#stolen from a kohls

[luveline]

hiii can you possibly write a poly!marauders x reader who is way too much like sirius 😭 i’m so so so similar to him it’s literally scary and we have the same birthday too??? same everything it’s crazy i think it would be so funny to watch them navigate through Two siriuses 😭

thank you for your request <3 fem!reader

Remus has been in love with Sirius since they were fourteen years old, so falling for you was easy. It was practically already done. 

You’re sitting by the window with a tape player in your lap and headphones over your ears. Pretty mouth turned down, eyes lined with a smudged kohl, you look lovely when you sulk. Remus can’t stand to leave you alone. 

He gives you a moment's peace, of course, but with James and Sirius entangled in a dinner-making argument and nothing left to do, he’s almost forced to sit beside you in the window seat. There isn’t much room, bless, but you don’t argue, leaning back into his arm and continuing your staring out the window. 

“You okay?” he asks. He knows the music isn’t too loud. You loathe being snuck up on. 

“Am I okay?” you ask, turning your head gently to the side, meeting his eyes through the fence of your lashes. Mascara lengthens them, has their ends kissing your brow as you widen your eyes slowly, playfully. 

“Sitting all by yourself.” 

“I’m not,” you say, the corners of your lips curling into a pleased half-smirk. You’ve too much affection about you to be truly smug. 

“But you were.” He moves the headphones off of your ears slowly. 

It’s a good thing Remus is such a flirt. You’d be hard to keep up with otherwise. He does wonder how James survives it; you and Sirius will flirt brazenly, almost darkly, a seduction in the smallest of things. Picking lint off of his shirt, wiping coffee foam from his lip. And Remus is quieter, not as shy as some might think him but without the darling charm (well, unless he wants it). 

You hold his gaze. “I knew you’d come and keep me company, Remus… that’s what you’re doing, right?” 

He laughs in your face, which isn’t to stay he’s laughing at you. He just can’t not laugh. You’re nerve wracking and sweet and his to flirt with. Plus, you hear him laughing and the majority of your facade melts away as you laugh yourself, the tip of your nose bumping against his sleeve. “Jerk,” you say. 

You and Sirius are different in some ways, of course. Sirius can’t stand having air blown in his ear and you love it, shivering with delight as you curl into his arm. 

“Hello. What’s going on here?” 

James is climbing onto the window seat before either of you can tell him not to. There’s absolutely no room for him nor his muscly arms, his shirt getting caught on your knee and rising, an unreadable mess of limbs and fabric. A tan hand uses Remus as a lift. James straddles your lap, bringing his face up to smile at you lovingly. “Hello, lovely.” 

“James, this is rather selfish of you,” you say. “Me and Remus were having a cuddle.” 

“He had you all last night.” 

“That’s not true. Sirius shared me with him. I was like a cherry pit.” 

James makes a horrified, undignified shriek like you’ve jabbed him in the gut. “What the fuck.” 

“You know full well I didn’t, Jamie, on account of my being the big spoon to your little one.” Sirius arrives, and announces his disgust with a wrinkle of the nose. “I can’t believe I’ve just said that out loud. Domesticity is becoming too much.” 

James is a tall, tall guy, and he’s not skinny either. Remus gives up his seat before he’s pushed from it, and at least finds a new embrace in Sirius’ space, a hand behind his back, ringed fingers ghosting against his spine. 

“Aw, Remus, what are you doing? …Come back,” James whines. 

You laugh again. “You’ve stolen all the room.” 

“Can I be blamed?” 

Sirius wraps his arm around Remus' waist. One moment he’s being hugged, the next kissed, silky soft kisses pressed to his jaw as Sirius murmurs, “You could’ve stood your ground.” 

But then Sirius wouldn’t be kissing him.

“Forget him,” Sirius advises, his lips parting over a soft spot near threateningly. “Who needs him? You have me.” 

“It wasn’t like that!” James insists. “I just missed her when I was in the kitchen.” 

“And I missed you, Jamie,” you murmur. 

Sirius scoffs, to Remus’ delight. “What’s funny?” Sirius asks, pulling Remus’ head back by the hair, not rough or anything but intimate enough of a move that Remus probably has hearts for eyes as he answers. 

“She sounds exactly like you, you realise?” 

Sirius narrows his grey eyes. “Well, it’s not a bad way to sound.” 

Remus has had enough of him, really, the flirting is fun but he misses his boyfriend, especially if James is going to steal the cuddle with you Remus had been aiming for. “I want some herbal tea,” he says, sewing his arms over Sirius’ shoulders, as much love in his touch and gaze as he can possibly fit. “Do you want some? I’ll make it for us.” 

In the same moment, James is holding your cheek and asking what you’d like for dinner, whatever you want, honey, so close you can smell his aftershave lingering from the morning and the minty cherry hybrid smell of his favourite chewing gum. His weight rests on your hip. Remus can see you heating up from over Sirius’ sharp shoulder.

You and Sirius are also very alike in that you both fluster at being treated with care. Immediate melting. Cheeks hot to the touch. 

“I don’t mind, Jamie,” you mumble. 

“I’d love some,” Sirius says, ever so slightly hoarse. 

[starboy-sirius]

may 9 | captivate | @jegulus-microfic | 671 words

Regulus enters the party with one goal: to captivate.

He struts through the painting, the Fat Lady complimenting him as he does so. “My, you look wonderful, dear. Trying to impress someone in particular?”

He hums, a smirk growing on his lips. “Maybe.”

The Fat Lady’s eyes twinkle at him. “Good luck to you, dear.”

Barty and Evan are on either side of him, towering over him like barking bodyguards ready to glare and bite anyone who dares to get too close. After all, Regulus isn’t trying to gain everyone’s attention. He’s after one boy and one boy only. Barty and Evan, who have watched him fail time and time again to seduce the oblivious and stupidly loyal Gryffindor, were all for Regulus’ new plan. 

“Ready for this, Reggie?” Barty croons, winding one of Regulus’ curls around his index finger.

“Honestly, if Potter doesn’t get the hint after this I’ll fuck you stupid instead,” Evan smirks, eyeing Regulus up and down appreciatively. 

Barty glances over at him, smouldering eyes on fire as they dart between his boyfriend and his best friend. He can't say the idea hasn’t crossed his mind once or a thousand times. “Well, now I’m hoping he doesn’t get the hint.”

“Slut,” Evan purrs.

Regulus rolls his eyes at them, but a small grin does grace his lips. “I’m going to need you two to have more faith in this outfit.”

“More faith?” Barty exclaims. “I was the one who designed this little get up, thank you very much. It’ll work, trust me.”

Evan hums. “Maybe we can get Potter on board with the whole thing.”

They walk into the Gryffindor common room, the party in full swing with people already drunk and disorderly. Some are smoking by the tower windows, their eyes ringed red and their giggles floating around in the air with the smoke. Sirius, Remus and James are sitting with their usual gang of friends on the sofas by the lit fireplace. 

It’s safe to say that everyone’s eyes turn Regulus’ way when he enters. Barty smirks triumphantly. 

Regulus is wrapped in lace, his entire torso on display as it peeks through the leafy patterns on the lace top. His creamy skin causes quite the stir at the party, no one daring to dress as seductively as this. He has more skin on show than anyone has ever seen of him before, the long sleeves falling down and hooking over his middle fingers. His long, lean legs are enclosed in sheer trousers that shimmer whenever he walks, making him look like pure sex as he walks in and comes to a halt, eyes searching for the boy he came here for. 

His eyes, thanks to Evan, are lined with a sharp wing of black kohl, bringing out the silver in his eyes and making them look pearlescent. His lips are rosy and shiny, giving the impression that he’s been biting them, or that someone else has been licking and biting them for him. He looks delectable. 

Regulus meets the brown of James Potter’s eyes and lifts one corner of his lips up, eyes glittering like his namesake. James stares at him with a gaping mouth, his entire body frozen as if Regulus has stolen all the breath from his lungs. Sirius is adamantly trying to get his attention, his own grey eyes flickering between his brother and his best friend, trying desperately to understand what is going on. James ignores him, solely focused on Regulus. 

So much so, that when Regulus raises a hand and beckons James over with a crook of his finger, James is stumbling upwards like a newborn deer and tripping over himself to get as close to Regulus as he can. He’s blushing as he walks over, hands fluttering at his sides giving away his nerves. 

Regulus grins like a shark and leans into Barty, listening as his friend whispers, “Mission accomplished.”

“Well,” Regulus hums. “The night is young. Maybe Evan will get what he wants by the end of it.”

[emmg]

Only, Only, Only

Oh look, it's the Emmrich-crying-after-a-handjob one shot that has haunted me for two weeks.

Read below or on AO3

Some things fade, some things harden. Emmrich had learned this early. His family was buried under a collapsed roof before he was even old enough to understand the shape of loss. Fine. Well—not fine, but irreversible. The world yawned forward. 

There are two ways to have a family: by birth or by acquisition. The first had failed him. The second required effort, but effort could be elegant. And Emmrich was elegant. In youth, prettiness had been his scaffold, a fragile, lacquered thing—white teeth, kohl at the eyes, wrists perfumed just so. He had known, instinctively, that beauty was a door left ajar, and slipping through it was only a matter of timing. But beauty alone was flimsy, ephemeral. The real trick was what came after. 

He had been good at what came after. He had learned how to be a mirror, how to reflect back desire, how to build not just love but the idea of love, to construct it from suggestion and possibility. Later, when youth’s shimmer had dimmed into something more polished, he acquired. With acquisition came leverage, and with leverage, a different kind of beauty. One did not need to glow when one could glint. He could extend a hand, let the gold catch the light, let the rings speak in the hushed, implicit way that wealth always did. Stability, security. The prettiest promise of all. 

So he did not get married. It never happened. What of it? Girls, those spun-glass things, dreamed of marriage before they understood the weight of it, the slow suffocation of arrangements made with a blind eye to happiness. The nobler the girl, the bleaker the dream. The lesser ones, at least, had necessity to excuse them, and necessity, he had found, was sometimes kinder. His mother had married outside of it and yet she had smiled more, laughed more, despite the rawness of her hands, than any aristocrat pacing gloomily through town, swallowed by velvet and regret. 

And boys? Boys dreamed too, though not like him. He was of a different order, a creature with too many wants, too many hungers. He did not reach; he engulfed. His hands, splayed wide, could take anything, everything, fold it inward, knead it into something resembling love. The question was never whether he would one day say marry me?—only how quickly the words would leave his mouth.

“How did you lose your virginity?” Rook asks, peering over the rim of a glass filled with something that is, in principle, wine but in practice more of a solvent, stolen from Lucanis’ pantry-bedroom. 

“Oh,” he says, caught slightly off guard. “The usual way.” 

“Which is?” 

“With love, darling.” 

A beat. Then, again: “Which is?” 

He sighs, tipping his glass, watching the sluggish swirl of liquid. How was it? So long ago now. A tangle of hot hands, warm breath, the enthusiastic fumbling of inexperience. That singular astonishment—the body no longer enclosed, no longer entirely one’s own. Mouths parted not only for kisses. The more he prods at the memory, the more it softens at the edges, dissolving into something distant, something already half-forgotten. And what had come of it? A few repetitions, hurried and half-lit, until the whole thing ended so politely they might as well have signed papers and shaken hands. A miscalculated venture, yielding little but two rather undistinguished little climaxes. 

“I believe,” he says at last, “I was briefly incapacitated.” 

“Ah. Came too quickly?” 

He exhales, faintly amused. A flicker of a smile, nothing more. “Rook,” he says, shaking his head. “One really ought to maintain a certain discretion.” 

“You know how it was for me,” she insists. 

“I do.” 

“Because you were there.” 

“Indeed.” 

“And you did not marry them?” she presses. “Emmrich, you bought me gold earrings after I sucked your—” 

“No,” he says, neatly severing the sentence. Then, after a pause, “I did not.” 

There is a reason one does not make decisions in the steep descent of pleasure. Thought falters, limbs slacken, everything becomes terribly possible. The haze lingers for a moment, then lifts—for most. But for him, it never quite lifted. It remained, a kind of giddy fever, a half-conscious certainty. I think I might love you before. I certainly do love you after. Shall we pick out rings in the morning?

And yet, every time he might have said it, the words were swallowed—by lips pressed to his, by a hand at his throat, by laughter, the kind that smooths over awkwardness. Year after year, decade after decade, something always arrived just in time to silence him. A coincidence, surely. Or perhaps not. Perhaps they had all, in their own quiet way, agreed: Not from you, Emmrich. Not quite like that.

A moment ago, he had been young—precisely as young as Rook, or so it had seemed. But now, quite suddenly, the illusion dissolves. Age settles in, not in any particular ache or stiffness, but in the quiet awareness of time itself, of a widening distance between himself and the careless way she moves. 

He watches as she stands and discards her glass. She stretches, arms lifting, spine lengthening, her ribs briefly visible beneath the fabric of her blouse. A shift of weight, heel to toe, as she hums something airy and formless, a tune he does not know. 

Then, as if completing some personal choreography, she takes his glass as well, drains what remains, taps his knee—twice, quick, impatient. He hesitates just a moment before uncrossing his legs. And with that, she drapes herself into his lap, as if he were nothing more than a conveniently placed chair. Long hair spilling over his shoulder, long limbs finding their arrangement, long years ahead of her—years she does not yet know to count. 

“So it wasn’t love,” she concludes. 

“Pardon?” He blinks, as if waking. 

“Your first time,” she clarifies. “Or you would have married them. You do everything with love, Emmrich. And everyone. Heh. Get it?” 

His gaze drifts past her shoulder, settling on a thin crack in the wall, the kind that appears slowly, until one day it is simply there, fully formed, waiting to be noticed. 

“Oh,” he says finally. “Yes, yes, the love was there.” From him, yes. Always from him. 

Rook hums, softly, absently, the sound barely shaped into melody, more like breath passing through parted lips. It settles around him, light as dust in a shaft of sunlight. He could fall asleep like this, her mouth moving somewhere above his ear, forming notes without thought, without meaning, as his mind drifts elsewhere. 

To the after. The quiet, improbable after. When the gods are dead, when she no longer carries whatever nameless burden she believes is hers to bear. When there is no cause left to champion, no duty pressing at her heels. Then, perhaps, he could be selfish; lean in, tilt his head just so, and say, Shall we go to Nevarra, darling? Leave all this behind? Forget about obligations, about debts that are not our own?

If she will come, of course. And he very much hopes she will. 

The moment turns, shifts on some invisible hinge. There is an elegance to it, but not the kind one learns; rather, the thoughtless grace of a cat that sometimes lands well and sometimes does not. She touches his chin, frowns slightly, as though adjusting something misaligned, and then, quite abruptly, rests her palm against him through his trousers. 

“Oh,” he says again. 

It is embarrassing, really, the immediacy of it. More from the thought of her, the mere fact of her. An erection for possibilities—ridiculous. A climax, potentially, at the idea of picking out matching pillowcases. To be undone not by her mouth, not by the warm embrace of her body—well, yes, by those too, inevitably—but also, absurdly, by the way she looks at him, by the way she smiles, wide and guileless, for him, just for him. 

At this rate, he might not even need her hand next time. Perhaps he’ll just dissolve entirely when she asks if he’d like another cup of tea. Would you like sugar, darling? Oh, wonderful, an orgasm of domesticity.

"Does this feel nice?" she asks, freeing his cock. 

“Yes,” he murmurs, though it hardly matters, the answer already evident. 

She releases him just long enough to blow a breath of warm air against her palm, but it dissipates too quickly. Dissatisfied, she presses it to his cheek instead, leeching the heat directly from his skin. He laughs, turning his head just enough to graze her wrist with a slow kiss.

He closes his eyes, tilts his head back slightly, surrendering to the moment as she touches him again, fingers curling around him, now warm, now sure. A few slow strokes, languid and sweet, before she pulls away.

Then, a sound: the wet parting of lips, a flicker of tongue, the thin, elastic stretch of saliva snapping. He does not have to look to know what she is doing. When her hand returns, slick and soft, it glides over him so easily, so perfectly, that he shudders at the sensation.

"What if I told you I'm jealous of them?"

“Of who, darling?”

“Those people you loved,” Rook says.

She twists her wrist, tightens her grip, snaps at the air between them like a dog biting at a bone just out of reach. The motion alone is enough to make his hips jolt forward, his cock pushing blindly into the tight heat of her hand. It shudders against her palm, slick with sweat, with saliva, with its own leaking want. She spreads it, works it in, fingers tightening, releasing, tap-tap-tapping against the sensitive ridge just to watch him flinch.

“Oh.”

He wants to say something better than that. Something articulate, something lovely and precise, about how those old loves are nothing now, how their outlines have blurred, their names lost to time, how nothing before her seems to have truly happened. But all he manages is, “Oh,” again and again, a broken refrain.

Because he is watching her lips now. Pink and parted, a flicker of tongue just visible between them, poised as if about to speak, or taste, or ruin him completely. And he remembers—oh, how he remembers—the way they feel around him, the warm, obscene pressure, the way she sucks, licks, hollows her cheeks just so. The way she always pauses first, takes him in hand, lets the flat of her tongue drag slow over the head, tasting him before swallowing him down. He remembers, and he whimpers, wrecked by the thought alone.

He is, after all, like any other man. It is a humiliating realization, though not a new one. A mouth, an opening of thighs, a flash of tongue, the yielding softness of a cunt, the stiff insistence of a cock—these things could undo anyone. But for him, for him especially, it is worse. It is words that ruin him completely. Sweet ones, meaningless ones, even badly chosen ones, so long as they are offered up with the illusion of sincerity. Because he is sentimental, embarrassingly so, because he sees the world in pale, translucent pinks, because he imagines fingers intertwined over matching wedding bands, because he is the sort of man who believes that being loved—even briefly, even falsely—might be enough to justify everything.

He has spent years preparing for that. Decades of practice. He knows the gestures, the arrangement of words, the precise architecture of romance. He knows how to select flowers with the right meaning: tulips for declarations, lilies for purity, lavender for quiet, enduring devotion. He knows how to make himself desirable. He has built his whole life around it.

And yet, the moment she touches him, all of it dissolves. Whatever carefully curated refinement he has spent years cultivating—wasted. His spine bends into a crude, instinctual arch, his breath stumbles, his thoughts blur into static. The moment her hand curls around him, the moment she strokes, slow and assured, all that is left of him is want, absurdly simple and absurdly predictable.

He can only hope that when the moment passes—when the blood leaves his cock and returns to his brain—there is something else in him she will still find worth keeping.

Eventually, somehow, he finds words.

“There is only you—oh—only you.”

“I know,” Rook says. Nods. Smiles. Tightens her grip. Strokes him harder. “I want you to only fuck me, only kiss me, only come in my mouth, only bend me over your desk, only, only, only—” She bites her lip, almost thoughtful, then breathes out a small laugh. “Only me to sit on your cock, to rub myself off on you until I’m soaked, only me to squeeze you so tight you can’t even think, only me to ride you until you’re shaking, until you’re begging, until you hurt or I do.”

His fingers twitch at his sides.

She is breathless now, though not from effort; her hand does not falter. If anything, her rhythm steadies, as though she is determined to wring something from him, something more than this.

“I want,” she says, then again, rasping with urgency. “I want to be hoarse in the morning because you fucked my throat so hard it left a bruise. And I want it to be something you’ve done only to me.”

He watches sweat gather at the base of her throat, the damp fabric of her shirt clinging, pressing to her breasts in translucent patches. He could tear it. He could pull it away with one sharp motion.

“I want—” she starts again, her voice slipping, stuttering, as if she is losing the thread of thought even as she speaks it. “I want to go to your Grand Necropolis and let it be only me. I want them to look and think—and think—and want you—” she swallows, blinking, chasing her own logic, “—and know you are only mine.”

Rook wants the way a dragon does: completely, devastatingly, without dignity or proportion. And so does he, though it has taken him longer to admit it. He has spent years dressing the thing up, polishing it until it gleamed, presenting it as something dainty, something civilized. He has hidden it in bouquets, in well-chosen words, in gifts wrapped so finely they might be mistaken for gestures instead of claims.

It is a thing with weight, with hunger, with an awful, clinging need. It does not sit lightly in the chest. It does not allow for division. He has never wanted affection portioned out, balanced, tempered with reason. He has wanted to be swallowed whole, wanted the ones he loved to love him back with the same singular, unthinking devotion—to make a shrine of him, to strip themselves of anything that was not his. He realizes this now, with startling clarity, as she works him closer to orgasm. It is not right, he knows. It is not sane.

But he wants it anyway. Wants it exactly as she does. Wants it the way poets want their muses, the way men kill their gods in fits of heresy. Wants it as much as he wants to lay offerings at her feet, to press flowers into her hands, to lace jewels through her hair.

Only, only, only.

He has his own onlys. Only her to stroll with through the quiet, gold-lit streets, to turn her head toward shop windows. Only her to introduce to Nevarran customs, watching as she absorbs them, twists them to suit her own purposes. Only her to drape in gold, in rings, in bracelets, in necklaces delicate enough to snap between his fingers if he ever pulled too hard. Only her to choose something as absurdly domestic as a new rug with, standing in a marketplace, pretending she cares about the weave pattern. Only her to take to bed, to press down into the mattress at night, to split open, to fill, to adore. Only her to stretch beneath him, body pliant, flushed, her breath coming fast as he spills deep inside her, slow and heavy, until it leaks out of her, down her thighs, maybe—if fate is feeling particularly indulgent—settling into something permanent.

As she said: only, only, only.

He barely feels it coming, barely registers the inevitable cresting of it, the creeping heat, until suddenly it breaks over him, shattering whatever thin thread of restraint he had left. A sharp gasp leaves him as his body tenses, as he presses in close, buries his face in the curve of her shoulder, breath wheezing, breaking, whistling.

And then he is spilling over her fingers in thick, pulsing bursts—again, and again, and again. His cock twitches helplessly in her grip, and she does not let go, does not stop, only slows, lets her fist tighten, strokes him through the aftershocks, dragging out every last tremor. His hips jerk upward, lazy and unthinking, chasing the sensation even as pleasure fades into something unbearably sensitive.

He feels warm, feverish, his body strangely weightless, as if he might slip right out of himself if he let go. Then the opposite—a sudden awareness of his grip on her, of the way his fingers have pressed too hard, have left their shape in her skin. He loosens them, exhales. Watches as she lets go of his cock, now softening in her hand, lifts her fingers, tilts her wrist to observe the slow, glistening trail of him running down her palm.

She hums, thoughtful, then licks it away, unhurried, making sure he is watching. Her tongue follows the path all the way down, tracing it to her wrist, collecting every last drop with the kind of idle efficiency one might use to clean sugar from their fingertips. When she is satisfied, she smiles and leans in to kiss him. He dodges, turns his head at the last second, hides his face against her neck instead. His lips press there, soft, aimless, as he feels his eyes mist over.

It isn’t the first time. It won’t be the last. He would stop it if he could, would hold himself together, make himself presentable, but the tears arrive without permission, without reason, a slow gathering before the inevitable spill. The sobs are quiet, barely shaped into sound, but undeniable. He wishes he could explain it—offer some neat, comprehensible reason—but he cannot even explain it to himself.

It is happiness, yes, but happiness at such a magnitude it ceases to be light. It is weight, warmth, excess. It is the unbearable pleasure of existing in this moment, of being seen, of being wanted. It is the way she looks—so flushed, so content, as if she has won something. The way she smells, her skin carrying traces of salt and sweat and something almost floral, though he knows that is just her. The way everything seems suddenly, painfully clear in the soft blur of the after.

So he kisses her throat, presses his face against the delicate heat of her skin so she does not have to see him—again.Her pulse thrums beneath his lips, steady, indifferent to his unraveling.

“What are you thinking about?” she asks.

“You,” he confesses, and the word stumbles out on a wretched little hiccup. "Oh, I love you, Rook, I love you."

Into her shoulder, her collarbone, the sharp little ridge of her chin. It is always like this when they take their time. He is overcome, disassembled into words, and she lets him speak, lets him spill his fevered little future into the space between them, lets him press love into her skin as if he might leave it there, like a bruise, like something that cannot be washed away.

I love you tangled with you will like Nevarra, you simply do not know it well enough.

I love you and what is your favorite gemstone, my darling, tell me, so I may drape you in it, so I may weigh you down in it.

I love you and yes, of course, white is a real color, you are right to prefer it, you are always right, I would argue the sky is green if it pleased you.

I love you and oh, let us get you a grave dowry of your own, gold, gold, the only metal fit for permanence, the eternal one…

On and on, breathless and half-senseless.

He feels her lips press against the top of his head, a fleeting warmth, her breath stirring through his hair before she pushes him back, gently, just enough to see him properly. Her hands find his face, cradle it between them, and he feels it—the faint, tacky imprint of her palm, the one that had worked him to pleasure, now pressed against his cheek. The scent of himself lingers there, musk and salt and his favored soap. He breathes it in, caught between embarrassment and satisfaction, as she watches him with that slow, considering gaze.

“You sweet man,” Rook murmurs. 

He shuts his eyes a little tighter, as if that might stave off whatever comes next. It does not. 

“Do you know,” she inquires, fingers sifting through his hair, “how to remove something from the surface of the eye when it refuses to be dislodged by any other means?” 

“You could attempt to flush it out,” he supplies. 

“No.” 

She waits until he looks at her, properly yet reluctantly, before placing a kiss high on his cheekbone, then another. Over his eye, his closed lid, the damp fringe of his lashes. A sigh, a small thing. She parts her lips and pushes the tip of her tongue past the crease of the palpebral fissure, past the soft resistance of his lashes, until the wet muscle makes contact with the convex surface of the sclera. A slow, dragging stroke over the waterline. Warm and slick, collecting the saline residue, the mineral tang of dried tears, the body’s quiet mechanisms of defense. Her breath, close and humid; her smile, somehow wide.  

She pulls back, just barely. Just enough to make him want her to do it again.

“I want you to fuck my thighs,” she says, kissing his forehead. “And I want you to come on my breasts. Paint my face with it. Make it filthy. Make it disgraceful. And—” She hesitates. “Fuck, I don’t know.” Another kiss, heavier this time, lips catching on his skin. “I want to do everything you’ve done with all those others until they don’t exist.” She kisses the tip of his nose. “Anything. Everything. All of it, Emmrich. You made me bleed once. You can make me bleed again, if you want.”

He remembers. Of course, he remembers. The red bloom on the sheets, the sharp flare of it against pale fabric. How she should have cried, how it was he who had hidden his face in his hands. The clumsy, amused way she had reassured him, her I’ve never wanted anyone before you, anyway, let's go eat now.

How, days later, he had lowered himself between her thighs, pressing his face into the flushed heat of her, not as apology, not even as atonement, but as something far more base. How the scent of her filled his lungs, how the first press of his tongue against her was slow, searching, before he found his rhythm, before he found what made her gasp, what made her fingers twist hard in his hair. How she lifted her hips, seeking more, how her legs tensed, flexed, her thighs threatening to close around his head.

How she had asked, does it taste nice? and how he had answered, of course, of course it does, so very frantic and earnest. Then, because words were not enough, because words could be questioned, he kissed her, so she would know, so she would never doubt.

And afterward, unspooled, too loose-limbed for silence, he had spoken, ever verbose. How her hair was neither one color nor another, something between, something shifting, just like her eyes—not quite gray, not quite blue. How long it was, how it could be woven into three perfect braids, how he could do it, he was good at it, very good at it, would she like him to? Would she sit between his knees, would she let him gather the strands, twist them carefully, neatly, the way he had once learned, the way his fingers still remembered? Would she let him braid her hair in the morning and unbraid it at night?

She had only hummed, smiling absently, eyes half-lidded. Suddenly how about I suck your cock now? He had nearly wept, had wanted to say no, no—yes, yes—please, yes, of course, yes, but only if you want to, Rook, dear, only if you truly want to, though I want it, how can I not, but I also want to sit with you in the morning and pour you tea, or coffee, and talk about the weather, about books you cannot read, about nothing at all, I want—

And then oh, she had done it, and his brain cracked apart like an egg against the edge of something sharp, and everything spilled out in a gasping, mindless chorus of thank you, thank you, thank you.

Rook’s mouth finds his closed eye again.

He forces himself to think clinically, to name each part in anatomical terms, as if reciting from a textbook. Cornea, aqueous humor, sclera. The smooth convexity of the eye, the way the thin membrane of the conjunctiva seals over it like a second skin. If he does not—if he lets himself think in any other way—he will cry harder. His face will flush in blotches, his breath will stutter, his nose will run, and worst of all, he will whisper Rook, Rook, Rook until she tells him to shut up and leaves. Because no one has ever told him I love you like this, without the words. No one has kissed away the tears left in the wake of an embarrassingly quick orgasm. No one has smiled as he silently arranged their life together in his mind, measuring out their future like fabric meant to be cut.

He ought to laugh—ought to flinch, ought to fold back into himself—but instead, another tear escapes, slipping down his cheek, chased by a sharp, ugly sob. She catches it with her lips, her breath hitching slightly as she presses closer. 

Lick, lick, lick. Kiss, kiss, kiss. 

Perhaps she could take more. Sink her teeth deep, rupture it, let the viscous ruin run hot down her tongue. Perhaps she could swallow him piece by piece, until something of him remains there, behind her teeth, held fast. That would be lovely. 

“Did I get it?” she asks, drawing back 

“Yes, darling,” he breathes, faint and deliriously happy. "You did." 

[danikamariewrites]

Okay but being mated to Az, Cass, and Nesta but you don’t know and a foreign dignitary comes to stay at the House of Wind with the four of you and Rhys asks you to seduce/be flirty with them and the three of them are absolutely feral trying to keep their jealousy down

Just One Night

Nessian x Azriel x reader

A/n: I’ve been dying to write another fic with these four! They would absolutely want to kill Rhys for this especially Nesta.

Warnings: possessive Nessian & Azriel

Today is the day. Nesta had decided for the group that today they would tell you about the bond. She was just waiting for you all to get out of a meeting with Rhys and her sister. The last thing Nesta wanted was to confess the bond - and her love for you - in front of Rhys.

Nesta heard the angry footsteps echoing off the marble floor of her mates before she saw them. Setting her book down she tilted her head curiously at their disgruntled looks. The males dropped into their respective arms chairs letting out dejected sighs. Nesta stood with her arms crossed and a raised brow as she looked between the two.

“Well.” She said sharply. Azriel let out a low growl from the back of his throat. She felt his annoyance down the bond and looked to Cassian for an answer. Sighing through his mouth and rubbing the bridge of his nose Cassian bites out, “Rhys is having her seduce the emissary from Montesere. Cyrus Yarrow.”

When they looked up at Nesta those silver flames were dancing with anger in her eyes. Her left one practically twitching. “He’s having her do what?” She growled. Nesta turned on her heel, black dress flaring dramatically. Cassian grabbed her wrist before she could go give Rhys a piece of her mind.

Her fist balled. The first and only warning Cassian would get to release her. Letting go his open hand hovered cautiously. “Wait. She, just…she took the job. She knows what to get from the guy and we won’t let it get farther than that, yeah?” Nesta cracked her neck, letting out an annoyed sigh. “Fine.”

“You don’t want to be overbearing, Nes.” Azriel said. That deep, even voice relaxing her. “You’re right.” She looked back at her mates as Azriel waved her over. His arms open for her. Without hesitating Nesta sat on Azriel’s thigh, resting her head against his chest. “I know you’re impatient,” he says against her hair, “the Mother knows we are too, but we want to make it special for her.”

———

Pulling out the garment bag from your closet a knock sounded at your bedroom door. “Come in!” You hear whom ever enter, shuffling around the room. Nesta poked her head in your closet. You smile at her, “Hey you.” She gives you an equally dazzling smile. For a moment you swear something like love sparkles in her eyes.

Your heart leaped at the thought then quickly sunk. Remembering how in love she is with Cass. Blinking rapidly you plaster that smile back on your face. “What’s up?” You ask lightly. “I thought we could get ready for the ball together.”

You nod vigorously. “I would love that.” You and Mor used to get ready together - Feyre too - until she found Emerie. Usually when Rhys gave you a job for the evening you liked to get ready alone. Being alone lets you think through your plan for the night. Being with Nesta will be a nice change though. She was able to distract you from the awaiting nightmare of Cyrus.

Cyrus Yarrow was renowned for the females he chose to surround himself with. Always beautiful and charming. He was also quite demanding and handsy when he found something he liked. A shiver runs down your spine causing you to shake, your chin dropping to your chest.

Looking back up you saw Nesta had moved closer to your face. Her hand poised to draw with the kohl on your lid. “Are you ok?” You give her a small nod. “Stay still,” she giggled. A warmth bloomed in your chest at the sound.

———

The ball was in full swing. Nesta had stolen you for the first dance before you were swept away by Cyrus. Azriel had grabbed her waist before she could kill the male, dragging her into a waltz she could do in her sleep. Cassian was sending waves of calm to her down the bond. He stepped in for Az once the song was over. Also so Azriel could keep an eye on you for the night.

“Remember what Azriel said, Nes.” She gave him a curt nod, looking over her shoulder for you as they spin around the floor. “Hey,” Cass demanded, taking his hand from her waist to grip her chin. “She is fine. She is capable. I know the instinct to protect her and be by her is intense, we’re feeling it too. But tomorrow, he will be gone.” “Yeah.” She mumbled. Cassian pressed a quick kiss to Nesta’s lips before dipping her dramatically.

Azriel watched from the shadows as you entertained Cyrus. His party from Montesere was nothing like him. Kind and proper as they chatted with Mor and Feyre. His eyes bounced between the groups wanting to make sure that his court was safe. Feyre stood up straighter. A shocked and confused look pulling at her features.

He met his High Lady’s gaze and she tapped on his mental shield wasting no time in updating her spymaster. Cyrus no longer held the power they were told about. His Lord had stripped his title a week ago. This relieved Azriel. It meant he wouldn’t feel guilty about pulling you away from work and that Rhys wouldn’t give him a tongue lashing.

The Shadowsinger was about to step in and save you from Cyrus’s awfulness when a panicked feeling froze him in place. His shadows had reported Nesta and Cassian were safe. He even spotted them smiling and laughing as they danced.

When the realization hit Azriel that it was you projecting your feelings down the bond ran to you, sending his shadows ahead to pull Cyrus off of you. The look of disgust on your face had his instincts to protect you screaming at him to go.

Azriel drew Truth Teller, holding it to Cyrus’s neck. “Back away from my mate.” Azriel said practically roared. The fae around them stopped, gasps sounded through the crowd as they stared. You clung to Azriel’s arm through the whole ordeal. As the word mate left his mouth you stared up at Az, your eyes twinkling with love.

You had always had a crush on Azriel. But Nesta, you thought to yourself. No, you’d let her go. You have Az now. “Mate,” you repeat. Azriel stilled as the realization of the word he just spoke dawned on him. He slowly turned to look at you. The corners of your lip turning up at the his shock.

“Yeah, umm…” His gaze drifted behind you. You followed his gaze to find a stunned Cassian and a fuming Nesta. “Az?” You ask softly. The party had resumed around you as the couple stepped closer. Cassian placed his hands on Nesta’s shoulders in a calming manner. “Why don’t we all go talk somewhere else.” Cass suggested. “Why do we all,” you trail off as Nesta grabs your hand to drag you out of the ball room.

You kept looking between Nesta, Azriel, and Cassian as she leads you to the living quarters of the House of Wind. Her iron grip never leaving you. Entering the main living room Nesta drops your hand making a beeline for the bar cart housing one of Rhys’s expensive bottles of whiskey. Pouring herself a finger she downs the amber liquid in one go.

“I thought,” she started, her tone dangerously calm, “we wanted to make it special. To do something sweet for our mate.” Nesta flashed her perfect canines in a saccharine smile at the males. Azriel’s jaw tightened. His head dropped, clearly frustrated with himself.

You hold his hand with both of yours. Running your thumb across the back of his hand in calming circles. Nesta’s words caught up with your brain. Our, she had said.

You looked at her with wide eyes. “Our? As in all three of you are my mates.” Cassian couldn’t help but grin. “Yeah sweetheart. You have all three of us. We’ve been waiting to tell you and we wanted to make it special. Cyrus just got in the way.” You covered your mouth as happy tears lined your eyes. That warm feeling in your chest that appeared with Nesta earlier returning. The bond glowing fiercely as it branched out to all three of them.

You sink on to the plush couch taking in the information. You have been blessed with three mates. Each one you were madly in love with. And you get to love them all for the rest of your life!

Cassian came to sit beside you. He wrapped an arm around your shoulders pulling you into his side. You could sense the apology on his lips before he could even say it. Cassian has always been too apologetic for his own good. You grabbed his hand resting on his thigh. “I’m not mad. I am incredibly happy to hear this.” Cassian’s head dropped to rest on yours. Azriel takes the spot next to you wrapping his arms around your waist pressing a kiss to your cheek.

You stare at Nesta who hadn’t moved an inch since you entered the room. You wave her over to join couch snuggles, tugging on the bond to entice her. Nesta ran at you. Jumping to straddle your lap and pushing Cass and Az off you. You hugged her tightly inhaling her scent of fire and steel masked by the vanilla and almond perfume she wears.

“I love you so much, y/n.” She whispered just for you to hear. “I love you, Nes. With all my heart.” You whispered back, just for her to hear.

[starstruckodysseys]

posts i plan in the middle of a kohl’s parking lot

never stop blowing up as textposts* 1/?

*i know some of these are not textposts do not get on me. “things stolen from my pinterest” sounds less cool

[grimrevolution]

Words: 1,108 Characters: Davrin x Rook - Radhika (pre-relationship) Rating: Gen Summary: In the midst of chaos, everyone needs a break every now and then.

Deep in the depths of Arlathan Forest, Davrin could smell the sea. The creak of the people frozen by magic sounded like the ropes of a ship, lake water lapped at the shore of a beach, and salt sat on the tip of his tongue. Sunlight filtered, dappled, through the tree tops, spreading out a pattern of seashells across hunting trails long trampled flat by halla hooves.

He had been dreaming about the ocean lately. The spray of the water, the sight of waves rising and cresting, the sound of it brushing against boat hulls and beaches and naked feet racing across the sand. Brushstrokes painted the sky in aquamarine with swirls of cerulean.

On the lucky nights, he dreamed of long, black hair veiling the sunlight. Of fruit-stained lips pressed against his own. Of palms braced against his chest.

Davrin breathed in. The salt became dirt and decaying plant life, the call of gulls turned into the sharp singing of woodland birds. Squawking and chuckling tugged him from his thoughts. The peace not broken so much as changed.

He turned.

Rook—‘you can call me Radhika, if you’d like,’ she had told him quietly during their first walk through the woods, digging for truffles—was holding a length of twine away from a bouncing, chirping griffon. Freshly caught fish hung from it, rainbow scales catching the sun. Trousers were rolled up to her bruised knees, sleeves to her scarred elbows, and neither had helped keep her clothing dry.

Out here, in the golden light of Arlathan, Radhika looked like something enduring. There was no slim plate armor hiding her slant of her shoulders, no shield weighing down her arm, no everite sword in her hand. Just the twisting, ritualistic scarring up her left forearm, geometric lines tattooed across her face, and sweat-smeared kohl that hid the bags beneath her eyes.

She was smiling. A worn thing that reminded Davrin more of the brand-new post-joining Warden recruits than the boisterous Lords of Fortune. Assan bounded at her dirt speckled, bare heels, chirping, warbling, and crooning. The fur and feathers along his belly and legs were dripping with the river.

Davrin stepped a bit further into the trees, letting the shadows of the boughs and leaves hide him from view. He couldn’t remember the last time he had seen Radhika smile. Or perhaps he never had, and they were all stolen away by the attacks on Treviso and Minrathous.

“No, Assan,” she said, sternly but fondly. Her grip was gentle as she grabbed the griffon cub’s beak before it could catch one of the fish. “These are for supper. Besides, let me gut and debone them before you stuff your face.”

Ears and wings dropped. Baby-blue eagle eyes widened. If he was an elven babe, the damn beast would be pouting.

Good thing he was born with a beak and claws. Davrin hated to think what he would get up to if he had thumbs.

Radhika merely laughed. It was a tender, quiet sound, all lotus blossoms and mud-stirred water. “That won’t work on me as much as it does on Neve,” she told Assan, brushing her fingers gently across the speckled silver feathers on his forehead.

He warbled at her and nudged his head into her touch, giving up on the fish. For now. There was something divine in the way the sunlight fell across her hair that not even the so-called gods could touch. Up in the ruins, the shadow of Ghilan’nain’s likeness glared at him for his so-called blasphemy.

Mother of the halla. Mother of monsters. Davrin hadn’t given her much thought after taking his vallaslin. Not until recently when her hand dealt the death blow of a thousand wardens.

“Davrin?”

Turning away from the shadow of the tyrant, he glanced towards Radhika.

Her shoulder length black hair was pulled up into a messy bun. A white and blue lily stuck out of the tie holding it together; a gift from one of the younger veil jumpers they had rescued mere days ago. It looked like a guiding star.

It softened her. Not with the plushness of rabbit fur, but like how dusk lessened the heat of the day. Twilight wiping away blood and dirt and the horrors the light revealed to firesides, drinks, and steadfast company.

She had tilted her head to the side and was watching him, checking in that way she always did for injuries, then for anything else.

“I’m alright,” Davrin said stepping out of the trees. “Got caught up in my own thoughts.”

Assan bounded past to go wiggle underneath the tarps that had been set up. The camping idea had been shamelessly stolen from Harding. Or, rather, Davrin had mentioned his plan to Harding only to get it whole-heartedly approved.

They were still waiting on news from the Crows, information from the Shadow Dragons, as well as whatever Antoine and Evka could scrape together. They had a small bit of time. Not a lot, but enough to go camping out in the wilderness.

Take some semblance of a break.

“If you need to head back—”

“I don’t,” Davrin told her, firmly. He carefully took the twine and the fish. “You said gutting and deboning?”

Radhika watched him. Her eyes were not blue despite the fact that she smelled of the sea. Even out here in the dirt, even at Weisshaupt when they were surrounded by blight and blood and death. It followed her, a phantom dogging at her heels.

There were some who believed that humans had come from across the sea. Perhaps had even come from it. All dirt and bones and light. A heaving, churning reminder that everyone was filled with a deep, restless soul. Elvens born from spirits made flesh. Humans born from water made to walk.

Whatever Radhika was looking for made her expression soften. “Yes,” she admitted. “Preferably before Assan decides to try and steal one.”

Davrin glanced down and—sure enough. “You heard the boss,” he said to the griffon that was trying to slink through the trees, eyes on the fish. “Nothing until supper.”

Assan warbled and flopped down on the dirt with a huff.

“You—” Davrin almost started before shaking his head. They could deal with the filth later. Probably back in the river. He spared a second to glance back at Radhika.

She was no monster to track through the wilderness nor a halla that needed patient herding. Something old lurked beneath the surface and he was no fisherman but he could learn. He could try.

“Shall we?” Davrin motioned with the fish.

Radhika smiled at him. “We shall.”

[junedenim]

you heard that they were the naughtiest

they were all naked, but he was the exposed one

warnings: smut, prostitution, p in v, blowjob, feelings :(

word count: 3.7k

It's not intentional per se. When he stumbles upon a room of half-naked women he doesn't reject the sight, but he didn't seek it out. He's kind of just shoved into the room. His friends insist it's the perfect way of getting over a break-up. He guesses he can't really handle rejection right now either which is why they aren't picking up chicks in a place where you wouldn't have to pay for it. Plus, they have to be on a tour bus in a matter of hours so they can't waste time here.

At least, that's his friends' thinking. All he can think about are tits, tits, tits! Seriously, he never thought he'd be overwhelmed by the sight of boobs after he made it through the rough stage of puberty but they're everywhere and he can only take his eyes off of them to look at another set of boobs. Two nipples staring at him like beady little eyes. 

"You like?" A woman in a long robe with fluffy feathers lining it comes beside him. She's twice the age of everyone here and she must be the only one semi-dressed.

"Oh, uh, yeah, I mean...yeah." He feels like he's objectifying the women by looking at them but at the same time what the fuck else is he supposed to do? "Yes."

"Have your pick," she invites. 

Alex feels flushed, his voice stolen from him as he chokes on his own spit. "What? Like any of them?"

The woman nods. She has a certain elegance that he wouldn't expect from a pimp. Her makeup is poorly drawn on and her hair looks like it's about to fall off her head but she wears pearls and diamond earrings, which could be fake but he can't tell the difference. "Your friends paid for you," she tells him.

There are blondes, brunettes, and gingers. There's one girl in the back with purple hair. "Can—can I do more than...?"

"More than one?" The woman laughs and Alex shrinks and he suddenly wishes he was getting rejected at some pub instead. "No, no, sweetie. That would be another additional payment and an extra fee. But any of my girls out here are for your choosing. I'm sure they'll treat you better than any girl you've had before. You seem like a nice one too. They might even give you an extra favour for that."

"Like a blowjob?" The question just falls out and he wants to slap himself after saying that.

The woman instantly starts laughing again. "Whatever you want, sweetie. You're in charge. Now, go on, make your pick."

She pushes him forward and brown, green, and blue eyes meet him. Unexpectedly, he's hit with the feeling of being a kid in a candy store and part of him feels bad for viewing these women as candy for him to consume but the other part of him (his cock) is growing hard and needy.

"Um, I'll, um, have her." Alex points to a woman, she must be right around his age, maybe a few years older. Wide eyes, kohl-smeared staring right back up at him. Her hair is long, wavy, reaching down far enough to cover her tits, her nipples peeking through at the movement of her head.

The woman rises from her chair and takes hold of Alex's hand, dragging him toward one of the backrooms. Her ass, bare and in plain view for him. He realizes he can do whatever he wants. He could squeeze it, smack it, rub it, kiss it, fuck it. It's a terrifying thought but the pleasure he gains, the way his dick feels so constrained can't be matched. 

"So, uh, how long have you been doing this?"

She laughs, but it's a cute one, instead of a mocking one. "The whore thing?" Alex nods as she shuts the door behind him. "Couple years."

The room is relatively empty. There's a bed with white sheets, two bedside tables with lamps on each that are turned on, and a painting of a naked woman because they are obviously lacking in the department of nude women. 

"The room to your liking?" She asks him.

He wipes his sweaty palms down on his jeans. "Yes!" He shouts it a little enthusiastically but again the woman giggles nicely and moves onto the bed, sitting on the edge, crossed-legged and tempting.

"How'd you like me?"

"How'd I like you?" He questions.

"Your call, honey. Take me whichever way you like."

He just about busts a nut at this woman, staring him down, who he can have free-range on. Something overcomes hum. Maybe it’s loneliness, but he’s first thought isn’t sex. "Can I kiss you?" He doesn't really know how else you're supposed to start sex. It feels weird to just put his dick in her right away.

She seems shocked by this sentiment. "Uh, sure."

Alex is still standing by the door. He shoves his hands in his pockets. "Not a lot of guys ask that, do they?"

She shrugs. "Some do. But I can see," she points to his crotch, "your erection." Alex's first instinct is to cover it up with his hands but he realizes he doesn't need to do that here. That kind of thing is encouraged here. "Most guys don't like to kiss about when they're already hard."

"Yeah, well, things with my girlfriend just ended, and—fuck, I wasn't supposed to talk about this."

She giggles. "That's fine."

"No, that was like the one thing my mates told me not to talk about. I guess I've been going on about it for a long time."

"Well, this is your time so you can do whatever you like but for reference, you only have me for about a half hour and that half hour started when you picked me so you only have about 25 minutes left."

"Oh, right, so we should probably..."

"Take care of that erection? It's up to you but I'll do everything, except rape kinks."

"People request that a lot?"

She shrugs. "Yeah. People request a lot of weird things. The rape thing gets a little iffy for me because I'm not, well..."

"Willing?"

"Well, I'm willing. I'm getting paid. It's my job. Some of the girls do it if you want to. I guess it helps keep people from raping other people."

"No, I mean, I kind of like it when the people I'm fucking want to fuck me."

"You're still hard," she notes. He definitely is. It's pressing up against his zipper and threatening to rip a hole straight through his jeans. "I don't mind talking to you if you want to do that but I have a feeling you might want to take care of that."

Alex lets out a chuckle of relief, finally relaxing just a little. "Yeah."

"So...however you want me." She's open and offering and it's terrifying. He's usually not the director of these things. It's always been a mutual thing but he feels less scared about taking charge then he thought he would.

"Okay. I'm going to take off my clothes if that's okay."

She chuckles. "Yeah, I think you're gonna have to do that eventually."

"Right." He laughs at himself, carefully taking off his shirt and jeans. He leaves his underwear on, nearing her slowly. He stands above her, tilting her face up with his finger, he looks down at her, and he knows he's fooling himself, but she really does look eagerly interested. Her eyes are erotic and her lips slightly puckered. He leans down slowly and kisses her lightly. "Can you give me a...blowjob?"

She stuffs away laughter and looks up at him with a grin. "Certainly." She pushes him back a step and sits on her knees. Her fingers skim the elastic teasingly, before reaching in, pulling them down, exposing him. She holds it and her hand with stimulating strokes. "You're so big."

He's never thought himself to be particularly enlarged. He hasn't really seen many, except in porn and at the urinals but, you know, he's not really looking at other guy's cocks while they pee. "Do you say that everyone?"

She bites her bottom lip, so close to his dick, he's starting to leak out precum and he can do anything he wants so he might just shove her head onto his cock. But he doesn't want to be brutal with her. "I mean, yeah, but I'm being honest. Swear it."

Alex believes her and gets amusement from the whole thing but he stands up a little straight with a bit more pride. He's apparently well-endowed. "Thanks." 

She hollows out her cheeks and swallows around him, letting his shaft slide along her tongue until it hits the back of her throat. Then she retreats and starts all over again, leaving more and more of her saliva slathered on his cock every time it pulls out of her mouth.

It's wet and messy, but it's the best blowjob he's ever had, which isn't shocking. She does this for a living. Especially with the way she reaches under and cups his balls as she swallows his cock, rolling his sacks around in her hand and kneading his flesh softly.

It makes his knees weak and he doesn't think he can stand anymore. "Can-can I sit please?" He gets out through a moan. She releases him, charmed by his hesitation and his need to ask for permission. He sits down on the edge of the bed and shimmies towards the middle. He lays on his back and spreads his legs for her to crawl between, sharing a smile with her as she gets comfortable on her stomach.

She wraps her hand around Alex's cock again, pulling it back so she can lick up the underside of it repeatedly, from base to tip. Her tongue traces the vein before swirling around the tip, tonguing his slit a few times before making her way back down to suck his balls into her mouth. Her teeth nip playfully at the loose flesh.

That's when he has to pull her off of him. "I'm about to come and, I mean, if you don't mind I'd like to be in you."

She smiles, her eyes bright. "Yeah. On you, you on me, doggy. Should I pull at the Kama Sutra?"

Alex snorts. "You're really funny."

She rolls her eyes. "We're running low on time here. Make up your mind, mister!" 

Alex flips them over after a moment, hovering over her as she looks up at him with wide eyes and an excited grin. "Ready?"

"Yeah." She widens her legs to give him more room to work as he moves back away from her on his knees. Alex reaches a hand down, squeezing those blinding tits. He leans down, placing his mouth over it and a shock goes through him as she moans. His tongue skims over her nipple and she lets out another one and he'll be thinking about how he got a whore to moan for the rest of his life and she also called him big.

He sits back up. "I'm gonna fuck you now," he tells her.

"Please," she groans and he feels like the man. Nothing will top this. He's the fucking man.

Not being able to wait a moment longer to be inside her, Alex slides his cock down to her slick hole and pushes inside. Her warm pussy envelops his cock inch by inch as he slides into her. "Oh my God," he moans as her walls cling to his shaft. "Holy shit."

She hums in acknowledgment. She reaches down and begins to rub her clit as his cock slowly fills her up more and more until he finally reaches the back of her, his balls pressing against her ass once he's all the way inside. She's breathing heavily, clenching her pussy around his cock to get used to the feeling. 

He sighs as he starts to get used to the feeling. He feels on edge but he wants to make use of every single minute he has with her. He begins to move his hips, pulling his cock out just to shove it back in, slowly starting to thrust his hips.

"Yeah, right there," she tells him, pulling his body down so it's pressed against hers as he fucks her. "That feels so good. Do you feel good, baby?"

"You feel incredible," he grunts into her neck, leaning his weight on his forearms on either side of her head, his arms bending her legs back further. He's sure she's said that to a million guys before, maybe even a few today, but the way he feels inside her, he might be kidding himself, but it feels too tight, too wonderful for only him to be feeling this good.

She lets out a whimper in response, hands moving to Alex's head to tangle in his shaggy hair. "Kiss me," she begs, tugging his hair to bring his head up from her neck so he can press his lips against hers. She opens her mouth and allows his tongue inside, sucking on it gently as his cock slides into her in long, sensual thrusts, slowly but steadily.

Their naked skin pressed together, and his cock was deep inside her. Alex feels closer to her than he's felt with anyone in ages. He feels tense and he knows he's close. This has only been perfect and he wants it to end perfectly. He wants to get every penny's worth but he wants to make her feel good because he bet not everyone has made her feel this good.

Her body shakes as she comes, her pussy clinging to him inside her as she moans into his mouth. He wants to come with her so badly, but he wants to keep fucking her more, to show her how good he can make her feel.

Before she even comes down from her orgasm, he is flipping her over onto her stomach and sliding his cock back into her from behind, stretching his forearms so his hands are planted on either side of her body so he can push his hips into her in smooth, hard thrusts. "Is this okay?"

"Yeah, keep going," she tells him. He really wants to just press her into the mattress and hump her roughly, but he'll last longer this way, and he can tell she's enjoying it by the way she moves against him.

She arches her back and twists her neck so she can look at his face as he pushes into her, his cock hitting spots so deep inside her. It hugs him tightly and pulls him in deeper and deeper each time he comes barreling down into her.

"Oh, you're making my pussy feel so good," she cries. It's so intimate and makes him feel so connected to her. He can't believe how good he is. 

"You like that?" Alex huffs barely heard over the sound of slapping skin each time his hips connect with her ass cheeks. His tummy tightens as he thinks about how special this feels. "Can I come in your mouth?"

"Yeah, yeah." She nods frantically. He pulls out and she flips onto her back. Alex moves up; he is just over her wide-open mouth. 

A stream of cum shoots out from the tip of his throbbing cock and lands on the tip of her tongue. "Fuck," he moans at both the feeling and the sight of it, splatters landing on her cheek and nose.

His hips jerk as the last spurts of cum come out, landing on her. His legs wobble as his body buzzes in the aftershocks. "Wow," Alex breathes out in awe, enthralled by the sight. "You're so pretty."

"Thanks," she mutters. Alex lands on his back beside her, unable to hold himself up straight anymore. He breathes heavily as she sits up to wipe the cum off of her face. 

"That was the best sex I've ever had." His tongue is spilling things out but he feels like he can tell her these things because that must have been some of the hottest sex she's ever had too.

She looks back at him with a grin. "You're cute, honey."

Alex regains some strength and leans over to where she's picked up a cigarette. His arms wrap around her waist. He wants to hold her tight, wants to cherish her. "You're so gorgeous."

"You want a smoke?" She asks before lighting her cigarette.

He shakes his head. He just wants to look at her without the blur of smoke separating them. "Here. Lay down with me."

"Your time is technically up but I guess I can take my break with you."

He's moved that she feels the same he does. Alex still can't believe what he's experienced, his body still recovering from the motions. She sits up against the headboard, smoking her cigarette so instead of cuddling with her side-by-side in bed like he wants, he'll sit beside her against the headboard. 

"So, do you usually take your breaks with your customers?" He's a special and very lucky man, he knows it.

"Um," she thinks out loud, "sometimes. They'll give me one of their cigarettes or an extra tip if I sit and talk with them. A lot of men who come in here are really lonely."

He's not one of those men. He didn't give her cigarettes or money, she just wants to sit and talk with him and he's charmed by this. He wants to take her out of her. Not leave her in this dirty place where men take advantage of her and treat her nastily. "I can imagine."

She looks over at him with a smirk. "What?" He questions.

Her smirk drops and she shakes her head. "Nothing. So, your ex dumped you or you dumped her?"

Alex sighs. "She dumped me. I thought we might get back together but she's got this new guy and I'm just a loser, I guess." He's worried that means he's calling her a loser so he quickly tells her, "That's nothing against you. I'm sorry if that came off rude."

She laughs and shakes her head. "You're fine. I've been called much worse."

Alex can't imagine anyone being rude to her. She's angelic in her caring and her laugh is like the sun shining on you, beating you in heat after a cold winter. "I'm sorry they've done that."

"It's fine," she insists. "People don't really understand my job. I like doing it and that shocks people. I guess there are your regular creeps but that's half the people out there nowadays. So, this way instead of being stuck with a crappy date with these people, I get paid to sleep with them and never see them again. I mean, who doesn't like sex?"

"I don't know who wouldn't like sex with you." He's being mushy but fuck, if you could see her, if you fucked her, you'd be feeling the same way.

She throws her head back in laughter. "Thank you, sweetie. I wouldn't have hung around her so long if I wasn't good at it. I'm a professional feel-gooder. I make everyone who comes in here feel better when they leave."

"Well, you've made me feel much better," he tells her.

She smiles over at him, taking a pull of her smoke. "Good. I'm glad to have done that."

"Even just talking to you I feel understood." He's looking at her and something pulls through him. He just wants to spill all his guts. Tell every little secret and then she'll share hers. It can't feel this good with everyone.

"Good," she says.

He's leaving town in a matter of hours and he can't even bear to leave her behind, at least not without getting her number. Christ, he doesn't even know her name. He curls an arm around her shoulders. "I'm leaving town soon but how would you feel about going out with me once I'm back in town."

"Oh," she smiles at him so lovingly, heartbeats skip, and he's lost in her eyes. He can't imagine how anyone could badly treat her, leave her, forget her. She softly chuckles. "Honey, I don't do that kind of thing."

His eyebrows furrow. "Are you not allowed?"

She shakes her head. "I just don't go out with people I meet at work. I'm not a girlfriend, I'm a quick fuck. I can give you conversation, I can be a flirt, I can be a slut, whatever, but I'm not gonna date you."

"But...I thought that we..."

"Sweetie," she's cooing at him and he hates this feeling. It's like getting dumped all over again. "I'm just doing my job. You're a total sweetheart. I mean, girls must love you."

"Well, what about you?" He asks like saying that, questioning her will change things.

She gives him a crooked smile and she looks slightly remorseful. "I'm not a girl. I'm not really anything to you. You don't even know my name."

"I could. You could tell me all about you and I'd love all of it—" She tries to suppress a laugh but it pulls through. Everything just sinks in him.

"I'm sorry. I feel horrible. But I can't give you what I don't have. If you're ever back in town, I'll be here."

He scoffs, "You just want money." He feels bad. He's being a bit of an asshole but he's hurt. It pours over him all over again. 

"Yeah," she admits, "doesn't everybody? I truly did have a nice time but I have a feeling you'll find a girl and you won't need any of this."

It makes him feel a little better like the whole thing wasn't made up in his head. Still, he's lost, annoyed, and he fucking hates this feeling. This loneliness that covers him. This was just supposed to be a fuck. If he wanted rejection he could have gone to a fucking pub or called up his ex-girlfriend but, no, he had to go too far in and believe some fantasy.

"I'm sorry," he says. 

She frowns at him. "There's no reason to be sorry. These things happen. You're a great guy, I can tell. You're just not my guy."

He digests this. Dry swallows the cold hard pill. He takes a deep breath and looks away. It doesn't soften the blow anymore. But he feels better knowing that he'll land on his feet. He'll get over this, eventually. He's just trapped in a hole and one day he'll crawl out of it. Even she, the whore, believes in him. "Can I have a cigarette?"

She feels bad. So, she gives him one.

*

a/n: i was kind of shocked how many ideas i had for different eras of alex at a whorehouse. i don't know when i became this dirty-minded but i blame all of you!

[kulai]

was looking up my drafts and found this little thing! pls don't mind the grammatical errors and just look at the pretty drawings !!!!!!

im actually really happy i have this. my phone got stolen last year so i dont have the drawing file for this design anymore ^_^ now i have this little reference for when step 3 releases yipee

if u wanna know more ill be dumping some info just cus! after the line break lol

A little context: I'm Filipino. so the oc lore is very much filipino-based culturally.

Ayu calls her mom "Nay", short for nanay.

She can understand her mother tongue. She can speak a little, but she can hear it has an accent and is frustrated about it.

They came from the city, where nobody really cared about anyone else's business. As long as you kept to yourself, you'd fit right in. Which is why Ayu is reserved at first, and very people-pleasing.

Although nay is open-minded and loving, Ayu still struggles to connect to her mother in the same intimate way she did when she was younger.

Her journey of identity is a struggle, and all signs lead to: Lesbian.

Unfortunately, she thinks its cause she wants to know her birth father.

A very caring person, mirroring her mother. She's confident in how to show her love, but not on how to receive it from others.

She's comfortable in masc clothing and still does make-up (just the occasional kohl under her eyes for her first year.)

Qiu and Ayu bond in their identity crises

Tamarack and Ayu bond over teasing and physical touch

etc... if i think of more

[honeybeefae]

Congratulations on 2k followers! We absolutely love you and what you write for us. We appreciate you and everything you do! For your ask spree, what if Lucien was appointed High Lord of Day Court but tradition states that to make it official he has to consummate the union with his Queen. And they’re mates or the reader is given to him and they’re both nervous and holding back but really want it. I don’t really know just drama and smut ensue 🔥

(I hope this is okay and it was so much fun to write and I wanted to write more but it was already nine pages long)

Royal Duties (Lucien Vanserra x Reader)

WARNINGS: Arranged marriage, worries over abuse, SMUT, 18+, super sweet, loss of virginity?

All eyes were on you as you were presented before the new High Lord of the Day Court, Lucien Vanserra. He had just recently taken over after the death of his father and although he was able to pick up on things rather quickly, the fine print of his crown made him raise his eyebrows.

It was written that the next in line to be the High Lord must not only take a Lady but also consummate the marriage. This was to ensure that the line would not end and that the thrones never sat empty. Lucien could have his pick of any court member or even one of his subjects in the villages. It was all within his hands.

And he had picked you.

You did not know why and had spent the better half of last night and this morning trying to figure it out. He had chosen you out of a lineup of noblewomen in the court, not even sparing a glance at the others once his gaze fell on you.

As far as you knew, he didn’t even know your name. This complete stranger had turned your world upside down with a point of his finger and wave of his hand. You were still coming to terms with it as your ladies dressed you in the court’s colors, making sure not a hair was out of place as the veil was draped over your head.

“My Lady, you are a vision.” Yuri smiled as she fixed the train of your dress. “Our High Lord will be most pleased in your attire.”

“Most pleased indeed.” Savit agreed, finishing the final touches of kohl and powder. You gazed at your reflection and barely recognized the woman staring back at you. The one in the mirror was fierce and beautiful, a true Lady of the Day Court. But that wasn’t who you were.

“Is he…” You swallowed as your voice squeaked in nervousness. “Have you heard anything bad about him? Does he treat…people like us fairly?”

Savit caught onto your worries and ran a soothing hand down your arm. “He is a good man, my Lady. He will treat you well.”

The words gave you some comfort but it all disappeared when you heard a knock and saw the advisors waiting for you with pleasant smiles on their faces. You almost tripped over your own feet as you followed behind them, the grand doors to the ballroom waiting to open for you.

“Good luck my Lady.” They bowed slightly just as the doors opened, revealing a room full of your family, friends, and other people of the court. You stood there for a moment, too scared to move, until you looked up at the front of the room.

Lucien was standing there, a vision of his own as the white robe clung to his body like water. His hair was halfway tied up and his golden crown was atop his head, matching the color of his mechanical eye. He was staring at you, drinking you in just the same, and gave a small smile when your eyes finally connected with his.

Something in his aura told you it was going to be okay and so you took a deep breath, held your head high, and gracefully walked up the steps until you were facing him. Golden light filled the room as the priestess said her words, both of you tuning her out as he held your hands.

His thumb was stroking the back of your knuckles in comfort when she finally ended her prayer, looking at the two of you expectedly. Your eyebrows were knitted in confusion until Lucien gingerly dropped your hands and lifted the veil off your face to reveal yourself to him.

Your very breath was stolen from your lungs as he gave you a wider smile, turning to grab the crown on the pillow beside the priestess and placing it atop your head.

He pulled away and admired you as the entire room erupted in applause, your heartbeat drowning out everyone as Lucien bent down and gave you a simple kiss on your lips.

It made your mouth tingle as he pulled away and you had to resist the urge to touch your lips where he had just been. You could feel him watching you as you turned to the room and gave them a smile and a wave, both of your hands conjoined as you walked down the steps and back through the doors you came from.

After that you barely had time to converse with your new husband as you got introduced to everyone in court, all of them bowing and offering bountiful gifts of different sizes and shapes. A grand buffet was served almost immediately and you noticed it had some of your favorite foods along with Lucien’s.

You didn’t have much time to eat though because the music started up and the festivities went in full swing. People were dancing, drinking, and dining while you were being whisked all around the room so much that you thought you would get whiplash. 

The entire night was like a dream and you found yourself actually enjoying his company. He was funny and sarcastic, whispering jokes into your ear about certain members of the court as they approached you. You were pleased to notice that he seemed to enjoy you as well, the two of you conversing easily over many different subjects.

Everything was going great until you heard an advisor stand up, his glass raised, and shout, “To the marriage bed!”

It was luck that you hadn’t eaten much because as soon as those words registered in your head, you felt your stomach drop with nerves. Your mother and sisters had given you a brief explanation of what would happen tonight, telling you it was not very pleasurable but to grin and bear it for the new High Lord.

They had warned you of pain and bleeding but had made clear that you should not cry. You felt your hands go clammy as Lucien grew distant immediately, dropping your hand and frowning. Did he not want this? Were you not desirable?

“Off you go, we must hurry!” One of your ladies whispered into your ear, taking your arm and gently leading you to a side room. You turned to look for Lucien, uncertainty in your eyes as he watched them lead you out.

“I thought he would be taking me here, Yuri.” You mumble as you are brought into a grand bedroom with a four-poster bed. 

“He will meet you here later.” She assured you as she began to undo the ties of your gown. “We need to get you oiled and ready for him before then.”

“Does he not do all that?” Your voice was laced with confusion and concern as the dress fell off your body, leaving you in the lacy undergarments they had put you in earlier that day. Savit took the dress and laid it on a hook, shaking her head at your naivety. 

“No, my Lady, he-” She began only to jump in fear when she heard the door open up. All three of you turned and were shocked to see Lucien standing there, his lean frame resting against the doorframe.

“Leave us, please.” He ordered. Both Yuri and Savit stood immediately, bowing their heads and gathering their things quickly. You were near trembling when the door shut behind them. It was the first time you had been alone with him.

“Do you, um, I just,” You were fumbling over your words as you wrapped your arms around your body. “Is there anything I can get you?”

“I won’t touch you if you do not want to be touched,” Lucien assured, walking towards you in two long strides. “I do not want to force you to do anything of that sort, though I realize the irony of that statement given our quick marriage.”

The corners of your lips turned up in a smile. “It’s not that. My mother told me what would happen tonight.”

“Do you not know yourself?” His voice had dropped an octave, realization dawning on him. “Have you not been with any man? Or woman?”

Embarrassment made your cheeks heat up as you shook your head once, fiddling with a stray string on your panties. “No. I haven’t. Does that displease you?”

“Displease me?” Lucien chuckled in disbelief, shaking his head in bewilderment. “Displease me? What about you? Mother above, I picked you because you seemed smart and capable and beautiful, I just assumed you had lovers before…and for this to be your first time?”

He began to pace around the room as if he were battling with his inner morals. You felt guilty for making him upset or whatever emotion he was currently experiencing. You let out a breath and reached out for his arm, stopping him midstep. Lucien’s eyes instantly fell on your body, his skin turning warm from arousal at the sight of you.

“I will be fine, Lucien. I promise.” You gave his arm a tiny squeeze. “Shall we get on with it?”

You didn’t wait for him to confirm, too afraid you were going to lose your nerves, as you climbed atop the bed and laid on your back. According to your mother, this was the position that would hurt the least. Lucien watched you with amusement as you situated yourself between the pillows, noticing the slight shakiness of your hands.

It wasn’t until you began to pull down your underwear that he stopped you, following you up the bed and gently grabbing your wrists. “You look absolutely silly, Y/N.”

“I’m not trying to look silly.” You huffed in frustration. “My mother told me this is how it is done. I lay here, you do something down there and I just look up at the ceiling. Simple as that.”

“Cauldron save me…” Lucien mumbled under his breath. “I’m sure that some people do it that way but this is supposed to be pleasurable for the both of us.”

“That’s not what I was told.” You purse your lips, rising up on your elbows. “Are those men still coming to watch?”

His frown returned as he rolled his eyes, the mechanical one whirring. “Unfortunately but these curtains will be drawn so they will not see you or I. I want you to feel as comfortable as you can tonight.”

“Really?” You ask with a raise of your brow, smiling as he gave you a sincere nod. “Well, if you truly mean what you say, could you, um, show or maybe tell me what it’s supposed to be like? I was told there will be pain and if I am being truthful, I do not deal with pain that well.”

The air between the two of you seemed to shift as his gaze darkened. “I have no problem showing you what your body and mine can do, but I need your consent first. This should not be out of force of duty.”

“Consent to what, exactly?” You breathed as he hungrily drank in your body once more. 

“To touch you, Y/N,” He replied huskily, raising a hand and skimming his knuckle down your arm. Goosebumps followed in his wake and you felt small tingles of excitement going down your spine. “To taste you, to make love to you…”

“Do I have your permission?” 

“Yes.” 

Your reply was instantaneous as was the kiss that followed. He tipped your chin so you were looking up at him, his body hovering over yours as his lips pressed against you. It felt like fireworks this time instead of tingles, the kiss was deeper and longer than before.

He tasted like sunlight and cinnamon, an intoxicating combination that made you crave more. When he tried to pull away you surprised yourself and him by throwing your arms around his neck, bringing him back to you.

“I didn’t know you would be so eager.” Lucien teased as he nipped at your bottom lip. Your thighs pressed together in need as he trailed his lips from your mouth to your ear. “However, I must say it is a good look on you.”

“Please, Lucien.” You panted, not even sure what you were truly asking for. It was like your body was on fire and his lips were the only thing that could put it out. 

“What do you need, my lady?” He asked you, appearing in your field of vision once more. “What do you want me to show you?”

“Everything, just, please! Please touch me!” You whined. 

One of his hands trailed down your neck, his fingertips ghosting over your skin until he brushed against one of your clothed nipples. It made you suck in a breath when he pulled on it, testing your reaction.

Lucien’s pupils were blown wide as he had you raise up and remove your bra. You threw it somewhere to the side, your body buzzing with excitement as he licked his lips at the sight of your bare breasts.

“You are gorgeous…” He hummed as he took both of them into his hands, squeezing the flesh while watching you bite your lip in need. Slowly, with his eyes focused on you, he took one of your nipples into his mouth and sucked. You couldn’t hold back the moan in your throat at his action, your eyes closing as he lavished you with attention.

“Feels so good.” You praised, fists clenching the sheets as he moved to the other one. The panties you were wearing were wet with your arousal, something that had only happened to you during your dreams, and the lacy material kept rubbing against you in a way that was making you wild.

You hadn’t even noticed you were grinding your hips until Lucien placed a firm hand on your stomach, holding you still. 

“What are you doing down here, princess?” He asked you, his voice teasing. The nickname was unexpected but it made your stomach fill with butterflies. 

“I…I don’t know.” You looked away, ashamed, while closing your legs tightly. “It just felt good.”

His hands came up and pried your thighs apart, admiring the way your cunt glistened in the candlelight of the room. Lucien’s chest rumbled with satisfaction as you allowed him to touch you, his jaw clenching at just how soaked you truly were.

“I’m gonna show you how good you can feel, Y/N.” He growled, peeling your panties off and stuffing them into his robe pocket for later. You tensed, watching him with uncertainty until the first swipe of his tongue had you melting into the bed.

“Oh, Lucien…” You sighed, the feeling foreign but good. He wrapped both of his arms under your thighs and held them apart so he could feast on you, his tongue darting in and out of your hole before coming back up to your clit.

When he flicked your clit with the tip of his tongue you almost jumped in surprise. You heard a small chuckle from him as he repeated the action but this time, this time you moaned loudly. 

“Right there, please.” You pleaded, your face flushed with desire and embarrassment. Logically you should be horrified that he would be anywhere near your sex. It was something you had thought was taboo, or at least had been told, but this pleasure he was giving you made it go out the window. You were on a euphoric high.

As he continued you felt something building up inside you. You started to squirm, wriggling your hips and even humping his face which he did not seem to mind at all. The pressure kept building and building and when you tried to pull away to explain, his hands roughly grabbed your ass and kept you still.

“Wait, Lucien, I feel like-” You tried to get out but then he started to suck on your clit, humming softly, and your entire body suddenly seized in pleasure. 

“Oh, oh!” You cried out, your core clenching as your hips rose high in the air as Lucien continued to eat you out. He drank every drop of your cum as you rode his face, your head thrown back in the pillows.

It was what you imagined heaven to feel like as he slowed down his licks, pulling away to gaze at you. Your hair was a mess, cheeks pink, eyes wide, and your mouth smiling as you stared up at the ceiling. 

“Are you okay?” He asked you, smiling when you rose up to look at him. 

“Can we do that again?”

[lillandyrshadowglade]

Fetish

Lillandyr stared at the gems glittering in the dim light of the basement with narrowed eyes. A hot, prickly flush spread from her cheeks, down her throat. She felt the warm trickle of it down her spine. It wasn’t fear, though it should have been. It was rage. 

“Fuck,” she breathed as her heart hammered against the cage of her ribs, fighting the full body shudder that went through her. She had to bite down hard on the plump of her bottom lip to repress some unseemly noise she was about to make. 

Sadistic glee was a manic light in her poisonous green eyes as she jumped up from her desk. It was all so delicious that she could barely contain herself. The urge to go straight to him made her hands shake, but she had to do this *just* right. This was going to be a moment she’d want to savor forever and it wouldn’t do to be all slap dash about it. 

In public, Lillandyr Shadowglade was a vapid and hedonistic creature who rolled around in pleasure and excess like a cat in sunshine. In private, she was a miser to the point of neurosis. Her whiskey was cheap, her little black, spiced cigarillos hand rolled, and her dresses were last season. Her diet consisted of whatever the bakery in Silvermoon was set to throw out. Despite the stolen identity, she still lived as Anya would have; hand to mouth and barely scraping by. The money she’d managed to come by was all designated for greater things. 

And though it pained her, it was time to spend a great deal of it. Slipping the jewels of incomprehensible value into their velvet pouch, she brought her promissory notes and left her dank, stinking basement for the city. The carriage ride there was almost intolerable. She felt like her skin was too tight and hot. She pressed a hand to her forehead, wondering if she was feverish. 

Plotting someone’s downfall was the closest she’d get to sex. Her chest heaved and she had to press her thighs together. And oooh, he deserved it. Thought he was so clever. Heathcliff had been an amusing diversion and an easy way to line her pockets, but she’d never given him much thought or attention. But now he had all of those things. She felt the thrill of hyper fixation and obsession shift inside her like a great, blood thirsty beast, snarling and drooling at the prospect of sinking razored teeth into a new…project. 

He had never even been a target. For one, he was a tad too clever and didn’t have the image or looks of what she was after. She’d prefer some golden haired lordling, young and dumb and pliable. And in that way, he was safe from her more saccharine machinations. His reputation was too tarnished for THOSE plans, besides. 

No. This didn’t serve any other purpose other than spite. He was being a very…very naughty boy and changing their little game. That letter was an invitation, one she couldn’t resist. 

Once in the city, she went to a dress shop and let the women there fawn over her and present her with silks and velvets and lace. She let them serve her champagne and little cakes drenched in honey which she licked off her fingers. She was spending enough fucking gold there, she could take a shit on the floor if she wanted to. Let them be scandalized by her abysmal manners. 

With an annoyed hiss, she waved off some slinky thing in silver silk. It looked cheap because she looked cheap with her mussed hair and the kohl smudged around her eyes. Her dress had frayed hems because she’d not bothered to change into something more presentable before leaving her ‘manor’. 

At last, the selections were more appropriate. She must have looked at nearly a hundred dresses before she found the one that made her pulse race. It was perfection. A dark green velvet bodice tooled with gold stitching that would hug the pinch of her waist gave way to a skirt of voluminous silk in peridot. And it was cut low so her tits would practically spill out of it. Good. It was outrageously expensive, but worth it. And when the sales girl asked if she wanted it to have any enchantments, she said she’d like it to glow the same shade of green as her fel drenched eyes and for little moths made of ephemeral light to flit about and light on her shoulders. 

After a fitting and some minor adjustments, it was then taken in the back to the tailor and enchanter. She could pick it up in three days. After that, she chose green velvet slippers with stiletto gold heels because Heathcliff was so damned tall and she was fed up with him looking down his nose at her, figuratively and literally. 

She even bought perfume, something that smelled sweet and poisonous. Lily of the valley and honey. By the time she was ready to go home, she had spent half of what she’d saved, but she consoled herself that she stood to gain far more. 

Unless of course, he planned on killing her. Which she conceded was a possibility. She didn’t think he would and she wasn’t a defenseless little lamb, besides. Part of her hoped he’d try. 

Once home, she descended into the dank basement, arms laden with parcels wrapped in scented tissue paper, excitement under her skin like rising champagne bubbles. She dumped her purchases into a trunk and went to her desk to pen her reply to the shitty little passive aggressive letter Heathcliff had sent to the husband that didn’t exist but that was meant for her. A little note to say the jig was up. Maybe he thought she’d cower and not reply. Or that she would come to him like a beggar with tears in her eyes and a thousand sweet lies where she’d drop to her knees and plead with him to have mercy. 

Oh. She wouldn’t do any of that. 

First, she spritzed the parchment with her newly purchased perfume. She fanned the paper with her hand as she lit up one of her spiced cigarillos, the smoke curling around her face as it hung off her lip. She took out her quill and ink and wrote, eyes glittering like a serpent’s, pulse jumping at the slender column of her throat. 

Dearest Darling Heathcliff, 

As always, it is such a pleasure to hear from you. And nothing would delight me more than to meet in person especially after our little carriage ride. I’d invite you to my place, but I’m afraid the renovations continue so I’m coming to you instead. Do have those little pink cakes I like so much on hand, won’t you? We have so much to discuss, you and I. I look forward to…rigorous negotiations. 

Kisses,

Lady Lillandyr Shadowglade (drop the Mrs., darling dearest. Let’s not be silly)

She pressed her candy apple red rouged lips right under her overly flowery signature.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                    

With flushed cheeks and feverishly bright eyes, she dripped wax on the parchment, letting some splash on her fingers and arm, shuddering, eyes rolling back as she bit her bottom lip. 

Delicious. Pain and the excruciating pleasure of a well laid scheme. 

She stamped her sigil into the wax with the little brass seal. Not the gnarled, leafless tree of House Shadowglade, but her PERSONAL seal, one he had yet had the privilege to see, a coiled serpent sinking its fangs into a bleeding heart.

Once the letter was on its way, delivered by dark wings and sweet promises, she took the ridiculous jewel from its velvet pouch and stood in front of a full length mirror in her silk shift, pressing it between her breasts, where it would be pinned to her brand new dress. Her lips curled into a manic, wicked smile all sharp corners and dark hunger.  

@wraheathcliff

[sp00kygoddessxx]

 🖤Dangerous Intentions🖤

The pirate camp was a cacophony of noise and debauchery, as Vaas and his men celebrated another successful raid. Drunken laughter and the clinking of bottles filled the air, creating an atmosphere of unrestrained chaos. You had found yourself at the heart of the revelry, sitting near Vaas himself, the man who had become both your captor and your fascination.

Vaas's wild, kohl-rimmed eyes bore into yours, a mixture of amusement and intensity flickering within them. His lips curled into a sinister grin as he leaned closer, his voice low and conspiratorial. "Cariño'," he purred, "you lookin' for a little fun tonight?"

You couldn't help but feel a shiver of anticipation as you met his gaze. Vaas had a reputation for unpredictability and cruelty, but you couldn't deny the strange allure he held over you.

"Maybe," you replied, your voice laced with a hint of flirtation. "But the question is, can you keep up with me?"

Vaas's grin widened, a sinister and seductive sight. He leaned in closer, his lips dangerously close to your ear, his breath warm against your skin. "Oh, Cariño'," he whispered, "I can keep up with the best of 'em."

You felt a surge of attraction to this enigmatic man, a reckless magnetism that drew you further into his dangerous web.

With a swift and unexpected motion, Vaas's hand reached out and settled on your thigh, his touch electric. His fingers traced a slow, teasing path along your skin, igniting a fire within you. It was a bold move, but you weren't one to back down from a challenge.

Leaning closer, your lips brushed against Vaas's ear, your voice a sultry purr. "Prove it, Montenegro."

Vaas's laughter filled the air, a wild and maniacal sound that sent shivers down your spine. His hand slid higher along your thigh, his fingers tracing delicate patterns on your skin. The chemistry between you and Vaas was undeniable, a magnetic pull that defied reason.

"Careful, Cariño'," Vaas said, his voice low and smoky. "You might just awaken a beast you can't handle."

You couldn't deny the dangerous allure of the man before you, and the world around you seemed to blur as you engaged in this intimate and dangerous dance of flirtation. The line between right and wrong had never been so blurry, and you were willing to play this dangerous game.

As the night continued, you and Vaas found yourselves at the heart of the chaos, flirting and teasing one another with increasing intensity. The tension between you was palpable, an intoxicating mix of desire and danger.

With each stolen glance and whispered innuendo, you felt the magnetic pull of Vaas Montenegro drawing you further into his enigmatic world. It was a world where the rules were undefined, and power and control were the ultimate currency.

But as the night wore on, Vaas's demeanor shifted, his playful and seductive demeanor turning more intense. His dark eyes bore into yours, filled with a smoldering fire that left you breathless.

"Cariño'," he said, his voice low and intimate, "you might just be the most dangerous thing I've come across in a long time."

You couldn't deny the surge of attraction that coursed through you, a reckless desire that left you craving more. The world around you had become a blur, and in this moment, there was nothing else but the magnetic pull of Vaas Montenegro.

With a final, heated glance, Vaas leaned in, his lips claiming yours in a passionate and demanding kiss. It was a kiss that defied reason, a reckless surrender to the allure of danger and desire.

When the kiss finally broke, you were left breathless and disoriented, your heart pounding in your chest. Vaas's dark eyes were locked onto yours, a mixture of desire and intensity in his gaze.

"Amor'," he said, his voice low and husky, "you've got a fire in you that I can't resist."

You could only respond with a sultry smile, your own desire mirrored in your eyes.

As the night wore on, you and Vaas continued to dance on the edge of danger, your attraction and chemistry reaching new heights. In this unpredictable and perilous world, you had been drawn into a dangerous game of desire and temptation, a game where the line between right and wrong blurred, and where power and control were the ultimate currency.

[butmakeitgayblog]

Can I just say I love how like, into revisiting and analysing this dumb show’s scenes you still are — with the rise in popularity of streaming (I’m sure this has something to do with it, anyway) it’s become more and more commonplace for people to consume a piece of media, enjoy it, get bored of it after a while and never touch it again after moving on to the next new thing. It’s so wholesome and refreshing to see people still be so passionate and always find something new to talk about a show that, for all many of us care, ended 8 years ago. I do move in and out of being obsessed and disinterested with the media I’ve enjoyed, but in a world where I’m constantly seeing people say “oh you’re a fan of [X]? But that’s old :/“ (mostly about something that finished like last year lol) your blog is a breath of fresh air :)

Well thank you 🥹

The thing is, I get it. I get why and how people move on to different fandoms so quickly, and I don't really think poorly of that or anything. It's been almost a decade and it's easy to fall out of love with something after so long. Hell, when you think about it, this fandom has outlived the lifespan of a lot of entire relationships people have had 🥴. People find new things to get excited over and the *gasp* feeling of finding this new /thing/ is always fun. So I do get it.

But for me, it's just not that way. It's not that simple. Not because I think I'm somehow special (maybe a lil deranged 😬), but rather that's just how I operate. Before Clexa the only other ship I ever really cared about was Willara from Buffy which I watched when I was a goddamn teenager lol (RIP to my fellow gays always falling for girls who get shot ✊😔). I just don't get attached much to characters and ships. Usually ai like them in passing, enjoy watching them, and then that's... it. Tibette from the L Word. Wayhaught. Brittana. I like them and I follow them, but there's no real desire to delve deeper beneath the surface.

And then something like Clexa comes around and just absolutely fucks me up. It hits me and connects with me in a way that I just can't shake. Watching the show isn't enough. Thinking about it isn't enough. I have to discuss it and dissect it and fill in the gaps that we didn't see, and read and (now) create more stories for them just to understand everything about them to a deeper degree.

So few characters really elicit that kind of connection, but Clexa do. Even for a lot of the people who have moved on, at one time they felt that connection. Clexa was a fuckin madhouse for years and I think the fact that even still to this day people keep discovering and rediscovering them and falling in love with them all over again speaks volumes about just how wonderful that relationship and those characters actually were.

Especially Lexa.

Now, I love Clarke. I make it known that thiiiisss is a Clarke Griffin apologist's blog. That feral little kitten has never done anything wrong in her life. Ever. Including all of the terrible things she's done, as well as the many, many things that were flat out wrong. She is still innocent. She is only a baby. A murderous, tormented, compassionate, complex babygirl. So never get it twisted that I'm saying Clarke is somehow lesser than, but when push comes to shove when we're talking about baseline complexity, there is no character like Lexa. There's just not.

This woman was definition of doomed by the narrative. A child stolen away to be used as a glorified sacrificial lamb for her people. A toddler wielding a sword made of wood taller than her own tiny body, trained to accept her own life as expendable for the greatest good of her people before even learning her ABCs. She took the throne at 12 bby slaughtering her only companions and made her death mask out of kohl and fallen tears. Every person she ever loved as a mother, father, brother, either died for her, or by her own hand. The only two people she ever dared to be weak for were torn from her in the name of politics and the weight of her own bloodied crown. Under all the regalia she was just Lexa. Heda, always surrounded by her people and yet eternally just a lonely soul. Born here on Earth, raised to eventually die for others, left to rule over the people on the ground as best she knew how.

And yet through the pain, she was strong. So fucking strong it emboldened the warriors around her. She was brave, and lethal, and unyielding in her pursuit of peace. Meeting every push against her forward march to change head on, never flinching in her own brutality along the way. She knew that she was born for this; believed the black of her blood to be every bit as much of a blessing as it was a curse. Even when people doubted her and did their best to end her reign, Lexa always came out swinging.

She loved hard and kicked ass even harder, is what I'm saying. And the fact that they took a character like that and ended her so fucking carelessly? I just... I'm gonna be pissed off about that for a very long time. And until I'm no longer pissed off about that, I'll be here running mouth about it 🥴 probably still trying to make it better by writing her and the love of her life in as many stories as I can, so they can finally get the happy ending that was robbed of them in canon 🫡

[dirtheran]

It's You, It's Me

A stolen moment after the ball at Halamshiral

She is wilting on her feet, her hair coming apart from its pretty Orlesian knotwork, and her cheeks are pink from the heat of the ballroom and then the cold of the wind. The kohl beneath her eyes is beginning to smudge. 

She is painfully beautiful by the dim candlelight. Surely she knows.

Solavellan • 2.4k • PwP except for the thinking • Explicit

Read on Ao3

[bullet-prooflove]

LA!Series Part Three: Legacy - Manny x Reader

Tagging: @wnbweasley @darqchilddaydreamz @theesirenteller @crazy4chickennuggets @kmc1989 @withakindheartx

Manny’s adjusting the sleeves of his suit jacket when you step out of the bathroom, he looks up and it’s like someone has stolen all of the oxygen from his lungs. You’re clad in a sleeveless mini dress, adorned with a black and white Aztec pattern, the tattoos that decorate your arms on display. You’ve paired it with Black Doc Martens and a black leather jacket that clings to your form.

His thumb runs over the silver studs in your ear, the first a set of stars, the rest three tiny pin drops that decrease in size the higher they go.

“Very pretty.” He says, feeling something stir inside of him.

The whole thing is just so unapologetically you.

It’s outside the gallery that you falter, you step up to the door, your gaze lingering on the people on the other side and you just stop. His hand comes to rest on your lower back, his thumb tracing a soothing circle as your hand grasps the door handle.

“We don’t have to do this.” He says quietly.

You tilt your head towards him, your kohl lined eyes meeting his. He sees the trepidation in them, the indecision. This is a crossroads for you, you can either step forward and tell your story or you can run, the same way you have been since you were eighteen years old and newly turned out from the care system. Your grip on the handle tightens before you take a deep breath, allowing the oxygen to flood your lungs and walk inside.

You’re a hit, Manny knew you would be. He smiles, watching from a distance and sipping from a flute of Prosecco as you talk to a group of young people who accosted you on the way back from the bathroom. They’re just like you, he thinks creatives in the making. They show you their work, explaining the concepts and you take such interest, asking questions, pointing out the features you like.

In that moment he understands what it would be like to be loved by you, and he realises how much he wants that.

His attention wanders and he finds himself in front of your photographs. They’ve got a lot of attention tonight, people in the industry, alternatives, kids from the programs the studio hosts. He stands in a rare moment of quietness surveying them.

There’s a rawness in the images, it brings out the depth of the art styles, the reverence behind each and every one of them. There’s such beauty in these pieces. They all capture a moment, a snapshot in time where the past and the present merge together. Old techniques and new ink, clashing to create something real, something visceral.

This is your legacy, this passion project of yours.

This is you in all of your glory.

He sees it as clear as day.

When he looks at you again, it’s in a different light because you’re far more to him than just the woman he fucks. You’re the one that owns a piece of him.

When you’re asked to speak, he can tell you don’t expect it. A microphone is thrust into your hand, and you take up residence alongside your artwork, your gaze lingering over each of the images before you turn your attention to the small crowd. You clear your throat before your eyes come to rest on the kid in front of you, the one that’s been vying for your attention all night.

“People don’t realise how lonely it is being in foster care.” You find yourself saying. “How isolated you become, you feel like you don’t have anything to say and when you do, it feels like no one’s listening. For me photography became a way of expressing myself when I couldn’t use my voice. My pictures showed the world how I saw it when I couldn’t speak the words.”

You think of the feel of the camera in your hands, the way things just clicked into place for you. It was a polaroid; you remember the whir as the picture was spat out of that tiny slot. You were fifteen years old at the time.

“There weren’t art programs like this when I was in care, I stole my first camera from a guy who was paying me to model for him…” You trail off and there’s an agony in Manny’s chest because he knows the kind of shoots you’re talking about, how they start and how they finish. He wishes that hadn’t happened to you, that none of this had happened to you but that’s not your reality, it’s not his either. “I’m thankful that things have changed, that there are programs to assist young people who have faced the same things that I did. I hope that seeing my work shows you that there are opportunities for you out there, that your past doesn’t have to shape who you become.”

He's there when you hand the microphone back to the host. You come to stand beside him, your spine straight and your head held high. You’re withdrawing back into yourself, shutting him out, Manny can feel it. This is the most real you’ve been with anybody, and it takes courage to do what you’ve just done, to speak your truth.

“I’m proud of you Mami.” He says, his fingers seeking out yours. He squeezes your hand lightly and you squeeze back. “I think you’ve made a difference here tonight.”

Love Manny? Don’t miss any of his stories by joining the taglist here.

Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

[leviackermanscleaningbuddy]

skz prompt game!! i’ve got a request ;) image 4 prompts 32,33,38 and image 2 prompt 4! i’m thinking a seungmin/jeongin/fem!reader style thing! i love to see some maknae line representation 😏 especially in ur writing style! love u and ur work, jess! <3 - 🦊

SKZ Prompt Game

Prompts: "If you interrupt me one more time, so help me god."

"I'm going to put on some clothes before you say anything else."

"Are you trying to turn me on or are you really just that oblivious?"

"Excuse me, I have to go make a scene."

Members: Kim Seungmin, Yang Jeongin

Relationship: Burlesque Performers!FemReader x JeongMin

Genre: Fluff

"Guess what?" You flounce into the dressing room with a triumphant look on your face and a Cosmo in your hand.

"No." Seungmin replies back instantly, voice flat, face uninterested, as he leans forward to finish applying his makeup in the mirror.

You ignore his sour attitude, smirking slightly, as you lean your hip up against his vanity and watch him perfect his winged liner.

"It's a full house out there. Packed."

Jeongin appears at your side, stealing your drink from your fingers, ignoring your glare, as he takes a delicate sip and grins widely, arching a brow.

"Of course it's a fucking full house. All the best are here tonight."

You lean over Seungmin to grab a tube of lipstick out of his carefully organized makeup case, jabbing him with your elbow on purpose as you do so.

He flicks his dark eyes to yours in the mirror and stares you down, still crowded into his space.

"If you don't get your tits out of my face right now-"

You grin down at him and shake said tasseled tits in his face. "Oh, you mean these?"

He sighs as you finally straighten up and move to your own vanity, carefully applying the red stolen lipstick.

Jeongin finishes off your drink and sets down the empty glass, moving around you to sit down on the small couch to tug on his black heels.

You glance over at him as you finish your lips, a pout on your face.

"How is it fair that your ass looks that great in those pants?"

Jeongin grins, wiggling his brows at you, the dark kohl around his eyes darkening his pupils.

"I know right? I'm going to get so many fucking tips tonight."

Seungmin shoves back from his vanity, standing, as he tugs at the ropes of pearls draped around his long neck, adjusting the hem of his open vest as he glances between the two of you with something akin to irritation on his pretty features.

"Are you two going to banter like this all night?"

You give him a sly smile, moving to throw your arm around his shoulders as you nuzzle your nose into his neck, ignoring his attempts to push you away.

"You know it, babe."

You kiss his throat, leaving a red lipstick stain there, and he rolls his eyes.

Music and announcements echo down the hall from the main stage, and Jeongin stands, straightening his black leather pants so they hug his ass perfectly, adjusting the gold chain around his throat in front of the mirror.

He turns to the two of you, grinning, and motions with his head down toward the stage and the starting show.

"Excuse me, ladies, but I have to go make a scene."

Seungmin rolls his eyes as Jeongin disappears from view.

"Fuck. That means we have to control said scene, huh."

It's not a question.

You smirk at him and give him another quick kiss, pulling him along with you down the hall by the straps of his suspenders.

"On the contrary, baby boy. If we don't control the scene-or Jeongin-they're bound to make us a hell of a lot of money tonight."

********************************************************************************

"Introducing, the Songbird of Seoul himself-here to serenade us with his unmatched rendition of Love Poem-his unmatched vocals, raw talent, and stunning looks are sure to be a firecracker way to start off our show here tonight, ladies and gentlemen."

"And of course, not to be forgotten, our own lovely lady of the night, Mistress 9. Direct your eyes heavenward, beautiful audience, because she's about to descend like a dark angel from above and show you what those long legs and tiny waist can do for you-aerial style."

"Last, but certainly not least, we direct your eyes to the center of the stage, where the jewel of Seoul's performing scene stands ready to dazzle you with a routine he choreographed himself, the grand finale, give it up for the Maknae on Top!"

********************************************************************************

The show goes off without a hitch.

As it always does.

You are the best of the best after all.

After the rowdy audience has finally vacated, and no one is left but the small amount of staff, you let your facade drop, heaving out a long breath as you instantly lean over to unbind your ankles from the heavy, velvet manacles tightened around them.

You move to your wrists next, carefully placing the velvet ties, lined with lace, into the waiting box someone had brought out for you beside the stage.

You rub at the slightly reddened skin, stretching slightly, leaning over to once more take off your stilettos, and feel eyes on you.

Glancing up, you catch the eye of a guy you've never seen before-clearly a bouncer-frozen beside the stage, his shocked gaze clearly locked on your exposed breasts.

Bent over like this, you're sure it's quite the view.

His eyes finally drift to your face, and you smirk, raising a brow at him as you ask in a teasing purr, "Like what you see?"

The guy instantly goes ruddy, blushing heatedly, and looks away, clearing his throat in embarrassment, moving back to his job of stacking chairs.

You note appreciatively the way his arms flex every time he lifts another onto the pile.

"For the love of God, (Y/N), please don't embarrass another one of my bouncers into quitting." Chan, the owner and announcer, bemoans, appearing at your side, giving you a stern look as he lowers himself to hop down off the raised stage.

You laugh, straightening back up, the tassels that barely cover your nipples tinkling with the motion, and grin at Chan, giving him an innocent, wide eyed look in response as he begins to gather up the other props strewn around the club.

"He's cute, Channie. Where'd you find him?" You ask conversationally, kicking your heels to the side and breathing out a sigh of relief as your sore feet finally get to breathe.

"None of your business." Chan replies back grumpily, and you bite back another smile, because you've known him long enough to know he's all bark and no bite.

The bouncer gives you a sidelong glance again, and you move to the edge of the stage, sitting down, cocking your head as you study him.

He's definitely hot.

Large and muscular, dark hair sweeping into his eyes, a strong jaw.

"Am I allowed to at least talk to the new bouncer?" You ask Chan without really looking at him, catching the way the big guy blushes once more under your obvious stare.

Chan sighs, and you take that as the go ahead.

You swing your legs against the edge of the stage, playing with the ripped fish net tights that stretch across your thighs, and when he moves to stack another chair onto the growing pile, you ask curiously, "You got a name, new bouncer? Or are we all just referring to you as bouncer from now on?"

He glances up at you, meeting your eyes quickly before looking away with a harsh clear of his throat and a tug at his black turtleneck.

"Changbin."

"Changbin." You try it out on your tongue, and like the way it tastes. You glance over to Seungmin, who is currently busy straightening crumpled dollar bills and ask without preamble. "Seungie, are we looking for a fourth?"

You hear Changbin choke on his spit.

Chan's exasperation is practically palpable.

"Not actively." Seungmin remarks dryly without looking up from his task. He slides a glance over to Changbin and you see his brow tick slightly in interest. "But minds can change."

Jeongin appears then over Seungmin's shoulder, pulling wads of tips out of the tip hat sent around to each table.

He gives Changbin a sharp toothed grin, eyes alight, and you're sure he's taking stock of the way his muscles flex with his movements, just like you had moments ago.

He watches Changbin heave the stack of chairs easily against the wall, and heated interest suddenly sparks in his gaze, his grin growing predatory.

He's watching the new bouncer like he's his next meal, and you can't say you blame him.

"Are you trying to turn me on, new guy, or are you really just that oblivious?"

Changbin chokes again, going beet red, stuttering out something unintelligible, and Chan shuts one of the lids of the prop trunks a little too hard to be accidental.

"Okay, seriously?" He groans, glaring between the three of you. "Can't you all just behave for one night?"

"Of course they can't." Minho scoffs, polishing glasses behind the bar, not even looking up from his task as he addresses Chan. "Everyone who works here is a heathen."

"You work here, hyung." Jeongin points out cheekily, sliding down to sit beside you on the stage with a large grin in the bartender's direction.

"I know. And I'm no better than the rest of you." Minho remarks, and as if to prove his point, slaps one of the waiter's asses on his way by the counter, carrying a full tray of glasses.

Jisung yelps and glares at Minho, the tray rattling in his hands. "Hyung." He whines. "I could've dropped these!"

"And you'd clean them up too." Chan begrudges, dragging a full prop trunk past the disgruntled waiter and the smirking bartender.

"God, you guys are disgusting." Hyunjin remarks, making a face at Minho and Jisung, as he pushes past with his own tray of used glassware. "I hate it here."

"He doesn't mean that." Felix adds quickly, as Hyunjin disappears into the swinging doors that lead to the small kitchen.

"Yes, I do!" Hyunjin's voice drifts back out and Felix sighs, rolling his eyes and following the other waiter into the back with the rest of the dirty dishes.

"Regardless-" Chan says, reappearing from the storage area, a serious, business like look on his features that you all recognize. "-We need to talk about a few new acts for the show. We need to keep our stuff fresh to attract more customers-"

Everyone in collective hearing range groans.

"God, hyung, you're literally no fun." Jisung complains, before he escapes to the back to help wash dishes with Hyunjin and Felix.

You don't blame him.

Everyone knows anything is better than listening to Chan give one of his 'dad' talks.

"No, but seriously-" Chan protests, as people resume what they were doing, Minho moving further away to wash down alcohol bottles, Seungmin pulling his mic to the side to begin to clean it.

"Oh my god." Jeongin groans, looking heavenward as if any god within hearing range will spare him from Chan's onslaught. "I'm going to die."

"Jeongin, you specifically-" Chan turns on the youngest member of your troupe, and you take the opportunity to quietly slip off the stage and tiptoe back toward the dressing rooms.

"Please, hyung, just kill me. It would hurt less and be way less boring."

"If you interrupt me one more time, so help me god-"

Your foot hits a creak on the floor, and you instantly freeze, grimacing.

"(Y/N)." Chan's voice echoes out behind you, and you wince, turning to him with an innocent look and a sugar sweet smile. "We need to talk about a new aerial routine-"

You hold up a hand. "I'm going to put on some clothes before you say anything else."

Behind the bar, Minho snorts.

You can feel Changbin watching you as you walk away.

********************************************************************************

Changbin catches up to the three of you as you leave through the back door into the dark alleyway behind the club, your breath frosting in the early winter air.

"Hey, wait-"

"Fuck!" Jeongin jumps and swears, whirling around as you all turn to see the thick bouncer behind you. "Scared the shit out of me, man!"

Changbin's face grows apologetic. "Sorry, but I just-"

Seungmin tugs his coat up further around his throat and shifts awkwardly from foot to foot, and when he speaks, his voice comes out as a sort of high, nervous squeak, "We were just joking about the fourth thing."

You smirk at the bouncer over his shoulder. "I wasn't."

"What? No-" Changbin's face grows red, and then he shakes his head quickly, stepping forward and holding out his hand without really looking at any of you. "Chan just sent me after you to return this, said one of you left it behind."

There's a phone held in his large palm, and instantly, you feel Seungmin breathe a sigh of relief as he sags against you.

Jeongin pushes past the two of you, taking the phone from the bouncer's hand with a slight smirk as their fingers brush purposefully.

"Thanks, big boy. I would forget my head if it weren't attached to me."

Changbin's blush grows even deeper at Jeongin's casual use of the nickname.

You grin and tilt your head, studying him. "Wanna get drinks with us?"

Changbin's head jerks up, and his eyes grow slightly wide, before he's hurriedly shaking his head.

"I shouldn't, I should probably stay and fill out paperwork-"

He glances back toward the door that leads to the club, but his body language tells you he wants nothing more than to accept your invitation.

"God, you're already beginning to sound like Chan-hyung." Jeongin gripes, stepping around you to take hold of the bouncer's burly upper arm, and you don't miss the way he gets in a few appreciative squeezes as he pulls the man back toward you. "C'mon, big boy, live a little. He won't kill you if you do your paperwork tomorrow."

"He might." Seungmin deadpans, but there's a hint of a smile on his lips as he watches the unsure bouncer held in Jeongin's grip.

"We wouldn't let him." You assure with a slight smile and an arch of your brow, and Changbin's chest rises and falls with a sigh.

"Okay, if you're sure-"

Jeongin's face lights up with a grin, and he pulls Changbin with you down the alley.

"Of course we're sure!"

"He's definitely going to kill us for this, you know." Seungmin says under his breath, as the two of you trail behind the chattering Jeongin and the long suffering Changbin.

You shrug and give him a sidelong smirk, looping your arm with his as you walk.

"He can't. Not if he really cares about the club and making money. We're his best after all."

Seungmin hums in some sort of affirmation beneath his breath. "Yeah, I guess."

You tug him closer to you and snuggle against his side, the soft fur of his long coat brushing your cheek.

Your gaze drifts to the large bouncer walking in front of you, and your lips curve up into a smirk.

"From what I gathered, the new guy really likes tassels."

Seungmin huffs a little chuckle out his nose. "Yeah?"

You grin and look up at him. "Yeah. Can't wait to show him our impressive collection."

Seungmin's lips quirk into the hint of a dry smile and he rolls his eyes as you laugh and rib his side.

"Luckily for him, he's chosen the right profession then, hasn't he?

[shadowqueenjude]

Part 3 of the Illyrian Princess @emerieweekofficial @christeareads

Part 1 Part 2

Over the past few days, over 100 Illyrian women had been rescued by the Valkyries and sent to Dawn, where the best healers in the land took care of their numerous injuries. Meanwhile Nuan had set up shop with Emerie, who had brought a few of the priestesses from the library to help the Dawn Court genius construct as many wings as possible. All measurements of the escaped Illyrian women were sent to Nuan, who had begun making custom wings for each refugee. Many of the Illyrian women planned to return to Night, but in Velaris, and a few had already arrived that morning. This shop was supposed to be a place for Illyrian women who escaped on their own as well (and therefore had no safe transport to Dawn); Emerie just hated that they needed such a place.

When they weren’t working, Emerie was relearning to fly with the help of Azriel. She didn’t like him much, but he would do anything for Gwyn, so Emerie allowed it.

Emerie’s new wings were slightly larger than they had been in youth, a magnificent purple color that matched Nuan’s metal arm.

“Now we can be matching,” Nuan had said quietly. Emerie could’ve sworn she was blushing.

“You know, purple is my favorite color,” Emerie had said. Nuan had giggled at that.

One day, while Emerie was hanging out with Gwyn, Nesta, and Nuan in her shop, the door slammed open. A huge shadow stood in the doorway. When it walked in closer, Emerie recognized them. The male had many silver streaks in his black hair. His eyes were the hazel that was common of Illyrians. His wingspan filled the shop. The man stomped towards Emerie. Nesta and Gwyn hovered in front of her protectively, pulling out their swords. Even Nuan raised a wrench in her good hand. Emerie just stared at Lord Devlon coolly, her demeanor not shifting a bit. “Can I help you?”

“You!” Devlon growled, pointing at Emerie. “Traitorous scum, kidnapping your own people. You’re breaking our High Lord’s sanctum to stay out of our business in exchange for not coming here.”

Nesta raised her sword in warning, her teeth bared. But Emerie merely raised a brow, cool as a cucumber. “He also has a law banning wing-cutting, but you don’t seem to care much about that one.”

Gwyn snickered behind her hand. Nesta smirked viciously. Nuan coughed to hide her own amusement. Emerie could’ve sworn Devlon’s face turned bright red in indigence, his nostrils twitching. “It seems you haven’t learned your lesson, Emerie. You are Illyrian, and ours to punish,” he growled.

Emerie didn’t even crack a smile. Instead, she arranged a group of spices for a meal she was preparing. “Was throwing me in the Blood Rite supposed to be punishment? Strange. You got it wrong, by the way. I’m not merely Illyrian. I’m a Carynthian, and you’re an Arktosian; therefore I outrank you.”

Devlon opened his mouth, then closed it. Then he walked towards the door. When he reached it, he turned back around and snarled, “I don’t give a shit if you’re a Carynthian or a Valkyrie or whatever fucking title you’re throwing around these days; if you continue to interfere in our affairs, I will kill you.”

Nesta began to run towards him, but Emerie grabbed her arm calmly. “Let him go.”

“He threatened to kill you,” Nesta hissed. Emerie smiled. “I know. But killing him this way will achieve nothing. I have a better way.”

Everyone stared at Emerie as she walked into the Windhaven camp. She had forgone her usual Valkyrie attire, opting for heavily traditional Illyrian clothing. She hated that she still had this, as it had once belonged to her father. It was surprisingly snug on her, particularly in the arms and legs, where her muscles had grown amply since becoming a Valkyrie.

Her hair was braided back in its usual style, and she had rimmed her eyes with kohl. When the sun landed on them, her dark brown eyes shone like gold. She sported a ruby choker Nesta had stolen from Amren, which looked majestic in the light. The blade of her sword shone silver. Standing there, with everyone staring at her, dressed as a true Illyrian, Emerie looked like a blessing from the Mother.

Those normally stoic, woman-hating men stared in awe as Emerie walked down the hill towards their camp. Devlon was seething so much Emerie could see it from a mile away. But though it was tempting, Emerie did not laugh. She did not even smile.

She had a job to do.

“My brethren!” Emerie said loudly, though there was no need; everyone was already looking at her. “Too long have you suffered under the poor and weak leadership of Devlon. I have come to offer you what we were always capable of under the right person: peace and prosperity!”

“Do not be ridiculous,” Devlon snarled. “Peace? War is the Illyrian business.”

“Once again, you are wrong!” Emerie responded calmly, in that same carrying voice. “Illyrians are fierce, and courageous, and yes, we are great warriors. Our history is full of noble Illyrians warriors. But those warriors were those who fought for those who cannot protect themselves. They fought for the oppressed, the abused, to ensure that everyone has that same chance for peace and prosperity. War was not our business; it was our way of granting freedom to all: of stopping the violence at its root. Our true business is farming, which we have forgotten. Our lands lay barren, overrun by weeds. We are forced to import from Velaris and the solar courts while greedy leaders like Devlon send our people to fight like mercenaries for petty nobles. Past Night Court leaders saw an opportunity for revenue by selling its people, and assholes like you took it. You are the reason Illyrian males began cutting their women’s wings, to protect them from war. But now it has become yet another form of oppression.”

Emerie blinked hard to keep the tears out of her eyes. Weakness would not be tolerated at this point; she had gotten their attention despite being a woman by her attitude and her attire; she could not afford to lose it.

“It seems that Illyrians have forgotten their history. We have become the very thing we swore to destroy. But it is not too late! I have come to restore Illyria to its former glory.”

Emerie raised her sword, pointing it at Devlon. The audience was spellbound. You could’ve heard a pin drop in the silence.

“Devlon!” Emerie roared. “I challenge you to a duel.”

(i know i said three parts but there’s gonna be one more, sorryyyy)