#i see their glitter eyeshadow things and I’m like “I know a blonde bitch who would love that! and I’m not talking about me!!!”

[lestatthevamp]

They gotta do a colourpop collab … right?? Lestat Glitter eyeshadow… cmon we gotta LOOK like this bitch if we’re gonna watch

[artificialqueens]

Crying In My Prom Dress (Cracker x Jujubee) - Mumu

AN: Couldn’t get the Prom Queen Fantasy runway out of my head, so I wrote something for it! Read on AO3 here.

Summary: Jujubee knows she’s not winning prom queen. Brianna makes her night better.

Jujubee is bored out of her mind. Whoever said that prom is the highlight of your life must not have had very much of a life to begin with, because Jujubee has been to basement parties better than this. Then again, school dances are always boring, so maybe she should have known.

She’s been standing at the edge of the dance floor for what feels like hours, swirling a cup of punch in her left hand. Thank the heavens the stoners had the good sense to spike it a few hours before. If not for the alcohol, Jujubee probably would have ditched by now.

Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Shea, head thrown back in the middle of a laugh. She looks absolutely gorgeous tonight, with red petals clipped into her hair, her pink dress shimmering under the cheap neon lights. She looks like every little girl’s dream.

Jujubee can’t help feeling childish in her own gown, an 80’s inspired tulle number. She loved it when she first picked it out, but now, eyeing Shea’s form-fitting choice, she sort of feels like an over-decorated cupcake. Jujubee’s stomach twists watching Shea, and she chugs the rest of her punch to cover the jealousy. It’s not like Jujubee isn’t popular, or pretty, but every school has a hierarchy. For as long as she can remember, Shea’s been at the top, and Jujubee has been playing second fiddle to her. The worst part is that Shea is genuinely a good person, which makes her impossible to hate.

Jujubee checks her phone again. The screen lights up: 11:55. Five minutes until prom queen is announced, and then Jujubee can slip away and get some real food. She’s been through three cups of punch by now, and all she’s eaten all day is some popcorn because her dress has a built-in corset and she’s not about to test the universe by risking a popped zipper. Maybe her empty stomach has something to do with her sour mood. Regardless, she’s craving fried chicken really bad right now.

“Girl!” Raven stumbles over, grabbing her arm. “You look stunning!”

“Fuck, did you pregame, Rav?” It’s a rhetorical question, given the fact that the girl looks absolutely slammed. It’s a miracle the administration even let her in. “Back up a step, your breath smells like vodka and I’m not tryna get that all on me.”

“Sure did, and fuck you,” Raven giggles. “C’mon, come dance with us!”

That sounds like the last thing Jujubee wants to do, especially cause she can barely breathe in this dress, but she knows it’ll be impossible to convince Raven to let her mope around on her own. Jujubee lets herself be led into the huddle her friends have made in the middle of the dance floor, plastering on a friendly smile.

“Juju!” Shea immediately wraps her in a warm hug, talking at a mile a minute. “Where have you been? This song is such a bop! I love your dress, purple looks so good on you.”

Jujubee feels a flash of guilt, realizing suddenly that she’s kept herself isolated this whole night.

It’s not Shea’s fault, really, that she’s a shoo-in for the prom queen title. It just hurts that Shea doesn’t even care about popularity or crowns and yet she’s constantly winning those things. Jujubee doesn’t trust herself not to be a bitter bitch about the whole thing, so she’d figured it would be best to avoid Shea for the night. It would be completely on-brand for her to make some petty little jab as a way to bring attention back to herself and soothe the blows to her ego. Jujubee doesn’t want to risk ruining the moment for her best friend, no matter how rocky their relationship.

Lucky for her, Shea has the attention span of a goldfish, and the girl is already back to grooving along to whatever the DJ is currently playing without Jujubee having to answer her question. Small mercies.

“Ladies and gentlemen, can I please have your attention?” A voice booms from the DJ booth. Everyone turns to face it. “The time has finally come. It’s my pleasure to announce to you the nominees for this year’s Prom Queen!”

Jujubee feels the bile rise in her throat. Shea grabs her hand and she flinches at the unexpected contact.

Shea shoots a concerned look at her. “You good, girl?”

“Yeah,” Jujubee lies. “Just nervous.”

“Mhmm,” Shea murmurs. “Don’t be, yeah? We got this.”

Easy for you to say, Jujubee wants to snap. She doesn’t. Shea’s done nothing wrong. It’s not her fault that the girl is prettier and nicer and more charismatic than Jujubee can ever hope to be, and it’s certainly not her fault that Jujubee’s being a bitter Betty tonight.

“Farrah Moan!” The DJ bellows.

A light swings over to a pink-haired girl to Jujubee’s left. Jujubee thinks she remembers her from French class last year. All she really recalls about Farrah is the pounds of highlighter she came to school with every day. By the looks of it, nothing has really changed: Farrah is practically metallic under the spotlight.

Jujubee applauds politely and resists the urge to roll her eyes at the girl’s fake smile. Everybody knows Shea’s going to win. Why do they even bother announcing the nominees?

“Shea Coulee!”

Shea shifts, stepping away from Jujubee so the spotlight falls solely on her. She smiles brightly. She looks radiant, and Jujubee feels that pang of jealousy again. It’s not fair that Jujubee has had to try twice as hard to even come close to the level of popularity Shea attained during her first month here. Then again, nothing is ever fair with Shea. The girl is just god’s favourite.

The light swings away from Shea after a few seconds, falling onto Raven next, and Jujubee lets out a breath she didn’t know she had been holding.

“Juju,” Shea says, mistaking her envy for nervousness. “Chill. You’re an amazing person. This doesn’t define you, okay?”

Jujubee doesn’t trust herself to respond over the lump that’s in her throat and the jealousy clawing at her insides, so she just offers the other girl a soft smile and a nod.

“Jujubee Inthyrath!” The light settles on her, finally.

Jujubee tries not to squint against the brightness. She squares her shoulders, flashing her most dazzling smile and blowing a kiss into what she thinks is the general direction of the DJ booth. The direct light is blinding, and Jujubee sees green and red spots at the back of her eyelids when she blinks.

After a few counts, the light shifts back towards the DJ booth again. She tries to recenter herself, shaking her head lightly.

“Bright, right?” Shea laughs good-naturedly at her dazed expression.

“That’s a lawsuit waiting to happen,” Jujubee jokes in response, swallowing over the jealousy that seems to have made a home in her throat tonight.

“Ladies and gentlemen…” The DJ says, dragging out the last word.

God, hurry up, Jujubee wants to complain. She fixes her best ‘runner-up who’s happy for her best friend’ look on her face instead. She’s been practising her graceful loser smile in the mirror for two months, and she’ll be damned if she lets any of her pettiness show now. As much as Jujubee thrives off of attention, she knows she will never be able to forgive herself if she messes this moment up for Shea.

“Your St. Charles Prom Queen is…”

Jujubee digs her nails into her palm.

“Shea Coulee!”

Besides her, Shea gasps, face breaking into a wide smile. The awful part is that Jujubee is absolutely sure she’s genuinely surprised. Shea’s never been one to expect anything to be given to her.

She forces her fake smile even wider, hugging Shea fiercely. “Congrats!”

“Oh my god,” Shea lets out an incredulous laugh. “Oh my god!”

Jujubee feels like her heart is being ripped out of her chest. She wonders if it would be suspicious to start crying. Probably, she decides. She’ll save her tears for later. Her cheeks hurt from maintaining the face-splitting grin she’s glued to her face, but she keeps it there anyways.

Shea shuffles towards the DJ, who drapes the sash around her and places a crown on her head. She still looks absolutely shocked at the outcome, tearing up a bit. Their friends gather around her, squealing their congratulations and crushing Shea in hugs.

Jujubee watches the scene unfold in front of her and can’t suppress the bitter chuckle that passes her lips. Everything is happening in slow motion. The neon lights dance across Shea’s features. Her eyes shiny are shiny with tears, and she’s slightly shaking as her hands go up to touch the crown on her head.  

Jujubee gets the feeling that all her friends are having their glorious teenage coming-of-age moment and she’s just an audience member sitting in the theatre. They’re only a few feet away, but they seem to be in a whole different world.

There’s a soreness building at the back of her throat. She has to leave, now, before she ends up having to explain why she’s crying over Shea’s win. Jujubee’s eyes dart around the banquet hall. Everyone seems to be occupied with congratulating the newly crowned queen.

Now is a good time as any, she supposes, so she slips out of the back doors and into the night air.

Jujubee takes a seat on a nearby bench, flinching at the cold steel pressing into her thighs. She shivers as a breeze blows by, suddenly acutely aware of how unpractical her dress is for San Francisco’s late-night weather.

The tears have been building all night, and now that she’s finally out of Shea’s sight, Jujubee lets them fall. Once she starts, she can’t stop, and before long she’s fully sobbing. She grinds the heels of her palms into her eyelids with complete disregard for her eyeshadow. Her hands come away a mess of glitter, mascara and pink pigment.

“Um, are you alright?” A voice asks.

She whips her head around so fast she almost breaks her neck. A girl is standing there, in a hot pink gown. Her platinum blonde hair is piled on top of her head in a voluminous updo.  Fuck. This girl fully just witnessed Jujubee having a breakdown. She sniffles, wiping at her eyes and trying to maintain some shred of dignity.

“Yeah, uh-” Jujubee’s voice strains on the word, and, to her horror, she feels another wave of tears coming. She opens her mouth to reassure the girl that yes, she’s totally fine, thank you so much, but ends up bursting into tears again. Her dignity is officially gone. Every bit.

“Oh no, please don’t cry!” The girl slides onto the bench next to her.

She pats Jujubee awkwardly. After Jujubee shows no signs of stopping, she just sits quietly next to her, hand still on the small of Jujubee’s back, letting her cry it out. Jujubee has never hated someone as passionately as this girl right now. Can’t she just leave her alone? This is mortifying.

The girl pulls her hand back from Jujubee like she’s been burned. Fuck. Did she say that out loud?  A sidelong glance at the girl’s hurt expression confirms her suspicions.

For what feels like the millionth time tonight, Jujubee feels guilt pooling in her stomach. This time it crawls all the way up, burning as it builds in her throat.  Jujubee half-falls off of the bench in her haste, stumbling over to the bushes. She proceeds to hurl her guts out. Well—it’s more of a dry heave, really, since Jujubee hasn’t really eaten anything in the past few hours to throw up, but it’s embarrassing nonetheless.

“Holy shit, are you okay?” The girl rushes to her side, doing her best to hold Jujubee’s hair out of her face.

Despite her condition, Jujubee still manages a sarcastic, “Just peachy, thanks.”

She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, wincing as it comes away smeared with hot pink gloss. The girl helps her back to the bench, taking a seat next to her.

“I’m Brianna,” The girl offers.

“Juju,” Jujubee says.

“Wanna talk about it?” Brianna asks.

Jujubee almost snorts at her. In less than five minutes of meeting this girl, Jujubee’s managed to sob, throw up, and make a bitchy comment towards her. Brianna still wants to play therapist?

“Okay,” She says quietly, surprising herself. That was not what she meant to say, at all. But Brianna brightens considerably next to her, and suddenly Jujubee doesn’t have the heart to take it back. Besides, she sort of owes it to Brianna after being a bitch, Jujubee reasons. It’s not at all about the fact that Brianna’s kind of pretty and Jujubee needs to vent.

“Where do I even start? This night has been a mess.”

Brianna takes her hand gently. Jujubee tenses, but lets Brianna brush her fingers over her own. It’s strangely intimate. It’s also far more comfortable than it should be, given she and Brianna are complete strangers.

“You don’t have to talk about it if you aren’t comfortable,” Brianna whispers.

Jujubee feels something unfamiliar swell in her chest. She almost feels like crying again, but out of a different reason than before. She can’t really remember the last time someone was willing to listen to her feelings, nevermind being as gentle with her as Brianna is being right now.  Usually, Jujubee would scoff and call herself pathetic for even considering opening up to this girl, but something about the mess that tonight has been has made her stone-cold exterior crack a bit. She takes a shaky breath in and out.

“No, I want to,” Jujubee says. She feels the other girl’s gaze but doesn’t meet it, staring down at the crystals on her shoes instead. She worries a loose cobblestone with her left heel. “I didn’t win prom queen.”

Brianna makes some kind of shocked noise next to her. When Jujubee peeks up at her, the girl looks like she’s trying her hardest not to laugh and to stay supportive.

“You think it’s ridiculous,” She says, a touch of amusement behind her words. It’s an accusation, but there’s no bite behind it.

“No, I don’t!” Brianna shakes her head. Her updo wobbles dangerously at the movement. Jujubee quirks a brow at her, and Brianna flushes. “It’s just… you look absolutely beautiful. Why let some stupid popularity contest ruin your night?”

“Oh,” Jujubee says, slightly reeling from the compliment. “This old thing?”

Thank god for her quick wit, because otherwise Jujubee definitely would have been stammering some sort of awkward “thank you.” She’s suddenly hyper-aware of how Brianna is pressed close against her side and how their fingers are laced together in the blonde’s lap.

“It’s just, my best friend, Shea? She won, and I know it sounds terrible, but I can’t help but feel super jealous. She’s just perfect, you know? She doesn’t even have to try. And I’m just-”

She laughs self-deprecatingly, gesturing at herself, “Well. You see me.”

“Juju, don’t downplay yourself,” Brianna says. “You’re amazing.”

“How do you know?”

Brianna furrows her brow. “Oh. Oh! Uh, you don’t remember me, do you?”

“Remember you?” Jujubee racks her brain for any memory she might have of Brianna. Nothing. Surely she would have recognized this barbie look-alike if she ever ran into her in school?

“Jesus,” Brianna reddens. “I must have seemed so creepy then, just coming up to you out of nowhere?”

Jujubee must still look confused because Brianna explains further. “We’ve had classes together since seventh grade. I was in your homeroom this year.”

This time it’s Jujubee’s turn to feel embarrassed. God, she’s such a bitch.

“Oh my gosh,” She buries her face into her hands. “I’m so sorry, I-”

“Don’t sweat it,” Brianna laughs. “You know who I am now, so that’s what matters, yeah?”

“Yeah, guess so.”

They sit in comfortable silence for a few minutes. The music leaks out of the banquet hall and wraps around them, bass throbbing. Jujubee breaths in the night air deeply. It’s always the after-party silence that she’s liked the best. That feeling of shivering in the chilly breeze and walking home barefoot, heels in hand. The atmosphere always makes her slightly nostalgic for an experience she’s never had and can’t quite name.

“Do you want to dance?” Brianna asks.

“Hmm? I like it out here,” Jujubee says. “If you don’t mind.”

Brianna smiles at her. She looks pretty when she smiles, Jujubee decides. The corners of her eyes crinkle and her nose scrunches up.

“We don’t have to go back inside,” Brianna says. “We can just dance here.”

“Oh! In that case, uh, sure!” Jujubee stammers. She’s barely gotten through the sentence before she’s mentally kicking herself. Of all the times to be socially awkward, of course it happens to her while talking to a pretty girl.

Brianna stands, brushing down the feathers on her dress. She extends a hand that Jujubee takes. Brianna’s palm is warm, and the skin-to-skin contact makes fireworks go off in her chest. Jujubee meets Brianna’s eyes tentatively, snaking a hand around the blonde girl’s waist.

She hears the song change into something slower, and Brianna guides her into a gentle sway. She can feel her cheeks flushing, and her teeth tug on her bottom lip. It’s quiet, save for the leaves crunching beneath their heels and the faint music leaking from the hall, but Jujubee doesn’t mind. It feels peaceful.

She’s always been hopeless romantic, has dreamt of slow-dancing at prom since she was five. Her younger self watched those Disney channel movies that cumulated with a girl being swept off her feet by the football captain religiously.

This is different from all of the scenes she dreamed up when she was younger. There’s no parting of the crowd, no spotlight illuminating her. There’s no crown on her head. But somehow, Jujubee doesn’t really mind.

“This is so cheesy,” Brianna laughs softly.

“This is our rom-com moment, I guess,” Jujubee agrees, grinning. “I don’t mind though.”

“I’ve liked you since seventh grade,” Brianna admits. “You walked into class with a pink streak in your hair and immediately cracked a joke that made everyone laugh.”

“You remember that?” Jujubee’s impressed. She remembers that hair. It was such a pain to have to re-dye her roots every few weeks that she’d sworn to never touch a semi-permanent colour again.

She tells Brianna this, and the girl laughs, gesturing to her updo. “You’re lucky you don’t touch your hair! I’ve been dying mine this icy platinum forever.”

“What? I totally thought that was natural,” Jujubee marvels. “What’s your normal colour?”

“It’s more of a honey shade,” Brianna explains.

Jujubee cocks her head, trying to imagine Brianna with a warm-toned colour. She’d look nice with it. “That sounds pretty.”

The song playing from inside the hall finishes, and the two girls step away from each other. Jujubee shivers, already missing the warmth of Brianna’s hands around her waist.

“Cold?” Brianna asks sympathetically.

“Yeah, my dress is fluffy but it’s still really thin,” Jujubee answers. Her stomach growls, loudly, and she flushes. “Sorry. I haven’t eaten anything in a while.”

“We can go get Denny’s if you wanna leave?” Brianna offers hesitantly. “I drove.”

Jujubee pauses at the request, considering.

“I’d like that,” She says, finally. “I think we have a few years worth of stuff to catch up on.”

“Yeah, well, conversation always flows easiest over pancakes,” Brianna says with a wink.

The action gives Jujubee butterflies. Yes, she would very much like to get to know Brianna better. Something tells her they’ll be awfully close in the future.

[honestsycrets]

Lies By Omission

❛ pairing | ivar x stripper!reader

❛ word count | 2562 

❛ genre | one shot

❛ summary | you love ivar, but you never told him what you did for a living.

❛  warnings | nervous reader, lies, betrayal, lapdancing on a brother’s lap, mention of drag queen.

Bachelor party.

One in a million.

“Who do you think booked it, Mama?” You ask, rubbing deep red lipstick upon your pouty lips. You twist the silvery portion of your mac lipstick to replace it where it belonged in your black travel make up bag. A heavy dousing of spray made sure your face wouldn’t move during performance. Because, after all, that wasn’t hot. It was only hot when your lipstick gave the slightest smear for those lucky enough to receive the slightest brush of your lips.

“Now don’t worry about it, Bunny. I hear it's some big shot, hot shot fresh off the line ceo. He’ll treat you real good.” Mama says from behind olive green feathers of her prop fan. She was into that whole burlesque thing. It suited her. She often led these strip parties on for the doomed man to be. You watch her drag the soft feathers of her fan across the green jeweled top that propped up her faux deep breasts dusted in gold. Mama always glittered like golds upon dusky rock.

You on the other hand sit on the supposed piece that Alfred advised you to wear that night. A muted red Chantilly bra with a matching g-string. It could have been classified as being sweet with lace fringe if not for the strappiness of the cage bra and strings that slap across your hips. You take a great sigh as you slip out of your previous outfit from just a hour ago and pull the bra carefully over pierced nipples. A combination pack when considering the fact your belly button was pierced too… and maybe, just maybe, something else.

“I’m overthinking Alfred’s promise.” You answer, looking into the mirror that stretches along the dressing room. You run your stiletto nails through your hair, mussing it into place. Mama stops applying the golden pad of makeup to her chest and spins her thick body around in her stool to run her thick fingers through a bouncy lock of your hair.

“He keeps ‘em.” She reassures you. You reach a manicured hand up to hers, teasing your nails along her long digits. You purse a smile, lips spreading while you give her a little sigh.

“But what if he finds out?” You ask.

“A real man ain’t gonna have you catering to his ego. Tell him or lose the bonus weight already, baby.” Mama turns back to herself, fixing her head full of bouncy ringlet curls. You step off of the stool to check your heels just as there is a knock on the door.

“Mama, the party is here!”

“Sounds good sweetheart.” Mama pops up onto high, high, higher heels than yours. Her vivacious green eyeshadow highlight deep chocolate eyes. She stands up higher than you, offering out her arm to yours. “Show tiiimmme!”

Alfred's faux classy dance bar was something that was considered the best of places. For the girls in this sort of ‘lifestyle’ or so Alfred called it, he promised a lot. For such a large clientele he had, there were separate areas. You had only been in this section a few times. Mama taught you how to dance and, well, that’s what you were meant to be doing today.

Mama would lead and take care of the whole arrangement from top to bottom. Drinks, company, a backstage arrangement to which the cops were thoroughly paid off for and Alfred claimed nothing over. Your hips chase the beat of Mama’s song choice long before anyone ever came in. You had to, well, get yourself in the right mood at first. You eyelids hood somewhat with your hand around the cool metal of the bar.

Opal would be spinning around the opposite pole in her white sheening lingerie, a sensual motion following ethereal fabrics until she would cast it off. Valerie and Fiona were thrown about, somewhere you couldn’t really account for with the rightful strobing of light. The music bled into your ears, fueling your hips to take to their own beat. Slide down, baby, do that slut drop those bad boys wanna see.

You’re a good girl, aren’t you?

Would I be here if I was? You recall telling Mama the first time you pulled those thigh highs way up your bare skin.

Not if you’re gonna make it.

The piercing whistle pulls you from your activity, focusing away from the cloaked figures watching mama’s show and--

“Hey Bunny.” Sitting just below you were two women. A blonde and a brunette, seemingly enamored with one another. But the voice belongs to a male. And… it isn’t your Mama, so who is calling you?

Then you do what you really shouldn’t have. But… what you had to, looking for the keeper of the voice. Two boys approach where you dance around a pole-- a blond with long hair braided back into a ponytail. His nearly non-existent eyebrows pull up, holding up a crisp twenty dollar bill in his lithe hands and in his eye, the look of the snake. You stop cold of working your ass around the cold metal of the pole, bent over so your breasts jiggle almost out of the chantilly lace.

Sigurd… Sigurd Snake in the Eye. His hand palms himself through his pants as he looks to you, square and deadpan in the eye. It isn’t so much him that you fear, but rather, the man on the other side of that tiny table. He watches you.

Dread hits you cold and hard-- seeing another set of blue eyes popped and wide. Then as if they come to peace with that realization, his eyes come back to speed. Barely watching, narrowed. His lips pull into a thin line.

“Don’t run.” He mouths sitting beside his brother. The look of a predator if you could compare it to one. Sure, all the men had a similar look. But he-- he knew what he owned and he owned you in that very moment.

You step down the steps, each step with a warm pop until you stand in front of him. Sigurd Snake in the Eye leans forward, tucking the wad of cash into the panty line of your pants. It was, after all, a topless bar. Then he leans back cognizant of how hard his brother’s head had snapped around, following him past the dark brown hair tumbling over one shoulder.

“How can I help you, Sigurd?”

“A lap dance.” The blonde hisses. “So my brother can watch.”

Shake it off, shake it off.

“No touching.” You start with a raise in your hips, dropping slowly on one side and then another between his legs. Sigurd watches with evident pleasure as you glide down, coursing your hands across his thighs and up his shirt. Your breasts rake their way against him. You raise and turn, bending your legs slightly. You set your hands to your knees, rolling your round ass in that tiny little string against his jeans.

A small hiss escapes Ivar’s lips.

Then-- you feel his dick straining his jeans. It’s obvious he’s enjoying this. The mix between tormenting his brother and feeling your ass barely touch down on his dick and lift up as you shake it up and down for no one else’s pleasure but his own. But you’re not so stupid as to ignore Ivar sitting across the table.

Hands flexing. Fingers tightening and releasing.

The tease drips into dangerous territory when you at long last drop your hips on Sigurd’s lap, grinding him in the best of ways. Ah, that was it. That was just what he wanted, his slender fingers dangled the rim of his cup, running his tongue across his thin lips. You slip off of his lap yet again, making him groan in disapproval. Soon enough though, you straddle his thighs, leaning in with a roll of your torso. The straps of your bra slip down your shoulders, giving Sigurd a nice eyeful of the tits that nearly spillover out. You shake your breasts at him, clearing your rising and falling upon him.

Then, with nothing else, you slip off his lap. Sigurd slides a crisp bill between your straps on your hips, then with nothing else to do, drinks the last of his drink. You nearly go back up the stairs when you hear it.

“M’ere, pretty bitch.”

With the music, you’re not really sure how Mama has heard. But she has, snapping her head around. You motion your fingers down and look to Ivar holding out his folded wad of cash with that tall tale look that says-- well, this was the one. Her puffy lip pouts out, a small shake in her head. She moves back to Ubbe and tips his cup, spilling the alcohol all over his throat.

You stride over in only a few steps, plucking the money from his fat, short fingers. A hundred. You pocket the money on your string that Ivar has an iron clad gaze upon, his nostrils flaring in what you can only deem is hate. You motion him in that direction. He shifts to sit up in his chair, abandoning his crutch and swirling his drink.

“Well?” He says. “Get on with it.”

“Ivar--”

“No, no you wanted this job. So go ahead. I paid you and everything.”

Like with Sigurd before, you step up to Ivar. Not quite in front of him, but not tar enough that he couldn’t touch either. You pull your hips up and down, rolling them and smoothing out the motions to your hips in front of them. Ivar sneers, unpleased with your motions. Even this pisses him off, you can see it in the intensity of his gaze.

The pump of the music isn’t the only thing giving you a headache now.

It’s the dread in not knowing what he was thinking. You know a portion of what he was thinking. All the days that you laid in his bed with lies. So, so many lies. I work as overnights, you had told him. But… nothing like this. You smooth your hips between his legs, and somewhere along the way, Ivar’s hand has drifted behind your neck to pull you up over his body. You allow it, letting him pull off your top. It was, after all, a topless nightclub for the right price. To be honest, that price could have been as simple as a dollar.

You lean forward over his chest, straddling his lap with unabashed effort this time. It was more than a shake of your tits and swirl of your hips. It was almost a fight for the relationship that you so desperately wanted with him-- despite the information that you hadn’t given him. Ivar senses that, dropping his hand down to meld your covered pussy.

It’s breaking all of the rules that Alfred set in place.

Clients couldn’t touch. No sex in the nightclub.

All of that for him.

“Turn around. Facing the stage.” You hastily obey with his command. After setting his drink on the empty table, Ivar’s free hand moves to your jaw. He snatches you, forcing your lips on his with every sweet roll of your hips rubbing down upon his lively cock behind his jeans.

“You didn’t tell me.” Ivar says, peeling away you thin panties. You turn your face toward him, closing your thighs around his hand. His fingers playfully stretch and wiggle around your inner lips, stroking you to front until he hit your warm entrance.

“You would have broken up with me.” You complain.

“Isn’t that my choice, mm?”

It was true… but, jealously you don’t want him to go. He was yours! You couldn’t imagine losing him because of something so trivial as a job. If Mama could see this now, she probably would have marched her glittering ass over there and smacked you a good one.

Do what you gotta to keep what you want, she told you once.

“How are you going to make up for your lies?” Ivar whispers into your ear, warm puffs of alcohol smelling breath against your ear. Your hips move on their own against his hand, grinding against him with a desperate need to feel forgiven.

“Anything.” You say. “I’ll do anything.”

After a long pause, Ivar lets out a small congealed moan of his pleasure. Then with no further words, he buries his middle finger within your moist walls fully expecting that your pussy will be ready for more.

“Ride my hand then. In front of all my brothers.”

It wasn’t just his brother there-- Mama, Alfred and other strippers were there too. To keep him though, you would do whatever necessary. Especially if you were in the wrong, rolling your hips down his fingers like it was Sigurd’s lap earlier. It isn’t long before he adds another finger, leaning back to drink his cup while you ooze over his fingertips. He finishes his cup, dropping it onto the table when Sigurd catches his attention. He’s come again, non-apologetically watching on the edge of the stage.

“You always were a creep.” Ivar says, bringing the hand on his alcohol around to gently massage your clit, forcing you to quake.

“Is he watching?” You whisper lowly under your breath.

“Yes.” Ivar says. “Keep going princess, you’re opened so beautifully.”

As you lift off his fingers this time, he adds one more finger. It aches your walls to take three of his fat fingers without the lube that he usually would finger you with when you were so close to orgasm. Ivar however knows that, shifting his nose to the side of your neck to lay soft encouraging kisses.

“You’re doing so good for me.” He whispers.

“(Y/N)?” Another voice-- this time, you recognize it as being Afred who stops in front of you. Your eyes close shut, enjoying the frantic pounding of Ivar’s fingers and love to your clit. It would be a big no-no what you were doing. “You know the rules.”

Fuck the rules, you think.

“Oh, c’mon Alfred.” Ivar lifts off your neck, pulling your legs up to your chest instead while fingering you in just the right place. “I know you’re not as innocent as you look.”

When you cum, its with a hard scream. You spill over his fingers, rather squirting upon Alfred who is close enough to be boot to boot with Ivar. He lets loose a small little laugh while you ride it out, but then smacks your ass to stand up.

“C’mon baby girl, let’s go.” He props his crutch under his arm, avoiding the mess you’ve made. Alred steps back so that you might look for your bra, clipping a bit in place. Even Mama has her hands on her hips-- but its with a mischievous little smile that she looks with you.

“Where are we going, Daddie?” You ask Ivar while putting on your bra.

“To get your things. Then to my father’s stripclub.”

“Why there?” You ask him, taking his arm while guiding him to the dressing room where you gather your things from your chair. When you turn back to him, Ivar lifts your chin up so that he might warmly kiss you.

“I don’t mind you dancing. But its going to be on my terms.”

He was always a jealous man. Sigurd would be your last lap dance.

@igetcarriedawaywithyou, @kylobien, @titty-teetee, @breathlessouls, @nejijjeoroo, @bcat1291, @readsalot73, @mslothbrok, @romanchronicles, @captstefanbrandt, @ailucascen, @michaeliskindahot, @cbouvier23, @naaladareia, @cbouvier23, @the-geeky-engineer, @dorned, @lisinfleur, @funmadnessandbadassvikings, @tephi101, @akamaiden, @ethereallysimple, @venusloviing, @happylittlepuppydog, @beyond-the-ashes, @slutforrpg, @hipsternoionlylikeunicorns, @mixedwiththemoon, @sparklemichele, @alicedopey, @lif3snotouttogetyou, @rubyquartzshades, @noregretsandyeteveryregret, @dangerous-like-a-loaded-pistol, @deathbyarabbit, @unacceptabletatertots, @beyond-the-ashes (no sig), @babypink224221, @ivarandersen, @queen-see-ya-in-valhalla, @moose-squirrel-asstiel, @icarus-fell-in-spring, @end-of-night, @gruffle1, @lol-haha-joke@arses21434,  @smileyparrots, @Moosemittens13, @miss-artemis-wild, @two-unbeatable-beaters, @wonderwoman292, @wish-i-was-a-mermaid, @fangirls94, @mcuimxgine, @killerb00sdeath, @heartbeats-wildly, @boo20017, @acacheofstrange, @shaelyn102, @astoryoffireandlight, @smokealone, @shaelyn102 @laketaj24, @peaceisadirtyword, @ly–canthrope,   @chinduda

[captaindeadpoet]

Makeup Senpai

A/N: Hello, everyone! So, this fic is dedicated to the amazing @topbananapuff , who always endures my Iwashimizu wearing makeup headcannons and said 'wtf bro Ebumi wears it, too.' Enjoy

Summary: Iwashimizu loves wearing makeup, but he needs a little help. Good thing Ebumi's around.

Iwashimizu stood awkwardly by his locker, hands clasped together and eyes downcast. Most of the team had already headed home for the day, eager to take real showers and eat at home. However, Iwashimizu couldn’t leave yet. He had a mission to complete.

If he could muster up the courage to even start it, that is.

A loud bang sounded from the other side of the locker room, making Iwashimizu wince. So, Ebumi was still here. Iwashimizu still had time to ask him. But his body just wouldn’t move; his feet felt like lead and his body felt like his blood had been replaced with sand. The opportunity to reach out to Ebumi was slipping away with each passing moment.

Somehow, Iwashimizu managed to drag himself toward the sound of Ebumi’s laughter and general chaotic noise. He stopped at the end of the row of lockers and stared for a moment. Ebumi would hate him if he asked. What if Iwashimizu had just imagined the whole ordeal? Then he would ask a ridiculous favor and Ebumi might never be able to forgive him for being so stupid.

“Oi, jolly green giant. You need something?”

Ebumi’s voice sliced through every thought in Iwashimizu’s mind. A blush rose to the blonde’s cheeks. He had Ebumi’s attention. If he asked now, it would all be over with and he could go home.

“E-Ebumi-san -” Iwashimizu stuttered out.

“Nah, none of that formal bullshit. Just tell me what’s up.” Ebumi said.

“I-I was wonder i-if m-maybe you c-could, uhm, i-if you could…”

“Spit it out, skyscraper.”

“T-Tell me how your makeup stays so nice!”

Ebumi cocked an eyebrow at the blushing first year. He knew he had a reputation for being kind of a delinquent jackass, so this had probably taken every ounce of the kid’s courage. Scanning Iwashimizu’s face, Ebumi took note of the nearly perfect eyeliner wings on the blonde’s eyelids and the clumped mascara on his lashes. A shame, really - Iwashimizu had such long, beautiful eyelashes already. Ebumi was jealous.

“What are you talking about?” Ebumi asking, hoping for more details.

Iwashimizu looked down. “W-Well, your makeup never runs during games or practices. A-And it always looks so smooth, like you just applied it.”

Ebumi preened at the compliments. “Of course. I’m the shit. My makeup is fucking fantastic all the time.”

“C-Could you teach me?”

If it were any other first year, Ebumi would have told them to fuck off and die. Yet, when he looked at Iwashimizu, with his soft voice and kind eyes and general brightness, he couldn’t say no. The blonde needed confidence and goddamn it, Ebumi was going to make him looks so good, Iwashimizu would have no choice but to be a sexy badass.

“Show me what you use. Come on, whip it out, let’s go.” Ebumi commanded.

Iwashimizu’s face lit up. “Th-Thank you, Ebumi! Uhm, let me just find my case.”

Ebumi waited. He watched Iwashimizu dig around in his backpack and fish out a little floral patterned makeup bag. He had to admit that with how shy Iwashimizu was, he had expected a plain black case. Apparently the giant was full of surprises. Iwashimizu handed to pouch to the winger.

The contents were absolutely pitiful. Cheap eyeliner and mascara, the worst matched shade of foundation Ebumi had ever seen, and a few tubes of chapstick and lip gloss that were old and dried out. How was Iwashimizu even surviving? Ebumi was so goddamn high maintenance that he wouldn’t let anything that cost less than 1400 yen touch his face.

“This is all trash. Who even uses pencil eyeliner anymore? And this foundation doesn’t match your skin. This fucking lip gloss is so old they don’t even make this brand anymore. What the fuck, Iwashi?” Ebumi ranted.

Iwashimizu curled in on himself. “Sorry, Ebumi. I-I can’t buy it very easily. People look at me weird when I try.”

“Then fuck ‘em. Here, I’ve got extra stuff. I’ll give you real makeup and half your problems will disappear. You like that natural pink color for the lips, right?”

“Oh, no, Ebumi! Please don’t give up your things!”

Ebumi laughed. “Quit worrying so damn much. Ise keeps buying me this shit to woo me. It’s working but I ain’t going to tell him that. So it’s fine. Now, do you like natural pink or not?”

Iwashimizu nodded shyly. “I like them to be light and shiny.”

“Figures. You like the shojo manga heroine look. You do that for yourself or to impress someone?”

“Uh, well, I like the way I look, so I guess myself. But -”

“It’s the little fucknut who’s trying to be a winger, isn’t it? God, don’t do your makeup for that fucking shithead. You wanna look pretty? Look pretty. Do it for you.”

“I do. But sometimes I add a little extra to...nevermind. It’s so silly.”

“What’s fucking silly is that you don’t have any glittery eyeshadows when I know for a fact you like glitter. You got twenty of those goddamn glitter pens in your bag right now. I’ve got some of that, too, and you can have it.”

“Thank you.”

Ebumi ignored the gratitude, reaching into his own backpack to find his makeup case. It wasn’t difficult; the thing was bright pink with ‘TASTY BITCH’ written on it. Opening up the pouch, Ebumi pulled out all the essentials: liquid eyeliner, mascara, lip gloss and lip pencils, foundation, eyeshadow. He decided against blush. Iwashimizu blushed so much that he didn’t need it.

“Take them. Dump the other shit. This is all waterproof, so it’ll stay on in a fucking flood. Now, open your eyes so I can teach you how to put on mascara.” Ebumi ordered.

Iwashimizu obeyed. Ebumi began slowly rolling the mascara on, carefully flicking the brush at the end of the lashes to create a sharp point. He smirked when Iwashimizu gasped in amazement. God, the kid really needed to gain some standards. Any middle school girl could do this in two seconds.

It was then that Ebumi realized that Iwashimizu wasn’t like him. Iwashimizu didn’t have the confidence to storm into a makeup shop and demand that the stylists teach him. He probably couldn’t ask his mom for help and the girls at school would probably laugh at him. Iwashimizu had taught himself. No wonder the blonde was so excited; it was like finally having a mentor.

“Pucker up. Lips next.” Ebumi said.

Picking up the lip pencil, Ebumi carefully traced Iwashimizu’s lips. Goddamn this boy was lucky - his lips were soft and pouty. Ebumi dabbed a bit of lip gloss on to finish up the look.

“There. You’re fucking fab, Iwashi.” Ebumi said.

“Thank you. It feels...different. Not in a bad way, of course! It’s just -” Iwashimizu said.

“It’s okay. I used to use crappy makeup, too, before I realized that it fucked up my skin. It’s different, but you like it, right?”

“Oh, yes! I love it!”

“Great. Show me how to do the eyeliner wings. I can never get them right, and I’m pretty sure Ise tired of my bitching about it.”

“O-Oh. Okay. See, you just have to trace and fill. Like this.”

Iwashimizu placed a gentle hand beneath Ebumi’s chin, tilting his head up to get a better angle to apply the eyeliner. Hands unusually steady, Iwashimizu drew a perfect line across Ebumi’s eyelid and drew a small curve to the side and brought it back down. He filled in the space and started on the other eye. Once he finished, he offered Ebumi his compact to examine the work. Ebumi let out a loud laugh, startling Iwashimizu.

“You amazing bitch! I look like a goddamn model! Thanks.” Ebumi said, slapping Iwashimizu on the back.

“I’m happy to help. Thank you for helping me.” Iwashimizu said softly.

“We should probably get the hell out of here. I bet the little fucknut’s waiting for you.”

Iwashimizu giggled, and Ebumi wondered how Gion hadn’t already made a move. Gathering his things, Ebumi followed Iwashimizu out of the locker room. Sure enough, Gion was waiting outside the entrance, sitting on the ground and drawing in the dirt. Iwashimizu gave him a gentle tap on the shoulder.

“I was wondering if you were ever coming out, Udo. I’ve been waiting forever.” Gion said, getting to his feet and dusting off his pants.

“I’m sorry. Ebumi and I were talking.” Iwashimizu said.

Gion made an unimpressed face and looked at Iwashimizu, search the taller boy’s eyes for a lie. Instead, he noticed how big Iwashimizu’s eyes seemed and how...well, Gion couldn’t describe it. He just knew it made his stomach twist and his heart beat weirdly.

“What’s up with your face? It’s weird.” Gion blurted.

Iwashimizu’s cheeks burned red, his eyes downcast. Ebumi growled and marched over to the shorter boy, grabbing his ear. Gion shouted and began to slap at him.

“Give us a sec, Iwashi. Gion forgot something in the locker room.” Ebumi gritted out.

Ebumi dragged Gion into the locker room and slapped him in the back of the head. And then he did it again. And then one more time for good measure. Gion rubbed the now sore spot and glared at Ebumi.

“What the hell?” Gion snapped.

“What the fuck was that? ‘It’s weird’ - I should cut off your fucking dick, you dumb shit. Why would you say that to Iwashimizu?” Ebumi hissed.

“Because that’s how it made me feel!”

“Well, I hope you’re feeling fucking pretty now because you’re going to walk out there and tell Iwashimizu how fucking pretty he looks. You’re going to say ‘wow, Iwashi, your eyes really pop today’ and ‘geez, your lips are so shiny’ and ‘holy shit, your hair looks amazing.’”

“Why would I say that? It would make Iwashi uncomfortable.”

“God, you’re a fucking dumbass. Just listen to your smart as hell senpai and tell the giant he’s pretty, okay? Shit.”

“But -”

Ebumi slapped Gion upside the head once more. The brunette scowled, but relented. After agreeing to follow Ebumi’s orders, Gion wandered back outside and stood awkwardly next to Iwashimizu. The blonde looked a bit sad; maybe Gion had really hurt him.

“Hey, Iwashimizu.” Gion said.

“Y-Yes, Gion-kun?” Iwashimizu asked worriedly.

“You look pretty today.”

Iwashimizu blushed, tucking his hair behind his ear shyly. “Thank you.”

“You wanna get something to eat on the way home?”

“Uhm, sure! McDonald’s?”

Gion became flustered. “Sure.”

Ebumi smirked as he watched the two walk away. It was official; he was the best senpai ever. He just hoped the little fucknut wouldn’t fuck it all up. He didn’t want to have to cut the shorty’s dick off; that would definitely make Iwashimizu upset.