug. Yesenia lets out another sign and sticks the brush of her mascara back in her tube before angling her body towards me in her chair. “So, it would be wrong and not professional.”

I throw my head back and laugh. “Oh please, let’s be real now. Is this what you would call professional?” I ask, waving a hand to gesture to the room where other dancers float in, retouching their makeup, adjusting their outfits or strapping on the eight-inch heels that I’ve become so accustomed to wearing. A small frown appears on Yesenia's face, “Is what we do not professional to you?”

“Oh, I didn’t say us.” I say pointing a finger between the two of us. “We’re fucking brilliant. I just meant all of this… It’s not everyone’s cup of tea, you know.”

“Oh, trust me I know,” she says, grabbing another brush from inside her bag. She fetches out an eyeshadow pallet and starts to blend some of the eyeshadow onto her lid. After a few moments she finally says, “he’ll live.”

I glance her way and give a small nod of my head. “Then let’s hope we all live through tonight.”

Just as predicted, The Inferno was wild and rampant with energy. Yesenia had left before me to the stage which left me a few minutes to get myself ready. I had given myself a once over in the mirror, before I stepped out onto the floor. I had dressed myself in my staple colors of red and black– a color combination I had been assigned at first but now had grown to love. 

I decided on a sheer red set that had lace that left little to the imagination. Running along the edges of it was black lace material and matching bows that fell between my breasts and the side of my hip bones where my black and red G-string was placed. I then chose one of my favorite dance heels. They were eight inches but nothing I wasn’t used to. They were all black except for under the toe box and along the back where it was red with black laces zigzagging through it, making the heel appear to be laced as a corset might be. 

At first when I was a baby dancer, I was shy, timid and often not a fan of having to reveal so much of myself but now I felt nothing but confident.  Every time I put on whatever set I had decided on for that night and let myself slip into a different persona of who I was, it left me feeling invigorated. 

 I had come to realize that while not only my dancing and my body, which to me was lackluster at best–even though Yesenia would often comment on my curves and how she was jealous of them–it was the energy I could conduct from a room. This sort of power I had over them. 

I started to channel that power into my movements even when I wasn’t dancing. I would walk with my head held high, my shoulders back and flaunt myself. There was a thrill in this game– this sort of power play that I wholly had control over. 

Most of the customers were wealthy businessmen who in their corporate lives had the upper hand but here, I was in charge. And something about having complete strength over myself and my body was true bliss.

In a way, my dancing is what made me feel the most powerful and confident. There was something so primal about letting myself go and not having to second guess myself when my body decided on what movements it would make. I think that with that, came a lot of trust with myself. If there was a move I was doing or wanted to do I would go for it whereas when I first started dancing, I let my mind get the best of me and I would look sloppy or a bit unsure and skittish. 

When watching other dancers, you could truly tell who the ones were who got the most out of it and who actually enjoyed it. But don’t get me wrong, part of that can be utter bullshit. 

For me and many other dancers, we didn’t go into this thinking, ‘oh yeah, this is fun and cute, and I just love to dance’. Maybe for some, but not for most. You go into this work simply because you need the money, and this was the best thing you could think of to get it. I know that was the case for me. 

I first started dancing because my day-to-day job was simply not cutting it and I wasn’t able to afford day to day expenses and had to scrape money together just to afford rent, ask friend or family for a few extra bills here and there or shit—I even would sell different services to men which now makes me cringe but at the time, I didn’t bat an eye to it. 

I know other dancers who started dancing straight out of high school to be able to afford things like tuition, rent or even to provide for their family and children. You hear the word ‘hustle’ being thrown around in clubs and that’s because this is what this work is. It’s all about the hustle. You make sure that when you’re going up on stage or doing a dance that’s one on one, that you give it your all because at the end of the day, it truly is all about the money you can rake in. Because if you go up there and your dance is sloppy or you look lazy, well then shit, you’re not going to go home with more than a few hundred bucks in your pocket, if that. 

There were some dancers who had a dance background and when watching them, you could see the subtle implications of that through their movements. I found it really interesting to see the different blends of dance shine through when it came time for them to perform. 

There were other dancers that were self-taught or practiced in a pole studio weekly to keep up their endurance and strength. Some of them trained specifically in pole and others had a variation of ‘club’ styled moves like freestyle, boudoir dance, contemporary or even aerial silks. I personally had dance experience in contemporary but then found a pole studio where I went and practiced. I mostly stuck to pole but loved freestyle and boudoir. 

I had always loved dancing from a young age. I found myself drawn to all different genres of music and loved to let my body take over and ride the wave of the music. I think now as I’m older and have been in this industry for a while, I can sometimes find it a bit hard to find the pleasure I once found in my dance. I think part of that is why I often went to the dance studio a few times a week because there, I was letting myself dance for me, rather than for others. 

My dance became my own sort of therapy. When there were days that were hard or I was going through something that was emotional, I would often end up at the studio. I was not often found of having to outwardly express my emotions or verbally expressing them but when I danced, I was able to convey everything that was on my mind and every emotion that I felt. I had lost count of the times I had gone into a dance and ended up crying at the end because I was finally able to feel those emotions and work through them. It was the one place where I could let myself be without any shame or fear and just be me. 

While the hustle is very much real, every night is different though. Some days you may walk out with a few thousand depending on who the customers were, their line of professor, etc. Other nights, it could be slow, and you may only end up with a hundred. It’s all a gamble at the end of the day but you come into this play with the hustle always in mind. 

Yesenia was a few years younger than me and the reason she started dancing was because her mother was absent for most of her life and didn’t really know this first thing about being a mother and her father she had never knew. She had a brother named Yasin who was significantly younger than her and whenever she talked about him, I could tell just how much she loved him. 

When she started dancing and all the money would instantly go to him or be spent on things that he needed. She was the main provider of that family. Once she started working at The Inferno and the money came in more consistently, she set up an account in Yasin’s name and put every extra dollar into it. She was the most genuine soul I had met in a long time, and she truly wore her heart on her sleeve, and I had nothing but respect and pure admiration for her. 

Whenever I would see Yesenia dance, I would find myself struck in awe at the way she moved her body along to the rhythm of the music. I could tell that she would fully sink herself in and let her body do what it pleased rather than what her mind was telling her. For me it was the same. I reveled in the music that surrounded me and let the beat of the music guide me. 

I know it can be bad to hear that your body is an ‘object’ but after I had gained full and complete power from it, I knew that it was a weapon. I loved sinking into a dance and watching the reactions of customers, knowing I had nothing but their full attention with the way they sat forward in their chairs, or their eyes gazed longingly and lustfully at me, knowing that they want me but I’m still in a way out of reach. It’s like riding a high of the strongest drug but for me the drug is simply the music and the way my body entangles with it. 

Having full control over my body was something I learned the hard way after working at different strip clubs in my younger days after some of the men would get a little too handsy and management would turn a complete blind eye to it and only have to say that this was ‘business’ and that they had to make money some way or another. Fucking pricks. 

The Inferno was a complete one-eighty to those places I had worked at before. It was a higher end club which meant that they had a strict list of rules and restrictions about who they let in as well as what ‘appropriate’ interactions meant between dancers and customers. For instance, customers are not allowed to touch a dancer while receiving a lap dance, only if the dancer guides their hands to their body while dancing or giving them the go ahead. But, if their hands drifted to certain areas without the dancer's consent, they were kicked out and placed on a blacklist. 

We had strict security guarding the mains doors as well as lined up against certain sections inside the building. They always kept an eye out on customers who may overstep boundaries as well as keeping an eye out on the safety and well-being of our dancers. Not to mention, if a dancer was giving a private dance, they always had a mic placed discreetly on them where a live feed was casted into the ears of one of the guards nearby in case they had to intervene if things went south. Safety was something that was a top priority for the owner, Jimmy.

Jimmy was a sweet older guy with a receding hairline which he tried to cover up with a horrible comb over, but no one would tell him that to his face. He always dressed the same, an expensive suit where his pot belly poked out the edge of his pants and a golden chain hanging around his neck where sprinkles of his chest hair could be seen. If you couldn’t see Jimmy coming, you could always smell him or hear him. He always wore strong cologne that mixed in with the smell of cigar which was often held between his fingers. He had a strong New York accent and at times I could make out the sound of his boisterous laugh at the bar as he mingled with his workers or customers even if he wasn’t in eyesight. 

At first when I met Jimmy, I was rather intimated but came to realize that he was nothing but a giant teddy bear with a kind soul. He would always bring flowers into the dressing room and place them on a dancer's vanity when it was their birthday, work anniversary or any sort of big accomplishment they had made. There was often a sweet note along with a fairly expensive gift which could be jewelry, new dance shoes– I mean hell I remember one time when he paid off one of my fellow dancers' tuition to get her through med school. 

It was the same thing with our security guards, while they obviously had to appear tough and have the whole ‘I could break your neck with one finger look’, they were all sweetheart’s deep down.

A knock at the dressing room alerted me that it was my time to make my way to the floor. I took another glance in the mirror, ensuring that I looked stage ready. My makeup was complete with a heavy black smokey eye with matching red lipstick. I had curled my dark hair into loose waves where it fell against my back. I deemed myself good and opened the door of the dressing room and was immediately met by the loud music, radiating through the space. 

I could faintly hear the sound of my heels across the floor as I made my way into the main area of the club but then it was lost to the loud music. I held my body high, exerting nothing but confidence as I strode my way through where crowds of people were gathered around poles, money in hand–or leaving their hands– as dancers worked the stage. The lights were angled onto the stage and flashed along to the music in various colors. 

I glanced over at one of the stages, seeing Yesenia working her magic, her long hair swinging over her back side as she rolled her hips against the pole. I smiled to myself and kept on walking, letting my hips sway back and forth as I passed different parties. 

I made my way to the VIP section where Tony stood in front of the rope blocking off the section and Enzo stood at the booth, keeping track of all the high-end or high-paying customers. They each greeted me with a smile, and I stopped to the side of Enzo before entering the section. I grazed a hand over his shoulder before he stepped behind me, seeming to appear flirty to any onlookers as he started to find a place to mic me. “What do we have tonight?” I asked over my shoulder into his ear. He leaned his face over my shoulder and whispered into my ear as I felt his hands slide up and down my body, trying to find a good place to discreetly place the mic. 

“Looks like you’ve got a private dance in the backroom, older gentlemen but doesn’t seem like he’s anything to worry about and if he is, I’ll know,” Enzo says with a wink. “I think after that, they just have you working VIP for the rest of the night.”

“Any customers I should keep an eye out for?” I feel Enzo’s hand stop on my hips and he gives a tug on them, turning me around to face him. His body towers over me and I see his green eyes rake over my outfit. If I didn’t know him so well and knew that this was his job, I would’ve slapped him for looking at me in such ways, but his eyes didn’t show an ounce of lust in them. 

I could see his brows bunch, looking like he was a bit frustrated as he tried to find a good spot. Enzo leaned into me, letting his body push against mine while his hands continued to wander. “I don’t mean to start rumors Venus but, I hear there’s some sort of prince here tonight,” he whispered into my ear. I silently cheered in my head and immediately knew that once I spotted Yesenia that I would indeed tell her she was correct in guessing that a prince had come to the club tonight. 

“What kind of Prince?” I asked. 

“Honestly, not a clue. Not a lot of detail was given but it seems to check out.”

“What makes you assume that?” I ask frowning. 

“He came here with his own fucking bodyguard V,” Enzo says, as he kneels down in front of me. I cock a brow as his eyes fixated on my G-string and I already know what he has planned.

“You’re fucking kidding, Enz. You’re going to mic me up there?” I ask, my eyes wide. Enzo looks up at me and the picture of his dark hair hanging over his green eyes, threatens a shudder through my body. Enzo had always been devastatingly handsome. 

“I’m sorry V, I think it’s the best I can work with tonight. You chose this sheer little piece and this bow here in the front is a good spot. May I?” He asks, holding up the tiny mic between his fingers. I roll my eyes and nod. “This might be the most action I’ve gotten in months,” I say with a laugh. I hear Enzo chuckle as he slips two of his fingers under the edge of my panties, right where the bow is. “Awe I’m flattered V but too bad I tend to bat for the other team. Sorry for getting your panties in a knot.” I scoff and give him a playful smack to his cheek which makes him flash a smile. I feel his fingers dig a bit into the fabric as he positions the mic and then with his other hand tapes it into place. 

Enzo stands up to his full length and peers down at me, licking his lips. “You know you sometimes make my job very…difficult.” I say, giving him a knowing look. Enzo smirks and leans a hand on the booth, scooting his body so his chest is pressed right against mine. “Oh, I know, V,” Enzo spoke into my ear, “but in case you were wondering, I still like to play.”

I felt my breath catch in my chest, hearing his words roll off his lips in a sultry tone. “W-what?” I ask, suddenly feeling a bit flustered. Enzo casts me a cunning smirk and whispers into my ear, “You know, I can always ask Chris if he’s feeling…open.”

My face must’ve given away my sudden shock because I then felt him place a gentle hand on my shoulder. “Hey, I’m just throwing it out there V, you don’t need to answer right now. Just think about it and let me know. And if not, then we can forget this conversation ever happened.” 

I stare up at Enzo for I don’t know how long until I finally look away. “Right um,” I swallow, “I’ll keep that in mind. I-I’m just gonna,” I say pointing a finger to the VIP section behind him. Enzo throws me a knowing look but doesn’t say anything as I begin to walk away. 

“Hey V, just think about it, oh– and don’t fart into the mic!” I look over my shoulder and flip him off before giving Tony a look that says, ‘please help me because I’m going to throttle your brother’. Tony just gives me a grin and then nods his head while holding open the rope that leads to the VIP section.

I walk into the VIP section where a few of my fellow dancers are. Some are entertaining small groups while they dance on a pole or in someone’s lap and others are merely chatting with foreseeable customers. The lighting in the VIP section is much different than the main floor. Instead of lights that flash various colors, the lights are turned down and are a deep shade of red. I’m not sure if Jimmy sometimes intentionally assigns me here because one of my staple colors is red but sometimes it feels purposeful. Maybe it's because I have now assigned the color red with confidence and pure power but whenever I’m in this section, it doesn’t feel like an act. All my movements feel strong and meaningful as if my body can relax. And maybe it is all in my head but sometimes I’ll catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror and love to revel in the way the red lights seem to cling to my body, illuminating it in all the right places. Sometimes I get so lost in my dancing when I catch a glimpse of myself and the world drowns itself out and I realize that I am now not dancing for them, but for myself. Sometimes I get the most pleasure out of my dancing when I let my hands explore and linger on my own skin. 

I relax my shoulders and keep my head held high, exerting nothing but self-assurance as I saunter over to the back of the section. I make sure to cast alluring, inviting glances to any onlookers who happen to catch my eye as I step to the back where Aaron– another bouncer– is placed before a private room, concealed by a dark red curtain. 

I continue my path, my head on a constant swivel while I continue to give small smiles or a nod of my head. I am only a few feet away from the back but my steps falter slightly when I see a tall man with his back turned to me. He had dark curls, some of which laid down his back while the other half of it was concealed in a bun that rested on the back of his head. He wore a simple black shirt that clung tightly to his body showing off the muscles along his back and on his arms, which appeared to be crossed over his chest. Even with his back turned, I could not only see but feel how strong he was. I felt it lap over me like the crest of a wave crashing into the sea. 

His body bent forward a bit and it was then that I realized someone sat before him. I was unable to see who it was but caught sight of a hand, dangling over the armchair of the couch, loosely holding a glass of dark liquor. My eyes dance to the ring on one of his fingers. It has a silver band with intricate details and engravings. In the middle of it is a large onyx stone. 

My eyes continued to sweep upwards, and I noted the suit he was wearing. Red with a swirling black pattern. I feel my facade slip and my eyes narrow in on that very detail and it conjures different thoughts into my head. Did he know these were my colors? Was this purposeful? Is this to get my attention? 

These questions pelt into my head and I’m curious to know more about who this person is. I find it funny and rather shocking when I realize I want to go and learn more about this person when usually it is flipped and people come, wanting to know more about me. I know I should continue walking but my feet have stopped dead in their tracks. I should move…but I can’t. My body won’t allow me the privilege. 

My lingering gaze continues, and I see a sweep of long dark hair as the person shifts. It doesn’t appear to be as dark as the man before him and instead of curls, his hair is seemingly straight except for small waves that flow through it. His hair appears to fall just below his shoulder, and I can see how it moves with every movement of his head. I catch sight of the corner of his jaw and the side of his lips, the bottom one plump in comparison to the top. 

His mouth seems to move at a mile a minute, but I take note of the muscle jumping in his jaw and how his lips appear to be drawn in a straight line and when he does talk, it seems like he is talking through his teeth. Whatever the topic of the conversation is, it doesn’t seem to be going according to plan. 

I suddenly hear my name being faintly called from Aaron, but it sounds drowned out and I know it’s not because of the music. I let my eyes linger for a few more seconds before I hear my name again, this time more loudly. “Venus!” 

I glance at Aaron but can’t seem to pull my eyes away from the two figures before me. I focus my attention back on them and I can see the man who is sitting has stopped talking. Even with the music blaring, it seems like the room has now fallen deathly quiet. 

His lips are now drawn tight and when I glance at his hand, I swear I can see his knuckles turning white from his grip he has on the glass. I’m not sure if they were aware of my presence but now it seems like they are because the man who has his back to me, slowly turns and looks at me from over his shoulder. I feel my breath hitch as I take in his dark features. The slope of his nose juts out and comes down at a slant which seemingly points down to his pair of plump lips. They aren’t necessarily small, but they aren’t big either and seem to fit his face perfectly. If it weren’t for his breathtaking features that catch my eyes it his eyes. His eyes are dark, almost appearing to be black, not a normal black– solid black. 

The corner of his mouth turns up in a small smile and I can feel his eyes drinking me in from head to toe. His mouth parts open and I watch his tongue dart out and run along his bottom lip. He seems to be getting carried away, but he snaps out of his daze and his body shifts to the side. When he moves, I am finally able to see who sits before him. 

I already knew my breathing was growing fractured but now it was completely knocked from my chest because there sitting on the couch and slowly rising to his feet, was the most beautiful man I had ever seen. 

I greedily let myself drink him in. My eyes swept over every single detail of him, wanting to engrain every piece of him into my memory. I was correct in my assumed appearance of his hair and the shape of his lips that turned upward in the corners but seeing him as a whole was utterly devastating. 

He stood shorter than the other man before him and while I was able to feel the strength of the man even with his back turned, nothing, absolutely nothing, compared to the power that surrounded this man. I felt like my eyes were playing tricks on me when I noticed the red lights dancing across his olive skin, making it look like he was almost glowing. His long hair was pushed back to frame his face which while appearing round, still produced strong angles. His hand came up to his chin where his thumb swept along his sharp jaw which was dusted in a small layer of stubble, and I wondered if he too was analyzing me as deeply as I was him. I lifted my eyes up further and noted his strong nose that seemed to come down to a perfect point at the tip. 

This whole time I had been avoiding his eyes, but I finally let my eyes meet his and when I did, I could feel my blood start to swirl. The warmth traveled up my arms, starting with a tingle over the top of my hand before it snaked all the way up and wrapped itself around the back of my neck. Even though my body was burning hot, I somehow still managed to shiver.

His eyes too were dark and accented but long dark lashes that touched the hollow points under his eyes. The hollowness of his eyes made him appear tired, lifeless, hungry…starving. I caught a flash of something dancing behind his eyes that I couldn’t identify that set me on edge. My mind was telling me to be cautious, but my entire body felt like it was in a frenzy. 

For reasons unbeknownst to me, my hands started to curl into fists at my side as we silently stared at one another. My body felt like it was vibrating, and my feet were telling me to go to him– approach him. Go. Go, Venus. Go to him. I felt my feet start to move but I was only able to manage a step before I felt a hand gripping my arm.

“Venus! What are you doing? You’ve got someone waiting.” My head instantly snaps to the side, clearing me of the fog that settled itself around my mind. I look at Aaron and blink a couple times. “Sorry, I- I don’t know actually,” I say, shaking my head. 

“All good V,” he replies and then gently tugs on my arm to lead me to the private section of the VIP room. I look over my shoulder at the formidable two men, but my gaze quickly goes to the man in the red and black suit. I catch his eye and do a double take because if I’m not mistaken, his eyes looked red at first glance. When I look again, I frown and shake my head as they appear to now look normal, but I notice his gaze is lingering on Aaron’s hand wrapped around my arm. It must be the red lighting. My eyes are playing tricks on me. 

I walk the short steps to the section, the bouncer holding open the curtain for me and giving me a nod of his head as my feet stop just before the small step to the room. I suddenly stop, feeling a tingle at the base of my neck and traveling down the length of my spine. Venus, a voice–no–voices whisper into my ear. It’s faint but when I hear it, it feels like a phantom wind stirs the strands of hair at my side. My breathing hitches and my hands once again bawl up at my sides. 

“V? You alright there love? Do you feel okay?” Aaron asks, placing a gentle hand on my lower back. I look at his face and see his brows knitted together, his features washed in concern. I swallow and nod, “Yeah, I’m fine. My uh…my heels felt weird for a second,” I say, trying my best to sound convincing even though it doesn't sound believable even to my own ears. 

Aaron gives me another weird look but doesn’t comment. Instead, he just nods his hair and slides the curtain further open for me. 

 I step onto the step and take another glance over my shoulder at this mysterious man who has completely ruptured my attention and when I do, I see his dark gaze is set firmly on me. The corner of his lip tugs up in a smirk and he raises his hand clutching the glass up to me and takes a sip. I don’t have time to process what that could even mean before the curtain falls and shuts him out. All that I’m left with is that same tingling sensation traveling up the length down the length of my spine.

Tag list:

@gretas-sweat @dannyshair @itsafullmoon @peaceloveunitygvf @darianh07 @thunderstomp-and-tequila @gretasfallingsky @bathingin-thelight @jordie-gvf @withlovegvf @jazzyfigz @iliana-gvf @lizzys-sunflower @musicislove3389 @myownparadise96 @sanguinebats

[dragonfly0808]

Snippets of the next chapter…

I’m really excited for the next chapter so, to build up hype and cause I’m just super excited here are snippets of chapter 28:

Roxy’s Interlude: Crossroads of Destiny

—————————

Helia smiled gently as he joined her, “What do you think?”

“Somehow… it’s both exactly what I was expecting and not at all what I thought it’d be like.”

He chuckled, “That’s Magix for you. A strange culmination of dozens of different planets and cultures and all that good stuff. You’ll never find anyone who’s straight up ‘from Magix’ you know? Everyone has some planet they or their parents are originally from.”

“I’m straight up from Magix.” Timmy protested from the control panel.

Helia rolled his eyes, “Aren’t your grandparents from Gader?”

“…that doesn’t count.”

“Sure it doesn’t.” Helia made a face at him and Roxy chuckled.

—————————

Red Fountain was huge, all red and silver metal and golden stone and falling water.

It was also a floating island. The boys had seemingly forgotten that little detail when telling her about their school. 

—————————

“Oh, this is one of my favorite spots.” Naten guided them past a threshold, which guided them to a platform open to the outside air, ancient stone with red runes beneath Roxy’s feet, the jagged ending giving way to the long fall.

“Whoa.” Roxy approached the ledge cautiously, crouching to inspect the old runes with clearly old scratches that did not match the rest of the building, “This… is a lot older than anything else.”

“That’s cause this particular floor,” Alexa said as she tapped her foot on the stone, “is a part of the old Red Fountain.”

“…what do you mean the old Red Fountain?”

The others suddenly paused, trading glances as they clearly realized she didn’t know what they meant.

“Well…” Shirley hesitated clearly unsure of how to explain, “This technically speaking isn’t the first Red Fountain. They had to rebuild.”

“…why?”

—————————

Cloud Tower was a bit more like what she’d expected. Despite Shirley’s previous rants about the perception of witches, their school was all fog, shadows, bats, spiders and medieval architecture in shades of blacks, greens and purples.

—————————

“Maude?”

Shirley, perhaps for the first time since they’d met, blushed lightly, “It’s my middle name. Riven’s is worse though, his is Knox.”

Roxy gently nudged her, “I like Maude. It’s really pretty. Fits you.”

She ignored how, over Shirley’s shoulder, Alexa had opened her backpack just in time for Naten to fake-puke in.

—————————

Alfea was somehow more impressive in person, the building was a pale pink with accents in sky blue, whites and creams. Vines growing over certain columns.

She wasn’t quite sure how to describe the aura the building held, but it somehow felt almost ethereal. She could just barely see small motifs all over the walls and arcs, in the stone of the fountain, in the cobblestone of paths, everywhere she looked there seemed to be hidden tiny paintings of wings and butterflies and clovers and bells and pearls and crystals and fungi.

It was really quite something.

—————————

“Sure thing, and- oh! Hold up,” Naten suddenly turned around, yelling at the boys to get closer, “After we give Roxy the tour can we take her to a cafe in Magix? She hasn’t seen the actual city.”

Timmy grimaced, clearly disapproving, “I don’t know…”

“Pleaaaaseeee?” Alexa pleaded, “We won’t go far. And we will not split up for even a second.” She finished making puppy eyes at the boys.

“You can go.” Helia told them, “Just update us when you leave and… don’t take the bus, you can call your Windriders.”

—————————

Roxy carefully turned the computer on, glancing around. The others were nowhere in sight, she’d left Chimera and Naten looking at a history book on Zenith, Naten telling Chimera stories and myths of his hometown and the villages around.

Alexa had said she’d check if there were any technical books on archery or Earth since she was curious about her brother’s mission. Shirley had gone straight for the potions section.

She was alone, unwatched.

Roxy stared at the search bar for a long moment. A part of her feeling guilty.

But she had to know.

She just had to.

————————

“What is in Lake Roccaluce?”

Chimera blinked, surprised, “What?”

“I was gonna look it up cause Sky was clearly lying or avoiding but… I wasn’t sure how to spell it.”

Chimera sighed, gesturing for her to sit down, carefully adjusting her velvet skirt, “Do you… do you know about Daphne?”

—————————

“It was our pleasure, now, we gotta show you the best part, actual Magix city.” Alexa told her as they stopped in front of three of those motorcycle-like machines that didn’t have wheels and hovered in the air.

“Are those… safe?”

“Oh yeah, Windriders are standard for every Specialist.”

Roxy tilted her head in silent question as to why there were three.

Shirley smirked, “My brother is off-planet, someone has to take care of his windrider.”

“And you were kind enough to take on the burden.” Roxy teased.

“Precisely. Now come on, you can ride with me.”

Damn her. What gave her the right to also be a motorcycle girl? Roxy hadn’t even known she apparently had a thing for motorcycles until Shirley casually threw a leg over it to get on, the way she flipped her hair as she did it had to be intentional.

Thankfully, she wasn’t the only one as Chimera was a shade of scarlet as she went to hold on to Naten.

Alexa sighed heavily, “Strike me down now.” She implored the sky above her.

————————

Ogron chuckled in a low tone, Gantlos and Anagan appearing behind him, “Impeccable invisibility spell. Moon fairies are quite rare,” he looked in Chimera’s direction, clearly somehow able to see her despite the spell, starting to reach towards her, “but I’m afraid you have yet to master the art of fully cloaking your very essen-”

Chimera used the staff like a baseball bat, hitting Ogron right across the face, the other Wizards freezing in momentary surprise, “GO!”

[creaturesfromelsewhere]

Longlegs Filming Locations

Here are all the filming locations from Longlegs I've been able to scene stalk. I made a video about it if you'd prefer to listen to me say "uh..." a hundred times: https://youtu.be/NQrdn4czh-c . But listing them in a blog allows search engines to find them so the info can be better dispersed. I'll give the locations roughly in the order they appear in the film. I can only post so many images, so I'll just have to give addresses for some places without a pic.

Needless to say, SPOILERS AHEAD.

The significant locations I can't find are the Bar, Harker's cabin, The Green Murder House, & the paint/hardware store.

Should you choose to visit any of these locations, these are all private property - do not trespass or harass. Stay on the street / sidewalk for those selfies. The library is the sole public property exception as it is a local government building. So feel free to visit it during normal business hours. I'm sure the librarians would be happy to take a few minutes to tell tales of the filming.

Ruth's house:

This is the first location to appear & the last I found. It's actually a wedding venue that's part of a golf course located at 3834 248 St, Langley Twp, BC V4W 2B3, Canada. Here's a google maps view:

Everything that occurs in & around Ruth's house takes place on this property, with the likely exception of the basement, which I don't think was here as this small house doesn't seem to have a basement with a window as is shown in the film.

FBI office, morgue, insane asylum, 5 matching houses, & jogging garage:

In the end credits they list Salish Locations "The Garrison" so this was an easy find. Salish Locations is a company that owns a number of locations they rent to film productions companies, so Longlegs made heavy use of "The Garrison" located at 4050 W 4th Ave, Vancouver, BC V6R 1Z6, Canada. You can find their location website here: https://www.salishlocations.com/locations.html

This is an old military base, perhaps air force?, but the Longlegs production team made heavy use of it. Every scene that takes place at the FBI office was filmed here, as well as the insane asylum, the morgue, the 5 matching houses, the jogging garage, & possibly the basement from Ruth's house (that last one is just a guess).

Although the exact rooms they used in the film are not the ones shown on the website, they are similar enough that you can clearly see they shot in that wing of the building. The exposed sprinklers on the ceiling, the hanging fluorescent lights, the wall heaters, & wood paneling all match up.

For a low budget film, this location was a boon to the film company, I'm sure, as it served as their production studio for a greatly reduced cost.

Serial Killer Condos:

This was a pain in the ass to find as every other 2-level condo complex in the Vancouver metro looks the same, but I managed. It's called Spencer Green located at 21138 88 Ave, Langley Twp, BC. As it is private property, Google couldn't street view inside it, but by standing just outside one of the entrances, you can match up the unique structural elements such as the round vents by the gables, the dual chimney pipes, & the mini-tower bay window extension.

The 5 Houses:

After Harker gets her psychic test at the FBI, we get the scene with her, Agent Carter, & Agent Browning sitting in a car in front of the location of a Longlegs killing which is one of 5 duplicate houses. This is part of "The Garrison" at 3926-3932 Ortona Crescent, Vancouver, BC. There is an exact match for this location in the Salish Locations website photos:

Agent Carter's House:

After the agents leave the bar I can't find, Agent Harker drives Agent Carter back to his house (the image above is from later in the film just because it's daylight & you can see the location better). Now, I didn't think I'd ever find this, but sometimes I luck out. Again, we need to jump way ahead because I found this house via this brief scene at the end of the film where Ruth gets shot at Agent Carter's house. She's sitting in front of a window that gives a clear view of the houses across the street:

One of which is orange. And just by dumb luck, while I was looking for something else, I stubbled across the orange house when I was street crawling. Here's the same view on google maps:

Which makes Carter's house the one across the street at 2340 204a St, Langley Twp, BC. We never really get a good view of Carter's house, so I'll just match up with the image above of Harker in her car sitting in Carter's driveway:

The Library:

After Harker leaves the green murder house (which I can't find), Harker goes to the world's coolest library to do some demonic research & as luck would have it, they used a real library. Just over Harker's right shoulder, in the distance & out of focus, is what looked to me like a large clock face. And in this next image, we get a good look at a very distinct carpet pattern on the floor:

So, assuming this was a real library, I just checked which ones in the Vancouver, Langley Township, & Maple Ridge had clocks near them. The main library branch in Maple Ridge at 22470 Dewdney Trunk Rd, Maple Ridge, BC, has a clock just to the east in perfect line of shot. Then I found an online image of the interior to match the carpet, plus I emailed the library to confirm that Longlegs filmed there, & they confirmed it. Below is the same exact location where Harker is sitting, just during the day & showing the carpet.

Camera House:

Next, Harker & Carter head off to the Camera house, the only one of Longlegs' murders to have a survivor, Carrie Ann Camera. This location was also a pain to find because it's located in an area google doesn't yet have in 3D view, so I had a devil of a time matching it up, but it's located at 2420 256 St, Aldergrove, BC at the end of a long driveway:

The Morgue:

Harker & Carter take the doll they find in the Camera barn back to the FBI lab/morgue to examine it. This is somewhere in the basement of the Salish Garrison building & I can match it up with a similar room, possibly the same room with the windows covered:

Insane Asylum:

Harker & Carter then head off the the insane asylum to interview Carrie Ann Camera & this is also shot in the Salish Garrison & I have shots of the very room they used, which is an "L" shaped room with an accordion blind at one end. Above we see Carrie Ann's shots & below are Harker's shots. For Harker, you can clearly see the accordion blind drawn closed behind her:

And here are shots of those locations, although the camera is angled 90 degrees from Carrie Ann's location:

Jogging Garage:

After a long series of locations I've already gone over, Harker meets up with Carter while he's jogging my this garage above, which is also at the Salish Garrison site:

Longlegs Surrenders:

I'm really proud of finding this spot because I lined up the friggin mountains in the background as well as a building off to the right (not visible in the above image) to match it up. It's located on a street that runs the Canada/US border at precisely 49°00'08.3"N 122°29'45.4"W. The camera is facing south here & if Nick Cage so much as takes one step back, he'd be standing in the US.

Interrogation room:

I don't have an exact match for the interrogation room, but I know it's inside the Salish Garrison because of the exposed sprinklers & hanging fluorescent lights match, plus, when they open the door, you can see the below hallway, which is definitely in the Garrison building.

Then there are a couple of quick driving scenes, one when Longlegs leaves the paint/hardware store that takes place at 49°00'08.3"N 122°30'43.7"W with the camera facing north - I matched up the barn & a green building that was torn down shortly after they finished filming, & a couple of scenes where longlegs & then Harker drive by some equestrian fencing & enter a wooded area which is at 49°14'19.5"N 122°31'34.4"W with the camera facing west & south west.

I thought Harker's cabin would for sure be the cabin in North Vancouver that everyone uses for everything, but they don't match up.

If you happen to know where the bar, Harker's cabin, the green murder house, or the paint / hardware store are located, please leave a comment here, or on the youtube video, & if I can confirm, I'll add the location to this & credit you for your find. :-)

-creaturesfromelsewhere 2-14-2025 (this is what single people do on Valentine's day)

[niallerspayno]

Moments - Chapter Eleven

Masterlist

May 16th, 2015

You’re standing in the middle of the baby store, completely overwhelmed. Shelves tower around you, stocked with every imaginable baby item, from bottles to blankets, tiny shoes to gadgets you’ve never heard of. The boys fan out in every direction like kids in a candy shop, each with their own mission.

Louis grabs the tiniest onesie he can find and holds it up with a smirk. “Look at this. Can you imagine her wearing this? It’s got ‘Troublemaker in Training’ on it. Very fitting, if you ask me.”

“You’re not teaching my kid to cause chaos,” you say, but you can’t help laughing.

“She’ll come by it naturally,” Louis retorts with a wink.

Meanwhile, Liam is fixated on a wall of baby monitors, reading the specs on every single one. “This one has a night vision camera,” he announces, turning the box over in his hands. “And this one syncs with your phone. What do you think?”

“I think she’s not being born into MI6,” you tease. “But whatever you pick will be fine, Dad.”

Liam looks at you sheepishly but puts the box in the cart. “Just want to make sure she’s safe,” he mumbles.

Across the store, Harry and Niall are locked in a debate over plush toys. Harry holds up a soft bunny, its floppy ears almost comically large. “She’ll love this one. Classic and cute.”

Niall shakes his head and counters with a stuffed lion. “Nah, the lion’s cooler. And look, it roars if you squeeze it!” He demonstrates, and the sound is loud enough to make you wince.

“Definitely not the lion,” you call over. “I’m not listening to that roar at 3 a.m.”

Paul, ever the calm presence, leans on the shopping cart as he watches the chaos unfold. “You lot are worse than she is,” he says, shaking his head.

As the cart fills, you find yourself drawn to a display of cribs. You trace your fingers over the wood of one, the reality of it all hitting you again. A baby. Your baby.

Niall sidles up beside you, hands in his pockets. “That one’s nice,” he says softly. “Looks sturdy. Could paint it, make it more personal.”

“Yeah,” you murmur. Your voice catches, and Niall notices.

“You all right?” he asks, leaning closer.

“Just… everything feels real, you know?” you admit, glancing over at him. “Picking out cribs, seeing you all so excited. It’s a lot.”

He nudges your shoulder gently. “We’re here for you. All of us. You don’t have to do this alone.”

You nod, grateful for the support. Then Louis reappears, throwing an arm around your shoulders. “Don’t get all weepy on us now,” he jokes. “Come on, we’ve got bottles to pick. Harry’s convinced we need glass ones, like she’s some posh baby.”

You roll your eyes but let him lead you away, the boys trailing after you like a protective pack. By the time you leave the store, the cart is overflowing with everything from essentials to ridiculous extras you didn’t even know you needed.

As you pile into the car, Louis pipes up again. “So, who’s on assembling duty for the crib? Because I’ll tell you now, I’m useless with an Allen wrench.”

The laughter that follows feels like home, grounding you even as everything around you changes.

...

The spare room in your flat is barely big enough to fit the essentials, but as you stand in the doorway and watch the boys argue over crib assembly instructions, it already feels perfect.

Louis is sitting cross-legged on the floor, holding two wooden pieces at odd angles. “This doesn’t even look like a crib part. Are we sure this isn’t a decorative railing or something?”

“Maybe if you actually read the instructions instead of guessing,” Liam replies, crouched beside him with the manual spread out on the floor. “Step three clearly says—”

“Step three is wrong!” Louis interrupts, glaring at the paper like it personally offended him.

“You’re just not reading it right,” Liam says with an exasperated sigh.

Across the room, Niall is busy unboxing a mobile with soft pastel clouds and stars. He pokes at it experimentally, grinning when it starts to spin. “This is going to look great over her crib. She’ll love it.”

“She will if she ever has a crib to sleep in,” you mutter from where you’re sitting on a pile of cushions, watching the chaos unfold.

Harry is in the corner, meticulously folding baby clothes you picked out earlier, arranging them in a little set of drawers. “Don’t stress,” he says without looking up. “It’s coming together, isn’t it?”

You glance around the room. The walls are painted a soft cream, and Liam’s already hung a few framed prints—a cheerful alphabet poster, a watercolor of a bear holding balloons. The crib pieces are scattered, the changing table is half-assembled, and toys and books are piling up in every corner. Despite the mess, it does feel like it’s all coming together.

Paul pokes his head in, holding a toolbox. “Need help?”

“Desperately,” you say, waving him in.

Paul takes one look at the crib and shakes his head. “You lot should stick to singing,” he mutters, shooing Louis and Liam aside as he kneels down to take over.

As Paul starts working, Louis turns to you, wiping his hands on his jeans. “Right, since I’m clearly useless here, what’s next? Decorating? I’m great at that.”

“I bet you are,” you tease. “But keep it subtle. No wild patterns.”

Louis clutches his chest dramatically. “You wound me. I’ll go find some fairy lights or something tasteful.”

He disappears, and Harry finishes his folding before joining you on the cushions. “How are you holding up?” he asks, his voice soft.

“I’m good,” you reply, though your hands instinctively rest on your bump. “It’s all a bit surreal, though, isn’t it?”

Harry smiles, his gaze warm. “Surreal, but exciting. She’s going to love it here.”

Niall finishes hanging the mobile and steps back, admiring his handiwork. “Not bad, huh?” He catches your eye and grins. “You’ll have to let me know if it needs tweaking. I’m officially on mobile duty.”

“Noted,” you say with a laugh.

By the time Paul finishes the crib, the room feels transformed. The mobile hangs perfectly, the changing table is set up with tiny baskets for supplies, and the drawers are filled with impossibly small clothes. Even Louis returns with a string of soft white lights, which he drapes around the window.

As you stand in the middle of the room, taking it all in, a lump rises in your throat. “Thank you,” you say, your voice thick with emotion. “All of you. This means so much.”

“You don’t have to thank us,” Liam says gently, resting a hand on your shoulder. “We’re family. That’s what we do.”

Louis nods, tossing an arm around your shoulders. “Besides, we need her to love us more than you. We’re setting the groundwork early.”

“She’s already got the best uncles,” you reply, smiling through your tears.

“And the best mum,” Harry adds softly, and the others nod in agreement.

You look around at them, at the room they’ve helped create, and for the first time in what feels like forever, you let yourself breathe. This is real, and it’s going to be okay.

...

June 5th, 2015

The energy in Cardiff’s stadium is electric. Fans’ screams echo through the venue as the band’s soundcheck begins, their excitement palpable even from backstage. You’re perched on a stool in the production area, headset on and clipboard in hand, directing crew members and double-checking setlists.

At 23 weeks pregnant, your bump is impossible to hide beneath your loose shirt and oversized hoodie. You’ve done your best to ignore the weight of it, the persistent ache in your back, and the occasional kick from within as if the baby is reminding you to slow down. But the familiar rhythm of tour life, the chaos, and the adrenaline are addictive.

“Are you sure you’re okay to be doing this?” Paul’s voice cuts through your focus. He’s standing nearby, arms crossed, his expression a mix of concern and amusement. “You’ve been on your feet all day.”

“I’m fine,” you insist, scribbling a note on your clipboard. “I needed to get back into the swing of things.”

Paul raises an eyebrow. “The swing of things doesn’t involve you working yourself into exhaustion. Don’t think I haven’t noticed you skipping breaks.”

You sigh, knowing he’s right but too stubborn to admit it. “I’m pacing myself.”

“Pacing yourself, huh?” Louis’s voice joins the conversation as he saunters in, holding a water bottle. He hands it to you. “Pacing yourself by running around like a headless chicken?”

“Funny, considering you’re the king of chaos,” you shoot back, accepting the bottle.

He smirks, leaning against a nearby case. “True, but even I know when to take it easy. You’ve got a little one in there who needs you to chill.”

Before you can argue, Niall and Liam appear, both freshly showered and dressed for the show. Liam gives you a knowing look, as if he’s already been briefed by Paul and Louis.

“You’ve been pushing yourself too hard,” Liam says gently, his tone leaving no room for debate. “It’s okay to take a step back.”

“I don’t need all of you ganging up on me,” you reply, though the edge in your voice softens when you meet Liam’s concerned gaze.

“You’ve got nothing to prove,” Niall says, dropping onto the couch nearby. “We’ve got it covered. Besides, we’re the ones on stage—what could possibly go wrong?”

You give him a pointed look. “Do you want the list alphabetically or by severity?”

The group chuckles, the tension easing slightly. Harry joins in a moment later, adjusting his mic pack. “She’s got a point. But seriously, we’re all here. Let us take care of things.”

“I am taking care of things,” you insist, though your voice wavers as the baby shifts, pressing uncomfortably against your ribs.

Liam notices immediately, stepping closer. “Sit down,” he says firmly, guiding you to a nearby chair. “No arguments.”

For once, you don’t resist, sinking into the chair with a relieved sigh. Louis kneels down in front of you, his mischievous expression replaced with something softer. “You’re not just part of the team anymore,” he says, gesturing toward your bump. “You’ve got a whole new priority. Let us carry some of the load.”

“Plus,” Niall adds with a grin, “you’re going to need your energy to yell at us when we inevitably screw something up.”

That earns a laugh, and for a moment, the weight on your shoulders feels a little lighter.

As the band heads to the stage and the show begins, you stay backstage, watching the performance from the monitors. The crowd’s deafening cheers, the band’s infectious energy, and the seamless execution of the production remind you why you love this life.

But as you rest your hand on your bump, feeling a soft kick in response to the music, you realise they’re right. This isn’t just about you anymore. It’s time to let go of some of the control and trust that everything will be okay—even if you’re not running the show.

...

The thunderous applause still echoes faintly in your ears as you step into your hotel suite, exhausted but buzzing from the energy of the night. The boys had been incredible on stage, and you’d kept everything running smoothly backstage, but the long day had taken its toll. Your feet ache, your back feels tight, and the baby hasn’t stopped wriggling since the encore began.

You’re pulling off your hoodie when there’s a knock at the door. Before you can call out, it swings open to reveal Niall, grinning sheepishly with a small bag in hand.

“I come bearing gifts,” he announces, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation.

You arch an eyebrow. “Gifts?”

“Relaxation,” he clarifies, setting the bag on the coffee table and pulling out a few items—a small box of lavender bath salts, a candle, and your favorite herbal tea.

You chuckle softly. “Did someone put you up to this?”

“Not a chance,” he says, already heading toward the en suite bathroom. “I figured after today, you might need a bit of pampering.”

“Niall, you don’t have to—”

“Sit,” he interrupts, pointing at the couch. “Let me do something nice for you for once, yeah?”

You roll your eyes but comply, sinking into the cushions as he disappears into the bathroom. The sound of running water fills the suite, and a moment later, the subtle scent of lavender drifts into the air.

When he returns, he hands you a mug of tea, warm and fragrant. “Drink that while I finish setting up.”

You take a sip, the soothing blend easing some of the tension in your body. By the time you’ve finished, Niall is back, pulling you gently to your feet.

“Bath’s ready,” he says, leading you toward the bathroom. The lights are dim, the candle casting a soft glow across the room, and the tub is filled with steaming water, the lavender salts swirling gently.

“Wow,” you murmur, genuinely touched. “This is...perfect.”

“Good,” he says, his grin softening into something more tender. “Now get in. I’ll be out here if you need me.”

You hesitate, a part of you wanting to protest, but the allure of the warm bath is too strong. “Thank you, Niall.”

“Anytime.”

...

After the bath, you emerge feeling lighter, wrapped in a fluffy robe with your hair damp and your skin glowing. Niall is sitting on the edge of the bed, scrolling through his phone, but he looks up immediately when you appear.

“Feeling better?” he asks, standing as you approach.

“Much,” you admit, sitting beside him. “You didn’t have to do all this.”

“I wanted to,” he says simply, reaching out to take your hand. His thumb traces lazy circles over your knuckles. “You do so much for everyone else. Someone’s gotta take care of you, too.”

Your heart squeezes at the sincerity in his voice. Before you can respond, he shifts, kneeling on the floor in front of you.

“Lie down,” he says.

“What?”

“You’ve been on your feet all day,” he explains. “Let me help.”

You hesitate, but his earnest expression convinces you. You lie back on the bed, and he begins to gently massage your feet, his strong hands working out the knots and tension. It’s heavenly, and you can’t help but let out a contented sigh.

“This okay?” he asks, glancing up at you.

“More than okay,” you murmur, your eyes fluttering shut.

He moves to your calves, then your lower back, careful and attentive, never making you feel rushed or uncomfortable. By the time he’s finished, you feel like a new person, the aches and pains of the day replaced with a warm, relaxed glow.

Niall lies down beside you, propping himself up on one elbow. “You’re amazing, you know that?”

You laugh softly, turning to face him. “I think you’ve got it backward. You’re the amazing one tonight.”

He leans in, brushing a kiss to your forehead, and you feel a wave of affection so strong it’s almost overwhelming.

“Anytime you need me,” he whispers, “I’ll be here.”

Niall’s words linger in the air, soft and steady, wrapping around you like a warm embrace. He’s so close now, his blue eyes locked on yours, filled with something that makes your breath catch. For a moment, neither of you speaks, the quiet intimacy of the room stretching between you.

Your gaze flickers to his lips, and before you can second-guess yourself, you lean forward, brushing your mouth against his. It’s soft, tentative, and he freezes for a heartbeat before responding, his hand coming up to cradle your cheek.

The kiss deepens naturally, his lips moving against yours with a slow, unhurried rhythm that sends warmth spreading through your chest. His thumb strokes your cheek, and you shiver under his touch, your heart racing as his other hand rests lightly on your hip, careful and steady.

“Niall,” you murmur, your voice barely audible.

“Yeah?” he whispers, pulling back just enough to meet your eyes.

“Don’t stop.”

A small smile tugs at the corner of his mouth before he leans back in, kissing you again, this time with more intent. His hand slides to the small of your back, drawing you closer as you press your hands against his chest, feeling the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath your palms.

You tilt your head, letting him take control, and he kisses you like you’re something precious, like he’s savoring every moment. His tongue traces the seam of your lips, seeking permission, and you grant it without hesitation, a soft sigh escaping you as the kiss becomes more urgent, more consuming.

You’re vaguely aware of your robe slipping from your shoulder, but the heat of his lips on your skin distracts you from everything else. He trails kisses along your jaw, down to the sensitive spot just below your ear, and you can’t help the soft sound that escapes you.

“You’re perfect,” he murmurs against your skin, his voice low and husky.

You pull him back up, capturing his lips again, your fingers threading through his hair. The world narrows down to just the two of you, the feel of his hands, the taste of him, the way he seems to know exactly how to touch you to make you melt.

When you finally break apart, your breathing is uneven, your lips tingling. He rests his forehead against yours, his eyes half-lidded and soft.

“You okay?” he asks, his voice barely above a whisper.

“More than okay,” you reply, a smile curving your lips.

His fingers brush your hair back, and he kisses you again, this time slower, sweeter, like he’s trying to memorize the moment. When he pulls away, he stays close, his nose brushing yours.

“I mean it,” he says, his tone serious. “Anytime you need me.”

And as you lie there, your heart still racing, you think maybe, just maybe, you’re starting to believe that this could be something more. Something real.

Next chapter

[slutforalastor]

Say It With A Smile, Part 2

You remain a few steps behind the tall demon, humming a jazzy tune to himself as he leads the way to your quarters. "This hotel has undergone quite the renovation recently, you know."

You'd heard that the Princess of Hell had united the Cannibal Town under her banner and fended off the Exterminatus. You're a recent enough addition that it was to be your first one, but this hotel seemed like the best possible insurance against all future purges, if there ever would be more.

"Along this hall you can see the personalized areas of our guests," he gestures, pointing to a door decorated with a luminescent spider's web, the one right down from it painted with red bombs. A blank door, a deep burgundy to match the decor, is where the demon stops. "We go through great pains to make sure every guest feels welcome and secure," he continues. "Why don't you tell me a little bit about what you liked in your previous life, something to make you feel comfortable in your private space?"

You don't have much to say. You lived a fairly typical life, full of abandoned interests and failed starts. You worked your job, tried to ignore the fact that you had less and less of your time and money available to you with every passing year, and promised yourself that eventually, you'd find that buried passion. Somehow.

Alastor doesn't seem swayed at all. Ever smiling, he waves his staff, an aura surrounding him strongly enough for you to feel the vibrations. The door undergoes a change, bleaching from its deep red hue to an ethereally glowing white; everything from the trim to the doorknob becomes so without saturation you can only tell where it is thanks to depth perception. With a flourish, Alastor flings open to the door to your space.

The room is as white as the door. The only spatial certainties are the floor, the ceiling, and the walls. Lining them are a variety of diversions, everything from an artist's easel to a rack of musical instruments to a writing desk, all the same ghostly white. A thick haze, too firm to be smoke and too malleable to be a gas, drifts through the room.

"This is a very special something," he almost sings, animatedly shaping the haze with delicate movements of his clawed fingers. Like clay, it slowly takes shape, gathering focus until it is discernible; a tiny miniature of a buck, its chin slightly raised, its antlers full and imposing. "All one has to do is clearly concentrate on what shape they want it to take, and with some coercion, it becomes so."

You are enthralled, perhaps a little too so. You'd only seen a glimpse of the thing he'd made; your attention was far more focused on the demon himself, that confident smirk never wavering with all that he had done. This power was more than you'd thought possible, more you could have dreamt, even. And he wasn't even royalty. He notices your gaze is wandering, and his wide, red eyes find your stare. Your heart skips a beat when they catch you, and for a moment, you feel frozen. Like an animal in a trap.

He raises an eyebrow, having a little giggle to himself at your expense. "Goodness me. I suppose I should tell you, little fawn, these ears aren't just for show. I can pick up on any little change in a body like yours, and that little skip is no exception. Am I making you nervous?"

"Maybe a little."

He laughs again, giving you a smirk. "I shouldn't laugh, it's unbecoming, but it has been a while since someone has given me the credit I'm due. I like you, little fawn," he placates you, giving your head a brief pat. "Now, as hotel director, I stay quite busy, but if you should have need of anything, feel free to visit my radio tower. It's pretty hard to miss," and he guffaws at that, delighted by his own reference. He leaves you to your blank slate, and for a while you occupy yourself making your room some semblance of comfort, shaping a bed to your liking, a few important pieces of furniture, and creating a window in the wall, offering a vista you know could never be seen in Hell.

You're partway through focusing intense colors into your furniture when your stomach looses a protesting roar that reminds you that even the dead have to eat. You find that thinking of food changed the color you'd been focusing on, a gradient from pastel yellow to bread-crust brown formed on the vase you'd made a place for on a table. Ah, well, it gives it character.

You make your way out to the hall, in search of nourishment.

----

Also on AO3! | Part 1

[faegoddessog]

Woman in Red Ch 12/17

Chapter 12: Jovan and Podgorica

Series Summary: She's a very successful woman who can't seem to find a partner that can keep up with her. He is just wanting to find someone who likes him for HIM, not his fame. Neither of them are prepared for what hits them when she walks into that coffee shop.

Chapter Warnings: 18+ only, just discussion of sex, oh and some like kissing and a lil' submissiveness, and maybe a lil' jealousy. (I had get all 'author's craft' and put some character development and set up in there, I know... so weird. But let me say.. Chapter 13 will put you in heat.)

A/N: In this story, I make no mention of birth control or condoms or STI's. Please, darlings, please love yourself enough to protect yourself appropriately when you have sex. <3

Message me or leave in a comment if you'd like to be added or removed from my tagged list!

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Chapter 12: Jovan and Podgorica

They are walking the next day in the city of Podgorica. Aya had seemed rushed, though she tried to play it off as excitement. 

“The driver is already waiting,” she had said, while he finished breakfast, “it’s an hour away, let's get going!” 

He wasn’t sure why they were driving over an hour to the big city, but heck he was always up for seeing new places. 

‘What Aya wants, Aya gets,’ he had chuckled to himself as he tied his shoes. 

For the capital, it’s not that big of a city. It’s also not that big of a country, Austin reasons. Aya tells the driver to drop them off the south side of the Old Ribnica River Bridge. 

Austin is wary as they drive through an urban residential area, past old white plaster and stone work houses close together. They pass old crumbling walls then down a narrow alley like street with a mish mash of graffiti clearly done by rebellious teenagers on one corner and a Mosque on the other. Finally the road ends at a dirt turn around on what looks like a vacant lot. There are mounds of stacked stone just there as though no one actually cares that they are ancient ruins. Four or five dumpsters tagged with spray paint are the only witnesses of their arrival. Bits of the city can be seen through the line of trees at the far edge. This looks like a place that you might be taken to in the boot of car and not return from. Austin turns to look at Aya with concern. 

“Oh come on, live a little,” she says with a wink, getting out of the car. “I’ll text when and where,” she says to the driver. 

She excitedly traipses down a narrow, nearly hidden trail, lined with weeds and bits of trash. She looks completely out of place in her tailored linen trousers and off the shoulder button down. Her wedge sandals are completely not made for this. He looks at the driver who shrugs as though he’s seen her do this a hundred times. Austin hurries after her, feeling dubious. 

The trail opens up almost immediately onto a paved path that was hidden by the weeds.  He immediately breathes a sigh of relief as they turn a corner around what looks to be an old ruined tower and he sees the wide manicured steps leading down to an old stone footbridge. It spans a tributary only a few feet from its confluence with the mainstem below. What looks like a courtyard with what once was a fountain is on this side of the bridge, the embankment opposite is a tangle of stone walls,  foliage, layered rock and hollows. It feels like a set piece from The Labyrinth, apart from the traffic and city noises. 

“You had me worried there for a minute,” he says, coming up behind her. 

“Have I steered you wrong yet?” she says with a wink and a smile. 

Hand in hand,  they cross the bridge and wind their way up the hill. They pop out on a busy street. They walk a few blocks, passing the Montenegrin National Theatre, which  makes Austin perk up. 

“I think they haven’t started their season yet,” she says when he asks about going, “besides, last time I was there, I ended up getting caught being naughty in the coat closet. I’m not sure I’m welcome anymore,” she giggles as they passed.  

They walk the tree lined streets. They pass a few restaurants and art galleries. The architecture is pretty simple and at times brutalist, echoing its past.  There are a few shops to check out, but nothing fancy. Austin is wondering what it was about here that made Aya want to come so badly. 

They round the corner and find a loose crowd of people around what looks like a construction site on an empty lot. There is a mix of people in business attire, general random people, men in construction clothes and press. Austin makes to cross the street, away from the cameras.  Without a word, Aya takes him by the hand and threads her way around to the leading edge of the crowd. There is a podium and a microphone and a few clean, new shovels.  It seems to be some sort of ground breaking ceremony.  As if on cue,  a man steps up and begins a short speech. 

Not speaking Montenegrin or Serbian, Austin has no idea what is being said, but Aya seems to understand at least some. Standing next to her, he can’t help but stare at her thinking of how he couldn’t resist her if she drew him into a coat closet. He starts wondering if there are any errant closets near when he hears, “Hvala Aya Glascoc!” 

She hands him her purse and winks, then walks the handful of steps to the podium before he knows what is happening.  She shakes the man’s hand, speaking a few words to him. They turn, smiling, to the crowd as camera shutters snap. She steps back and someone hands her a hardhat and a shovel.  As though she had done it a million times, she shoves the tip into the ground and with her sandaled foot, drives the blade in, leveraging the dirt up, the crowd claps.  She kisses her hand and waves. There are a few more photos and she rejoins Austin, a couple people shaking her hand on the way.  Austin is just stunned, standing there holding her bag. Well, at least he knew why she needed to come to the city today. 

……………

“Ok,” he says, once they are sitting down. “Confession time.”

She and Austin had slipped away, hard hat, shovel and all. She had been evasive answering his questions, telling him she was hungry and needed to eat and that she knew the perfect little place. 

“Oh” she says, chin on her fist and leaning in, “what do you have to confess, is it dirty?” her eyes sparkle with mischief. 

“No,” he chuckles, “what just happened?” 

“Oh, this is my favorite little place, I always come here when I’m in Podgorica so they know me,” she evades with a giggly smile. She knows what he means. She just is shy of the subject.

They had walked into the adorable little cafe tucked away behind a nearby park. It was all stonework and plants and a massive vaulted skylight inside.  Aya had been greeted loudly with hugs, before they were seated.  

“That’s not what-” he begins.

“Aya!!!” A man, younger and handsome, walks in big strides to the table with arms wide. She jumps up and he bends his muscular form around her and plants a hefty kiss on Aya’s lips. Her hand cups his cheek in familiarity as she returns the kiss in kind. It was the kiss of someone who knew her intimately and lasted a little too long, in Austin’s opinion.  

Her eyes sparkle as she leans back, speaking in the lilting mix of what sounds like Italian and Russian to his actor's ear. The man’s hands lingers around her waist,  holding her tightly to him.  Austin smiles tightly as he is introduced as ‘my friend Jovan’ by Aya.

“Zdravo! Nice to meeting you.  I welcome all friends to Aya,” the man says in a loud voice, his English only slightly questionable. He takes his hand from Aya’s waist to extend it out to Austin, still pressing his body to hers. He shakes the man’s hand politely. He finds that he isn’t fond of the casual intimacy between the two, even when they step apart. 

Aya and the dark haired man continue talking for a few minutes in a mix of Montenegrin and English, her hand lingering on the man’s arm. Austin watches the exchange trying to keep his face neutral, but  twirling the ring he wore on his finger in agitation. He wishes that the table was not in the way so he could step closer to Aya and let this overly intimate man know he was more than just ‘friends to Aya’. 

Fuck, but is he? More than just a fuck buddy to her? The thought tightens his chest on the way to his gut, souring in his stomach. He takes a couple breaths, trying to manage what he is feeling. 

‘Calm down, you have no right to be jealous,’ he reminds himself. But he admits, it’s exactly what he’s feeling. 

Jovan walks from the table to the back of the restaurant saying  “I take care of you! You will not pay!”  

“You know I will Jovan!” she fires back. 

Austin shoots her a questioning look, pointing his thumb after the man. He doesn’t yet trust himself to speak. 

“That’s Jovan, it’s his restaurant,” Aya’s grin is ear to ear. “We fight every time over whether or not I will pay.   He is the reason I know any Montenegrin at all. Oh and this is his wife, Jelena, she always lets me pay!” She gets up and hugs the young woman that comes around the corner. 

The second Aya says ‘his wife’, the tightness in Austin’s chest lessens. Her eyes go wide when she is introduced to Austin, who stands up and shakes her hand with a big smile. 

“Wait, you are the Elvis, da?” she says in thickly accented english. 

“Yes Ma’am, that was me,” he slips into the accent unknowingly as he smiles shyly and nods. 

Family is called over, selfies are taken, autographs signed and the declaration that ‘you are family now!” is made. 

Jovan brings out the rakija and pours a tiny glass for everyone.  They toast with shouts of  Živjeli!  Jovan grabs the back of Austin’s head and plants a kiss on his cheek. It’s jarring, but Austin’s  Fan Mode is on so he keeps his cool. It’s helpful to know that Jovan treats everyone like he wants to sleep with them.

“He’s uh,” Austin blows out a breath when they settle down, wine in hand.

“Alot, I know,” she reaches over and brushes the back of his hand soothingly, “but at least he is joyful.” 

“He taught you Montenegrin, eh?” Austin asks, flipping his hand over to let her fingers dally in his palm. 

“Uh huh” she sips her wine, giving him a knowing look, drawing circles with her fingertips. 

“Oh really?” Austin tries to play cool, but feels the jealousy creep back in. His hand closes on hers, not exactly possessive. 

“Do you really want to know?” Aya asks, squeezing his hand. 

Austin blinks, “I don’t ask questions that I don’t want to know the answers to.” His hand slackens against hers. 

“Jovan was one of my more enthusiastic paramours here, until he fell in love with Jelena and got married," she says matter of factly. "He taught me to speak what little Montenegrin I know and I taught him how to make a woman orgasm six ways to Sunday,” she stares into his ocean eyes,  tracing the veins up his wrist. 

She had been at the wedding last year and had given them an enormous amount of money, enough to purchase the comfortable home they lived in. She was pretty sure that Jelena knew that the reason she enjoyed such a satisfying marriage bed was because of her. 

Austin nods, takes a breath, shivering at her touch. He laughs, looking down at her hand, feeling the weirdest conflict he’d ever felt.  It was one thing to talk about exes, and another to run into them, another still to get hugs and kisses and be called ‘part of the family’. Yet how is it that she can make talking about her ex-lovers such a fucking turn on.  Aya was an enigma. 

“I bet you did,” his voice is breathy as his fingers do their own dance on her wrist. “Thanks for being honest about it,” he says, trying to find equilibrium. 

Jovan brings out the first course, winking knowingly at Austin.

“You lucky, Aya is magic,” he says under his breath to Austin, “She teach me so good, Jelena could no refuse,” He winks conspiratorially. 

Austin just nods and smiles, possessiveness welling up again. 

The food is so delicious. Austin watches the interplay between Aya and Jovan drop to being casual and he starts to calm. 

“Ok Aya, let me try again,” Austin says as they finish the first course, “What was all that with the ground breaking?” he goes for the direct question instead of trying to be amusing. 

“Ah yes,” she dabs her mouth with the napkin, “I was a donor for the new building, part of my philanthropy. They asked me to come to the ceremony, I didn’t want to make a big deal for you.” 

“Aya was THE donor,” says Jelena behind Austin. “So modest.”

Jelena refills their wine. 

“What is it going to be?” asks Austin. 

“It will be a hospital for your mind, like depression things,” says Jelena. 

“It’s not a hospital,”  Aya clarifies,”  it’s going to be more like a community center. It’ll have a space for meditation and yoga and art classes. A place to do what makes you happy, plus a little coffee bar.”

Jelana looks at her with pursed lips… “and.”

“And the main part is for a non-profit clinic for emotional health.” says Aya almost sheepishly. 

“Oh,” says Austin, “that’s really cool, Aya. Y’know, you CAN tell me these things. You don't have to spring them on me. I want to know about your passions, so I can support them, ” he doesn’t care that Jelena is still listening in.

Jelena's eyebrow lifts at Aya as if to say, 'this one, keep this one.'

"Sorry Austin, I'm just so used to doing my own thing," she shrugs it off.

“Yes, she helps so much. We love her,” Jelena smiles warmly at Aya. Then she is pointing a finger at Austin, “Do not fuck her up… I will not like you anymore.” 

“Yes Ma’am,” he says with a smile.  

“Good,” she walks away to another table. 

“You know, that’s like the third or fourth time I’ve been told that,” he says to Aya, “You really have loyal friends.”

“I love my people, what can I say?” she sips her wine as though she were the reigning queen. 

He silently wonders why they all seem so very protective of her. It was clear that she was special in nearly every way. She was magnetic, this he knew all too well, so it only follows that those she touches, literally and figuratively, would love her. If he wanted to be more than just another bit of fluff to her, he was going to have to reconcile these exes still caring deeply about her in his mind. He knows it won’t be the last time something like this happens. 

“Why mental health?” he asks, deciding to put focus somewhere else to let his thoughts settle. 

“Well,” she says tentatively, “I think it's really important for a better society. I try to help the local clinics in every town I own a place in.  They really didn’t have one here so…” she shrugs. What she doesn’t say is that Montenegro has a high rate of suicide and that is actually why she even considered buying a place here. 

“Hmm. How, uh, how many more places do you have?” he asks.

“Ok, since you only ask questions you want to actually know the answers to, “ she smiles at him, then begins ticking off on her fingers.  “New York City, Kuala Lumpur, London and here are investments or for business so I have apartments. I have private homes in the Caribbean and near Aspen, and the Malibu house of course.” She doesn't mention her apartment in Florence. 

“How often do you get to each?” he is astounded that she has so many homes.

“At least once a year,” except Florence. She’s not ready to talk about Florence. 

…………………………

“How about a tub with me?”  Aya says stretching onto her toes to put her arms around his neck. 

She had seen Austin with Jovan, how he went a little possessive then pensive. Jovan was full-on physical touch all the time. Would she admit that part of why she drug Austin to his cafe was to see how he would handle it, maybe. She could tell that he was in his head about it now and thought maybe he needed a little simple reassurance. Besides, if he was going to get his back up every time they met someone she’d fucked, it would get old really fast. 

On the way home, Aya had snuggled into him, falling asleep on his shoulder. He watched the view, mentally dissecting his feelings. Currently, he was standing by the piano, looking out over the ocean view, trying to decide if he should tell her.

“Well, you gotta get dirty first,” Austin says with a smile, not yet, he decided. 

“Do I?” She returns his smile with a sideways glance. 

“Yes of course, otherwise the tub won’t work,” he smirks, running a line down her jaw with this thumb.

“Well, I suppose you could fuck me more, that would surely make me dirty,” she offers with a shrug, as though it’s just an idea. 

“And how exactly do you want me to fuck you more, huh? Aya?” he pulls her against his body. “Do you want me to take you up against a wall, or bend you over something? Maybe outside on the terrace again? Do you want me to lay you down and fuck you? Do you want my cock in your mouth again?“  His voice is soft but dominant. He isn’t sure where exactly all this is coming from, he only knows he wants her.

‘So much for feeling simple’, she thinks as he offers her a smorgasbord menu of sex.  The same words could have been said with spite, a challenge to her motivations. Indeed she has been accused of using sex to her advantage. But really her way is just wanting sex. Instead of acusitory, his hand is gently on her jaw, turning her face up to meet his. His eyes and his tone both tell a story of dominant desire. 

It is sexy as hell. 

“I want…I don’t,” her mind trapped by indecision, “Yes,” she finally breathes out, “any way you want me.” She lets go of any pretense that she will have any major say in what happens for the next few hours. 

“Any way *I* want,” his eyes smolder at her, “Oh, Aya, that is a dangerous thing to offer me,” he echos her words from two weeks ago, Fuck has it only been two weeks?  “Hunny, I have to admit,” his fingers shake just a little as he pushes a hair back from her face, “I don't feel like being gentle tonight.”   Aggressive possibilities flash in his mind. 

“I meant what I said,” she locks eyes with him, returning the smolder joule for joule. “Any. Way. You. Want.” The bite on her lip and the look in her eyes erase in a flash any trepidation he has.

“Well, we are definitely going to need that soak later.  I think after what I want to do to you, we will both be sore and …messy,” the word ‘messy’ melts off his lips. “Newfoundland? Right?”

“Yes Sir,” she says. This is exactly what she wants, she realizes, to not be in control. 

“Oh, I like that,” he rumbles, somehow more turned on by her submission.  He didn’t know exactly what he was going to do, only that he wanted to claim her, to have her, rule her, even if just for the night.

“Do you want me to get out some playthings?” she looks up at him through her eyelashes. 

“Yes,” he growls and pulls her in for a kiss full of promises.

She pulls away and disappears into the bedroom. He opens the piano, sits and starts playing a series of cascading arpeggios. It’s his go-to warm up when he wants to play, plus it sounds impressive and satisfying.   He is the picture of a patient man with nothing to do but tickle the ivories, inside he is all nerves though. They’ve not talked about any sort of sub/dom stuff yet. Honestly he figured if they did, he’d be the one kneeling at her feet, not the other way around. Not that he’s not played like this, he has ideas. It’s just that he doesn’t know what she’s ok with or what ‘playthings’ she’s going to bring. Fuck, as long as she is taking,  it could be an entire orgy army she is assembling in there though a secret tunnel.  

Aya spends a few minutes digging deep into the back of her closet to find what she is looking for.  Her hands shake in excitement as she pulls the box out. She has one similar to this in every house she owns. She can’t remember if she’s used everything in this one or not.  She hears him playing her piano and smiles.  She has no idea what he’ll be up for as she glances inside. She kicks herself for not bringing it up sooner. But hey, no time like the present. As she turns to leave, she sees something strappy and black peeking out from behind a boho dress.  Perfect! 

When Aya comes back from the bedroom after freshening up, she is carrying an ornately carved lidded box and wearing a bra and panty set that look to be more like elaborate crisscrosses of black elastic than actual lingerie. It frames her snake tattoo nearly perfectly as well as her naked nipples. Her hair flows down her back, but is held away from her face with a clip.  

His eyebrow raises at her appearance and he stops mid arpeggio, the sound from the sustain pedal ringing in the body of the instrument.  He decides she was worth the wait, his hard cock agrees.  She comes over and presents him with the open box. With one glance, he knows what he wants to do with her. 

“Oh my, so many possibilities in one little box,” his look to her is pure devilish lust, “Pet.”

[starlightfireflies]

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written for @flashfictionfridayofficial prompt: FFF259; house of cards warnings: none word count: 418

I wake to red. 

It is interlaid with patterns of white, the shadows throwing the brightness into soft gray. It is nothing like the blue paint of my home—though I think I can see the color, bright and popping, somewhere in the corner of my eye. 

Standing up, I heave myself to my feet. I have found myself somewhere small. Tiny. Where my footsteps lead me to a drop that I would only have to trip in order to plummet.  

I back away from it. Instead of risking my life, I make a sharp turn. It only reveals that I am in a small, cave-like structure. Light streams in from both sides, causing the wood floor I am standing on to dapple. 

Now, I can see more clearly. The cave opens into a flat face with the same paint color as my walls. Frowning, I creep a little closer. The blue was custom made by my eccentric sister, a product of hours of care, a color so unique I’ve never seen it anywhere else. 

Except here.  

Something rumbles—the ground, I realize, as I am forced to crouch down low to keep myself from tumbling. 

Moments later, screams erupt. They are loud but not high. Many but not sad. Rather, they are the screams of delighted children. In fact, they sound like my little cousins, delighted with all the new sensations of my house when they came to stay. 

As if summoned, my cousins enter the view of the cave. 

But it is as if I have shrunk. Their faces are massive, filling the entirety of the opening, blocking the light and casting me into shadow. 

“Look!” calls one. “Let’s knock the cards over!” 

I freeze.  

The red and white and grey arrange itself into my mind. The backs of my prized playing cards swirl in my mind as memories come rushing back. 

Footsteps sound, but now it sounds like an earthquake. Another one of my cousins steps into my line of sight. She has a stick clutched in her hand, and the whispered conversation she’s having with her brother does nothing to calm my shaking nerves. 

Card towers, I think, and an image of a delicately balanced house floats to the surface. I was making a house of cards—and then what? 

A great gust of wind knocks me off my feet. My cousin has swung the stick. 

I can hear it. 

The cards are collapsing. 

The perfect house is gone. 

And I will follow suit. 

[versegm]

You didn't think you'd see the gardens of Avalon ever again.

Though, you didn't think you'd see Avalon ever, period, because only the innocent may pass and you have long crossed that bridge. But you were wrong the first time, and it seems like you are wrong once more, waking up in a field of blooming flowers. 

This is a dream, of course. Which doesn't make it any less real, mind you (you have a hard time telling dreams and reality apart these days) but that also means that you can jump on your feet way faster than you would have when awake. Having no joint pain carrying over will do that to a man.

"Alright," you wonder out loud, "where I am?"

Surprisingly, you don't see Merlin's tower. You don't see much of anything at all, really. Flowers, flowers, a little cottage, and oh, wouldn't you guess it! More flowers.

That cottage is intriguing though, so you head that way. The closer you get, the odder it looks. It has been painted with bright colors, mirroring the flower field around it. The painter was obviously very passionate... and very unskilled. Though, to their defense, painting on walls made of literal swords slot into one another cannot be easy.

You knock, twice. At the absence of response, you open the door and walk in. Similarly, the interior was clearly decorated by someone who wanted it to be cute, but had nothing but swords to work with. There's a wardrobe (made of swords,) a kitchen table (also swords,) a bed (with, thank god, a regular mattress) and-

someone rests on that bed. They turn to look at you as you step in. Half-awake, disheveled, it takes you a second to recognize that they have your face.

"Hello!" You greet them with a smile. It's not your first time meeting another one of you. You might as well be polite. "Sorry for barging in, I-"

The figure jumps on all four, bares their teeth, and launches themself at you.

You flinch back, more by reflex than intent, barely dodging the snap of their jaws. You hurriedly step back, heartrate quickening. Fuck, fuck, fuck. You're three steps away from the door. If you throw a gandr at them, it might buy you some time-

The person tries to bite you again, snarling- only to be abruptly stopped mid-jump.

They have a collar. They have a collar, wrapped tight around their neck. They have a collar, and a leash, a thick chain keeping them tied to the bed.

They snarl at you, growl and spit like an animal, not a single word coming out of their mouth. They flail their arms wildly, trying to claw at you with long nails.

They don't reach you. A firm hand closes around your collar, and jerks you away from their reach.

"Ritsuka," speaks a soft voice, "I told you. If you want to bite, bite this."

The person who pulled you away from the mad dog extends an arm forward. Your other self wastes no time; they grab that arm, pulls it forward, and sink their teeth in the flesh. The person doesn't so much as flinch.

Instead, she turns to look at you, and smiles. "Hello to you too, Ritsuka." Says Artoria Avalon. "I'm sorry you had to see this."

You don't know what to say. You don't know how to even begin to process this. 

While you stand dumbstruck, Artoria steps forward. Your other self moves to bite her closer to the elbow. Her pale skin is littered in red teeth mark, you notice. This isn't the first time happened.

"It's okay," she says, calm as ever, as she wraps her other arm around the stranger wearing your face. "It's okay, Ritsuka. It's just me."

Her words must stir something inside of them, because they let go of her arm. There is a small, pitiful whine, and then they start licking at the bite mark.

"It's okay. I know you didn't mean it." She raises a hand to pet their hair. "It doesn't hurt that much anyways. Your jaws aren't that strong, Ritsuka."

You swallow hard. "What... what happened to them?"

Artoria doesn't even turn to look at you. "Wouldn't you know best?"

You do. Of course you do. If you have learned anything from this baseball game, it's this: for every one of your success, there is a version of you who fails. This one- this is the one who chose to forget the horrors they've seen. "This is the one who chose to be an animal."

That gets Artoria to looks at you, glaring with all her might. "Don't speak of them like that. Don't speak of yourself like that." A slight pause. And then, in a calmer tone: "They're human. You're human. They just... forgot about that, for now."

"Do you think they can remember?"

"They recognize me, don't they?" And surely, they must; why else would they press themself against Artoria so? Why else would they try to soothe the bites they gave? "I found them wandering between timelines, hurt and alone. They are no longer hurt. I won't let them be alone. I will help them be human again. They will be okay. I will make sure of it."

"Do you even know what that means, to be human?" She's a fairy, and a sword, and a star so bright you want to hold her in your palms even as she burns your skin away. Doesn't she have enough of a burden to carry? Why saddle herself with you?

"I know you, if nothing else. And what are you, if not a human?"

You are unsure of many things. You don't believe that you are innocent. You don't believe that you are sane. You don't believe that you are a good person at all, really.

But human. That, yes. That, you're certain you are.

"Thank you," you tell her, on the behalf of the you who has yet to remember how to speak. "Sorry for the bites. They must hurt."

"I told you. It's alright. I don't mind." She smiles, at you, at them, at Ritsuka Fujimaru. "I am your sword. I will never let you be alone. I will never let any of you be alone, Ritsuka."

[usermischief]

♞Pairing: Steo ♞Characters: Stiles Stilinski, Theo Raeken, Mason Hewitt, Liam Dunbar ♞Tags/Warnings: - ♞Words: 5320 ♞ @steodiscord's SteoSpooktober Vol.5 - Costume ♞Part 1 - House of Darkness / Part 3 -

a/n: This fic can be read without reading Part 1, but there will be references to what happened in "House of Darkness".

ao3

***

once upon a do-over

Stiles pushes his hands in the pockets of his jeans, squinting at the old structure maybe 250 feet away from them. It might have been a castle once. The sand-colored bricks and tower still left standing seem to hint at it. There’s no shot it’s from royalty; there would have to be records of that. Biting the inside of his cheeks, Stiles squints at the tower. He can’t quite figure out why, but something about it makes him feel a bit… queasy? Perhaps. He just doesn’t like the feeling it causes in the pit of his stomach. There’s something wrong about it, Stiles can’t put his finger on what. Although, it could very well have everything to do with the no-trespassing signs all over the goddamn place.

What he knows for certain, however, is that he’s been right. Not the biggest surprise. He didn’t expect Mason to calm him months after the Conjuring House debacle to invite him to a costume party. Luckily, Stiles will be going on a costume party later today, so, Lydia’s three hour-long makeover will not be for nothing. Her very recent obsession with American Horror Story’s first season has translated into his costume, and since she wasn’t allowed to paint Jackson’s perfect face white, Stiles ended up as the Tate Langdon to her Violet Harmon. The good thing about this costume is, the skeleton make-up does make his face unrecognizable, something he’s still very much interested in. The bad thing? His clothes – especially his black jeans – are tight, much tighter than any clothes he owns.

Still, since Mason and Liam clearly lied to him, questions need to be asked. “Why are we here?”

Mason turns to him, beaming like a thousand watts. “Because this is Satan’s Castle.”

Liam bounces on his heels, clearly sharing his best friend’s excitement. They’re infuriatingly happy about absolutely everything. It’s terrible.

“No,” Stiles says, gesturing back and forth between Theo and him – because, yes, Theo joined this trip as well – “why are we here?” This isn’t an emergency, especially none that required Stiles and Theo. Together. Joining Liam and Mason on their stupid little exploration. They’re not friends. Never have been. Lydia asked Stiles to keep an eye on these shitheads during their visit to the Conjuring House. That does not mean he’s required to be around all the time whenever they go to some shady sounding places.

It's not that he wouldn’t, Stiles simply hates that Theo is here too after he finally stopped being pissed at him.  

But, hey, this is what he gets for taking a gap year and deciding to live closer to home again. Not that Los Angeles is that close. Ever since the Conjuring House adventure, Stiles isn’t sure he wants to become an FBI Agent. That was his dad’s dream until a kid was in the picture. Stiles gets the appeal, and part of him still wants to help the living. The more time he spends away from Harvard, working jobs most people don’t even know exist, he wonders if perhaps the dead and other creatures not fit to be around the living are his forte – and it pays more than well. People are giving him surreal amounts of money even if he just tells them they have rats in their walls instead of a poltergeist.

Mason exchanges a quick glance with Liam. “Well,” he says because the latter decides that his camera is a lot more interesting than the conversation, “you’re brilliant and mysterious and can see dead people, and you—” Mason cocks his head to the side a little and shrugs, “you’re hot.”

Theo raises his brows. “You mean I have the money.” That he's ignoring the comment about his appearance says a lot about what type of mood he's in. Although Stiles doesn’t have any idea why Theo is mad. He’s not the one who’s been ghosted for seven fucking months.

“Our viewers don’t exactly care about that,” Liam says barely loud enough to be heard.

Stiles folds his arms over his chest. “There’s no costume party.” Mason is a terrible liar, but Stiles agreed to this because as angry as he’s been with Theo, part of him wanted to see that asshole again – either to draw a line in the sand officially, or to give this another shot. He’s not quite sure yet. He’s not exactly proud of it – and he's even less proud of allowing Lydia to put him in these ridiculously tight jeans.

But it’s working; he’s caught Theo looking more than once.

Mason tugs on his own costume – Count Dracula, judging by the impressive cloak he keeps stumbling over – and pulls his shoulders up. “It’s a Halloween special.”

“It’s a—" Theo cuts himself off and turns away with a roll of his eyes.

“You didn’t even come in costume,” Liam snipes, who – very lazily, mind you – threw on a pair of scrubs and a doctor’s coat.

Theo bares his teeth, fangs looking as deadly as always. “I don’t need one.”

“I think the more pressing issue is that you guys lied to us.” Stiles isn’t the biggest fan of being used. It’s fucking rude in general, but after being a meat puppet for a 1000-year-old fox demon, shit like this hits very differently. “You could’ve just asked.” Although Stiles isn’t entirely sure he would’ve agreed after the disaster the Conjuring House ended up being. He really didn’t appreciate being flung around like a ragdoll.

Fucking demons and their audacity.

“I wouldn’t have come—”

“You agreed the moment I mentioned Stiles,” Liam shoots back, clearly done with everyone’s attitude.

Stiles glances at Theo, who resolutely stares in the other direction. Even his gnashed teeth don’t hide the slight tinge of pink on his cheeks. Fuck. What the hell does that mean? Theo never called after the night they spent together, and Stiles gave up after his second text went unanswered but read for months – and that’s why he should have said ‘no’ instead of ‘sure, why not?’ the moment Mason brought him up.

Yet here he is.

Sighing, Stiles raises his hands in mock defeat. “Fine,” he says, trying his hardest not to sound as delighted as he feels, “we’re already here. Give me your research.” He beckons for the phone Mason has been clutching to his chest like his prized possession.

The huge grin on his lips certainly proves that he’s been waiting for his request. “The story is wild,” Mason tells him as he hands over his phone.

Stiles draws his brows together. “The first sentence states that—"

“I know.” Mason waves his hand around dismissively. “But every legend has a kernel of truth, right?”

“I mean… in theory, I guess, yeah…” Stiles trails off, understanding why they wanted him to come so desperately, they dragged Theo here as well. They want to figure out the truth, or rather, they want someone to confirm this research. Frowning at the phone, Stiles sighs. He’d like to be a bit more optimistic, but everything Mason found points in a very different direction. Nothing is known about this place, not even who built it; the best guess is some random tycoon living in the late 1800s. They can’t even say what it was used for — only that Robert Atkinson apparently owned it at one point. Otherwise, the usual rumors are attached to these ruins, dark rituals, satanism, secret tunnels, and— “fucking hell.”

“400 kids?” Theo asks, startling Stiles as he leans even closer to continue to read. “They flew them back and forth and nobody noticed?”

“Not at once.” Stiles rolls his eyes. Still, Theo does have a point. “Also, it’s the ritualistic assault that’s concerning me more, but good to know where your priorities lie.” Shaking his head, he hands the phone back to Mason. There’s not really anything in there that’s remotely helpful. It sounds as if people are desperately trying to fill the history of ruins that should have plenty already. Of course, they want to believe that means some bad shit went down here. People are wired that way. But the ruins are part of somebody’s backyard, and it doesn’t look particularly decrepit. So, whoever owns it, takes pretty good care of it — and unless they’re a Satanist, too, it’s hard to imagine something’s going on here.

Besides, Tara, who once again decided to follow her brother around, has no qualms inspecting the place. She’s been quite nervous at the Conjuring House. She’s completely different here. Perhaps, she is enjoying the view as well.

The Rim of the World is undoubtedly breathtaking.

Staring at the horizon isn’t going to get him any faster to the party, though. Stiles sighs again and heads towards the ruins. “This better not be a waste of a good costume.”

“And my priorities are out of whack?” Theo asks with a snort.

Stiles shoots him a look over his shoulder. He grimaces a little when he spots Liam already handling the camera. There’s no way he’s ever going to enjoy or get used to being always filmed.

“Are you seeing anything?” Liam asks.

Now that Stiles has stopped ignoring every single ghost, it has gotten significantly easier to see and hear them. It’s quite unsettling, if he’s entirely honest, because blocking them out becomes increasingly harder. Here’s to hoping the same doesn’t go for anything else. “Aside from the ‘No Trespassing’ signs?” Or the aggressive neighborhood watch sign informing them that the police will be called immediately. Stiles is very glad his face is obscured by paint because there are most likely more cameras around.

“Ghosts,” Liam deadpans. “Demons. Entities?”

“Take your pick,” Theo adds with a bark of laughter.

Stiles rolls his eyes. “No, there’s nothing.” Well, aside from Tara roaming the grounds, but she hardly counts. Her relaxed state and the absence of other ghosts can only mean one thing; nothing happened here. If there had been as many satanic rituals as the research suggested, the place would be crowded. They are dawn to evil places, to places with a brutal history; all those lingering negative feelings are like catnips to the spirits who refuse to move on — or to the entities who have no business being here.

“We’re not even there yet,” Mason mutters, sounding more than annoyed as he walks off the street and heads towards the field, his cloak swooshing dramatically after him.

Liam follows his friend, panning the camera slowly away from Theo and Stiles, over the ruins, and to where Mason is now awkwardly stumbling downhill. Someone clearly has no intention of getting too close to the person owning the castle. Probably not the worst idea. If they have to trespass, it’s most definitely smarter to do it from below. They’re taking a risk, overall, and it would suck if they did so for nothing.

But Stiles doesn’t want to play pretend or straight-up lie, and he doubts they would want that either. He doesn’t know the guys very well, but their final product about the Conjuring House has been pretty honest. It was more of a documentary than a scare-fest, littered with solid history spoken over beautifully shot B-roll of the house. Maybe that’s why people enjoyed it so much. There was no script, no weird sound effects — just the raw footage cut together into a mostly coherent narrative. They’re probably planning to do the same for this place.

“You don’t have to feel guilty.”

“Keep your nose out of my chemo signals, Theodore.” Stiles narrows his eyes and studies the other boy for a few moments; the fact that he looks amazing in his leather jacket, tight jeans and skintight purple tank top suddenly pisses him off, although it’s not Theo’s fault Stiles got his hopes up. “You lost that right when you couldn’t pick up the fucking phone or text me back.” He’s not usually this aggressively honest about his feelings, but Theo’s behavior really got to him. It felt different. He didn’t sound like the usual dickhead trying to talk his way into someone’s pants.

And usually, Stiles is a magnet for those exact dickheads. He should’ve listened to his gut, but no. Trust the jock with the sad childhood story, why would he end up as a cliché? Clearly, Stiles was very wrong about that, and he’s not planning on making that mistake again.

“Okay,” Theo amends, the smirk betraying his apologetic voice, “I know, but I—"

Stiles holds up a hand and turns away. “Save it.” This discussion can wait, or even better yet, it does not need to happen. It was clearly a misunderstanding, although Stiles isn’t entirely sure what could be misunderstood when they’d both exchanged numbers. Theo changed his mind, or maybe he simply did it to placate Stiles, thinking he’d never see him again.

Whatever.

Stiles turns away and heads down the hill to join Mason and Liam. The last thing he needs is being alone with Theo any longer than strictly necessary. They’ll have enough time to pass between each other when Mason and Liam gather some B-roll.

The hill is a lot steeper than it looked from up top, and the ground underneath his feet isn’t exactly sturdy. Rocks and dirt roll down the hill. Neither his Vans nor the tight jeans Lydia forced him into are helpful in this endeavor.

What was he even thinking? That Theo would magically change his mind just because his ass looks great? He’s such an idiot, and soon, he might be an idiot rolling down a mountain on camera. This evening is going swimmingly. But at least he’s not sweating his ass and makeup off.

“Fuck,” Theo curses softly. A moment later, he falls past him, a bunch of rubble joining his tumble down the hill. He ends up on his ass and slides a bit further down until he manages to stop himself on a bigger rock jutting out of ground.

Stiles presses his lips together, trying his best not to laugh.

Heaving a breath, Theo glares at him over his shoulder.

Liam and Mason are still engrossed in a conversation, checking something on the latter’s phone.

“Pay me enough, and I didn’t see a thing,” Stiles tells him, carefully continuing down the mountain. If he falls, his pants are toast, and he’s certainly not going to be on camera with his jeans ripped in unfortunate places.

Brushing off dust and dirt, Theo huffs out a breath. “Name your price.”

“You wouldn’t be able to afford me,” Stiles shoots back instantly, although he’s not entirely sure about that. Judging by all his comments, Theo seems to be loaded. He’s usually the one driving, and he was the one paying for the hotel back in Rhode Island.

He’s almost reached Mason and Liam standing by the tower when something catches his eye. It’s a flurry of motion, drained of color like ghosts usually are. Stiles cranes his neck to see where it went, unsure if it’s Tara or someone else. In this moment of inattentiveness, he puts his foot on rubble and dirt that instantly gives way underneath him — his balance goes straight out of the window. Stiles curses under his breath as he frantically looks around for something to catch himself on.

There is nothing.

Of course.

Liam turns around, probably alerted by noises of stones rolling down the hill right behind him. His eyes grow wide, and he presses the camera into Mason’s hands. Before he has the chance to move, however, strong hands grab Stiles’ waist, stopping further disaster from happening.

“Careful now, we don’t want you to ruin your costume, do we?” Theo’s voice is barely a whisper. It’s sending shivers up and down Stiles’ spine.

He loathes the effect this guy has on him regardless of the months of frustration he suffered. But that’s in the past. Stiles let his guard down once, he’s now learned from his mistake, and he will not do it again — although Theo’s hands on his waist feel amazing regardless of his current resentment of the guy. He certainly wouldn’t complain if his hand slipped under— no. Absolutely not. “I think I saw something.” Stiles straightens himself, his foothold just secure enough that the ground won’t give away under him, and elbows Theo in the ribs. Sharp pain travels up his arm. He grimaces.

Fucking werewolves.

Mason’s eyes light up. “Where?” he asks, pushing the camera back in Liam’s hands.

“Somewhere over there.” Stiles points in the opposite direction of the ruins. “It might’ve been Tara. I’m not sure.”

“Where’s she now?” All the playfulness has left Theo’s voice. His sister remains a sore spot. It probably hasn’t gotten any easier now that he knows she’s following him around; if he believes it, that is.

Stiles shakes his head. “I can’t see her right now.”

“And that’s a good sign?” Liam inquires, glancing around the mountain.

“I don’t know yet.” Although the place doesn’t necessarily feel as evil as the name Satan’s Castle would suggest, now that Stiles is up close and personal with it, something feels… weird. Not inherently evil. This is nothing like the Conjuring House, but there is something. He just can’t tell if it’s bad history or something entirely different.

Mason rubs his hands together. “Could fire cleanse this place?”

“You mean ‘burn it down’? Theo asks, stepping so close his shoulder bumps against Stiles’.

It’s almost impossible to shut down the shouting match between his brain ordering him to move away and his body begging to step closer. Instead, Stiles crosses his arms. “That depends on how they did it.”

“With fire?”

Stiles turns to glare at Theo. “Do you ever shut up?” Despite everything he went through at the Conjuring House, he’s still a fucking shithead. Unbelievable. How the hell can he still be so doubtful regarding everything that’s going on?

The grin spreading on the other’s lips doesn’t bode well. “Feel free to use kisses as a method to shut me up any time.”

Stiles has never been so happy to wear makeup because nobody can see his cheeks flushing under all that white covering his whole face and throat. Maybe he should consider wearing costumes more often — especially when he’s around Theo. He’s not at all interested in giving the guy any inclination about his feelings for him. Once this is over, the first thing Stiles is going to do is teach himself how not to be hung up on people who only give a shit about him whenever he’s conveniently around.

After a moment of silence, in which even Mason and Liam stared at Theo in surprise, Stiles merely shrugs. “If they salted the place, then yes, they might have cleansed it.”

Although the evening sun is still having enough strength, a shiver runs down his spine. It’s too quiet for something to be here. Maybe it’s just the place itself that gives him the creeps. Ruins often have this effect on him. There’s something strange about being in a place that used to be full of life, that was a home to someone; its history lost, and all that’s left are rumors that can’t be disproven. The tower with its five points — so easy to believe it’s meant to be a pentagram — does the rest. Stiles wonders if it’s the shape that gave birth to all the horrors people believe happened here.

“So…” Liam trails off, the camera still facing Stiles and Theo. “It’s not haunted?”

Stiles sighs. “It might not be no.” It’s not the answer either of the boys wants to hear — Theo most likely won’t care — but it’s the only one he can give them if they keep standing beneath this goddamn tower. Seeing a stray ghost, that may or may not have been Tara, isn’t proof for anything. “Wait here.”

“What? Why?” Mason asks, his voice stuck between frustration and hope.

Raising his brows, Stiles gestures past the scrub surrounding the tower — probably to keep people out. “Because I’m going to go there.”

“There’s a ‘No Trespassing’ sign right next to us,” Theo points out, raising his brows and looking at Stiles like he’s seen him for the first time.

Stiles snorts out a laugh. “Aw, are you worried? That’s so sweet.”

Unsurprisingly, that hits a nerve. Theo narrows his eyes. “It’s your trespassing charge. Have fun.” He really acts as if he’s never done anything wrong before in his life. That sounds insanely boring.

“I’ll be back in a few minutes,” Stiles promises, watching as Liam and Mason exchange a look that’s more than a little loaded. It’s not like they could technically stop him from “I’m just going check for any activity. If anyone asks, you tried to stop me.” It’s not the first time Stiles trespassed. So far, he hasn’t been caught, and now, he’s got a few more tricks up his sleeve. He’s going to be in and out. Well, not really in. Still, he should probably remind them to cut this part out. Although nobody can see his face, his trespassing doesn’t need to be on video for the world to see.

Giving the two boys a thumbs up, Stiles presses as closes to the tower as possible to shimmy between the scrub and the wall. He’s not interested in going any further down that mountain with his tight jeans — even this is a terrible idea.

“Theo!” Liam snaps.

“Go get some B-roll,” Theo calls over his shoulder.

Stiles glances at him. “Shut up.” Although people are most likely aware that they’re sneaking around here, they really do not need to announce their trespassing. Carefully, he pokes his head around the tower and surveys the area. The castle must’ve been huge before they burned it down, but the thing that interests him the most is the doorway across from him. He doubts that’s where he’s going to find the entrance to a tunnel, but for now he at least wants to check if this place even has graffiti that could potentially be satanic. The tower itself is suspiciously clean for an abandoned and allegedly haunted location.  

With Theo right behind him, Stiles hurries along the old path, his steps silenced by the overgrown grass. He ducks under the ivy covering the top of the doorway and steps into the room. The drop in temperature is noticeable, but that’s pretty much the most exciting thing. It doesn’t take more than two people to make this room almost a bit too claustrophobic for Stiles’ taste. The charred walls don’t exactly ease the tight feeling in his chest.

This part of the history is plain to see. People have burned this place down. Stiles swallows around the lump in his throat while brushing his fingertips over the cold stonewall. Nobody burned, at least not in here.

“Well, that’s anti-climactic.” Theo steps next to him, nudging the leftover chain-link fence on the floor. “Anything on the ghost radar?”

For a moment, Stiles contemplates elbowing Theo in the face, but it’s not going to be worth the pain he’ll feel. “If you think it’s so funny, try living with it.” Stiles turns away from the unused fence and furrows his brow at the graffiti on the opposite wall. ‘Spikey Kelly’ in bright red. That’s really the only thing of note in the whole place. All the other graffiti is worn with age.

Stiles has no idea what that even means. Is that a name?

“Sorry.” Theo offers him an apologetic smile. “I’m still trying to wrap my head around your whole thing.” He gestures around, and for what it’s worth, he seems genuine.

Stiles opens his mouth, tempted to ask, ‘is that why you never called me back?’, but he shakes his head instead. “There’s nothing here.”

There’s absolutely no way he’ll have this conversation in the burned down ruins of an allegedly satanic castle — a satanic castle with no satanic symbols whatsoever. An evil place is easy to recognize by the shit all over the wall. Spikey Kelly, however, doesn’t exactly invoke fear. Stiles shuffles around Theo and pushes the ivy away.

“At least the view is great.”

That’s hard to deny. The view from up here is breathtaking, almost like they’re in a completely different world with the sky and a picturesque landscape as far as the eye can see. It’s hard to imagine Los Angeles is just a little over an hour away. They’re standing on top of the world, free, ready to fly at a moment’s notice.

Stiles wishes it were that easy.

Theo steps next to him, his body warm. “I bet the sunset is beautiful up here.”

Yeah, it’s probably worth the drive.

Ignoring the loaded statement, Stiles turns towards the tower. There’s a white wooden door leading into it, so new it ruins the image of the castle — as does the light just above it. This would be the first place Stiles prefers to be by day. “Let’s check out the tower.” Knowing his luck, the door is locked.

“Stiles.” Theo grabs his arm and pulls him back in, pulls him almost too close. “I know you’re mad—"

“I’m not mad,” Stiles interrupts, and he’s very clearly lying. The thing is, he is more pissed at himself for falling for the same bullshit over and over again. “You made your choice, whatever. Just don’t expect me to fucking swoon because you’re gracing me with your presence.” He pulls his hand free, not ready to admit out loud that Theo is still very successful at working his magic, and Stiles very much could swoon every time he simply smiles at him. That pisses him off even more than Theo not having the balls to tell him he wanted sex and nothing more. “Let’s go. I don’t want to hang out here any longer than I have to.” There is still the risk of being found, after all.

Without waiting for a reply, Stiles turns on his heels and hurries towards the white door. Here, he is very much out in the open. The light above his head turns on, but the door doesn’t budge.

Fuck.

“Why does that lamp have a motion sensor?” Theo asks, hovering directly behind him. Looks like he still doesn’t have any respect for personal space or boundaries.

Stiles covers most of the door with his body, brushing his thumb along the lock. “Try sneaking in at night when this place lights up like a Christmas tree.” Anger and spite have been surprisingly great teachers. Instead of wallowing in self-hatred, Stiles spend his time leaning into what he can do post-nogitsune. If he didn’t accept himself for who he is, how are other supposed to take him seriously? So, he buried his nose in books and has gotten the hang of little magic tricks, like opening and locking doors. It has worked on his apartment door every time so far, and this can’t be too complicated a lock.

He hears a soft click.

Yes.

Stiles pushes the door open just enough to slip into the room behind it.

“How,” Theo asks, closing the door swiftly behind him and plunging them in total darkness, “did you do that?”

A moment later, light illuminates most of the room and confronts Stiles with an almost disappointing reality. He didn’t exactly have his hopes up high, but he still hoped to find something. This? This is a waste of everybody’s time. No doors, nothing that even hints a secret door. No pentagrams, no 666, no graffiti that could even remotely been considered satanic. But the room isn’t looking too clean either. There are random graffiti smeared all over the walls, and the room itself looks like a bomb went off on it. Clutter is lying all over the ground, and the shelves are filled with it as well. It’s a miracle they didn’t step on anything.  

It’s nothing more than a storage room.

Stiles scrunches up his face. “That was a bust.”

“Excuse me?” Theo snaps his fingers in front of Stiles’ face. “How’d you get that door open?”

“It was stuck.”

“I heard the lock click.”

Stiles makes a dismissive gesture. “You imagined that.”

With an exasperated sigh, Theo points the flashlight directly in his face. “I get it. You’re still mad—"

This again. “Put the fucking flashlight down.” Stiles cannot believe he has to tell him that. He blinks and squints a little, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the dimness of the room.

“Stiles—”

“Fine.” He barely resists to throw his hands in the air. “I thought you giving me your number meant we’d stay in contact. You didn’t call or text me back. I moved on.” Quite literally, in three occasions. Well, four if he counts the thing with Lydia and Jackson. It took him longer than he’d care to admit, but it’s not like he broke down crying. His mind simply liked to play the ‘what if’ game. What if Theo did call back? What if Stiles just tried one more time? What if he visited Beacon Hills and accidentally bumped into him? Endless possibilities, none of them happened. “I thought you were different. That’s why I was mad at first, but if you think I cried my eyes out because a jock doesn’t want me back, you’re dead wrong.” And that’s the truth. As angry and a little heartbroken as he was, his dignity wouldn’t allow to shed a single fucking tear for Theo Raeken.

Theo raises his hands defensively. “I want you, but the whole thing with my sister…” he trails off, staring at the ground for a moment.

Stiles stares at him in shocked silence. I want you. Three simple words that shouldn’t stun him, that certainly shouldn’t get to him. But they do because he can’t shake his attachment to people no matter how much he likes to pretend that’s not the case. He swallows drily. Those three words aren’t what he should focus on. He takes a deep breath. “You think I wouldn’t have understood if you told me?”

Theo glances up at him, smiling apologetically. “I regret ghosting you. No… no pun intended.”

Rolling his eyes, Stiles carefully steps away from Theo. He’s pissed. Again. This time because Theo is essentially opening the door, Stiles fully intended to keep shut. “Yeah well, I regret a lot of things too,” Stiles mutters, trying his best to shut his feelings off. “Having this conversation? It’s at least in the top five.” It’s uncalled for, Stiles knows that, but he’s not interested in talking about this any longer — even less inside this disappointed, entirely non-satanic storage room.

Theo stares at him, opening his mouth before deciding against whatever he’s intended to say first. A mask slips onto his features as he steps closer, a hand reached out to grab his arm. “I wanted to see you again, desperately, so I could apologize.” The smirk returns in full force, eyes flashing almost mischievously as he inches closer. “But maybe my tongue can do a better job of saying sorry than my words can.”

Stiles’ heart stutters in his chest, cheeks flushing hotly once again. Fucking hell. Theo shouldn’t be allowed to have this much power over him still, but it’s like his body is drawn to him, impossible to get away, impossible to fully let go. Get it together, Stilinski. “Tempting offer,” he replies, hoping that his voice won’t give away how he really feels about the words — even though it doesn’t matter, Theo can probably smell how bad he wants him too, “but I’m not going to waste this costume on you.”

The response startles the smirk off Theo, and he lowers his arm, brows drawn together. “What’s that supposed to mean?” Relieve flushes through Stiles when he realizes control is firmly back in his own hands. Now, all he needs is to get out of here. “We’re going to a costume party.”