#the black and white fits are superior!!

[venompinks]

LISA ✦ LOUIS VUITTON HOUSE AMBASSADOR

[goldrushseason]

6th september 2023 —

went back to campus today? it was very busy with freshers fair (i’m delulu about graduating this academic year) ((but i got lots of stickers and treats))

worked a little bit more on an idea for my dissertation which i’m kinda super not at all really excited to start in a couple of weeks! planned tomorrow evening w/ some lana as this barbie has to work to pay her tuition fees :| and that’s how my cat fell asleep in this heat <3

[cuntwrap--supreme]

Having to explain to my 57 year old mother that, no, it is not funny to send me photos of a clearly exhausted woman at the airport at 3am who had an accent she thinks makes her stupid. Like. Just tell me what she said that was funny. I don't need a series of photos of this woman exhaustedly explaining to your coworkers what she needs.

[yeyinde]

Brain went brrrrrrrr

Price and the new 141 member getting into an argument. Price is all like if you don't behave ill take you over my knee girl.

She's all like I fucking dare you or you'll have to catch me first or even you don't have the balls.

🫠🫠

i’ve always wanted someone who was super by the book to clash with John “i routinely tell my superiors i’m going to maim/murder/hang them” Price. this gave me the perfect opportunity to do so. 

noncon spanking. abuse of authority. power imbalance. size kink. mean, dom!Price. forced submission.

You have this way of getting under his skin. 

An impossible itch. No matter how many times he picks and prods at his flesh, you worm beneath the dermis, burrowing deep. Sitting pretty against his goddamn bones. Festering. 

Incurable. 

He turns to vice to stem the irritation. Cigars. Whiskey. His hand shoved down his trousers like he's a fuckin' boy and not a man on the wrong side of forty. 

Thinking of you—of breaking that smart mouth of yours on his cock. 

It's the way you saunter around with your head held high, balancing golden eggs on your crown, that irks him something awful. The patronising drawl when you huffily remind him that what he's doing is breaking seven, no, ten, different laws, Price. You can't just do whatever you want, there are rules—

And that's the crux of it. 

A difference of ideas. Experience. You still see the world in shades of black and white. Good and bad. Unwilling to acknowledge that the line between is saturated and blurred. A putrid muck that traps all. Bogish. 

He knew it was a mistake when they sent him your file, asked if he needed the additional help. Hostage negotiator. He's heard of you. By the fucking book. You recite passages like it's gospel, turning printed words into a knife. A terrible fit for a team that works in the pivotal no man's land you claim doesn't exist. 

Yet—

He takes you on. Brings you in. Buries his anger at your fucking gall deep in his chest where it rots. Grows. Swallows down the rage, apoplectic fury, when you undermine him at every opportunity, citing laws and regulations like it's a fucking prayer. 

A calamitous decision, he knows. Terrible. But—

Despite it all, you're good at what you do. Brilliant. A budding rose germinating in fecund soil. You'll grow into something wild, won't you? Something untamed. 

Under his hands, you'll bloom the prettiest. He knows this deep in his bones. But—

“You're breaking the rules, Captain—”

—pedantic little thing, aren't you? 

Obediently following the wrong master. 

It irks him. He's been known to step on the toes of his superior officers for less, caustic words hissing foul from between his teeth. 

But unlike them, you're worth something. Even as the moral antithesis to his utilitarian dogma, he sees your potential. How you can shape this world dangling on a brittle thread if you lay down your senseless principles and follow him. Listen to him. 

But of course, you don't. 

And he supposes he ought to have known better. It's dripping gasoline over an open flame. The sequence of events is easily premeditated, seen, when you refuse to listen to what he says (“it's against the law, Price!”), walking away from him, his team, the mission, and take matters into your own, morally righteous hands. Bringing his underhanded methods to the desk of your superior officer, demanding he be investigated for crimes. The result is a loose warning from someone in a suit several sizes too big for them, and your fury when he pulls you back, has you assigned to another mission with the 141, with himself. Preens at your glower when you march back into his office, into his hands. 

In the fallout, he has no one to blame but himself, really. Anyone could have seen this coming. But the thing about shirking his morality in favour of a better outcome—above all else—is that he doesn't have to. 

And so, he doesn't. 

No. He blames you. 

(How perfect for him, then, that there's no one on base except you and him.)

“If you think I'm not going to report you again if you do something illegal, Price, you're wrong.”

He scoffs, shaking his head at your fucking audacity. 

"Better watch that mouth of yours, Sergeant, or you won't like what happens next." 

His palm itches when you look up, offering him a slow, feline blink. Leonine eyes creasing at the corners. 

"And what is that, sir? I'm just doing my job—" it's whispered breathlessly, all faux professionalism even as jest leaks down your brow. They pinch, then. Drawing together in a mockery of confusion. "Isn't that what you wanted me to do?" 

"What is that, mm?" He mocks, arms folding over his chest. He has to breathe through his nose for a moment. Gather himself together before he does something reckless, something like— 

It's the defiant little jut of your chin that does him in. That unravels this fraying knot of control until threads slip through his fingers. Falling too fast for him to clench down on them. 

He's threatened his superiors for far less. His kin, teammates. You have no one to blame but yourself for this, really. No one at all when he pulls his hand from where it's tucked under his armpit, curling rough, worn fingers around your wrist. Pulls you close, wrenching you into his chest until your nose bumps the buckle of his vest. 

"'m'gonna take you over my fuckin' knee, is what's going to happen." 

Your swallow is a gunshot. “You—you wouldn't dare—”

He leans in close, closer still. Breath scorching over your cheek. Preening when you bare your little teeth at him. “Wanna bet on that, Sergeant?” 

It's easier than he would have expected to wrangle you over his knee, pinning you down with an arm across your lower back. The height of his chair keeps your front bent, belly pressed against his thigh. Ass seated perfectly in his lap. Precious gem. 

He hums low in his throat, teeth sinking into the butt of his cigar as he locks you tight against him. Grabbing your wrist, twisting it up behind your back. Holding steady. A warning. 

The dangerous twinge in your bone stills you. 

One wrong move and he'd snap it in half. 

This has you taking a different approach, legs falling limp over the armrest. Head dropping over the other side. Malleable in his grasp—however artificial it is.

“Price—” you breathe, winded. Panic on a spindle. “What are you—what do you think you're doing—?”

He hums, mouth tense around the cigar. Words muffled, slurred. “What I should have done a long time ago.” 

“What—hey!”

Your words pepper off into a choked scream when his other hand falls to the hem of your pants, grabbing the fabric in his fist. The shock fades into indignation. Anger. He tastes it in the air as your hips squirm, legs kicking at nothing. Furious little growls spilling from your lips as you thrash, unconcerned by the ache in your bone. 

“Better keep still, love,” he taunts, mouth curling over his teeth as he twists his hand high, higher, up the small of your back until your fingers brush the skin between your shoulder blades. Any more and he'll break it—

“I'm going to fucking—!” It ends on a whine. A whimper. The pain makes you shiver. “Fuck, fuck—stop, stop, ow, stop—!”

“Not a fan of a little pain then, mm?” 

Your breath is ragged. Paints the air in a fine mist of defeat. He has you. The only option out of this is breaking your bone, a threshold no one is willing to cross. 

Price purses his lips back around the cigar, inhaling once, thrice, before he slips his fingers out of the hem of your trousers, reaching up to take hold of the cigar. It's all so matter-of-fact. So nonchalant when he places it in the ashtray. When he brings his heavy, warm hand back to your ass, curling his fingers beneath the fabric. Pulling. Tugging. 

They come off easier than he'd expected. A harsh tug, and the cleft of your ass is revealed. Plush skin curving enticingly as he rips them down to mid-thigh—panties and all. 

The shock fades back into indignation. You hiss something foul under your breath that makes him huff out a chuckle. 

“Not really in the position for that, are you, love?” 

“Shut up—”

He likes the way you sound like this. Feral. Furious. There's ash in your throat. It blots soot around each word, giving them weight. Gone is the woman who barged into his office, sniffing like you smelled something foul. Backing him into a corner. Sputtering in his face about rules. Regulation. 

Now you're bare-assed, panting, in his lap. Small little fawn in the maw of a bear. But oh, do you fight back—

Teeth bared, indignation bleeding into embarrassment, blotting pink in the whites of your eyes.

The sight is hewn into his hindbrain. 

“Look at you,” he purrs, petting your cheeks. “Been beggin’ to be bent over my knee since you got here, haven't you?” 

“Begging? Don't be—ahh!”

He brings his hand down with a small huff, eyes glued to your flesh. Watching it shake under his hand. The width of one swallowing up an entire cheek. So big is he that you're nearly made infinitesimal in his clutch. The thought makes him groan.

You squirm more in shock than discomfort. Head craning over your shoulder, eyes misting over with tears. Glaring at him. 

“What the fuck, Price!”

He strokes your skin, feeling the heat of your flesh bleed through his palm. Resilient little thing, aren't you? He huffs again, blood buzzing. Electric. There's a kindling fire in his guts. Embers sparking, catching. 

He can't deny how badly he's been wanting to have you like this. Craving your tears, your agony, your submission.

“Count,” he barks out, rough. Abrasive. “You're getting ten. Count ‘em for me, and if you miss one, I'm adding two more.”

“You're crazy, you're—!”

His hand comes down again. The impact shakes the fat of your ass. The strike makes you yowl, thrashing to get away. You don't get very far, still trapped in his hold. The threat of a broken bone keeps you from lashing out too wildly, and all you can really do is sit in his lap, and take it—

The notion has him groaning low in his throat. Something wicked spooling in his veins. Wanting. The sight of you heaving, bare-assed, and begging for mercy unleashes something inside of him. Something primal. Starving. 

Price takes a breath to steady himself, head buzzing. Heart pounding. It feels like the euphoria of nicotine—all bliss, sedation. Ease. 

Cathartic. 

“I said count,” he rasps, words cinder in his chest. Smoke. Dragged up from that burning pyre in his belly. Nocuous, hungry. “That's an order, Sergeant.” 

His hand is scorching against your skin. Thoughts turning over themselves as you hiccup in his lap. So pretty, he thinks, eyes flitting over to you. Taking in the sight of your shock, your denial. It tastes like fine wine on his tongue. Heady. 

“Here comes one—”

“One?”

“I told you, didn't I?” His nail rakes across your skin, cruel. Mean. Something preens when you gasp. Your pain perfuming the air. “M’addin’ two more if you don't count. Thought your speciality was listenin’?”

You scowl, twisting back to level him with an awful sneer. “Oh, fuck you—!”

His hand comes down again, harder this time. Vicious. The scream is tangled in your throat, gagged. He feels pleasure—dark and ugly—bloom in his chest, dripping, liquid, down the length of his spine. The twist of agony on your face is beatific. 

“Not gonna count?” He taunts, pinching your inflamed flesh between his thumb and forefinger. “We're gonna be here all day at this rate, love.”

He leans down, broad chest curling over the small of your back, hand cupped possessively over your cheeks. “But maybe you want that, mm? Maybe all this, mhm, insubordination has just been for show. You wanted this. Wanted to be taken over my knee—”

“You're wrong. I haven't—” it tapers off into a squeak when he pinches your flesh again. 

Price pulls back, breathes shallowly through his nose. 

“You and that smart fuckin' mouth. Told you it was gonna get you in trouble—”

He doesn't wait. His hand rears, and comes down with a loud smack that echoes in the sparse office he has you trapped inside. Your howl races alongside it, curling up the walls. Beautiful in all its agony. 

“Christ—” it's a dagger to his resolve. You sound so fucking good howling like this. Oscillating between feral anger and pain, hissing vitriol between clenched teeth. Choking on sobs. 

The first few are experimental. Testing the waters. Feeling. You're combative during it all. Fighting. Screaming. Each strike is uncounted, echoed only with a plea for help. One he knows won't come—

The only person on base is his Lieutenant. Ghost knows better than to barge in on his affairs. 

“No one's comin’, love,” he grunts, sweat beading along his hairline, dripping down his temple. The room heats along with the blood in his veins, stifling and oppressive. He reinforces each hit with more strength, increasing the tempo until you're screaming on his lap, begging for mercy, mercy, please, please, Price stop, stop—

Your skin raises with each new strike. Swelling. Becoming inflamed. The perfect imprint of his handprint sits on each cheek, edges intumescent. The globes shake, shuddering deliciously under each hit. 

He gets to eleven before you break. Tears streaming down your face, voice a threadbare whisper. Hoarse from screaming. 

His hand rains down, slaps your left cheek so hard it stings his hand. Burns. You whimper. Mewling. Squirming on his lap, and then—

“O–one—”

He grunts, feels himself thicken in his trousers. “Good girl.” 

You shudder, body breaking out in goosebumps. “Price—”

“Ah, ah, love. You're not allowed to speak unless you're counting.”

He hits you again, cock throbbing when you tense up, sniffling. Grinding out a soft two between trembling lips. 

You don't break the way he wants you to. There's a glare on your face despite the tears, the sniffles. A defiance that burns over the bridge of your nose. 

But that's fine. He has eight more strikes to ruin you, doesn't he? 

He sets to it with a low moan, your pelvis pressing taut to his tumid cock, the friction raging in his guts. 

But that, he finds, isn't really the point. No. The pleasure, the arousal, is secondary to the way you fall to pieces at his hand. Flesh stinging his palm with each loud smack that rings out sharply in the room. Uneven breaths. Shuddering little ah-ah-ahs that tumble out through clenched teeth. 

It's addictive, this. Therapeutic. 

There's static in his head. White noise. It renders everything else mute. Moot. Molasses drips down, thick and entrenching, congealing over every churning thought in the back of his head. There's a sense of peace, ease, he hasn't felt in years. In decades. 

He feels his belly knot each time your ass jiggles, skin bulging up from the trauma of being hit so harshly. Chafed under his palm. Welts forming in the shape of his hand. A tattoo you'll have for weeks when he's through with you. Aching each time you try to sit. And fuck—

You'll think of him. Of this. Being taken over his goddamn knee like the bad fucking girl you are. Broken in over his lap. Helpless. Submissive. 

The whimpers fade, replaced with shallow hiccups. Your throat is torn. Raw, ruined, by your screams, yowls. Each rasping whine sends jolts of pleasure down his spine. Liquid want molten in his marrow. 

“S–seven, nngh—”

The moan slips out—scorched, bleached—and drills deep into his loins. 

He peels his gaze away from your blistered skin, glancing at your face, but you duck from his view. Hide. Dropping your head over the armrest. Evading him. 

It's new, this. This meekness. 

You were so combative, so feral before. His gaze rakes down the expanse of your spine, over the curve of your cheeks, before settling, hot and heavy, at the crease where your thigh meets your pelvis. You squirm in his lap, thighs sliding together. Rubbing. It's no different from before when he'd spank you, but—

He catches it. 

It glints in the soft light when you move, and he feels something dark, ruinous, curl in the tar-stained fibrils of his chest. Congealing in the crevasses. Hardening. 

Price flicks his tongue out, swiping over his lower lip. The bristles of his beard graze the soft flesh, prickling across it. His throat is suddenly dry. Parched. 

His hand comes down again, notably softer than the other hits he subjected you to. Almost—

Tender. 

This isn't meant to hurt. Not this one. 

He strokes his finger over your skin, cock throbbing with the rasping gasp that spills—a twisted amalgamation of pain, skin still smarting, burning to the touch, and—

His lashes flutter. Nostrils flaring. 

Your slick, wet, between your inner thighs. 

He slides his hand down, down, until your ass cheek is cupped in the bracket of his thumb and forefinger. Nestled tight. A perfect fit. The sight of your skin—soft, so soft—against his bearish, hirsute paw is sickeningly addictive. He grunts, pressing his thumb into the crease between your cheek and thigh. 

“P–Price—”

And then he pulls, moaning deep in his chest as he peels the fat of your ass away, unveiling your cunt to his rapacious gaze. Fuck—

“What’s this?” He taunts, breathless. Pinched. You squirm, trying to press your thighs together. Hiding your pussy from his scorching stare. He doesn't let you. “Gettin’ off on me spankin’ your arse?” 

“N–no, I'm—”

He pushes his thumb up, sliding it over your skin. Gathers your slick on the tip. “Don't lie to me, mm. You're fuckin' soaked.”

The air is punched from his lungs. Spills out in a wretched grunt. In the vacuum, something grows. Knots. Festering inside his chest. Animalistic. Primal. There's an itch in the back of his head. 

He lets go of your arm, knows you won't run. Won't try to escape. No. 

You're a good girl, aren't you? One who does what they're told. Follows orders. It tangles in the soporific slurry of his head, pitching a bivouac of need when you bring your arm down, curling it through the gap of the armrest, holding tight. 

Bracing yourself. 

His hum breaks in his throat. He drags his hand away from your cunt, reaching for the snuffed cigar idling in the ashtray. There's a fever in his veins. It makes his hand tremble. Shake. He needs the blunted drag of nicotine to quench this heady anticipation blooming in his guts. A brumous storm gyring inside him, an incipient maelstrom of want thickening. Intensifying. Threatening to spill over. 

He needs something to steady himself before he tears into you like a beast—

You cock your head over your shoulder, staring at him with eyes drenched in midnight ink. There's a flicker across your tear-stained expression. Something coy. Feline. Leonine. 

There's nothing said. Nothing needs to be. He finds what he's looking for in the fracture of your mien, and scoffs under his breath at your sheer gall. Little fuckin' minx. 

Tobacco proves to be a paltry facsimile when he draws in a bursting mouthful. The restive glow of it dulled under the adrenaline coursing through his veins, heady. Syrupy. A roaring deluge of anticipation broiling in the balmy air, crackling around him like a storm cresting over the horizon. Ozone saturates in the thickening atmosphere. 

Something will break. Shatter. 

He tenses, waiting for the first stormcloud to breach, and drops his hand back to your tender ass. Stroking over the raised welts just to make you gasp. Your hips flex under the shocks of pain riveting down your spine, undulating in his lap. Pitched perfectly over his cock. 

His breath shudders through a needlepoint. The friction is electric. 

In petty retaliation—and just to see you squirm—he trails his knuckles over your heated skin, luxuriating in the way you shiver. Head falling back down over the armrest, beautifully alluring in your vulpine submission. His fingers dip between the cleft of your cheeks, feeling the slickness sticking to your soft, sensitive skin. Soaked between your thighs. Wretched girl. 

His index and middle finger slide over your slit, parting your folds. He feels the small pulses of your drenched hole against his flesh when he slides over it with the press of his fingers. Eager little thing.  

He hums under his breath at the sight of his hand seated across your hand, fingers shoved between the globes of your smarting ass. Soft and tender to worn and gnarled. The cropping of dark hair over his knuckles, his hand, against your bare skin is obscene. The picture of sin with your stricken flesh and his thick veins. The contrast curdled in the back of his head, morphing into something ugly and wanting. 

Idly, he thinks of making you bounce your sore ass on his lap later, your pussy swallowing up his fat cock. Taking it all the way to the root. Over and over again. Breaking you on it until you're begging for mercy, until this little attitude of yours is crushed between his teeth. 

Slick gathers against the rough pads of his fingers, drenching them. The hair on his knuckles is matted down, wet with your arousal. Naughty girl. He'll make you pay for that. 

And for the puddle seeping into his trousers. 

You mewl when he slips, sliding over your clit. The noise spilling molten over your lips, bludgeoning into his loins. 

He drags in another mouthful of smoke. Lets it rot between his teeth as he drops the cigar into the ashtray once more, attention riveting to the slip-slide of your slick thighs rubbing together for friction against your aching clit. Cunt pulsing needily against his hand. 

You haven't learned a damn thing at all, have you? 

Smoke funnels out of his nostrils when he growls. “Spoiled, aren't you? Need to be taught a lesson in respect.” 

“I, ah, am respectful, Captain—” 

He sucks in a breath between clenched teeth. This lippiness of yours grates on his nerves. He wants you begging for mercy, limp in his hold. Pretty doll. Waiting obediently for him to put you back together again. Soft and submissive at his heel. 

“Got three more to go, love.” You shiver when he strokes over your ass. Petting gently with wet, tacky fingers. “If you're a good girl and take it for me, I'll play with your pretty cunt, mm. You'd like that, wouldn't you?” 

Price brings his hand down, grunting when you moan out his name. Sharp and needy. Your plaintive posturing is a spark inside a tinderbox. 

“E–eight.” 

The next one is harder, sharper. The force twinges his joints. Rattles through his bone. 

It's unexpected, and the pain makes you yowl, body drawing tight like a bow. There's no pleasure when it's like that. No friction against your cunt. It's just—

“Price—!” You yelp, shrill and distressed. The lead up to this has been child's play. A soft hand to tender a nervous mare. 

His old man taught him to never strike with the whip first but to wean them slowly. 

He waits, humming mockingly to your pettering whimpers as you heave, tremulous, into the air. Shuddering in his grasp at the aftershocks of agony rippling through your body. 

Waits. Waits. And—

“Ah, ah,” he tuts, cooing low and condescending when you gasp, craning your neck to level him with an imploring, pleading stare as you stammer out a frenetic nine in a breathless rush. Tears soak your lashline, clumping them together when you blink through another deluge pooling against the rim. Your lip wobbles. The stream breaks, spilling over. Fresh tears run down your wet, sticky cheeks. 

There's real panic in the whites of your eyes now. That haughty, pedant gleam buried under pyretic desperation. Gone is the coy twist to your lips. The wily little bloom of amusement in your gaze. 

Aw, poor thing. But—

Too late. “You didn't count. You know what that means, love.” 

That knot in his chest unfurls, and leaks acid into his lungs. This want is corrosive. A poison. The sob breaks through your chest. The first thunderclap. He relishes in it. Leans back in his chair to bask in the potency of your unmaking. 

“Good girl,” he husks out, burning lungs spewing black smoke into the air. “Just ten more now, love. Know you can take it for me, can't you?”

Pretty thing. He'll have that haughty attitude snuffed out before the end of the night. Have you begging for his touch, his cock, him, before the sun draws across the horizon. 

Your ruination at his hand. The thought strokes along the kindling smouldering inside of his chest. Burning away at the pyre he's been building since the day he met you. When you looked up at him, pretty in your scorn, and disobeyed his command. Undermined him. So righteous in your fury. A burgeoning flame he wanted nothing more than to snuff out under his heel, and now—

Wide, wet eyes plead with him. “Please, Price. Please, please. I'll be good—I promise I'll be good, sir—”

—ash in the palm of his hand. 

He strokes over your searing flesh, humming softly under his breath. “I know you will, pretty girl—” basks in the hiccup of relief you let out, lets it glue in his ears, echoing over and over again. So sweet. 

He lets your relief live for a moment. Take its first breath of air through aching lungs—

“But I told you, didn't I? That I'd take you over my knee.” Price pats his hand over your cheek, shushing you when you startle, squirming on his lap. 

“Now. Be a good girl and count for me, mm?”

[neetily]

Oh... To be a simple little puppy!girl... Forced into entering a relationship with your big scary new wolf!boyfriend...

— ✧ warnings: hybrids, noncon/dubcon, forced relationship, manipulation, naïve reader, name calling, dacryphilia, size difference, kidnapping, knot mention, pregnancy mention, marking, tummy bulge — ✧ word count: 2,282

— ✧ A/N: Just a quick little drabble, a small little scenario. Just to get things started on my blog! If you read, thank you very much. I hope you enjoy!

In a dog-eat-dog world, sometimes quite literally, it's no surprise that a lonely little pup like you found yourself in some hot water every now and then. Oh, but it's not your fault, sweet girl! You're just a silly little pup, aren't you? So soft and sweet, a shy little thing with your floppy puppy ears down to match your low hanging head— despite your attempts to avoid confrontation, it's only natural that trouble always finds you somehow, some way. You're just too tempting to the jaws of those bigger, stronger, and far more superior to you, always. It's only natural for you to submit to the likes that stalk the streets, the very same way that it's in your very bones to shake and quiver and to let out those meek little puppy whines for help when you find yourself cornered. So cute, aren't you?

He's always adored scared little puppies like you. You're always the easiest to obtain.

Chasing off those who had found you all alone was easy enough. Buncha dogs, mere mutts to his more imposing wolfish appearance. Not that he's much better than them deep down, really. He's just scarier, though his intentions remain the same, that's all. Mighty maw snarling insults and barking orders at those who dare threaten you, pearly white fangs already coated in shiny saliva at the mere thought of whisking you away all for himself instead. No, it wasn't a bother to scare off the admittedly much larger than you dogs from the dark, damp alleyway, ears pointed and hackles raised to play the role of protector for a moment. Much like how it wasn't any issue to coax your tucked tail shivering body into his big open palms, in spite of the way his long tail swished behind him with insidious interest.

Little pups like you never understand the kinds of situations you somehow always find yourselves in until it's too late, and it's not his fault that you can't see through his faux concern. You should know better than now, silly girl! You can't blame him for smirking when you fall for his false platitudes, or mumbled niceties so easily. God, he'd say literally anything you wanted if it meant you'd get all cozy in his car without complaint anyway ; but it's nice when all it takes is the promise of taking you home. A nice, easy, fuck.

Dummy. Stupid little mutt, you deserve a fucking wake up call for your bad behaviour, he thinks.

You're lucky you're so cute, chained up next to him the moment he brought you home (see, he didn't really lie, did he?) like that. The sleek black collar adorning your neck only makes you look even prettier with the way the leather shines from under you, reflecting against your tear stained cheeks so sweetly for him, he almost thinks it's on purpose. As if your body itself is pandering to his weak spots, begging for his attention as he keeps you held in captivity.

Really, he hadn't meant to keep you for so long. A night or two at most, enough to have his fun with you before sending you back out to fend yourself against the plentiful other wolves who'd enjoy feasting on you, sinking their big fangs into your soft body, marking you all up.

But there's just something about you that begs him to reconsider. You're so small compared to him, allowing him to easily lift and bend and mishandle you however he sees fit— small for even puppy standards, there's no way you could ever fend for yourself, and he finds himself wanting to protect that part of you. Those big adoring puppy eyes you flutter up at him when he tugs on your collar between his meaty thighs. The way your tiny little ears twitch and perk up upon the guttural growls your kitten licks coax out of him. That pretty tail of yours, giving your enjoyment away with fast flicks and quick wags in spite of the water that wells at your lash line.

And of course, the way you babble and hiccup with big fat teardrops rolling down your cheeks every time he manages to fuck half his cock into your squishy little puppy pussy— training, he'd growled down at you the first couple of times. But his patience wears thin; wolves aren't known for their proficiency in waiting, are they?

"C'mon, mutt—" He tries to encourage you, fangs flashing in delight as the way your cunt at least tries to adhere to his hoarse command, tone reprimanding in spite of the fact that he's at least in part trying to motivate you. It's simply in his nature to dominate you, he reasons with himself. And the way your body responds with shivers and squeaks upon every harsh hump of his cock deeper into your too tight little cunt only tells him that you want to give in to him too, even if it's difficult to fit every pulsing inch of his cock inside of your tiny little hole. It's just too easy to pin you down under him, face down, ass cradled by his slamming hips as he attempts to bury himself to the hilt prematurely. So easy to completely encase your tiny little puppy body under his far bigger wolf presence that he'd be a fool not to give your body what it's asking for, leaning down over you so that his front is pressed snug to your back and he can huff growls down your heated ears; you could never even hope to escape his full body weight, little dog. "M'not askin', know y'can do it, pup." He reminds you, pressing his sharp canines against your neck, letting your collar dig harshly against your skin— a reminder, that no matter how much you protest, he's only giving your body what she wants, baby.

And he's no fool. He knows how much you struggle to take him, and he knows how much you likely dislike how rough he is with you. Tugging and pulling and ruining you every chance he gets, simply because he's bigger than you, and what is a mere pup to a wolf? He bets you can't fucking stand the way he treats you like some scrap of meat, especially considering that he's kept you cooped up all alone in his room to play with until he grows bored. But he isn't. Not yet. Mounting you from behind like the dog he is, panting and slobbering all over your neck in between greedy gulps of your sickly sweet scent. So fucking good, smell so good it's unfair, a needy whine crawling up his throat for him to bite back with a bark instead. The way you struggle to even sob from under him only makes his cock harder, unfortunately.

And he can fuckin' smell how much that puppy pussy wants his knot too, forcing his throbbing cock against your gushing insides like his life depended on impregnating you, splitting you in two regardless of your docile wails as he makes his cock fit into your too tight little cunt. Trembling at the way your cunt squirms around his intrusion, breath caught in his throat from just how fucking perfect you feel, all nice and tight and wet. For him, right?

Oh, he knows why you were cornered in that alleyway now. Even he can't resist the allure of your pitifully sobbed whines for more, or for the tight suck of your insides, slick gushing out of your overstuffed cunt with every greedy hump forward he makes. Forcing his wolven claim upon you, marking up your insides with his fucking stink so that everyone knows who you now belong to. There's nothing you can do to avoid the bite of his sharp nails as they dig into your soft skin either, marking up every inch of you that he can reach in some sort of primal ritual of mine. Mine, mine, mine, so that no one else even thinks about cornering you again, because from now on, with the pop of his cock fully sheathed inside of your tight hole, you're his property. A snivelling, sobbing, sloppy little mess of some property, but his nonetheless.

How could he ever imagine letting go of you when you feel so perfect anyway? No, the chance encounter he had with you one night is all it took for him to find the perfect pretty mate. mounting your ass like he's never done before with any of the other cheap fucks he's experienced, forcing you to take his fat cock deeper with every thrust forward, almost folding you in half from the sheer weight behind his fucks to turn you into something that resembles more of a squeaky toy than his newfound beloved mate.

But you're so perfect for him. Simply taking his assault because there's nothing you can truly do about it. Because your body begs for more. Fucking himself silly in your perfect angel cunt, fucking you stupid if the way you choke on your words every time his tip kisses against your cervix is anything to go by, the slick sound of wet skin on skin slapping together as his heavy balls knock against you clit ringing in his perked up ears, moans snarled down at you like some sort of scolding. How dare you feel so good, fucking mutt. Y'should be thankful that it was me that found you and some some other sort of sick fuck.

Don't worry, he understands the irony behind his thoughts.

But the way you keen for more, back arched so prettily for his eyes to feast on, fucking you with his stare as well as his cock, rendering your cunt a squelchy concoction of the copious amounts of precum his cock leaks out for you, spit drooling down from his open and puffing maw to help aid the smooth glide in and out, and your creamy cunt slick; looks so good when forming a ring around the base of his cock, wolf tail twitching behind him in preparation for what comes next.

There's really only one way to properly claim you, he muses to himself. His humping is relentless, stroking himself off in your warm pretty pussy, a consistent stream of curses escaping his dry throat as he gets closer to that edge.

Sound so pretty when you cry for him too, "S'it too much?" He mocks you, "Aw, poor mutt..." He'd rumble laughter down at you, chest tight with affection when you do your best to take him anyway�� whether it's forced or not. Faux sweet tone matching his brutal thrusts perfectly, ridiculing you for the way you cry out for him because it's easier than admitting to just how much your tears turn him on. How even just the thought of making you cry on his fat cock is enough to get him rock hard, never mind to fuck the tears out of you with unfair fucks right this moment. Besides, this is what you fucking owe him. He deserves some form of reward for saving you from those big scary dogs, right? Keeping you completely encased in his large stature, shielding you from view of all else in the room— "Mine," He huffs against your neck, letting his tongue loll out to coat you in his sticky saliva, just like how your cunt juices coat his thighs all tacky with slick. "My mate, fuckin' all mine from now on, yeah?"

He won't take no for an answer. Not when you feel so good, pretty puppy pussy squeezing around his fat wolf cock so well, the addition of his thumb slipping carefully between your folds to rub harshly at your clit to have you creaming his cock is enough of a persuasion to have him follow through with his rabid claims of ownership. Yeah, that's it, he can't let you leave now. The feeling of your cunt insides squishing and sucking and truly suffocating his fat cock is enough to convince him otherwise, fully giving in to his more primal instincts with fast vicious fucks to knock the wind out of you as you cum around his length. As if trying to prove his usefulness to you, to prove himself as a worthy mate, capable of fucking you so good and thoroughly that you've got no choice but to melt under him. Fucking you full to the point of tummy bulging, his hand under you stroking himself off as much as he twitching against your insides with insidious promise, and then he's spilling inside. Keeping you locked on his knot so that you can't go wandering off, even if you claw for escape. Pumping you so full of his thick cum that some of it spills out around him from his repeated miniscule thrusts. Jus' wants to make sure your puppy womb takes to it, rubbing his cum coated tip along your cervix in an attempt to knock you up, to breed his newfound mate on the first fuck.

Poor thing, he can feel how hard your hole squeezes around his fat knot, milking him for all he's worth, pretty little mewls hitting his perked up ears to share your sheer delight. "That's it—" He coos down at you, huffing and puffing for air after exerting so much energy, in spite of the way his cock still yet throbs for you. "Jus' sit tight for a minute, pup. Promise t'make y'feel all better soon."

And for once, he means it. The once play pup now turned mate, it's his duty to see to you from now on.

Only after he's done filling you up, though.

[weirdbookweeb]

more Simon Riley (Ghost) Headcanons

cause he's just so damn pretty (and i accidentally took a nap until 9pm, so I got time, honey.)

He is a big fan of dark liquors. Whiskey, Cognac, Bourbon, Scotch. He got introduced to it from a former superior officer and got a taste for it. He always takes it on the rocks, and drinks it slows. He has a few bottles stored up in his room for special occasions.

He's got a crooked smile, and it's the sweetest thing. He's been in combat for years, so he's bound to have some damage to his face. Because of it, he's got an uneven smile. He doesn't smile a lot because of it. But when he forgets to be insecure? Oh my, does his smile bring unsuspecting people to their knees.

He liked to watch old-school, black-and-white foreign films with his grandparents when he was a kid, so he has a soft spot for them. He learned a bit of french watching french noir style films, and loves watching old Hollywood movies (He calls them foreign because he's British.) Miracle on 34th street is one of his favorite Christmas films, but only in black and white.

He never ends a phone call with his s/o without saying some version of "I love you" or "I'll come back soon". The habit started when he was going on a mission and you were working and instead of ending the call immediately, he had waited a few moments before quietly whispering into the phone: "I promise I'll come home to you, darling."

He really doesn't like cauliflower and canned green beans. Like, even just seeing them makes him gag. He cannot stand them. Canned green beans ate a common staple in the military and he hates them with a burning passion now. And he just hates the taste of cauliflower (because he says it has none).

He is an advocate for well-fitted clothing. He doesn't care if it's trendy or not. He cares if his pants fall to the right length, if his shirts fit nicely around his arms, and if his pants are sitting at the right place. He hates seeing people wear the wrong fitted clothes while trying to wear the proper fit and ending up looking scruffy. It's his only fashion hill he will die on.

[aestheticpebbles]

Servus Dei

Pairing: Priest!AU Aegon II Targaryen x reader

Warnings: NSFW/18+ ONLY! MINORS WILL BE BLOCKED, MDNI!, swearing, violence, murder, smut, religious/catholicism imagery/mentions/themes, priest+nun power dynamic abuse, dirty talking, light dubcon if you squint, fluff if you squint harder, use of alcohol, porn with plot, fingering, overstimulation, choking, oral (f receiving), p in v intercourse.

Summary: Father Aegon arrived at your convent, but things become alarming once you realize he isn’t the priest he appears to be.

Word Count: 8.1k

A/N: fic below the cut! not religious at all so please correct me if I messed anything up! also, not proofread… but enjoy! inspo from his cunty hair serving from s1.ep.8.

1548. Somewhere outside of Florence, Italy.

“Our Father, Who art in Heaven, hallowed be Thy name; Thy Kingdom come, Thy will be done on earth as it is in Heaven. Give us this day our daily bread; and forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us; and lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil. Amen.“

The rosary beads clenched tightly laced around your slender fingers nearly gave way to a pinching sensation between your knuckles as you prayed under your breath, reciting ‘Our Father’ as you do every morning upon dressing into your white habits and joining the nuns and sisters at the first morning service of your convent.

However, you weren’t sent here upon your own bidding, rather than fulfilling the wish of your parents after they sought to nip your rebellious streak of your late teenage years in the bud after you expressed during a drunken fit that you instead wished to dance and drink until you dropped before marrying off to some Lord.

You knew your parents did this to reduce any scandalous likelihood of you, an unwed daughter of a newer-money noble family, boring a bastard, but you still did not forgive them for your new life of chastity and divine mercy worship. Yawn.

You were still considered to be relatively new to the convent as you were just beginning your second year of working towards your devotion to God and being tested on your postulancy, so you still wore white robes and veils rather than black. You felt as though you had done well in your studies of the faith thus far considering the circumstances in which you were brought here upon.

“Good morning sister,” Sister Hilda, another white-robed sister about a year older than you, smiled once the first service ended and you found a place next to her side while making your way to the dining hall for breakfast.

The sun’s morning rays that began to peek over the horizon illuminated the dining hall with a dim, blue hue as the world awakened. You both made yourselves plates of bread and cheeses before sitting down together. Talk was kept small and hushed between the two of you while discussing various scriptures and chores needed to be done.

“I heard the new priest is arriving this morning,” Sister Hilda suddenly whispered under her breath, my eyes flickering up to meet her gaze upon the sudden topic of a conversation that could be considered borderline gossip and would serve much to the dismay of any superiors if anyone would overhear the two white-robed and veiled young women conversing over such a topic.

Instead of scolding Sister Hilda once your gazes met, you proved your nature of still wearing the white fabrics rather than blacks by leaning in as well about an inch or so, quickly looking around to see if anyone was lingering nearby to eavesdrop before responding to her.

“Is that so?” Your eyebrow cocked up in surprise. There had been talks of a new priest that had recently left from an abbey outside of London, and was continuing his preach of faith now here with us at our nunnery as our current priest was, well, he was old, “have you…?”

“Within the hour, I heard,” Sister Hilda’s eyes lit up with excitement, proving her own nature as she still struggled with her own inner turmoil with such activities. You found the vow of celibacy at first to be something that you wouldn’t have to think twice about while you devoted yourself, but as time went on, you found yourself seeking repentance and trying to pray away the gnawing feeling you felt bubbling within sometimes that made you doubt your own worth in the eyes of the faith.

You nodded once, acknowledging her words carefully with a playful side smirk. Though gossip was highly discouraged, word still had many opportunities to be carried by the wind throughout the dormitories of your convent.

“Il suo nome?” Your voice dropped down low once more after a few moments, switching from English to Italian just to be safe when you asked Hilda ‘his name?’, but she only shrugged in response, unsure of the answer either.

After breakfast, like usual, you found yourself in the library as you were one of the few sisters who, thanks to your upbringing in a decently noble family, had been taught Latin. You often found means of completing your daily chores by aiding in the translation of Holy passages and texts.

Today, you had been handed a scripture to be translated by an older nun who always wore a signature grouch, so there wasn’t much to be said when you were given the dusty book made of animal skin and thick, waxy lacing that secured the spine.

A relic of the sort lost to at least 300 years, resurfaced once more only to become your problem to deal with when you immediately find yourself scowling under your veil at the faded ink on the ancient pages. You stood up and found yourself a dictionary in Latin just in case whoever wrote that damn pitiful book didn’t know what they were saying, much to the older nun’s dismay but you didn’t care as you sat back down with a murmured ‘God help me’ under your breath.

Dipping your feather quill into a small jar of black ink, you began your day’s work of translating the pages that were practically threatening to fall apart as you delicately turned over each one.

It possibly would have felt odd for another white-veiled sister like yourself to have been tasked with translating such an eerie text of those who wore multiple, yet all beautiful faces and how to ward them off, but like it was just another day, it was just another book of Latin words that you were tasked to translate into fresh ink of English literature between your obligatory meetings for daily prayers and masses with the others, and you’ve read worse.

Your legs were itching to stand after sitting down for an extended period of time, nearly a static-like burn radiating deep as you leaned back in your chair from your upright posture, slouching your shoulder forward for a grace moment with an exhale before standing upright once more properly in case the Abbess, Mother Esther, walked by.

Afternoon sunlight beams shone through a nearby window that you now stood in front of trying to warm yourself up from the cooler temperature of the library, your muscles easing against the windowsill as your wrists and fingers had ached for a little while as well.

Being on the 2nd floor of the building meant having a lovely view of the convent’s architectural layout and the courtyard within the open holdfast of about an acre or so. A few young black locust trees littered the acre, creating enjoyable spots for shaded rest you occasionally found yourself under, almost smiling to yourself when thinking about better times than translating 300+ year old scriptures from Latin to English about an ill-satiable apparition—it’s biblical name, Agneo, one who shapeshifts and requires to feeds from the sins of its prey. A book of complete lunacy that was a blessing in disguise as it gave you something to do.

However, the momentary bliss of recounting suddenly soured once you realized you were about to miss the 4th prayer service mass of the day when you looked down from the window and saw a huddle of those remaining outside waiting to file along inside in orderly fashion across the courtyard of your convent.

It was no use to try to rush out and attempt to make it, so you hesitantly let out a tense sigh and leaned against the window still, your eyes moving to ground below until you saw mainly atop skulls of Mother Esther dressed in her finest– and in tow, a man that nearly made your lips part upon the sight of his features after the involuntary oath of celibacy you took on.

Broad shouldered, his face even from above was sharp-featured, straight nosed, and platinum blond hair as could be neatly combed and parted down the middle. He is, undeniably, the most beautiful man you have ever laid your wretched eyes on, and the sight made your legs press together as you watched the two of them below you.

Once seeing him, you were desperate to see Sister Hilda to willingly break your vows of what your new lifestyle meant to share the gossip of sin, to gossip silly words that meant plenty well beneath the surface that meant for yourself at least to have plenty of reason to seek confession and repentance from His mercy in the foreseeable future.

During your brief moment of pure sin, or what sin at least means to you at the time, you let out a small gasp and moved away from the glass realizing the neat head of hair was slowly tilting upwards in an almost premeditated manner, and from the 2nd floor, his ice blue eyes burned scorching hot daggers like the gates of hell straight into your soul for the mere seconds that you held his sudden eye contact.

As if he knew you were standing there above him and Mother Esther, as if he knew you had been leaning against the edge of the windowsill with your legs crossed and your thighs pressed together at the perfect angle while you watched them when you were supposed to be in the 4th prayer service.

Your heart was pounding in a mixture of adrenaline, anticipation, and … excitement. A certain feeling you haven’t felt since before being sent here. Desire.

Despite shifting away from your original stance next to the window, your vision couldn’t move away any further out of sight from him as the two of you kept your eyes locked.

Within that brief moment that felt like eternity and despite the temptation that threatened to fester within your neglected core now reigniting, the hairs on the back of your neck standing up as your instincts inside your mind began screaming ‘flight’ but your feet were cemented in place while looking down into his cold, dead eyes.

Behind the decrepit Mother Esther’s back, the new priest held his eye contact with you with a stone-like expression of almost disgust until the corners of his lips tugged and curled upright into a smirk. One side of his lips tugged higher than the other side and it made your blood run cold despite the heat pooling between your legs.

You exhaled once his head turned to meet Mother Esther’s as she turned back around to him to point out the library, and the two of them continued on and you were finally able to move from the frozen stance you held.

You had managed to avoid the new priest, his name quickly learned by you through Sister Hilda to be Father Aegon—until you found yourself kneeling before him at the altar rails while he wore the same disgustedly amused expression while placing the communion bread into your cupped palms sitting upright.

“Amen,” you murmured softly, placing the wafer into your mouth as he extended his other hand and brought the cup of wine in front of you as you swallowed thickly.

“The blood of Christ, shed for you,” Father Aegon nearly purred, the sound of his voice speaking directly to you for the first time was intimidating enough, let alone the manner in which it rolled off of his tongue was enough to catch you off guard and leave you stunned at such a vocal display during a Holy service.

Your lips had parted a few centimeters due to your shock and your bottom lip quivered as you barely choked out another ‘amen’ in response while he pressed the rim of the chalice against the pillowed flesh.

Maybe it was the way he spoke, or the way he wears devilish tight-lipped smiles like he knows he's fluffing up another chicken house with unpreened, unruffled hens who live among cobwebs, or maybe it’s the way you can feel him staring straight down into your soul as you took a sip of the wine while holding eye contact with him up through your eyelashes.

After drinking the same wine since the day you first arrived and you had returned to your seat, you realized on your tongue that the aftertaste of the once bitter representation of the Blood of Christ was now sweet. Too sweet.

The type of sweet that makes the feeling of temptation to yearn for more not sound half bad even though you still found shame while you prayed in your seat until the end of the communion, even more so in the hours that followed when nobody else seemed to comment on the wine. As if the taste was unchanged to the rest.

You actually managed well to avoid Father Aegon as he settled in and slowly took over hosting more and more masses and prayers over the next fortnight, though it was absolute agony that was slowly chipping away at your sanity.

No matter the distance between the two of you, an unnerving fear always found you when in his presence and even more so if it was without your knowledge on a passing occasion or he could see you but you couldn’t see him. Since the day he arrived, you felt like you were no longer alone at any moment, always holding your breath to turn a corner like an accidental dance of cat and mouse for no real reason.

You’d be shunned if you dared speak the reason of your maintained distance being temptation, even if you were going such lengths avoiding him to resist such.

Father Aegon’s piercing gaze alone sent chills down your spine, enough to rattle the assembled vertebrae within the confines of your habits just like the one that coursed through you while you browsed the shelves of the library looking for works regarding astronomy to keep you company in the late hours after the Midnight Mass.

You didn’t need to see him to know he was likely stalking nearby, whispering with that strangely enticing demeanor he holds himself up with, and the way his perfectly plump lips were always cocked in some purse of amusement to offset the dark purple, sunken look to his eyes as if he hadn’t slept in days, weeks.

Your own eyes had begun to mirror Father Aegon’s sullen look as well during your descent into the madness occurring within your mind when you started to lose sleep because of him sinking his claws into you even in your dreams filled with imagery of sin beyond your comprehension. The more time you spent trying to avoid him, the more he encroached upon every aspect of your life and you hadn’t so much but exchange momentary glances and proper greetings spoken hushed on your part.

After all, anyone would find holding eye contact difficult with one whom they have carnal, perverse dreams about, waking up panting in the middle of the night covered in sweat and an agonizing pool between your legs. Even after waking up you could still feel his touch on your skin.

Though what terrified you the most was the eventual visible appearance that left residual memory fragments from the vivid dreams, as if they themselves were distant memories, real memories, from the past. Gripping bruises protected by layers were littered around your wrists, arms, thighs, breasts, small bite marks and scratches even as well. Some even would remain red, or pink as if they had just occurred moments or hours prior, but that couldn’t be possible.

You’ve been alone all these nights… right?

“What could possibly interest you at such an hour, sister?” The voice of the dreaded priest you desperately sought to avoid drew out from behind you, causing your shoulders to roll back into a stiffened posture to play off the chill that threatened to visibly shake you. You closed your eyes for a moment while goosebumps broke out across your skin hidden beneath the white fabrics before quickly reaching up to grasp the book you intended to grab and pulled it close to your chest before turning around to face him.

“Astronomy, Father,” you answered without nearly half a spine, mentally cursing yourself at your inability to hold yourself with dignity when subject to his commanding gaze.

Father Aegon never failed to not wear his smug grin that seemed to compliment the sullen orbs that were half-lidded in what could only be described by a blind person as being a seductive manner. When you finished answering him and his smirk grew, you didn’t miss his tongue swiping across his pillowy bottom lip— both stained red… and the smell that belonged to that of alcohol.

You swallowed thickly once putting the puzzle pieces in place and your fingers gripped the corners of the book tighter and the edges dug into the creases of your fingers creating a pleasant stinging sensation to help stay grounded. The priest, he who is supposed to live and serve to proclaim the word of God, stood here before you with sweet wine coating his wicked tongue with practiced precision.

Father Aegon had sin written all over his cruelly beautiful face. Certainly not to be trusted at any given second.

Father Aegon’s smug half-smirk was still etched on his mouth that sent another chill down your spine when his irises unmistakably fell from holding your gaze down to your own lips with those lazily-hooded blue eyes swirling with emotions beyond your somewhat innocent comprehension.

Father Aegon was absolutely terrifying to be around, but although your fear didn’t directly come from him, your own body produces enough cortisol and epinephrine for an entire herd of corralled sheep waiting to be slaughtered by just being around him. Afraid of the fact that if he touched you right now, you know you wouldn’t be able to stop. Afraid of the fact that you know he may know how you truly feel deep down by just looking at you with those eyes that appear to be hiding an inferno from within himself.

“Copernicus…” Father Aegon suddenly murmured with a cock of his eyebrow as if he had posed the single word as a question rather than the affirmative tone he used when referencing the Polish astronomer whose works had caught your interest when accessible, “you like him, Sister?”

“He’s an accomplished astronomer and a fine mathematician,” you responded carefully, unsure of the waters of the moment and feeling the bile threatening to rise and expel which prompted you to kindly dismiss yourself wishing to depart to rest for the evening until he suddenly reached out as you turned to walk. His taut grip around your dainty wrist in comparison to his large hand was daunting and was an unexpected rush of surprise-horror when you were practically yanked back where you stood before him.

“Hm,” Father Aegon hummed in amusement, a flash of something eerie glazing over his lazily hooded eyes while his strong grip on your wrist loosened slightly, but not without his calloused thumbpad grazing gently across the delicate skin of the underside of your wrist, “why don’t you come by my office tomorrow evening? I have a piece that would interest you… brought it with me from when I met him briefly at Oxford.”

Your own eyebrow cocked at his words, nearly-half bewildered that a man like him went from such a prestigious place like the Oxford society to… priesthood in Florence where he, in the middle of the night, now was intoxicated and having you cornered like a rat subject to his mercy while his thumb caressed your wrist like a coveted lover.

Your eyes flickered down to the tight grip he held on your arm and you dared to pull once more, and much to your surprise he let go. Looking back up at him, he was amused with a strange sense of triumph like he could already foresee the internal turmoil you would be rolling in all day tomorrow until you would eventually cave in within yourself to give in and seek him out for the sake of knowledge.

Wasn’t that the sin of Eve? Coaxed by the snake, the devil, to taste the forbidden apple of knowledge?

Father Aegon wouldn’t taste half as sweet as an apple, but a part of you knew deep down that with dealing with a man like him and his caliber comes with knowing the venom from his fanged canines would likely sting twice as bad in the days to come if you did not seek him out.

So like the loyal hound you were, there weren’t many inhibitions that stopped your fingers from clasping the golden ring hanging from a matching golden lion’s head mounted on the wooden door and knocking twice. You knew you had no business being here at this hour. You had stopped by this very office twice today, once before dinner, and again afterwards but left both times with only pursed lips and heightened anxiety. Evening. Evening. Evening.

“Sister…” Father Aegon grinned upon seeing the sweet lamb standing there outside of his door waiting so patiently for him like the good girl that he knew she is even if she couldn’t muster any words to properly greet him. He stepped out of your way with an outstretched palm directed towards an empty chair sitting on the other side of his desk, the open hand gesturing to you to sit, “please, come in.”

Shame and humility fueled the pace that drove your footsteps from the corridor and into his working office in a scurry, the fuel most delectable for sin to fester within and grow necrotic while Father Aegon shut the door behind you. You couldn’t miss the sound of the lock turning over as you focused on your breathing pattern and your fumbling fingertips toying with one another as you sat down and silently pulled your chair in under yourself.

It wasn’t the locking of the door that made your eyes widen, but watching him pick up a golden, jeweled chalice that sat on the edge of his desk with matching rings adorning his thick digits, taking a hearty swig while sauntering behind you and over to a large bookshelf on the left wall that likely carried prized works both owned by the convent and his finest pieces.

You kept your head straight for the most part, only tilting it slightly to be able to keep an eye on him in the corner of your peripheral and through the thin white veil head covering, watching his ringed finger reach up to one of the shelves while the other hand held the chalice. The way he moved so freely was almost sensual in a way, his fingertip grazing the spines of the prized collection of knowledge as he searched using the dim orange glow emanating from the roaring hearth that danced as the flames waved.

“Tell me, sweet girl, what is it about the stars that calls to you… draws your attention so?” Father Aegon suddenly broke the silence that only hosted the soft crackling of the embers causing your head to angle slightly more in his direction. You swallowed thickly again, inhaling through your nose while watching his index finger curl around a medium-sized book and gently tug it free from the confines of the neat shelf.

“One can’t help but wonder who they are,” you answered shakily, referring to the stars themselves, the subconscious anxious habit of your fingertips toying with one another going full blast in your lap that had sparked back to life hearing the previous words of endearment he must addressed you with as if he was toying with you too, “what are they… what are they made of?”

Father Aegon nodded slowly with another hum of acknowledgment as he turned on his heel with his chin cockily angled, walking back over to where you sat on the other side of his desk and stepped next to your chair. He held out the book for you to take and you did after a moment of hesitation, taking the book delicately from him as your eyes danced over the intricate stitching and adhesives carefully applied that held the valuable text together.

He stood over you for a moment with one hand on the back of your chair, the other bringing the rim to his lips for another swig before he let go, much to your approval as you let out an exhale you didn’t realize you were holding, and stepped away to sit down in his own chair on the other side of the desk while you admired and he purred out, “the book… Copernicus’ heliocentric theories. One of the first copies given to me from Nicolaus himself. I’ll let you borrow it for the evening...”

You couldn’t hide the spark of interest that illuminated behind your eyes at the topic that you had been wishing to learn more about as the theories were still considered recent developments. A small smile crept onto your face but you quickly pursed your lips together to swallow your pride and triumph– something that didn’t pass by Aegon, but the suggestive tone towards the end of his final words didn’t pass by you either.

“Thank you Father,” you murmured softly, your thumbs grazing over the pressed letters of the title embossed and sealed by gold leaflets, “you are very gracious.”

Father Aegon only chuckled darkly, something you hadn’t heard yet until now and it was scarier to experience first hand than his empty, soul-piercing glare.

He took another sip of his wine before setting the chalice down on the desktop and leaning forward on his forearms with intertwined fingers and an unmistakable gleam in his wicked eyes, “I’ll tell you what Sister. I have heard nothing but good remarks regarding your performance… I’ll let you have it if you promise to take good care of it.”

Your eyebrows shot up in surprise and your forehead scrunched in confusion, lips parting in shock but quickly stammering out a response to his words while gently placing the book down on the desk with a forced smile. A part of joining sisterhood was an oath of poverty despite your aversion to the lifestyle but your conditioning was taking over your frazzled mindset, and a book of that value had no business being in your possession good marks or not.

“Father I-I apologize, I can’t accept such a gift, you honor me but-I,” your tongue and lips failed to coordinate without an exasperated stutter while your brain misfired, only making Father Aegon’s lips curl further upwards in a devious smile.

“Call it a favor then,” Father Aegon replied with a low purr, his half-lidded eyes missing any trace of the blue pigment against the orange hue of the fire and the darkness of the world as he stood up, slowly stalking back around to where he stood behind your chair again.

“A…favor?” Your eyebrows dropped from the cocked expression of shock into one of weary alert as you tried to read him as best as you could, holding eye contact with him until he eventually always won with the inferno that reflected in his black holes for dilated irises while he walked to your most vulnerable side.

“A favor,” Father Aegon sluggishly murmured in response, his teeth baring in his amused grin when you flinched feeling the topside of the joints of his fingers reach up from behind you and brush against your cheek.

Your eyelids fluttered under his delicate brushing touch against your cheek, unable to comprehend a single thought in regard to how to react to such inappropriate behavior and gestures being exchanged, but after involuntary celibacy and conditioned shame, it only drove you further mad yearning for the touch of a skilled lover after being denied such pleasures for so long.

It wasn’t until his index finger pressed against the underside of your chin to lift your head up and his thumb curling up to press against your bottom lip that you were violently dragged back to reality. Looking up at him while fidgeting with your fingers absentmindedly in your lap, he smiled deviously as if he was a child with free reign in a candy shop.

He stepped in front of you to enter the small space available between you sitting in the chair and his desk, leaning against the edge as he twisted and reached back to grab the chalice he’d left behind, turning back to you. Your heart pounded in your chest watching him extend his hand, guiding the rim to your lips and raising the cup for gravity to let the rich, deep red juice funnel into your mouth as if you were kneeling at the altar and had already received your tasteless communion wafer.

Eyes widening, you realized he wasn’t relenting until you finished off the remnants of the chalice when he kept tilting the cup’s stem and you having to swallow in faster lapses than expected to keep up with his antics causing you to choke softly.

You pursed your lips shut tightly with a bemused expression on your face between his actions and the sweet red wine, unable to save the small bead that gathered and trickled down from your lip to your chin, but Aegon was there to spare your white habits from any stains with a brush of his thumb collecting the alcoholic nectar and bringing it to his own lips to suck clean off.

“Tell me… why are you really here?” Father Aegon slurred out between tipsy snickers after releasing his thumb with a sickly sweet suckle like he knew exactly the effect he had on you and the reactions you were willing to give back with a little shove.

“My parents wished not for scandal,” you blurted out, almost like not caring how sloppy you spoke for the sake of your own honorable presentation.

“So, you liked to get around. You liked to have fun… you were a whore?” Father Aegon’s grin was wicked and curled up with a sense of malice as he gently caressed your cheek while you shared details about yourself to him. You knew he found some sort of satisfaction with your words by the way his teeth clenched like he was thinking hard through the intoxicated haze of his own mind.

“Um-,” your eyebrows furrowed again, a streak of anger shooting through you causing you to flinch again away from his hand, pulling out of his grasp on your chin as you stood up, not willing to explain to him that laying with two men that you had possibly seen as prospective husbands doesn’t make a young lady… a whore, “I apologize Father this is highly inappropriate. I should go.”

Your abrupt reaction to his words seemed to replace the playful gleam in his eyes with one that teetered on the edge of malice and danger, one that made your blood run cold. Panic flared through you when he dropped the golden chalice without care, and grabbing your wrist with one hand, yanking you back down to sit again.

“We are not done talking, Sister,” Father Aegon snarled out, a sinister gleam in his eyes while he stood up straight, letting go of your wrist only to take a hold of your chin once more, your lips slightly smushed between his fingers, “I haven’t given you permission to dismiss yourself.”

“I-I am sorry, Father,” you sputtered out, unsure of how to respond to him and his firm, calculated grip that always reminded you he was one step ahead at any given point. Aegon only hummed in amusement, his moist tongue darting out to swipe across his bottom lip as he turned your head in his grip from side to side, studying the details of your face against the orange glow from the inferno of the fireplace.

“Let me see you show it…Prove it,” Father Aegon’s eyes lit up in deranged excitement while yours glossed over in confused horror, sitting frozen in shock while he kept his grip on your chin with one hand, the other reaching up seemly to lovingly caress your cheek only to fist a palm full of your white veil, forcefully undressing your dreadful headdress and revealing one of your secrets you hid from your other Sisters. Instead of cutting your hair short like the rest, you kept yours braided and secured beneath your headdress, the same one Aegon pulled off without hesitation that made your jaw drop in disbelief.

“I don’t understa-,” you cried out in a sudden frustration, angered that he was abusing the power dynamic he knew he held, then still having enough fuel inside him when daring to lay a hand on you in such an inappropriate manner and revealing your hair.

If your Sisters found out you hid your hair, you could suffer greatly socially, and Aegon just paved his way straight over without any second thoughts. Your words though were cut off when his fingers clutched your braids and yanked you back to your feet.

“Understand this, doll. I see the way you look at me, how you scurry away from me like a mouse, there’s nowhere you can hide from me,” Father Aegon taunted, his dilated pupils laced with delirium and sin as he maniacally giggled, “I know everything.”

Any protests or shrill shrieks that could have escaped your mouth would be forced to be made straight into Father Aegon’s mouth that nearly swallowed your face whole when his lips came colliding down on yours in a pre-established sloppy, yet demanding kiss.

You wished to want the will to release a frightful scream against his lips, to cry out in disgust, to thrash around violently in his concrete hold on you while he forced his tongue into your mouth after letting go of your chin and dropping down to your hip.

His grip quickly moved from squeezing your hip around to your backside, grabbing a fistful of your buttock and his other hand still holding and tugging on your hair to elicit a gasp while your palms were outstretched when pressing back against his firm chest, but you did none of those things as your mind began buzzing softly, signaling the beginning the swirling descent into a tipsy haze from the amount of alcohol he had you consume in one sitting.

In fact, you did the opposite once the taste of him resonated with you when you found yourself sucking back on his tongue instead of screaming and crying about your dignity, your outstretched palms bundling up the fabric of his neat, black collar between your fingers like a deserted whore needy for more. Because that’s exactly what you felt like, and the realization made you sick when you suddenly were spun around in his groping embrace to be lifted onto the desktop.

Father Aegon wasted no time shoving his knee between your legs and parting them to situate himself between your legs without breaking the heated exchange between your lips that caused soft groans to escape from the both of you.

His hand that held your buttock again wasted no time reaching under your skirts, hiking the fabric up while he held your whimpering skull in place by your hair as he kissed down your jawline, panting heavily in your ear when he traced up your inner thigh.

He smiled wickedly against the shell of your ear while you managed to let out a stifled moan feeling his fingertips slither their way past your small clothes dampened by your arousal, massaging agonizingly slow circles against your clothed clit, sending ripples of electricity through your body. a soft, humiliating ‘there she is’ was murmured into the cartilage that echoed down to your eardrum once your lips parted with your surrender and giving into his touch, your cheeks shamefully burning red hot.

“For someone who took a vow of chastity, your cunt weeps like a virgin,” Father Aegon nibbled softly on your earlobe while your face contorted in pent-up pleasure and your mind swirled. In truth, you hadn’t truly consumed that much alcohol, but the effect he had on your mind caused the effect to feel 10-fold from the scent of his musk and the wine on his lips, his wretched tongue and damned touch assaulting all of your senses out of nowhere.

Your fingers clutching onto his black button up gripped on for dear life feeling his fingers begin to variate their course from rubbing circles to teasing your slit before dropping down, his middle finger breaching fully past your entrance coaxing a shrill gasp from your throat that his lips were licking and placing open-mouthed kissing down. One of your hands jumped from his shirt to his bicep, wincing from the sudden scissoring penetration as he got to work establishing a pace.

“Fuck, your pussy is so tight,” Aegon murmured quietly through a groan against your skin, your entrance clamping down almost painfully around the 2nd digit he teased your tight hole with for a moment before adding it in, his middle and ring finger moving in and out of you in overwhelming patterns that made you look at the back of your skull doubled with the feeling of his free hand suddenly groping your breast through your robes, pinching and rolling your clothed nipple between his fingertips, “this pussy ever been fucked?”

Your eyes rolled back straight and snapped wide open at the vulgarity of his words, your lips parted further in sheer shock that those words could at all even be used together in a sentence, but your body was still betraying you as you ground your hips against his hand that was fucking you mercilessly. How this man became a priest was beyond you at this point, barely choking out a ‘yes’, his gaze darkening as if that wasn’t what he wanted to hear and he let go of your breast, reaching up behind the nape of your neck again.

Aegon’s hand found a hold your braided hair and twisted once more, a pained cry leaving your lips and your eyes screwing shut in another wince while his own lips were curled upwards. His eyes bright with a sinister intent, his other hand still pumping his two fingers in and out and you panted with a heaving chest.

“My name, sweet girl, say it right,” Aegon purred with an underlying, dangerous tone of voice that hid the true intentions that he was only giving you one chance to say it right despite multiple answers being applicable to stroke his ego while his fingers repetitively curling a ‘come hither’ motion within you.

“Yes sir,” you finally cried out, his chest emanating a grunt of acceptance meanwhile your spine arching as the coil deep within you threatened to build up. As if Aegon could read you like the back of his hand, he let go of your hair and reached around you as he swiped everything, including the prized book, clear from off of his desk.

He withdrew his fingers from your weeping cunt much to your dismay, only to be rendered speechless when he used both of his hands to grab and move you by your hips to the side of the desk, using one to shove your back down to lay on the surface and the other to hastily hiked up the skirt of your habits as his head dipped down, his lips kissing and his teeth nipping up your inner thighs.

You prayed that nobody was walking by Father Aegon’s office as they’d receive earfuls of lewd cries that fumbled from your throat in wails after he practically dove headfirst, your legs on his shoulders and his hands holding you in place by your thighs as his lips and tongue got to work swirling and sucking on your clit.

His platinum silver curls that were neatly parted down the middle, combed and slicked back behind his ears was disheveled within seconds as you reached down and carded through his hair, crying out in pleasure and awe at his ability to seem like he already knew every inch of you by heart.

“O-Oh my,” you squeaked out, your jaw agape as you tried to grind your hips against his face as he groaned delicious vibrations against your core, his tongue in place of his fingers greedily drawing your essence from your walls in filthy slurps that had you sobbing praises in a pleading mantra as you writhed in place.

“That’s it, good girl,” Aegon praised between quiet growls, kitten-licking your tented and overstimulated bud leaving you whining and yearning for more. The coil had begun to wind up tightly in your lower belly creating a burning sensation that threatened to snap like a taut rubber band.

“I’m gonna’ come,” you cried out softly and he chuckled darkly, nipping your sensitive flesh before suckling harshly that elicited a sharp yelp from your throat that quickly morphed into a wail of surprise as you flew headfirst into your first orgasm in almost two years. Aegon feasted and slurped every drop that expelled from your contracting cunt like a starved man, groaning in delight when your evidence of ecstasy from his touch spilled from your aching core and into his greedy mouth that caused your toes to curl painfully.

Father Aegon quickly stood up, not bothering to wipe his fingers and chin that were still glistening with the residue of your orgasm causing a deep blush to form on your flushed cheeks as you slowly came back to reality from the sound of his belt unbuckling.

Aegon hastily reached into his pants and pulled his throbbing cock free from the confines of his black dress trousers, watching his beautifully plump lips parting when he slapped the angrily flushed head against your weeping cunt a few times. His vile actions were so bewildering you were rendered speechless once more, unable to formulate words when looking up at him with bleary eyes as he fondled your folds for a few seconds, gathering your slick and smearing it across his tip and down his thick shaft waiting impatiently to fuck you in half.

“This is wrong. I-We shouldn’t do this. I don’t want this. God for-,” you managed to blurt out in soft whimpers, lying to yourself to try to hold onto the last shred of dignity you had while shaking your head only earning a sadistic smile in response from Father Aegon as he cut you off.

“You don’t want this? You weren’t the same girl watching me, pressing her thighs together as she hid in the library? Stupid girl, you’re so desperate and touch-starved, I could smell your cunt from outside. Your False God isn’t here. He can’t save you,” Aegon cooed softly, shutting you up immediately as you were left staring at him like he sprouted three-heads. You wouldn’t be surprised at this lint though. A priest using the words ‘False God’— how ironic.

Despite his cruel words, his tone of voice was almost sickly sweet if his hand wasn’t guiding the head of his cock back to your entrance and you braced yourself with a shrill gasp while he leaned forward, his lips brushing against yours while he giggled maniacally under his breath sending chills of fear down your spine.

Father Aegon whispered in a taunting sneer as he continued to threaten you in a gravelly voice under his breath, the stench of wine still lingering on his tongue mixed with your release, “oh, pretty girl, the only God here is me,” and with that, he pistoned his hips forward.

A sharp hissing cry fell from your lips feeling the tip of his cock parting your neglected walls, splitting you from the inside out as your jaw hung agape and his eyes were wide– almost deliriously so as his own jaw hung agape too as if he was breathing out the energy of the cries carried out by your exhales while it seemed as though your body was losing energy as the seconds passed on. Like his hand, his hips made work establishing a steady pace as he fucked you open for him, drawing raw shrieks from your diaphram that forced him to clamp his hand down over your mouth.

“Shut the fuck up,” Aegon snarled against the back of his hand as your eyes rolled back, his lips kissing the corner of your parted lips when he finally let go of your mouth after the initial burn within your core dissolved and your sobs died down. His plump lips continued to kiss down your jaw, suckling and nibbling up and down your neck as you moaned and cried out shamelessly.

His words were absolutely vile and defiling and he knew it only spurred your innocent heart further, his hand that was pressed against your mouth dropping back down to grope your breast as he fucked you deeply, “God your cunt was made for my cock. Fuck it’s so fuckin’ tight– you like it when I talk to you like that? You like being fucked like some needy slut? ‘Course you do. What would your Sisters think if they found out what their whore pupil was doing in here?”

“I can’t, I can’t,” you suddenly started blabbering out in response despite your own legs hiking up around his hips to draw him in closer, your hands reaching up and gripping onto whatever you could while you rocked back and forth to his merciless motions.

“Yes you can,” Aegon panted breathlessly against your skin, his tongue swiping across your collarbone as he grunted over and over in his own world of desire, the lewd sound of skin slapping and your cunt squelching was foul in harmony with the considerably romantic blazing of the fireplace while he kissed his way back up your neck and caught your lips in another fiery, sloppy kiss between grunts and moans and cries of pleasure.

He murmured against your lips and his free hand not holding you down against the desktop in place by your breast being kneaded between his fingers, reaching between the two of you with his other hand and rubbing furious circles on your overstimulated clit, “say my fuckin’ name. give it all to me.”

“Aeg- I’m,” you cried out against his lips trying to obey his command to use his name while feeling the coil quickly wind tight once more as he effortlessly fucked you apart. As you came, stars littered your blacked out vision as you trembled and writhed, your spine arching pathetically trying to gather as much friction as possible while you shook in pleasure. Aegon moaned lowly feeling your walls contract and squeeze his cock as he continued without stopping, fucking you straight through the waves of ecstasy that left you feeling as though you had to piss everywhere, but that wasn’t what it was.

You could not have cared any less about any repercussions of your undoing with this man tonight— until he pulled out, flipped you around and bent you over the desk, plunging back inside of your cunt from a new angle causing a mewl to rip through you, and even more so when your walls fluttered down and you practically squirted back, coating both his legs and yours from your newfound experience of being overstimulated.

But as Aegon was turning you around, you suddenly had the perfect view of Father Aegon in the reflection of a mirror that had been hanging on the wall behind you, now seeing him in a full display in a reflection for the first time and took in the image that could have fueled your nightmares for the rest of eternity.

His shadow was cast up against the ceiling from the flames of the hearth illuminated, except two massive wings stood above Aegon and joined his body’s shadow as you mewled out incomprehensible words of confusion through the haze of pleasure that wracked your mind.

“Aegon,” your voice cracked, your eyes flickering to the mirror hanging on the wall dead ahead of the two of you, finally seeing Father Aegon for who he was finally through another lense and the sight alone made a scream of fear tear through you, but once more his hand came clasping down on your mouth and another sharp cursed reprimand dripping in poison was hurled at you from behind. The reflection of the man that had you bent over like a plaything, pistoning his thick cock roughly in and out of your aching cunt in the reflection of the mirror was unlike any creature you’d ever laid eyes on before.

In the reflection, while your face was streaked with tears and flushed in terror, his face looked nothing like what you saw with your own eyes, his reflection having beady black eyes, almost paper white skin, teeth long and sharp like fanged razors and his hands with long, clawed digits. You couldn’t miss the tall, pointed and curly black horns and the almost impressive black feathered wings that slowly rose and outstretched in the air after you said his name.

You couldn’t pull your eyes from the mirror even after he said your name, his hand eventually let go of your mouth and roughly grabbed your jaw, holding your head steady. Tears flowed hot from your eyes as you tried to thrash in his hold but it was no use as he chuckled wickedly above you, his pupils blown wide but it was no comparison to the dark, gaping holes you saw in the reflection of the mirror.

Father Aegon was no Father, no priest at all, learning within seconds that life was in fact cruel like that. Was there truly a God now realizing you had the entire situation practically spelt out for you when you translated that ancient scripture in the library, but you were too naive to realize the foreshadowing. The name of the shapeshifting apparatus isnt Agneo. It’s fucking Aegon.

This revelation truly meant only one thing: Aegon was a demon, and you, by saying his name, sealed off the deal and selling him your soul, his hand angling your chin up and to the side to press his lips down on yours, his tongue working your mouth apart once more, grunting against your lips when his pace faltered.

You felt your womb grow heavy while he panted and mewled, his wretched seed spurting from the head of his cock as his hips twitched between stilled moments, painting your walls as he moaned into the crook of your neck. You thought it’d be the end of the night, your mind too frazzled to even comprehend what to do next as your blurry eyes cracked open from being scrunched shut.

But Aegon’s nightmarish reflection remained the same, his smile sinister and evil as his snakelike tongue sharp and black as could be trailed up the side of your cheek as his hand kept its tight grip on your chin to hold you steady while he collected your salty tears on his tastebuds.

“Aegon…Please don’t hurt me,” you whispered pathetically, trying to claw at his taloned grip on your face and it almost struck a chord within his despicable body as he chuckled darkly, placing a soft kiss on your trembling cheekbone.

“I think it’s too late for that, sweet girl, you taste too divine,” Aegon purred softly, your doe eyes wide with horror watching in the reflection of his other hand reaching up, his clawed talon delicately moving a stray lock of hair from your face. He actually admired you, pleading through tears and drool and all, but the moment had to end at some point as his clawed hand caressed your temple and he murmured softly against the apple of your cheek.

“Just know this though, so far, I think you were my favorite. I might actually miss you,” Aegon kissed your pillowed flesh for the last time after vocalizing his odd apology that almost felt genuinely sentimental before his talons dug into your chin and your temple to hold you steady as you cried out in protest, then silenced for eternity after his wrists rolled and snapped your neck.

His deflating cock was still buried to the hilt within you as you dropped lifelessly against the desk, and the demon removed himself from his latest victim with a triumphant smile. He hastily readjusted himself and your skirt to cover your modesty, not that you were alive anyway to care, as he sat back down in his seat.

Father Aegon kicked up and crossed his legs on the desk while pouring himself another chalice of wine, continuing to admire your lifeless expression of shock while your pupils slowly dilated, and the blood that slowly dribbled out of your nostrils and out from your lips onto the desk. The blood dripped down onto the floor while your lost soul descended to the pits of Hell with that same sinister smirk he wore the first time he laid his eyes on you.

[delirious-donna]

Baby, I Would Die For You [Toji Fushiguro]

an: flirting with your boss is always dangerous but when you find that the feelings are reciprocated, it’s hard to resist the urge to give Toji everything.

pairing: Toji Fushiguro x female reader

warnings: boss/subordinate dynamic, flirting, lewd talk, pussy eating, reader is not a shy wallflower, biting and mark making, pussy drunk Toji, a little humour (I think)

Masterlist

What you were doing was wrong. It surely broke every HR policy you could think of, and you should stop, walk away before you crossed that final line that could never be taken back or undone. The problem was… you didn’t want to. 

Toji Fushiguro might be your boss, but he was so much more than that to you. Seeing him as simply the man you reported directly to was impossible after months of not-so-subtle flirtations. Famed for his direct approach and no-nonsense attitude towards pretty much everything, others might be surprised by how coy he acted when the two of you were alone. 

Those long hours picking over every little detail in the latest performance reports or going over his schedule for the upcoming week were times you looked forward to, perhaps even the highlight of your week if you were totally honest. The smile that rose to his lips when you shimmied into his office, closing the door with your hip as you balanced two coffees and your notepad and pen, was one that never failed to tighten all the muscles in your lower half. 

With a thick head of midnight black hair that lay artistically messy and piercing green eyes that had a way of delving straight into your soul, you would be a fool not to find him attractive, but it wasn’t just that. His humour was wickedly sharp, so many times your sides had hurt from being folded over with laughter, sometimes at your own expense, but there was a kindness to him that piqued your interest. 

Every morning, without fail, he would deposit your favourite caffeinated beverage on your desk even though that really should be your duty to bring to him, and he always asked how you were. It wasn’t a pleasantry either, he really wanted to know how you were and took interest in your life outside of the walls of the office. Never had you shared so much of yourself with a superior and you didn’t think you ever would again, not if it came with the swelling feelings that took root in your heart. 

It didn’t help that he was possibly the most tactile man you had ever encountered, always finding the smallest reason to lay a hand on you and none of it you would consider inappropriate, or well, more inappropriate than it already was for a manager to touch his subordinate. His fingers grazed yours when you handed him files, he held doors open for you and the warmth of his palm would fit snugly at the small of your back. He would nudge your shoulder with his when you made him laugh in the lift, and he would hold out his hand expectantly anytime you got a fresh manicure, not happy until he had inspected the handiwork up close. “Nice colour. It’s better than the last set.” 

Of course, those touches didn’t help with smothering the flame that had long since ignited. Oh no, they only stoked them with gentle care until what was once a fledgling match struck and sure to die as soon as the stick was engulfed, was now a roaring bonfire in the pit of your stomach. It turned you just that little bit more cautious, and you were sure he had noticed but he never called you on it. 

You found yourself admiring the cut of his suits far more regularly, staring at the white expanse across his chest and back. His hands were their own source of fascination, how he always played with a pen between his fingers and the deliberate strokes he placed to the beads of condensation running down his favourite soda cans. How could you not wonder what they might feel like on your bare skin, on the sensitive inside of your thighs, cupping your sex or playing with your breasts?  

So many nights were spent alone in your tiny apartment, a toy pressed to your aching clit and your eyes screwed shut as you imagined the buzz being replaced by a hungry mouth with a sharp tongue and magnetic green eyes. That scar on his lip pulled taut at every flick delivered to your sticky folds, and his large palms full of the meat of your ass. The ghost of wet slurps filled your ears until the band of tension that had been growing all day long snapped clean in two and you came with a shout of his name, only to be brought back down to Earth with a bump. He wasn’t with you; you weren’t wetting up his ruggedly handsome face and he would never know that you wanted that more than anything. 

That was, until one evening where your flirtatious bantering finally came to a head… 

It was well past clocking off time, and you were still at your desk finalising some last-minute spreadsheets that found their way into your hands way too late on a Friday afternoon when you heard a rumbling call from the office at your back.  

“What you still doing here?” Toji’s voice rang out to the near-empty office, your finger hovering over the mouse poised to shut down and finally head out. Instead of yelling back, you stood and made the two-minute journey into the corner office. 

“I was just leaving, but I could ask the same of you, Mr Fushiguro.” 

The sleeves of his white button-up were rolled to his elbows, the sinewy strength of his forearms on display and distracting you from the attempt at an intimidating look in his direction. You swallowed, cursing the abundance of runny saliva coating the inside of your mouth. 

He clicked his tongue against his teeth. “Got nowhere better to be, but you on the other hand… don’t you got a date or something?” Toji let his cheek rest atop his fist, drinking in the sight of you after a long day. 

Your outfit was just the tiniest bit ruffled, blouse untucked in one place that you unlikely hadn’t noticed, and your hair had more than a strand or two out of place from all the times you had taken it down only to pull it back up moments later. The lipstick from earlier that day had long faded, but it only made your lips look all the more kissable, naked and in need of his slanted over yours. 

“Not that it’s any of your business, but no,” you asserted with a roll of your eyes, arms folding over your chest in a defensive gesture that wasn’t lost on either of you. 

Toji’s eyebrow lifted, and he beckoned you closer with a careful flick of his wrist until your legs shook, closing the distance until you were by the side of his desk looking down at him. His stance was spread wide, not a damn care in the world and you nervously glanced towards the door which stood wide open. 

An expansive hand roughened in a way you wouldn’t expect of a man who slaved away behind a desk, wrapped around your arm to pull it free from the way you had it hugged around your middle. It felt like a crackle of pure electricity when his fingers encircled your wrist, thumb delicately placed over the thumping pulse. There was air trapped in your throat, bubbling up but refusing to escape past your lips whilst the man you teasingly called ‘boss man’ manoeuvred you to sit on his desk, shining forest green eyes searching your face carefully. 

“Pretty little thing like you and you don’t have a date? That can’t be right.” 

His inky black hair looked so soft and relaxed given how late the hour was. His tanned skin seemed so intriguing under the low lighting emanating from the lone desk lamp flared to life, like you might find hidden secrets if you were to go peeking beneath the crisp cut of his shirt. There was a dusting of stubble gracing his cheeks and jaw, the sharp contour highlighting the masculine aura that swirled around him without effort, and it affected you more than you admitted to yourself. Your thoughts became a jumble, entirely wayward as you wondered how that sharp scratchy stubble would feel against your thighs. 

He wasn’t stupid, of that you should know by now, and your micro-expressions and breathy pants were more than ample evidence of the direction of your mind. Toji’s head canted further to this side, knowing what you wanted and wondering if he would have to voice them for you. His eyes fell to your hand, watching it slowly curl inward and then back out with little crescent moon indentations appearing on your palm. His mouth sloped open, ready to help you cross this final line at long last, but before he could, you surprised him. 

“Why would I be interested in anyone other than the man sitting before me?” 

Immediately, you gasped. Your brain caught up with the words that poured instinctually from your body, and dare he say… heart, with a sharp intake of breath. He could feel the heat rising from you, spreading outward in search of dry kindling to expand the fury of the inferno, but Toji was already aflame. He needed no encouragement to be consumed by the fire, he simply masked it far more adeptly than you. 

His cock thickened further against his thigh, the ache settling into the depths of his stomach and for once, he wouldn’t have to wait to relieve it by hand alone. For weeks he had found that his mind pinged back to you with worrying regularity, especially when he found the need to fist himself in the shower before the working day began. Long had he wondered if you would bite just as much as you did when he challenged you professionally. He wanted to know if you would give as good as you got because Lord knows he needed that. 

Gone were the days when he found the simpering doll eyes of painted young beauties more than a passing attraction. No more could he find it within him to chase after those who would roll over immediately for the dark flame that resided within his heart. There was no thrill in complete subservience. He could only wet his dick so many times to women that he shared no interests with, where there was no witty repertoire or conversation deeper than a puddle already drying after a rainstorm. 

You stood up to him when his mood darkened and others scurried away as fast as their legs would carry them, refusing to be a chew toy for his frustrations. You worked in the same manner he did, head down with complete diligence until the task was completed, but always to kick back when all the i’s were dotted and the t’s crossed. Work hard, play harder.  

Not only that, but you were receptive to his touch, drawn to it like magnetised water. Whether you were aware or not, your spine would arch subtly when his palm filled the space at your lower back, and your pupils dilated when his fingers skimmed yours in exchange of hot drinks or paperwork. He wanted to know, once and for all if they would dilate even further when he reached between your thighs to pet the pretty pussy he knew resided there, if you would lose the sharpness of your gaze or whether you would become even more calculating when he thumbed at your clit. His money was on the former, though he wasn’t known for making good bets. 

“So, what you’re saying is… you want me,” he conceded with a jerk of his wrist to bring you stumbling down onto his spread lap, the weight of you settling perfectly over his thighs. “I’m flattered, but I can’t deny that you’ve got good taste.” 

His voice mellowed, a hint of humour in the words but one daring look at his face told you everything you needed to know. This was no game, it was no laughing matter and if you wanted to escape, this would be your last chance. Toji was baiting you, and he should realise by now that you never backed away from a challenge, and certainly not when your nightly desires were being served up on a silver platter. 

Bracing both palms on his shoulders, you moved into a more comfortable position, which meant you were straddled over his lap and that did not go unnoticed.

“Like you haven’t thought about this, Mr Fushiguro,” you chided with a squeeze of your knees at his hips. “I bet you’ve spent a time or two imagining what it would be like to bend me right over this very desk.” 

“Little fucking minx… you’re speaking to your boss, y’know?” 

Despite his comment, his hands passed agonisingly slowly down your sides, mapping out the contours of your frame as your waist pinched in only to flare at the swell of generous hips. He throbbed from the knowledge he was gaining, intent on putting it to good use. 

“I’m well aware, boss man.” 

Toji chuckled at the long-standing nickname, a frisson on delight travelling down his spine at the new intonation behind it. Leaning back in his chair, you followed him, your face inches from his and sweeping over his features with interest. You couldn’t help but reach out, fingertips skimming the jagged scar bisecting the side of his mouth. He didn’t move, didn’t try to stop you, only focused on your eyes whilst you touched the raised skin. Maybe one day he’d share its origin, but for now he was content to let you dream up your own stories for how he acquired it. 

Your gaze bounced between his eyes. “Kiss me.” 

His large palm gripped at the back of your neck, eliminating the remaining distance until his lips met yours—finally. It was surprisingly soft, his hold determined but gentle and there was none of the rough urgency you had expected. You melted against his chest, the playful resistance ebbing out of your bones and turning you pliant into his mammoth hold. His whole upper torso dwarfed you, making you feel small for the first time in a world where you usually didn’t. 

There was coffee on his tongue, the bitter edge of the roasted beans softened by vanilla and a hint of chocolate, coaxing you to take more and more until you were satisfied, and everything was not how you expected, but in the best way possible. There was no pawing at your clothes, no impenetrable grip on your skin and absolutely no sense that he wanted to stop or change the pace. 

It was you who drove it harder, you who pushed against his chest and dove your fingers through his hair. His thumb stroked over the pulse in your neck from the hold he maintained, smiling against your open mouth and tasting your moans on his tongue. He’d stay like this a while if you’d let him, but there was an itch to be scratched and he’d be damned if he was going to let it go unaddressed. 

“Come ‘ere, darling, I know what you need,” he rumbled between little nudges of his nose along your cheekbone until you glanced at him with those spectacularly expressive eyes, desire not even thinly veiled any more. 

You found yourself spread like a feast on his desk, the clutter swept to the floor like you had seen play out in so many movies and never believed it happened in real life. Toji towered over you, clever fingers working to divest you of your blouse without jerking the sides clean apart and scattering the buttons across the floor. Your legs wound around his lean waist; skirt hiked up well above your hips and you were shameless in pressing your clothed pussy against the hard ridge of his erection. 

“Mr—” 

“Toji,” he corrected. An unyielding finger and thumb captured your chin until you conceded with a nod. 

“Toji… I need you.” 

“Where do you need me, sweetheart?” He knew exactly where you needed him, but where was the fun in giving in so readily? You were strong-willed and perhaps just as stubborn as he was, it would be nice to see how much ground you were willing to concede. 

His lips skimmed your neck, traversed the expanse of your collarbone and down to the perfect spill of your breasts restrained by the flimsy gauze of your bra. You arched beautifully when his tongue grazed over the lace cup, nipple quickly peaking to be captured between his lips. You hadn’t yet answered his question and he bared his teeth, careful but deliberately biting at you through the thin barrier until you howled and snapped your head down. 

“Asked you a question, need an answer. You know how this shit works.” 

“Lower!” You huffed through your nose, panting at the delicious tug of his teeth and lips on your breast and wishing he’d do something about the bra. “I need you lower.” 

Toji tsked. Moving a hand around your back, he unclasped your bra and let it fall to the floor along with your blouse. He met you with glimmering eyes, a path of wet kisses decorating your skin until he stopped at your midriff. His tongue dipped into your navel, swirling around and around with sick satisfaction quirking his lips. Your stomach quivered from the action, jaw slack at something you had never experienced or expected. 

“Here?” He asked absently, sucking little bruises into the soft rolls that begged for his attention. Salt, soap and the faint remnants of perfume crept over his tastebuds, his antics at teasing you somewhat backfiring when he became intent on creating an image of his own on your stomach. 

“No,” you bit out. The worst of your ire melted away at the vision of the hulking man looming over your midsection, his eyes at half-mast and a satisfied grin each time his mouth left your skin long enough to witness. “Please…” 

Toji groaned at the hissed “please” you delivered through gritted teeth, your small fingers threaded through the tufts of his hair and offered a yank that might see a lesser man whimper like a pup, but you’d have to try harder than that if that was your goal.  

Massaging at your ample hips, he let himself sit once more and rolled the chair back, so his face was now level with the heat of your cunt. The seat of your underwear was soiled with arousal, the wet spot seemingly growing beneath his study. From this angle you couldn’t see his face, you had no way of knowing that he was committing this scene to memory and adjusting the troublesome trouser snake to be free of distractions for now. 

“Impatient as always. How many times have you taken the stairs ‘cause you couldn’t bear waiting for the lift to arrive any longer?” 

You baulked; caught in a moment of pure disbelief as he asked you the seemingly innocent question whilst tracing the outline of your labia through the cotton of your underwear. He hummed, smug in the knowledge he had made you speechless for the first time in months and determined to continue his winning streak. Leaning in, he inhaled the scent of you and let out a perverted exhale. 

“Fuck… yeah. I knew you’d smell like a whole fucking meal,” he breathed against the inside of your thigh. The points of sharp teeth bit with delicate care, the plush flesh trembling beneath the imprints of what would become his unique markings. 

Your upper arms shook from raising yourself up, determined that you watch his every action for as long as you could. Toji rummaged in the desk drawer, searching blindly as he huffed in your dewy scent with his nose pressed to your cunt. Without warning, the flash of a blade caught your eye, and you shrieked as he held it under one side of your panties, slicing through it before repeating the action on the other side.  

“Are you insane? You’ve got a fucking weapon in the office?” 

You failed to mention how wet you were, how tightly you were clenching around nothing and wanting to feel him buried deep in your belly. He gave a bark of laughter, lifting his hand with the offending item without so much as raising his head. He wasn’t buying your act one little bit, his nose brushing over the smattering of damp curls. 

“Oh.” You blinked at the letter opener held between two fingers, the blaze of your self-righteousness smothered immediately. 

Toji spread you open, peeling you apart like the petals of a flower to reveal the aching little bud at its core. He thumbed at it once, pressing the thick digit into his mouth and bringing it back dripping in spittle. This time, his tongue played along your folds, sucking the skin between his lips and driving tight circles around your erect little button. His nostrils flared at being buried in your essence, your thighs quaking on either side of his head and he palmed at the meat of your ass with his free hand—desperate for more. 

Whilst the urge to pull his cock free from his trousers was burning white-hot, he shook off the weight of his own relief in favour of ensuring yours. If you weren’t squealing his name to the ceiling, he wouldn’t be satisfied anyway, and wasn’t that the whole point of this? You asked for what you wanted when you wanted it and with how you were rolling your hips dangerously close to the edge of the desk, you had no qualms about being as direct as he craved. 

He massaged the ring of muscles at your entrance, dipping a finger deeper only to extract it again quickly. Your hole puckered and gaped, wanting more and he repeated the action but with two fingers this time. It was a squeeze when his knuckles brushed your walls, the velvet sides gripping and holding him hostage. 

“Look atchu. Pussy got a grip on her.” 

“Toji—mouth… want it on me. Want more,” you said with a broken whimper. 

His head fell back against his neck, cracking from side to side before he rose to lay over you, his fingers still pumping in and out of your cunt to the wet squelch of your slick on his skin. You could only blink as he captured your lips, tongue curling over your teeth to deposit the taste of yourself into your mouth. It was entirely teeth and tongue as he worked you harder, thumb poised to flick over your clit each time you tried to fight for the right to inhale lungfuls of the thick air. 

“—hng… not—fuck—not what I meant!”  

Toji sat with a loud creak of his chair, his not-so-insignificant weight groaning the leather and metal to within an inch of its life. His smile was pure predator, the ink of his pupils almost eating up the entirety of his irises.  

He huffed a dry laugh. “Yeah, but I like fucking with you.” 

He didn’t wait for your reply, diving for your cunt and the tendrils of heat luring him in like a siren calling to a lost sailor. His nose nudged at your hood, giving him ample space to graze the flat of his tongue over the surface and alternating to a pointed tip that poked and pressed it in each direction. The puffy, swollen lips of your labia demanded attention too, nipping with his eyes focused on your breathing and every bodily jerk for discomfort. When he found none, only the arch of your spine and a hand finding its way back into his hair, he doubled down until you were mewling beneath him. 

Your thighs tightened around his ears, their plushness muffling your lewd moans but only heightening the noises coming from his strong chest. He grunted like an animal at every fuck of his fingers, every lap of his tongue, emboldened by the reactions you so openly displayed. With a lewd pop, his fingers escaped your tight pussy to be replaced with his mouth. The second you rutted your cunt against his eager tongue, he was done.  

Never before had he been this close to busting in his trousers, especially without help, but the way you humped against his face brought out a younger, less controlled version of himself. A shiver coursed up his spine as you fucked yourself on his strong, wet muscle, chants of his name falling from your sinful little mouth. He could feel the tension in your limbs, the curl of your toes against his shoulders and the bough broke with one carefully aimed suck of your clit. 

The rush of adrenaline tore through you, mixed with dopamine and every reminder that this was completely wrong. You pinched at your nipples in turn, prolonging the first cresting wave as it broke over you. You felt limp, out of control and so fucking good you were certain you wouldn’t sleep for a week until this high wore off. Toji was a drug and you never wanted to be clean. His mouth slurped and guzzled, swallowing you down and it felt like if he could unhinge his jaw and devour you whole, he would. 

With a whine and a wince, you managed to shove against his heavy mass and buy yourself a reprieve. He looked as drunk as you felt, sluggish and kiss swollen as he brought his chin to rest against your lower abdomen. You wanted to ask for him to fuck you now; to flip you over and press you into the wood so he could fill your belly with all that he had taken and more, but he reached those sticky fingers up and tapped your lips before you could speak. 

“I haven’t spilled in my shorts since I was a teenager, shit…” He chuckled, admiring your tongue wrapped around the calloused edges of his fingers and cleaning him so efficiently, the perfect little worker bee that you were. 

“Guess I’m out of luck for a fuck, huh?” 

“Not here. I want your juices staining my sheets, not my paperwork,” he countered, kissing your stomach once more. His soft green bedroom eyes fixed raptly on your sweet face. 

“Sounds reasonable, Mr Fushiguro. We shouldn’t push our luck anyway. I’m surprised security didn’t catch us in the act!” 

Toji laughed, wiping a tear from his eye. “You’re right, sweetheart, but the cleaner has been past twice.” 

[reverseexorcist]

★ 𝐅𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐁𝐢𝐫𝐝 ★

"If it's alright could I request Carmilla Carmine x a fem reader who's a fallen angel? Like maybe they met during extermination and got their wings ripped off for not wanting to kill Carmilla's kids or they were already in hell with Carmilla for some time before the extermination? If you don't want to do this that's totally fine, and sorry if this isn't how to request stuff :)."

Honestly, with how this ended, I'm really tempted to write a much fluffier part 2 to this

Part 2 ↫ Right here

➲ 𝐂𝐚𝐫𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐚 Carmine + !Fallen Angel!Reader

➲ Romantic ☐, Platonic ☒

➲ 𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 Count; 3,462 Words

➲ Warnings/notes; Female reader, descriptions of gore/blood, canonical Lute slander (sorry Lute), romantic or platonic wasn't requested so I went with platonic to fit the story more (if the requester wants romantic just feel free to ask me), mother mode Carmilla (she might be a bit ooc because of this),

Oh wow.

Oh wow were you shaking.

You couldn't tell if it was from the excitement or the nerves - Probably both if you were being honest with yourself, but you couldn't shake off the vibrating feeling tingling beneath your skin that made you want to fly laps around heaven. Your stomach was doing flips, but you led mask only reflected your nearly psychopathic grin and twitching eye.

Even after your lieutenant Lute shot you a stern look, no doubt pissed off because you couldn't sit still for five goddamn seconds, you still couldn't resist fidgeting with your spear. It was sparkly, and somewhat heavy, and a murderous weapon that was entirely yours! It was also cold, freezing almost. Even against your gloves it made your palms feel numb and seemed to shine in sync with your own valiant excitement.

Baby's first extermination, basically. While the name certainly sounded scary, you'd been waiting for this day for six months (you and the other forty-five cadets in your platoon) and you were ready to do your best! Sure, you were still technically a rookie, hanging around the flock and bringing up the rear of the exorcists, but this was how you proved yourself to rise the ranks, right?

Your heart stopped beating in your chest when you finally reached the front. Holy shit, that was the high seraphim! Sera, right? Oh wow, she really was much much taller in person, towering above the clustering sea of black and white murderous intent. Her outward vibe was motherly and caring, but you could see the glint of distain, guilt and regret sparking in the deepest depths of her eyes. Which was confusing, because you were doing a good thing, right? Ridding the divine planes of sinners irredeemable souls.

The thoughts crowded your mind - Evil, twisted monsters crawling around like bugs in the brimstone crowded crevices of hell. You could only imagine the satisfaction of killing your first hell spawn.

It would have to be cool no doubt. Something big with lots of teeth and claws and that could breathe fire! You had to come home with a cool story to brag about. You'd heard the tales from all your superiors. From everyone including the first man Adam himself, your respectably awesome (if a little terrifying) lieutenant Lute, to the other lieutenants like Michael and Gabriel. You'd have to off a demon built like a mountain to get their attention.

And by the big man himself, you were going to do it. Even if it took you a hundred years, you could already see yourself commanding a group just like yours, bearing a helmet with horns big and curved and bold, black stripes stippled along your ivory wings.

With a very particular pep in your step, you saluted the high seraphim Sera respectively, head cocked up just so you could regard her kindly warmth in fullness. Her smile didn't reach her eyes, and although she swiftly sent you on your way with the rest of your platoon, you couldn't help but let your nerves sway your resolve ever so slightly.

It didn't matter though! You unfurled your wings with perhaps a bit too much of a dramatic flair, but with your spear in hand and helm polished so it shined with malevolent glory, you kicked off without a second thought, tailing right behind where you were supposed to be.

Your first impression of hell was the heat.

With the extermination already well under way, raging fires were already burning up half of the city sending whorls of smog up into the air. You easily battered it away with a few strong flaps of your wings. With your head on the swivel, your eagle-eyes peered around the desolate land for the forms of the sinners struggling to thrive below, silhouettes hidden by the thick layer of smoke and ash blanketing the landscape.

Lieutenant Lute furled out her wings below you, a screeching war cry echoing throughout the battlefield as she all but left your rookie platoon in the metaphorical dust. The sound itself only spurred you on, itching for the blood of a demon on the blade of your angelic spear. Without a second thought, you tucked your wings to you sides and dived below, headfirst into the fray.

Billowing flames licked past you harmlessly, though they burned like hell (which seemed rather apt, considering where you). You didn't falter, flying through the embers like a goddamn phoenix ready to cleanse the realm sprawled out beneath you. The solid wingbeats of two of your fellow cadets only strengthened your resolution, a holy fire burning in your soul - An itch to clear the filth of devil scum away. This was the chaotic strength that your captain had sought to build in you, and now you were finally able to act on it.

But everywhere you looked, you only found simple, humanoid souls running and screaming in terror. Eyes wide, half-dead or bloodied beyond belief as they scrambled to find shelter from the onslaught of exorcists like yourself. Nowhere could you see the mangled forms of the demons you'd been taught to slaughter. Descriptions from your seniors before you passed through your mind - 'gleaming eyes with with wrath and lust', 'gangly limbs twisted to an unholy form', 'mouths filled with rows of sharp teeth, and claws like knives'.

You faltered, confused. The words of Lute rang out in your mind.

"Of course, it's not like they can actually hurt you. You're all warriors, the toughest, just use your spears to stab the shit out of them!"

You were alone now. You couldn't hear the comforting sounds of your fellow rookies behind you anymore. They were well in front of you now, peering around with a similar confusion to yours. But to your absolute horror, they simply shrugged their shoulders and dived forward with bloodlust evident in their glowing white masks. Silver points of spears were jammed through the heads of the terrified demons below. But were they demons? They didn't look like them at all. Every single book you'd seen depicting demons drew them as eldritch monsters with too many eyes to count, tentacles and claws and fangs with nary but bloodlust and vile thoughts hidden within their slitted eyes.

But the demons in front of you looked just like people. You could see the way their faces contorted in terror. You could see them scrambling to help what you could only assume were friends and family, pulling them along and carrying the ones who couldn't run for themselves. You could only feel your heart fall as you watched one of your best friends land on top of a sinner already crushed by rubble, turquoise skin stained red. The begged and pleaded and cried, but their voice was silenced as the spearhead sunk into their skull.

You flinched. The world around you ignored you completely, and for once, you were completely happy to go unnoticed.

Shakily, you touched-down in a nearby street. It was littered with already oozing corpses, but other than that it was peacefully empty. At least here the sounds of violence and pain and terror was muffled, far away enough that you could at least try to distance yourself and get your breathing under control.

You barely reeled in a gag as the smell of blood invaded your senses.

Was this really what you wanted to do for the rest of your life? You could still see yourself in your mind's eye, a model exorcist like your lieutenant now leading her own platoon into another extermination. Maybe this would be a one off, just a shock to the system that would get your mind reworked into killing mode. But, the more you thought about it, the more your heart clenched in pain and terror that seemingly matched the suffering souls around you. You were an agent of heaven, you thought you were killing mindless monsters, not those with human souls! Sure, there were probably shitty people fucking around down here, but what about all those who had to sin in self defence?

A chorus of startled gasps startled you out of your panic ridden stupor. Your wings flared up, trying to make yourself look bigger, more threatening as you wheeled around. The spear in your hands looked more like a prop at this point, and it was clear that you had minimal idea how to use it inside a proper battle. But still, you fumbled with it and pointed it threateningly in the direction of the two demons that had appeared right behind you.

They clutched each other, stumbling backwards and further away from the danger of your angelic weapon. One of them placed an arm in front of the other, her eyes narrowing behind her red-tinted glasses as if she was both terrified by you, but was daring you to do something about it.

But still, you could see them shaking from where you stood. They both seemed rooted to the ground, the one with platinum blonde hair refused to take her eyes off of you, but the demon behind her (maybe her sister? A friend?) was looking around nervously.

You could see yourself reflected in those crimson specs, and for once it made you freeze. You'd seen yourself in uniform plenty of times before, the steel boots and guard gloves and the led, horned helmet, but it always seemed almost comforting before. When you were surrounded by your cohorts, it made you fit in. Out here, you realised, you were the monster.

The ever-present smile on your mask shrunk, falling into a grimace as your grip on your weapon tightened. Your wings drew in, you shrunk backwards, almost stumbling over your own feet in the process of trying your hardest to get away. You never wanted to scare people.

So drowned by your own confusion and fear and reckless thoughts of worry about the future that you didn't notice the confusion growing the faces of the demons in front of you turn into abject horror as a far more ominous silhouette grew behind you.

"I thought I taught you not to hesitate," Lute growled in your ear, placing her free hand on your shoulder and digging her fingers in till your were sure a bruise was marred into your skin. You didn't respond, couldn't even if you wanted to. The trembling that rattled you only grew stronger, and you fumbled as your hands cramped painfully. With a resounding clatter, your spear dropped from your grasp an on to the brazen brimstone floor.

Lute growled.

She didn't say anything, but she knew. The both of you knew by now. You couldn't kill a sinner.

Lute didn't even hesitate before shoving you to the ground. Your head collided with solid stone painfully even with your helmet on, stars shining behind your eyes as her words blurred together as she pressed her foot firmly between your shoulder blades. Your wings shivered and spread involuntarily, and you feared the moments that would come next. Lute was unpredictable, but this could only end with bloodshed.

The two girls still hadn't moved, transfixed in horror as they watched the scene in front of them play out.

Asphalt stung your hands and you tried to claw your way to freedom, fingertips digging into the scorched Earth as you started crying. Lute, however, was stronger than you. Of course she was, she'd been doing this for centuries, and you were still a fledging on her first trip out of heaven.

You never thought it would end like this.

Lute dug her fingers into your wings, tangling into your still downy feathers before she yanked with all her might. The scream she tore from your lips was hellish, agonising, yet the blended with the sounds of violence all around you. You were sure you blacked out several times throughout the process, but by the time your old lieutenant was done with you, barely anything but feathery stumps and golden blood remained of your wings.

You could only curl up, cry and watch as Lute tossed clumps of feathers aside as she stalked toward the two demons that still hadn't had the thought to run. And for the first time in your life, you felt sorry for the sinners that populated hell's ring of wrath.

She would make them suffer, that was for sure. If she was happy enough to tear of another angel's wings, you could only imagine what she would do to a sinner. You didn't want to imagine, and your mind was fuzzy enough that you thankfully didn't have to.

The sound of something sharp rang throughout the air. It made you groan in pain, the sound piercing your ears and making your brain rattle in your skull. Sharp - 'Tink tink tink tink tink.' If you could see the look of relief coming across the demons faces, a part of you might've urged Lute to run. Only, she had just torn your wings off with little qualm, and now you had no shits left to give if she lived or not.

The exorcist never got the chance to strike, her weapon torn from her hands and thrown across the street till it collided with a bloody body. Lute herself barely had time to react before she was struck over the head once, then twice in rapid succession. A whirlwind of white and angelic steel and pure fury launched herself in the path between the two demons and the exorcist. It was almost exhilarating to watch, seeing Lute strike out with her fists in a pathetic attempt of hand to hand combat against her new foe. Whoever they were, they were really fucking fast, almost too fast for you to keep up with.

The fight was over before it started. Without her weapon, Lute couldn't do much against the sinner she was pitted against, and as ruthless as she was, she knew when a battle was lost. In a flurry of black and white feathers, she fled. And then the newcomer's attention was shifted to you.

At this point, you would've welcomed death. The pain alone was making you drift slightly, and you didn't even have the energy left to groan when whoever nudged you slightly with something hard and cold.

"Mother.." The words were so soft, floating away from your ears.

"We need to leave." It was undoubtably her. That voice was the one who beat Lute into the ground.

"What about..?" That was the one who called out for mother.

"Won't she tattle?" So that had to be her sister.

Those words sent a dose of adrenaline through you. With as much strength as you could muster, you clawed yourself into an upwards position. You could feel the clotting blood running down your back, but if you were going to die, you at least wanted to do so with some dignity.

Shakily, with much more effort than was really desired, you reached up and peeled your helmet off.

It clattered noisily like glass against the floor, and suddenly the world was much brighter, much more red and the air was laced with more sulphur and death than you could imagine. But what really surprised you was the look of shock written across the sinner's face.

She was tall. Really tall. The only person who could really compete was Seraphim Sera or maybe Adam, but you really couldn't tell with how delirious you were.

"Una niña?" They all looked surprised.

The one called mother took a few steps forward, confusion and anger clearly present in her eyes. But, as she kneeled down in front of your comparatively tiny form, you realised the anger wasn't directed at you.

"Did she try to hurt you?" She turned back to face her daughters. They both shared a look, but ultimately shook their heads no. That right there, was your saving grace.

She looked back at you, hair pinned into high horns, and took your helmet in her large hands. She passed it off to one of her daughters, before gently scooping you into her hold.

You whined, writhing minutely in her hold as the searing phantom pain of your wings being torn off returned. Fat tears rolled down your cheeks, and yet the demoness tutted softly, shushing you like you were a baby.

Her daughters followed without a word, and you and the family unit moved swiftly through the desolate roads. So many questions were running through your mind, and yet you couldn't find the answer to any of them, your thoughts to lost to the fog of blood loss to ever truly return.

"You better not betray me," Were the last words you heard before promptly passing out.

The plushness of a soft blanket was the first thing you felt waking up. For a moment, you felt nothing but relief realising the entire thing had been a horrid nightmare, but when you tried to rustle the numbness out of your wings, the relief was replaced with horror when you realised that your wings were just straight up missing, only two feathery stumps remaining in their place.

That made you shoot up in horror. You didn't even care about the sharp sting that ran down your spine and into your very being, you were a bit too concerned about your current predicament.

"You're awake."

That made you promptly scream before ducking under the covers like you were a nestling again. A soft sigh reached your ears, but you dared not to venture out from the warmth of the thick covers.

Not like you had a choice, though, as you were soon pried away from their safety. It was her, the demoness with the high-pinned buns. She looked down on you, red eyes glowing in the low light, and yet, you couldn't sense a smidge of hatred towards you. Only distrust and sadness laced her expression.

"How old are you?" She asked after the silence had gone on long enough.

"I'm a fledgling," Is all you said. You didn't really fancy giving too much information. Although, the look of horror the crossed her face maybe suggested that you'd already given away plenty.

"Obligan a los niños a hacer esto?" She raised a hand and carded it through her snowy tresses, locks of white hair threaded loose as she paced back and forth. You only watched her, slowly sinking back into the comfort of the warm blankets.

"You're still a child." It was a statement.

You hated being a child. You didn't want to be a child, at least, you hadn't wanted to be a child in the past. You wanted to join the ranks of the exorcists, and to do that you at least needed to be juvenile. Hell, you were lucky enough to make it into the cadets while you still had baby feathers decorating your wings. But now, the fact that yes, you were still technically a kid made your saviour look upon you with more than just disdain and hatred like any other exorcist, but rather she looked upon you with an emotion that you'd never seen before, and not one you could really name.

"You are a child, and now you have fallen," She eyed your mostly healed wing stumps, and you couldn't help but reflexively flex them anxiously. The literal weight off your back made you want to cry.

"Was this your first extermination?" She gazed upon you with a guarded look. You nodded.

"And you didn't hurt my daughters?" Another nod from you. That seemed to make her relax just a tad.

"Could you ever hurt someone?" That made you pause, the memories of the extermination rushing back to you full force. Tears grew at the corners of your eyes, and still, you answered with a simple 'no'.

She exhaled a sigh of relief before closing the distance and kneeling down to your eye level.

"Carmilla Carmine." She reached a hand out toward you. So that was her name.

You clutched your hands close to your chest, fearing her touch, but gave her your name anyway.

"What are you gonna do with me?" You asked, voice cracking. Her gaze softened, finally letting her guard slip for just a moment.

"Well, you weren't going to make it out there by yourself. You'll be staying with me," The words took a moment to sink into your mind. Well, at least it was better than death.

Gently, like she was working with a scared animal, Carmilla coaxed you out from the comfort of the bed, slowly ushering you to her side. With your wings missing and their remains bandaged, head bare and missing your exorcist helmet, it felt like the safest place in the world.

"Welcome to Hell."

Rules + Info,

Masterlist,

[mr-ys-phantasma]

🌙 Moon Phases 🌙

Agatha Harkness X Fem!Reader

Chapter 1. - Chapter 2. - Chapter 3

Chapter 4. - Chapter 5. - Chapter 6

Chapter 7. - Chapter 8. - Chapter 9

Chapter 10. - Chapter 11. - Chapter 12

Word Count: 1684

Chapter 12:

The slide was muddy, the water helping you all go down and eventually you found yourself laying on your back; almost forming a pile with the rest of the coven.

On the positive note, you were back to your normal clothes, but now they were wet; wet enough to cause you feel a chill going down your spine.

You pushed some wet strands off your face and groaned faintly at the rough stopping while your body was slowly coming down from the adrenaline rush you had.

"Ugh," you exclaimed and brought your torso to a standing position before working to loosen your black tie; feeling as if you did not get enough oxygen with all the stress from the trial.

As you did, you took notice of Agatha standing up and trying to walk away; purposely pushing and kicking the others out of her way.

You could only shake your head, and with a sigh, you managed to stand on shaky legs. Careful not to slip on the wet ground, you realised you were back in the forest; though you were unsure if you were at the same point on the road or further down ahead.

Of course, Jen and Agatha had to start bickering again.

"We're alive. We made it through the first test. Everyone is safe." Agatha argued, one hand on her waist.

You were about to agree with her, when Teen pointed out something that no one else had done so far.

"Not everyone." He argued, drawing everyone's attention. "Sharon's dead."

It was then you took notice of the laying body of the human woman, spread like a starfish. Her skin was a ghostly white and her eyes had remained open, forever frozen to whatever image she saw last before death claimed her.

"Oh, no," you exclaimed, not believing you lost someone so early; let alone the poor woman.

A part of you, the more realistic part, expected Sharon would not survive till the end but it still came as a surprise. At least you knew, she was in a better place; or at least you hoped so.

"Who's Sharon?" You heard Agatha exclaimed and as you stared at her, you could not really tell if she was joking or she was literally that clueless.

You took a threatening step forward. "The human you took with you on this road," you explained, your voice coming colder than she expected, while one hand faintly motioned for the corpse next to your feet. "The human that had no place here, Agatha"

You had remained quiet when you first saw Sharon being dragged by Agatha and even after she came with you through the door. However, you drew a line to innocent lives getting lost.

Agatha had this hatred about humans, this feeling of superiority, and it was one of the few things you often argued.

Ironically, it was where your nickname came from. For your respect and kind nature to humans, it was always seen as something too sweet in her eyes, and eventually, she found that fitting nickname.

Sure, humans did prosecute and burnt your kind, but not all of them were like that. Some were scared, others followed the crowd, and you would be lying if you said there were no witches out there who acted similar; toying and harming humans for sadistic purposes.

Agatha looked at you in surprise by your tone, evident by how her lips had parted at your words. She almost felt offended but then scoffed, hiding any sense of vulnerability she might have shown for that one second.

She should not be surprised, you always had a soft spot for humans; when the moon was full and you were in a good mood.

Yet she still did not expect such a reaction from you, especially for a woman you knew for a few hours at most.

She commented nothing, realizing you were not going to listen to her excuses. She knew when the waves were little too harsh to navigate, even for her, and she had learnt the hard way to not mingle.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

In the end, you all agreed to bury her; offering some sort of closure to her spirit.

Alice and Teen dug the grave, and you offered a silent prayer once the body was covered, the rest of the witches joining you; except for Agatha.

Now with that out of the way, one thing did remain.

You need a green Witch.

But before this could be discussed, another argument had to take place because what kind of testing would you all face if the coven bonds were not tested to the maximum.

"It's like the Ballad says... burn and brew, with coven two, and glory shall be thine" Agatha pointed out as if it wasn't obvious enough.

Apparently, it was not for Jen. "The Ballad clearly says... With coven true, glory shall be thine"

Agatha laughed. "Does it? It's Coven two"

"That doesn't make any sense"

You knew why Agatha was so persuaded it said Coven Two. It was because the last time on the road, a full Coven entered, and yet only two witches made it to the end; you and her.

So her argument was valid, for easily words had been misheard over the centuries; especially one as ancient as the Ballad.

However, something was telling you Jen was right in this case.

You chose not to argue, though, or enter this discussion. Instead you stood a little to the side with Lilia, who seemed to share your thoughts and maybe your migraine from all that arguing.

Jen stared Agatha right in the face. "How many witches left The Road with you last time?"

Agatha lifted a single digit but to the surprise of many, she added a second one; indicating the number two. Then with her thumb, she first pointed at herself and then at you; earning surprised reactions from the other witches.

Except for Teen. He already knew that little information.

"You were on the road with her?" Lilia asked, staring at you.

You nodded faintly but did not say anything or at least you didn't manage to because Agatha popped in.

"Yes, she did," she moved to stand by your side, one hand around your shoulders and pulling you closer in an awkward side hug, or at least it was meant to be a side hug. "See, coven of two," Agatha continued, trying to win thus pointless argument.

Jen looked between the two of you, trying to understand what kind of relationship you seemed to have.

The nickname was not that much of a help, at first, because Agatha had a knack for not calling people with their names. Now, it seemed you had a deeper connection with the former evil witch, but it was unclear what.

Plus, if you had survived the road once... why come a second time?

Now Jen was curious but chose to try and find an answer to that later.

For now, you needed to find a green witch though she was insure if it was possible. You were in the middle of the freaking Road; sort of locked in a very magical box that no one could enter or leave; let alone alive.

"We can summon one," you suddenly said, stopping the argument from continuing any further.

"We can?" Teen asked hopefully.

"Don't be silly," Agatha dismissed. "We can't. We are on the Road"

This time, you stood your ground. "We can. I know of a ritual that will open a door and summon us a green witch"

Agatha looked at you slightly betrayed, but as your gazes remained locked, you started to suspect her denial to the ritual was something more personal.

There was something Agatha was afraid or feared would come if you tried the ritual, and you doubted it was the Salem Seven.

No... this was far bigger.

"Let's do the ritual then," Teen said, earning nods from the others and leaving Agatha to huff silently; having lost the vote to the majority.

Had she mentioned she hated democracy and voted of the crowd?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It did not take long to prepare for the ritual, getting a few things from around like an obsidian stone, some herbs, and so on.

Then, you all stood in a line close to the grave; in front of you, the summoning symbol drawn amongst pushed away leaves and mud.

Well it was less of a symbol and more like the figurine of a person, made by pulled up mud and framed by the yellow and leaves all around it.

You had also managed to light three red candles that Teen for some unknown reason had on him, an extra to the ritual.

Standing in the middle of the group, you clasped your hands in front of you and started to chant in Latin; your voice coming heavy and powerful, echoing across the quiet clearing.

It surprised your coven, not having the quiet and simple you chant with some power, but now they knew better; especially if casting spells was the same way for you.

Once you finished chanting, you looked at Lilia at the very end of the formed line and motioned for her to lay the first object and acknowledge her intentions.

"May she be strong and wise, and the best at her craft." The old witch said.

Agatha followed next. "May she be smart and not annoying... and also, not super political."

You followed next, having chosen to place a Crysanthemum flower you had plucked from near by; ironically close to where Mrs. Davis was buried.

"May she be an ally, not an enemy," you manifested, earning a few head nods from the others.

Jen was next. "May she be pleasant looking."

Alice went last. "Can she bring some Advil?" She asked, earning a scoff from Lilia.

Once it was all done, you waited as in the next second, a strong ominous wind picked up and extinguished the candle flames.

Before any of you could question if it had worked, a hand shot out from the freshly dug grave close to you.

Chapter 13

[sometimesanalice]

Hey, Sailor

Summary: It’s Fleet Week and Rooster would rather be anywhere else than on the flight deck of the USS Portland. That is, until a pretty thing in a sundress catches his eye and then suddenly his day is looking up. 

Pairing: Bradley”Rooster” Bradshaw x Female Reader

Length: 5.8K

Warnings: Flirty Banter, Smut, and Bradley Bradshaw in Summer Whites (Minors DNI)

Note: When @roosterforme​ asks you to write her a Fleet Week fic, you write the Fleet Week fic! Here you go, Em!  💛

Normally, Rooster loved Fleet Week.

He loved the lively atmosphere and the parades. He loved the free drinks that were handed to him as soon as he entered a bar. And he especially loved all the attention he got from women when he wore his Summer Whites.

He usually came back to the ship looking less than pristine with lipstick on the collar of his uniform and hidden on other places on his body.

The USS Portland was teaming with excited families and camera-happy civilians taking in the sights from deck of the transport ship as they settled in for the five-hour journey to the San Diego. It was a Fleet Week tradition to welcome people aboard for an immersive experience, picking them up from a port further up North and then cruising along the coast before making their final docking for the week.

There were grills set up on the deck and the smell of flame kissed hamburgers and hotdogs mixed with the sea salt air. The sun was shining and the mood was light.

But this year, Rooster simply could not be bothered to give a fuck.

Especially not when he could have been home already instead of being stuck giving tours on a ship that he’d never even stepped foot on prior to three days ago when he and Hangman had been given orders to join in the procession on the vessel into the city after completing a short training deployment.

His superiors had okay-ed the terrible suggestion from some random Public Relations Specialist who clearly didn’t realize that he had better things to do with his time.

Early that morning, Bradley had stood on the dock with his arms crossed and wearing an impassive scowl as they had lifted his Super Hornet onto the flight deck like it was some kind of decorative hood ornament.

Sure, it was fun to watch the kids’ eyes get wide with excitement as they ooh-ed and ahh-ed over the features as he pointed them out, but he was getting hot and uncomfortable in his uniform in the mid-afternoon sun on the black tarmac.

He’d rather be in his service khakis like Seresin. Or better yet, naked at home in his own bed.

How Hangman had weaseled himself onto barbecue duty with a beer in his hand, Rooster would never know. The bastard probably played his Texan sir, I came out of the womb grilling shtick.

And every time he passed by the son of a bitch would give him a cocky salute with his tongs.

Jake was irritating on the best day, but today he was downright insufferable.

And he knew it had everything to do with the fact that Hangman’s girlfriend was laughing and lingering at his side, having surprised him by flying in with tickets for the coastal cruise.

At least someone was having a nice time, because it sure as shit wasn’t him.

Rooster was in the process of wrapping up his fourth tour of the day and handing out a couple of Dixie Cup hats to kids on the landing deck on the stern when he was stopped dead in his tracks and had to do a double take because he eyes were definitely playing tricks on him.

You were the prettiest thing he’s ever seen.

And he swore for a minute time slowed down as you flashed the most gorgeous smile at some Junior Officer as you laughed along with whatever undoubtedly stupid joke he’d told you. All while the wind played with the ends of your hair.

You looked like such nice girl, such a good girl in your pretty light blue sundress.

The sun was bouncing off your shoulders and the little ruffle at the hem was taunting him with the way it danced around your thighs. It coasted over your curves like water, and fit you just snug enough that there wouldn’t be any Marilyn Monroe moments on deck, much to his disappointment. But the blow was cushioned by the stunning display of your smooth, shapely legs.

From the way your breasts bounced as you walked, he knew there was no way in hell you had a bra on under that little dress.

He’s never been able to resist a bad girl wrapped up like the girl-next-door.

From the second he saw you, he knew you were just his type.

And for the first time that day Bradley is grateful to be wearing the crisp, pressed Summer Whites. 

He knew how good his biceps looked in the short sleeves of his uniform. And the way his pants clung to his legs and ass. He’d been spending a lot of his free time in the gym lately and it showed.

He never did mind playing An Officer and a Gentleman when the occasion presented itself, he was always happy to help fuel some fantasies.  

The last time he had worn this uniform out during Fleet Week he ended up going home with an absolute smokeshow, so hopefully whatever appeal his uniform had for him back then can still work for him now.

Fleet Week was finally looking up for him.

However, what he didn’t like was the fact that the butterbar was still dominating your attention.

He wanted that smile turned on him. Wanted to see if the look in your bright eyes would be just as playful with your gaze pinned on him instead. He wanted to be the one making you laugh.

It’s not like he’s going to go over there and lick your face like a kid might try and claim dibs on a cupcake.

No, he was going to act in accordance to his rank and station as an Officer in the United States Navy.

Securing the white cap on his head from where it’s been tucked under his arm at every opportunity he’s had that day, he straightens up to his full height and purposefully struts over to you.

Bradley’s never been one to shy away from making an entrance.

He forcefully taps the younger officer’s shoulder, and glances down when the guy turns around to get a look at his name tag.

“Ensign Hubbard, you’re up for civilian tour duties. The next one is due to start at 1400,” he looks down at his watch for dramatic effect, “Which is in about 10 minutes on the starboard bow, so you best get going if you don’t want to be late, junior.”

He might feel a little guilty for springing this on the kid if it wasn’t entirely within his right to assign him the nonexistent task 684 feet in the opposite direction- a fact he learned in preparation for giving tours all day- and away from you.

Especially when he sees how flustered the guy gets as he rushes through his salute and the stammered apologies he gives you before he takes off in a brisk jog heading towards the other side of the ship.

He stands up a bit taller and makes himself a bit broader as your eyes sweep over him. 

“Apologies for interrupting, ma’am. But I’d be happy to pick up where the Ensign has left off.”

There’s no missing the appraising interest in them as you take him in.

“The tours are starting at the front of the ship now, are they?” you muse out loud with a little tilt of your head. “What are all those folks over there are lining up for then, I wonder?”

You point deliberately to the group of people who are currently being greeted by the Lieutenant who was scheduled to relieve Rooster of tour duties for the next hour.

“Mm, that sure is a mystery. But Hubbard seems like a smart kid, I wouldn’t worry too much about him.” He shrugs with an unapologetic smirk on his face.

You lift a pointed eyebrow at him.

“So, you sent him away…” the almost-but-not-quite question trailing in the breeze.

“I sent him away,” he readily agrees with a nod. His eyes catch on a golden heart-shaped locket that you’re wearing around that dainty neck as it glints in the sunlight.

A smug smile tugs at the corners of your lips as you notice where his eyes have dropped too, “You’re not even going to deny it, Sailor?”

“Nope,” he says with a grin. “And actually, it’s Lieutenant Commander.”

“Ok, Lieutenant.”

“Commander.”

You hmm contemplatively like his rank was somehow up for debate, toying with that damn little heart-shaped locket in a way that was tempting his eyes to drift further down.

Rooster didn’t think it could be possible, but you’re even prettier up close. He knew you’d be stunning, but he couldn’t have prepared himself for the way your mischievous eyes sparkled magnetically. Or for the warmth spreading in his chest with the way you are broadly smiling at him now.

The top buttons of your dress are undone one more than would be strictly considered family friendly. But Bradley wasn’t bothered by that in the least.

 Clearing his throat, he notes, “It’s a nice day for a sail.”

“Ensign Hubbard and I already covered that rather riveting subject earlier,” you tease while looking at him like well, what else have you got.

“Let me try again then.” If you wanted him to put in the work, he was more than up for the challenge. “What brings you for a casual five-hour cruise down the coast on one of the Pacific Fleet’s finest?”

“Now that’s not something we got to before he was telling me about what his ribbons meant in great detail,” you say with a laugh. “Would you believe me if I said I had a deep appreciation for $1.6 billion-dollar ships purchased with Uncle Sam’s defense budget?”

He gives you a half smile as he pretends to contemplate it for a moment, “You know, for some reason, I can’t say that I would.”

“Well, shucks,” you say with an over exaggerated shrug. “What about if I said I was roped into waking up at an ungodly hour to catch a flight up here because my best friend’s boyfriend is a Naval aviator and she wanted me to keep her company for the ‘casual five-hour cruise’, as you called it.”

“Now that I believe,” he drawled. “So, what’s his name?”

“Well, she calls him Jacob. He has one of those silly callsigns too, but I always forget it,” you scrunch your nose adorably as you search for it, “Something-man.”

“You mean Bagman?”

“Yeah, that sounds right.”

He smirks to himself. 

“I take it you know him then?” You wait for his nod before looking up at him from under your lashes and asking him, “Does that mean you have a callsign too?”

“Yes, ma’am. It’s Rooster.”

He doesn’t miss the way you glance down, and he definitely doesn’t hold back his pointed smirk waiting for your eyes to meet his again.

And when he gives you a cocky raise of his eyebrow, all you do is shrug.

You didn’t just look like his type, you are exactly his type.

“Rooster Bradshaw, huh?” you ask, reaching out to tap a finger on rectangular name tag on his chest. “I take it you have a first name, Lieutenant Commander?”

“Sure do,” he drawls, “But it only seems fair that I get yours in return.”

You grin knowingly at him. His cheek ticks up as you stick your hand out towards him and give him your name. It’s pretty and suits you perfectly.

Bradley says it out loud savoring the syllables in his mouth as he shakes your outstretched hand. And he gives you his in exchange.

He likes how much smaller your hand looks in his.

“Since it seems like your friend has ditched you, what do you say about getting a tour? Not to brag, but I’ve been doing it all day and I’ve got it down to a science now.”

“A private tour? Lucky me,” you purr. “Lead the way Lieutenant Commander Bradley Rooster Bradshaw.”

You knew what you were doing, he’d give you that. And he was eating it up with a spoon ready to ask for second, third, and fourth helpings. 

It’s less busy on the flight deck, as people are collecting around the grills waiting for their turn in the buffet lines for the late lunch.

He starts off by showing you his aircraft, giving you a brief rundown of its features.

You run a hand over the body of his fighter jet as he wraps up his now well-practiced spiel, “Do I even want to know how much taxpayer money contributed to this?”

“It depends. Does your appreciation for Uncle Sam’s defense collection extend to F/A-18s too? Or is that strictly reserved for amphibious transport vessels?”

“I’ll keep you posted after I get the full tour,” you say coyly.

“Well then, I shouldn’t keep a lady waiting then. Should I?”

“No, you certainly should not,” you agree.

He guides you past the table that’s set up with squadron memorabilia for people to buy and to the door with a hand on your low back. He’s close enough to smell your perfume now, he wants to bury his nose in your neck to inhale the scent directly from the source.

Rooster navigates the two of you like a pro through the narrow passageways as he takes you to the mess hall where coffee and pre-sliced cakes awaited tour guests. From there he takes you to the galley, the wheelhouse, the engine control room, the 24-bed hospital ward, and the massive hull used to transport heavy machinery.

You as him thoughtful questions every now and then. And he does his best to answer them.  The two of you drift closer and closer, it doesn’t escape his notice the way you brush against him when you pass by to get a closer look at some of the things he shows you.

It’s easily his favorite tour of the day. 

He loves the sound of your laugh as he tells you about some of the mischief that he and members of his squadron managed to avoid getting caught doing.

Along with some of the things that they did get caught doing.

Your teasing grin and witty banter and little sundress have done a number on him. And he isn’t ready to wrap this up by delivering you back on deck until the absolute last minute he has to resume his official tour duties again.

So when he circles back to the airwing, instead of turning left when he should, he leads you to the ladder that would take you down a level.

And he knows he shouldn’t, that he could get in some big trouble for showing you areas that weren’t explicitly on the official list of tour stops. But he’s always been more of the apologize later type.

Plus, he hasn’t been on this ship for very long, it’s not his fault if he manages to get conveniently turned around.

Bradley waits at the bottom of the steep ladder, actively looking anywhere else but up as you make your descent. When you’re at level with him, he helps you down the rest of the way with a steadying hand at your waist.

And when you turn around he doesn’t step back. 

You reach up and run a playful finger along the brim of his cap, “So what’s a girl got to do to get a turn wearing the hat?”

His mind flashes with images of the last time he’d let a woman wear it.

“I’ll have you know this is technically Naval property, they don’t let just anyone have one. You usually have to earn it. But for you?” he pauses and gives you a heated once over, “I’ll let you try it on for free.”

“Well, I wouldn’t want any special treatment,” you say demurely. “But I think in this case, Uncle Sam would understand. I’m a model citizen after all.”

He takes the cap off of his head and gingerly sets it on yours, “You’re something else, that’s for sure.” 

It slides forward down your head, “Oh, it’s heavier than it looks.” And Rooster wishes he had his phone on him to get a picture for himself. He likes the way you look wearing his things.

“Looks good on you,” he hums, letting his finger brush against that little locket around your neck.

You run a bold hand down his chest, “Where to next, Lieutenant?”

This time he doesn’t bother to correct you, he knows the game you’re playing now. 

Instead he grips your hips and pushes you against the ladder and brings his mouth to yours.You make a noise of surprise before your arms are wrapping around his neck to pull him in closer. 

The kiss starts out light and teasing. Your lips are so soft beneath his. He gently grazes his teeth against your lower lip, before gliding his tongue along the seam of your mouth seeking entrance. The sweep of your tongue against his is everything. The soft moans escaping you are making his pulse thrum in his veins. 

It would be so easy for him to get lost in the feeling of your perfect body against his and of the way your fingers were playing with the short hairs on the nape of his neck. But he’s already pushing the limits bringing you down here, he can’t get distracted by kissing you out in the open where anyone could stumble upon the two of you.

The small whimper that you make when he pulls away makes him grin. As does the sight of his cap sitting crookedly on your head. 

He thumbs at the lipstick that’s smudged at the side of your mouth, “C’mon, I’ve got one more place I want to show you.”

This time he takes your hand as he guides you down the gray passageway and through the door on the left.

The ready room on the USS Portland is much smaller than the one’s he is familiar with from the aircraft carriers he is usually on, but the set-up is mostly the same. There are a couple of projection screens adhered on the bulkheads and there are a few rows of leather seats with a swivel tray tables attached to the arm rests.

“Tell me what happens in here.” You ask him so genuinely, so sweetly and he already knows he wouldn’t stand a chance against you with the way you flutter those eyelashes at him.

So he tells you. 

He likes that you want to know these details about his job, he likes that he gets to share this with you. Even if the clock is ticking down before he has to get back on deck.

Rooster watches the tantalizing way your sundress dances around your thighs as you walk around the space. You take a seat in one of the chairs in the front row and pull the desk top over you before turning to him with a beaming smile with his cap still perched on your head.

And he is hit with a wave of affection for you so intense that it makes it hard for him to breathe for a moment.

He’s grateful when you see something else that catches your eye, giving him a moment to get himself back under control. You’ve got him feeling like he should be on his knees for you.

In the spot where he is used to seeing a lectern, on this ship there is a glossy wooden table inlaid with the ship’s coat of arm that you standing over.

“Does every ship have their own unique crest? Do you know what the symbols are for?”

He really needs to figure out who put him on tour duty and send them an Edible Arrangement or something. And maybe one for whoever put together the ten-page packet of “fun facts” that he had rolled his eyes at when he had first seen it.

“Yes, ma’am, I sure do.” He comes up to stand behind you, resting his chin on your shoulder as his arms cage you in against the table. “Yes, all ships come with their own. It’s something that the prospective commanding officers are responsible for designing when new ships are about to be launched.”

You lean forward a bit, gazing your ass against him, “Dark blue and gold are traditional Navy colors, right?” He hums confirmation into your neck, as he runs his mustache along your soft skin. He feels more than hears your sharp inhale. “What does the gear on the anchor mean?”

He drops a kiss to your shoulder, “The cog is a symbol of manufacturing, a nod to the ship’s namesake and the city’s history for building ships in World War II.”

You grab his wrist and bring his arm across your body, he takes the hint and presses in closer into you. “And the trident?”

God, you feel so perfect in his arms. Your body is fitting against his like a dream.

“The black symbolizes determination,” he murmurs into the space where you neck and shoulder meet. “And the choice of the three prongs is because it’s the third ship to be given the name.”

You lean your head to the side, and he takes the opportunity to trail open-mouth kisses up your neck. Your nails bite into his forearm in response, as you rock back against his rapidly hardening cock. “And the rose?”

“Portland is the City of Roses.”

“Does it have any other meaning?” you ask soft and breathy.

“It represents strong ties, baby. It’s a symbol for the supportive partners and wives of those serving onboard,” he whispers low and sweet into your ear.

“Bradley,” you sigh as you turn your head towards him for a kiss. It’s desperate and wet. And he can almost taste the neediness of your moan on his tongue.

He’s never done anything like this while on duty on a ship before, and the thrill of it has his veins thrumming with adrenaline.

“You’ve had me hook, line and sinker since the damn second I saw you.” He grinds himself against your ass and you whimper at the contact. “What do you want from me? I’ll be so good to you, so good for you.”

“Want you to touch me,” you pant into his mouth, “Want you to fuck me, Rooster. It’s the only thing I’ve been able to think about.”

“Fuck me.” He can feel his pulse thundering in his throat.

“I’m trying to,” you whine.

He barks a strained laugh before he spins you around, crowds you into the table. He doesn’t waste any time getting his lips back on yours, slipping his tongue into your mouth. You meet him stroke for stroke, just like you’ve been doing since the moment he laid eyes on you.

“This fucking dress,” he groans when he cups your breast through your fabric, as you fill his palm in just the right way. You arch your chest into his hand, and he was feeling entirely too self-satisfied in the confirmation that you weren’t wearing a bra. “Knew you weren’t a good girl.”

“So why are you treating me like one?” you taunt, breathlessly. Your greedy hands go straight to his cock, squeezing him through his pants.

Your hand feels so good on him.

“God, you’re so much fucking trouble,” he rasps, throwing his head back.You lean forward and your hot mouth works against the hollow of his throat. 

He’s trying to undo some of the tiny buttons that line the front of your dress, but the teasing way your tongue is dipping out to trace the line of his tendon is making it hard for him to think.

“Are you gonna show me how you got that silly, little callsign of yours or not?” You give him one more squeeze, before bringing your hands up to the button of his white pants.

He knocks your hands out of the way before roughly grabbing your ass and hauls you firmly against him, “That feel little to you?”

Your gasp makes his fingertips dig further into your ass. The pretty color of your eyes has been completely eclipsed by your heavy, dark pupils. He can feel the way your thighs clench together.

“You want my attention? You’ve got it, baby,” he roughly rasps, “Go on then, show me how bad you can be.”

He dips his head down for a filthy, hungry kiss.

You push him back with a hand to his chest and a gleam in your eyes. You hold his heated gaze as you slowly undo his zipper and reach into his boxer briefs to pull him out. He moans when your thumb sweeps over the top of his cock.

Rooster thinks for a second that you’re going to drop to your knees for him, the mental image of you looking up at him with those doe-eyes is enough to make his jaw clench with desire. Especially with the way your sundress is gaping open at the top, giving him a clear view of the swells of your breasts.

Instead, you surprise him by bending over that glossy table and shimmying the skirt of your dress up over your luscious hips.

“Holy shit.”

You’re wearing the smallest, laciest little thong he’s ever fucking seen.

The band is a series of crisscrossed straps attached to some intricate and dainty floral lace. The juxtaposition of it against your skin is enough to make his ears ring. He’ll be dreaming of the way you’re enticingly arching your ass towards him for months.

And he’ll sure as shit never be able to be in a Ready Room again without getting a hard-on. The memory of you bent over the table before him will forever be ingrained in his brain.

“Is this bad enough for you, Lieutenant Commander?” You shoot him a grin over your shoulder as you wiggle your hips invitingly.

That sultry smile is swiped from your face the moment his large hand connects with your perfect ass. The sound echoes throughout the small room. He palms you once more before he yanks down your barely-there thong.

“Gonna fuck that attitude right out of you.”

Giving himself a few rough pumps, he lines himself up and slides into you with one steady thrust.

You both release an unrestrained groan of the sensation of him filling your warm, wet cunt. He barely gives you a moment to adjust to the size of him before he starts moving.

“’s big,” you sigh shakily.

“Tell me how much you like this cock.”

He slaps your pert ass again when you release a breathy whimper instead of answering him.

“Feels good, Rooster.” Your hands are struggling to find a way to support yourself as he fucks into you. “You feel so good.”

He pushes your dress higher up your body, his eyes are greedy for more of your skin. What he wouldn’t give to have you entirely naked and spread out before him. He wants to see all of you, he wants to hear you loud and needy for him.

“You’re so fucking pretty,” he murmurs as he watches himself smoothly gliding in and out of you.

The little noises you are making are driving him crazy. He knows you’re trying to muffle your sweet moans and sighs and whines. The sound of your bodies coming together fills the room.

How his cap is still perched on your head he doesn’t know, it jostles every time your bodies come together.

“I need more,” you beg, “Need you to touch me.”

“Ask me nicely.” He punctuates the demand with a sharp snap of his hips.

“Please, Bradley. Please.”

He slides his hand around to the front of you, his fingers drawn to your clit like a magnet. You keen at the contact and tilt your hips into his hand. The sound is music to his ears, “That’s more like it.” 

He doesn’t think there’s anything else better on the planet than being buried in your perfect pussy. You’re so wet for him. He already knows he’s going to need more of this, more of you.

“You’re taking me so well,” Bradley grunts as he speeds up his thrusts, “Looks like all you needed was a nice, thick cock. Just a sweet thing now, aren’t you?”

“Oh my god,” you gasp as you writhe against him. “F-fuck.”

He is so turned on by the way his hands span across you as he grips your waist and pulls you against him with every roll of his hips. His heart is racing in his chest.

The feeling of your body tensing around him is paradise. There is nothing he wants more than to be able to draw this out, but he is all too aware of how quickly time is slipping away from him.

He sets a rough and unrelenting pace. Redoubling his efforts on your clit, his indulgent strokes turn into tight, purposeful circles. And you cry out at the change of sensation on that sensitive part of you.

Your thighs start to tremble as his cock drags against that spot deep inside of you. The heat is pooling in his lower back as he fucks into you over and over again.

“Rooster, I’m gonna-”

“I know, baby. Let me feel it,” he murmurs hotly against your ear, his thumb rubbing back and forth across your clit. “Come on my cock like a good girl.”

The goosebumps erupt across your body like fireworks a moment before he feels you shiver and tremble beneath him as you come with a choked sob. The way you spasm and clench around him is dizzying.

Bradley is teetering on the edge, your cunt felt like heaven. Warm and wet and gripping him just right. He almost doesn’t want to give himself up to it as the pressure at the base of his spine intensified. He doesn’t want to stop fucking you.

You’re so perfect for him.

He loses himself to the feeling of your pussy milking him as you continue to pulse and writhe in the aftershocks of your orgasm. He grips your hips harder as he pounds into you before emptying himself inside of you with a shattered groan.

And for a moment all he can hear is the blood rushing in his ears as he works to catch his breath. Rooster feels like his knees might buckle as the soft whimper you make when he pulls out of you.

He gently pulls that lacy little thong back up and helps to pull your dress back down over your hips and thighs before turning you around and lifting you onto the custom table. 

He doesn’t know how he is going to make it through the rest of the journey knowing his come is collecting in your panties.

You’re flushed and looking thoroughly well-fucked as you smile up at him brightly.

Bradley threads his finger under the chain of your little gold heart-shaped locket that was etched with a rose in full bloom, and lightly tugs you in closer for a lingering kiss.

“I see you found your gift early, baby.”

Bradley would never forget the first time he saw you that night at the bar downtown last year during Fleet Week.

He had noticed you right away, it had been impossible not to. You and your girlfriends had been all done up in hot pink outfits for the Bachelorette party you were out celebrating.

Your friend had flounced right up to Jake taking the shot of whiskey out of his hand before swallowing it down then cheekily offering to buy him a replacement. Hangman had been wrapped around her finger ever since.

While your friends had all but shoved you in his direction while he had looked on entirely entertained as you had shot a scathing glare back at them. A sparkling tiara that read Bridesmaid sat crookedly on your head.

And then you had greeted him with a “Hey, Sailor” so weak that the couldn’t help but let out an amused laugh. There was a split second where he thought that he might have fucked it up before it could even start, but then you smiled back at him.

It was a charmingly self-deprecating smile and he was yours from the moment he saw it.

“Hiding it in your nightstand next to the batteries wasn’t the most original of spots, Rooster,” you affectionately tease him. “I didn’t mean to peek, but the remote stopped working. I hope you’re not mad. I love it.”

He could never be mad at you, especially not with his necklace around your neck. You were his, and he was so gone for you.

“It looks so pretty on you,” he tells you softly as his fingers brush over your collarbones.

“Oh my god, Rooster, I can’t we defiled Naval property.” You giggle as you wrap your legs around him to pull him closer to circle your arms around his neck.

“I hate to break it to you, but you’ve been defiling Naval property ever since you brought me home with you the night we met.”

You take that cap off of your head and set it back on his, and lean in to kiss him on the cheek, “Glad I’m getting a good return on my taxes then.” 

He snorts a laugh, “God, I’ve missed you, baby. What are doing here? I thought you weren’t coming until the end of the week.”

“And miss the visual and culinary offerings of the USS Portland? I wouldn’t dream of it.” You joke as you run your hands along his arms where they’re pressed on the table on either side of you. “This uniform drives me just as crazy as it did last year.”

“Just the uniform?” he asks as he nudges his nose against yours.

“Maybe it has a little something to do with the man in the uniform,” you make a little hum as you check him out. “You’re so tan, Bradley, have you been using the sunscreen I sent with you-”

He crushes his mouth to yours, you were undoubtedly best thing that’s ever happened to him during Fleet Week.

“I’m glad I still do it for you,” he murmurs against your mouth before giving you another deep kiss.

The two of you work quickly to get yourselves looking presentable again. He’s only got a little time left before he is due to return to his tour duties back on deck.

He helps you back up the ladder and takes that left turn when he’s supposed to this time. All while your hand is tucked securely in his.

When you’re both back on the open flight deck he walks you over to the railing along the edge of the ship and wraps you up in his arms to watch the coastline crawl by with his last few moments of freedom. 

“I really love Fleet Week,” you say with a contented sigh, as you lean your head back against his shoulder.

The golden rays from the sun are hitting you in a way that makes his chest warm.

“I do too, baby. It’s the best.”

Yeah, Rooster fucking loves Fleet Week.

Who doesn’t love a man in Summer Whites?! Consider this my formal petition for more Dress Whites in TG3!

Thank you for reading!

Update! If you want to learn about the night they met, I wrote these two a little prequel series you can read here!

Hey, Sailor Moodboard

A peek inside the USS Portland One | Two

If you’re curious, here is some info on the crest I found! One | Two | Three

You can check out my other stories and series here!

Taglist:

@gretagerwigsmuse​ @sehnsuchts-trunken @notroosterbradshaw @tongue-like-a-razor @laracrofted @bradshawsbitch @starryeyedstories @top-hhun-main @itscheybaby @prettylittlelauraa @startrekfangirl2233 @marantha @callsign-viper @teacupsandtopgun @itsizzythebell @shanimallina87 @angelbabyange @boltgirl426 @oneelleandaneye @mizzzpink @cornishkat @torres-espana @uzumegui @dont-talk-me-down @fandomunite2107 @alana4610 @20th-centu-fairy-girl @pariahsparadise @pono-pura-vida @donttouchmycarrots @nina-sj @eg-dr3amer3 @whaledots-blog @a-beaverhausen @misty-inferno @angellwingsss @hangmanscoming @mandolin22 @theweekndhistorybook @lilpeekabooze @high-bi-imgonnacry @ahintofkiwistrawberry @mrsdaamneron @ruewrote @spiderman-stilinski @jayniebop @melllinaa @my-soulmate-is-mycroft @mandolin22 @imaginecrushes​

[iliketangerines]

Mk11)) Hanzo hizashi and kuai liang x reader?? Like maybe is from the past or is a simple maid that works at the fire garden or Lin kuei temple. Nothing too complicated for this request- just simple stuff.

two hands

a/n: this was gonna be longer, but then i realized how out of hand it would've gotten

pairing: kuai liang x gn!reader x hanzo hasashi

warnings: attempted poisoning

you rush back and forth between the kitchens and the dining room, plating the food gracefully and quickly, and you only give yourself a quick moment to breathe before your back to serving the food

today your grandmaster Kuai Liang had invited over some of the higher ups of the Shirai Ryu to come and dine with the Lin Kuei to improve relations

what that meant for you is that there was a lot of people to serve and a lot more teacups to refill and heat and brew

thankfully, your direct superior had kept your serving relegated to the grandmaster’s room, saying that you were one of their best workers and that the grandmaster needed everything to go perfectly

not so thankfully, that meant you couldn’t afford a single mistake, not a drop spilled, not a single wrong order, not a single empty cup

you grab a bottle of baijiu and head over to the dining hall, composing yourself in the hall and wiping sweat off your forehead

walking in a soft smile, you carefully and pour the alcohol in practiced motions, and the Shirai Ryu grandmaster gives you a smile and a nod of appreciation

your grandmaster thanks you, waving you off, and you leave the bottle with them and go off to collect more food from the kitchens

you pick up their final dishes in your hand, and you traverse the halls quickly, not letting any of the food drop to the floor

opening the door with your foot, you walk in with their meals and set the final dishes down for them, arranging them in the middle so that all the plates can fit

you’re about to leave when you look at one of the dishes, the pork ribs, it looked not quite right, almost discolored, and you see the visiting grandmaster reach for it with his chopsticks

placing a gentle hand on his, you halt his reach for the food and tear off a strip of the pork with your fingers, looking at the color and then eating it

the Lin Kuei grandmaster does not say anything, simply watches, and you can taste that something’s wrong with the meal, perhaps undercooked

you pick up the dish, bowing your head in apology as you say that there’s something wrong with the meal and that you will return with a properly cooked plate

leaving, you ring in another plate of the pork ribs and head back with a fresh pot of tea and nearly bump into one of the servers, strangely enough

you wrinkle your nose and furrow your brows at the near accident but make your way back to the room with no more hiccups

placing down the tea pot, you lean down to pour them new cups of tea, except when you come back up, your head spins and pain pounds at your forehead

looking down at your fingers, they almost look purple and the room starts to distort and move around you, and you realize the pork had poison in it, or some kind of hallucinogen

leaning to the side to avoid smashing your face into the food, you slur out poison to your grandmaster, and then a splitting pain echoes through your body as you fall to the side, unable to control your own limbs

the world sounds like it’s been put through water, and your stomach has started to cramp, feeling it gurgle and bubble inside of you

you can’t move your hands, your arms, your legs, and your vision goes black as your eyelids close against your own free will

you hope that this isn’t too much of a hindrance on the meeting

it seems to be a blur of black and flashing white as your body heaves and gasps and fights to live, struggling against something that makes your body feel like a weight is crushing your bones to dust

the pain suffocates your lungs, burning with every breath you take and yet at the same time fills with water to keep you from breathing

you’re not sure how long it’s been since you fell down to the floor, but you wake up, body aching but alive

there’s something shoved down your nose, but you can make out the harsh lighting above you through blurry vision

you groan, trying to sit up, and your hands fumble uselessly, still feeling rather stiff

someone blurry appears in your vision, pushing you down by your chest gently and telling you to lay back down

mumbling out something about going back to work and the meeting with the Shirai Ryu, you struggle against them with pathetic attempts, body still too weak to really do anything

the voice is deep and grumbly as it tells you to lay back down, and you blink at your eyes, trying to make out who the hell was telling you to not go to work

your vision finally clears, and the struggle dies in your throat as you look face to face with your grandmaster to your left and then the Shirai Ryu grandmaster at the foot of the bed

his hand is on your chest still, pushing you down easily now as you stare at them in shock

he thanks you for saving the both of them and that they have apprehended the suspect, and you croak out that it is your pleasure to save them both

your grandmaster frowns at that, saying that you shouldn’t have to protect them, that you are employed under the Lin Kuei as a server and not as a warrior, he should be the one protecting you

the other grandmaster nods, agreeing with the sentiment, and he says that the food tester should’ve caught the poisoning but you had instead, you have done more than needed

he bows to you, and you nearly shoot up out of the bed to tell him not to, that you’re just a servant to help keep things running smoothly at the Lin Kuei

your grandmaster shakes his head and tells you to sit back down, muttering under his breath about how stubborn you were

he pats your chest and tells you to rest for a few weeks, it had been a few days since you had been poisoned, and you would need to rest to regain full strength

nodding dumbly, the two of them bow to you and leave, and you’re left alone with your thoughts

both of the grandmasters bowing to you, it made your head reel with shock and a little bit of pride in yourself

two powerful men who thanked you for saving your life, your grandmasters, oh this was exhilarating

you never thought they would acknowledge you more than a formality, and your heart thump in your chest at the whole ordeal of them bowing to you

you had always been the one to show grace, to show respect, and yet people high above your station had bowed to you

the heart monitor by your bedside starts to beep, and you realize your heart is going a little too fast as a nurse rushes in to make sure everything was okay

you just stare up with a dopey little smile and mouth whisper that the two grandmasters had bowed to you, and the nurse gives you a concerned look as she checks all your vitals

soon enough, she leaves, and you’re left with your thoughts

two grandmasters, huh

[psycho-static]

dethklok posting wahooo!! I decided i wanted to do some interpitations of swiss n toki :3 what do u lot think?? Desing notes down here lmao (warning, its a bit long lmao)

SWISSY .He wears white because hes just so much more superior than the rest of the band and he insist it makes him look cooler .Fabulous long hair beautiful blonde locks and pale blue eyes n skin, the perfect man, sent straight from heaven .Rosy red cheeks just to accentuate his pale soft, angelic look .Hes got a black belt, black armbands n shoes to oppose his white fit .His trousers are also slightly flared with black seams and angel wings on his cheeks because hes so fancy .His guitar remains black but its holy asf thunder themed guitar topped with angel motif because...hes the best of course lmao a fancy ass guiar born straight from the hands of GOD. . He also has a few rings and arm hair cuz...why not? lol ------------------------------------------------------------------------- . TOKI .His shirt is ripped n he too wears bracelets a skull belt rings and flared trousers just to be like skwiskgar (except his colours are reversed to give him his own flare) .Said flared trousers also have devil wings on the front lol .He has scars all over his body, but most the most notable scars are the ones on his face that imitate cat whiskers . Hes also missing a finger...dont ask abt it- .His love for cats is very apparent given his new little tattoo (possibly got it after really cool cat died lmao) .His guitar has reverse motifs to skwisgarr cloud themed with devil wings , His dosent radiate the same polished aura however, his was hand painted n looks a bit more tacky . Toki also has body hair, and a goatee cuz...i like goatees lmao (Also his new chest hair is actually shaped like a love heart :3)

[walidgoldpreppy]

Anthony become Tonygold

Anthony wakes early that morning, roused from his sleep by a dull excitement he can’t suppress. The sound of a delivery truck outside reminds him of the reason for his unusual haste; his new clothes have arrived. After quickly getting ready, he rushes to the front door, where several large packages are waiting for him, neatly stacked.

The mere sight of these packages fills him with a mixture of satisfaction and haste. He begins to unpack them one by one, with almost ceremonial care. Each piece he discovers is a promise of transformation, one step closer to the sartorial perfection he now aspires to.

The first package contains several suits, all neatly stored in protective covers. The heavy, thin fabric slips through his fingers as he begins to hang them on his clothes rail.

He chooses to try on the navy plaid suit first.  He puts on the pants, which fall perfectly on his hips, without needing any alterations. The fabric is both light and structured, adapting to each movement with an almost unsettling precision. Then, he puts on the jacket, fitted, with slightly reinforced shoulders, giving him an even more confident posture. He looks at himself in the mirror, observing the fine white lines of the checks that accentuate the natural elegance of the suit. He knows that this two-piece will become one of his favorites for work days.

Moving on to the shirts, Anthony chooses a sky blue with. The cotton is soft on his skin, and he takes the time to button it slowly, appreciating the contrast between the blue of the shirt and the navy of the suit. He then adjusts his tie, a sober solid blue piece, which he tightens around his neck with an impeccable knot. The ensemble is both simple and refined, a perfect balance.

He's not done exploring yet. He moves on to the Golden Ralph Lauren sleeveless sweater, which he puts on over a white shirt. The color combination is vibrant, and the sweater gives him a superior but still neat look, perfect for more casual days at the office.

To complete it, he tries on one last accessory: a Golden bow tie. He hesitates for a moment, aware that this color stacks up enormously on his outfit but he Loves the Gold one. Tying it around his neck and adjusting it carefully, he likes this touch of shine. It adds an almost royal dimension to his ensemble. He knows he'll wear it on days when he has to impose a marked presence, where his simple appearance will have to capture attention.

Then, he tries on another suit, this time the slightly satiny grey three piece suit. The material is sublime, as he approaches the mirror, he admires the shine that gives a sensuality to the suit.  He pairs it with a grey shirt for a classic look, but chooses a Golden tie to add a touch of power. By adding a black leather belt with a Gold buckle, he feels invincible, as if this outfit will accompany him on a day where he can only succeed.

Anthony then heads to the shoes, where three pairs are waiting for him, brilliantly lined up. He chooses to try on the black brogs and Golden sheer socks. The leather is soft but strong, and the elegant cut elongates the line of his legs. He walks around his room for a moment, enjoying the sound of his footsteps, each gesture calculated, almost choreographed. He is certain that this will be his choice for today!

After reviewing a good part of his new wardrobe, Anthony contemplates the result in the mirror. Every detail is perfect: the suit, the shoes, the tie, the accessories.  He feels that every piece of clothing he wears is an extension of this new person he is becoming, a man of rigor, style, and discipline.

Finally, he runs his fingers through his hair, carefully smoothing it with a lot of gel, as if to perfect this picture he has painted of himself. He is ready for a new day, but this time, with an even more assertive confidence.

Anthony smiles, heading towards his bedroom door, his bag carefully packed with a few changes of clothes. Today, he will be impeccable, and he knows that this will only be the beginning of a long road to excellence.

Anthony, satisfied with his fittings, takes one last look at the pile of empty boxes that litter the floor of his room. As he prepares to put everything away, his gaze falls on a package that he has not yet opened. The box is slightly larger and, to his surprise, his name is written in Gold letters on the top. Intrigued, he opens it slowly, almost as if he knows that this package is different.

Inside, a set lies, folded neatly; a Gold jersey, accompanied by Gold shorts, a Gold jockstrap, Gold long socks and even Gold cleats. The clothes shine under the light, sending back hypnotic sparkles that instantly captivate his gaze. Without thinking, almost instinctively, Anthony decides to try on this strange kit.

He starts by putting on the Gold long socks.  As soon as they wrap around his calves, a strange warmth rises along his legs, as if his body reacts immediately to the contact of the fabric. His muscles seem to contract slightly, and he feels a slight pulsation under his skin.

Then, he puts on the Golden jock strap, and the effect is even more intense. A wave of pleasure runs through his spine, while his thighs tense, each muscle taking on a more defined shape. He looks down for a moment, surprised to see the firmness that is outlined under this simple garment. His penis swells, becoming hard and definitely bigger and thicker.

When he puts on the Golden shorts, the sensation becomes almost unbearable, as if every fiber of his being resonates with the precious fabric. His mind begins to fog up, logical thoughts slowly dissolve, replaced by a soothing emptiness. He knows he should be scared, but all he feels is a deep obedience, a desire to continue.

He then puts on the Golden jersey.  As soon as the fabric brushes his skin, a violent wave of heat explodes through his body. His shoulders broaden, his pecs swell, and his arms become more massive. He looks at himself in the mirror and watches, helpless and fascinated, the transformation that takes place. His muscles develop before his eyes, each fiber weaving denser, more powerful. His abs, once discreet, suddenly become defined, visible under the shiny fabric.

His breathing quickens, and with each breath, he feels his body grow in strength and stature. His mind begins to slowly fade. He is no longer Anthony, the man who worked in an office. He becomes something else. Someone else.

A member of Team Gold.

Without thinking, Anthony grabs the Golden cleats and puts them on. As soon as his feet touch the ground, a final wave of change invades him.  His eyes, once deep brown, begin to sparkle with a Golden glow. He straightens, his muscles tense, his jaw clenched. He feels powerful, implacable, as if he could conquer the world.

His mind is now filled with new thoughts, new rules. He is now devoted to the team. The goals are clear: to spread the transformation, to bring other men to join the ranks, to wear the Gold, to serve. He no longer remembers the doubts or resistances he had before.

All that matters now is the Gold team.

Anthony looks at himself one last time in the mirror, with his new eyes shining. He is no longer just a man, he is a soldier of Team Gold.

Anthony stands in front of the mirror, his massive, muscular body gleaming in his new Gold uniform. The hypnotic shimmer of the fabric seems to reflect a new identity, a new purpose. He is no longer who he used to be, but he still struggles to put this total transformation into words.

His phone vibrates on the nightstand. With an almost mechanical gesture, he picks it up and sees a message from *WalterGold* flashing on the screen.

"Welcome, TonyGold. It's time to bring the golden light to others."

The name hits Anthony like a punch to the stomach. *TonyGold.* The name resonates in his mind like a no-brainer. This is no longer Anthony, the quiet office worker. He is *TonyGold*, a dedicated player for Team Gold, ready to enforce the rules, to transform those around him.

The phone vibrates again. A call this time. It's Walter.

Anthony picks up, his fingers trembling with an excitement he only half understands. A calm and authoritative voice echoes through the device.

"*TonyGold*, you received your kit, I can feel it. How do you feel?" "Powerful", he answers without thinking, his voice deeper, more assured.

"Perfect. Your transformation is almost complete. Now, you know what you have to do."

Tony lets out a monumental load in his Gold jock strap, to signify his total submission to the Golden team. He catches his breath.

Anthony remains silent, attentive to Walter's every word.

"The team needs new players. At the office, some of your colleagues have immense potential. They don't know it yet, but they are destined to wear Gold, just like you."

"I understand." *Tony murmurs, his mind already visualizing every man in the office in a Gold jersey. 

"I will send you a hypnotic file, as planned. Your role will be to distribute it discreetly. They will have no choice. Their minds, like yours, will be captivated by the gold. And soon, they will be part of the team."

A shiver runs down TonyGold's spine at the thought of bringing his colleagues to the same Golden obedience that consumes him. His Golden eyes shine with a new light as Walter continues:

"Never forget, TonyGold, you are one of us now. The gold is in you. Every day you live, every action you take must be for the team."

"For the team." Tony repeats, his thoughts completely in sync with Walter's.

The call ends, but Walter's words still echo in his head. He knows what he must do. His Gold uniform is never leaving him, not even mentally.  TonyGold is ready to bring Gold to others, to transform those around him.

He looks at himself one last time in the mirror. His Golden eyes sparkle with unwavering devotion. He is TonyGold, and he is here to serve.

(End of part 6)

Part 5

[cryptocism]

Since I think about clones like I’m getting paid for it, I've been rotating those alternate universe "what if Bart and Thad were actually raised together" scenarios in my brain, with Thad either post-redemption-arc or pre-villainy. Because adjusting Thad's character to fit an ally role while still keeping true to his core motives and personality is so so fascinating to me.

Like I think there's an immediate first instinct to slot Thad into a "bad" twin category: ie rebellious and prickly, doesn't get along with people, mean lil shit. And obviously it's not wrong bc we're outside the realm of canon, but the reading still feels a little left of center.

Because Thad is mean and prickly in canon. In the Impulse comics he belittles Bart and Bart’s friends/family constantly in his appearances. He loves to goad, and monologue about his own superiority and intelligence. He’s very Not Nice, and he causes many problems, and he even does it on purpose.

But, I think it’s important to consider the context. From the jump Thad knows very little about anything except which team he’s on and who he’s playing for. He gets his orders from an unseen authority and he carries out his tasks because success means his team wins.

For all his self-aggrandizing talk, everything he does is in service of an end goal that doesn't actually center him. He's trying to get revenge for grievances he's never personally suffered, retribution for actions never committed against him. Everything he does is on someone else's behalf.

Thad sees in black and white, us or them. Up until the final few issues of Mercury Falling, Bart and co. are Thad's enemies, of course he's not going to be nice.

So Thad's motivation seems pretty simple: Thawne Supremacy™.

But it’s in Mercury Falling where this starts to fall apart, and the real core of his motivation gets revealed. Thad pretends to be Bart and suddenly Helen is nice to him. Bart’s friends think he’s funny. Bart’s teachers are impressed with his grades. Max ruffles his hair and gives him hugs and tells him he’s done a good job.

If he was actually an inherently mean and standoffish character, if Thad actually had significant personal stake in the Thawne VS Allen conflict, the weight of such tiny acts of kindness wouldn’t completely break him the way that it does in canon.

Thad thinks his goal is superiority and revenge and Thawne Supremacy™, but he's chasing validation. Thad doesn’t have a personal stake in the Thawne VS Allen conflict. He wouldn't get much satisfaction if he actually destroyed Bart and his family. Thad's personal victory would be the recognition after the fact: the praise and attention from the other Thawnes (a group of people he has literally never met) for his success.

He wants validation. That's basically it. And the fact that he gets it so easily from Bart's family and friends doesn't align with how he's told himself things are supposed to work.

Actually tangentially, Bart and Thad’s respective relationships to authority is so diametrically opposed and tbh kind of subversive in a superhero narrative. Where the hero is the one carving his own path without regard to social or societal rules, no fucks to give what anybody thinks of it. And the villain is a chronic people-pleaser.

Just based on Thad’s reaction to simple praise and affection from Max I really think Thad’s motivation has more to do with the response he gets than whatever the details are of any given task. He has no actual personal convictions beyond getting positive attention, and whatever he did have crumbled as soon as Bart’s friends laughed at his joke one time. Which of course leads into the core of his whole conflict at the end of Mercury Falling. He cares too much about Bart’s friends and family now, he doesn’t want to kill them, but worse than that, he’s faced with the sudden realization that he’s on the wrong side.

The Allens gave Thad everything he actually wanted and needed, but his conception of himself is inexorably tied to the Thawnes: who gave him jack shit. These two facts are in opposition to each other, and he can’t reconcile the reality of it.

Anyway all this to say, in an AU where Bart and Thad are raised together or Thad gets an actual redemption arc etc etc, I think my personal take on Thad’s personality whether it be pre-or-post-villainy would be one that is extremely socially conscious. He is much more of a people-person than Bart. Whether he's actually accurate in assessing people's feelings and how to respond to them can be hit or miss, but he wants to behave in a way that gets people to like him.

Pretending to be Bart isn’t remarked upon as, like, a difficult task for Thad. In his internal monologue he’s literally bragging to himself about how easy it is. But what’s especially notable to me is where his act differs from Bart's typical MO. Everyone notices, and lots of people comment, and presumably if Thad didn’t have the excuse of Max’s illness to “motivate” Bart to do better he would’ve been found out immediately. And those things are, specifically: paying attention in class, doing his chores, staying on task, and being helpful around the house. The one thing about Bart he chooses not to emulate is Bart’s rebelliousness.

Thad wants to prove himself, constantly, to whatever authority he respects (probably Max in this scenario) and will do whatever it takes to make that happen. In contrast to Bart, who only listens to authority when the shit they're saying actually makes sense to him. It’s excessively difficult to convince him to go against his own interests. (And I think a key part of that is Bart’s security in knowing that no matter how much he fucks up or doesn’t listen, the people he loves will always love him back.)

Thad’s got the people-pleaser in him that has to deserve whatever he’s given. It’s why he’s happiest when he’s given a clear goal or objective to complete, because it gives him an opening to prove himself.

All this to say that if we are quantifying Bart and Thad as a "good" or "bad" twin, in the eyes of every authority: Bart is the bad twin. Bart is the bad twin, Bart is the bad twin. Bart is the one who doesn’t care about school and whose grades vary wildly depending on his personal interest. He’s the one who goes off to do dangerous shit for fun and gets in trouble constantly and doesn’t do his chores and is thoroughly unconvinced by any authority figure trying to sell him bullshit. 

Thad is the one who needs to know all the rules just so he can experience the joy of following them. Relentlessly obedient. He'll put all his effort into doing all the right things that’ll endear him to whoever he wants to impress - meaning he’s the asshole who reminds the teacher about the assigned homework. Bart might be the most popular boy in school, but Thad is a pleasure to have in class.

Like Thad can (and should) still be high-strung and short-tempered and sarcastic and edgy and mean, because he is. But he can’t be doing all that without rhyme or reason. Colouring every interaction has to be that one-zero binary of ally or enemy. He needs to have somebody he’s proving himself to: a team he’s on and a team he’s against. He’s not an inherently rebellious character. He can go up against The Enemy, whoever he deems as such, but it has to be in service of a hypothetical future in which somebody eventually tells him he did a great job.

And in the interest of continuing to beat a dead horse, it connects to their respective upbringings. Thad and Bart were both raised in VR, but Bart’s experience had the side effect of basically hard-wiring him against insecurity. His world was a playground tailor-made for him, and he was never made to feel bad or insufficient about any aspect of himself. His first interaction with a real human person was Iris moving heaven and earth to save him, without him knowing her, without her knowing him, with no reasoning for the act needed beyond Being Her Grandson. Which is probably a significant factor in why Bart moves through the world with frankly atomic levels of autistic swag.

Thad’s VR upbringing installed self-consciousness in his psyche before any other personality trait. As in: he is immediately made conscious of himself and his relationship with everyone he will ever encounter. He’s told two things: he’s a clone of someone else (inherently derivative, lesser) and that he was made to be superior (a status to achieve). Which is such an instant clarifier for Thad’s everything. Where superiority is a condition that everyone either has, or does not. It’s the one-zero binary again: are they better than me or am I better than them. Being above others is mandatory, and if his superiority is ever challenged by hard evidence or god forbid nuance Thad’s brain physically cannot take it. He needs to be better, to be worse is unthinkable, and there is no other way to be.

And this status of better or worse is, crucially, not up to Thad to decide. He needs The Authority to validate him. Bart never tries to prove himself because he has nothing to prove. Thad’s entire identity hinges on the self-worth he gets from doing a Good Job.

It is such an inherent part of his motives in the Impulse comics canon, which is why it always feels a little off when he’s interpreted as a jackass indiscriminately.

Like I don't think he needs everyone to like him. But I do think he has either one person or a set of very particular people that he needs to like him. Everyone else is either in that circle or outside of it.

(Which is why Bart is such a great foil for Thad tbh. There is no set of words or behaviors that’ll change Bart’s opinion of Thad, because Bart is unaffected by obedience or charm. So ironically Bart is probably one of few people that Thad doesn’t bother to put on even a little bit of an act for.)

While Bart goes with his instincts, his personal beliefs and convictions at all times, Thad is hyper-conscious of big-picture goals. They balance each other out that way. Thad's keeping track of whatever expectations he has placed on him, and how his actions reflect on him and the team beyond short-sighted solutions. He's a team player. AND he's an asshole.

[ladykailitha]

The Harrington Pattern Part 11

The second one for today.

There is a joust, a wild Eddie shows off his mating dance, and Steve and Jeff plot a romance.

Pt 1 Pt 2 Pt 3 Pt 4 Pt 5 Pt 6 Pt 7 Pt 8 Pt 9 Pt 10

@mira-jadeamethyst @rozzieroos @itsall-taken @redfreckledwolf @emly03

MY TAG LIST FOR THIS STORY IS CLOSED

****

Steve sat on the edge of his seat as he cheered each successful strike the Black Knight made and winced with every hit he took.

The kids were loudly shouting and cheering and even Nancy would leap to her feet when the Black Knight won a match.

It was down to the final match. The Black Knight verses the White Lion. They were two points each. Final run.

The horses pawed at the ground. The knights shifted in their armor as they tried to settle the joints. Every person in that stadium was on the edge of their seat, leaning forward as they held their collective breath.

The man stepped forward with the flag and eyed each knight nervously. He looked up at the king and queen. The king nodded giving his consent. The flag dropped and the man leapt out of the way.

The horses raced down the line as the knights lowered their lances. The audience slowly rose to their feet as the horses thundered toward each other.

No one had yet taken a single breath.

Then...

CLASH!

And the White Lion flew to the ground as his horse made it to the other side of the arena. His squire grabbed the horses reins to stop it from running away.

The whole crowd erupted, the breath finally released in shouts of exultation.

The Black Knight and his squire were at their other end of field, whooping and hollering as they celebrated his win.

Steve and Robin grabbed each other and jumped up and down. They hadn’t seen anything so exciting since Lucas made the final shot of the game.

And it appeared that the boy in question thought the same as he kept screaming “YES!!”

The Black Knight took off his helmet and waved at the crowd. And their entire row let out a gasp.

“Jeff?” Dustin squealed. “Jeff was the Black Knight all along? That is so awesome!”

Now Lucas was completely flipping out. No one could deny that Jeff had won fair and square. That he had the superior skill.

Steve looked over at the king and queen. Neither one of them looked happy to see it had been Jeff the whole time. But they appeared gracious enough when they were handing out the prizes.

Steve was cheering and screaming right along with the rest of them. And it was a cool surprise. Who would have thought that Jeff played his favorite sport.

After the award ceremony they were allowed to go see Jeff at the stable.

Steve looked around when he entered. Jeff caught his eye and grinned. They both knew who he was looking for.

“He’s getting ready,” Jeff said with a wink. “You’ll just not want to miss the next event.”

Steve bit his lip and nodded. Whatever it was, he knew it was going to be amazing. He just wished he had more of an idea of what it was. He looked out at the arena floor and saw that the long wooden partition for the joust had been taken down and workers were quickly putting up... what, Steve wasn’t sure.

“Just let me get out of this armor,” Jeff was saying, “and I’ll join you guys in the stands.”

As they walked back to the stands, Robin pulled out her flier of the day’s events and Steve looked over her shoulder.

“What’s trick riding?” he mumbled.

But she just shrugged. She didn’t know either.

They sat up in the stands and they talked among themselves as the workers finished up what they were doing.

The field was mostly empty except a small platform where the rider would mount their horse.

There were two horses, both black with weird looking saddles.

The announcer got up and bellowed into a megaphone.

“Ladies and gentlemen!” he shouted. “For the first time ever here at the Hawkins Renaissance Fair we have Hawkins own Eddie Munson trick riding extraordinaire.”

Eddie stepped out onto the field but gone were the puffy sleeves and thigh high boots. His costume was tight fitting and boots were soft soled. It still looked period, but it was clearly designed from modern materials which would make it easier to move in.

Strapped to his back was a lute, the same lute he had been carrying all week.

He mounted the platform and waved to the crowd.

Eddie got on to the first horse and got it into motion. The other horse merely shook its mane as it waited patiently for its turn.

Eddie raised his feet and slipped them into a set of stirrups higher up on the saddle. Sending a wink Steve’s way, he stood up on the horse and began to play.

He began singing. Horribly. Eddie was a fine enough singer for their band, but it seemed to Steve he was deliberately off key as he sang ribald bar tunes.

He slipped a harness over his head and around his waist. Then to shock of the crowd, slid off the side of the horse. Steve was on his feet, so sure that Eddie would be crushed under the thundering hooves the galloping horse.

But as the horse turned, Steve could see that Eddie was safe and still playing.

His caterwauling got progressively worse the more dangerous the stunt was. Almost as if he was signaling to the audience that he was safe.

He made it back to the platform where he handed the lute off to someone who had stepped out onto the field for the reason. They removed the saddle off the one horse Eddie had been riding and he straddled both horses, one foot on each.

And off he went racing around the arena.

Steve was sure that his heart had stopped several times, once with every trick Eddie did.

He was also pretty sure that wasn’t good for it.

But Eddie landed every trick like a pro and at the end he hopped off the platform with a jaunty wave and a deep bow.

Steve was cheering up and down as the crowd around him erupted with applause.

Eddie bowed again and with the other guy that had taken his lute, lead the horses away.

Steve isn’t sure who was more impressed by Eddie’s riding the kids or Nancy. Her jaw had dropped from the first trick and remained that way all throughout Eddie’s riding.

“Where did he learn that?” she asked.

Jeff grinned. “Come on, I’ll introduce you.”

Everyone exchanged glances as the whole gaggle followed Jeff back to the stable where Eddie and the other guy were brushing down the horses Eddie had used in his show.

The man, who on closer inspection was a teenage old boy spotted Jeff and waved. “Jeffrey! You did great out there today. Mom hasn’t stopped gushing about it.”

The Party turned to Jeff in shock. But he just chuckled.

“Guys,” he said, “this is my little brother Ollie. Ollie, you remember Gareth and Brian, the boys are Hellfire, the girls kick ass, and the two guys are the brat wranglers.”

Jonathan and Steve shared a look before they chorused, “Hey!”

Eddie laughed, but did the proper introducing. When he got to Steve, Ollie’s eyes went wide and nodded.

“Steve Harrington,” Ollie said. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

Steve frowned. “From Jeff?” he asked, confused.

“No, man,” Ollie said with a laugh, “from Eddie.”

Who promptly ducked behind his horse under the guise of brushing its mane.

Steve licked his lips slowly as a sly smile took over his face. “No doubt only horrible things,” he teased.

Eddie let out a squawk and glared at him from around the horse. “Hey!”

Steve laughed and Eddie let out a little huff of breath as he pouted.

“Our parents own the horses,” Jeff said, “We have three that joust and two the trick ride and then there’s King, who was a racehorse in his heyday.”

Ollie nodded, “We usually let whoever is playing the king of the Fair ride him at the closing ceremonies. He’s pretty as hell.”

“So like Steve,” Dustin said. “He used to be called King Steve in high school.”

Steve tipped the twerp’s hat off.

“Hey!”

El giggled and Dustin’s head whipped around to face her. She pressed her lips together and looked up and away.

“Can I see King?” Will asked, softly.

Ollie lit up. “Yeah, sure.” He turned to Jeff. “I’ve got get him ready for tonight anyway, so I can I have Will help me?”

Jeff smiled at his little brother. “Sure thing, it’ll make the work go faster.”

“He seems like a good kid,” Jonathan said, “how old is he?”

“He’s fourteen,” he said, “so he’ll be an incoming freshman this year.”

Lucas smiled. “So a year younger than us.”

Jeff nodded.

“Is he going to join Hellfire?” Dustin asked, practically vibrating out of his skin.

“He wants to but with me graduating last year,” Jeff said with a wince, “he’s worried he won’t know anyone but Gareth.”

Lucas grinned. “Well he knows us now, we’ll hang out with him all summer so that come school time, he’ll have friends in Hellfire.”

Jeff grinned back. “I think he’d really like that.”

Steve smiled at his nuggets. He was glad that they were willing to take this kid they just met under their wing and make sure he didn’t get lost at high school.

He really couldn’t have been prouder. He caught Eddie’s eye and the other man grinned.

He lopped over to Steve, the grin never leaving his face.

“So pretty boy,” Eddie teased. “You enjoy the show?”

Steve nudged him his shoulder. “Of course I did. A bit terrifying on this side of things though.”

Eddie laughed. “I assure you, sweetheart, it’s equally terrifying on my end, too.”

“How long have you been doing this then?”

Eddie cocked his head to the side and thought about it. “On and off since I got to Hawkins and became friends with Jeff. His mom is the one that thought me, but I’ve only been serious about it in the last couple years. As a way to keep myself from getting too depressed about school.”

“That’s fair,” Steve said.

When he looked around most of them had gone. It was only Robin, Gareth, Jeff, and Max that remained.

“Where did everyone go?” Will asked as he came out the stall with Ollie.

Robin began counting of on her fingers. “Brian and Mike went to go watch the caber toss on the outskirts of the Fair. Dustin, Lucas and El went to go watch the sword fights. Nancy and Jonathan went to try the ax throwing.” She looked around. “Did I miss anyone?”

The rest of them shook their heads.

“And the rest of us were waiting for Will!” she finished with a cheer.

Will blushed and Eddie and Steve shared a knowing glance.

“Hey, do you and Ollie want to come with me to see the bagpipers?” Max asked Will.

Will and Ollie looked at each other and then nodded as one. The two boys followed the pirate queen, walking side by side.

“Well,” Gareth said, “I’m glad Mike missed that one.”

Robin looked over at him in confusion. “What do you mean?”

“Mike is always jealous of anyone who spends time with Will,” Steve explained, “except El. Even if he spends all his time with her, he still gets jealous when Will gives up and goes to talk to someone else.”

Eddie nodded. “That kid has got to get his head out of his ass, before a sweet boy like Ollie sweeps our Will the Wise off his feet.”

Jeff grinned. “I like that idea!”

Gareth snorted. “You only like that idea because Mike called your thief a common rogue.”

“My thief is literally a lord,” Jeff defended. “Like Lord Kelnic is his name. He can’t be a common rogue.”

Steve leaned over to Eddie and whispered, “What are they talking about?”

“I’ll explain it later,” Eddie whispered back.

Steve nodded, knowing that Eddie would do just that.

“Hey, you want to go for a stroll?” Steve asked. “I don’t care where, really. I just want to spend the afternoon with you.”

Eddie perked up. “Hell yeah! Why don’t I show the behind the scenes stuff most people don’t get to see?”

“Sounds perfect.” Steve smiled.

Robin and Jeff shared a fond glance about their best friends and shook their heads as Eddie led Steve away.

****

Part 12 Part 13

I love jousting Eddie as much as the next gal, but I also realize that Eddie looks like a stiff wind would knock him over and would be flying out of that saddle with every hit. So I made him a trick rider instead.

I also did not set out to write Will a love interest, the love interest just shoved himself into my story and I let him stay.

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