#one thing about me is that I will draw women with thick eyebrows and serious expressions

[cicadaland]

FRANCYSSSS I was thinking of making her kind of crabby because she like JUST got finished with being a monasterial androgyne (basically a nun-monk) and they aren't allowed to too strongly express emotions so they have a lot of pent up rage about misogyny and transphobia and audreic christianity in general AND has complicated feelings about God. which hopefully will be an interesting contrast to Joseph's strong-as-steel faith and Anton's skepticism. They're from Montreal :] And I love her soooo much and over time she will open up again and allow herself to live freely‼️

[pucksandpower]

Pollinated

Day 11 → Sex Pollen 💋 Max Verstappen

Warnings: 18+ content and dubious consent

Kinktober Masterlist

“You’ve got a stack waiting for you.” Alan leans on the edge of your desk, a smile playing at the corner of his mouth. He’s holding a bundle of envelopes, some thick with scribbled messages, some thin and printed with clean, crisp fonts.

Your PR officer’s eyebrows raise in mock exasperation as he shakes them at you. “How do you even have time to race with all these fans wanting a piece of you?”

You grin, setting down your coffee and wiping your hands on your pants. “That’s the problem of being so popular, Alan. It’s a curse, really.”

“Oh, yeah. It’s a real burden. Everyone loving you.”

“Someone’s gotta do it.”

He drops the stack in front of you with a soft thud. “Take your time. I’ll be back in a bit.” His tone is teasing, but you catch the flicker of something more serious underneath, like he’s reminding you there’s more work to be done after this.

You roll your eyes as he walks off. You love this part of your day — the letters, the drawings, the fan art from kids who see something in you that makes them believe they can be here too. They’re always so personal, full of energy, like they’re rooting for you from their living rooms or school desks.

You flick through the pile, reading the familiar opening lines. Dear Y/N, you’re such an inspiration or I love watching you race! Your heart lifts as you come across a brightly colored drawing from a girl named Chloe, of you standing on a podium, arms raised in victory. It makes you smile so wide your cheeks hurt a little. You can practically hear the little girl’s voice, excitedly telling her parents, “That’s gonna be me one day.”

“This is what it’s about,” you mutter under your breath, running your fingers over the crayon marks.

More letters. More words of encouragement. A scribbled note from a group of university students who drove twelve hours just to see you race last season. A letter from an older woman who says she’s been watching F1 since her husband introduced her to it in the ‘70s and how proud she is to see a woman making waves. You pause at that one, your chest swelling. You’ll have to write her back.

You reach for the next envelope, a bit plainer than the others. No stickers, no hand-drawn doodles in the margins. It’s simple, just your name written on the front in neat black ink. Your gut tugs slightly, but you brush it off. Not every fan is an artist.

You open it, pulling out a card with a printed picture of a car on the front. Your car. You smile, flipping it open to read the message inside.

But your smile fades as you start to read.

You don’t belong here.

The words are bold, black, and stark against the white paper. They stand out like a punch to the gut, each line colder and more hateful than the last. The handwriting is meticulous, like whoever wrote it wanted to be sure you’d understand every word.

Women like you are ruining the sport.

Your throat tightens. Your fingers grip the edges of the card a little harder than before, the edges bending under the pressure.

Go back to doing what you’re good at: nothing.

You try to swallow, but it feels like there’s a knot lodged in your throat. It’s not the first time you’ve seen something like this. Hell, it’s not even the worst thing anyone’s said. But right now, it’s too sharp, too specific, too venomous.

You reach up to close the card, your hand trembling slightly. But before you can fully shut it, something catches your eye — a tiny puff of fine yellow powder shoots from the fold, drifting into the air in front of you.

“What the-” You blink, confused for a split second.

Then, it hits.

A burning sensation spreads through your throat and nose. Your skin tingles, a wave of heat rushing over your face. You gasp, trying to catch your breath, but it feels like you’re inhaling fire. Panic spikes as your vision blurs.

“Alan!” The name barely makes it past your lips before you feel your legs give way beneath you.

“Alan!” You try again, but it comes out weaker this time. Your limbs feel heavy, your chest tight, and the room starts to spin in slow, nauseating circles.

Footsteps pound across the floor. Alan’s voice sounds far away, muffled, like he’s underwater. You catch a glimpse of him sprinting toward you, his face pale, eyes wide. “Y/N?”

Your body jerks uncontrollably, a violent shudder running through you. The room twists, everything turning hazy as you hit the floor hard, your fingers twitching against the cool tile.

“What the hell — Y/N!” Alan’s panic is sharp now, cutting through the fog. You can barely see him through the haze clouding your vision, but you feel him grab your shoulders, shaking you gently.

“Stay with me. Just stay with me, okay?” His voice cracks, fear bleeding through the edges.

Your entire body seizes again, every muscle clamping down painfully. A sharp cry escapes your throat as the convulsions take over, uncontrollable now.

“Help! Somebody, help!” Alan’s voice is frantic, desperate, echoing through the room as the world starts to fade. His hands are on your face now, trying to keep you conscious. You feel his fingers trembling against your skin, hear the panic rising in his voice as he keeps shouting for help.

But you’re slipping, sinking deeper into the darkness as the convulsions wrack your body. You can’t speak. You can’t move.

Alan’s voice is the last thing you hear before everything goes black.

***

The world returns slowly, like surfacing from a deep dive. There’s a ringing in your ears, muffled voices blending into the constant hum of machinery. Your body feels like it’s on fire — each nerve sizzling under your skin, radiating heat. You try to move, but it’s as if you’re bound by weights. The sheets beneath you cling to your body, too warm, too tight, too much.

Someone’s talking nearby, but it’s distant, warped. You can’t make out the words yet. Everything feels heavy — your eyelids, your chest, even your breathing. Your mouth is dry, your tongue like sandpaper against the roof of your mouth.

Slowly, the fog begins to clear, and you catch fragments of conversation.

“… highly illegal substance …” A voice, crisp and professional, filters through. The doctor. “… extreme toxicity … very few cases on record …”

You try to focus, but the burning sensation inside you only intensifies. It’s everywhere — your limbs, your core, your mind. Like you’re being torn apart from the inside out.

You manage a groan, the sound barely escaping your lips.

“She’s waking up,” someone says, closer now. Alan? It sounds like him, but there’s a hitch in his usually confident voice. Panic.

Your eyelids flutter open, and the room comes into blurry focus. Harsh fluorescent lights. Sterile white walls. The sterile smell of antiseptic clogs your senses, a sharp contrast to the heat still coursing through you. You blink slowly, your vision sharpening enough to see Alan standing by your bedside, pale and jittery, his hand running through his hair in nervous strokes.

Across from him is the doctor, his white coat stiff and immaculate. He’s holding a clipboard, and his face is a mask of concern. When he speaks, it feels like each word takes a lifetime to process.

“… the substance she was exposed to … it’s not just any powder,” the doctor is saying, his voice measured but grim. “It’s a synthetic pollen derivative, known as Lust Dust on the black market.”

Lust Dust. The words sink into you, but you don’t recognize them. Your throat feels too tight to ask for clarification. Alan, however, doesn’t hesitate.

“What does that mean? What the hell is that?” Alan’s voice is raw, frayed at the edges.

The doctor sighs, flipping through the notes on his clipboard before answering. “It’s an extremely illegal bio-weapon, developed underground. It was used in several isolated attacks a few years ago, mostly in war zones. The symptoms … well, they’re brutal.”

You don’t like the sound of this. Brutal. Illegal. Bio-weapon. The words swirl around in your head, each one setting off alarm bells, but you can barely move enough to react. You just lie there, heat pulsing through you, your body screaming in agony.

“The pollen attacks the body’s nervous system,” the doctor continues, his tone clinical. “It acts as a stimulant, targeting primal instincts, heightening … certain responses. The most dangerous part is that, if untreated, the body will burn out within hours.”

“Burn out?” Alan echoes, his voice barely more than a whisper. “What does that mean? You mean … she’ll die?”

“Yes,” the doctor replies, his tone darkening. “In most cases, without intervention, the victim’s body will shut down. It’s a highly sexualized toxin. The only way to counteract the effects is through physical release.”

There’s a moment of stunned silence. The words hover in the air, sinking into the room with a weight you can almost feel. Your heart races, your mind struggling to comprehend what’s being said. Physical release? The burning sensation in your body intensifies, like it’s reacting to the very idea of what the doctor’s suggesting.

Alan’s face pales further, his hand gripping the back of his neck in horror. “Wait, are you — are you saying she has to-”

“Sex,” the doctor says bluntly, not sugar-coating anything. “Yes. If she doesn’t have sex soon, she will die. The sooner, the better, to mitigate the damage the pollen’s already caused.”

A cold sweat breaks out across your skin, despite the unbearable heat raging inside you. The fire in your veins is consuming everything, twisting the doctor’s words into cruel irony. This can’t be happening. Not this.

“I … I …“ Alan stammers, clearly at a loss, his eyes flicking to you, desperate and terrified. “There’s got to be another way. Medicine? A procedure? Something?”

The doctor shakes his head. “There’s no antidote. The only option is the one I’ve given you.”

You want to scream. You want to cry. But you can’t do anything except lie there, burning from the inside out, unable to stop the panic surging through you as the realization sinks in.

Alan takes a shaky breath. “What … what do we do now?”

The doctor straightens, his voice calm but commanding. “The most important thing is finding someone who’s willing to … assist.”

Alan’s eyes widen in horror, but before he can say anything, the door bursts open and several members of your team file into the room — engineers, mechanics, staff. Their faces are tight with concern, and they crowd into the small space, murmuring amongst themselves.

“What happened?” Someone asks, their voice tense.

Alan quickly explains, his voice shaking as he goes over the details. The pollen. The bio-weapon. The need for “intervention.” Every word makes your heart pound harder, and you can feel the collective shock ripple through the room as the reality of the situation sets in.

“She needs someone,” Alan says, his voice thick with emotion. “She needs someone to …”

He can’t even finish the sentence.

The room falls into stunned silence. You can hear the soft hum of the machines around you, the ragged breathing of the people in the room. It feels like time has stopped, the weight of the situation pressing down on everyone.

Then, the whispers start.

“I’ll do it,” someone mutters.

“No, I will,” another voice pipes up. You recognize it as one of the engineers, his voice shaky but sincere.

“I mean, she’s our driver, right? We have to help.”

More voices chime in, each one offering, each one willing. The panic in the room turns to a frantic eagerness, as though everyone suddenly realizes what’s at stake. You can barely comprehend it — the idea that your team, your colleagues, are discussing this as though it’s just another task, something to be done to save your life.

Your mind is spinning, your body trembling with the heat still coursing through you. You want to shout at them, tell them to stop, that this isn’t how things should be. But you can’t move, can’t speak. All you can do is listen as the conversation grows more chaotic, more desperate.

Then, the door opens again, and a new voice cuts through the noise.

“Everyone out.”

It’s Max.

The room falls silent instantly, every head turning toward him. He stands in the doorway, his face hard and set, his blue eyes blazing with an intensity you’ve never seen before. He looks around the room, his gaze sharp, taking in the faces of your teammates, the panic, the confusion.

“I said out,” Max repeats, his voice calm but firm.

No one moves at first, too shocked to respond. But then one by one, they start to file out, murmuring to each other in hushed tones as they leave the room. You hear Alan hesitate for a moment, but even he doesn’t argue. The door shuts softly behind them, leaving you alone with Max.

You’re too weak to turn your head, but you can hear him walk closer, his footsteps slow and deliberate. He doesn’t speak right away, and the silence hangs heavy in the air, broken only by the soft beeping of the machines monitoring your condition.

Finally, after what feels like an eternity, Max’s voice fills the room. “It’s going to be me.”

Your heart skips a beat.

“No one else is touching you,” he says, his tone low, steady. “I’m your teammate. I’m the one who’s going to help you. Not them.”

You can’t see his face, but you can hear the resolve in his voice, the determination. He’s not offering. He’s deciding. There’s no question, no hesitation. It’s going to be him, and no one else.

And as the burning inside you flares again, you realize that part of you is grateful.

***

The air between you and Max is thick with tension, the kind that crackles in the silence, heavy with unspoken words. You lie there, your body still ablaze, the fire under your skin pulsing in waves, but something about his presence — steady, resolute — grounds you, if only just. You can’t move, can barely speak, but your mind races, half-paralyzed with the agony of the pollen and half with the strange anticipation of what’s to come.

Max stands beside the bed, his face framed by the fluorescent lights above, casting shadows that sharpen his features. He doesn’t look afraid, though you can tell there’s something behind his eyes — something that trembles just beneath the surface. His gaze locks onto yours, and it feels like he’s looking past the pain, past the situation, to something deeper.

“This isn’t how I imagined …“ His voice is soft, barely more than a whisper, as though the words aren’t meant to be heard by anyone but you. He reaches for your hand, his fingers brushing yours, tentative at first, like he’s asking permission for what’s about to happen.

You want to respond, to say something, but your throat is too tight, too raw, the burning heat still tearing through you. You manage the faintest of nods, your hand twitching against his, and that’s all he needs.

Max leans over, his face close to yours now, his breath warm against your cheek. His hand trails gently down your arm, his touch soft, careful. “I’m here, okay?” He murmurs, his voice low, soothing. “We’ll get through this.”

There’s a beat of silence. Then, in that same quiet, tender voice, he adds, “Schatje … you’re so strong.”

The endearment rolls off his tongue like honey, and despite everything — despite the fire tearing you apart from the inside out — it brings a strange, aching warmth to your chest. Max has never called you that before. The intimacy of it catches you off guard, though you don’t have the strength to dwell on it for long.

His hands move lower now, brushing across your skin with reverence, as though you might break under his touch. You shiver, not from the cold, but from the intensity of his gaze, the way he’s looking at you like you’re the only thing in the world that matters.

“You don’t deserve this,” Max whispers, his forehead nearly touching yours. His voice cracks ever so slightly, betraying the calm façade he’s trying to maintain. “I’ve … I’ve wanted this for a long time,” he admits softly, his words a confession, raw and vulnerable. “But not like this. Never like this.”

You close your eyes, focusing on the feel of his hands on your body, the way he’s handling you with such care, as though he’s afraid of hurting you. And somehow, through the pain, you manage to relax just enough to let him in. Just enough to let him take some of the weight from you.

He presses his lips to your temple, a soft, lingering kiss, and you can feel the tremble in his breath. “You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs against your skin. “Just let me take care of you.”

The way he says it sends a shiver down your spine, and for a moment, the burning inside you dims, replaced by something else. Something warm, and tender, and utterly consuming. Max moves with purpose now, his touch becoming more sure, more confident, but never losing that careful tenderness. He’s cooing to you, whispering soft praises in Dutch, his voice like a balm against the fire raging inside you.

“I’ve always wanted you,” Max admits again, his words spilling out like he can’t hold them back any longer. “For so long. I just … I didn’t know how to tell you.”

His hands continue their journey, and despite the circumstances, despite the fire still licking at your insides, your body responds. Every touch feels magnified, every brush of his skin against yours sending a jolt of something deeper through you, something primal and desperate and… needed.

“You’re so strong,” he says again, his voice reverent, almost in awe. “So perfect. I don’t know how you do it.”

Your body trembles beneath him, not just from the fire that’s still coursing through you, but from the way he’s touching you, the way his words wrap around you like a soft embrace. It’s intimate in a way you hadn’t expected, the vulnerability of the moment stripping away any pretense, any barriers you might have once had.

“I’m here, liefje,” Max whispers, his lips brushing against your ear now. “I’ll take care of you. I promise.”

You don’t know how he manages it, how he makes something so painful feel like this, but he does. His hands are everywhere, soothing the burn, coaxing your body to relax, to give in to what you need. And with every touch, every whispered endearment, the fire inside you dims, just a little, just enough to let you breathe.

“I wish it was different,” Max murmurs, his voice thick with emotion now. “I wish this was … just us. Not because of this. Not because of …“ His words trail off, but you understand. You understand perfectly.

He presses his forehead against yours again, his breathing ragged, his body tense with the effort of keeping himself composed. “But I’ll do whatever it takes,” he says, his voice fierce with determination. “I’ll do anything for you.”

Your body reacts to him instinctively now, every nerve ending lighting up in response to his touch, the fire inside you blazing hotter but in a way that feels … different. Less painful. More like an ache, a deep, desperate need that only he can fill.

“Max …“ you manage to whisper, your voice hoarse, barely audible. It’s the first word you’ve spoken since waking up, and it feels like a release, like a crack in the wall you’ve built around yourself. He hears it, though, and his gaze softens, his thumb brushing gently across your cheek.

“I’ve got you,” he whispers, his voice full of emotion. “I’ve always got you.”

His movements quicken, and you can feel yourself spiraling, the fire inside you building to a crescendo, but this time it’s not just pain. It’s something more, something overwhelming and all-consuming. You can feel him with you, guiding you, coaxing you toward the edge.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispers again, his voice breathless now, his own control slipping. “I’ve wanted you for so long …“

His words send you tumbling over the edge, your body convulsing in a wave of pleasure so intense it nearly takes your breath away. The fire beneath your skin peaks, then suddenly, blessedly, begins to recede. It’s like the flames are being extinguished, one by one, leaving only warmth in their wake.

And Max is there, holding you through it, his arms wrapped around you tightly, his face buried in the crook of your neck. His breathing is ragged, his body trembling with the effort of holding himself together, but he doesn’t let go. He doesn’t move.

As the last of the fire dies down, as your body finally begins to relax, you hear him whisper, so softly you almost miss it.

“I love you.”

The words slip out before he can stop them, unguarded and raw, and for a moment, everything else fades away. The room, the pain, the circumstances that brought you here — it all disappears, leaving only the two of you, tangled together, vulnerable and exposed.

You’re too weak to respond, too exhausted from everything that’s just happened, but Max doesn’t seem to mind. He holds you close, his lips pressing gentle kisses to your hair, your forehead, anywhere he can reach.

“I love you,” he whispers again, like he’s afraid you didn’t hear him the first time. “I’ve always loved you.”

His confession hangs in the air, delicate and fragile, but it feels right. Like it’s been waiting to be said all along.

As the fire beneath your skin finally dies out completely, as your body settles into a state of calm for the first time in hours, you let yourself fall into the safety of his arms, his warmth the only thing keeping the remnants of the fire at bay.

Max doesn’t let go. Not for a long time. And you don’t want him to.

***

Max holds you close, his body pressed against yours, his breath still coming in shallow bursts as the two of you lie in a tangled heap on the bed. The burning fire that had been searing through your body has finally been extinguished, leaving only a lingering warmth that feels manageable now.

But even though the pain is gone, even though your body has found relief, there’s still something… unfinished. A strange, restless feeling that hums beneath your skin, an ache that begs for more.

Max is quiet beside you, his hand brushing gently through your hair as he watches your face, his expression soft but intent, like he’s still worried, still waiting for some sign that you’re okay. But you can see it in his eyes — he knows. He knows it’s not over yet.

You shift beneath him, the subtle movement sending a ripple of sensation through you, and your breath hitches involuntarily. The fire is gone, but that need, that craving — it’s still there, simmering just below the surface. It’s not the urgent, desperate heat of the pollen, but it’s undeniable.

Max’s gaze sharpens, reading the subtle cues in your body. His hand stills in your hair, and you feel him shift beside you, his body tensing slightly as he watches you, waiting for you to say something, to ask for what you need.

You don’t have to.

“Oh liefje,” he murmurs, his voice low and husky. “You still need more, don’t you?”

Your throat tightens, and you nod, unable to form the words. There’s a flicker of something in his eyes — understanding, maybe, or something deeper. He doesn’t ask if you’re sure. He already knows.

Max’s hand trails down your body, his touch feather-light, and it sends a shiver through you, your body responding to him instantly. He presses a kiss to your temple, then to your jaw, his lips warm and soft against your skin. “I’m here,” he whispers, his breath hot against your ear. “Whatever you need.”

His lips travel lower, grazing the sensitive skin of your neck, and you arch into him, your body aching for more. He moves slowly, deliberately, savoring each touch, each kiss, as if he’s committing every inch of you to memory.

You can’t help the small gasp that escapes your lips when he moves lower still, his mouth brushing against your collarbone. He’s taking his time, drawing this out, making sure every second is filled with pleasure, with tenderness. There’s no urgency now, no frantic need to cure the fire. This is something else — something deliberate, something intimate.

Max’s hands slide down your sides, his thumbs brushing lightly over your ribs as he lowers himself down the bed. His mouth follows the path his hands have carved, leaving a trail of heat in its wake. You feel his breath against your skin, warm and teasing, as he moves lower, kissing across your stomach with slow, deliberate care.

Every nerve in your body is on high alert, each touch sending sparks of pleasure coursing through you. Your fingers tangle in the sheets, gripping them tightly as you fight to keep your composure, but Max makes it impossible. His lips are everywhere, soft and warm and completely unrelenting.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs against your skin, his voice rough with desire. “I don’t think you even realize …”

His words send a thrill through you, and your breath catches as his hands slide lower, his fingers brushing the curve of your hips. He presses a kiss to your navel, and you feel the heat pooling deep inside you, the need building again, stronger this time, more insistent.

“Max …” you whisper, your voice barely audible, but he hears you. He always hears you.

“I’ve got you,” he whispers back, his voice soft, reassuring. “Just relax.”

You try, but it’s impossible with the way he’s touching you, the way he’s kissing you, like every part of you deserves his undivided attention. He’s worshiping you with every movement, and it’s almost too much to bear.

Max’s hands slide up your thighs, and your breath stutters as he spreads your legs wider, his eyes dark with want as he looks up at you. His hands grip your hips, holding you steady as he presses a kiss just below the dip of your waist, teasing you, making you wait.

“You’re perfect,” he murmurs, his lips brushing against your skin. “Do you know that?”

You can’t respond, can’t do anything but arch into him, desperate for more. He knows exactly what you need, and he’s giving it to you slowly, carefully, savoring every moment.

Max’s hands grasp your thighs, and he pulls them apart slowly, his eyes never leaving yours. There’s something in his gaze — something raw, something vulnerable. He’s giving himself to you completely, just as much as you’re giving yourself to him.

His lips trail lower, pressing kisses to the sensitive skin there, and your entire body shudders in response. Every nerve is on fire again, but this time it’s not the cruel burn of the pollen.

This is different. This is Max.

He pauses for a moment, his lips hovering just above where you need him most, and he looks up at you, his eyes searching yours. “Tell me what you want,” he whispers, his voice barely more than a breath.

You can’t form the words. All you can do is nod, your body trembling beneath him.

Max smiles, a small, almost shy smile, and then he lowers his head, his mouth finally, blessedly, on you. The sensation is immediate, intense, and you cry out, your fingers digging into the sheets as he works you with a precision that only he seems to know. His tongue moves slowly at first, teasing you, drawing out your pleasure, but it doesn’t take long for him to find the rhythm that makes your entire body sing.

He’s relentless, his mouth and hands working in perfect harmony, driving you higher and higher until you can’t think, can’t breathe, can’t do anything but feel. The pleasure builds and builds, coiling tighter and tighter inside you until you’re sure you’re going to break.

“Max!” You gasp, your body arching off the bed. “Please …”

He doesn’t stop, doesn’t slow down. If anything, he goes faster, his tongue working you with an intensity that leaves you trembling. You’re so close, so impossibly close, and he knows it.

“That’s it,” he whispers against you, his voice thick with need. “Let go, schatje. I’ve got you.”

And then, with one last flick of his tongue, you’re gone, tumbling over the edge into a wave of pleasure so intense it almost hurts. Your entire body convulses, your vision going white as you fall apart beneath him, your fingers gripping the sheets so tightly they burn.

Max doesn’t let up, his mouth still on you, drawing out every last drop of pleasure until you’re nothing but a trembling, panting mess. When he finally pulls away, you’re left gasping for breath, your body slick with sweat, your heart racing in your chest.

He crawls back up the bed, pressing soft kisses to your skin as he goes, his hands soothing over your trembling limbs. When he finally reaches your face, he presses a gentle kiss to your forehead, his fingers brushing your hair back from your face.

“You’re okay,” he murmurs, his voice soft, reassuring. “You’re okay.”

You can barely nod, your body still trembling from the aftershocks of your release. Max pulls you into his arms, holding you close, his fingers tracing gentle patterns on your back as you come down from the high. His breath is warm against your ear, and you can feel his heart beating in time with yours.

For a moment, everything is still. Quiet. Perfect.

And then, just as your breathing begins to slow, the door creaks open.

The doctor walks in, clipboard in hand, his expression unreadable as he takes in the sight of you and Max — sweaty, tangled together, your bodies still humming with the afterglow. He doesn’t say anything at first, just glances at his clipboard, then back at you.

“Well,” he says after a moment, his tone entirely too clinical for the situation. “It appears the cure has been administered.”

Max stiffens beside you, but the doctor doesn’t seem to notice — or care. He simply jots down a few notes on his clipboard, his pen scratching loudly in the silence.

“Residual effects of heightened libido may persist,” the doctor adds, almost as an afterthought. He glances up from his notes, his gaze flicking between you and Max, then nods, satisfied. “I’ll be back to check on you later.”

And with that, he turns and walks out of the room, leaving you and Max in stunned silence.

Max lets out a breath, a low, incredulous laugh bubbling up from his chest. “Did he seriously just …”

You nod, still too dazed to form a coherent response.

Max shakes his head, a small smile playing at his lips as he pulls you closer, his arms wrapping around you protectively. “Well, I guess we’re not done yet.”

And with the way your body still hums with need, you know he’s right.

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

When The World Is Crashing Down [Chapter 4: These Words Are All I Have So I'll Write Them]

Series summary: Your family is House Celtigar, one of Rhaenyra’s wealthiest allies. In the aftermath of Rook’s Rest, Aemond unknowingly conscripts you to save his brother’s life. Now you are in the liar of the enemy, but your loyalties are quickly shifting…

Chapter warnings: Language, warfare, violence, serious injury, alcoholism/addiction, prostitution, references to sexual content including noncon (18+), pregnancy, methods of ending pregnancy, speaking High Valyrian at a third-grade level, no Larys Strong this time yay!!!

Series title is a lyric from: “7 Minutes in Heaven” by Fall Out Boy.

Chapter title is a lyric from: “Dance, Dance” by Fall Out Boy.

Word count: 6.7k.

Link to chapter list: HERE.

Taglist (more in comments): @tinykryptonitewerewolf @lauraneedstochill @not-a-glad-gladiator @daenysx @babyblue711 @arcielee @at-a-rax-ia @bhanclegane @jvpit3rs @padfooteyes @marvelescvpe @travelingmypassion @darkenchantress @yeahright0h @poohxlove @trifoliumviridi @bloodyflowerrr @fan-goddess @devynsficrecs @flowerpotmage @thelittleswanao3 @seabasscevans @hiraethrhapsody @libroparaiso @echos-muses @st-eve-barnes @chattylurker @lm-txles @vagharnaur @moonlightfoxx @storiumemporium @insabecs @heliosscribbles @beautifulsweetschaos @namelesslosers @partnerincrime0 @burningcoffeetimetravel-fics @yawneneytiri @marbles-posts @imsolence @maidmerrymint @backyardfolklore @nimaharchive @anxiousdaemon @under-the-aspen-tree @amiraisgoingthruit @dd122004dd @randomdragonfires @jetblack4real @joliettes

Let me know if you’d like to be tagged! 🥰💜

She gives you a new dress to replace the one that is sopping wet and algae-stained from your tumble into the fishpond: a deep gory maroon, low-cut across the chest, a slit up to your thigh. It is the most revealing thing you have ever worn. You keep crossing your arms and tugging at the fabric, trying to make it cover more of you, incurably out-of-place in this room, this world. The madam is seated at her desk and jotting down notes in a thick, ancient book. When you steal glimpses of her words, they are messy and often misspelled, the script of a child. If you had parchment, you could write a letter. Your hands itch for it; your fingers flex to grasp nothing.

A woman glides into the madam’s bedroom—a tiny kingdom where no men exist—and hands you a cup of tea. She appraises you with a swift, intrigued glance; her hair is long and coppery red, her belly rounded out. She is perhaps five months pregnant. The madam casts her a stern look and the woman dutifully vanishes. “What is this?” you ask as you take a sip. It’s hot, lemony, bitter. “Moon tea?”

The madame chuckles. “No. We have moon tea for if that doesn’t work.”

Because I’m going to be doing things that could result in a child. Because I’m going to be violated here, again and again, I who was so terrified of being possessed by even one man.

The madam says: “Can you play any instruments?”

“No.” You draw into yourself—eyes and ears and the pores of your skin—every detail, every tapestry on the walls and creaky board of the floor and shift in tones of voice, anything that could help you escape. You are a traveler in a strange land. You have no map, no compass. You can bandage burns and set bones, but you know nothing about brothels in the suffocating, squalid entrails of a city.

“Sing or dance?”

“Not well at all.”

A furrowed brow. “Can you sew?”

“Barely.”

“Cook?”

“No.”

Disappointment, palpable and shaming. “Can you read or write?” the madam asks, scratching disorderly lines of black ink into her book.

“Both.”

Now she has perked up a bit. “How well?”

“Fluently.”

A raised eyebrow. This is unusual. “Any other languages besides the Common Tongue?”

“No.” Then you add desperately: “But I know about medicine! I’ve studied herbology and wound tending, and I can act as a healer for the women here, I can—”

“You could, perhaps,” the madam says, smiling with sad, aged patience. “But that is not what the prince regent intended.”

You stare at her, aghast, petrified. There is no swaying her. You consider revealing yourself and attempting to bribe her with the renowned Celtigar fortune, but this is inadvisable. It is one thing to be raped; it is another to be raped and then murdered and then probably raped again. The Greens are the true heirs of the throne in this establishment, which means Rhaenyra and all those who aid her are traitors. Already you have overheard the women gossiping about King Aegon. They do not appear to fear or dislike him; on the contrary, they fret over him like anxious mothers or wives. They hope his recovery is quick. They are grateful he survived. They wonder if he will return to visit them again soon. They do not seem to be under the impression that he is vile, amoral, cruel, a threat, a curse. When they look at him, white hair and ocean-deep eyes, they do not see a monster.

“You aren’t bleeding currently,” the madam continues.

“How do you know that?”

“You didn’t ask for a rag when I gave you that dress.” New words springing to life on those yellowed pages, pricelessly valuable and yet forbidden to you. “Ever borne children?”

“No.”

“Are you a maiden?”

You can’t decide how to answer; you aren’t sure if either reply will help you. You settle on the truth. “Yes,” you admit tentatively.

“Good. We can charge more for you.”

“Wait, no, I’m not. I’ve been with lots of men.”

The madam laughs, shaking her head as she makes her notes. Her necklace and earrings jangle merrily, too large, glinting and gaudy. “Have no fear. I will make it easier for you. I will find a slight, young lad to be your first. He won’t be too big, he won’t last too long. And if you’re fortunate, he’ll even be handsome!” Her prominent, pale eyes go distant; she is orchestrating myths, the trade she deals in like some women sell silk or wool. “A soldier home on leave, perhaps. Looking for a taste of dwindling innocence before he marches off again to be butchered by a Costayne or a Darklyn.” She snaps back into the room. “It will be over before you know it. You’ll be more underwhelmed than anything else, trust me.”

You picture it, red, rust, rage, resignation: the impossibly large stain of blood on your cousin Theodora’s bedsheets. “What if I’m frightened? What if I cry?”

The madam shrugs. “Some men like that. It will convince them of your inexperience.”

You gape at her. “That’s appalling.”

“That’s the world we live in.” She sets down her quill, closes the book, and stretches out her back as she stands. “Follow me. I’ll show you around.”

There are rooms where the women sleep, rooms where they get ready, servants to arrange their hair and moonlight-silver mirrors and a cluttered array of cosmetics and closets bursting with sheer, sensuous gowns. As the madam momentarily diverts her attention from you to scold a servant for knocking over a tin of rouge made from ground cinnabar, you swipe a small stick of kohl eyeliner off a table and tuck it into the pocket of your dress. You might be able to write with it.

What is that pocket supposed to be for? A vial of perfume to mask the sweat of men, mint leaves to clear away their taste? A cloth to mop their mess off your thighs? You shudder, then trail after the madam as she floats out into the hallway.

There are bedchambers, six or seven of them, but the doors are shut. You can smell incense burning; you can hear moans and wet slaps of flesh beneath plucks of harps played by servants. Outside there is a courtyard where women sit on the stone rims of fountains simpering and stroking men’s beards, necks, chests, thighs. It is surrounded by a wall nine feet high. Armed guards pace through the maze of rose bushes and elm trees and proliferate quilts of ivy, keeping uninvited men out, keeping women in. They are protected from their own ambitions of some other kind of life. They are prisoners. The sky above them is a mosaic of spilled wine and gold; the sun is setting.

Downstairs in the kitchen, the madam leaves you in the care of the same woman you saw earlier, long coppery ringlets and a bastard in her belly. The dress she wears is a cleaner red than yours, not blood that has dried and flaked but a heart that’s still beating. She is chopping vegetables and tossing them into a pot boiling over the fire. The long wooden table is strewn with carrots, onions, potatoes, leeks, mushrooms, fresh dark green herbs.

She flashes you a wily smile. “Our cook dropped dead last week. We’ve yet to procure a new one, so I’m making myself useful. All the house laments.”

You laugh and join her, though you don’t know the first thing about working in a kitchen; you pick up a knife and begin slicing through a carrot. It takes more muscle than you anticipated.

“On a cutting board, you idiot,” the woman says kindly, passing you one.

“Sorry. I’ve never cooked before.”

“What? Never?” Her auburn eyebrows spring up. “Where did you come from?”

The cliffs, the sea, salt and waves and mist. “The Crownlands.”

She is studying you with interest as her blade hovers over a half-chopped leek. “Were you a handmaiden to a lady there, or…?”

“It doesn’t matter. Whoever I was, I’m not the same person anymore.”

“No,” the woman agrees softly. “None of us are, I suppose.”

You glance down to her belly. You don’t wish to offend her, but you are curious.

“Go on,” she prompts. “You may inquire. I am well aware of my predicament whether you speak of it aloud or not, I assure you.”

“Did the moon tea not…expel the child?”

“No,” she sighs as she resumes hacking away at the leek. She speaks with vague, weary fondness. “The lemonweed tea did not prevent it, the moon tea did not kill it. I nearly died of fever and vomiting myself, but the child held on. It’s alive in there, I can feel it kicking sometimes. A fierce little thing.”

You nod, still gazing at her belly, undeniable evidence of the act that built it. The copper-haired woman is almost certainly younger than you, and yet she knows exactly what it means to be opened by a man, pillaged, conquered, used, left. This time tomorrow, you will know it too. “The madam let you stay?”

“Not very enthusiastically, but yes. I cook, I clean, I do the shopping in the market. She does not fear letting me venture out into the city. She knows I have nowhere else to go. I only have to entertain clients if they ask for a pregnant woman. Some men have a particular liking for that, you know.”

You did not know. “Right.”

“Besides, there might be some advantage in it for the madam,” the woman tells you. She grins. “When the child is born, there’s a chance it will have the silver hair of a Targaryen. Then the madam could approach Otto Hightower for a reward of some sort, money, protection. Royal bastards have never been more valuable. Little princes are dying left and right.”

“King Aegon’s?” you say numbly. “The child could be his?”

“Yes, obviously. Who else?”

So Aemond does not frequent this place as a customer. You wonder how he met the madam.

Aegon was here before the war began, you think, blood hot in your face, your guts twisting and nauseous. How many women know what he feels like, tastes like, sounds like when he is moaning in pleasure instead of agony?

The copper-haired woman is staring at you quizzically. You have to say something. You hear your voice like the distant cry of a crow through fog: “What was he like? The king, I mean.”

She considers this. “Drunk. Sad. But perfectly pleasant. I wouldn’t mind serving him again. He’s well thought of on the Street of Silk. I do hope he recovers. I think Rhaenyra would hang us all from a gallows. She knows Daemon has a wandering eye, and she’s not the type of wife to look the other way.”

You are trying to clear it out of your skull, like a room full of smoke: Aegon was here, Aegon was here, Aegon was here. “When you met with him, it was in this brothel?”

She hesitates. “Mostly.”

Mostly…? “Have you been inside the Red Keep?”

“Once. Ages ago. There is a network of secret passageways beneath the castle and behind the walls. The king has been known to use them for…well. You know.”

It should not hurt you. You’ve spent all your life listening to the tales of his failings. Yet it does, more than you thought was possible. You’ve never wanted a man before. But you want Aegon now. You do, you must, otherwise you wouldn’t be so pained by the thought of others touching him. You wonder if he feels the same way about you, if he ever lies awake at night with his stomach in knots over your nameless betrothed.

You try to focus on this moment, this kitchen, this copper-haired woman.You need to find a way out of here. “So the madam will decide what happens to your child once it’s born.”

“Of course,” she replies simply.

“You don’t want to keep it yourself? You are not attached to it?”

The woman is suddenly serious, quiet, melancholy. “I have no choice in the matter.”

She’s my chance. She’s my redeemer. “Can I ask your name?” you say.

“What my family named me is of no account. As you said, we’re not the same people anymore.” She smiles, warm like embers once again. “People here call me Autumn.”

“Autumn,” you echo. A woman with hair the color of crisp, dying leaves, the color of a dying world hurtling towards winter. “I think I can help you. You and your child, no matter its parentage.”

She does not want to believe you—hope is a dangerous, taunting creature, one that builds a home in your ribcage and then taps taps taps its claws along the ladder of bones—but she does. You can see it flickering in her small, upturned hazel eyes. “You…what?”

“When you go to the market, do you take a list with you? Of items that you require?”

“Yes,” Autumn replies, puzzled. “The madam always gives me one.”

“Do you have any parchment here in the kitchen?”

Autumn shakes her head. “The madam keeps it in her room. Shall I ask her—?”

“No,” you say. “Definitely don’t ask for any. Is there an old list lying around, perhaps?”

“Um, let me see…” Autumn rummages around the table; onions go rolling, leeks are flung aside. She snatches a tattered, folded sheet of parchment from under a pile of potatoes and surrenders it to you. “Here. This is the one from yesterday.”

You open it and lay it flat on the table. Sure enough, there is a list written in black ink; but not in the Common Tongue. The items are sketched. There’s a carrot with a cloudlike plume of fronds atop it, a bee (meaning honey, you imagine), a pig and a chicken, a round bottle with a heart drawn above it. Perfume? you guess. “These are pictures.”

“Well, of course. I wouldn’t be able to read it otherwise.”

You take the stick of black kohl out of your dress pocket and flip over the list. The back is blank. You write as Autumn watches, baffled, fascinated.

Your Grace, you begin, and then scratch it out. You start again.

Aegon,

Aemond has imprisoned me in a brothel. He knows the madam (middle-aged, brown hair, clever).

“What is this place called?” you ask Autumn.

“The Pink Pearl,” she says.

Autumn works here, if you recall her. She says the establishment is known as the Pink Pearl. Please send someone to rescue me at once. I am to be put to work soon, and I am afraid.

You pause. What will he have been told? What will he think of you now?

I beg your forgiveness for my deceit. I did not mislead you out of malice. I knew you needed help, and that I would not be able to provide it if my true identity was known. I have not done anything to undermine your cause. I have not written a word to my family. I assume they now believe me to be dead. I do not want this, but it is a sacrifice I have made so that I can continue to serve you.

Please help me. Please allow me to return to the Red Keep.

My name was a lie, but none of the rest was.

Angel

“You’re highborn, aren’t you?” Autumn says, hushed, awed. “You must be, to write like that.”

“Yes. And I am a friend of King Aegon. If he knows I’m here, he will pay for me.” You don’t know that for sure, but you have hope, that risky rattling beast.

“He will pay to fuck you, you mean?”

“I believe he will buy my freedom.”

“And if he doesn’t?”

Then I will slit my own throat with one of these knives. “It’s better for everyone if he does.” You fold the parchment closed and then give it to Autumn. She takes it, perplexed but willing. “I cannot leave this place. But you can. I need you to get that letter to the king. You know the way to the Red Keep; you have been inside these secret passageways. Hand the letter to him directly if possible. If you are intercepted, ask to see the Dowager Queen Alicent or…” You debate this. Sir Criston is closer to Aemond than Aegon, but you believe the opposite to be true for the youngest Targaryen brother. “Or Prince Daeron. Tell them that the letter must be read by the king immediately, and by him only. If he is resting, he must be roused. If he is speaking with someone, he must be interrupted. Explain this and then leave. And do not allow the prince regent to see you.” Aemond’s words blow through you like a cold wind: If she tries to escape, kill her.

“This is a difficult task,” Autumn says uncertainly, the folded square of parchment disappearing into the bodice of her gown. “I cannot promise you anything. But I can try.”

“If I am rescued, I will see that you and your child are provided for. You will have your own home, one far, far away from here. You will never have to answer to the madam again. You will never have to lie with a man who is not of your choosing. Your life will be your own.”

She stares at you, dazed and wonderous. She cannot even fathom this, but she knows she wants it. You’ve begun to feel that way about certain things as well. When Autumn speaks, it is in little more than a whisper. “I would like that very much.”

“You will have my most fervent gratitude.”

“I will depart tonight after supper. I will tell the madam that I am craving apple cake from a street vendor.”

“Thank you, Autumn,” you say, lips trembling as they curl into a smile, tears blurry in your eyes.

She points to the stick of black kohl you’ve used as a makeshift quill, smirking. It’s still clutched in your dominant hand. “You’d better hide that before people start showing up looking for soup.”

Hours later, you are trying to fall asleep in a room you share with half a dozen other women who are not presently working, beds so close together they almost touch, soft snores, mattresses shifting when people roll over, a thin wool blanket pulled all the way up to your chin.

Aegon will read the letter. Aegon will send someone to rescue me.

In the darkness, your hands wander down to your belly, your hips, lower. Skating over your white silk nightgown, your fingertips press cautiously at a place where you sometimes feel an indistinct, uneasy sort of pleasure. You rarely touch yourself; you cannot do so without remembering that your body is not your own and never has been. But now, for the very first time and without any premeditation, you picture Aegon—his murky oceanic eyes, his crooked grin, his hands, his bravery, his gentleness, his shock of white-blond hair adorned with that single tiny braid—and instantly your once-ambiguous desire sharpens, strengthens, is accompanied by a wetness that you can feel blooming warm and needful beneath your nightgown.

But it’s not going to be him. It’s going to be some stranger who doesn’t know me and doesn’t want to.

You roll over onto your side and thrust your hands under the pillow, squeeze your eyes shut until they ache, try not to hear the moans that creep through the walls like dark veins of blood poisoning.

~~~~~~~~~~

All day you wait for someone to cross through the doorway of the brothel to claim you, a guard, a messenger, Daeron, Criston, anybody. But no one does. The women here keep strange hours: late to bed, late to rise, breakfast at noon, lunch at four or five, supper long after nightfall. You pick listlessly at a breakfast of biscuits with butter, honey, and blackberry jam, bacon, weak wine, pomegranate juice, lemonweed tea to prevent an unintended child like Autumn’s.

“I was stopped by a guard just outside the Red Keep,” she mutters to you in a stolen moment, huddled together at the end of a hallway by a window that opens out onto the courtyard. “They agreed to let me see Prince Daeron. He took the letter and said he would deliver it. That’s all I could do. I hope it’s enough.”

I hope so too, you think to yourself as you thank her, marveling with brick-heavy horror at how all the Valyrian ancestry and riches in the world cannot save you from the fate of being born a card for others to play, trade, bet on, use until it is worn and faceless. I hope so with everything I’m made of.

The other women take you with them to the bathhouse down the street, and in the labyrinth of sweltering pools and swirling steam you scrub yourself all over until your skin is tender to the touch. You use perfumed soaps and luxurious floral oils, not for healing but for vanity, so strange men will imagine you to be an intoxicating fantasy, so any human imperfections can be ignored. You pluck some stray hairs and trim others. You inspect each other for bruises or scratches or bitemarks that will need to be covered. No one mentions how they got them. Everybody knows.

Back in the brothel, the women show you how to wear your hair and do your makeup: black kohl on the eyes, beeswax dyed with berry juice on the lips, powder on the face to even out your complexion. Servants flit around fussing over hairstyles and switching ripped seams on dresses. Your silk gown—the one you will be raped in—is a soft, helpless, feminine lavender. You are shown to a bedchamber: flickering candles, a mountain of pillows and jewel-toned throw blankets, harp music and fresh air breathing in through the windows. You sit on the edge of the bed wringing your hands. You are waiting to be rescued. You are waiting to be harmed.

The door opens, and he enters. The madam was truthful: she has found you a slight, benign-looking young man. He smiles shyly, clanging in his light armor. He is indeed a soldier on leave from the front. He wears the crest of his family as the clasp for his cape, a white shield with a black cross. He is a Norcross, the same as the dying boy you were tending when Aemond pulled you off the battlefield at Rook’s Rest. How easy it would have been for you to not be here right now; a difference of a few minutes, a few meters, and Aemond never would have found you.

“Hello,” the man says pleasantly. He is yanking off his boots.

“Hello.” You are still sitting on the edge of the massive bed, big enough for four or five occupants. This is not a coincidence, you’re certain. But that will come later, once you have been sufficiently broken in. Your stomach lurches; you try not to show it.

Now he is taking off his cape. “You’re nervous,” he observes. There is a pitcher of wine on the table in the middle of the room. He pours two cups and hands one to you. You take it—intending to be dignified, ladylike—and then gulp it down. The Norcross laughs. “You needn’t fear me, maiden,” he says. “I am here for pleasure, not pain. I have paid a considerable price for you. You are a piece of treasure, a rare gem, and I will handle you accordingly.”

Then he reaches out to stroke your cheek, and something in you shatters, splits open, screams. I don’t know this man. I don’t trust this man. You shrink away from him and retreat to the center of the vast bed. The Norcross blinks at you, a little amused, a bit bewildered. “Sir, you have stumbled upon a great opportunity,” you tell him. “I am no ordinary woman.”

“No?” he says. But he is smirking beneath gleaming eyes, like this is a joke; and he is removing his armor as well.

“I am here as the result of a dreadful misunderstanding. You see, I have actually already been claimed. There is another man who has the right to take my innocence if he so chooses.”

“Oh?” the Norcross says. He is unbuttoning his white cotton shirt. “Who?”

“King Aegon.”

He throws his head back and guffaws, dark hair long enough to cover his ears and brush against the nape of his neck. “This is a very charming jape. Me? Getting to deflower the king’s chosen whore? Yes, yes, very good. Delightful. Delicious.” He crawls onto the bed; the mattress shifts beneath your palms. A cold sweat slicks across your skin. Goosebumps rise on your arms. He doesn’t hear me. He doesn’t want to.

“I’m not joking,” you implore the Norcross. “I am well-acquainted with King Aegon, he cares for me. I was brought here by mistake and against his knowledge. If you assist me in returning to him, I’m sure you will be generously compensated for your trouble—”

The man’s hand juts out, snags in your hair, yanks and tears at it. You yelp and struggle as he wrestles you down onto the mattress and settles his weight on top of you. “You’re mine, all mine,” he growls, smiling, playing along with what he has chosen to believe is a fantasy. “Not the king’s whore. The king has plenty of those already, he probably has thousands. But you’re all mine.”

“Get off me,” you order him, as if you are still the daughter of one of the wealthiest houses in Westeros and not some powerless, penniless woman imprisoned in ornate walls and perfumed silk; and isn’t this where you always would have ended up anyway? Flinching on some stranger’s bed as he tried to claim you, subdue you, force pieces of himself inside you?

“I will show you, maiden. The king is a cripple now. He could not satisfy you anyway. I will give you what he could not. And I’ll give it to you more than once, if you ask nicely.” He presses his lips to yours, a sickening mockery of a kiss, all flesh and no heat. He is wearing only his trousers; they could be gone in an instant. He is tugging your sleeves off your shoulders to get to your breasts.

“Please don’t do this, please stop, I’ll give you anything—”

“Everything I want is right here.”

Just let him do it, you think. I can’t leave this place, I can’t fight him off. There’s no way out. Just let him do it, and live to see if freedom will arrive tomorrow.

Aemond’s words fill your skull like flashes of lighting: If she tries to escape, kill her.

The Norcross man is pulling off his trousers. It strikes you like a closed fist: the terror, the injustice, the rage. You swing at his face, your knuckles rapping against his cheekbones. “Get off of me—!”

There is a tremendous fracturing noise, and at first you think the man must have snapped one of your bones, your radius or your tibia or your clavicle. But no: it was the bedchamber door being thrown open so violently it hit the wall behind it and cracked down the middle. And now there are footsteps, and now there are guards pouring into the room, and now the point of a blade bursts through the Norcross man’s windpipe splattering blood across the bed, the walls, the wood boards of the floor. You are shrieking; scarlet rain peppers your face, chest, hands.

“You’d take an unwilling woman?!” Aegon demands of the dying man, who gapes at him with rapidly fading eyes and a mouth hemorrhaging dark, lethal red. The king is wearing all black, tunic, trousers, boots. Half of his hair is pulled back from his face and secured with a black ribbon. You have never seen him like this before. You have never seen him brutal, formidable, furious. “You fucking animal. Enjoy drowning in your own blood.”

Aegon wrenches his sword free from the dying man’s throat and he falls face-down onto the mattress as you scramble away. And then Aegon falls too: his legs give out and he collapses to his knees, kneeling in a pool of the Norcross man’s blood, the hilt of his sword tumbling out of his grasp. You bolt off the bed and drop down onto the floor beside him.

“Aegon?!”

“Are you okay?” He takes your face in his hands—they’re shaking, they’re weak again, but just strong enough to cradle the slope of your jaw—and looks at you, turning your face one way and then the other, his eyes searching for bruises, lacerations, more fuel for the vengeful fire that blazes in him. The burn on his own right cheek is inflamed, blistering. He does not seem to notice.

“I’m okay, I promise.”

“Did they hurt you?”

“No, no, you got here just in time.”

And Aegon—this so-called monster, this alleged beast, this man who the Blacks swear is a villain and a degenerate and soulless—slips the sleeves of your silk lavender gown back up over your shoulders so your chest is covered. “If it’s any consolation, you’re fucking beautiful.”

“Of course you would prefer me dressed like a prostitute.”

He laughs, embraces you, holds you to him, the first time he ever has. Your arms link around the back of his neck, your fingers knot in his hair. You are so close, yet not nearly close enough; you want him completely, always. You can’t claw your way back up the cliff you’ve fallen down.

There is a commotion as the guards that accompanied Aegon to the brothel part to allow two new arrivals into the bedchamber. Aemond and Criston now stand just inside the doorway, breathing heavily from their sprint across the city. Your gaze meets Aemond’s and you clutch Aegon tighter. The king kisses your temple—so quickly and unceremoniously it feels like a habit, something instinctual, something innately right—and reluctantly unravels himself from you. He grabs the nearest bedpost and hauls himself to his feet, wincing, groaning, bracing himself against it with both hands.

“What the hell are you doing?!” Aemond shouts at his brother.

“You will not harm her! You will not take her from me!”

“Aegon, she’s not a Thorne, she’s a Celtigar! Her father sits on Rhaenyra’s council, he funds her war effort, when our men are killed it’s with arrows and steel that he paid for—!”

“We’re all different people now!” Aegon roars. “All of us! You were some pathetic runt, I was useless, Daeron was a child, Helaena was happy, Criston was devoted to Rhaenyra, Mother was her closest friend, all of us have been changed by this world and its endless goddamn misery! So she was born a Celtigar, is she to be eternally condemned for that? Is she truly irredeemable? Can no acts of service to the Greens’ king convince you of her loyalty? She saved my life!”

“Are you insane?! We can’t trust her!”

“I am the king!” Aegon bellows. “I am still the one who gets to make these decisions, no matter how unworthy you think I am!”

“She lied to you, to me, to everyone, that cannot go unpunished!”

And then Aegon responds, but not in the Common Tongue. He says something—laboriously, haltingly—in a language you recognize only from hearing Daemon and Rhaenyra converse in it. You were not aware that Aegon knew High Valyrian well enough to carry a conversation. Perhaps Aemond and Criston weren’t either; they exchange a brief, astonished glance. The guards’ eyes dart between the king and the prince regent.

Aemond replies, his tone cutting but his words swift, seamless, graceful, fluent. Aegon stumbles his way through a sentence or two, pausing several times to conjure the correct word. Aemond says something else, an effortless litany of syllables your forebears shared. Aegon forces out one last plea. It sounds painful; it sounds like a confession. Aemond stares at his brother, perhaps scandalized, perhaps merely stunned.

“Alright?” Aegon pants, in anguish now. His hands are like talons on the bedpost, the force of his fingernails leaving white scratches in the wood. “You get it? You understand?”

“Fine,” Aemond says, low and bitter.

“You will not harm her. She stays in the Red Keep. Promise me, Aemond. I cannot rest until you do.”

Aemond nods, glaring down at the floor.

“Criston?” Aegon presses. “Promise me. If he breaks his word, you will stop him. I command this. I am your king.”

“I promise, Aegon,” Criston agrees, willingly enough.

“Good,” Aegon says. “Good.” And then he blacks out and crumples to the floor. The guards rush for him, but Criston tells them to stand back. He stoops low, lifts the king, throws him over one shoulder and carries him. Aemond fetches his brother’s fallen sword. You follow them out of the brothel, staying as far away from Aemond as you can. You pause just long enough to peek into the kitchen.

“Autumn?” you call, and she looks up from the chicken she’s been coating with herbs and butter. “I’m leaving now. You’re coming with me. Get your things.”

“What things?” she says, grinning. She cleans her hands and trots after you, one palm resting on the swell of her belly, her copper sea of hair streaming out behind her.

Inside the Red Keep, you inform the servants that Autumn will be staying as a guest of the royal family and that she is to have a room near yours. Then you hurry to Aegon’s chamber. He is sprawled across the bed, writhing and moaning. Grand Maester Orwyle is administering milk of the poppy. Criston is stripping him, heaving off Aegon’s boots and trousers before gingerly removing his tunic to reveal bandages red with blood around his shoulders. He has torn the half-mended flesh there. He suffers, he heals, he suffers again.

“Angel?” Aegon chokes out, reaching for you with tears flooding from his eyes.

“I’m here.” You take his hand. “What hurts, Aegon?”

“Everywhere,” he gasps.

You tell Orwyle: “Give him another dose.” And a second goblet of milk of the poppy is emptied down the king’s throat. Within a minute, he is mercifully unconscious again.

Criston looks at you. “What’s wrong with his face?”

“Sunlight. The rest of his burns were covered, but not the one on his cheek. Fresh burns must be kept out of the sun. He knows that.” You unwrap Aegon’s bandages; his wounds need to be cleaned and re-dressed.

“Oh, seven hells,” Criston whispers, covering his mouth with one hand. There are four or five ruptures around each shoulder, thin bleeding crevices that branch out like the legs of a red spider. Grand Maester Orwyle ambles off to order servants to fetch water, vinegar, honey, linen, more milk of the poppy.

“I should have done better,” you say, and your voice breaks. “I should have used more rose oil on his shoulders. I should have made him stretch three or four times a day.”

“You’ve tended to him tirelessly,” Criston says gently.

“I shouldn’t have lied about who I was.”

“I don’t see how you could have saved his life otherwise.”

“Go find Alicent,” you say. “Explain what’s happened, but don’t bring her to visit him yet. It will only upset her.”

“Yes,” Criston agrees, and leaves.

Outside, the sun is setting, and all the world is the color of dragonfire. Grand Maester Orwyle returns with servants and supplies. As you are dabbing at Aegon’s wounds with cloths dripping with water and vinegar, Daeron appears in the bedchamber doorway. His eyes—large and expressive like Aegon’s, but more crystalline, less dark—are shimmering and wider than you’ve ever seen them.

“Is he dying?” Daeron asks, sounding fearful and very young.

“No more than usual,” Aegon rasps; and that’s how you know he is awake again.

When Aegon is cleaned, bandaged, and soothed once again with milk of the poppy, the two of you are left alone. You perch on the edge of the mattress and can’t stop touching him, his left hand where his dragon ring glints in the flickering candlelight, his disheveled silver hair that still has that little braid you made for him. You don’t know what to say. You worry that if you begin talking, everything will spill out like a monsoon or a rogue wave, things you can’t take back, things you don’t fully understand yourself.

“House Celtigar, huh?” Aegon murmurs drowsily, smiling. “I’ve never been so happy to see a crab in my bed.”

And it hits you all at once: I would take every last drop of pain for this man. I would slit him open and drain him of it, swallow it down, assume the debt. I would carry every burden, every red flare of agony and ache in his bones. I would learn the art of self-loathing if he could forget it. I would trade fates with him, threads cut and crossed and burned to ash.

“What?” Aegon asks. He’s watching you with those storm-blue eyes, glassy with pain and poison.

Why wouldn’t you send someone else in your place? Why would you go yourself? Why would you injure yourself so grievously, so senselessly? “Why would you do this for me?”

“You are the only person I’ve never disappointed. I’d like to keep that going if I can.” He takes your hand and laces his fingers through yours. “You’re so far away.”

You lie down on the bed and curl up beside him, careful not to put pressure on his fresh wounds. You place one palm on the center of his bandaged chest, the other against his unburned cheek. Aegon pulls you in closer until your noses are nearly touching and you swing one leg up to rest on top of his; even then, he keeps a hand on your thigh, as if to make sure you don’t leave. The other twists into your hair and stays there. Aegon dives into a deep, starless sleep and you doze next to him. When you catch wisps of dreams like fireflies in a child’s grasp, you hear crashing waves and see dragons pitching into the sea: Vermax at the Gullet, Arrax into Shipbreaker Bay.

Why did Aemond have to murder Luke? Why did he have to start this war?

Something wakes you, a sound, an indescribable shift in the room. You open your eyes and turn to see Aemond, arms crossed and back propped against the opposite wall. You rise as carefully as you can so you don’t disturb Aegon, untangling yourself from him like he’s something catastrophically fragile, a spider’s web, a splintering pane of glass.

You stand and take several steps towards Aemond, only so you can speak without waking Aegon. “What do you want?”

“I fear I did not conduct myself particularly well yesterday,” he says. “I may have acted…impulsively. Unwisely.”

“Your capacity for self-reflection is truly inspiring.”

Aemond frowns. “I’m being serious.”

“I’m not interested.”

“If we are to be on the same side of this war, we should learn to understand each other.”

“I don’t want to understand you. Your mind must be a horrible place to live.”

He stares at you with his sole remaining eye, cold and hurt and wrathful and hopeless.

You ask softly, knowing that only Aemond can tell you: “What did he say? Back at the brothel?”

Aemond does not answer for so long that you convince yourself he’s not going to. At last, he decides to extend a peace offering. “He said that he cannot live without you. Or that he wouldn’t want to. I’m not certain which he meant. His High Valyrian has always been terrible.”

Then Aemond walks out of the room without another word.

[dethtallica]

heyy im requesting again cus i liked the work you did for me so much :) could you do one with Jason/Anyone based on @hexxeddorm’s drawing on a waitress Jason? (im pretty sure you’ve seen it) the rest is up to what you want to write, just need to have him dicked down in that uniform 👀

again, love your works so much and take your time if you need to :) ❤️

GAHH had to make this into a halloween fic! i love that fanart so much this ask made me SO happy :)

Prove It

1987 • James/Jason

CW - semi public sex, toxic yaoi lmao, cross dressing, dubious consent kind of i don’t know, use of the F slur, internalized homophobia

Jason always looked forward to Halloween.

He’d dress in a fun costume, drink, maybe play a Halloween show if he was lucky. The Flotsam guys were even bigger on Halloween than he was and dragged him to countless costume parties with hookers hanging around; they’d give him a look, that look, and one of his bandmates would push Jason to go talk to a prostitute with a smirk.

“Cmon man, she’s like, totally your type! Blonde hair, blue eyes, looks like she could kill ya… go get ‘er!”

Yeah. It’s his type.

The girls were almost always wearing a sexy outfit. Skimpy, cheap clothes that accentuated their curves. The costumes were predictable— Sometimes a nurse. Sometimes a slutty witch who wants to trade her potions for your semen. Maybe a particularly naughty angel who decided maybe a little defiance would be good.

Or, a waitress.

Jason stares at himself in the mirror, regretting everything about this. He was still the Newkid, had to do everything the band told him. What James told him. So, when he was ordered to embarrass himself by wearing a very feminine, very revealing Waitress costume for the upcoming Halloween party, he obliged. Jason shuffled to the side to check the rest of his costume. Remembered how these costumes were made to show off ass and curves. It’s not a nice memory. His thighs seemed too muscular for the thin fabric of the light pink skirt, his chest and shoulders too broad and thick for the revealing top. Trying on costumes had been enjoyable in the past; now wearing his costume is the last thing he wants to do.

Jason’s eyebrows furrow as he continues to check himself out in the mirror. Maybe, he thinks, if he was a chick, there was a chance he would look good. But he’s not. No, he’s a guy in a fucking waitress costume too small for him just because James would get a kick out of it. Everyone else had a normal costume— a vampire, a werewolf, an imp. And, fuck, here he is. In a women’s skirt and top. In a shitty halloween store’s changing room where plastic decorations hang from the ceiling and walls. The painted on smiles of the plastic spiders don’t help Jason’s mood.

Jason sighs. He really doesn’t wanna do this. Surely there’s a way he can convince James to have mercy on him, right? Maybe he’d offer his personal stash of weed or Heineken. Embarrassed, Jason stops staring at his masculine figure in the mirror and takes a deep breath. James is on the other side of the dressing room, impatiently tapping his foot, and Jason assumes it’s because he wants to hurry up and get back to the guys.

“James? You’re.. really serious ‘bout this? Don’t wanna like, take my hash instead? This is stupid. Really fuckin’ stupid.”

Jason hears the other man grunt from the other side.

“What, too pussy? If you can’t even dress up in a stupid costume, why should I even keep you around?”

Well. Fuck.

“I- Fine. Whatever. I’m ready.”

A pause, then James is opening the door from the outside, not realizing how tantalizingly slow he’s going. Why did he do this again? To be honest, he wasn’t really thinking when he asked Jason to wear the costume. He was drunk. And, yeah. He’s usually drunk. Caught him there. But it was different. Jason was the one who brought costumes up in that stupid cheery voice, and you couldn’t blame James for wanting to mess with him. Not when he’s waiting for Jason to snap.

Here’s how it happened; the two were sitting in Jason’s room together with the steady beat of Electric Eye. Jason and James left all alone because Kirk and Lars wouldn’t do a damn thing without the other and Lars was tasked with getting the band more beer. Jason eyed James. James eyed Jason. Jason spoke up, blurting out a stupid question about Halloween, earning a groan from James. Like he wanted to make Jason believe talking to him was a chore. The conversation went on— if you count Jason sheepishly blabbering in hopes of entertaining James a conversation. It was when Jason mentioned those parties with his old band, Flotsam, that the blonde got an idea.

That’s when he asked Jason just how far he would go. Jason looked confused at first. The guitarist enlightened him. James asks the brunette what his problem is first, because of course he does, and follows it with something that made Jason determined.

“You always just take everything. All the pranks, all the jokes. When are you gonna snap at us, huh? When are you gonna snap at me? How far can you really take it? Prove to me you’re good enough.”

That’s how they ended up here. Jason showed him how much humiliation he can take by allowing James to lay eyes on him when he’s dressed like this. Because Jason is strong, Jason can take it. He can take all the shit James and the guys give him. In fact, he has to. So the bassist doesn’t hide when the door is finally opened all the way, only looking to the side, his cheeks dusted a light pink.

It hits James like a truck. He feels absolutely winded after he first takes the first look. The waitress skirt perfectly hugs his hips like it was specially tailored and crafted for Jason to give the guitarist a boner. His mouth goes dry, scanning the bassist up and down. The boy in front of him wasn’t supposed to look so damn perfect, the whole thing was supposed to be a joke. A stab at Jason, to see how far he’ll take it. To see if he’s good enough to be in Metallica. He is a replacement, after all. However, James would be lying if he said that replacement wasn’t making him short circuit. And James was also a dirty fuckin’ liar, because the waitress gag was more than just a gag to him.

“You. You, uh. You look stupid.”

There’s silence for a few moments. Then, Jason starts laughing. It throws James off, and he scrunches his eyebrows. The bassist giggles for a few moments longer before shaking his head.

“Is that all you have to say?”

James shifts uncomfortably and looks to the side. Walks in, closes the door behind him, then scowls. Like he didn’t just invite himself into an occupied dressing room like a freak. And he wasn’t! He swore. He only shut the door so no one else would see Jason like this. Which, fuck, wasn’t a great reason either, considering that’s the whole reason he’s forcing Jason to buy this stupid costume anyways. So people can see. And laugh. The only one that’s laughing is Jason, though, because he realized he’s got the big James Hetfield’s panties in a twist ‘cause of what was supposed to be a prank on him. Ironic.

“Don’t fucking laugh at me. Be grateful I’m closing the door so only I can see you. I should be the one laughing at you.”

Jason rolls his eyes. He’s not dumb enough to not pick up on what the situation is, though it is much different from what he expected. He really did expect James to laugh at him, to think he looked stupid. Instead he got that look, yes, that look, and a couple stuttered words when James stared at him like a dog staring at a treat. Jason’s no virgin. Maybe surprised, but he won’t let that show. What he does plan to show is dominance over this perverted blonde who was slowly getting closer to him.

“You look conflicted. Got something to say?”

Jason asks quietly, watching James get closer like a cartoon character floating to a pie. Pathetic, he thinks. He’s supposed to be the intimidating one and Jason’s got him hardening in his jeans from a simple costume like a homo. If you asked him, James was not a homosexual. He only liked girls. That was his justification for quickly hardening in his jeans at the sight of Jason. He looked like a girl, okay? That’s it. That’s the only reason.

But it wasn’t. Because James was inches away from the bassist, staring down at him with a hard on.

“I’m not- I’m not conflicted. Fuck are you trying to say?”

“Well.. I can see your boner through your jeans, but you’re trying to make yourself look like you’re mad. How’s that for a conflict?”

The blonde snarls. That was it. James shoves Jason against the back wall, rattling the little decorations in the dressing room. Jason yells with surprise and slight panic as he’s tossed against the wall like a ragdoll. Really hot once the initial surprise wears off, but he keeps that to himself. Jason’s chin is yanked up to look up at James’ flushed face. They meet eyes, the waitress boys’ gaze teasing and hungry while the guitarist’s is angry and lustful.

“I am not a fucking fag. Okay? I’m not. You- you just look like a woman, that’s IT. I don’t like guys. I don’t like you. I’ll beat the shit out of you.”

Instead of a reply, Jason forces his lips on James. Expecting resistance, he doesn’t go too hard— but, instead of being met with a punch to the gut, he feels the blonde hungrily reply by kissing him back like he’s been waiting for this moment for years. And, that’s not true. Because he’s only been waiting for months. Which is, like, significantly less gay. And this isn’t gay. Because right now Jason’s a just a slutty waitress. But, no matter how much James tells himself these things, they both know the truth. Thankfully, James’ worries melt away as they make out against the wall. Jason’s tongue finds its way into the blonde’s mouth and the taller boy whines, hands finding their way to Jason’s hips. It’s an ego boost feeling James fall apart in literal minutes all because of Jason. Jason did this to him. Made him straining against his jeans, begging to be inside the waitress boy. Made him shaky and whiny (to James’ dismay). He can’t think about that too long because everything’s happening so quickly—James’ hips start to rub against the bassists’ clothed dick as he nearly eats his face off with those sloppy kisses. It’s all teeth and spit as they dry hump each other, both sporting a full erection.

The kiss doesn’t last. James is pulling back, chest heaving, face red, and hard as a rock. His cock still rubs against the brunettes, and he can’t help but look at their strained cocks brushing against each other. Jason notices this and looks at the erotic scene too. He silently wonders if this costume will be ruined before he can even wear it for the party.

“If.. If you tell.. anyone about this.. I swear you’re a dead man..” James promises, trying to catch his breath and keep his desperate moans down at the same time.

“Won’t tell a soul.”

For some reason, that’s believable enough. ‘Cause James doesn’t miss a beat rubbing his length on Jason’s slightly shorter cock. Both are impressive. James thinks Jason’s is impressive. It’s got a pretty pink tip and girth that would make any girl drool— it’s too bad Jason’s using it on the Mighty Hetfield. Don’t ask James how he knows this. But, really, it is a beautiful cock, because all James can think about is how perfect and (probably) delicious it is as he ruts against Jason who is now leaning in to lick and suck at the blonde’s neck.

Shuddering, James’ grip on Jason becomes tighter as the tongue on his soft skin glides over him before picking a particularly sensitive spot and sucking. The bassist smirks against the taller boy’s neck as he sucks a hickey into the crook of James’ neck. Probably not a good look to have purplish marks all over your neck after you just walked out of a changing room with another man, but that was a worry for future James. He could always just say it was a vampire. And, ouch, Jason bites down on his flesh just like one, making James shiver and stutter. His hips trembled against the flushed cock below him and he bites his lip to hold back the moan that threatened to spill from his lips. It was already shameful enough he was doing this with another man, he doesn’t need the whole fucking store hearing it.

With a slick popping noise, Jason removes his tongue from his neck, leaving James dizzy. He stumbles back slightly, which he realizes is actually from Jason pushing him back to remove his skirt. The brunette’s fingers slowly push down that delicious pink skirt along with his boxers to reveal his weeping cock, and James swears he could’ve came right then.

“Don’t worry big boy, you can fuck me soon.”

Actually, he changes his mind. He could’ve cum to that. While he’s busy losing his goddamn mind, Jason’s fingers soak themselves in his wet mouth before dipping down to his hole, making sure James knows he’s teasing himself by circling his rim before dipping in. Jason makes a breathy noise as he works two fingers in and James can’t help but wonder if he’s starting with two because he’s done this before. His chest swells with jealously but he’s quickly distracted by realizing his hand made its way down to his cock to rub himself off while he watches his bandmate finger himself. He’s so goddamn horny his body’s doing shit on its own.

“‘S gonna feel so good, James. Just wait a- fuck- minute..”

James doesn’t respond. He can’t. His mouth feels like a desert. A third finger is added. When? It didn’t matter. James’ burning hot desire made everything feel like it was moving in both slow motion and high speed. Like he’s drunk, but really it’s just Jason making him feel like that. Because he can do that for some reason, which is really frustrating. It’s usually not very acceptable to fall for your bandmate, let alone fall for your male bandmate as a male.

But when Jason’s fucking himself on his fingers up against the wall, curls sticking to his forehead with sweat as he moans like a girl quietly in his very much girly costume, it’s different, okay? It’s different. Not, but Jason will have to get James to realize that a different time, because now he’s focused on getting James inside him and doesn’t really care if it’ll haunt both of them for the rest of their lives. James almost seems angry when Jason reaches to undo his jeans, like he’s trying to make himself angry so he’s not embarrassed. Typical James behavior. Typical James behavior is also fucking people till they break, which Jason is a little too excited for.

A position change and a few desperate kisses, and they’re back against the wall with James’ cock pressed against Jason’s hole. The guitarist twitches against the tight rim and he goes to bite his lip again, which does not go unnoticed. The bassist almost wants to laugh again at how badly James wants this.

“Desperate, huh?” Jason teases.

“Fuck you.”

“That’s a yes, isn’t it?”

“Shut up.”

Jason smiles lopsidedly, and James wants nothing more than to wipe it off his stupid, pretty face. So he grips Jason, white knuckling, and forces his hole down on his swollen cock, making them both groan. Jason’s eyes are wide as he’s stretched out and his legs shake and tremble . Hurts like a motherfucker, but damn, he knows it’ll be the best he’s had so far.

James doesn’t wait to prove that. He’s immediately ramming in and out of Jason, trying so desperately to hold back his embarrassingly girlish moans. It’s cute to Jason. He knows the poor guy is in the tightest hole he’s been in to date, because Jason knows himself, and he doesn’t know how to handle it. James can only tremble and watch his masculinity fade away as he’s being pleasured so immensely by a man, no, not a waitress, not a woman, no matter how much James wants to tell himself. James can’t control how fast he’s shoving himself in and out of Jason’s hole and the smaller boy almost feels bad— he’s really falling apart like a virgin. It almost reminds Jason of the first time he touched himself to a man. Except teenager Jason was exploring hormonal wants and James is fucking the prettiest guy around.

The bassist brings his hand up to the blonde’s face to gently caress it, the juxtaposition between the gentle touch and the rough sex below almost hilarious. His grayish eyes look into James’ blue ones, and he sees how vulnerable the boy is. He may be the one in Jason, but Jason’s done this before. With the Flotsam guys. With groupies. It’s not new. This is new to James because he’s denied himself for so long, and despite how awful James has treated the brunette, he feels the need to make the best for him.

“You’re doin’ so good- mmghh-, so good for giving in for me. Good boy, good boy-“ The bassist praises, tightening around him.

“S-stop-“

Jason pants, being cut off by a particularly hard thrust to his prostate. He seizes up, panicking, realizing he’s gonna cum. He’s gonna cum all over this costume he hasn’t bought and, well, it’s gonna be hot as fuck. James must’ve realized he’s gonna cum too, because he speeds up and goes even harder if that was possible. Jason cries out softly, trying to grab on to James as he feels his climax approaching. The humping the fingering, the fuck— it’s all gonna come crashing down into a brain numbing orgasm.

And that’s what happens when James stutters his hips and spills into him with no warning. Jason tenses, legs shaking and eyes watering, cum spurting out of him in thick ropes. It’s almost embarrassing how much he cums, and, James didn’t even bother to touch his cock. So why is he coming like a bitch in heat? And, funnily enough, James still isn’t convinced he’s gay despite cumming in another man’s ass. And liking it.

The two ride out their orgasms and catch their breath, thoughts spinning in their head. Am I gay now? What does this make us? Can we do that again? Did I seriously just cum in 5 minutes? The various hickeys become forgotten.

Questions left unanswered, because all that really matters is that Jason proved himself.

“…I still hate you, Newkid.”

[jyndor]

I have to say every day I, a wax specialist, get more and more irritated by the trend of grown out brows.

I know I've talked about this before but it is grating on my nerves especially after a week where one of my favorite clients (who is so beautiful and kind and warm and SUPPORTIVE) called herself ugly because she hadn't had time to get her brows done (usually I just do her Brazilian wax but I also waxed her eyebrows that day, too).

I'm incensed.

NOT because we need to constantly groom our brows and keep them shaped, not at all. but because girlies are still shaping their brows but now they're just drawing in artfully placed brow hairs under their brows INSTEAD OF EMBRACING THEIR ACTUAL NATURAL BROWS

you know what? I want to see us all love on our natural, grown out, messy eyebrows. I want to see us love our unibrows especially because it pains me to hear my clients call themselves or their features ugly for not having perfectly manicured eyebrows - while also wanting thick, natural looking brows. lol make that make sense please I am begging people to listennnn

and seeing celebrities rock natural looking brows full well knowing those brows are styled to the millimeter, it just makes me angry and want to put up posters of messy, unkempt, TRULY natural eyebrows all over my wax suite.

I am happy clean girlie beauty is a thing because it is more my style personally, and I love that people feel less pressured to spend hundreds of dollars on a billion products they'll never finish. But I am outraged that we are acting like it's not the same damn thing as a full beat face (which I mean I have my SERIOUS critiques about because its unrealistic and absurd for day to day wear, but at least that has culture, stemming from Black American women and drag influences) just like five steps less with a lot less skill involved. It's still putting a filter on your damn face, but now we're pretending that it's how you woke up instead of embracing the hour and a half long routine.

as an esthetician I wake up with dark circles, blotchy skin and a unibrow that I have to deal with because no one wants a wax specialist who looks "unkempt" lol. and besides, I am not immune to white supremacist beauty standards.

don't talk about embracing your natural beauty if you're not actually embracing your natural beauty. if I see another gorgeous woman say she's ugly for her fucking natural beautiful ass brows not being perfectly shaped at all times while people are spending twenty, thirty dollars on brow pencils to draw in grown out brows, I'm gonna lose it

[kintatsujo]

LoZ AU- The Courage of Running Away Part THIRTEEN

Don’t worry this is not the bad luck post!!  That’s the next two

#AU August

#LoZ AU: The Courage of Running Away

[Image Descriptions: Still coming off the previous scene, Queen Zelda puts a hand to her forehead and sighs heavily, dragging it into the statement “What a MESS.”  A heavyset middle aged Sheikah woman rushes up from further down the hallway, a thin youth with a Sheikah Eye on their clothing trailing behind her.  “Zelda what in the WORLD,” she says, but it’s more a statement than a question.  “Impa,” Queen Zelda greets, “Excellent.”  She seems weary.  “You have more experience with boys, set this child up with a room while I figure out how to apologize for trying to murder his FATHER.”  She puts a hand on her daughter’s hand, still on her arm.  “Dove, go with Auntie Impa and Link, stick to Gray for a while.”  Princess Zelda, jaw set, nods.  Impa makes a strangling motion with both hands.  “ON GODS, Zelda,” she says.  Link stares in astonishment. Outside the hole in the wall, King Aldway says “I suppose I’LL just go find someone to CLEAN UP THIS MESS.”  Queen Zelda starts, as if only now realizing he witnessed the entire debacle.  “ALDWAY!  Oh darling, I’m SORRY, I’ll walk with you!”  She puts a hand to her chin pensively.  “You’re supposed to be GENTLER with boys, right?” she mutters, and then goes to join him, as Impa puts a hand to her face in exasperation.  Princess Zelda wraps her arms around Link in a hug.  “Here,” she says.  “You look like you NEED one.”  Link is startled and blushes, while Impa and the youth look on with sad but fond expressions.  End ID.]

Impa has been many women at this point; from old to young, rail thin to “someone on Capcom’s LoZ team has a real THING for extremely round MILFs.”  She’s been Zelda’s nanny, her de facto mother, her servant, and her best friend.  This Impa is about Queen Zelda’s age and one of her literal job descriptions is “not taking the queen’s bullshit,” hence their dynamic.  She is also still very much a ninja because I wanted very badly to draw her doing ninja things.  Her son, Gray, is more or less Sheik as his own identity; I am having my Zorlda cake and eating it too.  (”Zelda” is short for “Griselda,” which means “Gray Battle Maiden,” so he’s even named after her.)

[Image description: Impa standing on a pole with a bust of Gray and a sketch of him interacting with Princess Zelda to the side.  Impa is heavyset with a round face.  She has red eyes, white hair pulled into a half ponytail, dark thick eyebrows, and light skin.  She is wearing a cream colored jacket with loose sleeves and red trim, belted shut over a black dress, the hem of which stops just below her knees.  She is wearing black boots with a split toe and black arm guards.  Her hands are on her hips.  Gray has the same red eyes, light skin and white hair as his mother, thin black eyebrows and a black mark of makeup under his right eye.  His left eye is hidden by one of his bangs.  His hair is in a bun and he is wearing a blue sleeveless turtleneck.  In the sketch with Princess Zelda, both he and she have been mussed, with feathers in their hair, and he looks embarrassed.  “It’s not what it looks like!” he’s saying.  “Really?” asks an unseen speaker, “Because it LOOKS like you two have been PILLOWFIGHTING.”  Gray says “Okay it’s EXACTLY what it looks like.”  Princess Zelda is grinning.  “I’m winning,” she says.  There is a note that describes them as “Basically siblings.” End ID.]

It’s not EXACTLY that Gray is supposed to be Zelda’s bodyguard; he’s only seventeen himself, but he’s been her de-facto babysitter and chaperone around town for the last two or three years and he thinks of himself that way.  

I was a little concerned when I hit on this idea of his character design versus Ghirahim, but I think I’ve sorted it out so they look sufficiently different!

That said no I don’t know what’s up with his eye.  There’s a sketch somewhere in my hand-written notes where Impa’s asking if he thinks he’s the hidden princess (as a more direct reference to OoT, you know) so maybe he just thinks it looks cool.  

Also I have at least one vote for Gray as Link’s love interest, not that love interests for anyone are a high priority in this AU.  XD

Anyway, so obviously Impa and Gray and Princess Zelda work on getting Link settled.  There’s a few days where he kind of finds his way around the castle, gets apologized to by the guards that were at the door when Astramorus caught up to him, worries about what his father might be up to, and has some Genuine Serious Talks with the queen about things like the last few things Astramorus was saying and about his mother.

”He must mean the Gerudo Prince,” Zelda says of Astramorus’s warning.  “Dinravi’s been calling me auntie since he could talk, I’m not worried about him, I’ve been paying reparations to the Gerudo for most of my reign, but this talk of a demon....I’ll look into it.”  

And of Link’s mother, she says, “You jumped off a sky island with no idea where you’d land and you’ve been saving people left and right and endearing yourself to everyone you meet ever since.  You’re pretty much exactly your mother’s son.”  

And speaking of endearing himself to people, Marla and Tonbo finally catch up, just like Marla promised:

[Image description: Marla has her arms fully around Link from behind and is thoroughly squishing him into her torso protectively, looking over his startled face at Queen Zelda, who has a hand to her mouth and is trying not to laugh.  “You’d better be TAKING CARE OF HIM, Missus Queen Hyrule,” Marla says, “This is the SADDEST BOY.”  She kisses the top of Link’s head.  “RIGHT Tonbo isn’t he the saddest of boys?”  Tonbo answers dryly, “The very saddest.”  Link grins, close to tears, looking tired.  “I missed you guys too,” he says.  End ID.]

[ikevamp-shrine]

Thank you @yanderepuck​ for giving me the courage to post this😊❤

Please ignore the crappy drawing of her, but that's kinda what she appears like in my mind. I will be writing with her character in future posts.

Name: Elizabeth Tudor

Vampire Type: Lesser Vampire

Height: 5’4

Birthday: September 7th

Occupation: Former Queen of England

Appearance: 

Long, curly (and extremely thick) strawberry blonde hair, fair skin, red lips, and intense icy blue eyes. Her stance is strong, regale, and respectable. Her skin is littered with smallpox scars (only a few, very unnoticeable ones residing on her face, neck, and hands). Her expression is usually blank and unreadable. Her movements are controlled and polite. Her brows thick and stomach soft. Legs long and fingers thin and graceful. There are patches of freckles on her shoulders that mix with her scars causing a unique blend of color. Thick thighs and pale, maintained feet. Smaller breasts.

Childhood:

When her brother, Edward, was born from her father and his new wife, Catherine, her line to the throne was pushed back even further (she was declared third in line). Thankfully she was not neglected instead her father, known for his cruelty, treated all his children with affection and love. She became very close with her half brother and was said to be inseparable. She was also very close with and benefited from the love her step mother, Catherine, showed her.

When her brother, Edward, was born from her father and his new wife, Catherine, her line to the throne was pushed back even further (she was declared third in line). Thankfully she was not neglected instead her father, known for his cruelty, treated all his children with affection and love. She became very close with her half brother and was said to be inseparable. She was also very close with and benefited from the love her step mother, Catherine, showed her.

She was taught a rigorous education normally only given to male heirs and was applauded for her perseverance and memory. She became fluent in French and Italian which profited when conducting diplomacy years later. Her involvement with the Reformation shaped the course of the nation, but she held no interest in religion.

With her father’s death, her step mother married the lord high admiral, Thomas, which resulted in his decapitation due to his intent to rape and impregnate Elizabeth forcing her to marry him in order for him to rule the kingdom. He was said to be overly flirtatious and acting inappropriately familiar with the young girl when around her (which one of the reasons she doesn’t like Arthur, his flirtatious nature reminds her of her past).

She was raised around sexism and taught that women were likely to act on impulsion and passion making them unfit to rule. Men were taught the arts of war and told they are the ones who dominate women while women were urged to keep their head down, mouth shut, and attend their needlework. She had remained unmarried, her want to remain single overshadowing any thoughts of seeking out relations with a man. She was rumored to have burst out in tears when Queen Mary, her older sister, had proposed to marry Elizabeth to a duke. This became a national concern when Elizabeth became queen and refused to take a husband, going against the belief that a woman’s place was a wife. It also raised worries that she would die childless, ending her bloodline, and giving Elizabeth’s title to Mary, Queen of Scots, a catholic posing a threat to the Protestants of England.

Dislikes: 

her privacy being intruded on, loud talking, 3am, those who play weak and stupid or whine to get what they want, people who are lazy but still expect to reach their goals, women who chase men and believe they need a man to be successful in life, messy rooms, fake personalities and cheaters (in both games and relationships)

Likes: 

walks in the garden at midnight, the sound of the birds singing their life’s song as the warmth of the day’s first rays of sun trace her skin, reading, learning new things, burning candles, smiling faces, happy children, the smell of freshly baked bread, warm blankets, animals, the laughter of children, hunting, dancing, and horseback (bareback more often than naught)

Personality: 

She appears cold at first because of her bluntness and blank (almost annoyed) expression. Unreasonably serious with a strong sense of duty, responsibility, and morals. She is a firm believer in working harder than everyone else to achieve greatness. A highly intelligent woman that believe women are equal to their male counterpart. Extremely stubborn in a non-disrespectful way. She is adaptable, disciplined, dignified, and confident with a wit and tongue as sharp as, if not sharper, than any of the residents. She is blunt, doesn’t sugarcoat the truth, and is always honest. Focused, logical, and exceedingly loyal to those she decides to put her trust in. She is protective and straightforward but rather quiet. She tends to keep to herself. She is paranoid and distrustful when meeting new people but will not show it. She tries to work on it, but she can be very vengeful when it comes to people betraying her or hurting those she loves.

Preferred company: 

Theo, Leonardo, Isaac, Jean, Vincent

Relationships (platonic, romantic, etc.):  

Jean- platonic with a chance of something more

Has a deep understanding with Jean. They don’t really talk about each other to each other; their conversations mainly consist of stiff, dead toned jokes that you wouldn’t be able to tell they were jokes until specified. She is one of the few people that has actually seen a sober Jean smile. He is extremely protective of her and will stand behind her just so he has the peace of mind that her back is guarded. If she asked, he would show her what is under his eye patch, no matter what lingering emotions he has on the ‘ugliness under the fabric’. His blade is always ready, his mind perfectly clear, when it comes to the safety and well being of the woman he had found himself connecting to in ways no one had before. Often, they go horse back riding together, Napoleon will sometimes accompany but its only when her and the former solider are alone does she throw her head back, her laughs unrestrained while the wind rips through her hair and clothing. Jean will race her and chuckle at how free she looks, but of course she doesn’t hear. Spares with and helps better the woman’s defenses and attacks along with Napoleon  

Mozart- platonic

Sometimes Mozart look for her and demand Elizabeth to listen to his new piece until she raises an eyebrow, daring him not to correct his wording. He’ll swallow thickly and glance off to the side, a scoff on his lips as he apologizes. She’ll nod and follow him to music room. Mozart will stare at her impatiently until she gives her honest (and extremely blunt) opinion. He values her words and while alone the pianist will replay the slight quirk of her lips as she praised his efforts. He has a small obsession with her and it drives him insane

Vincent- brotherly platonic and Theo- they horny for each other but don’t want to cross that line of friendship so they dance around their feelings while making out every once in a while

Has a soft spot for Theo and Vincent because their relationship makes her think of her brother. She only sees Vincent as a brother and will only allow him to do her makeup when he asks to, but with Theo its completely different. She sees Theo as a partner, a man she shares many values and goals with. She respects him and their shared opinions on responsibility and productivity. They understand each other intuitively and can conversate with just fleeting touches and quick glances of their eyes. There is a thick sexual tension that builds between them overtime resulting in hurried, frantic, sloppy kisses in hallways where the couple battle for dominance by pushing each other against walls and gripping roughly at the other’s clothing

Napoleon- just housemates (not friends or lovers)

She can and usually feels uncomfortable when around Napoleon. She has chalked it down to the fact they are both the leader ‘alpha’ types that ruled enemy lands. Truly, they just don’t have much in common and find it hard to build a meaningful relationship. Spares with and helps better the woman’s defenses and attacks along with Jean

Arthur- just housemates

Can sometimes get too snippy with Arthur. While she does find enjoyment in his jokes at times, she despises the sexual aspects of the author. Finds his skirt chasing habits understandable but disgusting. Admires his intelligence but can’t stand how he is able to tell you where have been just by the dust on your hand (she likes her privacy). Will play chess and pool with him even though she knows she will lose just because she enjoys playing. Will sometimes have deep conversations with Arthur in front of the fire place, both nursing a glass of alcohol, their eyes never leaving the fire as to not break the imaginary protective barrier around the two that eye contact will shatter. Smirks at his quirks and jokes sometimes and it literally makes Arthur’s heart leap because ‘damn a queen just found amusement in my joke.’ He internally freaked out the first time he met her mainly because the mansion now had two previous rulers instead of one and the newest one scared the living daylights out of him.

Comte- there is nothing between them

Doesn’t trust Comte as far as she can throw him. She can see the darkness in his heart and his past behind his eyes. She can see the death he’s caused- the pain, and while she knows that she, herself, has caused the death of many, she still has a deeply rooted gut feeling telling her to stay away from the pureblood. He wants her trust but soon realizes her opinion on him is similar to Jean’s. She will not take any gifts other than what is necessary from him (ex. Dresses for parties)

Dazai- just housemates

Dazai tries avoiding her. He feels suffocated when around and the victim of her stare. He feels as if her eyes and actions pick him apart and leave his in his barest, rawest form, and it scares him to no end. She does find his window habit hilarious though and will give him a hand up when he falls

Shakespeare- they don’t get involved with each other

She can tell Shakespeare’s mind is being manipulated, by what is the question she has yet to reveal though. She can tell he is dangerous. One who’s actions are watched and controlled by another always are. His unpredictable nature and mysterious, secret filled smile is what causes her to feel uneasy around him. She doesn’t ignore him, but she doesn’t want to be involved with the playwright and his actions so she tends to just quietly leave the room when he enters. He is polite to her and compliments her when they do talk but his fancy wording sometimes annoys Elizabeth, especially when she just wants to get away from him. She believes he is a good man at heart lead astray by forces more powerful than him, but still finds his company rather unnecessary. 

Sebastian- they respect one another, are not friends but have decent conversations

Has an interesting relationship with Sebastian. She wouldn’t call him a friend, she has very few of those so it is understandable, but she does respect him for his work ethic just as he respects her for her accomplishments and standing in history. She let him interview him once and nearly laughed out loud from how excited he got. They always have a cup of coffee or tea in the morning together, Elizabeth not quite woken up yet so they sip in comforting silence. Sebastian usually asks how she slept and she responds by telling him about her dreams if she had one. She’ll end up helping him cook breakfast.

Leonardo- friends with a chance of something more

Elizabeth appreciates Leonardo’s straightforwardness and honesty, so they have a decent trusting relationship, but his matureness makes her feel like a little girl again and it bothers her. Her thoughts tend to be: she was a queen; she ruled a country with a strength that rivaled even the greatest men, she should not look at this chain-smoking man with admiration in her eyes like a giddy school girl, flustered over a boy telling her she is cute, while around the Italian. The start of their relationship was rocky, due to Elizabeth’s personal feelings on the man- Leonardo could have cared less, but soon enough they started to appreciate each other’s qualities. Leonardo is mainly the only one she allows to touch her hair. They often speak Italian together on the balcony as Leonardo smoke a cigarillo and Elizabeth reads.

Isaac- they have the chance of being more than friends but their relationship is mainly just comforting one another through their presence and (when needed) touch- they also trust each other whole heartedly

Adores Isaac and will purposely sought him out just so she can listen to his calming ramblings while he tinkers away, a book in her hand and two cooling cups of coffee on the surface closest to the pair. He gets so red around her; at times he turns snow white from the intensity in her gaze and how her eyes never stray from her company. They share an endless loyalty to each other. Neither knows when the bond form, it just happened on its own (and very suddenly). Isaac has lost control and bit her but instead of reacting in anger she accepted it and pulled him closer, shuddering with each frenzied suck against her neck, her nails gently scratching the scalp of a whimpering Isaac. When Isaac finally came to his senses, he tried pulling away, his voice thick with unshed tears as his panicked words rang through the air until Elizabeth grabbed him and held him close, shushing Isaac as he trembled with regret and guilt in her arms. They had held each other for hours until they feel asleep in each other embraces. Isaac will link pinkies with Elizabeth when he is being picked on without realizing it for support and something to ground him so his thoughts don’t run too wild. Elizabeth will just glare and clear her throat and Arthur will shut his mouth while looking at the former queen as if he was a kicked puppy. She has a habit of fixing his clothing or hair after he nervously pulls, picks, or twists at it- Isaac doesn’t even notice it after a while. His face does burn intensely though when she places a hand on his overactive, bouncing knee when he is anxious.

Fun facts:

Due to her makeup being poisoned by her undetermined enemy, which resulted in her death, she refuses to wear any cosmetics other than what Vincent personally makes (learned how to from Leonardo) and puts on her skin himself when going to events if he asks to.

She tends to wear clothing that covers all skin other than her neck and face when leaving the mansion due to children being scared by her smallpox scars.

She usually never strays from wine unless her emotions become a little too overwhelming for her to just push the feelings down, only then will she drink something stronger.

Elizabeth is a quiet, peaceful drunk that tends to curl up on the couch, her shoes discarded on the floor, her hair loose and flowing over the decorative pillow she’ll grab and hug tightly to her chest.

She died a virgin and has remained one ever since her resurrection.

The former queen is hesitant to allow others to touch her hair from her past concerning the loss of said strands (a result of surviving smallpox), but if she trusts someone enough and knows they’ll be gentle she’ll let them style the curls, even if she is tense the entire time.

Prefers to braid her hair herself and wrap in into a bun due to the protective nature of the style.

Loves sleeping in but is often unable to due to insomnia.

She is highly particular when it comes to cleaning and organization. She has told Sebastian not to worry about cleaning her things or doing her laundry, instead she does it herself with up most focus and determination.

When she does open up or is around the boys long enough, they realize her heart is truly kind and nurturing instead of what she appears when first met (a cold-hearted woman with a resolve like steel). This is especially apparent when around animals.

She is very sarcastic and doesn’t mean any harm but usually her joking words sound hateful due to her dead tone and blank face.

Her voice is deeper and soothing, most times holding no emotion which creeps Dazai and Arthur out

Lives by “no pain no gain”

Doesn’t waste her breath on hate- if she doesn’t like someone or feels as if she can’t trust them then they just don’t exist to her. She won’t hesitate to cut someone off without warning.

Has a bad habit of bottling her emotions which causes her to explode when pushed over the edge resulting in one of the very rare moments where her anger creates an electric static in the room that demands the attention of anyone present. She doesn’t shout or scream but her words are sharper than a blade, her eyes burn with a fiery rage while she takes control of the room, overwhelming anyone (even Napoleon) and making them feel as if they are an ant beneath her boot.

Her eyes freak many people out- they feel as if the ice like orbs are staring straight into their soul, picking apart their insides, leaving nothing but shredded organs and an empty husk of what used to be a strong mind.

Can always tell when someone is lying. It’s a gut feeling, and her gut is always right.

She still wears her coronation ring on her wedding finger as a sign of her symbolic marriage to her people and country

[neonponders]

I FINALLY uploaded again to my first Harringrove fic ever, so here’s an easy way to read ch. 1 since a lot of people here don’t know me from Dracula Has a Mullet haha

Read on ao3 here ~

💋 💋 💋 💋 💋 💋

The discovery that Billy Hargrove is a vampire came at a weird time in a weird way. It’s just not everyday that you walk in on someone fingering Alexandra O’Neil with their teeth—fangs—in her tit.

There were stranger things in Hawkins, unfortunately. Unfortunately? How fortunate is a vampire?

“For fuck’s sake. Really?”

Billy has the grace to extract his freaking teeth with a semblance of being surprised. “I didn’t know you had that kind of mouth, Harrington.”

Steve waves a scolding finger at him with all the gusto of a drunk, and he has the solo cup to justify it. “Put those away! She was homecoming queen last year. Jesus, have some class.”

“You serious?”

Steve downed the last of his beer and Jäger with a grimace, his voice going raspy. “Look, I’m not one to judge a lady’s standards, but really, Alex…Alex?”

The lady in question was so blissed out she looked like one of those unnaturally stupid women in every Dracula movie. Billy actually moved aside as Steve pulled her away from the wall—away from Billy—to try and talk to her. Righting her dress with quick yanks, he covered her gorgeous, if small, breasts and gave her a shake. “Alex! Hey!”

He could hear—could feel it, more like—Billy moving behind him in the dark room. Steve had come up here hoping to claim the guest room before someone used it to hookup from the party downstairs. It wouldn’t be the first time he woke up from a mid-party nap to someone being blown, but sometimes it’s the price one pays for free liquor and an ounce of decent sleep.

“What’s wrong with her standards? Huh, King Steve?”

The voice is right behind him, so close that the damn vampire has to rear backwards when Steve whirls around. “What kind of vamp name is Billy? Wait, that’s short for something—”

“If you call me by anything else, I’ll hang you from the ceiling by your teeth.”

“You’re not charming like vampires,” Steve practically complained. “Gotta work on that. Everyone gossips here. Folks will know you’re toothy like…” He fumbled a clumsy but sharp snap of his fingers.

Billy made a derisive sound before his voice crooned, “Seems like I’m flying just fine under the vampire radar, then.”

He was heaving Alex back up from where she had slumped against the dresser when Steve released her. Steve raked a hand through his hair, thinking. It was a slog through the alcohol, but he surmised that he could not take her away from this guy. Case being: Steve was far too drunk to logically drive, and to where? It was her house.

“You. You gotta go.”

Billy huffed one of his low, mirthless laughs. Instead of setting Alex nicely on the bed, he just kind of dumped her there. She let out a sort of dumb-giddy moan as she face planted a pillow and he faced Steve. “Excuse me?”

“You’re, like, biting people at a party!” Steve realized somewhere between his tone and his slight—or perhaps exaggerated, it was hard to tell at this point—sway, that Billy was far more sober than he felt.

Not the time to play hero but whatever.

Billy slowly stepped toward him. “There’s plenty worse at this shit house than me, Harrington. Worst weed I’ve ever had. And that shit whiskey’s been so watered down, it’s nothing but wheat water.”

“Hey!” Steve was poking two fingers at him before he meant to. “They just renovated the place and I got well paid for the tiling and paint!”

“So you’re the reason everyone’s been tripping over the same spot in the kitchen?” Billy huffed.

“And the whiskey’s not so bad if you chase it with grape juice. It’s like toast and jam water. Whatever, no one’s here for your holier-than-thou, California bullshit!��

Billy was caught by surprise that time. His whole expression lifted, brows and eyes widening as he repeated, “Holier. Than. Thou. That’s the kind of shit you pick up from books. I didn’t know the king could read.”

“Fuck off,” Steve grimaced, really just wanting to get Alex tucked into bed and maybe join her. “You’ve been riding me ever since you got here.”

“I definitely have not been doing that,” Billy retorted and then smiled. “What, you offering?”

“Was she?” Steve cornered, drawing himself up to his full height. Admittedly, not much taller than Billy, but small victories lead to great heights or something.

Billy wiped his mouth and Steve’s eyes plummeted to those lips. “Yeah, she was. She pulled me upstairs, or is that so hard to believe, blue balls?”

“It kind of is, yeah,” Steve said with his hands on his hips. “Alex has asthma. Like, inhaler tucked in her bra at prom in case the slow dance was too much. She’d never get with a chain smoker like you.”

“She would if her high school sweetheart cheated on her with the first college bitch he found.” One of Billy’s eyebrows perked up with his shrug. “I’m a favorite for ladies looking for a rebound.”

Steve grimaced. “Derek cheated? How do you know that?”

“That’s between her and me,” Billy said, stepping forward again. “But I hear you’ve been due for a rebound for a while, Harrington.”

He didn’t want to talk about Nancy. It wasn’t even Nancy, really, but he didn’t want to talk about anything regarding his sex life or lack thereof. Steve diverted, “I want you to leave. Go find someone else to—whatever the hell this is.”

“Well. You’re right here.”

“Not me, dumbass. I told you to leave the house.”

“That’s not gonna happen,” Billy smiled. “What? You’ll let me beat the shit out of you again? We had an audience last time too.”

“I wouldn’t be too cocky about last time,” Steve groaned, beginning to take a step back. “The way I hear it, Jonathan had to mop you off the floor after—”

Billy wasn’t listening. His eyes were on Steve’s neck and the only gut wrenching, instinctive thought Steve had was weapon. It came in the form of a glass lamp, which he wrenched out of the wall to break over Billy’s head.

The hard thud of thick glass hitting before the shatter and glass raining over the floor had Steve gaping at him. Billy stood very still. Way too still. Steve wondered if he had knocked him out, but his legs hadn’t unbuckled yet.

Then Billy lifted dark eyes beneath his mess of a fringe, pupils blown wide. Steve continued to stare at him with the mechanical parts of the lamp still in his hand. “Holy shit, you didn’t even flinch! You’re supposed to dodge when furniture’s coming at you—”

Billy gripped the wrist holding the parts and wrenched him so far that Steve couldn’t react to Billy’s other hand on his pants. Heaving him up by his belt, he slammed Steve onto the table from which the lamp had originated. Music thrummed around them, the very beams in the walls vibrating. Steve defied the laws of his denim pants by folding his leg against his side to kick Billy in the gut. Ragged sounds from both of them went unheard by the party below. Steve slid like a heavy tablecloth to the floor with Billy likewise winded and crouched in front of him.

“Why…” Steve tried, rubbing his chest and hoping his talking lasted long enough for him to decide whether running or trying to pin Billy down was the best decision. “…can’t you just…not do this? Whatever alpha bullshit game you think life is.”

“Some of us don’t want to go through life with your dashing prince crap,” Billy spat.

“You think I’m dashing? I couldn’t tell, I passed out the last time you punched me in the face.”

Billy laughed. “Yeah. You’re just as soft as I remember.”

He was moving again and Steve felt a wild, foolish—downright stupid—thrill to try something else. “You need to leave, man. Really. I know a party of blackout graduates might seem like easy pickings, but Hawkins is different.”

“You don’t know shit about different,” Billy growled. “You’ve never seen grass outside this bum fuck of a town.”

“I’ve been to Disney World. And New York City. There’s gotta be some hospital nurse you can swoon into letting you raid their blood bank?”

He couldn’t tell if Billy was getting angrier or not. The man was always angry, seemed like. “I’m not drinking from a freezer. Now shut the hell up. You’ll enjoy this like your homecoming queen.”

A last ditch effort, diving in the direction of the door, but it wasn’t the first time Billy had been on top of him with murder in his eyes. Steve’s hands fumbled at Billy’s face, but then his wrists were pinned above his head and a panicked whine escaped as Billy’s hot, humid breath found him.

Steve went slack. They always do. Billy had figured out that something in his teeth or saliva sedated those he bit, and more. A whole lot more. It made a good flirt into a hell of a time. Alexandra of the Hawkins Homecoming Court had already come on his finger when Steve, of all people, waltzed right in.

It made hunting annoying. It made hunting fun. He had to be picky; didn’t want anyone he couldn’t look at for longer than three minutes moaning all over him while he tried to feed. His looks did most of the work. The right dash of charm here, a nice compliment there, and then his fangs did the rest.

Steve was hard under him. Billy felt the distinct push of his jeans against his own ass while he slid his fingers under Steve’s nape. Lifting his neck, he made sure the moron’s windpipe stayed open, as well as lifted his meal closer to his mouth—

A strange sound came from Steve. Billy’s eyes flicked to his face, but when that labored breathing sound happened again, he sat up and stared. Steve was crying.

This had never happened before. Those doe eyes that all the girls had ranted about when he first drove into Hawkins were red and squinted as moisture slid over his temples. Billy even checked to make sure he wasn’t sitting too heavily on his dick or something, but the gears of his brain slid into place.

Steve usually wore sunglasses at parties. Billy couldn’t help but huff a laugh. “Are you a drunk crier, Harrington? Hey, I’m talking to you.”

He gripped Steve’s jaw, but his whole head lolled, those eyes barely finding him through the daze. “I just wanna sleep,” he said quietly. Fresh tears raced into his hair as he passed out.

[chaseatinydream]

pirate king (60) || atz

“You shouldn’t have done that, Wooyoung-ah.”

At the sound of your voice, the head gunner turns away, completely silent, dark anger boiling beneath his skin. He’s clearly not in the mood to have a talking to now. But you have no fear, not anymore, anyway, and seat yourself next to him on the bed. Your bed, you realise.

Wooyoung’s mouth is pressed in a tight line, edges of his lips curling white in something crossed between a frown and a sneer. There’s a big bruise on his cheek, presumably put there by Jongho again, and he’s looking away very determinedly, set on not meeting your eye.

Unfortunately for him, your stubbornness more than rivals his own, and you’re not about to let him off the hook so easily. He punched his captain, for god’s sake. That’s not typical Wooyoung behavior. “We can sit here all day, you know? I have all the time in the world.”

You really don’t (haha brain, very funny joke), but fingers scratch irritably over the cover of your pillow, Wooyoung chancing a quick glance at you before his eyes have flitted elsewhere. The tension is so thick it’s practically suffocating the two of you alive, but you’re not about to give in anytime soon.

You wait.

Waiting doesn’t take long. Wooyoung’s personality loves comfortable silences or noise. Awkward silence? Not so much. He opens his mouth once, hesitates, closes it, and opens it again with a swallow.

“How... how’s your hand?” He’s still not looking at you.

“This?” You raise the empty stump, the phantom itch still throbs strangely. You’re strangely calm for someone who’s just lost their hand, but knowing death is right on its tail really puts things into perspective. “I’m fine. I was injured by Gunho during the battle and, well, you know the rest.” you shrug, turn away yourself. He really doesn’t, but it’s easier not to go into the specifics.

Wooyoung flinches a little, but you see it. Then an angry growl leaves his chest, fingers digging so hard into your pillow they turn white. “I should have killed that bastard when I had the chance.”

“You couldn’t have known what he was going to do.” You tell him gently, glance out of the porthole and watch the sky outside slowly turn from inky black to midnight blue. Silence lingers between the two of you for a moment before Wooyoung finally puffs out a breath, licks his dry lips.

“How’s Captain?”

Your captain snorts a little as you dab water at his nose. “If Wooyoung had been serious about beating me up, I’d have a lot more than a broken nose.”

“Well,” you shrug, bringing your knees up to your chest, “you nearly broke his nose, gave him five different bruises, very big ones, I may add, and almost gave Master a heart attack.” Wooyoung makes a satisfied noise, patting his raw knuckles fondly.

“He deserved that much, at the very least.” He mumbles, drags a hand across his face, but he looks relieved. “Five bruises was letting him off too easy.” You glance at him for a second, turn back to the world outside, the sky and sea separating as the first hints of day draw a line of light across the horizon. Beyond the heavy wooden door of the sickbay, orders are called, the thud of boots resounding across the deck as the crew rush to carry out said orders.

“I’ll be fine, really.” You find yourself saying, though he hasn’t asked. His eyes find yours and more words start to spill out of your mouth unchecked. “I might have lost a hand, but at least I’m not dead, am I?”

The second you say that, you feel like you’ve somehow slapped both Wooyoung and yourself in the face, metaphorically, of course. At least I’m not dead, your heart gives a little self deprecating chuckle, and you resist the urge to cut off that loose tongue of yours for its stupidity.

Great job, you.

“Get ready to storm the island! I want every one of us to find that Captain Kang and drag him to the Treasure by the knees! Do you understand me?” You hear Mingi shout from behind the door of the sickbay and you make to rise to your feet, “we should go check out what they’re up to-”

But you’re stopped by a familiar hand. “Wait.”

Frowning, you turn back, arch an eyebrow. “Why?” You ask, a little confused. Wooyoung glances up at you with deep green eyes, soft and serious with emotion, and one by one, his fingers lace around yours, squeezing gently. Your heart skips, tumbles a beat, but you keep your eyes on his face. “Wooyoung?”

“Just listen to me for a moment.” He says, voice pleading and for some reason, it makes you nervous, like you’re not ready for whatever emotionally weighted words he’s about to unload on you. “I just need to say something.”

The two of you probably really should get going, but something about the way he’s talking makes you pause, nod for him to go on. “When I was on that island... and we realised that it was a trap for the Treasure...” a shudder runs down his spine, the pad of his thumbs tracing small circles on the inside of your wrist, “I can’t begin to say just how damn terrified I was. And while I was running back to the ship, all I could think about was just how stupid I realised I had been.”

“You couldn’t have known it was going to be a trap, Wooyoung.” You remind him firmly, intent on stopping him from blaming himself just like his captain did, gods were all of them going to be like this? “No one knew, not even Captain, and we all came out fine, so there’s no harm done-”

“That’s not what I meant.” Wooyoung interrupts. The chains rattle as his hand falls to his side, as heavy as his words. “What I meant was... pushing you away, thinking that by distancing myself, I was keeping you safe, but in reality I was just a coward who didn’t have the balls to face my feelings.”

What?

“When I was running back to the Treasure, one thought kept replaying in my mind.” He bites on his lower lip, an agonized look crossing his eyes as he stares at you so longingly, so painfully. “What if the last thing you remembered of me was leaving you alone on that mast and removing myself from your life without knowing how I really felt? What if...” he chokes, head bowed, “what if the last thing you had thought of me was that I hated you, and you died without knowing just how untrue that was?”

You don’t even know what you’re hearing right now. The words, you hear them, but you don’t really hear them. Wooyoung doesn’t hate you, that... that’s amazing to know, but why do you feel like that isn’t the end of it quite yet?

“Chin Hae.” He looks into your eyes, so piercingly you couldn’t look away even if you tried. “I’m scared of women. I’m terrified of them. I have scars all over my body, and I can’t forget the way they touched me, how I was forced to serve them until Captain rescued me. After I left that life behind, I played women like toys because I wanted to convince myself that I was no longer the victim, no longer the powerless.” He takes a deep breath, searches you with a defeated smile. “But it seems like I was wrong, and I find myself powerless in front of a woman once again.”

Your thoughts swirl like the raging waves, a jumble of noises and words and so much emotions. “Wooyoung, what-”

“I love you, Chin Hae.”

“Wait, give me a moment-” You try to collect yourself, but Wooyoung smiles gently, squeezing your hand lightly again and that affectionate, familiar gesture grounds you like a lifeboat in the middle of a storm.

Gentle eyes meet yours.

“You don’t need to love me back.” He tells you, smiling a little wistfully. There’s peace in that lopsided grin, as if a massive weight has finally been lifted off his shoulders, as if he hasn’t just dropped the emotional equivalent of his 42 pound cannon right into your arms. “I just wanted you to know. You... you’re really precious to me, Chin Hae.”

You try to find words, and only one comes to mind. “Buh...” You’re immediately disgusted by your own apparent inability to form complete sentences. What is your brain made of, clay?

...probably.

At your flustered state, Wooyoung breaks into peals of laughter that resemble an entire pod of happy dolphins, slapping his thigh in amusement. Fumbling about, you throw your headrest at him, only making him laugh harder when it bounces off the wall next to head. “Wooyoung!”

“I’m sorry!” He laughs, not sounding sorry at all. You glare at him, not amused, but squeeze his hand back, like you always have.

“I don’t know how I feel yet.” You tell him honestly, linking your fingers together. Wooyoung nods earnestly, purple hair falling into his eyes. “You... you might only be saying this because you almost lost me, so I want you to think about what you feel again, after all of this has calmed down... before you tell me this again.”

Wooyoung shrugs. “I know what I feel, but if it makes you feel more assured, alright then. I’m fine with waiting.”

A breath of relief escapes you, and you nod seriously, but before you can say anymore, there’s a knock on the door, and it swings open to reveal-

“Captain.” Wooyoung rises to greet his captain a little awkwardly, scratching his head. The corner of Hongjoong’s lips lift in a slight, weary smile at the sight of the two of you seated on the bed, pausing slightly at the door.

“Am I interrupting something?”

“Not at all.” You wave your captain over and Hongjoong takes a step, but his toe dances lightly at the door right before it crosses into the room, and stops to squint a little at his head gunner.

“You’re not going to throw another punch at me the second I step into this room, right?”

Wooyoung lets out a humored chuckle. “God, no, even if I wanted to.” The ice broken, he bumps shoulders with his captain and Hongjoong finally cracks a smile, although it seems a little... off, somehow. “Though I still think it would have been an improvement to your looks if I’d broken a few things on your face.”

Your captain gives a good-natured snort for someone who’d just been beaten up less than half a day ago. “Well, it’s good to have you on the same side again. I was wondering if I could borrow your gun and your eye in,” he glances out of the door onto the deck with a grim smile, “maybe about a few minutes or so.”

Something about the way he says that has something sinking in your chest.

“Just my gun and eye?” Wooyoung tries to lighten the tension by joking with a raised eyebrow, similarly on edge at the tone of his captain’s voice, his fingers shifting towards the long flintlock at his hip as he gestures at himself. “You know you have to get me too, right? We’re kind of a package deal.”

“I might throw in a bonus if you come along.” Hongjoong shrugs, still gazing out of the door. The angle the two of you are at, you can’t quite see what’s happening on deck, but the shouting from outside is loud enough to reach your ears and you’re immediately tensed.

“Appreciative enough to spare me bilge bailing duty for a week for rearranging your face?”

“Maybe. If you ask nicely. Actually, no.” Hongjoong replies, turning to look at the two of you with a smile that’s a little too strained for your liking. “Well, someone has just approached the ship from the island, and-”

“Captain Kang says he wants to talk.”

[alternateafterthought]

Arcane - Part 2

ARCANE

Ø  Meaning: Secret, Mysterious, Understood only by few. MAGIC

Ø  Pairing: Panther Hybrid Min Yoongi x Reader

Ø  Summary: Some secrets are kept for the good of people. Some secrets are kept for abuse or power. Yoongi had been a victim of abuse and power, and he wasn’t going to let anyone else use secrets for that purpose. So, when Y/N comes into his life with secrets, he doesn’t want to fall into that rabbit hole again. He doesn’t want to give all his trust to someone who will abuse their power over him. But maybe Y/N’s secrets are a good thing.

Ø  Genre: Hybrid!au, fluff, angst, eventual smut

Ø  Warnings: None

Ø  Word Count: 2176

Ø  A/N: Hey guys… here is the next part of my Min Yoongi fic!! Thank you to everyone who has showed interest in the first part! I hope you really enjoy the  next part of this fic!! I would really love your feedback!! So, I really hope you guys love and support this fic like you did with GOLDEN TIME!! If you want to be added to a tag list, message me or leave a comment or ask!! Thank you so much!!

PREV / NEXT

J-Hope had started with the oldest. Introductions to the fox hybrid, who called himself Seokjin, was quiet and welcomed by Y/N.

He had sat down across from Y/N and they simple spoke. Y/N had asked how long he had been in the shelter.

“8 months.” Jin had nodded, with a small sad smile on his face. “My previous owner was an elderly couple who treated me like their grandson. They have passed since then.”

Y/N had held his hand and they spoke for a few more minutes before J-Hope came back. After Seokjin was the German Shepard hybrid who was much taller than Y/N and wearing a pair of thick glasses. He seemed so put together as he introduced himself, offering his large hand, but ultimately his foot caught on the chair leg, causing the large man to trip a little.

Somehow, Y/N caught him, helping him to steady his feet as he started to blush. Y/N helped him to stand, fixing the shirt he wore to be a little straighter, flattening the hair that stood up.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to…”

“It’s okay. Everyone trips sometimes.”

The hybrid smiled a wide dimpled smile and introduced himself as Namjoon, a hybrid who until recently was a police hybrid. He didn’t exactly what to share why he was no longer on the force, but Y/N knew when never to push a subject.

Namjoon was there for a few more minutes before J-Hope came for him, leaving a very bright, highly active Golden Retriever hybrid. His boxy smile and bright eyes caused Y/N to return his wide smile, offering her hand but instead being wrapped in the hybrid’s arms.

His deep voice introduced him as “Taehyung”, his enthusiasm for life was refreshing. He was so warm and lively; his stories were so active that Y/N couldn’t help but to be completely interested in what he talked about. He left no room for awkwardness and it was honestly something Y/N loved.

“I’ve only been here for 2 months but they let me paint and draw and take photos like my old owners used to.” Taehyung’s energetic response only made Y/N that much happier to be around him.

J-Hope came to collect Taehyung a few minutes later, Taehyung saying bye with a hug again. This time Y/N was left with J-Hope only, no other hybrid, at least not yet it would seem. J-Hope sat Y/N down, obviously needing to have some type of serious talk with Y/N about something.

“So, I just wanted to check in with you, make sure you’re okay?” J-Hope sat on the edge of his seat.

“I’m doing well. They are some amazing men aren’t they.” Y/N smiled widely, not as wide as J-Hope though.

“They are amazing men.” J-Hope emphasised the word “Men”, like it wasn’t something normally heard about them. “I would like to give you a bit of a warning for the next one though.”

From the look of J-Hope’s eyes scanning over to where the files sat on the opposite side of the table to them. The final hybrid that hadn’t been in to see her yet sat on top; the feline hybrid was always a concern for J-Hope. Not in a bad way, but more in a way that if anyone was to be adopted today, J-Hope would hope that it was him.

With a raised eyebrow, J-Hope continued to speak; “There is nothing wrong with him, he’s great just like the others. But I do have to legally tell you that if you do not adopt him today, he will be sent away to a breeding facility.”

“But he isn’t the oldest. You said Seokjin was the oldest right? So why is he not being sent to a breeding facility?” Y/N asked honestly.

“Seokjin is the oldest but he has not been here long, and with his past he is someone easily adopted by the elderly.” J-Hope looked Y/N in the eye. “Yoongi has been in and out of here his entire life. He has spent more time in this shelter then he has in a home.”

“Is there something wrong with him?” Y/N had to ask. “I only ask so I can make a proper decision today.”

“He’s quiet and a panther hybrid. So, people usually think he’s mean or scary and really…” J-Hope shook his head as he thought about the next hybrid. “He’s the sweetest guy.” He smiled. “I’ll bring him in.”

Y/N waited all of 30 seconds for J-Hope to return to the room with a feline hybrid behind him. Said hybrid trailed behind, before J-Hope smiled and bowed his head slightly before leaving the room, his ears stood tall, his tail, the same opal black as his ears and hair swayed behind him.

It seemed this shelter was a lot freer when it came to what they were dressed in, Y/N had noticed that all three previous hybrids had all been in something different. She liked that even though they were all in black, white, and grey, they all seemed to have a different personality, even with clothing. Like Yoongi, who now stepped into the room, black jeans, black sweater, and black shoes. Everything matched, his ears, his tails, his clothing, everything except his eyes.

His eyes practically glowed, even in the well-lit room, his eyes seemed to completely glow. Y/N noticed his eyes were gold, almost like honey from where he stood next to the window by the door. He honestly looked bored, his eyes heavy lidded, like he had trouble keeping them open, his mouth sat in a straight line, though his lips were slightly parted. Most of his bangs seemed to cover his eyes and still they were the most striking feature of his face.

“It’s nice to meet you,” Y/N offered her hand, just like she had with the others. “I’m Y/N.”

“I’m going to stop you right there.” Yoongi raised his hands, palms up as the door was closed. “I don’t want to know your name. I don’t want you to adopt me. I will be honest with you; I am here against my will.” He saw Y/N’s raised eyebrow as her hand dropped back to her side before he kept talking. “I talked to J-Hope, I told him I didn’t want to be adopted again and would be find to just live here the rest of my life.”

“You really think they’ll let you stay here?” Y/N had to ask, thinking of the note on his file, the one letting her know he wouldn’t be able to stay here.

“I’ve been here long enough. J-Hope will let me stay.” Yoongi was determined to stay it would seem. “I’m not some pet you can just adopt for fun.” Yoongi seemed to look Y/N up and down. “You seem young and… adventurous,” He made eye contact with her again. “Why would you want a hybrid anyway? For sex?”

For a moment Y/N just stared at him, before bursting out laughing. Yoongi was shocked to see the women in front of him full body laugh, her hand holding onto the table as her legs gave way. She laughed hard and loud, curling in on her knees as Yoongi just stood there watching her.

When she finally composed herself, she wiped away a few stray tears as she stood, giggling a little still. She hauled herself off the floor, fixing her dress before facing Yoongi again, still slightly giggling.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to laugh that much.” Y/N held her hand out for him again. “Trust me I don’t want a pet and I don’t want a hybrid for sex. The least you can do when you meet someone new is shake their hand.”

Yoongi was hesitant at first but his large hand eventually enveloped Y/N’s smaller one; “So why do you want a hybrid? An older hybrid at that.”

“Freedom.” Y/N pulled her hand away from Yoongi’s, offering him to sit with her. “My parents are kinda overbearing, and I need a way out. A hybrid would give me that freedom to just… live.”

“Why can’t you live by yourself?” Yoongi boldly asked.

“Why do you want to stay here?” Y/N countered.

Both of them seemed to just stare at each other, waiting for one of them to say something. Both of them could see that neither of them were going to be the first one to talk so Y/N picked up his file before sitting it in front of him. Yoongi looked down at it before away, only to take a double look at the note next to his picture.

“So, what, your showing me this to make me beg you to adopt me?” Yoongi pushed his file back towards Y/N, who was quick to catch it.

“I’m give you a way out.” Y/N spoke honestly. “We can help each other. You get out of this…” Y/N tapped the file. “And I get out of overbearing parents.”

Y/N would never have admitted, but as amazing as the first three hybrids were, she had chosen Yoongi already. He was in a similar situation to her, he needed a way out, to live on his own terms. So, they could help each other, they could be the reason both of them could survive in this world. She hoped he would take the opportunity to help himself as much as her.

“And what? I live with you as your pet? As some sex hybrid for you?”

“Seriously, what is with you and sex?” Y/N asked. “Are you in heat?”

Yoongi gave Y/N a look that made her want to start giggling again, but she kept it in as her fingers tapped on the table. She sighed, covering up any giggle that might have escaped her before opening his file to the adoption forms. J-Hope had told her the forms were in the files for her for sign for whoever she wanted straight away.

Taking the forms out she slid them across to Yoongi; “If you’re willing, I’ll sign them now and we can be back at my hotel in the next hour before my parents find out I’m missing.”

“They don’t know you’re here? Adopting me?” Yoongi’s eyes widened.

“I’m supposed to be in my hotel room in bed. Surprisingly, I’m not as fragile as they believe.”

“But your parents have to give permission for you to adopt right?” Yoongi couldn’t help to ask.

“I’m 24. I don’t need written permission to do anything.” Y/N spoke confidently.

“So why are your parents… ya know?” Yoongi had to ask.

“That is a story for another day.” Y/N looked at the large clock on the wall, she had spent 10 minutes with the first 3 hybrids each, now it was rounding out to be half an hour all together, she was just glad half the adoption was already underway, she just needed the hybrid now. “So, would you like to get out of here?”

“Will we be living with your parents?” Y/N could tell Yoongi had already decided to leave with her, he was simply scared it would seem.

“My grandparents left me their cottage in their will. We will be living on the opposite side of town to my parents.” Y/N nodded, thinking of the cottage she had moved into when she turned 21, even with her parents against it. “I will tell you now that the town I live in is kinda small, but it’s surrounded by forests and rivers and honestly… it’s peaceful.”

Yoongi seemed to think about something, considering all of his options. Even he could see he didn’t have many of them, none in which gave him the freedom to just live. If he ended up at a breeding facility he would regress and had the possibility of going savage. If he ran away, he could be captured or die on the streets or turned in by the HPA or even be killed by hybrid hate groups. But if he went with Y/N, maybe she’d let him be free too.

“You’re not some weird woman who sells her hybrids for sex or something right?” Yoongi smirked.

“Seriously, what is it with you and sex?” Y/N raised her arms in question with a small smile on her face.

“I just wanted to make sure you aren’t some crazy person,” Yoongi pushed the forms back across the table, sitting a pen on top of it. “I need to know who it is I’m going to be living with.”

Y/N signed the forms, quickly scribbling her signature on the bottom of the page before handing it to Yoongi to sign too. With both signatures on the form’s Y/N moved to the door, sticking her head out to see J-Hope sitting outside the door. He stood up quickly, fixing the purple shirt he wore with a hopeful smile on his face as Y/N handed the 4 files back to him.

“Oh… were none of them for you?” J-Hope looked almost sad.

“Just the one.” Y/N showed him her other hand with the adoption forms, signed.

PREV / NEXT

Tag List

@ariana-winchester95 | @haven-raven012591 | @gracehiii | @larenelizabeth | @legazix​ | @jiminot7​ | @narcissism-iskey​ | @aileanagreene | @marvelstuck​ | @sana-b​ | 

[passionate-hedgehog]

Impasse pt 2

Impasse is a 3-part series revolving around Reader entering society in Regency-Era London. Completely inspired by me binging the entirety of Bridgerton in less than 24 hours, Impasse will end with either Duke Damien Haas x Reader, or Courtney Miller x Reader.

Pt 2.

Pairings: Eventual Damien Haas x Reader, Eventual Courtney Miller x Reader

Warnings: None

Word: 2187

A/N: I know that my masterlist links arent working. If you try to use it, and things dont go where you want them to take you...well...I warned you. I’m turning this into a 4 part fic. There’s no way I can comfortably fit what I want into 3 separate sections. Part 3 will be out when this hits 15 notes! Thank you to everyone that liked and interacted with the first part. And thank you to the fans of my toher works. I love all of you omg. Enjoy ♥

Chapter Summary: The social Season has officially begun. Deals are being made amongst friends and old flames are fanning. Will there be any sparks igniting as well?

“What do you suspect he wants to talk about?” After the morning activities with Lord Haas in the drawing-room, Y/n and her handmaid found themselves busy with average daily activities.  

Caroline’s expression was nonplussed as she stared at the back of Y/n’s head. The women were preparing Y/n for bed. The latter was in her chair as the housemaid brushed through her hair.

“Why must you give me that look every time I open my mouth?”

“Why must such ridiculous things come out of your mouth every time you open it?”

They discovered Shayne in his favorite study, books littering the desk he occupied. Y/n would always ask him when he planned on attending university but the young man tended to reply with something akin to “that’s not for me”. The young woman didn’t understand. She knew how smart her twin was, how clever he could be given the situation. Mayhaps one day he’d see the things he could accomplish.

“To what do I owe this visit?” The fair-haired man asked as his sister sat at the opposite side of his desk. A rather thick tome set open before him while his right hand held a fountain pen to sheets of parchment.

Y/n perched her arms along the length of the armrests and sat comfortably. “I thought I might see what you’re up to. But I find that you’re doing nothing different than normal. When are you going to talk to Father about university?”

Shayne restraint from rolling his eyes visible as he went back to his books, and scratching at the parchment. “When are you going to talk to me about Courtney?”

“What? That has nothing to do with...Shayne. My favorite twin, you could be doing so many more things if you were off to study. Collegiately.”

This caused the young man to sigh. “Y/n-,”

“I’m being serious here, Shayne. You’re in here, every day, reading and writing. It’s almost a different book a week. Sometimes, your nose is in a book about far-off adventures in distant lands and sometimes it’s about the history and tragedies of the lands around us. Look that book right there.” She motioned to the collection of parchment before Shayne. “I gather that one is not Shakespeare. What is it? The history of France?”  

Shayne lowered his head back to the pages before putting his pen back on the parchment, not meeting his sister’s eyes. “Spain, as a matter of fact.”

Y/n held a blank countenance. 

“I’m trying my hand at the Spanish language. Does that quell your curiosity?”

Y/n smirked. “You’re just proving my point.”

“I’ll make you a deal,” The young man laid his fountain pen on the parchment and clasped his hands together before leaning forward. “I’ll talk to Father about university if you read and respond to Courtney’s letter..”

The young woman grumbled and stood up from her chair. “Suddenly, I have a desire for some poetry. Caroline, I’ll be in the library. I’ll call for you if I need you.”

The handmaid nodded from where she stood by the fireplace, her hands clasped in front of her as Y/n walked to the door. “Of course.”

Y/n turned one last glance to her twin before exiting the room and found Caroline in the chair Y/n’s ownself just left. The handmaid was smiling at Shayne as he talked. The rosy tint to Caroline’s cheeks as the man laughed sparked Y/n’s curiosity yet still managed to make her smile. It was cute if she had to be honest. The handmaid had the tendency, lately, to be quieter than usual. While yes, Caroline was well-mannered and modest, it was different when Shayne was around. Had it just been the two women, Caroline could be witty. Y/n enjoyed that in the handmaid. It was refreshing and reminded her of a long-lost friend.

“For Heaven’s sake, Courtney. You’re not even here but you’re still here.” The young woman fiddled with a woven bracelet made from brightly colored twine.

“Y/n?” A voice called from next to her as her hand was on the doorknob to the library.

“Oh, Lord Haas! I did not realize you were here.” Y/n peered behind her companion and to her own left and right, in case she missed any other person.

“It’s just me. And please, call me Damien. We’ve known each other since we were young, back when we had all of our friends amongst us.” The duke gave a gentle pleading look. 

“I was a tad cheeky back then. I wasn’t going to call you by any title.”

Damien cocked an eyebrow and smirked. “You’re still a tad cheeky to this day. Am I wrong?”

Y/n’s matched his smirk before opening the door to the library and making her way inside. A witty remark was caught in her throat when her eyes caught someone standing next to the nearest shelving of books.

“Court-Courtney?” Her hand slipped off of the knob of the door. “What are you doing here?”

The light-haired woman bit her lip. “I wanted to visit. You never responded to any of my letters. I thought...I thought maybe something had happened.”

“You...I can’t...Excuse me.” The young woman turned around in haste and scurried away. She found herself in the empty kitchen trying to breathe through what just happened.

Good going. You’re such a coward.

“I’m such a coward.”

“No, you’re not.” Damien had followed her into the cooking area. He led her to a chair and guided her to sit. “Some refreshment might make it better?”

Y/n watched her old friend as he went about collecting items. She noticed how at ease he seemed going through her icebox and cupboards. How expertly he sliced up fruit. She couldn’t help but notice how handsome he looked in his livery, as well, but there was enough going on inside of her head. Damien approached the table with a modest platter and placed it in the center of the table before he sat himself in a chair across from her.

“I figure that some soft cheese might do some good as well as figs and berries. I hope they comfort you the way they do me.” He had gestured towards the food.

Y/n gave a thankful nod before reaching for a bite. “Thank you, Damien. This means very much to me.”

The man grabbed fig and brie, biting into them. “If you need to talk, I’m all ears. You don’t have to if you don’t want to, of course. But I’m here.”

Y/n fidgeted with a slice of fig fruit. She mentally weighed her options before speaking again. “I haven’t seen Courtney in over a year. We got into an argument...about the things she wanted to do and where she wanted to be in life. I regret it. I regret it every day. I let our relationship ...decay...because I didn’t approve of what she wanted to do.”

“She wanted to work with horses, right? And entertain? That’s where she’s been this whole time?” Damien bit into some brie.

“I was treating her like she was someone like me. Someone that already had their life plans laid out for them. She was able to choose what she wanted in life.”

The young man studied Y/n’s face. “Y/n, were you...jealous that she had such an opportunity to live a dream that you tried burning bridges with her? She was your best friend. That had to be a hard decision to make.”

“It’s about more than that. I’m happy she was able to live how she wanted to...thrilled that she got to work with her passions. But..I wasn’t there with her. She wasn’t with me. It didn’t matter what she was doing...I just wanted it to be with..with me. 

“I had this asinine vision that society would be in a different place by now. That two close friends could...be closer. And that I wouldn’t have to feel like I was left alone for the rest of my life. I see so many friendships for what they could be. The feelings that I’ve had over someone that will never be attainable I see in others. All of the time. Especially while I promenade! And it makes me sad for those yearning and it reminds me of what I can never have.”

There was a moment of silence before Y/n’s eyes widened in the realization of what she had just let out. “Oh my. I-You didn’t hear any of what I just said. Promise me!”

Damien laid a soft hand on Y/n’s arm. “I promise. I had no idea that you had harbored such...persuasions. Not that it’s anything you need to feel sorry about. You can’t help it. Your reactions, for sure, but...not for what you feel.”

“You, Lord Haas, will make someone a fine husband someday. Maybe even sometime soon? It is our season, finally, after all.” Y/n tried to hide her watery eyes behind a coy smirk. “Someone is bound to catch your eye.”

Damien breathed out before responding. “Someone already has, if I’m being honest. But maybe I’m far-reaching more than I originally thought.”

His words seemed to spark a sense of excitement through Y/n. She sat up straight and gripped the edges of the table.

“Who is she? Will you point her out to me while we promenade? No. I have an even better idea; can you introduce her to me at one of the balls?” Y/n was nearly on the edge of her seat. “Damien! This is exciting!”

“It’s not quite that intriguing, I promise you. Especially since nothing can come of it.” The man picked at the fruit on the platter. “But I digress. It seems that you’ve got your own sorting out to do. What are you going to do about callers if Courtney plans on joining in on the festivities this season? She may not come from one of the families but she has enough friends.”

“Then I hope she enjoys herself. For all I know, everything I felt could have been my very own thoughts and not hers. If she’s here to find a match, then let her. If she’s here to have fun, then by all means...I hope she has it. I just hope I can keep my heart to myself this time. I don’t want to get hurt again.”

“Y/n,” The man licked his lips before continuing. “Might I suggest trying to find out what exactly it is that your heart wants before you do anything else with it?”

The young woman topped her fig slice with some brie. “I’m going to pretend that you did not just offer such advice. Who would even think about courting a woman trying to figure out whether or not she wants her story to end with another woman? You slay me, Lord Haas.”

“I’m being entirely serious. Y/n, you could…” Damien seemed to pause before paying very close attention to fiddling with a berry. “We could stop your callers from coming around and maybe I could use a distraction. We could work together.”

“What? Like...you and I? Together together?”

The german-born duke hesitated before taking one of Y/n’s hands into both of his. “We could go to promenade as a match. And then to the balls, And the parties. No one would be the wiser. You could use this time to figure out what it is you truly want. And then who.”

The young woman looked down at their hands, hers fitting inside his the way she suspects other women her age dream of, yet, she wasn’t sure what it did to her. What he offered could very much help her, but what if Courtney got the wrong idea? What if everyone got the wrong idea?

“But what if it went right?”

“Hmm?” Damien asked in confusion.

“Nevermind.” Y/n shook the thoughts from her head. “Damien, I think...you may be on to something. You’re right. I...I don’t know how to be a...a wife to anyone. Let alone a man. And I won’t know until I figure myself out a little bit more. And then if this girl is running through your mind and you firmly believe that you can never court her…”

“Trust in me with this. I always thought she was someone I could never hope to marry, far too good for me in so many ways. But...maybe this will help me to see who else is out there. Maybe I’ll find my perfect match. And if we come out as a couple, it’ll provide good reason for the other men to leave you alone.”

“Too bad they just don’t leave me alone as is.”

“I believe Olivia said the same thing after she met Sam.”

“Heavens, that was a riot.” Y/n lifted her pinky to solidify the agreement with her friend. “Lord Damien Haas, I believe we might have ourselves a deal.”

[dreamingofscully]

Intrusion

Rating: Teen/PG (Language) Length: 1614 words Classification: Missing Scene (“The End”), Multiple POV, M/S UST, Diana, Light Angst Summary: The first interactions between Mulder/Scully/Diana after the conference room scene, seen from three perspectives. Also, how did Diana end up in the back seat of the car?

Much thanks to @sarie-fairy​ for the beta and @suitablyaggrieved​ and @starbuckthirteen​ for the quick read-overs.  🥰 Tagging @today-in-fic​

This was just a quick inspiration I had when I watched the episode, hope you enjoy!

(READ ON AO3)

1. Diana

She feels the subtle shift in the atmosphere before she sees him enter. The other agents in the room mumble to themselves and vibrate with agitation as he starts to speak, but they don’t interrupt. He’s a whirlwind, and whether he’s there for a minute or years, no one is ever the same.

Hearing his familiar low monotone, with its vulnerability yet complete carelessness, uttering his crazy theories in a roomful of skeptics, she feels a flutter deep within her chest. The nostalgia that the sound evokes within her almost makes her forget why she’s here.

He’s gained some confidence since she’s been gone. He’s aged well, definitely well. The suit he’s wearing doesn’t hide what she knows is underneath - toned muscle, bronzed skin. No longer youthful and innocent, the lines around his eyes tell stories that she’s looking forward to hearing, over coffee and in his bed, or hers. She shivers in anticipation.

When she speaks up in agreement, she watches him carefully, needing to see his surprise and delight at her presence.

After staring at her in amazement, she expects a lopsided smile and a promise in his eyes but instead finds hesitance, fear, and an unreadable emotion that quickly vanishes. It morphs into a blank expression she’s never seen directed towards her. He glances downwards, towards the redhead who spoke to him earlier, then looks away, focused on the task at hand.

She approaches him once the crowd has dispersed, finding him standing close to the redheaded woman. She’s tiny, nearly a foot shorter than Mulder, and Diana quickly dismisses her.

“I’d like to join you, if that’s all right.” The last part of her sentence is a formality. She’s already following him out of the room, only slightly inconvenienced by the other woman who seems to be actively inserting herself between her and Mulder.

“Agent Scully.” The small woman looks over her shoulder to introduce herself as they head down the hallway, but doesn’t bother reaching out a hand.

“I’m Diana Fowley,” she says, flicking her eyes towards Scully, then back at Mulder. She smiles. 

So this is Scully. Shouldn’t be a problem.

His shoulders are hunched, his pace quickening as they head towards the elevators. She watches his ass as he strides away from her and smiles contentedly. Her footsteps falter for a moment, the precise rhythm interrupted as her glance strays to his hand, placed possessively on the small of Scully’s back. 

***

When they get to their car in the parking garage, both she and Scully reach the passenger side door at the same time. She looks at the smaller woman once more, confident in her ability to bully her out of the way, especially when it comes to Mulder.

Her eyes widen and she takes an involuntary step back at Scully’s expression. One of her delicate auburn eyebrows is raised in disdain. No longer the slip of a woman she underestimated back in the conference room, Diana sees the real Scully for the first time. Her back is ramrod straight, and her icy-blue eyes seem to pierce straight into her. Diana feels naked, like all of her secrets are on display. 

Her eyes widen and she takes a step backwards before recovering and moving to the other side of the car beside Mulder. When she looks at him, he’s looking at his partner, his eyes raised in an expression she can’t read. They seem to share some sort of unspoken dialogue. For the first time, Diana feels like she’s intruding on something she shouldn’t.

This might be more difficult than I thought.

2. Scully

“I'd like to head down to the facility and interview him, but there's something I need to pick up first.” Mulder’s standing so close to her she can smell his aftershave, the hint of detergent. There’s tension in his shoulders, a heat emanating from him, and a strange, desperate look in his eyes.

“Mulder, you can't be serious. Why would someone want to assassinate a child?”

“Just… trust me on this one Scully.” His eyes flick over her shoulder to look at something and Scully turns to see the tall brunette who'd spoken up in the meeting. Turning back to look at her partner she sees an unreadable expression on them, something that causes her hackles to rise, a protective instinct overwhelming her usual decorum. 

Maybe if I ignored her she'd go away?

“I'd like to join you, if that's all right.” The tone of her voice is soft and sensual. As the taller woman moves to place her hand on Mulder’s arm, Scully finds herself moving closer to her partner, subtly intercepting the movement and following him out of the room.

As they walk down the hallway, Scully looks at him then to this new woman, waiting for some introduction, sensing that there’s some sort of meaningful history between them. When Mulder continues his silent near-sprint to their office, she sighs and turns awkwardly to face the woman trailing them.

"Agent Scully." 

"I’m Diana Fowley." The other woman glances briefly down towards her, seeming almost surprised at Scully's presence. When Diana looks back at Mulder, Scully sees her eyes soften with an unmistakable tenderness and a thick, sharp bitterness rises from the pit of her stomach to clog her throat. Turning away from the other woman, suddenly flushed with heat and her heart thumping in her chest, Scully uses all of her clinical training to force a neutral expression on her face and steady her breathing. 

But one thought dominates her mind: I don’t like her.

***

As the three of them approach the requisitioned car in the blessedly cool garage, both Diana and Scully approach the passenger side door at the same time, while Mulder makes his way over to the drivers side. He's oblivious and silent, fiddling with the keys to unlock the door. 

Scully straightens her shoulders and looks at Diana curiously, keeping her hand on the door handle. Before the other woman backs down, Scully sees a flash of annoyance and fear on her face. She watches Diana carefully, as she avoids Scully’s gaze and moves to the other side of the car, stepping into the back seat behind Mulder.

He looks over the roof at Scully, flashing her an apologetic smile. At what? He obviously knows this woman, despite his few words since the conference room. What does Diana mean to him? Why is he so tight-lipped?

It shouldn’t concern her if he was interested in another woman, but she’d never been rational when it came to her feelings for Mulder. Scully wraps herself tightly in her coat, and forces herself to think about the case instead of his strange behavior, and about this new, strange woman.

3. Mulder

What. The. Fuck.

Thankful for the distraction of the case, he stumbles forward with his theory, ignoring the pounding in his chest and his sweaty palms, desperately putting on the blankest expression he can muster. The meeting ends, the rest of the agents leave and so does his ability to think of something quick to say to Scully before Diana approaches them.

“I'd like to head down to the facility and interview him, but there's something I need to pick up first.” He leans in close to Scully as she stands next to him, putting a hand on her elbow, drawing her close as if she was his armor, his protection.

“Mulder, you can't be serious. Why would someone want to assassinate a child?”

“Just… trust me on this one Scully.” 

When he looks up, Diana’s standing behind Scully, looking exactly the same as he remembers. 

“I'd like to join you, if that's all right.” Her words are said gently, in a way that hints at things unsaid, that triggers a memory of her moving passionately over him. He sees expectation written all over her face and he’s not sure how to dissuade her this time. When has he ever been able to do that?

He turns before Scully can see his face redden, not bothering to answer, knowing Diana will come regardless.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

He practically runs to the elevator, stopping at their office for the electronic chessboard he kept from a previous case. When he feels Scully’s presence beside him, he calms. Thank God she’s still here. At the same time he feels like his world is crumbling around him. He hadn’t anticipated this situation, that his past would suddenly rear up and confront his present. There had been so many other things holding Scully and him back from talking about what mattered. And now this? He’s suddenly reminded of how terrible an idea it would be for him and Scully to be anything except friends and partners, how utterly worthless he is as a person.

Turning his mind away from the two women walking with him, Mulder has the brief thought about how fortuitous it is that someone like Diana is here to help with the case. The idea twists in his gut. He feels guilty about including Diana, knowing how much it would complicate things with Scully. That’s what he was, though, it was useless to deny it: a complete selfish jerk. How was it that Diana worded it in her last letter to him? “I just need someone who can give me more than an empty bed.” His near-perfect memory seems to only help to hurt him.

As they approach the car in silence, he fumbles with the keys. He looks over the roof of the car at Scully. She’s confused, understandably, at his silence. He shoots her a look, hoping she’ll understand its meaning.

Not here. Later. I’m sorry.

[pondermoniums]

It’s been a while! Missing vampire Billy? Here’s the synopsis for any new readers, and chapter 1 is below the cut!

The discovery that Billy Hargrove is a vampire came at a weird time in a weird way. But there were stranger things in Hawkins, unfortunately.

Unfortunately? How fortunate is a vampire? Especially when it's Billy Hargrove.

(tw for sfx blood bite in the mood banner below the cut)

The discovery that Billy Hargrove is a vampire came at a weird time in a weird way. It’s just not everyday that you walk in on someone fingering Alexandra O’Neil with their teeth—fangs—in her tit.

There were stranger things in Hawkins, unfortunately. Unfortunately? How fortunate is a vampire?

“For fuck’s sake. Really?”

Billy has the grace to extract his freaking teeth with a semblance of being surprised. “I didn’t know you had that kind of mouth, Harrington.”

Steve waves a scolding finger at him with all the gusto of a drunk, and he has the solo cup to justify it. “Put those away! She was homecoming queen last year. Jesus, have some class.”

“You serious?”

Steve downed the last of his beer and Jäger with a grimace, his voice going raspy. “Look, I’m not one to judge a lady’s standards, but really, Alex…Alex?”

The lady in question was so blissed out she looked like one of those unnaturally stupid women in every Dracula movie. Billy actually moved aside as Steve pulled her away from the wall—away from Billy—to try and talk to her. Righting her dress with quick yanks, he covered her gorgeous, if small, breasts and gave her a shake. “Alex! Hey!”

He could hear—could feel it, more like—Billy moving behind him in the dark room. Steve had come up here hoping to claim the guest room before someone used it to hookup from the party downstairs. It wouldn’t be the first time he woke up from a mid-party nap to someone being blown, but sometimes it’s the price one pays for free liquor and an ounce of decent sleep.

“What’s wrong with her standards? Huh, King Steve?”

The voice is right behind him, so close that the damn vampire has to rear backwards when Steve whirls around. “What kind of vamp name is Billy? Wait, that’s short for something—”

“If you call me by anything else, I’ll hang you from the ceiling by your teeth.”

“You’re not charming like vampires,” Steve practically complained. “Gotta work on that. Everyone gossips here. Folks will know you’re toothy like…” He fumbled a clumsy but sharp snap of his fingers.

Billy made a derisive sound before his voice crooned, “Seems like I’m flying just fine under the vampire radar, then.”

He was heaving Alex back up from where she had slumped against the dresser when Steve released her. Steve raked a hand through his hair, thinking. It was a slog through the alcohol, but he surmised that he could not take her away from this guy. Case being: Steve was far too drunk to logically drive, and to where? It was her house.

“You. You gotta go.”

Billy huffed one of his low, mirthless laughs. Instead of setting Alex nicely on the bed, he just kind of dumped her there. She let out a sort of dumb-giddy moan as she face planted a pillow and he faced Steve. “Excuse me?”

“You’re, like, biting people at a party!” Steve realized somewhere between his tone and his slight—or perhaps exaggerated, it was hard to tell at this point—sway, that Billy was far more sober than he felt.

Not the time to play hero but whatever.

Billy slowly stepped toward him. “There’s plenty worse at this shit house than me, Harrington. Worst weed I’ve ever had. And that shit whiskey’s been so watered down, it’s nothing but wheat water.”

“Hey!” Steve was poking two fingers at him before he meant to. “They just renovated the place and I got well paid for the tiling and paint!”

“So you’re the reason everyone’s been tripping over the same spot in the kitchen?” Billy huffed.

“And the whiskey’s not so bad if you chase it with grape juice. It’s like toast and jam water. Whatever, no one’s here for your holier-than-thou, California bullshit!”

Billy was caught by surprise that time. His whole expression lifted, brows and eyes widening as he repeated, “Holier. Than. Thou. That’s the kind of shit you pick up from books. I didn’t know the king could read.”

“Fuck off,” Steve grimaced, really just wanting to get Alex tucked into bed and maybe join her. “You’ve been riding me ever since you got here.”

“I definitely have not been doing that,” Billy retorted and then smiled. “What, you offering?”

“Was she?” Steve cornered, drawing himself up to his full height. Admittedly, not much taller than Billy, but small victories lead to great heights or something.

Billy wiped his mouth and Steve’s eyes plummeted to those lips. “Yeah, she was. She pulled me upstairs, or is that so hard to believe, blue balls?”

“It kind of is, yeah,” Steve said with his hands on his hips. “Alex has asthma. Like, inhaler tucked in her bra at prom in case the slow dance was too much. She’d never get with a chain smoker like you.”

“She would if her high school sweetheart cheated on her with the first college bitch he found.” One of Billy’s eyebrows perked up with his shrug. “I’m a favorite for ladies looking for a rebound.”

Steve grimaced. “Derek cheated? How do you know that?”

“That’s between her and me,” Billy said, stepping forward again. “But I hear you’ve been due for a rebound for a while, Harrington.”

He didn’t want to talk about Nancy. It wasn’t even Nancy, really, but he didn’t want to talk about anything regarding his sex life or lack thereof. Steve diverted, “I want you to leave. Go find someone else to—whatever the hell this is.”

“Well. You’re right here.”

“Not me, dumbass. I told you to leave the house.”

“That’s not gonna happen,” Billy smiled. “What? You’ll let me beat the shit out of you again? We had an audience last time too.”

“I wouldn’t be too cocky about last time,” Steve groaned, beginning to take a step back. “The way I hear it, Jonathan had to mop you off the floor after—”

Billy wasn’t listening. His eyes were on Steve’s neck and the only gut wrenching, instinctive thought Steve had was weapon. It came in the form of a glass lamp, which he wrenched out of the wall to break over Billy’s head.

The hard thud of thick glass hitting before the shatter and glass raining over the floor had Steve gaping at him. Billy stood very still. Way too still. Steve wondered if he had knocked him out, but his legs hadn’t unbuckled yet.

Then Billy lifted dark eyes beneath his mess of a fringe, pupils blown wide. Steve continued to stare at him with the mechanical parts of the lamp still in his hand. “Holy shit, you didn’t even flinch! You’re supposed to dodge when furniture’s coming at you—”

Billy gripped the wrist holding the parts and wrenched him so far that Steve couldn’t react to Billy’s other hand on his pants. Heaving him up by his belt, he slammed Steve onto the table from which the lamp had originated. Music thrummed around them, the very beams in the walls vibrating. Steve defied the laws of his denim pants by folding his leg against his side to kick Billy in the gut. Ragged sounds from both of them went unheard by the party below. Steve slid like a heavy tablecloth to the floor with Billy likewise winded and crouched in front of him.

“Why…” Steve tried, rubbing his chest and hoping his talking lasted long enough for him to decide whether running or trying to pin Billy down was the best decision. “…can’t you just…not do this? Whatever alpha bullshit game you think life is.”

“Some of us don’t want to go through life with your dashing prince crap,” Billy spat.

“You think I’m dashing? I couldn’t tell, I passed out the last time you punched me in the face.”

Billy laughed. “Yeah. You’re just as soft as I remember.”

He was moving again and Steve felt a wild, foolish—downright stupid—thrill to try something else. “You need to leave, man. Really. I know a party of blackout graduates might seem like easy pickings, but Hawkins is different.”

“You don’t know shit about different,” Billy growled. “You’ve never seen grass outside this bum fuck of a town.”

“I’ve been to Disney World. And New York City. There’s gotta be some hospital nurse you can swoon into letting you raid their blood bank?”

He couldn’t tell if Billy was getting angrier or not. The man was always angry, seemed like. “I’m not drinking from a freezer. Now shut the hell up. You’ll enjoy this like your homecoming queen.”

A last ditch effort, diving in the direction of the door, but it wasn’t the first time Billy had been on top of him with murder in his eyes. Steve’s hands fumbled at Billy’s face, but then his wrists were pinned above his head and a panicked whine escaped as Billy’s hot, humid breath found him.

Steve went slack. They always do. Billy had figured out that something in his teeth or saliva sedated those he bit, and more. A whole lot more. It made a good flirt into a hell of a time. Alexandra of the Hawkins Homecoming Court had already come on his finger when Steve, of all people, waltzed right in.

It made hunting annoying. It made hunting fun. He had to be picky; didn’t want anyone he couldn’t look at for longer than three minutes moaning all over him while he tried to feed. His looks did most of the work. The right dash of charm here, a nice compliment there, and then his fangs did the rest.

Steve was hard under him. Billy felt the distinct push of his jeans against his own ass while he slid his fingers under Steve’s nape. Lifting his neck, he made sure the moron’s windpipe stayed open, as well as lifted his meal closer to his mouth—

A strange sound came from Steve. Billy’s eyes flicked to his face, but when that labored breathing sound happened again, he sat up and stared. Steve was crying.

This had never happened before. Those doe eyes that all the girls had ranted about when he first drove into Hawkins were red and squinted as moisture slid over his temples. Billy even checked to make sure he wasn’t sitting too heavily on his dick or something, but the gears of his brain slid into place.

Steve usually wore sunglasses at parties. Billy couldn’t help but huff a laugh. “Are you a drunk crier, Harrington? Hey, I’m talking to you.”

He gripped Steve’s jaw, but his whole head lolled, those eyes barely finding him through the daze. “I just wanna sleep,” he said quietly. Fresh tears raced into his hair as he passed out.

[twoidiotwriters1]

Pureblood 14 (Sirius Black x F!Oc)

Words: 2,576

Warnings: Violence/ Torture

Masterlist: 

Chapter 13 // Chapter 15

‘Dear Remus:

The Christmas party wasn't as disastrous as I thought it would be, but it wasn't much fun either. I hope you’ve had something better.

Anyway, what I really wanted to tell you is the progress of the plan:

Regulus and Jenna heard my father talked about a minister who will marry us as soon as we graduate, he’s supposed to be a great friend of the family, although I never met him. The ceremony will be different from that of my older brothers. The men talked about a future change in the wizarding world. May have to do with what happened to me in the summer, I still don’t know the details, but the fact is that they’re in a hurry to get us married and unite the families.

The women talked about a huge dance where only the most important families are invited. I thought that with the Christmas party, all the presentations would end, but I was wrong. Jenna heard that even the Potters are invited.

I don't know which news makes me more nervous.

It's all we could get, I don't know what it can do, but I'm confident you can come up with something huge and cool– by the way, did you like the gift I sent you? I was planning to go buy that book myself in a Muggle town near my home, but I had to send the house elf, I hope you like it.

Merry Christmas, Wolfie.

P.S x

 I put the letter in an envelope, walk to the window where Lif is, Jane and Apollo’s owl, I give her a snack and I give her the letter.

"With the Lupins, little Lif…” I pat her head and she flies off.

I decide to take a shower and change into a simple blue shirt and jeans. I leave my room and hear voices from the stairs.

"Enough Isis!"

"Who is Remus, my dear Juno?" Isis and Juno are at each end of the table. Juno looks furious, her face is red, unlike our older sister who has a huge smile. "Is anyone in love? You mention it too much in your journal…”

She says holding up a black notebook.

Wait a minute.

"Remus?" I ask drawing his attention. Juno bites her lip.

“It's not what it seems! It’s not Remus, Isis shouldn’t read my diary!”

"Did someone say Diary?" Balder comes to my side. Isis shares a look with our brother and throws the notebook at him, who catches him in the air and runs to the living room, Juno and Isis follow him and since I want to know what happens, I also run.

"I can't talk to him, I just can't, is too embarrassing," Balder recites in a high-pitched voice making us laugh. “What does Persephone have? I am much smarter than her– and interesting. I don’t get it!”

I turn to Juno and my smile disappears when I notice her watery eyes, and how she hugs herself.

"Hey, Bal, come on, that's private,” My brother ignores me and continues reading. "Balder!" My voice surprises him and he sees me raising an eyebrow. "I said enough is enough.”

"And what’ll you do about it, little sister?"

Suddenly the four of us are running around the house. Isis and Balder throw the notebook at each other while Juno and I try to catch up with them. And to our bad luck, they take advantage of coming of age to cast the spawn spell just as we’re about to catch them.

But after a moment I manage to jump on Balder's back and we both struggled to get the notebook. I pull his hair and he complains.

"You're a damn bloody monkey, Persephone!"

"Return the diary or I'll bite you, Ape,” I stretch and finally take the notebook, but I don't have time to celebrate since Balder loses his balance and we both fall to the ground.

Isis and Juno see us and the last one lets out a sigh of relief when she sees me with her diary. The tense moment is replaced by Balder's laughs, then followed by the girls, including me. Balder and I carefully get off the ground.

The laughter continues until I feel something go down my nose, I touch that part and my fingers are bloody. “Oh, great.”

"Classic, Persephone’s always the one who gets hurt," Isis snorts.

"Oh, this is my time to get in," says Jane walking towards us with a small briefcase in hand. "I heard laughter, I knew you would need my help," She gestures with her hand and guides me to a dining room chair. I sit down and she faces me, opens the briefcase and begins to heal my nose.

Isis and Balder start a conversation as if nothing had happened and go towards the living room, while Juno approaches us.

“Oh, yeah." I lift the notebook without looking at her as Jane takes my chin to wipe away the blood.

Juno takes it and hugs it against her chest. I thought that would be it and she would leave, but she just stands there. Jane and I share a look.

"Are you hurt, honey?" The blonde asks.

"Oh no... I just–" She watches me and suddenly her cheeks flush. Now I understand. I giggle.

"So do you like Remus?" I raise my eyebrows and Jane stops touching my face.

“Who's Remus?" Jane asks and Juno bites her lip.

"It's nobody. Please don't tell him,” She begs me and I laugh.

If I’m honest, thinking about Juno and Remus… I don't like that idea.

The last time I had a conversation with her, it was not kind at all, also, I don’t want Remus to be close to my disastrous family, he already has enough with me.

"I won't tell him, take it easy,” She nods and leaves.

Jane puts a little bandaid on my nose.

"Done, just be careful next time.”

"If there’s a next one, it’ll be worse, I assure you. Isis is right, whenever we play I get hurt– I broke my arm once and was only on the swings! Apollo and Balder decided it’d be a good idea to help me swing very high,” We both laugh.

"Can I ask you something?" She says.

“Sure?”

"You know that Remus guy,” I nod. "It's not to criticize you or tell you what to do, but don't you think it’d be good to help Juno with the boy?"

“No,” She raises her eyebrows.

"Just like that?”

“Yes," I think she expects something more. I roll my eyes. “Juno's not Remus’ type, they wouldn’t be a good couple.”

“Why're you so sure?" I sigh.

"Listen, I don't know what impression you have of Juno, here she’s always more serious and quiet, but at Hogwarts she’s different, everything worsened since... the accident in the summer." She shifts in her chair, obviously Apollo told her what happened.

“I don't know what’s going on in Juno's mind, I just know that they’re not good things and I’m not going to let those things happen to Remus. He’s…” I think about it for a few seconds and smile. “He’s become a good friend of mine and because of that, I want to protect him.”

"But Juno’s your sister?”

“All the more reason, I’m going to protect him from my own family. He doesn't need any more problems, Jane.” She finally sighs.

"Well, I'm not going to get into your business," I nod and suddenly she smiles. "Do you know who’s excited?" She lifts her blouse to expose her belly. “He's been kicking since he heard you.”

"Yes, this is scaring me, Jane," She laughs.

"If you don't come for your gifts, I'll keep them to myself!" I hear Isis scream. I don't wait any longer and run towards the huge Christmas tree where all the presents are.

–––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

After life's most awkward family reunion, in which it seemed like I didn't exist, they finally let me go back to my room with my Christmas presents. I sit down on the floor in front of my bed and put them close to me.

The first is Regulus' gift, a beautiful necklace, apparently gold, I smile. The next one was from Remus, which I open with a lot of emotion, it’s a red notebook, really nice, I open it and I find a note on the first page.

‘Here you can write our progress with the classes... or you can use it as a journal, you can do whatever you want, but I wrote what we’ve done in the last weeks, I hope you like it.

RL.’

I keep going and laugh when I find his notes, warnings and some muggle jokes, obviously explained. He’s really sweet, I can see the details and the dedication he had in doing it.

The following gifts are from relatives, with some notes to wish me luck with my marriage, some people I don’t even know –I’m sure they only want to get a place at the wedding. I roll my eyes. The last one I open is a small navy blue box, I open it and I find a pretty simple necklace along with a circular charm. I check it everywhere, but there’s no note. I don't give it much thought, but I decide to put it around my neck.

“Persephone," a thick voice scares me, I look up meeting my father at the door frame. I shrink into my place.

"Y-Yes?" I can't help but stutter.

"I think it's time to talk, come with me,” He doesn't wait for an answer and leaves my room. I get up and follow him.

We both head to his study. Upon entering, he locks the door, then walks to his desk and leans in front of it.

I bite the inside of my cheek when I see the room, I remember that I was always afraid to come here, so I told my dad that he should always have the curtains open, so that more light could come in, which he did. But now the entire room is dark except for the center, which is lit by the dim light of three candles.

My hands sweat and tremble uncontrollably, I can hear my heartbeat. He just watches me quietly for a few minutes.

"You should know that your marriage to Sirius is not a punishment for what happened a few months ago," for the first time since I returned I dare to look him directly in the eye.

"That's not true," I say in a weak voice. I clear my throat. "If it wasn't one, you would’ve made the news next year or even when I was in seventh grade, why now?"

"Dear Persephone, it's not all about you,” I raise my eyebrows at his words. A smile appears on his face, but it’s not the same as when he knows of some mischief of mine. That look, those gestures he makes when he is doing business, when he knows that the other person has no way out.

"Isn't my wedding about me?" I say louder in a moment of bravery. "You don't have to lie– No, wait, you already did that.” He raises an eyebrow.

“It's the only way to unite the Black and Singh families."

"I have better ideas.” Shut up, please.

"Your wedding is not the end of the world,” He says raising his voice.

"It is for me. You're going to ruin my life and Sirius's. We both want to choose whether we want to do it or not,” He laughs now.

"Do you think I had a choice with your mother, nor did the Blacks have it?"

“That's no excuse for us not having a choice.”

"You don't understand anything, silly girl"

"I won’t marry Sirius.”

"Yes you will!" He’s fast and I back up until I hit the wall. “I will not allow you to ruin the family name because of your tantrums. We’re doing you a favor, given what happened in the summer and the constant rebellion of Sirius, it is time for someone to put you in your place!” My eyes tear up. "This is your time to remedy your cowardice.” He moves away a little. I’m surprised at his words.

"Cowardice? Not wanting to kill a Muggle family, is that what you call cowardice? ”

"They are infe-"

"They are not!" I interrupt before he continues with the same sermon as always. "That family was innocent, I was and you didn’t mind taking their lives!" The memories come quickly.

That day in which nothing was different, until my brother Apollo and Isis abandoned their routines with their family to arrive at our house late at night. I remember that my father called me and I went down to the living room, the furniture was not there and everything was lit by candles and the flames of the fireplace.

"What's going on?" I asked. My whole family was gathered in the center, their bodies are covered in black robes.

"I want you to come closer, daughter," Says my father, raising his arms. I get closer until I'm in front of him. His hands touch my shoulders.

"Unfortunately, the dark lord is in a great hurry to gather his people, and we can't wait for you to turn seventeen, darling," He touches my cheek.

“Dark Lord?”

"Finally there’s someone with courage to put an order in the magical world,” adds my mum.

"We will explain later, now you must do something for me, would you do it?" I nodded. "That's my girl,” suddenly another black figure comes out from behind my father.

"This is Bartemius Crouch Jr." The man comes up with a sinister smile and takes my hand.

“It's a pleasure to meet you, Miss Singh," He says, then releases my hand and goes to a corner.

"Persephone, you must show Mr. Crouch that you’re worthy to be on the side of the Dark Lord."

"But... I- I don't- I don't know, dad," I say nervously.

"Don't worry, it's a simple thing, I'll be here.” Isis reaches out and holds out my wand. "Take it," I obey with my trembling hand.

Then they all stepped back to reveal three kneeling figures. My father guides me until I’m in front of them.

He holds up his wand and the cloth that covered their faces disappears. My breath cuts short and my eyes are wide, I try to back away, but my father avoids it by putting a hand on my lower back.

A man, a woman and an 8-year-old boy. The three wake up and when they notice the new location they begin to move, and try to speak, but the ties on their hands and feet and the cloth in their mouths prevent it.

"Crucio!" My father exclaims and the three of them screech in pain. The little boy is crying just like his mother.

I look at them with pure terror, what the fuck do they want me to do with them?

"What is this? Why are they here? Who are they, dad? ”

“Calm down, Persephone. This family–” He points out to them. “They are Muggles, do you remember what I have taught you about them?” I nod in  confusion. "Well, now you must show that we’re superior to them.”

“Wha– How?" My father stands behind me and whispers in my ear.

"Kill them.”

Taglist:

@treestarrrrrrrr @siriuslysirius1107 @thagreenmoon   @madmaiden2890 @bloodorangemoonlight   @ren-ela @avipshamitra​   @auroraawrites​  @findzelda @lizlil @siriusmuch @mey-rapp​ 

[nahimjustfeelingit-writes]

Imagine:

Readers long time crush, Erik Stevens, knocks on her door dressed as a pizza delivery stripper and he doesn’t realize he has the wrong address until it’s too late.

I’m telling y’all now this is funny 🤣🤣 I couldn’t stop smiling and laughing while writing this. Erik is Hoe Erik okurrr.

She popped her ass in her kitchen to the Jersey Club Mix playlist she had on loop all day. It was her off day too. Y/N decided to make a batch of chocolate chip cookies for her gifted cookie jar she received for her birthday. It had the words “Scorpio’s Winning” on it. A particular beat had her twirling her spatula in the air, throwing her ass in a circle with her tongue sticking out.

“Aye!!! This my shit! I miss my Jersey fam.”

Chuckling, Y/N adds the chocolate chunks. She was a traveling Chef who was born and raised in Jersey but moved to Annapolis, MD for her college education. Currently, she was living in Boston with a cozy bakery. She had dreams of opening Bakeries across the east coast.

Dreams her long time crush that she met way back in Annapolis, MD told her to pursue. The thought of him still made her shiver. He was so young at the time, around twenty one. She would always see him in her neighborhood running in the early mornings with his Navy sweatshirt on and matching sweat pants. From there it extended to them hanging out for drinks and getting to know eachother. He would talk about his early life in Oakland, CA, his accent swooning her. Flirtatious, full of life, an ego big enough to make everyone in a room feel small, and lets not for get all around fine as HELL.

She missed him a lot, and honestly, he was one of the reasons why she even moved to Boston. He always talked about becoming an Engineer once he furthered his career in the Navy turned Military man. He was so mature for his age, most of the young niggas chasing after her still acted like they were eighteen. Nah, Erik had an old soul. Women older than him couldn’t believe he was only twenty one.

“Erik Stevens,” she blushed while molding her cookies on a tray lined with parchment paper. Her belly growled, a tiny frown of frustration on her face. She didn’t cook a damn thing and cookies would not be the meal of the night today. There were a few cups of spicy noodles in her cabinet she could hook up a ramen dish with veggies and egg. Once the cookies were in the oven, Y/N washes her hands, heading to take a quick shower. Once there, she stripped out of her t-shirt, the only thing on anyway.

The shower water spilled over her back and hair, her eyes closed and a satisfied sigh escaping her mouth. Tonight’s agenda: eat a bowl of vanilla ice cream with some cookies, sit on the couch with a glass of wine and read her fan fiction favorites. Smut was a number one but she started up with some Angst and now she was even more hooked on that. She could read a nice scary one tonight. Fully clean and skin smooth from the oil she applied in the shower, Y/N leaves the bathroom completely naked, walking out to check her cookies.

They were just about finished, having her entire place smelling like a bakery in the early morning. She rubs her hands together, squealing like the fat girl she was. Y/N’s motto was: love what you have and fuck whatever others thought. She’s tall and thick. 5’10 with a lot of curves to match. A Stallion. Pulling out her good wine glass, Y/N pours a generous glass of white wine, taking a small sip with a soothing hum.

“I’m about to have a good ass night,” she talks to herself. In the middle of shaking her hips within her toasty kitchen, a knock comes to her door. She raises a single brow, smacking her lips from her wine.

“Not tonight, fuck that,” she rolls her eyes, walking out of her kitchen and to her bedroom, the knocks came again but harder. She walked to the door, staring through the peep hole at a man’s back with a pizza box in hand. Scrunching her face with confusion, Y/N talks loud enough for the pizza guy to hear.

“I didn’t order any pizza, sir,” she says politely.

“You sure? Address said apartment 3B.”

His voice. Why did it sound so familiar?

“Well, apartment 3A didn’t order anything. But since you’re so persistent you can leave the box and I’ll take it for free.” She laughs loudly, causing the man on the other side of the door to laugh. He sounded good and she didn’t even see his face. Y/N was looking through that hole again, trying to catch this man but his back was still turned. Was he hiding?

“Is this some kind of joke?” She spoke with an attitude.

“Why don’t you open the door and see,” he challenged.

“Now why would I be dumb enough to do that?”

“This pizza hot and ready like little Caesar’s open the door, Baby girl.”

Just like a trap, she see’s a box of pizza open and sizzling, two toned and veiny arms with fingers perfectly manicured and thick stretching out while holding open the pizza to her. Her mouth watered.

“Damn, that does look good.” It was a legit box of pizza and he looked official with the uniform and all.

“Mhm, had to hold back from stealing a piece myself,” he started making sounds of satisfaction, drawing her in each time his deep yet raspy voice let out a mmm and a so good.

“Fuck it.” She was ready to open the door, unlocking it but before she could unhook the chain she stopped quickly, forgetting about her nudity.

“You good?” He chuckles.

“You out here about to have me show you my birthday suit!!!” She could hear him get close to the door.

“Birthday suit, huh?” The fact that she could smell him from behind the door...damn. He smelled so fucking good.

“Birthday suits are better then pajamas.”

She blushes, biting her lip.

“Can you give me a second?” She softly closes the door, quickly rushing to her room to retrieve her robe. It was gonna be a grab and go. He was giving it away for free so oh well. Wrapped in silk, Y/N rushes back to the door, finally opening it and coming face to face with-

“Free Pizza.” He held his arms out wide, dazzling smile on his face. The smile she remembers. The same pouty lips, unruly eyebrows, long lashes, dark eyes, and deep dimples. Her stupefied expression made him blink twice rapidly, the same look shaping his face as well.

“Y/N?!!!!” He finally spoke.

It was Erik Stevens in the flesh.

“What the fuck?” She whispers.

Erik Stevens is a damn pizza delivery guy?!!! After all these years this nigga was selling pizzas? She expected him to be a Doctor in Engineering living in a bomb ass condo with a bad bitch that he fucked every day. A bad bitch she wished she was.

“What. The. Absolute. FUCK.” She spoke again but louder. The music blasting a floor above her couldn’t match how loud she just yelled. Erik almost drops the pizza box. He catches it in time with swift reflexes.

“Nice to see you too, Y/N,” he looks her over, nodding his head with a slight smirk, “You look the fuck good girl. Almost had me dropping this box of pizza. Had a nigga trumped.”

“Ha,” she was light headed. Erik Stevens the damn Pizza guy. She was so shocked. This was a real awkward moment.

“Erik,” she starts before shaking her head. She couldn’t even put into words what she wanted to say to him in that moment.

“Something burning?” He sniffs the air.

“MY COOKIES!!!!!” She rushes into her apartment, leaving the door open while Erik slips inside. He was just as confused and shocked as she was. Box still in hand, Erik walks through her living room, taking in anything he could about the Y/N he missed out on. Still the same after all these years. Back in her presence, Erik watches with humor as she curses about her burnt cookies.

“I CANT BELIEVE-“ she stops mid rant, looking over her shoulder at Erik.

“You left your door opened,” he points to the door. Y/N just stood there looking at him while the burnt tray of cookies and an oven mit were in her other hand.

“Y/N, stop staring at me like that.” Erik shakes his head away from her, tossing the pizza box on the counter, “You got pizza now so why not eat that instead?” His voice has a teasing edge to it.

“Are you aware that I am so speechless right now!” She placed the tray of cookies on the stove, “I mean...ERIK!!!!!”

He laughs, removing his uniform hat to reveal short dreads. She damn near fainted.

“I’m aware, I ain’t expect to come here and see you looking the way you do. Just as fine, just ass...thick.”

He really says that after all these years. He could have said that to her years ago back in Annapolis, MD.

“Oh my God,” Y/N dramatically clutches her chest, “Aint no way this is happening to me tonight.”

“Oh yeah, it’s happening,” Erik bit his lip at her, “you look...”

They both laugh. Damn, what a reunion.

“Can I get you anything? She started opening cabinets, talking so fast she barely breathed.

“Coffee? Water? Juice? Some wine? Something stronger? Oh shit! My bad I forgot you’re working- speaking of work I never saw you as the pizza delivery guy type, I mean, not tryna down play you or anything you just seemed like you had bigger plans, much bigger plans-“

She turns, eyes almost leaving her sockets, standing before her in a male thong with a black bow tie around his neck and a body that would knock you on your back, was Erik Stevens the pizza delivery guy turned stripper.

“WHAT THE HELL?!!!” She yells out. This man was oiled down and everything. He steps around the kitchen island, eyes low and dangerous, lips turned up into a sly smirk, body on POINT.

“You serious?” She laughs nervously. What was this? She had to be fucking dreaming. Right off the back he just strips down, ready to seduce her. This man was wild.

“Somebody come wake my ass up!!!” She yells while pinching her forearm.

“Ain’t no dream here, babygirl, you look like you hungry for something else and I got that shit for you.”

Trapped, Y/N was in between the counter and a whole man. She could feel his dick on her thigh. This was quick. He was about business with this male stripper mess.

“LAWD!” She yells, looking anywhere but at him.

So, this man is a male stripper?! She kept thinking on a loop.

“Don’t act like that now you know you want this Y/N. You’ve been wanting this for a while.”

“You knew about that?!!!” She couldn’t believe this man was in a damn thong. What in the hell.

“Erik you gotta cut me some slack this is not how I planned our reunion would be like!”

His hands were on her waist now, lips close to her ear.

“Let’s make it a good reunion then, let a nigga put his nuts in your face.” He laughs and you gasp in pure shock.

“Did you-“ you blink at him like he was an extra terrestrial.

Out of no where he starts grinding on you, no music playing just his hips moving. What kind of stripper shit is this?

“No music?!” You laugh out loud.

“Play something then, Y/N,” he steps away while she walks backward to her phone on the kitchen counter. He wanted to do this, okay. She could play along and have a little fun. Laugh about it with his ass later. Y/N thought to pull up her ass shaking playlist but she didn’t see Erik as the type of stripper to put on a show to twerk hip hop. Finally, Y/N pulls up her slow jam playlist, settling for some Ginuwine. So Anxious starts playing, a big ass smile on Y/N’s face. She was trying her hardest not to be goofy about this shit but clearly, Erik didn’t care that he was at the wrong house. He had to have known this wasn’t the place for him to be.

“Well,” she sits on her couch, “Give me a show then, Stevens.”

Erik walks towards her, eyes low and body making her bite her lip. Erik stands before her, his dick in her face and Y/N’s eyes zeroing in on the big target. The minute he started grinding in her face, muscles moving in conjunction with his seductive hip rolling, she was ready to pull out her money.

“Shit, I forgot my money.”

She felt like she was back at her sisters bachelorette party all over again. The stripper there had her in a damn fantasy world. She gave him all her damn money.

“Don’t worry about all that, Y/N. Think of it as a little gift from your long time crush.” His dazzling smile made her blush from her cheeks down to her neck.

“Well can I at least touch you?”

Erik props his leg up on the couch, dick almost smacking her in her face with his excessive grinding and moaning. Jesus.

“Girl if you don’t enjoy your damn self.” He laughs when Y/N reaches out to drag her shaking fingers down his abs.

“JESUS.” She says through clenched teeth.

A loud thud from above her followed up by cheering and laughter caught her attention. Y/N put two and two together, a small smile creeping up her face.

“Looks like your supposed to be in 4B not 3B.”

Erik raises a single brow, “At least you’re keeping me with a hard dick until I get up there.” His hands were on the back of the couch now, his chest and abs in Y/N’s face while her hands rubbed his ass all the way around to his thighs. The song switched out to Pretty Ricky- Grind with me.

Out of no where, Erik picks Y/N up from the couch, seating himself and placing her in his lap. Erik lifted his hips from the couch, rolling them up into her naked crotch, causing her to bounce. This was torture. This was going to end up being a fuck session not a strip session.

“Okay, Erik, I think I’ve had my fun,” she was flushed and horny.

“Nah, lets keep going, baby girl.” His eyes with those lashes...she couldn’t look at him anymore.

“What made you become a stripper-WHAT!”

Erik lifts her legs to his shoulders, grinding into her like he was fucking her. She knew at this point her entire pussy was out for him to see.

“Stop asking questions,” he grabs her ass, squeezing it firmly while his hard dick rolled from her ass to her pussy.

“Erik this is fucking wild!!!” Y/N would have a laugh and maybe a cum or two later from this moment. Who was answering her prayers? Who out there besides Erik knew of the big crush she had on this gorgeous man. Erik didn’t even know she lived in Boston. This was some fate type of shit. His lips on her neck brought her back to reality.

“Don’t kiss on my neck like that unless you plan on fucking me!!!!” Y/N had no filter at this point. Erik was like a celebrity crush. Imagine being brought on stage by your favorite male artist and he’s grinding on you and making you feel special, THATS what this felt like.

“You wanna fuck?” He looked at her genuinely serious.

“Uh-“ he cuts her off.

“I mean, for you I can make that happen.”

Now she was wondering if he was a male escort. This man here...

“Erik...I’m telling you now...I know my pussy is all out there and it’s whatever but can you PLEASE STOP TEASING ME!!!”

Y/N lifts from Erik’s lap, pausing her music. Erik throws his head back, a booming laughter escaping his mouth while his muscles bounced in tune with his fit of chuckling. Y/N had to bite the inside of her cheek to calm her laugh.

“Aight cut that shit out I wanna be serious for a second.”

Before she could speak, Erik’s phone goes off. Groaning, he lifts from the couch, tucking one of his nuts back in place in that damn thong. Y/N had to put a fist to her mouth to control herself.

That thang is hanging! She thought salaciously.

“Yeah, this Daddy Kill, babygirl.” He smiles into the phone, gold slugs gleaming, “apartment 4B?”

He looks over at Y/N, both of them silently laughing. Erik clutched his ribs from the pain of laughter.

“Sorry for the late timing, sweetheart, I’ll be there real soon. Nah, keep the drinks going and make sure y’all ready and horny cuz ima put on a real good show,” Erik laughs with a bite of his lip, “Y’all some freaky bitches, aight bye.”

Y/N’s mouth fell open from hearing a Erik reader to those women as bitches. Without a flicker of care, Erik hangs up.

“So wassup, Y/N?” Erik walks further into her kitchen, “you said you got some strong shit, how about Hennessy? I need some extra energy for the 15 women upstairs.”

Y/N makes his drink while a thong wearing Erik stands before her, glistening and chiseled.

“Here you go,” she hands him his drink, “now tell me what made you become a damn stripper? And what else do you do? Cus you talking about sex is extra.”

Erik smiles with a shake of his head, “I am indeed a male entertainer, still working on my Engineering doctorate but after doing some experimenting online with live cam and all that I got a lot of hits. So now I do my own thing on the side. I strip, do live cam, have regular submissives.”

“You must make a lot of damn money to do this shit,” Y/N makes a drink for herself.

“I do, it’s a business on the side, Y/N,” Erik was overly humored, “You knocking the way I make my money, ma?”

“No!! No I just... I would have never expected this,” she shakes her head, “Are you in a relationship?”

Erik kisses his teeth, “Nah, single and I wanna keep it that way for a while.”

“Damn, I’m tryna shoot my shot and you just blocking me,” Y/N laughed, half way joking and half way serious. If they were together he wouldn’t be doing this anymore for other women, just her.

“You ain’t shoot your shot before what’s so different now? Is it cus my dick in your face?”

“No, it’s cuz I thought I would never see you again.”

Erik walks over to her, picking her up and sitting her on the kitchen counter. He plays her music again, grabbing her arms to place around his neck, moving her from side to side. She pouted, giving in to his antics.

“You make me sick,” she looks him in the eye, “you should probably go-AHHH!”

Erik picks Y/N up, bouncing her on his still hard dick. She was dripping on this man, he played entirely too much.

“Alright cut it out!!” She swatted at him, Erik putting her down with a smile.”

“Y/N, I missed you,” he chuckles, “You right, let me get up out of here.”

Erik walks away, picking up his fake pizza uniform, putting it on. Y/N runs her hands over her hair and adjusts her robe, heart still fluttering and legs wobbly. She walks over to the pizza, hovering her hand over it and noticing it was cold.

“Don’t worry about that, it’s just a gimmick.”

“Too bad. You sure you don’t want any money for your excellent services?” Y/N joked.

“Ha, I told you I’m good girl.”

Fully dressed, Erik finished off his Henny, grabbing his hat to put on and the box of pizza from the counter. Erik walked over to Y/N, grabbing her chin and placing a soft and lingering kiss on her cheek.

“You gonna miss me, Y/N? I promise to come back and see you since you’re in Boston now. We got a lot of catching up to do girl.”

Her heart skipped about two beats.

“You better.” Y/N rolls her eyes.

“Sorry I gotta leave you like this, but I can’t miss out on my money.”

Fuck them bitches upstairs, she seethed to herself.

“It’s cool, you’re just gonna make it up to me when I see you next time.”

Erik pulls out his phone, “give me your number.” He was telling more so than asking. Y/N gives him her digits, Erik storing it in his phone and saving it.

Y/N walks Erik to the door, the further they went the more she dreaded it. Opening the door, Erik walks out, turning to give her a tight hug and that same lingering kiss but to her forehead this time. He was really driving her crazy. Erik wasn’t going to make this crush thing easy. A fun night turned into a boring one.

“Bye, stupid,” she shoved him.

“Bye, girl.” Erik walks away and up the steps, turning to look over his shoulder from time to time with a smile on his face.

“Pick that lip up,” he teases.

“They don’t deserve your body!!!” Y/N yells after him.

“YOU SO STINGY!!” He yells back, Y/N closing her door behind her with a huge grin on her face.

It only took a few seconds before she heard the door opening, Erik giving the ladies his intro.

“Pizza delivery for 4B, right?”

[kickingitwithkirk]

Beyond Seduction: pt II

Pairing: Artist!Sam Winchester x Isobella Tennant

Warnings: cursing, flirting, touching, sexual innuendos, low self esteem, domineering mother

WC:2508

A/N: So in this part Isobella implements the next step in her plan and the slow burn starts building between Sam and her.

Part I

Mobile masterlist

*no beta, all mistakes are mine

***

The new boy had scurried off the fetch more coal as the door knocker sounded. Sam opened it and was stunned to see who was standing there.

“Are you still interested in painting me?”

Sam blinked a few times thinking he was imagining her standing there but no, she hadn’t disappeared. “Did Crowley seek you out to jolly me from the doldrums?” He chided her as he leisurely leaned against the door jam.

Izzy stood up ramrod straight, pushing her shoulders back and jutted out her jaw, “Who’s Crowley? Obviously, you were not serious, I’m sorry to have bothered you.” She tursley replies, marching back down his walkway before he knew it.

“Wait!” Sam called out louder than intended, making her pause as he rushed out the door barefoot wincing from the cold and stopped in front of her, “I’m sorry, you took me by surprise, I was beginning to think I had imagined you.” She raised an eyebrow at that remark.

“Perhaps you should seek help from Doktor Freud,” It was Sam’s turn to raise an eyebrow, surprised she knew about the famous psychoanalyst, “if all you can imagine is someone who looks like me.” He was set back at the disparaging comment about herself.

“How about we discuss it inside before my neighbors think I’m even madder than they already believe.” He glances down drawing her attention to his inappropriate outdoor attire.

“Oh hell, how are you not freezing?”

“Actually, I am but I wasn’t gonna let you disappear again.” She lets out a little huff before proceeding him across the threshold into his brightly lit home.

All the gas lights are turned up as evening sets in, illuminating the area almost as brightly as daytime. Izzy lingers in the entryway looking around at the sumptuous if eclectic furnishings enhanced by the lighter colored walls.

Sam quietly observers her. The coat is way too big, swallowing her frame, gloves are almost worn out and the wool wrapper is hiding most of her head.

She stops, turned in profile in front of a statue of Anubis, running a gloved finger over the engravings along its base. Sam can clearly see the curve of cheekbones and the strong cut of her jaw. Sensing him watching, she turns to face him full on.

Sam steps closer as his artist's eyes continue cataloguing her features. A small smile plays on his lips at an errant smudge of soot on a cheek, the cinnamon freckles dusted across her face standing out against her creamy skin, even her full lips possess them. The nondescript nose is the same.

He remembers her being well above the normal height of most women, realizing it’s not from the heels of her indecently revealed boots under that god awful orange dress, it’s all her.

He moves scant inches in front of her, forcing her to tip her head back to continue making eye contact with him.

Sam’s stomach free falls in disbelief at their color, even her long lashes are exactly like Dean’s.

Were like Dean’s...Sam mentally having to remind himself his beloved older brother has been gone for nearly sixteen years.

“Fuck, your very tall!” She blurts out, snapping him from his dark musings.

“So are you and a lady does not use such language.” Sam gently admonishes, making her snort in a very unladylike manner, “Then you haven’t spent much time around real ladies if you believe they don’t curse.”

Sam chuckles knowing all too well those real ladies. Lady De Burgh did erotic things with him that would have even the lowest prostitute blushing. “You are very free with your opinions.”

She shrugged, “I prefer to be truthful than a sycophant like most of the queen's court.”

“Touché. Now that we are done exchanging the pleasantries,” Sam reached for the top button of the overcoat she stiffened, “I am not a whore even if my employer has cast me off.”

Sam lightly traced the button with his index finger, “He cast you off because of what happened that night?” His voice took a hard edge at how she had been treated by the Duke.

She bit her lower lip looking down, “None of that,” Sam touched her lip gently pulling it free and rubbed his thumb across it, enjoying its plumpness, “I’d rather you didn’t damage yourself and you’ve done nothing wrong to warrant dismissal, even if he has had his fill of you.”

It had always elicited anger in him at how the aristocracy thought they were above reproach for the way they treated those in their employment. Too many times he had seen women dismissed when the lord of the manor was done with them, moving on to the next young chit.

She looked up at him, “I know what is expected of a model...” blushing, she was unable to finish.

“I have never asked any woman to give more than she’s willing. I won’t deny I want you to warm my bed,” her eyes widened as Sam slowly licked his pink lips suggestively, distracting her as he unbuttoned the coat and moving behind her, slips it off, dropping it onto a nearby chair, and lowered his voice saying, “but only because it’s what you want too.”

Sam tipped his head down a bit, close enough she could feel him breathing against her cheek, the heat of him radiating on her back barely a hands width away, making her tremble, getting a sense of how imposing he really is as he takes the end of her scarf and untwined it to reveal her messy, barely held up by a few pins, hair. He gives into temptation and removed them.

Her hair was even more glorious than he remembered, luxuriously thick waves, kinked from the damp weather, tumbled past her waist, below her buttocks, brushing her thighs in a fiery mixture of reds and golds.

Sam walked in front of her watching her shiver, delighted he was already having an affect on her. “You’ve caught a chill. Let me show you to your room where you can freshen up.”

Sam lead her up three flights of stairs to the servants quarters in the attic. “You have the floor to yourself. Mrs. Mills has her own house, the maid lives with an aunt, the new boy is in the carriage house and of course Crowley is in the basement,” Izzy squinted at the amused way he said it, “the butlers quarters.”

“The WC is across the hall.” Sam remarks opening the door for Izzy to enter into the cupboard sized room typical for a governess and leans against the jam crossing his arms.

Upon the washstand sat a chipped basin and pitcher, the dresser had a fine layer of dust on it but the floor was recently swept, the linens laying on the narrow bed appear freshly laundered.

“The stove draws but we don’t skimp on coal, not that I’d expect you to light your own fire unless you want to.” Sam dropped a hand to rest on his thigh emphasizing his actual meaning. “I missed lunch, if you’re hungry, join me in the Blue room in a half hour.”

“You want me to sup with you?” Izzy asked confusedly, assuming she would be taking her meals with his other servants.

“Of course, even though I’m employing you, I prefer my models to dine with me, as would any guest would in my home. I’m afraid it will be whatever Crowley comes up with, Mrs. Mills won’t be back till Monday. If you prefer, I can have something sent up.”

Izzy was about to answer when her stomach rumbled loudly in the quiet quarters making Sam laugh, “I’m guessing you’ll join me?” She nodded in response. “Good, I’ll see you shortly Izzy Morgan.” Sam's eyes raked over her one more time before closing the door. Izzy sat in the bed shaking but not from the cool room.

Whether it was from her adrenaline tapering off or the sheer arousal Sam made her feel she wasn’t sure of. One thing she did know, one way or another, she wouldn’t leave his home an unsullied woman.

Dinner turned out to be sausage, rewarmed biscuits and a gravy that looked strange but was tasty. Sam lounged in his chair watching Izzy eat like a well mannered lady, she obviously had picked that up from being in service, but cleaned her plate like a dock worker. He had to add being a pinch penny to the Duke's growing list of faults when it came to his staff, judging by the way the awful orange dress was to short and hung loosely on her frame.

“I can get Crowley to fix you something else,” a confused expression crossed Izzy features wondering why he said that after she had already finished her dinner, “I noticed you cleared your plate.”

Oh.

Izzy felt her stomach clench so hard it hurt, once again hearing her mother’s voice running through her head about her unladylike appetite, eating everything in front of her as if she was some common field hand instead of a titled lady.

Lavinia Tennant never missed an opportunity to chastise her unladylike daughter.

A true lady eats like a bird, only a few tiny bits of each course out of politeness. No gentlemen would ever want a wife who eats more than him.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to eat this much, I won’t do it again.” Izzy automatically apologized using the tone that always placates her mother, staring at the table.

Sam sat up in surprise watching Izzy rapidly blinking, regaining control of herself realizing he had unwittingly triggered something in her. What had happened to her ? “I didn’t mean to imply you ate too much,” he reached over placing a finger under her chin and gently lifted up trying to get her to look at him, “I thought perhaps you were still hungry and would like something else. I’m not chastising you.”

Izzy finally looked up and Sam was saddened by the expression he found.

“In my home no one goes without what they need, do not be afraid to ask. And you’re welcome to raid my kitchen anytime, day or night. Do you understand me Izzy?”

“Yes sir.”

“Good, and it’s Sam. And do not think it has slipped my notice that you brought nothing, not even a toothbrush. I keep a few clothes on hand for my models but I doubt they’ll fit. If you can survive till Monday, I’ll take you to a dressmaker I know for something that’s not...this.” Sam finished gesturing the dress making him develop a hatred for the color orange.

“I feel like an orange nightmare.” Izzy comments, sounding more like herself.

She was intriguing him more and more. He knew she was made of sterner stuff but wondered what had happened to create the dichotomy he just witnessed.

“If you’re not too tired I want to get you in my studio and do some preliminary sketches tonight.”

***

Izzy wandered around the large room with high ceilings covered in tin refracting the lighting from the towering candelabras Sam lit. He didn’t use the gas lighting in here, something about the way the light cast something or another. She shivered slightly wondering why the room was cooler than the rest of the house.

As Sam pulled out a sketch pad and charcoal from a cabinet watching her moving in the periphery, examining everything with the same curiosity she had shown earlier stopping in front of a small copy of Venus and Cupid with a Saytar. “Did you do this?”

“Yes,” Sam said as he sat down on the stool he had placed near the raised platform covered in pillows, “it was the only one I have left from Italy. The Master would toss all of our works in the fire when he had to much to drink”

“You traveled quite a bit in your studies?”

“I was lucky that I had a chance to study with several Masters around Europe.”

“I’ve only been to Scotland once. Weather was dreadful but I wouldn't have traded it for a month of sunny days.” Izzy moved over to the platform and stood in front of it, “So how do you want me?”

Sam swallowed feeling himself becoming aroused at the innocent question as several ideas ran through his mind. “Please sit, I want to do a few preliminary sketches, familiarize myself with your features.” He watched as she stepped up and sat cross legged on the pillows keeping the ramrod straight posture like a duchess, something ladies were trained to do from childhood.

After about an hour she was wiggling around more than a professional model, “Can you sit still for more than a minute?” Sam huffed out ripping off another sheet, adding it to the growing pile around his feet. “Let's take a break.” Izzy stood up and arched her back stretching that awful dress taught over her revealing some interesting curves under its bagginess.

“That dress has gotten on my last nerve,” Sam barked out and pulled his shirt off handing it to her, “put this on.”

Izzy froze staring at him. She had seen men’s bare chests before, all her brothers weren't the most modest, but their figures were nothing compared to Sam’s.

He possessed musculature that could have been used for an anatomy manual, long chestnut hair brushed his broad shoulders encased in sun kissed golden skin, random beauty marks dotted his torso, a light smattering of hair sat between his nipples, toned stomach accented by the deep v of his hips.

Izzy already thought he was extremely attractive but after seeing Sam like this, he was breathtakingly beautiful.

Reluctantly taking the shirt she moved behind the carved screen participating a corner and unbuttoned her dress with shaking fingers. “Don’t forget to remove your chemise too.” Sam said standing directly on the other side.

“I know that Sam.” Izzy irritably tossed her dress over the screen hearing Sam curse after it landed on his head making her giggle.

She peeked around the screen at the sound of the candelabras being moved behind the platform. “I need to see you in a different lighting angle.” Sam tells her before perching on the stool again.

“Whenever your ready.”

Izzy feels her breathing becoming rapid as her nerves take over. She’s never been this undressed in front of any man before, not even Greyson and Sam Winchester was definitely not just any man.

“I know your nervous but I will only look at you as an artist and their subject. I won’t do anything untoward you unless you want it too.” Sam emphasizes again.

Izzy took a deep breath and came around the screen, walked to the platform and stepped on it.

“Don’t sit yet, move to the center in front of me please.” She moved to the designated spot.

“Turn around slowly,”

Sam felt his breath catch as the lighting behind her turned his white shirt translucent and he could see her figure.

Forevers: @donnaintx